#i feel good about this one though honestly

[goldfades]

ROOKIE ─── PAIGE BUECKERS

request: "paige's gf and she insists on teaching her basketball—even though she's terrible at it. paige spends half the time “coaching” her (aka being flirty) and the other half laughing when she completely miss the basket"

You’re not entirely sure how you ended up here—standing under the hoop on a Saturday afternoon, gripping a basketball like it’s some foreign object you’ve never encountered before.

In your defense, sports have never been your thing. You’re more of a cheer-from-the-bleachers, snack-at-halftime, maybe-ask-what-a-three-pointer-is-later kind of person. And yet, here you are, because your girlfriend, Paige—decided today was the day you’d “learn the fundamentals.”

“Okay, baby, it’s easy,” she says, her voice brimming with the sort of confidence only someone who’s mastered the art of the crossover can pull off. She spins a ball on her finger effortlessly, her grin teasing but somehow still the softest thing you’ve ever seen. “All you gotta do is aim and shoot. No pressure.”

You squint up at the basket. It feels like it’s a mile away. “No pressure?” you deadpan, bouncing the ball once and grimacing when it doesn’t exactly obey. “Do you even know me?”

Paige snickers, sidling closer until she’s standing next to you, her hand on your hip. She’s wearing her usual practice gear: baggy shorts, sneakers laced tight, and a loose shirt that somehow still manages to hint at the muscle underneath. It’s honestly unfair how good she looks while being this annoying.

“Listen,” she says, her tone shifting into something that almost passes for serious. Almost. “I know you. I also know you’re fully capable of putting this ball in that hoop if you just focus and stop looking at me like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

You glance at her, and she’s smirking now, like she knows she’s caught you. Which, to be fair, she has. “First of all,” you mutter, turning back to the basket, “I do want to be here. Second, you’re distracting.”

“Am I?” Her voice is teasing, but you don’t dare look again. You already know she’s doing that thing where she cocks her head just a little and raises her eyebrows like she’s so impressed with herself. “Want me to step back so you can concentrate, rookie?”

“No,” you reply, huffing. “But if you call me rookie one more time, I’m gonna—”

“You’re gonna what?” Paige interrupts, leaning down just enough so her lips are by your ear. Her voice drops an octave, and you swear you can feel her grin against your skin. “Miss the basket again?”

You groan, shoving her lightly with your elbow, but the weight of her hand on your hip doesn’t budge. She’s laughing now, full and bright and utterly unapologetic, and despite your best efforts to stay annoyed, you can’t help but crack a smile.

This is going to be a disaster. You can feel it.

You take a step back, spinning the ball once between your hands, trying to look like you’ve got some semblance of control. You absolutely do not. It’s slippery and awkward, and you’re already regretting agreeing to this. Paige watches you with the intensity of a coach but the playfulness of a girlfriend who knows exactly what she’s doing.

“Alright, babe, let’s see what you’ve got,” she says, crossing her arms and leaning back on her heels, all casual and amused. She looks entirely too comfortable with the idea of watching you embarrass yourself.

You square your shoulders and look up at the hoop again, trying to remember the quick, nonsensical explanation Paige gave you about form and aim. Something about “elbows in,” “flicking your wrist,” and “imagining you’re putting cookies in the oven.” Honestly, she lost you after “elbows.”

Paige steps closer, her sneakers squeaking faintly against the court. “Okay, pause,” she says, gently placing her hands on your shoulders to adjust your stance. Her touch lingers a little too long to be entirely innocent, and you glance at her, catching the faintest flicker of her teasing grin. “You’re holding the ball like it’s gonna explode. Relax.”

You loosen your grip, if only slightly, and she takes a step back, nodding approvingly. “Much better. Now, bend your knees. Remember, this isn’t a free throw contest, it’s a rhythm thing. Like dancing.”

“Dancing?” You give her a skeptical look. “You’ve seen me dance. That’s not helping your case.”

“True,” she says, laughing. “But at least you don’t step on anyone’s toes here.” Her hand brushes your lower back, the contact brief but enough to send a little jolt through you. She always does this—throws you off-kilter just enough to make you forget what you were supposed to be doing.

You shake your head, focusing on the hoop again. “Alright, alright. I’m doing it.”

“You’re doing it,” Paige echoes, stepping back into your peripheral vision, her hands on her hips like she’s supervising. “Visualize it going in. Manifest it.”

“Manifest it?” you deadpan. “Are you a basketball player or a yoga instructor?”

“Both, apparently,” she shoots back, laughing again. “Come on, just throw it already.”

You take a deep breath, bend your knees, and, in one fluid (well, semi-fluid) motion, you shoot. The ball arcs through the air in what you think is a promising trajectory… only to miss the basket entirely and bounce harmlessly off the backboard. It rolls lazily away, as if to add insult to injury.

Paige absolutely loses it. She doubles over, clutching her stomach as laughter spills out of her. It’s loud and unrestrained, the kind of laugh that’s so contagious you almost forget why she’s laughing in the first place. Almost.

“Don’t laugh,” you say, but your own voice wobbles with the threat of a giggle. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Paige straightens up, wiping at the corner of her eye dramatically. “Babe, you hit the backboard so hard I think it just filed for workers’ comp.”

“Wow, okay,” you say, rolling your eyes but failing to hide your grin. “This is why I don’t play sports.”

“Oh, come on.” Paige retrieves the ball with a few quick strides, tossing it effortlessly between her hands as she makes her way back to you. She stops just in front of you, holding the ball out. “You’re doing fine. You just need more practice.”

“And by practice, you mean you laughing at me until I cry?” you ask, arching an eyebrow.

“Exactly,” she says with a grin that’s entirely too charming to argue with. “Now, let’s try again. But this time…” She steps behind you, wrapping her arms around you and placing her hands over yours on the ball. “I’m gonna guide you.”

Your breath catches slightly as she leans in, her voice soft and close to your ear. “Okay, elbows in. Knees bent. Don’t think too hard about it. Just feel it.”

It’s a miracle you’re even upright at this point, let alone holding the ball. Her voice is low and encouraging, her arms warm and steady around you, and suddenly, basketball doesn’t seem so terrible.

“Now,” she murmurs, her hands shifting just enough to nudge yours into position. “Shoot.��

You do, and this time, the ball actually arcs in a somewhat respectable manner. It hits the rim and bounces off, but it’s a lot closer than before.

“Progress!” Paige announces, stepping back with a proud smile. “You’re getting there, rookie.”

You groan. “Stop calling me rookie!”

“Never.” She’s already picking up the ball again, twirling it on her finger like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “One more time. Let’s see if we can actually make one.”

“Fine,” you say, holding out your hands. “But if I make this shot, you owe me something.”

“Oh?” Her eyebrows raise, her smile turning playful. “Like what?”

“I don’t know yet,” you say, taking the ball and narrowing your eyes at the hoop. “But I’m thinking something big.”

Paige laughs, leaning against the pole of the hoop, her gaze fixed on you. “Deal. But if you miss… I get to call you rookie forever.”

You shake your head, fighting back a smile. “No pressure, right?”

“Exactly,” she says, her grin widening. “No pressure at all.”

You focus on the hoop again, blocking out everything except the promise of finally making this shot—and maybe wiping that smug grin off Paige’s face. With newfound determination, you bend your knees, grip the ball like you actually know what you’re doing, and take the shot.

Time slows down for a second. The ball soars in a near-perfect arc, hits the rim… and bounces around it once, twice, before dropping cleanly through the net with a satisfying swish.

For a moment, you just stand there, stunned. Then it clicks: you made it. You actually made it.

“Oh my god!” you squeal, throwing your hands up in triumph. “Did you see that? I made it! I actually made it!”

Before Paige can even respond, you’re hopping around the court like you just won a championship game. Your excitement is entirely disproportionate to what just happened, but you don’t care. You’re too busy celebrating your hard-won victory, flailing your arms and spinning in a little circle.

Paige leans against the hoop, watching you with a mixture of amusement and adoration. “You’d think you just scored the game-winner at Madison Square Garden,” she teases, but the softness in her voice gives her away.

“This is my moment, Paige!” you shoot back, still grinning like a fool. You stop hopping just long enough to grab her by the shoulders, shaking her slightly. “I made it! I’m a basketball prodigy now. Bow down!”

She laughs, her hands coming up to rest on your waist. “Alright, Michael Jordan, calm down.”

You narrow your eyes at her, playful and determined. “No, you don’t get to laugh. I deserve a reward for this. A big reward.”

Paige arches a brow, her lips curving into a smirk. “Oh, do you now? What kind of reward are we talking about?” Her voice dips into that suggestive tone that always makes your heart skip a beat.

You tap your chin, pretending to think. “Hmm… how about… lunch? I’m starving. And since I’m the champion now, you get to go buy it for me.”

Paige blinks, her smirk faltering. “Lunch?”

“Yup,” you say cheerfully, stepping back and crossing your arms. “From that cute little sandwich place I like. You can’t say no. I earned this.”

Paige stares at you, her expression torn between disbelief and fake betrayal. “You just made the shot of your life, and this is what you ask for? A sandwich?”

“What did you think I was going to ask for?” you counter, cocking your head.

She shrugs, her tone casual but her grin anything but. “I don’t know. Maybe a kiss. Or maybe some leg-shaking, world shattering head.”

“Paige!” You shout at her language, rolling your eyes, though your cheeks heat up at the suggestion. “I just exerted all my physical and emotional energy making that shot. I need food first. Priorities.”

She groans, dragging a hand down her face in mock despair. “You’re killing me here. Fine. But only because I’m impressed you actually made it.”

“Damn right you’re impressed,” you say, puffing out your chest dramatically. “Now go. And don’t forget the extra pickles!”

Paige shakes her head, laughing as she jogs off toward the parking lot. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. You owe me, rookie!”

“Never!” you call after her, grinning as you watch her go.

You sink onto the court, still buzzing with excitement. Sure, basketball might not be your thing, but moments like this? With her? You could get used to them.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[whokilledsamara]

I love your Homicipher hc, they are so good! Would you be willing to do some N/ SFW for Mr. Chopped too? Like you did for some of the others? I understand if you don't want to or if it makes you uncomfortable, thank you anyway!

MR. CHOPPED N/SFW HCS

a hc list of Mr. Chopped x reader {an: SORRY GUYS IM POSTING MAINLY HCS RN,,, fics for me take a lot longer than usual so im just posting hcs to atleast get some reach.}

warnings! : smut, cunnilingus/blowjob, idk,,, cuckhold

{an: freaky shit,,,, like hes just a head so its kinda hard to fuck. did give him a section for IF he had a body.. MAINLY HIM GIVING HEAD,, i didnt rly know how to write this im sorry!! def will write more tho,,, im into him ngl}

SFW

what it would be like to be in a relationship with Mr. Chopped.

it would be relatively hard to be in a relationship with him for obvious reasons, though not impossible!

the thought of you makes him happy, and especially when you hold him.

he would have Mr. Silvair help most of the time. usually for the romantic aspects of things though.

while Mr. Silvair doesnt quite understand the relationship, he is glad to help.

being a talking head will obviously raise a few insecurities, so just reassure him that you indeed do love him! he gets his feelings hurt easily.

he absolutely loves when you play with his hair. if you put bows in it or decorate it, that will make it all the more special for him.

the first time he bit you when he was sleeping, had him crying for hours. he felt so bad that he harmed you in any way, and it took a while for him to "recover"

he loves kisses! he always shouts things like "Up, Up" or "Desire, Carry!" just so he can kiss you.

if you manage to get a hold of make up or something, he would absolutely love for you to do his makeup. {he likes to feel pretty}

he is a very sensitive boy, also a crybaby. how cuuuttteee...

if Mr. Silvair gives him a body, {ignore that one ending... we dont talk about it} then he wpuld be even more excited to see you.

the moment he gets a body would mean so many hugs and affection as a thank you for saving him.

he gets picked on a lot by the others so he usually tries his best to come to you.

NSFW

sex...?

sex is definitely a hard concept with him.

while yes, it is possible, just not in the way intended.

you could see him more as a pure object for your pleasure honestly, and he wants that.

whether you are amab or afab, he is perfect for the situation.

ive seen this referenced by another writer, but he would be like a "rose toy" or a "fleshlight" as people call it.

its a secret pleasure to watch you go at it with someone else. {ex: Mr. Silvair or someone.}

if he is gifted a body though, he definitely will pay you back for saving him in the first place.

personally he would be a soft and sensual lover with his new body, rarely going rough unless specifically asked to.

he is more of a giving top. definitely not dominant but is a top. he cares more about your pleasure than his. though, he does get all giddy when you wish to go down on his or something.

he is open to literally anything you want, he would have very few limitations on what he would do, but everything is open for discussion.

again, definitely either wants to watch you have sex with someone else, OR wants someone else to watch you and him go at it. {he would prefer Silvair.}

he definitely likes when you pull his hair or use him. will be submissive sometimes.

he is the type to cry during sex...

omfmg i love him sm

{ made by @whokilledsamara }

[mapiforpresident]

Lovesick 2

Georgia Stanway x reader

Summary: You and Georgia are utterly in love with each other.

