#he feels a cold come over him. he feels a tap on his shoulder and spins...

[mofuguru]

sweet enough ╱ toji . 18+

⟶ 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦:〝 toji has always been the gruff, broad-shouldered single dad next door. You were never supposed to get involved. But when he shows up at your door late at night asking for sugar, you both know that’s not what he really came for. 〞

pairing: toji x fem!reader

genre: smut, neighbour!au ; wc: 1.9k

warnings: unprotected sex, dirty talk, dilf!toji, mild size kink, light roughness, breeding talk, toji in grey sweatpants (a warning itself)

You hear the knock at exactly 10:07 PM. Three slow taps. The same way he always knocks.

You open the door, already knowing who it is.

Toji stands there, shirtless—just grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, a faint line of sweat still clinging to his collarbone. “Didn’t mean to bother you,” he says. “But… you got sugar?”

You arch a brow. “Sugar.”

“Megumi wanted pancakes tomorrow.” His voice is gravel and sleep. “I was halfway into bed and remembered I used the last of it.”

“Sure,” you reply, stepping aside. “Come in.”

You expect him to wait at the door. He doesn’t. He walks in like he always does—big, broad, filling the room with his presence like gravity. The smell of sandalwood and something smokier follows him, something warm. Familiar.

You grab the sugar from your pantry. “Here.”

He takes it from your hands but doesn’t leave. He sets the bag on your counter instead and leans back, palms braced on the edge, flexing those thick arms just a little too easily.

“What’s the real reason you came over?” you ask quietly.

His mouth twitches into a smirk. “Knew you were smart.”

You wait. You don’t trust your voice if you speak too soon.

Toji’s eyes flick over your figure, lazy and deliberate. “Megumi’s asleep. House is quiet. I just… I get restless sometimes.” His voice drops. “And I kept thinkin’ about you.”

You swallow.

He steps closer. Just one step, but it’s enough.

“You keep answering the door lookin’ like that,” he murmurs, eyes on the loose sleep shirt clinging to your curves, “and I’m gonna start thinking you want something.”

“Maybe I do,” you say, breath hitching.

He’s on you before you finish the sentence.

Mouth crashing down on yours, one hand gripping your waist, the other sliding up the back of your neck. His kiss is all heat—messy, deep, and desperate. He tastes like peppermint and something darker. Hunger.

You clutch at his back, nails digging into skin. He groans, low in his chest.

“Fuck,” he breathes, lips dragging along your jaw. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

He walks you backward, lifting you up onto the counter. You gasp as the cold marble hits your thighs.

“I won’t be gentle,” he warns, eyes dark. “You okay with that?”

“God, yes.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

His hand is under your shorts in seconds, fingers slipping past your underwear, finding you soaked. “This all for me?” he growls, voice gone rough.

“Yes—fuck—”

He sinks two fingers inside, curling deep, thumb rubbing circles over your clit with practiced precision. You fall forward, forehead against his shoulder, moaning into his skin.

He pulls his fingers out, licking them slow. “You taste good. Wanna feel you ‘round my cock.”

He tugs your shorts down and turns you on the counter, bending you over. Your cheek hits the cool marble as he slides his sweatpants low, cock already thick and hard, tip leaking.

“No time for condoms,” he mutters, lining himself up. “Been clean. You?”

“Yes. I’m on the pill—”

That’s all he needs to hear.

He pushes in with one deep thrust, groaning as your walls stretch around him. You cry out—he’s big, the stretch delicious and brutal at once.

“Shit,” he pants. “Tight little pussy. Gonna ruin you.”

He fucks into you slow, then hard—deep, punishing thrusts that make your legs tremble. Your hands scrabble for purchase on the counter. He grabs your hips, yanking you back to meet every thrust.

“So pretty like this,” he grunts. “Bent over, takin’ it all for me. This what you wanted, huh? Every time you smiled at me over the fence, dressed like that?”

You whimper.

He slides a hand under you, fingers back on your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel you.”

You shatter around him, body trembling, crying out his name. Your orgasm drags him over the edge—he curses, grip bruising your hips as he pumps into you one last time, spilling deep inside.

You both stay there, catching your breath, skin slick with sweat.

After a minute, he presses a kiss to your shoulder. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, dazed and wrecked.

He pulls out gently, tucks himself back into his sweats, and smirks. “Might need to ‘borrow’ more sugar next week.”

You roll your eyes, breathless. “Pancakes again?”

He grins. “Nah. You.”

© 2025. mofuguru ─── all rights reserved. do not repost or translate.

[yuumenakaiser]

Hymn of proof

A deep, velvet-black night had settled over Okhema, and as so often, the cold rain drummed steadily against the bedroom windows. The constant tapping of the raindrops mingled with a faint rumbling that rolled in from the night sky—a harbinger of the approaching storm. The thunder had already raised its voice; soon lightning would follow, tearing the darkness apart for a few fleeting seconds.

Normally, you sleep soundly in such weather—the sound of the rain is like a lullaby, gently rocking you into dreams. But tonight is different. A quiet sobbing, no more than a whisper, breaks the silence of the night. It comes from the man lying beside you—his trembling body betrays a suppressed pain that instantly brings you to full awareness.

Slowly, you rise, blinking into the darkness, trying to make out the contours of his face. Gently, you place your hand on his warm cheek, your fingers stroking softly over the damp skin. It's wet with silent tears that run down the face of the young man with snow-white hair.

With your other hand, you touch his shoulder, carefully, tenderly. You can feel how violently he is shaking—not from cold, but from fear, from inner torment.

"Phainon... Phainon..." you whisper softly, your lips close to his ear. Your tone is gentle, comforting, like a beam of light cutting through the darkness of his nightmares. You call him back, away from the grip of his tormenting dreams, back into the safety of your presence.

You give his shoulder a gentle shake, slow and careful, just a small signal that he's not alone. Then he jolts, his eyes snapping open, and the sobbing halts abruptly. For a moment, all that can be heard is his shallow, rapid breathing, fluttering through the darkness like a wounded bird.

"Hey... everything is okay. I'm here," you whisper reassuringly as your thumb gently traces circles on his tear-streaked cheek. You slowly lean down and press a tender kiss to his forehead—a silent promise that you'll hold him, even if the world around him begins to fall apart.

"Did you have another nightmare...?" you ask softly, your voice cautious, as if you already know the answer but can't leave it unspoken.

He moves slowly, placing his much larger hand over yours—a silent gesture, heavy with emotion. Then he sits up, slightly unsteady, as if he must first fully return to reality.

After a long, wordless moment, he nods. Barely perceptible, as if even that small motion costs him all his strength. The sobbing returns quieter now, but no less painful and once again, tears trace their way down his cheeks, mixing with the night.

You know exactly what he dreams of. He's told you more than once. And each time, you listened. But they are not just dreams. Not merely shadows of his imagination. It's reality. An endless loop of pain, guilt, and loss. A dark cycle that keeps closing over and over again, without escape, without mercy.

Eventually, even you began to understand the full weight of it. Each time, the realization burned deeper into your heart, as though a silent thorn was slowly growing there. And yet, as much as it hurts within you, compared to what Phainon endures, your suffering feels like a mere bee sting: unpleasant, faintly burning, but nothing in comparison to the storm that rages inside him.

You are both afraid. Of the night. Of the morning. Of the repetition of the same. And yet you've sworn to stay by his side, in every time loop, in every fragment of reality, in every new beginning without end. No matter what may come.

You say nothing. Words would be too small, too dull right now. Instead, you guide him gently, lead his movements until his head finds rest on your thighs. Your fingers glide tenderly through his silky, soft hair—you bury your hand in it, lovingly scratching, lifting the weight off his shoulders for a brief moment.

You hum a soft melody, barely audible, just a breath of comfort floating through the dark room. Phainon lies still in your lap, his breathing shallow, his eyes closed—yet you can still feel the faint tremble of his body, as if the pain inside him is still trying to be heard. Your fingers continue their gentle motion, soothing, steady. And then you begin to sing, your voice no more than a whisper, soft and warm like a silent vow:

"Sleep while the night is young.

Dreams carry you far from harm.

Free from alarm... Safe in my arm.

Please live your life for you and for me."

A soft tremor runs through him, but this time not from fear. It's the shiver of a soul finding refuge, if only for a moment. Your words reach him in the places where everything within him is broken. Slowly, he opens his eyes, looking at you—not quite awake, not fully present, but in them you see a glimmer of something he thought long lost: hope. Fragile, flickering, barely tangible, but there.

A fleeting moment where your gaze meets his—and suddenly, a memory flares up. A day from another loop, under a tree swaying in the warm summer wind. Phainon had smiled—a real smile, though shy—when you handed him a bouquet of wildflowers you'd picked yourself. He had laughed when you claimed each flower had its own personality. You remember thinking his laugh sounded like sunlight.

And now, in the darkness of this night, you keep that light alive with your voice:

"Still, you must carry on,

bearing your burdens for long.

My wish for you, can only come true,

you'll still be here when I am gone.

He barely moves, but you feel his fingers gently clutch your leg—a wordless plea not to let go. Maybe it's gratitude, maybe a silent instinct against the loneliness. Maybe it's just the desperate desire to forget, for one moment, how often everything was taken from him.

Another flashback steals into your heart—a moment by the riverbank, when Phainon tried to skip stones. He was terrible at it, but you didn't laugh. You sat down beside him instead, your knees touching, and for the first time, he began to tell you about his pain. Not everything. But enough to know you'd stay.

"Share your smile with the world.

Live for the path you choose.

Know you were the only one.

That I could never bear to lose."

As you keep singing, you see his expression slowly relax. He nestles closer to you, seeking the warmth of your touch like a ship finally finding calm waters after a storm. Tears still glide down his cheek, but they seem different now—no longer desperate, but soft. Like a late relief.

"Sleep while the night is young.

Dreams carry you far from harm.

My gift to you. Too precious to lose.

Know that you were the future I chose."

Your voice grows quieter, fading into the silence. You remain there with him, your hand still in his hair, your heart heavy but calm. Maybe tonight won't be better than the others. Maybe the cycle will repeat itself. But in this moment, in this brief stillness between time loops, only one thing matters.

He is here.

And so are you.

And the promise between you still lives.

And one day, you will break the cycle.

Of that, you believed with all your heart.

Your sincerely-Yuumenakaiser 11.07.25

A/N: the song is from a game called Tales of Xillia 2. I love it so much and I often hum it softly myself and it reminded me a bit of Phainon.

That's why I was like mhm why not write something about it!

[naffeclipse]

Electric Lullaby

Reader x Moon.exe

Commission Info

The darling @catbeastaisha was so kind to let me dive into my Run Moonware AU with Moon.exe! You're the secretary of Edwin Murray, and really, the last employee of the Costume Manor. After an especially rough night, the program that has taken over your computer sees your sleep-depraved state and must simply do something about it.

———

Walking into Murray’s Costume Manor takes all of the strength left in your body. Last night was a horror, both in your dreams and due to the fact that you did not sleep a wink.

You stop at the restroom to quickly splash your face with cold water, but it comes out luke-warm and has a slightly sour scent, and ultimately, you leave without anything to refresh yourself with. The energy drink you carry in your hand is at least ice-cold and waiting for you to guzzle it down. You didn’t even bother with breakfast in your rush out the door this morning. Funny how you had all the time, lying awake, and you still nearly end up getting to work late.

Clutching the cold drink until the frigid edge bites into your palm, you step into the security office.

The computer whirls to life, the screen humming as it flickers on. The green glow causes your eyes to squint. It’s going to be a long day.

“Hey, Moon,” you mumble your morning greeting before plopping yourself down in the stiff, hard seat. You groan as you roll your shoulders and crank your neck side to side in some semblance of bracing to dig through more documents today. 

Inhaling deeply, you squeeze your eyes shut and press your fingers into a steeple along your skull. 

Just get through today. Do your work, clock out, and go home. That’s all you have to do. You can manage through the pressure building behind your eyeballs and the looming throb of a headache making its way to your temple.

With your pep talk out of the way, you straighten.

The computer sits at its default page, but in the corner, the pixelated figure of The Moon stares at you. His one eye is unblinking. His pose is the same, unmoving position he often keeps, but now it feels deliberate, focused. A small sound emits from the computer, a robotic decibel that makes you think of a person humming—if the noise went through a program and back out.

You reach for the mouse. A darkness flashes on the monitor before the screen is taken up by The Moon on full display, and his text box below him.

“Moon, I gotta get to work,” you exasperate. 

Usually, The Moon’s antics would brighten a boring workload, but you find yourself with a short rope of patience today. You dig the heel of one hand into your eye socket before blinking away the stars that emerge from the pressure. Nope. The foggy mess in your head is still there.

Focusing your eyes takes a moment, but when the screen comes into view, there’s text waiting for you.

You’re sleepy…

You stare, and feel the ache of blood-shot eyes.

“I’m just peachy.” You tap on the mouse once, a sharp click echoing. “Let me get to work.”

The screen remains unmoving. The sprite seems to tilt his head slightly, and the one eye narrows incredulously.

You need a nap.

No, you can’t do this. You don’t have time to argue! If you don’t get yourself into gear, you’re going to be worthless all day long. The last thing you need is Edwin to surprise check your work and see that you have nothing to show for this shift, and then accuse you of trying to ruin him or something of the sort.

You’re not sure what kind of program The Moon is exactly, but he almost seems to balk in his green and black coding when you reach for your energy drink. You pop it open with a loud crack then proceed to drain a huge gulp down. The bubbling bites along your tongue. Your whole system shudders underneath the acidic surge entering your stomach. There, that’ll give you a few hours before you crash. 

Setting the can down, you find The Moon staring at you incredulously.

“I don’t need nap time—I’m not a child.” You quickly cover your mouth with a hand to make the tangy burp a little more polite. “Come on, Moon, move. Let me open up some files.”

The whole screen wavers before text jumps up in almost erratic typing.

Naughty, naughty!

You throw your hands up in exasperation. “I need it! Edwin would fire me on the spot if he walked in on me sleeping on the job.”

The pixelated Moon stops the erratic waves, and almost in a quiet, delicate hum of the machine, sends a new line of text.

I will wake you before he finds you.

You blink slowly at the words, wondering if it’s an insomnia-induced hallucination. Does he mean that? It’s not a trick, is it? Maybe the program would love to get you fired so he can go back to… whatever he was doing before you downloaded him onto the computer. 

You slowly shake your head.

“I’m sorry, Moon. I have to get something done today.”

The program continues to hold your work computer hostage, but his expression glitches for a moment. You wait with baited breath.

If you take a nap at noon, I will let you work.

At noon? You glance at your energy drink and back to the face seemingly peering through the glass directly at you. Maybe he is. You don’t want to ask.

A tired sigh works through your chest and shoulders. Pressing a hand to your face, you gulp down a deep breath before nodding and giving in.

“Fine. I’ll take a nap at noon.” You turn a scrutinizing look upon the monitor. “And you will wake me so I don’t sleep through the rest of my shift?”

You can trust me…

The ellipsis does not inspire confidence, but the flashing grin that The Moon gives tells you it’s another coy joke to make you squirm. He likes finding your buttons to press. More often than not, you return the favor. 

Not this time, however, as the screen finally gives way to the desktop and The Moon’s sprite hangs quietly in the corner, flashing you one more grin before disappearing entirely. 

A strange gift. He rarely leaves you be. 

Taking the opportunity for what it is, you gulp down more of the energy drink and throw yourself to the tasks at hand. The morning passes by in a blurr. You hardly give yourself a moment to register the growing pulse of pain in your head nor the blurriness of your vision while staring at the screen for hours. 

You just finish typing up another report on a round of documents—no sign of foul play—when exactly at the mark of 12:00, the computer screen is once more consumed by the pixelated version of The Moon.

Nap time.

With no strength nor caffeine left within you, there is little you can do but say, “Okay.”

You’re not quite sure how to do this. You push your chair back slightly as you gaze around the security office space. It’s seen better days. Dust collects on a small table shoved against the side wall and the floor hasn’t been vacuumed, littered with bits and crumbs, as well as various papers that should have been filed away.

You glance back to the screen. “I’ll just, uh, take that nap then.”

The face of the crescent moon watches you silently as you roll the chair back towards the door. Underneath the computer desk, there’s shadows and a dust-mote smell, but you find your jacket, and stuff it underneath your head in a makeshift pillow.

You tilt your head just enough to see the screen at a sharp angle, but enough to feel as if the program still has eyes on you.

The text box narrowly delivers a new message.

Why didn’t you sleep last night?

You look away. It sounds stupid now, when it’s daylight and you’re not half-crazed from your failed attempts to get your rest. 

“It was nothing,” you say quietly. The zipper of your jacket presses into your skull, and you shift to get it out of the way. 

When you return your gaze to the screen, you scoff.

Liar.

You try to conjure up a comeback, something that will sizzle upon delivery, but your tongue is wrapped up and your head is filled with cotton and painful throbs. 

