#like to what point is a kiss just over detailed

[gojoest]

f!reader, she/her pronouns used, you work in the office’s sales and investment department, managing clients and closing deals, your VIP client gojo satoru ofc is down bad for you

“is he here again?” one of your coworkers whispers, eyeing the white haired man lounging in the waiting area.

“yeah”, the other replies with a nod. “he must be loaded. i mean, look at him — he’s buying land or property every other day”

“should we go see what he’s here for this time?”

a third chimes in, lowering her voice. “i already tried, but he said he’s waiting for her”

“oh, of course”, the first two say in unison, rolling their eyes. “he never wants to work with anyone else but her”

the man sitting across from them is gojo satoru — the head of the infamous and powerful gojo clan and, without question, one of the richest men in japan. he first walked into the office a month ago for a routine estate deal, but then… he saw you. since then, he’s been coming back almost daily — buying land, investing in companies, expanding his already ridiculous portfolio. but it’s never really about business, he doesn’t care about doubling or tripling his assets — every deal, every investment, it’s just an excuse to see you.

the office chatter cuts off the moment you step out of the meeting room, walking alongside a new client you had just finished discussing terms with.

“it was a pleasure meeting you” — the man says warmly, taking your offered hand but instead of shaking it, he lifts it to his lips and places a kiss on your knuckles. “i would be delighted to work with you”

you clear your throat, not exactly pleased with his actions, and retract your hand quickly while still maintaining a polite and professional smile as you nod. “likewise”

“may i have your number? just in case any details come up?”

“of course” you reply, and the two of you exchange business cards.

as the client exits, your attention shifts to a sharp tapping sound coming from the waiting area. there he is — gojo satoru — legs crossed, one foot thudding impatiently against the floor while the other on top swings, arms folded tightly across his chest, his usual carefree demeanor nowhere to be seen. he’s clearly not pleased.

another man had just tried his luck with you, just like he once did. and chances are, just like him, that man will be back.

“i would be delighted to work with you” — satoru mutters under his breath, mimicking the client’s voice with exaggeratedly small voice. “yeah, right. my ass”

you can’t help but chuckle and walk over to him. “hello, mr. gojo”

he huffs, still pissed at the way that man kissed your hand. offering no greeting in return and no teasing grin as he usually does, he jumps straight to the point with a grumbled confession.

“you know, i’m a very jealous man”, he pauses, eyes still locked on the door your client just walked out of, before he continues — “i already don’t like the idea of that man calling or texting you”

you raise a brow as you take a seat beside him. “it’s business related”, you reply, though you’re not sure why you’re even giving him an explanation, let alone trying to calm him down.

“yeah? well, so was mine the first time, but look how that turned out”

you roll your eyes, fighting the smile tugging at your lips. “you mean you buying half the city just to keep showing up here?”

“exactly” he leans back, spreading his arms along the top of the couch like he owns the entire building — which, at this point, wouldn’t surprise you. “you’re a dangerous woman. all professional and focused until suddenly i’m out here investing in organic rice farms just for a reason to see you”

you laugh. “is that why you wanted to meet me today?”

he shrugs. “who knows? maybe i suddenly care a lot about sustainable agriculture”

“you’re ridiculous”, you snort.

“and you’re unreal”, his tone a bit more teasing now. “i swear you could get on my nerves every day and i’d still thank the universe for putting you in my life”

“huh?” you blink.

“i’m serious”, he says, voice dropping low, eyes locked on yours. “you driving me crazy, making me jealous, acting like this is just business — you could keep doing that for the rest of my life. because the most beautiful woman on earth getting on my nerves? that’s an honor.” he pauses for half a second, then leans in, “but i need to make you mine — officially”

“what are you—“

before you can finish, he cuts you off. “we can go pick a ring right now” he says casually like he’s offering to go grab some coffee. “i’ve already got five jewelers on speed dial. we’ll go full sparkle because you deserve nothing less”

you just stare at him in disbelief, torn between laughing and checking to see if he’s actually joking.

“what?” he grins. “don’t look so shocked. i told you from the start that i don’t do things halfway, especially not when it comes to you”

you’re not oblivious, of course. you’ve known for a while now that gojo satoru has a thing for you. the way he always asks for you specifically, the over-the-top deals, the charming smiles paired with suspiciously timed visits — it is beyond obvious. though part of you always thought it was just a tiny, harmless crush. but now he’s suddenly talking about rings like you’ve already been dating for years and it’s the most natural progression.

okay, maybe, just maybe, calling it a tiny crush doesn’t really hold up when the man is out here casually buying half the city just for an excuse to see you.

you narrow your eyes at him, a smirk tugging at your lips. “you know, maybe before we start ring shopping we should try lunch first”

“lunch, huh?” satoru tilts his head, pretending to think.

you nod. “yeah. you know — small steps! a conversation that isn’t about land acquisitions or surprise proposals”

he leans in, his voice smug and sweet all at once. “would you freak out if i told you i already bought the ring?”

“no, you didn’t”

“yes, i did”, he says, completely unfazed. “it’s in my pocket”

[billysgirllol]

“he ain’t mr. mississippi?” where the hell did he even get THAT from? “he’s from tennessee.” correcting him just to BE a smart ass. “mhm, i sure did, cause i thought you were still with that girl and just wasn’t tellin’ me!” like LAST time, when he left out details. “shut up, billy. shut the hell up. we ain’t FUCKIN’!” she screams, because what is he saying? she’s a whore? why, she’ll punch him square in the damn jaw if it’s what she thinks it is. “jealous of your female co workers too? oh now you’re just tryin’ to make it seem that way to make yourself feel good,” narrowing her eyes, before disgust takes over her expressions. “for bein’ psychotic over cause this man texted me after months, just to tell me about the horse and send me a PICTURE of it! and all i replied was THANK YOU! you’re out of line, just because you think i have feelings for him. cause you’re accusin’ me of bein’ a two cent whore that shacks up with him on weekends.” picking up the bottle of soap, she slings it at his stomach next, great— there goes $70 of hair and body products. “so that’s what it’s about! you’re just pissy because you have to live like a monk until i give in,” her fists balling, anger rushing through her so overwhelmingly, she’s scared she’s really gonna kill him, or at least grab him by his privates and try tearing something off, “you’re just bein’ a grimy sickenin’ man, who thinks with their DICK just like the REST of ‘em!” pointedly throwing her finger at him, deciding between running for the lake or running for the woods. hot irrational anger has her going back to the lake for her shampoo, even after she JUST got dried off, that’s how infuriated she is and all to be STUBBORN and rebel, “no, i won’t do what you or any man tells me what to do. fuck YOU, fuck you and MISSISSIPPI! son of a bitch. you all can kiss my ass!” giving him both middle fingers with all the anger she can muster from him acting this way, accusing her of being a floozy, him complaining about having no sex— all of that anger shooting through her to the point she thinks her middle fingers are going to pop off before stomping back to the lake, hoping she DIES trying to save her shampoo since he knows she can’t swim.

“drop what act? get what over with? i don’t have any act, you need to drop your tone is what you need.” lucy gray retorts, managing to squirm into her panties with her towel still on from where she sits. his voice is echoing across the land he’s being so loud and unhinged, it’d infuriating her he’s accusing her of being some kind of snake, as if she’s someone who’d do that to him. “i’m NOT bein’ sweet and lovey dovey! he hasn’t texted in awhile! i don’t just call him up to flirt when i’m bored like YOU’RE implyin’! i told you me and him were still friends! he messaged about showin’ me the horse because we were helpin’ take care of a few horses who needed rehabilitation. that horse’s mama was one of them. i said ‘well that’s sweet you guys did that for me’. i like his grandma- we became friends too, i’d never be mean to her, you don’t know anything because you wasn’t there!” now he’s got her screaming until the veins pop out of her neck, the dirty comment just sends a new wave of rage through her. how disgustin’ of him. lucy gray snatches the bottle of shampoo and chucks it at him, “why don’t you keep scrollin’ to see if there is?” she retorts out of anger, since he wants to be sickening like that. “must be projectin’, must did a lot of that yourself with your one nightstands— sendin’ ‘em dick pics after they leave your bed. hm? BET you did.” her eyes roll, slipping her purple bra on, pushing the towel down once she’s got it snapped behind her and pulls the rest of it down over her breasts. “why? you ain’t my boyfriend.” pointing out the facts, not like anyone’s official here, all for good reasoning too. this just proving why she’s afraid of relationships. head cants up and doe eyes furiously stare up at him, angry browns meeting angry blues, “HE’S DOIN’ THE TEXTIN’ TOO! HELLO, ARE YOU LISTENIN’?! get out of my face!” hands push him away with force, who does he think he is? getting too big for his britches, that’s for sure. aggressively wringing her hair out with the towel, then stomping over to her bag to pull out her purple skirt and white tank top. legs quickly stepping into it, arms scrambling to tug the tank top over her head, then she starts to angrily gather all of her shit.

[number4syndrome]

Sip by sip

🥭 summary: just a job. just a teammate. just one drink. that’s what Sol told herself. until Lando took a sip. and then everything changed.

🥭 pairing: Lando Norris x Sol (Original Character) - written in first person

🥭 word count: 4k+

🥭 warnings: 18+, public-ish sex (car), swearing, jealousy&possessiveness, enemies to lovers, minor physical aggression (grabbing, slamming doors, pulling), unprotected sex, slight alcohol consumption (at a party)

🥭 author’s note: hey there! 💛 this is my first ever fanfic. english isn’t my first language so there might be some mistakes, i’m sorry for that! it was a random idea, but i hope you like it. enjoy this little something from me!💕

MONACO

It was kind of a chill day in the McLaren motorhome. We were in Monaco, after a ton of interviews and media appearances. Oscar and I were both tired and just wanted to relax a bit, so we went with our usual ritual — grabbing mango-flavored iced drinks. It’s been our favorite since we were like ten, when we first found it in a random arcade.

We were sitting on bean bags in the lounge, sipping from our cups.

“Tastes the same,” Oscar sighed. “When we were apart for years, I used to get this drink sometimes. Just for the memories. It always brought me back to when we were ten.”

“Yeah… me too, actually,” I smiled. “Sometimes I even went back to the arcade. Felt more nostalgic with the drink,” I laughed, a bit shyly.

“Oh, the arcade,” Oscar exhaled like he was seeing it in front of him. “I miss that place.” He pouted. “It basically raised us.”

I laughed. “Yeah.”

While we were talking, we heard footsteps approaching. We looked up — it was Lando, glued to his phone like always. Probably texting one of his many girlfriends. I rolled my eyes, but quickly tried to stop. Too late — Oscar noticed.

He gave me a look, raising his eyebrows while sipping his drink. “What was that?” “What?” I asked, trying to look innocent. “That.” He pointed two fingers to his eyes, then to mine. “What was what?” Lando asked, finally slipping his phone into his back pocket.

“Nothing. None of your business,” I said quickly.

Lando smirked. “Alright, darling. Sorry I asked.”

I rolled my eyes — this time not even trying to hide it. Ugh. He’s so cocky.

“What I really want to know,” he said, pointing at me and Oscar, “is what that is.”

“It’s our signature drink,” Oscar said, grinning, lifting his cup slightly.

“Signature drinks? Wow. You guys are actually weird,” Lando laughed. “Didn’t know you were on that level.”

I hate when he does that — making fun of every little thing Oscar and I do. He’s been like this since day one.

“Jealous much, Norris?” I asked, raising a brow.

“Not at all,” he grinned, sitting down in front of me. “But you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“You wish.” I scoffed.

He just licked his lips — cocky as ever — and stared me down. I held the stare, refusing to let him win. He chuckled lightly and turned to Oscar.

“So, what makes this drink so ‘signature’?” he asked, air quoting.

Oscar eyed the two of us for a second but snapped back into the story. “Oh, it’s not a big deal…” He launched into our shared memory, but Lando clearly wasn’t listening. His eyes kept flicking back to me.

I focused on Oscar instead, jumping in now and then to add little details that made us both laugh.

“So yeah,” Oscar finished proudly, “since then, this is our signature drink. Right, Sol?” He gave me a fond smile.

I squeezed his hand and blew him a playful kiss.

“Yeah,” I grinned. “This friendship deserves a signature drink. Maybe next time we should get matching tattoos.”

“Yeeeah, suuuure,” Oscar replied, obviously skeptical. “Maybe once I get over my needle phobia.”

“Well, that was a really fun story,” Lando said, clapping his hands once and standing up, a bit tense. “Now I’m definitely curious about this flavor.”

He stepped closer. Too close.

I stiffened as he placed one hand on the wall beside my head, leaning in. His other hand lightly brushed against my hip. He dipped his head near mine — way too near — and locked eyes with me as he slowly brought my straw to his lips and took a sip.

Still staring. Still smirking.

Then he licked his lips, straightened up, and let his hand linger on my hip just a moment too long.

“Not bad,” he said, walking off with a wink. “But I liked the one you had yesterday more… you know, the papaya flavor.”

He didn’t even wait for a response.

I sat there frozen, still trying to process what the hell just happened.

“What the fuck?” Oscar burst out next to me. I turned to him, still stunned. “Next time you two wanna fuck, just say so and I’ll leave,” he said, completely horrified, standing up. “God. I think I just got pregnant from that eye contact.” He walked off, cackling.

I stayed seated, quietly taking another sip of my drink to cool myself down. I looked at the straw. Lando’s mouth had just been there.

My stomach twisted.

Not the best reaction.

But it was always like that. Since the beginning.

I started working at McLaren six months ago — all thanks to Oscar. He’d already been with the team for almost three years, and I was always his biggest fan. Me and his girlfriend, Gabby, went to his races whenever we could. We screamed our lungs out in the grandstands. We gossiped about the hot guys in the garage. Gabby and Oscar’s shared mission in life was to find me a boyfriend — they’ve been dreaming of double dates since they got together.

But I wasn’t really focused on that. I had a career to build.

So when Oscar sent me a link for a job opening at the McLaren motorhome — media coordinator, with the message: “this one has your name all over it” — I applied on the spot. And I’m so glad I did.

I get to work somewhere I love, doing something I actually enjoy, surrounded by good people — and most importantly, I get to spend time with my best friend.

And, obviously, his annoying teammate, Lando Norris.

I don’t know what it is between us. We’ve been like this since day one.

The first time I met him, I was minding my own business — answering emails, arranging interviews, pretending to understand how to politely tell a Sky Sports guy that no, he can’t just “grab a quick minute” with Oscar.

And then he walked in. Monster can in hand. Eyebrows furrowed. Suit halfway unzipped and hanging around his waist. Hair a mess. Sweaty as hell after practice.

“Are you new here?” he asked.

“Yeah, kinda,” I replied, a little shy. I don’t even know why. Something about him made me want to give a good first impression — which was ridiculous.

He looked me up and down, smirking. “Yeah, I figured. Girls usually stop that reaction to me after, like, three months.”

He pointed at my face. I blinked. Excuse me?

“Yeah, I guess after that they just accept you're always this sweaty,” I said with a polite smile, turning back to my laptop.

He scoffed. “Oh yeah? That look told me you liked me this sweaty.”

That damn smirk again.

“You misread the signs,” I muttered. “And you better shower, you’ve got an interview in ten minutes.”

He bit his lip. “Wanna join me?”

“In your dreams, Norris.”

“Yeah, I’ll definitely be dreaming about it in the shower,” he called over his shoulder as he walked away. “Bye, Schedule Barbie.”

