#nothing you have beats the power of a well timed

[bakuchrome]

Through my window

Katsuki Bakugo × Reader

Master List

Sypnosis: You have a deep infatuation for you hotheaded classmate Katsuki Bakugo that he may be secretly aware of

In the city of Musutafu, Japan, with a population of 50,000, most people, myself included, aspire to be heroes. UA, a prestigious school with an acceptance rate of less than 1%, was a challenge that i mamaged to overcome. Remarkably, another studeny there is Katsuki Bakugo.

Bakugo was more than just a classmate; he was an obsession.

You, a fellow student in Class 1-A, had been infatuated with Bakugo since the first day you laid eyes on him. His intense determination, raw power, and undeniable charisma drew you in like a moth to a flame. Every glance, every smirk, every explosive display of his quirk only deepened your fascination. You found yourself watching him from afar, memorizing his every move, and even keeping a journal of your observations. It was a secret you kept hidden, convinced that no one, especially Bakugo, could ever know.

But Bakugo was more perceptive than you realized. He had noticed your lingering gazes, the way you seemed to be everywhere he was, and the subtle changes in your behavior when he was around. He found it amusing, even flattering in a way, though he would never admit it. Instead, he chose to play along, pretending not to notice while secretly enjoying the effect he had on you. He would catch your eye in the hallway and smirk, knowing it would send your heart racing. He would stand just a little too close during training, relishing the way you would stumble over your words. It was a game to him, one that he was determined to win.

One morning, however, you didn't show up to school. Bakugo noticed immediately, his usual smirk replaced by a frown. He couldn't help but wonder what had happened. Were you sick? Had something happened to you? The day dragged on, each class feeling longer than the last. By the time school was over, Bakugo had made up his mind. He was going to find out what was going on.

As night fell, Bakugo found himself standing outside your bedroom window. He knew it was risky, but his curiosity and concern outweighed his caution. With a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching, he used his quirk to propel himself up to your window. He tapped on the glass lightly, waiting for a response. When none came, he tried again, a little louder this time.

You were lying in bed, feeling miserable. A nasty cold had kept you home, and you had spent the day feeling sorry for yourself. The last thing you expected was to hear a tapping at your window. Groggily, you got up and walked over, your heart skipping a beat when you saw who it was. Bakugo stood there, his usual confident smirk in place, as if he had every right to be there.

You hesitated for a moment before opening the window. "Bakugo? What are you doing here?"

He shrugged nonchalantly, climbing inside. "You weren't at school today. Thought I'd check on you."

Your heart raced at his words. He had noticed your absence? "I'm just sick. It's nothing serious."

Bakugo raised an eyebrow, his eyes scanning your room. "You sure about that? You look like crap."

You couldn't help but laugh, despite your embarrassment. "Thanks. I feel like crap too."

He smirked, taking a seat on the edge of your bed. "Well, I can't have my number one fan feeling like crap, can I?"

Your face turned bright red at his words. "I-I don't know what you're talking about."

Bakugo leaned in closer, his eyes locking onto yours. "Oh, I think you do. I've seen the way you look at me. You think I haven't noticed?"

Your breath caught in your throat. He knew. He had known all along. "I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

He cut you off with a chuckle. "Relax. I don't mind. In fact, I kind of like it."

Your eyes widened in surprise. "You do?"

Bakugo nodded, his smirk softening into a genuine smile. "Yeah. It's kind of cute, actually."

You couldn't believe what you were hearing. Bakugo Katsuki, the boy you had been infatuated with for so long, was sitting in your room, telling you that he liked your attention. It felt like a dream.

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. "But next time, don't just disappear on me, got it? If you're sick, tell me. I'll come take care of you."

Your heart swelled at his words. "Okay. I promise."

Bakugo leaned in, his lips brushing against your forehead in a gentle kiss. "Good. Now get some rest. I'll see you at school tomorrow."

As he climbed back out the window, you couldn't help but smile.

"Holy shit." You spoke to yourself. Stunned by the fact Katsuki Bakugo was just in you bedroom.

▶︎˖𓍢 ✧˚.🎀

[thesilvertheorist]

• unprofessional •

Five Hargreeves x Fem!reader

Fic summary: [set in s4] Five is forced to go into mandatory active therapy in order to ensure that he can perform well at the CIA, he finds himself opposite a young lady (21+ ish) who's taken him on as her first client. Five is resistant at first but soon begins to develop ALL kinds of feelings for this woman.

Warnings/tags: ptsd related traumas, flashbacks, self harm, self loathing, resistance to help, attitude, scandalous age gap (five is mentally 60+, body of a 21 year old), developing feelings, inappropriate relationship, unprofessional relationship, anguish, angst, sexually explicit content, mdni, stalker!five, reader should really contact the authorities in all honesty.

you have been warned

Masterlist

CHAPTER ONE

[3.7k words]

Hargreeves’ new world is certainly one of oddities. It’s almost identical to the world that Five and his siblings grew up in only, in this timeline, this version of his adoptive father owned essentially every active corporation all over the globe. A weird concept, but not one that is necessarily that farfetched. The basic premise of this timeline functioned exactly the same as all the others that Five knew: linear time (seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, years, decade after tedious decade), people going about their daily lives (bills and taxes to pay), and – of course, there’s the ever-present need to create family and community. Although, and this is the kicker, he’s been stripped of his powers. Every Hargreeves’ sibling had been.

Five had presumed that the loss of their powers was the price of a new life… that Luther losing Sloane was the price that Allison paid by proxy to get Claire back. Screwed up, but it’s the most logical answer considering they were energetically glued to stars on the floor in a universal mainframe fighting for their lives not too long ago.

As his siblings dispersed upon realising the situation, Five was left alone yet again, wondering what the hell he was going to do with his vacant being and lack of powers. His skills aren’t exactly what you’d look for when employing someone. Not to mention that his appearance doesn’t match his intellect. He was nothing short of absolutely fucked.

This rather strange situation kept Five’s mind awake for days. What exactly had happened? Why were they all here? Is this timeline a result of shutting down the last one? Is there a way to regain their powers? Do people even want their powers back? Did he want them back? Would he be able to realise that this state of helpless humanity may actually be giving him a fresh start? Was he ignoring things? Was this stupidly self-aware diatribe of crap swirling around in his head actually ungrateful screams of a thirteen year old who couldn’t prove to his father that he’d fixed what he’d broken?

It didn’t matter.

Five knew that, realistically, he’d have to start somewhere. The first thing he needed to do was secure himself a steady roof. He had no idea who’d rent to him…considering he had no money and looked like he belonged in some sort of private school for privileged arsehole boys. Oh wait. Pesky self-awareness again.

Five realised that if he couldn’t beat them, he’d have to join them. The second daylight broke the next day, he worked on getting himself a place at the closest university; he looked about that age and any required proof of braincells proved to be child’s play for his overly adapted mind. This gave him an opportunity to have a bed to sleep in whilst also allowing him to keep his brain active – even if his assignments were the equivalent intensity of doing the sudoku in the paper each morning.

Needless to say, he earned his degree quickly. He’d also acquired numerous commendations from differing scholars and academics throughout his studies which earned him an interview at the CIA. Five rationalised that, whilst he wasn’t exactly police material, the CIA was more up his alley…more dignified for a man of his age.

His interview went as well as could have been expected and Five was hired almost immediately. He’d breezed through basic training, explaining to those who were curious that his combat skills were from too many extra-curricular clubs after school and totally not from anything sinister [like being born into a family of super siblings and fighting crime at thirteen only to then be accepted into a temporal commission decades later who put field agents through intense training to prepare them to kill threats to the timeline].

He was just good at what he did and was a quick learner.

Totally.

Five’s first few months with the CIA went as any other months would do. He managed to find himself a shitty apartment and keep up the rent with whatever money he didn’t spend on outrageously expensive suits or artisan coffee. He wasn’t doing badly at all – he was even up for a promotion.

With things going so well, it came as a surprise to Five when his new supervisor insisted that he attend mandatory therapy as part of his new role within the company. He’d been advised that all higher agents have to do this – keeps them from boiling over. Five wasn’t really listening though; it was as if water had filled his ears. The last time he’d heard this bullshit was back at The Commission… only there, they forced agents into therapy to ensure they were boiling over – that their intent to kill was still active inside them.

After trying to reason with his supervisor, Five was told in no uncertain terms that he either attended the therapy or go back to his entry level basic training so he understood what ‘following orders’ meant. Pissed off and undermined, Five only nodded in response. He noted down when his appointment was: 8am Monday, 7th floor, office C.

When Monday came around, Five was more irritated than he thought he’d be. He had no clue what bullshit this, so called, therapist would come out with – and in all honesty, he wished that all therapists would just keep their traps shut. Now that would be therapeutic.

Upon arriving to work that day, Five decided that coffee was the best solution. He’d be able to respond quicker with his brain activated, and he’d be able to leave that office sooner. Perfect plan. Whilst waiting in line at the downstairs café to order his take away cup of gravelly black coffee, he couldn’t help but notice the woman in front of him.

She was young – she’d have to be a university graduate. She was well dressed in smart office kitten heels, sheer tights, a sophisticated pencil skirt, and a fitted blouse. Her hair was pinned in a claw-clip bun but she must have been in a hurry this morning because pieces had fallen out and were giving her that chic yet windswept look that only a few people could truly pull off.

As she ordered her coffee – a ‘mocha with a little bite to it’, Five noticed that the woman wasn’t carrying anything (other than the precise amount of cash to pay with) – nor did she have a blazer or jacket with her. Who the hell comes to the offices prior to 8am and sets up before getting their coffee? This woman was weird. Her chirpy voice and polite manners weren’t going to fool him.

Why the fuck did he even care?

He didn’t know this woman, nor did she know him. What she looked like, sounded like, or acted like was none of his business. He’d got a stupid therapist to see. This young woman was just another number in a pitiful equation that he no longer had the energy to solve. He tried to ignore her as she waited aside for her coffee to be made, pretending not to catch glimpses of her as she looked up at the hot food menu of the café to pass time whilst he ordered his own cup of drip black coffee.

Both drinks were prepared at precisely the same time. The young woman smiled at the barista as she collected the warm cup, turning on her heels to head towards the lifts. Without thinking much about it at all, Five followed her over after collecting his own coffee – trailing behind her as if he were some sort of lost puppy (or ravenous hound dog) as she crossed the foyer, offering her a curt smile when she summoned the lift.

Silence.

The woman was looking at her watch when the lift arrived. The ding of the bell alerting her to the fact that it was here. Five gestured for her to enter first – after all, he’s kinda got a weird thing about lifts now since the whole universe reset bullshit. He won’t enter one that doesn’t have another person in it…must be a newfound claustrophobia symptom. Perhaps it might be worth seeing a therapist. The woman entered and stood aside to let Five in also, shattering the silence with two ground-breaking, reality-altering, mind-bending words:

“Which floor?”

Five was deafened.

He was sure that his brain had malfunctioned. He hadn’t actually been deafened but he needed her to stop talking and yet never stop speaking all at once. Her voice was like velvet…Five hated the feeling velvet – but loved the way it warmed his skin. He needed to respond quickly before she thought he was weird; her smile would fade and he’d be deemed the office creep for following  a young woman from the café into the lift and then seemingly drooling over the only two words she deigned to utter to him throughout the last ten minutes.

“Oh, er- seven, thanks” he managed to force out.

“Cool, me too” the young woman smiled out in response to him.

This meant that Five had to endure seven floors of close proximity to this woman – standing so close to her that he feel he may actually happily suffocate from her perfume, pretending all the more that the sound of her honey-like chirps hadn’t done something to him.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

One.

She held her coffee in her left hand – no ring, red nails.

Two.

She wore a silver watch on that same hand – written in roman numerals the time was 7:50am

Three.

She had cuffed her blouse sleeves – ¾ length, likely to see her watch.

Four.

Her skirt had a hidden seam – she’d had it altered to fit better.

Five.

Her hair was falling out of the clip – he wanted to be the one to fix it.

Six.

She wore necklaces – silver and layered to match her watch.

Seven.

She was intoxicating.

The lift bell dinged again, signalling to each of them that they had reached the seventh floor. Five felt the air return to his lungs as the young woman stepped out of the enclosed space and walk a few paces ahead, only to have it ripped from him yet again when he realised they were heading in the same direction…

down the same hallway…

to the same office…

office C.

Shit.

Five was all but paralysed, stood eight feet from her office door as she opened it and stepped inside, leaving it open for her next psychological plaything to enter. She hadn’t noticed that he was her client yet. Surely she hadn’t. She wouldn’t have had the time to; hundreds of people worked in this building.

She proceeded to sit in one of the chairs that surrounded the dark, wooden coffee table within the small box-office - crossing her legs as she rested her notebook and pen in her lap. Reading. Learning. Waiting.

Five was left wondering if his brain had actually malfunctioned in that lift; he couldn’t seem to move his feet in either direction. If he backed away now, he wouldn’t be allowed the promotion and would be forced back into basic training. On the other hand, if he walked in that office, he was in the trap of a much younger (much too innocent looking) young woman who had no idea what she was dealing with. It was all well and good for her to prepare the snare, but what if she began to realise she’d caught a wolf as opposed to a rabbit?

Perhaps he could pretend to be a rabbit.

Perhaps…he wanted to be a rabbit.

He walked up to the threshold of the door, knuckles tapping the doorframe, breaking her from her surely feigned concentration. Five didn’t expect the reaction he had to seeing her face for the first time, seeing how her eyes met his, feeling locked in under her gaze. Feeling himself want to spill his secrets to her. He was about to be examined and read to filth and he knew it.

What remained to be seen was whether or not he liked it.

The young woman waited for him to speak, angling herself so that she was ever so casually inviting. She didn’t press him to say anything or even break the eye contact…she just waited. Five was well aware that this was the first trick in any newly-trained therapist’s handbook, but he swallowed thickly and knowingly fell for it anyway.

That promotion had to be worth it.

“I’ve got an eight am appointment in this office.” he managed to chortle out, clearing his throat as not to sound like he chain-smoked two packs of cigarettes on the commute alone.

“You’re early, Mr Hargreeves,”

Her words rang in his ears as she spoke. How did she know his name? Oh, right, therapist – list of appointments, names, times, job roles… fucking idiot.

Five couldn’t move a single inch forwards…or backwards…or anywhere for that matter. He was well and truly pinned down by this woman, and she’d said a total of six words to him so far. He didn’t feel at liberty to move closer to her or invade her office until she specified that he could. Maybe this was his old chivalry training kicking in that Reggie had forced him and his siblings through back in the day. Surely he was just being courteous and kind in the presence of a lady.

Oh, how he wanted to be anything but kind to in the presence of this lady.

“Well, take a seat.”

Five’s feet moved before he even realised they were moving. He didn’t rush over, but he didn’t waste any time either, shutting the door promptly behind him. He sat in the chair across from the young woman, positioning his coffee cup on the small table between them – mirroring her.

He noticed how she watched him closely but also rather nonchalantly, never for one second allowing him the grace of considering that this may be just as nerve wracking and heart attack inducing for her. She remained collected at all times; Five Hargreeves would not be beaten by a woman a third of his age.

“So, Mr Hargreeves, why is it that you’re here?” she questioned, opening a fresh page in her notebook, scribbling a singular word at the top of the page.

What the hell kind of bullshit question is that?

“Well, as much as I love the company of over-confident psychoanalysts, I’m sure you’re aware I’m here on a mandatory basis.” He managed to bite back in response, feeling as though he gained ground back with his viper-like tongue.

“Straight to the point I see. Well, let’s not waste any of your precious time, Mr Hargreeves.” She smiled back in response. Smiled – like some crazy, lunatic bitch.

“Please, Mr Hargreeves is my father” Five spoke out, discomfort increasing every time she chose to address him that way.

Perfect idea, Five - throw your daddy issues into the mix right off the bat - advertise the crazy.

She scribbled a little more, three words this time.

“Five it is.”

Five felt shivers travel down his spine. Her actually using his name felt a million times more invasive and a trillion times less appropriate…and he’d removed that first professional barrier himself. He’d been in her presence for less than twenty minutes and already wanted to kill himself as a sacrifice to whatever deity was torturing him with her.

The next few questions she had were rather basic, ‘tell me more about yourself so I can profile you’ questions. This told Five all he needed to know. She was new to this…she didn’t really have a clue what she was in for, and she was likely handed him as an easy case – but, damn, did she play a good game of poker.

Answering her questions, he noticed how she picked up her coffee and removed the lid from the to go cup. Wondering why, he missed her next question. Why would she have removed that? It keeps the coffee warm. It didn’t make much sense at all. Was she purposefully trying to throw him? How did she know that would throw him?

It took Five until after intently watching her sip her ‘mocha with a lil bite to it’ to realise that she was wearing lipstick…and she would have left messy lip prints all over that lid if she hadn’t removed it.

He wanted to see that lip print.

He wanted to wear that lip print.

He was losing his mind.

She must have noticed that he missed her question as she repeated it to him, making him look like an idiot in the process. He answered as best he could – ignoring the blood rushing from his brain to somewhere else entirely.

This was fucking him off – her hold on him. She didn’t even know him. How the hell had he let such a pathetic woman claim this much control over him? He didn’t know much other than: this situation is forced, unnecessary, and ridiculous. As well as: he’s much smarter than her and she needs to know that.

Five’s answers began to get shorter, snappier, and ruder as the appointment went on. He drank his coffee and steeled his mind over, not allowing this girl to contain him any longer. He ignored his body’s signals and focused only on getting out of this office. All he had to do was prove that he wasn’t some weird psychopath or stupid enough to fall into a mental spiral…therefore, all he had to do was pretend that he wasn’t pumped full of criminal DNA to ensure he did spiral.

He tried to project his anger into his words, feeling as if he could replace the barriers he’d begun to dismantle with a harsh, reliable distain for the people around him. It worked for everyone else, and it would work on this woman.

Only, it didn’t.

She dropped the corporate questioning the second she noticed the change in him, opting for a deeper – more infuriating approach. She tore strips into him as she politely asked him to watch his language in her office space. She pulled him up on every wall-building tactic he had…and he apologised for them. Not with his words; she hadn’t earned that – with his eyes.

He actually felt bad for trying to build walls between the two of them, and he’d known her a total of fifty minutes. She was right to pull him up on his behaviour. She didn’t back down from him once; completely reinforcing the fact that this was her office, and her appointment. He was a visitor. How fucking dare he?

Astounded by himself, Five had nothing more to say to this woman. He was absolutely, well and truly, entirely done for. He only hoped that he’d passed her initial inspection of his mind as not to be pulled by the sacred force of her gravity back into the four walls of this office where he couldn’t control his behaviour around her…but he didn’t.

The young woman set up a weekly appointment for him. Same time, same place; she didn’t feel as though he was ready to progress without support. So, as she signed his papers for him to enter his promotional role, she issued her warning:

“Don’t underestimate the will of others, Five.”

With that, she had him shaking her hand, and stepping out of her office – taking his empty coffee cup with him.

What, the fuck, had she done to him?

As he walked back down the corridor and summoned the lift to go to the 10th floor to see his supervisor, Five was left clutching at his empty coffee cup for dear life. Feeling like a doe that had a near miss with a haul truck. That young woman had just turned him inside out, deemed him insufficient, and asked him to leave…and he was pissed. she'd given him absolutely nothing, and yet allowed him the opportunity to experience everything.

He hated this woman. She was entitled, bossy, and thought she knew everything. She was young and overly caring about her appearance. She clearly had no idea what he was or who he was – nor did she seem to care. She had absolutely no fear. She was ignorant and arrogant. She didn’t have what it takes to do this job. She was infuriating. Her hold on him was a sham and obviously sexually fuelled. Clearly, she hadn’t been in the therapy business for long because otherwise, Five wouldn’t know this stuff about her.

Yet, there was a stirring in his stomach, something primal.

He couldn’t wait for her to do this to him again.

Once he’d handed in his papers, and handed over his old job role, Five was dismissed for the day. He headed straight home, feeling as though the subway couldn’t take him quick enough. His body was tense and his temper was short. Dropping his keys upon trying to get into his apartment was the perfect sum up to his day.

Finally letting himself in, not bothering to switch on the lights or get himself any food, he stripped off and headed immediately for the shower. He set the temperature to a skin-peeling high and stepped inside, letting the steam transport him back to her office.

He took his left hand, the one that she shook earlier today, and roughly took his hard length in hand. He’d been hard on and off since this morning. Any time she crossed his mind, Five was battling with his own blood flow.