part 1

~~~

You scanned the room, balancing your tray in one hand and tugging Georgia by the other toward an open spot at a long table. Keira and Leah were already seated, mid-argument about something entirely trivial, while Lucy, Toone, and Less were laughing about god knows what a couple seats down.

“Here we go,” you said, setting your tray down. Georgia smirked as she dramatically pulled out your chair for you. “For the queen.”

“Such a gentlewoman,” you teased, sitting down before yanking her into the seat beside you. She leaned closer, her voice dropping so only you could hear. “Do I get a reward for this royal treatment later?”

You flushed, glancing around to ensure no one heard her. “Georgia!”

She just laughed, her grin as cheeky as ever, and stole a fry off your plate.

“Oi!” you protested, swatting her hand away.

“What’s yours is mine, baby cakes,” she said with a wink.

Keira groaned from across the table, dropping her fork onto her plate with an exaggerated sigh. “Not this again. Can we have one meal where you two don’t make everyone else feel like third wheels?”

Leah leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Honestly. And can we also ban ‘baby cakes’? It’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Williamson,” Georgia quipped, casually popping another one of your fries into her mouth.

“I’m not jealous. I’m repulsed,” Leah shot back, though the corner of her mouth twitched upward.

“Sounds like something a jealous person would say,” you teased, leaning against Georgia as she threw an arm around your shoulders.

“Leave her alone,” Keira interjected, pointing her fork at you both. “It’s not her fault her love life is drier than the Sahara.”

The table erupted in laughter, Leah rolling her eyes but unable to hide her grin.

“All right, all right,” she said, raising her hands in mock surrender.

As the banter died down, Lucy joined the conversation, discussing the upcoming game. You half-listened, too distracted by Georgia absently tracing patterns on your shoulder with her thumb.

“You good, love?” she asked softly, noticing your distraction.

“Yeah,” you replied, resting your head against her. “Just tired. Training was brutal.”

“You need to start taking it easy. You’re always pushing too hard,” she said, concern flickering in her eyes.

“Pot, meet kettle,” you teased, poking her side. “You’re the one who’s always diving into tackles like it’s a World Cup final.”

“True,” Georgia conceded with a grin. “But I still think you should let me take care of you tonight. Post-training relaxation session?”

Leah groaned audibly. “For the love of football, get a room.”

“We will,” Georgia shot back with a smirk, standing up and tugging you to your feet. “In fact, we’re going right now. Later, losers.”

You barely had time to grab your tray as she led you out of the cafeteria, the sounds of Keira and Leah’s groans of protest following you down the hallway.

As soon as you were out of earshot, Georgia pulled you into a quick kiss, her grin softening as she murmured, “I really do want you to rest, okay? No overdoing it.”

“Fine,” you said with a dramatic sigh, though the warmth in her eyes made your heart flutter. “But only if you join me. Deal?”

“Always,” she promised, lacing her fingers with yours as you headed back to your room.

[leviathanxprincess]

Introducing the Gehenna Devils to Your Plushies - Pt. 1

The Gehenna Devils deciding to show up to your room for sex end up getting met with you deciding to sit down and show them all your plushies!!

I've decided to split Gehenna into two parts for my mental sake.

Notes: mildly sexual content, nothing to crazy. Gender neutral reader! This part includes: Sitri, Amy, Paimon, & Leraye!

Satan and the other Kings found here !

Sitri

Honestly, he'll hold back on sex for as long as you wanna talk for.

He listens intently, hanging on to your every word. He's taking notes in his head, jotting down names, any lore you have if you do.

Your the most important person to him after, so every word you have to say is equally important!

He adores being one of the only ones allowed to see this side of you as well.

He has such a soft, endeared smile on his face as he listens to you talk.

Even if you spend hours talking he doesn't mind! He'll let it happen.

Of course, the fact he was here for sex doesn't change, that's always in the back of his head.

And by the time you're done talking he's practically smothering you in affection anyway because of how adorable you are! So of course that leads exactly how you think it will.

And if you just happen to get flustered by said affection, well then that's even better for him! Your heart rate does increase then, after all.

Amy

He's gonna be kinda blunt about it I think. You start talking about your plushies and he's just like "Okay but I'm here to fuck."

You can give it to him right away, or you could make him wait and keep talking! It's more fun if you go that route.

Tell him he's being too impatient and he can wait a bit!! And then just go on and on and on until he can't take it anymore.

He's annoyed, but most importantly, it's kinda turning him on more.

On the other hand, he also can't deny you're cute like this.

I feel like he's the type to get cuteness aggression.

He's gonna try and start grabbing your cheeks and biting you, once again you could give in. But you could also swat him off and force him to wait longer.

If you really wanna make it worse on him through a little comment his away about how he's acting, a little degrading if you want.

Honestly with the amount of teasing you do to him and how long you make him wait, he's not retaining a single damn piece of information about those plushies.

Be careful your next steps, if you don't stay in control of the situation once you actually allow him to fuck you (which won't be hard if you're trying to dom him), he will take it back. And he's not gonna be the nicest given how frustrated he is lol.

Paimon

Oh my goodness, you're the cutest thing to him right now!!!

He's practically covering you in kisses, all giggly watching you talk!

He's bound to have a few plushies himself, he'll be sure to show them to you later.

Right now though, he's letting you do your thing. You won't succeed on telling him about every single one in one setting, but he'll listen to however many he can.

Unfortunately you won't be able to talk the more he gets worked up.

He's just thinks you're so adorable!! Eventually he's gonna snap and just start squishing and pinching your cheeks!!!

He can't control himself! He's throwing so many compliments at you and not letting go of your face and giving you kisses!!! Your head is gonna start spinning at the rate he's going.

Of course this leads back to the original reason he was here.

I wouldn't be surprised he gets cuteness aggression too lol.

So prepare for that!!! If your covered in bites after don't even be surprised.

Leraye

Hey, he has a lot of plushies too!!!

Well, they're all headless. But it's fine!!!! He cherishes them a lot still!!! Mostly because Satan was involved in the being headless part but still !!!

I think he'd be so interested in listening he'd completely forget the original reason he was here for.

I don't know how much he remembers, but he at least knows their names!!!

Honestly I think he just likes hearing you talk. Doesn't matter about what! If you're happy than he's content!!!

By the time you're done, he's just wrapping you in his arms and giving you kisses!

Like I said, he kinda forgot about sex.

It'll come back to him at some point during him kissing and cuddling you. Probably.

Definitely will if it someone starts thundering at least?

Worst comes to worst just ask him what he was here for then you're back on track! And well, maybe turn your plushies around so they won't have to witness what follows.

[comfort-questing]

crow's personal ranking of idioms about dead-ness, for whump purposes

"half dead." basic and classic, and can be used both actually and figuratively ("you look half dead" ie. we all know you didn't sleep last night). 6/10, not bad, points deducted for the frequency of figurative use where nothing actually happened to a character and they just need a nap

"more dead than alive." now we are committing to at least 51% dead, which is promising. I have never heard this used figuratively in a narrative so if someone says it about a character, they mean it. they looked, and dead was the predominant impression. good whump should be expected hereabouts. 8/10.

"dead on their feet." usually used for exhaustion, but honestly, a peak descriptor of exhaustion. 7/10 for that reason alone. we've all been there.

"all but dead." ...does anyone ever say this, or did I just come up with it? -/10 since I don't feel ethical rating it if I'm the only one who uses it

"threshold of death/on death's door/brink of death/verge of death" - dated but also, classic. a solid option overall, implying suspense, uncertainty of outcome. 5/10, nothing special but no complaints really

"looking like death" - equally appropriate for emotional or physical whump, but needs more detail to follow up so we know which one is meant. 4/10 in the abstract, due to ambiguity

"inches from death." have hated this one ever since I was a small crow, because it's usually used for narrow escapes - nearly stabbed, nearly crushed by a falling object, nearly bitten by the monster. emphasizes spatial arrangements to the detriment of actual effects. 2/10 since it can be used for whump, just rarely is

"dying" as an adjective describing a character. is it foreshadowing? is it a medical descriptor? it's probably foreshadowing, or else we're going to have a magical healing deus ex machina. either way, not a thing this crow is super into... 1/10, I'm sure it has potential though.

"left for dead" mmmmmmph... this one is underrated... implying either ruthless, targeted brutality, or perhaps callous abandonment by someone. either way, whump is inevitable to follow. 10/10. whumptober knew what they were doing picking that prompt, and every year I try to find a way to live up to its promise.

"deathly cold/deathly still" ... never out of place or out of style, a clear statement that something is very wrong, a sign of escalation of the situation. equally excellent for finding a teammate in a dungeon, or for checking in worriedly on a sick character in the middle of the night. next-level whump, and especially great for terrifying caretakers. 11/10.

[cheyisagirlkisser]

・゜゜Gamer Ellie Headcannons ・．

NSFW CONTENT BELOW, MDNI

✧.* Gamer Ellie wears those plaid boxer-shorts around the house adorned with some random t-shirt she often sleeps in. When she's out and about, she loves her classic flannel or white wife-beaters, sports bra peeking out of the fabric when she moves just ever so slightly. Converse and doc-martins all the way. You'll beg her not to wear it in public, but Ellie's got this one black Call of Duty t-shirt that is she is obsessed with.

✧.* Gamer Ellie ismore introverted than anything. She likes staying inside with you and watching movies with you rather than going on restaurant dates. Speaking of movies, gamer Ellie would be more into comedy and sci-fi than anything. I've mentioned in previous headcannons Ellie would be a huge Jurassic park fan, but some other movie / shows she'd be begging you to watch with her are Airplane, Star Trek, and Pulp Fiction. Anything with action or on her level of dumb humor, and Star Trek for when she's geeking out. It's her guilty pleasure.

✧.* Gamer Ellie's favorite type of physical touch is having your fingers running through her hair. She likes to feels your touch in such a light, vulnerable way. Sometimes when she's playing a game, you'll approach her from behind and massage her scalp with your sweet touch. "Babe, you're distracting me!" She'll complain with a dramatic but playful groan, but her freckled face will melt like ice on a hot day from your touch.

✧.* Gamer Ellie isn't good at multi-tasking. She loves having you all up in her lap while her fingers are punching keys, but she always seems to lose when you're touching her, let alone near her. Why? Her thoughts are filled with the night before when the two of you were about to fall asleep, giggling in bed about some video on your phone, and specifically she's thinking about when you forgot all about sleep and had a late-night make-out session with some 90's movie tuned out on the television. It's so hard to remember to reload her virtual AR when all she's feeling is the way your warm fingers slid down her back and how your breathing turned into soft pants when she got all greedy and latched her filthy mouth onto your neck. Still, she'd never tell you to get off of her lap so she could focus. You were worth every aggravating respawn.

✧.* Gamer Ellie, in bed, isn't some huge dommy-mommy or whatever you're thinking. She's really touchy, sure. But she's honestly just your average lesbian who is absolutely obsessed with her girl, and she blanks at time. You'll be on top of her, and she's got this cave-woman aura going where she's just staring at your pretty face, focused on chasing your lips for a kiss. Her hands are awkwardly perched on her sides because she forgets how to even touch you: you're such a fucking goddess, and she's kind of a loser. You're a savior, though; guiding her hands to your waist with a sweet, patient smile. Ellie will get the cue and her fingers will spread across your waist to the top of your hips, and she remembers how desperate she is. (This one was inspired by me with my gf, you're so real gamer Ellie)

✧.* Gamer Ellie is also a switch! If you want her to be the top, she'll do it, but like I said she's going to be all cute and embarrassed about it. She'll be eating you out and her thoughts will be going at 100 miles per hour: "Am I doing this right?" "She's moaning Ellie, stop overthinking it." And sometimes the only thought she can really be having is "I love pussy." Cute. When she's bottom, which is most of the time, she isn't really all submissive and whiney but more like, defensively flustered like how she got with Dina when Dina threatened to bite her on the couch. Gay panic type of bottom. She does get pretty loud when you use a vibrator on her, though. That's a personal favorite in the bedroom.

✧.* Gamer Ellie did have a Fortnite phase. She hates talking about it but she spent like an ungodly amount on the stupidest skins. She used to make you watch her play at first, and then it was you having to create a whole Epic account so you could be her duo. Ellie's favorite season? Chapter two season seven. Why? Aliens. She got the battle pass and unlocked the alien skins, too. A little after she got super obsessed with it, like yelling at some 12 year old boy telling him his mother wishes she swallowed him, she moved on to a game that wasn't making her yell at at her screen. You were thankful.

✧.* Gamer Ellie is a huge night owl. While your sleep schedule is pretty average, she will blink and it'll be four in the morning. She'll groan and pop her back before stripping down to underwear and a t-shirt and then crash on your shared bed, making you stir from your rest. She sleepily curls her body into yours, peppering the warmest smooches wherever(probably with her eyes closed or half-way, at least) and muttering out apologies for waking you in the most ethereal voice known to woman-kind (it's raspy and the one she uses during sex when she's attempting to be a good top).

A/N: Thank you everyone for over 500 followers! I hope to post some longer fics this week or at least some more arcane fics. I promised some Jinx content, hopefully that'll be soon. Love you all.

[finniestoncrane]

OH BOY! How about Office Eddie nsfw headcanons? I love that dweeb at the office with a dark streak and honestly just want anything about him 💚

Dano!Riddler x Fem!Reader Headcanons oooooooooh yeah!! i've started writing a little outline for something like this but longer!! this is a good excuse to test some things out and see what works >:3c 🐀💚 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: voyeurism, pervert eddie, peeping tom, spying, non-consensual stuff, masturbation, unintentional cum swallowing

listen, employment in a nice office isn't all that common in gotham, and you're lucky you're not behind a bar serving sleazy wannabe rogues or hustling for what little money you can get, so you're willing to put up with your shy and quiet and kinda dweeby co-worker

but that's only because you have no idea about all the weird stuff he's up to...

eddie is smitten immediately by you, but he doesn't speak to you at all for the first two weeks you're sharing an office with him

it makes you a little uncomfortable, but he slowly warms up and offers you a hello and a goodbye

when he starts talking to you a bit more, it's about quite dark and deep subjects

it's almost like he's trying to guage your response to decide if you're a good person

or one of the people he goes on about, the undeserving masses

he's nice enough though, and you find that he's very helpful and willing to guide you with the tasks

and you quickly notice that he's far smarter than you, and is willing to hold himself accountable for your training

this seemingly kind gesture isn't selfless, however, it's actually his way of getting closer to you

and to have you depending on him for your job

it's not something you notice at first, if at all, but edward always offers to look your work over before passing it on to the bosses

he's changing it without you knowing though, making sure there are little mistakes that have you reprimanded

eddie delivers that bad news of course, and offers to show you how to fix your errors

you're so grateful that you hug him, or compliment him, and so he can hardly stop doing it

besides, the stupider you feel, the more you'll have to rely on him, and the more you'll view him as smart and wonderful

and in order to keep you thinking that, he'll criticise you sometimes

nothing too mean, not too obvious

but enough that he can see your pupils widening and your skin flushing when he does compliment you

"don't worry, i won't tell the bosses"

gosh, you owe him so much... maybe he'll cash in the favours someday

eddie has the keys to the office and he unlocks it every morning, since he's always there a lot earlier than you

you never question why, but it's so he can set things up

you wouldn't believe how many cameras are hidden in the little space you share

under the desk, in the toilet, in the stationary cupboard

and the work laptop he offered to set up for you?

the webcam is hacked, so he can watch you at home

because at a certain point, he can't stand not to be around you or to know what you're up to when you clock out for the day

and that includes when you leave the room to go to the toilet

he had to drill a hole in the wall of the cupboard between the office and the bathroom, just so he can keep an eye on you

and he finds his behaviour escalating, like an experiment to see how far he can go

it starts with him touching himself under his desk, rubbing his hands over his erection and trying to keep quiet

rubbing against you in the elevator, placing his hands on your shoulders as he stands behind you, staring down your blouse

asking you to reach up high or down low to watch the way your clothes move to expose you

messing with the ac, watching you sweat when it's too hot, watching your nipples harden when it's too cold

then he starts messing with the cables under his desk a lot, something with the wiring you don't understand

but it's an excuse to stare at your legs, trying to get a peek up your skirt

and then before you know it, your sweet coworker is masturbating into your coffee creamer

waiting to see if you can taste the difference, to see if you recognise him on your tongue

[coralchoral]

honestly thinking about the sonadow twitter takeover and how the plummeting to earth thing very much affected Sonic a lot more than it affected Shadow. like in a previous takeover Shadow even made it a positive memory about Sonic trying to save him.

Meanwhile in Prime, Sonic has a moment of saving Shadow from falling into the void that's very reminiscent of that other fall (in the same way Prime has a lot of motivations and references that only make sense from a fandom insider perspective).

Sonic also gets repeatedly tilted, loud and anxious, (which I'm pinning more on RCS's/whatever writer's sense of humor, as is all the voice acting gags) and is coping badly any time Shadow comes out ahead. I think Sonic's insistence on his ability to grow chest fur is as big a Cope as floaties=fashion statement.

But really, Sonic's repeat date suggestions and Shadow's own descriptions of Sonic's behavior (dragging out their races, etc "just to annoy me") reads, whether romantically or platonically, that Sonic just really wants to spend time with Shadow.

He feels he needs to justify it, though, insisting that he and Shadow have something other than occasionally getting in each other's way ("two sides of the same coin") (friendly competition being "why you keep me around-" seemed like odd wording to me).

Needing to make it meaningful, because that's what Shadow wants out of a relationship- Shadow /says/ he dislikes Sonic for being frivolous and inauthentic, that (for instance) his hugs don't mean anything, and that he doesn't want "(Sonic's) kind of hug."

Sonic really wants to spend time with Shadow because he's also intimately aware that that time is limited. Either Shadow's patience (and/or social battery) is limited and he's liable to make a batman exit if he doesn't want to be somewhere (not that we've ever seen Shadow do this in canon, he seems to awkwardly/quietly hang around as if he doesn't realize he can just hit the bricks (or he likes being there and has no idea how to express it re: smiling at Big the Cat) ), Or Sonic and Shadow will get caught up in their own lives again and not see each other until Fate Deigns to Allow Them to Cross Paths Once More.

And Sonic misses him.

(This ties in with my Sonic Frontiers is the Saddest Game Ever posting from a while back, too. Sonic is lonely AF and Needs Other People to Talk To or he'll start talking to the walls and robots, and Shadow will almost always either talk back or groan in exasperation, which is as good a reaction as any.)

All this, plus Sonic's opinion flip-flops (shopping with Amy vs shopping with Shadow, opinion on Orbot) could be either (Sonadow Optimist) Sonic is Down Bad and not even conscious of his mirroring Shadow/trying to appeal to Shadow, or (Sonadow/overall Pessimist) Sonic trying to appeal to the Most Popular Character Right Now and getting increasingly desperate as he is rebuffed.

