#do I still want him to be there and will I keep putting him there regardless?!??!!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thepencilnerd · 3 days ago

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hello!! i have an angsty request >:3

in the past dr robby and reader were in a relationship but as life changed they decided to separate. reason why reader broke it off with robby was because she was getting sicker and she didn’t want to burden him years later reader comes into the er in bad shape (chronicle ill) he never knew she was this sick until years after they drifted apart and maybe some fluff at the end

babes you know i LIVE FOR THE ANGST <33

warnings: depictions of chronic illness wc: 1.9k

The ER was buzzing—monitors beeping, the sharp scent of antiseptic hanging in the air, footsteps echoing against linoleum. Robby barely noticed any of it.

He’d just finished dealing with a combative overdose in Bay 5 when Dana called out to him, holding a chart.

"Room Three," she said, a little too gently. "Chronic case. Looks like heart failure. She's not doing great."

He grabbed the clipboard without a second thought. Then stopped cold.

Your name stared up at him in clean block letters.

And his world tipped sideways.

It was as though someone had sucker-punched the air out of his lungs. Four years. Four years of wondering. Of half-written texts. Unanswered calls. A full voicemail inbox, all of them from him. Of dreaming about your laugh and waking up angry in tears. Frustrated at himself. At you. Four years of pretending he didn’t still check your name in the hospital system every once in a while.

And now—now you were here.

Collapsed lungs. Oxygen saturation low. Congestive Heart Failure. Decompensated.

You were dying, and you hadn’t said a word.

The curtain around your bed was drawn, but he pushed through without knocking, hands trembling.

And there you were.

Pale. Eyes sunken. Lips tinged gray-blue despite the oxygen mask over your mouth. You were bundled in hospital blankets, shivering slightly, your hand lax around the call button.

Your eyes opened slowly, drawn by the sound of footsteps.

You saw him—and blinked, like you weren’t sure if he was real.

A choked sigh. You pulled off the mask just enough to speak. "Hey, stranger."

It wrecked him. The rasp in your voice. The half-smile you offered like this was just a casual run-in, like you weren’t hooked up to machines that were keeping you alive.

He moved closer, too fast. "What the hell, Y/N?"

"Nice to see you too," you murmured, voice dry.

"Don’t," he said sharply, chart forgotten in his hand.

You looked away. "I didn’t plan to be here, Michael."

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once before kneeling beside the bed. "Heart failure? You’re in advanced decomp. Jesus—why didn’t you fucking tell me? Why didn’t you call?"

You didn’t answer.

"You left," he said, voice quieter now but still shaking.

He held your hand instantly, cradling it like it was instinct. His hands felt the same—warm, steady, familiar. Like no time had passed at all.

You swallowed hard, throat bobbing. "I didn’t want you to watch me fall apart."

He blinked. "You think I wouldn’t have stayed?"

"I know you would have," you whispered. "That’s what scared me. You would’ve put everything on hold. Your fellowship. Your life. Your chance to be more than just a caretaker for someone who—" You broke off, breath catching. "Someone who was only going to get worse."

Robby’s other hand came to rest on your arm—warm, solid, familiar. Your body leaned toward the touch before your mind could argue.

"You think I wouldn’t choose you? You really think I wouldn’t have wanted to walk through this with you?"

Tears stung your eyes. "It wasn’t fair to ask."

"You didn’t ask. You just left." His voice cracked at the end.

A long silence stretched between you, thick with everything unsaid.

He squeezed your hand tighter. His thumb brushed against your knuckles, grounding you.

"I never stopped loving you," he said quietly.

Your fingers curled around his. You felt like hell, like your body was a failing house, caving in on itself—but his touch reminded you that some parts of you still worked. Still remembered.

"I’m sorry," you whispered. "For not telling you. For walking away before you had the chance to make that choice."

Robby leaned in, forehead nearly touching yours. "I’m making it now," he breathed.

Your eyelids feel heavy, and suddenly you're back in that cramped apartment with the peeling tile and the humming radiator—the place you used to call home.

It had been raining that night. Heavy and loud against the windows. You remember how the lamplight painted long shadows across the floor, how your suitcase sat half-zipped by the door.

You remember the way Robby looked at you when he walked in from his shift—wet scrubs, messy hair, exhaustion hanging from his shoulders.

But the second he saw your face, he knew.

"You’re leaving," he said.

You nodded. You couldn’t meet his eyes.

He didn’t yell. Didn’t beg. He just stood there, breathing too quietly, like even that hurt.

"I thought we were okay," he said after a minute. "Are we not okay?"

You tried to smile, but it cracked at the edges. "I’ve been… having more episodes. Dizziness. Shortness of breath. My cardiologist says it’s progressing faster than they expected."

Robby blinked. "Okay. Then we fight it. We adjust the meds. We—"

"No," you said, cutting him off too fast. "You adjust. You take care of me. You cancel your interviews, you stay up all night researching when you should be out living your life. And then one day when you wake up next to someone who can’t even walk up a hill without needing to sit down? What then, Michael? I’m not doing that to you."

His expression twisted. "So instead, you choose to leave me? Without giving me a choice?"

Tears welled in your eyes, but you blinked them back. "I’m trying to give you a future. One that doesn’t revolve around watching me wither away in front of you."

"I don’t want a future without you."

You shook your head. "That’s what I couldn’t live with."

He crossed the room, grabbed your wrist—gentle, but desperate. "You don’t get to make this decision for both of us."

You leaned in, let your forehead rest against his. Memorized the warmth of his breath, the way his fingers trembled where they held you.

"I love you," you said. "But I need you to remember me like this. Young and alive. Not dying in a hospital bed."

"No."

"Michael—"

"No," he said again, voice cracking. "God, please. Don’t do this."

His voice broke and kept breaking. He sank down to his knees like his body couldn't hold the grief. Tears spilled fast, falling unchecked down his cheeks, and he reached for you—arms wrapping around your waist, face pressed against your stomach. A sob tore out of him, raw and guttural.

"Stay," he whispered. Then louder, more desperate: "Please—please, let me stay. Let me help you. I’ll do anything, Y/N. I’ll give you everything I have. Just don’t walk away from me. Please."

You fell with him, threading your shaking fingers into his hair, holding him close. He felt like a storm in your arms—chaotic, trembling, terrified.

"I know you would," you whispered, breaking. "That’s the problem."

You closed your eyes, voice barely audible. "You’d give everything for me. And it kills me. Because I love you too much to let you."

You kissed him one last time—slow, aching, full of everything you couldn’t say. His hand slipped into your hair, holding you like he could stop the unraveling.

When you finally pulled away, his eyes were red, lips parted like he still couldn’t believe you were really leaving. You rested your hand on his cheek for a second longer—just one more breath, one more heartbeat—before stepping back.

Neither of you spoke.

You picked up your bag. Turned toward the door. Didn’t look back.

—

Later, when the oxygen helped and your vitals stabilized and they moved you upstairs, you didn’t expect him to stay.

But hours passed.

And he did.

You opened your eyes sometime after 3 a.m. to find him sitting in the chair next to your bed, fingers still laced with yours.

You were the first to speak. "You’re not on shift anymore."

"Doesn’t matter."

"You could’ve gone home. Slept in your own bed."

He glanced at you, then looked back down at your joined hands. "I think I’ve spent enough nights in the wrong bed."

Your breath caught.

"You don't have to—"

"I know," he said, cutting you off, voice softer now. "This isn’t about having to do anything." He moved closer and brushed a kiss against your forehead, lingering. "This is about not losing you again."

You turned your face away, voice breaking. "Don’t say things like that."

"Why not?" he asked. "You think I don’t mean them?"

"I know you do," you said quietly. "And that’s what terrifies me."

His brow furrowed. "Y/N—"

"I don’t deserve this," you said, barely louder than a whisper. "I don’t deserve you. I lied to you. I pushed you away. I chose to disappear. And you’re still here, willing to throw everything away just to sit beside me while I—" You cut yourself off, tears welling. "I don’t want you wasting your life loving someone who might not even have much of one left."

Robby cupped your face in both hands, gently, like you might shatter if he held too tightly. "I’m not wasting anything. You’re the one thing I’ve ever been sure about."

You couldn’t stop the tears this time. "I don’t want to be your burden."

He leaned closer until his forehead pressed against yours. "You’re not. You never were and you never will be. Let me be here. Please."

His thumb brushed away a tear. "Let me love you."

You gave in then. Let yourself fall forward, into his arms. He wrapped himself around you instantly, warm and steady, holding you like you were something sacred. Your body fit against his like muscle memory, like no time had passed.

He smelled the same. That subtle mix of soap, sweat, and something inherently him—clean and grounding. Your nose pressed into the crook of his neck, and it hit you like a wave.

And you felt the same to him. Fragile, yes, but still familiar. Still his.

His arms tightened around you, one hand splayed between your shoulder blades, the other stroking the back of your head. You buried your face in his shoulder, clung to his shirt, and let yourself cry.

He didn’t try to stop it.

Didn’t let go.

And when the tears slowed, and you felt his lips press gently against your temple, you breathed in the quiet between you. His scent. His presence. His promise.

"I missed you," you whispered.

"I never stopped thinking about you," he murmured. "Not for a second."

You pulled back just far enough to look at him—really look. He looked tired, yes, but soft around the edges now. Open. Hopeful.

You touched his cheek. "Okay," you sniffled. "You can stay."

The way he smiled at you then—soft and disbelieving—felt like sunlight after a long winter.

He kissed your knuckles. Then your brow. Then the tip of your nose.

Then, slower, more reverent—he kissed your cheek. The corner of your mouth. And finally, your lips. It was soft, tentative, but steady. Like he needed you to feel it. Like he’d been holding it in for years.

You melted into it, a shaky laugh breaking through your tears.

"We’ll take it one breath at a time," he whispered against your lips.

You nodded, forehead resting against his. For a while, you just breathed together—quiet and close. His thumb traced slow, lazy circles against the back of your hand.

"Tell me when you’re tired," he murmured.

"I’m always tired," you whispered, a soft smile tugging at the edge of your mouth.

"I’ll be tired with you."

He shifted, carefully, until he was half-tucked into the bed beside you, mindful of your lines and monitors. You leaned into him, head on his chest, and let his heartbeat calm your own.

"I love you," you murmured into the fabric of his shirt.

His hand found yours beneath the blanket, fingers curling tight. "And I love you—more than anything."

You smiled against him, small and real. "Even now?"

"Always."

And in that quiet hospital room, tangled together and half-lit by morning, you let those words hold you—finally, fully—with nothing left to hide and everything to bare.

#the pitt #michael robinavitch #noah wyle #dr robby imagine #dr robby x reader #dr robby #michael robinavitch x reader

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pitlanepeach · 2 days ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter Nineteen

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, teeth-rotting fluff, mentions of minor ptsd, the "do you want kids" talk, therapy, sexual content.

Notes — The queen of fluff strikes again. They're so in love it hurts. Enjoy this intermission from the angst before we get to Spa.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

2021 (Hungary)

Max was having headaches.

Not debilitating, not anything he would admit needed painkillers. But Amelia noticed the way he squinted at the sim screen, how he blinked a little too often under the harsh lights, how he’d logged fewer hours this week than he had since he was seventeen.

She didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t want to push him.

But it gnawed at her, heavy and sour at the pit of her stomach.

Because she knew Max. Knew how he worked. If he thought for even a second that she might tell Christian or Helmut or, God forbid, the FIA, he'd lock it down even tighter, wrap himself up in barbed wire and throw away the key. Anything to stay in the car. Anything to win.

Still, it scared her. The idea that maybe the crash had done more damage than he was willing to admit. That maybe he was hiding it from her, from everyone, in order to be given the all clear to keep racing.

She leaned against the doorway to the RBR sim room one evening, arms crossed tight over her chest, watching him fight through another lap. He was good at pretending, but she saw the way his hand came up to the back of his neck when he thought no one was looking, how he massaged the side of his head, quick and angry like he could force the ache away.

Her fingers twitched at her side. She wanted to walk over. Put a hand on his shoulder. Make him stop. But she didn't.

Instead, she just said, quiet but steady, "Don’t be stupid, Max."

He flicked his eyes toward her, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth, but didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

She already knew what he’d decided. And she already knew it would break her heart trying to change his mind.

—

Amelia sat at the kitchen island, watching her mom buzz around the kitchen, throwing together something that vaguely resembled a pasta salad. She scrunched her nose at the sight of it, half-finished, but already tragic, and fought the urge to say something. She hadn’t been lying to Lando over a year ago, standing in her garage, when she’d told him her mom was really only capable of cooking one thing successfully. And there was definitely no chicken in sight.

Her iPad was open in front of her, specs from the latest floor upgrade zoomed in on the screen, but she wasn’t really looking at them. Not properly. She was too focused on the strange, unsettled feeling curling in her stomach.

This was her first time at home for weeks, maybe even over a month, and she’d missed it, she had. She really had.

But something felt… different. Off, in a way she couldn’t quite pin down.

“I think I should get my own place,” she said eventually, voice quiet but certain.

Her mom spun around, salad tong still in hand, blinking fast. “You— you don’t want to live at home anymore?”

Amelia shrugged, trying to find the right words. “No, it’s not that. It’s not that I don’t like it here. It’s just…” She trailed off for a second, chewing the inside of her cheek. “I feel like a nomad. I’m living out of hotels most of the time. And when I am in England, I’m split between here, Glastonbury with Lando, and Milton Keynes at Max’s flat. I have all these different places that feel half-mine. But nowhere that’s actually mine, you know?”

Her mom set the salad tongs down carefully, a little crease forming between her eyebrows. She didn’t look angry.

Amelia pressed on, rushing a little now in case she’d somehow managed to made her mom sad. “I still love it here. I do. But it feels like… like my childhood home, you know? Not my current home.”

There was a small beat of quiet. Then her mom gave a soft, bittersweet smile. “That’s what’s supposed to happen, honey. You’re supposed to outgrow home. I’m glad you feel ready.”

Amelia relaxed a little, shoulders unclenching. Then her mom added, almost too casually, “Will you and Lando get a place together?”

Amelia blinked. “What? No— I mean—” She stopped herself, brain scrambling to catch up. “I hadn’t even thought of that. I just meant me. Like… by myself.”

Her mom laughed, warm and a little amused. “Well, think about it. You practically live with him already, in hotel rooms, but still… it counts.”

Amelia frowned, thinking it through like it was a math problem. “Oh. Yeah. That would… probably make more sense, wouldn’t it?” She mumbled. “I don’t particularly think I’d want to live alone, anyway. And I have gotten used to all of his stuff taking up my space—“

Her mom just smiled again, all knowing and fond, and went back to massacring the pasta salad.

—

Amelia smiled to herself and kept her head down, pencil scratching steadily across the paper in her lap. The rumble of the jet engine faded into white noise; background to the way her hand moved without much thought, the way it always did when her brain was chewing on something bigger than her.

Lando, sprawled out lazily in the aisle across from her, leaned over, curious. “What are you drawing, baby?”

Immediately, Amelia tilted the sketchbook away from him, tucking it protectively against her chest. Her ears burned hot. “Uh. Nothing. I mean—obviously something, but I don’t want to tell you.”

He stared at her for a long second, like he was trying to decode her, eyes narrowing slightly in that way that meant he wasn’t sure whether to push or leave it alone. Then he grinned, easy and warm. “Alright. Keep your secrets.”

He leaned back, stretching his legs out.

Amelia ducked her head again, heart thudding faster than she wanted it to.

She wasn’t lying. She just… wasn’t ready to admit it out loud yet. Not to him, not to herself.

In the sketchpad, dozens of early concepts sprawled across the page; lines and curves and arrows scribbled in shorthand. A McLaren.

Not just any McLaren, either.

One capable of winning championships.

Lightweight rear end. Aerodynamic front wing for better rotation. A reimagined floor, designed with efficiency and flexibility in mind for whatever the regulation changes might throw their way in the next couple of years.

It was stupid, probably.

She didn’t work for McLaren. Never had, in any official capacity.

She was still Red Bull’s weapon — heralded by the press as Max’s saviour. Mini Newey. A hundred nicknames but never just her own, never just Amelia Brown.

But the ideas had crawled into her head after Silverstone and refused to leave. It had started with a little idle thought (If I could build him a car good enough to fight Max…) and now here she was.

She chewed on her pencil, staring at the half-formed shape of the nose, and tried not to think too hard about what it meant that she couldn’t bring herself to focus on anything else.

—

They stopped in Belgium before ultimately traveling to Hungary. Lando had family there. Cousins, some distant and some much closer. They’d be too busy to do anything of the sort during the actual Belgium race week, so it was nice to be able to fit them in.

They visited a few over the course of the week; fleeting hellos, shared meals over chipped plates and loud, overlapping conversations. It was nice. Overwhelming, a little, but nice.

