#driver safety something something
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
hitmehardnsweet · 1 year ago
Text
Tumblr media
fr in what world was this necessary 😭
35 notes · View notes
hyacinthsdiamonds · 2 months ago
Text
Saying that the gpda should go care about something important, as if they aren't - for the first time in DECADES - taking a definite stand against the sports governing body publicly for all to see, is something.
This goes beyond the jewellery, the underwear, or even the swearing. And their issue about being told not to wear jewellery and bring told what underwear is more about the fact that they were told by the media, rather than by the governing bodies themselves directly in a meeting where the drivers could share their perspectives.
They publicly called out the FIA President for his hypocrisy and for how he has spoken about the drivers both to their face and behind their backs.
Most importantly, they have publicly expressed their feelings about monetary fines, publicly stated that they have no idea what the FIA does with the money they receive from fining drivers, and called them out for it. There is zero transparency from the FIA in an issue we now know has been raised since at least 2021. What is the FIA hiding? Because there is no reason why the drivers should not be allowed to see where that money goes, or at least no legitimate reason.
154 notes · View notes
rickybaby · 1 year ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Ricciardo says running Vegas practice without fans was least-worst option
90 notes · View notes
christiangeistdorfer · 1 year ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media
MARKKU ALÉN during the 1986 RALLYE DE PORTUGAL
13 notes · View notes
itsseriouslyridiculous · 4 months ago
Text
so people are driving really unsfely. endangering themselves and others. but how do we fix this? the hard part is that the most problematic drivers aren't interested in being safe or following rules they just want to go as fast as possible to where they are going. so if required to take a defensive driving course they probably would rush through it and not retain any knowledge.
how could we best keep people safe? Is there a way to make people care about safety?
2 notes · View notes
adelrambles · 2 years ago
Text
ALRIGHT let's talk fighting styles. There's a lot to say about little consistencies in how characters like to engage in combat throughout TMNT 2003, and to start I'm going to focus on our favorite evil bastard, Agent Bishop (if yall want more on any specific character in the future lmk!)
Now, Bishop is about 230 years old, give or take a few, by the time we meet him. It's no surprise that he's a powerhouse of an opponent when he's had all that time to train, far beyond the limits of what a normal human might be able to achieve. He has a ton of experience, being a military vet on top of that, and presumably is familiar with the weapons and combat styles of the multiple eras he lived through.
Additionally, he has his clone body. This lends him benefits and drawbacks alike, though we don't see the drawbacks effect his performance in battle. His artificial body gives him superhuman strength and durability, but earlier iterations would randomly cause him bouts of pain-- this is no longer an issue once Stockman creates a more stable body for him. It might also be inferred that he experiences less physical pain, considering how often we see him brush off devastating injuries. For example, being slammed into a metal wall hard enough to dent by Hun, or being impaled through the chest and still finding the strength to escape up a ladder. This, though, is just conjecture.
Let's break it down to its components:
Speed
One of the most defining traits of Bishop's fighting style, in my opinion, is his ability to outspeed and outmaneuver almost every opponent he faces. This is even something that's commented on in the show (Mikey noting "Bishop's got a little quickness in him!") In order to land a hit on him, he has to be distracted or overwhelmed in some fashion-- which is hard to do! His mind is fast, too, enough that he can handle multiple opponents at once. He's very consistently shown to be faster than most every character he fights, and he's extremely well-coordinated, able to flip around and slip through defenses, or out of range. Which leads cleanly into the next point:
Control
Bishop excels at controlling his fights. Because he often holds advantage in both speed and strength, he can move opponents around as he likes, and can pick and choose when he wants to be on offense or defense. Additionally, he's an adept strategist who is very effective in using his opponent's strength against them, often using their momentum to push them in whatever direction he wants. On top of all that, he refuses to engage in fights he's not certain he can win. When his back is against the wall and he can no longer control the flow of a confrontation, he will take that control back by just leaving. Essentially, he gives no one the satisfaction of beating him, if he can help it. If fighting doesn't work, he'll just find another solution to get his way.
It's worth noting the instances we see him lose come from circumstances reasonably outside his control. See: an explosion being the thing to send him to a gory impalement. Furthermore, this level of control can sometimes make him overconfident. If he's sure in his understanding of his opponent, it can leave him to being surprised, like when Mikey knocks him away while Bishop is trying to use him as leverage in their first encounter.
Countering
Bishop loves using his opponent's strengths against them, and this manifests as his style using a lot of counters. He often lets his opponent make a move, and then goes for the punish when it fails to land. He's very opportunistic and will take advantage of any perceived weakness, no matter how small.
Weapons
Two notes here!
One: Bishop prefers ranged weapons. On the few occasions we see him bring his own weapons into a fight, most of them are guns, and in one instance it's a chain. We see him to be adept in most every type of weapon (which I'll elaborate on in point two,) but he seems to like guns especially. It's worth noting he never uses a chain again after getting hooked; maybe that's on purpose lol
Two: Bishop makes his own weapons. What I mean by this is, more often than we see him bring his own weapon, he instead almost always goes into fights without one. Instead, he will either make a weapon out of his environment, or he will steal his opponent's. This ties back to his need to control a fight! Taking his opponent's weapon unbalances them and puts him squarely at an advantage. Or using whatever's in his immediate environment gives him a lot of unconventional weapons to work with, and often surprises his opponent (in fact, a lot of his style is quite unconventional.) He can essentially make a weapon of anything, and he can use any weapon with proficiency.
Durability
I've already touched on this, so there's not much to say, but Bishop is really hard to knock down for the count. Even if he seems to be hurt by an attack, his recovery is ridiculously fast, and seldom do we see an injury slow him down (the only example off the top of my head is when he gets electrocuted, which stops him for a few seconds. Even then, he powers through while still actively being electrocuted, so. This ties back to my theory that he doesn't experience pain the same way normal people do, but that's just a headcanon.) One does not so much beat Bishop as one forces him to retreat. And, to be fair, he only needs to doubt his ability to win with ease to decide he should leave.
Splinter
The only person consistently shown to give Bishop trouble is Master Splinter, and I am absolutely obsessed with their dynamic in combat. By the point we meet Bishop, we know Splinter to be a formidable fighter. One has to be Shredder-level to give him trouble. And when we first meet Bishop, he's just fought off all the turtles, Casey, and April all at once without much trouble. So when they find themselves evenly-matched, it is a brilliant shorthand for just how terrifying BOTH are! Bishop is able to handle a 1v6, yet this one ninja master can hold him off in a 1v1. And Bishop himself is instantly understood to be on Shredder's level on the power scale.
And this spans multiple confrontations between the two! This builds both of them up as very dangerous fighters, and I just think it's so cool!! Couldn't pass up talking about it
(A similar scenario happens in Hun on the Run: the entire episode we see Hun perform wild feats on strength and persistence, and then when he finally confronts Bishop, the man makes easy work of him.)
How to win
Chances of outclassing Bishop in strength, speed, and weaponry are low, and he's at his most dangerous when he's in control of the flow of the fight. Furthermore, he will bail if he starts feeling the tides turn against him. So the best chance of beating Bishop is to surprise him, or to make yourself unpredictable to him. If he can't figure out where the next move will go, it keeps him on the defensive and lowers his chances of successfully retreating. He can't control a fight he can't predict; keeping him reacting is key to getting a win.
Bishop's personal flaws can also come back to bite him. He's sadistic and egomaniacal; he'll sometimes delay a win just to torment his opponent longer, or take an opportunity to try rub their nose in their failures, which can give them the opportunity to flip things around on him. He's also prone to underestimating opponents, though he never makes that same mistake twice for any one character. If he truly feels pressure, he'll take things seriously enough that these flaws become far less prominent.
While Bishop is clearly extremely capable, he prefers to put himself in situations where he knows he can win, and can become frustrated if he feels he can't predict the outcome of a situation. In the number of times we see him truly emotional enough to be unbalanced, it clouds his judgement and makes him far more aggressive than he might normally be.
Fast Forward
Not letting Bishop be that absolutely devastating combat powerhouse he should be is one of my biggest grievances with Fast Forward! By this point he should have an additional 100 years' worth of experience under his belt, the only thing keeping him from winning every confrontation should be bureaucracy (this is the explanation I use to keep my sanity. It wouldn't do for his image as a benevolent politician to be a deadly martial artist, so he dials it down lol.) I don't have much else to say aside from that complaint, and that I would've loved the opportunity for the turtles to train with him at some point. There is a lot of missed potential with President Bishop, of which this is a small but significant facet.
Additional Notes
-Bishop prefers to use kicks in hand-to-hand combat.
-Bishop has enough physical strength to overpower Hun (the guy who stopped a train with his raw strength?? So like that's insane.)