“My name’s Sol,” I said flatly.

He didn’t even respond. Just kept walking like he owned the place.

I rolled my eyes. But... yeah, I watched him leave. God, is it legal for a man to have an ass that good?

Since then, that’s been our dynamic. He teases. I roll my eyes. He flirts. I pretend I’m above it.

And I’d never admit it to anyone — not Oscar, not Gabby, not even to myself most days — but sometimes... I enjoy it. Sometimes it even turns me on. And I’d be lying if I said I’ve never wondered what would’ve happened if I had joined him in that shower.

I didn’t see him for two hours after that little sipping moment. Which was for the best. I needed to cool down and distract myself. So I did some scheduling. Drafted some post ideas. Even planned a few TikToks.

I was walking down the hallway when I saw him again — standing alone, phone in hand. I took my chance.

“Hey,” I called.

He looked up, and that grin appeared instantly. “Schedule Barbie,” he said, leaning back against the wall. “Can I help you with something?”

“Don’t call me that,” I muttered, stepping in front of him.

“Why? It suits you,” he smirked, crossing his arms.

I rolled my eyes and got to the point. “You can’t do that.”

“What? Give you nicknames?”

“No — hover over me, looking at me like you’re about to kiss me. I’m not one of your bitches, Lando.”

His smirk grew. “Why does it bother you, sweetheart?” He stepped in. Closer. Until my back hit the wall behind me. He’d trapped me. So close I could smell his cologne.

“I think you like when I do things like that,” he said.

“I’m not,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. “I’m just here to do my job — not for your entertainment.”

“Is that so?” he asked, his eyes scanning my face like he was trying to memorize it.

“Don’t give me that look again,” I whispered.

“What look?”

“That look… like you want to kiss me.”

His lips parted. I felt his hand brush against my hip. His face was already closer.

“You know I want to,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “And I know you want it too.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. Of course I wanted it. I closed my eyes, just slightly. His lips were right there.

“LANDO!”

Zak’s voice cut through the hallway like a gunshot.

We jumped apart like we’d been caught stealing.

“Come on, kid, it’s interview time!” Zak called again from down the hall.

Lando looked at me once more — eyes wide, stunned, like he was still processing what almost happened.

But only for a second.

Then the smirk returned. “Later,” he said, and walked off.

Leaving me speechless. Again.

MONACO, afterparty

The club was loud. Full of people. The Monaco weekend had been great, and everyone just wanted to blow off some steam.

I’d only had one cocktail. I don’t like going over my limits. But with the heat, the crowd, and the exhaustion of the week — I felt lightheaded.

I was talking to some guy from the Mercedes team. An engineer, if I remembered right. I didn’t really care. He was nice. Funny. Asked questions. He laughed at my stories. I was having fun.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lando. Staring. Still.

We’d never talked about the hallway. We both pretended it hadn’t happened. But of course I’d been thinking about it — more than I’d ever admit.

Still, I kept my attention on the guy in front of me. We danced a little. He offered to buy me another drink. I politely declined, telling him I needed to freshen up in the bathroom. That was a lie.

I just needed air. Space. Time to breathe.

I slipped upstairs and pushed open the balcony doors. The fresh air hit me like a truck. I inhaled, deeply.

“Enjoying the party?” a voice said behind me.

Lando.

I didn’t turn right away. I walked closer to the edge, looking out over the glittering city. “Yeah, actually. Great party. Don’t you think?”

“It’d be better if I didn’t have to watch you flirting with some loser engineer,” he muttered, walking up behind me.

“Aw,” I said, smirking slightly. “Jealous?”

“I don’t get jealous, baby,” he said, hand suddenly on my waist, spinning me around to face him. “I prove.”

His voice was serious. Deadly serious. No smirk. No laugh. Just fury in his eyes — heat, fire, want.

“Prove what, exactly?” I asked, tilting my head slightly.

His hands were lower now. One brushing the bare skin of my thigh.

“That I’m better than him.”

And then he kissed me.

Not just a kiss. He claimed me.

His mouth was harsh, rushed, desperate over mine. I gasped, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pushing him back — just a little.

He stared at me. His eyes were wild. I could barely catch my breath.

Then I yanked him back in by the neck. One of his hands was tight on my hip. The other at my throat — not choking, but there. Firm. Hot. Possessive.

I pulled at his hair, dragging him closer even though we were already chest-to-chest. Our tongues met — fighting, not dancing.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It was chaos.

His hand slid down and grabbed my ass, rough. I moaned into his mouth. He smirked — the cocky bastard.

I bit his lip. Harder than I needed to. He groaned.

“Fuck, Sol,” he breathed against my lips. Then his mouth was on my neck. Open-mouthed kisses. A trail of heat.

“Lando,” I moaned.

Then his phone buzzed.

He groaned and pulled away like someone had shot him.

“What?” he snapped into the phone. I tried to fix my lipstick with my hand, failing miserably.

“He did what?” Lando asked, confused. “Okay, I’ll be right there.”

He hung up.

“I have to go, sweetheart,” he said with a smug grin. “But we should definitely continue this sometime.”

He winked.

And walked away.

Leaving me there.

Breathless. Ruined. Speechless.

Again.

Fuck. What did I just do?

MTC, the next morning

I walked into the building with my sunglasses on. My whole vibe screamed “don’t talk to me.”

Oscar was already there, sitting at a table, eating cereal and swiping on his phone. He looked up as he heard my steps.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he smiled.

I gave him the smallest smile back.

“Uh, you look bad. Like you were hit by a truck.”

“Nah, I’m just tired,” I muttered, sinking into the chair beside him.

“Whatever you say. When did you leave? I never saw you go.”

“I don’t remember,” I lied. “I got tired from the week, so I left early.”

I took off my sunglasses and set them on the table.

“You sure you’re okay? You look… weird.”

“I’m always weird,” I said, forcing a smile.

“No, this is different. You didn’t even insult my outfit.”

“Oh. Yeah. It’s bad,” I added, trying to save myself.

He gave me a look — the kind that said I know you’re full of shit but I’m choosing peace.

“Alright, I won’t nudge anymore,” he said, turning back to his cereal.

I stood up to make a coffee.

But then, casually — way too casually — he asked, “Oh, did you see how Lando was looking at you last night?”

I froze.

Recovered.

“What do you mean?” I asked, as innocently as possible.

“Oh, it was hilarious. Me and the guys were betting on when he’d strangle that Mercedes engineer. He stared at you both all night. I swear someone said he broke a glass just from gripping it too hard.”

He laughed like it was the funniest thing ever.

“Interesting,” I replied, grabbing my mug.

“Yeah, yeah. Then he left. I don’t know when. One second he was there, then poof.”

He paused.

Then squinted at me like he’d just solved a murder. “Just like you.”

I raised an eyebrow, sipping my coffee. “Maybe he was tired too.”

Oscar was still looking at me. Suspiciously.

“Or maybe with one of his girls,” I added with a forced laugh.

“Right. One of his girls.” He didn’t look convinced.

“Yeah. Maybe that one from quali?” I shrugged, trying too hard.

“Mmm.” He still wasn’t buying it.

“I’m gonna answer some emails,” I said quickly, turning to leave.

“Yeah. You do that.”

I was halfway out the door when he called after me. “Hey, Sol?”

“Yeah?”

He was serious now. Eyes narrowed.

“Be careful with him.”

I smiled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

And I walked away.

“Yeah, sure,” he muttered behind me.

I squinted, coffee in hand, regretting every single decision that led me here.

…Okay, maybe not every decision.

MONACO, team gala

The hotel ballroom was drenched in gold lighting and expensive perfume. Cameras flashed, music played low, and McLaren orange accents were everywhere — napkins, lighting, drinks, even the tiny desserts. Because of course.

I walked in alone. Hair pinned up. Black satin dress hugging me like it was custom made. I didn’t need a date. I didn’t need anyone.

But I could feel eyes on me before I even got to the bar.

Especially his.

Lando was across the room, already mid-conversation, but the second I stepped inside, he looked up. Locked eyes. And didn’t look away.

I gave him nothing. Just a subtle smile — the kind you give someone when you know they’re watching.

I mingled. Laughed at people’s stories. Sipped champagne. Let my hand linger too long on the arm of a Ferrari performance coach. Was I doing it to make a point? Maybe. Was it working? Definitely.

Because every time I glanced at Lando, his smile looked a little tighter. His drink disappeared a little faster.

When the night started winding down, Zak gave his thank-you speech, people filtered out, and I grabbed my things to leave.

I wasn’t expecting him to follow.

But of course he did.

“Are you walking home?” he asked from behind me.

“No. I was thinking about calling a taxi,” I said, already swiping on my phone.

“I’ll give you a ride. Come on.” He didn’t even wait for my response — just walked past me to his McLaren and opened the passenger door.

I walked over without a word.

He closed the door behind me and got into his side. “Buckle up, princess.”

I stared out the window, feeling strange. My whole body was buzzing, like it knew something I didn’t.

The engine started with a soft hum, and he pulled into the street.

“So… where’s that Ferrari guy?” he asked, way too casual.

I sighed.

“I mean,” he continued, “I thought you’d go home with him. You guys looked pretty cozy. Laughing at whatever bullshit he was whispering in your ear. Brushing his arm every five seconds.”

His grip on the wheel tightened — white knuckles, death grip. “God, I really thought it was a done deal,” he muttered.

“Lando, don’t start this.”

“I started this?” he snapped. “Baby, we both know you did that on purpose. You wanted to make me jealous. You wanted to see me lose my fucking mind.”

“Oh, right!” I shouted. “Because everything revolves around you, huh? Every girl wants to fuck you, wants to scream your name at night—”

“God, Lando, you are so full of yourself!”

“Oh, am I?” he yelled. “What about you? Flirting with everyone who isn’t Oscar! Teasing me since the day you walked in and all I ever get is eye rolls—”

“Stop the car, Lando. Now.”

He slammed the brakes. I unbuckled and got out fast, heels clicking against the pavement.

“Fuck you,” I spat. “You are just a fucking narcissistic little boy.”

I slammed the door and started walking. I didn’t know where — I just needed to be away from him.

I heard his door open behind me.

“Sol, get back in the car!”

“No!”

“Sol, don’t you dare walk away from me!”

I ignored him. Kept walking.

Then suddenly — his hand grabbed my waist. He spun me around. “What?!” I snapped.

“I said get back in the fucking car!” His face was way too close. His eyes? Blazing. Angry. And something else — lust.

“No,” I said, jabbing a finger at his chest. “Because sometimes, Norris, not everything goes the way you plan it.”

“Are you sure?” he whispered.

I looked at him. Words caught in my throat. God, he’s beautiful.

“You make me lose my mind,” I whispered.

“Well, you make me mad,” he growled, pulling me closer. “And angry. But god, I’ve wanted you since the day you walked into MTC.”

Before I could respond, his lips crashed onto mine — hungry, desperate, almost violent.

I kissed him back. Hard. Every ounce of self-respect I had flew out the window.

Our tongues fought for control. His hands clawed at my back, pulling me against him like he wanted to fuse us together. I tugged at his hair. He groaned into my mouth.

“God, you’re so hot when you’re angry,” he said against my lips.

Then he lifted me. Effortlessly.

His hands slid under my thighs as he picked me up like I weighed nothing. I wrapped my legs around his hips, letting him carry me back to the car.

He sat down in the passenger seat with me still on his lap, pulling the seat back just enough.

He didn’t stop kissing me. Not for a second. His hands were everywhere. My fingers tangled in his hair, messing it completely. I kissed down his neck, biting, sucking. He moaned, low and rough.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he groaned.

His mouth was all over mine — hungry, wet, teeth dragging over my bottom lip like he needed to bruise it to believe this was real. He pulled me tighter into his lap, hips grinding up into me like he couldn’t stop himself.

I moaned into his mouth and that was all it took — his hands clutched at my waist, my thighs, my hips like he was trying to memorize every curve. I rolled my hips down once, and he swore into the kiss.

“Fuck,” he breathed, kissing across my jaw, down my neck, sucking just hard enough to leave a mark. “You’re killing me.”

“You said I’d be the death of you,” I gasped, head tilted back.

“I meant it.”

His hands slid up my thighs, bunching my dress higher and higher until it was practically at my waist. He groaned when he felt the lace of my underwear.

“You wore this knowing I’d lose it,” he muttered, lips against my collarbone.

“I wore it for me,” I smirked, breath hitching as his fingers brushed up over the fabric.

“Yeah? That why you’re soaking through it?”

I was about to fire something back when two fingers pushed aside the lace and slid over me. I choked on a moan.

“Jesus, Lando—”

“You’re so fucking wet already,” he whispered, voice gravel and heat. “All that attitude and it still takes nothing to get you like this.”

I rocked my hips into his hand, desperate, unashamed. He moved faster, fingers circling my clit with maddening precision, and I buried my face in his neck, moaning openly.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Grinding on my hand like it’s your job.”

He pushed two fingers inside me and I gasped — back arching, body trembling.

“Oh my god,” I whimpered.

“You feel like fucking heaven,” he groaned, kissing me again — messier this time. “You gonna come for me, sweetheart?”

I nodded, mouth open, brain already foggy.

“You always act like you hate me,” he whispered, curling his fingers. “But this? This tells the truth.”

“Lando—fuck—don’t stop—”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I was shaking, legs tight around him, my head resting against his shoulder as the orgasm slammed into me like a wave. I moaned his name — breathy, helpless.

He kept moving his fingers, milking every second of it, and only stopped once I was panting against him, completely undone.

Then he licked the fingers he just used on me. Didn’t break eye contact.

“You taste even better than I imagined,” he said, voice low.

I barely had time to recover before I felt him shifting underneath me — unbuckling his belt, dragging his jeans down just enough.

“You’re not done,” he said.

Neither was he.

He pulled my underwear to the side again, gripped my hips, and with one sharp thrust — he was inside me.

We both moaned — loud, unfiltered, like we didn’t care who heard. The car fogged up instantly.

His hands dug into my ass, helping me move — up, down, grinding, taking every inch of him as he whispered filth in my ear.

“Look at you,” he growled. “Fucking me in a car like you were made for it.”

I kissed him again, biting his lip, moving faster, harder. The windows shook. The seat creaked. His name was on my lips like a prayer and a curse all at once.

“I’m close,” I gasped.

“Come with me,” he said, forehead against mine. “Now. Come with me.”

And we did — together. My nails dug into his shoulders, his hands gripping me so tight it left marks, both of us trembling, gasping, completely wrecked.

For a moment, the world was silent. Just breath. Just heat. Just us.

Then he spoke.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered, brushing my hair off my face. “Say it.”

I looked at him — flushed, dazed, shaking.

“I’m yours.”

[m1ssunderstanding]

The John Lennon Owner's Manual By Paul McCartney

1. Make him food. I mean actually cook for him. Don't just take him out. He needs to feel loved and settled. John had a bit of a difficult childhood. He won't say it, but he craves security, and a good home-cooked meal can give that to him if only momentarily. Steak and potatoes is his favorite for dinner. Black pudding for breakfast. He also recently got a taste for a good American picnic lunch. Just real, hearty food. Hopefully you know what I mean.