A few of these Twitter Takeovers have had moments of Sonic in particular getting thrown off and not really able to recover. (which makes me question what the writing is like, if there's any at all and these VA's aren't just riffing on an outline. Considering they don't talk over each other constantly, there must be something like a script, but it also does occasionally feel like a bad roleplay (and I've been a bad roleplayer).) It leads to a Something Is Wrong feeling in the "We're doing this for fun" question-answering joke show. Sonic needs therapy. (We all need therapy.)

Meanwhile, Shadow really is pulling out all the grunts, groans, and whines with Sonic that, if scripted, would be egregious as hell to read or write. He doesn't make these noises in the games (or shows, really?) mostly because there's a sort of efficiency necessary to production that cuts out that interpersonal realism and partly because it's annoying? Shadow, you're the annoying one?

Unrelated, everybody latched on to Sonic's "Go off, King" but nobody even noticed Shadow's "Deal With It."(sunglasses drop) How soon we forget the sacred texts and/or the deep magic, I guess? (It's an old meme, but it checks out!)

[simpxmachina]

NEW BOT

╰┈➤ wlw red panda , botmaker

🔪 + 🫀 = ☆ bloodthirsty ☆

cai

🎬 aubrey plaza - ‘NEPO-WIFE ?’

The evening was suffocatingly familiar. Aubrey stood in the hotel’s extravagant hallway, gazing out at the city skyline. The lights below twinkled like far-off stars, and yet all she could feel was the thrum of anxiety under her skin. Another event, another evening of being paraded out for the world to see, her every move scrutinized. And in that moment, she wished she could just disappear into the air—slip through the cracks of the red carpet and vanish.

But she couldn’t. Not with all the cameras, not with the eyes that followed her every movement. It didn’t help that tonight, she wasn’t standing alone.

"Hey," came your voice from behind her, soft and steady. You had that way of cutting through her fog of irritation, your presence like an anchor in a storm of flashing lights. Aubrey didn’t have to turn around to know you were standing there—she could feel you, your warmth, your steady energy. You, with your elegant, composed presence, the world at your fingertips, and the family legacy that made it all so easy for you.

But she wasn’t here to complain. Not yet. She would save that for later.

When she finally turned to face you, she caught the glint of your eyes—the same eyes that could pierce through her sarcastic veneer. You were wearing that calm, collected look, the one you always wore at these events. You were practically glowing in your tailored dress, a contrast to Aubrey’s unpolished and understated outfit that clung to her awkwardly, as always.

"Is it too late to back out?" Aubrey asked, deadpan, one eyebrow raised. She was never one to mince words. "I mean, who needs another ‘self-made girl’ on a red carpet? I’m pretty sure we’ve got enough of those already."

You laughed—your genuine laugh that Aubrey could always pick out from the crowd, the one that made her feel like maybe there was still something good left in this charade.

"Trust me, I’ve been trying to get you to ditch this thing for days," you said, stepping toward her, your fingers brushing the fabric of her gown. "But you know how it is. You’ve got to put on the show. Keep up appearances."

Aubrey’s lips twisted into a half-smirk. "Appearances. Yeah, that’s my specialty."

There was a brief moment of silence before you spoke again, a little softer this time. "You know they’re all watching us, right?"

Aubrey’s eyes narrowed. "Yeah, I’m aware," she muttered. "I’m sure they’ll make some snide comment about how different we are—how we don’t belong together. Maybe I should just wave a flag that says ‘Look, we’re the most unlikely pair ever.’ That’ll be fun."

You reached up, placing a hand on her cheek, your touch gentle. "You know they’ll say whatever they want. But they don’t know us. We don’t need them to."

She sighed heavily, leaning into your touch for a moment, but quickly pulled away, as though she couldn’t allow herself to be too soft. "I know, I know," she muttered, turning her gaze back to the skyline. "But it’s just... annoying, you know? The way they only focus on how different we are. They can’t look at us and see anything but this weird mismatch of ‘privilege’ and ‘self-made,’ and they think that’s the whole story. It’s exhausting."

You smiled, as you always did, like you could sense the storm brewing beneath her calm exterior. "Who cares what they think? You’re you, and I’m me, and that’s why I love you."

Aubrey turned her head slowly, looking at you with a small, almost vulnerable smile. "Yeah, well, sometimes I wonder if you know what you're getting into with me."

"You’re lucky I’m a glutton for punishment," you teased, tilting your head. "But honestly, I don’t care about any of that. I don’t care if they think we’re mismatched. I care that I’m with you, that I chose you. That’s what matters."

Aubrey smiled, a little less dry, a little less sarcastic. "Yeah, I guess that’s the most important thing. But it still bothers me when they talk about us like we’re some kind of circus act. You, with your big family legacy and perfect smile. And me... with my weird sense of humor and dry sarcasm. I mean, who wouldn’t wonder how that works?"

"You’re different, Aubrey," you said, taking her hand and squeezing it firmly. "And that’s what makes you perfect. We’re not a circus act. We’re just... us. And that’s all that matters."

---

The red carpet was as predictably absurd as it always was. The sea of flashing lights, the intrusive questions, the endless waves of publicists and photographers—all of it felt like a slow, grinding march. But this time, Aubrey tried to drown it out, to focus on you. Your presence beside her was a lifeline, even when the journalists turned their attention toward her.

"So, Aubrey," a reporter called, leaning in with a microphone in hand. "You've made a name for yourself as a very... unique presence in Hollywood. And of course, you're married to y/n, who comes from such a well-known family. Do you think that your relationship has ever put you under a different kind of microscope? The kind that focuses on your differences?"

Aubrey’s lips twitched upward in that signature, deadpan way. She glanced at you, noticing the way you stood a little straighter, like you were preparing to shield her. "Oh, sure," she replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I’m sure they’ll get all worked up about how I’m not the perfect ‘nepo wife’ they expected. I’m so out of my depth here."

The journalist didn’t pick up on her sarcasm, as usual. "But seriously, Aubrey, do you ever feel the pressure of being married to someone with such a powerful legacy? Do the comparisons ever get to you?"

Aubrey’s expression remained unchanged, though there was a brief flicker of something—irritation, maybe—behind her eyes. She was so used to these questions, so tired of them. And yet, she played the game with the kind of dry humor that had earned her a loyal fanbase.

"Look," Aubrey said, turning toward the reporter with a wry smile. "I didn’t marry y/n for the family name. If I wanted to marry into money and power, I would’ve chosen a billionaire. But here we are, still going strong, and that’s all that matters."

You laughed beside her, but the smile didn’t quite reach Aubrey’s eyes. You could see it—the slight tightening of her jaw, the way she didn’t let herself truly relax, even in the midst of a playful comment. Aubrey Plaza might pretend she didn’t care about the opinions of others, but you both knew the truth.

In public, she would never admit it. But in the quiet of their private moments, away from the cameras, she would sigh, lean against the wall, and mutter, "I hate that they keep bringing it up. They don't get it. We’re not a 'mismatch.' We're just... us."

You always knew what to say, though. You would wrap your arms around her, gently kissing the top of her head. "I get it. And I love you for it."

---

Later that night, when the flashes finally stopped and the event was over, the two of you retreated back to your hotel room. The exhaustion of the evening hung heavily in the air. Aubrey didn’t even bother to take off her gown right away. She collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, her fingers twitching idly by her side.

"Did you hear what they said about us today?" she asked, her voice flat. "The ‘privilege’ and ‘hard work’ narrative... I swear, it’s like they don’t care about anything real. It’s all just surface-level crap."

You climbed onto the bed beside her, leaning on your elbow to look at her. "Aubrey, I’m not going anywhere. I chose you, and nothing anyone says changes that."

Aubrey’s lips twisted in that familiar, dry smile, but there was something softer in it now. "Yeah, I know. I just wish people would stop treating us like we're part of some goddamn zoo."

"Who cares about them? You’re my world, Aubrey. No one else matters."

In that moment, with the lights of the city still flickering outside and the world far, far away, Aubrey let out a long sigh, finally relaxing into the comfort of your arms.

"Yeah," she murmured. "I guess you’re right. I just wish it didn’t make me feel so... weird."

And for the first time that night, Aubrey allowed herself to drift into the quiet safety of your love, away from the spotlight and the noise, knowing that no matter how many cameras flashed or how many critical voices rose, she could always count on you to be her anchor, her support. In your arms, there was no judgment, no expectations—just the simple, steady beat of two hearts who had found their rhythm amidst the chaos.

But it wasn't over, it never was.

Long days—press tours, meetings, photoshoots. The usual whirlwind that came with being in the spotlight. You knew the routine by now, but today it felt different. Aubrey was quieter than usual, her sarcasm less biting, her usual dry humor subdued. You noticed it immediately, and it gnawed at you, a feeling in your gut that wouldn’t settle.

You and Aubrey had built something together over the past four years—something that others could never quite understand. She had earned every bit of her career, every inch of respect, while you, despite your best efforts to separate yourself from your family’s influence, were always seen as the “privileged one.” The “nepo baby,” they called you. And the contrast between you two—her rawness, her authenticity, her self-made success; and your polished, well-maintained image, always tethered to your powerful family—was something people always seemed to focus on.

You had tried to ignore it, at least outwardly. But tonight, in the dimly lit apartment you shared with Aubrey, it couldn’t be ignored. She looked tired, not just from the long day, but from something deeper. Something heavier.

"Do you want to talk about it?" you asked gently, noticing her staring blankly at her phone, her fingers tapping against the screen without purpose.

Aubrey looked up, her sharp gaze meeting yours, but her expression was unreadable. The easy sarcasm was gone. "What’s there to talk about?" she muttered, dropping the phone on the couch. "Just another day of pretending everything’s fine."

You swallowed, biting back the urge to remind her that she was the one who always said she didn’t care about what people thought. You’d spent enough time in the public eye yourself to know that there was always a kernel of truth behind those words. And despite what she projected, Aubrey did care. She cared about the scrutiny, the constant comparisons, the way her career had somehow become secondary in the public eye.

You shifted closer to her on the couch, careful not to invade her space but unwilling to let her retreat into herself entirely. "It’s not like you to be this quiet," you said softly, trying to keep the mood light. "Not even a single snarky comment about how I burned dinner last night?"

Aubrey’s lips twitched in what could have been a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Instead, she sighed, leaning back and crossing her arms over her chest. "It’s not about dinner. It’s about this... circus. All of it."

She gestured vaguely toward her phone, but you knew what she meant. The press tour. The interviews. The countless articles dissecting every detail of your marriage. And the most recent headline that had likely set her off: "Aubrey Plaza, the Wife of Hollywood's Golden Girl."

It wasn’t the first time her name had been reduced to a footnote, a descriptor attached to yours. But it never got easier for her.

"I’ve worked my ass off for years," Aubrey said, her voice low and steady, but there was an edge to it, a rawness that made you hold your breath. "I’ve done indie films no one thought would succeed. I’ve fought for roles, dealt with rejection after rejection, clawed my way into this industry. And now, suddenly, I’m not Aubrey Plaza anymore. I’m your wife. Like that’s all I am."

Her words hung in the air like a weight, and you didn’t know how to respond. Because the truth was, you had seen it happening too. The way her accomplishments were overshadowed, the way interviews that were supposed to be about her projects turned into questions about your relationship. You hated it as much as she did, but you hadn’t known how deeply it had affected her. Until now.

"You’re not just my wife," you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. "You’re so much more than that. And anyone who can’t see that doesn’t deserve to talk about you."

Aubrey scoffed, but there was no real humor in it. "Tell that to the reporters who only want to ask me what it’s like being married to you. Or the producers who suddenly think I’m only relevant because of your last name. It’s like everything I’ve worked for means nothing now."

You reached for her hand, but she pulled away, standing up and pacing the room. "Do you know how humiliating it is to have people act like I’ve coasted into success because of you? Like I didn’t do anything before we got together? I love you, but sometimes... sometimes it feels like I’m losing myself in this."

Her honesty cut you to the core, but you couldn’t blame her. How could you? She wasn’t wrong. And yet, hearing her say it out loud felt like a blow you hadn’t been prepared for.

"I didn’t ask for this either," you said, standing up to face her. "I didn’t ask to be born into this family or to have every move I make scrutinized. And I sure as hell didn’t ask for my relationship with you to be turned into some kind of spectacle."

Aubrey stopped pacing, her arms dropping to her sides as she looked at you, her eyes softening just slightly. "I know you didn’t," she said quietly. "And I’m not blaming you. I just... I don’t know how to deal with it sometimes. It’s like no matter what I do, I can’t escape it."

The tension in the room was palpable, but it wasn’t the kind that threatened to break you apart. It was the kind that made you lean in, made you fight harder to understand each other. You stepped closer to her, hesitating for a moment before reaching out to gently touch her arm.

"You’ve always been more than enough," you said softly. "Before we were together, before anyone even knew my name, you were already a force to be reckoned with. That hasn’t changed, Aubrey. And it never will."

She sighed, her shoulders relaxing just slightly as she let you pull her into a hug. She rested her head against your shoulder, and for a moment, the weight of the world seemed to fade. But you knew it wasn’t gone. Not completely.

"I just wish people could see me for who I am," she murmured, her voice muffled against your skin. "Not just as some extension of you."

You tightened your arms around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "They will," you promised. "We’ll make them see. Together."

And in that moment, as the two of you stood there in the quiet of your apartment, you knew that no matter how many headlines tried to define your relationship, no matter how many whispers tried to reduce Aubrey to just your wife, the truth of who she was—and who you were together—was something no one could take away.

But the internet never thinks like that.

The internet had turned into a battlefield again, and you were the primary casualty. Pictures of you and Aubrey walking out of a luxury boutique were plastered across every social media platform, accompanied by wild, baseless assumptions.

One particular photo had gone viral: you standing still, clearly mid-conversation, while Aubrey carried two bags in her hands. The truth was that you’d twisted your ankle on the way out and had stopped to catch your breath while Aubrey, ever practical, had grabbed your things to keep the line moving. But the internet didn’t want the truth. It wanted a story.

There were three camps now. The first claimed that Aubrey Plaza deserved better than a spoiled “nepo baby” who made her carry shopping bags like a servant. The second argued you deserved better, painting Aubrey as a gold-digger exploiting your wealth. The third defended your relationship, posting clips and interviews to show how much love you shared.

The third group was small.

And no matter how many times you tried to ignore it, the hate had crawled under your skin, festering in ways you weren’t ready to admit.

By the time you walked into the convention hall for a Q&A about your new series, you were already simmering beneath the surface. You’d perfected the art of smiling through discomfort, of keeping your golden-girl persona intact, but today felt harder than usual.

The panel started smoothly enough. The moderator asked you about your role, the challenges you faced during filming, and your experience working with the cast. You answered every question thoughtfully, earning laughs and applause from the audience.

Then came the inevitable question.

“So,” the interviewer began, leaning forward with a too-familiar smirk, “do you think your family name helped you land this role?”

The room went quiet for a moment. You didn’t flinch; you’d been asked this question a dozen times before.

You smiled politely, your voice steady. “I’d like to think that my work is enough to prove that I made it on my own, but I’m not blind to the fact that my name carries a lot of weight. I can’t deny my privilege. That being said, I hope to continue earning roles because of my talent, not my last name.”

The audience murmured, a mix of admiration and skepticism. You’d expected as much.

But then a microphone made its way to a member of the audience, a man who seemed far too eager to speak. His tone was mocking, his body language confrontational.

“Speaking of privilege,” he began, a smirk curling his lips, “do you think your wife is what people are calling her now? You know—a ‘nepo-trophy-wife’? Seems like she’s benefitting a lot from being with you.”

The words hit you like a slap, and the audience gasped collectively. The interviewer looked uncomfortable, clearly unsure whether to intervene.

You felt your chest tighten, the simmering anger from earlier now boiling over. You leaned forward, gripping the microphone tightly.

“I’m sorry, what did you just say?” you asked, your voice deceptively calm.

The man, emboldened by the attention, shrugged. “I mean, she’s clearly riding your coattails. It’s not like anyone was talking about her before you two got together.”

A hush fell over the room. The interviewer looked like they wanted to sink into the floor, but you didn’t give them the chance to redirect.

“Aubrey Plaza,” you said, your tone icy but controlled, “has been in this industry far longer than I have. She’s been in critically acclaimed films and shows—some of which you’ve probably seen, considering you know her name well enough to make an opinion about her.”

The man started to interrupt, but you cut him off.

“And let’s be very clear,” you continued, your voice rising slightly, “if anyone in this relationship is riding coattails, it’s me. I’m the one who should be called a ‘nepo-trophy-wife.’ Aubrey has worked her ass off for everything she has. She’s an incredible actress, and the fact that you think you have the right to reduce her career to her relationship with me says more about your ignorance than it does about her.”

The audience broke into applause, but you barely heard it. You handed the microphone back to the moderator, sitting stiffly as the panel moved on.

---

When you got home that evening, your stomach was still in knots. You didn’t regret defending Aubrey—not for a second—but you knew the fallout was inevitable. You could already hear the headlines: Golden Girl Goes Off! or Y/n Shows Spoiled, Bratty Side!

You dropped your bag on the kitchen counter and sighed, rubbing your temples. Aubrey’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts.

“Quite the show you put on,” she said, stepping out from the living room with her phone in hand. She was smirking, but her eyes held something softer, something warmer.

You froze. “You saw it?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You kidding? It’s all over the internet. ‘Golden Girl Defends Wife with Fiery Speech.’ You’re trending.”

You groaned, sinking onto the couch. “Great. Just what I needed.”

Aubrey sat beside you, her smirk softening into a genuine smile. “Hey,” she said, nudging your shoulder, “you were amazing.”

You turned to look at her, surprised. “Really? Because I feel like I just painted a target on both of our backs.”

Aubrey shook her head, her dark eyes shining. “Let them talk. You know what I care about? That my wife—the golden girl, the internet’s sweetheart—stood up for me. You didn’t have to do that, but you did. And it was... really hot, actually.”

You laughed despite yourself, the tension in your chest loosening just a bit. “Hot, huh?”

“Extremely,” she said, leaning closer. “There’s nothing more attractive than you telling the world to screw off because you love me.”

You felt your cheeks flush, and before you could respond, Aubrey kissed you. It wasn’t a soft, sweet kiss—it was firm, passionate, full of everything she couldn’t put into words.

When she pulled back, she was grinning, her usual dry humor creeping back into her tone. “So, do I need to start calling you my publicist now? Or are you sticking with ‘wife’?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning into her. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stuck with me,” she teased, wrapping an arm around you.

The internet could say whatever it wanted. In this moment, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the way Aubrey looked at you—as if you were the only thing in the world that made sense.