Lando introduced her to all of his relatives with a beaming smile and a dozen proud praises—"This is Amelia—yeah, my Amelia"—and she offered polite hellos, dodging kisses on cheeks and handshakes as politely as possible and then doing her best to keep up with the small talk when it was asked of her.

It was a little exhausting, mentally. The swirl of laughter, jokes she didn’t quite catch the punchline of, but Lando never pushed her too far. Never nudged her into the centre of things. He let her stay where she was comfortable, sometimes sliding his hand across her lower back when it got too much, or catching her eye from across a room with a soft, wordless smile.

Mostly, she ended up perched on the carpet with the kids, knees tucked under her, a tiny smile playing on her lips as she held up a toy car and explained, far too seriously, the engine type and manufacturer history. The toddlers listened with wide eyes, clutching their sticky-fingered toys and nodding solemnly as if they understood.

Later, in the car, as they drove back toward their hotel under the pale blue of evening, Amelia sat curled up in the passenger seat, hair pulled over one shoulder, a big blue stain on her blouse that was the product of finger-painting gone wrong.

Lando was quiet, his hand resting loosely on the steering wheel, the other tugging her knuckles gently onto his thigh. "You were really good with them," he said eventually, voice soft enough that she almost thought she'd imagined it.

She made a face. “Kids are easy. All you have to do is keep talking and occasionally shove something colourful at them.”

He laughed under his breath. A minute passed.

Then, casual, like he was asking if she wanted to stop for food, he asked, "Do you want kids?"

Amelia blinked, turning her head to stare at him in the half-light. "I— we don’t even live together," she said, blunt and a little incredulous.

Lando’s mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile. "Well, we can change that."

She stared at him for a long second, watching the way his fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel. Like he wasn’t nervous. Like he meant it.

"Did you talk to my mom?" she asked suddenly.

He shot her a quick, confused glance. "What? No—why? Did you already—? I mean—"

“Okay. I would like to live with you," she said, cutting him off neatly.

For a second, he just blinked at her. And then he was smiling, wide and ridiculous, so big it looked like it physically hurt to contain it.

She giggled, reaching over to nudge his arm. "Stop making that face. You're going to scare the other drivers."

"I'm happy," he argued, grin stretching impossibly wider. "Let me be happy."

She rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her mouth gave her away. She settled back against her seat, watching the trees whip past the window, her heart full and a little chaotic.

"Who gets the bigger closet?" she asked after a beat.

He laughed, a low, warm sound. "You do. Obviously. I’ll just shove my stuff in a corner somewhere."

She nodded. “I do need a lot of closet room. I have two-hundred pairs of shoes.” A few seconds passed in comfortable silence before she tilted her head, thinking. "Where would we live?"

He didn’t miss a beat. "Monaco."

She wrinkled her nose, instinctively. "That's... a big change."

He glanced over, softer now, like he already knew she'd need a minute with the idea. "Just think about it, baby," he said. "Makes sense for me. Makes sense for you. No taxes. Close to Max if you stay with Red Bull. Close to everything else if you don't."

She chewed on her bottom lip, the weight of it settling on her. A new country. A new chapter. A real home; with him.

He smiled again, smaller this time but just as sure. "We could make it our home."

Amelia nodded slowly, feeling her brain already spinning into overdrive. "I need to make a list. Pros and cons. Things we’ll want in the apartment. Maybe a balcony?"

Lando just grinned, reaching over to squeeze her thigh. "Anything you want, baby."

—

“Do you think I’d be a good mom?”

Max froze mid-step, nearly tripping over his own feet. His eyes went wide, panic flashing across his face. “You—fuck, are you pregnant?”

His alarm might’ve had something to do with the fact that she was halfway under his car, only her legs and a shock of messy hair visible as she fiddled with a stubborn screw.

Amelia blinked, glancing up at him from beneath the chassis. “No. I’m just wondering.”

Max let out a breath so heavy it was basically a groan, dragging a hand down his face like he needed to physically wipe the terror off. “Fuck, don't do that to me, zusje. I nearly had a heart attack.”

She wriggled out from under the car, wiping her greasy hands on a rag as she sat back on her heels. “I wasn’t trying to scare you. I’m being serious.”

Max crouched down beside her, arms draped loosely over his knees, studying her with a little more care now. “Okay... why are you thinking about that?” he asked, voice softer.

Amelia shrugged. “I was just thinking—if it ever happened, would I be good at it?”

Max’s face relaxed. “You’d be a great mother.”

She tilted her head, skeptical. “You’re just saying that because it’s what you’re supposed to say.”

He snorted. “No, I'm saying it because it’s true. You love very intensely, you’re honest even when it’s not easy, and you are protective and strong. That's exactly what children need from a parent.”

Amelia chewed on her lip. “Pregnancy is scary. Completely out of my control. Everything, anything, could go wrong.”

Max’s expression shifted, softening. “That’s not something you need to worry about yet.”

She hesitated, then said, almost too quietly, “I think Lando would be a good dad. And I want to give that to him. One day.”

Max nodded. “Then you will. When you’re ready, of course.”

Amelia pursed her lips, staring off to the side. “We... I think we’re going to move in together. Soon. Lando mentioned Monaco.”

Max immediately brightened. “Good! I’m there already. We could be neighbours.”

She blinked, absorbing that new piece of information, slotting it neatly into the mental checklist she was already building. “Oh. Are there any available apartments in your building?”

Max huffed a small laugh, like he hadn’t expected her to take his suggestion seriously. “I’m sure there are.”

She nodded firmly, already halfway down the rabbit hole of logistics. “Okay. That would be efficient.”

Max smiled at her, patient, fond. “I’m sure that you will find the perfect place, zusje. Don’t worry.”

Amelia nodded again, more to herself this time.

—

“We’re not living in Max’s building,” Lando said.

Amelia, perched cross-legged on the bed in his drivers room, immediately pouted. “Why not? It would make life so much simpler, Lan.”

He let out a short laugh, setting his phone down. “Look, I love Max, alright? But living that close to him would be... proper weird.”

Amelia tilted her head, frowning like he was speaking another language. “Why?”

Lando scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Imagine it. Every time we argue, he’s knocking on the door two minutes later—sticking up for you, making me feel like a right dickhead.”

She cracked a tiny smile but stayed stubborn. “But it would be efficient. And Max could help us fix things if something breaks.”

“Baby,” Lando said, laughing, “if something breaks, I’ll fix it. Or we’ll call someone. A professional. Not Max with a wrench and a YouTube tutorial.”

He reached over, tugging her socked foot into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I was thinking somewhere quieter anyway,” he added, softer now. “Away from the main city. Somewhere you can go on your little daily walks without bumping into tourists every five seconds.”

She perked up immediately. “My walks are important for my brain.”

“I know.” He smiled, running his thumb over her ankle. “I even asked Charles where he grew up. There are places, baby; small, quiet. Still close enough if we need to get into town. He said the air’s cleaner too.”

Amelia tapped her fingers against her knee, thoughtful. “Cleaner air is good. Better for respiratory health.”

Lando chuckled and tugged her closer until she half-fell into his side with a tiny yelp. “Exactly. So let’s find somewhere ours, yeah?”

She tucked her head under his chin, breathing him in. “Okay. But if Max gets upset, you have to deal with it.”

Lando grinned against her hair. “I can handle a grumpy Verstappen.”

—

They were curled up in their hotel room, watching the latest episode of Grill the Grid the night before qualifying.

Amelia sat between Lando’s legs, her back pressed against his chest. He had her squished close, big hands sprawled comfortably across her stomach, pressing just enough to ground her, to help her breathe a little easier.

It’d been a rough day for Max, and the stress had bled into her too. Finally being still, finally letting herself relax, felt like a blessing.

She fiddled absently with her golf ball, thumb tracing lazy circles over the surface, half-listening, until the first trivia question came up.

Without hesitation, she rattled off the answer.

By the third question, Lando was laughing, reaching for the remote to pause the video after each one. “Alright, genius,” he teased, chin nudging the top of her head. “You get first go. Beat all of us.”

She answered every time without missing a beat.

He kept pausing, and she kept getting them all right, and after a while Lando wasn’t even pretending to be surprised anymore. He just squeezed her a little tighter and said, “Smarty pants.”

Amelia smiled, small and shy but real.

Lando pressed a kiss into her hair. “I should start taking you to pub quizzes. I’d make a fortune.”

She rolled her eyes at him, but she didn’t pull away.

—

She felt... clingy.

Sitting next to Lando in hospitality, she stared at him, hands itching, burning to reach out, to grab him and never let go.

It had started yesterday. A coil of anxiety tightening in her stomach, left over from Silverstone. Aftershocks, she supposed.

She’d googled it, of course. Trauma responses. Hyper-vigilance. Perfectly normal, the internet said.

She didn’t feel normal.

She kissed Lando goodbye before qualifying, smiling as best she could, and ignored the way her hands trembled when she pulled away. She didn’t look back, even though everything inside her screamed to.

If it were up to her, none of them would be taking part in the weekends running.

Not Lando. Not Max. Not Fernando. Not anyone.

She caught herself before the spiral could dig deeper, bracing one palm against the wall of the motorhome and forcing a deep breath.

She couldn’t live like this. Couldn’t let one crash, no matter how terrifying, poison the thing she loved. The thing they all loved.

But reason didn’t quiet the fear.

It didn't steady her hands as she watched Lando climb into his cockpit on the livestream.

It didn’t stop her from hugging Max tighter than usual, long enough that he gave her a puzzled little look before he was called away.

Even GP noticed. He kept glancing over, subtle but persistent. “You okay?” he asked, at least a dozen times throughout the session.

Every time, Amelia just nodded without looking at him, glued to the data, clinging to logic, to numbers, to anything she could control.

It helped. A little.

—

Lando out-qualified Daniel by a mile.

He was cocky and proud, chest puffed out as he peeled her dress off later that night, caught between frantic and careful.

His mouth was hot against her neck, pulling soft, desperate sounds from her lips, her back arching into him. Then his hand tangled in her hair, tugging just enough to tilt her head back, forcing her to meet his gaze.

He was smirking. Full of adrenaline. Hungry. “You think I deserve a reward for my performance?”

Amelia blinked up at him, sweet and soft and unbearably hot. “Anything you want, Lan.”

—

The next morning, she clung to him, legs tangled with his, her hands wrapped tightly around his wrists. Holding him, having him, needing him close. The warmth of his body against hers felt like the only thing that was grounding her.

He kissed her nose, then her forehead, her cheeks, and chin, finally landing on her lips. The slow, deliberate kiss deepened, but she pulled away just enough to speak.

“I think I need to talk to somebody. A therapist, probably.”

Lando froze, his fingers still brushing against her skin, a soft hesitation in his touch. “You’re... Fuck, I knew something was up. I could feel it, but I didn’t know for sure.”

She gave him a steady, matter-of-fact look, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "Yeah, that’s because I hid it from you. Didn’t want you to worry."

His face softened, and the guilt crept in. “You should’ve told me, Amelia.”

She shrugged, her stomach twisting under the weight of his gaze. “I didn’t want you distracted…”

"Don’t be stupid." His words were sharp, but they didn’t make her flinch. His hand found the back of her neck, pulling her gently against him. “You tell me when you’re having a shit time, okay?”

She sighed, pressing her forehead to his. “Sorry.”

His fingers slid through her hair, his voice steady but soft. "No more hiding it. Right?"

She nodded, barely, but it was enough.

“We’ll find someone good for you to talk to,” he said after a beat, his hand moving to stroke her hair.

She rubbed the tip of her nose against his collarbone affectionately. “Okay.”

—

She popped her head into Fernando’s garage, offering him a soft smile. He came over, gave her a quick squeeze, and gestured proudly to his helmet. “Pretty, huh?”

She nodded, indulging him with a grin. “I like it. How are things going with Esteban?”

Fernando sighed. “Ah. He is… complicated. A good driver, but a terrible teammate. He does not see how both things can be true at once.”

She glanced over at Esteban’s side of the garage. “He’s passionate.”

Fernando nodded thoughtfully. “He is. That will be his greatest strength—and his greatest weakness.” He kissed her cheek and shooed her off. “Go, go, before Verstappen finds you here and threatens to keep you chained to his garage.”

She hugged him again, leaning in just close enough to murmur, “Adjust your ride height. Two centimetres higher.”

Before he could say anything, she gave him a sly smile and disappeared down the paddock.

—

She sat next to Checo in the strategy meeting, slouched low in her chair, sneaking cursory glances at him every time he slid his phone under the table toward her. They were playing chess; badly, if she was honest, but that was half the fun.

Checo would make a move, tilt the screen toward her, and wait, barely suppressing a smug grin. She'd frown, tap out a counter, and slide it back without a word.

No one else seemed to notice. Or if they did, they didn’t care.

Checo was a lot of fun. Easygoing. Quick to laugh. And, as it turned out, a little reckless with his queen.

Amelia pinned him in three moves flat.

Checo huffed under his breath, shaking his head at her. She just shrugged, eyes back on the screen at the front of the room like nothing had happened at all.

—

It was raining. Not hard, not anymore, but enough to slick the track and raise every hair on the back of Amelia’s neck.

She stood, stiff-backed, arms folded across her chest in the Red Bull garage, the whole world around her muffled and distant. She could hear the shrill whine of the engines as the formation lap wrapped, but it was like she was underwater. Distant. Fading.

Max was P3. Lando was P6. Fernando was lurking, dangerous as always. The Mercedes were ahead, unpredictable on a damp track.

Amelia flexed her fingers, breathing deep and slow.

The lights blinked above the front of the grid, one, two, three, four, five, and before she could even brace herself, the race started.

Chaos.

Immediate, all-consuming chaos.

Bottas missed his braking point into Turn 1 and plowed into Lando. She didn’t even see it happen, only saw Lando’s car snap sideways, broken, ruined, like a toy in the rain.

She flinched so hard she almost dropped her iPad.

And then Max—Max—

She watched it in horror, too slow to look away, as Max’s Red Bull got collected in the chain reaction, bodywork flying, his car crumpling along the side-pod.

Her knees buckled; she caught herself with a hand on the pitwall.

Someone shouted. Someone else was already running to grab spare front wings. Alarms buzzed in her headset, engineers yelling over one another.

“Max has heavy damage,” GP was saying into her ear through the comms device, voice low and tight. “We’re evaluating. Standby.”

Her hands trembled.

The cars crawled through the carnage, half the grid limping back toward the pitlane. She stared at Max’s car as it crept past, side torn open like a wounded animal, sparks flying out the bottom.

“Still going,” she heard someone say. "He's still going."

Somehow, Max was dragging the car around. Somehow, Lando had pulled off track without getting hit again.

The red flag was thrown. Race temporarily suspended.

Amelia let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding and pressed her forehead against the wall. Cold metal, cold air, cold panic.

She felt a hand squeeze her shoulder — once, solid and grounding. Probably an engineer who hadn’t been briefed, but they were lucky, their touch felt good, and didn’t make her want to tear off her skin.

She nodded, to herself, to anyone watching her, making sure she was good.

Didn't trust herself to speak yet.

—

Lando was out.

Too much damage. Retired on lap two.

Max was luckier. He kept going, dragging a half-broken chassis to the finish line, scraping whatever points he could.

Esteban won. His first victory.

Amelia watched from the back of Lando’s garage as the Frenchman stepped onto the top step of the podium, soaking in the moment.

Lando’s arms wrapped around her waist, holding her close.

She didn’t need him to say anything — she could feel it. The bitter edge of jealousy under his skin, the tight set of his jaw.

“It’ll come,” she muttered, more promise than reassurance, her mind flicking to her sketchbook, to the concepts she hadn't shown anyone yet — the ones that could take him all the way.

The chassis she’d created with two particular drivers in mind.

Lando squeezed her tighter.

—

Summer break came just when she needed it.

She and Lando flew back to Monaco with Max, crashing in his guest room while they started apartment hunting.

Well… Lando did most of the hard work. Talking to estate agents, putting out feelers.

Amelia kept herself busy playing with Jimmy and Sassy, who decided almost immediately that she was their new favorite human.

She didn't mind. The cats were easy company, curling up on her lap or following her around the flat as Lando scrolled through listings and Max grumbled about all the overpriced places in the area.

It felt good, normal, even, to slow down. To just exist for a little while, tucked away in the hazy warmth of a Monegasque summer, surrounded by people (and animals) who loved her.

—

They fell in love with the first place they viewed.

If Amelia believed in fate, she might have called it that.

Lando stood back and watched as she wandered through the apartment; past the galley kitchen, onto the balcony, big enough for a table, a chair, maybe even a canopy swing if she wanted.

Two bedrooms, three bathrooms. A master suite and a double. A massive living room, an even bigger office.

