#covering the corner of the table when they reach for something

[purinfelix]

HII!! can i request a mistletoe?

So i was thinking of the scene in notting hill where william(random guy) and anna(famous movie star) meet for the first time at the bookshop and later william spills orange juice on her, he take anna to his flat to change and before leaving anna kisses him (idk if i should be more elaborate with the plot help)

maybe you can write something smiliar or with this plotline for franco?

<3 love you

out of reach ᯓ★ - franco colapinto

w/c: 1.2k a/n: OHHH NOTTING HILL IS LITERALLY ONE OF MY FAV FILMS EVER I LOVE U FOR THIS - this req literally gave me an excuse to go rewatch this scene so tysm (also this started out as a blurb but .... here we are)

this is part of my 1k event - check out the rules here!!

It was your day off - or at least, it was supposed to be.

You had it all planned out, since being one of the hottest up-and-coming actresses meant time to yourself was extremely scarce. Starting the morning a little later by letting yourself sleep in, then going for a walk downtown through the morning markets and vintage stores, even dropping into a small travel-book store that caught your eye. Not so much because of your passion for travel books but rather for the boyishly charming store clerk who you locked eyes with through the front window.

But that was where you encountered your first issue, when the only other customer in the store recognised you and proceeded to ask you for a signature, while you were trying to pay for a book. Of course, you obliged, but to your surprise, the clerk continued to ring up your ridiculously overpriced book without even seeming to recognise you, or at least, he pretended not to - instead going on a tangent about how, really, your mistake was buying such a poorly written book, though you chose not to heed his advice just yet.

With just the little bump in the road cleared, you were free to return to your perfect day, a fact which lasted all of ten minutes before being interrupted. Only this time it was by a total idiot running into you with a coffee cup full of orange juice - and who even orders orange juice from a cafe? - spilling it all over your white shirt.

You were prepared to lose it until you peeked over your dark sunglasses, a weak attempt at a disguise, and caught the eye of none other than the boy from the bookstore. Immediately he began rattling off apologies, and whilst a small part of you found it a little cute, they did little to fix your sour mood. That's when he mentioned that he, conveniently, lived just a couple steps away from the street corner the two of you were standing on and that you could come over and clean yourself up.

So that's how you ended up here, in the entryway of some stranger's house - a charming stranger, but a stranger nonetheless - soaked in orange juice while he scrambled ahead of you to clean up the mess he lived in.

"Right," he huffed, noisily shoving empty pizza boxes into the nearest bin, "come on in, the bathrooms on the top floor."

You do as he says, offering an awkward smile to show appreciation for him allowing you to come over but also how weirded out you are by this whole interaction. Once upstairs, you hastily change into the only spare clothes you have - being a sparkly top and skirt combo you had been planning on wearing to tomorrow's press tour, but would have to do for now.

As you tentatively climb down the creaking stairs, you're met with the sight of the stranger clearing his dining table - which is covered in half-empty cups and unwashed plates. When he hears you though, he spins around with a bewildered expression, lips slightly parted as his eyes follow you.

For a minute you just stand there, watching his expression as the side of his mouth quirks up into a smile and as strange as it seems, you feel almost shy under his gaze.

"Oh, sorry," he finally says, breaking the silence, "do you want something to drink? Coffee?"

"No, thanks."

"Tea?"

"I'm good."

"Mate?"

"Ma- what?"

"It's from Argentina, where I'm from, it's really good, I drink about two litres of it every morning," he begins excitedly rambling once more, picking up a cup and flask from his counter and bringing it to you. "I know it doesn't look like much but it really flushes you out, like if you eat something bad in the morning just a couple sips of this and you're-" he gestures with his hands to demonstrate the laxative effect of the drink and you can't help but let out an amused laugh as you shake your head.

"Right, well, how about something to eat?" He moves swiftly, setting down the cup to open his fridge and from where you're standing you can just see inside it - though there isn't much apart from a couple old apples and a half-eaten mandarin.

"An apple?" he offers.

"No," you smile.

"Do you always say no to everything?"

You think for a little before replying slowly, "No." He nods, understandingly.

"Well, I better get going," you say. "Thanks for your," you pause, searching for the right word to describe this experience, "help."

leans his head against the corner of his fridge, green eyes on yours. "And before you go, can I just say," he begins and you brace yourself, finally, for him to make a comment about how he recognises you.

"Once you read that book, I don't think you'll be coming back to my store anytime soon, it's awful, really."

"I'll keep that in mind," you say, smiling in relief as you begin to move towards the door, and once he realises this, he moves quickly to open it for you.

"It was nice meeting you," he breathes out as the two of you stand in the doorway, "strange but nice." You nod in agreeance, and in amusement at how awkward he seems - but also how charmed you are by it. Standing there, with seemingly the only man in the world who doesn't see you immediately for the films you've been in or the characters you've played, you feel an intense force drawing you towards it.

And before you realise what you're doing or have the sanity to stop yourself, you're up on your tiptoes, with one arm wrapped around his neck, pulling him into a kiss. He doesn't seem any less shocked by your sudden actions than you do, but soon, you feel a strong arm wrap around your waist.

Pulling away, you let out a quick breath, mostly in disbelief at what you've just done, and when you look at the dazed expression on his face you can assume he feels the same.

"I'm really sorry about that strange but nice comment from earlier."

"That's okay, I thought the," you pause to mimic his actions from before when describing the mate, "bit was a real low point."

He laughs before saying abruptly, "Franco."

"Sorry?"

"My name, it's Franco."

"Well, Franco, it was nice meeting you," you turn to grab the doorknob with one hand but pause to turn to him again, "Oh, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone about this."

"Right, of course, no one," he nods eagerly, "I mean, I'll tell myself but even then I might not believe it." You can't help but let out an amused laugh as you slip out his door, and back into the sun of the late morning - and as you do, you're unable to stop yourself from smiling.

[enruiinas]

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ His trek down the hall was brief. No more than a dozen long strides that carried him from his perch in the bedroom doorway to the living room where he intended to wait for her. But with every step he took further away from her, the feeling of unease grew in the pit of Law's stomach.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ Why did it feel like this? How did the short jaunt down the hallway somehow feel like the furthest trip he'd ever taken? And why did forcing himself to sit down on the couch leave him feeling so restless? Had he truly grown so anxious even to let the redhead out of his sight for the time it took to take a shower?

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ No, that wasn't it - at least not entirely, anyway. Decisions to let go of what had happened aside, part of the surgeon knew it would take time - a while - to stop turning corners and worrying she'd disappear the moment his back was turned. But that was not the reason for his uneasiness.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ It was this… thing between them. This uncertainty. Law had meant what he'd said, that she could take her pick and decide what her stay would look like, and he'd seen the resolve in Nami's eyes before she'd deposited her things upon his bed. They were both trying to bring back some sense of normalcy between them - but it wasn't enough. It felt… wrong, somehow, to walk away like this. To sit here on the edge of his seat, unable to do more than look at the journal's cover on the tabletop. She'd wanted him to read it - to have a means of experiencing the things he'd missed so far, but he couldn't bring himself to try. Not yet. Not because he wasn't ready, hadn't processed the news yet - he hadn't, but that wasn't what kept him from even trying to consider the unexpected situation he'd found himself in.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ The reality was simply that he couldn't focus on anything - not with the overwhelming sense of wrongness between them. Law wasn't sure which idea bothered him more: the thought that Nami might feel that same wrongness too (as if something remained to be said between them still), or the possibility that she hadn't. There was no reason to feel wrong, was there? She'd put her things in his bedroom. She had asked to borrow his shirt; to wear something that smelled like him. She was here.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ They were doing much better than they might have been, weren't they? So why did he have the feeling he was making a mistake already?

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ He'd been sitting and staring unseeing at the coffee table before him for no more than two minutes when he found himself on his feet again, the feeling of something unresolved - an opportunity he lay on the threshold of missing - leading him to the hallway again. The sound of running water was a distant buzz at the edge of his thoughts; he should wait until she finished…

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ But the feeling persisted, and his body would not be reasoned with. Before he'd fully realized what he was doing, Law found himself outside the closed bathroom door, hand frozen suspended where he'd lifted it to reach for for the doorknob. What was he doing? What if she didn't want him to follow her? What if she'd locked it? What if they weren't…

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ He should knock, he decided - but even as he'd made his mind up, his body overruled it a second time, and without bothering to announce himself, he found himself in an open doorway, watching a beautiful, redheaded woman frown at herself in the mirror's reflection. Her nose was scrunched - presumably from her stomach's untimely contact with the counter's edge. Then her eyes met his in the mirror, and the man stood frozen, unspeaking. He simply stared at her in silence for several long moments, whatever it was that had led him here stubbornly locked inside of him. He held her gaze and his features remained unreadable; his eyes did not stray to the body on display before him. They locked with hers and there they settled.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ And then his body betrayed him a third time; before either had managed to say anything, he took a long and deliberate stride nearer, gold never straying from chestnut in the mirror.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ❝I forgot,❞ Law murmured as he stepped closer. ❝There was one more thing I wanted to say to you.❞

[soulmvtes]

it's about the small acts of intimacy... forehead kisses, putting jewelry on you, rubbing your hand with their thumb, putting a jacket on you, touching your necklace, running your hands through their hair, wiping away their tears, peeling them an orange, un/zipping their dress, tying their shoelaces, holding hands, removing an eyelash from their cheek, washing their hair, putting an anklet on them, tucking their hair behind their ear, sorting out their collar, untangling their necklaces, drinking out of a cup in their hands

[sant-riley]

[Touchy feely] [tf141 headcanons]

(Romantic impied Task force 141 boys x gender neutral!reader headcanons :))

Summary: Being the sweetheart of the task force means the boys are not shy about the fact that they're all simps and always want some sort of contact with you at all times.

Consists of romantic/suggestive headcanons for each of the guys and little things they do with you <3

Words: about 1.5k (this was supposed to be short, whoops)

Warnings/Info: Can be read separately but it is intended that they all harbor feelings for you at the same time, possibly out of character for everyone, some swearing, the guys manhandle you, as always, let me know if I miss something!

Thinking about how each of the boys is so touchy with you, it doesn't matter where you are or who you're with, they're shameless.

Other units and teams who will sometimes share the base with 141 know better than to ask questions or directly say anything to one of the guys or you for that matter. Not that they could anyway, seeing as you always have at least one of them attached to your hip.

Price:

Anyone who walks into Price's office late at night to turn something in is used to seeing you next to the Captain on the little dingy loveseat he has in there.

John is usually smoking a cigar, taking care to not blow smoke your way while your head is resting on his shoulder. Your eyes closed as you hum at his words. It's terribly domestic for a military base.

John likes to gently play with your hair while he speaks about missions he's been on, always somehow trying to braid despite not knowing how to for jack shit, whether it because it's you or just the mindless motion, he's not willing to say.

John will usually walk you back to your room after dinner or time in his office unless he's swamped with work.

A small hand on the small of your back while he leads you. It's always a respectable touch, though he tucks you into his side, nodding at everyone you may pass.

If you're comfortable with it, he likes to press a kiss to your head, smiling that goofy ass smile, and tells you to get a good night's rest.

He lets you help him trim up his beard, he won't let you do all of it but he likes the closeness of it, him sitting down while you gently shape it up, tilting his head up and he tries his best to not stare directly at your chest.

The fact that he's letting you this close to his neck with a razor is a sign of trust, maybe small for others but for a man that doesn't drop his guard and doesn't truly trust others, it speaks volumes.

The first time he let you, you were barely putting any pressure and he grabbed your hand in his and showed you. "You're not gonna hurt me, put more force into it, yeah?"

Don't get me started on going out on walks in London with Price, he wraps you up in his beanie and some big leather jacket he has that dwarves you, helping you move through crowds by once again holding the small of your back, or taking your smaller hand in his. (He doesn't correct anyone if they mistake you as married)

He likes to kiss the back of your hand and laughs when it makes you blush and sputter out that his beard is scratchy.

Ghost:

Ghost is a subtle one, he won't actively reach for you or your hand but he does have some part of him against you most times.

Whether it be his leg, arm, or thigh, anything works. A normal place yall will be seen together is in the dining hall, you've both learned to ignore the stares from everyone else.

Simon never eats there, just sits with you until you're finished and then you both move on to either his quarters or somewhere else so he can peel his mask up to eat a bit.

However, while you're eating and telling him about anything under the sun, he'll lean over and wipe some crumbs off of your mouth with his thumb softly, which again, you're used to so okay whatever but Recruits always are taken aback in their seats.

Ghost's reflexes kick into overdrive with you. His hand going to cover a corner of a table 9/10 times before you completely wreck your shit, but when he does miss (sometimes on purpose).

He'll bring a hand up to rub at your head for you, chuckling under his breath before cooing down at you "That hurt pretty? Sure look like it did."

Whenever you two specifically are paired onto a mission, doesn't matter if any of the guys complain, he will share a cot/tent with you. He claims he runs the hottest (he doesn't, it's Johnny but he will not lose on this) and can keep your body the warmest.

He pretty much lugs you on top of him and wraps his arms around your waist, he'll press a hand against your head if you keep fidgeting, rasping at you to go to sleep. He takes great pride in the fact that you're usually out like a light very shortly.

I've said it once and I'll say it again, Ghost likes to hook a finger into your body straps and pull it really hard and let it smack you to get your attention if you're not actively paying attention to him, he'll soothe the area but he's smirking behind that fucking mask.

On that note, he definitely does the "You got something right here." And points at your chest and immediately pull up to flick your nose hard as fuck, he KNOWS his own strength but sometimes your eyes water and he immediately feels bad.

Ghost rests his head on your chest a lot, he finds your heartbeat to be soothing and reassuring, also grunts if you don't wrap your arms around him in return, bro literally shoves his head into you and groans

This is a grown man but it's cute so you let it slide bc he'll never ask for it outright, he just assumes you'll cradle his head.

Soap:

Johnny is the most shameless motherfucker here, I'm talking about draping himself over you, grabbing at your cheeks, ruffling your hair, kissing you dangerously close to your lips (it drives the others mad), he's the most unapologetic about it and will gloat to the others.

Manhandler #1, isn't above grabbing you by your hips and picking you up to move you somewhere, he's literally gone and grabbed you from some rookies side to come stand next to him with a smile and you're just so used to it that you just shrug and go along with it. (He gets slightly jealous, why would you stand next to some random ass dude and not him??)

Throws you over his shoulder, or likes you to cling to his front or his back and just carries you, he says it's a comfortable weight. If you ever dare say you're too heavy, he's gonna go to the gym and work out even more to PROVE to you that he simply doesn't care, he will carry you.

Extremely bad habit of sneaking into your room to fall asleep with you, Price has come into your room many times to see Soap sprawled on top of you, he's drooling and snoring and you're knocked the fuck out (he's like a glorified weighted blanket).

I've touched on this before but he only wants you to cut his hair for him, yeah he can go to the barber on base but he much prefers you and loves it when you scratch at his scalp. He also likes to just have his head in between your thighs but that's something else for another time-

Soap specifically slings you over his shoulder a lot, especially off base where he truly doesn't have any fucks to give.

You're not going to bed because you have other work?? Too bad, shoulder time you go. You're not willing to get up and make yourself food? Good thing he's here, either pick what you want from the kitchen or throw some clothes on bc he IS dragging you out of the house.

Johnny likes to draw on you a lot, it ranges from scribbles, to sometimes his name if he's feeling cheeky (he's drawn it on your thigh before and you didn't notice until Gaz shot you a look), to intricate drawings of whatever he can think whether it be a landscape or an animal.

He always holds you steady and it isn't uncommon for your limbs to fall asleep but it's worth it, if only to see him smile.

Gaz:

Gaz is probably the most secretly clingy person out of the four, he CAN function without your touch but does he PREFER to? No.

His first instinct in any situation is to grab you and shield you, he's the fastest of the four so his body moves without thinking and it's saved you more times than any of you would like to count.

The one mission where you both fell out of a moving truck, he tucked your body into his despite it costing him his shoulder popping out of the socket, you couldn't help but freak out while Ghost moved to pop it back into place.

"Why the fuck would you do that? Look at your arm!" "It's nothing." "Garrick what the fuck-"

When you're out anywhere off base, he's holding your hand, good luck trying to pull away bc he is not letting go. Too bad so sad, resign to your fate.

I think Gaz is definitely good at dancing, at least with you and when the right music is on, you cannot tell me this man wouldn't twirl you around and shit-fight me on it. He'll even lift you off your feet, laughing when you scramble to grab at his shoulders.

He goes stark still if you rest your head on his shoulder, not because he's nervous but because he's worried about waking you up when he knows you deserve a rest.

He'll usually wrap his arm around your shoulder to hold you in place so the heli ride doesn't jostle you so much, gentleness rubbing his knuckles along your arm to soothe you.

Gaz is the one who holds you when you have nightmares, on rare occasions when Soap isn't in your room and you just need to be held with no talking, you always without thinking find yourself in Kyle's room, his arms wrapped around your waist as he tucks your head under his chin, no questions asked.

He'll maybe hum a tune to help you relax but other than that, he lets you lead the way.

[valsverse]

thinking about the small ways the pjo boys instinctively show their love for you..

the way percy jackson's sword fighting naturally slows to a hesitant crawl whenever he's sparring with you. his once swift and fluid motions seem to falter, as if he's unsure of how much force to use. his sword moves in hesitant, awkward jabs, accompanied by a small, sheepish smile that seems to say, "i don't want to hurt you, but i also don't want to lose."

the way jason grace covers the sharp corner of the table when you reach under to get something, ensuring that your head wouldn't accidentally collide with the unforgiving edge. you feel the warmth of his hand hovering just inches above your head, and the faint smile on his lips reveals his satisfaction in keeping you safe. he's a protector, that one.

the way leo valdez taps three times on the dinner table whenever he wants to catch your attention. perhaps it's his way of saying, 'i'm thinking of you.' or, i can't wait to see you after this.' you're never quite certain of the exact meaning, but regardless, you often find yourself twirling your daggers three times before going into battle, a sweet tribute to leo.

the way luke castellan's lip twitches ever so slightly every time you enter into the room. it's a subtle movement, almost imperceptible, but you're certain it's there by the way he catches your eye, and tilts his head to the door, a silent invitation for you to join him.

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

the butchery of the beloved, the boulder, the bimbo and the brilliant

kinktober, day twenty-five

a/n: ahhh, it's finally time to share the kinktober fic you all helped shape!! it turned out so fucking unhinged and i love it. happy halloween, folks!

polls for this fic: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

summary: “they–… they were right…” the warnings your now deceased friends had given you since the moment you got involved with the frat boy buzzed in your mind, though when they’d light-heartedly called him a psycho, you never in your wildest dreams thought that they would have been correct in their choice of words, “I can’t believe they were right…”

warnings: dark!rafe cameron x innocent!reader, smut, dark content, noncon/dubcon, slasher au, final girl!reader, 00’s slutty horror movie vibes, found family, nonverbal, murder, violence, blood, gore, crying, alcohol consumption, smoking, possessiveness, jealousy, mask kink, kissing, size kink, belly bulge, manhandling, dirty talk, just the tip, pussyjob, oral, spit kink, impact play, pain kink, choking, bondage, dacryphilia, orgasm denial, overstimulation, squirting, fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, references to anal/painal

word count: 7400

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

masterlist | join my taglist | kinktober 2024

It all started at a lunch table, as so many friendships do. 

