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cumironi · 2 days ago

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MAY MY SOUL REST IN PEACE, AMENNN f. toji

☆ sum. ever since his wife divorce him for another man, toji never was with anyone, even in having intimacy, he never had any desire to kiss, touch, even fuck anyone, until he have you on his lap, riding him in one of the stall in the club.

warning. non-sorcerer reader, toji is a mess, p sooo good he almost cries, pu$$y-drunk toji, reader having a tats piercing. rough sex, public sex (bathroom stall), unprotected vaginal sex, size kink, praise kink, dirty talk, power imbalance (older man / younger woman), age gap relationship, orgasm denial / delayed climax, handjob, cumplay (internal ejaculation, cum leaking), pu$$y worship, overstimulation, leg folding position, possessive behavior, pussy drunk characterization, public exposure risk, aftercare / caretaking, mild consensual degradation oral fixation (nipple sucking, biting), references to breeding kink (implied), swearing / explicit language.

the club was called gristle, which already told you everything you needed to know: concrete walls painted matte black and lacquered in the sweat of too many strangers, music that sounded like a blender chewing up chrome, a bar lit up like a failed attempt at divine intervention. sticky floors. bodies everywhere. it was the kind of place that made your soul itch in your ribs and your bones hum. it was hell with a cover charge and you were thriving.

you were two tequila sodas deep, blinking rhinestones stuck to your collarbones like sweat-kissed stars, and dancing like your future career depended on it. maybe it did. shoko was three drinks ahead and exactly zero inhibitions behind. she was the kind of girl who never danced to the beat of the song—just the beat of spite. the kind of sway that said fuck you, yes you, i’m smarter than you, and i’ll outdrink you too. her cigarette was tucked behind one ear. a forgotten white flag.

“gojo’s in the dj booth trying to suck off the strobe light again,” she slurred into your shoulder.

you turned just in time to see gojo doing a very illegal-looking worm across the raised platform, flanked by a gaggle of girls who looked like they were filming a live breakdown for instagram. geto was sitting on the edge of the booth, draped in his coat like a tired mob wife, nodding along to whatever existential crisis the beat was currently having.

you laughed until your mascara creased. and then.

then.

a split-second crack in the atmosphere. a slither in your peripheral. someone watching you—not in the usual way, not the club way, the predatory frat-boy way—but something heavier. older. slower. the weight of it hit you somewhere between your stomach and your spine.

you turned.

and there he was.

he looked out of place in the same way a butcher knife looks out of place in a school lunchroom. not wrong, not technically, just... deeply inappropriate. green jacket, black tank, that wide-built way of holding himself like he didn’t trust the world not to jump him at a red light. a thick scar ran down the corner of his mouth like a cruel afterthought. he had a drink in one hand, pinky ring glinting under the lazy spin of a broken disco ball, and he was sucking a tooth with a mouth made for war crimes.

next to him sat another guy—sleek, fox-faced, gold chain and a tattoo that slithered up his neck like a wine stain—but he wasn’t looking at you.

toji fushiguro was.

not like he was checking you out. not like he was undressing you with his eyes. not like a man drunk on his own age gap perversions. he was looking at you like he recognized you. like you’d been a thorn in his side in another life. like you were the sound of the trigger just before it broke.

he didn’t smile.

he didn’t look away.

and you—because you were drunk and stupid and it was the last week of finals and your body was humming from the low voltage burn of too much bass and not enough shame—you didn’t look away either.

you reached up, swiped a smear of glitter from the hollow of your throat, and licked it off your finger.

toji’s jaw flexed.

“you seeing that?” shoko asked beside you, voice dry and amused like she was watching a nature documentary and you were the gazelle about to get railed.

you didn’t answer.

because his eyes—god, his fucking eyes—they were the kind that said i haven’t had sex in years, and i will wreck you like it's penance. he looked like he hadn’t touched anyone since the divorce. like he hated that he still wanted to. like the wanting itself was its own dirty little sin.

he leaned back in the booth, legs spread obscenely wide, the kind of man who made space by taking it. his hand moved, slow, up to his mouth, dragging a thumb along his lower lip.

you felt it like a bruise blooming.

shoko snorted. “bitch, he’s gonna eat you alive.”

“maybe i wanna be eaten.”

she shoved her drink into your hand. “then go get digested.”

you turned back to him.

he was still watching. still calm. like he had all the time in the world to decide whether or not to ruin yours.

and you?

you smiled.

because sometimes, finals week ends with a degree. and sometimes it ends with a man who hasn’t touched a single soul since his wife left him looking at you like you were the last bad decision he’d ever make. but, you don’t know that yet.

the bass dropped again.

so did your common sense.

toji didn’t blink.

not when the lights strobed red-blue-red like a police raid inside your chest. not when someone spilled a drink too close to his boots. not when the fox-faced man beside him leaned in and said something—low and fast and close to his ear.

toji just nodded. lazy. like the nod was a formality. like whatever was said didn’t need his actual attention. his eyes never left you. not even for a second. he exhaled through his nose. slow. and then, with a flick of his wrist, the friend stood and left, disappearing into the crush of the crowd like he’d never been real. no goodbye, no handshake, no dap, no nothing. the seat was empty. the booth swallowed the vacancy like it was always meant for someone else.

the song changed. again. it had probably changed five times. you didn’t know. didn’t care. toji leaned back just a little further. the way a lion does when it’s already decided to pounce but wants to stretch first. his ring tapped the glass once. then he licked his bottom lip.

and that—

that was your fucking cue.

“he’s alone now,” you said to shoko, eyes still locked on his like they were glued to the roof of your own dumb horny brain. “and i just made a terrible decision in my mind that i would like to make worse in person.”

shoko didn’t even look. she just grabbed your cup and said flatly, “you go, sluts.”

“thanks, sluts.”

“godspeed, sluts.”

toji watched your approach like you were a slow car crash. like he didn’t want to stop it.

and then you were gone, cutting through the crowd like a little dumb thirsty dagger, the kind that didn’t kill, just ruined. your path to him wasn’t straight. it wobbled.

hips out of time with your legs, heartbeat too loud in your ears, glitter smudged down one cheek like a finger had already been there. every single person in the club was suddenly nothing but smoke and background static. the music, a dull throb behind the real percussion of your blood.

and when you stopped at the edge of his booth, one hand on the lip of the velvet seat, mouth parted just enough to be accused of thinking nasty things—

he tilted his head.

he looked down, slow, dragging his gaze over your body like a confession, then back up again.

he still hadn’t smiled.

he didn’t need to.

you were already fucked.

the booth was one of those deep, curved ones, made for mafia deals or the kind of drunk makeouts that ended in pregnancy scares and spiritual awakenings. the leather was the kind of cracked that whispered rumors about what had gone down here over the years—piss, blood, cum, cheap perfume, shame, maybe in that order. red vinyl, sticky in a way that suggested the cleaning crew gave up back in 2019. it curved around the edge of the room like the mouth of something hungry, all teeth and shadow and bad ideas.

toji sat dead center. like a throne. like he knew you’d come.

you hovered at the edge a second too long—long enough to register the way his thighs spread under the table, long enough to see the glass in his hand was more ice than liquor, long enough to feel the bass tremble up your calves and settle right behind your teeth. he didn’t say anything. didn’t lean forward. didn’t offer you a seat. didn’t look away.

so you climbed in.

slow. dramatic. like you’d rehearsed it. thigh first, then the swing of your leg over the lip of the booth, one hand braced on the table, the other catching the hem of your skirt as it threatened to ride too high. you slid in beside him, but not next to him. no. you gave him space. gave yourself room to breathe. gave the night a chance to hesitate. you slid in just far enough that your knee could maybe touch his if you angled wrong, just far enough that your perfume would reach him, but your intentions would still look innocent if someone were watching.

he looked at you then.

not a turn of the head. not a shift of his shoulders. just the eyes—those fucking eyes—cutting sideways like a blade, like a car mirror catching you just before it hits. they dropped again. took in your legs. your stomach. your mouth.

slowly.

like he had time. like he wasn’t planning anything. like he absolutely was. he took a sip from his glass. ice clicked against his teeth. “you here with your little boyfriend?” he asked, voice rough, deep, the kind of voice that sounded like it had gravel for breakfast and a grudge for dessert.

you blinked.

“what?”

toji tilted his chin toward the dance floor. “glitter rat in the booth. blonde. yelling at the DJ.” you glanced back. gojo was on his fourth attempt at beatboxing into a mic that wasn’t even plugged in. “jesus christ,” you muttered, then looked back at toji. “no. he’s just allergic to dignity.”

toji hummed. then his thumb brushed the condensation off the side of his glass, slow, deliberate. you watched the motion, unblinking. he tapped the glass against the table. “what about the girl? the one with the dead fish stare and a vendetta against buttons.” you grinned. “shoko? also not fucking her. though she’d be the one doing the fucking.”

“mm,” he said, not quite smiling, not quite breathing.

your knee brushed his. just barely. enough to count.

“you’re really checking out my whole friend group before you even ask my name?”

toji’s gaze flicked to you, then back to his glass. “don’t need your name,” he said. “i just wanted to make sure no one was gonna cry when i take you into the bathroom.” the air went out of you like someone had lit a match in your lungs. not subtle. not flirty. not pretending.

you swallowed. slowly.

“bold of you to assume i cry after.”

toji smirked then. not wide. not pretty. crooked. mean. like it hurt to do it. like he hadn’t done it in a while and wasn’t sure it was still worth the trouble. but it was a smile. for you. and something about it made your stomach twist like your bones were folding inward.

he reached across the table and stole your drink—no asking, no gesture, just took it from your hand like it already belonged to him—and sipped it. eyes never leaving yours.

“tequila,” he muttered. “figures.”

“and what the fuck does that mean?”

he shrugged. “means you want to do something stupid. something you can’t admit you want. something you’re gonna lie about to your friends in the morning.”

you stared at him.

and hated how right he was.

you leaned in, breath catching just slightly. “okay. and what do you want?” toji leaned back again, arm stretched across the back of the booth. his fingers—long, veined, scarred, absolutely filthy—rested behind your shoulder, not touching, just close enough to feel the heat.

he gave a lazy, brutal smile.

“i want to remember what it feels like to ruin someone.”

instead, you leaned in closer.

your throat went dry. your pulse tried to climb out of your neck.

you swallowed hard. you should’ve left. should’ve said something clever. should’ve laughed and slipped away and found someone safer to flirt with. someone your age. someone with a nice apartment and a philosophy minor.

and whispered, “bathroom’s to the left.”

he didn’t move. not yet. just gave you another look. slow. bottom to top. the kind of look that peeled layers. stripped the glitter off your skin. that set a small, sharp flame behind your belly button and said, “we’re not gonna be gentle. we’re not gonna be kind.”

toji downed the rest of his drink in one go.

and stood.

“don’t fall in love,” he said over his shoulder as he moved toward the hallway.

you followed. because it was already too fucking late.

the hallway to the bathroom was narrow, humid, and alive in the way all bad decisions are—pulsing with leftover bass, lit by flickering red neon that made everything look like it was soaked in blood and bad taste. a warped “EXIT” sign hung above the far end like a lie, like hope, like something god had given up on. the walls were sticky, painted black, smeared with the fingerprints of too many hands that didn’t belong anywhere else. you could hear the music still, like it was coming from inside your chest. or his.

toji walked ahead of you with the kind of gait that didn’t need to check behind him to know you’d follow. wide shoulders, unhurried steps, a slight roll to his hips like he was dragging the entire fucking world behind him and had made peace with it. he didn’t look back. he didn’t say anything.

and you—fucking idiot, slut in progress, full of bad glitter and worse ideas—you followed him like the devil never lied, heels sticking to the floor, chest rising and falling too fast, heat crawling up the backs of your knees like it had teeth.

you passed a couple making out against the wall, faces crushed together like starved dogs. a guy throwing up in a bucket with a girl patting his back like she loved him for it. someone crying into a mirror, mascara smeared down their cheekbones like war paint. all of it faded. all of it backdrop.

your whole body was zeroed in on him.

toji pushed open the bathroom door without ceremony. it creaked. like it had a vendetta.

the club bathroom was exactly what you expected from a place called gristle: a flickering fluorescent above the mirror, one stall door missing entirely, cracked tiles that looked like someone had lost a fight with their reflection. the floor was wet. you didn’t ask with what. the whole place smelled like bleach, piss, and someone’s regretful aftershave.

but the last stall—the farthest one, the only one with a working lock—was open.

he walked straight in.

paused.

turned halfway in the doorway, one hand braced on the chipped frame, and finally looked at you again. like a challenge. like a dare. like he wasn’t gonna pull you in. not unless you stepped forward yourself. “last chance,” he said, voice low, rough, carrying that kind of warmth that only exists inside furnaces and buried trauma. “you got about three seconds to decide whether you’re gonna regret this.”

you laughed.

it came out a little wild. a little cracked.

“bitch, i already regret it.”

and then you stepped in.

he closed the door behind you. it clicked shut like the start of a ritual.

now it was just the two of you, breathing the same stifling, chemical-washed air, shadows cast sharp and ugly across your faces by the single busted light overhead. you could see the sweat beading at his temples, the shine of it along the thick cut of his throat. you could see the scar on his lip, and the deeper one under his jaw, like someone had tried to silence him with a blade and failed. his eyes were even worse up close—mean, ancient, alive in the way fire is alive when it’s out of control. they flicked over you with slow, deliberate weight.

he didn’t touch you.

he didn’t need to.

he just looked.

and it felt like a strip search. like a dissection. like you were standing naked already, ribs cracked open, heart fluttering like it knew what was coming and wanted to hide behind your lungs. “what’s your name?” he asked suddenly, voice pitched like he didn’t care but also like he needed it for something he didn’t want to name.

you hesitated.

then said it.

he rolled it around in his mouth. didn’t repeat it, just tasted it, the way a man might taste a curse or a memory or a prayer he wasn’t allowed to say. “huh,” he said. “too pretty for the kind of shit you’re about to let me do.” you were about to shoot back something equally stupid, something unhinged, something desperate and mean and wet with anticipation—

but he took a step closer.

just one.

and it was enough to send your breath hitching and your back pressing gently against the wall of the stall like you needed to hold the whole building up. you could smell him now—cigarettes, aftershave, sweat, and something else, something feral and tired and male, the kind of scent that made you feel like a house left unlocked.

he raised a hand.

not to grab you. not yet. he just rested it on the wall beside your head, knuckles ghosting the tile, his eyes boring down into yours like he was looking through you. like he was checking for rot.

“you don’t even know how good you look right now,” he murmured, and his voice sounded wrecked—torn at the edges, too old for this, too fucked up to know better, too close to the edge.

you whispered, “then tell me.”

he laughed.

short. breathy. not nice.

“nah,” he said. “gonna show you.”

still—still—he didn’t touch you.

he let the silence wrap around the both of you like plastic, like a vacuum seal, like the breath between the lightning and the thunder. he let you feel the heat crawling up your neck, let your hands twitch at your sides like they wanted something to hold onto before the world caved in.

his eyes didn’t leave yours. not once.

and when he finally, finally leaned in, mouth brushing close enough to yours that you could feel the shape of the words more than you heard them, he said—

“say please.”

you exhaled so sharply it stuttered.

and then—

“no.”

his grin was all teeth. no mirth. no kindness. just hunger dressed up like satisfaction.

“good,” he said. “don’t beg yet.”

and he leaned back.

waited.

waited for you to break first.

and fuck—

you wanted to.

you moved without thinking. or maybe you were thinking too much—just not with the part of your brain responsible for restraint. maybe it was the tequila, or the way his voice slithered under your skin like something hot and reckless, or the way he still hadn’t touched you first, like he was trying to prove a point. you pushed him.

both hands flat against his chest, sudden, hard, more force than you meant but less than he deserved, and he let you, let you shove him back until he stumbled into the closed janitor’s closet behind him. his legs hit the lip of the metal threshold, knees bending with a grunt, and he sank down onto the makeshift seat like he wanted to be there—like he’d planned it all along.

and then his hands—fuck, those hands—were on your thighs.

rough palms, calloused fingers, thick enough to bruise without meaning to. he didn’t trail them up. didn’t tease. he gripped, greedy, dragging you forward like you were already claimed. his touch lit a fuse somewhere behind your sternum. your breath stuttered, caught, and your hips moved before your mind caught up, knees hitting the outside of his legs as you let yourself be pulled between them like gravity was a kink.

your hands landed on his shoulders to steady yourself, fingertips pressing into solid muscle wrapped in cotton and heat. you could feel it—him—beneath the thin fabric of his shirt: the thick slope of his traps, the unforgiving hardness of a man who spent too much time in fights and not enough in therapy.

“jesus,” you breathed, unthinking.

“what?”

your palms slid over the lines of him, feeling the definition like it had something to tell you, like each inch of him was a secret your hands could decode.

“you’re so fucking hot,” you muttered, half to yourself.

toji chuckled. it was low and mean and full of dirt. like he’d heard it before, but it still pleased him in that deeply male, deeply awful way.

“you climbin’ on or just gonna compliment me to death?”

you didn’t answer.

you straddled him.

slow, deliberate, dragging your knees over his thighs until your hips settled down onto his lap, the heat of him pressed tight against the inside of your thighs like a confession he didn’t have to say out loud. you wrapped your arms around his neck, trying not to moan at how fucking big he was—everything about him. wide shoulders. thick neck. those awful, perfect hands still gripping your thighs like he owned them.

your nose brushed against his jaw, and for a second, you didn’t move. didn’t kiss. didn’t speak.

you just inhaled.

his scent hit you in the teeth—spice and sweat and something darker, older, something like woodsmoke and nights without sleep. it wasn’t cologne. it was him. it made your eyes flutter shut for a second longer than you meant to.

then your lips ghosted against the side of his neck, soft, barely there, just enough to taste the salt and heat of him. “what’s your name?” you asked into his skin, voice breathless. he didn’t answer right away. you kissed his neck again, slower this time, tongue just barely tasting him. he exhaled, rough. “toji.”

you hummed like it was a meal, a warm word you could chew on. “toji,” you repeated, testing it, letting it sit on your tongue like liquor.

you kissed just under his jaw. “are you married, toji?”

he huffed. not quite a laugh.

“nah. divorced. long time ago.”

you let your lips linger at his throat, barely touching, feeling his pulse jump just under the skin. “why’d she leave?” his voice was quiet this time. bitter. real. “ran off with some other guy. wanted something better, i guess.” you pulled back a little, just enough to look at him, brushing a stray piece of hair off his forehead with one finger. he was staring at you, eyes darker now, more guarded, but not pulling away.

you tilted your head and said, low and smug and filthy-sweet, “someone’s trash is someone’s treasure, y’know.”

toji snorted. actually snorted, head tilting back slightly, a rough sound in the back of his throat like amusement had caught him off guard. his hands flexed on your thighs, thumbs digging into the meat like he needed an anchor.

“you callin’ me trash, baby?”

you grinned, lips brushing against his cheekbone.

“only if you want me to recycle you.”

his laugh this time was full—short, sharp, almost surprised. you felt it through your whole body, the vibration rolling up his chest into yours. he looked at you like you were an accident he wasn’t sure he regretted yet.

“you’re mouthy,” he muttered.

“you’re old,” you shot back.

“and yet,” his hand slid up, resting heavy against your ass, “you’re in my lap.”

you leaned in again, lips brushing against the shell of his ear.

“so what’re you gonna do about it?”

toji leaned back, just enough to look you in the eyes, a slow, deliberate smirk pulling at the scar on his lip.

“whatever the fuck i want.”

you smiled.

“good.”

your hands started moving before your mouth did—fingers trailing down the slope of his shoulder, slow and shameless, brushing over the tight fabric of his shirt, down across the sharp cut of his chest. you could feel the muscles shift beneath your palms, all dense and unforgiving, like stone that had decided to grow teeth. he wasn’t just strong. he was engineered. like god got horny once and never did it again.

you were still waiting for him to touch you properly.

but you were starting to think the waiting was the whole goddamn point.

you dragged your fingers lower, feeling every groove of him, every inch mapped like sin beneath your hands. his abs were taut, hard, ridiculous—less six-pack, more topographical map of a mountain range you wanted to get lost in. they flexed when you touched them, a subtle twitch under your fingertips like his body was reacting on its own, and it made your thighs clench around his lap.

“jesus christ,” you muttered, reverent and obscene at once. “what the fuck do you do? bench-press small cars? choke people for a living?”

toji smirked without answering. that same little twist of his mouth, one corner pulling up like it wanted to make fun of you, like it knew how dumb you sounded—like he made people talk like that just by existing. you didn’t let him speak. you pushed your palm flat against the cut of his abs, slow circles, down toward his navel, and grinned, breath hot against his jaw.

“i could literally squirt just from humping your stomach,” you said, blunt as a knife. “just grind on these things like a fucking degenerate and ruin your whole shirt.”

toji barked out a short, rough laugh—sharp enough to show teeth, mean enough to make your pulse stutter. “you’re disgusting.”

“and you’re enabling me.”

“you say that like it’s a problem.”

you let your hand drift lower still—not far enough to be a real threat yet, just enough to tease, then slid it back up again, slowly, nails dragging over the ridges of his stomach like you were mapping the way you’d ride him. your other hand stayed locked behind his neck, nails lightly scraping along the curve of his nape, anchoring you there in his lap, where you didn’t belong, where you wanted to live forever.

and then your hand found his chest again.

specifically; his nipple.

you didn’t hesitate. just caught it between your thumb and finger and gave it a little tug.

he flinched.

not big. not obvious. just a twitch—shoulders shifting under your palm, his hips tightening under yours, a low sound catching in his throat like something he hadn’t meant to make. and it lit you up. a flare of heat, sharp and fast, blooming behind your sternum like something you’d swallowed was fighting to get out.

“huh,” you said, grinning like a cat with something twitching between its teeth. “you’re sensitive.”

toji’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, slower than before. darker.

“keep talkin’ like that, baby,” he said, low and warning, “you’re gonna find out how long it’s been since someone made me come.”

your stomach flipped.

not from fear. from anticipation.

you pinched again, slower this time, more curious than cruel, watching the way his chest moved with the pressure, how his breath hitched before he swallowed it down. “i like you like this,” you murmured, leaning in again, lips brushing the underside of his jaw. “all rough and ready to break shit, but twitchy when i touch you just right.”

“nobody touches me like that.”

you kissed just below his ear.

“shame,” you said.

your voice dropped to a whisper, low and mean and sweet at once.

“i’ll fix that.”

he exhaled hard through his nose, chest rising beneath your hand. his fingers dug harder into your thighs, like he wanted to grip bone, like he wanted to see if your skin would remember him tomorrow.

“you’re not scared of me,” he muttered, almost like it was a question.

“should i be?”

his lip twitched. “probably.”

you smiled, letting your lips ghost over the sharp angle of his jaw, thumb brushing lazily across his nipple again, slower now, testing him. “then maybe i want to be a little scared.”

his hands slid higher on your thighs, thumbs pressing in slow circles, rough, patient, menacing, the kind of touch that wasn’t asking for permission—it was letting you pretend you still had a choice.

“you keep teasing like that,” he said, voice lower now, quieter, dead calm, “and i’m gonna stop being polite.” you rolled your hips forward just enough to feel him through his jeans—hot, hard, there. “you’ve been polite?” you said, eyes wide and false, mocking. “this is you being polite?”

he laughed again. slower this time. darker.

“baby,” he said, fingers curling into your skin, “you have no fucking idea.” and still—he hadn’t kissed you. not once. and it was driving you insane.

you were perched in his lap like temptation incarnate, like a sin wrapped in skin and glitter, thighs bracketing his like you were made to ride things that broke people, hands still playing soft and obscene over his chest like you didn’t know what restraint meant, like you were touching something sacred just to see if it bled.

toji hadn’t moved much. not in the obvious way. not in the way most men do when they’ve got someone straddling them, whispering filth into their jaw like a sacrament. no, he was too still, too composed, like a bomb wired too carefully to detonate early. like he wanted to wait. to build it. let it stretch. to hold onto the tension until it snapped in your mouth.

your fingers were still teasing across his chest—idling over the muscle, flicking once more over that sensitive spot just beneath his nipple, watching for the way his stomach flinched or the corners of his mouth twitched. you liked it. you loved it. how it made him twitch, how it made his hands twitch harder against your thighs like they wanted to move but were waiting for your next line, like he wanted to see just how much worse you could get.

you leaned in again, lips hovering by his throat, breath hot and unkind.

“you ever had a girl ride your abs?” you asked, voice like melted sugar poured down someone’s back—sweet, but meant to burn. “like, actually just sit on your stomach and get off like it was nothing? bet they haven’t. bet none of them could handle it.”

his breath stuttered.

“jesus,” he muttered.

“nah,” you grinned, dragging your teeth just lightly along his neck, not biting—yet—just there, a whisper of promise. “but you can call me that if it helps.” he growled. actually growled. a sound low in his chest like something cornered and annoyed it liked it.

and finally—finally—his hands left your thighs. not far, just sliding up, rough palms dragging over your skin, slow and heated and full of intent. he cupped your hips like he was trying to feel the bones underneath, thumbs pressing into the meat of you with a bruiser’s patience.

you moved against him—barely, just a roll of your hips, a shift that let your weight settle over the thick press of him under his jeans, and god, fuck, it felt obscene. it made your breath hitch and his jaw clench, and the stall felt too small for what was building, the air too thick, like you were breathing in each other’s heat, each other’s worse instincts.

you whispered, lips against the shell of his ear, “you like this?”

toji didn’t answer right away. just let his hands slide down again, gripping tighter, thumbs dipping under the hem of your skirt like they were testing your limits.

“you know how long it’s been since anyone touched me?” he said, voice low, almost flat, like he wasn’t sure why he was telling you. “since anyone looked at me without seeing a mess, a fuckin’ has-been?”

you pulled back, just a little, enough to look at him, eyes meeting his with something like interest wrapped in something darker. not pity. not sympathy. just hunger. focused and real.

“how long?” you asked softly, fingers still on his chest, dragging down again, slow and hungry. he looked past you for a second. somewhere to the side. not even seeing the busted stall wall anymore. something older, in his voice now. broken-glass honesty.

“eight years. almost nine.”

you stared.

and then, with a wicked little smile curling your lips, you whispered, “someone’s trash…”

toji’s mouth twitched.

“…is someone’s treasure,” you finished, breathless, grin wide and smug and so, so stupid.

he barked a laugh, surprised and feral.

“you really just called me trash again.”

you shrugged. “i mean. recycled goods. eco-conscious dick. saving the planet.”

“you’re fucking insane,” he said, voice pitched like he might start laughing again or snap your waistband with his teeth.

you leaned forward, pressed your forehead against his, your lips barely a breath from his. “and you’re letting me sit on your lap in a bathroom stall. so what does that make you?”

he grinned.

all teeth. all bad decisions.

“about to make the worst choice of my goddamn life.”

“good,” you breathed. “i was worried we were on different pages.”

your arms wrapped tighter around his neck, fingers curling into the hair at his nape. his hands slid back up, under your skirt now, warm palms against your ass, fingers flexing like he needed to touch you everywhere before his brain caught up.

and still.

he hadn’t kissed you.

and you were starting to go crazy with it.

your eyes met again. his were darker now. heavy. hungry.

but he waited.

he wanted you to crack first.

“fucking kiss me,” you hissed, voice wrecked.

he smirked.

“say please,” toji said again, like a fucking ritual, and this time—

this time you almost said it.

you held his stare like a dare, like you were trying to outlast a god, both of you locked in this awful, exquisite standoff of breath and blood and the terrible pressure of almost—his hands hot on your hips, your thighs burning around him, the tension between your bodies so taut it felt like it would hum if someone plucked it. and still, no kiss. not yet. like he needed one more act of worship before he let your mouths meet. like he wanted you naked before he let himself feel anything sweet.

fine. fuck it. you’d do it yourself.

you shifted in his lap, slow and deliberate, dragging your hands back from his shoulders to the hem of your top, fingers curling under the fabric like you were peeling off something sacred. you kept your eyes on his—watching the way his pupils swallowed up the green when he realized what you were doing—lifting your shirt up over your ribs, higher, higher, until the fabric slipped past your chin and you tossed it off to the side without ceremony.

no bra. piercings.

because of course not.

just bare skin and pierced nipples, glinting silver in the dirty fluorescent light like jewelry for the kind of girl who knew she wasn’t soft, who never pretended she was.

you didn’t speak.

you just sat there, half-naked in his lap in a goddamn club bathroom, chest heaving, nipples hard in the cold air, the metal rings catching the light like something dangerous, something mean, something that needed to be touched wrong to be touched right. and you watched him, watched how he breathed—just once, just sharp—and how his hands flexed like they didn’t know whether to grab your waist or punch through the stall wall.

“well, fuck me,” toji muttered, voice thick now, ruined with it. “no wonder you’ve been talking like you wanna go to hell. you’re built like you already run the place.”

you smiled, smug and filthy and lit from within.

“told you,” you whispered. “eco-conscious. sustainable. slutty.”

his mouth twitched. not a full smile—he was too gone for that now, too inside-out with the need to play it cool—but it was there. something dangerous and animal moved across his face, and then he leaned in. you thought he was finally going to kiss you. you felt it. the moment before detonation. but instead— his head dropped.

and he latched onto your nipple.

“fuck—”

your back arched like a whip, hands flying to his shoulders again, nails digging in without thinking, mouth falling open with something more breath than sound. toji sucked, slow and heavy, his tongue sliding over the barbell and pressing into the sensitive flesh around it like he wanted to make you cry. his mouth was hot, his stubble scraped, and when his teeth grazed just a little too sharp you gasped, hips rolling down into his lap like it was reflex.

his hands gripped your ass again, anchoring you, holding you down while he switched sides, mouth closing over your other nipple like he was starving and you were something he’d earned by bleeding for it. his groan vibrated through you, low and primal and filthy, and when he pulled back there was spit on your skin, cooling fast, and his face was flushed in a way that made something deep in your belly twist and spark.

“jesus christ,” he said hoarsely. “you’re unreal.”

“you’re the one with your mouth on my tits,” you shot back, voice too high, too tight, shaking a little, “don’t go blaming me now.”

“not blaming,” he muttered, still staring at your chest like he might bite again. “just... christ. you’re like a fuckin’ problem someone dared me to solve with my mouth.”

and then—finally—he moved.

his hand came up, one big palm on the side of your face, warm and rough and steady, and his thumb brushed over your cheek like he was trying to decide if you were real. your breath caught. your whole body tightened.

and then he kissed you.

hard.

not sweet, not gentle, not even patient. just full, just everything, like he was trying to make up for every minute he hadn’t touched you, every year he hadn’t been touched himself. his mouth crashed into yours with the force of someone who’d been starving for too long and had finally been thrown a pulse, all teeth and tongue and hunger, one hand cradling your head and the other gripping your ass like he wanted to fuse you to him.

you moaned into his mouth, loud and broken, grinding down against his lap because your body didn’t know what else to do, because he tasted like heat and fury and something lost, and you never wanted to stop.