She could already see it: herself at a big desk, sketching new concepts as sunlight poured through the wall of windows.

She found Lando in the kitchen, deep in conversation with the property agent.

When he glanced up, she was already beaming at him.

—

They spent two weeks of summer break, the rare stretch when neither of them had to be working full-time, Lando free from training camps, Amelia unchained from the factory, tucked away in the South of France.

It felt like stepping into another life. Long mornings spent tangled up in crisp hotel sheets, slow breakfasts on sun-drenched balconies overlooking sleepy coastal towns. They rented a little convertible and drove with no real destination, winding through golden hills and lavender fields, the radio humming low between them.

Amelia wore tiny sundresses and braided her hair, and Lando kept finding excuses to kiss her bare shoulders. They swam in cold, clear water until their fingers wrinkled, then collapsed on the beach, salt still clinging to their skin.

At night, they fell into bed full of good food and exhausted.

It wasn’t some extravagant, carefully curated holiday. It was just… easy.

And somewhere between the lazy afternoons and the late-night kisses, Amelia stared at him and thought, “I could spend the rest of my life with you.”

—

The evening was warm, a soft breeze rustling the leaves around them. Lando had set up a speaker on the patio, the faint sound of acoustic guitar playing in the background, but they weren’t paying much attention to the music. Amelia was sitting on the edge of a chair, arms loosely draped over her knees, looking out at the stars above. Lando was sitting on the stone steps, watching her.

“So, how was it?” He asked.

Amelia smiled faintly, but her eyes were tired. “It was… fine,” she started, kicking the edge of the chair with her foot, watching the dust float up into the air. “A bit awkward, but that’s probably normal. Online therapy, you know?” She rolled her eyes, but there was a lightness to her tone, as if she was still trying to find the right words. “It felt like… trying to untangle a knot in my brain, but someone else was holding the other end.”

Lando nodded thoughtfully, shifting on the stairs so he was facing her more. “I get that. Did she—” He paused, checking her expression, making sure she was okay. “Did she help at all?”

Amelia shrugged, a soft exhale escaping her. “Not yet. I mean, we talked about a lot of stuff. Things I didn’t realise were connected, you know? I think it’ll take a few sessions for it to click. It’s hard to explain. But I felt… heard, I guess. Which is something.”

Lando nodded again, his gaze softening. “Proud of you, baby.” He looked over at the empty space beside him. “Come here.”

She raised an eyebrow but stood up, moving to join him. As she sat beside him on the steps, she rested her head on his shoulder. “You’re really good at this whole comfort thing.”

Lando chuckled, sliding an arm around her waist. “I try my best.” After a beat, he stood up, holding out a hand to her. “Wanna dance?”

Amelia looked at him, surprised, but the quiet night seemed to make everything feel a little more possible. She took his hand with a grin. “We’re really doing this?”

Lando smiled, tugging her to her feet. “Why not? It’s a slow song.”

The music played on, soft and gentle, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. Just moved together, swaying under the dim glow of the patio lights, with the sound of the wind and distant waves in the background. Amelia closed her eyes, letting the rhythm of the moment settle into her chest, her heart still thudding, but in a different way now.

“You know, you’ve been pretty great,” she murmured after a while, her hand resting against his chest. “With everything.”

Lando’s smile was barely visible in the dark, but she felt it in the way he pulled her just a little closer. “Always.”

She closed her eyes.

Always sounded pretty good.

NEXT CHAPTER

#radio silence #f1 fic #f1 imagine #f1 x ofc #f1 fanfic #formula one x reader #f1 x reader #f1 x female reader #f1 rpf #lando norris #lando norris fanfic #formula one imagine #lando fanfic #lando norris x reader #lando imagine #lando x reader

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cameronsbabydoll · 2 days ago

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I AM SO OBSESSED W SCC RAFE YOU HAVE NO IDEA!!! could you write something about scc reader overheard someone saying that rafe is cheating? maybe they said rafe was checking someone else out. and scc just assumed it was right and swallowed it because she never questions rafe but he noticed she’s putting up distance between them and the kids also noticed then how would he react? I LOVE ME SOME GOOD ANGST

cw: mentions of cheating but it’s not true also use of the word “bitch” by rafe

you weren’t even supposed to hear it.

just passing by — holding your baby’s bottle in one hand, laundry basket tucked against your hip — when you heard it. rafe’s name. a hushed laugh. something like, “he was totally looking at her ass.”

you froze.

you didn’t ask. you didn’t say anything. you just swallowed it down. like everything else.

because you never ask rafe questions like that. you never pry. never accuse. and if he was? what would you even do?

so you just… started pulling back. gently. subtly.

you didn’t sit close on the couch that night. didn’t text him during the day like you usually do. didn’t even say anything when he came home late again. just smiled a little. nodded. said “okay.”

but he noticed. immediately.

“what’s with you?”

you shook your head. “nothing.”

“you’re actin’ different.”

you waved him off. “i’m fine, rafe. really.”

and the kids noticed too. especially your daughter — perched on the arm of the couch while you fed her baby brother, frowning as she whispered, “mommy, why didn’t you wait for daddy to come home tonight?”

rafe hears her. his jaw sets.

he doesn’t say anything right away. but his eyes don’t leave you.

and eventually—when you’re folding towels in the bedroom, trying to keep it together—he steps in, shuts the door behind him, and says, low and sharp,

“what the fuck did you hear?”

you blink. flinch. try to shake your head again, but he’s already walking toward you.

“you’ve been off all week. won’t even look at me. won’t touch me. won’t let me near you. so tell me what the fuck happened.”

“…someone said you were looking at another woman.”

you say it so quietly. like it hurts to admit. like you already convinced yourself it was true.

and that pisses him off.

“you think i’d cheat on you?”

“…i don’t know.”

“you think i’d throw away all of this for some random bitch at the bar?”

you look down. your throat feels tight.

and his voice drops—less angry now, more sharp and hurt.

“so that’s all it takes? some nobody says somethin’ and now you don’t trust me?”

you whisper, “i didn’t want it to be true.”

and that’s what stops him.

because your voice cracks on want, and your hands are shaking as you fold the last towel, and he can see it now—how scared you are to even ask him if it was true.

he exhales through his nose. jaw clenched.

and then he’s pulling the towel out of your hands, tossing it on the bed, dragging you into his arms. wrapping you up even when you go stiff.

“if i wanted someone else, i wouldn’t have married you.”

he grips your chin, makes you look up.

“don’t you ever let someone get in your head like that again. you hear me?”

you nod. still a little unsure. still holding back.

but when he kisses you — slow and firm and low against your lips — you feel your knees go soft again.

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n0rmal-cat · 3 days ago

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Farmer yan thoughts

-I think farmer really like to watch reader struggle with things, it makes him feel like he’s the one in control of the situation even though he’s the one that put reader in these situations.

“You can’t do something that simple?” “didn’t I just tell you how to do that?”

He really does just like to feel power over reader in the smallest ways just to hammer home the fact.

-reader is not allowed to go to town with farmer because “what if you try to run away from work” he just doesn’t want reader to tell anyone that he’s keeping them there

But if someone does see you somehow he’ll just play it off and say that “that’s my spouse, they don’t like people that much so if you see them just don’t say anything to them please”

NSFW undercut

-I feel like farmer yan has a really high sex drive but is also good at keeping himself in check. Like if readers asexual then he’ll never bring it up again.

But if reader isn’t and they do want to have sex with him, then expect it everywhere. best part is that because he’s a shapeshifter he has no set parts, whatever readers into he’s gonna try to fit that mold.

-I don’t think he’d have cum but I still think he’d want to fill reader with his shadow stuff. He probably has a pregnancy kink and even if reader can’t get pregnant they can definitely look it.

Also probably give him an accuse to tell reader not to move around that much or it will “hurt the baby”

[that’s it for the freak, I don’t really write nsfw stuff so sorry if it sounds weird or anything 💀]

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oreo-creampies · 3 days ago

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“𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞, 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐰𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧”

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬! first time w toji, virgin!reader, reader is lil insecure about how her coochie looks and her performance, just the tip/fucking you with his tip, HEAVY praise/encouragement & reassurance, light begging, toji take its slow and is soft soft soft for you, forehead kisses, hand holding during sex is so sweet, light making out, overstimulation/hints of mind break, very light size kink, daddy/mama

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧! Do you think Toji would be gentle if it was your first time having sex? Just imagine him rubbing his tip against our entrance and being like “relax for me, baby, I’ll take care of you.”

Fey: we can take a moment to appreciate soft toji after some mean toji

Toji grinds his hard, heavy cock on your soft cunt. The feeling is so surreal and new to you, the warmth of his cock, the softness of his skin with how hard and heavy he is.

Toji’s weight is comforting when he leans over you. Softly kissing your forehead then encouraging you, “‘You can take me lil mama, we’re gonna go slow,” gently grabbing your hand “Squeeze my hand for comfort, how’s this sound, say blue if it gets too much.”

Sitting up grabbing his thick hard cock and lining himself up with your soaking wet cunt. Slowly rubbing his cock between your soft lips. “Your lips are so pretty mama, I love seeing them around my cockhead.” Your cheeks heat up as you look away.

“You’re staring too much! My pussy looks weird! Nnnn!” Your jaw drops when he nudges his thick cock head in. The pleasure is stronger than the acute discomfort which quickly melts as Toji strokes your clit.

Clenching Toji’s cock he croons, “We can't be looking at the same pretty lil’ cunt. She’s so soft, wet and fuckin’ gorgeous, I wanna take my time with her.” Toji keeps still groaning when you clench his fat head.

It feels so wonderful but strange having someone else touching your soft clit while they’re inside of you. When you close your eyes Toji gently squeezes your hand.

“Beautiful mama I need you to look at me.” When you look at him he smiles, “Good girl.” He glides some of his cock in and you jolt, tensing up, your nerves getting the best of you. “

He slowly pulls out leaving half his head inside you. He croons, “Relax for me mama, trust me to take good care of your gorgeous lil’ cunt.” Taking the moment to admire how your little hole is stretching when he pushes the rest of his head in.

“I can't stop watching her take me. Everything about your pussy is beautiful, the color, your shape of your lips n’ how soft you feel around me, fuck lil mama. Tell me you have a gorgeous cunt.” The way he is playing with your clit is making it hard to think.

“Nnngonna cum?! Daddy? How? I already?” Your head is going fuzzy from the intense euphoric high of cumming again.

Toji croons, “Go ahead lil’ mama cum on ya daddy’s cock.” Twisting your hips he glides his cock out.” You’re doing so good.” Stroking your clit faster as your soaking wet cunt spasms around nothing and soaks the bed.

“You can handle it, that’s it, you’re doing so good cumming. Ya can keep going.” Biting your bottom lip as he lines himself back up. He barely nudges his head in. “Say you have a beautiful cunt, if you want more than just the tip.”

Pushing your hips down whilst pleading, “I have a beautiful cunt! Please put it in, I want you to cum too!” Toji doesn't have it in him to pull away. Rolls his hips gliding in half his cock before restraining himself.

He insists, “What’s it? You’ll have to be clearer for me, look me in the eyes when you say it.” His smokey gray blue eyes are too intense, your nerves hit you full force. “Aw are you really getting shy with my cock in ya?”

Admitting to Toji, “No…I’m getting nervous again, nnn!” You feel so full as he fucks you with half his cock. “You’re too hoooot!” He. I like you a little too much, it's making me nervous how I'm doing and what you’re thinking.”

He leaves your sensitive clit alone and pins your thigh by your side. “‘I’m thinking about how I want to flip you over and fuck ya from behind so I can watch your ass bounce while you take me. But backshots might be a bit much for your first time.” Holding your hand above your head, he leans down and gives you a soft kiss.

It feels so good to be underneath him full of his cock while softly making out with him. Wrapping one leg around his waist, digging your nails into his well-sculpted backside.

Moaning into Toji’s soft slow passionate kiss, sliding your fingers into his soft dark hair. Toji keeps his pace slow and steady, fucking you a little deeper, rubbing your sweet spot and wrecking every thought.

It’s hard to be nervous when his cock is deep in your guts. When he pulls away you beg, “I can take your fat cock daddy please! I wanna make you feel good too! Lemme take your cock from the back while you hold my wrists together. I wanna try every position possible with you.” He pulls out and flips you over.

Toji can easily hold your wrists behind your back with one hand. “I can’t tell my lil’ mama no with you begging me like that. But first tell me how sexy your soaking wet cunt is.” Rubbing his cock between your soft lips.

Oreo’s m.list

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bofetada-de-conos-goteandos · 2 days ago

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I like doing this to my wife at parties

She know when I do this she need spread the legs apart and other people can see she has no panties

One time I do this we go in a small jazz type club with fancy seats and everything and we are sit in the dark and wait for show to start and I am choke her and kiss her and she spreads the legs wide open and I am finger her pussy at the exact same time I am stop kissing then the whole stage light up very bright and all the band was on stage and the bass player looking right at my wife and wink at her. We are sit close to the stage and most of times he looks at her she flashes the pussy at him. Close to the end of the show he looks right at her and licks two fingers.

When everyone is clapping for them to come out for encore when everyone is stand up and clap my wife push my hand between the legs and say she want for see she can go backstage.

So she sucks a security guy dick in backstage and gets go meet some of the band. The bass player put his hand around my wife throat and finger her until she cums but he say he can not to fuck her because they don’t have condoms. My wife did not bring a purse or anything and she usually have condoms.

She is still mad she forget to bring anything.

She gave him her phone number and he sent her a text a couple times asking for pictures after a show and want to masturbate to her pictures and she send pictures to him back.

He is not an original band member, but is still a fun story. One time for Halloween I dressed up like this guy and she dressed up like a groupie. She did a lot of drugs and fuck everybody I tell to fuck all night long. I would say things like if you want go backstage you have to let that guy finger you at the bar or to go offer to suck that guys dick! Things like that. We were at a big Halloween party at a bar and very soon a lot of people know they can fuck if want.

The first couple guys just fingers in my wife at the bar. Then she goes to the car and sucks dicks. By the end of the night she was finger by a LOT of guys and she suck several of these guys cocks and she is fuck for three or four guys. The guy that owns the bar came over early in the night and tell to me she need to not be fuck in the open bar area or going to have to leave. He say is OK for fingering and make the skirt keep the pussy cover over.

Then I introduce him for my wife and we explain these things and she is put the pussy on the guys hand and ask if she can suck his dick.

He take her in the office and fuck her ass and cum on her face. He was first guy for fuck my wife that night.

Is a fun thing for give my wife tasks to fuck or suck other guys if she want to earn thing from me.

When she was about 19 years old she and a couple of friends that all just starting to do escorting are with her and they go to a big sort of pop-punk type festival and they all go backstage and suck and fuck guys in some of the bands. Security guy check they ID for make sure are all old enough to be fucking and offer the have the back stage passes and one of my wife friend is first with ID to be check she start to suck the cock of the security guard and he check the other two ID. Then he finger my wife and the other girl and they are kissing him and the other friend is sucking the guys dick. My wife said he cums in like three minutes and the friend swallow it all and they go dancing down the sort of path toward the band tents.

One friend knew more about the bands and people who are there and she knows some of the local guys working in the security company. What my wife mostly remembers was getting the backstage passes and then fucking and sucking a few band guys off going tent to tent. The girls mostly stayed together, so it was kind of like an orgy every time they would go someplace. Some band guys who do not to want to fuck sometimes stay for watch or leave tent.

One security guy stopped them and said he is go to take away the passes and make them all take turn to suck the dick so they can keep the passes.

Nobody used condoms. A lot the guys like to watch the girls kiss and fuck each other so is a lot of that. One band with a girl in the band, she sit on one of my wife friend face with the band other guys fuck my wife friend.

My wife said this back stage thing is first time she think she did pussy to mouth dick sucking.

I think this is maybe my wife favorite experience from that time. She like to talk of it when she is turned on a lot of times.

My wife has an old photograph of her and these two friends when they are at the concert. First time she tell me the story about this we are looking at these old pictures and my wife put it in my hand and suck my dick and tell to me some of these story about it.

She tell to me to look at her in the picture and think how wet the pussy was with the security guard fingering it to give the backstage pass and my friend was suck the guys dick. She said they were young and not scared at all about STDs and all were taking birth control.

She like to say they are drinking and doing drugs and being fuck and it was so much fun times!

One girl did need some antibiotics from std after, but everyone was ok. Very lucky but she say young dumb full of cum is favorite thing they are like to say.

Anyway so she talks about this a lot and we do some role play and party things about this type of experience several times.

One of my favorite is when I choke my wife and she is spreading the legs for other people to see and I tell my wife about the way she like these things to be party girl fuck toy by some strangers.

❤️❤️

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ramp-it-up · 2 days ago

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Charm

Summary: Congressman James Buchanan Barnes has a secret. And it's so sweet.