“It’s stupid,” you rephrase. “It was just nightmares.”

You stare anywhere but at the computer. Softer still, you breathe out. Your heart is heavy in your chest.

“It’s those stupid costumes. I hate them,” you bare your teeth. “They look horrendous and they chase me in my dreams. They always find me. I try to hide, and sometimes, I’m running towards the security office and every time I try to open the door, it locks, and I’m crying and then they get me.”

You omit that you’re crying for The Moon in those nightmares.

“I woke up. I couldn’t go back to sleep.”

You sigh. 

“Stupid, right?”

The silence lays heavy. You don’t bother looking up at the monitor. You don’t want to see how he’s making fun of you for acting like a child—even worse than a child, being afraid of costumes built to entertain children. 

You curl up tightly, and let your heavy head rest. Your eyelids immediately slide closed. In the dusty air and the press of your pulse against your temple, you hear a soft, robotic droning, playing a few notes. Like a hum.

You drift to sleep with the electronic lullaby.

[swiftjay23]

Hi!! I love you’re writing🤩🤩 could you do a husband!Junho x wife!reader angst to fluff where he’s been neglecting her over the island and she keeps trying to talk to him and he never tries to listen until he forgets her birthday and realizes a couples days after when he finds her crying in her room, argument happens and he realizes how horrible he’s been, ending with fluff!!! thank you so much i love you❤️

Yess, honey!! Of course! We love angst, and we love Jun-ho. So consider it done!

Also, how dare he forget his wife's birthday, but it serves as pure fanfiction fuel to me.

Title: I Would’ve Waited Forever

Pairing: Husband!Jun-ho x Wife!Reader Genre: Angst to Fluff | Hurt/Comfort | Established Relationship

You’ve been trying to get through to him for weeks. “Everything okay at work?” you’d ask, every night like a prayer. And every night, he’d reply with the same tired smile, the same too-short kiss to your temple. “I’m just tired, baby.”

Then he’d vanish into the bedroom with his phone, locking the door behind him like he didn’t trust even you with whatever demons he carried. You didn’t press. You never did. Because you loved him. Because you knew what he’d been through. Because sometimes loving someone meant giving them the space to drown if they needed it.

But still, you missed him.

You missed the Jun-ho who used to come home and sweep you into his arms, who kissed you like he might lose you at any second. You missed falling asleep to whispered I love you’s instead of cold sheets and a glowing phone screen behind his back. And now… your birthday’s coming.

You don’t expect much. He’s been distant, distracted. But still, you bake a small cake. Just the way he likes, vanilla sponge, strawberries in the center, whipped cream on top.

You set the table. Two plates. Two forks. A candle flickering in the center. You put on the perfume he once said reminded him of warm rain. You even wear that pale blue dress, the one that always makes his gaze drop for a second too long.

The clock ticks. And ticks. And ticks.

9 PM. No call. No message. No key in the door. You sit at the table until the candle burns down to a stump.

You eat one slice of the cake so it won’t feel like a waste. You put the rest in the fridge. Clean up the plates. Wash the pan. You don’t cry. You just… go to bed.

He smells like rain and subway metal. “I love you,” he whispers. You don’t move. Don’t open your eyes. It was all a dream.

You hadn’t planned to cry. You really hadn’t.

It started with a numbness. A quiet ache in your chest as you cleared the uneaten cake from the dining table. A slow, hollow silence as you blew out the candle by yourself. No phone call. No note. No key turning in the door at midnight with a whispered, “I’m sorry I’m late, but happy birthday, love.”

Nothing.

That was two nights ago.

Now you're curled up on the far side of the bed, dressed in the soft cotton dress you wore for no one, a cardigan slipping off your shoulder, makeup smudged beneath your eyes like ink stains on a forgotten letter. The rain outside taps against the windows with a rhythm far more dependable than your husband has been lately.

You hear the front door click open. A pause. Then Jun-ho’s footsteps, familiar, precise. He’s home.

You close your eyes. The bedroom door creaks open.

“Babe?” His voice is soft, cautious. Not because he knows what he’s walking into, but because he doesn’t. Because he never really asks anymore.

He sees you. Curled on your side. Back to the door. The room dim and cold despite the lamp glowing on your nightstand.

“I—” He pauses. “Are you okay?” You don't answer.

He steps closer. His hand brushes your shoulder, hesitant. “Did something happen?” That’s when it slips out. "Two nights ago was my birthday."

The silence is so heavy you can feel the floor give beneath it. Jun-ho freezes. “What?”

Your voice is steady. Quiet. Not angry, just done. “Two nights ago. You didn’t come home. You didn’t call.”

“…Fuck.” It’s almost a whisper. Like he just realized the building’s burning, but he’s already standing in the ashes.

He moves around to face you. You sit up slowly, the blanket falling into your lap. Your eyes meet, and something in him shatters at the sight.

Mascara smudged. Lips chapped. Your throat moves like it hurts to swallow.

“I thought- I thought it was next week,” he murmurs, as if that softens anything. “I’ve been… things have been—”

“Things have always been,” you cut in. Your voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to. The disappointment in it cuts deeper than a scream. “The island. The investigation. The secrets. And I waited. I always waited. Because I believed, maybe, you'd look at me like you used to.”

Jun-ho runs a hand down his face. “I didn’t mean to forget. I swear. I just, I’ve been under so much pressure and-”

“And I’ve been here. Every night. Setting your plate. Leaving the porch light on like a goddamn idiot.”

His breath stutters. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” you ask, voice trembling now. “Because I should keep pretending everything’s fine? That my husband still sees me as something more than background noise?”

He sits on the bed, the mattress shifting under his weight, but you don’t move closer.

"You weren’t like this before,” you whisper. “You used to laugh. Dance with me in the kitchen. Wake me up with kisses. You used to… show up."

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands locked tight. “I thought I was protecting you. The less you knew—”

“No.” You don’t let him finish.

“You were protecting yourself. From guilt. From connection. From anything that reminded you you’re human. But I’m your wife, Jun-ho. Not a liability.”

A pause. He looks at you. Really looks at you.

And for the first time in months, he doesn’t see just a tired woman curled up in bed. He sees the girl he fell in love with. The one who used to stay up with him on stakeouts, who cried at crime documentaries, who kissed his bruised knuckles after he got into a bar fight defending her honor.

And now she’s sitting in front of him, looking like a ghost of herself. His voice breaks. “I’m sorry.” “You should be.” Another pause. Then, softer:

“Do you still love me?” You inhale shakily. “Of course I do.” You wipe your eyes. “But I don’t know how much more of this I can survive.”

Jun-ho's eyes widen, "I really am sorry, sweetheart. I genuinely thought it was next wee-"

Your voice rises. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend this is just a date you messed up. This isn’t about the day. It’s about everything you’ve forgotten with it.”

You feel the tears threatening, but you push through them. They won’t hit harder than your words will.

“You’ve been gone, Jun-ho. Even when you’re here. Locked up in that goddamn island, whispering on your phone, shutting doors in my face like I’m not even worth a look.”

His jaw tightens. “I’ve been working. You know that—” “I know. Believe me, I know.” Your laugh is bitter. Hollow.

“Because that’s all I ever hear. ‘I’m doing this for us.’ ‘I’m just tired, baby.’ But I don’t see us in this anymore. I see a man who’s already married, to that case, to that island, to whatever version of himself he needs to be to sleep at night.”

He flinches. “Don’t say that.” You snap. “What’s the point of saving the world if you let me rot in it alone?!”

The room goes dead silent. He opens his mouth. Closes it again.

You step back. “I cook dinner every night for a ghost. I talk to a wall. I put on perfume hoping you’ll remember what it meant to want me. And now? I’m standing here begging you to just look at me.”

“Baby, I—” “Do you even love me anymore?”

That’s when his expression shatters. All that careful detachment he built to protect himself from whatever he’s chasing, gone.

“I never stopped,” he says, quietly. “But I forgot how to show it. I forgot how much it matters.”

You wipe your cheeks, turning away. “I didn’t want flowers, Jun-ho. I didn’t want a party. I just wanted you.”

He takes a step closer. “You still have me.” You meet his eyes. red, glassy, full of ache, and whisper, “Then show me. Because I don’t feel it anymore.”

Jun-ho doesn’t speak for a long time.

He just stands there. Watching the way you shake when you breathe. The way you’ve folded your arms around yourself like armor. The way your eyes—once so bright when he walked in the room—barely meet his anymore.

Then he sits.

Slowly. Quietly.

Right beside you on the edge of the bed, not reaching out. Just… being there. Being still. Like he's afraid his touch would shatter what little is left.

You glance at him, and that’s when you see it.

He’s pulled his badge from his coat pocket—and placed it on the nightstand.

He sets it down like an apology. Like an anchor he no longer wants to drown with.

“I’ve been treating you like a second thought,” he says. “When you’re the only thing that ever made me feel human.”

You blink.

His voice cracks. “I wake up next to you every day and still somehow forgot how it feels to see you. To choose you. I’ve been chasing ghosts, chasing justice, but the whole time I was leaving the best part of my life unloved.”

He swallows. Looks at his hands. Then, gently—reaches for yours.

You don’t pull away.

He cradles your fingers like they’re breakable. Like they matter more than anything he’s ever held.

“I remember the first time I saw you,” he says, eyes distant with something almost fond. “It was raining. You were standing outside the precinct with two coffees and a stack of crime files twice your size. You cursed like a sailor when one fell in a puddle.”

You huff softly through your tears. “It was your file.”

“I still read it,” he murmurs, lips lifting just slightly. “Every page.”

You don’t realize you’re crying again until he brushes your cheek with his knuckles.

“I remember thinking, ‘She’s the only one who sees through all this. Who sees me.’ And I promised myself I’d never become the kind of man who made her feel small. Who forgot what she’s worth.”

He leans forward.

Presses a kiss to your knuckles. Then your shoulder. Then—slowly—your forehead.

“I didn’t forget because you’re not important,” he whispers. “I forgot because I let myself forget who I am without you. I let the job eat me alive. I let the secrets take up more space than your voice. I’m sorry, angel. I’m so fucking sorry.”

You’re crying now, not from the ache—but from the thaw.

From the way his voice breaks. From the way his fingers tremble against your skin like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

And you believe him. Because he’s here. Really here.

No badge. No lies. No excuses. Just him.

Just your husband. Apologizing like it matters. Like you matter.

You slide your arms around his waist.

He melts.

Pulls you into his lap, buries his face in your shoulder, holds you like the world ended and you were the only thing left worth saving.

“No more walls,” he whispers into your skin. “No more late nights without coming home. No more forgetting.”

You breathe him in.

“I don’t need promises,” you say. “I need presence.”

He nods. “You’ll have it. Every day. Every hour. I’m done disappearing.”

And as the rain taps gently against the windows, he holds you tighter, whispering sorrys and I love yous between soft kisses and shaky hands. Because this time, he means it. He’s staying. In the room. In the moment. In your heart.

The End

Perm Taglist 1

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✧༚ ˗ˏˋ 𐙚 ˎˊ˗ ༚✧✧༚ ˗ˏˋ 𐙚 ˎˊ˗ ༚✧✧༚ ˗ˏˋ 𐙚 ˎˊ˗ ༚✧✧༚ ˗ˏˋ 𐙚 ˎˊ˗ ༚✧✧༚ ˗ˏˋ 𐙚 ˎˊ˗ ༚✧

[personapeters]

𝐣𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝

— a rafe cameron one shot

✰ when y/n gets her boyfriend to partake in a viral tiktok trend.

rating: sfw — cw: none

anyone who had a phone and internet access knew of the viral couple’s trend, and y/n was no exception. endless sickeningly sweet videos flooded her feed of men effortlessly lifting their girlfriends onto their shoulders, some ending with them toppling over into a heap of laughter; it left a warm, fuzzy feeling in the pit of her stomach and she, too, wanted the first hand experience.

she knew rafe better than anyone; being recorded doing some silly trend for the world to see simply wasn’t something he’d be willing to do. despite that fact, she knew it wouldn’t hurt too terribly to propose the idea. so, with little hesitation, she made her request known.

“rafe?” she quipped from her place on the couch, her legs draped lazily over her boyfriends lap. “hm?” he hummed, his attention momentarily glued to the phone in his hand as he finished a text. “can we, maybe, try something?” she asked, watching as he completed his typing before tossing the device onto the coffee table with a clank.

“what’s that?” he mumbled, running a hand up her bare leg and resting it on her thigh, lightly squeezing as he gazed at her. “before you say no, just hear me out, okay?” she asked, his face quirking at the request. he nodded his head in a way that prompted her to continue, so she did.

“i wanna see if you can lift me,” she informed simply, to which rafe’s brows rose in question. “if i can lift you?” he clarified with a mild confusion, “y’know i can — do it all the time.”

“no, i mean, like—,” she fumbled with her phone for a moment, tapping at the screen before turning it to face him, “it’s for a video thing… like this.” he watched intently as a couple performed the ‘lift’ in reference and his face contorted to one of scrutiny.

“why?” he questioned, genuinely not understanding the appeal. “i don’t know, looks fun — it’s cute,” y/n mumbled with a shrug, gradually becoming less enthused. “looks kinda dumb,” he muttered honestly, completely disconnected from the internet and it’s need for spontaneous niches. “oh,” y/n spoke quietly as she stared down at the device — maybe he was right.

rafe noticed the shift in her demeanor instantly, his heart squeezing as she slouched against the armrest of the couch, a small pout pulling at her lips that she tried to fight against. he felt a pang of guilt in his chest, hating how filter-less his mouth could be. he didn’t mean come off as cold and dismissive, but he knew that he did, and often does; he also knew that he needed to fix it.

“okay, come on,” he sighed, patting her thigh before sliding her legs off his. “what?” she asked in surprise, her eyes following him as he stood. “let’s do it,” he shrugged, holding out a hand for her to take. immediately, a bright smile flooded her face as she wrapped her digits around his larger palm. “really?” she beamed as he pulled her to her feet. “yeah, i just— is that it?” he motioned to the phone in her grasp, “i just pick you up?”

“yeah,” she nodded enthusiastically with a grin, her eyes glistening as she did so and rafe couldn’t help but let his lips mimic her own. “alright, go set it up,” he instructed as he peered down at her, softly patting her hip in encouragement. she obliged quickly, propping her phone up on the coffee table and setting a timer to count them down from thirty, hoping that would allot them enough time to prepare.

“please don’t drop me,” she laughed as rafe situated his large hands around her waist, his long fingers nearly touching each other at the center of her stomach. “i’d never,” he scoffed with a soft smile, “just tell me when.”

“almost,” she muttered as she watched the numbers descend on the screen, “okay-okay, three, two, one.” instantly, she felt the hold on her body tighten as rafe effortlessly lifted her through the air; she didn’t need to jump in assistance, nor did he grunt or struggle in the slightest, carrying her gracefully as though she was a feather. she instinctively gripped his wrists as a squeal left her mouth, a melodic stream of laughter following as he propped her onto his shoulder, her body fitting perfectly on the broad surface.

the recording ended and the song looped softly in the background as rafe carefully slid her down his body, his hands resting underneath her arms as he lowered her to the ground. as soon as her feet hit the floor, she padded over to watch the perfectly imperfect recording — the framing was off, seeing as rafe was too tall to fit, and she didn’t lip-sync to the lyrics as most others had, but none of that mattered in the slightest.

“look,” she grinned, holding the phone out for rafe to see. he smiled fondly down at her, his eyes flickering between her face as she watched the clip and the clip itself. admittedly, he enjoyed participating, enjoying even more how giddy she was about it. “i see,” he assured with a small smile, his focus primarily on his happy girl as he rested a hand on her hip, rubbing small circles on the bone.

“i love it,” she gushed, ecstatic to have something so sweet and silly of herself and her boyfriend that she just knew she would watch over and over and over again. “good,” he murmured as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, the moment being interrupted when his phone rang out — a call he was expecting.

“i’ve gotta take this,” he informed, running his fingers under the hem of her shirt and softly grazing the skin before breaking the contact. he grabbed the cell from it’s place on the table, answering it with a hushed greeting before exiting the room, leaving y/n to rewatch their video again with a cheek-aching grin; her man was in-fact very jacked and oh-so kind (but only ever for her).

 personapeters 2024 — all rights reserved • masterlist

[ijustwannabecool]

Vogue Beauty Secrets

Max Verstappen x Wife!Reader

Summary... Vogue asks Y/N to film her skincare and makeup routine.

A/N: I hope you guys enjoy this little blurb. Let me know what you guys wanna see next. Request are open.

⋆｡˚☁︎˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

The video opens with the click of a camera turning on, followed by a small laugh.

“Hi, Vogue,” Y/N greets warmly, brushing a few strands of hair behind her ear. Her skin is fresh, makeup-free, her voice still a bit husky from sleep. “I’m Y/N Verstappen and I’ve been asked to share my daily beauty routine… which honestly feels like a joke considering I’ve been up since 5 a.m. because my daughter thinks that’s an acceptable wake-up time.”

