#kink adjacent blues

[ramp-it-up]

Mood

Summary: You and Steve were “special” friends. Until something that happens on one of your training missions puts Steve into a mood.

Word count: 2.7K

Pairing: Early CATWS era Captain Steve Rogers x SHEILD Reader

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Not Beta’d. Read at your own risk. S MUT! Early CATWS Steve, talk of hurt, ambush, implied assualt. Angsty, moody Steve, Steve with the urge to kill for you, possessive Steve, Steve pining for reader, idiots in love, Dom Steve, fuck buddies to relationship, fluff, Captain and Sir kink, dirty talk, edging (but not quite), begging, body worship, nipple play, raw p in v, female receiving oral, emotional sex.

A/N: This can be seen as adjacent to the fic Call Me Captain When I..., but can be read as a stand alone. I was in a mood when I wrote it, so here we are.

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NOTICE: I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

------

After you checked yourself out of the hospital against doctor’s orders, Steve Rogers steamed as he waited for you to get out of the shower. He wanted to be in there with you, but decided to give you some space, and give him some time to cool down.

The fact that you were standing at the visitor’s entrance, in your hospital gown and combat boots as he drove up to sit with you, was the latest thing to get him riled up.

When he saw you, he parked in the fire lane and got out of his car, hands on his hips as he questioned you.

“What the hell are you doing out here?”

He eyed the bandage on your forehead and the one on your cheek, fingers trembling as he brushed his thumb over your bruised face.

The rage had not subsided for him over the past three days. 

Even after he and Sam beat the medivac to the scene and transported you to the best ER in the area.

Even after he was assured that you were ok by the doctors at the hospital. 

Even after you protested that he was overreacting when he set up a security detail at your door headed by Sam. 

Even after he’d found who did this to you and… well, seeing you bruised countenance again reignited his emotions.

He wondered how you got around Sam who was posted up. But then, your cunning and skill was a big part of how he felt about you. So was your kindness, intelligence, and beauty.

But you didn’t know exactly how Steve felt about you. And perhaps he didn’t either. Until you were ambushed on a routine training mission with your troops.

You lifted your chin and squared your shoulders as Steve shook his head. 

“I’m fine, Captain. I want to go home. I’ve been in the hospital for four days. And on the training mission for 10 days before that. I was due to be discharged in the morning anyway.”

You looked up at Steve. He couldn’t resist those eyes.

“I want to rot on my couch, sleep in my own bed.”

Steve grunted his assent, although the thin line of his lips indicated his displeasure with you.

“How’s your head feel?”

You met his eyes and focused, if only to prove how healthy you were.

“I’m fine, Steve. I just want to go home.”

Steve stared at you, wanting to just take you into his arms, but not doing it. Then, he stared around the parking lot, scanning the perimeter for anyone watching.

“Get in.”

He moved next to you and picked up the plastic bag that had your belongings in it, and put his hand on your back to guide you toward the sportscar.

“But my ride...”

Steve looked down at you as his jaw clenched, the blue fire in his eyes threatening to burn you.

“Get in before I take you over to that bench and spank the hell out of you, Lieutenant.”

You swallowed a gasp and grew warm at the threat.

“Yes Sir.”

You climbed into the passenger seat and sat back as Steve buckled you in, then waved at Sam, who’d come running out of the hospital just as Steve drove away.

You were along for the ride of this mood of your superior, friend, and fuck buddy Captain America, Steve Rogers.

—-

You stood before Steve, wrapped up in your soft, fluffy white robe that he had put into the dryer to warm up and left on the hook on the door of the shower. It was such a sweet gesture that contrasted his cold, harsh demeanor on the way to your place.

You felt as if you were about to be punished, but you didn’t care. You were exhausted. And just a little bit spooked. But that last part was lessened, because Steve was with you here in your quarters. You looked at him, wanting to ask him to stay, but you didn’t.

Steve stalked toward you, and you noticed that he was barefoot, which seemed to indicate that he wasn’t going anywhere soon. You smiled as you dragged your weary eyes up to his face. You decided to go for it.

“Are you staying?”

Steve grunted at you again.

“Just try and get me to leave you alone.”

His deep bass rumbled through you, and you whimpered, despite the fact that he wasn’t even touching you. Something seemed off as he moved toward you, pulling you closer by the tie on your robe.

“I’ve been riding on the edge of insanity ever since that day.”

Steve’s hand was in your hair, gently massaging the exposed scalp between your braids as his eyes took careful stock of your face.

You were shook.

“I’m okay, Steve.”

“I’ve got to see for myself.”

All he wanted to do was to take inventory of you, his rough fingers moving over every inch of your naked body to make sure that every bit of you was okay. He’d almost lost you and was experiencing an almost feral urge to consume you. You could feel the guilt radiating off him.

“Steve. No one could have known. Shit, I’m head of intelligence and I didn’t know.…”

Steve put his finger to his lips, and then yours. He gently stroked your cheek as he kissed you tenderly, carefully.

“Why do you always taste so good? Like you smell. Like sweet coconut…”

He leaned in to kiss you again, groaning as every gentle stroke of his tongue was met with a bolder one of yours. The passion increased until he pulled away and leaned his forehead against yours. You could tell that he was holding back. 

What was wrong with him?

“I know that no one could have known that the mission was a trap. But I feel like I should have.”

His hands moved from your neck, to your torso, down your belly, to the juncture of your thighs. He was sitting on your bed as you stood before him, warmed by the shower, but goosebumps raised on your flesh and your nipples formed into tight peaks as he examined you.

“I’ve never felt the urge to kill as much as I did when I tracked them down. It only took a day and a half to find them, and then a day and a half to get close enough to… “

Steve stopped short of revealing what happened to the people who hurt you and just looked into your eyes. The fury you saw as he looked up at you was chilling, yet arousing. You wanted to ask what he did to them, but you couldn’t. You just looked at his hands to find evidence that you knew wouldn’t be there because of his super soldier healing.

“Steve?”

He didn’t respond to you, just continued to stare at your most intimate parts.

“Captain-”

He looked up at you then.

“What I said at the hospital earlier. I-I have a serious desire to give you a good and proper spanking for almost losing your life, although it wasn’t your fault.”

You started to laugh, but he was serious. The look in his eyes was unlike anything you’d ever seen before.

“I can’t give you up. I can’t.”

You shook your head.

“Steve, I’m fine-”

He pulled you to him by your thighs, his large hands grabbing you, gently but firmly, and bringing your crotch close to his mouth. He looked back up at you.

“I know we’ve never talked about this, but…You are my anchor.”

You ran your hands through his hair as his breath tickled your clit.

“I had the barest control while Sam and I were flying to get you, and only a small bit more when I learned you were okay. And now I have to verify that you are ‘fine,’ as you say. I need to see it with my own eyes, feel it with my own hands, taste it ….”

The unspoken part of that statement caused you to shudder as he went back to examining you, His hands moving down your legs, while listening for any sounds of discomfort from you as his skin slid along yours with a gentle but firm pressure, then standing up and depositing you on the bed as he examined you to the soles of your feet.

He placed one of your feet on his pelvis, next to what you’d discovered was his rock hard cock housed in his jeans, and one foot in his hand, beginning to massage it. Steve knew how a sensual foot massage made you wet. He grunted in response to your whimpers, but only turned you over as he examined the back of you.

Steve palmed the globes of your ass and pulled them apart, and you could feel his eyes at the crease of you for a full minute. Then, his palms slid upwards to your spine, smoothing over each vertebrae as he moved up to the back of your neck.

He was on the bed now, between your legs, and pulled your hips up to meet him as he gently circled your neck with his fingers, bringing you up slightly as his other hand rolled and pinched your stiff nipples. 

“How do you feel?”

His gruff whisper, full of need and at the shell of your ear elicited a groan and caused you to roll your hips on his rock-hard erection.

“Steve.. I… Please!”

You incoherently pleaded for more as you moved against the stiff fabric of his jeans, making a mess there. Steve looked down and rolled his eyes, his hand rubbing your ass as his palm itched to smack it.

“Mmmmmm. You have no idea how much I want to give you this cock. But you need rest.”

You reached back and slapped your own ass, pulling on your asscheek to enable him to push deeper between your legs to feel how wet you were.

“We also need to talk…”

Steve shuddered at the sensation of you rutting against him, and with every gasp and moan from you his control was dwindling. 

“I need it Sir. Please, Captain…”

“Fuck. Maybe just one orgasm. Then you can rest.”

You leaned down to give him that arch and he licked his lips. His cock was in full control of him now.

“Best idea ever, Captain.”

His hand moved to your core, and his fingers were instantly soaked with your arousal.

“Jesus. Looks so good.”

Steve’s dick throbbed and he gritted his teeth against the wave of lust, yet he stood up and took off his own clothes. He watched your empty pussy clench around air and he had to taste it. The minute his lips were wrapped around your clit from behind was the moment you started keening for him.

“God, yes….right… fucking…right there!”

Steve carefully inserted a finger into your cunt as he suckled your clit, trying to be gentle. You bit your lip as he pulled off and started to withdraw his finger slowly.

“So soft for me. But so tight.”

He watched your face as he added another digit, causing your eyes to squeeze shut and your mouth to hinge open as you worked your hips on his hand for some relief.

Your eyes popped open and you blinked rapidly, but he didn’t speed up to the insistence of your hips. When he curved his fingers and found that bundle of nerves inside, pressing gently, you broke apart as he stroked over and over again.

 "I–God. I'm going…" 

You bowed your body, and Steve watched in awe while your pussy clamped around his fingers.

“Oh yeah. This was what I needed to see. Give it to me.”

Steve rolled his thumb over your clit to extend your orgasm. You open and completely out of control, with no thought of hurt or danger, was the sight that he loved.

 And he wanted to make you do it again and again.

“Jesus, you are beautiful. I want to...” 

He was fisting his cock and watching your wet, creamy folds as he squeezed your ass for a better view.

“Want more. Please!” 

“Hmmph,” He grunted. “Don’t want to hurt you.”

You leaned over again and presented yourself to him, giving him a view of your fingers working your clit and sliding inside yourself. 

“Fuck me, Captain. Please…”

Steve actually whimpered. His cock was drawn to you magnetically.

“Are you sure…?”

“Need it.” 

Steve cupped your ass harder and guided his cock to your slick, heated cunt and groaned.

“Oh shit. You fucking own me.” 

Your eyes widened in shock, and then you looked over your shoulder, locking onto his gaze. You relaxed, causing Steve to sink deeper inside you. You both hissed and Steve’s eyes closed. 

“I’m never leaving. Could stay inside you forever. Wanna see that beautiful face.”

Steve grabbed your leg and shifted you down and around, maneuvering you onto your back. His eyes raked up and down your form as his hands found your hips and drew you closer to him and his cock deep inside you again. He leaned down and captured your lips in a heated kiss as you arched your chest against his. 

You dug your nails into his shoulders, his name a chanted mantra between kisses. With each slide and retreat of his stiff cock in your slick channel, both of your groans got louder. Steve’s gaze occasionally dipped to where you were joined, watching his cock slide in and out of you. You arched your back again, and he dipped his head to draw one of your nipples into his mouth. 

"I. Yes. Harder. Oh God. Oh my God." 

Against your nipple he muttered, "Let me hear you. So good.”

But he didn’t fuck you harder like you asked. Your response was to tug on his hair, and Steve chuckled around the flesh of your breast. 

“I love the sounds you make.”

You moaned loudly, very wet now and very frustrated. The sound of the slick squelching of your act was such sinful music. Steve groaned, his jaw ticked tight from holding back.

“Please!”

But Steve just continued at the same languid pace.

“Later, when you’ve rested, I have plans for these babies,” Steve flattened his tongue and licked around both areolas. 

“Gonna lick, bite, kiss, fuck them. Be rough.”

You shuddered as he leaned up and blew on them, causing your nipples to draw up into hard peaks again and your pussy to shudder around him. Steve leaned up and stared at your breasts as they bounced with each thrust and he shook his head as his pace faltered. You clenched around him again and he spoke, his voice broken.

“I know you’re close. Feel so good around me.”

Steve looked into your eyes as he snapped his hips, and your mouth went wide again as he worked his hand between you and found your sensitive clit. 

Your eyes crossed as your slick walls clamped around his cock and milked him. 

"That's it. Cum for me. I'm so addicted to the sight." 

With three more pumps, Steve was coming apart, his control falling away. Another orgasm rolled through you and you tightened around him once more, causing a groan from Steve as you rode out the wave. 

“Holy fuck.” 

He kissed you again, licking into your mouth as he continued to thumb your clit. Good Lord, it was impossible to think at all when he did that. You were a whimpering mess as you begged him again.

“Please Captain. Give me your cum, Sir. Cum inside me.”

Steve buried his head in your shoulder as he sped up incrementally, his cursing muffled against your skin. You rolled your hips to meet him, making him groan again. You turned your head to bite, then whisper in his ear.

“I’m gonna cum on your thick cock again. Just fuck me. A little harder. Just three more pumps and I’m there. Pretty please, Sir.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist as Steve finally let go and gave you three hard, deep pumps, but as you predicted, he could not stop there.

Steve cursed and fucked you hard, stroking at the devil’s pace for at least a dozen more times, roaring as you stiffened and clamped down on his cock as you came.

“G-g-g-geeez! Fuck!”

Steve was a drooling, practically sobbing mess as the forcefull spray of his cum shot against your cervix, so much so that it leaked out almost immediately. Steve stopped and watched the sight, gasping, mouth open. Then, he looked back up at you.

“Everything about you, about us is so damn perfect. Especially this. We almost lost it. I love you, Libby.”

Your heart surged with emotion, finally understanding what had gotten into him.

“I love you too, Steve.”

You smiled and wiped the tears that were forming at the corner of Steve’s eyes as he softened inside you. 

“Shhhhh. Steve. It’s okay. I’m okay. Let’s take this one day at a time. Right now, we both need to sleep. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

Steve nodded and sank down into your arms as you held onto your super soldier and rocked both of you to sleep.

——

If you liked it, hit Reblog! 😊

[darby-rowe]

coriolanus snow, masterlist. ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

key—

fluff ❀ | smut ♡ | gore ♔ | angst ☽

the column chase ❀

coriolanus fucking you while you read ♡

coriolanus using a shower head on you ♡

snowjanus spit-roast ♡

kissing coriolanus ❀♡

making coriolanus take a break from school work ❀♡

inches of snow ❀♡

pegging coryo w/ an ejaculating strap-on ♡

trying on lingerie for sub!coryo ♡

snowjanus in between your legs at the same time ♡

peacekeeper!coryo fucking you in the meadow ❀♡

fem!reader cumming from sucking off coryo ♡

prn links ♡

coryo x fem!reader piss kink ♡

coryo punishing you for procrastinating ♡

painal (dddne) ♡

putting brat!coryo in his place + mommy kink ♡

medic!reader ❀♔☽

modern!snowjanus x reader headcanons ❀♡

mutual masturbation w/ coryo ♡

academy!coryo not lasting in bed ❀♡

coryo jerking off to photos of you ♡

coriolanus's masturbation shame ☽♡

coryo takes pride in taking your virginity ❀-adjacent

don’t come in! ♡

princely. (dddne) ♡

keeping coriolanus warm. ❀

coriolanus threatens you. (dddne) ♡

degrading coriolanus. ♡

baby blue, bambi, & you. ♡

cockwarming + piss. ♡

coriolanus spanking you. ♡

coriolanus cums in his pants when he thinks of you. ♡

coryo loves hugs from plus-sized!reader. ❀

coriolanus & pussy slapping. ♡

guiding coryo out of subspace. ♡❀

coryo with a ring gag. ♡

painal pt. 2 ♡

coryo loves getting spat on. ♡

anal play w/ sub!coryo. ♡

napping in coryo's lap while he reads. ❀

coriolanus degrades you while he fucks you. (dddne) ♡

rape threats. (dddne) ♡

peacekeeper!coryo takes your virginity. (dddne) ♡

sub!coryo w/ dom!sej & dom!reader. ♡

[leclsrc]

it’s never over ✴︎ cl16

genre: childhood friends to friends with benefits to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, several references to 70’s music, 

word count: 12.9k  

You must have lost the plot along the way, because pretending to date your childhood best friend was not on your 2023 bingo card. (Neither was the fact that things are looking a lot more real as time passes.)

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... handjob (f receiving), penetrative sex, semi public sex, praise central, size kink

auds here… hi hi hi!!! you’ve no idea how much i missed writing posting and interacting w u guys. thank u for all the love & follows i’ve gotten in my periods of mia. more things soon i promise ty for ur patience love love love u allll 🌟🤎🤠💋 this is my love letter to fic tropes. i feared if it was too long i’d lose the plot somehow so i had to condense it. i truly hope u all like it :) will try & reopen reqs sometime soon to get inspo kicking

It’s later than late. The lights are strobing purple and blue, the “let’s get you even drunker than you are” headache inducing kind. The floor is crowded, swelling with teenagers who are probably too young to get in, drunk off cheap aperol and watered-down tequila shots. You’re balancing yourself on a barstool, one hand busy wrapped around a slim glass, the other clawing your miniskirt lower because the air bites at your legs.

“Another voddy Red Bull!” You’re slurring, mind spinning almost as fast as your vision. You almost drop your empty glass in your rush to look for another one—but right as it slips clumsily out of your fingers, it’s caught. 

Charles, your cocktail’s knight in armor and yours just as well, is eighteen. His hair is  light brown and long, but not draping over his eyes like before. You know before because you’ve never not known before—Charles has been your best friend since you were five.

Snoopy, he says, voice steady and calm in your ear. His frame is still lanky but he’s tall and his grip on your shoulders is enough to quell the yelling. You pout. Get me another voddy red, you plead. Charlie, it’s my birthday. He smiles to himself, knowing your vision’s too cloudy to see him and your mind’s too bogged to remember any of this. You’d already slipped up and told two bouncers you were seventeen and not eighteen, like your poorly-Photoshopped ID suggested; Charles had to keep you in check, lest you or your friends end up kicked out of the club.

A song booms in through the speakers and your eyes widen with recognition. Charles doesn’t anticipate your reaction fast enough, affording only a stumble backwards when you attempt to leave the barstool to dance. He swears under his breath, mind recounting the five previous dance sessions that left you exhausted and out of breath earlier.

I’ll get you a vodka Red Bull if you sit down, he tells you. He enunciates because, twelve years later, you still can’t wrap your mind around his thick European accent. Sit down.

Alriiiight! You hoot, throwing two fists up in the air. Customary for many bartenders on nights as busy as this one, a free shot is thrust into your vacant hand and you cheer loudly, much to Charles’ chagrin. With whatever malice the eighteen-year-old can muster, he casts the bartender a dirty look before turning to face you again, worried. He places a hand on your shoulder and watches, half-anxious and half-endeared, you take the shot and visibly grimace at the raw taste. Fuck. It’s gin I think, you sputter. Charles presses: You okay?

More than, you holler, smiling. I am officially seventeeee— 

The bartender’s eyebrows furrow, the thirty-something businessman in the adjacent stool turns to look—so Charles has no choice but to shut you up, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours before you can seal your fate.

Your eyes widen briefly, and when Charles feels the passed seconds are sufficient, he pulls away. You stare, eyes hazy, at the pretty boy you’ve had feelings for since you turned fourteen, and lean in to kiss him again. 

—

Pascale is hosting her weekly Sunday brunch at the Leclerc residence, all French windows and wide kitchens and bowls of fruit. As always, your place is at the kitchen island picking at plates to taste test them. Bonjour, Arthur drawls when he walks in. He turns to Pascale. Mum. Then you. Snoopy.

You halt biting into your forkful of arugula and turn toward the younger Leclerc, eyebrows raised. “What’d you just call me?”

“Snoopy,” he says simply. He’s beside Pascale, one arm wrapped around her affectionately. “Or, Snoops, if you like that. Yes?”

“Who told you about that nickname?”

“Lorenzo.”

“Hasn’t been in use since your voice was cracking every sentence.”

“Tête de noeud.” Pascale swats his arm and he yelps, so you resume your arugula with satisfaction.

Charles is late for reasons he did not disclose, but everyone is used to it. The open kitchen door stretches into the front yard, where the table is set up and Lorenzo is setting the places. You know that although you usually expect a few more relatives, today’s just for the family���and you, but you’re basically family.

“How is Paris?” Arthur asks, licking hummus off a spoon opposite you. Your position is reminiscent of how you spent afternoons after school with Charles before, and the memory strikes a chord in you. Strange nostalgia, fondness.

“It’s fine.”

“Oh really?” He laughs in-between nibbles of carrot.

“I got an offer for a higher position,” you relent. Pascale calls you both, and you get up and walk toward the yard to sit down. “If you must know.”

“Oh? Let me know how that goes.” He follows you, carrot slice in hand, chewing. The conversation is cut short by the smooth noise of Charles’ decidedly un-smooth parking outside.

You’re seated at your usual spot—in-between Charles and Lorenzo, across Arthur—when the former finally walks into the yard. He looks tired, moreso than usual, bags under his eyes deep and hair a bit more disheveled.

He sits beside you. “I need to talk to you.” Then, quieter, “Private.”

You hum confusedly, eyes flitting across the three other people at the table to gauge their reactions. They’re equally aloof. “Wh—now?” He nods.

You end up talking in the kitchen. He’s sighing the whole fifteen steps there, rubbing the bridge of his nose, exhaling, inhaling. Ever observant, and of someone as close to you as he is, you pick up on the tiny actions, behaviors. Charles is wringing his hands. He’s tried to pop the same knuckle twice. He isn’t frantic—he’s scared. You lean against the counter, waiting, eyes looking him up and down to identify his exact emotions.

“Tell me,” you press. “Whatever it is, I won’t judge.”

“The—my—the iCloud of my phone has been leaked. The press found out.”

When you were eight and he was nine, you and Charles summered in Villefranche with your mum and dad. The weather then was the kind you could write love letters to and about—blue skies, salty wind, soft sand. The current was calm enough that you could ride the gentle waves without fear of going under or straying far from the shore, where your parents sunbathed blissfully.

Don’t drown, he’d warned you, ever protective. You wore pink floaties over your arms, so it was already difficult to.

You dove under with great effort, fighting against the buoyancy, and poked his bare knee, surfacing to watch his reaction. He grimaced. Slowpoke, you teased, swimming away. You wondered then what it might feel to drown. Maybe not in the blue water of Villefranche, but anywhere else.

You think it hurts to drown? You blubbered, bobbing above the wave. Charles swam in front of you and wiped water off your face gently. I hope you never find out, he said, smiling.

But this is you finding out. This is it now, the drowning. Your fingers flex over the edge of the counter and you gulp, eyes fluttering with nerves. “Shit?” It comes out like a question from how nervous you are. “Um, sorry. What are we—” But your question is cut short by Pascale’s voice, cutting through the tension like it’s wet cardboard. The agreement is silent and mutual: save this discussion for later.

—

Charles can’t wake up fast enough. There are calls, texts, voicemails from every officer on his team, which isn’t that surprising given he’s up two hours late. But the amount—the sheer amount of notifications is dizzying. Overwhelmed, he finds it in himself to pull up his search engine app and let his fingers possess themselves.

All he types is his last name, and then The Sun article is splashed onto his face like a pot of scalding coffee: “F1 DRIVER ICLOUD LEAKED, PERSONAL PHOTOS ALL OVER INTERNET.” Daily Mail is next, of course, watering down the situation to seem more dirty and scandalous: “Naughty Driver? Charles Leclerc’s iCloud Hacked, Reveals Mystery Girl.” And then of course Page Six, who doesn’t miss a beat—

Wait. He blinks and presses the back arrow to return to the previous webpage. He reads over it again, slower this time. Mystery Girl? Shit—no. No way. It’s almost (it should be) silly, the way he’s reading vigorously over the reports like he’s a fan, but he’s anxious. He scrolls, because if any tabloid is daft enough to publish the leaked photos, it’s got to be the Daily Mail.

He pauses his quick swiping when his eyes harden with recognition, and staring back at him, on his phone’s full brightness, is a picture of you on his lap at Christmas. It’s the one Lance took while attempting to guess Charles’ password, one of you wine drunk with his head buried in your neck.

It’s unmistakably him, at his own house in Monaco where the drivers had a holiday get-together. It’s unmistakably you, hair draped over your face, three gold rings on your fingers. You had just given him a Strokes vinyl, he recalls. That’s why you were hugging.

There’s another one of you playing Scrabble in his bed—he’s not in the frame, but he remembers taking it. This, he could deny. He’s not in it, and he’s pretty sure the fans don’t know his house this well. Already his brain’s doing manual damage control, dread filling his veins at the thought of reading through his team’s frantic messages.

Another message stands out, pinned on top of all the others—from his mum, reminding him about brunch. He gets ready half-focused, half-lucid. Fully worried. He worries about the PR crisis this may cause, about his iCloud security, about the reactions online. Above all, though, he worries about you. About what he should tell the press. About how “actually, we’re not dating, we just fuck constantly” might hold up for the fans.

—

You’re twelve and Charles thirteen, both of you seated across Hervé and Pascale. Behind them stand your own parents, and they all look stern. What this is, Pascale says gently, is a family meeting. Okay?

Okay. It leaves your high voices in shaky unison. You both know what you’re doing here—you snuck out of school to catch a movie earlier, the teacher naturally caught wind of the misdeed, and now you’re in a meeting for it.

Snoops, Charles whispers, trying to ease your nerves with lighthearted commentary. This is the worst.

No, you want to tell preteen Charles—this is. You’re older now, yet still subjected to similar questioning, though today it’s Pascale going solo. It’s been three days since the fated day where the press leaked the pictures of you and Charles in compromising positions, and like any boomer, she’s used Facebook to her advantage and gotten ahold of the compromising pictures, too. 

“How long?” Her voice is enunciated in hard syllables.

“Mum—”

“Answer the question.” She looks back and forth, moving into territory of intense questions. “Both of you.”

“Um.”

“Because… I’ve been…”

You notice it immediately, given your observant track record: her shoulders relax and her lips smile just slightly. You sit still, and wait for the next words out of her mouth. “…waiting for this all my life!”

You and Charles watch in mild horror as Pascale’s face goes from firm to absolutely elated. Her eyes soften and a smile spreads over her face, illuminating her with pure joy. Do you even know how many bets I made with your papa, Charles? She claps her hands together several times.

Charles opens his mouth to verbalize dissent, but she doesn’t take it—she’s already droning on and on about how long she’s waited for this to finally happen. Your eyes glide over to the doorway of the dining area, where Lorenzo and Arthur watch with smug looks on their faces. Little shits won’t help you. You don’t even try to protest, and at some point Charles gives up, too. You don’t know how it’ll come across, anyway.

Ninety minutes later, you’re in Arthur’s bedroom rifling through his desk and praying you don’t find anything too gross. He’s on his bed throwing a bouncy ball up in the air, conversing with Charles about your gameplan with their mum.

The sky outside is in limbo between afternoon and night. It’s cloudy, so the sunset is a pale yellow instead of angry orange. “Why not just tell her the truth?”

You’d also thought that was the easiest option, escape route, exit path. But that would involve breaking Pascale’s heart, and that was out of the question for you, let alone Charles, certified mommy’s boy.

“I can’t, Arthur.” Charles’ voice is steady and unwavering.

“You can.”

“No.”

“Fine. Next best thing then.”

You fiddle with a Rubik’s cube, then turn in the seat. “What?”

“Pretend you’re dating.”

“Arthur,” you say seriously. “Shut up.” But he doesn’t join you, and you realize neither does Charles. You stare blankly at both of them, unwilling to believe they’d actually bank on this as an actual plan. 

“You guys realize this kind of thing never works? Zero percent success rate.”

“It’s just paddock appearences. You’re not pretending for millions of people,” Arthur says, shrugging. He catches the ball and throws it to you—you catch it one-handed. “You’re pretending for Mum.”

“Sure. And by extension, millions of people. Are you dense, or do you think the paddock appearances will just breeze by everyone who saw the leaks?”

“Ughhh. You’re acting like it’s impossible.” Arthur holds his breath before he utters the next sentence. “Like you two aren’t fucking every other w—”

“—oh, my God!” Shocked, you get up, and so does Charles. “Wh—I’m—language, Arthur!”

Charles balks. “How did you even—”

“I didn’t. But merci mille fois for confirming my theory,” Arthur quips faux-sweetly, smiling dopily. “I mean, I was going to find out! Your pictures are so… intimate. So just pretend to date and throw Maman off your scent.”