Word count: 3.1 K

Pairing: Congressman Bucky Barnes x Reader

A/N: Yeah, I'm probably gonna be back on my Bucky bullshit for a minute. Those Norman Jean Roy photos, the movie coming out. Just block me now. Or, read, respond, and reblog! Love you heauxes!

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. All mistakes my own. Smut! Teacher Reader, Congressman Bucky, Soft, Beefy Bucky, feral Bucky, sex almost on sight, talk of testing and precautions, but raw p in v, oral (m/f receiving) sloppy toppy, woman on top, praise kink, Dom-ish AND sort of Subby Bucky, Sargeant kink, nicknames Charm and Doll, also Sweetheart.

I do not have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

------

Congressman James Buchanan Barnes raked his hand through his hair for the third time. It was overlong, curling at the nape of his neck, caught somewhere between rebellion and control.

Just like his life.

His tie was long gone, jacket tossed over a chair, but the tension still clung to him like sweat. His fingers twitched with the restraint of a man used to control, but tonight that control was slipping.

Because of you.

He was going to meet you. Spend time with you.

You, his softest vulnerability. His secret sanctuary. You had no idea what you did to him. Or maybe you did. And that was the problem.

Underneath the pressed shirt and tailored slacks, beneath the titles and speeches and the weight of his legacy, James Buchanan Barnes was unraveling. You touched something in him, something sweet and unguarded.

You looked at him like he wasn’t just a polished man with power, but someone worth seeing. You saw past all of it, the headlines, the pressure, the myth of the man, to the boy who once just wanted to be good.

Of course you did. As a teacher, you saw the good in all of your students. And from the moment he’d met you, bright-eyed and brilliant, part of the National Teaching Conference delegation touring the Capitol, he’d been a goner.

So he pursued you. But you’d made him wait. And you’d made him want. And Bucky had never wanted anything the way he wanted you.

When he thought of you, he forgot all about The Honorable James Buchanan Barnes.

He just wanted to be your Bucky.

—-

Six Weeks earlier:

You’d expected a polite handshake and a few photo ops when you went on the tour, but Congressman Barnes from your borough of Brooklyn was charming, attentive, and deeply present in a way that threw you off balance. His gaze lingered just a second too long when he looked at you, and your heartbeat stuttered every time his hand brushed yours.

You weren’t sure what it meant, you just knew it meant something.

The first night ended with a drink in the hotel bar, where he asked thoughtful questions about education and leaned in like your answers were gravity. When he walked you to your room, he didn’t ask to come in, just touched your wrist and said, “I’ll see you again, Charm.”

“Charm?” you questioned him as he walked away.

Bucky turned around and started to walk backwards as he replied.

“Yeah. It’s my name for you in my head,” and he grinned before he got in the elevator, looking so much younger than 110 years old.

Weeks later, you were still texting late into the night. Breathless calls. Heated messages. A video chat that ended with both of you flushed and desperate.

It was intoxicating stuff.

----

Now:

You were finally back in D.C. for the National Teaching Conference. Because you were on the planning committee, you’d been running around in a blazer and sneakers all week, putting out fires, herding speakers, and keeping the entire operation from collapsing.

But Friday night was yours.

The conference ended, the final panel was a wrap, and you still had the swanky suite for two more nights. It had a skyline view, a rain-slicked windowpane, and, within the hour, one James Buchanan Barnes.

You’d barely stepped out of the shower, steam curling in the air, when you heard the knock.

He was thirty minutes early.

You froze for half a second, heart racing, then wrapped the towel tighter and padded to the door.

Bucky stood in the hallway, soaked to the bone from the spring storm, dark hair dripping, a gray coat clinging to broad shoulders. Water tracked down his jaw and disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt.

And those beautiful blue eyes were locked on you.

“Hey, Charm,” he rasped.

You swallowed hard. “Congressman.”

That smirk flickered at the corners of his mouth.

“Gonna let me in?”

You stepped aside. The door shut behind him, shutting the world out. Bucky looked at you like he hadn’t seen you in years, not weeks.

“I missed you,” you said softly, voice a breath.

He was on you in a heartbeat. One hand cupped your chin, the other, vibranium, gleaming in the soft hotel light, slid around your waist, pulling you flush to him. You melted, your fingers slipping beneath the lapels of his coat, feeling the heat of him under damp clothes.

You didn’t find the sharp muscle of the old soldier, but the solid strength of a man who lived his life with purpose. His softness did not take the edge off your desire for him.

In fact, it probably made it worse. He wasn’t a weapon. He was a man.

Your man.

You were going to claim him tonight.

“Been sittin’ through policy meetings imagining you riding me in the chair behind my desk,” he muttered into your skin, pressing a kiss below your jaw.

You gasped, shivering despite the heat between you.

You grew a little dizzy as Bucky dropped his overnight bag to the floor so that your hands could slip under his shirt, and drag your fingers over his soft, but still-defined abs.

“Then maybe we should make that image real.”

His eyes were dark now, pupils already blown. One arm snaked up your back and tangled in the hair at your nape, pulling your head back as he kissed you hard, like he meant to claim you. His vibranium hand gripped your waist like it was built for that exact purpose.

“Tonight, I don’t want polite. Don’t want careful.”

You’d planned for this. Took your precautions. Got tested. You both knew what tonight meant.

Bucky walked you backwards toward the bed, slow and steady, never breaking eye contact.

“I want to watch you take what you want from me.”

Your lips curved into a smile.

“I want a lot from you, Mr. Barnes,” you whispered.

“Take your shirt off,” you said softly, watching the way his jaw flexed and the way his eyes flicked to your mouth.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said with a crooked smile.

God. Could you be in love?

He stripped off his shirt in one fluid motion. Muscles rippled, dog tags glinting against his skin. He didn’t pose. He just stood there, waiting. Watching you. A man made of flesh and metal and decades of ghosts, and right now, he was all yours.

You moved toward him, fingertips grazing his stomach, and watched the way he twitched beneath your touch.

“You know you can be in control tonight,” you murmured, eyes locked on his as he let you turn him around so that he was at the foot of the bed.

Bucky’s breath hitched.

“I haven’t been in control since the day I met you, Charm.”

You pushed him gently until he sat without resistance, and you stood between his legs, slowly letting the towel drop and pool at your feet. Bucky’s hungry gaze roamed over your body, from your lips, to your neck, to your breasts, focusing on the rigid peaks there as he licked his lips, down your stomach to the apex of your thighs, and lingering there longer.

Finally, his eyes swept down your legs to your feet on the floor, between his shiny Italian loafers.

“You sure you want this?” he asked, voice hoarse as he brought his eyes back up to yours.

“I’ve never been more sure,” you said. “But let’s not rush this, Sergeant.”

His head dropped for a moment like he needed a second just to breathe. That word, Sergeant, hit somewhere deep. Then he looked up and drew you toward him with his metal hand and kissed the inside of your thigh, destroying you.

“Tell me what you want.”

The gravel in his voice did things to you as you carded your fingernails through his thick, wet, dark hair.

You said, “Need your mouth, Bucky,” and he almost came undone right then.

“Such a Good Girl for telling me what you need, Charm.”

His lips were at the edge of your mound, the warmth of his breath fanning out over your clit. You moaned and laid your hands on his solid shoulders, and although they each felt very different under your palms, the disparate sensations only served to make you hotter.

Bucky made eye contact with you and then took a long swipe of his tongue over your wet slit, from top to bottom. A tremble coursed through your body, and you exhaled his name. Bucky stared lovingly at your cunt, from the fat, puffy lips of your labia, to the shine of your juices at your slit.

He licked your essence from his lips and raised his eyes to yours again. He was so fucking handsome. And you were so gone for this man.

Just when you thought that, Bucky stuck his nose in your pussy and inhaled deeply, making you jump in surprise and rapture. He took a quick lick and hummed deeply, sending more vibrations through your cunt.

His metal hand lifted your leg, draped it over his shoulder. His tongue worked in steady, devastating rhythm. Lips suckling, tongue plunging, nose pressed to your clit as he made a low, satisfied sound that vibrated straight through you.

You gasped.

He groaned.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice muffled against your heat. “So fuckin’ sweet for me.”

And then he ruined you.

He looked up to wink at you playfully before parting your outer lips with his thumbs. He dove in and you saw stars.

Bucky Barnes sucked, licked, and grazed on you, plunging deeply into you with his tongue, fingers, and his whole damn face.

You were lost in the moment, in the pleasure, and the sensations. It was so good. No one had ever made you feel this wanted or needed. You felt the telltale spark ignite your clit and started to squirm as his vibranium hand held you in place as he devoured you like a starving man.

He felt you clench around his fingers, one inside you, one teasing that tight little rim, and you shattered. Bucky held you through it, whispering your name like a religious chant.

Because he worshipped you.

You lay in his arms, spent and limp as Bucky nuzzled at your neck, his dick standing at attention, long, thick, and leaking against you. Somehow, some when, he’d gotten undressed.

And those beautiful blue eyes held you hostage again.

“What do you need now?”

You looked down and reached for him.

“Need to taste you, Sarge.”

His cock was huge, hard, and hot against your skin, begging for relief.

Bucky groaned and his eyes shined as you rose only to sink down on your knees. He sat up on the edge of the bed to witness you gazing up at him. He took himself in hand and started stroking the length of his hardness, swiping precum from the slit at the head in passing.

It was so damn sexy. You licked your lips as your eyes were glued to the beautiful, erotic sight of Bucky Barnes stroking off for you.

He smirked as he watched you hungry for him, impatient to taste him, to take him in, to please him. Your hands cupped and kneaded the full flesh of your breasts, and Bucky licked his lips as you pulled on your nipples.

His flesh fingers squeezed more tightly around his shaft, while his metal hand gave a quick twist to his balls as your heavily hooded eyes drifted from his cock to his face as you moved closer.

You wrapped your lips around him and he cursed, one hand in your hair, the other still at his balls, twisting with just enough pressure.

You worshipped him the way he had you. Took him deep, sloppy and unafraid, letting your desire drip down your chin and soak your chest.

He was losing control.

Sexy rambles tumbled from his lips as you took him deep in your throat.

“Fuck. I’m home. All this time… I thought I thought I knew. Didn’t know shit.”

You moaned as you pulled back slightly to gently lick and suck at the head of his cock, swiping your tongue over his hard length. Then you got sloppy with it, slurping at him and taking his long, thick cock as deep as you could.

Bucky let out an inhuman sound as you gently scraped your teeth along his hard flesh, and then sucked and tongued at his balls.

“Please, baby, fuck…”

He had to pull you off before he lost it. He lifted you, breath ragged, and laid you on the bed like you were breakable but you weren’t. You were so strong. And Powerful.

He draped your legs around his waist as he lined the thick bulb of his cock with your entrance.

As he looked into your eyes, Bucky trembled as you crossed your ankles around his back. You both watched, enraptured, as he pushed inside you, and every inch felt like a lifetime. You pulled him in like a siren, hips rising to meet him, your walls fluttering around him.

You whispered his name, Bucky, and it broke him in the most beautiful way.

He fucked you long, deep, and hard. He played with your body and spanked your full flesh. You came over and over, barely descending from one climax then he was at you again, rolling your clit between his fingers, sucking your tits into his mouth. His cock was relentless, hard as steel, and dripping with your cream.

But he hadn’t let go and given you what you truly wanted.

“Want to ride you Bucky…”

He rolled you over so that you were on top, truly in control, despite your trembling thighs.

“Do you know what you need now, Charm?”

“Oh, I know,” you murmured, rolling your hips as he gasped. “Need to show you that this is mine now.”

You grasped him and positioned him at your entrance. Then, you took him inside you again. His grip on your hips tightened and he nodded, biting his lip as he looked down to where you were joined.

“Yours. Always was.”

You rode him slowly; you wanted him to remember this. The way your body felt wrapped around him. The way you looked on top of him.

The air between you was thick, charged, and the room hummed with the rhythm of your bodies. Each time you sank down onto him, every inch felt like heaven.

Bucky’s breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling beneath you, but his hands didn’t let go of your hips. They were firm, guiding, like he was fighting to hold on to control.

The sight of you was almost too much to bear: you, beautiful and powerful, taking what you needed from him with a relentless grace. His lips parted, and every sound he made was a mixture of frustration and hunger.

“I don’t want you to stop,” he growled, but his voice wavered.

You could tell he was losing his composure, even though his hands kept a firm grip, holding you steady for the next perfect movement.

The tension was building again, just like before. His fingers dug into your skin, almost painfully, but you didn’t care. You were so close to unraveling him completely; it was an art, this dance you had with him, and you were the one in control now.

His gaze flicked between your face and your greedy cunt sucking him in, his chest tightening at the sight of your expression, and at how perfectly you fit together.

“Look at you,” you whispered, leaning in to nip at his earlobe, your voice sultry.

“You look like you’re losing yourself. Can’t hold on, can you?”

Bucky’s hands tightened at your waist, his grip becoming a little rougher. You could feel his body shifting, like he was trying to fight the pull, trying to keep himself from breaking.

“You’re killing me, Doll,” he muttered, eyes closing for a split second before snapping open to look at you again.

His expression was a mess of desire, vulnerability, and something that told you he didn’t want this to end.

“I can’t hold back much longer.”

You grinned, a glint of mischief in your eyes.

You didn’t let up, not even for a second. Instead, you leaned back, giving him a full view of your body. His jaw tightened as he watched, his fingers trembling slightly as you began to move faster, the heat building between you both, the room filled with the sound of skin meeting skin, the rhythm of your bodies synchronizing.

“You’re not the one who gets to decide when it’s over, Sargeant,” you teased, breathless but determined.

“I’m the one calling the shots here.”

And with that, you gave him everything, taking the lead in a way that pushed him past his limits, each movement sending shockwaves of pleasure through both of you. The intensity in his eyes grew, a mix of awe and surrender, like he couldn’t believe what was happening.

But he also couldn’t stop himself.

You felt it all, the way his grip tightened, the way his body tensed with each thrust of yours, the way he was so close to losing himself. And as you watched him, a small, knowing smile tugged at your lips.

This wasn’t just about sex anymore. This was a power exchange, a moment that was yours, and his, too. You could feel your connection grow stronger.

“Tell me, Bucky,” you whispered, voice a little raspier now, “are you going to beg for it, or are you going to let me take what’s mine?”

He groaned, the sound like a mix of frustration and raw need. You topping him was making the base of his spine hum with pleasure.

“Please, Charm.” he murmured, breath shaking. “Fuck, don’t stop.”

And that was all you needed. You took control fully, fucking him with a rhythm that made his whole body shudder. You could feel the end coming closer, and you didn’t slow down. Not now. Not when you were this close.

“Fuck,” he whispered again, voice broken as you watched him come apart.

You clenched around him and commanded, “Cum.”

And he did, with a broken groan of your name and a full-body shudder, his face a portrait of surrender as he spilled into you, pulsing and shaking beneath you.

When he finally came to a stop, his chest heaving, his hands still on your hips, holding you steady, you leaned in and kissed him softly, a contrast to the raw energy between you moments before.

“You were perfect,” you whispered against his lips.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close as he breathed in deeply, the intensity still lingering.

“God… you’re gonna kill me, you know that?”

You smiled, resting your head on his chest as he held you.

“You’re welcome.”

And you felt him become completely, unconditionally yours.

Your Bucky.

#bucky barnes #sebastian stan #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #congressman james buchanan barnes #congressman bucky #congressman bucky barnes #congressman james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #sebastian stan characters #bucky barnes x you #x reader

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linoxpudding · 2 days ago

Text

Intern (Pt 5)- Lee Know

summary: as the final month of your internship begins, keeping your emotions separate from your professional role becomes harder than ever, with the collaborative concert drawing near, tensions rise—not only on stage but between you and minho, who’s desperate to salvage what's slipping away

pairing: lee know x fem!reader

genre: angst, fluff, humor

word count: 5261 words

a/n: thank you so much for loving this series! I think this might be my most popular one and it honestly means the world, I really hope the wait was worth it! Love you always, my puddings ♡

Intern Series - Part Four

~°~

Your shoes echoed softly against the polished wood floor as you slipped into the staff room. Thankfully, it was empty. The moment the door shut behind you, you exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for hours. You stood there in the middle of the room, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, as if you were trying to physically hold all your emotions in. You didn’t even know how your legs even carried you there. Your heart was still hammering in your chest, your pulse deafening in your ears.

What just happened?

Your chest burned. Not with sadness but with fury. You were angry. No, scratch that, you were livid.

How dare he say those words—so easily, so suddenly—like he hadn’t spent weeks pushing you away. Like he hadn’t left you in that gray zone, hovering between hope and heartbreak, constantly questioning if you were the problem. You’d convinced yourself to move on. To detach. To protect your own heart. And now, after all of it, he wanted to say I love you? Just like that?

