#in which i overuse italics as usual

[whump-queen]

whumper pretending to be mad just to see whumpee squirming and groveling and apologizing within a second because they don’t know what they did wrong but fuck they’re so so sorry and they’ll do anything to make it better—

“sir please—please let me make it up to you—I promise I’ll be better I swear—just please—”

[strangerstilinski]

𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: eddie in blue jeans. eddie leaking in blue jeans. eddie cumming in blue jeans. that's it, that's the fic. [ 2.9k ]

𝗰𝘄: reader with a vagina & breasts, 1 occurrence where reader refers to themselves as a girl, overuse of italics probably, other than that we just have heaping doses of heavy petting, grinding, and kissing. oh! and a certain someone cumming in his pants ofc

𝗮/𝗻: imo the second half of this is where i reaaally shined, ok? there's just... something so *clenches fist* about eddie who's so turned on by you that he's stupid with it. anyway, thank you for reading! xx and remember to reblog to make eddie cum <3

𝐍𝐒𝐅����𝟏𝟖+ 𝙚𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙚 𝙢𝙪𝙣𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

The curls at the nape of Eddie's neck are damp where they tangle around your fingers. His breath rolls out in hot waves against your tongue, full, split-slick lips moving eagerly against your own. Eddie is kissing you like he thinks he might die without the taste of you, fervent and hungry and seemingly determined to stake some sort of claim on your mouth. 

You've only been at it for five minutes but, seriously, how in the hell did normal people ever make it through an entire evening without devouring their date? Either they are far stronger than you, or it's the power of something you'd simply dubbed The Eddie Munson Effect.

Regardless, you're feeling beyond desperate. 

Because you'd had to watch every single stumbling step Eddie made throughout the evening as he quite literally tripped over his own feet in a rush to open doors for you. He'd done so with all of his usual awkward charm, arm extended with gentlemanly grandeur — and on one occasion, he'd even bent at the waist into an adorably courteous little bow as he'd waited for you to step through. Each time, his hand found the small of your waist, and while he would linger a second longer than was strictly necessary, his touch always remained polite and comforting, never bleeding into the possessive brand that you'd noticed beneath the hands of men in the past.

Then again, every brush of Eddie's fingers over the course of the evening had sent sparks down your spine. 

There'd been one moment, when the wind had caught the hem of your skirt and sent it billowing up — you'd felt the cool air rush all the way up to the sliver of tummy above your underwear — but Eddie's hands had been quick to find your waist, smoothing the fabric back down over your thighs and holding it there for a beat. Thick fingers and clunky silver rings had hesitated on your hips until the breeze died down, and then Eddie's face had gone red in a way that had little to do with the chill in the air, and entirely more to do with the sudden realization of how close you were, how intimate the brush of his pinky was against the warm skin at the back of your thigh. 

And you absolutely had to take into account the condition in which he'd showed up on your doorstep. With a crisp white tshirt tucked neatly into the waistband of light-wash jeans. His hair shining lightly with gel, curls coiled in slightly neater than usual ringlets. With his jaw shaved smooth, and his skin smelling sharply of a rich, woodsy aftershave or cologne that gave you butterflies every time you breathed in.

Then there was the way each and every hearty chuckle that he'd let out over the course of the evening had curled in your ears and proceeded to pool pleasantly in your gut. The way every dramatic story retelling had left you fully enraptured right from the start. The way  every dimpled grin had practically sucked the air straight from your lungs. And your ever-deepening feelings for him had only solidified with each of his stuttered attempts to accept your compliments.

All evening long, you'd been eager to fast-forward, to get right here. Home, on your couch, thighs splayed wide over the cradle of Eddie's lap, skin flushed with heat, with your skirt rucked up and your sweater steadily slipping down your shoulder. 

And now that you're here, Eddie's hands have undertaken the impossible task of clutching at every part of you at once. Ringed fingers rake down your back only to grab ahold of your ass to drag you more heavily into his lap. Your teeth catch on his lower lip when he forces your hips to roll in a staggered rhythm, shaky thrusts driving his own hips up and slotting the bulge in his jeans just where you needed it to relieve some of the pressure between your thighs. 

You both gasp into the kiss at the friction that the poorly-synchronized movements are making. The rough chafe of his zipper and denim against the cotton of your panties is only just shy of being too much. It's delicious. 

"Y-your roommate-" Eddie pulls away to stutter against your cheek. 

"Out." You supply in a rush before your mouths are crashing together again like magnets. 

Eddie makes a small noise in the back of his throat, a satisfied sort of drawn-out groan that has your head spinning. You can still taste the lingering traces of the cigarette he'd smoked during the short walk back to his van, and the breath mint that he'd popped into his mouth immediately after. The mingling flavors are enough to give you a headrush. As if the combination of mint and nicotine were absorbing straight into your bloodstream merely from licking it from his mouth. But, maybe that has more to do with the way Eddie is kissing you-

Eddie seems to approach kissing with the same over-abundance of heart and enthusiasm that he does with literally everything else. Plush lips work against your own, smoothly encouraging your mouth open for him every time you dare to draw back for a quick breath. It's a perfect give and take, an intoxicating push and pull that you had zero qualms about getting lost in. 

This has always been your favorite part of foreplay. The slow-building desperation. The shared breaths. The wandering hands. The heated teasing that you felt pulsing in your clit and all the way down to your toes. It's something you normally relish in drawing out as long as possible, until your panties are soaked through and your lips are sore, but, fuck-

You can feel how hard Eddie is growing beneath you. The warmth of his cock burns all the way through his jeans until you swear you can feel it against your cunt and inner thighs— Until you swear you can nearly distinguish the sheer heat of the blood swelling his erection from the less-oppressive warmth emanating from his legs. And when his mouth trails down the line of your jaw to kiss and nip at your throat, you can't help but attempt to sneak a peek at the arousal you've drawn out of him.

The sight doesn't disappoint. 

His bulge stretches all the way from the bottom of the zip on his jeans and across the crease of his thigh. The obvious curve of his shaft straining against its tight confines stretches across his left thigh and then tapers out at the head of his cock—Jesus, he’s huge—and if you squint, you think you might even be able to make out a small spot, no more than the size of pea, where the light wash denim looks just a bit, well, wet. And, holy shit. 

It's drool-worthy. It's so hot. Your mouth might genuinely be watering just looking at it-

Oh, god. You really needed to kiss him just a little longer. You were certainly not about to be the girl who drops to their knees to suck a guy's dick within ten measly minutes of getting through the front door on a first goddamn date. That would be ridiculous. 

You'd make it at least twenty, surely — Maybe fifteen. 

In the meantime, more kissing. And that would be all too easy with the way Eddie's hands slip lower along the curve of your ass as he finds your mouth again. His fingers burying deeper into your flesh, rings biting with a sharp pinch that makes you keen and release an encouraging moan. 

There's a fire building behind your clit with every drag of your hips. You feel deranged beneath the haze of your lust, but Eddie only seems to be matching your need every step of the way. 

You've never seen him quite so out of control. So desperate, and God it's a beautiful sight. 

Eddie's spine arches forward from the back of the couch to push his chest to your own. Your hips stutter, driving down against the bulge in his jeans. The hard line of his cock wedges neatly at your center, fighting against the oppressive barrier of your underwear and his jeans. Dull as it is, it gives the barest hint as to what it would be like to have him actually pressing into your aching cunt, stretching you out. 

Just the thought makes your hips buck, little rolls of your hips re-doubling in effort. The pressure against your entrance has you whining pitifully as Eddie's tongue strokes over yours. One of those gorgeous, wide palms of his moves up to your jaw to hold your face steady as he attempts to swallow up your sounds. 

"Eddie." You pant brokenly, a plea. Because you're trying, really, but fuck. If you didn't get him inside of you — in one way or another — in the next few minutes, you very well might lose your mind.

Your fingers wind tighter into his hair, nails scraping against his scalp in that soft way that makes Eddie's cock jump in his pants. 

The noises you're making.. 

They're better than any song Eddie has ever heard in his entire life, high and needy and so fucking hot. Every little sound has Eddie's thighs flexing beneath you in an attempt to keep his erection pressed snug to your cunt, to push the intoxicating ebb and flow that the two of you have going over into something more. Into a constant, blissful friction. 

Another minute of the heavy grind of your pussy over his lap has Eddie's cock twitching again, his balls tightening up and his brain growing too foggy to hold back the needy whimpers that rise in his own throat. 

“Shit-” Eddie gasps, his voice gone raspy with need. 

You murmur something in response that gets muffled by Eddie's lips and tongue. Something about wanting his cock on your tongue but also possibly inside your pussy — The details are unclear. Eddie has no idea which exactly you're angling toward, but he's ready to bust already and you're both still fully-clothed, so. He's just praying to Ozzy that he'll even make it that far. 

He probably needs to take a breather, and really he's going to, but then your hips stutter and you let out the sweetest little moan and Eddie kind of goes dumb with it.

He's too far gone to hear the telltale rattle of keys against your front door, or the click of the lock that has your own head snapping up toward the doorway in surprise. You stiffen above him, your ass driving down against his cock as your movements come to a halt and your weight drops heavily into his lap. 

And shit, he'd already been fucking throbbing in his jeans. The new pressure on his erection is just too much. 

A small noise of shock and pleasure tears from Eddie's throat, a pathetic sounding thing that makes your cunt clench around absolutely nothing and a rush of arousal soak the cotton of your panties. His lips part beneath your own unmoving ones, his jaw gone slack around the broken moan that falls into the heat of your mouth. 

Eddie's hips buck up sharply, fingers biting meanly into your hips as warmth floods his briefs, cock twitching and eyes rolling back as he shakes through the quick waves of his orgasm. His brain is pure static, ears ringing with such strength that your nervous laugh and stammered greeting sound far off despite you being pressed so close to him. Everything sounded just a bit like he was underwater. 

His head clears a little as you brace your hands on his shoulders and push yourself up, his eyes popping open as the distance between you grows and the warmth of your body disappears altogether. You're smiling awkwardly, laughing despite yourself, with your gaze locked somewhere over his shoulder as you attempt to smooth out the wrinkles in your skirt — and then Eddie finally processes the sound of Robin's voice in the entryway behind him. 

Oh. Oh, fuck. 

Eddie's heart had already been beating heavily, but suddenly he swears he can feel each and every rhythmic pump of the blood in his veins. The strength of it makes his pulse thump so violently in the hollow of his throat that his eye might've been twitching in time with each beat. 

His gaze drops to his lap, where, to his horror, light blue denim is already a few shades darker. His cum is already soaking through his underwear and very, very quickly spreading into a wider, far more noticeable wet patch, and Jesus fucking Christ, this cannot be happening to him-

He tugs at his pant-leg desperately in an attempt to draw the fabric away from where the cum had pooled in the crease of his pelvis and then dripped steadily down the length of his thigh, but it's too late. 

He'd come.. so hard. And so much. His pants are stretched too fucking tight because he's sitting and you'd just rung out every last fucking drop of cum from his balls with your pretty pussy rubbing over his lap again and again and-

Robin's muffled curse breaks through his inner-turmoil, followed by the loud thud of something heavy landing on the kitchen counter behind him. Eddie turns sideways in his seat to find Robin with flushed cheeks and sweat beading on her brow, her arms draped limply around a large television set. She's panting exaggeratedly, mouth running a mile a minute as she regales the story of the older couple on the first floor who had upgraded to a 35-inch and offered up their old console for, quote: “Twenty bucks! A goddamn steal, you guys-!”

The two of you are babbling excitedly back and forth, the front door to your apartment still hanging slightly ajar all the while. Eddie realizes, belatedly, that Robin must've carried the behemoth of a thing all the way upstairs by herself — How the hell had she even managed that? 

“Eddie, would you mind giving her a hand with that while I clear a spot for it over here?” You delegate gleefully as you flutter back into the living room to do just that.

You rush to the console table against the far wall and quickly begin shuffling things around to make space for your new possession, stacking books and knickknacks and sliding the clunky record player as close to the edge as you can manage. 

