#i have so many bottled up emotions about them
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threadbearsweater · 2 days ago
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one warm day is all i really need | arthur morgan
When you find yourself taken in by a gang of outlaws, the last thing you expect is to grow sweet on one of them- and have the feelings reciprocated. Arthur Morgan doesn't have time for romantic nonsense, but a few memebers of the gang want to make sure that he gets to indulge in his obvious affection toward you. Tags: 3.9k words, an unlikely romance, meddling gang members (with the purest of intentions, one might suppose); female reader, alcohol use, smoking, emotional smut. A repost from a (regretfully) deactivated blog.
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Arthur first notices your eyes on him one evening around the campfire at Shady Belle. He won’t accuse you of staring– Lord knows he’s been known to look at you with the same foolish grin you’re wearing now– but he tips his hat to acknowledge you. The heat in your cheeks is suddenly warmer than what the fire has already provided; your grin only grows until your teeth are showing, and you duck your head into your shoulder to hide. Arthur takes a long swig from his whiskey bottle and grimaces as it goes down. He hasn't had a drop of anything in days, and the burn takes a little while to grow numb to now.
“Think she's sweet on you, Morgan,” Sean says in his Irish lilt, giving Arthur an elbow in the ribs.
“Naw, she's lookin’ at you,” Arthur deflects, though he hopes he's wrong. He thinks he knows.
“She told me last week to keep my eyes on my own work,” Sean continues. “I really don't think it's me she wants, Arthur.”
You turn to whisper something to Sadie, who laughs out loud with her face tilted toward the stars. You dare a glance back at Arthur, who is, in fact, looking at you.
Maybe there's some truth to what Mary Beth told you yesterday.
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“Arthur's been awful quiet lately.”
The sun shines through the trees and dapples the table where you're seated with bright spots of pale yellow. It's your third round of dominoes with Mary-Beth, and she's whooping your ass, as usual. You don't know how she does it, but each game you play, you're a little more privy to her prowess.
“You think so? I don't know him as well as you.” You hope it isn't obvious that your heart started beating a little faster at the mention of his name. It leaves you breathless.
“Oh yeah,” Mary-Beth continues. “He's been scratchin’ away in that journal of his a lot more, too.” She leans closer, conspiratorial, her eyes twinkling with the gossip she's about to share. “Karen said he went to town twice last week to have a hot bath. If you knew Arthur like I know Arthur, why…you'd know that's highly out of character for him.”
“But you said he'd been quiet. Is that unusual for him, too?”
She hums and purses her lips. “Well you see, Arthur isn't usually a man of many words on a good day. But it's been real bad lately. He don't even give John a hard time like usual.”
You ponder the dominoes for a moment and then make your move. It doesn't earn you any points, but at least you didn't have to draw. “What do you think the problem is?” you ask, nonchalant as possible.
Mary-Beth smiles. Big and bright and sparkling. “Oh, it's not a problem at all.” She lowers her voice and cups her hand to her mouth. “Arthur's in love.”
You gasp, then giggle behind your hand, and Mary-Beth follows suit. Hosea looks on and shakes his head, so you quiet down, reaching across to grab Mary-Beth's hands. “Who do you think it is?”
Her cheeks are tinted pink, and she looks around to make sure there aren't any ears to hear. Word travels fast around camp if one isn't prudent. “I think it's you.”
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A thunderstorm rips through Shady Belle a little over a week later. Your little tent that you share with Sadie is ripped straight off its supports in a terrible gust of wind, and you and the others hightail it inside the house to take cover just as it begins to hail. There's quite a ruckus as everyone huddles inside, windblown and rain-soaked. A few of the men hold up lanterns to illuminate the darkness while you watch the lightning and feel the thunder shake the old bones of the house.
“Everyone just calm down,” Dutch calls, descending the stairs, wearing some ridiculous robe with his arms spread wide. “Are we really gonna let a little old thunderstorm keep us from getting a good night's sleep?”
“Says the man with a bed inside the house,” Arthur bites, rounding the corner from what used to be the kitchen, holding a lantern up high in front of him. “Dutch, you better allow these ladies to take cover in here for tonight, or I'll–”
“Or you'll what, Mister Morgan? Pray tell, what kind of man do you take me for?” Dutch's eyes are fiery as he stares Arthur down; a display of dominance. A veritable cockfight.
Arthur's jaw twitches, but he doesn't back down. “The kind of man I should hope would have some goddamn respect for his family.”
There's a tense moment or two where everyone is quiet, then Dutch relents. “Fine, fine! But I expect everyone out there pitching in to clean up in the morning.” He points at Arthur and raises his voice again. “That includes the other man with a bed inside the house,” he sneers.
Arthur shakes his head, then looks away only to catch sight of you, shivering in your wet undergarments, huddled close to Mary-Beth for what little warmth the two of you can share. For a minute, he forgets to breathe, then composes himself enough to cross the room.
“Come on in here. Get yourself warm and dry by the fire.” His hand on your elbow is rough but warm as he leads you toward the fireplace. You nod and look back at Mary-Beth, who shoos you away with a flick of her wrist and a wink; you notice that her teeth are chattering. Despite the humidity that hangs heavy in the air, the temperature has turned chilly with the storm.
Arms crossed over your bosom to preserve any shred of modesty you might have left, you allow yourself to be led away by Arthur. Dutch and some of the others head upstairs while Charles and Javier keep watch from the front porch.
“You alright?” Arthur asks. He covers your shoulders with one of his heavy winter coats, and you pull it around you, grateful for the weight and warmth of it. Another clap of thunder shakes the house and you jump. Arthur chuckles.
“You laughin’ at me?” you quip, placing your palms flat in the direction of the fireplace. You don't even bother to hide the grin you feel curling on your lips.
“No madam, I am not,” Arthur says earnestly, taking a seat beside you on the old wooden crate he's set up as a makeshift bench.
“Then just what do you find so funny, Mister Morgan?”
He scratches the back of his neck, looking into the flames. “Aw, I dunno. I'm sorry. It's just that you're…”
You bump him with your hip, unable to stop the giggles that bubble up from your chest. “I'm what?” you pry.
There's a clatter of something falling on the front porch, and Arthur uses it as a good excuse to get out of this hole he's dug for himself. “I better go see what's going on out there. Charles might need my help.”
“I'm what, Arthur?!” you call, to no avail. He's gone before he can see the proverbial hearts in your eyes.
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The saloon in Rhodes is a little nicer than the ones you visited in Valentine, though it's a far cry from the ones you used to frequent in Saint Denis. Still, when Sadie and the other girls decide that it's high time you have a little fun in town, you throw on your best dress and let Karen curl your hair and even apply a little of the makeup you snagged from a homestead up north. For the first time in months, you feel like a proper woman. There isn't time to be melancholy about the past, though, when the boys start whistling and cat-calling upon the sight of you and the other girls.
“Aw, knock it off!” Sadie hollers. She's decided to dress up a little tonight, too, much to everyone's surprise. But she hikes up her skirts to hop into the wagon, calling for the rest of you all to hurry it up. “I've got a bottle of rum with my name on it that's waiting for me to come drink her all down!”
You catch the sunset on the way to town. It's dazzling over the meadows, all golden light and warm, blazing oranges and reds that settle into a brilliant pink by the time your reach the main road into Rhodes. You wish you could see Arthur's eyes, but he's got a handle on the reins next to Charles in the front of the wagon. You've seen him watching the sunset before; he always looks so peaceful those evenings at camp, and you often wonder what he thinks about in those few minutes before the horizon is painted in pastel hues.
Karen starts singing a song that everyone eventually joins, and before you know it, you're pulling up in front of the Rhodes Parlour House. You can already hear the piano and a few voices from outside; the sound of it stirs something in your soul that makes you long for the familiarity of home, but you quickly shove it aside in favor of the company of your new family.
“Madam.” Arthur's voice brings you out of your thoughts and back into the present, where he waits at the back of the wagon with his hand extended to you. You beam at him, and he feels dizzy. And when your soft hand fits into his, he straightens his knees so they don't buckle and betray him.
“Why, thank you, kind sir,” you say, lifting the hem of your skirts to step out onto the dirt road.
Arthur leans in, dangerously close to your ear. You can smell the whisky and cigarettes on his breath, along with the faint tang of gunpowder and hair pomade. “You sure do look nice in that dress.”
You demure and fan yourself with your hand. “Just how much have you had to drink already tonight?” you giggle.
“Ahh, just a little nip to take the edge off.”
“Mm-hm. Sure, Arthur. Whatever you say.”
The night starts off relatively calm, as most nights do. You and the other girls find an empty table to sit and pick up on the town gossip, and the men start a hand of poker. It grows loud and crowded sometime around midnight, and it's hard to have a conversation without shouting over the din of voices, the clink of glass bottles, and the slow drag ragtime music from the piano. The ambiance is charming and lighthearted, and there are even a few couples drunkenly dancing on the porch.
You push back in your chair and find that when you stand, you're a little more wobbly than you thought you would be. The alcohol has loosened you more than you realize, and you grip the table for support until you feel a firm arm around your waist. “Whoa there.”
It's Arthur, who has won the last round of poker and has come to check in on you and the other ladies. You're pulled tight against his chest for one fleeting moment, and you look up into his eyes. He, too, seems drunk, with his eyes gleaming and drooping at the corners, his smile easy and his cheeks flushed.
“My knight in shining armor,” you slur, pretending to faint in his embrace. He only pulls you tighter against him, both of his broad hands splayed across your back. You laugh, and he smiles.
“You weren't getting another drink, were ya?” he questions with a raise of his brow.
“‘m thirsty,” you whine, lifting your empty glass entirely too close to his face. It knocks against his nose, which sends you into another fit of laughter.
Arthur takes your wrist– gentle but firm– and lowers the glass away. “Think you need to drink something that's not whiskey,” he drawls. You can't help but watch the way his lips form around the words; the slip of his tongue between his teeth, the way his mouth turns up into the hint of a smile when you pout. Before you can think too long and hard about it, you lunge forward and kiss him. Hard and clumsy and impulsive. You don't give him time to react. You're far too involved in the kiss to notice, but the girls at the table behind you have all gone silent. Arthur slides his hand along the side of your face and presses his fingers upon the nape of your neck, kissing you back like he really means it. (He really does.)
You pull back suddenly, breathless and reeling, swiping the back of your hand over your mouth. You're still held firm in his embrace, but the playfulness in his gaze has been replaced with an intensity that makes your knees weak all over again.
“What'd ya do that for?” he asks.
“Could ask you the same thing.”
“Well, you started it.”
“And you finished it.”
“Oh, I ain't finished with you, yet.”
“That a promise or a threat?” Your pulse is thumping wildly in your ears.
“Ya know, they got rooms upstairs for that!” Sadie shouts. There's a ripple of laughter across the table. Arthur's hand on your cheek feels like a brand, his arm about your waist an anchor. The rest of the room comes back to you in a woozy blur, and you look around, a little lovestruck and a whole lot drunk. Arthur's lips at your temple make your eyes flutter shut, and the room fades to black as tIt'weight of you slumps against him. He staggers only slightly, but holds you firm, chuckling softly.
“It's a promise,” he whispers.
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You come to some hours later. Your mouth is dry as the desert, your head feels like lead, your skin broken out in a cold, uncomfortable sweat. At some point, it seems you were covered with a downy soft blanket, and the pillow at your head is much more fluffy than the makeshift one you made out of a bedroll at camp. At first, you think you're dreaming. Then, you wonder very briefly if you're back at your childhood home in Saint Denis. You almost call out to your mother when you hear a soft snore from the other side of your bed.
The room spins when you turn your head, and you rub your eyes until Arthur comes into focus. He's sprawled in an armchair a few feet away. His arms are crossed over his chest while his chin is tucked into his chest. Off to the side, you spy his boots; his big toe pokes through a hole in his sock and you smile at how vulnerable he looks.
“Arthur,” you whisper, shifting slightly as you pull the blanket up around your chin.
He grunts and lifts his head slowly. He frowns a little at first, but when he focuses on you lying there, so close he could reach out and kiss you again like he did last night, there's a slow, easy smile that spreads across his face.
“Hey there, party girl. You feeling alright?”
You could kick yourself for all the giggling you've done around him lately, but you can't help it. He brings out something giddy and downright foolish inside you, so you toss a pillow at him and bury your face in the sheets.
“Aw, come on now. I'm just messin’ with ya.” He leans forward and rubs your head affectionately. “I'd say you were feeling pretty good last night.”
It's in that moment a white-hot jolt of sheer panic shoots down your spine. Quickly, you check to make sure you're still wearing clothes. Aside from your breasts being a little lopsided in the confines of your bodice, you're relieved to find that your dress is still intact and– more importantly– on your body. You dare another peek at Arthur and notice that his shirt is unbuttoned down to the middle of his chest and he's discarded his vest somewhere, but he, too, is fully clothed. Thank the good Lord above.
You must've said that last part aloud, because Arthur laughs. “Don't worry, nothing happened. Though it weren't for lack of tryin’ on your part,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Thought I was gonna have to lock you in here like some feral cat till you settled down.”
Oh. Oh Lord. You try to recall what happened that led you to this room, but all that comes to mind is a lot of loud conversation, some dancing, a spilled drink across Sadie's lap, and Arthur's hand on the side of your cheek. “Oh…”
Now you remember it in vivid detail.
“Didn't know you cared for me like that,” he says. It's earnest and tender, a few shades less intense than the kiss you now recall, the one where it felt like he wanted to eat you alive right there in the middle of the saloon. Now, he thumbs your cheek and looks at you so fondly you swear your heart jumps right up in your throat. “I mean, I'd been hoping. Wasn't sure you was looking for a romance.” He huffs a short sigh, frustrated with himself. “Aw, hell, what am I saying? ‘Course you weren't. You're just looking to survive, just like the rest of us, and here I–”
“Shut up,” you say, taking hold of his hand and tugging him closer. He resists until you pull even harder, watching the fire in your eyes blaze to life. “You talk too much, Yankee.”
“I ain't no damn–”
“Kiss me.”
He's over you in an instant; you're pressed flat against the bed, completely and totally at his mercy. This kiss feels different than the drunken one last night. It's sober and honest, if not a little hesitant, as if he's holding himself back from devouring you wholly. The warmth of his body against yours takes your breath away. Or maybe it's the way his tongue laves heavy into your mouth, unashamed of how badly he craves the taste of you. You grip his hair at the roots and tug him down to kiss him harder, lifting your upper body to meet him until he presses down, his chest flush with yours.
Things get heated quickly.
His mouth moves across your cheek, down your neck, and he groans against your skin, rutting his cock against your thigh. You fleetingly wish that he had managed to get you out of that dress before he presumably tucked you into bed and passed out in that chair, because there’s a whole lot of fabric between you and him that really pisses you off right now. Arthur must feel much the same, because he’s bunching your skirts up past your knees while you’re fumbling with his belt buckle, desperate to feel him against you, inside you. It’s clumsy and crazed, rushed and rough, but you manage somehow to shuck off every last bit of your clothes and his until you’re breathless and so, so eager beneath him.
“Need you now,” you whine. You feel insane. Dizzy and dehydrated, impossibly turned on, every nerve ending on fire when his callused hands grip the fat of your thighs and open you to him.
“Greedy little thing, ain’t ya?” One of his hands slips between your legs to find you wet and swollen. He presses the pad of his thumb against your clit and pushes a finger inside you; the sound you make nearly has him finishing there on the sheets, so he wastes no time in getting himself as close to you as humanly possible.
“Never wanted something so bad,” he murmurs into the dip of your shoulder. He wants all of you– all at once– wants to fuse his hands against your skin and sink himself into you so deep that it would be impossible to tell where he ends and you begin. The heat from his body takes away what little breath you have left, his mouth on each part of your body building the buzz in your chest until you feel like you might just burst open. You grabbed at each other like it was the first and last time you might have this opportunity, as if you wanted more than what the other of you was able to give.
Considering the kind of life you’ve both led so far, it’s a good possibility that you might never get to do this again.
��Give it to me,” you plead, opening yourself further to him, fingers wrapped firm around the base of his cock. “Please.”
Arthur Morgan is a man of incredible strength and self restraint, except when it comes to a woman like you.
There’s nothing gentle about the way he takes you. It’s primal, sweaty, filthy, rough. Arthur pushes as far inside you as he can go, then pushes further when you beg for more. He cups your knees with slick palms and presses you open as far as you can bend; you tug roughly at his hair and bite down on his shoulder when the pleasure builds to a blinding ferocity. The wooden bedframe knocks angrily against the wall with each thrust, but you can’t bring yourself to care if anyone hears. You can’t focus on anything beyond the feeling of him filling you with every stroke of his cock, of the taut, corded muscle in his back and shoulders as you grapple to hang on as tight as you can. Your orgasm hits your hard and fast, and he encourages you through it, taking his time to give you long, controlled strokes. It’s as pleasurable for him as it is for you. “‘Atta girl,” he rasps, lips moving against your ear. Your hand flies to your mouth to muffle your cries, but he pulls it away and threads his fingers with yours, pressing it onto the pillow. “I wanna hear it.”
Your moans are what drive him over the edge.
He buries his face against the side of your neck, panting heavily as he comes, driving into you so hard that you can almost feel the mattress beneath you begin to sag under the weight. You cradle his head in your hands and link your legs around his waist, boneless and languid in the aftermath of your own pleasure. When he moves, you move with him, riding out the waves together until you’re both too tired to move another muscle.
Neither of you speak for a while. He lies on his back with an arm around your shoulders while you curl against him, tuned into his heartbeat and swirling little patterns into the hair on his chest. It’s comforting to feel him next to you, to watch his chest rise and fall as he steadies his breathing, to soak up the warmth of his skin against yours.
You’re the first to break the silence. “Did everyone else go back to camp last night?”
Arthur nods slowly. “Something tells me they planned all this.”
“Planned it? You mean…” You lift your arm slowly and flick your wrist to acknowledge the room you’re laying in. “This?” You lift your chin and grin at him. “Or getting us together?”
“Room was paid for before I even had a chance to ask if they had one,” he explains. “Think it was Mrs. Adler.”
You vaguely recall her shouting something about a room after you kissed Arthur last night, and you shake your head. “You complaining?”
He turns to his side, draping an arm across your hip. “Me? Never.” You’re suddenly pressed beneath him once again; from the looks of it, you won’t be getting out of this bed anytime soon. “Specially when I’ve got you here to help me keep warm.”
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zepskies · 2 days ago
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@lamentationsofalonelypotato
Why hello my lovely friend!! 😍 I'm so ready to dive into your thoughts on this chapter. 💜💜
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Right off the bat, the sexual tension with the gambling 👌🏻. I don't know what it is, but I always love in movies or shows or books when they have a poker game/card game between two people who are obviously into each other. I don't think it's a trope, but- the sexy smiles over the cards, the bluffing, the flirting, the teasing, just OH GOODNESS 😮‍💨
Yesss I love those kinds of scenes too! (Clearly lol) I'm so glad you agree. 😏
I'm not going to lie, I would have thought this to myself if I was in her situation. At the same time I feel bad for her because she has all this bottled inside and it's probably even worse that she's in close counters with him, just second guessing everything. BUT I also love that you've given us these wonderful domestic moments between the two of them. ❤️
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The close quarters are a blessing and a curse here, isn't it? �� Thank you for that compliment!! I wanted the buildup here to be about the small moments of connection. 💗
DANG IT DEAN STOP HIDING FROM YOUR FEELINGS! Man really out there chopping wood trying to forget all his problems and relieve some tension 👀, while the reader is inside trying to educate herself🤣
Ughhhhh you just wanna throttle him!! loll Meanwhile, she's wasting absolutely no time to learn all the can about this man, because with him it's like trying to pry open an old clam. 🤣🤣
The way you integrated John's journal into this chapter was so good! It adds on to the lore of the story. I'd never read through the official "John's Journal" merch so it was nice to see those little details and honestly made me feel more connected to the reader, because it was the first time that I was reading the entries too!