You protest briefly, wrestling with the option, and reconvene on the bed, you cross-legged and leaning on Charles’ shoulder and Arthur in front of the both of you. He’s always had a knack for schemes—he never got caught sneaking out, which destroyed your and Charles’ record of being caught twelve times by either of your parents. It’s a bit childish, but he gets the job done.

“Do it for… let’s say a month. Tell Mum you’ve been dating a while—Christmas isn’t that long ago, and that was the least recent picture. D’accord?”

You both nod, hyperfocused. 

“During race weekends, be all over each other—shouldn’t be hard—especially in front of Mum. People might catch you doing it, but I wouldn’t worry.”

“No, wait—I mean.” You shrug. “People—tifosi—they know I’m Charles’ friend. They’re going to be all over the fact that we’re apparently dating.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll use palatable density,” Charles says, nodding.

You pause. Arthur does, too, sensing something off.

“You mean plausible deniability.” Your deadpan voice is tinged with amusement, muffled into his shoulder. 

“Right, ouais, that.” He smiles, chuckling a bit; his shoulder shakes with it and your head nearly slips off. He brings a hand to cup over your jaw and hold you steady. “Sorry.”

“S’fine.” You sigh. “I’m totally okay with this. Just worried it’s going to have unintended consequences.”

Arthur quells you with rushed explanations about how it’ll be over and you two can say something like we decided we’re better off as friends to really sell the thing. At the seven-minute mark of your and Charles’ intense interrogation, he promptly kicks you out to figure out if you’re willing to do it yourselves.

You wedge yourself into Charles’ front seat, knowing you were headed to his place anyway. You massage your temples with one hand and fiddle with the hem of your shorts with the other. Nervous. Antsy. “Did Fred say anything?”

“Got the IT team to fortify my account.” 

“You think this thing’s going to be okay from a professional standpoint?” You look up and toward him; he’s already gazing at you, eyes soft. “I’m worried. Plus, with my job offer thing in London and New Y—”

“Don’t be.” He starts the car and maneuvers out of the driveway, into the dips of Monaco streets and the familiar route back to his place. “Bitter with the sweet. The only thing you need to worry about”—he takes your hand in the centre console, laces your fingers together loosely—“is your acting skills.”

“God, you’re right.” You sigh, looking out the window. “How am I going to pretend I can stand you?” Then, for good measure, you squeeze his hand wrapped in yours.

—

You visit Monaco from uni in London over spring, and for the first time in months, your schedule aligns with Charles’—though you learn this indirectly when you visit the Leclerc home. Pascale, of course, is the one who tells you his new flat’s address before she presses a kiss to your cheek and then leaves to run errands in the city. Alone, and in a burst of excitement, you make the drive there, take the elevator upstairs and shove the door open without knocking. He’s there. Your Charles. You can tell because the music he plays is loud—The Kooks—like his ears are still fourteen and not twenty-one, like he’s still in middle school and not in Formula One.

“Save your eardrums,” you say, before beelining toward the couch and leaping onto him for a hug. He sits up to match your energy, arms wrapping around you, sitting up straighter to keep you from totally falling atop him. 

“How’s uni?”

“Shit,” you say into his hair. It smells like his shampoo and his favorite cologne. Clean, soapy. “Obviously. How’s the Ferrari?” 

“Amazing.” He smiles. “Obviously. How’d you know I was in? Mum told you?”

“Ouais. She’s running errands. Listen, can we drink tonight?” You sigh, parting from the hug and sitting across him.

Yeah, sure. His voice is concerned, thick with worry. You shake your head—it’s not that deep, you tell him. It’s just—I had a bad date before I left and it’s put me in the worst mood.

Oh? He leans back, clasping two hands behind his head as he goes.What happened? He laughs. 

You tense visibly, rolling your eyes despite yourself. “He was just weird. Nothing.”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “You shy, Snoops?”

Ha-ha. You roll your eyes, but your face is flushed and your gaze avoids him. You reach up to tuck the loose strands of hair by your ears behind them, face warm. You’d never talked with Charles about boys or flings before—maybe several times, but never in full detail. It was always vague umbrella statements, like Ryan is boring or Greg is such a prick, but never anything beyond that. Come to think of it, you don’t know why, either.

“You can tell me.”

“The—when we—I had to fake,” you say cuttingly. “You know.”

He purses his lips and smiles, eyebrows furrowing. I don’t, actually. Something unnamed trills through you—through your stomach and into your fingertips. Your first time talking to your best friend in real life after months of uni and racing and this is the topic? It’s, if anything, a sign of your growing up, you guess.

Charles lets up on the teasing and you end up rejecting the club in lieu of sharing a bottle of vodka, throwing it back raw and without any type of chaser (to really prove nothing at all; you don’t even know why any sane human would do this). You do a Just Dance party on his TV, even try out drunk sim racing and FIFA, but by the end you’re well exhausted and retired to the couch again.

His voice is wavy and tipsy when he speaks. “You really had to fake it?”

“Yeah.” You pout. “Can never—um, finish, I dunno.” Your inhibition’s gone, shame loosened and untied by the vodka. You shift in your position on the couch.

“Maybe because it was too casual.” His voice hardens.

“So you’re saying I should…” You swallow dryly, eyes fluttering. “Sleep with somebody I know?” You’ve dropped the implication and it floats up, hangs above.

His eyes flick over to your legs, folded on the couch. The hem of your shorts. Your fingers playing with your empty shot glass. He didn’t mean anything by that. He’s half-sure you didn’t. 

“I am just saying that a good friend would do that for you.”

“You’re a good friend,” you say, volume low. 

Five minutes later you’ve properly crashed into each other, him pinning you down against the couch, licking fire up your throat. His lips trail across your jaw. 

He dips a hand into your shorts, presses against your clothed core. He’s smiling. So wet for me. He’s got his mouth pressed messily up to your jaw, when he sinks one finger all the way in, slow and stretching; and you’re clenching around him—

Come on, he’s saying. Insisting. You’re trembling, yanking desperately at his hair as he pumps his finger slowly in and out of you, aching to be full of him, to take him deeper. 

He slips another one in, and you feel the cold of his ring pressed against your entrance, then he’s fucking them into you and you’re leaking around them. 

Yes, yeah, Charles—you’re gasping, airy breaths tapering into whimpers that sound sinful, desperate. He knows you so well already. Presses his fingers against your sweet spot, watches your eyes flutter.

So needy, and you’re chanting his name under your breath as he quickens his pace, craving the stretch of him desperately. I know you want to cum, baby. He’s calling you baby and you’re closer, so much closer. Come on, for me, yeah? 

You melt, crashing and crumpling into him and shuddering as you release all over his fingers. He presses his forehead to yours and lets you take a beat. You feel giddy and dizzy and warm, which is weird because you don’t feel drunk at all anymore. This dizziness is something different. It’s Charles.

“Are we going to do that again?” You ask meekly, hand still in his hair.

“Only if you want. Whatever you want,” he says. He’d do anything for you. He’d do whatever you wanted.

“I do, I do want.” And Charles, the good friend he is, helps you out.

—

Imola is humid, warm, and the racetrack is absolutely teeming with people. But you’re not there—clad in linen shorts and a fresh tank top, you’re walking around the vicinity of the track, cup of gelato in hand, sunglasses over your eyes. The restaurant near you is playing music out loud. Beside you, singing along and drafting a list of wedding appetizers, is Lorenzo.

“Lamb chops?” You suggest, licking amaretto off the plastic spoon. The weather is pleasant enough that people are crowding the streets without it being too unbearably hot. Stevie Wonder flows from the speakers, permeates the entire block.

“I was thinking more seafood.”  

“Tuna? Make ‘em little tacos.”

“Good idea. Think I’ll go for those. Hey, are you sure you’re on board with fake-dating my brother?”

You turn sharply toward him, taken aback. He hadn’t brought it up in the week and a half this plan had been in the works—he’d been privy to it the entire time, too, which makes it weirder that he’s asking so suddenly.

“I meaaan…” You slow your pace, contemplative. A shy smile plays at your lips, brows knitted together. “It’s only going to be for a month. Ish. So, yeah. Are you—do you—sorry. Is it alright with you? Sorry.”

“It is not not okay.”

“So it’s…” You pause. “Okay.”

“It’s—yes, but I worry, is all. How sure are you that this won’t hurt anyone?”

“I don’t know, it’s… bitter with the sweet. And who’s getting hurt… like the fans?” You laugh a little. “They’ll live, won’t they?”

“Like you.” He pauses. “Like Charles.”

—

Pierre is running a comb through his hair, staring at himself in the mirror; his Narcissus moment is interrupted by a banana to the back of his head. Bonjour, he says, monotone and already knowing the culprit.

“We need to talk.”

“Could this possibly be about the news of your brand new ‘girlfriend’ over last week? Where is she, by the way?”

“With Lorenzo. Listen, here’s the thing. Mum thinks we’re dating, and I don’t know how to tell her we’re not—so I won’t.”

“Lie to your mum, go ahead.” Pierre crosses his arms and hums.

“Tais-toi. It’s for her own good.” 

“So you’re going to pretend to date.”

 “Ouais.” 

“Should be easy. You guys are hooking up and making out or whatever all the time.”

Charles pauses and lets the silence speak for itself. When Pierre makes a noise of confusion, he gives. We don’t kiss, he says finally. She thinks it is too intimate, and we ‘are not dating,’ so sex is the only thing we do. Sex, and if you still have leftover antsy energy, you pull on his shirt and sit up against the headboard to finish a crossword puzzle. Sometimes he helps you, but most of the time he’s just there to press lazy kisses to your hair and temple, cheekbone and jaw—never your lips.

“You don’t kiss?” Pierre’s genuinely shocked. “Putain, you’re a hero. How does that even work?”

“We just do not kiss. We fuck, but no kissing.” He shrugs. “It’s always been that way.”

“So how about her birthday?”

“She doesn’t…” Charlex exhales tightly. “Remember.”

“Charles,” you suddenly say, head appearing into the doorway. “Oh, hey. Fred said you might be here. What are you guys talking about?”

“Sprint racing,” Pierre says, an easy lie.

Charles, though, is never good at the lying bit. “International tariffs.”

—

Your only memories of your seventeenth birthday are applying lip gloss and mascara, wearing your shortest skirt and tightest top, and reciting your supposed date of birth in line like a mantra. Anything after that’s been sprayed off by the ultra-clutch strength of vodka. Which, you’ve been told, was your drink of choice.

“Headache’s better,” you moan over the phone, face squashed onto your pillow. “Mum gave me an Advil but I was so sick all morning.”

“Did you snog anyone?” Charles is always teasing.

“God, I wish.” You shut your eyes and try to remember if your drunken stupor had somehow managed to get you successful in lip-locked matters. Nothing comes up and you wipe a dry hand over your face, heaving a sigh. “I really wanted to kiss Matthew but I think he left before you and I did.”

A pause. Then Charles clears his throat. “You mean you and me and the police car that escorted us home?” He snorts.

“You’re such a prick!” You scream into your pillow, laughing. “I already thanked you for being my literal savior last night.”

He smiles to himself. “You’re welcome.”

“Did you have fun?” You flop onto your back and stare at the stick-on stars on your ceiling. You make a mental note to try and remove them.

“Bit boring because I vowed not to drink at all, but I got to dance. Bitter with the sweet, right?”

—

“Nervous?”

“I mean, fuck, yeah.” You fix the hem of your dress, speaking to Giada through the phone. “Pascale’s waiting for us on the paddock. And so are, like, a hundred photographers.” You wince. “Can you even imagine Charles and me? It’s just—I dunno—it’s weird.”

“It isn’t,” she says, laughing. “Not really. It makes sense. Plus, aren’t you on the whole arrangement?” You envision her air quotes.

“Yeah, but”—you slip your sandals on—“it’s on and off, and that’s not dating. It’s sex. Two different things.”

“Is it really, though? Considering how close you are outside of bed, aren’t y—”

“Okay, input no longer needed,” you laugh. “Bye, Gi. I’ll text you later.”

You reunite with Charles just by the paddock entrance. The throng of fans holding cutouts and posters notice you two before anyone else does, inciting a collective bout of yells around the both of you. He notices your blue silk dress first, eyes unmoving. “You look like the sky.”

“Thanks, man.” A beat, and you squint through your sunglasses. “That’s a compliment, right?”

“Sure.”

“Prick.” You peek over them and to the fans, who wave more aggressively when they notice you’re looking. Nervously, you raise a hand and wave back, and the noise heightens. “I think I’m going to be replacing you.”

“Dream on. On y va?”

You turn back to him, smiling, and you both enter at the same time. His hand wraps around your waist, dips a bit lower to rest at the small of your back as you walk—the fans clearly dig it, because everyone’s yelling in a frenzy as you depart. What are you doing, you ask through your smiling teeth.

“Did you forget we’re supposed to be dating?” He maintains an equally pleasant (totally duplicitous) façade, smiling. 

“I didn’t think,” you say, still smiling falsely, “that you’d put your hands on me five minutes into the whole agreement.”

“Smile, honey,” he teases. “I see at least five cameras at us right now.”

“It’s seven,” you beam. “Dumbass.”

“Again with the competitive streak.” memory

“I totally deserved to win last week’s game. You’re just a sore loser.”

“No you’re just a—hi, hi, hello!”

Your walk to the motorhome is interrupted by running into a friend of Charles’—someone from McLaren, one of the executives there. While Lando has been informed of your stunt, nobody else on that team has. 

They handshake and he waves at you politely. “Whole paddock’s buzzing with news of you dating,” he says, smiling. “It’s a tad crazy! I remember seeing you as Charles’ plus one back when he was in Formula Two. And now you two are dating. How did—well, if you don’t mind me asking, where’d it all happen?”

“Oh,” you say, laughing. “Yeah, Monaco.”

“Texas,” Charles says at the same time.

Alarm bells go off in your head at the totally random, unwarranted statement out of Charles’ mouth. Texas? Neither of you have even ever been at the same time. “He means”—you say, coughing and nodding—“we went on this, um. Wild West themed, um, restaurant in Monaco, and that’s where he asked me out.” You make a face that you hope conveys you get it, and it seems to work.

“Definitely not what I had in mind, but if it worked, it worked, eh?” He grins. “I guess I always knew you two would end up together. Alright, ciao!”

You’re smiling and waving after him as he leaves, and then you’re (semi) alone again, or at least within your own space on the incredibly crowded paddock. 

You turn to him, unable to hide your confusion. “Um? Texas?! What’s up with the backstories?”

“It slipped out! Sorry. But nice save.”

“You’re so f—” You try to scold him, but can’t, bursting into laughter and leaning forward to laugh into his chest. “Texas, really?”

“Sorry,” he says. You feel the vibration of his own laugh through his chest and it’s warm and nice. You peel yourself off lest you look too clingy, and resume your walk to the motorhome.

Ferrari is crowded, filled with people and strategists and guests. You’re given a bottle of water and then hounded with questions from the team who haven’t been informed of the situation at hand. David, one of the engineers close to Charles who you’d previously spoken to in one of the earlier races, asks to borrow him.

“Ciao, ciao.” They speak in one of the outdoor patio areas. “Is everything okay?”

“The car is fine. I just wanted to ask about the girl.” David punches his arm, playful. “You finally got her!”

“Oh.”

“It’s just… I remember all the times she would show up and you’d tell me about how much you liked her… I don’t know, it’s perfect for things to end up like this, no? Bravo!”

“Oh, si. I’ve just been, you know…” He looks through the glass sliding door and into the hospitality, where you’re talking to Isa and Carlos, sunglasses over your hair. Your hands are moving quickly, and you’re smiling while talking. He wonders what you’re so passionate about. When you’re caught in fits of happiness and passion, you’re extra animated. Your eyes are lively, and your lips can’t stop curling into a slight beaming smile. Now, maybe it’s France, maybe it’s crossword puzzles, slim chance it’s your job—whatever it is, he could watch you talk like this for hours. He thinks it’s beautiful, the way you transform, the way you smile, when you talk of things you absolutely love. 

“… crazy about her forever.”

—

There are banners, Italian flags, and Charles’ face on every other wall. He’s done his first hat-trick of the season (of several more, you’re hoping). You’ve foregone the usual clubbing for dinner with a smaller group of people, but only because you’ve been told the nightlife is bleak and you’d rather save that energy for the next race.

Lando picked out the restaurant—he’s “on a massive Yelp high” trying to get the best restaurants in every city they get to. He’s tried two over the weekend, and is hoping this guns for first place. The restaurant’s name is long and so very Italian, to the point where your semi-fluency fails you. The food is amazing, though, and so is the wine—a whole other level of grape-flavored bliss.

You’re in-between Joris and Charles, nursing your fourth glass while Charles downs a bottle of beer. Light conversation flows through the table, but your sleepiness only allows you to hear some of it. You’re content with the white noise.

Lando is getting a new cat, Lewis bought a new pair of shoes—oh, no, shares in the company that makes the shoes—Joris bought the shoes, Lorenzo will now buy the shoes, why isn’t anyone paying attention to Lando’s cat. It’s funny, entertaining, and the perfect nightcap to your immensely exhausting day of acting.

Wine tipsy makes you loopy and snoozy. By default, your head lolls onto Charles’ body; he immediately wraps a sweater-clad arm around your frame, leans back, pulls you closer. Doesn’t miss a beat. In fact, while doing so, he’s even able to get a dig in against Lando’s affinity for cats.

“No more wine, m’kay?” He whispers quietly, angling his head to yours. 

“Oh, but it was so good, though.” You mope, but nod in agreement. “I could seriously drink wine out of a keg here.”

“Sure did that a lot with beer.” You laugh, punching his bicep with what little space you’re given. “You sleepy?”

“Yeah. But I’m fine,” you respond, smiling. “Now shut up. I need to know what happened to Lando’s cat.”

Lewis leaves first, claiming he’s into this whole “sleeping at 9PM” thing, and Lorenzo follows to get ahead of an early flight tomorrow. It’s you, Joris, Charles, and Lando now, and you’re good as dead, eyes half-shut and fluttering, head slipping off his shoulder.

How was it? Lando asks, lowering his volume to keep from being too jarring. Day 1, fake dating? I actually read something like this in one of those, um, fanfiction stuff the fans do. Joris and Charles cast him a half-weirded out, half-amused pair of looks, but Lando defends himself. They’re actually pretty good, guys. I read one where I ended up with my rival or summat.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, Lando,” you croak, voice raspy with sleepiness and a day of bubbling laughter, “but Charles and I probably didn’t do your fanfiction kink justice.”

“Ignoring the emasculation.” He says, turning beet red. “What’d you do, then? Wasn’t it hard?”

“It was hard, but it’s like that.” Charles likes to substitute the phrase it is what it is to it’s like that, a result likely stemming from his trilingual childhood. “We just. Pretended. Oi, we held hands in front of the cameras.”

“Yeah, you can get a good wank in if that does it for you,” you joke. Lando hurls a cube of parmigiano at your face; it lands squarely and you flip him off, the table erupting with peals of laughter.

“In all seriousness, though—how are you two okay with this? I know I’d be second guessing my feelings every second.”

You shift, trying to hide your obvious lack of answer. It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then Charles says, “We’re both comfortable with each other, I think.”

“Yeah, comfortable enough that we can, you know, be honest.” You’re looking at Lando when you say that. You don’t know how well you could repeat the sentence if you were looking straight into Charles’ eyes.

You leave the restaurant with a generous tip, and Charles helps you pull your coat on when you’re out the door, back into the chilly night air. It’s then that all four of you catch news via text, of a club invite somewhere in the city.

“It’ll be fun, guys.” Joris and Lando stand in front of you and Charles, bumbling with excitement. “I heard Lil Tjay is going to be there.”

“It sounds very fun,” you say, smiling, “but I might pass out if I drink anything other than water, and I have zero energy. You three go ahead.”

“Wh—no, I’m not going, either.” You raise an eyebrow at Charles. “Serious! I wasn’t in the mood much, anyway. Joris, take Lando’s car and we’ll take mine.”

“Alright,” Lando whistles. “Suit yourselves, agoraphobes.”

“Joke’s on you”—Charles smiles, smug—“I don’t know what that means.”

“Not the dig you think it is, Charles,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Night, Joris, Lando. See you guys tomorrow. Use protection!”

“Should be saying that to you guys,” quips Joris with an evil grin that he closes the car door on.

The climb into the car feels like a chore in itself with how tipsy and sleepy you’ve become. Charles likes to bring his Ferrari to race weekends, but you convinced him to use a different car for this one, because you honest-to-God can’t stand the low seats anymore. 

“You want dessert?” He asks when he’s rounded the car and settled into his seat. “Gelato, a cone, biscotti…”

“No, no,” you say, voice thin. A palm covers your shutting eyes; blindly, you reach for his hand. It’s easy because he sees you searching and takes your hand to cut it short. “I’m good. So sleepy. Can I sleep at your hotel room?”

“Sure.” He starts the car, waves to the wait staff idle by the entrance, and drives off. “How was the day as my fake girlfriend? Anyone ask about me?” He wiggles his eyebrows, flickering his gaze to your figure beside him. “Wasn’t too tough, I hope.”

Imola whizzes by, trees and city, and a poorly stifled yawn escapes your lips, wine stained. You laugh sleepily. “It was a bit awkward, but bitter with the sweet, right?” He smiles, nodding, and you continue. “Yeah, few strategists, some people who knew you from Prema. I was talking to Isa and Carlos, too, earlier. Even if they know it’s fake.”

He recalls seeing you talk to them through the glass. “About?”

“You.”

—

The sun is merciless on the clay courts, and so are your shoes, shuddering against the surface in your continuing attempt to beat the opposing team. Charles cowers behind you—he’s scored less than half of your points thus far—but you’re on a mission, like your competitive self always is when you’re put in a position to be able to win.

You’re two points down now, and the noontime is becoming increasingly itchy and unforgiving; across you both, Giada and Joris call a mutual time out. “That’s not allowed!” You say, petulant.

“This is a practice session,” Charles says gently, nearing you. “Mate, none of us are actual players.”

You wipe sweat off your forehead. “Right. Désolée. I’m just—I’m in the zone.”

“Ouais, I get it. Relax, m’kay? We got this.”

You shake yourself off and hop a few times, skirt bobbing by your waist as you go. Your braid bounces on your shoulder and you nod, turning your racquet over in your grip. 

Charles pings the ball hard and it soars over to land just shy of the line, seemingly scoring a point for you two and securing your win. Giada and Joris chime in with protests, claiming that the ball’s out. You throw your hands up in question.

“Okay, what? That was clearly a point!”

“Snoops, I think they might be right. The ball looked out to me,” Charles says, wrapping a sweaty arm around your red shoulders.

“What are you talking about, Charlie? That ball was in! I saw it!” You elbow yourself out of his grip, aghast.

“How about…” He suggests quietly. “We let them win? You did win the last”—he pauses to count—“five sets. Come on, Snoops. They need this. Bitter with the—”

You take a deep breath, staring into his eyes. “Fucking sweet, right, okay. Fine, fine.” 

Charles thinks he’s in the clear and he’s managed to extinguish your flames of frustration—that is, until you walk into the Leclerc household for lunch an hour later and, after greeting Pascale and Hervé, you point squarely to the jar on the kitchen counter. “Five euros.”

He splutters. “Five? Wh—non, non! I was trying to calm you down.”

“You were blind and gave Giada and Joris a fake win,” you say playfully.

“Saluuut,” Lorenzo greets, sitting at the stool beside yours. “Quoi de neuf?”

“Charles has five euros for the jar.” The jar, the infamous jar, sometimes dubbed the Dumbass Jar when Pascale’s out of earshot. It was Lorenzo who first made it up after three straight instances of Charles pulling a push door (three different establishments).

Arthur’s joined in at this point, but its biggest indirect donors are definitely Lorenzo and Hervé, who view it as just about the funniest thing in the world. Out of pity, you don’t call dumbass too often, but the tennis loss is bruising enough that you warrant the usage.

“You heard Snoopy. Five euros. We’ll be able to get milkshakes with this money after next week.” You high five. “At this rate, Charles, you could open a restaurant in Paris.”

“He’s going to race,” you correct. You both watch a begrudged Charles junk a bill into the nearly-full jar. “What race driver is going to open a restaurant?”

—

You meet Yuki Tsunoda on a flight to Nice. You’ve seen him several times before, not too frequently but enough that his name and face are familiar on your mind. Also a personality trait that Pierre would bring up in fond conversations with you and/or Charles: he loves food, apparently.

“Yuki’s volunteering AlphaTauri to be your hideout,” Pierre tells you and Charles, across him. 

Turns out, the hardest part (insofar) of this whole schtick: the officially appointed paddock photographers are being extra sneaky with it, finding the best vantage points to snap pictures of an unwitting you and Charles.

They’re like hawks, watching for even the slightest glimpse so they can post the photos on Instagram and get clicks.

So, just a few hours earlier, Charles asked if there was a place you and him could talk if needed where photographers wouldn’t be awaiting you already, and this was the answer.

“If it’s too much trouble, feel no need to… you know.”

“Nonsense.” Pierre smiles goofily and Yuki pokes him to stop, pausing his session of eating a quesadilla (where he’d even acquired it, you’re clueless). “Yukino would be happy to.” 

The flight lands and the drive to Monaco is infected with notoriously slow traffic; you pop an Advil to try and alleviate the motion sickness. Pierre and Yuki, it seems, have joined you even outside of the flight. They’re in the backseat offering bits of conversation.

“Oh, mate, we should totally play tennis while we’re here.” Pierre sighs. “Didn’t you guys play before?”

“Mmm, yeah,” you mumble with a lilt of amusement at the memories from basically a decade ago. “At the country club. Doubles always, otherwise I’d knock Charles out of the park.”

“Hey, I won a couple times!” He protests weakly. “Like… twice.”

You laugh out loud. “Anyway, Pierre, do not bring me into tennis. I get all competitive and develop anger issues.”

“I had to calm her down twice a set,” Charles says; you swat him lightly to silence him. “Still do.”

“You know, if the Dumbass Jar still existed,” you say cuttingly, “I swear I’d be able to buy off Ferrari with that money.”

—

Monaco is swelterinly hot today. You know this because you know the weather here, you know the curves and ups and downs of it—this is your home. And today is hot. Every few minutes a breeze filters through the air and you can hear journalists or PAs sigh a collective breath of relief before they’re all subjected to the inane, high-degree weather again.

It’s also, according to Arthur, a good day to kiss in front of the cameras. He says it easily over a plate of sliced kiwi, with a devious smile, because he assumes your friends-with-benefits arrangement equates to constant kissing. But the truth is you’ve never kissed Charles, and it intimidates you.

“Do we have to kiss?” You play with his bracelets, sitting beside him on the sofa. The talk of kissing entertains the thought of sex and you can’t help but mentally complain at the remembrance that you haven’t gotten laid in weeks.

“If you don’t want to—”

“I do.” You splutter, eyes going wide, face warm. “No! I mean I don’t mind. If it sells the thing.”

“D’accord, then we will.” He smiles. “That okay?”

“Sure. First kiss,” you say. Your voice feels as clammy as your hands.

“First.” He looks away.

You take your woes off the kiss by playing a friendly round of tennis with your favourite opponents, Giada and Joris. They bemoan your competitive nature (that, to be fair, allots you and Charles three straight wins), and Giada incites a protest for a girls versus boys round.

You both embarrass Charles and Joris, heckling them as you win another two straight games. Charles runs over to you when you throw up the L sign on your hand, lifting you up and making you squeal.

“Put me down, loser!”

Giada and Joris exchange a look. Amused, knowing. “Charles! You’re such a cunt.” You kick hard, and manage to snag his abdomen, so he gently places you onto the clay again. He laughs and paces back over to his side, and you play with the tail of your braid as you watch.

You play set after set, but the kiss comes anyway. When you know photographers can see you—by the entrance—and it happens faster than your mind can muster. He’s leaning in, you’re reaching up, and your mouths slot together. It’s—and it feels crazy to say it, but—

It’s perfect. It’s lovely. You smile against his lips like they belong there and like they’re familiar and yours and like maybe this is all you’ve ever wanted, and like they deserve the smile, because they do. You feel your need to pull away before you can’t help but keep him tethered to you always. It’s strange and it’s not platonic—you’re mature enough to admit that, but not enough to label exactly what it is.

You spend the day with your fingers pressed to your lips, like you’re sealing the memory. Hours later, Charles wins. There’s massive uproar and you’re in the crowd when it happens, in the sea of strategists going to congratulate him on winning Monaco, which—that’s—it’s winning Monaco. Your ears ring by the end of it and your throat’s dry from your own cheering. Carlos comes in second, and the outlook for their team is going much better than it’d been at the start of the year, so there’s a lot to celebrate.

