#boots watches stranger things

[magdamarcus]

These Boots Weren’t Made for Walking

[sunflowerwinds]

talking body | v.a

summary: when black haired hot head pitfigher vi catches your eye at a club, you’re determined to get your hands on her. taking her home with you reveals a side you never thought she had.

pairing: fem!reader x pitfighter!vi arcane

contains: mature language and content (18+), bratty!vi (if you squint), sub!vi (WE CHEER), soft!dom!reader, munch!vi, thigh riding, vi is going through it :/, light mommy kink (it’s mentioned a few times. if it’s not your thing, don’t read!)

word count: 3.8K

a/n: …. i’ve never written anyone but the reader being submissive so let me know if this satisfies everyone!also thank you to my love nat for opening my eyes to the mommy realm <3

The first time you saw Vi wasn’t at a pit fight.

No, it was at the club that was above the pit fighting arena. You and your small friend group would go often to said club, drinking to forget about the miserable lives you were living in Zaun. You saw her across the strobe-lit floor, weaving in between bodies with heavy feet dragging across the ground and a glass of who-knows-what in her bandaged hand.

Her oil black hair with matching eye makeup and wrapped chest that she wore as a shirt pulled you in.

You were… entranced by her.

But as soon as you had locked your eyes on her, your friend tapped your shoulder to hand you another drink for the night. When you looked back eagerly in hopes of finding her, she had disappeared in the sea of local Zaunites.

After that night, you never thought you would see the woman again. It was another night at the club when one of your friends informed you of the pit fight just a level down, asking if that was something you were down to go to.

Unfamiliar with the underground ring, you agreed to tag along. You were curious about what these pit fights entailed.

Your friend led you down a hidden passageway from behind the large bar area in the club, shouting to be careful with your steps. You nodded to show you heard her, glancing down at your heeled boot-covered feet to make sure you wouldn’t trip and bust your ass.

Rounding a few more corners, you were blinded by bright lights and a huge crowd. Before you could register where you were, your friend sped up her movements when she heard the cheering grow louder with excitement. You held up a hand to cover your sensitive eyes as you let her guide you to a seat.

As you peek through other sweaty bodies to see down into the round pit in the middle, you spot a familiar head of hair. Your eyes squint as you duck to try and get a better glimpse of that irritatingly attractive stranger. The large man in front of you, cursing at the fight below finally stepped to the side in frustration to leave his spot.

There circling her opponent with smudged black eye makeup and dried blood seeping in her bandages was that fleeting woman from that night. It was undeniably her.

Her movements were so similar to that night. There was no doubt in your mind that she was intoxicated. You couldn't blame her. Taking this many hits to the head had to mess with you.

“She’s so your type!” Your friend shouts over the crowd.

You watch her deliver a few more hard punches to her opponent, the body becoming unconscious and hitting the hard concrete ground. Her fist raises in the air to show her victory.

She absolutely was.

That night ignited a determination to get closer to the pit fighter in however many ways you could. You wondered what she sounded like, if she would flirt with you, and if she did, if you would seduce her into coming home with you to give her the time of her life.

Another week passed before you saw her again. Another club, another night to get fucking wasted and fuck some random girl. That is until you saw her sitting at the bar instead of messily dancing through the drunken bodies on the dance floor.

Her back was turned, her head slightly tilted down but you could tell it was her. She sported a heavy leather jacket with a hybrid wolf painted on the back of it.

You glance down at your own outfit, adjusting the way the top was fitting on your breasts. Your short-short’s hug your hips and plump thighs, the see-through fishnet tights underneath the shorts decorating your legs.

Before you walk over to her, you inform your friends of what you are going to accomplish: getting into the hot pit-fighters pants. They all wished you good luck and sent thumbs-ups before you went on your way.

Pushing your way through sweaty bodies, you find yourself sitting on the stool right next to her. You sneak a few glances at her hunched-over figure, admiring the slope of her nose and the smudged black makeup underneath her eyes.

Her long pointer finger was tracing the rim of the glass, the drink seeming to still be full. You wondered why she hadn’t drunk it yet.

“Is there something I can help you with?”

Her voice was softer than you were expecting. Her words were somewhat slurred, revealing her clear intoxication. Her harsh words threw you off your game for a split second but you brushed it off.

“I’m just looking to get a drink,” you reply slyly, not fully facing her just yet. “You need a new one?”

You motion to her full drink, tilting your body towards her now. Her eyes flicker to said cup then to your frame right next to her. Her eyebrows rose for a moment as she checked you out. She tried to be discreet but her eyes were slower paced than she thought they were.

You had to hold back a triumphant grin when they lingered on your chest the longest.

“I’m fine, thanks,” she told you as her fingers wrapped around the glass to lift it to her lips.

You watched as her throat bobbed as she downed the hard liquor, tilting your head to now check her out herself. After setting her glass back down, she pinched the bridge of her bandaged nose.

“Are you alright? You look pretty beaten up there,” you hum, a frown on your face as you lean in a little closer.

She shook her head to try and wave off the obvious pain that was settling in her head.

“‘M fine. Can take a few hits, dollface.”

You couldn't help the satisfied grin that spread onto your face at the pet name.

“Never said you couldn’t,” you shrug your shoulders.

The bartender walked over to you two, jerking his head to you as a silent question. You ask him for a singular shot of tequila, needing some more confidence to get to relax. Once he sets the shot down on the slightly sticky counter, you down it immediately with a soft sigh.

“I think those hits to the head made you not good at taking hints though.” You hum as you set the shot glass aside.

Her head turns at your words, the subtle raise of her eyebrows making you tilt your head as a challenge.

“If you want, I could help ease that ache you have in that pretty head,” you hum as your finger raises delicately to trace her wrapped arms, watching her fingers twitch. “My place is not too far from here.”

You can see the gears in her head turning, contemplating your offer. The flashing lights from behind the two of you only increase her pounding headache.

“Do I get a name, dollface?” She hums, now fully turning her body towards you.

You hold back the moan in your throat now seeing her up close like this. The torn skinny jeans clinging onto her thighs delectably and her broad shoulders that you would want to sink your teeth into. You even noticed the scar on her lip, making her all the more beautiful.

You lean into her ear to tell her your name, pulling away to peer into her light blue eyes.

“And yours?”

Her eyes flicker down to your lips for a moment before pouring into your own: “Vi.”

The second your apartment door shut behind Vi, you practically shoved her into the small space to attack her hungrily. Vi released a soft noise at your lips attaching to hers, and her hands instantly found your waist.

Your hands slithered up the back of her head, fingers entangling with her oil-back hair. It was definitely dried out and damaged but hearing her moan soft against your lips as you tug at the strands made it an insignificant detail.

You pull away to ghost your mouth over her own, smirking to yourself at the way she tried to follow your addicting lips. That hair pull flipped a switch inside Vi, a shiver running down her spine.

“Ah, ah, ah,” you teasingly scold as you place a hand on her bandaged chest to keep her back. “So impatient, baby.”

Vi huffs out a flustered sigh at your words, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her hands were tightened in fists resting on your hips. You lean in ever so slightly to graze your lips over hers, listening to her breathing stutter. You mischievously smile as her eyes flutter shut, preparing for another kiss.

Oh, you were going to have fun with her.

Taking her chances, Vi leans forward to ghost her lips over yours still. Her breathy whine makes your knees buckle.

“Can I taste you?”

You preen at the question, a lightbulb going off in your head. If you were right about the woman, she would do pretty much whatever you asked. You test that by raising your hand up to her bottom lip, using your thumb to tug down the plump skin.

Vi’s once harsh blue eyes soften, rounding with submission as you release her lip with a satisfied smirk. Your eyes flicker to your couch that is a few feet away, jerking your head over to it.

“How about you go and sit on the couch for me, yeah?” You nod, placing a feather-soft kiss on the tattoo of her name on her cheek.

Vi opens her mouth but shuts it when you raise your brows to challenge her to test it. She made her way over to the couch, keeping her eyes on you as she slowly sat down on the cushion. You follow her in pursuit, standing in front of her awaiting figure. You notice her knee bouncing with impatience, raising your hands to rest on her leather-covered shoulders.

Your couch was low enough so her head was right in front of the zipper of your shorts but her eyes were only focused on your face awaiting instruction. Your hand cups her face, rubbing your thumb over her chin. Vi lifts her chin to lean into your touch as a shaky breath leaves her lips.

“Can you take off my shorts for me?” You run your thumb over her bottom lip, a sweet smile plastered on your face.

Vi nods as she raises her bandaged arms to the button of your shorts, unhooking it from the loop. She tugs the zipper down to expose the waistband of your fishnet tights and black lace panties. Vi sucked in a deep breath at the sight, looking up at you for another instruction.

“Keep going, baby,” you chuckle as you shift your hips back and forth so she can tug the shorts down your legs.

You raise your feet a bit to kick off the shorts, pushing them aside on the ground. Vi’s lengthy fingers hooked on the holes of the fishnets, tugging your hips closer to her face to place a few kisses right underneath your belly button. Your right-hand cradles the back of her head, sighing at the feeling.

Her lips hover right above your public bone, her impatient breathing causing your hips to buck forward.

“Can I? Please?”

Vi was begging now, her hands gripping onto the meat of your thighs. Her eyes were desperate as she placed more kisses through your panties.

“Please what?” You pant, biting your lip at her neediness.

“Please, mommy.”

Vi whines looking up at you with desperation, craving your taste. A shiver traces your spine at her words, never realizing how arousing it was to have someone be so desperate for you.

“So good for me,” you hum as you signal for her to go on. “Go ahead, baby.”

Eager to please, Vi’s fingers hook onto the fishnets where your opening was and stretch it so hard that the fabric rips. The tear causes you to jump but beam at her hunger for you. She pushes your panties to the side, placing soft kisses up your thighs before diving into your sopping cunt.

You gasp at her tongue sliding through your folds slowly, lifting one of your legs to rest on the couch to open up more for her. Vi’s arm hooks underneath your thigh to tug you closer, sloppily licking through your folds.

Your fingers run through her hair to push it out of her face to stare down at her beautiful face. Her eyes were shut, moaning against you to add extra stimulation. You hum as you roll your hips against her face, her nose brushing your sensitive clit.

“Fuck, Vi. Doing so good for me,” you praise her movements.

Vi whimpers at the encouraging words, not slowing down her relentless tongue.

“You taste so good,” the black-haired girl underneath you pulls away to whine for a moment to catch her breath.

You hold back your moan at the dim lighting of a lamp in your apartment highlighting the sight of your slick glistening on her lips and chin. It was simply one of the most erotic things you’d ever seen.

“How good?” You tease as she leans back in to wrap her lips around your throbbing clit.

Vi looks up at you through hooded eyes, eyes glimmering with submission. “So fucking good.”

Your cunt clenches around nothing as she whines into your folds. Her tongue laps with determination as she feels your thighs tense up as your orgasm rapidly approaches. Vi wanted, needed you to cum on her face and she wanted to do whatever it took to get you there. She wanted to lather her face in your arousal just to see your beautiful eyes roll back into your head.

“You look so pretty eating my pussy, baby,” you praise. “So pretty.”

Oh, how much Vi ached for the sweet words you were giving her. She was heavy breathing and whimpering against your drenched cunt as her arm grips onto your thighs so that you wouldn't dare pull away. Your lower abdomen tightened as she raised her fingers to your soaked folds, teasing your entrance with her middle and pointer fingers.

Your hips jerk forward as she carefully tests the waters, inching only her middle finger inside of you. You knew Vi’s fingers were lengthy but feeling them inside of you opened your eyes to how close you were getting to your orgasm.

“Oh my, fuck,” you nod as encouragement for her to continue her movements. “Vi.”

A moan releases from the depth of Vi’s throat at how you said her name, vibrating against your cunt. Your hands were gripping onto her hair as leverage. Your knees were becoming jelly as your stomach tightened, warning you that you were approaching your orgasm.

“‘M gonna cum. Fuck, I’m close. Just like that, baby.”

Vi kept her eager pace, finger-fucking you as her tongue attacked your sensitive clit. Heat settled in your back as your hips stuttered against her face. Her eyes were trained on your twisted features as you came against her mouth.

She lapped up the cum selfishly, now using her other hand to settle on your lower back to push your hips more onto her face if that was even possible. You shiver as you chase the orgasm, trying to catch your breath at the overstimulation.

You mutter curses to yourself, attempting to calm down. Vi’s tongue and fingers slow to help with coming down from the intensity.

“How many girls have you done that too, fuck?” You chuckle, seriously wondering where she learned to do that.

Vi merely blinked up at you, breathing heavily herself. Her eyes were wide with anticipation and lingering submission.

“Was I good?” She questions, her fingers stilled inside of you.

You almost laugh in her face at the question but nod with a bright grin.

“You were so good for mommy, baby,” you coo as you caress her face.

Vi leans into your touch, shutting her eyes. You were never so intimate with hookups. It was usually you ate them out, they ate you out, and/or they fucked you or you fucked them and they left with no more than a few degrading words and harsh kisses.

This was a nice change of pace as far as one-night stands go.

“But what about you, huh? I bet you're so wet down there, angel.”

Vi nods to confirm, a beautiful whine leaving her swollen lips. You beam at the sound, glancing down at her skinny jean-cladded thighs when an idea sparked in your brain.

“Get up and take off your pants and underwear for me, yeah?” You instruct as you remove your leg carefully as it is still a bit sensitive from the orgasm.

Vi stood up on her heavy booted feet, shrugging off her leather jacket that you hadn’t even realized she had kept on this whole time. She must’ve been sweating in that thing. Confirming your suspicions, you watch as beads of sweat trickle down her toned back and shoulders. You wanted to lick it off of her, your tongue tracing every line of ink that was etched onto her pale skin.

Maybe another time if she so chooses.

This time, you sat back on the couch with your legs spread. You suck in a deep breath as she tugs down her briefs, avoiding eye contact with you. You had a confidence boost at how timid she ended up being in the bedroom compared to when you first met. She was nothing but snippy towards you.

Now look at her. Her briefs had an obvious wet patch on them but you were too focused on how gorgeous her body is.

“Look at you,” you praise as you hold your hands out to invite her into your lap.

Vi sucks in a deep breath as she makes her way over to you, eyes trained on yours. You send a sweet grin as you mutter ‘good girl’ as she straddles your left thigh. The feeling of her drenched cunt against your fishnet-cladded thighs sends a shiver down your spine.

It’s like she had read your mind.

Her hips greedily ground down on your thigh, visibly shaking at the relief she was getting. Your hands hold at her toned waist, watching her abs contract and the goosebumps rise to her pale skin.

“Does it feel good, baby?” You hum, running your palms up her torso.

Vi nods with a whimper, her hair falling in front of her face.

“Need to cum,” she mutters.

Your eyebrows raise as an amused, almost taunting chuckle at how fast she needed to cum.

“Oh, baby, you were really aching, huh?” You tease as you lean forward to place a few kisses over her bandaged chest.

Through hooded eyes, she cranes her neck to capture your lips into a soft kiss. You hum against her mouth as you can still taste your arousal still lingering on her lips, swiping your tongue over her bottom.

She mutters as she pulls away for a moment to whisper: “Wanted you to cum first.”

You can’t help but smile so wide that your teeth clank against one another. You move on from her lips to mutter sweet nothings into the crook of her neck, licking over the gear tattoo on the side neck. The shivers and moans that follow only encourage your filthy motives.

As her hips pick up their movements, you pull away to look down at your thigh that was glistening from her slick. Vi’s strong hands were resting on your shoulders as she was craving her orgasm that was mocking her.

Her already smudged black eyeshadow was somehow even more messy at this point. The sounds of her begging and moaning to cum were addicting.

“‘M gonna cum. Can I?” She shivers as she places a weak kiss on your lips.

Her brows furrow and her mouth falls permanently open as her pathetic moans leave her throat.

“Cum for me. You’re so— fuck, Vi.” You nodded as you sat back to watch her movements pick up.

Her desperate ‘ah’s’ fill the small space of your living room, folding her body over to rest her head on your shoulder. Your hands were settled on her waist, encouraging her to keep going.

Vi’s orgasm tore through her body, her grip on you tightening for a few seconds to try and hold herself up. Her whole body shook, her shoulders heaving up and down rapidly.

“Just like that. Good girl, Vi. So good,” you praise as you run your hand up her back. “Did so good.”

Vi’s forehead was still resting on your shoulder as she tried to catch her breath now more tilted into the crook of your neck. She huffs as she carefully sits up, removing her hands from your shoulders.

“Hey, it’s okay. Be careful.”

Your hands moved back down from her mid-back to rest on her hips.

After a few more minutes of the two of you letting yourselves calm down, the two had peed and washed your hands after your orgasms. You were awaiting the woman to come from your bathroom as you had moved to your bedroom.

Vi immediately asked if she could sleep at yours for the night. You smile at her tired state, slow sighs leaving her lips as she crawls onto your bed with her briefs back on now.

Your whole body was light as you allowed yourself to relax on the mattress, slow breathing as you were fighting sleep. Vi’s head was resting on your chest, bandaged arms curled around your torso. You hesitantly raise your hand to run your fingers through her hair, watching her eyes flutter shut at the feeling. Her lips brush past your collarbone as you feel her open her mouth, thinking she is going to kiss you.

What happens next throws you off guard.

“Cait.”

You blink at the mutter of a name you swore wasn’t yours leaving Vi’s lips. You wait for a moment to see if she does it again but she seems to be only muttering nonsense to herself. Feeling like it was inappropriate, you don’t speak on the matter, watching her drift off into a deep slumber.

You couldn’t even be mad at the woman, assuming what she might be feeling at the moment. And you were just too tired to care that much.

Vi doesn’t seem to notice her slip-up and knocks out against your chest, body stilling. You stare down at the slope of her nose and the small of her eyelashes and wonder who the hell could she be heartbroken over.

And if you wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of soft sobbing, you won’t say anything either.

TAG-LIST: @tearouthearts @onyxherman @prwttiestbunny @pumpkin-eater28 @redheadsyd @cherry-n-cheeks @lunatakashi18 @caicreations @ayooooohush

[eupheme]

k02. accidental stim + thigh-riding | just once

frank castle x f!reader

rated e - 3k

tags: hurt/comfort, references to blood/violence, wound-tending, strangers-to-lovers, implied mutual pining, accident stimulation, thigh-riding, oral sex (m rec), reader has hair long enough to tug, swallowing

You know you shouldn’t look for the handsome stranger that shows up, night after night. Should lock your window, forget you saw him. That’s the smart thing to do, after all.

But you think you might like that he needs you. That you can’t stop thinking about him. That you can’t stop wanting more.

It’s interesting how quickly you’ve become used to finding a strange man on your fire escape.

The first time it happened, it had scared you near to death. A dark smudge in the shadows, when you went to close the blinds before bed.

A sharp jab of fear, realizing there was a body propped up against the railing. Phone in hand, fingers hovering on Wade’s contact when you saw the streaks of red against pale skin.

Still not sure how you got him inside. Spent an hour afterwards scrubbing the traces of him from your windowsill. Smeared fingerprints, the scuff of boots against your floor.

Half-conscious. Blood oozing out from a wound at his temple. A clean washcloth from your bathroom pressed to it, as you started to call for help.

The stranger moved then. A broad hand curled around your wrist. Head tipping back, and you could see those brown eyes from beneath the hood.

“No cops.” He croaked, “No hospitals. ‘m fine.”

You had patched him up the best you could. The urge to help outweighing the ringing stranger danger in your head. A little soothed knowing help was next door.

The night spent awake, watching.

He thanked you the next day. Apologized.

It was in the early morning light that you finally got a good look at him, that dark hood pulled back. Handsome face, quiffed hair, pretty lips beneath the curve of his nose.

Broad, when he stands. Slipping back out the way he came. A devil at night, gentleman in the morning - even with his rough edges.

Thought it’d be the last time you saw him.

You were wrong.

That one night turns into another. Something almost like a routine, except for his timing. Twice a week and then nothing for more. Three weekends in a row, and then silence for a month.

On the second night, the stranger tells you his name is Frank.

On another night, some two weeks later, he tells you that your apartment is the only one within two blocks he can reach from the ground. Only stopped because your window was cracked open. Knew you were home.

Could smell the blend of vanilla and sugar from there. Seemed like a safe place to rest, until he could make it back home.

It should deter you.

It doesn’t.

He’s as layered as the clothes he wears. All dark - black field jacket. The splatter of white, some sort of pattern on the shirt beneath another zip-up.

And red.

Always red. Red dripping from his nose. Bruised shadows beneath an eye. Split knuckles, his hand resting against your knee as you yawn - binding them carefully.

Tucked on your couch to sleep a couple hours, gone by the time you’re leaving for work. Midnight breakfasts that always ends in a “thanks, sweetheart” that leaves you pretending that there isn’t a kaleidoscope of butterflies in your chest.

Never tells you what he does. Never lets you in, other than the slip of his last name.

Castle.

It fits him. Something as strong and formidable as he is, with the furrow of his brow. The grit of his jaw, when your needle pierces flesh.

Never complaining. Content to take what you give him. A wary eye when you pick at those layers, a fingernail digging under a chip of paint.

Always seems to be gone longer, after you do.

The last time he was here, you hadn’t seen him for three weeks. Waiting for a tap on the glass that didn’t come.

Only for your window to creak open, barely heard under the rumble of the storm overhead. Some time long after midnight, closer to dawn.

You knew it was him, in your sleepy haze. Knew the sound of his boots as well as your own. The soft rasp of your name, as you propped yourself up.

The worry quickly tempered, when he crouched to your level.

“One hell of a storm,” Frank rasped, “Just need a place to wait it out.”

The relief has sleep pulling you back under. A muttered “no boots in bed”, as you yawn, followed by a “or wet clothes.”

You don’t think you would have said it, if you were awake. It felt like a dream - something made up. Wishing he would come back to you and then he was.

A low huff. Layers peeled off, as the mattress dips.

In the morning, he’s gone.

You’d think it was a dream, if your pillow didn’t smell like him. If the bed wasn’t still warm where he lay - if you could shake the feeling of his breath in your ear, an arm slung around your waist in the night.

It had felt like something had changed.

That was, until now.

Now, your brow furrows. Blood beneath your nails from where you helped ease the vest from his chest.

His hand covering yours, stilling the shake as you gripped the straps. Your little huff of relief when it’s only bruises and scrapes that bloom beneath, instead of the scattering of fired bullets.

Now, they rests on your hips, as you stand between his spread thighs. His chest bare under the warm light of your bathroom - mottled in bruises but it doesn’t take away the breadth of him. The etched muscles that bunch and flex beneath your fingertips.

Something you’re achingly aware of. Something you’re desperately trying not to think of, as you dab antiseptic around the edge of an abrasion.

His eyes are fixed on yours, even as you concentrate.

It’s something you discovered about him quickly. Frank doesn’t shy away from eye contact. Content to keep his on you, even as you work. Skin heating from beneath his watch.

Could just be him. His work is something dangerous, he never needs to tell you for you to know that. And from the splinters you’ve pieced together, you don’t see him as a bad guy. Or at least - he doesn’t see himself that way.

But a part of you wonders if he watches because he wants to. Something greedy. Unblinking - taking you in like you wish he would.

“You’re lucky,” You muse, thumb smoothing over the bandage, “Think this is the least banged up you’ve been.”

“Lucky.” He huffs, “Suppose you could say that.”

The roll of medical tape clatters against the sink, before slipping down into the bowl. His fingers biting into your hips as you lean to grab it, shifting into his space.

“Careful.” It’s a low warning, rumbled out, “Makin’ it real hard to keep my hands to myself, sweetheart.”

Only then do you notice how much you’ve leaned into him. Your thigh pinned firmly against his spread one. A hand on his shoulder for balance, your tits pressed against his bare chest.

You shift back, but it only makes his hands grip harder. His eyes dark, under the glow of the bulb above - making you feel like you took a blow, yourself.

“Don’t have to,” You manage, “Keep them to yourself, I mean.”

There’s a sharp, inhaled breath. His eyes flicking between yours, as a mark deepens between his brows.

“Wouldn’t be right.” It’s gritted out, “This is your home-”

Your heart hammers behind your ribs, as the hand at his shoulder slips to his neck, “I know. I-, I wouldn’t let you in if I didn’t-”

“Trust me?” Frank laughs, the sound hollow, “Sweetheart-”

The word dies on his tongue, with the sudden slam of a door in the hall - ringing out like a gunshot. A loud voice followed by the pounding of footsteps up the stairs, as you are suddenly crushed against Frank’s chest.

His palm slipping over your mouth, as he shoots to his feet. Crowding you against the bathroom door, shushing your muffled yelp.

You can feel every inch of him pressed against you. Breath held as he leans into you, a thigh nudged snugly between yours. Hands flattened against his chest. Unyielding, as you give a little shove.

Something hard curving against your hip. A rough sound in his throat when you squirm against him again - the words trapped behind his hand.

“Fucking stop,” He growls in your ear, “Someone is out there-“

Your shove turns soft. Stroking up his chest until you’re touching at his jaw. Angling his face to meet yours.

His eyes are wild, nearly black. Deadly focused - their sharp edge flicking down to yours. A beat as he considers, when you point to your mouth.

“It’s my neighbor,” You manage with a gasp, when his grip loosens, “He tries to see how fast he can run up every single stair. Drives us all crazy.”

He goes still. Eyes narrowed, as if trying to figure out if he believes you.

You know what he thought.

Might now know a lot about him, but you could sense the danger he thought you were in. Instincts kicking in, as he believes whatever horrors he faced out there were brought back here.

“It’s okay.” You soothe, “You’re safe.”

His nostrils flare, jaw gritting. Fingers fisting in the fabric of your sleep shirt, knuckles biting into your hips.

“Distract me.” He husks, voice low.

Your eyes widen, “How?”

There’s a sharp jerk of his head, his own dark eyes still fixed on yours, “Any way you want.”

He’s still as stone as your eyes sweep across his face again. A million thoughts running through your head, as your thumb sweeps across a stubble-lined jaw.

Head tilting, until you can press your lips just above, against the sharp cut of a cheekbone.

You can feel his exhale against you. The tightly-strung muscles easing, even as he tugs you closer. Even as you hear the hitch in his breath, the way his head tips towards yours.

You move slow.

The next brushing his cheek.

Another, to the corner of his lips.

It’s then that he moves. A rough groan in his throat as his hand shifts to your chin. Holding you in place so his mouth can meet yours.

Something chaste, that turns hungry. His hips canting into yours, as his tongue sweeps into your mouth.

You let him. Fingers slipping against the short, velvet-shorn hair. Up until there’s something to grip onto, as his hips rocks against yours.

“Fuck.” It’s rumbled against your lips, “Been driving me crazy, sweetheart.”

You moan, as his lips drag to press against your jaw. How his thigh rocks against your core, where you’re still pinned between him and the door.

“Haven’t been doing anything,” You protest, weakly, “Just patching you up.”

There’s the rough huff of a laugh.

“Funny how that works.”

There’s the pounding of your heart, just below his lips. Fingers that trace the waistband of your sleep shorts. Slipping beneath your shirt to grasp at your waist.

Tugging, until you’re rubbing yourself on his thigh. The muscles flexing beneath you as you gasp, nails biting into his bare shoulders.

Trying to avoid the bruises, his skin hot to the touch. Another roll - again and again. A rough grunt each time you press flush, when the imprint of his cock ruts against your hip.

The seam on your shorts catch on your clit. Your breath quickens, as your arousal dampens the thin cloth. A dark patch seeping into the dark denim, but Frank only groans when his eyes flick down to see the gleam.

“Feels good.” You breathe, eyes half-lidded.

His teeth flash white, in the dark room. Pressing harder, until you’re whimpering. Until there’s a building pressure in your belly, toes curling against the worn rug.

“Frank.” It’s a plea, it’s a warning.

“Yeah, beautiful?” His knowing tone, the sweet name sends heat to your cheeks, “You close? Think you can come for me like this?”

You don’t know if you can. All you know is the feeling of his thigh nudging against you, as his boot bounces. The rasp of his stubbled cheek against yours.

“Think you can.” Frank hums, “Think you want me to hear how pretty you sound when you come.”

His name strings out. Fingers teasing, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. A rough moan in your ear when he meets bare, slick skin.

Another pulled when your own hand drifts. A palm cupping him, where his clothed cock ruts into your hip. The heel of your hand nudging with the flex of his thigh.

Again, and again. Sweet nothings slipping from you, a heady mix of his name and “please” and “oh my god-”, as your head tips back.

His mouth against your neck, your chin, your mouth. Your cry cut short as his body presses you flush between him and the door.

Fingers slipping down. Beneath the dampened fabric, circles pressed against your clit. Wanting to do this himself, to give this to you.

The pleasure blooms low in your belly. Liquid heat and the release of what feels like weeks of building pressure coursing through you, as he brings you over the edge.

Your orgasm pulsing low and warm, as your hands find his shoulders. Adding fingerprint bruises to one’s he already carries. Ones he’ll look at fondly, when he’s alone.

Frank’s knee only eases from you, when that tight grip on him finally loosens.

The aftershocks still honey-sweet where they thud in your core. Legs like jelly, as your back slips against the door - as you sink to your knees.

You want all of him.

You’re greedy like that - fingers itching to reach out and take. To beg, but your eyes are drawn the bruises. The shadows under his eyes, you don’t know the last time he slept.

There will be more time, later. If you’re lucky.

“Hey. Hey-” His voice is almost worried, broad hands wrapping around your biceps. The words twisting into a choked sound instead, when your hands trace up his thighs. Over the slick patch, darkening the denim.

Eye-level with his hips. Your gaze meeting his, as you press an open-mouthed kiss against the straining curve.

He groans then. Bare chest heaving, as his hands drop to his belt. No words needed, in sync from the nights already spent together - from patching him up in near-silence.

Thumbs hooking into the waistband of dark boxers, tugging down. Your eyes tracing where the dark trail from his belly thickens, hair coarse at the base of his cock.

“Don’t have to.” It’s half-hearted. A tick to his jaw, when your fingers join his.

Another sharp tug, until his cock is freed. Achingly hard, as it bobs in front of you. A pretty shade of pink that grows darker at the tip. A drop leaking from the slit, the head already glossy from where it smeared against fabric.

God, you need to taste him.

“I know.” You breathe, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you grin, “I want to.”

Leaning forward to taste him. A kiss against the shaft, tongue flattening against velvet skin.

“Wanna take care of you.”

His fingers flex, curling into fists.

Your eyes meeting his, “Think you like it when I do.”

Frank stiffens at your words, a sharp inhale through teeth. But you miss it - lips parting to take him into your mouth. A moan as you suck, feeling how his cock jerks against your tongue.

“Fuck.” He grits - the flex of his hand, as he cups the back of your neck. Fingers twining into your hair, tugging.

“Just once.”

Don’t know if he’s telling you, or if he’s telling himself. But he doesn’t need to tell you.

There’s a part of you is certain each time is the last you’ll see him.

Always hoping he will come back, of course. Looking for him, even.

But never expecting it.

You’ll take what you can get. What he gives you inching further into your mouth - the hollow of your cheeks as you suck, head gently bobbing.

He’s big. You knew he would be, could feel the heft of him beneath your palm. An ache in your jaw already, but it’s worth it - to give him this.

“Just this one time.” He repeats, hushed.

As if he’s not imaging how you taste. Knowing you’re slick and bare and dripping beneath those shorts. Knowing that’s the only layer he’d need to rip away, to find out how soft you truly are.

Wet and warm, for him. A perfect fit for his cock, though he can’t get enough of the way you hum around him.

Forgotten what it was like.

Spit strings between your lips and his cock, when you pull back. He lets you - that grip loosening, though his fingers stay twisted in your hair. Keeping you close, only slipping away long enough for you to tug the shirt from your shoulders.

Letting it pool on the floor, letting his eyes drag over more bare skin beneath. His touch following without thinking - calloused fingers tracing your shoulders. The soft curves of your tits, palm cupping flesh.

The other hand anchoring himself to you again as before. The curved weight against the back of your head - a gentle, encouraging pressure.

Urging you to his cock again. Already missing the warmth of your mouth. Working him back up to that peak again, and then further - as you take him into your throat.

His breathing grows shorter. Those same sounds that slip from him when your needle sinks too deep, knitting skin together.

Given freely now. Muscles flexing as he bucks into your mouth, chasing the pleasure that threatens to snap inside him.

“Shit, baby.” Frank rasps, “You want me to come on these?”

A squeeze against your chest. You make a low sound in your throat, in response. Eyes flicking up, sinking another inch deeper as your fingers grasp onto his jeans.

“Fuck.” The syllables draw out, “Sure, sweetheart. Anything you want.”

His fingers tug harder. The flicker of pain along your scalp blending with the heat that lingers between your thighs.

Keeping your eyes on his as his hips move just a little faster. Air inhaled through your nose as a hand slips up to curl around his base.

Easing off just enough that you can jerk him into your mouth.

Your name comes out ragged, slipped into a moan. A curl of his lips over teeth, panting breath.

“Gonna make me come, honey.” It’s a warning, but your tongue only curls around the head. Waiting to taste him fully, as he groans.

Another choked breath, his head tilting back, before his cock throbs between your lips. Pulsing against your tongue, as your fist works him empty.

Your eyes close then. Senses narrowing down to the sounds he makes. Filthy, as his fingers tug hard enough to hurt, unconsciously rocking into the suction of your mouth with each drop that spills against your tongue.

“Fuck.” He mutters again.

Softer, this time. Fingers suddenly dropping, shifting to smooth over your cheeks. A low hiss, when you ease off him - only for your head to dip forward again. To catch the last errant drop on your tongue, as it flicks against his slit.

Desperate to keep him, like this, for just a little longer. Yours, if only for a moment.

“You wanna stay? Can make you a real breakfast.”

It slips from you, from kiss-swollen lips as your head tips up. His boxers still a mess around his thighs, your fingers still circled around him.

You’d taste like him, if he bent down to kiss you.

He shouldn’t.

He really shouldn’t.

“Yeah, sweetheart.” Frank rasps.

“I will.”

perhaps my imagining of a potential sugar x frank meet-cute??? 😁💖 thank you for reading!!

[incognit0slut]

Tempting the Cowboy

Summary: The team has been trying to bring Spencer back to the BAU after he hung up his badge to live on his ranch peacefully. It’s a good thing you’ll do whatever it takes to persuade him, even if the rugged cowboy wants to bend you over in the barn.

warnings: (MDNI, 18+) softdom spence, nipple play, handjob, fingering, female and male oral, semi-public sex

word count: 6k (i had too much fun, okay?)

a/n: This is such a random plot. Cowboy spence seemed so impossible, but then again, so did prison reid and look what happened.