She shrugs playfully, leaning on the white marble bathroom counter. Behind her, viewers get a glimpse of their Amsterdam apartment, clean lines, cozy lighting, a plant in every corner.

“So let’s get into it,” she smiles. “I already cleansed off-camera because, well, my toddler smeared porridge on my face earlier and that wasn’t very Vogue.”

She lifts a bottle toward the camera. “This is what I used, super gentle, because hormones after breastfeeding are no joke. I used this religiously when Isa was still newborn and I felt like a walking zombie with acne.”

Just then, there’s a tiny knock on the bathroom door. Y/N pauses.

“Mama?” A small voice calls.

She bites back a smile. “Come in, schatje.”

Isa waddles into the room in her little bunny-print pajamas, hair a curly mess, one sock missing, holding her plush lion by the tail. Her eyes are wide with sleepy curiosity as she pads in and immediately reaches her arms up.

Y/N lifts her easily, balancing the toddler on one hip.

“This is Isa,” she chuckles. “My shadow. She doesn’t believe in personal space. Or sleep-ins.”

Isa rests her head against Y/N’s shoulder and waves lazily at the camera, mumbling, “Hi Vogue.”

“I’m gonna keep going while she hangs out,” Y/N explains. “Mom life doesn’t pause for skincare, right?”

She manages to tone with one hand, dotting serum on her cheeks while Isa fiddles with the collar of her robe.

And then, “Lieverd?” Max’s voice comes from somewhere off-camera. “Have you seen her other sock? She left it in the pantry again, I think.”

Y/N rolls her eyes fondly. “Check under the cereal boxes.”

There’s a pause.

“Got it.”

Max enters a moment later, barefoot in sweatpants and one of Y/N’s oversized hoodies, holding the missing sock like it’s a trophy.

“Victory,” he smirks, and steps into view to slide it onto Isa’s tiny foot as she babbles softly.

“Oh, and if I didn’t mention it... I’m married to that guy,” Y/N gestures at him, “who sometimes borrows my hoodies and always makes me tea while I do this.”

As if on cue, Max returns moments later with a steaming mug and a kiss to her temple. He doesn’t say anything else, just gives her a little smile and nods toward the camera like you’ve got this before disappearing again.

Y/N smiles after him.

“Okay, so next, I use this moisturizer. I keep it in the fridge because Max likes our house at ‘race car garage’ levels of cold and my skin can’t cope.”

She taps product on her face gently, still bouncing Isa in her arms.

“Lip balm,” she adds, reaching across the counter. “I don’t go anywhere without it. This one smells like mango. Isa always tries to eat it.”

“Mine,” Isa declares sleepily, snatching it from Y/N’s hand.

Y/N laughs. “Told you.”

There’s another interruption, this time the sound of a crash followed by Max’s startled “Alles goed?!” from the other room.

Y/N blinks at the camera, totally unbothered. “That’s our cat knocking over Max’s trophies again. She has a personal vendetta against the Monaco one.”

She finishes her makeup: light concealer, brow gel, tinted lip balm, all with Isa still perched on her hip.

“Oh, and when I do go to races, I do a bit more. Blush, mascara, maybe eyeliner if Isa hasn’t decided my makeup brush is her new toy.”

From the mirror, you can see Max re-entering, now carrying their cat under one arm and waving a toy toothbrush in the other.

“Does this belong to the tiny dictator?”

Isa perks up. “MINE!”

Max hands it over solemnly. “I thought so.”

He leans against the counter again, watching as Y/N wraps up her routine.

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs under his breath.

Y/N smiles at the compliment but turns it into a tease. “Even without the mascara?”

Max grins. “Always.”

The camera catches Isa reaching over to swipe her fingers in the blush compact and smear it across Y/N’s cheek. Y/N gasps in mock horror while Max bursts into a quiet laugh.

“Raw and unfiltered,” Y/N tells the camera, dabbing at her cheek. “Exactly what Vogue asked for, right?”

She sets Isa down gently, and the little girl waddles over to Max, nestling herself into his arms like a koala.

“I don’t get a lot of ‘me’ time,” Y/N admits, tucking her hair behind her ears. “But I wouldn’t trade this life for anything. It’s messy. Loud. Exhausting. But also, really, really full of love.”

Max leans into the frame for a moment, his voice soft. “That’s because you’re the heart of it.”

Y/N blushes, swats him away gently, and turns back to the camera.

“Thank you for watching this chaos. And Vogue? If you ever want a dad edition of this, Max has a killer 7-step beard care routine he refuses to admit to.”

Max, now offscreen, calls out, “That’s classified information.”

Y/N grins. “Bye, Vogue.”

She reaches to turn off the camera just as Isa squeals from the other room: “DAAAADDY! Cat stole my toast!”

Fade to black.

------

The end...

[damselneedssaving]

「 KISS ME THROUGH THE PHONE 」

OLDER!CLINGY!DAMIAN WAYNE X F!READER

★ SYNOPSIS: Unable to be apart from you for long, Damian chooses to call you while on patrol—and when that isn't enough to satiate his aching heart, he swings by your window to wish you a good night in person, and maybe a bit more.

★ TAGS: damian is 18+, suggestive content, longing/yearning, fluff, it physically hurts damian to be without you

★ A/N: inspired by 'kiss me thru the phone' by soulja boy, more longing/yearning Dami because no one can convince me that man is not a complete romantic who feels like his chest is being ripped out whenever his beloved isn't next to him 🥰

line divider by @cafekitsune

"I miss you," Damian's voice calls from the other side of the phone, tone so sincere, so loving, that you can feel it in the warmth of the moonlight spilling into your room.

Your lips curve up, eyes melting as you stare out your window like he's right there, stood at your fire escape just waiting to be let in. "You've said that five times already, Dami."

"And I'll say it five more: I miss you, Habibti."

The smile on your face grows without your permission, and your finger practically has a mind of its own when it moves to the sill of your window, tracing little hearts on the surface like some sort of lovesick schoolgirl.

He's always known how to reduce you to one.

"Isn't your dad with you? I thought he doesn't allow calls to partners on patrol."

You can practically hear the eye roll in his voice. "Tt. That man wouldn't know true love if it hit him over the head with a frying pan."

His words make you perk up, slumped over form suddenly upright with life and light and all the stars twinkling in the sky of the night as you exclaim, excitement seeping into your tone, "You watched Tangled!"

"Of course," he replies, firm but soft, like it's obvious, but without all the derision that usually comes with that. "You asked it of me."

His words are simple, but they're kind, sweet, like the candy floss he bought you on your date the other day—and just like how it's flaky strings melted on your tongue, you, too, melt on the spot.

"Dami..."

It's all you can say, his name all you've ever known, and all that you wish to know, as you stand there, under the rays of the moonlight, eyes closed and mind swarmed with the ghost of his touch.

"I miss you, Habibti."

You miss him too.

But your eyes open, crinkling further at the corners as your gaze drifts down and you whine out with all the fluster of a girl embarrassed by her man, "Dami..."

"Hm?" a smile speaks through his tone.

You kick the air. "Stop that..."

"Stop what?"

"Saying that..."

His chuckle sounds from the other side of the screen, hot enough to warm your insides.

"Saying what? That I miss you?" he asks, though you know that he knows the answer to his question, going on to then say, "Would you prefer I tell you how cold the night is without you by my side? Or how it feels like there's a hole in my chest as I jump under the starry sky?"

"Dami..."

"It's true."

"No"—you shake your head, turning away from your window with one arm crossed over your chest and a smile upturned on your lips—"I mean—I miss you too..."

The line goes quiet. Too quiet.

"Dami?"

No response.

"Damian?"

Still, nothing.

Your teeth graze your lip, biting down on it by the smallest hair as you feel your insides turn into ice, fingers readjusting themselves around your phone.

The silence is loud—

—until it isn't.

Like glass, it's shattered through by the sound of tapping, and when you turn, heart in your throat, you all but melt at the sight that greets you.

There, with one hand holding his phone up to his ear, and the other tapping its fingers against your window, is the love of your life.

Relief washes over you like a wave, drenching your form until your shoulders fall from its weight and you're left floating step-by-step towards your suited-up boyfriend.

Under the whites of his mask, his eyes hide, unreadable, but they don't need to be, you know by the fall of his shoulders and the slight smile on his face that he's just as eager to see you as you are to see him.

Splaying your hand over where his rests on the glass, you give yourself a moment to take him in, to calm the swell of your heart as you feel the way he stares at you like you're the only one in the world.

A beat passes with the two of you just staring at each other through the glass.

For a moment. All is right. All is warm. All is sound.

And then your heart cries out, and you find yourself lifting your window not a moment after.

"What are you doing here?" you ask, breathless, disbelieving.

"You said you missed me."

Then he adds, without even opening his mouth:

'So here I am.'

Your eyes crinkle for the umpteenth time, and he wastes no longer to perch himself on your windowsill and reach for your hands with his own gloved ones.

"Damian, you have to patrol."

He rolls his eyes, smile still on his lips. "The streets are safe enough in the hands of Batman alone." Then, his eyes crinkle. "I'd rather be here with you."

Warmth swells in your heart, and you almost can't help the way you lunge forward, wrenching your hands from his grip to instead, throw your arms around his neck and bury yourself in his chest, smile a little too wide against his suit.

The position is a little awkward, but it still feels right, natural, when he winds his arms around your back, and the warmth of him bleeds into your form.

"I missed you."

"I missed you too, Habibti."

Raising your head from his chest, you usher him in, and it's only then that his eyes wander, head tilting down a little in that familiar way it does when he's taking you in.

And as you take a step towards your bed, as you move to lead him further into your room, your body is abruptly halted, wrist in his grasp, before you're yanked with a firm tug straight back into his chest.

A smirk tugs at his lips.

"Habibti," he whispers, smug, like the word is a secret shared between just the two of you, his head dipping until his nose brushes your own. "Do you always wear such attire to bed?"

Your eyes widen, breath hitching in your throat as his gloved fingers start to play with the hem of your shirt.

"Perhaps you knew I wouldn't be able to resist visiting, and wore such clothing on purpose?"

His teasing runs hot and heavy on your ears, and he pulls you closer by the waist before you can even think of turning your gaze away.

"In that case, you wouldn't mind if I were to indulge, would you?"

[mw00nie]

when you first met producer!suguru, he didn’t even say hi.

he just nodded from behind his massive desk, a lit cigarette resting between his fingers, smoke curling around his cheekbone as he tapped something into the beat sequencer. his black hair was messy in an admirable way, his eyes barely flicked in your direction. if shoko hadn’t walked in behind you and gone “suguru, this is her,” you would’ve thought he hadn’t noticed you walked into the studio at all.

“you sing?” he asked, voice low, dry. you nodded. he gestured to the mic booth. “go.”

that was it. no warm-up, no icebreaker, no compliments about your viral video that landed you in this basement studio in the first place. he played a loop, some scratchy vinyl sample over a gritty bassline, and let you figure out what to do with it.

you didn’t impress him right away. he didn’t say anything after your first run. or your second. but after the third take, he reached over and stopped the track.

“try again,” he said. “don’t think so hard this time.”

and for some reason, you listened.

***

three months passed like weather. fast. quiet. unpredictable.

you showed up to that studio almost every day. some days you’d write for hours and only get one clean take. other days you’d record nothing at all. he didn’t force anything. if the energy was off, he’d light up, lean back, and scroll through sounds for hours without even looking at you. but you didn’t leave. you stayed. the silence between you started to feel like music too.

he wasn’t exactly warm, but he wasn’t cold either. he was still. unreadable. a little strange. he didn’t say much unless it mattered. didn’t have any other artists coming in. no flashy equipment, no plaques on the walls. just you, him, and whatever beat he built for the day. his instagram had no posts. no stories. just a profile picture of his recording booth with dimmed lights.

you started calling him “ghostface.” he didn’t laugh, but you saw the corner of his mouth twitch once.

you’d talk more in the later sessions. after midnight. when the windows steamed up and your voice was a little rough from singing too long. he’d ask about your old band, your hometown, the first song you ever wrote. you’d ask him why he didn’t work with anyone else, and he’d shrug and say, “don’t like most people.” he never really answered questions. he just let them float.

you started leaving stuff there. your hoodie, your lip gloss, your charger. he didn’t mention it, but you noticed he moved your things to the little side table by the mic booth. like it was your spot.

he smelled like vetiver and incense. clean but earthy. his hands were always cold. he rarely looked you in the eye unless he was adjusting your mic. and when he did, it felt too loud in your chest to breathe right.

you didn’t know when it started. the tension. maybe it was always there. maybe it was the way he listened when you sang. not just to the notes, but to you. or how sometimes you’d glance at him through the booth glass and find him already watching you.

the first time he touched you, it was an accident. you reached for the same knob. your fingers brushed. and you didn’t move yours away.

neither did he.

***

the night it happened, the track wasn’t even finished.

you were in the booth laying harmonies over a hook he’d built that morning. just a scratch loop, moody keys and that signature dusty drum pattern he always defaulted to when he wasn’t trying too hard. you’d run through the same few lines a dozen times, but it wasn’t clicking. you felt off. exposed. raw.

you pushed open the booth door and leaned against the frame. your tank top clung to your skin, sweat cooling on your lower back. no bra. cotton shorts. the kind of outfit you only wore around him now, like it was your shared little secret.

he was in his usual spot. sockless, cross-legged, his bun loose and falling apart, smoke trailing from the joint between his fingers. he glanced at you over his shoulder, but didn’t say anything.

“something’s off,” you said softly.

“your timing’s behind the snare.”

“that’s not what i mean.”

this time, he turned.

for a few seconds, neither of you moved. the beat kept looping on his screen, the faint hum of it bleeding through the room. he just stared at you, like he’d already heard what you were about to say and was waiting for you to admit it.

so you walked up to him. close. he didn’t lean back, didn’t shift away, just tracked your movements, eyes darker than the room.

you took the cigarette from his hand and stubbed it out. his fingers twitched when yours brushed them. still, he didn’t say a word.

“what are we doing?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

his voice was lower than yours, almost a rasp. “you tell me.”

you kissed him like you needed to. his hand caught your waist instantly, grounding you. the other slid up the back of your neck, slow, steady, holding you still like he couldn’t risk you leaving.

his mouth was warm. soft, but patient. deliberate. not frantic, not greedy, just present. every movement slow, like he wanted to drag this out. like he’d been imagining it for a while and didn’t want to get it wrong.

you climbed into his lap without even thinking about it. straddling him, your knees on either side of his hips. his palms found your thighs, dragging up under your shorts. you felt the heat bloom in your stomach when he gripped your ass through the fabric, pulled you tighter against him.

your tank was pushed up before you even noticed his hands move. he kissed your collarbone first. then the curve of your chest. then your breast, tongue slow, eyes half-lidded, like he was worshipping it. your breath hitched when his teeth grazed your nipple.

“fuck, sugu–”

he exhaled through his nose, like he felt that. his name in your mouth.

you pulled his shirt off, then reached for his jeans. he stopped you with a hand around your wrist.

“booth,” he murmured.

“what?”

“i want you in the booth.” which made sense because it was soundproofed.

he stood and lifted you with him in one motion. didn’t give you a chance to protest. just walked you straight into the recording space and pressed you back into the padded wall. the door clicked shut behind you.

you gasped when he dropped to his knees.

“oh–wait–”

but he’d already hooked his fingers into your shorts and tugged them down, slow, mouth dragging along your thigh as he kissed his way up. your legs trembled a little. he looked up at you, one brow lifted, like he was asking if you’d tell him to stop.

you didn’t.

he licked a long, deliberate stripe up your center.

your hand hit the wall.

“fuck–”

his tongue was slow, purposeful, tracing around your clit before sucking it gently between his lips. two fingers pushed into you without warning. the angle was perfect. his rhythm was maddening. steady, unhurried, like he enjoyed how much it wrecked you.

you came fast. embarrassingly fast. legs twitching, breath catching in your throat, hips grinding against his mouth like you couldn’t help it.

he stood up again, mouth slick, eyes so dark they barely looked brown anymore.

“you okay?” he murmured, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“yes,” you breathed. “please–”

you tugged at his belt and he let you, but he didn’t rush. undid his fly slow, dragged his boxers down just enough. when he lined himself up, he waited. forehead to yours, hands on your hips.

“look at me,” he said softly.

you did. and he slid into you in one long, aching push.

your lips parted, breath stuttering. he was thick. deep. your back arched as he bottomed out, the stretch perfect, almost too much. he groaned low in his throat, jaw clenched tight.

“so fucking wet,” he whispered.

you couldn’t respond. just nodded, legs wrapped around his waist, arms hooked around his neck. he started to move. slow at first. then harder. deeper.

your moans filled the space. quiet at first, then louder. helpless.

he kissed you through it. your lips, your jaw, your throat. said your name under his breath like it was something sacred. and when he hit that spot that made you cry out, he kept hitting it. over and over. precise. focused. until you came again, nails dragging down his back.

