#pointing to and tapping the helmet

[leclercskiesahead]

Carlos Sainz’s EPIC podium moment

from GQ México y Latinoamérica

[screampied]

#THE PARTY & THE AFTER PARTY. g. suguru

☆ sum. the last thing you’d expect for a surprise birthday present by your friends was a visit to a men’s strip club. geto suguru—your dancer’s got it all. tall, handsome, and he wants waaay more than just thirty minutes with you.

wc. 6.9k (h.. haha)

warnings. fem! reader, stripper au, stripper! geto, unprotected, lap dancīng, dry humping, switch geto, lots of riding, 69, finishing too quick, choking, geto has nīpple piercings, hair pulling, spīt, dirty talk, he licks champagne off you, nīpple play, breedīng, praise, **** cameo :), petnames.

an. ty to the ppl who voted on my poll <3 kinda scared to post this LOL. this came on a whim ʅ（◞‿◟）ʃ

➤ kinktober mlist.

“i understand your body wants it. i know your thoughts, oh you ‘bout it ‘bout it . . ”

the erotic lyrics that blared through the club’s abject speakers nearly deafened your ears the moment you stepped inside. you were flashed with a plethora of luminescent jade lights as you read a glowing sign near the bar that read ‘welcome to the vixxxen lounge.’ your friends, who decided to surprise you for your birthday with nothing more than a girls’ trip to a men’s strip club told you they’d be getting drinks if you need them. of course . . that was probably code for: going to spend time near the private rooms.

apparently, it’s ‘happy hour’ which meant countless discounts—and you’d already had your two individual sessions paid for by one of your friends. crisp aerating air waves from the air conditioner chills against your skin as you lean against the bronzy brick pillar. you gather your surroundings, eyeing the oily attractive glossed men that entertained the screaming crowds of thirsty women. the wide stage was spacey, and it almost looked like a concert—you started to wonder just who you were paired up with. but right as you’re pondering deep in thought, there’s a light tap on your shoulder.

“miss.”

you turn around to face probably the most attractive man you’ve laid your eyes upon. he’s tall with lengthy long hair — tangled black tresses of strands that reach just about past his shoulders. you couldn’t help but openly gawk a bit . . finding your eyes to leisurely trail down toward his skimpy attire. near his neck, he had a stained smooch of a lip stick mark that was a dark shaded red. you then noticed a few hundred dollar bills stuck in between his red thin straps.

this guy, it appeared he was dressed as some kind of firefighter. he had on the helmet along with the matching baggy yellow pants, but was completely topless. the only thing that went against his chiseled pecs was the skinny straps that attached onto the belts of his pants.

“heyy,” he waves a hand in your face, arching a brow.

“o- oh, sorry,” you bashfully murmur, mentally cursing yourself out for wandering off into space again. embarrassing, embarrassing. fishing for your vip pass that gave you direct access to one of the secluded private rooms—you dig it out your pocket, staring down at the assigned dancer and room number. “are you uh . . geto?”

“i am. but ah, suguru’s fine,” he murmurs, and he takes your pass, putting the temperature lanyard over your neck. geto’s fingers brush against your skin and you nearly shudder.

his touch.. it felt like sparks of electricity, and near the far distance by the crowded stage, your friends waved at you. with a throaty, “follow me, birthday girl,” he swiftly turns his heels and starts making a beeline toward the back of the club. you follow him, continuing to eye his costume.

but phew, he had quite the ass.

but anyway—that’s not the point.

it never really occurred to you how all the male strippers had specific costumes—you were far too entranced by geto. it was probably because of how halloween was only a mere few weeks away, so it’d make sense how they’d be ordered to get into the spirit of things.

“and imma let you do it how you wanna girl i’ll riiiide with it, riiiide with it . . ”

the lyrics of that catchy same song that resounded through the speakers of the club grew louder—and as he guided you inside the dimly red lit room, he makes you lie back against a cushioned sofa. there’s a few piles of money scattered near the front, and you didn’t count but that amount could make anyone filthy rich.

geto rubs the back of his neck, rolling it around to stretch before he glances down at you. you struggle to look him in the eye and a faint smile creases across his lips.

you’re new, and he could tell you weren’t used to such carnal provocative environments.

“relaaax, pretty girl,” his voice was low purr. the way he talked was soothing, a good amount of teasing and playfulness. right at his words, your shoulders slumped and you lean back.

the air around you seems to close in, getting thicker ‘n thicker before he makes you haul your arms over the edges of the couch. “comfy?” and he doesn’t do anything else until you give him a subtle complying nod. geto takes off his amber-colored helmet before putting it on your head. “lean back. just focus on me.”

“o . . okay,” you exhale, and your eyes finally meet his.

the fake firefighter helmet crooks, tilting a bit to the side over the crown of your head as you watch him starting to sway to the bass dropping beats. you gulp as he gets closer . . and closer, following the exact steps to his usual routine before he gets on your lap.

he’s so pretty, and now that his helmet was off of him, you got an even more view of his face. geto starts to slowly grind against you, one hand resting near back of the couch that’s next to your shoulder. he’s fully in sync with the song that booming blares in the background.

the friction. he was moving up against you, and you couldn’t help but glance down his glossy chest. his legs were huge, and you didn’t even notice the clamped silver piercings that stuck against his reddened nipples. “is this okay?” he whispers, and you already feel yourself starting to heat up. the a/c was blasting—and yet, you felt like it was over a hundred degrees.

“ ‘s okay,” you breathlessly say, feeling your facial expressions serene. geto swiftly gets off you, and he starts to rock and grind his hips against the floor.

he’s slow and precise—each movement matches the following before he sits up, flicking against the straps of his costume. fuck, you couldn’t keep your eyes off of him. you knew he was probably used to this . . seeing so many women at a time, giving them a thirty minute private dance and going on with his day.

geto had charisma and lots lots of it.

it was ironic because he didn’t even have to say anything. throughout the duration of his entire routine, he let his hips do the rest of the talking. speaking of hips, you’ve never seen a more a slutty waist.

it’s unapologetically snatched, and you start to envision seeing his face plastered on every cover of a a men’s vogue magazine. he’s gorgeous—and the second he’s back in your lap again, he leans into the crook of your neck. “hey,” he repeats, and his voice was a lot more pitched and lower. it’s a dirty kind of husky that makes you clench your thighs together. as he’s up close—you get a whiff of his cologne. it’s quite loud, and you’d guess the scent was something between bergamot and rich aromatic oak moss. “do you wanna touch me?”

a breath gets trapped in the back of your clogged throat at the question.

geto continues to gradually grind his hips into you as pretty black strands of his hair tickles near your shoulders. “y- yes,” and the words smoothly flow from your lips like smooth molasses of chocolate.

geto was patient, and he wanted to make you comfortable—that was his number one priority.

he speaks in a more rough yet sly tone. “ ‘m gonna grab your wrists okay? just feel me,” and you feel mentally prepare yourself. biting down on your bottom lip—you mouth a soft, ‘okay,’ and geto gently grabs your wrists.

he’s still slowly jerking his hips against you, matching each sultry beat of the song. the base of the chorus rang through your ears and the lyrics flowed through once ear ‘n out the other.

as you stare up at him, he makes you press your hands firmly against his shaven flexing chest. sheets of slicking sweat that covers the top part of his body coats on your hands and you cutely furrow your brows. “heh, oh sorry love. ‘m a bit sweaty, hope that doesn’t turn you off.”

“it’s f . . fine,” you utter, and he resumes to guide your hands. his chest was as hard as a brick, and you felt how his muscles would freely tense.

god, geto was a literal sculpture. you probably looked stupid with how you kept openly staring at his perfectly carved abs. an entire six pack - each section even more strenuously ripped than the first.

as you continue to gawk, eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets—you feel him shifting his weight a bit so he wouldn’t crush you. your thumb snags against his pierced nipple and he grunts, breaking character for a second. he lets off a cute snarl. “sorry! i didn’t-”

“sweetheart, it’s okay,” he hums, releasing a low puff of air. so he was sensitive there, noted.

as he continues, he makes your hands reach lower. the thin straps of his costume glide against your plump fingertips before he stops at his fading raven-colored happy trail.

black ‘n bushy . . you could make out every single tiny speck of hair that stuck against the lower part of his abdomen if you squinted, and you did.

the rest was hiding underneath the upper hem part of his prop turnout pants. “now ‘m gonna let go of my hands,” he whispers, eyeing you intently.

it was so much lustful ardor in the air. the more you stared at the dancer, the more you started questioning why the hell you never visited a strip club sooner. a question that was probably gonna remain unanswered..

“ . . ‘n ‘m gonna let you do whatever you want while i finish.” he concludes his sentence, and as if his hands were attached to your own with adhesive velcro, geto slowly pulls away.

now, it’s just your two balmy palms pressing against his chest. you take it upon yourself to drag an invisible line down his flat sleek cheek with your fingers.

your hands then find themselves reaching for a few papery fifty dollar bills, tossing it at his glossed grinding body. geto sighs with a cunning simper, continuing to rock his slim hips into your lap. “that’s it, feel me princess. ‘m all yours.”

and in a way – he was.

it was only you two in the room, and yet it felt like you ‘n suguru were the only people on earth. the entire mood was sensual and you could almost smell the libido that radiated off his skin. it was a scent you couldn’t describe—but you didn’t want him to stop.

as your hands kept roaming down his puffed out chest, you stop right at the hem of his pants. poking out, his sharp carved-like ‘v’ shaped pelvis arches within each muscle he moves forward.

the crimson red lights that flicker every three seconds narrowly spotlights toward geto’s fit body. for a quick moment—you get a good glimpse of his face and he’s inches away from your shimmery twitching lips.

geto leans up to your ear and he hoarsely whispers. “birthday girllll,” and he huffs out a drawn breath, feeling you eagerly tug at his pants. a snicker leaves from him before he gets a nice smell of your citrusy perfume. “ah. is the pants gettin’ on your nerves?”

“a bit,” you murmur honestly, and you were already undressing him with your eyes. you were sure geto was most likely wearing a thong underneath but you imagined otherwise.

filthy - you couldn’t believe the thoughts you were having.

to think, if you hadn’t accepted this little ‘girls’ trip’ with your friends, you’d probably be sleeping the entire day away. after all, they did want you to get out more. especially for your special day. with a pout twisting across each part of your lips, you sigh. “can i—”

“what, undress me?” he tries to play coy, seeing your pouty expression increase. geto hums, amused as you lightly hook a finger underneath his hooked strap before he shrugs. “go ‘head, princess. knock y’rself out.”

geto found your hesitance cute. you didn’t wanna seed ‘needy’ but you were showing all signs of it. at the moment, you completely forgot you were at a strip club and he was just a dancer.

but fuck it.

you went slow as he still straddles your lap, slowly pulling down his loosely fitted pants. they were baggy.. a flashy color of yellow, and the more you tugged them down, the more you got a glance at his scanty thong.

it’s dark purple with his name embedded on the thin white strips.

from all sides, it spelled ‘s u g u r u,’ in bold lilac plum colors. he even had custom made thongs? as if you couldn’t get even more aroused—

yeah, you were aroused. leave it to your legs that remained glued together starting to swelter up with … stickiness.

not everyday did you have a man grind against your lap, and to be fucking frank you didn’t think you’d last.

“you’re so pretty,” you pant, watching him shimmy his pants down to where it flops down to his ankles. and oh, he had quite the bulge.

it looked almost painful—so swole and round, you just wanted to kiss it. it looked like at any second it was about to just burst through the cottony stretched fabric. the scenery grows more hedonic as the red lights dimmer. you could barely see his face anymore, just a silhouette that grinds against your lap at each beat of the song playing loudly.

as you nearly slip out a moan, you lean back before your heaving breaths start to accelerate. “suguru.”

“aw,” he coos, feeling your arms wrap around his slender waist. geto’s still swiftly grinding into you, feeling your cute nails claw into his back. the back of your brain kept chanting ‘more, more, more!’

you still have the helmet on, and with the way it’s crooked and could barely fit your head—he found that small detail adorable. as he remained seated on your squished thighs, it was embarrassing to think you were starting to feel yourself erratically throb.

leaning into your neck, he could loudly smell your sheer arousal and it makes him lowly chuckle against the soft shell of your ear. “not satisfied, yeah?” and he lets off a quiet bellowing grunt, feeling your hands trail down his sweaty body once more.

he’s so built, parallel to a literal tank.

geto’s rocking against you in rhythm with the same song that still trumpets through the speakers before whispering. “just say it ‘n i’ll give it to you.”

“you always come to the parties. to pluck the feathers off allll the biiiirds. . ”

the lengthy song continued to drag on—and the busted speakers in the private room sounded like it was about to break from the distortion. it was loud, but your panting breaths was even louder the more geto dances on you.

letting off a longing three second moan once a leg of yours voluntarily hooks around his slim waist, you mewl out a sweet, “i want you. suguru, fuck me.”

“oh. sounds like a demand, sweetheart,” he purrs, and he stills his hips against your lap.

geto’s got a plethora of rings on each of his fingers. pretty silver ‘n gold bands that would wrap around his digits. he had long fingers, thin and perfectly slender.

the more you stared, the more you thought how good they’d fit insi—

“eyes up here,” he cuts you off, and you shudder feeling his palms cup your face. your leg still wraps around his waist before another shortly follows.

he’s barely rocking into you now, and with a bumpy shimmy, you feel his bulge rub against you. “mhm,” geto grunts before meeting your needy gaze once more. as a thumb strokes your bottom lip, pulling it down gingerly, he whispers. “ask nicely. say pretty please.”

“you won’t … charge me extra?” you sheepishly say, beads of perspiring sweat trickling down all sides of your forehead.

geto smugly smiles, grumbling a subtle, ‘nah,’ before making you lean all the way back against the padded sofa. “okay,” you breathe, and you just didnt care anymore.

you wanted him – maybe even needed him..

geto’s hardened bulge that presses against his thong throbs harder before you sweetly murmur,“please, fuck me, suguru.”

“anythin’ for the birthday girl.”

and those words were the same exact words that ran through your mind as you now found yourself in . . quite the risqué position.

you’d be the one straddling geto now. he’s got you in a classic 69, and your pretty perked ass hovers over his face. right in front of you was his weighty fat cock, and it’s a pretty flushed pink with rosy-lime veins prodding from the sides.

you’re whimpering out sweet harmonic keynotes as his long pointed tongue slithers its through your inviting entrance, two broad arms clinging onto your hips. “fuuckk,” he’d groan, feeling you smear a thumb over his leaky mushroomy tip.

you’ve already got him sopping wet from the chin down thanks to your wet cunt – glossy pearly drool seeping from the sides of his dick.

geto’s shaft remains idle, and you wrap a hand around his base before pumping it, rotating your wrist – once, twice, thrice..

he was aching, and the entire time he was giving you a show he had a boner. it was rare, usually whenever he gave lap dances—he was one to never really crack, he was a trained professional and yet here you were.