Never in a million years would you ever have thought that a certified genius with an IQ of 187, after fifteen years of dedicated service to the FBI, would change career paths and settle down in the countryside. Yet here you were, driving to the middle of nowhere, trying to find that man.

The GPS led you down dusty backroads, past fields of golden wheat and weathered barns until finally, you arrived at his ranch. The scent of hay and the distant sound of cattle filled the air as you stepped out of the car and you couldn't help but feel out of place.

Your usual black pants and fitted blouse seemed like a striking contrast to your surroundings, especially with the sleek boots on your feet. Adjusting your shirt, you finally approached the farmhouse, the gravel crunch beneath your feet echoed with every step you took.

A group of men caught your eyes as they emerged from a weathered barn at the end of the road, and you found yourself approaching them instead. Clearing your throat, you called out to them.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," you began, "I'm looking for Spencer Reid. Is he around?"

The men exchanged knowing glances before one of them, a weathered cowboy with a straw hat shading his face, spoke up.

"You must be lookin' for the doc," he said, nodding towards the stable. "He's over there tendin' to the horses. You can't miss 'im."

With a grateful nod, you followed their directions. Nerves fluttered in your stomach as you walked into the stable, unsure of what to expect from the man who had once been your colleague but now seemed like a stranger in this unfamiliar setting.

As you pushed open the creaking door, the scent of leather and hay washed over you. Inside, you finally spotted him, his back turned as he tended to a horse in the corner of the room. His familiar profile was a stark contrast to the rugged surroundings, and for a moment, it felt surreal to see him in this new role.

Gone were the suits or knitted cardigans; instead, he was clad in well-worn denim and leather that gave him a distinctly different, yet undeniably attractive appearance. His sleeves were rolled up, showcasing the definition in his arms and a cowboy hat was perched on his head, its brim casting a shadow over his features, while his tousled hair peeked out from beneath it.

It was a side of him you had never seen before—one that seemed more at peace, more connected to the land than the city. And as you watched him work, the soft murmur of his voice filling the room as he spoke soothingly to the horse he was gently brushing, you couldn't help but feel a tinge of guilt knowing you were going to ruin his peace.

As if sensing another presence in the room, he suddenly turned his head before his gaze fell on you. A genuine smile curled at the corner of your lips as you approached him. "Howdy, cowboy."

A hint of surprise flashed in his eyes as he straightened himself, which was quickly replaced with realization at your sudden visit.

"I was wondering when they'd send you here," he remarked, his tone a mixture of amusement and resignation. You returned his smile, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly at his familiar demeanor.

"I guess today is your lucky day." Your eyes scanned the rustic surroundings of his ranch, taking in the simplicity of his new life. "Well, this is quite the change of scenery."

He chuckled softly, a hint of pride in his tone as he gestured around the farmhouse. "It's definitely a far cry from the city," he admitted. "But it suits me."

"It does seem like you've found your place here. It's... different, but in a good way."

Spencer's smile widened at your words "It is different, and I like it here," he agreed. "Which is why I'm going to say no to whatever reason you're here."

You raised an eyebrow. "I haven't even said anything."

"You didn't have to, everyone else has already said their piece." He turned and focused his attention back on his horse. "And the answer is still no."

You silently studied him as he finished his task. He was right; your other teammates had already been here before you, trying to coax him back to the BAU. But you couldn't help but feel a sense of determination rise within you. Spencer Reid might be a stubborn cowboy now, but you knew deep down that his brilliant mind belonged with the team.

But knowing no one else could crack his stubbornness, you knew you needed a different approach and the only way you could think of was to reel him in with his current interest. "He's beautiful," you acknowledged, nodding towards the horse he was working on. "What's his name?"

"She's beautiful," he corrected. "And her name is Mildred."

The name didn't sound foreign to you. "You must really have something sentimental with that name. Didn't you name one of your mugs Mildred?"

He tipped his head back. "You remembered?"

"Of course, I do," you replied with a grin. "I remember a lot about you, even if we didn't have much time getting to know each other."

The memories of your time at the BAU flooded back. The way you joined the team right before Spencer had decided to take a break, which had turned out to be more permanent than anyone had anticipated. Although it was hard to forget a guy like him. You remembered when your eyes first fell on him and how your heart fluttered at his awkward yet charming smile.

There was something about him, something magnetic and intriguing that drew you in from the very beginning. It was a pity he had to leave shortly after you joined the team because you swore your admiration wasn't one-sided, but with Spencer gone, any hope of exploring those feelings had faded away.

As you stood before him now, you couldn't help but study how different he was yet still managed to look the same. The rugged cowboy attire he now wore seemed worlds away from the suit and tie he had once donned as a profiler, yet there was a familiarity to his features that remained unchanged.

But one thing was for sure, despite the time and distance of not seeing him, you were still attracted to Spencer Reid.

"I remember a lot about you too."

You laughed. "That's because you have an eidetic memory." Spencer simply flashed you a sheepish grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. You slowly took a step forward towards him. "Can I touch her?"

He nodded, gesturing towards Mildred. "Go ahead. She's quite friendly."

You approached the horse cautiously, extending your hand to stroke her mane gently. Mildred nuzzled against your palm, her warm breath tickling your skin. A sense of calm washed over you as you felt the gentle rhythm of her breathing.

Spencer watched you with a soft smile, his gaze warm and reassuring. "She likes you," he remarked, his voice low and soothing.

You smiled back. "I like her too," you replied, your fingers trailing along Mildred's soft fur. Then your eyes glanced over to him and the gears in your head started to move. You needed to act as stealthy as possible. "So... how fast can horses go? In general?"

His smile widened at your question. "Well, it depends on various factors like breed, training, and terrain," he began, falling into his familiar role as an educator. "On average, horses can reach speeds of around 25 to 30 miles per hour, but some breeds can go even faster, reaching speeds of up to 40 miles per hour."

You nodded, absorbing the information as you continued stroking Mildred's fur while keeping your true intentions hidden behind a facade of innocent curiosity. "Are mammals usually that fast?"

"Actually, yes," he replied. "While horses are known for their impressive speed, they're not the only mammals capable of reaching high velocities."

"...how about bulls?"

Spencer raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued by your sudden interest in bulls. "Bulls?" he echoed, studying you intently.

You met his gaze, trying to appear nonchalant. "Yeah, bulls."

He continued to scrutinize you, his sharp intellect picking up on your evasive behavior. Spencer may not work as a profiler anymore, but he could tell when someone had ulterior motives.

"Alright, what is it?" he finally asked, crossing his arms.

You sighed, trying not to focus on the way his arms flexed at the movement, and took another step towards him. If you were going to convince him to return to the BAU, you needed to be honest with him. "Well, you see, the current case we're working on is... it's a bit unusual."

Spencer's curiosity was piqued, his interest evident in how he leaned in slightly, waiting for you to continue.

"Three victims were found dead under suspicious circumstances," you explained, choosing your words carefully. "The strange part is, all three victims were found with injuries consistent with being trampled by bulls."

"Trampled by bulls?" he repeated, disbelief coloring his voice.

"It sounds bizarre, I know. There have been reports of aggressive behavior from a nearby ranch, and the local authorities suspect that the deaths may be connected to the bulls on the property. But the thing is, the autopsies showed that it might not even be caused by any type of animal."

"And you want me to help with the investigation," he summarized.

"We could certainly use your help," you admitted, hoping that he would see the significance of his involvement.

Spencer fell silent for a moment, his gaze distant as he considered your words. Then, without saying another word, he turned on his heels and began to walk towards another part of the stable, a hidden corner shrouded in shadows. Your heart sank as you watched him move away.

"I don't think I'm the person you should be looking for."

You followed him, determined not to let him slip away without a fight. "You're exactly the person we should be looking for! With that smart brain of yours and your knowledge of farm animals, we could profile the Unsub in no time."

His steps faltered momentarily as your words reached him, but he didn't turn back to face you. Instead, he continued walking, his silhouette fading into the shadows of the stable.

"I appreciate the sentiment," he called back over his shoulder, his voice tinged with resignation, "But I'm not sure I'm the right fit for this anymore."

"Reid," you called after him, quickening your pace to catch up. "Please, just hear me out."

"Y/n," he warned dangerously low. The way he spoke your name affected you more than you'd like to admit. You cautiously took a step forward.

"Do you know how long it took me to do a geographical profile of the crime scenes? Or how Alvez spent two nights going through stacks of documents when you would've finished it in like an hour?" You let out a sigh. "It's so different without you, we miss you."

He slightly faltered at your words again but remained quiet, so you tried again.

"We could really use your help, Spence, at least on this case. The team needs you." You watched him try to do some other task as if trying to ignore you. "I need you."

He remained silent for a moment longer, the only sound the soft shuffle of his boots against the stable floor. Then, slowly, he turned to face you, and there was a subtle shift in his expression, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

"...you need me?"

You faltered for a moment, taken aback by his unexpected question. The room seemed to shrink around you, the walls closing in as you became hyper-aware of the proximity between the two of you. Your gaze involuntarily flickered over every detail of his face, taking in the curve of his stubble jaw, the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, and the lines etched on his brow.

You also noticed his lips. Those damn kissable lips, pressed together in a thin line as he waited for your response. You found yourself inexplicably drawn to them, a surge of desire coursing through you at the mere thought of what it would feel like to press your own against them.

Shaking yourself from your inappropriate thoughts, you forced your gaze back to his eyes, feeling your cheeks flush with embarrassment at where your mind had wandered. You swallowed hard, feeling a lump form in your throat.

"Yes," you finally replied, your voice barely above a whisper. "I-I need you."

As the words left your lips, a heavy silence fell upon the room. You could feel his eyes on you, his gaze intense and searching, as if he were trying to interpret the depth of your confession. For a moment, neither of you spoke, and you could hear the sound of your heartbeat echoing in your ears, the rhythm erratic and unsteady.

"And you missed me?"

You held his gaze. While your words might not have been an outright confession, it wasn't exactly a lie, and there was no reason to deny the truth.

"I missed you," you admitted, your voice sounding more breathless than you intended. He smiled. Then, slowly, he reached out, his fingers gently brushing against your cheek. His touch sent a shiver down your spine, the warmth of it searing through you like a flame.

"Fine, I'll help you," he whispered, his voice barely audible in the stillness of the room. "On one condition."

Your heart skipped a beat, anticipation coursing through your veins as you waited for him to continue. His gaze held yours, unwavering and intense. You could feel the weight of his scrutiny, from your wide eyes to the slope of your nose, before lingering on your lips. For a moment, there was silence, broken only by the sound of your shallow breaths. Then he finally spoke.

"Be honest with me," he responded, his fingers tracing a gentle path along your jawline, "Do you need my help with the case or do you need me for something else?"

You met his gaze, searching for the right words to express the truth of your intentions. "Both," you admitted after a pause, your voice barely above a whisper. "I need your help with the case, but I also... need you."

A satisfied smile curled on his lips as he gently cupped your cheek, pulling you closer. But just as you thought he would close the distance between your lips, he paused, his warm breath teasing against your skin. His next question hung in the air between you, a challenge and an invitation wrapped into one.

"Tell me what you need me for then."

Your breath caught in your throat as his lips hovered tantalizingly close to yours. "I-I need you to kiss me," you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper, your words tinged with urgency and desire. "Please."

His gaze darkened. "I never took you as one to beg," he remarked, his voice laced with a hint of amusement. "But I must admit, I quite like it."

Then slowly, almost hesitantly, he closed the remaining distance between you, his lips brushing against yours in a feather-light touch. You could still feel the smile playing on his lips, but only briefly before he moved them slowly, capturing every curve of your soft lips.

He swiped his tongue along your bottom lip, holding your jaw in place. His hand cradled your face, holding you gently but firmly, while his other hand explored your body. It trailed down your back, sending shivers of anticipation coursing through you, before settling on your hip. You gasped at the sudden contact and he seized the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue delving deeper.

With a boldness that surprised even yourself, you wrapped your hands around his neck, pulling him closer. Your fingers tangled in his hair, knocking off his hat onto the floor before tugging lightly at the roots, eliciting a low moan from him that vibrated against your lips.

What had started as gently molding your lips together turned into a passionate dance of tongues, leaving you moaning and breathless. He slowly pulled away, his eyes slamming shut as his forehead met yours, both of you gasping for air while you tried to regain your composure. His breath mingled with yours, a heady mix of desire and need, as he spoke in a ragged voice.

"You," he gasped, his words laced with raw intensity, "Taste better than I imagined."

Your head was spinning. How could he consume you with just a kiss? You had dreamed of this moment, of being close to him, but you never imagined it would affect you as deeply as it did now.

"Do you even realize," He pressed on, his voice low with pent-up longing. "How much I've wanted to do this?"

Your head was swimming in a haze of desire as his lips trailed along your jawline, sending shivers down your spine. "Yeah?" you breathed out, barely able to form coherent thoughts.

He nodded against your neck. "Ever since I saw you."

"Wh-Why didn't you say anything?" you managed to stammer out, the words barely audible amidst the dizzying sensation of his lips on your skin.

"Wasn't sure you felt the same way."

You took a moment to process his words, the warmth of his breath against your skin adding to the whirlwind of sensations coursing through you. "You should've said something, it would make this whole convincing you a lot easier."

He paused, his lips leaving a trail of soft kisses along your neck. "I don't know," he finally murmured. "I think I need a little more persuading."

His words sent a jolt of desire coursing through you, igniting a fire that burned hotter with each passing moment. You swallowed hard, trying to gather your thoughts amidst the intoxicating sensation of his lips on your skin.

"I can persuade you in other ways."

Spencer lifted his head, his gaze meeting yours. "Then show me," he breathed, his voice thick with desire.

There was no room for hesitation. You leaned in, capturing his lips with yours in a desperate, passionate kiss, fully aware of the risk of being caught, but his mouth on your body felt too good to care. It wasn't like you hadn't fantasized about this exact moment, about the feel of his mouth on your body, the way his hands would explore every inch of you with a hunger that mirrored your own.

His hands found your hips, pushing you to the nearest wall before his fingers fumbled with the buttons on your blouse. It was clear you both decided that the risk was well worth the wait.

"May I?" He asked, his fingers still working on your front buttons.

You laughed amusedly. "You already are."

His response was a chuckle of his own before he buried his head in your neck again. The opening in the front of your shirt chilled your body, sending goosebumps all along your skin as his hands caressed over your lacy, black bra covering your breasts, thumbing your hardened nipples.

He leaned further down, trailing his lips over your cleavage, before sucking softly on the spot. The sensation made you gasp, knowing well enough that there would be marks left behind, but you didn't care. Wanting to give more to him, you reached out between your bodies and pulled down your bra, granting him more access to your skin.

His eyes drank in the sight before him hungrily. He gently rubbed against the small pebbles on your chest, wetting his lips as he did, eyes completely trained on them now. Without warning he surged forward, tongue darting out to lick a long, flat stripe against one of your nipples. You let out a surprised moan at the action, fingers tugging at his hair tightly and head tilting back before snapping down to look at him.

A choked moan left your lips as he continued sucking, licking, twirling his tongue around it while playing with the other with his hand. "Spence..." you whined, your voice sounding clear in the room.

"Shh," he mumbled against your skin. "Keep your voice down."

You nodded helplessly as he released your nipple before wrapping his lips around the other one, giving the same attention. He repeated the motion, rolling your wet nipple under his calloused palm, having you arch your back and push your chest into his face. He didn't have to be told twice, immediately giving it a hard suck while pinching the other one.

The sensation traveled along your body before it lowered between your thighs, forming an ache the second his hand trailed down your stomach. His fingers finally found the hem of your pants, before dipping underneath the material, slipping right underneath your panties. Your breath hitched when two of his long fingers slide between your folds, spreading your slick before finding its rightful place on your clit.

"You're so wet," he whispered in a daze, trailing his lips back up your collarbone. He couldn't believe how drenched you already were. "All this for me?"

You nodded, gasping when he stroked up and down your folds, coating his fingers with your arousal. Your hips buckled against his touch and he didn't hesitate when he started rubbing your clit, feeling your body writhe under him. A sudden pressure of his fingers sent pleasure shooting through you, and your head fell back to the wall, mouth agape, face flushed.

But before you could relish the pleasure, he suddenly pulled his hand out of your pants before tugging you, urging you to follow him. As he led you deeper into the stable, your heart raced with anticipation. You followed him silently, feeling a rush of excitement as he pulled you behind the stacks of hay, sheltering the two of you from prying eyes.

The rustling of the hay beneath you echoed in the room as he pulled you closer, his touch igniting a fire within you as you pressed your hands on his chest. With trembling hands, you began to undo the buttons of his shirt, and his gaze never left yours, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

As your fingertips brushed along his skin, you felt the warmth radiating from his body, his chest rising and falling with each breath. He wasn't muscular in the conventional sense, but there was a lean strength to him that was undeniably attractive. Your fingers continued their journey downward, skimming lightly over the softness of his stomach before teasing along the line of hair that trailed further down.

Your hands found their way to the buckle of his belt, fingers deftly working to undo it. He made no move to stop you as his gaze remained fixed on you. There was a hunger in his eyes, urging you for more, yet he remained patient, allowing you to take the lead. And then you tugged down his denim, not much than an inch but enough for you to pull his cock out.

He was warm and achingly hard, and a low, guttural sound escaped his lips as his hips bucked into your palm. His eyes fluttered closed momentarily, a shudder passing through him as he surrendered to the sensation. You looked up at him through your lashes, the corner of your lips quirked up in a smirk.

"Shh," you whispered, echoing his words. "Keep your voice down."

He chuckled softly, eyes meeting yours. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Not as much as you are."

You proved your point by tugging his cock harder, pumping up and down his length. His head fell back, his breath coming out in ragged gasps as he fought to stifle his moans. You couldn't help but find it endearing, the way he struggled to keep quiet, his brows creasing in concentration. It was a pity, really, because you liked hearing the raw, unfiltered sounds of his pleasure.

You swiped your thumb along the tip of his cock, gathering the slickness before rubbing it along his length. His head snapped down to look between you, his eyes taking in the way you quickened your pace, pumping him in your hand. A sense of urgency overwhelmed him the moment your tongue darted out to wet your bottom lip, and he leaned in, shoving his own tongue into your mouth.

The way your fingers gripped his cock had him moaning into the kiss which you happily accepted. As he felt that familiar knot tightening in his stomach, he knew he had to act quickly. With a gasp, he pulled away from the kiss, his chest heaving with ragged breaths as he reached between you to halt your movements. With a sense of urgency, he shrugged off his shirt and laid it carefully on the stack of hay behind you.

"Turn around," was all he said as he pushed down his pants to uncover himself, leaving you empty for the moment.

You obliged, turning while gripping the hem of your pants and slipping them down your legs. Without hesitation, you pushed your panties down before kicking them off, giving him the perfect view of your soaked slit. It didn't take long for him to drop onto the floor, his hands running along the back of your thighs.

"Look at you." He leaned closer, his breath brushing your damp skin. "Aren't you a pretty little thing?"

You leaned forward and arched your back at his words, earning a deep, low sound of approval from him. One of his hands gripped your ass, slowly kneading your supple skin as his other hand grabbed onto your right leg, hiking it over the stack of hay. He had a better view of your wetness in this position, and you bit down your lips when you felt his fingers brush over your entrance.

A finger slipped inside you, then two, and when he started to pump them in and out of your tight walls, you pressed yourself further onto the stack of hay underneath you, trying to hold yourself back from making too much noise. Your arousal dripped from your core to coat his fingers and he was mesmerized by how eager your body was for him, how your hips rocked back against his hand.

But you needed more. His touch, his warmth, his presence—it wasn't enough. Your body ached for him, every nerve alive with desire.

"Please..." you breathlessly begged him, wanting to feel him inside of you, wanting him to rid your body of the tension, of the ache between your legs. Your jaw slacked open when you felt his mouth press against your clit before giving a slight suck.

"Tell me what you need," he ordered, breath deep and raspy and strained against your wet skin. He sucked onto your aching nub once again as his fingers continued to pump in and out of you. "And I'll give it to you."

"Please," you gasped, overwhelmed with the sudden force of his fingers and tongue between your legs and the pleasure that coursed through your body. "I w-want to f-feel you."

He pulled his fingers from within you, but his mouth was still exploring the wetness of your skin. His eager tongue worked wonders against your pussy, drawing out every second of pleasure as your hips rolled against his mouth. A whimper slipped from your lips as his tongue worked on your clit faster and you found yourself unable to contain yourself any longer.

"S-Spence..." You whined, not caring how desperate you sounded. All that mattered was your need for him. "Please..."

He placed a kiss on your swollen clit. "Be specific, baby, tell me what you need."

His endearment sent shivers down your spine, and you felt yourself spiraling further. Without hesitation, you begged shamelessly, "I-I want to feel y-your cock."

A low groan fell through his lips as he got off the floor, positioning himself behind you. "Say more words like that and I may lose the hint of self-control I have."

"I just—I just need you to fuck me," you didn't recognize the choke in your voice when you whined again.

He had no intention of protesting as he slipped between your legs, finally allowing you to feel just how hard you made him. For a moment, he pushed his hips toward you, grinding his cock against your folds, feeling your arousal soak his flesh.

"Is this what you wanted?" His hand gripped his cock to ease the tip over your entrance, pushing into you slowly, gasping when your walls clenched around him eagerly.

"Fuck, yes," was all you could manage to whimper, eyes screwing shut as he filled you up. And when you could barely stand anymore, becoming a quivering mess beneath him, he finally thrust deeper, pushing his hips against your body, earning a gasp with your mouth falling open.

"Oh my god." You could barely speak, barely form words, or even think as he pressed a hand to on your lower back, holding you in place as he dragged his cock out of you, only to ram himself back inside.

"Harder," you begged him, so breathless once again, "F-Faster."

He listened to you; he listened to the way your body moved against him, the way your walls tightened around his length. The way you stifled a moan and curse and huff anytime he thrust just right to have you pushing your hips back to him, your body trembling, shaking, and your legs nearly giving out because the pleasure became too much to bear.

"D-Don't stop." You had no shame in begging him. Not when he could make you feel so good, not when he was holding onto your hips as he continued to thrust into your dripping cunt.

"That's it," he encouraged, hips beginning to fall into a steady rhythm. "Tell me how good it feels. Beg me not to stop."

"So-so good," you babbled. "Don't—don't fucking stop."

He obliged your words by pushing apart your legs even further. Your face twisted in pleasure, so sensitive and overwhelmed as his hips smacked against your ass and he thrust himself harder into you. Sweat began to bead against his forehead once he pumped his cock into you harder, faster, earning every little whimper, even the ones you lacked the strength to release.

Thoughts of getting caught, of knowing anyone could walk in when he was buried deep inside you, left both of your minds. Neither of you cared when you were so wrapped up in one another. Not when you hiked your leg higher, allowing his cock to hit the spot that had you quivering in his hold when he slammed into you again.

Then he suddenly released his grip on your hips, slipping a hand between the two of you to press his fingers to your clit. The sudden increase in pleasure had you gasping in pure bliss. The room began to spin, air rushing to your head and the harder he fucked you, the deeper he thrust, and the faster his fingers rubbed against your clit, you knew you wouldn't be able to hold your sanity any longer.

He sensed your desperation in the way you gasped his name over and over again, and he thrust into you with more force than before. You tightened around him, squeezing him so damn hard he was tempted to lose all control right then, but he persisted in bringing your pleasure first. The sloppy sounds of your arousal coating his flesh filled the room, and with one, final thrust, you gasped before the pleasure finally consumed you.

He abruptly released your clit as he took hold of your hips again, keeping you in place while ruthlessly thrusting in and out through your bliss. His fingers pressed harder, drawing out every breathless moan, every strained whimper, every gasp of his name until your body grew too weak.

But he was far from done, slowing his hips to hit deep within your walls with aggressive thrusts, bringing his own high closer and closer as you whined from the overwhelming sensation, too sensitive, too far gone to handle much more, shuddering with every push of his cock within you.

"Where—" he groaned, your slick cunt too much for him, your juices drenching along his pelvis. "I'm close—"

You managed to snap your head over your shoulders. "Pull out, pull out."

You watched through fluttering lids as he gripped himself in his hand, and with trembling legs, you kneeled before him, gripped his cock in your hand, and took him fully in your mouth. He gritted his teeth at the sensation, sucking a breath in through his teeth as he felt your tongue dragging along his length.

You pushed further, hollowing your cheeks as you continued to swallow him down until the tip of his cock finally reached the back of your throat, nose pressed against his pelvis. He tipped his head back as you started to suck him, gagging around him when you felt him thrust his hips into you.

His eyes flicked down again at the sound only to find you looking up at him through your lashes. Spencer sucked in a sharp breath, before cradling your soft cheeks in both his large hands, and began thrusting his cock in and out of your mouth. Obscene noises filled the room as he continued to use you, tears welling at your lids and saliva building at your lips, seeping down your chin.

He continued to pump himself into your mouth, slowly starting to lose control, getting so lost in how warm your lips were wrapped around him. His jaw fell open as he released a final groan, brows creasing and eyes screwed shut, thrusting so deep before the first shot of his release filled your mouth.

Then a few more shots followed and you swallowed every drop down your throat as he continued to look at you in wonder. His breath was punching out of his chest in ragged, overwhelmed gasps, sweat glittering at his temples while he silently groaned through the pleasure.

His head dipped low as you dragged your tongue up his length for the last time, from the base of his cock to the tip, and you finally licked him clean. A few moments of catching your breaths passed before he gently pulled you back to your feet.

As you both quickly fixed your clothes and adjusted your hair, he retrieved his cowboy hat from where it had been discarded on the floor, placing it back on his head with a grin. Then, without hesitation, he drew you close, his lips peppering your face with sweet, tender kisses.

You laughed at his sudden affection. "What's all this for?" you asked, smiling up at him.

"I feel obligated after... all of that," he confessed, his lips brushing softly against yours before he withdrew slightly. "You're amazing."

Your smile widened at his words, a soft warmth blooming in your chest. "And you're not so bad yourself," you replied teasingly, wrapping your arms around his neck. "So, was that enough to convince you to come back?"

"Almost," he murmured, his voice low and filled with warmth. "I think I need a bit more convincing."

You quirked an eyebrow. "I don't think I have it in me for round two."

"No, not that," he said with a laugh. His hand slid down to rest on your lower back, drawing you closer to him. "Have dinner with me tonight and I'll come by the office tomorrow."

You smiled up at him, a flutter of excitement dancing in your chest as you took in every detail of his rugged features—the subtle crinkle in the corner of his eyes, the hint of stubble along his jawline, and the warmth of his brown eyes that seemed to shine brighter in the light.

Your gaze lingered on his cowboy hat, and with a mischievous grin, you reached out to grab it, placing it atop your own head.

"Then you've got yourself a deal, cowboy."

[feelgoodinct]

nsfw, mdni.

cw: situationship simon you will always be famous, jealousy, f oral receiving, not edited, written on mobile during my lunch break lolz.

simon knows he’s no stranger to conflict. it’s intertwined with what he does and who he is. so when you come to him putting your foot down demanding answers about your relationship he figures he’ll let you throw your fit and sort you out when he gets back.

it’s a 3 month deployment, one of those that need a 6 month rest to recoup. when he gets back it’s easy to fall into his normal routine again. he spends his first night back at his usual bar, a seedy little thing downtown that gets crowded quickly. something he’s willing to compromise on since they have his favorite beer on tap.

he’s on his third beer of the night when he hears the chime of the entrance door. only this time he hears a voice that he is familiar with. very familiar with. he his quickly snaps up at the sound to see you. you’re in his favorite skirt one he’s pulled off of you in the back of his truck many times, and short little black number with a lacy top.

he doesn’t have time to gaze and your legs before he zeroes in on the hand at the small of your back, ushering you towards a table in the corner. he grits his teeth. when he said he’ll let you have your fuss he didn’t mean in the form of a fucking date. he stares unashamedly so, paying no more mind to the game playing on the bars dingy telly overhead. he knows you haven’t seen him or else you would’ve turned and walked right back out. he decides he’ll bid his time watching you and your date sit in a booth tucked away into the corner. he scowls as he watches your date lean in to put his hand on your thigh while you scan the drink menu. prick wouldn’t even know what to do with you if he had you, sweetheart. he watches you give him a polite smile. it makes him snort. dickhead didn’t even let you sit on the inside of the booth.

you lean in whispering something to your date making him nod. simon watches you stand and make way towards the washroom at the back scooting by tipsy patrons and disappearing behind the washrooms door. he looks back over to your booth watching your date tap away in his phone. idiot didn’t even have the decency to walk you to the loo. simon waits all of 15 seconds before he rises, chair scraping across the floorboards, dropping a few bills on the bar top.

you reapply your lipgloss in the foggy mirror of the bathroom. when you agreed to go out on a date you thought a nice place to eat. not some bar that make the bottom of your shoes stick. you take a big sigh, if anything you’ll get a few free drinks and make the most of it.

the door swings open, wood groaning with the force behind it, the click of the lock following quickly behind the sound. you turn towards the sound freezing when you see simon standing looking comically large in the small room. “simon? what the hell! this is the ladies room.” you say in disbelief. he ignores your comment and takes long strides towards you boots making a resounding thud with each step. he crowds you against the counter top craning his neck to look you in the face. “ye done throwing a fit?” his voice deep with irritation.

you look at him like he sprouted a third eye, “excuse me?” your reply laced with annoyance at his audacity.

“don’t be difficult.” simon says more of a command than anything. you open your mouth just to quickly close it. even with the tension, the air is thick with heightened emotion. “he’s not your type.” he says with a tight clench of his jaw.

you scoff at his words, “is this what this is about? you followed me into the ladies room to talk about my date?” simon’s eye twitches with your admission that you are, in fact, on a date. he feels jealousy flare deep in his chest. “ye wastin yer time with him.” he ignores your comment about him being in the ladies room. he could give less of a fuck.

you tilt your head watching the muscle in his jaw twitch. “that all?” you say hoping to end his questioning. simon grinds his teeth at your stubborn attitude hands one either side or you gripping the shabby counter. he’s not one to mince words, he considers your question staring at you with intense and dark eyes. he knows he’s being unreasonable that he should step back let you get back to your date. but simon is nothing if not stubborn, more so than you.

before he can say anything there a sharp knock at the door. simon looks at the door, an irritated look flashing across his face. “simon.” you plead with him. there’s a pause before the knocks come again in quick succession. “fuck off! it’s taken.” simon barks towards the door before turning back to you. you watch the rise and fall of his chest, muscles in his arms taut with tension, you notice the way he fills out his shirt the fabric stretching across his chest. you trying swallowing down the desire that’s been building ever since he trudged into the washroom. your on a date for god’s sake.

simon notices the look in your eye and that’s all the permission he needs before he’s hoisting you up onto the counter with his palms burning into the back of your thighs. you squeak at the sudden movement and instinctively open your legs wider giving way to simon’s wide torso. a hand tangles in your hair and tugs your head back barring your neck to him. he leans down, lips against the shell of your ear, voice gruff “if you wanted a fuck you come to me, understood? don’t need no prick trying to feel you up when you got me.” you nod as much as best as you can with the way simon has your head at an awkward angle.

“good.” simon pulls back loosening his grip of your locks and slides his hands down to squeeze the fat of your hips. “now behave and i’ll make it good for you.”

you immediately lean back on your forearms and widen your legs. simon grins at your obedience, canines peeking out from his top lip. he makes quick work of pushing your skirt up to your belly. you hiss as thighs and ass make contact with the cold surface. simon rubs your thighs with big warm hands as an apology. you whine as his fingers close around the band of your lacy black pair of panties tugging them down and off your legs. you feel the cool air hit your center and you see simon pocket them. filthy bastard.

he kneels with a groan taking in your cunt like it’s the first time he’s seen one and he stares like it’s the last time. pinning your thighs to your chest, he looks up through his lashes, “help me out here pretty thing.” he spreads your folds apart with both thumbs and lets out a deep groan.

you’re about to tell him to get on with it when he leans in and gets his mouth on the entirety of your mound. you grip the back of your thighs trying to ground yourself. simon dips his tongue in licking at your opening as your mouth drops open. you nearly sob when he adds a finger in and pulls back with a cocky grin. before you can tell him to piss off he introduces another finger making you whine out like a wounded animal. his mouth returns to tongue at your clit while he curls his fingers hitting a spot that has you jerking. he pulls back grinning and looks up “that the spot, pretty girl?” you nod quickly not caring how desperate you must look with your legs to your chest, feet grazing the top of simon’s shoulders, crying into the air. “yeah i know, sweet thing. yer just gaggin for it. cunts leakin all over my hand.” his words make you clench hard, you don’t even know what you’re begging for. simon doesn’t let up stretching you out with rough fingers giving a low growl into your cunt.

“simon” you mewl dropping your thighs to tug at the tufts of hair between your thighs. he groans, your sounds fueling simon as he speeds up his fingers knowing your close. you cry out chanting simon, simon, simon, please. he leans in to suck at your clit, hard, all while hitting that sweet spot. you come with a sharp pull of his cropped hair and a sob, ears closing around his head. he licks you through it until you’re forced to yank his head back from the overstimulation. he leans back on his haunches, big paws running up and down your thighs, and gives you a dopey grin.

“i can’t feel my legs.” you say in a hoarse voice, trying to catch your breath.

“yeah, m’not surprised. you came hard pretty hard, sweet girl.” simon stands to his full height, not missing the way your cheeks heat up at his words. he chuckles at your sudden shyness, a deep sound that vibrates throughout his chest. he circles his arms around your waist bringing you to sit upright at the edge of the sink.

his hand cradles the back of your neck forcing you to meet him halfway. he gives you a deep kiss, licking the front of your teeth, and sucking at your bottom lip before he pulls away. “ready to go home now?” he says with affection in his eyes.

the reality of where and who you are with dawns on you and you sit upright in a panic. “oh fuck.” you try to keep your voice steady. simon raises an eyebrow at your anxious state. “my date. i left him outside!” you shriek knowing you’re gonna have to go out and answer for your absence. simon clicks his tongue understanding why you’re so worried. “don’t worry bout it, pet. told him to sod off before i came in. bastard ran out before i could even threaten him” he says patting your backside in reassurance.

you let out a big sigh of relief knowing you won’t have to confront him. simon gives you a crooked smile. “ready?” he runs his hand through your hair. you give him a sweet smile and a nod.

(you make a mental note to thank soap for giving you a heads up on simon’s plans for tonight.)