“toji,” you gasped against his lips, not even knowing what you were going to say next.

he pulled back just enough to growl, “yeah?”

and you didn’t say anything.

you just kissed him again, harder, because there was no language for this anymore. just mouths. and need. and heat. and the feeling that if you weren’t careful, this man was going to leave fingerprints on your soul.

the kiss was a full-body event, not just mouths but movement, grip, heat, the wild pressure of skin-on-skin with nowhere to go and too much to say. it didn’t matter that you were half-naked in a club bathroom stall where the floor smelled like a crime scene and the walls were so thin you could hear someone vomiting two doors down—none of that mattered, because toji’s mouth was on yours like he was carving something out of you, like he was writing his name behind your teeth, and you were letting him, eagerly, shamelessly, drunk on it, high on it, completely undone.

his tongue pushed past your lips like he belonged there, slow and deep, not searching—claiming, like he’d waited a decade for a mouth that tasted this wrong and this right all at once. you moaned into it, hands tangling in his hair now, that thick, unruly mess of black you wanted to pull until he begged, your body moving without your consent, grinding against his lap like a goddamn heat-seeking missile. every movement made you more desperate, more soaked, more stupid, and the worst part was he knew it—you could feel it in the way he kissed you, like he was humoring your urgency but didn’t need to rush, because he could have you whenever he wanted.

“fuck,” he muttered against your lips, pulling back just enough to look at you—flushed, breathless, pupils blown wide like a blackout curtain had dropped behind his eyes. “look at you. look at you, fuckin’ shaking just from kissing.”

“you kiss like it’s a crime,” you gasped, but it came out half a whimper, too much pleasure in your voice to be convincing. “like—fuck—like you’re trying to make me come with your mouth alone.”

toji grinned, cocky and dangerous and filthy.

“maybe i am. you wet for me already, sweetheart?”

you didn’t answer, because your hips were doing it for you—rocking down against his jeans with so much friction you wanted to cry, the seam catching you just enough, the pressure building, and his cock so hard beneath you it felt like punishment. you were dripping, underwear soaked through, thighs shaking, and his hands weren’t helping—palms wide on your ass, rocking you down, grinding you into him like he wanted to wear you out before he even got your panties off.

“fuckin’ soaked, aren’t you?” he said, voice a rasp now, low and hot in your ear. “you’re gonna leave a mark on my fuckin’ jeans, baby. ruin me before i even get my dick out.”

“then do it,” you snapped, voice wrecked. “let me. let me ruin you.”

toji groaned, head dropping to your shoulder as he laughed, low and obscene.

“shit. listen to you. needy little brat.”

you tightened your grip on his shoulders, biting down on a gasp as he rocked you harder against him, the rhythm slow but filthy, your clit catching against the fabric with every pass, the wetness between your legs making your thighs slick where they touched his jeans.

“look at you,” he said again, voice softer now but still thick with want. “grinding like a fuckin’ bitch in heat. that what you need, baby? someone to tell you how good you are while you ride his lap in a public bathroom like a fuckin’ slut?”

“yes,” you breathed, and there was no dignity in it, no irony, just raw honesty. “yes, yes, fuck, say it again.”

he sat up straighter, one hand sliding up your back, warm and steady, the other gripping your hip tight enough to leave bruises. his lips were back on your throat now, trailing kisses—no, bites, little sharp things that made you twitch and gasp and roll your hips harder.

“you’re so good,” he growled. “so fuckin’ pretty like this. filthy little thing. bet no one’s ever let you get this messy before.”

“they haven’t,” you whispered, high and wild and broken.

“of course they haven’t,” he muttered, hand sliding between your bodies now, cupping your pussy through your soaked panties. “’cause they’re not me.”

you cried out when his fingers pressed down, through the fabric, right against your clit, and he just held them there, didn’t move yet, just the pressure of it, the presence of it, as if to say i can give you everything, but only if i want to.

“you’re shaking,” he said again, almost in awe. “look at you. fuck. look how bad you want it.”

you nodded, frantic, rolling your hips, chasing the friction.

“please,” you whispered. “please, please—”

toji leaned in, mouth on your jaw, lips dragging across your ear.

“there it is,” he said, dark and triumphant. “that’s what i wanted. beg for it, baby. you want me to make you come like this? just from grinding?”

“yes, yes—i can—i will—”

“fuckin’ right you will,” he growled. “’cause you’re perfect. you’re fuckin’ perfect, and this pussy—fuck, this pussy’s gonna soak me right through, isn’t it?”

you moaned—high and desperate and completely gone—because he was right, he was so right, and your body was already pulling taut, everything tingling, building, the whole world narrowing to the heat between your legs and the sound of his voice and the rock of your hips on his lap, friction blurring into pleasure so loud it drowned out thought.

and still—he hadn’t taken your panties off. still—he hadn’t even kissed your neck where you needed it. still—he wasn’t fucking you. not yet. because this was just the beginning. and he wanted to see how far you’d fall before he even let you come.

your cunt was throbbing. soaked through the sheer cotton of your underwear, the whole front of it stuck tight to your slit like second skin, every slow, cruel grind against the thick bulge in toji’s jeans shooting sparks up your spine, dragging friction across your clit so hot it felt like electricity, like punishment, like prayer—but no salvation was coming. not here. not yet.

toji wasn’t letting you have it easy.

no, he was watching you come apart, eyes hooded, lips parted, one hand on your ass, the other flat against the small of your back like he was holding you in place just to observe the mess you were making of yourself. and you were making a fucking mess—your hips rolling in slow, stuttering circles, breath hitching every time your clit caught just right, every time the angle hit that spot that made your vision spark at the edges. his jeans were dark with your slick now. it had soaked clean through, turned the rough denim into something humid and hot and obscene, and he hadn’t even moved.

he grinned, teeth bared, voice dragging out of his chest like it was dipped in smoke and sin.

“look at you,” he murmured, so low it didn’t sound real. “fuckin’ drooling on my lap. like you don’t even know how to behave.”

you whimpered, not even trying to deny it, not even trying to stop your hips anymore, just grinding down harder, faster, more desperate, using him like he was a thing, like a toy, and he loved it—you could tell, could feel how hard he was under you, thick and unyielding, the heat of him seeping through denim and cotton and skin like he was burning from the inside out.

“you hear that?” he whispered, mouth brushing your ear now, lips hot and damp and cruel. “you’re so wet, baby, i can hear you. hear this pretty pussy workin’ for it. tryin’ so hard to come on me like you need it.”

“i do,” you gasped, voice shaking. “i need it, toji, please—”

“i know you do,” he said, thumb dragging up your spine, slow and firm, like he was petting something wild and ready to snap. “you need it so bad you’d hump my fuckin’ abs if i let you. you’d sit on my chest like a good little toy and make yourself come.”

you whined, high-pitched and helpless, hips stuttering now, every pass over his cock sending your body into convulsions, little aftershocks building toward something brutal. your hands were shaking against his chest, nails digging in, trying to anchor yourself before your own body betrayed you.

“that’s it,” toji growled, voice thick, breath warm on your neck. “grind on me, baby. come for me. come just like this, messy little thing, fuckin’ beautiful.”

and that word—beautiful—punched through you like a nail through soft wood, splitting you open. it was too much. it broke something.

you gasped again, mouth falling open, eyes rolling back just a little, because your orgasm hit you like a freight train, fast and catastrophic and undeniable, hips jerking, thighs shaking around him as your whole body locked up, tight and twitching and slick. your clit pulsed against the rough drag of his jeans, and for a second all you could hear was static, breath and heartbeat and the hot wet sound of your soaked underwear sticking to your cunt like your body wanted to keep the memory.

“fuck,” toji groaned, voice dark and ragged, eyes glued to your face as you came. “that’s it. just like that. god damn, look at you—so good, baby. so fuckin’ good for me.”

you were barely breathing, shaking like a leaf in a storm, your whole body undone on top of him, and still, his hands held you steady, let you ride it out, let you grind through the aftershocks like he wanted to feel every single second of your ruin. his hand came up to your cheek, fingers curling around your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip as you gasped, stunned and half-feral.

“you ever come like that before?” he asked, low and smug and so, so filthy.

you shook your head, dazed.

“thought so,” he said. “’cause no one else knows what to do with a pussy like yours, baby. they don’t know how to look at you, let alone fuck you right.”

you whimpered, half-laughing, tears stinging your eyes now, overstimulated and shaking and so full of want it was making you stupid.

“you’re a fuckin’ dream,” he said, quieter now, voice warmer, almost reverent. “you know that? filthy little mouth, perfect tits, pussy that sings for me—you were made for this. for me.”

you nodded, breath catching. “say it again.”

toji smirked, eyes glinting, one hand sliding back down to your waist as he pulled you forward again.

“you were made for me.”

and god help you, you believed him.

your hands were trembling, still shaky from the wreck of that first orgasm, your thighs twitching around his lap, soaked panties clinging to your slit like a brand, like shame, like proof—and toji hadn’t even fucked you yet. he was still fully dressed, his shirt damp with sweat from where your chest had pressed against him, his jeans dark from your slick, and his cock—fuck, you could feel it, all of it—was still locked away like a weapon waiting for deployment.

and it was time. it was fucking time.

you leaned back just enough to give yourself space, your palms still braced on his chest, steadying you as your breath came hot and uneven through your nose, mouth parted, your lips still wet from kissing, from moaning, and you looked down between your bodies like it was something sacred. his belt was half-undone already, buckle hanging open from where your desperate grinding had loosened it—like even the metal couldn’t handle what was coming.

“fuck, baby,” you breathed, fingers fumbling at the leather, dragging it the rest of the way through the loops. “your cock’s been pressing into me like it’s got its own fuckin’ mind.”

toji let out a low chuckle, something dark and frayed around the edges.

“it does,” he said. “it’s been waitin’. patient. even though you’ve been bouncin’ on it like a fuckin’ toy.”

you popped the button, pulled down the zipper with a long, slow zzzzrrk that felt like it echoed in the stall, louder than the bass outside, louder than the sound of your own heart trying to punch through your ribs. your fingers dipped into the waistband of his boxers, dragging them low enough to see the top of it—veins, thick and pulsing, and just so much of him already visible before you’d even freed it. your eyes widened.

“holy shit,” you muttered.

he grinned, teeth flashing under the sick overhead light. “what?”

you didn’t answer right away. your hands moved again, both of them, pushing the waistband down further, and then—

you let him out.

his cock slapped against his lower stomach, heavy, dark and flushed, slick already at the tip, a thick drop of precum glistening like it belonged in your mouth. it was obscene—long, fat, veiny as hell, the kind of dick that looked like it needed its own leash, its own warning label, its own space. the veins ran thick up the shaft, winding under skin pulled tight like leather, like the blood barely fit inside him. his head was broad, a little darker than the rest, flushed near purple, and leaking like it was angry he hadn’t buried it yet.

you stared.

for a long second, you just stared.

then—quiet, reverent, slightly terrified—you said, “i fuckin’ knew it.”

toji raised an eyebrow, cocky, smug, delicious.

“knew what, sweetheart?”

you swallowed, one hand wrapping around the base—your fingers not meeting—and your other sliding up from the middle to the head, both hands now working together to hold him. “you’re built like a fuckin’ war crime,” you said, voice shaking somewhere between awe and horny delirium. “of course your cock’s this big. stupid big. like—jesus—i should call a priest. or a contractor. fuckin’ get structural support.”

toji moaned.

not soft. not gentle. not theatrical.

a real moan—gut-deep, choked out of him, like your words had done something, like the way your hands moved up and down his shaft, slow and reverent, was too much.

“fuck, you’re perfect,” he rasped, hips twitching once into your grip. “both hands and you still can’t hold all of me? fuckin’ look at that. look at how pretty you are, baby. jerkin’ me off like you wanna worship it.”

you grinned, dazed, breath catching as your thumbs swept over the head, spreading the precum, watching the way his abs flexed every time you touched him right. “i do wanna worship it,” you said. “fuckin’ temple-level. build a church around this dick and let me live in it.”

toji laughed again—short, loud, fucked.

“gonna make me come just from talkin’, baby,” he muttered, voice frayed and sharp. “keep goin’. keep fuckin’ sayin’ that shit.”

you stroked him harder now, slow and tight, twisting a little near the head just to hear the way he groaned, to feel the twitch in your hands.

“you know what this looks like?” you whispered, leaning close again, mouth brushing his jaw as your hand kept working. “like something that ruins girls. like something that splits ‘em open, wrecks ‘em, makes ‘em talk in tongues. you ever see a girl cry while sittin’ on your dick, toji?”

“more than once,” he said, hoarse, hips jerking again. “none of ‘em sounded as fuckin’ good as you, though. jesus—your voice, baby—gonna ruin me.”

“i wanna ruin you.”

your thumb brushed the tip again, slow and teasing.

“wanna fuckin’ sit on it till i can’t talk. ride you till my legs give out. wanna let you fuck the brat outta me.” he hissed through his teeth, hips bucking, precum now sliding slick over your hands, warm and messy.

“sayin’ all that while jerkin’ me off in a stall,” he panted, head falling back against the wall. “fuck, you’re filthy. filthy and so fuckin’ good, baby. look at you. makin’ me feel like this without even sittin’ on it yet.”

you leaned in, voice low, breath hot against his ear.

“you’re gonna fuck me with this, toji?”

“yeah,” he growled, breath hot and shaking. “gonna fuck you stupid. gonna split you open nice and slow, make you feel every inch. make you remember it for the rest of your life.”

your cunt clenched so hard your knees almost gave out.

and you were still holding his cock like it was the goddamn holy grail.

and you hadn’t even put it in yet.

your hands kept moving, steady now, smooth and slick and reverent like you’d done this a thousand times in a dream and were only now getting the holy chance to do it for real. both palms wrapped around the base of him, moving slow, tight, twisting slightly as you reached the top, thumbs spreading the precum over the flushed head, watching it glisten like something sacrilegious, like something stolen from a shrine. your fingers couldn’t meet even at the base—he was that thick, obscene, heavy in your hands like a weapon built for ruin, and fuck, you wanted to ruin yourself with it.

toji was watching you with a look that should’ve been illegal. half-lidded eyes dark as molasses, lips parted, panting through his teeth like your touch was pulling him apart vein by vein. his chest was heaving under his shirt, soaked with sweat at the collar, and his hips kept twitching just barely into your grip, like he wanted to fuck your fists but was too caught up in the sight of you doing it so willingly, so hungrily, like you loved it. like you were meant for it.

and you did. you fucking did.

you leaned down, let your mouth hover over his cock, eyes never leaving his, and spat.

a long string of it, wet and glistening, landing right on the swollen tip with a lewd little splat, mixing with the precum already smeared across the head, and your hands caught it, smeared it all over, rubbing it in with a filthy grin like you were lotioning up something that lived in hell.

toji hissed—low and feral and wrecked.

“fuck, baby—”

you giggled, soft and wicked, your voice a little hoarse now from all the moaning, but still steady enough to say the worst thing you’d been thinking since the second you saw his cock, “no offense, toji,” you said sweetly, rubbing both hands up and down his shaft, slow and tight, watching him twitch with every pass, “but your ex-wife’s a stupid cunt.”

his eyes widened a little, surprised, maybe delighted.

you kept going, dragging your fist up to just below the head and twisting it there, circling with your thumb while you talked.

“like—look at this fucking dick. are you serious?” you laughed, breathless, bouncing slightly in his lap as your strokes sped up, hot slick sounds echoing in the tiny, awful stall. “you were sittin’ on this at home, and she cheated? left you for some guy with a fuckin’ linkedin account? is she brain-dead?”

toji let out a choked laugh, a single short bark of disbelief before it collapsed into a groan, head tipping back as his hands flexed hard on your waist.

“you’re gonna kill me,” he muttered, breathless, fucked-out already. “fuckin’ mouth on you—goddamn.”

you leaned in, kissed his throat, then licked a stripe up the side of it just to feel him shudder. “i’m serious,” you whispered, licking the shell of his ear now. “if i had a dick like this at home, i’d quit my job. stop seeing my friends. stop eating solid food. i’d be on it twenty-four seven. dick-drunk. knees sore. brain empty. happy.”

he was groaning now, full-bodied, desperate, the veins on his cock standing out like corded rope, the tip leaking freely, your spit and his precum slicking your hands, dripping down his shaft onto his jeans like a signature.

you pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, still stroking, still rubbing your thumb over the head, still letting him feel how good your hands were, how attentive, like you were worshipping something carved out of divine filth.

“i’m gonna put it in now.”

toji’s eyes snapped to yours, wild and almost scared—not of you, not of the act, but of what it was going to do to him.

“you sure?” he rasped. “you’re still fuckin’—you just came once, you’re already twitchin’, baby—i’m big, you know that. i’ll fuckin’ split you open.”

you smiled, slow and sweet and full of madness.

“i want you to.”

his breath caught. his hips twitched.

“fuck,” he groaned. “you’re gonna make me blow just from that. you’re gonna make me lose my fuckin’ mind.”

you rocked forward in his lap, pressing your soaked panties against the head of his cock, and gasped, because even that—even through cotton—felt like it shouldn’t fit. like your body wasn’t made for this kind of sin. but you were going to do it anyway. you were going to take it.

you reached down, dragged the tip against your slit, up and down through your panties, slow, teasing, not slipping him in yet, just letting him feel how soaked you were, how ready, how stupid you were for him.

“feel that?” you whispered, lips brushing his. “that’s all for you. no one else’s ever made me this wet. not even close.”

toji groaned—loud, desperate, unhinged—and his hands gripped your hips like he was holding back the apocalypse.

“jesus fuckin’ christ,” he muttered.

and you smiled.

because you hadn’t even started.

you were still straddling him, thighs shaking slightly from the aftershocks of your orgasm and from the slow, throbbing ache that had taken root deep between your legs—the kind of ache that didn’t want relief, just more. the kind of ache that whispered take it, take it all, it’s supposed to hurt a little. and now, with your hands trembling where they rested against his stomach, and his cock leaking against the soaked crotch of your panties, thick and flushed and too much, you knew it wasn’t going to be simple. this wasn’t gonna be easy. this wasn’t something you could laugh through.

and still—you pushed your panties aside.

fingers hooking under the soaked elastic, dragging the thin cotton to the side, just enough to expose the wet, swollen mess between your thighs, your lips slick and shining, your hole already fluttering like it knew, like your body was trying to brace for the sheer obscenity of what you were about to force inside it.

“fuck,” toji rasped, eyes dropping like a gravitational pull to your cunt, the way it glistened, twitching right there in front of him. “jesus fucking christ. you’re dripping down your thighs.”

you laughed, high and breathless, reaching down with one hand to angle his cock upright, the other gripping his shoulder so tight your nails left little white crescents in his skin.

“you’ve been talking like you’re a curse, toji,” you whispered, guiding the thick, throbbing head to your entrance. “but i didn’t know you were a goddamn plague.”

he grinned—hungry and crooked and wild—but then his breath caught when the head pressed right up against your pussy, just resting there, the blunt heat of it right there on your soaked little opening.

and even that was too much.

you tried to push down, slowly—just your weight alone, just letting gravity and desperation carry you—and your face immediately twisted, eyes fluttering shut, mouth falling open in a gasp so choked it was almost silent. the stretch was unbearable. hot. wrong. like you were trying to take something not built for human use. like your cunt was clenching out of protest instead of pleasure.

you managed maybe half an inch before your body stopped.

“oh—oh my god,” you whined, already breathless, head tipping forward onto his shoulder. “fuck, fuck, fuck, i didn’t—i didn’t know it would be this hard—”

toji’s hands were on your hips, steadying you, holding you like you were fragile, like you were made of wet glass and sin. he let out a low, strained chuckle, but it wasn’t cruel—it was soft, disbelieving, tender in the kind of filthy way only he could be.

“yeah,” he murmured against your temple, kissing the side of your head as you shuddered, “yeah, baby, i know. it’s a lot. ‘course it’s a lot. fuckin’ told you, didn’t i? said i’d split you open.”

“you are,” you moaned, and your voice cracked near the end, tight with frustration and arousal and the aching urge to take more. “you’re huge, toji, i can’t—fuck, i’m trying—”

his lips brushed your cheekbone, hot and steady.

“you’re doin’ perfect,” he murmured, voice barely a breath. “so good for me. such a good girl. fuckin’ takin’ it, even when it hurts. fuck, you feel how tight you are? grippin’ just the tip, baby—like you don’t wanna let go.”

you whimpered, nails dragging down his chest now, trying to breathe, trying to focus, trying to push through the burn, but your eyes stung and you blinked, and then—

tears spilled.

not sobbing, not dramatic—just the sting of it, the overwhelm, the deep wanting that had nowhere to go but out. “hey,” toji said softly, tilting your face toward him, his thumb brushing the corner of your eye. “what’s this? cryin’ on my cock already?”

he kissed the tear before it could slide down your cheek, then another, his mouth gentle, reverent, filthy in the way it held you. not mocking. not laughing.

just there. with you.

“fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispered, voice hot against your skin. “you’re so pretty when you cry. so perfect when you fall apart for me. you’re takin’ me so good, sweetheart, fuck—look at you. you’re stretchin’ so fuckin’ sweet around me.”

you nodded, teeth clenched, moaning as you lowered yourself another inch, the stretch burning now, unbearable and addictive, your body split wide around the sheer girth of him, your cunt fluttering, clenching, trying to make room where there wasn’t any.

your voice cracked again.

“hurts—fuck—it hurts so good, toji—”

“that’s it,” he breathed, hips shifting just slightly, just enough to make you feel it deeper, wider, more. “that’s what i like. feelin’ you break yourself open for it. god damn, you’re made for this.”

“you keep—keep saying that,” you whimpered, tears slipping down again, dripping onto his shoulder, “like i was built for your dick.”

his grin returned—soft and sharp and filthy.

“you were. this pussy was made to take me. look how tight you are, baby—like you never needed anyone else but me.”

and slowly—inch by agonizing, glorious inch—you sank down further.

and further.

and still—he wasn’t all the way in. not yet. but you were going to take every inch. even if it killed you. especially if it killed you.

your body gave in before your mind did—hips twitching, thighs trembling, breath shuddering out of your lungs as the last brutal stretch of him finally slid in, your cunt choking around the thick base of his cock with a helpless, involuntary clench, like it didn’t want to let him go, like it didn’t know how to survive him.

you gasped—mouth wide, head tipped back, neck exposed like something sacrificial, your whole body tensed and arching, and then relaxing, melting into it, as the blunt weight of him bottomed out inside you, seat to base, thick and pulsing, plugged so deep your belly felt full, your muscles trembling around the stretch like they didn’t believe it was over.

and toji—fucking toji—just exhaled through his teeth, mouth parted in some stunned version of a smile that looked like it might unhinge him, watching your face with something close to awe.

“shit,” he murmured, low and hoarse and broken. “you fuckin’ took it.”

you whined. actually whined, because that fullness, that delicious, unbearable pressure, that raw-cored feeling of being too full and still wanting more had you dizzy and aching and grinding down on him like your body was possessed by the shape of him.

“you’re all the way in,” you whispered, voice thin and stretched out over the edge of a sob, eyes half-lidded, lips swollen. “i feel you—i feel you so fucking deep, toji—”

his hands flexed hard around your waist, dragging your hips flush to his one last time, grinding your cunt against the root of his cock, the pressure unbearable, making you gasp and shudder in his lap.

“yeah, baby,” he said, voice pure filth now, that teasing rasp that lived somewhere between worship and cruelty. “you feel that? that’s my cock in your stomach. you’re so fuckin’ tight around me, it’s like your pussy was starving.”

you moaned again, incoherent, your fingers curling in his shirt like it was the only thing tethering you to gravity.

he rocked his hips.

once.

slow.

and your whole body convulsed.

“fuck—toji—”

“easy, sweetheart,” he muttered, mouth brushing your neck, tongue flicking the sweat from your skin. “gonna take care of you. just breathe. you’re doin’ so fuckin’ good for me.”

and then he did it again.

slower this time. dragging out of you just an inch, then pushing back in, letting you feel every fucking vein, the throb of him inside your walls like a second heartbeat, like a warning.

your moans were high and shaking now, rhythmic, falling apart on each pass of his hips as he built the rhythm slow—careful, almost tender, not out of mercy but because he wanted you to feel every inch, every second, every millimeter of him splitting you open like a promise.

“you like that?” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw, hands cradling your ass now, helping you roll with him, take it better. “like bein’ split slow? like knowin’ you can barely take it, but you’re takin’ it anyway, ‘cause you’re a good fuckin’ girl?”

you nodded so fast you almost lost your balance.

“i love it—fuck, i love it, i can’t—I didn’t know it could feel this good—”

and then his rhythm shifted.

the slow grind turned to a deeper snap, hips punching up into you with just a little more power, and you wailed, your voice bouncing off the cracked tile walls of the stall, your thighs trembling around him, your breath caught in your throat.

“that’s it,” toji growled. “that’s my girl.”

you barely had time to respond—barely had time to process—before he was grabbing you, shifting your weight suddenly, and your hands shot to his shoulders in a panic.

“toji—what—?”

he didn’t answer.

he moved you.

one hand sliding under your thigh, lifting it with the ease of someone used to manhandling, the other bracing your back as he pushed your knee up—higher, higher—until it was resting on his shoulder, bent awkwardly. and then the other leg followed, and before you could blink, both of your legs were slung over his shoulders, your hips tilted back, exposed, cunt stretched wide around him at a new angle, one that made your breath catch and your vision blur.

“fuckin’ hell,” he groaned, staring down at where your bodies met, his cock glistening, half-shiny with slick, with spit, your cunt so wet it sounded indecent.

“you’re flexible, baby,” he purred, eyes glittering with smug, filthy heat. “gonna keep you folded like this all night. good fuckin’ stretch, huh? how’s that feel?”

you cried out as he thrust—deep, sudden, rough, punching the air from your lungs and making your pussy clench so tight he growled.

“toji! oh my god—”

“nah,” he grunted, smirking now, sweat slick at his brow, “just toji, baby.”

and then he started to fuck you.

no more tenderness. no more slow burn.

just pace—hard and deep and ruthless, each stroke shoving you up the stall door, the slap of your slick against his thighs filthy and fast, the sound of his cock wrecking you echoing louder than your breathless little moans, louder than the club outside, louder than the entire goddamn city.

and through it all—through the rhythm, through the overstimulation, through the fucking stretch—

you held onto him like he was the end of the world.

and maybe he was.

you didn’t know where your body ended and his began anymore—your thighs thrown over his broad shoulders, calves hanging limp behind his back, cunt stretched impossibly wide around his cock, and your spine arched into the peeling tile wall like it was the only thing holding you together. everything below your waist was pulsing. drenched. trembling. you were stuffed so full your hips had gone numb and your nerves were lit up like flares, every thrust from toji dragging a sound from you that wasn’t even human anymore. choked sobs, half-screams, shattered moans—nothing made sense but the feeling of being split open and used like your pussy had a goddamn purpose.

and toji—toji was lost in it.

his grip was iron on your hips, pulling you down onto each thrust like he needed to be deeper, like it wasn’t enough to be inside you—he wanted to live there, drown there, die there. his head was dipped low now, dark hair slicked back from sweat, jaw clenched, lips parted like he was drunk off something heavy and pure. but it wasn’t the club. it wasn’t the drink. it was you. it was your pussy, clenching around him with every rough pump, spasming with every moan he dragged out of your throat, and it was making him lose it.

he thrust again—hard, brutal, the head of his cock punching your cervix—and you screamed, nails digging into his shoulders, tears slipping down your cheeks as your legs twitched around his neck.

“f-fuck, toji—”

“shhh, baby,” he muttered, slurring the word like his mouth was broken. “shhh, fuck—you hear that?”

you were crying, gasping, mouth open and useless.

“listen.”

he slammed into you again, and this time he slowed the drag back out, watching your cunt cling to him with a slick, obscene sound that made him moan, deep and raw. “jesus christ, listen to this fuckin’ pussy,” he breathed, almost in awe. “she doesn’t wanna let go. holdin’ on like she needs me.”

you couldn’t speak.

your mouth was open but all you could do was pant and sob and clench and take it.

“so fuckin’ wet,” he groaned, eyes locked to the place where you stretched around him, watching the mess he was making of you, the glossy ring of slick around the base of his cock, the sticky strings clinging to his thighs. “she’s so greedy, baby. you feel that? your cunt wants it. she’s suckin’ me in like she never got dick before.”

you whimpered, head falling back against the wall, voice high and thin and wrecked.

“i haven’t,” you said, and it wasn’t even a lie. not really. “not like this. not—fuck, not like you.”

toji’s face twitched.

something broke behind his eyes.

“yeah?” he rasped, voice dipping into something darker. “no one ever fucked you like this before? no one ever got you cryin’ and twitchin’ and beggin’ on their cock?”

you shook your head, tears streaking down your cheeks, spit slicking your chin. “no, toji, i swear—n-no one’s ever—fuck—”

he growled, hips snapping into you again, rough and greedy, the sound of your skin slapping echoing in the filthy stall, drowning out the throb of music beyond the door.

“fuckin’ right they haven’t,” he spat. “’cause they couldn’t handle you. you needed a real man to wreck this pussy. needed someone who could fill you up proper.”

you sobbed, legs shaking, whole body shuddering under the weight of his cock, the sheer intensity of being used like that, worshipped and ruined at once. “say it,” he snarled, burying himself to the hilt again, hips grinding against you like he was branding you from the inside out. “say whose pussy this is.”

“y-yours,” you gasped, voice cracking into a high, desperate wail. “yours, toji, it’s—fuck—yours, it’s always been—”

he moaned—head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut, cock twitching inside you—and then leaned forward until his face was buried in your neck, licking at your skin like a starving man, teeth scraping over your pulse.

“god damn, baby,” he breathed, hips stuttering, pace breaking down as his body gave in. “you’re squeezin’ me so tight, you’re gonna milk me—you want that? want me to come inside this tight little hole?”

“yes—yes, please—want it—”

“i know you do,” he hissed, voice pure lust, drunk and filthy. “know you want me to fill you up, breed you stupid, fuck this pussy till she knows who she belongs to.”

you were sobbing now, clawing at his shirt, drooling down your chin, mind unraveling with every thick thrust. he didn’t stop. couldn’t. hips pumping faster now, sharper, more erratic, and his mouth was on your chest, your throat, kissing tears off your face like they were his, like your pain made him harder.