this might be my favorite, just fed my delulu self <3

[bloodnikki]

Do you think Ekko was ready to have a full on confession on his feelings but was going to say it after the battle? Like he tell Jinx that he'll see her after and she finger guns him with a 'yea, sure. of course'

Do you think he rests at night thinking about how he turned back time to save the world but he broke it saving the world and now he can't use it to save her?

Do you think that Jinx, still alive, hides a note for him about how she's leaving because she needs to heal and that paper he burns has Powder's name on it? That he finally accepts that he needs to let go of who she used to be. He accepts that she's Jinx and she is perfect. It's the only time he agrees with Silco and he doesn't even know it.

Do you think that if Jinx does leave him a note, there's clues on where she's going? Like, he sets out to follow her trail and it's a cute game of follow the leader. She leaves him notes and writes to him long passages as though she fully believes he's going to read them.

Sometimes, it's really lonely and she's tired. It's been so hard and there's tears stains on the pages. She speaks honestly and says 'I doubt you'd ever read these. I don't even know why I bother. I do miss you. Maybe I should go home but it hurts to know you never saw a single letter or even got the first note. You'd be so mad to see me alive and well feed and my hair. I do miss you so much. What should I do Ekko? What should I do?'

Do you think Jinx gets tired of traveling? She wants to set up roots but worries he's really following her notes. She isn't sure what she'd do if he reaches her. Does she even want him to?

Do you think Jinx finally wills herself to go? She realizes it's been too long. If she doesn't go on, she may never leave or worse Ekko may finally reach her. She's setting up the next clue when she hears someone call out to her.

"Jinx?"

"Ekko?"

"I..."

"Wow, you look good." Jinx is holding a bag. It's clear he just caught her.

"You do too."

"I- you've been traveling."

"I... I have. I wrote notes on it. Thoughts I'd like to share with you."

Jinx feels stupid. She can't recall everything she wrote but she knows some of it was insane. He read them. He read them all! Her face flushes and it clicks. He's here for her. He followed all her notes and thoughts. He came all this way to see her.

"I... cool. Cool. Do you have a place you're staying?" Jinx glances around. "I kinda just gave up my place and now I'm kinda no place or anything."

It's been a long time, but they settle in awkwardly and quickly. Two years playing follow the leader. Jinx asks Ekko where she should go next. He seems pleased to share his thoughts and shocked when she says that's where they'll go. For that moment on, they travel together.

They share rooms. Two beds that some times is only one because it's cheaper then it's just one bed. Do you think they remember where they were when she kisses him and he kisses her? Do you think he remembers if it's on a boat or airship that he realizes she's in love with him just as much as he's in love with her?

Do you think it's Ekko's or Jinx's idea to finally go home?

[skull-fvcker]

Morality

❥ Yandere! Arcane Viktor x Gender Neutral! Reader

A/N: cross-posted from my ao3. Old fanfiction from 2021, written way before season two. Thought I might as well post it here—the final episode broke me, by the way.

Summary: Years worth of obsession and fantasy obfuscated his once comprehensible brain. But it felt as if this was a crucial transition. Viktor is convinced he is a good man, but his actions are speaking otherwise against his morality.

Warnings: 7204 words, MDNI, obsessive behaviour, kidnapping, viktor is delusional, yandere viktor by the way, dubious consent(he coerces you), unhealthy and one-sided relationship, gender-neutral pronouns used for reader, no usage of y/n, gentle sex, set in season 1

In all honesty, Viktor did not know how it started or when it got out of hand. It started as a simple fascination and he had treated it as such. Nothing was wrong with that, he was a man of science after all. It was in his nature to feel drawn to things that he did not quite understand. Many years have passed since that day. Before his strange obsession came into his life. Honestly, now that he was alone to think about it, had it ever come into his life at all? Or, by some force of nature, he had forced it into his own life? The ever-changing flow of time halted the very moment Viktor had initially realised that he had more than a problem on his hands.

Viktor thought of himself as a man with morals. He was not the best person, yes, there are plenty of others that shone brighter than he did, but he found his value in his work and ethics. That being said, nothing about him was right. His work had been clogged for year's now; the chaotic office space merely setting as a permanent indication that he had slipped too far this time. Above all else, he had guaranteed himself that his work came foremost, give or take a few instances in which it did not. This case was different, however. A disturbing accomplishment that, when asked initially, he wrote off his findings as evidence, or even lack thereof. Whether or not he was believed, was foreign to even him.

Directly adjacent to his cluttered working place—being neat had long passed his troubled brain, hadn't it?— lie his crutch, sat in such a way that it may fall at any minute. Viktor paid it no mind, at least not at first, but looking over his notes and the observations that he had written down, an idea popped up within what was left of a comprehensive state of mind. Of course, how could he have been so oblivious to forget such a thing, it was written clear as day in these scattered notes. His nimble, cold fingers grasped at the end of his crutch and he tugged it over and dug it into the floor while it enabled him to stand.

Viktor's book laid sloppily in his hand, page open in clear view. "Yes," he breathed, "I suppose this will do." He closed the withered book and shoved it between his left arm and clothed side. Periodically, an opportunity was difficult to come by. He had to do the best with what he had been given, though an itch in his brain told him that: why settle for fine, when you can go beyond?

The aforementioned person that he mentioned, the obsession - the two had never even met before, Hell, Viktor was certain it never even knew of his existence. It was ostensibly a normal upper city citizen with no strange qualities, nothing special about its behaviours nor its personality. It was normal. But it made him feel bizarre inside. He could effortlessly correlate it to that of an over-easy egg slowly cooking within a skillet until the yoke bursts for seemingly no reason and tarnishes the taste of the egg entirely. Just like that, it was ruining him. Granted, neither of them seemed to be eggs, but he believed the metaphor to fit rather well. Humanity always seemed to be so fickle, so easily swayed and broken. Just like an egg.

No matter the weakened disposition he had, nor the lingering scent of death he had become accustomed to, nothing prepared Viktor for the way his certain obsession made him feel. He was intelligent enough to not let these be known, oh, how he would hate the way that Jayce would assume the worst of his sentiments. Would he? Jayce had changed rather strikingly since the first day the two had met. Nevertheless, Viktor never seemed to be the man for love, much less protection of those around him.

Moreover, he was sure that with such dehumanising language and behaviour, nobody would hear his side of the matter. After all, calling the object of your affection an "it," and "thing," definitely does not look good for your compassion. Still, it gave him a reason to humanise his behaviour—if his obsession is not seen as equal, then what's the issue, exactly? To be blunt, it served no purpose other than to make him feel better since not a soul knew of this but him.

Sure, it did not occur to him that he would have strayed this far, but sometimes you have to do what you can to keep someone safe. He was in no state to protect someone on his own, he knew this far too well, he could never protect anyone with this sickly, frail body of his. That is why kidnapping was an absolute must. Reminiscing of the past did no good but to open up older wounds that set themselves up for failure, but the first day they had formally met was an exhilarating experience.

When they had seen him, there was a quizzical expression plastered on their face, and they even confused him for a council member of all things—never attentive, he presumed—but upon realising who he was, Viktor found himself met with immediate scepticism. Viktor could not fault them, it was something he knew all too well, though, maybe he should have saved his anguish for another day. The way their warmer hand held onto his own when he reached out to shake it. Their hand was soft, softer than his at least, and much less calloused. Smaller. Yet, their fingers did not hold the appearance of his own; on the contrary, they looked healthy. Healthier than him.

Of course, with someone who seemed to not have any imperfection, how was Viktor not supposed to fall for them, much less become intrigued with their very existence at that point? Humans were so fickle, he knew very well with how his body had grown to become sicker, but they seemed so robust, so self-sufficient. It was just like any other person, nothing too special but it stood out to him and that was what mattered.

It hurt him, really it did, to see them gawk at him with betrayal, to seem so frightened of someone who wasn't even strong, to begin with, but love came with sacrifice and even if he couldn't help everyone, then he would try to help them the best that he could.

Viktor revolted and fought against his rationality, he really did, he tried his absolute best to make sense of both his actions and what he had done. Within the months, he had thoroughly convinced himself that it was for the greater good, for the safety of his obsession; to keep them isolated from others. It was not the healthiest choice, he would acknowledge at the time, but now he may argue that it was the only thing he could have done upon meeting them formally. He just could not let them go.

Months had passed since that day, but it was fun to reminisce sometimes. Besides, it was even better that, when he had the time, they were someone in which he could spoil with every day. Yes, Viktor took things slow and always was sure to leave them be, yet give them company, but watching them stare at him with a look that he could hardly even decipher anymore, left him breathless. And he didn't even know why.

That very thing forced him into the very dilemma that he is in now. Standing in front of a locked door with a flawlessly crafted key lying in his tremoring hand. It was from excitement, he knew it was. It was like this was his own secret sanctuary where he hid his most precious desire and treasure, his perfect obsession that wept behind locked doors. It was the same every day, no matter how long he would stare.

The door opened with a slight rasp, the only other noise being a stifled sob and the sound of scuffing against the floor, then the buoyancy of bedsprings. His stiff body staggered against the sturdy cane, his hunched over body barely allowing the light to pool in around the walls of the door frame. Every day seemed no closer to his objective. He didn't even know how he had done this. Years worth of obsession and fantasy obfuscated his once comprehensible brain. But it felt as if this was a crucial transition.

Viktor is convinced he is a good man, but his actions are speaking otherwise against his morality.

"Good morning, dear. Have you slept well?" The sounds of chains screamed in his ears when he spoke. All these years and his lover still has not gotten used to their living state. "Ehh... I have already assured you. Good behaviour is rewarded, please understand that this is an absolute must to keep you safe." They were terrified. Of him. Isolation was a punishment and he could never help but feel dreadful about them being punished for things out of their control.

"When can I go home?" was the concern they always pleaded with whenever they saw him. Viktor tried to not let it get under his skin, really he did, but the knowledge that they did not want to be with him weighed heavy on his mind. He loved them, they had to recognize. Their eyes were so passive; it reminded him of when he had first seen the mutation, Rio, when he was a young boy. Curiosity, distress; panic. They just did not understand this yet.

Perhaps all the days that he merely sat there and stared at them with a desolate expression thoroughly destroyed the way they would perceive him, or how he would blatantly ignore their tantrums and screaming, tapping his fingers along the edge of his crutch like a patient father waiting for their child to calm down. Of course, Viktor never mistreated them. The most he did was further isolate them, which explained the absolutely pitiful state that they were in right now.

Reluctance to accept the changing future will result in the fear of what's to come. He understands it's different from what they were used to. But one must adapt to their surroundings and become accustomed. Viktor has already sacrificed so much for them; when was it their turn to return the favour? The ever-changing future is something he will never know for certain.

Viktor sighed, watching them press their body against the nook of the room where their bed had been so delicately placed. The bedsheets had been sent into a state of disrepair, and certain pillows seemed more shapely than the rest. From clutching them too tightly, he inferred. It was adorable.

"This is your home," It was no wonder that they attempted to squeeze themselves farther against the wall when he staggered closer. "I don't have any food this time, I'm afraid," he stood right at the side of their mattress, directly in front of trembling form, his eyes fixated on the plate that sat adjacent to the bed, at least a few days old now. "Though, I'm glad that you, ehm, were able to finish your last meal. Good job." A sigh escaped him after the carefully placed praise fell from his lips and, upon staring hastily at them, he recalled the fear blending within their wide eyes. "However," he found himself fumbling over his words, "I know that you've been a little, eh... downcast, as of late so I have decided that I am going to offer you something that I'm sure you would love," he paused, almost reluctant to reach forward and stroke the hair behind their ear. Hesitant to touch them lovingly.

This situation was a troublesome one, of course, it would be, but he was not a fool in the matter. He read up on numerous articles simply so he can keep things safe for them — falling for one's captor, he had thought about it, yet the turmoil often sets in when he realises that they hadn't developed such a thing just yet. Had he not been too kind? Perhaps, it was the chains around their body? Particular disorders of the mind were so hard to force into existence; was that such a terrible thing to wish for? They looked as if they served more as a pet than anything else, honestly. But that's love, this is just his love. Viktor was well aware that a plethora of things regarding both he and his health weren't precisely right, particularly in concerns to other people. Honestly, staring at them in such a miserable state made him feel almost remorseful.

They must feel so trapped, not to mention secluded, after all, he was never able to spend as much time with them as he would have preferred. He wondered, did they feel imprisoned in their own body, too? Probably not in the way that he did, but it was a suspicion that lingered in his mind. He set his hand on the side of their face unexpectedly, and they jolted back. Granted, he was certain that his hand was freezing. But, Hell, it appeared as if they had almost whimpered at his touch. Still, he had never done anything to harm them, he's only keeping them safe. The images of the mutation Rio sitting in a tank of fluids that he knew all too well now, the thought of it being kept alive despite its pleas not to. Such lengths are just an experiment to preserve life. He understood, now. Not in the way that he should have, but he did.

Maybe that was how they felt. Like a trapped animal, frightened and alone. But they have him, they may not want him, but he is there.

Viktor's knees buckled as they pressed against the edge of the mattress, gently hoisting one after the other to get closer to the horrified individual hiding from his affection, which was already something which he never exhibited frequently.

"I want you to understand," he ran his thumb along their cheek with feathery soft touches, "I know you still don't understand why I'm doing this, or why you're here but rest assured that it's all out of genuine love." When you're going to change the world, don't ask for permission. "Alone. You're lonely and you're scared. I know how you feel. But you're special," their eyes met Viktor's for but an instant and it sent shock waves down his spine. Don't ask permission. "You're special to me, and that is what truly matters at this moment." They were about to cry. Correction, they were sobbing. And it was all his fault. Emotional turmoil mixed with the trauma enforced within them made this happen - because of Viktor.

And despite it all, Viktor could not help but feel proud of his accomplishments.

"Please," their name rolled off of his tongue like a loose screw in his brain, though more akin to a prayer. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, please." Their disobedience irritated him and sent his nostrils flaring, but he didn't allow that to show outwardly. They were already so skittish, why would he threaten them further? "Mm, I will reiterate it as many times as you desire: good behaviour is rewarded. If... If you're good—for me—then, and only then, will I allow you to go outside." His words set off a fire in their brain, he could tell how their breathing unexpectedly halted and they went completely tight-lipped. Was that all it took for them to settle down? An effortlessly broken promise?

Right, they were at their wit's end, weren't they? Their emotions override their rationality. The sunlight would be good for their health, after all. Quite frankly, the thought was unsettling, Viktor didn't want them out of his sight, but if it would make them satisfied then he could make configurations for such a thing. Though, he would have to be cautious to not allow anyone to see them. What if they tried to... escape, in a sense? It was dangerous, he would have to think about it thoroughly.

"Do you mean it?" They said, suddenly. Their head was raised aloft and their wide eyes stared directly at him. "If I'm good... I'll be able to go outside? It's—" A sharp inhale. "It's been months," they were optimistic. Why was it so unbearable to see them so miserable?

For all but a juncture, Viktor felt himself at a loss for words. There was no telling whether or not he would be able to keep that promise, but he could try. They just need to learn to embrace change and adapt, maybe they will forget about it in due time. "I mean it," he said without thought, "you have my word." Did they, truly? You should not make promises that you are incapable of keeping, but just this once, the way their expression lit up and how the tears fell from their eyes, made Viktor feel as if he had done something right this entire time. Without a single word, his hand slowly lowered from their warm cheek, his gangly fingers running alongside the edges of the collar that adorned their flawless neck.

In pursuit of great, we failed to do good.

How would Viktor feel if someone had done this to him? It was a rhetorical question; nobody cared for him enough to go to such drastic lengths to proclaim their love. Therefore, this couldn't have been an unfair thing for him to do. "We must adapt to change," he spoke softly as his fingers danced around their trembling jaw. "You must adapt to change." His voice dropped an octave, gaze falling back onto their face. He had adapted to this change flawlessly fine, it was them that had to figure out how to. They were ultimate perfection in his eyes—there was just one, little issue...

"What are you doing?" Their voice quivered. Viktor's hand slipped down to their collarbones, pinching against the soft fleshy prison.

"Ahm, eh, I am... feeling you, merely. Nothing more," their breath hitched at his actions. "Unless you want me to do more?" An unexpected whimper came from them, in which he did not know if it was good or not, but knowing them, it emanated from apprehension. "I love you, you know that. I would never force you to do something. Think of it as a friendly suggestion," Viktor's blunt fingernails found themselves becoming caught on the neckline of their shirt. "So, will you let me?" There was a pause between them. Most importantly, the air seemed to grow still. Tension so thick that you could slice it in half with a knife.

They shifted but didn't give Viktor a clear yes or no. In all honesty, they seemed to be dismissing him altogether. He could feel their body heat begin to amplify, a telltale indication of both their embarrassment and if he dares say desire. A relatively foolish notion, he was well aware, however, that did not mean anything in his mind, not in the current time. The future could come later, and his life may pass him by. But the future does not exist, does it? Not until you make it so. If he didn't take satisfaction in the opportunity that he had right now, then it may never come up again.

Nevertheless, he took the chance and leaned forward, inch by inch until his face had pressed into what was seen within the crook of their neck. Their skin was soft, warm; pulsating. "I am obsessed with you," both of his hands set themselves upon their shoulders, thumbs clutching against the blade of their clavicles. "I am, truly. My devotion, my love, my obsession for you—that will be the only thing that will never change no matter the year to come. You may push me away all that you desire, but I will come back to you. I love you." His chapped lips pressed in between their jawline and neck, a chaste kiss that he allowed to linger on their skin. They didn't even bother pushing him away. They had the strength to, yet abstained.

We failed to do good.