2. On the other hand, you can't fall for his ‘i just want to stay home on the couch all the time’ routine. That's bullshit. He'll kick and scream on the way out, but the minute he's out of the house, he's like a dog at the park, or a bird headed South. Take him to the water. Boating, swimming, just staring at crashing waves or ships in the harbor. Take him to those rotating art galleries with different exhibits each month. Clubs, but it's got to be the good kind. You won't know what I'm talking about. Ask Brian or Mal. When you're dancing, ignore John's tough guy act. Twirl him, dip him, show him off. While we're treating John like a woman, John loves shopping more than any bleeding bird (girl) you ever went with. Clothes, books, sweets, gadgets. Take him. And you can't worry about all the money he's spending. Just be very excited about whatever it is he's spending it on.

3. Speaking of money. I assume you've taken over all my assets with my identity. I actually am terrified of John spending everything he owns and ending up completely broke, and it's not because I'm crazy. It's a legitimate possibility. So what you have to do, if you actually care about John, is be very very VERY careful with my money so he's always got a safety net.

4. Listen to him. This one is important. Every joke is a fucking tear-jerking rib cracker. Every snide comment is a scripture you're going to memorize and carve into the mountainside. He is an actual genius. I'm not being funny. I'm not being in love. Or obsessive as you'd call it. John’s brain operates on a level that's beyond even me. Quicker, deeper. All of it. So to you, he's basically a god. Anyway, my point is, treat him like a gift to the world, because he is one. Back up his plans. Draw attention to his wildness. Explain away the behaviors that to smaller minds might seem cruel or immature etc. File away little details of things he tells you for future use. I would usually answer them in a song, which you can't do. But you could call back to them with a public private joke. Or if it's some insecurity he's confessed, bring up how insane that thought is when he's had some minor success. Mention some random fact he taught you when you're bragging about him to strangers. Buy him that thing he once pointed out in passing at the shops.

5. Keep him working. I think all people experience this one, really, so this is probably self-explanatory, but just in case. If a person is feeling sorry for themselves, they might lose the motivation they need for the projects that make them happy. So they might stop working on those projects, which means they lose both the joy they get from the actual work, and the satisfaction and pride they get from a job well done. Think about how this cycle works in you, multiply it by fifty, and you've got John on a good day. He needs to be pushed. But he can't think you're telling him what to do, and he can't think you don't believe he can do it alone. You've got to be a bit sneaky with it.

6. Touch him. You were right. This is where – well part of where – I know I let him down. He loves to be touched. Anywhere. All the time. Even stupid shit like an ankle kick under the table or a shoulder nudge in the hallway will get you the most rewarding beaming beautiful smile. I guess you must know all about John and sex, so I won't go into detail here, but again. Just in case. You probably know his m.o. with sex is tender, romantic, passionate. Kissing your neck and running soft fingers up your leg before he takes you in hand. Arching his back and throwing his head back with reckless grace when you grind into him. Staring into your eyes and holding you in him deep as you come. Cuddles and heart-to-hearts after. But he also loves it when you mix it up a bit, you know? He's open to quite literally anything and he needs variety here as in every area of his life. But really. The point is, he needs to be touched. Probably goes back to the difficult upbringing thing, I don't know. He’s a bloody good hugger. He needs more of that. I should've done more of that with him. A lot more.

7. You will never be able to make him truly happy. Not the way that I can. So until you give him up, you're lying to yourself about loving him and doing what's best and all of that. I'm not helping you because I'm scared for me but because I'm scared for John. Try not to fuck this up for him.

8. Which reminds me. If you're ever out walking with John, especially in London. Say you're walking to the studio or something. Make sure John's on the side of the sidewalk close to all the houses and shops etc. You stay on the side of the road. The streets get busy. He doesn't see well. It's your job now to keep him safe. Take it seriously.

[arabellasfvv]

Johnny would literally be your butler without any qualms and questions.

You wake up and the smell of breakfast lingers in the air, and johnny is sitting beside the bed, stroking your hair to help you wake up gently. Already having clothes laid out by the bed, kisses your head as he helps you slip into them. And he's happy to join you in the bathroom, brush your teeth, do your hair, the man woukd help you wipe if you just let him. But he's also content just waiting outside until youre done.

You're out of groceries? He's quick to write down a list of you need and what you deserve before he's jumping into his car and getting your stuff for you. Maybe stop by some other stores to get something you'd mentioned in passing.

Forgot to change your sheets before leaving for work, but once you get home you just wanna collapse into the bed? He's quick to drive to your apartment and change them for you, throwing the old ones into the wash. And while he's there waiting for them to finish drying he might as well dust the place.

Oh you're horny but don't wanna get to work? Don't worry he's already laying between your legs and hooking your thighs over his shoulders. Tongue flattening against your folds and licking up your slick until you can't help but pass out on him. Or he's sitting you on his lap, working his hand between your legs. Fingers prying apart your folds to coat them in your arousal, pushing them inside and hitting your g spot over and over, or just focusing on your clit.

He loves using your toys on you, letting you tell him exactly what you need right now. Pumping that pretty dildo into your hole while focusing a vibrator on your clit just to lick up the mess you cause after.

But nothing is better than when he gest to fuck you. When you just lay back, throw your head back and just enjoy what he's doing to you. Letting his rough hands wander, gentle with you. Touching every inch, kissing every mark and insecurity. Talking all the stress away with that thick accent of his.

You want new decorations for your place? Well, bon, he's an artists for a reason. Tell him what you'd like and next time you see him its covered in oil pants and big grin in his face as he presents his work to you.

You found this pretty furniture at the thrift but it doesnt really fit your vibe? Don't worry, he's already getting his tools out and fixing it to your liking. And he wants you to explain in all the details what you want. He doesn't want you "kinda happy" because you thought you wanted too much. He will build and draw every detail with joy.

Long day and you just feel icky? The showers already running, let's go. Washes your hair, make sure to follow routine to keep it as pretty as it is, massages your scalp while he's at it. If you're stressed just say so and he will fuck it away, dont worry. Gets to his knees to wash your body, placing your feet onto his knee, making sure you're stable as he washes your leg. Sputters at the taste of soap he gets when he kisses them before washing it off.

It all doesn't stop when he's deployed. He's gotten into plenty of trouble for sneaking phones or letters onto ops so he could check up on you. Calls one of his friends, that you're also close with, to make sure you're taking care of yourself and to help you out if you aren't. Arranges for flowers to be sent to your apartment with sweet little notes. Ordering you your favourite takeout every now amd then so you dont have to worry about cooking. And when he sends you letters its in his best handwriting, accompanied by sweet doodles of a flower he saw, or your favourite animal all curled up and cozy. And always you, just something sweet about you, drawing little arrows and notes to point out all the things he loves so much.

Oh and the gifts. They're everywhere and you cannot get away. Every missions ends with you getting a pretty little something. Out with him and you're looking at something a little too long? Its yours. Sees something you might like and he's buying it, giving it to you with a big kiss onto your lips.

Your heels are starting to hurt? Yes, he will carry you, yes, he will swap shoes and make a foold out of himself to make you comfortable. Dont wanna carry your purse? Why would you even think you have to? He'll glady do it. You never ever get to be cold. The moment you shrink up am inch his jacket is thrown over your shoulders and he's pulling you against his warm.

He will also learn how to do make up just for you. Let's you train how to do long nails on him, or if this new make up hack works. He is not insecure about his masculinity and takes it all with pride if it means getting you to smile.

He is just the sweetest little man.

[anythinggoesbutme]

Second Place, Still Yours

Jameson Hawthorne x Avery Grambs

Warnings: Intense emotional arguments, Depictions of anger (yelling, breaking objects), Heavy crying and emotional breakdowns, Brief alcohol use, Some coarse language, Themes of commitment issues, self-worth, and media pressure

Synopsis: After a devastating race loss leaves Jameson spiraling, Avery follows him into the aftermath — and finally confronts the truth of their relationship. In a hotel room full of broken edges and pent-up feelings, they collide in raw, vulnerable confessions that might break them… or finally bring them home to each other.

Song: “Highway to Hell” — AC/DC

Word Count: 4,908

Previous Part: Click Here

Tag List: @anintellectualintellectual @aria-filomena @angelnextdooor @runningoutofink8 @saythewordheiress @lyrrrr @laurilovesbooks @sp3ncerre1dsw1fe

Avery never meant to become a ghost in someone else’s story.

It started as a soft shimmer in the dark. A smile across a smoky bar. The first night she let him drive her home, the city lights flickering off the windshield as if the universe were winking at her.

Back then, Jameson Hawthorne was just a man with too many edges and a voice that wrapped around her like silk. Back then, she didn’t know what she was signing up for.

Their relationship—if you could even call it that—slipped into being like a slow, unstoppable tide. One night turned into three. A weekend turned into weeks. Months. She didn’t even realize when her toothbrush moved into his hotel room, when her sweater got left draped over his team jacket in the backseat of his car, when her scent started lingering on his pillow.

In private, he was soft. He’d come back from a race, exhausted and raw, and drop his head into her lap like a child. She’d card her fingers through his curls, listening to him mumble about tire degradation and wing adjustments, his voice slurred from exhaustion rather than drink.

Other nights, he was electric. He’d pull her into him as if he needed her to stay grounded, his touch frantic, as if he were afraid she’d slip away if he loosened his grip for even a second.

In these moments, it felt like they were the only two people on earth. Like the world shrank down to the press of his chest against her back, the warmth of his breath on her neck, the quiet rhythm of their heartbeats tangling in the dark.

But it all changed the second sunlight hit.

Outside, they were nothing.

At the track, he never introduced her. Never offered a label, a claim, not even a protective hand at the small of her back when the crowd surged.

She stood on the edge of the paddock with a lanyard too big around her neck, eyes darting from his car to the big screens to the sea of fans chanting his name. Her skin prickled with every camera flash, every pointed stare from strangers who wondered who the girl in the cheap sunglasses was, standing too close to their golden boy.

The first time someone asked her, “Are you his girlfriend?” she didn’t know what to say. The question crashed over her like a rogue wave.

She stammered. Laughed it off.

When she told Jameson later, half-expecting him to shrug or smirk, he just kissed her forehead and murmured, “Don’t worry about them.”

He didn’t understand. He didn’t have to.

It started small: blurry photos online, hashtags she didn’t understand.

#WhoIsShe

#JamesonMysteryGirl

#DistractionOrDestiny

Then came the articles.

“F1 Superstar Spotted with Unknown Woman — New Romance or PR Stunt?”

“Who’s the Girl Keeping Jameson Up at Night?”

“Distraction on the Grid: Hawthorne’s Slipping Focus Blamed on New Flame.”

She tried to laugh it off at first. The headlines sounded like bad tabloid fiction. But the internet has a way of crawling under your skin and nesting there.

Comments flooded her life. Strangers dissected every detail: her hair, her clothes, the tired circles under her eyes when she thought no one was looking.

She’s not even pretty.

She’s so plain, no wonder he hides her.

Definitely a gold-digger.

I can’t believe he’s wasting his career on her.

She’s going to ruin him.

Sometimes, it felt like every pixel on her phone screen vibrated with venom.

She started deleting notifications. Turned off comments. Stopped posting altogether. But somehow, the words still found her. In whispered conversations when she passed team garages. In the way photographers’ eyes lingered on her, lenses trained like sniper rifles.

It wasn’t just the outside world that shifted.

Avery began losing pieces of herself quietly.

The girl who used to lean over track barriers, breathless with excitement, fingers trembling as she watched him fly around corners at impossible speeds — she started to fade.

She began dreading the weekends she once craved.

Standing in the pit lane used to feel electric: the scent of gasoline in the air, the roar of the engines rattling her bones. Now it felt like a stage where she was forced to play a role she didn’t know the lines for.

When Jameson pulled into the garage, she’d try to catch his eye, but he’d slip past her in a blur of fireproof suit and sweat, head down, helmet in hand.

They never talked before a race anymore. He needed to focus, she told herself.

But in quiet moments, she started to wonder if it was really focus — or if he simply didn’t know what to do with her there.

In hotel rooms, he was still soft, still magnetic.

He’d fall into bed beside her, fingers tugging at her hair as if needing to confirm she was real.

“You’re good luck,” he’d murmur against her shoulder.

She didn’t believe it anymore.

She started to notice the way he introduced the car to reporters.

“My girl did well today,” he’d say, patting the carbon fiber bodywork with a grin.

She used to laugh at that. Now, it stung.

His girl was always the car.

Sometimes, she tried to pull away.

One night, after a race, she started gathering her clothes from his hotel floor.

“Where are you going?” he asked, voice rough with sleep.

“Home,” she answered softly.

His brows knitted, confusion flickering across his face like headlights in fog. “Stay.”

And she did. She always did.

She started spending more time alone. Wandering city streets while he was at press events. Sitting in quiet cafés, scribbling in a worn notebook she’d started keeping.

She wrote down everything she couldn’t say out loud:

I miss the way I used to love the races.

I miss feeling excited to see you drive.

I hate that I can’t tell anyone who I am to you.

I hate that I don’t know who I am to you.

The team noticed her hesitance.

Mechanics used to toss her winks, slide her an extra water bottle, or tease her about Jameson’s post-race mood swings. Now they were careful. Polite. Like she might break if they breathed too hard near her.

The team’s PR manager once cornered her near the paddock entrance.

“You might want to keep a lower profile,” she suggested in that tight, rehearsed tone. “There’s a lot of chatter. Some sponsors are nervous.”

Avery just nodded, biting her lip so hard it nearly split.

At night, Jameson still held her like she was his last lifeline.

Sometimes, she caught him staring at her when he thought she was asleep, eyes soft, hand resting on her hip as if afraid she’d vanish.

She wanted to scream. To shake him. To ask him why he could touch her like that but never say it out loud.

Instead, she stayed quiet. Let his fingers trace patterns on her spine. Let his breathing lull her into restless sleep.

She started dreaming of leaving.

In those dreams, she stood at the edge of the track, the engine roars a distant echo. She turned and walked away, the world blurring behind her.

She always woke up before she reached the exit.

In rare moments, they almost talked.

Once, at dinner in a city so forgettable she didn’t bother to learn its name, she set her fork down and asked, “What do you think people see when they look at us?”

Jameson didn’t look up from his plate. “I don’t care what they see.”

She wanted to push. Wanted to say, But I do.

Instead, she excused herself to the bathroom and stared at her reflection until her eyes blurred.

There were good days, too. Days when he pressed kisses into her hair and whispered stupid inside jokes. Days when they ordered room service and made forts out of hotel pillows, laughing like they were kids again.

Those days were dangerous. They gave her hope.

She kept trying to love racing.

She stood in the pit lane and forced herself to watch every practice lap. Memorized every turn. Learned which corner made him hold his breath, which straightaway made him exhale.

But the louder the world got, the smaller she felt.

She started wearing hats and big sunglasses, trying to disappear. But you can’t disappear when you’re dating a man the world treats like a god.

And dating wasn’t even the right word. She wasn’t sure what it was.

Sometimes, she caught herself tracing her own collarbone in the mirror, as if she might find a mark, a sign that said his.

Nothing there.

Her friends stopped calling.

When they did, it was to ask for tickets or gossip.

“Is he as wild as they say in bed?”

“Can you get me into the paddock club?”

“Can you introduce me to the other drivers?”

She started silencing her phone permanently.

Jameson acted like nothing had changed.

He’d wrap an arm around her waist when they were alone, pull her into the passenger seat of his car, press her hand to his chest like she was anchoring him to earth.

But he never introduced her. Never said her name to a camera. Never gave her the word she wanted to hear.

She knew she should walk away.

She knew staying meant giving pieces of herself she’d never get back.

But each time she gathered the courage to step away, he’d find her.

“Stay,” he’d whisper against her hair. “Just tonight.”