The first one to sit was Hana, the nurturing soul of the group who had been a genius even back then. The next to join was Brian, the blonde bombshell whose smile brightened any room he entered. Then came Oliver, the guy who at twelve years old had stood up to the bully you couldn’t face yourself and swore from that day on he’d do so for each and every one of you till the end of your days. And lastly, there was you, in many ways the glue of the little pack. 

To say that the four of you were thick as thieves didn’t even begin to cover it, as you’d been there for each other in every up and down in each of your lives since adolescence. Even when your mother passed, especially when your mom passed, that’s when you truly knew that they weren’t just your pals, but your family. 

“Oh wow,” you breathed as you gazed out the window to the destination you’d finally reached, “is this really your dad’s cabin?” you glanced over your shoulder at the man behind the wheel, a proud smirk ever on his lips.

“Yep,” Rafe nodded and reached down to put the car in park. 

You’d met him at the beginning of this semester and it hadn’t taken you very long at all to fall embarrassingly and completely head over heels for the guy. 

Though he wasn’t the first boyfriend to grow to be a part of the tight-knit clique, he hadn’t been welcomed with open arms as you remembered Jerome, Brian’s partner, had two years ago. The gentle giant of few words had melted into your dynamic so naturally that none of you remembered any longer a time before him. But it wasn’t like that this time, not with Rafe. For some reason, your friends just couldn’t warm up to the frat guy you loved so dearly. 

As you heard the other car roll to a stop behind you, the vehicle where the four remaining resisted, your fingers dipped down into your pocket and fished out your phone to snap a photo of the luxurious lake house and its breathtaking views, though that’s when you noticed the lack of bars up in the upper corner of the screen.

“Oh, damn it…” you squinted down at your phone, “is there seriously no service out here?” 

“Yeah, sorry I forgot to tell you,” Rafe snatched out the keys, “this place is pretty off-grid, you have to probably walk half an hour or something to get any signal.”

The dry leaves on the forest floor crunched beneath your shoes as you stepped out of the car and tipped your head back to glance up at how high the surrounding pine trees stretched up towards the cloudy sky. 

As Rafe hopped up onto the wide porch and fiddled with a bundle of keys to unlock the place, your gaze kept finding him as you hung back a while and helped your friends unload their car.

“Can you all please promise to play nice this weekend?” you quietly asked them. 

“Yeah,” Oliver huffed, yanking out a heavy duffle bag, “I’ll play nice if he does, which I sincerely doubt since I haven’t yet discovered one kind bone in his body.” 

“Oh, come on,” you defended your beau, “he’s the one who suggested this trip so that you could all finally discover what a sweet guy he actually is,” before you all ascended the short steps and filtered into the abode. 

Not soon after you all crossed the threshold, Rafe’s arms seized your waist and drew you back against him, whispering in your ear that he wanted to give you the grand tour of the house. 

However, when you reached the room that was to belong to the two of you for the rest of the weekend, his ulterior motives for the journey around the cabin became crystal clear. 

At first, when he wrapped his arms around you from behind as you gazed out the tall windows at the foot of the bed, a giggle bubbled in your belly as you felt his desire poke the small of your back. Though it was already during his palm’s swift voyage under the hem of your shirt and up towards your boobs that he let slip what crucial item he’d neglected to pack. 

“You didn’t bring any condoms?” you twisted around to glare at the persistence that still sparkled in his eyes.

“Oh, come on, don’t let that fact spoil our fun,” he pulled you back into his arms, “don’t you want me to dick you down this weekend, huh?” he murmured in your ear.

“Well, I don’t wanna get pregnant,” you slowly pushed him back, “so it’ll just have to be another weekend.”  

But then he seized your hand and brought it down to the palpable tent in his jeans, “babe, come on. Just feel how hard I am. You can’t just leave me like this, not when it’s your fault to begin with.”

Your mouth then fell open as a shy scoff rolled off your tongue, “I literally haven’t done a thing, how is it my fault?”

“Come on, don’t act like a prude,” his grip around your wrist shifted and it slid down to rub your palm against his hardness, “be a good girl and at the very least get down on your knees.”

“No,” you chuckled lightly and pushed yourself off of him enough to stumble closer towards the bedroom’s exit, “if you’re so desperate, then take care of it yourself.” 

Even though winter was creeping ever nearer, each one of you still dared to go down to the lake’s small pier and soak up the mild rays of autumn sun that peeked out behind the clouds. Both Hana and Oliver even gathered enough courage to take a dip in the cool water, though weren’t successful in any of their attempts at talking the rest of you into the same. 

Though when your friends in the water began to splash at one another, Oliver teasingly let some splatter upon Brian as he sat on the edge, eyes closed and face turned up towards the sky as he relaxed back against his boyfriend. 

“Oh my god! Don’t!” he tensely straightened up, his tone startling Jerome enough that his palm that rested on Brian’s waist tightened, “stop! You’re giving me flashbacks to summer camp!” 

As you heard your grinning friend in the lake apologise, you opened your mouth to note, “that’s right, I forgot you went to camp when we were kids.”

“Yeah, it was honestly revolting,” Brian recoiled slightly at the recollection, “mosquitoes, terrible food, even worse people. Had a big old lake just like this one,” he gestured to the surrounding landscape. 

“Actually,” Rafe then spoke up, his voice booming to your ears as he sat directly behind you, his legs slotted on either side of your frame as his chin rested atop your shoulder, “this place used to be a summer camp too back when my dad bought it.”

“Really?” Hana glanced up from the water, their childish game now halted. 

“Yeah, I mean,” Rafe cast a glance over his shoulder at the structures on the bank just behind him, “it had been abandoned and completely deserted for a long time, but a lot of the buildings, the main house and the shed and stuff, they’re the original cabins just renovated.”

“Your dad bought an abandoned camp?” Oliver scrunched up his face, “okay, creepy…”

“Oh, hell no, I’m out,” Brain began to unravel, “babe, if we wake up in the middle of the night to a ghost child standing at the foot of our bed, it’s your job to take care of it,” he glanced over his shoulder at Jerome, “I’m too delicate and pretty to deal with the paranormal, especially if it’s kids,” to which his boyfriend simply hummed in agreement and soothingly let his palm run down his partner’s arm.

“Oh, this place isn’t haunted,” Hana said after she’d swam up to clutch against the side of the pier, “calm down.”

“Well, you don’t know that, it might be,” the blonde man behind you shrugged, “especially with what apparently happened here back in the day…”

“What are you talking about?” you looked back at him. 

“Well, back like forty years ago or something, when this was still a camp, there was this one counsellor who one day just went nuts, like snapped and murdered every single person there,” Rafe told, purposely making his tone more ominous the further into the story he got, “that’s why the place was shut down and abandoned, why no one ever wanted to return it to its former glory. It’s one of the most gruesome unsolved cases in this entire corner of the country.”

“Wait, unsolved?” Brian clutched his imaginary pearls. 

“Yeah, the guy was never caught, supposably never even left these woods…” he then leaned in and attempted to truly spook you all, “at night if you listen closely, you can still hear him sharpening his blade, getting ready to hunt his next prey…”

Hana, assuming that he was only joking, let out a dry laugh to cut the tense silence that had fallen over you all, “okay, very funny, ha-ha.” 

“Yeah,” you gently rubbed your boyfriend’s arm as you tried to shake the tale off of you, “let’s maybe not joke about psychopaths running around a rural area when we actually are in a rural area,” though goosebumps still pricked and tingled every inch of your skin. 

“Wait, how did it go?” your giggle mingled with Oliver’s as you both leaned against the kitchen counter, nearly bumping your foreheads together from how hard you were laughing, “was it…” and you began to hum a faint melody. 

“No because, remember, at the end it went,” your friend cut you off and then made his own attempt, though much more accurate than your own, causing your eyes to promptly light up with recognition before they crinkled together in laughter as he tried to hit the high note at the end. 

Once the woods surrounding the cabin had succumbed to darkness, the group of you all decided to wrap the day up in a bit of merriment, going through Rafe’s father’s liquor stash and turning up the music. 

During your and Oliver’s secluded moment in the kitchen away from the rest, your laughter caused you to sway even closer to one another, your palm naturally planting itself on his chest as your faces nearly touched. 

Though just as the pair of you were doubled over, a figure appeared in the doorway.

“Oh,” your grin continued as you spotted your boyfriend, “hey baby,” though your laughter finally began to fade. 

Staring daggers at the man beside you, Rafe then uttered coldly, “hey,” before his feet carried him straight towards you, seized your waist and twisted you away from your friend and towards himself to capture your lips. 

“Okay, right,” Oliver exhaled as Rafe kept marking his territory, kissing you way more passionately than he needed to, “I’ll just see you guys back in the living room then…”

You tried to tilt away enough to utter your friend a reply, though your boyfriend didn’t allow you, only let you go once Oliver was long gone and Rafe returned to his original plan of cracking open the fridge to get a cold beer for himself. 

Walking back out into the living room while your boyfriend scavenged for a bottle opener, you plopped yourself back down on the couch, on the opposite side to where Brian and Jerome were snuggled up. Next to where the lit fireplace crackled sat Oliver in a chair and not far from his feet on the fuzzy carpet rested Hana, legs crisscrossed as she held up her wine glass to stare through it. 

When Rafe rejoined you all, a freshly glowing cigarette trapped between his lips as he sauntered out of the kitchen, he situated himself right beside you, making space for himself where there hadn’t really been previously. In his hand, he didn’t just balance his own drink, but also a stout glass filled with an amber liquid, one he swiftly handed off to you even though you hadn’t asked for it, yet that had still been the routine of the evening, and after the first one was sloshing on your belly, the others became harder to deny and not accidentally sip absentmindedly, especially when he’d playfully help you along by tilting the glass the remaining distance up towards your lips. 

“Sweetie,” Hana soon leaned closer to utter for your ears only, “don’t you want a glass of water instead?” 

Though your boyfriend beside you unfortunately overheard and grasped his cigarette between two of his longer fingers, a puff of smoke accompanying his words as he answered before you got the chance to, “she’s fine.”

From across the couch, as Hana scooted back to her spot on the carpet, having not caught the quiet interaction, Brian then suggested, “why don’t we play a game or something?” 

“What, like truth or dare?” Hana leaned back against an unoccupied armchair. 

“No, this isn’t a slumber party. Isn’t there like board games here?”

Brian’s glance then drifted to Rafe as he smothered his cigarette in the nearby ashtray and, without warning, pulled you into his lap and caught Oliver’s eye from across the room as he shamelessly let his hands wander across your frame.  

“Uh, yeah. There should be some in the cabinet over there,” Rafe vaguely gestured before his lips began to nip at the side of your neck, making your eyes flutter and only half watched along as Brian then got up to skim through the aforementioned cupboard. 

“Okay,” he glanced through the options, “there are cards, so we could play poker or something,”

“No way,” Oliver swiftly shook his head and shot a glance at Jerome’s bulky form, comfortably slumped on the couch, “I’m not repeating that fiasco again.” 

“Aw,” Brian glanced back at his friend, “but it was so cute seeing my boyfriend fucking demolish you,” and Jerome, the quiet man he was, just let out a grunt in agreement.

“No, pick something else,” Oliver waved a hand. 

“Well, we’ve got monopoly, scrabble, cards against humanity–, uh! There’s clue!” he excitedly picked up the box and spun around, “oh, work! Let’s play that!” 

With his kisses still dancing along your skin, they then suddenly ceased as Rafe announced, “you guys go ahead, I think Y/n is ready for bed.” 

Shooting a concerned glance at how your intoxicated form wobbled slightly as your boyfriend helped you up on your feet, Hana uttered, “oh, are you sure?” 

“She is,” Rafe’s touch clung to you, “aren’t you babe?” 

“Oh, uhm…” you hadn’t really noticed it before, but now that he mentioned it, as if he himself planted the thought in your hazy mind, all of the alcohol had in fact made you pretty sleepy, “yeah, I guess so.” 

“Alright, well then,” Hana’s voice stayed slightly hesitant, “sleep tight.”

“I love you guys,” you blew the group kisses as Rafe helped you over towards the stairs. 

His kisses made you even more dizzy than you already were, so when you stumbled over the threshold into your shared room, you flopped down onto the mattress, though you weren’t quite sure if you’d just fallen or if Rafe had manhandled your intoxicated and pliant frame, giving you a push before his form was atop of yours. 

Though now that you were horizontal and with the weight of a frat boy squishing you further down into the bed, that was when you truly noticed just how much you’d had to drink that evening. 

The room was spinning as Rafe made out with you, his palms raking across your body like a wild storm, squeezing every soft curve he could get his hands on. As one hand disappeared up your skirt, his kisses wandered down and over your throat to the bit of your chest that was exposed in the neckline of your top. Wasting no time at all, he then yanked down the hem, catching one of the cups of your bra as well as he unwrapped your tit like a present. 

As his face was buried in your boobs, surely giving you hickeys from the way that he sucked at your pebbly nipple and the surrounding sensitive skin, a breathless attempt at halting his affections left your lungs, “baby–” 

Though he didn’t take the whimper as you’d intended it and simply continued, “shit, you’re so fucking hot,” he yanked down the other sliver of mesh fabric covering your other boob, “god, these tits are just insane.” 

Weakly, you ran your fingers through his buzzed hair and gasped as you felt his hardness grind into your covered core, “Rafe, I–” 

“Yeah?” his lips began to flutter back up to your own as he let himself rock against you with more intent, “you want this big dick, huh?” 

“No, we can’t, we don’t have a–”

“Oh come on, baby,” he shifted, slipping a hand down under the waistband of your skirt and into your underwear, not hesitating to sweep his fingers through your wetness and bully your little button, “I know you want to…” 

“Stop, that feels too good,” you tried, but couldn’t yank his strong hand away, “you can’t–, I have to get up and brush my teeth.” 

“You know, all my exes let me tap it raw,” he purred in your ear and attempted to guilt you, “why won’t you? Don’t you trust me?” his touch then suddenly disappeared, but only to tug down the zipper on the side of your short skirt.

“Of course I do, I just–”

“Then why won’t you let me make you feel good, huh?” he yanked both your skirt and panties down your legs, so fast it nearly gave you whiplash. Crawling off of your jelly-like form, he stood tall and loomed at the foot of the bed. Wasting no time, he yanked your core closer to the edge before he desperately freed his fat cock. The taps he then offered your glistening cunt, letting you reel in the weight of his length, “doesn’t that feel nice, baby?” he smirked at the way your mouth fell open, “because it sure seems like your little pussy thinks so, just look,” you followed his command and glanced down to spot how his intimidating girth nudged at your weepy petals. 

Even after months of dating, you still hadn’t gotten used to the daunting size of him. 

“Oh, fuck…” your brows knitted together. 

“Just listen to that,” he flicked the bulbous tip through your slick folds with more vigour, causing the melody of your want to echo even louder throughout the bedroom, “you’re so fucking wet. You want it so bad…”

You then felt yourself fade away into the intoxicating sensation, letting him continue to fuck your fold and make your pussy drool even further till your eyes fluttered shut. 

However, it didn’t take very long at all, through all of the hazy motions, before the very tip of him caught your entrance and slipped inside. 

“Rafe!” you gasped, eyes snapping back open as your spine lurched off the mattress just an inch. 

“Fuck,” he let out a loud groan, “sorry, babe. You’re just too soaked, it slipped in,” though didn’t move at all to pull it back out, since it had secretly been completely on purpose, “christ, you’re so tight…”

As he slipped his shirt over his head and tossed it to the side, you pleaded once more, “Rafe…” quietly begging for him to take it out through the conflicting haze as the familiar sensation of him stuffing you full always shut your brain completely off.

“This doesn’t count,” he claimed as he began to move, pumping just the bulbous head of himself in and out of your little hole, “not really. I can fuck you with just the tip, right?” a few of his fingers then lowered to strum your clit and summon a loud moan from deep within your soul, “yeah, that’s what I thought…”

As he removed his fingers from your clit, he then stuffed them in your mouth, muffling your soft whimpers and letting you suck them clean of your juices. As the taste of yourself coated your tongue, your own hands came up to clutch his, holding it near as you soon let your pecks wander across his palm and even down to plant a soft kiss to the gold ring that never left his finger.

“Oh–,” a gasp then left your lungs as he suddenly pushed in a bit more of his length, “Rafe, that’s too deep,” selfishly letting himself feel more of your warmth. 

“No, that’s not too deep,” he began to fuck you properly, making you lose your breath, “you wanna know what is too deep?” a purposefully harsh thrust then buried itself so far inside of you that a tingle of pain joined the pleasure, “that’s too deep,” he then retracted just a tad, though still filled you up completely with each long stroke, “this is just right.” 

“We can’t–,” you foggily tried to shake your head. 

“Yes, we can. Just look how good you’re taking me, baby,” the palm you’d been clutching then escaped your grasp and scooped behind your head to tilt your neck and lock it there, directing your glance down between your bodies and forcing you to spot the faint bulge that appeared at each one of his mind-melting thrusts, “you don’t wanna stop…”

Feeling that all too familiar high begin to fuzz up your periphery, you trembled, “o-oh, fuck…” 

“You feel so fucking good…” he grunted as your pussy began to clench around his fat girth, “just let me use you for a bit, yeah?” 

“I–, I–,” gasps of air expanded your lungs as his pace then thrust you over the edge, “holy shit…” and your cunt helplessly clambered around him. 

In your orgasmic haze, Rafe then abruptly flipped you around for you to lay on your stomach, and you barely managed to process it before you felt the weight of him settle atop of you, smooshing you down into the mattress as he slid back in. 

“Ah!” you yelped at the way he didn’t hold back, “Rafe, it’s too much,” not even bothering to grant you a chance to recover, but simply fucked through your soreness, “I can’t–”

“Oh, shut up, you can take it,” he growled in your ear, his feet hooking your ankles and spreading your shaky legs further for him, “take it like the good little slut you are.”

It was strange how he’d taught your body to love the pain he inflicted. Even if the source was just his god-given gift of a girth, or curse, all depending on your point of view, and not the roughness he occasionally let slip out of the dark depths he tried to hide his jagged sides in for you and you alone.  

“Fuck,” you soon heard him groan as his heavy sack slapped against your cunt at each one of his furious rocks, “I’m gonna cum!” 

“Pull out–,” you managed to mumble into the sheets.

“What?” he kept on pounding your poor pussy. 

“Not inside,” you tilted your head a bit to beg, “please!”

“Oh my god, fine,” he then begrudgingly pulled out and with one hand flipped you back onto your stomach as the other wrapped around his cock and he began to fuck his fist. Pushing himself up onto his knees, he crawled further up your body till his thighs caged you in, denting the mattress on either side of your face. He didn’t even wait for your lips to part before he shoved his dick down your throat, making you gag as he groaned loudly above you, “fuck…” and fed you his load.  

When he soon flopped down on the bed beside you, the both of you catching your breaths, you instinctively gulped down what he’d given you before you curled your frame into his side. 

As he wrapped an arm beneath your head, his glance then flickered down to you as he caught your chin with his thumb and forefinger, tilting you up to him before he asked, “did you swallow it?” digging his digit slightly into your skin and making you open your mouth for him, letting him discover the answer him himself, “fuck… that’s my girl…” he groaned before dipping down to kiss you. 

The peck however didn’t carry on for long as his warmth then suddenly disappeared. 

