#i wait with baited breath for their response

[nekofiredemon]

submitted a support ticket today

[sweeteastart]

If you're still doing the outfit challenge, can you do Hyrule or Wild in B4?

Your art is stunning btw!

Still doing it ! As long as it's pined and I receive asks, I'll keep going I think :D

Also I'll give u one better op, both of them ! I felt inspired, and really, they rock it. I had fun squeezing in my little headcanons mostly Hyrule's eyes having a red glow because of the blood curse thing and Wild eye being white in the center on the scared side. Not completely blind but visually impaired/sensitive to light.

You guys are gonna make me blush with all the compliments-- thanks you

Thank for the ask ♪♪♪♪

[mostly-imagines]

Careless Accidents

jason todd x fem!reader

aka you get hurt and jason’s pissed

warnings: reader’s wrist is accidentally sprained from being grabbed too hard

You could hear scuttling from somewhere else in the garden, an estate more than sizable enough than the game afoot.

You were under the distinct impression though that the bats and birds are playing with you similar to how they would a child. Slower, weaker, and less experienced than the big kids. You weren't complaining though. Because, frankly, it was stressful. They tend to operate more like they’re in a warzone than a game, you felt like you were about to be sniped out at any second.

Rightfully so, apparently, seeing how silently Stephanie had crept up on you.

“Hey,” Stephanie hissed, ignoring the way you jumped. “We’re doing alright for ourselves,” she said smugly. 

“Yeah,” you’d nodded, like you agreed with her more than you probably did. 

“Okay listen, I think the flag—” what flag? “—is by the fountain so, I think because there’s three of us and two of them, we should bait-and-switch.”

“We’re on teams?” you asked, no longer completely sure you know what you’re playing. 

“We are now!” she smiled, starting to run. “I’ll bait!”

She stopped briefly in her tracks and turned back to you hissing, “Don’t trust Cass,” before scurrying away.

Rather than sit around and wait there for…something?...to happen, you jumped up darting in the opposite direction with little to no indication whether this is a good move.

What you didn’t see is Cass rapidly approaching from your rear. 

What you also didn’t see was Dick crouched down in a row of shrubbery, which gave him the perfect opportunity to snatch your arm up and yank you down with him. You’d mewled a bit as your wrist made contact harshly with the grass, immediately buckling under you.

Cass was keen to your pain immediately, slowing her sprint to a stroll as she observed you.

“Are you okay?” she signs.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” 

The response was instinctual and you didn’t actually have time to register whether or not you were okay by the time you gave it. 

You pushed up on your elbows, trying to figure out whether Dick is even on your team, but the way the others approached had you halting consideration. They’re savvy to the situation at a speed in which you can only attribute to their vigilantism, looking at you with concern. 

“You good?” Tim asked, approaching languidly.

“That looked like it hurt,” Cass commented, crouching down next to you to see your wrist better.

Dick shook his head, “No, she’s okay.” He turned to you, prodding, “You’re okay.”

“Yeah, I’m, um…” you winced, looking at your wrist. “It hurts a little.”

Cass examined it closely, tilting it gently to the side. “It might be sprained.”

Dick paled. 

“No.”

Tim pointed a thumb back towards the manor, “We can get it wrapped upstairs.”

“No.”

You were only then able to clock the barely contained grin on Stephanie’s face, begging to break.  

“Ooooh. He’s gonna kill you.”

Cass had then kindly offered to take you inside and wrap it up for you, which you accepted, unexpecting of the plus-one of Dick trailing behind you like a guilty puppy all the while.

“You know I didn’t mean to grab you that hard right? I—” 

Cass laughs quietly as she wraps the bandage around your wrist, amused by Dick’s now-third explanation/apology for the incident. 

“I know, Dick,” you say, trying to appease him. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells you genuinely, but you can tell there’s more there that he isn’t verbalizing.

You nod, “I know, Dick. It’s okay. It was just an accident.”

Cass pins the wrapping in place securely and with a smile, signs to you that she’s all done. 

You rotate your arm a bit, testing your movement under the wrap. As Cass leaves with the first aid kit, Dick remains sat at your side, leg thumping up and down.

He takes a deep breath, “What if…what if you avoid him until it heals?”

“Dick.”

He takes your uninjured hand in his with urgency in his eyes, 

He looks down at your jointed hands before loosening his already mild grip significantly.

“Are you going to tell him?” he asks, looking like he’s bracing for bad news.

You shake your head sympathetically, “No. I can’t guarantee you that he won’t find out, but I won’t tell him.”

Dick takes a deep breath, looking at the ground with intense focus. “Okay. Okay.” He stands, “I need to go.”

You watch in amused bewilderment as he staggers out the door, looking around frantically. 

Within the next few minutes, he creates and enacts his plan A. He walks into the living room, sitting down next to a very disinterested Tim, eyes forward and serious.

“I’ll give you two grand right now if you tell him it was you.”

Tim barks out, “Absolutely not.” He looks at his brother, still laughing. “No fucking way.”

Dick breaks the serious facade immediately, looking at him. “Five.”

A deadpan from Tim. 

“You don’t have five thousand dollars.”

Dick throws his head back, back thudding against the couch. “Dude, please! He’ll kill me!”

Tim scoffs, “He’d kill me!”

Dick huffs, “No, it’s different for me! Do you have any idea how many times he told me not to do that?” 

“Well then it sounds like you fucked up,” Tim sneers.

“Oh my God.”

He takes off again, combing through different rooms in the house with hope of finding a quick but effective hiding place for, say, the next twenty years?

He bursts through the study, unwittingly interrupting Bruce and Alfred having a discussion over tea.

The latter sits up with a tense brow, “Master Dick?”

The former turns around in his seat, “What’s the matter?”

Dick struggles for a second before confessing, “I accidentally sprained someone's wrist.” 

Bruce scans his face slowly, nodding. “Alright…you’ll have to take responsibility for their patrol duties—”

Dick cuts him off with a sharp breath, “Said person doesn’t have any patrol duties to be affected...”

Bruce processes for a moment before shaking his head.

“I can’t help you.”

Dick’s panic takes over again, prompting him to continue his scurry through the room, towards the other door.

Alfred interrupts his process with a very logical argument, “You don’t think running away will make this worse, Master Dick?”

“I—I don’t know!” Dick whines, stopping in his tracks. “I don’t know what to do!”

Bruce purses his lips, gesturing, “Dick, when you make a mistake…you have to submit to the consequences, you know that.”

Dick gapes, “This is not a normal consequence!”

Meanwhile, you’ve busied yourself with fiddling with the knick knacks and mementos lining the shelves of Jason’s childhood bedroom. 

You’re admiring a picture of him and Alfred from when he was young as the door creaks open behind you. 

“Sweetheart?” Your boyfriend calls out, head barely poked in through the crack.

“Hey, Jay,” you smile, setting the picture frame back on the shelf.

He enters fully, covered in motor oil and grease, and smiles his sweet, easy smile when he sees you. 

Moving onto the next trinket on the shelf, you pick up a stuffed animal placed intentionally at the front. Your gaze finds the mirror, watching his reflection as he pulls the stained shirt off his back. 

You smile to yourself, noticing the way his back muscles flex as he adjusts. “How’s the bike?”

“Better than it was this morning,” he sighs. “Where’ve you been?”

He turns around to look at you, taking easy steps towards you. 

You return the toy elephant to its place, moving to face him. “Uh, we were outside, playing…at least three separate games at once.”

The second you’re in proximity, your hands join like it’s second nature. 

He nods, all too familiar with the family’s unique methods of gamefair.

“Did th—” He looks down at your intertwined hands, brow furrowing as soon as he spots the bandage wrapped around your wrist. “What happened?”

You glance down, shrugging. “Overexerted myself playing tag.”

He looks at you skeptically, but says nothing about it.

He turns your hand over gently, asking, “Is it sprained?”

You nod, relaxed. “Yeah. Cass said it’s mild.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“No,” you say, sweeping his hair back with your other hand. “Barely hurt then.”

He nods, but he doesn’t look satisfied with the conversation.

Regardless, he turns away again, shuffling through a drawer for a clean shirt. 

“You, uh, you wanna stay for dinner tonight?” he asks, pulling his arms through, his head following. 

“Yeah,” you say gaily. “Alfred said he’s making his ‘special spaghetti’, apparently it’s a household favorite?”

He wavers, halfway to between decisions. “Yeah…”

He huffs quietly, turning back to face you fully. “Can I see it?”

You nod, happy to ease his mind. 

You start to unwrap the bandaging, him doing half the work for you. The work is done silently until your wrist is exposed, revealing your bruised skin.

You both see it at the same time—the hand-shaped bruise wrapped around your wrist.

You’re both quiet for a second—him putting pieces together and you waiting for the shoe to drop.

He takes off suddenly, clearly having come to a likely very accurate conclusion about what had happened.

“Fucking idiot—”

You try for his hand but he’s out of reach before you can grab it.

“I’ll be right back,” he grumbles behind him.

“Jason—” you sigh, “At least help me wrap it back up first.”

He hesitates, halfway to the door, ultimately returning to you in defeat. He takes your forearm gently, scanning it over again before beginning to wrap it.

You watch his face closely, noting the clear vexation. “It was just an accident,” you tell him. 

He scoffs, “It better have been.”

You drop your shoulders and lull your head to the side. “Jason. I’m not made of glass, you can’t expect other people to act like it.”

“I don’t. I expect him to mind his own strength, and if he can’t do that, he needs to keep his fucking hands to himself.”

You sigh, “Just don’t do anything harsh. Please. I think he’s worried you’re gonna punch him.”

“He should be,” he says shortly. He finishes off the wrapping, pinning it in place firmly. 

You grab onto his forearm before he can pull away, “You’re not going to. Right?”

He doesn’t answer so you try to make his gaze meet yours, “Right?”

His eyes roll, “Yeah, fine.”

You smile, holding his face. “I love you.”

He huffs as though he’s inconvenienced, but confesses the obvious truth nonetheless. “I love you.”

He looks you in the eye, face serious. “You promise me it doesn’t hurt?”

“I promise,” you nod, brushing your fingers against his palm.

“Dick!”

The angry voice bellows through the tall halls of the manor, heavy footsteps thudding.

He stomps into the living room, Tim, Cass, and Stephanie watching the entryway with wide eyes. 

“Where is he?”

Unwitting shoulders shrug and heads shake. Truthfully, at that. Dick, smartly, did not tell anyone where he was hiding. 

Jason scans the trios faces, looking for any sign of apprehension.

He clocks the grin shamelessly plastered across his sister's face quickly. “Stephanie?”

“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “But let me know when you find him, I wanna see—”

But Jason’s moving onto the next room before she can get the last words out.

He enters the dining room, looking right to left before finding his target, halfway to stuffing himself behind the fine china cabinet in the corner.

There’s a brief, tense moment in between where the pair realize what they’re seeing and when Dick sets off in a sprint towards the kitchen, Jason quick on his tail. 

“Really? Really?” Jason shouts. 

“It was an accident! It was a fucking—” 

He narrowly dodges a swipe from Jason, then ducking before a ladle could make contact with his head.

“Are you stupid? Are you the dumbest motherf—”

Dick rounds the kitchen island as fast as possible, Jason testing him on the other side.

Dick takes a breath, “Dude, it’s fine now, it’s not that big of a—”

Jason recoils, “‘It’s not a big deal’? Come here. Let me sprain your wrist, asshole!”

He circles the counter quicker than the elder boy can think to move away and lunges at him. 

Dick throws his hands up in front of him, “Wait, wait, wait! Truce! Truce! Truce?”

Jason drops his shoulders, leveling his older brother with a look. “You can’t call a truce if you’re the only one who did anything wrong.”

“I…” It doesn’t take him long to piece together that his defense makes no sense, so he resorts to his last option. 

“Please?” Dick asks, nothing short of imploring. 

Jason relents—slightly—upon hearing his brother's tone, but still finds it in him to shove him, though not nearly as hard as he’d been planning to. 

“I told you a hundred fucking times not to grab her so hard—” 

Dick nods heavily, waving a hand. “I know, I know—”

“Clearly you fucking don’t!” Jason shouts. He huffs, running a hand over his face. “You sprained her wrist. You’ve been doing this vigilante shit for fifteen years, how do you still not fucking know how to control your own strength?”

Dick grimaces, “I do! I do, I just screwed up, I’m sorry!”

“Don’t—” Jason narrowly holds back a scowl, “Did you apologize to her?”

 “Yeah, of course I did!”

For a split second, Jason looks ready to keep arguing before purposefully dropping the anger from his body. 

The resulting relief almost drowns Dick.

It only lasts a moment though, before Jason looks at him again, sneering, “Idiot,” before pushing him once more. 

“Jason.”

Your voice has Jason dropping all turbulence in an instant. He and Dick both whip their heads towards the door, equally unexpecting of the interruption. 

You tilt your head at your boyfriend with a knowing but disappointed stare.

He looks back at you like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, lips parted.

“I didn’t hit him.”

⭐️ your options are: (1) reblog fics or (2) be a little bitch ⭐️

[burnyourtrains]

Part of me wants to get funky shoelaces just for fun. The other part of me knows that if someone tells me they like my shoelaces I will not be able to stop myself from saying that I stole them from the president

[whytheylosttheirminds]

isn't she lovely?

your ex-boyfriend, crimeboss!Rafe wanted nothing to do with the daughter you'd made together, until he held her for the first time...

blurb, wc 626

content: pregnancy, childbirth, mentions of dark past, angst

ִ ۫ ˑ ֗ ִ ˑ ּ 𖥔 𓄼 ࣪⠀ ִ ۫ ּ ֗ ִ ۪ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ۫ ˑִ ۫ ˑ ֗ ִ ˑ ּ 𖥔 𓄼 ࣪⠀ ִ ۫ ּ ֗ ִ ۪ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ۫ ˑ

You didn’t want to tell him. 

You thought of every reason not to - the con side of your pro/con list filling an entire notebook. The one and only pro of telling him was this: if you didn’t tell him, and he somehow found out anyway, he’d make your life hell. 