And she would.

One night, she lay awake in his hotel bed, the city glittering through the window.

She turned to look at him, his face soft in sleep, lips parted, hair messy and damp from a late shower.

She wanted to shake him awake.

She wanted to say, I’m not your secret.

She wanted to say, I want to be real.

She wanted to say, I’m losing myself here.

Instead, she curled closer, pressed her forehead to his chest, and let the tears soak into his skin.

The media machine kept grinding.

New photos. New captions.

“Jameson’s mysterious ‘friend’ sparks paddock drama.”

“Who is she? Fans demand answers after latest cozy sighting.”

“Hawthorne’s distraction: Is this why he’s slipping?”

She started flinching every time her phone buzzed.

Every step she took felt like walking on a tightrope in a hurricane — one misstep, and the whole world would eat her alive.

She used to dream of seeing him on the podium, spraying champagne, head thrown back in joy.

Now, she dreamed of being anywhere else.

She didn’t know when the tipping point would come.

She just knew it was coming.

A slow, creeping inevitability.

Like a car sliding off track in the rain — no matter how hard you turn the wheel, some crashes can’t be stopped.

It started before the lights even went out.

Avery knew, the second she saw Jameson that morning, that something was off.

He hadn’t slept — she could tell from the restless way he moved, the tense set of his shoulders under his fireproof undershirt as he pulled it over his head. His jaw was locked tight, his hair still damp from a shower that had done nothing to settle the restless energy crackling around him.

He didn’t touch her that morning. Didn’t lean over her shoulder to tease her about her coffee order or steal a bite of her breakfast.

When she reached for his hand in the paddock tunnel, he kept walking, eyes locked straight ahead.

It wasn’t cruelty. It was focus — or something like it. A desperation simmering just under the surface.

The paddock that day buzzed with an edge sharper than usual. Reporters practically hung from the fences, cameras perched like vultures. The screens everywhere looped highlight reels from the season so far: Jameson’s wins, his risky overtakes, his champagne-soaked podium grins.

But today felt different.

Avery stood by the garage entrance, arms crossed tight across her chest. Her team lanyard hung heavy around her neck, brushing against her sternum with each shaky breath.

The pre-race chatter blurred together in her ears — engineers shouting about tire temps, mechanics adjusting nose cones, PR reps ushering celebrities around for last-minute photo ops.

Jameson slipped into his car without a glance in her direction. The team swarmed around him like bees, checking harnesses, muttering into radios, slamming the halo shut.

Through the visor, his eyes were laser-sharp, flicking over the screens in the garage, not seeing her.

On the grid, the heat shimmered off the tarmac in waves. The roar of fans in the grandstands felt like a physical weight pressing down on her chest.

She forced herself to stand still, even as her knees wobbled.

Jameson’s car sat in P2 — front row, but not pole. The leader was a rival he’d been neck-and-neck with all season, a driver who delighted in winding him up on and off track.

It was a detail that seemed insignificant to everyone else. But to Avery, who knew Jameson’s moods like the lines on her own palm, it was everything.

His helmet turned slightly as the national anthem played, the camera zooming in on the sponsors stitched across his suit, the sunlight catching on the edges of his visor.

She swore he glanced her way — just for a second — but maybe she imagined it.

The formation lap felt longer than usual.

Every turn of his tires echoed inside her skull, each brake test, each flick of the wheel. The broadcasters’ voices bled together over the speakers, but she barely heard them.

When they finally lined up again, her hands trembled.

Five red lights.

She held her breath.

Lights out.

Jameson launched perfectly, so perfectly it made her heart leap into her throat. He slipped past the pole sitter in the first few hundred meters, tires biting the asphalt with savage precision.

The crowd exploded.

She could barely see, barely think — just flashes of his car cutting through turn one, the bright halo glinting as he fought off the challenge.

For the first ten laps, it felt like magic again. The way he glided over apexes, the millisecond-perfect gear shifts, the quiet arrogance in how he widened the gap.

But she saw the other driver gaining — a fraction of a second here, a fraction there.

Jameson started to push harder. The onboards showed him wrestling the wheel, tires squirming, the whole chassis twitching under him.

Radio chatter filtered through the garage speakers.

“Jameson, back off a bit, save tires.”

Silence.

“Jameson, copy?”

Nothing.

He was ignoring them.

Her pulse stuttered.

Lap 23.

The rival closed in. The gap was less than a second now — DRS range.

She watched the timing screens, fingers digging into her palm so hard her nails left half-moons in her skin.

He defended once. Twice. Each time, he braked late enough she thought he’d end up in the gravel.

The garage around her held its collective breath.

Lap 25. The rival swung to the outside, then switched back on the inside. Jameson blocked, wheels nearly touching. Sparks flew up in a violent spray.

He held him off.

For now.

But she saw it — the margin shrinking. The car slipping more at each corner exit, the tail wiggling just a bit too much.

He was burning through his tires, refusing to pit early, refusing to give up the track position.

“Box, box!” the engineer called again.

He stayed out.

Another lap. Another risky move.

Lap 27. The rival dove again. This time, Jameson didn’t have enough rubber left to fight back.

They touched — a shiver down the car that made her flinch from yards away.

She saw it all in slow motion: the rival sweeping past into turn five, Jameson’s car twitching as he tried to hold on.

The screens lit up: NEW LEADER.

The crowd roared again, this time for someone else.

Jameson’s onboard showed him slamming his gloved fist against the wheel.

They finally forced him into the pit. The stop was quick, clinical, but the damage was done — he came out behind a mid-pack cluster.

Avery could hardly breathe. She pressed her fist against her mouth, eyes locked on the track feed.

He sliced through back markers like a knife, elbows out, tires smoking. He clawed his way back up to P2 by the final laps, but the leader was too far gone.

When the checkered flag fell, it felt like a funeral.

In the cool-down lap, he didn’t say a word on the radio.

Nothing.

The rival who won pulled into parc fermé, jumping from the car, throwing his helmet into the air. Mechanics screamed and hugged each other.

Jameson pulled in next.

She saw the way he sat there, helmet on, head down, chest heaving.

When he finally climbed out, he ripped his gloves off so violently they flew over the barrier.

A PR rep tried to hand him a water bottle. He shoved it away, eyes dark and wild.

A microphone appeared — he batted it aside, muttering curses under his breath.

The cameras swarmed, lenses inches from his face.

He snatched his helmet bag from a mechanic and stormed off, ignoring everyone.

Avery’s heart pounded so loud she thought she might faint.

She moved on instinct.

She slipped through the crowd, ignoring the shouted questions, ignoring the pitying looks from some of the pit crew.

When she caught sight of him disappearing around a corner toward the private paddock lot, she broke into a jog.

By the time she reached him, he was hurling his helmet bag into the trunk of his private car.

The driver hovered a few feet away, looking like he might bolt at any moment.

Avery stopped a few paces behind him, breath ragged.

“Jameson,” she called.

He didn’t turn.

She tried again, softer. “Jamie.”

He spun around so fast she flinched.

His eyes were wild — bright and sharp and almost feral. His suit was half unzipped, sweat darkening the collar, hair plastered to his forehead.

“Don’t,” he snapped.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

He dragged a hand through his hair, glancing back at the car, then at the ground, then at her. Every line of his body was coiled, every breath sharp.

Reporters rounded the corner, cameras raised. She felt her stomach flip.

Jameson’s gaze darted over her shoulder. His jaw locked.

Without a word, he turned and yanked open the car door.

Avery hesitated.

He paused, looking over his shoulder at her.

“Get in,” he said, voice low, raw, almost hoarse.

Her feet moved before her brain caught up. She slipped into the seat beside him.

The door slammed.

The driver practically dove behind the wheel, pulling away from the curb so fast the tires screeched.

In the back seat, the tension was a living thing. Jameson’s chest rose and fell in jagged bursts. One of his fists pressed against the door, knuckles white.

She didn’t dare touch him.

She stared at her own hands in her lap, nails still carrying the dents from when she clutched them during the race.

The car wove through traffic, city lights strobing across the windows.

Jameson didn’t speak.

She wanted to say something — anything. Tell him she was proud of him, that second place didn’t change who he was. But the words died in her throat.

Minutes crawled by in that thick, punishing silence.

When they finally pulled up to the hotel, Jameson threw open the door and stalked out before the driver had fully stopped.

Avery stumbled after him, heart in her mouth, ignoring the shocked faces in the lobby.

He didn’t wait for her.

She chased him to the elevator, nearly tripping over her own feet. The doors slid shut behind them with a soft hiss, sealing them into a quiet that felt deafening.

Jameson stood in the corner, head tipped back against the wall, eyes shut. Sweat still beaded at his temples, lips parted as if he might speak.

She opened her mouth.

Nothing came out.

The elevator chimed.

He pushed out first, not looking at her, strides long and angry. She ran to keep up.

At the suite door, his fingers fumbled with the keycard. When it finally clicked open, he slammed it behind them with a sound that rattled her bones.

She stood just inside the door, back against it, heart threatening to burst from her chest.

Jameson stood in the center of the room, head bowed, shoulders shaking.

For a moment, she thought he might collapse.

Avery stood frozen against the door, her chest so tight she felt like she might splinter open.

Jameson stood in the center of the room, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. His head was still bowed, curls falling into his eyes, sweat and rage and defeat pooling around him like a storm cloud.

For a long, trembling moment, neither of them moved.

Then, with a strangled sound — half-growl, half-sob — he kicked the edge of the coffee table, sending a stack of magazines scattering across the carpet. He dragged a lamp off the dresser, its cord snapping as it crashed to the ground.

Avery flinched, her fingers scrabbling against the doorframe.

“Fuck!” Jameson roared, voice cracking under the force. “Fuck! Fucking—” He slammed his fist against the wall so hard she felt the vibration under her feet.

He was a hurricane tearing through the room, breathing in ragged gasps, pacing in wild circles like an animal in a cage.

She didn’t know whether to move toward him or run.

He raked a hand down his face, nails digging into his skin. “I had it, Ave! I fucking had it. And I— I just—” Another growl, low and broken. “I let that bastard take it. Second place. Second fucking place.”

She opened her mouth, but he didn’t stop.

“I pushed. I pushed too hard. They told me to back off — I didn’t. I didn’t fucking listen. I never listen. I…” He stumbled to the minibar, ripped open the door, pulled out a bottle of whiskey and twisted off the cap with trembling fingers.

He poured a slosh straight into his mouth, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, breath heaving.

She watched him swallow, watched the way his throat moved, and something in her snapped.

“Jameson.”

He ignored her, turning away, the bottle dangling dangerously from his fingers.

“Jameson,” she said again, louder now, her voice scraping raw.

He slammed the bottle down on the counter, whiskey splashing over the edge. “Don’t. Not now, Avery. Please.”

But she stepped forward anyway, her heart galloping.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she blurted.

His head whipped around, eyes bloodshot and wild. “What?”

“This,” she said, voice shaking. “Us. Or whatever this is.”

He stared at her like she’d slapped him. His lips parted, but no words came out.

She took another step forward. “I can’t keep being your maybe, your almost, your secret. I can’t keep standing in the shadows while you parade your whole life in front of the world.”

He flinched, his eyes darting away, but she kept going.

“I used to love watching you race,” she said, her voice cracking on the word love. “I used to stand in the paddock and feel like I was part of something bigger, like I was cheering for you because I knew you. Because I believed in you.”

Her hands flew up, fingers clawing at her own collarbone as if trying to hold herself together. “But now? Now I feel like a fucking ghost. I feel like every time I look at you, I’m looking at someone I don’t know. Someone who touches me in the dark and then walks past me in daylight like I don’t exist.”

He made a sound then — low and strangled, almost a whimper — but she didn’t stop.

“The media calls me your distraction, your mistake, your nobody,” she said, tears spilling freely now, her breath coming in jagged hiccups. “And you just… let them. You let them tear me apart because it’s easier than saying what I am to you. Because it’s easier than facing it.”

“Avery—” His voice was hoarse, hands trembling as he reached for her.

She stepped back, shaking her head so hard her hair whipped around her shoulders.

“No. Don’t,” she gasped. “Don’t touch me. Not right now.”

His hand fell limp at his side.

“I wanted to be proud of you,” she said, voice softening but no less broken. “I wanted to stand in the crowd and scream your name because I loved you, because I knew you’d turn around and see me. But now I can’t even watch you without wanting to vomit. Because every time I see you out there, I remember that to you, I don’t exist.”

Silence cracked between them, sharp and suffocating.

He staggered back a step, as if her words had knocked the air from his lungs. He pressed his palms to his eyes, shoulders shaking violently.

“I didn’t—” His voice was nearly a whisper now. “I didn’t realize.”

A humorless laugh escaped her lips. “That’s the problem, Jamie. You didn’t realize. You didn’t even think about it because you didn’t want to. You’re so good at running — running from commitment, from feelings, from anything that might make you stand still long enough to look at yourself.”

He dropped his hands, his eyes shining wet under the hotel lights.

“I thought I was protecting you,” he choked. “I thought if I didn’t say it, if I didn’t label it, they wouldn’t come for you as hard. That you’d be safer if you were… if you were just mine. Quietly. Not theirs.”

She stared at him, her chest rising and falling like she’d just run a marathon. “But I’m not safe. I’m not protected. I’m just alone.”

A sound punched from his throat — a raw, helpless sob. He took another step toward her, hands open, pleading.

“Ave,” he rasped. “Avery, please. I’m— I’m sorry. I didn’t see. I didn’t—” His voice broke entirely, shattering into pieces. “I didn’t know how to hold it. How to hold you without breaking you.”

She crumbled then, her own hands flying to her face, tears pouring through her fingers.

He lunged forward, catching her wrists gently, peeling her hands away. His eyes locked on hers, wide and terrified.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, as if admitting it might destroy him. “I don’t— I can’t—”

He swallowed, his chest heaving against hers, his forehead pressing to hers.

“I love you,” he blurted. “God, Avery, I love you. I don’t know when it happened. Maybe it was the first night you told me to shut up about gear ratios and kissed me instead. Maybe it was the first morning you stole my coffee and laughed in my face. Maybe it was always there and I was too much of a fucking coward to say it.”

She shook her head, sobs wracking her frame. “You don’t get to say that now—”

But he cupped her face in both trembling hands, his thumbs wiping furiously at her tears.

“I do,” he insisted, his voice a broken rasp. “I do. Because it’s true. And because I’m done hiding. Done pretending. You’re not my almost. You’re not my secret. You’re not my mistake.”

His breath caught. He leaned in, his lips brushing her cheeks, her forehead, her nose.

“You’re my everything,” he whispered, voice so soft she nearly missed it. “My only. My fucking finish line.”

She shuddered in his hold, her fingers curling into the front of his race suit.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” she sobbed. “I don’t want to be invisible. I don’t want to be nothing to you.”

He pulled her flush against him, his arms wrapping around her like he might fuse them together, his mouth catching hers in a kiss so desperate it tasted of salt and whiskey and all the words they hadn’t said.

When they finally pulled apart, they were both gasping, foreheads pressed together, tears slipping between them.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed again and again, as if repetition might be enough to patch the cracks. “I’ll fix it. I’ll tell them. I’ll tell the whole fucking world if that’s what it takes. I don’t care anymore.”

Avery let out a shaky laugh, her face crumpling. “You’re an idiot,” she choked out.

He gave a ragged laugh too, one that caught in his chest. “Yeah. But I’m your idiot. If you’ll still have me.”

