#or bring up who i know and where they come from

[lacyblades]

౨ৎ baby daddy!satoru who wants needs you back.

in fact, you should've known he was playing a game the instant that text blinked onto your screen: pick your daughter up from his place, not school. a casual oops, totally forgot it was your day! that sent a shiver of unease down your spine.

what choice did you really have? the entire drive to that too-familiar house, your nerves were a tangled mess. pulling into the driveway, parking crookedly in your haste, the only thing screaming in your head was this used to be ours.

this small, unassuming house, a world away from the sterile grandeur of his old penthouse. the first grand gesture of your marriage had been this new place.

"the bigger the house," satoru had murmured against your bare skin that first night, "the further i'd have to be from you." so, your mornings had begun with tangled limbs and hurried kisses, and your evenings had ended in the same breathless way.

it had been the kind of dizzying happiness you foolishly thought would last forever. but then the cracks had started to show – the endless work trips, the hollow promises of things changing. he had gotten better, ironically, after the papers were signed.

satoru stood in the doorway, that infuriatingly charming, utterly knowing smirk plastered across his face. your gaze darted around the living room, a quick, almost desperate search. "where's she?" you asked, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice.

his reply was a casual flick of his wrist. "oh, she's at a friend's."

a harsh scoff escaped you. arms crossed tight against your chest, you scoffed, "what? why? i drove all the way out here!"

"you were coming anyway," he purred, those soft puppy-dog eyes locking onto yours. "i can bring her back later. thought we could, you know… catch up."

"catch up?" you repeated, incredulous. "are you serious right now? we're not catching up, satoru. we're divorced."

but those eyes. they always had been your undoing. and somehow, against your better judgment, you found yourself agreeing to this ridiculous "catch-up." you'd pictured awkward small talk over lukewarm tea, maybe a stale cookie.

not this. not being bent in a cruel mating-press, his body a brutal, insistent press against yours, fucking you with a desperate hunger that stole your breath and any semblance of rational thought.

"god, it's been so fucking lo- long since i felt this," he grunted, his hips slamming into you with a possessive force that made you cry out. "this tight little cunt clenching - shit - around me like that."

"ah, 'toru," you gasped, your fingers digging into the hard muscles of his back, clinging on for dear life.

"been even longer si- since i heard you say my name like that." his sweaty bangs were plastered to his forehead, a flush creeping up his neck. his pace was relentless, each thrust deeper, harder, a raw, primal need driving him. he hadn't touched anyone since you, didn't want to.

tears streamed down your face, a messy mix of pain and something dangerously close to pleasure. and that bastard, your soon-to-be-not-ex-husband-anymore, thought you looked beautiful. his thick cock stretched you, filled you completely, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

"did you miss this, huh?" he muttered, his voice thick with lust. "because i fucking did. bet- bet no one else makes you feel like this."

a choked whine escaped you as his teeth sank into your shoulder, a stinging sensation hitting. you can't think of a response, literally. you can't even think of your own name - you can't remember.

all that mattered was the way he was making you feel, the dizzying spiral of sensation. and in the name of "catching up," he makes you come, at least half a dozen shattering orgasms ripping through you before he finally relented, burying his face in the space between your tits.

he looked up at you, panting, a triumphant smile playing on his lips. "so… about moving back in?"

fuck those puppy-dog eyes.

[agustdtown1]

CLOSER TO YOU II [JJK]

PAIRING: nerdy!roommate!jungkook x fem!OF!reader

GENRE: smut, roommates au, nerd!jk, photography major!jk, friends to fuck buddies, OF!reader, slight fluff.

SUMMARY: After getting various comments about your poor filming skills for your OF page, you finally decided to give in and reach out to the one person that could help you with your problem. However, what started as your roommate just helping you to film your video turned into you begging him to fuck you.

How long would it take for Jungkook to finally give in? After all, all he ever wanted was to be closer to you.

WC: 4.5k

WARNINGS: pwp, this is pure smut (mdni), unprotected sex, smacking, choking, dumbification/slight degradation, jungkook wearing a silver chain (trust me, that needs a warning), riding, jungkook being a complete meanece for real this time, teasing, a lot of pet names, nipple play, slight fingering, jungkook saying that one line from that one live, big dick!jk, very slight fluff at the end bc i didn't know how to end it. lmk if i'm missing something.

A/N: part 2 is here woo! i cannot even explain how much i love this jungkook, like omg nerdy!jk is just a yes for me. Anyway, i hope u guys like it and enjoy it as much as i did writing it. As always lmk ur thoughts on the comments or through asks, feedback is always appreciated. Happy reading <3!

part 1 | masterlist

Moans, lewd and whiny moans filled the room. A mixture of breathless words, nonsensical chants and obscene sounds engulfed both of your ears, pulling you into a dreamy dimension where only your and Jungkook’s body existed. The reality of it all was that the man in front of you was taking you places that you never thought of reaching, all in the comfortness of your bed. His hands, once timid and careful, were now running wild over your body, eliciting the most beautiful noises out of you. His avid fingers were pressing hard enough in the right spots while his mouth was eagerly devouring yours. 

It was only you and him, him and you; nothing else mattered in the world, only the warm touches and harsh curses thrown to the wind whenever either of you would bring pleasure to the other. The video —which was the main reason for you two to end up like this— was long forgotten, with the camera still aiming to the spot you two were sitting at but neither of your bodies were in sight. Jungkook was nice enough to carry you to the bed and lay you down to get more comfortable.

“You deserve better than just pillows and a blanket.” He said, waiting for you to wrap your legs around his waist to finally get up.

Everything leading up to this moment felt like a fever dream, the attempts to dirty talk, the way Jungkook used his fingers to pleasure you, the pet names and the look that coated his face when he watched you come on his hand; it felt like the most cliche plot for a porno. Asking my roommate to help me with something ends up with us fucking; you were sure that if you browsed for a few minutes in the hub you would find at least ten videos with the same storyline, but here you were, being another addition to the list, the only difference is that this wasn’t a raunchy film that you could find on the dark side of the internet, it was your life, and you were about to fuck your roommate.

“I need to ask before this goes any further.” Jungkook's breathless voice sounded so good that it almost distracted you from what he was saying. “Are you completely sure about this?”

“Kook, baby, I appreciate you asking, but if you don’t put your dick in me, I’ll kick you out of the apartment.” You deadpanned. 

Jungkook chortled at your response, pulling away just enough to undress. You waited patiently, enjoying the view he was providing you with. His honey-like skin glistened under the neon lights after taking off his black shirt; abs were in full display along with his big biceps. His right arm was adorned with an array of tattoos that he collected all through the years he’s been living with you. Who would have thought that under all those baggy clothes was hidden such a hot body? It often baffled you how different his appearance was compared to his personality; Jungkook looked like a cinnamon roll with the body of a certified fuckboy, however, he wouldn’t catch you complaining, especially not now. The brown-haired guy took his glasses off, carefully placing them on your night-stand, and just as you were about to protest, your roommate was quick to form a knowing smile on his face.

“I know you like them on me, but it’ll be impractical to fix them all the time while I fuck you dumb, don’t you think?” It was ridiculous how much his voice and words affected you. “Let’s keep them away from now.”

You couldn’t even form a proper response to that, other than a meck nod. You were hypnotized by the way he was taking his clothes off. Jungkook was now left with his usual pair of baggy jeans that were low enough to show the hem of his Calvins, he also had a silver chain wonderfully hanging from his neck; you often daydream about it, imagining how the cold material would feel against your skin, dangling just close enough to your face that you could simply take a bite and pull him down to meet your lips. It seemed like you were about to find out.

“Can you leave it on?” You requested signaling to his chain. 

“Sure thing, pretty.” He flashed you a smile, pulling away his hands from the necklace. 

You really needed to get used to this side of Jungkook, otherwise you weren’t going to survive the night, although you had a feeling that it wouldn’t really make a difference considering what was about to happen. 

Both of his hands drifted down to undo his pants, pulling them down easily and tossing them somewhere in your room. Next thing was his underwear, a pair of black Calvins that were just tight enough to reveal his evident hard-on. Even with the fabric covering that area you could still make out its length. It looked bigger than what you were expecting, which only added to your eagerness. Without further ado —and driven by the sudden confidence, Jungkook took them off, letting his thick cock spring free from its confinements. You couldn’t help to let out a tiny gasp, zeroing on his reddened tip that was already leaking precum. It was in fact bigger than what you assumed he would be, nothing too crazy but drastically larger than the other guys you’ve been with. It was slightly curved to the right, the perfect angle to reach the places you wish him to reach. The veins adorning his cock made you salivate at the thought of what it would feel like against your hot tongue. Would it feel heavy? Would it make you gag? Would it get you crying and turn you into a spit mess? Maybe you will have to wait to find out. Tonight was all about you and him enjoying each other in a closer way, getting a taste of him would have to wait. 

The more you stared at him the more your hands were eager to reach out and stroke it, to see if it would be able to fit in your palm, because judging by its looks, you even doubted that you could take it all. 

“You like what you see?” Jungkook’s voice was the embodiment of sin. Low and raspy with a hint of hesitation that he tried to cover with a faint chuckle. 

Deep down he was feeling nervous once again, feeling too vulnerable and exposed, however, backing down wasn’t an option for him, so instead of letting his insecurities conquer his mind, Jungkook decided to act driven by desire more than rationality. 

“I do, actually.” You answered, staring at him with such a look that made the guy weak in the knees. “Come here, pretty boy.” 

Pulling him by his chain you crashed your lips together, both liberating a satisfied moan when the head of his cock brushed through your folds. His hands, that were on each side of your head, caging you in, fisted the soft material of the pillow in which your head was resting on, all due to the sensation of your hot cunt against his length. 

“Shit.” You breathed out after pulling away. “Do that again.” 

Jungkook only shook his head, confusing you with the sudden rejection. 

“You’re missing something there.” He added, eyes never leaving yours. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Come on, pretty. I know you’re smart enough to figure it out on your own.” His answer was followed by a harsh smack on one of your thighs. “Aren’t you?”

“But I don’t—” Another smack delivered to your tender flesh interrupted you. “Fuck, wait…” The next time his hand impacted against your skin a sting of pain mixed with pleasure spread within you. “Jungkook!” You whined, trying to create some friction on your own. 

“I thought you said you were gonna be good for me.” He mockingly said, colliding his big hand with the flesh of your ass this time. “Why don’t you look back on your manners, hm?” 

This fucker. 

Jeon really was full of surprises, or so it seems, because just when you thought he would go easy on you, he pulled this. 

“Seriously? All of this over me not saying, what? Please?” You sassily argued back. 

“Is that how you wanna act right now, doll?” He raised one of his eyebrows, questioning you in such a way that got you wondering what would be the appropriate approach. “I’d be careful with what I say if I were you.” 

“What if I don’t want to?” 

The question hung in the air for a few seconds before Jungkook pulled away from you completely. His hands reached out for your waist, holding you with a strong grip. 

“Turn around.” He ordered. A few more seconds passed before he turned you around himself. “And just so we are clear, I’m not repeating myself tonight.”

Ass in the air, completely exposed to him. It excited you what his next move would be, but it was also killing you not knowing what he was up to. 

His hands were caressing your sides slowly, distracting you for a second with his touches from what was coming your way. 

“It seems like you can’t keep up with your promises.” It was sudden, completely unexpected; the sound of skin being slapped echoed through the room. His tattooed hand colliding with your ass. “So I might need to remind you what you asked for.” 

The next one felt harsher than the last one, eliciting a deep moan out of you and making your whole body move forward. This is not what you imagined that your night would be like, and you were definitely not expecting your roommate to turn into such a brat tamer. However, what surprised you the most is how much you actually liked it. This whole scenario in which Jungkook was simply handling you in any way he wanted was far way better than what your fantasies were about. The way he talked to you; the fact that he knew just the right amount of strength he needed to use to make you whimper in pleasure rather than pain; the tender touch he would provide you with before delivering another slap, as if he were preparing your skin for the collision. Everything felt like the perfect wet dream. 

After delivering one last slap to your ass, Jungkook leaned down to place wet kisses all over the area, before admiring the red imprint of his hand on both cheeks. 

“You think you’re ready for me now?” He mockingly asked. “Or should I check?” Not even expecting an actual answer, he slipped two fingers inside your entrance, moving them painfully slow. 

“Jungkook, please…” You whined, burying your face into the pillow. 

“Oh, now you know how to use the word, hm?” His fingers never stopped moving. “How convenient.” 

You shook your head, whimpering and squirming under his touch. “No more, please…”

“No more what? Tell me doll, what do you want from me?”

“No more… teasing.” 

You struggled to answer, letting out a deep breath before looking over your shoulders to glare at him. In hindsight, you should’ve known better than doing so, because the way his sweat-coated skin shone under the red lights almost got you coming on his fingers again. 

“Oh god!” You moaned when his fingers dug deeper into your velvety walls. “Right-fucking-there!” 

And just when you started to feel your walls getting tighter and your stomach feeling funny, Jungkook pulled out, stroking your clit a few times before flipping you over on your back. 

“Why did you stop?” 

“You’re the only one getting all the fun, baby.” He simply answered. “And next time you come, I want you to do it on my cock.” He placed a kiss on your lips before adding, “Where are the condoms?” 

Jungkook wasn’t dumb, he knew you had to have some hidden somewhere in your drawers, he’s seen you buy a package before, and while he had some himself, the brown-eyed boy didn’t think it would be practical to go to his room for it. 

“No need.” Just before he could question your answer, you added, “I’m on the pill.” 

Jungkook couldn’t comprehend what good he did in his past life to get this lucky, but he was thankful for it. 

“Should’ve said that from the start.” 

“Why? You like it raw that much?” You chuckled.

“Only when I have a pretty girl like you under me.”  His lips brushed against yours with a fleeting touch, making you chase after him which caused a smug laugh out of him. “Patient, doll. I’ll give you what you want, but you gotta be on your best behavior. Can you do that for me?” 

You nodded, adding a quick yes right after. Jungkook leaned down once again, placing his hands on each side of your head just like before. He started up kissing your neck, placing wet kisses all over it before reaching your mouth again. It was the perfect distraction from him lining up with your entrance. Before you even knew it, Jeon was pushing his tip right in, slowly and steadily. 

“Oh, fuck, ah…” You moaned out, hands flying over his shoulders. “Jungkook.” His name came out of your mouth as a whimper. 

“I know, pretty, I know.” He rested his forehead against yours. “Fuck, you’re really tight.” 

The brown-haired guy kept pushing in, careful to not hurt you and stopping every now and then to help you get used to his size. It was more than what you would normally take, so it took you a few seconds to go from slight pain to pleasure. Your nails were digging into his honey skin, eliciting a hiss from the guy above you, but not even once did he complain, if anything it looked like he enjoyed that sliver of pain.  

“Oh god, you feel amazing.” Jungkook whispered against your lips when he finally bottomed out. His breath was agitated and it was evident that he was struggling to keep still, yet he managed to do it, waiting for your permission to move. “You're doing so good, baby. Look at you, you took me so well, it’s all in.”  

You tried to look down to where both of your bodies were united. It was just there that reality really hit you; having all of his manhood nestled deep inside you was a whole new sensation, a different kind of feeling. You knew that there was no coming back from this, no going back to normal, no getting the same feeling from anyone else. You could only hope for this to be good enough for your roommate to stay with you. 

“Let me know when I can move, yea?” His breathy voice brought you back from your thoughts, preventing you from overthinking. 

A small nod was your first response, “You can… You can move.” You softly said. 

“Alright, I’ll be gentle okay? Promise I’ll make you feel good.” A sweet kiss was placed on your mouth before his hips started moving. 

Jungkook commenced thrusting in and out, sliding with enough ease inside of you while maintaining a steady pace. You could feel the entirety of him, stretching you out deliciously good. His cock was hitting the right places over and over again, eliciting moan after moan from you. His face had the most beautiful expression you’ve ever seen. Eyes connected to yours, lips parted while panting and cursing, eyebrows furrowed with a slight coat of sweat covering his forehead. Everything was just right.

Jungkook was loving every second of it, the way you were clenching on his length, while looking right up at him with pleading eyes and your nails scratching his skin was something he never thought would love so much. It was until then that he questioned if he was into pain, because the burning sting of your nails digging into his toned back was getting him more excited than it probably should. 

“Shit, Kook, you feel so good right now.” You panted, connecting your lips into a messy kiss. “Faster… I need it faster.”

“Anything you want, doll.”

You didn’t need to tell him twice; going at a slow pace was torturing him. Jungkook was quick to speed up, thrusting in and out of you with such strength that almost made you scream. He continued to fuck you like that, pressing his chest agaisnt yours while leaving a trail of wet kisses from your neck to your collarbones, sliding down with ease until he reached your tits. Jungkook admired them for a few seconds before diving in to close his mouth around one of your nipples. 

“Ah, Jungkook.” You whimpered, feeling his hot tongue circling your already hardened bud. His pace never relented even when his sole focus was on devouring your tits. 

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful.” He whispered against your skin. His teeth made contact with your sensitive nipple, stealing a gasp from you while some incoherent sentences flew out of your mouth. “What was that, pretty?” 

Jungkook was fucking you so good that it was difficult to even utter a single word. Everything felt so intense, and he was taking good care of you that it felt almost unfair to only lay there and enjoy it, that’s why you tried to compose yourself to voice your request.

“Come on, baby, use your words. Or is it hard for you to speak with your pussy stuffed with my cock, hm?” He mocked you and your little sounds. 

You’ll pay for that later. 

Trying to push him away would be futile so you didn’t even try, instead you glared at him while saying, “I wanna ride you.” It was clear and straight to the point, you needed to experience being on top of Jeon Jungkook while taking all of his cock as deep inside you as you could, at least once in your life. 

“You’re gonna be the death of me, doll.” He breathed out, “But okay, show me what you got.”

In a split of a second, Jungkook was laying down on your bed, staring right at you with lustful eyes and a smirk plastered on his face. His big hands were resting on each side of your hips, caressing your skin tenderly, almost encouraging you to get going with what you wanted to do. With no further ado, you guided his twitching dick to your folds, sliding through them and smearing your juices all over his length; you were enjoying the sensation of his tip nudging your clit when a harsh smack was delivered to your ass.

“No teasing.” Jeon warned you when you looked at him pouting, however, you complied, lining his cock with your entrance, sinking in slowly to enjoy how good he was stretching you out. “There you go, fuck, that’s it, pretty. You’re so good.” He hissed, holding your hips with a stronger grip than before. 

“You feel so big like this.” Throwing your head back, you whimpered out of pleasure, losing yourself in the sensation of his cock reaching deeper into you in this position. 

You started to move, back and forth with a steady pace; hands now resting on his chest to get more comfortable. Little by little you gained speed, sliding up and down just like you always wanted, the sound of skin on skin filled the room, along with the filthy sounds coming from both of your mouths. 

“Shit, that’s it. You look so pretty bouncing on my cock.” Jungkook loved the new view, not only did you feel amazing in this position, with your walls clenching on his girth, but also the way your tits were bouncing up and down with every move was driving him crazy. 

One of his hands reached up to hold your tit, fondling and kneading your tender flesh, however, his hand didn’t stop there. Jungkook felt bold enough to push his hand further up, slithering smoothly until his fingers reached a certain part of your body. Without even thinking, Jungkook wrapped his hand around your neck, just tight enough to make you gasp in surprise but without any ill intent. Nonetheless, it seemed like you weren’t the only one being taken by surprise, because the sudden pressure on your neck was like adding fuel to the fire, encouraging you to fuck yourself harder and faster on his throbing cock, and Jungkook noticed how your whole demeanor changed.

“Look at you,” He chuckled, “You liked being treated like this, huh? Like it when I choke you and smack you hard enough to leave a mark on you?” 

It was cruel the way he was speaking to you, but you couldn’t deny it, if anything it only pushed you to speed up, making your thighs ache and almost fall on his chest completely exhausted. 

“Ju-Jungkook…” You tried to call his name in a pleading voice. It was only then that you recognized the hot feeling forming in the pit of your stomach. Your orgasm was, once again, approaching.

“What? Can’t you answer the question? Are you that dumb to say a simple yes, hm?” His mocking smile was as infuriating as attractive. “Come on, doll, I know you can do better than that.” 

You really tried to hold yourself together, but the more his cock hit your sweet spot, the more your strength crumbled. 

“I- I’m…” It was getting pretty hard to voice your thoughts with his hand around your throat. 

“Am I making it difficult for you to speak?” The hand he placed on your waist was helping you to keep moving, but the one adorning your neck never lessened the grip. “Do you want me to take my hand off? You just have to say please and I’ll do anything you want, pretty.”

How could such a sweet and nice guy turn into a complete meanece in the blink of an eye. Jungkook continued to prove that judging a book by its cover it’s never a good thing, because the way he was acting with you in that moment, was beyond what you imagined he would be like in this type of scenario. 

“Ple-Please,” You begged, “Jungkook… please.” Not even a second passed before you could breathe properly again, his tattooed hand away from your neck. 

You felt like passing out, but his angelic voice brought you back from your hazy state.

“You okay there, Y/n?” He smiled softly at you, confusing you and making your heart skip a beat. Jungkook looked at you with a split of concern and tenderness for a brief second, making a weird feeling spread through your body, one that you were too scared to address. 

“I’m… yes, all good.” You nodded. 

“I’m glad to hear that.” Both of his hands were back to holding your hips. “Because I’m not done, understand?” His eyes had that evil glint once again.

Before you could even ponder on his switching attitude, his strong arms wrapped themselves around your waist, forcing you to rest on top of him, chest to chest and face so dangerously close to yours.

“I know you’re close, baby, stay like this and I’ll give you exactly what you want.”

And so you did, burying your face in the crook of his neck while Jungkook positioned himself the right way to slam his cock into you with hard and fast thrusts. Your whimpers were muffled against his skin, while his moans filled your ears. He sounded so pretty, chanting your name the more you clenched on him.

“Shit, I’m getting close too.” Jungkook announced. 

“Please, I wanna cum…” You begged, pulling away from his neck to look at him with pleading eyes. “I can’t hold it.”

“I’m almost there, doll, wait for me, come on.”

His hands started to slide down to get a hold of your ass while still thrusting into you at such a relentless pace. So persistent and intense, every touch, move and caress felt ten times more than before, your whole body was sensitive that it was so difficult for you to hold it together, you desperately needed to have your release. Jungkook was aware of it, it was so painfully clear how bad you needed to cum, how desperate you were for him and his cock.

“I’m gonna fill you up so good.” His husky voice rang through your ears, making goosebumps coat your skin. “Fuck, I’m right there, baby, come with me. Make a mess on my dick.” 

It was automatic the way your body reacted to his command. A needy moan abandoned your mouth while your hands fisted the sheets in which the both of you were laying. You finally came on Jungkook’s cock, clenching so deliciously tight, meanwhile your whole body shook with the intense feeling of your awaited release. 

“Fuck, so good… Y/n, shit.” You couldn’t even pay attention to whatever the brown-haired boy was saying; completely lost in the moment and how well you felt. “I’m gonna come.”

With a final thrust, Jungkook finally unraveled, filling you to the brim with his warm cum. Hips stuttering and voice completely hoarse while calling your name. It felt so good to hear him like that, so breathless and spent; weak and whiny, so needy for you and only you. 

It took you a few minutes to fully recover from such an intense moment. Neither of you dared to speak once the rush of your orgasm finally subsided, you laid there, on his firm chest, breathing his scent and relishing in the sensation of his fingers caressing your back with a soft touch. 