He cursed out as he roughly brought himself to a pained climax – believing that the pain would train him into hating this woman…but all he could hear was her honey-toned voice in his ear telling him to let her handle him as if she were stood behind him taking him in hand herself. He could feel her whispy fly-aways tickle his neck as her breasts pushed into his back. That’s when he felt her lips graze his shoulder, leaving those sultry lip prints that he’d dreamt about since realising she wore lipstick.

His cum was hot in his hand and coated the shower wall.

Fuck.

He was a mess for this woman…a storm of feelings, a shitshow of poor behaviour, and a sexual wreck for anything she could give him.

Next week couldn’t come quick enough; and neither could he.

link to: Chapter Two

✦ okay so i'm sorry this took so long for such a short chapter - i got ill :(( hope you enjoy it anyway, more coming soon. this is my first real tumblr fic so pls be kind ✦

✦ the truly diabolical content is to come, let Five have a minute of rest before being mindfucked again :)) ✦

taglist for this fic below: (lmk if you'd like to be added or removed ♡)

@groovydazephantom @girls-overflower @clownstillwritesfanfic @diaryoftheodosia @vroomvroomgirl @kaybreezy3000 @badkitty3000

[reveriebae]

Meddle about

pairing(s) : Kang Yeosang x reader

word count : 5028

summary : A storm traps you and Yeosang, your neighbor, together, turning unspoken tension into something reckless and uncontrollable. One impulsive night changes everything—but is it just a fleeting mistake or the start of something dangerous?

genre : smut

warning(s) : explicit sexual content, rough encounters, possessiveness, tension-filled dynamics, and themes of recklessness. It also includes elements of emotional push-and-pull, power struggles, and impulsive decisions that blur the lines between desire and control

part of Songfic

Minors do not interact, 21+ only!!

🪐 smut under the cut 🪐

The first time you met Yeosang, it was at the worst possible moment.

You had just come home from a long, miserable day, your hair a mess, your patience running thin, and your only goal was to throw yourself onto your bed and disappear into oblivion. Instead, you ended up standing outside your apartment door, patting down your pockets, cursing under your breath when you realized—your keys were nowhere to be found.

"Fucking perfect," you muttered, pressing your forehead against the door in frustration.

And that’s when you heard the amused chuckle.

"Locked out?"

You turned to see him—your neighbor. The one you'd noticed in passing but never spoken to. Kang Yeosang, the quiet guy in 4B. The one with sharp eyes and an unreadable expression, always dressed in black, always carrying himself with a sense of casual detachment. But up close? He was something else entirely.

A little too pretty, honestly. Annoyingly pretty.

He leaned against his own doorway, arms crossed, gaze dragging over you in a way that made your skin prickle. His voice was smooth, deep, and laced with just a hint of amusement—like he already found your misfortune entertaining.

You exhaled sharply. "Yeah. And unless you have a spare key, this conversation is pointless."

He raised an eyebrow. "No need to be hostile, sweetheart."

Sweetheart.

The word dripped from his lips too easily, like he was testing how it sounded on you. Your stomach twisted—not in irritation, but something more dangerous.

Yeosang smirked, as if he noticed. "Need help or you planning to glare at your door all night?"

You didn’t need his help. You didn’t need anything from him. But there was something about the way he spoke, the slow, deliberate way his eyes lingered on you, that made you pause.

"Depends," you said. "What are you offering?"

His smirk deepened. "That depends on what you're asking for."

And just like that, the game began.

You folded your arms, trying to keep the edge out of your voice. “I don’t know, maybe you could help me get inside before I freeze to death?”

Yeosang didn’t move at first, his eyes glinting with a teasing challenge. He knew what you were really asking, but he was enjoying making you say it, enjoying the power he held over the situation.

“Right,” he said after a beat, his smirk still present. “Well, I’m not about to let you stand out here all night. But…” He paused for effect, then added casually, “I could let you in, but you’ll owe me a favor.” His tone was smooth, not quite playful but not too serious either. It was the kind of voice that made you wonder what he was really thinking.

A favor? You weren’t sure if that was a good idea. But then again, what else were you going to do? Stand out here like an idiot until the building manager came by to let you in? You weren’t about to let your pride win this battle, not tonight.

“What kind of favor?” you asked, narrowing your eyes slightly.

His smirk softened, but only just. “Nothing too serious. I promise.” His voice dropped an octave, growing low and deliberate. “I just want you to remember this moment. The next time you need help, you come to me first.”

The way he said it—slow, almost like a command—set your heart pounding. You hated how he made you feel, like you had no control, but at the same time, something inside you craved that loss of control. Something dark. Something dangerous.

"Fine," you said, your voice tighter than you intended. "Open the door."

Yeosang chuckled, the sound rich and low. Without another word, he turned and unlocked his apartment door. When he opened it, you couldn’t help but notice the brief flash of something dangerous behind his eyes. The way he watched you, like a predator sizing up its prey.

You shook your head, trying to shake off the feeling that was creeping up your spine. "You really know how to make an entrance," you muttered, stepping inside.

"Did I?" He closed the door behind you, and the air between you thickened. “It’s nothing, really. Just a little help from a neighbor.”

You turned around to face him, irritation bubbling to the surface again. “I don’t need you to help me. I can handle things myself, you know.”

"Is that so?" He took a step toward you, his eyes never leaving yours. His gaze felt almost suffocating, like he was reading you in a way you couldn’t understand. "You sure about that?"

Before you could respond, he was right in front of you, his hand brushing past yours as he reached for the doorknob. His touch sent a strange shiver through your body. You hated how much you noticed it. How much you wanted it.

“I’m not trying to make things weird,” he said softly, voice now dangerously quiet. “But I can’t help but notice you seem… tense.”

Your heart skipped a beat. Was he reading you so easily? Was he just messing with you, or was there something more in his tone, something deeper?

You swallowed hard. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” he replied, his voice gentle but firm. “I can see it, and it’s okay to admit it. You don’t have to do everything by yourself.”

You felt a wave of frustration rise in your chest, but you also felt an undeniable pull toward him. You didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to give in to whatever this was, but his proximity was too much. The way his eyes searched yours, the way his body was so close to yours, was enough to make your breath hitch.

“Let me help you,” he said again, his hand moving to the small of your back, just barely touching your skin.

His touch was light, but it sent a bolt of heat straight through you. For a moment, you wondered if this was all just some game to him. But when you met his eyes again, you saw something different—something darker. Something that told you he wasn’t playing. Not anymore.

You couldn’t pull away. Not this time.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you asked, your voice quieter now, even though every nerve in your body was screaming at you to step back.

“You’re asking me for help, aren’t you?” he murmured, leaning just slightly closer. “You’re so tense. And I have a feeling… I could do something about that.”

His lips hovered dangerously close to your ear. You could feel the heat of his breath against your skin, making your heart race even faster. You couldn’t help the way your body reacted—how your breath hitched when his hand slid lower on your back, pressing into you just enough to make you shiver.

He was so close now that you could feel his chest rising and falling with every breath. You wanted to pull away. You knew you should, but you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Instead, you tilted your head, your lips brushing against his ear. “And what exactly do you plan on doing?”

A low, almost predatory chuckle rumbled in his chest. “I think you already know.”

His words hung in the air between you like a challenge, and your body responded before your mind could even catch up. There was no escaping the pull, no way to ignore the ache that had built up since the moment you stepped into his apartment. His closeness was overwhelming, suffocating, but it felt so damn good.

Yeosang’s hand slid lower, grazing the curve of your waist, his touch deliberate, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. You tried to maintain some semblance of control, to hold onto that fragile piece of your pride, but every inch of his body against yours shattered that resolve.

“I know you want this,” he murmured, his voice smooth and low, like velvet brushing against your skin. His breath was hot, his lips tantalizingly close to your neck. “You can’t lie to me, not now.”

You swallowed, your throat dry. You tried to steady your breath, but his presence, his touch, made it impossible. “You’re crazy,” you whispered, but the words didn’t have the bite you intended. Instead, they came out like a confession, soft and eager.

His smirk deepened, the heat in his gaze intensifying. “Crazy? Maybe. But you can’t deny what’s happening between us. It’s undeniable.”

Before you could respond, his lips crashed against yours, demanding, desperate, a sharp contrast to the playful taunt from moments ago. The kiss was bruising, full of hunger, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a force that left you breathless. You didn’t resist, couldn’t resist, as you found yourself responding with equal fervor.

His hands roamed, moving to the back of your neck, pulling you impossibly closer. Every inch of his body was pressed against yours, his chest rising and falling against your own, and the heat between you felt unbearable.

When he finally broke the kiss, you gasped for air, your heart pounding in your chest. Your skin felt alive, every nerve on fire, and Yeosang was the only one who could make it stop... or make it burn even more.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered, his breath ragged. There was no question in his voice, only command, and it made your knees weak. His hand trailed down to your waist again, slipping underneath your shirt to touch the bare skin of your stomach.

“Yeosang, stop—” You tried to protest, but it came out weaker than you intended.

His eyes darkened, a flicker of something dangerous flashing across his face. He stepped back for a moment, eyes sweeping over you like he was drinking in every inch of you. “I told you before,” he said, his voice low and steady. “You’re asking for this. You can’t pretend like you don’t want it.”

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, but you couldn’t deny the truth of his words. Your body was betraying you, every part of you aching for his touch, for the release he promised.

“I didn’t come here to play games,” he continued, his hand reaching down to tug at your waistband, pulling it lower just enough to expose the smooth curve of your hip. “But I’ll make you beg for it if that’s what it takes.”

You shuddered at the thought, at the way his words sent shockwaves through your body, making your blood run hot. You had no control over what was happening anymore. Yeosang was in control, and for some reason, that was exactly what you wanted.

His hands moved with practiced ease, peeling off the layers of clothing between you. Every touch felt like fire, like an electric current coursing through your veins. And when his lips found the sensitive spot just behind your ear, you couldn’t help the moan that slipped from your lips.

“You’re perfect,” Yeosang muttered, his voice thick with desire. His hands worked quickly, pulling your shirt over your head and tossing it aside carelessly. He took a step back, eyes roaming over your bare skin with a hunger that made you feel exposed and wanted all at once. “So damn perfect.”

You felt exposed, but not in a bad way. His gaze was molten, his fingers trembling as they traced the edge of your bra, teasing and pulling at the fabric until it was gone. You stood there, bare, vulnerable, and yet all you could focus on was how much you wanted him. How much you needed him.

Yeosang’s lips descended to your neck, his teeth grazing against your skin, pulling a breathless gasp from you. His hands slid down to your hips, fingertips digging into the soft flesh as he guided you toward the couch.

“Sit,” he commanded, his voice rough with lust. You obeyed without question, too far gone to think straight anymore.

He stood over you for a moment, just looking at you, his gaze dark and possessive. You could see the hunger in his eyes, the way his body was taut with desire. You were the only thing on his mind now, and he wasn’t going to let you forget it.

Yeosang wasted no time. He was all business now, his hands gripping your thighs as he spread them apart, his mouth crashing against yours again. His kiss was desperate, hungry, as though he needed you just as badly as you needed him.

“Don’t fight it,” he breathed against your lips, his hands moving to your hips, pulling you closer to the edge of the couch. His voice was low, rough. “Just give in.”

And you did. You let him take control, let him guide you into a frenzy, until you were both lost in each other.

You were already so far gone, and Yeosang knew it. The way you were squirming underneath him, the way your body was reacting to his every touch—it was like he had you wrapped around his finger. And honestly? He was loving it.

He smirked against your lips as he pulled away, watching you chase after the kiss like a desperate little thing. His hands trailed down to your chest, fingers brushing lightly over your nipple, and you couldn’t hold back the sharp intake of breath. The way he was looking at you—like you were the only thing that mattered—was messing with your head in the best way possible.

“Not so shy now, huh?” he teased, his voice dropping lower. He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re gonna be begging for me soon, baby.”

You shivered at the thought, feeling the heat between your legs intensify. Every inch of your body was on fire, your mind foggy with desire. You needed him, wanted him, and you weren’t even sure where you ended and he began anymore.

“Please,” you whispered, your voice a little shaky. “I need you.”

Yeosang grinned, a wicked glint in his eyes. He gave you a knowing look, his fingers sliding lower, brushing against the waistband of your pants. He pulled at it with ease, tugging them off like it was nothing, leaving you in nothing but your underwear. You could feel the cool air on your exposed skin, but it didn’t matter. The heat of his touch was more than enough to keep you warm.

You felt so exposed, so vulnerable, but you didn’t care. Not when he was looking at you like that. Not when his hands were moving with purpose, stripping you down, and making you feel things you didn’t know you could feel.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Yeosang murmured, his lips trailing down your neck, kissing and sucking at the soft skin there. You tilted your head back, exposing more of your neck to him, and he took full advantage, his hands roaming freely, exploring every inch of your skin.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes locking with yours, and you couldn’t help but feel that tension rising again. He was about to break you, and you were more than ready for it.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” Yeosang said, his voice low and rough, sending a jolt of desire straight to your core. “Say it, and I’ll give it to you.”

You bit your lip, holding back a moan. His words were like a command, and you didn’t hesitate. “I want you... now. Please.”

Yeosang chuckled, but it was dark, dangerous, the kind of laugh that sent a thrill through your body. “Good girl,” he said, his hands gripping your thighs and pushing them apart, his mouth finding the sensitive spot on your neck again.

You gasped at the sensation, your body arching up instinctively, craving more of him. Yeosang’s hands slid under you, lifting you up slightly, and you could feel the bulge in his pants pressing against you, hot and needy. He didn’t waste any time; he was done playing.

In one swift motion, he was pulling down his pants, exposing his hard length. You felt your breath catch in your throat at the sight of him—so thick, so fucking perfect. He was everything you wanted, and now you were about to have him.

“Ready for me, baby?” Yeosang asked, his voice dripping with need, his hands gripping your hips and positioning you just right.

You nodded, barely able to form words, your body trembling with anticipation. And then, he was inside you, stretching you in ways you couldn’t describe. Your back arched off the couch, a gasp escaping your lips as he filled you completely. The sensation was overwhelming, and you couldn’t do anything but take it, letting him guide you as you adjusted to the intensity of him.

“Fuck,” you moaned, your fingers gripping his shoulders as he started to move, slowly at first, testing the waters. But the moment he saw your face, saw the way you were already losing control, he didn’t hold back anymore. He snapped his hips against yours, the sound of skin on skin filling the room.

“You like that?” Yeosang groaned, his hands gripping your waist so hard you could feel the bruises forming already. “Tell me you like it.”

“I like it,” you gasped, your body rocking against him, desperate for more. The words barely left your lips before he was thrusting harder, deeper, his movements frantic as he fucked you like he couldn’t get enough.

He leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “You’re mine now, baby. All mine.”

You moaned at the possessiveness in his voice, the way he claimed you with every thrust, with every touch. Your nails dug into his back as you held onto him, letting the pleasure consume you.

“Faster,” you begged, your voice shaking. “Please, Yeosang, harder.”

He didn’t need any more encouragement. He pounded into you, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge, until you could barely think. Your head was spinning, your whole world was just him—his touch, his voice, his body.

“Cum for me, baby,” he growled, his hand sliding between your bodies to rub your clit, the pressure pushing you over the edge.

You screamed his name, your body spasming as the orgasm hit you like a tidal wave. Yeosang didn’t stop, didn’t slow down, as he chased his own release. The sound of his name leaving your lips was all he needed to finish, and with one final thrust, he came inside you, his body shuddering with the force of his climax.

He collapsed on top of you, both of you panting, trying to catch your breath. His face buried in the crook of your neck, his lips brushing your skin as he whispered, “You’re perfect.”

You couldn’t help but smile, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction, even as your body still hummed with pleasure. For once, it didn’t feel like just another hookup. It felt... different.

Yeosang pulled away just enough to look at you, his eyes softening as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “You good?” he asked, his voice gentle now, the roughness replaced by something almost caring.

You nodded, still catching your breath, and for a moment, it was just the two of you, lying there, tangled together.

But you knew this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Yeosang wasn’t ready to let go, and neither were you. Even as your breath slowed and the lingering warmth of your orgasm still pulsed between your legs, his hands began to move again, slowly caressing the side of your hip, trailing upward to the curve of your waist.

“You’re not getting away that easy,” he muttered, his lips finding their way to your ear again, nibbling lightly on the soft lobe. The playful bite made your body stir once more, your pulse picking up.

You shivered, trying to push the lingering ache of your climax aside as his fingers moved lower, slipping between your thighs once again. His touch was soft, but you knew it wouldn’t stay that way for long.

“Yeosang, I—I can’t…” you breathed, half a laugh escaping your lips. Your body was still sensitive, already feeling overstimulated from the first round.

But he wasn’t listening. Instead, he grinned darkly, his lips now on your throat, kissing and sucking gently. “You can, baby. I know you can.”

He placed his hand on your inner thigh, spreading your legs just a bit further, as if you needed to be reminded that you weren’t in control anymore. Your body tingled at the realization—he was pushing you to go beyond what you thought you could handle.

His voice lowered, each word dripping with desire. “I’m not letting you rest yet.”

The moment his fingers brushed against your core, you moaned in surprise, the sensitivity making your back arch off the couch, a reflex you couldn’t stop. You tried to hold yourself together, but when Yeosang's fingers began to circle your clit with slow precision, the tight knot of pleasure started to coil up inside you again.

“Do you feel that?” Yeosang whispered, his breath hot against your ear, his fingers still working you slowly, agonizingly so. “How wet you are for me?”

You couldn’t answer, too lost in the sensation, but the way your body responded was enough. He smirked, clearly pleased with the reaction he was getting from you, and you were helpless to stop him.

“You’re all mine,” he repeated, voice thick with authority. “Say it.”

You could feel yourself slipping again, the fire in your belly rekindling as you couldn’t seem to get enough of the heat he was making you feel. “I’m yours, Yeosang,” you whimpered, every part of you aching for him to take control once more.

He responded with a dark chuckle. “Good girl.”

Before you could process what was happening, he pulled his hand away, leaving you breathless and empty. “Get up,” he instructed, his voice cutting through the haze of your desire.

You looked at him, hazy-eyed and needy, but obeyed, propping yourself up with shaky arms as you tried to sit up. He guided you to your feet, both of you unsteady for a moment before he pulled you closer. There was something in his eyes now—something more possessive, more intense than before.

“Turn around,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. You did as he said, positioning yourself with your back to him, your legs slightly apart. You could feel the heat radiating off of him as he came closer, his chest pressing against your back, his hands gliding down to your hips.

He moved behind you, slipping a hand around your throat, his fingers just tight enough to make you feel the pressure, just enough to remind you of who was in charge. He didn’t need to say a word to get the message across. His grip was firm, and you could feel your body react instantly—your mind hazy with the dominance he exerted over you.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he whispered, his lips grazing your ear. His hand moved lower, skimming across your stomach, then down, until he was between your legs once again. The sudden contact had you gasping, your hands gripping the edge of the couch to steady yourself.

“Tell me you want this,” he demanded, his fingers teasing at your entrance but never quite giving you what you needed. The anticipation was maddening.

“I want you,” you breathed, your voice trembling with need. “I want all of you.”

Yeosang grinned, satisfied with your answer, and within seconds, he had you backed up against him, pressing into you from behind. His hands gripped your hips tightly as he thrust into you with force, making you gasp at the sudden fullness.

You rocked against him, feeling him stretch you again, the delicious burn making your head spin. The pace was fast, raw, and relentless—every thrust hitting deep, making you clench around him. His hand remained on your throat, but now it was guiding you, pulling you back into him with each powerful movement.

“You’re mine,” Yeosang repeated, his voice rougher now, strained from the effort. “Mine to use. Mine to ruin.”

Your body was already so close again, and his words were just the spark that pushed you over the edge. You could barely form a coherent thought before he had you cumming, your body shuddering as the pleasure ripped through you. But Yeosang wasn’t done yet. Not even close.

He kept going, his rhythm never faltering, and as the aftershocks of your orgasm still rippled through your body, you could feel him get faster, harder, his own release building.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Yeosang growled, his grip on your hips tightening as he used you, his body slamming against yours relentlessly. “I’m gonna fill you up, baby.”

You couldn’t even think as his pace became erratic, each thrust making you tremble, your body completely at his mercy. With one last growl, he came, his hot release filling you as he held you close, still pressing against you as he finished.