Aww thank you!! It honestly made me emotional (and sympathize so much more with Jhhn) just reading the journal, so I just tried to infuse as much of my own reading experience in the reader character. I'm so glad it made you feel more connected to her. 💞
Girl it's okay we can cry together- DEAN WAS IN THE CRIB WITH SAM. Nothing is okay. I am made of tears. INCONSOLABLE 😭
Girl when I read that part of the journal, the way I was like:
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(And YES, spray that man like a bad dog!!)
AND he knows that she is supposed to be HIS. For the love of rice krispy treats! SHE HAS A BROKEN ANKLE DEAN. Don't let her leave!!! Sweetie he's a grumpy old onion, you gotta peel him back one gorgeous layer at a time. 🤣
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Girl you took me OUTttt. 🤣🤣🤣
This bit is also so heartbreaking, because it's literally her meeting her mate and her believing that he doesn't want her, when it's probably all he does. There's something so raw about that. The idea of finding someone who was literally made for you and believing that they want no part of you. Oh goodness my fragile heart😭
Yeeeeep, honestly reminds me of If The Stars Wish It So, when the reader has that moment of "is it me? Why doesn't he want me?" But in reality, Dean's fighting his instincts to be with her tooth and nail. 🥲🥲
I'm not going to lie, I wasn't expecting it to be a Bear. I literally thought this was going to turn into Dean saving her from a Wendigo- because of the allusions to her dad being killed by one, but this was such a (un)pleasant surprise LOL
LOLL you know what, initially I was going to go the Wendigo route for this climactic moment, but it felt more surprising to me to have it be a non-supernatural threat, just a typical bear wandering through his territory. 😂
I LOVE this insight into his head, just a little piece but enough for the readers to see that Dean does in fact care and that he does feel something for her! Not to mention again... HE PICKS HER UP. I've read Dean in so many fics doing that but each time it just makes me *swoon*.
Thank you!!! I thought this window into his head was needed, but also, Alpha Dean is just so....ALPHA. 🫠🫠🫠
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And oh my word, him finally sitting down with her on the couch and allowing himself to let down some of his walls and let the reader in is just so good!! Not to mention now the reader is going to tell him the truth over how she lost her dad! I'm very excited to read the next chapter, but this one was amazing Alex! 🤗
He finally broke down a bit, seeing how much he was affecting her! 😭 I'm so glad you enjoyed that. I tried my best to make it feel like a natural progression. I so hope you enjoy the next chapter, my friend! 🥰💕
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Against the Wind - Part 2
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Pairing: Alpha!Dean Winchester x F. Omega!Reader 
Summary: You wake up in a strange alpha’s cabin in the middle of a snowstorm, all with a busted ankle. He holds shadows in his eyes, even though his hands are gentle. There are iron shutters around his heart, even though he saved you. You might just save him in return.
AN: Thank you guys so much for all the amazing feedback on Part 1! Now, most of your theories and questions will be answered...
Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: True Mates @jacklesversebingo
Song Inspo: “Against the Wind” by Bob Seger
Word Count: 3.8K
Tags/Warnings: Angst, and peril, the other kind of "hunting."
Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist
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Part 2: Seems Like Yesterday
“I’ll raise you 25,” you say, tossing five chocolate covered pretzels into the middle pile. It’s a risky bet, considering how much you lost in the last hand. Dean regards you with an amused, if critical eye while he holds his cards.
“Ooh, you’re bluffing,” he says. You pop your brows at him, a subtle smile tugging at your lips.
“You want to test that theory? Put your money where your mouth is,” you challenge.
He tilts his head at you with a raise of his own brows.
“Cheeky omega,” he mutters. His attention returns to his cards as he deliberates on his next move.
You attempt to be nonchalant as you glance down at your cards again. It’s a shitty hand, but he doesn’t need to know that. The alpha’s won the last two hands of Texas Hold ‘Em, but you did win the first one. Though you suspect he let you win.
You want to at least even the score before he resumes his work out in the shed. He spends most of his time there during the day, or making sure the firewood is stocked. It seems like he takes any excuse not to spend too much time in your presence.
More than anything, you want to ask him if he feels what you feel—the same tug in the pit of your stomach every time he’s nearby. You just haven’t found a way to broach that with him.
Hey, I know we just met like two minutes ago, but I think we’re supposed to be together. Do you feel it too?
You nearly roll your eyes at yourself. Yeah, that’ll go over well.
So you have to be content with mornings like this and in the evenings, where he lets you put on one of his records, and you two share dinner together, maybe another round of cards. Or you’ll read a book while lounging on the chaise, and he lays out on the couch, listening to his music with his eyes closed. You like watching him like that, with a relaxed, damn near peaceful set to his face.
Too often he holds that harder, stoic expression, or that divot between his brows that makes you want to soothe two of your fingers there; or better yet, lean in and press your lips—
“It’s your move,” Dean reminds you. He’s finally played his hand, but you were too distracted to hear what he said.
“What’d you do?” you ask, surveying the piles of cards.
“Call,” he repeats, popping a few pretzels into his mouth. He washes it down with beer and more barbeque chips. Those are worth $10 in this little fantasy betting. He points a finger towards you with the same hand that holds his beer, teasing, “You got all the lights on in there? Or am I boring you?”
You glance up at him, fighting a smile. “All right, keep your pants on. Let me see…”
As the dealer, he’s already turned over the River: the last card in the hand. It’s a 10 of Clubs, which means your One Pair is actually a Two Pair. It’s still not a great hand, but it’s decent enough to maybe let you get the best of your opponent.
After you go “all in,” Dean’s lips twitch at a smile, and he humors you, going all in as well. You’re on tenterhooks when he finally reveals his hand.
“Ooh, it ain’t a cheesy ‘90s sitcom, but it’s still…a Full House,” he brags as he lays out each card in a smooth line of overlapping cards, the mix of glossy red diamonds and black spades showing the truth. He won again.
You huff in defeat, your shoulders sinking in your seat at the kitchen table. You turn over your measly hand. Sweeping the winnings toward himself (a mound of chocolate covered pretzels, a stack of barbecue chips, and a handful of Oreos), Dean chuckles and tosses you a wink.
“Ah, don’t beat yourself up, sweetheart. I’ve been hustlin’ poker for a long time. Hell, I’ve been playing this game before I even knew my times tables,” he says as he collects the cards.
“That young?” you reply. “Who taught you?”
“My dad,” he says. “Oh, believe me, I used to get my ass kicked many a’ time, but by the time I turned sixteen, I was hustlin’ grown ass men in skeevy bars out of their daily paycheck.”
“You were hanging out in bars at sixteen?” you ask incredulously. There, Dean seems to realize he’s said too much. He becomes more guarded as he puts away the deck and cleans the crumbs off the table.
“My dad was always working. You could say I didn’t really have a curfew,” he says.
“A latchkey kid, huh?” you reply, hiding the way you’re trying so hard to glean any more hints of truth between his words.
“Heh, yeah.” He gets up from the table and tosses the breakfast dishes in the sink, then travels to the front door to don his jacket and boots.
“All right, I’ll be out back,” he says.
Out back, code for out in the shed. You nod, and in a flash, he’s shutting the door behind him.
You’ve learned another small tidbit about him, one that feels more important than it seems on the surface. And yet, it only elicits more questions you doubt he’ll be willing to answer so easily. He’s more than tight-lipped about his past, only giving vague outlines and general pictures.
Even his stories—like being raised up in a family of traveling mechanics, putting Nair in Sam’s shampoo when he was a kid, or the guy’s serious fear of clowns—feel like they’re missing some key details.
You decide to take up your crutches and head for your room. There you unearth the journal from its hiding place under your pillow. This time, you turn to the very beginning. Before all the jargon about mythology (and an odd footnote about a “Turducken Slammer”), there are actual journal entries. The first one dates back to November 6, 1983. The first line already captures your attention.
I buried my wife today. Even as I write that down, I don’t believe it. Last week we were a normal family…eating dinner, going to Dean’s T-ball game, buying toys for baby Sammy. But in an instant, it all changed… When I try to think back, get it all straight in my head…I feel like I’m going crazy. Like someone ripped both my arms off, plucked my eyes out. I’m wandering around, alone and lost and I can’t do anything.
This is Dean’s father, you realize. The more that you read, with no small amount of dismay, you also realize that this man is writing about his wife, Mary.
Dean’s mom…
He writes about their house burning with all their memories inside, along with Mary. Somehow, he saw her pinned bloody to the ceiling.
Along with these pages is a clipping from a news story:
House Fire Kills Mother of Two
Lawrence, Kansas.
You’re spellbound by it all. You keep reading.
November 13, 1983
…Most of our clothes and photos are ruined, even our safe—the safe with Mary’s old diaries, the boys’ savings bonds, what little jewelry we had…all gone. How could my house, my whole life, go up like that, so fast, so hot? How could my wife just burn up and disappear?
The police don’t believe his story, about how she died before the fire, about what he saw. So he tries to convince himself that what he saw wasn’t real. Still, he can’t find rest, and he worries about his sons’ safety.
December 4, 1983
I haven’t let them out of my sight since the fire. Dean still hardly talks. I try to make small talk, or ask him if he wants to throw the baseball around. Anything to make him feel like a normal kid again. He never budges from my side—or from his brother.
Every morning when I wake up, Dean is inside the crib, arms wrapped around baby Sam. Like he’s trying to protect him from whatever is out there in the night.
Sammy cries a lot, wanting his mom. I don’t know how to stop it, and part of me doesn’t want to. It breaks my heart to think that soon he won’t remember her at all.
You don’t realize you’re crying until a droplet lands on the page. You quickly wipe it away before it becomes a stain, and you dry it all the way with your breath before you move on to the next page, sniffling. Your heart hurts, even as your guilt grows. You know now that you’re really, truly invading Dean’s privacy by reading his father’s words. You just can’t stop yourself from turning the next page.
John becomes convinced that someone, or something, started the fire that destroyed his life and took his wife away from him and his sons. He leaves his job and the remnants of that world behind, to venture deeper into the darker one. But in that darkness, he finds truth.
He visits a psychic, Missouri, who leads him back to his house and senses the echoes of an evil presence—something that shakes her to the core, and John too: the creature that killed his wife.
December 20
…She told me that it was the most powerful, awful thing she’s ever come across.
On January 1, 1984, John makes a New Year’s resolution. He determines to find the answers himself.
A shiver runs down your spine. In John’s words, your heart breaks for Dean, but you also see yourself. You try not to think about why.
You keep flipping through the rest of the journal past January. There are translations of a Latin exorcism, and like you read before, strange drawing of evil looking creatures—as well as what they are, scraps of their history, and how to kill them.
Silver bullet to the heart, can’t withstand iron, salt and burn.
You pause on a certain page, more filled with lore than the rest, and a primitive drawing in the center.
WENDIGO
Cree: Evil that devours.
Wood spirit. Eats live flesh. Lives in forests.
Perfect hunter.
Your breath stills in your lungs as a cold sweat forms across your skin. The more you read, the faster your heart beats.
The crunch of dead leaves. Your father shouting at you to run, and keep running.
The coarse shout of a bear morphs into something other. It’s a sharper, whirring sound like wind howling amidst animalistic clicking, and then bones breaking—your father’s scream cut short. You turn around with your rifle in hand, poised to shoot blindly.
Your stomach churns as bile rises into your throat. You feel sick, and wrong, and you suddenly have the urge to throw the journal against the wall.
“Omega?” calls Dean’s sharp voice. “You okay?”
You jolt badly at the sudden noise. You didn’t hear him reenter the house. He likely caught the scent of your distress. He pushes the door of your room open to find you, but he stops short in the doorway. His surprise quickly morphs into a frown when he notices what you’re holding in your lap.
You gasp, freezing where you sit, but there’s no point in trying to cover up what you’ve done. With an angry purse of his lips, he reaches over and takes the journal from your hands.
“What the hell are you doing with this?” he demands.
“I’m…I’m sorry. I just—” You swallow past the lump in your throat. “I was just curious. I wanted to know more about you. I thought it was…a normal journal.”
“So this is how you go about it, huh? Got everything you wanted, Columbo?” he says, his sarcasm cutting into you. He flips through the journal to make sure all the pages are intact before he tucks the journal under his arm. “Seriously, going into somebody’s stuff? Who the hell raised you?”
At that, you begin to bristle.
“My dad,” you snap back. Though remembering the passages you’ve lived with for the past few hours, you soften with a painful twinge of sympathy in your heart. 
“And it looks like yours raised you to be some kind of…well, what are you, a ghostbuster or something?” you ask.
His jaw locks. “Or something.” 
With an exasperated sigh at his hedging, you swing your legs around the edge of the bed and haul yourself up with your crutches so you can at least match his stance (more or less).
“Dean, please, just talk to me,” you implore, gesturing at the journal tucked under his arm. “The things I read—”
“Are none of your goddamn business!” he growls, making the omega inside you cringe. The alpha’s voice is deep and sharp, and even though he isn’t crowding you, his height and broadness are still intimidating.
“The sooner you heal up, the sooner I can ship you back to where you belong,” he says. “Back to your life, so you can stop sticking your nose into mine.” 
Your mouth actually falls open in shock. His vehement words feel almost as powerful as a physical blow, if to your soul. They make your arms tremble while holding yourself upright on your crutches. Hot tears well up in your eyes, though you try to blink them away. After a moment, you’re able to collect yourself enough to speak.
“I’m sorry for going through your stuff,” you say, in a quiet voice.
You hobble awkwardly past him out of the room. You don’t stop until you reach the front door, where your snow boots are. You manage to get them on by yourself so you can go outside and get some fresh air, not to mention some much needed distance from the alpha’s burning presence. You can still feel him trailing behind you. You hear his heavy boots.
“Where the hell are you going?” he grits out.
You hobble faster.
Dean watches you go out the door without a word in irritation, even though it triggers an alarm deep in his gut every time you leave the safety of the cabin. 
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The snow depth has lightened somewhat since the storm, but it’s still not easy to navigate on your crutches. You get some distance from the cabin, mindful not to go too far. You know you’re limited, and you didn’t even take a gun with you.
Finding a solid tree to lean on, you rest there and try in vain to stifle your tears. You know you were wrong for snooping, and he had a right to be mad, but did he really have to be such a freakin’ bear? 
Fucking alphas. I swear.
You thought you were starting to connect with him, but clearly, Dean wants nothing to do with you. He wants you out of his life. 
Does he not feel the same pull you feel to him? Does he really not realize…that he’s meant to be your mate?
You take in a shaky breath through your nose. If he does, apparently he doesn’t care.
Just then, you hear the crunch of snow nearby. Twigs snapping.
Your body stiffens with a terrible memory—of that day in the woods. Your breath comes out in short puffs on the cold air, your eyes wide as you listen closely.
Hearing nothing, you allow yourself to breathe a little easier. You venture a few paces forward and to the right, but you stop shy of how it slopes downward. Some unnamed feeling tells you to look over the edge.
You lean over and cast your gaze down the slope, but all you see is snow and trees down below. With a shaky breath, you lean back and look out to the north again. Plodding along the trail, heading towards you, is a bear.
Oh shit…
You remember Dean mentioning something about a bear passing by his cabin a couple of days before the storm. Looks like he’s back to make his rounds.
His fur is dark; from this distance, you can’t tell if it’s a black bear or a grizzly. It doesn’t make much difference when all you have on your person is a can of bear spray. His gait is massive, unhurried, but he lets out a braying sound when your gaze meets his, as if acknowledging you. He stops there for a moment, assessing. Your body locks up with fear.
The bear groans again, this time sharper. You finally snap out of your reverie and force your body to move slowly backward with your crutches spearing into the snow. The cabin isn’t that far, maybe thirty or forty yards at most. Still, the bear can probably beat you.
Instead of trying to run, you stand your ground and shout at the bear, hoping he’ll back off. Your voice dies in your throat when he rears up on his hind legs, with a loud roar. Trembling, you miss a step and get knocked back into the snow on your ass, your crunches falling out at your sides. You scramble inside your jacket for anything that might help you. 
Bear spray!
You hurry to get the cap off with shaking hands, but before you can even aim, the creature’s heave paws thudding into the ground in front of you—a gunshot rings out and hits the animal in the chest. 
The bear falters, then roars in pain and anger.
Two more shots finally bring it down to an even heavier thud, not far from your feet.
In this moment, these are the things you don’t know about Dean Winchester:
For one, the scent of an omega in distress always calls to an alpha’s protective instincts. But the scent of your abject fear feels like someone tried to rip his lungs out through his stomach.
Second, when he sees you there, your wide, shiny eyes filled with the remnants of panic, yet relief at the sight of him, it takes everything within him not to drop to his knees, grab you by the hair, sink his teeth into your neck and claim you, right there in the snow. Maybe then you’d start listening to him and stop taking your life into your hands.
Instead, his lips purse as he wracks his rifle and slings the strap of it over his shoulder. He stalks toward you and scoops you up, crutches and all. He brings you back to the cabin without a word.
His jaw is once again locked with silence and strain; he doesn’t trust himself to speak until he’s brought you inside and carried you over to the chaise. He sits beside you there and takes an inventory of you with his eyes.
“You okay?” he asks at last.
You manage to meet his gaze and give a little nod.
“Okay. Don’t move,” he says shortly. He gets up and goes to the kitchen, where he grabs a foldable set of knives and a cooler from under the sink.
You watch him in silence, and you realize he’s going back to gut the bear. You didn’t know that he actually hunted out here…well, hunted to eat. He continues to gather items in silence. It gets to a point where you can’t stand it, or his curtness, any longer.
“Thank you,” you say, halting his steps. Dean glances at you over his shoulder, then continues strapping up his supplies. He huffs in response.
“We’re gonna be eatin’ good for a while,” he says without looking at you. 
His attitude both hurts you and aggravates you, so much that you refuse to take it anymore. 
“Look, Dean. I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have butted into your life,” you say. Frustrated tears well up in your eyes. Expelling a sharp sigh, you amend yourself. “I’m sorry for invading your privacy. I’m sorry about what you went through, and I’m…I’m sorry about your mom. I’m sorry for today. I’ll just…stay out of your way, and I’ll leave as soon as I can.”
Dean finally turns your way, but your lips tremble as you turn your face away from him and shut your eyes tightly against the salty burn of tears. Deep inside, his heart withers in his chest. He sighs and drops his supplies on the couch. He walks over with those heavy boots, and he sits on the edge of the chaise beside you. He hesitates for a moment, but eventually, he rests a warm, calloused hand on your arm and earns your tearful gaze. 