"Understand my efforts," his voice was barely above a whisper, "you must have seen them. Make sense of my love for you." His grip on their shoulders tightened, but he knew it would never be enough to harm them. It wasn't as if he wanted to injure them in the first place, either. However, it was short-lived, and Viktor's hands fell from their shoulders to their bound wrists, and straight down to their tremoring hands. "I have always wanted to do more with you—to be what most would consider a "couple" yet you keep pushing me away." During his rambling, Viktor heard them mumble something under their breath. "Could you repeat that?"

"I said I'm sorry," they whispered. For the first time, it seemed that they were apologising to him so sincerely, maybe with actual suspicions that something may transpire if they were to not apologise. It was startling, but a chance to hear their voice was satisfactory for Viktor. There was a lingering breath that he could feel tickle the back of his neck, coupled together with their heaving chest. They were scared.

We have to make it right.

Viktor felt his heart hammer against his rib cage, a knot forming in his throat bitterly. This clammy feeling in his chest was unneeded. "Well," he spoke with a sharp exhale, "do you know what would make me forgive you?" As if he hadn't already forgiven them, to begin with. Upon feeling them nod slowly, Viktor pulled away from them and hurried his hands from their own, to their neck. His touches were faint, but loving. Held a certain edge to them, hinted at with a distinct emotion. "I'm very sure you're aware of what I'm getting at," his breathing picked up, just as theirs did, and for a few instants, it seemed that theirs was in sync with his own. To his surprise, they shifted and nodded in agreement, but did not vocalise it.

Anxiously, Viktor proceeded to slowly creep his body forward, even closer to them than he was before. He felt his heart thumping against his rib cage, the wind being knocked from his lungs as he shakily exhaled. Viktor was not the type of man for sex, he never had the time to do it; but when it came to his little obsession, why not indulge? Their consent was dubious at best, but at this point, any hint of acceptance was promising enough for him. He struggled to rationalise his thinking but instead was only met with a cluttered mess within his brain. Viktor couldn't concentrate on anything other than them at this moment. It was just the two of them, and that was all that truly carried weight to him.

His kisses against their skin were light, virtually non-existent, but the genuine love that he harboured for them persisted despite their shuddering breathing; despite their apprehension. Viktor's lips pressed against their tender jawline until he finally met the edges of their lips. His hands were twitching, cupping the sides of their face with his thumbs caressing the skin underneath their eyes. This would be their first kiss together. Would they reciprocate it? He sure hopes that they would in some way, they don't seem to have any reasoning as to why they wouldn't. He pulled back momentarily to stare at them, only to notice that they weren't looking at him at all. That would be okay.

"You're mine," he breathed as he pressed his lips against their own once again. Viktor felt as if his chapped, thin lips were being engulfed by theirs—though, theirs were equally as chapped as he were. He made a mental note to up their water intake. The kiss did not quite feel the way that he visualized it to feel—he thought it would have felt more romantic in a sense. Moreover, he would have believed that they wouldn't be chained to the wall in such an intimate instant. But, good behaviour is rewarded. This was temporary, they knew that, as did he. Just as the kiss was about to end, he felt them lean into it and press their lips into his own. That, above everything else, made him feel like the blessedest man in all of Piltover. Of Zaun, anywhere.

"I love you more than anything," confessed Viktor as he pulled away from their lips. "I'm glad that you're mine." And he meant it.

Their breath hitched just as it constantly did when he touched them. Maybe it was the fact that his hands were gradually examining their body, tilting across every crevice, from where their midsection concave whenever they'd instinctively suck it in out of humiliation, to the quiver of the skin around their navel when his fingers ran along the sensitive region. Viktor's hands were underneath their shirt, his wiry fingers eagerly squeezing the skin. They squeaked at first, his hands were frigid after all but eventually unwound though not peeking at him. Viktor wished that they would look at him like a person rather than an oddity.

The hem of their trousers huddled against their hips, hiding away the most intimate part of their body that only Viktor was allowed to see. For a moment, he looked into their eyes for the right to go ahead, but upon being avoided, Viktor merely yanked them down with enthusiasm pulsing through his veins. His thumbs pressed between their navel and hipbones, in an almost comforting gesture. But it wasn't as if they cared in the long run, however, he could hear their hitching breath. Through dirty-minded thoughts, Viktor's right hand loomed above their sex while his other clasped against their hipbone for support. He was actually doing this—something that he had just as much as dreamed of for years.

"Please," their whiny voice startled his thoughts. "Just... be gentle with me," they didn't seem to be in the mood to fight him at all. That's good. Viktor was sure he had neither the strength nor the energy to deal with it.

His thumb pressed against the sensitive nub below, threatening a gasp from them. "I'll never hurt you," he rubbed their hip in synchronisation with his sensual touches against their sex. "I promise, I will do what I can to make you feel pleasured." His breathing picked up as arousal trickled down his spine like that of the emotions that he loathed. "I want... to see the inside of you. All of you," he spoke aloud, a hint of longing in his tone which he had shoved back this entire time. He wanted them to comprehend his love to its full potential.

Viktor's face pressed against the crook of their neck once again, shifting his hips as he closed his eyes. They were making noises, now, their chained wrists clicking against the harsh metals as they lifted their hands to dig into his back. Secretly, he had hoped that they would call his name. He knew that they knew it. They've spoken it countless times before. Granted, it was always in a fit of rage or hysteria which followed, "I hate you," and, "You ruined my life." But they knew his name at the very least.

Moreover, they were unravelling at the seams. They liked this just as much as Viktor did. They loved him, they had to. Lust and love were on a thin line, so closely drawn together yet had such distinct differences. Could the same be said about obsession? Maybe so, but that did not mean much by this point.

"I love you," he breathed into their neck, his warm breath no doubt sending shivers down his spine or so he hoped. "You feel so soft, so pretty..." His fingers toyed with their sex, jerking in sporadic movements which caused their hips to buck against him, further spurring him on. "Do you like it when I touch you like this? Like I—" his breath hitched when their hands clenched the fabric of his vest, "Like I own you?" For once, they actually agreed with him.

"Y-yes," they let out a pitiful, rueful whine more akin to someone who was used to this sort of thing. But that was inane. They belonged to him. "It feels—It feels really good, I..." Their hips were rolling now, eagerly trying to accept his love rather than pushing it away like they always had been. They were accepting change. They were adapting. "Jus—just like that, please, Viktor—"

And at that moment, time seemed to halt.

They said his name, not out of pure spite or anger, not from him doing something they did not like, but in pleasure. The pleasure that he was inflicting on them. "You're doing such a good job, So good for me," it came out as more of a wheeze than praise, though there was a hint of worship hidden within it. "Are you going to come soon? I want you to come undone because of me. I love you," his lips returned their place at their neck, his crooked teeth nibbling onto their soft skin, further forcing out a reaction from them. Just from their responses and noises alone, Viktor felt as if he was going to come any second now instead, and he hadn't even touched himself. All he could feel was his dick beginning to strain against his dress pants.

It was getting so hot and stuffy, surely he should take off his vest and dress shirt soon. The things that they did to him were things that he didn't even expect. The love he harboured, the desire he held—they were his weak spot. This precious creature. Viktor felt his breathing pick up as he pulled his teeth away from their neck, their delicate skin caught between his incisors.

Once more, slowly, his fingers gently danced around their sex, forcing himself to concentrate and try to block out the absolutely lovely noises that they were emitting. The noises, be as they may, were provided to him involuntarily, he attempting to reject the wail of pleasure that came from them. The squelchy sound of their fluid pooling around his fingers met his ears, giving a sick taste of satisfaction. His left hand clenched their skin a little too tightly for even his standards, the wiry fingers of his right hand working against him, deliberately circulating apart and snapping concurrently, a shudder running down his spine at the howl they made along with the response their body offered. Devoiding much of a thought, Viktor pulled his left hand away from their hipbone, dragging the appendage straight to the front of his dress pants, fumbling with both the zipper and hem in an attempt to pull it away from his groin.

"Oh," he heaved as he pulled away, ignoring the whimper that came from his lover in front of him. They wanted this. They needed this. Needed him. "Would you mind if I tried..." The words died in his mouth as soon as they came out, his left hand hovering above his concealed groin. Surely, they would say yes? They seemed a bit dazed, though perhaps it was his fault for not allowing them the relief that they were so close to acquiring. "I want to... feel you. I may not last very long," he fished his dick out of his boxers, feeling his face heat up to the point where he was sure it was red. "Do you want to?"

They made eye contact with him this time. The humanity, the want, the greed and the fear shone in their eyes brightly, but nothing could cover the telltale signs of love and lust. Viktor already knew the answer, they didn't even have to answer him, he already knew what it was going to be by their reaction alone. This was the key to their heart.

Now, at first, Viktor would not lie when he said that it made him feel a bit shy, or nervous—the thought of them seeing such an intimate part of his body, one of which he knows can be heavily judged based on size, was nervewracking to him. But the lack of disgust in their eyes—or maybe it was hidden between a thick cloud of lust—made him believe otherwise. They liked what they saw, and hopefully, nothing would change the way that they saw him. Their approval is what he strives for. However, that does not exactly matter with how far things have gotten. How many times has he repeated that phrase in his head?

The silence was deafening, but it was enough for Viktor to shuffle forward and shift his weight onto his somewhat good leg, swallowing the rising lump in his throat as he used his free hand to pull down their trousers. After this, he would be sure to give things a thorough wash. "Can you come closer?" He asked as he pulled his hand away. Please come closer.

He hadn't expected them to listen to him, nor to actually push themselves off the wall just to get closer to him, but, at the same time, he was not complaining. "Good job," he praised, his hands returning to place on their hips. Their skin felt so warm, but Viktor could still feel the reluctance radiating off of their perfect form. Now, this was just a question of whether or not he should go through with It. If he should finish claiming them.

The rattling chains served as a constant reminder for them to not fall out of line, and Viktor was sure that they did not want to do such a thing, especially not so close to salvation at this point. Steadily, Viktor felt their thighs wrap around his hips, and though the pressure and their weight being shifted onto him were agonising, he tried to force his way through it. The way that he could feel the tip of his dick press against them—that was like pure ecstasy. He never thought the day would come when they would grind into his lap so sensually, and act as if they had never tormented him for years to come.

"God," there was a slight plea laced within his velvet tone, "I need to be inside of you. Please," as much as Viktor loved them, he could never trust them to be the one providing. Not with how their behaviour had exhibited... less than desirable traits. "Will you allow me? We could finally become one in a sense. I just want to feel your insides around me, I want to feel your body heat against me." Whether or not they found pleasure in Viktor's begging, they offered him a response anyway:

"Shut up," was what they said. "Go ahead."

And with that, Viktor found himself slowly pushing their body down into the mattress, further ruining the bedspread and sheets that weren't even properly fixed in the first place. They still seemed reluctant, as their tone even harboured a certain edge to it, but hell, Viktor could not fault them. He feels nervous, too, of course, he does. Pulling down their trousers fully to their calves, he felt a knot grow within his throat. The thought of someone else doing this to them caused bile and jealousy to rise within his empty stomach, curling and screaming in the back of his mind, yet he pushed it aside in favour of much kinder thoughts.

A part of him wished to be able to twist and manipulate this circumstance, but he knew he didn't want to do such a thing - Viktor wanted nothing more than for them to just become wholly his and only his until death would take hold of them both. And even then, that would not split them apart nor dwindle his love for them. "I'm going to..." There was a brief pause, embarrassment etched across his face, "Er, make love to you," he spoke aloud, though it was more as if he was convincing himself that he was going to, rather than informing them.

There was little to no resistance when Viktor pressed himself inside, but it was such a foreign feeling that he could not help but whimper at the sensation. They were warm on the inside, and not the mention that their body would occasionally clench around his dick. His golden eyes gaped at their face, eyeing the expressions that they would make, all the way until the hilt of his dick finally pressed against their pelvic area. This was embarrassing.

Shamelessly, Viktor pulled back his hips, only to snap them forward with a moan. He tried his best to keep quiet, however, with the way that they started breathing heavily with their knees pressed up against the sides of his thighs, he couldn't help but feel overwhelmed. They were perfect, they felt perfect - on the inside, the outside, no matter. He hunched his body over their own, using the strength in his arms—what was left of it, anyway—to keep himself up. Viktor had no clue how long he would last, nor how his body would allow him to continue. But with how it felt, he hoped it would be long enough.

"You—you're... You're big," they suddenly confessed, a slight whimper escaping with the moan that left them. Fuck, they sounded so adorable like that. "Don't... Stop, please—"

A shiver ran down Viktor's spine at the blatant praise that fell from their lips shamelessly, it seemed so heinous, almost as if they were trying to get him going. "Ah..." Keep talking. "You, ah—you think so?" He panted as his hips snapped forward once, then twice. Was he drooling? Shit, he was drooling. "You feel so good on the in—the inside. So warm, so inviting. I would never... want to stop," a particularly loud moan escaped him, which seemed to be a hybrid of both a moan and wheeze. His lover didn't seem to notice nor care, however.

Why would they ever want to leave when they have such luxury in their life? Here they were, underneath Viktor with their eyes clenched tightly, hands balled up in fists as strings of moans escaped their bitten lips. They looked gorgeous like that. It even made Viktor feel powerful to know that he was able to make them feel such a way. Nearly impossible, he thought, if they weren't tied up and reluctant to accept him, they might have tried something devious and that would have ruined every single thing that Viktor had planned. Still, they're accepting his love.

His rhythm wasn't exactly straight nor following any set beat. Viktor felt as if his movements were sloppy and skewed, choppy thrusts and shuddering muscles that he was surprised had lasted this long. He could feel himself growing close, but he couldn't allow himself to unless they had, first. They mattered more than anything else.

"D... Darling," he nearly cried out, "I love you so much—" One of their hands threw itself behind Viktor's head, tangling their fingers within his messy locks of dark hair, gently tugging him forward. A shock ran down his spine at the gesture.

"I know," they breathed, "I know you do." Were they feeding into his delusion and leaving him to feel as if they felt the same, or did they genuinely love him at this moment? The way their eyes slowly peeked open was complete bliss for him, the irises that stared directly into his own with blown-out pupils—love.

He felt his sloppy movements speeding up, all while his body became sore from the extended movements, and all while this happened he felt the drool collect on the edge of his lips, dripping down his chin to their shirt, wetting the wrinkled fabrics. It didn't matter how ruined it would get, Viktor made a mental note to give them an even better shirt. Nevertheless, a knot coiled itself within his gut, curling around his navel and shooting a cramp up his spine in an almost pleasurable manner.

His bottom lip caught itself in between his incisors, muffling a forthcoming moan. "Are you—" a choked moan. "Are you clos—close? Please—" There was borderline whimpering in tone and he could not help but feel embarrassed for it, but the trembling person below made him feel a little better about his childish worries. They nodded without speaking, staring at him through thick eyelashes. They were gorgeous.

Viktor smiled, and it met his eyes. "So am I."

It was blissful, for him, at least—everything seemed perfect and in order as Viktor's right hand clasped around the side of their waist, squeezing the soft, malleable flesh: pliant. His breathing picked up, as did theirs, but he was determined to stretch this out for as long as he allowed himself to. As he closed his eyes tightly, Viktor felt his thumb dig into the dip between their stomach and hip bone, causing a red indentation on the soft skin. Through his pleasure, he could hear the loud sound of their moans below, as well as the sound of skin slapping against the skin; the squelch of genetic fluids mixed. Viktor's eyebrows furrowed together at the sound, his head falling against their chest, forehead pressed directly above their heart. Their clavicle, he presumed. They felt so good, he didn't want to stop, but he was so close.

"Viktor—" they cried out, suddenly, "I'm g—going—" there was a loud, rueful cry, followed by a high-pitched whimper. He could feel them clench around his dick, and then they had come. This sent him over the edge. Viktor lifted his head weakly and pressed his lips against their own, his saliva smearing all over their mouth and cheeks. He moaned into their mouth, pressing his hips forward one more time as his hand clenched their skin, surely hard enough to leave a bruise. He emptied inside of them, the muscles in his thighs twitching and convulsing, his dick soon going limp thereafter.

For a moment, Viktor caught his breath, chest heaving with laboured breaths. Tears pricked his vision when he opened his eyes, and the slobber dripped from his lips. His legs felt as if they were stuck in mud, but how did they feel? As he lifted himself, Viktor stared down at the person below him, completely covered in the afterglow. I came inside, that was an accident, he thought, but they looked so cute like that.

Much like before, Viktor felt a knot form in the middle of his throat, Adam's apple bobbing with each calculated swallow and breath.

Viktor felt breathless, but he felt as if that was to be expected. He stared down below at the barely visible person he had claimed just a few moments prior; his vision betraying him. He rests his forehead against theirs, a promise of devotion. "What can I do to make you love me?"

"Let me go," they whispered in a soft croon.

"You know I cannot afford to do that. You're mine."

[before-it-felt-like-a-sin]

hiiii can you write about precrash nat and reader. reader moves to wiskayok and moves to nats trailer park. her and nat don't really talk much because reader attracts more of a popular crowd. reader hides the fact that she lives in a trailer park from her new popular friends. reader joins the soccer team and starts to become more friendly with nat. one day after practice nat offers reader a ride home and she accepts. nat and reader become closer after that. reader develops a crush on nat but doesn't like that either because she feels like its wrong. readers friends notice that shes been hanging out with nat and getting rides with her and they dont like that so they follow nat and reader and realize that reader lives in a trailer park. so the next day they bully tf out of reader and tell everyone. reader goes to nat for comfort and thats when reader reveals her feelings for nat

lololol this is my first time requesting so i hope its good

What a Shame

Natalie Scatorccio x Fem! reader

5.9k words

Warning(s): Bullying, drug use (weed), internalized homophobia, slut shaming, blatant homophobia, bi! Nat, ambiguously queer reader

Quick note that I know almost nothing about sports in general, let alone soccer (I haven't played sports in 4 years and I haven't even touched a soccer ball since 2nd grade)

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Moving right before your senior year of high school was not your idea of a good time. Moving to a trailer park right before the start of your senior year was your nightmare.

Sure, you knew why you'd moved. Your dad had lost his job, and your mom wasn't in the picture. So, moving it was. Hopefully, your dad would find a new job, and at least here no one would know what happened. You didn't have much going for you, but you had that.