For a moment, all that was left was the sound of both your heavy breaths, your bodies still connected, and the weight of everything that had just happened. Yeosang slowly pulled away, his hand brushing over your hair as he leaned down to kiss the back of your neck.

“God, you’re fucking perfect,” he whispered, his voice soft, but his hands still possessive as they roamed over your skin. “Don’t forget that.”

You couldn’t speak, still processing everything that had just happened. All you could do was lean into his touch, letting it settle in.

And as he held you there, you realized just how complicated things were getting.

The air between you two was thick, like the aftermath of a storm, and you both stood there, still catching your breath. Yeosang’s hands, now gentle, traced patterns on your back, as though trying to soothe the tension that had been building up for hours. But even as his touch softened, you could still feel the weight of everything that had just happened.

You had always known there was something electric between you two, but now—now it was undeniable. He wasn’t just your neighbor anymore, and you weren’t just a curious stranger to him. Things were different, and maybe that scared you, maybe it thrilled you.

The silence was thick, but it was comfortable. You didn’t move away from him. You didn’t want to.

But just as you thought the moment might pass, he spoke, his voice a little softer than before.

“I hope you know,” he began, his hand sliding down to your lower back, pulling you just a little closer, “I’m not gonna forget this. And I don’t think you will, either.”

You let out a shaky breath, feeling the truth of his words settle deep in your chest. “I won’t,” you whispered back. “I won’t forget you.”

His lips curled into a satisfied smile as his hand moved up to cup your cheek, brushing his thumb across your skin. “Good. Because I’m not letting you forget me. Not now, not ever.”

You raised an eyebrow, your lips curling into a slight smirk despite the exhaustion that still lingered in your body. “What makes you think I would want to forget?”

Yeosang’s grin deepened, his hand slipping around your waist, pulling you against him again, his body warm against yours. “I think you know exactly why,” he teased, his voice dripping with that familiar, irresistible confidence. “But don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”

You took in a deep breath, the reality of everything slowly creeping in. The weight of your emotions, the lingering tension, it all mixed into something more than just physical. It felt like you were both standing on the edge of something, something neither of you could fully explain but both knew was there.

“I’m serious, though,” he murmured, his fingers brushing your hair out of your face, his eyes softening. “This isn’t just a one-time thing, okay? I’m not the type to let go of what I want. And I’ve made it clear that I want you.”

His words hung in the air, and for a brief moment, you found yourself at a loss. He wanted more. That was clear. And maybe, just maybe, you were starting to realize that you wanted the same thing.

“I know,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “And maybe… maybe I don’t want you to let go.”

Yeosang’s eyes widened for a split second, and you could see the flicker of something unspoken in his gaze. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, breathing in the same air as you.

“This thing between us,” he said quietly, his voice steady but laced with a hint of vulnerability, “It’s not just a fling, right?”

You closed your eyes, your heart racing. “No,” you whispered, shaking your head slowly. “It’s not.”

Yeosang paused for a moment, as if processing your words, before his lips found yours again. The kiss was soft, tender—different from before—but still just as intense. And as you kissed him back, you realized that things had changed. Maybe it wasn’t just a neighborly connection anymore. It was something deeper, something neither of you could ignore.

But even in the midst of that kiss, you both knew this was just the beginning. What you had was far from over.

And you were both just starting to figure out what would come next.

[dreamwreaver]

because Alastor has already canonically called Charlie good girl, she must return the favor by calling him good boy

honestly wanna see a fanfic do this where Alastor does what he's asked after Charlie wore him down after his incessant complaints and excuses. then once he concedes, she does what he did to her last time to mock him: she pats him on his head and chirps "Good boy!" and walks away, leaving a stunned demon who has unknowingly gained a praise kink

Ask and ye shall receive. Well, less of a fic and more of a ficlet but, I have something cooking for Valentine's Day I really wanna finish in time so...

As much as he adored his dearest Charlie, Alastor had to admit she could be as tenacious as a junkyard dog with a bone when an idea got into her head, and unfortunately in this instance he was the bone.

"Please Al?" She laced her fingers together in front of her chest, tucking them under her chin as she made her eyes as big as possible and fluttered her lashes at him, black lips pursed in a tempting pout.

Overall the effect would have been ridiculous on anyone else. But since it was his Charlie... ugh, when had he become so weak?

"Darling we've been over this," his frustration was about as sturdy as a rock sunk into the sea, worn down and eroded by the battering of the waves, "I don't particularly care for men in general, fathers in particular, and your father most especially. And the feeling is certainly mutual."

He did enjoy getting the fallen angel's... he'd say goat if he didn't find the prospect gauche and insulting to his sweetheart. And it did so sting the tiny would be tyrant that his own flesh and blood had chosen to be with not just a sinner, but the one sinner he hated above everyone else. A fact that Alastor took almost as much pleasure in as he took from Charlie herself. Nevertheless...

"But it'll be fun!"

Alastor resisted the ungentlemanly urge to snort in derision, "For whom, exactly?"

Charlie opened her mouth to counter, but stopped short when she realized he was right. That didn't mean she was going to stop trying though.

"Alright, fine," she huffed, "I know it's not going to be fun, for you or for him but... Al this is my dad. And sure he hasn't always been the most..."

"Caring? Affectionate? Able to prevent you from developing daddy issues?" He paused and looked at her, "Please, stop me when you hear something you like; I can go all day!"

"Present," Charlie emphasized the word, "But he's trying to be better, to fix our relationship. And I want that too."

"By all means dearest," Alastor held out his hands as if to demonstrate there was nothing up his sleeve, "I'm certainly not stopping you from seeing the man. Go to the dinner, have fun, and then when you get home I'll make you a proper meal."

"Al," Charlie's sweet mouth was set in a pout as she looked at him, "You can't just beg off anything that has to do with my parents. Like it or not, they're the rulers of Hell and I'm the princess. I have duties, expectations, and I want you to be part of that part of my life."

"I am perfectly fine being the ever feared Radio Demon. While I appreciate you thinking I'm worthy of being prince consort it's not a title that I exactly covet."

Alastor knew he'd said the wrong thing as soon as it left his mouth. Charlie's whole expression dropped.

"No, I mean," since when had talking ever been so difficult for him, "I will stay with you for an eternity my dearest. In whichever way you'll deign to have me. But despite how much I enjoy power, that isn't why I'm with you."

"I know," she replied quietly, fiddling with her hair as she was wont to do when her emotions were too much and the energy needed to be expended somewhere, "But being with me means being with all of me. I accept every part of you."

If his heart was still beating it might very well have tightened in his chest. He knew all of this already. It was one of the reasons he loved her.

"And I accept all of you my darling demon belle," he replied, "But I cannot in good conscience find it in myself to attend what would only be a disaster of a dinner with your father."

She resorted to pleading again, this time keeping her hands clasped low and using her arms to draw attention to her already ample chest. And again, he was left wondering when he'd become so weak-minded that a woman's breasts were of any interest to him. No wait, that was wrong, it wasn't any woman who could catch his eye. It was specifically because it was Charlie that he was distracted in the first place.

"You're my partner, the one I chose," Charlie had moved closer, placing her hands at his lapels against his chest, "If my dad doesn't like it then he can fucking deal. I'm not going to make all the sacrifices in fixing our relationship. You and I are a package deal, if he wants to see me, he needs to get used to seeing you."

It was easy to forget sometimes that Charlie was in fact a demon, such was her sweet and optimistic -if a bit crass at times- nature. However, Alastor felt his grin turn giddy, such pointed cruelty as to make her own sire suffer Alastor's presence if he wanted time with his child? Having the fact that a man the devil himself couldn't stand at his table, with full knowledge of what sorts of things people in committed relationships got up to rubbed in his face? Oh that was far too good an opportunity to pass up.

"Alright," he relented. But in truth he probably would have given in anyways. Alastor found that since he'd given his heart to Charlie there wasn't anything he could really deny her, "I'll attend, but don't-"

"I don't expect you and my dad to be best friend," Charlie rolled her eyes but her smile softened the sass, "Just... civil," a pause, "ish."

"I'll endeavor to do my best,"

"Thank you," she pressed a kiss against his cheek, "And maybe if you stay on your best behavior there'll be some... quid pro quo,"

Alastor wasn't quite able to swallow the half moan half growl that rumbled from within at her words.

Later that evening they stood waiting to be received by the king of hell before being seated. It was so like him to keep them waiting. At least there were plenty of portraits of his beloved to keep him occupied.

"Remember," Charlie whispered as a servant hurried into the hall.

"Best behavior," Alastor whispered back, "Yes dearest I know."

Charlie stared at him a moment, then with a sly smile and a dangerous gleam in her eye she leaned up to speak directly in his ear,

"Good boy," she purred, making things worse by gently patting him on the head, "Very good boy."

As she began striding away from him with a deliberate swing of her supple hips Alastor smiled so tightly his molars began to grind. Oh sweet Charlotte, how naive. She'd only asked him to play nice with her father. She never said anything about herself.

Hope you like it Nonny!

[thatgayunoriginalbastard]

Casually breaking out the “ope” and “welp” and “y’all” in the voice chat to constantly remind the online friends that I’m a simple midwesterner instead of the ~far superior~ north easterner or westerner folk who are lacking in such fun and useful words of their own

[keingleichgewicht]

YET ANOTHER [very funny] / [deeply sad] dichotomy in how hua cheng is pleasantly, openly, immediately willing to resort to bloody murder* if anybody says anything remotely cruel or derisive about xie lian in his presence (*if murder would be inconvenient e.g. if it would make xie lian sad, then he will also settle for being the pettiest bitch imaginable forever); on one hand i have not stopped laughing about the image of xie lian napping on hua cheng's shoulder and hua cheng unflinchingly giving everybody in the room the "If You Wake Him Up I'll Fucking Kill You" evil eye the whole time; on the other hand it stands in vicious contrast to xie lian's own utter disregard for what is said about him, or how he is treated, or for his own health or safety or dignity point-blank, and what is hua cheng's protectiveness if not a move of desperation, because when it's other people he can at least do something about it, but when xie lian starts saying these things about himself, well then,

[exoexid]

he does deserve that spot he's crazy and evil they're perfect for each other but more importantly he should kill that man <3

[saeun]

he's married ?! nanami kento.

sum. he's easily the top most handsome guy within his job. his relationship status is unknown, so what happens when his co-workers ship him with a female worker?

nanami is well known within his company. tall, insanely fit, and an attractive voice. it's not uncommon for men and women alike to find themselves thinking about him often. what's not common is knowing about his love life. no one knows anything and he would've kept it that way. but when push comes to shove, and you're shipped with someone who's not your beloved, nanami will make it known that he's not only taken but married.

in the coffee-break room there are three guys. now, there's nothing unusual about this — no, no. they're just three guys that are co-workers... except there's a twist. they aren't your regular co-workers, they're your uncommon trio of male gossipers and nanami just so happened to be their newest victim.

"shh, shh! he's here," guy one, tichi, whispers to the others, raising his eyebrows and pointing his chin to nanami's position.

the other two take a quick glance, nodding their heads when they've seen nanami's back faced towards them. it's a perfect moment to strike up a conversation, especially since it's just four men here.

guy two, tacho, shuffles his feet to the empty space near nanami. he pretends to open a sugar packet, fiddling with it as his eyes peep over nanami's shoulder. his heart skips multiple beats when the man himself turns around.

"morning to you, tacho," nanami greets, nodding his head before he turns his attention back to his cup of coffee.

"y-yeah, morning!" he stutters, awkwardly smiling in return. he turns his head to the other two in the background, mouthing the word 'help' to them. unfortunately, they do not give the aid to their friend. instead, tichi fakes a series of coughs and guy three, toeny, gives him a confident double thumbs up. there's no hope, tacho sighs.

it's a silent moment between the men — only the sounds of coffee brewing and a spoon coming into contact with the mug can be heard. tacho's mouth itches him, he happened to remember his group's recent conversation about nanami. he must ask — even if it costs him a mutual co-worker.

"so, nanami," he begins, waiting for nanami to give him the undivided attention.

nanami doesn't face him, but he hums in response. tacho doesn't mind this as an answer, so he continues, "i was wondering if the rumors of you being with the new worker, yeri, are true?"

there is one big lie in that question: there are no such rumors. it's just a theory the trio has been gossiping about every night. nanami's been helping out yeri for quite some time, one can only think that they have a special connection going on.

"that is bullshit," nanami gives a firm answer. nothing more, nothing less.

tacho's stunned, he blinks a few times to recollect himself. "oh — so you're not with her?"

nanami doesn't answer yet, but the two in the back give their unwanted reactions. tichi clicks his tongue three times, shaking his head in disappointment at tacho's second question. it's obvious dumbass, he thinks. toeny, on the other hand, presses his lips in a thin line, pretending to read a magazine that's been on the counter.

nanami reaches into his pocket, whipping out his phone. the trio's confused until nanami speaks.

"i am married man. this is my wife," he educates, pressing the power button to show you as his lockscreen.

he collects three gasps, internally nodding at their shock. that's right, i'm gladly taken.

"all this time you've been... MARRIED?!" tacho's voice heightens, he drops his spoon in shock. it's unbelievable yet somewhat believable.

nanami breathes out a 'yes', raising his arm to show the wristwatch. "she bought this for our five-years anniversary recently. it's quite expensive, going over four-thousand," he brags, emphasizing on key words.

he's been waiting for the precious day where someone indirectly asks for his relationship status. the day has come and he will spend it bragging about his beloved.

nanami doesn't give them a chance to speak, he carries on with his bragging, "she's a very lovely woman. all my bentos are made by her and she writes little notes for each. some may think it's childish but that's bullshit! they just haven't experienced the love of a woman. matter of fact, her most beautiful moments are when she's freshly awake. the smile she gives me is nothing but angelic."

his speech doesn't stop there, but it did for the trio. his words went in one ear and out the next. nanami's blabbering about his wife immediately set a blank face upon tichi, tacho, and toeny. they're jealous and also surprised.

"the way a woman can change a man will never not be amazing," toeny whispers, blankly gazing at nanami's ongoing speech.

[runa-falls]

what a mess~

pairing: miguel o'hara x reader cw: smut, established relationship, superhuman stamina, overstimulation, cum EVERYWHERE, 'use a condom, it's too messy X(', 'bitch stfu i'll show you messy'..., so many sheets, reader is a pushover (bc I WOULD BE TOO) wc: 1k + a/n: i um... just take this and I'll go to a corner of a room and think ab what I've done.

---

Having a superhero boyfriend is great – he gets you discounts at your favorite restaurant, he easily carries you home after a long night out at the bar, he saves you from getting kidnapped by his arch-nemesis for the fourth time this month (though isn’t that his fault in the first place?....) – but there are aspects of the relationship that you didn’t consider before. 

Apparently, with great power comes great… stamina. 

To put it plainly, Miguel’s (sex) drive is unheard of. You better clear out your schedule for the whole day because he can go for hours. And most nights, you can barely sit up after he fucks you.

You like that – or you did when you could afford to be sore every other day. You like how enthusiastic he is – how much he wants you. It makes you feel desired and beautiful. But it’s not just the intense workout you risk every time you steal a kiss that turns into more – it’s the number of times he can…finish. 

Every time you think he’s finished, he’s still hard and thrusting into you, overstimulating you until black stars start to fill your vision. 

It’s a mess in the end. 

You lay on top of him, filled to the brim, dripping all over his lower stomach and onto the sheets under you, breathing so hard you’re sure you’d rupture a lung. You feel like you’re barely conscious on the bed as your heart beats harshly against your chest from how hard you came. Hair sticks graciously against your forehead as your eyes struggle to stay open to see Miguel, who gently pulls out and watches his mess spill out of you. 

He whispers sweetly of how well you took him, how pretty you look all fucked out, how much he loves that he can turn you into a blabbering – mindless whore. Being the possessive man he is, he attempts to shove it back in, using two of his thick fingers to gather and push his essence back into you, hoping that, against all odds, it’ll take, despite the fact you take your birth control religiously. 

Of course, when he sees how your thighs shake and squeeze around his hand from the overstimulation of him fucking his fingers into you after you just came, he immediately gets hard again. 

He gazes down at you with apologetic red eyes as he bites his lip under a sharp fang, “I can’t help it when I see how wrecked your pussy is for me…”

It’s nice – it’s hot – but you end up having to change the sheets 5 times a week. He’s insatiable… well ok, you’re just as thirsty as your boyfriend, but the amount of maintenance you need for each session is ridiculous. You basically gave up washing your sheets after every fuck, and instead ordered several identical sets of bedding to make the process easier. 

Many sheets have been destroyed beyond recognition. Okay, maybe you’re being a bit overdramatic, but the amount of cum-stained sheets in your linen closet is insane. How are you supposed to hide this if you were to have guests over?!

After staring at the layers of folded-up and stained sheets that you’ve accumulated over the past few months, you decided you were going to do something about it. 

You can still have fun without the mess.

…right?

—

Miguel has you on your back at the end of the bed with your legs resting on the crook of his arms. You have on a cute little nightgown – white to symbolize purity (though what you were about to do was far from pure) – with nothing underneath. It was one you bought just to get a reaction out of him – and now you got it. 

He holds you open for him, regarding you like he would a special gift – though there’s nothing to really celebrate (unless you count his raging erection). He breathes harshly against your neck as he paints your skin with kisses and nips. You’re nearly folded in half with how closely he’s pushed against you, but you can barely recognize the mere tinge of soreness in your legs with how fluidly pleasure seems to travel from his lips down to the apex of your thighs. 

Miguel O’Hara, the strong, independent Spider-Man, is truly a mess in front of you. His once neatly ironed tie now hangs loosely around his neck, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned halfway down, and his hair a tangle of unruly curls. His fingers, now caressing your body, are already dripping in your slick from when he forced a couple of orgasms out of you right when he got home. 

You find a sense of satisfaction in the disheveled state of his appearance, relishing how his once meticulously groomed demeanor has been disrupted – how his eyes transition from their usual chocolatey brown to a striking blood red, how his lips swell sweetly with lust. 

Miguel groans deeply as he grinds his clothed hardness against your wet center, “Mm…I want you so bad.” He unbuttons and unzips his pants, sighing as he releases himself from the tight fabric. No underwear? 

“Wait, Mig." he pauses his movements, waiting patiently – prepared to do whatever you want. “Get a condom.” …Except maybe…that. 

“Condom?” He could barely hold back his sneer, but you could faintly hear the growl vibrate from his chest. 

“Mhm, we’ve been too messy lately. We can’t just keep buying new sheets every week!”

“...We could…”

“Miguel!”

“I don’t see what the problem is… this is just how it is.”

“But it’s too messy.”

“I thought my baby likes to be filled up…”

“...I-I mean, I do sometimes, but –”

“Don’t you like it when I get you all messy?” He leans in close, distracting you from denying him. “Have you dripping with me for days?” He presses closer, and you can feel his hard cock slip against your wetness, dragging against your sensitive clit. 

“Miguel.” You whine.

It’s so hard to deny this man.

“How about we just try to be more careful, hm?” He presses against you gently, nearly entering you, but not quite. It feels so good, the tip of him barely stretching past your entrance. 

“Okay…j-just this once though…” You surrender with a whisper.

[baeshijima]

— stardust

the world is a vast place. in the grand scheme of things, humans are but a speck of dust; much like how you are sure you are nothing but a meagre speck of dust in the world he lives in, forever to be remained unseen. (if only you knew how you are the brightest star he'd ever laid his eyes upon.)

CONTAINS : gn!reader, 1.5k wc, royalty!au, contract marriage/marriage of convenience, fluff, smitten reca bc what would he be other than smitten, a little hint of bittersweet at the end if read between the lines aha...

A/N : ....i have a paper due monday. i havent started it. why do i do this to myself. (reca i love u can u not hear my cries and wails as fic after fic appears in my brain for u...)

Duke Reca of the northern territory; to many he is a well-accomplished noble, a young genius set for greater things, and the owner-slash-founder of the top theatre company. He is an idol — a role model to those who aspire to be more involved in the artistic side of the world.

To you, however, he is an absolute lunatic, the bane of your existence, and your contractual husband.

It's not like you had much choice. It was either: a) remain as a hollow puppet whose strings danced at your family's fingertips, or b) find some way to escape with outside power.

You, of course, chose the second option. Unfortunately, that somehow led to you meeting the young duke when out in the shopping district, trying to escape the suffocating presence of your family's knights accompanying you by running into a secluded alleyway, even if it was for but a momentary breather.