-Bishop is shown to handle 1v6+ odds for extended periods on multiple occasions, though he ends up retreating in the end on multiple counts. Worth noting, at one point he 1v4s the Foot Elite and wins.
-Bishop has very good spatial awareness and almost always uses his environment to his advantage in some way.
-In the showdown with Splinter, Bishop uses the hook to maneuver around the space, unwittingly setting up his own defeat by moving it into place.
-Even when winning, Bishop will become frustrated if he doesn't know why he's won (i.e. when the True Shredder's army disappears, he demands aloud "why are they retreating?!")
-Bishop's power armor seems to hinder his maneuverability and speed somewhat.
-Bishop's good at driving in car chases, courtesy of FF.
-Bishop seems to prefer fighting solo.
To round us out, here are some of my original observations when I was doing my watchthrough. Sometimes I phrase things better off-the-dome, so I figured I'd throw them in. If anyone has additional observations please feel free to add on!
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
27 notes · View notes
asmuchasidliketo · 9 months ago
Text
@petermorwood now that you say it, there was that time a few weeks ago where I would probably had felt more secure with a blunt object in my hand...
87K notes · View notes
nebula-drcams · 2 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
@braveryhearted asked: “ please don’t question my driving or parking skills . you couldn’t even begin to understand the level i’m on . ” ( from Gintoki to Nimue lol )
❥    𝐕𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒    [   𝚂𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙴𝙽𝙲𝙴 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙴𝚁𝚂    ]  || Currently Accepting
Tumblr media Tumblr media
"I don't think skill is the way to put it.."
   Or maybe it is a little bit considering he can move this slow even while driving. On one side, she's glad he doesn't seem to speed through the busy paths that people are on, on the other, it's hard to tell if he's just being cautious or just won't drive past a certain speed. It doesn't help that he can also stop so suddenly that she's sure of she didn't have a hold of him, she'd be thrown off.
"All I asked is if you were just one of those overly cautious drivers you know-"
   Now that she thinks about it.. that's probably close enough to questioning his skills.
Tumblr media
1 note · View note
muntitled · 12 days ago
Text
Tic-Tac-Toe
Tumblr media
Pairing: The Salesman x Fem!reader
Summary: Every Wednesday your schedule consisted of attending classes during the day, and satisfying the needs of a sadist through the night.
Warning: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Violence, Kidnapping, Isolation, SociallyAnxious!Reader, Blindfolds, Stalking, Knives, Blood, Gore, Stockholm Syndrome, Smut (+18) mdni, Degradation Kink, Praise Kink, Insertion, Fingering, Rough Sex, Erotophonophilia, Dom!Salesman, Sub!Reader, Dacryphillia, Sadomasochism, Gunplay, Deepthroating, Breeding Kink, Unprotected sex
A/N: Hell is empty
4k Words
Tumblr media
You're strapped in a chair, like always, and you are blindfolded because he doesn't trust easily.
It's terribly annoying.
At any point of during and after your little 'arrangement' you could have called the cops. Doesn't he understand that?
Every Wednesday, you're taken from the warmth of your apartment, and you're delivered right back at 00:00 on the dot, every Thursday with barely an inch of life left in your bones. You'd either always come back wet, with semen sliding between your thighs, or with mysterious marks- old and new- crawling underneath your sweater. Whatever mood he was in, he'd always leave you feeling sore.
It should have bothered you.
The thought of seeing this large, domineering shadow-in-a-suit every Wednesday should not overwhelm you with all these feelings of excitement. Instead, you should do like all the mentally ill girls do and just get some fucking help.
But you want him to trust you, for some reason.
Which was utterly ridiculous considering the fact that to him, you were something akin to a porcelain wind up toy for his amusement. You had no business requesting he remove the blindfold aspect but still, you asked anyway. Toy's couldn't be trusted, could they?
"I'd really appreciate it if I didn't have to wear one of these everytime I visit your place." He removes the blindfold, and in a second, your vision is filled with nothing but him. One moment you were in the cozy warmth of your dorm room. Curled up on the couch while your roommate spends her youth effectively- out with boyfriends and friends and everything you didn't have. You answered the front door when you heard his special knock, like you always do. You walked with him to the cab. You let him put on the blindfold. You said 'I'm fine’ when the taxi driver got a little too nosy and you let him lead you away from your boring life.
If only for a few hours.
You'd let him do whatever he wanted for those few hours because such surrender was almost sacred. You forfeited your safety in his hands, to do with it whatever he pleased and in that, you found rest. Whatever happens, happens.
Forget this room- what was essentially his personal dungeon, windowless, red and boasting various torture objects- your eyes are only on him.
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't feel the need to kidnap me anymore? We do this every Wednesday," You become more childish around him and he lets you. Like you forgot you are a fully autonomous university student. There was power in that too. "Surely we've established some sort of trust?” He doesn't respond to you immediately. You crane your head up at him, hungry to lock eyes with his cold, empty slits that enchanted you body and soul.
You are in love with him, perhaps.
That's a logical response isn't it?
You laugh almost.
Listening to yourself try to rationalize your fondness for such a horrible man.
Said horrible man is silent. All you hear is the clicking of his dress shoes as he moves to the leather seat directly across from yours. Your eyes scan over all his movements.
The right corner of his lip quirks up. A small coffee table creates the only distance between you and he bends over to pour you both a generous glass of Brandy on the rocks. You don't drink it. Ever since he's been bringing you here, you never do. He knows this, yet still he pours.
"This relationship isn't about trust." He says finally. Something inside you, that is perhaps a little broken, actually purrs at the sound of his voice. You're hyperaware of your thighs squeezing together on the leather seat. They're spilling out of the sundress you purposely wore today.
Lots of your clothes were for the function of comfort. Your body was full and curvy and not always something to be advertised, unless you wished it to. Tonight, you wanted to show off as much as possible.
A thick leather band is keeping both your wrists locked to the armrests, while he sits back, free and so irrevocably in charge it should scare you. It should. But the sick and incredibly deranged thing is that it doesn't.
Outside, the rain is beating down on whatever building you're in, casting a thick veneer of grey all across the city.
But inside this velvet room... your heart is hammering inside its cage as you watch him undo the buttons of his crisp suit. A black one today. Jet black like his hair.
Although-
"You've got more grey in your hair than last week." You can't help but say.
He tilts his head in inquisition. "Are you insulting me or complimenting me?"
"I'll leave that up to you to decide," you shrug your shoulders as much as you can under these limited restraints. At least he hasn't restrained your ankles this time. Progress. "In here, you're the boss. Right?"
He takes a sip of his drink until finally, you've finally locked eyes. Your bare toes curl and your back arches slightly as you sit a bit straighter in your seat. Like you're in a lecture hall, although he is far more interesting than any of your professors.
"I'm not as young as I used to be," he finally says as he takes one more sip of his drink before bringing his briefcase onto the coffee table. Its presence is ominous and so horribly loud for an inanimate object. It kickstarts all your dormant nerves, revving up all the rest of your senses that have yet to catch up to the fact that you were facing the man of both your desires and nightmares once again.
"Who have you told about our arrangement?" The question causes you to roll your eyes. He watches the petulant movement with that same, silent smile and blank eyes. He unclicks the briefcase. Your stomach lurches and your thighs squeeze together. Pavlov's dog.
"Every time you ask me-" an object clinks onto the table. A butcher knife.
You try to pull your eyes away from the objects he's placing on the table, one by one. "Everytime you ask me if I've told anyone about our arrangement-" another object. A wooden spoon beside the knife. "Everytime I tell you the same thing."
Your throat closes when he uncovers a dildo. Bright pink and fucking menacing. "Carry on talking." He says, snapping your gaze away from the objects lining the table.
"I don't have any friends." Your voice is wobblier. You try to deny the sight of the rabbit vibrator, "It's the reason you picked me." You clear your throat as you hoped to clear all the nerves beginning to fog your mind. "Someone could've followed me here. B-But I don't really know anyone enough to care." The final object that clunks onto the glass coffee table and this time, you're unable to look away.
"Are we ready to begin?"
The metal revolver laying quiet and undisturbed beside the rabbit vibrator makes everything else on the table look like children's toys. Even the butcher knife.
You pull at the restraints, your legs quivering slightly as you shift and writhe in the seat. He studies you as closely as you were once studying him. You can see the excitement begin to flood his eyes at the physical manifestation of your discomfort.
"Now you're getting it." He nods sardonically, taking another sip from his glass before placing the briefcase on the floor beside him. "You were a little too happy to see me," he joked, letting out an airy exhale of laughter.
"You wanna hazard a guess as to what we'll be playing today?" He's smiling, genuinely. With that look in his eyes you can tell he's hovering in the clouds. Meanwhile you've begun to feel real fear. No matter how regular these visits might become you'd never get used to him. It's impossible. Not when he found new and daring ways to torture and pleasure you every single week. You couldn't get used to something as brash and unconventional as him. Like the conditions of a child in a broken home, he kept his tactics inconsistent so that every week is a new hell or perhaps- depending on his mood- heaven.