“you’re perfect,” he panted, kissing your lips—sloppy, deep, desperate. “my perfect little fucktoy. so pretty, so tight, so good for me. pussy was made for this.” and in the haze of sweat and moans and overstimulation, you felt him twitch inside you, a growl rising from deep in his chest as his thrusts turned jerky, his whole body tensing—

and you knew he was about to come.

and you wanted to feel it. wanted to break with him.

you felt him get close—too close—his rhythm stuttering for just a moment, not quite breaking, not quite giving in, but it was there, coiled tight and twitching in the way his hips bucked just a little harder, how his grip on your hips turned brutal, fingers digging deep into your flesh like he was anchoring himself to something, like if he didn’t hold on, he’d fall apart.

but he didn’t let go.

he didn’t come.

you felt it in the way his whole body tensed, trembling like a held breath, jaw clenched tight against the curve of your throat, a low, ragged growl rumbling up from his chest as he stopped, buried deep, cock throbbing inside your overstretched pussy—but he held it back, kept it leashed like an animal snapping at the edge of a cage.

and it made you insane.

you whimpered—high, desperate, aching—trying to roll your hips, to chase it, to drag him over the edge with you because your walls were clenching around him like a vice, slick and messy and soaked, milking him like your body knew what it needed.

“toji—fuck—please, why’d you stop—?” you gasped, voice breaking, face twisted with the frustration of being right there on the edge with him and feeling him deny it.

he didn’t answer at first.

just breathed through his teeth, his nose pressed to your neck, his body stiff and trembling, cock twitching inside you like it was fighting him, like it was begging to give in. “’cause if i come right now,” he finally gritted, low and dark and wrecked, “i’m not gonna stop.”

your breath hitched.

he pulled back just enough to look at you—his eyes glassy, almost glazed, jaw tight, sweat beading down his temples. his mouth was open like he’d forgotten how to breathe right. he looked completely undone. ruined. like he’d been drinking your pussy down like liquor and now he couldn’t see straight.

“i’ll break you if i let go now, baby,” he whispered, voice hoarse, shaking. “i’ll fuckin’ ruin this little cunt. you feel how close i am? feel it? i’ve never had pussy like this—never—fuck, i can’t even think.”

you moaned, clenching around him again just to feel that twitch, to feel his restraint crack another inch.

“then do it,” you whispered, licking the sweat from his jaw. “ruin it. fuckin’ break me, toji, i want it—i can take it—”

his expression twisted, something feral rising behind his eyes like a wave.

“you sayin’ that now, sweetheart,” he growled, grinding slow and deep just once, making you cry out, “but you’re already twitchin’. already drippin’ down my fuckin’ balls. this tight little pussy can barely handle one load—what’re you gonna do when i keep goin’?”

“i’ll take it,” you gasped, legs tightening around his shoulders, back arching into him like an offering. “you can come when you want—just don’t stop. please. don’t fucking stop—”

he grinned then—barely, teeth bared like something dangerous—but the pride in his eyes was molten.

“fuckin’ perfect, baby,” he whispered. “you’re my perfect little toy, aren’t you? lettin’ me stretch you like this, fold you up like it’s normal—look at these legs, fuck, look at you—you were made for this.”

and then—

he moved again.

slow at first, just the roll of his hips pulling back a few inches and pushing in deep, grinding that thick cock against the spots inside you that made you cry out and grab his shoulders like a lifeline. his eyes stayed on your face, his jaw tight, his mouth parted, and the way he watched you—hungry, worshipful, starved—it made you feel more naked than his cock ever could.

“this pussy’s got me fuckin’ high,” he said, voice rough. “you hear me? fuckin’ drunk on you. i’ve never felt anything like this—like your body’s pullin’ me in, squeezin’ like she knows me.”

you moaned—pitiful and overwhelmed—as his rhythm picked up again, deeper now, harder, dragging slick, filthy sounds out of you both as your bodies collided.

“i could fuck you for hours,” he growled, one hand sliding down to your thigh, gripping tight as he adjusted your position, pulled your hips forward even more, tilting your pelvis just to angle his cock deeper. “i will. i’ll keep you like this all fuckin’ night, split open and twitchin’, until you’re beggin’ me to come just so i’ll stop.”

you tried to speak but nothing came—just another cry, another desperate whimper as your walls fluttered again, soaked and swollen and full of him.

“hold me tighter,” he said suddenly, grabbing behind your knees and pushing your legs up higher, folding you more, pressing your knees toward your chest as he braced his weight over you. “there we go. good girl. stretch just like that—fuckin’ hell, look how deep i am.”

you felt it.

felt the new angle bury him right against something devastating, something that made your entire vision white out for a second, a sob punched out of your lungs.

“toji—fuck—fuck—”

“that’s it,” he groaned, eyes blown wide, pupils shaking. “fuckin’ take it.”

and even then—

even then—

he still didn’t come.

your body was giving out—limbs numb, hands clumsy and damp where they gripped at his sweat-slick shoulders, your nails dragging useless lines down his skin every time his cock punched that devastating spot deep inside you. your thighs burned from the stretch, knees pressed nearly to your chest, ankles hooked around his broad, brutal shoulders as he fucked you like he had something to prove, something to claim, something to bury inside you so deep you'd taste it for days.

and you were taking it. every inch. every slam. every slick, loud, brutal thrust like it was your religion.

your whole body was slick—sweat and spit and tears and the sheer, filthy mess between your thighs, soaking down your ass and his jeans and the stall floor, an unholy tangle of skin and sound and sensation, and through it all, toji kept praising you, whispering filth in your ear, kissing the tears off your cheeks while he broke you in half on his cock.

but something was shifting in him now—his pace stuttered, his thrusts grew frantic, heavier, less rhythm, more desperation, his moans falling lower in his throat, broken and guttural, each one punched out of him like his body couldn’t keep it in anymore.

his head dropped, and your foreheads met—pressed together, sweat mixing, breath shared in the half-inch of air between your open mouths. his eyes were blown wide, glassy with it, lips twitching like he was trying to speak but couldn’t get past the wrecked sound of his own need.

“baby,” he rasped, voice almost too low to hear over the wet slap of his hips against yours. “baby, i’m gonna fuckin’ come.” you whined, mouth open, panting against his lips, your legs trembling where they strained around his shoulders, the muscles twitching every time he sank all the way in.

“toji—fuck—yes, please—”

his mouth was on yours for a second—messy, open, tongues tangling with no direction—before he pulled back just enough to speak, his forehead still pressed to yours. “you on anything?” he asked, breath ragged, voice wild. “you on the pill, baby—tell me now—”

you nodded, fast and desperate, choking on your own moan as his hips slammed forward again, grinding deep.

“y-yeah—fuck—yes—i’m on it, i’m on it—”

his whole body shuddered.

“fuck,” he breathed. “fuck, baby—can i come inside you? gonna come so deep—fuckin’ fill you up—wanna feel it dripping outta you when i pull out, yeah? you gonna let me do that?”

you whimpered, incoherent, grinding against him now, desperate for it, for all of it, for everything.

“yes—yes, yes, toji—inside, please—i want it—wanna feel it—need it—”

he groaned, long and low and destroyed, his whole body tensing like he was fighting it, losing, fighting again—and then giving in completely. “fuck,” he hissed. “you’re so good, baby—so fuckin’ perfect—pussy’s fuckin’ milking me—gonna come—fuck—gonna come inside this pretty fuckin’ cunt—”

and with one final, brutal thrust—

he bottomed out, hips slammed flush to yours, cock buried to the hilt, twitching deep in your heat, and then he broke, coming with a moan so raw and wounded it sounded like worship.

you felt it.

hot and thick and endless, pulse after pulse flooding your cunt, your walls fluttering around him as your body accepted it, welcomed it, every drop, your mouth open in a silent scream, your eyes rolling back as the sheer intensity of it sent you into another trembling orgasm, clenching around him so tight he groaned, pressing his forehead harder to yours.

“fuck—fuck, take it—take it all, baby—look at you—so good—mine,” he growled, voice cracking, “this pussy’s mine now—”

and you believed him.

because you were still shaking. and he was still inside you. and you could feel his come dripping out already. and neither of you could breathe.

but you didn’t want to.

not if it meant letting him go.

he didn’t move—not at first.

toji stayed buried inside you, thick and twitching, still plugged so deep it felt like your cunt was wrapped around the center of him, not just his cock. his head rested against yours, sweat-slick and trembling, breath pouring from his mouth in heavy, broken bursts. the stall felt like it was spinning. the whole world had narrowed to the sound of your breath in sync with his, your pussy fluttering around his softening cock, the hot drip of his come already leaking from where your bodies were still connected.

but your body didn’t stop.

your body wouldn’t stop.

your cunt was clenching, aching, needing, so overstimulated it had gone full circle back into something dangerous—something desperate—your nerves sparking like shorted-out wires, slick leaking down your thighs, the insistent throb of a second orgasm so close it felt like drowning under the weight of not-quite-enough.

you whimpered—your voice soft and high and shaking—and your hips gave a helpless little grind, a roll forward, just enough to make his cock shift inside you.

that made you see stars.

“f-fuck, toji—” your voice cracked, head falling back, mouth open, thighs trembling. “i need—i didn’t—i didn’t come yet—”

that broke through his haze.

his head lifted, barely. just enough to look at you, eyes still dark and dazed but sharpening like a wolf catching the scent of blood. his jaw tightened. his mouth twisted into something that should have been a smirk but was too soft to be cocky. he brought one hand up—palm cupping your face like he needed to hold you there—and pressed his lips to your temple.

“oh, baby,” he rasped, voice torn raw from groaning your name. “you didn’t?” you shook your head, breath hitching, whining as your hips tried again, another roll, another desperate friction, his cock dragging slow inside you and making your whole body spasm.

“’s okay,” you whispered, blinking tears from your lashes. “i just—need a little more—i’m so close, toji, please—”

“shhhh, fuck,” he breathed, kissing your cheek now, your jaw, moving down to your neck, lips hot and open and reverent, “you’ve been so good for me—so perfect—’m gonna get you there, baby, don’t worry—gonna take care of you.”

his hand slid between your bodies, still slick with sweat and the mess between you, until his thumb found your clit—wet and swollen, throbbing with every faint shift of his cock inside you—and he rubbed it, slow and tight, small circles, just enough pressure to make your entire body lock up.

“oh—fuck—” you cried out, hands clawing at his shoulders, clinging to him like he was the only thing anchoring you to your body. “fuck, toji, right there—right there—”

“that’s it,” he murmured, eyes locked on your face, watching you unravel with a look of pure awe. “feel that? how sensitive you are? this pretty little cunt’s so needy, so greedy, just fuckin’ suckin’ me in, beggin’ for it. you’re gonna come for me, yeah? gonna let go?”

“yes, yes—please, don’t stop—don’t stop—”

he shifted his hips again, slow, so slow, pulling back just enough to let you feel the drag of him along your walls, then pushing back in deep, thumb never leaving your clit, just the perfect amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, your whole body wound so tight you thought your spine might snap.

“fuckin’ look at you,” he whispered, completely mesmerized. “look how beautiful you are when you’re right at the edge. tears in your eyes, pussy wrapped around me so fuckin’ tight—you were made for this, baby. made for me. you wanna come on this cock, don’t you?”

“yes—yes, toji, please, i need—”

“you wanna soak me?” he growled, hips twitching forward, thumb circling harder, your clit so sensitive now you could barely think. “wanna milk my fuckin’ cock while i’m still inside you, stuffed full’a my come? wanna squeeze every last drop out?”

“please—”

and then it hit.

your orgasm ripped through you like your whole body cracked open from the inside, a molten flood of pleasure spilling out, your legs jerking where they hung over his shoulders, your back arching so violently your vision blacked out for a second, mouth open in a silent scream. your pussy clenched hard, gripping his cock in spasms, walls fluttering around him like they were trying to hold him in forever, to wring every drop from him until your bodies fused together.

toji moaned, loud and fucked and wrecked, like your orgasm broke him—his thumb slowing just enough to let you ride the aftershocks, hips grinding forward to keep himself deep while your body milked him through it.

“that’s it,” he groaned, forehead against yours again, voice thick with pride and filth and something heavier. “fuck, you’re perfect. felt you come, baby—fuckin’ felt it—squeezin’ me so tight like your body knows who it belongs to.”

you were crying again—happy tears this time, oversensitive and overstimulated and shaking, unable to speak, unable to do anything but hold onto him while your body spasmed around him, dripping, soaked, ruined.

“you did so good,” he whispered, kissing your lips now, slow and soft, sweet and filthy. “so fuckin’ good for me. made me feel like a goddamn god.”

you laughed, weak and trembling, smiling against his mouth.

and he was still hard. still inside. still not done.

and neither were you.

your legs were still draped over his shoulders, limp now, twitching occasionally, every muscle in your body melted and buzzing with aftershock, like you’d been electrocuted and reborn inside the same wet, filthy breath. your arms were around his neck, weak and slow and unsure whether they were clinging or collapsing, and your forehead was pressed to his again—both of you panting, sweat-slick, your noses brushing with every unsteady inhale.

your eyes were shut.

your mouth was open.

and everything felt too full—too much—and yet, not nearly enough.

his cock was still inside you, thick and insistent, twitching softly, lazily, nestled as deep as it could go like it had roots, like it had decided to live there, and the slow, endless drip of his cum was already leaking out around him, sliding in warm, lazy trails down the crack of your ass, onto the fucked-sticky seat beneath you, pooling into a ruin only the two of you would remember.

and toji—toji was gone.

his hands were on your hips, not moving, just holding, and his eyes were half-lidded, glassy, dazed, wrecked. mouth slack. chest heaving. his tongue wet his bottom lip once, slow and aimless, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it, and he just stared at you like he’d been hit by a truck and liked the way it felt. no smugness now. no smirk. no edge.

he looked like a man who had just gotten possessed by pussy.

and he was struggling to recover.

“…fuck,” he finally whispered, so hoarse it was almost soundless.

you didn’t move. couldn’t.

your lashes fluttered a little but didn’t open, your mouth hanging open like you were still moaning in your head, like your brain hadn’t caught up to the fact that the orgasm was over.

but his voice pulled something from you.

“you alive?” you whispered, barely, lips brushing his.

he laughed—barely—just a quiet, hot breath through his nose.

“barely.”

you smiled, slow and heavy, head tilting to lean into the side of his face, nuzzling your nose against the damp edge of his jaw. his stubble scraped lightly across your skin, grounding you in the afterglow haze, and it made you whimper—small, involuntary—because you were still too sensitive, and his cock was still so fucking deep, and it felt like it was just there now. permanent.

“toji,” you whispered, and you felt his fingers flex on your hips at the sound of his name.

“mm?”

you finally opened your eyes, half-lidded and glossy, barely able to focus, and looked at him—really looked—and your cunt clenched again because his face was wrecked.

his hair was soaked and sticking to his forehead. sweat dripping down his temples. mouth swollen. pupils blown. cheeks flushed. and the look in his eyes—dazed, unfocused, stunned—wasn’t cocky or in control or smug like before.

he looked fucked. like he’d just gotten his soul pulled out through his dick.

you grinned.

“you okay, old man?” you whispered.

toji let out a low groan and dropped his head to your shoulder, body shaking faintly with exhausted laughter. “fuck off,” he muttered, voice thick and raspy. “you don’t get to clown me right now. not when your pussy’s got me seein’ colors.”

“you look like you just saw god,” you said, teasing, brushing your fingers through the damp hair at his nape.

he grunted against your neck. “that was god.”

he pulled back just slightly, eyes fluttering open again, still dazed but soft now, heavy-lidded and so fucking gone on the feeling of you wrapped around him.

“you don’t even get it, do you?” he muttered, eyes locked on your face like he couldn’t stop looking. “pussy this good should be illegal. should come with a fuckin’ warning label. i’m not even sure i’ll pull out if you ask me to.”

you giggled, warm and slow, breath fogging up his skin.

“good thing i’m on the pill.”

“’cause i’d knock you up just to keep this forever,” he said, and it was so low, so dead serious that it made your breath catch.

you blinked, lips parting, not quite able to speak, and he smirked again—but it was soft. less predator, more man being humbled by what he just lived through.

“look at you,” he murmured. “legs still up. pussy still suckin’ me in like she misses me even though i never left. you were made for this cock, weren’t you?”

you nodded, slow and lazy, lips brushing his again.

“mmhmm,” you hummed, smiling. “knew it the second i saw you.”

toji groaned again, a fucked-out, helpless sound, and leaned into your forehead again.

“i’m not done,” he whispered, almost like a confession.

“good,” you whispered back, pulling him down by the shirt. “don’t stop.”

and neither of you moved yet.

just stayed there.

cock still buried.

hearts hammering.

pussy still clenching.

breath shared.

and toji—still absolutely, totally, unapologetically pussy drunk.

he was the one who moved first—finally—because your legs were still draped over his shoulders, bent and trembling and sore, your knees threatening mutiny with every second they stayed folded in that brutal, gorgeous stretch. you weren’t sure if the muscles were cramping or still orgasming. both, maybe. but toji moved slow, reverent almost, hands sliding down your thighs like he wasn’t ready to let them go, like he wanted to memorize them before he let them fall.

“’m puttin’ your legs down,” he murmured, voice thick and gravel-dragged from groaning, still drunk with it, still halfway buried in that distant fucked-out haze that lived behind his eyes now. “you did so good for me. fuckin’ took it like a champ.”

you whimpered when your legs were finally lowered, a dull ache blooming in your hips, your thighs still twitching, your calves sticky and limp against his sides. you were panting again. dizzy. your cunt throbbed around him when the angle changed, his cock shifting just slightly inside you and hitting something new, some bruised-up spot that sent a fresh wave of aftershock through your spine.

toji groaned softly, and his hand immediately came to your waist, like his body was instinctively trying to soothe you. “easy, baby,” he whispered, palm sliding up and down your side. “fuck—I’ll make it up to you. swear it.”

you blinked, dazed. “…make what up?”

he snorted, pulling back just enough to brush his forehead against yours again, still so close you could feel every word against your mouth.

“comin’ first,” he said. “you deserved another round before I fucking lost it. that pussy’s too good—I got greedy. ‘m not usually like that.” you smiled, breathless, your fingers brushing the sweat-soaked collar of his shirt. “what are you gonna do, hmm? kiss it better?”

toji’s mouth curled at the edge, that cocky little smirk returning but softened now—sweetened, in the worst, most unfair way. “yeah,” he said. “kiss it. lick it. spread you open and make you come with my fuckin’ tongue till you forget what year it is.”

you made a choked little sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob, your brain too fogged up to handle that promise.

but he kept talking—of course he did. because he was still in it, still gone, still wrecked and clinging to the only thing in the world that made sense to him now: you. “nine years,” he murmured, voice lower now, less teasing. Real. “nine years with no pussy. not even a drunk one-night stand. not even fuckin’ myself half the time.”

you blinked, still catching your breath.

“jesus,” you whispered.

he nodded once, breathing hard. “but the first one I get… after all that time… is you.” he paused. looked at you. really looked. “and if I could do it all over again—go nine years with nothin’—just to feel this pussy for the first time again?”

he kissed you.

not deep. not greedy.

just a soft press of spit-slick, swollen lips to your mouth.

“i’d fucking do it.”

you stared at him, wide-eyed.

and then snorted.

because your brain couldn’t decide whether to be flattered or feral.

“you are so pussy drunk right now,” you said, laughing into his mouth. “like… you’ve got the symptoms. glazed-over stare, can’t finish a sentence without saying ‘this pussy’ like it’s a holy relic—”

“shut up,” he grinned, nose brushing yours.

“you’re gonna start writing poetry,” you said. “i can see it. ‘ode to my girl’s pussy, it cured my chronic pain and made me believe in god again—’”

he growled low in his throat, a filthy little sound that vibrated through your chest as he shifted inside you, cock still thick and hard and present, buried to the base and making you feel every twitch of his frustration.

“keep talkin’ like that and I’m gonna fuckin’ prove it,” he said. “gonna eat you out till you apologize to your pussy for disrespecting her in front of me.” you gasped, breath catching, clenching around him in instinctive anticipation.

he felt it. and smirked.

“there she is,” he murmured, rolling his hips slowly, pressing his forehead to yours again, eyes fluttering shut like he was worshipping the moment. “sweet, tight little thing. even after I filled her up, she’s still clingin’ to me like she wants more.”

you moaned, body arching weakly, still so oversensitive, and yet—

“maybe she does.”

toji’s eyes opened again, and they were darker now, brighter, something burning deep inside them that hadn’t gone out yet.

“you better not be teasing me,” he said softly.

you bit your lip. hard.

and whispered, “then make me sorry.”

and he smiled. slow. wide. unhinged.

“you’re about to be.”

the air inside the stall was dense, humid, too heavy with sex and sweat and that lazy, humming afterglow that only came when both your bodies had been used—worshipped and wrecked in equal measure. your pulse was still erratic, your breath catching on every inhale like your lungs hadn’t figured out how to restart. toji hadn’t moved much since the last thrust, still deep inside you, cock thick and heavy and leaking, his weight pressing you gently into the wall like he didn’t want to let you go just yet. the scent of him was everywhere—on your neck, in your mouth, between your legs—and you could still taste the sound of his voice in your ears, rasping mine like it was something he meant to tattoo into your bones.

eventually, though, he shifted—reluctantly—lifting his forehead from yours, eyes flicking down your body with a reverence that was almost comical given the mess between your legs. he sighed, deep and low, like a man about to walk away from his favorite crime scene.

“alright,” he muttered, finally easing his hands to your hips and taking a single step back, gently slipping out of you with a lewd, wet sound that made both of you twitch. “moment of truth. you still got legs?”

you blinked at him, dazed, and then wobbled as your feet touched the floor, knees buckling under you like a baby deer just born into a post-orgasm world.

you stumbled directly into his chest with a soft little squeak, your palms catching the damp heat of his skin through his shirt, breathless and already flushed again. toji laughed—really laughed this time, head tipping back, teeth showing, full and rich and dangerous in the way only a man freshly pussy-drunk could be.

“fuckin’ hell,” he chuckled, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you upright, “you nearly took us both out, sweetheart.” you buried your face in his shirt for a second, too embarrassed and too exhausted to do anything but exist. “it’s your fault,” you muttered into the fabric. “you fucked the sense outta me.”

he kissed the side of your head, then leaned you back just slightly and pressed your back to the grimy stall door, holding you there with a hand on your waist while he reached for himself, guiding his cock back into his boxers with a practiced roll of his wrist and a satisfied grunt.

“can’t lie,” he said while zipping up, “she didn’t wanna let me go. took a fuckin’ minute just to get out.”

you gave him a look, somewhere between exhausted and scolding, but the twitch in your lip betrayed the way your thighs clenched again at his voice. he just smirked and hooked his belt back into place, slow and casual like he hadn’t just been balls-deep in you a minute ago.

then he crouched down to grab your shirt from the floor—rumpled, half-dried with sweat, glitter, and maybe a little bit of toji’s spit—and shook it out once before straightening up again, holding it like a gentleman with a gift.

“c’mon, arms up,” he murmured, voice suddenly softer again.

you obeyed without thinking, letting him help you dress like your brain had short-circuited, like you’d handed him the keys to your limbs and were trusting him not to drive you off a cliff. he slid the shirt over your head with practiced ease, tugged it gently down your arms, and just when you thought he was done—when his hands slid past your ribs and down your sides like he was adjusting it—

he bent down and sucked your nipple into his mouth.

you gasped, stumbling back against the door, breath catching in your throat as the sudden wet heat of his tongue flicked over the piercing again, lips wrapping around the cool metal and tugging just slightly.

“toji—”

he groaned low in his chest, then released it with a wet pop, lips brushing over the sensitive skin of your breast before finally tugging your shirt down into place with both hands.

“couldn’t help it,” he said, eyes wicked but half-lidded, dragging over you like a man who already wanted to go back in. “they’re too pretty not to taste again.” you didn’t respond—couldn’t. your brain had short-circuited again, reduced to white noise and heartbeat.

he fixed your hair next. carefully, absurdly gently, fingers brushing back stray strands from your face, pushing it behind your ears like he hadn’t just had you folded in half thirty seconds ago. then he loomed over you, big and warm and grinning like the devil who knew you’d come if he asked again.

“you wanna come back to my place?” he asked, voice low and smooth now. “give your legs a real break. i’ll apologize to your pussy proper for comin’ first. i got a mouth and a lot of guilt.” you let out a weak laugh—giddy and limp and already leaning forward like you might melt if he kissed you again.

“what, you’re feeling guilty now?”

“i’m tryin’ to be a gentleman,” he said, mock-serious. “not every day i meet someone who makes me forget my name and the year.” you raised an eyebrow. “that’s the bar?” he leaned in close again, mouth hovering just beside your ear, breath warm and so fucking good. “no, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice like a knife made of velvet. “you’re the bar now.”

you shivered.

he pulled back just enough to smile again, then glanced toward the door.

“you wanna text your friends? let ‘em know you’re leavin’ with a total stranger?”

“they’ve got my bag,” you said, still dazed, still trying to remember what reality felt like. “they’ll figure it out.”

he stared at you for a second.

then grinned.

“god damn,” he muttered. “you’re perfect.”

and then—toji fushiguro, pussy-drunk, sweat-drenched, still twitching in his jeans with the memory of your cunt—opened the stall door, it creaked open like it, too, had been through something shameful and held it for you, like a man escorting a queen out of her ruined cathedral. the hallway air hit you—cooler, thinner, laced with basslines and spilled drinks and someone screaming off-key to early 2000s pop—and you stepped into it like a newborn deer in heels, thighs slick, hair a little fucked, your shirt tugged low over your hips to hide the fact that your panties were somewhere between ruined and irrelevant.

toji stood beside you, towering and casual, like he hadn’t just rearranged your insides and kissed your nipple before helping you get dressed. his belt was buckled, his shirt clinging damply to his chest, collar pulled slightly off-center from your earlier tugging. his neck was flushed, jaw stubbled, and there were still fresh bite marks trailing along the line of his throat—yours. ownership drawn in tooth and heat.

your heart jumped sideways in your chest. your knees tried to wobble again.

and he felt it.

“there she goes,” he teased, his mouth brushing your temple now, his voice still dipped in that slow-dripping, pussy-drunk molasses tone that made your stomach twist in the most incredible way. “thought I fucked the wobble outta your legs already. guess I gotta go harder next time.”

“if you go harder, I’ll die,” you replied, still grinning, voice raw but teasing, biting down the ridiculous urge to giggle like a schoolgirl on prom night.

toji pulled you closer. you barely reached the height of his shoulder like this, his arm heavy and protective and possessive across your back, his hand idly tracing lazy circles on your side as you walked with him—slow, casual, like he wasn’t still inside you in spirit.

“what a way to go,” he murmured. “split open, stuffed full’a cum, legs over my shoulders while you cry on my cock. shit, if there’s a better death I don’t know it.”

you snorted. “you’re awful.”

“and you’re gorgeous,” he shot back, leaning down to kiss just behind your ear, sending another aftershock rolling through your already wrecked nerves. “tightest pussy I ever felt, baby. no contest. softest moans, sweetest little body—like you were built to break.”

your cheeks burned. your cunt clenched. again.

“you’re obsessed,” you whispered, playful and shaky, tipping your head back to look up at him. “pussy-drunk old man.”

he grinned at that—wide and unrepentant, all teeth and mischief and post-fuck swagger. “damn right. I’ve been starving for nine fuckin’ years and someone just fed me filet mignon soaked in honey. you think I’m gonna be normal after this?”

you laughed, biting your lip, feeling the slow drag of slick between your thighs every time you moved.

he was still talking.

still praising you.

like your pussy had rewired his brain.

“you don’t get it,” he murmured, pressing his mouth to your temple again. “you ruined me. no way I’m goin’ back to jerkin’ off like some lonely divorced fuck with ESPN in the background. I’m gonna be thinkin’ about you next time I close my eyes. about the way you opened up for me. about how you looked when you cried on my cock.”

you whimpered.

out loud.

right there in the hallway.

and toji just chuckled, kissed the corner of your mouth, then pulled you tighter under his arm like he wanted to wear you. “c’mon,” he whispered against your cheek, “let’s get the fuck outta here before I get hard again and we wind up in the janitor’s closet.”

you glanced sideways at him, lips curled up in that smug, fucked-out smirk you couldn’t seem to wipe off your face, and said softly, under your breath—

“may your soul rest in peace.”

he didn’t miss a beat.

“amen,” he muttered with a low snort, before slipping his thick, warm arm around your back, hand resting just above the curve of your ass like he belonged there, like he wanted everyone in this hallway to know that he’d just had you up against a stall door with your legs on his shoulders, crying out his name.

then, like the audacious bastard he was, he leaned in and kissed your cheek. not quick. not pecked. pressed—lingering, hot, lips slightly open, the kind of kiss that said this isn’t over, that said you’re mine now, that said you’re not getting out of my bed without a limp and at least two orgasms on your record.

you didn’t argue after.

you followed.

and you never looked back.

#jjk x reader #toji x reader #toji smut #jujutsu kaisen imagine #jjk smut #jjk x reader smut #fushiguro toji x reader #toji fushiguro smut #toji x y/n #toji x you #toji x reader smut #jjk fic #toji fushiguro #toji x you smut

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jiwuu · 3 months ago

Text

꒰ 𑄽୧ ꒱ 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 you steal niki's famously baggy clothes

0.5k── fmr x nsh niki, est. relationship, fluff

Niki is lying on his bed, scrolling through his phone when he hears the door to his room creak open. He barely looks up at first until he sees what you’re wearing.

His hoodie. His baggy jeans. His Chrome Hearts necklace resting against your collarbone.

His brows furrow as he takes you in, his phone lowering slightly. “Wait… is that—?” He pauses, eyes narrowing as he notices how ridiculously loose the jeans are on you. The waistband is folded over slightly, barely hanging onto your hips. And then, just above the denim—

He sees it.

The waistband of his boxers peeking out.

Niki chokes. “Are you serious?” He pushes himself up on his elbows, eyes wide as he points at your waist. “You stole my boxers too?”

You shrug nonchalantly, spinning slightly to show just how oversized everything is on you. “What? They’re comfy.”

Niki groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You can’t just take my whole wardrobe like that!”

“Oh, but I can.” You flash him a grin before plopping down onto his bed beside him, adjusting the sleeves that hang past your hands. “I think I pull it off pretty well.”