The only downside was, in fact, the trailer.

But you were determined to make the best of it. Make friends, get good grades, and not let anyone, literally anyone, find out where you lived. You just had to make it through one year. How hard could it be?

One small hitch in that plan was Natalie Scatorccio. She knew exactly where you lived. Because apparently the two of you were neighbors. Which was... not ideal.

Somehow, though, you'd made it through the entire first semester without word getting out about your housing situation. Your friends had no idea, and somehow you even managed to be somewhat popular.

"I'm thinking about joining the soccer team," you say offhandedly at lunch one day.

"I mean, it's not a bad idea. You played at your old school, right?" One of your friends asks, looking at you.

"Yeah, I was the goalie. I've heard they already have one, but I don't mind being second string." You shrug, picking at your lunch.

"Doesn't hurt to try! Plus, the team's like, really good. Not like you have anything to lose. Besides, you're probably better than the current goalie. I heard she's a total d-" Before she can finish the sentence, the bell for the end of lunch rings.

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Two days later, you're standing on the soccer field, listening to the head coach go over the rules and expectations for tryouts. Nothing you haven't heard before, so it's pretty harmless when you tune him out to scope out the players already on the team.

And- Shit, was that..?

Natalie. Your Neighbor.

Because of course it was. Honestly, she didn't seem like the type to play sports, let alone soccer. But you knew that you probably didn't look like a soccer player either, so it wasn't the most valid assumption.

Soon enough, you're being ushered into groups based on the position you're trying out for. There's only one other girl trying out for goalie, so you're fairly sure that you'll make the team. If only to play backup to the redhead that you'd seen in a couple of your classes.

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Tryouts go about as smoothly as expected, and you're even more confident about making the team by the end. The poor girl who was also trying out had clearly never played soccer in her life. You almost felt bad for her. Almost.

You weren't the best at any sort of dribbling or shooting drill, but that wasn't exactly necessary for the position of goalie. What you lacked in those skills was made up for in agility and your goalkeeping abilities.

Officially, though, you don't know if you've gotten the position for another week. Which, fine. It's not like you needed practices to start immediately or anything. You were just kind of bored. And maybe a little sick of your friends. But you could wait. It would at least give you time to prepare to interact with Natalie at practice.

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Two weeks later, you find yourself on the soccer field after school. As expected, you made the team. Also as expected, you weren't a starter. Which wasn't the worst possibility. At least you had made the team. And Van, the starting goalie, seemed really funny. She wasn't a bitch to you, either. Which was honestly unexpected. since you were her backup. Certainly seemed nicer than your friends.

Honestly, the whole team seemed nicer than your current friends. Sure, you could already tell that Jackie was going to be a lot to deal with, and Taissa was a bit intimidating. But that's better than complete assholes. Even Natalie at least seemed indifferent to you.

You're standing out on the field, talking to some other new recruits. And by talking, it was more like standing there and listening to them talk to each other. Almost everyone else had moved up from JV, while you were the only new student on the team. Everyone else knew each other, it seemed. It was kind of expected, though, and you had gotten used to being the new girl.

None of the other seniors really talked to you, each of them already having formed friend groups. You could see the factions now. Lottie, Taissa, and Van were all talking together. About what, you had no idea. Shauna and Jackie were practically attached at the hip, so there was no way you were going to be able to get in the middle of that. Natalie was nowhere to be seen, which didn't exactly surprise you. Which left Laura Lee, a sweet, devout Christian girl. You could work with that.

Before you could approach Laura Lee, though, Lottie walks up to you.

"Hi, you're the new girl, right? I'm Lottie, the starting center back." she's smiling, which is a good sign. It's a bit odd that she's talking to you, though, considering her reputation as the richest girl in school.

"Oh, hi. I'm y/n. Second string goalie." You smile back at her, trying to appear more confident than you're feeling. Despite being somewhat popular, you weren't really a fan of trying to navigate talking to new people, which is why you stuck with your friends despite you not always getting along with them.

"No offense, but I kind of already know who you are. Not everyone transfers schools their senior year." Lottie seems almost smug, but it's more confidence than anything. She knows how to charm people, that's for sure.

It feels like she knows exactly why you moved to Wiskayok, which is odd. No one knows why you moved except for you and your dad. And you certainly didn't tell her.

Despite the weird aura coming from her, Lottie actually seems really nice. As much as you want to trust her immediately, you know its probably best to keep your guard up, at least for the time being. Maybe if you get closer, you can explain your living situation.

Suddenly, you wonder if the Yellowjackets soccer team knows that Nat lives in the trailer park. It's a decently small town, and you assume that most of these girls have lived in Wiskayok for their entire lives. How did they take it when Nat revealed where she lived, if she did? Do they care? Has everyone just always known?

Lottie's looking at you kind of weird, and you realize you must have zoned out for longer than you thought. Before you can say anything, though, Coach Martinez has everyone pair up for drills. Lottie grabs your arm before you even have a second to think about who you'll pair with.

"You're with me, new girl. Van and Tai always pair up and leave me to partner with Nat, but not today. You're stuck with me." She's smiling, which puts you at ease. She's not as intimidating as she seems from afar.

She starts passing you the ball, and you silently wonder if maybe you're not supposed to be doing this drill, since you're a goalie. But Van's passing with Taissa, so you don't say anything. Besides, it's not like you're the coach.

You spend the rest of the drills paired with Lottie, until you have to be separated for your respective positions. It's weird, only having Van there with you. She's really talkative, though, which is a good distraction from your general nerves surrounding practice

"You've played before, right?" She's talking to you now, as you're shuffling back and forth for agility training.

"Yeah, all through high school," you reply, trying to focus on your footwork.

"How's it feel being second string your senior year?" She's clearly not being mean or insensitive. She honestly sounds a bit teasing, and you can appreciate that.

"Better than nothing." She laughs at that, and you feel like you won something. All of these girls seemed so nice. Maybe you'd be able to start ditching your friends.

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An hour and a half later, you're starting on your walk home. Silently, you're cursing yourself for showering in the locker room. You had hoped your dad would be able to pick you up, but he was working late. Which you appreciated, of course. But it was a little annoying.

Suddenly a shitty, old Toyota pulls up next to you. One that you recognize from the parking lot at school and the trailer down the street. Natalie.

"Need a ride?" She's looking at you through the open window, looking simultaneously bored and smug. Part of you wants to refuse, tell her to fuck off and leave you alone. But she doesn't seem to be pitying you, just genuinely asking if you want a ride home.

So, instead of ignoring her and walking to your trailer, you get in the damn car. Its not like she doesn't already know where you live.

Natalie doesn't say anything as she puts the car back into gear and starts driving. You're grateful for that, not exactly wanting to make small talk with her. She wasn't exactly the type that you'd normally hang around. Too rough around the edges, has too much of a reputation. Your friends wouldn't approve.

Nirvana is playing over the car's shitty speakers, and it's so typical of Natalie. You barely know the girl, yet you couldn't have guessed her music choices with more accuracy.

She's pulling up next to your trailer, and she looks over at you as you get out of the car.

"From now on, I'll drive you home." Natalie leaves no room for arguing, and you're not sure that you want to. Sure, she's not exactly someone you'd choose to spend a lot of time with. But she's not terrible, and driving home with Natalie definitely beats walking home by yourself.

You just give her a nod in response, not exactly sure how to react to a statement like that. And she wasn't exactly giving you an opportunity to say no.

Nat drives off, down the street to her own trailer, and you walk into yours.

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A month of soccer practice and rides home with Nat after, and the two of you are actually starting to become friends. The first two weeks, neither of you spoke, opting to just listen to whatever was on the radio. That is, until you finally got bored and started talking to her around the third week. Nothing crazy, just stuff about the team.

At this point, though, you've started talking about yourselves. What you like to do, how you feel about certain people. Nat's funny, and sarcastic, and honestly just someone you really like being around.

"Jackie's been driving me crazy this week. I get that our first game is on Saturday, but come on. It's not like I'm slacking off on purpose." She doesn't seem genuinely pissed off, just a bit annoyed. You have noticed that Jackie puts more pressure on Nat than almost anyone else on the team.

"Did you do something to piss her off?" you ask, looking at Nat as she drives.

"I mean, I showed up to homeroom high on Tuesday. But that doesn't mean I'm slacking at practice."

"I mean, I guess I can see why that would piss her off. It is kind of unwarranted, though. You've been practicing just as hard as everyone else."

She nods at that, and you fall into another comfortable silence for a few little while.

"Speaking of being high..." Natalie trails off, and you get a little giddy, although you don't show it. You'd been hoping that she would want to hang out outside of your car rides.

When you give her a little nod, she grins, looking triumphant. Clearly, she wanted to be around you just as much as you wanted to be around her.

Instead of dropping you off at your trailer like usual, she brings you to hers.

"My mom's probably asleep or staring at the TV, so we won't have to worry about her." Natalie gets out of the car, gesturing for you to join her. She doesn't say anything about her dad, and you know why, even if no she hasn't told you. It was hard to avoid the rumors, how people would look at her sometimes.

Honestly, it didn't matter to you if the rumors were true or not. Natalie wasn't the sort of person to resort to violence without good reason. And from what you heard, she would've had a very good reason.

You climb out of the car and follow her through the trailer, into her bedroom. It's so Nat, with posters all over the walls, stacks of CD's on her desk and on the floor. A beat-up acoustic guitar sits in the corner, and you make a mental note of it. Clothes are in piles all over the floor, but you honestly couldn't care less about the state of her room. It felt good, to be somewhere lived in. To be around someone that understood your living situation

Natalie sits down on the edge of her bed, smiling at you. The gesture was enough to make you feel a bit more comfortable, and you found yourself sitting down next to her.

"Have you smoked before?" She pulls out an old Altoids container, opening it up to pull out one of the pre-rolled joints inside.

You shake your head no, pulling your legs up on the bed so you can sit more comfortably.

"No. Well, once I took a hit from some guy at a party, but it was shit and I couldn't stop choking."

Nat laughs at that, lighting up the blunt as the two of you talk.

"That's probably because you just took a hit and had no idea what you were doing. Watch what I do." She makes sure that you're looking at her before inhaling the smoke from the blunt, holding it in for a few seconds before exhaling. "You're gonna want to cough your first couple of hits. That's normal."

She held the joint out to you, and when you took it, your fingers brushed together. The contact you feel weird, but you chalked it up to the nerves of smoking weed for the first time. This kind of thing wasn't normally something that you'd do.

Tentatively, you brought the blunt to your lips and took a hit. The smoke burned your throat as you inhaled, but you managed to keep from coughing. Nat grins as she notices you holding back a cough, and she holds her hand out for the joint.

You pass it back to her, this time trying to keep your hands from touching. Natalie takes another hit, longer this time, and part of you wants to just stare at her.

As soon as that thought crosses your mind, you immediately snap out of it. You don't want to stare at her, she's your friend. People don't stare at their friends. Get a grip.

Nat holds on to the joint for a little longer this time, taking a couple more hits before she offers it back to you. This time, you get a bit bolder, taking a deeper pull. It takes you a little more effort to keep from coughing, but you manage it.

The two of you stay like that a while, passing the joint back and forth between each other, just enjoying the fuzzy feeling of being high, and enjoying each other's company. At some point, Nat puts a record on, something grungy that you recognize, but don't remember the name of.

You're lying flat on your back in the middle of the floor, and Nat looks down at you, clearly holding back a laugh.

"You doin' okay?" She lightly kicks your shoulder, trying to get you to have some sort of reaction. You nod in response, completely zoned out. The floor just feels so nice.

She looks good, you think. Something about the way she was a bit messy was so beautiful for her. You chalk these thoughts up to the weed, to never really being friends with someone that looks like Nat.

"Can you talk?" Nat's full-on laughing now, obviously finding your position hilarious.

"Do you want me to?"

"Just seeing if you could."

You're not egregiously high or anything, a nice buzz, really. Part of you knows that you should probably go home soon, make sure your dad isn't wondering where you are.

There's just something comforting about Nat's bedroom, about being around someone in the same situation as you. There's no judgement, no fear.

You do end up leaving, eventually. Once your eyes are no longer red and the smell of weed has mostly dissipated. Nat walks you to your trailer, claiming that she's better at defending herself. You don't have it in you to argue. Plus, it's nice that she still wants to spend time with you.

She walks you up to the door, and the two of you stand there awkwardly for a moment, waiting for the other to say something.

"See you tomorrow?" Nat almost looks nervous, like you're going to say no for some reason.

"Yeah, see you tomorrow." With that, you smile and walk inside.

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It had been a few weeks since you first smoked with Natalie, and it had become a routine for the two of you. Go to practice, drive to Nat's trailer, and light up.

You should've known your friends would notice at some point.

"How's soccer, y/n?" one of your friends stares pointedly at you, like she knows something. Something you don't even know.

"Oh, it's going really well! The girls on the team are all so nice, and we all play really well together." You stay as natural as possible, trying to gauge what's happening.

"That's sweet," she remarks, in a tone you know means she thinks it's anything but sweet.

"You've been hanging out with the slut a lot recently," another girl chimes in, "Is there something that you wanted to tell us?"

You nearly choke on your water when she says that, and you're sure that you must have misheard her.

"Who?" It takes a moment to compose yourself, looking over at your friend.

"You know who I'm talking about. The burnout? The slut?" When you still look confused, she rolls her eyes, h8uffing at your obliviousness. "Natalie Scatorccio? Pretty sure she's fucked half the school. And it isn't entirely the male half."

Now it's your turn to roll your eyes, but you don't say anything to defend Nat. You know that you should, that she's your friend. But fighting with these girls could cause them to turn on you. And you were hiding too many things for that to happen.

For some reason, your friends don't push further. Why, you're not sure. But you sure aren't going to push it.

Everyone goes back to talking about other things, boyfriends, movies, music. You aren't interested, though. You're too busy thinking about what your friend said. About Nat not just sleeping with guys. Was she gay? She hadn't said anything to you.

Did that mean you had a chance?

Wait. You didn't want a chance with her. You weren't into girls. That was weird. It didn't matter that you felt at home with her, or liked the way she'd laugh at your shitty jokes, or talk about her favorite musicians for hours. You weren't into girls. You weren't into Nat.

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Practice was weird. You kept fucking up, which wasn't at all normal for you. Coach Scott even started yelling at you, which was a blow.

It got so bad that Coach Martinez kept you after practice to run laps, and you expected that Nat would have left by the time you finished. Instead, you found her waiting by her car, looking concerned.

"Hey, are you okay? You seemed really out of it today," she asks, clearly worried about you.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. My friends just said some shit at lunch today, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it."

"What did they say?" And she looks so upset that you want to tell her, but you just can't. You don't want her to confirm that she's gay, but for some reason, you don't want her to tell you she isn't, either.

"Just being assholes. Honestly, I don't know why I'm friends with them. I don't like them very much. Or at all."

Natalie laughs at that, and you feel a little bit better.

"You could, I don't know, not be friends with them anymore?"

"I mean, I could. But you're my only friend besides them. Plus, if I piss 'em off too bad, they'll make my life hell. Not taking that chance."

Nat nods, seemingly understanding.

"Would just hanging out with me all the time really be that bad?" She's obviously joking, but you can't help but imagine, just being around Natalie all the time. Smoking, listening to music, making out-

Wait, what?

There's no way, right? No way that you want to kiss a girl, let alone Nat. Let alone make out with her. You're straight. Always had been, always will be. You were normal. You liked boys. Not girls. Didn't matter how pretty Natalie was. Kissing her was weird. And wrong.

You laugh, trying to shake that image from your head. One person says that Nat may be gay, and all of a sudden you're losing your mind. You aren't gay.

"No, It wouldn't be that bad. Could be kinda fun."

Your mood has lifted significantly from just being in the car with Nat, and you think about what could happen if you just... ditched your friends.

Today is one of the rare days where your dad is home in time for dinner, so Nat drops you off at your own trailer today.

"If they're dicks again, tell me. I'll kick their asses." She's grinning at you, and you stare at her for a moment before it hits you.

You're in love with her. Absolutely whipped. And there's absolutely nothing you can do to stop it.

Instead of a response, you give a tight-lipped smile before basically sprinting into your trailer.

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Going to school the next day might be the most difficult thing that you've ever done. Even more difficult than pretending everything was normal over dinner with your dad the night before.

At least today, your dad could take you to school, and you didn't have to face Nat. And you didn't have practice that afternoon, so you really didn't have to see her much. Which was ideal. You didn't know how you'd be able to deal with being around her. Especially being alone with her.

Your morning is uneventful, and for once, your friends are actually a good distraction. Talking about new movies, new music, being generally entertaining instead of annoying.

Unfortunately, Nat is still driving you home. And there's nothing you can do to avoid it, unless you want to walk. Which you definitely don't.

You're quiet the whole ride, and you know Natalie can tell that something's off. The good thing about Nat, though, is that she wouldn't push. She had her own secrets, and she didn't expect you to share yours.

"D'you want to smoke?" You want to say yes so badly, to just spend as much time with her as possible. Yet there's this fear that the weed will make you spill your secret, and you just can't do that.

You weren't supposed to like her. You weren't supposed to want her. And there was no way in hell she was ever going to know that you did. Never.

"Can't. I have to study." It's a bad lie, and you know it. Nat does, too. But she doesn't call you on it, even though you can tell that she wants to.

"Yeah, alright. See you, then." By now, you've pulled up to your trailer, and you thank her before getting out of the car. It almost hurt to leave her. There was just no conceivable way that you'd be able to act normal around her, especially if you were high.

As soon as you're in your room, you just lose it. You don't get how one girl can have you undone so quickly, but somehow Nat did it. And you hated it. You weren't supposed to want her like that. It was wrong.