“mmch,” his swollen puckered lips smack against your cunt as he eats you out entirely from the back.

your mouth drops, jaw dangling— goofily hanging open like a cartoon as he resumes to extends the length of his tongue inside the outskirts of your warm room-temperate-tastin’-pussy.

lolling it out all the way, he licks from top to bottom—stopping at your clenching hole. geto gives it a five second kiss, a sloppy one that glues a mixture of his spit and your slimy juices on his mouth. “sweetheaaart,” he rasps, biting back a greedy groan once he feels you starting to take him in your mouth.

your throat’s seraphic warmth draws a hot sharp breath out of him as he swats a hard palm against your ass for you to start. “when i say move your ass against my face, i fuckin’ mean it. move,” and you let off a candied whimper the second the temporary sting sends singles toward your weeping whiny clit.

feebly, you start to flop your ass up and down against his face and you hear a satisfy ‘hmm’ purr from his lips. you’re moaning, sinking his cock down your throat in the process before your sticky tongue swirls around his angered crownhead. “mmph,” and you take a few inches before you feel his tip swipe against the scaled roof of your mouth.

going back up, it loudly ‘pops!’ out as a bit of sheeny saliva trickles down your chin. you’re taking him deep within no time, and you let off a cute hiccup once his swollen sack paps near your jaw.

so full ‘n round…

you’re breathing through your nose, still shaking your ass against his face, swipin’ his nose occasionally like a credit card with your honeyed-slathered cunt.

his wide flat tongue felt so good that you felt your toes curling each time he playfully nibbles on your sensitive throbbing clit. his tastebuds felt each pulse and it was so hot. “sugu, fuck.”

“i know, i know,” he gruffly whispers against your runny folds. bringing a pair of long twinned fingers towards your pussy, geto strums it down the pulsating slit in a straight pillaring line.

with a bit of pressure—he spreads your lower lips apart, getting a front row seat view of your clit pumpin’ pumpin’ away.

you had such a pretty throb, the prettiest he’s ever seen.

“god, you’re pretty but you’re even prettier down here too,” and not only do you hear him swallow but you feel it too.

a long full gulp, and he’s making sure to savor as much of your sweet slick on his tongue as possible.

geto’s just nasty, and a proud eater. he zigzags his tongue everywhere until your vision’s murky and clouded. you’re left crossed eyed with puffed up cheeks, barely able to focus on his dick that’s laying flat on your tongue.

a hand of his squeezes against your ass before with a mean ‘whack!’ he spanks it again just to see the bouncy recoil. the way a ‘lil fat portion of your ass would jiggle all due to the hasty-rash contact of his palm makes him throb.

and you feel it right in your mouth.

as your head bobbles at a more quick yet languid pace, your tongue skims down one of the many veins that paint down his cock. your repeated moans become muffled, and geto groans at how sloppy you sound—from the front and from behind.

the more he slurps every syrupy drop that dribbles out from your gurgling pussy, his precisely-thorough licks turn into exaggerated four second sucks.

geto softly caresses a hand against the bare skin of your exposed flesh, tugging on your pulled up skirt. pulled to the side were your panties that had a pretty pink star imprinted on the back decorated with glimmery rhinestones. you moan as your back slowly arches inward ‘n out and your knees become to buck.

his tongue, he definitely knew how to eat.

“ ‘s good, juuuus’ like that princess,” he huffs, feeling minuscule dewdrops of your saliva pour down the sides of his cock, slicking all over his base.

your thumb traces a heart over his hefty sack, massaging his tender full testes before you hear geto whine out a sweet, “o- oooh shit,” he was tender there too, huh..

and the sound catches him completely off guard because he grunts, the swaying of his tongue gradually slowing down. geto’s pretty lashes flutter before he grunts, taking a second to breathe. “don’t . . stop, play with ‘em some more,”

“pf—” you pop your mouth off his dick again, wet slimy sounds following as you stroke him off with an closed palm. “are you sure?”

“yeah yeah, ‘m sure,” and there’s a bit of sass in his gruff tone.

geto’s getting flustered, and never in a million years would he admit that you playing with his balls made him feel so good but fuck, it did.

geto paws a hand against your ass before letting off a hurried breathless, “fuck, ‘m gonna cum.”

you went back to bobbling your head up ‘n down, pumping his fleshy pillar of length in your free hand before you start writhing your ass against his face even more quicker. geto moans, a surge of a trill nearly escaping out his gruff vocal chords before he grunts loudly. “mmp,” and your throat was so wet ‘n warm.

it enveloped him entirely, and as your cunt’s sitting over his slick lips—every so often rubbing against his nose and slick-streamed chin, he peppers it with a few kisses.

your hips were arched ‘n askew, and as your tongue occasionally darts down his sensitive slit you hear him grunt again. the burgundy colored sofa pathetically dips inward due to the stacked weight of both rutting bodies. geto’s eyes start to roll their way back as you continue, nearly sucking the soul out of him.

“fuck, baby. spit on it,” he groans, clasping his teeth at your needy clit.

he slides his tongue against your cute bulbous-shaped nub before sucking on it for the umpteenth time. you moan, still tossing your ass around for him in a slow meandering manner, feeling his tongue drag down the slope of your ass again.

geto’s pussy drunk entirely, and he didn’t care if this was against policy, having a customer touch him. when you tasted this divine, he couldn’t help devour your cunt like the starved, starved man he was..

at his words, you spat out translucent globs of saliva from your lips, pasting the slightly curved sides of his dick with your slick mess. “pff,” and you drench him from the base down, twisting his shaft with your wrist before hearing him groan.

geto’s about to finish and you could feel the vigorous pumps of his dick in your mouth growing weaker �� and weaker – until, he cums.

geto’s jaw goes slack the moment his peak abnormally reaches, and growls out a husky ‘fuuuuuck,’ with the muscles in his neck tensing.

within a blink of an eye and a snap of a finger, the flat tip of your tongue’s now being sprayed with spritz of waxen cum. it’s a bittersweet taste that coats on your judgy tastebuds, and as you close your eyes with a humming moan departing from your lips, you hear him hiss. his body’s violently shaking, and his hips start to hungrily thrust into your mouth.

you wriggle your ass in face as he’s barely eating you out anymore, frantically heaving as he dumps his all down your pretty tight throat. “fuck, fuck, take it,” and his body still sporadically tremors.

as your mouth’s still full, geto gives your teary wet cunt it’s last few lapping licks before his head collapses back in lecherous defeat.

with cheeks still plumply puffed — his cock remains shoved inside. his aggravated red tip’s just swiping ‘n erupting near the roof of your mouth as you slurp him clean.

you swallow instantaneously, luxuriating in the mildly honey taste before feeling him shudder underneath you. “goddamn, so fuckin’ good. fuckin’ filthy, princess.”

with clammy palms, he turns you over and you lean in to kiss him. geto’s taken by surprise, and as you make him flop back against the velveteen cushion, you made your way on his lap. rough edges of teeth clash and roughly clatter against each other as each tongue plays a more salacious version twister.

geto reclines back, his hands moving toward your rocking waist as he grunts—tasting himself on your tongue. its bitter, but with the help of your lip gloss—it turns far more sweet within seconds. feverish breaths ghosts inside each mouth before you watch him reach near the side of him.

grabbing a half filled up bottle of mousseux, he flicks off the cork with a flick of his middle finger. geto’s eyes still closed as he’s delving his tongue right into your mouth.

the merciless smacking of lips grew louder before he pulls away, huffing breathlessly. “wan’ more of a taste real quick, princess,” and it sounds more like a needy plead. you see how flushed his face was, and geto’s eyes dart straight toward your bare chest. the top you wore was pulled down, clinging near the very bottom of your waist. “c’mere..”

and as you lean in, you watch as geto starts to pour down a small stream of champagne all down your chest. right between your tits, cupping underneath your tummy so none wouldn’t spill further down.

he makes sure a few glosses over your pretty round breasts before he grunts, closing the distance between your chest.

geto buries his face in between the valley of your tits, licking it right up. the bubbly fruity taste lingers on his tongue as he laps you up from top to bottom moaning at the spicy sweetness.

a mixture of your skin and champagne—better than any cocktail this club’s ever served.

“f- fuck,” he moans, lying his tongue flat. geto stares at you the entire time too, and his mouth gradually trails it way toward your damp neglected nipples. he cups his lips around the first nipple—slowly transitioning to the next before slurping the drink right off your body.

a tight breath gets caught in your throat as he continues to lick the rainy drops of sugary champagne off your body. geto groans, savoring the taste before with a loud ‘plop’, he pops your tender wet nipple out of his mouth.

there’s nothing but utter lust and infatuation in his eyes—and he then gets up to kiss you. the room’s nearly pitch dark without the help of the dim effulgent red lights that shined against you both. it added to the mood perfectly.

as tongues continue to try to assert dominance, you moan right in the dancer’s mouth, returning the gesture of swapping gauzy strings of gossamer spit.

abruptly though, you pull away, gently pushing geto back against the sofa.

with a raspy ‘ugh,’ geto lands on his back as you give him a light shove. he’s at your mercy, and you stand up from his lap, a wind of confidence coming out of nowhere and nearly pulling you forward.

he stares at you with hooded cunt-drunk eyes, watching you do a figure eight with your body.

“what’s . . this?” he huffs, burly arms stretching over each edge of the sofa. you looked so pretty, eyeing him up and down as he does the exact same to you.

the luminescent lights started to beam on you now, highlighting your curves and entire physique.

“lie back,” you murmur, slowly sashaying toward him. geto runs a hand through his hair, his dick twitching from the cool air wafting against it. you teasingly drag a finger down the scarred middle line of his bare-puffed chest, stopping at a hardened row of his brick-made abs. “i wanna try your little routine.”

“yeahh?” geto snickers, sucking in a sharp breath once you spin around, bending all the way over. the helmet that was still on your head—you put it back on him, watching him scoff at your audacity.

so you stole his profession now, great.

as you’re turned the other way, you slowly wriggle your ass in front of him, putting a hand over your sopping pussy and he kisses his teeth. “tch. don’t tease, sweetheart,” and geto’s allured stare fixates on you the entire time. his dilated irises frantically roamed around every and any part of your body like a laser. “fuck,” he grunts, watching you finally make your way on his lap.

geto’s all submissively underneath you—bare ‘n exposed with his poor tip flushed. its color was a sheeny carmine red that’s akin to a ripe cerise rose.

a few dried up splotches of cum stick near his weighty sides before he shudders. your ass sits on his flaccid dick before you start to move.

slowly,

you’re rutting into him—just like he was to you, grinding back and forth. geto looks so pretty though, underneath you. he’s still panting a bit, sweating bullets as you tease him with your crazed hips.

you weren’t at his level quite yet, but fuck could you move. geto groans, feeling your sloppy pussy rub off against his dick. you were so close to his tip that his foreskin would peel back a bit. “do you wanna touch me?”

touché..

geto narrows his eyes at you as you tease him, repeating his exact words from what he said to you earlier.

he doesn’t just touch you, he fucks you—

but in this case . . you fuck him.

geto holds back a moan as he’s watching his claret-colored cockhead disappear between your sappy folds. it’s like a magic trick, and with a ‘poof!’ half of length vanished within you.

you let off a soft shrilling whine, trying to writhe yourself around his length.

his dick was fat. ‘eyes-rolling-tongue-lolling-drag-your-nails-down-his back-’ type of fat.

and his girth only made things ten times more intense. you felt him rearranging your guts within each prolonged inch you took – literally.

you’re as slow as a snail with the way you try to take him wholly. even as you’re gingerly sinking your bare ass down with his cock snug ‘n deep inside you, he easily kisses against your g-spot.

it’s happening already, and you don’t even realize he’s fully in before a cooing whimper rawly snatches from the back of your dry esophagus. “oh fuck,” you huff, tossing your arms around the dark haired man.

geto’s got the same wide-eye-jaw-dropped reaction to you, and with one arm snaking around your waist—another’s tightly gripping onto your right ass cheek.

he spanks it, giving it a short squeeze afterward. your chest starts to heave in quickened intervals, and once he feels you starting to move it’s game fuckin’ over..

“god, pussy’s ‘ta die for,” he groans, eyes sexily rolling back until his sockets show nothing but white.

you had him whipped, and he can hear your cunt trying to have a word of its own, squelching out cute gargled squelches. you start to ride him at a mere hypnotic rhythm—and geto’s a lot more vocal now.

with his adam’s apple bobbing, both hands of his were now gripping onto your waist now. piles of money surround you too, a few sticking against his sweaty beefy thighs. “fuck me,” he grunts, and it’s more like he’s begging.

geto locks eyes with you, shaggy long bangs running past his eyes before he securely grabs your hips—trying to keep up pace with you. “mhm, thaaa’s it. ride it, ride . . the shit out of me, uuughhh.”

“ ‘m trying,” you moan, biting your lip each time his swollen cockhead plummets its way deep.

he’s just so big—you couldn’t wrap your head around how a guy could be so damn big.

the good kind of big, and each time he’d seep a single girthy inch into you, your stomach would churn like butter. he’s in sooo deep, your legs could barely support yourself anymore and he had to hold you steady.

as he pulls you all the way down, geto reaches waaay inside of your sloppy gripping cunt that’s oh-so desperate to wring him like a vice.

his thick cock greets your pretty fleshy cervix, mimicking a soft ‘knock’ before introducing itself with a welcoming pound.

he holds your hips, pumping himself into you again, and again, until your pussy remembered each stroke, each thrust, each fuckin’ letter of his name—front to last..

slow but fucking deep.

you gasp, clinging onto his neck before soft hurried pants of ‘yeah, yeah’ ‘s scurry past your glossed lips.

geto’s dewy eyes were half lidded and he’s never felt more pussy drunk in his life. trust—he’s had his fair share of women but oh, you were far different. it was something about you, and he just wanted more after each carnal second passed.

you’re so into his dick givin’ your pussy a fuck of a lifetime that you don’t even realize your hand was now wrapped around his thick neck. not too tight, but geto’s reaction time was slow also. once he realizes seconds after you did, he sheepishly scoffs before slyly humming.

“goddd, y’r so fuckin’ hot when you choke me,” he purrs, tugging at the panties that pull to the side of your thighs. of course he’d enjoy it, and as his dick’s still massaging your gummy walls, he moans. “harderrr.”

“don’t be greedy,” you mumble, burying your knees into his bulky thighs.

the way you rocked against him was hypnotic—and geto’s hands remain on your waist.

you nearly shudder, feeling the various cold bands of his rings run and tickle down your skin. he’s in love with your body, and even more in love with the way you feel from the inside.

leaning in close until you’re just inches away from his spit-slicked lips, your thumb runs its way down the bulging ball that lies inside his throat. “say ‘pretty pleaseee.’ ”

“tsk,” geto scowls, and even with a pout he’s effortlessly attractive. your hips continued to champion its way up ‘n down at a deranged pace as you moved, and his cock’s pumping you full over and over and over. with a vexed grunt, he utters. “pretty please, choke me harder.”

leaning in to kiss the side of his mouth, you whisper a crooning, “good boy,” and geto whines the moment you add a bit more pressure around his neck.

his hair’s all in his face, and your ass was just ruthless.

ferociously slamming down onto his stout cock, you’re drenching him from the base down with your syrup-coated slick. a bit of your own sloppy arousal glues against the pried apart crevices of your thighs—pasting against his as well.

it’s a mess, and with how close he was getting, he was about to create an even bigger one..

geto felt like he was ascending—and with how you were riding him, it didn’t take him long before he’s close again.

yet this time—so were you, and you could recognize the feeling all too well. geto’s cock stretched you to capacity, and he grabs the few dollar bills that scatter on the sofa, throwing it at your body whilst you rode him. he makes it rain on you, spanking your ass with a crumbled up hundred rubbing against your stung skin.