Niki’s jaw tightens as he stares at you, looking way too good in his clothes, his jewelry, and now—his freaking boxers. He sits up fully, reaching for the chain around your neck, tugging you closer by it. “At least give me back one thing,”

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “Or what?”

His lips twitch. His grip on the chain tightens slightly, his eyes flickering between yours and your lips. “Or I’ll just take something of yours instead.”

You smirk, pulling back just slightly. “Well, I was actually about to go out like this. I think it’s a fit.”

Niki’s face drops. “No you’re not.”

You blink. “Uh, yes I am?”

“No you’re not.” His voice is firm as he gestures toward your waist. “Everyone will see our boxers.”

“Relax, it’s just the waistband.”

“I don’t care.” He grabs the hem of his hoodie on you, tugging it down as if that’ll fix anything. “You’re not going out like that.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what exactly are you gonna do about it?”

Niki doesn’t even hesitate. In one swift movement, he’s wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you backward onto the bed, rolling onto his side to trap you under his arm. “Guess you’re staying in,” he says smugly, voice right by your ear.

You squirm, half laughing, half annoyed. “Niki, let me go—”

“Nope.” He tightens his hold, pressing his cheek against your shoulder. “Not unless you change.”

You huff, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips. “Possessive much?”

“Damn right.” He doesn’t even deny it, smirking against your hoodie. “Now, stay here. Forever preferably.”

letters from author ୨୧ late post pls no flopers

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goyardgoyangi · 3 months ago

Text

minecraft meal with street racer! sukuna

in honor of the new minecraft movie!

part one <3

The night air is cool against your overheated skin. You're still lying back on the hood of his car, spine sticky with sweat against the metal, your limbs too heavy to move.

Your legs hang over the edge, knees bent loosely, and the stars above blur whenever you try to focus on them. You feel boneless and dazed, like every thought has been wrung out of you. The only sound that could be heard was the soft rhythm of your breathing, shaky and uneven, as if even that takes effort now.

You turn your head to the side to blink up at him slowly, your gaze unfocused, lashes still wet with tears you didn’t remember crying. You're too tired to speak, too tired to think, but some part of you feels… weightless. Hollowed out.

Sukuna hasn't said much. He's still standing beside the car, zipping his pants up with a slow, casual motion, like the entire world isn’t spinning beneath you. Like he didn’t just tear you apart and leave you trembling on the hood of his own damn car like you were his to ruin.

Maybe you are.

Sukuna's eyes roam your body, taking in the faint marks blooming across your skin—your neck, your hips, your waist. The places where his grip had been too tight, where his mouth had lingered too long. He sees every bruise like a signature.

"You good?" he asks finally, voice a little quieter than you expect. Almost casual. But there's something in the way he says it—low, careful, like he's still reading you.

You sit up slowly, arms trembling a bit as you push yourself upright. He watches you, unmoving. His eyes trail down the mess he made of you—your swollen lips, your flushed chest, the curve of your bare thighs against the dark chrome. His shirt is still on you, half hanging off your shoulders. You must look like a disaster.

"Yeah," you mutter, blinking down at your lap. "I’m fine."

He tosses a hoodie at you from the back seat through the open window. You catch it clumsily and glance at him.

“Put that on before you catch something. You gotta take care of yourself,” he says, turning and walking around to the driver’s side.

You slip it on without arguing.

The drive back is silent, but not uncomfortable. His hand stays on the gearshift, not touching you. But at a red light, he glances over. You feel his gaze before you see it.

"You want food?" he asks, like it's nothing. Like he didn’t just wreck your body and now wants to grab takeout.

You blink at him, lips twitching. “Are you sure?”

He shrugs. “You look like you need it.”

You pull his hoodie tighter around you, the sleeves too long, the scent of him wrapped around your shoulders. You sink lower in the seat, knees drawn up just enough to feel safe and tucked away.

You hesitate. “Can we get McDonald’s?”

He quirks a brow. “After all that, you want a sad little cheeseburger?”

You pause. “...I want the Minecraft meal.”

There’s a beat of silence. He huffs out a laugh. “You’re serious.”

You nod, a little sheepishly. “It’s got nuggets and the creeper toy. It’s really cute.”

He stares at you for a second, like he’s trying to figure out if this is some kind of post-hookup fever dream. Then he snorts, shaking his head.

“Yeah, that tracks. I fuck you and you ask me for a Happy Meal with pixels on it.”

You flinch, just barely. It’s nothing—barely even a change in your expression—but he notices. He always notices.

Sukuna’s smirk falters.

You pull the sleeves over your hands, mumbling, “I just… used to play Minecraft a lot growing up. So… I guess it’s kind of comforting. I’m not trying to be stupid, I just—”

“Stop.” His voice cuts through gently, not sharp, but final.

You glance at him.

“I’m not judging you,” he mutters. “It’s just… dumb in a cute way.”

You blink. “Did you just call me cute?”

“I said the meal was dumb in a cute way.” He turns into a McDonald’s parking lot, deliberately avoiding your gaze. “Don’t push it.”

You smile anyway.

He rolls down the window at the drive-thru speaker and grumbles, “Yeah, gimme the Minecraft thing—nuggets, I guess. And a diet coke. You want the apples or the fries?”

“Fries.”

“Of course,” he mutters under his breath.

You watch him place the order and pay, leaning your cheek against the window, smiling quietly to yourself. You don’t care if he doesn’t get it. You’re warm, full of adrenaline and exhaustion and a weird sense of peace.

He hands you the box as soon as the bag comes through the window. You hold it like something sacred, tracing the pixelated creeper on the side.

Sukuna looks at you, just for a second.

“You’re a weird one,” he says.

You glance over, eyes still half-glazed, skin still marked from earlier.

“Yeah,” you say softly, picking up a nugget. “But you let me have it anyway.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. Just shifts the car into drive and merges back onto the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting—casually, possessively—on your thigh.

Sukuna pulls into a quiet overlook just off the highway. It’s nothing special—just a little clearing with a wide view of the city lights below, but it’s quiet and private, and that’s enough.

He cuts the engine. The sudden silence makes the world feel still. Just the ticking of the cooling engine, the rustle of a paper bag, and the occasional crackle of a distant streetlamp buzzing.

You’re still holding your Minecraft box like it’s some rare treasure, legs tucked up on the passenger seat. Sukuna hasn’t said anything in a while, but he hasn't stopped glancing at you every now and then, as if expecting you to suddenly vanish.

You offer him a fry without looking, and he takes it wordlessly, chewing like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You ever play?” you ask softly, breaking the silence. “Minecraft?”

He shrugs. “Tried it once. Got blown up by one of those green freaks in like ten minutes.”

You giggle around a sip of Coke. “Creepers. Yeah, they’re the worst. I used to be so scared of them.”

“Whole game’s weird. You punch trees to make a house.”

“That’s part of the charm,” you say, smiling.

He glances at you again, then back at the city below. His voice is lower now, thoughtful. “You really liked it, huh?”

You nod. “It was... cozy. Predictable. Peaceful, sometimes. I used to play it with headphones on so I couldn’t hear my parents fighting.”

That makes him go still for a second.

You don't offer anything else. You just keep eating your fries, soft and content now, like the weight of earlier has faded into something that doesn't need to be spoken out loud anymore.

Your head is resting on Sukuna’s shoulder, the Minecraft box now empty and squished between your knees. His hoodie smells like him—clean laundry, engine grease, and something faintly like spicy cinnamon gum. He hasn’t moved much, save for shifting slightly so your head fits better.

You speak first again, voice muffled in the fabric of his hoodie.

“Did you have anything like that? Growing up, I mean. Like, your version of Minecraft?”

He’s quiet for a moment, thinking back on his childhood.

“Yeah. Street Fighter II.”

You lift your head to look at him, surprised. “You played that?”

“I dominated that,” he says smugly, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Used to go to this janky arcade near my apartment. Spent hours there. The guy running the place would let me stay late ‘cause I helped him fix one of the machines once.”

“That’s kind of adorable,” you say, grinning. “You, a little gremlin kid, throwing hands with a joystick.”

Sukuna scoffs. “I wasn’t little.”

“You were twelve,” you snicker.

“I was a menace,” he corrects.

You’re both laughing now—light, easy laughter that makes your stomach ache in the best way.

He nudges you gently with his shoulder.

“Did you always think you’d end up like this?”

You blink. “Like what?”

“With me.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you reach for another fry at the bottom of the bag, nibbling thoughtfully. He watches you, and it’s not teasing anymore—it’s just curious.

“No,” you say, voice quiet. “I didn’t think anyone would really… stay. Especially someone like you.”

“Someone like me, huh?”

You shrug. “Cool. Confident. Kind of mean.”

He chuckles, the sound vibrating under your ear.

“Don’t forget seriously attractive.”

You hum. “That too.”

He stretches his legs a little, cracking his knuckles against the steering wheel.

“Well,” he says, like it’s a casual statement, “my girlfriend can’t be dating someone uncool, right?”

Your heart stutters. You tilt your head just enough to glance up at him.

“That’s what I am?” you ask, lips twitching.

He doesn’t look at you, just fiddles with the AUX cord. “You ate a Minecraft nugget box in my hoodie after I railed you on my car. I think we passed the ‘just friends’ threshold.”

Your face warms. But you don’t correct him. You don’t pull away. Instead, you burrow back into his hoodie, pulling your knees to your chest, feeling… oddly safe. He doesn’t say anything. Just threads his fingers through yours and holds your hand like it’s something precious.

The fries are cold, the air outside is crisp, and you’re both sore and sleepy and messy—but in this tiny pocket of time, sitting in a parked car above the city, it feels like nothing else in the world matters.

And you really hope it stays that way.

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bybobbysbeard · 1 month ago

Note

For the kiss ask:

Bucktommy and 10. …desperately.

Dani, my dear. It’s been a literal month. Sorry. Nevertheless, here you go.

The kiss meme: "Desperately." Bucktommy, 2000 words, post reconciliation, mentioned canonical MCD.

There’s forty-seven steps between his truck and Tommy’s.

Buck’s paced the distance out; ten, twenty, fifty times. A dozen parking spots. Nearly one hundred and thirty feet of cracked and patched asphalt. He tried to park closer, but the lot is a mess. Between Harbor’s staff vehicles, LAPD squad cars, and engines from three different houses, free spaces are few and far between. The 118 isn’t here, but he’s heard from Juarez on B shift, so Buck knows they’re on call if the situation changes.

His phone is silent in his hand. Buck spins on his heel, starts the next lap back to his truck.

Athena’s heavy stare makes the back of his neck itch.

A plume of black smoke, thick and choking, is still rising up from the main hangar. Even from here it smells acrid, chemical and toxic. The police cordon is wide, keeping him from approaching anywhere near the station buildings. He tried to get through, stating he was off-duty LAFD and here to help, but Maddie must have called Athena. She caught up to him at the barricade, stopping him dead with a firm hand on his elbow and five short words.

It’s not like the lab.

They’re still echoing around his head as he paces. He’s jittery, arms and legs jerking in a sad pantomime of his usual stride. He’s tired, but can’t stop. Adrenaline drives him onward, keeps him moving so the weight of memories won’t crush him. Some of the cops are looking at him nervously, but he can’t bring himself to give a shit. Athena’s on the other side of the police tape now, standing close to Officer Williams. She’s got a radio up to her mouth, but her eyes never leave Buck. He likes to think he’s matured a lot since they first met, but he’s trying not to lie to himself as much these days. He was definitely just thinking of stealing turnouts from the 122 engine and sneaking in.

Something stops him. Something stronger than Athena’s inescapable disappointment.

Tommy wouldn’t want him to put himself in danger like that.

Buck was doing laundry when Maddie phoned from Dispatch. An accident at Harbor: a fire, something about a refueling truck. And then, an explosion. Three people seriously injured, one driver and two firefighters, now enroute to Memorial in Harbor’s own ambulances. The 122, 131, and 102 were dispatched. LAPD was setting up a full site lockdown until the scene was secured.

Maddie’s voice had cracked when she said lockdown.

It’s not the same. He knows that. There’s no FBI or army. No biological threats, only the complicated chemical components of aircraft fuel and maintenance fluids. The lockdown is to keep everyone safe, not to trap Tommy and his team inside. Buck understood, but it didn’t stop his heart from skipping a beat, couldn’t prevent him dropping the armful of wet towels with a splat he barely heard, and tearing out of the house at full speed. Tommy didn’t pick up when he called him from the truck; Lucy answered on the second ring. She was already headed to the hospital, meeting their captain and some of A shift in the waiting room. She’s the one that confirmed Tommy wasn’t one of the injured. Buck let Maddie know he was heading to Harbor, and she must have told Chim, who told everyone else. Buck muted the group chat twenty minutes ago.

Tommy wasn’t even supposed to be working today.

There’s more people in the parking lot now. He recognizes the occasional face. Family members of B shift he’s met at Harbor events with Tommy, and a few people from C shift. They’ve all congregated around their cars as they wait for news. He nods when he catches their eyes, tries to look like he isn’t about to shatter apart, like it isn’t absolutely killing him to be stuck out here while his boyfriend is still inside.

The shiny chrome of his truck’s bumper reflects his filthy sneakers and worn sweatpants.

Buck breathes out. Forty-seven steps. Breathes in. Pivots, and heads towards Tommy’s truck.

He finishes another three laps before there’s a change. Buck hears the crackle of several radios, relief audible in more than one voice. He stops pacing, midpoint between their two vehicles. Some unseen release of tension runs through the line of officers. Athena finally looks away from him, tipping her head up to the sky and closing her eyes. He’s already headed towards her when she ducks under the tape and clips the radio back to her belt.

“Fire is out and they’ve neutralized the rest of the spilled fuel. You still can’t go in without gear, but everyone should be coming out soon.” She’s watching his face carefully as she wraps her fingers around the hand still holding his phone. “Lockdown’s over, Buck.”

Her eyes are so gentle.

Horrifyingly, he feels that tell-tale burning behind his eyes and flashes hot, all-over. God, he’s so selfish. Buck might feel like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin from the overlap, but Athena lost so much more. And here he is, making her keep an eye on him so he doesn’t do something stupid.

“Athena, thank you. I don’t… I–I’m not sure what I would have done if you weren’t here.”

She scoffs, her lips curving up into a smile. “Of course I’m here. Who else is going to keep the 118 out of trouble?” She squeezes his hands. “You’re family, Buckaroo. No matter what the call is about.”

Buck just nods. He can’t trust his voice right now.

“Now, you stay right here, and I’m going to go update the Harbor crew. And text your sister please, she’s been blowing up my phone.” With one last squeeze, she lets him go and heads towards the rest of the parking lot.

It’s another half an hour before figures start exiting the main hangar. Most are fully geared up, heading towards the engines, but there’s the occasional person out of uniform or in coveralls, wearing a respirator and gloves. They head towards the parking lot, ducking under the cordon. They’re soot-stained and there’s more than a few pieces of gauze covering minor injuries. Buck stands at the edge of it all, people streaming around him. He watches reunions happen throughout the parking lot, desperate families ignoring the ash and smell of burnt avgas to welcome their loved ones with hugs and kisses.

He fumbles his phone back into his pocket, hands shaking. He’s hollowed out, anxiety-carved chunks missing from his heart from the last few hours and leaving him cavernous, ears ringing with his own breathing.

C shift checks-in with the exiting B team, and Buck hears bits and pieces of the story. From the sounds of it, the main hangar will be out of commission for weeks, and someone at the Chief's Office is already investigating how the malfunctioning fuel bowser passed its last inspection. Thankfully, the fire didn’t spread to the underground storage tanks, but there was still significant damage and at least one bird was totaled.

The stream of people leaving the hangar slows to a trickle. Buck looks around, but he’s lost sight of Athena. Tommy doesn’t appear.

The empty feeling grows.

At some point, he wrapped his hands around the flimsy black and yellow plastic of the police tape. An anemic breeze coming in off the water makes it sway limply on either side of his grasp. Most of the LAPD officers have walked away, leaving him alone, staring at the half open hangar door and the shadowed interior.

Finally, there’s movement. Two figures, one in full turnouts, one in a half-undone flight suit in a familiar blue. Buck’s under and away from the tape before he’s consciously decided to move, hurrying across the lot at a fast clip. One of the figures clocks him, and elbows the other. The second one stutters, missing a step. Buck’s heart pounds. The second figure starts moving again, breaking into a jog. Buck speeds up.

Soon enough, he can see details. The flight suit is ripped and torn, and unzipped to the waist. The revealed grey tee shirt is stained with sweat and ash. There's a red smear on the fabric over the ribs that looks concerningly like blood. A thin pad of gauze is wrapped around a strong forearm, stark-white against the soot. Dark brown curls threaded with grey are messy and falling over a sweaty forehead, eyebrows raised in surprise. Those stormy blue eyes are wide and shocked, but relieved, and oh-so familiar.

Tommy’s got his arms out, reaching for Buck as he sprints closer, and his mouth is open and moving, but Buck can’t hear it. His heartbeat’s pounding through his skull, reverberating and turning everything else to white noise. Buck has the wherewithal to think he should probably slow down, but the thought barely has time to percolate before they’re slamming into each other. Buck feels the breath whoosh out of Tommy instead of hearing it, but those welcoming arms still wrap around him.

Sound filters back in. First, his own gasping breaths. And then, a voice.

“Shh, it’s alright. I’m fine, I promise, I’m fine. I’m so sorry, honey. Didn’t know you were here. My phone’s probably in a thousand pieces. Evan, please. You gotta breathe.”

Buck forces a noisy breath in through his nose.

“Good baby, that’s perfect. Just like that.”

His own voice croaks out of his throat, “Are you really okay?”

Tommy hugs him close, one heavy hand on the back of Buck’s head tucking his face against the gritty skin of his neck. “I swear I’m okay. Just a scratch. I had to crawl into the truck to get the driver out.”

Buck swallows roughly, leaning back to look Tommy in the eyes. He’s here, he’s okay. The lockdown’s lifted and no one is trapped. It’s not like the lab. The pit in his chest finally starts to fill in; relief is a cool rush of feeling, leaving him shaky with solace. His hands scrabble at Tommy’s shoulders and he presses their lips together frantically, with zero finesse.

It is, objectively, probably their worst kiss. Tommy jerks away in surprise, his hands hovering, but presses back in so quickly their teeth clack together. Stubble catches and their noses bump. Buck’s breath is still hiccupping in and out of him, and Tommy is filthy, spreading soot over both their faces. At least they're not in a hospital lobby this time. A second later, that heavy hand is back, guiding Buck’s head to a better angle. Their lips connect again, and this kiss is smoother, warmth and comfort flourishing between them. Another hand lands at the small of his back, bringing their bodies closer. Buck sighs into the kiss, opening his mouth and licking at Tommy’s plush lower lip.

Heat sparks, catches, like it always does with the two of them. Buck wants to forget the lockdown, forget the parking lot, forget why this day sent him on such a spiral. Tommy moans, low in the back of his throat, and deepens the kiss, sucking Buck’s tongue into his mouth. One of Buck’s hands finds the edge of the flight suit, fingers dipping under to feel the body-warmed cotton of Tommy’s boxers. Buck aches to be closer, needs to crawl inside of his boyfriend so he never has to feel this way again. He settles for running his tongue over the back of Tommy’s teeth, tasting the soot in his mouth and trying to remove every trace.

A throat clearing behind Tommy makes them both jump.

“Not that this ain’t sweet, but Sergeant Grant is on her way, and I’m pretty sure you were supposed to stay behind the yellow line, Buckley.”

Buck swallows, and carefully disentangles his limbs from Tommy, who pouts adorably. “I mean, she didn’t exactly say that. She mostly said don’t go in the hangar. But, um, thanks, Captain Deluca.” Tommy wraps his unbandaged arm around Buck’s middle, and Sal falls in at his other shoulder. They slowly start making their way towards the trucks.

“Kid, I’ve just seen you play tonsil hockey with my best friend. And you’re off-duty. I think you can call me Sal.” Sal’s voice is wry and Tommy snorts a laugh.

“Best? At this point I’m your only friend.”

“Is that so? Maybe next time I’ll just let the hangar burn down around you.”

“God, you’re such a bitch when you have to clean your kit.”

“And you’re such a bitch when you actually have to fight a fire instead of flying around in a chopper all day.”

“A chopper? I’m sorry, did we fall into an eighties action movie sometime in the last five minutes?”

“You would know, you fucking nerd.”

Tommy looks so offended, Buck can’t help it. He laughs. Soon Sal’s chuckling too, and Tommy’s failing to fight off a smile. He’s looking at Buck, his eyes sparkling, when Athena catches up to them. She takes one look at Buck, giggling helplessly, and Tommy, helplessly charmed, and her stern expression just melts away.

#ask game #bucktommy #tevan #911 abc #my fic #why did this get so long

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amirasainz · 6 months ago

Note

What about biker Oscar, who takes his girlfriend for a ride and she is like his adorable backpack and he loves riding his bike with her. Thx 😊

Enjoy reading and send some requests!!!

-xoxo babygirl 🧡

Ride or Die

The rumble of Oscar's bike echoed through the quiet suburban street as he rolled into the driveway. The sleek black motorcycle gleamed under the evening light, its chrome parts catching the golden hues of the setting sun. He parked, pulling off his helmet, running a hand through his slightly messy hair. Oscar loved his bike. The freedom it gave him, the power it commanded—it was all exhilarating. But tonight, something was different. Tonight, it wasn’t just about the ride.

Tonight, Yn would finally ride with him.

As he walked into the house, he found Yn pacing the living room. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her oversized hoodie, her brows furrowed in thought.

“Hey, babe,” Oscar greeted, a soft grin tugging at his lips. “You ready?”

Yn froze, spinning on her heel to face him. “Uh… yeah. I think.”

Oscar chuckled, setting his helmet on the counter. “You think?” He stepped closer, resting his hands on her shoulders. “You don’t have to be nervous, you know. I’ve got you.”

“I know,” Yn said, biting her lip. “It’s just… you drive so fast, Oscar. And what if I fall off? Or what if—”

“Whoa, whoa,” he interrupted, tilting her chin up so their eyes met. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Then trust that I’d never let anything happen to you,” he said, his voice steady and full of conviction. “You’ve been my girl for three years, Yn. I wouldn’t risk a scratch on you.”

Her cheeks warmed at his words, and she nodded. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

Oscar’s grin widened. “That’s my girl.”

---

They stepped outside, the cool night air brushing against Yn’s skin. Oscar handed her a sleek black helmet.

“It’s a little big, but it’ll do for now,” he said, helping her adjust the straps.

She looked at the bike, her stomach twisting with both excitement and apprehension. “So… where do I sit?”

Oscar laughed. “Right behind me. You’ll be my ‘backpack.’”

“Backpack?” she echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, you’ll wrap your arms around me and hold on tight. Easy.”

She climbed onto the bike, hesitating as she tried to find her balance. Oscar steadied her with a firm hand on her knee.

“Relax,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “You’re doing great.”

Once she was seated, she wrapped her arms tentatively around his waist.

“Tighter,” he instructed.

Yn tightened her grip, and he chuckled. “That’s better. Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” she mumbled.

Oscar started the engine, and the bike roared to life. Yn squeaked, burying her face against his back.

“Don’t worry, babe,” he called over the sound of the engine. “You’re gonna love this.”

---

At first, the bike’s speed was overwhelming. The wind whipped past Yn’s face, and the vibrations beneath her were unlike anything she’d ever experienced. But as they sped down the open road, something shifted. The fear melted away, replaced by a sense of freedom she hadn’t expected.

The world blurred around her—streetlights streaked into golden lines, and the city buzzed faintly in the background. Yn tightened her arms around Oscar, pressing closer to him.

“You okay back there?” he shouted.

“Yeah!” she called back. “This is amazing!”

“Told you!”

They hit a red light, and Oscar slowed to a stop. He reached down, gently pulling her arms even tighter around his waist. His hand lingered for a moment, caressing her forearm.

“You’re doing great,” he said, glancing back with a soft smile.

Yn’s heart fluttered, and she smiled back. “Thanks.”

When the light turned green, they were off again, this time heading out of the city and toward quieter roads.

---

Oscar finally pulled over at a scenic overlook, the city lights twinkling like stars in the distance. The engine cut off, leaving a peaceful silence.

“How was it?” he asked, turning to look at her.

Yn pulled off her helmet, her hair slightly messy but her smile radiant. “It was incredible. I don’t know why I was so scared.”

Oscar smirked. “Told you I’d take care of you.”

He gestured for her to climb off the bike, then patted the seat in front of him. “Come here.”

She frowned. “What?”

“Sit here,” he said, patting the space again.

Curious, Yn climbed onto the bike, straddling the seat and facing him. Oscar’s hands came up to rest on her hips, pulling her closer.

“This is the best seat in the house,” he said, nodding toward the view.

Yn turned to look, and her breath caught. The sprawling city stretched out before them, glittering under the night sky.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

“So are you,” Oscar said, his voice soft.

She turned back to him, her cheeks warming. “Stop it.”

“I mean it,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You’re my girl, Yn. And I’m glad I finally got to share this with you.”

Yn smiled, leaning forward to press a kiss to his lips. “Thank you for not giving up on me.”

“Never,” he said, his voice steady and sure. “You’re my ride or die.”

They stayed like that for a while, Yn sitting in front of him, their arms wrapped around each other as they watched the city lights. The night was quiet, but the moment was electric, filled with the kind of love and trust that only grows stronger with time.

#formula 1 #formula 1 x reader #oscar piastri x you #oscar x reader #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x yn #biker!oscar #biker boyfriend #f1 x reader

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yeoslattes · 1 year ago

Text

How We Live In Tokyo

Genre: Smut, TFATF: Tokyo Drift AU!

Word Count: 5.8k

Pairings: street racer Matz!Hwa x street racer fem! reader

Summary: You were notoriously once known as the drift princess, but now you're Hwa's girl. In attempt to reclaim your title, you race, pissing off Seonghwa in the process. You are also Hwa's number one cheerleader.

Warnings: Hwa comes off as a meanie during certain parts, VERY minimal description of reader, Hongjoong openly flirts with reader (his bffs girl...), Hwa confesses, possessive Hwa, weed use, high sex, manhandling, ruined orgasm, oral m+f receiving, eating it through the panties..., lots of spit, spanking, mentions of Hongjoong fucking you by Hwa, Hwa is low-key into it, choking, just rough asf, reader cries during sex, deepthroating, creampie (unprotected sex asf), use of sir like once, basically Seonghwa fucks you stupid, very minimal subspace by reader, aftercare

A/N: She's here, for my first smut after a while it's not too shabby. I'm an over thinker so I kept reviewing and editing just making sure I was happy with the final product. Also I based the reader's car off Suki's pink car in 2003 movie, just cause I thought it'd be perfect for her. I hope you guys enjoy this Hwa as much as I did!

“Ready! Set! GO!” You swing the red cloth in your hand down, the cars beside you rev noisily. Smoke from the tire burnout goes up in the air engulfing you in a heavy cloud, and just like that the first racers of tonight were off. This was one of your favorite parts of the night life in Tokyo, the races. You never intended to become a car girl, but after a couple flings here and there got you into nighttime racing, the rush and thrill it brought you was simply euphoric. The crowd cheers loudly, flip phones out recording and taking pictures, you jump in the air waving your hands cheering over the loud music and screams.

While everyone was focused on the race at hand your eyes scanned the scenery for the only man that mattered to you, however he was nowhere in sight. You walked over to your pink Supra S2000 and leaned against the door. Your manicured hand ran over the sleek paint, you smiled at how smooth the finish felt beneath your fingertips. This car was your baby, everything was thought out and hand picked. Rolling around in a ride like your own had never made you feel anything less than superior. You were also Hwa’s girl and that in itself said enough.

As if manifested by thought, the loud exhaust causes heads to turn, the familiar midnight blue body and chrome accents on the 350Z were unmistakable. Your eyes lingered on the white lettered decal spelling ‘MATZ’ on the upper windshield, you smirked slightly as he pulled up next to you. People cheered when Hwa stepped out, clad in a long fur coat and a muscle tee underneath, he looked delectable. Despite the layers, the large letters in black ink decorating his neck were perfectly on display.

He greets his racing partner Hongjoong and the notorious KQ Fellaz who had also built an impeccable reputation amongst the Tokyo racing scene. He smiles at you as soon as he spots you. The glimmer of his grills catch the fluorescent lights of the crowded parking garage. “Hey.” He grumbles lowly in your ear, pulling you into him and pressing a searing kiss on your glossy lips. He looked down at you, long strands of raven black hair falling over his eyes. “You look good babe.” He compliments, long fingers coming up to tap on the hoops that were slightly hidden behind the layers of your hair. You smiled up at him, your legs suddenly feeling like jelly under his stare.

The arm wrapped around your shoulder drops as he turns around to look at the S2000 you were resting your weight on. He walks around it, a singular hand running over the paint. He lifts the hood up, whistling when he sees the engine, “V8 is looking good babe.” He closes the hood after admiring, “Thanks, can’t wait to take her out on a spin tonight.” At your words Hwa’s face drops, his small grin being replaced by a disapproving expression. “Not tonight baby.” You huff in annoyance, see before you and Hwa had gotten together, you were one of the best female racers in this particular part of Tokyo. Every Friday night you’d come out to the streets and race against other girls and even guys. More often than not you’d end up winning. Slowly, you built up a reputation for yourself, even earning the nickname ‘drift princess’ in the process. But that was before Hwa came in and dethroned all the top racers and drifters, ending your streak as well. Eventually, you fell for him, and while he looked stoic and rude on the outside he was a sweetie behind closed doors. His charm was all you needed to become enthralled in him, needless to say you became his princess; you were Hwa’s girl as everyone knew. You ate that title up every single time, however, the singular con about being his one and only was that in fear of you getting hurt, Seonghwa didn’t let you race anymore, not against the good ones at least. He’d always let you go against the newbies, those who were still getting the hang of the Tokyo streets and drifts.

“Seonghwa.” You begin in a begging tone, but he put his ring clad hand up, silencing you. You rolled your eyes, brooding against the Barbie pink car that was begging for a race. You watched as he went back to where Hongjoong stood conversing in a group.

A frown replaces the big smile you had just minutes ago.

You look around, hoping to find someone that’d wanna take you up on a race, even if Seonghwa had said no. Majority of the seasoned drivers were men, and due to their fragile egos, they wouldn’t dare race against you in fear that you might actually beat them and they’d never be able to live it down.