“Where are you going?” you watched as he got up, reaching out your arms to him in a silent plea for cuddles. 

“I’m thirsty,” he zipped his pants back up, though didn’t bother with his shirt, “you just try and fall asleep, I’ll be right back.” 

Flashing him a drowsy smile, “okay,” you then tug the duvet over your form and let your gaze shadow him as he made his way out of the room. 

You thought you hadn’t managed to fall asleep, but evidently, you had as when the door to the room suddenly burst open, you were jolted awake, Rafe as well stirring as he was now settled behind you with an arm draped over your frame. 

As three of your friends rushed to slam the door behind them, Rafe propped himself up and mumbled, “hey, what the fuck–”

But Hana then cut him off, a downright terrified look plastered not only all over her own face, but the rest as well.

“Oliver’s dead,” she uttered through the tears that thickened up her voice. 

Still groggy, you slowly sat up and murmured, “what?”

Snapping her bloodshot eyes to lock with yours, she bellowed, “Oliver is fucking dead!” 

As your gaze flickered over the group in search of any sign that what she claimed wasn’t true, you heard Rafe behind you exhale, “okay, this isn’t funny.”

“Oh shut up, you dick!” Brian shot back, doubled over in the corner, hyperventilating as Jerome kneeled before him, trying to calm him down. 

“Hey, hey,” you gently raised up a hand, “don’t talk to him like that. What the hell do you mean Oliver is dead?”

“I mean that he’s dead as in dead, dead,” Hana explained, her words causing the world to suddenly crumble all around you, “Jerome went outside to get something from the car and found him on the porch, not moving and with his head stuck under the water in the hot tub.” 

With tears now stinging the corners of your eyes, you struggled to suck in a breath of air, “what?”

“It’s that fucking ghost story you told us,” Brian panicked in the corner, “it’s real, isn’t it?” 

“Okay,” Rafe uttered as the both of you leapt out of bed and scrambled to get some clothes on, “let’s all just calm down.”

“We gotta call the police,” Hana said, to which Jerome swiftly pulled out his phone, only to then curse quietly as he discovered what Brian too noticed when he glanced over his shoulder. 

“Fuck, we can’t, there’s no signal!”

Hana then glanced around at everyone, “well then one of us has gotta drive and find some, right?” 

“Hell no,” Brian shuttered, “if there’s some psycho out in these woods, then I’m not staying behind to get murdered. We’re all going.”

So that’s how, after you’d all scurried downstairs and filtered out through the sliding door to the porch, that you saw the truth with your own eyes. 

Even though his head was obscured beneath water, the unmoving corpse of your dear friend still caught your eyes and stopped you in your tracks.

“Oh my god…” you sobbed, your blood running cold. 

But before you could let your feet carry you closer to the scene of the crime, Rafe seized your arm and uttered, “baby, come on,” before pulling you along the last short distance towards the cars, “I’m sorry, but we gotta go.”

Though when you did reach the vehicles and attempted to start them, neither one of them would as they’d seemingly been tampered with, forcing the panicked lot of you all to run back inside. 

“Shit…” Brian clutched onto the back of the couch in the living room for support, “what do we do now?”

“We can’t go on foot, not in the dark through this forest,” Rafe spoke, “so we gotta stay here till morning.”

Glancing around the space, Hana uttered, “then we gotta make this place safe. Lock all the doors and windows, find somewhere to hide.” 

“Yeah, good idea,” your boyfriend nodded before suggesting, “let’s split up, it’ll be faster that way. Y/n with me, we’ll take that side of the house, and the rest of you stay over here.” 

And before anyone could protest, he’d yanked you down a dark hallway.

You nearly stumbled twice as Rafe dragged your shaking visage through the lake house, only stopping once you’d reached a large closet. 

“In here, baby,” he shoved you inside, though began to shut the door before he nuzzled himself in as well. 

“No, what are you doing?” tears streaming down your face, you attempted to stop him. 

Though he only halted his efforts a second, grasping your face as he uttered, “please, just stay here.”

“No, it’s too dangerous,” you clutched onto his dark t-shirt, “you can’t–”

“Babe, I can’t let anything happen to you. I can’t lose you,” he then collided his lips with your own, a sob escaping your lungs as he briefly kissed you, “please, just stay right here, hide, for me.” 

Slowly, you loosened your trembling grip on his shirt and cried, “I love you.” 

“I’ll be right back!” he promised before shutting the closet door and bathing you in darkness. 

You had no idea how much time passed, if it was only a few seconds or hours that you stayed in the dusty and dim abyss of that closet, but then when a loud crash and a shrill scream suddenly found your ears, your shaky hand pushed the door back open.

You’d never in your life been as terrified as you were when you found yourself tip-toeing down that long, dark hallway. Though, as you sneaked past the ajar door to the study, your entire body suddenly froze up at the massacre that met you within. 

Unmoving and slumped over the threshold, there lied Jerome, his face beaten to a pulp, rendering it nearly unrecognisable as blood slowly trickled into the tight curls on the top of his head. 

Past where Hana was lying in the middle of the room, battered and coughing, in the corner you saw as a tall figure, masked by a dark motorcycle helmet, crouched over the still form of Brian and landed the last few blows to claim his life. 

“Please,” Hana’s words were gurgled by blood as the killer slowly straightened back up. Twisting ever so slightly, the assailant plucked out one of the clubs from the gold bag that leaned against one of the tall bookcases, “just let me go,” your last living friend begged as you watched the murderer wrap his long fingers around the handle and take the few steps to where Hana lied, “just let me–” 

As he took a wide swing and hit your friend right in her temple, the loud crack that echoed throughout the cabin made you shutter in terror and let out an uncontrollable scream, causing the killer’s head to snap up to spot you in the dark hallway. 

For a second you both just stood there, frozen and staring at one another, like two deer in headlights. But then, as he began to move, taking his time as he stepped over the bodies littering his path, you stumbled back and collided with the wall directly behind you. 

You tried to run, but even though you managed to slip out the wide glass doors and escape a good distance into the dark forest surrounding the house, the masked man still caught up to you and flung you against a tree. As he had you cornered, you felt him drag the cold tip of the golf club up your right leg and over your shuttering skin, drawing a crimson line of your beloved’s blood across your goosebump-ridden flesh. 

“P-please don’t kill me, please–,” you cried, but just then, the moonlight that streamed through the dense treetops caught in a glint of gold that adorned the hand that clutched the club, a recognizable ring that caused your heart to drop. 

As your eyes then flickered up to the dark helmet, that too seemed oddly familiar now that you truly looked at it. 

In some sick and twisted way, you hoped that the killer had just stolen the jewellery from your boyfriend as a trophy of the night’s conquest and not the horrifying alternative. 

But when you then tried to slip away and the man pushed you back, your hands defensively shot up, though only managed to knock the helmet off his head and let it tumble to the dark forest floor below, unveiling the earth-shattering truth. 

“Oh my god…” you gasped, eyes wide as you now stood face to face with your boyfriend. 

“Shh,” he took a step closer to you, caging you in even further, “calm down, baby. Don’t do anything stupid now.” 

“They–… they were right…” the warnings your now deceased friends had given you since the moment you got involved with the frat boy buzzed in your mind, though when they’d light-heartedly called him a psycho, you never in your wildest dreams thought that they would have been correct in their choice of words, “I can’t believe they were right…”

A low sigh then escaped Rafe’s lungs. 

“You really should have just stayed hidden like I told you to… I didn’t want you to find out this way… it would have been so much simpler if you’d just bought into the story I made up…” 

“You killed my friends…” your chest ached with every painful gasp of air, “how–… how could you?” 

“Oh, honey…” his head tilted slightly as the corners of his lips twitched, “do you really think this is my first time?” 

Staring back at him in horror, you sputtered, “w-why?”

“Because of you,” he uttered as if it was obvious, “it was all for you,” his feet shifted him even closer to you, “they were a bad influence, so this was the only way.”

“They were my family!” 

“They were like a poison, all of them, trying to control you, trying to take you away from me,” he inched in even closer, making you wish the harsh bark that scratched up your spine would simply open up like a portal and let you escape, “I know Hana was trying to get you to break up with me… Oliver always followed you around like a lost puppy, just hoping you’d one day spread your legs for him… and Jerome and Brian? They were just plain annoying,” his hot breath fanned across your skin as he petted the edges of your features with a knuckle of the hand clutching the golf club, “I did it all for you, for us, because I love you… fuck, you have no idea how much I fucking love you, baby…” he uttered before bringing the bud of the improvised weapon down upon the side of your head and knocking you clean out. 

When you came to, the flicking light from a lit fireplace was the only source of light in the dim room you found yourself in. Arms folded up behind your head, a long rope was tangled around them and stretched up to a beam in the ceiling above. Your legs too were tied, keeping your naked frame upright and locked in place in the middle of the room. 

“Fucking finally,” a low voice echoed from the chair across the chamber, causing you to wince as the tone pierced your soul and worsened your splitting headache, “you really took your sweet time waking up.” 

Blinking back at your boyfriend as he leaned back in the seat, pants undone and his hard length tight in his fist, a murmur escaped your lips, “…you knocked me out…”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” he got up and walked towards your suspended form, “but you didn’t give me any other choice.” 

As he slowly neared you, your glossy eyes flickered up to meet his.

“Rafe, please,” you heard your voice break as you tried to keep your tone soft, “you don’t have to do this. Just untie me, I promise I won’t be mad at you.”

“Oh yeah?” a small scoff slipped through his smirk. 

“Yes. I’ll do whatever you want, just please let me go,” you begged, “please don’t hurt me.” 

“Shh, shh,” his palm rose up to stroke your hair before letting it rush down and over the curves of your exposed body, “but you’ve been such a bad girl. I think you deserve a lesson that hurts a little bit,” his palm then slapped your pussy, still soaked and sore from earlier, rendering you to let out a shrill yelp, “it’s okay, you can cry…” he briefly leaned in to kiss your cheek before he shifted, though still staying so close that his nose ghosted along your skin as he made his way around to stand directly behind you, “you look so pretty when you do…”

You then squirmed as he reached down to grasp his cock and nudge at your sensitive entrance, “Rafe, please–, ah!” a cry then left your form as he ruthlessly rammed his way inside, plugging you up so completely that his balls nuzzled against your slick skin. 

“Fuck!” his moan tickled the shell of your ear as he tangled his arms around your torso, “you’re so perfect…” he began to move, finding a selfish pace to wreck you with, “so perfect and all mine…” 

As his thrusts caused your tits to jiggle, one of his wide hands soared up to grasp one while the other one snaked up to wrap around your throat. He then squeezed it fiercely enough that all your noises eventually faded away and he kept you completely quiet for a good moment before his hold slackened and he once again granted you the privilege of gasping for air. 

“This is all you need, just me, only me,” he grunted, “just like this, using your pretty little hole for exactly what it was made for… you were made for me and nobody else… no one…”

His grip then drifted down to dent your hips before he lifted them, raising your bound frame till your tip toes were barely grazing the cold floor. Your back arched slightly as he repeatedly brought your hips back to him, his balls sloppily slapping against your swollen clit each time he manoeuvred your body and treated you like a toy. 

When he then hooked an arm around your front to keep moving your body greedily against him, it granted the other one the grace to roam your frame freely. 

As his fingers found one of your nipples in a harsh pinch, he let out a groan at the way you began to clamper down around his fat girth, “are you gonna cum, baby? Huh?” his palm then slapped your tit, “because it sure fucking feels like you’re close,” before he suddenly retracted completely, slipping out of your drooling cunt and causing a shy whimper to slip from your lips, one he swiftly cut off when he smacked your cheek, “too bad. You’re not allowed to.” 

As you shakily struggled to stay on your unsteady feet, you panted, “Rafe, my legs, I can’t–”

“Oh yeah?” he mockingly pouted at you as he sauntered around to your front, “do they hurt? Are you tired?” and as you offered him a nod, his fingers grasped your chin, “well,” his thumb slowly stretched up to trace your bottom lip, “if you promise that you’ll be a good girl for me, then I’ll give you a little break.”

“Yes, I will,” a tear rolled down your still stinging cheek. 

“You will what?” his palm briefly slapped the side of your face once again before returning to the same hold. 

“I’ll be your good girl, I’ll do whatever you want,” you begged and as he then sank down to his knees, grabbed a pocketknife resting on a nearby table and held up his end of the bargain, slicing through the ropes at your legs and cutting them loose. A new wave of sobs tumbled out of your form, “thank you! Oh, thank you so much!”

Tossing the blade far away before he rose back up, “you’re fucking welcome, baby,” he then caught you off guard as he suddenly plucked your lower half up into his arms. 

“W-wait, I thought you’d give me a break!” your legs trembled in his grasp as he slide you back onto his fat cock. 

“Yeah, your legs were tired, so I’m being nice and giving them a break,” the wet claps of your skin roughly colliding once again filled the dark room, “your pussy doesn’t deserve one yet… unless of course, this is you begging me to fuck your ass…” a wicked wish that he’d been begging you for ever since the very first time he banged you. 

“No! No, not there, please, I’ve never–”

“Oh, I know you haven’t,” he smirked, “that’s what makes it so much more fun…”

“Please, Rafe,” you blinked back at him, “don’t.”

“You told me I could do whatever I want…” he angled his bucks right against that spot that caused your teeth to dig into your lower lip, “you promised to be a good girl for me and just take whatever I give you…” 

“I will,” your eyes couldn’t help but flutter, “just please not that.”

He then let a dollop of his spit splatter directly against your face, “alright, but only because I love you,” before he dipped down to plant a feverish kiss against your lips, “tell me that you love me too.”

“I love you,” you murmured against his mouth. 

“Huh?” one of his hands let go of you and he shifted to balance you with only one, letting the other instead drift down between your forms to bully your puffy pearl, “what was that?”

“I lo–, a-ah!” you suddenly whined as he pressed one of his fingers inside your pussy, not caring in the slightest that you were already completely filled up as he forced his digit in alongside his fat cock. 

“Come on, baby,” he stared down at you, “tell me you love me,” and kept up his ruthless pace as he hooked the finger inside of you, “tell your soulmate just how much you love and adore him, how you want nothing more than to worship him at his feet.” 

“I–, I–, Rafe,” you gasped, feeling as if he was splitting you in half, “it’s too much–”

“No, it’s not too much, it’s exactly right, you can take it, baby.” 

“I can’t–”

“I don’t fucking care,” he continued to fuck you without remorse, slamming his intimidating length so deep inside of you that you nearly couldn’t breathe, “I wanna feel you cum, just like this.”

“Rafe–”

“Do it or I’ll get a lot meaner,” he warned you before he finally got what he wanted. Your squirt drizzled down on the floor as the intensity caused a scream to erupt from your form, “there you go, fuck,” he groaned as he watched your pussy gush around his girth, “that’s it,” before the way your cunt clambered down around him caused him to let go as well, “shit,” and pump you full of his cum. 

Rafe pressed a peck to your forehead before he pulled out of your warmth and you breathlessly glanced down to watch as his hot load began to leak out of your quivering hole. 

“Alright, baby,” he exhaled and then uttered words that caused a shiver to trickle down your spine, “foreplay’s over. I think you’re ready for your punishment now.”

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[connorsui]

Sylus x wife! Reader || Imagine

"A sticker crown!"

The house was quiet, a warmth settling into every corner as you opened the front door and slipped off your shoes. The soft glow of evening light filtered through the windows, giving the entire place a serene feel. There was no immediate sound of movement downstairs, but something more faint came from upstairs—a soft giggle, the high-pitched sound unmistakable.

"Sylus? ...Are you up there?" you called out, the smile already pulling at your lips.

No answer—just more giggling.

Curious, you made your way up the stairs, your steps slow and deliberate as you approached the source of the sound. The door to your daughter’s room was slightly ajar, and as you pushed it open, the scene that greeted you filled you with pure amusement. Toys were scattered all around the room, dolls and baby pink teddy bears seated around a small tea table with plastic cups clinking on the surface. But the real sight was in the center of the chaos.

There was Sylus, your formidable, commanding husband, lying flat on the floor with his hands clasped on his chest, eyes closed, and a faint smile playing on his lips.

"No, no, Daddy! Stay put! You not pretty yet!" your daughter scolded in the sweetest little voice, her small hands busy rummaging through a pile of stickers.

"I'm as still as I can be, sweetie," Sylus murmured, barely moving a muscle. "I'm not going anywhere."

You covered your mouth to stifle the laugh that threatened to bubble up as you stepped further into the room, but the moment was short-lived as your daughter spotted you. Her eyes lit up in pure delight, and she gasped as if you’d appeared from nowhere.

"Mummy!, Mummy! Look! Look how pretty Daddy is now!" She scrambled up from her spot, her tiny hand reaching for yours as she dragged you closer to the spectacle. "Daddy won’t scare anymore! People will like Daddy now!"

You bit your lip to contain your laughter when you got a proper look at Sylus. His face, once an intimidating picture of authority and dominance, was now decorated with Hello Kitty stickers and glittering stars. The contrast was almost too much to handle.

“Well, don’t you look handsome as ever?” you teased, standing over him with an affectionate grin.

Sylus cracked an eye open and smirked. "And how can I resist? My own princess demands I become a statue for her enjoyment."

“You are fulfilling your role quite beautifully," you said, trying to peel one of the stickers off his cheek, only for your daughter to intervene, placing her tiny hand on yours with the fiercest pout she could manage.

“No, Mummy! Daddy needs to be pretty!”

You and Sylus exchanged a glance, amused as ever, while your daughter grabbed a fresh set of stickers, picking the sparkliest one of the bunch. With a proud smile, she pressed a glittery star right onto Sylus’ nose.

"Yaaay!"

Before you could respond, Sylus' smirk widened. "Princess, why don’t you add some of your beauty onto Mommy? Make her feel just as pretty as me."

Your daughter, to both your surprise, frowned and shook her head, her little hands resting on her hips. "No! Mommy is already pretty. Mommy doesn’t need stickers, she’s not mean! Mommy is nice so Mommy doesn’t need to be pretty!"

With that final declaration, she slapped another heart-shaped sticker onto Sylus' forehead, sealing his fate.

That was the last straw—you couldn't hold back anymore, laughter bursting from your lips. "Oh my God," you gasped, wiping at the corner of your eye.

Sylus, however, rolled his eyes dramatically. "Help me here…for once, I'll be the one begging."

“Oh, isn’t that a rarity coming from you?” You knelt beside him, gently peeling off the stickers from his face, one by one.

Meanwhile, your daughter looked on, fidgeting with her toys before tugging on your arm. "Mummy… is it bedtime now?"

You glanced outside, the fading light of the day casting soft shadows across the room. "Yes, sweetie. It’s bedtime. As much as you love playtime, it’s time to rest for now."

"The moon is out?" she asked, tilting her head.

You nodded, peeling the last of the glitter from Sylus' face and then guiding your daughter to her bed. Tucking her in with care, you kissed her forehead. "Yes, the moon is out. But when the sun comes back, you can play more."

She smiled sleepily, already closing her eyes. "Okay… Night, Mummy."

You and Sylus quietly left the room, gently closing the door behind you. As you walked back down the stairs together, you couldn’t help but giggle. “How long has she been doing that to you?” you asked, barely containing your amusement.

Sylus sighed dramatically. “Ever since you left. She said I look too angry and I have to be ‘kind’ more often. She believed her toys and her drawings would do me great favors.”