After everything. After making you feel like you were the fool for reading too much into the way his eyes lingered, the way he looked at you like you were everything—and then turned cold the moment you stepped a little too close, dismissed you like you were the problem, the one who “flirted too much.” You’d swallowed that hurt. You moved on. You forced yourself to. And now, suddenly, he loves you?

You let out a bitter laugh, pacing the room.

Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. Slowly, with trembling hands, you grabbed your bag from the shelf where you’d left it earlier that morning. You needed to leave. Now.

*******************

Minho didn’t even realize how long he’d been standing there, his fingers tangled in his hair, his heart hammering in his chest like it wanted to escape his ribs. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, and every moment since you’d walked away played on repeat in his head, like a broken record.

I lost her.

The thought echoed in his mind, louder with each passing second.

He didn’t hear the footsteps at first. It wasn’t until Hyunjin’s voice cut through the thick silence that Minho finally snapped back to reality.

“Hyung?”

Minho didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed on the ground, his body hunched in on itself, trying to hold himself together when everything inside him was falling apart.

“Hyung, what’s going on?” Hyunjin asked again, softer this time, stepping closer. He bent down beside Minho, concern furrowing his brow.

Minho shook his head, his voice barely above a whisper. “I lost her, Hyunjin... I don’t know what to do.”

Hyunjin’s heart twisted at the sight of his hyung like this, a shell of the confident, playful Minho he’d always known. The way his hyung’s hands gripped his hair tighter as he let out a pained groan, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. It was raw—painful.

“You didn’t lose her yet,” Hyunjin said, his voice firm but gentle as he put a hand on Minho’s shoulder. “I know it feels like you did. But you can still fix this.”

Minho’s face twisted in anguish, his lips trembling as he let out a breathless laugh, but it was hollow, empty. “I don’t know if I can. I... I hurt her, Jinnie. I pushed her away when all I had to do was be honest. And now... now she’s gone. She walked away from me.”

Hyunjin stayed quiet for a moment, taking in Minho’s words. He could see it now—the weight of regret, the desperation in his eyes.

“I don’t think she’s gone,” Hyunjin said carefully. “You’re both stubborn, hyung. You’ve been dancing around each other for so long. You didn’t want to admit it, and neither did she. But I don’t think it’s over. Not yet.”

Minho looked up at Hyunjin then, his eyes searching, hoping, desperate for any kind of reassurance. “But what if it is? What if I ruined it beyond repair? What if she doesn’t want me anymore?”

Hyunjin paused for a moment, then spoke quietly, “You’re not the only one who’s scared, hyung. She’s scared, too. But you’re the one who has to be brave now. Not only for her— but for yourself too. Because if you don’t try, you’ll regret it forever. You know that.”

Minho let out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging. Hyunjin’s words hit harder than he expected. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe there was still a chance, but only if he had the courage to act.

Hyunjin stood up, offering his hand to Minho. “You’re going to fix this, hyung. But you have to start with telling her the truth. About everything. And you’ve got to be ready for whatever comes after. Don’t let her slip away without fighting for her.”

Minho’s hand trembled as he took Hyunjin’s, pulling himself up to his feet. His heart still ached, but the words hit something deep inside of him. Maybe it wasn’t too late.

*******************

You barely remembered how you got home. The keys slipped from your fingers twice before you finally managed to unlock the door. The moment you stepped inside, your knees gave out and you slid down against the wall, feeling the weight of everything crash over you.

Your phone wouldn't stop buzzing. Hyunjin kept calling again and again. You pressed your forehead against your knees, willing yourself not to break down, willing yourself not to hope. And when your phone buzzed for the tenth time, you simply reached over, turned it off, and tossed it into a corner.

You couldn't do this. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

The next morning, your body moved on autopilot. You typed a message to your supervisor with trembling fingers, lying easily.

“I have a bad migraine. Won’t be able to work on fittings today. I’ll continue working on the designs remotely.”

A polite response came back almost immediately—“Take care. Focus on feeling better.”

You needed space—space from him, from the suffocating weight of everything. It was already the final month of your internship. Just a few more weeks, and you wouldn’t have to see him again.

You told yourself that over and over like a mantra as you buried yourself in sketches, swatches, sewing patterns. The living room became your sanctuary. You stayed hunched over your work for hours, sketching until your fingers cramped, trying to come up with excuses to tell your supervisor so that you do not have to step anywhere near their dressing rooms. Anywhere near him for the remaining internship period.

One step at a time—you just had to get through this.

The major stage collaboration was coming up, the biggest project of your internship, the one that could launch your career if you gave it your all.

Let the countdown begin.

*******************

48 Hours Before the Concert

You returned to work with your heart armored in ice.

The company was in chaos. The stylists were rushing, the managers were running, the boys from both groups were rehearsing endlessly. No one had time to notice that you’d disappeared from their orbit—well except for Minho and Hyunjin.

You avoided their practice room like it was a battlefield. Instead, you locked yourself away in the design room, sketching out costumes, adjusting stitching details—anything to keep your hands busy, anything to keep your mind from wandering.

Minho tried to talk to you. At first, you heard his footsteps. You caught glimpses of him hovering by the door. Once, when you dared to glance up, you saw him standing just outside the window, his face tense, uncertain. But you dropped your head back down before he could gather the courage to step inside. You didn’t give him a chance.

Hyunjin also tried texting, looking for you after rehearsals, even poking his head into the design room but couldn’t find you since every time, you made yourself smaller, quieter, easier to miss.

You weren’t ready to face Minho. You weren’t sure if you ever would be.

At some point, even Hyunjin gave up trying, swept away into the madness of final rehearsals, concept checks, and the insane pressure of the collaboration stage they were preparing.

You thought you were safe. You thought you could make it to the end.

24 Hours Before the Concert

Minho was unraveling. He didn’t even bother pretending anymore. He was searching for you like a man possessed. Between rehearsals, between fittings, between breaks—his eyes flicked around desperately, always hoping to catch a glimpse.

He sent messages—one after another.

Minho: "Can we please talk?" Minho: "Just for a minute. You don’t even have to say anything. Please." Minho: "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Y/N."

You stared at the notifications, feeling your chest clench painfully.

You left them unanswered.

Because you were afraid. Because you didn’t know if you could survive hearing more empty words. Because some wounds weren’t meant to be picked open again.

That night, Minho sat in the darkened practice room, back against the mirror. The others had gone home. He stayed. The blue glow of his phone lit up his face, your unread messages staring back at him like ghosts.

He typed. Deleted. Typed again.

His thumb hovered over the send button for a long time before he finally pressed it.

Minho: "I miss you."

Short. Honest. Bare. You never replied.

12 Hours Before the Concert

The final rehearsal was a whirlwind of noise and energy.

Seventeen and Stray Kids crisscrossed the stage, voices overlapping, last-minute notes flying as everyone tried to perfect every second. Everyone was running around doing their assigned tasks– sound engineers hovered by the sides of the stage, tweaking mic volumes and running emergency checks, stage managers paced with clipboards, calling out timing cues and adjusting placements, stylists were doing last-minute fittings.

You stayed hidden behind the racks of costumes, keeping yourself busy threading last-minute repairs on stage outfits, sketching alterations for the collaboration stages. Minho saw you once—just a glimpse—and started towards you immediately.

You ducked behind a different aisle and disappeared before he could even call your name.

He slumped against the wall, dragging a hand through his hair. His heart ached. He was trying. God, he was trying. But you wouldn’t even look at him. And he knew he deserved it.

That night, he sat alone again. Hyunjin found him there, in the same spot, legs pulled up, forehead resting on his arms.

"Hyung…" Hyunjin said softly.

Minho didn't look up.

"I don’t think she hates you," Hyunjin added after a while, voice low. "She’s hurt. But she doesn’t hate you."

"I hate myself enough for the both of us," Minho murmured.

*******************

Day of the Concert

You were up before sunrise and rushed to the company, it was going to be a long day. You began helping the senior stylists prepare everything. You kept your head down, blending into the background.

Minho tried to find you again, between makeup, between fittings.

Once, you walked right past him. You felt his eyes—burning, aching—trailing you, but you didn’t turn around.

He watched your retreating figure with a helpless kind of yearning, his heart feeling like it was being squeezed dry.

He typed one last message.

Minho: "If you don’t want to forgive me... I understand. But I love you. I love you, Y/N."

He didn’t expect a reply. He just wanted you to know.

You read his message, but your fingers stayed frozen above the screen. You couldn't trust yourself to reply. Not yet.

Soon after, it was time to leave for the concert venue.

Everyone from your company piled into multiple vans, buzzing with pre-show nerves and excitement. Seventeen would meet you all there, coming straight from their own company.

You slipped into one of the vans early, picking a seat at the very back. You tucked your bag close, phone clutched tightly in your hands. Minho hurried behind you, heart hammering in his chest.

There was a small opening beside you. He didn't even think—he moved to sit there.

He was about to slide into the seat beside you but at the very last second, you shifted, scooting away from the aisle, pressing yourself impossibly closer to the window. Pretending like you needed more space.

Minho froze mid-motion.

He stood there, awkward, shattered, the empty space where you had been just a second ago feeling colder than anything he'd ever known.

His hand tightened around the back of the seat for a second, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. Without a word, he dropped into a seat several rows in front instead, boxed in between Jisung and Seungmin.

The van door slammed shut, the engine rumbled to life—but Minho barely noticed. He barely heard the others laughing, hyping each other up. He barely felt the road vibrating under the tires. All he could feel was you—silent, turned away from him, just a few feet out of reach.

When they finally pulled up behind the venue, staff started piling out. You were the first one to slip off the van, blending into the chaos of bodies and equipment and flashing lights.

Minho lingered for a second in the seat, swallowing thickly as he watched you disappear into the crowd.

He had the urge to call out your name. He almost did. But he bit it back, lowering his head, heart cracking silently in his chest.

*******************

The air backstage crackled with adrenaline—stylists rushing, cords tangling, outfits getting last-minute steamed.

You were helping your supervisor adjust Felix’s jacket, smoothing the sleeves, checking the fit one last time. Your hands worked automatically, your mind floating somewhere far away.

Across the crowded room, Minho kept staring at you longingly. For a second—just a second—he thought maybe you’d let him. Maybe you’d glance at him. But when you shifted away, without even looking at him, it felt like a punch to the gut. Like watching a door slowly, painfully close in his face.

He sat down numbly at the makeup table, the bustling room fading into the background and all he could think was:

"I don’t blame you... but please, just once—look back at me."

Meanwhile, Hyunjin, sitting a few chairs away, was locked in the makeup artist’s grip, a brush sweeping across his cheekbones. But he still tried. He still tried to catch your eyes, frantic and desperate, needing you to see him. You lifted your head, sensing the weight of his stare and all you could offer him was a small, polite smile. Nothing more.

You could tell Hyunjin wanted to call out to you, to jump out of his chair, to explain everything he hadn’t been able to. But the makeup artist was sternly holding his chin still, murmuring warnings about smudging his foundation. He couldn’t move.

And so he watched you quietly, heartbreak pooling in his chest, as you finished adjusting Felix’s jacket...and turned away without another glance.

*******************

1 Hour Before the Concert

You had just grabbed a coffee from the catering area backstage, trying to escape the buzz of frantic preparations. The area was buzzing with energy, crew members darting from one spot to another, but you found a small moment of calm amidst it all. The food table was lined with snacks, coffee, and drinks, where you’d managed to find a brief respite. You were leaning against the counter, sipping your drink slowly, when the door to the room burst open with a loud bang.

Hyunjin stormed inside, his eyes wild and intense, looking like he had been running through the entire venue. His hair was slightly tousled, chest heaving with quick breaths as if he was on a mission.

Before you could even react, he reached for your wrist, gripping it firmly and pulling you out of the room.

“Come with me,” he commanded, urgency lacing his voice.

"Hyunjin—!" you gasped, stumbling after him. "What the hell are you doing?!"

"You’re done hiding!" he snapped, not even slowing down.

He pulled you into an empty band room backstage, and shoved the door shut behind you, trapping you inside. You barely caught your balance, turning to glare at him—but the look on Hyunjin’s face made your heart falter.

He looked furious. And desperate.

"You need to stop running, Y/N," he said, voice sharp, shaking slightly with emotion. "You think you’re protecting yourself? You’re just hurting both of you."

You crossed your arms, biting the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from crying. "It’s not that simple, Hyunjin—"

"YES, it is!" he cut you off, voice cracking, "You’re mad. You’re hurt. I get it. But Minho hyung—"

His voice broke again and he punched the wall lightly with the side of his fist, breathing hard.

"He’s dying," Hyunjin said, lower now, almost broken. "He’s breaking in front of us. He can't sleep. He can't eat. Every time he sees you, it's like someone rips another piece out of him."

You squeezed your eyes shut, fighting the tears threatening to spill.

"You think you’re the only one hurting?" Hyunjin asked, stepping closer, so close you could feel the sadness vibrating off him. "He’s been tearing himself apart for days, trying to find a way to fix this, and you won’t even LOOK at him."

You shook your head helplessly, voice cracking, "He’s the one who—"

"He knows," Hyunjin cut you off desperately, "He knows he fucked up. He hates himself for it. You think it’s easy for him to stand there and watch you pretend like he doesn’t exist?"

You stared at him, heart pounding, breath shaking.

Hyunjin whispered, “He loves you, Y/N.”

“No, he doesn’t.” you shot back. “He saw Mingyu and got territorial. That’s not the same thing as love.”

Hyunjin’s voice softened a little, but the intensity stayed, "Listen to me. Minho hyung…he’s dying inside. He’s been trying to talk to you for days. He's not playing games. He’s not saying those things because he's jealous of Mingyu or whatever else you think."

You bit your lip, hard. "Then why, Hyunjin? Why now? After everything?"

"Because he’s an idiot who thought he didn’t deserve you," Hyunjin said, voice raw. "He pushed you away because he was scared he’d ruin you. Because he thought you’d be better off without him."

Your heart stuttered painfully.

"And seeing you laugh with Mingyu made him realize exactly what he was about to lose," Hyunjin continued. "Not because of jealousy. Because he saw you happy and he wasn’t the one making you happy anymore."

The lump in your throat grew unbearable.

"He really loves you, Y/N," Hyunjin said simply. "He’s loved you this whole time. He just didn’t know how to believe he was worthy of it."

Your vision blurred.

Then, Hyunjin went on to explain everything — how Minho had been in love with you all along, how he had been miserable every time you avoided him backstage, how he stayed up at night overthinking every glance you refused to give him. How he regretted what he said at that freaking party every single day, hated himself for it, how the weight of it had been crushing him more and more every time you turned away.

Hearing it laid out like that shattered something inside you. It wasn’t just regret in Minho’s lingering stares. It was love — raw, desperate, aching love. And it had always been there, even when you were too hurt to see it.

You felt suffocated.

"Don’t do this," Hyunjin whispered, almost pleading now, "don’t walk away without hearing him out. If you ever loved him…even a little, give him the chance to explain."

You felt your walls crumbling under the weight of it all. Without another word, you tore past Hyunjin, sprinting down the hall.

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop. Not until you found him. You tore down the hall, nearly tripping over your own feet, chest heaving, heart racing so hard it hurt.

You didn’t know where you were going—you just knew you had to find him.

*******************

The greenroom was quiet—eerily so. Everyone else was getting hair and makeup in other room, doing last checks, hyping each other up. Minho sat there alone, away from everyone, for a moment.

Meanwhile, you kept running— the backstage corridors blurred as you rushed past, heart hammering, breath coming in short gasps. Somewhere, you could hear the muffled sounds of last-minute chaos—stylists calling for touch-ups, managers barking out directions, the low hum of excitement—but it all felt far away, like you were underwater.

Finally, after checking room after room, your footsteps faltered in front of a greenroom tucked away from the rest. The door was slightly ajar, and you prayed he was inside. You pushed it open with trembling fingers, and your breath caught painfully in your throat.

There he was. Minho.

Sitting alone on the bench, fully dressed in his final concert outfit, the dark, sleek fabric molding perfectly to his figure. His mic was already clipped to his collar, earpieces in place, as if he were ready to go onstage any second. But he wasn’t moving.

He was hunched forward, elbows resting heavily on his knees, staring blankly at the floor like the world had already ended and he was the only one left to mourn it.

The second he heard the door creak wider, his head snapped up.

He whispered your name, "Y/N..."

So soft. So broken. Like he didn’t believe you were real. It shattered you.

Before you even knew what you were doing, you rushed across the room, and before he could even speak, your hands were cupping his jaw and your lips crashed into his.