You huff in annoyance, and pull your car door open, slipping into the pink leather seats. Your mini skirt is short enough that you feel the cool leather against the plumpness of your ass. You shake your own tan fur coat off, flipping your long hair over your shoulder to give your moistened skin some air. Rummaging through your glove compartment filled with body spray and lipgloss, you pull out a roll of bubble gum, shoving a fat piece in your mouth.

As you reapply gloss and fix your hair in the mirror a female voice catches your attention, “hey,” you looked up at your friend who was polishing the car door just a few minutes ago. She nods in the direction of Matz.

Your eyes turn into slivers when you see 2 girls chatting with Seonghwa and Hongjoong. Hongjoong has his arm around the slimmer girl, he gives her a cheshire cat like smile and you could almost see her swoon, but that’s not who you were worried about. Seonghwa, is leaning against his car, arms crossed, talking to the girl in front of him. Her dainty hand comes up to touch the fur sleeve of his coat, she says something with a big smile that causes Hwa to cackle loudly. She wears a low cut halter top and a mini skirt slightly longer than yours, but the expanse of her legs made it look like a belt around her waist.

You rolled your eyes and stepped out of the car. You walk over to them, a big smile adorning your face, “hey baby.” You say in a sultry voice, your hand comes up Hwa’s arm and you proceed, “Who’s our new friend?” You turn to look at her, popping the pink bubble gum in your mouth.

You can audibly hear Hwa sigh, he leans into your ear so only you can hear, “play nice.” He whispers, his cold hand resting against the warm skin of your waist. You continue to look at her, and she smirks, “who are you?” You chuckle loudly at her words, catching the attention of the people that were around. Seonghwa lets out an airy laugh looking back at Hongjoong as if to say ‘are you seeing this right now’ to which his best friend just raises his eyebrows and chuckles, fully invested in the face off. “I’m his girlfriend. Who are you?” People are starting to gather around, you step closer to her and feel Hwa’s hand squeeze your side as a warning but you ignore him. There’s a look of realization in her eyes and her face relaxes, “ahh,” she starts, “you must be the so-called drift princess.” Her faux friendly expression drops into a stoic one, “Where I’m from there are no nicknames. You’re either good or absolute shit.” She spits.

Your heart hammers in your chest but you ignore it, “Is that a threat? Cause I bet you I can give you a run for your money.” At this point you’re so close to her you can see the glitter lining the underside of her eye. “If I lose, I’ll leave but if I win…” She pauses momentarily, looking behind you at Seonghwa, who stands arms crossed against his car, a serious look adorning his pretty features. He hated where this was going. “If I win I’ll have him.” You chuckle and so does Hwa, making the girl in front of you cock an eyebrow up in confusion at his reaction. “I hope you pick something else.” You say shifting your weight from one leg to the other. Her eyes wander to your right, “oof didn’t think the puppy had a designated owner but that’s fine. I’ll take your car.” People around you gasp and ‘ooh’ at her request. When you tongue your cheek, she feigns a pout knowing she’d hit the spot. “Deal, see you in 10.” She whips around and walks off somewhere.

Before you can take a step, Seonghwa grabs your arm tightly, spinning you around to face him. “You must be out of your fucking mind. You bet off the car you’ve worked so fucking hard on?” He scoffs, his tongue pressed against his cheek in annoyance, “you’re fucking unbelievable.” He groans, your arms cross at your chest, resting underneath your tits, causing Seonghwa to glance down for a split second. “Oh but if it was you it’d make it okay?” You leave him with his words in his mouth, walking away before he even got the chance to get a syllable out.

Hongjoong laughs loudly at your attitude and Seonghwa’s distress, he slaps his friends back in amusement. “She’s giving you a run for your money huh Hwa?” He says. The annoyed man shoots his blonde friend a glare, resting his hands on his hips he throws his head back and huffs out a breath.

You stand on standby waiting to get the okay from your girls as they check your car before the race. Your teeth toy with your bottom lip, nervousness settling in your tummy.

You hop in your ride and turn it on, the loud engine causing people to whistle. You might’ve been old to the game but the pre race jitters were very much real. Your opponent on the other hand seemed relaxed. Your hands are clammy on the wheel but with deep breaths you manage to bring the bile rising up your throat down. Hwa stands front row and you can see him through your windshield, he stares at you before whispering something to Yunho who was part of the KQ Fellaz. The tall and slender man draws his eyes to you as Seonghwa is in his ear, and he nods agreeing with whatever your boyfriend was saying. Hwa finishes and stands still in his spot, his jaw ticks, clearly upset at what was about to happen in just mere seconds.

A girl in low rise jeans and a skimpy top comes between both cars, your foot presses on the gas, your car sputtering loudly. “Ready! Set! GO!” The pretty girl lifts her hand up and just like that your foot slams onto the pedal. You feel it before you see it as you zoom down the spacious garage. With your opponent already a couple feet ahead of you, your heart hammers in your chest, body running on pure adrenaline.

A tight turn is up ahead and you maneuver the wheel and use the e-brake to perfectly drift around until you’re heading straight again. She on the other hand turns slightly too wide slowing her down by a couple of seconds allowing you to zoom past her. The girl is hot on your ass but you keep her at bay not allowing her to get the upper hand. Her pretty face contorts in frustration as she struggles to make any moves.

This is when you start to relax and it’s like you had never stopped racing. Your mind becomes so aware of your surroundings and what you were feeling. From the way your new wheels felt smooth on the cement, to the low vibrations shaking through you; this was euphoria.

Your eyebrows knit together in pure concentration as you accelerate. You hit another tight turn, performing the drift that many struggled with effortlessly. Right before the parking garage ramp that spirals upward into the main street, you keep going straight. With a heavy foot you press on the gas, giving it all you got, you can see the exit of the garage and the final drift that everyone always anticipated.

As you neared it you turned the wheel and pulled on the e-brake, successfully drifting up the ramp till you made it out, the hoard of people eagerly waiting. At the sight of the pink lights adorning the underside of your car, Seonghwa relaxes. You had fucking done it. Your wheels skid loudly as you slow down to park your car.

People high five you and jump on the hood celebrating what had basically been your comeback after so long. You hopped out the car, pulling your slutty skirt down and jumping on Hwa. His hands wrap around your waist, stuffing his face into your neck, taking in your sweet perfume. “Good job baby.” He whispers in that deep voice of his. “You’re so fucking hot you know that?” He says pulling you into a sloppy kiss. The girl who had raced you parks her car and hops out storming over to you. “That wasn’t fair.” She argues, “you are either good or absolute shit.” You shrug, reciting her words back to her. She grits her teeth and storms off, disappearing into the mass of people. You feign a pout and roll your eyes. As people start to head back down into the garage, Seonghwa pulls you into him. “Bad girl.” His words shoot straight to your pussy, a heat wave rolling over your body.

Another Friday rolls around, it'd been precisely one week since you won your first race back. It was already 11 PM but the streets of Tokyo were calling your name. Tonight’s outfit consisted of a low rise pleated miniskirt and a long sleeve crop top. You looked in the mirror, enjoying how your belly button jewelry dangled and glimmered under the warm lights of your room. Tonight would be special since Matz had gotten challenged by two random guys who wanted to claim territory. If there was one thing you loved to do on a night that Hwa would be racing was look pretty and sit like a good girl in the passenger seat of his car while he raced. I’ll be there soon baby, you sent Hwa a message through your pink flip phone hoping that he wouldn’t be too distracted to read it.

Singular strands of your hair stick to your glossy lips as you cruise down the somewhat empty roads, the wind blows through your hair and you sing along quietly to the Nelly Furtado CD Hwa had gifted you. It wasn’t long before you were pulling up into the infamous garage. If there were alot of people last Friday, they had tripled today, of course just for Matz. You pulled into the spot next to Hwa, your loud exhaust catching his attention. He went from talking with Hongjoong to looking at you. He smiled at your car, still not over how perfectly the pink decked out car suited you.

You killed the engine and hopped out, already feeling the eyes running over the expanse of your body, Hongjoong and Hwa included. If there was one thing about Hongjoong was that he did not care. Yes, Seonghwa was his best buddy, but he made sure to let Seonghwa know just how delectable you were with no shame. Still, in other ways he was respectful of his best friend’s relationship but he loved to take peeks anytime he could.

You walk over to your boyfriend who instead of the iconic big fur coat wore baggy cargos and a muscle tee, his arms on full display. “Hey baby.” You say pressing a kiss on his cheek, you smile at the slight residue of your lips on his cheek. He grabs your chin and kisses you, you try to pull back but the suffocating grip on your face keeps you in place. His tongue toys with yours, and he sucks your bottom lip into his mouth before letting go with a final bite. When you pull away he grins at your flushed face and how he had basically eaten all the lip gloss off.

“Hey Hongjoong.” You pant loudly, greeting the other man who had seen the entire exchange in front of him, he nods his head up at you, “drift princess has made a comeback huh?” He teases, you nod sheepishly. “Maybe next time you’ll take me up on a race?” You ask with big eyes and he smiles, “is that a challenge?” He asks, cocking his brow up, “of course.” He lets out an airy laugh, “that’s if Hwa lets you.” He teases, before walking towards his car. You turn to look back at Hwa who’s grip has tightened around you.

“Hongjoong is up first. Are you gonna be a good girl and cheer for him baby?” Seonghwa says leaning down so you could hear him. You nod and clap excitedly when you see Hongjoong’s car by the start line. As soon as Hongjoong takes off you and Seonghwa run towards the finish line, you both wait, watching through the small flip phone screens as people document the race. You cheer loudly when you notice Hongjoong’s car is ahead. In no time he is skidding up the ramp, drifting into the big pit. He had won! Hwa claps and whistles loudly at his partner's success, now it was up to him to win the second one to maintain the best of the best title.

You follow your boyfriend down to the garage and hop into the 350Z, you inhale the fresh car scent mixed with his cologne. “Ready baby?” You ask him, he grips your hand and kisses it, “always.”

Hongjoong peers in through the passenger side window, you buckle in as he talks to his best friend, paying no mind to what they were discussing. When he finishes he taps the edge of the window and sends you his infamous cheeky smile and a wink.

You sit quietly, sucking in a breath and getting ready for the ride. Hwa exits the garage, and that’s when it becomes too real. One thing about Seonghwa was that he always preferred racing in the streets rather than the garage that almost every race took place in. You place a hand over your chest, feeling your blood pumping muscle thrumming beneath your fingers. At the sound of you sucking in another sharp breath Seonghwa turns his gaze to you. “Scared?” He asks, a teasing smirk playing at his lips. You purse your lips swallowing thickly, nodding. “It’s usually more dangerous Hwa, I hate when you do this.” You say, voice barely above a whisper.

“Dangerous…” He scoffs, “That’s what I said last week when you raced and you still went against my word. So, sit, look pretty and hold on tight or get the fuck out.” He had gotten you there, regardless, there was no way to ever argue with Park Seonghwa. So, you shut your mouth up and look down at your fiddling hands.

The starter is another girl, she swings her bra up in the air and when it drops Seonghwa takes off. The g-force alone pulls you back into the seat, your hands grip the door handle and your seat, ironically your fear only grew. He hollers loudly already having a great advantage to his opponent, your body turns with the car as he drifts. You stared at his pretty features, his perfect skin and long nose bridge accompanied by his pink and plump lips. He’s too busy looking for the guy through his mirrors to really pay attention to anything else, the air blows violently into the car, your hair a mess now. The longer you sit in the car, the more you start to relax, the cool breeze in your face relieving your anxiety.

Seonghwa startles you when he grumbles loudly, he hits the steering wheel out of frustration, his opponent had passed him. You weren’t too familiar with the path Hwa was taking, perhaps racing here once or twice before and if you remembered correctly he was more than halfway done.

“Hold on!” He yells, he presses the red button beneath his thumb, immediately you are pulled back from the sudden acceleration. His 350Z zoomed by the guy in the other car and already you could see where the finish line was. Hwa keeps the man at bay as he rides his ass. As if it were clockwork the crowd of people disperse to make room for the infamous Park Seonghwa. He crosses the threshold into the pit of people, the car coming to a noisy stop. He cheers and you cheer along with him “I fucking love you.” He yells, you feel everything go in slow motion at that moment, the faces of the people cheering him on outside become a blur, it almost felt like you had ascended. “W-what?” you say in confusion, “I fucking love you. I am in love with you.” He says, smiling widely at you.

Like a tradition, people hit the roof and hood of the car congratulating him on another victory. He pulls you into a heated kiss and when you pull away you lean into his ear. “I love you too Hwa.” He hops out of the car and you follow suit, instantly, he wraps his arms around you and lifts you up. Hongjoong comes up and gives him a hug, “we are still the best of the fucking best.” Hwa’s best friend yells.

The rest of the night you had spent velcroed to Seonghwa’s side, celebrating the win and watching other races go on. By 2am you were ready to call it a night. That's when Hwa pulls you aside, “wanna spend the night?” He asks tucking a loose piece of hair behind your ear. You nod eagerly, “we can get high and do whatever we want.” He whispers only for you to hear. His hands softly caress yours. “I’ll see you there baby.”

The drive to Matz’s garage is about 10 minutes, you pull in and park in the spot Seonghwa had reserved for just you.

The garage was Seonghwa’s and Hongjoong’s working space, it was scattered with car parts as well as half built vehicles. You stepped out of your pink mobile and headed up the metal stairs, your boots stomping loudly, sending vibrations up the railing. Hwa stands at the door and lets you in.

You stepped into the warm apartment, fully expecting Hongjoong to be there but instead it's quiet. “Where’s Joong?” You wonder, not wanting to impose on his personal space and most definitely not wanting him there if you and Hwa got to it. “Found some girl at the race tonight so he won’t be here.”

As always Hwa hands you an oversized shirt, it was a routine any time you stayed at his. Given that your clothes weren’t always the most comfortable, he’d always have an oversized tee on deck just for you. You strip in front of him, already feeling his gaze burning holes into your supple skin. You sigh gleefully at the feeling of the tight clothes being off your body.

Seonghwa sparks the blunt, his slender fingers bring it up to his lips, he takes a long drag and hands it to you. “I don’t know if I should.” You say quietly, weed just wasn’t your thing like it was Hwa’s. “It’s indica this time baby. You’re here with me, it’ll be okay.” You take the burning blunt from him and raise it up to your lips, praying that you wouldn’t end up panicking like the first time you had smoked with him. Your eyes close softly, as the smoke rushes into your lungs, affecting all your senses.

You hold the smoke in for a couple seconds, handing it back to your lover. Seonghwa takes 2 long hits, relaxing into the couch you two were on. Your eyes linger on him, you could see his eyes drooping slightly from the marijuana. His limbs are loosely splayed on the couch, blunt hanging loosely between his pointer and thumb. Without much thought you reach for the burning plant and take another hit, that was enough to have you feeling like you were melting into the couch. You didn’t know how, but Hwa always managed to finish the blunt, this time was no different.

“I’m pretty high right now.” He mumbles thoughtlessly slouching down even further. As the minutes tick by you feel yourself get more and more intoxicated. You felt tingles run up and down your arms and legs and your eyes felt heavy. Seonghwa drapes his fluffy blanket over the both of you when he notices your body starting to shiver. Normally, you’d be freaking out but for some reason you felt fine, just high. Seonghwa lays his head on your lap, eyes on the TV. You looked down at him watching his eyes slowly blink as he focused on Finding Nemo. The chills had subsided, if anything you felt warm now, even warmer as you felt Hwa’s hand trailing up and down your bare thigh.

He grins slightly when he feels your thighs twitch beneath him. He kept this up for what felt like ages, never getting close to where you really needed him. Seonghwa shifts down, the full weight of his head now resting on your left thigh. You lean your head back on the couch when he runs his hand between your legs this time. He fully reaches your hot heat. “H-Hwa…” You whimper weakly, you pout when he looks up at you. He sits up, one leg pulled in and the other one resting on the floor. He presses his lips against yours, his hands gripping your face. Nothing was neat about the kiss, it was filled with hunger and lust. His spit coats your chin now and you moan when his tongue snakes between your parted lips. He roughly pulls you onto his lap, large hands going directly to rest on your ass. You pulled away momentarily, to mumble a quick “I love you Hwa.” He pauses his actions, fingers brushing messy hair strands away from your face, “I love you too baby.”

Seonghwa grunts when you grind down forcefully on him, he pushes you off him roughly, and drags you into his room. You bask in his sheets, his scent completely engulfing you, you felt like you were drowning in him. “Been wanting to fuck you ever since I saw you in that stupid slutty outfit of yours.” He tugs his shirt off you. Immediately his lips latch onto one of your buds while his free hand toys with your other tit. You felt like you were floating and in a way he felt so far yet so close. All your senses were on overdrive thanks to the weed. “Seonghwa please.” His hands wrap around the back of your knees to flip you onto your belly,

His hand comes down heavy on your plush ass. Hwa smiles sinisterly at the red hand print forming, he feels himself twitch in his pants. He delivers a couple more slaps, “don’t think I have forgotten how you’ve been flirting with Hongjoong.” You lift your head up to protest but he shoves you back down and you let out a yelp. “What a slut. My best friend? Really?” He grits out as he works on the button of his pants.

You can’t push down the tears that sting your eyes, despite his words you knew he knew you’d only ever pick him, he just wanted to pick on you.

You rest tummy down one cheek pressed against the mattress, “Hongjoongie keeps messing wi-.” You’re cut off by Hwa’s hand landing on your already abused skin. “Don’t try to make it his fault.” He grits, leaning his torso to get closer to your ear, “but honestly if I was him I’d wanna wreck you too.” A wave of arousal crashes over your body, shooting straight south.

Hwa pauses, watching the way your thighs pressed together. You sniffle, tears rolling freely now out of frustration. “Are you fucking crying?” Seonghwa says brushing your hair away from your eyes. He scoffs, “no way you’re fucking crying.” Seonghwa clicks his tongue in disapproval.

“It’s okay baby, maybe one day I’ll feel nice and let him fuck you too. Would you like that?” He teases, flipping you back onto your back. You shake your head ‘no’. He spreads your legs open and toys with your sensitive bud that your panties outline. “No? Because you’re soaked right now.” Without slipping the dampened undergarment off he leans down and flattens his tongue against your cunt, soiling the fabric even further with his spit.

Hwa works his long tongue languidly against you making you writhe in his grasp. “H-hwa.” You moan attempting to shove your hips against his face. The grip he has around your thighs prevents you from doing so. He presses harder against you and loosens his grip allowing you to fuck yourself on his pretty face. You groan, involuntarily grinding against him desperately trying to chase your high. “Cum baby cum.” He sounds muffled, the weed heightening every sensation has you teetering on the brink of your orgasm rather quickly. Right before you fall over the edge he pulls away; waves of what could've been your orgasm roll through you but fade as quickly as they came leaving you unsatisfied.

You groan in annoyance, tears pooling in your eyes yet again. “You’re leaking from both ends now, that’s new.” Seonghwa says as he cups your chin, he leans down so his droopy eyes are directly in front of your teary ones. “There's no reason to cry so stop before I give a reason to.” His words make the tears actually roll down your face this time and he grins at the sight.

He flips you back onto your belly, “all fours baby.” As high as you were, you did your best to move into the requested position, your limbs moving slowly due to your impaired motor skills. He pulls your underwear down, sniffling slightly. You can feel his cockhead prodding at your sopping hole, you whine, wiggling your hips back against him. His large hands come to your shoulder blades to hold you down while he pushes in. You gasp at the intrusion, the stretch so delicious you squirm back to get more. “Stay still.” he grumbles annoyingly. He fucks into you hard, his hips being unforgiven against the globes of your ass. You keep shifting to which Seonghwa stops and places a hand on your lower back to deepen your arch. “Don’t move.” He keeps you there, his thrusts are deep and forceful, hitting that spongy spot deliciously.

Your mouth is agape but there’s no sound coming out. “God- fuck Hwa,” you pant, tongue lolling out of your mouth and your eyes rolling back to your skull. “Feels good huh baby” He grunts, his own pants and groans filling the room, “so fucking perfect- you’re perfect.” He whines desperately, rutting into your wet pussy, you fight for air, your gasps sounding high pitched every time you sucked in air.

He pulls out, “Get up quickly.” He commands, grabbing you by the arm, he manhandles you on your knees. “Open.” Your mouth drops open, tongue out ready for whatever he had to give you. Seonghwa wastes no time shoving his cock down your throat. You relax as much as you can, spit pooling in your mouth and falling onto your chest in thick ropes. Through the slits of your eyes you can see Seonghwa looking down on you with heavy eyes, the ‘Matz’ scribbled across his neck stretching beautifully as he throws his head back. Spit bubbles at the corners of your mouth and he grabs your head and shoves his dick desperately as far as he could until you are fighting to pull away.

You push back, resting your ass on your heels, fighting to catch your breath. “Good fucking girl baby. Cmon get up so I can’t fuck my load into you.” Hwa says, slightly out of breath. You lay back on the bed, hips hanging slightly off the bed, he slips right back in. Your spit mixed with your wetness, allows his cock to enter your walls smoothly. Your back arches off the bed as he fucks you hard, his hands push down on your waist once more to pin you down.

The fat head of his cock hits your spot again. Everything feels far away now, but your orgasm is fast approaching. “You’re fucked d-dumb aren’t you. Does my dick do that to you?” He asks, his tongue running over his pink lips, “look at you can’t even fucking answer me.” Seonghwa’s hand wraps around your throat tightly while his free one toys with your clit, stimulating you to the brink of your orgasm, a couple more strokes and your legs begin quaking on his shoulders, “Fuck Hwa, sir too muc- I can’t.” You cry out, bringing your arms that suddenly feel so heavy to push him off but instead he wraps his hands around your wrists and presses them into the bed, “it’s o-okay baby. I’m almost there.” Sweat drops are now falling on you. He slows down his thrusts, he grinds himself into your cervix that sends him over the edge. His hips still and he groans loudly emptying his load into you. You whine, weakly trying to get him off, but still relishing in your postorgasmic bliss. He pulls out watching the way you weakly curl into yourself, his spunk seeping out of you and he can't help but smirk.

“Don’t float away from me yet baby.” He says tapping your cheek. He slips the same shirt you had on earlier over your head and wipes you down. Slipping on some sweats and an old shirt he tucks himself in bed with you. Your eyes are now closed, the cloudiness of your high slowly dissipating but still, you felt exhausted. You slowly blinked, now realizing that Hwa had turned off the lights and you sleepily admired the way the neon purple lights from the signs outside illuminated the room.

“Hwa?” You ask into the darkness. “Hm?” He responds, not moving from his spot, “I might’ve agreed to another race next weekend.” You say sheepishly, he rolls his eyes in the dark, and you can feel the disappointment and annoyance radiating off him, “you’re in big trouble.”

#ateez smut #hongjoong smut #jongho smut #mingi smut #san smut #seonghwa smut #wooyoung smut #yeosang smut #yunho smut #matz smut #smut

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throttleheart · 2 months ago

Text

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

In Sickness, ln Health, In Monaco

Pairing: Lando Norris x Oscar Piastri

Genre: Smut, NSFW, 18+!!!

Word Count: 4.2k

Summary: 2025 Monaco McLaren Livery reveal doubles as a PR wedding apparently, it’s not like Lando and Oscar are complaining.

⸻

The Mediterranean sun was obscene.

Blinding, hot, perfect. The kind of glow that made everything look like it had been dipped in champagne. The kind of weather Lando Norris would call “honeymoon lighting” if he weren’t already too busy twirling on the deck of a yacht like a freshly wed spouse showing off his name stitched in cursive across his back.

Lando.

It glistened on the dark McLaren suit, a soft, elegant script that looked way too romantic for a motorsport context. Way too much like a wedding gift. Like something you’d find on a pair of matching bathrobes that read Mr. & Mr.

“Can’t believe they actually let us wear these,” Lando giggled, spinning on the ball of his foot, arms thrown out. “We look like we just eloped in Monaco and used the pit wall as a witness.”

Behind him, Oscar was leaning against the polished chrome of the yacht railing, arms crossed, sunglasses perched dangerously low on his nose. His own suit read Oscar, just as dramatically, just as elegant. But somehow, it was giving groom. The kind of groom that would dip his husband in front of a camera and whisper threats in a five-star hotel suite.

“You say that like it wasn’t your idea,” Oscar smirked. “I told you they’d embroider anything if you bribed the PR chief.”

Lando grinned. “She’s got good taste. And a soft spot for whipped boys in love.”

Oscar made a low noise in his throat. “Don’t tempt me while you’re wearing that.”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

They both looked dangerously married.

Not in a “soft honeymoon in Santorini” way—no, in a “we’re going to christen every room of this yacht before sundown” kind of way. The suits were tighter than usual. The belt hung just a little too low on Lando’s waist. The name “Oscar” arched beautifully across the broad back and Lando kept staring at it like it was a promise.

They had the same gloves, the same fire suit, the same everything—and yet Lando couldn’t stop bouncing around like he’d just thrown rice and kissed the groom on the grid.

“I’m serious,” Oscar muttered, voice dangerously close to Lando’s ear now. “You keep flaunting around like this and I’m gonna have to do something about it.”

Lando turned with a dramatic gasp, hand on his chest. “On our wedding yacht? You wouldn’t dare.”

Oscar arched a brow. “I would. And you’d love it.”

The worst part? He would.

Lando didn’t respond—not with words, anyway. Instead, he slowly unzipped the top half of his race suit, letting it hang off his waist like an invitation. Underneath, a tight black fireproof shirt clung to every curve of his torso.

Oscar didn’t even try to hide the way his eyes darkened.

“You’re such a menace,” he growled.

“And you love it,” Lando sing-songed, backing toward the lower deck stairs. “Come on, husband. Don’t leave your newlywed waiting.”

Oscar followed with slow, deadly steps. “You’re going to regret that tone later.”

“I better.”

That was the entire point. A sharp, sleek, sunlit photoshoot by the Monaco harbour. Matching McLaren suits, chrome reflections, pastel blue accents, and the kind of lighting photographers sell their souls for. All Oscar and Lando had to do was stand next to the car, maybe smirk a little, give the marketing team something to work with.

What they were doing, instead, was laughing.

Endlessly.

Lando kept leaning too far into Oscar’s side. Oscar kept murmuring things under his breath that made Lando giggle uncontrollably. Every time a camera clicked, one of them was either blinking, smirking too much, or mid-eye-roll because the other had done something dumb like whisper “you look like my hot husband” right before the shutter.

The team was trying to be professional about it. Really, they were. But the photographer had to pause every few minutes to recompose.

And the new McLaren race suits? Didn’t help. Elegant. Crisp. With their first names embroidered in romantic cursive on the back, Lando and Oscar.

It looked less like a team launch and more like wedding portraits.

“Okay, now a serious one,” the photographer pleaded.

Oscar tilted his head and muttered, “We’ll never survive the reception.”

Lando broke into giggles again, swaying into Oscar’s side.

Off to the edge of the yacht setup, the new social media intern blinked behind her phone camera, filming the behind-the-scenes footage like her life depended on it. She wasn’t supposed to post anything unapproved, but… the footage looked good. No, not good—cinematic. Like something out of a love story.

And more importantly, it looked real.

⸻

@/mclaren

📍 Monaco

🎥 Behind the scenes with our boys in the sunshine ☀️

💬 Just married. Just fast. 💍🧡

[Video: Lando laughing with his head thrown back, Oscar nudging his hip playfully, the sun turning both of them into gods. Slow-mo of Lando adjusting Oscar’s suit collar. A moment where Oscar says something too quiet for the mic but Lando’s ears go pink. A laugh. A touch too long on the hand. A moment too soft to be edited out.]

⸻

The World: Unhinged.

The comments exploded.

@/fan4life: THAT’S NOT TEAMMATE BEHAVIOUR THAT’S “I HELD YOUR HAND UNDER THE TABLE AT DINNER” BEHAVIOUR

@/motorsportwife: just married???? excuse me???? IS THIS A SOFT LAUNCH OR A HARD ONE

@/gossipgrid: are we witnessing the secret wedding era of Lando & Oscar??? the way he looks at him???

@/pitwalltea: I will NOT be normal about the suit adjusting scene. Do you know how intimate that is???

@/slayraceadmin: intern’s getting promoted AND sued. worth it.

The TikToks came next. Edits, ship accounts resurrected from the dead, even fanfic recs going viral. The video hit 5 million views in two hours.

And somewhere, in a quiet corner of a luxury Monaco hotel suite, Lando was pacing.

“Oscar. Oscar. They posted the behind-the-scenes.”

Oscar, flat on the bed with a half-buttoned linen shirt and zero panic, replied, “Yeah. I saw.”

Lando whirled. “They said just married.”

“They weren’t wrong.”

“We’re not—” Lando stopped, flustered. “We’re not public. We’re not even—Oscar, we haven’t even told Zak.”

Oscar raised a brow. “He knows.”

Lando blinked. “He what?”

“He asked me if I was ‘keeping you happy,’ and I said yes. He winked.”

Lando collapsed onto the bed with a groan. “This is a PR nightmare.”

“It’s a PR honeymoon,” Oscar corrected, turning to him. “Besides, we didn’t kiss. We didn’t do anything.”

“I adjusted your collar!”

“And you blushed.”

“Shut up.”

Oscar grinned and rolled over, pinning Lando with a look that was a little too smug, a little too fond. “If we were married,” he murmured, nose brushing Lando’s, “you’d be the one who ruined the photo album with giggles.”

“You’d be the one who called me hot while the camera was on.”

Oscar shrugged. “Guilty.”

Lando bit his lip. “What if this… gets worse?”

Oscar leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Lando’s cheek. “Then we hide in Monaco, hold hands under the table, and kiss behind closed doors.”

“And if that intern posts another video?”

Oscar smiled. “Then we pretend we’re actors in a very romantic engagement rings sponsorship ad.”

Lando paused. “…Is it bad that I kinda love it?”

Oscar’s voice was quiet, certain. “I love you.”

The cameras weren’t rolling anymore. But if they had been—God help the internet.

⸻

Twitch Stream Title: “lads, not lovebirds” ft. oscarpiastri

Viewer count: 132,000 and rising.

⸻

Lando leans into frame first, headset slightly crooked, hair damp from a rushed post-shower. He smiles—bright, a little guilty.

“Alright, alright,” he begins. “Let’s talk about it. The video. The caption. The chaos.”

Oscar appears beside him, perfectly calm with a drink in hand, wearing one of Lando’s hoodies (“coincidence,” he’ll say later, poorly).

“Nothing’s going on,” Lando says, too quickly.

Oscar blinks. “With what?”

Lando throws him a look. “The video, Oscar. The marriage thing.”

Oscar nods. “Oh, right. We’re not married.”

“We’re teammates.”

“We’re friends.”

“Best friends.”

“Very best.”