[pucksandpower]

Die With a Smile

Charles Leclerc x death!Reader

Summary: desperation is a dangerous thing — six seasons without a World Drivers’ Championship has left Charles willing to do anything for glory … even pay the ultimate price (or in which Charles Leclerc sacrifices everything for Ferrari and, thanks to you, learns that death is nothing like he expected)

Warnings: major character death

Charles Leclerc has always been one for precision. Calculated. Calm. But now? Now there’s nothing left. Precision has eroded into a recklessness that terrifies and excites him in equal measure. The pursuit of glory is the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

Melbourne is hot, the air thick and sticky with anticipation. He stands in the paddock, helmet in hand, eyes tracing over the sea of faces. Reporters, mechanics, engineers — all of them moving with purpose. The season begins here, but he can’t shake this feeling that something else is starting too.

He frowns, scanning the crowd again. Something — or someone — has caught his attention.

You stand there, leaning against a barrier, watching him. Quiet, still. You don’t belong in this chaos, yet somehow, you fit. It's not like the usual glances from fans or the admiring stares from strangers. No, this is different. He doesn’t know why, but the sight of you pulls him in, like a thread slowly unraveling.

His grip tightens around the helmet. “Who’s that?” He mutters under his breath, half to himself, half to anyone nearby.

Pierre, standing a few feet away, catches the tail end of his question and follows his gaze. “Who?”

“There.” Charles nods subtly toward you. You’re still there, eyes locked on him. Unblinking. He swallows hard.

Pierre shrugs, oblivious. “No clue. Probably a fan or something. You good?”

Charles doesn’t answer. You’re not a fan. You’re something else. His heart thuds in his chest, a slow, deliberate beat, like a countdown. He can almost hear it. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

“I’m fine,” he says, but the words feel empty. He’s not fine. He feels like he’s balancing on the edge of something dangerous, and you’re the reason why.

Suddenly, the world around him — the voices, the clamor of the paddock — fades, and it’s just you and him. You, watching him with a calmness that unnerves him. And him, standing there, frozen, unable to look away.

“I’ll see you after the race,” Pierre says, giving him a pat on the shoulder before disappearing into the crowd. Charles doesn’t even register his friend’s departure.

He doesn’t move, his body rooted to the spot as if some unseen force has pinned him in place. It’s stupid. Ridiculous. Why can’t he look away?

There’s a flicker in your eyes — something fleeting, something dark. His pulse quickens. He knows that look. He’s seen it before, in mirrors, in the faces of men with nothing left to lose.

But you … you wear it differently. Effortlessly.

Charles takes a step toward you. His boots hit the asphalt with a dull thud, and suddenly, he’s walking, moving through the crowd without really seeing anyone. His focus narrows, sharp and deadly. He can feel it, the pull, the way his every step is dragging him closer to something he can’t explain.

And then he’s standing in front of you.

You don’t smile. You don’t say anything. You just watch him, your expression unreadable, like you’re waiting for something.

His throat is dry. “Who are you?”

For a moment, silence stretches between you, thick and unyielding. And then you tilt your head, ever so slightly, as if considering the question.

“Does it matter?” Your voice is soft, almost too soft, but it cuts through the noise around them like a blade.

He blinks, thrown off balance. He expected — he doesn’t know what he expected. Something more. Something less. But not this.

“Yeah,” he says, swallowing hard, “I think it does.”

You shift your weight, crossing your arms over your chest, but your eyes never leave his. “And why is that?”

He hesitates. Why does it matter? He’s not sure. All he knows is that standing here, with you in front of him, he feels something heavy pressing down on him. Like time is slipping through his fingers, like he’s running out of chances, running out of-

“You’re in my head,” he says, more to himself than to you, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why are you in my head?”

You don’t answer right away, but your gaze sharpens, something dangerous lurking beneath the surface. “Maybe because you’ve been looking for me.”

His breath catches. “What?”

“You don’t realize it yet, but you’ve been waiting for this. For me.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He feels like the ground beneath him is shifting, like everything he thought he knew about himself is crumbling.

“You’re wrong,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction. “I’m not waiting for anything.”

You raise an eyebrow, and for the first time, a ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of your lips. It’s not a kind smile. It’s knowing. Cold.

“Aren’t you?”

He doesn’t answer. Can’t. The world around them feels suddenly smaller, the air thicker, like it’s closing in on him.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

That sound again. It’s louder now, reverberating in his skull.

“You’re scared,” you say, and it’s not a question.

“I’m not scared.”

“You should be.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but no words come out. Because you’re right. He is scared. But not of you. He’s scared of what you represent. Of the way his pulse pounds in his ears, the way his chest feels tight with something he doesn’t understand.

And you know it. You see right through him.

“This season,” you say, your voice low, “it’s your last, isn’t it?”

He stiffens. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t expect to come out of this alive.”

He laughs, but it’s bitter, hollow. “I don’t have a choice. I either win, or …”

“Or you die.”

His breath hitches. The way you say it, so matter-of-fact, so final — it shakes him. Because it’s true. He’s been feeling it for months, this gnawing sense that if he doesn’t win the championship, there’s nothing left for him. He’ll push until he breaks. And he doesn’t care anymore.

But how do you know that? How could you possibly know?

“You don’t get to decide that,” he snaps, more harshly than he intends.

You don’t flinch. “You’re right. I don’t.”

The implication hangs between you, unspoken but loud. There’s something inevitable about this. Something neither of you can control.

He takes a step back, suddenly needing space, air — anything to break the tension building between you. But even as he moves, he can still feel the weight of your gaze on him, can still hear the ticking in his head, louder and louder, counting down to something he can’t escape.

“You’re wrong,” he says again, though this time, it’s more for himself than for you. “I’ll win. I’ll be fine.”

You don’t argue. You just watch him, that cold, knowing smile still playing at the edges of your lips.

“We’ll see,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

And just like that, you turn and walk away, disappearing into the crowd as quickly as you appeared, leaving him standing there, heart racing, mind spinning.

He should be focusing on the race. On the championship. On everything he’s spent his entire life chasing.

But all he can think about is you. And the way his time feels like it’s running out.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

***

The roar of the engine fills his ears, drowning out everything else. The speed is intoxicating, the way the car moves beneath him, barely hanging on to the asphalt, the tires biting into the corners with every turn. He’s pushing harder than he should — he knows it, and he doesn’t care.

Spa is unforgiving today. The clouds hang low, threatening rain, and the track is slick, treacherous. Charles feels the tension in his body, every muscle taut, every nerve on edge. There’s no margin for error here. He’s on the edge, teetering, dancing with disaster. But that’s where he’s been living for months now — on the edge.

He downshifts hard coming out of Blanchimont, the rear of the car twitching beneath him. His heart pounds against his ribcage. He’s faster than he needs to be — faster than is safe. But he can’t let up. The rest of the field is closing in, and the gap between him and the car ahead is shrinking. Just a little more, just-

Then, suddenly, the car snaps.

A violent jolt sends him skidding off the track, the rear tires giving way, and for a brief, horrifying second, he loses control. The world tilts, and all he sees is the blur of gravel and barriers rushing toward him. Instinct takes over. His hands are a blur on the steering wheel as he fights to regain control. The tires scream against the ground, the car skidding sideways, throwing him against the seat belts with bone-rattling force.

“Come on, come on,” he mutters through gritted teeth, his heart pounding in his throat. He’s losing it, the car sliding further into the runoff area, the barrier looming closer.

But then — somehow — he recovers. The car snaps back into line, and he breathes out a shaky breath, his knuckles white from gripping the wheel. He’s back on the track, the car steady beneath him, but his heart is still racing, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

“Charles, are you okay?” His engineer’s voice crackles through the radio, tense and urgent.

“Yeah,” he breathes, his voice shaky. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

But he’s not fine. His hands are trembling, his vision is still blurred with the image of the gravel, the barrier — the almost crash. For a split second, he saw it. Saw what could have happened. What should have happened if his reflexes hadn’t kicked in.

He pulls the car to a slow halt, off the track now, coming to rest just inside the gravel trap. The engine hums, a low, steady sound that does nothing to calm him.

He sits there, breathing heavily, his head resting against the seat, eyes closed. He’s been reckless before, but this? This was different. He came so close to-

And then he feels it.

A presence.

His eyes snap open, and there you are. Standing just beyond the fence, not more than twenty feet from where his car rests. You’re watching him, the same way you did in Melbourne, your gaze locked on him with that unnerving calm that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

For a moment, he wonders if he’s imagining it. The adrenaline is still pumping, his mind is spinning, and maybe — just maybe — you’re a hallucination. But no. You’re real. You’re standing there, just beyond the track, watching him.

His breath catches in his throat.

“Charles, talk to us. Do you need assistance?” His engineer’s voice comes through the radio again, but he can’t respond. He’s frozen, staring at you through the shattered remnants of the race.

“Charles?” The voice repeats, more urgent now.

But he can’t tear his eyes away from you.

You tilt your head slightly, as if you’re considering something, as if you’re weighing his fate in your hands. And then, without a word, you take a step closer to the fence, your eyes never leaving his.

“Not yet,” you say, your voice somehow carrying through the din, through the chaos of the race and the pounding of his heart. It’s soft, almost a whisper, but he hears it as clearly as if you’re standing right next to him. “But soon.”

His blood runs cold.

He knows what you mean. He knows, deep down, that this is a warning. He can feel it, the weight of it pressing down on him, like the ticking of a clock in the back of his mind, counting down to something inevitable.

He swallows hard, trying to regain some semblance of control, but the words stick in his throat. “Who — who are you?” He manages to choke out, his voice barely above a whisper.

You don’t answer. You never answer. Instead, you just watch him, your expression unreadable, like you already know how this ends.

The world around him feels distant now, like everything is moving in slow motion. The sound of the engines, the cheers of the crowd — it all fades into the background, leaving just you and him, locked in this strange, silent moment.

“Charles, we need you to respond,” the engineer’s voice cuts in again, breaking the spell for just a second.

He fumbles for the radio, his hand shaking as he presses the button. “I’m — I’m fine,” he says, his voice strained. “Give me a minute.”

There’s a pause on the other end, but they don’t push him further. Not yet.

He exhales slowly, trying to steady himself, trying to make sense of what’s happening. He’s been reckless, yes. But this? This feels like more than just a close call. This feels like a warning. Like you’re here to remind him of something he’s been trying to ignore.

“Why are you here?” He asks, his voice barely audible over the hum of the car.

You don’t move. Don’t speak. But your eyes — they tell him everything. You’re here because of him. Because of the choices he’s making, the risks he’s taking. You’re here because he’s running out of time.

“You said … in Melbourne …” His voice trails off as he struggles to find the words. He remembers what you said. That he’s been looking for you, even if he didn’t realize it. That his time was running out.

And now, here you are. Again. Watching him.

“I don’t need you,” he says suddenly, his voice rising with a mixture of anger and fear. “I’m not done yet.”

Your expression doesn’t change. You don’t flinch. It’s as if you’ve heard these words a thousand times before.

“I will win,” he says, more to himself than to you. “I’m going to win.”

You take a step closer to the fence, your gaze unwavering. “We’ll see.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and final. He can’t tell if it’s a promise or a threat. Maybe it’s both.

He clenches his fists around the steering wheel, the leather cool against his skin. He wants to shout at you, to demand answers, to make you go away. But deep down, he knows you’re not the kind of thing you can just wish away. You’re something else. Something bigger. Something he doesn’t understand.

And yet, you’re here. Watching. Waiting.

“I don’t have a choice,” he mutters, his voice breaking. “I have to win.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The truth is already hanging between you.

Tick. Tock.

He can hear it again. That ticking. It’s louder now, more insistent, like the hands of a clock speeding up, racing toward some unseen finish line.

Charles shakes his head, as if trying to clear the sound from his mind. But it’s no use. The ticking is there, buried deep in his skull, a reminder that time is slipping away.

“I can still do this,” he whispers, almost desperately. “I can still win.”

Your gaze softens, just for a moment, and he wonders if you feel sorry for him. If you pity him.

“Maybe,” you say, and it’s the closest thing to compassion he’s heard from you. “But at what cost?”

He opens his mouth to respond, but the words die in his throat. Because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what it will cost him. He doesn’t want to know.

You take one last, lingering look at him, your eyes scanning his face as if memorizing every detail, and then you turn, your figure disappearing into the haze of the track, swallowed up by the world beyond the fence.

He sits there, still trembling, still shaken. His fingers slowly unclench from the steering wheel, and he lets out a long, ragged breath.

“Charles?” His engineer’s voice again, but softer this time. “Are you okay? We’re ready to bring you back in.”

He doesn’t respond right away. His mind is still reeling, still stuck in that moment when you stood there, just beyond the fence, watching him. Judging him.

“I’m coming in,” he finally says, his voice hoarse.

The car hums back to life as he nudges it forward, back onto the track. But his hands are still shaking. His pulse is still racing.

And in the back of his mind, the ticking continues.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

***

The rain is relentless in Suzuka. Sheets of water hammer down on the track, turning every corner into a hazard, every straight into a test of nerve. The spray from the tires rises like smoke, blurring the lines between the asphalt and the dark sky.

Charles can barely see more than a few meters in front of him, but he doesn’t let up. His foot is heavy on the throttle, fingers gripping the wheel like a lifeline. He’s teetering on the edge of control, dancing that fine line between dangerous and deadly.

Every lap feels like a gamble. He’s driving blind, trusting the car to hold steady, trusting himself not to make a mistake. But the mistakes are creeping in. He can feel it. The tires are slipping, the rear end twitching beneath him as he pushes harder, faster. The rain pounds against his helmet, and the world outside the cockpit is a chaotic blur of water and noise.

“Charles, we need you to back off,” his engineer’s voice crackles through the radio, thick with concern. “Conditions are getting worse.”

He doesn’t respond. His eyes are fixed on the road ahead, every muscle in his body tense, every instinct screaming at him to keep pushing. He knows the risks. He knows what’s at stake. But slowing down isn’t an option. Not for him.

“Charles, can you hear me?” The voice comes again, more insistent this time.

He blinks, his vision briefly clearing through the rain. And then he sees it.

A figure. Just beyond the barriers, standing at the edge of the track, half-obscured by the downpour. At first, it’s just a blur of motion, but as he hurtles closer, the figure sharpens into focus.

His breath catches in his throat. It can’t be.

Jules.

It’s impossible, but there he is — Jules Bianchi, standing on the side of the track, just where the runoff ends and the grass begins, his face calm, serene. Just like Charles remembers him. His heart leaps into his throat, a wave of emotion crashing over him, threatening to overwhelm him.

“Jules?” He whispers, his voice barely audible over the roar of the engine.

He blinks, just for a second. But when his eyes open again, Jules is gone. And in his place, there’s you.

Charles’ chest tightens, his hands shaking on the wheel as the car skids slightly on the wet track. You’re standing where Jules was, your gaze locked on him, calm and unyielding. The rain pours down around you, but you don’t move. You don’t blink. You just watch him, lap after lap.

“What the hell …” His voice cracks, his heart pounding harder than it should.

He can’t take his eyes off you, not even as the car barrels down the straight. The rain is coming down harder now, a relentless torrent that threatens to drown him in its fury. His mind spins, struggling to make sense of what he’s seeing. First Jules, now you — both of you standing there, on the edge of the track like ghosts from different parts of his life, haunting him.

Lap after lap, you’re there. Always in the same spot, just beyond the barrier, watching him. He blinks through the rain, but you never leave.

“Charles, please, respond,” his engineer’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp with worry. “You need to slow down. The rain’s too heavy. We’re going to box.”

“I’m fine,” Charles snaps, his voice strained. “I’m staying out.”

He can hear the hesitation in the silence that follows. They don’t want to argue with him — not now, not when he’s like this. But he knows they’re watching, knows they can see the telemetry, knows they can see that he’s pushing the car beyond its limits.

He doesn’t care. He has to keep going. He has to — for Jules.

But why are you here? Why now? Why after Jules?

His hands shake on the wheel as he takes another corner too fast, the rear tires sliding out before he regains control. His heart is racing, his mind a mess of emotions, and still — you’re there. You’re always there.

Charles grits his teeth, his jaw clenched so tight it hurts. “What do you want from me?” He mutters under his breath, his voice trembling. He knows you can’t hear him, not through the roar of the engine and the crash of rain, but it doesn’t matter. You’re in his head now. You’ve been in his head since Melbourne.

And now, Jules too?

It’s almost too much. The memories of his godfather crash over him, a flood of grief and guilt he’s been pushing down for years. Jules’ voice, his smile, the way he believed in Charles even when Charles didn’t believe in himself.

But Jules is gone. Has been for a long time.

So why did he see him?

“Charles, box, box,” the radio crackles, cutting through his thoughts again.

“I said no!” He snaps, his voice sharper than he intended. His breath is coming fast, too fast, his chest tight with something he can’t name.

He takes the next corner harder than he should, the car sliding dangerously close to the wall. His knuckles are white against the steering wheel, his body tense, rigid. His mind is racing — too fast, too chaotic. The rain pounds harder against the car, and visibility is almost zero now, the track a slick, treacherous river beneath him.

And then, as he speeds past the spot where you stand, something shifts.

He swears he hears your voice. Soft, almost a whisper, but unmistakable. “Charles.”

It’s like ice down his spine. His heart skips a beat, his grip faltering for just a second.

He jerks the wheel, the car sliding as he corrects it, narrowly avoiding the barrier. His pulse is racing, his breathing erratic. He glances toward where you’re standing, but you don’t move. Don’t say anything else. Just watch. Always watching.

“Damn it,” he mutters, his heart pounding so loud he can barely hear anything else. “Damn it!”

The ticking is back. That familiar, maddening sound in the back of his mind. It’s been there for months now, growing louder, more insistent with every race, every lap. And now it’s deafening, drowning out everything else, a reminder of the time slipping through his fingers.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

“You’re running out of time.”

Your voice echoes in his head, soft and calm, but laced with something darker. Something inevitable.

“I know!” He shouts, his voice hoarse, desperate. He knows he’s running out of time. He’s known it for months. Every race, every moment, feels like it’s pulling him closer to the edge, closer to you.

But he won’t stop. He can’t stop.

Jules wouldn’t want him to.

The thought of Jules — of his godfather, watching him, believing in him — gives him a surge of strength. He clenches his jaw, his eyes narrowing as he pushes the car harder, faster, through the rain-soaked chaos.

“I’ll win,” he mutters, his voice fierce. “I’ll win for him.”

The car slides again, the tires struggling for grip, but he doesn’t care. He pushes harder, faster. The track is a blur beneath him, the rain blinding, but all he can think about is Jules. About you. About the ticking clock in his head.

And still, you’re there. Lap after lap, you watch him. Unblinking. Unwavering.

“You don’t have to do this,” your voice whispers in his mind, soft but relentless.

“I do,” he growls, his teeth gritted against the storm. “I have to.”

There’s a flash of lightning overhead, illuminating the track for a brief moment, and in that instant, he sees you clearer than ever. Your eyes meet his, and for a split second, everything falls away. The rain, the track, the car — it all disappears, leaving just the two of you, suspended in time.

“You can’t outrun this,” you say, and there’s something almost sad in your voice. “You know that.”

He shakes his head, his hands gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles are white. “I can try.”

You don’t argue. You never do. You just watch him, like you always do, waiting. Waiting for him to understand.

He takes the final corner, the car sliding dangerously close to the wall, and as he crosses the line, the checkered flag waving in the rain, he feels it.

The ticking stops.

And for the first time in months, there’s silence.

But it’s not a relief.

It’s a warning.

Because he knows — deep down — that this isn’t over.

Not yet.

You’re still watching. And he’s still running.

But he can’t run forever.

***

The lights of Abu Dhabi shimmer under the night sky, illuminating the track like a stage set for the final act. The crowd is a sea of red, Ferrari flags waving in anticipation, in hope. This is it. The final race. The decider.

Charles sits in his cockpit, the engine vibrating beneath him, the roar of the crowd a distant hum behind his helmet. He’s been here before — so close — but this time, it’s different. This time, he feels it. The championship is within his grasp. The ticking in his head has been growing louder all season, but tonight, it’s almost deafening.

Lap after lap, corner after corner, he’s been inching closer to victory. Every second matters, every move counts. His heart pounds in sync with the car, the pressure of the moment squeezing at his chest, but he doesn’t let it crack him. Not now. He can’t. Not when everything he’s fought for is just beyond the finish line.

“Stay focused, Charles,” the voice of his engineer comes through the radio, calm but urgent.

“I’m focused,” Charles mutters, his voice tight with determination. His eyes flicker to the rearview mirrors — no one behind him. He’s clear.

The laps tick down, and with each one, the championship feels closer, heavier. The car is holding together, despite the heat, despite the pressure he’s putting on it. Ferrari has given him everything, and now he’s about to repay that faith. The Tifosi will finally have what they’ve been waiting for.

The last corner comes too quickly, but his hands are steady on the wheel. He navigates the turn, his body leaning into it as if willing the car to stay glued to the track. And then he’s there — the straight before the finish line, the end of the race.

“Go, go, go!” His engineer’s voice rises, the excitement breaking through. “You’ve got it, Charles!”

The chequered flag waves ahead, and in a breathless moment, it’s over.

Charles crosses the line. World Champion.

For a second, he’s still. Then the realization crashes into him like a tidal wave. He’s done it. He’s won. The championship is his.

The radio crackles again, his engineer’s voice cutting through the noise. “Charles — Champion of the World! You’ve done it! We’ve done it!”

A shaky laugh escapes Charles’ lips. “We did it. We actually did it,” he breathes, disbelief and euphoria blending together.

He can hear the team screaming over the radio, their joy contagious. “Grazie, Charles! Grazie! You’re the World Champion!”

He laughs again, more freely this time, his body shaking with adrenaline. “For Ferrari. For the Tifosi.”

His eyes well up as he glances at the sea of red in the stands. It’s everything he ever wanted. Glory. History. His name etched forever in the annals of the sport. He lifts a hand, a small wave toward the crowd, though they can’t see him from inside the cockpit.

“I can’t believe it,” he mutters, almost to himself. “I actually did it.”

His heart is racing, but it’s not the same as before. This time, it’s relief. It’s joy. It’s everything he’s sacrificed for, everything he’s given to this dream.

He presses the brake pedal gently, ready to slow down for the cool-down lap, to take it all in, but-

Nothing happens.

A frown creases his brow. He presses again, harder this time.

Still nothing.

Panic flickers at the edge of his mind. “No … No, no, no …”

He pushes the brake pedal to the floor, but the car doesn’t respond. It doesn’t slow. The speedometer remains steady — too fast, too uncontrolled.

“Brakes aren’t working,” he says into the radio, trying to keep his voice calm, but his heart is pounding again, this time for a different reason. Something’s wrong. Very wrong.

“What? What do you mean?” His engineer’s voice is sharp, laced with fear.

“The brakes!” Charles snaps, his breath quickening. “They’re not working. I can’t slow down.”

He can feel the car resisting him, the engine still pushing forward, the barriers coming closer. The panic is rising now, clawing at his throat, tightening around his chest. He tries to steer, to find some way to slow the car, but there’s nothing. The barriers are closing in, the speed too high, too dangerous.

“Charles, try the emergency system-”

“I already have!” His voice cracks, desperation breaking through. The car is screaming beneath him, the speed a deadly weapon now, not a tool of victory.

And then he sees you.

You’re standing right by the barrier, just ahead, as if you’ve been waiting for him all along.

His heart stops for a second, time freezing around him. You’re so still, so calm, watching him. Watching him as the car barrels toward you, toward the barrier, toward the inevitable.

“No …” Charles breathes, his voice barely a whisper. His hands are shaking on the wheel now, his vision blurring from the speed, from the fear. He can see the crash coming, can feel it in his bones.

But you don’t move. You just watch.

His chest tightens, and the ticking is back, louder than ever. It’s all he can hear now, that maddening, relentless ticking.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

You don’t have to say anything. He knows. He’s always known. He’s been running toward this moment, toward you, since the beginning.

“Charles, try to-” His engineer’s voice cuts in again, but it’s too late.

The car slams into the barrier with a deafening crash, metal crunching, glass shattering. The world explodes around him, spinning, breaking apart. Pain flares through his body, white-hot and sharp, and then everything goes dark.

He’s still. Silent. The only sound is the faint crackling of the radio, his engineer’s voice distant, broken by static. “Charles? Charles, can you hear me? Charles?”

But Charles can’t move. He can barely think. The pain is numbing now, his body heavy, unresponsive. His vision is blurry, the world around him fading in and out of focus.

And then, through the haze, he sees you again. You’re walking toward him, slowly, steadily, through the wreckage of the car. The world is quiet now, eerily still, as if time itself has stopped.

Charles’ breath is shallow, his heart struggling to keep up. He can feel it — the end. It’s here. It’s always been here, waiting for him.

You come closer, your footsteps silent, your face calm, almost peaceful. You stop just beside the cockpit, your eyes meeting his.

“Is this it?” Charles whispers, his voice barely audible, his chest tight with the effort of speaking. His vision is fading fast, the darkness closing in. But you’re the only thing he can see clearly.

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. He knows.

You kneel beside him, your hand reaching out, and for the first time, you touch him. Your fingers brush against his skin, cold and soft, and in that moment, everything stops.

The ticking in his head goes silent.

The world fades.

And Charles Leclerc, World Champion, breathes his last breath.

He’s gone.

But his name — his glory — will live on forever. He gave everything. Sacrificed everything.

For Ferrari. For the Tifosi. For the dream.

And now, he is part of that legacy, forever written in the stars.

He won.

He died for glory.

***

The streets of Maranello are overflowing with grief.

Charles stands next to you, or at least what’s left of him does. His soul, untethered from the wreckage, feels weightless, though the weight of the moment is crushing. He can’t feel the ground beneath him anymore, can’t feel the warmth of the sun or the bite of the wind. All he can feel is the suffocating sorrow of the crowd, pressing in from every direction.

And the crowd. Dio mio, the crowd. Thousands — no, hundreds of thousands — of Tifosi flood the streets, a sea of red and black, their flags raised high, but there is no joy in their colors today. No triumphant cheers. Just the sound of sobs, muffled by hands pressed to faces, by the raw weight of a collective heartbreak that can’t be put into words.

The Ferrari factory looms behind them, draped in mourning banners, the Prancing Horse emblem hanging in black, somber and silent. The air is thick with the scent of incense, flowers — and death.

It’s impossible to look at them, and yet Charles can’t tear his eyes away. Grown men, hardened by life, stand with tears streaming down their faces. Fathers and sons alike, clutching each other as if holding on will somehow stem the flood of loss that grips them.

Charles looks at you, his breath — if he had any left — shuddering in his chest. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

You’re silent, standing beside him, your presence both a comfort and a reminder. This is what it means to be gone. To be remembered, but no longer part of the world.

“Do they …” He trails off, his voice thick with disbelief. “Do they miss me this much?”

You glance at him, your eyes calm but unreadable. “What did you expect?” Your voice is soft, but there’s an edge of inevitability to it, as if the scene before him was always written in the stars, just like his fate.

“I don’t know,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. Or at least, he tries to. The motion feels more like a memory than a reality. “I thought … I thought they’d move on.”

You tilt your head, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting across your lips. “They won’t. Not from this. Not from you.”

His eyes flicker back to the crowd, his chest tight. There’s no end to them. They fill the streets, every inch of space, like blood rushing through the veins of this small Italian town. He sees children on their fathers’ shoulders, wearing tiny Ferrari caps. Women clutching scarves, their eyes red from crying. He’s never seen this kind of devotion, not like this. Not for him.

He spots an elderly man near the front, his face weathered and lined, but the tears falling down his cheeks are fresh. He’s holding a photo of Charles — young, smiling, a memory of a better time. A time when the world still held onto hope.

Charles feels his throat tighten, his eyes burning despite the fact that he can’t cry anymore. “Why …” He swallows hard, his voice cracking. “Why are they all here? Why does it hurt them this much?”

You turn to face him fully, your expression steady, knowing. “Because you were theirs. Il Predestinato. The one they believed in. You gave them hope, and you gave them your life. They will never forget that.”

The title rings in his ears. Il Predestinato. The Chosen One. It always sounded so heavy, a burden he could never quite shake. And now, he wonders if it was ever truly his to bear.

A sudden commotion pulls his attention back to the crowd. The sea of red parts for a moment as a car rolls slowly through. Charles recognizes it immediately — a Ferrari, sleek and dark, the hearse that will carry his body through the streets of Maranello. It’s draped in the Italian flag, and atop it sits his helmet, the red and white standing stark against the backdrop of mourning.

The Tifosi bow their heads, some reaching out as if trying to touch the car, as if touching it will bring them closer to him. The car stops in front of the factory, and Charles watches, numb, as his casket is pulled out, carried by men he’s known for years. Faces he recognizes, but that seem distant now, like shadows from another life.

“They’re broken,” Charles whispers, his voice trembling. “I didn’t mean for this.”

You don’t respond immediately, just watching the procession with the same stillness you always carry. Finally, you speak, your voice low and quiet. “Sacrifice always leaves something behind. Even if it’s pain.”

Charles inhales sharply, though the air doesn’t fill his lungs the way it used to. He’s not sure how to process what he’s seeing, what he’s feeling. There’s a weight in his chest, heavy and suffocating. It’s not like the fear he felt in those final moments before the crash, but something deeper. Something that feels permanent.

The casket reaches the steps of the Ferrari factory, where the company’s executives, drivers, and engineers are gathered. They stand in silence, heads bowed, their faces etched with sorrow. Charles feels a pang of guilt, sharper than he expected.

“Was it worth it?” His voice is barely a whisper, almost lost in the overwhelming noise of the crowd.

You turn to him, your expression unreadable. “That’s not for me to decide.”

He clenches his fists, frustration bubbling to the surface. “But I gave everything! I died for this!” He gestures toward the casket, the crowd, the broken faces of his friends and family. “I sacrificed everything for Ferrari. For the Tifosi.”

You meet his gaze, unwavering. “And now, you have to decide if that sacrifice was worth it.”

Charles looks away, his heart — or whatever’s left of it — aching. He doesn’t know the answer. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

As the casket is carried up the steps, a priest steps forward. Charles recognizes him immediately. The Pope. The sight would almost be surreal if it weren’t for the gravity of the moment. The leader of the Catholic Church, come to bless his body, to give him the final rites. It’s more than Charles ever expected, more than he ever thought possible.

The Pope raises his hand, his voice carrying over the crowd in solemn Latin, offering a prayer for Charles’ soul. The crowd is silent now, the only sound the soft rustle of flags in the wind and the distant sobs of those too broken to hold back their grief.

Charles watches, his chest tight with emotion he can’t quite name. “Will they remember me?” His voice is small, almost childlike in its vulnerability.

You don’t hesitate. “They will never forget you. The Tifosi will name their children after you. They will pray for you, mourn for you, even as they themselves fade. Your name will live on, even when their names turn to dust.”

He blinks, trying to process your words. It’s everything he ever wanted, everything he worked for. To be remembered. To be loved. To be immortal in the eyes of those who mattered most to him.

“But will it be enough?” He asks, his voice barely a whisper. “Will it ever be enough?”

You turn to him, your gaze softening just slightly. “That’s something only you can answer.”

Charles looks back at the crowd, at the faces of the people who loved him, who believed in him, who now grieve for him. He doesn’t know the answer yet. Maybe he never will. But for now, all he can do is watch as the people of Italy — his people — mourn the loss of their hero, their champion, their Il Predestinato.

And perhaps, in their grief, in their endless love for him, he will find the answer he’s looking for.

As the Pope finishes his prayer, the crowd begins to chant.

“Forza, Charles! Forza Ferrari!“

The sound rises, a wave of devotion and heartbreak that crashes over the streets of Maranello. Charles listens, his heart aching with a mixture of pride and sorrow.

He is gone. But his name, his legacy, will live on forever.

And maybe — just maybe — that’s enough.

***

The afterlife is nothing like Charles imagined.

For one, it isn’t dark. There are no flames licking at the sky, no eerie fog swirling at his feet. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel either. Instead, there’s an odd stillness, like time has stopped moving but everything else remains in place. It’s hard to describe, really — neither peaceful nor unsettling, just … different.

He’s not sure how long he’s been here. Time doesn’t seem to exist in the way it used to. Days blend into one another, or maybe there are no days at all. Just moments strung together in an endless loop.

The one constant in this strange new reality is you.

You’re always close by, never too far, but never imposing. It’s a strange sort of companionship, one that Charles hadn’t expected to find in death. He watches you sometimes, your presence steady, your movements fluid and quiet. You’re not like anyone he’s ever met. And it’s no wonder — how could you be? You’re death.

But there’s something else about you, something he can’t quite put into words. You’re not cold or distant, despite the weight of your title. There’s a kind of sadness that clings to you, something that pulls him in even when he tries to resist it.

He’s sitting beside you now, his back against an old stone wall, looking out into the expanse of … wherever this place is. It’s quiet, as always, the only sound the faint rustling of something distant. Neither of you speak, but the silence between you is comfortable, not awkward.

After a while, Charles breaks it.

“Do you ever get lonely?”

Your head tilts slightly, as if the question surprises you. You don’t answer right away, and for a moment, Charles thinks you won’t. But then you shift, your eyes focused on some point in the distance, and your voice, when it comes, is soft.

“I suppose I do.”

It’s not what he expected you to say. He always thought of you as solitary, but not necessarily lonely. You were death, after all. You weren’t meant to have attachments, were you?

“How could you?” He asks, genuinely curious. “You’re … you. Death doesn’t get lonely.”

You let out a soft sigh, one that’s more resigned than sad. “Death doesn’t exactly allow for much companionship.” You glance at him, your eyes steady. “Most souls don’t stick around for very long. They move on. They’re not meant to linger.”

Charles absorbs your words, turning them over in his mind. It’s true — he’s the only one here, the only soul who hasn’t moved on. But the idea that you might be lonely, after all this time, unsettles him in a way he can’t explain.

“Do you know why I haven’t moved on?” He asks, his voice quiet.

You shake your head, your expression soft but unreadable. “No. I don’t understand it.”

He leans back against the wall, his mind racing. Why hasn’t he moved on? There’s no reason to stay, no unfinished business, no regrets strong enough to tether him to this place. And yet … he’s still here. With you.

You shift slightly beside him, your gaze drifting out into the distance again. “I’ve never had anyone stay this long,” you say, almost to yourself. “Most souls are eager to move on. They want peace, or closure, or something more.”

Charles frowns, looking over at you. “And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you want them to stay?”

You pause, considering the question. “No,” you say eventually. “That’s not how it works. They’re not meant to stay. Neither am I.”

“But you get lonely.”

Your lips press together, and for a moment, Charles thinks he might have pushed too far. But then you nod, just once. “Yes.”