“Oh, uh..” 

Eddie smacks his lips once, eyes dropping from you to the gargantuan fucking wet patch stretched across his thigh. While he's reluctant to dig his own grave, he fears he has no other choice. 

“-Well.. To that 'm gonna have'ta say..” 

He swallows and gives a nod to himself in resolve, a burst of air pushing past his nose as he snatches his jacket from the floor beside the couch and uses it to shield the focal point of his embarrassment, avoiding looking back toward Robin completely. 

“Shit, uh.. Nope. No, sorry." 

Your movements falter at his response, an amused little smile tugging at the corners of your eyes as you regard him, “No?” 

You laugh, like you're waiting for Eddie to clue you in on the joke.   

Of fucking course Eddie had opted to wear a pair of light wash Levis for your date tonight instead of black. Because now? There is no way in hell you and Robin won't see the evidence of his predicament the moment it's no longer hidden behind his leather jacket. 

If you see the way he'd shot off in his pants like a horny teenager from nothing but a little bit of kissing, Eddie is certain he'll never get a second date — Not to mention the constant ribbing he'd be destined to get for the rest of his Goddamned life from everyone else.

There's no way that Buckley won’t tell Harrington — with the weird and questionably platonic friendship the two of them had fallen into at some point around the time they'd graduated high school. And Harrington will, of course, inevitably spill the beans to Dustin. And then Dustin's loud mouth would manage to somehow tell absolutely everybody else in Eddie's life. 

He is so fucked. 

“Yeah, sorry, I gotta bounce, actually-” Eddie fights back a cringe, bounce-? What the fuck is he even saying? “I, uh, I forgot I have a.. A thing.” 

He can't quite hold back a wince then, at the sound of his own excuse in his ears. He's usually a lot better on his toes than this, but he's fucking floundering all of a sudden. 

It's because of you — it has to be because of you. You and your pretty eyes that are slowly narrowing in confusion and maybe a little bit of hurt. You and your angelic little voice, pushing out with a soft, “Oh.” 

But then you're nodding, a weak smile pasting on your lips to cover that flash of sadness he'd seen. You tell Robin you'll be back to help her in a moment and walk Eddie to the door, arms brushing as your gaze remains focussed on the scuffed floorboards. 

You're being sweet, because of course you are. You thank him for a wonderful date, tell him you'll call him, even lean in to press a delicate little kiss to his cheek that Eddie definitely doesn't feel like he deserves. 

When the door closes behind him, it sends a rush of air hurtling toward Eddie smelling distinctly of you. Like your perfume, and the spice of the candle sitting on your kitchen counter, and the sweetness of your shampoo. The scent makes Eddie's head swim with regret and his cock twitch weakly in his pants. 

Yeah, he's definitely fucked. 

[httpsserene]

𝐡𝐭𝐭𝐩𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐟𝟏 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥

𝐮𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝 𝟑: 𝐨𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫 𝐩𝐢𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 | 𝐜𝐚𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐱 & 𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠

📖𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: your boyfriend has to make an appearance at some sponsor event. he's gone ahead and bought you an alluring outfit, but he failed to mention how seductive he looks in the new fitted suit his team got him. you two won't be staying long, but you increase the pace by riling him up, mostly unintentionally. so it's your fault that he makes you ruin his loaned mclaren. 📖𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁��𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴: 18+ only. explicit. squirting. car sex. semi-public sex. ooc (out-of-character) oscar. overstimulation. mild possessive behavior. mild jealousy. vaginal fingering. vaginal sex. condom usage. the audacity of men. lando norris’ savior complex /jk. author’s overuse of italics and run-on sentences. 📖𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 5k words 📖𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: oscar piastri x fem!black!reader 📖𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲: oneshot. 📖𝘀𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗸: water • tyla

𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗳𝗮𝗰𝗲: what can i say, y'all. back at it with the unhinged thirst. every time i do one of these, they've been getting shorter and shorter. don't be afraid, for #4 (dr/mv) i'll be back on my game, they deserve it. yes gremlin lando appearance. also, i cannot imagine oscar ever acting this way, that's why i put the ooc tag? it's definitely a fun read tho (i think), along with the smut! thank you, loves, for the support on this event!

want to be added to my general taglist? or my f1 kinktober taglist? send me an ask!

thank you to my betas! @biancathecool for helping with my grammer and @barnestatic for her wonderful spoiled brat idea :))))

cross-posted on my ao3, httpsss

if you want to look at what i'm planning for ktober, or catch up on previous uploads here's my f1 kinktober masterlist and my general masterlist for all of my works!

oscar is known for his unfazed, composed and collected demeanor. he’s aware that some people say he has no personality–but, he’s just an introvert at the end of the day. oscar’s a man of few words: that’s what people who aren’t well acquainted with him would say. if you’ve had the pleasure of sticking around oscar long enough for him to become comfortable with you, you’ll learn that oscar has an incredibly complex personality. he’s overly sarcastic, has a niche sense of humor, and can ramble endlessly at you. but, he’s still a fairly calm and quiet individual. which is why the way oscar is about to scream at the top of his lungs in the middle of this mclaren event, would be considered uncharacteristic of him.

he originally invited you to join him tonight thinking that having you by his side would eliminate the social exhaustion he experiences at these types of sponsor events. however, the aussie failed to realize that you may introduce a…different problem, to tonight’s business party. when oscar asked you to join him two weeks ago, he was prepared for all of your objections–you’re both chronic homebodies, and you both hate partaking in small talk with balding, later-aged, cologne-drenched, white men who don’t know when to let a conversation die. he chose the perfect time to ask you (after you emerged from the bathroom post-self-care bath), and addressed all of your grievances. 

oh, you don’t have anything to wear? he already bought you an outfit, had it altered to perfectly fit your measurements, and bought you a pair of heels and a purse to match. oh, you won’t be able to get your hair done in time? he already scheduled an appointment with your usual hairstylist the day before the event, paid all of her fees, and tipped her very nicely. oh, your nails aren’t done?  he booked you a spot at your preferred nail salon for a premium mani-pedi, and has a few nail inspiration photos picked out if you can’t decide. if you need your lashes done or need to get waxed, he can make the call right now; he has them on standby to fit you in.

knowing the amount of phone calls oscar had to partake in to arrange all of this causes you to fold and agree to join him. there’s nothing more the two of you hate than making phone calls–well, besides the pr events.

oscar had chosen an alluring burnt-orange mesh corset and matching ruched ankle-length skirt that looks beautiful against your warm, soft and shining brown skin. your hair is silk-pressed, length reaching your mid-back and your edges are laid in a minimal manner, matching the simplicity of your makeup look. simple gold rings are spread across a few fingers, ears accessorized with a pair of small good hoops oscar gifted you, and his initials rest in the dip between your clavicles attached to a thin gold chain. objectively, you're considerably modestly dressed, the only skin you're showing is on your arms, shoulders, a smidge of your decolletage, and the tops of your feet in the low-heeled strappy sandals. 

this is the start of what oscar failed to account for. he didn’t expect the outfit to hug your curves like plastic wrap. the whole night he’s had to forcefully deny himself the opportunity to stare at your ass, but that doesn’t mean the other men at the event have the same courtesy. he’s taken to burning holes with his eyes into anybody who lets their gaze linger over your form for a second too long. on a regular day, oscar is generally unaffected by anyone who appreciates your body (they can look, but the second they try to touch–you let them know exactly how they had you fucked up), but if he catches one more mclaren engineer undressing you with their eyes–he will make zac fire all of them; he’ll plan his own race strategy and do his goddamn pitstop by himself.

oscar also didn’t account for how your timid and sweet attitude would have everyone enamored with you; at first, watching everyone eagerly attune to your shy words was amusing to him, but it quickly became a nuisance. he was originally leading you around the room, doing his rounds at any important figures’ tables, and everything was fine. and then, oscar had made the obvious mistake of making you laugh–a pleasant stream of giggles spilling from your lips, dimples deepening, and smile widening at whatever small joke he made. he’s always thrilled to see how you throw your head back in amusement, how your hands clap together gleefully, and how your eyes squint in from the force of your laughter. as he shakes himself out of your dazzling trance, he attempts to rejoin the conversation–but every single person at the table remains entranced and wide-eyed at you. 

this would be completely fine, of course, if it was a one-off occasion; but it’s not. 

suddenly, every person oscar tries to thank for supporting mclaren, starts ignoring him and paying more attention to you. he’s literally the pilot of the car that these people are spending an absurd amount of money on, but they can’t even bother to try and pretend to listen to him. men and women alike are finding any excuse to prolong conversations with you, and even lean within your personal space with the excuse that ‘they can’t hear you very well because you’re so soft spoken.’ nobody can invade your personal space, but oscar. he has no choice but to do the very thing he hates–pda. you continue to circle around the room, his hand constantly resting on the small of your back or the dip of your waist. when you’re in the middle of listening to some completely unnecessary story a man is telling you, oscar constantly adjusts your hair, plays with your rings, and smooths down your skirt if he feels like they’re trying too hard. you banish oscar to getting you a glass of water when he begins to interject in conversations in a passive-aggressive manner.

his third strike off the night, might actually be an overall win in his books. when you saw oscar in his new fitted suit, you stared him dead in the eye and told him to ‘get naked and rail you’. it’s this beautiful deep cream color that pairs perfectly with the dark orange tone of your outfit, but the vest underneath the suit jacket highlights his tiny waist so clearly that it makes you want to scream. in between socializing, you overwhelm oscar with compliments, unable to stop telling him how handsome he looks. you surgically attach yourself to his side and hug his arm; taking an occasional squeeze of his bicep, playing with his cufflinks, and tracing the veins on the back of his hand. oscar practically runs to get you a refill of water because he’d be unable to stop himself from getting fully hard if you touched him any longer–the trousers hide nothing.

he can feel your burning gaze from across the room, and turns back to watch you after asking a waiter for water, and catches your eyes roaming the length of his body. in high-definition, he sees your tongue wetting your lips before you bite at your bottom lip–and then, your attention is stolen away from some random man who’s introducing himself to you and the group of ladies you found yourself accosted by as soon as oscar left your side.

and, that’s it for oscar. he thinks he may have heard his last-fucking-button being pressed inside his head, and seethes. he goes to push off from his leaned stance against the counter and makes to start his warpath, but a hand grasps at his shoulder. oscar turns around snappily, biting out an irritated and sarcastic, “can i help you?”

“woah! calm down now, mate. thought you were going to bite my head off for a second,” it’s lando, “if i were anybody else i’m sure there would be an unfortunate tabloid of ‘how oscar piastri is the most rude f1 driver on the grid’” lando jokes teasingly, yet a hint of seriousness leaks into his tone. 

oscar nods, understanding the underlying warning within the brit’s teasing. he apologizes softly to lando, before glancing back over at you, and can infer that you charmingly informed the man that you have a boyfriend—based on the way you point in his direction. oscar watches the polite smile fade from your face as the man continues to bother you, and the murderous look rises to his face again.

“OKAY”, lando claps abruptly, startling not only oscar, but everyone in a 10 foot radius. lando waves everyone else’s eyes away, smiling like he didn’t do anything, and speaks underneath his breath, “go. i’ll cover for you.”

oscar’s mouth drops open, baffled, “what?”

“leave—get your girlfriend and go,” lando says matter-of-factly, his smile becoming genuine, “zac probably won’t like to hear that you looked particularly murderous, and he definitely won’t like hearing that you slaughtered our sponsors, and that i let it happen.”

oscar snorts before he thanks lando sincerely, and the brit dismisses him, “i’m just looking out for my rookie teammate as the senior driver for our team. i can’t let your horny teenage mindset become common knowledge to our esteemed guests.”