"If I guess wrong?" You swallow thickly and something dark in him settles. He spreads his legs more, there's a twitch inside his lips before he smiles again.
"Well, guessing isn't the game, so you'll be fine."
You nod your head... assessing the objects. There's menacing objects and household objects. Even just looking at them you can tell what they all have in common.
"Am I going to have to insert-"
"You're not guessing." His voice booms. He rests his elbow on the armrests, his hands corded with veins seem itching to do something, you're not sure what. "I said guess." He commands.
"Hide and seek?"
He snickers, "A favourite-"
"More like your favourite." You snip back, "I couldn't sit down the whole week." You frown at the memory. That week he'd brought you to an abandoned warehouse, letting you run the entire perimeter full.
"It's in your best interest to keep coming to our sessions-" he reminds you, snapping you back into the present.
"You're paying my university fees, I'm not complaining." You nod, before plastering a thin smile on your face, "All I have to do every week is prostitute myself to a literal sadist-"
"Have you given up on guessing today's game?" He didn't like you making him hyper aware of the fact that this dynamic, whatever it is, is considered objectively bad. And so you're not surprised when he swiftly moves past the topic.
He leans forward. His large hand disappears under his chair before uncovering a small whiteboard. Four lines- 2 horizontals are running across 2 verticals, creating 9 blocks. He stands up, while your eye is still focusing on the board. From your point of view it sits underneath the row of objects on the table. You don't even realize your right wrist strap is being untied.
"Colour?" He asks, pushing a crate of whiteboard markers towards you. With your now free hand you pick the pink one.
He snickers. "Predictable." He whispers before placing a large, domineering hand on your head. He presses down your braids, patting you like a stray he's rescued from the cold. You stare aimlessly ahead, fearing you won't be able to contain everything you've begun to feel for him if you lock eyes now.
"We're playing tic-tac-toe," he relents. His hand lingers on your head a bit longer before he's stepping away.
"With a twist, I presume?"
"Clever girl," he nods, walking back to his seat. "So you're aware of the objects."
"Place a gun in front of a girl and she's going to notice."
"Paranoid girl." He tsks before leaning forward.
"You want to start or should I?"
"Wait-" you swallow, "What happens if I win?"
He smiles that dazzling, debonair smile.
"You pick which one goes inside you."
Lightning cracks across the sky. A chorus of thunder roars all at once like some kind of phenomenon and your lips stutter open.
"Th-That's insane I-"
"I shouldn't have to remind you that you came here out of your own volition. "
"What happens if you win?"
"Then I choose." He says.
Your eyes skate over the object. It doesn't take an ivy league graduate to hazard a guess as to which of the objects he's itching to stick inside you.
"There's a fucking knife here-" You're trembling. Tears are pooling in your eyes. It doesn't even matter that you're a somewhat decent tic tac toe player. It doesn't matter that you're confident in this game. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters.
"And there's also a spoon," he nods, neutrally, "And a vibrator, and a dildo. Etcetera. Etcetera." He leans forward, unclicking his whiteboard pen, "your words are just words, Darling. You're just listing things. Start," he says, with a deadly lilt in his voice. "Or I will."
You scramble to uncap your marker with one hand, all while he watches with dead and black eyes. You knew that whoever starts the game was placed at a big advantage and so you're nearly scrambling to place that dignified X in the center block.
"Clever girl." He says once again, drawing his blue 'O' directly beside your pink 'X'. You aim for the block above him. He blocks it. You aim for the block beside the center. He blocks that too.
Your victory comes too quickly. You barely feel it as you strike a line vertically through the blocks. 3 X's.
Relief washes over you but it's overcast with doubt. Like you're celebrating in trepidation as you watch him stand up.
"Congratulations! Which do you choose?"
"I can pick anything?" You ask, staring up at him, bright eyes wild with the adrenaline that comes with wanting to preserve your organs.
"Anything you want, my little winner."
You begin to lean over. His eyebrows quirk up when you wrap a small hand around his wrist.
"I pick that." You say breathlessly. Your eyes zeroed in on his hands at his side. And you watch as he walks towards you, as if compelled by an unforeseen force. His palms are calloused underneath yours and you blow out several unstable breaths as he stands above you. So imposing it's breathtaking.
"You sure?" It's the way he asks it that has you second guessing. And perhaps he sees the caution seeping into your eyes because there's excitement lurking in his. Before you're even able to formulate a response, his hand is locked tightly around your esophagus, vacuuming all pathways shut until you're writhing for air.
"A fine, fine choice," He's becoming more and more riled up the more you writhe in your seat, trying to scrounge for a single breath of air. He doesn't let you. Instead he moves behind you, before leaning down.
If you could breathe, you would shiver at the feeling of his lips behind your ear. "Here we go-" he whispers, before reaching around your torso with his free hand before forcing your legs open. The second he lets his three digits stab into your cunt, he uncurls the grip on your throat as you make a horrid sound somewhere between a moan, a scream, and a haggard gasp. "FUCK- Sl-Slowdown-" you knew better than to request something like that. All you hear is a snicker from behind you as pain blossoms all across your nether regions. He's not gentle. He's not kind. He doesn't allow you to adjust to his fingers before he's scissoring them inside you, causing a blood-curdling scream to rip itself out of your throat. Your back is arched and you're trying to get away from him but the fucking persists.
"You've been wet like this for me the entire time?" He sounds absolutely demented, behind you, "You wanted this didn't you?" He bites at your ear as the first tears begin to pool at your eyes, "My little winner."
"P-Please stop-" His fingers are restless inside you. Curling and uncurling. Scissoring and stabbing as if wanting to open you up and split you all the way in half.
"What a pretty little pussy, huh? Look at what a mess you're making."
"When-" you can't form words. "When- Stop?" It's all you're able to say as your nails dig into the material of his suit.
"The sooner you cum the sooner it stops."
You doubted your ability to cum under these circumstances. He's setting an ungodly pace and it's all so hurried and in a frenzy, it's like your brain does not have time to understand if you even like what's currently being done to you.
"What- Do you want you want my help?" you begin to shake your head. "I'll help you, baby-"
His other hand reaches over and pinches your clit.
Your eyes roll to the back of your head as your orgasm is quite literally forced out of you. Your hips writhe and your ass tries to leave the seat as the first feelings of pleasure rip through you by force. "That's it, Clever girl," he coos, still curling his fingers inside you, "That's my Clever girl." He says once more before stilling his movements. For a second you just sit there, trying to collect your breath while he's still inside you. All at once, his hands are removed from your body.
He grabs a handkerchief from his breast pocket and you watch him clinically wipe his hands before erasing the marks on the board with the same cloth. A very clear boner pushes against his black slacks yet still his face is calm.
"Alright, My turn to start-"
"WHAT!? B-But I won." You scream, absolutely seething with desperation.
"You know everyone who plays 'X' has a significantly higher chance at winning-" You say with your eyes narrowed. He nods.
"And you know that too, which means we each should be granted alternating times to play ‘X’. Regardless if you won or not." You slump in your seat, suddenly far too aware that your bare cunt is exposed.
"Don't mope." He says, "It's not cute." Before drawing his 'X' in the center.
You close your legs, sitting upright with a new zeal of self preservation as you grab ahold of your marker.
You draw your pink 'O' underneath his.
You both play many more rounds. All ending in ties. This is how you play- with a frazzled grip and closed legs. A shiver every now and then overcomes you with the gravity of your aftershocks. His snickers bring your eyes up to his. He speaks as he makes his move.
"You're so focused on blocking," he sighs, "You're not even trying to win anymore-"
"I'm not letting you stick a knife in my cunt." You nod in finality before blocking another move.
"Not even if I say please?" He asks, making a faux pout.
"Fuck off."
"In that case, I have to win."
Your heart kickstarts as he pushes his pen to the board. Images flash across your mind. Blood splattered across his gorgeous face. Your blood as he fucks the sharp end of a knife inside you. You nearly vomit while he speaks. “Easy as-" you block him.
"Tic-" you block him again.
"Tac-" you block him some more
"Toe- I Win."
A victory that somehow escaped your vision. He strikes a line diagonally through the squares and your stomach sinks. He stares at you from across the room. His eyes so deeply satisfied you can feel it radiating off of him in waves.
You lower your teeth to the other restraint, violently trying to free your left wrist from its oppressive hold. And you watch as the devil slowly rises.
Your heart aches. Your brain is sent into complete alarm as your flight or fight kicks in and your sympathetic nervous system fires.