“Are you… Are you okay?” There was a pinch of shyness in your roommates voice, almost as if his dominant persona vanished the moment he got his release. “I wasn’t too much, was I?”

You giggled against his warm skin, lazily shaking your head to answer his concerns. 

“It was way better than I expected.” You confessed, feeling your cheeks heat up due to that. “I gotta admit that you surprised me, though. I didn’t know you could be like that.”

Jungkook sighed softly, feeling satisfied with your response but slightly amused by your comment. 

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, yet.” 

It was the way he said it that piqued your interest, promising and inviting, as if he was trying to lure you into discovering just how much you still needed to learn about him. And just like Jungkook wanted, you fell right into it.

“Maybe you can show me.” Lifting your head slowly, you stared into his beautiful brown eyes, waiting for a reaction.

“Are you sure you want to get into that?” 

You nodded, eyes drifting down to set on his puffy lips. Jungkook didn’t think twice before leaning in to kiss you, slow and soft, with so much care that almost made you feel dizzy. 

“Alright, I’ll show you all of me.” 

taglist 🏷️: @petalsofink @goldietigers294 @ggukieshoe @jk-190811 @hanamgi @internetbelle @songbyeonkim @berryonasummerevening @lanyia @rpwprpwprpwprw @brokebitch-101 @satisfied18 @nikixkoo @susansemolinathrower

[xplicitviewz]

“Who’s calling?” Your husband, Nanami, huffs from above you, his hips snapping into you. Your teary eyes glance at your phone while you let out small whimpers. “I-it’s our son.” You breathe out, your thighs tremble beneath his hands holding them down beside you.

Nanami groans and stuffs his dick fully into you, a whine escaping your lips as he picks up the phone. Between his work schedule and your 4 kids, there isn’t time for you and your husband to partake in a your shared activities other than the few times you guys got creative.

There was this one time you guys had your oldest watch the kids while you guys went to the pharmacy to pick up some medicine, which ended in a quickie in the dark parking lot before heading home.

Or the other time you guys had a pool day and you went inside to start getting the snacks ready. Nanami followed shortly after to have himself his own quick snack. Both of your days are pretty busy, but Nanami never fails to make some time for you and your pussy. You can admit sex hasn’t really been a priority, until tonight. Upon realizing all the kids would be gone, you immediately called Nanami to be sure he brings his ass home when he is off and not do any overtime- yes you used your mom voice too. Nanami agreed not wanting to be scolded.

When he did get home, he noticed a few things, there was any tv on, or music blasting from your two oldest rooms. There weren’t toys scattered in the living room or the dining room table from your two youngest, no yelling or screaming from all of them in general, it was just quiet. He smelt food in the air, he usually does every night he comes home but it’d be already eaten, or everyone will be eating at the dinner table (he insists not to wait for him because he often stays late) but since he left early from work, it isn’t ready just yet. He quickly rushes up the stairs, starting to feel the panic seep in just a bit, all the kids rooms are empty.

He opens his shared bedroom to see you just laying on your stomach, in the silky robe he got you, reading a book. He calms down because if you were okay, surely, the kids were too. His eyes gaze down your figure, your feet are in the air crossed, while you read. The robe sits at your upper thigh, and since it’s so thin, your ass pops out in the most desirable way possible. “Honey?” He eyes you suspiciously, taking a breath as he starts to settle down, “Where are the kids.”

You heard the front door shut, squeezing your thighs together, feeling the arousal hit you even more. The book you have been reading had been in your mind, and hearing your husband come home really made you ready to take him, full. You had dinner cooking in the oven, almost ready to serve for just Nanami and you. Your oldest son is at a movie with his friends and they are going to go eat after. Your second oldest daughter is spending the night with her best friend, and your two youngest are sleeping over with their grandparents. To say you were practically rushing your oldest son to leave already, since he was the last one to go, was an understatement.

“They are busy and safe.” You closed the book and turn your body towards him, your eyes hungry before you looked at him, but damn near starving when you did. That damn suit and tie. You explained where they all were as you sat up in the bed, impulsively pushing your chest out as you leaned back on your arms. Nanami didn’t ignore the lustful look in your eye, the way your nipples perked against the thin fabric, only assuming you had nothing on underneath. He quickly put a few things together, why you called him to not do overtime. He knew what his wife wanted, at least he thought so.

When your sweet loving husband started off kissing your neck, waiting to use the few hours to just worship your body, you, your hands cupped his chin and looked him dead in the eye, “Honey, I love you so much and I know that you do but tonight-right now I need you to fuck me like you don’t. I want y-“ His eyes darkens more at your plea, how desperate you were truly. How can he ever say no to his gorgeous wife. He cuts you off with a kiss before he started fucking you every way loose. Yes exactly what I said. But of course no matter what time it is, you guys are parents after all….

“What?” Nanami answers the call, still buried deep inside you, grinding against you as his thumb circles your clit.

“..Oh Hey dad, where’s mo-“

“She’s busy, are you okay, why are you blowing up her phone?” Nanami cuts your son off, his eyes focused on you squirming around, biting your lip to keep any lewd sounds hushed while he was on the phone with your son. He speeds up his movements on your clit, softly sucking in a breath when you clench tightly around his dick.

“I wanna buy some snacks and get some food after the movie, mom said she’ll send me m-“

“How much?” Nanami asked wanting him to get to the point so he can get back to his wife. He slowly pulling out before pushing himself back in. Your hand quickly covers your mouth as you shut your eyes. Your legs were shaking crazy. Your husband wasn’t one to always be rough in bed, but the times he is, you would feel it for days, in the best way possible. (He has that dog in him😞) Nanami definitely isn’t holding back, not when it’s been this long you guys were kid free for a few hours and together at that. Nanami was making up for lost time, fingering you until you couldn’t talk properly, eating your pussy like it personally offended him, fucking you left, right, up, down, diagonal, all up until your phone kept blowing up.

“Like about $40.”

“Okay, give me a moment.” Nanami grunts, as he bottoms out again, the way you squeezed his dick nearly knocked him out cold. He feels his dick throb inside you and pulls the phone away from his ear, breathing heavy.

“Thanks d-“

Nanami hangs up the phone and tosses it beside you before leaning in closer to you, peeling your hand away from your mouth and pulling it above your head. “Tell me something honey.” He hums kissing your swollen lips.

You whimper as he fucks you again, slow but rough this time, ”y-yes?” You gasp as he hits your cervix.

“When the kids ask for money, do you send it to them from my account?” He looks into your eyes, sweat dripping down his head watching your reaction to his question really his dick.

You’re screwed. Both literally and physically.

“Not alwa- o-ooh shit.” You moan, his hips moving faster than light. Nanami absolutely hates when you use your own money, hell, even when you were working. When you guys first started dating he already knew you were going to be his wife. Nanami would always say you didn’t need to work but you didn’t want him to be the sole provider. Eventually, you guys moved in together and you were still working. Though, he convinced you to work less hours and took you out on a date when you agreed. It wasn’t until you got pregnant with your first baby, did his wish come true. Shit, he was more excited when you both went down to your job to quit than he was to see the 2 pink lines.

“All the hours I work, being kept away from our family, my perfect wife -ngghh- my perfect wife’s pussy. And you still insist on usi-fuck- using your own money when you have access to my money- no our money, shit your money.” He moans grabbing your other hand and pulling it above your head with your other.

“Y-you pay for e-ever-“

“I’m supposed to baby. I want to.” He interrupts you, lifting your legs to his shoulders, and grabbing your phone with his free hand and sending your son $100 from his account. “Why must you make things complicated, love. I am the man, it’s my job to take care of you, our family. Let *thrust* me. Use my money for the kids, the house, the cars, whatever it is, I have enough, more than.” He kisses your lips softly, opposite to his thrusts. “Use your money I give you for you, whatever you want for you- shit for you. Everything I do is for you, everything I make, it’s yours, ours on paper, but it’s all yours. All for you.” He grunts into your ear, as if he’s teaching a lesson. Technically, he is.

“Don’t let me find out you aren’t using my money first again, okay hun?” He hums at you, a moaning teary mess.

“Now where were we?” He smiles before pulling out and flipping you on your stomach, lifting your ass up and spanking it. “Oh, right.” He chuckles as he spreads your cheeks apart, seeing your drooling sensitive pussy, clenching on air.

*edited but not proofread*

More:

Pussywhipped!Choso | part 2

Married!Eren x Maid!Reader

[marvelwitchergilmore]

Dog Tags (3)

Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> When a mission goes wrong, Bucky gets his Dog Tags back.

Disclaimer: This is part three for one and two. Mentions of serious injuries, blood and being hospitalised. Angst, bit of fluff here and there, hurt/comfort, Bucky stays by reader's side. Sam giving Bucky his own reality check, platonic!Wanda, swearing. Left kinda open ended in case I decide to write part four? Not Proof Read.

Bucky stared down at the dog tags in his hands, his thumb rubbing back and forth over the blood stained letters. He had to take a deep breath before the tears started flowing again. 

You were meant to be on a simple recon mission. You’d done them a thousand times. Maybe you’d come back with a bruise or two, but you still came back. 

This time, his phone had rung throughout his room just as the clock turned 4:00 am. An agent had found the tags on her person. They knew they weren’t hers, but they were definitely someone’s. 

Bucky had gotten to the hospital in under an hour. You’d still been in surgery by the time he arrived, but the nurses had brought out your personal belongings in a large plastic bag. 

Your clothes; blood stained to hell. Your Shield issued weapons were empty of bullets. Whatever had happened, you’d emptied your clip, plus your three backups. Your knife lay at the bottom of the bag, stained with blood, too. 

Bucky couldn’t work out if it was yours or someone else's. But he did know one thing for certain. The blood that lay splattered over his tags, as he pulled the chain from the bag, was yours. You never wore them outside of your uniform. You kept them close to your chest. It couldn’t be anyone else's. 

Bucky had left a message at Hill’s desk, as well with Sam explaining what had happened. What he knew, at least. Hill was sending someone to the mission base to find out more. 

“Mr Barnes?”

Bucky took in a deep breath as he stood up, clasping the tags in his palm. Maybe if he squeezed tightly enough, he’d be able to feel you. 

“Yes.”

“Your wife is now out of surgery. We’ll be keeping her under observation for the foreseeable, but once she’s situated in a room, you’ll be able to sit with her.” The Doctor told him. 

Bucky just nodded. “Do you know what happened?”

“I know it’s not common, but I’ll bring you her more detailed medical chart.” They told him. “There was too much extensive damage to talk about off the top of my head.”

Those words hit Bucky in the chest, harder than anything else had ever done. 

“But she’ll-” Bucky couldn’t bring himself to talk. 

The Doctor just nodded. “She’s going to need a lot of physical therapy. Thankfully nothing broke within her legs, but the damage to her muscles will make her training a lot harder than it should be for a while.”

Bucky nodded. 

“But she’ll be okay.”

“Thank you.”

The Doctor nodded. “Thank you for the tags.”

Bucky was a little confused as he followed the doctor’s finger, pointing to his hand. The dog tags? Why was she thanking him for the dog tags?

“If your wife hadn’t been wearing them, we wouldn’t have known who to contact.”

Wife.

Bucky felt himself chuckle inside. If you were awake and could hear the doctor now, you’d have probably made some disgusted eye roll and comment over being even associated with him. 

“Oh, yeah.”

The Doctor smiled. “I’ll come and get you when she’s ready.”

“Thank you.”

She just nodded with another soft smile before walking away. Twenty minutes later, he was being walked down the hallway where he stood outside of your room for ten minutes before opening up the door. 

You had at least a dozen wires hooked up to you, aside from the standard hospital gear. Bucky just stared at the monitor for a while, watching your heartbeat print onto paper. 

Eventually, he sat in the chair beside your bed and looked at you. In that moment, he’d give anything to have you yell at him. Cuss him out, threaten him, roll your eyes…anything. 

“They…” Bucky cleared his throat, looking down at the tags in his hand. “They told me you should still be able to hear me…and that talking helps. I know you’re probably mad it’s me who’s here, but you can’t blame me for this one, doll.” 

A weak chuckle escaped Bucky’s lips as he looked from his hand and to your sleeping frame. “They think we’re married, by the way. Mostly because of the dog tags they found on you. I’ve…I’ve got em’ right here. They’re safe. You’re safe, doll. Just…just kinda need you to wake up soon. Maybe tell me to piss off. Not that I’d leave you anyway, but that’s kinda our thing, right? Fighting?”

Bucky went silent for a while as he looked at you. 

“I need you to fight me, sweetheart.” Bucky told you. “So you’ve gotta mend and pull through all of this. Whatever happened out there in the field…that’s not the end of your story. It can’t be. I won’t let it.”

Bucky could hear your voice in his head. “You’d don’t have a choice in it, Barnes.”. 

Bucky told you a few more things, like how he’d called both Hill and Sam. He told you that he’d text Wanda, “She’ll get it once she lands. I’m sure she’ll be flying through that window soon.”

But, eventually, he stopped talking. He just let the sound of your steady heart fill the room. It was proof you were still alive. You were still here. 

On the days where Bucky couldn’t sit with you, Wanda took his place. Or Kate. Or Sam. On the odd occasion, Joaquin sat with you. Bucky had walked in on plenty of PowerPoint presentations of how his suit was better than Sam’s old one. 

But when he did sit with you, his mind would wander to memories of you and him. Like the training room when he’d told you he knew you had his dog tags, or when he’d helped you when you got hurt a few months back. 

But one stuck out to him in particular. Plenty stuck out to him as time ticked by, but he was reminded of this one as he looked at the side table beside your bed. Your knife lay on top, still in its protective covering. 

Less than three weeks before you’d landed in hospital, Bucky had been training with you. 

The main noises being made were grunts. As you hit his chest, as he knocked your legs down, as you twisted his arm, as he flipped you onto the mat, as you kicked his legs from beneath him, as you both rolled across the mats before you landed on top, trapping him in place. 

“Give in yet?”

“Do you?”

You were about to question what he meant, but then you felt it. Cold and sharp; he had your knife, again. But this time, it was pointed against your side. 

“What?” You hesitated for a second and looked away. Bucky took his opportunity. 

In two simple moves, you were on your back staring up at him with your own knife gently pressed against your skin. 

“Give in.”

You groaned and rolled your eyes at his glowing smirk. “Yes. Fine. Now get off me.” 

Bucky chuckled and stood up, lowering his hand down to help you up. At first, you swatted it away. But he held it out again, “Come on.”

Reluctantly, you accepted it and he helped you stand. “You’re focusing too much. Too in your head. You need to relax.” 

Bucky flipped the knife over in his hand so he was pinching the sharp blade. He handed it over to you and you swiped it up. “Thanks.” Your voice grunted a little before you placed your knife back in its place. 

“You know, if you wanted to, you could train with me more often.” Bucky offered as he walked away. “I know you and I are…whatever we are. But I have training that isn’t exactly found in a Shield manual.”

“I’m fine.” You said, avoiding looking at him as he stood with his back to you. You had stared at him in this fashion one too many times. It was only a short time before someone caught you doing so. Even worse if it was Bucky. 

“It’s not an issue. Hell, we don’t have to even talk-”

“I said I’m fine.” You didn’t mean to raise your voice when you spoke to him. You regretted it instantly. You sighed. “Look, I know you mean well. And, thank you. But I’m okay.”

Bucky watched you, over his shoulder. You walked away from the mats, grabbed your water bottle and sat down on one of the opposite benches. 

“What is it?” 

“What?”

“Do you have a problem with me or something?”

You sighed. “Bucky.”

“I get you and I don’t exactly get along-”

“I don’t have a problem with you,” you cut him off. “I just-” 

You gave a short sigh. There were so many reasons why it wouldn’t work if he was the one to train you. He wouldn’t know it, but you’d become more distracted by him. And for some reason it was written into the heavens that if you and Bucky spent more than ten minutes alone together, things in the air started to get…close. Too close. 

But the main thing was your undisclosed feelings for the super annoying, massive pain in your ass, super soldier. The longer you spent around him, so close to him, the harder they were getting to manage. 

It was only a matter of time before he figured out the truth. 

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea. Can we just leave it at that? Please?”

Bucky watched you for a moment before nodding. “Okay. Forget I ever mentioned it.”

You just nodded. 

Later that evening, Bucky had been with Wanda. And he’d been avoiding the topic of you ever since he walked through the front door. 

“Did something happen between you two?” Wanda just flat out asked him. 

“No. Nothing happened.”

“You’re sulking, so I know something happened.”

Bucky shrugged. “She just doesn’t want my help. I’ve tried being nice. But she’s just so…her. It’s annoying.”

Wanda nodded. “Yeah, I’m gonna need more information than just…you not handling your school boy crush very well.”

“I don’t-” Bucky shut his mouth as he whipped his head around to look at Wanda. “I don’t like her like that.”

“Doesn’t like who?” Sam asked as he walked through the door. 

“Bucky. Not liking Y/n.”

Sam just barked a laugh as he opened up the fridge and put his groceries away. “Ha! That’s a bullshit lie if I’ve ever heard one.”

“What-”

“Bucky,” Sam was practically laughing. “You’ve had a crush on her for god knows how long. I don’t know what twisted bullshit you both have going on that prevents you from talking like normal human beings, but even I know you saying you don’t like Y/n is nothing but a complete and utter bullshit lie.”

Bucky looked at Wanda for backup but she seemed to be on Sam’s side. 

“You know, maybe if you…I don’t know…talked to her rather than fight her-”

“She fights me!”

Sam just looked at him. “You fight each other.”

“Maybe you should just try and talk to her,” Wanda told him. “Might just clear a few things up.”

Sam sat down on the arm of the chair. “You’ve had feelings for her for a long time, Buck. Maybe it’s time you did something about it.”

Bucky just sighed. 

“How long have you guys been married?”

Bucky hadn’t noticed the nurse walk inside to your hospital room, at first. “Sorry?”

“I’m sorry to ask,” she apologised as she changed out your IV and drew some blood. “It’s just…I’ve seen a lot of couples pass through these doors and I’m yet to see ones with a connection like yours.”

Bucky sat up. The nurse could read the confusion on his face from a mile away. 

She just stepped to the side and pointed at the print of the heart rate. 

“See these spikes here?” 

Bucky nodded. 

“These are from when you’ve been with her. It’s good they’re going up. It means she’s recognising her surroundings. At the very least, the people in it. You’re healing for her.”

Bucky just looked at your still sleeping frame. He was helping you heal?

He was helping you heal?

He was helping you heal?

He was helping you heal?

The nurse smiled again. “How long have you two been married?”

“Not long,” Bucky answered. “But we’ve…we’ve known each other for years.”

The nurse smiled. “Who made the first move?”

Bucky thought for a moment. “She did. She saved my life.”

And you had. 

You’d been one of the new agents placed with the team. In the middle of a forest, Bucky had noticed every tripwire save for one. As something came flying over head, you’d swiped his legs from underneath him and pinned him down. 

“You’re welcome,” you whispered. 

That had been the first time Bucky had met you. It had also been the first time he’d looked you in the eyes. He could have happily drowned there and then. Which scared him. More than he knew what to deal with. 

“And now you’re here saving hers,” the nurse smiled. “I’ll be back in about an hour. Is there anything I can get you? Blankets, pillows?”

Bucky shook his head. “No, I’m okay. Thank you.”

“She’ll be okay, Mr Barnes.”

Bucky just nodded and watched as the nurse left. As he turned his head, that was when he noticed your chart. They still kept you as Y/n Barnes. Nobody, including Bucky, had bothered to correct them. If anything, it meant Bucky still learnt about your injuries and your healing process. 

It also meant he got access to stay with you for as long as he wanted. Which, if he didn’t have to work and if Sam didn’t come and drag him outside every few hours, he’d stay the whole time. 

It was a month or so more before you finally woke up. 

When Bucky had gotten a text from Joaquin telling him to get to the hospital quickly, he’d dropped what he was doing and came running down the hallway of the hospital ten minutes later. 

“What’s happening?”

“I-I don’t know.” Joaquin told him. “I was just holding her hand and she moved. Like, she squeezed my hand.”

“What?” Bucky moved past Joaquin and to your side, leaning his hand on the side headboard. 

“Y/n? Hey, doll? Can you hear me?”

Bucky held your hand in his. Nothing happened. “I know you don’t like me all that much, but if you can hear me, can you try and squeeze my hand?” 

Again, nothing.

Bucky looked at Joaquin. 

“I didn’t dream it.”

Bucky looked back at you. For a split second, he pushed some of your hair from your face. “Doll, if you’re awake, please. I just need you to squeeze my hand.”

Again, nothing. 

Until there was something.

“Go and get a nurse.”

“On it!” Joaquin practically flew out of the room. 

It all happened in a matter of seconds. Joaquin had been talking to you, telling you that you were gonna be okay. Then you heard Bucky’s voice which was quickly followed by a rough hand gently holding onto yours. 

And when you finally opened your eyes, you saw him. Standing beside your bed, holding your hand, looking like the world had finally started moving again. 

It was a few hours before you came around properly. And when you did, it felt a lot less hectic. Everything was peaceful and quiet. You had time to look around. There was a steady beeping somewhere. 

A heart monitor. 

You had different wires and tubes sticking out of you. The lights weren’t as bright as they’d been when you’d first woken up. 

But the thing that caught your eye the most was the sleeping frame of Bucky, hunched over your bed. Then you felt it. His hand, still in yours. 

You tried to squeeze his hand but eventually it hurt a little less and he stirred awake before shooting up. 

“Hey, you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“How long have I been out?”

Bucky answered you honestly. “Almost two months. The damage was extensive. Can you remember anything?”

You just nodded. “I think I blacked out after the building collapsed because I don’t remember anything after that.”

Bucky stood and pressed a button on the headboard of your bed before sitting beside you, clasping your hand in his. If it had been any other time, you would have taken your hand right back. 

But in that moment you needed comfort. You needed to feel safe. 

You felt safe with Bucky. 

But then you gasped. “Shit.”

“What? Are you hurt? What is it?”

You sat up and touched your chest and neck. “Your- your tags. I-”

Bucky just pulled the chain from his shirt. “There’s right here.”

You visibly relaxed but then you tensed as you watched Bucky remove them. “What are you doing?”

A small chuckle left him, “Just stay still, would you?”

“It’s not like I can exactly run away right now.”

Bucky smiled to himself before lifting the chain up and over your head. “There.”

You looked at him, wondering what he meant by all of it. “They’re your tags, Bucky.”

“Maybe,” he shrugged. “But I know they’re safe with you. They always looked better on you, anyway.”

Once Bucky knew you were okay, he’d wiped the rest of the tags clean. He’d been waiting to lay them back on you. He didn’t want to do it while you were sleeping. He needed you to fight him first. 

He needed proof you were alive. 

That was when the door opened and a nurse walked inside. “You’re awake! I must say, you nearly gave me and your husband a fright earlier. The doctor hadn’t predicted that you would wake up this early.”

You looked at Bucky and whispered, “Husband?”

“Just go with it,” he whispered back. 

It wasn’t until an hour or so, when both the Doctor and nurse had left, that you spoke to Bucky again. 

“You wanna tell me why we’re married?”

“They found my tags with you. They called me and…”

“You never corrected them?” You’d asked that question a lot calmer than Bucky had been expecting. 

“It meant I got to stay with you longer. And that they’d tell me what was going on.”

“You didn’t need to do that, Bucky.”

Bucky was honest with you. “I’m glad they called me first.”

You hand clutched the tags dangling from your neck. “They really thought you were my husband?”

Bucky chuckled. “If anything, the tags made sure you came home.”