She searched his face, seeing the rawness there, the vulnerability, the fear. The truth.

And slowly, trembling, she nodded.

He collapsed into her again, burying his face in her neck, his whole body shaking as he clung to her like a drowning man.

She wound her arms around his shoulders, finally holding him as tightly as she had wanted to hold him for months.

For a long, endless moment, they just stood there — two broken souls learning to breathe again.

Outside, the city roared on. The cameras would be waiting. The articles would be cruel. The questions would come.

But in that quiet, shaking space between their heartbeats, they finally found each other.

And for the first time, Avery didn’t feel like a ghost.

She felt real. Chosen. His.

[daphnebowen]

can i just say... i quite enjoyed zombies 4: dawn of the vampires? i was a bit hesitant at first (i'm not the biggest fan of change, thanks, hate to see the og's go) and to be honest after rise of red i was not feeling the continuation. but i was pleasantly surprised! here are some thoughts nobody asked for:

malachi and freya had some INSANE chemistry. i was cheering for a kiss by the end. we did not get it. fine. zombies 5?

i was worried about meg and milo's chemistry for absolutely no reason. they're too cute. zeddison 5ever and i need the wedding milo has promised us. i could watch them hold hands and look at each other on a loop. (meglo forever!) (mostly platonically) (but a little romantically) (but obviously meg has a boyfriend and they're adorable)

i wish eliza and willa could have done a bit more, but i get that a big plot point was to "pass the torch" as they say. i did enjoy their "core 4" friendship vibes, though i missed wynter and wyatt and bonzo and bree and even bucky, whom i adore. willa is just honestly one of my favorite characters and watching chandler on dwts this past season (ROBBED, btw) made me love her even more.

vargas had my entire heart from beginning to end. he's legit so cool. i want to be him.

ray? could have done without him. he made me mad.

vera? same. i came around towards the end but why she gotta be eavesdropping and not listening to the whole conversation? do it right please.

i'll admit the trailer had me SO confused as to what the entire plot of the movie was. don't know what i expected but the first thirty minutes of the movie i was at a loss for how anything seen in the trailer was going to fit in. don't worry, it's fine, it all worked out, but i was lost for a bit.

the songs were... actually fire???? the "someday" and "ain't no doubt about it" reprises made me cry like a little baby. i LOVED nova's solo song (that girl can SING, holy) and "place to be" was not as over hyped as i thought it would be. i'm glad i avoided listening to it as much as possible so i had fresh ears when hearing it!

costuming was flawless, I loved nova and addison's outfits... though why did they have addison go back to white hair? that confused me. and zed had a couple questionable styling choices, now that i think about it, but other than that, amazing

the dance breaks were SO COOL. i don't remember what song it is (sue me) but it's when zed's with the daywalkers and addison's with the vampires and they're on the beach going to the tunnels - cinematography was on point

hated nova's dad, hated victor's aunt. enough said.

the plot both made sense but also had some weird pacing issues? maybe there was more detail that got cut along the way?? I just wanted more, I think

can we talk about the way my heart stopped when zed was DYING??????????? if they had killed him off- I would have- unacceptable. then they just started partying?? I was like, okay...

i'm pretty sure that's all I have to say. a bit incoherent, really unnecessary, just wanted to swoon over zed/addison and victor/freya. all in all, would watch again (probably will sometime soon tbh), recommend! as a whole, i'd give this movie a... 7. or an 8. somewhere in there.

[cinnamoroll-things]

Hi, can you write tony Stark x yn fluff or overprotective, please 🙏

Yess anon, I had this idea in mind for a while now and I hope you like it :3

summary: He told you to rest. You didn’t. Now he’s dragging you to bed with a mix of soft threats, bad jokes, and I-love-yous.

warnings: sleep deprivation / overworking, soft angst / concern, fluff, banter, and emotional support, mentions of injury/fear of loss, tony being dramatic as usual (yes that needs it´s own warning)

wc: ~2.1k

You and Tony had been dating for a few months now, and honestly? It couldn’t be better.

He first met you at the Stark Expo. You were different—he noticed that right away. Not flirty, not desperate to get his attention. Just… standing near his car with a notebook in hand, waiting patiently while a crowd of screaming women and pushy reporters tried to get close. When he and Happy finally pushed through, you stepped forward and asked, politely, if he had a minute to talk about Iron Man.

At first, he thought you were like all the others—using a job title to get close to him. Another "reporter" looking for a headline—or maybe a way into his bed. But after a few minutes of back-and-forth, after he threw a few flirty jabs and got nothing but genuine, curious questions in return, he realized you weren’t playing a game. You actually gave a damn about what he had to say.

And now here you were—in his mansion in Malibu, sitting in his lab at some ungodly hour, helping him try to figure out how to get metal to rebuild itself. Self-repairing armor. Reforming plates that could patch themselves up mid-fight.

Early on, Tony figured out you were not only gorgeous but brilliant. You’d spent hours down here with him, bouncing ideas off each other, soldering parts, sketching wild concepts on scrap paper and whiteboards. It had become your thing.

Tonight, though, Tony was out. Said Rhodey had “dragged him into something boring,” and you didn’t ask for details. You were back in the lab, again, hunched over the workbench, trying to figure out how to install the new metal system without interfering with the rest of the suit. It sounded simple. It absolutely wasn’t.

Now you were five prototypes in. Your head was pounding. You hadn’t eaten in hours. Sleep was a distant memory. But still, you kept working—because you needed to finish this. You needed him to be safe. You’d seen the way Tony threw himself into every fight like he had nothing to lose, and you couldn’t stand the idea of something failing. Not if you could prevent it.

Before he left, he told you to sleep. Actually carried you upstairs, set you down in bed, and kissed your forehead like he knew you wouldn’t stay put. He told you to rest. Promised he’d be back soon.

But of course, the moment the door closed behind him… you came right back down.

--------

Tony was tired. Beyond tired.

Rhodey had dragged him into a Stark Industries oversight meeting he hadn’t even been invited to—just so he ´´wouldn’t have to sit through it alone.`` Three hours of bureaucratic nonsense. Tony spent most of it passing sticky notes to Rhodey with doodles and stuff like “Wanna fake a fire drill?” And yeah—he may or may not have hacked into the main display at one point to show a pie chart titled “Why I Regret Attending”, with sections like Boredom, Authority Figures, and No Snacks.

So when he finally rolled into the garage, Rhodey next to him, both of them half-brain-dead from the experience, the last thing he expected was to see you—still at it.

Still at the table. Still talking to JARVIS. Still completely wired and half-asleep at the same time.

Rhodey: “I needed backup. Emotional support. You just made it worse.” He pauses, spotting you “…She’s still down here?”

Tony: (squinting) “Nope. That’s a ghost. A hallucination. I tucked her into bed like two hours ago.”

Rhodey: “She looks real for a hallucination.”

Tony: “That’s how they get you.”

Tony walks over, crossing the lab quietly. You’re still scribbling, mumbling something about load-bearing alloys and flex points.

Tony: “JARVIS, is she running on caffeine or sheer willpower right now?”

JARVIS: “A concerning lack of both, sir.”

Tony: “Figures.”

He taps the table gently in front of you.

Tony: “Hey. Lab rat. Thought we agreed you were sleeping tonight.”

You: “I was. Then I had an idea. About the alloy placement, and—” you finally glance up “Wait. Aren’t you supposed to still be getting publicly scolded?”

Tony: “I was. I escaped. Took Rhodey with me out of spite. We survived. Barely.” glances at Rhodey “Mentally scarred, but free.”

Rhodey: “You made a pie chart in the middle of a classified meeting.”

Tony: “A very accurate pie chart.”

His voice softens as he looks back at you.

Tony: “Come on. You’ve got that look again—like you haven’t blinked in three hours and forgot food exists. Let´s get you in bed”

You: “Just a bit longer. I’m close.”

Tony: “You said that earlier. Before I left. Before the sun left.” (quieter) “I love that you’re doing this for me. I really do. But I can’t lose you to your own stubborn brain. Not over this. Okay?”

Rhodey: “He’s being gentle, but what he means is: if you pass out again, we’re gonna have to carry you upstairs, and I’m not emotionally prepared for that.”

Tony: “Bed. Now. Or I’m cutting power to the whole table. I will do it. I’m unstable. And dramatic.”

------

Eventually, he gets you upstairs. You say goodbye to Rhodey with a sleepy hug, mumbling something halfway between a “good night” and a yawn.

Now you’re in bed—finally—and Tony’s right where you needed him. Arms around you, body warm, breath slow and steady beside your ear.

For a while, neither of you says a word. You just soak in the comfort. The silence. The fact that he’s here.

You: “How was the meeting?”

Tony: (already half-asleep) “The usual. Pissed off some people. Almost fell asleep ten times. You know the drill.”

You just hum.

You nuzzle into the crook of his neck, and before he can make some snarky comment about you “clinging to him like your life depends on it,” you whisper:

“I’m scared, Tony. I don’t want to lose you just because some wannabe villain has a grudge. You’re not immortal. And if someone damages the suit bad enough… I don’t want to lose you because a chunk of metal failed. I just—I need us to finish that project. So I can sleep again.”

He pulls you closer.

Tony: “Hey. Look at me. You’re not getting rid of me that easy. We’ll figure it out. But you can’t keep running yourself into the ground to do it, okay? We’ll finish rebuilding the suit. Thanks to you. I love you, sweetheart.”

You: “I love you, Tony.”

Tony: “Now go to sleep. Or I’m slipping melatonin into your coffee tomorrow.”

You: “You just had to ruin the sweet moment, didn’t you.”

I hope you liked it!!

[dyketennant]

oh i can already tell i’m about to have some really unpopular opinions about the edge of sleep tv show

[screampied]

‘ V!RGIN KILLA! 𝜗𝜚

𓉸ྀི sum. not only does he think he knows what he’s doing, he’s also a virgin. but there’s a first time for everything . . . right? choso, nanami, gojo, geto, ino, toji.

warnings. fem! reader, vīrgin men, unprotected, vīrginity loss, whiny needy men, some college themes, fratboy! toji, pússydrunk men, cōckwarming, cérvix kissin', cunnīlingus, dry humping, finishing quick, spıt, squīrting, bréeding, petnames, sukuna's part didn't save but i'll make it up </3

★ NANAMI KENTO aka the quick learner virgin?!

nanami drools the minute his tip disappears inside of your cunt. he can’t help it - at all.

the balmy warmth you provide him while you’re straddling his waist, basically cockwarming him sends him shivers. “god, ‘s good,” he groans, tugging at the bottom edge of his spot-patterned tie. nanami could feel the raised pointed tips of his ears burning as his eyes slowly flicker down toward your sopping wet pussy. oh, how it’s just profusely leaking with so much strings of your pretty slick. messily, it glosses a shine between your legs, gleaming with thick molasses—almost similar to a stream, and yet this stream was instead flowing down between your legs. “mmh.. ride me, s- show me how to feel good, my love.”

“hey. eyes on me, ‘ken,” you whisper, your fragile breaths growing shallow the moment he’s tightly snug balls deep in. with a ringing loud ‘pop!’ you feel him greedily ease his way past the slight loose ring of your entrance and you moan. he’s in so deep, and you can’t help but shimmy your hips against his lap. nanami told you how he had little to no experience—and yet, he wanted to try this out with you. having you ride him until he couldn’t think straight. whenever you ran your hands down his carved tone body, a roaring fire would ignite within him. your touch alone sent him chills and he only craved it more. tender fawn-colored eyes that almost resemble honey meet your gaze, and he leans into your touch the moment you cup your hands on his cheeks. slowly, you’re lustfully swaying against his lap back and forth and he groans. “that’s it, you’re doin’ good, kento. hold my hips.”

“like . . this?” he hoarsely asks, and hefty hands suddenly cling onto your waist. you moan, nodding as he gently holds them in place, trying to guide your movements. his cock stretched you out in each ‘n every way, curiously exploring through the gummy walls of every slick orifice. nanami’s starting to sweat already—and you smile, watching as he sneaks a fat thumb down between your pried open legs. “mngh. . you’re soakin’ all on me. is that normal?” he breathes, and you can see a bit of drool starting to seep down the cracked corners of his lips.

soaking, he could hear the sloppy sounds of your cunt slamming back against his tense thighs and it makes him throb. in zealous sync, you end up throbbing too, and he feels said throb right against the the narrow tip of his cock. “ah, y- yeah, ‘s normal, kento,” you inhale sharply, wrapping your arms around him. callused fingertips his drag a straight line down your skin as he starts to rock you faster into his needy pelvis.

the stretch makes you whimper - his dick’s so fat, and your pussy swallows all numerous inches every time. over ‘n over, your ass violently hits back against his lap as you continue to ride him, amorously tossing your swerving hips in a circle. you could see the blond’s eyes starting to grow hooded, and he’s never looked so in love. your cunt had him hungry for more. “like that, baby?”

“mhm, i like a-anything you do to me, sweetheart,” nanami hoarsely coos, pulling up the back of your hand for a loving kiss. you’re riding him well—watching as he slowly cocks his head back, exposing the oval-shaped adam’s apple in his throat. it’s a simple yet sexy detail that makes you pulsate nevertheless, and nanami groans. “f- fuck, i need you. i need more, ‘m not gonna last, honey if you hah.. keep ridin’ me like that.”

and within a few hasty strokes, nanami starts to get the hang of your rhythm. by the hang, he’s starting to fuck you against his cock now. vast, open hands of his cling onto your waist tight before he’s occasionally spanking your ass. “ngh, good girl. that’s my girl, ugh,” and as you’re whining, nanami pulls you into his neck. the pearly silver band of his flashy watch tickles down your back as he grabs at a nice chunk of your ass, spanking it. “r- ride it like it’s yours, sweetheart. ride it like i’m yours.”

he’s whispering filthy nothing in your ears—trying to drown out your cute sobbing whimpers and your even louder pussy. nanami’s cock was deranged - it was reaching through every sensitive spot of yours, wasting no time to introduce itself near the gummy ridges.

“fuck, fuck!” you’d squeal out, gasping once the swollen head of his cock tickles its way near your hidden g-spot. oh, that spot. you couldn’t help but get sheepish, a cock drunk smile twisting against your lips. he’s so snug, rearranging your insides while continuing to spank your ass. it’s almost as if he knew what he was doing, and nanami knew how to tame your aching cunt with just a few sloppy strokes. “ken, ‘m close. fuckin’ close.”

“i know, i know. give it t’ me,” he whispers, his voice pitching deeper ‘n deeper after each sloppy thrust. nanami’s pumping you full, swallowing thickly to ease the inside of his mouth that’s parched, akin to the sahara. nanami groans, gingerly making you slam your hips against him harder. “fuck, work those hips sweetheart. show me how messy my pretty girl can be, h- huh?”

you’re whimpering constantly, sounding like nothing more than a broken record as you’re gradually being led to your release. it’s a candied sweet taste in your mouth that never goes away, and once you finally came—you were hysterical.

nanami huffs heavily, holding you tight as your hips come to a sudden devastating stop. he’s still buried thick inches deep before he groans, caressing a palm against your tender rear. “hah, that’s m- my girl,” he coos, feeling you drench a portion of his cock with your slimy slick. it’s warm, and you’re still whining incoherent blurbs as you bury your face into his neck. “whew, we’ll have ‘ta try that again,” and once he plants a wet kiss near your temple, he strokes your chin with a thumb. “but another position though. if that’s alright.”