“first of all,” oscar says dryly, his grateful mood dissipating at the mocking, “i didn’t even know you knew the word ‘esteemed' existed,” lando scoffs, “and secondly, you are literally only two years older than me.”

lando looks at oscar with a blank stare and deadpans, “do you want to leave or not?”

oscar daps up his teammate in farewell, and makes his way over to you as quickly as he can without seeming desperate, your glass of water left behind on the counter. your back is facing him as he approaches and you're still unwillingly participating in conversation with the man who can’t take no for an answer. as he gets closer, he can piece together the conversation; the dude doesn’t believe you have a boyfriend and you must be lying to him, and you’re adamant that your boyfriend is very real.

“look, bro. even if i was lying about having a boyfriend, why would i give you my number now? like, i’m just supposed to forget how you’ve been harassing me—“

oscar rests his hand on your side, and when you turn your head to see who’s touching you, he leans down and kisses you. it’s a kiss deep enough to let everyone know who you’re leaving with tonight, but not deep enough to be salacious (he can hear lando’s cackle from the other side of the room).

you melt into his kiss before he pulls away, leaving you dazed and disoriented, stumbling into him. oscar drapes his left arm around your shoulder, guiding you to tuck into his side, while he offers his right hand to the offending man for a handshake. “it seems i haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you yet. i’m oscar, i drive for mclaren,” he introduces himself, sounding overly pleased.

the man angers, ignoring oscar’s extended hand and cockily states, “you should already know who i am. my family nicely lent you the mclaren you drove here tonight!”

“ah,” oscar smiles viciously, “if ‘your family’ kindly lent me the car, that would explain why i only remember your father’s name–and not his arrogant, disrespectful, and narcissistic trust-fund son’s name.”

the man stomps his foot in rage, like a spoiled brat, and questions, “who do you think you’re talking too?!”

oscar smirks, “nobody important, apparently,” (one of the ladies listening whispers a quiet ‘damn, that’s crazy’), oscar continues, “don’t worry, mate–i’ll make sure your father’s car returns home to him safely. should i bill you for any cleaning, in case i make a mess of it?”

the guy stumbles over a response before he scoffs and stomps away. oscar shrugs uncaring, before addressing the group of ladies who were cliqued to the side watching the whole interaction, “well. if you all don’t mind, i’m just going to steal her away from you ladies, if that’s okay?” (like there’s an option). the ladies fawn over oscar’s protectiveness before they let the two of you go, and then he starts herding you towards the exit.

it’s torture. in every five steps the two of you take, you're interrupted by various guests trying to catch you one last time. oscar feels like they’re all intentionally aggravating him; patting you on the arm, commenting on how eye-catching you look, and using the fact that the two of you are leaving to press a kiss to your hand in goodbye. you two burst out of the main doors and sigh in relief, for different reasons–for you, it’s because oscar didn’t give one of his sponsors brain damage, and for oscar, it’s because he’s one step closer to getting you in his bed.

you grasp at oscar’s hand, and he starts to lead you down the steps towards the valet, and as you fall into step at his side, you speak softly under your breath, “i can understand why you kissed me like that inside because the dude was being an asshole–even though you were marking your territory like some kind of dog–but, please; don’t tear this poor man’s throat out for helping me into the car.”

the australian remains quiet, properly chastised and works on releasing the pent up effect of the annoyances from inside the venue. everything is going well; the valet asks oscar for his parking ticket, and he goes to grab the keys, but stops just before he makes to start heading to the car, and turns back to you two and says, “i don’t know if i told you when you walked in but–you look incredibly beautiful tonight, miss. you could be a model, seriously. like, you should feel so lucky to have a woman like her–”

all attempts of oscar finding his peace are thrown out of the window. he interrupts the dude’s rambling, and bites out, “hey man, y’know what. i can just take the keys to the car. we can walk to it.”

the valet stutters, confused, “a-are you sure, i mean it’s like pretty far in the back. i can run and get it no pro–”

“it’s FINE! i mean, it’s cool, we can use the extra steps, y’know. enjoy the breeze and everything,” oscar says, slightly maniacal. there’s no breeze, it’s warm. the valet’s and your eyes meet for a second and a shared thought of “he’s trippin” is passed telepathically.

the valet concedes, not wanting to upset the f1 driver any farther and tosses him the keys. as the two of you are passing by, oscar hands the man a bill that’s probably too big based on the man’s astonished gasp. you call out to the man, continuing to walk further in the lot, “sorry about him! he just gets a little touchy about strangers driving his car, y’know?” oscar grumbles lowly next to you, and you smack him on the arm, “what did you want me to say? ‘oh sorry, my boyfriend just wants to fuck me really badly to soothe his needless jealousy?’”

“as long as he knows who’s the one who gets to take you home and fuck you.”

“oscar!” you squeak, “we both know we’d die of embarrassment if you said that. i can’t even imagine those words coming out of your mouth, in that order.”

you guys eventually puzzle out where the car is after several remote beeps of the car’s horn, and find that it’s literally tucked away in the last row, far corner with no surrounding cars for two rows.

oscar doesn’t open your door like he usually does, and leads you around to the driver's side. he opens the door, pushes the seat back as far as it goes, and sits down. without saying anything, he loosens his tie and goes to unbuckle his belt before you reach down and grab at his hand, bewildered, “oscar jack! what the fuck are you doing?”

he blinks, “i’m fucking you, right now. it’s too long of a drive back—i’m going to crash the car if you keep sitting next to me in that goddamn outfit. i was going to take you to the bathroom inside, but i figured you’d at least prefer the car. you can be a little louder here.”

your mouth dries, “you said they loaned you an incredibly rare, vintage mclaren, babe. i’m not gonna-“

oscar wrestles his way out of his suit jacket, spreads it underneath him on the leather seat, and pats his lap. “problem solved.”

shifting your weight, you glance around nervously. oscar is right, you would prefer the car over the bathroom. all those people inside who could overhear, gossip, and spread the news of how rookie mclaren, f1 driver, oscar piastri, had you yelling his name in the middle of an event. you’d pass.

“oh, c’mon now, babe. you didn’t think i saw the way you were eating me alive with your eyes inside,” your boyfriend teases, “i know you‘ve at least gotten a little wet for me already, haven’t you?”

that’s all it takes; the australian acting possessive and feening to get inside you is more than enough to have you straddling his lap and pulling the car door shut with a slam.

oscar tugs you into dirty make out, and you get lost in his pink lips, tugging teeth, and explorative tongue. the last of your breath tapers out in a reedy moan, and you break the kiss to pant against his lips, and oscar laughs. his laughter spreads through your chest, and it has your hips rolling against the bulge you feel underneath you. his amusement is cut off, and his hands fly to grip at your hips. he starts tugging you against him in a filthy grind, and choked off moans from the two of you start to fill the car.

you press kisses to oscar’s jaw line, paving a path down to his wide strong neck with your tongue. you suck on small patches of skin, not using enough suction to leave a mark, but enough for oscar to become aware of the fantasization that you could. the aussie gasps at every random suckle of your lips as he scrambles to pull the skirt up your legs. you shift your hips up to make it easier for him, as your hands feel down his torso to his belt. it unbuckles fairly easily, and you shove it out of the way, to unzip the slacks and pull his cock out.

oscar moans, throwing his head back at the feel of your hand on his length, and you get entranced in the trap that his pale thick neck is, again. you hum against his neck, introducing teeth alongside the ache of the suction of your mouth, and bully the collar of his shirt out of the way to find a space to leave a few marks. oscar’s breath freezes at the first hickey he feels you leave, but the rapid inhale he takes next clears his mind enough to have his right hand pull your panties to the side, and move to caress your heat.

you shudder on top of him, your breathy sigh amplified within the car. oscar sinks two fingers inside of you, and a much louder moan is tugged out. your hands fly up to grasp onto his shoulder, and your head tilts backward away from his neck in pleasure. his fingers thrust into you gently for a few beats slowly working to open you up for him and once he feels your cunt starting to relax, his thumb reaches to press at your clit. whines fill the air, as you lean all the way back, resting your back on the steering wheel allowing oscar all the space he needs to stretch you out. his fingers start curling as they drag out of you, and you can feel the pads of his fingers rubbing over a soft spot on the front of your walls. 

oscar’s eyes were stuck marveling over the overwhelmed expression on your face, but once he starts feeling wetness dripping down his arm he glances down, and curses out a rough, “fuck, baby—you’re dripping all over me.” your cheeks burn hot, and you can’t tell if that’s out of humiliation or the effect of his awe-filled voice. your right hand releases his shoulder, and bats at his arm, before tugging at his wrist to pull his fingers out, “that’s enough, mmm, just get in me already.”

oscar eagerly draws away; he uses his clean hand to tug his wallet out of his back pocket, and tugs a condom out with a smidge of struggle before handing it to you. you snatch it out of his hand, biting it open and rolling it over his cock, and once it’s on, you tease, “jeez, osc. you really were planning on jumping me in the middle of the event tonight—grabbing a condom and everything; you think i’m that easy?”

he chuckles, satisfied, his hand drenched in your wetness rubbing over his cock to get him slick, and teases back, “you’re about to ride my cock in the parking lot of said event, pretending to be worried about ruining the seats of this vintage car. i’m not calling you easy, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared, does it?”

your cheeks are definitely burning from humiliation this time around, but you huff, ignoring him checking you. you tug his hand away, raising your hips, and guide him to your entrance with your own hand, before slowly sinking down. 

twin sets of moans fill the air as he bottoms out; one of his hands reaches to palm at your ass (it’s sticky, so it must be the one he fingered you with), and the other grips at your waist tightly. you squirm on top of him, knees barely managing to find enough room to prop on the seat to give you a stable base. once you feel stable in your cramped position, you give a testing grind of your hips, and from there, it’s lights out.

oscar lets you set the pace for a few thrusts, suffering in the languid rock of your hips; you’re torturously tight around him, and he can only groan at the feeling of you wrapped around him. his chest heaves, before he brings both hands to halt your hips, and starts fucking up into you rough and quick. a scream jostles out of your throat at the unexpected change of speed, but you just take it with no complaints, allowing yourself to go limp against the wheel of the car to hold your body upright. he moves your body for you, pulling you downwards to meet his upward thrusts; and you feel him constantly applying pressure against that one tender spot right under your navel.

your boyfriend revels in the sound of the moans he’s punching out of your throat, admiring the way your head is thrown back—mouth open wide, eyes scrunched tight, lips bruised and bitten to hell. it’s a lewd picture, painted by himself. the car rocks along to his frantic rhythm, windows fogging, and sweat begins to form on both of your skin. the aussie’s core tightens; he won’t last much longer, you’ve had him half-hard the whole night.

a frustrated grunt escapes oscar, and you hum questionably about to ask what’s wrong–but his right hand leaves your waist to furiously start circling your clit, and an ear piercing shriek leaves you. “c’mon now, babe. ah-be good and come f’me yeah? im so close, baby–please,” he babbles, the last shred of sanity leaving him. his hips don’t falter once–to you it feels like they’re moving quicker, every sensitive spot receiving attention from the sharp snaps of them.

you cry out, it’s all too much; your hand reaches down to press against his navel in a feeble attempt to stop him from stroking so deep and roughly, and incoherent pleads try and tumble out of your mouth, “mm! osc–no! ah–too much, baby! it’s too much–hngh–feels weird–s-slow down!” it’s like his ears are filled with cotton; he can hear you begging down at him but can’t make out what your saying over the blood rushing in his ears. he’s trapped staring at your pretty cunt, watching the obscene amount of wetness coming out of you–the suit jacket underneath him is completely ruined, and he off-handedly thinks it won’t be saving the leather upholstery.

your legs start quivering and trembling–it damn near looks like you're freezing to death, even though the car has become as humid as a sauna. your own orgasm shocks you, and your eyes roll back erotically–unable to give oscar any warning. and in your last moment of awareness, you realize that something feels different, but it’s too late.

you choke on your scream of, “oscar, fuck!” as fluid gushes out of your cunt, and the first wave is enough to completely drench oscar’s pants, and oscar finally returns to the moment in amazement. he eagerly brushes his hand against your clit, and shortens his strokes to quick little jabs to force more of your juices out, and you can only ride along. you try to slam your legs shut, to jostle oscar’s hand away, but it’s futile with his torso propping you open for him. you’re sobbing messily, as he forces more liquid to spray from your cunt–and he moans out his own orgasm, ripped from him in surprise. the australian halts his stimulation this time around when you frantically tug his wrist away when the pleasure melds to pain, and allows himself to get a few more jerks of his hips in.

you fall forward, collapsing into his chest–the squelch of your thighs meeting his pant-covered ones has him humming and grinding his hips into you as gently as he can. the two of you shake against each other, hearts rabbiting as you catch your breath. oscar’s hands rise to rub at your back, bringing you down from the aftershocks still trembling over your body. 