“fuck, ‘m gonna fuckin’ cum again,” he grunts in your ear, feeling your pace accelerate by a mile. you were draining him, preparing to milk him and the thought of him stuffing your cunt full made you pulse.

your tongue salivated at just imagining it..

the warmth, the stickiness, the way it’d spill between your thighs. you’re moaning out sweet noises yourself as you both rut into each other at a demented overzealous pace. geto’s thick thighs clench—and while you’re letting out cute blubs of his name on repeat until it’s the only syllables your dumb brain could register—he pulls you close. “ngh, same time, pretty girl. cum with me, let’s make a . . hah, mess together.”

“okay,” you mewl out, both hips pivoting in lascivious unison.

both sweaty mounds of flesh blissfully bounce into at other and each squelch makes you whimper out in ecstasy.

you cup geto’s pecs, smearing a thumb over his pierced nipples and he whines instantly. you lean in to suck against the bars that slash through his tender areola. geto leans back manspread, growling out husky, ‘fuuuuck!’ ‘s as you hum, giving both his nipples its few seconds of attention.

it lasts for seconds that felt like years, and one you pull away he lets out a cute blasé huff.

as your cunt’s in the midst of overflowing—your hips tremor once more time before within milliseconds, you both cum.

it’s quick..

and with your jaw dropping and geto’s shoulders fatally sagging after his big, heavy sigh—he starts to fill you up ounce after ounce.

it’s patching hot, and the second he’s beginning to spill ‘n dump out his perfect ivory ribbons of cum inside of you, you grunt out a melodic finishing, “fuuuck.”

swinish, weak hands grab at your ass as you come undone also—whimpering soft defeating babbles from the sensitive feeling of your cunt spasming right between your jittery numb legs.

you feel static … shock, electricity pulsing through your veins all at once. your entire body was turning haywire. as you start to grow limb right with geto underneath you—nirvana runs through each individual axon on your body before you hear a loud ‘pop.’

it’s more of a sopping squishing sound, and you were so dumbed down from his dick that you didn’t even realized how full you were..

peeking down, he filled you to the brim. wads and wads and wads of cum went inside of you and you moan, spreading your ass apart while craning your neck around just to see for yourself.

“ ‘m so full, suguru,” you pant, sliding a thumb down your sputtering cunt that’s plugged with both his cock and his thin oozing seed. you lick your lips before turning back towards geto and he’s absolutely fucked stupid.

you rode him so good to the point where he’s just stammering out inaudible whines. it’s cute, and you lean in to kiss him once more.

oh.. he was hooked.

he deepens with a few clingy hands feeling at your chest. the kiss gets more passionate rather than sloppy, and as he’s still buried inside of your cunt—he slowly starts to trail butterfly kisses down your neck. you moan, turning your head before you pull away. “shit, i almost f- forgot.”

“forgot what?” he hoarsely rasps, watching you unalign yourself, plopping down on the sofa with a big content sigh.

geto leans in, allowing his thumb to draw circles around your hips before you reach in for your purse, pulling out another decorated vip pass.

sheepishly, you utter. “my friends bought me two sessions with two dancers. so i have another one after you,” and you glance at the clock, squinting before you let off a bashful titter. “. . . oh, that was way past thirty minutes.”

“who? what dancer, sweetheart?” geto utters with a pout. he was still aching, already missing his you felt from the inside. he watches as you squint at your pass that reads the dancer’s stage name and / or full name on the back.

“uhh, it says t—”

“she means me,” and the both of you spin heads, ogling at the glittery red carpet and decorated pathway that was once covered up.

you could hear geto that laid beside you muttering out a jealous, ‘fuck,’ as you meet the other dancer’s gaze.

he’s wearing a leopard thong with an added on accessory of the most smuggest grin you’ve ever seen.

a slashed scar runs down the right side of his crooked curved lips and you spot bills sticking at both sides of his halfway on thong that nearly shows his sharp hips before he hums.

“name’s toji,” and you’re suddenly being lifted up by strong, tatted brawny arms before he turns around, winking at a very pissed of geto before trodding out the private room with you in his arms.

“i’ll take it from here,” and feral green eyes with an even more feral grin. “ain’t that right, birthday girlll?”

[leafbowl]

You know that thing bikers do when they see a police car? The tap on their helmets? Yeah so Arsenal, Red Hood, Red Robin and Spoiler (who I think are the only ones who ride motorbikes outside of their vigilante personalities) do it whenever they see Nightwing. And you better believe it makes others so fucking confused.

Nightwing: *Drops down into the fight.*

Red Hood: *Stops everything he's doing to tap the top of his helmet.*

Spoiler: *Sees it and then stops to do it too.*

Red Robin: *Gets a giddy little grin and starts tapping the top of his head.*

Thugs: *All collectively very confused.*

Thug #1: Wha... What're they doin'?

Thug #2: Uhh I dunno.

Thug #3: Hey, isn't that what bikers do when they see a cop?

Thug #2: Nah. Nightwing's not a cop, dumbass.

Thug #1: Yeah, he's a vigilante. Wha's he need with bein' a cop?

Thug #3: But he's the type to snitch tho.

Thug #1: Well... I guess. Maybe that's why they do it, cuz he's such a snitch.

Thug #2: *shrugs* Maybe.

Thugs #3: Uh, guys...

Thug #2: What?

Thug #3: Ya 'ere that?

Thug #1: *Pauses but doesn't hear anything.* Uh nah.

Thug #3: Exactly. Where'd the fightin' sounds go?

Thug #2: Shit.

The fighting had stopped because everyone else had been taken care of. The batfam had just been waiting for them to finish their conversation like Alfred taught them to. He would be proud. Probably of the broken and fractured bones that followed. Well, he'd be proud of their technique, they reckoned. (To be honest, Alfred would be proud no matter what.)

Arsenal: So he just... told you all to stop?

Red Hood: *Shrugs.* Pretty much.

Red Robin: I don't get why B wants us to stop using 'dick' as a term of endeerment. It's a compliment! Being like Dick is the highest honour.

Red Hood: And that has nothing to do with the fact the Baby Wonder finds it infuriating?

Red Robin, grinning: Cassie hating it is an upside, I won't lie.

Nightwing: *Drops down next to where they're all gathered on a roof.* Hey guys, sorry I'm late, I-

Red Hood:

Arsenal:

Spoiler:

Red Robin:

Robin:

Orphan:

Nightwing: Uh guys? *Starts sweating because there's something wrong with the way they're all blankly staring at him.* How- how's everyone?

Red Hood: *Starts tapping helmet.*

Nightwing: *So concerned that something's wrong he doesn't clock it right away so he just stares, a crease forming between his eyebrows.*

Red Robin: *Taps against his hair.*

Nightwing: Wait a sceond-

Arsenal, Spoiler: *Taps their heads.*

Robin and Orphan: *Looks at each other. Holds eye contact and then starts tapping their heads to fuck with Nightwing.*

The next day a photo of Nightwing standing with his head bowed in defeat whilst being surrounded by Red Hood, Arsenal, Red Robin, Robin, Spoiler and Orphan who are all patting their heads is trending. People think they're in some kind of cult and that they were either sacraficing Nightwing or they were summoning something. The fact that Nightwing isn't spotted for the next week makes everyone lean towards the sacraficing.

(Jason made him promise he would play into the bit by not going out and letting his friends and/or his siblings patrol his city. Dick has never been good at saying no to his little brother. And, come on, Dick fucking loved the idea of people thinking he was being sacraficed. Also, he doesn't mind the head patting. Batman was the only one who thought it might reveal his identity. Dick was with Stephanie on it all, really. There was no way people would connect him to Nightwing and if they did, it's not like anyone else would believe them.)

It gets to the point that it's not even to fuck with Batman anymore. It becomes a normal greeting, something that bleeds into their civillian lives. People understand it more when it's directed at Dick Grayson but it's very endeering to see it. It all fuels all the Bruceman shippers when Tim Drake-Wayne is caught doing it to Nightwing.

[satellite-evans]

clumsy

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: Your clumsiness is going to be the death of Lando.

Word count: 2k+

Warnings: injuries, fluff, worried Lando

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

The first time Lando saw you trip over nothing, he thought it was a one-time thing. Maybe you were just tired, maybe the floor was uneven, maybe it was just bad luck. But after months of dating, he realized it was just... you.

You were a walking hazard. A human magnet for misfortune. A professional at collecting bruises, scrapes, and band-aids like they were limited-edition collectibles.

And, unfortunately for Lando, that meant he was constantly on high alert.

“Babe!” His panicked voice rang out as he watched you stumble over absolutely nothing on the kitchen floor. In one fluid motion, he darted forward, catching you before you could face-plant into the counter. His arms wrapped securely around your waist, keeping you from further self-destruction.

You blinked up at him, sheepish. “Oops.”

Lando let out a dramatic sigh, holding you steady. “How does this keep happening?”

“I have my theories.” You shrugged, playfully tapping your temple. “Faulty wiring.”

He shook his head, scanning you for any new injuries with the practiced precision of someone who had done this far too many times. “You need bubble wrap. No, actually, I’m getting you a helmet.”

You giggled, resting your hands on his chest. “A helmet for walking?”

“Yes. And knee pads. And elbow pads. And maybe a full-body suit.” He crouched slightly, running his fingers over a fresh bruise forming on your knee. His lips pressed together in frustration. “When did this happen?”

You followed his gaze, only now noticing the purple splotch decorating your skin. “Uh… I have no idea actually.”

Lando groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Love, you’re killing me.”

You grinned, cupping his face between your hands. “But you love me anyway.”

“Unfortunately.” He sighed dramatically, but the fond smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. “I swear, one of these days, you’re going to give me a heart attack.”

“I’ll try not to,” you teased, pecking his lips. “No promises, though.”

Despite his exaggerated complaints, he was always there to patch you up. He had a first-aid kit permanently stocked—no, actually, he had multiple, one in the car, one in the bathroom, and a travel-sized version in his bag. He had mastered the art of wrapping bandages, applying ointments, and kissing away the pain (even if you insisted that last part was unnecessary).

At this point, he was convinced he could get a medical degree solely from the amount of practice he had.

And yet, no matter how many times he swore he’d wrap you in protective gear, he never failed to hold onto you just a little tighter, watching out for stray corners, slippery floors, and rogue table edges like they were mortal enemies.

Because, as exhausting as it was, he wouldn’t trade you—or your inexplicable ability to defy gravity—for anything.

Even if it meant keeping an ice pack ready at all times.

As if on cue, you turned to walk away and immediately stubbed your toe on the kitchen island.

“Ow! Shit!”

Lando just groaned, rubbing his temples. “That’s it. I’m putting you in a bubble.”

“That seems excessive.”

“You just injured yourself standing still!”

You grinned sheepishly. “Okay, fair point.”

Shaking his head, he pulled you into a hug, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’re a menace.”

“Your menace,” you corrected, snuggling into him.

He sighed, but you could hear the smile in his voice. “Yeah. My menace.”

You were chopping vegetables, fully focused—well, as focused as you ever were when handling sharp objects—when you somehow managed to cut yourself with the knife.

The sharp sting made you gasp, and almost instantly, blood welled up from the deeper cut. Before you could even fully process what had happened, Lando was already at your side. He had been watching you closely (as he often did whenever you were near anything remotely dangerous), and the moment he saw the slip, he sprang into action.

“Shit,” he muttered, grabbing your wrist gently but firmly. “Alright, that’s enough knife duty for you.”

His voice was laced with worry, though he tried to mask it with his usual teasing tone. His eyes darted to your finger, the cut deeper than the usual minor scrapes you tended to collect. Without hesitation, he led you to the sink, turning on the tap and holding your hand under the cool water.

“You know, normal people don’t injure themselves every day,” he tried to joke, though his brows were furrowed as he watched the water run red.

You hissed at the sting but still managed a lopsided grin. “I like to keep life exciting.”

Lando huffed a laugh, though there was a tightness in his jaw. “Yeah, well, I’d prefer if you found a less hazardous way to do that.”

After patting your hand dry with a towel, he grabbed the first-aid kit (which, at this point, he always kept within arm’s reach). His movements were careful, almost practiced, as he disinfected the wound. His fingers ghosted over your skin with such tenderness it almost distracted you from the sting of the antiseptic.

“This is deeper than your usual cuts,” he muttered, pressing a sterile gauze pad to your finger before wrapping it securely in a bandage. “It doesn't need stitches thankfully but you really need to be more careful.”

You winced, flexing your fingers slightly. “Well, at least I have you to patch me up.”

He sighed, shaking his head, but the corner of his lips twitched upward. When he was done, he lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles.

“There. Good as new,” he murmured, but his grip on your hand remained firm, like he was reluctant to let go.

You wiggled your fingers dramatically. “Wow, a miraculous recovery. See? This is why I keep you around.”

Lando scoffed, feigning offense. “Oh, so I’m just your personal medic now?”

“Pretty much.” You shot him a cheeky wink before immediately reaching for the knife again.

Before you could even graze the handle, Lando snatched it away with lightning-fast reflexes. “Absolutely not.”

You pouted, eyes wide with faux innocence. “I was just gonna—”

“Nope.” He held the knife out of your reach, shooting you a pointed look. “I’m officially banning you from sharp objects.”

You crossed your arms, watching as he took over the cutting board and started chopping with ease. “So, what, I just sit here and do nothing?”

Lando smirked. “Exactly. Just sit there and be adorable.”

Your lips curled into a slow grin. “You think I’m adorable?”

His chopping faltered for a split second, and you caught the way his ears tinged pink. He rolled his eyes, refusing to meet your gaze. “Shut up.”

But when you leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, you felt him smile against your touch.

A few days later, the two of you were strolling through the paddock, the soft air filled with chatter. It was the usual pre-race chaos—engineers darting between garages, reporters setting up for interviews, and fans cheering from the barriers.

Lando had a firm grip on your hand, partly because he liked holding it, but mostly because he had learned that letting go of you for even a second increased the chances of you tripping over something by approximately 100%.

Still, despite his best efforts, it happened.

One second, you were walking beside him, mid-sentence about what snacks they had in hospitality. The next, you were suddenly pitching forward with a startled yelp, your foot catching on a stray cable snaking across the ground.

Lando reacted instantly. With reflexes honed by years of racing at breakneck speeds, he lunged forward, his arm wrapping tightly around your waist just before you could crash onto the hard concrete.