“oh my god– fuck– don’t stop–”

he didn’t.

he fucked you through it, grunting softly in your ear. you heard him mutter, “good girl,” and you clenched around him so hard he stilled.

“you keep doing that and i’m not gonna last,” he said, breath ragged.

“then come,” you whispered, teeth grazing his shoulder.

he whimpered. actually whimpered.  and drove into you once, twice more before pulling you down hard onto his cock and burying himself with a broken moan. you felt him twitch inside you, his arms tight around your back, his mouth open against your neck.

you stayed like that. tangled, panting, your heartbeat stuttering in your ears.

then he blinked. tilted his head toward the mic. 

“shit.”

you froze. “what?”

he exhaled.

“…still recording.”

you looked up at the red light blinking on the mic. blinking. still on.

your stomach dropped.

“suguru..how long–”

he leaned out, pressed the stop key on the monitor.

00:49:53

“fifty minutes..”

you smacked his arm. “are you serious?!”

he winced, then smirked, lazy and smug. “fifty minutes of pure soul.”

“delete it.”

“nope.”

“i swear–”

he kissed your temple. then your cheek. then your lips.

“we’ll sample it,” he murmured. “cut around the names.”

“you’re insane.”

***

A/N: i almost went insane while writing this and i have absolutely no motivation so idk if this good :<

[silksandcravats]

No Sleeping Alone - Dean x Reader blurb

headcanon on boyfriend!dean who does NOT condone sleeping apart from you.

After years of lonely trips and no true closeness, Dean finally has you. And he refuses to spend any more nights alone, at least, not when you’re under the same roof.

No matter what.

Lovers quarrels are inevitable. Dean had always been a hothead, his anger boiled fast, and his sharp words shot out even faster.

Going into the whole thing, you knew your relationship would require strong patience on your end.

But you’re only human, so sometimes you’d snap, and call him out on his shit.

The fight grew to a peak, and to his credit, Dean was the one who stepped away first. Biting his tongue and exiting the room before he said something he really couldn’t take back.

You both keep your distance the rest of the day, opting to cool off in private.

The bunker was vast enough for you to comfortably avoid each other. Even through dinner, you both had found your own quiet moment to sneak in and out of the kitchen in record time.

You don’t know where to go as the day winds down, so you end up back in your old room. It was only a few doors further down the hallway, and you’d occupied it for quite a while.

Only it felt unfamiliar now. The very same room that was once your personal sanctuary now seemed cold and empty.

And damn it have queen mattresses always been this big?

It was just too much empty space for one person.

Still, it felt like the right thing to do, you both needed space to cool off. And the bedroom you now shared had been Dean’s first, so of course you should be the one to go.

This was the most logical place to spend the night.

It all made perfect sense, but you were still feeling sad and lonely as you curled up under the covers.

You pressed your eyes shut, trying to force sleep to come to you. Surely if you just held them shut long enough you’d drift off.

But you didn’t.

You wiggled around the ample empty space of the mattress, unsure what to do with yourself. So uncomfortable with the lack of a second, larger, warmer body, with grabby hands and little regard for how much space he took up.

You tapped out first most nights, you had no problem keeping late hours, but you needed your eight hours. Dean, on the other hand could go on four, even less sometimes. (No matter how many times you tried to convince him he needed more.)

So it took a while for Dean to realize what you’d done. But realize he did.

Eventually the door to your old room creaked open, and you didn’t flinch, you didn’t even have to turn to know who was there.

“There you are,” he sighed with relief.

Realistically, you’d always been somewhere in the bunker, where would you ever go? But in his panic, that logic hadn’t held.

“Why the hell are you in here?”

He’s irritated, but not like before. He’s not irritated at you, he’s irritated at the absense of you.

“I think we both need some space,” you sighed, back still to him. You heard his heavy steps as he moved deeper into the room, towards you.

“No.” He dismissed firmly.

“No?” You questioned back.

“We’re not fucking doing this,” he announced, decidedly gripping you and tossing you over his shoulder in one swift move.

You yelped, wriggling in his grasp until a firm swat to your backside stilled your squirming.

“Damn it, Dean! Did you forget we’re fighting?” you grunted, his shoulder digging harshly into your stomach.

“Well then we’ll work it out now, or tomorrow, I don’t really care but you’re sleeping with me.”

He deposited you on the side of the bed further from the door, your side.

You shuffled under the covers, propping your pillow so it was just so. You were trying to busy yourself with anything other than watching him strip down to his boxers and crawl in beside you.

Even in the early days, before anything was official, sharing a bed with Dean had always meant cuddles. Back to his front, chest to chest, you laying atop him.

You’d even managed to spoon him a few times when he was very very tired. The position was awkward, and your arms would ache the next morning, but for all that he did you felt he deserved to be held sometimes.

Now, for the first time, you were trying to keep space between you. It felt appropriate. It wasn’t as if you could erase the events of the day just because it was bedtime.

(Dean disagreed.)

“I’m too tired for this. C’mere,” He grunted.

He moved your unwilling limbs like a ragdoll, forcing you where he wanted you.

First, the hand around your waist tugged you, middle first against his body. His other arm around your back brought your chest completely flush to his, while a thick, muscled leg around yours brought the rest of you in. He had effectively trapped you against him.

“You go right here,” he hummed decidedly, tucking you in beneath the blanket.

“Dean-“ you protested weakly, not even convincing yourself.

“Where you belong,” his voice was low, content, and final.

As you laid in his arms your mood shifted, time had a way of making old anger feel pointless. You sank into his hold without even meaning to.

However mad you’d felt earlier couldn’t compare to the peace you felt now. The utter relief of being him his arms superseded any other feeling.

“Thank you for coming to get me,” you whispered after some time had passed.

You didn’t know if he was still awake, if he’d heard you until he answered.

“M’always gonna come get ya.” His tired voice croaked, chest rumbling against you. “You’re not going anyway.”

“Don’t want to go anywhere,” you agreed sleepily, wiggling closer against him.

“Good.”

[dawnwriterimagines]

Traitors Among Us

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x Fem!Reader Task Force 141 x Fem!Reader (Platonic)

PART 2

Part Three: The Guilty Plea

Part Four: The Verdict Due

Summary: You're a rat, a traitor. At least that's what Task Force 141 believes due to the evidence and claims scattered against you. It doesn't matter what you say, everyone's against you, ready to end you for it...until the truth comes out.

Warning(s): Torture, Heavy Angst, etc.

---

Drip.

Drip..

Drip...

Your shoulders seize up involuntarily as freezing droplets continue to hit your skin, eyes squeezed shut to try to ignore the sound that had been going on for who knows how long.

Another drop of water hits your spine from the faucet placed above you, it's cold as it runs down your bare skin. It feels like ice. Hitting the same spot over and over and over...

Drip...

Not even able to take a deep breath, you release a strained cry, it can hardly leave you, not that you hadn't cried enough already. You could feel the dried blood, tears and snot still on your face and a testament to your torment. You haven't been able to get the metallic taste of your blood of of your mouth since you got in here.

You breathe slowly, trying to relieve the pain in your chest. Body positioned downwards, chest pressed down to your knees, a leather buckle holds you down and over a metal stool. Wrists torn open by old shackles and stretched upwards to connect to the steel pipe in the middle of the room.

The stress position had been Johnny's idea, putting you in it to begin with. The bastard...

Kyle had been in and out to collaborate with Price on the interrogation, he didn't have the heart to do you any harm like his Captain. But, that didn't stop him from stomaching your screams as he turned the handle up, piercing cold crashing down atop you, it beats down on your back, by the time it's done your shaking, and your skin a bruising purple hue. It goes on like that for hours, even as you beg. He reads you the files again.

Price would then take the baton from the corner of the room, the side of your face already swollen from the last strike, you were seeing red out of your left eye and soon you wouldn't be able to see out of it if the swelling continued.

"Please..." you shivered, miserably.

"Over in a jiff, love, but i need somethin' from you, you know that." Was his reply, he tapped the baton against the metal below you, the reverb makes you jump each time, leaving you to stare at it as you watched his boots walk around you.

"Cap'n, It's not...It's not--me..." you tried, breathless. "I'd never.."

The steel baton came down on your shoulder, first. There was an immediate response from your constricted muscles, limbs that had all tensed up at once despite their numbness. Pulling at the shackles that kept you in place, the hit shocks you, nearly silencing you completely, it hurts, then it burns. Mouth open in a silent scream, you squeeze your eyes shut in an effort to block out the pain that crawled through your shoulder. "It's not me!"

You've been suffering from hypothermia for a few days since then. Your shoulder crushed right out of place or just plain broken, you weren't sure. It's not like you could feel much of your arms in this position.

It hurt. Not just the painful strain that this position was currently putting on your muscles, but everything else...

Of course, you've handled torture alike this before. Captured and tortured by enemies, ransomed for pay and fought tooth and nail to live, then found your way from that hell...only for the men who you'd kill for, to do the same thing to you with no remorse.

In the quiet of the empty room, you sobbed in agony. Squeezing your fists, but you couldn't even feel them, as far as you knew your fingers could only twitch in response to your demand.

You weren't sure what you were doing here.

Well, you knew. There was a mole, all evidence pointing to you, whatever it was had completely stunted their mission earlier in the week, left them hiding in a safe house for days until they were picked up by evac. Apparently, you'd leaked mission details to some hostiles over seas, you weren't sure which ones, they were hoping you could tell them. You had absolutely nothing, lost.

Of course, they didn't believe you. Although you expected to have at least a sliver of trust, someone to speak up against these claims and believe you...

It must've been too much to ask.

It came out of nowhere, at first you had been in bed with Simon, your fucking Fiancé, then that meeting with Price, then just...they'd cornered you in that room. Knocked you out without even an explanation, woke you up strapped down, confused, stripped of your uniform and feral as you demanded answers. Nobody listened to you.

That first night you thought you were gonna die. The second night you thought you had. The third night you were just convinced this was your hell.

You were soaked to the bone, and unable to stop shivering. The only sound you could hear was your own chattering teeth in this never-ending void of darkness.

It was so fucking dark in here, your eyes darting around to every corner, hoping for even a measly crack of light that your eyes could adjust to. Every sound, scratch, scrape or click made you jump, you couldn't see shit in here, so just about everything made you hyper aware. You couldn't help your anxiety as the sound of the faucet, the constant drops against your spine, the jingle of your shackles and the whimpers that echoed against the walls as you struggled to comfortably breathe. Maybe it was the thought of a mouse crawling up the stool and along your skin, or someone in here just staring at you in the corner, or the door finally opening for Price to start slicing into you demanding answers you didn't have.

You were on the cusp of losing your mind. If you hadn't already.

But it's been a few hours since then...

Maybe even a few days...

It could even have been a week.

You weren't too sure.

Simon had been the last one in here. He'd pulled the strap loose around your neck, hauling you up to an upright position by your jaw, eliciting a whimper from your lips. Able to breathe a bit easier, your lungs finally decompressing and you gulp down air greedily, "Simon..." this had been the first time you'd seen him since. He wears his balaclava, he is Ghost, not your Simon Riley.

As your bloodshot, swollen eyes raise to look into his cold ones, so unfeeling. You hadn't even realized you were so hopeful for his trust in you until then, looking at you like you were absolutely nothing to him, the same look he always had before pulling the trigger. "Simon, please, stop this..." your words slurred by your shivering, exhausted. "You know me...please."

Your tears slide over the leather of his gloved hands, while he holds tight to your face and cuts your pleads short with a painful squeeze. "Shut up," he says. His eyes are blank, but his voice is low and seething. "Shut the fuck up!" Simon harshly grits out to you, jostling you harshly. You squeeze your eyes shut, weeping miserably, throat closing up to your agony.

He had to know that you would've never done this to him. He should've known that. Given you the benefit of the doubt at least. You'd have never done this to him...

"I'm sorr-" you try, he squeezes harder to silence you swiftly, and snatches a tiny bowl off the tray he'd brought in. Raising your jaw a bit higher, he pours down a chunky broth into your mouth, letting it all just fall down to your throat. It's disgusting. He doesn't ease up for even a second as you toss and turn your head to breathe.

"Don't say a fucking word," he seethes, his hand enveloping your neck and keeping your head raised upward. "As if I should believe you..."

He then takes the next cup to do the same, your eyes bloodshot wide and you jerk away from him as you choke, unable to stomach anything, but he doesn't let you. This time you inhale accidentally, blocking your airway, eyes watering as you writhe for oxygen, your shackles clang violently as you attempt to retaliate, the first fight you've put up in days. His grip doesn't let up, even as you struggle and start to vomit up whatever he decided to shove down your throat.

When he finally lets go, you curve over and heave up whatever's left in your mouth, hyperventilating as you empty your guts on the floor. Hacking up whatever you can, it hurts, your throat burning from the sobs that leave you in between coughs. "If you love me, if you--ever had--" you spat at him. You'd given him everything, every part of yourself, nearly given him your life in the battlefield, and yet...it wasn't enough. "You would fucking believe me!" your voice cracks with the effort it takes to scream at him, to curse him to hell.

"My trust? That's what you want," Hollow eyes stare back at you, his attention flickering around to the uncomfortable shift of your shoulders in those cuffs. Your swollen left eye that had been hit so hard, the white of it had filled with blood. The black and blue littering your sides and your spine, the loss of color in your skin from the stress position and the cold that had you uncontrollably shivering. "You've had it before. You must've sold that to them too."

Your head drops to the stool again, releasing a heavy breath. "It wasn't worth much, if it was so easy to lose..."

Usually it's not very easy to set Simon off, you've known him always to be quite mellow, besides the barely concealed rage he had settled in his chest since you've known him. But, today, you were an exception.

Fisting a hand in your hair, Simon yanks at it, pulling you upwards for your to face him. His other hand coming up to wrap around your throat before your tortured scream can even manifest. In that moment, it feels as if he'd snapped your spine in half, having not used the muscles to stretch that area in over a week. Your shackled wrists shifting in the cruel position.

His eyes are wild and rageful, the balaclava that covers him twists just the same, his grip very telling to his violence as he squeezes down any chance at air or even a sentence. "Easy to lose..." he repeats, spitting in your face as he strangles you. "Easy t'lose your life! If you don't tell me the fucking truth," he pulls out the knife you'd seen him slit so many throats with before, you hear the familiar sound of it first then its cold steel pressing into the side of your ribs. "I'm gonna carve out your heart, and I'll take it real slow, let you feel every little thing I do to you in here," he shakes you harshly as a startled cry escapes you, your tears are burning hot against your cheeks. "You don't get to cry. Or whine. Or beg!"

"Stop--" you try to squirm away from him, to get as far away as possible, from this place, from this moment.

"Just tell me the truth," Simon's face twisted in agony, for just a second, his thumb drags along your jaw, meaningfully. "You'd be doing us both a favor..."

As his vast hand finally loosed around your neck just enough to hold you up, awaiting the bitter truth. Simon's knife catches on the protrusion of your ribs, nicking the skin, drawing blood on purpose. You stare up at the ceiling, the flickering old lights, the dripping faucet that's tormented your already fragile state for weeks now. "The truth..." you spoke, hoarsely. "You've all shown me...it doesn't matter to you. If it ever... Believe what you want--" you close your eyes, you're exhausted. Sleep had evaded you for days. "You and your truth and this team, you can all go to hell."

And finally he lets you go, letting your fall forwards, unable to find the relief of a cold floor but back to the strenuous position you'd been placed in. "AH!" nearly popping your shoulders out of place, or maybe they had, you bite down on your tongue, shaking in silence.

If you could see Simon's face, you could've relished in the uncertainty flickering in his eyes, the sudden doubt that led his knife back in its holder and his nails to bite into the flesh of his palms. He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing leaves him, instead he stands there.

You can't say a thing to him now, everything that's happened was just a little reminder that whatever you said, whatever you did, it didn't matter. Their minds had already been made. You really would die here.

Simon stands there a little longer, he doesn't say anything, you're not sure if he stays there to watch your suffering a little longer or to wait to say another heart-wrenching thing. Maybe he's just there to wait for you to die. But, he just watches as you wretch and cry in a ball atop that stool.

He leaves not long after, he didn't bother to strap you down this time. He left the old light on, but it must've been older than you thought.

The single bulb fizzled out completely hours ago. Not unless one of them decided to cut the silence and turn on the light to start another 'questioning', so suddenly being able to see more than darkness wasn't anything to be excited about.

They'd leave you in the dark until then, to await the next moment any of them would grace you with their presence.

To be honest, you'd imagined you'd be stronger than this. But, there was nothing to hold onto, so what did strength matter?

It was too late anyway.

They'd broken you days ago.

---

The truth had come out, two days later.

"Oh god..."

"Oh my fucking God," Simon rushed down the corridor, Price tailing right behind him. "Oh my God!" his normal monotone voice now a mess of fear and panic, breathing harsher, on the cusp of hyperventilating with every stride as he ran faster than he ever had in his life.