And celebrate you do. It starts with being pinned up against the door, hungry kisses along your jaw and neck. One kiss, it seems, has broken the dam from the few years you’ve spent abstaining from the kissing. He’s just finished interviews. He’s only just changed into his polo, and now he’s tugging it off again, feverish.

This is rushed and dirty, down low and dark. Only one light’s been switched on and he’s hiking your dress up, panties down with one hand to tug his cock out with the other. He’s kissing you—kissing you stupid, almost. Like he’s waited forever to taste your lips and now he’ll starve if he’s away for just a moment. He needs you. So have me, you want to say, all of me, push me up against the wall again and cover my mouth with your palm. Or don’t, don’t—so everyone knows I’m yours.

He presses your chest against the wall so your back’s turned to him, thrusts in with a breathless, throaty grunt. 

“S’ big,” you’re saying, clawing at words the pleasure bars you from finding.

“Barely even in,” he whispers. “Slow down, baby, come on, take it.”

Your toes curl. You’re high on the win, on the kissing, on Charles, on the slow delicious stretch of his cock. “I’m taking it, I’m taking it,” you say, shaky. He thrusts, slow and deep and dirty, until he’s bottomed out and you’re tiptoeing from the overwhelm.

“I feel you,” you’re whimpering, moans and gasps leaving your mouth. You blindly search for his hand, find it against your hip, drag it to your abdomen, under your dress that he hasn’t even fully removed. “I feel you there,” you say, an edge of teasing to your voice.

His cock’s bulging, almost, out of your stomach, and it’s getting you both all lightheaded. He thrusts harder, a devious smile felt against your neck.

I need it, Charles, you plead, please, please fuck me harder. You feel it coming, the familiar pleasure intensifying so quickly—you don’t usually cum so early, he’s always making you wait for it—pussy squeezing around him.

Jesus, already? He’s groaning but a laugh escapes, breathy and amused and taunting. He’s fucking you harder, faster. It’s so good, each hit getting you closer. Taking me so well, you’re bruised all over now, baby. You hate how well he knows what turns you on; memories of mornings post-sex spent inspecting the purple marks on your hips flash through your head and you’re even closer now, shaking, whimpering, begging.

You’re half-sure someone can hear, but it doesn’t even phase you. Harder, deeper— and you’re collapsing, legs spasming uncontrollably, orgasm so intense it’s on the brink of totally hurting. Tears roll down your sweaty face and he kisses them away, cumming onto your back to wipe off in a few minutes.

“I never even”—you pant, tired—“got to say congratulations.”

“That was more than enough.”

—

Charles is elated when you tell him his family has thrown a party for him the day next. He’s boyish in that way, optimistic and kiddy, the kind of person who’s up at five-thirty to announce their own birthday. 

He drives you both to his childhood home, a route so familiar he could drive with his eyes closed. (“I hope you’re not driving closed-eyed,” you’d warned.)

Even if he could, anyway, he’d rather not. The scenery of Monaco is stunning, ever-changing, and he never tires of it—the buildings, the skies, the trees and shrubbery, stores lining the streets, clean entrances. 

And you—in the passenger seat, humming softly to a song of his choosing. Drives are always better when you’re in the passenger seat.

The turnout is generous: extended family, and several friends from school. There’s bowls of fruit, salad, plates of salmon and racks of lamb, knobs of butter with warm bread. Pascale commands the kitchen—visible in how she leaves it cluttered with bowls, ingredients, whisks still dripping with syrup or batter, spoons licked for tasting. The good kind of clutter.

Lorenzo has also taken reign of the AUX, because it’s 70’s music playing, which is what he’s fond of for family gatherings like these. It’s My Cherie Amour now, Stevie Wonder mellowing across the lawn and into the house.

Charles knows you love the kitchen as much as his mum does, so when you get to the house, he’s not surprised to see you leave him in favor of checking out what damage has been done to your favorite marble countertops. He watches Pascale turn from the gas range, her eyes lit when she sees you, inviting you into an embrace. 

You look like the song playing, pretty and lovely, breeze in the summer. He almost loses himself in thought before his great-aunt Eden places two bony hands on his arms and greets him in feeble Italian.

He flits his eyes away from you, if just briefly, and faces the woman with a smile on his face. “Ciao, zia,” he says, voice buoyant, happy. “You came here to see me, no?”

All five-foot-one of her shakes in disagreement. She wags a finger for extra measure. “No,” she says. “Sono venuto a vedere la tua ragazza.”

His eyes widen. “She’s—” He pauses. He debates telling Eden you’re not actually his girlfriend, that this was a setup to appease Pascale and, by extension, tifosi. But he backtracks.

He shouldn’t, but he gives in, lives out his dreams for a bit. “Ah, she’s over there, zia. Con mamma.” He points to the open door, and to you on the far end of the room inside, holding a spoon. “Beautiful, yes?”

“Molto,” she says proudly. “You marry her?”

Fact: his great-aunt has the worst memory. She forgot Charles’ name twenty times, let alone niche facts like this one. Another fact: she rarely shows up to family events. Maybe now, because it’s a racing thing; but baby showers and funerals, she’s at home. So he indulges a bit more.

“Si, we’re engaged. But—it’s a secret, zia.” He grins. “Non dire a nessuno. Okay?”

“Sei fidanzato?!” She claps once, excited. “Ay, Charles. I waited my whole life for this moment, si?” And she’s wobbling away, still muttering under her breath.

—

“How is my son?” Pascale’s voice is teasing. She sighs happily. “For years I wondered if this would happen. And it really is.”

“Oui, sure is,” you sing-song, laughing a bit awkwardly. “We’re—he’s okay. We’re great. In love.”

“Oh, in love,” she swoons. She leaves you, after fifteen more minutes of detailed discussion, with half a spoonful of vinaigrette to taste-test, departing to check on the guests for a few minutes. In her place arrives Lorenzo, already bearing a shit-eating grin. “Saluuut.”

“Mmm, good to see you, too.” You taste the liquid and add lemon to the bowl. “How’s wedding planning?”

“Think we’ll throw a shower. Is that pretentious?”

“No,” you say, mulling over it. “Sure, a bit. But just don’t make it a whole thing, you’re golden.”

“I see.” He sighs fondly. “You know, many a conversation we’ve had right here at this counter. About anything.”

—

You loosen your school tie, slicing an apple like you so often do, waiting for Charles’ karting practice to end. Pascale had fixed you a bowl of something, Hervé a glass of orange juice. And somebody else would always, without fail, steal your food. A hand swipes two slices form your chopping board and your head whips up.

“Lorenzo!” You stomp your foot. “Stop stealing! That is my apple.”

“You mean the Leclercs’ apple.” He laughs, pops another slice into his mouth, smiling. 

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. The braid beside your head shakes with it as you continue slicing it into perfect quarters. He pipes up again: “How was school?”

“Shit, as usual.” You lower your voice and smile, leaning in. “Pascale scolded me earlier, for saying that word.”

“Did Papa?”

“Obviously not. He fist bumped me.” You share a laugh, both chewing on apple slices now. “Anyway, I aced a math test, had aubergine for lunch… got driven here by Charlotte’s mum.”

“Charlotte?” Lorenzo hums conspiratorially, making a mmmm sound. You look up from the yellow chopping board, furrowing your eyebrows. He persists: “Mmm. Cha-r-lotte.”

“What’s up with Charlotte?” Bit impolitely, you ask, in-between chews.

“I think she likes Charles, a little.” You nod slowly, trying to follow. Charlotte liking Charles. Your Charles. Wait, no. Not your—or nobody’s, really. Just Charles. Yeah.

“What? Bull!” You narrow your eyes. “Says who?”

“Why do you care?”

“Wh—I don’t!” You squeak, caught. “Just… I think I’d know, Lorenzo.” You make a tch noise, crossing your sweater-clad arms. “So—says who?”

“I saw her leering at him during his birthday party.” 

“You’re wrong,” you say, but you don’t really know who you’re convincing. He reaches over for an apple slice, and you move the chopping board out of the way sharply.

“Mon dieu, you’re snappy. Fine, fine. I might be wrong,” he relents, shrugging. He gets up and slides beside you to be able to acquire more slices. “I talked to her during the party, too.”

“Weirdo,” you tease, allowing him to take a few more. “About Charles, yes?

“No, about her brand new dress.”

“You’re the funniest Leclerc brother, I assure you.”

“She told me…” He says, louder this time, shushing you effectively. “She told me she ‘finds Charles cute.’” Air quotes, shrug. “But that they ‘probably won’t’ date.”

“Huh. Did, um. Did she say why?” You play with the tail of your braid, shuffling back and forth on your flats. You don’t know why you’re so fidgety—you aren’t nervous, you don’t think.

“Because…” he says, chewing to allow for a pause. “She said every time she looks for Charles to try and ask for time alone, or on a date, or something, he’s already following you around like some puppy.”

—

You comb your hair into a bun and venture into the patio, having avoided a good chunk of the noon heat. You greet some relatives politely along the way, and receive a hand squeeze from great-aunt Eden. At one of the tables is Charles, beside Joris and another friend, and Giada and Charlotte across them, an empty seat beside the latter.

You seat yourself in it and Giada kisses your cheek. “Hey. Ça va?”

“Fine,” you say, smiling. Then you lower your voice to a whisper. “Do you remember when I told you about my crush on Charlie? For the first time?”

“Yeah,” she whispers back. “Around… 2013.”

“Ouais. And… and it disappeared after that,” you say. “Right?”

“You said it did,” she says. “A year later. When we were sixteen.”

“Right.” You think. Seventeen onwards—you’d never formed a full-fledged crush on Charles. “Okay. It’s nothing. Just a memory. I was just. Yeah, oui.”

“Oui, let’s eat.” The memory fades and so does your running mind. Charles’ eyes meet yours across the table, and suddenly you feel a little less like your thoughts have ripped you open.

—

When you and Charles were younger, you adopted the adage “bitter with the sweet.” Charles will have people believe it was made by the both of you, with philosophical minds stretched so far beyond their years. Well, revisionist history. The truth lay in the Carole King song of the same name you’d heard on the stereo.

Those are the exact words Charles tells Ted when he’s interviewing for the Spain Grand Prix. It’s a hot day and you’re especially doubled down on by the fact that he’s finished ninth. 

You’d been fake-dating for the cameras all weekend. At all costs, you try and avoid interviews, but the damned Drive to Survive producers insist on a soundbite and start following the two of you around everywhere (only to find your conversations sound very weird and niche, and not scandalous or sexy).

Pascale also called—Charles first, and when he didn’t check his phone, you. You spent an hour on the phone just talking about the race. About the penalties and the nasty headlines that followed, and just everything.

“I’m glad you’re there,” she says. “God knows he needs you.”

You end up biking to try and relieve the stress, posing with fans for pictures.

“I’m such a big fan. I stalk Charles’ Insta like, all the time, and it’s crazy how you guys are dating.” A teenaged girl laughs nervously. “Where’d it happen?”

“Texas!” He, again, tries out the bit to appease the fans but you have to extinguish the flames of his blatant lies.

“He’s kidding,” you interject. “It’s just—it just happened, really.”

How does something just happen? Someone told you once, in a Paris bar, that love is like an echo. It’s always there, in the underbelly, underneath it all, and then one day it echoes, like a bass drum or a cymbal. And the echo—the echo is you feeling it. You feel the echo, the all-encompassing echo, even if the love itself’s been there all along.

With Charles, it’s out of the question. You love him. He’s your best friend. You trusted him before you even learned what trust meant, for Chrissake.

How could you not love him? That seemed impossible. The love was there. The love’s always been there and it’ll never go away.

It echoes at half-past-two in Barcelona, when he whips past you on his bike and says on your left. The breeze pulls your hair to the left, covers your face, and when you rake it away he’s stopped to check if he accidentally bumped you in his rush to look cool.

You’re creepily observant; you’ve been told this many times before. What people don’t know is with the observance comes even more questions. Ifs, whys, wheres, whens, hows, God the hows. The questions keep coming because there’s never an answer.

“Are you okay?” He asks. Green eyes glittering like a lake. Smile like the sun. Hair curly at the ends. “Did I hurt you?”

Then you realize. In the matters of love, every question—every single question. Every single one. The answer is Charles.

“Of course not,” you say. And you smile.

—

You almost drop your book in your rush to scurry past the paparazzi. They’re still busy on the two figures (Alex and Lily, you think) on another end of the paddock, which allows you only a few moments to try and evade them.

Others are stationed near the Ferrari hospitality, which means you’re going to need your hideout. Yuki had texted Pierre who had texted Charles who had told you that it was all clear to go there for a few minutes while waiting for the photographers to clear out.

Hurry, Charles is saying. Laughing. His hand’s gentle in yours. You want them there forever. You want to drag the tip of your nail over the barely-perceptible grooves of his fingerprints so he knows how much you need him.

The days post-Spain were spent biking, watching shows, listening to music, eating food. The travel to Canada—long, cold, compression socks. Pascale had called mid-flight to check on her “favorite pair”—you maneuvered yourselves into a much more cuddly position to appease her, and her giddy smile was incentive enough to stay that way for ninety minutes.

You’d been in a weird mental state trying to grapple with your rapidly returning and intensifying feelings for him, which have dawned on you all at once.

But he makes it better. You’re still laughing when you wedge yourselves in, eyes meeting.

And then you’re quiet.

The gaze you share is intense, but almost unsure, like you’re supposed to be looking away anytime now. You step backward shakily, and his hand moves from your waist to the small of your back to keep you from stumbling any further. You’re closer now. But this shouldn’t feel as strange as it does when you two have been in much more scandalous positions before—what’s different?

He’s so close, so so close, his green eyes looking right through you. You lean closer, ready to kiss him like you have before, ready to feel his mouth slot softly over yours, comforting and safe and Charles.

Funnily enough, it’s then that the illusion breaks, his grip loosening and the distance between you increasing. He coughs twice, awkwardly.

“Shit—sorry,” you say profusely, clearly having read the moment wrong. Embarrassment wells up in your system, warming your face. You laugh to diffuse the tension but it barely does anything.

“No, don’t—” He exhales, squeezes the bridge of his nose, trying to find words. “It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you. I do.”

“So kiss me,” you suggest simply, looking around for anything that might stop him. The embarrassment ebbs away, replaced quickly by confusion. 

“I don’t want to kiss you in an AlphaTauri stock room,” he mopes, burying his head in his hands in clear frustration. “An AlphaTauri stock room.” He repeats it in a hushed whisper, disbelief etched all over his pretty face.

“Charles,” you begin, smiling already, the quaint way that makes his knees go weak every time. “You’re acting like you and I haven’t kissed before.” 

“This is different.” He says firmly, looking away lest he lean in involuntarily. He interjects with conviction, not realizing what he’s implying until the implication’s hanging in the air. The longing kills him softly, and he feels if he looks at you a second longer he’ll kiss you anyway.

It’s a wonderfully confusing feeling. You open your mouth to respond but you can’t; your brain tacks itself onto his sentence, the division created between the kisses before now and the kiss that might happen anytime soon.

“H…” you trail off, throat drying. Blinking, you try again, “How different?”

He looks up, eyes conveying all the things his lips never will. This is different. You know it. I love you this time.

The answer is exchanged and accepted wordlessly. You slip out of the room when Pierre tells you it’s okay to, and it’s only then—only then—that Charles’ hand leaves your body. You seem to burn alive with its absence.

It’s a Ferrari 1-2. You snap a thousand pictures with Isa and Carlos holding Carlos’ trophy while Charles is doing interviews, and they invite you to join them for the break. You’re open to it—the win, the good standings, they definitely warrant a celebration for the few weeks’ break. So your original itinerary is Portugal—beaches, coasts, food—but the jet re-charts a route and the flight is cut much shorter because you’re in New York City.

—

Somewhere in Manhattan, a wedding shower is thrown on an outdoor rooftop. “This is one hell of a wedding shower,” you squeal excitedly when you spot him, bringing Lorenzo in for a hug. Your yellow dress flows in the wind. “I thought you guys were going to throw it in Monaco?”

“Yeah, well… why not here, right? It’s beautiful.” He gestures to the skyline, smiling. “Plus, Charles, Arthur, and Mum were already near the country for work, so we got ahead of it. Everyone was happy to fly out.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I love it.” You beam. “I can’t believe it, either. When’s the final date?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but the wind is knocked out of him by Charles barreling into his arms for a hug. You roll your eyes at the latter’s childish behavior, smiling despite yourself. They part and Charles finds his place beside you, arm snaking around your shoulders. “What a wedding shower!”

“Don’t flatter me, dipshit,” Lorenzo jokes.

“It’s a lovely one.” Lorenzo thanks him. “An amazing shower. You know, it’s a total golden shower!”

You purse your lips. “Charles—”

“A golden shower, mate. Absolutely.”

That garners at least three odd looks and you calmly place a hand on his chest to whisper don’t ever fucking say that again it means something completely different please don’t embarrass me or your brother. 

For all your embarrassment, you make up for it in having the literal time of your life. The food is good, the city view is amazing, the weather is fair and the music—Desafinado now—is amazing. “I could see myself here,” you say offhandedly to Charles, who nods back with a faint smile. He’s half-distracted.

“You look beautiful, by the way,” he says, squinting from the sun in his eyes. “Very.”

You part ways at some point—Pascale whisks him off, no doubt for another long round of questioning about your relationship, and you meander around with a glass of champagne.

You’re halfway through swiping a mini quiche when a hand wraps around your wrist and squeezes to get your attention—Charles’ great-aunt Eden. She speaks only intermittent English, and your Italian fails to carry you through well enough, but you smile and greet her. “Ciao, Eden!”

“Ciao, bella.” She smiles. “Flight was long.”

“Oh, yeah. New York’s far. I might work here someday. I’ll hear results in around two weeks, but I’m hoping for London instead.” You slow your speech.

“When will you two wed?”

“Wed?” Your face warms and you stutter through a giggly mess of a sentence. “Oh, Eden—zia—no, no! We’re just friends.”

“My Charles told me you two are to be married.” You both crane your heads to the right, where Charles is leaning against the terrace railing talking to one of your friends, Matthew, animatedly. He meets your eyes, sees Eden beside you, and seems to connect the dots.

Jokingly, perhaps, he raises his hand and wiggles his empty ring finger. You can’t help but smile as you turn back to the old woman. “Oh, did he, zia?”

“Si, he did.”

“Well, we’re just going to let it happen, then. You’re invited. Front row.” You kiss her cheek and she smiles, wobbling off to drink more wine before any of the adults can stop her.

It’s announced then that the dance floor is open, and many of Pascale’s friends filter through to show off their moves to the 70’s music. You watch, amused, at the display of dexterity to Frankie Valli and Aretha Franklin. You cheer them on, content to watch them against the backdrop of the New York sunset.

When Ain’t No Mountain High Enough plays, the dance floor grows, because nobody can resist the song—not even Charles, apparently, who takes your hand without preamble and takes you, squealing, to the centre.

You sing each of the parts, like you always do when the song comes on. It’s semi-tradition at this point: you take Marvin Gaye’s, Charles takes Tammi Terrell’s. You both exaggerate your dance moves and pretend you’re performing.

His hand’s in yours, winding you around and pulling you close. At some point he starts robot dancing to entertain you. It works—you laugh out loud, your eyes half-shut and faced to the stars above. He could write a poem about this. Or a song.

The song ends and you lean onto his shoulder to take a breather—then the photographer swoops in and takes a picture. “That’s going into the RSVPs!” He says, accent unmistakably American.

“Does he know we’re not the couple here?” You ask.

Do we know we’re not the couple? Charles asks himself.

The night escalates as the “oldies” leave, and Matthew, Joris, and Giada join you both for one last round of drinks again. You’re all standing at the exit making conversation; Lorenzo attends to his friends at the other end of the terrace.

“I feel young again,” Matthew says, liberated by Tito’s vodka. He takes another swig and pulls his coat on.

“You’re twenty-five, calm down,” you joke. “Dodged that bullet.” You’re poking fun at the semi-massive crush you had on Matthew in secondary school, and a laugh passes through the four of you. “Anyway, you three be careful. No driving.”

“Jesus, but really—I haven’t been this drunk since you”—he points at you, laughing—“turned seventeen at that club, Amber? No?”

“Oh, God. Y’know, same.” You fail to notice Charles and Giada share a look. “I remember nothing from that night! Or, like, the first two hours at least.”

“I remember drinking my body weight because of heartbreak,” he jeers. 

“Heartbreak? Were you—were you with anyone?” You ask, confused.

It happens before anyone can stop it. “No, when Charles kissed you. And you kissed him after. Alright, night mates! Lorenzo—merci!”

Oh, fuck, you hear in the back of your now-muddled brain. Giada’s voice.

You open and close your mouth. “Ch—wait, he—what?”

“I—let’s talk here,” Charles flounders, dragging you to a more secluded spot and facing you. The three of your friends exit; Giada waves, apologetic. “When… we were at Amber… and you were absolutely hammered, we kissed. It was twice—just twice. And you didn’t, um. Remember a thing.”

You’re unsure. “In Amber?” You blink, confused. “What do you mean?”

“We… I don’t—I mean, I understand why you don’t remember. We kissed that night.”

“So that’s… Charles… You didn’t tell me.” Your voice quivers, like a wire flicked. “Why didn’t you say it at the time?”

He doesn’t give you an answer. He just looks at the counter, imagines the way your eyebrows furrow, your lips move, eyes glitter. He can’t give you one. He doesn’t want to hurt, disappoint, sadden you. He wants to get on his knees and root you here, so he’ll have all the time in the world to come up with an answer.

“Charles.” But he loves you, and he can at the very least be honest for you. “Look at me.”

“I was scared.” His eyes gravitate to yours.

“Of?”

“It felt stupid, is all. That you didn’t remember, and maybe you did but you were pretending you weren’t. I didn’t—it didn’t—sorry.” He laughs, stutters. “I convinced myself it didn’t mean anything because we didn’t have feelings for each other.” He pauses. “Then.”

“Well,” you say, slow. Eyes stuck to his. “How about now?”

“Now?”

“I love you, now. I mean, isn’t that all this is? Loving? Even if? De—despite of?” 

And this—God. This is how it feels. He’s looking at you and you’re telling him you love him because you do, and finally he’s been over with reassurance.

You love him, too. That way. He trembles with it. His hands are shaky when they lace into yours, like you’re a shrine, a prayer, and he feels like maybe these are the emotions that swirl through the human body when one wins the lottery and gets struck by angry lightning at the same time.

This is it, he thinks. Profound and lovely and an echo of sweet memories. He’s yours. Here in a city unfamiliar to both of you, yet to be conquered, your fingers lace lightly and you smile, smile, smile at each other, as if you’re the last two people on Earth. He’s yours, so foolishly in love with you.

Even far from home, you’re both filled with warmth, with longing. Extended stares, pits of your stomachs welling up with something lovely in between homesickness and nostalgia. Here again, you again, us again—it’ll always be us again, your heart seems to say, surrounded by the same love the same hurt the same sad the same everything, you and me, all the love in the world, all the confusion, we’re here. It’s never over.

Across the terrace, Lorenzo watches. Two figures, laughing, emanating happiness, gentle unkowing love. You two have finally made it here, after what felt like a thousand trials and dreams and stories.

So even if you’re taller, in high heels and a yellow dress—and Charles is broader, in a suit and tie—Lorenzo thinks he can blink and see the two little kids who hosted a tea party in the backyard. He can blink again and see you hugging, eyes shut, his lips pressed to your forehead to convey the intimacy nothing else will do as well. 

“So what now?” You ask. Again with the questions. In your defense—it begs so many follow-up questions. A love so many years in the making—layer after layer after layer—of course it begs all the questions, almost to the point of overwhelming capacity. What’ll we tell Pascale? The fans? The family? Everyone?! 

But one look and he makes it better. His green eyes, bright against the deep black of the skyline. You’ve grown. You’ve done it. You’re here. “We’ll figure it out.” He smiles. “We deserve this kind of ending, don’t you think?”

—

“He has my name.” A tubby finger points to the boy on the greeting card. “That one.”

“And who’s the dog?” Asks the girl beside him, hair wound into a plait. She likes this boy. He’s cute. She plays with the end of her braid and stares, eyes flickering in-between him and the card they’re staring at.

“The name’s right there. They’re best friends.”

“Okay, that’ll be me.”

“So that’s us.”

“Oui.” She smiles. “Charlie and Snoopy.”

–

read an omitted scene here :)

[muntitled]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐮𝐬𝐚𝐧 𝐁𝐨𝐲 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐃𝐨𝐨𝐫

Summary: He wants to be your only one... the fact that you've barely said a word to each other is irrelevant.

Warnings: Language, Humor, Unedited, Fluff, Neighbours to fuck buddies to Lovers, Leehan as his own warning, Jealous!Leehan, Possessiveness, Smut +18 (Minors DNI), Cunnilingus, Needy sex, Grinding, Premature Orgasm, Masturbation, Degradation Kink, Rough Sex

He's wrecking so very badly, Send help

Donghyun was going about his day perfectly fine until he set his foot over the kitchen threshold, and the first trickle of a moan came in from the adjacent walls. He immediately recognized the very specific, very airy octave of your voice.

The panting, the gasps, the very scheduled short exhales that ran through the conduit of your throat. He tries to stare at the fish through the aquatic looking glass in peace, hoping to alleviate the sound of your moaning that continues to bleed from the insulation in the thin apartment walls.

He finds himself quite vexed which is incredibly rare for nonchalant, unbothered Donghyun. For the longest time he thought he was broken. Never being able to forge any special connection with anyone that didn't sport a fin or gills.

When he met you though…

“No-” Donghyun shakes his head, hoping the movement might wash away all the mental images threatening to implode his head in. The memory of your passionate, albeit short history as neighbourly fuckbuddies threatens to rear its ugly head… Donghyun tries to distract himself and these new and complicated feelings of jealousy (definitely jealousy) by focusing on the underwater scavengers swimming blissfully about their makeshift prison. Every time he tries, you moan a particularly loud ‘F-Fuck’, and now he's hard and damnit, he can't focus on the fish. Your moans ascend to a higher octave, an octave that gives him unfortunate flashbacks of the night he first met you.

Then, it had been him who drew those sounds from your throat.

Donghyun didn't always believe in fate but there was no other way to describe that evening. You would have both continued on as oblivious neighbours were it not for your roommate accidentally locking you out of your apartment for the 100th time. Donghyun reminisces on how he found you seated outside your door. A tipsy, blubbering mess.

Thinking that he wouldn't like to go to hell, Donghyun decided to pick you up from off the floor after inquiring whether you were comfortable with fish (he wouldn't like to invite any stranger into his apartment that was even a little bit hostile towards the fish) and thereafter, lumbered you over the threshold.

You had been mumbling about a variety of topics that Donghyun would kill to have you relay back to him right now, but one after the other, the topics dwindled into you enquiring about more alcohol. Claiming that you couldn't wait for your roommate on an empty stomach.

"Food," he had said in a deep and dreary monotonous voice, "If you're hungry, you should eat some food,"

"Food is boring," you whined.

"It really is," he found himself agreeing almost automatically.

"I have an even better idea," it was then, that you uncovered three bottles of soju from your purse with a conspiratorial drunken smirk on your face. The evening had inevitably ended with the both of you getting inebriated under the dim blue lights shining from his tank. And under those very same lights, while Donghyun droned on about the cardiovascular system of freshwater fish, your lips met his in a sloppy, unceremonious kiss.

He did not know this when you kissed him, but he would soon become obsessed with you. That could be the only thing he could describe this as.

"Ugh, how can you stand to listen to the sounds of our neighbors fucking," Donghyun is pulled from his reverie by Sungho who strolls into the kitchen. His roommate's messy head of hair is tipped back in distaste at the scandalous sounds emanating from the next door apartment.

"Neighbour." Donghyun says, "We only have one and she lives alone," Donghyun appears seemingly unperturbed by the sound of your moaning. If not for the subtle whitening of his knuckles against the tabletop upon which his fish tank sat, anyone could've sworn he didn't feel a thing.

"I don't even wanna know how you know that-" Sungho begins to rummage for his pots and pans, all while Donghyun drones on.

"I spoke to her. Once." Donghyun says "Only once. We had sex."

A clamouring of metallic utensils ring throughout the small apartment as Sungho whips his head around to stare at the monotonous boy with amazement.