“i-i’ve never squirted before,” you whisper into his neck.

your boyfriend hums softly, “did you like it?”

he feels you nod against him shyly.

“then, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he comforts, knowing if he seems approving of it, you’ll be quicker to accept it as something good, “how i’m going to explain the ruined suit and car seat to mclaren on the other hand…”

a shaky laugh from you causes oscar to smile, “i told you you shouldn’t fuck me in the car.”

“how was i supposed to know that tonight would be the night i’d made you gush all over me?! i was hoping that when the time came we’d at least be on a couch,” he whines.

“shut the fuck up,” you joke, “i want a live play by play when you explain the cleaning bill to zac.”

the aussie pauses, faking thoughtfulness, “maybe i should send the bill to the trust-fund baby. zac would back me up–he’s american, he’d probably find it hilarious.”

oscar gently shifts you over to the passenger seat, and you tug your skirt all the way down, and he fights his way out of his slacks that stuck to his thighs with your wetness. he manages to wrangle them off and kicks them to the side of the car floor along with the soiled suit jacket, after fishing the keys out of them, sitting out in his boxers, and glances over to see you adjusting your appearance as best as you possibly can.

“you want a mcflurry?” the aussie offers.

“as long as we can get a fry with it,” you smile at the random shift in conversation, allowing him to hide his embarrassment.

oscar turns the keys in the ignition, and the engine rolls into life with a deep, vibrating hum. he catches your legs pressing together tightly, and you squirm at the purr of the engine under your seat.

“well,” oscar starts nonchalantly as he reverses out of the spot, “you have the time that it takes to get from the drive-through to the flat to finish eating–because as soon as we get home, i’m taking you to bed and learning how to make you squirt, consistently. i don’t care how long it takes, or how many orgasms you have–i’ll keep going ‘til you come dry, babe.”

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© httpsserene 2023

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Cancelled

Jake Lockley x GN!Reader • Rating: T •Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | requestinfo• MK Bingo 2024 Masterlist• ko-fi •

Summary: Your plans change.

🌛For @moonknight-events MK Bingo Spring 2024 Event🌜

A/N: Sat on a few of these fics for ages because I'm overthinking them, but thought 'ahhh, I need to post them now in time for the event!' Having a deadline is very helpful.

Warnings: Reader experiencing some sensory issues, Jake reading smutty books, overuse of italics, typos, not beta read, rail-road sentences, please let me know if I've missed a warning!

Word Count: 801

Your phone buzzes on the bed. The drone is muffled slightly by the pillow it’s under. You finish fixing your outfit in the mirror and sigh. 

The material was ever so slightly wrong today. Normally it was fine, but now the feel of it just irritated you. But this was the seventh outfit you’d tried on and honestly if you were going to make it to the restaurant by 8pm, even with Jake’s ingenious driving, you had to leave now. 

You pick up your phone, glancing at the screen as you unlock it. 

One message. 

From one of your friends you were meeting up with. Probably something along the lines of ‘see everyone soon’. Usually you were excited to see them. They were some of your oldest and dearest friends, and you loved their company. But today it just felt off. Getting dressed up and going out. Eating at a semi expensive (for your budget anyway) restaurant that you didn’t even like that much. Putting on your ‘social interaction face’. It all just seems far too exhausting. 

Your eyes widened as you read the messages on the group chat. 

‘Can’t make it, stupid traffic at the tunnel! Been stuck for 50 mins and haven’t moved!’

‘I can’t either, babysitter fell through!’

‘So sorry everyone, maybe it’s for the best, I’ve got a horrible headache and was gonna power through, but maybe it’s best if we reschedule?’

The last message had you at-ted. 

‘It’s that okay with you? Sorry you let you down! <3’

Relief floods your veins and you hastily type a, ‘no worries, let’s reschedule’, adding several happy face emojis out of paranoia that your message could be misread, before you wish everyone well and to have a good evening. 

Jake hears you throw your bedroom door open, but doesn’t glance up from where he’s slouched over your armchair reading. It’s one of those bodice-ripping paperbacks from the 80s with the fabulously illustrated covers. Jake’s guilty pleasure. While he knows that Marc and Steven wouldn’t care, and most likely wouldn’t be bothered at all by his reading choices, he also very much does not want them to know. A feeling he’s sure he should try to unpack at some point. 

But that was a future Jake task. 

Which is why he’d taken to either hiding them behind the cistern in Steven’s flat or keeping them at yours, tucked neatly on your bookshelf (with your permission) behind a row of your books. 

“You ready to go amor?” He asked as he turned the page. 

You bounded over to him, ripping your stupid, itchy top off in the process. “Excellent news!” You stopped in front of him, smacking your hands onto the armchair for emphasis. 

Jake didn’t even flinch, half absorbed in his book and half used to your dramatic flare.

“Oh?” He glanced up at you and paused, a small frown of interest crossing his face. “You don’t have a top on.” 

“Exceptional observation skills Lockey.” 

He smirks. 

“Guess what?” 

“You’re embracing a new life as a nudist?” 

“The meal’s cancelled.” 

“What?” 

“The meal’s cancelled. You know cancelled, as in not happening.” You grin.

He gives you a playful look and swats your upper arm softly with his book. (His middle finger pressed inside to keep his page.) “I know what cancelled means, why?”

“Traffic, no babysitter, and headache.” You list the reasons as you count them on your hand excitedly. 

He smiles. “Really weren’t feeling it today were you?”

“How could you tell?” You say playfully. 

“Well, you kicking the door open to tell me was a good give away.”

You laugh.

“Plus, you really were leaving it pretty fine to get there on time.” He slips his bookmark between the pages and puts the book down on the floor before inching forward, he wraps his arms around your waist and gently pulls you into his lap, giving you plenty of time to step back if you wanted to. “I know how much being late makes you anxious.” 

You snuggle up to him, wrapping your own arms around his shoulders and kissing his cheek. His day old stubble rubs against your skin. But this sensation is comforting. Like home. 

“So you letting it get to this time without us going, or without you telling me off for reading instead of putting my shoes on.” 

“I don’t tell you off.” You grumble, your words muffled by how your mouth is pressed against his neck. 

Jake laughs. “Playfully.”

You tut affectionately. “Alright, playfully.” You adjust your position on his lap, getting comfortable. 

“So, what do you want to do tonight?” He presses a light kiss to your temple.

“Hmm, how about… pizza and you can read some of your smutty book to me?” 

He laughs again and kisses your lips. “Sounds good.” 

____________________________________________

Thank you for reading!

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[moodymisty]

Surprise

Author's Note: Loosely based off my personal experience struggles learning Spanish and Portuguese. I wanted to do something sfw to work on König's character and get a feel for things with CoD. I'll make some filth soon lol

Any German used is one or two very easily understandable words, and anything more in-depth is just implied via italics. Far easier than making an arse out of myself with Google translate because we all know how that works.

Summary: You've been studying German in secret from König for weeks now, hopefully it pays off.

Relationships: König/Fem!Reader

Warnings: I do not know German so I apologize, Fluff, Reader is implied foreigner but from where is not specified, Fluff without plot

Word Count: 2016

Closing the book in your lap you take your hands away from the pages and rub them over your face, feeling the way your eyes almost burn from overuse. Squeezing them shut helps, but it almost seems like the letters are burned into the back of your eyelids.

No more information can be shoved into my brain; Not tonight.

It's late- the sun has long since set and if you start another section, you might end up hearing the birds outside start chirping by the time you finish and go to bed. With König gone and it being the weekend you can at least sleep in, to cover up your late night of studying.

Getting up off the couch and taking your notes and textbook, they both come with you to the bedroom; Where you hide them underneath the cushion of the window seat. It was a place that he would never look, at least not without good reason.

That was part of the plan after all, for him to be surprised by all this.

As for all the time you've known König his mother tongue has remained a mystery to you, unable to understand whenever he mumbles it under his breath while fixing himself something to eat, or yelling at a door frame he hit with his shoulder or head by accident. Which happens frequently, as unfortunately the apartment isn't exactly built for a man of his size.

You’ve picked up words and small sentences over time; Maus, danke, bitte, ich liebe dich; Scheisse as well, much to König's playfully faked distress. He's always tried to refuse teaching your swears, but you've picked up on them anyways. He thinks they sound too cute to take seriously when you say them. They just make him laugh.

But none of it is enough to hold any length of conversation. König is sweet and always helps whenever you need something translated, but you know sometimes words just don't cross over one to one. Not to mention you don't want to always rely on him. So you decided to learn as much as you could, but keep it a surprise. At least for a bit. There was only so far you could get without speaking it, using it- but for now you could at least try and listen.

''Can you help me?' You stumble out in practice before sighing, slipping into your nightclothes as your bed remains unmade and calling out to you.

Could really use some of that right now.

You keep mumbling to yourself, the words floating through your head, hoping they'll stick to the image of an object or scene that follows in tandem. It's such a silly, impossible goal, but you want to impress him. You slip into bed and begin relaxing, hoping you'll be able to sleep before light starts bleeding through the curtains.

The ring of your phone however distracts you from any further thoughts, grabbing it off the bedside table where it had been charging. Only one person will call this late, and since you’re already in your nightclothes, you answer without even checking the caller id. It would just say 'Unknown' anyways, if it was him. You answer and speak up.

"Good evening. Or morning? Afternoon?"

König chuckles and even if it's hundreds or even thousands of miles away, it still makes you smile. When he's gone you usually don't hear much from him at all, so it's always a wonderful treat when he does manage to find a moment.

"Evening. The sun is just about to set." You're sure he can hear you rustling of the blankets as you pull them over your body, laying down with your phone on speaker right in front of the pillow.

"Keeping busy, Liebe?"

"As busy as I can, it's really late. Was just about to sleep." König hums, and you can hear the scratch of him rubbing his head.

"Ahh, am I keeping you up? I don't want you tired because of me." Just as you go to answer him back someone must enter the room, asking him something. You can hear the question and König's extremely curt and irritated response to it, and it's a struggle to not laugh when you realize you understood enough of it to put the pieces together.

So all this studying wasn't for nothing!

It's nice to finally see that you've been making at least some sort of stride. Once he finishes grumbling a reply at whoever had interrupted him- ignoring how cute you find it that he's so feverishly defending what tiny bit of time he has to talk to you- You answer back.

"Don't worry, I want to stay up; I miss you. I miss hearing your voice before I go to bed." You hear König let out a shy cough, rustling around. Sometimes he still gets a little bashful when you're particularly overt with how you feel about him.

"Then I will stay with you as long as I can." You know that's asking a lot of him; To even get a few moments time while he's deployed in the middle of god knows where is asking for a miracle. A damn good miracle at that.

"I miss you too, liebling."

His voice sounds so quiet when he speaks; You don't know if it's because of there being someone else in the room with him, or that he's just still not used to saying things like that.

The bed is warm and the blankets are soft, but it's still nowhere near as pleasant when König is here beside you. Neither of you have any idea how long he's going to be gone this time, but you always prepare as if it's going to be a long while. Hopefully however, it wont. You're not going to last very long without having him here with you. Just the feeling of being stuck in his arms because he's dead asleep and his grip is so strong- you miss it. You miss him kissing you on the cheek to wake you up in the mornings, and the feeling of his hand on the dip of your waist. His voice always sounds so gruff and sore in the mornings, whispering in English or German or a mix of both as he hides his face in your neck.