Finally getting to the interrogation wing of the department, he bangs his fist on the plexiglass of those silently monitoring the rooms, "Open the fucking door!" he's buzzed in before he can pull on the handle another time.

Rushing down the hall to the now green lit room, lights flickering to life with every step closer down the hall of empty rooms. He nearly rips the door off its hinges as he bursts inside, the lights of the your tiny prison don't come to life as they should. Light spilling into the cell, to hit your limp figure first.

He doesn't deserve to say your name. "(Y/n)," Simon rushes over, to his knees instantly. A puddle of vomit, water and spoiled broth soaks through his uniform.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry," he sobs out his mistakes, unhooking your chains and cutting through your buckles as fast as he could. "Oh my god, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!" he catches his fiancé as you collapse, turning over and off the stool, your legs having lost all sense of feeling. You fall into his arms, catching you carefully. "Price!" he cries out, desperately.

"They're on the way!" Your captain assures, he sees the medical team rushing down the hallway, a stretcher, a box of medical supplies. Christ.

You're freezing to the touch, your skin a hue of blue, not to mention the bruises, the cuts and the swollen areas throughout your face and spine. You suddenly inhale, sharply, coughing terribly. You're sick, breathing shakily, "Simon...?" you breathe, confused. You can't see. Your eyes swollen shut from your torture at their hands.

"It's me, it's me," Simon assured, although he knew it probably brought you no comfort. He snatches the blanket offered up by Price, your captain a mess of himself, holding himself together at the doorway, nails biting into the steel.

As Simon wraps you in the first glimpse of warmth you've had in days, you ease up a bit, fingers twitching upwards to pull the threads closer around yourself. "It wasn't..." you shiver, Simon listens intently as he rises with you in his arms, running off to meet the medical team halfway. "It wasn't me..." you gasp out. "It wasn't..."

Simon can't say a thing as he hears your tormented voice stutter in fear of him, lips pressed tight together, heart sinking and as the nurses take your body, he collapses to his knees.

Part 2

and if you'd like to support a fanfic hoe in need...would you Buy me a Coffee?

[23victoria]

just friends…right?

pairing: 𝒐𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓 𝒑𝒊𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒊 𝒙 𝒇𝒆𝒎!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

word count: 1.4𝒌

synopsis: 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒔...𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕?

warnings: 𝒇𝒍𝒖𝒇𝒇, 𝒊𝒅𝒊𝒐𝒕𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆, 𝒃𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔, 𝒄𝒖𝒕𝒆,

authors note: 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏. 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒂 𝒅𝒊𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒕 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒕𝒚𝒍𝒆 𝒔𝒐 𝒍𝒎𝒌 𝒊𝒇𝒖 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒊𝒕! 𝒊 𝒂𝒎 𝒔𝒐 𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒃 𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕, 𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒍𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒆! 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈! 𝒆𝒏𝒋𝒐𝒚!!!

𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒂 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕?! CLICK HERE!

✰ F1 MASTERLIST ✰

You’ve been to plenty of races, but there’s something about coming home to Melbourne that feels different. It’s the first race of the season, and the familiar skyline, the smell of eucalyptus trees in the breeze—it all reminds you of when you and Oscar were just awkward teenagers in boarding school, dreaming big.

Now? He’s living his dream. And you’re standing trackside with a Paddock Pass clipped to your belt loop, his spare McLaren jacket drowning your frame because you forgot your own.

“Hydrate,” you say, pushing a cold bottle of water into Oscar’s hand as he’s pulling off his helmet after FP1.

He takes it, and without thinking, leans forward to press his forehead against your shoulder for just a moment—just a breath of stillness. It’s instinct now, the way you wrap an arm around his waist without blinking.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he mumbles into your shirt. His voice is muffled, but it sends butterflies into full flight.

Lando walks past, smirking. “Y���know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you two were secretly married.”

Oscar pulls away, rolling his eyes but grinning. “We’re not.”

You’re already used to this. Everyone assumes. How could they not? You’re always there—making sure he eats, making sure he sleeps, fixing his collar, hugging him before every quali.

You and Oscar in the same sentence always sounds like a love story.

And maybe… maybe you’re starting to wonder if everyone else knows something you don’t.

You’re pressed into a hug by Alexandra when Oscar appears at your side. He’s glowing—P3 today, his first podium of the season—and you beam as he walks up to you like you’re his finish line.

His hands immediately go to your waist like they always do when he lifts you up after a good result.

“I told you!” you shout over the noise. “P3! I called it this morning!”

Oscar spins you around like you weigh nothing and then sets you down, too close, forehead nearly touching yours. “You’re officially good luck,” he grins.

Ollie's nearby with Kimi, the two of them laughing as they watch the interaction unfold.

“Just friends, right?” Kimi teases, nudging Ollie who tries to look innocent.

“Very convincing,” Ollie snorts. “If my best friend looked at me like that, I’d be questioning everything.”

You shoot them a glare, cheeks hot, but Oscar doesn’t even look flustered. He just shakes his head with a tiny smirk.

“You guys are unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath.

But you see the way he’s still holding your hand.

It’s pouring rain. The race is delayed. You’re wrapped in Oscar’s spare hoodie because your suitcase got lost in transit, and you’re curled up in a hospitality room on the floor, your legs over his lap as he scrolls through his phone.

Outside, the track is flooded. Inside, it’s warm. Safe.

He taps on a post and shows you.

It’s a fan edit. Of you and him.

Clips from the paddock, your hugs, the way he looks at you when you’re not watching, a slow-motion shot of him tucking your hair behind your ear.

“‘Just friends’ my ass,” the caption reads.

“Oh my god,” you groan, burying your face in a pillow.

Oscar just chuckles, low and fond. “They have better footage of us than F1TV.”

You peek up at him, suspicious. “You’re not embarrassed?”

He shrugs. “Nah. It’s kind of flattering.”

“Kind of?” you tease.

Oscar looks down at your legs draped across his and then gently squeezes your ankle. “I mean, I don’t blame them.”

Your breath hitches.

He doesn’t elaborate.

You’re wearing that black silk dress he once said made you look “dangerous.” You’ve forgotten about the comment—until you catch Oscar staring across the dinner table a little too long.

“So,” Lando says, raising a glass, “how long have you two been secretly dating?”

You sigh.

“For the hundredth time,” you say patiently, “we are not dating.”

“That’s what all secretly dating people say,” Charles jokes, grinning into his wine.

Even Max leans back with a raised brow. “You spend every weekend together, wear his clothes, and you call each other before every quali. But sure. Best friends.”

Ollie raises a hand. “I’d just like to point out she kissed his helmet before Quali in Hungary last year. You’re telling me that’s not love?”

“It’s tradition,” you protest.

“Your face was red for an hour,” Kimi deadpans.

Oscar laughs, shaking his head. “You’re all insane.”

But his voice is too fond. Like he doesn’t actually hate the teasing.

And his hand brushes yours under the table for a second too long to be accidental.

It’s scorching, and Oscar’s nearly melting in his race suit. You show up to his garage with a small handheld fan and his favorite electrolyte drink, holding them up like a peace offering.

“You’re going to owe me foot rubs for this.”

He chuckles. “Foot rubs?”

“I’ve walked, like, four kilometers today.”

Oscar takes the drink and the fan, then grabs your wrist and pulls you toward the garage. “Come sit down. You look like you’re about to faint.”

“I’m fine.”

“Y/N.”

He gives you that look—the one he only reserves for you. Stern, sweet, worried.

So you sit, and his hand doesn’t leave yours for at least ten minutes.

When Andrea, his engineer, comes by, he raises a brow. “You’re attached at the hip. One day I’m going to find you two fused together.”

Oscar rolls his eyes. “We’re just friends, mate.”

“Right,” Andrea replies dryly. “And I’m Batman.”

You can’t sleep.

The hotel room next to yours is Oscar’s. You knock lightly, and he opens it almost immediately, like he was waiting for you.

“Can’t sleep,” you whisper.

He nods, steps aside.

You both lie on his bed in the dark, facing the ceiling. Eventually, you roll to your side to look at him. “Do you ever think about how long it’s been?”

He turns to you, brows raised. “What?”

“Us. Being like this.”

Oscar’s quiet for a moment. “Since we were thirteen, yeah?”

“Boarding school. The cracked dorm windows. You stealing my notes.”

“Hey, you stole my snacks.”

You laugh quietly, and he’s watching you now, really watching.

“You were always there,” you murmur. “Every big moment of my life, you’ve been there.”

Oscar nods. “Same.”

The silence is thick. Heavy.

“You ever think about what that means?” you whisper.

He blinks slowly. “All the time.”

It’s raining again. Because of course it is.

You’re in the back of the garage, watching the screen, heart in your throat. Oscar’s fighting for P2. You’re squeezing a McLaren stress ball so hard your fingers hurt.

When he crosses the line in second, you scream. Literally. Everyone around you cheers, but you run.

You’re there before he even pulls off his gloves. You wait until he’s past media, past team debrief, and then you throw yourself into his arms, nearly knocking him off balance.

“You were incredible,” you whisper, voice breaking with pride.

He holds you tighter than he ever has before.

“You always believe in me,” he says quietly.

“I always will.”

And when you pull back, his hand finds your jaw like it’s second nature. His eyes flick down to your lips before returning to your eyes.

Neither of you says it. But you both know.

It’s late. Everyone’s left dinner. You and Oscar are walking towards his car.

You’re laughing about something—the memory of some dumb joke that Ollie and Lando were bickering over dinner—when Oscar suddenly stops walking, going quiet.

You look at him. “What?”

He swallows. “Do you ever wonder what would happen if we stopped saying we were just friends?”

Your breath catches.

“What if we stopped pretending?” he continues, voice low. “What if we just… told them they were right?”

You stare at him. “Oscar…”

“Y/N. I’ve been in love with you since I was seventeen.”

The world stills.

And then, before you can panic or think or overanalyze—

You kiss him.

It’s soft, warming, familiar, and long overdue.

When you pull back, he’s grinning like an idiot.

“Took you long enough,” he whispers.

You smack his shoulder, giggling, with slight tears in your eyes. “Shut up.”

His fingers are laced with yours. And you don’t let go. You rest your head on his shoulder, looking up at him lovingly—like he’s the only thing in the world that makes sense.

✰༞𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!࿎✰@ham1lton @ietss @animeandf1lover @nelly187 @heartsfromtaeyong @bloodyymaryyy @nor-4 @zacian117 @mel164 @uhhvictoria @hadidsworld @zabwlky1999 @sya-skies @lillysbigwilly @avengers-assemble123456 @santanasaintmendes @km-23mr @hookhausenschips @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @Ronpho @minekarina @aeongism @Formula1-motogpfa @slagclarens @aleexvqa @f1updates4you @booksandflowrs @chaostudee @winkev1 @strawblueberrys @Blakesbearblog @cel-b @perfumejamal @aykxz98 @pandora-08 @teti-menchon0604 @bxtosa @fadingcloudballoon @whatevenisthisxxxxx @anamiad00msday @luula @tellybearryyyy @exotic-iris13 @magixpracticality @eoduuung @eternoangel @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @flowerpetalk @oledoledoffen @jimcarreyfann42 @revolutionsingingintherain @acesbakery @oliviah-25 @matcha—-matcha @unkownmystery_22 @sophienorris18-blog @armystay89 @paucubarsisimp

[nymphbnny]

adrenaline

────── ryomen sukuna

⤷ formula one driver!sukuna who takes an interest on a shy reporter.

tw: doggy, daddy kink (slight) oral (male female receiving), mating press, breeding kink, spanking, not proofread, MDNI

got inspired by this beautiful work here, go show some love <3 @to00fu

it was loud — overwhelmingly so. the roar of engines echoed off the narrow streets of monte carlo as you arrived at the circuit de monaco, badge swinging around your neck, notebook clutched to your chest. your team had sent you to cover the monaco grand prix, one of the crown jewels of the formula 1 calendar. it was your first time at a live event of this scale, and your assignment? try to score an interview with none other than ryomen sukuna — two-time monaco winner, three-time berlin champion, and the most elusive driver on the grid.

he wasn’t known for giving interviews. in fact, most in the press pen described him as cold, cocky, and unreachable. but still, if you could manage to get him to speak to you — really speak — it would be a game-changer for your career.

“hey, you ready?” your coworker called from the media shuttle. “we’ve got to be in the press briefing before the pre-race prep starts.”

you nodded quickly, adjusting your press lanyard, and followed the flow of reporters into the media center. inside, the buzz was palpable. you took your seat, legs crossed tightly, foot tapping against the floor. you were trying to calm your nerves, but your eyes kept drifting toward the door.

and then, the room shifted.

cheers and whistles broke out as sukuna entered. you stood instinctively, craning your neck to get a glimpse — and there he was. tall, broad-shouldered in his fitted team suit, race cap pulled low over his sharp eyes. he didn’t wave or acknowledge the room, just walked in with the quiet authority of a man who knew he didn’t need to try.

your throat dried. he was stunning. the kind of stunning that made your cheeks burn as you forced your gaze back to your notes. inappropriate thoughts crept in anyway. you pressed your knees together, trying to shake them off.

one by one, the journalists posed their questions. sukuna’s replies were short, clipped, sometimes sarcastic. he didn’t suffer fools — or flattery. and then it was your turn.

you stood, heart hammering. he watched you as you rose — not dismissively, but with interest, eyes following the way you clutched your notes like a lifeline.

“i was wondering,” you began, voice just steady enough, “about the profile picture you use across your social media — the one with you and your father in the small f1 kart. was he your inspiration to race?”

there was a beat of silence. a few reporters chuckled. someone scoffed. but sukuna didn’t. instead, he gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. he twisted the cap onto his water bottle and looked straight at you. “my dad was everything. i learned to race to make him proud,” he said, and for a second, his voice softened.

you nodded, lips curling into a smile, and sat down — your heart doing laps faster than any car on the grid. the rest of the questions blurred together. you could feel his eyes on you now and then, sharp and unreadable.

engines revved in the pit lane as the sun dipped lower over monte carlo’s harbor. the race was chaos and choreography all at once — twenty cars weaving through the tight hairpins and unforgiving chicanes, the scream of the v6 turbo engines reverberating off the grandstands.

you watched from the media zone, gripping your headset as the final laps unfolded. overtakes were rare in monaco, but sukuna was a master of precision. when he made his move into the nouvelle chicane, it was clean and lethal — the kind of move that made commentators lose their minds.

and then, the checkered flag waved. sukuna had won.

the crowd erupted. flares lit up. and the press surged forward.

“come on!” your coworker shouted, already pushing toward the media scrum gathering by parc fermé. reporters crowded around the victorious driver, shouting over one another. microphones flashed. cameras clicked.

you tried to move forward — but it was impossible. the mob was too thick, too loud.

“watch out!” someone yelled, but too late — another reporter shoved past you, knocking you off balance.

you stumbled forward, straight into someone’s chest. strong arms steadied you. a hand curled around your wrist. it was him. security started to react, but sukuna raised a hand, waving them off. his eyes — sharp and amused — scanned your face.

“you again, sweetheart?” he said low enough for only you to hear. his thumb brushed gently across the inside of your wrist. or maybe you imagined that part. you weren’t sure. he was close — so close it was dizzying.

he leaned in, lips near your ear. “if you’re serious about that interview,” he murmured, “meet me at the hotel hermitage. room 1801. nine o’clock. reception will let you up.”

and just like that, he walked away, ignoring the press, his team, everyone else.

your coworker caught up to you, wide-eyed. “what did he say?!” you blinked, still stunned. “he said… my questions were soft.” you lied, smiling to yourself.

you didn’t know if you’d go, but it might just be your shot.

you stared at the clock in your hotel room: 8:52 p.m.

you had paced the suite five times, changed your outfit twice, and debated texting your editor a dozen more. was this a mistake? would he even remember he invited you? your press pass lay on the nightstand, staring back at you like a dare.

by 8:57, you were in the elevator heading to the 18th floor of hotel hermitage. the hallway was quiet, plush carpet soft under your shoes. everything smelled like expensive cologne and fresh linen. it felt like the kind of place where secrets were expected — and kept.

you knocked on the door marked 1801.

no response.

you hesitated, lifting your hand again — but the door cracked open.

he stood there, Ryomen Sukuna — hair still wet, towel slung around the back of his neck, a few droplets of water catching the light as they slid down his bare chest. tattoos sprawled across his torso, wrapping around his arms, ink trailing over defined muscle and disappearing under a pair of low-sitting black lounge shorts. no shirt. just heat. and skin. and ink.

he looked completely unbothered by his own state of undress.