“I’m sorry. I, uh…shouldn’t have yelled at you,” he says. 
You sniff, quickly wiping away your embarrassing tears as they come. Your cheeks are hot with it.
“What is it you wanna know? About me,” he asks, surprising you that much more.
 Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out. It takes you some time to think, but the first thing that comes to your mind is…
“Everything in that journal,” you say, licking your dry lips. “Is it real?”
Dean holds your gaze steadily. You know the truth without him having to say it, but he does.
“I was a hunter,” he says. “Those things you read about, I found ‘em. Killed ‘em. It was my job.”
“And now?” you ask, once that large bit of information has time to set into your brain.
His lips tug at a half smile. “Consider me…mostly retired.”
You exhale softly, and you nod. It earns a furrowed look from Dean.
“You don’t seem all that freaked out by this,” he says, with a more scrutinizing gaze on you.
“Should I be?” you say, with an unsteady laugh.
He raises his brows. “In my experience, yeah.”
You chew on the inside of your lip. You don’t know if you should even put into words what you’ve been holding onto for months. Like John, no one believed you. Even your own mother had started to look at you like you needed a shrink.
“Omega?” Dean presses. His green eyes are perceptive as they take in the conflicted look on your face. “There something you wanna tell me?”
You deliberate for a moment longer. Then, you release a sigh and glance down at your hands clenching in your lap.
“A few months ago, I lost my dad,” you begin.
Dean nods. “Yeah, you said—”
“I lost him in these woods,” you say.
That quiets the alpha.
You shake your head, and you find your words as the memories that have been haunting your nights return to you.
“Like I said, we used to go hiking here every year…”
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AN: Just so you know, all of the journal entries appear in the official "John's Journal" SPN merch. 😉
Next Time:
Unease prickles down your spine, though you don’t know why.
“Dad?” you whisper-yell, trying not to spook whatever animal might be out there.
A gunshot rings out, along with your dad’s voice in a shout. Your eyes widen in alarm, and you call his name louder, taking off in a run to find him.
You end up rising over a hill you hadn’t crossed before, but you see your dad below; you recognize his bright blue puffer jacket that Mom got him for his birthday. You call his name, and he looks up at you with fear in his eyes.
Not for himself, but for you.
▶️ Keep Reading: Part 3
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fall0utmind · 2 days ago
Text
Medical Leak AU pt 12
Hi friends!!
Finally got around to finishing this chapter - after almost a full rewrite - I hope you like it. Thank you sooooo much to everyone who has shown me love, appreciation and support for my works. I feel v lucky x
Anyways I hope this lovely almost 6k chapter makes up for the delay. It's very very angsty - finally all that Vale guilt you wanted.
TW// Suicide (more graphic than anything else I have written) - crashes - death - injury
Probably about 2-3 more chapters left!!!!!
Love you all - ch below cut
AO3
https://archiveofourown.org/works/59751640/chapters/158547442
CH 12 - REGRET
Valentino gets home late on Monday evening with a million thoughts in his head and the heavy weight of exhaustion clinging to him. The beginnings of a headache are throbbing behind his temples, an indicator of a long weekend of overthinking. Despite this, Valentino cannot rest, too wired from a weekend full of mistakes and surprises. It has categorically been one of the worst weekends of Vale’s life. From finding out about Marc’s past and watching him fall apart in front of his eyes, to somehow making it even worse by opening his mouth. In hindsight, he realises that historical emotions with no place in the present fuelled their exchanges, lighting the spark for an inevitable detonation. He let his ego rule his mind, took it out on Marc and was disbelieving even as he stared down the truth. Not his finest moments. It has taken too many years to realise that he loves Marc and now he is faced with the incomprehensible fact that he might lose him altogether if he can’t make amends.
He used to know Marc so well; he doesn’t know when he stopped understanding every intricacy and started attributing them all to some form of evil. But somewhere along the way, every little thing Marc did was labelled as corrupt and dangerous in his mind. It costs his pride to set the habitual instinct aside, knowing he has made mistakes along the way. He is now going against years of conditioning intended to forget the affection he once felt for Marc. And yet here he is sitting in his kitchen, back at square one, after years of messing things up for both himself and Marc, with that same affection reignited and his heart shattered by his own mistakes.
Despite a greater acceptance of his shortcomings in the past years, Valentino struggles to swallow the realisation that this was his fault. Somewhere deep inside, a stubborn part of him protests the concept; it is the same fragment which is still bitter about 2015 and the loss of his tenth title. When Valentino allows himself to think about it, he still feels some frustration about the 2015 season, both with himself and Marc. But he can also look back and realise that he was a grown adult and Marc was 22; one of them should have known better, and it wasn’t Marc. Moreover, instead of choking down his anger at the time, and talking to Marc privately, Valentino decided to air it out to the world at large. He tries to push the feelings down and bottle them up, unwilling to let something as fragile as an ego ruin this. Valentino’s ego destroyed their relationship last time- a combination of his self-importance and visceral need to win. Alongside, there was a self-doubt which niggled at the back of his mind for years until he let it engulf him. He began to doubt Marc’s loyalty and trustworthiness, even though Marc looked at him like he held the sun. He can now identify that his feelings were a combination of the dread that Marc could be better than him and the fear of his overwhelming and undeniably romantic feelings for the younger man.
It's all irrelevant now. Valentino has spent a decade screwing it up and denying his feelings. Now, he must weigh up whether Marc, the continuation of his legacy as the best, or his pride are more important.
(The choice is surprisingly easy)
Valentino takes a deep breath, blowing it out between his teeth and screwing his eyes shut. He needs a plan. And yet, he’s still at a loss about how to get Marc back. He has tried begging, reasoning, and telling the truth but none have worked.
 Albeit, he thinks bitterly, after each attempt, he promptly screwed it up again. He imagines it might take time for Marc to come around. It had taken Valentino years to destroy him and almost a decade to realise his own stupidity - he should give Marc time now. But patience has never been Valentino’s virtue, and he reckons he can speed up the process a little – some more positive interviews, or some flowers and much sweet talking. Nothing too overbearing, but Marc has always had a bit of a thing for praise, especially from Valentino.
No matter how hard he tries though, it is uncertain whether Marc will ever be able to trust him again. After everything that has happened between them, it feels like a far-off prospect. It doesn’t help that Marc had physically run away from him in Misano, fleeing his motorhome and leaving Vale standing there like an idiot, feeling bereft.
Now he almost wishes that he stayed, waiting for Marc to come back. He doesn’t focus too much on the small voice saying that he probably deserved to be abandoned by Marc. Thankfully, he didn’t have a long drive afterwards, and it was even quicker when he had barely paid attention to the road, too tied up in his thoughts. He was glad that the winding roads had been almost deserted, allowing him to follow the route by muscle memory, barely twitching at the occasional set of oncoming headlights.
His thoughts are running away from him, spinning off on tangents like what his journey home was like, rather than the task at hand. It is a solid indicator of his fatigue. The next time he looks at the clock, it’s almost midnight, signifying that he’s been sitting in one position for far too long. He groans as he hauls himself out of his chair, his knees cracking. He feels like this weekend has aged him. He pops his back and stretches his arms above his head, shifting as he tries to gather the will to move to his bedroom.
Exhaustion weighs heavily on him whilst he half heartedly brushes his teeth, skipping along shower until tomorrow.  He shucks his clothes off before throwing himself into bed, feeling overwhelmingly grateful that he has the money for the fancy mattresses he adores. He falls asleep quickly, his overactive mind shutting down to give him a brief respite. Before he retired, sleeping used to be tough after a race weekend fuelled by adrenaline, now though he usually sleeps like a baby.  Dreams come in hazy wisps of half-formed scenes. A young Marc giggles at something Valentino has said, an older version of him studiously avoiding his eyes. A flash of tanned skins and thundering engines. The harsh words which were cruelly spat at each other all those years ago. He is thrown from dream to dream, his imagination running wild.
Valentino sleeps until the sun is already high in the sky. He is endlessly grateful for mornings in bed on Mondays. The joys of retiring early. He showers quickly, perfunctory, and avoids thinking of Marc or his perfect face and plush lips lest his body betrays him. He towels himself down in much the same way and sets to start his day. He’s already written off a productive week, content to relax and wallow in self-pity after the shit show of a weekend. He putters around the kitchen for a bit, making himself some breakfast and a coffee, taking the time to do it in the fancy way that he usually brushes off as too excessive. Clutching his mug and plate, he wanders into the living room, laying his breakfast on the coffee table. He grabs his laptop and settles on the sofa. Now that he has returned to the safety of his own home, Valentino has plans to go online to read watch and consume every piece of literature about Marc Marquez that he had missed over the last decade. Thankfully, he already knows plenty: his rookie years, family, and success he is intimately familiar with. But he’s shied away from much of it: the crashes, his recovery, relationships, and the recent news. He has to start somewhere – for some reason, he thinks the crashes (and there are many) might be easiest.
Before he even consciously thinks about it, the video of Jerez is loading on his laptop – go big or go home and all of that. He watches in a half-daze and winces when Marc is thrown off the bike; the high side seems to happen in slow motion as he is flung through the air before slamming back into the earth. Valentino’s sharp gaze focuses on how Marc grits his teeth, his arm hanging limply by his side. He knows it was bad; he was there. He hadn’t seen the actual crash, and it is different now seeing it as it happened. He remembers that day, his bitter and forced indifference at the time. The vicious kind of vindication that Marc could not finish after Vale’s race had ended prematurely. Looking back now, it was fairly indicative of Valentino’s not-normal feelings. Afterwards, when he became aware of the surgery, an odd combination of panic and pleasure coursed through him. It was one less championship to Marc’s name, but Valentino also dedicated himself to researching the surgery and ensuring the doctors were the very best that money could buy. He had stopped looking into Marc's treatment after the second surgery, attempting to distance himself and by surgery number four, he thought Marc would retire – he didn’t know how to feel about that.
The video loops. He rewatches it until he can memorise the exact second Marc lost the bike, the angle at which it bucks, and the pain on his face when he thinks the cameras are no longer watching. Marc looks like he wants to scream in agony every time. Valentino wants to burn the circuit to the ground. The next time through, Valentino doesn’t click replay, staring numbly at the screen, the vision of Marc falling seared behind his eyelids. The next video loads before he can stop it. It’s a clip of Marc talking to a camera, a distant look in his eyes; it’s from that stupid documentary - the one Valentino has been avoiding for years. He hums thoughtfully, if he wants to get to know Marc again, this might be a good idea. How bad could it be? A quick Google search tells him where to watch it and it’s all too easy to set it up on his too-large TV and press play.
Valentino didn’t expect it to be so excruciating, seeing it so clearly laid out in front of his eyes. It’s difficult to watch. Whenever Valentino is mentioned, Marc’s face shutters slightly and Valentino finds himself physically recoiling from the pain in Marc’s voice. He trains his eyes on the screen, no matter how much he wants to look away. Surprisingly, the documentary cements that Marc is willing to rip himself apart to win, sinking his teeth into success and clutching on for dear life. Although Valentino already knew this; he didn’t realise Marc was willing to show everyone else. What he didn’t know is that, before it all fell apart, every time Marc did something wildly impressive, he looked to Valentino after, as if to seek his approval. In this light, Marc looks unbearably enamoured and so keen to please. He can see how Marc tore his heart open to keep Vale, only to be left with the tattered remains of their relationship – it aches. Unsurprisingly, there is also venom in Marc’s family’s descriptions of Valentino. Watching Roser talk about throwing his merchandise away after their fallout makes him wince. He remembers the smugness he felt when he lied to the Italian media as if he didn’t see the awe in Marc’s eyes. He remembers the first time he met a young Marc and the startling clarity that he was Marc’s world back then. (He remembered then too). Guilt engulfs him. He turns off the documentary and closes his eyes, unable to continue. His coffee is cold.
The rest of the morning passes in a blur, he organises his bookcase and then his room. He ambles around the track and rewatches some races from before Marc’s premier class debut. He locks himself in his office, passing the time by organising and doing trivial admin tasks which he has been putting off for months. He doesn’t feel like eating but forces himself to choke down a slice of plain toast, it still makes him nauseous. By the time he’s settled on the sofa again, the clock has struck nine and the light has faded to a pale dusk. The TV feels like it’s taunting him, its red light winking threateningly. He stares at the black screen.
A memory springs to life from the depth of his mind, unbidden. Marc, baby-faced and eager in 2013, in some shitty bar God knows where. He was drunk, absolutely hammered, his phone clutched in his hand as he waved it around, showing Valentino the pictures of his childhood room, full of old merch (most of it was Valentino’s). He remembers being unbearably fond, incredibly old, and slightly embarrassed on Marc’s behalf. A strangled noise erupts from the back of his throat. He had lied, to everyone; he had always known Marc had idolised him and he had taken that vulnerability and stabbed him in the back. Valentino feels sick, a vivid picture of Marc’s mum in the documentary, her disapproval clear to the world, even as Marc had remained hopeful.
Valentino can’t bring himself to turn the TV back on. He is a coward. He stumbles to his feet and fills a tumbler from the kitchen with whiskey - the expensive shit that Pecco got him last Christmas. He doesn’t want to think about it, about Marc, and he certainly doesn’t want to feel anything. So, he does what he does best and ignores it all, playing melancholy music through his too-expensive sound speaker and drinking away his sorrows and regrets. He doesn’t think of anything, or maybe he does – it all passes in a blur. The remnant shred of his sanity takes charge after three drinks, reminding him that alcohol is not actually the solution to all his problems. He leaves the glass on the side, promising himself that he will wash it up tomorrow. Staggering to his bedroom is an unwelcome reminder that he is far too old to be drinking alone in his empty house, he suddenly feels strangely lonely. He avoids looking the single toothbrush in the holder and the shower which only contains one set of body wash and shampoo. He ignores the thought that he wishes there were two. By the time he has finished in the ensuite and crossed the room to his bed, his eyes are already drooping. Valentino falls into a dreamless sleep the minute he hits the mattress.
*
The next day, Vale plans to watch the 2015 season from start to finish, and then study the replays of all the worst races across their time as competitors - Sepang, Argentina, Jerez, and Philip Island, the ones Valentino considers the turning points for their relationship. He is determined to pick apart the catalysts of their supernova implosion. It is a strange sensation to watch the worsening of their relationship as an outsider on the screen. He can barely bring himself to watch Sepang, too embarrassed by his childish and unsportsmanlike behaviour. He didn’t like Marc’s behaviour that year and didn’t enjoy losing (he never had). But the lies were atrocious, let alone thinking of what they led to. He turns it off before the press conference. He remembers how Marc had looked all too well, how he looked amused at first like it was all some elaborate joke before his face fell and shock took over.
He watches some of the better ones too, where he would pull Marc close in parc fermé and spray him with champagne on the podium. Marc looked so happy, so young, and in awe of Valentino. A startling difference from the Marc he now knows, to the one he created. His current Marc ignores Vale, putting up his walls whenever they interact, so much so that Valentino can barely recognise the real him. In his head, he can’t seem to reconcile all the Marcs, the real and the fake, the ones he knows and doesn’t. Valentino wonders which Marc is real, which Alex gets, and which Dovi gets. Is there even a real one, is it all an act, or is he all the Marcs in one?
It is a testament to how little Valentino knows Marc because, as much as he doesn’t want to think about it, apparently, he also relied on painkillers and was so hurt after everything that happened that he tried to end his life (twice). And even though he was there to witness it all, Valentino hadn't even realised. Marc fears vulnerability (he didn’t before), keeps his cards close to his chest, and doesn’t let anyone in; it makes him want to scream. He doesn’t understand how he missed it. He watches the end of the 2015 season particularly closely, searching for an indicator that Marc was feeling so low, any slip of his mask to see the true feelings beneath. He tries to find the clues that he missed, back then, the hints that Marc was struggling, if only he had looked. It hurts, watching, seeing Marc go from joyful and naive to guarded over a year is so obvious now that he is not overwhelmed by resentment. The pain wrenches at his gut, pulling painfully like a fishhook and making unnamed emotions rise within him. To the rest of the world, Marc is indifferent, a jokester, portraying a happy persona despite his internal turbulence, just like he was before Valentino. It is almost unfathomable that he didn’t notice him shutting down, the way his face would fall when Valentino was cruel or blasé. In the early years, of 2015 and 16, Marc hadn’t learnt how to throw up his walls quickly enough and his eyes betrayed him, if you knew what to look for. Over time he got better, or maybe he just stopped caring and became numb to it all.  He did this, he hurt Marc in unspeakable ways. He thinks that if he were Marc, he would never forgive himself.
For a split second, he pauses and wonders why he is doing this to himself, putting himself through all this pain. But then he considers the pain he caused for Marc, how his face had crumbled at the press conference of Friday, and the awful truth of the past which stares him down. Marc deserves better, and Valentino wants to give him that. He imagines his face after winning, looking so alive, his beautiful smile which lights up a room, and his ability to overcome anything. So, Valentino mentally prepares himself, turns on the documentary and wades his way through the rest of the programme, for Marc. Occasionally, he must tear his eyes away when it becomes too much, and Marc’s pain becomes too apparent. He feels sick at the end of it, sick and wrung out. So weighed down by his guilt that he doesn’t think he will ever stand up again.
Valentino’s curious though, wondering quite how bad it all was medically, how much he fucked up. He opens his phone, searching for every article he can find about Marc’s extensive injuries and hospital records. It is like one of those sick fascinations where he doesn’t want to keep reading, to torture himself, but he cannot help it, he wants to know more. He reads it all until it’s tattooed on his brain. The surgeries, the failed attempts at recovery, mainly due to Marc’s frankly stupid plan to get onto a bike again so soon. The man has always had a death wish, unafraid of falling, throwing himself into the deep end. Fall or win – die or live. Marc ran on a scale of dichotomy. He looks at the scars marring Marc’s skin, how they transform him into something unbearably more attractive, determination written on his skin. The medical records are difficult to digest. Of course, he has already seen them, but this time he imagines, feels, and believes it (he still feels guilty about that too). He is shocked that the descriptions are so… vivid. He puts himself in Marc’s shoes, well as much as he can, and considers how he would feel if suddenly everyone knew his secrets, an intimately private part of his life. Evidently, the whole arm situation isn’t new, but Valentino doesn’t think that anyone knew Marc experienced chronic pain – every day. He must admit, riding through that is incredibly impressive, but also terrifying. He can’t believe that Marc hides it so well, the fact that he is constantly in agony is chilling.
Valentino reads on. He didn’t know about the medication, but why would he? The word addiction haunts him. He doesn’t think too much about the suicide, he just reads. If he does it will break him. He might already be broken. At some point, he switches from putting himself in Marc’s shoes to imagining if he was there. What if he had been the one to find Marc and not Alex? If he and Marc were still friends, would Marc fall asleep on him as he does with Dovi? Would he trust Marc to give him the right dose of painkillers when he needs them? The more he thinks about it, he realises that he wants to be the person Marc turns to when his arm aches; the one to massage it and look after Marc when he’s on the strong shit that they give you for this kind of pain. The domesticity of the fantasy shocks him, it was never like this before. He wishes he could turn back time, to be that person, but instead, he is sitting alone in his empty house, reading about the man he used to adore because he has been too busy lamenting in hatred to care.