"Now, which one would look pretty inside you?" He drags his fingers along the objects, undoubtedly an act of taunting. You stomp your feet on the ground. You try to push the chair underneath you but it's plastered to the floor.
"Please!" Tears are running thickly. They cloud your vision. You don't even see the way his smile falls enough for him to rub over the bulge in his slacks.
"Fuck," he says gravelly as he relents and picks up the gun. "You're so fucking pretty when you're scared out of your fucking mind. You know that?"
You shake your head as he nears, wondering if this might really be the end. Has your body become too worn out by his games? Has the time for him to discard his toy finally dawned on you both? Is he all grown up with no need for such things as toys?
"PLEASE-NO-"
"Open your mouth." He's standing in front of you, your head directly in front of his raging bulge.
You shake your head, trying to move away but he rips your face towards him. "Listening to me is the only choice you have to make it out alive, Baby. You wanna live, don't you?" He's nothing but a tall figure, with the overhead lights shining around his head like a halo. Your face right by his bulge.
"Little girl needs to go to school." He nods, eyes fluttering shut, "She needs to complete her studies and get a good job so she wouldn't have to meet with scary men like me- Fuck-" it riled him up to no end to have you scared of him. You suppose it triggered a part of him that craved attention. He needed to feel like he existed and if that was reeped from fear then so be it.
"Stick the barrel in your mouth," the bottom of his hand coaxed open your jaw, and, as if on autopilot, you listen. Perhaps there is a way out of this. Perhaps you should just listen.
"That's it... Fuck," he brings your free hand up to rub his erection "That's it, Baby, stick it inside your mouth." Cold metal hits your lower teeth, "Stick it in like you would a cock." He says, looking down at you intently as your tongue unfurls and you suck the barrel in. "Shit-" he places his other hand on the back of your head before forcing you to take the gun deeper down your throat. He's trembling. Far too badly. And so is his finger on the trigger.
"Fuck, you're such a fucking whore, you know that?"
You're gagging and flailing around the barrel, saliva slides down.
So desperate to please him.
In your hast you don't even realize your left hand that had been restrained is now free. Your eyes are closed.
Please him.
Just please him and you'll live.
"That's my brainless girl..." he praises and that rouses something in you. It has your hips bucking against nothing.
"Such a stupid girl..." he continues, "You're gonna ride me, aren't you? You're gonna fuck me so good-" You're not about to tell him that sex wasn't supposed to be apart of this game. You're not stupid.
You faintly hear the sound of a belt unlooping. A zipper siding down. "You're making me so happy, baby." He admits before effortlessly lifting you from the chair until you're straddling him.
You're free.
When did that happen?
"F-Fuck, I need you to ride me." His head is leaning back against the chair. His tie hangs messily from his shirt that has two buttons undone.
You're free.
"Don't try anything," he warns, as he lifts you enough to pull his cock out of his pants. "Matter of fact. Keep it in your mouth while you ride me-" He slams you down onto his cock the very second those words leave his mouth. He's fucking into you with recklessness and fury and violence. His hair falls in his face but the gun is too heavy, without a hand there, it nearly slips from your mouth.
He's careful to catch it, forcing the barrel back in your mouth as he places a hand on your ass, controlling how your ass bounces on his lap. The gun offers motivation like no other. It has you arching your back and swirling your hips as you tighten your cunt around him.
He sticks the gun down too far and you gag. "You trying to get me to cum, huh? You little slut-" you nod, the tears still spilling as pleasure begins to stream through your brain. It has you excited by the prospect of being held at gunpoint. You realize with grave certainty that you've arrived at the point of no return.
"What a good girl- fuck-" he's ramming up into you, his hand on the gun twitching like his cock does. "I'm gonna fucking cum- FUCK-" he does and your orgasm immediately barrels into you at the exact same time. You try to ride him, to milk it as much as you can, to continue to make him happy.
"Such a stupid fucking slut-" he whispers, eyes hooded as his hips still spurt cum into you.
Your ears perk. You see his finger on the trigger move. You squeeze your eyes shut as you hear a click.
"Such a silly girl." You hear him say. "Don't worry, Baby, it isn't loaded." You're still in your body. You're still alive, on his lap, your sundress unfurling around you both.
"Not yet anyway."
© to @muntitled on tumblr; do not repost
6K notes · View notes
selamat-linting · 10 months ago
Text
i know manifestation doesnt work and that you cant exactly will a tragedy to existence, but it still spooks me when someone seriously says "someone's going to die" when looking at genuinely dangerous / unsafe situations. like, the mentality that your every word is a prayer haven't died despite me rationally knowing its not true or even strongly supported in a theological sense.
0 notes
formulaheart · 4 months ago
Text
something about george russell being hyperaware and vocal about track safety for himself and other drivers even if it slows him down, something about fernando giving franco colapinto advice his first week in, the mclaren boys continuing to be happy with each other even when the team screws them over, hamilton reminding motorsports spectators and competitors alike that kimi antonelli is still just a kid after all and has a long way to go, max and charles congratulating each other after almost every race even when one of them gets a win and the other gets something like their worst drive of the season, alex and oscar defending logan sargeant as having so much untapped potential even if hes no longer racing, pierre and seb going out of their way every year to honor drivers who have passed, esteban ocon going out of his way to welcome new drivers to the grid, kmag fighting tooth and nail to get nico hulkenberg one point, nico rosberg shredding team principals with poor team treatment on live television
f1 is gonna be okay
6K notes · View notes
kurooh · 1 month ago
Text
HOT THINGS THEY DO ★ MY HERO ACADEMIA
Tumblr media
⊹₊˚. featuring various characters being attractive in and out of the bedroom.
warnings. 18+ content — mdni, fem! reader but a few can be interpreted as gn. mainly suggestive / nsfw hcs
Tumblr media
izuku’s eyes are always on yours when he’s listening to you speak—sometimes, in the middle of conversation, he tilts his head to the side. it’s completely unconscious, he’s just really focused on you. +bonus: he twirls his pen around between his fingers when he takes notes and he has such nice hands . . ykwim
in the bedroom, izuku’s open to anything. he welcomes change in the form of new kinks, positions, toys, etc but also doesn’t mind if something doesn’t work out. his willingness to experiment has almost always yielded a positive result and better sex.
katsuki is an amazing driver. safety and making yellow lights are very important to him. he usually drives with one hand, and he throws an arm behind the passenger seat to take a look behind him when he’s backing up. yes, he’s able to use the camera without turning to look back, but he prefers not to for safety. (he likes getting you a little flustered)
katsuki’s easily able to throw you around and manhandle you as much as you like. in addition, he’s got a filthy mouth, so by extension, his dirty talk is excellent. he’s able to fluidly switch between tones and leave you thinking about everything he said even days later.
shōto doesn’t understand why you’re fawning over him when he’s in the middle of working out. after a few sets, he tugs on the hem of his sleeveless shirt and uses it to wipe away the sweat gathered on his forehead. by the time he’s pausing to do so, he’s panting heavily and his abs clench sporadically as he tries to catch his breath. +bonus: sho’s tired and doesn’t gaf about a little mess when he’s sucking down some water, so it always ends up trickling down his chin
when you’re naked and ready for his touch while pinned beneath him, shōto’s easily able to read your body. he’s mapped out the spots that make you tick and committed them to memory; he’s able to figure out what you want and how you want it without you having to say a word.
eijirou often sits back lazily in chairs or on the couch, with his legs comfortably spread. in that position, his thighs always look extra thick and strong. when he catches you staring, he pulls you into his lap with a laugh.
when it comes to fucking eijirou, it’s clear that his pleasure is really yours—he gets off on pleasing you and makes it his top priority always. he’s cum untouched a few times with you sitting on his face or riding it.
denki is always smiling. it’s easy to tell how he’s feeling because he’s so open about it, and he’s also genuinely happy often. even when he’s nervous he tries to hide his little smile !
as often as possible and if the position allows, denki’s right up against your ear and softly making noise while babbling dirty or sweet nothings. he’s not at all shy to make noise and encourages you to do the same.
keigo is naturally protective. in crowded areas, he takes your hand in his and pulls you close while you walk together. if you’re walking around the city at night together after getting tipsy and someone threatening approaches, he steps between you and them while shielding you with his wings.
keigo builds tension perfectly through lengthy kisses and eager touches all over your body. it’s a little torturous for him to fight back the urge to cum when he hears you softly begging him to touch you. he’s shaking when he finally slides in, and his wings fan out uncontrollably; they’re always talking for him when he’s too busy making noise to communicate.
2K notes · View notes
gloomwitchwrites · 7 months ago
Note
You introduce your husband as your "boyfriend" to annoy them.
Tumblr media
Anon! This prompt has me screaming! I really enjoyed writing for this one because it's such a fun idea. Sure, our 141 boys might be a little mad that they aren't being called by their proper title, but you know they'll just love punishing you for it.