“Alright, that’s it,” he huffed, keeping you firmly against him as you steadied yourself. “I’m officially holding onto you for the rest of the day.”

You barely even fought it, leaning into him with an amused grin. “I like the sound of that.”

“Yeah, well, I’d rather you not break an ankle before my race,” he muttered, shooting a glance down at your shin. His jaw clenched at the sight of fresh bruises already forming. “How do you even manage this?”

You shrugged as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “Raw talent.”

Lando scoffed, shaking his head, though the corners of his lips twitched. He tugged you even closer, keeping a protective arm around your waist as the two of you continued walking. From then on, any time there was so much as a crack in the pavement, he subtly steered you around it, refusing to take any more chances.

Lando’s race had gone well. Not a win, but a solid finish—good points, a few impressive overtakes, and, most importantly, no major mistakes. After the usual post-race interviews and debrief, all he wanted was to find you, wrap you up in a hug, and maybe gloat a little about how well he managed his tires.

But when he finally spotted you in the motorhome, his relief was short-lived.

You were sitting on one of the couches, clutching your ankle with an ice pack balanced precariously over what looked like a nasty bruise. Your expression was sheepish, but there was a telltale wince every time you shifted.

Lando’s stomach dropped.

“What the hell happened?” His voice was sharp with concern as he strode over, kneeling beside you in an instant. His eyes scanned over you, heart pounding at the thought of what he might find.

You attempted a grin, lifting the ice pack slightly to show off the deepening purple splotch spreading over your skin. “Well, you told me not to break anything before your race… so I did it during your race instead.”

You let out a small, nervous chuckle, expecting him to roll his eyes or make some sarcastic comment.

But Lando didn’t laugh.

His jaw clenched, his usual lighthearted expression darkened with something much more serious. “That’s not funny.” His voice was quieter now, more strained.

You swallowed, the weight of his worry sinking in. “Lando, it’s just a bruise. I didn’t actually break anything.”

He exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his damp curls. “What happened?”

You shifted slightly, the movement making you wince again. “I was walking back from the paddock, and some guy wasn’t looking where he was going—ran right into me. I tripped over a barrier and, well… gravity did its thing.”

Lando closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if trying to contain his frustration. “Jesus, Y/N.” His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure where he could touch without hurting you.

You sighed, placing your hand over his. “Hey, it’s okay. It just looks worse than it is.”

He gave you a look—one of those signature Lando Norris you’re full of shit expressions. “Yeah? So if I press here, it won’t hurt?” He gently placed his hand near the worst of the bruise.

You immediately flinched. “Ow, okay! Point made.”

Lando groaned, rubbing his face. “I leave you alone for one race.”

You pouted. “To be fair, I survived the whole weekend without getting injured until the race. I think that’s progress.”

Lando wasn’t amused. Instead, he carefully lifted your injured leg, maneuvering it so it was resting on his lap as he adjusted the ice pack. His touch was gentle, but his brows remained furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line.

After a long moment of silence, he finally spoke, his voice softer now. “I just… hate seeing you get hurt.”

Your chest tightened at the genuine concern laced in his words. You reached up, cupping his face with your free hand. “I know.”

His blue eyes flickered up to meet yours, searching. “Promise me you’ll at least try to be more careful?”

You smiled, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I promise to try.”

Lando huffed, clearly not satisfied, but he let it go—mostly. Instead, he leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead before shifting to kiss the top of your knee, just above the bruise.

“You’re still getting the bubble wrap,” he mumbled against your skin.

You giggled. “And a helmet?”

“And a helmet.”

[dindjarindiaries]

Clueless

character: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian)

prompts: “Are you flirting with me?” “Have been for years, but thanks for noticing.”

main masterlist • prompt masterlist

You tapped around the usual controls you could reach from the chair behind Din's as the cockpit of the Razor Crest groaned to life around you. "How's the hyperdrive looking?"

Din kept moving his gloved hands along the main console as he answered. "It's online." He gave his helmet a quick tilt as he pushed one more button above his head. "For now."

Din exhaled a heavy breath and wrapped his hands around the joysticks, giving them a squeeze before he maneuvered the gunship off the ground. The breath you let out was one of relief; the two of you had certainly been trapped on worse planets before, but you were glad to see the sight of it fading below you.

"Glad you're confident in your work." You failed to hide your growing smile as you relaxed and let Din take care of the rest.

"This isn't a confidence problem." Din spared a look at you over his shoulder before he lifted his hands to grasp the hyperspace levers. "The Crest just manages to surprise me from time to time."

With that, Din pulled back, and the stars stretched out before you. They then burst into the familiar plethora of blue and white swirling lights, beginning yet another long journey through hyperspace.

Hopefully one that you wouldn't get forcefully pulled out of. Again.

But you were still stuck on what Din had said: This isn't a confidence problem. That drew a pleased hum from you, one that you didn't bother to keep hidden from him. It wasn't like he'd get it, anyway. Not if he hadn't the other countless times you'd done it.

"I like that."

Din, now leaning back in his chair, swiveled in his seat to face you. His helmet was tilted in genuine confusion. "Like what?"

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes as you instead gestured to him with your chin. "The confidence."

Din shrugged. "Comes from experience."

You smirked and kept your arms crossed over your chest. "I'd like to see what kind of experience."

Din didn't move, but his tone spelled out all the confusion you likely would have seen on his face if it wasn't covered by his helmet. "Was getting pulled out of hyperspace hours ago not enough experience for you?"

That time, you really did let yourself roll your eyes as you laughed and stood to your feet. Honestly, the tally of your advances versus Din's own cluelessness was getting difficult to keep track of. "Fair point."

You stepped over to Din and set a hand on his armored shoulder.

"It's been a long day. I'd say it's time for some beauty sleep, but you've already got the first part covered." You gave his pauldron a squeeze and turned around. "And no, rest isn't an option this time."

You could only get a few steps away, however, when you suddenly heard Din stand up behind you. "Wait."

You froze in place and looked at him over your shoulder, lifting your brow as you awaited him to retaliate with some kind of meaningless yet humorous joke.

Instead, you saw him nervously shifting his weight between his feet. Even his gloved hands were pulling tight into fists before he asked a question you never thought you'd hear.

"Are you flirting with me?"

As surprised as you were to hear the words, you didn't miss a beat with your response. "Have been for years, but thanks for noticing." You flashed him a wink and started walking forward again, letting your sudden adrenaline carry you. "See you in a few hours."

You had only just started to cross the cockpit's threshold when Din found his voice again. "What?"

You laughed to yourself but didn't stop your stride as you stepped over the ladder towards the storage space you had claimed as your own private bunk. The door slid open for you, but before it could close, something—or someone—stood in the way.

"Hold on."

Din sounded out of breath, and when you turned around, you saw him leaning against the metal material of the storage room's threshold. His body was still rigid, the same way it looked when he was preparing to leap into battle.

"You can't just... after you..." Din gestured absently behind himself, to the open cockpit.

You sighed and crossed your arms over your chest again as you fully faced him. "I know this incredibly obvious revelation is somehow news to you, but it's not to me, and I'd really like to get some sleep."

Din just shook his helmet in pure disbelief. His modulated voice was lower than usual when he spoke again. "All this time?"

You huffed and looked down at your boots. "What did you think I was doing?"

Din's tone with thick with embarrassment. "Being nice."

You laughed again. You couldn't help it. "Of course you did." You reached forward and tapped your knuckles against his helmet. "Your skull must be as thick as your beskar."

You stood back where you were before and watched Din carefully. His visor was focused on the floor, and his gloved fingertips were fluttering thoughtfully on the hand he had propped up by his head.

You closed your eyes and sighed. His cluelessness was even worse than you thought it was.

"Listen, Din, you clearly need some rest. Just... go to sleep and we can talk about this later. Okay?"

Din's helmet snapped back up to you at that. "No. I'm sorry, let me just..."

He leaned off the threshold but continued to stand in it, keeping the door open for himself. His gloved hand palmed his helmet as his chest rose and fell with a frustrated breath.

"Kriff."

You chuckled and shook your head at him. "Din, it's really not that big of a deal."

Din stared at you before his armored shoulders deflated. "It isn't?"

You let out a softer breath as your chest squeezed. "I didn't mean..." Now you were the one palming your face. "Not like that. I just meant that I'm not offended or anything."

Din tilted his helmet. "Offended by what?"

You shrugged, too overcome by your newfound embarrassment to look at him as your stare returned to your boots. "You not reciprocating."

Din let out a sigh so heavy that you had no choice but to look up at him again. He had changed his position so that his hands were set on his hips as he shook his helmet.

"That's the thing." His visor found your gaze before he nodded. "I've been trying to."

Now, it was really your turn to be shocked. You blinked at him a few times as your heart somersaulted in your chest. All this time, you thought your flirting was just a vain effort to get the attention of a man who would never be open to you or what you had to offer. You were starting to wonder if you had somehow managed to miss something.

You found your voice, but it was only a squeak. "What?"

Din gestured with a gloved hand behind you. "I'm not good with words, so I tried to do things. Like helping you set up this room. And cleaning your weapons." The next part was a mumble you nearly missed. "And making you that blanket."

You whipped around, spotting the blanket—your favorite, by the way—that had just shown up one day on your makeshift bunk. You huffed in disbelief and turned back around to face him. "That was you?"

"Who else?"

It was Din's turn to laugh, though it was only a raspy chuckle for him. He even turned your own question back on you.

"What did you think I was doing?"

And your answer was nothing different. "Being nice."

Din let out the biggest sigh you'd ever heard from him, and you couldn't even blame him.

Oh, the irony of it all. Maybe you were actually the clueless one.

"So..." You clasped your hands behind your back and rocked on your heels. " What now?"

Din shrugged. "Hell if I know." He gestured with his helmet behind him. "I think I just proved I'm not the most qualified in this area."

You spared another glance at the blanket. "Clearly, I'm not much better."

Din looked off to the side the way he always did when he was planning something. After a few heartbeats, he nodded to himself and looked at you again. "I might have an idea."

You lifted your brow. "Yeah?"

Din nodded again. "We should switch."

"Switch what?"

Din shifted his weight and used his finger to gesture between the two of you. "Techniques?" The suggestion came out as a question. "I'll try words, and you try actions."

You hummed in consideration before ultimately nodding. "Okay, yeah. I like that idea." You smirked at him. "You first."

Din, for once in his life, stammered. "What? I—Well, I can't just..."

"You can." You took a step closer to him. "You have something to say to me. I know you do."

It was then that something overcame Din, and you could see it in the way his posture relaxed into something much more familiar and comfortable. His visor gave you a steady once-over as he took a smaller step closer to you.

"I have a lot of things I want to say to you."

You let yourself embrace the flustered feeling even as you let out an impressed whistle. "That was good, Djarin! You're learning." You gave his armored shoulder a pat.

Din gave his helmet a soft tilt. "Your turn."

You grinned, letting your hand fall from his shoulder to instead grasp his arm. You other hand rose to meet it, and gently, you pulled him further into the room, causing the door to slide shut behind him. Din looked back at it in surprise, but when he looked at you again, he didn't seem displeased.

"I'm offering you my bunk." You gestured back towards it. "Because I want you here, but also because I don't want you sleeping on that sorry excuse for a bed down in the hold anymore."

Din chuckled at that, the sound thick with both amusement and admiration as he nodded. "Fair enough."

You helped him get settled into the bunk with you, draping the blanket he had apparently made over both of you as the final touch. Your face was the closest it had ever been to his visor as you laid beside him. Surprisingly, he was the one to break the brief silence.

"This is a good start."

You smiled, humming once more before getting close enough to rest your face against his cowl. "I agree."

The gloved hand you felt on your back was enough evidence of the fact that he was just as comfortable, now, and not as clueless as you had thought him to be.

[thecoochiefairy]

gamer girlz. onyankopon.

𑄽𑄺 warnings 𑄽𑄺 4.6K word count. blackfem!reader, drabble, college football coded! onyankapon, grumpy!onyankapon, sweet!onyankapon, dominant!onyankapon, kinda sorta makeup sex?, couch sex , black woman, vaginal penetration, rough, lil bit of sweet talkin’, hair pulling, creaming, oral [f] [m], choking, praising, LOTS of dirty talk, backshots, missionary, condomless sex, cumming on face, kissing, spanking, just a fine ass black man, minors aren’t welcome!

━━ 𝒄𝙤𝒐𝙘𝒉𝙞𝒆𝙛𝒂𝙞𝒓𝙮 𝙩𝒉𝙤𝒖𝙜𝒉𝙩𝒔 .ᐟ day 283737272 of liyah’s ovulation and faithful celibacy pact meaning she’s having the most nasty, egregious thoughts. please enjoy my black man fantasies. the links inspired this fic heavily, so enjoy those too.

𝓐ᥫ᭡ :: onyankopon just wants to help you finish your game.

link. link. link. ony’s visuals.

YOUR FINGERS SHOULD'VE HURT AT THIS POINT. Swiftly moving from button to button, they tap the controls as you’re on another level of the game you desperately wanted to beat.

You had some time off of studying, and this is how you wanted to spend it. Your boyfriend was at football practice—although a part of you just wanted to be swarmed up in his arms, your attention span also had you elsewhere—this damn game. You enjoyed the older games, replaying the hardest version of Batman: Arkham Asylum, your boredom peaking your interest back in the game you’d had since childhood. 

You didn’t even register that the door had opened, or maybe you didn’t just care enough. You knew who it was. You eye him dropping his keys against the counter, black hoodie over his head, sharp jaw grunting lightly from his sore muscles, scowl along his face—definitely had to do with practice. 

You pause the game for a second, turning your face to the side, fuzzy socks along your feet, his large jersey slung along your body as you greet him, “Hell, baby. What they’ do to you?” 

“Coach was on dick today. Had me running laps cause other niggas couldn’t catch the ball and I got mad,” he huffs, taking his helmet and slamming it on the counter next to him. He massages the nape of his neck, sighing deeply to himself. 

“Now you know coach don’t like all that cussing on his field,” you sigh, “He knows you're good. That’s why he’s on your ass.” 

“Nah. He just annoying as fuck. Can’t expect me to do everything.”

He’s like a child, grumpy and pouty. His tall frame comes closer, wanting your attention in response to his rough day at practice. 

“How’s my baby?” he says in your ear, wrapping his large muscular arms around your waist and gently biting your shoulder. His broad frame shadows under his hoodie, tat against his face shining under the lights of your shared apartment, full lips moisturized—you’d never let him leave the house otherwise. 

You give him a soft laugh, rubbing your fingers over his durag as you say, “I’m fine. Had some time off studying, tryna’ beat this game. I meant what I said, Ony. He doesn’t just give you a hard time because he’s bored. You’re his star player, gotta make sure he ain’t treating you like everybody else.” 

“Don’t tell me you on yo’ nerdy stuff. C’mon. I’m sore,” he groans, his grip around your waist tightens and he pushes himself against you. 

“Oh, is it nerdy shit when you’ screaming on the game playing 2K with your friends? I was gonna offer a little massage. Now you’ve lost your entry to that,” you say, trying to push him off of you, reaching for the controller in between your lap. 