Lando clears his throat. “And sometimes, we—y’know—adjust each other’s collars. For aesthetic reasons.”

Oscar sips his drink. “And because I care that you look good.”

“…That’s not helping.”

Oscar shrugs.

⸻

The chat explodes:

@/landoismytherapy: BEST FRIENDS DON’T LOOK AT EACH OTHER LIKE THAT

@/racehusbands: OSCAR. THE HOODIE. THE COLLAR. THE EYE CONTACT.

@/mclarenapproved: This is not damage control this is a WEDDING VIDEO COMMENTARY

@/twitchmod6: chat stop proposing to them they are not legally married (yet)

⸻

Lando tries again. “Anyway. It was a cute caption. The intern got excited. No big deal.”

Oscar glances at him, smirking. “You did blush, though.”

Lando turns red. “Stop!”

“I thought it was cute.”

“You thought I was cute.”

Oscar shrugs again, still calm. “I do think you’re cute.”

Lando freezes. “Oscar.”

“What?”

Lando leans off-screen like he’s buffering in real life. “You’re not helping the narrative.”

“What is the narrative?”

Lando glares. “That we’re not together.”

Oscar tilts his head. “But we are.”

Silence.

⸻

@/feralfans: HELLO????

@/accidentalsoftlaunch: NOT THEM COMING OUT IN 4K HD

@/thisisnotplatonic: did we just get CONFIRMATION LIVE

@/landofthewives: i need everyone to act normal so i can rewatch this 70 times

⸻

Lando covers his face, groaning. “We were supposed to clear this up.”

Oscar sets down his drink. “Well, technically we did. We’re not married.”

“Yet.”

Oscar grins. “Exactly.”

Lando turns back to the camera, cheeks pink, sighing dramatically. “Alright. Fine. Surprise. We’re in love. We suck at lying. Happy now?”

The chat explodes. Hearts, ring emojis, chaos.

Oscar looks at Lando like he hung the stars. “You said it.”

“You wore my hoodie.”

Oscar leans into him, their heads almost touching. “Want to kiss on stream?”

Lando looks scandalized. “Oscar!”

Oscar smirks, whispering: “You’re lucky I didn’t post the hotel bed photo.”

Lando shoves him hard off-frame.

⸻

The stream ends abruptly.

New social media caption (same intern, now completely rogue):

💬 “Damage control failed. Wedding pending.” 💍✨

⸻

It starts with a tweet.

From the McLaren official account, no less.

@/mclaren

📍 Monaco

📸 Coming soon: the wedding shoot you didn’t know you needed. 💍🧡 #RaceHusbands #MonacoMoments

Attached: a blurry teaser photo—Oscar adjusting Lando’s tie. Lando, grinning like the sun’s only shining for him. Oscar, in a sleek suit with an orange boutonnière. Hands too close. Eye contact criminal.

The internet dies, for the sixth time that week.

⸻

Monaco. Yacht harbor. McLaren has rented a small, tasteful venue with marble steps, sunset lighting, and—somehow—a full floral arch.

“They’re not actually getting married,” one of the PR girls is heard whispering. “Right?”

“Right.” the other PR girl replies.

⸻

Lando straightens his tie and glances at the mirror, adjusting the cuff of his crisp white shirt.

“This is insane,” he says, voice light with disbelief. “We’re actually doing this.”

Oscar, standing behind him in a fitted tux with an orange-lined pocket square, raises a brow. “You agreed.”

“I agreed to lean into a joke, not walk into a fake altar.”

Oscar steps closer, straightening Lando’s lapel with agonizing tenderness. “Bit late now. We’ve got cake.”

“You requested cake.”

“I wanted a prop.”

“You requested a specific flavor.”

“…Okay, yes. Red velvet fits the theme.”

Lando tries not to smile. Fails.

⸻

“Okay, boys, face each other. Hands around the waist. Pretend you’re getting married.” the photographer says.

Lando laughs. “Pretend, she says.”

Oscar grins, eyes locked on him. “You pretending?”

“Are you?”

Neither answers. The camera shutter clicks like thunder in a quiet chapel.

⸻

Backstage, while changing into the “just married” champagne-toned version of the suits (yes, there’s a second look), Oscar’s holding a small velvet box.

“You’re not—”

“Relax,” Oscar interrupts. “It’s cufflinks. Custom ones. Your initials. I’m not that dramatic.”

Lando raises a brow. “Yet.”

Oscar shrugs. “Give me time.”

⸻

“Now, Lando, hold his face like you’re about to kiss. Closer. Closer.”

Their foreheads touch. Lando’s fingers skim Oscar’s cheek.

“You’re blushing,” Lando whispers.

“You’re trembling,” Oscar murmurs back.

“This is for Instagram.”

“Say that again, with more conviction.”

Another click. The flash glints off Lando’s ring finger. No ring. Yet.

⸻

Instagram Post by McLaren (intern fully unhinged now):

@/mclaren

📍 Monaco

💬 “Wedding season starts in Monaco. Guests: 132,000 Twitch viewers. Vows: pending.”

📸: [8-photo carousel]

Slide 1: Lando looking at Oscar like the world stops for him.

Slide 2: Oscar fixing Lando’s tie with a tiny, secret smile.

Slide 3: The almost-kiss.

Slide 4: The cake. With a topper of two tiny cars crashing into each other.

Slide 5: Holding hands with matching cufflinks.

Slide 6: The forehead touch.

Slide 7: The “just married” shot under the floral arch.

Slide 8: A blurred behind-the-scenes frame—Lando leaning into Oscar’s chest, laughing.

⸻

Everyone goes feral.

@/softlaunchcentral: EXCUSE ME THEY’RE REALLY DOING THIS????

@/twitchwives: that’s not a photoshoot that’s a PRENUP

@/oscarlando4life: LANDO’S HAND WAS ON HIS WAIST I’M UNWELL

@/mclarencouplesedition: if this is the joke, i hope they never stop laughing

⸻

“marriage of convenience (for clout)” ft. oscarpiastri

143K viewers

The stream starts with Lando and Oscar sitting next to each other on a hotel couch.

“We did the shoot. You happy now?” Lando says while clapping his hands, looking a bit too smug for someone who has to pretend this is a PR stunt.

“You wore the boutonnière willingly.” Oscar barely finishes saying before Lando shoves the younger’s arm from his shoulders.

“You called me husband off-camera.”

“Off-camera doesn’t mean off-the-record.”

⸻

@/f1ringside: WHAT DO YOU MEAN HUSBAND

@/landoissotaken: i’m crying in the club in a tux

@/oscarswife: guys pride month was two months

@/iliveforthis: this is the best PR stunt in history or the worst coming out and i love it

⸻

End stream.

The world accepts the “wedding”. No one confirms it. No one denies it.

And Lando? He just posts a story later that night.

It’s a blurry hotel selfie, with Oscar’ head no his shoulder. The caption: “He said yes… to the matching cufflinks.”

⸻

The season ends like something out of a dream.

Champagne in his eyes, confetti in his curls, Lando lets himself laugh — really laugh — as Oscar lifts the trophy overhead, light catching on the gold like a spotlight. The McLaren garage explodes behind them. The team’s screaming. Zak’s crying. And just off to the side, behind a hospitality tent where no cameras dare linger, Lando kisses him.

Soft. Fast. Just once.

Oscar kisses back harder.

Then two weeks disappear.

Gone. Vanished. Buried in flight itineraries that don’t match their passports. They’re ghosts, almost. Hidden under borrowed names and oversized sunglasses. Their bags are light. Their bones, heavy with everything they’ve been holding back all year.

The destination? Unlisted. Just coordinates and salt in the air.

Their resort is tucked behind a jungle-draped cove, where the ocean turns every hour between sapphire and storm. They get a bungalow built into the rocks, with white curtains that dance in the breeze and a private pool Lando canonically cannonballs into within the first ten minutes. There’s no staff unless they call. No press. No fans. No schedule.

No pretending.

Just tan lines, sandy sheets, and Lando’s freckled legs draped lazily across Oscar’s lap while he scrolls through film presets.

⸻

They take photos for fun.

At first, it’s just lighthearted. Lando balancing a coconut on his head. Oscar half out of frame, frowning at a crab. But it shifts—inevitably.

Oscar gets serious about angles. He adjusts his focus with deliberate care, catching Lando in windows, mirrors, shadows. Lando teases him for it, calls him artsy boy with a grin that doesn’t quite hide the pink crawling up his neck.

But then one evening, the sky melts into gold and Oscar kneels in the sand like it’s instinct. The lens aimed just slightly upward.

“Stand there,” Oscar murmurs, barely audible over the tide. “Don’t move. Yeah—just like that.”

Lando obeys. Barefoot. Hair sun-flattened and still damp from a swim. The light makes him look unreal.

Oscar doesn’t post that picture. Not yet.

Lando does, though. That night. No caption. Just soft color grading and the curve of his jaw framed by sky.

Oscar uploads a photo too—a shot of the ocean at dusk. If you squint, there’s a silhouette in the distance. Human-shaped. Curled in a lounge chair with a book he’s been pretending to read for days.

They think they’ve been subtle.

They haven’t.

⸻

The first night, they take their time.

It’s slow. Gentle. Oscar pushes Lando into the mattress like he’s afraid he’ll vanish. Kisses down his chest like he’s memorizing him. Lando trembles. Gasps. Fists the sheets and whispers please into Oscar’s shoulder like he means it for everything they’ve been afraid to want.

The second night is messier. Sweat-slicked. Hungrier. Lando claws at him. Oscar bites his neck. They fall asleep tangled, bruised in places no one will see.

The third?

The third is when Lando takes control.

⸻

It starts in the outdoor shower. The water’s warm. The night’s warmer. Their skin already flushed from too much sun and not enough restraint.

Lando steps into Oscar’s space with lazy confidence. Hips swaying. Eyes half-lidded.

“You gonna just stare or—?” he hums, voice syrupy and slick.

Oscar grunts softly, hands coming up to cup Lando’s thighs. His grip is sure. Grounding. Lando leans into him.

And then—

Then Lando jumps, wrapping his legs around Oscar’s waist like he was made for it. He presses close, hot chest to chest, and captures Oscar’s mouth in a kiss that tastes like salt and heat and yes.

Oscar’s hands slide beneath his thighs, supporting him effortlessly as Lando settles over his cock, slow and shaking and fuck, warm. The water beats down around them, cascading in rhythm with their breath.

“Shit—” Lando gasps, head dropping against Oscar’s shoulder as he sinks fully, jaw slack. “God, you—fuck.

Oscar groans, taking the lead and sitting down on the bamboo bench in the huge shower. One hand gripping Lando’s waist tight enough to bruise. The other finding the back of his neck, grounding him as he pulses deep inside.

“You’re unreal,” Oscar murmurs against the shell of his ear. “You feel—Christ, Lando—don’t hide from me.”

“I’m not,” Lando whispers, voice wrecked. “Just—need a second.”

But he doesn’t wait.

He lifts himself with a roll of his hips and drops back down with a strangled moan, water spraying between them, skin slipping against skin. The shower fills with the sound of Lando’s panting, the wet slap of movement, the tremble in Oscar’s voice as he begs him to slow down—or don’t, fuck, don’t stop.

Lando rides him like it’s holy. Like the way Oscar says his name is scripture. Like the look in his eyes is something Lando’s waited his whole life to see.

“Close—so close,” Lando gasps, head tipping back, curls dripping, thighs trembling where they grip around Oscar’s waist.

Oscar cups his jaw, brings their foreheads together.

“Look at me,” he says, voice rough and reverent. “I want to watch you fall apart.”

And Lando does.

With a breathless cry that breaks in the middle. With his nails digging into Oscar’s shoulders. With his orgasm crashing over him like the sea. Oscar thrusts up into him once—twice—then groans deep into his neck, coming hard and still holding Lando like he’s something fragile. Precious.

They stay like that for a while. Quiet. Water washing over them. Steam curling around the edges of something they can’t name but both feel.

⸻

The ring comes on a hike.

It’s too hot. They’re sweating. Lando’s shirtless and swinging a stick like it’s a sword. Oscar’s grumbling about bug spray and dehydration. But then—Lando turns.

He says something stupid. A joke, probably. His face flushed, eyes bright, curls a mess.

Oscar forgets how to breathe.

“You’re staring,” Lando smirks, cheeky and golden and his.

Oscar just nods. Getting on one knee.

Then pulls the ring from his pocket and holds it out without ceremony. Just a tiny velvet box and a heart beating far too fast.

“So…” he says, soft, “what if this was the announcement?”

Lando blinks. Laughs. Thinks he’s joking.

“You’re serious?” he asks, wide-eyed, voice shaking.

Oscar nods. “I wasn’t planning to. But I’m not waiting either.”

Lando kisses him like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. They tumble into the grass, laughing and crying, and the ring vanishes somewhere in the chaos.

(It’s found five minutes later tangled in Lando’s curls.)

⸻

The Instagram posts happen later.

Not a soft launch. Not even a plan.

Just blurry sun-drenched glimpses. Toes in the sand. A reflection in sunglasses. The same sunset posted an hour apart. One drink. Then two.

No tags. No location.

But the fans?

Oh, they know.

⸻

Under Lando’s post:

@/piastriposse: THAT’S OSCAR’S LEG I’M GONNA THROW UP

@/softlaunchdetective: this is a SHARED TOWEL. a SHARED RING. we are so BACK

@/landofthewives: NOT HIM WEARING OSCAR’S CHAMPIONSHIP HAT IN THE REFLECTION. DO THEY THINK WE’RE BLIND??

⸻

Under Oscar’s post:

@/feralfansunited: lando’s shoulder freckle. i’ve memorized it. i know

@/f1softlaunch: those are lando’s toes. i’d bet my life on it.

@/oscaroflove: so… honeymoon. not to be weird but. wedding when?

⸻

Lando’s scrolling in bed, snorting into the pillow. Oscar’s beside him, shirtless, ring on his finger, sipping something cold.

“We’re so shit at hiding,” Lando says, laughing.

Oscar shrugs, grinning. “Do you care?”

Lando thinks about the ring around his finger. The picture of Oscar looking at him like he hung the fucking sun. The quiet way they’ve stopped pretending.

He turns, kisses Oscar slow. Long. Like a promise.

“No,” he murmurs. “Not anymore.

Oscar smiles into his mouth. “Good. Because I’m not hiding when you’re mine.”

Lando hums. “Guess we’re married now.”

Oscar runs his thumb over Lando’s cheekbone. “More like engaged, we’ll need to plan the wedding when we get back home, Lan.”

And maybe it wasn’t supposed to be the announcement.

But god—maybe it was everything else.

⸻

January 2026 — Media Day, Hell Edition

They walk in holding hands.

Not in some dramatic, press-stunt way. Just like they always do now—fingers laced, easy and worn-in, like the world hasn’t made it their business yet. But it has.

And it’s obvious the press hasn’t moved on.

Not even close.

The cameras flash like lightning. Reporters lean forward like wolves catching a scent. And even though they’ve been public for over a month—ever since that quiet Instagram post with Lando’s hand on Oscar’s cheek, the sunset, the soft caption (“finally feels like home”)—the media still wants blood.

The first half of the press conference is manageable. Race prep. New car upgrades. Blah blah. But everyone’s just waiting.

Then someone finally asks the question they’ve been tiptoeing around like it’s not sitting in the front row.

“Now that you’re publicly dating, how do you plan to handle the inevitable breakup? Won’t that destroy the team dynamic?”

Oscar freezes.

Lando lets out a slow, disbelieving breath.

“Wow,” Lando says, eyebrows raised. “Starting the year off strong, huh?”

Oscar’s voice is razor-edged calm. “We plan on not breaking up, actually. Revolutionary concept.”

The reporter doesn’t back down. “But it’s inevitable, isn’t it? Relationships end. Especially under pressure. Especially when you’re teammates. What happens then? How does the team recover?”

Lando doesn’t blink. “You ask that kind of question to the drivers with wives and kids, or just us?”

“Just you,” Oscar adds, dry as sand. “Clearly.”

Another voice cuts in.

“Some fans think this is all a publicity thing. Or that it’s messing with your focus.”

Oscar tilts his head. “Strange. Didn’t mess with my pole position last month.”

Lando nods slowly. “Didn’t mess with his reaction time either. On track or in bed.”

A stunned silence. A few cameras click.

Oscar sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering, “Oh my god, Lando.”

“Sorry,” Lando whispers, but he’s not.

One woman calls out with a fake-sweet smile:

“You don’t worry about being too… public? Some say it’s a bit performative.”

Oscar deadpans, “You mean existing while gay?”

The room shifts. Uncomfortable. Tight.

Lando’s voice is low, but sharp enough to cut. “We don’t owe you neat little soundbites about our relationship. It’s real. We love each other. If that’s distracting for you, that’s a you problem.”

More questions keep coming. Ones wrapped in concern, but barbed with judgment.

“What if one of you underperforms? Will the other one be blamed?”

“Are you afraid of emasculating the sport?”

“What do you say to young fans who might be… confused by this?”

Oscar’s jaw clenches. “Confused by what? Two men caring about each other? Being happy?”

Lando stares dead into the cameras. “If a kid sees us and feels a little less scared about being themselves—then good. Let them be confused. Let them ask questions. That’s how people learn.”

The PR team cuts it short. Mercifully.

Back in the motorhome, Lando sinks into the sofa and exhales hard, like he’s been holding his breath all morning.

Oscar paces, chewing the edge of his thumbnail. “They’re just going to keep pushing. They don’t want us happy. They want us apologizing for it.”

Lando looks up, eyes tired but steady. “Let them.”

Oscar stops. Turns.

“We’re not here to make them comfortable,” Lando says. “We’re here to win. And to be us. If that’s too much for them, they’re in the wrong damn job.”

Oscar sits beside him, and Lando laces their fingers together again. This time tighter. Not soft. Not for show.

Just to feel anchored.

Because yeah—this season’s going to be hell.

But they’re in it together.

And that still makes it worth it.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

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starkeymeow · 3 months ago

Text

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT chapter three, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, first day of training, sneak peak at possible allies? me not proofreading because its 3am

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you wake up to a white light. you blink a few times, slowly coming back into yourself, eyes dragging toward the bedside where a small floating orb hovers over the nightstand. the capitol doesn’t do clocks like back home. this one spins gently, its digital time cycling in slow motion along a ring of light, like a planet caught in orbit.

8:03.

you groan. it feels earlier. like the kind of early where the sky should still be dark and everything should be silent.

your head aches a little from the lack of sleep. you remember finally coming back to your room after standing out on the balcony with rafe. something about that quiet conversation settled your nerves, at least enough to try sleep again. maybe you’d felt . . . human. for a second. despite knowing what he was, what you were, what you both had to become.

you hear the door creak open just seconds later. no knock. of course not. and then a voice you’re already too familiar with.

“rise and shine, sweetheart.”

enobaria. sharp and smug and already dressed like she’s ready to give someone hell. your eyes roll before you even sit up, but you do as told.

the next half hour is a blur. your prep team cycles through you like you’re something to be tuned up. a hot shower, someone checks the water for you first. someone else towels off your hair. someone is already laying out your uniform for the day while you’re still dripping. another pulls your socks up for you.

it’s . . . invasive. overbearing. but you let it happen. what else are you gonna do?

your training attire is simple and dark: a black short-sleeved shirt with a stretch fit, soft red and light gray stripes that loop down your arms and underarms. your district number is stitched into both sleeves and the center of your upper back, almost like a warning label.

your pants match, black, breathable, striped down the sides. the shoes are all black too, a little stiff, leather with a hard rubber sole. you can already tell they’ll be louder than you want them to be. your hair’s pulled back into a tight style, something practical. you barely noticed it happening honestly.

rafe shows up in the hallway right as you’re stepping out, dressed the same. he gives you a once-over and then a small nod. doesn’t say anything about the bags under your eyes, though you can tell he clocked them. good. because you clock his too.

breakfast is short, mostly just food you don’t recognize. you and rafe talk in low murmurs on your way down the long, chrome hall to the training center eventually. just little things, like if he’s got a strategy, which stations he wants to try first. you don’t mention the quiet kid from five who hasn’t said a word since arriving. or the tiny girl from three who barely ate at breakfast.

you enter the training center soon. it's a massive underground space. cold but clean, stretching longer than you expected. the floors are matted in sections, polished dark rubber with drawn rings and arrows and symbols you don’t understand yet.

stations line the walls, each marked by clean signage and equipped with tools, instructors, and polished weapons. there are sections for knot tying, survival gear, plant identification, camouflage. a whole row of bladed weapons. another for climbing, throwing, agility. even a space that looks like a makeshift wilderness setting. nothing in here is for show.

everyone’s standing now, spaced out across a wide circle marked on the main mat. a foot between you and the next tribute. a few inches between you and rafe. no one’s talking. no one’s moving.

then, right on time, the head trainer enters. her uniform is clean-cut and razor sharp. her eyes move over all of you like you’re parts on a conveyor belt, and she stops in the center of the circle and raises her voice, cool and clinical.

“two weeks from now, only one of you will still be breathing,” she says flatly, like she's done this a hundred times before and doesn’t care to sugarcoat it. “the rest? well, you’ll figure out what that means soon enough. if you want a shot at staying alive, you better focus over the next three days—especially right now.”

“let me be clear. there’s no sparring with each other in here, save the bloodshed for the arena. you’ll go through four mandatory stations, the rest is self-guided. and before you all rush for the blades and axes . . . remember this: most of you won’t die from a weapon. you’ll die because you didn’t learn how to survive an infection.”

she pauses, arms crossed. eyes sharp.

“infection, thirst, the cold. all things that’ll gut you faster than any knife if you’re not prepared. so don’t waste time. and don’t waste my patience.”

her words last a minute or two longer, just explaining how the day will go. then silence hangs heavy after she finishes. you glance around slowly. some tributes look shaken, some expressionless. rafe stands still beside you, unreadable.

you glance up at him once the trainer finishes her little speech, her voice still ringing somewhere in the back of your mind. “infection, thirst, the cold”? all of it sounding so casual coming from someone who isn’t about to die.

rafe meets your eyes briefly, dull as ever. it’s the only interaction you get before the peacekeepers start lining everyone up. female tribute first, male behind. straight line. district order. you’re toward the front, but not the first obviously.

then you’re escorted to the first station.

the first test is some free climb, a forty-foot steel wall that’s like a rocky terrain, each handhold slightly different in texture or shape. some are slick. some jagged. it’s designed to screw with your muscle memory.

you don’t fall, but your arms shake by the time you reach the top and slap the buzzer. you hear someone below scream on their way down. not dead, but definitely bruised.

rafe climbs like he’s done this before. one hand after the other, legs locked in, perfect grip. he hits the buzzer before you’ve even caught your breath on the descent ladder.

the second station is rope traversal. thick ropes hang from one end of the platform to the other. the goal is to cross using only your upper body.

your palms burn by the halfway point, and your ribs feel like they’re being pulled apart by your own weight. you grunt through it, don’t fall, but you do let go with a near-drop at the end, stumbling onto the platform as you land.

station three is a weighted sprint. you’re handed a duffel bag filled with an unspoken amount of weight, and told to run two laps around the obstacle perimeter. it’s meant to simulate carrying gear or injured allies, maybe even dragging a kill?

you start off strong but slow on the corners, but you make it. you’re not bad. you’re not the worst. you’re surviving. but next to him, it’s clear. rafe’s built for this.

the final mandatory station is balance and precision.

thin beams rise ten feet off the ground, twisting and zig-zagging over a safety net. the goal is to make it from one side to the other, picking up three sandbags along the way without falling. if you fall, you start over.

you wobble on the second beam, your hand twitching just over the sandbag as you try not to look down. but you recover, breathing slow, keeping steady. you make it, knees bent, hands on your thighs, trying not to show how out of breath you really are.

you catch yourself watching rafe when he’s done, arms crossed over your chest, eyes narrowed just slightly. not in judgment. more like in thought.

you’re glad, in a way. not just because he’s from your district, but because he’s already in your alliance.

you think about districts one and four. haven’t even seen their faces yet, just vague impressions at the line-up from earlier. you don’t know who to watch, but you’ll figure it out soon enough. you have to.

once you finish the final station, your name is logged, and you’re finally cleared for individual training. most people make a beeline for the obvious, the weapons. so do you.

but tributes scatter to different corners of the gym, gravitating toward what feels familiar. some head straight for the swords, others to the climbing walls again, one to camouflage and another to the edible plant stations.

you walk, steady, eyes locked on a small rack nestled near the far wall, one you clocked earlier but hadn’t gone near yet. it's the dagger station. the setup is split in half: one side for still targets, the other clearly for simulations, like moving dummies, real-time challenges, all of it watched over by a quiet capitol instructor with a clipboard and an unnerving smile.

as you approach, there’s already someone there. a tribute. tall, lean, maybe from eight or six, you're not sure, but he’s lingering, standing too still in front of the rack of blades, like he’s weighing the decision to try or walk away before anyone notices his hesitation.

he notices you instead. your boots don’t make much noise on the padded floor, but you know your presence does. you don't say a word. just look at him, one brow slightly raised in passing curiosity as your gaze shifts to the daggers. that’s all it takes. he steps aside without protest. not rude, not scared, just smart. he can sense it, that you won’t wait or ask.

you don’t react. you just stop in front of the rack and let your gaze trail over the knives. sleek, symmetrical, clearly custom-forged here in the capitol. even the grips look different than the ones you’ve trained with back home. too polished. too perfect. not broken in. no bite in the steel yet.

you hover your fingers over the hilts, considering. but before you grab one, you look behind. not for anything in particular, just instinct, and you find him again. rafe. across the room near the maces.

he’s already picked one out. the thing’s massive, iron or something close enough, and he holds it with both hands, adjusting his grip once before bringing it down over the head of a practice dummy. the crash is loud. you can hear it even from where you’re standing.

it’s not clean. not like a sword would be. the mace is messier, heavier, built for blunt force damage. the dummy rocks from the impact, its shoulder tearing where the blow landed.

rafe pulls the mace back, steps aside, resets, and slams it again. over and over, calculated, patient.

you face forward again to wrap your fingers around the dagger hilt, finally. it’s just definitely capitol-made. they cared more about how it looks than how it feels. but it’s not bad. the balance is decent.

you turn it slowly in your palm, testing the blade’s alignment, the way your fingers press against the smooth edge of the guard.

you don’t throw the dagger right away. you just grip light at first, shift your weight slightly, and eye the targets set up in front of you. four of them. they’re just stationary, so they don’t move. not yet. they’re lined up in a row at the far end of the station, each shaped like the upper torso of a tribute with a head, chest, stomach. flat, padded, replaceable.

you roll your shoulder back and bounce the dagger once in your palm. it’s like it clicks into place, the way it fits.

then you exhale slow, step forward, and throw. it’s not precise, it’s just to see.

the blade sinks into the board, low, left, just below the ribcage. not bad, not a miss, but not what you were aiming for.

you tilt your head, glance down at your stance. your mouth tugs into the faintest smile, not out of arrogance, more like recognition.

there it is.

you get it now.

you throw five of them after. by the time you hit the last dagger, you don’t even hesitate. each one lands sharper than the last. headshot. headshot. headshot.

you nod to yourself, barely. just a small dip of your chin, like an invisible pat on the back. that was good. not perfect, because perfect would’ve been being able to get that first one right, but you were close. enough to be proud of without getting cocky.

you step aside to give the instructor room to collect the knives, brushing your hands against your sides and exhaling through your nose. you’re still rolling the momentum out of your shoulders when—

“that’s it?”

the voice is close. too close. it startles you. you turn quick, brows pulling together, and there he is. rafe.

you swear he was just across the floor a second ago. but now he’s here, leaning into your space like he’s always been there, like he didn’t just sneak up on you like some smug little shadow.

you press a hand to his chest, more like a shove. “you’re not funny.”

he barely budges, but his grin flickers to life anyway, crooked and amused. “you didn’t answer the question.”

you roll your eyes as you look away. “yes, i’m done.”

he glances at the targets behind you, then back to you with a raised brow. “you sure? i mean . . . impressive, yeah. solid hits. but kinda felt like the warm-up.”

“i didn’t ask for a critique.”

“i’m just saying.” he shrugs. “they weren’t even moving.”

you narrow your eyes at him. “and what, you think i can’t handle the simulation?”

“i think you haven’t tried it.” he’s already starting to walk backward, slow and deliberate, nodding toward the second half of the station. “which is weird. considering you’ve got decent aim. i figured you’d want to show off a little.”

you don’t move, arms crossed.

he stops a few feet ahead, hand resting on the edge of the rail track, glancing back at you like he already knows you’re gonna follow.

right. a career who doesn’t wanna show off. how is that gonna look in front of the tributes and gamemaker?

you’re silent, just watching. but you finally walk over, catching up to him with a narrowed stare, though there’s a faint smile threatening to tug at the corner of your mouth. he sees it. doesn’t say anything about it, but you know he sees it.

“fine,” you say, stepping into place. “but you have to show me your skills with a mace after.”