You chuckled, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “Well… she’s not wrong. You did look far better than all the years we’ve been together in that moment.”

“Oh really? Is that what I needed to love you?” Sylus arched a brow, his teasing tone back in full force.

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, stifling another laugh.

Sylus shook his head, a laugh of his own escaping. “Please... save me next time.”

You grinned, leaning into him. "Sylus, don't be mean."

[oceantornadoo]

home invasion

neighbor!simon, gender-neutral reader, fluff, implied violence

--

there was someone in your room.

you had fallen asleep on your living room couch, soothed by the sounds of trashy reality tv show. however, some creeping sensation overcame you, cold hands tickling your spine, waking you up with a bucket of ice water. you lay absolutely still as you heard sounds of someone rummaging through your things. thankfully your apartment walls were thin, so you heard them closing drawers loudly, as if they didn't think you were home. you started running situations through your head, ones where you called the police and they came too late, your trespasser having heard the phone call. there was only one decision to make.

silently, like you were five again and playing hide and seek, you moved towards your door. thankfully your door didn't squeak as blood rushing was the only sound running through your head. you left the door slightly ajar as you sprinted down the hall to his door.

"simon!" you whisper yelled, knocking furiously but trying not to alert the intruder at the same time. tears were gathering in your eyes, ones of frustration of having your safe space broken into. finally, after what felt like an hour, the lock clicked and he opened the door.

simon was grumpy. he had just started to fall asleep, that elusive feeling he was always chasing these days, never quite catching it. he was about to tell you such until he saw your eyes glistening, hands gripping your blanket fiercely. "theresanintruderinmyroomhesinmy" you sputtered, absolutely distraught.

"slow down, lovie. wha' happened?" fuck, he wasn't supposed to call you that. he was supposed to keep his distance and not be one of those creeps you complained about. and now he had fucked it up and- "there's someone in my apartment. in my bedroom. going through my things. i knew the cops wouldn't come fast enough so i just thought-" he interrupted you, opening his door just wide enough to shove you through it. fast as a whip, he turned around, kissing your forehead through his mask and murmuring "lock it behind me." then he was gone, your vengeful grim reaper stalking down the hall to his next victim.

ten minutes later, the clock in the kitchen ticking slower than humanly possible, you spotted him closing the door of your apartment, shoulders bunched around his ears. you were pressed against the peephole and opened the door for him as he neared. "simon? what happened?" his eyes were black pits in his head, pupils blown wide by some intangible force. bloodlust. he reached behind you, triple checking the lock, before turning on the light. you gasped.

his knuckles were bloody, gray shirt disheveled, like someone tried to claw it. his mask was askew, shoved up as if someone tried to pull it off but was stopped before they got the chance. he pulled your forehead to his, souls touching in some intimate embrace. this was your neighbor, the one who always held the door for you and accepted your extra baked goods with quiet disagreement. the one who covered sharp edges of corners before you bumped into them, watched your door to make sure you got in okay after late nights out with friends. he breathed in your scent quietly, telling himself this was not a mission, this was you. he ran his thumbs under your jawline and down your neck, feeling your pulse to remind him you were alive. you, this bundle of life he came back to, week after week, deployment after deployment, the one reason he stayed in this shitty building when he could easily afford something better. "yer stayin' with me tonight." you nodded easily, soft as butter in his arms.

you blinked and you were in his bed, strong arms wrapped around you. he gripped you hard, like he thought the intruder might try to steal you straight out of his arms. in the darkness of his room, you slipped off his mask, laying it on his bed table. you kissed his forehead, a mirror of the one he gave you earlier, and snuggled into the crook of his neck. "thank you." you whispered into the silence of the night. you felt him nod against you, arms constricting tighter, legs tangled in the safety of his bed.

simon didn't sleep much. too many memories, sounds of gunfire and the glint of the meat hook ever present. he was required to see a shrink on base, but even that didn't help. turns out this whole time, all he needed was you.

--

[innerfare]

Going Down On You - Part 2

Summary: how they go down on you

Characters: Shanks, Beckman, Mihawk, Crocodile, Doflamingo, Corazon, Smoker

Genre: pure smut

CW: NSFW // oral sex, shameless dirty talk, Doflamingo is a menace

——— 

Shanks: 

Swears it’s a hangover cure, and this man is hungover every single morning. He’ll wake up with a pounding headache, and before he’s even opened his eyes, he’s reaching for you. He’ll paw at you like a lazy animal until you remove your panties for him and he can fall face first into your delicious cunt. He’s trained your cunt like Pavlov’s dog, too, so that you wake up wet in the morning, your clit throbbing like an alarm clock. 

“Always ready for me,” he’ll mumble in his raspy morning voice. “Nice and wet. That's my girl.” 

You actually get a rash on your inner thighs from his stubble constantly rubbing against your sensitive skin, and you have to sheepishly approach Hongo for some sort of cream. Hongo has been on the Red Force long enough that he’s not phased, though you are so embarrassed you try to ban Shanks from going down on you for a while (spoiler alert: it doesn’t work). 

“I’d rather lose my arm than skip breakfast.” 

He’ll spend most of his time between your legs licking with broad strokes of his tongue, only pointing it and attacking your clit when you’re already on the brink of orgasm. He’ll finger you as you cum and won’t stop until you’re a crying mess, begging him to stop. Of course, he’ll only stop for as long as it takes him to get his cock out and push it in. 

Beckman: 

"Come here, babygirl. That's it."

Beckman drinks your juices like a nightcap. He’ll put you on his desk, the moonlight filtering in through the window and a lamp flickering in the corner, and unzip his pants to give his massive erection some breathing room before turning his attention to his babygirl. He likes to start slow, taking his sweet time with your nipples and leaving a trail of hickies around them, before finally burying his face between your shaking legs.  

“Give daddy a taste.” 

He’s nice and sweet about it, but don’t think he won’t hold you down if you start to squirm around too much. He goes down on you like you need it, not like you want it; he goes down on you like it’s for your own good. It’s for his own good, too, that thing that takes the edge off and helps him wind down after a stressful day. He wants your legs wrapped around his head and your hands tangled in his long hair. 

Oh, and he wants you to tell him that he owns you. Nobody else is allowed to taste your pussy; it's all his, and you'd better chant that while he draws your orgasm out of you.

Mihawk:

A proponent of fine dining. 

Will eat you out on the table, which kind of makes you feel like he’s doing it in public because his dining room is so large and there are massive windows with no curtains covering them; his insistence on you removing every article of clothing, not just your panties, and sitting on the table, feet on the edge, holding your legs as far apart as they’ll go only makes you feel more exposed. All the while, he remains entirely clothed. 

He’ll scold you if you wrap your legs around him. It’s his meal and he’s going to enjoy it precisely the way he wants, and the way he wants is uninhibited. He drags it out, too, edging you multiple times and lecturing you about delayed gratification if you complain. When he does finally allow you to cum, he tortures your clit for a moment after to be certain he saw you through your entire orgasm.  

Other times, he’ll be sitting in his chair and see you walk by and say, “y/n, come here.” He’ll have you strip down before laying you on the coffee table and working an orgasm or two out of you. Enjoys it so much that at times when he’s training or preparing for something, he’ll ban himself from indulging in your pussy because he needs to be focused. 

Crocodile:

Sir Crocodile has a big cock, but he normally stretches you with his fingers. Oral sex isn’t foreplay to him, it’s a separate thing entirely. He normally engages in it very late at night or very early in the morning when he’s exhausted and you’re half asleep. He’ll run his hand down your body, stopping briefly to massage your breasts, before pulling your legs apart. 

“Wake up,” he might grumble in your ear. Or he might not, instead waking you up with a few kisses to your clit.  

He probably kisses your pussy more than he kisses your mouth. He’ll make out with your leaky opening, swapping your juices for his saliva, part of him wishing he still had his other hand so he had more fingers to torture you with. But he’ll settle for one, going back and forth between your nipples and squeezing them until you cry out, then squeezing them some more.  

He doesn’t talk to you while he does it, a far cry from how he mocks and argues with you during penetrative sex. When he’s in an especially bad mood, he doesn’t take his hook off, and you wake up with it pushing into the soft flesh of your thigh, a silent warning not to close your legs on him. And when he’s finished, he’ll push you back to your side of the bed without a word. 

Doflamingo: 

Part of being his toy means being tormented with his tongue. He has a fucking giraffe tongue, and he puts it to good use, often laying back in bed and making you ride it like it’s his cock, moving it out of the way and then making fun of you when you struggle. He makes you talk to him the entire time, and when you’re not sitting on his face, you have to make eye contact with him. 

He’ll talk to you, too, and is so fucking patronizing. 

“Use your words, little one. Come on, you can do it. Don’t tell me it’s too much for you.” 

Uses a lot of different toys while he’s going down on you, typically a butt plug and nipple clamps. Has most definitely used a transponder snail to take pictures of your wet pussy, flush and swollen after he spent an entire afternoon tonguing it; the clicking sound of the snail camera was so humiliating but it made your pussy throb so much harder. 

One of his favorite things in the world is tying you up with his strings and spitting on your cunt. He has, on a handful of occasions, tied you up and allowed his subordinates to lick your pussy, but never lets them taste your cum; right when you’re on the edge, he’ll take over and make them watch while he takes your orgasm all for himself, usually with his cock. 

Corazon: 

Eating your pussy is his stress relief. The number of times you burned dinner because you were cooking and he came home in the middle and bent you over the counter for an appetizer is unreal. He always apologizes, but he doesn’t feel bad enough to stop doing it; he can’t stop doing it. And you’d be cruel to make him considering you can feel the tension leave his body as soon as his tongue runs through your folds. 

“I needed this so bad. Thank you so much.” 

When he’s not bending you over a counter, he wants you riding his face, and none of that hovering shit, either. He’ll wrap his arms around your thighs and hold you flush against his face, moaning as he laps at your folds.

“I can tell you need it, too. Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ve got you.” 

He’s so sweet about it, it’s unreal. Smiles the entire time, places so many sweet kisses on your clit and opening. A big fan of the two finger and tongue combo. Can work an orgasm out of you in record time. Never fucks you without making you cum at least once on his tongue (he’s 9’7 and his cock is proportional). 

Smoker: 

Smoker almost always ends up eating his cum out of you. He’s gone for weeks, even months at a time, and when he walks through that door, you’re dropping your panties or he’s ending it all. He has so much pent up energy he absolutely has to fuck you, but that doesn’t change the fact that what he’s been jerking off to every night is the thought of tasting you. 

“Don’t think for a second we’re finished yet.” 

He’ll take breaks to kiss you on the mouth, making you taste yourself. And then he’ll work his way back down your body, leaving hickies on your neck and biting your nipples before he’s back between your legs again, pushing his tongue into your hole to get every last drop of both of your juices out, his thumb seeing to your aching clit. 

You won’t even make it to the bed, he’ll just fuck you against the wall or on the counter and then drag you onto the floor to lick your cunt. He’s attempted to get you to the sofa before, but you just end up pushed against it while still on the floor, or else bent over the arm or sitting on the edge while he kneels between your legs. 

Also, the two of you don’t shower together often, but for some reason, the times you do shower together, he always ends up with his face between your legs. You’ve wasted so much water because he can’t keep his damn tongue to himself. And when he’s finished, he always places a few sweet kisses at your entrance as if to reward you for behaving. 

———

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

[pucksandpower]

Buns in the Oven

Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary: six times that someone finds out you and Charles are expecting

Pascale hums to herself as she plates the final dish for lunch — a lovely risotto she spent the morning preparing. Her son will be arriving any minute with his girlfriend. Pascale hopes the meal will help settle the nerves she’s noticed in you lately during your visits.

The doorbell rings and Pascale rushes to greet Charles and you at the door. “Welcome, welcome!” She pulls you both into an embrace. “Lunch is all ready, come to the dining room.”

You follow behind Charles, the aroma of the risotto already making your stomach turn. You try to keep your queasiness hidden as you take your seat at the table. Pascale notices your complexion is pale.

“Are you feeling alright, dear?” She asks with a furrowed brow. “You’re looking a bit green around the gills.”

You force a smile. “I’m okay, just not very hungry I suppose.” Your eyes go wide as Pascale heaps a generous serving onto your plate.

Charles squeezes your hand. “Come on, mon amour, Maman’s risotto is the best. You have to try some.”

You pick up your fork with shaky hands and manage a few bites under Pascale’s watchful gaze. But your stomach is quickly revolting, the rich food making you extremely nauseous.

“If you’ll excuse me ...” You abruptly push back from the table and rush down the hall to the bathroom, hand covering your mouth.

Pascale and Charles exchange a worried look as they hear you retch violently. After a few minutes, you re-emerge looking miserable.

“Oh dear, I knew you weren’t feeling well,” Pascale tuts, rising to her feet. “You just sit tight, I’m going to run out for a little bit. I’ll be right back.”

Without waiting for a response, she hurries out of the house. Pascale strides quickly down the street toward the pharmacy on the corner, her mind racing. She grabs a basket and makes a beeline for the family planning aisle, snatching up a few different brands of pregnancy tests. She pays and rushes back home, clutching the tests behind her back as she re-enters the dining room.

You and Charles have pushed your chairs together, his arm wrapped protectively around you as you lean into his chest with your eyes closed. The plates of risotto sit congealed and abandoned.

“You two look awfully cozy,” Pascale quips lightly. You startle upright and blink at her with bleary eyes. “Y/N, I left something for you in the bathroom. Go check it out, won’t you?”

You furrow your brow in confusion but rise and head for the hall bathroom. Pascale settles back at the table and takes a sip of her now-lukewarm tea, the picture of nonchalance. But out of the corner of her eye she watches Charles, who stares intently down the hall from where you disappeared.

Not ten seconds later you come barreling out, nearly bouncing off the doorframe with the pregnancy test boxes in hand.

“Ch-Charles!” You stammer, eyes wild. “Look!”

He flies out of his chair and towards you so fast it clatters to the floor. You both disappear into the bathroom, the door closing firmly behind you. Pascale smiles knowingly to herself and refills her teacup.

Several minutes pass in tense silence, the only sounds an occasional murmured exchange from the bathroom, volumes too hushed for Pascale to make out. Suddenly, a dull thump rings out and Pascale is on her feet in an instant.

“Charles? Y/N?” She calls, heart pounding as she rushes for the bathroom. “Are you both alright in there?”

When she reaches the bathroom, Pascale finds Charles crumpled unconscious on the tile floor. You kneel beside him, face stark white and completely motionless except for the shaking of the positive pregnancy test clutched in your hand.

“Oh my goodness!” Pascale drops to her knees beside you both. “Charles? Charles, wake up chérie!”

She gently taps his cheek until his eyelids flutter open. Charles blinks dazedly up at the two concerned faces hovering above him.

“Wh ... what happened?” He props himself up on his elbows, still looking dazed. His eyes go comically wide as they land on the test in your hand. “Y/N … are you ...”

You finally seem to emerge from your stupor. With trembling fingers, you turn the little plastic stick towards Pascale, revealing the two pink lines clearly indicating pregnancy.

“I … I’m pregnant,” you whisper, voice barely audible over the thundering of Pascale’s heart. A wide smile slowly spreads across her face as tears of joy spring to her eyes.

“My darling girl, come here!” Pascale pulls you both into her arms, squeezing you tightly as happy tears roll down her cheeks. “I’m going to be a grand-mère!”

***

Fred Vasseur strides briskly through the Ferrari motorhome, eyes scanning the room for Charles Leclerc. FP3 is about to begin and he wants to go over the strategy one more time before the session.

He catches sight of you sitting on a plush sofa, your son Jules playing contentedly at your feet with a handful of toy cars. A small smile tugs at Fred’s lips watching the rambunctious two-year-old animatedly providing his own race commentary.

As Fred nears, he notices the oversized bowl in your lap containing an … interesting snack choice. You dunk a dill pickle into the creamy peanut butter, taking an enormous bite and humming with apparent satisfaction. Fred’s brow furrows slightly at the peculiar combination.

“Bonjour Y/N,” he calls out warmly as he approaches. “I was just looking for Charles before FP3 begins. Have you seen him?”

You swallow thickly and look up with a start, as if just noticing Fred’s presence. There’s a brief pause before you seem to find your voice.

“Oh! Fred, hi,” you reply breathlessly. “Charles is — um, he’s down in the garage doing some final prep I believe. With the mechanics.”

“Merci.” Fred nods, eyes straying back to the snack dish with poorly disguised interest. “I don’t mean to pry, but … may I ask what it is exactly you’re eating there?”

A flush rises on your cheeks as you glance down at the pickles and peanut butter. “Just … satisfying a craving, I suppose,” you mutter, almost embarrassed.

Fred throws back his head with a rumbling laugh. “I see, I see. The way to a pregnant woman’s heart, no?”

The words are out in a jovial tease before he can think better of it. But almost as soon as they’ve left his lips, Fred notices the way your entire body tenses, pickle dropping from your slack fingers to the ground with a dull thunk. Jules looks up at the commotion, brow furrowed in childhood confusion.

Realization dawns across your features as your hand moves unconsciously to hover over your abdomen. A look of incredulity and wonder flits through your widened eyes.

Fred feels his heart stutter in his chest. “Y/N? Are you ...” He trails off, suddenly uncertain if he’s overstepped.

Your gaze snaps up to lock with his, mouth working soundlessly for a long moment. Fred waits with bated breath, muscles coiled tight with anxious anticipation.

Finally, you find your voice. “ I… I’m not sure,” you whisper hoarsely. “I didn’t think — but, the cravings ...”

Without warning, you’re on your feet, scooping up Jules and clutching him to your side with one arm. Fred instinctively reaches out to steady you, but you brush him off distractedly.

“I have to … I need to tell Charles,” you murmur, half to yourself as you lurch forward, nearly colliding with a chair in your haste.

“Y/N, wait!” Fred catches your elbow gently but firmly, halting your frantic movements. You turn wild eyes on him and he gentles his voice. “Deep breaths, ma chérie. Why don’t you sit back down for just a moment? You’re looking a bit peaky.”

You stare at him for a beat, chest heaving, before seeming to collect yourself somewhat. With visible effort, you force your shoulders to relax incrementally and draw a shuddering breath.

“No, it’s okay, I … I should go find Charles,” you decide, more composed this time though your grip remains vice-like around your son. “He needs to know. We can’t be sure, but ...”

You trail off, gnawing anxiously at your bottom lip. Fred searches your flushed face, wondering if he should say more or simply stay out of his driver’s personal affairs. But before he can decide, you’ve found your determination again.

“Thank you, Fred.” You flash him a tight smile and shift Jules higher onto your hip. “I’ll just … go track him down then.”

With that, you spin on your heel and hurry out of the hospitality tent in the direction of the team garage, leaving a bemused Fred to stare after your retreating form. He shakes his head slowly, a wry grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Well, it seems congratulations may be in order for the Leclercs,” he murmurs under his breath. “Again.”

Fred watches you disappear into the crowded paddock, a tiny part of him hoping you do end up being pregnant. Despite the extra challenges, there’s nothing quite like the look of joy and pride on Charles’ face whenever he speaks about his wife and child. Fred can already envision his star driver beaming like a spotlight if blessed with another baby.

A chuckle rumbles from his chest. Oh, to be a fly on the wall for that conversation. Somehow, Fred gets the sense Charles might be in need of a fainting couch again this time around.