In the silence as you and Bucky looked at each other, you felt the coolness of the metal in your palm. His tags had brought you home. His tags had brought him to you. His dog tags made sure you weren’t alone. And something told you Bucky had the same idea. 

Which was only confirmed when he attended almost every physio appointment with you. 

“How’s she doing, doc?”

The physio smiled as they held their arms up, in case you fell. “She’s doing great.”

“She’s tired and pissed off.” You answered truthfully. 

“If it makes you feel any better, I brought your favourite snacks from that store you and Kate found.”

Your hand gripped the two parallel bars as you slowly walked from one side to the other. “How the hell do you know about that store?”

“I asked Kate. She told me.”

As the phyio’s pager went off, Bucky offered to take over for a few minutes to help you. And, considering the medical staff still believed you and Bucky to be married, you’d both decided to just keep the act up. 

So, slowly walking beside you in case you fell, Bucky helped you turn around and walk back down the parallel bars. 

“How’ve you been feeling?”

“You mean other than tired and pissed off?”

“Yeah.”

“Sore,” you admitted. “Bored. I can’t wait to get back home.”

If Bucky was being honest, he would say the same thing. Even if you did spend more time fighting each other, he missed it. He missed you. 

“Neither can I.” The honesty slipped out from Bucky before he could think about any awkward consequences. 

You paused and looked at him. “What?” Your voice was a little softer than usual. 

“What?” Bucky shrugged. He’d said it. There was no taking it back. “It’s boring without you. I get we might fight the whole time, but without you I’ve got no one to keep my ego in check.”

Bucky earned a laugh from you as you looked away to keep walking. And he laughed, too. 

You had to admit. Laughing with Bucky rather than groaning was a nice change. 

And it only got easier from there on out. Your groans had turned to laughter, your scowls had turned to smiles and the roll of your eyes had turned to tears of laughter. 

And slowly, the same things happened for Bucky, too.

Eventually, the ten minute window you and Bucky spent together turned into twenty, then forty and before either of you knew it, hours had passed. 

You were both together and, surprisingly, still alive. 

[ijustwannabecool]

Media Day Mayhem

Charles Leclerc x Wife!Reader

Summary... What should’ve been a simple twenty-minute press conference turns into full-blown chaos when Charles brings the kids along—and then the kids get their own turn behind the mic.

Warnings: Pure fluff, kid chaos, dad!Charles, teasing, swearing mentioned by children (in French), banter, major secondhand embarrassment

A/N: you guys... the way I had too much fun writing this! I hope you guys enjoy this little story. I would love to actually see a moment like this in the future maybe. That would be iconic. I hope you guys enjoy it. Please let me know what you guys wanna see next!!

If you loved this story and want to support more F1 fics and soft chaos like this, feel free to buy me a matcha 🍵 or reblog/comment to share the love!

As always—happy reading, and have a beautiful day today

Like, comment, reblog, enjoy :)

✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩

The press conference was supposed to last twenty minutes. Just a few pre-weekend questions before FP1, some sponsor shoutouts, and a bit of media fluff. Charles had done this a hundred times. Easy.

What he hadn’t done a hundred times was a press conference with all three of his children clinging to him like magnets to a fridge.

“Mila, baby, don’t twist that,” Charles says quietly into his mic, gently removing his daughter’s hand from the cord running down his chest. She’s seated sideways on his lap, twirling the cable like it’s spaghetti. His twin boys, Luca and Jules, are squished on either side of him on the small bench Ferrari provided — all three with messy chestnut curls identical to their father’s.

“Charles, you’ve had a strong start to the season. What would you attribute that to?” a reporter asks.

Charles smiles, glancing down quickly at Luca, who’s trying to sneakily remove one of his shoes.

“Uh—consistency, for sure. And a lot of work with the team during the off-season,” he answers, his voice smooth despite the circus unfolding around him.

“I want to talk!” Jules blurts out, grabbing at the microphone in front of his dad. “I’m fast too!”

“You are very fast,” Charles replies automatically, pressing a quick kiss to his son’s temple as reporters chuckle.

“I beat Mila in the hallway!” Jules announces proudly.

“You cheated!” Mila screeches.

Charles coughs to cover his laugh. “Okay, okay, let’s not yell, we are live on camera, darlings.”

Another journalist attempts to move things along. “Charles, what’s your mindset going into qualifying tomorrow?”

Before he can answer, Luca pipes up: “Papa said the car was ‘a pain in the—’”

Charles snaps his fingers in front of him. “Luca! What did we say about telling secrets?”

Jules leans toward the mic. “Mummy says we can’t say ‘merde’ either.”

Charles hides his face with his hand for a beat as the media room loses it with laughter.

From the wings, you — Y/N — shake your head, arms crossed but clearly amused. Charles glances over at you like please come rescue me, but you're already motioning for the boys to come to you.

“Alright, boys, go with Maman,” Charles says, ushering them off the bench.

“Can we get snacks now?” Mila asks, hopping down and walking backwards toward you.

“Only if you stop tattletelling,” Charles replies sternly.

Jules makes a face as you crouch and hold their hands on either side of you, whispering something that makes them all go quiet and pouty at the same time.

Charles watches for a second longer than he means to—how you always manage to calm them down like magic—before turning back to the mic.

“Apologies. Where were we?”

“Honestly?” one of the reporters grins. “This is better than Drive to Survive.”

Charles laughs. “Welcome to my real full-time job.”

As he tries to finish the final question, he feels a small tug at his pants. Mila has snuck back on stage with her stuffed bunny.

“I forgot Bun-Bun,” she whispers.

He grabs it quickly and hands it to her with a gentle ruffle to her hair. “Okay, allez, go sit with Maman now.”

She nods seriously, then skips off.

Charles clears his throat. “Anyway—thank you all. I think I’m going to go find a quiet corner to cry in now.”

The media room erupts into chuckles again as Charles walks off, applesauce pouch tucked in one hand, baby wipes in the other, and you waiting with a knowing smirk and two giggling little boys tugging at your sleeves.

Charles barely made it three meters off the stage before Mila tugged on his sleeve and declared, “It’s our turn now.” He blinked, confused, until he spotted the row of miniature chairs being set up at the front of the room—and the Ferrari PR team, looking far too pleased with themselves as they waved the kids forward like VIP guests. Jules had already climbed onto one of the seats, Luca was dragging a juice box across the floor like it was part of his media kit, and Mila marched toward the microphone like she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment. Charles stared for a beat, caught between horror and awe.

This was not on the schedule, he thought, eyes narrowing. Whose idea was this? Did Y/N sign off on this? Is this revenge for the broken espresso machine?

He looked toward you for backup, but you were already leaning against the wall, arms crossed and smirking like you’d known this was coming all along. When you caught his eye, you shrugged playfully and whispered, “You survived your press conference. Good luck surviving theirs.”

Charles let out a breath, resigned, and folded his arms across his chest. “Mon Dieu,” he muttered under his breath, watching his children take the stage with terrifying confidence.

Ferrari may build the fastest cars in the world, but nothing moves quicker than my own kids when there’s a microphone involved.

The Ferrari media tent is buzzing with cameras, press badges, and a surprising amount of juice boxes.

——

A journalist clears their throat. “Alright… first question for Mila. What’s it like having a Formula One driver as a papa?”

Mila: “Loud.” Jules: “Fast.” Luca: “Sweaty.”

Everyone bursts into laughter. Mila shrugs. “He yells a lot on the radio. I don’t think he knows we can hear it sometimes.”

Charles covers his face with both hands.

Another reporter tries to keep a straight face. “Jules, if you were in charge of Ferrari, what would you change first?”

Jules (serious): “Make the cars green.”

Luca: “And add rocket launchers!”

Charles chokes.

Mila (disapproving): “That’s not safe. I’d make the suits pink and add glitter so they sparkle on TV.”

Reporter: “What do you think Papa says the most on race day?”

Jules: “Merde.”

Mila: “No! He says ‘focus.’ And ‘where’s my drink?’” Luca: “And ‘WHY ARE THE TYRES GONE?!’”

The room is losing it. Charles is whispering something to Y/N, who is fully crying from laughter.

A hand goes up from a British reporter. “Luca, if you won a race, what would be the first thing you'd do?”

Luca (without hesitation): “Call my mumma.”

Everyone collectively awws—until he adds:

Luca: “And then eat a chocolate croissant the size of my head.”

Mila (muttering): “That already happened.”

Reporter: “Jules, do you like watching the races?”

Jules: “Only the start. Then I get bored and play Hot Wheels.”

Mila: “I watch the whole thing. I have a clipboard and give Papa scores.”

Luca: “She gave him a 6 last time and he almost won.”

Mila: “He messed up the overtake.”

Charles looks wounded.

Final question from a German journalist: “Mila, what advice would you give your Papa before his next race?”

Mila leans into the mic like a pro.

Mila: “Be brave. Go fast. And don’t cuss if the tires fall off.”

Everyone in the room breaks into applause as Charles walks forward, scooping Luca into his arms while Mila and Jules are immediately surrounded by press taking photos and asking for high fives.

Y/N slips a hand into Charles’, her smile wide. “They handled that better than you did.”

Charles grins, eyes still on his little trio. “They’re natural born media drivers.”

——

Back at the hotel that evening, Charles was flat on his back on the couch, eyes closed, two juice box wrappers on his chest. You were sitting cross-legged beside him, flicking through the photos already going viral online—Mila adjusting her mic like a pro, Jules midair off the chair, Luca holding up fingers like he was flashing a gang sign.

“Next time,” Charles murmured, eyes still shut, “we tell them I only have one child. Maybe two, max.”

You smiled, brushing curls from his forehead. “Sure, baby. But admit it… they kind of stole the show.”

He cracked an eye open, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’m not even mad.”

✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩

[xyywrites]

Avoiding the “Mary Sue” trap while creating characters.

A “Mary Sue” is that charact. Perfect; bends the story to their will, faces no meaningful struggles, and often feels too idealized to be relatable. The thing I like most is when an author makes a character, a situation, a scene, realistic. I like heavy realism in my books. I know we read to escape reality, but there's a way to do that.

1. Give Them Flaws Not the checklist kind. Not "clumsy" or "bad at math" unless that genuinely bleeds into who they are and how they move through the world. I mean the kind of flaws that crack open relationships. That drive certain choices. That make you want to shake them. Flaws should cost them something. Otherwise, they’re decoration.

2. Let Them Fail Failure is the most human thing. It brings shame, doubt, growth, all the stuff that makes a character feel alive. Let them try, and stumble. Let them mess up something important. Let them hurt people and not know how to fix it. Failure opens narrative doors that perfection just slams shut.

3. Don’t Make Everyone Love Them If every side character is just there to admire your MC, you’re not writing a story—you’re writing propaganda. Let people mistrust them. Let some hate them. Not everyone sees the same version of a person. Maybe someone sees behind their act, maybe someone’s immune to their charm. That gives perspective.

4. Make Their Skills Believable A skill with no backstory is just plot armor. If they're good at something, show why. Time. Training. Failure. Maybe they’re not even the best—just someone who works harder than they should have to. That’s infinitely more compelling than someone who just is talented for no reason.

5. Avoid Overloading Them With Traits They don’t need to be smart, funny, hot, tragic, a prodigy, a rebel, and an empath who bakes when sad. Choose what matters. Strip it down to the few traits that define them, the ones they carry into every scene. Complexity is about layers, not a pile of labels.

6. Give Them Internal Conflict We all contradict ourselves. That’s the beauty of it. Your character should wrestle with decisions. Regret them. Say one thing and feel another. Inner conflict is what separates a walking trope from a person we believe in.

7. Let the Plot Push Back The world shouldn’t bend for your character. The plot should push them, break them, make them bleed for the win. Their goals should cost something. The story isn’t just their playground—it’s the pressure cooker where they get tested. If they’re never cornered, what’s the point?

8. Ensure They Don’t Eclipse the Entire Cast Other characters are not props. Give them wants, voices, limits. They don’t exist to spotlight the protagonist—they exist to breathe life into the story. And your MC is more interesting when they’re surrounded by people who push them, contradict them, challenge them.

9. Avoid Unrealistic Morality Nobody’s always right. And honestly, it’s annoying when they are. Let them justify things that aren’t justifiable. Let them fail to see another perspective. Let them believe they’re in the right—until they’re not. Give them a compass that doesn’t always point true north.

10. Make Them Struggle to Earn Trust Trust is a slow build. People remember hurt. They hesitate. Let your MC do the work—prove themselves, fail, rebuild. Trust earned over time is more satisfying than instant loyalty that comes out of nowhere.

I hate perfect characters. Especially when it’s pretend perfection. Like what do you mean he has abs when he has no time to workout? Like what do you mean she is so put together all the time? In this economy?

let's write something raw, something realistic.

[cookiewrites]

here's some rich scoups spoiling you thoughts i have been unable to get out of my head for the past months. the tl;dr of it all is that seungcheol is obsessed with spoiling his partner.

spoilt

wc: 1.0k

cw: rich!seungcheol x afab reader, mostly sfw but does mention penetrative and oral sex (reader reciving) a couple times, pet names for reader (baby, jagiya), little bit of praise kink. this has not been proofread.

seungcheol who loves when you spend his money. it starts simply, he makes sure he pays when you two eat out together. you try and protest it but he doesn't hear any of it, pulling out his card before you can even say anything about it - whether this is brunch or dinner.

seungcheol who uses this as an opening to start paying for things when you're at home too. ordering food in? use his card. doing some online shopping? put it on his account. you need new bedding? you both sleep in the bed, it's better to let him pay. he leaves a copy of his card around the apartment for you, putting it in your phone, making it even easier to use than your own, breaking down any excuse you have to use your own.

seungcheol who pays not as a method of control, but as a method of care. he knows you have your own money, and that you can afford to pay for things, you did it for all the years before he turned up. but he doesn't want you to worry about it any more, its part of how he looks after you. he explains this to you over and over, until you finally believe him, and put your own card hidden in the back of your purse for emergencies only.

seungcheol, who got so hard the first time you splurged on his card, that he had to bury himself in you. you came home with this beautiful necklace, rambling some apology about how expensive it was, and how you can return it if he wants, and all he can feel is his cock straining against the fabric at his jeans, seeing you finally feeling comfortable enough to let him pay for things.

"it looks so good jagiya, you look spoiled, that's exactly how i like you" he rambles as he kisses down your neck, putting a little mark right under where the chain sits. "lemme show you, baby, fuck..."

seungcheol who's favourite part of his day is coming home and seeing your haul from your day out, knowing he paid for all of it. you show him the trinkets you picked up for your shelves, and the new jumper you bought, and the earrings you bought already in your ears. the possessiveness he feels makes him feel a little dizzy, he treats you so well that you're showing it off. letting everyone else know how good he treats you.

seungcheol who gets whiney if you haven't bought anything in a while. he'll check his app and see you haven't spent anything in a bit and gets suspicious, knowing you've at least bought food in the last week, so why hasn't he paid? he'll bring it up to you, pouting, his lip sticking out. why would you hurt him like this?

seungcheol who'll use this as an excuse to pull up all the half filled baskets in your phone's browser and check them all out. he uses this as a threat, that if you aren't regularly treating yourself, that he'll do it for you. sometimes he'll just do it when you're cuddling. watching the tiktoks you're showing him, and then taking the phone out of your hands, to finish the purchases of a couple things, even as you try to stop him. there is no reason, to him at least, that you shouldn't have every single thing you want.

seungcheol who never uses the fact you buy yourself things as a reason to not buy you surprises as well. he uses the outgoings on his account to see what you're fixated on right now, and add on. is it blind boxes? he's bought you a full set. is it make up? he saw this palette he thought was cute. is it jewellery? you have a new ring to wear arriving tomorrow.

"it just reminded me of you!" he explains, pouting, as you question why he's bought you another gift. "it'll look so pretty on, baby, please? for me?" acting as if the gift for you, is actually a present for him.

seungcheol who literally gets off on spoiling you. he's finished in his pants several times as he ate you out, and you went on a shopping spree on his phone, telling him all the things you're buying. for him, this is exactly how things should be, you doing absolutely nothing, and getting completely spoilt anyway. all fucked out, and dressed up, getting anything you could possibly want.

"mmm baby you can give me another one" he groans against your thigh as you try to whine that it's too much, "i know you can baby, let me spoil you, yeah? yeah." he dives back in, losing himself in it, making you shake so much you can't even finish checking out - but he'll make sure to finish that for you later as well.

seungcheol who loves when you tell him how good he treats you, and how spoilt you are. it's a bit of a praise kink thing for him, but he just loves hearing how happy you are and how spoilt you feel. it makes his heart (and his cock) full. that's what this is about, making you feel even half of the love he holds for you.

"you're so good to me cheol" you groan, hands helplessly clawing at his back as he fills you up again. "f-fuck, so good to me, baby, no one treats me as well as you do." you ramble, letting him know just how good he is.

seungcheol who puts his black card in your mouth when you begin to complain that he is ruining your expensive lingerie, a very quick way to remind you that he can afford to buy you a new set a dozen times over - and sometimes he does it, just to prove the point.

seungcheol who's so proud when the guys point out how spoilt you are. if they even try and insinuate that it's a bad thing, he shuts it down immediately - reminding them that they'd be so lucky to even have someone to spoil. someone as special as you.

[ashwhowrites]

I'm so happy you're back and your requests are open!!

Can I request Eddie Munson who tries to get your attention but you’re stuck on someone else? Could be Steve or something. Eventually you notice him and a happy ending?

I love this trope! I hope this is what you wanted and you enjoy it. Thank you for requesting ❤️

Notice me

Eddie had his reasons for disliking Steve Harrington. He knew he had petty reasons but reasons were reasons. Eddie knew who Steve truly was before he changed in the eyes of Dustin. Eddie tried to be nice about Steve for the kid but he couldn't help but roll his eyes whenever he talked about him. To him, Steve was the shallow boy he was in high school.

That's what he'd tell Dustin anyway.

Another huge reason was the girl Eddie had been in love with for years had her eyes set on Steve. Steve might have been the king, a rich daddy and good looks but Eddie knew he could never love Y/N the way he could.

Luckily for Eddie, Steve was still caught up on Nancy. Which he had no idea why. If Y/N was standing in front of him, Nancy would never be thought of again. But that's where they were different.

Y/N was friends with Steve but ached for so much more. It pained her to try to get Steve to see her in a new light, but he still had feelings for Nancy. It frustrated Y/N, Nancy was in love with another guy but Steve still wanted her.

She had absolutely no clue that her friend Eddie was desperate to get her attention. And that he had been trying for years.

~~~

Y/N sat on the curb as she frowned. She attended this party in hopes of talking to Steve, but he was searching around for Nancy. Y/N was positive she wasn't here but Steve didn't care. She wore her best dress, spent hours on her hair and makeup and still Steve barely glanced in her direction. She felt crushed as she held back tears.

Eddie walked up to the party, a toolbox in his hand as he prepared to sell. His attitude shifted from the party to Y/N sitting on the front curb.

"Want some company?" He asked. She looked up as someone joined her. She smiled as Eddie looked down at her with a soft look.

"Sure, Eds," she smiled. "I'd love your company."

Eddie smiled at her words, his heart fluttering. He sat next to her, not wasting a second to wrap his arm around her shoulder and bring her into his chest.

In his arms, she tried not to break down. She was embarrassed he already knew she was upset but she tried to soak in Eddie's comfort.

"Here to sell?" She asked, not wanting to talk about the elephant in the room.

"Yeah, unfortunately," he laughed. She enjoyed the vibrations coming from his chest. "I'll gladly take all of their daddy's money though."

She laughed as she cuddled into his chest. "Gonna buy yourself something nice with it? New watch or bracelet?" She joked.

"Nah, I've got you on my arm. I don't need that shit."

She smiled at his words, trying to forget how sad she felt about Steve. "You're the best, Eddie. Thank you for being my friend."

Eddie smiled but his heart cracked. He wasn't sure what to do to make her see him as more than a friend but he wasn't going to give up.

"You don't have to sit out here with me. I know you have work to do," she sighed. She went to pull away but he kept her in place.

"I want to," he reassured her, "Wanna get out of here? We can rent a movie."

Y/N debated on the option, but she was still desperate for Steve. "I appreciate it, Eddie. You go sell, make good money. I'm going to see if I can find Steve."

Eddie tried not to show how sad he was as she kissed his cheek and stood up. He grabbed her hand to stop her and she looked down at him.

"You look beautiful tonight, by the way. In case the jerk face doesn't notice, you should know."

She smiled to the ground as she rubbed his hand as a thank you before letting it go.

He turned his head to watch her disappear into the party. He stood up and kicked a rock near his foot. He shook off his disappointment and the rejection. He grabbed his drugs and headed to the backyard. He hated Steve Harrington.

~~~

Y/N knew she tried too hard to seek Steve's interest but she couldn't stop herself. She just wanted him so bad. He was inches away from her all the time, making her want to connect their lips and never let him go. It was torture to talk to him, breathe in his cologne, and not have him the way she wanted.

She wasn't sure what Nancy had that she didn't. Even with their history, Nancy didn't love Steve the way Y/N did. He was so blinded by Nancy that he couldn't see how perfect Y/N was for him and how happy she could make him.

She sighed as she played with the straw in her drink. She frowned as she watched Steve lean against the wall to talk to Nancy. It was Steve's birthday and they were all huddled at his house to celebrate. She was glad Steve's parents weren't ever around so she could drink everything in Steve's dad's bar.

As usual, Nancy gave him short answers, clearly wanting to be anywhere else. It was painful that everyone could see how pitifully in love he was but Nancy. Y/N felt out of place as the room was filled with people she didn't know. As his friend, it wasn't with it. But if they were together, she'd stand by him in any crowded room because he felt safe. After a few more drinks, she gave up on Steve.

She slightly stumbled out of her seat, walking over to Steve and Nancy.

"Sorry to interrupt, Happy birthday, Steve. I'm going to call for a ride and head home,"

"Oh yeah, thanks for coming," he said quickly, not even looking at her as he jumped right back into Nancy. Y/N felt her face burn in embarrassment. She turned and quickly walked away. The faster she walked the more she realized she needed that ride. She headed for the phone on the wall and dialed the familiar number.

~

She soaked in the night air as she lay in the grass. It was uncomfortable, stabbing her skin but she didn't mind. Her eyes closed as she breathed in. The alcohol swimming around her head. She shouldn't be surprised every time Steve ignores her, but for some reason, she thought it would be different at one point. One day he'll realize Nancy isn't the one for him and come to her. She could wait for that day.

"Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck,"

She opened her eyes as she heard Eddie's voice getting closer to her. She smiled when he appeared in front of her, a worried look on his face.

"You little shit! I thought you were passed out and hurt!"

"Come lay down with me," she giggled, the alcohol taking more effect. "Let's look at the stars!"

"Honey, you're drunk. How about we go home?" He asked, holding out his hand.

"Please?" She whispered, Eddie sighed as he saw the begging look in her eyes.

"Fine, but only for a little bit! Sticks and shit get stuck in my hair," he grumbled laying next to her. He looked up at the stars like she asked, his hands on his chest. "I don't know what I'm looking at."

His heart fluttered as she laughed. She tilted her head until she was hitting his shoulder. She pointed up to the sky, her arm between them as he followed it. She began to point out the stars above them, knowing every name.

Eddie wasn't surprised she knew all of them. She amazed him every time he learned something new about her. If she had any flaws he didn't see them. When he dreamed about his future, she was it.

"Which ones can I wish on?" He muttered.

"Shooting stars, but those are hard to find. Why? Do you have a wish?" She asked, she tilted her head up to look at him. He looked breathtaking under the moonlight. His big brown eyes reflected the stars and Y/N felt this new emotion towards him.