There’s something in your voice, something quiet and raw, that tugs at something deep inside him. He doesn’t understand why, but it matters to him. Your loneliness matters to him.

“Is that why you’re still here?” You ask, turning the question back on him. “Because of me?”

He opens his mouth to respond, but no words come. He’s not sure. Maybe it is. Or maybe there’s something else at play, something neither of you understands.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “But I don’t think I’m ready to leave.”

You look at him then, really look at him, and there’s a softness in your gaze that catches him off guard. He realizes in that moment how much time you’ve spent alone. You, the embodiment of death, the one who has seen everything end but never experienced the simplicity of someone choosing to stay.

He leans forward, his voice quieter now. “Have you ever-”

He hesitates, the question hanging in the air between you.

“What?” You prompt, your voice gentle.

“Have you ever … I don’t know. Experienced anything like this?” He gestures between the two of you. “With anyone else?”

You shake your head, almost sadly. “No. Death doesn’t leave room for that.”

Charles watches you for a moment, his mind spinning with the weight of it all. It seems so unfair, that you should be condemned to an eternity of loneliness, of watching others move on while you remain.

“Everyone deserves at least one thing,” he says softly, almost to himself.

You tilt your head, confused. “What do you mean?”

He swallows hard, his gaze locking onto yours. “Everyone deserves to experience their first kiss.”

Your breath catches ever so slightly, your eyes widening just a fraction. “Charles …”

“I’m serious,” he says, his voice soft but steady. “You should have that. You deserve it.”

You don’t respond, but your eyes search his, and for the first time since he met you, he sees something flicker there. Uncertainty. Vulnerability.

He leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. But you don’t. You stay still, watching him, waiting.

And then, gently, Charles presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is soft, barely more than a whisper of a touch, but it’s enough. Enough to make the world tilt on its axis for a moment, enough to make the weight of everything around you both fall away.

You don’t pull back immediately. Neither does he. For a few seconds, it’s just the two of you, suspended in the stillness of the afterlife, sharing something fragile and beautiful.

When he finally does pull away, your eyes are still closed, your lips parted ever so slightly. Charles watches you, his heart — or whatever it is that beats in his chest now — pounding in a way that feels almost human again.

You open your eyes slowly, blinking as if coming out of a dream.

“I-” You falter, your voice soft and uncertain. “Why did you …”

He smiles gently, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “Because I wanted to. And because you deserve it.”

You don’t say anything for a long moment, just looking at him as if trying to make sense of what just happened. But there’s a warmth in your gaze now, something that wasn’t there before. Something new.

“I don’t understand you, Charles,” you admit softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He laughs quietly, leaning his forehead against yours. “I don’t understand myself, either.”

You stay like that for a while, in the stillness of the afterlife, the weight of the world no longer pressing down on either of you. There’s no rush, no need for answers right now.

For the first time, in a long time, neither of you feels alone.

***

Time is strange in the afterlife.

Charles doesn’t know how long he’s been here — whether it’s days, months, or even years. There’s no ticking clock, no sun moving across the sky. It’s just … still. He’s gotten used to the quiet, to your presence nearby, and to the sense that nothing is rushing forward like it used to.

But something shifts one day. You’re sitting beside him, as usual, but there’s a new energy in the air, something that tugs at the quietness and pulls at the stillness. You turn to him, your eyes meeting his with a softness that he can’t quite place.

“I have something to show you,” you say, your voice quiet but clear.

He blinks, confused. “What do you mean?”

You don’t explain. Instead, you stand, offering him your hand. He hesitates for a second, but then he takes it. There’s always been an unspoken trust between you — something that keeps him tethered to you, even in death.

The world shifts around him, the stillness breaking apart. For a moment, everything spins, the ground slipping from beneath his feet as if he’s falling — but it’s not unpleasant. It’s more like drifting. And then, as suddenly as it starts, it stops.

Charles finds himself standing in a hospital room.

His breath catches, his mind scrambling to make sense of where he is. The sterile smell of disinfectant clings to the air, and the beeping of machines fills the silence. He looks around, trying to orient himself, but nothing feels real.

“Where-”

You don’t answer his question directly. Instead, you nod toward the center of the room. “Look.”

Charles follows your gaze, and his heart — if he still had one — stumbles in his chest. His older brother, Lorenzo, stands by the bed, his face soft with emotion. He’s holding someone’s hand. Charlotte, his wife, is lying in the hospital bed, her expression tired but glowing. But it’s the small bundle she holds against her chest that steals Charles’ breath.

A baby.

It takes him a moment to fully process what he’s seeing. Lorenzo’s wife. His brother. And a baby.

Charles steps closer, his movements slow, almost cautious, as if he’s afraid the scene will shatter if he gets too close. He watches as Lorenzo reaches down to stroke the baby’s tiny head, his face filled with a tenderness that Charles hasn’t seen in years.

“Lorenzo?” Charles whispers, though he knows his brother can’t hear him. His eyes are fixed on the child in Charlotte’s arms, a strange sense of awe and disbelief washing over him.

You step beside him, your voice soft as you speak. “I wanted you to meet Charles Tolotta-Leclerc.”

He freezes.

“What?” His voice barely makes it past his lips, and he turns to look at you, his eyes wide, searching your face for any hint of a joke. But you’re serious.

You nod toward the baby again. “They named him after you.”

Charles stares at the tiny bundle, his mind struggling to catch up with what you’ve just said. They named the baby after him? His head spins, a strange mix of emotions swirling through him — shock, disbelief, and something that feels dangerously close to pride.

Before he can fully process it, Lorenzo’s voice cuts through the quiet.

“I miss him,” Lorenzo says softly, his voice thick with emotion. “I wish he could be here. I wish he could’ve met him.”

Charlotte smiles up at him, though there’s a sadness in her eyes. “He would’ve loved him,” she says, her voice gentle. “He’ll be watching over him, I’m sure of it.”

Lorenzo’s expression tightens, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. “I hope so,” he murmurs. “I hope he’s watching over us. Over Charlie.”

Charles stands frozen, his entire body — or soul, or whatever he is — going still. The weight of Lorenzo’s words crashes into him like a tidal wave, leaving him breathless. He watches as his brother’s eyes fill with unshed tears, and it breaks something inside him.

“I wanted him to be here,” Lorenzo says, his voice cracking. “I wanted him to be part of this, to see my son …”

Charles can’t take it anymore. He feels the pressure building inside of him, the ache in his chest growing unbearable. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes — not physical tears, but the kind that burn and sting nonetheless.

You’re beside him before he even realizes it, your presence calm and steady. You don’t say anything, but you don’t need to. He can feel your understanding, your quiet reassurance.

“I’m here,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “I’m watching.”

But no one can hear him.

Lorenzo’s voice cracks again as he continues. “I named him Charles because … I want him to be like you. I want him to grow up knowing who you were. What you stood for. And maybe … maybe he’ll feel like you’re with him, even if you can’t be.”

Charles presses a hand to his mouth, trying to stifle the sob that threatens to escape. The emotions are too much — grief, pride, love, all tangled together in a way that feels like it’s tearing him apart.

He looks at the baby again, the tiny life cradled in Charlotte’s arms, and something breaks open inside him. He didn’t know it was possible to feel so much after death. He thought everything would fade away, that he wouldn’t have to feel the weight of the world anymore.

But watching his brother, watching this moment … it’s almost unbearable.

You step closer, your hand resting gently on his shoulder. “It’s okay to feel it,” you say softly. “It’s okay to cry.”

Charles lets out a shaky breath, his body trembling with the force of his emotions. “I-I didn’t think it would be this hard,” he admits, his voice barely audible. “I thought … I thought I was ready to move on.”

Your hand stays steady on his shoulder, grounding him. “You gave everything for glory,” you say gently. “For Ferrari. For the Tifosi. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to let go.”

Charles shakes his head, tears streaming down his face as he watches his brother, his nephew. “I don’t know if I can,” he chokes out. “I don’t know how to say goodbye.”

You don’t rush him. You let him stand there, watching, crying. He can feel your quiet strength beside him, your understanding. You’ve seen it all before, but for him, it’s new, raw, overwhelming.

Lorenzo leans down, pressing a kiss to his newborn son’s head. “He’s going to know all about you,” Lorenzo murmurs. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Charles can’t stop the sob that escapes him this time. He crumples forward, his hands covering his face as the grief finally spills over, uncontrollable. He feels like he’s breaking apart, like everything he’s held inside for so long is crashing down around him.

And then, you’re there. You wrap your arms around him, pulling him close, letting him cry into your shoulder. You don’t say anything, but your presence is enough. It’s steady, grounding, and for the first time since he’s been here, Charles feels like he isn’t alone in his grief.

He cries for a long time, the emotions pouring out of him in waves. He cries for the life he left behind, for the family he didn’t get to see again, for the child named after him who will never know him. And through it all, you stay with him, holding him, comforting him.

When the sobs finally subside, Charles pulls back slightly, wiping at his eyes. He feels raw, drained, but there’s a sense of release, too — like something heavy has been lifted from his chest.

“He’s going to be okay,” you say softly, your voice gentle. “Lorenzo will take care of him. He’ll grow up knowing who you were, what you meant.”

Charles nods, his throat too tight to speak. He looks back at the hospital bed, at Lorenzo and Charlotte, and for the first time, there’s a flicker of something like peace in his chest.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice hoarse.

You smile softly, brushing a tear from his cheek. “You don’t have to thank me.”

But he does. Because in this moment, he knows he couldn’t have faced this alone. Not without you.

Charles watches his brother one last time, his heart heavy but full. And though he knows he can never return to the life he once had, there’s a strange sense of comfort in knowing that a part of him still exists in the world — in the form of the tiny child cradled in Charlotte’s arms.

“I’ll watch over him,” Charles says softly, his voice steady now. “I promise.”

***

The air between you is different today. Charles can feel it before you even say a word. It's in the way your eyes linger on him a little longer, the way your silence stretches. You’ve been together for what feels like an eternity, yet time is meaningless here.

He looks at you, waiting for the explanation, the gentle unspooling of whatever truth you’re about to offer him.

Finally, you speak. “I think you’re ready.”

Charles frowns. “Ready for what?”

“To move on.”

The words hang in the air, heavier than he expected. His chest tightens, and he shakes his head, the instinctual reaction coming out almost before you finish speaking.

“I don’t want to move on.” His voice is sharp, edged with panic. He doesn’t fully understand what “moving on” means, but he knows it sounds final. It sounds like goodbye, and he’s not ready for that. Not now. Not after everything. Not after you.

You watch him quietly, a small smile pulling at the corners of your lips. “Charles, you’ve already moved on in so many ways. This-” you gesture between the two of you, “-this isn’t goodbye.”

He stares at you, his mind racing. “Then what is it? You’re telling me I have to leave, but I can’t — I can’t leave you.”

You laugh softly, the sound rich with irony. “I’m death, Charles. You’re dead. Why would you have to leave me?”

The realization hits him, and his protest falters. His hands fall to his sides as he processes what you’re saying. You’re death, and he’s already passed beyond life. There’s no need to fear separation, because you are intertwined with whatever comes next.

“So, I’m not really going anywhere?” He asks, cautiously hopeful.

“Not in the way you think,” you assure him, your voice softening. “But this place — it isn’t where you belong anymore. There’s something else waiting for you.”

Charles exhales slowly, relief and uncertainty swirling in his chest. “Something else?”

You step closer, your hand reaching out to brush against his arm. “You’ve done everything you needed to do here. You’ve won. You’ve found peace with your family. Now … it’s time.”

He looks into your eyes, searching for something — reassurance, maybe. He’s been with you through all of this, and yet, the idea of leaving this limbo, this stillness, feels daunting.

You tilt your head slightly. “Trust me.”

He wants to. He does. But there’s a tightness in his throat, a reluctance that refuses to fade. “What if I don’t want to go?” He murmurs, almost to himself.

You give him a knowing look. “Charles, you’re not going anywhere that I can’t follow.”

Something in him eases at your words. He nods, but there’s still a lingering hesitation. His life — his death — has been defined by choices. Choices to race, to sacrifice, to push past every limit. Now, there’s nothing left to fight, no championship to chase. This is the last choice he’ll have to make, and the finality of it shakes him.

“Okay,” he says, his voice quieter than he expects.

You smile, your fingers wrapping around his hand. “Come with me.”

The stillness of limbo shatters. The world around them changes, the coldness and vast emptiness giving way to something warm and vibrant. Colors he hasn’t seen in years flood his vision — deep blues, rich greens, and the golden light of a sun he hasn’t felt in what seems like forever.

Charles blinks, trying to make sense of where he is. There’s no pain, no exhaustion, just … peace. He stands there for a moment, taking it in, but then, something — someone — catches his eye.

He freezes, his heart — or whatever’s left of it — stopping in his chest.

Jules.

Jules is standing just a few feet away, watching him with that same familiar smile. The smile Charles grew up with, the one that got him through the hardest days.

His breath catches, and before he can stop himself, he runs.

It’s instinctive, like muscle memory, like he’s a kid again chasing after his godfather. His feet carry him faster than he thought possible, and when he reaches Jules, he throws himself into his arms without hesitation.

The warmth of the embrace floods through him, and Charles buries his face in Jules’ shoulder, a sob catching in his throat. He clings to him like he’s afraid to let go, the weight of everything — of life, of death, of everything in between — finally crashing down on him.

“I missed you,” Charles chokes out, his voice thick with emotion.

Jules laughs softly, holding him tight. “I missed you too, mon caneton.”

It’s overwhelming, this feeling of reunion. The tears fall freely now, and Charles can’t stop them, doesn’t want to stop them. He’s never cried like this before, not even when he won, not even when he died. But now, in the arms of someone who meant so much to him, it feels like everything is breaking free.

He pulls back, wiping at his face, but before he can say anything else, another voice breaks through the haze.

“Charles.”

Charles turns, his breath catching again as his eyes land on his father. He’s standing there, just a few feet away, watching his son with eyes full of pride.

“Papa …” The word slips from his lips, almost a whisper.

And then he’s running again, straight into his father’s arms. He feels like a child, all over again, seeking comfort and love and everything he’s missed. Hervé holds him, strong and steady, and for the first time in years, Charles feels like he’s truly home.

“I’m so proud of you,” Hervé murmurs, his voice full of emotion. “You did everything you said you would.”

Charles pulls back, his hands gripping his father’s shoulders as he looks at him, tears still streaming down his face. “I did it, Papa. I won.”

“I know,” Hervé says softly, his eyes shining. “I always knew you would.”

Charles nods, his throat too tight to speak. The pride in his father’s eyes is everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s ever worked for.

But then, he turns.

You’re still standing there, watching quietly from a distance. Charles’ heart twists at the sight of you, at the thought of everything you’ve been through together. You’ve guided him, stayed with him, and now … now he understands.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice thick with gratitude.

He steps forward, closing the distance between you, and when he reaches you, he doesn’t hesitate. He cups your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing against your skin as he leans in.

His lips meet yours, soft and gentle, and in that moment, everything else fades away. There’s no race, no championship, no death. Just the two of you, together, in this place beyond life and time.

When he pulls back, his eyes meet yours, and he knows.

You smile at him, your eyes soft. “Glory was worth it, wasn’t it?”

Charles nods, his throat tight. “Yeah,” he whispers. “It was worth it.”

And somewhere, in the distance, the ticking starts again.

For someone else.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

He knows what he has to do. The weight of it settles into his chest like a stone, cold and heavy, suffocating the brief warmth of your kiss. His hands tremble as they slip away from your face, his fingers lingering for just a second longer, as if he can’t quite let go.

But he has to.

His breath shudders, a ragged thing that cuts through the silence. His lips part, but no words come out. There’s nothing left to say. You see the understanding in his eyes — he knows the truth now, the path that’s been laid out in front of him since the moment he died.

He belongs with them.

With Jules. With his father.

Not with you.

He turns, slowly, his back to you now. And just like that, the warmth is gone. It’s like the sun has disappeared from the sky, leaving nothing but the cold, endless void.

You want to stop him, call out his name, reach for him, something, anything, but the words die in your throat. He doesn’t belong to you. He never did.

“Charles …” you whisper, though you know he can’t hear you anymore. He’s already too far away. Already slipping through your fingers like sand.

He walks toward them — Jules and Hervé — his pace steady, purposeful. The space between you grows wider with every step, a chasm opening up that you can never hope to cross.

Jules smiles at him, that same familiar smile, the one that Charles would have given anything to see again. And his father … God, the pride in Hervé’s eyes is almost too much to bear. It’s everything Charles ever wanted. Everything he fought for, died for.

But you …

You stand there, watching.

Helpless. Silent. Alone.

Charles doesn’t look back. Not once.

You knew he wouldn’t.

You knew this moment was coming from the second you saw him in Melbourne, when his time started ticking. You were never meant to keep him. You were just a part of his story — a brief chapter in the long, winding tale of his life and death.

And now, that chapter is closing.

The void stretches before them, a vast expanse of nothingness, and as Charles reaches the edge, Jules and Hervé step forward to greet him. They wrap their arms around him, pulling him into their embrace, and for a moment — just a moment — Charles is home.

He glances over his shoulder, but not at you. His eyes skim past you, unseeing.

“Thank you,” he whispers, but the words aren’t for you. They’re for the life he left behind. The glory. The fame. The endless pursuit of something more.

And then he steps into the void.

You feel it before you see it — the pull, the way the world shifts as he crosses the threshold. It’s like a part of the universe is being torn away, a piece of the puzzle you’ve held together for so long is finally gone. And you’re left behind, standing on the edge, watching as they fade into the distance.

The ticking stops.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re alone.

It’s funny, in a way. You’ve spent eons like this — watching souls come and go, guiding them from one world to the next. But with Charles, it was different. He stayed. He stayed longer than anyone else, long enough for you to feel something you weren’t supposed to feel.

Loneliness. Loss.

You told him you couldn’t be left behind, that death doesn’t experience separation, but that was a lie, wasn’t it?

Because now, as you stand there in the cold, empty void, watching the space where Charles once stood, you feel it — truly feel it — for the first time.

Heartbreak.

It’s a strange, hollow thing, the way it grips your chest, squeezes your lungs until you can’t breathe. You’ve seen it a thousand times, watched as humans crumbled under the weight of it, but this is different. This is personal.

This is yours.

He’s gone. He made his choice. And even though you knew it would end this way, it doesn’t make it any easier.

You take a step back, your feet moving of their own accord, retreating from the edge of the void. There’s no point in staying here. There’s nothing left to hold on to.

Charles is gone.

You close your eyes, trying to push down the ache in your chest, but it won’t go away. It lingers, sharp and raw, reminding you of what could have been, of the brief moments you shared that weren’t supposed to matter but now feel like everything.

For a second — just a second — you wish things had been different. That you could have kept him. That maybe, just maybe, you could have been something more than death. Something more than a shadow in the background of his life.

But that’s not who you are.

You open your eyes, the void still stretching out before you, endless and unforgiving.

Somewhere, far in the distance, the ticking starts for someone else. Another life, another death, another story to watch unfold.

But none of them will be Charles.

You’ll carry him with you, even if he never looks back. Even if he forgets your face. You’ll remember the way he smiled at you in the moments between life and death. You’ll remember the way his voice cracked when he thanked you.

And you’ll remember the way he kissed you, soft and brief, like a goodbye he couldn’t quite say.

You’ll remember it all.

And that, perhaps, is the cruelest part.

[fastandcarlos]

Save The Day : ̗̀➛ Carlos Sainz

summary: your shopping trip couldn't have gotten much worse, until a stranger approaches and swoops in to save the day

“Excuse me, is everything alright? You look in need of some help.” 

Your eyes flickered up at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, noticing a man stood just beside you. You were walking all over the place as you tried to push your daughter’s pram, balancing your shopping bags in both of your hands, barely able to walk in a straight line as things stopped to drop out onto the floor. 

You smiled shyly across at the man as he picked the bits that you had dropped off of the floor. Once he’d put them in a bag he took the bags from both of your hands, walking by your side. Walking immediately felt easier as you focused on pushing the pram out of the store and over to where your car was parked. 

The man carried your bags with ease, the strength easily defined in his arms as he walked at your pace. You didn’t quite know where to look as you walked, feeling his eyes watching over you. 

“Where’s your car?” He asked you, watching you point to your small car that was hidden by a much fancier looking vehicle, a car far too expensive for the area where you lived. 

There was a shade of embarrassment in your cheeks as you walked, feeling slightly humiliated that you weren’t able to carry your bags. Trying to balance all the weight was hard, but you were stubborn, and liked to think that you could take on the world all by yourself. 

“I’m just here,” you told him, reaching into your bag for your keys. 

You opened up the boot, going to take the bags, only for the man to swerve you. “Allow me,” he grinned, easily lifting the bags and placing them in the back of your car. 

You stepped back as he did so, watching as he carefully let go of them. “Thank you, you didn’t have to do that for me, most people just walk straight on by.” 

“Well, I’m not most people,” he told you, a wide smile on his face. “Most people are assholes, it’s human nature to help someone when you see them struggling, or in my eyes at least.” 

You offered him a grin as you unbuckled your daughter’s pram to start getting her into the car. “Saying thank you doesn’t really feel like enough, there’s got to be something that I can do for you.” 

His head shook, taking a step back and watching as you took your daughter into your arms, hearing her let go of a squirm. You hated taking her out when she was asleep, but at this point you couldn’t wait to get home and forget about your struggle. 

“She’s beautiful,” the man whispered behind you, leaning across and tickling against her tummy, bringing a smile to her face again. “I bet your mummy and daddy feel like they won the lottery with you,” he added, only to watch your smile drop, eyes landing on the ground. 

“I-it’s just me,” you stuttered, immediately hearing the man mumble several apologies beside you. “Don’t be sorry, I’m used to it by now. Most of the time I’m alright, the two of us make quite the team,” you smiled, not wanting him to feel bad for you. 

It didn’t stop the man feeling guilty for making his assumptions, sensing that you found things harder than you were letting on to him. 

As the two of you fell silent, your daughter soon began to get quite unsettled in your hold. You quickly tried to settle her, bouncing her in your arms, but as a gust of wind blew through the car park, your eyes soon darted onto the sight of her pram beginning to blow away from you. 

“I got it!” The man shouted, running down the car park and quickly grabbing onto it. 

“You really are saving the day for me today, aren’t you?” You smiled. 

He looked around and found the brakes of the pram, quickly putting them on. Before you knew it, he had managed to collapse it down, placing it into the back of your car too, making sure not to squash any of your shopping. 

“You must have had some practice doing that before.” 

“No,” he smiled back across at you, “but I assumed it can’t be too hard to figure out. I’ve not really got any experiences with babies, although I’d like to,” he carried on, surprising himself that he suddenly decided to confess such a thing to someone that he barely knew. 

You didn’t quite know what to say as he spoke, offering him a sympathetic smile. You weren’t expecting him to be so open with you, leaving you a little loss for words. You almost felt bad for standing in front of him with your daughter in your arms, as if you were showing off that you had something that he seemed to want.  

“Does your partner not want children?” 

His eyes widened at your question, unaware that you had dropped yourself in it almost as much as he had done with you only a few moments earlier, feeling bad when his head shook at you. 

“I don’t have a partner,” he told you, scratching nervously over the top of his head. “I’m going through life on my own currently, that’s why I have so much time to help other people when they’re in a mess.” 

“Well, you definitely saved me from one today.” 

He was glad to have been able to help you out, but now he found himself unable to take his eyes off of your daughter. There was something about him that seemed to be drawing her to him too, her eyes watching him closely every time he moved or spoke. 

“I didn’t even get the chance to introduce myself, I’m Carlos by the way.” 

“I’m Y/N,” you smiled back across at him. 

“And who’s your little one?” He asked, poking your daughter’s tummy again. 

A giggle came from her that left you both grinning. “This is Luna,” you told him, “although I think you might be able to call her your biggest fan judging from the smile on her face.” 

“Well, I like to keep my fans happy, so do you think Luna would like to hang out again sometime?” Carlos offered, “I mean, only if that’s something that her mummy would like to do too.” 

“I think she would,” you smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, “and I don’t think her mummy would mind either if she got the chance to see you again, maybe coffee sometime?” 

Carlos nodded in reply to your offer. “I’d love to grab a coffee with you, well, the both of you. How about I give you my number and you can let me know a time that works best for the two of you?” 

“Yeah, that would be good,” you told him, walking across to place your daughter into her car seat so that you could take Carlos’ phone from him. 

His smile was wide as he passed it across, “make sure you text yourself from my phone so you have my number too. You can save my number as the guy who saved the day.” 

“You’re a bit of a hero, aren’t you?” You smiled. 

“Well, I certainly try my best.” 

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

[misaerabl]

Rock My World

WARNINGS: wc...2k ✦ rockstar vi, oral sex (vi receiving), riding a strap, prostitution (?), short-lived bottom Vi, fingering (r receiving) SUMMARY: After a grueling concert, Vi, a tired but popular rock guitarist, and vocalist, retreats to her hotel room seeking solitude. Her plans are interrupted by a knock at the door, where she finds you—a mysterious stranger draped in a long fur coat and boots. Initially assuming you're a groupie, Vi learns you were sent by her drummer to help her "de-stress."

The roar of the crowd still buzzed in Vi's ears as she staggered into her hotel room, the adrenaline that had carried her through the encore now fading into bone-deep exhaustion. The stadium had been electric tonight—screaming fans, pounding drums, the lights casting their shadowed silhouettes across the stage like gods. It was the kind of night that should’ve left her floating, but all she wanted now was to crash.

Her guitar case thudded onto the couch as she kicked the door shut with the heel of her boot. She tugged her jacket off and let it fall to the floor, too tired to care. Grabbing a bottle of water from the minibar, she unscrewed the cap and downed half of it in one go before collapsing onto the edge of the bed.

The bedspread was crisp and uninviting, another impersonal feature of the chain hotels they’d been hopping between during the tour. She let herself sink into the mattress for a moment, leaning back on her palms as she stared at the ceiling, counting the hairline cracks in the plaster.

Then came the knock.

Three sharp raps, cutting through the quiet like a drumbeat. Her brows furrowed as she sat upright. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and the rest of the band had their own rooms. Maybe it was management with some last-minute schedule update—or worse, a fan who’d somehow managed to charm their way past security.

Dragging herself to her feet, Vi padded to the door, her steps heavy with reluctance. She cracked it open, intending to tell whoever it was to come back tomorrow.

Instead, she found you.

You stood there in a long fur coat, the kind that swished when you moved, and boots that clicked against the polished hallway floor. Your hair fell around your shoulders, catching the low hotel lighting, and you were wearing a smile that hovered somewhere between coy and self-assured.

For a moment, Vi just blinked, her tired brain struggling to process who—or what—she was looking at. You didn’t look like staff, and you definitely didn’t look like someone who belonged in a place like this.

“Uh…” she started, her voice hoarse from the set. “Can I help you?”

Your smile deepened, a flicker of amusement in your eyes. “Depends,” you said smoothly. “Can I come in?”

Vi’s brow arched, and she leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. This is new. She scanned you from head to toe, noting the confident tilt of your chin, the way you didn’t flinch under her scrutiny. Still, she’d seen enough to jump to the obvious conclusion. The coat, the boots, the audacity—it all screamed groupie.

“Look,” she began, voice low and tired. “I don’t know how you found my room, but I’m really not in the mood for—”

“Relax, Rockstar,” you interrupted, holding up a hand. “I’m not some random fan.”

That caught her off guard. Her arms dropped to her sides, and her confusion only deepened as you gestured casually over your shoulder.

“Your drummer sent me,” you explained, your voice calm, like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Vi blinked, her brain short-circuiting for a second. “Wait, what?”

You stepped forward before she could stop you, brushing past her into the room. She turned to follow you, watching you like you owned the place.

“Apparently,” you said, turning back to her with a sly grin, “he thinks you need to unwind.”

Vi folded her arms again, her eyes narrowing as she leaned against the door she’d just closed. “So, what are you supposed to be? My babysitter?”

You tilted your head, letting the question hang for a moment before you shrugged. “Not exactly. He didn’t give me a lot of instructions.”

Vi’s lips twitched into a smirk, though her exhaustion dulled its usual sharpness. “So, what are you here for?”

“That’s up to you,” you said, your grin widening as you met her gaze. “I’m just here to help.”

Vi hesitated, one hand still on the door, the other brushing through her hair as she considered the absurdity of the situation. Her instinct was to send you packing, but something in the way you stood there, so calm and unbothered, piqued her curiosity.

“Fine,” she said, stepping aside and motioning for you to come in. “But if you try anything weird, I’m calling security.”

You walked in without hesitation, your boots clicking softly against the floor. She closed the door, watching you carefully as you scanned the room, your eyes lingering on the scattered clothes, the guitar case, and the empty water bottle on the nightstand.

“This your idea of post-show luxury?” you teased, glancing back at her.

She rolled her eyes, leaning against the doorframe. “What did you expect? Champagne and roses?”

“Maybe,” you replied with a smirk, making your way over to the bed. You sat down at the edge, the mattress sinking slightly under your weight. Despite the heat of the room, you kept your coat tightly wrapped around you, the fur brushing against your cheeks as you adjusted it.

Vi’s gaze narrowed. “You cold or something?”

“Not exactly,” you replied, your voice light, almost playful. You shifted slightly, the coat parting just enough to give her a hint of your bare collarbone before you tugged it closed again.

Her brows furrowed as suspicion crept in. “You’re acting weird,” she said, moving closer. “What’s with the coat? What are you—”

She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes narrowing as realization dawned. “You’re not wearing anything under that, are you?”

Your grin widened, and you tilted your head. “What if I’m not?”

For a moment, she just stared at you, caught between disbelief and amusement. Then she laughed, a low, raspy sound that filled the room. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, rubbing a hand over her face.

“Relax,” you said, leaning back slightly, your coat slipping just a little to reveal the curve of your shoulder. “I’m not here to seduce you… unless you want me to.”

Vi snorted, shaking her head as she sat down on the armchair across from you. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“Maybe,” you replied, your tone casual. “But your drummer seemed to think I could help you de-stress. I figured I’d give it a shot.”

She leaned back, arms crossed, her lips quirking into a smirk. “And this is your idea of helping?”

You shrugged, the movement making your coat slip again, the edge of it brushing against your thighs. “You tell me, Rockstar.”

Vi leaned back in the armchair, her head tilted against the cushion as she watched you with a tired smirk. “Look, I don’t know what my drummer told you, but I’m too exhausted for… whatever this is supposed to be.”

You leaned forward slightly, your coat shifting again, though you still kept it clutched around you, the edge brushing against your thighs. “That’s okay,” you said, your voice low and teasing. “You don’t have to do anything. I can handle all the work if you like.”

Her eyebrows shot up at your boldness, a short laugh escaping her. “Wow, you really don’t quit, do you?”

You shrugged, letting a sly smile play on your lips. “I’m just saying… It looks like you could use a little help relaxing. Why not let me take care of it?”

Vi rubbed a hand over her face, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You’ve got some nerve, I’ll give you that.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees as she studied you, her exhaustion briefly forgotten. “What’s your deal, anyway? You always this bold, or am I just special?”

You grinned, leaning back on the bed with an air of casual confidence. “Let’s just say I have a knack for reading people. And right now, I think you need someone who’s not afraid to take the lead.”

Vi’s lips curved into a smirk, her eyes gleaming with both amusement and curiosity. “And what makes you think I’d even let you?”

You tilted your head, your grin never faltering. “Because you haven’t kicked me out yet.”

She doesn’t know how exactly you got in this position. Your face was buried between her legs, her head tossing back as you grip her legs tighter and pull her closer.

Vi wasn’t used to being on the receiving end—she was always the one in control, the one calling the shots. But tonight, something had shifted. The exhaustion from the show, the tension in her muscles, and your bold confidence all combined to strip away her usual defenses.

What you were doing to her wasn’t just unexpected; it was better than anything she’d ever done herself. The way your hands moved, the way you seemed to know exactly what she needed, it left her disoriented, and vulnerable in a way that felt unfamiliar.

It should’ve made her uneasy, the thought of giving up that control, of letting someone else take the lead. But with every deliberate touch, every calculated move, you silenced her doubts, replacing them with waves of sensation that she couldn’t resist.

It felt strange—wrong, even—to enjoy it this much, to let go of her need to be the one in charge. And yet, nothing could override the sheer pleasure coursing through her. For once, she didn’t mind surrendering; in fact, she couldn’t imagine it any other way.

Vi suddenly sat up, her hands gripping your shoulders as she pushed you away. The abruptness of her movement left you momentarily stunned. You knelt there, catching your breath, and when you looked up at her, your lips were glistening, your eyes searching hers for a clue.

“Did I… do something wrong?” you asked softly, your voice uncertain as you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, the vulnerability in your tone cutting through the tension in the air.

Vi’s chest rose and fell as she steadied her breathing, her gaze flicking down to you briefly before she shook her head. “No,” she said, her voice low and a little rough. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Without another word, she slid off the bed and strode toward her suitcase near the dresser. You stayed where you were, still on your knees, watching her with a mix of curiosity and unease. The rustle of the zipper broke the silence as she opened her bag, rummaging through its contents with purposeful movements.

“What are you doing?” you asked, your voice hesitant, unsure if you should move or stay where she left you.

She didn’t respond immediately, her back to you as she dug through the suitcase. When she finally straightened, something big and made out of rubber was in her hands. The faintest smirk played on her lips as she turned back to face you, her eyes holding a flicker of mischief that made your stomach twist with anticipation.

Vi turned back to the bed, the faint clink of the buckle in her hands drawing your attention. She slid it on with practiced ease, her movements fluid and unhurried. Once she was done, she laid back against the pillows, her head tilted slightly as she looked at you with a smirk that sent a jolt through your chest.

“Come here,” she murmured, her voice low and commanding as she extended a hand toward you.

You hesitated for only a moment before climbing onto the bed, your coat slipping open slightly as you moved. As soon as you were close enough, she pulled you down, her lips capturing yours in a kiss that was slow and deliberate, yet left no room for misinterpretation.

When she pulled back, her hands slid down your arms, guiding you into position with firm, unyielding pressure. She placed you exactly where she wanted, her touch both gentle and assured, leaving no doubt who was in control now. The anticipation in the air was almost tangible as she leaned back, her gaze locking onto yours with a heat that made your breath hitch.

Vi’s hands settled firmly on your waist, her fingers pressing into your skin as she began to guide your movements, up and down her strap. Her smirk widened, a glint of mischief lighting up her eyes as she stared into yours, her confidence practically radiating off her.

“Now this,” she murmured, her voice a low, sultry drawl, “is more my speed.”