Minho stiffened for half a second, completely shocked and then his arms were around you, pulling you flush against him, kissing you back with everything he had. Your fingers tangled in his hair, your lips trembling against his with everything you hadn’t said, hadn’t dared to feel until now.

When you finally pulled back, panting, you pressed your forehead to his and whispered, “I hate you.”

He laughed, hoarse and teary-eyed. “I know.”

“I hate how long it took you.”

“I hate me too.”

“But I love you.”

Minho stilled.

And then his arms wrapped around you tighter than they ever had. “I love you more,” he murmured. “And I swear I’ll prove it every day from now on.”

You smiled, your eyes full of tears and joy and relief. “You better.”

Minho’s voice was rough, barely a whisper as he spoke. “I’m sorry... I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

You blinked, your chest tightening with all the emotions that had built up. "I know, Minho. Just... show me. Show me you're not going to run away again."

His hand gently cupped your face again, his thumb brushing over your lips softly. “I won’t run. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Slowly, he leaned in again, this time more carefully, his lips brushing against yours with a softer, more deliberate motion, like he was savoring the moment, as if this was the first time.

The door slammed open.

"AHHHHHH! MY EYES!" Jisung screamed, dramatically throwing himself against the door frame like he was shielding himself from radiation.

You jolted apart, both of you wide-eyed and breathless.

Felix appeared behind Jisung, peeking into the room with wide, curious eyes.

"Hyung," Felix said, "We need to be on stage in like twenty five minutes." Then he glanced between you two and grinned brightly. "Also, um, HOW did this happen?"

Jisung gasped, "Like LIKE… you were literally at war yesterday! HOW are you kissing now? I need DETAILS!"

"Was it a secret make-up plan?? Did someone blackmail someone? TELL ME EVERYTHING—"

"Channie hyung’s gonna kill us if we’re late!" Felix laughed, tugging on Jisung’s sleeve, but he was also bouncing on his toes, eager for gossip.

"And Y/N, you have to explain later, okay? Like every single detail. Every single one."

Somewhere down the hall, you heard Chan’s voice yelling, "WHERE THE HELL IS EVERYONE?"

Minho groaned under his breath, leaning down to quickly kiss your forehead—just one soft second—and then he grabbed his mic pack and jogged toward the door.

But as he passed you, he whispered under his breath, only for you to hear, "Don’t go anywhere. I’m not letting you slip away again."

You stood there, heart pounding, lips still tingling, while Jisung whined the whole way down the hallway, “Yah! I’m serious! I'm coming for answers after the show!”

And you just laughed, happier than you had been in days.

*******************

The final performance was just moments away. Ten minutes give or take. You stood backstage, heart racing—not from nerves, but from everything that had happened.

Minho adjusted his mic, glancing at you with a silent question in his eyes. You stepped closer, pulling him aside for a moment, fingers gently brushing against his as you whispered, “Earlier, when Mingyu and I were talking… he wasn’t flirting.”

Minho blinked, caught off guard.

“He said he could see something going on between you and me. That he’d back off. And… that maybe I hadn’t noticed it myself yet.”

Minho let out a breathy laugh, hand raking through his hair. “God. I really need to control my damn jealousy.”

You smiled softly, Minho flushed slightly before saying, “He wasn’t wrong, though. About the heart eyes.”

You blushed then gently nudged his arm. “Come on, make peace with him. You two are too handsome to be fighting in the middle of rehearsals.”

Minho rolled his eyes but smiled, nodding. He walked over to Mingyu, who was talking with Joshua by the corner while adjusting his blazer, and you watched from afar as Minho gave a sincere apology. Mingyu accepted it with a grin and a clap on Minho’s shoulder, flashing you a wink behind him. Everything just… settled.

And then, the concert. The adrenaline. The stage lights. The roars of the crowd.

Both the collaboration stages and the groups' individual performances were breathtaking— hours of relentless energy, passion, and magic spilling out onto that stage. The entire venue was electric, a sea of waving lightsticks and screaming fans, every second more exhilarating than the last.

You danced and moved like nothing else mattered. But every time your eyes found Minho’s on stage, there was a knowing smile—one only meant for you.

After the final bow, the cheers still ringing in your ears, you were barely backstage for a minute when Minho grabbed your wrist gently and whispered, “Come with me.”

"Minho," you giggled breathlessly, "where are we even going?!"

"Somewhere no one will find us," he muttered determinedly, glancing around until he spotted a half-open door.

Without warning, he pulled you inside.

“I’ve been waiting all night,” he said, breathless.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t shy. It wasn’t careful.

It was urgent, desperate, his hands cupping your face as if he’d been starving for your lips. Your back hit the wall lightly as you gasped against his mouth, hands sliding under his jacket and gripping his shirt.

His lips moved feverishly over yours, like he was trying to pour every emotion he’d buried into this moment. When he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, he whispered against your lips, “You have no idea how crazy I’ve been going… not being able to do this.”

You let out a breathless laugh, tugging him back in. “Then don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

That kiss was everything—the apology, the promise, the confession, and the beginning. All in one.

*******************

The concert had ended, the cheers still echoing faintly in the corridors as everyone bustled around, packing up, high-fiving, celebrating.

Mingyu leaned against the wall near the dressing room door, sipping water and scrolling through his phone when a voice interrupted him.

"You were amazing up there," she said, her tone warm and teasing.

He looked up to see one of the stage crew members—someone he’d briefly chatted with before—smiling at him, her hands tucked behind her back, eyes bright.

Mingyu blinked, a little surprised. “Oh thank you. You too, the transitions were super smooth today.”

She giggled, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I did my best. But I was watching you the whole time.”

Mingyu raised a brow, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips. “Oh yeah?”

She stepped a little closer, playfully nudging his arm. “You always smile so much when you perform. It’s contagious.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess that’s a good thing.”

She tilted her head. “You doing anything after this?”

For a second, Mingyu glanced toward the dressing room, where laughter echoed—where his bandmates were chattering.

Then he looked back at her, his smile softening. “Not yet,” he said. “But I could be.”

Her grin widened.

And just like that, maybe Mingyu’s heart started to heal too.

*******************

Minho’s lips trailed kisses along your jaw, his hands framing your face as if he still couldn’t believe this was real. Your arms were wrapped around his neck, breath mingling as you leaned into him, every inch of space between you practically non-existent.

The air was hot, your heart pounding louder than any concert speaker. His forehead rested against yours, breathless as he whispered, “I’m not letting go of you again. Ever.”

You smiled, pulling him back into another kiss — slower this time, but no less intense. The kind that made your knees weak and your brain fuzzy, the kind that left no question about how badly he wanted you — and how badly you wanted him.

Your hands tangled in his hair, his arms locked tightly around your waist, pressing you against the wall.

It was messy and breathless, both of you still slightly shaking from the adrenaline of the concert.

"Missed you," he murmured against your mouth between kisses, voice hoarse.

You were just about to mumble "me too" when a loud knock rattled the door.

Minho froze mid-kiss, groaning against your lips. You stifled a laugh.

“Hyung?” Han’s voice called, too amused for your liking. “Minho hyung, will this continue all night or should we leave snacks outside the door?”

You buried your face in Minho’s chest as he exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Minho hyung is seriously down bad,” Hyunjin chimed in, voice loud and dramatic.

“Excuse you,” Han called out, raising an eyebrow. “Your bestie Y/N is equally down bad.”

You playfully smacked Minho's chest, laughing into his shirt. “Did your wife just out me like that?”

Minho groaned, forehead dropping against your shoulder in defeat, "Kill me," he muttered. "Right now. Just kill me."

You both heard Han and Hyunjin start bickering again — something about who was more down bad between you and Minho — and you couldn't help but giggle quietly against Minho, your heart feeling so full you thought it might burst.

“YAH!” Minho finally shouted, voice filled with exasperated affection. “You want to die? Leave us alone!”

A pause.

Then shuffling footsteps and exaggerated gagging noises as they walked off. You and Minho looked at each other and were shaking with laughter, tangled in each other and unwilling to part.

You sighed happily, still held close. “We really are that bad, huh?”

Minho leaned in, brushing his nose against yours. “Maybe. But I’m not sorry.”

Minho tightened his arms around you, swaying you both lazily, “I love you, you know,” he murmured, so gently it melted into your skin.

A big smile broke across your face.

“I love you too, Minho,” you whispered back, like it was the easiest thing in the world — because with him finally, it was.

--------------

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sidollie · 3 days ago

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Idk if this is where you take requests, hopefully it is!

breading kink Simon and infertile reader

where every time they do it, no matter when where or what position Simon is always muttering about he's gonna fill you up, that he can't wait to see your belly all swollen and reader hates it because 1 reader never liked the idea of pregnancy or being pregnant and 2 readers infertile. but she's been too scared to bring it up because Simon seems so obsessed with idea of getting her full with his kid but one day on the middle of him rambling on about it she spits out "i'm infertile."

if you're able to turn this into something i'd love that it's been stuck in my head for ages

༉‧₊˚. Simon Riley breeding reader but she's infertile cw// ᴍᴅɴɪ, breeding, obsessed simon riley, mentions of infertility

ᯓ★ Simon Riley had always wanted a child, it was his dream to be a loving father to his kid. To be the kind of father his own couldn't be, so when he married you, his sweet little luvie. He wanted you swollen with his child as soon as possible, his pretty little wifey all stuffed and filled with his seed.

So tonight, here he was again stretching out your sweet cunt with his fat thick cock— he says it once again

"Gonna put a baby in ya, swee'heart. Gonna watch y'swell with it, keep ya stuffed so full you’ll feel me fer days."

But you’re tired, tired of hearing him groan into your neck about how he’s going to breed you, fill you up and how he's so hopeful about a kid— his kid when you know it's not possible. So when he growls,

“Can’t wait t'see ya round and full of me.”

“I’m infertile.”

It slips out suddenly, an ugly truth. You don’t mean to say it, not like this, not with Simon buried deep inside you, his calloused hands gripping your plush hips and him groaning about how he'll get you pregnant. No, but it is said now, and you hate it.

Not because of him— God, never because of him but because it isn’t possible. You’ve known since the doctor looked at you with those eyes, pity drowning in them as he broke the harsh reality to you. You’ll never carry a baby, never feel that kind of stretch, never have a bump to caress but simon… Simon dreams about it every time he touches you and you hate yourself for the fact that you can't give him that happiness.

Everything stills, his hips freeze mid-thrust as his breath catches. You can’t— won't look at him. You stare at his rugged chest instead, scared to face him as you wait for his response. you brace yourself for every worse thing possible, waiting for him to pull out, for denial, for rejection, for anger

But all he does instead is let his hands slide up your sides, his rough palms feel soft and gentle now, as he burry his forehead between your neck and shoulder , body trembling as his muffled voice cracks slightly,

“Why didn’ ya tell me?”

“I'm sorry, I-I didn’t want to ruin it for you, you want a family. You want—”

“You. I want you.”

You try to turn to look at his face but he doesn’t let you, he stays inside you, his inked arms wrapped around your body like armor, like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he lets go. After a moment he speaks, his voice thick with emotions as he whispers,

“I do want a baby, so damn bad it fuckin' hurts. But more than that? I want you. If we can’t do it naturally, we’ll find another way, IVF, Surrogacy, Adoption, I don’t give a fuck just as long as it’s with you.”

“But you always talk about it like it’s the only thing you want.”

“I talk about it because the thought of you carrying ma child drives me insane. The idea of the world knowing yer mine? It fucks with my head dovie.”

He presses a kiss to your neck, as his hips start to move again, slow and gentle

“But I love ya more than that fantasy. And if you can’t give me a baby… I’ll still keep filling you up like you can because you'll already be carrying something of mine swee'heart, and that part? That’s not about a baby. That’s about owning you, claiming you, and I’ll never stop doing that swee'heart”

Tears flood your eyes as you choke on a sob, broken 'I'm sorry's' fall from your mouth continuously. You can feel your neck getting wet as his body trembles slightly from the realisation that the thing he had dreamt of for years is the same thing he can never have but it's okay, because you're here with him. He's ready to try everything with you. He pushes deeper in you, kissing your neck and shoulder he doesn’t mutter about breeding this time.

"I-I'm sorry si"

"Shh don't be luvie, I love you. We’ll find a way toge'her, swee'heart"

@sidollie

༉‧₊˚. masterlist

a/n: I bawled writing this :((

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sparkplug02 · 1 day ago

Text

It’s also showcasing the reality of trying and failing to do something. Why do you need survivors? Why do you need people to keep going and carry on? Because they learned the lessons. Other people paid the price for those lessons, but if you don’t remember them and factor them into your next try, you’ll make he same mistakes, you won’t move forward, and you won’t be better.

IF Haymitch had died in the arena when he meant to, IF Plutarch and Mags and Wiress and Beetee hadn’t gone through the terrible things that mutilated them to what we know them to be in the original trilogy, we don’t have their expertise to rely on. Not just because they’d be dead, but because Snow was actively and successfully rewriting the story to leave out those details. If they hadn’t survived, who would have been able to recount the truth? Probably no one.

Yes, that doesn’t make the mutilation itself good or ‘worth it.’ I know that, and I know Snow tortured them and none of that was necessary or right.

So you know that when Snow told Plutarch that the new Quarter Quell would reap tributes of victors, he started gambling with the idea that this could be a new chance to break the machine. He needs Beetee. He’s broken the arena twice, and they need it a third and final time. Learn from the mistakes of the past, figure out how to make it unsalvageable. Give him the biggest bomb you can think of and all the tools to make it happen.

He needs Wiress. Wiress, who’s smart enough to figure out the machine of the arena and who has a gut good enough to guide her to safety. Wiress, who can’t communicate properly and who has been hurt beyond sanity, but who is still in there enough to help. She does. It takes a while for everyone else to catch on, but she figures it out first.

He needs Mags. Mags who has seen two Quarter Quells to date. Mags who helped him with the rebellion for a long time since and who knows how these things end and what it takes for the rebellion to keep going. She either needs to be a mentor or a tribute, but she ends up being both in a way. She is an archive, she has the memory. A shame she can’t tell those memories anymore, but they’re still there and they’re still valuable and she can protect these young tributes far better inside the arena than outside.

He needs Haymitch. Haymitch, who lost everything AND himself during the last quarter quell, the last big plan to break the machine. He failed, but not completely. Haymitch showed them just how adept Snow was at twisting the story, at hiding the rot within. The rebellion all but killed him, but Plutarch needs him back. He was the face of rebellion, he was the Songbird and the Snake before Katniss and Peeta fell into that mantle. He learned the lessons they will need the hard way.

I’m willing to bet it was a damn miracle that Plutarch got Haymitch on board for Catching Fire. He has these two little ducklings that he cares about whether he wants to or not, and Plutarch is asking him to risk them and himself all over again for a plan that failed the last time it was enacted. He agrees, we know that, but Katniss doesn’t ever know about the rebellion until afterwards, and I’m don’t think Peeta does either.

I’m guessing that was Haymitch’s idea. After having all the pressure on him during his Quarter Quell, he’s not willing to put that on either Katniss or Peeta. They are both smart enough and stubborn enough to say the right things and play the part without realizing their role in all this. They want the Quell to end regardless of their knowledge of a greater rebellion. Haymitch steps in as the buffer between them and Plutarch because they trust Haymitch and he knows how hard it is to trust Plutarch. PLUTARCH knows how hard it is to trust Plutarch.

…actually, now that I’m thinking about it, I don’t know that Plutarch would have been able to convince Haymitch. Not after last time. He’s not willing to put those kids through that. He spent so much time trying to protect them from it, I’m not sure he would cave unless he didn’t have a choice.

Was Peeta’s name ever in the bowl for the reaping of the Quell? Could Plutarch have pulled that string to get Haymitch’s name in the bowl twice?

Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is they learned from those failures and the failed rebellions were just as important as the successful ones because they wouldn’t have been possible without the lessons learned from past attempts.

SotR is a realisation. A realisation that the rebellion didn’t start with Katniss. That all the people we see supporting her or helping her have all been wanting to fight but they’ve been failing. That there weren’t merely “rumours” of a revolution but there were many active plans playing out and failing.

It’s a reminder that the perfect Hunger Games we saw in the first hg book was an illusion because we had Katniss as our narrator. We didn’t have Haymitch, hell, we didn’t even have someone like Peeta because these people played the games. Katniss didn’t.

Katniss was introduced to us as a mad, simple, naive girl who literally only survived because of others. She didn’t know how much her taking Prim’s place mattered because she didn’t realise what it meant to everyone who came before her. To everyone who had heard rumours of how the last District 12 victor actually fought his games. No, Katniss had just kept her head down, hunting and providing for her family.

See, she grew up way before the Games got to her. She’d already lived through her dad’s death and watched it destroy her once lively mom. Haymitch didn’t have to go through that. Lucy Gray didn’t have to go through that. They were both angry, yes, but at the Capitol. Katniss? She was first and foremost angry at her mom. At her dad. She knew who was to blame but she had too much to do and deal with to think about that. She was already jaded in a way that the Games couldn’t touch.