Valentino gives up on functioning afterwards, devastated by the loss of the life and love he could have had if he had opened his eyes. He cries until he can’t produce another tear. He gets drunk on an expensive bottle of wine and wrecks his kitchen in a fit of anger. He flits between despair, rage, and depression. He sobs into his hands, before he throws his glass against the wall, spilling red wine everywhere, staining the floor. It’ll be a bitch to clean. He doesn’t care, not when he’s staring into the face of a reality where he almost lost Marc. His Marc, who overdosed twice because of Valentino's stupid actions and his belief that it was a God-given right for him to win a tenth title. He doesn’t think Marc was wholly right, even now, for what he did back then, for how he raced. But he never needed to react the way he did, to cause a stir and turn everyone against him. He let them break into Marc’s home, threatening him and his family. At the time, he had thought it was funny, now he recognises the concealed fear and anger in Marc’s eyes. Upset. Not for himself, but for his family, especially his little brother. He imagines if it was him in Marc’s position. If it was Luca. His stomach sinks. Suddenly he is filled with an overwhelming sense of self-hatred. The most painful part is his own failings- that he wasn’t there for Marc when he needed it most, that he caused it. If it wasn’t for his own stubborn misconceptions or his overinflated ego, this might have all been prevented. Guilt eats him alive. He is a horrible person, he hates himself. He does not deserve Marc.
The dreams start that night. He begins to have nightmares, screaming himself awake at 2 am as he once again watches Marc hit the gravel and fall still, lying motionless on the ground. Lifeless, like he had thought for a heart-stopping moment on Saturday. He sits bolt upright, drenched in sweat and panting like a dog. He has to make himself tea to calm down. After, he sits in bed, with the light on, staring at the wall for an undetermined amount of time. By the time he settles, it’s 4 am and the first cracks of dawn are rising – he doesn’t sleep again.
The next night is the same, this time an endless montage of Marc screaming in pain after Jerez, of him high siding so severely that he gets double vision again, or shatters both arms, an ambulance taking him away on a stretcher as he shouts himself hoarse. It shifts into something different, darker. It starts okay, a normal race weekend, except Valentino is on the bike again and he kicks out at Marc, who goes flying. He doesn’t move again after that, dead or paralysed or some other awful fate. He shouts himself awake in the middle of the night once more. There is a soft, wet nose pushing against his leg – one of the dogs. He must have woken them. He shifts, moving to the side of the bed and letting his toes dig into the soft rug, trying to ground himself. He stands quietly and pads down into the kitchen. He has only slept a few hours, but the thought of going back to bed makes him feel sick. He makes a coffee and goes outside. He walks until the sun is rising and his feet hurt. He is aware he must look crazy, in sleep clothes and hair mused. He is glad no one else can see.
When he gets back, he looks in the cupboard for food but then he imagines Marc, still as a statue, and promptly loses his appetite. He doesn’t know what he does that day, time is thick and sticky, moving slowly as he simply exists. He dreams again at night, Valentino is stuck in the garage, unable to move or help as Marc slips from his bike, high sides, and crashes. Again, and again. Misano, Jerez, Silverstone, Sepang, Malaysia.  It turns fuzzy after the 30th crash, the 30th time he watches Marc die. This time he is in an unfamiliar home, empty and quiet. He calls out but gets no answer, so he begins to wander. The house is huge, cavernous and bare – all stark whites and polished surfaces. It feels vaguely familiar, certain items on the sides that tickle his memory. He pushes a door open, there’s an unmade bed and a helmet on the side. It clicks - Marc’s house. Valentino wants to run, but he also wants to stay. Curiosity gets the best of him. Marc’s room is the only part of the house which looks like him, it is strange to have such exuberance and such a boring house. He pushes open the adjoining door, opposite the bed, it leads to an ensuite – he sees the gigantic shower head. Then he sees the body. It’s Marc’s body with blood pooled around him and soaking his clothes, the source unidentifiable. There is an empty box of pills and a half-full vodka bottle next to him. Valentino dry heaves. He bends down, touching Marc’s face, searching for a pulse. Valentino screams.
He's crying when he opens his eyes, tears that roll down his cheek and turn into big, gasping sobs. He can barely breathe and he’s shaking. Getting his legs steady enough to walk into his ensuite takes nearly half an hour. He looks at the shower and automatically scans the floor. Almost immediately he is bent over the toilet, throwing up the minimal food he has eaten recently. He doesn’t look at the floor again, he is smart enough not to make the same mistake twice. When he looks in the mirror, he doesn’t recognise himself. There are dark purple bags under his eyes and his cheeks look gaunt. His face looks puffy and red from crying. He washes his face and cleans his teeth without meeting his gaze. It's like déjà vu, silently tiptoeing down his hallway to the kitchen before the sun has risen for the third time in as many days. They have blurred together into a montage of his own imagination. Between daytime and nighttime, he is plagued by horrible thoughts. He imagines Marc not recovering after Jerez or 2015, a life without Marc, and MotoGP without Marc. He doesn’t sleep again.
It’s Pecco who finds him, maybe 4 days later, barely functioning and no longer sleeping at all. He doesn’t know what day it is, and his only indicator of time is the sun in the sky. His house is a mess, and he doesn’t remember the last time he ate, let alone cooked. There is still glass on the floor from when he smashed it. Pecco looks at him with barely disguised panic which melts into sympathy when Vale feels tears burn in his eyes. Valentino guesses there's something rather off-putting about seeing your mentor in such a state. He watches in a daze as Pecco begins to tidy before ordering Valentino to shower. He finds new clothes out of his dresser, wincing when he realises how disgusting he is. The shower is nice, he turns up the heat as high as it will go, almost scorching, trying to burn the feelings out of him. Once he’s out of the shower, feeling slightly more human, he wanders back into the living after. Luca is pushing through the front door simultaneously, his eyes wide as he takes in the messy house and Valentino’s appearance.
“Oh, Vale” he whispers, striding forward and pulling his big brother into a hug. Valentino lets go, sobbing into Luca’s shoulder and letting the younger man haul him to the sofa. He clutches onto his little brother’s hoodie, shoving his face into the crook between his shoulder and neck. He tries to quieten his crying, but still ends up gasping in between sobs, it is slightly mortifying. At some point, he must fall asleep because the next thing he knows a glass of water is being pushed into his hands and a bowl of soup placed on the table. The washing machine is humming in the background, the curtains have been opened, letting in midmorning light, and the room is much tidier. Luce is standing over him, with Pecco loitering over his shoulder.
“When did you last eat?” Pecco asks, his trepidation apparent.
“Um, I’m not sure”, Valentino answers under his breath, embarrassed.
Luca sighs but does not reply, pushing the bowl towards Vale and staring at him expectantly until he begins eating. He hums appreciatively. It’s good, probably home cooked, and he is a little hungry. He knows once he’s finished, they’ll try to talk to him, he’s endlessly grateful to them for helping but it’s humiliating; he’s 46, and he should have his life under control. Pecco and Luca continue to tidy the house and feed him as if he is in his twenties and not them – he did not think he would ever sink so low. Once they are done, and Valentino has finished eating, they come back into the room, sitting on the opposite sofa and observing Vale in silence. He clears his throat awkwardly; it makes Luca sigh.
“You can’t keep doing this to yourself.” He starts, “you are going have to talk to him at some point, rather than wallowing in self-pity”.
Valentino stares at the floor, gulping a deep breath before he speaks.
“Did you know? About Marc, the surgeries, chronic pain, the suicide.” He asks; it is unclear whether he is directing the question at Luca or Pecco.
Pecco shakes his head, trying to catch Valentino’s eyes to convey his earnestness.
“No, not the suicide, or the painkillers – I don’t think anyone had any idea, apart from Alex. Dovi said he didn’t know either.” Pecco whispers. At the mention of Dovi, Vale whips his head towards Pecco.
“You spoke to Dovi?” Valentino questions, he knows his voice is doing something funny, the now familiar feeling of jealousy stirring within. Luca groans.
 “On Sunday, after the race. I knew about the pain, Marc never quite rode the same since Jerez, I asked him about it ages ago but knew that he was lying – I pieced together the rest myself.” Pecco reveals. “He hides it well, I am not sure how he does it, considering everything that we now know”
Luca interrupts him, “Vale, what happened?”
Valentino sighs, telling them about the past few days – researching Marc, freaking out, the nightmares. By the time he is done, they have established that it is Saturday, 3pm. Luca suggests that he should contact Marc, get some closure to it all or try again, but Valentino immediately vetoes the idea, countering that now is not the right time. Luca rolls his eyes, muttering under his breath about it never being the right time and then he changes tact. He suggests that the boys should come over, they could stay a few nights, maybe practice. Even though Valentino knows it is to keep an eye on him (because he's incapable of being an adult), he doesn’t protest. Some company sounds nice right now, he doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts at the moment, and maybe it could also distract him from Marc.
(Wishful thinking)
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krasnyel · 1 year ago
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return to me
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buttercupshands · 7 months ago
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Congratulations on nothing. I'm back to drawing LoV again after a bit of a break
those are mostly just a redraw practice for fun Toga is a try in "more canon way of drawing" with color practice too
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I'm sorry that it's in russian because I have to have some will to localize jokes that came into my head while drawing it
it's like... a robot au??? or something, mostly just a joke "what if AFo just built Tenko and changed what he wanted"
and this is a joke about our 'favorite' 419 plot twist so it's basically just a bunch of joked about AFO failing to get any way to get control instead Tenko's head is not empty. It downloaded games, friends and stuff about being a hero but NOT as a literal hero, more on "villains need help I'm a hero then" way
and yes that text behind is "hands" written all over the place bc I wanted to add hands in handwritten form
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I'm starting Mission to Zyxx Season 5 now, and I have feelings about that.
First, it generally scares me when people hype anything up at all because there is no guarantee that anyone values the exact same thing I do to the same degree. Even if I trust the creators of a thing to value something and try to do right by it, that doesn't always necessarily mean it will be successful, especially if that involves doing something wildly different than what made it good in the first place (I have been burned this way before). I guess I'm just hoping they continue the format of goofy improv shenanigans for the majority of it with something more planned and emotional in the finale if they want, like they've been doing all along. I'd think they would, and I've heard nothing bad about the ending, but I guess it still makes me nervous because I'm so close to the end and I want it so badly to stick the landing. I'm setting my expectations on the floor so I can be surprised instead of disappointed, but honestly, I don't need it to be better, I just need it to be on par with the rest.
Second, and more briefly, I'm happy it's (hopefully) ending before it has a chance to decline. I am so on board with that philosophy. But on the other hand, finishing a thing that I really, really like and knowing there's not another one out there gives me a special kind of heartache. Like, I know there will be other good media, and stuff that's good and unique in other ways, but I know for a fact that there are no other podcasts out there that have the same mix of a balance of off-the-wall improv and structured narrative, quality comedy, fantastical sci-fi setting and loveable characters, and high quality production. There are other things out there with many of those qualities, but nothing that checks every one of those boxes. It's a lightning-in-a-bottle thing that very much feels like the right people had to be in the right place at the right time to do it. Attempts to do it again would feel hollow because it had to be born out of necessity and passion and the talents of the people involved, so if you switch out the people it loses the reasons it's great, and if the same people tried to do it again it'd feel tired. That makes me so, so grateful it exists, but also so, so sad that it doesn't, and I'm 80% of the way done. When it's over, it's over.
Anyway. Now that that's all out there, I'm just gonna finish listening and have fun. Wish me luck.
#pickle pontificates#mission to zyxx#if you freaking flip on episode 1 after reading this and are like. wow. they're talking a lot about butts and ejecting people into space.#what is pickle on about#well. sue me i guess. idk#I have a lot of feelings about this as a general topic so this is moreso just the most recent thing that's touched on it for me#okay so time for essay 2 in the tags#1. I don't really talk about TAZ on here but it's something I carry with me whenever I think about this kind of thing#I think that in the same vein as MTZ it started off very goofy and directionless and then gave me more emotions than I thought it would#and it's not perfect but balance was a cultural landmark in a lot of ways#i enjoyed amnesty but it didn't have the same spark. what drew me to balance was all the goofy improvisation#and the fact that it was never serious until it was#amnesty (although i loved the setting/concept and enjoyed the characters) crossed the line into taking things more seriously#and while that's not a bad thing in and of itself the thing i enjoy about the mcelroys is when they're goofing around#that's what they're good at and it's why i like them#subsequent arcs suffered the same thing to varying degrees#i slogged through most of graduation for some reason and although ethersea was better i didn't finish it#taz dracula was the first time i've felt that same kind of fun while listening since balance#and I really think it was because they were just getting silly with it. sure yeah elizabeth the sports druid. lady godwin turns into a hors#whatever!#their dad gets to follow through on his ideas and do whatever crazy but kinda logical thing he comes up with#but i guess the point is that to me taz feels very lightning in a bottle. balance is what it's capable of being but is not the default#all the other right ingredients had to be in the soup#2. noragami. ohh noragami.#you wormed your way deep into my heart and then flopped out of it like a messy slimy dead fish#and i can't even be upset about it because the creators sounded so tired and unhappy with the way it ended#but there was so much potential. so many themes that DID hit hard throughout the story and could've knocked a man out cold#had they come back at the end#and they could have right up until so very close!!! it wasn't unsalvageable#in fact it still isn't. you'd hardly have to revise anything. you'd just have to write a different ending
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antiadvil · 4 months ago
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sorry people are annoying about your chronic illness lou i think you rock and it sucks that you have migraine 😔 you deserve to have so much fun at tit no matter what tho. love you x1000
thank you <3 i am really excited for tit!! i was talking with some friends the other day and i'm trying to convince a friend to visit for the show so we could go together and even if they can't make it it's going to be so fun. i'm for sure going to be meeting up with a friend who i met up with at WAD and there should be a few other tumblr people there who i'm excited to meet :) i'm planning to take a nurtec beforehand to hopefully help prevent a migraine from the lights/general excitement of the experience and i will have my nsaids and triptans with me in case that's not enough!
my real hope though is that whatever we do at my next neurology appointment will actually help this time (which it should... i think i've finally jumped through enough hoops for botox or a cgrp antagonist but i've thought that before and insurance has told me i am wrong) and i will maybe not need to worry so much about all the migraine stuff. summoning circle or whatever
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clone-wars-retteyo-au · 2 months ago
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One fun yet tricky aspect of my AU (that I tend to do with worldbuilding cultures in general) is cultural/societal flaws, one of the biggest ones being a very "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" attitude that ends up causing issues. This results in a lot of issues related to mental health in which a large percentage of clones (particularly older ones) are bottling up their feelings despite having some absolutely insane amounts of trauma (I have a whole lot to say about how the clones compartmentalize trauma in general, but that's not the point here).
A big plot point in the AU is that, after many have settled down and created a new status quo within the peaceful era, an "epidemic" of sorts begins to appear that primarily targets the oldest generation of clones (AKA the ones who fought in the war). Aggression issues, reckless/self destructive behavior, "sudden" depressive episodes, intense mental breakdowns and psychotic breaks, etc.
Crime amongst older clones skyrockets in a way that appears almost unexpected, as many of these clones used to be relatively put together and level headed. It is eventually revealed that the biggest cause is that their mental blocks have started breaking down, and the pent up trauma is all surfacing at once.
Some members of the younger generation who have only know times of peace are a bit less emotionally constipated and realize that maybe these guys need some help, but even the older clones who realized that their situation was messed up absolute refuse to deal with any of their issues or go to therapy because why would they need that? There's some other stuff, but you probably get the point.
As a whole, I just feel like even the most introspective of clones who realize their situation was messed up don't fully think about how far down it reaches. Some might think that they are fully aware of their trauma, but in reality, they aren't actually as aware of all of their issues as they might like to think. Or even if they know that their situation was messed up, they don't really register that "hey, maybe that caused some issues in my brain. Maybe I should work on that."
I enjoy this fandom's overwhelmingly wholesome portrayal of the clones as individuals and as a community but ngl their upbringing on Kamino would foster a ton of toxic attitudes that I'd like to hear more people's takes on.
I think esp where mental health and performance issues are concerned the vibes would be RANCID. Again I love wholesome clones, and I'm not saying there wouldn't be any of those, but the Kamino cloning facilities are exactly the sort of environment that produces ppl who say shit like "everyone is doing this, why can't you?" or "just be normal" or "stop being depressed". Imo this kind of thinking would have a big impact on aspects of clone culture and community (since there's no such thing as a community without problems like that).
Imagine literally having the same DNA as everyone else but you're failing at something that millions of people with your exact "hardware" have perfected before. Both your creators and your own brothers just place all those "default" expectations on you. And how does that translate to the battlefield? You simply cannot show weakness bc at home, that would make you an inferior product, and on the job it would jeopardize your mission and everyone around you. You'd be stuck in an endless cycle of "man up and get your shit together" and more exploration of that would be fascinating I think.
Overall I'm advocating for more clones that kind of just turn out to be bad people bc it's not like goodness is coded into their genes. It's not like they were raised to be sweet and goofy, but a bunch of them just choose to become sweet and goofy people despite everything. Food for thought
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malusokay · 3 months ago
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Little things that improved my life 𝜗𝜚˚⋆
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Accepting my sleep schedule. I'm a night owl; I focus at night, I'm calm at night, I'm motivated at night. For a long time, I tried to fight this since everyone always preaches getting up early, but since I started accepting my natural sleep schedule, I've been feeling a lot better and have become way more productive.
"drink more water". TEA. Tea is the secret here. I will be honest, I hate drinking water; it doesn't matter if I have a cute water bottle or a cute glass, I still hate it. TEA.
Replying quickly. I used to be one of those people who get a text message and think, "Oh, I'll reply to that later", and then just forget about it entirely. Now, I text back as soon as I see the message. This has not only improved my texting anxiety (which I cause on my own by now replying and then feeling bad) but also deepened my connection to my friends. <3
Keeping my circle small and being okay with that. Over the past months, I've had this sudden urge to expand my social circle and get to know more and more people, especially after I moved in August. However, this quickly ended in what I like to call my "social burnout". I was tired, annoyed, and overwhelmed. It took a few weeks for it to settle, but I've come to the conclusion that I would much rather have a smaller circle of people who I trust and love deeply than a huge group of friends, and that's totally okay.
Wearing what I like. Even though I live in a big city, I'd still say that my style can sometimes be a bit more extravagant than what most people wear, another point is that I'm very uncomfortable with pants so I only wear skirts, which is also considered a bit odd where I live. But over the past years, I've come to accept that and have become so sure of myself and found such comfort in my style that I now just wear whatever I like, and it makes every day a little bit nicer.
Reading and writing for pleasure. Reading books outside of my studies and spending time researching topics that simply interest me is such a great way to calm your mind. Same for writing, I always like to say that to write is to think; putting your thoughts on paper in cohesive and well-crafted sentences that you can then reread and think over again is such a liberating thing to do.
Reaching out more. fuck the whole "double texting" and "no contact" thing. If you want to speak to someone because they mean something to you, then just do it. Unless they specifically asked for space, you shouldn't feel bad about wanting to be in touch with them. Many even really appreciate it when you show that you truly care. Let's stop the nonchalant act, and instead, let's face deep emotions and true vulnerability. <3
As always, please feel free to share your own little insights and things that helped you improve comments! <3
my insta: @ malusokay
love ya ・:*₊‧✩
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peachesofteal · 8 days ago
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you bake when you’re upset or stressed - ghoap/f!reader
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," the quiver in your voice doesn't do much to dispel Simon's suspicion, and you toss the bowl full of brownie batter onto the counter. "I'm fine."