He shrugged, still looking above. "I've got one in mind." She couldn't tear her eyes away, she had never noticed how beautiful he was. She felt this desire to kiss him, and it scared her.

"What is it?" She whispered. Eddie turned to look at her, shocked to see her already looking at him.

"I can't tell you because then it won't come true," he teased. She let out a smile, agreeing to his statement.

"I hope it comes true for you," she said.

She didn't know she was the only one who could make his wish come true.

"Let's get you home, sweets," he said as he got to his feet. He held out his hand as she sat up.

"Can I stay with you? I don't want to be alone," she asked, hugging her knees. She looked lost and sad. And Eddie wished he could take all her pain away.

"I've got your favorite shirt cleaned, and Wayne made his famous Mac and cheese for dinner," he smiled as her face lit up. She jumped to her feet and grasped his hand.

~

Y/N enjoyed her warm bowl of Mac and cheese as she sat in Eddie's T-shirt. Her legs tossed on his lap as he flicked through the channels. His free hand rubbed up and down her shin, goosebumps raised under his touch.

She immediately felt better in the presence of Eddie and his trailer. There wasn't a bad day that Eddie couldn't turn around. The alcohol slowly left her system as her tipsy energy decreased.

"Hey," she said softly as she nudged him with her foot. His hand stopped moving and he turned to look at her. "Thank you for coming tonight."

He wanted to say so much. He wanted her to realize she called him when she was sad, not Steve. He wanted her to realize he knew how to make her feel better, and Steve wouldn't know where to start. He just wanted her to finally see he was the one who picked up her broken pieces when Steve didn't pick her. But he couldn't.