He doesn’t budge. He holds firmly onto you, pressing sloppy kisses against your neck to distract you. 

“Don’t be like that. I was kidding, you know I like that shit,” he huffs, his breath against your neck as he presses his lips on the sensitive part of your skin, “Forgot to tell you, I got an away game coming up in a few weeks. So I’ll be gone for like, a week.”

Your head comes down a bit to look directly at him, “What? You’re not coming with me to my parents? You know the holidays are coming up, Onyankopon. I told them you’d be there.” 

“You know imma’ just be sitting around hiding behind you,” he murmurs against your skin, his hot breath tickling you. 

It’s not that he’s shy— rather, he just doesn’t enjoy the unnecessary attention. 

“How ‘bout we do our own Christmas, before I go?” 

He’s nuzzling himself against your neck now, his hands roaming all along your body. You press his body away from yours, standing up as you become annoyed. 

You then say, “I wouldn’t be going up to my parents place if you didn’t agree to come with me in the first place,” going into the kitchen, searching through the freezer. 

He runs a hand over his face, seeing how instantly irritated you became. He knew having his support for the holidays meant a lot to you, and he might’ve waited on telling you about the going away game to lessen your disappointment. 

“Mama,” he calls, watching you from the sofa. 

You turn, raising an eyebrow as you say, “Oh, so now I’m Mama, you love hitting me with that shit when you know I’m mad.” 

“You know I don’t like going to those family functions, I swear that house always stinks cause yo’ auntie cooks that nasty ass fish. A week ain’t no big deal. Let’s just have our own thing here.” 

“So which one is it? You don’t wanna go or you got your football shit?” You narrow your eyes, pulling the ice pack from the freezer, arms crossed as you come back closer to him.

He knows better than to lie, especially to you. 

“They got some NFL scouts coming to this game,” he mutters, scratching his temple. I’m sorry. But I’m tryna’ go pro, you know that.”

“Mhm.” 

You hand him the ice pack, “Put it on your knee. I know it’s been sore lately.”

He raises an eyebrow, “You’ not mad?”

“Did I say I was mad? You’ want the ice pack or not?” 

He takes the ice pack, wincing once the coldness hits his knee. He knew you were gonna give him a scolding if he didn’t.

“You’ got a bad ass attitude right now.” 

“I wonder why, Onyankopon? If we had plans to go back to your parents house for the holidays and at the last minute I told you I have exams and that I just didn’t wanna go, you’d be irritated too.”  

“Damn, you gon’ be on my ass about this for the next three weeks?” 

He didn’t like it when you were like this, cause instead of being pissed you were more disappointed, which was somehow a lot worse to him.

“I’m gonna be gone for a week.” 

You scratch your nails in between the baby blue orchid claw-clip that holds your curls. You dismiss him, “You need to go shower.” 

“What, you ain’t tryna’ join me?” he murmurs, a smirk on his lips, “Quit being mad. I’m tryna love on you. Wanna put on The Isley Brothers and give you a rub down.” 

“You’re playing too much right now,” you deadpan, “Bye Onyankopon.” 

“What’ you mean bye?” he says, his smirk turning into a frown.

“I’m finna’ go finish studying,” you’re already walking back towards the bedroom, ending the conversation off as that. 

When you finally hear him smack his lips and make his way into the shower, you glance over your notes, deciding you weren’t gonna let him ruin your previous plans. You’re now back on the sofa, eyes set onto the screen, trying to defeat the computer generated opponent. 

You switch over to the sound of the bathroom opening, seeing him re-tying his durag back on, basketball shorts baggy and house shoes on his feet. His tattoos all along his face, neck, chest and arms always had your attention—but not as much attention as you usually gave him at this moment. You sprawled along the furniture, elbow deep into the couch's pillow as one leg laid straight out, while the other bent itself over the top of the couch. 

He doesn’t like how you’re paying no attention to him. As stupid as it sounds, he’s always got to have your eyes on him. They were pretty. 

“You’ still mad? You for real ain’t finna’ give me a massage?” 

“I’m good,” you swiftly respond, “Just playing my game. You can massage yourself.” 

“Why you’ gotta be like this?” 

He sits down next to you, his large frame takes up a lot of the space. The couch becomes smaller somehow. His eyes watch the game intently before he decides to get comfortable. Lying back down on the sofa, he lets his head rest in your lap. Even with you being irritated, you let him lay there. 

You continue going up level by level, your focus intently on the game. The little argument between you and Onyankopon irritated you to say the least, but you didn’t have the energy to completely push him away. It’s unfortunate he was persuasive. You notice out the corner of your eye that he lifts his head a little, the warmth between your legs along the back of his neck, and that’s when he sees that you’re wearing nothing under his jersey.  

He takes the time to admire you, legs lazily hung open, his eyes staring directly against your pussy, scenting of vanilla on your legs, freshly shaven. One of his large hands comes to rest on the back of your thick thigh, rubbing small circles with his thumb.

“What you’ got on?” he mutters.

“Had to wash clothes, didn’t have any underwear. That’s why I put on your jersey,” you tell him, eyes still not looking at his face, unable to see how his jaw clenched at the sight. 

He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. In that moment his large hand rubs along the skin on your thigh, pushing the jersey up further.

“You look good as fuck in my shit,” He mumbles, a low rasp in his tone.

“Thank you,” you say in a softer tone, mainly because you’re distracted, buttons pressing harder against the controller. 

He can tell how focused you are—how your face scrunched up, the way your fingers move, even the way your thighs fall open on his head.

That’s when you feel him lean down, giving a gentle peck to your inner thigh. The feeling makes you tense a bit, but you still keep your eyes against the screen, huffing out a breath as your character is close to dying. This level was difficult. 

He’s giving small, light kisses along the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh, taking small intervals to glance up to you as you keep your eyes against the screen. His hand moves higher up on your leg, slowly pushing the jersey up even more.

Your eyes go to him for a millisecond, seeing as his head is down, lips attached to your thighs, sucking ever so gently on your skin. You can almost feel a pressure building in your stomach, the slow ache of his movements almost purposeful, teasing you in a way. You press your glasses up against your face, huffing out a breath as you mutter, “Stupid ass level,” trying to come up with a reason as to why you sound so breathless. 

He grins as he’s laying there, hearing your breathing getting heavier. It’s obvious how hard you’re trying to focus on the game, but he’s working you up.

“You’ trying so hard, Mama,” He murmurs against your hot skin, his kisses trailing to the spot he knows is extra sensitive.

You shift your body, clearing your throat as you say, “Gotta restart,” adjusting your legs a bit, opening them up just a little more than before. 

He can tell how you’re slowly giving in, how you’re shifting your body around, legs opening just enough for him to move closer. He lets his free hand come to caress your stomach, rubbing against the skin under the fabric of the jersey. His lips are so close to you, his breath is hot against your skin. 

“Restart then,” He mutters, tongue now coming to flick out from his lips, gliding across your skin, hiding beneath the pillows of his lips as they begin sucking a dark red mark against you.

You narrow your eyes lightly as you restart the level you play, but your body is distracted by Onyankopon’s lips along it. You drag your teeth along your lip a bit, pressing your fingers harder into the controller, feeling his lips coming up higher. 

You could feel the arousal you had flooding in between the lips of your pussy, protecting your clit as it now begins to pool farther down, dampening the couch. His large fingers wrap along the outside of your thighs, using his thumbs to pull the skin on the inside apart, showing the dark pink of your pussy, squelching at his presence. Your body tenses even more as you feel his thumb meet with your clit, rubbing so softly against it, dropping his mouth down to press another kiss to your skin. The leg hiked up against the top of the sofa trembles a bit. 

“You’ winning?” You hear him murmur against your skin. 

You take a deep inhale, squeezing your fingers against the hooks of your controller as you softly reply, “No.”

He circles your clit with maddeningly light touches, barely grazing the swollen nub. At the same time, he’s still pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses, occasionally grazing his teeth. 

"You’ getting distracted. Wet ass pussy," Onyankopon murmurs appreciatively, feeling the slick evidence of your arousal coating his finger.

Your chest heaves a bit at his tone, but you don’t let up. You keep your eyes on the screen, but you seem to be losing. In both games. 

He spreads you even wider as he leans in closer, hot breath fanning over your slick folds. He pulls his thumb back as he replaces it with his mouth, giving you an innocent kiss against your clit. His beard captures your arousal, your fingers shuddering as you hear him groan, “Ooh, fuck, Mama. You’ wet for real.”

Without warning, he seals his lips around your clit and sucks, tongue flicking rapidly over the sensitive bud. He releases it with a lewd pop before trailing open-mouthed kisses along your slit, lapping up your dripping arousal. Your eyebrows deepen into a frown, lips trembling as you give one more press to your controller, before you take your hand and reach it to the back of his head, getting a clutch against the knot of his durag. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, clasping your mouth shut as you whimper for him.

He delves his tongue deeper between your opened folds, dragging it up and down, lapping up to create more secretion. His hands grip your thick thighs, spreading you obscenely wide as he eats you out like a starving man.

"Mmmm, this a nigga favorite fuckin’ meal," he rumbles, voice muffled by your flesh. He alternates between slurping you up and flicking rapidly, determined to make you fall apart. One hand slides up to grope your ass roughly, kneading the plush flesh.

“O—Ony…” you gasp, voice small and high pitched, fingers squeezing harder against his head, dropping the controller out of your other hand, the object hitting the ground with a thud. The music of the battle within the game becomes something you hear, but not as loud as his mouth gulping you down, heavy tongue sopping against your pussy, drenching his beard so much that he could drown in you.

“Pretty ass voice,” he encourages huskily, the vibrations from his words sending shockwaves through your core. He dips two thick fingers knuckle-deep into your weeping cunt, pumping them slowly as he continues his relentless assault on your clit with his tongue. The wet sounds of him feasting on your pussy fill the room, mixing obscenely with the forgotten video game noises.

His free hand roams your curves possessively, groping and squeezing every inch of exposed skin he can reach—your ass, your thighs, the underside of your breasts. You’re lost in a haze of pleasure.

You were always so sensitive to his touch, the pleasure that you received from him kept you so kidnapped that it was hard to be mad at him. You grind your clit along his mouth that waits to catch it, voice ineffective of composure as you struggle, “Gonna cum soon, Ony…” 

“Yeah?” He grunts, head knocking up and down, your eyes only able to watch as his lower face disappears in between your legs, glistening a coat against his beard, “Where you wanna cum?” 

“On your dick, baby…” you whine softly, rotating your hips gently to match his moments, “Please…”

"You wanna cum on your dick, Mama?” He coos against you, the sound reverberating through your core, you’re whimpering with an urgent nod, “Mhm,” before he can even finish his sentence. 

He pulls himself back, already tugging his tip from beneath his basketball shorts, taking off the material as your eyes follow the curve, the vein in his dick, heavy against the stretch of his large palm. Tattoos spread against his pelvic, scriptures and inspirational quotes that didn’t belong in his blasphemous moment.

"Turn around, put that ass in the air for me.“

Your legs feel a bit numb, bringing yourself up as you know exactly how he wants you. Raising your left leg along the arm of the couch, you lean your breast over the top as your face hides beneath your arm, right knee digging into the seat of it. He places his fingers along the side of your neck, other hand digging into your thigh thrown over the furniture. He doesn’t have to tell you to look at him—you always give him your eyes, feline as they blank beneath his control. Your body trembles as he slams his palm against your ass, “Arch more,” your body following suit, deepening the valley your silhouette creates. 

He grips your hip with bruising force, using the leverage to grind the swollen head of his dick teasingly along your soaked slit. Up and down, he rubs himself through your slick folds, coating his length in your essence. Your hips tense as you feel the weight of his tip stretching open your pussy, sinking in that it makes your abdomen cramp, aching in a pleasure that has your entire body tighten. Your eyes are beginning to roll back, digging your nails into the sofa as you keep your eyes on his, he looks mad at you, slamming his palm against your ass again as he grunts, “Keep that fuckin’ arch.” 

Your chest is filled with oxygen, holding your breath to cure the slight discomfort you feel, but it’s also an agonizing pleasure, feeling so full from him. He’s slowly dragging himself halfway out, rolling his hips back in and going even deeper, your mouth dropping open as your eyes flutter shut, turning your head back towards him as you whimper, “Fuck, baby. You’re deep…” 

Silence goes in between the both of you, savoring the rush of pleasure that clutches the air as he drags his first couple of thrusts, so slow it felt like time wasn’t even passing. The sedated actions almost feel better than if he sped up, his eyes locking down as he sees you painting his tip, creaming on him. 

“I’m in your shit, huh?” he talks to you, it’s almost tortuous as he hilts himself fully inside, his heavy balls slapping against your throbbing clit. Your walls clench around him like a vice, your head tilting back as you completely tense. You whimper, “Ungh,” attempting to push him back to relieve the stimulation, jumping as he gives you a bruising spank, deep voice aggressive as he says, “Uh-uh, don’t do that. You know I don’t do that running shit.” 

His fingers dig into the flesh of your hips as he starts up at a carnal pace. The wet squelch of your pussy being split open echoes obscenely in the room, mixing with your deep whines, nodding your head, gently dropping your hips against his abdomen to meet his strokes.

“Keep riding that dick, goood fuckin’ girl,” each thrust is punishing and deep, stirring up your insides. The wet slap of skin on skin echoes obscenely as he rails into you, chasing your pleasure to insanity.

You always try to keep up, but you never could. All your organs feel tossed around by him, so blinded in your erotic state, your mouth opens as you give long moans, deeply gasping each time you need to catch your breath. He brings you to a point of saying things you’d never thought would leave your lips, mouth parted as you groan, “Yes, yes, baby. Agh, fuck, Ony. Deeper.”

"You want this dick deeper?" He growls, accentuating his question with a thrust that has your eyes rolling back farther. His grip on your hips tightens, surely leaving finger-shaped bruises on your toffee skin as he sets a merciless pace.

He’s back at palming his hand brutally against your ass, rushing it up to come around the front of your mouth, resting his fingers there as he grunts, "Take this fucking dick then," yanking your head back.

The new angle allows him to go even deeper, his hips slapping against your clit, “Finna’ tear this fuckin’ pussy open.” 

His filthy words mix with the lewd sounds of your bodies coming together, filling the room, it has you groaning through his fingers. 

“Love you so much,  baby—“ this was a regular routine, the affection you give him as he’s hitting that spot that only he could find, whines plummeting from your mouth, eyes to the back of your head as you reach back and grab onto his wrist that holds your hip, moaning louder each time he rolls his hips back to meet the weight of your ass matching his rhythm.

“What happened to you being mad?” He questions, going slow as he tugs you back into his dick, the echo of your skin bouncing off each other like a drug induced round of applause. 

You shake your head, “Not mad at you, Onyyy,  love you so much….”

He chuckles darkly, low and rumbling in his chest as he leans over you, pressing his muscular torso against your back. His hot breath fans across the shell of your ear as he murmurs, "I know you do, Mama. I love you too.” 