It was a whirlwind of a meeting... quite literally. Bodies flew; clothing tousled; breaths stolen. Well, at least for you it was like this. He, on the other hand, looked right as rain. (Lucky bastard.) You hadn't realised it was him at first, too absorbed in hasty apologies and the numbing bloom spreading across your backside like a wildfire (really, they ought to incorporate more padding in these flimsy clothes!), but when he uttered an apology of his own for not paying attention to his surroundings with an arm outstretched to help you stand, your mind all but blanked. What was someone of his status doing in a dingy alley? Didn't the newspapers report word of his self-confinement, having not stepped foot outside his manor in fervent preparation of his upcoming performance?

No, never mind all that; wasn't this a blatant opportunity being presented to you? An outside power that could help you escape the clutches of your family...

With gritted teeth, all sense of self-dignity was cast aside as you grasped his outstretched hand with both of your own, gazing into his widened eyes with your own narrowed ones.

"Your Grace, I know this is hardly the appropriate time nor place, but please... marry me!" Your words echoed within the enclosed space. Duke Reca blinked slowly down at you, and it was then you realised you never elaborated. "In... in a contractual marriage of convenience, of course."

"Oh?" he grinned, amusement and intrigue twinkling in his eyes. "And what is it you can offer me?"

"I..." Truthfully, there was nothing you could offer which would be beneficial to someone like him who had everything at the tips of his fingers. You were but a speck of dust in his world, merely floating and remaining unseen within his view. But even so, here you kneeled before him, his gaze wholly fixated on a speck of dust such as yourself. If nothing else, you at least had your desperation — a desperation to be your own person. "My lineage may be from that of a baron's, but I am confident I can be of use to you if you would permit it. So long as you accept my offer, I will do anything to aid you, whether that be through practical means or a performance you wish to see."

A beat of silence.

"Ha... haha... ahahaha!!"

And, as if things couldn't get any worse than a sore rear and disgruntled self, you were pulled out of your daze by a pair of gleaming carmine eyes, a maniacal grin, and his body, now kneeled just like you were, so very close to your own.

"That determination... how brilliantly you burn with such an expression!" The sheer glee which bled through his tone sent shivers down your spine, having never realised someone so esteemed had such a side to him. The duke breathed a breathy laugh and slightly backed up, his hands still holding your arms. "Alright, I look forward to seeing how brightly you will shine in your performance, my dear leading actor."

...Was it too late to back out and find an alternative solution?

Admittedly so, for the next thing you knew vows were declared and you were moved into the duke's residence. You could still remember your family's aghast expressions the moment you declared you were marrying Duke Reca and thus cutting ties with them. It was oddly freeing to see their contorted faces reveal their true nature.

Life as the duke's spouse was... something, to say the least. His servants and attendants almost seemed to have shed tears of joy at the revelation of their ever so lonely duke (their words, not yours) finally settling down and getting married, asking you questions such as how you both met, what drew you to their duke, who popped the question first, why you chose him of all people, so on so forth. It was... cosy. Something you admittedly weren't very accustomed to, but found yourself welcoming nonetheless.

One thing you never expected was for the duke to have a little pet of his own; a little toad dressed in a miniature beret and matching suit, at that. Assistant Director is what Reca had called her, and you think for someone so obsessed with the arts he ought to up his naming sense. She was also quite susceptible to compliments, something you discovered when commenting on the little toad's cute attire, with the duke's baffling translation of her bashfulness and her own compliment on your own looks. Apparently. You're not really sure, but you're inclined to believe it ever since she claimed a spot on your shoulder.

As the days-turned-weeks-turned-months bled into each other, you found yourself oddly lost at how well-adapted you have become of your new life and the duke's personality. From impromptu displays of affection both in and outside the manor to sporadic radio silence on his end when wholly consumed by his fervent passion for a project, you sometimes wonder just how you're still alive with the amount of heart attacks the man has given you.

But despite his... eccentricities, to put it lightly, there are times where you can't quite put a finger on certain expressions he would make when he thinks you're not looking. They're unlike his (once again, to put it very lightly) passionate eyes when rambling to you during mealtimes about an upcoming performance the troupe has; unlike the sheer mania he can exude when something truly sparks his inspiration; unlike the playfully smug grin he would give you when swooping down in dramatic flair to press a long kiss to the back of your palm; unlike the rare darkening of his expression that you cannot help but stiffen at when something or someone in the troupe doesn't quite match his expectations.

No. These ones are... soft. A kind of tenderness and unprecedented longing able to be identified if scrutinised close enough. It was evident in the ghost-like touches he would trail along your skin, as though afraid just a little more force would do irreparable damage. It was evident in the attention to even the most minute details, having everything from clothing to food to the decor suited to preferences you yourself never realised you had. It was evident in the way unadulterated fondness leaked through his tone when his unique terms of affection for you slipped through his lips when all was silent and you were supposed to be asleep.

"My dearest star..."

...Much like now, it would seem.

The bed dips by where your knees slightly bend, hidden under the beige covers. A familiar musky scent surrounds you not long after, and you find yourself involuntarily relaxing at the comfort it brings as your head further burrows into the pillow.

You want to stay awake, even if it's just for a second longer, to hear what he has to say to your less than conscious state. But, oh, his fingers threading through your hair and softly massaging your scalp and the gentle touch of his forehead against yours and the subtle comforting warmth that rolls off his body in waves does little to help you fight the sleep which easily takes over.

Oh, whatever! You'll just try and catch what he has to say next time.

Eventually your breathing evens out, only soft snores now heard within the large shared bedroom. Upon noticing this, Reca cannot stop the fond smile which lifts the corners of his lips, nor can he prevent the softening of his eyes as he continues to gaze at your sleeping form.

"My dearest [Name]," he whispers into the dead of night. Even now, several months later, he still cannot believe his luck to have run into you in that alleyway. It must have been fate which made him heed its call, urging him he would discover something sure to escape that terrible slump plaguing him for weeks on end.

Sure enough, it brought him to something irreplaceable; something he has been searching desperately for.

You.

And, with the tenderest of kisses pressed to your forehead that would put even the most sickening romantics to shame, he murmurs words of promise against your skin, an oath he swears to uphold no matter the obstacles which stand before him.

"In this life, I will ensure you have only the best of endings."

if you enjoyed this, reblogs and/or comments are greatly appreciated <33

[julymusings]

you're good to me, baby

with the roar of the fire my heart rose to its feet, like the ashes of ash i saw rise in the heat. settle soft and as pure as snow, i fell in love with the fire long ago.

or; because the red hood bleeding onto your living room carpet is exactly what you need right now [3.6k]

Jason Todd x fem!reader; based on this lovely ask; ngl this turned into a personal vent jason doesn't show up until 1k words in LMAO; warning there’s blood (duh) and reader is suggested to have heavy anxiety; pre-established relationship where reader doesn’t know his identity + muzzle red hood bc HOT

Compartmentalize. Create baskets in your mind. Analyze the situation, and drop the corresponding emotion in the appropriate basket.

One: You had a fight with your best friend. She called you selfish because you weren’t enthusiastic about her new relationship. She just can’t seem to understand that no matter how happy you want to be for her, it’s painful to see everyone find safety in another person when you can’t. Every attempt at romance is squashed by something or the other that you keep doing wrong. I thought you were hot, your latest dating attempt had said when you ran into him and asked why he never texted back. But you’re kind of a lot. Not something I have the space for right now, you know?

Two: There’s an important presentation today, one that could determine the fate of your position in the company. Your coworker, the one who’s convinced you stole his promotion (he just flirted with the higher-ups while you actually completed the requirements), refuses to let you forget how much is at stake. All it takes is one misstep, one stutter, one hesitation, and he will take it as an excuse to demand your demotion— or worse, termination. You’ve been preparing for this presentation for three weeks. If after all that effort it’s still not good enough, maybe you should be fired.

The emotions here? Frustration. Anger. Exhaustion. Jealousy. Just to name a few. But there’s no time to dwell on anxieties right now, so you shove those thoughts aside. Drop them in their compartments and move on because, after all, if you can strip them down to their bones and find where they stem, you can yank those anxieties from the ground before they have the chance to root. And then there’s no need for unnecessary heartache, right?

(Who cares if the baskets are overflowing, crumpled fragments spilling over the sides like garbage in a landfill? Who cares if the room of your mind is so packed that you’re pressed against the wall and breathing becomes painful.)

The digital clock beside your bed reads 6:12. The numbers blink in and out of the window, their red dots and dashes taunting your heavy eyelids. You still have forty-eight minutes of peace before it will scare you awake. Its beeping will ring so loud and angry that the adrenaline from the startle will power you through your morning routine, and your beating heart won’t dare still to entertain wishes of just five more minutes. 6:13 now. You have forty-seven more minutes of peace, minutes which should be spent sleeping, giving your poor brain a break from itself. But you can’t. Every time you close your eyes and begin to sink below the level of consciousness, your heart pumps a house-special cocktail of cortisol that laces through your bloodstream and convinces you that if you fall asleep you will miss your presentation and you will get fired. The off-grid escape plan formulating in your head switches from hypothetical to tentative when your neighbors, apparently awoken to lust as well as tired by it, start going at it again. You want nothing more than to bang on their door and scream obscenities until they hate each other enough to never touch again, but you resign yourself to consciousness, giving up on the dream of what would now be forty-four more minutes of sleep. 

It’s Friday morning; only one more day to get through before the sweet release of the weekend finds you. (The whole weekend will be spent contemplating the start of a project, feeling like two days is not nearly long enough to complete anything, and dreading Monday until it finds you with nothing done and the same, endless cycle awaiting.)

After completing your morning routine 44 minutes early, you use the spare time to go through your presentation once more, just for good luck, wrapping up the third run-through just in time to hear your alarm to leave for work.

The presentation goes decent, at least well enough to quell any doubts about your ability to do your job. Your coworker ate his words for sure, and you might have enjoyed the look on his face had you not mentally checked out as soon as you finished your closing remarks. Rush hour traffic has the ice cream tub you bought at the convenience store dripping condensation all over the passenger’s seat and your hips hurt from being in the same sitting position for most of the day, but you remind yourself that peace is only a few miles out. Stopped at yet another red light, your grip tightens on the steering wheel. Breathe in. Breathe out. The line of cars starts to move forward.

When you get home, your frustration is close to boiling over. You kick off your shoes right at the door, your keys and bag following close behind.

Far be it from you to break down on the floor in the middle of the room, the plan begins to formulate. There’s a box of tissues on your desk– that can go on the nightstand, along with two of the chilled water bottles you keep in the fridge for after you work out. And you’ll need something for the tissues, right? The small wastebasket from the bathroom should be fine. You drag it over to the side of your bed, sitting in your usual spot to make sure you placed it at a reachable distance. You won’t want to get out of bed to wash your face after this, so a washcloth should go next to the tissues. And an extra one, just to be safe.

You keep a set of comfortable clothes ready, the nicest, softest pajamas you own that you only wear after an everything shower. This shower, however, is a quick one, not much more than a few minutes under scalding water to comfort you, if nothing else. The light pink pajamas are a high-quality cotton and you feel like you’re in the clouds when you slip into them. Remaining is the ice cream, which you set out on the counter right before your shower so it would thaw just enough to be soft but not melted, With everything in your room ready, you go to retrieve the ice cream but stop with a startle when you round the corner.

“Jesus,” you mumble.

He’s just sitting there, doing nothing except bleeding out on your cream-colored carpet. He’s spread out on the couch like he owns the place, head leaned back against the wall as he lets his injured arm hang over the armrest and drip blood and dirt onto your cream-colored rug. The liquid seeps into the expensive wool, staining it with reddish-brown hues and the scent of iron, and he doesn’t even notice.

“Hey.” The Red Hood lifts his head when he sees you.

On any other day, you’d be quick to action, hauling him up off the couch and sprinting for the first aid kit under the bathroom sink. Today, your arms are too heavy and your gaze remains rooted on the widening splotch of red against white. Your throat feels dry. “You’re getting blood on the carpet.”

He peers over the armrest. “Oh, shit,” he curses, lifting his arm to hover it over his lap. He sounds robotic through his muzzle mask. His hood, pulled down to reveal his thick black hair curling at the ends from humidity and sweat, rests on his back.

I don’t have time for this, is what you want to say. You want to scream it in his face and kick him out for having the audacity to think he can come and go as he pleases, that you’re nothing more than a drive-through emergency room who will drop everything if he gets so much as a paper cut. But you can’t say any of this, and you do want him to come to you whenever he needs help. God knows he won’t go anywhere else.

Holding back your heavy sigh, you wordlessly walk to the bathroom. He takes that as an invitation to follow. 

It’s clinical. Rehearsed. Neither of you speak. It’s a partnered dance long since committed to muscle memory, steps you can take in your sleep. He knows to seat himself on the step stool you got just for him, for nights like these. He knows where to find the first aid kit and which supplies to hand you first. You know the exact steps to follow. Check the palms for abrasions. Antiseptic to the lacerations. Concussion exam. 

Maybe he can sense the air of tension surrounding you, because he doesn’t say as much as he usually does (though, granted, it’s still not much). It’s a reflection of your dynamic several months earlier when this arrangement began, back before you’d managed to chip away at the surface of his rough exterior. You notice the way his fingers curl against his thighs when you, somewhat carelessly, wipe the dirt from his skin with more pressure than necessary and the way his eyebrows tilt inward when you work slower than usual. You notice, but you ignore it.

We both know you have at least a dozen people who could do this for you. The words echo in your mind. Don’t act like I owe you this. If anything, you owe me a new carpet. These are things you wish you could say, but never will. Being realistic, you’ll probably never be able to say things like this. You’ll be subjected to all the shitty coworkers and unsympathetic friends and exploitative vigilantes of the world for the rest of your life.

This isn’t his fault, you remind yourself, but still, your lips turn down and your jaw feels tight with the effort to keep your face still, to not burst into tears right on the spot. In the second it takes for you to calm yourself, your hands pause. He notices. He says nothing. 

It’s not until you’re finished with cleaning the blood from his arm wound and giving him a wad of gauze to hold against it that he tests the waters and asks, “Is it too bad?” 

He sounds automated, but over the last few months, you’ve learned a thing or two about reading even these robotic actions. There's a certain quietness to the beginning of his sentence like he’s debating if he should say it or not. 

“It’s fine,” you say, shortly. 

“Sorry about your rug,” he says. He tugs at the strap of his muzzle with one finger, rubbing at the skin underneath the leather. “I can get the stain out.”

You retrieve the needle and thread from the kit and don’t respond. You don’t even look at him.

After a moment’s hesitation, he continues. “It’s easy. You just need salt and—”

“Okay.”

He goes quiet.

You don’t mean to be so tetchy, but you don’t have the energy for anything more. Every little thing has you feeling on the edge of shattering. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

It’s when you’re kneeled at his side, staring into the gaping wound on his bicep and trying to thread the needle, fingers trembling from the chill of the tiled floor with nothing but a layer of thin cotton to keep you warm, that it happens. He shifts on the stool, a mere twitch in an attempt to get comfortable, but it brushes his bloody arm against yours. Flecks of fresh red on the light pink fabric. First your carpet, now your pajamas. Your favorite, special, extra soft matching cotton pajama set, a rare splurge after your promotion that stood out among old t-shirts and sweat shorts. Ruined. Again, he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Did I say something?” Hood asks. He waits for your response, but when none comes, he adds, “I’m sorry if I did.” He speaks so quietly you may not have been able to separate his words from the whirring filter of his mask, if not for the chilling silence of the bathroom floor. The insulating brick walls of your old apartment building are something you’re usually grateful for, but tonight you find yourself wishing for the city’s commotion to seep through the walls. Something, anything to buffer his proximity to you.

You hear his inhale as he prepares to say something else.

“Can you just let me work?” You snap before he has the chance to speak again. It’s loud, louder than you’d ever dream of speaking to him, and he flinches. Your eyes shut in apology, but only for a moment before you get back to it. He looks away. His feet point towards the door.

He wants to leave, you can tell, and you don’t blame him. You just messed everything up. But you started this, so now you have to finish it.

You sit in silence for the several minutes it takes for you to clean his wound and stop the bleeding.

He’s not looking at you, gaze transfixed ahead of him on a chip in the paint. At least, you assume. It’s difficult to guess what’s going on behind the milky white covering over his eyes. His subtle body language can be read if you pay close enough attention, you’ve learned, but that’s not something you care to do right now.

(Maybe you noticed in the back of your mind that he’s not exhibiting any body language since you snapped at him, but the compartment in your head for guilt is already overflowing, so maybe you didn’t notice it, you tell yourself.)

You stare at your sleeve, at the patches of blood blooming like ink blots. The red and pink hues blend together behind your blurring vision. You sniffle.

“Are you—” Hood starts. Because now he’s looking at you.

“Excuse me,” you say, pushing yourself off the ground and stumbling out of the room without so much as a glance back at him. You stagger into your room, needle and thread still in hand, and push the door closed. The lights are off, and the darkness is calming, quieting your buzzing thoughts. You close your eyes and lean against the door. Breathe in. Breathe out. You continue this exercise, breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth to soothe your sympathetic nervous system, the same way a therapist instructed that one time you went. You wipe away the moisture that has collected in your eyes, roll out your stiff neck, dry your sweaty palms over your thighs. You toss the needle and thread aside, because they are definitely not sterile anymore, and take a few more breaths before opening the door and going back to the bathroom.

You avoid his face, following the lines of grimy grout between the tiles before resuming to your spot at his side. His inspecting eyes burn on the side of your face. You wipe down the forceps with a sterilizing wipe and rip open the plastic packaging for a new needle, holding it up to the wound, but your hand refuses to steady.

Another deep breath. Then another.

Hood sighs. It’s almost chastising. “I think I should go.”

“What?” You’re just surprised enough to be torn away from your thoughts and look him in the eye (mask) for the first time all night.

“You can’t do this,” he says, gruffly. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll let you figure it out.”

You scoff. “Yes, I can. I’m fine.”

Before he can argue, you grab him by the wrist to hold him in place just as he starts moving to get up. He winces, but you keep your grip tight on him. You can feel his scrutiny through the cold, expressionless barrier of his disguise, practically track his pupils as they search your face.

You both pretend he couldn’t break from your hold in an instant if he wanted to.

“You’re shaking,” Hood says. His voice is much softer now.

You follow the turn of his head to your hand where it hovers the needle right over his skin. You are shaking. Trembling, in fact.

“No, I’m not.” It comes out as an empty whisper.

You focus all your strength on steadying yourself, but the harder you try to stabilize, the harder you tremor. Your other hand releases his wrist to clamp over your dominant hand and force it to stay in place. It guides the needle closer to the skin, but now your vision is blurring. You blink rapidly, but it’s not enough. The tears start falling. You look away from him, but a warm hand settles over yours. You don’t dare look at him, unable to bear showing him your shameful face, wet and blushing and screwed up in misery. You turn your face into your sleeve. Clamp your eyes shut tight, thinking maybe if you keep them closed, this darkness will swallow you up and he won’t be here anymore.

But the warmth of his skin on yours is the first feeling of softness, of relief you’ve felt in months, and then it’s gone. Your shoulders are shaking, quaking with the effort to keep your sobs quiet.

One finger ever so gently hooks around your chin, pulling it back up to face him. You keep your eyes closed, not wanting to see him see you like this, but the tears are still streaming. He brushes them away. Whether that makes it better or worse, you can’t be sure, because you cry even harder, snatching your face away from his grasp to muffle your sobs into the back of your hand. You don’t realize he’s pushed himself off his stool to sit cross-legged on the floor until you feel his hand circling your arm and pulling you closer. The tools in your hand clatter on the floor as your palms come up to press against his chest, fighting against him with half-hearted protests murmured through your cries. But even with only one good arm he’s too strong for you, and you’re pulled into him.

He’s so gentle with you, rubbing your back and resting his chin atop your head while you cry and cry and cry into his shirt. Several minutes pass like this, with your face buried in his chest and his good arm holding you tightly against him while the other dangles lamely at his side, throbbing with an intensity he’s trying to ignore.

When your sobs die down, and you’re sure you’re all cried out, you linger against him. He smells like smoke and gasoline, and his shirt is soft and warm from his body heat seeping through. His hand continues to stroke up and down the length of your back, even after you’ve quieted. The edge of his mask digs into your scalp where his chin sits, but it feels worth it. Your hands, still pressed to his chest, slide higher, completely of their own volition, out of a newfound desire to wrap your arms around his neck. You don’t hear it, but you can feel his sharp draw of breath, his chest rising quickly under your touch. Your hands lose their nerve at his clavicle as you hold your breath for fear of the smallest movement drawing attention to your forwardness. You wait for him to rebuff you, to lean away from your touch, or grab your wrists and pry them off. He doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. His chest finally falls.