At least if he knew, you knew that he knew. So against the better judgement screaming in your head, you went to Tannyhill one day, sat on his bed and pulled out the positive pregnancy test.

That was nine months ago, and aside from a note from his sleezy lawyer making it clear that Rafe was not going to be held financially responsible, you hadn’t heard anything from the father of your child. You had a friend who worked at the airstrip who kept you informed of his coming and going, and you always wondered if one day that private jet would take off with him in it and never return. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t hope it’d do just that. 

According to your friend, he was in Bangkok the night you went into labor. After fourteen hours of the deepest, lonliest pain you had ever experienced, the doctor placed your screaming baby girl on your chest. You cried with her, shushing her, promising her it’s just you and me, kid. We’re gonna be okay.

No text from your friend usually meant the Cameron jet hadn’t returned yet, but you still insisted on keeping your baby girl in the hospital room with you instead of letting them take her to the nursery. Rafe Cameron was the most unpredictable person you ever met, and though he never let you know exactly what it was he did, you knew he was dangerous. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to get what he wanted. You weren’t letting your baby girl out of your sight.

It took every ounce of strength you had to fight off sleep, despite the nurse’s insistence that you needed to rest. She couldn’t possibly understand, you hadn’t had a moment of peace since that man entered your life, and you probably never would again. 

It was just five minutes, you were only going to close your eyes for five minutes. But when you woke an hour later, the silhouette of a man towering in the corner of the room made you shoot straight up in terror. You were about to scream, but before you could, he turned quickly towards you with his finger to his lip, revealing your sleeping daughter in his arms.

“Rafe,” you whispered, petrified. “I didn’t think you were…I mean I would’ve…”

“It’s okay,” he whispered back, gently sitting in the chair next to your bed, careful not to stir the tiny infant in his arms. “You can go back to sleep, I’ve got her.”

Just as you were about to protest, your daughter stirred, squawking as though she was about to cry. Instead, her little hand reached out of her swaddle and wrapped around Rafe’s forefinger. You waited with baited breath to see how he’d respond. 

For just a moment, his eyes widened, and his large broad shoulders softened, and the corner of his lips twitched ever-so-slightly. And then suddenly he was handing her to you, standing abruptly from his chair. She wailed as he stormed toward the door.

“That’s it?” You called to him over her cries, confused at the sudden shift in his mannerisms.

“I have to take care of some…things,” he turned to look at his daughter in your arms, her little fingers reaching for something to hold onto. “I’ll be back.”

You didn’t know it then, but that was the moment that your daughter, whom you’d gotten to hold for only a handful of hours, became his.

ִ ۫ ˑ ֗ ִ ˑ ּ 𖥔 𓄼 ࣪⠀ ִ ۫ ּ ֗ ִ ۪ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ۫ ˑִ ۫ ˑ ֗ ִ ˑ ּ 𖥔 𓄼 ࣪⠀ ִ ۫ ּ ֗ ִ ۪ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ۫ ˑ

a/n: just a little drabble I wrote over a year ago when I was trying to get my footing as a fic writer. part of my one year cele!

[specsthesecond]

Being a waitress/bottle girl at a club that caters to monsters.

While serving a table of orcs their drinks you hear whistling from behind you and turn towards the table of werewolves calling you over,

"C'mere Doll, why don't you spend some time with us? It'd be better than looking at those ugly green faces."

The rest of the table barks out laughter and all you do is look back at the table of orcs to gauge their reactions, just incase you have to call the bouncer to stop another brawl.

"Aw yeah? Cus your slobbering snout's much more attractive, ain't it?"

One orc yells and the others hurl their chosen insults across the table as well. The werewolves grumble and snarl insults back and you just stand in the middle of this, trying to think of an escape.

"Maybe she ain't at your table for a reason!"

One of the orcs claims boldly and all the other orcs voice their agreement while the wolves clearly disagree.

"Why don't we let the lady decide." A wolf with greying fur suggests with a smirk and both tables seem to agree on this being just a wonderful idea.

"Well love? Who's better then? Us or the mutts?"

"Aye! The real question is who can treat her better, isn't that right, Doll?"

The attention of the two tables are now on you, waiting for your answer with baited breaths and half hard cocks probably.

"....I prefer minotaurs."

This deadpan response takes a few seconds to sink in before a chorus of disagreements and further arguing commences, but you're already making your way back towards the bar, you're sure they don't mind watching your tiny skirt bounce as you walk away.

That answer wasn't random, it's actually been the only thing you could think of all day. Your Minotaur coworkers cock reaching deep into your stomach while he pounds you into next week. That might be why so many customers have been extra forward with you today, maybe they can smell the need on you.

You finally make it back to the bar, getting ready to end your shift and finally get some relief.

"You causing trouble?"

You whip around to meet just the monster you were so desperate to see. He stands at the edge of the bar in his bouncer uniform, his sleeves hug his biceps very nicely and you nearly purr imagining what that arm would feel like around your throat, while he pounds you from behind. He gazes down at you with a knowing look.

"Me? Oh, I would never."

You look up at him and play with the collar of your shirt, successfully drawing his eyes to the generous amount of cleavage your uniform provides.

He huffs in amusement.

"They don't seem to think so."

He tilts his head and massive horns towards the two tables you just left where the occupants are all peering over one another to see the interaction between you and the bovine beast in front of you.

You scoff, take his arm and turn him around so that he's only focusing on you.

"I'm off. You're off in 15...maybe you could come by my place again....or something?"

You nervously bite your lip and he doesn't know why you're getting nervous.

You weren't nervous when you sent him that video of your stuffed cunt clenching around the Minotaur themed dildo you've had since before you were seeing eachother. You definitely weren't nervous when you sent him another video 6 hours ago of you stuffing said dildo into your perfect pussy in the employee bathrooms before slipping your tiny panties on over it, keeping the silicone deep in your cunt.

He pulls out his keys and leans down closer to you,

"Be ready when I get to the car."

You nearly squeal in excitement as you grab the keys and reach up to kiss his cheek. As you skip out the door to his car he looks back at the two tables just to revel a little in the disappointed grumbles and huffs emitting from the two groups as they go back to their drinks.

𓄀

[megapteraurelia]

kuroo tetsurou and you did not have lots of interactions, usually.

so you were more than surprised when he turned to you during chemistry class and looked at you through the tuft of black hair falling into his eyes and let out a string of words that seemingly made no sense to you. his gaze cast away, a certain air of embarrassment hanging in the air when you didn’t answer, and he turned away, mumbling to himself.

“wait, did you just compare me to acid?”

“no, not acid— more like…the reaction is just so explosive, like us—  i mean, just us as in people, or like—” he breathed out carefully, and then shook his head at himself, laughter stealing itself to his voice as he rubbed his jaw, “never mind. i already fucked it up.”

now, you were not the brightest person in this world, but you could smell a butchered pick up line from a mile away. and the way kuroo tetsurou rested his chin on the inside of his hand, fingers covering his temple, effectively shielding his face from you, with the faintest of pink covering his ears, told you just how secretly embarrassed he was.

kuroo was cute, you thought. 

it didn’t take a miracle for you to come to the conclusion, especially not when you were used to hearing his loud voice boom through the class during the breaks. he was the one trying to keep some class-visiting friends in line, naturally assuming the leading role to hush them down, blissfully unaware at the same amount of loud energy he was returning.  he also didn’t escape you when he tried coaxing his blonde friend to eat more, offering to share his food only to try to bait him into taking it instead, when he got rejected.

you didn’t interact often, but kuroo tetsurou’s presence was hard to miss and the tiny flutter of your heart in response to noticing him hard to ignore.

“so,” you leaned a little over to him, and subconsciously, he had already started to accommodate you, lowering his head to catch your voice, “if you had to guess and we were, say, a chemical compound, would we be stable or unstable?”

his eyes lit up, a sly little look overtaking the embarrassment despite the little blush on his cheeks, and you could see his mouth curving up into a little grin, entirely too comfortable to walk the line between smooth-talking and sounding like the biggest nerd you had the fortunate luck of sharing seats with, “good question. we’d probably be unstable.”

oh.

you already felt your blood rushing to cover your skin in an embarrassed hue of red because you thought you were slick with that one. unstable? humiliating— but then he continued talking.

“but in a good way, you know? like, when two elements are drawn together, even if it’s turbulent. a little bit of controlled chaos makes things exciting, right?”

he looked at you with what was supposed to be a lazy smirk, though it wobbled with slight nervosity. one finger of his tried to brush away his fringe of hair, but the black strands fell back onto his face almost effortlessly. he really was cute, and for a split second you wondered the type of kisser he would be.

“so, like sodium and water?”

“okay, hold,” he held up a hand, trying to keep his expression in check (and failing to do so), “maybe not that exciting. that’s a little too dangerous, though it’s nice to know you like me that much.”

you nudged his shoulder away from you at the cheesiness, body straightening up again and an eye roll escaped you though you were anything but annoyed. if anything, you were a little charmed by the cowlicked hair, his eyes trained on you and the slight smile that didn’t know whether it should make fun of you or flirt with you. 

maybe he could do both.

you then decided to just try your luck because there was no way he tried to actually flirt with you using chemistry if he wasn’t at least the least bit interested, right? 

“yeah, yeah. maybe you should teach me some of that.”

he stared for a little while, silent and stumped (because it worked? holy—), though when he turned back to look back to the front of the class, you noticed the small, secret movement of him fist pumping the air and the stifled smile threatening to overtake his features.

(after class, you definitely didn’t overhear kuroo tetsurou whisper-yelling that you didn’t deny liking him, only for him to act all cool about it in the same minute. 

as if it was only natural for it to happen, he kept flexing his arms and striking ridiculous poses at the prospect that you supposedly were only one hair width away from being wooed by him. 

his blonde-haired friend did not seem impressed. at all.)

[venomvalley]

FEED ME!

PART I: NOODLE SOUP ↬ sevika x pregnant!reader | 5.4k words

SUMMARY:

Sevika rescues a pregnant stray from the streets of the Undercity as her good deed for the decade, but plans go awry when she starts to enjoy the companionship, and her entire lone-wolf worldview comes crashing down. The kicker? Her stray is very much human, and the circumstances of your condition create a whole new set of challenges—challenges best solved with good, old-fashioned murder.

TAGS: 18+! pregnancy fic, mentions of past rape, protective!sevika (she's still a bitch though i love her)

NOTES: i have no idea if people will even like this but i had fun writing it so theres that. never been interested in pregnancy fics, but i just needed protective sevika in my life idk. btw the actual rape is only briefly mentioned in passing. no descriptions whatsoever

-> READ ON AO3 | FEED ME! MASTERLIST

Sevika is having a shit day.

Well. Shittier than usual.

The sole of her boot broke off this morning, Silco's contact never showed up at the docks, and her favorite food place was closed by the time she passed through the Lanes. And to make matters worse, it started raining. Not only is she tired and hungry, but now she's soaked through to the bone.

So when she cuts through an alley to shave off a few minutes of travel on the way home, she really isn't in the mood for the voice that calls out to her. Beggars are a cog a-fucking-dozen in the Lanes, and she ignores them on instinct. There are worse things in the shadows that know her name, after all.

But for some reason, she decides to take the bait tonight. Turns back to look at the ground then stills at the sight of you, bathed in the neon lights of the city’s beating heart. There's no hiding the roundness of your stomach beneath your shirt, or the gauntness of your cheeks. Clothes dirty, hair unwashed, as if you were thrown out on the street like an unwanted stray.

The state of you makes her sick to her stomach. Angry at the world. For a brief moment, she remembers what—who—she fights for: the little people like you that often fade into the background. The chaos of the chem-barons and the Enforcers sniffing around tend to take center stage.

“I'm sorry for bothering you, but do you have any food?” Your voice comes out weak and raspy, desperation splitting each syllable at the seams. “I don't want money, I just—I'm starving and nobody will help me.”

Sevika nods toward the swell of your belly, so round it looks painful. “Where's the dad?”

You inhale a shaky breath, face twisting up in a pained grimace before hardening back to neutral stone. “I don't know. Don't even know who he is, actually, but I—I didn't ask for this. I swear, I'm responsible. I would never—fuck, it doesn't even matter. I'm sorry.”

She wonders how many times you've plead your case to passersby in an attempt to convince them to save you. How many actually believed your story.

But there’s no faking that grieving look in your eye, and the implication of how you ended up here changes things.

There are very few situations in this world that affect Sevika, but injustice pains her most. She’s seen the worst of this city a million times over, has contributed to the chaos in ways she isn't proud of, but she still holds a place in her heart for the people who got the shit end of the stick. People like you, and the kids starving in the streets, and everybody else cursed enough to be born in the hell she calls home.

“Get up,” she says, a bit more gruff than she means to, and your eyes widen in fear. You curl in on yourself as tightly as you can, arms folded over your belly. “You want food or not?”

As soon as the words leave her mouth, she regrets it. A disaster waiting to happen, appeasing a walking liability. There’s a reason why she doesn't bother with attachments or relationships outside of work and gambling.

But then you struggle to your feet, fighting gravity as you clutch at the brick wall for leverage, and she holds out a hand to steady you.

Her first mistake.

You grasp her fingers and gaze at her with eyes that gleam, like an outstretched hand is your first ever taste of tenderness.

(It probably is. Nothing surprises her anymore.)

As she leads you through the crowded streets, you turn into a skittish thing, eyes darting over the crowd, clinging a bit too hard to her wrist. When you step on the back of her boot, it only takes one venomous glare for you to keep your distance until you reach your destination: a hole-in-the-wall noodle shop. Big portions for cheap, in exchange for shit service and mediocre food. The only place open besides bars this late, and she wouldn't dare drag you into one of those.

She corrals you over to an empty table and pulls out the seat against the back wall for you to take. You glance around a moment, flinching at the slam of the front door, before easing yourself down into the chair, a hand protective over your stomach.

She wonders why. Why you’d care so much about something borne from an awful situation. It doesn’t make any sense.