"I'll always be there when you need me."

~~~

The weather was warm and Dustin invited everyone out to play a game of baseball. Eddie brought Y/N and Dustin to the field. Steve, Nancy, Robin, and Mike met them there.

"Who are the captains?" Dustin asked as he smacked his hand against his glove.

"I will," Steve said as he stepped forward.

Eddie rolled his eyes, not surprised he wanted to be the frontman. He caught a glance of Y/N staring at Steve as she bit her lip. Eddie wasn't afraid of some competition.

Eddie stepped forward and Y/N was surprised.

"Alright, let's see what you got pretty boy," Eddie smirked as he patted Steve's chest.

Dustin wasn't surprised by the heat between them, but Y/N was new to seeing just how much Eddie couldn't stand Steve. Eddie was never the type to want to run around and sweat. He could care less about this shit and all of a sudden he wanted to run the team and to go against Steve.

Steve looked down at Eddie's hand, shoving it off his chest as he glared at him.

"Pick first," Eddie growled. Steve didn't look away from him as he called Nancy's name.

"Y/N," Eddie called. She happily skipped to his side. She felt excited she was his first pick.

"Mike" Steve called

"Dustin" Eddie called

"Robin" Steve called

The teams were set and the game started. They separated to warm up and then started the game.

"Think they'll tackle each other half way through?" Robin asked as she guarded first base. Y/N laughed behind her as she kept her foot on the base, waiting for Eddie to bat.

"Definitely,"

Y/N watched as Eddie stepped up to bat. She couldn't help but check him out as he smacked the bat against his sneakers. His legs displayed as he wore black shorts and a tight white T-shirt. Even from across the field she could see his dark ink. His hair was tied up, thanks to her.

"Don't be scared to throw it like a man this time, Harrington," he smirked as he sent Steve a wink. This was the first time Y/N had ever seen Eddie do a sport, and she wasn't sure if he should be trash talking.

Steve threw the ball with all the anger in his body, the ball cracked against the bat as Eddie swung. Y/N watched in awe as Eddie hit it out of anyone's reach. Nancy went running after the ball as Eddie started running. Y/N stood on the base shocked.

"BABY! YOU GOTTA RUN!" he screamed as he ran towards her. She snapped out of her thoughts and ran as fast as she could. Eddie was right behind her, encouraging her as she hit the second base. "GO! GO! GO!"

She squealed with excitement as she kept running, Eddie hot on her feet as she smacked the third base.

"HOME RUN! GO! GO!" Dustin screamed from home base as he waited to bat.

Y/N pushed through and landed on the base, Eddie right behind her. She screamed as Eddie picked her up and twirled her in the dirt.

"THAT WAS SO FUN!' she screamed, the adrenaline pumping through her. She looked down at Eddie as he gently dropped her to her feet. "I didn't know you knew how to play!" She said shocked as she smacked his shoulder. "That was fucking impressive."

"I always have tricks up my sleeve," he winked as he walked to grab his bat. Y/N tried to shrug off the blush she felt creeping on from his wink.

The game started to get heated quickly as Steve and Eddie ran laps around each other. Neither were giving up and being fueled by their competitiveness.

Steve was just an out behind winning the whole thing. He couldn't stand the thought of Eddie winning. He didn't have much against the guy, but Eddie hated him so Steve returned the favor.

Y/N ran as fast as she could, trying to make it safely to the base. With her foot an inch away she felt Steve smash against her, ball to her stomach. She cried out in pain as she dropped to her knees, the ball knocking the wind out of her.

Steve didn't notice at first, caught up in the heat of the game. He became alert real quick when Eddie ran over.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!" Eddie screamed as he shoved Steve. Steve threw down the ball and glove, getting back in Eddie's face.

"IT WAS AN ACCIDENT. DON'T PUSH ME!" He gave Eddie a hard shove, making him stumble a few steps back.

"You don't play rough with a girl like that," Eddie said with a clenched jaw. He was becoming very protective over her and everyone was getting worried a fight would break out.

"Eddie, I'm okay," Y/N said as she breathed through her words. "It was just an accident." She clenched her stomach and Eddie turned to look at her. "Don't start something."

Eddie scoffed as she blamed him. "Seriously? He fucking hurt you! And I wouldn't be surprised if it was on purpose." Eddie spat as he turned to Steve.

"I'd never hurt her," Steve fought back.

"Like you even give a shit about her," Eddie snarled. "Your head is so far up Nancy's ass you've got no idea how much you've been hurting Y/N."

Y/N gulped as Steve casted a look towards her. "Eddie please just shut up." She begged.

"You know what, fine," Eddie scoffed as he backed up. "It's always going to be Steve anyway." He sent a sad glance towards Y/N and walked away. She stared after him, a twist in her stomach.

Steve walked over to check on her, his hands on her skin. She wanted to soak in the feeling but her eyes followed Eddie. She pushed Steve away and ran to follow Eddie but he was gone when she made it to the parking lot.

~

Y/N normally wasn't nervous to see Eddie, but knowing he was upset with her didn't settle right. After the gang left the field, Steve dropped her off at Eddie's.

Originally she was going to get her car and let Eddie have space. Yet, she welcomed herself into his unlocked trailer and found him in his room.

She knocked on the open door, alerting her presence. He looked over his shoulder from his spot on his bed, letting out a puff of air before he turned back around.

"I'm sorry I made you upset," she said, walking into his room. She sat on his bed, but he didn't turn around. "I hope you know you mean more to me than he does. You're my best friend and you always will be. And it was rude of me to tell you to shut up. I just didn't want Steve to know how I felt."

"I know I mean more to you than Steve as friends. But I want to mean more than him in other ways," Eddie admitted. He kept his back towards her as he spoke his wall.

"What does that mean?" She asked

Eddie sighed as he rolled over. He sat up and looked down at his hands. "You know how you've been trying to get Steve to notice you romantically?"

"Yeah," Y/N sadly sighed.

"I've been trying to do the same thing with you," he confessed. He nervously looked up from his hands to see her reaction.

"You like me?" She asked. He hated the pitiful look in her eyes. She felt guilty for hurting him and never noticing.

"Yeah," Eddie sighed. "For a long time."

Y/N was shocked. She didn't know what to say. She never once thought Eddie liked her as more than a friend. She was as oblivious as Steve was apparently. But she couldn't deny how her attention had shifted to Eddie lately.

"And I know you like Steve and I'm nothing like Steve."

Y/N shifted closer, "Remember that night of Steve's birthday?"

Eddie nodded, eyeing as she continued to move closer.

"I wanted to kiss you," she confessed. "I thought you looked beautiful and I had this huge urge to kiss you. I thought maybe I was drunk. But I woke up thinking the same thing."

"Really?" Eddie gulped. He was getting nervous as she got even closer, his heart racing.

"Really. Then I wanted to do it again at the baseball field. My stomach had butterflies the whole time, and it was not because of him."

"Do you want to do it now?' he asked, flicking his eyes to her lips.

"I do," she shyly smiled. She held her breath as he moved and held her cheek, leaning in.

She felt fireworks erupt in her stomach as their lips touched. She worked her way onto his lap as the kiss deepened, both wanting to be as close as possible.

After that kiss, she never thought of Steve again.

@bmunson86 @mxcheese @ladymunson @michaelfuckinglangdon @z0mbie-blah @biittersweet @mirrorsstuff @somethingvicked @micheledawn1975 @ago-godance @magnificantmermaid @tlclick73 @hargrovesswifee @cityofidek @silky-luxe @lokiofasgard616 @loving-and-dreaming @eddiemunsonsbitch69 @ashlynnkennedy @strangerthingsstories5255 @harringt8ns @pleasinghellfire @whoscamila @stusdollface93 @gretavankleep37 @bellaisswagger @arlxt @ineedmentalhelp123 @emxxblog

[teaboot]

So this might be a bit of a dumb question, but I thought I’d ask you because I agree with most of your takes and because you studied fashion.

I graduate this fall, and I don’t know what I’m going to wear to the ceremony. Our school has these green robes so I wanted to wear something to go with them. A lot of the graduates wear white dresses, but I’m not sure I want to because some of them don’t feel formal enough for the occasion. I’ve struggled a lot in my college career, so I wanted to pick something celebratory. I’m just not sure where to start to find something that I like and that will suit me.

I’d also like to get something from a small business, if possible. I’ve visited a few department stores in search of formalwear and I’ve found that 1) things don’t fit me because I’m 4'10'' and 120 lb and 2) I generally don’t like the way they look. I’ve considered Etsy because my roommate who just graduated got a skirt from a seller that looked really nice, but I keep running into the problem of not knowing what I want.

If this is weird, please ignore and I’m really sorry. I just feel a bit lost. Thank you for your time!

ooooooughh that’s a toughie

I think a big factor would be how formal you’re planning to go- are we talking ball gown, black tie event, expensive restaurant, Sunday at church…?

Not knowing your build but going off your description, you’re lucky in that pretty much anything you wear is more likely to be too big than too small, and it’s much easier to cinch or belt or bring in the hem of a garment than it is to let it out. Being petite, you can rely a lot on accessories to bring your look together, and accessories can go a long way in elevating an otherwise plain look.

White dress is a cute idea, though I may aim for off-white just to avoid looking bridal unless it’s a uniform event or a school colours thing. A warm eggshell or cream looks good on most people.

If you’re going to be wearing a robe though, I wouldn’t worry too much about the dress- not unless you want fancy cuffs or collar or hem visible. In which case, a nice blouse with a belted maxi or midi skirt could be a good idea, if a little old-fashioned.

As for specific retailers, I fully encourage Etsy stores with good reviews, though I would add a note to your order if something is urgent or has specific measurements or requirements or alterations. And some styles are safer than others when it comes to sizing- being broad-shouldered myself, I always gravitate to wrap dresses or wrap tops, just ‘cause they enhance a curvy figure while still having plenty of room for error in sizing.

I know this didn’t really help with specifics, but maybe hopefully gave you some ideas…?

(one sec, gonna update this with images so you know what kind of tops/dresses I’m referring to)

UPDATE:

When I say “wrap dress”, I mean something like these- Conservative enough to be professional, but light and breezy enough for a long summer ceremony. Ideally in a light cotton or linen blend, and something you can reuse for other events over and over in the future (the second is a bit bright for me but that’s close to the hem I mean- though I personally prefer the first.) Being petite and slim, you’re double lucky in that you could probably pull off an empire waist too if you like for that floaty, ethereal look- busty people like me often just end up looking pregnant.

As for blouses, these are great and can be super crazy, depending on how far you wanna go

You’ll be depending on the collar and sleeves to do most of the legwork here, so you can have a lot of fun with them. The skirt though should be at least lower calf-length to balance the whole thing out.

Thinking like

Cute, retro, somewhat formal, and you can keep wearing the pieces instead of a big gown that ends up in the back of a closet forever. (I’ve lived a broke life, vintage styles like this are fantastic for the longevity and penny-pinching that I look for)

But with robes on, the biggest parts of your outfit will be neckline and hemline, so whatever you end up going with, focus there.

Also, shoes go in and out of style constantly, and it’s going to be a LONG fucking day, so if you want to wear heels I’d go with a closed-toe almond fit with a low heel, ideally on the thicker side, and in black, or at least some other neutral colour to avoid taking up attention. Unless you can get the exact shade of green as your school colours, in which case that would be pretty neat too, but black may be your best bet.

comme ça:

If there’s any inspo images you have on hand or particular styles you feel suit you personally, I could find something more suited to your tastes, but these are basically my go-tos.

Traditional timeless and comfy, and either long-lasting or functional enough to be worn over and over again, dressed up or down to the occasion.

Hope I could help?

And congratulations! :D

[blackwell008]

This post really got me today because of the journey I’ve had with social media. I feel like I need to go back to the beginning when all I wanted to do was create art, write my weird screenplays and short stories.

A time when I wasn’t worried about presenting myself as perfect: something I’ve failed at continuously anyway.

A time when my love for filmmaking, my passion for the horror genre and cinema as a whole language.

I miss those days when I was in undergrad and my passion for cinema was addictive. I watched films from all different genres every single day after class (where we sat and watched films for hours).

I didn’t really care about social media at all. In fact, I started my first instagram because I wanted to network with other filmmakers to try to get a job- that was it.

Then in 2013, a really traumatic thing happened and I feel like I had a mental health breakdown. I used social media as a way to escape bc I was in a toxic living situation and had almost no one I could emotionally connect with and talk to.

Isolation, maladaptive day dreaming and misery is a dangerous thing. I started posting and ranting on twitter, posting photos of myself to impress people who were emotionally unavailable and didn’t even acknowledge my existence.

Mental health issues and social media can be a ticking time bomb if you’re not aware, medicated and have no one to hear you out or check up on you.

Eventually with life, therapy and support I am a lot better but I still struggle with social anxiety and living in real life and I used film to connect to the world.

The issue is now whether I still desire to turn my passion for film into a career; or do I just live life as cinephile while holding a 9 to 5.

Honestly, I’ve been pursuing film for 20 years; going back to my very first film theory class in undergrad until recently pursuing a dual MFA/MBA degree which completely blew up in my face.

The current school I attended was a giant clusterfuck with again: absolutely no support (this is another post in itself that I’ll talk about at another time).

I just turned 48 years old. I’m tired, currently broke and feeling defeated by life. Plus the trump administration gutting DEI certainly doesn’t intend to help Black queer women over 30 like myself.

I’m at the point I’m ready to give up. I’ve had so many setbacks, physical and mental health issues that I have to manage on a daily basis, financial issues I have to figure out how to manage (student loans😩🫩🙄).

I just want to be an ARTIST. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Yes, I know I could paint and sculpt etc. which I actually do. However, one of my biggest dreams is to write/direct feature films. I’m actually more open to working in tv now more than ever- seems a lot more stable; but that original love of film I had is still in me.

I keep talking about the film Sinners because it brings me back to that original passion for cinema before it was perverted and bastardized by toxic people I’ve come across irl, the fucked up sociopolitical climate we’ve been in for the last decade and my own personal struggles.

I feel numb. Apathetic. Indifferent.

I pray I’ll get my cinema mojo back like Annie’s necklace that she gave Smoke. Right now I’ve lost it.

This is a long overdue come to Jesus moment. in my case with my growing practice of Yoruba spirituality returning to Olodumare.

I’ll be alright, I don’t consider myself a victim even though I’ve been victimized so much in the last 10 years by America’s horrible healthcare system because of the systemic and institutional racism festering in it; America doesn’t give a fuck about the health of Black people, our bodies and they never have- a horror movie within itself . Again, another conversation for another time.

If you’ve read this far I really appreciate you doing so. Trust me, this was a process of 10 years of frustration.

I needed to vent.

I just don’t know what my next move is. I don’t know if I want to be a film director/ screenwriter anymore maybe as a hobby but not a career. I have to be more pragmatic and practical to pay my bills like 99% of us do. I’m definitely don’t think I’m unique in my experience but being a black woman in America I experience it differently.

[hcneymooners]

✸ TRITWWISIYTSTICS ⤷ chapter i. i feel i could right you.

(read on ao3.)

synopsis: here. cw: mentions of death and grief, implied animal death, mentions of injury, azzi's lack of self-preservation.

notes: please let me know what you think. my cycle started and i feel evil and tired, so i would love to know anything you would like to tell me. my inbox is always open, and i love you.

azzi wished people would stop dying, if only to get a moment to herself. as soon as thought left her, she felt swollen with its rot. 

it was just so easy to get exhausted now. she was so tired of lying: about how many supplies they had left, about how well-versed she was in her tasks, about how lonely she wasn’t. the worst were the ones who hurt themselves on purpose, who bled so that they had something in this mess to understand. she wanted to cup her hands around their jaw and bear down until there was a creak and a whimper of pain and tell them, “stop trying to die. this isn’t something you should want. stop trying to die. i’ve been spending months trying to bring back my family, to make them alive again.”

but she didn’t. she was just less careful with their ivs.

she was tired of waking early in the morning when the mists were thick and warping for a single moment of peace. despite the (dis)quiet of the house, she found that she still felt haunted in that wide, open space. she tried her hardest not to look at the locked room to her left when she exited her own, or the picture with the room’s key next to it. 

the country had only taken six days to collapse, though it spent years building up to the days she lived in now. she remembered the first plane that had been shot down just a few state lines over from where it had fled its own airport. there had been several planes butchered in the same manner, several crashes ablaze with flame, blood, and bone. azzi specifically recalled this one, not because it was the first, but because her entire family had been inside of it. 

she couldn’t remember how she’d managed to save her own life. she had been reluctant to go on the trip, had felt something immovable in her chest whenever her parents spoke of her coming. so, she stayed. she had stayed with inês in the stomach of her old home, their backs pressed together in her queen-sized bed. and then, she had only inês. inês like a sister. inês like her child. 

then inês had died, too, and left azzi to weep and wake on her own. 

azzi felt the top of her head ache at the root, the spot where she’d once torn out her hair in grief, still raw in spirit. she ignored it and grabbed the basket atop her counter as she made her way to the garden. she wasn’t hungry herself, but the soil gave her something to do that wasn’t destructive, self- or otherwise. 

when she walked outside, rain lightly lashed the side of her face, and she could see the swell of the clouds, their bellies dark grey and awkwardly ridged. she only turned to the side to slip off the wide-brimmed wicker hat she’d taken from a returning scout, and set it atop her curls to keep her vision clear. 

her outfit was slightly impractical: a long, cotton skirt the color of cow cream and a large grey woolen sweater that had belonged to inês’s father. she’d almost burned it after she’d buried the girl, so irrational with her grief, but had saved it in the end. now, it kept her warm, and if she closed her eyes, she could almost feel inês with her thin body and buttery, brown hair breathing warm and close against her neck. 

the skirt was bound to get dirty, but azzi didn’t mind whatsoever. this was the cost of sustaining herself. this was her proof of work, of living. her mother would’ve hated her for dirtying it. the thought made her mouth twist uncomfortably into an upward shape that could’ve been called a smile.

she bent slowly, her bones shuddering under the motion, and began to dig her fingers into the soil. she tucked the oiled fat of her fingertips underneath the small rocks and wiggling worms. it was still damp from yesterday’s storm, and it clung to her skin like it couldn’t bear to be parted from her. 

the carrots were late this year, she noted, and the herbs too sparse. but something in the dirt always came through. azzi had learned to trust that. she had to. it was a relief to be able to grow, to be able to avoid the commune’s large mess hall with its horrible silence and relentless, dull pressure.

the edge of the property was far beyond the line of trees, where the hills folded into one another like unmade beds. azzi always gardened with her back to the view, with her face bent toward the home she lived in. she’d never built a gate, despite inês’s nagging. you can’t just let the world walk in, she used to say. 

but azzi believed in openness. in letting things pass through. she borrowed from the land and thought, maybe, if she let it breathe, it would never take more than she could give. she borrows so much from the world—soil, rain, death, survival—and on some level, she knew it would ache to borrow back. the land remained porous because she was.

so there was no gate. no fence. nothing to keep the world out, or her in.

besides, she liked looking at their house. it was a rather large cabin, built and abandoned by a louisana-native who had been an architect before the floods swallowed his homeland. it pulled high into an a-frame, but spots of the south decorated it like sugar spots on a banana peel. 

the porch was vast and encircled the waist of the house like lovers’ arms, four thick columns split into two on either side of the wide wooden stairs. there was a balcony just outside the circular window that birthmarked the roof, but the glass couldn’t open, so it was more for the outside view. that was azzi’s room. 

since there was no gate and no one here, azzi liked to watch over where she lived as she worked. but that also meant that she could be snuck up on. an easy death. 

that’s why it didn’t startle her when she heard it: something soft shifting through the brush. not a deer. not a scout. but also, not a threat. just presence.  a footfall, a pause. the feeling of being observed.

azzi didn’t look up right away. she slowed the pull of her hands, letting a small head of lettuce roll into the empty belly of her basket. the long brown line of her neck twisted meekly as she let the moment stretch, her lungs expanding and contracting with delayed anxiety. she let it linger. the rain had stilled, and now the brim of her hat acted as a small shield from whomever was behind her. her hands were wet with earth.

carefully, she turned around. her shears hung loosely from her hand, the blades dull with mud. there was nothing practiced in her stance, nothing defensive. only the slow, reluctant curiosity of someone who had long accepted that danger, if it came, would not be outrun.

but what met her wasn't an animal. it was another woman. 

tan skin, despite the season. a sweep of wet blonde hair, dirt-streaked and pulled into a loose, messy bun that clung stubbornly at the nape. the roots were darkened, rusted by sun. her cheeks were flushed from effort or wind, maybe both, and a smudge of soil clung just beneath one of her impossibly blue eyes. she stood half-shadowed by the trees, close enough to be clear, but far enough that azzi had to squint a little through the mist.

and slung across her back was a rifle, its matte black stock dulled by rain, the trigger jutting gray and ugly like a sneer.

azzi still didn’t move. she just took her in.

the woman’s eyes swept the space like she was cataloguing it. she glanced at the porch, the rows of struggling herbs, and the way azzi’s cotton skirt clung desperately to her shins. then their eyes met, and for a moment, the air went thinner.

the woman didn’t speak right away. she just gave a small nod, more acknowledgment than greeting. something unreadable passed across her face. it was something like relief, but sharper.

“you always leave it open like this?” she asked, voice low and dry-edged, like she hadn’t used it much lately.

azzi didn’t answer. her fingers twitched once against the shears, then went still. she just said, softly:

“i didn’t want a gate.”

“you’re leaving yourself wide-open,” the woman remarked, raising a pale brow.

azzi’s mouth twitched. “i know.”

and even though azzi knew the answer, she asked her next question anyway:

“did you come from the commune?”

the woman eyed her for a second, took in the wide hat and its little tie beneath azzi’s chin. she decided to be honest. 

“no.”

azzi nodded, though she was unsurprised. the direction the woman had stepped out of spoke from the land miles beyond hers, not the carefully curated path to the main base that fell to her other side. 

“you’ll have to go there if you’re interested in staying.”

the woman pressed her lips together, then said, “you ain’t a part of it?”

azzi tilted her head to the side, and the motion made her look unbalanced. her eyes were sweet and full, brown like a doe’s.

“i am, but i live on my own. they know of me, but since i take care of myself, they leave me be. it’s a relief, i think, to know that they don’t have to completely take care of me. we’re struggling as is.”

azzi wasn’t sure why she was sharing. providing this information only revealed that both she and the commune were weak, an easy annihilation if the woman was so inclined. she didn’t even know if the blonde was alone.

“mmm,” was the answer she got back. 

azzi shifted in place, aching to drop back to her knees and finish cultivating. 

“are you going to kill me?” she asked, just to be sure. azzi’s voice was light, but the question hung heavy between them.

“absolutely,” the woman said, deadpan. then, with no fanfare, she reached for the rifle at her back.

there was a tight pause before, with a few quick motions, she showed azzi how the clip was empty. 

azzi smiled, all teeth, and her skin almost split with the effort. it hadn’t done that in a while. satisfied, she lowered herself back to the ground and gently pushed away a rabbit who had been nibbling at the top of what just might have been a carrot. maybe they weren’t late, she thought with an inner laugh.

“you think they’d let me stay?” the woman called out.

“yes,” azzi responded. the commune never turned away anyone. it almost always irritated her.

“think they’d let me live on my own? like you?”

“mmm,” azzi said, “no. they would probably assign you to me, actually.”

“and why’s that?” the woman asked apprehensively.

“because,” azzi said, with a somber look over her shoulder. “i’m on my own now. i don’t have anyone left. so, i’m the only one with any space left.”

✸

azzi didn’t wait for the official decree. she could now picture cd’s tight smile, her short hair curling at the edge of her jaw as she welcomed that strange woman in.

instead, she dug into the dirt until her nail beds were red and raw. she planted the small bits of the iris that had been left over on the kitchen sill, its petals drooping just as her body had been doing since its owner passed. she sat, small and trembling in the dark as the loss rocked through her. she was learning that grief was a staircase she was almost always climbing. every day, she either got lost or found the landing, but she would never stop stepping on it.   

after, she grasped the top of her basket with both hands and hauled herself up from the ground. the weight of it almost swung her back down, but she only braced her knees and carried on. it was good that the wicker was heavy. it meant the earth, and she, were both capable of production. 

just before she climbed up the porch, she turned and looked out onto the land. the dirt was bloodied with the sunset, the sky shimmering with pale fire as the moon slipped into its opposite’s place. she watched it as it rose, and when it reached the highest peak, and the sun reached its lowest, she opened her mouth and said thank you to both. she repeated what her old neighbors had taught her, just before leaving:

“i am part of your natural world, and i am grateful to live off of you. i am grateful to breathe with you, to walk with you, and to call you home. i am connected to you and i commit myself to taking outstanding care of you, as you do me. i do what is in my power, i am conscious of you. i love—i love you.”

she always stumbled through the last line—everyone she had ever said that to was no longer there to affirm that they loved her back. 

she stepped through the door, the evening light pink and yellow like a fever-filled throat. the colors weren’t necessarily her choice, but the solar grid was twisted and makeshift, so this is what came through. it could be worse, so she let what passed through, well, pass through. 

the kitchen slowly filled with the scent of thyme and boiled bone broth, small bits of fat dripping off the tiny slabs of deer meat she had straining over a simmering pot. the meat was running out, which she didn’t mind, but the woman might. she hoped they could figure something out. azzi was never one for the killing. inês had been braver than her: knife, shotgun, and all. they were balanced that way.

she’d just washed and tucked the produce away, her knife bridged on the oven-warmed plateau of a second piece of flatbread a little larger than usual, when the door creaked open. there wasn’t a single shard of surprise that was felt in her chest. something different settled in. it was so strange, so much stranger that azzi put the knife down. she barely shifted. only pressed her fingers into the edge of the counter, the grain of the wood grounding her.

she supposed it felt rather close to being right about being chosen.

the woman stepped inside without fanfare, shoulders still damp, the rifle still slung over her back. mud flaked from her boots. her mouth was tight, her jaw working like she was chewing on the fact of being here.

azzi didn’t greet her. just scooped a generous handful of meat into the clay bowl closest to her, drizzled it with slick deposits of vegetable soup, and slid the flatbread gently beneath. she placed it all on a pale green porcelain plate, then set a second bowl on top to keep in the heat. like she’d done it a hundred times before.

“you’ll probably want to wash up first.” she looked up to find the blonde’s sharp eyes on her. “take your boots off, please, and set them by the door. the wood is hard enough to clean as is.” 

“you’re azzi,” the woman said, not quite a question. more like a fact she’d been told, somewhere along the way, and it was now being confirmed against the body it belonged to. 

azzi nodded, her curls bouncing with the affirmation. she was already wiping her hands on a linen scrap. “yes.”

she disappeared for a moment, her body folding into the hallway, into muscle memory. the quiet choreography of care. the way you did when someone needed you to know what to do. she returned with a dented basin, a thin bar of pale soap, and one of her better towels. rough but clean. she’d picked it quietly. unconsciously. the one with the frayed edge, she always folded inside.

 her movements were brisk, but not unkind. familiar. this had been routine once.

“water’s hot,” she said. “you just need to turn the valve. red knob. you can leave your things by the fire. put your gun by the door. i’ll handle the rest.”

the woman—to azzi, her name was still unknowable—still hadn’t sat down. her eyes followed azzi’s dirt-nailed hands. then, finally, she sagged like her spine had been holding too much. her knees bent slowly, almost reluctantly, as if suspicious of gravity, and she lowered herself to the floor, resting her elbows on them. her breath whistled slightly through her nose.

azzi stopped, her body stilling gracefully. she took the other woman in. she noticed the way her lashes clung together in wet little spikes. the way her fingers flexed, like she couldn’t quite unclench them. she was running low. her body was fraying. you could see it in the body, even before the eyes gave it away with their glazed water-blue weight. 

“you’re not gonna be able to wash yourself,” azzi said. not softly, not sharply either. it was just the obvious state of things.

the woman looked up, surprised. then gave a quiet laugh that scraped up and out of her, sharp and exhausted. “no. not really.”

azzi nodded once, then disappeared into the kitchen.

she returned with a small glass vial of oil, jasmine and pink salt, and knelt beside her like it was nothing. like it was the only thing left to do. she worked with care. even without a proper hospital, her bedside manner was inscribed deeply into the lining of her tissue, young as it was.

wringing out the cloth just enough, she pressed it gently to the blonde’s neck, then the crook of her elbow. the skin there was scraped raw in places. she rinsed dirt and flecks of what she knew to be blood from her collarbone, from her jaw. there were scars twisted around her stomach. azzi didn’t ask why.

“lift your arms,” she murmured, and the woman did. mute. trusting, if only because she was too tired not to be.

“tell me if anything hurts,” she murmured.

the woman didn’t, though everything did. 

the water ran in slow rivulets down her chest, catching on the curve of her ribs. azzi tried not to look. not really. but some things revealed themselves no matter where your eyes landed. by the end, she smelled thickly of jasmine, with a hint of rose and the mountains. 

she smelled like one of azzi’s ghosts.

afterward, azzi took the towel and dabbed gently at the woman’s face, smoothing away the last of the dirt from behind her heat-pink ears. then she picked up the comb she’d placed on the floor and began to work slowly through the damp blonde strands, careful not to tug. the hair was heavier now, a wheat-deep gold that was even darker at the ends. she left it loose. didn’t explain why