Her grip tightened ever so slightly as she took control, her movements deliberate and unrelenting. The shift in her demeanor was electric; gone was the hesitation, replaced by the Vi you’d always imagined—the one who thrived on being in charge, who owned every moment with unapologetic dominance.

She watched your every reaction, her smirk deepening whenever she saw the telltale signs of your unraveling. “That’s better, isn’t it?” she teased, her tone both playful and commanding.

And as she continued, guiding you with an intoxicating mix of precision and care, it became clear: this was where Vi felt most at home—leading, controlling, and leaving you utterly captivated in her wake.

At this point, Vi’s hair was messed up and sticking to her forehead, her tank top almost completely drenched in sweat. Her eyes were half-lidded and darkened as she watched. All the while, her mouth was slightly agape as she let out small grunts of pleasure every so often. 

She leaned up, resting her back on the bed frame instead. The sudden change made you gasp, as she penetrated you deeper, hitting that oh-so-lovely spot. You grab on her shoulder for balance, the other hand on the bed as you bounce up and down on her like the good little doll you are. 

Vi’s free hand gripped on the bedsheets, gripping on the fabric. She looked up at you, smirking, her breath coming out in gasps. “Fu-F-Fuck… s’good for me… Taking me so well… I-... mmmfffff…”

The sound of moaning was the only thing that could be heard in the once-silent room.

She let go of your hip, letting you move on your own, now both her hands on the mattress and supporting her weight. You move even harder, deeper. This time you both let out a gutteral moan, her head falling against the bed frame. 

Vi let out another moan and shifted up on the bed, now seating up instead of leaning on the bed frame. She wrapped her arms around your waist and held you against her chest, while at the same time, started to lean forwards. She brought you down with her hand and gently laid you on your back.  “Mmmm… f-fuck… I-... nnng… I can’t get enough… of… y-you…” 

She leaned down on the bed, holding herself above you, shifting again to get a better angle, her movements now more desparate and less gentle than before. She planted her hands on either side of your head to support herself and leaned down to start leaving trails of kisses on your neck and shoulders.

“S-Shit… You feel… s-so good… I-... mmmnfff… I don’t want to stop… You’re so good for me… So perfect…”

You continued to gasp and moan as she nipped and sucked your sensitive skin. Every once in a while, you would let out a high-pitched whine of pleasure, your body arching to press against Vi as much as possible. Your hands tangled themselves up in her hair, your nails scraping on her scalp. “Ahh… Vi… yes… nnn… don’t stop… don’t fucking stop… ah…” 

Vi groaned as she felt your nails scratch her scalp and shivered in pleasure. She bit and sucked at a specific part in your neck hard enough to leave an already prominent bruise behind. Once she was satisfied, she pulled away and took in the mark she left behind. It’s a good thig you had a coat to cover it up with later. 

She continued her assault on you skin. With each new one, she would take a moment to admire the mark before continuing to leave another. Her grip on your hips got progressively tighter with each mark left behind. “You’re… mine…” 

Both of you knew the truth, even if it lingered unspoken in the air between you. You weren’t hers—not in the way she might want to believe. This was a transaction, a carefully arranged arrangement where your role was clear.

You were here to let her let go, to help her unwind, and—ultimately—to serve a purpose, not to be hers. The money exchanged, the boundaries set. There was no mistaking the professional line drawn between the two of you.

And yet, in the heat of the moment, there was a fleeting whisper of something more, something that made you both question the labels you’d placed on this. But even as the room pulsed with tension, the reality of what this was hung like a veil, unyielding and undeniable.

As the tension finally snapped, both of you collapsed against the bed, your bodies still trembling from the intensity. Vi, breathless and sweaty, eased herself off you, her movements slow and deliberate as she pulled away. For a moment, neither of you spoke—just the sound of labored breaths and the lingering warmth between you.

Vi settled herself on top of you, her weight pressing gently against you as she let out a satisfied sigh. Without warning, she leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, her lips lingering there for a brief, almost tender moment. The gesture was unexpected, but it somehow felt more intimate than anything that had come before.

Her gaze met yours, a quiet understanding passing between you both. You weren’t hers. You knew that. But in this moment, it didn’t matter.

The soft glow of morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a warm hue across the room. Vi slowly stirred awake, her muscles still sore from the night before, the memory of it lingering in the back of her mind. The bed was empty beside her, the absence of your presence felt immediately. For a moment, she just lay there, the silence of the room almost deafening.

She glanced over at the clock, realizing she was running late. She had a meeting with her bandmates downstairs, and the last thing she needed was to be late after everything that had happened.

With a sigh, she pushed herself up from the bed, the sheets rustling around her. She grabbed her clothes from the corner, the remnants of last night's whirlwind still hanging in the air. As she dressed, pulling on a leather jacket over a simple band tee and dark jeans, her thoughts wandered back to you. She didn’t regret what happened, but the whole thing felt strange now that the adrenaline had faded.

Vi quickly finished getting ready, grabbing her bag and heading out the door. She paused for a moment in the hallway, then shook her head. No time to dwell, she thought. She had her bandmates to meet, and business to attend to. The rest, whatever it was, could wait for later.

Vi walked into the lobby, her bandmates gathered around a table, already talking. As soon as their drummer spotted her, his usual mischievous grin spread across his face.

“Well, well, look who’s here,” he teased, clearly trying to hold back a smirk. “So, did you enjoy your night, Vi?” His eyes sparkled with amusement. "Did she do the trick? You know, the one I sent your way?"

Vi raised an eyebrow, her gaze narrowing as she met his playful, probing eyes. "What are you talking about?" she asked, her voice calm, though the tension in her posture suggested otherwise.

He leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying the moment. “Come on, don’t act like you don’t know. I figured you’d like her—Babette’s finest, right?” He lowered his voice slightly, eyes glinting. “She’s known for strictly... serving women, and I thought, well, you’d definitely vibe with her. Guess I was right.”

Vi froze, her heart skipping a beat as his words sank in. She hadn't expected the drummer to be the one who’d arranged it, or that he’d been so open about it. Her curiosity piqued, she tried to keep her expression neutral, but her mind raced.

“What do you mean by ‘Babette’s finest’? And where exactly can I find her?” Vi’s voice was calm, but her eyes betrayed her—there was an unmistakable gleam, a hunger for more.

He smirked, clearly enjoying how much this was affecting her. “I knew you’d want to know,” he said with a chuckle. “You can find her at Babette’s, of course. But she only works for women. I guess that’s what makes her special, huh?” He gave her a wink. “And don’t worry, I’m sure she’d be happy to see you again.”

Vi’s eyes glistened as the realization hit. The curiosity and something deeper—something she hadn’t expected to feel—washed over her. She nodded slowly, her thoughts already moving towards the next step.

“Thanks for the info,” she said, her voice steady, but there was a faint excitement hidden just beneath the surface. As her bandmates continued talking, Vi's focus shifted inward. She now had a clear direction—one that would lead her right back to you.

[specsthesecond]

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°

You wake up in the comfort of your home, snuggled in thick, fluffy sheets. Despite the cold, birds still chirp outside, advising you to start your day already. You stay in bed a little longer today, staring out the window, trying to get a hold of your thoughts.

It's been a good few days since you left that Orc's house, a few days to think about the experience and mull over what to do now.

You jolt out of your thoughts when you see, out the window, quick anxious scampering behind the snow covered bushes. Jumping out of bed, you hastily get dressed, fumbling with your boots, grabbing your trusty bow hanging by the door and a few arrows. You peek outside, sneaking as quietly as possible on the old wooden floor of the stoop, arrow already notched against the bowstring. You can only see the critters ears, twitching, listening for any trouble. It's either a rabbit or a hare, you hope for the latter.

You wait there for a good fifteen minutes, bow strung, waiting for the thing to move just a little to the left of the bush for a better shot. Your fingers burn on the string, didn't have time to grab your gloves. The second it hops slightly out of the bush, you let go of the arrow and send it flying right into the cotton-tailed critter.

When you step back inside your warm cottage, you make a beeline for the kitchen with the hare in your hand. It's quite a lucky catch, a large jack. You use this as an excuse, you actually come up with plenty excuses while you prepare a hearty stew. "There's so much meat here, it would be wrong not to share." "If I don't repay him, it'll weigh on me for far too long." "I need to bring him his flask back." "I need a good hike anyway."

Stupid rationales for the absurd idea you have conjured up. Nevertheless, you get out your fanciest ceramic pot and cook your best hare stew. You fret, far more than you'd admit, over how little ingredients you have due to the winter.

Come afternoon, you're trekking the woods, past the Human territory and into unwelcomed lands. You clutch the handle of the basket holding your steaming pot of stew and his flask tightly inside, which you filled with your favourite Red bush tea. This is just so you're even, and then you never have to think about this Orc ever again.

Somewhere in your mind you know that's not true, You'll never be able to forget what happened. You were content in your woods, pretending you weren't lonely, why has this Orc changed that? It was easy pushing the cravings down before, why is the hunger suddenly so present, so consuming.

You eventually step into the clearing where his home lies, Your thoughts continue to meander as your feet take you straight to the steps into his home. Now, you can't just leave it out for him but you can't just knock on the door and run away either...

You knock on the door three times, taking a deep breath and then cursing yourself for needing to do that. What if he doesn't want to see you again? Sure, he saved you from dying but that doesn't mean he'd want you in his home ag-

The door opens slowly, it takes you a minute to look up from the stone floor of the small veranda but when you do, it's those same dark brown eyes looking back at you. He looks shocked to see you, you expected as much. After a few awkward moments of staring, you hold the basket up with both hands, opening the top to reveal the red ceramic pot and his flask. He looks down at the parcel with a rather blank expression and it makes your skin crawl with anxiety.

You gesture for him to take the basket and he quickly, with frustratingly gentle hands, takes it from you. He takes a peek inside the pot, letting the built-up steam poor out and his eyes grow even wider, you can't tell if he likes it or not and it's killing you.

Of course he didn't want to see you. The last time you were together he woke up to you, a stranger, on top of him watching him sleep! Your face is hot with shame, you turn to leave but then hear him say something in Orcish, you turn around to face him. You're a little taken back to see the hopeful look in his eyes as he holds the door open for you, waiting for you to accept his invitation.

Timidly, you step inside. Being here again sends a shiver down your spine. The Orc gently rests the basket on his little (in comparison to him) living room table, then heads to the kitchen. He comes back with a tray of two bowls, two mugs and cutlery. It shocks you how easily you take his silent invitation to stay for dinner as you both set the table as if it's a normal thing for basically strangers to do. While he dishes up hearty portions of steamy stew in rather large bowls, you pour the red tinted tea into the two mugs he brought.

You sit down on opposite sides of the wooden table and dig in. The spoon, like the bowl, is rather big and made out of what appears to be a hard dark wood. As you taste your stew, doubts trickle into your mind. Is it not thick enough? Is the meat too tough? Do Orcs prefer tougher meat? Is it too bland for him?

The scrape of his chair on the floor interrupts your thoughts and you look up at him. He's scooping up more stew with the serving spoon and plopping it into his empty bowl. You stare at him bewildered when you realise he's already going for seconds. How did he even swallow all that so fast?

He notices you staring and looks embarrassed, like he's done something wrong. You shake your head lightly and gesture for him to continue. He smiles rather bashfully for an orc and plops another spoonful onto his heaped bowl. You hide the smile that creeps onto your face behind a hot mug of tea.

After the pot has been thoroughly emptied and your stomachs are full, he starts clearing up his side of the table. You go to follow, but he swiftly takes your bowl from you, sets it on the tray with everything else and walks off to the kitchen. For a second you sit rather dumbly at the empty table, the sound of splashing water comes from the kitchen as you look around the orc's abode.

Your eyes are drawn to a packed bookshelf in the corner, you try not to be that impressed that an orc would willingly read so many books. You imagine you would be pretty insulted if someone said that about you, and you know full well that reading is a lovely way to pass the time in such a quiet life as yours and his.

He steps back into the room holding two mugs of what was left of the tea, you suppose that means he likes it. He places them on the small table in front of the couch and takes a seat. He doesn't show any indication that he expects you to sit with him but you find yourself sinking down next to him anyway.

He picks up a little book on the low table and pages through it, it's green with bold Orcish on the front. You try to seem uninterested with what he's doing, staring down at your tea until he shuffles closer to you, pointing to a specific page in the book. You scrunch your eyebrows and lean closer, reading the text he's pointing to.

"Thank you."

Your breath catches and you read further down the page, seeing bold Orcish words followed by Human Common words.

It's a translation book.

You laugh (more like wheeze) in surprise and disbelief. The Orc looks nervous, looking back at the book to make sure he pointed to the right word. You gently take the book from him and page through it, searching.

After quite a while, you finally find it, in what you assume is the "Helpful phrases" section, and you point it out for him.

"You're welcome."

He lets out a hearty laugh and you grin at the sound. You made him laugh. His eyes crinkle, deepening the crows feet just above his cheeks, which seem a darker green than before.

After that, you sit together in quiet comfort, drinking the rest of your tea and peeking at the words in his book as he pages through the translations. The book is new, the spine isn't creased from use and the pages are still firm and fresh. Did he get this book because of you?

The thought stirs something strange in your belly and you can't tell if you should invite it in or reject it. Your eyes shift to the window near the door and you jump when you see the sun is setting. How has it been that long?

You rise from the couch and grab your basket, shoving your now clean ceramic pot into it. The Orc looks at you confused, looks towards the window, and then shoots up himself, quickly heading to the kitchen. You shrug your fur coat on at the door and wait patiently for him to return, basket in hand.

He returns with the same flask he gave you the last time you left in a hurry. He may be even more bashful this time he hands it to you and you don't need to open it to know what's inside. You nod your head again in thanks and he smiles wider than you'd think an Orc capable, if you hadn't met him, that is.

You walk out of his house, flask tucked in your basket. When you reach the end of the clearing, you turn around and there he is, standing on the veranda watching you leave. You hesitate for a moment and then give him a little wave goodbye. He returns it with his own.

As you walk through thick trees, you wonder if the nearby human village has a book vendor. Not for any particular reason.

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°

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[eddies-ashtray]

♡ meet cute.

There’s this alcove out behind the school. It’s deserted and quiet, right around the corner from the outside door to the woodshop. You can normally count on it being empty, a shaded refuge when you need a break during the school day. A secret place to slip away to when things get to be too much.

Once, Daniel Adams was there throwing wood scraps in the dumpster just before the bell signalling the end of second period. But he didn’t disturb you, just went back inside without a second glance. Other than that, it always lacked a population. 

Until today. 

When you round the corner, you see the trade off clear as day; a small pouch of white powder transferred from a heavily ringed hand being swapped for a thick wad of cash. 

The guy receiving the pouch slips it into his jeans pocket before he sees you. Then his green eyes make contact with yours and he books it back down the alley before crashing through the door to the shop. Subtle.

The guy with the cash is left there alone, but seemingly unperturbed by his customers sudden exit. You imagine you might run away too, if you were buying ketamine right behind your school at 11am on a Tuesday. 

You recognize him before his curly head whips around to locate the source of alarm. What other guy at Hawkins High has chipped black nail polish and avoids barbershops? More importantly, who else sells drugs at your school? Eddie’s got that job dominated. 

“Shit.” Is all he says when he spots you there. His tone is flat, deadpan. 

You ignore him in favour of sitting cross-legged on the pavement, gravel crunching beneath your soles before you press your back against cold brick. 

You just want him to go away. To be alone. 

Staring down at your scuffed Chucks, you begin to pull at a loose thread at the bottom of your frayed pant leg, winding it around the tip of your index finger until it turns white, then unwinding it so the blood comes rushing back with warmth. 

When you hear his heavy footfalls, you think maybe your luck hasn’t run out and he might be leaving. But the crunching of gravel does not recede down the alleyway.

Black Doc Martens enter your vision. You stop pulling at the loose thread and stare at the boots for a second before your gaze meanders up to his face. 

“Please don’t tell anyone, alright?” Eddie’s tone is non-threatening and hopeful. 

“Wasn’t gonna.” You shrug, couldn’t care less about the drug habits of the people you go to school with. Or how they acquire said drugs. Who would you tell anyway? The cops? Fuck that. 

Despite the confirmation of your silence Eddie stays put, feet shuffling across gravel, rocks scraping beneath the thick soles. 

You avert your gaze, will your voice not to break when you say, “Will you please just go?” But it betrays you, cracking just slightly on the final syllable. As your teeth dig into your bottom lip, you hope he doesn’t notice. 

Eyes burning and staring intently at a triangle-shaped pebble, you hold your breath, think, don’t say it, don’t say it, please don’t say it. 

“Are you okay?” 

Fuck.

Unwillingly, your face crumples and you bury it in your hands, face warming from being watched as you break down. Tears stream down your face silently, thick and hot as they wet your palms and slide down your wrists. 

There’s the crunch of gravel again, but he isn’t walking away like you expected anyone might. Who’d want to stick around with a stranger having an emotional breakdown? 

But then you feel warmth at your side as he crouches down and leans against the wall beside you, nearly shoulder-to-shoulder. 

Any remaining energy you had has been spent on your short exchange with him, so you have none left to plead with him anymore. But as the tears keep coming and your shoulders keep shaking, you find that you don’t mind his presence so much. He doesn’t touch you or invade your space in any way, doesn’t ask why you’re crying or try to stop it. 

Eddie just sits with you. Stares out at the swaying trees in the forest beyond the school and silently sits. Even though your skin isn’t touching it’s like he’s holding your hand. 

While you never bought into any of the rumours you’d heard whispered about him in the corridors, you were never completely sure of his kindness. Though now you see he wears his eccentricities as armour. It seems Eddie is softer than the tough iron of his armor would suggest. 

His motives now are clear: he doesn’t want to leave you alone in the state you’re in. Which is more kindness than anyone at this school has ever shown you. 

In actuality, it’s the most attention anyone at this school has ever shown you. Unlike Eddie, you’re mostly just ignored, left alone. Eddie isn’t going to let that happen now. 

The pair of you are probably quite the sight. And not just because you’re openly sobbing next to him. The Freak and the Loner Girl. If you were seen together you’re sure your bored peers would have some more rumours to spread. 

When your tears dry up and you’re left with a snotty nose and dry eyes, you look out at the forest in silence with him. Staring out blanky at the shedding foliage, your breathing slows and the wind whistles. The wind kissing your cheeks is strangely comforting. Or maybe it’s just Eddie. 

In your periphery, you see him shift as he pulls his ringed hand out of the pocket of his jacket. Eddie–who you’ve only just noticed smells really good, like leather and fresh rain–shoves his hand beneath the leather to dig around in an inside pocket. 

For one silly, brief moment you think he might be about to offer you a small pouch of white powder. 

Then he pulls his hand out. It’s a tissue. 

Eddie Munson is offering you a tissue. 

The metalhead keeps tissues in his jacket. And drugs. But also tissues. 

Looking from the tissue to him, Eddie gives you a soft reassuring smile. You take it from him gingerly. “Thank you.” 

Eddie nods shortly. “Yeah.”

“You, um, you didn’t have to sit with me,” you say once you’ve wiped your nose clean, looking at him fully for the first time since you broke down. His eyes are so dark. You’ve never been close enough to notice until now. 

“I know.” A beat of silence follows his sweet sincerity where all you can hear is the sound of the trees gently whooshing in the wind. “But I’ve seen you around. You’re alone a lot.” 

“Oh.” He’s seen you around? 

“You don’t deserve to be, by the way,” he adds quickly. “Especially not…now.” 

You look away with a small smile and a soft breath through your nose. Though his delivery is a little awkward, the sentiment causes warmth to flood your chest. 

“Right,” you reply, chuckling a little as you meet his eyes again. When he smiles this time, a dimple pops into his cheek. Pretty eyes and dimples?

Smacking his thighs resolutely, Eddie pushes himself up off the pavement to stand in front of you, offers you his hand. You stare up at him, your own hands twitching in your lap, buzzing with anticipation. 

“C’mon,” Eddie prompts, nodding his head to the side. “Let’s go.” 

“Where?” 

“Anywhere you wanna go.” 

Drawing your lip into your mouth, you chew on it contemplatively. 

You don’t have to think long about your answer. Why on Earth would you stay here and wallow when this sweet, kind boy with melted chocolate for eyes is offering you his hand?

[hcneymooners]

⋆ and if we bite each other, the pain is sweet.

farmhand!sevika x farmer’s daughter!reader. men & minors dni.

synopsis: you find a woman in your barn who looks suspiciously like the fugitive who remains wanted on your town's bulletin board. but you've always a soft spot for the strong ones.

cw: age difference, older woman/younger woman, outlaw!sevika, farmhand!sevika, farmer's daughter!reader, reader has curly hair, reader is in her twenties, reader is feral for sevika but tries to keep it cute, soft!masc!reader (i'm not sure if she counts as masc in this but that was the intention! i said soft bc there are times where she dresses overtly femme in the beginning), muscular!reader, strong!reader and sevika is insane about it, touch starved!sevika, soft!sevika, sevi getting praised and spoiled as deserved, petnames, non-sexual intimacy, seduction, dirty talk, praise kink, strength kink, you manhandle sevi like a mf, begging, cunnilingus, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, vaginal fingering, tribbing, face riding, nipple play, reader waxing poetic about sevi and pretty she is, dom!reader, pleasure domming, sub!sevika, bdsm elemetns, dom/sub, power play, subspace, implied switch!sevi, mommy kink (specifically mama!). notes: guys i'm so fucking PISSED because tumblr deleted the fucking ask that made this even happen. but nonnie please know this is for you and i hope you love it, mama. also this got a little crazy. did not intend to write sub!sevi but then i was possessed and saw the light.

The morning mist hasn't burned off yet when you find her. In the barn's half-light, dust motes swim like sparks around the stranger's sleeping silhouette, her broad shoulders rising and falling against the hay. There's dried blood on her knuckles, you notice, but her hands are curled gentle as a child's against her chest.

Your daddy's shotgun rests steady in your hands, barrel aimed low but ready. The wild dogs haven't raised any alarm; they're curled near the woman like she belongs there. You watch her breath, take in the way her mouth hangs a little open like she’s aching to feed. Moths flutter against the high windows, their wings catching dawn's grey light.

"Daddy's gonna want to know why I didn't shoot you," you say softly, your voice carrying in the hollow space. 

Your short hair tickles your jaw as you tilt your head, studying. You’ve chopped it for the summer and the heat you applied to it is lifting. You can feel the curls right bursting around your cheeks.

There's something about the woman's face - even in sleep, it holds a story you've seen somewhere before, maybe on that board in town square you've trained yourself not to look at too closely.

The stranger's eyes open - dark and steady as well water. She doesn't startle, despite the gun trained on her. Just watches you like she's reading something written in the air between you both, her gaze catching on the way your corset top pulls tight across your chest, the intricate lace trim exposing your shoulders to the morning air and accentuating the swell of your breasts. 

"Would you have?" the woman asks, voice rough with sleep and something else. Her accent isn't local - has too many edges.

Your lips curl. 

"Ain't shot a thing yet that didn't deserve it." 

You shift your weight, dark jeans whispering against your boots. The corset suddenly feels more revealing under the stranger's gaze, dawn light playing across the ropy back. "You got a name?"

"Sevika." A pause, heavy as August air. "You always dress up to do barn chores?"

"Only when I've got a feeling about something." You step closer, morning light catching in your hair like a halo, shotgun lowering just slightly. You can smell gunpowder and road dust on her, underneath the hay. "Kitchen's got coffee on. Might even have some bacon, if you can convince me you're worth feeding."

Sevika sits up slow, careful, like she's trying not to spook a wild thing. Her shirt is rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms mapped with scars and something that might be tattoo ink. "That an invitation or an interrogation?"

"Guess that depends on what kind of answers you give." 

You rest the shotgun against your shoulder, turning toward the barn door, letting morning spill across your exposed skin. You don't look back - don't need to. You can feel Sevika's eyes on you like a physical touch, can hear the soft grunt as she stands.

The horses shuffle in their stalls, steam rising from their backs. Outside, a rooster crows - late, like always. Everything's waking up slow and sweet, the way summer mornings do. 

Your pulse thrums steady in your throat. There's danger in this - in the way Sevika's boots fall into step behind you. But you've never been one to let fear stop you from taking in strays. Even ones that look at you like they'd like to devour you whole.

As you walk, you can tell that she’s drinking in the sight of the farm as strangers tend to do. The acres go for miles, the sky straining and stretching across its great, green rolling body. Most of the buildings—the farmhouse, the barn, the bustling chicken coop—were built raised by your mother’s hands. She was an architect romanced and rescued by your father, though you suspect she did the rescuing more than him. 

You shimmy a hand down the downy back of one of the newest calves, nose scrunching with affection as he moos back at you. Eventually the house looms before you, the windows popped open and laundry swaying outback despite the expensive machine your mother couldn’t do without.

“You comin’?” You murmur, and Sevika blinks from where she’s been watching you stand in the doorway, your back well-muscled and strong. 

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The screen door snaps shut behind you both with a familiar whine. Morning floods the kitchen through tall windows—your mother's insistence on "proper light for proper cooking"—and catches on the copper pots hanging above the island. The coffee pot gurgles its last, right on time.

You set the shotgun in its place by the door, muscle memory, though you keep half an eye on Sevika as she takes in the space. The kitchen tells its own stories: your mother's architectural drawings spread across one end of the table, your daddy's mud-caked boots by the back door, fresh-cut flowers in a Mason jar that catch the light just so. The dishes on the side of the sink are speckled stone, sanded and glazed by the artistry of your older sister. The washing machine hums through the wall, keeping time like a heartbeat.

"Sit," you say, gesturing to the worn oak table. It's been scratched and stained by three generations of family suppers, and something in you stirs at the sight of Sevika pulling out a chair—this stranger inserting herself into your history. "Less you'd rather stand."

She sits, those capable hands folding on the tabletop. Her shoulders are still coiled tight, ready to run, but her eyes follow you as you move through the kitchen's familiar dance. Two mugs from the cabinet (your favorite and daddy's backup), bacon from the icebox, cornbread left from last night.

"Sugar?" you ask, though you've already reached for it. The container clinks against your rings as you set it down.

"Black's fine." Her voice is softer in here, like the domesticity of the space has gentled her edges. But when you lean past her to set down her mug, you catch a whiff of leather and gun oil beneath the barn hay. Your curls brush her shoulder, and you feel more than hear her sharp intake of breath.

You take your time settling into the chair across from her, adding three sugars to your own coffee with deliberate movements. Your mother would be appalled at you entertaining company in just a corset top, but there's something thrilling about the way Sevika's gaze keeps catching on the lace trim, on the exposed line of your collarbones, the rise of your breath.

You let her observe because you’re doing the same. Sevika is gorgeous, the kind of beautiful that sinks deep inside of a woman and wears her out. Her grey eyes are like two beacons and they remind you of the deer you’d beg his father not to shoot. The ones you would run after, flapping your arms to get them to scatter.

 Her face is almost ridiculously romantic, with a strong nose sitting pretty in the middle that reminds you of royalty. Her eyes are never-ending, a pit that gapes into who she is. Her skin is textured, as it gets when you’re (allegdly) living on the edge of the law. You can tell she’s older than you without her saying it. Something about her radiates maturity, the same as your mother who’s practically seen the world rise and fall. 

"So," you say, watching her over the rim of your mug. "You gonna tell me what brings a woman like you to sleep in my barn? Or do I need to go take another look at that board in town?"

Her jaw tightens, but she doesn't flinch. 

"Would it change your mind about the bacon if I did?"

"Depends." You lean back, let your chair creak against the floorboards. Through the window, you can see the laundry dancing on the line, your mother's favorite dress a splash of yellow against the morning sky. "On whether you deserved what put you there."

Sevika's fingers tighten around her mug, and you catch sight of old burns across her knuckles. "Most things ain't that simple."

"Most things worth protecting ain't either." You slide the plate of cornbread toward her, a peace offering. Your voice softens; you were never good at acting hard. "Eat something, sugar. Then we'll talk about what kind of work needs doing around here, if you're planning to stay.”

Something shifts in her expression—surprise at the endearment maybe, or relief. When she reaches for the cornbread, her sleeve rides up, revealing more of that tattoo. It looks like a snake, or maybe a dragon, curling up her arm. You wonder how far it goes, what other stories her skin might tell.

The washing machine clicks into its spin cycle, and somewhere outside, your daddy's truck rumbles to life. The morning's moving on, and there's work waiting. But for now, you let yourself sit in this moment: the sun warming your bare shoulders, the quiet sounds of Sevika eating at your family table. 

“I suspect,” she says, her throat bucking as she swallows, “that your parents will have a bit more sense about hiring a fugitive for farm work.”

You shrug, pick a corner off the cornbread on her plate.

“Everyone out here is struggling. We all need someone or something. The only reason we’re faring slightly better is because this place was paid off as an anniversary gift by my grandparents.” You glance out the window. “Plus, I’m my daddy’s favortite. He tends to listen to me.”

There’s something sad about the way you say it, as if it aggrieved you to be so loved. But the moment passes and you’re looking back at her, lips full and curved like the moon. 

“It’ll be good for us,” you decide and she lets it go. “Get seconds if you’d like, sugar. I'll intercept them.”

“I’m older than you,” Sevika rumbles and you hide a smile, cock your hip out as you grab a basket for the chickens. 

“Doesn’t make you any less sweet on the eyes.” 

At that her head ducks down and you laugh, the sound clear and bright like a bell. 

⟡ ݁₊ . 🌱🐄🧺  ⟡ ݁₊ .

With that Sevika finds herself hired as a farmhand under the stern eye of your father and the knowing eye of your mother. The work is honest and she relishes being able to lose herself in it, settle into the rhythm and flow of this little world your blood has built.

She doesn’t know what to do with you however.

Now, Sevika has lived several lives at this point. In fact sometimes she awoke in the night under the strain of them, the urge to run stampeding from where it sits behind her teeth and under the flat of her tongue. She understands on some level that women find her attractive, brooding. She’s unsurprised at the hints you keep dropping over the weeks. You probably find her intriguing, see her as a means to rebel with her older age and criminal nature.. (“I’m literally in my twenties, Sevika. ‘M not a baby.”)

At least that’s what she thinks at first. But then, she begins to doubt herself and overanalyze your rather…creative attempts to satisfy your coveteous nature. 

The first is when she wakes up one early morning, the sky slurred between cotton candy pink and a warm lilac, to find you taking a bath in a two-bit shining steel contraption of a tub. Your body is trembling, but you seem at peace. Your curls are heavy and swollen with water, made longer by the weight of the moisture. She watches your back flex as you move, takes in the hidden strength of your arms and peeking thighs. Your muscle takes her aback, makes her stomach warm real down low.

She should move—your parents will be up soon—but you’re just so captivating when you’re kissed by the dawn. The water sloshes as you pour it over yourself, the underside of your breasts flashing as you soap down. And then you turn, peeking over your shoulder and gazing at her with faux-bambi eyes as you trace a hand up and over your chest to get your back. 

She feels warm, teased in a manner that makes her throat squeeze and her hands clench. She doesn’t know what to do with this, doesn’t know how to naviage this eager rabid want that you show her so openly. And it just doesn’t stop.

But what really gets under Sevika’s skin is the kindness that you insist on bludgering her with, especially when no one’s watching. It’s genuine, unexpecting, and claws at her skin with tender phantom fingers.

Just the other day, Sevika had been unable to successfully ward off a duo of wolves and three sheep had been lost in her efforts. She’d apologized gruffly and repeatedly until your mother stepped forward and cupped her chin with a firm hand, telling her to “fuck off with this bullshit because it wasn’t intentional and you tried your best.” What was with you women and nurturing her?

After, Sevika had gone back to where the lasty wooly body lay—the small innocent bones of a lamb. She had felt sick at the sight because the lamb wasn’t a lamb in that moment; she’d seen something else. You saw the lean figure of her body as it bent over in some sort of grief, distraught at the sight of the dead animal beneath it. 

Sevika, You had said with shining eyes. Are you alright?

Sevika had looked at you long and hard before making a noise from deep within her throat. Turning swiftly, she tried to block you off from the sight.

I don’t think you’ll want to see this, she’d muttered and you’d settled your hands on your hips. 

I’ve lived this long before you were working here, you reminded her.

Sevika’s face was still broken in an open expression of confusion and remorse when you moved forward. Carefully, you swallowed the bulk of her body into the warmth of yours. You weren’t nearly as big, but you held your own and you held her fast. The two of you stayed just like that, with your hand tucked neatly behind her head as you steadied her. 

Now, she watches as your broad shoulders dip as you kneel to pick up the limp body of a fallen chicken. These goddamn wolves needed to be dealt with.

It’s in their nature, sugar, you’d told her.

“Wait,” she calls out and you turn to look at her, your cheeks apple-full under the thicket of your lashes. 

“Hmm?” you say back, your voice curious.

“Put gloves on if you’re gonna touch it. It probably had some sort of disease.”

Sevika walks closer, grabbing a spare pair of gloves she usually keeps for the other town boys who your father has helping him throughout harvesting week. She holds them out, those dark eyes glittering like grey moonstone.

You look up at her then, curls haloed around your soft face. They’re still kept short, dust your dimpled chin. You look so young and probably always would, the baby fat clinging to your cheeks like the hands of a lover. Sevika continues to gaze down at you, firm and unrelenting, and you smile gently as she eventually looks away. 

You’re not moving fast enough, so she crouches down and takes your hands, sliding each glove on and making sure the fingers fit. She notes that your nails are square and glossy, painted an icy pink. You watch with an affected air, scooping the small body up when she finally lets go. 

“I’m sorry,” You say to the glassy eyes of the hen and Sevika’s heart seizes.

“‘M sorry, sweetheart,” she tells you, gentle and understanding. 

You glance at her and then back at the animal you hold.

“No need to apolgize, you didn’t do anything wrong. Can you help me dig a grave for her?”

Sevika doesn’t know if it would really be worth it to bury it, but you’re a little sad and so obviously cold in your oversized cotton tee and denim shorts. Your skin lights up with the mid-afternoon sun and Sevika can see all of your goosebumps and the fine dusting of hair.

“I—sure,” she agrees and You nod, walking away and trusting her to follow.

Before you begin to lead the march, you turn back and cup her elbow. 

“Thank you, sugar.”

And that’s all. She wants to fucking eat you.

You continue to unravel her expectations like cotton thread.

You catch her before dawn another morning, when the sky's still tender with sleep and dark like the evening is loath to leave. She's checking the fence line, and you appear like a vision with two thermoses of coffee and your father's old flannel draped over your worn dark green longsleeve. When you pass her the coffee, your fingers linger on hers longer than necessary.