The waitress strolls up to the table with two paper menus, eyes landing on her with a sultry smile. “Well, well, well. Sevika. Haven’t seen you around in a while.” The waitress—Zaya, maybe? her face seems familiar—looks you up and down with a curl of her upper lip. “Seems you caught yourself a stray.”

You bow your head at the comment, soothing over the mess of your hair in an attempt to make yourself more presentable. Sevika shouldn’t care as much as she does, but you’re just… pitiful. Pathetic, if she wants a more apt, less kind term to use.

“Something like that.” Beneath the table, her metal hand tightens into a fist, irritation burning hot inside her chest. Not in the mood for bullshitting. “I want my usual.” She glances over at you. “Double order.”

The waitress stands around for a long moment in an effort to strike up conversation, but Sevika pays her no mind, fully interested in the scratch marks on the table. Eventually, she leaves with a frustrated huff.

A long silence passes between the two of you. She isn't about to engage in small talk, and you look ready to burst into tears. Fine by her. Conversation was never her strong suit anyway.

You look up at her, then away, then back, a focused furrow to your brow. She opens her mouth to snap at you—*say what you want to say—*but you speak first.

“I know you. Well, of you,” you say, voice so quiet she almost can’t hear you over the white noise of the restaurant. “You’re popular.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

You heave a tired sigh, palm drawing rhythmic circles over your belly. “I don’t have any way to repay you.”

“No shit. That's the whole point.”

“I’ve heard this place is expensive.”

Sevika snorts. “This is the cheapest food in the Lanes.” Her eyes dart down to your stomach, visible just over the lip of the table. “One bowl can feed two people.”

You fall silent, avoiding her gaze to instead stare a hole through the wall near her head. “Thank you.”

A different waitress drops off the food (good fucking riddance, Zara), and you immediately tuck into your bowl, inhaling the noodles like you haven't eaten in weeks, dripping sauce all over your area of the table.

After you almost choke on a too-large bite, Sevika rips the bowl away from you with a growl of irritation. “Slow down. You're making a mess.”

You blink at her in surprise, eyes wide and misty, and grab a nearby napkin to clean your face then mop up your splattering of sauce. “Sorry. I’m just hungry.”

“You still have manners, don't you?” Despite the bite of her words, she takes pains to slide the bowl slowly across the table.

Sevika doesn’t know how to be soft. Never really had the patience, the capacity for it. She doesn't surround herself with people like you who require a tender hand. The kind of people who fear their own shadow.

She should get up, pay the tab, and leave. She did her good deed for the decade. She doesn't owe you anything.

But she can't will her legs to move. Thinks, instead, of you waddling back to that alleyway, of the pouring rain, of someone a lot more cruel than her stumbling upon your defenseless form in the middle of the night.

This is exactly what her old man used to warn her about: the inconvenience of companionship. One big distraction designed to veer her away from the end goal.

And yet—

you sit back in your chair with a content smile, shoulders relaxing from their spot beside your ears, and you look at her like she hangs the stars in your sky

—she doesn't move.

“Feel better?” she asks, elbow balanced atop the table as she adjusts her weight in her seat. She doesn't fidget, but the reverent look you aim her way gets her the closest she's ever been in her life.

Nothing good ever follows me. Get out while you still can.

You nod. “Yeah, but I think I ate too much.”

She glances down at your bowl. You licked it clean.

A wave of pride swells within her at the sight of you: eyelids already drooping, hands curling your jacket tighter around your shoulders. If you could, you'd no doubt be purring.

Cute.

Her face twists into a scowl, silently shooing away the thought as she rises to her feet, and you stumble in an effort to follow her.

“Are you—” you pause, hands clasping tight over your chest. “Do you know anywhere I can stay? At least to get out of the rain tonight?”

Sevika’s eyes narrow, gaze inspecting the features of your face for any hint of… she doesn't know, really. Manipulation, dishonesty maybe. But all that stares back at her is a woman with one big baby-sized responsibility and no means to care for it. You're scared shitless. There's no faking that.

Damn. Looks like she's got herself a stray for the night.

“Come on,” she grumbles, curling a hand around your upper arm.

She pays at the counter, your presence hovering just behind her elbow, and ignores the goodbyes from staff as she leads you out the front door.

“Where are we going?” you ask, a bit breathless from the speed of your walk in an attempt to catch up to her.

Fuck, she just wants to go home.

“My place. Just for tonight.”

You nod your head, reaching again for the comfort of her wrist, and she lets you. Too exhausted to argue.

The walk to her apartment takes longer than usual, your stride stilted from the bulk of your belly, fatigue weakening your legs.

Sevika's never really thought much about where she lives in regards to safety, but the shadows swallow the darkness tonight with you in tow. The locals know not to fuck with her, but they don't know you, and they leer in a way that makes her hackles raise.

She tugs you closer when a burly man steps off the stoop of his house, calling out to her.

“Whatcha got there, big girl?”

“Your head in a box if you don't fuck off.” A matter-of-fact statement. A promise.

He laughs, high-pitched and nervous, arms raised in placation. “Alright, alright, I hear ya. Not in the mood for jokes.”

She stops in her tracks and squares her shoulders, ignoring your quiet oof as you collide with her back. Because no, she's really not in the mood for jokes.

The man fidgets in place a moment as if weighing his options, before he backs away to the front door of his home. “Alright. I'll be seeing you.”

When the front door closes, she releases her hold on your arm and begins walking again.

“Who was that?” you whisper, fingers trembling as they reattach to her wrist.

“Nobody. Let’s go.”

A few minutes later, you're first inside her apartment, shivering from the chill of the rain. You look around the barebones living room—a broken-down couch, a scuffed chair in the corner, various tools scattered over the coffee table. Very little in regards to decoration.

Sevika doesn't like coming home. The emptiness tends to swallow her whole. Nothing waiting for her but an empty bed and the sprawl of silence.

“You need a shower,” she says, discarding her cloak over the back of the couch.

“I don't have any clothes.”

“I know.”

She just wants to sleep. Would rather not be dealing with this when a busy day looms ahead, but she couldn't just leave you there. A decision that goes against every cell in her body, every lesson she learned in her youth, but she couldn’t.

She just couldn’t.

She fetches you a worn shirt and a pair of boxer briefs then shows you to the bathroom, and you whisper your thanks as she tosses a spare towel on the sink.

You stay in there a while, and she passes the time by tinkering with her prosthetic.

Finally, the door swings open and you walk out, dirty clothes bundled under your arm.

“I finally feel like a person again.” You tug down the hem of her your shirt, fabric stretched over your belly. “Thank you.”

She grunts in response, and you take a seat across from her at the kitchen table, head tilting as you watch her work. You don't say anything. Just follow the movement of her hands.

The next time she looks up, your cheek rests on your folded arms atop the table, eyes closed, shoulders rising with each breath you inhale.

Asleep. Poor, helpless thing.

She considers leaving you there, doesn't want to bother with setting you up on the couch, but her legs are already moving before she makes a decision either way.

Carrying you is difficult given the bulk of your stomach. She holds you like a thing made to be broken, soft and careful, the cold metal of her prosthetic cradling your neck, her other arm beneath the bend of your knees. Walks slow to keep from waking you, enraptured by the rapid-fire expressions that flicker over your face. Anger, pain, sadness, anger, fear, fear, fear—

Must be a horrible dream.

She lays you down on the couch then covers you with a threadbare blanket found in the back of her closet. Takes a seat on the coffee table and thinks about what the fuck she’s going to do with you.

You can’t stay here, but she can’t let you live on the street either. So there’s the issue of finding someone to house you, but she can count the people she trusts on one hand (with five fingers left over). The shelters are already full-up, and under zero circumstances will she go to Silco for help.

She finds herself in a mess of her own fucking creation.

You roll onto your side with a dreamy groan, hand ghosting over your belly in your sleep. She wonders if you even want the kid. If you spend your days grieving a life you’ll never get to have because there's no other option.

Sevika doesn’t remember much of her own mom. Died when she was young giving birth to a little brother that failed to survive through the night—a waste in her eyes. That was her first brush with grief, the foundation of beliefs that her old man raised her with: the harsh life of the Undercity holds no room for love, or compassion, or attachment.

If the Enforcers had called for a doctor like they were supposed to, her mom might still be alive. But she doesn’t like to dwell on the past, on what-ifs. No damn point in it.

She pulls out a cigarette in hopes that the smoke will drown out the memories. Looks over at your sleeping form. Looks down at the cigarette. Heaves a frustrated sigh then puts it back in its metal case.

You're an inconvenient little thing. A stray with too many stipulations. No more than a headache.

(If she adjusts the blanket to cover up your cold, bare feet on her way out the front door, nobody has to know.)

The next morning, you’re half-asleep on the couch when she approaches you, arms stretched overhead, mouth opened wide in a yawn.

“Listen up.” She takes a seat on the coffee table, resting both elbows on her knees. “I’ll be gone for a few days, so if you’re staying here, we need to go over some ground rules.”

You snap to attention, face bright as the sun, scrambling to sit up. “Staying here? Really?”

“If you follow the rules.”

“Yeah! Yes, I—“ your brows tilt upwards, tone turning desperate, “whatever you want, I’ll do it. I swear.”

A part of her—the space reserved for optimism collecting cobwebs—almost believes you.

She holds up a finger. “Don't touch anything that isn't yours.” Another. “Don't go out at night, and when you do go out, don’t talk to anybody.” Another. “Don't answer the damn door, not even for me.” You nod along, enraptured gaze glued to hers. “You got all that?”

“Yes, ma'am.” At her raised brow, you stammer, “I—uh, sorry, I just… don't know what you want me to call you.”

“… My name.”

“Sevika.” She nods. “Okay. Then, thank you, Sevika. I mean it. You saved my life.”

With a roll of her eyes, she rises to her feet. “Yeah, I'm a real hero.”

“You are, though.”

She doesn't like this. The way you look at her all awestruck and worshipping. Doesn’t deserve it when there are people out there who would treat you much better than her—people who would actually care about you and the kid in the long run. If you're dead-set on keeping it, then it deserves the chance to grow up right. Loved.

Eight hours ago, she strongly considered leaving you in the street, starving and pregnant. So no, she’s not a hero. And she’s fine with that. Her path in life is a different, less savory one.

“There’s money in the kitchen for food,” she says. “Use my bed if you want.”

And then she leaves.

.

.

.

Truth be told, Sevika doesn't expect to see you when she gets home from a week-long binge of violence and booze, bruised all to hell, a headache splitting her skull down the middle. The edges of her temper sanded down to something less volatile.

Once she walked out the front door that morning, she stopped thinking about you. Brushed you off as a fluke, a mistake of lowered inhibitions.

(She thought about you a lot. Wondered if you were staying smart, being careful. If you actually used the money she left behind. If you were even alive. But she would rather die than admit the worry—no, no, Sevika doesn't worry—that fleetingly consumed her.)

You stand in the kitchen, bent over at the waist with an elbow propped on the counter, rubbing circles into your lower back. Bare from the waist down, the hem of your shirt does little to cover the swell of your ass—the little slice of heaven between your thighs, bathed in shadow from the poor lighting in her apartment.

Her fingers itch for a cigarette. She’s finally gone insane.

The room smells like a filling meal, everything left in its original place. Nothing unusual aside from the weight of your presence, and something warm settles in her stomach, heavy as a rock, so unfamiliar it makes her nauseous.

She chooses to ignore it.

“Get into trouble while I was gone?”

You jolt at the sound of her voice, righting yourself with a gasp when you spot her standing at the back of the couch. “Sevika, you're back!” Why do you almost sound relieved? Why do you smile at her? “And no, I…” you nod to the stove where a metal pot sits on the front burner, “I tried to make some soup, but I don't know how good it'll be.”

She walks over to you, boots heavy on the floor, and lifts the lid. Side-steps the wafting steam. “Smells good at least.”

“My mom used to make it all the time when I was growing up. It has rice and fish, so it's filling.”

The simple suggestion of a home-cooked meal makes her mouth water, especially made by someone that isn’t her, and she’s eaten much worse in her lifetime. Could never afford to be picky.

Exhaling a long breath, you reach down to once again rub at the small of your back, shifting on your feet. The only sign of discomfort aside from the pinch in your brow.

She huffs, nudging you out of the way. “Sit down. I'll finish up.”

“You don't have to—”

“Kid's giving you trouble. I got it.”

You blink up at her, a relieved smile stretching your mouth, eyes curving into crescents. It's… cute. “Thank you.”

Unfortunately, she soon learns that the soup is more of a porridge, thickened up by the starch in the rice, the fish rubbery from cooking too long.

Well. At least you tried.

She fetches two bowls from the cabinet and notices a stack of dishes that weren’t there when she left. The sink is also empty, as clean as you could manage given all the rust.

Maybe there are some perks to keeping you around.

She calls you over to the kitchen table, and you take the seat across from her with a tired groan. Thank her when she sits a steaming bowl and spoon in front of you.

Sevika always eats alone when she’s home. It’s been that way for as long as she can remember. Rarely ever a choice on her part because she never got the hang of making friends (too unapproachable, people used to say), so your presence is odd, settles wrong inside her gut.

“You’re hurt,” you say around a mouthful of food, and she looks up from her meal to find you squinting at her, head tilted.

“I’ve had worse.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“It wasn’t supposed to.”

You pout over the metal of your spoon, brows twitching, but say nothing in response.

However, something nags at her.

“So. Do I wanna know why you're not wearing underwear?”

Your mouth flattens into a thin line, embarrassment scrunching up your nose. “Sorry. It just… it's a pregnancy thing, I guess? I get sensitive sometimes. If you know what I mean.”

Her imagination does a good job of filling in the blanks. Thoughts that she never wanted to have about you.

“And that's a bad thing.” More statement than question, her own assumption given your discomfort.

“Good until it turns bad. Really convenient for, uh, certain activities.” You shift your gaze to your bowl of soup, a wide grin rounding out your cheeks.

“Not in my bed, I hope.”

She really, really hopes you didn't fuck yourself in her bed. Doesn't feel like washing the damn sheets.