Eyes opening, your thumb swipes over the edge of the red bat symbol just below his collarbone.

His movements pause, lightly gripping the fabric of your shirt for just a moment, before releasing it. “It’s alright,” he tells you.

You pull back from his chest to look at him, the way his cold and unfeeling expression stares back at you. You wonder from time to time what’s under the mask, but tonight the desire is overwhelming; you ache with the want to know what he looks like. The color of his eyes. What his mouth looks like when he winces over a deep cut or chuckles at one of your anecdotes. You wonder if his lips are soft or chapped. If he’d like it if you dragged your thumb across the bottom one.

The metallic odor spreading through the room brings you back to the present, and you hope the flush from your tears hides your cheeks’ growing heat when you realize where your mind had wandered. 

“Oh, fuck, your arm.” You speak in a watery voice, wiping at your face as the urgency returns to your senses. Though you try to move away, his firm hand on your back pulls you back in.

“Don’t worry about it, okay?” He says, resuming his caresses up and down your back. “I can take care of it.”

“Then why do you even need me?” You sniffle with a small smile.

He stays silent. But when you search his face, waiting for an answer, his hand moves to your side, palm sliding a fraction of an inch closer to your waist and fingers tensing, you can almost see through the mechanical muzzle to the way his lips shape the words. At least, he wishes you could.

You know why.

this was lots of fun to write and thank u for your patience ik i said i was gonna "knock this out in a day" 2 weeks ago😬😬 also we're gonna pretend they aren't just letting his open wound marinate for half an hour when it should be getting stitched up bc it's fiction ok? everyone say thank you mostly-imagines for proofreading this😚

but anyway happy new year!! it's been barely 2 months but starting this account made my year so much better🫶🫶🫶and ty for 500 followers that's crazy🫣🫢

listen to the inspo song!!!

[gutsby]

Diehard

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: Joel tries Viagra for the very first time.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Erectile dysfunction. Daddy kink. Praise kink if you squint. Overstimulation. Cumplay. She/her pussy pronouns. Pushing physical limits with a pre-negotiated safe word in place for it.

Note: No more limp dick erasure. We die like [old] men.

Part of the Waiting Game ‘verse | Word count: 986

Joel just wanted to prove he could fuck like he used to.

He didn’t think he’d almost kill you in the process.

“JOEL!” you screeched, heels digging deep in the mattress as your climax came in seismic waves.

The stimulation was insane. Normally the much-older man would have been down for the count after two—and usually one—big O, but now his chest was heaving, hips relentlessly beating a punishing pace against your own.

Your walls were slick with not only your cum but his, milky ropes of his arousal making for an obscene set of sounds every time his dick slid in and out of your cunt. You could feel his balls tighten and twitch with every forthcoming spurt of him, practically reeling with the pulse of each new sticky gift inside you. His groans rumbled low, but the power and pleasure and outright primal fervor they conveyed were unmistakeable. You had to look down, feebly, to believe it yourself—Joel never fucked his way through your orgasm and his.

Then you felt a palm slide up the back of your head, and Joel held it up to make sure you watched him fuck you.

“J-Joel,” you whimpered, watching his girth disappear and reappear at least a half-dozen times as you did.

“Just a little more, honey,” he murmured against your forehead. The smack of each thrust was dizzying, “Want my pretty girl nice and full’a me before she leaves, okay?”

Joel never could let you head back to college without a few of his loads and a head full of filthy memories—something to hold you over until your next visit home. You would’ve liked to mumble back, ‘Okay,’ but then your pussy clenched around him, and his thrusts grew faster.

“My sweet girl,” he grinned, “She likes that, huh?”

You could scarcely manage a nod. The weight of your head was held fully by him, and if that wasn’t indicative enough of your fucked-out state, your face surely said the rest. When Joel leaned back to adjust the angle of his thrusts, he caught sight of your hooded, glossy stare and almost came all over again. He slowed his pace for once.

Then he dipped a finger between your body and his, just long enough to douse the tip of his digit with cum. He bottomed out inside you, watched you part your lips in a gentle gasp, and pressed his touch to that open space.

It was almost like you didn’t have the strength to suck. You just let him smear the sticky stuff along your lower lip, gaze plastered to his. Then Joel’s cock sank deeper.

“O-ow!” you whined, partly reanimated by the stretch.

“You can take it,” Joel grunted.

The double entendre wasn’t lost on you. You could, and would, take his finger and his cock inside. You suckled dumbly on the cum-drenched fingertip in assent.

But when Joel’s finger popped out of your mouth and his thrusts picked back up, you weren’t entirely convinced you would be able to hold up the second half of that deal.

It wasn’t fair. He took one magic pill, and poof, his dick stayed hard for half the fucking day. You had nothing but your youth and two shaking legs to ensure your survival. When Joel worked his cock back and forth a couple more times and it seemed your body was about ready to scream, you took hold of his biceps and squeezed tight.

“I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

The tip of his cock nicked a soft ridge inside you, and you jolted back. Joel’s palm was still pressed to your head, holding you to him, and his hips had you pinned as well.

Instead of answering, you whimpered.

You didn’t want him to stop, but you also weren’t sure if you could handle any more. Your eyes met his, pleading.

“Can’t what?” Joel pressed, a little more sternly.

Another whimper. Inside, Joel’s cock was rubbing that pleasure point raw, and you felt another climax coming.

“Use your words.”

“Too— too—”

Each new thrust was sending stars before your eyes. Joel was one sick man if he tried to make you talk while he fucked you past the point of all intelligible speech.

“Too what? Tell me, baby.”

You’d get that fucker back someday. Joel just grinned.

“Too much,” you hissed when his hips delivered another mind-numbing push. Then, feeling pleasure threaten to peak at almost a painful degree, “Toomuchtoomucht—”

Joel continued thrusting, knowing damn well you knew what to say if you really wanted him to stop. As if to underscore this point, he tipped your head back and made you hold his gaze, features creased with a frown.

“That sure don’t sound like the safe word to me.”

It wasn’t. You knew it wasn’t. He didn’t need to tell you twice, or even breathe a second word besides. With one more brush of Joel’s thick, throbbing, implausibly hard cock, he sent you over the edge and into your fourth orgasm of the morning, hitting that spot again and again.

And again.

And again.

Just like before, Joel fucked you through each wave, catching your lips this time to stifle your cries. You might’ve gone blind for a second or two, but that was alright; the pleasure, proximity, and then the sweet, erratic pulse of his cock sending rope after rope of his cum deep inside made the overstimulation worthwhile.

Your body went limp against the bed, held tight in Joel’s grasp, when you felt that sickly sweet dichotomy of soft, tender touches and a cock lodged between your walls that was as hard as it had ever been. Still trying to console you with kisses, still trying to warm you up for another round, perhaps, Joel almost laughed out loud in your mouth when you groaned into his and whispered:

“Please don’t ever take that fucking pill again.”

[cybertron-after-dark]

what the FUCK happens in cyberverse

Here's a list just off the top of my head, in no particular order. MASSIVE spoilers ahead.

-Wheeljack keeps making party drugs. This is not only accepted but wholly encouraged by the Autobots. He's made the bot equivalent to cocaine so strong it made grimlock physically unable to stop himself from running around the ship at mach 5. This was the basis for an entire episode. He's also made patches that give you a direct link to the Allspark that he passed out at a party specifically to get everyone as fucked up as physically possible. I cannot overemphasize that Optimus make no effort to stop this until things turn destructive on both occasions.

-Soundwave and Shockwave completely fucking hate each other and have a whole rivalry trying to be a better and more useful follower for Megatron than each other.

-Soundwave is a fucking memelord who will play clown music or dramatic riffs to dunk on people from the soundboard he has built into his hardware.

-theres a sort of liminal dimension referred to as Unspace that you can get stuck in and if you are there for too long you will straight up disintegrate. We see this happen to the entire crew aboard the arc from different timelines several times while the main timeline crew we follow tries to escape this fate, thus dooming dozens of other timelines.

-Cheetor is basically Allspark Jesus, and he's tired of all the fighting, so he tries to have Optimus and Megatron settle their differences once and for all. The chosen method for this was making them both play the Newlywed Game. They were both terrible at it, the MegOp Divorce agenda is alive and well.

-the Quintessons invade Cybertron and stick the entire population into a simulation a la The Matrix, which slowly drains their life force until they die. This kills countless unnamed Cybertronians, both Autobot and Decepticon, as well as Hound, who does not get to appear on screen.

-the Quintessons also catch Starscream, rip his face off, and modify him into an Eldritch tentacle beast with his brain attached to two other aliens, and then appoint that amalgamation as the judge that decides the fate of the universe in regards to whether they exterminate all life within it.

-Shockwave commits suicide for Megatron's approval. He launches his spark straight into the Allspark to taint it specifically as a last desperate fuck you to the autobots.

-Soundwave acquired laserbeak by just kind of grabbing a random bird out of the sky.

-Soundblaster is an ex-decepticon that left out of shame. That shame being Soundwave beating his ass in a beatboxing competition so fuckin hard he couldn't show his face around his faction anymore.

-The autobots keep starscream captive and try to get him to take a therapy session with the Arc's AI, and he starts out willing to actually give it a shot but said AI is kind of Stupid and screamer ends up tricking him into letting him escape through an air vent to go wreak havoc instead.

-Starscream also starts a suicide cult with the other Seekers, gains control of Vector Sigma and the Allspark, has the seekers forfeit their sparks to him, thus resulting in a cosmically powered Starscream. He uses that power to "remake" his followers into scraplets that he refers to as, with nothing but love in his tone, his "children."

-Shockwave and Wheeljack are shown to be ex lab partners. Shockwave has an army of drones that look exactly like his altmode that Wheeljack helped program. They are programmed to be able to break out into a coordinated dance number at any given time. Originally this was just to make Wheeljack laugh. Shockwave kept that function in throughout the entire war and initiates it the second there's a truce and Wheeljack asks to see it again.

-Shockwave kidnaps Wheeljack at one point for Science Under Duress purposes and Wheeljack is too invested in all the sweet fuckin tech Shockwave's been making while they were apart to really care that he's being held against his will, and then proceeds to escape without too much issue because he knows Shockwave well enough to know exactly how to disable everything.

-Bumblebee distracts the Decepticons by running in front of their surveillance cameras and shaking his ass in the most underwhelming way imaginable.

-Grimlock is only stupid when he's in his altmode because it takes a lot of power to sustain and he has to sacrifice some of his higher brain functions to keep it manageable. In robot mode he talks like he went to an Ivy League college and knows what champagne tastes like. He throws upscale parties every chance he gets.

-Grimlock also helped start an anticapitalist revolution with Bumblebee when he found an underground society of insect transformers that had a rigid caste system. This was within moments of finding out that the ultra wealthy were hoarding the limited energon reserves for themselves. Grimlock is a comrade and he does not fuck around.

-Skybyte is here and he sounds like Skeletor.

-Windblade and Slipstream are nemeses and somehow it's even more toxic yuri coded than Arcee and airachnid in tfp.

-speaking of Arcee, she's besties with Grimlock. They at one point have a physical fight over who gets to die to protect the other.

-hot rod and soundwave are forced to share leadership over the team of bots and cons that escaped the quintessons' simulation and it's packed with so much homoerotic tension its unreal.

-Maccadam is some kind of lovecraftian war machine that can unfold himself into a whole armory whenever he feels like it. We have no idea what his whole altmode looks like, all we see are the ominous shadows of the weapons on the walls. He uses this specifically as a threat to keep anyone from fighting in his bar bc he's insistent it remain neutral ground. He also can kinda just. See into the future. And casually drops prophecies that get written off as spoonerisms until they turn out to be relevant.

-Optimus Prime has horrific social anxiety that he can kind of power through when he's in a crisis, but the second things are chill and he has to give a speech at a party or something he simply does not know how to function.

-the entire planet of Velocitron gets taken over by cosmic rust and everyone inhabiting it that couldn't escape in time was killed horrifically.

-cosmos is a girl and she hangs out with a dude named Meteorfire who is, for all intents and purposes, just robot Steve Irwin.

-Astrotrain keeps closing doors in people's faces for the funny

-Megatron is killed by a version of himself from an alternate universe that went nuts and starting creating a master race of perfect Decepticons to inhabit Cybertron. Said perfect Decepticons were carbon copies of idw Tarn in all but personality.

-Acidstorm is canonically genderfluid and keeps switching between male and female seeker frames whenever they feel like it

-Kup, who had not been in the show at all until this point, decides to show up and narrate an entire episode like hes giving a political speech.

And, the infamous one we all know and love

-Megatron is a twitch streamer and he livestreams Starscream's fucking funeral. The chat has custom Decepticon emotes.

[cameronluvr]

BABY TRAPPED — dark!rafe x fem reader

summary: rafe purposely gets you pregnant against your own will after you choose the pogues instead of him.

warnings: 18+ !!, DUBCON, forced pregnancy, toxic relationship, abusive relationship, dark!rafe, arguing, fighting, choking, SMUT, fingering, slapping, unprotected sex (p in v) forced sex, jealous!rafe, kinda stalker!rafe, kidnapping(?), creampie, teen pregnancy. (lmk if anymore!)

: ̗̀➛ 𝓶𝔂 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽 ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ PART 2

you had been at john b’s chateau for most of the day hanging out with your friends, but you’d promised your parents you’d be home before midnight. looking at the time on your phone, you noticed it was 11:13 pm.

you’d been drinking a little bit, and so had your friends, so driving home wasn’t an option. “guys, i’m gonna need to leave soon” you say over the mild volume of music playing.

“why?” kiara asks. “my parents told me i had to be home before 12. they’re kinda worried about me because of the whole.. you know.. rafe thing” you reply.

over the past few weeks you’d been going through a rough breakup with rafe. you couldn’t handle him anymore. his anger, his jealousy, his everything. he was no good for you anymore, and with the whole rafe vs pogues situation, you had to pick a side. your boyfriend or your best friends.

you had to pick your friends. there was no other choice, no other way out. rafe had tormented your friends for months. he pulled his gun on them, he beat them up, he attempted to kill kiara and his own sister sarah. and he almost killed you.

you’d lost track of how many fights you had with him, how many times he hit you and you hit him back. the screaming wars you’d have always ended up with him choking you or slapping you, and ward having to physically pull him away from you.

you just couldn’t put up with him anymore. he was manipulative, toxic, and most of all abusive. your friends knew about all of this, and tried so hard to get you away from him, but you couldn’t escape from him. he’d always convince you otherwise, guilt trip you, lie to you, twist your words…

“ya’ want me to walk you home?” jj asks, sitting beside you, smoking his blunt. you think about it for a second, but decline his offer. “thanks, but i’m okay, really. i’ll be fine” you nod and smile. “you sure?” sarah asks from across the room as they all practically look at you as if you were crazy. rafe was crazy, and if he saw you alone, only god knows what he would do…

“yeah, i’m good. i think i need to be alone anyway. take a nice walk by myself” you shrug. you hadn’t really had much alone time in months, considering you had a boyfriend glued to your hip out of distrust.

“okay, well, please call us if you need us, m’kay?” sarah says, walking over to you to hug you. she’s worried for you the most, you’re her best friend and her own brother is ruining your life. “i will, promise” you smile, standing up to hug her tightly.

“love you, y/n” kiara says with a smile as you walk out the door, saying bye to them all. you blow a kiss to kie before shutting the door behind you. they all know you’re going through a tough time, so they’re trying their best to be there for you and look out for you. they all love you.

walking home now, you stroll down the dark, long road ahead, with nothing surrounding you but tall trees and dim streetlights. no people, no lit-up houses, just dark and quiet streets with people in bed.

you walk for ten more minutes before you hear a car approaching from behind you. you give it no thought though, not wanting to worry yourself. the car gets closer, as if it were going to drive straight past you, but suddenly, you hear the car slowing down and eventually stopping right next to you. you don’t want to look, but you have to.

your heart sank into your chest when you noticed rafe’s black range rover, right as the window rolled down. it was rafe. “y/n get in.” his tone demanding and angry. “no, leave me alone.” you quickly turn around, power walking away. however, he only follows you. he slowly drives, following you, speeding up and slowing down whenever you do.

“y/n just get in i wanna talk” he says out the window, resting his arm on it as he watches you, attempting to talk to you. “rafe, leave me the fuck alone.” your voice gets louder, but you’re not yelling, yet. “save yourself the hassle and get in for fuck’s sake” he says, getting more frustrated by the second.

“no” you say, not looking in his direction at all. “oh my god” he says, sighing before putting the car in park and getting out. “no, go away!” you say, attempting to run but he grabs you before you can. you thrash around in his arms before he picks you up and drags you to his car.

“put me down!” you yell at him, trying to fight him but he is much stronger than you are. he opens the passenger door, shoving you inside before quickly getting in the drivers seat and locking the doors.

“what the fuck are you d—” you scream at him before his hand roughly covers your mouth, shutting you up. “i just wanted to talk, but you always have to make it hard, don’t you?” he says, eventually letting go of your mouth and seeing a mark left over from how tight his grip was.

“i don’t want to fucking talk! you yell as he rolls the windows all the way up so nobody can hear you fussing. “i don’t care. who the fuck do you think you are?” he yells at you, making you flinch. “what?” your eyebrows furrow.

“choosing those fucking trash pogues over me. are you serious? dumping me for them?” he argues. you’ve had this argument with him plenty of times, he seems to not be able to let it go. or let you go. “rafe. i didn’t want to be your girlfriend anymore, okay? you’re abusive, you’re mean, you’re—” you say, only to be cut off by his laughter. “abusive? for wanting to protect you? for wanting the best for you? right” he squints his eyes. “wanting the best for me? are you serious? you’ve done nothing but hurt me, and hurt my friends, including your own sister, by the way!” you argue, but he scoffs and tuts, as if they were nothing.

“because i told you so many fucking times to stay away from them, didn’t i?” he screams in your face, watching as you flinch with fear. “yeah, you did, but they are my friends, rafe, sarah is my best friend and you tried to kill her? she’s your fucking sister you should love her more than you love me” you say, voice getting higher out of frustration for him. how can he be so naive and cruel?

“her? she’s no sister of mine. that bitch has always been against me” he scoffs, speaking so lowly of his own little sister. “no she hasn’t, rafe!” you try to tell him, but every word that comes out of your mouth is a lie according to his delusions.

“right, whatever.” he rolls his eyes at you and your ‘lies’, but he just doesn’t want to accept the truth. he’s the problem, he turned everyone against himself. “i love you, yeah? i never stopped” he suddenly says, looking at you.

“well i have.” you say, but hearing those words were gut wrenching to him. you crossed the line. he unexpectedly and quickly reaches over, grabbing you by the throat and squeezing his fingers.

“i never wanna hurt you, y/n. you make me do it. i want to love you, but when you’re running off with your little friends behind my back, you make it hard to trust you, yeah?” he explains in his usual manipulative tone.

“rafe…” you force out, feeling as his grip tightens, his nails basically digging into your skin. “can you let me love you like i want to? like i’ve been trying to?” he asks, watching as your face turns redder and redder.

he loves watching you struggle, it was his favorite part of having power over you. it’s like it turns him on to hurt you. “please.. stop…” you struggle to say as he just keeps begging for your love.

“y/n, let me show you how much i really love you. please?” he asks softly, looking at you with adoration as if his own hand isn’t almost causing you to lose consciousness. he was psychotic. “ok.. ok.. yeah.. just let me go” you choke, nodding your head as fast as you can. you didn’t want to agree, but you had to otherwise he wasn’t going to stop.

and who knows what he would’ve done if you had passed out? you’d dread to think. “yeah? atta’ girl. i knew you’d come to terms with me sooner or later” he says, smiling as if he didn’t force the right answer out of you. he lets go of your throat, loving the sound of you gasping for air and regaining your breath.

you wanted to hit him so bad, you wanted to insult him and call him names but most importantly, you didn’t want him to actually kill you. “let’s go somewhere private, hm?” he suggests, like you could say no. you stay silent in his passenger seat, nodding at everything he’s saying, submitting to your fear of him.

he puts the car into gear and begins driving off. he drives five minutes down the road before turning down an off road path which lead to the lake, but he stopped in the secluded path surrounded by more trees, and more darkness.

turning his engine off, he turns to face you. “do you love me?” he asks. you’re terrified to answer. you’d be lying if you said yes, but if you said no, you’d find out. “…yes” you gulp, fearing him deeply. “good girl” he smirks, smelling your fear like a dog could.

he loves it. he loves you being afraid to say something he doesn’t want to hear, that’s the first step to being the perfect girlfriend in his eyes, you always know the right answer.

he turns in his seat to face you, reaching his hand over to your thigh. he rubs it, trailing his hand up and closer to your pussy, but you shift your legs the other way to move his hand away, making him grab your thigh and moving it back to where it was.