“w- what position?” you tiredly pant, bringing a hand toward your sticky-coated back.

nanami gives your ass its final playful spank before whispering lowly against your lips. “ever heard of doggy, my love?”

#GETO SUGURU aka the nasty virgin?!

geto’s a filthy nasty virgin, unashamed. insisting how he’s never experienced something like this before, smugly stating how he ‘did his research.’

“lie back, sweetheart,” geto huffed, flipping you right back over on your back. he’d just got done with fucking you round after round for the first time, and it seemed like the word ‘stamina’ didn’t exist in his vocabulary. one second inside and he already wanted more—he was greedy, and it was never enough. as you’re struggling to catch your breath that drags out of your full puffed lungs, you stare up at geto. right away, his dark eyes dart between your legs and the dripping dewy mess that streams between your puffed cunt. “what a pretty sight, look at thaaaat,” and geto inches his face between your thighs, staring at frosty-white wads of cum that pour straight out of your full swollen folds.

so much. . you were practically overflowing with ribbons of sticky hot cum ‘n many more strings of it before he sticks out his tongue. “hah, least i can do is clean my girl, hm?” and you whimper, feeling him spread your legs apart with two hands. “kinda saw this in a video once.”

“s- sugu!” you gasp, your words leisurely turning into moans the second he dives straight into your pussy - nose first.

right as the tip of his tongue creates a frenzied slurping trail that soaks straight your cunt, he gives you the most feral look. his pretty black lashes briefly flap shut as he’s devouring you wholly, jerking his head from side to side. choked, gargled moans continue to steal out from your strained vocal cords as a hand of yours fishes through his matted tresses. “fuck, f- fuck like that, clean it up, baby.”

“mhm,” he smears his entire chin against your cunt, feeling it get doused with your sweet slick almost right away. he’s nasty, lapping up his bittersweet cum that spills out from between your folds like it’s nothing. geto barely even bats an eye, and that’s when he groans the second you feel a bit of weight dip against the mattress. he’s now humping against the edge of the bed, rocking his slim hips over ‘n over. “goddamn, ‘m so horny still, sweetheart. ‘y have no idea,” he whimpers shakily, and he grumbles under his breath, shaking his head as a few thin strands of hair gets in the way of his view. “h- hey, be a doll ‘n tie my hair back for me, yeah?”

as you’re chasing your quick-steady breaths, you grab his ponytail holder from his wrist, neatly putting his raven locks into a messy bun. “good girl, take such good care of m—mmph.”

geto lowly chuckles against your pussy once you give him a soft push that makes his nose brush up against your clit. your folds were so cute ‘n runny, filthily oozing with velvety remnants of his warm, pasty cum. “mhh, suguru,” you’d whine, feeling your back continuously arch against the stained white sheets. geto’s got a few loose strands that continue to run down his face, past his brows—making him appear to be even more handsome whilst between your legs. each thoroughly slurp gets louder, and that’s when he starts to loll his tongue out inside of you.

one thing about suguru geto was that he had a long fuckin’ tongue..

it extends fully, and you give his hair a rough tug once the tip of his tongue playfully slithers its way near your twitching sensitive nub. at that moment, you feel a rapid chill race through you and you let off the most shrilling whimper. “ah! suguru, fuck, ‘m sensitive there, don’t s- stop,” and as you’re babbling from his lengthy tongue, he starts to purse his lips. they curl up, puckering fully before he’s drinking everything out of you.

it’s a long carnal suck that makes your eyes cross and you feel like your life’s flashing before your eyes. splotches of white were all that clouded your vision as your thighs shake—nearly suffocating him with your plush, warm legs. “o- oh, fuck,” you’d mewl, and you knew that incoming pressure from anywhere.

you were close.

geto grunts, savoring your taste entirely. you’re just so sweet that your flavor melts on his tongue and he’s teasingly thrusting his tongue in and out of your sobbing folds. seconds later, that’s when you shriek. “c’monnn, give it to me,” and he even brings a hand between your thighs, spanking your precious cunt. “make a mess on my tongue, wanna see what it’s like,” he groans, his rocking against the edge of the bed intensifying. geto’s famished for more, and his bare cock twitches against the rocky mattress frame as you’re squirming on his tongue. by now, he’s licked you clean, and in return, he’s left with a locked jaw and glimmering wet chin. geto eyes you intently, giving your pussy its final sloppy spank before whispering against your folds. “let go for me, baby.”

as if on cue, you gush out loudly, feeling every muscle within you snap ‘n stretch outward. it was as if a crushing weight was lifted from your shoulders—but in this case, your shoulders were your tummy. “fuuuck!” you whimper out, squeezing your eyes shut as your legs give out.

geto’s mouth was still glued to your sticky slippery cunt as his tongue’s slowed its licks down. you tasted even sweeter, and he’s slurping you right up - softly moaning against your cunt as he reaches to touch himself. geto’s tongue’s constant movements scratch such an itch in your brain, making you let off a cute gasp. “ughh, s- suguru,” you whimper, feeling your thighs still shiver.

your tummy heaves in and out repeatedly, and you glance down at geto who’s got the sleaziest grin. “t- thought you said you didn’t know what you were . . hah, doing.”

“oh, baby i don’t,” geto rasps, sitting up from between your legs. he closes the distance between you both, pressing a steamy hot kiss against your quivering plump lips. you moan, getting a brief taste of yourself on his hot tongue before he playfully bites near your bottom lip. “my research helped me a lot,” and you moan the second you feel him give your sloppy cunt a big squeeze with his palm. “but . . i didn’t know my girl was a squirter. think we’ll have to do that again,” geto licks underneath your chin. “y’know, for research purposes.”

#GOJO SATORU aka the loser virgin?!

“yeah, yeah,” satoru would stubbornly grumble, cutting you off mid-sentence and rolling his eyes. his leaky tip remains idle, aligning itself against your soddened entrance before he puffs. phew, you were so pretty up close—especially down there. satoru couldn’t help but stare, openly admiring just how slick ‘n soaked you were.

just weeping from both off folds, the entirety of your entrance being coated in nothing but perspiring wetness. satoru swears on his life he knows what he’s doing, but the second the globed head of his cock smears a line down the wet slope of your cunt - he folds.

with a shaky, needy breath, he whines. “god, why are you so fuckin’ wet, baby. ‘s this supposed to happen?”

“yes, ‘toru,” you reassure him, sprawling your legs out a bit more. satoru’s panting, watching as you bring two sets of fingers toward your pretty pussy. with a slightly wide ‘v’ shape, you’re spreading yourself apart and he’s gawking straight between your legs. fuck, you were so soaked that you were starting to drip near the inner crevices of your thighs. you were playing with yourself earlier before he told you how he wanted to try going inside for the first time. but now that he’s up close—satoru can’t help but be a bit flustered. “c’mere, don’t be shy,” and you nearly moan, trailing the print of your thumb down your syrupy-coated slit. “she doesn’t bite.”

satoru scoffs, but he inches closer. so wet, his cock that was being fisted in the palm of his hand was throbbing hard. pulse after fucking pulse, a lightning-shaped vein races down the center of his hand before he groans at how hard you’re making him. “ngh, baby,” and he nearly loses it the second he struggles to align himself. he feels so hot, fuzzy cotton stuffing in his ears once his tip slowly rubs itself in between your drooling flaps. satoru snaps out of it, clearing his throat before puffing out his chest in an attempt to maintain his known ego. “heh- i mean uh- let’s show ya how ‘the strongest’ fucks.”

and apparently, ‘the strongest’ didn’t really know what he was doing after all.

because he’s barely halfway in when he’s cumming - heavily.

emphasis on barely, and satoru lets out a sweet needy whine the second he’s shooting thin milky ropes into you. thick, stringy ribbons of cum envelope inside your pussy with warmth right away. “f- fuck, dammit,” he’d grunt, burying his face into the crook of your neck. satoru’s beefy body presses right up against yours, and he’s shivering at the feeling. it’s unlike any feeling he’s ever felt, and you giggle the second you hear him loudly sigh. “ugh, that wasn’t supposed ‘ta happen.”

“thought you knew what you were doin’, baby,” you cheekily reply, a few beads of sweat racing down the left side of your forehead. satoru sits up, leaning into your ginger embraces—your palm cupping his temple. he’s pouting, an unsatisfied pout extending across each side of his lips.

“i- i doo,” he whines, feeling his thighs starting to heat up near the undersides. satoru clenches his teeth, groaning once you gradually wrap your legs around his slim waist. he’s hot, and you’ve got him wrapped around your pretty ‘lil finger.

wide, crystal blue eyes meet your gaze before satoru exhales into your neck. “mnh, let me try again, baby,” and right as you rub your ankle down his tense back muscles, he gruffs. snowy flapping lashes of his shut tight before he wraps a hand around his lanky cock. “pleasee, c’mon baby. lemme prove myself. i’ll get it this time for real.”

a smile marinates its way against your features as you hum, rubbing a thumb down his sensitive undercut. for a second, you could have sworn you heard satoru purr as he leaned into your touch. you almost forgot how much of a tender spot that was for him. cute.

“okay, go ‘head,” and both of your thighs were practically sticking together. such amounts of his seed glue against your thighs—almost like it was some kind of clingy adhesive. satoru pulls out for a moment, eager to get a look at the sloppy mess and oh.. it was a lot - he came a lot, and satoru couldn’t help but stare at the luminous streams of cum that teared down your polished cunt.

it’s sloppy. satoru’s eyes widen once he feels his tip glide its way against your cervix. right near your g-spot - it’s fuckin’ bumpy, and he feels your legs eagerly twitch the minute his dick slides its way near a spongy area. you’re moaning, laid back before satoru starts to whine.

he can’t help but whimper, softly smacking his swollen tip on your entrance. satoru had no idea what to do next, but he just wanted to play with your pretty pussy some more. the loud echoey smacks from his dick onto your folds make his ears ring…pap after pap and he’s pronounced feral. but that’s right when you hear him sniffle, literally getting lost in your pussy the second he feels your cute pulse on his round, mushroomy tip.

as you wrap your arms around him, hearing him whine once you rub a thumb down his undercut, feeling him awkwardly trying to align himself again with a bashful needy grin.

“toru, are you cryin’?”

#CHOSO KAMO aka the virgin who barely lasts?!

“o- oh, fuckk,” he’d whine, twinkling eyes widening the second he’s watching your tummy cave in from behind. you’re so pretty like this, bent over, sprawled all out on all fours. choso’s stiffly still at first, and he’s very awkward with his hands. bulged, umber-colored eyes bore into your backside, gazing at your skin. stunning, choso grunts as he pistons his hips, glancing at the sunlight that radiates off a shiny part of your spine.

in choso’s eyes, you’re breathing pretty - art, and with the way your skin glimmers in the sun, you looked like a rare painting. “baby, you’re so warm inside.”

“mhm, don’t stop ‘cho,” you moan in response, feeling your loose jaw start to droop allll the way down. you nibble near the inside of your gummy cheek, gasping at just how big he is. his cock was huge, and it didn’t take him long at all to fit nice ‘n snug. its a semi-tight fit that makes your mouth start to water from the inside and you whine. “fuuck, ‘s okay, choso,” and he feels you wriggling your ass against him. choso’s eyes dart towards your bouncy rear and he huffs. “spank it.”

a shuddering breath leaves from choso’s pink parted lips before he lowly rasps. “yeah?” and you felt yourself throb, feeling him press himself all up against you. now, choso’s gently hovering his weight over your back whilst he’s still presenting you with passionate deep strokes. slowly but surely—he’s getting the hang of it, rummaging through your fleshy clingy insides with each punctuating hit. choso’s gruff heavy breaths fan down your neck before he moans, creeping a hand toward your ass. “i can spank you, baby?”

“mmh,” you whimper in response, hearing the salaciously wanton squelches of your cunt help out louder. saying that you were wet was a mere understatement, you were pouring all down his dick with your slick. choso could feel the wetted mess trail between your legs, coating the front of his thighs entirely with your viscid sap. he’s heard about intimacy but it was an entirely different thing to experience it firsthand. “spank me, choso. ‘s okay, you can be a ‘lil rough.”

“ ‘kay,” he huffs, and you let off a soft squeal the second his palm sharply swats against your ass. oh, he liked that. the way your rear recoiled, pretty skin bouncing quickly for a few seconds—all from a small whacking hit. the brief sting made your cunt pulse sporadically as he was still drilling into you. pump after pump, choso turns pussy drunk within seconds. “hah, you’re so fuckin’ hot,” he whines, tracing a hand down the pretty curvature of your ass. his fingers dance down every juncture, and it’s almost heart-shaped. “baby, you’re makin’ me feel so—fuck.”

choso gets cut off from his words the moment he feels his dick throb between your soddened cunt. you’re wringing him dry, all while your head is cutely smushed up against your pillow. choso’s speed quickly starts to get relentless, and after a while, he’s starting to understand the human body just a bit more. “ah, choso. fuck me, fuck!” you’d whimper, a curling sensation arising within your toes right as he slams his way into your cervix.

it’s a direct hit, a k.o. as some would might say—and it’s almost as if you’ve got stars ‘n imaginary birds flying over your head like a cartoon because choso’s dick had you stupid.

“somethin’s c- comin’,” he moans, slightly lifting your leg to get a better view. it’s probably been a few minutes and choso’s already panting like a dog. he’s feral - softly planting a stripe of wet kisses down your neck as he’s buried balls deep. “ugh, baby. ‘m gonna cum, gonna cum, ngh.”

“inside, ‘cho. ‘s okay,” you whine, feeling his pace grow more relentless and sloppy. choso’s gripping your waist tightly, his bottom lip quivering as he’s feeling a sudden rush overtake his entire body. you’re perfect - he wanted to keep you like this forever, plug you full and keep you warm. you could hear his rough, heavy pants from behind you until he finally came.

whitish thick ribbons pour into you all at once, shooting deep into your womb.

it’s hot - physically and literally.

you’re arched over for him like a bridge and he’s whimpering, furrowing his darkened brows with a pout as choso slowly starts to flood your cunt. globs of sleek strings spray inside your gripping cunt as he gradually pulls out, openly watching as you’re moaning. the feeling of your walls wrapping around his cock had him feeling fuzzy. “m- mhm, choso,” you’d mewl out, hearing him cutely gasp once your cunt sloshes loudly, spitting out thin clumps of his cum. “ ‘m so full.”

“hah- ‘n you’re gonna get even fuller, baby,” he huffs, a pout still glossing over his slickly-wet lips as he stares at your pussy. it’s pretty like this, he thinks. from top to bottom—you’re stuffed full of his gooey hot cum, so much to where it’s shamelessly oozing out of your puffed slit, racing down your numb jittery thighs. you moan, feeling choso drag a thumb down your sobbing, slobbering slit before popping his thumb into his mouth, licking his mess right off his finger.

choso moans at the taste before pouting. “not done, one more round,” and as he glides his tongue across his digit, choso gives your cunt a soft spank before groaning, softly pushing your knees to your chest.

“ ‘m still hungry.”

#TOJI FUSHIGURO aka the virgin who gets humbled?!