I went a little different with this one. Instead of introductions, I made it so that reader is constantly referring to them as "boyfriend" in public settings. Depending on the situation, introductions wouldn't make sense if it was with friends, family, or coworkers because they would likely already know that they're "husband" and not "boyfriend." So i changed it up a bit in that way!
Some of these fall into spicy territory without being descriptive.
For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE
Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, suggestive themes, non-descriptive mentions of sex, fade to black, brief dirty talk
ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if series masterlist
Tumblr media
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Simon shakes his head and you roll your eyes.
“We can ask someone for help,” you suggest, scanning the massive wall of televisions.
Simon grunts and crosses his arms. “No.”
Sometimes Simon’s stubbornness is cute—even sexy—but right now you’re just annoyed with him. It makes you want to stir up trouble, to cause a little chaos just for the fun of it. Pouting, you turn, eyes narrowing to find an associate of the electronics store. When you spot one near the HDMI cables, you take off, not caring if Simon follows.
“Excuse me.”
The man’s head perks up. “How can I help you?”
You gesture behind you, your hand smacking into Simon’s chest. “My boyfriend—”
“Boyfriend?” growls Simon, but you ignore him.
“—can’t decide on a television.”
Simon is not your boyfriend. He’s your husband. But he’s being stubborn, not making a decision, and you want out of this store.
Shifting, you place one hand on Simon’s large bicep, grinning like you haven’t done anything at all. Simon’s hand immediately grabs your ass, squeezing hard. A warning. One that you ignore.
“I can help with that,” replies the associate. You glance at the man’s nametag. Jim.
“Thank you so much, Jim.” You lean against Simon, giving Jim your best smile. “Getting this guy to commit to anything is so hard sometimes, ya know?”
Jim makes a noncommittal noise as he walks toward the wall of televisions. You start to follow but Simon’s hold on your ass tightens, keeping you pressed against him. Simon leans down, his lips brushing against your ear.
“What are you doing?” he whispers.
You elbow Simon in the side but it’s not hard. He lets go, keeping close to you as the two of you follow Jim over to the televisions. Standing back, you watch with glee as Simon is forced to talk to Jim. You stay out of it, but notice Simon’s gaze switching to you every so often.
You already know what he’s thinking. He’ll likely want to punish you, and sometimes those punishments are so sweet.
Once Simon selects something and the two of you are at the car, there is no safety net. Simon shuts the trunk and then you’re pressed against the car, your body trapped between it and Simon’s massive form.
“Boyfriend?” he accuses.
You shrug. “What do you mean?”
The growl in Simon’s throat comes out a groan. “Get in the car.” He lightly slaps your ass as you open the passenger door.
As you start to slide in, Simon’s hand returns, this time slipping under your skirt to find your thin, lace underwear. He tugs sharply, ripping the fabric.
“Simon!”
He stuffs the underwear into his pocket. “You don’t need these.” You feel your face growing hot.
Simon shuts your car door and walks around the driver’s side, hopping in. He reaches out, placing one large hand on your bare thigh. It roams upward, squeezing, sending a shiver of lust up your body to make your head spin. “When we get home, I’m fucking that boyfriend nonsense right out of you.”
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
“I’m so sorry, but this isn’t what my boyfriend ordered.”
Kyle frowns and glances up from his phone’s screen. That’s your voice he hears, but the term of address isn’t right.
Boyfriend. Not husband, as it fucking should be.
Kyle glances in your direction but you’re not looking at him. You’re smiling sweetly at the barista behind the counter.
“It should be hot. Not iced. I might have messed up. I’m so sorry. I can pay for another.” You raise your hands in a placating gesture but the barista doesn’t appear fazed at all.
“No biggie. Keep that one. Won’t take me more than a minute or two.”
“Thank you so much.” You glance at Kyle, and your smirk tells him all he needs to know.
You’re being a tease. You’re doing this on purpose. The drink order is wrong, and you’re using this as an excuse to poke at him.
Kyle locks his phone and casually slides it into his pocket. Do you think you’re going to annoy him by doing this? Maybe. The little smirk on your face tells him that’s entirely what you have in mind.
But the joke is on you. Doesn’t matter if you refer to him as “boyfriend,” because all it’ll earn you is a punishment.
As the barista slides the new drink across the counter to you, you thank them profusely. “Thank you so much. My boyfriend will really appreciate it.”
The barista only nods and turns back to the espresso machine.
As you approach with the coffee, Kyle gentle removes the drink from your grasp.
“Boyfriend?” he asks, amused.
You shake your head like you have no idea what he’s on about. “What?”
Kyle laughs and snags the other drink from your hand. With shock on your face, he strides up to the counter. “Can you set these aside for us? Be right back.”
They only nod and continue working. Kyle snags your wrist and drags you to the little hallway that curves out around. There are a few private corners in there, and the hallway itself opens up into the nearby bookstore.
Kyle checks the handle on the unisex bathroom. Finding it unlocked, he draws you inside.
“Kyle,” you hiss, but he’s not having any of it.
Kyle engages the lock and presses you up against the door.
“You owe me an apology,” he says.
“For what?” Kyle tuts, his hand sliding to the back of your neck. “Get on your knees,” he murmurs, undoing his belt buckle with the other hand. “Apologize with that gorgeous mouth of yours.”
John Price
John leans back in his chair, agitation irritating his spine.
House hunting isn’t something he’s particularly excited about. He is happy that it’s with you, his wife, but the tediousness of it all is exhausting to him. John would rather have you select a few places to tour and then be done with it all. Money isn’t the issue. He just wants you to find a place you like and the two of you can go from there.
He’d live in a tent if that’s what you want.
“My boyfriend isn’t all that picky.”
Boyfriend? John is tugged from his inner musings by your voice and that term of address. Boyfriend. Why the fuck would you call him that? John isn’t your boyfriend. He’s your goddamn husband.
You reach out, planting a hand on his thigh. You squeeze softly as you always do when you’re trying to reassure him, but John frowns down at it, and then looks up at you. You’re not looking at him. You’re staring at the realtor, completely ignoring him.
John licks his lips, considering whether to correct you or not, or leaving it up to a simple mistake, but you do it again.
This time, John didn’t mishear you.
Your hand squeezes his thigh again and Price rests his hand over yours. His fingers enclose your palm and he holds firm. You glance at him and John shoots you his best warning look. You don’t even react. Don’t event blink.
No. He’s going to correct you. He is absolutely fucking correcting you.
The realtor pivots the computer monitor. “I think any boyfriend would agree that these are excellent selections.”
That’s fucking it.
Price shoots up from his seat, keeping a tight grip on your hand. “I need to speak with my—” John pauses, swallowing down his annoyance. “Girlfriend. Privately.”
The realtor shrugs, smiling, but John is already turning around, dragging you out the door. Outside, the stuffy, summer air does nothing to soothe his annoyance.
“Boyfriend? Fucking boyfriend?” John crosses his arms over his chest, looming over you.
You shrug. “What’s the problem?”
“Behave yourself,” he says, lowering his voice.
“Or what?” you ask in mock innocence.
So, this is what you want. John understands the moment the words leave your mouth. You’re fucking teasing him. Fine. He’ll make you learn.
“We are gonna go back in, thank the kind woman for her time, and then we’re leaving.”
“No. I want to stay.”
John leans in but he notices the way you glance away from him and back, clearly flustered. “Good girls don’t play games.”
“Funny,” you reply, head tilting slightly. “That as my boyfriend you have any authority over me.”
John pivots, blocking the view of the front door from you. “I will bend you over that bench so fast, wife.”
“You won’t,” you stammer.
John arches an eyebrow and you visibly swallow. “Want to test me?”
You pout, and then playfully shove him in the chest. “You’re terrible.”
As you turn for the door, John grabs your waist pulling you close. “You started it.”
John "Soap" MacTavish
“My boyfriend and I are redesigning our bathroom.”
Johnny’s attention splits. The associate showing him floor tiles is a distant thing. He might be talking about the newest ones on the market, but Johnny is no longer interested.
Did he just hear you right? Did you just call him boyfriend?
“That’s wonderful,” comes a reply, and Johnny notes an older woman talking to you near the laminate flooring that mimics wood. “Where is he?”
“Over there,” you wave at him, a smug smile on your face.
Boyfriend? Johnny is your fucking husband.
“Sir?” prompts the hardware store associate. “What do you think of these?”
Johnny grunts. “Fine. We’ll come back.” He waves the man off and starts for you even as you continuously refer to him as your boyfriend.
You’re doing it on purpose. You’re doing it to annoy him.
And it’s fucking working.
Johnny saddles up beside you, snaking his arm around your waist, pulling you taut against him.
“This is the boyfriend,” you begin, smiling.