“don’t act like you don’t want it. you just said you love me” he leans over, darkly whispering in your ear which sent shivers down your spine. “i.. i do” you lie, not wanting to send him over the edge. he smirks at your words, leaning his head down to your neck to kiss it. you don’t want his touch, but you need it.

“rafe…” you whisper, trying your best not to want it but it’s difficult when he’s kissing your neck and moving his hand up your thigh again, only this time you don’t move your legs when he gets close to your pussy. you’re wearing jeans, so you feel his hand unbuttoning them which made you nervous, but you let it happen anyway.

“what baby?” he whispers, lifting his head from your neck to look at you. “i—” you say, cut off by the feeling of his cold hand slipping into your jeans. you jump at the temperature of his skin, which made him laugh. “come on, just take it” he licks his lips, looking at yours before kissing them. you kiss him back, and eventually start making out with him.

mid kiss, his hand slips into your panties, making you hum a moan. “you like that?” he asks, rubbing circles on your clit before breaking the kiss. “mhm” you hum, but his other hand reaches behind your head and grabs a fistful of your hair, pulling your head back. “use your words, princess” he tells you, his dark eyes staring into yours. “…yes.” you hesitate to say, but you go along with it for your own safety and his sanity.

“hmm.. good” he smirks, letting go of your hair and kissing you again before his hand slid down your pussy, to your hole. you gasp at his sudden movement, but he chuckles at you. “you’re so wet. i’m always turning you on, huh?” he says, opening his mouth and mocking your gasp.

you chuckle too, wanting him to know you’re on the same page. after seconds of his fingers teasing your hole, he slides two of them into you. you gasp, moaning as his fingers fill you up to his knuckles. “so deep..” you moan, tensing up in your seat at his touch.

but it wasn’t long before he had you stripped off and sitting on his lap with the seat pushed all the way back. “fuck” he moans at the sight of your pretty tits, his hands grabbing your ass cheeks.

“if we do this… will you leave me alone after?” you ask, terrified to say but it needed to be said. “yeah, of course, i promise” he says like it’s nothing, like he didn’t even hear those words come out of your mouth. you were expecting a different reaction, but he had a different plan.

you felt like you had to have sex with him one last time for him to be able to move on from you. or so you thought that’s how it would be. “i love you, but if i need to leave for you to be happy, then i will” he says, almost believably.

but that was a lie.

pulling his boxers off allowed his hard dick to spring out, hitting your leg. you both giggle before starting to make out again, where his hands slid from your ass cheeks to your hips, his fingers twirling the sides of your panties before pulling them down and off your feet.

“ride me, princess” he says, both of your warm areas touching. you nod, lifting yourself up and positioning yourself above his cock before his hands roughly gripped your waist, pulling you to sit down on it.

you let out a loud moan of pain and pleasure. “fuuuck” he drags, closing his eyes as he pulled you up and down, choosing the speed and roughness for you. your moans cried out, you didn’t know if it hurt or felt good more.

“i missed you so much. i missed this pussy” he tells you, his hands roaming your naked back as his dick harshly thrusts up into you. “i missed you” you say, knowing you didn’t mean a single word. your horniness and desire to please him took over.

“you’re mine, baby” he tells you, his fingernails digging into your hips, making you cry out. he was so good at pleasing your pussy that you ruled out the pain he caused. “…always” you say, starting to question whether or not he was being honest about leaving you alone.

his pace is rough, he’s fucking you so harshly that you don’t think he’s ever gone this hard on you before. it hurts, but it hurts so good. “ow.. fuck.. rafe” you moan loudly like a porn star. “that’s it, baby” he says, feeling closer and closer to coming each time he thrust up into you.

your legs start to burn and ache, and he can tell by how much your legs are shaking. so he pulls you off of him, and guides you into the back seats where he climbs over after you.

he lays you down on your back, spreading your bodies over the three seats. he positions his cock near your pussy again, before sliding in with no warning. you moan, wrapping your arms around his back and gripping his shoulders. “fuckkk” he moans in your ear, making you much wetter. no matter how much you hate rafe cameron, his moans were your weakness.

the rougher and meaner he got, the more aroused he was. it wasn’t long before he started choking you, and slapping you around. it’s what he does during sex. he loves the power, he loves the dominance he has over you. you allowed it, though, because this was the last time. right?..

minutes later, you you felt him speeding up and becoming more tense, which meant he was gonna finish any second now. you, however, weren’t even close to finishing. it did feel good, but it didn’t change your feelings for him. you can’t come over somebody you hate so much.

“fuck baby.. ‘m gonna cum…” he says, twitching his dick as he empties his load into you. you moan at the feeling of his warm cum filling you up and leaking out after. he slowly pulls out, smirking knowing he’s hiding a huge secret from you.

he snuck into your house a few days ago while you were out with the pogues, and swapped your birth control pills for fake ones. but you had no idea…

it wasn’t until two weeks later when you were throwing up in your toilet, and crying your eyes out when you realized you’d missed your period. “fuck” you say, grabbing an emergency pregnancy test from the cabinet above the sink. you had them hidden in there just in case.

you take the pregnancy test, pacing around your bathroom for five minutes straight, waiting for the results. boom. the alarm you’d set on your phone goes off, five minutes is up. you switch the alarm off and gulp, slowly reaching for the pregnancy test. you pick it up, and gasp when you read the answer.

POSITIVE.

what the fuck are you supposed to do now?…

NOT PROOFREAD. probably some mistakes, but my FIRST smut writing?!?!😩😩 plssssss lmk what y’all think! <333

@cameronluvr

[solifloris]

≡;-꒰ 𝑿𝑨𝑽𝑰𝑬𝑹 ꒱₊˚ ପ⊹ I 𝑹𝒆𝒅 𝑳𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔

╰┈➤ ❝ xavier x afab!reader | smut nsfw 18+ mdni

tags : pwp (without plot), dom!xavier (and a very sub!reader), slight power dynamics, nothing too extreme but xavier is a little mean here, slight themes of possession and jealousy (ft. jeremiah mention like... once), sensory play (blindfold), light bondage, biting, marking, teasing, orgasm denial, begging, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, heavy petting, nipple play, clit play, fingering, rough sex, vaginal sex (unprotected), creampie, dirty talk, praise, use of pet name "angel". lmk if i missed any tags! ((unedited!))

wc : 4.1k (...yeah... of pure filth actually...)

an : as usual, very self-indulgent on the part of yours truly !! inspired by "red lights" (and yes, as always, listening to the song adds to the vibes) and our very beloved "no restraint" trailer, but it doesn't actually reference the pv so this is entirely separate <3

taglist : @spotted-salamander @darlingdummycassandra @milkandstarlight @thoupenguinman @valvinny @rafayelsheart @star-anons-blog @hunters-association (SIGN UP HERE)

"Focus on me, angel."

Quiet words against your skin.

Your chest heaved, breathing heavy, wrists bound tightly together against the bedpost—his fingers grazed over your cheek in that moment, and the touch was familiar. It was soothing, almost. Like a soft caress that the two of you would often share together, it had your head tilting towards him, leaning into his touch as much as you could help it.

He had you right where he wanted you.

You had no choice but to focus on him.

Just... not in the way that you would have expected to.

Your wrists tugged slightly at the ribbons that restricted you, a small whimper falling from your lips.

You couldn't see.

Every touch against your skin had you jolting, every trail of his fingers on your jawline, down your neck, over your shoulders... All of it felt so heightened. Your vision was shrouded in darkness. The silk that covered your eyes was bound tightly, not a semblance of light could have creeped in from the room that had already been dim from the start. He had you lost in a swirl of the unknown.

And it had been this way for hours on end.

His fingers pulled out of your cunt with a wet schlick, your body writhing as you let out yet another cry.

But he wasn't listening to you.

Instead, he sighed.

"I said," he murmured—and you flinched at the sudden feeling of his breath against the shell of your ear—"focus on me."

His voice dropped an octave lower as he completed his statement, and it was unfair.

"I-I am!" you protested. "It's too much, Xavier, I-I can't... I can't keep holding it, please I just—!"

"Shhh."

The mattress shifted beneath you. His warm hands slid across your bare skin, his body warm next to yours—slow, intentional, precise movements, thumbs digging into your flesh in what could have been considered a sort of massage. It was enough to ease you out of the orgasm you'd almost had, the coil in your stomach loosening as you felt every beat and every flutter of your pussy so wantonly.

And then you felt his head dip down.

In an instant, his lips attached to your neck—

"I know, angel, I know. I have you. Just focus on how it feels."

But you were feeling too much.

Too much, all at once, for all this time, and yet—

It was so hard to resist him.

He knew that.

And it was nearly by instinct how your head tilted, allowing him more access, allowing yourself to feel the way his lips would curl into a little, self-satisfied smile. You didn't need to see him to know it was there; you didn't need to see him to know how it looked like. You knew him well enough.

And you were melting at it.

Gradually he began to explore the rest of your body with featherlight touches, as if to soothe the way he'd been edging you endlessly over the past several minutes. He ghosted over your skin with the tips of his fingers, enough to have goosebumps prickling in their wake; his hands moved up to cup your breasts, inching closer to where he knew you needed him most, but still—only barely touching.

And then you barely had a chance to react, before his teeth sunk into the nape of your neck. The sudden action, a sensation intensified by having your sight so cruelly taken away from you, had you arching your back with a moan.

In the next second his thumbs rubbed over your nipples as he suckled at your skin to leave an array of bruises, a deep chuckle reverberating against you. Slow, rhythmic circles, lithe fingers taking your nub and finding pride in the way they would stiffen and peak under his touch...

You knew that he was watching you.

You knew that he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

And you knew why he was being like this. Relentless teasing, always enough to bring you to the precipice but never allowing you to topple over it... Now, he was taking it slow again, but you were sensitive enough to be reacting to everything.

"Xavier...." you whimpered. Slowly, his hand trailed down over your stomach to rest over your thigh.

"Yes?" he murmured.

A shiver went down your spine at the raspiness in his voice.

"You want me here again?"

He spread your legs without waiting for you to answer, a finger trailing upwards and nearly excruciatingly close—only to trace gentle, feathery shapes into your inner thigh.

You groaned.

"Xavier.... Please! Please just touch me—"

"But I am touching you."

You knew that he was smiling.

"Not like that! Do it... Don't do it so gently! Don't tease me! Stop playing with me!"

He hummed, and his hand inched even closer. You could feel the heat radiating off of the mere proximity, your walls clenching around virtually nothing, your breath hitching with anticipation.

But it never came.

"...I don't know."

You were nearly appalled at how genuinely nonchalant he sounded.

"You know what you've been doing to me all day. Teasing me like that... then giving all that attention to Jeremiah when you should have been looking at me."

"I-I didn't mean to! You know he's only just a friend, you know that I—nngh—!"

He leaned in to pull at your earlobe, taking it between his teeth before letting out a soft laugh at the way your body seemed to squirm in response.

"But... That doesn't change anything. Next time don't talk to him like that when you're wearing such a short skirt." A soft blow against your ear, and he made it clear that he was enjoying the goosebumps that littered over your skin as a result. "Besides... I thought you were too sensitive, since you've been reacting to everything so much. Now, you want... more? You're so greedy..."

You could nearly cry.

You felt his other hand squeeze at your breast to make a point, and you felt him shift ever so slightly—

"You're all sloppy, angel. You've made such a mess. I can see it, how wet you are..."

A pause.

"...Mm. You want me to touch you there, right? Feel my fingers inside you again? You must be really warm, still..."

Again your wrists tugged at your restraints, your eyes squeezed tightly shut against the blindfold. Your heart beat so loudly in your chest that you couldn't dream to listen over it for his movements—his words felt so simultaneously innocent as they were dirty, and the calm in his voice did nothing to soften its effects.

You couldn't take it anymore.

"Xavier, please!" you begged. And whether intentional or not, you found yourself lifting your hips, pushing against him. It was enough for you to feel the slightest graze of his fingers against your cunt, nearly driving you insane with the way he curled his hand into a fist and have you coat his knuckles in your juices.

Then he let out a hum, and you knew what that meant.

He was watching you.

And he was fascinated.

"Do you like that?" he questioned aloud, and it almost pained you how full of wonder his voice seemed to be. "You really are so sensitive."

Your next moans were swallowed into a kiss as his hand remained placed between your legs, stationary at the perfect distance for you to grind against him. The other continued to knead at your breasts, occasionally pausing to roam over your skin, and he murmured—

"Pretty. You're so pretty when you're needy like this."

You couldn't see him, but you could have sworn that the smirk that was likely on his face was anything but innocent.

Yet, his hands drew away from you, and he laughed.

"Xavier!" you cried out. Your hips lifted, as if to chase that same sensation, your clit throbbing with a need that could have had you thrashing around had you not been tied into place.

"Shhhhh, shhh. Relax... Just relax."

A kiss over your blindfold, this time, had you placated enough to swallow your pleas into what felt to be a choked stob. His lips traced over your eyelids, to the tip of your nose, to your lips once more. And then his kisses began to trail further south. Down your neck, through the valley of your breasts, over the skin of your stomach and past your navel—

Only to stop.

And then he began, again, to kiss upwards.

By the time he'd reached your lips once more, your breath was shaky and erratic, the corners of his mouth turned up in another smile you knew to be one of satisfaction.

Now, the scent of his shampoo, the scent of his skin was heedy in the air, mixing in with your own arousal. The room smelled of lust and desire, and these were the only other grounding sensory details you could latch onto as your head continued to spin. Because he truly, truly had you under his complete control. He could have you bending and writhing under his touch without a second thought, the reins of your pleasure embedded into his every being.

"Xavier.... Xavier, please," you cried. You'd lost count of the number of times his name had fallen from your lips out of sheer desperation. "Please, I'm so empty! I need... I need you, I need something—"

A sharp gasp fell from your lips, effectively cutting you off.

"Something, like... This?"

A single breathless whisper against your ear, before you felt him prod at your entrance and slid slowly, slowly back inside you.

"So, so warm."

His voice was a soothing lull, almost an irony to the way that he was treating you.

All the while, wet noises followed every movement of his fingers as he fucked you slowly—gathering your creamy slick when he pulled out, only to plunge right in with a little hum of wonder that had you keening. Easily, he had your hips bucking into his palm. Your back arched; it was an instinctive reaction to follow the movements of his hand as if you were merely a puppet of his desires—every pump of his finger had you moaning unabashedly, only a slave to the lust that he'd awakened in you.

And with the silk around your eyes still fastened in its place, the darkness surrounding your vision made even the tiniest things feel all the more pleasurable.

You could feel how long and slender his fingers were, reaching so deep inside of you, curling against your sweet spot. You could feel the stretch of your pussy with the scissor of his fingers, a stretch so delicious that the burn of it went straight to your head to have your eyes rolling back.

And it felt so good.

...But as always, he would be so. Excruciatingly. Deliberate.

His ministrations brought you a pleasure so indescribable, yet it wasn't quite enough.

You knew what he was doing. He would bring you back into a patten you'd become familiar with: you would be speared on his fingers relentlessly, at a pace so frustratingly lacking, creaming over his fingers without quite bringing you over the edge.

"Xavier!"

Yet another choked sob to fall from your lips. More tears pricked at your eyes, too, though he would have likely been unaware given the fabric concealing that was concealing them. "Please... Please, faster! Please... I need to cum!"

It was like a trigger.

Immediately at your words, his thumb brushed lightly over your clit before he pulled away, and he shook his head. "I'm sorry, angel... I don't want to let you."

The sudden momentary stimulation against your clit had your vision going hazy. You thrashed around desperately as another cry tore fron your lungs, your legs squeezing together tightly— the throbbing in your cunt was becoming absolutely unbearable.

You were so close.

You were so close.

It was slipping away.

"No!" you cried. "Nngh, no, no, please! Please, Xavier! I've been so good for you! Please, please, you have to—I have to—"

This time his other hand moved to tangle into your hair, and he placed another chaste kiss over your lips.

"But... Have you been good? When you've teased me all day? You know... Just now, you've also been begging nonstop, even if I keep telling you not to. I don't know if I should be calling you good."

A pause, and a whimper on your end.

"...But you're pretty. I can give you that."

Another kiss, and another, and another, as your orgasm slowly faded away and you were rendered a panting mess beneath him.

But he wasn't done.

Tears were streaming down your cheeks when he opened you up again, fingers delicately tracing your folds, the stimulation enough to make you jump. This time, you didn't have to say anything before his fingers were back inside you, fucking your cunt, squelching noises resounding in the room with how he would plug your hole full with every thrust.

It was humiliating, almost.

All you could do was focus—on the sensation, on the sound, on the way he would whisper soft, loving words into your ears as if he weren't completely ruining you for him in this moment.

"So wet n'messy..."

Your walls fluttered around him, clenching on his fingers—

He clicked his tongue.

"Ah-ah, angel... Again? So soon?"

You heard him sigh as his fingers slipped away from you once more, and your entire body jerked with desperation.

"Xavier!!!" Your chest felt suffocating, sobs of his name falling from your lips. "Xavier! Xavier, why! Why do you keep—Why won't you let me finish!! Xavier, please!!!"

Your wrists felt numb with pain as you struggled against your restraints, and you knew that your face was wet with tears. The blindfold was drenched; you could only keep your eyes squeezed shut, sniffling helplessly.

It was gone again.

You ached; your breathing wild and heavy. You didn't know what to do. He had you utterly ruined.

"You know why, angel. Should I do it again until you understand?" he whispered. His lips fluttered against yours, teasing a kiss.

He wouldn't even give that to you anymore.

"No!" you sobbed. "No more... Xavier, no more! Please... Please, please just make me cum! I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I—I won't do it again—"

His fingers glided over your lips this time, and it was almost pathetic how easily your mouth opened in response. The tangy taste of your slick was unmistakable. He slid his fingers into your mouth for you to taste more.

This way, you couldn't speak properly.

There would be no other way to convey your desire, if not to thrash around and have him watch.

Another hum. "I think... Not."

And he would keep doing it.

Your cunt was red and swollen to the point of overstimulation. Your vision blurred; your head felt fuzzy. You were tired.

Every touch, even the slightest brush against your skin—against your clit—had you gasping. You were too hyperaware of everything he was doing. Worse, again, was the fact that you couldn't know of what else he would do to you—couldn't anticipate it.

Another tap against your nub, a pressure enough to flick it slightly, before snaking your hand up your waist to soothe you with another gentle caress.

You were sobbing.

"Mean!" you weeped, "You're so mean, Xavier! So cruel! I can't—I can't anymore! You have to make me cum... You have to!"

It hurt.

It stung.

And you felt him sigh, so used to your pleas at this moment that you wondered if he had gotten so desensitized to them by now.

"So I'm harsh, and cruel?" There was a teasing lilt to the calm of his voice this time, and you choked out a gasp as you felt the tip of his cock press tip against you.

He shifted, and the blindfold was slipped off of your face. Wet with your tears, he discarded the cloth carelessly around his room, and finally, finally, you were able to see him.

The room was dim, but the blue in his eyes remained striking—always an ocean you could drown in, willingly.

Only tonight, that wasn't what he wanted from you.

His hand found its way to your chin, and he tilted it downwards. Just a little, you felt—saw—the tip of his cock press into you.

"Do you want this?" he murmured. He kept your gaze in place, pressing in a little deeper still. But you were aware at how his gaze never strayed away from you. Observing. Attentive. "You feel empty, right, angel? You want me inside you? Maybe I've been too mean to you... I'm sorry... Next time, you shouldn't tease me too much..."

You let out a slow breath.

"Please."

Your voice was shaky.

And he leaned in, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze again before his lips met your cheek. In a flutter of movements he kissed your tears away, hand moving to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Watch," he said.

His voice was soft, but it was something like a command.

"Watch. And no take-backs."