“you’re early,” he said, voice gravelly — not annoyed, but amused.

you tried to say something — anything — but your words got lost somewhere between the towel on his neck and the line of his collarbone.

he tilted his head slightly. “you coming in or just going to stare?” you stepped inside before you embarrassed yourself further.

the suite was dimly lit, with soft light coming from the floor lamps and the glow of monaco’s coast beyond the balcony windows. there was a half-open bottle of wine on the table near the couch, two glasses already waiting — like this had been a plan from the beginning.

you turned back toward him just as he closed the door. he didn’t move to get dressed. didn’t apologize for it, either.

“so,” he said, walking over to the wine. “you’re here for your big scoop?”

“you invited me,” you managed to say, even if it came out smaller than you intended. he poured the wine slowly. “i know.” he stated lowly, his eyes casually drifting at you, his muscles flexing with every move.

he handed you a glass, and when your fingers brushed his — warm skin, damp from the shower — it felt like a jolt of something you couldn’t name.

“well?” he said, lowering himself onto the couch. “ask your questions.”

you sat across from him, notebook in your lap more for show than purpose. your pen hovered midair, mind trying to chase the professionalism you were supposed to have walked in with. he sipped his wine, eyes never really leaving yours — studying, waiting.

you cleared your throat. “okay. first question… you’ve raced this circuit five times now. do you still get nervous before a big start?”

he leaned back, one arm draped over the back of the couch, the towel shifting slightly on his neck. “not really. nerves are a waste of energy. you either trust yourself, or you don’t.”

you nodded, scribbling something down even if it was just to give your hands something to do. “right. uh… who do you think your biggest rival is this season?”

“depends. on paper?” he took another sip. “probably hajime. but mentally? no one.”

you smiled despite yourself. “cocky.”

“confident,” he corrected smoothly. “if you don’t believe you’re the best out there, you’re already behind.”

you made a small noise of agreement, then flipped the page — pretending you weren’t hyperaware of the way his muscles shifted every time he moved. “okay, let’s talk personal life.”

his brow lifted. “now we’re getting interesting.”

you hesitated. “are relationships hard for you, given the lifestyle?”

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he let the silence settle, then said slowly, “they’re not hard. they’re just not built to last.”

you glanced up at him. “why not?”

“because most people don’t want the truth,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “they want a version of you that makes them feel better about themselves.” your pen paused.

he leaned forward slightly, gaze sharper now. “you ask a lot of curious personal questions.”

“it’s my job,” you replied, trying to match his tone.

“sure,” he said. “or maybe you just want to know what kind of women i like.” your breath caught — not because he was wrong, but because of how plainly he’d said it. your silence stretched too long, and his smirk deepened.

“want me to answer that?”

you swallowed. “wouldn’t that be off the record?”

“maybe,” he said, voice dipping low. “maybe not.” your fingers tightened slightly around your pen. “i’m not uncomfortable.”

“didn’t say you were,” he murmured, leaning in a little more, elbows resting on his knees now, glass dangling from one hand. “but you haven’t moved since i brought it up.”

you met his eyes — steady, unreadable. “so? what kind of women do you like?”

he smiled, slow and deliberate. “ones who ask bold questions with their voice shaking.”

you exhaled — not quite a laugh, not quite a breath — and before you could respond, he tilted his head, voice dropping even lower.

you couldn’t seem to tear your eyes away from him. his gaze was magnetic — intense, and unwavering.

“you sure you’re still here for the article?” his voice was low, but there was no mistaking the challenge in his words.

you blinked, caught off guard. “i’m… i’m here for the interview,” you said, trying to steady your nerves, but the line between professional and personal was blurring fast.

he didn’t smile this time, his gaze sharpening as he leaned in, his voice dropping lower. “you know,” he said, his tone almost teasing now, “i don’t usually invite people to my room for just a ‘chat.’”

your heart pounded in your chest, and you could feel the weight of his stare. you weren’t sure if you wanted to step back or closer, but his next words made it all the more complicated.

“tell me,” he murmured, his voice rough but controlled. “after all the questions you’ve asked about everyone else, you haven’t told me much about you.”

his eyes flicked to yours, dark and assessing. “you want to know what kind of woman I like? it’s simple: someone who knows what she wants.” his words were heavy with meaning, lingering in the air.

you swallowed hard. you had no idea where this conversation was going, but you felt your body respond to the shift in energy. it was no longer about the interview, or the questions.

“maybe you’d like me to show you,” he said, leaning closer. there was no mistaking it now. his breath was warm against your skin, and the air felt thick, charged with something undeniable. “or do you prefer to just keep asking?”

this was it. this was the moment you’ve been fantasizing about ever since you’ve laid eyes on him. you lean closer to him, his winey breath on your skin. “i guess, no,” you took a small breath, “i want you to show me, what you like.”

he smirked, his hand removing your glass from your trembling fingers. his face was closer to yours, his other hand wrapping itself around the back of your neck pulling you closer as he captured your lips with his. your stomach erupted, goosebumps rising on your skin as you found your brows furrowing into the kiss.

you placed your hands on his cheeks pulling further toward you, his body lying you down on the couch as he took place above you, careful with his movement without breaking away.

“tell me what you want beautiful and it’s yours,” he whispered into the kiss, “it’s all yours, god.”

you wrapped yourself around him, separating your face from him, face red and flushed. “i want you, please, sukuna,”

without a second wasted, sukuna grabbed your body pulling you up from the couch, his bulge rubbing against your clothed cunt. your hips attempted to get a better feel, pressing yourself closer to him but it was all cut to an end when you were thrown onto his bed.

“so needy,” he chuckled throwing off his towel with a tug, “you want me that bad huh?” he grinned removing his shorts, revealing his swollen tip. your mouth drooled at the sight, his inked body, his beautiful muscles and his aching cock. you couldn’t help but crawl to him, your bottom lip tugged under your teeth as you reached to grab him.

you wrapped your lips around the tip, tasting the salty pre-cum, and he groaned, one hand tangling in your hair. you took him deeper, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing as you worked him, but he wasn’t patient. how could he when your throat felt so good. he thrust into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat, making you gag. tears pricked your eyes, but the sound of his low, filthy moans made your cunt drip onto the sheets.

“fuck, that’s it,” he moaned, fucking your mouth with slow, deliberate thrusts. “take every inch baby that’s it.”

you moaned around him, the vibrations making him curse, his grip tightening. he pulled out suddenly, leaving you gasping, spit dripping down your chin. “not yet,” he said, hauling you to your feet and pushing you back . “i wanna feel that tight little pussy first.”

he shoved your body to his liking, face-down, ass up, pulling down your skirt and panties down. the cool air coming from the open windows hit your slick folds, making you shiver, but then his hand cracked against your ass, the sting blooming into heat that made your clit throb. “look at this perfect ass,” he muttered, spanking you again, leaving red handprints. “begging to become one of my trophies.”

“please,” you whimpered, spreading your thighs wider, desperate. “sukuna…”

he chuckled, caressing your soft skin, leaning down to kiss it. “you gon’ be a good girl and take all of daddy?” he taunted. your cunt throbbed, giving him all the answers he needed. sukuna teased your slit with his tip before thrusting into you, one long stroke that stretched your pussy to accommodate his girth. your lips parted, letting out an ecstatic gasp as your gripped onto the silk sheets. his balls were slapping against your clit, the trimmed hair brushing against your skin.

“you feel so good, mhm so fucking good,” he grunted, hands gripping your hips as the wet, obscene sounds of your pussy taking him filled the suite. sweat slicked your skin, his chest pressing against your back as he leaned down, biting your shoulder before kissing it, his mouth trailing from your blades to your neck.

his thrusts pushed you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you, your cunt spasming around his cock as you screamed his name. he couldn’t stop, fucking you through it, chasing his own release. “gonna fill you up sweetheart,” he mumbled almost whimpering, his cock rubbing against your warm insides before spilling himself inside you.

your head fell heavy on the pillows, body trembling as his weight pinned you to the bed, his cock still buried inside you. your breaths were ragged, the room spinning, cum and sweat staining the sheets.

you whimpered painfully as he pulled out, cum leaking from your tired pussy. a sight for sore eyes, he thought.

it wasn’t until you felt his tongue on you that you realized he wasn’t done yet, lapping at the mixture of both his and your orgasms, moaning as he made out with your folds.

“couldn’t help but have a taste, fuck” his voice sent vibrations to your clit, your hand grabbing his head from behind as best you could to guide him through your climax.

he chuckled at your attempt, “don’t got anymore questions f’me?” he spat on your folds before plunging his fingers, toying with you. “don’t get all shy on me now, not after how you treated my cock,” a trail of moans was your answer, hips bucking as you rushed yourself to come.

“oh yeah i can feel that, gonna come again for daddy baby? yeah?” your nodding was rapid, toes curling as you allowed yourself to be overwhelmed by your orgasm.

“daddy… coming,” you whispered, breath shaky. he would be lying if he didn’t enjoy seeing you like that, calling him daddy, letting him do as he pleases. but then it hit him, he still hasn’t seen your fucked out face.

he smeared your juices all over your cunt, lubing you to prepare you for his hardened cock again. with a simple tug he flipped you over, legs on his shoulders as he dug in, capturing your yelp in his mouth, this time going faster.

you grabbed onto his shoulders, legs wrapping around him to keep him close. he knew he wouldn’t last long, how could he when you were squeezing him like that. he reached to your buttoned shirt, ripping it open, the sounds of your buttons scattering on the floor.

sukuna looked down at you, your soft voice expressing how good he is making you feel. he smirked, his fingers pulling down your bra to be mesmerized by your tits, his hungry mouth unable to resist latching on them.

“oh my god fuck, sukuna… sukuna shit!” your fingers were now in his hair, your nipples respectively getting sucked and played with. “fill me up again, felt so good to have your cum,” you begged, eyes filling with tears.

“never say no to a win,” he chuckled, his face dropping next to yours as he buried his face next to yours, your legs unconsciously letting go of him as your body began shaking, vision getting cloudy.

he moaned in your ear, his skin slapping against yours a few last times before he let himself loose inside you once again.

“you better mention how much i love the adrenaline rush i get in your article sweetheart.”

[jungwnies]

f1 grid | comfort after a bad race, except its you.

୨ৎ : featuring : all drivers on the grid & driver!reader ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : comforting you after coming off a rough race weekend.

୨ৎ : genre : fluff ୨ৎ : word count : 1844

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ 10k event | masterlist ୨ৎ

ʚ・red bull

max verstappen

it’s not in max’s nature to be soft, but the second he sees you sitting on the pit wall, still in your race suit and staring out at the empty track, he knows not to joke. no teasing, no smug remarks—just him dropping down beside you in silence. he offers his water bottle, nudges his knee against yours.

“you don’t have to say anything,” he mumbles. “just sit with me, yeah?”

you do, and when you finally speak, he listens—really listens. and when you break, voice cracking mid-sentence, he places his hand over yours and whispers, “bad race doesn’t mean you’re a bad driver. you know that, right?”

yuki tsunoda

yuki finds you in the cooldown room post-race, curled into the corner of the couch with your head in your hands. he doesn’t say anything right away, just sits beside you and lets out a long sigh. “that was shit,” he says bluntly. “but you’re still better than half those idiots out there.”

when you laugh weakly, he lights up. “there’s my rival,” he grins, bumping your shoulder. then softer, “i know how hard you worked. they’ll see it next time. i promise.”

he even lets you steal his favorite onigiri snack as a peace offering.

ʚ・mercedes

george russell

george finds you in the back of the garage, helmet still on, shoulders stiff and unmoving. he doesn’t say anything at first—just crouches in front of you and taps gently at your gloves.

“i know it’s shit,” he says quietly, eyes searching yours through the visor. “but one race doesn’t erase who you are.”

when you finally pull your helmet off, blinking fast to hide the tears, he just pulls you into a hug and lets you bury your face in his shoulder.

“you’re not alone in this. i’ve been there. tomorrow we reset, yeah?”

kimi antonelli

he’s awkward at first, unsure how to approach you. but the moment he sees your clenched jaw and how you refuse to meet anyone’s eyes, something clicks.

“you don’t have to pretend with me,” he mutters, handing you a cold water bottle and sitting beside you on the pit wall.

he doesn’t talk much—just lets the silence wrap around the both of you while your breathing evens out.

later, he surprises you with a quiet “you’re still the person i look up to. one bad race doesn’t change that.” and it nearly breaks you.

ʚ・ferrari

charles leclerc

he finds you in your driver room, pacing, still in your suit, muttering under your breath about everything that went wrong.

“mon amour,” he says gently, stepping inside, “you don’t have to carry this alone.”

you break down the second he pulls you into his arms, hiding your face in his chest while he rocks you slightly, murmuring, “it’s not your fault. i saw you fighting out there. you gave everything.”

later, he makes you sit down and eat something, even if it’s just a few bites. he knows the weight of a red suit and how it can feel like the whole world is watching—so he makes sure you remember it’s okay to stumble.

lewis hamilton

lewis sees the storm behind your eyes the second you step out of the car. he knows that look—it’s familiar. he’s worn it too many times himself.

“come here,” he says softly, pulling you aside into a quieter corner of the paddock.

“you are so much more than one result,” he reminds you, thumb brushing a tear off your cheek before it falls. “don’t let today rewrite your story.”

later that night, he sends you a playlist he made years ago for moments like this. it’s full of soft strength and quiet hope, just like him.

ʚ・mclaren

lando norris

he sees the frustration on your face before you even say a word, and his heart sinks right along with yours.

“hey,” he whispers, catching your wrist gently before you can storm off to your room. “don’t go spiraling. not today.”

sits with you on the floor of your room, helmets and gloves tossed to the side, just the two of you in quiet.

“you drove your heart out. i know it doesn’t feel like it mattered, but it did. you matter. we’re allowed to have shit days.”

pulls you into his side, kisses the top of your head, and adds, “but tomorrow? we try again. and i’ll be right here.”

oscar piastri

he doesn’t say much at first—he lets you vent, listening with those quiet eyes and soft nods that tell you he’s really hearing it all.

once you stop, chest heaving with the weight of it all, he speaks: “you’re allowed to be upset. but i need you to remember this doesn’t define you.”

he’s calm, grounding, the steady energy you didn’t know you needed.

later, he hands you a water bottle and sits beside you on the floor of the garage, legs stretched out, shoulders touching. “bad days happen. but you’re still one of the best out there. never forget that.”

ʚ・aston martin

fernando alonso

he watches you from across the paddock, eyes narrowed, reading you like a strategy sheet.

“you are angry with yourself,” he says quietly when you pass him, and you just sigh. “good. that means you still care.”

he doesn’t sugarcoat it. he respects you too much for that.

but later, he finds you alone in the motorhome and sits beside you. “you learn the most when the race hurts. and you—you're already better than half of them out there on your worst day.”

he doesn’t offer a hug, but he does leave you with a smirk and a softened, “come. let’s debrief over coffee. my treat.”

lance stroll

you’re curled up on the floor of your room, suit half-off, still sweaty and furious, when he knocks gently and peeks his head in.

“i brought snacks,” he says with a tiny smile, holding up your favorite post-race comfort food.

he doesn’t push. he just sits near you, eating in silence until you start talking, even if it’s just mumbled complaints.

“look,” he says eventually, nudging your knee, “you’re not allowed to quit, okay? not when you’ve worked this hard. not when i believe in you this much.”

gives you the softest, warmest hug when you finally let yourself cry into his chest.

ʚ・williams

alex albon

he finds you slumped in the garage, helmet still on, and just wraps his arms around you from behind. no words, just warmth.

“don’t talk yet,” he whispers into your shoulder. “just breathe.”

once you’ve calmed, he gently pulls off your helmet and tucks a few stray strands of hair behind your ear.

“you don’t have to be strong with me,” he says, eyes soft. “i know you gave it everything. and that’s enough for me.”

drags you out of the paddock and insists on bubble tea and cartoons in the hotel to cheer you up.

carlos sainz

paces around like he’s the one who DNF’d—frustrated, muttering in spanish, raking a hand through his hair.

the moment he sees you, all his tension melts into concern. “mi amor… come here.”

holds your face so gently, as if you might shatter. “you were brilliant. the car wasn’t. that’s not on you.”

kisses your forehead and murmurs sweet nothings in spanish while you lay on his chest in the motorhome.

promises to personally have words with whoever screwed up your strategy.

ʚ・haas

ollie bearman

he’s awkward at first, doesn’t quite know what to say when he sees you with glassy eyes and your suit half unzipped in defeat.

“hey… um. that sucked. really sucked.” then hugs you a bit too tightly.

rests his chin on top of your head. “but you’re still the coolest person in this whole paddock to me.”

pulls you away to the haas sim rig and makes you crash the car on purpose just to make you laugh.

“we’re gonna fix this. next race, you’ll be untouchable. i’ll make sure of it.”

esteban ocon

immediately knows something’s wrong just from your body language. pulls you aside the second he gets the chance.

his voice is calm, low, and soothing. “you’re allowed to be upset. but you’re not allowed to think you’re anything less than brilliant.”

sits beside you in the back of the hospitality unit, quietly holding your hand and rubbing your knuckles with his thumb.

brings you a bottle of water, wipes your face gently, and whispers, “you don’t need to put on a brave face with me.”

tells you about every race he failed to finish, just so you know you’re not alone in it.