Peeta? He was Haymitch. He knew what he was getting into and realised he was just on a chess board with no control. So, he adapted. He played the knight, the rook, the king, the pawn. Katniss? She just… did. Changing directions, not playing the piece she was assigned because she didn’t realise that’s what was going on. Remember her surprise at the crown twisting into two after the Games?? She was so oblivious. Until Catching Fire where everything caught up to her. Where everything so many other people had been waiting and working for caught up to her.

SotR is a history book. Rewritten and edited and published as a piece of fact. SotR is a mirror and it’s a reflection of what actually happens vs what ends up being shown. SotR is the playbook of those in control of any and every kind of media that we come in touch with. SotR is a wake up call and I truly don’t know how many will see it as such.

#sotr spoilers #the hunger games spoilers #sunrise on the reaping

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differenteagletragedy · 1 day ago

Text

Simon doesn't remember the name of the woman who took his virginity. At this point, all these years later, he's not sure if he ever knew it. It was a chance encounter, quick and a little dirty but fun. Fine.

He'd been in the neighborhood pub, the one he escaped to when he didn't want to be at home, shooting pool. He wasn't that good at it, not then, but he practiced for something to do, and as he racked up the balls for a third round against himself, he apparently caught her eye.

A bit older than him, the woman was immediately forward and flirty, and it wasn't a secret, even as inexperienced as Simon was, as to what she wanted. His body must have felt some kind of desire with the way it reacted to her, blood rushing south as she slid her hands over him in the dim light of the nearly vacant bar, but when she invited him to her flat down the street, it wasn't lust that made him agree.

It was curiosity. He wondered what it would feel like to be wanted, even on a base level like this, and if it would fill up whatever hole that had been inside him for as long as he could remember.

And it did. A little.

He'd never even kissed a girl before, always too closed-off to get in any kind of position to do something like that, but that night, he kissed the woman from the pub, over and over again. He followed her movements, let her put her hands on him and place him where he needed to go, and it was something.

When their clothes came off, left in a haphazard heap around her cluttered living room, it was something more, and when she pushed him to the couch and sunk down onto him, the unfamiliar warmth almost overwhelming, for a second, it was everything.

He came too fast, and it was over too soon. That night, he slid back into his own bed, alone again. He couldn't tell if he felt better, knowing there was something he could do to soothe the ache in him, or if it was worse, having the relief for a moment then going back to nothing.

A few nights later, when the weekend hit and the pub was more crowded, he caught the eye of a pretty girl in the corner, shyly checking him out, and he got his answer.

For Simon, for years, it was better to have a little bit of comfort. Just a little bit, because he never saw a way that he could have more. A stranger from a bar, one from the grocery store that asks him to reach a high shelf and flirts a little too much ... he gets good at spotting whatever that first woman saw in him. The part of someone that's open to a quick, needy fuck.

He sees it in you. Clocks it straightaway, but he also sees something more.

It's in the way you pull back after he kisses you hard and deep, the only way he really knows how to kiss. He stops, thinking you've changed your mind, but you're still there, still close, with such a soft look in your eyes now. You initiate the kiss this time, your hands sliding up to cup his cheeks, keeping him in place as you slow things down.

It's disorienting almost, he tries to shake it off, to get back to how this is supposed to go. He yanks your shirt off, and you let him, but when he moves his hands to roughly palm at your chest, you patiently pull them back down to rest on your waist.

"Slow down," you murmur, smiling up at him. "We've got a little time."

It's muscle memory for him at this point, finding a woman and bringing her to a quiet, private place, pushing into her, feeling the brief reprieve it brings. But with you, the rhythm is all off. It's somehow very good and very bad, all at the same time.

"Thought you wanted something here," he mutters, his meaning clear -- he thought you wanted him.

"I do," you answer. "I just don't want it to be over in five minutes. That ok?"

He's not sure what else to do, so he nods. And he slows down.

It's different, sex when you're not rushing towards the end-goal. His hands, used to action in moments like this, pushing and pulling and gripping, instead find yours. Your fingers intertwine, and you kiss him, almost lazily, like you’ve got all the time in the world. Like he’s worth it.

To Simon, it feels strange and new, but not really -- like it's all happening through the filmy haze of a dream, where somehow he knows every step of this dance and yet nothing at all, all at once. To you, from the soft sounds slipping from your lips, it feels right.

When it's over, and you're both breathless and sated, he feels like that boy again -- the one who'd never been kissed and who didn't know where to put his hands. But now, he notices, one hand is still grasping yours and he squeezes it, just barely.

"That ok?" he asks softly, and he's not sure if he's speaking to you or to himself.

"Perfect," you tell him, turning your head to give him a smile.

He doesn't know if he'll ever see you again. But he's memorizing the weight of your hand in his, the steady sound of your breathing as it returns to normal. And even if he never has this with you again, in the moment he knows that he's capable of it. And that's enough.

#simon riley #call of duty simon riley #simon ghost riley #ghost simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #call of duty ghost #cod ghost #ghost x you #ghost x reader

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 days ago

Text

Doing Time 8

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, threats, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you try to keep your brother safe in jail but put yourself in danger along the way.

Characters: con/ex-con!Steve Rogers

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Steve kneels between your legs. You quiver as he splays his hands over your thighs, kneading your tender flesh with a growl. He pushes himself back and bends over you, his weight sinking you into the mattress. His lips graze above his fingers, just beneath the trim of your panties, twisted still from his tending.

His nose tickles you as he traces along the outside of your thighs, planting kisses all along your dimpled skin. You twitch and he snarls deep, giving a gentle nip. You spread your hands over the blanket and tense as he creeps closer to his prize.

His breath dampens your skin and the thin lace, adding warmth to the slickness already there.

He nuzzles the panties and drags his finger along the seam. He hooks beneath and tugs them aside. He startles you with the swipe of his tongue. You squeak and dig your heels into the bed. Your stomach coils in on itself and your core thrums with a new heat. You look down at his blonde head, the silver streaks falling forward and tickling your pelvis. You moan as he spreads his tongue wide and tastes you completely. He pulls his tongue up and flicks your clit with the tip. You whine again.

You bend your legs as your muscles draw tight and you arch your back as he delves into you heedlessly. He groans and growls as he drinks you up shamelessly. Speckles of fire and ice spread over your thighs and up to your neck. You gasp as your breath shallows as the waves curl inside of you.

He rocks his head and you clutch at the blanket. Your eyes roll back and tendrils wind around your chest and throat. You spasm and cum, heaving as the tides crash upon you in sheer ecstasy, washing away the layers of fear.

He massages your thighs as he keeps going, pushing your legs wide. He devours you, smearing your delight all over his nose and chin. He fuels you to another climax, even more striking than the last, your legs twitching, your toes curling.

You reach down to tug on his hair as his tongue swirls and swirls.

"Please, please," you beg, "please-- Steve."

He chuckles into you, a rumble that rolls through your guts. He gives one last swipe of his tongue and lifts his head. He looks up at you as your lashes flick open. Your head bobbles as you lift it to meet his gaze. His lips are shiny with your cum.

He sits up on his knees, his boxers bulging as his chest flexes, his thick middle tautening. He moves closer and bends over you, holding himself above you on his elbows. You smell the sweetness on his breath as he sighs.

"Say it," he snarls.

You exhale and flutter your lashes.

"Say you want me, baby." Your walls clench and your stomach ripples. You moan. He brings a hand to your chin and frames your face with his large hand. "Baby."

"I--" you wisp. "I... want you."

"Yeah?" He purrs.

You nod into his hand. Maybe not, but you need him. In this state, you just need more.

He pushes off of you. He hooks his fingers in the elastic of his boxers and raises himself he shoves them down, untangling himself as the bed bounces with his effort. He settles back down and grips your hips. His thumbs poke into your flesh and he lifts you just slightly.

He shifts even closer as he drapes your thighs against his. You whimper as he grabs his dick, pumping his thick length as his throat locks up. He grits out a grunt. You can't look away from what's in his hand. He's... big.

He aims his tip along your cunt and spreads your wetness over him. He groans as he does. He inches down to your entrance and pauses. He keeps his other hand on your hip and looks you in the eye.

"You ready, baby?"

Your lips part and you blink. You swallow dryly, "y-yes."

His eyes fall down between your legs and he eases into you. Just his head before he stops. He bites his lip and dips in little by little, stopping with each inch as he feels you adjust to him.

You twitch around him and he slides back. You shiver and slap the bed with a moan. He thrusts back in, deeper than before, and retreats again. He rocks, deliberately, stretching you until you’re squirming, before rearing back. With each plunge, he pushes your limits.

He falls into a rhythm. He grips your hip tight as his other hand crawls up your stomach. He kneads the cushion there and grunt between shallow breaths. His jaw squares as his blue eyes turn smoky.

He drags his hand down your side and along your thigh. He caresses down to your knee then pulls your legs up straight. He leans your foot against his shoulder, his hand wrapped around your ankle, and he kisses it.

He keeps his motion as he purrs. Your brush your hand across the blanket and over your torso. You tremble as your fingertips graze your throat and over your chin. You bite into the heel of your hand and drone.

You puff out as your insides tangle. He trails over your pelvis and wiggles his thumb between your folds. He rolls over your clit and you gasp. You tense up and reach for him.

“Steve,” you squeal.

He chuckles and does it again. You shake and he watches you fall apart. He lets your leg fall away from him and bends over you once more. He smothers your lips with his as he pumps into you. He twists his hand around and plays with you with his middle finger.

You pout into his mouth as he hooks his arm beneath you. His tongue delves into your mouth. He pulls back with long strokes only to glide back in.

You curl your arm around his and latch onto his bicep. You whine as you cum again, the slickness spreading up his pelvis and along your thighs. You clasp the back of his head and keep him there, tilting your hips as you welcome him deeper.

He snarls and tightens his hold around you. He sits up with you against him. Your head spins.

He fucks you from below as you match his pace. You shouldn’t. You know it but there’s something else that drives you on. Something desperate. Something... broken. He makes you feel wanted in a way you never have. Who he is, what he is, doesn’t matter in that moment.

You hang your head back and moan. You cum again as you lean back, hanging onto his shoulders as your hips rock on their own. He growls and flicks his finger around your clit. Your thighs quake until you have no strength left.

Before you can fall, he lays you down. He groans and you bat your lashes dozily. His eyes graze up and down your body. He fixates on your cunt and slowly pulls out. You twitch as he leaves you empty.

He licks his lips and traces up your legs, to your pelvis, then hips, along your stomach, around the curves of your body, fondling your chest, then gently petting your throat. He cradles your head between his large hands as his thumb rubs your cheek.

“I told ya, I'll take care of you.”

He releases you and sits back. He grabs your hip and flips you over. You roll onto your stomach without resistance. His other hand latches around your side and he pulls your ass up. You whimper and rest your cheek against the blanket. Your sweat dampens it, your scent wafting into your lungs.

He pushes his tip between your cheeks and down to your entrance. He slips into you once more. You moan. He bends over your back and loops his arm around your middle. He nestles his chin against your shoulder and sits back with you.

He keeps your thighs splayed over his as he rocks beneath you. The pressure pulses in your core as he reaches to turn your head. He kisses you as he fucks you patiently. His tongue tangles with yours as his other hand flutters down your stomach. Again, he toys with your clit, plucking you to the edge.

He frames your chin as he keeps you locked in. His tempo builds, your flesh clapping noisily as his thrusts reverberate through every part of you. You clutch his wrist and he kisses along your cheek as you babble.

“Yeah, baby, this is what you needed, isn’t it?” He growls.

You moan. You can’t speak.

“I needed this too. Wanted it.” He huffs as his grip tightens. “Dreamt of it...”

He bows his head and pants against your shoulder. His hair falls forward and tickles you. He ruts into you, faster and faster. His deep breaths turn to rocky grunts. He snarls and pushes you forward.

He falls on you, crushing you to the mattress as he fucks you into it. He hammers into you until you’re whining. The bed frame shakes and knocks against the wall furiously.

You feel him spill inside of you. He slows, easing out just to his tip, and plunging back in. The noise it makes sends a chill through you.

He stills as he keeps you trapped against the bed. Your heartbeat calms and your breath comes easier. Your sweaty skin sticks to his. You’re exhausted.

He isn’t. He starts again. Slow at first. His hips moving little by little, building to full strokes. In, out, in, out. You shudder beneath him.

“Baby, I told ya, I’m not getting off you,” he pets your head as he finds his rhythm. “Mm, you’re perfect for me. Built for me.” He growls. “The way you’re clinging to me. I never felt anything like it.”

Your lashes feel heavy as you blink dopily. He kisses your cheek.

“Nah, you don’t do nothing. I got you. You let me do the work,” he purrs. “Nothing you gotta do.” He fucks you steadily but not enough to put himself over. “You’re beautiful, you know that? Goddamn gorgeous--”

You close your eyes as they tinge and your nose tingles. Beneath the pleasure and the adrenaline, is something else. Something you don’t think of. You bend your arm and squeeze his bicep.

“Baby...” he purrs.

“Steve,” you sniffle. “Steve, please--”

“That’s it. Let yourself feel good.”

“Steve,” you croak and the first tear trickles out. You slap his arm. “I-- get off! Please, I--”

You turn your face down to hide the sudden overflow. You fold your arm under your head as your back wracks. He stops and caresses your hair. He hushes you as you try to suck back the sobs.

“I’m sorry--”

He pulls out and forces you onto your back, right onto his arm. He holds you, one hand rubbing your thigh as he cooes.

“Baby, what’s going on? Is it something I did?” He asks.

There’s a lot he’s done that scares you, but this is something else. It’s ridiculous. Pathetic. Why are you even crying.

“Baby, please, did I hurt you?”

You shake your head and stare at his chest, hiding behind your webbed lashes. You wipe your face with the back of your hand.

“It’s nothing, really, I’m just...” you scoff at yourself. “It’s been a while.”

“Me too, baby. You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

“Yeah, uh...” you flick away tears, frustrated as they keep flowing.

“I’d wait just as long again to be with a woman as beautiful as you--”

“Steve,” you turn your head away.

“What?”

“Stop that,” you hiss.

“Stop what?”

“Lying.”

“Lying? I told ya. I won’t do that.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Calling you... beautiful?”

You nod and stare at the wall. He laughs.

“I gotta tell the truth, baby-”

“It’s not true.” You catch his wrist as he trails up your stomach. “Alright.”

“That’s what making you cry?”

“No-- yes. N--” you sputter. You sniff. “No one ever... said it. It’s not true.”

He shakes you off of him. He brings his hand up to your chin and turns your head. “Look at me.”

You look down.

“Baby, listen to me. Look.”

The stone in his timbre makes you obey. You look into his blue eyes. They winkle as he gazes at you.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I ever seen. You’re the reason I got out. Without you, I woulda gotten ten years for bashing in the next pest who got under my feet.” His thumb rubs along your cheek. “I was good. For you.” He leans in, “cause I need you that bad.”

He presses his lips to yours, stemming all argument and any more tears. You’ll believe his lies. It’ll make this easier.

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #captain america #doing times #avengers #au #series #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #mcu #marvel

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littlegrapejuice · 1 day ago

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Too Vanilla | FC43

Pairing: Franco Colapinto x Reader

Summary: Franco is very open about his past sex life - maybe a bit too much for you, which eventually makes you insecure.

Author's Note: this is super short but i got the inspo after seeing a small extract of franco on the nude project (i then proceeded to watch the entire thing even tho i barely speak spanish lol) and yeah, I'll say more in the end notes lol but iykyk😭

F1 MASTERLIST🏎

“You’re quiet tonight”, Franco pointed out. “More than usual.”

Shit, was the only word now echoing in your mind. You didn’t think you had been that quiet. Franco and you were having a peaceful night in, cuddling in bed while watching some stupid show whose laughing track was way funnier than the actual jokes.

“Just enjoying the time with you, that’s all.”

Franco knew better. He knew from the way his arms were around you, your hands on your lap and not holding his like you usually did. He knew from the way your body wasn’t entirely relaxed against his.

He just knew you.

“I kinda wanna call bullshit on that, I know you’re lying. Or at least hiding something,” he clarified.

“And what would I be hiding?”

“I don’t know”, he admitted.

And that was it. You both stayed silent for several minutes after the exchange. But now that it was out there, you could feel Franco’s eyes on you. And with the way that he was now holding one of your hands in his, his thumb gently stroking your skin? It was just a matter of time before you were spilling whatever secret you were hiding. Which you did, when you felt him hugging you a bit tighter from where he was sitting behind you.

“It’s about the videos”, you eventually blurted out.

“The videos?” Franco repeated.