“my name’s paige,” the woman said at last, voice low, almost hoarse.

azzi paused mid-stroke. then resumed. “that’s a nice name,” she said, pulling the comb’s teeth all the way through.

they ate in silence. just the fire cracking and the muted clink of ceramic. the house sighed in the beams, wood settling like old bone. the birds had stopped. azzi knew it was late, then.

after, azzi stood in front of inês’s room for a long time. not opening it. there was pain just being near it. paige watched from behind her, building a shape of her in her mind. not consciously. just the way you do, when you’re trained to. 

she noted the way azzi’s fingers hovered. how some gripped the others like they could hold them upright. she watched azzi’s grief clutch her hips with invisible hands, saw the way her limbs lifted and curled awkwardly toward the doorknob like it might burn her. her eyes flicked, almost against her will, to the framed photo on the wall.

two girls. one with dark eyes and darker hair, her grin wide, teeth just shy of too large. the other, unmistakably azzi, pressed against her, eyes squeezed shut with joy. pre-collapse. you could tell by the light.

the key next to the frame hung limp on its nail, dust-heavy and stiff. a relic.

“i can take the couch,” paige said gently. quiet, but not unsure. an offer. a line in the sand.

azzi didn’t look back. just let out a quiet breath, a break in her ribs. something fell loose from the crack.

 “no,” she said. “your body can’t handle that right now. it’s fine. i’m in the master.”

she left before paige could reply.

the master was larger than the rest of the house let on. the ceilings stretched higher here, and the walls were painted a soft, dusty cream. the air was warmer. thicker. it smelled faintly of that same jasmine azzi had soaped paige down with, and something a bit more exotic. fig maybe.

the room had been called the marie antoinette room by the architect who designed it. inês had liked that.

the name showed itself without much effort. a chandelier hung, long since stripped of power, but still glinting faintly with dust and its crystalline skeleton of decadence. the bed sat like a small stage in the center, canopied and curtained. its sheets were peach and muslin, clearly survived by someone who had loved it enough to protect it. azzi stepped further in, approaching it with an odd methodology. she folded the quilt back with care, not ceremony.

she had changed into a loose, mid-thigh nightgown, the color of ink. dark indigo, almost black. it caught the light in a way that made it almost look like water, its folds as still as laminar flow. it didn’t belong to this world. or this collapse. paige clocked it. registered the choice.

they didn’t speak as they lay down. just turned their backs to one another like they’d done it before. paige didn’t question the arrangement. not yet. but she noted the oddity of it. sleeping beside another body could be a kind of truce. or a kind of failure. or both.

since the garden, paige had known: azzi was worn down. something in her had stopped flinching. her sense of self-preservation was a sleeping beast, or maybe a murdered one. she was eager to fall on some level, her body constantly primed for the angel of death’s intermittent arrival. for a mistake. for whatever would come first.

azzi reached out, paused, then pulled the curtain closed.

darkness swallowed them.

it was a clean black. not moonless. just total. the kind of dark that was unable to be stimulated. paige felt suspended in it, and maybe that was what made it so easy to plummet, her mind shutting off for the first time in weeks.

they lay back to back. no noise. no light. they lay back to back. no words. just separate prayers whispered into a space neither of them believed in.

azzi didn’t sleep.

her body stayed taut with quiet alarm. the heat of another person so close, unbearable in the gentlest way. 

she didn’t sleep. she couldn’t. her body was humming, wired with the intimate electricity that arrived with a break in solitude. here was someone else, someone warm and breathing. the feeling of being perceived hadn’t worn off. if anything, it pulsed stronger now that paige was so close.

the pressure of a body beside hers, not touching but undeniably there, stirred something dreamlike. she stared into the dark, eyes wide.

paige hadn’t even touched her.  but she’d allowed azzi to tend to her. and that was worse.

they had shared water, and all the while paige had looked at her and seen someone there.

azzi had always been best under pressure. applied or not.

she didn’t sleep. 

but when morning came, she felt something as though she fit better inside her skin.  behind her, paige curled close to the diamond ridge of her spine, knees tucked in. seeking warmth. azzi lifted her hand and slipped two fingers into the curtain’s split, so that she could see the sun.

as the pale fire of a new day bled in and burned her, she thought that something in her felt rested.

© hcneymooners.

[ssweeterthanfiction]

Glimpse of Us

summary: routine became something finnick cherished. but course, the capitol must ruin everything, including his love. but he will still find a way to get her back.

finnick odair x fem!reader

content warnings for the whole story: descriptions of death, torture, starvation, and everything described in The Hunger Games, mentions of suicidal thoughts, implications of S/A

mood board + playlist

previous part | masterlist | next part

Chapter VII

They don’t bring Finnick into the War Room.

Not officially, anyway.

He isn’t invited to the briefings, or given access to intel. The door shuts before he can ask questions, the conversation ends when he walks by. Everything he hears, he hears in pieces—through murmured hallway conversations, closed doors that don’t quite latch, whispered updates passed between people who seem to forget that Finnick has ears. That Finnick has stakes.

Sometimes Plutarch catches him in the hallway, offers a vague reassurance about “progress,” or “developing stages.” Haymitch mutters things here and there, never the full picture. He always ends it with the same gruff line: “You’ll know when you need to know.”

But Finnick needs to know now. Every second he doesn’t feels like a betrayal.

Still, no one looks him in the eye for too long.

He’s not stupid. He knows what they see when they look at him: someone unraveling. A liability. A ticking bomb dressed up in Victory laurels.

Maybe they’re not wrong.

Because underneath the stillness, the silence, something inside him is splintering.

The guilt is constant. All-consuming. It burrows into the cracks of every hour he’s spent here, safe, while you’re out there—Gods know where, Gods know what’s being done to you.

And the worst part is: he left you. The wire snapped. The world exploded. And he hadn’t found you in time.

You had been right there. Somewhere just beyond the trees. Just beyond the smoke. And he’d lost you.

He’d let them take you.

And now the rebellion is moving like molasses—calculating, weighing, waiting. As if there’s time.

There isn’t.

He knows the Capitol better than anyone here. He knows how fast the pain starts. How they break you without breaking the skin. How they take what you love and twist it into something unrecognizable. They don’t need months to do damage.

Just days.

Just hours.

The first time he hears your name again, it’s from behind the glass walls of the Command room.

He isn’t meant to be there. He’s just passing by, pacing like he does now—like if he stops moving for too long, he might fall apart completely.

He catches a sentence midair, Coin’s voice clipped and cool: “She’s still being held with the others. Alive. For now.”

The words hit him like a punch to the ribs.

Alive.

His legs falter mid-step. He braces a hand against the wall, barely breathing.

Alive.

But for how long?

Is anyone asking that?

Because they talk about you like you’re a box to be recovered. An asset. A symbol. Not a person. Not his person.

That night, the silence is a scream inside his head. He thinks of what it must be like for you right now. Are you cold? Are you afraid? Is someone hurting you? Are you being told he gave up on you? That he forgot?

He presses the heel of his palm into his eyes until stars bloom against his lids. Anything to stop the images from coming—your face contorted in pain, your voice crying out for help in a place where no one is listening.

He can’t sleep.

Can’t think straight.

By the time morning comes, he feels like a shell of himself.

Haymitch finds him outside the infirmary the next evening, a bottle in his hand and circles under his eyes darker than the District tunnels.

Finnick doesn’t hesitate. His voice is hoarse but sharp. “I want in.”

Haymitch lifts a brow. “You always want in.”

“I mean it this time.”

“You meant it last time.”

Finnick’s jaw tightens. “I’m not asking to be coddled. I’m not asking for sympathy. I know how the Capitol works. I survived them. That has to count for something.”

Haymitch sighs through his nose. He looks like he’s aged five years in the last five days. “You’re not sleeping,” he says instead.

“Does it matter?”

Haymitch looks at him for a long time. “You’re slipping, kid.”

“I’ll be fine when she’s back.”

“And if she isn’t?”

Finnick doesn’t answer.

Because there is no if.

Two days later, they hand him a transcript.

No context. No warning.

Just a line of garbled Capitol communications and one clear sentence, spoken in a voice that’s raw and crackling through static.

“I’m still here.”

His knees go out from under him.

He catches himself on the edge of a table before he can collapse, his breath leaving him in a broken exhale.

It’s your voice.

Real.

Weakened, but real.

Alive.

You’re alive.

Around him, the others are talking. Plutarch is analyzing the source, Coin is giving orders, and Boggs is marking something on a map. There are plans in motion. Moving pieces.

But all Finnick can hear is you.

I’m still here.

He clutches the transcript in shaking hands, presses it to his chest like a prayer.

The next morning, they call him into the War Room.

Coin. Boggs. Haymitch. A few other officials.

He walks in with a spark of hope flaring in his chest. This is it. He’ll be a part of the extraction. He’ll get to go. He’ll bring you home.

There’s a map spread across the table, zones marked in red. Timelines. Strategized entry points. Extraction windows.

And your name—written in bold above one of the sectors.

Finnick’s eyes fly to the deployment list.

His name isn’t on it.

“I want to be there,” he says immediately.

Boggs doesn’t look surprised. “You’re not on the mission.”

“I should be.”

“You’re compromised,” Coin says, her voice clipped. “Emotionally. We need clean heads on the field.”

“I know the Capitol,” Finnick argues. “Better than anyone. I know the tunnels, the scent of the air, how they manipulate their prisoners. I should be there.”

“You’re too close,” Boggs says. His tone is gentle, but firm.

“I am the mission,” Finnick grits out. “She is everything to me.”

They don’t respond.

Haymitch shifts awkwardly in the corner but doesn’t speak. He doesn’t defend him.

And Finnick feels it then—that isolation, that frozen wall they’ve all built around him. He’s not part of the team. He’s the reminder of what could be lost.

He leaves before they dismiss him, fists clenched at his sides.

That night, he doesn’t try to sleep.

He just sits on the floor of his room, knees drawn up to his chest, the transcript of your voice folded and unfolding in his hands.

I’m still here.

He repeats the words to himself like a mantra, like a lifeline, like they can hold him together.

Because everything else is pulling him apart.

They’re going to the Capitol.

They’re going to try to bring you back.

And he’s not going with them.

He’s just supposed to wait.

Sit still while the people he loves walk into fire.

Hope that you come back.

Hope that you recognize him when you do.

Hope that some part of what they had doesn’t get lost in the dark.

Finnick bows his head and presses the paper to his lips, a prayer mouthed into the quiet, desperate and aching.

“Please hold on.”

He has nothing else left to give but that.

🌊 .·:¨🌊🐚🌊¨:·. 🌊

The knots come easily to his fingers. They always have.

Finnick sits on the edge of a bench in one of the unused prep rooms, a long coil of rope in his lap. The kind the District 13 soldiers use for field drills and training maneuvers. He doesn’t remember picking it up, just that his hands needed something to do.

Anything to drown out the thoughts.

He loops and pulls and tightens without thinking. Muscle memory. Over, under, through. A perfect square knot. A fisherman's bend. A reef knot. Over and over and over.

The rhythm soothes something in him—or maybe numbs it. He isn’t sure there’s a difference anymore.

The rebellion is in final preparations. A few more days, they say. Then the rescue teams launch. You might be back by the end of the week. Or not at all.

He swallows hard against the ache that creeps into his chest every time that second possibility tries to take root. He won’t let it.

***

You were quiet that day. The waves had stilled outside the Victor's Village, the salt-slick wind curling around the porch like it didn’t quite know what to do with itself. The ocean was waiting.

So were you.

It was only a few days after your Games, and you still flinched at loud noises. Still woke up with your fists clenched and breath caught in your throat. Still walked like the arena was stitched to your shadow.

Finnick found you on the steps that morning, curled into a knit sweater two sizes too big for you — one of Mags’s old ones, he recognized. Your eyes were fixed on the water. Like you were trying to find yourself somewhere out there.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just sat down beside you, dropping a thick coil of spare fishing rope between your feet.

You glanced at it. Then at him.

“What’s this for?”

Finnick didn’t answer right away. He picked up the rope and started working it between his fingers, slow and steady. “We all need something to do with our hands,” he said eventually.

You didn’t ask what he meant. You didn’t need to.

He offered you a strand.

You hesitated. Then took it.

“Start here,” he murmured, guiding your fingers, “and twist toward you. No—yeah, that’s it. Good. Now loop over—don’t let it tangle. Try again.”

You made a face when it slipped. “I’m bad at this.”

He smiled. It was the first time either of you had smiled in days. “You just won the Hunger Games. I think you can handle some rope.”

You looked up at him, unsure whether to laugh or cry. “It doesn’t feel like I won.”

“I know,” he said quietly. And you knew he meant it.

There was a long pause, filled only by the sound of the ocean below. And then, gently, he shifted a little closer, took your hands in his to show you again.

“This is how I got through it, you know,” he said. “After. I’d come down to the docks with a line of rope and tie knots for hours. My hands would cramp. I wouldn’t stop. It was something to do. Something that stayed the same, even when everything else didn’t.”

You didn’t say anything. But your eyes softened.

You tried again.

And this time, you got it.

“Hey,” he said softly, watching the knot hold. “Look at that.”

You exhaled a shaky breath and looked up at him. “Does the pain ever stop?”

He didn’t lie. He didn’t say yes.

He just held your gaze and answered honestly. “It gets quieter. Some days.”

You nodded.

And then you tied another knot.

***

He wonders where you are right now. If your hands are shaking. If you remember that afternoon at all— he way the salt air made your hair curl, the way your laugh, small as it was, had sounded like it didn’t quite know how to exist yet, but was trying anyway.

The knot slips from his fingers.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, rope pooling in his lap like it’s mocking him.

I'm still here. That’s what you said.

But for how much longer?

He presses the back of his hand to his mouth to muffle the sound building in his throat. It’s not a sob. Not really. Just a sound of something caving in.

You were trying.

And now he needs to try too.

Even if they won’t let him on the mission.

Even if all he can do is sit here and wait.

He picks up the rope again.

Pulls. Loops. Ties.

Something to hold onto.

Something that won’t fall apart.

🌊 .·:¨🌊🐚🌊¨:·. 🌊

Finnick sits beside Katniss in the stark studio of District 13, his body tight with nerves, a coil of rope in his hands that he works mindlessly into knots. Each twist, each pull of the rope feels like the only thing tethering him to reality. His hands move on instinct—loop, twist, pull—over and over again. It's a routine, a lifeline. Just like she used to be.

Across from him, Katniss stares at the camera, her features unreadable. She's trying to steady herself for what comes next.

“I can do it,” he hears himself say. The words come out thin, haunted. “If it'll help her. I’ll talk.”

Plutarch nods, stepping aside for the cameras.

When the red light glows and the signal goes live, Finnick lifts his eyes to the lens and begins to speak—not with the charm the Capitol once demanded of him, but with the weariness of a man hollowed out by truth.

"This is Finnick Odair, coming to you alive and well from District 13."

He tells them everything.

How President Snow sold him like a prized possession. How he wasn't the only one. How victors deemed desirable were paraded before the Capitol elite like toys. How they were threatened, controlled, used.

How she was one of them.

“She won her Games at sixteen. She didn’t know what was coming. None of us ever do.” His voice cracks slightly, but he keeps going, hands twisting the rope so tightly his knuckles go white. “She was a favorite. Beautiful, gentle. They said she had ‘softness’—like that was a gift, something they could harvest.”

Katniss glances at him, something shattering in her gaze.

He continues. Names, dates, horrors. The price of survival. The cruelty of silence.

“She was just a girl,” Finnick murmurs. “And they broke her anyway.”

The feed cuts eventually. The room is quiet again.

The mission is underway now. The rescue team is inside the Capitol. And all Finnick can do is wait.

He ties another knot.

Hours crawl by like years.

Katniss sits beside him, arms wrapped around herself. Neither of them speak. Finnick just keeps working the rope in his hands, tighter, tighter. It’s too quiet again—like the worst kind of storm is coming, and all they can do is brace for it.

Then the call comes through.

They’re back.

Katniss shoots to her feet, her face pale but hopeful. Finnick doesn’t even wait. The rope drops from his hands as he bolts from the room, heart pounding in his chest like a drumbeat of desperation.

He runs through the hallways of District 13, shoving past soldiers and medics, barely registering the people rushing the opposite direction. He rounds the corner and sees them—stretchers, gurneys, rebels swarming around figures too thin, too broken, but alive.

Alive.

His eyes scan the room frantically.

Johanna.

He stops briefly when he sees her. Her hair is gone—shaved brutally close to her skull. Her face is hollow, bruised, but her eyes are sharp. Angry. Still Johanna. She’s muttering something under her breath, spitting at a medic who tries to touch her. Still fighting.

He wants to ask if she saw you. If you were with her. But his feet are already moving again.

He hears someone say Peeta’s name.

“He tried to kill her,” someone whispers. “They hijacked him.”

Finnick’s stomach turns violently. The words barely register, swallowed by the storm brewing inside him. If they could do that to Peeta...what had they done to you?

What if you’re not the same?

What if you’re worse?

What if—

And then he sees you.

You’re standing by a doorframe, hunched in Haymitch’s coat, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself. Your skin is pale, lips dry, hair limp and tangled, but...

You’re breathing.

Talking to Haymitch in a soft, uncertain voice. You’re malnourished, gaunt, exhausted...but intact.

He exhales shakily and takes a step forward, then another.

And then you look up.

For a second—just one—he thinks you might run to him. That your eyes might fill with tears of recognition, relief, love.

But instead...

You flinch.

Your body stiffens and you move closer to Haymitch, almost hiding behind him, like you’re afraid. Your eyes are wide, uncertain, like a deer cornered in a snare.

Finnick’s heart shatters.

“Hey,” he says, holding his hands out gently. “It’s me. It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

You don’t answer right away.

Then, your voice, smaller than he’s ever heard it, lifts into the air like a tremor.

“Who are you?”

The world tilts.

“What?” he breathes.

You stare at him blankly. Like he’s a stranger. Like none of it ever happened. The beach. The nets. The whispered secrets in the dark. The stormy nights. The love.

Gone.

“I-I don’t know you,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

Behind you, a medic freezes. Haymitch’s eyes widen.

Finnick’s knees nearly give out.

“No,” he says, voice cracking as he takes a step forward. “No, it’s me. It’s Finnick. You know me. You- you-”

But your eyes only fill with fear, your body curling tighter into yourself, like he might hurt you.

And that’s when everyone realizes it.

The Capitol didn’t just take your freedom.

They took him from you too.

Your memories.

Your love.

Everything you were together.

Gone.

A/N: i want you all to remember that YOU GUYS asked for this.

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[13tinysocks]

My Dead Girlfriend

     Time runs thin as your chances for survival narrow. The search for water and escape turns tensions high.

TW: Freaky ass..... You can't say that to women, Mark.

[Part one] [Ao3] [7]

8 * Heatdeath [7.2k]

"You try desperately to keep it,

Not to protect it but to hoard it,

To keep it away from the other wolves,

And jackals circling your territory."

Sewerslvt - Ecifircas

        He could no longer see the brightest star through the window. The asteroid had drifted too far. It had come into view on the left side of his cell, the newest thing to look at. A planet or supernova perhaps. He'd imagined the heat of a star's explosion on his marred skin. Death coming to cool the heat. An alien planet full of nine legged creatures and rivers of sap. 

        The imaginings were worse than the torture sometimes. Knowing he couldn't know. Stuck in this black walled room until his inevitable execution because he'd never turn to the Viltrum Empire. Even if it killed him.

        Betrayed by his father. Thrown in this metal hell for not wanting to enslave his friends back on Earth. Tormented by his fellows. Sometimes the very man that put him there. Two times the planet had passed his window since they injected him full of Klaxus venom. An experimental new technique that made his skin slough off in bloody sheets. It left him writhing around on the gray floor, smeared brown as it dried. How he'd wished for death when he watched his own scalp slip down past his eyes. Plopping onto the floor, hair and all.

        The supersuit he'd come in was gone. They'd forced him into the Viltrumite prison uniform while he was unconscious. As an act of cruelty, after his umpteenth rejection, father came with his old mask. Blue with black lenses, the face of who he had been. Forced it over his head and doused him with more Klaxus venom, this time over his head instead of directly into his blood.

        The fabric melted, infecting his wounds for weeks but the lenses sunk into his bubbling, melted muscles, all the way down to his skull where it fused to the bone. He laid on the ground, unmoving for days. Without the energy to rip them out of his healing skin. 

       The door didn't slide open, but boots came down on the floor. He didn't turn. Sure he'd hallucinated the sound. These days he heard a lot of things, missed plenty more. 

        "Mark Grayson." A voice he hadn't heard. New guard, he guessed. "I'm here to help."

        He hadn't believed what Angstrom Levy said. Not at first. Then he brought him down to Earth and saw what had been done. A utopia. No more cancer, no more war, as promised by the Viltrum Empire. But there was no you. 

        Dad had told him all this. After the first few years, he guessed years, he started to block it all out. He knew Earth had submitted to becoming a Viltrum breeding camp. That there was an initial rebellion that ended with millions killed. That while you were never counted among the rebels, Nolan nor any other Viltrumite had found you dead or alive.

        He had Angstrom take him to your home- gone and replaced with Viltrum architecture. To your favorite spots, gone and replaced. Then he took him to your grave, where he finally believed. 

        "We can fix this." Angstrom said as he crumbled at dirt. No proper headstone but a hastily carved plank. Done quick and dirty by fellow rebels. "The world doesn't have to be this way." He barely listened as he dug up your grave. He needed to be sure. "I can bring this world back along with her."

        Bones wrapped in ratty clothes. Mostly eaten away by bugs. The smoking gun? The promise ring you insisted you'd lose. The very same one he put a thin chain through and draped around your neck, never to be lost. 

        ***

        The shade wasn't enough. Significantly better than lying in the sun, yes, but you were still burning alive. 

        Those who hadn't gone missing or blasted into the freezer of space had left. Searching for food, water, resources, an exit you somehow missed. Your hopes weren't high for anything but more garbage. 

        All except Gray. Sitting on his sheet, knitting together more scraps. To keep you cool for when the sun apexed in the midday, and the lean of the tent offered no solace. He didn't talk, so you didn't either. It was almost nice to not feel the need to explain yourself in order to live. No threat or memory or promise dangled in front of your face, just quiet companionship. 

        Despite doing nothing but laying starfished on the ground, you were the thirstiest you’d ever been, your muscles aching like you'd been running. Just sitting up made you wobble. Gray glanced up before going back to work, not one to nose about. You turned away from him to remove the helmet, feeling the humidity disperse from your face. 

        Gray watched, going stiff when you turned. "Take that off." He had dropped his net of garbage and pointed to the black encasing your body. 

        "What? You wanna ogle at me?" Thirst dulled the bite you wanted the words to have. Dulled your anger, but not your stubborn will. Because you knew he was right, but you couldn't imagine not wearing it when the others returned.

        He stared into you, like he was trying to drill his thoughts into your head, but didn't say them aloud. It was creepy, and you were baking, so you say, "Turn around." Wishing there was power to use, but finding none.

        He does and you get to work.

        The strapped on chest plate comes down to the makeshift floor with a clatter. Gray looks up to find you already peeling the bulletproof armor off over your head, sweat coating the inside, pulling your tank top up with it. For a moment you're caught, thrashing weakly until you could get the thing over your head. Tank top slipping down to cover exposed skin. 

        Your arms and shoulder blades were bare and slick with sweat, the section he'd seen of your back was drenched too. Gray knew enough of human biology, thanks to his mother, to know that it was too much sweat. You were experiencing heat exhaustion, and if you didn’t get some water you were going to get heatstroke. He looked to the sky for the others, hopefully for water, for anything they could cool you down with. You forced the boots off your legs. Fight the pants down while jumping around under the tent, nearly revealing your whole ass to Gray who doesn't entirely look away. Bodies were bodies to him but he knew it was a human taboo to look upon another nude. Still. Your ass? Was very nice.

        He does not comment. Looks away when you glance at him in a panic, hoping he didn't see your ass. He did, but you didn't need to know that. 

        You starfished again. Chest heaving with the simple effort of taking off your outer clothes. At least you had the foresight to take the soldiers tank top and shorts. Lest you be out in your underthings. God, you could only imagine what those creepy shits would say. Except you really couldn't, your thoughts mostly consisting of a dull want for something to drink, to eat.  

        You awkwardly crawled, still on your back toward the crumpled pants. Going for the pockets, that you'd restuffed after Omni left. For the codeine. 

        The pants are kicked away. Gray didn't know exactly what lean was, but drugs with dehydration were a recipe for death. You started to sit up in protest, but his hand was firm on your chest, pushing you to lay back down.

        "Stay."

        "I'm gonna fucking die without it." You groaned, clawing at the silky ground. Always shifting at the slightest tough. So warm, even under the dark of your sweat-soaked back.

        "You can survive five days without hydration at this rate." He said it evenly, as if you weren't halfway there, getting up to move the pants a little further out of reach. As to not tempt you.

        In the mean time, you gathered up the collar of your tank top and started to squeeze it over your mouth. Disgusting, yes, but that sweet, salty water would grace your lips any second.

        A hand gently moved yours down. The squeezed sweat sinking back into your shirt as you whine. "That will make things worse." Gray says. "It has only been two days, you are fine." He didn't mean it in a condescending way, but it sure felt that way. You glared at him, but he didn't seem to notice or care.

        Day two began to dusk. 

        Mohawk was first to return. He tossed out insignificant fabric scraps to add to the pile.

        "All I got." He grunted, trudging toward you before pausing and really taking in the scene. Above you another swath of trash fabric had been laid, making a roof of sorts for the tent that Gray was still securing. Then there was you, splayed out, heaving, most of your shiny skin on display. Clothes neatly folded and hidden behind the scrap pile by Gray.

        He had Gray by the throat in an instant. "You motherfuc-"

        His hands were yanked off, body flipped, as Gray's strong arm locked around his neck, cutting off his airflow. Voice quiet in his ear, "She was overheating. Behave." Gray released him in a shove.

        Mohawk spun around, bristling, ready to unleash his pent up frustrations. But his eyes landed on you again. For a moment he thinks Gray's a liar because of the marks on your skin. Those were not on his version of you. They had to be scratch marks or hickeys from a Mark Grayson that was not him.

        His fists clenched, "I'll-" It clicks. Those were not marks of sex but scars. All the anger towards Gray was forgotten, redirected to whatever had done all that to you. 

        Mohawk landed cross-legged beside you, readying questions. "Hey."

        You didn't reply. Breathing even, lips parted, eyes glued shut. He regretted opening his fat mouth for once, scared you'd wake. He knew you needed sleep, that you were fragile.

       He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen your face in sleep, so peaceful. He wanted to talk to you. To know what you were thinking, even if it was that you hated him. 

        His eyes careened over the exposed flesh. Noting and theorizing what these new markings were. A slit on the side of your upper thigh, indented and lighter than the rest of you. A stab wound? A narrow, dark circle one above your right knee, two identical marks above the hem of your tank top and your collarbone. Low caliber rounds from a distance. Pot shots from a human gun. Anything designed under his empire would've blown your body to pieces. There were others, here and there, none as bad as the first. 

        In your restless sleep you shifted. Groaning. Eyes twitching but not really opening. Tank top riding up your abdomen.

        There's no way. Looking at it gave him vertigo. Dropped him right back into memory. 

        You seizing in his arms. Brain gone into unconsciousness, unable to hear his apologetic pleas. Hands twitching and flexing in your mess of shredded guts. Gone into shock. 

        It was his fault as much as it was yours. You could've been an empress. Could've had the universe in your palm as you'd had him. Hell, he assigned all his best scientists and doctors to find a cure to your infuriating mortality. Planned to properly propose with the big reveal. But no, you had to be mortal and moral, play the long game under his nose. 

        He'd thought when you agreed to come to Viltrum with him after he took over Earth, killed his father, and found out about his royal linage- that was it. You'd be his forever. Complacent and happy, his on-off high school girlfriend.        

        You were so annoyingly against the killing but still stuck by his side. He thought it meant something. That your mind would catch up with your heart soon enough. 

        He had found the datapad by accident. Hidden under your shared mattress he never flipped with sheets he never tucked. He'd thought he'd lost his hairgel, that someway, somehow it lodged between the bottom mattress and springboard. He lifted the thing to find your datapad. The logs broke his heart.

        You'd been in communications with The Coalition of Planets. Feeding them information so they could launch an attack. When you'd returned from your daily walk around the ship he lunged, grabbing you from behind in a squeezing hold that burst your guts out your lower belly. In his rage, he forgot how fragile you were. He hadn't the chance to ask why you'd betrayed him. Just tried to hold you together as the medics teleported in.

        He'd crushed too many bones, burst too many organs and blood vessels. They couldn't save you.

        But there you were. A long smile of a scar going from upper hip, down below your belly button, to the other side of your pelvis. Gutted then stitched back together. Part of him felt you deserved it. Part of him was horrified that the same thing happened. Was it by your Mark's hand? By someone else? He didn't know and it killed him to not know who to blame. 

        One thing he knew. He was so happy you weren't a good person. Good people betrayed him. Bad people worked for him but he'd always know the backstabbing was coming. This way he could coax you out of doing something stupid. And if you did again? This time he'd be ready.

        He didn't realize he was touching you, tracing the scar, feeling your skin through his gloves. Skin to skin would be too much all at once. He'd burn right out like bad bulb. 