“I couldn't if I wanted to. Haven't seen my own feet in over a month.” The tone of your voice implies that you do want to, that you've thought about it recently. “No, the uh… the girls at The Rose took me in for a while. One of ‘em was a mom, too, and I guess she felt bad for me. Hormones being a bitch and all.” You shrug, pointedly ignoring her stare. “I prefer women anyway.”

Sevika only briefly considers the revelation in regards to herself, or the fact that you lived in a whorehouse for a brief stint of time, because a more sinister implication rears its ugly head:

You prefer women. You're pregnant by a man with, in your own words, a baby you didn’t ask for.

She already clocked the circumstances the night she found you, but now she knows for sure. And she's furious.

“I'll fucking kill him.” A promise hissed under her breath.

There's no reason for her to get involved, to stick her nose where it doesn't belong, but she can't sit back and do nothing while that bastard walks free.

Your head snaps up, confusion twisting at your brow. Her eyes lock onto yours, unblinking, and whatever you see in her face makes you frown.

Softly, overcome by grief, you say, “He's not your responsibility.”

“This is my city. I don't want a monster like him living in it.”

Your drop your spoon in your bowl with a sharp clatter, turning away from her. “I'm sorry, I shouldn’t have said so much.”

Sevika leans forward, elbows folded on the table, half-eaten soup already forgotten. She's lost her appetite anyway.

“So he did hurt you.”

You don't answer for a long while, worrying a hand over the curve of your neck, eyes darting over the pattern of her floor.

Until you nod your head.

She stands up from the table with her bowl then empties its contents into the nearby trashcan. Can't bear the sight of you anymore, sitting so pitifully in her chair, thumb following the curve of your belly.

“I'll take care of it.”

You know by now that there's no point in trying to change her mind.

.

.

.

Her sheets smell like you—the first thing she notices when she finally crawls into bed, shoving her face into the pillow with a frustrated growl. She inhales. Curses herself on the exhale. Inhales again because she's lost her fucking mind.

She ends the dilemma by ripping off her pillowcase and throwing it to a shadowed corner of the room. Still, everything smells like you. Not even in the damn room, and your presence haunts her.

This is getting ridiculous.

Her fingers twitch, craving a cigarette or a blunt or cigar or anything to distract her from the hem of her pants. She won't do that to you—use your smile or your smell or the curve of your ass to get herself off. Not after what she learned just a few hours prior.

But she considers it for longer than she has any right to, and for the first time in forever, guilt curdles sour in her gut.

.

.

.

In order to find out the identity of your rapist (just thinking of the word brings acid to the back of her throat), Sevika comes up with an idea. One of her best.

She plops down on the cushion next to you and takes the book from your hands to get your attention.

You scoff, open your mouth in protest. “What are you—”

“We're going to the Lanes tomorrow.”

At her direct approach, you blink, adjusting the blanket over your lap. “Okay? Why?”

“There's a vendor showcase. I need to buy some things.” A bold-faced lie, and you seem to pick up on it, eyes narrowing in suspicion. She sighs, adds, “I'll buy you something pretty.”

She needs to get you into a crowd because she knows how criminals work. If he sees you, he’ll make himself known one way or another. Wouldn't pass up the opportunity of rubbing what he did in your face.

The hardest part of this little plan will be banking on him actually showing up, but most of the Undercity flocks to the showcase to buy products on discount before the year’s end. The perfect opportunity.

You search her face for… something. An ulterior motive, maybe—one she doesn't have—before sighing. “Okay.”

The next evening, she drags you by the scruff to the bustling hub of the Lanes, streets lined with pop-up markets and food carts, people celebrating and shouting and haggling prices. Your hand remains firm around hers, a neccessity given the thick of the crowd.

Everything is fine at first. She parts the sea of people to allow you through without issue, biting her tongue when you stop at each stall to see what’s on offer. Handmade clothes, street food, jewelry that she only glances at. She forces down her frustration when you take too long sorting through necklaces—if a bit enamored with the way you hold each of them up to your face, thumbing over the chain and the gems and the crystals.

You look up at her with a toothy smile, eyes outshining the fake diamonds in your hand, and her heart stops. Something sickly-sweet weaves through her ribs, squeezes so tight that she almost chokes on it.

Affection.

This isn't good. Her worst fear realized. Every atom in her body screams for her to run far away, to wipe you from her memory, to stay lonely and sad and safe.

Instead, she throws the necklace you chose back into the display and picks up one you looked over previously—the only necklace at the booth with real gems.

“This one is better,” she says, offering it to you for inspection.

“Yeah. This would’ve been my second choice.”

She nods. Pays the vendor despite your very vocal protests then helps you secure the clasp at the nape of your neck. Your skin brushes against her knuckles, soft and warm. A sharp contrast to the callouses that litter her palms and fingers. (And still, you always hold her hand.)

Too intimate. She knows better than this.

Until you spin around and rush her with a tight hug, the swell of your belly pressing against hers, your arms solid around her waist.

She's gonna be sick. Should push you off, lecture you about personal space and boundaries, but she thinks about her mom dying alone on some cold floor in the middle of the night, and she thinks about your smile, and nothing seems to matter much anymore.

She lets you hug her until you're satisfied, and you step away with a quiet, “Thank you, Sevika,” and she almost throws up right there in the street.

And then the night goes to shit.

One moment, you're strolling beside her, babbling about the ingredients of some dish you hate, and the next has you stiffening up, breath heaving in an instant, your fingers winding so tight around her hand that her joints creak.

She looks down at you, finds you wide-eyed, staring at something off in the distance with such abject horror that she puffs up on instinct.

“No no nonono, that's him.” You duck behind her, face fitting between her shoulder blades. “Oh, fuck, we have to go. Please, we gotta go.”

She knows who you're talking about. Who he is. No mistaking your reaction, the way you shake and sob against her back.

A lightning strike of fury consumes her.

“Where?” she hisses, twisting around to look at you. Your mouth opens and closes, fighting to make words, and you duck away from the touch of her hand on your shoulder. “Show me.”

You shake your head so fast your neck threatens to snap, both hands circling tight around her wrist, and you tug at her until you're rocking back on your heels. “Please don't. Please. I just wanna go.”

But fate smiles on her as she looks through the bustling crowd. Only one man acknowledges your existence, tucked behind a food stand on the corner of the street. He thinks he’s subtle about glancing over at you, a predatory glint to his gaze that she wants to gouge out.

As luck would have it, she knows him. Some bottom-of-the-barrel lackey for Smeech that often passes through The Last Drop, so disposable she doesn't even know his name.

Her feet move before she even realizes it, vision tunneling to the pinpoint of his cackling face as he smacks at the man beside him.

“Sevika!”

At the sound of your scream, she stops. Looks over her shoulder to where you search in a panic, shuffling on your feet, the crowd already closing in, jostling you in place.

Fuck. Fuck.

Leaving with you means disobeying the very foundation of who she is, nurtured into a brick wall weapon. She never backs down from a fight, but she can't leave you behind, either. Not like this—inconsolable, barely coherent to the world around you.

She shoves through the throng of people, the scowl on her face swearing murder to anybody who dares to even look at her wrong. She wants blood, wants to cut her teeth on something soft and vital. Craves it so bad that her hands go numb.

Those same hands take you by the arms, ushering you into a nearby alley, away from the chaos of the crowd.

She doesn't comfort people. Has no fucking clue how to calm you down aside from a stilted pat to the back. “Hey. You’re alright.”

You sag against her with a relieved sob, begging her not to leave you again. Begging her to take you home.

Home. Her apartment, rundown and small and shitty, is home to you.

It takes less than a second to make her decision, and she ushers you away from the market.

Fine. The bastard can live another day. She'll ask around the Lanes, catch him by surprise when you're not around to stop her because she knows him, and by the time she's done, there won't even be a body left to burn.

She makes it a promise.

TAG LIST: @thesevi0lentdelights @iamastar @ryoiii @tiyawnyana @muclunga (only doing this the one time cause i hate tag lists hfjkdfhgfjkd)

[pizzaapeteer]

CARAOUSEL

everyone’s a slut for mattheo...and he's well aware

warnings, nsfw 18+, fem!reader, degrading dirty talk, fingering, piv. an: sorry its been so long, so enjoy this 2.7k feral thought, I am posting from the car 🤍

Mattheo collected girls like trophies. They accumulated to him easily as breathing, flocking left and right, eyeing him down the halls with hopeful glances, their mouth salivating like he’s baiting them.

A fish swimming too comfortably, teasing the rabid pack of piranhas. Waiting to sink their teeth into the meal that he is, and maybe he’s sick - for thriving off it, the competition, the blood-thirst, but he can’t help who he is.

The same way he knows they can’t help their desires, defenceless against the sinful temptations that lure them towards him, he knows exactly what effect he has on women. It doesn’t matter how he treats them after the deed is done, discarding them like candy wrappers. They’ll still see him as a god. They still return despite leaving his dorm with a fresh load of shameful baggage.

It’s inevitable, truly, crawling back to him like a dog begging for that last bone. Mattheo knew it and, undoubtedly, so did all the rest. Because every girl is the same, so very predictable - even the ones you might doubt at first end up proving him right, eventually. Because every girl is living with a secret of pile of pure and utter filth buried within and Mattheo’s plenty happy to reveal it to you.

They know exactly what they’re getting involved in. He’s not one to hide behind a sweet facade like his friend Berkshire might. Mattheo lays it all out on the table, every little intention, and it’s by your own free choice whether you agree to continue on with the ride.

That’s part of the fun for him, seeing the way their dignity chips away and they welcome him in, relishing in the delicious humiliation you allow him to feed off. It ignites Mattheo with pure energy, feeding off the desperate souls of eager playthings. He’s yours for the night offering you the full buffet. If not by his looks, then with the filth of his words, that’ll have you eating out of his hand and leaving stuffed.

He finds deep amusement in their fleeting glances as he distracts himself with a cigarette, already moved on from the night's activities. The way hesitancies sit on their tongues as they consider asking him for things they already know he’ll refuse. Wishing to be that one golden exception that makes him beg you to stay, to change him and his ways.

You’re no different, despite the delusion that you may be. You’ve followed in the footsteps of the fallen, walking the same carved path, right back to his den. While some came with more spritely enthusiasm, seeking another round, your head practically hangs, eyes staring down at the lost dignity dragging behind you.

Shame reeking off of you potently as your hand curls into a fist, almost hesitating, pondering the stupid idea that this was. But, nevertheless, you knock with a sense of urgency just like the others had.

He offers you a pleasant grin when he comes face to face with you, leaning against the doorframe. He knows what you're here for and yet he’ll enjoy taking his sweet time in making you wait - dragging out the smell of desperation reeking from you.

He had purposefully answered without his shirt having expected company at this hour, his hair still soaked as he drags a towel across the top roughly, leaving his curls untamed, just how he likes it. 

His eyes shine with amusement at the agitated huff you exhaled, as if he had dragged you there himself.

Arching a brow at your unpleasant expression, he clears his throat with a deep rumble. “Hey now..” He discards the towel behind him, crossing his arms, relishing in the way your eyes flicker like a laser to his bulging muscles, and he rubs his chin in thought. “I don't remember ordering a lonely piece of hot ass."

Your face drops within the second, grumping a response to his sarcastic mockery, making sure he spots your expressive eye roll. "Shut up, you wanker.” 

The sound of your grumble is music to his ears and only makes him laugh as he steps back without a fight, letting you barge your way into his room. His eyes follow your figure, looking down at the curve of your ass as he closes the door behind him, reaching to pull you back into his side.

His hands make haste to caress your waist. “Aw, you're feeling pathetic coming back?"

His eyes study the clear humiliation that lingers in your gaze, eyes that looked so bright and sanguine the last time, but the lust is still clear. It shines through stronger hidden behind the curtain of shame and it makes him grin.

He leans forward, his hands still rubbing your hips in a way that momentarily calms you, and his breath ghosts your ear, his words exhaling with mocking excitement. “It’s ok.” A small nip pinches your ear, “I'll help remind you.” 

He doesn't waste further time with chitchat, his hands sliding beneath your shirt feeling the warmth of your skin, his body; strong and eager, manhandling you up against the wall. His body cages you in a tight embrace as his lips find yours with ravenous enthusiasm. It’s all so hard to keep up with the way his lips mold with yours so naturally, encapsulating feelings of being wanted, desired, like you’re here for more than sex.

Like this isn’t just some sexual arrangement to him, but it's never more than that to Mattheo. Doesn’t matter how alluring the company is, he’s not so easily persuaded, for why only one when he can have a tonne. He’s a man of his word, at least to himself.

That's how he likes it. A man unwilling to be tied down by the chain of commitment, and it’s not like he’s having many complaints. Despite their pouty lips and regretful eyes, he knows they like it. It's why they keep coming back. 

It's why you came back. 

His hands, callous and firm, keep you right where he wants, tangling in the depth of your hairs, pulling at the strands like puppet strings. Every touch is laced with subtle manipulations that he skillfully works into every move, his tongue pushing penetrating past your lips at the constructed gasp, not waiting for permission.

He knows he doesn’t need it, never has, never will.

It’s the way you feel paralyzed on cloud nine, like you don’t mind him doing all the work. The way your body seems to know that it’s time to submit to the pleasures he’s willing to condone. It’s hard to comprehend it all, your mind buried behind a thick layer of cloud, a bog filled with desire and need, each new move leaving you lightheaded.

His hands fondling everywhere and anywhere as he pleases, your hands only able to fist the waistband of his shorts, trying to stabilise the intense arousal burning under your skin. The air greets the tops of your thighs, your skirt whisked off with the utmost speed, making you recall what the gossipers always say; ‘you’ll be naked with just a blink.’ 

Eyes tinting with a lustful overcast, darkening the softer brown to a near complete fullness like there's nothing behind them but pure, carnal need. Mattheo’s fingers dance up the exposed skin, his lips seeking solace against your neck, licking and sucking, creating long-lasting marks. A branding - a reminder he wants you to take away with you, to keep you stuck looping on the longing memory of tonight.