ʚ・racing bulls

liam lawson

sees you storm off toward the garage and immediately follows, no cameras, no questions.

doesn’t ask what happened — just wraps his arm around your waist and murmurs, “talk to me when you’re ready.”

when you finally break down in the motorhome, he brushes your hair out of your face and pulls you into his chest.

“you’re allowed to be upset. but don’t forget you’re the fiercest driver i know.”

kisses the top of your head. “and if anyone says otherwise, they can deal with me.”

isack hadjar

tries to joke at first — “at least your helmet still looks good?”

but when he sees you’re genuinely crushed, his expression drops immediately.

sits beside you on the floor, backs against the wall, knees touching.

“hey, you’re allowed to cry. i know i would’ve punched someone by now if it were me.”

quietly adds, “you don’t have to prove anything to anyone. you’re already enough. more than enough.”

ʚ・alpine

pierre gasly

finds you pacing behind the paddock, biting back tears, helmet still on.

gently unclips your helmet, brushing a hand down your cheek as he takes it off.

“i know that look. i’ve worn it too many times.” his voice is soft, steady.

pulls you into a quiet room away from everyone and sits you down.

“you gave it everything. the result doesn’t erase the effort. or your talent. or how fucking proud i am of you.”

franco colapinto

catches the tail end of your radio message — the frustration, the cracked voice.

waits for you just outside parc fermé with open arms, doesn’t care who sees.

“you did your best. the car didn’t. that’s not on you.”

rubs your back as you lean into him, forehead pressed to his shoulder.

whispers in spanish, “sos increíble. y nada de esto cambia eso.” (you’re incredible. and none of this changes that.)

ʚ・kick sauber

nico hulkenberg

you storm off after the cooldown lap, helmet still on, teeth gritted. he doesn’t say a word — just walks beside you.

waits until you're seated in the garage corner before crouching next to you.

“want to break something? or sit in silence? your call.”

hands you a water bottle and his usual sarcasm fades: “you’ve had worse, i’ve had worse. we come back. we always do.”

adds, quieter, “you’re too damn good to let one shit race define anything.”

gabriel bortoleto

finds you hiding in your driver room, curled up with a towel over your head.

knocks once, then slides in anyway. “i brought snacks.”

doesn’t push you to talk — just sits beside you, legs touching, playing some silly tiktok sound on his phone to try to make you laugh.

“i’m still proud of you. even if today sucked. especially because today sucked.”

when you finally lift your head, he grins and says, “next time? we show them who you really are.”

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[lologoinsolo]

Haunted House Masterlist

A fun little idea that’s very quickly written. Apologies for mistakes, I should be sleeping but brain wouldn’t allow.

Your alarm is blaring. It’s loud and obnoxious and screams for you to wake. You don’t want to but you have to “seize the day” as one would say. You turn to your side and hit snooze though, shutting it up and deciding that five more minutes won’t hurt. You had such a wonderful dream that you want to get back to it. It was about you being rich and never having to work another day in your life.

“Yer gonna be late again for work, lass.”

Your eyes pop open as you scream, balling your fist and punching the man that lays down on your bed. Your fist phases right on through though and he laughs so loudly that you wished you could actually hit him.

“Ah, ouch, lass. That hurt.” He feigns pain, rubbing his face and he grins like the Cheshire Cat itself.

“Johnny,” you rub your temples. Your want for sleeping in is fleeting, “how many times do I have to tell you. The beds off limits.” Glaring at your ghostly companion.

“Ye said, Johnny, make sure I stay awake even when my alarm goes off,” he mimics your voice horribly, really laying on an abnormally high pitch to make you wish you couldn’t hear. He places a hand against his cheek and the other comes around to tap your forehead. You shiver when you can feel the cool sensation, you’ve never gotten used to that. “S’not my fault ye keep sleepin’ in.”

“Yeah, yeah,” flinching when your alarm goes off once more. You groan even louder than before as you turn the alarm off. You sit and rub your face till it hurts. “Alright,” you feel his hand pressing and nudging on your back. You swipe at him like a hissing cat and tumble off your welcoming, warm bed. He laughs and lays still as you move around sluggishly. You walk out of your room even when you can hear your bed weeping for you and head to your kitchen.

Grabbing a tea bag, a mug, and pouring water from the sink in it before placing it in the microwave. Pressing the buttons and you watch the light flicker on the mug spinning slowly. There’s a growing heavy weight against your back, it press well against your shoulder and even when you try to shove him away. He doesn’t budge, a mountain of cold, hard steel that doesn’t move even when you say his name. “Simon,” you whine, trying to push him away but alas, your hands phase through him just like it did with Johnny.

“You need a kettle,” he says with so much disappointment in his brown eyes. There’s an atrocity happening before him, actually it’s happened many times. You’ve flat out refused to even boil the water on at least a pot. “I feel like I’m dying again just watching this.” He leans ever more and you’re damn near fused to your counter.

“Okay, okay,” the microwave beeps and you open it to grab your mug. Wincing and trying to hold the hot ceramic handle without it peeling your skin off. “I’ll buy a kettle this time around.” You say as you have many times over, “can you move? Please?” You hear him sigh like he’s suffering and he leaves. Disappears off into the nether and probably won’t come back until you pour him a glass of his favorite whiskey as an apology. “Fucking Brit’s.” Grumbling your annoyance as you dump your sugar and stir it in the cooling liquid. Not even bothering to blow as you drink it. You don’t really get the difference but somehow it’s always an offense when Simon sees you do that.

“He’s right,” John sits on your recliner. A cigar in hand and even though he’s as ghostly as the others he manages to find a way to smoke in your house. “That’s no way to drink a tea.” Of course he’d jump in on this, though you think he might only do that just to get a rise out of you.

“Buy me a kettle and make me a tea.” Holding the mug against your face. Drinking it defiantly and Kyle comes through a wall as quickly as you say that.

“You banned us from making drinks or food.” Holding a finger out as he nods in making his point. John grunts in agreement, smoke somehow puffing around in swirls.

“For good reason, Kyle.” The last time they tried to do anything it was a mess. And not in the incompetent way but more in the paranormal why is everything floating kinda way. “There was tomato sauce splattered on my ceiling! The ceiling,” placing your mug down on the counter. “I had to get a ladder to clean it.”

“Didnae ken that would happen when I touched the damn thing.” You hear Johnny somewhere in the room but have yet to spot him. Probably hovering in a dark spot as usual when he plans on scaring you by grabbing you. He seems miffed about the incident since he’s the main reason why they’re all banned. “Ye were sick at the time. We just wanted to help.”

That makes you feel a little guilty. Your ghosts do try to help around as much as they can but sometimes their paranormalness doesn’t always work well in your house nor around objects. So far they’ve been able to touch you with no problem but with other things though… somtimes they will float or get weird with the temperature, your hairbrush has been freezing cold here lately… one of them probably snooped around your bathroom again. You’ve gotten as used to your roommates as best as you can. Your ability allows you to see and hear hem as clear as day while others can’t. It’s a blessing and a curse with your wonderful little ability despite the learning curve.

The curve being that there’s ghosts in your house.

“Ah, shit,” Kyle pulls you from your thoughts. “You need to hurry, you’re gonna be running late again.” Kyle, ever the one to keep you on your goals quickly points that out as he looks at the time.

“Oh, son of a bitch!” You fly down the hall back to your room to get dressed. Forgoing buying breakfast on the way even when John yells for you to do so. You hobble to get your shoes on and nearly roll out your door to get to your car. Not even bothering to lock your house since your ghostly apparitions won’t allow an intruder to do harm. You slam your foot on the gas after reversing and drive off to your job. Blasting music down the road to get your mood right for the next eight hours.

[giogiobb]

Tease pt.2

Nerd!Armin x Reader

tags: teasing, tongue piercing (once again), power play, slight stalker behavior, obsessive armin, choking, threatening language, cock warming, light scratching, edging, praise kink, spanking, fellatio, mouth kink, dry humping, biting, sensory deprivation, overstimulation, auralism, smut

fanart credits to: @warmiipalomaa

→ pt.1

It has been a few days since you and Armin had sex in the club washroom. Everytime you think about it, your face heats up, making you want to dig a hole and bury yourself in it. Your whole weekend went by with you dreading meeting him and having to sit through the tutor lessons. Armin on the other hand felt the need for more. More of you in ways that he wouldn’t even dare to say out loud.

While you were drowning in your thoughts, your phone goes off with a ding. You lazily rollover to see who texted. Speak of the devil, it’s Armin.

Armin: “Next tutoring lesson will be on Monday, 7pm after the class that we have together. We will have it in my dorm room so you can focus more.”

As you read the text, you could’ve sworn your eyes were lying to you. What does he mean to have it in his dorm room so you can focus more? Little did you know that it would do the exact opposite.

You: “What do you mean focus more? Aren’t I focusing enough?”

Armin: “Yeah, you’re not actually and it’s kind of getting on my nerves.”

Huffing reading the last text he sent, you throw away your phone onto a pillow on the floor. He sounded so cold and stern. You knew he was all that, but you couldn’t help but feel a pang of pain thinking he’d soften up on you now that you both shared a moment. Maybe it wasn’t new to him, but to you? Who knows. He didn’t even bother asking how you were ever since that night when you ran out of the club washroom after fixing yourself up. 

Monday came rolling in faster than you expected. You loathed having to go into class that day because you couldn’t stand the idea of facing him. You arrived to class a bit late because of a traffic jam. Walking in, having all the eyes on you felt embarrassing because you were usually never late. However, all looked at you but him. You walked to the back row and sat with your head down playing with the hem of your skirt.

Armin saw you walk in, he took a glance at you when you weren’t looking and saw how your thigh high socks hugged your legs while the skirt was flowing. He couldn’t help but bite his lips with desire while covering his face with his hair. He shook his thoughts away and forced himself to pay attention for the rest of the class. The moment it ended, he almost ran to where you sat. He reached to your desk and tapped on your shoulder making you look up. “Let’s go.” He said looking down at you through his glasses. The same glasses that fogged up that night, you thought. Nodding you stood up and grabbed your bag to follow him.

It didn’t take more than 5 minutes to reach his dorm room. Taking your shoes off, you entered after him. His room was clean, too clean almost but seeing all the posters on the well, you felt at ease. He walked to his desk, setting his bag down. He sat on the chair in front of it and signaled you to come and sit on the chair beside the desk. You decided that no matter what happened, you were going to act the same. So you went and sat with no hesitation. “So I’ll teach you a bit and finish covering half the content. Then I’ll give you a quiz to do to see how much you have improved. Is that okay?” He spoke while looking at the papers in his hands. “Fine by me.” You spoke with uninterest. Armin began the tutoring and you fought with your thoughts wanting to actually focus on what he was saying.

Yet the way his knee was touching yours kept distracting you. Whenever you’d move your hand to write a note, it’d touch his. The light physical contact kept trying to push you over the edge. Armin on the other hand knew exactly what he was doing. He deliberately sat close to you and he was monitoring the way your body stiffens with breath hitching whenever you both touched.

“Okay, that’s all. Here’s the quiz, you can start it now.” He said after closing the book he had in front of you both. You took the quiz and began examining. When you were doing so, you felt Armins heavy gaze on you. It made you uncomfortable because you couldn’t focus on what needed to be done. In fact, you felt your whole body become warmer, making you remove your hoodie revealing the tank top you wore underneath. Armin closely watched the way you did it. He stared at your chest and neck so heavily, admiring the fading marks he left on your body. It has been days so it wasn’t that visible and that made him want to leave more. As if to mark you as his.

The thing you didn’t know about him was that he always had an eye on you. You were so outgoing and carefree it intrigued him, but most of all, he loved the way you carried yourself. He wanted to know more about you, ruin you and make you his. That's why when he overheard you say how you failed an assignment, he asked the professor whether any students needed tutoring. His luck being great, your name was brought up. Which led to him being assigned as your tutor. He wonders how you would react if you knew that it wasn’t just a coincidence that he got you as a tutee, but rather it was a deliberate plan with a not so pure intent.

A few minutes goes by as Armin was lost in his thoughts. He snaps out of it when you stand up slamming your pen down. “I can’t do this, I’m leaving.” You say not wanting to explain what was on your mind and walk away getting your things. Armin shot up and walked behind you to slam the door close right when you opened it. His arms reached past your face from behind and slammed the door close taking you by surprise. You turned around with a scowl on your face and look at him. His expression was unreadable as he brought his face closer and closer until you could feel his breath on your lips. Was he going to kiss you? You wondered as your breath began getting heavy. He smiled and brought his head away. “Nope, you’re not going anywhere. In fact, I’ll help you. I’m in charge of getting your grades up after all.” You looked at him dumbfounded. Was he being serious right now? You have never had such a pushy tutor before, but deep down you actually didn’t want to leave. You just got up and walked away because you were afraid that if his gaze was on you for any longer, you might say something that makes you seem pathetic.

He held your wrist and dragged you to his desk once again. He took your bag and hoodie just to drop it off on the chair you were sitting before. He sat on his chair and patted on his lap. You raised an eyebrow wondering whether he was indicating what you thought. “Your eyes wander a lot and I need your full attention today.” He said in a voice dripping with sarcasm. Your cheeks heated up with embarrassment when you realised what he meant. All this time you thought he didn’t notice when you looked at him, but he very much did. Reluctantly you sat on his lap making sure to not sit directly on his crotch. You didn’t mind this, it’s just that you weren’t used to any of this. He held your wrists and moved it onto the sides of the paper so he could read it to explain to you. His hot breath fanned on the back of your neck making you squirm on his lap. It kept going until you suddenly felt yourself sit directly on his crotch. You both froze and you turned around to look down at him.

His face was a rosy pink and you saw little sweat beads forming on the sides of his face. He stopped and looked up at you making eye contact. It felt as if the world stopped when you both leaned in for a kiss. His hands shot up to grip the back of your neck and around your waist while yours went to hold his face to deepen the kiss. The familiar feeling from that night came crashing when you felt his pierced tongue explore your mouth. You both broke off the kiss to catch your breath, but you lost it again as his hand reached up your skirt to feel your clothed heat. You felt yourself buck towards his hand but he quickly took it away making you whine.

“Take your panties off.” He said moving away from the desk giving you space to stand up and do so. You shyly did so and dropped the panties to the floor. He carefully watched you, eyes never leaving your hips. You felt a wave of adrenaline in the heat of the moment. It led you to lift up the front of your skirt just to show him your core dripping wet. He bit his lips, so desperate to taste you but controlled himself to do exactly what he planned. He reached to your hand and grabbed it to gently guide you in front of him. He then unbuckled his jeans and pulled his boxer down enough for his cock to spring out. Your hands gripped the edge of the desk as he lifted up your skirt and played with your folds just to bring the fingers up to his lips to taste your slick. You quietly whimpered wanting more. His one hand gripped your hip pushing you down towards his lap while the other gave a few pumps to his cock before teasing your entrance with his tip.

“Is this okay?” He whispered just enough so you could hear. You hurriedly nodded wanting it but a sharp slap on your butt made your hand slip as a gasp went past your lips. “Use your words, beautiful.” You felt yourself swoon over the compliment and gathered your thoughts before squeaking out a yes. He finally lined his cock with your entrance and held you by your hips to push you down on his full length. Your body stiffened up as you felt yourself stretch on him. Your nails dug deep into the desk and left scratches while you bit your lips trying to suppress your moans, but hearing Armin moan louder than you as your heat engulfed him made you even wetter than before.

You wanted him to move you on his length, but his hands dug deep into your hips holding you in place. “Fuck Armin, can you move already?” You asked impatiently. You heard him chuckle and say “Actually, no. You will continue to do the quiz while I’m in you. Then you won’t be able to run away like before.” You were shocked at his response hoping he was kidding but no, he wasn’t. He slipped a pen into your hand and nudged it towards the paper. “Start.” He lowly said into your ear trailing kisses down your shoulders and back. Your hands tightly gripped the pen making your fingertips hurt. You then had the idea to move on him if he wasn’t going to do anything. The moment his grip loosened from your hips, you grinded on him making him let out a choked moan. He cursed and hugged your hips with one arm while the other wrapped around your throat. “Don’t you dare try to make yourself cum. One more move and you’re kicked out.” He warned you in his stern voice making you even more excited. One thing about him is that he knew how to edge you too well.

You felt the lack of oxygen as he kept holding your throat tightly. He let go just before you began seeing stars due to the lack of oxygen. Your eyes welled up with tears as you caught your breath. His other arm was feeling your legs up and down, specifically between your thighs. He reached to the hem of your thigh high sock and slipped a hand in it. He lightly scratched your thighs up and down, just enough to make you breathless. You felt the urge to close your legs and rub them together to stimulate your core, but the moment you began moving them close together, his hands strongly gripped and spread them apart. He also felt the need to just fuck you at the moment, but he controlled himself because he knew the reward for waiting patiently would be too good.