"You're baking at three in the morning, sweetheart. Did something happen?"
"I had a bad day, is all. It's nothing." The lie hisses through your teeth, jaw set tight as an attempt to keep everything bottled up where it belongs.
"What's going on?" Johnny's leaning against the counter in plaid pajama pants, gold ring on the chain around his neck glinting in the dimmed light of the kitchen. They both wear them, the rings, the ones complementing yours, a delicate twist of three threads, woven together to make one tight knit strand, looped together in a knot at the top of your finger where a diamond would normally go.
"Baked goods in the middle of the night." Simon sticks his finger in the batter, and gives you a knowing look. "You know I'll keep you here until you let it out." You shake your head.
"Let's go back tae bed then." Johnny's trying to coax you, gently, as always. It's his way. Soft, slow, sweet. Even keeled and sensitive.
Still, you won't budge.
It's not them. It's something else, something unsettled in your stomach you can't explain. It's you. Always you. Distraught. Disorganized. Disappointing.
"I need to finish these." Simon's focus is one of a predator's, and you're always prey. Analyzing, anticipating, nose to the ground on a scent. He’s already got you pegged, turned inside out. He knows.
When Johnny carefully wraps his fingers around your wrist and Simon hops onto the counter with his knees spread wide, you know you're done for.
You let them arrange you. Let Johnny push you between Si's thighs and cup your face, stroke your cheek. You go willingly, lacking a fight that was so prevalent only an hour before.
It takes two minutes of physical touch before you're crumbling.
"I had a terrible day," you sob, "I got a parking ticket and spilled my tea and missed an important email and then I bailed out of my work out halfway because I was miserable and then I didn't do anything at home, I wasn't productive, I didn't get any of the laundry done like I wanted and I left so many dirty dishes in the sink last night, I-"
"Okay, hey." Johnny rubs your arm, "hey, ye're alright dove. Ye're okay." He knocks his forehead against yours. "Jus' breathe f'me. Just breathe." You suck a long gasp in through your lungs, Simon tightening his hold enough to ground you.
"Who cares about the laundry? It's not even your week, and the dishes are our fault. You worked all day, we laid around. Should have done them."
"I know!" You cry, "I mean... you should have. But I left them and I feel like I'm always so disorganized, I'm always making a fucking mess."
"I'd clean up your mess everyday. I love you, your dishes and whatever else… none of it matters." Simon kisses your temple, "we both would. And there's nothing wrong with calling it during a workout if you're not feeling well. That's the right thing to do." You nod miserably, lingering in their hold, their arms, your heart rate slowly sinking back into a normal rhythm, your air coming easily.
"Now, do ye really want these brownies? Or do ye want to put the batter in the fridge?"
"Batter in the fridge." You press your face into Simon's shoulder, blocking out the light. You're suddenly so tired, energy drained from the emotional purge, and Johnny rubs your back.
"I'll put it away, ye two go get in bed. Put on a movie, an' I'll be in."
The bed is the coziest place in the house. The safest. The warmest. It's so easy to succumb to sleep and sweet dreams here, so it's no wonder by the time Johnny makes it back, you're barely awake. He tugs you away from Simon's snores and into his arms. "Ah love ye, dove. Messes an' all." You smile.
"I love you too."
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mv1simp · 1 month ago
Text
Vegas, Baby (I Wanna Ride) ♥️
Max Verstappen x Friend!Reader
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welcome to vegas baby, give me money, give me diamonds, give me rubies baby (get on your knees and beg me please to let you in me)
Tonight's a big night for the Redbull team in Las Vegas. Max Verstappen just won his 4th WDC, and you, his good friend, just won your first F2 race. After months of rising sexual tension, the line between you and Max starts blurring during a wild Vegas afterparty. Nothing beats crowning a 4th championship than passionate celebration sex, right?
Content includes: 18+ MDNI, smut, dom! Max, sub! Reader who’s playing mind games to seduce him, size kink, praise kink, cream pie, morally dubious relationship status but no cheating, drunk passionate sex with max post WDC is literally the epitome of my dreams
Max! The blonde Dutchman’s concentration shifts from one of the many post Las Vegas Grand Prix interviews he’s been coerced into to hear your familiar voice excitedly calling for him. His cute smile turns into an even more gorgeous grin as he spots you making a beeline across the media pen, long curls flying behind you. The cameras rapidly start stuttering as you practically leap into Max’s arms when he tightly hugs you back, lifting you up off the ground easily. Congratulations, Maxie! you gush excitedly, beaming up at him with genuine emotion. I’m so happy for you, you deserve this win so much!
Pink dusts the cheeks of the now 4 time world champion from your attention as he looks down at your shorter frame, his muscular arms snugly around your waist. You couldn’t care less about the sticky champagne drenching his suit, because your own RB suit is wet from your celebration of winning the F2 race earlier that day. You too, schatje, Max returns warmly, the paparazzi completely ignored. Winning your first race, in Las Vegas too, from P11? I’m so proud of you! Now you're blushing as he tousles your hair affectionately. You two are just good friends, of course, and Max is in a relationship with a model - even though it's a rather turbulent one. But the F1 gossip mill is always running rampant with rumours about your relationship with Max - especially with the overfamiliar touches you're both now leaving with lingering hands on each other.
The interviewers flock at the chance to interview the F1 and F2 champions together, who provide them with entertaining answers fueled by the 3rd G&T that Max has already started drinking from his Redbull bottle. You smirk and raise your own bottle to cheers against his, making Max’s icy blue eyes twinkle with amusement as he realises you’re very much on the same wavelength of starting celebrations early. Great minds think alike, right Maxie? you wink conspiratorially, making him laugh. The media reps are basically forgotten as the pair of you end up in your own conversation of excited yapping about adrenaline fueled moments from your races, littered with inside jokes lost to the viewers.
When his PR manager calls Max's name, trying to prevent anymore dubious scandals, the blonde looks apologetically towards you, promising that the two of you would have to celebrate properly tonight, okay? You nod eagerly as you watch him go for the rest of his media duties, your smile so wide that your cheeks almost hurt. You’re still buzzing with adrenaline of your own win, and know that your own manager won’t be happy with the pictures of you practically climbing Max to hug him, not an inch of space between you as he pulls you against him. After all, the tabloids love to speculate that there’s something more between the Redbull 3 time - now 4! - world champion and you, the rising talent in F2 with your Redbull Academy seat, and one of the very few women on the grid.
That’s how you and Max had met - on the Redbull practice circuit, the two of you the only ones wanting to practise in horrific conditions of rain and hail. He’d been curious to see another car with the familiar Bull logo out on the track, and then found himself even more curious when the helmet came off to reveal your cutely flushed face and pretty curls that fell down your back. You became fast friends, after you got along your initial awe of 3x WDC Max Verstappen casually giving you driving pointers. He was actually an incredibly humble and loyal friend, and you appreciated how much time he'd spent out of his busy schedule to help you. Meanwhile, Max found your conversation and humour so refreshing compared to other junior drivers who would suck up to him, and you were never afraid to give Max a piece of your mind with your fiery, passionate personality - similar to his. For the first time in months since he'd started dating his demanding girlfriend, who always told Max off for being too loud or making immature jokes, Max found himself genuinely relaxing and speaking freely.
So with all the time on the practise track, and then off the track when you moved to Monaco and began attending the same parties, padel games and hungover brunches with Max, it was no surprise the two of you had become good friends - with a lot of speculation from the public. Many of his fans and friends disliked his current relationship with the pretty model who constantly used Max's name for her own clout with little interest in his passion for racing and e-sim gaming. In comparison, the easy laughs and witty banter seen frequently between you and Max had many conspiring that you'd be a far better match for the F1 champion. Especially in today's Las Vegas interviews, where the growing electric chemistry was palpable to viewers even through the screen.
Of course, you'd never admit to anyone that you secretly agreed with all the gossip columns. You and Max were perfectly suited for each other - but you would never be able to tell him, especially as you didn't have the slightest idea if Max liked you back or even found you attractive since he was so outgoing and touchy with all his close friends. For the past couple of months you'd been secretly pining for him, eyeing his moody girlfriend jealously as she yanked him from celebrations to go home early. You'd starting catching yourself staring up at the gorgeous blonde with heart eyes when he'd patiently explain some new racing tactic to you. No guy could come close to Max in your mind, and you're becoming increasingly sexually frustrated as the object of your desires stayed out of your reach but you aren't hook up with anyone else. So much so that in the week before Las Vegas, you'd started having some very dirty dreams involving a tall, muscular, blonde ending training early and bending you over the hood of his car as he whispered accented Dutch in your ear. Gonna let me fuck you now, baby? You'll take all of my cock, just like I taught you, right?
You knew it was so, so wrong to secretly lust after your friend and teammate like this - especially since he was taken. But tonight, with the thrill of winning your first ever F2 race in frickin' Vegas of all places, at the same time as Max taking his 4th WDC...Well, let's just say you were feeling especially wild tonight. Taking another shot of gin as you got ready in your spacious hotel bathroom, you admire the sight of yourself in the mirror. You're lot more dressed up than usual, out of your racing suit for once . Smokey eyeshadow compliments your wide, doe eyes and long hair you’d blown out in loose curls, all to show off the main view of a tight, sparkly red minidress that pushed up your tits perfectly. You certainly looked the part of a winner out on a hunt for the best way to celebrate tonight, and your best friend agreed as she whistled when walking into the bathroom. Girl, goddamn, that dress looks insanely sexy on you! she gushed, making you shoot her a pleased smile. Trying to catch a certain someone’s attention tonight? she added with a teasing look. Don’t worry, Max won’t be able to keep his eyes off you!
You let out an embarrassed yelp and tell her to shut up, you were not into him like that! Used to your denials, your friend rolls her eyes fondly and tells you you’d been practically moaning his name when you’d been napping earlier, you little slut! She puts you out of your misery when your face goes as red as your dress by adding in that she’d heard his girlfriend wasn’t here tonight to celebrate - apparently, she was pissed he hadn’t flown her out on his private jet and he’d decided to take a break. Winking, she tells you that Max is all yours tonight! You shoo her away but your heart’s nervously skipping a beat with the news. Slipping on your impressive six inch stilettos with glittery straps circling around your legs, you make your way to the after party downstairs.
The bass is thumping, drinks easily flowing and the crowded hotel nightclub buzzing with energy tonight where many of the racing drivers and fans have come to celebrate tonight. You’d meant to go find Max when you got there, but are pulled into excited hugs by lots of your own friends and team members to congratulate you. Soon enough, a few hours have passed and you’re very pleasantly tipsy, giggling and twirling around on the dance floor with your girlfriends and quite a few guys who are running appreciative looks over your pretty figure. But when your wide doe eyes finally meet icy blue across the room, all other men are forgotten and you're making your way over in a heartbeat.
Schatje, Max greets you easily, interrupting the conversations people crowding around him were trying to start. You give him an adoring smile as you wrap your arms around those ridiculously wide shoulders of his when he pulls you into him. The alcohol you’ve both been drinking lowers your boundaries as you giggle into his ears you’ve been looking everywhere for him! He chuckles, telling you that he’d been right here, but you’d been too popular with everyone else tonight. Too busy for me now that you’re a F2 winner? he teases. You playfully push his broad chest, admiring how toned his muscles are under your freshly manicured palm. Maybe, you tease back. I only enjoy the company of drivers who are five time world champions, at least. Seen Lewis anywhere?
Max’s gorgeous blue eyes crinkle in amusement as he tips his head back to laugh, and you're staring up his thick neck, enjoying the sight of his angular jaw and plush lips with a cute freckle you wanted so desperately to kiss. Reminding yourself not to get too carried away until you had some idea how Max felt, you tugged at his biceps to indicate you wanted him to follow you. He easily took your hand in his, intertwining your fingers together as you pull him towards the second floor. This was a pretty frequent for you two, breaking off from a crowded party to yap and gossip about some drama or catch up without all eyes on you. Just as you reach the stairs, one of your team’s engineers calls out to you, giving you a tight embrace that lasts a few seconds too long to be a friendly congratulations. You don’t really notice though, too relaxed and happy, and gush your thank you’s to him as he compliments how well you drove today. He’s pretty cute, and you’re starting to get carried away in the conversation until a warm, large palm curls possessively around your curvy hips. A shiver runs up your spine as Max’s deep voice drawls out behind you that he was bored, can you two go upstairs now?
You immediately turn your focus back onto the attractive blonde, assuring him Of course, Maxie! Your arm wraps around his bicep to steady yourself as you two walk upstairs, your high heels clicking against the marble floor. Your abruptly forgotten engineer receives a rather smug smirk from Max. When you’re finally alone in a tiny powder room, small enough that you have to stand close together with the locked door but well lit by an illuminated mirror atop the counter, Max can’t resist a snarky that engineer seemed very into you.
You dismiss Max’s claims, telling him to stop joking around as you leaned into the mirror to repply your lip gloss. No, he was definitely checking you out, Max responds behind you. His already deep accent you’d always had a thing for turns even huskier. Can’t blame him though…you look fucking incredible tonight.
Desire curls in your gut as you gasp at his unexpected compliment, glancing to see Max’s blue eyes locked onto you through the mirror. The Dutchman’s gaze is sharp despite the tipsy flush on his cheeks as it wanders up your lush thighs, accentuated by your stilettos, over your juicy ass and hips before coming to meet your pretty eyes. There’s no denying the hungry expression he wears, especially as you slowly finish applying your lip gloss, drawing his attention to your tempting pink lips. He looks like a lion starving to sink his fangs into his next meal.
You swallow, suddenly feeling a little shy as you avoid his gaze, even though you'd dolled up tonight just for him. You should be saying something like that to your girlfriend, you say suddenly. Where is she, anyways? Max rolls his eyes at the reminder, unamused with the change of topic. Fuck knows, he says exasperatedly. I don’t care anymore, we’re taking a break. You turn to face him, raising an eyebrow as you coyly ask Just a break? What, she’s trying to find a billionaire because a F1 millionaire just isn’t cutting it?
Max chuckles at your not so subtle dig, knowing how you felt about his rather superficial girlfriend. But instead of letting it go, tonight you decide to continue and ask him why he was still with her? He shrugs, telling you it was just easier at this point to stay with her instead of the drama of a messy breakup, and dating hot but 2D models was what everyone expected of F1 drivers anyway.
You narrow your eyes, a little annoyed now, and step closer to Max to announce that’s stupid, since when did he do what others expect of him instead of what he wanted? Besides, he deserved a girlfriend who actually cared for him as a person, who celebrated each of his wins and losses, and on a night like tonight - well, he should be getting whatever he wanted from her, you added playfully. You’ve ended up so close that Max can feel the warmth of your soft tits pressed up against his chest, the heels you’re wearing helping your height. He can't resist admiring at the way your cleavage bounces every time you passionately speak.
Whatever I want, huh? Max murmurs lowly, his blue eyes dark with desire as he suddenly leans down, making your eyes widen and thick lashes flutter. His thumb softly brushes across your cheeks to press against your lower lip, parting your mouth slightly. He’s silent for a moment, choosing his next words carefully, and then - What if all I want is you?
You gasp, both with excitement and shock at the realisation that Max returned your feelings. A coy smile appears on your lips as you press your hands to his firm chest, leaning up to whisper into his ear that he was lucky, then, because you'd been looking for a way to congratulate him properly.
He grins wickedly as you return his hungry look, your normally sparkling eyes now sultry with desire. Oh yeah? he says lowly, large palms skimming your waist. And what were you thinking would be the proper way to say congratulations?
There’s no going back to friendship after this, the blurred line well and truly vanishing. Thank god, because you couldn’t take the sexual frustration any longer. You’d heard that the sex after winning in Vegas is really good…and since he’d ended up winning the championship, he deserved to fuck you long and hard, right?
Max’s breath hitches at your offer, his already semi erect cock hardening. Fuck, schatje, he breathes, his lips so close to yours they’re almost touching. That mouth of yours…I didn’t know it could be so dirty. Makes me want to ruin it. You smile with faux innocence, batting your lashes up at him. Why don’t you, Max? Ruin me, then.
That’s all it takes for his lips to lock into yours, a gentle first kiss between friends quickly turning into a sloppy, heated make out that has you drooling against him. Been wanting to do this forever, Max groans in between deep kisses. You giggle, asking him what his girlfriend would think of that. Who? Max says, looking genuinely confused as he leans in again to slide his tongue in to explore your mouth. Oh, the ex? You laugh into the kiss, knowing any other woman would be out of the picture by the time you’ve shown Max just how he deserved to be treated tonight.
Suddenly you’re being lifted up easily to sit on the marble counter, squealing at his impressive strength. He greedily presses against you, your lush thighs parting easily around his narrow waist. It’s a good thing the club’s bass is so loud, otherwise any passerbys would hear the wet, sensual moans of you passionately making out. Max’s bear paws of hands squeeze your thighs and plump ass firmly, making your minidress ride up so he could feel your dampening panties as you start grinding against his impressive bulge through his jeans. Fuck, schatje, you’re already this wet? Max breathes, blue eyes blown with desire when he pulls back for a second as you both pant. Only for you, Maxie you say adoringly, running manicured hands along his broad shoulders and into his soft, blonde locks. Whatever you want tonight, remember? So tell me, what would the world champion like next?
Max inhales sharply at your obedient words, at how you’re looking up at his darkened blue eyes with so much devotion. It fills him with an inexplicable need to have you all to himself, not just tonight but every night from now. You decide to give him a gentle nudge, guiding his large palms to cup your full breasts through your dress. You keep looking at my chest, Maxie. Do you want to see what’s underneath my dress? Max’s jaw drops open as you help his fingers tug down your neckline, letting it fall to your waist and leaving you half dressed in a lacy navy blue bra.
My favourite colour, Max says absentmindedly, too distracted with the heavenly vision in front of him. When you giggle and tell him you know, that’s why you wore it! he groans lowly, yanking the lace down so your full breasts lay exposed to his hungry gaze. So fucking pretty, he breathes, you look so good in my colours, schatje.
You can’t respond because you’re moaning again from his thick fingers squeezing your bouncing tits, circling your sensitive, hard nipples before latching his mouth over your areolas. Oh, Maxie! Mmm, feels so good! He hums with your tits inside his talented mouth, enjoying your sweet moans in his ears as he leaves a trail of hickeys over your chest and neck. You’re getting wetter by the second, and judging from the large, hard bulge you’re desperately humping, you’re certain Max is just as turned on as you are. But tonight’s about congratulating him, and you can’t get too distracted, tugging at the white t-shirt he’s wearing. Your turn!
Max smirks, and yanks his shirt off in half a second. Now you’re temporarily short circuiting at his broad pecs, ogling his thick upper arms and shoulders that taper down to his slim hips. You can’t resist tracing a path down his defined abs with your manicured fingers, making Max tease you with like what you see, schatje?