        Your hand moved before your eyes opened. Grabbing at his wrist, lips already twisting to a frown. "What do you think you're doing?" You say and God- there's those pretty eyes of yours. Set on him with murderous intent, it gave him butterflies.

        "Jus' checkin' under the hood. Seein' if everything’s working right." He didn’t, hovering over you. Wanting you to magically remember what you'd had together. But maybe leave out all the bad parts, like him killing you. 

        "Get off." You hissed.

        "That an order?" The piercing's under his bottom lip glint in the light. Like two silver fangs had grown from it. 

        Gray comes from wherever he'd been. Hovering beside you both, looking down his nose at Mohawk, who laughs, "Can't leave a tasty piece 'a ass out like this and not expect some flies."

        A sharp kick to Mohawk's jaw sent him cartwheeling back into the air. He steadied himself quick, "That's how you wanna play it?" He shot forward, fists first. Gray left your side, met him halfway. Mutual impact cracked the air like a balloon, dunes reformed under the pressure. The supports of the tent started to slide. 

        The pair was a blur overhead. Meeting with fists and feet. Mohawk hurled insults while Gray said nothing, power speaking for him. Mohawk had been raised from an early age to be a Viltrumite conqueror, but Gray had from birth and it showed. 

        You didn't watch. Focused on keeping the tent frame from collapsing. 

        "What are those idiots doing?" Hissed a voice from behind. 

        You turn, gripping the trash fabric to keep it from blowing away. Emperor was there, arms crossed, scowling, not helping whatsoever. He brought back nothing and telling by the pinch of his brow, no good news. 

        "Mind doing something before they destroy camp?" You snapped.

        His attention finally sets to you. Your ass in white shorts staring right at him- or was it the other way around? The expanse of your back, a divot sunken under a shoulder blade, its twin under your collarbone. 

        Memories try to pull him away. You in thin evening wear, the finest in the galaxy. In his Martian silk sheets. They say never to shit where you eat, never fuck a human rebel. You'd been kind to him in school, before his powers bloomed.  The other children hadn't been, they somehow singled him out as strange, alien, but not you. That was why he didn't kill you. Brought you back with him, made you the best concubine an interplanetary emperor could have. And like all good concubines, you almost got him killed. Ungrateful wretch.

        It was hard being mad when you looked so good. 

        "Hey!" You barked at him. "Just gonna stand there?"

        He had trained the attitude out of you early in his world, and you were asking for a repeat. 

        His eyes narrowed under the lenses, "Don't talk to me like that."

        Tracksuit landed at the perfect time. Right between the two of you. "What's with all that?" He pointed to the sky, where the fight had moved into the upper stratosphere. 

        "Move." Emperor snapped.

        Tracksuit looked down, mask fluttering, revealing a sliver of his jaw. "Uhm? Hello to you too."

        "Move." He said again. Sure, he could instantly have your throat in his hands, but it was about the principal. The power he had over you with barely any effort, the fear of what he could do. Making Tracksuit move without violence would only cement that. 

        Tracksuit stayed put. "Man, I don't give a shit about your girlfriend's dumbass clothes or whatever." He did appreciate the view from behind his lenses. Oh, he really, really appreciated the view. Not that he'd say it. 

        Emperor reeled his fast back and delivered it forward. Only to be caught by Tracksuit with a laughed out, "Really, dude?" Before a punch, a real punch sent Emperor into the sand like a mole. He didn't come back up. 

        "That didn't happen by the way." He said to you. "Don't want your fuckin' boyfriend gang to rock my shit thinkin' I was protecting you. Wasn't by the way. Guy's just a fuckin’ pain."

        "Already made it very clear I hate all Mark Graysons." You tried to put things back in place, though the tent had fallen into a valley of a dune and was no longer sitting on top. Half of the gathered supplies were missing, probably launched to the other side of the dune while you fell the other way. 

        "And those guys made it very clear they don't care. Honestly, if I was you I'da made a run for it by now." He leaned back, looked to the sky where the fight raged on. "Won't stop ya if you do. 'S one less mouth to feed."

        "There's no food to feed." You said before leaving. You went to find the scattered scavenged materials, making small trips holding far less than any of them could. Dropping the stuff in messy piles Gray would feel the need to organize later. So far you hadn't found your armor.

        Gray touched down. He held Mohawk's unconscious form over his shoulder, setting him down with no love or reverence. He was bleeding from the ears, nose cracked to the side, blood splattered down his lips. You watched as his chest rose and fell with a frown. Unfortunately for you, Gray wasn't going to waste precious extra hands, Mohawk was merely stunned. If Gray had wanted to do real damage, he'd be dead.

        Gray wouldn’t admit it, but Mohawk was quick. Gave him trouble. Difficult to get a solid crack on both his ears.

        Gray only allowed you to make the trips because they were small. Just over the dune and back and the sun had dipped, cooling the sands. He stayed at camp, organizing what you returned. Subtly, very subtly looking at your ass as you reclimbed the dune and disappeared out of sight.

        You slid down the other side of the dune, which would have been fun if you were hydrated and not starving. You began the task of plucking things from the sand, walking a few feet and bending over again. Your back ached, though you'd barely done anything. Everything ached. You were weak. The sun, the power drain, it was all chipping away at you.

        Your bare foot cracked against something hard under the sand. You kneeled to dust it off. Black reflected the red of the setting sun. The armor, thank God. During the day, heat was hell, but at night, you desperately needed to retain it. You uncovered the chest plate, then the slacks. Boots found after a little more searching. Helmet last, absolutely filled with sand. You shook it all out as the bitter cold of night starts to blow through the dunes. 

        "Making you work wearing just that? I didn't take the rest of me as voyeurs." His voice was teasing and self assured, it could be any one of them, but you felt a pit of fear.

         Turning confirms your fear, the fragmented smirk and the black and yellow suit. He was right behind you, the worst possible person to catch you alone in thin clothes. Lenses flicking with his head as he scanned your body up and down.

        "What did I do to deserve a view like this?" He laughs as you grab the chest plate, throwing it over your head, ready for it to slide down your arms and over your body. It never does. Scars snatched it, reeled it back, and threw it into the sky. "Nope." Scars laughs as you lunge for the pants, also thrown into the desert. "No way am I letting you cover any of this up." The boots are next but you catch the helmet. Effectively useless, but you put it on anyway. The only defense and defiance you had left. 

        "Ooh, that's cute, you really are scared of me." He says as you're trying to scramble up the side of the dune. Limbs moving too quick, only treading in place, not getting anywhere. He prowls closer with a click of his tongue. "Don't be shy." He croons it sickly sweet, "I'd never do anything to your perfect little face. Not like you did to mine. I'm not an eye for an eye kind of guy. You don't have to be scared."

        But you did have to be scared because he was being sarcastic. 

        Scars is a force of wind that knocks you back into the sand. In front of you, hand encompassing the helmet. Fingers dig into the metal, denting it before tearing the thing off. Flicking his wrist sending it burning fast into the atmosphere. 

        All you needed to do was get one of the other Mark's attention, "Hel-"

         Scars hand clamps over your mouth. "Ah-ah. I wasn't done looking." You feel his gaze burn down your body. The intake of breath he takes over your chest, a flush rolls up his cheeks. "God. I hate that you look so-" Drool rolled down the inside of his scar, pooling in his mouth. What the fuck? What the fuck? "Did I tell you what I did to you after you killed yourself? Nothing bad, promise."

        You bite his hand. Tasting days old blood on your tongue. 

        His hand doesn't move, he doesn't jump away, no, he leans closer to you falling into the sand with you and moans. "Fuuuck. You have no idea how much I needed that."

       There is an effect the sound has on you, Mark Grayson moaning because of you. A pooling in your gut that you suppress because fuck this Mark Grayson and not fuck this Mark Grayson.

        You punch him in the mouth to no effect. Bite down harder despite how you hate his moans, his hand pressing further into your mouth, tightening his hold. You can't help the feeling inside your body. You hate him so much. You just want him to die. Your hands wrap around his throat. Squeeze with everything you've got but he still breathes. 

        "Are you trying to get me going?" He breathes, pressing his body into yours, pushing you further into the sand. You see his eyes through the lenses he's so close, "Because all you need to do now is cry and I'll cum in my fucking pants." 

         He is grabbed by the cape and thrown. Your mouth is suddenly, graciously empty, but still you taste blood.

        Baldie heaves. "None of them could hear this shit?" Anger in his tone. You hadn't considered how close you were to camp. "I'll-" Scars returns with a cracking kick to Baldie's skull that sent him deep into the sand that already was sinking in around him.

        "Where were we?" 

        Scars took a single step before Baldie shot up directly under him. Fist to his balls. Rocketing them both to the air where the match turned heated. You watch, entranced until you hear a, "Woohoo! Yeah, beat his ass!"

         You climb back up the dune. Find the camp mostly empty besides Tracksuit and Gray.

        "Thanks for the help." You spit. Yesterday you'd told him not to help, but when you actually needed it, nobody was there.

        Mohawk would've if he wasn't still half passed out. Lensless thankfully wasn't there to add to the torment. Tracksuit didn't give a shit. Gray had been filling Tracksuit in on your condition because he'd asked, "What's with the broad's geddup?" The others were gone in the desert or space.

        Then there was Emperor who certainly wouldn't lift a finger for you. Too busy sitting in the sand. Bristling, but upon seeing two of himself in the camp instead of one- shelved the fight for another day. Sure if he fought Tracksuit for 'no apparent reason' the others would turn on him. He wasn't a coward, just calculating- he told himself.

        The fight wasn't stopping. They were wild men. Scars pissed about his blue balls. Baldie pissed about everything. Four years, Angstrom told him he'd been locked up. Four years of hoping you'd be alive. Four years you'd probably been dead. Not even a week ago, he'd held your bones. Now he was trying to keep himself together, play into the boy next door persona while being next to you. You needed someone normal. Not another broken freak humping your leg. With every strike of Scars fist, he felt the mask start to crack. 

        Lensless returned then, entered the tent in a trot. Oohing and ahhing at the show. Then he looked at you, sat on the ground. Skin lit by the fire Gray built while everyone else seemed to have lost their minds. Lensless sat himself next to you. Pressed his body to your side, practically purring, "Thank you God and Jesus."

        You tried to scoot away but his hand landed on your shoulder holding you there. Fingerless gloves letting him feel your flesh. His attention was all over. The low ride of the tank top. Your thighs. How ruined you looked after only two days in the desert. Pathetic! He loved it.

        His finger found that place under your collarbone. Pressed into the bullet wound indent, "Whoa, did this almost kill you?" The idea seemed to excite him very much. 

        "Get off." You say.

        "I'm trying." He replies. 

        Gray is by your side, ready to pull Lensless off in an instant. In the same instant Mohawk gasps, shooting upright and assessing the scene. He couldn't decide who to lunge at first. That sanctimonious asshole or the guy practically feeling you up. 

        Gray catches the movement, head snapping toward him like a robot. "Don't." The words are louder, firmer than he'd ever spoken. They almost make Mohawk want to listen.

        He's a bullet. Grabbing Lensless by the hair, catching Gray by the midriff, shooting them all through the tent fabric and into a spiraling brawl. 

        You fall to your side at the sudden lack of support. Watching the chaos. You wouldn't have to wait for your powers to come back. They were going to kill eachother for you. Which was... a little disappointing. You wanted to give the order.

        "Holy shit." Tracksuit laughed, mask half off his face. Revealing his curled lips and a septum peaking between his nostrils. He fumbled in his pockets, searching for the cigarettes which would make this all so much better. "This is awesome."

        "You!" Emperor flew into Tracksuit and they were gone into the fight. You were alone. 

         You feed the fire. Wait for it to end. Watch them all so close to eachother but keeping the fights separate. Sat so close to the flame, your shins started to sting with first-degree burns. It still wasn't enough. The night was cold, the fight long. Too many even matches. 

        Marks fall. Exhaustion, truce, death, you don't know but they keep dropping until there are none. They begin to drag themselves back to camp, bleeding, bruised, clothes torn. All of them bitter but understanding- fighting each other was not how they got out of this alive. There needed to be more hands on deck to find supplies to keep you alive. 

        Baldie was first back. Leaning hard to his right side. Saying nothing as he pulled off his clothes. Sitting by the fire covered in bruises, bleeding out his nose and slightly swollen mouth. He held out his jailhouse clothes to you. "Shouldn't get so many looks if you wear this."

        You hesitated despite your freezing condition. It smelled like him. Was soaked through with his presence. It was a gift from Mark Grayson.

        You take it because this is survival. Slip on the top then bottoms, both frayed on the edges. Better than nothing.

        You were instantly degrees warmer. His body heat stuck to the inside of the fabric, which slowly morphed to your figure. He sat, in his jail issue tighty whiteys. Muscle and scars all over. Your look lingers too long and he catches you with a sad smile. 

        "Weird, right?"

        "There being ten of you is weird. Scars are not." You say. You hated that help came from Mark Grayson to fight off Mark Grayson. You hated everybody and everything right about now but Baldie? He was slightly less shitty. So you vomit it up, "Thanks," while not meeting his eye, quietly hoping he wouldn't hear it. 

        He jolted, surprised. "You're-" he swallows nothing, throat closing up.

        "For earlier." You finish awkwardly.

        "You're welcome." The bleeding corner of his lip stretches into a smile.

        After that, silence. 

       Gray returned, followed feet behind by Mohawk. A taught truce between them, just barely holding together. Blood dried on the outside of both their ears. Gray's pristine outfit ripped and shredded at the knees. Mohawks hair drooped without the satisfaction of victory. They sit as far from each other as they can while staying by the fire, by you.

        Lensless came, dragging a knocked out Emperor by the ankle. His face combed through the sand. "Figured he'd be mad if we left him out there all night." He dropped the leg. Let Emperor stay facedown in the sand. He sat on the man's back, elbows on his knees to watch you but not making any moves. 

        Tracksuit landed beside you. Blood soaked through the mask where his nose was. He reached under the fabric, snapped the cartilage back in place with a cringe worthy crack.

        "So that was fuckin' crazy." He says into the edgy silence.

        Nobody is in the mood to reply. Paper thin peace ready to tear through.

        "All that over a bitch in a tank top." He shook his head, "I mean, not me though." He adds when the others tense, turning their bodies collectively toward him like a pack to pounce. "Man, we gotta get these boys some food they are huuunngrrry." The innuendo is thick in his accented tone. "Heyo, up top." He holds out a hand to you, knuckles burst open, callouses thick on his palms.

        You leave him hanging. He lets his hand drop, elbowing you in the ribs instead. "You geddit, come on."

        "Don't touch her." Gray's voice is like piano wire. Thin and sharp enough to slice necks. 

        Tracksuit's hands go up in surrender. "I'm fuckin' around dude, Jesus."

        Gray's forehead creases. The most expression you'd caught on him. 

        "Stop." You speak before he can. "Just stop. This is fucking ridiculous."

        The peace reseals over you all. A thin coating that won't last. You hoped the fighting was over. Gone out their systems like sickness. More for your sake than theirs. Watching them all was terrifying. Any one of them could've crashlanded crushed you. Accidentally flown by the camp so fast the sonic boom ripped you apart.

        You couldn't kill them all if you were dead.

        "Hey." From overhead. You crane your neck back. Scars is there, hovering over the camp, watching you through the hole Mohawk tore. He seems mostly fine, suit torn and one of his black lenses cracked open, his honeyed eye looking right at you. But no blood of his own. Whereas Baldie was bent over awkwardly, something inside him bruised and bleeding. "Just so you assholes know, we're not down two. They've been digging a fucking hole for two days straight."

        "Why didn't you lead with that?" Tracksuit asked.

        Only to be ignored. "Said they found something but didn't want to stop digging before the tunnel was secure." He came down through the hole. Settled directly behind you much to your terror. But he kept his hands and comments to himself. The others tensed at his very presence, muscles rolling under skin ready to defend you- but they make no move to get closer and neither did he. Nobody but Lensless wanted another fight but Lensless was getting way too much satisfaction from sitting on Emperor's back and staring at your boobies. The peace stays.

       Scars watched your back all night long.

        ***

        Morning comes with heat. Afternoon comes with fire. You burned alive in Baldie's thin prison clothes. Sweat out what hydration you had left into them. Laid in the shade. Vision blurring. Throat sandpaper.

        Gray had to explain to multiple versions of himself- ones raised on Earth who simply didn't care about things that never affected them- about heat exhaust in humans. They may need to start to consider more desperate options. 

        Baldie left to find the armor Scars threw, in hopes of finding the codeine stuffed into the pants as a last resort. The rest of them stayed, waiting for news from Maskless and Phantom. They watched as your condition worsened into the evening. You couldn't find the energy to reply to anything, no matter how gross and insulting it was. Even Scars didn't like it, much preferring his prey to writhe.

        Night fell over camp. Lensless talks of cutting open his wrists and letting you drink his blood to survive. Gray vetoes. Scars wonders why you're not fine, you're superpowered in this universe shouldn't you be invulnerable to stupid shit like this? You can't help the laugh bubbling out of your throat when Gray tells him this could kill you. Baldie does not return, hunt still on for your clothes. Mohawk keeps the fire going. Tracksuit and Emperor verbally circle each other. You get closer to death. 

        Day four. 

        No food. No water. No power. All heat.

        You can no longer open your lids for fear the water would evaporate out of your eyes. The Marks prowl. Speak. You do not process. You slip in and out of sleep or unconsciousness, everything feels the same. Dreams are incoherent lights. You feel the raw of your throat the whole time. 

        When you are capable of thought, you think about your wedding photo. What could've been. It makes you want to sit up, get better, just to kill them all. You can't move, but you can regret. 

        ***

        He was cutting it close being gone so long, but he had to try. The tunnel needed to be stable. Air needed to get inside and so did you. Viltrumites could force their bodies through hundreds of miles of sand, but your human body couldn't. 

        He raced ahead of Maskless who flew unhurriedly. "They'll be fine." He had said, not remembering you and your human fragility.

        When he saw the fire in the distance he barely slowed. To the others around the flames, he was a blur followed by a cloud of sand, obscuring their vision and smothering the fire. He scooped up your lain form, no explanation, no rationality, and turned right the fuck back around. You were worse than he thought. Why were you in someone else's clothes? Where had your armor gone?

        Questions that didn't matter.

        The other versions of himself shot up from camp. Snapped at his heels with demands and questions. But they were slow. Beat so much shit out of eachother they couldn't keep up. They could get an explanation later- you were dying. 

        He moved, faster, faster, until the skin on your cheeks started to chafe away in the wind. The cold dug in its claws. You shivered, unconsciously clinging to him, wriggled in his arms just to get a little closer, a little warmer.

        The hole was finally below. He snapped down, flew through the dark gap in the sand that started at half a mile wide and ended in a humansized pinhole. It had been the best they could do. 

        He put on the flight breaks. Other Marks thread the needle behind him, shouting, "What the fuck?!"

        He landed in a run, shifting you in his arms as he went. The cave was dark, musky with age and trapped humidity, but he could see well enough to find the pool. He knelt, flipped your body over his knee, and dunked his hand into the cold water. 

        Mohawk stopped himself before he pistoned his fist through Phantom's face. Realizing this wasn't a kidnapping, but a rescue. He watched as Phantom opened your chapped lips, holding your head up too gently, and poured water into your mouth. You coughed, involuntarily, spraying it on his mask. Phantom seems not to care. Dunking his hand in again, pouring. Your throat bobs. 

        The others land, figure shit out on their own. They converge on the pool, hands on knees, asses in the air. Desperately gulping at the pool like a pack of deer. Grunts and moans echoing off the cave walls. All save for Gray who watches as your body begins to cooperate. He will not drink until you are conscious. Then and only then will he let his guard drop a fraction.

        ***

        Darkness stretched around him. Cold sunk to the bone. Hair flat on his head as he flew, top speed. He was flinging through an empty abyss so complete he wasn't sure if his eyes were open or closed anymore.

        It'd felt like weeks, maybe a month. He'd been using the oxygen mask for awhile now.

        Nothing. He'd found nothing because Angstrom Levy had really done it. Found the perfect universe to leave his enemies. A universe completely collapsed into itself, sucking down the last remnants of life into a blackhole that stretched spacetime like taffy. 

        He'd found it, all thrumming heat hundreds of thousands of miles away from the planet Angstrom had dumped you all on. The all consuming, super massive, heat death of the universe. He'd searched every direction. There was nothing else but the planet, its sun, and the creep toward complete annihilation. 

        He had turned around days ago, but the closer he'd been to the singularity the weirder time got. Longer. A beard had started to prickle through his chin, poke at the oxygen mask. He hadn't the energy to angst about you anymore. All he wanted was to see you, to feel you, to know you were okay with those lesser-than freaks who wore his face. 

        God. Please don't be dead.

        ***

        You awoke feeling like shit. Staring into blackness broken up by a harsh ray of light cutting through the cavern. Illuminating floating sand specs. The floor was cool and solid under your back. You start to sit up and almost immediately pass back out. Hands catch your fall from behind. You can not turn your head to see who. 

        There is a gentle slosh then a black gloved hand is poised to your lips. Palm shimmering with sweet, sweet water. "Drink." You lunge forward as much as he'll allow, kissing the side of his hand. Suck the water down, mouth on his glove. A moan croaks out your throat. Those who had been sleeping, wake. Another palm-full of water is brought to your lips and the pattern repeats.

        "She'll live?" You do not look at the voice- Baldie. Too focused on the hand that came again to your lips.

        Behind you, Phantom nods. Baldie lets out a sigh. "Thank God. You guys, too I guess." 

        Maskless grunts. Sat in the corner, back on a sandstone stalagmite. Finally, he can rest after days of sand-wrangling.

        Around you, the world began to focus. Molasses slow, but progress nonetheless. You could make out brown-red walls. Uneven with the occasional oddly perfect spherical hole. You see the pool being drawn from, so deep the clear water ran black with shadow. See the men around you. Gray wore his loincloth thingy again, no longer needed for sand support. He returned with a party in tow, all of them holding pieces of your old camp to reset up here but better, sturdier, cooler. 

        Scars tossed the supplies into the growing pile. Walked to you and Phantom, grin stretching the gash in his cheek. "Look who's finally awake. I should'a thought of playing dead to get out of doing work earlier."  

        You swallow the latest handful of water and feel it. The power than had been torn out your body returning. Not all of it, but enough to make you smile back at him. 

        "Shut the fuck up."

        And for once, he does.

[womanlovinghorrornerd]

My Hero Academia has been my comfort media since I was a teenager and so, to see it come to this beautiful end really tugs on my heart strings

Midoriya Izuku is the world's greatest hero, alongside, no doubt, keeping a watchful eye on all of the kids in his class who remind him of a certain someone. The idea of him taking care of and nurturing the next generation really brings a tear to my eye. Bigging them up, squashing any prejudices, encouraging them where other's might not and leading by example; he has become the type of role model for so many quirkless little ones in the same way that All Might was for him. World's greatest hero AND world's greatest teacher🥹

And Bakugou Katsuki. Dragging his career along behind him like dead weight only to shoot up to the Number Five spot as soon as Deku came back on the scene. I know what you are, Blasty. We all do. And this level of confirmation is making my heart melt. Soulmates! Soulmates, I say! It cannot be overstated how perfect his character development and ultimate redemption arc is, and how proud I am of him growing from the mean-spirited little dickhead in season one to the fully fledged HERO in the final instalment of this franchise👏

The Wonder Duo are going to be chasing after each other forever. Nobody look at me!!!😭

"This is the story of how I became the world's greatest hero."

IZUKU GETTING THE RECOGNITION HE DESERVES AND BAKUGO IS RIGHT THERE BEHIND HIM IM GOING TO CRY!!! SHOTO IS THERE BESIDE THEM TOO IM SCREAMINGGG

[trashytracktales]

teammate!lando x reader where they had a bet and she loses…so he makes her crawl to her, hump the pillow, rub her bare clit against his clothed crotch ALL WHILE HE RECORDS HER (with consent ofc)

Lights, Camera, Action! | LN⁴

🔹️ summary ──── It was supposed to be a joke, then it became everything.

🔹️ pairing ──── Lando Norris x fem teammate!reader

🔹️ rating ──── explicit

🔹️ warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, smut, nerdy!Lando, soft!dom Lando, recording (consensual), cushion humping, manhandling, orgasm from external stimulation, swearing, unprotected sex, mutual masturbation, overstimulation, playful teasing, camera kink??

🔹️ word count ──── 6.3k

🔹️ date ──── May 6, 2025

🔹️ a/n ──── How tf do I set my intention to go for PURE SMUT NO PLOT, yet still manage to write over 6k 😀 I don’t even know what’s this, nothing makes sense and we are living on a floating rock.

Hear me out, I usually only link the song, but then I remembered about this music video and I almost had an aneurysm because of how well it fits. I recommend watching it after reading though. Anyway, ENJOY!!

THE LAST RACE before the break fucked them both. Pretty hard. What was supposed to end with another 1-2 finish for the team turned into a disaster of strategy, pace, and pure bad luck.

Since getting back to Monaco, the fallout hasn’t left them alone. It’s pretty hard when everyone is talking about it; it can get lonely, too. Luckily for them, they’ve been texting back and forth for days, laced with sarcasm, blame, and just enough flirtation to keep the tension at its peak. However, neither of them said what they really wanted to say. But it was always there, between the lines as usual, and in the way her name popped up on his screen, making his stomach flip.

Every single time.

The bar is loud enough to blur that tension and even Lando, with his no-alcohol rule, is loose and laughing. They dance and talk about anything but racing, and for a while it feels like neither of them are carrying the weight of disappointment.

Friends come and go through their circle, a few fans spot them and ask for pictures — which they take, grinning too wide and standing too close for their own good. Somewhere between the fourth round of mocktails, a familiar song starts pulsing through the speakers, and that’s when she brings up the bet, half-laughing, stepping in front of him like she did back in the garage when she dared him.

“If I finish behind you, I owe you a private dance,” she said, confidence dripping from every word. She’d qualified ahead of Lando, and was so confident she can finish ahead of him, too. But since every race is unpredictable and full of unknowns, she ended up taking the checkered flag after him.

It was a joke, anyway. But she can’t say with all her heart that she hasn’t thought about it at least a few couple of times. Besides, it’s Lando who’s been constantly reminding her throughout the past few days and, even if it was in jest, the curiosity made her spend hours staring at the ceiling of her room, imagining different scenarios.

Now, it’s late when the door to his apartment clicks shut behind them with a clean, satisfying noise. Lando tosses his keys into the ceramic bowl on the console with more force than necessary, and while the keys clatter, one nearly skids off the edge, forcing him to reach for it instinctively. She doesn’t say anything, although she can’t help but finding amusing that the inanimate objects always decide to act up only when her teammate’s patience seems so fragile.

The sudden movement makes Lando whine in exasperation as she watches him kick off his shoes and drag a hand through his curls.

The place is quiet, as if reflecting their inner agitation, silently burning within. He’s not bothering turning on more than a lamp, but it’s enough to bathe the whole living room in a pale silver glow, making everything seem even more intimate than it should be.

As they step further into the apartment, the same silence hits them both, because it’s not just the sudden absence of noise, but the weight of it. They’ve never been this quiet around each other before. Usually, they’re the chaos in the garage, either laughing too loud or teasing mid-debriefs, always bringing the kind of energy that makes their engineers roll their eyes but secretly love it. Now though, it’s the first time neither of them knows what to say. Or how to act.

“Cute place,” she says, partly to break the silence, but mostly because it really is. Spacious, stylish, not super tidy, but very Lando in that sense.

“You know you don’t have to make small talk, right?” he laughs. “It was a stupid bet to begin with, since I was always going to finish ahead of you anyway.”

Her jaw drops slightly at the cockiness in his tone. This is the Lando she knows and, in other circumstances, she would find his confidence hot, but right now it only makes her want to knock that look off his face. Or sit on it just to shut him up. Either works.

“Always eager to finish first? Got it,” the playful jab lands right where she intended without too much effort; it’s a split-second flicker in his expression, the twitch of his jaw, and the way his arms tense.

That’s the spot, she thinks. That’s where it bruises his ego, not because it’s crude, but because it’s enough to sting. Which only makes her want to push harder.

Lando’s grin flattens a bit. “Well, someone’s gotta lead the way,” he replies casually, even though he caught her double meaning phrase.

“Right. Leading the way because you can’t pace yourself,” she fires back.

He chuckles. “Sounds like an excuse from someone who couldn’t keep up.”

They’re toe-to-toe now, all bite and smirk and so much tension. She’s half a second from throwing a cushion at him just to knock that pretty smile off when she glances past his shoulder and, without another word, she steps forward, fingers brushing lightly against Lando’s arm as she urges him to move out of her way, wandering farther into his apartment like she owns the place.

“Interesting,” she mumbles. “I saw you with the camera before,” the girl continues as Lando turns to follow her silhouette. “How about you film me while I dance? Give you some new material for land0.mov?”

Lando’s expression twitches barely, but she’s still able to notice it. That small flash of disbelief, quickly masked by a half-laugh, like he’s not sure if she’s joking or just testing him.

“No way, mate,” says Lando, but it’s already too late.