“Husband,” corrects Johnny, flashing the same devious grin. He holds up his left hand, showing off the simple gold band. “Happily married to this one.”
The older woman’s eyes round.
“She likes to joke,” continues Johnny. “Come on, love. Better get home.”
Johnny easily guides you away. He leans down, whispering. “You little terror.”
“Bite me,” you reply.
“Oh. I will. Everywhere. When we get home.”
taglist:
@km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @miaraei
@coffeecaketornado @aykxz98 @kayden666 @unhinged-reader-36 @enarien
@miss-mistinguett @keiva1000 @cherryofdeath @sapphichotmess @enfppuff
@berarenado @saoirse06 @haven-1307 @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu
@thewulf @lxblm @ferns-fics @ooldcardigan @beebeechaos
@sw33tsnow @kessi-21 @makayla-666 @lifes-project @burn1ngw00d
@heeheehoohoohahahihi @lulurubberduckie @ravenpoe67 @contractedcriteria @lovely-ateez
@gingergirl06 @kidd3ath @leed-bbg @blackhawkfanatic @suhmie
@tulipsun-flower @ghosts-hoe @jaggersinclair @nomercyforthewarrior @dakotakazansky
@talooolaaloolla @hantheconqueror @littlemisscriesherselftosleep @umno-yeah
5K notes · View notes
artbyblastweave · 7 months ago
Text
So I don't really think that it's a secret that Boston has a significant Minotaur problem. It's a pretty common situation for older American cities on the East Coast- centuries of poorly-documented cowpath-style urban growth providing an ideal nesting ground, widespread electrification and plentiful steam tunnels that compensate for the loss of the temperate Mediterranean climate that they're used to. And all this on top of limited institutional knowledge of proper containment tactics at least up until the Greek diaspora started to really blow up in the 20th century. You only have to fuck up the safety checks on one cargo steamer coming in from the broad area of old Minoa and then basically any import controls you put in after that point are closing the barn door after the bulls are loose. So yeah, no secret, it's an issue.
I do think, though, that we've kind of let the specific narrative surrounding the issue get away from us in the usual fashion, the problem people picture when they hear "Minotaur" isn't anywhere close the to the problem as it exists on the ground. I mean people's minds immediately jump to the 1949 Boylston massacre, but let's be real, even though that was really politically useful for finally getting the exit fares on the T removed, that was still a black-swan event, right? Basically every mayor since, like, Hynes has lived in mortal terror of having to manage a repeat of something like that during the mass media era, let alone the smartphone era. So we've got these Theseus kill-teams with their titanium-composite ropes and souped-up cattle prods and bolt guns, we have these constant "track replacement" stoppages on the orange line, and it's fine. It's fine! There hasn't been a serious Minotaur thing within walking distance of a T stop since, like, 2006, which again you can mostly chalk up to the chaos surrounding the dig.
No, the actual danger zones, the silent killers are the exurbs, like West Roxbury, Roslindale, parts of Hyde Park. Relatively dense foliage, bad sightlines, far enough from the urban center that the response times are bad, foot traffic that's basically nonexistent for big parts of the workweek because everyone's either commuting or hunkered down working from home. And, of course, a steady stream of delivery drivers with no political ties to the area. Which is an important element, right? I mean it's kind of baked into the Minotaur's nature, that they have a very finely tuned instinctual awareness of the politics of their situation. Start snagging homeowners, there might be a ruckus. But Amazon does steady business everywhere, and Minotaurs are smart enough to cover their bases, to wait until after the drivers have dropped off your package or delivered your food. So yeah, watch yourself out there. One eye on the treeline at all times. And if you see an Amazon van left idling, get ready to run faster than the driver could.
4K notes · View notes
trashytracktales · 27 days ago
Note
Omg can you please write some smut with Lando about the FIA gala??? He looks so hot in that suit and I need something about it🥵😭 Maybe after the gala ended and they’re back to their hotel or they fuck while they’re on the plane back to Monaco.
The FIA (Feral Instincts Arise) Awards | LN⁴
Tumblr media Tumblr media
💌 REQUESTED by anon ──── I knew there would be requests for this the second I saw Lando on that carpet. Bon appétit 😛
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
𐙚 summary ──── It's the 2024 FIA Awards, and Lando and his girlfriend can't help but steal a moment of passion, unable to resist the tension built through teasing touches and glances during such a glamorous night.
𐙚 pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader
𐙚 rating ──── explicit
𐙚 category ──── F/M
𐙚 warnings ──── +18, mature/sexual content, established relationship, teasing, mild public intimacy, smut, descriptive language, fingering, bathroom sex, swearing.
𐙚 word count ──── 3.2k
𐙚 date ──── Dec. 14, 2024
𐙚 a/n ──── I have nothing to say except that I am absolutely devastated that my role model and inspiration, Michèle Mouton has officially retired from her role as FIA Safety Delegate. I love her so much and will forever be grateful for the representation she provided for women in motorsport throughout the years. In other news, at least everybody looked so fucking hot last night.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
IT WAS PURE torture for her to see him up on that stage from the beginning of the evening. She’d sat in the audience, her heart swelling with pride and gratitude for being able to be by his side during this exciting stage of his life — witnessing his hard work, his wins, and his dreams becoming reality. It's more than she ever imagined.
As she watched him, she realized she wasn't just proud of his accomplishments, but thankful to be the one he comes home to, the one who gets to share these moments that will live forever in both of their memories.
Standing up to cheer for him, as Lando’s name was announced for finishing second in the Drivers’ Championship, was a natural reaction. The applause was loud, a mix of respect and so much admiration for her determined racer boy who had fought tooth and nail all season.
McLaren’s triumph in the Constructors’ Championship only added to the celebration, the team beaming as they ascended the stage to accept their award.
While the room celebrated them, all she could think about was him — her man, standing under the spotlights, looking impossibly handsome in his perfectly tailored black suit and crisp white shirt. He looked perfect, from his styled curls to his sharp jawline and sweet, nervous smile. She felt very conflicted, overwhelmed with pride and love, yet squirming with a different kind of heat every time he looked for her in the audience. The way his dimple appeared when he smiled, the casual confidence in his voice as he gave his speech, and the glint of determination in his eyes as he thanked the team for having faith in him — every bit of it was intoxicating.
Now, at the dinner table, the atmosphere has shifted.
Glasses of champagne catch the glow, sparkling like liquid gold, as conversations hum softly among the elite of the motorsport world.
Lando sits beside her, relaxed in a way only he can manage after such a long, eventful evening. His suit jacket is draped over the back of his chair, his shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal his forearms. He holds a champagne flute in one hand, the other resting lazily on her thigh beneath the table.
She can feel the warmth of his palm on her skin, his fingers flexing ever so slightly. It’s a casual touch — he’s sipping champagne, laughing at something Oscar just said — but the effect it has on her is anything but relaxed. Her heart races every time his thumb brushes against her soft skin, slow and intentional, almost like he knows exactly what he’s doing to her.
Her own glass of champagne sits untouched in front of her, her attention split between the conversation around them and the heat blooming under Lando’s hand. She tries to pay attention, nodding along while Andrea talks about some funny incident that happened in the garage during the last race of the season. But her thoughts keep drifting back to him.
She glances over at Lando, her breath catching at how effortlessly handsome he is, now that he’s more relaxed and in his element. The golden light softens the sharp lines of his face, making him look almost ethereal. But it’s the dimpled smirk that forms as he catches her staring that sends a shiver down her spine.
“Everything okay, gorgeous?” asks Lando, his voice low enough that only she can hear.
She nods, swallowing hard. “Positive. I'm just incredibly proud of you, that's all.”
His smirk widens, his thumb stroking her thigh with more purpose now. “You’ve said that already,” Lando murmurs, leaning in just enough that his breath brushes her ear. “But keep going. I like hearing it,” he adds, pressing his lips to her cheek.
She smiles, looking away, determined not to let him fluster her further.
However, Lando has other plans. His fingers trace unhurried patterns on her inner thigh, edging closer to the hem of her dress. The movement is subtle — nobody at the table would notice — but to her, it feels like her skin is burning. Her breathing gets heavier, and she shifts in her seat instinctively, her legs parting just enough under the table to grant him more access.
“My good girl,” whispers Lando, smiling against her cheek, then turning his attention back to the conversation.
Her heart skips at the quiet praise, and she shoots him a quick, warning glance, her eyes wide with panic.
Lando looks completely unbothered, taking part of the dialogue like he’s the epitome of innocence. The slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips tells a very different story, though. A secret one, that only they know about.
“Stop it,” she whispers through gritted teeth, her voice so low that it’s practically a breath.