The sudden increase in background noise from the other side of the call jolts you out of any sort of fantasizing you were in, thankfully before it went down a path perhaps a bit more appropriate for such a late hour. König speaks up before you have a chance to ask if he needs to leave.

"I have to go; I promise I will try and find another moment to talk to again, ok?" You can hear the sudden rustling around in the background; Some of it from him, some clearly from elsewhere in the room.

He whispers again; Unsure under his breath 'I love you', the words still a bit shy and experimental on his lips. You return it quickly before the line goes dead. You have to reach a hand from under the blanket to lock your phone, staring at the lock screen for a moment.

Now the room feels almost, eerily quiet.

You turn over to set your phone down on the nightstand and turn off the last of the lights, heading to closing your eyes and trying to get some sleep.

When König returns, it's usually not without a fair share of eventfulness.

Normally he spends a day or two somewhere else first before coming back to you, which you understand; He doesn't want to bring 'that side of him' back home. Doing what he does isn’t a 9-5, and it’s not something that’s easy to leave at the front step.

After having a bit to decompress he's finally returned, having just closed the front door. He finished unlacing his combat boots and putting them beside your own shoes, as you shuffled off to get him something to drink after already tackling him. You had nearly jumped on him the moment you hear his key hit the lock, feeling him mumble a surprised but happy greeting against your lips.

Leaning over he goes to pick his pack back up off the ground to move it, but it either gets hooked on something, or the fabric finally gives. Either way the contents then spill out all over the floor, from clothing to whatever else he has stuffed inside.

"Damn it! You fucking piece of-"

The stream of swears he lets out makes you nearly winge, between about how he's going to damn the thing to Hell or set it ablaze. Either or. You try not to smile and quickly go to help him clean up the mess of his belongings that's now scattered all over the floor. You shoo his hands back a bit.

"Here, let me help, instead of you yelling about trying to set it all on fire."

König quickly stops what he was doing, and watches as you come closer. He looks confused for a moment, brow furrowed as if trying to see if you’re just being silly, or got lucky guessing what he was saying.

“...Did you understand me?” He experimentally says; As If in disbelief. You can’t help but smile and respond back.

“Are you surprised?” You cover your mouth and laugh, while cringing.

"Oh god my accent must be terrible, I haven't spoken it to anything other than the-" König bursts up from his awkward squat on the ground and wraps his arms under the crease of your bottom, lifting you off the ground. "-Wall!" Your arms wrap around his neck trying to keep yourself upright while he eagerly kisses your cheek. Over and over again, until it’s nearly red.

"Meine Liebe you sound perfect, how long have you been keeping this from me?" In any other context he probably would've been upset you were keeping secrets from him, especially big ones, but he seems too happy with the outcome to even care.

"A couple months. Long enough that I was scared you might catch me." The idea of him 'catching' you seems to make him laugh, but he still refuses to put you down.

"You made my terrible day so much better, I hope you know." He gives you another kiss this time on the lips, made easier from you being lifted to his height. Your arms snake loosely around shoulders as you giggle against his mouth, fingers tangling in his messy, soft hair. He's long since abandoned his mess on the ground at his feet, finally putting you down only to awkwardly bend over with you and kiss you again. His lips feel soft against yours and his hands cup your jaw so gently, before his lips leave yours with a soft pop.

"I hope you know you don't have to do this for me, liebling."

His eyes are tired from spending so long awake, hair messy and unkempt. You know the moment the excitement is all over he's just going to want to take a nap.

"I know, but I wanted to." You awkwardly try to hug him around the shoulders. "You're dedicated to helping me now, though." König lets out a quiet laugh.

"Of course, but can we take a nap first?" He always says we, as even though you're probably not tired in the slightest, he quietly hopes you'll join him for his own piece of mind. You help him sleep better, he confessed one night.

"Go lay down; I'll pick this all up." Listening to you he leans up to his full height and sluggishly walks off, retreating to your bedroom as you pick up his belongings. You stuff them all in the bag for him to go through himself later, before you follow and find him already face down on the mattress. He barely even bothered to change; Only his trousers are swapped to something more comfortable.

The moment you climb onto the bed with him he's trying to drag you into his arms, wrapping them tight around you and tugging you close to his body like some sort of stuffed animal. He feels so warm, your hands softly laying against his back.

You hear him mumble sleepily; Something about you being his little 'stuffed bear', before he's out like a light.

[anghraine]

Meanwhile, in one of my other main fandoms:

My post about reading a surprisingly good article on eighteenth-century economics and (tangentially) Austen showed up on my dash again, I think thanks to @ladytharen. Now that my mind is rather clearer, I remembered that the author (Robert D. Hume) had left a footnote in the brief Austen section saying that it was contracted from a fuller discussion he'd made in a previous paper. I'd meant to check the previous paper out and simply forgot at the time, but that reminded me, so I read the other article, dated to the previous year (April 2013).

This article is simply called "Money in Jane Austen" (much less of a mouthful!), but is similarly granular about details. In terms of the general argument, the abundance of historical and textual details very much works in his favor. But he does fall a bit into the "AustenTime" problem, unfortunately, in this one.

I know I have another post talking in more detail about this, but I couldn't find it! Anyway, "AustenTime" is a term I heard once and have never been able to track down again for an approach to Austen and the times she lived through as this sort of pocket universe in which everything is happening in the same eternal moment that's roughly associated with the Regency England of the 1810s when her novels were first published (and often even more with "the Regency" as codified by Heyer and the Regency romance writers who followed her). Hume's take is much less Heyer-inflected than the usual, of course, but given his general attention to very precise details, it seemed odd that he didn't distinguish more between economic data from the 1770s, 1790s, and 1810s while lumping all her novels into c. 1810.

That said, he did use okay numbers for the central arguments wrt P&P and built from Austen's own extreme and painful consciousness of just how far not much money could go, to the gulf between her circumstances and even characters like Elizabeth's, and then to politely disagreeing with the kind of characterizations of the Bennets' lifestyle you find in even normally reliable things like The Cambridge Companion to Jane Austen. His argument is basically that there's enough textual information to tell us that the Bennets are fairly wealthy by genteel standards, not minor struggling gentry—at about the level of typical baronets in terms of income/land/lifestyle (Mr Bennet's situation is certainly more comparable to a random baronet's than Darcy's). Hume goes into estimates based on explicit details in the novel about the Bennets' household staff etc and what that would signify at the time, all good stuff, so that he can express his true feelings.

And his expression of those was actually really cathartic to read, because Hume's true feelings turn out to be even more seething rage at how much Mr Bennet sucks as a father than I would have guessed from the other article. He's like—

"Mr Bennet sucks SO MUCH y'all, and you might think I'm being ahistorical in my rants about what a failure he is, no I'm not overusing italics he DESERVES italicized hate*, and I've got contemporary source after contemporary source to prove just how incredibly irresponsible and selfish this guy is by the standards of the time and how callous he is about his children's future and even about the ungodly amount of money that Darcy drops to fix Mr Bennet's failures, and maybe it's not clear to most modern readers just how much that would have been BUT I HAVE THE NUMBERS. I swear this character is such an asshole and I'm embarrassed for ever liking him, honestly, and just because Elizabeth doesn't fully condemn him—but hey, remember that passage where she clearly knows more than she's been saying about what kind of man he is—doesn't mean that Austen isn't doing so. Elizabeth doesn't end up paying for Mr Bennet's colossal failures as a father and human in the novel only by authorial fiat, aka Darcy, whose circumstances are almost unimaginably niche even for high-ranking peers—but that's the fantasy, you know? And Charlotte's there to remind us of the reality of just how dire this situation could be in more typical lives, even when we're talking about the women in the richest 1% of the population."

I had a few other nitpicks, but the combination of detailed economic breakdowns and unashamed raw hatred for a character I also despise was truly enjoyable. And it was also—um.

Despite my griping about various Austen critics, I have my own struggles with imposter syndrome, and always feel guilty about how much Important Academic Work In My Field there is that I just haven't gotten around to and how I always feel like I'm missing important information and blahblahblah. But I do feel it a lot more acutely with the seventeenth-century works I've studied, since I came to that a good 15 years after I started getting into Austen criticism. Even so, I was surprised by how soothing it was to read an Austen essay that's imperfect but good and that is punctuated by all these references to other scholars whose names and work I recognized, influential interpretations that I've already read, all that kind of thing. It felt a bit like coming home, honestly, and it was reassuring that everything was so familiar at this point.

---

*He did not actually say that Mr Bennet deserved italicized hate, but italics for emphasis are actually really rare in this kind of writing and there are quite a few of them in the Why Mr Bennet Is The Worst section. More power to you, sir.

[imkittyjustkitty]

② are we dancing after death?

🔱 — i'd meet the sea ༄ ⠀finnick odair x gn!tribute!reader ⚔️ 🔖) [one] CHAPTER TWO [three] [four] [five] [six] [seven] [eight]

chapter synopsis; The Quarter Quell nears. warnings; blood & veins mentioned once or twice, implied/mentioned prostitution (doesn't happen to reader), reader imagines strangling someone, like one swear word A/N; paragraphs in italics are flashbacks, i got a bit excited about mentioning other canonical district 10 victors (plus an oc who may or may not show up later 👀), i'm also not too sure how mentors are chosen for the games each year? also i just want to say thank you so much for the support on the first chapter, it makes me so happy to know people are enjoying this series as much as i am!!

It's warm, as it always is in District 10. It may be winter and the temperature is noticeably colder, but you still find that walking around outside with a warm coat on does more discomfort for you than if you were to walk around in the vaguely-cold weather without it.

It's been almost seven years since you'd entered the arena and emerged from the other side a victor. Since then your life in 10 has been undeniably empty, a lonely existence that seems to only serve as a reminder that tiptoes dangerously on the border of a punishment.

You've even found yourself looking forward to the games, if only for the possibility of being chosen as a mentor that year and being able to see.. a certain someone.

You'd met Finnick a couple years ago, when some very enthusiastic 'fans' of yours had practically begged some rich public figure in the Capitol to invite you to a party they were holding. They'd said it was an invite you were free to decline (Though it would 'break their hearts' if you did), but when a group of peacekeepers showed up at your doorstep the morning you were expected to take a train to the Capitol, it was made very apparent you had no choice but to play along with the rich snobs who had demanded your attendance.

You couldn't bring yourself to care too much, very well aware that you were not special in any regard in this situation, victors don't get a day of rest if even one Capitol citizen decides they want you around. You supposed you could even go as far as to say you were lucky, considering they didn't ask for anything other than your attendance.

The Capitol is suffocating, though that should be no surprise. The lights are bright and music beats out of speakers like thick blood pumping through heavy veins.

Your surroundings pound against your walls, a heavy throbbing in your head as you try to seclude yourself to a corner of the giant roof-top party. Your outfit — a 'gift' from a particularly enthusiastic designer — is as ugly as it gets, a green shade that resembles animal faeces more than the it does the tree leaves in 7 that the designer was undoubtedly trying to replicate. It sticks like honey, clinging to every inch of your skin that it covers, almost like a portable prison cell as you try and fail to even lift your arm above your waist.

You calm your frustration by imagining a scenario in which you can rip this fabric prison right off your body and strangle the woman who practically forced you into it.

You'd never do it, but — as some bright red drink that you haven't taken a single sip of sits in your hand heavy like a a threat begging to be heeded, and the world around you is completely out of control full of people who view you as less of a human and more of an accessory, — it doesn't hurt to daydream a little.

You're aware of your resting facial expressions usually resembling that of someone planning a murder — which to be fair is rather accurate right now — so as you notice a shadow in the vague form of a person approaching you, you prepare yourself for the same overused ice-breakers that tipsy Capitol citizens seem to love so much.

What catches you off guard, is the when the figure simply rests against the same wall you're leaning on beside you, not yet saying a word. You blink quickly, trying to clear the fog in your eyes to see who stands beside you.