The pad of his thumb presses, rubbing antagonizing slow circles on your clothed clit as if remembering that he has time as long if only to tease you. His kisses grow sloppier, urgent and merciless, trailing higher to those sensitive spots he has memorized, behind your ear that have you whining, your hips bucking up against his hand pathetically.

He grins, flicking his tongue to slither the shell of your ear, the deepness of his voice rumbling out in a chuckle, “just as desperate as last time…it's like you’re begging me to appease that pretty little cunt again.”

His fingers slide behind the barrier of your panties, and he speaks again, enjoying teasing you. “Is that what you're here for? To beg me to fuck you?”

A delicious gasp spills from your swollen lips at the push of his digits, heat flooding your bloodstream at his degrading questioning. Your mind is struggling to seek a clear thought, too focused on the pleasure pulsing through your cunt, his knuckles scraping your walls perfectly.

He watches the way your mouth drops paused in exclamation, eyes fluttering shut, the tilt of your head banging into the wall. It's absolutely euphoric and Mattheo knows this moment is going into his mental folder. For every whimper, moan, plead you offer him stays with him as a medal, a keepsake for his services. 

“You're pathetic, not deaf, sweetheart.” He retreats his fingers briefly, letting his thumb continue the torturously slow ministrations, relishing in your whine, as he waits for an answer. Your body shines with a humiliating glimmer translucent to him and he licks his lips, dipping his head to meet your eye, his free hand resting beside your head casually.

You don’t want to beg. You’re definitely not that desperate. Right?

He raises a brow, sliding his fingers back in between your folds and increasing the pace of his thumb, the sounds of your soaked pussy filling the room. “Mm, no?” He asks sarcastically, continuing his taunting among your whines that are increasing in frequency.

“Fucking wet and for what? A quick fuck? Couldn’t just go to someone new could you...” He laughs, shaking his head, his fingers curling, thrusting faster, “no, because your body belongs to me and it knows it, doesn’t it?” 

Your eyes have since closed during his degrading speech, but you nod rapidly, feeling on the verge of your orgasm, readily willing to do whatever he wants for the trade. 

His laugh echoes his dorm with a deep husk at your pitiful answer, “I know, sweetheart. Gonna be a little slut and make a mess in your pretty panties?” He watches you wither, your hand gripping his arm, denting your nails into his skin as your knees weaken, your climax bursting, coaxing a wave of attainment fulfilling you.

He removes his hand, licking the remnants of your arousal off his fingers and reaching for his shorts. They're off in a second, followed by his briefs, your chest heaving still from the release. You barely get a glimpse at his cock, sitting upright against his abdomen before he spins you, his fingers nudging your back that makes you lean into the wall.

The saturation of your wet panties makes you squirm, arching your back, trying to seek any friction, not even caring anymore how whiny and needy you’re begging. He’s right, it's why you're here after all. Mattheo revels in the sounds that you let loose so uncontrollably. There's no room for secrets. Just raw, unconditional truth.

With firm hands, his fingers knead into your skin like dough, holding your body to ground him as he grinds his cock against your covered pussy. Your bodies slick together in a tight compression of heat and hunger, the dampness coating his length and he rests his chin on your shoulder listening to every breathy whimper and moan you utter. 

“I love girls like you.. who pretend they’re better than the rest.” You're all just the same, slutty, desperate, greedy things wanting him and that's ok. He won't respect you, but he won't judge you, at least not in a way you won't enjoy.

He kisses behind your ear, beginning to push your panties down off your hips - his eyes drifting down to watch in mirth at your immediate response to finish taking them off for him. “Impatient aren’t we.” 

“Please.” 

“Oh, now, the begging starts.” He chuckles lowly, pulling himself back, nudging your legs further apart, he presses a hand to your back, and you instinctively tilt forwards for him. “Atta girl, gonna take me with no complaints, yeah?”

The desperate nod has him smirking, how adorably naïve he hums the thought to himself. With ease, the tip of his cock nudges inwards, pushing between your folds, lathering him fully in your earlier arousal. It's warm and tight like you really haven’t been able to seek anyone else and he groans, a deep hoarse sound at the possessive thought. 

The feel of his cock grazing the depth of your walls makes your head drop, as well as your arm feeling the need to hold yourself at the pressure building.

And then he moves. Hard, forceful thrusts drilling back in repeatedly as you moan out in intense pleasure, unable to keep yourself quiet. His hands squeeze your sides tighter, his lips covering your neck with a litter of bites, the carnal adrenaline coursing through him needing an extra way of release. 

“Fuck–Mm,” He snarls, his voice straining as he configures a sentence from the feeling of your cunt clenching around his cock as if unwilling to let go. “Fuck-shit that’s it.. that’s it squeeze my cock like your life depends on it, like you ain’t enjoying being fucked by me, like this won’t be the last time.”

The way he’s not afraid to be vocal, every groan makes you feel impactful that you’re doing something right. Maybe you could change him and his ways if you just do everything he wants. Your mind consumed with delusion behind every hit of his cock against your cervix, every mocking, belittling degradation, sending a pulse of arousal to your core.

Thrumming waves of desire flow over your body as you whimper, loving everything he gives you; you want to be used by him and it’s only under the touch of him you feel unashamed.

His hand finds familiarity in your hair, tugging on the makeshift reign, and your eyes meet his. Desperate, raw, completely wrecked already, it's a sight worth capturing.

He grins mercilessly, picking up the pace, keeping his eyes locked on yours, threatening to roll back. “Are you happy now? You got what you needed?” His tone is smug and condescending, cockiness reeking off of him with every grunt. “Course you are.”

He knows you're enjoying it and can hear it in every pleased reaction you make. In the way, your eyes close, fluttering like you're falling into a sweet dream. Your hand is right on his wrist as he squeezes you and takes a hold of your throat, relishing in the hitch in your breath.

He knows there will be another time, and that once he shatters you in a moment's time, you’ll leave like you did last time with a stubborn, bitter mutter shamefully admitting what a bad idea this was. But you'll come back.

“Come on… cum for me.” He chants encouraging you, “make me proud like the desperate slut you are.”

His hand squeezes tighter, the airflow suffocating, just enough to the point your head spins and leaves you weak and compliant. Your second orgasm rushing over you like a tidal wave, and you whine a breathless scream before oxygen replenishes back into your lungs. His grip settles back on your waist as he tenses holding you steady as his own hips jerk, his muscles convulsing before he groans out a release.

A shiver runs down the length of your spent body, legs quaking from the bliss still consuming you. Mattheo stays rested on your back for a mere second before he’s pulling out, wanting to detach himself from any accidental acts of intimacy.

He’s polite enough to redress your underwear, but only for the lewd thought of his cum dripping through your panties, sending you packing warm and with a lasting memory that'll have you ready to come his way once more. 

For he knows it doesn’t matter that his back has already turned, disregarding you, his attention now on his permanent vices. He smiles to himself at the sound of the predictable insult your mumble beneath your breath.

As he lights his cigarette, he turns to bid you adieu, knowing he doesn’t have to change a single thing about himself. It won't be long before you'll get that desperate tug, like a signal sounding you, the distant call of the carousel that never ends. Continuing to drive hope and delusion into you, desperate for the attraction that is Mattheo. 

Navigation. Masterlist. Mattheo masterlist. Ty for reading! And Ty to my wife ily!! @amongemeraldclouds divider found here!

©️pizzaapeteer 2025

[yanderenightmare]

Geto Suguru & Gojo Satoru

TW: NSFW, dubcon, suggestiveness, pressuring, blindfolding

fem reader

Your boyfriend Suguru is really nonchalant when asking if you’d like to fuck his best friend, Satoru.

Obviously, you look up at him with an appalled grimace – a look of serious shock and animated disgust – before you snort out, “What kinda joke is that?”

He keeps on just as casually as before – stroking his fingers up and down your bare arm where you lie halfway against his chest, tucked close in the nook of his body. “I wouldn’t mind.” He says – blank eyes kept staring at his laptop as though he was actually paying attention to the sitcom the two of you were no longer watching.

Your grimace drops to a frown, sitting up and raising a brow at him. “You wouldn't mind if I cheated on you with your best friend?”

You ask it rhetorically, but he doesn’t take it as such. Arguing against it, “It’s not cheating if I allow it.”

It makes you go quiet, pouting now. Looking at him while trying to decipher his game. “Do you...” You approach carefully – not sure where this is all headed. “Do you want us to?”

“Why d'you ask?”

Your grimace returns at the dumb response – now looking a little pissy.

“Why me? Why’d you ask?” This is so typical of him. Suguru just loves baiting you into admitting things you don’t want to. But this time, he's got it wrong because you have no interest in Gojo. If you did, you wouldn’t be lying in bed with his friend, now would you?

“Satoru wants to fuck you.” Suguru cuts off your inner ramble, and your grimace softens again – now just looking at him in confusion.

“What makes you say that?” You ask, and he continues pretending to watch the plot thicken on screen.

Still just as casual, saying, “‘Cause he told me.”

You gape at him, and then you scoff – folding your arms against your chest with an additional huff. “The nerve on that guy, honestly.”

“So you don’t want to fuck him?” Suguru’s eyes finally slide off to glance at you, waiting for your reaction.

You return his gaze, and then you smile. "Oh, Suguru~" You hum in a sultry murmur.

Lifting the laptop, you set it aside softly on the bedside table, freeing up room on his lap for you to crawl on top.

He accepts the advance smoothly, placing his hands on your hips as you lean in to kiss him with that same smile – moaning into your mouth with a rugged shudder when your hand dives beneath the band of his sweats. 

“All I want...” You whisper while taking him in your palm, giving him a light squeeze and a gentle tug before feeling it grow fat and warm under your touch. “Is to make you happy.”

A couple of days later, you come by only for Gojo to be there as well.

You're confused at first, but Suguru acts as though it was all something the three of you had planned – and so does his white-heard friend, who’s standing by his side with a wide grin on his face – halfway hidden behind the same unnerving blindfold as always.

And you don’t know how you all wind up there...

But the three of you are in the bedroom not long after.

Suguru is sitting in an armchair just next to the bed you’re kneeling on – while Gojo kneels parallel to you.

“Uhm... I don't know about this...” You say reluctantly, folding your arms in front of your body while looking to Suguru – anything to avoid eye contact with the half-naked guy sitting before you. 

You had all stripped down to just underwear under your boyfriend’s command – but contrary to you, they'd been neither shocked, embarrassed, or uncomfortable with it.

Suguru gives you a gentle smile. “You said you wanted to make me happy.” His eyes are calm and suave, like always. “This would make me very happy.”

You look at him for a while, trying to find comfort for the anxious furl between your brows – then you glance at the other boy, but your eyes don’t even reach his before you immediately look away again – back to Suguru.

You swallow the dryness in your throat.

“I’m sorry, but... I don't understand this...” You whisper under your breath as though you wanted the conversation to be private – between just the two of you, despite the third member whose knees brushed yours. “Help me understand.”

“It’s simple.” Said third member interrupted, calling your gaze to his piercing blue one. “You’re his girlfriend, and I’m his best friend – we’re his two favorite people in the world. He just wants to see us get along…” He leans closer until his breath wafts across your face. “Can you do that?”

You dismiss his advance with a turn of your head, looking back at your boyfriend again. “Are you sure about this?”

He just gives you a secure smile in return. “I’m sure.”

And with the last reassurance, Gojo’s hands slide up your thighs, making you gasp. “You heard him.” He finalizes. And you, caught by surprise from the sudden contact, whip your head back to look at him with wide eyes only for his lips to meet yours.

You make a sound, then an additional louder one as he pushes his tongue inside along yours – quickly followed by him shuffling closer. With his hands grabbing your hips, he pulls you around his torso, making you fall back until you hit the bed flat.

You don’t know how you’re supposed to enjoy this – letting your boyfriend's best friend kiss and touch your body while he just sits still and watches the two of you in silence.

You try looking at him to see if he’s still as unshaken, but Gojo’s quick – much more aggressive than Suguru usually is. 

The wetness of Gojo's tongue playing with yours makes your head so hot – chest pounding so fast you fear it might just bleed out in your chest. But he has no mercy, wasting no time – hooking your legs up around his hips before slipping his hand between them.

You felt something snap in your mind when he fingered the hem of your panties, or maybe it was your heart skipping a beat – either way – you broke the kiss off with a shove to his chest. Panting out, “No, stop-” 

You prop yourself up and shuffle out from under his progressive touches. Breaths hitched as you wiped your mouth dry from his spit.

“I’m sorry, Suguru – I can’t do this...”

Feeling flushed, you were riddled with goosebumps from head to toe – still denying those searing bright blues you felt stare you through. Tucking your legs close to your chest, you wrapped your arms around them – waiting for any sort of consolation, any words to tell you it was okay, that it was a silly idea to begin with, that you absolutely don’t have to do anything you're not comfortable doing.

But nothing of the sort ever comes...

Instead, after a silence, your boyfriend’s hand reaches out to brush something along your leg.

You peek up – watery eyes blinking once, then twice to focus, until seeing the thing held in his hand.

“How ‘bout you wear this and pretend he’s me?” He proposes smoothly, still with a gentle smile shaping his face.

It’s Gojo’s blindfold.

“Would that make you feel better?”

You hesitate, sinking your teeth into your lip.

It takes a moment, but eventually, you give an ever so timid, “Okay...”

And again, you don’t know how the three of you get there… but not long after, you’re seated on Gojo’s lap with his fat cock nestled deep inside you, being bounced on him like a toy doll.

“Suguru~” You moan – but he's not the one who's gruffing out hot and heavy breaths against your neck while sucking fresh lovebites on top of the ones left there by your actual boyfriend a couple of days before.

“You’re real’ loyal – cryin’ out his name with my dick inside yah-” Gojo groans, squeezing your tits in both hands, tweaking your nipples until you whine out again, same name on your lips. “Aw, c’mon – won’t you cry like that fo’me too~”

Your legs are propped up on Suguru’s broad back. You can’t see him through the blindfold, but you recognize that tongue – laving at your clit with kitten licks and suckling kisses while Gojo pumps his full length inside you on every thrust.