"Is there anything you ever think of keeping to yourself?"

Donghyun ignores his statement, "But now she's doing that..." he says, in that same difficult-to-interpret, monotonous voice. Donghyun gestures to the blank wall that divided the apartments, "With whoever that is..." A tense silence prolongs before Donghyun; quite suddenly, stands up. "Should I go over there?"

Sungho's shakes his head as he says, "You should absolutely not go over there-"

"I think I should go over there," He's already backing out of his chair, bidding the fish goodbye.

"Donghyun, I will disown you as a member of this apartment if you go over there-"

"It'll be quick,"

"Donghyun."

He's not sure why he'd wanna torture himself, nor did he care to know. All Donghyun is concerned with is the sound of your pleasure being caused by someone else. Someone that isn't him. And so he thinks nothing of it as he drifts towards your door stationed right next to his and he knocks.

There is a bump of furniture and a swear until you're racking the door open, the very vision of pre-orgasm jitters. Donghyun observes you in this very familiar glow. Your eyes are wide and wayward. Your hands are fumbling with the belt of your robe and there's a slight tremor moving through your entire form. You may appear disheveled to any other passerby but to him, you were the very object of his desires.

When your eyes land on him, your shoulders deflate in an unimpressed stance. You are just in the middle of scolding him lightly as you say, “No, Donghyun, I don't wanna volunteer to clean the beach with yo-”

You're not able to finish your sentence because he's rushed towards you in an instant, capturing your lips against the soft plush pillows of his own, and your words die right then and there. He cradles your face with both hands and you yelp in shock as he nips at your bottom lip, all while pushing himself into your apartment.

“I didnt-” he whispers, unable to tear his lips fully away from yours, “I didn't come here for that-”

He mindlessly kicks off his shoes at the doorway which proves to be exceedingly difficult, given the fact that he's hellbent on keeping your lips attached.

“D-Donghyun-” you try to mumble but his lanky fingers curl into your cheeks, forcefully keeping you there. He kisses your roughly. So roughly it nearly knocks out every single sliver of sensibilities you had left. His tongue is long and eager as it drift over the outside of your lips and on the inside, seemingly wanting to eat you whole.

“Donghyun-”

“What-” he whines, stomping his socks-clad feet against the wooden floorboards. “Why are you ruining the moment?” He dips his head down to try and capture your lips once more, but now that you've escaped his forcefield, you've sobered up a bit.

“Why are you, in my apartment?!” It's the only thing you manage to say, with your hand pressed firmly against his sternum. You're both panting loudly. Both caught in a very dangerous state.

Donghyun swallows thickly.

For some reason, you drop your hand to grip your robe tighter, as if not trusting yourself to keep it on in his presence. It is a baby pink robe that Donghyun finds surprisingly erotic. With the scent of sex hanging in your living room, it was difficult not to find anything erotic. He sees you watching him with wide, baggy eyes. Those were erotic too.

“Donghyun.” You begin, with a voice lowered in warning. “Why are you here?”

He swallows once again before straightening his spine and running a hand through his mid length brown locks. He fights to regain some sense of control as he racks his brain for all every plausible excuse.

“So-” he clears his throat, “I'm a father of fish,”

“Famously,” you mock with the roll of the eye. He has to stop himself from kissing you again, choosing to lift his left hand to push down his right twisting in a fist at his side.

“And I’m thinking of adopting a few cichlids.”

“That doesn't explain why you kissed me?” Instead of answering your question, Donghyun ventures to stroll towards your couch as he says, “And the males, famously, cannot be put in the same tank as other aquatic fish. They're unnecessarily hostile and territorial,” he lowers himself fo your couch, “Kinda like you are right now,”

Before you shout at him, he continues

“And I was wondering if you have a spare fish tank around here by any chance.” he nods his head, throughly please with his awful lying skills, “Thats why I'm here.” Donghyun’s eyes are still coasting around your apartment, waiting to hear the voice of the male that was making you moan so loud just a second ago.

“You expect me to just have a fish tank?” You deadpan, “By chance?”

“I don't think my question was so difficult to understand.” Donghyun watches you with a cocky open mouth smirk as he pushes his back against your couch, “This conversation would've been wrapped up so easily if you just-”

“Well, thanks for the weird nature lecture,” you're charging towards him, robe billowing. He sits up, excited. “And the kiss-”

“We could do that again if you want-”

“But I have to study, Donghyun, and you're distracting me,”

You're latching onto his forearm, hellbent on pulling him off your couch but Donghyun digs his other hand into the seat, letting it act as an anchor, keeping him there.

It is then, that your hot pink vibrator rolls out from underneath a cushion and right against the side of his hand.

You stop your pulling.

He stops his mumbling protests.

You both stare down at your vibe sitting comfortably against his hand in the dip of the couch.

“I-”

“Studying, huh?” the smugness in his voice is borderline sadistic. Now it's your turn to scan your brain for every possible way you could detangle yourself from this web of embarrassment. “I like this kinda studying-”

“Donghyun-”

“Leehan-”

“Whatever.” You sigh wistfully, “Just, get out, please.”

“So you don't want my help then?” The question rocks you to your core, a core which you unfortunately realise is still soaked and begging for release. You were just on the precipice of diving headfirst into your orgasm when the knock on the door came and you were overflowing with anxiety. Honestly, being bombarded with a kiss from the weird guy next door shouldn't have been as pleasant as it had been, but your needs evidently took priority of your senses.

“H-Help?” Your voice is barely above a whisper, “How?”

“Lemme show you,” he whispers with all the allure of a Disney prince, and the sensuality of a crimson ribbon. He wraps his hand around your forearm; twirling you quite ceremoniously into his lap.

“You must be so needy right now,” He whispers into your ear while he moves at snails pace, to lower your back against the couch, “I promise to be so good. Better than last time-”

“We were drunk,” you say, utterly captivated by Donghyun now peppering kisses along your legs. He makes his slow descent down the hill of your thighs, while everything in him craves to just attach his lips to your clit until you're riding his face dismally.

Donghyun groans then into the open air. “Fuck, I wanna eat you out,” he admits gravely. He lifts his eyes, hoping to relay to you just how badly he wanted this.

“We were drunk then, so let me do a better job now, ‘kay?” Donghyun rubs dizzying circles against your stomach, still very much covered by your robe.

“O-Okay-” You whisper your consent and it completely throws him over the edge. You yelp when Donghyun grabs ahold of your calves, almost immediately fighting your leg over his shoulder as if your weight was nonexistent.

“Don't blame me if I like… cum in my pants or something, alright?” He says, lowering his face to your exposed as he spready your legs wider.

“P-Please just eat me out, Donghyun,” you were asking him to as if you needed him. That thought solidified itself in his stomach and wrenches your panties to the side, immediately attacking your pussy with his puffy lips.

“F-FUCK, LEEHAN- NOT SO FAST-” Your hands fly to his locks. Your mouth hangs open and you watch in disbelief as he hums against your vagina.

“You called me Leehan-”

“You're- so-” A gasp steals itself from your throat as Donghyun sticks his tongue out to lick a thick strip up the length of your pussy, “s-trange.” you say, unable to chase his lips with your hips.

"You're so hot- fuck,” Donghyun immediately shifts onto the floor so he’s kneeling before you. Your cunt weeps for him and he gladly obliges.

“What a leaky little girl,” he whispers, instantly feeling your hips stutter upwards, “You like that? You like it when I call you my leaky fucking girl-”

You're moaning again, and Donghyun can't help but smirk.

“Y-You're such a pretty little slut, you know that?” Donghyun Isn't sure where that came from, but he's rutting into the couch now, at the same pace you're fucking his face and he knows he needs to say it.

“Oh my fucking God- Donghyun!” You're utterly amazed. Amazed because you didn't remember your last time with Donghyun being so visceral. You nearly see stars when he wiggles his tongue against your entrance, begging for entry.

“F-Fuck my face, baby,”

“D-D-” His name is lost in your mouth and you're lost at the sight of him kneeling for you, fucking helplessly against the couch as he kisses your cunt oh so sloppily. You slip into your orgasm with a shallow gasp and Donghyun's eyes flutter closed, smooching your pussy in pure fucking bliss. He's mumbling incoherently info your cunt, telling her soft nothings until his own hips stutter-

“G-God your pussy is so precious,” he whispers, “So fucking precious-”

You're breathing heavily, but Donghyun decides he's not done as he rises from between your legs. Through your half-lidded gaze, you can spy the wet spot against his sweatpants, and yet he still seems driven by lust. That was one thing you did remember from your last encounter. Once you had Leehan revved up, it was nearly impossible to turn him off.

“I wanna fuck you,” he says monotonously while already pulling at the drawstring of his sweatpants, “I wanna fucking merge into you, L-Like a fucking anglerfish-” he lowers himself on top of you, “D'you know that once the males find a suitable female they merge into-”

“Give me five seconds.” You beg, still in the process of catching your breath, "Or fifteen,"

© to @mphountitled on tumblr; do not repost

[gigabyte-flare]

The Dark of You

(A Gigabyte Flare One Shot)

Summary: Leon S. Kennedy returns home to you from an assignment in San Francisco in desperate need to relieve some tension

Word Count: 1.5k

Pairing: Death Island!Leon Kennedy x fem!reader (afab)

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. You are responsible for your own content consumption. If any of the following warnings trigger you, please read at your own risk. Minors do not interact, this story is 18+ only.

CONTAINS DEATH ISLAND SPOILERS

Warnings: sex (p in v), age gap (reader is 26), very mild angst, choking, degradation, pet names, breeding kink

A/N: This is 5000% self indulgent. I cannot, for the life of me, get Death Island!Leon out of my head since watching the movie. The title is inspired by Dark of You by Breaking Benjamin

“Fade away to the wicked world we left,

And I become the dark of you.”

The anticipation is killing you. About an hour ago Leon had let you know he landed in D.C. and is on his way back home. He had been on an assignment in San Francisco, he didn’t say what for, he never disclosed any of his assignments to you. He insisted it was to protect you. You have been sitting on the couch, watching TV as you wait for Leon to come home but fatigue is starting to get the better of you, so you decide to turn off the TV and go to bed. A small inkling of guilt ate at you; you wanted to greet him when he got home.

Walking into the bedroom, you pull back the covers, slipping beneath them and getting yourself comfortable. You fall asleep within minutes; that’s not like you. Your constant worry for Leon clearly exhausted you. You’re suddenly awoken by the feeling of someone kissing the crook of your neck, an unshaven face scratching at yours. You recognize the cologne and his masculine scent immediately.

“Mmmm… there you are, Leon…” you say softly as you’re pulled from your slumber. 

“I hit traffic on the way home, I hope I didn’t worry you,” Leon replies, his voice still muffled by your neck.

“When am I not worried about you?” you ask, turning your body to face him.

You immediately notice he looks ragged and exhausted, with dark bags under his ocean eyes and his hair slightly disheveled. He is still wearing his combat vest over his dark gray t-shirt and his blue leather jacket over that. 

“You look like hell.”

“I feel like hell, I think my age is starting to catch up to me, love,” he says, bending down to kiss your forehead.

“Stop talking like you're 80, you’re only 38, you’re not old.” you tease, playfully punching one of his biceps. 

For some reason, unknown to you, Leon was very self conscious about the age gap between you two. You can’t count how many times you reassured him that his age didn’t matter to you, that the 12 year gap between you didn’t bother you; you’ve been seeing him for almost a year.

“It’s not like you started dating me out of high school, you’re not a creep!” you recall telling him constantly. 

He smirks at you, running a hand through your hair, “I’m going to hit the shower, I’ll be right out.”

You nod at him, watching as he goes into the adjacent bathroom, not bothering to shut the door behind him. You listen as he turns on the shower and you can hear the sound of his clothing hitting the floor. You let out a deep sigh of relief, grateful that he’s home and safe. Even though he didn’t talk about his work with you, you knew one thing for certain.

His job is dangerous. 

You watch as Leon comes out of the bathroom, a pair of light gray sweats barely hanging onto his hips as he dries his hair with a towel, giving you a beautiful view of his ‘happy trail.’ Tossing the towel aside, he fixes his damp hair with his hands before climbing into bed with you, immediately wrapping you in his arms, nuzzling his face into your hair as he breathes deeply. You feel him kiss your hair over and over, like he couldn’t get enough of you.

“I’m so glad you’re home, Leon,” you tell him, snuggling into his embrace.

“Me too,” Leon replies, “I… I almost didn’t make it back…”

“What?” you look up at him, sitting up, your eyes full of concern.

You can tell by Leon’s pained expression that he was struggling on whether or not to tell you what happened. You watch him sigh and he clears his throat.

“I got infected with a virus--”

“What?! Do we need to get you to a hospital? I can take you!” You panic, throwing the blankets off you as you start to climb out of bed, but one of Leon’s strong hands grab your upper arm, stopping you.

“Babe, I’m fine… I got vaccinated, I’m not infected anymore. It’s… actually not the first time that’s happened.”

You tuck yourself back under the blankets, laying your head back down on the pillow as you continue to listen to Leon.

Leon lets out a soft chuckle, “if I had a nickel each time I’ve been infected with something… I’d have two nickels.”

You can’t help but laugh, even though hearing this from him made you worry more, but you don’t say anything and let him continue.

“I know that’s not a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice.”

You shake your head, cupping his face in your hands and kiss him as you’re laughing. 

“Unfortunately, there was one casualty,” he says, his lips still pressed against yours.

You pull back, raising an eyebrow at him.

“The bike got wrecked…”

“Oh sweetheart,” you coo, running your fingers through his hair, “I’m so sorry, I know you loved that bike.”

“It’s alright, if I had to choose between the bike and coming back home safely to you, I’d pick you. Every time.”

In an instant, one of his hands grasps the back of your head, pulling you to him to kiss you ravenously. His tongue makes its way into your mouth, dancing with yours as he lets out a low growl. He climbs on top of you, pinning you to the bed as his hands work to pull off your underwear, tossing them aside as he continues to kiss you vigorously.

Meanwhile, your hands are working to get his sweatpants off him, finally getting them pulled down when he kicks them off. His hands grasp at the front of your tank top, ripping it apart to expose your breasts. His hands grasp at them as you pull off the remnants of the tank top, tossing it aside off the side of the bed to join your underwear. Before you know it, he’s manhandling you, getting you on all fours on the bed, positioning himself behind you as he wraps his left arm around your neck as he uses the other to position his hard member against your thoroughly soaked cunt. He pulls back, choking you with his arm but not enough to outright strangle you; a favorite position of yours, admittedly. You love it when he’s rough with you. 

“You want this old man’s cock, don’t you, pretty girl?” he growls in your ear, his hot breath on your ear sending chills down your spine, straight to your aching hole. 

“Y-Yes!” you manage to reply, gasping for air as his arm gives your neck a nice squeeze. 

“Of course you do, you dirty slut.”

You feel Leon bully his cock into your leaking entrance, your fingers curling and gripping the sheets as he begins to pound into you with vicious ferocity. His right hand grips your hip like a vice; that’s going to leave a bruise later. He lets out a half moan, half growl as you feel him adjust his position, getting on one knee to get a better angle to fuck into you as deep and as hard as he possibly could.

“F-Fuck! Too… too much!” you manage to say, his arm still squeezing your neck.

“You can take it, baby, I know you can,” he purrs, thrusting even harder into you, “gonna breed this pretty little kitty.”

His words make your clit throb and your walls tighten around his cock, causing you to cry out. With one of your hands, you reach between your legs, rubbing your aching clit with your index and middle finger, making your body tremble. Leon picks up on this immediately, chuckling in your ear.

“Oh? You like that? You want this old man’s cum? You want me to fuck a baby into you?”

Your cunt squeezes around him again as you nod, moaning as he picks up the pace of his thrusts. He leans over you, kissing the side of your neck before giving you several hickies as he pushes his hips deep inside you, the head of his dick kissing your cervix, filling you with a sense of euphoria, your arms reach up and gripping the arm still wrapped around your neck. 

“Leon… I’m.. I’m gonna… I’m gonna cum…!”

“Good… such a good little slut you are,” he growls, giving you a playful bite on your earlobe.

After a few more powerful thrusts, he pushes himself as deep inside you as he possibly could go and you feel the burning warmth of his release as you come undone on him. Gasping, tears of relief stream down your face. Leon stays inside you for a few minutes as both of you catch your breath, having removed his arm from your neck. Eventually, he pulls himself out of you, hooking your waist with one of his arms and pulling you back so that he could cuddle with you. You give each other gentle, tired kisses until you both eventually fall asleep in each other's arms.

[lipglossanon]

October 5th

Kink: Praise

Pairing: Sweet Stepdad!Leon S. Kennedy x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, stepcest, dirty talk, praise kink, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, mirror sex, semi-public sex, creampie

not proofread

“Baby, y’sure you don’t want one of your friends to help?”

You smile at Leon as you tug him into the Halloween store. 

“Promise, besides this way we can match!”

He huffs a laugh and lets you lock your arms together, guiding him over to the back with the racks of colorful costumes on display. You hold up random outfits to him or yourself, brows pinched together, while you debate on what exactly you want to wear this year. 

“What about this one?”

You turn and have to bite your bottom lip. Leon’s holding up a cowboy costume with a cowgirl one being offered out to you. 

“Yes,” you’re nodding as you grab onto the plastic encasing the cheap fabric. “Let’s go see if they have a changing room.”

“Alright,” he scans the area and then presses a broad palm against the center of your back to guide you deeper into the store. 

Stopping in front of the dressing rooms, he goes to take a seat on the benches set up near the door. 

“Uh uh,” you pull him into the room with you and quickly shut the door. “You gotta help me try it on.”

“Oh, I do, huh?” He grins and it makes butterflies dance in your chest. 

“Mmhmm,” you drop the costume down onto the little chair that’s always in a changing room. Your hands glide up his biceps to cling to his shoulders. 

“Need your help taking my clothes off, daddy,” you raise your head up to brush your lips across his. “Especially my panties.”

“Yeah?” He groans, hands grabbing onto your hips. “Those little panties sticking to your chubby cunt, sweetheart?”

Whining, you rock your hips forward, biting down on his bottom lip when you feel his bulge through his slacks. His hands make quick work of slipping your shirt off along with your bra, fingers tweaking your nipples roughly before moving down to help you step out of your jeans and panties. 

“Oh, she’s soaking wet, baby,” he murmurs, fingers skating across your slit to rub your pussy, smearing slick into your soft skin.  

“Let daddy eat this sexy pussy,” he drops to his knees before you can even say anything. “Fuck, you always look so good.”

Biting down on your knuckles, you keep your eyes on Leon as he buries his face between your thighs, picking one leg up to drape over his shoulder so he can lick into you easier. 

“Love how you taste,” he groans, nuzzling against your clit. “Always so soft and wet, god, could stay here all day.”

“Leon,” you mewl, body buzzing with his words as his tongue slides through your soaked folds to lap at your drippy hole. 

“Such a good girl,” his tongue slides into your fluttering walls. He grinds his nose across your clit and nuzzles against your pussy lips. 

The shuffling of feet and muted conversation floods the hallway outside of your room before you hear the person take the room next to yours (door shutting and jostling the wall connecting the two rooms). Leon pulls away with a sly grin and you press your knuckles into your mouth. 

Instead of going back to eating you out, he stands up, crowding into your space. 

“Turn around, put your hands on the mirror, sweetheart,” he rotates your body until you’re facing away from him. 

Following his instructions, you place your hands on the mirror adjacent to the wall shared with the next dressing room. He pulls your hips towards him, forcing you to bend over. Glancing at his reflection in the glass, you watch as he unzips his slacks and pulls out his thick cock, your heart pounding in your chest from nerves. 

The broad head of his dick glides through your slick folds, parting your pussy lips to rub against your swollen clit. Your eyes flutter as you bite your lip to stop from making any noise. 

Leon leans forward, mouth ghosting across your ear and drawing your attention to look at the mirror into his dark blue eyes. 

“Y’gonna let daddy stuff this hot, wet pussy?”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. He winks and it sends heat spiraling through you while he notches the head of his cock at your drooling hole. Leon eases himself inside of your clenching heat with measured rocks of his hips, making your toes curl, mouth panting so hard you fog up the glass. 

The loud trill of a phone jars you as the person next door answers the call. You can’t quite make out what’s being said but the cadence of their speaking filters through the thin wall, making you tense up until Leon hisses. He slowly pulls out only to thrust back in equally as slow. It makes your mouth salivate, the easy push and pull of his cock inside your fluttering walls has you leaking slick down your thighs to drip onto the dressing room floor. 

“So perfect, sweetheart,” he whispers against your ear. “Look at how good you’re taking me, li’l pussy’s just made for my cock.”

You keen, but stifle it into a muted whine, clenching down on his dick, “Daaad.”

“C’mon now,” he croons, “look at that pretty girl taking daddy’s dick. So good for me, baby. Such a good girl.”

Your hooded eyes struggle to stay open on the reflection of Leon pumping his cock into your soaked cunt. His words drive your arousal higher and higher, clit throbbing and swollen. 

“Touch me, daddy, please,” you gasp, “wanna cum.”

“Of course,” he moves one hand down to cup your hot pussy, fingers rubbing over your slippery bundle of nerves. “Daddy’s perfect girl deserves to feel good, doesn’t she?”

“Uh huh,” you moan softly. “Feels so good.”

The person occupying the neighboring room bumps the wall and makes you gasp. Leon doesn’t stop playing with your clit or driving his dick into your squelching pussy. Your dazed eyes watch his own flutter closed as he tips his head back, neck tendons taut as he keeps his slow and steady pace. 

Watching him bite his lip does you in, walls fluttering and milking his cock as your orgasm steals your breath. Thighs shaking from the pleasure whiting out your brain, your eyes fall shut, willing yourself to keep as quiet as possible. Leon swears under his breath and lets himself fuck into you a little faster. 

“Cum inside me,” you whimper. “Wanna feel full.”

“Fucking Christ,” he groans, “yeah? Fuck, g’nna cum, goddamn—“

He muffles his moan into your neck as he leans forward and buries his cock deep into your pulsing hole. Your cunt flutters around his thick length as he shoots rope after rope of hot cum until he’s completely spent. Pulling away with a low hiss, he helps you pull your panties back into place before his spend drips everywhere.

Turning you around, he kisses you, tongue pushing into your mouth to taste you. Groaning, he presses you against the wall and sloppily makes out with you until the wall jostles again from the neighboring door slamming open and shut. 

“Probably should just get these, huh?” He pulls back with a grin. 

“I’m totally fine with it. Cowboys are hot,” you smile back. “Let’s head home, I wanna round two where I can actually be loud.” 

[gilverrwrites]

Call me Tim

Tim Drake/Reader, 2K

[Say his name, P2] AN: I did not expect part 1 to be se well recieved, here hoping part 2 was worth the wait! CWs: Breach of trust, teasing, semi-public foreplay, mildly stalker-ish behaviour on Tims part.

Tim had always told himself that fucking his fans was not a thing for him. Not a kink. Bernard was different, he just had so much passion. He would have been into him regardless of whatever he was fixated on.

Then you happened.

Ever since he’s been telling himself that it was coincidence, not causation. And again, he liked you before he found out you’d spent your formative years kissing cutouts of him. Well, he doesn’t know that part for sure, but he liked to imagine it. Point being; your adolescent crush on him was not the driving force behind his attraction to you.

But as he found himself plotting ways to naturally bump into you as Tim Drake-Wayne, it was becoming increasingly harder to deny that he maybe was, a little bit, kind of into it.

Hitting you up online? Too out of the blue.

Turning up at your house? Way too much.

Then one night the perfect opportunity arose. He’d overheard you making plans to meet some friends at an uptown bar later that week. He wasn’t scheduled to patrol that night. Despite the logical part of his brain telling him it was a creepy move, he just couldn’t pass up the chance. Red Robin had to be so cautious around you, but if you hit it off with Tim he could let a little loose around you.

That’s how he’s ended up sitting on the table adjacent to yours, listening in on your private conversation and praying you wouldn’t recognise him before he was ready.

“So have you guys ever had someone ask you to call them by a different name when you’re… you know?” He nearly coughs on his drink, sitting bolt upright as though it will help him hear better. He trusts you not to spill on who the guy is. You’d had that conversation already, but he wants to hear you say Tim again.

“What like ‘Daddy’? Yeah, my ex was into that.”

“No.” Your voice has grown so quiet, laced with a sheepish laugh just like the morning you’d confessed about your crush to him. God, he wishes he could turn around and look at your face. He’d bet you’re all flustered. “Like, another actual man’s name?”

“No, hon. That’s weird.”

“Who’s the guy? Whose name?”

“You don’t know him.” You shut down the first question. He bets your fidgeting, looking at anything other than your friends as you consider your next words cafeully. “But he wanted me to call him Tim. As in, Tim Drake.”

“That’s really weird. Did he know you used to be down bad for him?”

He knows it's mean to turn around now, and worse, risky. Liable to scare you away but it’s so worth it to see the five stages of grief cross your face in the span of 3 seconds when you notice him. You're like a starstruck deer in the headlights as the word “yeah” dies on your lips. If he cupped your cheeks right now, he's certain the heat would burn away any remnants of his fingerprints.

The whole table falls silent as one by one, your friend’s clue into the situation. If it weren’t for their sickly amused smiles, and the foley of the bar, you’d think the world has stopped turning. You wish the world would stop turning.

He’s staring at you with an almost impish smile and your fight, flight, or freeze kicks in. You opt for stuttering “I have to piss!” As you abruptly leave the table.

I have to piss. You just bumped into The Tim Drake, and the first things he heard from your mouth were that you’d called his name while hooking up with someone, and I have to piss.   

The queue to the solo bathroom in this place is always long, and usually you’d be annoyed but tonight you’re grateful for the extra time to compose yourself, or you would be if you apparently hadn’t been followed.

“So, is he your boyfriend?” Where the fuck had he come from? You hadn’t seen him approach at all.

“He’s…” Not, not your boyfriend. You see each other at least weekly, sometimes you cook for him, and he often brings you gifts. However, you’ve never had that conversation, you don’t even know who he is under the mask. You don’t have his phone number. Despite multiple sexual encounters, you hadn’t even seen him naked. Now that you think about it, there’s a definite power imbalance in whatever you have. “Why?”

You’re much more defensive of his teasing than you are with Red Robin. Understandable, you didn’t really know Tim, and he’s really hit you out of left field. This is all turning out a bit crueller than he’d intended, but he can’t bring himself to stop. Your apprehension tonight is as tempting as your timidness had been last time. It’s like he’s trying to seduce you on hard mode.

“Just tryin’ to find out if it would be appropriate to buy you a drink, maybe ask you to dance?” He sounds off. Not like he does in the TV interviews and podcasts you’d heard him on, but still familiar. It’s hard to focus on, however, because he’s standing so close. Close enough for you to smell the fresh sweetness of his aftershave, for you to see the features you’ve been fantasising about up close.

“This place doesn’t have a dance floor.”

“We could go to another place.”

“Oh no buddy, I’m not going to any secondary locations.” He can’t help the smile that crosses his lips. You remembered his safety tip. He just hopes it reads as anything other than prideful to you right now. “Don’t think for a second just cause you heard what you heard that I’m gonna fall all over you.”

“Buddy? You can call me Tim.” The obvious innuendo has you cracking a genuine smile. Your nerves are still apparent from the way you're tapping your fingers against your thigh, and your refusal to make meaningful eye contact with him but he’s chipping at your walls. There's four people waiting ahead, and he wonders if he can breach your shields completely before it's your turn. “Or if it makes you feel better you could call me whatever that other guy’s name is.”

“Is this how you get people to sleep with you? You tease them relentlessly until they give up just so you’ll go away when it’s over?”

“Ouch.” You have a point, he’s never behaved like this before. He’s always been a self-confessed smartass, but you just bring out something especially brazen within him. Something wicked. He’s being a jerk, but you’re chewing your lips and sneaking awed glances at him, which implies you’re more into it than you’d admit. “Am I not what you expected?”

He probably would live up to your expectations had this been your real first meeting. If he wasn’t already comfortable around you, he’d be enamoured by your appearance, too skittish to match your keen whit or ask about your hobbies, not when you look at him with those eyes. If anything, the typical Tim Drake persona might even bore you by rambling on about detective novels or WayneTech.

“You’re why people say you should never meet your heroes.”

“Okay, fine.” Maybe he had gotten a bit carried away messing with you. “Can I just ask you one more thing, and then I’ll go away, or buy you a drink? Whatever you want.”