“deal,” he says, already watching like he’s waiting for a show.

you turn your eyes to the simulation track, grip settling around the hilt of a new dagger. no second to waste.

you flick your gaze to the instructor, give a subtle nod. no words, just that. he seems to get it right away. he taps a panel on the edge of the control board, and suddenly the whole station shifts.

you step back slightly, give yourself space.

the dummies begin to move.

not all at once, but in patterns. some slide laterally on hidden rails, others pivoting or swaying like they’ve got minds of their own. they’re not human, but they mimic the chaos, like fast feet, unpredictable angles. it’s the kind of motion meant to rattle your focus. but you don’t let it.

you take a slow breath. the dagger is already familiar in your hand. you twist it once between your fingers, then again, and your eyes lock on the first moving target. you step into it.

the first throw is clean. blade sinks into the chest of a dummy mid-glide. not dead center, but close. you don’t react to it, just shift to the next. you pivot on your back foot and hit another one on the right, this time with a flick of your wrist that feels more instinct than aim.

you’re not thinking hard anymore, just flowing. moving like this is something you've done before. not like a killer, but like someone who knows their body. where the weight is. where to let it go.

you spin once, low and fluid, like you’re dodging something invisible, then plant and launch another blade. it cuts through the space, hitting a target mid-turn.

you don’t look at rafe, but you feel him watching.

when the final dummy rolls into place, you throw the last dagger without stopping, and it hits so close to center it gives the instructor a pause.

you exhale, and finally turn your head to glance at your district partner.

he’s leaning against the rail now, arms crossed. his brows are lifted, and he nods once, slowly. “okay,” he says. nothing else. just that.

but the corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s holding back something else. a smirk. a compliment. a challenge.

you don’t push for it. you just smile, barely, and look away. like you didn’t care if he saw or not. like this was always just for you.

your smile swiftly fades the second your eyes drift past rafe. a pair of tributes are watching.

not in the casual, curious kind of way. not admiring. not impressed. they stand shoulder to shoulder at a nearby station, hands still at their sides, not even pretending to train. just watching. both of them.

the boy’s tall, broad-shouldered, hair the color of sand after a storm. it flops over his forehead, nearly into his eyes. blue, if you look close enough.

there’s something striking about him, something almost familiar. you can’t quite place it until a memory drifts back. he looks like some victor from a few years ago. it’s obviously not him, but close. close enough it makes your throat dry a little.

next to him, the girl looks different. she’s composed, still, but with a simmer under her olive skin. curls spill down her back in a way that feels intentional, not careless. she stands straighter than him, more poised, like she’s already figured out the game and is choosing not to play her hand yet. she’s just watching with a kind of quiet calculation you’ve only ever seen in people who don’t speak until it matters.

they look nothing alike, but they match.

and they’re both looking at you.

rafe catches the shift in your expression immediately. his head tilts, a little. that lazy kind of curiosity he wears like a second skin. and then he turns. just slightly, barely a full movement, but it’s enough.

his gaze cuts across the room like a blade, and you swear you can feel it. the pair of tributes react immediately.

their eyes dart away fast like they hadn’t been staring at all. like they didn’t just watch every single move you made. they turn back to their station, grabbing at the spears in front of them with quick hands, and neither of them look back again.

you watch them for another second, then catch it, literally stitched in white thread on the upper part of their black shirts. a number.

district four.

cassaline’s voice flashes in your mind, that district four had shown interest in teaming up with you and rafe. an early alliance. a temporary one, if necessary. and now they’ve seen you.

you look up at rafe again. he’s still facing their direction, unreadable. but then he turns his head back to you, slow, steady. your eyes meet.

it’s like you’re both thinking the same thing again. they saw what you could do. and now you’ve seen them.

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @ariiwritess @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae

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clarkeysbedchem · 2 months ago

Text

mustang baby

will lenney x fem reader

summary: you and Will go for a drive in his new car

warning: mature content (18+ only)

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You could hear it before you could see it. The deep, throaty purr of an engine rolling into the driveway which you assumed was one of the neighbors new car, but when you glance out the front window and spot a gleaming black Mustang pulling in, your heart does a little skip. Will's behind the wheel, grinning like the devil, one hand lazily resting at the top of the steering wheel, the other flicking off the ignition with an unnerving casualness.

You were already opening the front door by the time he stepped out, sunglasses low on his nose, eyes glinting as he watches your reaction.

“You bought a Mustang?”you gaped, taking in the slick curves, the polished chrome, the way it was practically growls even when it’s silent.

Will shrugged, walking around the car to lean against the passenger side, “Thought it was time for something fun.”

“And what am I, chopped liver?”

“You're fun in a different way," he teased with a wink, opening the door for you, "Get in. We’re going for a spin.”

You didn’t hesitate skipping over to the passenger side letting him help you into the car. The leather interior smelt new, the seat hugging your body, and when Will starts it up again, the engine roars to life like it’s alive. He pulls out of the driveway fast, tires skimming the road, and you couldn’t help but laugh at the sheer recklessness of it.

“God, you look hot driving this,” you murmur, resting your hand on his thigh.

Will shot you a glance smirking at your words, “Careful darling, We’ve only just left the neighborhood.”

You smiled leaning back into your seat leaving your hand firmly in its place.

The roads are quieter as he veers onto the outskirts of town, cruising under the late golden sun. One hand of his remained firm on the wheel, but the other slips on top of yours restinf his leg, fingers grazing your knuckles before drifting just a little higher, encouraging.

“You wanna drive?” he asked, eyes still fixed on the road but with a teasing lilt in his voice.

“I’m good right here,” you replied, your voice relaxed now as heat curled in your stomach, “But I do want something else.”

He chuckles, the sound dripping like honey, “Yeah? What’s that?”

You leaned over the center console, lips brushing the edge of his jaw, just enough to make it clench beneath your touch, “Pull over and I’ll show you.”

The brakes are gentle but immediate as he coasts to a quiet stop on a gravel turnout, nothing around but open sky and trees swaying in the breeze. He turned to you, one brow raised, “Well?”

You climbed into his lap before he could finish the thought, straddling him with a sly grin. His hands immediately settle on your hips, grounding you as you rock forward, slow and teasing.

“This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” he breathed, voice already rough.

“You’re the one who bought a car that sounds like sex,” you whisper, lips brushing against his, “Don’t act surprised.”

His hands tightened. The leather seat creaks beneath you both as mouths crashed, all heat and tongue, the car fogging up like some cliché. Your body arching into his as you grinded down, pulling needy gasps from both your throats. Will’s hands traveled beneath your top, thumbs sweeping up your sides, and you gasp against his lips, every nerve standing on edge.

“God, you’re gonna let me ruin you in this car, yeah?” he growled.

You kiss him harder humming against his lips in agreement not wanting to part from him.

The air inside the Mustang is thick with heat and want, your breath coming fast as Will’s hands slide up beneath your top, fingertips grazing your ribs, then higher, thumbs brushing under your bra until you gasp into his mouth.

“Off,” he instructed, voice deep, commanding.

You didn’t need to be told twice. You pulled your top over your head and unclasping your bra, dropping them into the footwell. His eyes wandered over your chest with dark hunger, hands cupping you instantly, thumbs rolling over your nipples until you were writhing in his lap.

“You’re unreal,” he muttered, voice low and wrecked, like he’s holding himself back, “And you’re all mine.”

You moved to grind down again, desperate for friction, but Will grabbed your hips and stopping you.

“Not yet.”

“Will,” you whimpered, clutching at his shoulders, but he only smirked and leaninh in, mouth hot and possessive as he sucked one nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to make your back arch. He switches sides without pause, and by the time he finally lets go, you're panting, dizzy with need.

He reached between you, palm brushing down your stomach to the button of your jeans. He popped it open with one hand like it was nothing before shovinh your jeans and underwear down in one rough tug, leaving you bare in his lap, thighs spread across him, dripping for him.

“You're already soaked,” he murmured, dragging two fingers through your folds, “Fucking hell, love.”

You cried out when he rubs your clit, dropping your head to his shoulder as he rubbed slow and deliberate circles onto the bundle of nerves, his fingers teasing everywhere except where you need them most.

“Need you,” you managed to breathe out between broken moans, rocking into his hand, nails digging into his shoulders, “Will, please.”

“Tell me what you want,” he growled, his fingers circling your entrance, slowly sliding in two at once, deep thrusting just right.

“Want you inside me,” you gasped out, “Need your cock, Will, please.”

“Good girl.”

He lifted you off him for a moment, just long enough to shove his own jeans down to his thighs, his cock hard and flushed against his stomach the tip glistening. You reached for it on instinct, but he grabbed your wrist and pinning it behind your back.

“Let me,” he muttered, voice cracking with restraint.

He lined himself up pulling you down slow, inch by inch, until you were full, stretching around him, the pressure sending shockwaves through your whole body. You cried out clinging onto him, and he swallowed the sound with a rough, possessive kiss.

“That’s it,” he groaned against your lips, gripping your hips tight, “Take it all, baby.”

Then he started a rhythm. His hands guiding your body to bounce on his lap in rough and deep motions making the whole car rock. Your thighs were shaking within seconds, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders as he pounds up into you relentlessly.

The windows now completely fogged, the steam radiating from your bodies curling on the glass, sweat slicking your skin as the Mustang fills with the filthy sound of skin on skin, your gasps, his rough and low praises.

“You’re so tight,” he gritted out through his teeth, “Fucking perfect.”

You were close and Will knew it, the way you tightened around him squeezing with every bounce. His thumb found your clit, circling fast, and you shatter with a scream, walls pulsing around him, body jerking in his grip as your orgasm crashes through you.

Will wasn’t far behind. He let go of every last ounce of control, slamming up into you with a strangled groan before spilling inside you, heat flooding you as he held you down on him, breath ragged.

For a moment, you both just breathed still tangled and blissfully spent.

Then he dropped his forehead against yours, eyes still dark but soft now.

“Best car I’ve ever bought,” he said with a lazy grin.

You laughed breathlessly, pressing a kiss to his mouth, “I agree.”

taglist: @jamiekluivert @reidyourpalms @roc-haze @whisperturnedecho @graceln4 @dopeysunflowers @super-gay-for-u @bethorwhateverr @livvymd @lilyyxoii @4ngelrealm @kiyoomology @canyouseethesainz @happyclifford @golden-hoax @tatumrileyslover @madforgeorge @themdera @xlovergirlx @smzyyx @bowielovesyou @pretendyoucantseeme

#will lenney x reader #willne x reader #will lenney #willne #willne smut #will lenney smut #george clarkey #chrismd #arthur hill #italianbach #arthurtv #wroetoshaw #clarkeysbedchem #ukyt #ultrakill #british youtubers

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annachum · 2 days ago

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I feel like CHROME deserves a full Cars spin off series ( especially maybe from Holley's POV or smth )

Like navigate on how the international spy organization works and Holley juggling with being the daughter of two prominent spies and such

#holley shiftwell #cars spin off #chrome

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leclercstars · 1 year ago

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advantage, zweig.

college!art donaldson x college!patrick zweig x reader based on this request

Summary: You've been into Art for years, but after he misses out on your senior awards ceremony, your feelings completely disappear. Seeing you out with a new guy certainly didn't help Art feel any better either. Warnings: mentions of alcohol, drug usage, kissing, mentions of sex.

You had been friends with Art and Tashi since you all were in the 5th grade. Spent hours on the playground together and in each other’s backyards before tennis consumed all three of you. When you all committed to Stanford, the joint going-away party your parents threw was unforgettable for quite a few reasons.

There had never really been any romantic tension between any of you. You and Tashi always had different types, and Art was sort of a self-proclaimed fuckboy so neither of you wanted anything to do with that. At least neither of you ever let it show. You had a sort of evergreen crush on Art, that seemingly persisted through every phase of your lives. From playing spin the bottle in basements to sneaking out for real parties in high school, the silent yearning you had for his touch never fully went away. Even when you had other boyfriends, shamefully, you always caught yourself thinking of Art when you listened to playlists they had made you. So when you walked him out to his car alone after your party, both of you single, Tashi preoccupied with talking to the adults, you knew you couldn’t pass up the opportunity. Bathed in the yellowy light of the street lamp, you leaned up against his car, wearing a low-cut white mini dress that did a good job of showing off your assets. Exactly what you wanted in this moment. It was 10pm, and the summer breeze had picked up, making your nipples pique through the thin fabric of the little dress. Art slowly stepped towards you, saying nothing, the lighting making his features dark, shadowy, lustful. His hands found the curve of your waist and pinned you against the chrome car door, tongue snaking its way down your throat with a passion that you had never experienced before. You tangled your hands in his hair, never wanting to let go of him or this moment. You kissed for what felt like hours, but as soon as he pulled away you already missed the taste of his lips against yours. He rested his forehead on yours, eyes closed, thumb rubbing your cheek. And then he got in the car and drove off.

And that was it. You never spoke of that moment again. You never told Tashi. That was it. And it was eating away at you. Your insides were constantly being mauled by a hunger for the feeling of his hands on you again. It was like a drug. A moment that had happened two years ago, and you constantly wanted another hit of that feeling. You all stayed friends, and you started to wonder if Art even remembered that it happened. It became harder and harder with each passing day to just act like things were the same, even when you had boyfriends of your own. You felt awkward bringing them around Art, knowing the way you felt. You still texted him all the time, hoping every notification was one from him. He had never been able to tie down a serious girlfriend, but spent quite a bit of time going on dates, which Tashi thought was trashy. “You can’t just keep leading girls on!” she would constantly groan. Boy, if only she knew. You kept yourself distracted from your own emotions by throwing yourself into school work, knowing that would at least pay off eventually. You excitedly texted Tashi and Art when you learned you were earning a distinguished senior award, and both of them promised to come to the ceremony. Tashi showed up 10 minutes early, always eager and overly punctual. 5 minutes passed, then 10, then 20. No sign of Art. He wasn’t responding to either of your texts, and Tashi started rubbing your back, knowing how excited you were about him being there. You had all done everything together for so long, and Art was missing out on the most important moment of your college career. How could he? This man you had loved for so long suddenly exposing his true colors sent a shock throughout your entire body. It was like waking up from a deep sleep, your feelings for Art slowly dissipating into the air around you. You heard a knock on your apartment door late that night. It was Art, standing there with flowers, wearing his sweat-stained Stanford tennis t-shirt.

“I am so sorry.” “I don’t care Art,” you snapped, starting to close the door when he put his hand out to stop you, forcing himself inside. “Get out of my house,” each word dripping like venom off your tongue. “At least let me apologize, I overslept.” “You don’t get to just oversleep an important moment in my life and then expect me to act like it never happened,” you were choking back tears, not wanting to appear vulnerable in front of the man who hurt you so badly. “You’re gonna throw 10 years away for this? For one moment?” Art’s emotion was visceral, slicing through the thick tension hanging between the two of you. “I loved you Art,” you said matter of factly. “But this isn’t the only time you’ve “overslept” and no one who is wasting my time is worth any of mine.” He stood there, mouth agape. Tears welling up in the bottom of his eyes. He looked like a sad puppy, which was making it harder and harder for you to remain stone faced.

“What?” he said softly, voice quivering. “Get out, Art.” you choked. You couldn’t do this right now, just wanting to push him out of your apartment and out of your life. He threw the flowers on the table and left, slamming the door behind him. The wilted flowers still sat there two weeks later when you were bringing Patrick through the door, drunkenly stumbling with him to your bedroom. Tashi had set the two of you up after you spent hours crying to her about Art. “You can’t spend the rest of your life buried in a pint of ice cream,” she said. Obviously, it went well, as you watched him slip the condom out of his wallet before you shut your bedroom door.

Things were far from serious between you and Patrick. You couldn’t stand the thought of experiencing real emotion for anyone at the moment. Patrick was fun, he was sexy. He loved going out and he was always happy to provide you with drunk cigs. Patrick showed up right at the perfect moment on Friday night. You were already drunk and all that tequila had gone straight to your clit. It was like he had a magnetic field around him, pulling you closer and closer with each passing minute. You met on the dance floor, your ass finding his crotch pretty easily as he pulled you in, the bumping techno song intoxicating you even more on him.

“Oh hey that guy over there sits next to me in class!” Patrick waved and grinned before getting back to feeling you up. It was Art. Standing at the edge of the dance floor, watching you bump and grind with a guy who he thought was a random classmate. Your phone pinged and you sneakily pulled it out to read the text. It was from Art.

“I’m pretty sure he does coke.” You rolled your eyes and glared at him.

“I don’t really care Art.”

“I’d be a much better dance partner.” he shot back

Your stomach fluttered a bit at that, but you suppressed it. Remembering why you had distanced yourself from Art in the first place. “Let’s get out of here” you whispered to Patrick.

The two of you waded through the crowd, hand-in-hand, and you were sure to choose a path that led you directly by Art. You walked past without glancing at him. Once you reached the door, you saw him standing there still, watching, mouth drawn in a tight line, brows furrowed.

You had never felt so satisfied.

dividers by @.cafekitsune

tags: @fangirlinc @nuhteyam

#challengers #challengers movie #challengers fic #art donaldson x patrick zweig x reader #challengers throuple #art donaldson smut #patrick zweig smut #art donaldson fluff #art donaldson imagine #art donaldson fic #art donaldson x reader #patrick zweig x art donaldson #patrick zweig imagine #patrick zweig x reader #challengers x reader

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hello-gloomy · 5 months ago

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Hello idk if you're taking requests right now or not. If you are, could I get a xeno or stanley one. You can decide what you wanna write about. THANK YOU!!!

Initially I was gonna do some horny shit for this but decided on somin cute instead and perfect timing for Valentines Day too! (Maybe next time ;p)

Also I hope u don't mind I did this as a poly I couldn't choose one or the other.

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Passenger plane

XenoStan x Fem!Reader

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Description: Our favorite doctor and soldier have a special day marked down on the calendar and head to the coast to see if it is genuinely the day they hope it is. A few of their coworkers tag along to see what the fuss is about.

Warnings: Mild angst, kissing, touching, maybe OOC, poly relationship, cursing, religion jokes, dark humor, slight mention of violence.

A/N: Man, this idea kept me awake, so now I'm writing this with an energy drink and a macaroon for breakfast.

Words: 1,404

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"And just where do the two of you think you're going?" Gen stops Stanley and Xeno with his line of questioning. The men in question stop way down the hall, let, letting the split-haired catch up to them.

"Out to the coast," Xeno told him curtly while Stanley sighed through his nose at Gen's noseyness.

"Without supervision?"

"You're more than welcome to join us." Xeno offered while Stanley walked ahead; Gen shrugged his arms and decided to follow. While walking to their destination, Senku, Chrome, Kohaku, and Ukyo somehow managed to tag along with a little complaint from the original two traversers of the trip. Walking along the natural path to the long coastline, Stanley continued watching the sky while Xeno conversed with his fellow scientists. Xeno took notice of his companion's subtle anxiousness and strayed away from his group to go over to the soldier.

"Hey," he started by bumping Stanley's shoulder, and he returned the gesture by grabbing the doctor's hand.

"Hey, yourself."

"She'll be there, " he told the taller man quietly, rubbing his thumb over his partner's enclosed hand. Stanley nodded while blowing out some smoke. When they arrived at the beach, the group had quieted down and was waiting for something. Finally, one of the younger members decided to break the silence.

"So, Uh, what are we here for exactly?" Chrome asked while glancing around the empty beach. Xeno and Stanley looked at each other before Xeno decided to answer his question.

"Today is an important occasion for us, " he told the boy, with nothing else to add to his unhelpful answer. Senku rolled his eyes and started walking closer to the water. Stanley went to watch the skies again, and some of the others followed suit. Ukyo perked up and looked in a specific direction.

"Another plane?"

"If we get invaded, I might just eriouslysay commit murder." Gen huffed out. A lovely white and silver plane started to descend from the clouds, lowering closer to the water and beginning to slow down as it hit the water, gliding until it was at the land. Not entirely stopped yet, the cockpit bursts open, and a person hops out of the still-landing plane, running straight toward the group. You rip off your goggles, and they crash to the ground while you're still running to the two men you haven't seen in such a long time; your eyes start to blur from the tears, but through the blurriness, from your eyes, you make out Stanley holding his arms open and outwards to you. Just a few steps away from him, you launch into his arms with a call of his and Xeno's names; he catches you in his arms, giving you a spin to balance out the rest of the motion you hit his body with. He drops you to the land, and your laughter fills the air, and pure happiness radiates off of you; when Stan lets go of you, you crush Xeno in a hug next, almost knocking him off his feet; he pets your hair and kisses your forehead affectionately.

"A dangerously elegant landing, my darling." Xeno teases while Stanley comes over to clap you on the back in agreement. You can already guess the fussing he'll give you later at how you could have potentially hurt yourself.

"Will someone explain?" Gen asks as he speaks for the rest of the speechless group. Senku and Chrome bolt over to check out the plane you had landed, much more interested in that than you.

"She went out two and a half years earlier to scout overseas for other Stone world survivors." Stanley begins to explain while you press your head against his back, taking the smell of your blonde lover in.

"We had contact with her at the start of her trip but lost contact a few months later. She told us an estimated time she would return; that was all we had left from her before all communications were gone for the next year and a half." While you move from behind Stanley, Xeno looks over the new people who joined your group in your absence. Stanley gives a half-interested introduction to everyone present; said group gives you a warm greeting, which you return equally as kind.

"And those to crack heads over there are Chrome and Senku." Stanley finishes. You all turn to look at the mentioned idiots, and your heart jumps at them, peeking inside your air-born home.

"Don't break anything!" You shout to them as you rush to the plane; the rest of the group follows. You get barraged with questions about the plane, how far you traveled, and if you met anyone else.

"I met a bunch of religious fanatics while in the north," You tell them while digging around and pulling out a battered bible as proof.

"They were going on about the 'second coming of Jesus' or something like that. They got pissed when I told them it was probably just aliens." You give Chrome the book, he flips a few pages, and his face cringes after the first few. You dig deeper through your things and pull out a few other things.

"They tried burning me too; I set them on fire first, though." You tell them proudly, getting a few horrified looks from the newer members but a nod from Stanley at you striking them first.

"Funny enough, while I was in Europe, some of the gothic architecture from our time was still in pretty good shape." You hand Senku a rock from some of the fallen pieces of the structure you mentioned.

"I also found a second version of the Silk Roads." You pull out multiple articles of clothing, jewelry, and even books. You pull out a wrapped item, hand it to Stanley, and tell him to open it later.

"Oh! There was a group of people I ran into that found out how to un-petrify people." You say with triumph, but your face screws up when no one seems all that impressed.

"Hate to break it to ya, but we already beat you to it," Senku tells you with a smirk, and your face drops.

"Nitric acid."

"Wow, so there's more than one method." Your smile returns, and everyone else drops their smiles at your statement.

"They used sodium nitrate to break the stone." You take out a stoned bird and a small vile, pour the liquid on the bird, and wait a few minutes before the cracking starts. Everyone watches as the bird flies away, small pieces of stone left in place of the once immobile bird.

-------

"We can finish discussing your miraculous adventures back at home." Xeno decides for everyone: Stanley and Ukyo help you with your bags while leaving your plane for later retrieval; Senku returns to pestering Xeno for more details on the aircraft while you stick close to Stanley and admire Xeno's newfound laxness.

You are now caught up on everything and, later in the evening, return to your shared home with your lovers; the two men sit on the shared bed, conversing quietly while watching you shoot around the room, letting yourself adjust to your home again. When finished, you come over with Xeno's gift and tell Stanley he can open his. They both open their gifts: Stanley gets a beautiful crystal knife, and Xeno gets a wonderfully crafted gramophone with a vinyl to go along with it.

"It's just a duet of a violin and a piano. Sorry, I couldn't get anything more modern." You tell him as you mess with your nails; he tilts your face upwards, caressing along your jaw before touching your foreheads together. Stanley lies backward against the pillows while doing tricks with his new weapon.

"It's pleasant, my dear, and a remarkable gift from you." He whispers to you. He sets the record up before setting it down on the side table and moves you to lay between him in Stanley. They smoosh you in close and start to pet you while the music plays in the background. You warm up from their touches, and they shift to add kisses to the mix, making you murmur shyly in response.

"You gave us such nice gifts; allow us to return the favor," Stanley whispers in your ear before biting your neck. You were immensely happy to be home with the two dear people you love the most.

#x reader #dr stone gen #dr stone senku #dr xeno #dr. stone #dr stone #dr stone x you #dr stone x reader #dr xeno x reader #dr stone stanley #stanxeno #stanley snyder x reader #xeno houston x reader #xeno x reader #dr stone xeno #xenostan

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mostlysignssomeportents · 8 months ago

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Forcing Google to spin off Chrome (and Android?)

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

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/19/breaking-up-is-hard-to-do/#shiny-and-chrome

Last August, a federal judge convicted Google of being "a monopolist" and acting "as one to maintain its monopoly." The judge concluded that key to Google's monopoly was the vast troves of data it collects and analyzes and asked the parties to come up with remedies to address this.

Many trustbusters and Google competitors read this and concluded that Google should be forced to share its click and quer y data. The technical term for this is "apocalyptically stupid." Releasing Google's click and query data into the wild is a privacy Chernobyl in the waiting. The secrets that we whisper to search engines have the power to destroy us a thousand times over.

Largely theoretical answers like "differential privacy" are promising, but remain theoretical at scale. The first large-scale live-fire exercise for these should not be something as high-stakes as Google's click and query data. If anything, we should delete that data:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/08/07/revealed-preferences/#extinguish-v-improve

The last thing we want to do is use antitrust to democratize surveillance so that everyone can spy as efficiently as Google does. In theory, we could sanitize the click and query data by limiting sharing to queries that were made by multiple, independent users (say, only sharing queries that at least 30 users have made), but it's unlikely that this will do much to improve the performance of rival firms' search engines.

Google only retains 18 months' worth of click and query data, thus once we cut off its capacity to collect more data, whatever advantage it has from surveillance will begin to decay immediately and fall to zero in 18 months.

(However: the 18 months figure is deceptive, and deliberately so. Google may only retain your queries for 18 months, but it is silent on how long it retains the inferences from those queries. It may discard your "how do I get an abortion in my red state" query after a year and a half, but indefinitely retain the "sought an illegal abortion" label it added to your profile. The US desperately needs a federal consumer privacy law!)

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/06/privacy-first/#but-not-just-privacy

And just to be clear, there's other Google data that would be very useful to rival search engines, like Google's search index – the trove of pages from the internet. Google already licenses this out, and search engines like Kagi use it to produce substantially superior search results:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/04/teach-me-how-to-shruggie/#kagi

The DOJ has just filed its proposal for a remedy, and it's a doozy: forcing Google to sell off Chrome, on the basis that both of these are the source of much of Google's data, and no rival search engine is likely to also have a widely used browser:

https://9to5google.com/2024/11/18/us-doj-google-sell-chrome/

This represents something of a compromise position: the DOJ had initially signalled that it would also demand a selloff of Android, and that's been dropped. I think there's a good case for forcing the sale of Android as a source of data, too.

In competition theory, these selloffs are referred to as "structural separation" – when a company that provides infrastructure to other firms is prohibited from competing with those firms:

https://locusmag.com/2022/03/cory-doctorow-vertically-challenged/

For example, it used to be that banks were prohibited from competing with the companies they loaned money to. After all, if you borrow money from Chase to open a pizzeria, and then Chase opens a pizzeria of its own across the street, you can see how your business would be doomed. You have to make interest payments to Chase, and your rival doesn't, and if Chase wants to, it can subsidize that rival so it can sell pizzas below cost until you're out of business.

Likewise, rail companies were banned from owning freight companies, because otherwise they would destroy the businesses of every freight company that shipped on the railroad.

In theory, you could create fair play rules that required the bank or the railroad to play nice with the business customers that used their platforms, but in practice, there are so many ways of cheating that this would be unenforceable.

This principle is well established in all other areas of business, and we recoil in horror when it is violated. You wouldn't hire a lawyer who was also representing the person who's suing you. Judges (with the abominable exception of Supreme Court justices!) are required to recuse themselves when they have a personal connection with either of the parties in a case they preside over.

One of the weirdest sights of the new Gilded Age is when lawyers for monopoly companies argue that they can play fair with their customers despite their conflicts of interest. Think of Google or Meta, with their ad-tech duopoly. These are companies that purport to represent sellers of ads and buyers of ads in marketplaces they own and control, and where they compete with sellers and/or buyers. These companies suck up 51% of the revenue generated by advertising, while historically, the share taken by ad intermediaries was more like 15%!

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/25/structural-separation/#america-act

Imagine if you and your partner discovered that the same lawyer was representing both of you in the divorce, while also serving as the judge, and trying to match with both of you on Tinder. Now imagine that when the divorce terms were finalized, lawyer got your family home.

No Google lawyer would agree to argue on the company's behalf in a case where the judge was employed by the party that's suing them, but they will blithely argue that the reason they're getting 51% of the ad-rake is that they're providing 51% of the value.

Structural separation – like judicial recusal – comprehensively and unarguably resolves all the perceptions and realities of conflict between parties. The fact that platform owners compete with platform users is the source of bottomless corruption, from Google to Amazon:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/28/enshittification/#relentless-payola

In other words, I think the DOJ is onto something here. That said, the devil is – as always – in the details. If Google is forced to sell off Chrome, rather than standing it up as its own competing business, things could go very wrong indeed.

Any company that buys Chrome will know that it only has a certain number of years before Google will be permitted to spin up a new browser, and will be incentivized to extract as much value from Chrome over that short period. So a selloff could make Chrome exponentially worse than Google, which, whatever other failings it has, is oriented towards long-term dominance, not a quick buck.

But if Google is forced to spin Chrome out as a standalone business, the incentives change. Anyone who buys Chrome will have to run it as a functional business that is designed to survive a future Google competitor – they won't have another business they can fall back on if Google bounces back in five years.

There's a good history of this in antitrust breakups: both Standard Oil and AT&T were forced to spin out, rather than sell off, parts of their empire, and those businesses stood alone and provided competitive pressure. That is, until we stopped enforcing antitrust law and allowed them to start merging again – womp womp.

This raises another question: does any of this matter, given this month's election results? Will Trump's DoJ follow through on whatever priorities the current DoJ sets? That's an open question, but – unlike so many other questions about the coming Trump regime – the answer here isn't necessarily a nightmare.

After all, the Google antitrust case started under Trump, and Trump's pick for Attorney General, the credibly accused sexual predator Matt Gaetz, is a "Khanservative" who breaks with his fellow Trumpians in professing great admiration for Biden's FTC chief Lina Khan, and her project of breaking up corporate monopolies:

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/trump-nominates-khanservative-matt

What's more, Trump is a landing strip for a stroke or coronary, which would make JD Vance president – and Vance has also expressed his approval of Khan's work.

Google bosses seem to be betting on Trump's "transactional" (that is, corrupt) style of governance, and his willingness to overrule his own appointees to protect the interests of anyone who flatters or bribes him sufficiently, or convinces the hosts of Fox and Friends to speak on their behalf:

https://www.mediamatters.org/donald-trump/comprehensive-review-revolving-door-between-fox-and-second-trump-administration

That would explain why Google capo Sundar Pichai ordered his employees not to speak out against Trump:

https://www.businessinsider.com/google-employees-memes-poke-fun-company-rules-political-discussion-2024-11

And why he followed up by publicly osculating Trump's sphincter:

https://twitter.com/sundarpichai/status/1854207788290850888

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

#pluralistic #google #trustbusting #antitrust #competition #structural separation #doj #chrome #browsers #web theory #big tech #gg

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demie90s · 20 days ago

Text

Just an idea.

Dijonai x Nalyssa X Fem!Reader

I haven’t been on a ranch in years. I also just wanted some feed back on stuff to add or fix cause girl I’m struggling but the concept pretty clear. And I know most of yall from the East and South where yall really got this type of stuff. Like help me out here. This only half.🙃

It’s 93 degrees, the kind of heat that don’t ask permission before it wraps around your neck like a thick rope. Dry, tight, and unforgiving. You got one boot planted on the lower rail, the other leg swung lazy like you ain’t got a care in the world, perchin’ on the edge of the porch rail just outside your daddy’s line of sight. Well—just barely outside.