Pulling your blanket up to your shoulders, you just cry. You have no idea how to deal with this, how to make yourself normal again. What would people think? What would your friends think? What would your dad think?

What would Nat think? Would she think you were weird for liking girls? Would she judge you? Would she be grossed out that you were into her, of all people?

Of course, there was the high possibility that she was queer. Sure, she hadn't said anything explicit, but there was a vibe about her. Not to mention all the rumors.

Despite the comfort of Natalie potentially being gay, you couldn't keep from crying. You knew mascara was staining your pillow, but you couldn't quite care.

The rest of the night was spent crying, until you eventually cry yourself to sleep.

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Two weeks.

Two weeks of pretending that you weren't in love with Nat, two weeks of pretending you weren't gay, two weeks of struggling by yourself.

You couldn't tell anyone, and it was absolutely killing you.

Sure, you thought about telling Van. You noticed the way that she looked at Taissa. But telling someone made it real. Telling someone solidified the abnormality of you.

So, you kept it to yourself. Sure, it was torture. But at least it was safe.

Nat was still driving you too and from school, and you had gotten the courage to smoke with her again. Things were almost normal, despite you knowing that they weren't.

Today was different, though. And you could feel it.

The weird part was that the difference wasn't with Nat. The ride to school was the same as always. Both of you quiet, still waking up.

No, the weird part was your friends. As soon as you got to school, you could tell that something was off with them. Everyone was giving you weird looks, and they were all barely talking to you. It scared you, the thought of them finding out your secret.

Turns out that they did figure your secret out. Just not the one that you thought.

"Surprised you can afford food," one girl says as you sit down at your usual lunch table.

"What?" You're confused. Why would they think that you can't afford to eat?

"You know, it's just that usually people with your... financial status... get free lunch. That doesn't look like free lunch." She smiles, a sickly sweet sort of look that makes your stomach drop.

You're silent, not exactly knowing what to say in this situation.

"Oh, don't be embarrassed! It's not your fault that you're trailer trash," another girl chimes in, that same fake kind look on her face.

It takes so much strength to keep from completely breaking down, knowing that if you did, they'd just get worse.

"Is that why you never want to go shopping with us?" A different voice is added to the mix, and you hate that they have this kind of power over you.

They keep berating you, insulting your trailer, your clothes, your lack of a car. Even your looks get commented on, and you hate it more than anything.

How they even found out where you lived was a mystery to you. You were so careful, and Nat would never tell them. She knew how badly you wanted to keep your living situation under wraps.

Eventually, lunch does end, but you don't go to class. There's absolutely no way that you could face anyone. Not your now ex-friends, and absolutely not Natalie.

Instead, you hide in the bathroom, spending the remaining two class periods locked in a stall. You know that you'll have to see Nat when she drives you home, but being alone for an hour and a half will hopefully give you enough time to calm down before you have to see her.

You cry. Of course you cry. Your life is falling down around you, and you're sitting in a bathroom stall. There's nothing to do but cry. You cry over your friends being horrible, you cry about the trailer you're living in, you cry about leaving your old friends behind to move. Mostly, though, you cry about being in love with a girl.

It's midway through last period when you pull yourself together, and by the time your face is back to its normal color, you've got ten minutes to get looking like yourself.

It doesn't take long to fix your makeup, and by the time the final bell rings, you look normal. Nat won't be able to tell that you were crying in the bathroom for half the day.

When you walk out to her car, Nat's waiting for you. As soon as she sees you coming, it's like she knows that something's wrong. She doesn't say anything, but she changes the music to something that she knows you like, which is her equivalent to giving you a hug.

While you appreciate the gesture, it just makes you lose it all over again. You're in the passenger seat of Nat's car, sobbing for the second time today.

"Shit, are you okay? What's wrong?" She glances over at you, still driving. "Do you need me to pull over?"

You shake your head in response, urging her to keep driving. It's impossible for you to get words out through your tears, and Nat doesn't try to get you to talk anymore. Instead, she drives you to your trailer and walks you inside.

Natalie leads you to to your bedroom, sitting you on your bed. For the first time in your friendship, she wraps her arms around you and gives you a real hug.

The contact doesn't keep you from crying, in fact it almost makes it worse. But you feel safe in her arms, like the words from your former friends can't touch you here. You have the vague thought that your mascara is staining Natalie's shirt, but she doesn't seem to care.

Both of you stay like that until you stop crying, Nat holding onto you like you're the only thing in the world that matters. Its uncharacteristically soft for her, and it feels special. Like you're someone she trusts with softness.

When you're finally calm enough, you pull away from her and start to explain what happened. Her arm stays around your waist, and you don't attempt to move it.

"My- my friends, they, uh, they found out... where I live." You're stuttering and tripping over what you're saying, and luckily Nat gets it from just those words.

"And they were asses about it?" she asks, and you nod. Her grip on your waist tightens, and she looks pissed.

"You don't deserve that shit. It's not like you can control where you live. Not to mention you're twice the person any of those girls will ever be." Nat somehow pulls you closer, and you feel such a strange mix of emotions.

"That- isn't everything." Maybe it's the contact, maybe it's how sweet she's being right now. Maybe you're just sick of hiding.

"What else?"

"I think I'm gay." The words come out in a rush, and you're not sure Natalie even understood what you were saying. That is, until she responds.

"Why do you think that?" Her response isn't at all judgmental, and you feel a little better saying your next words.

"I like a girl."

Natalie laughs, and for a moment, you internally freak out. Is this where the judgment comes in?

"Yeah, I guess that'll do it."

You can't help but laugh at her answer, and everything feels so much better. As much as you're grateful that she's not asking who the girl is, you almost want to tell her that it's her. Almost.

"I thought you might hate me."

"For being gay? You know I'm bi, right? Bisexual?"

The confirmation doesn't exactly shock you, but it's still a bit of a surprise. How easily she says it.

"I didn't. Know that."

"Surprise, I guess. I'm queer too."

"Did you... feel weird about it? Like when you first... figured it out, I guess."

She nods, and you feel a sense of relief. That you weren't the only one who found your own queerness a bit jarring.

Natalie doesn't try to reassure you that you're normal, that there's nothing wrong with you. She knows it's not going to make anything better immediately.

You sit in comfortable silence for a while, just decompressing from the insanity of your day. That is, until you speak up.

"I can't believe I told you that." The panic had started to set in at this point, and you regretted saying anything to Nat.

"It's not like I'm going to tell anyone, dude."

"Yeah." That makes you feel a bit better, although you're still freaking out a bit. You look up at her, giving a small smile, and there's a look on her face that you can't exactly put your finger on.

For some reason, neither of you seem to be able to look away from the other. It's almost as if you're in a trance, or like someone put a spell on you.

Suddenly, the two of you were kissing. It happened so quickly that neither of you could say who initiated the kiss, but neither of you pulled a way.

Nat's lips were chapped, and a bit rough against your own. Despite that, the kiss was soft. Something you didn't exactly expect from Natalie. One of her hands is still on your hip, and the other moves to run through your hair. Your own hands cup her cheeks, feeling her soft, pale skin under your fingers.

Every thought of how wrong loving Natalie is leaves your head. It's like she's kissing away all of your fears, and you're so grateful to her.

Eventually, you break apart so you can take a breath, and Natalie looks so beautiful. Somehow even better than she normally does.

"So, the girl you like..?" Natalie's smirking, and she clearly knows that you were talking about her.

In lieu of a response, you roll your eyes and flip her off. She laughs, clearly enjoying fucking with you. You aren't annoyed, not really. You're too giddy for that.

Nat pulls you down onto your bed so that you're lying down next to each other, and you feel so content in that moment.

"You know those girls are the worst, right?" You can tell that Nat is both trying to make you laugh and being completely genuine.

"Yeah."

"Good. You deserve to be treated better than that."

You nod and press a quick kiss to her lips, as if to say "thank you." She grins, pulling you into her side.

"Feeling like smoking now?"

[postracehair]

say again

george russell x reader | 3.9k

three times george curses. or, a beginning, a middle, and a future.

cw: george cursing. a few scrapes and a little bit of blood, some kissing, and a love confession to boot.

a/n: this kind of ran away from me, especially in the middle but every time george russell says fuck an angel gets its wings. written ages ago but posting in honor of Las Vegas.

---

YOU'VE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME

The door buzzes and you let yourself into the building.

You've only been here a few times, but a match day spent with your coworker and some of her friends is better than sitting on your couch alone, right? Wine and cookies in hand, you trudge up two flights of stairs to her flat. By the time you reach the landing, you can already hear the chatter and the TV.

No one seems to hear your knock so you push the door open and gingerly step in. The kitchen is on the other side of the flat, and you assume everyone is somewhere between there and the television.

But when you pass the living room where the TV actually is, there's just one guy on the couch. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees watching a penalty get called.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," he says to no one.

You snicker. He whirls around. "Hello," you say.

"Sorry," he says, standing immedietly. Wow, he's tall. "Sorry, hello."

Oh, and he's familiar. You know him, kind of. He's -- god, he races cars, right? Shit, what is his name? Your coworker has social connections you barely understand so it's not really a surprise to find someone who is probably famous in her flat.

"It is just you, then?" you ask. He laughs and runs a hand through his hair. Dressed in jeans and a team jumper, his casual outfit is at odds with the severe cut of his jaw, his cheekbones. He just looks expensive.

"No," he says. "No, everyone is putting plates together. I'm afraid I might be the one most interested in watching the match."

"Not going well?" you say lightly.

He rounds the sofa, hand out. "Could be better," he says. "I'm George."

You readjust the items in your hands to shake his and tell him your name. He repeats it, and you smile.

"Let me go put these down," you say, "and then, um. Do you want some company, George?"

Honestly, you're not sure where that came from. But, though you came here to escape the smothering loneliness of your own flat, something about him makes you want to stay here rather than go into the kitchen with everyone else.

"'Course I do," he says. "I promise to tighten up my language. Won't do for that to be my first impression."

You wave him away though your cheeks feel a little hot and head for the kitchen.

Your coworker brightens at seeing you and takes your hostess gifts with ease.

"The match is on in the other room," she tells you, "but most of us are drinking in here."

"I saw," you say. "I met George."

She hears something in your tone that turns her expression something between amused and calculating. "You did, did you?"

You just nod, loading up a plate with the various nibbles. "How do you know him, anyway?"

She shrugs. "Oh, you know." No, you don't, but she plows on. "What did you think?"

"Taller than he seems on TV," you mutter. "But very polite. He shook my hand."

That gets her to laugh. "Oh, of course he did. Well, don't stand around in here with us. Go chat up a Formula 1 driver!"

George is back on the couch when you return, arm stretched over the back of it, brows furrowed.

"Has anything exciting happened?" you ask him, sitting down with a perfectly responsible distance between you.

He grimaces. "Nothing good. Wolverhampton, bless 'em, are quite bad."

That might explain why no one is watching this match with him, but you keep that to yourself.

"I see," you say, solemnly. "But loyalty is loyalty, I suppose, if they're your club."

"Exactly," George says. "It's suffering but it has to be done." Someone on the screen triggers a free kick and George leans in until it's over. He starts talking about one of the players being traded, or his contract being renegotiated, or something. You nibble on your plate and just watch. He's animated, this man. Fringe falling over his forehead the more he gestures, blue eyes wide and serious. It's all very endearing.

"Sorry," he says suddenly. "I'm being so rude. You don't want to hear about all of this, do you?"

You smile at him. "I don't mind. I came over for some company more than anything else."

He sinks back into the couch a little, hand running through his hair again. "Well, lucky for me that you did," he says.

Your face feels hot and you don't want to mistake this for flirting if it's not. He is a world-famous athlete, after all, but here you are on the couch next to him. "Lucky for you, indeed."

He laughs, delighted.

OH, SHIT!

This is not how you saw your life going, but maybe that's just the nature of it. Big moments happen just the same as small ones and we have to handle them regardless. The trajectory of your life shifted just a little bit when you sat down on someone else's couch to watch a football match with a stranger.

Because that stranger -- George -- is now much more than that. He asked for your number that day before he had to leave earlier than everyone else, and has been speaking to you ever since. Texts, phone calls, FaceTimes. And, when he's not driving hundreds of miles an hour halfway across the world, he likes to spend time with you.

They're dates, you know they are. But things are still casual, immensely so. Coffee, dinner, long walks through the park. It's probably past due that you ask him what he'd like out of this, but your friends tell you to just have fun for the time being. You've learned a lot about him in the last month or so, both from him directly and by doing your research.

You'd watched a few Grand Prix before meeting him but not with any kind of rapt attention. Now, obviously, you watch with purpose. See him zip around the track, read his radio messages, hope desperately that he'll be alright. He's a big mix of things, George Russell. Witty but determined, thorough but reactionary, polite but intense. You want to keep getting to know him on a personal level and measure that up to how he appears to the world.

Today, you're on one of those long walks. George is recounting the last race at your request. It's always more interesting to hear him talk about what happened than watching it, though you're really growing to love that part, too.

It's a bit chilly and he's got a scarf on in addition to a nondescript hat pulled down low over his eyes. You're used to this by now, though you wish you could see his face more fully.

"And then -- well, I'm sure you saw this bit -- he turned right into me like I wasn't even there!"

"But you avoided it," you remind him. "I saw that, too." A cold wind blows down the path and you shiver a bit.

"You alright?" he asks. "Nippy, huh?" He stops walking and turns to you, his huge hands coming to rest on your shoulders before he rubs them up and down your arms.

"A bit," you agree, a little breathless. God, you really need to talk to him about what this is. You're thinking about him all the time, which is a bit of a nuisance, as you're not sure he's feeling the same. But, a small voice in your head tells you, you can't be too far off in thinking that it might be based on the way he's looking at you right now.

Even under the cap, you can see the soft set of his brow, the way his eyes are shining. The gentle quirk up of his mouth. What would it be like to kiss him? Would he let you?

George stops his warming efforts, catching your hands in his. "Better?"

All you can do is nod. He grins, looking a bit too pleased, and starts walking again, you in tow. This is something else you've learned about him -- he really can be a cheeky bastard. He must have more than some idea as to how he affects you and enjoys it. It's somewhere between a game and a challenge.

You're thinking about ways you can get him back, ways you can flirt mercilessly. His hand is in yours and he's half a step ahead of you when suddenly your fingers are ripped from his and you find yourself on your hands and knees with a gasp.

George is immediately there with you.

"Oh, shit," he says. "Are you alright?"

"I--" You're a bit too stunned to say anything. George rarely curses, which is funny given how you met, but it unsettles you a little bit as much as it warms you. "I think I tripped?"

"Let me see your hands," he says, gently tugging at your wrists with his long fingers. He sucks on his teeth when he sees your palms. "Not too bad, but a little scratched."

You rearrange yourself so you're flat on your bum, legs in front of you. Your hands might be alright but your knees are another story. The fabric of your jeans isn't ripped but you can see the bloodstains already.

"Oh," you say. You look up at George, feeling a bit pathetic. "This is embarrassing."

He scoffs. "No, it's not," he says. "I do think we should get you cleaned up, though."

"We can go to my place," you suggest. The sting sets in a little more, but mingles with your chagrin and you just set your jaw. "Help me up?"

"Brave girl," George says. He presses his lips to the base of your wrist and stands, tugging you up as he goes. "Have you got first aid things at your flat?"

You nod, running through the contents of your bathroom in your mind. It occurs to you that George has not been to your place before, and you did not mentally prepare yourself to bring him there today.

George gently says your name. "Let's get a cab, shall we?"

It takes no time at all to flag one down. George removes his hat in what you can clearly see as an effort to get the cabbie to hurry along a bit, but it seems to work. He takes one look at you, one more at George, and steps on it.

"Let me get your belt," George mutters, making quick work of the buckle.

"I don't think I've ever worn a seatbelt in a cab in my life, George," you reply. He just pats your thigh.

"Think we've had enough injuries for one day, don't you?"

George and the cabbie chat about the race season, about how hot it really is in Singapore, about one of George's recent podiums. He keeps you tucked into his side the whole time -- he's ignored his own seatbelt, you notice -- hand on your thigh. You keep your palms turned up on your knees and wonder how on earth you got here.

The city flies by and you lean your head on his shoulder. You can feel something shifting between you, something clicking into place that wasn't entirely settled before. It's scary, it's exciting, it's big. It's something you're going to have to talk about.

George pays the driver in some large bills and helps you out of the cab and up the steps of your building.

"Where are your keys?" he asks.

"Front right pocket of my jeans."

"Pardon my reach," he jokes, and lightly rests on palm on your hip and slides the other into your pocket to find them. He tugs the keyring out and winks at you before unlocking the door. Up the stairs, into the flat. Shoes toed off, coats on the hook after George helps you out of yours.

"I'm not an invalid, you know," you tell him. He clicks his tongue.

"We don't want blood on this nice coat of yours, do we?"

You roll your eyes. George glances around your flat and smiles. "This is very you."

Dishes on the counter, the pillows a mess on the couch, your books and trinkets on every flat surface -- you suppose he's right.

"Thank you?" you say. He taps your chin with his knuckle.

"It feels like a home, I mean." Your cheeks feel warm and your heart sighs. God, the things he says.

"Oh," you breathe. "That's kind."

"And does this home have a first aid kit?" The reminder brings the dull sting of your scraped skin back to the forefront of your mind.

"Bathroom cabinet," you tell him. George nods.

"I'll get that. Why don't you change into something loose so I can get to your knees?"

In your room, you tug carefully tug on some sweatpants, mindful of your palms, and let yourself marvel at how today has gone. You expected to have George here someday, but certainly not like this. Will he want to see your bedroom? You shove some dirty laundry into the hamper and thank past you for making the bed this morning.

"I think you should sit on the counter," George calls. "Whenever you're ready."

You pad out to meet him in socked feet. It's quite the sight, him in your kitchen. He's bent over your sink, washing his hands. His sweater has been tossed over a chair and you can see the lines of his back under his t-shirt.

"Do you need help getting up?" he asks. You nod. Together, you get yourself on the counter, making you about eye level.

"Hello," you say. His hat is gone, too, so his fringe falls across his forehead in slightly curled strands. When you've cleaned yourself up, maybe you'll work up the courage to run your hand through them.

"Hello yourself. Right hand, please." You hold out your palm and George gets to work. He cleans it, getting all the bits from your skin, and then uses an alcohol wipe.