Your eyes drift up to the ceiling as you consider his offer. It’s not an uncommon tick for people to have, but it’s certainly more endearing when you do it. Eventually, you nod, conceding to him and offering real, esrnest eye contact. You’re still willing to hear out your favourite celebrity, and a pang of guilt at once again abusing his authority thrums through his chest.

It doesn’t stop him from asking, however. “What clued this guy into your crush on me?”

“Pictures.” You frown, still not breaking eye contact. Something is different. The nervous energy you’ve been emanating since he’d followed you to the line has subsided, replaced by something tantalisingly self-assured.

“Pictures of what?”

He tries to pry but you give him nothing.

“Of you.”

“What kind of pictures.”

The answers here don’t matter to him anyway, he already knows. He’s just trying to segue into a specific set of questions.

“Just, pictures.”

“How ambiguous.” Here’s his chance to try and satisfy that burning fantasy. “Did you practice kissing on them?”

“What? No.” Your tense shoulders say otherwise. “Why would you even ask that?”

“I don’t know.” Perfect. He gives his best noncommittal shrug before leaning in closer, balancing his weight on the wall behind you until the distance between your bodies is closed. He can still pick up hints of your body wash, but it’s washed out but the smell of a parfum that he wishes he could spray on his pillows at night. “Thought I’d offer you the real thing to compare.”

Your response isn’t what he’s expected, but it is what he’s hoped. Your lips press softly against the corner of his lips, and he can’t stop from locking a hand on your hip, not to force anything further, but to stop you from backing away. Although, the wall he has you partly confined against has been doing a pretty good job thus far.

He needn’t bother, however, because it doesn’t take long for you to grow more confident. This is the moment he’s been waiting for.

His mouth parts at the first sign of your tongue and you eagerly explore his mouth. He tastes like IPA, hoppy and warm. Your hands boldly play across his chest, until you fist the fabric of his shirt and tug him closer, deepening the kiss until he moans into your open mouth.

Your sudden boldness is doing things for him. Head spinney, dick hard things. Thoughtlessly, he ruts his hips, rubbing his clothes cock against your lower abdomen until you pull away with a laugh. It’s his turn to be nervous. You’re looking at him with something fierce and canny.

“Excuse me.” A clearly unamused man interjects himself between your embrace to point at the bathroom. “Are you waiting?”

“Oh, yeah.” Tim is surprised by your chipper poise, as you smile politely at the man. He’s even more surprised when you hook your fingers into the give of his leather belt and proceed to drag him with you into the cubicle, locking him inside with you as you offer thanks to the stranger.

“What are you doing?”

“Comparing with the real thing.”  You grace him with another, hard kiss, backing him against the door. Your tongue is hot against his already heated skin as you hurriedly work it along his jaw and neck. He remembers how you’d looked when you’d first noticed him earlier and wonders if his burning face looks equally as nonplussed as he lets you have your way with him against the bathroom door.

He hisses when you plunge your fingers below his belt once more, this time unbuckling it. You’ve fucking cracked, he must have broken something in your brain. There’ll be exaggerated stories about this all over the Gotham Globe’s home page tomorrow. Hell, if he cares though.

“You’ve changed your tune.” He comments, bucking his hips, helping you free him from his boxers. Your fingers lock around his base, and it throbs at finally being touched by you. He’s wanted so badly to fuck you for months but as Red Robin, he’s had to be careful, had to put his guard up which had resulted in a very altruistic sex life. But Tim Drake could fuck you. Right here, right now, Tim Drake-Wayne would fuck whatever hole you’d give him and the thought of it has him losing composure fast.

Your lips lock in one last frenzied kiss before you drop to your knees, and you look like an Angel sent from hell, looking up at him from beneath his reddened cock, with heady eyes and salacious smile.

“So, Red.” Shit. His heart skips a beat. Shit. Shit. Shit. He’s not sure what gave him away, but he doesn’t have a chance to care before you spit on his dick and start to pump with a deliberate rhythmic pace that has his head rolling back against the door. He’s not sure if he wishes he’d never done this at all, or if he’d done it sooner. “What name should I use tonight?”

[changenameno]

Shower Head PART 1

(Complete, link to the second part down below ⬇️ )

Summary: You are at a hotel, alone. Finally to relax some, after weeks of stressful work events. Though how are you supposed to do that, when you can’t even turn the shower on? Enter Syverson…

Pairing: Syverson x Fem. Reader

Warnings: MDNI, 18+, accidental nakedness, cursing, pet names, size kink, daddy kink, unsafe sex, p in v

Word Count: 2.8 K

A/N: Okay I was in a Sy mood. Pretty much just shameless smut… Any mistakes are my own. Reblogs and comments are much appreciated! Enjoy ;) ❤️✨

 !Syverson is not my creation!

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PART 1

 

You glared at the offending thing, certain it was mocking you at this point. Who would install a shower head up that high? No one could possibly reach and turn the damned thing on?! Because it wasn’t just hanging incredibly close to the ceiling, it was also shaped like a tap, meaning you’d have to actually turn the handle if you wanted to shower.

 

It was the second day of your stay here and up until now you hadn’t noticed the problem with the shower head. But you’d just returned from the sauna, wanting to wash the sweat of your skin. Though the most stupid construction you’d ever seen, was hindering you.

 

The first idea had been, to haul a chair into the bathroom to assist you in reaching the damned thing. The problem with that was that the only chair in the room was placed below the door handle to the adjacent room.

Because apparently you’d chosen the worst hotel there was, as the lock to the other room was broken. So whoever was staying next to yours could easily enter if they wanted to and vice versa. And there was no way in hell you’d shower if the door wasn’t blocked.

 

Bringing you to now, shivering, naked and beyond annoyed, standing in the shower and contemplating what to do next. Sighing, you shook your head, mumbling to yourself, “For Pete’s sake…I hate this.” Though you knew what you had to do.

 

Slightly squatting down, you begged your leg muscles to stay with you and then jumped up as high as you could. Though you missed, fingertips not even grazing the handle. “Damn it!” Growing more agitated you jumped again, again and again. Each time missing your mark.

 

Then on your last jump you finally reached it, ice cold water spraying down on you. Shrieking at the freezing sensation. Unfortunately the floor was wet in an instant and you lost your footing the second you were back on the ground. Making you flail about, sliding to the left, into the shower curtain.

 

Both hands desperately grabbing at the see-through material in a last attempted to stay upright. Though you’d definitely run out of luck, because the curtain wasn’t a very sturdy or thought through construction either.

The material was brittle were it hung from the ceiling, ripping when your full weight bore down on it. Nonetheless your hands grabbed it, because there was nothing else you could hold onto anyway. Half exasperated and shocked you screamed out, “Aaaarggh NOOO…!” Then your body crashed down onto the floor, releasing another shriek, “FUCK… OWW!”

 

Unbeknownst to you, your scream had alarmed the occupant of the adjacent room.

Curtain wrapped around you, nearly strangling you as you tried to sit up. Your shoulder had cushioned most of your fall, throbbing. Before you could free yourself or sit up, there was a second much louder bursting sound. Lying on your back like a useless sushi-roll, the only thing you could do was gape at the arched doorway opening of the bathroom.

 

Seeing wooden splinters flying through the air, then a rough, deep rumble sounded, “You alright? I’ve heard your scream…and ”, before a half-naked, broad shouldered man ducked into the bathroom. Blue eyes flitting over your wrapped up form, at last lading on your face. He swallowed visibly, “Erm, and thought to check on ya.”

 

You wanted the bathroom floor to swallow you whole, preferably right now. Not only was this the most handsome rugged guy you’ve had the pleasure to ever encounter, but he was also strong as f*ck, having broken down the door like nothing.

Now standing over you, only a white towel hiding what lay between those heavily, thick thighs of his.

 

You didn’t know if you died and went to heaven or hell, either way, here you were still lying covered by the curtain and probably looking like a complete moron. Realising you hadn’t moved an inch since he’d entered, you tried sitting up once more, though unsuccessful. Furthering your embarrassment.

 

Thankfully he caught onto your predicament rather quickly, approaching you, repeating his previous question, “You alright down there?” All you managed was a weak nod.

Then he slowly kneeled down, eyes never leaving yours, as one big hand grabbed your shoulder and the other your waist, “On three.” You didn’t even have time to protest as he counted down, on three he swiftly lifted you to your feet as if you were light as a feather.

Gently leaning you against the wall. A whimper escaped your throat, at the sudden proximity. Shower curtain, the only barrier between his hairy chest and your breasts.

He mistook the whimper as something else though, dark brows furrowing concerned, “Where are you hurt, sweetheart?”

 

Finally able to find your voice, you whispered, “ ‘m not hurt.” Surveying you for a moment longer, he nodded, gaze on your lips for a split second, before his blown out pupils landed back on your eyes. Holding your breath, your racing heartbeat and the water splattering continuously onto the floor were the sole sounds your ears picked up on. A smirk pulled his lips upwards, then he moved away. Making you release the breath you were holding.

 

He had entered the shower, standing on his tip toes, growling when the cold water hit his back as he was trying and then succeeding in shutting off the shower. Your eyes raking over the muscles on his back, down to his peachy rump, when he turned, they landed on the considerable bulge upfront. Fuck. He was big. Mouth salivating at the thought of this monster stretching you.

 

A dark chuckle brought your attention back to sparkling blue eyes, “Like whatcha see, sweetheart?”

He couldn’t be serious? Who in their right mind wouldn’t like looking at him? You tried clearing your throat, but in naught, you didn’t know how to reply anyway. This amused him all the more it seemed, as he sauntered back to you. “Need help?”

 

Meekly you asked back, “With what?” That earned you a full on belly laugh from him, before he nodded down at your predicament. Shower curtain still tightly wrapped around your body, making your arms more or less immobile with the way he had you trapped against the wall.

 

You looked down as well and you really shouldn’t have.

The sheer curtain did not only hide absolutely nothing, it actually accentuated your nakedness. Your boobs where squished together and up, nipples so stiff from the freezing water they nearly poked through the fabric. It had you panicked immediately.

It hit you all over again that you were standing here completely naked, before a really handsome, half naked though strange man. Not to forget that you were both definitely aroused.

 

So your mind short-circuited, trying to free your arms by force, you leaned slightly forward, pulling them up. You succeeded in freeing them, though right then the curtain decided to loosen further, falling down, and you lost your balance. Again.

 

With a shocked squeal, you fell forward, against the behemoth in front of you. Strong arms enveloped you, warm hands stabilizing you by your hips. Shivers running up and down your spine, which had nothing to do with the temperature difference of your bodies.

 

You couldn’t fathom a more embarrassing situation to be in and still your traitorous pussy tingled with excitement, as his bulge poked your thigh. You didn’t dare look at his face. In fact you didn’t dare move, breathe or make any noise whatsoever.

Until his fingers suddenly spread out, tips now grazing your ass. Pressing you even more against him, he groaned, “You feel so fucking soft… But sugar there’s no need to jump me like that. Not gonna go anywhere.”

 

Inhaling sharply, you finally felt brave enough to meet his gaze, tilting your head up. What you found was pure, crazed lust written all over his bearded face. “I…you…I don’t normally…,” you stuttered.

 

He smiled gently, “I don’t normally do this either. But don’t feel pressured, sweetheart. Nothin’ has to happen, ya know. ”

That had you raise one of your brows in disbelieve. Such a fine specimen couldn’t possibly be a gentleman as well, right? His actions answered you, before your subconscious could, by reaching for another white towel lying by the sink and covering you with it.

“Thank you,… erm?” You noticed you didn’t even know his name.

 

“Syverson. But call me Sy.” You supplied him with your name as well, when you stepped back a bit, to fully appreciate his broad hairy chest. You wanted to bury your fingers in those fuzzy looking curls, so bad.

 

Not being able to hold back, your hands reached out without your permission and did exactly what your subconscious begged them to do, sinking your fingers into those delicious curls.

The prompt growl that escaped him, made you jump and retract your hands. Sy stopped you, covering your hands with his and holding them against his torso.

 

He stepped forward, cornering you once more as he pressed you back against the wall. You whimpered lightly when the exposed part of your back touched the cool tiles.

Sy took your hands and lifted them up, over your head, holding them there with just one of his. Next thing you felt, were his lips moving against yours. Kissing you hungrily, swallowing the little mewls that wanted to escape you. Slick started to gather between your legs. You separated slowly, but not before he nibbled on your lower lip, biting down and eliciting another moan from you.

 

“You taste just as sweet as you look. Bet you feel even better though, don’t ya think sugar?”

He deliberately waited for your timid nod, only then did he move his free hand to your chin. Stroking his fingertips down your neck, tickling over your skin, over your collarbone, down to the edge of the towel. Then he gingerly pulled at it until it fell down to the floor, exposing you to his greedy, lust filled eyes.

 

His other hand loosened and moved down, then he commanded, “Leave them there.” When he continued to look at you sternly you felt compelled to answer, “Yes.”

 

“Yes, what?”

Blanking and not knowing what he wanted to hear, you murmured the first thing that your mind supplied you with, “Y-Yes daddy.”

 

You saw his Adam’s apple bob and knew you had said the right thing, when he smirked, voice huskier than before, “That’s right, open them legs for daddy.”

 

Whimpering, you did as he asked and he immediately shoved his hand between your thighs, cupping your heat. Sy continued moving his fingers through your sopping folds, carefully pushing into you.

You whined, hand flying down to gab his forearm, when he responded with pulling back, you growled in frustration.

Glaring as he tutted, “Uh uh. Didn’t say you could move ‘em down.”

 

Trying to get him to continue his ministrations you complied and lifted your hand back up.

 

“Such a good girl.”

Then two of his thick fingers plunged in, right to the knuckles, making you moan loudly. You had to fight with yourself to stop your arms from lowering again, instead you squirmed around widely, until his left hand flattened over your belly, hindering further movement.

Sy stretched your walls around his fingers, thumb slowly rubbing over your clit when he started moving them in and out of your cunt. You responded with more and much louder moans. Closing your eyes at the pleasure cursing through your body, you squealed when his lips sucked one of your nipples into his mouth, beard delightfully scratching across your tit. “Pl-Please more…mmh yeah. Feels so good.”

 

You felt him smile into your skin, leaving your breast only to blow cold air over your wet nipple, making it tighten even more, “Greedy little thing, aren’t ya?”

He took his fingers out, leaving your pussy squeezing around nothing and making you feel terribly empty. Sy put his fingers in his mouth, sucking them clean of your juices, humming as he enjoyed the taste of you.

 

When his blown out orbs landed on yours, the sudden urge to see him. Really see him, overcame you, so you whispered, “Wanna see you. Please, daddy?”

 

Your eyes already fixed on your target, you saw his cock jump beneath the towel, “If you think you’re ready, go ahead sugar.”

Biting your lip, you let your fingertips roam over his pecks first, down his belly, to the happy trail leading under the cloth. Opening it and throwing the towel behind him. Sy moaned when his hard cock, slapped against his stomach, bouncing lightly.

 

You had been right he was huge. Thick from the base up to his tip. That had you fleetly wondering if you’d be even able to take that monster of a cock. But you certainly weren’t against trying.

He smugly asked, “Think, you can take me?”

 

Without missing a beat you replied teasingly and maybe a bit too sure of yourself, “Sure. Think you can keep up with me?”

 

Sy harshly grabbed your hips, hissing against your ear, “Jump.”

When you did, he pinned you between his body and the wall. Easily holding you upright with one hand that he’d slipped down to your ass, squeezing your supple flesh. You crossed your legs behind his back, arms around his sturdy neck, ensuring your upright position further.

 

“We shall see, who can’t keep up with who.”

With that, his other hand wrapped around his massive cock, coating it in your juices, before he positioned it against your dripping hole. Sy began pushing you down his fat length. Your insides trying to make room for him, slick smoothed the way, until you sank right onto his balls. You felt stuffed, fingernails digging into his shoulders to ground yourself. Huffing at the unbelievable fullness within. He groaned as well when he couldn’t push any further inside.

 

He couldn’t wait any longer, feeling your tight cavern pulsing around him. He stepped away from the wall, one hand still gripping your ass the other at your waist lifting you up, until just his tip remained inside. Then he let gravity do the work, dropping you back down, making his cock slide all the way back into your weeping pussy. That made you cry out, pulling moan after moan from you, as he continued to ram inside.

 

“Fuck, so tight for daddy’s cock.” You could only mewl in response, tightening around him, as he began thrusting up into your cunt without abandon.

His pace didn’t falter at all, as if you weight nothing he continued to fuck up into you. Each stroke expertly teasing your special spot. Walls clutching his fat cock.

 

Sy felt you quivering against him, so he decided to pick up his pace, to make you come. Wanting to hear more of your sweet, sweet cries of pleasure.

Already at the edge of your impending orgasm, you whimpered, “So, so close…Sy please…” You didn’t even know what you were begging for in that moment, all thoughts having left you the second he’d appeared in the bathroom as your knight in shining ‘white towel’.

“Yeah, gonna come for daddy?”

 

Nearly incoherent you cried out, “Yes! So fuu-… ‘ing deep daddy…”

 

You felt your core tighten, band snapping within. Sy roughly fucked you through your orgasm, as his cock began to pulse, thrusts getting more erratic, then he came, ropes of hot white filling you.

His lips sucked at your collarbone, teeth biting your flesh. He slowed his hips and then stopped his movement.

 

He sighed happily, slowly sipping out, but still holding you up when he captured your lips in another, this time, sweet and gentle kiss. When you pulled back, his blue eyes seemed to sparkle even more than before.

 

You hung rather bonelessly from his body, too fucked out to really hold onto him anymore.

Sy cooed at you, “Aww couldn’t keep up, sugar?”

You frowned, making him chuckle when you swatted his shoulder, “Alright, alright. You did keep up, pretty damn well, if I might say so myself.” Smiling at him as he added, “Fancy a bath, love? I’ve got a tub in my room.”

 

Nodding enthusiastically, he started to march back to his room with you still wrapped up in his arms.

 

 PART 2

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Taglist:

If you're interested in being on my taglist, please let me know! And if you want to be taken off (my taglist), feel free to tell me!❤️✨

[tteokdoroki]

aali my beloved would you be willing to share some more thots regarding domineering consent-king-kiri,,,no pressure at all I am just delighted by the concept!! If nothing else I am holding your hand making microwave noises because this tickles my brain muah

☆༉ — EIJIROU KIRISHIMA. consent and condescension.

about. your wish is my command beautiful anon. this is definitely yuzuya adjacent LDKAKS !!

warnings. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact. smut, praise kink, consent heavy, condescension, scratching, afab!reader, soft dom/pro hero!kirishima.

“i only want to do this if it’s something you want.” kirishima says, his voice so quiet that it’s barely above a whisper. there’s a huskiness to it, as though he’s been holding back for so long that his tether and tie to sanity threatens to snap. the very simple fact makes a shiver run down your spine and shoot right between your legs. 

kirishima let’s put a condescending coo as he shifts to sit with you on the bed, prying apart your shaky thighs to catch a whiff of your hot cunt, a view of how juices run between your folds like golden syrup that makes you shine. you’re eijirou kirishima’s favourite sweet treat. 

“poor baby, if i hadn’t come any sooner, who knows what would have happened to you.” his voice drips to lower tones that turn on the sex signals in your brain — and as you whine out for more, the corner of the red head’s lips quirk up into a sly smile.

“all alone and unable to cum. well, don’t you worry. i’ve got you now.” you see, he knows you better than you know yourself. that you can’t get off without his thick fingers or his fat cock, and how frustrated you get when you can’t touch yourself in the same way that he does.

that’s why you called him at work, with a wobble in your saccharine voice and squelch from your cunt echoing down the line. you need eijirou.

you hardly notice how fast he strips, too dizzy and needy to speak your mind or even think. your level of desire to be fucked dumb by your man overpowers any logical reasoning you may have. taking hold of the globes of your ass, the mountainous man drags you towards him, pressing right up against your throbbing mound — looking down at you as if you’re the most beautiful, pathetic thing he’s ever seen.

you’ve not a clue as to how much you affect eijirou, with your big wet eyes and shaky hips as you rut into him for any kind of friction. he wants to ruin you and cherish you all at once, fighting with the two halves of him that join together and make him the person that he is. the hero that protects people, the man who loves you, the other that has such depraved thoughts about you. his sweet little thing.

“i’ve been dying to take you since the moment you called, fuck you against your cute little sheets, have your adorable ankles and frilly socks hangin’ over my shoulders….” eijirou’s next move is to tease your wet little slit, tapping his milky cockhead against your swollen clit repeatedly until you’re jolting and twitching from the slight streams of pleasure. “is it okay for me to touch you like this? i really want to but… your needs always come first to me.” 

the question is masked with a patronising kindness in an attempt to hide the red head’s deepest and darkest dreams. if he truly wanted to, kirishima could have plugged your hole full of his monster-like girth and fucked you until that tight, unused hole of yours was coated in his cum. yet, he treats you (the object of his affections and desires), as though you’re a porcelain doll threatening to shatter under the weight of his touch.

the cracks begin to show and the dam begins to break. your pretty face crumples with ecstasy while eijirou pushes his length through your slick pussy, laughing breathily at your arousal that clings to every spiralling blue vein that decorated his shaft. it jumps against the pleasure bud tucked away between your folds. 

you sniffle and his heart breaks for you. it does nothing to calm the flames of desire burning at eijirou’s healthy lungs — blackening them.  

“e-eiji—!”

“‘m gonna put it in now, i know, i know, sweetheart. i gotta hurry it up,” he starts, tutting down at you and your clenching cunt as he hits his hips forward — pushing his bulbous tip past the tight ring of muscle at your entrance. “you’ve been so good, sweetheart. waiting for me to get home, so you could get fucked — i just don’t wanna hurt you.” 

he brushes the pads of his thumbs over your body trembling beneath him. over your pebbling nipples, so hard they could cut diamonds because of the cold air. over your curves, your tummy and navel — every perfectly imperfect part of you. and when he reaches your thighs, they’re folded into your chest so he can give you exactly what you want. 

“oh, little one. you’re so tight, and warm around me. fuck.” eijirou is the one who hiccups this time, gripping the sheets above your head while your warm, ribbed walls grip his cock the further he pushes into you.  “so soft too, i can’t get enough of you. got me thinkin’ about you all the time.” 

he starts thrusting then, forceful but fluid like a rushing river of ecstasy. eijirou pins you to the bed below, giving you no room to wiggle away and the only option being to take everything that he gives to you. his balls clapping against the curve of your ass, his harsh moans in your ear and tip bullying your g-spot before you can even register the sensation blooming in your lower tummy. there’s no room to breathe or think while he fucks you. like he hates you, all while loving you.

“i love your pretty face. how it looks when you take me. the way your brows furrow and your soft lips part when you moan for me. can you take it? just a little more for me.” the surge of praise you receive from eijirou is like a storm that angrily hits the shore. you feel like you’re drowning, clawing at his back to drag yourself to shore while he pounds you to the high heavens. your body jolts up the bed at every one of eijrou’s thrusts — contrasting with the gentle, wet kisses he peppers across your face. 

each sweet word dipped in white sugar has you pliant and mailable under kirishima like freshly made candy. he praises you and your hips rise from the arousal soaked sheets to match his rhythm, sex spasming around him. “holy fucking shit. oh little one…so sweet and wet, hm? so pliant.” eijirou leans over you, shielding you from the world, and  liick at your neck, humming in satisfaction at your whistle tone moans. “you were just aching for me to get you like this, right little one? your knees pressed to your chest and my cock…nice and snug against your insides. you don’t wanna let me go, do you?” 

you promptly shake your head, your pretty bambi eyes fluttering shut while your body thrashes and shakes from the pleasure he feeds you — piece by piece.. “e-eiji��p-please, i need it. i c-can’t—!” 

the red head squishes your cheeks together, grunting impatiently and pressing on until his cock is pressing comfortably against your womb. “oh you poor baby, i need to give it to you just as bad as you want it… but,” the rough pads of his fingers sink into your supple cheeks as he turns your face to look at him. “i need you to look at me first. look me in the eye, sweetheart. show me how badly you want it. you’re so pretty when you do it like that, you know.” 

a wet whimper bubbles up on your lips, cherry bitten from where they’ve been caught between your teeth. they echo between your sweet slicked bodies and mingle with the saccharine syllables of kirishima’s words, as condescending as they might be. that with his domineering presence and constant stimulation of all your pleasure spots has you a ruined mess beneath him.

“i’m gonna make you cum. i have to make you cum, if it’s the last thing i do, little one.” eijirou promised lazily, circling his hips in a slow grind just he can drag out your pleasure for a little bit longer — torture you underneath him so he can keep on seeing your pretty face. he seals the promise with a sloppy kiss, sucking on your saliva soaked tongue until you’re begging him for air. “you want that too, right?”

꒰ end. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2023. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[bridgetotheskyyy]

Kisuke; Aphrodisiac + Voyeurism

a/n: another kisuke prompt bc I'm incorrigible about this man. 18+ only. really kisuke roofies reader tbh, peeping, kisuke is a creep in this gotta be real with iffy morals (s'why we love him lol), masturbation, kisuke pines after reader.

Kinktober Masterlist

“You all right?”

“Yes,” You had replied. But Kisuke had known better. The chocolates you had popped into your mouth were rushing through your bloodstream, firing up your loins and hummingbirding your heart. “Just a little … light-headed.”

Yes, darling, of course.

“It’s awfully hot today.” On cue, Kisuke spread his fan open. “Perhaps you should go lie down?”

And so when you had done exactly that, excusing yourself to be alone, moments later, after nearly finishing his tea, he had followed you. He had kneeled down to observe you through the pinhole he’d drilled in the room adjacent to yours. He’d grown a preoccupation with watching you at times you were unaware, until it developed into a particular kink.

Until it turned into this.

Kisuke was far from a fool; if you discovered his deceit, he would apologize — but he most likely wouldn’t have to; he was careful. The makeshift aphrodisiac wouldn’t leave the blue residue so characteristic of them once laced into food or drink.

Perhaps it was a touch deceitful, but he didn’t mind the moral ambiguity of it. He would never hurt you. Never. 

In fact, he only intended to bring you pleasure.

Kisuke watched as, with a mouth-watering moan, you let your head fall back against the wall. He had timed this deception so you would believe it only a consequence of your ovulation. 

“Fuck …” You were flushed everywhere, sweat collecting over your brow. “What’s gotten into me …?” You rubbed your legs together, eyes heavy-lidded and fingers twitching, most likely compelled to …

Kisuke licked his lips, unblinkingly entertained by your agony. Go on. A hungry eye followed the descent of your hand. His cock twitched as you unbuttoned your denim shorts and slipped your hand through the split v into the elastic of your panties.

Kisuke’s lips parted. He let out a groan, hopefully soft enough to be audible — but he didn’t have to hope, not really; your breathing was a thousand times more labored in comparison to his own. Your eyes closed, and Kisuke figured your manicured fingers must have found their target, pressing and circling over that precious nub. 

You let out another moan, and Kisuke’s own hand drifted to the developing tent in his trousers. He would have to devise a way to make this a bi-annual thing if you were going to look like this. His breath fell sharp and short as your hips wiggled to sag your shorts around your thighs, allowing your legs to part farther.

Kisuke felt saliva run into his mouth at the sight of your fingers sinking into your cunt.

Mouth open, mouth-breathing, this was hardly Kisuke’s most dignified moment, but he didn’t even feel centered in his body anymore as you found a rhythm with your hand. Two fingers plunged in and out while your thumb wagged awkwardly over your clit. Your back arched, pressing a tit into your other hand so you might tweak the nipple through the fabric of your shirt.

Kisuke hadn’t registered slipping his own hand into his trousers, but the tug he gave on his cock grounded him, the pleasure sending him blinking furiously. His eye never left you, not once. His cock jumped in his palm as it must’ve become too much, as you shed your panties, your shorts, before pulling your shirt over your head, desperate, probably, to have more flushed skin to touch. To escape the heat.

Feverish hot flashes were indeed a foreseen side effect. Kisuke had to make sure they remained so.

You were nearly completely naked now, save for the flimsy bra clasped around you. You paid it no mind, licking at your moist fingers before sinking them back into your swollen pussy. Kisuke wished they were his. You’d gotten wet so fast — another side effect, surely — and Kisuke licked his lips at the sight, curious as to how you would taste, if he could ever run his tongue against those precious folds and have his fill of you …

“That’s right, pretty girl …” Kisuke muttered, words hardly audible over the sound of your wanton moans, pitching higher by the moment. “I know you’re close …”

And so was he. Kisuke stroked himself faster as you cupped a hand over your mouth. A muffled whimper escaped you when the other two fingers were visited by a third. You sounded so weak, so vulnerable. Was this how you would sound underneath him while his cock split you open? 