She nods slowly, letting the weight of her intention settle in the air they share. His boyish smirk fades into curiosity in an instant. It’s like watching him put a helmet on: composed, dialed in, serious in a way most people rarely get to see.

To give him more space to process, she veers toward the low shelf by his TV, crouching slightly. “Let’s see. Which one’s your favorite?” she asks nonchalantly, running her fingers along the row of cameras lined up like little trophies; old film bodies, modern DSLRs, and a few point-and-shoots with scratched lenses.

Lando stares at her like she suddenly grew two more heads in the meantime. “You play too much, you know that?”

“Yeah,” she shrugs, glancing at him over her shoulder. “Which one?” she repeats.

He blinks, opening his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out at first. After he rubs the bridge of his nose, Lando exhales slowly. “The, uh… the Leica. Second from the left. Black one,” he instructs. “I rarely use it, which makes it special, I guess.”

She lifts it delicately, turning it over in her hands. It’s heavier than she expected, sleek and cool against her skin. “Nice,” she grins. “Bet it makes everything look expensive.”

Lando hums in agreement, “Only shoots what’s directly in front of it. Look,” he says, getting so close to her that he’s now towering over her frame, while pointing at the camera. “Fixed lens, see? No lazy zooming, but the resolution is insane. The tricky part is that you have to move it yourself to get the shot you want,” he continues.

She looks up at him, noticing a slight shy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. And, just when she thought Lando couldn’t get any nerdier, she hears his voice again.

“It’s a twenty-eight millimeter lens. That’s not crazy wide,” he informs her. “If you stay in the middle, the background’s gonna fall off all soft and blurry. Makes it feel…” he trails off, clearing his throat. “Personal. It’s not even about perfect framing or whatever,” he rushes to add. “It just catches whatever’s there, no hiding.”

“Did you use it before?” she asks, curiosity pulling the words out of her mouth without having the time to think them through.

“I did,” he replies with a grin, giving her enough time to come up with her own scenarios before adding, “On my cars.”

She smiles, her eyes sparkling in the dim light of the room. “So. If I move, you have to follow, hm?”

Lando nods.

She sets the camera down gently, then leans against the wall beside the shelf with her arms crossed. She’s aware that what she’s suggesting it’s pure insanity, especially after what’s been happening between them lately.

“Okay,” she finally says, holding her hand toward him, palm open. “Can I see your phone for a sec?”

Lando frowns, trying to hide a curious smile. “Why?” he asks, sliding the phone from his pocket and unlocks it, handing it over with suspicion in his voice.

She only flashes him a smile back, thumbing through his apps until she finds the little Spotify icon. A few seconds later, the speakers come alive with a sultry bassline that wraps the room in a charged ambiance.

The teasing in her voice is easy to catch next time she asks, “You seriously have a sex playlist called sex playlist? Men are so predictable.”

He chuckles, “Yeah? What’s yours called?”

“I’ll send you the link,” she winks at him jokingly, but that still has an unexpected effect on Lando. Maybe because he’s starting to understand that his teammate is hardly ever joking, actually.

For a second that feels like a week, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches her, every muscle in his body taut like he’s holding himself back from something that’s about to come out anyway. It has to. Because everything has a limit, and theirs was crossed from the moment she entered his apartment.

With a quiet exhale, she presses herself lightly against the wall, then pushes off and crosses the living room in steady, cat-like steps, taking his hand in hers, fingers threading through his. Her touch is warm and somehow reassuring, her palm so small and silky against his. She guides Lando toward the couch with intent as if this isn’t his own home, nudging him gently until he sits.

She breaks away then, walks back across the room, and returns with the Leica in hand. “Turn it on,” she says simply, with enough clarity behind her words.

Lando stares at her, dumbfounded for a beat, before the corner of his mouth twitches upward in disbelief. “You’re insane.”

“I trust you to capture the best in me,” she admits.

He lets out a heavy breath, something between a laugh and a groan, and flips the switch at her insistence. The familiar click of the camera waking up is giving Lando chills, but when he glances up again, his hands still adjusting the ISO, she’s already pulling the shirt over her head, revealing a black bra and her toned shoulders dusted in the dim light.

She tilts her head. “Just make sure I look good, Lando.”

With that, she starts moving as slow as possible, every inch of revealed skin feeling like it’s offered, not given.

Lando’s hands are steady on the camera, but for some reason, breathing doesn’t feel automatic anymore, and he’s currently aware of every shaky breath he takes. His fingers work on instinct, dialing the aperture wider, letting in the glow of the cool lighting. His pulse is racing, heavy in his throat, because he can see everything through the lens, but is still not ready to look at her in the flesh.

For her, it’s easy to notice how focused he is, so she glances straight into the camera on purpose, with a spark of mischief in her gaze, like she knows exactly what she’s doing. To him. As a result, Lando’s knee starts bouncing, restless, his breathing too shallow to be subtle. He can’t remember the last time he felt so tightly wound, but it doesn’t even matter because what happens now will stay with him for a long time, and this is all he needs to remember from now on.

And then, it gets worse.

He stares at her while she’s arching slightly as she undoes her bra clasp, letting it slide off her shoulders and onto the floor without breaking eye contact with the camera. At that, Lando looks away out of instinct — out of that last shred of decency clawing at him. But the camera stays trained on her, and when he lifts his gaze again, it’s like a dam breaks inside him. Violently. The hunger that flashes across his face is instant, and impossible to hide. He doesn’t even try, because what fool could ever take his eyes off her?

Lando adjusts himself without thinking, moving in sync with her teasing gestures as she peels her panties down her legs from under her skirt. He tells himself to stay focused and capture the sensuality of her body with the last fragment of professionalism that he possesses. But that’s a losing game when his own body is burning with need, and every subtle curve and line of her turns into a map that he’s desperate to explore as soon as possible.

His focus lingers on the swell of her breasts, her nipples tightening in the open air. It forces him to swallow hard, a deep ache growing both inside him and his pants, knowing how badly he wants to lean forward and suck them into his mouth, to feel the heat of her skin against his tongue.

The camera dips lower as she dances to the hypnotic rhythm of his music, and Lando keeps working with her, baring the elegant slope of her waist and the strong lines of her thighs. The way she stands there, so natural and confident, feels like a direct hit to his chest that he welcomes without hesitation or any intention of dodging. She’s pure femininity, and that throws him into a black hole made only of her, where the gravity is so strong that there’s no escape.

He’s so focused on her that he almost stops breathing in order to make sure he gets the perfect shot, every shot. That makes Lando’s hand tighten around the camera, his knuckles whitening from the pressure. But his body has a mind on its own, apparently, and his thighs flex like he’s one wrong move away from standing. From closing the distance between them. Against his will, though, he sits there, shivering with the effort to stay still.

“Come on, Norris,” she says, and her voice wakes him up from the trance her shapes put him in. “I’ve seen you take tighter corners at Spa with less hesitation.”

Even though he tries to, he can’t stop the throaty laugh that comes out of him. Only for a moment, Lando lowers the camera again, and lets himself, finally, finally, see her. And this time, he doesn’t look away. He watches her shamelessly, while reaching behind him to take a cushion that he ends up tossing onto the floor near his feet, nodding toward it.

“Go on, then. Show me how desperate you are.”

There is something about the way he says it that sends a thrill straight through her. She heard that Lando is direct when it comes to his wants and needs, but to feel it on her skin hits different. Her pulse suddenly stutters with excitement as she lowers herself in front of him, straddling the cushion, her body already anticipating the liberating feeling.

The moment her hips roll forward and her mouth falls open in surprise at the faint pleasure, Lando is right there, capturing every gasp, every twitch, and every sweet reaction like it’s the only thing that matters. His mind runs wild with all the places he aches to touch — his hand curled around her throat, palms squeezing her breasts, fingers digging into her hips to hold her still while he teases her until she begs.

The temptation claws at him, full throttle. But he forces himself to handle the camera like a pro, because more than anything, he wants her to see what he sees: how devastatingly beautiful she is like this, undone and bold. Through his own lens, she’s a vision, and giving her that full picture keeps him going.

From her perspective, noticing Lando’s determination sends a fresh wave of heat throughout her body, making her rock her hips a little harder, and that puts a tension in his shoulders. A type of need he didn’t feel before.

To stop herself from making more embarrassing sounds, she meets his gaze over the camera, mouth slightly open. “Is this good?” she asks, voice breathy and half-mocking, although there’s something real underneath. A dare. A plea.

Lando looks at her again, revealing a flushed face and his blown wide pupils. “Yeah, don’t stop,” he replies hoarsely.

Her thighs squeeze around the cushion from the moment she hears the first note in voice, the soft fabric teasing against her clit with every slow roll of her hips, pulling breathy sounds from her. Behind the camera, Lando tails closely as she grinds back and forth, his jaw clenching at the small sounds slipping past her lips.

“Shit, that’s hot. Are you always this needy?” he asks out of pure curiosity, but the question is mostly rhetorical; of course she is. Judging by the way her chest heaves and how she leans forward slightly to catch as much friction as possible, the answer is obvious.

She wants to push back against the power shift, but she’s too lost in the rhythmic movement of her body. And it’s not as if Lando’s wrong. Every gentle brush gets increasingly out of control, each desperate grind into the cushion sending small waves of pleasure straight to her nerves, making her fingers curl into the couch for balance. For the control she’s rapidly losing.

Her eyes flutter closed for a moment, mouth constantly parting as the pleasure spirals inside her like a coil wound too tight.

Lando’s fingers flex over the shutter release, but he’s barely present anymore. He’s completely absorbed by what is happening on the other side of his lens, and it’s her moan that pulls him out of it, just as the pressure builds. So he reaches out, his hand entering the frame like an unexpected guest. With ease, his fingers grab the edge of the cushion beneath her, and she pauses, blinking up at him, flushed and dazed, breathing heavily like she just stepped out of the car after a last-lap push. With one strong pull, he slides it out from under her, making her gasp in surprise, her body jolting at the sudden loss.

“Lando,” she exhales irritated.

She gets her hands onto his knees to steady herself, thighs still wobbly, but he’s not looking at her anymore. He’s too busy staring at the soaked fabric instead, darkened with heat and want and everything she didn’t say out loud.

“That good?” he asks, but the arrogance in his voice diminished, giving way to his sincere curiosity.

She shakes her head, looking up at him again. “Not faking it, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

The fact that she is as sincere in her statement, encourages Lando to take things to the next level, just to see how much he can push before it’s too much. He throws the cushion aside with a thud, his eyes lit up with need.

“Come here,” he orders in a gentle tone, patting his lap.

She’s stunned at his words initially, and the way they leave no room for teasing. But then she catches the way his tongue drags slowly across his bottom lip, leaving it wet and shining, and something inside her pushes her to get up. She realizes that there’s nothing she wouldn’t do if he asked.

With calculated steps, she climbs him patiently, her thighs spreading over him. They’ve been in each other’s personal space in the past, when they had to do silly challenges for McLaren to entertain the fans. Still, even though there’s a camera between them just like before, the air feels different, charged with desire, unknown, and heavy lust. Because this time, it’s just them.

When her body sinks onto his, the scabrous fabric of his jeans meets the soaked warmth between her legs, the weight making Lando groan silently, his little sound hitting her low in her stomach. His reaction encourages her to continue, shifting on top of him in order to find the best position, enough to grind against his bulge. It’s thick and hard beneath her, and the simple contact is already maddening. Yet not nearly enough, and the realization that he’s just as affected by this makes the coil in her stomach tighten further.

“Keep going,” he speaks again as he lifts her skirt up to her waist, going back to the camera and angling it to capture the way she moves against him, right where her skin meets the fabric of his pants.

Her palm comes around his bicep for suport, letting the instincts guide her further. The pressure she chased a moment ago is still there, but it’s different this time around. More intense.

Lando grunts, his free hand gripping her hip to show her the pattern to follow. She whimpers while that sweet ache comes back, her body trembling with need. In no time, she can move on her own, and because she’s such a fast learner, Lando points the camera closer, eager to capture the wetness soaking through.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he says. “You’re making such a mess,” he exhales, bringing his hand between her legs to feel it before he could even process his own action. His thumb finds her clit, rubbing it gently, keeping his eyes on her face the whole time, craving to catch every reaction.

She moans, one hand squeezing his arm harder as her body rocks forward, chasing the release that she hopes it’s not that far into the future, especially if his hips continue to twitch beneath her the way they do, so impatient and reliant on her.

Unfortunately, the time almost stops the moment their faces get close enough to kiss. She can feel the heat of his breath and the pull between them, and she’s sure he can feel it too. Her eyes flick to his mouth, and Lando’s eyes stay on her, but no one dares to close the small gap. Because somehow, that would be more intimate than all of this. Kissing would mean acknowledging what’s been burning between them for a while now. It would mean admitting this is real, and admitting will complicate everything in both their personal and professional lives.

And neither of them are ready to take that chance yet.

With that in mind, she doesn’t lean in. She just closes her eyes and grinds harder, her hips rolling against his hand and the hard line of his cock beneath her. The sensation amplifies fast, and Lando never stops working her with his thumb. Soon enough, her breath comes out in spasms and her thighs start to shake. Her pace intensifies, chasing the high that’s been teasing at the edges of her patience, feeling the mess she’s made slick against Lando’s pants with every desperate press on it. Still, his hand stays steady, rubbing perfectly against her clit, matching the rhythm of her hips like he knows exactly all the ways she wants — and craves — to be touched.

With Lando’s help, it doesn’t take long until her body finally seizes, hips jerking forward uncontrollably as pleasure crashes over her. He moves with her, a silent apology for stopping her earlier written into every precise touch, making sure this time she falls apart completely. Because of him.

Luckily, the camera captures everything: his hand on her, the wet spot she’s left on his pants, the way her skin flushes and seems to crave more with each passing second, and the way her thighs shake when the aftershocks hit. It catches the way she starts trembling, too, body overwhelmed, aching for something deeper, something only he can give her right now.

Only he gives her time to ride it out instead, feeling all the ways her walls flutter, hungry and empty, and the sound that tears from his throat is nothing but a helpless moan. The sensation alone, even without him inside her, is enough to make his head spin. It wrecks him completely, makes him ache with the violent need to know how it would feel to be buried deep inside her, to have her tight, needy pussy squeezing around him while she comes undone all over again. Because of him.

The girl barely registers the camera being placed in her hands until Lando nudges her chin. “Here. See for yourself.”

Except, she doesn’t want it. Not yet. By her own choice, she takes it gently from his hand, presses RECORD again and turns it around, placing it on the padded arm of the couch. Facing them. Remembering Lando’s voice earlier, casual and offhand when he said that the camera only captures what’s in front of it.

Her fingers move impatiently, drifting to the hem of his shirt, bunching it in her hands. “Since you let me finish first,” she rushes to explain.

With that, she pulls the shirt up, and he lifts his arms to help her, muscles tightening under skin slick with the faintest sheen of sweat. Once it’s off, she tosses it to the side, her eyes drinking him in. Lando is warm under her palms, his chest rising and falling with each heavy breath, and she senses the same tension in him that’s barely holding him together.

She studies his face while her hand drifts lower, trailing down the center of his stomach, pausing at the waistband of his jeans. Carefully, she slips her hand inside, where she finds him hot and so painfully hard that it makes her mouth water. Without any instructions, her fingers curl around his soft skin, and the sight alone makes his stomach flip. She starts to stroke him teasing, but before she can go quicker, Lando grabs her wrist, groaning low in his throat.

“Just a sec,” he pants, voice cracking slightly. His hands are already moving, guiding her hips back over his lap with a need that borders on desperation.

This time, there’s no fabric between them, and her soaked heat presses directly against his length, making them both shuddering at the contact; skin on skin and no more barriers, just the unfiltered reality of what they both want. His hands find home on her hips, big and heavy, his control hanging by a thread.

Agonizingly slow, her clit slides along his hardness, slick and warm, sending sharp jolts of pleasure from one body to another. He can barely contain himself at the way she finds it so easy to rock against him, faster when she feels how thirsty Lando gets in a matter of seconds. He’s leaking already, the head of his cock glistening, smearing against her folds as she moves.

Completely flushed and utterly drunk with pleasure, he shifts beneath her, his arms wrapping tight around her waist, pulling her closer, even though there’s no physical space left between them. But it’s useless. No matter how close they are, there is only one way that would truly satisfy his urge.

“Please,” he whispers next to the shell of her ear, desperate and breathless. “Can I slide in?”

She’s a lost cause by now, and her reply is reduced to a broken hum, while she sits up just enough to guide the thick head of his cock to her entrance. Lando’s patience snaps at her quick response, and he thrusts his hips up in one motion, his hands holding her hips and pulling her down onto him at the same time. The stretch is overwhelming and takes her by surprise, knocking the wind out of her and making her vision blur at the edges as she tries to take all of him.

They moan together, helpless, her hands landing on his chest as she laughs shakily. “You trying to break me in half or?”

“Didn’t think you’d be so tight,” he groans in a strained voice.

Lando tries his best to take it slow, but the way she welcomes him, so warm and perfect, nearly undoes him the moment he’s all in. A shudder runs down his spine as he grips her hips with more force, thinking maybe if he doesn’t hold her right, the world will actually end.

And it may, based on how her hands are sliding up, clawing at his shoulders with her nails digging in to anchor herself. Her breath shudders out in short bursts as she does, her body struggling to adjust, to take everything he has to offer. All of him.

To test the waters, she starts circling her hips, hoping she’ll find the angle that makes her breath hitch, and when she does, it’s like lightning strikes between them. He’s impossibly deep, touching places inside her she didn’t even know could feel this good. Her pussy hugs him so tightly that Lando has to grit his teeth to shut himself up. Then she tilts her hips forward just slightly with every grind, rocking her clit perfectly against his pelvis while he’s buried inside her.

The effect she was looking for is instant, and she hears Lando choking on another moan, finally, “Fuck, yeah. Right there,” his fingers dig into her skin, hunger battling in his wide eyes. “Do that again, it feels so fucking good.”

“Shit, Lando,” she breaths out. “So deep, I can feel you everywhere.”

She pulls him in again and again, until he is practically whining beneath her. Seeing Lando so lost inside her makes her losing the rhythm, her breathing turning ragged, thighs ready to give up as exhaustion and pleasure blur into one. It’s messy and greedy on both sides, and when she finally collapses against his chest, she sobs out a cry, her voice cracking with it.

“Need you,” she exhales. “I can’t hold it anymore.”

Lando doesn’t waste a breath. One sharp, hungry movement and he’s planting his feet against the floor for leverage, thrusting up into her with everything he’s got. She gasps at the same time he groans deep in his chest, the sound vibrating between them as he finally takes her the way they’ve both needed.

Her mouth goes dry.

His jaw tightens.

Their breath grows heavier, shared in the tight, sweaty space. Her body tenses, then squeezes around him with such perfect pressure it leaves him breathless. A high-pitched moan spills from her, unexpected and honest, and she slaps a hand over her mouth, biting at it in order to shut herself up.

Gently, Lando catches her wrist, holding it firm. “If you’re gonna bite something,” he tilts his head, offering his shoulder, “Be a good girl and bite me instead.”

Her breathing is too fast and her mind runs at the speed of an F1 car. She can’t think straight and, for a moment, she just stays there, her forehead brushing the curve of his shoulder as she tries to catch herself from falling in too deep. Then slowly, like she’s giving in to something bigger than her, she places a kiss on his skin. Her lips press gently on it, trailing along the line of his neck to the dip of his collarbone. It’s the closest thing she’ll ever give him. The closest thing to letting herself feel for him.

He’s still warm, salty with sweat, and soft under her lips. And he smells so good, like skin and heat and something clean that clings to her nose and settles in her chest like smoke.

It drugs her.

The way his scent mixes with the feel of his breath against her temple, the way his pulse flutters beneath her lips — she has to stop. It’s too much, too close, too real.

“Think we should bet every race weekend, what do you say?” asks Lando, his pace quickening, hands guiding her up and down his cock like it’s the only thing that keeps him sane. “Would die to have you like this all the time, hm?”

“Mhm,” she grinds down until his name is all she can say. “Fuck. I’m so close.”

“Yeah, baby. I feel you.”

Her voice breaks off into a moan right when she’s about to speak again, to tell him not to go there and call her that. But Lando rolls his hips, pushing deeper, filling her inch by inch until there’s no space left, which shuts her up in an instant. They fuck in a rhythm that shouldn’t work, all sweat-slicked skin and shaky breaths. The air fills up with obscene sounds of them, their bodies colliding with enough force to make her whimper and moan his name all over again, each time he thrusts.

To help himself, he spreads her wider, holding her open for him, watching the way he disappears inside her, utterly wrecked by the sight. “Taking me so fucking well,” he says between thrusts, dragging his mouth over her jaw. “Look.”

She whines while looking down at where they’re joined. Lando moves his gaze on her expression with a grin on his face, so proud when he feels every spasm in her body; it’s a total mess. Her slick is all over him, coating his cock, his thighs, soaking through the waistband of his jeans that are still shoved only halfway down his hips. Each time they meet, there’s a wet sound echoing between them, sticky and warm, ricocheting against the walls in Lando’s living room like a drumbeat pulling them closer to the edge.

“You like how wrecked you’ve got me?”

She nods frantically, squeezing him so tight it makes Lando see stars. At that, he reaches up, brushing the strands of hair from her face, tucking them behind her ears with his long fingers. His hand stays there a moment, continuing to slide lower, fingertips skimming her jaw, then wrapping gently around her throat, enough to feel her pulse. To hold her in place.

In a matter of seconds, their eyes lock again. Her chest heaves and her eyes shine, but not just from pleasure. It’s because she wants to tell him that this isn’t what she expected. It’s much, much more, and it will leave a deep mark, no matter which path they’ll choose to take tomorrow morning.

His hands move hungrily, down from her neck to her chest, cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples. He holds them carefully, wanting to memorize the shape, the weight, and the way they fill his palms, to make sure he won’t forget a single detail about her body.

“Lan,” she warns.

Lando hums, “Mhm. Right there with you, beautiful,” he assures her.

Her breathing is jagged, the rhythm of their hips desperate, chasing the edge that’s been teasing them since the moment she sank down onto him. Every motion drives him deeper, sends wave after wave crashing through her, because she’s right there for quite a while now.

“Hi there,” Lando’s voice brings her back. His hand comes up to cradle the back of her head, gently pulling her to see her face. “Look at me, I want to see you. Let me see you.”

Her body tenses, and just for a split second the frantic rhythm stutters, then finds its pace again as the orgasm rips through her with a blinding force. She keeps her eyes on his the whole time, riding it out with her hands burried in the curls at the back of his head. His hips jerk beneath her as he throbs inside her, overwhelmed by the way she fights to keep him in. It drives him crazy, and he moans loudly, trying to pull out, but her thighs close tighter around him.

“Inside,” she rushes to say, unable to form sentences longer than one word.

Lando’s jaw clenches so hard he feels like his teeth might snap from the force, every muscle in his body pulled tight and shivering. He holds on by a thread for half a second longer, but then her body flutters around him again, and with a loud, guttural gasp, he lets go, spilling inside her in thick pulses that only make her hold him tighter. His hands shake where they clutch at her hips, trying to pull her down even harder, like he can’t bear even a sliver of distance between them right in this moment.

None of them knows how much time passes like that, but neither of them moves again. She’s stays slumped against his chest, her face buried in the crook of his neck, while his arms stay locked around her waist, as if letting go might break whatever just happened between them.

Lando presses his cheek on the top of her head, his heart hammering so hard he’s sure she can feel it. But it’s fine, because he can feel hers, too.

His hands drift up and down her back in aimless strokes and, while she starts to come back to herself, she notices the music still playing softly around them, the same sultry beat from earlier floating through the air.

Her brows pinch together in confusion before realization hits. “How the fuck did you time your playlist so perfectly?”

Lando lets out a breathless laugh, “Talent.”

She snorts, dropping her head back onto his shoulder with a groan. “Goodness gracious, it is so hard tolerate you.”

“Liar,” he says, “You wanna kiss me so bad.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes, but the way her cheeks heat up gives her away immediately. Lando laughs under his breath again, cocky and so annoyingly right. She opens her mouth to fire back, to tell him that no, she definitely doesn’t want to kiss his smug ass, but then her eyes catch the little red light blinking from across the couch.

The camera. Still recording.

She nudges him softly, grinning against the flush in her cheeks, and points at it. “Smile and wave, Norris,” she whispers, and Lando immediately flashes the most ridiculous smirk at the lens, making her laugh for real this time.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

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© trashy track tales, 2025

[gay-dorito-dust]

bob things because i keep seeing edits of him and joaquin torres.

Bob is very aware of how much stronger then everyone he is, so when he careful with you, making sure to not use more then he needs. He worries that he might accidently hurt you in the process, something he wouldn't forgive himself for nor ask for forgivness from you as he doesn't deserve it. He's so gentle with you that you thought he was handiling glass or porcelain with how he held your arm or holding your hand.

It wasn't in a way where he was under estimating you, but instead in a way where he was still firm with his grip yet was loose enough where you could easily break away from him. You were at the forefront of his mind whenever he does anything that required him in any aspect to touch you, he would much rather put your comfort first and above his own then ever do anything that would cause you even the slightest bit of discomfort.

Even if you did tell him that he didn't have to be so gentle with you, Bob was still going to be gentle with you even when he's on a mission and see you were in danger, quick to act as he moves you out of harms way as his hands anchor you to reality and to him when you looked into his worried eyes. His grip never tightens nor loosens, caressing your shoulders as though he was trying to memorise your warmth and existence into his mind, as though he was silently asking you if you were okay while his eyes scan your figure for harm.

Bob is the type of guy who would read books and get ideas for what he should do for you, things like little notes that he would leave scattered throughout your room within the Watchtower or places he knows you'll visit frequently, placing them in specific spots that only you would go to. These little notes would vary from time to time, some of them would be suggestions of where you two could do when you had the time, or notes where they would be filled with sugary sweet compliements that were enough to make your heart melt and internally swoon.

such examples like; 'i like it when we do our own things in silence, it calms me knowing that we're doing stuff that we love together, where we don't have to rely on words and instead just merely exist in tandem and are at peace with that.'

'you looked tired today, do you want to talk about it? or maybe a nap? you've done pulling your weight today and need rest.'

'thank you for being patient with me, thank you for being a dream come true for me and being such a safehaven where i can be vulnerable and let you in on my biggest worries, where i can lay it all out and you still look at me like that love you have for me never faded. thank you.'

'i didn't know i could fall more then i already have, then i look at you and find a new reason to love you, you make it as easy as breathing or writing a note for you to find later much like this one. :)'

'i wake excited to see you as if i haven't seen you in months, i even fall asleep in hopes of seeing you in my dreams, there's never a day where i don't stop thinking about you and i don't plan on stopping either becuase i never want to forget the best moment of my life; meeting you.'

However if you were to give him notes, he's smiling wide at your words and keeping every single last note in a box under his bed, so when he feels as though he needs a pick me up Bob will go to the box and re-read your notes and feel better by the time he gets to the lastest one you've written him. He treasures every last thign you've given him and isn't willing to let go of them either, for these were his reminders that there was someone for him who saw him in a way he hadn't think to see himself on.

If Bob saw that you were just out of it, or just more silent then usual the he would move over to you and just bring you to rest against against him, smooth his hand over your arm as you pratically cuddle yourself into him. Your head being burried into his neck as he allowed you to take a brief rest from everything, to latch your arms to his waist and keep him close to you while Bob kisses your head and reasuring you that he wasn't going anywhere, not when you were in need of him and holding onto him like he might dissapear.

He was your charging station until you felt better to continue the day ahead, though not before Bob would ask if you were okay in a soft hushed tone before he allowed you to eascape his arms.

Bob finds that his mind becomes clear when he was near you, no worries nor nightmares plauge this man when his head was on your chest with his ear listening to your heart and steady breathing, so he's often wandering off to your room just to silence his mind. He's come to your doorstep so much so that you kept stuff that he left from previous times he came, whether it was a sweater or a blanket, it didn't matter becuase your room had became his second home becuase you were there to comfort and console him.