Obviously, he doesn’t. If anything, her quiet protest seems to spur him on. The pads of his fingers creep higher, brushing dangerously close to the heat between her legs. She grips the stem of her champagne flute tightly, her knuckles white as she tries to take her first sip of alcohol of the night — at least then she'll have something to blame if anyone asks her why she got so flustered all of a sudden.
“Lando,” she warns, her voice soft but firm.
“Hm?” he hums, his expression completely neutral as he keeps his attention to Oscar, who’s recounting his Turn 1 incident from Abu Dhabi.
She bites her lip, willing herself not to squirm in her seat. She almost can not believe how shameless Lando is, then she remembers all the times he tested her patience when they were in public. At that, her free hand drops to her lap, fingers wrapping around his wrist in an attempt to still his movements. He doesn’t pull away, but he also still doesn’t stop. Instead, his thumb presses a little harder, a constant reminder of his presence.
“You’re squirming, baby,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with amusement. “People are going to notice.”
“Then stop,” she repeats quietly, her tone sharp enough to earn a quick, curious glance from Andrea, who's sitting across from her. She ends up forcing a small smile, nodding, then turning back to Lando.
He chuckles under his breath, leaning in just slightly so his words are for her ears alone. “But we’re having so much fun,” he teases.
Her body betrays her as heat pools low in her belly, and she can’t stop herself from shifting again, her legs spreading a fraction wider. Lando takes full advantage of the movement, his fingers grazing higher until they’re just shy of where she needs him most. She glares at him, her eyes filled with need and her cheeks burning when his fingers slide easily over her lace panties, pressing harder on her warmth. As a response, her body jerks, and she barely suppresses a gasp, her nails digging into his wrist.
“I hate you,” she mutters under her breath, her voice shaky.
His grin returns, and he tilts his head, finally looking at her again. His gaze is dark, heated, and he looks entirely pleased with himself. “No, you don’t,” says Lando, so sure of himself.
It’s a miracle she doesn’t combust on the spot.
Because he's right — she doesn't hate him, she hates the fact that they're in public and she's incredibly turned on, but there's nothing she can do about it.
Finally, she can breathe normally when he withdraws his hand from between her legs, just as casually as he’d started. Her body is still buzzing with the lingering traces of his touch as she places her hand lightly on Lando’s shoulder. Slowly, she rises from her seat, her fingers squeezing just enough to send him a silent message only he’d understand.
At that, Lando’s heart stutters for a beat, his mouth suddenly dry as he watches her glide gracefully toward the bathrooms. The way her dress hugs her curves doesn’t help the growing situation in his pants — it’s like she knows exactly what she’s doing to him, a small punishment for what just happened between them. He tries to act like he's not affected, emptying his glass of champagne while his eyes turn back to the table, but his focus is scattered.
His hand still tingles from touching her under the table, and now he’s left to deal with the knowledge that his teasing had gotten to her.
Oh, how the tables have turned.
Minutes tick by, though they feel like an eternity.
Lando finds himself forcing a laugh at something Oscar says, remembering how impossibly talkative his teammate gets when he has a few drinks on board. He shifts in his seat, trying to mask his growing anticipation, but she’s all he can think about. His fingers drum against his empty glass, the weight of the moment making it almost impossible to sit still.
Then, his phone buzzes inside his pocket, her name lighting up the screen.
He doesn’t need to answer to know it’s just a diversion, and she’s not waiting for a conversation, either — she’s just giving him an out.
Lando clears his throat, “Sorry, I have to take this,” he says, giving the table an apologetic smile, as he pushes back his chair and making his way out of the dining area with purpose.
His heart pounds in his chest as he walks toward the bathroom, careful not to seem too rushed, but acutely aware of the tension building inside his body with each step he takes.
The hallway leading to the bathrooms is quieter, lined with soft, ambient lighting and artwork that screams understated luxury. He takes a turn, his steps slowing as he spots her standing in front of the mirror inside the women's restroom. The space itself is elegant, all marble countertops and gold fixtures, with sleek stalls and huge mirrors.
She’s touching up her lipstick, her purse resting next to her, the subtle curve of her smile betraying the fact that she knows he’s behind her. Lando approaches slowly, his footsteps soft against the polished tile. When he’s close enough, his hands settle on her waist, his touch firm yet familiar as he pulls her closer.
“There you are,” he says, his voice low and full of heat. “Worried about your makeup when it’s just going to smudge off you anyway?”
Her smile turns into a smirk as she meets his gaze in the mirror. “God, you’re the worst,” she teases, her tone light but laced with something more intimate.
Lando chuckles while she turns in his arms. Her hands slide up his chest, her touch lingering as she looks up at him, her eyes dark with intent.
“Are you sure it can’t wait until we get back to the hotel?” asks Lando, even though he already knows the answer, because he knows the look she has painted all over her face very well.
Her lips brush against his cheek in a warm, lingering kiss before her breath tickles his ear. “Baby, that's hours away.”
She intertwines her fingers with his, and leads him to one of the stalls at the end of the bathroom. The space is just as luxurious as the rest of the venue — tall wooden doors that reach from ceiling to floor, polished brass locks, and a sense of privacy that makes it feel more like a secluded room than a bathroom stall. As soon as they step inside, the door locks with a soft click, and every ounce of restraint disappears.
Lando’s lips are on hers instantly, hot and demanding, his hands already traveling to the hem of her dress. There’s no time to waste, with all those people back at the table who could realize at any moment that it is no coincidence that they are both missing at the same time.
His hands slide up her thighs, pushing the fabric of her dress higher until he reaches the thin band of her panties. His fingers slip beneath the lace, tugging them down in one swift motion before his hand returns, sliding between her legs and finding her completely soaked.
“Fuck,” he hisses, his forehead resting against hers as his fingers dip into her heat. “All this from a bit of touching?”
Her breath comes out in a shaky laugh as she clutches his shirt. “No,” she whispers, “All this from watching you on that stage, sitting next to you the entire night, seeing how people were cheering for you �� and then from a bit of touching.”
A cocky smirk tugs at Lando’s lips. “That so?” he asks, pressing a finger into her, his pace measured as he stretches her slowly.
She gasps, her head falling back against the door, and he takes the opportunity to kiss her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. A second finger joins the first, curling inside her as his thumb circles her clit, making her see stars.
Her hands, trembling with anticipation, move to his belt, fumbling for a moment before she pushes his pants down just enough to free his hardened cock. Her touch is soft at first, her fingers wrapping around him and stroking slowly, making his jaw clench.
She looks up at him, her lips curving into a teasing smile as she echoes his earlier words. “All this from touching me under the table?”
“Shut up,” he growls, grabbing her thigh and hitching it around his hip. His cock presses against her entrance, teasing her as he slides the tip through her slick folds.
“You shut up, and fuck me already,” she says, her voice thick with desire.
He doesn’t need to be told twice. With one swift thrust, he buries himself inside her, both of them gasping at the full sensation. The stretch is so sweet and perfect, and he pauses for just a moment, letting her adjust before pulling back and thrusting again, harder this time. Her back presses against the door, the cool wood contrasting with the heat of his body as he sets a relentless pace, in and out of her tight pussy. His hands grip her thighs, spreading her wider for him as he drives into her, each movement hungrier than the previous.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” Lando groans, his lips brushing against her ear. “Perfectly thight around me, baby. Always so sweet and eager, aren’t you?”
She clings to him, her nails digging into his shoulders as he angles his hips, hitting a spot that has her biting back a cry. “Lan,” she breathes, her voice shaky and full of need, while trying to mimic his rapid movements.
“That’s it,” he encourages her, his voice rough as his fingers dig into her hips. “Let them hear you, baby. Let everybody know how well you take my cock.”
Her head falls on his shoulder as he thrusts deeper, harder, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside her. The tension coils tighter and tighter in her belly, her body trembling as she teeters on the edge.
“Lando, fuck,” she moans wetly into his shoulder, feeling her pussy clenching around his length. “Shit, baby. Yes, don’t stop.”
As he buries himself so deep inside her, Lando realizes that's what he wants to do for the rest of the evening — the rest of his life, as a matter of fact. His lips part as he feels her walls twitching around him, making him — if that's even possible — even harder for her. His breaths come out in spasms, letting out a small cry of pleasure as his chest crashes against hers violently.
Sensing that she’s so close, Lando’s hand ends up slipping between their bodies to rub her clit in time with his thrusts. “Come on, baby. Let me feel you.”
“Are you—oh, fuck,” she tries to speak, but all her thoughts are focused on how good he makes her feel.
“Yeah, yeah,” Lando assures her, “Right behind you, love.”
It only takes a few more thrusts before she shatters around him, her walls clenching hard as her orgasm washes over her. Her moans are muffled against his neck as he continues to fuck her through her release, chasing his own high. His movements grow erratic, sloppier, his grip on her tightening as he finally lets go, spilling into her with a low, guttural moan.