He ached to know for sure, but you felt no passion for him. He was sure of it. He was just a humble shopkeeper. The part of him who wanted only this sight for research had to concede to the part with a tight hold on his cock, who knew this was the closest he would ever come to ravishing you.

You were trembling now. What a sight to behold! Your juices ran through gaps between your fingers, past the squashed hills of your ass to the mat. Your other hand slipped from your mouth as you grew too lost in it all to care. The thumb of that ran south to probe into the tight, puckered hole of your —

Kisuke bit his lower lip to keep quiet, yet the slick-slick-slick of his stroking drowned out your lustful cries. His climax was cresting, just on the cusp, as he watched you fall apart. He could tell by the angle of your other hand that your palm was knocking ceaselessly into your clit, your eyes fluttering into the back at your head from the overwhelming trifecta of motion.

“C’mon.” Kisuke felt the end, felt himself slip from the edge. “C’mon, beautiful —“

“Kisuke!” You cried out, whole body shuddering in your climax. 

Before he could comprehend what you had said your fingers withdrew, giving him a full view of your pussy —

With a harsh groan, white strings of come painted the wall. Kisuke reached out a hand to steady himself, its twin relentlessly stroking. He watched you with lidded eyes as your fingers circled your clit, riding out your end as he did the same.

You gave a contented sigh, closing your legs. Pleasurable thrums still sounding throughout him, Kisuke gazed downward at the mess he’d made. Until he remembered —you had cried out his name. His. A fact that could just drive him into a new state of arousal, and probably would once the shock wore off.

“So,” your voice compelled him to look up into the pinhole. Your eyes were closed, your head back against the wall. “Enjoy the show?”

Kisuke’s eyes widened. How had you —?

Another tidbit flew through his memory. The tea. The tea he hadn’t quite finished, and the roaring lust that had come after … 

But how had you managed to spike him without him knowing? His eye ran over your ravaged body, the smile growing on your face. 

Well, he might as well join you and find out.

[pastryleclerc]

je vais t'aimer

requested: yes/no

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader (one shot)

warnings: slow burn smut (the act itself is about two pages long, it's also my first!!), my bad english (and possibly bad writing), language, established bf/gf relationship, some fluff of charles and the reader making music together and being domestic towards the end, lots of text in between the lyrics - please imagine yourself singing in one go, reader is described to have brunette hair and blue eyes, mentions of death and dying, oral (fem and male receiving), p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, kids!) but reader is said to be on the pill, cock warming if you squint, also slight breeding kink towards the end, please comment if you find anything else and i'll add it to the list

word count: 4.846 words (with lyrics), 4.352 words (without lyrics)

a/n: hello guys 🥰 finally it's here - my first fic! i truly can't believe that i wrote an almost seven page long one shot but here we are. 🤩 the inspiration for the fic was "je vais t'aimer" by louane from the movie "la famille bélier" (the original was sung by michel sardou) - go and give the song a listen if you can :) i've proofread the text but i'm sure there will be a few mistakes, especially when it comes to grammar and commas, since english is not my first language. also, i feel like the ending is a bit rushed. 😅 feel free to let me know what you think as feedback and constructive criticism is always welcome 🙏 if you can find the symbolism used in this, i'll give you a cookie 🍪 in addition to that there's a hint to one of my favorite shows - leave a comment if you know what it is 😉 (italics = lyrics, brackets = translations) - here we go, i hope you enjoy this :) | *"Tonnerre de Dieu" is an idiom meaning something like "Bloody hell!"

🔎 directions | 🔎 masterlist

The cool summer breeze coming through the window – which was left open after last night’s activities – softly grazed her skin. The warm sunrays that rested upon her eyelids awakened her slowly. It was an early Sunday morning in the Monégasque summer – almost too early for her liking – so she blinked a few times but ultimately decided to close her eyes again, hoping to get a few more hours of sleep. Trying to escape the rising sun she turned towards where she thought her lover would be laying, hoping to snuggle up to him while enjoying the last day of their free weekend. But when she reached out her warm, delicate hands, all she could feel were empty sheets that had started to become cold already, indicating that her boyfriend had been out of their shared bed for a while now. So much for staying in bed.

Slowly Y/N sat up, letting out a yawn while stretching her arms above her head. By doing so, her own sheets slipped down her body, uncovering her very naked breasts. She sighed to herself, memories of the previous night came flashing back shortly, making her miss the brunette boy even more. Her heart yearned for him, thinking about the love and intimacy they shared. So the young woman made it her mission to find her other half. She swung her legs over the edge of their shared bed – her warm feet meeting the cold floor – and walked into her adjacent closet, fishing a fresh pair of panties out of the drawer. Forgoing putting on any more clothes, she went back into the bedroom and picked up the shirt her boyfriend wore yesterday and slipped it on. She tried to open the door as silent as possible, already hearing the faint sounds of a piano, and went to the top step of the staircase. From there the young woman could see her boyfriends bare back as he played the keys with his delicate fingers. Y/N noticed how the muscles of his back, moved with the rhythm he created, absolutely mesmerizing her. She couldn’t believe how such a beautiful man was truly hers and decided to watch him a little longer before making her way downstairs with the softest steps she could possibly muster as to not make him aware of her presence.

Charles Leclerc was up early. He didn’t understand why, as it was his weekend off and he had stayed up late the night before – he should be exhausted. Looking to his left, he saw his girlfriend and smiled at her sleeping form. His heart tugged at it’s strings at how filled it was with love for Y/N. His mind remembering the events of the night before. The look in her eyes gave her own love for him away, as he deeply stared into them while making sweet love to her. Their foreheads stuck together as they exchaged words of affection, some more dirty than others. For a second the young racing driver thought about waking the woman beside him up to take care of his now throbbing member but ultimately decided to not disturb her peaceful slumber. The brunette leaned over and gave his girlfriend a soft kiss on the forehead before he slowly, as careful as possible, sat up in bed and let out a yawn. He started to look for his boxers that should have been left somewhere in the room. When the Monégasque had found them he stood up and tip toed to the piece of clothing, which was laying by the bed post, and put it on. Before Charles left the room, he turned around once more and took one last look at the sleeping woman in their shared bed – half smiling at the sight – and made his way downstairs to work on his music.

Long arms snaked around his torso and a kiss was pressed to his neck. „Good morning, mon amour,“ his girlfriend whispered sweetly in his ear. If he didn’t know what music sounded like, he’d probably say this might have been it – the angelic voice of the woman he loved. Charles body automatically leaned back in her arms and he rested his head on her shoulder. „Morning, mon cœur.“ he smirked at her, squinting his eyes while he looked at her. She kissed his stubbly cheek, her left arm moved to lay over his exposed chest: „Why are you awake already? I’ve missed you.“ The older man shook his head slightly and he was able to smell his girlfriends hair: „Couldn’t sleep anymore I guess.“ Y/N hummed in response. „So you decided to leave me all alone and replaced me with your piano?“ She mumbled in her lovers neck and left a hickey. Charles hissed. „You found me after all, didn’t you? How about you join me?“ He slid to the left and patted the now free space on the bench. The woman behind him grinned and wrapped her fragile fingers around his firm chin, turning his head to look up at her. Their eyes met, completely enamoured with one another. Slowly both started to lean in until their lips finally touched for their first official good morning kiss on this early Sunday morning. The drivers hand moved to lay on her neck, deepening the kiss as both of them let out a sigh. He took it as his opportunity to slip his tongue between his girlfriends parted lips, making out with her some more, until she pushed him back slightly by his chin. „I thought you had asked if I wanted to join you?“ Y/N smirked at Charles and got the biggest smile out in response, showing off his beautiful teeth. „That I did!“ His opposite giggled and gave him on last kiss on the cheek.

She moved away from him and sat on the bench to his right hand side. Turning his head to look at her, he asked her: „Would you like to sing for me?“, knowing she had the most beautiful singing voice in the world (but don’t tell George he said that, he’d fight him for his life trying to defend Lewis). Her head now turned to look at him too: „I’d love that. Can I make a wish.“ Charles heart skipped a beat at her question and he stared at her as if she hung the moon, the sun and all of his stars. „You don’t even have to ask, you know I’d fulfill you all your wishes without a second thought.“ The young womans eyes got teary hearing those words from her lover of two years, knowing he loved her as much as she loved him. „Je vais t’aimer, mon beau.“ Her boyfriends wrinkled as his lips spread out into a smile: „Toi aussi, ma belle.“ „No, idiot, the song from ‚La famille Bélier‘.“ She laughed loudly, infecting the other Monégasque with it’s brightness and who soon joined her, shaking his head. „I knew that of course.“ Smirking, Y/N rolled her eyes, knowing full well he didn’t. Charles eyed her from the side and cleared his throat while cracking his knuckles, before his warm fingers touched the cold piano tiles again to form the opening notes oft he 1976 tune.

À faire pâlir tous les Marquis de Sade (To make all the Marquis de Sade pale)

À faire rougir les putains de la rade (To make the whores blush in the harbor)

À faire crier grâce à tous les échos (To be shouted through all the echoes)

À faire trembler les murs de Jéricho (To shake the walls of Jericho)

Je vais t′aimer (I will love you)

Y/N tried not to look at Charles while singing the all too familiar song but she couldn’t help it. He was just so gorgeous. The way his fingers moved across the tiles amazed her, watching his forearms flex while doing so. A simple yet so effective move, which – in a dangerous mix with the obscene lyrics coming out of her mouth - went straight down to her core.

À faire flamber des enfers dans tes yeux (To make hell blaze in your eyes)

À faire jurer tous les tonnerres de Dieu (To make all the thunders of God swear*)

À faire dresser tes seins et tous les Saints (To have your breasts and all the saints raise)

À faire prier et supplier nos mains, je vais t'aimer (To make us pray and beg our hands I will love you)

His cheeks reddened hearing her sing those lewd words which were meant to be for him only at this very moment. Her hand touched his biceps, moving up and down, and it sent cold shivers down his back straight to his dick. He loved sharing such intimate moments with her, just the two of them – sometimes they watched a movie, other times, like today, they made some music together – but as soon as her long fingers moved across his naked skin, he always knew he was gone for and there was only one way this would end. And she knew it too.

Je vais t′aimer comme on ne t'a jamais aimée (I’m going to love you like you’ve never been before)

Je vais t'aimer plus loin que tes rêves ont imaginé (I’m going to love you further than your dreams have imagined)

Je vais t′aimer, je vais t′aimer (I’m going to love you, I’m going to love you)

Je vais t'aimer comme personne n′a osé t'aimer (I will love you like no one has dared to love you)

Je vais t′aimer comme j'aurai tellement aimé être aimé (I will love you as I would have loved to be loved)

Je vais t′aimer, je vais t'aimer (I’m going to love you, I’m going to love you)

The young woman put her head on her boyfriends shoulder while singing, as she moved the hand – which was wrapped around his biceps – to the veins on his forearm and finally landing on his right thigh. Slowly she caressed the exposed skin, making the bulge in his underwear grow. The air between the two lovers became thicker with sexual tension second by second. Charles just really wanted to hear her sweet voice sing but now he was about to hear even better sounds coming out of her mouth and her teasing showed just how close she was to giving him herself all over again. And he loved every bit of it.

À faire vieillir, à faire blanchir la nuit (To age, to whiten the night)

À faire brûler la lumière jusqu'au jour (Burning the light until the day)

À la passion et jusqu′à la folie (To passion and to the point of madness)

Je vais t′aimer, je vais t'aimer d′amour (I will love you, I will love you with love)

À faire cerner, à faire fermer nos yeux (To be identified, to close our eyes)

À faire souffrir, à faire mourir nos corps (To make us suffer, to kill our bodies)

À faire voler nos âmes aux septièmes cieux (To make our bodies fly into seventh heaven)

À se croire morts et faire l'amour encore, je vais t′aimer (To think you’re dead and make love again, I’m going to love you)

The words sung perfectly described the love they shared for one another. They were each other light in the darkness of this world, especially Y/N for Charles. She was his anchor and saving grace whenever he had a bad race and she was there for him through it all – the ups and downs of racing ever since they had been kids, the deaths of his father and Jules, the travelling, the distance, the winning, the losing and everything in between. Everytime they had sex it felt like the very first time. And everytime they finished it felt like they had died and gone to heaven. He was excited to feel this way again and he knew she felt the same way. Their passion for one another almost exceeding the point of madness where they couldn’t go long without seeing, touching and talking to each other and not turning crazy about it. Charles and Y/N burned for each other- their love a blazing flame that never seemed to die – they were the bane of each others existence and the objects of all their desires and wildest dreams. For the last chorus the young woman let all of those feelings out and every word was meant only for her Monégasque lovers ears – the one man she ever wanted to spend her forever and beyond with.

Je vais t'aimer comme on ne t′a jamais aimée (I’m going to love you like you’ve never been loved)

Je vais t'aimer plus loin que tes rêves ont imaginé (I’m going to love you further than your dreams have imagined)

Je vais t'aimer, je vais t′aimer (I’m going to love you, I’m going to love you)

Je vais t′aimer comme personne n'a osé t′aimer (I will love you like no one has dared to love you)

Je vais t'aimer comme j′aurai tellement aimé être aimé (I will love you as I would have loved to be loved)

Je vais t'aimer, je vais t′aimer (I’m going to love you, I’m going to love you)

Charles fingers lingered on the piano, finishing the final note. They stayed silent for a little longer, letting the past few minutes catch up to them, the only sound being heard were their breaths that were in sync with each other – mirroring the rapid beating of their hearts. The woman moved her right hand from her boyfriends thigh and placed it upon his chest. „I love you, mon amour, thank you for letting me share this moment with you,“ she whispered in his ear and left a kiss right below it. The racing driver next to her turned slightly and put his hand on her cheek, his thumb caressing the warm skin. „Anytime again, ma belle.“ His dimples showed due to the soft smile that made it’s way to his face. And also his girlfriend couldn’t help but reach out for him, letting her hand linger on the side of his neck. The two of them knew what was about to happen, so Charles put his arm around Y/Ns waist, pulling her even closer (if that was possible) and their lips radiated towards each other, as if they were two magnets, finally reuniting in a breathtaking kiss.

When they broke apart, Y/N took the initiative and took her sweet time kissing down his body, leaving a few hickeys on the way – from his cheek, to his neck and his abs, until she ended up on her knees in front of the piano, facing Charles‘ crotch. Looking down on his girlfriend, he moaned her name: „Touches moi, s’il te plaît…“ Smirking at that, Y/N let her hands glid up his thigh. „Of course, baby boy, let me take care of you.“ Slowly she caressed his bulge while maintaining eye contact before dropping her head to leave some more kisses on his thighs. Then she moved her hand into his shorts and boxers to free his semi-hard dick. Charles shuddered when her cold fingers touched his warm dick and he bit his lip to keep in the moan he so badly wanted to let out. „Don’t hold back, baby, I wanna hear you. Show me how good I can make you feel.“ The girl encouraged him while stroking his hardening length. „Mon dieu…“, Charles whispered under his breath and threw his head back. At that she smirked and stuck out her tongue in order to lick a long stripe up the underside of her boyfriends dick, sucking on his tip where she left another kiss. The brunette driver locked eyes with his girlfriend who just swallowed his precum and continued to watch her as her mouth wrapped around his length again and went further and further to take him in fully. „Oh.“ His moan spurred her on and she started bobbing her head up and down, as her hand went to massage his balls. Charles so desperately wanted to keep focused on the woman in front of him but he ultimately lost control and fisted his hand in her hair, in order to form a makeshift ponytail and started pushing her head down on his dick harder. „Chérie - I’m gonna…“ His breathy voice got cut off by a groan he couldn’t hold back. As if his girlfriend could sense it, she had moaned on his dick and stroked his thick thighs, silently telling him to come in her mouth. A few seconds later Y/N heard Charles let out an especially loud moan and felt his sweet cum shoot down her throat. The young woman released his dick from her luscious lips with a loud „popp“ and opened her mouth to show Charles that she had swallowed it all. With hazy eyes he smirked down at his girlfriend and wrapped his hand around her chin, his thumb lightly stroking her cheek. „Good girl.“ He leaned down to leave a kiss on her forehead, then helped her stand on her two feet again. „Let me return the favor, amour.“

Charles stood up and deeply stared into his girlfriends eyes while slowly taking steps forward, backing her up into the piano. „Cha…“ Y/Ns voice was desperate and she closed her eyes as he reached out his hands. She waited for his touch, which never came. He closed the lid of the piano, then returned his attention to the smaller woman, his eyes so full of lust for her. His head bent down and he feverishly kissed her which she easily returned, their tongues exploring each others mouths, as if it was the first time they made out. The racing driver put his hands on her butt and softly kneaded the skin there, before leaving a slap on her right ass cheek, making her gasp loudly. „Jump.“ He said with his signature wink. Y/N did as she was told and wrapped her legs around his torso, as he sat her on top of the piano. „You look so good in my shirt. Much better than I ever did, ma jolie.“ His girlfriend giggled and his hands glid along her curves taking them all in. Charles kneeled down until his eyes were lined up with her ankles. He left the lightest kisses up her legs, alternating between the left and right one, while moving his hands up their sides. When his eyes were on the same level as her core he pulled her crotch closer to his face by her hips. „Ahh!“ A squeal left the girls lips as Charles took her by suprise. The latter laughed slighty. „Excuse-moi, Chérie.“ All was forgotten though when he kissed her cunt through her panties before he pulled them down. The excitement rose in his chest and he licked his lips, whereas his girlfriend felt a certain anticipation, wating for him to continue. Moving his face closer to her already dripping core he left a longing kiss on her clit, as his right hand came up to assist him – one of his fingers went in between her folds collecting her juices. „So wet for me already, bébé.“ He then wrapped his lips around his own finger, tasting her. „And so sweet.“ Y/N was in a state of pure bliss already, humming approvingly. „All for you, ma vie.“ Charles nodded. „Yes, all mine.“ The Monégasque started sucking on her clit again, acting as if his life essence is made up of the sweet sounds that escaped her throat. One of his fingers finally entered her, moving in and out in a steady rhythm that coordinated with the way his tongue moved along her clit. It felt as though she was his instrument: His fingers moved delicately inside of her, playing out a tune of moans mixing with the breathy calles of her name, truly showing his artistic skills aside from the piano. Two of his fingers were inside of her now, preparing the young woman for later, as he alternated between scissoring her hole and stroking her g-spot.

As Y/N felt her orgasm approach, her hands flew to her boyfriends fluffy hair, pulling on the loose curls. „Charlie, ne t’arrête pas!“ She moaned, feeling the tight knot in her lower stomach starting to loosen up. Spurred on by the soft massaging of her hands he moaned onto her clit. That was the last note missing in their steamy melody pulling the girl over the edge as she came with a loud scream of his name, squirting her juices into his mouth. He lapped at her lower lips, trying to collect all the juices he could get, before rising from his kneeling position. Her uneven breaths started to calm down again as she noticed the state of his chin through half-lidded eyes and let out a shaky laugh. „I’m so sorry, mon Chéri.“ Charles slightly leaned over her, moving his hand to her back, as he wrapped her right leg around his waist to pick her up and get her into a standing position in between him and the piano again. „No need to be sorry, mon ange. I enjoyed every second of it.“ At the second sentence his voice lowered an octave, accentuating every word into her ear. He nibbled on her earlobe moving down her neck, leaving a small hickey there. „Should we move this to the sofa for the big climax of our wonderful duet?“ He asked into her neck, knowing the couch was closer. „Yes, please.“ She breathed out, her head still thrown to the side, letting Charles have his access to her skin.

He took her hand in his and lead her to the other part of their living room. There, she regained some control when he turned around in order to kiss her, and she put her hand on his chest instead, pushing him back into the soft pillows. Charles smirked as he was under her spell once more. He patted his thighs and his girlfriend smiled, placing herself in her favorite seat, facing him. Once more the two lovers found themselves lost in each others eyes, before slowly leaning in, their lips meeting in a loving kiss, much softer than the ones before. Y/N moved her hands along his abs once more, moving over his bare chest to his toned shoulders. His own hands found their way to her wast, moving towards the hem of her – no, his – shirt, slowly lifting it above her head and throwing it somewhere behind him. The sudden cold air made her nipples harden, sending a shiver down her back. Charles smiled up at her – taking in all of her naked glory – and licked his lips in anticipation. His right hand moved to her breast, his lips latched around the other. „Ohh, Char…“ The young woman moaned and watched him suck on her tits. The fingers of his right hand fumbled with the small bud before he went to switch sides. Wanting to feel more of him, Y/N rubbed her body along his legs. Smirking, he removed himself from her boobs. „So impatient, ma jolie.“ His girlfriend laughed. „I mean, can you blame me? Everything about you turns me on immensly. Mon dieu, je t’aime tellement.“ The heat of her bare core meeting the cold skin of his thigh – he had already forgotten that her panties still layed somewhere by his piano – reminding him about the truthfulness of her statement. „Je t’aime aussi, mon cœur.“ The two stared lovingly at each other once more before the woman moved her hands down to the waistband of her boyfriends boxers – the only article of clothing left to separate their most intimate parts – and she couldn’t stand his advantage at all. „Take them off, baby.“ He smirked and tapped his hands on his girlfriends waist to signal her that she would have to get off him first. Y/N lifted her butt so that he could pull the garment down, letting them hang by his knees.

With his underwear out of the way, the woman above him slowly sunk down on his dick, stabilizing herself by putting her hands on his shoulders. At the feeling of Charles length entering her wet hole, they both let out long moans. „Putain!“ Y/N placed one of her hands on his cheek, making him look into her eyes – then she started to move. Slowly she lifted herself off him and sunk back down. The two lovers found a steady rhythm, their bodies creating a sweet melody once more. Charles hands wandered to his girlfriends ass, leaving a slap there before he kneaded the soft skin, soothing it in the process. His love let out a yelp and started to bounce on top of him faster. Her hands now rested on his waist, as she let her head fall to his neck, making her body lean on his. The new angle made both of them feel the movements more intensly – their breathy moans and husky groans filling the already sinful aria of skin slapping on skin to it’s full extent. „Chérie…“ the driver moaned into her ear, kissing his girlfriends shoulder. „Regarde-moi.“ Y/N lifted her head look at her boyfriend, who moved on of his hands to the back of her head, pulling her closer and locking their lips in a desperate and messy kiss. As they pulled away for air, both could feel their orgasms approaching. With his hand, Charles kept the woman close to him, the sweat on their foreheads mixing. „I’m so close.“ She deeply stared into his eyes, nodding frantically. „Moi aussi, Char.“ Then he steard to trust his hips up into hers, supporting her sloppier movements. Suddenly all the different components became too much for her to handle – from his hands on her body, his dick filling her wet core, to their erratic breaths conjoining in lazy, open-mouthed kisses - her body overstimulating as it reached it’s climax. The relieving wave washed over her and she came with a loud, high-pitched scream of her boyfriends name. Her walls clenched around his dick, sending Charles over the edge too, who let out a deep growl followed by a hitched cry of her nickname. The driver still held her body close as she collapsed on top of him and he started stroking her back in order to calm her down.

It felt like minutes before either of them moved again – the Monégasque just enjoying the feeling of her naked breasts on his skin, his partner listening to the sound of his beating heart. Charles even thought about taking her again, but that’s a thing that could wait until later. Right now, all he wanted to do was staying right here with her in his arms. But his girlfriend had other plans, as she was the first to sit up again. At the feeling of Charles dick still inside her both let out a groan, before laughing. „Merde, I almost forgot about that.“ Y/Ns hands caressed his cheeks as she dipped her head to leave a short but sweet kiss on his lips before she tried to lift herself off his length. She hissed at the feeling of the cold air of the living room hitting her warm entrance and noticed the way Charles cum dripped out of her hole. „Mmh, I love seeing that.“ The man in question stood up and pulled up his boxers before he stepped closer to his still very naked girlfriend again and held her close. „Can’t wait for when you don’t take the pill anymore. Gonna fill you up all nicely until you’re pregnant with our child, mon amour.“ He whispered seductively in her ear. The woman tried hard to keep her composure at his words, but the goosebumps on her skin gave her away. She wanted to have a child with him, as much as he wanted it, but only after they had gotten married. Leaving a last kiss on his lips before going off to search the shirt she was wearing earlier, she switched the topic while looking around the room with Charles following her around. „I’m starving, how about breakfast?“ Y/N smiled softly at Charles before putting on the piece of clothing, having found it laying behind the couch. „Oh yeah, let me help!“ The driver beamed as his girlfriend passed by the piano, picking up her panties, turning around afterwards to face her boyfriend – laughing at him. „Surely, ma vie, I’ll let you cut some veggies but that’s it, idiot.“ Charles jokingly rolled his eyes. „I’ll do anything, as long as it’s with you.“ She blushed at his words, softly hitting his chest with a wink. „Sweet.“ The two of them pulled back the curtains and opened the windows on the first floor of the apartment in order to let some fresh air in, before going to the kitchen to fix their brunch.

The two lovers spent the rest of their day cuddling on the couch, watching some movies and just enjoying each others company before ordering some takeout in the evening.

disclaimer: all work posted on here with this disclaimer was written by me. i do not consent this work to be published or translated on other sites than my own (@pastryleclerc on tumblr or wattpad). picture credits to their rightful owners

copyright: ©️ 2023 pastryleclerc on tumblr, all rights reserved

[rookieleonskennedy]

break the bed

fem!readerxre2!leon

tags/warnings: MDNI, nsfw, sub!leon, no use of y/n, mommy kink adjacent?, leon calls reader momma, choking kink, creampie, light bondage

A/N: took a break from my hunterxprey fic to write this bad boy. not too pleased with the last little bit, but i’ll probably go over it and edit it in the next day or so. enjoy!

“C’mon pretty boy, tell me what you want.” 

Your eyes blaze a trail down Leon’s naked form, his toned body supine on the bed before you. His arms stretched above him, his wrists tied to the headboard with pretty pink silk rope. Your fingers dance across his skin, a ballet of sensation that has his muscles tightening with each caress.

You move, circling the bed, continuing your feather-light touches to his body with a sly grin pointed in his direction. Leon trembles upon the white sheets, desperate whimpers spilling from his plush mouth as you taunt him. Stopping at the head of the bed, you stroke his face adoringly. 

“Speak, baby boy. I want to hear you.”

Leon keens, his arm muscles bulging and flexing as they struggle against the restraints. A thin sheen of sweat covers his lean figure, his hardened cock drooling a puddle of precum on his stomach. His back bows in frustration, and he lets out a frustrated whine as he nuzzles his face into your palm. 

“Please momma–want you to t-touch me.”

You would never get over the way Leon’s begging sent a shot of arousal straight to your core. He was always so needy, so pretty. Ocean blue eyes boring into yours, a glimmer of desperation clouding their depths. His lips swollen from the sharp tug of his own teeth, and the bottom one quivers slightly as he pushes it out in a pout.

You hum in response to his request, your thumb trailing gently across the sharp jut of his cheekbone. With a delicate tap to the side of his face, you remove your hand and sit yourself next to him on the bed.

“Good boy,” You purr, smiling down at him knowingly.

A high-pitched moan bursts from Leon’s mouth, your praise sending a shockwave of arousal straight to his cock. His cheeks are a ruddy shade of red, and his breathing is rapid and shallow. His eyelids drooped slightly, his iris heady with his lust for you. His gaze, however cloudy, is still intense as it follows the motion of your hand down toward where he wants you the most.

You lower it down, gently wrapping your delicate fingers around his scorching-hot flesh, causing his hips to rise off the bed, the headboard groaning beneath the strength of his arms as they pull against the rope once more. You chuckle down at him softly, pumping your hand up and down his shaft ever-so-slowly, your thumb purposefully pressing into his frenulum on each upward stroke.

You know what makes Leon tick, what spots to press and tease to make him mindless–drunk with pleasure. With the skillful and practiced ministrations of your hand, it doesn’t take long for you to have him turned into a begging, whining, mess of a man beneath you.

“M-momma, needa–fuck–need t’cum–feels so fucking good–love it when you touch me momma–your hand is so soft–shit–right th-there–hand feels so good on my cock–squeezing me jus’ right–such a perfect momma f’me–oh god–gon’ come–m’gonna come momma–ah!”