“C’mon, you’ gon’ make me beg for it?” Gojo catches your mouth, making you share each other’s breath while sloppily feeding you his tongue. “C’mon, say my name~ it’s not that different – should roll just as easily off your tongue~”

He picks up the pace along with his pleas, punching your insides to mush – making you twist where you lie sweaty against his chest.

Hot air hits your slit with words from a tongue licking all the right nerves. “Go on, baby~ moan for him like you moan fo’me~”

It makes you shudder, feeling so hot and so awfully good – your feel a guilt telling you to deny it, but it’s simply unbearable. “Oh-fuck – Satoru~”

“Yes-yes-yes~” He chants at your ear, licking the shell of it while he slips off your blindfold to let you watch Suguru lick your clit like a puppy – his own cock kept lonely between his legs, leaking out onto the sheets – edged and red from the toll of it.

The sight makes you feel some type of way.

“Oh fuck – don't squeeze so tight, I’m gonna cum-” Gojo whines, holding you tighter while sinking in deep.

“Ew, no – pull out, pull out-” You protest, shaking your head while trying to wiggle out of the tight hug he's got you trapped in. 

“No – I'll clean it out-” Comes an additional plea from beneath you. Suguru kisses the belly bulge made by Gojo’s fat cock, then licks a strip from the weight of his balls up to where he has your hole stretched around his girth, mouthing at it in moans while his nose rubs your clit. “Please, princess, let him cum inside~”

Both you and Gojo swallow thickly, panting in unison.

“How can you say no to that?” He asks against your ear.

Your thighs shake while you whine, “Ugh~ fine – but someone’s buying a pill.”

Suguru only hums, laying his tongue flat against your clit again, knowing exactly what to do to time your orgasm with the flood of cum that soon splurged your insides with creamy white.

Gojo grunts with the release, and you quake, milking it out of him until he winces from the overstimulation – sloshing out while heaving for air.

You sigh, but before you can come all the way down, Suguru’s filling the vacancy with himself – making you suck it up again as he bullies his way inside in a series of quick-timed pumps before he's filling you up with his own thick mess.

He takes your face and kisses you despite you both being too breathless to sustain it for long, left to huff short puffs of air on one another’s wet lips.

He rests his forehead on yours until your pussy’s squeezed him free of the last drop, then swallows thickly.

There's a grating chuckle. “Don’t know if a pill’s gonna help...”

[grimesbunny]

tonight i feel like more

summary: dry humping. sub daryl (but he doesn’t know it) lets goo. awkward sex. probably ooc. they do everything but kiss LMAOO.

inspired by that one s2/3 panel where norman says if someone tried to kiss daryl he’d start crying cause he isn’t ready for all that. hasnt left my head since i watched it. title from digital bath by deftones

dry humping farm era daryl :( coming out to his secluded tent one night under the guise of checking on his injuries and your playful flirting gets too real too fast somehow. you’re both pent up from what feels like months of tension that you can’t even bother to shed your clothes— or maybe daryl just isn’t ready to cross that threshold yet— it doesn’t even matter because the moment you sit yourself on his broad lap and feel the hard, thick outline of him pressed against you through your clothes, you forget to care.

he’s instantly whining at the friction, ducking his head and using your neck to shield you from seeing how red his face has grown, how embarrassed he is that simply talking to you has made him so hard. you do it on purpose, talking to him in that sweet, endearing tone that you know drives him crazy. constantly teasing him with your eyes and touches until he scoffs off your advances. in your defense, the effect you have on him is just too addicting not to play with a little.

“aw, dar, don’t be shy.” you giggle out quietly, your soft arms coming to rest on his shoulders and intertwine behind his back. “look at me.”

the defiant grunt he lets out doesn’t have the same effect when it cracks with desire. like yanking the leash on a dog, you pull the hair at the nape of his neck firmly enough to send him into action. his pupils are dilated, but his eyes remain squinted stubbornly even as he does as he’s told.

“what? we gonna make out all night like a coupla teenagers?” he attempts to be snarky, but the nervous tremor in his voice betrays him.

“why, is that the farthest you’ve ever gone?” it’s half joking, half a genuine question.

from what you’ve heard, daryl had spent most of his life following merle around like a lost puppy pre-apocalypse. you wonder if any significant others had filled some of the space in between, and a part of you is jealous just thinking about it.

he snorts. “i ain’t no virgin mary, that’s for sure.”

well, that’s too bad. you could’ve really gotten off on being his first.

“oh, okay. so you know what you’re doing then?”

he’s silent, an unreadable expression on his face.

as if to prove a point, you grind down on his bulge with one fluid motion. daryl’s jaw falls slack and a barely there whimper tumbles out, eyes widening up at you with submission, vulnerability. it makes your cunt throb, makes you want to give him everything and make him beg for it at the same time.

“feels good, hm?”

“cmon, stop… stop playin’ around.” he huffs— grits out more like. as if using his voice while he’s in such a compromising position is physically paining him. you watch his eyes drift to your chest, which is quickly rising and falling with your synchronized pants.

“oh, you can do better than that, dixon.” you chide lightly. “what happened to that smart mouth of yours?”

“i… can you…” daryl sucks in a deep breath, his gaze lowering to the spot your groins are connected. “just fuckin’ move.”

you lean back, giving him a better view of the expanse of your torso, the way the strap of your camisole has started to fall down your shoulder. daryl seems to bite the bait, tongue darting out to gather the pool of drool starting to gather around his lip. it rings a laugh out of you.

“with that attitude, i should just go back inside. leave you all alone to take care of yourself.” you threaten. his response is immediate, as his large hands that were once gripping the blankets below him come to hold your waist in place with a bearish grip. waiting, you raise an eyebrow at him.

he looks off to the side. “p…please.”

it’s faint, reluctant. still, the rush of power he’s giving you makes your head spin. he’s realistically much stronger than you, could quickly take control of the situation without breaking a sweat with that advantage alone. but he’s choosing to let you lead, to do as you say. you can’t say it’s something you expected, but you’re not gonna complain.

your lips stretch into a grin, patting his cheek like one would a puppy. “attaboy. that’s what i thought.”

you can feel daryl’s cock kick at the praise, and it encourages you to buck down into it. you both moan at the same time, hands tightening around each other as you continue to slowly drag your cunt along his cock. the heat emanating from your clothes is blossoms in below your navel and traps you in.

“you like that, don’t you? doing what you’re told?” your hips slowly gain speed, hands traveling to perch on daryl’s shoulders. his muscles flex underneath your fingertips from exertion.

he does nothing but lowly whine in response, attempting to duck his head again.

“say it.” you push. “say it or i’ll stop.”

“fuck. yeah. i don’t know.” he grunts, his hips canting to chase your warmth. “i like hearin’ you say it.”

“that you’re being so good for me? letting me get off on your lap?” you tease meanly, lifting forward to talk in his ear. “that your cock feels like heaven right now and it’s not even out of your pants?”

the groan that emits out of him is followed by a frustrated sigh. daryl’s hands shakily run under your shirt, up to your waist. you can tell he’s unsure of his movements.

“you can touch me.” you allow graciously.

building up to it, his hands travel slowly. you almost start to believe he’s purposely teasing, but the clumsiness of it all makes you think otherwise. its like a dam breaks when daryl finally reaches your breasts, the fabric of your top bundling up on your chest. he squeezes hesitantly, then his calloused thumbs circle around your areola as your hips draw circles in his lap. daryl watches your nipples harden in unadulterated fascination, his breathing heavy. either he does know what he’s doing or he’s aimlessly exploring and just so happened to make the right move.

he looks up at you for permission and your nod is all he needs to lean forward, catching one of your supple titties on his tongue. it sends your back arching, nearly knocking him back onto the ground.

“fuck, yeah. just like that, baby.” you feel his spiky hair underneath your fingertips as you tug on the roots for stability, which earns a distinct noise from the man below you. the pleasure curling at your spine from his tongue spurs your movements on, beginning to hump into him with all your effort. his bulge keeps knocking against your clit in a way that has you on the verge of seeing stars. “feels so good, daryl.”

“oh, shit. y’gonna… i’m about to…” his voice splits on the last part and it makes your heart clench, disbelieving as you lift his head up to meet his eyes. sure enough, they’re glistening with unshed tears in the dim light.

“already?” your smile and voice are dripping with sympathy. “it’s okay, let it out. i want to feel it.”

you’re bound to have bruises from how hard daryl squeezes you when he releases. it’s a sight to be seen; his face twisting up, strong muscles bulging as he struggles to stifle the cry that’s ripped out of him. his hips drive up into yours, and you swear you can feel it paint his pants, his cum mingling with the damp spot you’ve left.

“you’re so sensitive. god, that’s hot.”

he’s too high on his orgasm to come up with a retort to that. to his surprise, you continue chasing your own pleasure, paying no mind to the fact that he’s rapidly softening. your hearts racing, body tingling with warmth as you reach the brink.

“wait,” his voice is watery. “s’too much.”

“don’t be selfish, dar. i’m not finished with you yet.” you’re breathless at this point, just barely expending the last of your mental energy to respond to his whines. “you can take it a little longer, can’t you?”

his head falls back, and you’re not sure if the noises come from his mouth are from pain or pleasure or both. he nods anyways, watery eyes flicking down to watch your supple tits bounce.

you squeeze onto his biceps. “you’re being so good. gonna make me cum so hard.”

daryl’s whining and squirming underneath you, fingertips piercing your thighs exposed by your shorts.

“you’re so pretty.” he sniffles, whispers in a way that seems subconscious. “how … how can i help?”

ironically that question, of all things, is what sends to the edge. your orgasm is wrung out of you, rippling through your body like a wave as you spasm on his lap. daryl’s noises rival your own in volume, the overstimulation becoming painful.

you both pant together as the last of the aftershocks fade.

“are you okay?”

“my dick is sore.” daryl says at the same time. his voice is raw, vulnerable.

“i’m sorry.” you giggle breathily, going to stand up. his hands hesitate in letting you go, but eventually he drops them to his sides again.

he scratches the back of his neck as you straighten all of your clothes out.

“where’d you learn to… talk like that?”

a smile makes its way back onto your face as you shrug. “you kinda just brought it out of me. seems like you liked it.” you pointedly glance at the large stain on the front of his pants.

“shit. gonna have to burn these in the walker pit. don’t want carol clutchin’ her pearls at me on laundry day.”

“nuh uh. save ‘em for next time.” you joke.

he squints at you again in true daryl fashion. his face is red and his hair is sticking to his forehead with sweat. the sight is almost enough to make you want round two right there and then. maybe with a little less clothes.

“ain’t gon’ be a next time.”

you snort, bending down to grab your forgotten flashlight. “right.”

he watches you unzip the tent, eyebrows pulled together pathetically. there’s definitely going to be a next time.

[urcoolgf]

WHAT’S YOUR DEAL? PT. 6

pairing. childhood bsf¡rafe && childhood bsf¡reader

content. fluff. language.

summary. rafe's confession has you more disoriented than ever, and—no matter how much you want to—you can't just sweep it under the rug

SERIES MASTERLIST

what. the. fuck.

all you could do was stare at rafe—jaw slightly slacked, and eyes wide. there had been moments where you had jokingly flirted with each other, or pretended to be a couple on valentine's day to get free dessert, but it was never real… was it?

as he watched your expressions change he realized he had fucked up everything. you watched some type of fear, or maybe regret take over rafe's face as he quickly turned his head away, standing up from the bed.

"shit– shit. forget i said that 'kay? jus'… it doesn't matter. it was stupid—spur of the moment thing, y'know?," he began pacing again, purposefully avoiding your gaze.

"forget? rafe– how the fuck am i supposed to forget that you just said you're in love with me?!," you were in shock. you didn't know what to think, what to believe, what to say. you had never been this speechless in you life—regardless of the words you just uttered.

"y/n can you drop it?," he asked, but it was more of a command, "please…," he muttered quietly as if he was embarrassed he had said it in the first place. he was acting like he didn't even know what to do with himself—pacing, biting his nails, rubbing his eyes, running his hands through his buzzed hair, messing with the golden ring on his finger. he was doing everything but facing you, and facing what he had just said.

maybe somewhere deep down you weren't completely speechless. maybe way under the surface you might be happy that he said what he just did. maybe—but, nothing about this was a good idea.

"jus' forget about this conversation," he was about to leave the room before you stood quickly, grabbing his wrist before he could walk out. his eyes traced down to your delicate hand wrapped around him. you could see his gaze soften even though he wasn't looking at you—a soft smile tugging at his lips, forced back down so it didn't seem like he had any hopes of this going well.

"ray…," you hadn't called him that in ages. he could barely hear you. you spoke like you were scared of what you were going to say next—honestly, you were. you didn't think, just let your mouth take control.

"d'you mean that?," you weren't sure where this was going, weren't sure why you asked—you had enzo. you liked enzo. enzo was easy, and fun, and new, and… nice.

fuck.

you waited for his response with baited breath—you didn't know why. you had never seen him in that way, as something more than your best friend. so, why did the silence make your heart race?

"'course i did… ya really think i would say some detrimental shit like that as a joke?," his breathless laugh that followed was uneasy, and filled with anxiety—you could tell. that's the thing… you knew him—you just knew him. that's what was so dangerous about this.

you didn't know what to do. to stop yourself from doing something you might later regret, you just pulled him to you, burying your face in his chest as your arms wrapped around him tightly. his big arms, moved to wrap around your waist, and even though you had done this a million times your head was spinning. your skin was on fire, your stomach was doing flips, and your heart was skipping multiple beats. you wanted to believe this confession didn't change anything, but all this hug taught you was that things would never go back to how they were.

once you finally pulled apart, it looked like rafe was holding something back—whether it was words, or an action—you didn't know. before he let it consume him he spoke.

"'m gonna go, 'kay?," you nodded in response. you didn't really want him to leave, but it was better for both of you to think before you acted. he quietly turned to leave the room, giving you a brief smile before closing the door behind him. the sound of his footsteps retreating back to his own room echoed through your head.