***

Max lets out a loud whoop as he slams back his fourth — or is it fifth — shot of tequila. The pounding bass and flashing lights of the club have his blood thrumming with adrenaline despite the late hour. Singapore really knows how to rage after a race.

He swivels his head, surveying his surroundings with a lazy grin. Most of the other drivers seem to be just as enthusiastically embracing the raucous celebrations. Lando has his shirt recklessly unbuttoned to an obscene degree as he grinds shamelessly with some random group of club-goers. Pierre is presiding over an intensely competitive beer pong tournament at one of the VIP booths, eyes slightly unfocused.

Only a few meters away, Max spots the familiar silhouettes of Charles and you tucked away in a dimly lit corner. He throws back the dregs of his drink, grimacing at the burn, and stumbles in your direction with a mischievous smirk.

“Well, well!” He crows loudly as he approaches. “If it isn’t the reigning world champion getting cozy with his lady!”

You startle at Max’s boisterous presence, but quickly settle back against Charles with a warm smile tugging at your lips. The Monegasque driver, however, is far too wasted to register much beyond a bemused grunt of acknowledgment.

Max can’t help but snort at the besotted expression scrawled across his former title rival’s face. Charles has his arm wrapped possessively around your waist, head lolled back against the plush booth as he gazes at you with hopelessly unfocused eyes. You rest your hand tenderly upon his cheek, murmuring something inaudible against the throbbing bassline of the club music.

A waiter appears as if on cue, offering a tray laden with fresh cocktails that look suspiciously potent. Max opens his mouth to thank the server, only to impulsively snap it shut again as Charles’ hand darts out with impressive coordination for his state. The world champion snatches the entire tray before you can react, proceeding to methodically down every single glass in quick succession without further preamble.

You roll your eyes fondly, not even bothering to attempt retrieving your confiscated drink. When Charles finally resurfaces, gasping for air and looking totally glazed, you tuck an errant curl back from his forehead.

“Feel better, my darling disaster?” You tease.

Max realizes with some confusion that you haven’t touched a drop, watching on with that same gentle amusement. Charles lets out a indelicate belch and slings an arm around your shoulders, tugging you back against his chest.

“M’gonna need anutha ...” He slurs blearily. You emit a tinkling laugh that causes Max’s brow to furrow even further.

Suddenly, it all clicks into place. His eyes go wide, sweeping over your glowing features with a mixture of surprise and delight. No wonder you’re passing on the booze tonight.

“Wait just a second ...” Max takes a stumbling step closer, throwing out an accusatory finger that has you shying away in alarm. But the wide, delighted grin quickly morphs his features from confrontational to conspiratorial. “We’re gonna have another Leclerc in the mix soon, aren’t we?”

You freeze in Charles’ arms, exchanging a loaded look with your flushed husband. The giggling from earlier falls away as you bite your lip, seeming to hesitate before finally sighing in resignation. You glance back at Max with a sly smile.

“September 1st,” you confirm simply.

Max lets out a raucous bark of laughter, nearly doubling over as he clutches his stomach. September 1st … doing the quick mental calculation informs him the little bundle of joy was likely conceived right around ...

“Oh my god, no way!” He howls, tears of mirth leaking from the corners of his eyes. “The World Championship euphoria must have really gotten to you!”

Charles looks bewildered, mouth hanging slightly ajar. You shake your head despairingly, burying your face against your husband’s shoulder in a feeble attempt to contain your own giggles. Max just wheezes harder, undoubtedly disturbing every single neighboring party-goer with his undignified cackling. He braces his hands on his knees, trying in vain to catch his breath.

“I can’t … I can’t even begin!” He gasps between hysterics. “You couldn’t keep it in your pants for like, five measly minutes after winning in Abu Dhabi!”

Max can only shake his head gleefully, finally recovering enough to straighten and wipe his streaming eyes on his sleeve. Charles tugs you closer against his chest, swaying gently from side to side with a dopey smile.

“S’true though, isn’t it?” He mumbles, resting his cheek atop your head. “Made the mos’ of m’championship … glow.”

You try in vain to suppress your grin, smoothing your palms over the sculpted lines of your husband’s abdomen. Max is genuinely touched at the tender gesture, the undeniable depth of adoration written across both your expressions.

He suddenly feels tremendously sentimental, booze and euphoria swirling together in a giddy vortex of affection for his friends.

“Alright, alright,” Max waves them off in mock dismissal, clearing his throat loudly. “As nauseatingly in love as you two are, someone simply must balance out the team affiliations in this family.”

You and Charles both quirk matching skeptical eyebrows at him.

“Oh yes,” he nods resolutely. “Just as soon as this nephew or niece arrives, I’m going to start spoiling them absolutely rotten.”

The grins bloom across both your faces, Charles tightening his arms around you in a silent display of pride. Max glances down at the tender picture you make, feeling a profound swell of joy at having front row seats to his friend’s happiness.

Somehow, despite the alcohol and chaos swirling around the two of you, the little cocoon of perfect serenity and contentment you’ve so carefully cultivated remains completely untouched. It’s a rare oasis of tranquility in the middle of an otherwise chaotic life, and Max wouldn’t have it any other way.

Well … he wouldn’t exactly mind if a few more boisterous new additions gradually joined your ranks. Good thing he plans on being the very best enabler around. He just hopes the two of you aren’t hoping for more championship babies, because Max certainly won’t make winning any easier.

***

“I still can’t believe how big the kids are getting,” Arthur remarks with a warm smile, watching as Jules and Helene race miniature car models across the living room rug. Little Lucien toddles along in their wake, shrieking with delight whenever he gets close enough to swipe at one of the toys.

“Tell me about it,” Charles groans, slouching further into the plush sofa cushions. You laugh lightly beside him, one hand absently smoothing Lucien’s tousled curls as the toddler momentarily loses interest in the activity and plops down at your feet.

“You’re getting on a bit yourself there, old man,” Arthur teases his older brother. “Half life crisis and all that?”

Charles fires him a withering glare. “I’m only thirty two, you little shi-” He cuts himself off abruptly, clearing his throat as his gaze darts towards the children. You swat his chest in remonstration.

“Language!” You admonish. “We’ve talked about this.”

Chuckling, Arthur leans back and props his feet up on the battered ottoman. “Don’t worry Y/N, I’ll be sure to teach the little ones all the good swears when they get older.”

“You most certainly will not!” You shake your head vehemently. But the mock scowl quickly melts into a warm smile. “Honestly Arthur, what are we going to do with you?”

“Keep me around for the free childcare, obviously.”

The quip draws a bark of laughter from Charles. You roll your eyes fondly, gathering Lucien up into your lap for a cuddle as the toddler makes grabby hands. Arthur observes the scene with a contented smile — it’s so wonderful having his brother’s little family over to visit now that they’re all in Europe again.

“I have to say, you and Charles make some cute kid-”

Arthur’s affectionate teasing is abruptly cut off as a furry brown missile comes barreling through the open doorway. Bruno, Arthur’s three-year-old golden retriever, zips excitedly into the room with his tongue lolling out.

“Bruno, no!” Arthur calls out, but it’s too late.

The pup lets out a joyful bark and leaps straight up onto the sofa cushions. Arthur watches in dismay as Bruno tramples over Charles’ lap, nearly kicking his brother in a very sensitive area. Charles immediately shoves the dog away with a muffled curse.

But Bruno seems singularly uninterested in his distress. He makes a beeline for your side of the sofa and immediately nuzzles his way under your arm to plop his head insistently onto your abdomen. You startle slightly at the sudden weight in your lap, Lucien giggling and patting curiously at Bruno’s silky fur. The pup simply sighs contentedly and closes his eyes, fluffy tail thumping rhythmically against the cushions.

Arthur lets out a low whistle, watching in bewilderment as the usually hyperactive Bruno settles in to nap right against your midsection. The perplexed expressions on both your and Charles’ faces don’t escape his notice either. Charles half-heartedly tries to shove Bruno away once more, but the dog whines pitifully and refuses to be dislodged from his spot curled up in your lap.

“Bruno!” Arthur calls sternly, lurching up from his seat to attempt removing his pet himself. But something gives him pause just before he reaches the sofa.

Dogs are remarkably intuitive, after all. And there’s an old adage about them possessing a sort of sixth sense when it comes to picking up on certain … conditions.

Arthur’s eyes go comically wide as the pieces click into place in his mind. He settles back on his heels, scrutinizing you with newly narrowed focus.

“You know, they say dogs can sense that kind of thing before anyone else ...” he remarks slowly, gauging for a reaction.

You and Charles both freeze, eyes snapping up to regard Arthur as if he’s grown a second head. A strange, loaded silence seems to fill the room for a long, drawn-out moment. Arthur witnesses an entire conversation pass wordlessly between you with just a single cursory glance.

Jules and Helene remain obliviously absorbed in their game, but Lucien blinks up at his parents with a quizzical frown. You gingerly disentangle your youngest from Bruno’s embrace and deposit him back on the floor before scooting to the edge of the cushion.

“You don’t think ...” You murmur under your breath to Charles, hand drifting reflexively towards your abdomen. Arthur watches as his brother simply shrugs helplessly, mouth hanging slightly ajar.

“I … well, I mean … it would explain ...” Charles looks utterly dumbfounded for once. Arthur doesn’t think he’s ever seen his typically unflappable older brother so flustered.

Your eyes bore intensely into Charles’, searching for any hint of confirmation. As if on cue, the dog in question opens his eyes and blinks placidly around at the three adults regarding him with such rapt scrutiny. Bruno seems unbothered, merely lolling his tongue and nuzzling closer against your belly. For the second time today, Arthur witnesses that fleeting, wordless communication pass between you and Charles in a simple glance.

A slow, radiant smile spreads across both your faces near simultaneously. You look back down at Bruno with new, unbridled adoration, carding tender fingers through his thick fur. Charles releases a disbelieving huff of laughter under his breath as he reaches out to skate reverent palms over the subtle swell of your abdomen that Bruno seems so enamored with.

And just like that, all the wind goes out of Arthur’s sails.

“No way ...” he gapes, eyes darting between you both in awe. “You’re actually ... seriously?”

You and Charles share another loaded look — this time, both your expressions are absolutely lit with unmitigated joy and pride.

“We … haven’t confirmed it yet or anything,” Charles finally replies, voice barely above a rapt murmur. “But we haven’t not been trying.”

Your husband’s words seem to snap Arthur out of his stupor. He leaps up from the ottoman, unable to contain his own delirious grin as he practically bounces with exhilaration. A cheer builds up in his throat, only to be smothered at the last second when he remembers the little ones playing obliviously nearby. Arthur exhales it all on a harsh rush of air, practically vibrating with excitement.

“That’s … oh my god, you guys!” He has to resist the urge to reach out and envelop you both in a crushing embrace. “Another baby! I can’t believe it … Bruno, you clever little shi-uh, clever boy!”

Arthur drops to a crouch in front of the sofa, gently scratching behind Bruno’s ears. The dog thumps his tail happily, clearly preening under the praise for his remarkable intuition. Arthur glances back up at your mirthful expressions.

“I guess dogs really can sense that stuff, huh?” He shakes his head in wonder. “Maybe the two of us can start a betting ring and make some easy money.”

That finally breaks the spell. You both dissolve into peals of laughter, all the giddiness and disbelief seeming to finally crest over in a tidal wave of utter euphoria. Even the children pause their games to glance over curiously at the commotion.

Bruno seems to sense the occasion has reached a lull, lifting his head to give Arthur an expectant look. The dog rises and trots over to rest his chin in Arthur’s lap instead, bestowing an affectionate lick against his cheek as if to say ‘good job, Papa.’

Arthur chuckles, stroking the golden fur fondly.

“You really hit the jackpot this time around, didn’t you boy?” He murmurs just loud enough for Bruno’s keen ears to pick up. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves another little nugget joining the madhouse pretty soon … wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

***

“How about this one, Maman?” Jules calls out, holding up a slinky crimson gown that looks several sizes too small for you.

Charles shoots his eldest son a quelling look from where he lounges on the plush velour armchair, two-year-old Celine babbling happily on his lap. Jules immediately wilts, grinning sheepishly before returning the dress to the discard pile swiftly accumulating around the dressing room.

You let out a frustrated huff from behind the closed curtain, drawing Charles’ attention back to you. He sees your feet pace restlessly across the tiled floor as more rustling fabric sounds filter through.

“Y/N? Everything alright, mon cœur?” He calls out hesitantly. When you fail to respond, Charles frowns and shifts Celine higher on his knee.

“Perhaps we should try a different-”

The dressing room curtain abruptly whips open, cutting him off mid-sentence. You stand before the full-length mirror in a skintight silver sheath, tugging irritatedly at the fabric stretched taut across your midsection.

“I don’t understand!” You snap, sounding flustered to the point of tears. Your gaze finds Charles in the mirror, eyes pleading beseechingly. “None of these dresses are fitting properly at all. And I know I have the right sizes!”

Helene pipes up from the loveseat where she sits rifling through accessories. “Maybe you got a tummy bug, Maman? My pudge always comes and goes when I’m not feeling good.”

“Gee, thanks Lena,” you mutter dryly, fidgeting with another futile tug at the clinging metallic material.

Charles watches you intently, gaze traversing over your familiar silhouette with a considering frown. It’s certainly nothing to do with weight gain or bloat — if anything, you seem slightly more slender than usual, the ridges of your abdomen clearly defined by the unforgiving silver fabric. Any extra fullness seems concentrated lower, an almost imperceptible bump that Charles is intimately familiar with after four previous pregnancies.

His sharp inhalation draws your eyes back towards the mirror. He can see the question forming on your lips before you even have a chance to voice it. Charles simply holds up a hand, rising smoothly to his feet with Celine balanced on his hip.

The little girl babbles happily, making grabby hands towards the tower of cast-off dresses as Charles weaves through the sizable debris field. You turn to face him fully, fingers unconsciously picking at the shimmering hem in a rare show of self-consciousness.

“I … it doesn’t make any sense,” you mutter as Charles comes to a halt before you. “I checked all the sizing beforehand, like always. I know my body. I’ve been this size for ages, ever since Celine was born. So why won’t anything fit properly?”

He reaches out silently, hands encircling the soft give of your waist. You go rigid under his palms as Charles slowly drags them lower, fingertips skating over the soft swell of your lower abdomen. Your breath leaves you in a sharp exhale as your gazes lock meaningfully, his search clearly confirming those silent suspicions.

“How long?” His voice is low, instantly holding your attention.

You furrow your brow, mouth opening and closing uselessly. Then realization seems to dawn, your eyes going comically wide.

“Oh my god ...”

Charles nods slowly, his own mind whirring as it rapidly calculates. If his keen senses are correct — if what he’s feeling under his hands is truly what he suspects ...

“When was your last period, mon cœur?” He murmurs carefully, searching your face intently.

Your expression remains frozen in shock, features slack. Ever so slowly, almost imperceptibly, you begin shaking your head in bewilderment.

“Now that you mention it … I ...”

Charles watches the pieces click together as clear as day. The habitual cycle you’ve always tracked so meticulously, your uncanny ability to pinpoint the slightest shifts in your body’s rhythm — it all leads to the inevitable conclusion that he somehow arrived at before you. A conclusion rendered all the more definitive by the stupefied look stealing over your features.

“I don’t remember,” you finally whisper, eyes locked with his. “Oh god, Charles … no, it can’t be-”

“One more surprise,” Charles cuts in, chuckling disbelievingly under his breath. “How is it even possible we missed this? Another Lec-”

“Shhh!” You hastily press a hand over his lips, silencing the exclamation. Celine squirms petulantly against his chest, tangling her chubby fingers in his collar until Charles secures her more firmly in his hold.

Your free hand drifts distractedly between your bodies to rest against the telling protrusion, eyes becoming misty. Charles kisses your palm, feels the tremor racing through you.

“Maman? Papa?” Lucien’s little voice pipes up, high and quizzical. “Why you acting so weird?”

Neither of you seem to fully register the intrusion at first. You inhale a shuddering breath, casting Charles an utterly stricken look before reluctantly tearing your attention towards the children scattered around the boutique.

Helene has her head cocked skeptically, undoubtedly having picked up on the tension crackling through the room. Even Celine senses the shift in mood, falling uncharacteristically silent in the weighty pause. Only Jules seems to remain obliviously absorbed in his mobile game, earbuds firmly in place and shoulders hunched.

You give a tiny shake of your head, tightening your grip over Charles’ hand still splayed protectively across your abdomen. He takes the cue and proceeds to open his mouth — likely to formulate some vague reassurance for the children — only to find himself abruptly interrupted.

“You’re having another baby, aren’t you Maman?”

The words hang heavy in the air as every head whips around to locate the source. It’s Lucien — sweet, quiet little Lucien, staring up at the two of you with eyes far too astute for someone of such tender years.

Your hand slips from Charles’ mouth to muffle a gasp. His own jaw drops open in naked shock, gaze rapidly pinging between you and your preternaturally observant second son.

“Luce?” Helene’s eyes are like saucers as she regards her younger brother. “How did you ...”

But the boy merely shrugs, looking almost defensive as he plants his fists on his hips in an uncanny mirror of Charles’ habitual mannerisms when feeling confrontational.

“S’obvious,” he shrugs. “I remember when Celene was in Maman’s tummy. I know what a new baby belly looks like!”

Then Helene, lovely Helene, shakes off her own shock with an earsplitting shriek of unbridled joy.

“No way! Maman, you’re really — JULES! GET OFF YOUR DUMB PHONE!”

The curtain finally seems to drop from your frozen stupor. You startle hard, blinking rapidly as if reemerging from underwater. Your hand instinctively tightens over Charles’ where it cradles the telling curve, anchoring you both in the whiplash of revelation.

Meanwhile, Helene launches herself off the loveseat like a tiny cannon ball, howling out strings of excited gibberish at maximum volume. Jules’ head jerks up just in time to catch his sister’s barrage, flinching as she swats ineffectually at his earbud.

“Wha-” he sputters, batting away her hands in clear consternation before finally ripping out the headphone. “Hey! What’s gotten into you? And why’s everyone so freaked?”

Helene rounds on him, practically vibrating with glee. “Can’t you hear, loser? Maman’s having another baby!”

Jules does an actual doubletake, head whipping back towards you and Charles in shock. Lucien is nodding emphatically beside him, a serene little smile plastered across his face as his eyes flit between you.

“Told you so,” he murmurs sagely.

It’s the picture of pandemonium. The saleslady who had been assisting you suddenly appears, looking quite put out by the noisy disturbance echoing over her pristine shop floor. Charles can only imagine the picture they all make — you frozen in front of the dressing room mirror, his hand cradling your midriff as your children lose their collective minds around you.

When the woman opens her mouth, likely with the intent to scold them for the ruckus, Jules finally seems to find his voice.

“No way! Maman?” He whirls back to you, features awash with stunned wonder.

“Yes, oui!” Helene all but hollers, bouncing in place like an overstimulated jack russell. “Papa was feeling her tummy and everything!”

The shop girl’s gaze turns even more scandalized at the outburst, color staining her cheeks. Celine giggles, apparently finding the entire scenario terribly amusing. But you remain frozen, gaze drifting between the children and Charles with a silent plea clearly written across your face.

His own stupor finally breaks as he registers your wide-eyed helplessness. He has to smother the sudden, slightly hysterical urge to laugh at the torrential slew of emotions swirling through him.