You shut him up as your hand comes to rest just above his belt buckle, brushing his blonde happy trail but going no further. Hmm, I’ve seen better, you tease back coyly. His jaw hardens as you come tantalisingly close to where he really wants to feel you. When he wraps his hand around yours to stop your games, you surprise him again when you bring your joined hands up to your lips. Curiosity piqued, he watched you intently as you press the pad of his pointer finger onto your swollen lips like he’d done earlier…and then part your lips to slide him inside till the knuckle. Oh, fucking hell, Max hisses lowly.
You don’t miss a beat, staring right into his eyes sultrily as you swirl your tongue around his thick finger, letting him imagine what else your drooling, wet mouth could do. He swallows when you release him with a pop, only to oh so innocently bat your lashes at him to say did he have anything bigger for you to lick?
Max has a hand tangled in your curls instantly, pushing your all too willing body down onto your knees as he swears, saying if he’d known you were going to be such a good girl for him he’d have fucked you months ago. You whine desperately, making him completely entranced as you press soft kisses to his clothed erection. He unbuckles himself for you, the small room silent except for the clinking of metal making both of you impatient. You gasp when his generously sized cock emerges from his Calvin Klein boxers, his pink tip resting right in front of you. He almost cums right there when you look up at him with those wide doe eyes, the very picture of innocence but your filthy words anything but. It-it’s so big, Maxie. Even larger than what I’d dreamed about.
And then you’re messily kissing up and down his engorged shaft, smearing your lipgloss all over as you pant and drool over his length. Oh my fucking god, Max groans, head slamming into the door behind him. That mouth of yours, baby- Jesus fucking Christ.
He’s rendereded speechless when you begin suckling on his hypersensitive tip, circling it with full concentration just like you’d done with his finger. You don’t break eye contact, pulling back slightly to pump his base with two hands and blow air over his angry, swollen cockhead. Tastes so good, Maxie. ‘M gonna worship your cock tonight, just like my world champion deserves. Your throat goes completely lax as you take his impressive length all the way to the base, gurgling and drooling messily as you hollow your cheeks to suck firmly.
Fuck! Jesus, schat, baby, I’m gonna - Max is panting heavily, cheeks adorably red and flushed as he tangles his large palms into your curls. Go-gonna fuck that insane mouth of yours now, okay?
You hum in agreement, sending vibrations running down his shaft. He doesn’t waste any time then, dragging your face forward and roughly thrusting himself into your wet, slack mouth. Loud, obscene sounds of the dirty blowjob you’re performing for him are filling the air, and there’s no doubt anyone listening in the hallway would be able to tell exactly what going on behind the door. But the both of you couldn’t care less, too far gone. And if your mindblowing deepthroat hadn’t been enough, you’re whimpering in between thrusts that he’s so big, you bet he could fuck your tits at the same time as your mouth-
He doesn’t even need to process that sexy mental image because you’re now using your free hands to cup your bouncing breasts and wrap them snugly around the base of his cock, his leaking tip still thrusting in and out of your mouth. Like this, see Maxie?
Max roars in approval at the filthy display, the warmth of your soft tits sending him over the edge. Gonna cum now, he pants breathlessly. Open your mouth for me, baby, you’ll swallow it all, right?
You follow his command immediately, desperately saying please, please Maxie, wanna taste you so bad, you can cum wherever you want-
He slaps his heavy cockhead against your chubby cheeks first, and then onto your pink tongue as you poke it out, collecting drops of precum from his angry red tip. He’s meanly chuckling as you go cross eyed from his cock whacking your face, squealing with excitement. Guess the only thing that shuts you up is my cock in your mouth.
You nod eagerly, panting with your lips wide open expectantly as you stare up at him, your pretty makeup completely destroyed from the messy blowjob. The sight of you so desperate for him is what tips him over, and with a silent moan he jerks himself off to flood your mouth with a generous, creamy load. So much that you struggle to swallow it, some of it leaking out the corners of your lips to drip onto your heaving tits. But you take most of it just like you promised him, licking your lips rather sluttily before opening your mouth to show him. See, Maxie? Drank it all for you.
He yanks you up off the floor, pressing your soft jiggling chest up against his hard pecs as he rewards you with a deep kiss. Did fucking amazing, sweetheart, he sighs into you. That was definitely the best head I’ve ever gotten. You flush from his compliment, sultry eyes turning shy now from his praise. But the Dutch Lion’s appetite isn’t satiated tonight. He pulls your dress back up, wiping away your smeared gloss and smudged mascara before redressing himself. But we aren’t finished just yet, schatje, he croons as he gently untangles your curls from your dangly earrings. You bite your lip, hanging onto his each word as he says After all, you’d won in Vegas too. He’ll have to show you how good the sex is, now.
Desire darkens your bright, dazed eyes at the thought of Max finally fucking you. You bury your face in his thick neck, wrapping your arms around him as you plead for him to please take you upstairs, you needed him so bad, you couldn’t take it anymore.
He chuckles at your cute begging, discreetly leading you down the hallway that’s thankfully empty while keeping you firmly pressed to his chest. As much as he’d wiped away the streaks of mascara, any of your friends would only have to take one look to know what you’d been upto. The ride up the discreet service elevator is another test of self restraint, the camera in the corner stopping the both of you from outright debauchery. But you can’t stop weakly grinding against Max’s muscular thigh that separates your plush legs, clinging onto him as he whispers dirty things in your ear with that Dutch voice you loved. Tell me what kind of naughty dreams you’ve been having about me, he demands. And of course, you oblige, turning his ears pink and voice huskier when he finds out just what you’d been secretly pining for.
He lifts you up, your legs straddling his waist easily when you finally reach your floor, an carried you down the hallway. After you’re clumsily swiping your room card with Max’s very distracting lips leaving kisses to your throat, you find yourself inside your dark hotel room at last. The Vegas city lights stream in from the floor to ceiling windows, illuminating Max’s handsome form as he looks down to drink in the pretty sight of you. Fucking finally, Max groans, ripping his shirt and pants off in one go and kicking his shoes to the side. He wraps an arm around your waist to pick you up again and gently toss you onto the king sized bed, making you giggle excitedly as you land with a bounce. And then he’s on top of you, eyes dark and a cocky smirk on his face as he presses his warm length against your soaked panties. See what you’ve done to me, schatje? I’m already hard again. Completely ruined me for anyone else with this perfect body. He finishes his sentence with a slow roll of his hips, making you moan breathily at the contact, with your panties so wet they’re practically stuck to you and you can feel all of him.
He unzips you out of your dress, leaving heated kisses all over your body as he admires the sight of your navy lingerie set, telling you he’d buy you ten more so you could wear them for him after every race when he fucked you. You keen at his attention, at the thought that Max wants you again and again, eyes teary as you start to try and grind your hips against him. You’ll have to be patient, schatje Max says in an amused tone, sounding much more in control than the moaning, dripping mess he’s turned you into. You teased me so much after all, it’s only fair that it’s my turn now, right? He kisses your ankles softly as he unties your strappy heels, letting them fall to the floor. And then, with a strong hand on each of your delicate ankles, he hungrily takes in the sight of your dripping pussy. Your tummy flutters almost nervously in anticipation of what’s coming.
Turns out Max, just like you, always held true to his promises. You’d had to be very patient as he had his turn of teasing you mercilessly, making you cum all over his thick fingers that stretched you out and skilled tongue that found your sensitive clit almost immediately. And when he’s finally ripping the condom packet open and slapping your core with his heavy cock, you’re practically crying.Your aching pussy finally gets what she needs when you’re stuffed impossibly full as he slides in to the hilt.
The sight of you completely ruined underneath him, tits bouncing with each powerful thrust he delivers, your nails burying into his strong arms to steady yourself, unlocks a carnal desire in Max. Whatever I want, right schatje? He hums, bending down so your sweaty foreheads touch, and you nod quickly through your deep pants. Even if I wanted to fuck you raw? You’ll let me cum inside your tight little pussy, hmm?
He knows he has you right where he wants as you squeeze down on him instinctively when you imagine him inside you with no protection. Ohmygod Maxie, yes, please, fuck your cum into me, please! The Dutchman’s outright filthy request has your head spinning with desire and you’re babbling half incoherently. Pulling out momentarily and making you whine, he yanks the condom off before sinking back into your creamy hole. You both moan in pure ecstasy at the euphoric feeling of skin to skin sex.
Max fucks you in multiple positions that night, passionately into the soft mattress, meanly up against the cold window, and roughly on the plush sofa chaise with your face buried in the cushions and your red asscheeks up in the air for him to slap. Next time I win you’ll let me fuck you here, too, okay baby? he demands as he fingers your winking back hole while still thrusting into your dripping cunny. You can only let out a high pitched whine, jiggling your hips back onto his cock in approval, too fucked out to respond with words at this point. And when he finally cums, his impressive stamina outlasting yours on his second orgasm, he makes sure to sink in deep and flood your heavenly walls with his thick white release. You give him an open mouthed lazy kiss as a silent thank you for the best fuck of your entire life, hoping he got the message.
You’re pretty certain he did, because the next morning you’re awoken by a heavy length pressed up against your ass. You’d both passed out in the (thankfully clean) spare second bed after running through the shower together for five minutes to clean up the sticky mess last night. The 4th championship celebration sex was definitely record breaking , Max murmurs into your ear playfully. But it’s not complete without the slow morning after sex. You’ll let me show you now, right schat?
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A/N: WAR IS OVER THE CHILDREN ARE OUT, BIRDS SINGING CAUSE MAX IS RIGHTFULLY 4 X WDC 😭😭😭 the way all the haters were silenced. Everyone’s trying ride his dick now including skysports I love to see it, as they should
Also guys 10 followers away from 2k?!? Wtaf 😳 I’m so sorry for the delayed post, thank you for being so patient. Work has been really busy this month but going on Xmas break in a couple weeks so will have more time to post!!!! Keep sending me ur saucy asks yall I love reading them <3
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prefrontal-bastard · 2 years ago
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I’m not sure if this is permitted in other countries, but here in the US, advertisers are allowed to use any kind of malignant psychology they want in their ads so long as those ads fit within the allotted time-frame.
Back in high school, my class watched a video on how a certain Coca-Cola advertisement was made. You may have seen it, but for those who haven’t: The ad featured a cinematic montage of a crowded beach with smiling thin white people enjoying their leisure time and drinking Coca-Cola out of a common plastic bottle.
The big takeaway from this video was that the ad wasn’t actually advertising Coca-Cola. It was advertising a lifestyle. By associating Coca-Cola with a desirable lifestyle (as well as qualities associated with desirability) it plants the association of “Coca-Cola” with “happiness” in people’s subconscious minds.
This becomes clear when you consider who the ad was meant for. The target audience wasn’t the smiling thin white people that the ad featured, but instead it was people who wanted to be smiling thin white people. This was an ad for the Gen X mom of three kids who worked full-time, who relied on shelf-stable foods to keep everyone fed, and whose nervous system was chronically fried from the stress of never having adequate time for herself.
If she was at the grocery store, and saw the very same bottle of Coca-Cola featured in that ad, she’d be far more likely to pick it up than she was before watching it. If she didn’t anticipate finding relief for her stress, then she could at least drink up the idea of it.
Of course, the thing about ads is that they stop working. Eventually, people’s minds grow wise to the fact buying a certain product doesn’t actually grant them the lifestyle associated with them.
But there’s a lot of other tricks ads employ beyond this.
The reason why Geico is the first company you consider when thinking about buying car insurance is because of the calm, consistent nature of their ads and the fact they’re ubiquitous enough to be familiar. Their mascot forms a kind of parasocial rapport with the audience, so Geico already feels familiar to you by the time you’re looking to buy insurance.
Cereal brands use cartoon-character-like mascots to make their product memorable to kids who can’t read. The reason why so many cereal mascots exhibit such frenetic, possessive behavior is to teach kids to emulate that behavior to compel parents into buying them the cereal, especially if they saw that behavior rewarded in the ad (with the cereal).
You only really see ads for apps on an app-based devices for a reason.
Then there are the ads that don’t look like ads, but look like people on TikTok sharing a new secret product with their audience using the only communication format we regularly trust: word-of-mouth.
And let’s not forget the sheer magnitude of ads that exist. I can’t go outside without seeing them. I can’t watch videos online without exposing myself to ads that wants to skewer my emotions within 10 seconds.
There’s no reprieve from it unless I wall myself off from our culture entirely.
Ads are parasites to both culture and to cognition, and they must be regulated.
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allophonicmess · 5 months ago
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Too Sweet
Logan Howlett x fem!Reader
Act 1
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Remember that inspo I posed the other day? I coudn't let it go and decided to write a three part fic based on it.
Warnings: spoilers for Deadpool& Wolverine, descriptions of a panic attack, angst, implicaded age gap
word count 2k
No beta and English isn't my first language
there will be fluff later on but sadness first:
Too Sweet
Logan felt a great mix of emotions since he had followed that red-ass clown Wade into this universe. Most of it was anger, confusion, rage… But In that moment as he was sat on the black beat-up couch among Wade’s friends… He was overwhelmed.
Not by sensory overload, although that casserole that blind Al had made did stink up the place with garlic-
He was overwhelmed by the feeling of happiness, joy and companionship of the people around him. He hadn’t felt that way in ages if he ever did at all. He never felt that way with his team before everything happened.
He liked them, sure. But this company of weirdos shared a Kinmenship he never got to experience.
“Hey, Peanut! Are you angrily staring off into space to allow for good exposition?” Wade had plopped down on the couch right next to him. His jeans-clad thigh rubbed right up to his. At this point, Logan had given up on trying to keep him out of his personal space.
The older man frowned and stared at Wade next to him. His beer was getting warm but he didn’t feel like giving up his spot on the couch.
“The fuck are you talking about?” He huffed, taking another sip of his beer. But Wade just clicked his tongue, scooting even closer to Wolverine.
“Aww, you know what I mean! You are big and gruff and don’t talk that much… It’s kinda hard to capture you in writing you know. There are only so many words in the English language to describe your grunting and-“
“Are you done?” Logan sighed, finishing his drink. He was starting to regret coming with Wade. Getting drunk in some shit hole of a bar sounded better than listening to Wade's babbling.
“See! That’s what I mean. Sigh is nice, sure but it doesn’t quite capture the nature of those beautiful noses you make, big boy.” Wade petted Logan's thigh, which the older man quickly pulled away as he stood up abruptly.
“Jesus fucking- Can’t you annoy someone else? You got all of these muppets to talk to. Stop bothering me god damn it.” Logan placed the empty bottle down on the couch table. He scanned the room, looking for someone else that Wade could annoy to death. His eyes landed on the brunette… Vanessa… He knew that something had been going on between Wade and her. He never told him the details but from the pining look Wade gave her and the sad as fuck sighs he made, it was clear that the motherfucker wasn’t over her.
“Go and talk to the girl for god's sake. She might be the only one here to appreciate it.” He grinned at Wade, enjoying how his stupid grin faltered even for just a second. He leaned down on Wade's level, whispering to him in an overly joyous manner. “It might even get you laid.”
They stared at each other for a hot minute. Both men tying to provoke the other into action. But Logan was getting bored so he pushed “I might try if you don’t have the balls-“
“Fine!” It came out way too loud. Wade got up quickly trying to keep up his jolly attitude. “Fine, I will. But not because you said so.”
“Or threatened you.”
“You didn’t threaten me.”
“Sure, if you need to believe that” Logan got back onto the couch, now stretching out lazily across it. He closed his eyes, pretending to snooze.
There was no witty comeback, which surprised Logan. But it only came to show that Wade was serious for once.
Logan would never tell but he warmed up to Deadpool. He respected the man, despite his annoying and borderline brain-rotting bad humour. But he had principles. He cared for those around him, loved them dearly and would do anything to protect them. He did in fact. Logan spread out on his worn leather sofa is proof of it. He hated to admit it but Wade was the better man of the two. He didn’t let those he loves down, running away like the drunk asshole Logan is. Wade would have come to help her, would have-
The obnoxiously loud ringing of Wade’s apartment doorbell ripped Logan out of his self-deprecating talk. He blinked against the bright ceiling light and watched as Wade sighed softly. He had just started his conversation with Vanessa and it seemed to be quite a good talk from the looks of it. He seemed frustrated to be ripped away from it. Wade nodded softly, towards Vanessa, excusing himself but he was stopped by Colossus.
“No please Wade, I get it. You seem to be engaged in an interesting conversation.” The 7’5’’ metal man said, touching Wade by the shoulder to turn him back towards to woman. Logan huffed, he wasn’t the only one trying to get Wade laid.
The giant stomped towards the door, turning the doorknob that looked comically small in his silver hand to let the latecomer in.
“Hi! I’m so sorry for being late. I still had to finish some work. It’s the end of the semester, you know how it is.” A sweet voice called from outside.
Then two things happened at the same time. It was like a push and pull.
Ellie, Yukio, even that odd taxi driver… they all turned towards the door in excitement. Smiling and wooing at the woman that just entered the apartment with a cake carrier tucked under her arms.
Logan on the other hand? He felt like he couldn’t breathe. He sat there, staring as Colossus pulled her into a big hug, lifting her off the ground before taking the container off her hands to allow the others to greet her. She was smiling, laughing at some joke Ellie had cracked at her.
She looked younger. Maybe she was, who knows how time worked in this universe. Or it was the lack of stress she had to face, no heartbreak, no constant rejection from a bastard that couldn’t see that the best thing was right in front of him.
“Ah, there you are! We were starting to miss you!” Wade pulled her into a tight hug. He seemed to be content. And the older man cursed himself for even caring about it.
She hadn’t noticed him yet, or so he hoped. Maybe she didn’t know him. It would be for the best.
“Yeah, I already told Piotr, I had to finish some lesson planning at the academy before the school year is over.” She replied as she greeted Vanessa and the rest of the group.
“Oh right. You are the only one that actually knows what she’s doing at that school.” Wade joked, earning a playful remark from Colossus.
So she also studied at a human university before starting at the school, Logan noted. He was still stuck on the couch, feeling unable to move as he kept staring at her.
“You know her?” The sudden comment coming from right next to him made Logan flinch.
“Whoa, relax man. I just noticed you staring at her for like 5 min straight. And you don’t seem too happy about her being here.” Ellie stood next to him, casually watching the scene just as he did.
“None of your fucking business.” Logan managed to spit out. While he did get startled, the interruption helped him to finally feel able to move again. And it happened just at the right moment. He needed to get the fuck out of there.
Ellie just huffed, watching Logan get up on shaky legs. It could just be from the constant level of alcohol in Logan’s blood, making his knees weak, or the age. But she suspected that there was more.
Yet Logan’s attempt at a quiet escape was hindered by Piotr, calling him to come to the kitchen to introduce the two.
“Come to kitchen! I want you to meet my good friend Y/N. She also works at the school. You will like her”, the man sounds proud. He should be.
Logan ignored him, pushing his way through the small crowd with shaky steps. Why was he sweating for god's sake?
“Logan!”
“No” He called, breathing was getting harder again.
“Logan!”
“I’m good! I’m-“ He finally reached the door, rattling the doorknob and cursing that his fucking fingers got shaky. Everything was too loud and too hot and too-
“Wade, it’s fine. He doesn’t have to.“ She tried to stop the two men next to her from calling the man over. He was clearly in distress and it hurt her to watch him fumble on his way out. There were only so many people that were scared of her outside the battlefield.