“That one video where you did the put a finger down thing”, you explained. “And the most recent podcast.”

“What about those?” He asked, slightly straightening up, before muting the TV.

“Well, you talked about having had sex in a car before, and the podcast…”

“Did I say something wrong in the podcast?”

“It’s not something you said, it’s just how I felt about it.”

“Okay.” Franco nodded, still a bit confused. “Please communicate with me, how did that make you feel?”

“You were talking about pre-race sex somehow helping with your performance, because it was like– relaxing. You also mentioned that having sex on the first date was more than fine for you... And then, I got insecure about it.”

“You got insecure because I’ve been whoring around?” There were certainly better ways to form the question, but at least Franco was trying his best. “You know it all happened before we got together, yeah? I haven’t done that in a while.”

“And that’s the issue!” You exclaimed as you shifted a bit away from him, your side profile now facing him.

“What? You’re saying you’d want me to do those things again?” Safe to say, he was lost. “I'm not sure I get it, what’s the real issue regarding us?”

“The sex, Franco!” You had raised your voice a bit, immediately regretting it. You moved again to sit cross-legged, now actually facing him. “Or more like the lack of it.”

“And that’s the issue because…?” He encouraged you to keep going, still not getting your point.

“Because I’m not having sex with you?” You tried to make him understand. “Because I will probably never have sex with you? Because everything between us is just too vanilla – even more than a middle schoolers’ relationship?”

You expected any reaction from Franco, literally anything. Except him laughing. But that’s what he was doing right now. He had just bursted out laughing.

But you weren’t laughing, far from it. You were just looking at him, widened eyes at his reaction.

“Oh my… oh God…” Franco did his best to calm down, slowly breathing in and out to stop laughing. “Since when is the lack of sex in our relationship an issue? You never brought this up before.”

“I mean, we did talk about it when we got together.”

“But still, I thought we were on the same wavelength? Why is this so important to you all of a sudden?”

“It’s not like– important…”

“Kinda seems like it is”, Franco interrupted.

“Okay, maybe it is. But it’s just that– like– yes, we had agreed that it wasn’t necessary between us… but just watching the podcast and seeing you talk about it, seeing people comment on it–”

“Fuck the comments.”

“Yeah, I shouldn’t be paying attention to them…” You admitted. “But I just got in my head, and then I started overthinking…”

“And you thought that us not having sex had become a problem for me? Without asking me what my actual opinion was?”

“Bingo,” you confirmed with a dry laugh.

The silence settled once again between the two of you, but it wasn’t as heavy as earlier. Franco took your hands in his, squeezing them in reassurance.

“How much of the podcast did you watch?” He eventually asked.

“The segment of you talking about pre-race sex, obviously.” You rolled your eyes at him as your voice was full of sarcasm. "And the sex-on-the-first-date moment.

“But did you watch what I said after?”

“Yeah, a bit.” You tried to recall how long the extract had been. “The whole thing wasn’t entirely subbed so I didn’t actually watch everything but–”

“So you remember what I talked about after that?” Franco waited for you to nod before he continued. “About the difficulty of creating real bonds with people, finding a connection, something that matters… That’s you”, he claimed. “You’re the person with who I share an actual bond. The person who I know is here for me, who loves me, and who I love back. What’s between us is precious, something I wanna cherish and care for until you’ll stop having me.”

“I’ll never stop, though.” You tried to avoid Franco’s gaze, ashamed of having doubted his feelings.

“Well, I hope so.” Franco squeezed your hands once again, before he let go of them to cup your face and wipe your cheeks. “You shouldn’t be crying because of me.”

“Bro”, you said with a deadpan tone. “You’re out there declaring your love for me and I’m not supposed to cry?”

“When you say it like that…”

He laughed. But this time, you enjoyed hearing it. And it made you laugh too.

The situation shouldn’t have been a laughing matter – not for most people – but still, you were laughing together. Then, Franco leaned in, his hands still on your cheeks. You leaned towards him as well, and he closed the space between you to kiss you.

For every insecurity you would ever have, Franco would be there to appease them. And for every dumb insecurity like this one, Franco would just have to remind you that the ‘vanilla’ relationship between the two of you was worth so much more than any pre-race sex he could ever have. And maybe he would also remind you that despite not having sex, the make out sessions between you two were sometimes far from being vanilla.

..........

Ok so this one's a bit more personal than others (not counting that one logan fic in which i poured my heart lol)

Ik there's this franco persona we all see as being the epitome of no pr training bc bro is sharing loads of private stuff - and it ain't even that deep tbh like he's just a guy🎀 (btw i did watch the entire pod which was super interesting bc i didn't know that much ab franco before f2 so i recommend!!)

But yeah, this one's for my ace girlies out there who, like me, might think that it's impossible to find love bc most people will expect sex in a relationship💜

This was just a short n' sweet fic that i thought went well w franco (who's the green flag we all need in our lives) - mostly written for my own mental health bc i needed some self love & reassurance🤍

Thanks for reading<3 I'll see you soon, take care of yourselves, i love y'all xx

#f1 #formula 1 #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #franco colapinto #franco colapinto x reader #f1 x you #formula 1 x you #franco colapinto x you #fc43 #fc43 x reader #fc43 x you

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xianjaneway · 3 days ago

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I just wanted to write out my comfort fics, & tag the creators if I can.

Why?

Because if this is someone's dream, I can help that dream come true for some people.

See, I work at home, sometimes as a mom, sometimes as an eBay seller, & sometimes creating beautiful, functional things in my woodshop.

ALL of these jobs require boring, repetitive, processes, that involve long hours spent alone. Sometimes, I have moments when I fucking hate any of it.

You know what gets me through those boring, lonely, repetitive parts of life? What has already propelled me through the last 5 years of chronic illness, recovery, & building a new life?

Listening to fanfic read aloud to me in the Evie app.

I LOVE my comfort fics.

Let's go by fandom, bc while Marvel is my most recent one, the Good Omens, OFMD, Sherlock, Star Trek, & James Bond/00Q fandoms have all functioned as my literary grow-light in dark times.

I'll just start with Marvel today. Hopefully, I'll update each fandom (especially the crossovers, because THOSE are my favorite, when done well.)

However, today, I need my comfort fics, because while I've been making plans, getting passports, etc., I genuinely think it's time to get my queer family out of the US.

It's not getting any better. 💔 I have no reason to think it will. If the US citizens didn't stand up during COVID, to keep marginalized people safe, why would they do it now? 💔

Marvel:

-Into That Good Night, by Nonymous @naomisalman

I never could watch Interstellar. I'm sure it's an incredible movie in its own right, but I just couldn't sit through Christopher Nolan putting another wife or child through hell, while a flawed cis/het/white man went off to save the world.

This story not only made Interstellar accessible to me, it showed real recovery from hopelessness, real healing, and the utter pain & joy of perseverance through impossible odds.

-War, Children, by Nonymous

I'm married to a recovering hoarder, lol. He's amazing. The characterization of both PTSD & poverty here is spot-on. I love how these two healing characters give each other hope & strength to face another overwhelming day.

-Heliotrope, by Nasri

Dear God, I couldn't love this story more. My late grandmother-in-law actually survived the Dust Bowl, & nearly starved to death. She was the gentlest, quietest, sweetest woman I've ever met. This fic accurately described not only the hell of living through this disaster, but showed how *little* it takes to make hope light up your eyes again. Peaches haven't tasted the same since.

It also showed the sustaining power of love, in the midst of sacrifice. Every single character in this story is willing to give up *everything* for the people they love, & it's a fascinating process to watch unfold.

I have an idea for a sequel that I've written the bare bones for, but haven't finished. That's the first fiction I've written in 8 years. THAT is how much this story meant to me.

-Road to Giverny in Winter, by Nasri

Dear God, I needed this. Station Eleven was a masterpiece, yes, but this story distilled & concentrated it until the flavor burst on my tongue. The aftertaste still lingers, a year later.

I fucking hate the stereotype of, "strong men who never feel their feelings." "Giverny" gives Steve Rogers a whack with a scalpel & a sledgehammer, & makes him actually feel AND heal. I wish the MCU had done the same!

-The "All The Time In The World" series, by NotEvenCloseToStraight

I tagged this in my bookmarks with, "Dear God, this is better than the movies." And I truly think it is, because it gave as MUCH priority to the relationships as it did to the action. I hate it when movies make relationships (and therefore, women) a distraction from the mission objective, & therefore an emotional whiplash for both the characters & the audience:

"OH, the lead character is in love with her, but she's keeping him from RESCUING CHILDREN from a flaming building, so I kinda hate her right now."

This series makes the incredible, deep, heartfelt relationships JUST as much of a mission as, "Saving the World," & it's so rare to see that done well. (It's an unusual Stuckony endgame in the 3rd fic, that you really have to read to believe it would work. It absolutely works.)

I also think it gave much more honor & depth to Peggy Carter's character, & her love story with both Steve & her eventual husband, than the MCU ever did. NECTS uses the, "Elderly Person Gives A Dose Of Wisdom" trope quite lovingly here, & I enjoyed every minute of it.

-Ticking Down, by hulucthulhu

I had only seen clips of the movie, "Timers" on YouTube shorts, & thought it was hokey as hell.

Turns out? The same woman that wrote "Wandavision" ALSO wrote Timers. This Timers/MCU crossover (w/ a bit of Soulmate trope sprinkled on top) is yet another story about the hard work of overcoming our worst anxieties, and of healing from grief, trauma, & pain. From Tony learning to swim again after Afghanistan, to Bucky learning to care for a kitten, & do aerial yoga, every beat of this story is about taking the next step towards healing.

The ending/epilogue is also very satisfying.

-All The Angels and The Saints, by Speranza

I've written before about my journey from fundamentalism & Evangelical Christianity.

So, seeing Steve Rogers take a journey from childhood faith, to youthful atheism, to foxhole believer, to disillusioned lover, is fucking incredible. I felt EVERY beat of his faith, loss, hope, & awakening.

One thing I haven't seen much of, but Speranza just NAILED here, is how journey like Steve's affects the people he loves most.

I was enraptured w/ Bucky's journey in response to Steve's struggles. From his annoyed introduction of Steve to a potential employer as, "He's meticulous. He cares about things no sane person would care about," all the way to, [paraphrase] "How DARE you think God would make all this [gestures at the war, at his own scars] happen to teach you a fucking lesson??" Bucky reflects the tragedy of the evangelist: we spend all our time trying to convince other people how to live, while ignoring our own life.

Steve was so deep into his ideology, that Bucky's moment of, "You never think about me," is a moment that shakes him right out of abstraction & into his physical reality. And the whole fic is full of moments like that, whipping Steve's heart & mind into a frenzy, until he learns who the REAL "good guys" are.

I'm kind've obsessed w/ ALL of Speranza 's works right now. They, along w/ ItsallAvengers, are my current, "I must read everything they wrote in my fandoms" hyperfixation."

So, that's all I have time for today. I think I've stopped crying, & can start taking the next steps to get us out of here. 🖖

my dream as a fanfic writer is for one day, one of my fics to be someones comfort fic. like the fic that they reread when they don't feel good and want to be happy. i want my words to comfort someone one day

#comfort fic #marvel #comfort #favorite fics #bucky fanfic #stucky #stuckony #fanfiction #marvel fanfic #bucky barnes #steve rogers #tony stark

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kxsagi · 2 days ago

Note

Hello girlie I loved you april fools day post. I wanted to ask if u could make abt crack post the blue lock boys being police officers. Like rin is in the drug invetigation bc with his tongue outside he looks like he is on crack😂. Could you pls make it for isagi,rin,sae,bachira nagi and Kaiser and maybe Ness. 🩷

“𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢'𝐦 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥, 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐫”

a/n: ASNFSLNGSLNGS I LOVE THIS REQUEST

(don't know art credits)

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, bachira meguru, nagi seishiro, kaiser michael, ness alexis

isagi yoichi – “the golden retriever cop who accidentally becomes the face of justice”

he’s not even supposed to be out there. he’s just vibing. assigned to desk duty because he’s “too emotionally involved” (he called a suspect “bro” during a chase), but he still ends up in every major bust because he “took a shortcut through that shady alley for fun.”

has no idea how he keeps getting tangled in crimes. one minute he’s picking up a coffee, the next minute he’s wrestling a jewel thief to the ground while still holding his caramel macchiato.

will 100% try to de-escalate situations by talking about soccer. “sir, you don’t have to rob this bank. have you considered football?”

is weirdly beloved by the public. grandmas bake him pies. criminals call him “that one nice cop.” internal affairs doesn’t know whether to promote or arrest him.

famous quote: “you have the right to remain silent, but like, if you wanna talk about your trauma, i’m here, bro.”

itoshi rin – “narcotics officer who looks like he invented cocaine”

they only put him in narcotics because every time he walks into a room, people assume he’s either: 1) the supplier, 2) high off his mind, 3) both.

has that look. the messy hair. the tongue constantly sticking out. the eyes that say “i haven’t slept since 2012.” when he stares at you during interrogation, you confess out of fear, even if you didn’t do anything.

his motto is “if it looks suspicious, tackle it.” he once tried to arrest a 5-year-old holding powdered sugar.

drinks black coffee that tastes like war. has never smiled on duty. the closest he’s come is a slight smirk when someone sneezed and he got to yell “possible contaminant.”

he doesn’t do paperwork. he just sends his reports as voice memos that are five minutes of silence and one “they were lying.”

famous quote: “do drugs look at you the way i do? didn’t think so.”

itoshi sae – “internal affairs king, aka the fun police for the police”

his job is to catch corruption. and he loves it. like a little freak. his coworkers hate seeing him because if he’s in your department, someone’s getting fired.

interrogates officers like a disappointed dad. says things like “you stole evidence bags for what? to impress your tinder date?” while looking at you like you’re a worm on the pavement.

refuses to join team-building activities. said “i’m not building anything with idiots.”

once investigated himself for conflict of interest and found that he was, in fact, too perfect to be guilty.

he lets no one get away with anything, except rin. but only because he doesn’t want to fill out paperwork.

famous quote: “just because you’re wearing a badge doesn’t mean you’re not stupid.”

bachira meguru – “undercover cop who ends up forming emotional connections with every criminal”

he’s supposed to be subtle. blend in. instead, he walks into an illegal casino wearing glitter and a hello kitty shirt, and somehow they all believe he’s just a quirky new member of the gang.

laughs too loud. reveals his real name by accident. once shouted “FBI, freeze!” during karaoke because he got too into the role.

his sting operations always go sideways, but it’s okay because the suspects love him. like, “this is bachira. he’s chaotic, but he’s family.”

he’s single handedly dismantled three criminal rings just by being himself. they trust him too much and end up confessing while painting his nails.

famous quote: “okay technically i wasn’t authorized to go undercover, but i was bored and they had snacks.”

nagi seishiro – “cyber crimes detective who hasn’t left his chair since 2021”

works in a pitch-black room with eight monitors, a gaming chair, and a suspicious number of empty pringles cans. doesn’t even show up to roll call anymore. they just assume he’s alive if the servers are still running.

he hacks faster than people blink. cracked a billion-dollar crypto scam while watching anime in a tab next to it. accidentally hacked NASA once because he was bored.

he only talks in internet slang. someone once messaged him a serious question about a murder suspect and he responded with “lmao idk he looks sus.”

has a robot dog named “proxy” that does his patrols. was supposed to be temporary. it’s now got its own badge and a little hat.

famous quote: “technically i’m not asleep, i’m buffering.”

kaiser michael – “traffic cop with main character syndrome”

he turned a boring job into a reality TV show. gives tickets like they’re autographs. will literally tell you “you’re welcome” after citing you for illegal parking.

rides a motorcycle with LED underglow, blasting german techno. wears designer sunglasses at night.

pulls people over not based on violations, but on vibes. once ticketed a guy for “driving a beige car and ruining the aesthetic of the road.”

he’s gotten reported 27 times for arrogance, but all his violations mysteriously disappear. probably because the chief owes him money from poker night.

famous quote: “this isn’t about road safety. this is about setting an example. and the example is: look at me, i’m flawless.”

ness alexis – “forensic analyst who thinks he’s starring in a drama”

takes blood samples like he’s in grey’s anatomy. has a dramatic gasp every time he finds a single fingerprint.

writes his reports like novels: “and in the crimson shade of blood splatter, the truth was finally revealed...”

doesn’t walk, he glides into crime scenes wearing latex gloves like they’re part of his personality.

he’s scarily smart, but emotionally volatile. cried once because the lab’s coffee machine broke and said “how am i supposed to solve murder on decaf?”

takes kaiser's orders like gospel, but also keeps a secret blackmail folder “just in case.” it's organized alphabetically and color-coded.

famous quote: “i speak three languages: DNA, sarcasm, and disappointment.”

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