For a moment, they can’t hear anything else except the soft whir of ventilation and their labored breathing. Their bodies stay pressed tightly together as the echoes of their pleasure lingers in the small space.
Her chest heaves against his as she exhales shakily, her lips brushing his neck, then up his jaw in a silent thank you.
Lando smiles, slowly pulling out of her, his cock still hard and sensitive from his release. She shudders at the sudden emptiness, but before she can speak, his hand slips between her thighs again. His fingers slide inside, pushing some of his cum and their mingled release back into her.
“Lando,” she gasps, her body clenching instinctively around his fingers.
His breath falls hot against her skin. “Gotta make sure you feel it all night.”
Her cheeks flush at his words, and she bites her lip, torn between glaring at him and melting into his touch. He strokes her lazily, savoring the way her body responds to him even now.
“Insane behavior, Norris,” she exhales sharply, finally looking up at him.
“My brand,” he smirks back at her. “But what about you, hm?” he asks, his tone soft, but teasing as his eyes rake over her wrecked expression. “Going back knowing you’re filled up so good?”
She rolls her eyes at him, but the heat in her gaze betrays her. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You love it,” he quips, fixing a strand of her hair and then kissing her deeply one last time.
She smiles against his lips, brushing her thumb over his mouth to wipe away the faint smudge of her lipstick. Then, leaning up, she presses a soft kiss to the tip of his nose. “Don’t take too long, champ.”
With that, she exits the stall, glancing once in the mirror to make sure she looks composed, and collecting her purse before heading back to the table.
When she returns to her seat, the conversation flows just as before, no one paying much attention to her absence beyond a polite glance. Her heart pounds in her chest, the sensation of being so intimately connected to Lando still fresh in her mind as she settles into her chair. She picks up her glass of champagne, finishing it in one go, her hands steady despite the warmth still coursing through her body — and the wetness between her legs.
A few minutes later, Lando comes back, his phone pressed to his ear as he pretends to be mid-conversation. His expression is casual, his voice light as he murmurs something unintelligible before slipping his phone back into his pocket and taking his seat.
But as soon as he sits down, Oscar’s eyes narrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
Lando catches the look, frowning slightly as he tilts his head. “What?” he asks silently, his expression confused.
Oscar doesn’t answer, instead he points directly at Lando’s bowtie, which is noticeably crooked.
Lando’s eyes widen as he glances down, and straightens it as casually as he can, his cheeks turning faintly pink.
“It's windy outside,” Lando mutters under his breath, low enough that only Oscar can hear.
His teammate just grins knowingly, leaning back in his chair. “Whatever you say, mate.”
Tumblr media
Thank you for reading!
None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎
© trashy track tales, 2024
2K notes · View notes
pucksandpower · 2 months ago
Text
Malpractice
Franco Colapinto x physician!Reader
Summary: when you agreed to join your cousin Lily at the Las Vegas Grand Prix to watch her boyfriend race, you didn’t realize the weekend would end with you saving a rookie driver with a concussion from the dangerous schemes of his team
Tumblr media
The Williams Racing garage is chaos incarnate. The crash replay loops on the screens above the engineers’ heads, showing Franco’s car slamming into the barriers. The sound of carbon fiber shattering is so vivid in your mind it might as well have happened right next to you.
The footage is brutal.
50G.
The kind of impact that makes your stomach twist into knots. Franco couldn’t even get out of the car by himself, the marshals had to haul him out like a ragdoll. And now, the garage feels like it’s on edge, everyone pretending they’re not watching for updates while they pretend to keep working.
“He’s at the medical center,” someone mutters behind you. “They’re checking him out now.”
Good. He needs checking out. A crash like that doesn’t leave you unscathed, no matter how tough you think you are.
You stand off to the side, arms crossed tightly over your chest, watching as engineers, mechanics, and media relations people swirl around each other, avoiding eye contact but buzzing with nervous energy. Lily had invited you here as Alex’s guest, but you feel completely out of place, like you’re intruding on a family argument you weren’t supposed to overhear.
Then you hear it.
“He’ll be fine to race tomorrow,” James Vowles says, his voice low but carrying just enough weight to reach your ears.
You blink, sure you’ve misheard. But no, he’s standing near a huddle of engineers, speaking in clipped tones like this is just another logistical problem to solve. “We can’t find a replacement on such short notice,” he continues, “so we need him in the car. No excuses.”
Your jaw drops. You can’t help it. “You’re joking,” you blurt out.
James and the engineers freeze, turning to you like you’re some alien creature who’s wandered into their secret lair.
He recovers quickly, offering a tight smile. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met-”
“Are you serious right now?” You step closer, fueled by disbelief. “He crashed into the wall at 50G. He couldn’t even stand up without help. And you think it’s a good idea to put him back in the car tomorrow?”
James’ expression hardens. “Miss, this isn’t your concern-”
“Actually, it’s Doctor. And it is my concern if you’re planning to endanger someone’s life for a race.” Your voice rises, but you don’t care. Let them stare. Let them glare. You’re not about to stand by while they make decisions like this.
“Look,” James says, trying for diplomacy. “The FIA medical team will clear him if he’s fit to race. That’s their job, not yours.”
“And what if they’re wrong?” You demand. “What if he has a concussion? What if he gets in that car and something happens because you couldn’t be bothered to prioritize his safety?”
Before James can reply, the garage door creaks open, and Franco stumbles in.
All eyes snap to him. He’s leaning heavily on his physiotherapist, his helmet dangling from his other hand. His usually sharp, confident features are slack, his eyes glassy. He looks like he’s barely holding it together.
Your chest tightens. He shouldn’t even be standing right now, let alone back here in the thick of it.
The physiotherapist helps him over to a chair, and Franco slumps into it with a groan. “I’m fine,” he says, though his words slur slightly. “Just a little — what’s the word? Shaken up.”
You don’t even think. You march over to him, the rest of the garage fading into the background.
“Franco,” you say firmly, crouching in front of him. “Look at me.”
His unfocused eyes wander to your face, and he frowns like he’s trying to remember where he’s seen you before. “Do I know you?”
“No, but I’m about to save your life, so let’s call it even,” you say briskly. “How many fingers am I holding up?” You hold up three.
He squints at your hand. “Uh … six?”
Your heart sinks. “Okay. Follow my finger.” You move your hand slowly in front of his face, but his gaze wobbles, unable to track it.
“Wow,” he mutters, blinking rapidly. “You’re really pretty.”
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from reacting. “Franco, focus. Do you feel nauseous? Dizzy?”
“Both,” he admits, leaning back in the chair. “But it’s fine. I’ve felt worse.”
“It’s not fine.” Your voice is sharper than you intend, but you can’t help it. “You have a concussion. Probably a severe one. You need to rest and recover, not get back in the cockpit tomorrow.”
He grins lazily, his head lolling to the side. “Are you my MILF angel?”
Your brain short-circuits. “What?”
He waves a hand vaguely in your direction. “You’re older, right? Like … a doctor? And hot? Definitely an angel. My MILF angel.”
Someone behind you chokes on a laugh. You whip your head around to glare, silencing them instantly.
Turning back to Franco, you take a deep breath. “Okay, you’re clearly not in your right mind, so I’m going to ignore that. But you need medical attention. Real medical attention. Not whatever half-assed clearance the FIA is going to give you.”
He reaches out clumsily, his hand brushing against your arm. “You’re bossy. I like that. Are you the same way in bed?”
You grab his wrist gently but firmly, lowering it back to his lap. “Franco, listen to me. I’m serious. You can’t race tomorrow. You could get seriously hurt. Do you understand that?”
He stares at you for a long moment, his expression oddly thoughtful. Then he smiles faintly. “You’re really worried about me, huh?”
“Yes,” you say without hesitation. “Because someone has to be.”
For a second, something shifts in his eyes, like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time. But then he blinks, and the moment is gone.
“You’re nice,” he murmurs, slumping further into the chair. “I like you.”
You sigh, glancing over your shoulder at the Williams team members still hovering nearby. “He needs to go back to the medical center. Now.”
James steps forward, his face a mask of polite concern. “I appreciate your input, but we’ll handle it from here.”
You stand, squaring your shoulders. “No, you won’t. Because if you try to put him in that car tomorrow, I’ll make sure everyone knows exactly what you’re doing. And trust me, the media will eat it up.”
James’ jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he nods to the physiotherapist. “Take him back.”
As the man helps Franco to his feet, he glances back at you, his lopsided smile still in place. “Don’t go anywhere, pretty doctor. I’m gonna marry you.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose, fighting the urge to scream. “You’re definitely not racing tomorrow,” you mutter, more to yourself than anyone else.
But as you watch him stumble out of the garage, you can’t shake the feeling that this fight isn’t over yet.
2K notes · View notes