—

you woke up early to make some breakfast, and while you were mixing pancake mix you hear a familiar groggy voice behind you. you didn’t know it, but he had been there for a few minutes before speaking—admiring the way your cute little pajama set hugged your curves, and the way your curls fell down your slim back.

he couldn’t believe he had found you in this lifetime… what did he do to deserve you? he didn’t know, but you were definitely proof that there was a God. he finally spoke up, having stared at you for long enough—it was never long enough, he could stare at you for eternity wondering how you were even real.

"mornin'. what're you up to?," you turned your head to see a sleepy rafe lazily smiling at you, leaned over the kitchen island. he was shirtless—of course—because what man wouldn’t walk downstairs with his abs on full display after confessing his love to his best friend?

"makin' pancakes! want some?," you asked, trying to keep your gaze from lingering on his body for too long. this morning should have been awkward, but it was the opposite. it was like some type of weight had been lifted between you and rafe—at least, that's how you felt.

"sure," he replied, walking over to the refrigerator to get some orange juice. the next thing you know, his body heat is swarming you as his hand reaches into the cabinet above your head to grab a cup. his breath was hot on your neck—he was taller than you, and you could still feel it run down your back. it sent a slight shiver down your spine. he moved away, glass in hand, placing it on the counter and pouring some of the juice into it as if nothing had happened. maybe nothing did happen.

okay maybe the weight wasn't lifted—maybe it was heavier than ever, suffocating you underneath it until it was all you could think about.

'because i'm fucking in love with you,' it replayed in your head like a broken record. the desperation and defeat in his voice, the look in his eyes, the words themselves—it was consuming you.

you didn't know what to do. you liked enzo—at least, you thought you did. he was the perfect guy, and he clearly adored you. as if you didn't feel bad enough already, a ping came from your phone.

"who's texting you this early?," rafe asked as he made his way over to sit at the island, beginning to sip on his juice. his tone wasn't even jealous—it was almost as if confessing last night had made him… not insane? was that even possible?

enzo: Hey y/n! We still on to hang out today?

your mind was reeling—it was awful. enzo was so nice, and he deserved your undivided attention, but rafe's words were still stuck in your mind.

'because i'm fucking in love with you.'

y/n: hey! sorry… my dad made some last minute family plans. won't be free for another two days :(

enzo: Damn :( Just text me once you're free, have fun!

you felt awful lying to him—your plans weren't until tomorrow, but you needed time to process everything that had happened. it felt wrong to hear rafe confess his love to you, then turn around and hang out with enzo. no matter how much of an asshole rafe had been, and how amazing enzo had been…

rafe's voice snapped you out of your thoughts–

"y/n… are we good?," his voice was gentle, and caring—seriously was he just not batshit crazy anymore?

"yeah! yeah, we're good," a forced smile formed on your face. you wanted to be good, but it was hard now that you knew what you did.

"no, we're not," it was proving to be really hard to lie to someone who had known you your whole life. he said it like he was translating your words—like he knew how rattled you were.

"i guess i just don't know what you want me to say, rafe," you admitted. the pancake batter long forgotten, the bowl sitting on the counter you were now facing away from.

"i want you to be honest. lay it all out, y/n. i promise i can handle it," his words were reassuring, but the problem was you didn't even know what to 'lay out' your thoughts were messy, and discombobulated. you couldn't make a cohesive sentence about your feelings if your life depended on it.

you took a minute to try and formulate anything that you could give him. he just sat there, still sipping his orange juice from time to time, waiting for you to collect your thoughts.

you moved to sit down next to him, and he looked at you like he was surprised you were in proximity with him.

"i dunno ray… i mean– this," you motioned between the two of you, "could never work… right?"

"then imagine it could—what would you say then?," he was desperate, but he was getting better at hiding it.

"i'd say… i'd say it's totally crazy, and it would be messy and…," you trailed off, thoughts wandering to all the fun nights you had already had together—just as friends—images of you doing all the stupid shit you normally would, but with a different type of love in the picture. a small smile pulled at your lips, and unfortunately rafe caught it. he was studying you like he had to draw you from memory.

"and?," he didn't want to seem hopeful, but he almost couldn't help it—his playful smirk challenged you.

"and real, and… kinda beautiful," you finished. you didn't know what this confession meant, but it was the only true thing you knew right now. you didn't realize how little time you actually needed to 'figure this out' until your thoughts spilled out of you like they were the only real thing you had.

it all seemed so clear now—you had been through everything together. he knew you better than anyone. he knew you better than yourself. enzo was perfect, but he wasn't perfect for you. some girl, somewhere was going to be real lucky to have him—it just wasn't fair for you to take him, when deep down… you could never love him as much as you loved rafe.

"yeah? you meant it?," his smile was growing, and he looked like a hopeful little boy who had the world at his finger tips.

"mhm," you responded quietly before he basically launched himself into your arms, picking you up as you instinctively wrapped your legs around him. your laughter filled the room, and he swore he was gonna hold onto you forever, wrapping you up and holding you tight. after the past few days, he never wanted to let you go again. he never wanted to feel that close to losing you.

"gonna be the last man you ever need, promise baby" he spoke quietly into your ear.

an: yes i’m posting 6 hours after the last part—i got excited…

JOIN MY TAGLIST

© 𝐔𝐑𝐂𝐎𝐎𝐋𝐆𝐅. est. 2025

TAGS ! @yktayy9669 @drewsswifeyy @drewrry @frankoceanluvr11 @dearestmillls @icaqttt @mystic-megumi @hpboysslut2707 @stoned-writer

[revelboo]

Lol you announced you were planning one for Rung and now I am chomping at the BIT. Waiting with baited breath

He’s a good boy bot

Anything For You Pt 2

Rung x Reader

• “It’s not poisoned,” he, Rung, you remind yourself, says. That doesn’t make you feel any better about the gray bars he’d given you. Especially since they don’t look or smell appealing at all. If the giant alien robot is to be believed, you’re on a ship far from home. Beamed up by accident with no way to get you home for the time being. You’d listened to him explain that he’s not going to hurt you, where you are, and who he is while keeping a death grip on what you suspect is an alien box cutter. And he’d given you… food. Or what he claims is food.

• “And there are other people here? Humans?” You ask, breaking a corner off of one of Ratchet’s nutrient bars and crumbling it in your fingers to send crumbs everywhere on his desk. Nodding slowly, he retrieves a blanket from the stash he’d kept for the human now in Megatron’s care and offers it to you. Just like the bars and knife, your immediate response is to snatch it to you. And frown. “So you guys space magicked a bunch of people here and can’t space magic us back?” Space magic?

• “Brainstorm claims he can’t because he’s not sure what went wrong to make his device pull humans to us. And his invention was dismantled.” Actually aggressively destroyed by Rodimus, but the end result was the same. The unwanted effects of it somehow still happening. Something Brainstorm had shrugged and labeled ‘residual reality displacement.’ In the same bored tone he uses wherever he’s asked to do something he doesn’t care about. “But I’ll try to make you comfortable until we can get you home.”

• Shifting where you’re sitting on the case of your big knife, you tentatively try a bite of the bar and it’s not awful, but definitely not good. “Why?” And he frowns like your question surprises him. But really? It’s not like he owes you anything, so why go out of his way to help you? No one does anything unless they’re getting something in return. So what’s his angle? What’s he want from you?

• “Because it’s the honorable thing to do?” Bemused at your arched brows, even as inexperienced with humans as he is, it’s easy to tell you don’t believe him. Cynical, little thing. Making him want to know why. Wanting to know you. What makes you ‘tick’ as he’d heard one of the other humans say. It’s his nature to want to understand. To help. “You don’t trust me, do you?”

• “Why would I? I don’t know you,” you mutter, deciding you’ve waited long enough and you’re not bleeding out of any orifices, so the bar is probably safe. Taking a bigger bite, you point with the rest. “So what do you want from me? What’s that ride back home cost? A kidney? Blood?” He reels back slightly, like he’s not only shocked, but offended. Not that you believe it. No one’s that nice without an ulterior motive. People always want something and you doubt big, alien robots are any different.

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[norrisainz33]

stroints || ls18

summary: you attend your first ever grand prix as lance's partner and he has a great season opening weekend!

pairing: lance stroll x nonfamous!reader

fc & warnings: none & slightly suggestive at the end. you are responsible for the content you consume!

requested: yes! thank you so much for your request xx

masterlist

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ⠀

ynuser has posted to their story 🔒

view all story replies

chloestroll: wait i love them both. i say wear the white on race day and blue on quali day

ynuser: ooooo good idea! i was considering wearing some aston merch on sunday and one of these on saturday but maybe i do what you said instead

chloestroll: oh i mean aston merch would be cute af too

ynuser: hmmmmmmm too many decisions here bc i also have this super cute jean set that maybe i’ll wear on race day instead ugh idek

lilyzneimer: either way you're going to outshine everyone you're radiant

ynuser: thank you baby girl 😭

lance_stroll: trying not to drool over how fcking gorgeous you are

ynuser: lance stopppp 😭😭

lance_stroll: it’s true!! i’ve somehow bagged the most beautiful girl in the entire world

ynuser: you’re such a sweet talker

lance_stroll: 🤷🏻‍♂️

lilymhe: the white top is to die for pls that one

ynuser: thank you for the input doll

yourbff: hear me out. white top with that gorgeous big gold necklace our favorite man got you

ynuser: no because you’re so right. that’s it! that’s the fit for quali!

flavy_barla: omg personally i'd pick the lace top

ynuser: yesss i think it 100% is the winner

f1gossip has made a post

liked by user1, user2, user3, user4, user5, user6, user7, user8, user9, user10 and 18,188 others

f1gossip: is this lance stroll’s lucky charm? meet lance’s new partner, y/n y/l/n, who is making her race day debut! the couple's romance has been the talk of the town ever since those sizzling new year's eve photos were spotted on chloe stroll’s story. will y/n be the secret weapon aston martin’s been waiting for this season? only time will tell!

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user1: oh….. she’s literally so pretty?

user2: cut the tapes! ive seen enough! shes my new favorite wag

user3: god i hope she brings lancey good luck. he needs it fr

user7: no he really does. i just want the best for him this season

user4: did y'all see the way shes wearing an L necklace

user1: stop im too fragile for this

user5: WHO is this diva

user2: if u find out lmk! i just tried to scroll her insta and its private but she seems so normal

user5: lowkey... i think she is just a normal girl... i found her linkedin and she out here having a full time job

user2: this has to be rage bait... shes living my dream

user5: no truly. im so jealous but also im rooting for her?

user6: why did i not know about her sooner?! do we think lance can fight?

user8: he can't fight us all!

user33: no one cares abt her or stroll

user1: the hate is so forced gtfo

ynuser has posted to their story 🔒

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yourbff: you gotta warn a girl before posting something as scary as that first slide (i say this with love)

ynuser: SCERAMING hes just a goofy lil guy

yourbff: if you say so girly pop

chloestroll: leo and i are curled up and ready to watch uncle lancey bring it home!

ynuser: omg even little leo is watching?! its his first race too <3

chloestroll: we gotta support our favorite uncle!!!!

astonmartinf1: send us that first pic im begging

ynuser: only if you agree to post it on every social media channel you have

astonmartinf1: he's not gonna like that... but for you.... anything xxoo

ynuser: admin you are my favorite

astonmartinf1: and you're mine but don't tell anyone i said that

lilymhe: adjusting to the paddock life?

ynuser: kind of? every time i breath a camera takes another picture of me. i'm terrified they're going to get something embarrassing

lilymhe: hahahaha i mean odds are high that they will. remember what i said and just try to ignore them and act natural. i swear the media can smell fear

ynuser: that must be why they're always around. im sure im radiating it

lilymhe: deep breaths y/n/n its ok

lance_stroll: WHY

ynuser: omg get off ur phone you have a race to score points in

ynuser: oh now you wanna leave me on read ok

flavy.barla: if you need someones hand to squeeze through the the first few laps... you know where to find me babe

ynuser: no i literally am on my way. they haven't even finished the formation lap and i'm going to throw up

lance_stroll has made a post

liked by chloestroll, estebanocon, ynuser, astonmartinf1, boss, scottyjames31, yourbff, flavy.barla and 897,443 others

lance_stroll: a fantastic start to the season! thank you to the team and everyone who worked so hard over the off season to get this car where it is. lets keep this momentum going!!

view all comments

user1: a double exclamation???? you must be over the moon my stoic king

ynuser: stroints!!!!!! this calls for a celebration

lance_stroll: yes it does ;)

estebanocon: wait count flavy and i in to this celebration??

flavy.barla: yes please!!!

ynuser: well duhhhh

user5: need photo evidence of this party so bad. f1gossip im counting on you

user2: yayyyyyy lance!!!!

chloestroll: leo and i are so proud of you

scottyjames31: thats our favorite uncle right there!

lance_stroll: love you guys 🤍

user18: y/n made the win photo dump im crying. she's def his good luck charm, i hope she comes to every race

astonmartinf1: well done lance! 💚

user22: thats our goat!! can't help but notice you're ahead of that horse team in the standings... lets keep that going boy

f1gossip has made a post

liked by user1, user2, user3, user4, user5, user6, user7, user8, user9, user10 and 22,258 others

f1gossip: because you all asked so nicely and we couldn't not deliver..... we got some intel that a certain driver, his new partner, their friends and a few other drivers are out celebrating the start of the season in melbourne this evening

view all comments

user1: AHHHHHH MAN

user5: my goat! you always pull through. idk how u got eyes everywhere

f1gossip: and thats a secret ill never tell xx

user3: WOW lance looks good af im about to start drooling..

user4: y/n one lucky girl thats for dam sure

user5: no genuinely i am so envious

user6: i just fell to my knees in a walmart parking lot

user12: lance i was unfamiliar with your game

user18: esteban and alex are there too so cuteeeeee

user22: he needed this

ynuser has posted to their story 🔒

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yourbff: girl get off that phone! I am SICKENED by the last photo

ynuser: god forbid a girl have hobbies

yourbff: you right. my bad ms pillow princess

lance_stroll: hheheeh you're so pretty

ynuser: eheheh no you

lance_stroll: i can hear you giggling from the bathroom

ynuser: you caught me

lance_stroll: get back out here

ynuser: yes sir

chloestroll: looks like you guys had a good night.. not sure i needed to see that last photo tho

ynuser: the best night!!! had to make sure to properly celebrate a great start to the season! and yeah sorry pls look scroll away and pretend you didnt see it

chloestroll: hahaaha well i hope next time scotty and i are there with you guys to celebrate together!

ynuser: ugh yes i hope so too 🤍🤍

flavy.barla: petite fille!!!! ohhh thank you for letting este and i tag along this evening i had a blast

ynuser: you are literally always allowed to tag along my love. i seriously am obsessed with you

flavy.barla: feeling is mutual. lets run away together

ynuser: done

lilymhe: petition for us to party after every race together pls you are literally the most fun

ynuser: omg stop YOU are the most fun! but yes ofc lets hang out and do everything together plssssss

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ⠀

a/n: thank you sm for reading!! likes, reblogs, and feedback is always appreciated.