She had met “their” Logan, but only briefly at some anniversary event. They had simply mismatched their time at the school. He left shortly after Y/N started working and they hadn’t met much. She wondered what the other her must have done to him to cause such a reaction.
Finally. Fucking finally. The door opened and Logan simply burst into the hallway, rushing down the steps to feel the air rush back into his lungs. A fucking embarrassment. That is what he was. The Wolverine scared shitless by a woman that doesn’t even know him.
But the other one did and it killed her.
“Logan, what in the ever-loving- fuck was that?” Wade had run after him. He just couldn’t leave it alone, could he?
“Fuck off.” Logan breathed weakly. He felt tears prickling in his eyes and it made him hate himself just a little bit more.
“You just running off? Scared of a girl?” Wade kept pushing, following Logan as he walked down the familiar street towards his bar of choice. That being the cheapest and quietest he could find in the city.
“Scared you can’t get one off? I don’t wanna make predictions but man, I think she is into the dark brooding type” he kept pushing “ Or you know what? If I can’t get Vanessa laid I might try with her, I mean she is quite-“
That made Logan snap. Turning around and impaling Wade against the closest wall. Both sets of claws out and push into the other man's torso. He only groaned in return.
“Don’t you fucking dare! Don’t you fucking-“
“Okay, okay, whoa ow… man-“ Wade coughed, lifting his hands in surrender. “ I was only joking man. Unfair. Fuck. I am unarmed-urgh”
Logan retracted the claws letting Wade drop to the floor. He knew the man was joking, he should. But it was all too fucking much too soon. He wouldn’t let it happen again. And how to best prevent the inevitable heartbreak? Don’t even let her get close, to begin with. She didn’t deserve it. She never did in the first place and he would do anything in his power to stop it from happening to her.
“So, you are just leaving me hanging? It’s your party too, you know.” Wade got up, inspecting the bloody holes that stained his new shirt. He cursed softy.  “Damn, it was brand new. Ruining a perfectly good shirt for the exposition”
“Don’t wait for me,” Logan said, turning away from Deadpool. A cheap bottle of whisky was waiting for him to calm his nerves and forget about that fucking stunt. He won’t see her again, not even talk to her or talk about her. It’s for the best. She would agree if she knew,  Logan was sure of it.
New requets for being added to the list via comments on the Masterlist post, please. That helps me to keep things organized :)
Do comment here for feedback and spreading some love ❤️
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reidmania · 6 months ago
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WHY WAIT | Spencer Reid.
summary; reader works at a childcare and realises she wants kids sooner than she expected she would and struggles to admit that to Spencer after their agreement to wait a few years.
warnings; 16+, slight angst, a bit suggestive at the end. fem reader, childcare worker reader, mentions babies, wanting babies, avoidant reader, guilt, feeling scared to talk about emotions, talks about feeling empty, references sex, makeout, talks about trying for a baby. lmk if i missed anything
a/n ; i imagined this as post prison reid but literally any works
Your head is almost a foggy mess when you step into the bau office out of the elevator. Your hand grouped your hair before tying it up into a mess of a ponytail but you couldn’t find it to care as your eyes skimmed over the room for your husband.
You had finished work almost an hour ago, to where you were supposed to go out with Spencer for a date night — it was an unspoken agreement between you two that no matter how busy you were, at least once a week you would go out for a date night. It was important for your relationship because of how much Spencer was away.
Working at a childcare had its ups and downs, being vomited on, the headaches from toddlers screaming tantrums and annoying parents weren’t always the best or easiest thing to deal with — but you were doing what you loved.
The little letters or flowers you would be given by kids throughout the say, the big grins on their faces in the mornings, and watching their curious faces grow more and more was so rewarding. The job fit you perfectly it allowed you to be able to be nurturing and caring, like you were in your everyday life.
Normally you worked in the toddler room, which you enjoyed the absolute most, having little conversations, answering their hundreds of curious questions, and reading to them. A few weeks ago however, you had to take over the baby room because one of your coworkers were out sick and causing the baby room to be out of ratio of babies and adults, whereas the toddler room was perfect — you were able to help out, it had been a continuous thing, you would go in and help out whenever due to the low staff in the baby room, over the last few weeks you had spent many days in there.
Only it didn’t go exactly as you expected and not at all in a bad way, you had something about you that was so enhancing to little humans, their adored you — It was no different with the babies.
Only holding them and rocking them to sleep, feeding them bottles and watching them coo and smile made you think too deeply. You couldn’t stop your mind from travelling to the idea of kids of your own.
You and Spencer had talked about it, you wanted kids and he wanted kids, that was definite, but you both also agreed you would wait a few years until Spencer was ready to teach. He didn’t want to risk the chance of not coming home to you and his children — he didn’t want to leave you alone.
And you were completely okay with that. You worked around kids all day so there was no rush for you, you were completely content with the decision. Until recently.
Until it was all you could think about all day, and the entire way home, until you were laying in bed thinking about it, until everyday doing anything it felt like there was something missing, someone missing.
You smiled as your eyes laid on Spencer who was sitting at his desk finishing Paperwork, the only reason you were here was because he had some extra work to do and would be here later than he planned but he wanted to see you. So he called you once you finished and suggested you come here to hang out with him until he finished and then you would go on your date.
You walked up to him, hand gently brushing over his shoulder. He tilted his head to look up at you, the smile on his lips arrived almost instantly after seeing your face. “Hey” He smiled, hand reaching back placing itself ontop of your hand that was on his shoulder.
You repositioned your hand, clasping it over his own. “Hi honey” You leant down to place a gentle kiss on the top of his head. You could feel his thumb rubbing back and fourth over the back of your hand.
“How was your day?” He asked, shuffling around on his chair to be facing you completely as he swung your hands together gently, everything he did was so gentle. You couldn’t stop your mind from imagining him holding your baby in his arms, playing peekaboo with them.
Your mind didn’t stop there. You could just imagine your baby wrapping its small hand around Spencers ring finger where his wedding ring stayed. You could see it all playing out in your mind.
“Baby?” He said after your lack of response, noticing clearly your mind was elsewhere. You looked at him— you were looking at him before but you were really looking at him now, out of your daze.
“Sorry, What?” You apologise as you realise you had basically ignored whatever he was saying, making a small puddle of guilt flood through your stomach.
He tapped his knee, encouraging you to sit down innocently. You did so without question after he repositioned slightly in order to make it more simple and comfortable for you. His hand rested gently against your thigh. “I asked how your day was.” He said softly.
You hummed, turning your head in order to be facing him. “Good” You nodded — purposefully not mentioning any details, too scared you may go into too much detail. You and Spencer had agreed on a timeline for your future and you knew how important timing was, and you didn’t want to ruin that for Spencer just because you had a bit of baby fever.
Or what you passed off as baby fever.
“Yeah?” He muttered, hand raising to brush untied strands of hair out of your face. You nodded in response, leaning into his touch as he hand paused, cupping your cheek slightly. “How was yours?” You ask, you hand trailed behind his head to rest gently in his hair.
“Good, I missed you” He said, head leaning back slightly into your touch. You smiled at the little thing, how his body relaxed at your contact.
“I missed you too, Im sorry I had to leave early this morning” You left before he woke up, which wasn’t normally the case but you were called in because a parent needed to drop off a kid extra early.
He just shook his head, bringing your free hand up to place a gentle kiss to your wrist. You heard your name causing you to turn your head, you smiled widely as you saw JJ — looking very pregnant. It had been a while since you had seen her, last time being at the start of her pregnancy, she would’ve been just over half way now.
“Hi!” You smiled widely, lifting yourself off Spencers lap to wrap your arms around the blonde girl, she reciprocated the action, smiling widely. “Hot mama!! you’re looking great” You smiled once you pulled away, referring to how good she looked.
She chuckled softly, “Thank you.” She said, her hand coming down to her belly, rubbing it gently. Your mind traveled slightly to the idea of you in that position, before you brought yourself out of it.
“When you two gonna start a little family of your own? He will need a friend” JJ teased lightly, a smile on her face.
You smile as you thought about your baby growing up with JJ’s, the idea of them having little playdates while you and JJ could mutually support one another, before your smile slipped slightly when you realised that wouldn’t happen.
You tried not to show it in your face as you pushed out a rough chuckle, shaking your head. You looked over at Spencer who’s eyes were on you with a soft smile on his face, before you looked at JJ.
“Oh no, not for a few more years” You said, you wondered if she could hear the lump in your throat as you talked, a lingering feeling of disappointment taking over your stomach as you plastered a smile on your face.
She frowned, looking between you and Spencer. “You would make amazing parents” She said, gushing slightly at the idea. “Seriously you would be the best mum, wouldn’t she?” She asked, looking at Spencer.
Spencer stood up from his chair to rest his arms around your waist from behind you. You hated the way you slightly tensed before relaxing. “She would” He said, placing a tender kiss your temple.
You pushed out a laugh — it all hurt. In a way you couldn’t explain. It was as if they were taunting you even though you knew they weren’t. You wondered why the universe chose today for JJ to ask the question.
The feeling of loss returned, the feeling of something missing. It had been turning up randomly, doing the littlest things like washing the dishes, doing laundry or just laying in bed at night next to Spencer when he was home — it was worse when he was home. You couldn’t stop thinking about how much you craved your baby lying with you and him.
JJ smiled widely, “Don’t you want kids? Why wait?” She was almost joking, you could hear it in her tone there was a hint of seriousness lingering in it.
“We’re gonna have kids.” Spencer said as if there was no question about it. Your entire body tensed and you hoped Spencer didn’t notice it, you silently prayed he didn’t. “Just in a few years, when everything had calmed down a bit” Spencer said.
Your chest ached at his words more than you cared to admit. A few years, just a few years.
You didn’t know if you could wait a few years. The feeling was taking over every aspect of your life and it was already driving you insane — it had merely been a month.
JJ pouted dramatically as she looked at you, “You would make such a hot mum, full milf” She nodded as she looked you up and down, throwing in a gentle wink.
You chuckled, “I don’t know about that” You brought your hand up to your face, rubbing your cheek gently pushing a smile to your lips as JJ looked at her watch before sighing. “I have to go, how about we go for coffee this weekend?” She suggested looking at you.
You nodded your head smiling as she said her goodbyes before making her way out of the building. Spencer spun you in his arms turning you so you were facing him.
“You’re so beautiful” He said, thumb brushing over your cheek gently as he brought his hand up to your face. He leant down for a moment finally placing a gentle kiss on your lips now that the office was basically empty.
You laughed as you pulled away, “Okay boy wonder, finish up — im starving” You said. He smiled, leaning down to place another kiss against your lips, this one softer and quicker before he turned to sit down.
“Tell me about your day while I work” And you did, leaving out the parts that caused your heart to pull on itself.
The thought never left your mind that night, or any night after that.
“So much for our coffee date” JJ joked after you both ordered hot chocolates rather than coffee’s. You smiled widely at her, shaking your head slightly. “Coffee is overrated” You joked.
She groaned, “Im glad you think that, I’m hardly surviving. My obgyn told me I should cut back a little bit — which is all well and good till I actually had to do it” She said, you watched as her hand instinctively dropped down to her stomach.
There was a feeling in your gut, jealousy? Envy? You weren’t sure but you knew it was beginning to get harder to deal with. You just chuckled, “I could imagine”
The table fell quiet as your eyes dropped to the table, almost wishing you had the struggle of not being able to drink a lot of coffee because you were having a baby — you hated that.
“Alright, no more small talk. Whats up”
You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion as you looked up at her. You pushed a laugh past your lips as your head fell to the side, “What do you mean?” You asked in confusion.
She rolled her eyes playfully. “You have been all… sad. You’re so sad. Why are you sad? I noticed it the other night at the office— Did Spencer do something?” She started out worriedly before becoming slightly defensive of you at the idea that maybe Spencer did something that upset you.
You laughed, “Spencer didn’t do anything. Spencer is amazing.” You reassured lightly. Although the pit in your stomach deepened — you knew exactly what she was talking about and no matter how much you denied it if there was one person able to get it out of you, it would be JJ.
“It was right after I mentioned you having kids… Do you not want kids?” She guessed, it almost made you laugh because it was exactly the opposite. “Does Spencer know?” She asked — everyone knew how much Spencer wanted kids of his own one day.
You shook your head. “I want kids.” You said but the words held more depth. You wanted kids, you wanted a baby and you wanted them with Spencer.
“I still don’t understand why you’re waiting.” She muttered shaking her head and she distracted herself from the topic at hand — which you would’ve been grateful for besides the fact she was now bringing up exactly what was wrong — waiting.
“Spencer couldn’t do it now” You muttered slightly under your breath but she caught it, furrowing her eyebrows she asked why.
You sighed, shrugging. “He loves his job and he wants to wait a few years before he starts teaching. We decided to wait” You said, you tried to hide the disappointment in your voice but that was useless when sitting across from a profiler.
“You don’t want to wait.” She realised, her lips pulling into a frown. You mirrored the look, nodding your head sadly. She huffed slightly.
“It’s alright, really. Its just working around kids all days, babies and toddlers really makes it difficult for me to just—“ You were cut off when your waitresses came to place yours and JJ’s hot chocolates on the table, you both thanked her before she walked away and you continued. “It just makes it difficult to ignore it.”
JJ nodded her head in understanding. “You shouldn’t have to ignore it! You know Im sure if you talked to him—”
You didn’t mean to cut her off, “He wants to wait. If i bring it up he will agree just because it’s what I want, I don’t want that.” You said, shaking your head as you looked down at the hot chocolate in your hands.
“He wants kids.” She said. You knew this but it felt nice hearing it again. “He wants to be a dad and he wants to have kids — with you. Of course he will do it if you want it, thats not a bad thing. He wants it to, theres ways to work around work — you just need to have a conversation about it” She said honestly.
You pushed a smile to your lips as you thought about her words, still there was an overwhelming amount of guilt in your chest. “Ill see how it goes” You say.
It had been two weeks since your ‘coffee’ date with JJ and you still found yourself unable to admit out loud to Spencer that you wanted kids now. He had been away on a case this week, which didn’t help you being alone with your thoughts — but it made it easier trying to hide the feeling of emptiness that had been present for weeks.
Not because of Spencer, he made you happier than you thought humanly possible. There was just something missing, you kept waiting for the feeling to go away but it never did. You kept waiting to be able to fall asleep at night without the feeling of longing for something more.
You were lying in bed, when you heard the front door of yours and Spencer’s home open and close. It was probably some outrageous time in the night. You had been lying in the same position for hours unable to fall asleep.
You heard footsteps you knew all too well coming towards your bedroom. The door opened and you turned slightly to look at Spencer who was tugging his tie off messily as he walked towards the bed, eyes widening when he saw you were still awake.
“Hi” He sighed tiredly, throwing his tie on the floor. As he began unbuttoning his shirt, after pulling off his suit jacket. “Im so glad you’re awake” He breathed out.
You furrowed your eyebrows as you sat up to look at him properly. His hair was a mess and he was rushing to get changed. He hardly finished taking off his pants before he was pulling on grey sweatpants leaving his top half naked as he got in bed next to you.
“Hi” You said.
He smiled, wrapping his arms tightly around your body as he pulled you in close to him, so much so you found yourself straddling his hips as he laid on his back. “Hi” He breathed out again.
You were confused. Of course you adored the affection — evidently he missed you but he was out of breath and you didn’t know why. You looked over at the clock seeing it was nearing three in the morning. Spencer never had this much energy this late at night — especially after being away for a week on a case.
Normally he would come home and just hold you. That was what he needed after being away. Just you in his arms.
“What-” you were cut off by him leaning upwards, capturing your lips in a heated kiss, you hummed slightly as you kissed him back, melting into the softness of his lips. His hand trailed down your torso before slipping under your shirt — which was actually his shirt.
You gasped as you felt his cold hands against the warm skin of your waist. His hands traveled up your back like a mad man — as if he could hardly get enough, he took your gasp into his advantage slipping his tongue into your mouth.
You made out with him for a few minute before pulling away, he chased your lips but you pulled back, “What has gotten into you?” You breathed out — chest rising and falling heavily as you worked to catch your breath.
He looked up at you, eyes full of an emotion you’d never seen on his face, one you couldn’t place. He let out a breath. “Let’s have a baby.”
You swore your heart stopped as your breath got caught in your throat. You were sure your pulse was going haywire as you tried to process what he said. “W-What? Spence.” You moved to slide off his lap, feeling a sense of hurt in your stomach.
His hands gripped your hips, keeping you in place. “Please.” He said breathily. “JJ told me” He said, looking so deep into your eyes. Your eyes widened and your lips parted as you sucked in a harsh breath. You felt a sense of betrayal from JJ but you knew deep down she was just trying to help you. She hated seeing you so.. Sad.
“Spence” You could cry. You swore you could cry.
“Im serious angel. Let’s have a baby. I want a baby.” He said, thumb rubbing over your hip sending a burning sensation to the place his fingertip brushed over.
You frowned, “But you wanted to wait.” You said.
He shrugged his shoulders, “So did you.” He muttered, leaning up to place gentle kisses down your neck.
You tilted your head instinctively at the feeling of his lips gently brushing over your skin. “But you shouldn’t change your- your mind just because I did” You sucked in a harsh breath as you felt his tongue brush over a sensitive spot of your neck.
“I want a baby with you. I want to raise kids with you. I want to be a dad to our children.” He said, pulling away to look at you. “If you’re ready Im ready, I’ll start teaching. I want a baby with you, now.” He said, looking into your eyes. He spoke genuinely.
“Really?” You asked.
He nodded, “Lets start trying.” He said, leaning back down to kiss your neck again.
“Right now?” You laughed out a giggle as your stomach swarmed with an overwhelming amount of happiness.
He hummed against your skin.
“Why wait?”
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sturnioz · 3 months ago
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shy!reader has an attitude that fratboy!chris isn't afraid to fix.
you're a mess, tears streaming down your cheeks and mascara smudged beneath your eyes, your bottom lip tucked between your teeth, biting down harshly on the skin as you struggle to contain your emotions.
you've always been the one to bottle everything up, keeping a tight lid on your feelings until they erupt in the solitude of your own home — allowing yourself to let everything spill out, pouring your heart until you were exhausted and slept.
but today isn't the case.
you're not home; you're at the frat house, sitting on the far end of the couch, knees drawn protectively to your chest with the boisterous laughter and loud chatter of the frat brothers that roam the house, the sounds overstimulating you.
truthfully, they have kept their distance from you — watching them freeze in the doorway when they hear your quiet sniffles, then slowly back away, would've been amusing if you weren't so caught up in your own head.
chris is the only one who stays, seated on the other end of the couch, hunched over as he rolls a joint while occasionally glancing at the tv that's playing his favourite show, barely paying you any attention.
he did ask you what was wrong the first time he saw you, but when you snippily replied that you didn't want to talk about it, he scoffed and ignored you. that made you even more mad.
why does it bother you so much? you're not sure. did you want him to continue asking? to truly care? to offer you comfort? yet again, you're not sure. the confusion only leaves you more frustrated and angry.
what you do know is this; you're not okay. you're upset, annoyed, frustrated — you are everything but fine.
"damn, kid.. what's the matter w'you?" you hear nate's voice ask when he enters the living-room with matt trailing behind him.
matt gives you a quick glance before he sinks into the lone armchair in the corner, pulling out his phone. nate still hovers nearby, tilting his head slightly as he shakes a tupperware container full of salad in his hand, the sound of crunchy vegetables rattling inside.