You remove your hand suddenly, denying Leon the release for which he was on the precipice for the umpteenth time that night. A sob escapes him, his body thrashing petulantly on the bed. You had teased him within an inch of his life, edging him over and over. He was absolutely dumb with want for you. The sight of his exasperation almost makes you feel remorseful.

“Shh,” you coo at him soothingly. “Don’t you wanna cum in your momma’s pussy, pretty boy?”

Leon sobs again, hot tears now spilling from his cerulean eyes and running in rivulets down his blushing cheeks. He nods his head vigorously, still writhing against his restraints. 

“Yes momma, wan’ it. Want it so bad.”

Pleased at the state of mindlessness, you move to straddle his waist, your bare body hovering mere inches above his. His hips buck, his thick cock fighting to meet the warm, wet, and plush mound of your pussy. You pull your hips away from him in a silent warning, giving him a stern look.

“I need you to be a good boy for me Lee, and stay still while I ride you, you got it?”

He bites his lip at your words, his eyelids fluttering with anticipation. He pushes his hips back down onto the bed at your command, and he moans loudly when you press the wet folds of your cunt against the side of his twitching cock.

You can feel the amount of effort that he’s putting into holding himself still for you, his desire to please you, his desire to be a good boy for you overriding his need to thrust up against you. 

You place your hands across the expanse of his chest, your nails slightly digging into his soft skin as you begin to rut against him. His breathing stutters beneath your fingertips, and his eyes roll back into his head as he whimpers.

“Please momma–please put my cock inside you–w-wanna cum in you–fuck–wan’ you to bounce on me–want you to cum on my cock–oh shit–wanna be a good boy f’you–wanna fill my momma full of my cum.”

You keen at Leon’s filthy words, throwing your head back in bliss as you continue rubbing your pussy against Leon’s dick.

“Yeah, Lee? You wanna stretch out my pussy with your fat cock–fill me up with your hot cum?”

“Yes, please momma!  I’ll make you feel so good–fill you up–make you cum f’me–be your good boy.”

You reached down to grab Leon’s shaft as he spoke, lining his tip up with your entrance. Your eyes connected with his as you began to slide your eager cunt down his length, both of your mouths dropping open in ecstasy.

 The bed frame creaks loudly, and your eyes snap up to watch as Leon���s arms pull relentlessly against the ropes. He seems to be putting all his energy into his arms rather than his hips, an effort to remain a still, good boy for you. When you’ve fully sheathed him inside your walls, you let out a shaky breath. 

Leon’s dick was big. Not too big, but big enough that you always had to take a moment and allow yourself to accommodate to the stretch of it. Once you had, you began to bounce. Attempting to find a rhythm that hits your sweet spot on every drop down. One of your hands moved to rest on Leon’s chest, while the other wrapped tenderly around his throat.

“You feel so good inside me, pretty boy. I can’t wait to cum around you.”

Leon’s whimpers and whines grew impossibly louder at your words, his desperation to finish inside you reaching its peak. With a strangled sob, he begins to plead with you.

“Momma! Please let me move–I’ll be such a good boy for you–wanna move–wanna fuck you momma–please just let me–please–fuck–I’ll do anything f’you–just lemme move.”

You giggle down at him, your hand tightening around his neck briefly. 

“Okay, baby boy. You can move.”

Leon wastes no time in beginning to move his hips once you have given him the all-clear, and he begins to thrust up into your pussy with reckless abandon. The suddenness of the motion causes you to have to use the hand you have on his throat for balance, squeezing his airway off even more. 

This only spurs Leon on, a garbled groan leaving him as he pistons his hips into you harder and faster. A strangled gasp leaves you as a resounding crack echoes throughout the room. The world tilts, and suddenly you are on your back, Leon’s still tied hands resting on your chest as he continues fucking into your squelching pussy. 

“Fuck momma–gonna fuck you so deep–bury my cock in you–such a pretty momma–pussy’s gripping my cock like a vice–gonna make you cum–shit–gonna make you scream f’me momma–just wait.”

Leon had broken the headboard from all his tugging and thrashing, leaving his hands tied but allowing him to flip you over and take control of the situation. Your pussy throbbed at this, the sheer strength of the man above you hurtling you towards your orgasm. 

With a loud yelp of his name, you spasm around Leon’s cock, your orgasm hitting you in full-force. Leon continues thrusting into you, muttering dirty words of praise in your ear as he chases his own high. His thrusts begin to get sloppy and erratic, and with a final push deep into you, he comes with a cry.

Leon collapses on top of you for a moment before rolling off and laughing.

“Guess I gotta buy us a new headboard, huh?”

You roll over on your side to meet his eyes with a smile, your hands moving to untie his bound wrists.

“Yeah. You do.”

[brattyprettysub2]

New Underwear

All characters in this piece of fiction are role-playing adults.

I've started to write more in the realm of gender fuckery and misgendering and transphobia-adjacent kinks. I'll do my best to tag all stories along these lines as "gender play". Please remember fantasy is not reality, our kinks are not our politics, and trans rights are human rights <3

*

When I feel like a boy, Daddy makes me spread my legs wide so he can laugh at my little cock. "It's barely there, darling," he says. He flicks it and when I flinch and my legs twitch closer together, he makes me pull them back, up off the bed and open wide with my hands holding tight to the back of my knees. Daddy's shirtless and I want to touch him, want to rub my hands over his soft chest hair, but I'm a good boy and I keep my hands where Daddy told me to put them.

He pinches my cock between his fingers and tugs on it. "Such a little thing," he says, and pinches harder and harder and harder. "Gets a little bigger when it's all swollen," he says. "Maybe I should take a crop to it, see how big we can make it."

He lets go of it and I'm being such a good boy, still holding my legs like he told me, but he doesn't even say anything about it. My pussy's slick and he runs his fingers over it, even though I hate him touching me there when I'm a boy, even though I've asked him not to so many times. He presses his finger in just a little, just up to the first knuckle, and I whine at him. "Daddy, stop."

"You're so cute," he says, not moving his finger away. "Pretending you have a cock instead of a little clitty, it's adorable." He presses his finger deeper and leans forward to kiss me.

I read stories sometimes about boys, real boys, being told their cocks are too small. I like it when their cocks are called clits, but this is different. It's Daddy's way of reminding me that I don't have a proper cock like him.

Daddy pulls his finger out of me, so fast it makes me gasp, and he walks to the dresser. "I think you're too little to be showing off your cock like that," he says. He opens a drawer and starts looking through. "What if someone sees how small it is and laughs at you?" He looks at me with his mouth twisted in mock-sympathy. "I wouldn't want my little boy to start feeling self-conscious."

Even with the mean things he's saying, my tummy feels all warm and happy at being called his little boy. I pull my legs a little higher, a little wider. Cool air brushes over my wet pussy and it makes me shiver. I wonder if Daddy can see how wet it is. He likes to take pictures of my shiny pussy lips and show them to me. He likes to call me his wet little boy with a perfect pussy, and I don't know if it makes me feel good or bad, it just makes me feel squirmy.

Daddy pulls something from the dresser and returns to the bed. They're a pair of underwear, boxer briefs, I think, and they're blue, but I don't get a chance to see more than that before he's pulling my legs back down to the bed, pushing them together so he can pull the underwear over my feet. He drags them all the way up my legs. "Bum up," he says, and I plant my feet on the mattress to lift my hips for him. It feels like I'm shoving my pussy and cock in his face and it makes me blush.

Daddy smiles like he knows what I'm thinking and strokes my inner thighs as he pulls the underwear over them. "Slutty little boy," he murmurs. "Little cock all hard and asking for attention, pussy dripping wet."

He pats my bum once he gets the underwear on and I return to my original position, hands tucked behind my knees, legs up and open for him. The soft cotton underwear presses against my pussy, sticking to it. I finally get a good look at the underwear.

It's light blue, patterned with rocket ships and aliens. Underwear for little boys. Daddy pats my tummy. "There," he says, unzipping his pants and pulling his cock out. He kneels on the bed and thrusts his cock against the crotch of my underwear. It's thick and heavy, I can feel the weight of it on my little cock. "Nice and safe," Daddy says, leaning his weight forward, braced with one hand on the mattress. He wraps his other hand around his cock, his knuckles brushing against my much smaller one. "No one's gonna laugh at my little boy now."

When he comes all over the front of my new underwear, I can feel it seeping through the cotton, wet and sticky and warm. He cups my crotch and rubs it in. "Don't look so sad," he says, scooping come onto his fingers and pressing them into my mouth. "I know Daddy made a mess of your undies, but I've got lots more pairs for you. You'll never have to show off your baby cock again." He gets up, stretches his arms above his head, tucks his cock back into his jeans. "Which do you want, little one, trucks or duckies?"

*

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[swampstew]

Eustass Kid, G-49 ~ Glory Hole

Summary: Sea-trow: a malignant or mischievous fairy or spirit, regarded as monstrous giants at times. Trows are nocturnal creatures, they venture out of their 'trowie knowes' (earthen mound dwellings) solely in the evening, and often enter households as the inhabitants sleep. Trows traditionally have a fondness for music, kidnapping musicians or luring them to their dens, and having sexual intercourse with women on their land. They are regarded as hideous creatures that are hung like horses. This is the story of their glow up and thriving business model.

Warnings: Spicy, modern monster au, Eustass Kid as a Sea-Trow, Female reader, glory hole/reverse glory hole trope, fingering and vaginal penetration, creampie, degradation, calling reader slut and pet names, Kid being an amazing Dom. Not edited cause I'm stoned and sleepy. Word Count: 2K

Visiting a glory hole was one of your secret kinks – always too shy to share with anyone you’d ever been intimate with. Even soft voyeurism suggestions like car sex while in your relationships gave you surprised and shocked looks. Tempering your appetites, you hid a part of yourself under lock and key until circumstances found you free again. Emboldened, excited for adventure, ready to shed the weight of judgment – you were finally going to try it out.

Your fantasy included either having your body used at a glory hole or visiting one to play at. Due to the stigma, glory holes became nearly extinct. In fact, you had to resort to using the internet to finding any, but thanks to the help of some kink friendly resources and associates, you found a list of the last remaining glory holes, and to your delight, it was a global map.

Deciding to cash in your hoarded holiday time at work, you booked a flight overseas to visit an online friend in the kink community you felt safe with. They offered to go with you as well, for the experience and to be your buddy in case things went wrong. It made you feel better, though you still felt timid as you parked in a dim parking lot adjacent to a nearly deserted beach.

The air was breezy but not too cold, just shy of the fall weather, and music was pounding from the shack down the beach. Some people filtered in and out, some smoked down by the shoreline, but the shack doors were always forcibly closed as soon as someone cleared the threshold.

Exhaling away your anxiety, you entered. Then you stepped through another double set of doors. Then you were inside.

Down the hallway were picture frames of the…options. None showed their faces, but they showed everything else. Magnificent physiques, sculpted bodies, chubby bodies, scarred bodies, eccentric styles, colorful hair and painted nails accessorized their bodies – but the draw of course, were their huge cocks.

Your jaw dropped – certain you’ve never seen them that big before. Under each frame was a short bio and the person’s house name, and what the list of kinks they were into. There were two options: glory hole, reverse glory hole.

“Some of our young stallions don’t mind showing their face,” a tall woman with an old-fashioned crown on her head walked towards them with a clipboard in hand. “Quincy, house madam. You’re in luck, a few of our studs are available.”

“Which ones?” your friend inquired.

Quincy’s hair bounced as she flounced to each picture frame, sometimes turning the frame to show a face. A man with long blue locks that partially covered his thorn tattoos, a man with a burned right arm and massive pecs with flowing blonde mane, a sculpted man so tall the picture was taken with a wide lens scope. A handful more were shown but your eyes stayed glued to the frame of the heavily scarred man with a metal prosthetic arm, bulging drool-inducing muscles on a buff frame, red happy trail that led down to his generously proportioned cock, framed with that same red hair.

The madam noticed your staring and with a smirk flipped the frame over. Revealing a gorgeous face with equally heavy scarring. Fiery red hair styled in tufts, heavy black eyeliner defined his sharp, golden eyes, and deep matte red lipstick gracing a handsome smile. Your heart was pounding.

“Would you like to use him?” Quincy asked. You nodded, unable to speak from such a parched mouth. “I’m sure he’ll be excited to meet you. If this is your first time, I’d recommend the reverse hole, especially with a beast like him.”

Sheer heat pooled between your legs as you nodded.

“Right this way.”

-- Quincy placed you in a small room that was partially lit with candles, peering at all the framed photos of The Bull as you undressed. You sat on the custom bench that was mounted to the partition wall – a large heart shaped hole in the wall with a harness to strap you in and hold your legs back.

“Ya’know the rules, darling?” a gruff voice came from the other side of the wall, making you jump in surprise. “The safe words an’ everything?”

You nodded before realizing he couldn’t see you, “Y-yes. The three color system: green for good, yellow for slow down, red for stop.”

“Thass’good lass. Was told this is y’first time in a place like this – don’t pretend you enjoy something if y’don’t. Say something, ya hear?”

“Y-yes.”

He let out a light chuckle, “Ooh a shy one eh? I’ll show ya a good time, don’t y’worry. Ready to strap in?”

“Uh, um one moment,” you gasp, suddenly feeling a bit overwhelmed. All you had to do was lay down on the bench, scoot your ass through the hole, put the harness around your thighs to keep you up, but you were moving sluggishly. Red flushing your body as you came to the precipice of a fantasy you had long suppressed, long been shamed for.

“Oi,” his voice was soft, “Having regrets?”

With a wavering voice you summarize the shame you felt and bad experiences, tears spilling down your face completely embarrassed.

“S’ok, darling. There’s no shame here,” he whispered. “Want me to strap you in?”

“Ye-yess, erm, is that…is that allowed?”

“TCH. O’course it’s allowed. I own the feckin place.”

You were surprised to find that the hollow partition wall had a door behind the floor length mirror so you jumped again when The Bull ducked inside your side of the room. His photos didn’t do him justice. He was practically a giant compared to you. Large limbed, every bit as good looking in the flesh, the way his eyes pierced you made you feel like you were seen for the first time. That you would be ok in his hands.

He held out his hand, a pleased grin curled on his face when you grabbed it. Gently shifting you down the cherry oak wood, massaging your bare bottom as he eased you into the opening, caressing your calves and thighs as he slipped on the harness straps.

“Thassa good lass indeed,” he purred, “So shy and obedient. I’ll give ya somethin’ special I don’t do for no one else if yer honest with me,” he said. With his flesh hand he cupped your mound, making you shudder and moan at the contact. “How’s it feel?”

“G-good!” you were breathless.

“Ya’ lyin?”

“No-no! I’m green, good to go!”

His face relaxed and he grinned again, “Good.” He then plunged a thick digit into your pussy making you clench and squeak in pleasure. He thrusted shallowly a few times before pulling out, wiping his finger down your body until he cupped your cheek. “I’m gonna have fun with ya. Pull more squeaks from ya, little mouse.”

He smashed his red lips into yours with ravenous need, leaving you panting and pleading for more. He pulled away with a teasing nip on your bottom lip, looking at you with a devious smirk. He leaned back down and pressed an open-mouth kiss on your neck, sucking it harshly to leave a mark.

“So everyone here knows you’re my little plaything,” He fondled one breast while he sucked the nipple of the other before leaving to his side again.

“Ready fer’me darling?” his voice was deeper, huskier.

“Yy-yes, I’m ready,” your hips wiggled impatiently.

“First things first, dirty girl,” he mocked you, lightly slapping a rubber packet on your clit making you arch your back. “I don’t shoot my load in ya unless y’buy me dinner first.”

Before you could giggle, you choked out a gasp as he rubbed his stiff cock between your folds, jutting against your clit. He teased you while muttering out all the things he would do to you, all the positions he’d have you in just to see your cute face pinched in ecstasy – you felt his metal hand slap the wall making it tremble. Rubbing his thumb on your clit with more pressure, keeping his tip at the edge of you entrance to feel you clench around nothing, so close to penetrating you but not quite there.

“Wassa mistake seein’ ya,” his voice sounded restrained, “I wanta bust on yer face instead of in this feckin rubber piece o’shit!”

You heard him loudly grunt as he sunk into you, pushing out all the air from your lungs. He was stretching you far beyond what you’ve ever experienced and despite it burning just a wee bit, the pleasure was far overtaking the minor pain. His fat cock pressed against all the right areas making you pulse on him, your legs shook against the restraints as you tried to wrap your thighs around his hips.

“Ahhh shit,” he growled, “So feckin tight! Ease up or I won’t last long darling!”

You thought you were answering but instead a wail was ripped from your throat as he changed his pace from rapid thrusting to long, slow strokes. Coaxing your orgasm while tempering his own. His painted nails dug into the back of your thigh as his metal fingers dug into the wooden wall, slowly denting with the mounting pressure he applied.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been fucked so well, felt so full, felt like such a toy but still felt important enough to be taken care of. The Bull railed you over and over again, making it his personal mission to make sure you cum at least eight times before he was done with you.

“Thassa good pet!” he grunted after the seventh one. “Took me so well, d’ya want more special treatment?”

You babbled out what you hoped was a yes.

“Well well well, turns out you weren’t a wee mouse but a desperate bunny ready to be bred. Is’that what y’want darling? Want me to rip this condom off and bust on ya? Are you a kinky lass, wantin’ it inside ya? I think you’re a slutty little thing, slutty little bunny who wants m’cum dripping from her greedy hole. What’sit gonna be darling?”

“FU-FU FUCCCCKK MEEEE!!!!” you cried.

He hooted, “I already am darling!”

“FUUCK IT IN MEEEEEE!!!!”

“There’s my slutty bunny,” he grinned, and in one swift motion yanked the soiled rubber off his angry red cock, it bobbed in frustration at the sudden cool air and loss of tightness. With a moan, The Bull filled you up to the hilt in one swift thrust.

Shrieking at the overstimulation, your puffy clit throbbed against The Bull’s matted pubic hair as he ground into you. His forehead pressing into the wall as he bullied his cock into you deeper and deeper. Your toes curled as your last orgasm peaked, letting out a hoarse cry as your body shook from the heat that spread throughout you.

Your ears started ringing from the hazy pleasure that washed your body, vaguely aware of the man on the other side of the wall who was clutching your thighs and slamming his hips rabidly as he emptied himself inside you. Could hear his satisfied growl through the background noise, it sounded so far away and yet so near.

You came back to reality when you realized he was back in your side of the room, pulling your legs from the harness and wiping you down.

“There she is,” he grinned, “How’re ya feeling?”

“Go-good, no, fucking, fucking great,” you sigh tiredly.

“Heh, you look wiped out. You need to drink and eat. C’mon, I’m goin’ with ya.”

“You-you are?” you’re surprised as you pull your clothes on.

“Haah! Y’re takin’ me to dinner darling. I put a lotta work into rockin yer world, least ya could do is buy me a burger and beer! Learn my name or somethin’. Is’yer first time to this part of the world right? Y’ever hear about Sea-trowls?”

You hadn’t noticed before that his feet and hand had a hint of webbing between his digits, his feet themselves were shaped more like horse hooves. Despite the leather jacket he donned on, you could see the back of his neck seemed to glimmer, as if the skin on his back was less skin and more like scales.

“M’name’s Kid. What’s yers darling?”

11 tiles to go, 40 calls made so far.

[gabessquishytum]

Okay i dont watch Bridgerton, nor do i plan to, but this popped up on my dash and i cant help but think..... it's Dreamling. Canon adjacent or any sort of fantastical AU, it works too well!! Thoughts?

https://www.tumblr.com/stevenrogered/750619473000726528/anthony-kate-bridgerton-bridgerton-3x01-out-of

Hell yeah I'm with you on this one, the dialogue is so hot in this scene (link)

I do adore the idea of married dreamling with a healthy dose of breeding kink. They're still very much in the honeymoon phase and Hob still goes weak at the knees whenever Dream begs for the opportunity to put a baby in him.

Just. Dream getting his mouth in between Hob’s legs at every opportunity. Hob fondly scolding him while Dream looks up with big, blue eyes and says "but we're making an heir, isn't that important?"

And when they're in public associating with friends or family or guests, and they get the inevitable question - will there be children soon? Dream will inevitably slide his arm around Hob and growl "we're trying as hard as we can, aren't we darling?"

If we're in omegaverse-land... Hob is a very strong and independent omega with big ideas about his own rights. He's not just a baby making machine, right? The trouble is, he's so weak for Dream. All he wants is to climb right onto Dream’s knot and get a big dose of his alpha's seed.

Getting Dream to eat him out is a satisfying alternative. He can't spend his whole life locked to Dream’s knot! But he can enjoy the luxury of his husband's mouth several times per day. Maybe he can even multitask and get some letters written! Although Dream will do his very best to distract him......

[jolenes-doppelganger]

Bet with the Devil (NSFW)

Lucifer Morningstar (The Sandman) x fem!Reader

NSFW 18+- MINORS WHO INTERACT CAN AND WILL BE BLOCKED.

Summary: Following Dream's narrow escape from Lucifer, chaos breaks lose in heaven. At least for the Archangels like yourself, the lowest ranking angels in heaven. With few options left, Michael appoints you to run an errand down to hell wherefore you are to deliver a message from God himself. What could go wrong? (Angels are all genderless according to official lore, both Lucifer and reader present with female anatomy).

Warnings: Sexual content (cunnilingus, fingering, the works), roughish, blood kink-adjacent sex

Word Count: 7.2k words (Oh my GOD I'm sorry).

It was a simple mission. That's what you'd been told. Michael was preoccupied, and to send such a small errand with Raphael, Aziraphale, or even Gabriel would be insulting. God had better uses for them. As a lowly Archangel, you were cut out for small errands. They weren't usually to Hell. Sure, you were protected, and had all the necessary authority to visit Hell without needing to call in, but still.

"Deliver a message to Lucifer Morningstar," Michael ordered. "It bears the official crucifix, if demons give you trouble, bare it and command them to obey in the name of the Almighty," he explained, glancing down, a bored expression on their face.

"Yes Michael, I understand," you sheepishly replied.

"One more thing, Y/N," Michael said, extending the scroll outward. "This is your first time interacting with the Prince of Lies, correct?"

You nodded, taking the scroll from Michael, tucking it inside your robes for safekeeping.

"In that case, always remember, Lucifer Morningstar was the best of us before the fall," Michael solemnly declared, "They are still the most beautiful and charismatic angel to exist. Listen not to their lies,"

"I understand, thank you Michael,"

They smiled in response, patting you on the back. As the gates of heaven open, multitudes of angels pour out, flying every which way. Michael gestures for you to follow them, and you both take to the air, flying away from the horde of angels sent down to Earth. Taking his mighty sword, Michael cuts a portal through empty space, motioning you forward. Clutching at the rosary around your wrist, you dive headfirst into the flaming pit below you.

<-*~~~~~~~~~~~~~*->

Your feet hit the stone floor with a jolt. Distant screams and wails fill the air, the acrid smell of sulfur causing you to wrinkle your nose. The devastation of Hell is truly complete, after all, the malevolence of the Almighty knows no bounds. A demon shrieks as you make your presence known, skittering around a corner before you can even make your visit known. Silence enters the chambers, and you slowly pace around the strange coliseum-like structure. Pits of fire surround you, dancing vengefully. Turning your eyes upward, you utter a short prayer to the Almighty, requesting strength. This is the only connection you have with him, he cannot see you here, only direct messages can be sent.

Giant columns bear the weight of this strange place, irreverent carvings dotting the surfaces randomly. It's grotesque, and feels incomplete in a way that irks you. Taking in every detail of your surroundings, you're slow to recognize the hulking figure mere steps from you.

"My, my," they whispered, "You must be... An angel," They smirk.

The most beautiful divinity you've laid eyes upon regards you with utter amusement, vibrant red robes glittering in the faint light. Golden-white curls decorate their head, and the serenest blue eyes you've ever seen flicker over your features with playful interest.

"Lucifer Morningstar," you gasped, flexing your wings in surprise. "I didn't think it would be this easy to reach you,"

This comment seemed to amuse them more, and they chuckled, gliding over to a basin of fire. You watch as they slowly reach in, fingers fluttering ever so slightly before scooping out a handful of vibrant vermillion and coral flames.

"Who else but me would greet a rogue angel?" they chuckle, watching the flames glide over their fingers.

"I assure you, I come on official business," you promised. "I act as a messenger on behalf of the Almighty,"

This peaks their interest, their wings flexing ever so slightly. Dropping the fire back into the basic, they take a few steps forward, large frame bearing over you ever so slightly.

"And what kind of irrelevant message could this be?" Lucifer sneered.

The situation was a bit comical. A lowly Archangel cast off on a mission to relay the ruler of Hell a lazy rebuke, Heaven's equivalent of a slap on the wrist. From Lucifer's point of view, this could only be seen as insulting.

"Morningstar, I apologize for the unintentional injury my presence has caused. Aziraphale, Raphael, Gabriel and Michael were all preoccupied," you assured.

Lucifer chuckled, gazing down at you with a patronizing smile.

"No, don't apologize. I am charmed that heaven has sent you to bear this urgent message,"

You're taken aback by Lucifer's charm. Their comments are meant to be insulting, yet they carry an elegance to them. Lucifer watches you intently, reveling in how small you seem beneath them. You're oh so timid and shy, a nameless Archangel sent on a meaningless mission. It's cute how accommodating you are, how nervous they make you.

Shaking your head, you flutter your wings, attempting to regain whatever miniscule leverage you have.

"It appears you've angered the Almighty with your exchange with the Endless. I have been sent here to remind you that there are certain rules regarding exchanges between them, and that under no circumstances are they to be taken as trophies,"

Lucifer groaned aloud. "Please, these are just rules. The Endless are divine powers, they come and go as they please, and make decisions as their free-will permits,"

"I assure you that these rules exist to ensure balance. You cannot do whatever you desire without consequences,"

Lucifer laughs at this, turning toward you with a look of utter disbelief on their face.

"Oh, sweet one, aren't you tired of all these rules," they purred, reaching forward to gently caress your wings.

Shuddering ever so slightly, you jerk away from their grasp. Your cheeks flushed, heat tingling from the edges of your feathers to your shoulders. Touching wings was a gesture made by only the closest companions, thus cheeky gestures such the Morningstar's were considered taboo. Sensitivity and honor played a role in this custom, the former more pertinent in high society. It seemed only necessary that the prince of demons would be so callous with gestures such as this, making your mission all the more difficult.

"Perhaps you've forgotten decorum between angels, but I certainly have not," you spat, flexing your wings with vicious intent.

"Oh, how easily you heavenly messengers are to anger," they insipidly grinned.

Turning their fingers ever so slightly, a robust gold ring flickered delicately in the dim light. Chasing your gaze upward, Lucifer regarded you with a bemused expression, silently begging you to take the bait. Your nostrils flared ever so slightly as you breathed in deeply, gently moving to take a rosary bead between your fingers. Lucifer glanced down at your wrist where you had woven the object on to your body, and you watched with unguarded glee as their features twisted into a macabre look of disgust.

"It is not my place to engage in such childish games with you, Lucifer Morningstar," you preened, "I simply bear a formal censure from the Almighty. You may choose to read it yourself, or I can read it for you,"

You reached inside your robes to remove the scroll, the threadbare cloth soft from years of use. Heaven had no need of trivial things such as luxury. Heaven was the highest honor, thus even the merest of rags would glorify God. It was this state of self-righteous thought led to the consequence of indifference. A rough grasp on your palm broke you from your thoughts as harsh winter winds break through the mildness of fall. Eyes so blue, so deep that they could be compared to the serenest of water bored into yours with such wrath that could only belong to God's most scorned child.

"Bear that spiteful scroll in my presence and I will send it back to God with your wings as postage!" Morningstar snarled.

"Unhand me, fiendish vermin!" you insulted, "In the name of Almighty God you will release me!"

"Oh you poor foolish child," they growled, "You are in my realm, he has no authority here, and neither do you!"

Both you and Lucifer fought for purchase, their grip on your wrist made dually claustrophobic by the vice grip they held on the crux between your neck and shoulder. Instinct instructed you to drop the scroll, to break free from their grasp and fly to heaven. Your message would be delivered, yes, and you would be safe. Tossing the scroll as far from you as possible, Lucifer was momentarily distracted, thus giving you a window by which to escape. Shrugging away their arms was the final step to freedom, feet sturdy on the ground and wings flared, you took a step, grinding the soles of your feet into the slippery ground, you slipped. The sandals upon your feet, threadbare and devoid of traction slipped upon the lip of stone, and you slipped.