One large hand slides up from your hip, reaching around to splay across your stomach as the other now tangles in your hair, tugging your head back. He rolls his hips in a slow, deep grind, stirring you up from the inside, your mouth releasing broken shouts, your face hot, pleasured tears wanting to stroke along your face. 

"Fuckin’ love you, princess. Pussy was made for me,” He gives another sharp thrust, grinding against your cervix. "You’ getting tight as fuck—You’ cumming, Mama?”

“I’m….” You gasp, defeated in your inability to speak, taking your hand and reaching back to hold his face closer to yours, hips trembling as you dangerously moan in a cracked tone “I’m cumming, baby. I’m cumming. I’m—agh,  c—cumming…”

His chuckle is dark with lust as you flutter and clench around him erratically. He grips you harder, using the leverage to pound into you relentlessly, chasing his own release.

"Good job, baby. Biggg fuckin’ girl. Cum on this dick. Fuckin' soak it," he growls, his voice strained with pleasure. One hand moves from your hip to your clit, rubbing tight circles around the sensitive nub as he continues his brutal pace.

Your whole body tenses and shakes as your orgasm crashes over you, a loud cry tearing from your throat. Your pussy spasms almost violently around his thick shaft, gushing against him so much it pushes him out of you, trying to milk the sensation for all it’s worth. 

“I’m finna’ bust, baby,” he warns, groaning in your ear, “Come eat this dick up.”

Your body feels numb as you turn yourself towards him, immediately wrapping your lips along his tip, enveloping the taste of your own arousal within the walls of your mouth, sucking him in to reach the heavens of your throat. He clasps your hair within his palm, bobbing yourself back and forth as you reach down, rubbing your clit as you still feel your orgasm rushing through your body. You moan around him, giving him those cat eyes, fluttering your dark extensions as you swirl your tongue against his tip, begging for a reaction.

He throws his head back with a deep, guttural moan as your warm mouth engulfs him. His grip on your hair tightens, guiding your movements as he starts to thrust shallowly into your throat.

“Shit—just like that. Eating that dick up good as fuckk," he pants, his abs flexing with each snap of his hips. The sight of you—eyes fluttering, cheeks hollowed, one hand buried between your thighs—it’s almost too much.

He pulls your mouth off him, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his glistening tip. With another smack to your ass, he flips you onto your back, settling between your spread legs. 

"I wanna see your face when I nut in this pretty ass pussy." 

He lines himself up and sinks back in with one smooth thrust, bottoming out instantly, clutching your throat, holding you down as your back arches up, clawing into his back at the visceral sensitivity.

He sets a hard, fast pace, the wet sounds of your joining filling the room. His intense gaze locks with yours, pupils blown wide with lust as he takes in every expression that crosses your face.

"That's it, baby. Gonna fill this pussy up real good," he grunts as you whimper with his talking, “Ba-by,” angling his hips to hit that special spot inside you. One hand slides under your thigh, pushing your leg up and back to change the angle, allowing him to go even deeper.

He leans down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss as he continues to pound into you. His tongue dominates your mouth, swallowing your moans and cries of pleasure. Breaking the kiss, he buries his face in your neck, biting and sucking dark marks into your skin as he chases his release.

"Fuckk, finna’ cum soon. You want it in you, baby?”

“On my face baby, you say it’s pretty there,” you whimper, deepening your nails in his back, “Mmmph, c’mon, Ony. Please…” 

A grin spreads across his face at your pleas. Grabbing his throbbing tip, he positions himself at your face, smearing the leaking pre-cum across your cheek. He’s moaning, stroking himself rapidly, aiming his tip at your parted lips. His free hand grips your chin firmly, keeping you in place as his strokes become erratic. He then cums, painting your face—across your cheeks, over your lips, some even landing in your waiting mouth.

You stick your tongue out, running your tongue over your lips that darken in color, bruised as you dig your teeth into them with a sultry giggle. Heavy breathing fills the room as you keep your eyes up at him. 

He steps back as he says, “Hollon, baby,” going into the bathroom as he finds a towel, rubbing it along your face to clean you up. He then leans down, pulling you into a kiss as he grunts, “Gimme’ your mouth. I love you, Mama. I’m sorry.” 

You give him a kiss, holding his face in your hands, running your tongues together sloppily, passion filling your entire body from the previous actions. 

You say, “It’s okay. You’ want your massage now?”

He pulls his mouth back a bit, eyeing you before he chuckles. It makes you pout, “What’s funny?”

He laughs, shaking his head as he helps you stand, “Nothin’ Mama. Just thinkin' 'bout how quick you forgave me after I tore your ass up."

You roll your eyes, “I can always change my mind.” 

He runs a hand down your side, squeezing your hip possessively. "Chill out. I want that massage. You know I'm always ready for your magical hands."

He stretches languidly, his muscles rippling beneath his tattoos as he leads you towards the bedroom, “ And don’t be all stingy with the lotion. Do that lil’ thing I like if you feeling extra generous.” 

“You’ getting beside yourself. Do you need that?”

He turns, “Do you?”

You scrunch up your nose, “No. I want a massage next!”

“Exactly. C’mon, get that ass on the bed.”

[trumanbluee]

you're the one that i want - deadpool / wade wilson

minors dni !! this is 17+ nsfw material !!!

please reblog if you like it! ᡣ𐭩

based on this request! <3

content: three words, baby! the honda odyssey!

word count: 2.5k

warnings: established relationship, no mention of condom (wrap it b4 u tap it!), petnames galore, deadpool is a warning in of himself lol.

a/n: the deadpool brainrot has been so strong recently so thank u guys so much for all ur requests! my return to my deadpool era couldn't have come at a worse time with my exams happening rn but i will try and write as much as i can! love you!

You'd been sitting in the backseat of the "fuck-ass Honda Odyssey", as Wade had described it, arm resting on the centre console, your head propped up on your palm lamely as you turn it left to right, half-listening to Wade and Logan argue like you're at a tennis match.

You'd almost flown forward into the front of the car when it came to an abrupt stop, tyres screeching as you let out a soft yelp in surprise. Wade hears you, and wordlessly pushes you back softly. You'd heard something spat out from Logan, along the lines of "You'll never save the fucking world!", followed by Wade's voice saying, "I'm gonna fight you now." and then the sound of a sickening crunch as he punches Logan in the nose.

It's milliseconds before you see your boyfriend's arm reach back and open your door, gently ushering you out with a soft, "Why don't you go for a walk, pretty girl?"

You know better than to argue, especially with Logan seething in the front seat, so you hop out of the car, shutting the door behind you as you trudge off into the trees, half grateful for being kicked out of the car so you didn't have to listen to Logan's grumbles when you inevitably had to ask him to pull over so you could pee.

You could hear the yelling and grunting in the distance, shaking your head as you hear the faint shatter of glass, followed by a - less than masculine - squeal from your boyfriend. You laughed to yourself, not worried in the slightest as you hear the fighting between the two, Logan's growls echoing through the trees as he squelches his claws into your boyfriend's stomach.

You'd told Wade to give Logan a break, and that eventually he would find out about his 'educated wish', but he hadn't listened, instead continuing to push and push and push Logan until, expectedly, he reached his breaking point.

You wandered around amongst the trees for a while, before slumping against a tree not too far from the car, your eyes growing heavy as you listened to the soft rustle of the leaves above you.

You wake up groggily, looking around the room as you rub sleep from your eyes. You startle when a red suit appears in front of you, but it's not the Deadpool suit that you're all too familiar with.

"I'm Elektra, that's Gambit," the woman points to a man in a helmet, who's stood in the corner, playing with cards, "and that's Blade," she points over her shoulder with her thumb to the man in a long, leather trench-coat.

"I.. uhm.. Hi?" you say, taken aback by this sudden bombardment of strangers.

"We're helping you and your friends get out of the void." Elektra explains, offering her hand to help you stand up. You take it gratefully.

"...Oh, cool..." you say, still groggy from being asleep for so long. "..are.. are they around?"

Elektra nods, pointing outside with her head, "Yellow's by the fire, Red's... around here somewhere."

You nod, thanking her and smiling awkwardly at Blade and Gambit as you walk outside, the smoke from the fire consuming your nostrils as you step out. You spot Logan by the fire, but see that he's sitting with someone.

'She looks an awful lot like that X-23 girl we saw at the TVA.' you think, not ruling out the possibility that it is her with the level of weirdness that had already occurred during your short time in the void. You tread on, looking around before you spot the Honda Odyssey. You shake your head, rolling your eyes as you walk to the drivers door of the car, opening it to reveal your boyfriend in the back-seat, pulling his katana's out of the passenger's seat next to you as you plop into the driver's seat.

He looks up when he hears the car door open, and the white eyes of his mask visible soften as he sees you.

"Hey baby," he coos, scooching forward in the back-seat to press a soft kiss to your cheek through his mask as you sit in the driver's seat, peeking over the headrest to look back at him, "was wonderin' when you were gonna wake up, sleepy head."

You smile softly, before taking a moment to look around at the damage done to the car. Your eyes go wide and your hand flies to your mouth, the other reaching back to swat at Wade's shoulder.

"Wade! What the fuck did you two get up to in here? Jesus Christ!"

You hear a whisper of 'Baby Knife!' followed by a soft grunt as Wade pockets another one of his knives.

"Just some good ol' fashioned fightin', baby! I'm kinda sad you missed it, that shit got good!"

You tut, leaning around the driver's seat to look at him as he's hunched over, digging for another one of his knives beneath the seat.

You hear him mumble something along the lines of 'Hate this fuckin' car' before he shoots up, and you can sense his smile through the mask. He leans back in the seats that are in the very back of the car, right leg thrown over one seat, with his other leg spread, suit-clad knee pressing into the fabric of the other. His eyes sharpen as he looks at you, before groaning softly, throwing his head back in a circle, and sighing.

"Fuck, princess, that fightin's gotten me all worked up," he groans, chin pressed to the top of his chest as he looks at you, eyes narrowed.

You feel your thighs rub together at the way he looks at you, the manspreading the cherry on top of a very, very, delicious looking dessert. He chuckles, gesturing to your thighs with his head.

"Saw that, baby." He laughs to himself before he lifts his hand, beckoning you to him with two fingers, his other hand resting on the headrest of the seat in front of him, twiddling Baby Knife between his fingers.

You squirm in your seat before not so agilely climbing over the centre console, crawling over the seat and onto Wade’s lap. He pockets Baby Knife, bringing a hand up to pull the bottom of his mask up, the other settling on your ass as you straddle his waist. 

“Hey doll-face,” he murmurs, smiling and giving your ass a playful squeeze, pulling his mask fully off before placing his hand on the nape of your neck, pulling you into a kiss. 

You moan against his lips as you kiss back, his gloved hand giving your ass a firmer squeeze. Wade uses this opportunity to deepen the kiss, slipping his tongue past your lips as you gasp into his mouth. Your hips grind down subconsciously and he pulls away from the kiss, both of your chests rising quickly as you both try and regain your breath from the heated kiss. 

Wade smirks up at you, moving both of his hands to your hips, squeezing softly, pulling a giggle from your lips before he’s engulfing them in another breathless kiss. He moves your hips with his hands, grinding you down on his boner as it tents in his suit, causing him to buck up absentmindedly as he groans into your mouth. Your breathy whimpers vibrate against his lips, and he pulls away, leaning his head back against the headrest behind him. 

“…Fuck, doll-face,” he groans, looking up at you, “ look what you're fuckin’ do to me, baby.” 

He nods down to his dick, almost bursting out of his suit, and your mouth nearly drops open. Wade thinks to himself that if you were in an animé, you’d have heart emojis bulging from your eyes. 

He takes his hands off your hips, crossing his arms behind his head in faux-laziness as he watches you undo the buckle of his belt, slapping the sides of his legs softly, signalling for him to lift his hips. 

“Watch it, doll-face.” Wade warns, half-joking, “Ask me nicely, please.” 

You groan, giving him your ‘are-you-fucking-serious-right-now’ glare as you tug at his belt. He’d been on the receiving end of this look many times in the past, so he’s unfazed as he chuckles dryly, planting his hips down.

 “I can wait, Princess.” 

You roll your eyes, huffing. “Please, Wade,” you glare at him, “Will you please lift your hips up so I can get your dick out?” 

You add a pout and a flutter of your lashes at the end, and his resolve noticeably crumbles. He huffs, lifting his hips up off the car seat just enough for you to pull down his pants slightly. You dip your hand into his underwear, giving his dick a soft tug before freeing it from the tight pants of his Deadpool suit. 

You gather some spit in your mouth, looking at your boyfriend through your lashes before spitting onto the tip of his cock, using your hand to spread it along his length, squeezing softly around the base. Wade groans from below you, his hips bucking into your hand.

“Fuck, hotstuff, ya’ killin’ me here.” 

Wade hisses as you squeeze a bit harder around his dick, the pretty ring he’d proposed to you with cold against his skin. 

He almost whines, stopping himself by biting his lip, “Oh, c’mon baby, what’d I do to deserve this teasin’, huh? I fought so valiantly against ol’ Wolvie, didn’t I, princess? Don’t I deserve to be treated nicely?” 

Something about the whiny-ness of his tone sends a pang to your heart, and pussy, and you grind down against his thigh absentmindedly before putting both your hands on his shoulders. 

“Help me out, would ya’, Wadey?” you ask sweetly, shimmying your hips slightly to gain his attention. 

His hands fly to your tights, tugging them down your thighs, lifting your legs softly, one by one, and peeling your pants off, leaving you hovering above him in your prettiest pair of panties. You’d been wearing them as a birthday surprise for him, but you’d both been snagged by the TVA before you could put them to good use… until now. 

Wade’s breath hitches from beneath you as his eyes land on your panties, his lower lip bitten between his teeth as his chest heaves. 

“Fuck, doll-face, what’re you all dressed up for?” he says, tracing a gloved hand over the lacy hem of your white panties, pressing a soft kiss to the little blue bow in the middle, before blowing a puff of cool air onto the damp spot beneath it. 

Your legs wobble softly and a shiver runs up your spine, leaving you grateful for your hands planted on your boyfriend's broad shoulders. 

You muster the breath to say, “They’re for you, baby… Well, they were for your birthday…”

He groans softly, pressing a soft kiss to your mound before pushing the thin fabric to the side, swiping a gloved finger through your slick. 

“Shit, baby.. Y’so wet f’me,” he says, voice breathless. “Fuck those stupid fucking day players, keeping my beautiful fiance, and her beautiful fucking panties from me on my birthday. What assholes, hey baby?” He says, pressing his thumb to your clit harshly as he blows another puff of air onto your slick pussy, causing your hips to buck into the air. 

You whine softly, bringing a hand to pump Wade’s cock once again, nodding mindlessly at his question that he knows you didn’t even hear. 

Wade chuckles, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest and shooting straight to your cunt, your thighs squeezing around his hand as he thumbs your clit lazily. 

You shuffle yourself forward on his lap, holding onto Wade’s strong shoulder with your hand, the other slowly pumping his cock as you lift yourself up, breathing hitching as you push yourself down onto the tip of Wade’s dick. 