“heh. do y’r worst, baby,” toji would snicker, bringing a spank to your ass as he leans back against the couch. lazily, he’s slouching with a half-filled can of cheap beer in his hand. he’s smug, and not only was he smug but he was also virgin - the cockiest.

it’s funny because toji didn’t know what the fuck he was doing…however, he was more than willing for you to ‘show him’ how to feel good.

of course—he’s haughty that you won’t be able to take him, but it’s much to be expected for a pompous fratboy. “mmh, goddamn,” he’d grunt, peering down at your glossed weeping pussy. it’s wet, and as you straddle him, toji squeezes the energy drink in his hand. “slow, baby s- slow.”

with a cooing whisper, you sprinkle a few kisses near the inside of his neck. “slower, toji? but you’re the one who kept rushin’ me,” you tease, and from your peripherals, you can see his jaw tensing. fuck, the moment your cunt starts to ease down on his length in a gradually paced manner, toji groans. it’s a low husky groan - the groan where he’s already tossing his head back.

“y’r bein’ a brat,” he snarls, sliding an arm around your waist. your pussy was hypnotic - and you wearing one of his oversized jade-colored frat hoodies only made things ten times worse. you looked so pretty, and he couldn’t help but trail his hooded eyes down your body, stopping at the hem of your waist and right near your ass. “fuck- slow, baby. ‘m damn sensitive,” and you watch the sly smirk that was once plastered on his scarred lips slowly starting to fade. toji’s getting more ‘n more pussy drunk, and he knows it too. “mhh, like that. fuck me good.”

“you talk too much,” you teasingly grip his chin, watching as his leafy verdant eyes gaze into yours. he’s hard - and not only is he hard but he’s insanely sensitive. toji scoffs, but that soon disappears the moment your hips start to move. “hnghh,” you suck in a brisk breath, eyes nearly widening once you start to feel the gaping, lewd stretch. his cock was long ‘n tall—merrily expanding through your cunt within each thick inch.

one thrust - just one fuckin’ thrust and that was all it took for you to nearly break. he’s huge, and you whimper the second you feel his plump swollen sack kiss near the undersides of your bare ass. “oh yeah? make me shut up then.”

famous last words.

because even though toji’s all talk, he gets humbled right away the minute you change him as a person entirely all from your sweet, mesmerizing cunt. toji leans back, groaning gruffly against your ear as faint gurgled whines depart from his throat. you’re riding him good, shutting him with your pussy—humbling him with your hips. oh, you’re just riding him into complete oblivion. toji was left speechless, and instead of you moaning his name, he was moaning yours.

“ngh, fuck. god, ‘s good don’t fuckin’ stop workin’ those hips, s- shit,” he’d huskily snarl, squeezing the plastic can within his palm, crushing its shape. toji’s cologne scent was loud, and it completely rubbed off against your skin as you moaned. you were grinding against him back ‘n forth, whining continuously before milliseconds passed by and you’re now starting to feel your stomach churn churn churn.

each eye rolling, toe-curling feeling that twists in the depths of your insides due to his cock makes you sob out moan after moan. you try to silence yourself by sneaking a few needy kisses near toji’s scarred lip. he grunts with a clenched jaw, returning the gesture with a hand glued to your ass.

it moves like water - toji was always an ass man, and now that he was finally living the dream, he spanked you again, and again, and again.

the jiggle against his palm makes his dick throb, and you feel it right inside of your cunt. “doin’ okay, toji?” you tease breathlessly, watching as a shiny string of saliva tears away from both lips. you felt him squeeze his way wholly inside of your fleshy entrance, ploddingly and sloppily thrusting in and out.

“tch. less talkin’ more ridin—oh fuck,” he’d gruff, his shoulders slackening as you sensually rutted your hips further into him. god, you were teasing him so much and your wet, filthy cunt was to blame. he wanted more, more more. the way you moved in such a relentless manner drove toji crazy and he was starting to think maybe the two of you were just more than roommates. your pussy had that kind of power, and it’s not even seconds later before toji’s about to cum.

but surprisingly, he ends up lifting you with burly arms, pulling out with a speed equivalent to the flash. he moans, staring at his leaking reddened tip that’s dribbling from the slit with sticky droplets of warm cum. he’s heaving, staring back at your sparkly-coated cunt before he makes you recline back against the couch.

“f- fuck, ‘s much. lie back, baby. l- lie back for me,” and once you do, he merely pounces on you. toji exhales out a deep, heavy sigh before aligning his swollen tip near your dripping cunt. “god, look at ‘er,” he grunts, and you could hear the tremor in his voice as he’s spraying his seed on the outer part of your wetted entrance. it’s long, striped stripes of ivory ropes that paint your bare tender clit and he licks his lips at the filthy sight. “hah, so fuckin’ hot. milkin’ me like that, f- fuck.”

“you came pretty quick, toji,” you jibe, spreading your sopping cunt lips apart so he could play between your legs some more. with a loud ‘thwack’, toji smacks his swollen tip against your pussy, smearing his blushing crownhead up ‘n down your stained crying slit. it’s so messy, and you watch as his tongue briefly sticks out between his ruby lips.

“let’s not talk ‘bout that,” toji grumps, and you moan the second he’s re-aligning himself. his fat girth was ready to introduce itself yet again to your swollen insides. toji’s still panting, and you can see how flustered he was because he’s visibly pouting. “f- fuck, i . . i need a minute,” and he pulls back out, slouching back against the couch. you crawl over toward him and within a split second he wraps an arm around you.

yeah, he’s obsessed.

“give me . . a minute,” he huffs, his chiseled abs flexing through his grey dingy tank. toji pulls you into his beefy hardened pecs before staring down at you, and your eyes widen once he kisses the top of your forehead. “next time, ‘m gonna last ten- no, thirteen rounds.”

“sureee thing, big guy.”

spoiler - he doesn’t.

#INO TAKUMA aka the virgin who…falls in love?!

ino who moans out a sweet gasping, “f- fuuck me,” the second he’s easing his way inside of you for the first time. his dick feels soft for a second, tenderly assuaging through your insides before he whimpers at the new feeling. ino’s heavily panting out short breaths, staring at your bare exposed body that prettily sits underneath him before he moans. “ ‘m not hurtin’ you, right, angel?”

“no, no. ‘m fine, ino,” you let off a soft sigh, the lower parts of your legs snaking around his waist. ino grunts, going as slow as he can. he’s barely even a few inches in and he’s already sweating profusely. “easyy, that’s it, baby,” you reassure him with labored breaths, staring into his droopy hooded eyes. ino’s beanie was on the verge of sliding off the side of his head before he sucks his teeth at your gripping warmth. “hold my hand, here,” and you could feel his body shudder the moment you intertwine your fingers against his.

he’s big, and he knows it. ino scrunches his dark brows into a furrow, trying his best to blindly navigate his way inside of your cunt. right away, you’re clenching around him tight, locking your unstable legs around his waist before hearing him let off a sweet whimper.

“ugh, you feel so good, so good,” and within each wet-sounding thrust, his words start to pitch. it gets lower ‘n lower, raspy and husky. ino’s skin starts to glue against you thanks to the splotches of sweat dampening against each other before he huffs. “tell me it's too much, ngh—fuck,” and his eyes soften the moment you cup his face. “s- sorryy, am i talkin’ too much?”

“ ‘s okay, ino,” you inhale, and his pace starts to get quicker. vast, thorough thrusts make you feel every inch. his frantic rhythm rocks into you steadily, causing the bed to constantly wail out pathetic whiney creaks. you brush a thumb across the side of his cheek before moaning, feeling his tip zigzag its way across your sensitive g-spot. “ah! right there, ino. there, baby t- thereee.”

“there, oh- okay,” he tries to take note, studying your body’s movements. into felt his cock twitch at your reaction. so cute. you’d clench around him tight before arching your back, dragging your nails down his soft skin. ino’s stretching you out to the very limit, plummeting his dick into you over and over until you’re seeing nothing but cloudy blobs of white. you hadn’t even realized your eyes were lulling near the back of your head before he cheekily pointed it out. “heh, you look kinda silly like this pretty girl.”

you shoot him a playful glare whilst he’s still driving himself into your mid-thrust and ino sheepishly snickers. “sorry, sorry,” and with a sticky smooch, he brings his lips up against yours. ino’s pace starts to pick up more and more, championing his chiseled askew hips into you. “ah, i think ‘m gonna cum though, shitshitshit,” and as he’s rambling, ino starts to feel his hips into you quicker. “hah, lovie- tell me what ‘ta do. where do i f- finish,” he’d huff breathlessly, sliding his scarred hands near the sides of your waist. “tell me, pretty.”

“inside, baby,” you whisper against the shell of his ear. ino’s eyes widen - darkening, and he groans. the way you talked to him so sweet in his ear, even licking against the outer lobe makes him shiver. you’re a tease, and he only wanted more. ino wanted more . . of you. “wan’ you inside.”

“say it again,” he shakily whines against your neck, nipping a few invisible kisses near the juncture of your exposed collarbone. you tasted sweet, and ino’s mind spun cogwheels throughout each second he’s spent buried inside of you. “talk ‘ta me in that pretty voice- wanna hear you again. p- please.”

with a sobbing mewl from the brief twinges that slowly form into pleasure—you repeat yourself in a desperate mewling cry of, “inside, ino. please, f- fuck me,” and oh- if you saw the look on his face. his heart’s pounding as he’s mercilessly driving his hips into you at full fuckin’ throttle.

ino’s groaning into your neck, feeling his body growing limp before a lengthy multitude of seconds goes by and he’s cumming, hard.

it’s a thin hefty load - runny, stringy ribbons of feverish hot cum that splatters deep inside of you.

ino melts like a puddle into your embrace as you wrap your arms around him. “fuuuck, i lo-” he pauses, getting silenced by a shattering breath. your pussy’s got him secured on a leash, and he’s groaning once he hears himself pour such slimy amounts way into your womb. it sprays everywhere, painting inside and out.

ino kisses his teeth sharply, pressing one more kiss near the tip of your nose before moaning. “h- heh, think i love you, angel,” and you moan, feeling him slowly raise your leg, tossing it over your shoulder.

a hand of his creeps between your gloss-coated, gooey legs that practically stuck together before he pulls out midway, smearing a palm against your stuffed pussy. “ ‘n i love her especially, s- so much.”

[prosypepper]

lucky you! feat. k. nanami

cw: very very suggestive, not proofread at all, probably bad, inspired by my new tattoo ^3^. 18+ mdni!

kento nanami knew his wife was full of surprises.

he learned this exactly three months into your relationship, before the years of marriage and life together, after you undressed for the first time. well—it was more like, after you guys were done with your first time, cuddled up in bed afterwards.

you’d thrown a leg over him, blank ink against the skin under your ass caught his attention. he tried to crane his neck as much as possible without startling you—trying to make out the detail on your leg he somehow missed.

he glanced in the mirror. though tiny, the cursive black letters curved against the round of your ass, and read out two words:

lucky you!

that was about the hottest thing kento had ever seen in his life. so much so he was almost convinced to wake you up for another round—until you began to snore against his chest.

he asked you about it the morning after.

“oh that? i was drunk and my friends convinced me to get it. i’m glad it’s in a place no one can see it.”

secretly, and almost selfishly, kento was too. he took a liking to the tattoo, for reasons unknown to you and to him too, really. he made a point running his thumb over it, started touching your backside more, even pulling up your dress just to see it. to run his hands over it.

to remind him that, yes, he was in fact lucky to even know of such a thing on your body.

what you didn’t know is that your husband is also full of surprises.

later down the line, after a very long work trip, your husband was finally home. he wasn’t your husband then—but he may as well have been. the tension of not seeing one another for so long snapped in an instant, right in the living room.

hands all over eachother, grabbing and kissing and leaving marks on one another’s skin, you dropping to the floor almost immediately—too quick for kento’s liking.

nonetheless, he let you unbuckle his belt and then undo his slacks, you took in his scent like a drug. he bit his lip in anticipation, lifting his hips for you to discard of his pants, almost drawing blood when your fingers hooked into his boxers. you pulled them down slow, teasing, looking him straight in the eyes.

yet something else caught your attention, two words in an almost identical cursive font on the top of your husband’s right thigh, dangerously close to his v-line:

lucky you!

[readwritealldayallnight]

(part of the Wife at First Sight series)

When Ghost had asked if you would help him with something, you’d answered yes without a question. You didn’t ask for details, smiling and thanking him every time he opened each door that led to the base’s parking garage, giggling when he even insisted on opening the truck door for you. You’d come to grow fond of your work husband, appreciating how he never failed to make you feel special.

You sometimes wished his affections were genuine, rather than part of what you’d assumed was a strange hazing ritual in the military (which you couldn’t deny kind of worked, the two of you had grown closer hadn’t you? Was that the point of hazings?).

But you knew that line of thinking wouldn’t lead anywhere, other than potential heartbreak. He surely was only joking around, wouldn’t return your feelings. That’s why you played along with the ruse, but tried your best not to fall too hard for the man who was making that more and more impossible.

Still though, you couldn’t deny the pang in your heart when you discovered the errand he requested your help with, was to go look at engagement rings.

Did he actually have someone special in his life? Someone he hoped to propose to?

You felt guilty, thinking there might be another person out there that he loves enough to ask them to marry him, all the while you’re enjoying his attention at work, pretending he could ever actually want you as his wife.

You follow him into the shop, eyes widening at the never ending cases and displays of shiny, glittering jewelry, as far as the eye can see.

He chuckles at your expression, telling you not to worry your pretty little head over any price tags, just to pick out whichever one you liked.

You appreciated that he trusts your judgement so much that he wanted your opinion on which ring to buy his partner, and so you take your time looking through them all, even if it makes you sad to picture him slipping this ring onto another person’s finger.

Gaze scanning the displays, your eye is instantly caught by one ring and one ring only. You point to it, Ghost humming in agreement, signalling for one of the employees behind the counter to unlock the case.

The man pulls the ring out, handing it to the Lieutenant who examines it in between gloved fingers.

“Let’s see how it fits.” He murmurs, taking your left hand in his and slipping the band onto your ring finger, both of your eyes locked on the movement.

“Like a glove.” The employee says with a smile, moving to gather a selection of ring boxes he hopes to show you both, seeing that the ring has evidently found its owner and fits perfectly.

“It’s really beautiful Ghost.” You tell him, admiring the ring as he admires your expression. “Your wife’s a lucky woman.” You add, thinking of the mystery woman you’re convinced he’s buying this for, assuming you must have a similar ring size to her or something, if he’s having you try it on.

Your eyes meet his own warm gaze as his hand folds your fingers, bringing the ring up to his lips to press a kiss through the mask.

“Not as lucky as I am to be her husband.”