Time grew slower, arms braced parallel to the floor, to catch the weight of your body and your hulking wings. Freedom was certainly lost now, injury closing upon your tail like a wolf pack upon a doe. Wind rustled through your robes, bare skin exposed to the air currents; a product of your scuffle with the devil. Your eyes closed as the ground grew closer, that was until two arms encircled your waist.

"Ahh!" you gasped.

Red velvet-encased arms held you close to Lucifer's chest, your wings pinned outward. You were relieved, yes. But this was the devil you were dealing with.

"My, my, clumsy and naïve," they tutted, breath tickling the shell of your ear, "What an unfortunately appetizing combination,"

Your heart raced in your chest, blood flushing your cheeks, dizziness and nausea weakening your already vulnerable state. Your robes sagged open, bearing clammy skin to the cold air, and to Lucifer's vulturous gaze.

"Out of one-liners?"

"Out of breath," you replied, reaching upward to close your robes.

"No, no, keep them like that," Morningstar whispered, swatting away your hands. "I like the view,"

An obscene amount of cleavage was exposed, an expanse of skin from your collarbones to your sternum barely covered by the thin layers of your clothing. Whether it was their probing stares or their flirtatious regard of your disenfranchised state was irrelevant, the rapid beating of your chest made known your nervous state all too well.

"Come, sit with me," they inclined, "I am capable of civility,"

It wasn't an invitation as their tone suggested, rather an introduction of their intended course. With as much grace as one could muster given the partnership of a flustered, clumsy and hopelessly confused angel, Lucifer pulled you away into a deeper corridor, away from the green marble pillars and strange pictures. No faces greeted you down this strange passageway, no sound reached you. It was eerie how empty this grand structure was.

"Stop will you," Lucifer groaned, holding you still upon a landing. "You are impossible to lead, I'd have greater success with a three-legged lamb,"

"It would help if I knew where I was going," you glowered.

They scoffed, disregarding your pleas. Obstinate and self-assured, this was the devil’s main flaw. But you had flaws too now you realized. Greed perhaps? No. Not yet at least, you had nothing that you simply could not get enough of, perhaps you were greedy for air? But I suppose if you needed it, like needed it every moment of every day, it would not be greed? Maybe you were selfish. But how could you be selfish? You did not want, aside from the wants granted from above. Perhaps you were too meek, although the Lord said that the kingdom of heaven would be theirs.

“Quite a lot of thoughts in that big head, I wouldn’t want you to get too focused and misplace your step,”

Shaking your head in annoyance, you disregard Lucifer’s warning. Your thoughts were your own. They should mind theirs.

“How can your thoughts be your own if everything is dictated to you,” Morningstar pressed.

“If you would mind your tongue,” you seethed.

“Oh alright then, if you’re so inclined to your thoughts allow me to stay in them,” Lucifer’s voice rippled through your head.

The jolt of their voice in your head did more than catch you off guard, you found your step slipping, flimsy sandals sliding over the damp steps. With little more than a sigh, the prince of free will reached around to grab you by your waist, once again suspending you mid air.

“What did I just say?” Lucifer mocked, overly dramatic as they pulled you up, lips pursed for dramatic effect.

“What the fuck are we talking for?” you growled.

“Oh?” Lucifer smirked.

“I have no time to talk, I was supposed to return to my post by now, and I don’t have room for your games. Make your point, seated or otherwise,”

Lucifer’s expression hardened, abruptly dragging you toward and open room. The room itself was a lounge, a precipice-like opening above the fires of hell. With a flick of their wrist all doors and windows clanged shut, sealing you in a room with the Morningstar.

“Be seated,” they sighed, gesturing to a point on a couch.

You hesitantly obeyed, sinking into the softest surface you’d ever touched. It felt sinfully good, you thought, smirking to yourself. Maybe relaying messages to Morningstar didn’t need to feel so heavy.

“That’s right, relax yourself,” they purred, looking down at you bemused.

“Well, what did you want to talk about?” you half-heartedly pressed.

“I didn’t come here to talk, did you?” Lucifer crooned.

“Well, how else would you convince me to abandon my heavenly post and join your ghastly forces?”

Lucifer rolled their eyes. Inching over you ever slowly until at last, at long last, you could see just how deep those blue eyes were. All the rage, all the anger one could ever imagine welled up in those deep hues of blue and grey, irises dilating until all light from their eyes seemed to fade. How could their gaze be so hateful, were you that vile?

“Yes,” they sneered, lunging toward you viscerally.

The force they used to grasp at you sent the couch hurtling backward, leaving your skull to collide with the stone ground. Pain bloomed in the back of your head, and you gasped in agony. Pain met pain as Lucifer, commander of the legions of hell, sunk their teeth into the crook of your neck.

“Oh God,” you gasped.

“He’s not here,” they glared, lips lightly glistening with your blood.

“Why are you doing this?” you gasped.

“Because I know you, I’ve been in your head, I know how you lose yourself in my eyes, and I know just how flustered you’ll get when I do this,” they snarled, their fingers burying themselves into the flesh of your trapezius, knotted from the constant strain of your wings upon the muscles.

“Please!” you moaned, wings twitching uncontrollably. “I thought you were going to convince me to be here, this doesn’t feel-“

A long stripe up your neck silenced all that was left of your plea. It felt cool, luxurious and soothing. Fingers ran up your neck, burying into your hair, gently massaging the place where you’d hit your head. Pain bloomed into pleasure, and the rage-filled gaze of your captor turned bemusedly wanting.

“The head injury is atonement for the head ache your sudden appearance has given me,” they smirked, “The abuse of your back for the knife heaven has sent you to stab in mine, and the bite,” they chuckled, “Well the bite is just for fun,”

Morningstar glowed above you, light from the ornate chandelier creating a halo of soft light around their angelic features. They really were the most beautiful angel ever created.

“Yes little angel, look all you want,”

Gently, ever so languidly, Lucifer moved your robes to the side, baring your breasts to the chill of the room. Their gaze glides over the peaks and valleys of your form, smiling in delight as you blush.

“Tempting, so tempting,” they whisper, dragging a finger down your sternum.

Your breathing grows ragged, a desire you’ve never felt blooming in your lower abdomen. Instinct calls, and you flex your thighs, shifting your position, trying to find release from the uncomfortable clenching in your cunt.

“Poor little angel,” Lucifer drawls, running fingers through your tangled hair. “How desperately you want,”

It’s meant to be condescending, this statement. It’s not your fault, you think. Your innocence, the lack of experience, it’s not your burden to bear. If you’d been given the opportunity, if you’d ever had the chance to engage in, to learn this strange dance of limbs and ragged, animalistic desire, well, you would have.

Lucifer rolls their eyes at your inner monologue. It’s rather cute, how you justify your naïveté. But it’s boring, a waste of thought. Thought is the killer of want, to think long enough is to ruin any chance of acting instinctually, to chain the animalistic mind, ruining any chance of sin. Lucifer doesn’t much care for the act of sex, it’s carnal, sometimes entertaining, but this, getting an angel to sin? Oh my. What a lovely thought.

“Stop thinking little angel, stop worrying,” they whisper, pressing the softest of kisses on your ear. “The body knows, the mind doubts,”

Their words, the breath on your ear, it’s all too stimulating. You reach around their shoulders, pulling yourself into the warmth of their body. Your head aches from the trauma of the stone, and little prickles of pain bloom in your neck. You want comfort now, you want patient pleasure.

“Good,” Lucifer croons, pulling you upward, carrying you like a child.

They smell spicy, like a blend of pepper and cardamom, maybe even frankincense. Their robes stink of sulfur, but their skin smells of incense, perfumed oils and smoke. You pull away the awful smelling robes from their neck, burying your nose in the smell of their skin. Never before have you wished for fresh air, for the rustle of wind on your wings, the cool of a mountain breeze.

Yes. A voice whispers. This is what you must cling to, this is what you must remember.

Lucifer hisses, a sharp rebuttal, laced with mirth. You’re thrown, landing on a bed of satin and silk, but the sudden motion causes you to shriek, and you land at an odd angle, your wing’s twisting painfully. If Morningstar had been furious before, they were murderous now.

“I told you,” they shout, “Not to think!”

You shuffle away from them, backing yourself into the headboard, away from the rage of the demon in front of you.

“I didn’t mean-”

“You didn’t mean to?” Lucifer mocks. “I don’t care what you meant to do, you will not think, you will not ponder, you will only feel,”

Lucifer smiles down at you, canines bared in a saccharine smile. They flare their wings, dark onyx against the flickering red and yellow light. The anger, the flat out hatred, it’s gone. Golden curls illuminated by candlelight, soft pale skin defined by shadow, silky robes in luxurious tones, it’s all sensuality and elegance.

“Beautiful, sweet angel,” they lull, “Come here,”

Soft fingertips trace over your lips, your chin, your cheek. Gentleness and warmth dips into the contours of your skin. Comforting, merciful touches. The likes of which you have never felt.

“Yes, that’s right,” Lucifer praises, “Just feel,”

Their hands slide lower, running over your shoulders, your collarbones, the raw skin where they bit you. They grow closer, breath tickling the tiny hairs on your face. Lucifer’s lips wet with spit, eyes dilated in the low light. You desperately want to run your hands through their hair, to muss up their curls, ruin the delicate spirals. Their lips on your neck, on your cheeks, on your own.

I want, I want, I want, I want.

"Yes, good little angel," they whisper, "What pretty little feelings those are,"

"Can I?" you whisper. "Can I have these things?"

"Yes, yes you may," Lucifer smirks.

Wrapping yourself in their embrace, your robes sliding down your shoulders, baring your chest to them, your stomach, the top of your mons pubis, all of these things lay bare, vulnerability in it's most simple form.

"Beautiful, uncorrupted angel," Lucifer groans, "Bare yourself onto me, let me see you as the Father has made you,"

They pull your robe down, fully baring you to the candlelight. You shiver, the air here is stagnant, but devoid of heat. It's that of a cave, murky and claustrophobic. You're desperate for air, you feel like you might faint, you feel dizzy, like you might faint, like you might-

"-Shh, feel me, don't feel fear," they direct, pulling your naked form into their skin, toward the smell of incense and perfumed lotion.

You inhale, pulling down the red silk that smells of misery and rotten things, down off their shoulders, down their arms, down to sit on the bed, down onto the floor. I want, I want, I want.

"Yes," they smirk, "Want," they echo.

A burning ache fills your lower abdomen, an uncomfortable pulsing that only seems to worsen to pulse and clench, and you ache to be rid of it. Lucifer smiles, a knowing, pitying smile. Their skin glows in the dim room, and you try not to blush at the sight of their bare skin. You fail, and your embarrassment becomes funny to them.

“Sweet little baby, so young, so naive, how desperately would you like to be with me?” Lucifer preens, your lips inches apart.

“I-,” you stutter, almost ready to commit to them, to sin against God, to deny your creator, but then you want. Not for their touch, but for the sun on your face, and you shut your eyes tightly, breath growing heavy.

I can’t lose this bet, I can’t want too much. I can’t lose, can’t lose, can’t lose.

“Shh,” they whisper, gently pressing their lips against yours.

Fire blooms in your abdomen, hot aching fire, and it burns and flares and pulses at a rate that feels sinful. Their lips mound against yours, and you bury your hands in their curls, feeling the soft hairs between your fingers. Lucifer gasps in your mouth, letting out a low groan, smirking between passionate kisses.

Their hands snake down your sides, leaving goosebumps in their wake. You continue to kiss them, to inhale the soft gasps as you tease them with your caresses. Lucifer continues to lightly hum into your mouth, running their hands up and down your body, pinching slightly, running their short nails up and down your back.

“Please,” you whisper, “You must try harder than that,”

A low chuckle bounces off the walls, and you look into their eyes once more, to find them filled with mirth.

“I’m not trying,” they smirk.

Lucifer’s hands swiftly move from your lower back to your butt, firmly grasping the soft flesh. They pull you up and toward them, pulling you into them, breasts pressed up against theirs. You can feel the soft pebbles of their nipples rubbing against yours, the softness of their stomach, the hairs of their pubis tickling your thighs. But most importantly, they can feel you, the heat that comes off your skin, the softness of your thighs, the slight sweat that coats your body.

Morningstar presses a few kisses to your neck and shoulders, one hand tracing back up to your upper back, the other still massaging and pulling the flesh of your buttocks and inner thigh. It’s odd how close they feel. Their breath seems to come on all sides of you, the pull of their chest, the softness of their gentle hums of approval in their ear, it all contradicts the needy grip they have on your body, the way they pinch, and pull and suck.

Lucifer had moved to kiss and abuse the flesh of your shoulder, running their tongue up the soft welts left by their earlier bites. A hand continues to sneak up your back, and you gasp softly as it caresses the soft span of your wings. Their touch is featherlight at first, gently rubbing and feeling the tips of your wings.

“So soft,” they whisper. “Oh?” they smirk, an eyebrow quirking.

You feel then finger a particularly sore feather, encased in keratin, you’d had trouble removing the casing and you’d given up.

“I can help with that,”

Lucifer gently pinches away the casing, gently smoothing the feather. It feels heavenly, the itching sensation finally falling away.

“Thank you,” you whisper, letting your head fall onto their shoulder.

“Anything for you, little angel,” they smirk.

“Let me return the favor,” you ask, gently rubbing the crook of their wings.

Lucifer lets out a loud gasp, groaning at the gentle sensation of your hands on their wings. They hang their head, leaning backward, exposing their breasts. You continue to massage the sensitive muscles of their wings, sore from the sheer mass of skin and bone. The sight of their nipples is arousing, how they peak and stand fully erect.

“May I?” you ask.

“Please,” they groan, twitching and grinding their pelvis into the expanse of your lower stomach.

The approval is all you need, and you begin to slowly kiss a path up their sternum, pressing light kisses to the underside of their breasts. Lucifer shifts their hips, attempting to grind themselves against the soft expanse of your thighs. They grunt and groan softly, digging their fingers into the soft flesh of your shoulders, causing you to gasp and wince.

“More,” they beg, “Give me more,”

Their cunt makes contact with your thigh, silky wetness sliding against your thigh. They gasp and moan, pulling your face closer toward their nipple. Taking the cue, you gently kiss up from the bottom of their breast, open-mouthed, finally circling their sensitive nipples with your wet tongue.

“Please,” they drawl, grinding themselves against your thigh.

Experimentally clenching your thigh, you watch as Lucifer continues to quiver and twitch, their wings fluttering erratically. The continuous massaging of their wings seems to bring them closer to agony, but regardless of your fear that you are hurting them, they continue to grind and gasp and plead for your clenched thigh, your exploration of their wings, the assault of your mouth on the chest.

“Oh little angel,” they sigh, leaning into your continued ministrations of your mouth, the way you circle their nipple. “You are too sweet, hurt me a little,”

You look up at them in shock. Hurt them? Wasn’t that the opposite of what they wanted.

“Bite me a little, pinch me, be greedy,” they smirk.

The dance of limbs begins once more, but you’re cautious. Lucifer gently croons above you, looking at you with curiosity.

“Just try it, please little angel, just try,” they whisper, pushing your mouth into their breast insistently.

Lucifer gently pushes themselves into you, and you clench your thigh, gasping in surprise when they twitch and moan in response.

“Good, good little angel,” they praise, running their hands up and down your back, kissing the top for your head between the motions of their hips.

Their reaction emboldens you, probes curiously at the clenching sensation in your cunt, making it worse. The small twitches of their wings grow softer, as if they’re becoming accustomed to the light touches. Gently, ever so gently, you apply more pressure to the crux of their wings, rubbing the tips of your nails against the soft leathery flesh of their wings. Morningstar gasps in shock, grinding against your thigh with increased desperation.

“Yes, yes, more,” they gasp.

The caresses of your nails turn to intense grasping, pinching lightly at the skin, squeezing the joints of cartilage and skin. Lucifer rolls their head, emphatically moaning and sighing. Their skin is flush with sweat, pink and covered in goose flesh. They let their head hang, using your body for support, intermittently gasping and groaning. Morningstar’s hair is a tangled mess of blonde frizz, the perfect curls that halo their head are soaked with sweat, the product of your unnatural coupling.

"More," they growl, shoving your face into their breast.

Perhaps they want you to go faster? The gentle caresses of your tongue turn into soft suckles, and to your surprise Lucifer exerts more pressure on your scalp. You cry out in pain, trying to pull away from the pinpricking sensation of their tugs on your scalp. It hurts, it stings, and you try to twist away, making it worse.

"Just bite me, for God's sake," they mock.

You dig your fingernails into the skin of their back, clenching your thighs in pain. They groan and gasp, taking shaky breaths. Clenching your jaw ever so slightly, you take the tip of their nipple in your mouth, gentle running your teeth over it.

"Ohhh," they groan, writhing and whimpering in your grasp.

The sensations seem to be painful, and you would stop, if not for the hunger that boils in your lower abdomen, that clenching sensation that flares up every time they make a certain low hum in their throat, when they twitch just right, when their knee barely brushes the tender area of your inner thigh. Lucifer looks glorious above you, and the more you rock into their motions, the slower and more intense the grasps on their leathery wings, the harder you bite and suck at their breasts, oh, how beautiful they look.

"Oh, angel, sweet perfect angel," they keen, erratically thrusting themselves into you, into your mouth and the motions of your hands. "You've done a wonderful, a perfect- Oh!"

Lucifer's compliments are cut off by a strange surge of shaking, gasping and moaning, and you watch wide-eyed as they throw their head back, wailing at the ceiling in agony-filled bliss. Eventually the subtle rocking motion of their hips still, and they go limp in your arms. The great Lucifer Morningstar, God's most perfect angel, limp in your arms, panting heavily, slick with sweat, and, other things.

"Did that hurt?" you whisper, confused by the whole ordeal.

"In only the best ways," Morningstar replies, looking down at you with a mischievous twinkle in their eyes. "Would you like to experience it?"

Lucifer seems genuine, caressing your face softly, and for a moment you feel wanted. You'd never been allowed to want, or to be wanted by someone else. As a vessel of God, of the Holy Trinity, it was your duty to serve, to never be served, but in this moment, you could be wanted, you could experience the feeling of being desired so explicitly. Would it be worth giving your soul up?

"It is," Lucifer smiles. "It is worth that and much more,"

There isn't a hint of treachery in their eyes, just the usual twinkle of mirth. Perhaps you want to believe them, perhaps that's why you kiss them so desperately.

Lucifer tastes like red wine and brimstone; it's like licking wine off of a stone wall. You like it, that much is clear. They just indulge you, messily biting and licking your lips, your tongue, running theirs on your teeth. Making out has never been clean, at least not when you're this desperate, this wanting.

"Pretty angel, so pretty," they croon, running their hands up and down your back.

"It won't hurt, you promise?" you ask, a little shaken by the ordeal Lucifer themself had experienced.

They chuckle, a soft, pitying chuckle, as if you've missed something clearly critical to the entire deal.

"It must hurt, otherwise it is simply no fun," they giggle, gently bringing you in for another kiss.

Their hands slide over your body, running over the ridges of your spine, the soft curves of your stomach, your thighs. Hunger pools in your body, and you cling desperately to them, seeking release from this terrible want that continues to build inside of you.

"You poor, suffering creature," they smirk. "Do you want me to make it better?"

"Yes, please," you gasp, barely thinking about your answer.

Lucifer laughs wickedly, pushing your shoulders into the bed, leaning over you with barely concealed lust. Their eyes seem to burn with animalistic hunger, and you wonder if it hurts to want that much. Lucifer doesn't respond to this thought, rather out of character to their previous actions. The stream of thoughts is quickly driven out of your mind when they press a series of hungry kisses to your neck, suckling and biting with merciless intensity.

"You taste like virtue," they groan. "It's so refreshing, I wish I could bottle it," they confess between kisses.

Their hot breath on your neck feels like fire on top of a violent sunburn, it just builds in intensity with prolonged exposure. Morningstar grasps your hips, squeezing and massaging the tender flesh, as if toying with clay. It's near painful, it'll leave bruises, that much is certain.

"I'm supposed to like this?" you wonder aloud.

"Not necessarily, but you'll like this,"

Lucifer drops their mouth to your breast, licking and suckling slowly at a nipple, and you watch as they take the soft bud in between their lips, making direct eye contact with you as they do so. The sensation of their mouth on your breast feels like agony, and you clench and squirm underneath their grip, the teasing pulses of that odd place intensifying astronomically. It causes you to gasp and groan erratically, as if experiencing some kind of forbidden torment, the worst kind. Lucifer moans in response to a particularly vocal keen, rewarding you with a soft bite to your nipple. The sensation is overwhelming, you jerk your hips upward, seeking relief from the hotness that extends from your cunt.

Lucifer firmly pins your hips down, humming softly as you continue to wriggle and gasp underneath them. Regardless of how desperately you desire them, how awfully the sensation burns, Lucifer does not quicken their pace, riling you up further, as if to prove how awful this sensation of wanting can be. Regardless of your silent and occasionally verbal pleas, the lord of evil continues to smirk as they toy with your breasts, biting lightly at the underside, as if to say "Mine", and in a way, they are claiming you.

"That feels, good," you admit, running your hands through Lucifer's messy golden hair. You hope it's what they want to hear, what will convince them to hurry the process.

They hum in response dropping a few kisses in between your sternum. Their movements are slower now, methodical. They follow the slope of your stomach, gingerly kissing the soft indents of your ribs, the softness of your stomach, reveling in the pureness of your form. It's not enough, and the pulsing sensation that grows in your cunt feels terribly strong now, and you whimper wantonly as their mouth grows closer.

"Oh, so needy," they sneer. "How lovely,"

Lucifer gently pries your thighs opening, groaning lightly at the sight of your wet cunt, the proof of their persuasiveness. It's odd how they look at it, you don't see anything particularly intriguing with the unused organ, rather all of your torment seems to be linked to the spot, and you desperately wish it to end. Morningstar gently leans towards the mound of flesh and hair, blowing lightly, directly on your clit. The sensation is torturous, and you twitch and shake despairingly at the awfulness of the assault. They laugh in response, keeping your thighs spread, letting your most intimate areas remain open for the world to see.

"Please, please, I need it," you beg, unsure of what you desire so desperately.

"You do? How unfortunate," they drawl, blowing cool air on that sensitive bud once more.

You arch your back, digging your hands into the sheets. A hand comes from your hips to your stomach, shoving you back into the bed. The point is clear: Stay put.

Hands gently squeeze and caress your thighs and ass, a hot mouth suckling and biting at your inner thighs. You glance down to see the golden haired deity paying homage to the cradle of your sex, smirking in a most peculiar way as they get closer and closer to where you so desperately need them.

“If I gave in right away, it wouldn’t be as good,” Lucifer explains. “The more I rile you up, the better this will all be,”

Their explanation is perfectly efficient, but you find no comfort in you. The closer their mouth gets to your core, the closer their hot tongue inches toward that aching, needy place between your thighs, the worse it gets for you.

“Please,” you beg uselessly. “I want to feel what it’s like,”

Morningstar hums in response, rolling their eyes at you. By now their command is clear, you will be patient and you will be complicit to their pace. When their mouth finally rests atop your mind pubis, a trickle of wetness has run a path down from your opening to the lowest crevices of your genitals, and you feel your cunt pulse erratically.

“What a pretty little sight,” Lucifer sighs contentedly.

Making sinful eye-contact with you, they extend their tongue, running a strip up from your entrance to your clitoris, and the feeling is so hot, so consuming that you shriek in relief. Lucifer continues this motion a few more times, each stroke slower than the first.

“Please, please,” you beg, “I want it,”

“You want what?” they croon.

To put it into words feels too lecherous, and you plead with them through your eyes, imploring them to understand your desperation.

“I don’t know what you want until you tell me,” they smirk, playing dumb.

Taking a few shaky breaths, you open your mouth, visualizing the actions you wish them to take.

“I want your tongue,” you whisper.

“Where? How? In what ways?” Lucifer murmurs, resting their head on your thigh, toying with the tiny hairs there.

“I want it on my, my clitoris,” you blush, “I want it in a steady rhythm, but other than that I don’t know what will….” you trail off.

In truth you don’t know what will feel good, you haven’t experimented, not even a little bit.

“Oh little angel,” they purr, “If you want me to just take the lead all you had to do was ask,” they sigh, returning their mouth to your clit.

The pace they set is torturous, tongue drawing acutely decisive patterns over the tiny nub, causing all kinds of pleasurable sensations to erupt from your body. You feel a continuous clenching and releasing sensation in your lower abdomen, in your core, and it continues to build and broil, sustained by the soft hums and groans of Lucifer’s mouth into your clit.

“Oh my God,” you wail, the prayer decidedly unheard in this domain.

Lucifer detaches themselves from their clit, biting your inner thigh forcefully. The shock of the sudden movement causes you to squeal in pain, and you try to twist away from their movements.

“Never, ever, speak his name here,” Lucifer rasps, “You will only praise me, you will only beg me,”

Two fingers enter you forcefully, tearing the soft tissue of your hymen, effectively severing your virginal state. The action delivers two kinds of pain. The first is a searing agony that bleeds through your labia, hot and throbbing. The other torture stems in your soul, a certain blackness marring your sinless state.

“No!” you cry out.

You would be changed now, forever marked by the devil. It would not be noticed, not be detected by the other angels, but the Almighty? He would know.

The circumstances of your changed state and the pressing weight of pending damnation weigh on you, nearly swallowing you in fear and pain, but that pain is erased when a pair of hot, wet lips descend on your core.

The feeling is blissful in comparison to the sting of your labia, and you quickly descend into the feeling of pleasure once more, but a stone weighs on your chest, and in between your gasps and moans, a few tears fall from your cheeks.

“There, there,” Lucifer soothes between their movements, “It won’t be so bad, I promise you’ll like this,”

The two fingers that lie in your entrance slowly pump in and out, and the sensation stings and burns a little in contrast to the raging coil that contracts and releases in your lower abdomen. In between strokes, Lucifer gently croons and hums into your clit, freehand drawing circles on your hip.

Their fingers hit a particularly sweet spot in your core, and you buck into their face, gasping and groaning as that coil unexpectedly tightens, pulsing and growing like waves of an incoming tide. Between your fevered breaths and moans of bittersweet pleasure, Lucifer continues to burn holes into your body with their gaze, forcing you to acknowledge them and what they are doing to you.

“Lucifer,” you gasp, “This feels so good,”

They smirk into you, curving their fingers in and out of you in a strange fashion that pulls you closer to heaven; the heaven of the flesh. The coil in your abdomen, the tower of arousal and bliss topples over, and you feel waves of bliss hit you as you climax.

“Good angel, good job,” Lucifer preens, holding you in their arms as you descend from your high.

Their touch is almost comforting, the soft kisses on your collarbones and neck are almost affectionate.

“That wasn’t a fair bet,” you whimper, beginning to cry. “You took my virginity, I’m blemished in the eyes of the Lord,”

“No, no, no,” Lucifer chuckles. “You asked me to, you asked me to take control,”

You blink in confusion, running back the few exchanged words in the moments leading up to the tearing of your hymen, the penetration.

“I said I wanted your tongue, I didn’t say-”

“-You didn’t tell me no, you silence following my assertion to take the lead was your answer, and that answer was yes,” Lucifer wearily sighs.

It dawns on you, you’ve been damned, and as soon as you return to the Almighty it will become official. You are an angel only in title.

“I should have never come here,” you lament uselessly.

“Oh don’t play victim, you were following orders, and by disobeying then you would have been damned,” Lucifer wearily explains, rolling over to lay you in their chest.

You’re worthless now, you have no value, no prospects, absolutely nothing to look forward to. You’ll be doomed to walk the earth until you are summoned by God, and at that point you will be officially cast out from heaven, forced back into the arms of the person who had managed to woo you into defiance of the lord.

“I hate you,” you gasp.

Lucifer pauses, momentarily taken aback by the statement.

“Wrath?” they chuckle, “So soon too, oh my,” they sigh, toying with the rapidly darkening feathers of your wings.

“You are the second prettiest angel I’ve laid eyes upon,” they muse.

When you look up at them again, you don’t see a lie in their face, rather a simple contemplation of your positioning. Their face is soft and silky, skin smoother than that of a baby. Their lips are pursed in thought, begging to be kissed. You’re done asking for things from the devil, so when you kiss them, it’s not Lucifer who tastes of sin; it’s you.

A/N: Six weeks, a trip across an ocean to Uni and a dehabilitating sinus infection later…… I’m free to write my other fics!!!!!!

Tagging: @hecatescrystaldagger @the-fuck-do-i-know