His breath hitches beneath you, rubbing soothing circles on your hips through his gloves as you sink down onto him. His hands grip your hips tighter as he bottoms out, your eyes squeezed shut as you clamp down on his length. 

“Shit, baby, I could blow my load right now.” Wade gasps, head thrown back as his grip tightens on your hips, moving you up and down on his cock. You follow suit with his movements, digging your nails into the fabric of his suit as you leverage yourself on his shoulders, pushing yourself up and slamming yourself down on his cock, a moan slipping from your lips at every drag of his dick along your walls. 

Your hips stutter slightly, and Wade takes this as his cue, moving his hands from your hips to gain a strong grip on your ass, lifting you up and slamming his hips to meet yours. You whine softly, eyebrows knitting together and biting your lip as the soft squelch of your wetness reverberates around the car, your chest heaving with exertion, skin dewy with a thin sheen of sweat. 

You throw your head back, moaning wantonly, one hand coming off of Wade’s shoulder and pressing against the roof of the car. 

“...Shit…Wade!” you stammer as he moves one hand to your lower stomach, his thumb pressing harshly on your clit through his glove.

You slam your hips down to meet Wade's quicker, chasing your high as Wade slams his hips up to meet yours, his head thrown back against the head-rest behind him, eyes closed, as he groans softly.

"C'mon, doll-face," Wade grunts from beneath you, rubbing cruel circles on your clit as he bucks into you, "...y'gonna cum? Can feel you squeezing around me, princess."

You moan softly, babbling something like a 'uh-huh' as your eyebrows knit together, eyes shutting tight as you feel the coil building in your lower belly, threatening to snap any moment.

Wade feels you clamping around him, looking up and watching as you throw your head back, your grip on his shoulder tightening.

"That's it, baby," he groans from under you, pinching at your clit meanly causing you to whimper softly, your head coming forward, forehead resting against his as you grind down onto his cock.

"C'mon, hotstuff, give it to me..." he grunts, feeling his own orgasm coming as you clench down on him like a vice, a string of curse words sputtering from your lips as he feels you gush around him.

"...Shit, baby... Good girl," he coos, fucking you through your orgasm as he cums, soft grunts sounding in your ear as he bucks into you before stilling, stopping the movements of his thumb on your clit, as he lifts you up gently and pulls out. He pulls his hand away from your clit, but not before collecting a part of the mixture of yours and his cum on his gloved fingers, pushing it slowly back in to your drooling pussy. You whine, overstimulated, and he tuts, pushing your panties back into place and pulling your pants back up your legs, leaning back in the seat as you slump against his chest.

He smiles, giving your bum a soft pat and pressing a kiss to your hairline, leaning down to whisper in your ear, “I lied, doll-face, the Honda Odyssey fucks, hard.”

©trumanbluee - reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated! but i do not wish for my work to be republished, translated, or copied. thanks!

[sunbeamlessreads]

Private Negatives - Oscar Piastri x Reader One-Shot

❝ You’re good at seeing things people don’t mean to show. ❞

[oscar piastri x reader] ~7.8k words | rated: E

tw: 18+, smut, voyeurism themes, power imbalance, emotionally explicit content, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, kids), workplace tension

you’re the one behind the lens. but he’s the one who sees you.

notes: this one was super fun to write for me. i really hope i didn't screw anything up lol. i hope you guys enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it. <3

my masterlist

You keep your head down as you move through the paddock, your camera strap biting into your collarbone and a fresh credential swinging at your hip. The McLaren media lanyard feels heavier than it should. Not in weight—in implication. New territory, new rules; three races embedded with the team, to finish off the season. Vegas, Qatar, Abu Dhabi. Your name on the contract, your watermark on the final selects.

Just don’t make noise.

The paddock is already thick with it—generators humming, pit lane chatter bouncing off the concrete, PR staff herding talent like overcaffeinated sheepdogs. You’ve worked in motorsport before, mostly on the American side: IndyCar, IMSA, a brief stint with NASCAR that taught you everything you never wanted to know about beer sponsorships and flame decals.

But Formula 1 is something else. Sleeker. Sharper. Quieter, even in its chaos. Everyone moves like they already know what comes next. You’re the only variable.

You duck into the McLaren garage and make yourself small in a corner, lens already raised. You find your rhythm fast—motion in bursts, posture quiet, shutter clicks softened by muscle memory and padded gloves. You’re good at being invisible. Better at looking than being looked at.

That’s when you see him.

Oscar Piastri, back turned, talking to an engineer in low tones. Fireproofs rolled to his waist, team polo damp at the collar. His posture is precise—his arms are folded, one foot is slightly out, and his weight is settled like he’s bracing for something. You know the type. Drivers are like that: built for pressure, too used to watching every move replayed in high-definition.

You lift your camera and catch the side of his face—jaw set, eyes somewhere far off. The light’s doing strange things to his skin. You click the shutter once. Just once.

He doesn’t notice.

You lower the camera and frown. It’s not a good shot. Or maybe it’s too good, too telling. You can’t tell.

You move on. The lens doesn’t linger.

Through the next hour, you cycle between pit wall and garage, hospitality and media pens, cataloging the edges of everything: mechanics with grease under their nails, engineers pointing at telemetry with a ferocity that doesn’t match the volume of their voices, Lando laughing too loud at something a comms assistant said. You catch him mid-gesture, mouth open, eyes crinkled—a perfect frame. That one will make the cut.

Oscar again, later—seated now, legs splayed, one knee bouncing under the table during a pre-FP1 briefing. Someone’s talking at him. He’s listening, but only barely. You zoom in. Not close enough to intrude, just enough to see the faint vertical line between his brows.

Click.

He glances up, just then. Not directly at you—at the lens. It’s only for a second.

You drop the camera a beat too late. You’re unsure if he saw you, or if you just want to believe he did. Doesn’t matter. You move.

By the time the session starts, your card’s half full and your shoulders ache. You shoot through it anyway—stops at the pit, tire changes, helmets going on and coming off. Oscar’s face stays unreadable. You begin to think that’s just how he is. Not aloof. Not rude. Just… held.

Held in. Held back.

You catch a frame of him alone in the garage just after FP1. Not polished, not composed. Just tired, human, real.

Click.

You keep that one.

You spend the next hour doing what you’re paid to do, but not how they expect.

Most photographers chase the obvious: the cars, the straight-on portraits, the victory poses. But you don’t work in absolutes. You’re not looking for the image they’ll post. You’re looking for the one they won’t realize meant something until later.

Lando’s easier. He moves like he knows he’s being watched—not in a vain way, but in a way that’s aware. Comfortable. Charismatic. You catch him bouncing on the balls of his feet while waiting for practice to start, race suit zipped to the collar, gloves half-pulled on, teasing a junior mechanic with a flicked towel and a crooked grin.

Click. Click.

He’s animated even in stillness.

You crouch by the front wing of the MCL39 as the garage clears and the mechanics prep Oscar’s car for the next run. The papaya paint glows under the fluorescents, almost too bright. You let the car fill your frame—the clean lines, the blur of sponsor decals, the matte finish of carbon fiber. You shoot the curve of the sidepod, the narrow precision of the halo, the rearview mirror where someone’s scribbled something in Sharpie.

You zoom in: “be still.”

It’s faded. Private. You don’t ask.

Oscar again.

He’s suited now, fully zipped, gloves tugged on sharp fingers, balaclava pulled to his chin. A McLaren PR assistant hands him a water bottle, saying something you can’t hear. He nods once. That’s all.

You adjust your position. The light behind him throws his figure into sharp contrast—full shadows across the orange and blue of his race suit, his name stitched at the hip, his helmet in hand. It’s a photo that shouldn’t work. But it does.

Click.

Helmet on. Visor down. The world shifts. He’s gone behind it again.

You lower your camera. Breathe out.

The difference between a person and a driver is about seven pounds of gear and one hard blink. You’ve seen it before. But this is the first time it’s made your fingers tremble.

You offload everything just before sunset, feet sore, mouth dry, memory cards filled past your usual threshold. The McLaren comms suite is quieter now—the day's buzz winding down into a lull of emails, decompression, and PR triage.

You’re at a corner table, laptop open, Lightroom humming. You work fast, fingers skimming across the touchpad and keys, instinctively flagging selects. You’re not here to overshoot. You’re here to find the frames. The ones that breathe.

A shadow crosses your table.

“Show me something good,” Zak Brown says. His voice is casual, but not careless. Nothing about him ever really is.

You shift the screen toward him. He slides his hands into his pockets and leans in. Just enough to see, not enough to crowd.

Silence.

You’ve pulled ten frames into your temp selects folder: Lando mid-laugh, a mechanic half-buried in the undercarriage with only his boots showing, Oscar’s car being wheeled back into the garage under high shadow, smoke curling from the brakes.

Then there’s him.

Oscar, post-FP1. Fireproofs peeled down to his waist. Sitting on the garage floor with his back against the wheel of his car.

Zak exhales. “Didn’t know the kid had this much presence. Or soul.”

You hover the cursor over the next shot—Oscar standing behind the car, half-suited, helmet under one arm, visor still up. His gaze off-frame. Brow furrowed. Light skimming the cut of his jaw.

Zak glances at you. “You ever thought about sticking around longer?”

You don’t answer. Not because you haven’t thought about it, but because you’re not sure you should.

That’s when you feel it. The shift in the air. That quiet, unmistakable stillness that means someone’s watching.

You turn.

Oscar is standing a few feet away.

No footsteps. No sound. Just there—calm, unreadable, still in his fireproofs. His eyes are on the screen.

“That’s not what I look like,” he says.

His voice is even. Not guarded, not accusing. Just… uncertain.

You click the laptop shut. “That’s exactly what you look like.”

A pause.

He looks at you, not the screen. “You’re good at your job.”

Then he turns and walks off, no nod, no glance back—just the low hum of the paddock swallowing him whole again.

You don’t head out with the rest of the team.

No drinks. No debrief. No passing your card off to the media coordinator and pretending to relax. You just take your hard case, your bag, and the image of Oscar Piastri walking away burned somewhere behind your eyes.

You don’t touch the selects folder.

You open the other one. The one you didn’t label. Just a generic dump of the shots you couldn’t delete but didn’t want reviewed, not yet.

Inside, there are maybe five frames.

One of Lando, overexposed and blurred, laughing so hard his face distorts like motion through glass. Another of a mechanic in the shadows, holding a wrench like a confession. A stray shot of the track, taken too early, too bright. A mistake. But not really.

And then there’s the one of him again.

Oscar.

Captured between moments—not posed, not aware. He’s sitting on the garage floor, one knee bent, one glove off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His suit is creased. His helmet is behind him, forgotten. His head is tilted just slightly toward the light. Not enough to be dramatic. Just enough to feel real.

You zoom in, slowly.

The edge of his jaw is lined with sweat. Not the fresh kind—the dried kind, salt clinging to skin after exertion. There’s a furrow between his brows, soft but persistent. His lips are parted like he’s just sighed and hasn’t caught the next breath yet.

You should delete it.

It’s too much. Too intimate. Too still. A kind of stillness that belongs to someone when they think no one’s looking. It feels like something you weren’t supposed to witness, let alone keep.

But you don’t delete it.

You hover the cursor over the filename. The auto-generated one: DSC_0147.JPG.

Your fingers drift to the keyboard. You add a single character.

DSC_0147_OP81

No tags. No notes. No edits. Just the letter. Just the truth, you’re not ready to say out loud.

You sit there for a long time after that. Laptop closed. Lights off. The glow of the city is bleeding through the curtains in faint, uneven lines.

You wonder if he knows—not about the photo. About what it means to be seen like that. About how rare it is, and how dangerous.

The hospitality suite hums around you in low tones—lights on dimmers, coffee machine off but still warm, the faint scent of citrus cleaner clinging to the corners. The carpet is that neutral industrial gray meant to hide wear. The kind of flooring that swallows footfalls. The type of silence you can live inside.

The rest of the team cleared out hours ago. You told them you needed to finish sorting shots for socials. No one questioned it. Louise nodded once, already halfway out the door, and Zak offered a distracted goodnight without looking up from his phone.

Technically, it’s not a lie.

You told them you were sorting selects. You didn’t say which ones.

You’re tucked into a corner booth at the back of the room, laptop open, knees drawn up, one foot pressing flat against the faux-leather seat. The day’s weight settles in your spine—low, dull, familiar. Your body aches in the ways it always does after being on your feet too long, shouldering gear heavier than it looks.

You haven’t eaten since lunch. You haven’t cared.

A few dishes rattle faintly in the back as catering finishes their sweep. After that, it’s just you. You and the quiet click of your trackpad. You move like you’ve done this a hundred times—and you have. This is your space. Not the paddock. Not the pit wall. Not the grid. Here. The edit suite. The after-hours.

This is where the truth lives. After the lights are off, the PR filters are stripped, and no one’s watching but you.

You scroll through today’s selects—the public ones. The safe ones. There’s one of Lando on a scooter, wind in his curls, mid-laugh, and practically golden in the late light. He’ll repost it within the hour if you give it to him. Another of the mechanics elbow-deep in the guts of a car, all orange gloves and jawlines under harsh fluorescents. Sweat stains, sleeve smears, real work.

And then… him.

Even in the selects folder, Oscar’s different. Cleaner. Sharper. More precise. You didn’t filter him that way. He just arrived like that. Controlled. A study in restraint.

But that’s not the folder you’ve got open.

You tab over. The unlabeled one. The one you didn’t offer.

Five images. One thumbnail bigger than the rest—clicked more. Held longer. A private gravity.

The shot is unbalanced. Technically imperfect. You should’ve deleted it hours ago.

You didn’t.

You should color correct. Straighten the angle. Try to fix it. But some part of you—the part that works on instinct more than training—knows that would ruin it. The frame only matters because it wasn’t supposed to be seen. Not even by you.

You sit back against the booth and stare at it. Not studying. Just being with it.

And then you feel it—not sound, not movement. Just a shift in the air.

A presence.

You glance up.

Oscar’s standing in the doorway.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just holds his place near the threshold, one hand resting loosely on the doorframe, like he’s not sure if he’s interrupting. He’s changed—soft team shirt, track pants, hair still slightly damp. Not a look meant for a camera. Not a look meant for anyone, really.

“I didn’t know anyone was still here,” he says.

You sit up a little straighter. “Didn’t expect to be.”

He steps in quietly, letting the door close behind him. Doesn’t make a move to sit or leave. Just hovers a few paces off, gaze flicking from the booth to the glow of your screen.

“What are you working on?” he asks, softer this time. Not performing curiosity. Just… genuinely curious.

You pause. Then turn the laptop slightly in his direction.

“Sorting photos,” you say.

He tilts his head to see. You expect him to take the out, nod, change the subject, or wave off the offer like most drivers do. Instead, he steps closer. One hand is on the booth’s divider for balance, and the other is loose on his side.

He looks at the screen. Really looks.

You’ve clicked back to the safer folder. The selects. It’s still full of him, though—his car in profile, a side view of his helmet under golden light, his hands resting lightly on the halo as a mechanic adjusts something behind him. Not posed. Just there. Present.