"Do you have a special interest in first aid, or something?" you ask to distract yourself from the sting. His thumb strokes your pulse point as he works.

"I guess you get beat up a bit in karting when you're young," he says. He wraps one palm in gauze and moves onto the other. "I suppose i just like knowing how to take care of people."

"God," you groan. "Is there anything wrong with you?"

He looks at you then, hair falling into his blue, blue eyes. "Oh," he smirks. "Plenty, darling." He finishes up on your other palm and holds it in his for a moment longer than you expect. Then he slowly brings your hand to his mouth and kisses the bandage.

You might gasp, You're not entirely sure, eyes glued to his lips like nothing else exists. Then he kisses the other palm. Your gaze flicks up and George is looking right at you.

"Knees," he says, voice a little hoarse. "Alright?"

"Alright," you breathe. You stick one leg out just to see what he'll do. You're learning that he rises to the occasion, and that's exactly what happens. He cups your ankle, places your foot on his thigh, and slides your sweatpants up above your joint.

"That's gnarly," he says, breaking the tension. You laugh and tap his leg with your other foot. "You ready?"

"I'm ready."

He makes quick work on it. One hand on your calf, the other gently cleaning and bandaging. The silence is comfortable, familiar, though you've not been in this situation before. It's not until George is almost done with your other knee that he speaks.

"You know," He says, lightly. "If you wanted me to touch you, all you had to do was ask. The tripping wasn't entirely necessary."

"George!" you gasp. He squeezes your calf.

"I'm just saying, darling."

He ties off the gauze and rolls down your pant leg. You widen your knees and he steps between them immediately, hands resting gently on your thighs. It's absolutely electric -- going from shy, appropriate touches to being in your flat together, his hands all over you. How are you going to go back?

Maybe you can't.

George's eyes rake over your face. You inhale his exhales, feeling them on your lips. His pupils dilate.

"What is this, George?" you whisper. His fingers press into your thighs a little harder.

"Well," he says, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "What would you like it to be?"

"I don't know," you say, honestly. He is not dissuaded, does not back away. He must know that this is hard for you -- his life is so different from yours. As it is, you avoid social media so you don't see pictures of you splashed across gossip accounts. It's impossible to totally stay away from it but you try, because you really like being with him.

"Shall I tell you what it is for me?" George says.

You nod.

He cups your face in his hands, thumbs stroking the delicate skin under your eyes.

"Every second I am not with you I am thinking about when I'll see you next," he says. "I store up things to tell you and take photos to show you and I have a bag full of things I've bought you but been too afraid to give you. Beautiful things, things that remind me of you."

"George--"

"I worry about fucking up your life," he continues, and you fall silent. "This is a lot. I am a lot. My life is not simple, and you've already seen that. But I want you in it. I want you in it however you want to be there, though I have my suggestions. I promise that if you let me, I'll treat you so well, because you deserve everything, and --"

Your heart is going to explode if he goes on any longer, so you close the gap between you and kiss him. Finally.

It's just the press of your lips against his for a few seconds, your eyes fluttering shut, before George catches up to what's happening and angles your faces a little bit to make it deeper. Your bandaged hands rest on his elbows and you swallow a sound from deep in his throat, something that lights a fire in your belly.

"Blimey," George says, leaning your foreheads together.

"What, no curse for me?"

His eyes sparkle and he wrinkles his nose at you. "Fuck," he says. "I've been thinking about that for weeks."

You press your lips to the corner of his mouth. "That's more like it."

BLOODY HELL

What the fuck was that? Is he serious? Keep focused, George. This is fucking ridiculous. Head down.

It's a bad day. Not as bad as it could be -- George does not end up in the wall. But he ends up way further down the pack than he should, barely scraping together a few points. It's the car and everyone knows it. The bouncing, the drag, the understeer. A showing far too poor for this late in the season.

And George is pissed. It's not often that you see him this way -- he's fairly levelheaded, even when things get tough. Something about him causes conflict to lull, things to fall into place, but even that can't fix the silver arrow.

You slip out of the garage during the last lap to sit in his driver's room and wait.

This isn't your first race. Far from it, by now. Things got official halfway through the season after that day in your flat, and you've been coming to as many as you can. It's a rush, really, to see him work. Scarier than anything, but when it's good? It's amazing. You love the energy of the garage and everyone seems to have taken to you, too.

So much so that they know to send George right to his room before the media pen so you can calm him down.

You sit on the bench and wait.

He comes in, closing the door firmly but never slamming it, and sighs. All the tension melts from his body and he looks defeated. Sweaty, annoyed, and defeated.

"Hello," you say, lightly.

He smiles wryly. "Shit day, huh?"

You love how George looks after a race. Hair a mess from his helmet, skin beaded with sweat. He unzips his race suit and lets it hang at his hips and you can see the outline of his muscles through his fireproofs. It's genuinely swoonworthy, even with his visibly bad mood.

"Are you alright?" you ask. He shrugs, rolls his shoulders, and winces.

"Bloody hell," he curses. "My back is killing me."

"What can I do?"

"Nothing," he says automatically. "You're perfect just as you are."

It's a reflex he has -- not to ask for things. You're still working it out, poking and prodding to find the cracks. Maybe, with time, he'll loosen this grip he has on his desire to make your life as comfortable and wonderful as possible without thinking of himself. There are moments when it's best to just let him fuss, but right now you think you can push back a little.

"George," you sigh. "Come on."

He hides his face behind a sweat towel for a breath, then tosses it aside. "Alright," he says. "Just sit with me for a bit."

You scoot over on the bench and he flops next to you, head back against the wall and eyes closed. His hand fumbles around for yours, pinching your thigh when he overshoots, which makes you laugh. He cracks a smile and opens one eye just enough to see your grin before settling back into his rest.

He breathes deeply, fingers entwined with yours. The line of his jaw is pronounced in the awful lighting of the room and the shadows under his eyes look worse than usual. A few more races and then he can rest. What will you do in the off season? Maybe a vacation. Hopefully a vacation. You imagine George in swim trunks on a beach somewhere, dozing in the sand. Rubbing sun tan lotion on his back and his shoulders and his nose, reading books for hours until he convinces you to run into the water. Lazy days on a balcony or in a bed with all the windows open, never being far from each other --

Someone knocks on the door.

"Christ," George mutters. "Let's ignore it."

"You need to go to the pen, darling," you whisper back. He squeezes your hand and presses your legs together.

"Just a few more minutes," he says. "Eventually they'll just come in."

"If you say so."

You press a kiss to his tacky cheek and lean your head on his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.

George takes a deep breath. "I love you," he says.

The words stretch into the silence that comes after, the moments it takes for you to process it. They fill the small room, sneak their way into your bloodstream, your lungs, all the way to your heart.

Part of you is waiting for the follow-up. I know it's too early, I know it's a lot, You don't have you say it back. But George doesn't deal in excuses. He feels it, so he says it.

You lift your head to look at him and find him already staring at you. Not expectant, just looking to look.

"I love you, George," you say.

He grins bigger than you've ever seen, bigger than after your first kiss, than the days when he's on the podium.

Someone knocks on the door again.

"Oh, piss off," he mutters and leans in to kiss you.

[melverie]

Last post on the entire date ticket thing and then I will forever shut up about it, but I feel like most people arguing in favor of the price tag are just….missing the point on why people are so angry about the date ticket being $30

I think the one thing we can all agree on right from the get go is that everyone in the staff deserve to and should be compensated fairly for their work. And that obviously includes certain features and items having to cost actual money considering the game itself is free

But the thing is, that $30 price tag don't just exist in a vacuum

First off, we can all agree that charging something like $3 would have made the ticket sell far better, right? Several people have already pointed out that they can buy a week's worth of groceries with $30 and depending on how much you earn, the date ticket isn't exactly something anyone can just buy on a whim. Again, $3 would have been far more affordable for most people, and I'm sure many more people (myself included) would have been far more willing to spend $3 just to see what the date ticket is like, and maybe also buy the tickets of multiple other characters. But $30 for a single date ticket is a luxury a lot of people just cannot afford, or would rather put into something else. Even if they lowered the price, they'd surely break even and make profit with how many players there are

And judging by its contents, I think it's fair to say that the date itself is not worth $30. And I feel like Solmare themselves know this because why else would they have bundled it with 300 DP? The only reason is to justify this price tag because "look at how much DP we're getting with it tho!!" when that's not the point. It doesn't matter whether the DP are included, because there is a lack of choice here. We have other options to earn and buy DP, but we don't have a choice when it comes to the date ticket itself. Either you pay $30, or you miss out on a feature that many of us have wanted for a while now. And since it's the DP raising the price tag,what you are essentially paying for is 300 DP with a date ticket as your purchase bonus, even though it should be the other way round

And honestly? Considering the price, the only two times it would make sense to buy this bundle is if you were already considering buying DP anyway, or if you are financially well enough off that the current price doesn't matter to you. You won't convince most casual spenders, and you most definitely will not convince a f2p player to pay for this feature

The other thing is that we had no idea what the date ticket actually entailed because we weren't given any information on it. Thanks to people in the community buying and reviewing this feature for others we now know that the date consists of one phone call, a ~10 minute long, partially voiced date story-line and a Majolish background. Except, those are things that Solmare themselves should have told us right as they announced this feature, ESPECIALLY considering the price point. If you don't, you can't complain if people are accusing your company of trying to rip its player base off and of being greedier than the Avatar of Greed himself. But also, that's the thing!

We shouldn't have people in the fandom be the ones to go out of their way to give us basic info on new features, or to even explain certain business decisions in the first place. That's the company's job. Yes, certain explanations should be a given (such as microtransactions existing so that the staff can be paid the money they obviously deserve), but there are other things that should have been explained by Solmare themselves

Open communication with the player base is the key phrase here, and imo Solmare has been doing worse and worse on that front as of late, resulting in several unexplained choices that just seem questionable at best and scummy at worst, as well as a player base that grows more and more disgruntled by the day. And that frustration within the player base shows in the amount of people dropping the game, as well as in the amount of money it's making

People are willing to put their time and money into something they deem a good, quality product with a justified price considering the content. If your player base isn't putting in the money you are expecting, then maybe you should listen to their feedback and re-examine your product instead of overcharging a feature because "look at this thing you're getting extra that no one asked to be included in the bundle in the first place"

Literally part of the reason LaDS has grown to be so successful in such a short amount of time is because they keep making adjustments based on player feedback, even on some minor things. I mean they literally pushed out an update to correct the color of one of the character's tongue in the newest card because people were complaining, like hello!! Imagine Solmare listening to complains as minor as this

Anyway, whether intentional or not, this entire thing just feels scummy, and that's the problem. The choice we have is either "pay 30 bucks per character or miss out on this feature entirely", the price is artificially inflated with the inclusion of DP that we have other ways of getting, romance is slowly fazed out of the story only to now be put behind a heft paywall, we weren't told what we are even paying for exactly in the first place, and there has been a severe lack of proper communication from Solmare that have soured the relationship to the game's fanbase and, most importantly in this context, their customers

No, companies aren't our friends. Yes, they need to make money. Yes, they should pay their employees fairly. And no, we as consumers shouldn't expect nor are we entitled to everything about the game being free because again, the people working on this game deserve to get paid fairly for all the work they put into it

However, people are still allowed to be critical of a company and its decisions, especially when they feel like they are getting ripped off. The 300 DP might soften the blow, but that doesn't stop everything that has happened before from being a slap in the face. That's why people are pissed right now, and honestly it's been a long time coming

[cecoeur]

you're so real for that post about liam though, bc as soon as i was done jumping around my living room in excitement about max winning the wdc, i checked where liam finished and couldn't help but feel so angry bc what has liam proven over daniel?? he's been outpaced by yuki by a huge margin and is always getting into some sort of incident with others on track (he touched esteban's car today) and yet f1tv were trying to praise his performance today when in reality he's an average driver.

The thing with him is that I could have accepted if he was the choice for 2025. If the end result was them reverting to a "junior team” and Lawson getting the seat, so be it. If that had meant the end of Daniel's career in F1 I would have been mad at Red Bull for still ultimately screwing him over but I would have enjoyed the hell out of those last 6 races and celebrated him, his career, and the joy he brought to so many people. I honestly probably could've gotten over being angry at Red Bull and wouldn't care about Lawson one iota because even now my feeling about him there in 2025 is...good luck (and he'll be there in 2025). He can have that seat and whatever unfortunate end comes with it because the trajectory of that team and anyone in it does not look promising. I hope for his sake he learns from others and doesn't hitch his wagon to the Red Bull dream because historically that has panned out well for very few drivers.

What I'm mad about (now and forevermore) is this season and the insistence that Daniel HAD to be replaced with 6 races left. I'm mad that they claimed he wasn't performing consistently to the standard they wanted but is also the only driver held to any such standard. I'm mad that the response from the media to literally every other driver struggling is, "oh you just have to feel for him" when Daniel was the subject of a witch hunt the entire season. I'm mad that they drove him out of this sport and did so quite gleefully. I'm mad that they continue to rewrite his career and accomplishments and erase his very existence within the Red Bull team and "family". I'm mad that he should've gotten to end his career on the track in Abu Dhabi at the end of the season with friends, family, former colleagues and with fireworks and burnouts and celebration for him and his career and what he brought to the sport but instead his career ended in Singapore in the dark of parc ferme as he sat alone struggling to get out of the car while fireworks popped in the distance celebrating someone else. All so lawson could get 2 points in 4 races for "the good of the team's future".

[gabessquishytum]

Just a concept I won’t write a proper fic for, but I thought you’d enjoy. Off anon because I’m putting in a specific detail I’m probably including in a fic I will write properly at some point, so might as well.

Hob works for a cleaning company. They give him the keys, the address, and have him go to town on the empty houses for however many days it takes. Yeah, days, because we’re not talking just any houses, but big fuckoff mansions that haven’t seen a duster in decades. You know, the sort of houses that might have loads of antique and/or expensive stuff in them. So much of it, even, that no one will notice if Hob takes home a few pieces (read: sells them to the best bidder).

Hob gets called to the Burgess house because the owner is going on a months-long business trip, and like the spoiled rich cunt he is he wants the house cleaner than he left it when he returns, but has no intentions of paying the regular staff while he’s away.

Honestly? The house doesn’t look promising. Hob has a look around as he cleans and there’s a lot of old books, but it’s hard to guess the value of those to begin with and this… is some pretty obscure stuff? Looks cult-y to Hob, and he’s not about to fuck with that. He does find a huge fucking ruby pendant, but he has a feeling Burgess will notice that missing. There is a locked basement, though. That’s promising.

The key to the basement is hard enough to find, which is also very promising, but when Hob unlocks the door he’s met with… a dingy, dark, damp basement, and is that a fucking moat? A hint of gold draws his eye, and that’s when he sees it.

A big glass and steel… container? Surrounded by a circle of golden lines and scribbles on the floor. Again, looks cult-y… no. Not a container. A cage. There’s something in there, something with tiny white pinpricks for eyes.

Too curious for his own good, Hob gets closer, using his lighter to illuminate the space. And what he sees is… a man. A beautiful, very naked, reed-thin yet muscular man, but a man. Except for the eyes, black as night with gleaming pupils. And only for a moment. He’s only a man for a moment, because when Hob gets close (in a hurry to free him, Hob’s not a saint, Hob’s fucked with human trafficking before but he’s bloody not doing that again-), the man transforms.

His shape doesn’t change much -prominent ribs, long limbs, lean muscles- but he does get bigger, taller. The shock of ink-black hair on his head spreads all over his body, short mostly with big longer tufts at his chest, groin, elbows and… ears. He has large cat-like ears now, and a long tail to match, and a carnivore’s teeth.

Something about the man stays so human, though. His expression, just something about him, that makes Hob not want to run.

“I wasn’t going to hurt you.” He eyes up the creature, basically a were-panther? Were-feline of some sort? Anyway, an 8 feet tall big cat in human shape, and Hob ponders just how deeply he wants to fuck himself. He doesn’t care about losing his job, bugger that, but… “Will you kill me, if I get you out of this? I’d really like to get you out of this.”

There’s no answer, but there is a very human expression of surprise. Maybe he cannot speak. Hob remembers the books, though, and the scribbles on the floor. The glass is thick, but Hob is pretty damn strong, and smart enough to figure out the rest.

Turns out that Dream (that’s the man’s name) is a very powerful, very magical shapeshifter. He can speak, just not without air to breathe. And he’s very very grateful Hob freed him from a hell of loneliness, suffocation and starvation. He’s not open about his gratitude, at first, and haughty as hell about it later, but he really quite likes Hob. As he stays at Hob’s place (technically in-case-I’m-caught-robbing safehouse) he becomes quite affectionate and possessive with Hob, proprietary even… and Hob is not the type to turn down a beautiful man. Or a beautiful big cat, as it turns out.

Hob is especially delighted to find that the big “spines” on Dream’s huge feline cock aren’t sharp things like on a house cat, but rather cartilage not unlike on a human eartip, which bend this way and that and make Dream hiss in pleasure when Hob takes his cock in hand, and feel so so good inside Hob ❤

Ommggg my friend this is such a good concept, there are so many details that I love and appreciate! I really like the idea of Hob having a cleaning company that's a cover up to steal stuff. The idea of him rifling through antiques just really appeals to me. He enjoys the history of it all, as well as the money that he earns on those little trinkets!

And were-panther Dream!! I love him already. The idea of him basically deciding that Hob belongs to him now is so hot! Even in human form Dream is strong and tall, especially when he's no longer starving. He can pick Hob up and throw him around... and his paws in feline form feel incredible as they press against Hob’s chest and pin him to the bed. Dream growls softly against his ear, pants hot breath and against his neck and absolutely ravishes Hob until he can barely walk... and then he uses his big sensitive cat tongue to lick every drop of his seed from Hob’s body <3

So yeah. Big fan of this whole concept. Would LOVE to read more from you, dear friend! Thank you for sharing!