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ⠀

disclaimer: pictures are not mine and everything i write is fiction

© norrisainz33 || please do not rewrite, translate, or copy any of my works posted here on to any other platform

[loonylupinblack3]

A Bad Race

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: You comfort Max after a bad race

Warnings: grinding, dry humping, suggestive content

A/N: this was supposed to be just a fluffy fic i swear idk what happened

It was a bad race. Max’s car hadn’t been performing to its usual capacity, and it was giving the other cars a chance to win. You watched anxiously from the Red Bull garage, eyes glued to the screen as you compared times. At this rate Lando was going to overtake him in a few laps, which would be good for the Mclaren driver, gaining another well deserved win, but it wouldn’t be good for your boyfriend who had been eager to get more wins. 

As the race continued you could feel Max’s bad mood as the Mclaren car outperformed the Red Bull, pushing Max to second place. Usually still a good position, but for Max who held such high and imposing expectations of himself, you knew it would hit him hard. You waited with baited breath for the race to finish, some part of you hoping Max would gain p1 back. Unfortunately he only managed to cling onto second, Oscar Piastri less than a second behind him as the race ended.

You stayed in the garage, watching Max on the podium from the screens inside, knowing he’d come to the garage to find you afterwards and would rather have you there waiting when he was ready than going through the hassle of going in and out of the crowd and having him be finished before you were.

And just like you’d assumed, as soon as he got off the podium Max was making his way to the Red Bull garage, his steps determined. As soon as he entered his gaze zeroed in on you and he walked forwards until he had his head pressed into the crook of your neck, arms wrapped tightly around your waist pulling you to him.

You sighed and leaned into his touch, hands moving up to stroke his hair gently, over and over again in a routine you knew he liked.

“Hey,” you whispered softly. “How are you feeling?”

Max let out a muffled grunt in response, keeping his face firmly hidden in your neck, breathing in your comforting scent. You pressed a kiss to his neck, continuing brushing your fingers through his hair as he liked it, calming him down.

It was a few minutes later before he eventually pulled his face away from your neck, the cameras flashing as he did so. They always enjoyed getting pictures of you two as a couple, and Max was too obsessed with touching and being with you to try and hide your relationship from the public, so you’d gotten used to the constant cameras.

He pressed his forehead against yours, taking a deep breath. Your hand moved to cup his cheek, brushing your thumb against his skin. He leant into your touch, eyes opening to look at you, his gaze tracing your face.

“You wanna leave?” you asked him quietly.

He nodded immediately. “Just want to be with you. Hate these fucking cameras.”

You pulled back, interlacing Max’s hands with yours. “Let’s go then. We can spend the rest of the day in the hotel, relaxing.”

Max nodded gratefully, relieved you seemed to know exactly what he wanted. You ignored the cameras and the press as you left the circuit, arriving at the hotel in record time. It was quick work arriving to your room, Max sitting down on the edge of the bed with a sigh.

You moved forward until you were standing between his legs, Max’s arms wrapping around your waist and tugging you closer. He pressed his face into your stomach, breathing deeply, mumbling your name over and over. You brushed his hair again, smiling slightly at him. Whenever he was in a bad mood he was angry with others, yet quiet and small with you, craving comfort. You gladly gave it to him.

He pulled back and tugged you down so you were straddling his waist, your arms resting lazily over his shoulders. He leant forward, capturing your lips in a kiss you gladly returned. It was soft, innocent, yet you could feel the bulge forming in Max’s pants and you couldn’t help but rock slightly against it.

Max groaned into your mouth, hands tightening around your waist, pushing you down harder on his lap. You repeated the motion, grinding lightly against his cock, your kisses sloppy as you both started panting. He pulled you closer, jerking his hips up sharply against you. You let out a startled moan, starting to pull away but he kept an iron grip on you, keeping you firmly in place, hands on your hips and rocking you back and forth.

The friction made your head go fuzzy, light gasps escaping from your lips. Max’s lips left yours to find your neck, giving it open mouthed kisses, sucking and biting wherever he could. He moved you along his cock, taking full control as he increased your pace. His jeans against yours made delicious pleasure, though you couldn’t help but wish there were no layers in between you.

“Feel so good,” Max mumbled against your lips.

You sighed in response, eyes closed as you grinded against his cock, straining in his pants. You knew Max didn’t want to go further though, knew he hated fucking you when he was in a bad mood, so you didn’t push for more.

Max was grateful, bucking his hips up into you with more fevor. You whined, feeling your stomach tighten, and the sound made Max’s cock twitch. You were both close, and even though coming from dry humping like a couple of teenagers hadn’t been on your to-do list, you didn’t mind as long as you were both enjoying yourselves. 

When Max started pulling you down on his lap while he jerked his hips up, sending jolts down your body, you let out a moan, getting closer to the edge. Max was groaning in your ear, whispering your name over and over, your stomach tightening with every breathless whisper.

“Fuck Y/n, please,” Max whimpered, chasing that sweet relief.

You moved your hands to his hair and tugged, knowing that set him off. And so it did, Max coming undone with a deep groan, hands on your hips to grind your clothed cunt on his cock through his orgasm.

His voice of pleasure led to your own orgasm, and Max rode you through it, rocking your hips on his lap, whispering sweet nothings into your ear. When you were done you sagged onto him, feeling satisfied. 

You pulled back, noticing the wet patch on Max’s jeans. You smirked at him. “You should probably get that cleaned up. Have a shower.”

Max brought you into a kiss, his mood officially lifted. “Will you join me?”

“Of course.”

[teastainedprose]

Breaking Point (Homelander x reader)

Homelander delights in teasing you until he needles you too much on the wrong day. 1.5k words | Jerk Homelander to guilty Homelander, hurt/comfort if you squint. Homelander x gn!reader, implied chronic pain reader, implied plus-sized reader, [A03]

You are so soft. Your flesh gives under his grasp when he yanks you by the arm, careless with how it makes you stumble. Homelander laughs mockingly at the small, annoyed twitch of your lip as he tugs you close. Too close.

"Hey. Where are those new poll results, sweetheart?" The words are a purr, warm breath a caress against your cheek as he looms too close to be proper. Everything done with calculated intent to pull a reaction from you.

You stare blankly up at him, expression schooled neutral. You're used to this game. You've watched other employees crack and fracture under the pressure Homelander exerts. You refuse. You're made of sterner stuff, a master of hiding how you're honestly feeling.

He knows he gets to you, but you rarely let it show on the outside. You can school your face, but there's no controlling how he makes your heart hammer in your chest. How being so close to him sets your nerves alight in a pleasant sensation. Homelander leers down at you, pleased at how your pulse skitters under his scrutiny. He releases you, stepping back as the persona of a proper gentleman settles into place. Homelander smiles as he waits for your reply, the well-practiced one that the cameras always catch.

You're quick to give Homelander an indulgent smile back. An exchange of fake expressions as the two of you play nice. You look so placid and calm before him, but Homelander knows better. He can hear your heart jumping in your chest.

"I can pull them up for you right now if you want?" You reply, the words even and calm as you look up expectantly. You're too tired to deal with any bullshit. Homelander's included. You're always too tired.

In his eyes you're so amiable, so sweet. So disgusting. Your response isn't what he wants.  It's controlled and that's no fun. He's not satisfied with your performance. Homelander sneers, whirling away with a flutter of his cape. "Never mind."

You stand there, grimacing in his wake as you rub the spot where he grabbed you. You briefly let your honest emotions flicker freely on your face while his back is turned.. No eyes on you at this moment as sheer frustration and pain settles in. You take a breath as your mask of calm is set back into place. You go on with your day.

Why are you so soft? Under his hands and how you interact with others. Why do you always hand out such easy smiles so freely? He hates that about you. You carry that weary calm like a cloak, but you'll shake it off with a vibrant smile and a laugh if the right person engages you in conversation. They distract you from your fatigue and you light right up.

Homelander has yet to earn one of those sunshine smiles. He gets the fake ones. The ones that make him feel like a child clamoring for attention that you only indulge with your patience. He hates it. It makes him feel small. A god should never feel this way around such a weak mortal as yourself.

As any god does, he lets it bruise his fragile ego. The mortal must be punished and punish you he does. Every day Homelander tries to get a rise out of you. He tries to crack that cheerful facade you've welded in place. It must be fake. No animal has such a cheerful disposition naturally. There's no reason for it because you're so often a lethargic thing. He can smell the weariness on you, the stress, and even pain. How the fuck are you still smiling?

-and why the fuck do you never smile at him? 

Homelander decides, in his usual mature fashion, that if you won't smile? He'll bait out your anger instead. He wants, needs a reaction from you beyond those fake smiles.

He continues to goad you day in and day out. He'll slide right up next to you, too close, and lean down to ask directly into your ear for a report or some statistics on what his numbers are doing. Any old excuse to engage with you. He gleefully invades your personal space and is extra handsy because Homelander knows you hate it while he's aware of the effect it has on your body. 

If he grabs your shoulder and squeezes just so, your breath hitches. If he places a palm against the small of your back, your pulse races away without fail. If Homelander berates your fashion choices or comments on how tired you look, you flash that hollow smile while your eyes speak loathing at him. He wants that fire, craves it.

The tired fatigue that you always carry briefly pulls back to hint at a simmering something. One day he'll get you boiling over. In anger, in lust. It doesn't matter which one as long as it happens with him there to witness it.

Homelander finds himself brimming with anticipation for that day until it finally happens.

Everyone has a breaking point, even you.

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. It's too much, please just-

He's caught you trying to hide away in a conference room, the scent of adrenaline in the air as your heart races. A glance with his x-ray vision reveals you staring off with shaking fists clenched against your plush sides.

Finally!

Will you lash out?  Will you bite back? The thought sends a thrill through Homelander at seeing little Miss Sunshine finally rattled. There's a storm brewing on your face as your fingers tighten. It's an expression Homelander knows he's worn many a time. The sort of look that has interns scattering and Ashley stammering.

What a delight it'll be to see what you unleash. What can you possibly do, as small and soft as you are? Will it be like watching a kitten hiss and claw? Adorably pathetic.

He strides into the conference room with a smirk, the door clicking shut behind him. "There you are! You missed today's meeting, you know." He chides softly with a waggle of one finger as Homelander strides closer. You stare up at him, eyes blazing.

"Now what are we going to do about that?" Homelander goes on, voice as smooth as honey as he smirks down at you.

Something in your expression shifts. A crack in your mask appears.

Gotcha.

"Well?" He prompts, expectant. Giddiness trickles down his spine as Homelander grins wide, fangs on display. He can't wait to see how this rage of yours plays out.

Except you don't unleash anything on him. You don't even insult Homelander, which would give him reason to taunt you further or retaliate. It would give him a reason to finally lash out at you in earnest, but all you're doing is standing there.

Your expression crumples up like wet tissue. The tears are white hot and silently streaking down your face in an instant. The sound you make is beyond pathetic as you drop back into your seat, huddling into yourself. Homelander watches stock-still as you draw your legs up, arms coiling about your knees as you bury your face away from his gaze.

It's a truly pathetic sight, sobbing like the little mud person you are.

Homelander should feel triumphant. His grin twists to a grimace. He awkwardly shifts, gloves creaking as he balls his fingers into fists at his side.

Why isn't he pleased? He's watching you shatter and it doesn't wash him in the usual delight bringing misery to others does. Your sunshine is gone and it's raining on your parade, which is exactly what Homelander wanted.

Your crying should amuse Homelander. He's not amused. Instead, there's a sinking feeling within the pit of his stomach. A dead weight settles heavy inside as all his amusement flees at the sound of your whimpering sobs. It's a foreign sensation and Homelander doesn't like it one bit.

Homelander works his jaw as guilt chews away at his insides, stuck to the spot hovering over you. You continue to cry, quieter now with your back bowed and face hidden. He can smell the salt of your tears easily. 

Silently, he reaches back to pull up the length of his cape. This Homelander offers to you. He doesn't have a handkerchief like a proper gentleman, so this will have to do.

He knows he's broken something. Carelessly snapped it in two. Homelander has done it countless times before. The snap of a spine. Fizzle pop of a control deck. The crackle and sizzle of flesh. The wet sucking sound as organs spill on the floor. It's natural for a creature such as him. Things breaking is a fact of his life. He's never felt guilty about any of those times. Guilt is a rare emotion for Homelander but now it's clawing up his throat, threatening to choke him. 

Homelander blinks and refocuses his gaze as he feels a tug on his cape. He watches in a detached way as you dab at your face with the fabric, sniffling loudly. Homelander can't make himself apologize. He doesn't know how.

Instead, he asks in a surprisingly tentative voice. "Bad day?"

That takes you by surprise as your gaze snaps to him. You stare a beat up at Homelander and then you smile. It's a quavering sort, but it's an honest smile. The sunshine rushes back into your face as Homelander sucks a breath in. Were you always such a lovely little creature?

"Yeah," You say slowly. "Something like that."