"Thought you might be cold out here, sugar," you say, and the endearment makes her throat tight. She's not used to being the one called sweet things.

You settle beside her on the fence, close enough that she can feel your warmth. The morning fog rolls across the fields like a dream, and Sevika finds herself watching the way it catches in your hair and the bones of your fingers, how it makes you look ethereal and solid all at once.

"You don't have to keep doing this," she says roughly, though she cradles the thermos close.

"Doing what?" Your voice is innocent but your eyes are knowing.

"Taking care of me. Bringing me things. Being..." she gestures vaguely, unable to name the way you make her feel seen.

You laugh, and she shivers. "Sugar, has it occurred to you that maybe I want to? That maybe I see something in you worth cherishing? That I’m just being genuine?"

The word ‘genuine’ hits her like a physical thing. She ducks her head, unused to this kind of naked affection, but you just reach over and touch her jaw with gentle fingers.

"You're allowed to let someone be sweet on you," you murmur. "Even if you're pushing forty." 

There's teasing in your voice, but your touch is reverent. Sevika wants to protest—about the age difference, about her rough past, about how someone as bright and whole as you shouldn't want someone as weathered as her. But you're looking at her like she’s the human version of the Promised Land, and all her arguments die in her throat.

"I don't know how to do this," she admits, voice barely above a whisper.

"Do what?" You're stroking her jaw now, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.

"Nothing. I need to get back to work."

You lean back, let her go. 

“If it’s about learning,," you call, your voice trailing after like smoke, "the good thing is that I'm a real good teacher."

The next time I’m in town, she thinks, I need to buy a pack of damn cigarettes.

⟡ ݁₊ . 🌱🐄🧺  ⟡ ݁₊ .

From then on, you start to learn her tells. Like how she always positions herself between you and any perceived threat, how her hands flex when she's trying not to reach for a weapon that isn't there anymore. How she startles, less now, when you're gentle with her.

You catch her in the barn one afternoon, trying to wrap her own ribs after a particularly rough day breaking the new stallion. Her knuckles are white with the effort of reaching around, face drawn tight with pain she won't admit to.

"Sugar," you say softly, and she freezes like a spooked deer. "Let me help you with that."

Her eyes dart to you, then away. "I've had worse."

"Ain't about what you've had." You cross to her, boots quiet in the hay. "About what you deserve now."

You take the bandage from her callused fingers, and she lets you - that alone feels like a victory. This close, you can see the way her breath catches when your fingers brush her skin. Like caring for her is its own kind of violence.

"Lift your arms for me, darlin'," you murmur, and something in her expression cracks when you call her that. Like she can't quite believe the sweetness in your voice is meant for her. But she obeys, raising her arms slowly, letting you wrap her ribs with careful precision.

"You don't have to-" she starts, but you shush her.

"I know I don't have to. Want to." Your fingers trace a scar on her side, old and silver in the afternoon light. "Anybody ever just take care of you, Sevika?"

She doesn't answer, but the way she trembles under your touch says enough. You secure the bandage and let your hands linger on her waist, thumbs brushing bare skin above her jeans.

"Well," you say, pressing a lingering kiss to her shoulder, right where that dragon tattoo curls toward her neck, "better get used to it. I take good care of what's mine."

Her sharp inhale sounds like thunder, and when she turns in your arms, her usual swagger is nowhere to be found. Just vulnerability, raw and beautiful as a sunrise. You cup her face in your hands, thumbs stroking her cheeks, and she leans into your touch like she's starving for it.

"When did you decide tha?" she asks, voice rough. "That I’m yours?"

You smile, soft and sure, and smooth out the furrow in her brow. "You were mine the moment you settled onto my land, sugar. Just took us both a minute to catch up."

And maybe you came on too strong, ‘cause she yanks herself back and straightens her shoulders.

“Thanks.”

You sigh, loud and irate. She’s so fucking—

“No problem, honey.”

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It happens during the last heat of summer, when the air sits thick as honey on your skin. You're in the barn, having just finished moving hay bales—work that would've taken twice as long if you weren't so used to it. Your blue and white bandana top clings to your chest, sweat stealing out from under it, and you can feel Sevika watching you from where she's meant to be fixing the tractor. You arch your back a little more, make sure to display the way your little rose-bud panties poke over the worn mouth of your lightwash, knee-length jean shorts.

You've caught her looking more and more lately. Noticed how her eyes track the contraction of your arms when you're lifting feed bags, the way she startles when you easily hoist yourself into the saddle. Like she can't quite reconcile your soft curves with the strength beneath them.

"You gonna fix that tractor, sugar?" you ask without turning around, smile curving your lips when you hear her shift. Your desire is practically shaking the bones of your teeth."Or you just gonna watch me work?"

Her throat clicks. 

"I’m—I'm nearly done."

You hum, reaching up to stack the last bale. Your shirt’s knot loosens a little ‘round your back, exposing the dip of skin, and you hear something metallic clatter to the floor behind you. When you turn, Sevika's staring at you with those storm-grey eyes, wrench forgotten at her feet. There's grease on her forearms, sweat at her temples, and she's looking at you like she's finally ready to break.

"Something wrong?" you ask innocently, crossing to her. Your bare feet are silent in the hay.

She swallows hard when you reach her, especially when you grip the tractor's edge on either side of her, caging her in with arms that could just as easily lift her. "You know exactly what you're doing."

"Do I?" You lean closer, letting her feel the strength in your body. "Tell me what I'm doing, sugar."

Her hands flex at her sides, like she's fighting not to touch you. 

"You're driving me crazy," she admits roughly.

“Oh,” you whisper, pursing your lips. “Do I make you nervous, baby?”

She flushes, tries to scramble back, and you laugh, soft and low. 

"Driving you crazy, huh? Only fair. You've been driving me crazy since I found you in my barn." You trace a finger down her jaw, feeling how she trembles. "The way you look at me when you think I can't see. The way you try so hard to be good, to keep your distance." 

Your other hand finds her hip, grip firm. You squeeze them in warning.

"I've seen how you watch me work. You like that I'm strong enough to handle you?"

She makes a broken sound, head falling back. "[Name]."

"I've got you," you murmur, and then you're lifting her onto the tractor's edge like she weighs nothing, stepping between her legs. Her eyes go wide, pupils blown, and her hands finally, finally come up to grip your biceps. "Been wanting to do that for weeks. You know you gotta tanline right here?"

You finger the thin edge of her boxers from beneath her jeans, 

"Christ," she breathes, fingers tightening on your arms. "You're gonna kill me."

“Are you religious? That’s cutesy,” You smile, pressing closer until you can feel her heartbeat racing against your chest. "Nah, sugar. Just gonna take real good care of you." Your hands slide up her thighs, feeling the way she shivers. "If you'll let me."

She answers by pulling you into a kiss that tastes like summer storms and surrender, and you smile against her mouth. You've got her right where you want her—trembling and warm in your capable hands.

"That's it," you whisper when you pull back to breathe, one hand coming up to cup her face. "Let me handle you, mama. Just like you need."

And Sevika, who's spent years being the strong one, the dangerous one, the one who protects—she lets herself fall into you, lets herself be gentled by your hands. Maybe this is what surrender feels like: not a defeat, but a coming home.

⟡ ݁₊ . 🌱🐄🧺  ⟡ ݁₊ .

Your most prevailing thought is that you’re pissed you didn’t get to see Sevika like this earlier.

Her back arches beautifully, her chest rising with pleasure as you hold her down on the floor by the hips. Your mouth is relentless, suckling at her warm pussy with fervor. She tastes sweet and she’s so soaked, her arousal dribbling out of your mouth and onto your chin. You hum as she roots a hand in your hair, tugging harshly as she grinds down in tight little circles. 

She’s whimpering, high breathy sounds that you’re determined to keep streaming from her slick lips. She’s still quiet, as you expected, but Christ does she want it. You let her use you, sliding your hands from her hips up to cup and grope her tits. Her nipples are erect, so hard and pretty and pointed toward heaven like she’s trying to tempt God. She’d probably succeed. 

The sun slips through the slats of the barn and it illuminates her skin, the brown of it so warm that you almost feel as if you’re both on fire. You slip your tongue into the tight clutch of her cunt, gently dipping back and forth so that you’re fucking her on your tongue, and squeeze her ass in silent demand. She digs her nails into you, moans loudly, but still doesn’t heed.

With a groan of irritation, you clutch her ass with a grip of steel and begin to bounce her on your face until she starts to see the bigger picture. Eventually, she’s moving on her own—fast and uncoordinated as that bright spiral begins to coil in her stomach. 

“Oh my God,” she groans. “Just like that. Please.”

You pull away, spread her apart.

“I know, mama,” you murmur and then dive back in.

Her thighs come up around your head and you let her crush you, shaking your head like a dog in heat as you nurse and lap at her pussy. Above you, Sevika twists one of her nipples and you feel her body tense in response. You bring a hand up to rub at her clit, and she jerks. 

When she cums, she’s so bright and beautiful—like a star imploding onto itself. Her legs fall open and she lets out a low whine, like an animal, her hips still circling as she attempts to ride it out.

“Hold on, mama,” you tell her. “I’m gonna give it to you.”

You move quickly, undressing completely and laying your body against hers. Your tits push into hers and she nuzzles into your neck, mind still hazy. You soothe her, digging a thumb into her lower back as you slip two fingers into the meat of her. She lets out a strangled yell at the overstimulation, but you hold her to it.

You fuck your fingers into her, until the squelch is more than obscene, watching as she shakes and writhes alongside you. You use your other hand to guide her to your mouth, kissing her messily as you introduce a third finger to her pussy. 

“Oh,” she moans, low and raspy, and you coo at her. “Oh, shit. Holy—holy fuck.”

“Yeah? Does that feel good, baby? You have to tell me what you like.”

“I—mmm. Yes. Yes, it feels good. I need—I need—”

Sevika trails off, eyes wide and watery. You roll over, tucking her under you while you continue to finger her. You raise one of her legs, widening the angle, and she squeals. You laugh lowly into the seam of her neck before sucking the skin between your teeth, biting down and bruising her.

“What do you need, mama? More?”

“Yes, but—,” She blinks, attempting to clear her head. “I want you too. I want you to finish with me.”

“With you or on you?” You watch her face as you ask, eyes following the twitch of her brow. “Maybe in you?”

That makes her shiver, and you smile as you sit up. 

“Whatever you want, baby,” you mutter as you manhandle her into how you want her. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”

She shivers again and you pull her up, drawing her against your chest so that your tits are once again pressing up against each other. Carefully, you extend her strong legs over yours and inch forward until your clits catch. The friction is insane and your mouth drops open along the same time that Sevika goes ramrod straight. 

You dive right in, fucking up so that your cunts slide and swallow each other. She’s so creamy, her previous orgasm sliding down her thighs. There’s a moment where your control dips, where she’s the one ramming the two of you together and leading you up so that you can grind harder until she stutters again.

Then it’s back and you’re holding her down, spreading her even further open as you rub your pussy roughly against hers. You need her to stay down, need her to take what you choose to give. Sevika is beneath you, trembling and open mouthed, and you stick two fingers down her throat ‘till she’s gagging wetly around them.

“Oh m’God,” you moan, your eyes never leaving hers. “You’re such a fucking slut, mama. Jesus.”

That does it and you feel her pour into you, thick and warm. You follow shortly after, rocking and pushing down against her as you chase the feeling. She’s sobbing, a hand coming up to grip at her throat as she tries to match your movements.

You slow, come to a stop, and stroke her face as you rise off of her. Tenderly, you kiss at her cheeks and eyelids as you sush her. 

“I know, baby. You were so good. Such a good, perfect, strong woman. Hmm?” You kiss her temple. “You did so well, mama.”

She’s shaking, so you hold her until she’s less far away. You want to get up, get her some water and maybe something to eat but she’s holding you captive. Sevika turns into you, body big and curved like the moon come to earth.

The afternoon light paints everything gold, and you know you’ve got work waiting—always do, on a farm. But for now, you just continue to hold her. Somewhere outside, those wild dogs are keeping watch. 

© hcneymooners.

⚚ special taglist: @blackdykegirlblogger @gaysevika @lovelifelaughsakuna @thesevi0lentdelights @rios-st4rs @16novvs @rottngrl3 @namuranguinhos @pllduniverse @swordfemm4 @alexthewalex @baeumonde

[jyoongim]

Okay okay hear me out: possessive!annoyed!Alastor x naive!reader

The whole gang goes to Consent (the sex club) and manages to drag Alastor and reader with them.

Reader thinks everyone is so lovely and friendly, Alastor is overstimulated by the techno music, flashing lights, and loud crowd and ͓̽t͓͓̽̽h͓͓̽̽o͓͓̽̽s͓͓̽̽e͓̽ ͓̽f͓͓̽̽u͓͓̽̽c͓͓̽̽k͓͓̽̽i͓͓̽̽n͓͓̽̽g͓̽ ͓̽w͓͓̽̽h͓͓̽̽o͓͓̽̽r͓͓̽̽e͓͓̽̽s͓̽ ͓̽t͓͓̽̽h͓̽a͓͓̽̽t͓̽ ͓̽k͓͓̽̽e͓͓̽̽e͓͓̽̽p͓̽ ͓̽l͓͓̽̽o͓͓̽̽o͓͓̽̽k͓͓̽̽i͓͓̽̽n͓͓̽̽g͓̽ ͓̽h͓͓̽̽u͓͓̽̽n͓͓̽̽g͓͓̽̽r͓͓̽̽i͓͓̽̽l͓͓̽̽y͓̽ a͓͓̽̽t͓̽ ͓̽r͓͓̽̽e͓̽a͓͓̽̽d͓͓̽̽e͓͓̽̽r͓̽

Cause imagine Alastor standing behind you, scaring the shit out of the person dancing with you….

something short

“I thought you said we were going a club?”

Charlie said nervously as the gang stood outside of Consent.

A club.

A strip club.

Angel had suggested that if Charlie wanted the residents to form trust then that going to a club would do that.

He failed to mention the whole nudity part.

You could sense that the group were a bit disgruntled, so you smiled at Angel “I think this is great Angel! I’ve never been to a club like this before what about you Al?” You turned to your attention to Alastor. 

Normally Alastor would have did an disappearing act on everyone when activities were done, but you were actually excited.

You were a rare thing that graced Hell. You were sweet and friendly. Had a good head o your shoulder…but you were horribly naive and had no sense of when people were insincere.

Or trying to gain your attention.

You were bopping your head to the music, swaying as you sipped on whatever concoction the bartender had made.

Your senses were in overdrive as you took in the loud music and flashing lights.

it was so much.

Angel had pulled you onto the dance floor, twirling around you, showing off his moves.

You giggled at his flashy display, laughing as several of the dancers swarmed around you, naked bodies rubbing against you.

This was so fun!

This is absolutely not fun.

Alastor was barely holding it together. The loud music and flashing lights were making him restless. He preferred quiet places with soft jazz playing and pleasant food.

Not establishments where he was pretty sure drugs were near the food.

He stayed seated at the bar. His very presence was enough for sinners to stay away from him.

He sipped his whiskey as he scanned the crowd. Vaggie and Charlie were sitting in a quiet corner, trying to keep Niffty stable.

Sir Pentious was trying to chat up some sinner, Angel was being Angel, and you….

 His eyes narrowed as he watched you watch in awe as several strippers danced on you. You were blushing but a smile still on your face regardless. You were unaware of the hungry looks that some of the male patrons were giving you.

But Alastor saw. Saw as some unsightly sinner began to approach you.

You felt a body press up against you. Heavy hands found your waist and pulled you into how they were swaying. 

“A pretty doll like you shouldn’t be alone on the dancefloor” a voice purred in your ear. You turned around, blinking at the stranger before giving him a smile “Oh you wanna dance with me?” You asked innocently. The sinner grinned, “suuuurree sweetness anything you like” he chuckled moving with you to the music.

Alastor had crushed the glass he was holding, static buzzing around him causing the lights to flicker slightly.

He took a deep breath, downed some whiskey from the bottle, and made his way through the crowd, brimming with dark energy.

The crowd practically parted like the Red Sea as Alastor made his way towards you and the filth who was being too handsy.

You smiled when you saw Alastor, completely oblivious to the rage emitting off him “Alastor this was so fun!” You shouted over the music. Alastor tilted his head, eyes narrowed and smile pulled in a tight snarl as he kept his eyes on the demon behind you. “Oooh really dearest?” The demon behind you was shaking in his boots as the Overlord gently pulled you towards him, wrapping an arm around your waist.

Mine. 

You were tipsy and babbling away as Alastor dragged you off the dance floor, teleporting you both back to the hotel away from prying eyes.

You blinked, seeing you were back at the hotel. “Wha-?”

A body wrapped itself around you, pulling you into a rumbling chest. Alastor huffed as he buried his nose in the crook of your neck.

”That place was horrid. Medium playing less than pleasant tunes, and those filthy sinners were all over you” he growled.

He was rambling to himself, growling in your ear. You jumped slightly feeling his sharp teeth your at your neck, your hazy mind not comprehending why Alastor was so upset.

”Al?”

”I’m going to show those pathetic sinners just who you belong to my dear”

”that you are mine”

You were spun around and lips slammed on yours.

————————————————————————

“Where the hell did toots go?” Angel asked, confused as he did not see you with Charlie and Vaggie. He last saw you dancing before you basically disappeared.

Husker smiled “Bossman took her back to the hotel”

Everyone was confused, then Angel smirked “Ooohh Freaky Face is SO gonna fuc-”

”Angel please! There’s no way” Charlie said, interrupting him.

You were such a sweet thing, there’s no way you would let…there’s no way Alastor…right?

They had made it back to the hotel and there was no sign of you or Alastor.

”Holy shit!” Angel laughed as he picked up on the loud banging coming from somewhere in the hotel.

easy to say, you now understood what was happening at the club and so many other times

@yakultt-art @coleisyn @alastorsfawn @alastorss @alastwhore666

@senseichaos @markster666

Let me know if anyone wants to be tagged in my works… I’m still working out the kinks

[hyunsvngs]

halloscream

was it chan in the hotel with the gun?

warnings 🔪: they’re both as fucked up as eachother, unprotected sex (i normally dont say anything but PLEASE don’t do this with someone you just met), desperation, d/s dynamics, chan is MEAN, degradation, a few lines of daddy kink, dirty talk, squirting, creampie, GUNPLAY

you’ve always been a light sleeper. ever since you were young, the faintest rattling of the wind through your window would arise you from your slumber, and tonight is no different. you doubt your intruder had expected you to wake - in fact, the figure stalls next to your bed as your limbs slide over the expensive hotel sheets.

you’re not scared. when your eyes focus, the man is dressed head to toe in black stealth gear, harness gripping those toned muscles that he’s strutting around with. it’s ridiculous, really. only you could have a hot potential murderer in your room in the early hours of the morning.

“hello,” you speak, finally. he tilts his head. he’s got a mask covering the bottom half of his face. it means that you can only see his eyes, but regardless, they narrow. he’s assessing you, and by the way they relax, you’re convinced of one thing - it’s not you he’s looking for. “who are you?”

he doesn’t say anything. you watch him turn to the window, then back to you. when you sit up, the oversized shirt you’re wearing rucks up your thighs. his gaze immediately lands on them. oh.

you’re not new to sex with strangers. this is a little unusual for you though. it’s a feeling that only worsens when you see his fingers wrap around the gun attached to his harness.

okay, you’re a little fucked up. but you can’t ignore the dampening of your pussy in your panties, and you’ve always made a point of always going for what you want.

“you’re still gonna kill me?” you question, and if you let the blanket slide down your legs a little more to distract him then that’s only for you to know. “even when i’m not who you’re meant to kill. you’re still going to kill me?”

he falters. the hand slides from the object, and when you squint, the streetlights coming through the curtains highlight it just enough for you to know. it’s a pistol. you know that it’s loaded - why wouldn’t it be?

“you’re good at reading people,” his voice is muffled, but you can hear it. he has a thick australian accent, but the pitch is low, almost threatening. it doesn’t matter. you know he’s intrigued, and you let your head rest against the headboard, thighs shifting apart just a tiny bit. one arched eyebrow raises, dark eyes fixating on the space between your legs. “by the looks of it, you’re good at seducing people too. is that right?”

“so it’s working?” you let yourself smile, soft but enough to make him shuffle towards you. his boots are heavy, but he’s somehow quiet. experienced, you guess, in whatever you want to call it - being a hitman, assassin, mercy killer? “tell me your name.”

“no,” he’s quicker, knees shuffling against the sheets. his face gets closer to yours, still partially obscured, and you quiver under his gaze. he’s sexy. you’re going to fuck a man that intended on killing you only minutes ago. “i don’t need to know yours either.”

“no, you don’t,” you agree. he’s situated between your legs now, and you can feel it, the familiar press of a hard, throbbing erection against your cotton clad folds. it makes you grin wider, hands moving down to his belt. he lets you wrangle the black cargos off of toned thighs, pushing them down past his knees, and your hand dips into his boxers to feel him.

the first touch of your fingers against the silky skin of his cock makes him tremble, just barely losing his composure, and the grip you form around his thick shaft is enough to make his hands finally move to you. he’s big, heavy in your hand. two wide palms impatiently shove your shirt up, exposing heaving tits and a trembling tummy, and he’s quick to move them back down to yank your underwear off.

“i don’t have long. i have places to be,” he explains, fingertips darting between your folds. you’re wet, of course you are. your folds clack together around his digits, clit peeking out, swollen and throbbing. this entire thing is like something out of your deepest, darkest fantasies. clenching and unclenching, your hole attempts to suck his fingertips in during his inspection, and he grunts in approval. it’s almost funny how quickly he loses his control. “filthy fucking bitch. how wet can you be for someone like me? a murderer? someone who could- who could kill you at any point?”

“p-put it in,” you’re stammering. he ignores you, two fingers moving up to brush against your clit. you keep messily pumping his cock, feeling it leak into your palm as he only gets harder, shaky breaths exhaling from behind the mask. you moan so loud in response that his eyes crinkle with a smile. “god, won’t you- won’t you put it in? please, you s-said you don’t have long!”

“it’s gonna hurt,” he warns, but his hands leave you to push his black boxers down. your own palms fall to the sheets, thighs spreading far, far apart to allow the man to get where he needs to be. his hand moves to pump his shaft himself, eyes situated on your exposed core. you’re going to let a stranger fuck you unprotected. you’ve never felt so dirty, but it makes your pussy clench. “you want it to hurt, don’t you?”

“yes,” you whine, pussy aching. you want nothing more than to reach down and rub circles on your clit until you’re shaking apart around nothing, but the man slaps his cockhead against the bundle of nerves to focus you. you twitch, thigh jolting against his hip. “put it inside, please, please-“

a strong bicep braces next to your head, and his figure crowds into your space once more. he slides his cock down to your hole, wet and soppy and aching, and the tip just barely slides in.

“oh- oh fuck? god, it’s big, so fucking big-“

“d-don’t you know anything about being quiet?” he’s affected too, sliding the next few inches in. it makes you jolt again, and he moves to press his hands against your hips. the position change keeps you in place, sure, but it means he pushes inside of you fully, and the pressing of him against your cervix makes you wail. the stretch is almost too much, and you almost wish you’d listened and asked him to prep you beforehand.

you can’t help it. your brain is spiraling, and the more you try to squirm and whine and beg, he’s only holding you down firmer. his cock rests inside of you, unmoving. you want it. you want it, and you want so much more, and-

the barrel of his pistol presses against your temple. your eyes widen, and you’re immediately stilled. the metal is cool, and you don’t even know when he got it out of his harness, but you’re thankful he did. his finger rests on the trigger.

“will you stay still now?” his voice is calm, measured. you don’t nod, or move, or anything really - this is enough for the man. he starts to rut into you steadily, a slow, deep pace that makes your eyes roll back into your head. “yeah, that’s it. such a good girl.”

“does it f-feel good for you?” you moan, pussy clamping down on his cock. it makes him speed up just enough to let the squelching sounds of your core reverberate around the room, and your cheeks blaze crimson with embarrassment. you’re this wet over a murderer that you just met.

he nods in response to you, making the mask shift lower on his face, exposing his nose. it gives you a clearer vision of what he looks like - dark chocolate eyes, a large nose that juts out proudly, and what you can assume are a plump, soft set of lips. he’s beautiful.

“i-i’m not scared,” you manage to tell him, because honestly, you’re not. he huffs, gun pressing firmer into your head. your pussy gushes around his cock. his pace speeds up, quicker and harder. you want to cum so bad that it’s making tears bite at your eyes.

“really? you’re not?” he pushes your legs up, lets them fall over the pits of his elbows. it spreads you out, bent almost completely in half, and his cock in your pussy starts to make a wet clacking noise. it only turns you on more, clit throbbing for attention. you’re certain he’d actually shoot you if you moved to touch it.

there’s a clicking next to your head. he’s cocked the gun, turned the safety off. you moan, hands finally moving to his waist to pull him into you. his pubic bone starts to grind against your clit, the trimmed hairs just the stimulation you need, and you whine and buck upwards into him.

“i could s-shoot you,” he groans, eyebrows furrowed, almost in disbelief. “i could kill you right now. i bet if i pulled the trigger, you’d cum before you died.”

“oh my god!” you squeal, hands still pulling at him. he lets you, crowding further into your space, eyes staring down at the way your pussy lets his cock drill you over and over. it’s too much. his finger braces on the trigger once again, and your nipples brush against the thick material of his all black long sleeve. they’re so hard it hurts, and you just want to cum - you’re not above throwing a tantrum whether he has a gun or not. you just need a little more. “please. please, i wanna cum, i wanna cum-“

“can you cum from this?” it’s a genuine question, and he shifts his hips, moving to pummel that spot deep inside of you. it makes you squeal, pussy gushing steadily around him. it’s almost enough. his hand moves on the gun again. is he going to? “answer me, fuckin’ whore. can you cum from this? yes or no. it’s not hard.”

he sounds wholly unaffected, and you want to cry. “yes! yes, i can, i can- please, keep going, i’m close, i’m close-“

“awh, baby. you’re close, i know, i can feel it,” his thighs bounce him into you. it’s just quick enough and just hard enough that you feel it building, and you’re almost there. “i can feel that fuckin’ pussy clenching on me, shit. fuck, you- you ready?”

you don’t know what you’re agreeing to, but you nod nonetheless, fingers scrabbling at his skin, and then you hear it. he pulls the trigger, and your orgasm ripples through you like an electrocution - your back arches into him, core spraying your release all over the base of his tummy. you think you’ve soaked his clothes, but he doesn’t seem to mind. as soon as your orgasm is beginning to end, he grips your hips and yanks you towards him, pistoning in and out of your pussy to chase his own release.

once you’re in your right mind, you can understand that he in fact did not kill you. the chamber was empty, and the gun gets discarded to the side of the bed, no longer useful. by the time you come to, the blush has spread higher and higher until it’s visible on the apples of his cheeks, and you know he’s nearly there.

“cum inside of me, please,” you breathe, thighs still trembling. “give me something to remember you by.”

he huffs, grunts under his breath, and his hips press into you. you can feel the pressure of his balls, and then he spills inside of you, so deep that your toes curl.

you want him to see it. when he pulls out, cock softening, you drag one hand down your body to form a vee around sticky folds. his cum leaks out, albeit slowly, and the man can only stare, cock twitching in interest.

he sniffs, nose twitching. “alright baby, cut the act. channie’s back now.”

you stretch out your limbs. the hotel sheets were just as soft as they were before you and your boyfriend started this little act, and they feel even better on your overheated skin. chan rips the mask off of his face, and immediately surges over you to kiss your face.

“chan-nie-“ you giggle, foot kicking. he catches it and wraps your leg around his waist, still trying to catch your lips with his. he’s still got that damn tight shirt on, clinging to his muscles, and well - your pussy creams up a little, and you meet his kiss halfway.

“mm,” he moans, tongue clacking against yours. his breath spills against your lips when he pulls away to speak. “wanted to kiss you all the way through, honey. was it good? everything you imagined?”

“amazing. you’re amazing, daddy,” you murmur, and he smiles, satisfied. “the gun felt realistic.”

“oh, yeah?” his smile turns almost sinister, and his hands move to your thighs. “were you scared?”

“mm, a little,” you’re already letting your thighs fall apart. chan’s half hard again. you’re praying that you don’t get an extra charge from the hotel after this - the sheets are destroyed. “it is fake, right?”

chan giggles. two knobby fingers breach your glistening hole, down to the knuckle, and you squirm. “obviously, baby. who d’ya think i am?”

“i mean, i dunno? it was kinda convincing and- oh, daddy, right there.”

“that’s it, baby,” his voice is calm, level. “you don’t need to think about it.”

[grocerystoredean]

panem dash simulator

peeniss4everlark Follow

NOOOOOOOOOO

officialsenecacrane Follow

me when i lie

districtfun Follow

i heard from my uncle who works at hunger games that they're only pulling from everlark shippers when they do the quarter quell

gurlonfire

thats funny because when i was fucking your uncle last night he told me they're only pulling from bitchy district one stans

catohead69 Follow

we poppin the biggest bottles when cato wins

catohead69 Follow

theeclove Follow

okay but is anyone else pissed how the district 11 guy literally did favoritism for late districts or what

rues-song

the careers literally did an alliance r u fucking kidding me i hope u get reaped

theeclove

clearly SOMEBODY doesnt understand the strategy of the games

career-sweep Follow

PLEASE tag your hunger games spoilers. this is literally common sense the games have been going on for 74 years you should know better by now

#hunger games spoilers #SOOO pissed rn theres never been a live announcement and now i found out from fucking everlarks

maytheodds Follow

Yes I'm a 30 yr old hunger games watcher. I've been watching kids die since you were in diapers. You have NO idea the tragedies I've endured. Hunger games is escapism for many of us when I come home from a long day of logging the last thing I need is for some 13 yr old tribute dying in a high stakes competition that we ALL knew was high stakes starting a riot and destroying all the nations grain

corholeanussnow

lmao. get a load of this guy

girlalcoholic Follow

haymitch stans rise tf up

#yes girl get that salve #i would fuck that old man

cinnagirl3000 Follow

i wld nvr survive in thg fr baby im killing myself

#thnk goddddd im cap 😁 #i woulda stepped tf off that platform cinna its been an honor

caeserflickerwoman Follow

does anyone else think it was fucked that peeta invaded ceasar's space when he CLEARLY wasn't comfortable with being SNIFFED by a STRANGER

softgreenpillow

fuck you this is clearly so fucking capitol-centric no one in the capitol would ever be comfortable with any districtperson doing ANYTHING these days. it is capitol-boot-licking scum like you that holds the movement back. get BLOCKED idiot

butchjohanna Follow

Just something I've noticed I think we as a fandom have gotten WAY too comfortable using the phrase "get reaped" as an insult, when it's a very serious reality that many children live with and should not be taken this lightly. Some people online have had to put their names in more for necessities like bread or water and the absolute terror that grips a person waiting for their name to be called doesn't leave you even in adulthood. Please think before you speak

#many of you are not acting in a way that johanna would be proud of. get it together #reaping mention

starcrossedluvrs Follow

[sematarygirls]

        COWBOY!RAFE x FEM!READER

WARNINGS .ᐟ oral (m! receiving), reader is kinda sheltered, mommy issues, parental death, running away from home, getting picked up by a handsome stranger

NOTES .ᐟ this was pretty fun to write tbh. i started this like a year ago and recently found it in my drafts, which led me here, so i hope yall enjoy it as much as i do.

Your worn cowboy boots thudded against the asphalt as you walked down the deserted country road, dragging your suitcase along. The summer sun shone brightly overhead, heating the atmosphere and causing a thin layer of sweat to coat your body. Your daddy's old cowboy hat sat atop your head, shielding your face from the sun's unrelenting, unforgiving rays. A loose white sundress swished softly with every step you took, slowly making your way farther and farther from your old life.

The death of your beloved father sent your already troubled mother into a state of disrepair. You watched as the mother that had sung you soft lullabies and stayed with you until you fell asleep transformed into someone you didn't recognize.

Most nights, you weren't sure where she was or if she was even alive until she inevitably came stumbling home in a drunken stupor through the front door of your little farmhouse in bumfuck nowhere, the screen door slamming behind her and startling you awake.

On the rare occasion that you saw her, she seemed to look through you. Her eyes were sunken with dark circles underneath them that greatly contrasted how bright and full of life they once had been. She was a shell of the woman she once was.

You tried your best to be there for her, but eventually, you realized that she wasn't going to change. She didn't want to get better, and you couldn't force her to.

On your eighteenth birthday, you made a difficult decision. You had been weighing it for a long time, wondering if you were doing the right thing. You wondered if your dad would be disappointed in you, if he would've wanted you to stay, but eventually, you knew that you had to do what was best for you.

You couldn't handle the constant worrying, only to be greeted with a cold shoulder the few times you did see your mother. You felt like you'd never have a life of your own in that house, suffocated by the memories of the happy family that once lived within the walls. You needed to start fresh—to give yourself the opportunity to be something more than a small town drunk like your mom.

You were leaving, and you were never coming back.

And for the first time in a long time, you had something to look forward to. You had a future that didn't revolve around taking care of someone else. You had hope that you could find something better out there, something more than this lonely life you'd grown so accustomed to.

You grabbed an old suitcase from the basement and threw it onto your bed. Opening it, your heart ached as you saw your name written in black sharpie on the light brown fabric. It was written in your father's handwriting, little doodles of stars and hearts surrounding it. For a moment, you had second thoughts about your decision, but ultimately, you pushed them away. you knew he would've wanted you to live a life worth something. He wouldn't want you to be confined to this house, worrying whether your mother would make it home every night.

You packed an assortment of clothing and little items that held sentimental value to you. You knew you had to choose carefully because there was only so much you could bring. Rifling around in your closet, you discovered your father's old cowboy hat. You stuffed it into the way back the day of his funeral, never wanting to see it again, but now, you knew you needed it more than ever.

It served as a reminder of home—not the house you were running away from, but the home that had once been filled with life and love. It reminded you of cold winter nights spent huddled by the fire and spooky stories told during thunderstorms. It reminded you of dancing in the kitchen while the three of you prepared dinner and listening to the rock station with a popsicle in hand as you curiously watched your dad work on his truck. It reminded you of a time before forehead kisses and goodnight stories were replaced by slamming screen doors and absent mothers.

You placed the hat atop your packed suitcase and went to sleep, your plan for tomorrow already set in motion. You woke up before your mother, quickly getting dressed and gathering your things before creeping into the living room. She was nowhere to be seen, probably having actually made it to her bedroom that night, but her purse was laying on the kitchen counter, a couple items spilling out from the way she had haphazardly thrown it when she got home.