You think that maybe this stranger finds the silence comforting, maybe they're just trying to get away from the loudness and crowdedness of the party like you. But for you, the silence is anything but comforting, the fact this person has not said a word to explain why they're now standing with you, and you can't even make out who they are in the dim lighting and fog that's building up behind your eyes all night, only scares you.

It's a whisper straight into the wind — when the stranger finally talks — almost like a test to see if you care enough to listen. You do.

He says your first and last name quietly, not like a greeting but rather just a statement void of any goal.

And then he introduces himself, Finnick Odair. You can tell he's known since the moment his eyes landed on you that you're not a Capitol citizen, he says he doesn't make a point to remember the names of every victor that gets tossed aside and forgotten by the Capitol, but he recognises you.

You recognise him too, by name. He had been someone your mother had compared you to late one night, a boy who had won the games so young, just like you were meant to.

But now he wasn't a young boy you'd resented for less than a moment after being basically told he was everything you weren't. In fact, he was better company than anyone you'd met in your whole life.

You carefully make your way through District 10, the wide fields and twisting footpaths granting you a world where for a moment you can pretend you're the only one here, that beyond blades of grass and unstable barns sits only empty land and freedom.

And then your feet hit the pavement of the Victor's village, your silent bubble immediately broken as the sounds of life and activity echo through the rows of houses.

You can hear the sounds of footsteps hitting the ground, and slight conversation mixes with the wind as you watch your neighbours living their lives around you.

The house closest to your left is dusty and not well-kept — as it always has been — the only sign of life being the open curtains, which slightly reveal an old woman by the name of Tule standing with her hands leaning against a kitchen bench, and a slightly taller old man — Greir — sitting on a stiff armchair in front of a television, both undoubtedly preparing for what everyone else is.

To your right, is the Yule household. The houses in the Victor's Village are big, spacious in a way that makes you feel lonely, but in a way that has served yet another victor; Phox — and her family — very well. You can hear through the slightly opened windows that most of them must be gathered in the living room too.

Neighbouring Phox's home, is Karter Breer's, District 10's most recent victor. They won 3 years ago, a year which you couldn't remember anything about other than who won. You know very little about Karter — you've slowly learnt little things here and there about your other fellow victors purely from living near them for so long, and Karter's only lived here for a shorter time than you — but you expect that once their extents of self-isolation lessen and they leave the house more, you'll know just as much about them as you do about every member of Phox's family.

As you keep walking — your shoes hitting the uneven concrete rather ungracefully — you pass an empty house or two, Tule's home, and even the home of Alto; possibly the only other inhabitant of this row of houses who can compete against Karter for loneliest Victor.

You pass more houses — at least four — until you reach yours. It sits right in the corner of the tall fences that surrounds the community here, purposefully as far away from the entrance gate and all your neighbours' houses.

You unlock the front door and try not to wince as it creaks loudly. The inside of your house is undeniably yours. As much as you isolate yourself, you're still human, and you've still slowly made this place your own... and possibly in the process made it Finnick's too.

One of the details that makes it very clear that this house — while you may still be the only one who lives in it — is not yours alone, is the ribbons.

They're tied to chair legs and door handles, each one taking you back to all the moments in which Finnick had tied the different colours around your hair, or wrapped around your wrist like a homemade bracelet, or even daintily tied around your finger when you weren't looking.

They admittedly look a bit tacky, they make your house look almost unkempt to anyone else. But to you, they make this hollow shell of a building more of a home, or at least a reminder of a home you do have, even if it may not be right here.

"Someone is staring."

You don't want to say it any more than he wants to hear it, but the Capitol woman that can't be any more than a few years older than you and Finnick hasn't stopped watching the two of you since she's noticed you.

The ghost of his hand moves away from yours just slightly, an inaudible sigh leaving his lips.

"I should leave..” He whispers to you, making no move to actually walk away.

He’s right, there’s people everywhere, you may not be the only Victors in attendance — although you’re definitely the only ones who look like one of you is about to get down on their knees and ask for the other’s hand in marriage — but that doesn’t mean there's no eyes on you.

You’ve known this all night — known that you’re constantly under surveillance here — but you and Finnick haven’t seen each other in months, haven't been able to speak let alone hold one another. You can’t decide whether you regret risking it all like this or not, him just being close to you feeling like a good enough reason to risk it all.

You don’t answer him, you don't usually do, in a world where you could say so much but have so little time to do so, it grows overwhelming. So your solution is simply say nothing.

Finnick knows this, and loves you for it — not despite — but he also knows that though while you may not say it, you want him to stay with you in this moment where you'll pretend that all is well, even though you both know you shouldn't.

There is a whisper, one purposefully intended to only be audible to you.

"See you later."

Simple. To the point. No room for argument. But you can see, for the fraction of a moment that Finnick's eyes stay on yours and he smiles ever so slightly, there is something more left unsaid.

There's an 'i love you' within that phrase which holds such certainty that you can't help but believe he means it. There's a 'stay safe' almost as a light joke but also meant with full seriousness. And then, for only split second now lost to time, there's a flicker of a sorrowful reality, of something that tells you you both know that later could very well be years.

Later could be later tonight, it could be a moment where you run into each other leaving the party, where you get a chance to pretend no one needs to say goodbye again. Later could be within months, where you could both be chosen as mentors for your districts. Later could be within weeks, one of you could just drop dead at any moment, the other would have to beg and plead to even be allowed into the district where the funeral would be held.

Yet for a moment, it's like Finnick has walked back over to hold your hands in his again, as you mindlessly fidget and simply stare at nothing, your movements freeze when you feel something new around your skin.

And there, wrapped around your pointer finger, is a small yellow ribbon tied in a bow, no doubt the same ribbon that was wrapped around the glass Finnick had been holding not long before.

You may be reading into it too much — as you fiddle with the ribbon, refusing to untie it — but it feels like a promise. That while yes, later will come one way or another no matter how much you try to stop it, but maybe — for now — there is comfort in that.

You can't help but be excited for whatever parties that will be thrown in the coming days, if just to see him as soon as possible.

Your thoughts are only of the possibility of seeing Finnick soon as you walk through the echoing halls of your house, pulling your jacket off tiredly and laying it on the first flat surface you see, then moving to pull your slowly-falling-apart shoes off from your sore feet.

The mundanity of the ritual brings a sort of comfort, your house and dull clothes an unchanging factor in your life (No matter how much several parts of your outfits have been slowly unravelling from unkind weather and getting caught on fences).

For a moment you just stand in the foyer, not too far from the front door. Thoughts don't really cross through your mind as you stand there dully, your gaze simply zoning out where you stand.

A buzz and sudden music coming from your living room pushes you out of this state, your steps calm and un-rushed as you move through your house to eventually find your television showing you the beginnings of a Capitol broadcast.

You sit down on the couch in front of it, slightly leaning forward as to not miss what will soon be said.

Quarter Quells are scary, they're unpredictable, but something deep inside you says it will all be okay, because soon you will see Finnick again at whatever trashy party you're both invited to, and you won't have to give less of a shit about the games.

series taglist: @universal-s1ut @stitch-lele @starrgirl4444 @more-multifandom-of-madness @libbi5001 @lem0ns77 @luvficz @lilmaymayy @magical-spit let me know if you want to be added or removed!

if your @ is bold that means i wasn't able to tag you for some reason, maybe check your settings

[veliseraptor]

🧩

⇢ what will make you click away from a fanfiction immediately?

so many things! that post that I now have notifications blocked on about how I'm always like "sigh, why do I have nothing to read, I have simple and reasonable desires!" and then click out of fics for a variety of petty reasons is very real, and I'm not even talking, like, "squicks" or "characterization issues". even before getting to those (of which I've got...well, not a lot of squicks but definitely a lot of "i'm picky about characterization") there's:

poor spelling and/or grammar

weird formatting (punctuation, paragraph breaks, etc.)

use of strikethroughs in narration

overuse of italics

use of capslock in dialogue or narration

and then we get into things like:

poorly veiled character bashing

gratuitous villainizing of a fave (though usually tags and summary cull this for me first)

too fluffy

characterization feels generally off or unconvincing

and that's not touching the, like. fandom specific tropes that generally fall under that last bullet point but sometimes have to do with plot/narrative. honestly I'm a very picky person and there are a lot of things that will make me back-button out of a fic, and sometimes I feel like I am probably missing out on perfectly decent works because of this but for the most part I've just accepted that I'm kind of a snob. not always, but, like. mostly, and I feel like I've gotten to be more so over my years in fandom. my standards have gotten higher.

the funny thing is that there's not a lot of squicks that will really kick me out of a fic. I'm pretty hard to squick, generally speaking. it's more little things that make me go "ugh" in annoyance and bounce than it is things that actively squick me out.

[ichorai]

i love your fics sm they’re godsend!!! 🙏 i was just wondering if you can share any tips on how to write as well as you do and how long that took to get you where you were today :)

aww that's so sweet dude !!!

honestly i've been writing ever since i was a little kid and i also love to read so i picked up a lot of the 'how-tos' along the way just from reading good books :) so i def recommend anyone who wants to write should also read a ton!

i'm not a perfect writer but here are a few basic tips that can make your writing look really good:

correct grammar - this is just a given really, remember to keep your writing consistent when it comes to past/present tenses

correct punctuation - especially important whilst using dialogue tags!

descriptors - it goes a long way to add descriptions for the setting/character appearance/sensations! it can really enhance the quality of writing and set the tone :)

paragraphs - space out your writing into meaningful paragraphs. don't leave it all in big blocks but don't also leave the whole story in single-sentence paragraphs (unless that's a specific style you're going for! staccato-esque sentences on their own line can make for really quick and flashy scenes! but i digress...) i know a lot of readers get immediately turned off by big chunks of text so how the writing looks can be super important !

pronouns - sometimes it's a bother to constantly use he/she/they when referring to a character, so you can always obv use their name, but you can also refer to them as their descriptors! (ex: the blonde man, the detective, the wrinkled hag) just remember not to Overuse them, because that can also become bothersome after a few too many times

italics and bold - italics for emphasis can make your writing look real nice :) if i'm not wrong, making words bold for emphasis is usually frowned upon in manuscripts n stuff but since fanfics aren't as formal it really doesn't matter which you use (but i still recommend italics more). i personally only bold words when i give the date or "ONE MONTH LATER" signs at the top of a scene. italics for a character's thoughts to separate them from the rest of the narrative is also what i recommend, but i've seen plenty of people use bold for thoughts so really do what you please :)

[f-oighear]

For the Writer Ask Game with fruits, let me give you some 🍒🍍🍋🍌🍏🍈🫐 for your fruit basket^^

fghjfgjhsd that is indeed a basket. Thanks!

🍒 What’s your favorite character dynamic to write? (Can be romantic or platonic, specific or general!)

I think I've said it several times already but writing Zora and Nebra is always a treat whether it's romantic or platonic. They are so funny.

🍍What kind of AUs do you like? Are there any AUs you hate or just generally have beef with?

I like canon divergence! Both for reading and writing, really. I also love time loop stories or time travel stories.

As for AUs I dislike... it'd be settings I don't understand or lack the knowledge to? (and where it's crucial to have that knowledge) Like some historical AUs or the Omegaverse— I've never managed to understand what was going on in the omegaverse.

🍋 What’s your favorite spicier trope to write?

fhdfhjs none. Spice isn't for me, I'm afraid. Vanilla writer 😂

🍌 In your opinion, what’s the funniest joke/reference/pun you’ve made in a fic?

Ohhh... I like running jokes. Noelle not having a restraining spell is the only one I can think of right now. I also had a lot of fun with Neran in I'll Follow with references and cultural jokes.

🍏 Is there something you overuse, whether it’s a certain phrase, trope, or piece of punctuation?