[fiendsgf]

lads headcanons ˙ ✩°˖

ft. sylus, zayne & caleb

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

sylus     ⁃    super clingy drunk. we know he has an average tolerance but he will 100% drink too much wine with you and become the clingiest man alive. i’m talking nuzzling into your cheek/neck, trailing kisses on your jaw, telling you how pretty you are/how much he loves you/how he wants all of your time. will deny it the next morning     ⁃    lowkey a photographer. any scenic date spots you guys visit you can count on sylus to take the most breathtaking pictures you’ve ever seen like its nothing. also has an album of candid pictures he’s taken of you     ⁃    you know how dads will watch your “girl shows” while standing in the corner of the living room with their hands on their hips? sylus also does this. esp with real housewives/cheesy kdramas     ⁃    EVENTUALLY he will relent and you will find him SAT for a new episode. fuzzy headband, sheet mask, robe, big blankie, glass of wine and snacks ready. he’s just waiting for you to join     ⁃    goated at fortnite. give him the sniper. will match with your skin especially if its those fuckass birds. will not hit the griddy if you win but laughs when you do     ⁃    will hide things with his evol just to get you all frantic while you search for it so he can play hero when he magically finds the item. you know what he’s doing but you still play into it because #deserve     ⁃    MUNCH (this is canon at this point but cmon)     ⁃    lovesssss buying you clothes and actually has a good eye for fashion. once he has a good grasp on your personal style or any designers you like expect their latest collection in your closet before it even hits the runway

zayne     ⁃    loves it when you tease him. it brings out his playful side and reminds him of when you were kids <3     ⁃    keeps a journal. he writes about everything. mundane days, his dreams, nightmares, dates you’ve been on, dates he wants to take you on. his favorite page is scribbles of your name with his last name. jots it down over and over. he’s lowkey manifesting      ⁃    will not clean his coat if you’ve worn it recently. the scent of your perfume hits him as he goes to hang up a coat you just returned. does a double take and huffs it like smelling salts. proceeds to do so every morning until the scent fades     ⁃    will unconsciously tidy any area around him. he will leave a room cleaner than it was before he entered     ⁃    addicted to back scratches. you offered one night before bed, and now he will bother you about it in his own endearing way. does that twitch thing when you stop.     ⁃    loves backless dresses. if you turn around and he sees your full back get ready for absolute zeal pt 2

caleb     ⁃    MEANNNNNNNNN!!!! he will make playful jabs at you until you actually get annoyed just so he can see you angry (sly dog!)     ⁃    knows wtf he’s doing with his puppy dog eyes. they are not accidental. take pity on him     ⁃    he is not normal about you. i know this is lowkey canon but when i say all his thoughts revolve around you i mean it. everything he does is connected to you in his mind and he genuinely does not know how to live without you.     ⁃    panty sniffer headcanon is practically canon in the fandom but he wants you to do it too LMAO. he will leave his boxers on top of the laundry basket or on his floor like an offering and he prayssss they go missing     ⁃    likes to buy you jewelry that serves as a reminder of him. apples, planes, clouds, asiatic apple tree flowers, he sees it you own it     ⁃    has a separate checking account he funnels most of his money into. created it for you and gave you the card while sparing you the details so you don’t feel guilty     ⁃    manipulative and proud! he will do anything to keep you by his side he does not gaf! (if you actually wanted to leave him he would accept it eventually, but only after he’s exhausted every possible plan to get you to stay. he’s still stalking you though.)     ⁃    major iron grip syndrome when cuddling. you cannot move. if it were possible you guys would take turns crawling under eachother’s skin every night  

[nochepsicodelica]

"Stop. Moving," Toji groans, sleepily, as he tightens his arms around you and buries his face into your back. This is the third time you try to wake him up by shifting on the bed and he is not having it.

"It's time to wake up, Toji. If you don't want to get up, you can stay here while I go make us breakfast."

Toji hums in disapproval. "What's the point in staying behind if you're not gonna be here? Let's just..." he sighs, nuzzling his face into your back, getting comfy, again. "...stay in bed a little longer. Let me keep you like this for a few more hours- minutes. I said minutes."

"Baby," you say, through a laugh. "It's almost ten. I know that if you could, you would stay in bed all day-"

"We would stay in bed all day," he corrects, his voice a low grumble.

"We would stay in bed all day," you repeat. "But... I want breakfast, and I know you'll want breakfast, too, once you smell all the food. I know how much you love your bacon," you add, trying to persuade him.

"Brunch sounds better," he mutters, stomping on your argument.

"No, breakfast sounds better," you argue, to which he groans, dramatically—almost childishly. "Oh my god, Toji," you say, in utter disbelief of the way he's acting.

"Shh... let's sleep," he murmurs.

You sigh, defeated. "Five minutes. That's all you get. Five more minutes." Toji doesn't even respond, too busy dozing off to make the most of these measly fives minutes, you "generously" offered. And, yes, you were generous, because five minutes became ten minutes, and then fifteen, until you reached the limit you had set—twenty minutes.

After the twenty minutes, you start moving around a little. You flip onto your back to get a look at the sleeping hulk that's been clinging to you. He just adjusts to the new position, not bothered in the slightest as he rests his head on your shoulder.

"Toji," you call, softly, waiting a few seconds to see if he reacts. When his steady breathing is still all you hear, you decide to try again. "Bear," you call, dragging your fingertip along the slope of his nose. "Wake up," you murmur when his brows pull together. "Hi, baby," you coo, smiling when he just blinks his sleep-ridden eyes.

"That didn't feel like five minutes," he mumbles, his voice raspy.

"It was twenty," you respond, a soft laugh following. You press a kiss to the top of his head and watch the way he subtly eases up a little more. The crease between his brows is gone, now. "Let's go have breakfast, alright? Some coffee will do you good."

"Fine," he grumbles, before rising slowly from where he lays on you, like he weighs tons.

You turn over to see the subtle jut of his lips, a small detail that never fails to make you laugh when he doesn't get what he wants.

"What's that thing you always say to me? 'If you keep pouting, I'm gonna kiss you'," you say, mimicking his voice.

"I'm gonna kiss you," he mutters under his breath, like the grumpiest bear.

"Ooo, I'm sooo scared," you say, your voice doused with sarcasm. "Please, don't do it. I definitely don't want you to kiss me," you jest, smiling to yourself as you walk towards the door. Your hand doesn't even reach the doorknob, before you're caged against the wooden slab. Two enormous hands rest on the door, preventing you from getting it open. He's discovered a loophole that gets you to be the one who wants to kiss him.

"Pay the Toji Tax," he murmurs, tiredly.

"Now, why would I do that? I haven't asked you for help with anything," you argue.

"You need my help getting the door open," he says, matter-of-factly.

"I don't need your help getting the door open. You just need to move out of the way so that I can open it."

"So, ask me to move. Simple, no?"

"Can you pretty please, with a cherry on top move so that I can open the door and make us breakfast?" You plead, your voice monotonous.

"Sure, for three kisses," he says, naming his price.

"It's unfair to Toji Tax me when you're the one keeping both of us from getting out."

"I'm sorry you feel that way, but you either pay the price or you rot in here with me until your precious little breakfast time turns into brunch, or even lunch time. Hell, dinner time might even roll around."

You turn around, slowly, your expression contemplative. A hum, just as mindful, reaches Toji's ears.

"You'd starve both of us for three kisses?" You question, your expression unchanging from its depiction of disbelief.

"Shamelessly and repeatedly. You wanna make it seem like kissing me is a job, I can play along and treat it that way. You can't go until you finish your task, and if you do it wrong, you get to do it again."

"Tojiii," you whine.

"Babyyy," he mocks, smirking at your rising impatience.

"Fine," you agree, bending to his will. You reach out to cup his face, but Toji takes a step back before you can touch him.

"What did I just say about getting it wrong? You really don't wanna kiss me, do you?"

"I do," you argue.

"Well, it doesn't feel like it. Seems like you just wanna get it over with so that i'll let you open the door."

"I'm sorry. I do wanna kiss you."

"How bad?" He pokes, loving the way you tilt your head, your expression unamused. "Plead your case, ma. How bad do you wanna kiss me?"

"So bad," you utter.

"Don't believe it," he responds, not moved enough by your words.

"Toji, I wanna kiss you so bad," you repeat.

"No, you don't," he denies. "I'm not feeling how much you wanna kiss me."

"Baby," you start, your voice exaggeratedly sentimental, your gaze filled with a saccharine amount of love. "I wanna kiss you so damn bad. It's not even funny."

"The way you're making it up is funny, though," he fires back. He's having a ball with this, biting the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from cracking. Then, he sees you powering up, getting ready to go full siren. "You got it," he says, encouraging your theatrics.

With a deep inhale, the show commences.

"Pleaseeee! Oh god, please, please, the prettiest of pleases," you cry out. "If you love me—shit—if you value puppy lives... Oh my goodness, I can't even get it out. It's... it's too much. My desire-" you break out of your own drama scene to release a cackle at your word choice. "My... desire to kiss you..." you press your lips together, finding it difficult to hold it together when you see how entertained Toji looks. You use it to your advantage, adding a little head shake and dragging yourself down on the door, appearing to have crumbled to the ground. "I can't contain it. I just... I can't. Please," you whisper, weakly, looking up at Toji, pathetically, from where you sit on the floor.

Toji is very familiar with your dramatic fits, but this one takes the cake. You stunned him for a solid ten seconds. He peers down at you, his hands still planted on the door.

"And you called me dramatic earlier. Did you hear yourself just now? All that for some kisses?"

"Not just any kisses. Your kisses," you respond, with a satisfied smile and a nod.

"Get up," he commands, offering you his hands for assistance in standing up. You take them and push yourself up and off the ground, smiling softly when your hands remain in Toji's. He loves when you look at him like that—with your eyes all shiny and that smile on your lips that expresses the joy you find in these ridiculous moments with him. In one fell swoop, you pull his arms around you and reciprocate the gesture, giving him a big squeeze. Obviously, to him, it's anything but a big squeeze, but it brings a smile to his face anyway.

"Please, let me make you breakfast," you plead.

"You still have to kiss me," he insists.

You smile as you take half a step back to be able to see him. Stubborn as ever, he still really wants his kisses.

"Come here, baby," you call, your voice so sweet that it's almost a coo. You outstretch your hands in preparation for cupping his cheeks.

"Mmm... I like that," he murmurs, lips pulled into a smirk as he tightens his arms around you a little more and starts leaning in. "Three kisses, pretty, but you know I won't complain if you want to give me more."

"We'll see," you tease, smiling as your lips connect for the first kiss. Your hands gently mold into the softness of his cheeks, your fingertips grazing his jaw. It's soft, sweet, a little impatient on both ends, but controlled for the most part. Like you're kissing without a limit, that second kiss is easily melted into and attained, leading you to the third and supposed final one.

Once that one concludes, you decide to be nice and reward him with a bonus kiss. This one lasts longer, and you hum into it, like kissing him is your favorite thing to do in the world. Your thumbs stroke his cheeks a couple times, before you release him with a loud "mmmwah!" and step back, releasing an irrepressible giggle.

"Give me another one, just like that," he requests, taking that step towards you, again. "Come on," he pleads, grabbing your hands and pulling them up to place them on his face. "One more, doll?" His hands lower to your waist, and when you smile and roll your eyes, he knows he's won.

"Alright, only one more, bear," you comply, standing on your tippy toes to meet his lips one. last. time.

Once your lips brush against his, you hold them there for a few seconds. No movement, nothing crazy, just warm softness. You can feel yourself wanting to laugh, but you hold it together for a few a couple more seconds. After you do the same "mmmwah!" sound, you finally let your soft laugh out.

Toji smirks, his gaze darting between your eyes and the lips he just kissed, as he unwinds his arms from your waist and steps back, giving you the space to open the door and let both of you out.

"Toji Tax paid. You can open the door now," he says, grinning contentedly at the way you press your lips together in amusement, before turning around and pulling the door open.

Breakfast would be yet another task and a half for you to complete. With Toji trailing back and forth after you in the small kitchen area, refusing to be anywhere you weren't, you're surprised nothing ended up burning.

[dykekarkat]

okay sorry im literally never going to be normal about "i wouldn't have given him to you if i'd known you would just throw him away so carelessly". jean is saying this to ANDREW after andrew interrogates him over grayson and the possibility of him having touched neil. andrew who came back from easthaven to see that neil the Real Boy josten went to the nest for him. neil josten who doesnt remember the nest at all. who might not even know if he was raped or assaulted.

he asks jean because jean was there, jean was complicit even if he was hurt by the same monster, and jean will Know. and jean gives him the answer he needs to hear, because andrew almost lost neil only a few months ago and andrew stood on the stand only a few weeks ago and detailed all the horrible things that have been done to him for everyone to hear (everyone knows now bee) and andrew would NOT have been able to handle the fact that he kissed/touched neil the first time only a few weeks after the nest. if grayson had in fact touched him.

so this. despite the understanding jean and andrew have of each other (jean's hand on his neck, andrew's ever present armbands) is andrew needing to know so he can protect neil, even if at this point grayson is dead and gone. AND THEN. for jean to TURN IT BACK ON ANDREW. to imply andrew does not care enough about neil to take care of himself, which would allow him to more effectively protect him, to remind andrew of the fact that JEAN got neil out of the nest. that jean kept him alive in there and returned him to south carolina not whole but not broken.

for jean to say andrew was throwing him away, the way jean got thrown away by his parents, the way elodie got thrown away by their parents. jean who may not have been able to truly protect neil in the nest, jean who has gained neil's devotion and protection despite that, who could not protect him but would Keep him no matter what. like wow okay this is crazy tthat interaction was actually fucking insane like that was so fucking oahvdskskjsdkjg.

[plethorawrites]

So, we all know Jason Todd would spoil the hell out of you, right? He'd know every detail, remember every important date, always do anything to make you feel special and wanted. The compliments would never stop, the random gifts always showed up, the physical affection never dwindled.

You loved it and he loved that you loved it.

But it was so normal (not to say it went unappreciated) that you almost didn't realize how lacking your own gestures were. Jason doesn't notice either, obviously.

However, he certainly starts to when instead of blowing a kiss to him from the couch when he leaves or comes home, you start getting up and draping your arms around him, kissing his cheek and lips. He'd never fault you for falling asleep when he's out on patrol in the middle of the night but feels a sense of warmth wash over him when you start leaving notes on his side of the bed telling him you missed him, or hope he was safe.

(+Bonus points if you told him his favorite food was waiting in the kitchen if he was hungry.)

You always match his energy when it comes to physical affection, holding him right back when he wraps his arms around you from behind or wrapping your legs around him while he holds you during the night, but realizing you almost never initiate it makes you reevaluate.

He notices, obviously, when you start asking him to join you in the shower or begin tugging him into your lap until his head is resting on your thighs and you can play with his hair. When you start smoothing out the few wrinkles on his shirt for him, or kissing his shoulder from behind while he works, sliding him a snack and telling him to eat.

It eventually all comes to a head when he's reading and you randomly start massaging his shoulders out of nowhere. Not that it doesn't feel good, because he always loves your soft hands on him, but he starts asking why you've been so affectionate lately you have no choice but to admit that you feel like you've been taking advantage of him.

"I never seem to give you the same kind of attention you give me," you confess, your hands softly kneading at the knots in his neck as he reads.

His head turns, one of his hands covering yours to get you to stop. "Is that what you think?" He asks, his voice much quieter, almost disappointed when you nod. He sets his book down on the table, dragging you around the chair and into his lap. "I give you attention because I like to," he explains, stroking your hair. "I don't need you to fawn over my every move."

You were his partner, not his parent. He didn't need to be watched over or fed and worried about to the extent you'd started leaning into. He needed your love, your support, your respect. Your honesty, kindness, compassion. Your smile, your laugh, your kisses. You, as you. His best friend and the love of his life.

Your lips pull into a tight line, arms wrapping around his neck. "You don't feel neglected?"

He almost laughs, shaking his head. "No," he states. "Never. I feel grateful as hell that you love me despite my past." He fusses with your hair for another moment before cupping your face. "I like showing you how much you mean to me."

You press your forehead against his. "I just don't ever want you to think you don't mean the same to me," you tell him, your voice barely above a whisper. You had always had a similar problem to him, struggling to accept love, let alone show it. He knew that.

His lips pull into a small smile. "I know. Believe me I know," he replies. "You don't need to follow me to the door every day or rub my shoulders for me to know you love me." He pauses for a moment, his voice getting a bit more playful. "But if you want to keep inviting me into the shower I won't complain."