Careful to not make any noise, you rummaged through, looking for her wallet. You didn't expect to find much, but you would take what you could get. After stuffing the cash you could find into your bra, so in the event that your suitcase was stolen, you'd still have something to your name, you took one last look around. You admired the height markings your father had made on the doorway, and the hole in the wall that he always swore he'd get around to fixing after bringing in a new couch went terribly wrong. A sad smile graced your face as you said goodbye to the place that had been your only home for as long as you'd known, turning the page and getting ready to embark on your journey to a new life.

Walking through the front door with your suitcase trailing behind you was like a weight had suddenly been lifted from your shoulders. For the first time in a long time, you didn't know what would happen next, and it frightened you in a way that was exhilarating.

The sound of a car approaching made you jump a little, the sound cutting through the quiet atmosphere that had previously only been filled with the light swishing of your dress, the sound of your suitcase wheels and boots on the asphalt, and the occasional chirp of birds. It was rare to encounter people on the deserted road you were traveling down since the area you were in was secluded and a good few miles from any houses or towns, so you knew to be cautious.

You turned your head, tilting the cowboy hat up to get a better look at the approaching vehicle and it's driver. It was an old grey-blue pickup truck with a white roof, a thin layer of dirt and grime built up along the exterior. You squinted your eyes to try and get a better look at the driver as they got closer, but the glare from the sun on the windshield hindered your view.

Hesitantly, you looked away from the truck, your gaze returning forward as you waited for it to pass, but to your surprise, it didn't. You clutched your suitcase tighter as the man pulled up beside you, not stopping completely, just rolling along to keep pace with you.

When the driver rolled the window down, you turned your head to face him, continuing to walk as you studied his face. He was a handsome man; you couldn't deny that. He had bright blue eyes that shone with intrigue, his pale pink lips pulled up into a smirk that had you torn between being deeply unsettled and utterly smitten for him. His brown hair was buzzed short, and he had a bit of stubble on his chiseled jawline along with a mustache on his upper lip—something you usually wouldn't have been privy to, but he made it look effortlessly good.

"What's a pretty little thing like yourself doing out here all alone?" He asked with the faintest hint of a southern drawl, looking you up and down. It should have disgusted you—a random man hitting on you in the middle of nowhere—but for some reason, it made butterflies erupt in your stomach.

You debated on what to say. At first, you were gonna say that your mama always told you not to talk to strangers, but that sounded so childish that you immediately pushed it away. You weren't really great at talking to people. You'd often spent more time alone than with others. You simply shrugged, deciding against saying anything at all and making yourself sound foolish.

His gaze darted to your suitcase, finding himself intrigued and undeterred by your lack of an answer. "Where you headed, sweetheart?" He asked, continuing to drive beside you.

Truthfully, you didn't have a destination. You were just sorta planning to go wherever the wind took you, which admittedly, wasn't a very solid plan. "Anywhere but here," you said cryptically. It sounded a bit cheesy, but it was true. You just wanted to put as much distance between yourself and your childhood home as you possibly could.

His smirk widened into a full-blown grin as he leaned across the seat to throw open the passenger door. "Well, climb on in then. I can take you wherever you'd like to go," he offered, eyes glinting mischievously.

You didn't notice this, however. You weren't all that great at reading people due to your sheltered upbringing. You had gone to school, but it was a small one that you'd dropped out of at sixteen to try and take care of your mother.

You looked over at him, your eyes filled with hesitance as you nervously chewed your lip. You may have been a little naive, but you weren't completely stupid. You knew how unsafe it could be to catch a ride from a stranger. "That's awful kind of you, but... well, I don't think I should."

His demeanor didn't falter, an air of confidence surrounding him—like he was used to getting what he wanted, even if it took a little convincing. "I get it, darlin'," he nodded understandingly. "A pretty thing like you can't be too careful nowadays, but I promise you I ain't gonna hurt ya. Can't say the same for others, though."

Your eyes widened a bit at his words, and for the first time, you seemed to be able to look past your rose-colored glasses. You were a young woman walking alone in the middle of nowhere—an easy and vulnerable target to anyone that could have wanted to hurt you.

"Look, I ain't tryna scare ya," he said, seeming to notice the fear that his words had ignited within you. "But... well, there's a whole lotta bad people out here, sweetheart. I'd hate to go home and find that pretty face on the news or somethin'."

"Well, how do I know that you ain't some serial killer?" You asked, quirking an eyebrow. You stopped walking to face him fully, to which he abruptly stepped on the breaks.

"Serial killers don't usually offer their victim's rides now do they?" He grinned wolfishly, leaning back and draping his arm over the passenger's seat. "I reckon they usually take by force, but I s'pose I wouldn't know since I ain't one."

A frown tugged at your lips, your eyebrows furrowing in thought for a moment. "I guess you're right..." You didn't really know much about serial killers either if you were being honest. Well, not enough to know how they rounded up their victims anyway.

He grinned wider, as if he could tell that you were doubting yourself, and he found it amusing. "So, how 'bout it then? You gonna get in?"

"Promise you ain't gonna like kidnap me or somethin'?" You asked softly, apparently trusting that he would tell the truth.

His grin softened into a warm smile, and he chuckled lowly as he brought his free hand up to place over his chest. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

You nodded, seeming to accept this as an accurate description of his intentions or rather, lack thereof. You picked up your suitcase and put it into his truck bed, all the while he watched you intently, his gaze lingering on the tantalizing view of thigh that your dress provided.

You climbed into the passenger's seat, pulling the cowboy hat off your head and placing it on the dash before closing the door and buckling yourself in. You weren't really sure where this handsome stranger was going to take you, and that's when it dawned on you that you had gotten into his car without even knowing his name.

You looked over at him, finding him already staring intently at you. You offered a shy smile, your fingers playing with the hem of your dress as you softly told him your name.

"Pleasure to meet you," he said, his deep southern drawl causing your name to roll off his tongue with a warmth akin to the way the summer sun had heated your skin. He put the truck in gear, the engine purring as he continued down the desolate highway. "Name's Rafe," he introduced himself, his gaze darting to you.

"The pleasure's all mine Mr. Rafe," you said politely. The man was not that much older than you—maybe two or three years—and thus was probably nowhere near old enough to regard as Mr, but you were taught that it was respectful to do so.

He grinned at the title, his fingers flexing on the steering wheel. "Just Rafe's fine, darlin'," he insisted, casting you a sideways glance, his gaze lingering on your lips as you smiled shyly.

"Okay," you nodded, looking down at your lap as you fiddled with your dress. Rafe was awfully handsome, the hottest guy you'd ever seen by a longshot—not that that was a huge feat—and you found yourself extremely nervous with the fact that you were alone with him.

"So, what are you doin' out here all alone?" He asked, casting you a questioning glance as he took his eyes off the road briefly. "You didn't say earlier." His gaze fell to your lap, watching as your fingertips brushed the edge of your dress repeatedly, the fabric having ridden up due to your sitting position and revealed even more of your soft looking thighs.

You shrugged in response, just as you had earlier. You didn't really know how to explain your situation, and you hardly wanted to trauma dump on someone you barely knew, especially when you'd be in such close quarters for God knows how long. "I'm just... travelin'."

"Travelin'?" He echoed curiously, quirking an eyebrow. His grip tightened on the steering wheel as his gaze dropped to your thighs once more, the fabric of your dress inching up even more as you absentmindedly fiddled with it. He knew he shouldve been focused on the road and not his pretty passenger, but you were making it hard—in more ways than one. "What's got you on the road by yourself?"

"It's a long story," you mumbled, looking up and casting your gaze out the window, watching the scenery blur by as he did 80 on the interstate.

He hummed, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel rhythmically as he looked back at the road. "You runnin' from somethin', sugar?" He asked curiously, your evasive nature leading him to believe that there was more to the story.

You rubbed your sweaty palms on your dress, something your father would have scolded for being unladylike. Your gaze darted to the cowboy hat on the dash as you spoke. "More like runnin' toward somethin'."

"Toward?" He asked curiously. "So, where you headed then?" He prompted, his fingers stilling their movements as he looked over at you again, trying to read your expression.

A smile pulled at your lips as you turned to him, your eyes locking for a moment. "It's more of a... metaphorical somethin'."

His eyebrows raised, intrigued by your cryptic response. Everything about you seemed to intrigue him. You were one big mystery wrapped up in just about the prettiest package he'd ever seen. "Metaphorical, huh?"

"Yknow, you got this tendency to just repeat what I say back to me in question form," you grinned, your tone slightly teasing as you settled more comfortably into conversation with the man. You examined his side profile carefully as he turned back to the road.

"And you got a tendency to talk in circles," he replied with a grin of his own, his eyes flicking back to you briefly before returning to the road. He liked looking at you, even if for a brief moment.

You thought for a moment, deciding that perhaps Rafe deserved a bit of an explanation, given that he was nice enough to give you a ride and all. "I ain't going nowhere specific," you shrugged, your eyes finding the cowboy hat again. "Just... looking for somethin' bigger, somethin' better, I s'pose."

"Bigger and better than what?" He prompted, casting another sideways glance at you. His gaze lingered on the way your lips parted as you spoke, feeling himself twitch in his jeans. He was a man that liked understanding things. He didn't like being on the outside looking in. He wanted to know everything. He was curious; it was in his nature.

"The life I had before," you said, your tone growing solemn, gaze never wavering from the worn cowboy hat as memories flashed before you.

He noted your shift in demeanor and the way you were staring at the hat like you were willing it to turn into something. "What's the deal with that?" He asked, feeling like he needed to know.

"It was my daddy's old hat," you smiled reverently. "He um- he died a couple years back," you explained, clearing your throat and tearing your gaze away to look out the window.

"I'm sorry, sugar," he said sympathetically. He wasn't the best at comforting people, but he wanted to try. He took one hand off the wheel, placing it atop one of yours on your lap, and as much as it was not the time, he couldn't help the way his dick hardened further at the feeling of your soft skin under his rough, calloused hand.

"'s fine," you felt your cheeks warm at the feeling of his large, warm hand on yours. Despite yourself and the topic of conversation, butterflies erupted in your stomach.

He left his hand there, feeling a bit like he was taking advantage of the situation but unable to pull himself away. He liked the way your lips parted and your eyes widened ever so slightly when he touched you. "So you're both runnin' toward and away from somethin' then?"

"Yeah, I s'pose," you nodded. He reluctantly pulled his hand back to the steering wheel, readjusting himself in his seat to find a more comfortable position for his hard-on. You found yourself missing his touch, his skin leaving a lingering sensation on yours.

He was hyper-aware of every little movement and sound you made. The way you shifted in your seat, the little hitch in your breath, the way your thighs pressed together. He swallowed thickly, trying to focus on the road, his jaw clenching as he tried to get a handle on his body's reaction to you.

"So, what about you?" You prompted, glancing over at him. You had told him a bit about yourself and thought it only fair you got some information in return.

"Me?" He asked, his voice a bit gruff. He cleared his throat, trying not to let his gaze wander to the way your dress's neckline dipped, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of your chest. "Well, I'm headin' home. I've been away for a couple months, workin' on a ranch up north." He said, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel as he continued to drive.

You hummed in acknowledgement. "Did you like it?" You asked awkwardly, not really knowing what else to say. You weren't awfully good at carrying conversations.

"It was alright. Good money, good people, but it ain't home." He said with a small shrug. "'Sides, I got a lot of responsibilities back home. Family 'n all that. Couldn't stay away forever."

You nodded, listening to him explain. You were a little intrigued. You'd never been anywhere outside your home town. You yearned to travel, to see what the world—or at very least the country—had to offer beyond small town gossip and local church services.

He glanced at you, wondering what was going on inside that pretty little head of yours. He wanted to know more about you, wanted to know everything. He wanted to know what you were planning to do now, why you'd actually run from home, what you tasted like, how you'd sound moaning his name, how tight you'd be wrapped around him.

You pondered your next steps during this beat of comfortable silence. You were starving, so food seemed like it needed to be the first stop on this little roadtrip of yours. Then, you figured you'd find a bus stop and hop on the first bus outta town, letting fate decide where to take you.

As you sat there lost in thought, he was watching you intently between bouts of watching the road. He noticed the way your gaze would occasionally drift out the window, the way your hands would fidget with the hem of your dress, the way your lips would purse slightly as you seemed to be debating something in your head.

"You can just drop me at the next town," you finally spoke up, turning to look back at him as you seemed to have made up your mind. A semblance of a plan was better than no plan at all. Besides, what would this new life be without a little of the unknown. You had no idea when you left that morning that you'd run into a handsome cowboy, and that had turned out to be incredibly thrilling for you.

He frowned at the prospect of you leaving him so soon. You'd only just met, but he found himself wanting to spend more time with you. "The next town?" He repeated, echoing your words back to you again like he'd done before. "And, what's the plan when you get there, huh, sweetheart?"

"Gonna catch a bus," you shrugged noncommittally. "Go wherever the wind takes me."

He let out a short, humorless laugh, clearly expressing his disproval for your so-called plan. "You ain't never been nowhere before, have you?" He asked, already knowing the answer. You seemed so innocent, so naive. He couldn't just let you wander off alone, could he?

"Well... no," a small frown tugged at your lips. "But that's kinda the whole point of goin' where the wind takes me," you said, crossing your arms over your chest.

He shook his head, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. "That's a fool-proof way to end up in some real trouble, you know. A pretty little thing like yourself, wanderin' 'round alone. You could end up anywhere, with anyone."

"Well, thus far, I've ended up here, with you," you pointed out with a small smile. "So, I'd say my plan is workin' pretty well so far."

"That's only 'cause I'm a gentleman," he said, his eyes flicking briefly to yours. You couldn't help but wonder what if he wasn't such a gentleman. You weren't completely naive. You knew about sex and had always wondered what it was like, and now, with this incredibly sexy man before you, you found your thoughts particularly impure.

He watched the way your tongue flicked out to wet your lips, the way your breathing picked up ever so slightly. He could practically see the wheels turning in that head of yours. "What're you thinkin' 'bout, sugar?"

"Oh, um, nothin'," you said softly, your body heating up as his voice, so low and husky—definitely not helping your situation—tore you from your thoughts.

"Nothin', huh?" He drawled, not believing you for a second. He had been with enough women to know that look on your face, and he was pretty sure he had a good idea of where your thoughts were headed.

You bit your lip nervously. You knew he had at least some attraction to you because you had eyes. You could see the bulge in his jeans but had done everything you could to resist staring at it, despite the growing urge to reach out and touch it. You wanted to see him, feel him, maybe even taste him, but you were completely out of your depth here.

"You're thinkin' 'bout somethin' that's makin' you bite your lip and press them pretty little thighs together," he said, his voice low and sultry. "So, why don't you just tell me what it is, hmm?"

You looked over at him, your eyes widened a bit at his forward words, also at the fact that he had noticed. Though, it wasn't exactly like you were being discrete. "Wh- I- well, it's not very ladylike," you replied sheepishly.

"Sugar, there ain't nothin' ladylike 'bout the way I'm feelin' right now either," he said, his hand moving from the steering wheel to rest high up on your thigh.

You couldn't help but laugh at his choice of words, looking up at him through your lashes as you tried to find the words. "I don't know how to um- say it." You said, your heart beating nervously in your chest at a speed that doctors would probably find concerning.

"Then show me," he encouraged, his hand slowly inching higher up on your thigh. "You can do that, can't you? Show me what you were thinkin' about?"

You hesitated before nodding. You couldn't believe you were about to give a man you'd just met head for the first time in your life, but your body was moving quicker than your brain, unbuckling your seatbelt. You pulled your legs onto the seat underneath you, kneeling on the worn leather with your body facing him. You looked at him for confirmation before you made another move.

"Atta girl," he praised, his voice husky with desire. His hand moved to the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair encouragingly. "Go on, sugar. Show me what that pretty mouth can do." He shifted in his seat, spreading his legs wider to give you better access.

The lack of center console in the old truck was a blessing as your fingers fumbled with his belt. You were already nervous, and you knew you didn't have to tell him that you'd never done this before because it was written all over your face.

He watched with an amused smirk as you struggled with his belt for a moment. He found your inexperience endearing. After a beat, you finally managed to undo his belt, your shaky hands moving to his jeans, popping the button and unzipping them with much more ease.

"That's it, baby. You're doin' just fine," he encouraged, his voice strained with barely contained desire. His hips lifted slightly to help you tug his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his hard cock, the tip flushed and glistening with precum. You took in a sharp breath, your eyes widening a little. You'd seen one before but never in person and never quite that big.

"Wrap your hand around it, sugar," he instructed, his voice low and commanding. His hand tightened in your hair as you wrapped your hand around the base tentatively. "Just like that. Now, stroke it. Nice and slow." You followed his directions, slowly running your hand up and down his hard length, coaxing a low groan from his throat as his hips jumped just a little at the feeling of your soft hand on him.

"Fuck, that feels good," he groaned, his head falling back against the headrest and his grip on the wheel tightening. "Now, put that pretty mouth on me." You wrapped your lips around his hot tip, sucking gently and coaxing his precum onto your tongue.

"Mmmm... That's it, sugar. Just like that," he praised, trying to keep his eyes on the road and the truck in the correct lane. His hand guided your head, his hips gently bucking forward as he slowly pushed himself deeper into your mouth. "You're doin' so good, baby."

Your fingers flexed around the base of his cock, your grip tightening ever so slightly as yoy took more of him into your mouth, your brows furrowing in concentration while you did. "Relax your throat, baby. You can take more of me," he coached gently, his hand tightening in your hair. You did as he said, trying to relax and take more of him into your warm, wet mouth. "That's it, sugar."

The combined sounds of your heavy breathing mingled with the wet noises his cock was making as it slid in and out of your mouth. You gagged a little as the tip of his cock nudged your uvula, triggering your body's built-in safety feature against choking.

He felt you gag and knew he should have pulled you back, reassured you that you could go as slow as you needed to and that there was no need to rush, but shit, you felt so good and seemed so eager; he couldn't bring himself to stop you.

He kept pushing forward, his cock hitting the back of your throat, forcing you to swallow around him. He could feel your throat constricting around his length, and it was the most incredible feeling. You whimpered around him, your nails digging into his thighs and eyes watering, but still, you didn't pull away.

Your little whimper only spurred him on, sending a vibration through him that had him moaning, his grip on your hair bordering on painful. "You're taking it so well, baby," he praised, his voice strained with pleasure. "Shit, I'm so close."

Not long after, his hips jerked forward, and he held you in place, his cock buried in your throat as he came hard with a groan, his hot cum shooting down your throat in thick, salty streams. The unfamiliar taste clung to your tongue, even after you forced the warm liquid down your throat and pulled off of him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

He sat there for a moment, trying to catch his breath and calm his racing heart before he tucked himself back into his pants with one hand, his other keeping the truck steady. "You did so good, sugar. Real good." He murmured, his voice still husky from his orgasm.

You felt a wave of satisfaction roll over you at his praise, but you didn't know exactly what to do from here. Your plans hadn't changed just because you decided to expand your sexual horizons in the front seat of a barely-stranger's truck. Though, it felt a little awkward still asking him to let out you out at the nearest town after what you'd just done.

"We'll be comin' up to the next town soon," he said, as if reading your mind. "How 'bout you let me take you out for a bite to eat, and afterwards, if you still want me to drop you at the bus station, I'll oblige," he proposed, willing to do anything to spend more time with you.

You smiled, nodding. That seemed like a perfectly reasonable request to you. Besides, you had already planned on stopping for food before heading to the bus station anyway. "Okay, that sounds nice," you agreed softly, buckling yourself back in because safety first.

"I know a real good diner in town. They serve the best burgers and milkshakes this side of the Mississippi," he said with a grin, placing his hand back on your thigh, his thumb brushing back and forth across your skin. Your smile widened, stomach doing flips at his touch, and you found yourself thinking that maybe your adventure could wait just a little while if it meant spending more time in the handsome cowboy's presence.

tags .ᐟ   @starkeysprincess / @cometmultiverse / @iheartjjmaybnk / @all4l0vee /

[versupital]

↳˗ˏˋexhaust pipeˊˎ˗ suguru geto.

╰┈➤ a pretty thing like you all alone with a stalled car in a foreign city is the recipe for disaster, but a kind motorcyclist stops to offer help and - now you’re staring at your own fucked-out reflection in his helmet.

word count.ᐟ 9.7k

content.ᐟMASK KINK. FOOD PLAY. IMPACT PLAY. PROTECTED AND UNPROTECTED. STRANGERS TO LOVERS. ALT!GETO. CUNNILINGUS. EDGING. SLIGHT SPIT KINK. DEGRADATION/DEGRADING NICKNAMES. AFTERCARE. AFAB!READER.

a/n: so this will switch POVs to give my masc/amab!readers out there a chance to step into the story. i hope you guys enjoy suguru’s pining over reader :)

➗

You can’t make this shit up.

The roar of cars speeding by is not helping the anchor in your stomach at the thought of being trapped on a foreign interstate in the middle of the night.

You’d just left a concert, it’s about three hours from your hometown, and you hadn’t bothered with a hotel because you knew you could make the drive. You had not accounted for your car deciding to stall on the highway, though. 

And now it’s late at night. The moon winks at you knowingly, as if trying to tell you it’s going to be alright, but dread has already poisoned your nerves. You’re alone and vulnerable, and you don’t know where to go or who to call.

You find yourself crying in your passenger seat, phone battery nearly drained, the cold of the dark seeping through your clothes. You’re in the typical skimpy outfit that one wears to concerts and you’re cussing out the you who’d chosen something so non-weather friendly. 

You nearly fold and call your parent, when an engine popping gets your attention. You look up and see a motorcyclist pointing to his right, signaling that he is merging across the lanes. Cars slow to allow him over until his revving engine gets louder to indicate his speed. You think he’s heading for the exit as he approaches the last lane but then - to your complete surprise he slows at the last minute and pulls onto the shoulder, feet walking along the asphalt as his motorcycle comes to a stop.

He pulls right behind your car and your stomach tightens with worry.

The man has thick forearms snaked in ink-black artwork, and black cargo pants that cause him to blend into the night like a thief. His boots are thick-soled and all you can imagine is him overpowering you and kicking in your skull.

He props out his kickstand, and your body tingles with fear as the stranger throws himself off of the bike and walks towards you, a backpack bouncing between his shoulders.

“Hey,” he shouts underneath his helmet, which is a black void that does not show a glimpse of his face underneath. “Everything okay?” 

“No,” you sob, wiping your eyes before putting your hand on your pepper spray. “What do you want?”

“Relax,” the stranger puts his gloved hands in the air, “I just want to help you. Your car not working?”

You sniffle, keeping your hand on the pepper spray but softening the tension in your shoulders at his calm demeanor. “No, it stalled and won’t turn back on.”

The stranger does not make any noise for a second, but you see his chest rising and falling underneath his tight black shirt. 

“Alright, um,” he glances at the heavyweight watch on his wrist, clearly noting how late it is. “There aren’t going to be any towing companies open this late. But I’m a mechanic, I can give you a ride home and then we can come back in the morning with my tools to give it a look.”

You shake your head, “I live three hours from here.” 

“What? You aren’t staying somewhere close for the night?” he questions, voice full of surprise.

“No,” you shake your head, “I appreciate your offer, but I am going to sleep in my car until you return.”

He stands frozen for a second before leaning one hand against your car and ducking his masked head towards you. Though you can’t see his eyes, you can feel them. 

“Absolutely not, you can crash with me,” he says softly. “I’ll let you sleep in my room, door locked. I know you’re probably going to say no, but…”

At this point, you have to weigh your options: stay in your car and risk someone breaking or crashing into it while you sleep, or take the gamble of getting kidnapped and murdered by the way-too-polite stranger whose face you haven’t even seen.

“Take off your helmet,” you hear yourself saying suddenly, fearing you’ve already made your decision, and it’s definitely an irrational one.

He doesn’t speak another word before his gloved hands come up and he pries the helmet off of his head, majestically shaking his black locks free and then staring down at you. His eyes are dreamy, twinkling at you as he raises his eyebrows, one of which has a silver bar pierced through it. His bottom lip has two similar hoops on it. He’s devastatingly beautiful.

With an all too-knowing smirk, he leans towards you again. “Do I look scary or something?” 

Your voice is hoarse when you speak again. “Quite the opposite,” you say. “You don’t look like you’ll kill me…” you pause to take a deep breath. “So I accept your offer.”

“Great,” he smiles charmingly, propping his helmet on his hip before offering a hand to help you up out of your car. “You like Indian food? We can get takeout on the way home. Or… whatever you’d like. You’ve been through enough without me telling you what you’re going to eat, I mean…” he tapers off after his nervous babble, and you can’t help the little thump that awakens in your chest. 

“No, Indian is perfect,” you say, engaging a smile, dropping your pepper spray before taking his hand and allowing yourself to be lifted with one swift pull. 

He waits patiently for you to collect your things, and then puts them in his backpack, which he hands to you. 

“You’ll be my replacement backpack for now,” he says, before grabbing your hand again. 

You shouldn’t feel the way you do, all tingly and exhilarated. You should be on guard, with your hands free to defend yourself. Yet there’s something about those deep, lavender eyes that make you want to bounce up and down jump in and drown.

Cars continue to fly by without regard for the two of you being vulnerable pedestrians. Some don’t even bother to merge over. Wind blows your skirt and you flatten it down with a free hand, grateful the man’s attention is on trying to get you safely to his bike.

As he leads you to the motorcycle, you realize you’ll need to wear a helmet in the same moment that he’s passing one to you. It’s huge, and you’re sure you’re not the first girl to put it on. You don’t know why you let that thought, borderline jealousy, slip into your mind. 

“I’m Suguru, by the way,” he says, slipping his own helmet back onto his head and slinging one long leg over the vehicle. “What do they call you?”

“Oh, uh,” you’re taken aback, finding yourself staring dumbfoundedly. You tell him your name and he nods, repeating it to make sure he’s saying it right.

“Nice,” he starts up the bike and it immediately begins gutting out noises from the tiny engine. “So, you getting on?” 

“On what?” you say idiotically, before you gasp and walk to join him. “I mean- sorry, tired.”

“Quite alright,” he says, but there’s a smile in his voice. “Just hop on, and hold onto me as tight as you can.” 

You obey his instructions, gently sliding down on the leather seat and leaning forward, pressing your small chest to his back. It’s solid and tense through his shirt, and you slowly wrap your arms around his stomach, feeling like your heart is going to pound right through his spinal cord.

You’d never ridden on one of these before, and to be honest you aren’t sure you’re past the “sleeping at a stranger’s house” thing, but it’s too late to go back now. 

He puts the bike in reverse to allow himself some room to take off. You link your fingers over his lap, palms pressing against his abdomen. The whole ordeal feels so intimate; you’re grateful that he cannot see your, no doubt, reddened face.

And then it’s like a flash, you’re on the interstate, lights passing by and wind prickling every inch of your skin. 

Suguru wastes no time zooming across the lanes, but you can tell he’s being cautious, not going as fast as he could. It’s probably because of you, you think, and you’re grateful because of the way your stomach is in knots.

Although, your body against his, the revving of his bike, the feeling of people’s eyes on you both as you tread through traffic has your cunt thumping - absolutely wrecked and desperate to be relieved. You’re glad your anxiety is dissipating, but you hadn’t expected it to morph into lust.

Suguru finally makes the stop, as promised, to grab takeout. The food and the two of you manage to make it to his flat in one piece. He resides in a small brownstone with big windows, which seems a little out of character for what you know about him so far. 

He parks his motorcycle out front, locking it up securely, before taking off his helmet and instructing you to do the same.

“My hair probably looks insane,” you say as the helmet slides off, knowing it has a tendency to be flattened when you wear hats. 

���Looks better, in my opinion,” Suguru nods, reaching out to take the backpack from you as well as the takeout bag. “Let’s go before the monkeys around here try to snatch our food.”

“Monkeys…?” you repeat softly, inquiring silently about his choice of insult but not pressing him on it.

Inside, you’re in awe at the sheer organization and cleanliness for it to be a man’s home. The open concept is welcoming, a beautiful arch separating the kitchen from the living room. You take in his massive kitchen space and your fingers suddenly ache to bake something, a small and secret hobby of yours.

“It’s nice in here,” you say softly, glancing around and hugging your arms.

“What’d you expect? A cold, dusty basement?” He laughs and sits the takeout containers on the coffee table, before shrugging his backpack to the floor and hanging his helmet on a peg on the wall. 

While he takes your helmet from your hands, you nod at him. “Yes, actually. I’m still not entirely convinced you aren’t going to kill me.” 

He sighs and checks himself in the circular mirror that hangs behind his couch. You can tell he takes pride in his appearance, adjusting his hair and allowing a single strand to fall over his forehead.

“At least your last meal will be good,” he jokes, glancing at you in the mirror.

When you freeze and don’t reply, he turns and puts his hands up. 

“All jokes,” he assures. “C’mon. Let’s eat.” 

And so it goes. You sit side by side on the couch, Suguru keeping a respectful distance. You face one another and you have one leg tucked under you as you poke your fork into your goat curry, careful not to let it drop onto his suede couch.

“So, what brought you into town?” Suguru questions, dipping his naan into his tikka masala, also making a clear effort not to spill.

“Concert,” you admit between bites, covering your mouth. “I planned to drive here and back home on the same day, that’s why I didn’t think I’d need to make arrangements. Stupid shitbox.”

Suguru laughs. “Well, the shitbox brought us two lonely souls together, if only for the night, so perhaps there’s some beauty in it.”

“How poetic,” you joke. “Do you have any hobbies besides… cars?”

Suguru considers for a moment, “I like to kick kittens and slaughter entire villages.”

“Ah, I definitely sensed that,” you nod sarcastically. “Me, on the other hand, I like to do lame shit like bake and crochet.”

“You like to bake, hm?” he inquires, just as a piece of masala paste drips onto his chin.

“Yeah,” you say, not bothering to break into the sob story of how it’s like therapy for you - how you’d discovered you were good at it and now, every chance you get you’re kneading dough and playing in flour. 

Suguru hums. “You’ll have to bake me something when you’re in town again.”

Your hand suddenly comes up and you find your thumb swiping the masala paste off of his face. “Will do,” you say quietly.

Suguru freezes under your touch and side-eyes your hand, before turning to you as you quickly pull it away.

“Sorry, I’m a messy eater,” he says, grinning slyly, eyes darkened. 

You swallow thickly and clean your thumb on a napkin. “All good. Just uh, didn’t want to embarrass you.”

He smiles a bit. “Aren’t you a sweet thing?” 

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t think that means I can’t still fight.”

“We still on this kidnapping kick?” He sighs. “After I shared my sacred Indian restaurant with you and everything.”

“Sacred?” you scoff. “Do you always share your favorite restaurant with girls you meet on the side of the road?”

“Well, you’re the first girl I’ve met on the side of the road,” he corrects. “So, yes, I guess I do. I’ll have to switch it up next time.” 

You roll your eyes at his arrogance, and then decide you’re satisfied with your meal. “Alright, well I think it’s about time to turn in.” 

“Right,” he nods. “You gonna sleep in that?” His long finger extends and points to your skirt, and you stare at the digit like a brat in heat, before shaking your head.

“I don’t have a change of clothes,” you say. “Obviously.”

“I know that, monkey.” Suguru narrows his eyes at you. “I have clothes for you.”

“Right,” you grit, “and don’t call me that.”

He doesn’t answer and instead rises from the couch, gathering all of your trash and taking it to the kitchen to throw it away. He quickly washes his hands and then gestures for you to follow him down the hall.

“Your home is lovely,” you say as you walk after him, examining his hallway that bares no pictures of anyone except himself and a boy with white hair. 

“Thank you,” he says blankly, pushing open his bedroom door and saying - “Alexa, turn the light on.”

You giggle at the fact that he owns an Alexa, but don’t comment on it.

Once inside of his bedroom, he begins to paw through his dresser. The room reflects him: gold and black, skateboards and a golden helmet mounted to the wall. His bed is a dark abyss of black blankets and a tall headboard with warm white lighting behind it. It smells of eucalyptus and lotion.

“So like I said,” he clears his throat, “you can sleep in here. I’ll be on the couch.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to put you out of your own bed,” you object. 

“Well, I’m certainly not putting you on the couch,” he argues. “But if you wanna sleep with me, just say that.”

You nearly feel your body explode into tiny pieces. The heat that had been present in your chest the first time he’d taken his helmet off has returned, but you have to shake it off.

“I’ll take the bed, alone. Thank you,” you hold a hand up and roll your eyes. “Dickhead.”

Suguru doesn’t say another word, but his face has stretched into a small, devious smile as he tosses a white shirt at you, plus a pair of pink shorts with candy hearts on them.

“Why the hell do you own these?” you ask in complete surprise, noting how they still have the tag on them.

“My best friend made me buy and wear them as a dare,” he says. “But they couldn’t fit all of my curves, go figure. I’ve been saving them for a rainy day.”

“Right,” you say, not believing such a story, but you don’t want to consider the true possibility that they belong to someone else. Not, you might add, that it should matter.

“My bed is nice and clean, ready to go. Charger is on the nightstand. Towels are in the bathroom.” He walks towards you and glances down at the clothes in your hands. “And feel free to ransack my kitchen, or bake or whatever, if you get hungry. I’ll be on the couch if you need anything.”

You look up at him. At this proximity, you can see the details in his irises, smell his musk, feel the heat on his body. You realize just how cold his bed is going to be, how strange it’s going to feel sleeping alone in an unfamiliar bedroom.

“Thanks,” you say softly, pulling your eyes away from him - but you know he’s already caught you staring. 

“Goodnight,” he says, and you bid him the same before going to leave the room.

However, your foot gets caught on the plush black rug on the floor and you miss a beat - falling into him. His hand comes out immediately to stabilize you both and your body responds to his thick palm spreading out over your hip.

“Gotta be more careful, baby,” he murmurs, sliding his hand over the jean material of your skirt, allowing it to linger before separating himself from you.

You can’t even speak out of embarrassment. You aren’t sure he intended for you to hear the pet name, so it’s best you don’t comment on it. You spin on your heel and bolt out of the room, heading to the bathroom to shower.

When you return, smelling like fresh dove soap, Suguru has vanished. You see that the living room lights are off; he must already be sleeping.

When you settle into his bed, it’s a little cold, but the smell of a man and shampoo lingering all over the satin material of the sheets manages to comfort you. You don’t lock the door, you don’t even close it. You feel like you can trust him. Maybe you’re naive for it, but you don’t have much time to recant your decision before you drift off to sleep.