Charles clears his throat loudly, plastering on his signature press smile as he turns towards the saleslady. “Perhaps we could have a brief moment to ourselves, mademoiselle?”

The woman sniffs dismissively, clearly fighting the urge to protest further. But the flicker of recognition in her eyes saves Charles from having to assert his identity. With a sharp tug at the hem of her blazer, she gives a curt nod and swans away toward the front of the boutique.

Once she’s disappeared from view, Charles strides back toward the curtained changing room, herding the children ahead of him and arranging them all amongst the plush armchairs in the small space. A muffled scuffle ensues as Helene scrambles to sit next to her father, elbowing aside a scowling Jules. Celine just babbles incessantly from her perch atop Charles’ knee.

You follow dazedly, sinking into the armchair opposite them all and emitting a great whoosh of breath. Your hand returns immediately to the subtle swell, fingers cradling the barely-there curve reverently.

Charles feels the unrestrained smile tugging at his lips. His family — complete and whole, yet growing by yet another little life soon to make their world even more vividly bright once again.

He gazes at the stunned expression still dominating your features and laughs, deep and full and utterly delighted. You seem to startle back into the present at the sound, meeting his awestruck eyes with a quickly growing smile of your own.

Soon enough, the storm of excited chatter resumes, with you taking the lead. Jules looks utterly shocked by the turn of events. Helene fires off a barrage of questions and squeals. Little Lucien sits with unshakable poise, absorbing it all with quiet pride.

And Charles can only laugh and wrap his arms around every beaming, noisy inch of you all — his beautiful family bound only to grow larger still over the coming months.

This is exactly where he belongs.

***

Jules can’t wipe the enormous grin from his face as he strolls into the familiar Ferrari garage alongside his race engineer. The potent scents of oil and petrol fill his nostrils, instantly transporting him back to the earliest days of running around this very same hallowed space as a wide-eyed child.

Only now, it’s his turn to climb into the iconic red car. The culmination of a lifelong dream pursued with almost maniacal singularity — one he had witnessed his own father live out with such tremendous passion year after year.

His gaze roams around the bustling team members, searching out the faces of his parents among the throng of mechanics and engineers. Jules finally spots the two of you huddled together towards the far side, his mother enveloped protectively in his father’s embrace as you both wave enthusiastically.

A wide smile splits Jules’ lips once more. He can’t resist the urge to press a quick kiss to his fiancée, Romee’s, cheek where she strolls alongside him, swathed in a scarlet maternity dress and positively glowing with eight months of pregnancy. She flushes prettily, one hand unconsciously drifting down to cradle the swell of her belly.

“Go get ’em, champ,” she murmurs warmly, squeezing his arm. “Baby Leclerc and I will be right here watching.”

Jules just nods, heart swelling fit to burst as he turns to face the gaggle of media crews setting up cameras nearby. His eyes linger on Romee for another loaded moment, committing the transcendent sight of her lovingly cradling their unborn child to memory.

He hardly has time to mentally steel himself before one of the Sky News correspondents is gesturing him over. Jules takes a fortifying breath and moves to join the woman, schooling his features into professionalism even as his stomach does delirious backflips.

“Jules Leclerc, you must be simply bursting with pride today,” the reporter begins without preamble as soon as her cameraman gives the signal. “Would’ve been hard to imagine this moment when following your father’s legendary footsteps around the paddock as a child, no?”

“You can say that again,” Jules chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “It definitely still hasn’t fully sunk in yet, I’ll admit. But it’s been my dream since before I could even walk, so you better believe I’m going to cherish every single second out on that track.”

He punctuates the statement with a decisive nod and flashes his signature megawatt smile — a move you always say must be hereditary. The reporter visibly softens under its full beam, casting a cursory look up and down before clearing her throat delicately.

“Well you certainly carry yourself with the same confidence as your father,” she lilts with the faintest of eyebrow waggles. “Speaking of family … I noticed your fiancée, Romee Verstappen, cheering you on from the sidelines as well. Must be another incredible source of pride to be starting your Formula 1 career with a new baby so imminently on the way?”

Jules feels the smile stretch even more impossibly wide at the mention of Romee and their child. His chest swells with unbridled joy and pride until he thinks it may crack open entirely.

“Absolutely, my girls are everything to me,” he affirms proudly, allowing his gaze to skate back towards Romee where she stands with his parents. “Having them here with me to experience such a monumental personal milestone … it’s really indescribably specia-”

The words abruptly die on his lips as Jules’ eyes snag on a sudden flurry of movement from your side of the gathered group. Your head is bent low, one hand clutched around your midriff as you make a beeline for the nearest trash can stationed ominously in the corner. His brows furrow in concern, body tensing reflexively even as his father is already darting after you with alarm clear on his features.

Jules doesn’t even realize when he starts moving, propelled by muscle memory to rush towards the commotion unfolding. All he can fixate on is the unmistakable sight of you hunched over the bin, retching violently into the receptacle as his father hovers anxiously behind you. Charles’ hand finds your hair, tenderly gathering the silky strands out of your face as his opposite palm glides questioningly down the length of your abdomen, coming to rest at your lower back.

The gesture is so painfully familiar, one Jules can vividly recall witnessing countless times in his childhood. All he can focus on is the way Charles’ fingers instinctively curve around the base of your stomach, palm gentle and reverent even now as you heave.

Something seems to click into place within Jules’ mind like tumblers in a lock. His breath leaves him in a painful wheeze, everything narrowing to the tunnel vision of you hunched so wretchedly, your distress the only palpable thing in his world.

“M-Maman?” He hears himself stammer out hoarsely.

You startle bodily at his voice, shoulders jolting rigidly. Jules can glimpse the tell-tale sheen of clammy perspiration beading across your brow and hairline as you continue to pant raggedly into the bin.

Just as soon as he arrives at your side, you’re drawing a tremulous breath and attempting to straighten, clearly aiming for nonchalance despite your haggard appearance. Charles’ palm doesn’t budge from where it rests so tellingly at the base of your belly, fingers still reverently curved.

“Jules, mon chou,” your voice wavers. You manage a wan smile even as color bleeds back into your ashen cheeks. “I’m alright, don’t worry-”

But he can’t help himself — his gaze remains riveted to Charles’ possessive palm still splayed across your abdomen. Suddenly, every innocuous little symptom Jules had decidedly overlooked the past few weeks comes slamming back into focus with disorienting clarity.

The perpetual fatigue you always hastened to dismiss over dinner visits. The periods of irritable moodiness that would overtake you without warning, followed swiftly by apologetic tears. And above all, the subtle thickening of your middle that each of his sisters gleefully attributed to too many of Pascale’s famous steak frites during your frequent family meals together.

Jules feels the world tilt dizzily around him, throat constricting with the realization as decades of old memories dredge up unbidden from the deepest recesses of his childhood.

How many times did he watch this exact scene from the outside looking in? His doting father peering down at his pregnant mother with such pride and unshakeable reverence in those early years of Jules’ life? All the subtle similarities, all the subconscious cues his brain must’ve been cataloging without his knowledge, suddenly dragged to the forefront of his mind.

“N-No ...” he sputters, voice scarcely audible even to his own ears over the pounding engulfing his skull. “She … you’re not …“

Charles’ eyes flick immediately to meet Jules’ shellshocked gaze, lips pressed into a grim line that’s nearly a grimace. Something indecipherable passes over his father’s features, though whether it’s disbelief or confirmation Jules can’t bring himself to discern.

Your attention remains mostly fixated on the bin as you try once more to control your breathing. But even from this side-profile view, Jules can make out the subtle disruption of your brow furrowing — the telltale crease of a wince flashing across your delicate mouth for just an instant before smoothing back into neutrality.

And it’s all he needs to see for the realization to cement itself.

Jules shakes his head in dazed incredulity, his equilibrium entirely shattered. All words seem to escape his grasp. He barely even registers the heavy clatter of something hitting the concrete mere inches from his feet.

When he finally wrenches his eyes away from you both, Jules makes out the fuzzy edges of several Sky News crew members hovering anxiously nearby, cameras and microphones trained on the unfolding scene with rapt attention.

One of the correspondents hovers at the outskirts of the scrum, dark eyes agape and face stricken with concern. Her lips move as if to call out to him, but Jules is already swaying dangerously, consciousness slipping rapidly through his fingers.

The muted whirlwind voices of his entire team shouting in alarm rings hollowly in his ears … his mother’s distressed cry an instant before his world pivots sideways and goes completely black.

“Mon bébé, no! Catch him, vite-”

***

Jules blinks slowly, the fluorescent garage lights swimming dizzily back into focus. His mouth feels stuffed full of cotton, pulse pounding an erratic rhythm against his temples. What on earth just happened?

“Jules? Can you hear me, darling?”

His mother’s concerned voice is the first thing to fully permeate the fog clouding his senses. He pries his eyelids open further to find your anxious face hovering inches from his own, deep creases etched around your eyes and mouth.

You lean back slightly as Jules struggles to sit upright, groaning at the persistent vertigo. His limbs feel leaden, but a steadying hand at his nape counters the dead weight bearing down on his neck.

“Easy there,” his father’s low tenor rumbles from behind. “Just take it slow.”

Jules allows Charles to guide him into a slumped sitting position against the wall, fighting against the whirling dizziness consuming his skull. A vaguely familiar face swims into his line of vision next — Romee, her beautiful features distorted with worry.

“Oh thank god,” she murmurs, palm finding his cheek and anchoring him further into the present. “You gave us all a heart attack, you moron!”

Jules blinks sluggishly, vaguely aware of the relief sweeping across Romee’s features as you and Charles crowd in as well. He swallows hard, mouth dry as a bone.

“What … happened?”

His voice comes out in a hoarse croak that doesn’t sound much like him at all. Even the minuscule effort of voicing those two words sends a prickly tremor ricocheting across his tender skull. A fresh wave of nausea assails him.

You crouch beside Romee, smoothing the damp hair back from Jules’ clammy brow without a second thought. But your hands are shaking faintly, he notices, and your cheeks seem unduly flushed.

Snatches of memory slowly begin filtering their way through the fog, sinking cold tendrils of realization into Jules’ gut. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing away the disorienting sight of the three of you clustered together for just a fraction of a second.

The split second of respite has everything coming rushing back in a torrent when he opens them again. You, hunched over the bin and retching pitifully. Charles fussing with evident concern, hands drifting across the unmistakable swell of your midsection with the deference of old habit.

All at once, the question slams back into Jules with the force of a physical blow, sending his head spinning anew. His eyes snap back open, mouth working in desperation as he tries to force out the words lodged in his throat.

“You ...” he rasps, gaze darting down towards your stomach before ripping back up to your faces. “She’s ...”

You and Charles exchange a loaded look, but Jules barely notices. He’s too busy following the subtle circuit of tension rippling through his parents’ expressions — a direct mirror of his own inner whiplash.

After all these years. With his father now forty-eight years old and you not far behind, and yet … here Jules sits, stunned speechless at the surreal possibility that-

“Y-You’re pregnant?” He finally chokes out in a strangled whisper. He knows he shouldn’t phrase it as a question, not really — the confirmation is basically written across every muted motion passing between you both.

And yet Jules’ brain still refuses to process the knowledge beyond a frantic sort of shock.

You let out a tiny sound at his words, almost involuntary — a helpless little exhale that seems to admit far more than any words could. Your eyes dance between Romee and Charles in a soundless plea.

Charles is the one to finally break the stifling silence, laying a tender palm on your back and meeting Jules’ owlish stare head-on.

“We, ah ...” He falters, clearing his throat gruffly as you drop your head in apparent fatigue. “Well, yes. Your mother is … with child again, it appears.”

The words seem to bypass Jules’ comprehension entirely, landing with all the force of a wispy feather brushing against his brain. He sucks in a sharp breath, cringing slightly at the sting of recycled, dry garage air searing his raw throat.

“But … how?” He sputters weakly, shaking his head as if to rattle his wits into some sort of coherent line. “I mean, when did this even … “

You make a choked sound in the back of your throat, quickly smothered against the sleeve of your jacket. Jules’ eyes flick reflexively to the subtle swell of your abdomen, so glaringly obvious now that the truth has been dragged into the light.

It’s strange, really — how he kept convincing himself it was simply the inevitable effects of middle-age slowing your metabolism over these past few months. Jules had attributed the gradual rounding of your figure to nothing but the natural passage of time.

He can’t even begin to estimate how far along you must be. Surely his keen eyes would’ve noticed the signs sooner otherwise? And yet … no one else seems to have picked up on the possibility at all until this very moment.

As always, Charles picks up on his inner turmoil without Jules needing to give it voice. His father reaches up to card gentle fingertips through Jules’ sweat-damp curls, expression perfectly placid.

“You know your mother and I have never exactly been … modest about our affections,” he murmurs with a wry twist of his lips. “So when a man and a woman love each other …”

Jules feels his cheeks heat furiously at the implication, mind grinding to a screeching halt at that level of transparency from his own father. You, too, look positively mortified — features drained of all color as you steadfastly avoid Romee’s avidly curious gaze.

“Oh god,” Jules chokes out, pitching forward to bury his face in his palms. His entire body thrums with unease, fresh waves of nausea clawing up his throat. “Please, I can’t — I don’t want to think about ...”

His father’s rich laughter cuts through the swell of discomfort rolling through Jules’ gut. He startles when Charles’ hand lands on his neck, solid and grounding.

“Breathe,” he soothes, a smile evident in his voice. “All this shock and outrage is completely unnecessary. Why shouldn’t your poor old man still experience the occasional joy of being a doting husband, hmm?”

“Oh my god, Papa!” Jules groans again, scandalized. But Charles merely chuckles harder, reaching down to haul Jules into a sitting position once more.

You remain hunched nearby, expression hopelessly torn between contrition and sheer amusement at the disastrous state of your firstborn. Even Romee is barely stifling her giggles, having clearly recovered from her earlier alarm to bask in the ridiculous diversion of his freakout.

“This is … I can’t even begin,” Jules wheezes, dropping his pounding head between his knees. “I’m going to have a sibling younger than my own baby! How is that even possible?”

Another ripple of chuckles sounds around him. Charles’ palm rubs comforting circles over his trembling shoulders — mock sympathetic, but still undeniably paternal in its anchoring warmth.

Then it’s Romee’s turn to smother a snort of indelicate laughter into her palm. “Honestly Jules, you’re acting just like a petulant little brat right now. I’d expect behavior like this from my little brothers, not a fully grown man about to become a father himself!”

That seems to finally shatter the tension engulfing the scene. You dissolve into a fit of giggles nearly as shameless as Romee’s, shoulders shaking with relief.

“Leave it to you to be the voice of reason,” the gratitude is clear in your tone. “I hope your child inherits your sensibility rather than-”

“Hey!” Jules protests weakly, raising his head just enough to cast you both an extremely feigned look of affront. “I’ll have you know I handle everything with the utmost sophistication ...”

Romee rolls her eyes exaggeratedly, drawing near enough to nudge his temple with her knee in a wordless reprimand. As she shifts, one hand trails down to cradle her own swollen abdomen — a gesture Jules swiftly mirrors without conscious thought, curving his palm around the slope of her belly.

His new sibling could very well be due soon after his own imminent parenthood. The realization nearly steals what little breath he has left. Jules’ vision blurs slightly, throat contracting as he blinks rapidly against the hot sting gathering in his eyes.

“Jules?” Romee murmurs, instantly concerned by his silence. “Schatje, whatever is the matter?”

“I … nothing, I just. ..” He huffs an incredulous breath, gaze darting reflexively back to the contrasting swells of your midsections. “It’s really happening, isn’t it?”

He’s helpless to do anything but drag you both into his arms, clutching tightly enough to convey the swell of emotion roaring through him.

You enfold him just as greedily, stroking his hair and murmuring soothing nothings. A second pair of arms snakes around his back, Romee asserting her own comforting presence with a gentle squeeze.

“I love you all so damn much,” Jules finally rasps when he can summon his voice once more. “More than you could ever know.”

A soft huff of delighted laughter sounds as you pull back just enough to look at him properly. Your eyes shimmer with unshed tears of your own, but it’s radiant joy that comes across your beautiful features most prominently.

“And we love you, darling,” you murmur, reaching up to swipe the lingering tracks from Jules’ cheekbones with tender pads of your thumbs.

“I really am so happy for you two,” he mumbles fervently into your hair, words nearly swallowed by the chaos of the surrounding garage. “Another little sibling to dote on … I can hardly believe how lucky I am.”

Perhaps it’s not so difficult to accept the greatest shock of all after witnessing the newest miracle taking shape within the growing roundness of your body.

He grins brilliantly, the last of his apprehension finally releasing in a giddy rush. “My baby brother or sister is going to be so spoiled, just you wait.”

[teatreeoilll]

𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐲 (𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮 𝐗 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐗 𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮)

˚• . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° .

w/c - 1.4k content - MDNI! 18 + ! fem!reader, porn, Gojo eats you out while you sit on Geto's lap. That's it. That's the plot.

• . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . 

Geto loves it when you sit in his lap. He loves it so much that sometimes he can't help himself; he puts a large arm around you first, nuzzling his face into your hair to smell its sweet scent, almost intoxicated. You draw closer to him; it's hard not to when the pads of his fingers begin to draw soothing patterns on your shoulder.

It's just a regular Tuesday night, and some average heist movie is playing idly on the television, and neither you, Geto, or Gojo - who made himself at home in your and Suguru's shared apartment with his feet crossed over on the coffee table - are paying too much mind to it.

You watch Gojo reach a pale, veiny arm into the bag of sweets. He takes out a piece of candy and unwraps it slowly, and you notice how his tongue darts out just a bit before he puts the chocolate candy in his mouth.

"Want one?" Gojo asks as he's about to take another one, and something in his small smirk when he says that makes your muscles tense.

With his hand still around you, Geto notices that - it's not the first time he spots it - he already took note of the light red flush that covers your cheeks when his best friend comes over after a workout with his shirt too tight from being drenched in sweat, or when you look just a moment too long into Gojo's blue eyes when you greet him before your eyes dart to the floor, the corners of your lips twitching up. Not that you ever do or say anything; it's all so innocent and sweet that Geto can't help but savor it, knowing his girlfriend's dirty little secret crush.

"Oh - no, thanks," you smile back at Gojo and lean further into Suguru's side, fixing your eyes on the screen.

Geto's arm around you tightens, and he reaches his other arm under your thighs to lift you up a bit and pull you on his lap. The heat spreads quickly on your cheeks, "S-Suguru," you whisper, fumbling away from his grasp, "not now." Geto knows you're not too much into public displays of affection, but the thought itches his mind, and his trousers grow uncomfortably tight.

Geto pulls you on top of him anyway, and Gojo's ever-perceptive pale-blue eyes stray away from the screen to land on your flushed face.

"Don't be shy," Geto whispers as his hand brushes the hair away from the back of your neck. His heavy breathing warms your skin, "We're all friends here, aren't we?" He raises his arm to grab you by the side of the face, turning it for your eyes to land on Gojo as he presses chaste kisses over your neck.

"S-Suguru," you whimper, feeling his stiff cock rubbing on your lower back through his trousers, "not - " but you can hardly breathe when you notice the sly smirk plastered on Gojo's lips and the way his jaw clenches each time you try to wriggle away from Suguru's touch.