I think I overuse italics? It was striking in the middle parts of the Soulmate AU (The Agreement, Where The Heart Is, Stargazers). I caught that upon rereading Where The Heart Is a few months ago (and edited some italics out fhdfdsj). I'm also a sucker for stream of consciousness. Love internal monologues. Will never stop.

🍈 Who’s your blorbo and what are some of your favorite headcanons/ideas about them that repeatedly show up in your fics? Free pass to rant about blorbo opinions.

I'd say the Silvas, although I've worked much less with Solid than the other three (I have arguably worked more with the dead OCs than him which is appalling— I'm sorry, Solid).

My favorite head canon about House Silva as a whole is that they are fundamentally seen as 'cursed' by the other two royal houses. I hc that there's only the four Silvas remaining— everyone else is dead or gone— and that's why the current Silva siblings are all so pressed about their reputation. They're alone to fend for themselves.

I think Nebra was clingy as a child. Nozel had a few hiding places in the castle and Nebra found every single one of them. The poor boy could get no peace unless Acier kept Nebra busy to get her eldest some reprieve.

Nebra is messy. She is a pacer, she is a klutz, she is constantly embarrassed by it and hides it behind the usual confident front. It also shows up in several fics of mine but she is absolutely awful at any type of paperwork she attempts on doing.

Nozel doesn't trust his siblings and I think he will tend to fix his siblings' mistakes himself without telling them he did. Especially if it involves squad work. There's also what happened after the dinner of doom in Your World.

Solid was a fussy baby and then a fussy child. Asking for one thing and then crying and yelling because he didn't want that or he wanted it before or he wanted it differently. Fussy.

All Silva siblings have a little box with things that belonged to Acier. Noelle got a few scraps like post cards Acier sent. She has spent so much time trying to copy her mother's handwriting.

Aaaand I think I'll stop here because we're going to sad territory 😂

🫐 What’s your favorite underrated thing in your fandom? (A ship that only you seem to write for, a character there’s almost no fics about, a trope that criminally hasn’t been written yet, etc.)

Mmmh... It's a tough one because I don't usually focus on what's not there or not there enough? I think the good thing about BC is that dspite having loads of characters, they're all fleshed out enough for people to get interested in them? You see fans of different characters or minor characters everywhere (so you see head canons and analyses and fics and art about those characters or ships too). So I don't think there's anything lacking or underrated.

Went on a ramble here and digressed, so I'll just answer the question. Favorite underrated thing in my fandom: Early Black Bulls fics! The chaos it must have been. (also, we thank @acacia-may for the ones she wrote, they are incredible)

[marypsue]

20 questions for fic writers

Thank you @rocketnebulas for tagging me!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

That would be 158!

2. What’s your total word count?

Uhhhhh 1,905,572. Ahah.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Recently and actively, Stranger Things and The Lost Boys. I've also been reasonably prolific for Gravity Falls and Rise of the Guardians.

4. Top 5 fics by kudos

This actually surprised me! Duskfall (a Bella/Tanya Twilight AU) is top of this list. And then the rest are more in line with what I expected: Raising Stakes (Gravity Falls vampire!Stan AU), Return, Rewind, Rewrite (Gravity Falls Transcendence AU), Reincarnation Blues (also Gravity Falls Transcendence AU), and A Semi-Normal Life (ditto).

5. Do you respond to comments?

Most of 'em, eventually.

6. What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I think that's gotta go to this one, where everybody's dead but the main character, who thinks it's his fault. I don't write a lot of angsty non-ambiguous endings, but this one's pretty explicit that things Do Not Improve from here.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Uhhhhhhh. Hm.

Actually, it might be Hive! Which is a weird thing to say about a horror story, and yet.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Thankfully I haven't! Although I did once get a tumblr ask trying to gotcha me for writing Jack Frost/Pitch Black, which was extremely funny, because 1) that ship is between two several-hundred-year-old immortals who tried very hard to kill each other for the entire movie and this person was concerned because they thought there might be an age gap between them, and 2) I had written that ship exactly once, at least five years prior to receiving the ask, as a favour for a friend.

9. Do you write smut?

Verrrrrrry occasionally.

10. Do you write crossovers?

There's a reason my profile on AO3 includes the line "I was born with the gift of crossover femslash and I intend to make it everyone's problem."

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Only, as far as I know, by the usual AO3-scraping suspects. Although someone did once rewrite a fairly unique AU of mine from a different character's perspective, using almost all the same plot points, and didn't breathe a word that it had been inspired by my fic or that my fic even existed, which, like. Man, I'm glad you wrote that thing and felt good enough about it to share it, but also a little bit what the fuck.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

A few times! It's always an honour.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Exactly once. Wouldn't do it again unless the stars aligned absolutely perfectly.

14. What’s your all-time favorite ship?

That's a trick question and one that I will not be answering at this time.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you will?

I am going to finish Something Borrowed, Something Blues, so I guess that doesn't count. Uhhhh it would have been nice to finish Imbalance, but I just didn't have as much of a plan for it as I thought I had, and the more time passes the poorer taste the plan I did have seems to be in.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Personally, I think that characterisation is the big one. I can pull together a plot that makes sense and has an emotionally satisfying conclusion. I'm very happy with the way I write suspense/tension. And I've had a couple people now tell me that I do a good job of being descriptive without the description getting in the way, which I'm very proud about.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Pacing! Action scenes! The Dreaded Middle! Not overusing italics!

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language?

I've done it, like, twice and I had to use Google Translate because I didn't speak the language and I felt so dirty. For anything more than a word or two, I'd personally either describe the character talking without actually writing out what they're saying (if the POV character doesn't understand what they're saying) or write out/paraphrase the dialogue in English (if the POV character is the speaker/if the POV character does understand what the speaking character is saying).

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Wrote for was probably Pokemon, wayyyyyyyyy back in elementary school. Posted was the Hugh Jackman-Kate Beckinsale fever dream Van Helsing. Thankfully I think that one is lost amongst the ruins of ff.net.

20. Favorite fic you’ve ever written?

It's still the road goes ever on. It's gonna be the road goes ever on for, like, a while.

I'm going to tag @gretchensinister, @tejoxys, @amethystunarmed, @seiya234, @marzipanandminutiae, @bixxelated, @daddygrandpaandthebeaver, @enquiringangel, @astriiformes, @scribefindegil, @mickeymagpie, and anybody else who'd like to give this a shot!

[whump-queen]

whumper using victim blaming dialogue as a humiliation tactic—

“well I wouldn’t have done it if you didn’t make it so fucking easy.”

“if you weren’t so pretty when you begged and cried.”

“if you didn’t take abuse so well.”

“I just hit you and you whine like that— I mean, what am I supposed to think?”

“you know you deserve this.”

“go on, tell me you deserve it.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

and who knows— eventually, whumpee might start to believe they’re right

.

[shoutout to @unorganisedalienrubbish for coming up with like half of these]

[saturn-sends-hugs]

🍊🍏🍐🍇 for the fruit emoji ask! Feel free to answer whatever is most interesting to you 😊

hihihi thanks for the ask! answers under the cut cause this could get long lol

🍊 Who’s a character you don’t write for that often, but keep meaning to write for more? (They’re so interesting! But maybe you have trouble pinning them down, or keep getting distracted by another blorbo…)

FIVES!!! For the fact that he's pretty much the most important person in Echo's life (or at least was) (sorry bskjdsfk), I really don't write for him often enough. He's usually either just in a memory or a dream where he's warped by Echo's perception. I have a WIP that will let me tap into his character a little more (and even explore how he would interact with the Bad Batch) and I'm very excited to get working on it!! I just.... need to have Slow Down finished first lol.

🍏 Is there something you overuse, whether it’s a certain phrase, trope, or piece of punctuation?

Em dashes. And maybe italics. And like single sentence "revelation" paragraphs or whatever for dramatic effect lol. (and outside of fic writing I use "lol" too much like gIRL but it's just my default "don't take this too seriously" thing and I almost used it again right there) (I blame my best friend) (literally never used it before her and now I can never go back aghhhhhh)

I definitely use the trope of like "oh fuck, they're hurt" a lot, but personally I will never get tired of that so it doesn't count as overusing. totally.

🍐 Is there anything in canon that you absolutely hate and love to fix in fics? A wrong choice made, a fuck-up in characterization, a misunderstanding never cleared up, a conversation never shown onscreen, etc…

Characters not giving two shits about a traumatizing event or something. Like, they'll have the characters witness the literal death of their established best friend and then WALK AWAY. And they NEVER MENTION IT AGAIN RAHHHHHKJDGJBSGD im totally over the citadel arc as we can all tell. and tech's death. and that scene where Rex mentions Fives and they just kEEP WALKING WTFFFF

Anyway yeah, that's basically the reason I got into writing fanfic. I didn't like the lack of detail or time spent focusing on different events and I wanted to give the characters some time to actually work through things.

🍇 Is there a particular scene/episode/book/etc that you want to just write a million fics about, over and over? Which one?

Crosshair putting his hand on Echo's shoulder after previously having gotten punched in the face for saying "I would've left him for dead" like GIRLLLLLLL be so fucking fr rn. And like I'll never write a fic based solely on that scene, but that moment and what it means has seeped into every single fic I write with the two of them because they just work together so well its insane.

And other than that, most times it's scenes that don't happen that I end up writing about. For example, Echo learning about Fives' death or the time between TCW and TBB where Echo bonds w/ the batch and we just??? don't get to see it???? yeah so I'll never stop writing abt all that I think

Anyway, sorry this was kinda long but thanks so much for the ask!!!

[non-un-topo]

✎

✎ how do you think readers would guess a fic was yours if you posted anonymously?

Hello there!! <33 This is such a fun question to think about omg. Would it be predictable to say "COMMAS"? 😂 No but really, I think I tend to re-use some phrases and descriptors. No idea why, but I seem to love "(s)he thought, perhaps,..." for example. I do have a style, or so friends have told, and I see it most obviously with the way I begin fics. There are usually a few intro sentences that don't quite reveal who the narrator is yet, sort of dipping your feet into the story. Sometimes, and more often lately, I start fics with a quotation or a poem or lyric of some sort, to set the overall mood for what's to come. I'm also a sucker for "*" breaks and some dialogue written only in italics (for example, a memory or a thought written this way, but that's pretty common among fanfiction, I think). Friends have also described my fics as "atmospheric", so I think a lot of my work can be identified based on emphasis on vibes and mood and themes, if that makes sense. Let's go grade 12 English class, we're gonna identify some Siggy fic themes and motifs. I always have to pack them in there, it's too fun and I need some sort of theme/motif to drive the story and to keep my ideas going.

Slotting this in as an afterthought: I think my work can be easily identified by the way I write the interactions between the queer quartet, if they're central to the story (which they often are, knowing me sdfgfds). If there's a heavy sibling/family dynamic, playful banter or genuine irritation between them, that could be me. I also tend not to write petnames though there are some exceptions, of course. And, y'know, if Nicky sustains some bizarre injury, that could definitely be me, knowing my track record.

Also there's always my overuse of "<3333" and ";w;;;;" in the author's notes or comments lolll. I have to get my tone across with !!!!! and ;w; <3333

fic ask game

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Hey, its Ominoose, your all time biggest fan here. Blue time.

You're a patient at the hospital, his favourite, he's always possessive. A new guy joins the staff and tries it with you, either flirting or getting handsy. Blue finds out, gets possessive. Maybe coddles you a bit ?? Idk, just... Blue <3

Orderly!Blue Jones X F!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? • ko-fi • request info •

A/N: Firstly @ominoose you are far too kind, secondly I'm sorry this took so long, thirdly I’m so sorry Blue is fucking insane in this. 

He’s jealous! He’s whiney! He's a warning in himself!

Warnings: overuse of italics, oral sex (f receiving), p in v sex, cream pie, there's some power dynamics in here because reader is a patient, swearing, also I haven't proof read this correctly because I just can't look at it any longer, please let me know if I've missed a warning.