You got your hat tilted back off your forehead, sweat glintin’ like molasses ‘cross your collarbone where your tank top don’t quite cling. Denim’s tight on your thighs, boots scuffed up, and there’s a calm to you—real calm. Ain’t much gets under your skin.

Except maybe the sight of that black Escalade crunchin’ gravel on the long drive up. Chrome wheels spinning up dirt like they offended it. You chuckle under your breath as it slows to a halt, but the sound don’t escape your daddy’s ears.

He glances over with that look—the kind that says don’t start. You raise your hands, mock surrender.

“I ain’t said nothin’,” you murmur, grin tugging the corner of your mouth as you slide off the railing and rest both boots on the wood. “Yet.”

Door opens. First thing out is legs. Glossy, toned, heels? In this heat? You blink once. Twice. And then she fully steps out like God took his time: Dijonai Carrington, in a tight tan mini skirt and white crop top, blonde bust down gleaming under the sun like a damn halo. Full face. Lashes. Gold hoops swingin’ like they on a schedule. You actually whistle—low and unintentional—but damn.

She look around like she stepped on Mars, not a Texas ranch. “It’s hot,” she mutters, fanning herself with a fresh set of acrylics.

Then NaLyssa steps out the passenger side. Now that’s more your speed.

Locs pulled back in a low bun. Oversized tee. Jordans. Gold fronts glintin’ when she smiles politely at your daddy and tips her chin up in greeting. She tall. Like tall-tall. But it’s sweet on her, soft. You’ve seen trees that give less shade.

Daddy’s talking before you even step down off the porch, introducing himself, givin’ the classic handshake. “This here’s my daughter. She’ll show y’all the ropes.”

They both turn to look at you.

Dijonai squints like she just spotted a mirage. NaLyssa tilts her head, already tryna figure you out.

“[Y/N],” you say, walking down the steps slow. You nod to NaLyssa first. “Texas girl, right? You look it.”

She smiles—small but there. “San Antonio. You?”

You thumb behind you. “Right here. Been ridin’ since before I could walk. We raise ropers, reiners, and the best damn beef this side of the Red River. You ride?”

NaLyssa laughs a little, bashful. “Little bit. Ain’t no pro.”

“I am,” you say plainly. Then your eyes slide to Dijonai. She’s starin’ at your hands. You don’t miss it. “You ride?”

Her mouth opens, slow. “I mean… I did pony rides at a fair once—”

You chuckle, tipping your hat at her. “We gone change that.”

She blinks. “What?”

“You’ll see,” you say, already turning toward the stables. You don’t look back, but you know they follow.

———————————————————————————————

They ain’t even halfway through the tour and Dijonai already fanned herself raw, hangin’ off the fence like a city girl stranded in hell. She jumped when a fly buzzed past her lip and damn near screamed when a goat sneezed behind her.

You lead a tall, gentle mare over—midnight black with soft eyes.

“Her name’s Sugar. She sweet as hell, don’t let the size scare you,” you murmur, keeping your voice calm as you stroke her neck. “Dijonai.”

She looks up, startled. “Huh?”

“C’mere.”

You don’t ask twice. You pat the saddle and nod. “You ridin’ today.”

“Baby,” she turns to NaLyssa. “You hear this?”

NaLyssa just shrugs, holding back a grin. “Go on. I’ll hold your purse.”

“You deadass?”

You nod. “You trust me?”

Dijonai hesitates. Then her lips purse. “…Fine. But if I fall, I’m suing everybody.”

You help her up, hands steady and strong at her waist. Her breath catches. You notice.

“You’ll be alright, pretty girl. Just hold on.”

By the time you get her trotting a few laps, she’s squealin’ like she on a roller coaster, but she’s laughin’. And damn if that don’t make you smile. You catch NaLyssa lookin’ at you again—chin resting on folded arms, eyes real low.

“You next,” you say, leading Sugar back. “But we ridin’ out. Trails. Real ridin’.”

NaLyssa steps forward with a slow grin. “I’m down.”

You smirk and wipe your brow with your shirt, giving them both a good look at what hard work in the sun can do to a body.

“Y’all better hydrate,” you say, winking at Dijonai, who’s breathless and blushing. “This heat’ll wear you out.”

———————————————————————————————

The sky bleeds gold when you take NaLyssa out.

Dijonai stayed behind with your mama, drinkin’ sweet tea and talkin’ skincare on the porch like they old cousins instead of strangers. Meanwhile, you and the tall one ride easy, Sugar walkin’ slow under the weight of two quiet bodies and the hum of cicadas.

You didn’t mean to get this close, but the trail narrowed and instead of pulling back, NaLyssa just… stayed. Her knee brushes your leg every time the mare shifts. Her voice low when she talks, careful, sweet. She got that natural charm to her, like honeysuckle in July—don’t even gotta try.

“I see why you don’t leave this place,” she says, tipping her head back to look at the sky.

You shrug. “Ain’t no reason to. Everything I need’s here.”

“Mmh,” she hums. “Bet you say that to all the girls.”

You glance over. She’s grinning, but you see that flush in her cheeks.

You deadpan, “I don’t say nothin’ to the girls.”

“You just ride up with that voice, them arms, and no explanation?”

You squint at her. “I’m polite.”

She snorts. “You lethal.”

You don’t respond—just keep walking the horse. Ain’t no point in braggin’. You let the silence thicken, let her sit in it.

By the time you make it back, the sun’s dipped low enough to set everything on fire. The porch lights glow. Dijonai’s on the swing now, legs folded under her, face bare, lashes off, bonnet tied. She still fine. Too fine. And when you help NaLyssa off the horse and stretch out your arms, cracking your back, they both look. Not subtle either.

“Whew,” you mutter, tossing your hat to the porch. “Y’all lookin’ at me like I did somethin’.”

“You did somethin’,” Dijonai says, licking her lips, then wiping her mouth like it’s innocent. “Why you built like that?”

You blink, then laugh. “Ma’am.”

NaLyssa’s leaned up against the railing now, arms folded, quiet again. You sit between the two of them on the porch swing like it’s your damn throne, one leg stretched out, iced tea in hand, cool glass sweatin’ against your palm.

“You got a girl?” Dijonai asks suddenly.

You don’t even blink. “No ma’am.”

She nods slowly. “So… nobody?”

You tilt your head, glance at her with a half-smile. “What you tryna ask me?”

NaLyssa clears her throat. “She mean… you single?”

“Yeah. I ain’t belong to nobody.”

That shuts ‘em up for a second. You rock the swing back with your heel. Slow. The wood creaks beneath you, but your posture? Lazy. Relaxed. Unbothered.

“Why?” Dijonai finally whispers. “You don’t like girls?”

You glance at her again, just enough to make her sit up straight.

“Oh, I love women,” you say, sipping your tea. “But I got too much peace to chase ‘em.”

That silence after? That’s not awkward. That’s tension.

NaLyssa shifts beside you, like she felt it too. Dijonai puts her cup down and watches you like she never saw you before.

You just blink real slow, still ain’t even lookin’ at ‘em like that. You’re the storm they didn’t expect—and they sittin’ in it.

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olive-treeeee · 2 months ago

Text

Strings of the heart - The Toymaker x Reader

Hello Mein Lieblings! This fic was requested by Anon who asked: “hi, im kinda new to requesting so im not sure if im doing things correctly, but is it cool if the reader could be like the daughter of the toymake? (not sure how that will work, but please bear with me!) and is currently the companion with 15th doctor? i want the fic kinda centered around the mr. ring a ding ep bc it's currently my favorite. the rest is up to you!”

I’m so sorry that this took so long to post, but I hope it was worth the wait! I had a great time writing this one, I actually really like writing for the toymaker!

Word count: 5.2k

Warnings: Daddy issues, James Corden

As always Requests are open!!

“Where to next, babes?” The Doctor beamed at you, leaning lazily over the side of the console, his smile glowing slightly as he tilted his head. There was that spark again, in his eyes, in his voice. Mischief and genuine curiosity, hand in hand.

Where to next? With all of time and space sprawled before you like a buffet, your mind went completely blank. “You’ve put me on the spot!” You laughed, hands flying up to cover your face. “That’s cruel. I need options.”

The Doctor stood tall, dramatic as ever, tapping his chin with exaggerated thought. “Options?” he repeated, striding around the console. “Please. You don’t need options. You need flair. You need drama. You need… fashion!”

You raised a brow, grinning. “Fashion?”

He clicked his fingers. “Exactly! The absolute best fashion in the universe. A place where style is stitched into the very air. Silkier than a sonic thread, glitzier than a Gallifreyan gala, and darling, just wait until you see the shoes.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, caught up in his infectious energy. “Okay, I’m listening.”

“Why listen,” he said, turning sharply on his heel and offering you his hand with a wink, “when you can just trust me?”

You took his hand, and he was already off, pulling you up the ramp toward a large circular archway built into the TARDIS wall, a tunnel you hadn’t noticed before. “Wait, where are we going?”

“Not where, babes,” he called over his shoulder, “what are we wearing?”

The Doctor took you by the hand, and before you could utter any kind of sound of objection, off you both went, feet tripping over themselves as you ran up the steps and through a large circular doorway, leading to a tunnel?

The moment you stepped through the tunnel, something shifted. You felt a light breeze, a shimmer in the air, and then–just like that–you were back in the TARDIS. Same floor. Same lights. Same humming console.

You turned around, confused. The tunnel you’d just lpassed through was still glowing behind you. “What just happened?”

“Look down,” the Doctor said, his voice like a secret.

You did, and gasped.

Gone were your T-shirt and jeans. In their place, a stunning 1950s-style dress in sunshine yellow flared out from your waist, cinched perfectly, every pleat and detail pristine. You gave a small spin and the skirt twirled with you, soft and light as air.

“How did—?”

The Doctor leaned against the console with a smug little shrug. “Don’t ask. The old girl has a flair for the theatrical when she’s in a good mood.” He tapped the console gently, and the TARDIS responded with a warm hum, like a cat purring in approval.

You turned back to him, still twirling. “Is this really necessary?”

He gave you a dazzling smile. “Oh, it’s absolutely unnecessary. That’s what makes it fabulous. Now, ready to strut through time?”

You held out your hand. “Lead the way, Doctor.”

With a grin that promised trouble, style, and maybe a little danger, he pulled a lever.

The TARDIS lurched, and the adventure began.

***

You emerged into an idyllic, sun-dappled, 1950s street, picture perfect and overflowing with charm. Pastel-painted shops crowded the thoroughfare boutiques, diners, a record store and smelled of fresh bread and motor oil. From the chrome diner, a jukebox hummed faintly, and the laughter of roller-skating kids rolled past. In the distance was the LUX Picture Palace, with its name emblazoned in lights like a down-the-line. All was glittering with nostalgic warmth too perfect, even, almost rehearsed. There was the soft breeze, and there were the smiles, too wide. And beneath the music and light, something in the air hummed strangely, slightly out of reach.

“Where are we?” You asked, your eyes wide as you turned in a slow circle, taking in the all the pastel storefronts and the gleaming chrome of the lights. You could faintly smell the soft scent of warm popcorn drifting in the breeze. The town looked like it was out of those glossy magazines. It was Sweet, it was surreal.

“Miami.” The Doctor said brightly. His hands shoved into the pockets of his perfectly tailored coat. “1952 to be precise. Sunshine, swing Music and scandalous Hemlines.” He tugged at your dress playfully at the last comment, making you giggle. “Fabulous!”

You Spun again, right towards the glowing marquee at the end of the street. Your eyes lit up like a kid at christmas. “Look! There’s a cinema! Can we go, Doctor? Oh, Please!” You tugged at his sleeve with barely contained excitement, practically bouncing on the spot.

He Glanced at the glowing lights then back down to you, and that smile bloomed again. “Of course we can, Sweetheart.” He said, his voice full of sparkle.

The two of you strolled through the bustling street, your heels Click Clacking on the pavement, The LUX picturehouse Gleamed in the street lights at every step you took.

“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”

You Whipped around to see an elderly woman, who had stopped beside you. She wore a floral hat and a woven handbag, her expression dark beneath her cat eye glasses. Her voice, soft but heavy.

“Sorry?” You asked, blinking.

She leaned in sideways, Her eyes never quite catching yours. “Fifteen people went missing in that cinema, all strange to me, very unnatural.”

You stared at her. There was something about her… she looked ‘eerily’ like your neighbour, Mrs Flood?

Before you could speak again, the Doctor stepped forward, Grinning from ear to ear. “Fifteen people you say? Oh ho, I love a good body count.” He rubbed his hands together, gleaming with curiosity. “Maybe cursed, haunted popcorn machine maybe? Who knows? Mystery Is afoot!”

You barely had time to respond before he grabbed your arm and tugged you gleefully towards the entrance. “Come on Babes, what's a little danger between friends?” and Just like that you were swept into the golden glow of the LUX, the door closing with a soft Click.

***

Stepping into the auditorium, you felt the temperature drop as you kept walking down the stairs. The air was surprisingly cool and still with that same faint smell of buttered popcorn and old Velvet. The cinema screen glowed softly, bathed in a silver light that seemed to hypnotise you. It was Magnificent and eerily…Alive? Then, It flickered once, and again, and again.

Then suddenly, a blinding white flash.

It lasted only a second, but it made you and the doctor step back shielding your eyes. Then It was over.

What came after was a grainy background that flickered to life. It was sepia toned, with heavy static crackling at the edges. Music began to play: an upbeat, jazzy but somehow off tone, a little like an old record spinning too slow. A figure emerged from the noise.

Mr. Ring-A-Ding looked like he stepped straight out of a 1850’s cartoon (A cartoon that came straight from your nightmares). He was tall and slender with exaggerated proportions. Arms too long, smile too wide, eyes far too still. He wore a bright red pinstripe suit, it was impossibly crisp, with a bowtie that could spin like a wind up toy. His slicked back hair gleamed under the flicker of the screenlight, and his two toned shoes squeaked as he walked.

A walking sensory nightmare.

As he walked through the cartoon town, the houses rolled past as he marched down the street, big and overexaggerated. His voice crackled as if it has been filtered through a gramophone. Cheerfully hollow: “Well Howdy there Friend!” You’re just in time for the show!”

There was something performative about him, like a forgotten tv host endlessly stuck in rerun. Too Scripted, too chipper. It unravelled you.

“Doctor.” You asked, not taking your eyes off the screen, still hypnotised. “Why have I seen him before?”

“I really couldn’t tell you, babes.” The Doctor tore his eyes from the screen so that he was looking at you. “Where would you have possibly seen him before?”

You shook your head. “It’s scaring me.” Your voice was barely over a whisper.

The minute those thoughts hit your head, almost as if he was reading your mind. Mr. Ring-A-Ding stopped his usual song, mid tune, mid tune and turned slowly to look at the screen.

No. At you.

“It's you.” Mr. Ring-A-Ding Hissed. This time his voice was much lower now. His usual cheerful patter fell away to a grating growl. His head drew closer and closer to the glass of screen until it was practically touching. It looked grotesquely distorted. “He has been looking for you.”

Your throat seized as you Stumbled back a step. “Doctor.” You Gasped.

“On it babes.” He whipped his sonic screwdriver out of his breast pocket and aimed it at the screen. The very second it activated, the screen rippled like a surface of disturbed water. Mr. Ring-A-Ding’s face pushed forward, warping the image. His hands pressed against the glass and his fingers began to claw at it, as if it were wet clay. And then, with a wet Crack, his arm broke through. Then another arm, and then a leg and then, inch by inch, twisting unnaturally. His Torso contorted to fit through a space that shouldn’t be physically allowed, he emerged.

His Pinstripe suit, was smeared with static. His grin never faltered. He landes on the cinema floor with a distorted and cartoonish Boing which somehow only made it so much worse. Almost like reality was struggling to hold him in place.

You backed away, hands rising instinctively to shield yourself.

And then… the world exploded into white.

***

You felt something cold beneath your head, somewhere between damp and earthy. You ran a hand through the surface subconsciously, the gritty wood sending splinters through your fingers. Ouch. Your hands bunched reflexively in pain. The rotting floorboards clung to your skin like a creature as you stirred. The scent of dust and varnish filled your nose and then finally you felt the sharp pain that had been blooming at the side of your skull, Pulsing with each erratic beat of your heart.

Where in the world were you?

Your vision was completely washed in white, like the world was an overexposed polaroid photo. But as you slowly gained consciousness, shapes began to bleed through the haze: first, they were faint shadows then the shapes began to bleed through the haze. Then colours began to bloom. That's when you saw it.

It was a toyshop!

But not just any toyshop.

It was still. Too still. As you wobbled to stand, you noticed rows of dolls with wide glass eyes that stared down at you from great high wooden shelves, their painted smiles chipped and cracked, yet it didn’t feel like they looked like this from years of neglect, it looked like this…on purpose?

Mechanical Clowns frozen in mid-laugh were sat upright but slumped in corners. The colours of their bright cheeks faded and peeled as if laughter had long since drained them. Tin soldiers stood in perfect lines with their little muskets raised in perfect salutes. The light overhead buzzed faintly, casting everything in a dull, yellowish hue that gave the air a sickly warmth.

There was something about the place. As you crept around the narrow aisles, you felt the toy’s gazes as they seemed to follow you around the palace. Their eyes, always never quite moving but Almost moving. A creak eased through your ears, a rocking horse slowly moved back and forth, despite the air being deathly still and somewhere, just behind the quiet, a wind up music box played a broken lullaby, familiar, slow, looping endlessly.

Someone was watching you.

There was something so painfully nostalgic about this place. It clung to your heart and threatened to never let go, like fingers curling around your heart. Tears pricked your vision, unexpected. Uninvited, yet you weren’t sure why? Was it loss? Loss for all the things you wished you had, a childhood that didn’t quite last as long as it promised, laughter that never stayed, magic that never quite came. It promised wonder and delivered nothing in return, merely fragments. This place made you feel it, like it knew.

It Knew.

“Ah Guten Tag, Guten tag, I am glad to see you’re now awake.” A voice tore through your thoughts, like shears. You whirled around to see, him.

“Do you know who I am?” He asked again, an exaggerated German accent, graced his lips.

You nodded, you stepped forward, tilting your head like a curious bird. He regarded you as your eyes trailed up and down him. Disbelief struck your face and he noticed it.

“Go on then.” His voice merely whispers. “Who am I?”

“Are you Neil Patrick-Harris?”

The gentleman blinked.

Once.

Twice.

His jaw dropped in horror, somehow, as if you had just slapped a custard pie across his face. The music box that was still playing in the background gave a pitiful wheeze, like if you were to run a needle across a record, then promptly stopped.

He clutched his chest like a pantomime actor in the throes of a melodramatic death. “Oh how very dare you!” He squawked. “I have been known as many things by many people.” He began listing them on his fingers. “Maestro of Madness, conjurer of chaos, The Toymaker.”

The toymaker.

He spun around on the spot, arms flailing. “Do I look like I’ve done magic tricks on Ellen?!”

“Touched a nerve then?” You quipped.

He took a step forward, His voice dropping, German accent Slipping, almost tauntingly. “Now. Shall we try again? Or would you like to guess if I’m James Corden next?”

“Now, I know you aren’t James Corden.” You stepped forward, matching his taunt. Hands on hips, looking down through your nose. “But the question is: who are you?”

He smiled, rising to the unspoken challenge. “Guess.” was all he said.

“Guess?”

“Yes. Where are we right now?” You opened your mouth to speak and he held a finger in front of him to shush you. “No, don’t say anything. Just think…Oh what Fun.”

Your eyes shot throughout the shop. Catching glimpses at the dolls, the soldiers, the clowns, the games. Then you looked back to him. He grinned from ear to ear, mouth twisted like a sausage at the bottom of a plate.

Maestro of Madness, conjurer of chaos…

Wait.

“You’re the toymaker.” you breathed. “I know exactly who you are.”

The Toymaker’s smile spread even further. “Ooh, give the girl a prize!” He leapt from behind the counter, vaulting over it, like there wasn’t an impossibly low ceiling, he could bash his head on. He brought himself mear inches from your face, so quick you could barely react. He grabbed your face with both hands. “And do you know who you are, Mein Liebling?”

“Me?” Your eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “Of course I know who I am. My name is (Y/N) (L/N). I live at 44 Randell street, I work in publishing and I travel the universe with the Doctor. Of course I Know who I am.”

The toymaker’s expression Shifted, it was as subtle and sharp, as if he knew a secret, you didn’t. “Tell me about your parents.” He demanded, syrupy smooth, sickly sweet. It circled around the question like a trap.

“Why?” You asked, warily, instinctively stepping back, though he didn’t let you go far.

“Do you remember them?”

You Hesitated. “My mother’s Name is Helen and my father is-” You mind drew a blank, like a bottomless pit.

“You don’t remember him do you?” The toymaker delighted, he was still close, still touching, parental almost. His thumb ran over your cheek. Kind but mocking. “Think.” He murmured, wrapped in lullaby

“You aren’t-?”

“Maybe I am.” He purred, tilting his head in theatrical glee.

“How?”

“Play a game with me and find out.” He threw himself back, arms outstretched, propelling back to the countertop. His grin spread again, unable to contain his excitement. He clapped his hands once and the lights went out. Leaving you in the pitch black.

There was a whirl of gears and a gust of mechanical steam. Before you could react, a vintage style puppet theatre rose from the floor, equipped with crimson curtains that were drawn tight.

“Let's play a game, Zuckerpuppe. Its like guess who? But not the boring kind with the plastic faces. No no, this one is all about you.”

You.

Then, the curtains part.

Inside the theatre, the puppets begin to perform. Short, twisted tableaus. They were fragments of your memories, scenes from your childhood play out in an exaggerated pantomime: your mother singing happy birthday to you, candles lit, just you and her in your own little world. Tears falling in an empty corridor. Your first writing competition.

Yet something felt off.

The figures moved like broken clockwork toys. Your mother’s puppet was warm and familiar but your father’s was always obscured, masked, scratched out, obscured, sometimes not even there.

“Each round, one clue.” The Toymaker purred. “One guess. Win, and I’ll answer your questions. Lose, and well, who knows what you’ll forget next?”

A shiver ran down your spine.

As the game continued, your memories began to distort. The toymaker starts inserting himself into them, first in the background, then closer, then completely and unmistakingly present. Always watching… always there.

Then, in the final round, the puppet curtain falls only to rise again, revealing a full length mirror instead of the usual theatre.

You step forward, hesitantly. Catching yourself in the glass.

But you are not alone in the reflection.

He stood behind you.

“I have seen you before.” You whispered, voice breaking.

“In your dreams, in the corner of old photographs. In the silence, when you asked, where your father had gone.”

Your breath quickened, then a pause.

“I did not leave you, (Y/N). I have been waiting, so, so, patiently for your return.”

Emotion overcame you. You sniffled. Sniffles turned to shaky breaths, turned to full sobs. You sobbed for the empty ache within your heart, for all the melancholic nostalgia. You sobbed for the empty parts of your life, the times where you felt oh so different from the rest of the world.

“Oh, please don’t cry mein Knuddelbar.” The toymaker cooed. “Daddy is here now.” He stretched his arms out wide, waiting for you to step in. To finally hold him.

“No!” you snapped, sudden and sharp. The Toymaker Flinched but soon he straightened with the grin slowly slipping from his face, replaced by something… human. A line etched with worry across his lips “Why now? Why here?”

The Toymaker’s throat bobbed. For a moment, he didn’t answer. The bravado had melted away finally, just slightly and something softer flickered behind his eyes. Regret? Doubt? Underestimation? Was this merely another trick?

The silence between the two of you widened, not just in sound but in presence, the physical space felt like a chasm, that only grew and grew every passing minute. It was an invisible rift that neither of you could bring yourselves to cross. The hush that settled over the room wasn’t empty; it was thick, humming the words unspoken. But beneath that, was there…regret in his eyes?

The Toymaker shrank beneath it, his shoulders hunching inwards, no longer the eternal trickster or cosmic tyrant. It was something else. Someone else. Like a child after being told off by a scolding parent.

“You must understand,” he said, muttering, voice cracking under the weight of it all. Brittle and tired. His eyes, which were once sharp with mischief, now looked cloudy with something dangerously close to sorrow. “Why, I couldn’t be with you.”

He didn’t look powerful any more. Just… human. Fragile in a way that frightened you more than any games of his could.

You swallowed hard, the lump that had been forming in your throat, threatening to choke you. Standing in front of you was the one person you had searched for, in the back of your mind. Across half-formed memories, years of crippling loneliness like a clock ticking in an empty house, a mother that could only care for as long as she could pretend to. And still, he wasn’t the man you had pictured. He wore a face that carried history but something essential was missing or perhaps broken?

It was you.

“What are you?” Was all you could say, waiting with baited breath.

“Some have called me a god,” the Toymaker said, slowly straightening from the place he had been hunched, as if pulling himself out of a long-forgotten memory. He stepped forward, leisurely, every movement deliberate, measured, as though he were walking through a game board only he could see.

“I’ve been called many things, in many tongues. Trickster, architect, illusionist. A whisper behind the veil. A shadow stitched into the fabric of time.” His eyes gleamed with something sharp and ancient. “Others can’t quite put me in a category: and that’s precisely how I like it. I am not bound by your little labels, your timelines, your cause-and-effect.”

He stopped just short of you, his presence folding in like a curtain drawing closed. “But you, my dear…” His voice softened, as though addressing something fragile, precious. “You are different. You are my perfect descendant. Oh yes, I have seen you. Moving through the cracks of existence, weaving colour into the grey, with that Doctor, mischief into the mundane. Creative. Restless. Just like me. You love it don’t you? Don’t you want more?”

He held out a pale, elegant hand, palm up like an invitation. “Do you know what that means? It means we don’t have to be lonely anymore. You and I… we’re echoes of the same story. Together, we could craft wonders. Rewrite rules. Build entire worlds from thread and thought alone.”

The air around him shimmered faintly, as if the very concept of reality was starting to bend in his wake.

“Come with me. Let the universe be our playroom.”

A mighty crash tore through the air, slamming through your eardrums, as the door of the toyshop flew open. You spun around just in time to see the frame engulfed in a blinding white light.

Silhouetted against it, stood the doctor. Arm outstretched, sonic screwdriver clenched tightly at his fist. His figure cut through the glare like a blade. Threatening.

“Oh, I might have guessed.” He Snarled, his voice low and dangerous, his face shrouded in darkness, but the fury in his posture said enough. “Snatching innocent people, turning them into your little amusements. Not this one.”

He reached for you, gripping your arm with a firm, protective urgency.

The Toymaker took a single step back, hands raised in mock surrender but his smug, knowing smile remained. He gave a theatrical sweep of his hand, inviting the Doctor to leave with you, as if granting a favor.

But even as you both moved toward the light, the Toymaker’s gaze stayed locked on yours unwavering, unreadable.

And then the world went white again.

***

In an instant, you were back inside the TARDIS, the familiar hum greeted you like a dream, but your chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, like you had just remembered how to breathe.

Silence settled in around you. Not the peaceful kind, but a heavy, uneasy stillness. The Doctor leaned against the console, his posture tired, almost slouched, like a frazzled teacher. You kept your eyes fixed on the floor, on the walls, anywhere that wasn’t him.

Then, finally, after what felt like hours of silence your voice broke the quiet, soft, hesitant. “Does the Toymaker… tend to tell the truth?”

The Doctor didn’t look at you right away. He exhaled slowly, a knowing sigh. “Why do you ask?”

You hesitated. The words were harder to shape than you expected. “He said something. While I was in there. I don’t know…it got under my skin, I guess.” You cleared your throat, trying to swallow the flicker of emotion before it showed. “It’s silly.”

The Doctor straightened slightly, and when he spoke, there was no humour in his voice. Only certainty.

“The Toymaker is bound by one rule: he can only tell the truth.”

A wave of emotion crashed over you, all-consuming and unstoppable. It surged before you could brace yourself, and all that escaped your lips was a single, breathless: “Oh.”

The Doctor turned at the sound—soft but broken—and his expression fell. Before he could say a word, the tears came again, spilling fast, helpless. You tried to speak through them, tripping over your apology as if it might hold everything together.

“I’m so sorry I don’t even know why I’m-”

“Sweetie,” the Doctor said gently, already crossing the space between you, “you have nothing to apologise for.”

He folded you into a hug before you could fall any further, arms strong and steady, wrapping you in something more solid than words. He smelled like soft fruit, peach, maybe, and something warmer beneath it, with a hint of Dolce & Gabbana clinging to the collar of his coat, subtle but grounding. Familiar.

You clung to him, trembling, the guilt still gnawing in your chest. “I nearly went with him, Doctor,” you whispered. “If you hadn’t come when you did, I might have-”

But he was already shaking his head, pulling back just enough to see your face. He brushed a few tears from your cheek with a gentleness that stopped the spiral in its tracks.

“No. I’m going to stop you right there.”

His voice was low, careful, but there was no judgement in it. Just something warm. Solid. Real.

“There is nothing wrong with wanting to be wanted,” he said. “And there’s absolutely nothing dark or dangerous about craving love. Especially… that kind of love. The kind you should’ve had. The kind you deserved.”

He held your gaze, searching for the wound beneath your words, and softened as he went on.

“We don’t talk about it enough, do we? The way it twists and turns inside you, to grow up without that hand on your back, guiding you. Without the voice that tells you you’re doing alright, even when you feel like you’re falling apart. And then suddenly, that voice appears, and it’s coming from the last place you’d ever expect… and you’re so desperate to be seen, to be chosen, that you almost don’t care who it’s from.”

You sniffled, holding back another wave of tears. He gave a small, understanding smile.

“Of course you nearly went with him. Of course you listened. You’re human. Beautifully, heartbreakingly human. The Toymaker? He knows how to find that ache. He wraps it up in glitter and games, and he makes it feel like safety. But wanting love doesn’t make you weak. It makes you alive.”

He let that sit between you for a moment, and then added, softer:

“And if… if the time ever comes again, if you’re ever standing in front of him, or someone like him, with that same choice to make, I promise you, I will never make that decision for you. You deserve your own agency, your own answers. I won’t take that from you.”

His tone turned just a little lighter then, eyes warm with that familiar spark of his.

“But until then? I’m here. Maybe not the most responsible influence, bit too fond of danger, shiny buttons, and spontaneous musicals, but I’m here. For whatever you need. Always.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. He leaned in, pressing a soft, kind kiss to your forehead, and then pulled you into another hug, this one quieter, stiller. A kind of promise wrapped in arms.

In the far-off corridors of the TARDIS, just beneath the humming engines, you could hear it: a faint giggle, echoing like it had always belonged there. The Toymaker, keeping watch. Waiting.

He would return.

But so would the Doctor.

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