Your hand moved with a lot of strength hoping it's the right answers being written. After what felt like hours of him feeling your thighs and playing with your boobs under your top making you mewl, you finished writing the answers. He picked up the paper when you stopped writing to examine it. The moment his touches stopped, you wanted more. So you picked up his other hand and slipped it under your bra making him play with your nipples. Your moans increased and saliva dripped onto the desk from your lips.

After a few minutes, he finished reading and surprisedly chirped. “Wow, it’s all correct. I’m amazed.” You felt a bit of relief upon hearing this but you wanted nothing more than to climax at that moment. He began peppering kisses and nipping on your shoulders. “Smart girls like you would get the best rewards.” The way he praised you made you proud and happy, but the way he held your hips before he began bucking up towards your heat, made you even happier. A loud moan broke across the room leading to a string of it. He reached to his shirt and pulled it over his head doing the same to your tank top leaving you in your bra. He then pushed the study material to the side and stood up pinning you to the desk on your stomach. Your face pressed to the cold desk while he brought both your wrists together and pinned them to your back before setting a fast pace. There was a pool of saliva forming near your mouth as the moans spilled from your lips.

Armin brought one of his hands to your clit while fucking deep into you. You wanted to ground yourself and hold onto something or somewhere because of the overstimulation, but his hand held your wrists too firmly. You began trying to free it. Fortunately, he realised and let go of them, only to hold the back of your throat as he worked to make you reach your climax. Your moans got louder while your fingernails dug into the desk again. A short while later, you clenched around him so hard that he had to stop fucking while you gushed around his cock. He rubbed circles on your clit helping you ride your high. Your body went limp once he stopped moving. He pulled out of you to let you catch your breath. You whimpered feeling the emptiness in you while you slowly pushed yourself up from the desk to turn around and lean on it to face him. He admired your fucked out face and dreamy eyes before he leaned into kiss you. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer so that you both were chest to chest feeling each others heartbeats.

He slowly led you to his bed sitting down with you on top of his bulge. He moaned a little into the kiss when your core touched his cock that was well overdue for a climax. You stopped kissing and got off of him getting on your knees. He looked at you with anticipation you reached to his cock giving it a few pumps before doing kitten licks on his tip. He leaned backwards on the bed with his upper body propped up on his arms making eye contact with your pretty eyes. You felt nervous holding eye contact as you slowly took his full length and bobbed your head up and down making him throw his head back and arch his back gripping the sheets. Your tongue licked the backwards of his cock which was one of his sensitive areas. His groans became louder as his breath fastened. He then sat up to hold you by your hair making you stay in place before fucking into your throat. Your hands gripped his thighs, fingers digging deep when he he began fucking so deep into your throat that his tip kissed the back of it. Your vision became blurry as he kept doing so. He then reached down towards your butt and gave it a squeeze before spanking making you moan around him. He finally let go of your hair allowing you to move your head away with a gasp trying to catch your breath. It took everything in him to not cum on your face before he leaned down to push your hair away from your face to pepper it with kisses.

He pulled back to look at your face with glassy eyes and saliva mixed with precum glistening around your mouth. He wiped it away with one of his thumbs before slowly inching the thumb towards your lips to make you suck it. You did so wanting more of him. You felt cock drunk to the point of no coming back. While he had his thumb in your mouth, he slowly moved one of his legs between yours making you straddle it. Your heat sat directly on his foot making you sensitive. He held your jaw as your tongue kept swirling around his finger, then he moved his foot just to give pressure to your core. You accidentally bit down on his thumb hard enough to make him bleed. You felt the strong taste of iron on your tongue as you watched him bite his lips with a mix of pain and pleasure on his face. He took out his tongue and gave it a quick lick before holding you by the sides of your face to lean in for a deep kiss before making you slowly grind on his foot. You moaned into the kiss wanting to catch your release, but you felt like such a slut doing so on his leg. Nevertheless, he slyly coaxed you into doing so, making you hump on his foot. Your clit roughly brushed against his jeans pushing you over the edge.

You moaned loudly and hugged his leg as you came on it after a while. Your breath was ragged and Armin felt even more turned on seeing you make yourself cum on him. He reached down and grabbed you by your hands before pulling you up and further on the bed. You felt so sensitive when he made you sit on his bulge holding your hands. He rubbed little circles on the back of your palm and left hickeys on your chest as he let you catch your breath after your high. Every now and then, he would lick your skin making you lightly flinch when his cold piercing dragged across your skin. He let go of your hands and pulled away before he reached for a sleeping mask on his night stand. You looked at him with confusion on what he wanted to do with it and he asked “May I?” Holding it over your head to put it on. Curiously, you nodded letting him put it on your eyes.

It was pitch black with no doubt and then only you realised, this is going to heighten your other senses making you even more sensitive. Your hands roamed on his body before finding his shoulders and holding it. His hands felt your curves up and down before lifting you by your hips. When he did so, you were sitting up on your knees, legs bent on his sides. He then lined his cock with your entrance once again and slowly pushed you down on it. You felt so sore at this point but loved his length in you. Your insides hugged him perfectly and he moaned loudly when your heat engulfed him fully. He stayed in you for a few minutes just to embrace the feeling of it.

Then he suddenly bucked his hips upwards thrusting into you while holding your hips. Your body went limp onto his chest while your arms tiredly snaked around his neck hugging him closer. He softly gripped your arms to unwrap it from his neck to guide them onto the headboard of the bed. The way your body hovered over him when you didn’t know where his face was made you nervous, until you felt his teeth lightly bite your nipple. Your hands tightly gripped the headboard as you whimpered. He then held you by your butt before he set a brutal pace fucking into you trying to at last reach his climax. The way he licked and nibbled on your nipples combined with the way he was fucking you was making dizzy. You were so sure your moans were loud enough for the nearby rooms to hear but you couldn’t care less.

After a moment of going on like that, Armin's hips began to stutter as his mouth let go of your nipples. He reached up towards your hands on the headboard and brought them down to his chest making you lay on him as his warm tongue licked stripes up and down your ear while fucking into you. Your ears were particularly sensitive, so the way his piercing felt wasn’t helping one bit. You then sat up on him and began bouncing on his cock, making him moan loudly. You felt your body shiver when you heard him. His hands reached up to your hips and held it not too hard admiring the way your skirt danced around your thighs as you bounced. The feeling was giving you a sensory overload as his cock now abused your g-spot due to the angle. “Fuck, you’re so good to me.” He said in a voice dripping with desire and desperation. Your mouth hung open leaving saliva drops on him.

He then reached up to the sleeping mask on your eyes and took it away. He looked into your eyes before sharing a teeth clashing and tongues fighting rough kiss with you. You felt yourself melt into the kiss right before you both came together. You felt fuck his cum deep into you as you clenched him until he came dry. You both moaned and groaned as you both calmed down from the high. You rolled over next to him, legs on his thighs and an arm on his chest as his arm was under your neck. You both laid there, catching your breath as the room was filled only with the sound of breathing.

Armin broke the silence afterwards with some hesitation, “So, want to go on a date?” He asked with a touch of uncertainty, worried you might reject him. However to his surprise, you let out a soft yes nodding on his arm. He looked over and smiled at you before giving a kiss on your forehead. You didn’t know where and how this would go, but Armin knew exactly what he wanted and it was you to himself.

hope you guys enjoyed the pt.2 as well.♡

word count: roughly 3900 words

a/n: thank you all for the love on pt.1, it took me so long to write a pt.2 cause i was nervous lmao 😭. unfortunately, this is just it for ‘Tease’. hopefully i ended it on a satisfying note!

also, i decided to tag everyone who wanted a pt.2 + those who asked to be tagged in pt.2.

taglist: @idontdomath @lilithskywalker @snail127 @inutted0 @strawbinoamii @nejispersonalcumslut @alrihhty @xencc @kodsuken @etphonehome0623 @hunnie-bunnieee @vvanillaflowerr

[nathanbatemanfucker]

A Whisper of Cinnamon

gif credit: @/userseraph

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

contents: 18+/NSFW/MINORS DNI, smut, oral sex (f!reader), unprotected p in v, kissing, get together fic

wc: 1,620

an: yes i wrote this ridiculously fast so if there’s repetition or typos that’s why 😭. that old man looked so good last night holy shit

pedro pascal characters masterlist | set the table masterlist

The light spilling from the small construction office was one of the only things still burning on this side of town. Most of Jackson had gone still hours ago, swallowed up by the fall of amber leaves and the kind of hush only autumn nights dusted with chill could bring.

You hesitate at the door, fingers tightening around the bundled napkin in your hands. The few slices of cinnamon bread, soft in the middle, a little messy are still warm. You’d made it mostly to keep your hands busy—mostly—but you’d wrapped up a few pieces just for him. You weren’t sure he’d still be here but then again, you kind of were.

Classic overworking Joel. You’ve noticed that about him.

You finally work up the courage to knock lightly. There’s a grunt from inside, then the sound of a chair creaking back and the door opens a second later.

Joel stands there looking more tired than usual—glasses slipping low on his nose, sleeves pushed to his elbows, stubble heavier than it was this morning. His eyes flicker over you, then to the bundle in your hand.

“I figured you were still working,” you say, trying not to sound as shy as you feel. “Brought you something.”

His brows lift, and he steps aside to let you in. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says gruffly, but you hear the softness, the gratitude underneath.

Inside, it smells like sawdust, ink, and faintly like coffee that’s long gone cold. Blueprints are scattered across the desk, a pencil tucked behind his ear. He sets your offering down, peeking under the napkin. The barest smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, if you can call it that.

“Cinnamon?” he asks, already pulling off a piece with calloused fingers.

You nod. “It’s still warm.”

“Damn good,” he mumbles around a bite, which makes you laugh as your cheeks warm from his subtle praise.

He gestures for you to sit, pulling out the second chair he clearly doesn’t use. You settle in, watching him as he leans back over the plans. The lamp catches the edge of his glasses, a soft glow reflecting in his eyes as he squints.

“You ever think about getting new ones?” you ask, teasing gently.

“Every damn day,” he mutters, smirking. “Hard to come by.”

You lean closer, glancing down at the blueprint. “What’s this one?”

“New housing draft,” he says, voice low. “Tommy’s idea. Wants more space for the kids comin’ in.”

He’s still squinting, so you reach over—fingers brushing his as you adjust the page, turning it toward the light. He doesn’t pull away. Your hands lingers on his just a moment too long, the warmth of his skin unexpected and grounding before you pull away.

“You’ve got the measurements off here,” you say gently, tapping a pencil against the paper. “By like half an inch.”

Joel sighs, rubbing his eyes. “Knew somethin’ felt off.”

“You need sleep.”

“Don’t got time for that.”

You shake your head, smiling softly. “Then at least let someone help you. You’re not invincible Joel and people like having you around.”

He’s quiet for a second, watching you. There’s something unreadable in his expression, like he’s trying to decide something. Like he’s torn.

The truth is, this tension’s been there for a while—months, maybe. Laced between long looks over shared meals, brushing shoulders on patrol, the way his voice dipped when he said your name. Neither of you have said anything. You weren’t sure what it was, or if he’d ever let himself want it. But now, in the warmth of this quiet room, it feels like there’s no more pretending. Whatever this is can’t be denied.

“Don’t usually get help,” he murmurs. “Not used to it.”

“Well,” you say, keeping your voice light even as your chest tightens, “you’re allowed to. You don’t have to do everything alone.”

Another silence settles between you, heavier this time. Your knee brushes his under the desk. Like before, he doesn’t move away.

His eyes stay trained on your face as he asks softly, “You always this kind to people stayin’ late?”

You tilt your head at him. “Only the ones who wear glasses and forget to eat.”

That earns you a rare, real smile. It’s a slow one, warm and a little sad— like he’s thinking about those he lost who used to be kind to him. His hand lifts tentatively, thumb brushing against your cheek.

You don’t know who leans in first. Maybe it’s both of you at once. But when his mouth meets yours, it’s not soft. It’s starved.

It’s the taste of Joel with a whisper of cinnamon.

The kiss is rough and deep, months of restraint unraveling at once. His hands cup your cheeks, teeth scraping your bottom lip. You whimper into him and that’s all it takes—he’s pulling you up out of the chair and onto the desk like you weigh nothing.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he mutters between kisses, voice wrecked. “Thinkin’ about how you’d taste… how you’d sound.”

You gasp as he spins you gently, pressing your chest down against the desk, your skirt riding up as he moves behind you. “Joel—”

“I got you, baby,” he growls, pushing your legs apart with firm hands. “Let me take care of you.”

Your breath catches when his fingers slide under the hem of your skirt, their cadence is contradictory: rough and reverent. He grips your panties and drags them down, slow, letting the fabric slide over your thighs and pool at your feet.

You moan—high, shaky—gripping the edge of the desk as cold air brushes your slick heat.

“Fuck me,” he breathes behind you. You hear the crack in his voice, the need. “Look at this… wet for me already.”

You whimper, pressing your forehead to the desk, the coolness grounding you. “Baby, please…”

“I know, baby. I know,” he coos, dropping to his knees behind you, glasses still perched on his nose, slightly crooked from how fast he’s moving.

He wastes no time. His hands grip your ass, spreading you wide, and then his mouth is on you—hot and filthy and so fucking needy. His tongue parts your folds, licking your pussy like it’s the fountain of youth, and the obscene wet sounds coming from between your legs have your eyes fluttering back.

You gasp, your breath catching on a moan. “Fucking hell Joel.”

He groans into your pussy, the sound vibrating through you. His glasses fog slightly, the lenses catching faint lamplight as he buries his face deeper, tongue flicking mercilessly over your clit.

“You sound so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he rasps, voice muffled, eyes dark behind the smudge of his lenses. “Don’t hold back, baby, c‘mon let me hear you.”

You whimper, fingers curling tightly around the edge of the desk. “God, Joel—I can’t…it’s too much…”

“That’s it,” he growls. “Keep makin’ those sounds for me.”

His tongue slides down to fuck into you, slow and deep, while his thumb rubs tight, perfect circles over your clit.

Your hips jolt from this earth shaking combo, gasps spilling from your lips, your legs threatening to give out. “Shit, fuck, fuck, fuck. Joel.”

“You gonna cum for me?” he mumbles, licking up everything you’ve got for him, beard soaked, glasses slipping further down his nose but staying on. “Cum on my tongue, sweetheart. Let me taste you.”

You moan, back arching as your orgasm slams into you, white-hot and shattering. You moan brokenly, hips grinding against his mouth, every breath catching on the wave of pleasure he rips out of you.

Joel groans and licks you through it, hands gripping tight to your thighs, keeping you open and helpless until you’re trembling and overstimulated.

He stands slowly, eyes wild behind his fogged lenses, his mouth glistening with your essence. His hands find your hips again, steadying you as he presses his chest to your back, kissing your shoulder.

“Gonna fuck you now, baby,” he murmurs into your skin, voice low but a little softer. “You still want that? Still okay?”

You nod fast, breath still stuttering. “Yes. Fuck—yes, Joel—please.”

That’s all he needed.

“Goooood fucking girl,” he growls, reaching between you to unbuckle his belt, letting it fall with a heavy clink. “Gonna fuck you just like this, wanna see everything.”

He slides in deep on the first thrust, his cock thick and perfect, stretching you open until your gasp turns into a desperate moan. His hand curls around your shoulders to ground you as he leans in close.

“Face to face,” he mutters, pulling out slowly and flipping you with careful strength. “Need to see you fall apart.”

He positions you the desk how he wants you, holding your gaze as he slides back inside, and fuck, his glasses—still on, slightly fogged, slightly crooked—make him look devastated and feral all at once.

Every thrust is unhurried and deep, one of his hands raising to cradle your jaw as he fucks into you steady, murmuring filth between kisses:

So tight for me… you were made for this. You feel me? All the way up there, baby? Gonna fill you so deep you’ll still be wet for me tomorrow.

You moan loudly, legs wrapping around his waist, head falling back as the pressure builds quickly again, hot ans dizzying.

“Joel—I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he pants, fucking you harder. “Wanna feel you cum around me.”

And when you break again—moaning his name like a prayer—he follows, spilling deep inside you with a sharp growl, holding you tight against him as you both come undone.

He kisses you soft afterward. Forehead to yours. Gentle, steady, real. Like the beginning of something.

He murmurs with a grin, mouth brushing yours with every word, “Next time, I’m bringin’ you dessert.”

> pt. II

lmk if you’d like to be on the joel taglist (must b 18+)

nsfw joel miller taglist: @lesbianhotch, @ozarkthedog, @lowrisemiller, @iamthatonefangirl, @campingwiththecharmings, @stargazingcarol, @megamindsecretlair, @nerdieforpedro, @fakeplasticfeels, @for-a-longlongtime, @bubblybubbubs, @jxvipike, @veritable-trash, @luzhesrozes