You didn't have time to react, then.

Once more your gaze was directed towards your pussy, throbbing with a need for attention—and your eyes went wide.

He thrust inside you without a second of warning. The entrance was sudden—unexpected. Filling. Any words you'd been thinking to speak fell immediately to a shocked silence, your mouth falling open in a noiseless moan. And all at once, you were made entirely aware of the stretch of your walls, the length of his cock a slow, frustrating slide until the numbnessmelted away enough for you to feel full.

His weight shifted.

You felt caged between his arms, his breath hitting directly above you, legs slotted between yours. There was space for you to wrap your legs around his waist, and you did—

And he started off slow.

Low grunts as his hips rolled against yours, a thrust so fluid and deep that your figure pressed deeper into the mattress. You groaned in response when he repeated the motions; pulling out only to thrust all the way back in, the slap of his skin against yours a testament.

"Not empty..." he rasped. "Not empty 'nymore. I'm filling you up... So warm and pretty for me, all for me..."

His words made your head spin, but despite the desperation laced into his tone, he refused to pick up the pace. You whined, your hips raising to meet his thrusts as if trying to coax a faster pace, but he didn't listen. Instead, he clicked his tongue—with a mewl on your end, he pinned your hips to the bed, preventing you from moving.

"Xavier!" you protested immediately, feeble attempts to wrestle free from him.

"No."

A harsher tone, as he grinded against you to elicit another choked sob.

"But whyyy! I thought you—you said you—"

You threw your head back at a particularly deep thrust, and again his hand was back on your chin.

"I'll set the pace. Don't move, angel. Or I'll pull out."

Xavier usually wasn't like this.

You couldn't quite tell if he was enjoying your torture, or if he was simply this upset over everything that had happened, but the ache you had all over your body right down to the throbbing of your cunt was too, too much for you to bear.

The way his hair fell over his face, his eyes narrowed, eyebrow arched almost menacingly—it brought tears to your eyes once more, and all you wanted to hear from him was another word of reassurance.

For a moment, his eyes softened.

"Don't cry... Don't cry anymore..." He leaned in to nuzzle against your nose, before pressing his lips to yours in a light, gentle kiss. "What do you want, angel? You want me to go harder?"

Feebly, you nodded. At a sharp thrust of his hips, you drew in a sharp breath.

"Like that?"

Another nod.

And this time, he smiled—and it was genuine.

"Okay. Then stay still and let me. You can do that for me, right, angel?"

His hips began to move again, and you were relieved to feel the slight reprieve he was granting you by slowly picking up the pace. Yet again your gaze found the outline of your cunt, zeroing in almost immediately on the way his cock sunk into you and disappeared eagerly into your dripping folds.

He was right.

You were an absolute mess, if the sloppy sounds of sex weren't enough to prove it. The sheets were stained so clearly with your arousal, and the truth was that you didn't quite need him to be rougher with you. Just the mere sensation of being filled up, the friction of his shaft against your gummy walls, was enough to have you arching your back to meet his thrusts.

"Close!" you cried out, desperately rutting against him. "M'close, Xavi, please, please— Let me...!" You saw the smirk on his face, the way his eyes narrowed. Part of you had to wonder if he would pull away again—

But he didn't.

Instead, his hips moved faster, drilling into you in a pace so relentless that your eyes grew wide with shock.

In fact, he didn't stop at all.

He'd haphazardly reached out to yank you free from your bounds, but when you finally reached your peak, it was a crash that had you reeling. A scream of his name and curling of your toes were barely enough to describe it—your vision had gone white, your body fixed into a tremble that almost seemed not to stop. It didn't matter that you had just spilled onto his length, clenching around him with every loud cry that tore from your chest. You were raw, and sore, and used—but that was no longer any of his concern.

He kept his thrusts up.

He would drive you into the mattress, every movement made to slam his hips into yours harder, faster, skin slapping against skin so loudly that the sound of it near-challenged the unintelligible moans that spilled from your lips.

It was torture.

Yet it was so good.

"Ye- es!" you cried out. "Yes, ye—aaanh— y-yes—! Like that! Like tha—hnn—! Xavi— Xavier—!"

You couldn't help but have your eyes roll back into your head, allowing him to grip your waist and steady himself, giving himself the leverage to fuck into you deeper, to stretch you out so deliciously good. He kept your thighs spread apart, nails digging into your skin—and you were so sensitive. Over, and over... he would ram his cock into you and have you filled to the brim with him, never once giving you a second of rest.

And it was everything to watch him lose control just as easily because of that.

"Yeah... Yeah? Like this, angel? Mmh... Taking me so... s-so—hnng— so well, angel, l-look at you..."

Gasps and groans fell uncontrolled from his lips, a mixture between deep rumbles and a more high-pitched whine when you clenched around him just right.

"More... more," he shuddered. "Can't... can't stop, angel, you're so good, I need—need you—No one, haah, no one gets to fuck you like this, all pretty for me to use—"

Clumps of hair stuck to his forehead, skin sheen with sweat. His eyes held a haze of desire you could only ever see from him when he got like this, and it was all barely enough to keep your sanity from tipping over.

You were withering.

His hand moved down to rub against your clit, and the intensity of all of it had your vision going completely blank.

You could barely register anything anymore.

He would pull orgasm after orgasm out from you and you would lose count of it, only vaguely registering the hot stream of white that dripped out of you with how full you were.

"Xavier..."

Your voice was weak and raspy, your hands wrapping around him to pull him into you, against you—anything.

And he groaned against your neck.

"Angel.... one more, please, just— One more. You can give me 'nother. I know you can. Just, nngh—let me fill you up one more time... Gotta mark you all mi— mine— mine—"

He clamored to sink his teeth into your shoulder. Immediately you clawed at his back, a strangled cry of his name leaving your mouth... and he caved.

Yet you knew that this was far from over.

"Mmmhfffuck—! S-so tight, so—ah—!"

The last thing you registered was the desperate shut of his eyes, the near-frozen parting of his lips, and the string of curses formulated into his own moan of raw, unfiltered pleasure.

He was just as long gone as you were.

"Oh, angel... M'not— Not done with you yet at all..."

⁺₊ / an: guys i literally cannot stop thinking about him

© rose-tinted-kalopsia. all rights reserved. do not: steal, copy, repost, reupload, modify, or claim any of my works as your own, regardless of credit given. absolutely do not use my works for AI training and other related purposes.

[saduko]

HARD TO MISS

Lando Norris x Driver!Reader 7.9K words

Summary: You had driven sick many times before, but never sick enough to retire from a race. Now Lando was worried about you and how the media was going to react. But maybe this was just about the best thing that could of happened to him. Or in which, reader gets sick during the Spanish GP race and has to face the looming media presence after retiring early with a newfound anger she's never experienced. She was a mess of emotions, acting so different, or maybe it wasn't just her being strange.

Teammates, established relationship, an unexpected surprise?? Note: this unfortunately is a re-upload because my dumbass literally deleted the post the first time I posted it despite it being up for days. Yes I'm mad, and no this isn't edited because of it.

The heat of the Spanish sun beat down on the track, the asphalt shimmering with a relentless intensity that seemed to seep through the cockpit. You gripped the steering wheel tighter, your knuckles whitening as you fought to keep your focus on the race ahead, hot, fast breaths heaving through your helmet like a symphony. The familiar roar of the engine, usually a comforting sound, felt more like a distant hum as yet another wave of nausea rolled through you.

This wasn’t the first time you’d raced under less-than-ideal conditions, but today felt different. The adrenaline that usually sharpened your senses now seemed to amplify the queasiness in your stomach, every bump and turn on the track making it harder to push the discomfort aside. You swallowed hard, trying to suppress the rising bile as you powered through another corner, the car responding to your every command despite the growing turmoil within.

The twisting and turning of the track seemed endless, each lap blurring into the next as your vision narrowed, tunnel-like, around the path ahead. You knew you needed to speak up, to let your team know something was wrong, but the words felt heavy on your tongue, weighted down by the fear of admitting weakness. Finally, you couldn’t hold it in any longer.

"I'm not feeling very well."

The twisting and turning of the track was making it hard for you to settle your stomach enough to find your voice, but when you had, there was a long silence on the other end. Ears alert with anticipation as nothing came through, before the thick accent of your engineer, Marlow finally sounded in with a panicked voice, "Are you feeling faint?"

"Not really.” You huffed. “I feel quite nauseous though. My stomach is not cooperating."

There was a short silence through your head piece before a shuffle was heard on the other side, followed by a concerned, "Should we retire the car?"

The suggestion shakes you and a quick puff of air leaves your mouth in order to hopefully settle the turning in your stomach, though you think it might have translated more as annoyance to your team despite the intention. You couldn't help but hope it hadn't come off too harshly, however the forceful tone of your next words certainly didn’t do much to calm the idea. "No! I'm not retiring the car... No, I'm okay."

"Please love, If you can't finish there's no shame in retiring. You're not letting anyone down, we understand-!" He knew how stubborn you were and he really didn't want the question to feel like the hit to the ego he knew you would take it as, but it was hard when everyone knew this race was what was separating you from top 3 and the rest in the championship. They knew it wouldn't be that easy, quickly corroborated by the frustrated grunt you let sound through the line.

Your foot braces against the accelerator, bearing down full force as you take the straight right after corner 4 at full speed, you weren't retiring. Subjective to your own harsh perception of yourself, retiring - no matter the circumstance - was one of the most culpable failures you could commit. It was never a rewarding feeling, and whether or not to retire from a race like this was an indisputable no. Six years into the sport and you had never retired from a race on your own accord. Today would not be the first.

"I'm okay for now."

There was no arguing with a driver going over 300 kilometers an hour, and so the team let your decision chart as they sat back and kept on with their roles, no different than before. Except for one thing, noting the conversation, they all made undisclosed motions to keep an extra close eye on the driver cam.

And so the race continued as 10 laps went by, 10 very shaky laps with countless immoderate wobbles, a few oversteers around a couple corners and a very close call with Carlos who made quick work of letting the communal radio know how exactly he felt about that, words that were quickly relayed to you. Though his accent was warm, his words were anything but kind and usually you would have taken it on the chin, laughed at his profanities and apologized with a quick witty comment to follow, but your team watched as you only let out a harrowing breath and shook your head. You obviously were not on your A-game and your entire team could see that.

So with all this, it came as no surprise when the silence in their headphones was abruptly interrupted with the blaring sound of your wheels against the track, followed by your voice, quick yet strained, echoing through the radio.

"I think I'm gonna be sick, guys."

With not a moment to spare, Marlows eyebrows furrowed down at your words, worry clear in his voice as he pressed down on the radio button. And though his words were mostly phrased as a question emphasizing the choice as your own, it was still hard to miss the pleading tone in his voice as he spoke loudly into the headpiece, "Are we retiring? It’s your call, love."

Your end of the radio was silent as the words rang through your headset, though not for lack of connection as the sound of your wheels barrelling against the tar never ceased. They knew you were still there, just not vocalizing your thoughts. They had no doubt this was a tough decision. A huge part of this sport was pride; pride in your team, pride in your car, pride in your abilities. And being the only woman on the grid meant your pride was strong and the backlash was inevitably more harsh when things went wrong. 

It was already hard enough for a driver to admit they needed to back out of a race, let alone for a driver who had something to prove and everything to lose. It was a decision they knew you were avoiding complying with. You had been complaining about feeling ill for days leading up to the race and yet insisted on racing regardless. They knew this was important to you, and to back out now, after making it so far already? Your heart was strong, and your head stronger. But for this one time, it seems your stomach was the strongest, and your nausea was taking the reins of this particular race. And so you bit your lip, hoping to keep the bile from rising for just a little while longer. “I need to stop. I’m retiring the car. I can't help it.”

As disappointing as ending a race early was, your team couldn’t deny the shred of relief that washed over them as you, for once, chose your health first. As fun as racing was, and as rewarding as a race in points felt, none of it was ever worth the increased risk to your safety. They would much rather you all woozy up in the medic bay with a DNF, than halfway to unconsciousness with a p8 finish. This certainly wasn’t your best race anyways, probably one the lowest you’d been in points this season. 

As you began your way around your last lap towards the pit lane, your mind raced with all the dreadful thoughts a DNF brought, the pit in your stomach rearing into a sizeable hole which would of left you feeling melancholy if the twisting and turning hadn’t trumped the discontent. 

As each second passed, you could feel whatever it was you had eaten for lunch earlier with Lando rising higher and higher. High enough in fact, that you found it necessary to press the radio button once more with a request. “Have a bag ready for me when I pull up, please.”

To which a compliant, “Copy.” sounded suit.

It wasn’t too much longer until your orange car could be seen sweeping down the pit lane, no hesitation in your steering as you made a harsh turn into your spot by the garage door. The pit team were prepared to make haste in their actions, ready to prop your car onto the jack in order to wheel it into the garage only to be stopped when two quick hands extended up as you braced yourself up against the halo and pulled yourself out of the seat.

At this point, you were hyper aware of the all the people surrounding you, as well as the multitude of cameras pointing directly at you, recording your every move for all the judgeful eyes to see, and yet you found not a single cell in yourself which cared as you leaned over the car and called out for your assistant, who quickly met you with a large black bin in tow. 

You quickly grabbed for it, pulling your front over the side of the car as far as you could in order to hide yourself from the view of the cameras. And out it came, a slurry of lunch which you had been so looking forward to at the time, and quickly regretting now as it all escaped your stomach.

What in the world had you feeling so ill in the first place? It felt like it had been lightyears since you had felt sick enough to actually puke, and god did you not miss this feeling. Had you eaten something bad earlier in the day? Maybe. But everything you ate Lando had eaten too, so wouldn’t he be sick as well? Well, it’s not really like you could ask him, you thought as you looked up just in time to see him overtake George on the big screen. He looks a little busy. And you should be busy too.

The thought seared through your mind as you spat into the bin, you should be racing too, but at least you feel a little better now that it’s come out; though not completely. Your stomach still churned a little and now your throat burned but you guessed it was better than crashing. You had already nearly done that just by being on the track a little too long and now you were definitely going to receive an earful from Sainz when he finally crossed the checkered flag and found you inevitably moping. 

However, you quickly realized that Carlos was actually the least of your worries and the only person you really had to fear was Lando, for when he heard about the outcome of your race, you were sure to face the lecture of your life. He had been warning you for days leading up to it not to participate. You were obviously unwell and he was aware of the dangers an unwell driver faced under the taxing conditions of a race but you were stubborn, insisting you would be fine. Look at you now. Head in a bin with cameras all around and a bruised ego. 

There was only a little time now until the race ended to recover before everyone came pummeling at you with questions. 

The wheel was starting to feel heavy in his hands and the rubbing of the HANS device against his neck was really starting to hurt. They were approaching the end stretch of the race and as the last 15 laps commenced, Lando couldn’t help but feel a little relieved knowing this would be over soon. This was undoubtedly a tough race. 

From lights out till now, he’d managed to pull from P5 to P4 and had every intention of passing Lewis for a podium position, soon enough he’d be in DRS range but for the time being, he was focused on catching up. The world around him had become mute, he hadn’t even looked up at the grand screen once, all he knew was the car.

So he had almost jumped in his seat when the chime sounded. Just as he began slowing around the final corner leading up to the line for his next lap, the sound of an incoming radio signal had his ears perking in anticipation. Were they planning on pitting him again? Sure he was definitely pushing a little too hard against his tires- not really doing his best at conserving them but he was so close to a podium position and he just needed a little bit more force-

“Lando mate,” Will’s voice sounded through his ears, his tone a little hesitant which left Lando biting his lip with anticipation. Please don't box. “I’ve just been informed by Marlow that y/n has retired.”

Lando's heart nearly fell into his stomach as the words registered in his brain. You retired?! Now thinking about it, you did start only a single position behind him and he hadn’t really seen all that much of you during the race. What happened? “Did she crash?!”

“No Lando, she's okay, it was voluntary. She wasn’t feeling well, I don’t think.” 

“You don’t think?”

“She’s okay Lando, just under the weather.”

Not feeling well? Under the weather? You’d raced a multitude of times before whilst under the weather. Each time he’d advise you not to race, and each time you’d ignore him, swearing up and down you’d be fine- and to Lando’s consolation each time you were fine. You’d come out the other side with a smile, no qualms or grievances and you would save your complaints for him afterwards, when no one else was around to judge. As you had done before, he expected the same this time. You’d never let a little ailment set you back, especially not let it affect you enough to retire. Not unless it really was bad.

Lando’s thoughts were soon interrupted by Will’s voice once more, his tone dismissive, implying the conversation had reached its end and no more discussion would be had about it. “We will contact you again if anything happens.”

And despite Lando’s dismay, he complies. There were still a good 15 laps left of the race ahead and he had a lot of catching up to do, a lot of competitive driving to be had. His focus couldn’t be elsewhere, but what was he supposed to do knowing his sick fiancé has just pulled herself out of a race? What was he supposed to do when he knew you well enough to understand how prideful you could be, and how poor you had to feel to choose to retire?  

He really tries to not let it bother him. During the next lap, he tries to not let it bother him as he forces himself to look anywhere else but the jumbo screen in hopes of a possible update on your condition. He tries to not let it bother him in the lap after that as the team radios in to discuss possible strategies regarding the oncoming overtake he will perform, and he tries to not let it bother him during the lap after that one when he finally passes Lewis. Now 3 laps have passed but he just can't get the questions about you off his mind. It is bothering him. He shouldn’t be distracted, especially while he’s in a podium position but he can’t help it. 

So as he crosses onto the next straight, he finds himself radioing in with the question that had been eating away at him since the news broke. “Uh.. Any updates on y/n? Is she alright?”

There's a considerable moment of silence on Mclaren’s end of the line, the team were honestly tied on what to tell the man and what not to. You weren’t exactly in optimal condition, and word around was slightly worrisome regarding your state. You were okay, but definitely not well, they knew because they had caught the treacherous sounds of your gags a few more times since the first echoing through the mclaren garage. 

As your fiance, he deserved to know these details, but as a driver, they knew it wasn’t smart to worry him. What were they to say as to not stress him out in an already extremely stressful situation? They could tell him a few of your team members were discussing taking you to the hospital. Or they could keep him from driving the car through the wall in order to meet you there. The decision was clear, they needed him to focus on driving. “She’s okay, she's currently being looked at by the medical team.”

“She has the medical team on her?!” Will’s eyes shut hard as Lando’s reply came through. Definitely not the right choice of words.

“Just a precaution Lando, she isn’t well at the moment.”

Lando’s bottom lip catches between his teeth as he ponders his engineer's words. He finds himself over analyzing every syllable, every infliction with intentions of unpacking whatever truth was seeping between the lines, and he notices that he’s biting his cheek as he rounds the 8th corner with a little less precision than usual. “Is she bad?”

Landos team take quick note of this change in pace, latching onto the clear oversteer he performs around the corner. They quickly find themselves trying to pull away from the topic in order to keep him both figuratively and literally on track and so Will concludes the conversation with a stern tone. “Please Lando, you can see her when you're done racing. We need you to focus on the race.”

He almost wanted to curse the man out purely due to frustration despite knowing deep down that he was right. But what else was he supposed to do when he knows his fiancé is sitting in the medic bay and all he can do to support her is… well, nothing. He just has to finish this race.

Despite your protests, your team was adamant on a visit to the med bay in order to possibly come up with a reason for your sudden onset of race ending symptoms, and after a quick trip down the hall that took a little longer than usual due to your need to stop once more, you were simply told there wasn’t much they could do long term to crack the bilous case. Shocker. They did however hand you something to ease the nausea which you were beyond thankful for.

You had spent so long counting down the seconds until the anti-nausea medication kicked in that you hadn't even noticed that the race had ended, nor did you notice the approaching sound of hasteful footsteps until the door to your driver's room came barrelling open with a thud.

“I told you not to race.” Lando’s voice was so stern it had you stiff. There was a slight indication of anger lingering behind his words but ultimately his face was a dead giveaway to the worried intention etched behind his tone. 

“I thought I’d be okay.”

“You threw up?” His eyebrows came down as he said it, and you noticed it was less of a question and more as if he was trying to confirm a suspicion. Someone from your team must have snitched on you already. No damn loyalties.

“Only a little.” Your words were sheepish.

“You stink.” He deadpanned and you found yourself scoffing, slightly exasperated at the bluntness of his words. The statement had you petty with offense. 

“You don’t smell very good either-”

“-I don’t smell like vomit.”