"Satoru's a good friend, don't you think?" Geto urges, his hand leaving your face to brush over your thigh, raising the hem of your skirt, "I don't think you ever told him what a good friend he is, did you?"

"I don't think she did, Suguru," Gojo suddenly says, his eyes narrowing when the blush on your cheeks deepens to a crimson shade, "but I guess it's my fault," he sighs dramatically as he runs a hand through his white hair, "I don't think I ever showed her what a good friend I am. How's she supposed to know?"

Suguru chuckles, shaking your body along with him, "I guess she isn't," He runs his hand up your thigh to slide his fingers over your drenched panties, and you shudder, "But she wants you to show her. Don't you, princess?"

All you manage is a stifled mm-hmm before Gojo pushes the coffee table away, and it screeches as it reaches the middle of the living room, making space for him to kneel and settle himself between your thighs.

You gulp when you feel Gojo's hand run up your thighs, grabbing the sides of your underwear to pull them off, and you shiver at the touch of his warm hands running down along your legs together with your panties. He throws them on the floor and looks at you from beneath his long white eyelashes. The air gets trapped in your lungs.

"Come on, princess," Suguru's voice purrs in your ear as he spreads his legs, your own legs on either of his, revealing your wet cunt to Gojo's eager eyes, "Tell Satoru what a good friend he is, or he won't know."

"Y-You're a very good - " and Gojo reaches a long finger to skim along your folds, "Friend - Fuck - " you gasp.

"That's not nice," Geto chastises in your ear, his palms holding your thighs spread, and you place your hands on top of them, digging your fingers into them to steady yourself.

"It's okay, Suguru," Gojo smirks as his face draws closer to your clit, licking a teasing stripe along it, and you feel him smiling against your cunt, "She'll be nice in a minute."

Gojo's tongue begins lapping at your folds, and your thighs jolt, wanting desperately to close on his head only for Geto to hold them tighter in place, "Satoru - Fuck - " you moan, feeling Geto's cock twitch against your lower back.

"Feels good?" Geto murmurs, and you feel Gojo's two long fingers hover at your entrance before pushing in teasingly slow, his tongue still flicking at your clit.

"So sweet," Gojo pulls away from your clit, his mouth drenched in your essence as he works you open with his fingers, licking his lips clean, "If you told me she tastes so sweet, we would've done this a lot sooner."

Geto's chaste kisses on your neck turn to soft nibbles on the soft skin there as he groans every time your body twitches, letting him have a bit of delicious friction on his clothed cock, "Shit," he groans into your neck. He pulls his hand off of one of your thighs, running his fingers along your wet cunt to collect your essence before lifting them up to his mouth, licking them clean, "You are, so sweet."

Gojo's fingers pick up a ruthless pace, the pads of his fingers abusing the gummy spot inside you, "So needy," he smirks when he feels you clench around his fingers, and your vision nearly blurs when his tongue laps at your folds again, your hand darting out to grab strands of white hair to make sure he doesn't pull away again.

"Ah - Fuck - " you moan out as you writhe and squirm at the dizzying feeling of Gojo's fingers nudging your sweet spot, the heat pooling in your stomach as a Geto still holds you in place, "Shit - 'Toru - I - "

The lewd squelching noises coming from your wet cunt fill the room, and your back arches, tension coiling in your stomach as you almost instinctively turn your head to Suguru, who shakes his head. "It's okay princess," Geto's fingers grip your chin to tilt it down at Satoru, "You can look at him."

And you watch Gojo's blue eyes, desperate moans mixed with cusses escaping your lips as he looks up at you. His tongue still works hungrily on your clit, and his fingers push deeper and deeper with each erratic thrust while his free hand rubs his erection through his trousers for some relief.

The coil in your stomach snaps, and your release drenches Satoru's lips and chin as his movements finally slow down. Your nails dig into his scalp as you ride out your high on the slowing pumps of his fingers. He slides his fingers out, "'Toru - " you whimper when his tongue glides one more time against your sensitive clit.

You feel Geto's unsteady breathing at your neck as he locks eyes with Gojo, giving him a nod. Gojo rises from his knees, his face an inch away from yours, "You have one more in you, princess?" He asks but doesn't wait for an answer before pressing his slick-drenched lips against yours, sliding his tongue into your mouth as he moans at the feeling of your release rolling off his tongue onto yours, the sweet aftertaste of the candy he ate still present on his tongue.

He pulls out of the kiss, and you turn to Suguru, who eagerly pushes his tongue in your mouth, "I bet you do," Gojo teases, and you feel him between your legs again, pressing soft, wet kisses to your inner thigh.

[flowerandblood]

Duty and desire (Oneshot)

[ canon • Aemond x niece • wife female ]

[ warnings: incest obviously, sex content, smut, angst, praise kink activated, lactation kink, fluff ]

[ description: An incident between her husband and their sons causes her uncle to completely break down. She decides to show him how deep her feelings are towards him and to comfort him. A heartbroken, vulnerable, infatuated Aemond in need of simple tenderness. ]

Author’s note: The events of this oneshot are part of the canon of The Fall from the Heavens series and feature the same characters. I couldn't sleep and that's how I mentally coped with what I saw in the second episode of the second season. You're welcome, lol. If you still didn't watch it, wait with reading it (if you don't like any kind of spoilers). It can be read as a standalone story.

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

My other works: Masterlist

_____

He had returned to their chamber earlier, tense and visibly frustrated despite the fact that he usually spent that part of the day sparring with their sons, training them in the wielding of the sword.

She smiled at him from above her book, watching as he involuntarily looked into the cradle where Visenya slept peacefully.

The birth of their first daughter was joyous news for the entire kingdom, including them.

"So early?" She asked, spreading out comfortably in her chair, curious about this change of plans. Her uncle only pursed his lips at her words, walking over to the table where she sat and reached for a cup, into which he poured himself a little wine.

He remained silent.

A bad sign.

"What's happened?" She asked immediately, seeing that hundreds of thoughts were currently running through his mind, which if they did not find an outlet would eventually explode in the form of his fury.

He took a few deep sips from his goblet without looking at her, setting it down with a loud clink of steel on the table.

"Viserys and Aegon have suggested that Ser Robert should be the one to train them today. They apparently want to become archers." He said with a sneer and anger that startled her. She swallowed hard, closing the book, understanding full well that his words were only the tip of what he was really thinking about.

"In your presence they always feel they have to prove themselves. They're afraid of being ridiculed in front of you. Maybe it's…"

"At their age I dreamt of my father doing for me what I do for them. This is our time together." He growled, looking out of the corner of his eye into the area where she sat, but not directly at her, immersed in his thoughts, memories and regrets.

"I know." She whispered and her words, something about the way she said them made his lip tremble, made him lower his head in shame and cover his face with his hand, drawing in air loudly.

"They are terrified at the sight of me. Both of them. They don't love me, they just fear me. Their own father." He mouthed, his quivering voice betraying that although he tried to control himself, something about the thought had broken him.

She stood up from her seat, shaking her head, coming up to him quickly, wanting to touch his arm with her hand, but he moved away and turned his head, not wanting her to see what was happening to him.

"If you could hear with what pride and admiration they speak of you when you are not there. They so desperately want to please you." She muttered in pain, feeling a squeeze in her heart at the thought that he might have believed he was a bad father, when they both knew how hard he tried.

"To please me? My sons, they live to please me? And if they don't then what will happen to them? Hm?" He asked and fell silent, looking at her at last, his eye red with grief and despair, his face simultaneously red and pale with emotion, his lips parted in a heavy breath.

He covered his eyes with his hand as he burst into silent sobs, as if he had not stifled the thought for a day or a month, but for years, ever since their first son had been born.

She looked at him in disbelief, stunned, at the same time hurt and saddened by his words, by the thought of how he judged and perceived himself.

"Looking into my eyes do you see anything other than love?" She asked, renewing her attempt, taking a step towards him, and this time he didn't pushed her away, looking at her uncertainly.

"– it's something else –" He whispered.

"– how can it be? – do you think I would love a man who is a bad father to my children? –" She asked further, and he swallowed hard, trying to calm his breathing, his cheeks red from tears.

"– stop it –" He said and turned away, wiping his face, walking to the other side of the room, embarrassed and ashamed of his weakness.

"– sit down on the bed, husband – I want to explain a few things to you –" She finally said.

He sighed heavily and did as she asked, making room beside himself, looking down at his hands, heartbroken. She, however, walked up to him and did not sit next to him, but on his lap, surprising him by taking his warm, red face in her hands, stroking his moist skin with her thumbs.

For a moment she simply looked at him, all helpless and vulnerable, feeling the heat in her chest.

"– you're defending our family – you're the rock that protects us – you have to show strength – be determined – and that's hard when you're king and father at the same time – the burden of the crown is great and you know it – you're trying to prepare them for it –" She whispered, with each successive word placing kisses on his red face: on his forehead, his temple, his eyebrows, his eyelid, his cheekbone, his lips, his jaw.

She felt his hands involuntarily rise to her waist, stroking her through the material of her gown.

"– so why don't they understand this? – why do they push me away? –" He muttered, focusing his gaze on her full, plump lips, his manhood hidden in his breeches pulsed softly in a natural reaction to her closeness.

"– because they are still children – children who need their father to love them no matter what – a father who will sometimes let them go their own way –" She said softly, in a gentle, light motion untying the black ribbon at the back of his head, making the front strands of his silver hair fall over his shoulders.

"– I just want to spend time with them like a father with his sons – I want them to need me –" He whispered, and she nodded, letting his broad hand move her hip closer, making her body press against his.

"– I know, my husband – my sweet, sweet husband –" She whispered and heard him draw in the air loudly, surprised, his erection pulsed hard between her thighs.

She licked her lips, wondering if he was aroused by what he was hearing.

"– my husband is so good to me –" She gasped softly, letting their lips join in hot, sticky, lazy kisses, making wonderful heat surge through her body. "– my sweet friend – my sweet boy –"

She shuddered as his fingers tightened on the material of her gown, his throat leaving a sound she had never heard before.

He moaned.

Not the way he usually did, low and deep, when it was on the verge of panting, but high, the way she did when he gave her sweet pleasure.

Their fingers tightened on their bodies, letting their mouths find each other in greedy, violent, deep kisses – his cock between her thighs swelled all over and pulsed, hot, betraying that he was now completely ready to possess her.

"– I love you – please –" He muttered, forcibly ripping her gown off her shoulders, exposing her naked breasts, all swollen with milk. Something like a sigh of delight and relief left his throat as he sank his face into her sternum, his thumbs stroking and teasing her nipples hard from the cold.

She moaned as she tilted her head back, untying the material of his breeches, feeling the wonderful, pleasurable wetness between her thighs, proving that she was ready to receive him deep inside her.

"– my sweet husband deserve to be soothed – doesn't he? – to feel his beloved wife – how warm she is – how wet she is –" She whispered, cupping his swollen, quivering erection in her palm, feeling how incredibly hard it was, its tip thick and smooth, dripping with his moisture.

"– yes –" He mumbled in shame, directing one of her breasts to his face, holding it in his hand, finding her nipple with his mouth, beginning to suck it loudly along with her milk as she guided the head of his cock against her pulsing slit.

"– ah – my husband is so hard for me – makes me feel so fucking good – so, so big –" She cooed, sinking slowly onto his manhood only to lift herself on it with a loud click of her wetness, opening her thirsty, fleshy cunt again and again on his long, throbbing erection.

"– f-fuck –" He exhaled, embarrassed, imposing a fast, aggressive pace on her at once, clearly aroused by what she was saying and how she was behaving, needing her affection, her acceptance, her closeness, everything he couldn't ask of anyone else outside the door of their chamber.

"– it's all yours, my dearest – I can ride you all night – you'll fill me with your seed as many times as I need, won't you? –" She gasped, and he groaned loudly into the skin of her breasts, clamping his hot hands on her hips, pounding into her like there was no tomorrow, panting and quivering along with her.

She wasn't sure she had ever experienced a similar orgasm, so overpowering, hot, soothing, delightful.

"– f-fuck – f-fuck, Aemond, yes –" She whimpered, throwing her head back as she felt his body convulse, his warm seed filling her womb wit his low moans of pleasure.

He released her nipple from his mouth, panting heavily, snuggling his cheek into her chest, letting her arms embrace him in a tight grip, her lips placing tender, hot kisses on his hair.

"– forgive me – I'm ashamed – I –"

"– you are my husband – let me give you relief when you need it –" She whispered, combing her fingers through his long hair.

"– but – it was –"

"– a husband can show tenderness and understanding to his wife, but a wife to her husband cannot? –" She asked in pain, and he swallowed hard, letting out a loud, shuddering breath.

"– it won't happen again –" He muttered, needing, apparently, for her to tell that lie so he could stop thinking about how weak he was, how he needed it, how pleasant it was.

That he would beg in his mind for more.

More of her tenderness.

More of her praise.

More of her love.

"– as you wish –"

[dewwinchester]

done. | d.w.

summary: you wake up to an empty bedroom, which isn't usually a good sign. but what you might find might not be too bad. OR, dean wants a normal life.

pairing: dean winchester x reader

word count: 1.7k+

warnings: fluff, surprise sam appearance, no specific pronouns used, no use of 'y/n'

a/n: it has been years since i've written any kind of fanfic, so please be gentle with me.

The moment your eyes fluttered open, you knew something wasn't right.

The air was a little too still, and your bed was a little too cold. There was no noise except for the gentle drip, drip, drip of the tap in your bathroom and the occasional rumbling of the bunker's old pipes. The light from your alarm clock illuminated the room in a dim red glow, and after rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you could just make out the time: 03:26.

You sat up slowly, squinting through the darkness to make out your surroundings. Your bedroom was in the same state you had left it in when you'd gone to bed, but there was something missing.

Rather, there was someone missing.

Dean's side of the bed was empty, the sheets strewn around haphazardly. There was no sign of him anywhere, not even the slightest thing to point you in his direction. You wondered if he'd had a nightmare and left the room to clear his thoughts.

You threw the blankets off your legs and shivered as the warmth from the covers instantly left you. Sliding your socked feet into your slippers, you wrapped your robe around your body, sighing in relief as the newfound warmth spread through you.

Despite being the only one in the room, you made sure to sneak out, careful not to make any noise. You tiptoed past Sam's room, knowing the smallest sound would wake him up—pure instinct.

There was no one in the library. Nor was there anyone in the kitchen. For the first time in what felt like a very long time, the bunker was empty. Normally, you were lulled to sleep by the faint clicks from Sam's keyboard or the light chatter from Cas or Jack, both of whom never needed to sleep –

A pang in your heart caused you to stop in your tracks.

Things were different now. The bunker was different. Two of the most important people in your life were gone, and you had no way of seeing them again. Despite your success in literally killing God, you couldn't help but mourn what used to be. You missed your little family, the little life you all made with each other.

You saw a faint flickering light from underneath the door to the "Dean-Cave" and heard a few familiar voices that made a smile creep onto your lips. Pushing the door open, you were greeted with the sight of just the person you were looking for.

Dean was fast asleep on one of the recliners, legs stretched out in front of him and neck craned at an awkward angle. A beer barely rested in his grasp as an episode of Scooby-Doo played on the flatscreen TV. Miracle was protectively curled around his feet, his big brown eyes staring up at you curiously.

You knew better than to wake Dean outright. For all you knew, there was a weapon expertly concealed and within arm's reach. Instead, you tiptoed into the room, reached for the TV remote, and turned down the volume slowly. Then, you took the beer from his hand and placed it on the side table before resting a gentle hand on his pyjama-covered knee, careful not to step on the dog.

"Dean," you whispered, thumb tracing gentle patterns.

Ever alert, Dean's eyes flickered open slowly. He looked around, confused for a moment, before his green eyes landed on you. For a moment, you worried that waking him was a mistake—he needed all the sleep he could get—but the faint smile that tugged on the corner of his mouth told you that you had done the right thing.

"Hey there, sleepyhead."

"Did I wake you?" His voice was laced with sleep, low and gravelly. If it wasn't three o'clock in the morning, your heart would have skipped a beat.

Oh, who were you kidding.

"No, no. You're okay," you smiled, standing back as Dean readjusted his position on the couch. He sat forward and winced as he stretched out his neck, finally rubbing his eyes. Miracle stood up, leaving the room with a huff, no doubt going back to your bedroom. "I woke up and you weren't there. I got worried."

"I'm good."

You raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"I'm good, promise," his tired eyes softened. "Just couldn't sleep before. Couldn't switch off."

You nodded in complete understanding. "Right."

You were going to try and get him to come back to bed—selfishly, you slept better when he was with you—but he just looked so damn comfortable in the recliner, you couldn't bring yourself to do it.

"You stay here," you said, voice still soft as a whisper. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I'm gonna go back to—"

"No, I'm awake now," he said, shooting you a pointed but playful look. He sat back in the recliner and patted his lap before stretching out his arms. "C'mere."

You used every ounce of energy you had to not run over and completely melt into his arms.

You moulded into him like a perfectly crafted puzzle piece, your legs and arms finding the most comfortable position almost instantly. Your head found its perfect spot somewhere just under the dip of his shoulder, and you couldn't help but breathe him in: smoke, beer, linen, and Dean. Your Dean.

"What were you thinkin' about?" you asked gently, wrapping one of your arms around his neck, your other hand intertwining with his. Dean was never really one to share his feelings, and though (with your help) he was starting to get better, there were times when you had to fight tooth and nail to bring down the steel walls he had put up.

According to him, it was one of your best strengths—being able to accept someone in their entirety, despite their faults, no matter how large. Your ability to empathise was beyond anything Dean could imagine. It was one of the reasons he loved and trusted you so deeply.

"Everythin'," he said with a sigh.

"Everything?" you repeated with a furrowed brow.

"Just," he began. "Everything that's happened. To Sammy. To me. To you. It's been a hell of a ride."

You nodded, trying to let your mind flick over the happier moments instead of the darker ones.

"It's been a lot," you agreed.

It was the understatement of the goddamn century.

"And I think about the people we lost," he paused, looking down at your interlaced fingers. "I think about every single one of 'em, all the goddamn time... And I wonder sometimes why I keep goin'."

You frowned, lips parted as you attempted to find some kind of response.

"But then I realised," he continued. "It's you."

You blinked. Once. Then twice. "Me?"

"After everythin', you're still here. I mean, you look at me like I'm some kinda hero or someth—"

"You are, Dean," you reassured. "I mean, you saved the entire world. More than once. You gotta stop saying you're not."

Dean sighed, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "See? All of that, and I’ve got nothin’ to give you."

"You give me everything just by being here. By coming home every day."

"You deserve more."

You rolled your eyes, sitting up to look at him directly with a firm, but loving look. This wasn’t a new conversation; in the past, the two of you had argued over whether or not you deserved Dean, or whether you deserved a life that was a little more sane… a little more normal. A life where you could wake up every day knowing that you didn't have to look over your shoulder and defend your every move.

These arguments usually resulted in screaming matches between the two of you.

Dean raised his hand, stopping you before you even got the chance to speak. "I didn’t mean that... I’ve been thinkin’... after tomorrow, that’s it.”

“What?”

“After tomorrow’s hunt. I’m done.”

You shook your head, disbelief quickly washing across your features. “You mean—?”

“I’m done.”

It felt like the air had been completely knocked from your lungs.