Word Count: 2079

________________________________

“It’s time to go in.” Timothy’s voice made you jump. He was pretty nice, for an orderly. He’d only started two weeks ago and already he had half of the patients swooning and making heart eyes at him. Just over the fact that he seemed vaguely kind, and not the sort of person that would push someone under a bus for the fun of it. 

“Oh,” you closed your book, lightly bending the corner to mark your page. They didn’t let you have bookmarks in here, ‘weapons’ apparently. Though how you could do more damage than a paper cut was beyond you. 

“Sorry.” You mumble as you get up from your spot under the tree, you hadn’t heard the pips which normally alerted you to the end of outside time. 

Timothy smiles and shakes his head. “It’s okay, no problem, I could see you were absorbed in your book.” His expression is soft, caring. “Is it good?” 

You nod, eyeing him with a little uncertainty. 

“It’s nice to see patients reading, I think it’s really calming, you know?” He smiles again, tilting his head to the side and taking a fraction of a step closer. “I’ll take you in,” he places his hand on your bicep gently, just to guide you towards the door. All the other patients have gone inside already. 

“I see you reading a lot, you must like it huh?” He says good-naturedly.

“There’s not a lot else to do.” You say softly when he looks to you for an answer.

Timothy laughs kindly, “Well, that and getting better I guess?”

“Hmm.” While he seemed harmless enough, you knew from experience that it was always better to err on the side of caution with orderlies, especially new ones. And even more so with ones that seemed friendly. 

He pauses, haunting your movements with the hand on your arm. “You know, you should smile a bit.” 

Ah. There it was.

You frown.

“I mean,” he blushes a little and runs his free hand through his hair. “Not like that, do what you want, of course. I just heard that smiling releases happy chemicals you know? Makes you feel happy even if you’re just doing the expression.”

Oh.

You look at him carefully, scrutinising for any malice and find none. You smile a little and nod. Maybe he’s-

“McCarthy!” Blue bellows from across the courtyard, his voice snapping against you like a whip. 

Timothy visually jumps at the sound of his last name, turning quickly, but not letting go of your arm. Blue marches over. His eyes seem brighter than usual, gleaming with a mad, impulsive energy that rolls off him in waves.

Timothy audibly gulps as Blue stops in front of him. 

Blue smiles, all teeth like a chimp bearing a warning. “What are you doing?” He says calmly.

“I, I was just taking them inside.”

Blue doesn’t even look at you. “Why?” 

“It’s, erm, it’s time to go in?” He shifts a little nervously. 

Blue leans a fraction closer, dropping his voice dangerously low. “Is it?”

Timothy gulps and nods, wide-eyed. 

“Take your fucking hand off their arm.” He growls.

Timothy lets go of you as if he’s been burnt, stepping back, holding his hands up in apology. 

Blue clenches his jaw, his shoulders pulled back and begins to stalk forward, closing the gap and removing the slither of space Timothy tried to place between them. 

“Blue,” you whisper, low and soft, as you brush against his forearm with your little finger. 

His attention snaps to you instantly, the tension leaking out of his expression. 

“It’s okay.” You nod at him, keeping your voice that same gentle quiet tone. 

He grabs hold of your hand, running his thumb over your knuckles before looking back to Timothy and giving him a glare that could have easily stripped flesh from bone. “Get back to your post.”

Timothy didn’t have to be told twice. 

He scampered back, rushing through the door and not even giving either of you a glance over his shoulder. 

You squeeze Blue’s hand back. “You’re not going to have any more new staff if you keep terrifying them like that.” 

He doesn’t listen to you, his muscles tense as he lightly traces the place where Timothy’s hand had been. “Why was he touching you?” 

“He was taking me back inside.” 

“And you let him?” He glances up at you with dangerous eyes.

You nod. In your heart of hearts you know he understands why you couldn’t refuse.

His grip on your arm tightens ever so slightly. “Why?” 

“Would you rather I had, and been put in solitary?” 

His expression softens again and he shakes his head ever so slightly. “He wouldn’t have dared.” He whispers, so quiet you can barely make out the words.

Suddenly he grabs your wrist, pulling you closer and pulling up the sleeve of your t-shirt so he can get to your skin. 

You yelp in surprise as he bites your arm, sinking his teeth into the spot where Timothy's hand had rested moments previously, before he soothes the spot with his tongue. Instantly you flinch back, but he holds you firm as he sucks a hasty love bite into your skin. 

His chin is a mess with salvia when he pulls back, his fingers digging into you. 

You barely get a chance to open your mouth, to intake a quick gulp of air before he’s yanking you towards him, snaking his hand to the back of your neck and forcing his mouth onto yours.

Despite the frenzied heat, the kisses are soft, careful as he slides his tongue into your mouth and presses his body flush against yours. He whimpers a little as you kiss him back, nipping a little at your bottom lip and pressing his warm palm against your lower back so that you have nowhere to escape to as he grinds his half-hard cock between your legs. 

It takes him a moment longer than you thought it would for him to stop, pull back a fraction, breathing hard. For a second you think he’s remembered himself, remembered that you’re both in the middle of the grounds with the asylum's large windows looking down on both of you. But the glazed look in his eyes tells you that he doesn’t care. 

“Don’t want him to touch you,” he mutters, tracing his fingers along your jawline. 

“I know Blue.” You say soothingly. 

“Don’t want anyone to touch you.” He kisses you again, three light, quick pecks to your lips. “Other people… they’re not careful. They don’t understand how to take care… they break things.” He shakes his head. “They’re not allowed to break my things.” 

You lean a little closer, closing your eyes and rubbing your nose against his. “I know Blue.” 

His kiss is harder this time, his fingers a touch too firm as he squeezes your jaw and holds you in place. 

You don’t mind though, don’t care as you feel his fingers twitch, his grip relaxing as you lick into his mouth. 

He pulls back a fraction, his warm breath hitting your cheeks. “Need to make you cum.” He mutters into your mouth, not giving you even a second to respond before he turns and marches back, further away from the asylum doors and pulling you along with him. 

“Blue!” Your book slips out of your hands and you practically have to jog as he yanks on your arm, moving with a frenzied energy to the large, old oak tree you were sat underneath moments before. 

He pulls you around so that you’re hidden from the asylum’s windows and pushes you up against the bark. 

“My book-”

“I’ll get it in a sec’ baby,” he murmurs, his voice almost slurred as he gazes over your body, taking every detail in before he drops to his knees. 

“I don’t think-”

“You don’t have to think.” He bites softly at your hip as he hurriedly pulls down your trousers and panties, yanking them off your right leg and not bothering to completely remove them from your left. “Just be good.” He mutters, his mouth thick with salvia. His fingers dig into your skin as he grabs hold of your right thigh and hoists it over his shoulder. Not even pausing before his mouth is on you. 

Your breath leaves your lips as a whine as he licks, broad, fat swipes of his tongue through your folds and up to circle and tease your clit. 

“Blue,” you gasp, grabbing hold of his shoulders so support as he repeats the action over and over again, digging his fingers into your thighs and urging you to buck into his face. 

He moans against you as you say his name, swirling an extra circle around your clit before he’s dragging his tongue back down and up again. Groaning as he completely devours you. 

The wet sounds are practically obscene, even without your building cries that you are trying your hardest to muffle, it would be obvious what the two of you were doing to anyone in the vague vicinity. But you quickly lost any residual thought of caring the second his mouth was on you. 

He pushes you harder against the tree, practically forcing you onto tiptoes as your right leg squeezes against his back and pulls him closer. 

He rakes his teeth over your bundle of nerves, chuckling at your little sharp intake of breath before he sucks on your clit like a man possessed. 

You moan loudly, throwing your head back against the tree bark as your legs shake and nerve endings are flayed raw with pleasure. He keeps sucking, grinding his face against you as he pulls your orgasm from your body, giving you little say in the matter. 

Your vision whites out for a second as your back arches, your fingers digging into and bruising his skin.

You barely have a moment to recover, the aftershock still running along your limbs as he pulls your leg from his shoulder and moves back. You nearly stumble for a second, weak without his support, but then his hands are around your thighs and spreading you wide as he pushes inside. 

He groans as you gasp in surprise, grinning at the way your eyebrows pinch together. He doesn’t give you a moment to adjust, just presses until he is completely sheathed, his length splitting you wide open. 

“Fuccck…” he moans and bucks shallowly, once, twice, before really starting to move. Setting a brutal, frantic pace that has you holding onto him for dear life as sparks of pleasure coil and glide out from your core. 

“You take me so good baby, so good for me,” he kisses you hard, nuzzling into your cheek and neck as he pounds into you in a frenzy. 

It’s like he has you memorised, every spot to make you scream, and cry, and beg for more, as he hits deliciously deep, angling his hips just so that you see stars with every thrust. 

“Blue,” you moan into his mouth, feel him grin at how wrecked you sound. “I’m-”

He changes the tempo ever so slightly and you practically scream for him. 

“That good, huh baby? Need my cock that much, hmm?” 

You nod, unable to form words. 

“Only my cock, yeah? Only me. No one else, no one else is gonna take care of you like this, no one else is gonna make this pussy feel so good, no one else is allowed.” He growls. 

You gasp, pleasure building to a dizzying high. “Please, gonna cum, please.”

He whines, biting his lip, his voice softening despite the sudden increase of his thrusts. “Oh baby please, please, I need it. Please cum on my cock, please. Need you to cum, need you to feel good, let me make you cum,” thrust, “please,” thrust, “ just me,” thrust, “ just me,” thrust, “no one else.” 

“Just you.” You manage to stammer out as bliss overtakes every thought, washing over you in waves and rippling across your very soul. 

Blue lets out a strangled cry as you cum, your walls squeezing him so tightly, urging him deeper and pulling his own orgasm from his bones. He buries his face into your neck and bites down, his saliva socking into your t-shirt as he muffles his moans. 

He stays close as you both recover, littering your face with kisses until you're giggling, and playfully trying to push his face away. 

____________________________________

Thank you for reading!

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[tathrin]

34. What aspects of your writing are inspired by/taken from your real life?

Oh, huh...that's an interesting one to think about, thank you.

Hmm...this feels trite, but the fact that I write so many characters who are stubborn af is like. definitely because of who I am in real life lmao. Because I am absolutely too stubborn for my own good and, oh hey, look at that, so many characters are too how strange... (The character I identified the most with as a kid—and still do, of course—is Rachel Berenson. The character I projected onto the most was Original Flavor (e.g. pre-AOTC) Boba Fett. So...yeah. That about sums it all up actually, I expect.)

Also a lot of the lack-of-romance/lack-of-smut in my stories is for sure a result of how there's an absolute lack-of-romance/lack-of-smut in my own brain, of course! I usually have to make a conscious effort to include those things when I'm writing characters who are in (or want) a romantic relationship with one another, because it's not what my brain jumps to naturally. (This probably also informs the fact that I actually love writing—and of course reading—action scenes and world building exposition bits.)

On a more tedious level: punctuation and emphasis. I adore italics, and I overuse them like crazy (I do try and resist this urge at least, but sometimes there's just no stopping myself) because I like to sound-out the words in my head while I write and then I want to make sure that I'm indicating the emphasis correctly so that when other people read what I've written, the put it on the right syl-la-ble lol.

And all the semi-colons, em-dashes, overabundance of commas, etc...that's all from both the fact that I approach writing as story-telling, which means I need to have the voice come through (if you follow me?) and the fact that I am very much a comic book person, to the point of having both majored in comic book art and being currently employed at a comic book store, and comics—especially slightly older comics; it seems to have fallen out of fashion in recent issues—are big on the visuals of the words in their balloons and captions, from little ordinary things like bolds and italics right on up to doing wild, funky things with the letters themselves. Also, I never actually learned grammar properly (see above mention of "too stubborn for my own good") so likely contributes to that as well, because I'm much less concerned overall with whether or not the language I'm using is correct versus how it sounds. And if you want it to sound right in the head of your reader, you have to indicate very clearly exactly how it's meant to be read, see?

This is probably a much more shallow answer than such a question usually merits, I apologize.