Finally you let out a sigh, already tired of the back and forth over something so menial, and unworthy of an argument. You were sick. Shit happens. “Lando, I wasn’t feeling well and I’d been feeling it all week with no real problem so I didn’t think there would be a reason to sit this race out. I didn’t think I would actually need to pull over. It’s done now.”

There was a loud silence between the two of you as he onced over your body with intentful eyes. You seemed okay enough and he guessed this really wasn’t the time or place to start an argument, especially over something as stupid as him being worried about you, you were on the same damn side. So instead he just sighed, bit his lip and nodded at you. “Alright.”

“Guys.” Charlotte suddenly peaked her head through the cracked door to glance at you both. “Come on, we need you at Media now.”

This wasn’t going to be easy, that you knew. The media had given you a hard time for things way less than this so you could only imagine what they had in store for you after throwing up on live TV for half the world to see moments after a voluntary DNF. It just about felt like you were being led to your execution with the way you knew they were about to tear into you. But there was no avoiding this, and the grimaced look etched into your features left Lando very aware of this fact.

“I know you don’t wanna do this but you have to go out there, you’ve got no choice. Not unless you’re willing to cop a fat fine.”

You stuck an eyebrow up at Landos voice, the sides of your lips extending out as you conceptualized his words but your expression quickly had him shaking his head alongside a hearty laugh. “No, no. Don’t even look like you’re considering it.”

Your laugh to match his own soon sounded throughout the room, and his hand swiftly found its place at the nape of your neck, to which he gave a quick squeeze and began leading you out the door into the McLaren garage hallway. “We have a wedding to plan and that means a lot of money to spend. You will not be wasting money trying to get out of media duties.” You couldn’t help but chuckle at how exasperated and sarcastic he sounded.

You both found yourselves trailing along Charlotte's path until the hallway quickly opened up into a large room where a few other drivers had already begun their own separate interviews towards the camera crews which littered every corner. The media pen; may as well be your death site.

Whilst waiting for the race to end; and for the nausea to subside, Charlotte had given you a rundown - more like a lecture; regarding what to expect and how to approach the inevitably condescending questions that would soon be thrown your way. 

This was going to be brutal, you knew that. You had finally made a mistake that the male media could exploit to reinforce their stereotypes about damned women in motorsports. Just another day facing the misogyny of the position, except this time, it was your own carelessness that put you in this position. The only damned thing you’d be was a damned liar if you said the upcoming articles tearing into you weren’t already gnawing at your mind. You could just picture it;

‘’Mclaren Princess’ Just Might Throw Her Way Up and Out of Competitive Driving,’

‘Speed Queen’s Weak Stomach Shows Why She’s Better Suited for Other Races,’

‘Too Glamorous For The F1 Track? or Maybe Not Glamorous Enough; - maybe we should leave the fast cars to the men that made them.’ 

This might just be worse than the ‘Revving Engines, not Emotions,’ article from last year when you teared up in Australia after what was the most frustrating race of your career. This was going to be horrible. 

Your actions were always hyper-criticized, but maybe just once you were being too imaginative for your own good. You needed to calm down because words tended to stick with you. A fact that Charlotte knew all too well, because she was sure to speak words she knew would ring through your ears during those interviews; Take it on the chin, stay composed and certainly don't be snappy. One of those was doable.

The moment you passed the threshold beyond the doorway, officially crossing into the media pen, it's as if every set of eyes and every lens of a camera had turned to watch you move. The room hadn’t by any means gone quiet, but there was definitely a shift in volume as the noise settled from a near unbearable buzz to a tolerable chatter, just enough to notice the change. The influx of attention almost had you doubling over once again, especially when you felt the nausea begin to slowly creep up for the second time that day. But you made notable efforts to keep your head high, hoping that a strong demeanor would at least soften the blow which would soon be dealt.

Lando’s arm had split from your neck not long after entering the room. You guys were always light on your PDA, trying to keep as much of your personal relationship as private as possible; as private as an already public relationship could possibly be. But he still managed to give you a small, reassuring squeeze on the hip before you both set off, being led in opposite directions.

A flurry of reporter eyes seemed to trail your path as your personal PR manager led you to a spot right in between Carlos and Charles, and as you started setting yourself up, you unavoidably overheard their journalists trying to wrap up their interviews, which you could only imagine would be to get a shot at you faster. 

However unluckily for those journalists, it seems your first adversary had already taken the stand just directly across from you with a large, heavy mic and aged, gleaming eyes; eyes that had your own widening in alarm. You were quite familiar with this journalist, very familiar with him actually as he had always been quick to criticize you and your skills on many occasions in the past. He was quite ill-mannered towards you, definitely holding a target out with a gun aimed directly for your career, making it clear he was disapproving of your presence as a woman on this grid. You just knew he had been waiting for you. This was going to be hell.

The journalist quickly began setting himself up, the cameraman behind him pointing the lens directly at your sour face, which you admittedly were not doing a great job at masking. Though, if your interviewer had noticed, he thankfully hadn’t commented on it. However that didn’t stop him from wasting any time beginning to comment on the other mistakes you had made today.

“Always a pleasure to speak with you, Speed Queen.” His gravelly voice spat. “Though I think ‘Pit Princess’ may be a little more fitting after today's race.” A sly smirk quickly spread across his mouth, an act that had your hands bracing against the railing separating the two of you from one another. Charles had quickly taken notice of this from his position just beside you. He admittedly felt he was doing quite well at remaining professional and ignoring the exchange between you and the infamous journalist, but now he was on high alert, ears perked in your direction with the intention of intervening at any given moment.

Despite your peeved sentiment, you did well at keeping your face straight and head high at the insult, feeling it necessary to not crack in front of the person trying to get a reaction out of you. Don’t prove his point. 

“I appreciate the creativity, but I think I would prefer to focus on the race itself rather than nicknames. I’m quite happy with the one I have.” There was a moment in which he tried to intervene, however you were determined to move past the subject. “-And, you know, today’s challenges were significant, but that’s a part of the sport, I guess.” Despite the lingering nausea, you still managed to force a professional smile.

“Is it?” He curled an eyebrow condescendingly, a look which nearly had a scowl slipping past your placid facade. But instead you held strong, that sickeningly sweet smile dripping like honey with disdain. “Part of the sport is the unpredictability of it. So I’d say so.”

The man's eyes gleamed on, a small hum escaping his lips as he nodded absently. “It’s just that no other driver seems to have this issue. Do you think maybe your choice to retire has to do with particular limitations a female might have that the men in this sport don’t?”

And as expected, the indirectness wasn’t so indirect anymore, the true misogynistic intentions of his words slowly crept out with ferocity. 

“No.” Your tone was final, like it hadn’t ever crossed your mind, because it really hadn’t. “No I really don’t. Many men before me have gotten sick during races, I guess I just preferred to voluntarily take myself out of the race than spend the rest of it wiping pesto off my visor.” You snarled. 

A small tap against your arm quickly alerted you to the contention of your PR manager, a disapproving gesture silently advising you to reel it in. But god was it hard when his face was so smug. She should understand that being passive aggressive was much more admissible than being violent, so she may as well let you get your anger out in the socially acceptable way, though you admit it was strange of you to feel so angry. You were usually better at keeping your emotions in check. Hm. But alas, you complied, correcting your face and letting him speak; even if you wanted so badly to interrupt him with your thoughts of how horrible a journalist he was. 

“Well, I think a lot of people agree when I say that this sport tends to reward determination and resilience, not quitting.”

Were you hearing this correctly? Was he really implying that you should have thrown up right into your helmet and just continued through the race like nothing? It was getting really hard to remain socially acceptable. What was this new found anger? “Racing may sometimes reward resilience, however, being sharp minded is more important sometimes. I noticed I was unwell enough for it to affect my performance, so I decided it was smarter to take myself out of the race. Especially after nearly taking Carlos out of the race too.” 

Just as you finished answering the (absurd) question, a suave laugh sounded to your left as Carlos suddenly stepped up beside you, sliding his arm across your shoulder. “I did have some choice words prepared for you earlier Mija, but then I learnt what happened and now I forgive you.” His eyes suddenly turned to the journalist, a glint of exaggerated pity in relation to the topic seeping into his expression, almost as if he was speaking with experience to someone who wouldn’t understand; because he was. “Driving whilst sick is not for the weak.”

The journalist's cold eyes squinted slightly as Carlos’ condescending tone registered in his head, yet he kept his expression neutral and mic high as he nodded. “I’m sure it isn’t.” And nothing was said after that. No rebuttal, no argumentative comment, just a plea of agreement. God, how you wished interviews were that easy for you.

A few voices echoing out from somewhere behind had caught the attention of the trio, and it didn’t take long for you to realize it was Carlos’ team instructing him to move onwards to his next position. So with a reassuring smile towards you and a quick quirk of a brow towards the reporter, he was off to his next interview without another word, taking your fleeting moment of security along with him as he left.

Now it was just you and the reporter once more, and you could tell he wasn’t feeling as cordial with you as he was with Carlos, evident by the slight snarl that had crept onto his face by the interruption in your defense. “Friendly words from Sainz there, as always.” he began, his tone dripping with insincerity, “Do you find it degrading that other drivers always have to come to your defense in order to keep your positive reputation, because there are a lot of people that believe you perhaps, ride off the success of others.” 

Your stomach twisted, and if it was from the nausea growing once again or from the sheer audacity of his words, you couldn’t tell. He was essentially implying that the only reason people liked you was because other likable people vouched for you, and not because of your own hard work and valiant achievements. It seems he wanted defense, you were about to show him just how defensive you could be. 

“With all due respect,” you began, voice calm but carrying an unmistakable edge, “I don’t defend myself because I don’t have to, because the genuinity of my character extends far past my words.” you paused, thinking about your next words carefully. “My peers defend me because I’ve proven my capabilities time and time again, and they know that one incident doesn’t define my career. However, I don’t think you share the same sentiment, hm?” 

The taunting in your voice was quickly caught on by your PR manager who swiftly grabbed your arm in yet another warning, except this time you couldn’t find it in yourself to care as much. The journalist's eyes narrowed at your words, clearly not expecting such a discourteous response and the tugging of your PR manager's grip against your arm was an obvious nonverbal message to wrap it up but you weren't finished, oh no. That new found anger that had been gnawing at you all race was just beginning to trickle out.

“‘Riding off the success of others.’” Your quoted, voice riddled with humor, “And yet you somehow manage to find me every post race interview. Do you write these question’s down in your little notebook while you watch my multi-race winning car fly past you? Or do you wipe the dust from the camera lens instead?”

He quickly opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, your PR manager intervened, her grip on your arm tightening slightly as she stepped forward. “This interview is over,” she announced firmly, her voice leaving no room for argument. “McLaren will be utalizing the next few days to help Y/n recover for next week's race. If you have any further questions, you can direct them to our media office.”

Your eyes widened in shock at the intervention. You had overstepped your media training a few times before and yet none had ever led to the end of the interview. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little surprised at your PR manager's swift movements as she tugged you back and away from the journalist. “Let’s move on.” Her voice was disapproving but she was obviously trying to remain calm and professional, understanding there was a job to be done. But your anger wasn’t discriminatory, everyone was a potential outlet, and you weren’t having this. “No, I’m finished.” You didn’t even want to participate in media in the first place, this was obligatory. You had done your part and now you were taking charge of the rest of your night. And so you pulled your arm back and made quick haste towards the exit, leading back to your driver room. 

You were only a few meters from the door now, acutely aware of all the eyes watching you retire early from yet another obligation today, when a hand grazing the small of your back pulled you away from the tormenting feeling of the bile rising once again. This time, it was Charles, his sweet face beaming a reassuring smile at you as he began walking in stride towards the exit alongside you. “Mon cheri, that was something else.” 

You couldn’t help but scoff at his words, nausea bubbling once again, expecting yet another lecture from someone else. “If by ‘something else’ you mean a complete disaster, then yeah, I guess.”

Charles kept his tone steady, a touch of amusement in his voice as you both walked in stride. “No, I mean you handled it with a lot of, uhh.. What is the English? Poise.” 

You gave him a skeptical look. “Thanks, but it didn’t feel like handling things with poise, It felt like I was about to lose it.” 

His smile slipped into a small laugh before it fell,  and his bright eyes quickly turned into one’s of worry as he began a once over of your body. “Are you feeling okay?” he began the inevitable conversation. “I’m okay, it’ll pass I'm sure.”

Charles’ brows furrowed down, thick accent sounding with worry as he spoke. “You shouldn’t count on it passing, you should take care of yourself. You’re only gonna have more shit thrown at you if you don’t-”

As sweet as his concern was, you were tired of this conversation today, it was becoming tedious to hear and you really just needed to lie down or something. “-Charles, I really appreciate it and I'll be sure to visit the doctor tomorrow, but I think I’m gonna be sick again, so how about you cover me up to the hallway before I end up in another fight with a reporter, or my head in another bin on TV.”

Your words had Charles’s eyes widening, quickly glancing around from side to side in search of his target who was finishing up from an interview of his own, when your hand came up to press against your mouth, skin turning a tinge green. “Lando!”

The video shook a little as the person on the other end fidgeted with the camera, a slight blur shifting the image and the audio cracking with the movement before the frame finally straightened up. The person took a step back. It was you, which wasn’t all that surprising considering the video had been uploaded onto your own instagram, but it was the first anyone had really heard of you in weeks. 

Ever since your race ending ailment back in Spain, you had essentially gone radio silent. Not posting, not participating in interviews; you had missed 2 more races since then. It was worrisome, especially considering you had assured everyone the day after Spain that you were working on getting better for next week's race, which you never showed up to. 

The races went on and the fans asked about you, the interviewers asked about you too, but it seemed everyone involved in the FIA had no comment on your whereabouts nor your condition. The drivers dodged post interview questions, excelling on to new subjects and only had quick fleeting comments in response to concerned fans around the paddock who were only trying to make sense of it all.

Lando copped the brunt end of it though, scoring a P2 podium in Canada that everyone could more obviously care less about in his post-race interviews. The only topic mentioned was you, your absence from the race and why everyone was so hush-hush about it in the first place. The interviews were so off topic that this time it was Lando who had to leave the media pen early to avoid the questions, though opposingly, McLaren had been the ones to encourage his swift exit.

It was starting to become an issue. People were fretful. Were you still sick? Was it something more serious than you had anticipated and now you couldn’t race anymore?

The view they were looking at suggested that perhaps they were about to find out. 

You retreated away from the camera propped up against what people could only speculate had to be your dressing table, as you found your spot upon the large, luxurious bed the camera was pointing towards. Now cross legged upon it, your body clad in a 2 piece short silky pajama set, finally you began to speak. 

“Hello everyone.” You didn’t sound unwell, not stressed or upset. In fact, there was an edge to your voice that almost seemed cheerful; excited. And yet for now you remained composed, nothing but a small, media trained smile dawning your otherwise expressionless face.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” The sentence was humorous, calling attention to the silence you had afflicted, and the lack of news upon your whereabouts. “Lando and I are finally home in Monaco for summer break, though I have to admit that I’ve actually been in Monaco for a few weeks now. I think some of you might feel that was a bit obvious given my absence.”

There was a high pitched chuckle off screen, it obviously being Lando out of frame as your eyes flickered over to the side with a playful yet mischievous smile, encouraging his reaction with your expression. It was a fleeting moment as your smile once again fell into something a little more vacant before straightening up and continuing. “I know a lot of people have questions, and I do want to apologize for the lack of communication on my end, I’ll explain, I promise but first I also want to say please don’t be mad at any of the other drivers for not speaking out, they were all just respecting my wishes in not saying anything until I was ready.”

There was a small pause as you took a breath, no sound emitting except for the slight breeze wafting through the room, further exemplified by the sway of the sheer curtains. This was so nerve racking, were you about to announce your departure from motorsport? Were you about to reveal a sickness you weren't aware of until now? The silence, though short lived, was deafening. 

“I-” Finally you spoke, but quickly caught it with a bite to your lower lip. It really seemed like you were processing your words, debating how to present your next statement carefully enough. “How do I-?”

Once again your gaze drifted off to the side of the screen, confused and cautious eyes quickly averting into a bright smile before a laugh escaped your mouth. “Don’t look so excited!” 

Lando, obviously beaming, clear by the tone of his voice, cheerfully yelled back, “Do you want me to say it?!”

“No!” you rebutted quickly with a laugh, “I told you I wanted to be the one to announce it, stop trying to take my shine!”

“Then go on with it!” He was so obviously really excited, impatient to finally announce whatever it was that had him so elevated.

“Okay well-” You stuttered for a moment, quickly catching yourself before continuing. “As many of you saw in Spain, I wasn’t feeling too well,-”

“-Hard to miss-.” Landos voice mumbled, a comment in which you swiftly ignored.  

“-And I hadn’t been for a few days leading up to it but I just took it as a stomach bug and planned to go on with it like usual. What I didn’t plan for however, was the doctor's visit I was forced to go to the day after.”

Your eyes glared off to the side once again, feigning annoyance but evidently not actually upset before looking back at the camera with a smile. “The good news is that we are very much aware of what was making me sick.” Your voice was reassuring, eyes slowly beginning to light up as you continued on. “The bad news is that I unfortunately will not be participating in the rest of the 2024 season, or the 2025 one for that matter.”

It was like you could feel the impending shock of everyone watching radiating through the screen despite it being pre recorded because your pause was almost comically dramatic. And yet it was so wholly conflicting, because regardless of the awful news, you didn’t really seem all that upset despite being such a passionate racer, it felt so out of character. This confusion was only exemplified further when your eyes once again drifted to the left, a large smile engulfing your features as you took notice of what had to be Lando's excited expression once more. “Oh don’t look so happy, you’re the one who still gets to race!”

“I’m sorry!” He laughed that high pitched laugh he does when he just can’t hold it back.

Your eyes flickered back to the camera, sitting straight on with a patient yet humorous smile, a single eyebrow cocked as you waited for Landos laughter to simmer. It took a moment, a moment you thought ended a time or two before he began again, but eventually the room became still again as your face grew just a little more in adoration towards the man everyone could see you loved dearly. It was like the energy had shifted just a little, from what felt so playful before, to something a little more familial and warm. 

“I think some of you may have put the pieces together, but for those who haven’t. Well… I’m pregnant!” Your smile was so big and sheepish, so conscious and just a little shy, it almost felt as if you were announcing it to a friend of many years and it was all just so heartwarming. You were okay! More than that, you were happy, and soon everyone else who would watch this video would be too. Lando's happy laugh from beyond the camera at the announcement finally being made was more than enough to express just how joyous the news was for the two of you.

“As heartbreaking as it will be to not be able to competitively race in the upcoming seasons, I’m not actually that sad about having to step down for a little.” You laughed heartily. “I proudly announce that in my place, the very talented Australian driver Oscar Piastri will be filling my position until I'm off from… maternity leave? I guess. That's a first for this sport.”  You laughed.  “But of course they just had to find the best to replace the best.” You quickly glanced over towards Lando out of frame, clearly expecting an agreement that never came. They could only imagine the disapproving look Lando was sending you.

Your expression never changed, but your tone dropped as you spoke darkly. “I’m carrying your child.” You spat, to which a loud “But of course!” sounded in response, followed by a laugh from the both of you.

“Don’t worry, you’ll still be seeing me around the track a lot considering this muppet,” you pointed to your left, “still gets to race.”

“Don’t be jealous,” the soft voice came from off screen. 

“No, I’ll confidently admit it, I’m so jealous.” You pouted, but the warmth in your eyes belied the playful tone in your voice.

Lando’s hand appeared in the frame for a brief moment, gently squeezing your shoulder before disappearing off-camera again. “We’ll be back out there together soon enough.”

You nodded, your smile returning as you glanced back at the camera, feeling a surge of excitement for what was to come. “In the meantime, I’m looking forward to supporting the team from a different angle. It’s going to be a new experience, but I’m excited to do this as…”

“-As a mother?” Lando finished with a knowing smirk.

“As a mother.” You laughed, a loud one from Lando soon sounded to match your own, one so joyous it left you beaming. Suddenly, Lando jolted in frame, clearly excited as he leaned over the bed to tackle you from your sitting position down into a hug, leaving you both falling back onto the sheets. “Oh my god Lando!” You shout, a hand quickly moving to shield your lower stomach. “God! Nevermind guys, I think Lando just tackled the baby out of me, guess I’ll be seeing you all from my McLaren in Austria.”

“Oh!” Lando gasped. “Not funny!”