Done? You didn’t think such a concept existed for Dean. He had lived one way his entire life. Hunting was all he knew, all you knew. The idea of starting anew, starting fresh, was… oddly terrifying.

“I got a job application. I’ve filled it out—gonna hand it in at the end of the week.”

You could only shake your head in utter bewilderment.

“I’m tellin’ Sam tomorrow. He’s been thinkin’ about hanging it up too... for a while, I think.”

You had officially forgotten to breathe. You sucked in a deep breath, disguising your shock by clearing your throat. With wide eyes, you looked at Dean, thousands of words on the tip of your tongue, but none of them amounted to what you truly wanted to say.

You couldn't imagine it—waking up in the morning, working a 9-to-5 job, then heading back to a two-bedroom apartment in the middle of some city, drinking coffee, and going to meetings. You couldn't imagine leaving it all behind.

But then you looked at Dean, and for the first time, you noticed a hint of something different in his eyes. A spark of something that you just couldn't put your finger on. It was a look that made your insides buzz with a mixture of excitement and anxiety.

"Okay," was all you were able to say. "One more tomorrow. Then we're done."

"Deal."

You fell back into Dean's embrace and listened to the steady thump of his heartbeat. Your brain was filing through a hundred different thoughts at a million miles an hour, but the heaviness of your eyelids began to take over.

After tomorrow, everything would be over.

But everything would begin.

+++

When Sam woke that same morning—mind you, at a way more reasonable time than 3 a.m.—he also woke to a quiet bunker. There was no quiet chatter from you and Dean in the kitchen, no breakfast being made or coffee being brewed. It was silent.

He eventually found the two of you, curled up together on one of the recliners. He couldn’t imagine the position you were in being comfortable in any way, all squished together on the tiny couch, but the peaceful looks on both your faces made him pause.

It was still early, and you hadn’t planned on leaving for another few hours anyway. So Sam left you there. He could get everything ready himself.

Besides, it was only a simple vamp hunt.

a/n: that job application will continue to haunt my dreams

[mariasont]

Ideas From a Book - A.H

a/n: im writing what i want !!!!!!!!!!!!! i have a gun kink SUE ME !!! if you don't like it don't read it !!!!!!!

anyhow HAPPY READING

masterlist

₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

pairings: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

summary: in which hotch comes home to find you reading and finds out you have a gun kink

warnings: 18+ MDNI, a lot going on here yall idk, gun going in ur vag, reader loves smut she's just like me fr, gun kink!, dirty talk, established relationship, yada yada

wc: 2.3k

When Hotch returned home from work, the ritual he had was comforting in its predictability: shedding his coat and shoes, setting down his briefcase, and locking up his gun. Then, he'd find you, as he always did, nestled into the couch, book in hand. 

It was something he could count on, as reliable as the sun rising in the morning. Your bookshelf was a spectrum of genres--science fiction, poetry, mystery, historical, fantasy--name it, you've likely read it. Among these, he had noticed a trend--your favoritism for romance. It was fitting, as you've always been an ardent believer in fairytales and happy endings. It was a belief he intended to uphold, a fairytale ending he was set on creating for you. 

The book you held today had a cover he didn't recognize. He cleared his throat, announcing his arrival. Your eyes met his in an instant, and he was struck anew by just how pretty you are. Effortlessly so. He told you as much, though you seldom accepted the compliment. 

"Hi, handsome," you said, infusing your words with honey as you folded the corner of your page and laid the book aside. Spencer would scold you for that. "How was work?"

A shrug rolled off his shoulders, fingers working to loosen the tie that felt like a noose after a long day. Stepping further into the living room, he sighed, "Heavy with paperwork."

"That's no fun," you said, lips curving into a delicate pout. 

It was an invitation he couldn't ignore. Leaning in, his hands found your face, and as your lips met, you giggled, pulling back just enough to study his face, the harsh lines under his eyes, reading the fatigue on his features like a well-thumbed novel. 

"What are you reading?" he questioned, easing down next to you, the couch dipping to his weight. 

You dodged his eyes, fingers absently fidgeting with your earlobe as you gave him a half-smile, tilting the book just enough so he couldn't catch the title.  

"Just some romance book," you admitted, with a slight uptick in your voice. "Garcia recommended it."

He regarded you with a contemplative frown. Normally, a book you would have gone on for hours, detailing every character, plot twist, and subplot, dissecting its layers and intricacies in exhaustive detail. 

Aaron watched as you placed the book on the side table, movements deliberate. You positioned yourself across his lip, a seemingly innocent distraction. It almost worked. Your soft thighs sinking into his calloused hands, as if they were crafted just for him. He recognized your ploy, though, giving your leg a squeeze a little tighter than necessary. 

You leaned in, your breath tinged with the minty traces of your afternoon tea, a detail as intimate as any secret shared between lovers. He nipped at your lip, a gentle diversion, as his hand crept towards the book.

You wriggled in his hold, vying to get there first, but he was faster. Much faster at that, although you loved to challenge him on that. He secretly loved when you did. He loved you. 

"What are you doing?" Your voice was rising in a panicked pitch. You stretched your hand out, trying to reclaim it, but he kept it just beyond reach.

Aaron's arm formed a band around you, effectively pinning your arms to your torso while you writhed within his grasp. A groan was stifled in his throat. "Quit that."

You smiled, a hint of tease in the curve of your lips and stilled. You were acutely aware of the effect you had on him, and it was a feat achieved with little effort. 

"Why are you being so secretive about this?"

He nodded to the book. The cover was unassuming, black with a smattering of designs that sprawled across it. It looked like any other book you read.

"I'm not being secretive," you insisted, deliberately avoiding his probing gaze. "You're just being nosy."

"Oh, am I?" He couldn't help but laugh, nose crinkling as he dismissed the notion with a shake of his head.

You nodded, not saying anything in response. He thumbed through the book, opening it to a random page.

"Wait--," you pleaded, but his attention was already glued to the ink. You wrapped yourself around him, your face buried in the folds of his crisp dress shirt as you murmured into the fabric, "please don't."

His arm shifted from your waist to cradle the back of your neck. "Gasping at the cool metal of the gun running across my belly, I want him press it into my panties."

Your breath caught, warmth flooding your cheeks as you pressed your face deeper into his chest. "Aaron, stop."

But he didn't, of course, he was far too intrigued.

"Parting my legs, I roll into the metal. He runs it back and forth across my pussy, wetting it against the barrel to my entrance," He continued, wetting the pad of his thumb as he turned the page, eyes meeting yours. 

He cocked an eyebrow as if waiting for your response. You didn't give him one, huffing a sigh as you plucked the book from his hands and flung it onto the cushions of the couch.

"Are you...into this?" He articulated each word with deliberate slowness, as if navigating a minefield. "This is a little intense."

You groan, tucking your chin down to your chest as you fought against the tingling sensation clawing up your spine.

"I don't know." The words tumbled out in a murmur, a feeble shield against the embarrassment flooding your senses.

It was the truth. You didn't know. Ink on a page was a far cry from reality. Nonetheless, your recent daydreams were filled with images of Aaron with his gun. God, forbid you see him on duty.

He shifted you off his lap, and you felt the corners of your mouth turn downward involuntarily. You watched his retreating figure vanish down the hall, your thoughts racing at breakneck speed, gripped by the fear that you had scared him off, that this was his tipping point.

The welling tears were poised to fall, but they paused as he came back into view. Holding his gun.

Your breath halted, a knot forming in your throat as you clumsily rose to your knees on the couch, your eyes wide and transfixed on him.

You watched, more like ogled, as he methodically removed the magazine, opening the action and ejecting the cartridges of the gun, putting the safety into place. Your throat felt dry. His advance towards you was predatory, a slow march that rekindled a well-known flutter in your stomach.

"Aaron?"

He stepped in front of you, the firearm dangling loosely at his side. You gazed up at him, peering through the shelter of your lashes.

"Do you want me to fuck you with this?"

You knew you said you didn't know if this was something you were into, yet here you were, retracting every syllable. Suddenly so incredibly turned on it almost hurt.

You nodded vigorously, your enthusiasm outpacing your self-awareness.

The look he gave you was one you recognized instantly, eliciting yet another soft pout before you gave in. "Yes, please, Aaron."

"Good girl," he said, making your heart skip a beat as he pressed the nose of the gun into your chest, forcing you backward. "Always so good for me."

You nodded again, even though there was no need to, but you weren't really focused on his words. You were focused on the gun pressing into your body, imagining it pressed against your clit, up your pussy.

"You're sure, um," you managed, trying to catch your breath, pausing in the middle of your sentence to clear your throat, "that all the safety stuff is on?"

You sounded dumb, you were aware, but all intellectual thoughts were out the window.

He let out a deep chuckle, the sound sending another wave of desire straight to your core. "Yes, baby, all of the safety stuff is on."

"Okay, good."

He pressed his lips to yours, the gun still flush against your chest, now grazing your nipple as you arched into him.

He pulled back only enough to speak into your mouth. "What's your safe word?"

"Mercy."

He hummed in response, fingers threading through your hair as he pushed the barrel of the gun down your stomach. You froze, a subtle gap forming between your lips as your eyes remained locked on the motion.

He brought his mouth to your ear, nipping at the skin lightly as he pushed the metal further down your body, lifting the hem of your shirt with it. You gasped at the feeling, pulling your bottom lip through your teeth as you tried to hide just how affected you were.

"Do you trust me?"

"Yes." It was immediate. Without hesitation.

He kissed your lips, gentle and unhurried, as if he was savoring the sensation, like he thought I might crumble under too much pressure. He might be right.

"Take these off."

His gun pressed against the waistband of your shorts. You didn't waste a second, lifting your hips and shimmying out of the fabric. A sound of approval vibrated from his throat, his fingers entwining in your hair, gently drawing your face closer to his.

"Are you sure about this?"

A nod came naturally, followed by a yes breathed out like a prayer, as your eyes trailed down to in between your thighs where the gun was now sitting. 

"Aaron, I need it."

"Oh, you need it, huh?" He tsked his tongue, running the nose of the gun over your clothed heat. "I can tell."

You let out a sharp gasp, bucking your hips into the device as you met his eyes, willing him to keep going. You had never been more turned on in your life. His hand moved from your neck to the small of your waist, pinning you in place. With one hand. Fuck.

He laid the gun beside your hip on the couch in order to pull your panties off. You squirmed at the rush of cold air encompassing between your thighs. His eyes were glued to your pussy, tongue darting out to swipe across his lips.

"Christ sweetheart," he hissed, sliding one finger through your slit, showing you the moisture you had produced. "Needy girl."

"Aaron, please." You needed something inside of you.

He laughed, at your expense, but you didn't care, concentrated on his hand grabbing the Glock and repeating the action his finger just did.

You choked out a sound, stuttering against the touch. He in a merciful mood apparently, pushing the gun slowly into your sopping cunt. You were writhing against it, your mouth parted as you tried to get used to the foreign object.

"You okay?" He asked, pausing his motions, giving you a second to adjust.

You swallowed; gaze drawn down to where he was sliding the gun into you. You bit down on your lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Yes."

"You can take it," he said, but the way the firearm was stretching you made you unsure.

It wasn't the size necessarily, but the way the groves and magazine were cramming into you was making hold your breath, which him being him he noticed immediately.

His hand rested gently against the pouch of your stomach. "Breathe."

The pent-up breath escaped your lips, and he rewarded you by sinking the gun further into your pussy. You fingers wrapped around his biceps, the tips digging slightly into the constellation of freckled skin.

One final thrust and it was fully in you. You could feel every groove and contour of it, cunt clenching and unclenching at the sensation. 

"Look at you," he drawled, beginning to fuck you with it. It transcended the prose of any book, a sensation that no array of printed words could fully capture. "You like that?"

Nodding was your only recourse, mouth hanging pathetically open as you moaned and whined. You were in a daze-like state, every sound and motion involuntary.

"This is the Glock 17," he explained, thrusting the gun faster, causing you to tighten your hands around his neck, bringing him so close his words were melting into your skin. "It feeds from a staggered-column magazine that has a 17-round capacity. It sends 115 gr bullets downrange at about 1200 feet per second."

You could feel your arousal leaking to your thighs, coating his forearm in the process, but that would never stop him.

"This gun has taken the lives of nineteen unsubs."

You know this should make you coil away, that it should feel wrong somehow, but all you felt was that growing tightness in your core, your legs shaking, your chest rising and falling at a more rapid pace.

"You don't even care, do you? All you care about is getting yourself off." His chuckles wove through his words, and his motions didn't falter, intent of ushering you to your peak. "My dirty girl."

You were so close, the edges of the gun managing to hit every spot just right.

"Come on, honey."

Fuck. You let out another strangled gasp, way louder than intended as your back arched like a string of a bow, and then suddenly you released.

A prism of colors exploded behind your squeezed eyes. A collage of musical notes falling over your ears. Your whole body was being ignited as you gushed around the gun.

"Christ." His new favorite word as of late. He withdrew the weapon from you.

You let out a subdued hum, propping yourself on your elbows, your eyes lazily rising to meet his with a tender flutter.

"You're so pretty," he murmured, the compliment settling on you like dew on morning flowers. Your gaze caught the gun, now bathed in a liquid gloss, cradled in his hands.

"Oh my god," you said, hand covering your mouth.

He laughed softly, placing it on the coffee table before his lips brushed against yours, a soft and measured caress that belied his previous urgency.

"You might need a new one," you said sheepishly, heat creeping into your ears as he pressed another soft kiss to your cheek.

"Absolutely not," he murmured into your flushed skin. "It just became my gun of choice."

You were going to give him the best head of his life.

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna

[jinwoosbabyboo]

Trippin', Fallin' With No Safety Net

My headcanons of the lads men with a clumsy reader [Requested by: Anon]

𝚉𝚊𝚢𝚗𝚎

this man is damn near giving himself an anxiety attack worrying about you when you're not with him

covers the corner of the table with his hand when you lean down to pick something up

cuts your food for you now because you cut your finger one time and gave him a heart attack

his reflexes have sharpened from having to catch you every time you trip

keeps a pair of sneakers and flats in his car in case you drink when you two are out because he knows you'll stumble and fall in a pair of heels

would switch out his sharp cornered coffee table for an oval shaped one because you kept hitting your knee on it

places all your extra pillows on the floor on your side of the bed after you rolled off one night

keeps first aid kits everywhere because you're a walking hazard to yourself

does not let you grab a glass from a shelf you can barely reach

doesn't let you carry more than one bag because you tried to make one trip with the grocery bags and fell head first into a wall

𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚕

still laughs every time you trip or fall "are you okay?" "stop laughing!" "I'm sorry the noise you made was funny"

holds your hand or waist when you walk up/down the stairs because you've fallen one too many times

if you drop something at the table he'll pick it up for you

gets rid of the rugs you somehow keep tripping on

is fighting for his life trying to keep you off the counters when you can't reach something

you slipped in the shower one time and gave yourself a concussion now he won't let you shower alone

subtly childproofs his house

is always confused whenever you trip, fall or get stuck "now how the hell did you do that?" "I don't know Raf help me!"

constantly pretends to toss you stuff "Think fast!" " STOP IM NOT GONNA CATCH IT!" he's already cackling on the floor

side steps you to throw you off balance on purpose; always catches you when you start falling

𝚇𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚛

you fell down the stairs once and now he happily carries you up and down them whenever he's with you

covers the corner of the table with his hand when you drop something and lean down to pick it up

also showers with you now after you slipped one time

doesn't let your carry more than one plate

gets a google home or Alexa so you can speak to turn the lights on because you tend to run into walls looking for light switches

grabs everything you can't reach after you pulled an entire shelf down on yourself in public

sends you check-in texts to make sure you haven't hurt yourself when he doesn't see you (not that you'd admit it anyway)

is so used to your clumsiness he can almost sense when something is about to go wrong

secretly finds your clumsiness cute and now he has another reason to have you in his arms at all times

𝚂𝚢𝚕𝚞𝚜

Sylus is probably the perfect man to be with because his evol would be perfect for protecting you

places his hand on your head when you lean down to pick something up to stop you from bumping it on anything

buys you fluffy slippers to wear around the house so your pinky toe stops banging everything in the house

wraps his evol around you when he catches you climbing on something

you cut yourself with a knife once and he hid them for only him and the chef to use after that

has the twins keep an eye on you when he's not around

replaces any tables with sharp corners for smooth edged tables

has his shower renovated with pebble stone flooring so you don't slip

takes your heels and carries you when you start stumbling

keeps a hand on your waist when going up or down the stairs

is so used to you falling all the time its almost like his evol acts on it's own to catch you

uses your clumsiness as a reason for why he should go with you everywhere

gets rid of every rug in the house and opts to get heated floors because you keep tripping on the rugs, but he knew you'd complain about the cold floors

[peaches-creek]

When he walks through the door, you are cooking. Smells like something Italian but maybe not. He hears the bubbling of a pot and a searing of a pan. He crouches as he takes off his boots, caked in dirt and stinking of something foreign. He can’t greet you after a month like this, covered in grease and smelling of gunpowder and sweat. You heard him drop his duffle bag. He hears do drop the spoon you were using and the pitter-patter of your feet coming to greet him. Your smiling face turns the corner.

“You’re home.” You gently say as you walk over to him. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him into your arms with his face in your neck. You pull his mask off and give a kiss to his temple.

“I smell.” He says.

“Everyone smells,” she quips, “lemme hold you for a minute.” He lets her do exactly that.

After a minute or so he tells her she needs to finish cooking, and that he needs to shower. They can have a meal together and then take a well deserved nap together.

While he’s in the shower he takes his time decompressing. Trying to become Simon after a month of being Lt. Ghost. He thinks of what you might be cooking instead of the mistake he made that almost costed Price his life. He uses your conditioner and gingerbread body wash, knowing that you wouldn’t mind. You never do. It shocks him, every time, when he thinks of how much you Love him. You know what he does, and you still call him your “cutie-patootie.”

By the time he’s out of the shower, dinner is on the table, warm and on his favorite blue plates. You made him lemon breaded chicken and garlic parmesan pasta, his second favorite dish, first being his mother’s meatloaf.

“You smell familiar.” You laugh.

“This smells great,” he states, “not as good as me though.”

You place a kiss on his lips.

“Okay now that you have kissed the chef, you may eat your meal.” You move to the other side of the table, sitting across from him.

“Catch me up, what did I miss?” He says.

You spend the next half an hour talking his ear off as he shovels food into his face. He prefers that, not only does he like hearing your voice but it also helps him settle in. Hearing all the things that you did around the house, putting up new pictures, the ones that you took when you guys went to see the Eiffel Tower. You also got a few new plants, and told him that you waited for him to get home so you could name them together. You also said how you started watching some new documentary that he had to see.

He spent his whole life moving from one place to another, barely living. Now he has you. You move him and he moves you. Once he was finished with his plate, you took it to the sink and placed it on top of the others, you can do those later, it’s time to put your man to bed. He deserves it.

“Okay now, let’s get you to bed.” You pull him up and drag him to your shared bed. It’s quite a funny thing to see, such a large man getting dragged through the halls just to be tucked into bed.

You reach your destination. You let go of his hand and pull the covers back. You settle yourself in first, waving your hand to tell him to come in. You then maneuver him to put his head on your chest.

“All settled in?” You ask. He nods his head. No words needed. He was exactly where he needed to be. You begin to rub his back as he slowly finds himself falling into a sweet sleep, courtesy of you.