"nothing." you reply, your voice sharper than intended, and from your peripheral vision, you catch chris glancing over his shoulder at you, his brows furrowing and his tongue prodding against his cheek.
nate purses his lips, a thoughtful hum escaping his as he pops the lid off the container, the fresh aroma of salad wafting toward you. he holds it out, a hopeful grin spreading across his face. "apple?"
"i don't want it." you retort, your annoyance flaring.
but nate is relentless, shaking the container enticingly. "c'mon. i know y'like—"
"i said i don't want it!" you snap louder, and in a moment of impulse, you shove the box away with too much force, and the contents topple to the ground — vibrant greens and reds scattering.
your heart races as you see the mess of chopped veggies, a mix of surprise and regret washing over you as you quickly look up at nate, ready to apologise for the mess and for your outburst. but before you can utter a word, chris is already at your side..
with a firm grip on your arm, he practically drags you up the stairs, away from the eyes of the others who have stopped in their tracks to watch the scene unfold. the embarrassment floods through you, and your head hangs low.
though you're still simmering with frustration, the regret for how you treated nate still gnaws at you.
when chris pulls you into his room, he shoves the door closed behind himself with a loud thud. you frown, your hands twitching at your sides as he slowly turns around to look at you with an incredulous gaze.
"what... what is your problem?" chris snaps, his voice low and intense, teeth gritted in annoyance. "huh? 'cos this attitude y'got, kid, it's fuckin' pissin' me off — you're pissin' me off."
his bluntness stings, and you open your mouth to defend yourself. "i said i don't want to talk about it. i said that so many times!!"
"right, but no need to act like a fuckin' baby 'n throw a tantrum."
you can't help but bristle at his words, shooting him a glare. "i hate you."
chris laughs at that, the sound low and mocking, a slow nod punctuating his response as his tongue prods at his cheek. a smirk spreads across his face as his posture shifts, and the way he scratches at his jaw, his gaze locked onto you sends a shiver down your spine.
you immediately regret what you said.
you're not surprised when you find yourself sprawled across his bed, your shorts and panties tugged down to your ankles, biting into his pillow as chris plunges deep into your pussy from behind, his hands smacking your ass.
you mewl loudly, lashes sticky with tears, drool seeping past your lips and dampening the material of his pillow as your hips arch back into him.
"s'what you needed, right?" chris asks, his voice low and husky as you squirm beneath him, watching his cock pound into your sopping cunt, your hips bouncing off the bed. "jus' needed t'be fucked t'get your fuckin' attitude in check."
"m'sorry!!" you cry pathetically, your lips parting in a 'o' shape as you feel another slap against your ass, the stinging sensations making your toes curl.
"yeah.. i know, kid."
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© STURNIOZ
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theemporium · 8 months ago
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[3.5k] after his iconic first race win in formula one, lando gets to celebrate with his three favourite people. or, the charlandax smut i accidentally promised after a lando win with a lestappen podium. (smut)
note: this is fucking filthy and i kinda feel like i need to go to a confession booth. okay bye, nobody perceive me after this. she’s also unedited so beware (I’m too lazy to reread and edit rn)
.
Lando Norris felt like he was on top of the fucking world but maybe that was just how it felt from the top step of the podium.
It hadn’t really hit him yet, despite his ears ringing from his own screams and the cheers from the crowd and the fans and his own team. It didn’t feel real until the national anthem began playing through the speakers, until he heard his team singing along, until he realised this was his reality. 
He was a Grand Prix winner. 
Finally. 
Surreal was the only word to describe how he felt. After years of second-place and third-place podium finishes, of people telling him his time would come, of having so many close calls, he did it. He fucking did it. And he didn’t just skim a win, it was fully fucking his as he soared past the chequered flag.
And for once, Lando basked in the knowledge that all eyes were on him. It didn’t give him that prickling, itching feeling under his skin. It didn’t make him want to  hunch his shoulders up to his ears. It didn’t make the little voice in the back of his head send him spiralling over every little thing he could be doing wrong. 
He had just won the Miami Grand Prix and everyone was staring at him and he fucking loved it.
But it meant more than just a win to Lando, it meant so much more than a trophy to add to his collection back home. It was about the years spent achieving this dream. It was about the effort and the support he had from the team to reach this point. It was about sharing this moment and standing on the podium with two people who meant the fucking world to him with the third watching all three of them from down below. 
It meant the fucking world to Lando. 
It was a blur of happiness and excitement and adrenaline as he stood on that top step. It felt like he was in a movie when the trophy was handed to him, the number one staring back at him like it was reminding him he had done it. It felt like a fucking dream when the champagne celebration started, his hand barely wrapped around the neck of the bottle when Charles and Max drenched and drowning him in champagne.
It was completely fucking unbelievable this was finally his reality.
Time was a blur of big smiles, loud cheers and so many people congratulating him. It was overwhelming in the best way possible, it made something in his chest burst with pride as he felt his team slap him on the back as he walked through the garage. He felt like his life was complete when you threw your arms around him, tugging him close until your bodies felt like one.
“M’so cold,” he murmured as he wound his arms around you, holding you closer as he buries his face into your neck for some privacy, despite the countless cameras pointing at him.
“I’m so proud of you,” you whispered back, just loud enough for him to hear because he was the only one who mattered in that moment. “This is the first of many.”
He sniffled, feeling his throat close up a bit but he just squeezed you tighter when the words didn’t come out as smoothly as he wanted. 
However, you were pulled away from him seconds later as he was directed towards the camera. With media duties and team debriefs and many more commitments, he didn’t have time to stop and celebrate with the people he wanted. He had to perform for the cameras, for the fans, for the people watching before he could. 
And honestly, he couldn't complain. There were worse problems to have.
His brain was running a million miles an hour, so many thoughts and feelings and emotions to try and comprehend that he barely noticed the other person in his driver’s room until the door shut behind him and he felt a pair of lips on his. 
“I am so proud of you, mon champion,” Charles murmured against his lips, the kiss short-lived due to the huge smile on his face. He pulled back enough to look at Lando properly, his hands holding the Brit’s face. “So, so proud of you.”
Lando felt his cheeks burn. “M’glad you and Max were up there with me,” he admitted, that funny feeling in his chest returning before he glanced around the room noticing that Charles was the only one in his driver room. “Where are the others?” Pause. “How did you even sneak in here?”
“I have my ways,” Charles answered vaguely, his eyes glinting with mischief. “And I’m here to help you hurry up. They are waiting in the car.” 
Lando snorted. “And they sent you to hurry me up?” 
“I may have come third, mon amour, but I’m still fast.” 
Despite his words, it took a few more minutes of Charles pressing kisses all over his face and mumbling a load of French that Lando didn’t understand before he was finally able to grab his belongings and make it out of the McLaren motorhome. 
His whole body was buzzing with energy, far too hyped up to even care about the way his face burned when he climbed into the backseat of Charles’ race weekend car, unable to wipe the smile off his face. 
This. 
This was what he had been waiting for. 
This moment to be with the people who loved more than his heart knew he was capable of. A moment to be with the people who believed in him no matter what, even when the rest of the world doubted him. 
And if Lando was being so completely honest, he was so lost in the buzz of his win that he didn’t think anything about your hand resting on his upper thigh. He was still lost in the race a few hours ago, still lost in the feeling of crossing the line and hearing Will’s voice over the radio confirming he secured his first Formula One Grand Prix win. 
So lost in that moment that he barely had a chance to drop his backpack on the floor of Max’s huge hotel suite before the Dutchman was reaching for him. With the privacy of the hotel room door locked from the rest of the world, Max didn’t hold back as he raked his hand through Lando’s curls. His fingers twisted in his hair, tugging sharply as his teeth nipped the Brit’s bottom lip. 
Lando couldn’t help himself when he let out a whine.
“Fuck,” Max groaned, tugging on his hair again as he watched Lando’s eyes flutter shut. “Look at our race winner, hm? So pretty, schat.”
Lando’s lips parted but words were lost on him. Instead, his eyes darted where you saddled up against Max’s side, head resting on his shoulder as you looked at Lando with a massive grin. 
“I think you broke him,” you teased, a faux pout on your lips. “Guess that throws all our plans out the window.”
Lando blinked before quickly shaking his head. “I—no, wait, what plans?”
Max grinned. “Your reward, baby. Didn’t think we were gonna celebrate your big day, huh?”
“I—” Lando paused, feeling something deep in his stomach twist in desire. “I just…I don’t know. I thought we were gonna go out…or something.”
“We could,” Charles spoke up as he slipped in behind Lando, his hands on the younger boy’s waist. “If that’s what you want. We can go out and celebrate with everyone else.”
Lando swallowed. “Or?”
“Or,” you repeated, your eyes lingering on his kiss-swollen lips. “You let us treat you like a proper race winner.”
“And what does that treatment include?” Lando asked, because that was just who he was. That little brat in him that wanted to know his options, that wanted to know exactly how he was being rewarded, who wanted to know exactly what was getting done to him. The little brat in him that was mouthy and sassy and usually got put in his place—that wanted to be put in his place.
And Max knew that. He knew that if he reached down, Lando was probably half-hard already. He knew that no matter what he said, Land would be down for it. He could see the glint in the Brit’s eyes, that realisation of what he could have without realising it. 
“Anything you want,” Max murmured, his thumb lightly tracing along Lando’s bottom lip. “You’re the winner, Lando. Our winner.”
Anything you want. 
That was his limit—completely fucking endless. He had all the control in the palm of his hands to do whatever he pleased, whatever he desired, whatever he fucking wanted. 
But that wasn’t what Lando wanted. He didn’t want to be in charge. He didn’t want to be the person making the calls and decisions. That wasn’t his role in the bedroom and he never really wanted to be. He liked being the one who got to lay back, the one that people tried to tame and dominate only to realise he didn’t listen as easily as people wanted. 
He liked being the one that people worked to break. 
So, that was exactly what Max gave to him and Lando only slightly regretted his decision as he slumped back against the Dutchman, grinding his ass back against the older boy’s straining cock as he threw his head back against Max’s shoulder.
“Please, please, please,” Lando whined, trying to buck his hips forwards but Max kept his body in place, just where he wanted him. “S’too much.”
“I know, schatje,” Max mused, pressing a lingering kiss at the base of his neck just to hear Lando let out a small moan at the contact. “But look how pretty they look for you, all for you. You don’t want them to stop, do you?” 
But Lando couldn’t bring himself to respond. 
“None of that,” Max muttered, squeezing Lando’s sides to get the boy to listen. “Thought my winner was gonna be good for me, huh? Look at them, Lando. Look how good they are being for you. Look at how much they are enjoying this.”
The boy only managed to let out a whimper as he fluttered his eyes open, his chin tucking into his chest as he looked down at the sight Max was demanding of him. 
And, fuck, it made his knees buckle.
The two of you were absolute fucking messes. It felt like something out of a porno, one that would have Lando panting and whining and fantasising about because never once did he think it was realistic. And yet, here you and Charles were, looking like something out of his deepest desires. 
He couldn’t focus on one of you, it would have been a crime to not stare and ogle you both. The way you both looked utterly perfect on your knees in front of him, glossy eyes and flushed cheeks and looking so fucking blissed out as you both worshipped his cock—like you were fulfilling a purpose, like this was what the two of you were made for. 
And it was messy as fuck, something that maybe would have been gross to everyone else in the world, but Lando thought it was so fucking hot. The evidence of his previous orgasms splattered across you both, covering your lips and chins and naked chests. The way your lips wrapped around the head of his cock as Charles licked down the underside of his cock until he nosed Lando's balls. The way Charles had one hand wrapped around his leaking cock, pumping and stroking himself as you squeezed and played with your tits like it would give you some relief. 
But it wasn’t about your pleasure or Charles’ or Max’s. 
It was all about Lando. 
“Such good sluts on their knees for you,” Max muttered, lips brushing against his ear as his warm breath tickled against Lando’s skin. “Usually that’s you, schat. Getting on your knees for me, doing whatever I tell you.”
“Fuck,” he let out in a breathless whimper, turning his head to try and nuzzle his face into Max’s neck. 
“Do you like this, Lando? Like seeing them be such whores for your cock? So desperate and needy?” Max continued, his hands tightening on the younger boy’s waist as he looked down at you and Charles.
You let out a whine at his words, your thighs clenched together and your eyes fluttering shut as you traced your tongue along the slit of his cock. Your moans vibrated around his cock, leaving the boy a puddle underneath your touch as Charles placed wet, open-mouthed kisses along his balls. 
“Bet they would stay there all night if you wanted them to,” Max mused as his eyes caught teary green eyes staring up at him, desperation shining in the pretty colour of them. “Bet Charles would love to take your cock down his pretty throat, he always does it so well for me. Hm, amour? Think you could take our pretty winner’s cock like a good boy?”
The sound Charles let out was pitiful and straight out of a fucking porno.
“Max,” Lando breathed out, his hands reaching back to try and grab onto the Dutchman. “Please, I-I need…”
“What do you need?” Max questioned, squeezing his sides. “Need more than their mouths, baby? Or maybe you need more than that.”
Lando felt his whole face burn as he let out a shameless moan when one of Max’s hands began wandering, when his fingers brushed along his skin before squeezing the fat of his ass. 
“The champagne wasn’t enough, hm? Maybe we need to fill you up,” Max suggested, like it was something as casual as talking about dinner options. “Bet you’d feel so nice and tight around me, baby. Maybe let Charles fill your pretty throat instead.”
“Please,” Lando whined.
“Yeah, you want that?” He could feel Max’s smile against his skin. “Let our pretty girl bounce on your cock whilst we fill you up? She would look so pretty sitting on top of you.”
Lando nodded his head vigorously, his nails slightly digging into Max’s skin. “I need it, Max, need it so bad.”
Max’s teeth scraped along the side of his neck. “Beg for it.” 
So he did. 
He begged for it until his voice was hoarse and his legs were shaking and his babbles were practically incoherent. He begged until he felt Max’s lips on his skin, joined by Charles and yours moments later as you three kissed and worshipped every inch of his body. He begged until his face was burning red, his blush spreading down his neck and chest as you praised him—your race winner—until he couldn’t take it any more.
He begged for it as you held his face, prepping kisses all over his face whilst Max worked him open. 
He begged for it as Charles marked along his neck and chest to help him relax as Max slowly slid inside him, stretching him open until he was a whimpering mess.
He begged for it as you slowly sunk down on his cock, your cunt already soaking and slick with your own arousal as he buried himself inside you. 
He begged for it until his hands were gripping Charles’ thighs, nails digging into his skin as he urged his cock further down his throat until he felt fucking full.
“Fuck, baby,” you moaned, rocking your hips back and forth as you let your hands skim along his skin. Your fingers traced along the planes of his abs, watching them softly clench under your touch before you traced along his sides. You kept your hands moving, feeling the need to touch every fucking inch of him as he preened and squirmed under your touch. “You look so perfect like this.” 
Lando let out a muffled moan around Charles’ cock.
“Letting us fill you up, make you feel so good,” you continued, the walls of your pussy clenching around him. “This is what our race winner deserves. So pretty and fast today, baby, it’s so hot.”
One of his hands let go of Charles, blindly reaching out towards you until you caught the hint to intertwine your fingers together. You raised it to your lips, pressing a soft kiss onto the back of his hand and something about the soft gesture whilst his body was being fucked into an inch of his life made the boy spiral. 
He couldn’t do anything but just take it, let the overwhelming pleasure wash over him until his whole body felt like it was on fire. His nerve endings felt like they had been turned up beyond the dial, like every touch was more thrilling than he could ever imagine. The words of praise was a muffled mess around him, three voices all mixed together as he felt hands all over his body. He felt safe, he felt full, he felt complete. 
It was a blur of too much pleasure and excitement and gratification when he finally came, white spots dotting his vision as he felt himself completely spill inside you whilst your cunt clenched around him, as Max’s cock hit the perfect spot deep inside him with every thrust. He was so lost in his own orgasm, in his own moans and whines and noises to fully realise the domino effect he started. 
To really appreciate the sight of you coming on his cock, bouncing up and down on his cock whilst your tits moved with each thrust. To really enjoy the sensation of Max coming deep inside him, squeezing him so hard that he was sure his skin would bruise the next day. To watch the way Charles stroked himself a few more times before spilling over his chest, just for you to lean down and lick up the mess until you leaned down to kiss him senseless. 
To be completely honest, he was waiting to wake up and realise this whole day was a dream. 
But he blinked. And blinked once more for good measure. And your smiling face was still there to reassure him this was real, that everything about today was real. 
“Hey,” he whispered, voice a little rough and hoarse. 
“Hey, baby,” you grinned back at him as you raised your hand to gently cup his face, your thumb wiping away a few stray tears that slipped out. “How are you feeling, Mr Race Winner?”
And despite the exhaustion settled deep in his bones, Lando beamed at you. “Feel like I’m the king of this fucking world.”
You giggled. “Then our job here is complete.” 
Lando huffed out a laugh, his eyes fluttering shut as he tried to fight the urge to curl up and sleep for the next week straight. 
“Don’t tell me that’s you done for the night,” Max’s voice spoke from somewhere else in the room, somewhere away from the bed but Lando couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes just yet. “There’s a whole city wanting to celebrate with you tonight.”
“Ugh, being a race winner is so much work,” Lando whined playfully, reaching for you to pull you closer before you could pull away from him. “Let’s just stay here forever.”
“All a part of the title, mon amour,” Charles teased as he settled down beside the younger boy on the bed. He leaned in, placing a quick kiss to Lando’s forehead. “I heard the other drivers making bets on who could buy you the most shots.”
Lando let out a breath. “Fuck, they are gonna try to kill me.”
“We wouldn’t let that happen,” you assured him, but he could hear the smile in your voice. “I’m sure Max would join you.”
“Thanks, schat,” Max grumbled as he wandered back into the room, a wet washcloth in his hand. “We have a few hours before we are meant to meet everyone anyways. Have a nap, you can shower when you wake up.”
Lando blinked his eyes open, a cheeky smile on his face. “Alone?”
Max rolled his eyes. “It’s never enough for you.”
“I’m a high maintenance guy,” Lando replied. 
“We know,” you murmured with a snort, only to gasp when he pinched your side. “Hey!”
“You can’t yell at me, I’m a race winner,” he shot back at you, grinning wider when you rolled your eyes. 
“Yes, that is exactly how this works,” Charles snorted as he slumped down on the pillow beside Lando, reaching for the Brit to curl up beside him. “That and club blowjobs.”
“It was one time,” Max grumbled. “And it wasn’t even my idea!”
“I didn’t regret it for a second,” you smiled shamelessly at the Dutchman before raising your hand, trying to pull him down onto the bed with the three of you. “C’mon, we can clean up properly later. I wanna cuddle.” 
“So needy.”
“In the wise words of race winner Lando Norris, I’m a high maintenance guy.”
“Hell yeah, baby,” Lando murmured, his cheek pressed into the pillow with a sleepy smile on his face. “Someone stitch that onto a pillow.” 
“Please go to sleep before I gag you both.” 
“They would probably like that, mon amour.”
“You too, Charles.” 
“Always so bossy, Verstappen.”
.
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