S. GETO

Suguru awakes later that night to faint rustling. 

His eyes pry open reluctantly, blinking away sleep as he sits up straight, his guard up. He sees the glow from the kitchen, though, and realizes it’s probably just you. He rubs his eyes to fully wake himself before glancing over at the bright digital clock on the wall. 2:20AM.

He frowns. Why would you be in the kitchen at such an ungodly hour? He doesn’t mind, he'd told you to make yourself at home, but seeing how late it is concerns him. 

He sneaks his way to the archway of the kitchen, preparing himself to accidentally startle you, but when he sees instead makes his arteries clench.

Pretty little you stands in front of the open fridge, back arched as you browse inside. The boyshorts he’d given you hug your body deliciously, accentuating the shape of your ass, and outlining your ever-so-juicy lips.

Suguru thinks back to when he’d first seen you sitting helplessly in your car. He’d of course thought you were sexy, but above that, beautiful. Your features fit you perfectly. His appreciation for your looks make his blood pump faster; this time, the blood is just pumping to the wrong place.

He continues to lean against the arch to the kitchen, cloaked in the shadows of the frame like a creep. You retreat from the fridge holding a stick of butter and navigate your way to the island - which is covered in dough and flour.

Are you really baking at 2 in the morning? 

He likes seeing you so focused, carefully dropping the stick into a bowl, mashing it with a spoon.

Then, you perk up a bit. Suguru suspects you’ve sensed his gaze when your face flushes immediately, your body freezing. Then, you glance over at him, your seductive eyes locking into him in a way that makes his chest feel you’ve just taken a grip on his heart.

He holds his breath, unsure what kind of reaction you are going to have.

"Oh, did I wake you?" you ask finally, tone slightly nervous, eyes unable to stay in one spot. 

"No," he lies, shaking his head. "I woke up to use the bathroom, but I saw the light on and wanted to..." Make sure you were okay. "Make sure I wasn't getting robbed."

You laugh. A soft melody that makes him feel obsessed and pathetic.

"You're half right," you say with an apologetic shrug. "You're definitely going to need more eggs when I'm finished." 

Suguru chuckles and peels himself from the doorway, walking towards the island where you stand with the butter wrapper in your hand. He watches your demeanor shift as you sit the wrapper on the floury surface.

"So, should I call in report of an egg thief?" Suguru teases, stopping next to you.

Your eyes take a moment to meet his. Your gaze had been lingering on his bare chest; of which he’d forgotten about. He always sleeps shirtless, but he would have put on a shirt out of respect for you, had he known you’d be up together like this. He watches your pouty lips part, and he grows desperate to read your mind.

When you finally look at his eyes, Suguru has to swallow down his primal instincts. Something about the way you look - peaked nipples poking through the thin material of his shirt, areolas slightly visible, dumbfounded expression from you not realizing how close you are to being pinned to the damn island.

"I'll buy you another carton after my car is fixed," you murmur timidly. "I have night terrors and baking always calms me down after having them. I should have asked before just using your kitchen.”

Suguru just stares when your ramble comes to a conclusion. "Sounds like you're apologizing, but there's no need for that." He leans forward, putting a hand on the island, realizing just how awfully, deliciously he towers over your frame. How easily he could overpower you. “I told you that I didn’t mind. What was your dream about?”

You seem to shut down at his question though, timidness entering your features as you turn your head from him. “It was nothing,” you answer bluntly.

Suguru knows you’re lying, but he doesn’t think it’s his place to press you more.

After a moment of awkward silence, he asks “Alright, what are you baking?”

You seem delighted that he’d asked. You reach towards the oven and pull open the door, revealing a rising pastry on the center rack.

"I made something up with what you had," you shrug. "It's a sort of berry and honey cobbler." 

Suguru’s stomach is rumbling already, combined with the pressure in his groin from the cock that threatens to slither out on its own accord. "It looks delicious, how long until it's done?" 

You glance up at the clock. "About ten minutes."

"Ah, so I caught you ransacking what was left of my groceries at the perfect time," he teases.

You grin and turn back towards the island, pulling a bowl towards you both that is filled with a red compote. To Suguru’s utter surprise you dip your finger into it, the consistency appearing to be sticky and thick.

"This is the glaze I made for it," you announce softly. "Wanna try some?" 

Suguru feels his eyelids drop. He leans forward and strands of his hair fall over his shoulders, shadowing his face to hide the way he feels himself drinking in the sight of you. He doesn’t trust himself to say more than a simple, “Sure.”

"Wait, it's kind of sticky,” you begin. “I'll grab a spoon.”

You turn to search for his drawer of silverware, but Suguru is quicker. He grabs your hand with the drizzled finger and watches as your neck snaps towards him in surprise. Your little doe eyes widen in realization, and there go your plump lips parting again - making it so incredibly easy if Suguru wanted to lean down and sink his teeth into them. 

He thinks he might have made a mistake until he sees the mirrored longing in your eyes that he senses has been in his the entire time he’s been in here with you. So it feels like the only right decision now is to course your finger to his lips.

You watch as he parts them and then slowly slides the tip of your finger into his mouth. Whether you realize it or not, you gasp, so needily, and even more so when Suguru gently sucks the honey mixture from your finger - holding eye contact all the while, silently daring you to look away.

He swirls his tongue, knowing full well he’s already finished cleaning it of the sticky mess, just to make his point extra clear. He slides it back out with a pop. 

He sees your eyes darken, in the most innocent, yet unknowingly sensual way. His mind begins to swirl with scenarios - him laying you down gently, and ghosting his lips over your naked torso to discover the kind of noises you make or contrarily; tossing you down and taking a handful of that beautiful hair, before delivering a series of the longest, hardest, sloppiest strokes you can possibly take.

"Is it... good?" you ask, your dry voice breaking his thoughts away from the blood rushing towards his pancreas. 

"Delicious," Suguru breathes out, barely recognizing his own faraway voice, "have you tried it?" 

You shake your head slightly, as if sensing his trap. “Not yet…”

"Hmm," he says aloud, dropping your hand and taking his fingers under your chin. "You’re so good at this.”

“A-Am I? I’ll have to try it before the cobbler is done,” you ramble nervously, clearly shying away from his touch, but he maintains his hold on your chin.

He doesn’t know what it is about you that has him so whipped in this short time. He feels so lost in his uncontrollable desire for you.

“I can give you a taste,” he finds himself whispering, faces just a few centimeters apart. Your body is mindlessly molding against his and he knows he’s got you.

You gasp into the small space between the two of you, and at the same perfect moment, he folds and crashes his desperate lips onto yours.

The kiss is hard and unsure at first, but it quickly softens as you surrender to his mouth. You melt into each other so easily, your breasts immediately glazing his torso and awakening chills all along his skin. He takes the closeness as a sign that it’s okay to put his hands on your sides, resting them idly atop the shorts.

Suguru can’t help but to let out a wanton grunt at the feeling of your body under his palms as he uses the pressure of his hands to rotate your positions. Now, your obedient little body is pressed between the island and his cock.

His hands slip under your thighs, which elicits a gasp from you. You break away from the kiss momentarily to stare at him as he effortlessly lifts you into the air and then plants your bottom on the island. 

You both gasp as a cloud appears, but Suguru finds himself unable to care that he’s just plopped you down into a pile of flour. He doesn’t waste any time kissing you again, but he only remains on your lips for a short time before he connects wet, sloppy kisses down your jaw - and your hands slide desperately into the roots of his hair. 

You spread your legs, inviting him to stand between, and Suguru feels his body jerk when you lock your calves into his sides. He moves his mouth back to yours and licks your lower lip, before sliding his tongue into your mouth and taking yours around it.

You clamp your teeth down on the muscle and suck on it like a little deviant - and it makes Suguru’s eyebrows furrow in sexual frustration. He needs you horribly, awfully.

He tastes the honey on your breath, sweet and dangerous, and his mind begins to cook up a disgusting idea. His fingers entangle in the shirt you wear, and the hem begins to rise over your stomach as he tugs it upwards.

“Suguru?” you mumble into his mouth, prompting him to reluctantly break the kiss.

“Mmh, do you want this?” he murmurs into your ear, loosening his grip on your shirt to prepare for the possibility that you’re going to say no. 

Instead, you mutter ‘yes’ shamelessly quick, and in a white flash the shirt is poof - disregarded. 

Suguru tries not to allow his eyes to bug out like a teenage boy who’s never seen breasts, but he feels himself failing miserably - even worse when his hands slither up to cup them, angling your nipples towards his face.

Your little body writhes, air escaping from your throat in the form of an encouraging gasp. Suguru grins and waits a moment before releasing them. The memories of his hands on your body appear in the form of powdery handprints, the both of you utterly covered in flour without a single care.

“Hmph,” you pout, and Suguru resists the urge to smack his hand across your nipple to put you in check - but there’s no telling if you’d enjoy that as much as he would. 

“Hold still f’me,” he mutters, reaching behind you for the bowl of syrupy compote. 

He feels your gaze burning into the side of his face as he pulls the bowl closer to your hips and dips his thumbs into the mixture. You can’t see this in real time as he does it, so your eyes look dumb and shocked when he brings his hands back towards your chest. 

“I like causing pain,” Suguru blurts suddenly, holding his thumbs out and aligning them with your nipples. “Can I be a little mean to you, angel?”

You swallow, nearly gulping, but with reluctance you’re nodding in agreement. 

“Words,” Suguru quips, pressing his body hard into yours to drive the message home.

“Y-Yeah,” you say and to his surprise, you add: “I also… like that kind of thing.”

“Mmm,” Suguru groans out. “Knew you were too good to be true.”

And with that, his thumbs are smearing your sweet little mix onto the buds of your chest - keeping them painfully erect as more syrup covers the areolas entirely.

You’re moaning just from his touch; he’s so impatient to hear the foul cries you’ll make when he’s clamping his teeth onto your sensitive nipples.

He sucks the remaining syrup off of each thumb, and then before you can question him, he latches his mouth onto your right nipple with desperation. 

He can feel the bumps rise on your skin from the intimacy, your perfect body arching against him as he swirls his tongue hungrily. His lips purse as he uses his tongue to suck the skin raw and clean. 

Your mouth is so dangerously close to his face, soft pants falling directly into his ear canal. He takes this as encouragement as his teeth sink into your nipple and his left hand strikes a heavy palm against your other. 

The way you jerk in response is so pathetic, Suguru nearly laughs at you. Earlier, you were so helpless and scared - you’d been pretending to be tough, and now he has you so needy and submissive that it’s comical. 

“Mmh,” you mumble into his ear, “again, please.”

Your little cunt must be so wet for him now. He wants to dip his fingers into your juice and force you to eat it, but he knows these things come one step at a time. He’s just so ready, so impatient. And he can tell you’re equally as ready.

He obeys you, just this once, smacking your breast again, his hand getting covered in the sticky compote. He breaks away from your right breast, deciding it’s time to clean off the other. 

“That feel good?” he questions, though he knows based on your furrowed eyebrows and toes subconsciously clinging to the back of his legs that it does.

“Y-yes,” you grit, tugging his hair, causing him to growl. “Why’d you stop?”

“Patience is a virtue,” Suguru mutters, blowing cool air over your sticky nipple, flicking it slightly with his tongue and smacking his lips to taste the syrup. 

“N-No,” you shake your head desperately, pleading. “Keep going.”

Suguru ponders on it, but ultimately he gives you what you want, though not without smacking your thigh harshly - making you yelp. He can’t speak with his tongue caressing the ring of your nipple so he communicates his threats for you to remember your place in the form of impactful hits. He cracks one on your abandoned right breast, and he knows it stings more because of his saliva that remains all over it. You whine in his ear and it only encourages him. 

“Harder, you say?” he questions, detaching his mouth. 

Now, his hands are coming down in rapid-fire. Crack, crack, crack. Your knees are bound to leave bruises on his hips with the way they’re digging into his skin. He’s growling now, unable to help himself. Your nipples feel so good on his tongue, and he can still taste the delicious honey mix. He wants to drizzle it all over you, make you into a writhing, sticky mess as he sucks it off.

YOUR POV.

Your cunt is pounding so badly, you can nearly feel the heat radiating off of it and landing directly on Suguru’s stomach as he sits up straight and looks down at you. His lips are wet and sticky, his hair stuck to his forehead. He looks so fucked, so hopeless. You’re equally as entranced, so caught up in his beauty, in the way his tongue feels, needing more.

You open your mouth to speak, but Suguru catches your lips with his own, and then his arms wrap around your body. He kisses you ferociously, berry and honey hot on his breath, before he takes his hand underneath your ass and lifts you effortlessly into the air. You’re forced to gasp into his mouth and he catches your sound with his tongue, encapsulating yours in it, lathering it up in his spit.

Just as Suguru begins to haul you away, the oven beeps. You groan into each other’s mouth as your heads break apart, and you lean onto his shoulder.

“Fuck, I forgot all about the cobbler,” you whisper against him. 

He makes a noise of frustration before releasing you from his grip, your legs sliding down his body. He catches you by your hips, oversized hands holding you like a fragile piece of art. You bite your lip as you hesitantly part from him, and he watches you with patience for a moment before he heads to the fridge. 

As you rip open the oven door, grab an oven mitt, and pull the pastry out with frustration, Suguru equips a cup of ice. You don’t think too much of it as you sling the pan onto the stove top before turning off the oven and nearly bolting back to Suguru, who instead of lifting you up, guides you by his free hand to the living room. 

“Do you still want to do this?” Suguru questions, pulling you in front of him, until you find yourself standing in the dark with your back to the sectional. 

There’s a small red light emitting from the corner of the room, illuminating his skin and making him look so terrifyingly beautiful. As you stand below him, you’ve decided you’d let him rip your guts apart if that’s what he requested.

“So much,” you say softly. Without any more instruction, you find yourself sinking onto the couch. “I hope you don’t think—”

“Think what?” Suguru interrupts, crouching in front of you, the ice in his cup shaking as he goes to place it down. “I have nothing negative to say about you. Besides, we’re having fun, aren’t we, pretty girl?”

Your cunt throbs at the pet name again. Your hands fly out, a little to your own surprise and land on his shoulders.

“Suguru, I…” the confession is shy on your lips for a moment, but you must let it be known. “I need you.”

“Mmm,” Suguru purrs, taking the cup of ice back into his hand, “How bad?”

“So bad,” you beg. “Please, no teasing.”

Suguru laughs at you and the noise sends another rush of adrenaline to your hole, now the material of his shorts is coated with your juices. 

“It’s a shame we don’t have more time to learn about each other,” he coos. “You would know that I’m incapable of not teasing, especially when you sound so cute asking me for what you want, and I know that I can deny you.”

“Hngh, no,” you whine. “Don’t torture me like that.”

Suguru just laughs again, and you notice now that he has removed a piece of ice from the cup. He holds it in one hand, while his free hand comes up to your bare chest, applying a small amount of pressure to push you flush against the back of the couch.

You gasp as you find yourself leaning back, then Suguru is grabbing your hips, dragging them to the edge of the couch. 

“Hm, you’re a little hot,” he observes, hand sliding up your leg and resting underneath the hem of the shorts. “I’ve gotta cool you down.”

“O-Oh?” you stutter, keeping your feet on the ground even though you fully suspect that Suguru is about to instruct you to do the opposite.

Instead, he sits up on his knees, still managing to tower over you because of how insanely long-legged he is. Your eyes watch lustfully as he pops the ice between his perfect lips and then clamps onto it with his teeth. He’s forcing you to keep your eyes on him with his own purple stare, then, his mouth reattaches to yours.

He drags the ice over your bottom lip, head moving slowly from side to side, and you shiver like a white in heat. The cold, cold ice leaves a wet trail behind as he pulls it down the side of your face, over a sensitive vein on your neck, then the outline of your collarbone.

Your back arches off of the couch, and you’re clawing desperately at his skin. He’s pretending not to notice as he’s continuing his trip down the map of your body, seeming to know it like the back of his hand even though he hardly knows you.

The ice slides over the peak of your breast agonizingly slow. Your nipples, still painfully erect, are sore from the events that had taken place moments ago - but Suguru doesn’t care.

He swirls that ice over them, even as you writhe and shake your head no, nails breaking open the skin on his trap muscles. His hair brushes your sternum, creating goosebumps, eliciting more purrs and gasps from your throat. Every part of you is responding to him, from your pulsing cunt, to your heart, to your collagen.

“Holy shit,” you whisper from above, and he grunts a little response before the ice finds your other abused nipple, teasing it softly before he applies full pressure with the melting ice, leaving your nipples sore and soaked.

You’re shivering uncontrollably now, breaths only able to come out in the form of short, quickened pants. Suguru’s showing no mercy. He’s approaching your belly button with the ice.

The ice is nearly gone, but now Suguru’s hands are sliding up underneath your squishy thighs, fingertips pressing into the flesh as he folds them up towards your face. 

You gasp as his head has quickly jumped from your stomach to the heat between your legs. He dips forward and plants an extremely fat, cold kiss to the cloth of his shorts.

“S-Suguru,” you whimper out, but he’s too busy swirling what's left of the ice over the material, nearly eating you out through the garment.  

You can’t take the torture. Your hands have fallen from his shoulders but now they’re dug into his hair like the reins on a horse, attempting to snatch him back up, but he’s so lost in his own pleasure he doesn’t budge. 

“Shut up,” he grunts, the movement of his mouth making you squirm. 

The second your body arches off of the couch, Suguru has his hands slid under the shorts and is dragging them down your legs. Without a change of underwear, you’d chosen to go commando, so the minute the shorts are off - your cunt winks him in the eye. 

You fight the urge to shy away. Even as your legs begin to close, Suguru stops you immediately, hands coming up the inside of your thighs and applying pressure to your knees.

“Be good, slut, if you want to be able to cum,” he murmurs, turning back momentarily to grab his ice again. 

You’re already shivering at the thought of the cold contact. Suguru pops a piece into his mouth and stares up at you as he moves it between his cheeks, opening his mouth and sticking out his tongue to show you the ice inside with a smirk.  

You stare down at him in awe and surprise, until he completely distracts you when the coldness of his wet mouth makes contact with your clit. Just a small brush of his lips, but it’s enough to have you begging him for more.

“Please, more,” you cry, and Suguru laughs against your cunt.

He drags the tip of the ice between your folds, the metal of his lip rings simultaneously sliding on the inside of your lips. It feels incredible, every inch of the nerves at your core being tainted and overwhelmed.

Your heels are planted flat on his shoulders, and he’s grunting like some kind of wild animal ripping apart the flesh of its prey while the squelches of your cunt respond to him whorishly. 

Suguru pops the ice back in his mouth and is now flicking your clit with his icy tongue, keeping the ice in his cheek while he works ecstasy through your bundle of nerves.

And just when you start rolling your hips in time with his tongue, he pulls away. He sucks on the ice while looking you in the eye and then, smack! His palm lands on your unsuspecting cunt and you scream.

It stings. Your clit is so sensitive from the ice already, but Suguru knows that. You know he does. Once the sting dissolves, your body begins to feel the pleasure that comes with pain.

“Hah - Suguru, fuck,” you mumble out. You’re slowly starting to have enough of the foreplay.

“Hm? What?” he questions, cocking his head like he’s got no clue what he’s doing. 

“Please,” you say, not directly asking for what you want, letting the end of your sentence hang in the air. 

Suguru fakes a yawn, “Sorry, I don’t know how to understand dumb little angels who can’t use their words.”

You frown and attempt to kick him, but he catches your foot, and at the same moment you see him swallow what was left of the ice in his mouth. 

“Tsk tsk,” he says, clicking his tongue. “Bad kitty.”

You don’t have time to squirm away before he’s sitting up, taking your body into the air, and then slamming you back down onto the couch. You lay long ways now, head resting on the corner of the sectional, and Suguru creeps over you like a panther.

His bare chest rubs your own and he dips his head into your neck, lips still freezing and glazed over with spit. He drags his mouth over your pulse, pinning your arms above your head as you try to slither from below him. 

“Say what’s on your mind,” he murmurs against your ear canal, “don’t keep secrets from me, monkey.”

“Hngh - don’t fucking call me that,” you grit, attempting to knee him in the stomach but he’s using all of his body weight to keep you down. 

You lay completely naked and helpless below him, attempting to grind your sulking cunt over the clear bulge in his pajama pants. He keeps kissing your neck, grunting softly in your ear to make you feel worse about the fact that you are restrained - and denied his cock. 

“What do you want?” he purrs, ghosting the tips of his top teeth over your jaw. “Speak up.” 

You’re a muddled, moaning mess and he knows it - but you manage to mumble out a pathetic, “Your cock, Suguru.” 

“Already? We just met,” he coos, tracing the shape of your cheek with his fingertip. 

“Shut up,” you growl at him, wishing you could grip him by his bulge to show him what it’s like to be repeatedly teased and denied. 

As if reading your mind, he releases one of your hands and quickly smacks the side of your thigh, then sinks his nails into the stinging skin to keep you from making another snotty threat. 

“Watch your tone,” he directs, and then lifts your leg so that it rests against the back of the couch. “Be a good girl and wait right here, and keep your legs open.” 

He lifts himself off of you, but not before he dips his head and spits a thick glob of glistening saliva on your cunt, walking away while the fluid slides through your folds.

You lay there in fear of punishment, unmoving, taking the time to catch your breath. 

And then, when he returns moments later, you lay there still obediently sprawled out. He’s ripping a condom wrapper open with his teeth, and his cock is sliding through his hand. 

You gasp. Despite it being mostly dark in the living room, you can see that his dick stretches nearly the length of your own forearm, all while glistening with his spit. Suguru catches your appalled face and smirks in the dark.

“Didn’t your mommy ever teach you that it’s rude to stare?” he questions, leaning over you as he rolls the condom onto his cock.

Your eyes are having a hard time prying themselves away, but you succeed when he leans down and presses a deep kiss to your lips, practically eating your mouth off of your face. He bites down on your bottom lip and grunts heavy breaths into your mouth as he finishes adjusting himself. 

You lick his lip rings like a desperate slut. Your hands remain above your head as if he’s still holding them down; you’re disgusted at just how obedient he’s made you out to be in a short time. 

Now he’s crawling over you again. But before you give him time to get settled, your mouth blurts a request. 

“Put the helmet on,” you say meekly, watching as Suguru’s pierced eyebrows knit together in surprise.

“My motorcycle helmet?” he questions, and you nod. “Wow, trying to say I’m too ugly to stare at?”

You groan and roll your eyes. “N-No, I just, um… nevermind.” You don’t want to admit how the idea of him in his helmet makes you even wetter. 

Luckily though, Suguru read your mind.

“You’re a nasty little thing, aren’t you?” he questions, and you notice how his hand slithers up to the wall, and acutely plucks the helmet off of its peg. 

“Hmph,” you shake your head. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

You tilt your chin up defiantly and watch as he slides it over his face, adjusting the strap and closing the glass visor. Now, it’s just you and your reflection staring at one another, and you can see your poor body all marked up from Suguru’s impactful slaps.

It makes your cunt throb so unbelievably fast, and you think you’ll wither away if you have to go another minute without Suguru pumping inside of you. 

“This was a great idea,” he says, voice raspier and deeper from the other side of the mask. “Now, it’s time to stretch you out, baby.”

You gulp. You aren’t sure you’ll be able to survive his cock. But you want to try. All that rumbles through your mind is getting it inside of you, of feeling the burn as it threatens to break through to your stomach. 

“Please,” you whine, “I don’t think I can take much more.”

“Hmm, I guess you’ve been good enough,” he ponders aloud, and now his two thick arms are on either side of your head. 

He’s letting your hands stay free, to your surprise, and you take advantage of it by dragging your nails down his torso. He momentarily falters, but then he’s pressing the tip of his cock to your folds - sliding it down, lathering it in your slick. Your toes curl, your knees find themselves on his hips. You stop and sink your nails into his pecs to threaten him, but he’s unmoved.

“Didn’t I tell you to be patient?” he questions, shoving his hips forward so that you feel a faint amount of pressure on your clit, and then it disappears as he pulls away.

“Ngh, how can I be patient?” you cry. “Quit being afraid to fuck me.”

“Afraid?” Suguru laughs and then his hand comes up, palm on your windpipe, fingers pressing pressure into either side of your neck. “You’re the one with fear in your eyes, little monkey. Don’t think you can handle my cock, do you?”

You frown and gasp, attempting to snap back at him, but your voice is cut off as well as your air flow. Suguru gives you no chance to fight before his hips press into you for good this time - and without even using his hands, the crown of his cock is pushing through the threshold of your cunt. 

The two of you make mirrored fucked-out noises of desire. You whine as your walls try to stretch around him, but the friction is causing it to burn. You can only attempt a gasp underneath Suguru’s death grip on your throat. 

“Mmh, so tense baby,” Suguru purrs, “relax. You can take it.”

You shake your head, or attempt to. Your hand rests on Suguru’s wrist, your fingers digging in to the bone as you attempt to let your body get used to Suguru filling you up. You stare at yourself pathetically, hopelessly in his visor. You can feel his eyes watching you take him, watching your lips part as you attempt to breathe despite him restricting your airflow. 

Your elastic walls finally start to contract, allowing Suguru to bottom out. He rests like that for just a moment, barely giving you time to swallow him up before he’s pulling his hips back and entering again. 

You moan in time with his long strokes, and he keeps his pace slow until you’ve got him completely slicked up. Now he’s moving in and out of your hole like butter, and you’re crying below him. 

“Oh, so fucking good,” he grits, dipping his head closer to you, so you’re forced to keep staring at yourself. 

His abdomen glistens as he begins to sweat. Your eyes don’t know where to look; they’re traveling over his sculpted muscles like a pervert in heat. He notices and drums his hips harder into you to throw you off - and your eyes squeeze shut as you’re overrun with pleasure. 

You secretly wish you could see the way Suguru’s face is twisted up under his helmet, but somehow, the gift of suspicion is much more thrilling. Feeling like you have no idea who’s fucking your guts up makes you even wetter. Suguru can tell, and he’s using all of your juices to his advantage. You’re dripping all over his expensive couch while neither of you find time to care.

“Agh - Suguru, please!” you shriek, knees falling closer to your chest. 

Suguru takes his hand off of your throat before tucking each hand underneath your thighs, pinning them to your chest, cockhead hitting a new and deeper angle this way. 

“Fuck, ‘m so deep,” he mumbles, hips losing their synchrony, strokes becoming sloppier and needier. “God, y’sure you have to go home tomorrow?”

“Mm-mm,” you hum, brain jumbled as he nearly begins to tap your uterus. “Gonna stay here and get fucked forever.”

“So good for me,” Suguru coos, smacking the underside of your thigh and hastening his pace. “So fucking good.”

“Hah - so deep,” you comment, attempting to use your hands to press on his chest, but it means nothing when Suguru is overpowering you with his hold on your legs. 

Your arms fall limp, and you accept defeat as your cervix gets rammed over and over and over - nasty, wet noises engulfing the air as you squeeze yourself around Suguru for his pleasure.

“Feel you pulsing,” Suguru grits, “don’t do that…”

You pretend not to hear him and keep flexing your muscles, and the veins in his cock tap against your spongey walls in response. 

“Suguru,” you pant, “Suguru, Suguru. Let me ride you.”

He hums and keeps pumping, “You want to get on top, naughty girl? Wanna make me feel good?”

“Y-Yes, please,” you beg, opening your eyes and staring in the direction of what you assume are his eyes on the other side of the helmet visor. 

“Hm, I suppose I’ll allow it,” he tuts, and before you know it, he’s sliding out of you and you’re cold and empty inside. You need him back deep inside of you, so you waste no time sitting up the minute he lets go of you. 

Suguru laughs, a piercing noise that disrupts the silence in the room. “You’re dripping all over my suede, pretty girl. Gonna be able to smell your mark, even when you’re gone.”

You roll your eyes, but can’t deny the heat in your cheeks as you slither into a standing position, switching with Suguru as he sits back on the couch and opens his arms for you. 

Your stomach lurches with butterflies at the simple, intimate gesture. You crawl onto his lap, straddling him, and his arms engulf you in a bear hug. You lean forward to align yourself with his cock, and then, you’re reaching for his length and peeling the condom right off.

Suguru’s back arches off of the couch at the overstimulating feeling - and he gasps underneath his helmet. “Mm, you want it raw?”

“Wanna feel the real thing,” you say desperately, tossing the wet condom onto the floor with your lustful brain disregarding the dangers of it. 

“A person who takes what she wants,” Suguru taps the chin of his helmet thoughtfully. “I like it.” 

You don’t answer him because you’re too busy aligning your hole with his now dry cock and slicking it back up in a mix of your juices and his precum. 

Now it’s your turn to make him writhe, and he does, his thigh muscles flexing under you - his hands breaking open the skin in your back.

Then you’re shoving him back inside of you, and it takes you no time to slide down the complete length. You lean forward, hands on his chest, moaning as you readjust to him for a second time. 

“Oh, Y/N,” Suguru chirps, “you fit me so well, don’t you?” And then he’s hitting you on your sensitive nipple again, before taking it between his index and thumb, pinching and applying painful pressure. 

“So well,” you repeat mindlessly, pussy swallowing him up to his balls, before raising your hips again in the same motion that feels pleasurable to you. 

Suguru helps you by sliding his hands to your hips, showering you in dirty praises like so tight, nasty slut, perfect for me. 

S. GETO

You feel so good, snugly wrapped around him, dripping all down his cock like a needy mess. Your face is so beautiful when it’s fucked out, as you focus on trying to take all of him. 

You’d done so good, taking all his hits and teasing, the least he can do is let you use his cock for your pleasure. And it’s his pleasure, indeed, to do so. 

He hums as he watches you from the other side of his visor, your breasts bouncing in his face, your lip snapped under your teeth. It’s everything he can do to prevent himself from filling you up with cum so soon - but you’re making it so hard. 

He’d have never guessed you’d end up like this when he’d rescued you. He’d honestly just been trying to be a polite samaritan, but he isn’t going to knock the situation the two of you have found yourselves in. 

He notices that you’ve started panting harder, your hips have gotten slower. You’re wearing down, but based on your pulsing cunt around him, you’re close.

Well, that just won’t do.

He takes his hands and goes in for your hips, trying to bite down his primal instincts when you whine pathetically in response. He takes you and lifts you up off of him, and you nearly shriek as his cock plops out of you and lands erect against his stomach. 

You stare down at him in horror, “Suguru, I was so close!” 

“I know, I’m not an amateur,” he teases, before he shoves you back down onto his cock and uses his grip on your hips to slide you up and down on it like you’re just a fucktoy. 

Your eyes roll to the whites, and you start moaning again, unable to argue with him - until he repeats the process and rips you up off of his cock again.

“Stop!” you cry out, hands flying up to his shoulders and clawing at them, as if that’ll make a difference.

Suguru smirks under his disguise and plops you back down, not even half way before he’s taking you off again.

By now, you’re catching on, but he still recognizes how close you must be to cumming.

You barely let out soft moans now, all of your noises coming out harsh and frustrated. He thinks it’s cute when you try to threaten him, or cuss at him.

“You wanna cum?” Suguru asks you, eyebrow raised, though he knows you can’t see it.

“God, please,” you beg, staring at him as hard as you can, and he knows you’re trying hard to find his eyes.

He decides to help you out when he takes the helmet off, shaking his hair free. Now he looks up at you, taking in your face without his visor in the way. You’re so desperate to be back down on his cock but he holds you at tip length, just kissing the inside of your cunt.

He takes one of his hands to your throat, but this time he’s gentle. He applies enough pressure to bring your face towards him, but not enough to cut off your air like last time. He presses a soft kiss to your lips, distracting you, making you melt and whimper.

Dumb little brat.

The minute your body softens and you’re leaning your chest against him, purring in his ear, he starts drilling his hips up harshly against your thighs. His cocktip kisses the end of your pussy and each time he hits the squishy barrier, you bite down on his earlobe.

You’re so good for him, he thinks. He has to convince you not to leave - but he knows that’s selfish. He doesn’t care, because he needs your cunt all to himself, whenever he wants it.

“You got it, pretty girl,” Suguru coos, fucking into you as mean as he can.

His arms wrap around you and you hold onto each other like you’re free falling from the sky - whining and moaning and hissing and cussing until finally, your pretty cunt pulses rapidly around him and then quenches as you begin to cum.

Suguru feels his own orgasm overcoming him and he starts to pull you off of him - but you fight back.

“I-It’s okay, you can cum inside,” you moan deviously into his earlobe, nearly unable to speak as you cum all over his cock.

Suguru shakes his head violently, though he wants to so bad - he rather glaze your skin with his nut.

“Mmh,” he hums and then overpowers you, flipping you back onto your back before he pulls his cock out of your pussy and strokes his length until it spurts his hot cum all over your belly.

You writhe and roll your hips as it lands on your skin, and Suguru pants heavily as he milks himself for all he’s got. You look so delicious underneath him again, this time slicked up with his semen.

And as if to seal an already perfect experience, you slide your finger through it and then shove it into your mouth, where you slurp it clean.

“Mm, delicious,” you mutter, “have you tried it?”

Suguru chuckles at you before leaning down to kiss you again. “So beautiful covered in my cum, you know that?”

You nod shyly and entangle your hands in his hair. “I admit, you look hot in the helmet, but your hair is too pullable to be hidden away like that.”

Suguru feels his face heat a bit but he plays it off by dipping his head downwards so that you can’t see. “You’re too sweet, gorgeous.”

You pant as a response before saying, “Why’d we do that?”

Suguru freezes. “A-are you regretting it?”

“No,” you answer quickly. “I’ve just never… hooked up with someone before.”

Suguru chuckles. “Well, pretty girl, we don’t have to call this a hookup.”

You smile up at him and then he’s tucking his arms under your back and lifting you up for what feels like the hundredth time.

It isn’t long before Suguru is carrying you to the bedroom and cleaning you off with a cool towel, applying ointment to the raw spots on your skin and serving you a cup of ice water.

He’s trying not to think about you leaving the following morning. Every time he does, his stomach begins to hurt and his chest throbs.

But for now, he has his little rider entangled in his arms like the two of you have known each other for an eternity - and he’s grateful you’ve forgotten about the cobbler you baked, because he can’t bear for you to get out of bed right now.

“How are you feeling?” he questions, noticing your breathing has slowed and you are close to sleep.

“Exhausted,” you mumble sleepily. “Pipe does that to you.”

It’s all he can do to stifle an unearthly laugh at your joke, before he pets your hair until you join each other in sleep.

—

Yall im so sorry this is probably so shitty!

This one was the most requested that’s why it’s going first - I hope it meets your expectations. :]

~ pennjammin