You glance at him.

He’s quiet.

Then: “Do I really look like that?”

The question isn’t skeptical. It’s not even self-deprecating. It’s something else. Wonder, maybe. A genuine attempt to see himself from the outside.

You don’t answer right away.

You scroll to the next frame. Him post-practice, hands on hips, visor up. Sweat cooling on his neck. The curve of tension in his spine visible through the suit. You scroll again—him in motion this time, walking past a barrier, the shadow of a halo bisecting his cheekbone.

He leans closer. Almost imperceptibly.

You look up at him. “What do you think you look like?”

He exhales slowly, not quite a laugh. “Flat. Quiet. Efficient.”

You click on the next photo—one you weren’t planning to share.

Oscar, half-turned. Not looking at anyone. Not performing. His face caught in mid-thought, eyes unfocused, something private flickering there and gone.

“You’re not wrong,” you say. “But you’re not right either.”

He studies the screen. Closer now. You can smell the faint trace of soap on his skin. He’s not watching himself anymore—he’s watching what you saw. And something about that visibly unsettles him.

“These are different,” he says after a moment.

You nod once. “They weren’t meant for the team folder.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

Not guarded. Not suspicious. Just aware of you, of the space between you, of whatever it is this moment is starting to become.

You don’t look away from him. Not when his eyes finally lift from the screen. Not when they meet yours.

It’s not a long stare. But it’s not short either.

He blinks once and turns back to the laptop, brows drawing together—not in discomfort, but in something closer to focus. Like he’s still trying to understand how you’ve caught something he didn’t know he was showing.

You let the silence hold. Let it stretch into something close to peace. There’s no PR rep in the room, no lens turned back on him. Just you, the laptop, the low hum of refrigeration from the kitchenette, and Oscar Piastri looking at himself like the photo might answer a question he’s never asked out loud.

He gestures faintly toward the screen. “Do you photograph everyone like this?”

You know what he’s really asking. Not about composition. Not about exposure. About intention. About intimacy.

“No,” you say.

That’s it. One word. No performance. No clarification.

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile—more like a muscle catching a thought before it can turn into something else.

Another moment passes.

Then he shifts his weight slightly, hand brushing the table's edge as he leans in just enough to be beside you now, not just behind. Not touching. Not crowding. But near.

You don’t move away.

And he doesn’t move forward.

You both stay still, eyes on the screen now, like that’ll save you from the implication already thick in the air.

On the screen, he’s in profile. Brow relaxed, mouth parted like he was about to speak but didn’t. You remember the exact shutter click. You hadn’t meant to capture that. It just happened.

“I don’t remember this moment,” he murmurs, half to himself.

You almost say, That’s what made it real.

Instead, you close the photo. Not to hide it. Just to breathe.

You don’t open another image. You don’t need to.

He’s still standing beside you, and the silence between you has started to feel like something structural—a pressure system, an atmosphere. He hasn’t moved away. And you haven’t pulled back.

You’re not touching. But you feel him. The warmth of his shoulder. The stillness of his breath. The way his presence shifts the air around your body like gravity.

You glance sideways.

He’s not looking at the screen anymore.

He’s looking at you.

Not boldly. Not playfully. Just… plainly. Like he’s seeing you in real time and letting it happen.

He doesn’t speak right away. You think he might—you think the moment’s cresting into something spoken, into confession or contact or maybe just a name dropped between sentences. But instead, his gaze flicks once back to the laptop. Then to you again.

And all he says is:

“You’re good at seeing things people don’t mean to show.”

It’s not a compliment. Not exactly. It’s not judgment either.

It’s just true.

You swallow. Your throat is suddenly dry. You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t think he expects an answer.

He steps back.

Not abruptly. Just enough to break the spell.

His hand brushes the table's edge as he moves—the lightest contact, accidental or deliberate, you don’t know. Then he straightens.

Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say goodbye.

Just leaves.

The door clicks shut behind him like a shutter closing.

You don’t move for a long time.

The garage is quieter after a successful qualifying than anyone ever expects.

There’s no roar of celebration, no sharp silence of defeat—just the low, rhythmic scrape of routines. Cables coiled. . Tools clacking back into cases. Mechanics speaking in shorthand. Half-finished water bottles stacked in corners like the day couldn’t quite decide to end.

You stay late to shoot the stillness. The after. The details no one asks for but everyone remembers once they see them: the foam of rubber dust around a wheel arch, the long streak of oil under an abandoned jack, the orange smudge of a thumbprint on a visor that shouldn’t have been there. These are your favorite frames—the ones no one knows how to stage.

You think you’re alone.

You aren’t.

Oscar’s there—crouched beside his car, still in his fireproofs, the top half tied around his waist. His undershirt is damp across his back. His gloves are off. One hand rests on the slick curve of the sidepod, like he doesn’t want to leave it just yet.

He doesn’t look up at you. Not at first. Maybe he hasn’t noticed you’re there.

But you raise your camera anyway.

Not for work. Not for the team. Just to capture what he looks like when no one’s telling him how to be.

You half-expect him to move—to shift, to block the frame, to glance up with that quiet indifference you’ve learned to recognize in him.

He doesn’t.

He lifts his head.

And holds your gaze.

You freeze, viewfinder still pressed to your eye. Your finger hovers over the shutter. One breath passes. Then another.

You click once.

The sound is soft but rings like a shot in the hollow space between you.

He doesn’t blink.

You lower the camera.

He stands. He steps closer.

Not dramatically. Not like someone making a move. Just a fraction forward, enough that you catch the warmth of his body before you register the space between you is gone. His suit still carries the heat of the day—sweat-damp fabric, residual adrenaline, maybe even rubber and asphalt baked into the fibers.

You could step back.

You don’t.

You look at him. Not through a lens. Not through the controlled frame of your work. Just him. Face bare, eyes steady, skin flushed faintly pink from the effort of the race, or maybe from this—from now.

His gaze drops—not to your lips. Not to your hands. To your camera. Still hanging there. Still between you.

“I thought it’d bother me,” he says, voice low. “Having someone follow me around with a camera.”

You don’t speak. Just let him say it.

“But it doesn’t,” he adds. “Not with you.”

That lands somewhere in your chest, soft but irreversible.

You tilt your head slightly. He mirrors it, barely perceptible—like you’re both circling something you’ve already agreed to, but neither of you wants to be the first to name it.

Your hand twitches—a half-motion toward his arm that you stop before it lands. He catches it anyway. You see it flicker in his eyes: awareness, restraint, the line he’s thinking about crossing.

And for a second, you both just breathe.

You can hear his, shallow and careful. You wonder if he can hear yours.

He looks at you again, not past you, not through you. At you.

He takes that final step toward you.

Close now—too close for the lens, too close for performance. Just the space where breath meets breath. Where silence turns into touch.

Your camera strap tugs lightly at your neck, caught between your bodies. The lens bumps his ribs—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind.

He glances down at it. Then back up at you.

You hesitate.

For a moment, it’s a question: leave it on, keep the wall up, pretend this is still observational. You could. You’re good at hiding behind it.

But not now.

Not with him.

You reach up, slow, deliberate, and lift the strap over your head. The camera slides down and into your palm with a soft weight. You turn and place it on the workbench beside you. Careful. Quiet. Final.

When you face him again, the air feels different.

Lighter. Sharper. Bare.

He looks at you like something just shifted—like whatever existed between you when you were holding the lens has burned away, and now you’re just here. With him.

You take a breath.

So does he.

And then he kisses you.

No warning. No performance. Just the simple, exact motion of someone who’s been thinking about it too long.

His lips find yours with surprising clarity—not tentative, not rushed, but precise. Like he knows how not to waste the moment. Like he doesn’t want to use more force than he has to. His hand comes up to your jaw, steadying. Guiding. His thumb brushes just beneath your ear.

You sigh into it before you realize you’ve made a sound.

It isn’t a long kiss.

But it says enough.

You part—barely—breath warming the inch between your mouths.

Oscar looks at you the way he did in of some your photos. Like he sees you and doesn’t need to say it.

You don’t speak.

You just pull him back in.

After that second kiss—deeper, hungrier, not rushed but no longer careful—your back bumps against the edge of the workbench. Something shifts behind you, a soft clatter of tools or metal. Neither of you reacts, beyond a quick glance to make sure your camera is still ok.

Oscar’s hand finds your waist. Not pulling. Just grounding. He’s breathing hard now—not from nerves, but from restraint. From the way his body wants more than it’s being given.

You want more too.

But not here.

The garage is still too open. You can feel the risk of movement beyond the wall, the flicker of voices down the corridor. You know better than to do this out in the open. And so does he.

You draw back slightly. Not far. Just enough to say: we can’t stay here.

He meets your eyes. Doesn’t ask where.

He just follows.

You slip out through the back corridor, your boots soft on the concrete, camera long forgotten. The hallway narrows. The air feels different—more insulated. Familiar layout. You’ve walked this path before, with your eyes forward and your badge visible.

But this time, you pause.

The door ahead is unmarked, but you know it’s his.

You don’t hesitate.

You open it.

Inside: the quiet hum of ventilation. A narrow cot. A low bench. His helmet bag in the corner. A duffel unzipped and half-collapsed against the wall. One small light left on, warm and low. A private space, lived-in but untouched. No one else is supposed to be here.

The door clicks shut behind you.

It’s quiet. Not padded silence—earned silence. The kind you get after twenty laps of tight corners and exact braking. The kind where everything else falls away.

You put your camera on the bench now.

Oscar stands behind you.

You feel him before you hear him—a shift in air, in presence. And when you turn, he’s already moving.

This kiss is different.

Less measured. More real. His hands find your waist, then your back, sliding up beneath your shirt—fingertips slow, but sure. Like he’s still learning the shape of permission. Like he won’t take anything you don’t give.

But you give it.

You pull at the hem of his undershirt, and he lets you. It peels off in one clean motion. His skin is flushed, chest rising with each breath. The restraint that’s lived in his shoulders for days has nowhere left to go.

Your hands map over it.

He kisses you again, harder now, with that same focused precision you’ve seen in every debrief photo, every lap line, every unreadable frame. But this time, it’s turned inward. On you.

He makes a sound when you push him back onto the bench—not a moan, not yet. Just a low breath punched from his chest, like he didn’t expect you to take the lead. But he doesn’t stop you.

He just watches.

You settle onto his lap, knees straddling his thighs, and he lets his hands drag up your sides like he’s cataloguing every inch. Your shirt rises. His mouth follows.

He kisses you there, just beneath your ribs, then lower.

By the time you reach down to tug at the knot in his fireproofs, his breath is uneven. Controlled, but slipping.

“You okay?” you ask, voice low.

He nods. Swallows.

Then, quietly: “You’re not what I expected.”

You lean in, lips at his ear.

“Neither are you.”

Oscar doesn’t rush.

Even as your fingers fumble with the tie at his waist, even as his hands trace your hips like he’s memorizing something that won’t last, he stays grounded. Breath steady. Eyes on yours. Like he’s still trying to be sure—not of you, but of himself.

You press your forehead to his, lips brushing his cheek, and whisper, “Lie back.”

He does.

You shift to the cot together, clothes half-off, half-on—his fireproofs peeled down, your underwear already sliding down your thigh, your shirt somewhere behind you on the floor. It’s not perfect. It’s not staged.

But it’s real.

He lets you settle over him first. Let's you find the angle, the rhythm, the breath. His hands stay at your hips, thumbs pressing into the softness there like he doesn’t want to grip too tight, like this might still vanish if he closes his eyes.

He exhales sharply when you take him in.

You sink down, slow, controlled—the way he drives, the way you shoot. Like it’s all about reading the moment.

His breath stutters. His mouth opens, but no words come out.

You roll your hips once, slow and deliberate.

Then he says it. Quietly.

“Thank you.”

It’s not a performance. Not something meant to be romantic. It slips out like instinct, like he doesn’t know how else to name what’s happening.

You still, just slightly, your hand on his chest.

“For what?” you breathe.

He looks up at you, eyes wide, completely unguarded for the first time. His answer is barely audible.

“For seeing me.”

You freeze, just for a breath.

It’s not what you expected. Not from him. And not here, like this. But he says it without flinching, without looking away.

And then, just as your chest tightens, just as you reach for something to say, he exhales sharply through his nose—

And flips you.

Your back hits the cot with a soft thud, the thin mattress barely muffling the motion. You barely manage a breath before he’s over you, hips slotting between your thighs like they’ve always belonged there.

It’s not rough. It’s measured. Intentional. Every part of him radiates heat, tension, and restraint held so tight it hums beneath his skin.

Oscar leans in—forearm braced beside your head, the other hand gripping your thigh as he presses it up, open, wide. He looks down at you like you’ve stopped time. Like he’s memorizing what it feels like to have you under him.

“You don’t get to do all the seeing,” he murmurs, voice low and firm. “Not anymore.”

Then he thrusts in.

Slow. Deep. Full.

You cry out—not from pain, not even surprise, but from the way it takes. All of him. All at once. The way he fills you like your body was waiting for it.

He doesn’t move right away. Just holds there. Buried inside you, chest rising and falling against yours. He dips his head to your neck—not kissing, just breathing there, letting the moment press into both of you.

Then he rolls his hips.

Long, steady strokes. Not fast. Not shallow. Each one drags a breath from your lungs, makes your fingers claw at his shoulders, his back, anything you can hold.

“You feel…” he starts, but doesn’t finish.

He doesn’t need to.

He shifts, adjusting your leg higher on his hip, changing the angle—

God.

He feels the way your body stutters, tightens, clenches around him, and groans—quiet, rough, broken. His control flickers. You feel it in the way his pace falters for just a second, then steadies again, even deeper now.

Your thighs shake.

Your nails dig in.

His mouth finds your jaw, then your lips—hot and open, tongues brushing, messy now. Focused turned to need.

He thrusts harder. Not brutal. Just honest. Like he’s done pretending this isn’t happening.

“You wanted this,” he pants into your mouth. “You watched me like—like I wouldn’t notice.”

You nod, breathless. “I did. I couldn’t—fuck, Oscar—”

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Say it.”

“I wanted you.”

His hips snap forward.

“I want you.”

He groans, low in his throat, and fucks you harder.

The cot creaks under you. The air is damp. Your legs are wrapped around him now, pulling him closer, locking him in. He thrusts deep, precise, again and again—your body no longer holding shape, just pulse and friction and heat.

He knows you’re close.

You feel him watch you—not just your face, but your whole body as it trembles under him. His hand slides down, between your thighs, two fingers pressing exactly where you need them, circling once—

And you break.

It tears out of you—sharp and full and shattering. You gasp his name. Your back arches. Your whole body pulses around him, and he feels it—curses once, softly, like he’s never come like this before.

He thrusts twice more, rougher now, chasing it, falling into it.

Then he groans deep in your ear and comes, spilling into you with a low, drawn-out moan. His body stutters against yours, then goes still.

You stay like that. Twined together. Sweaty. Breathless. Quiet.

Not speaking yet.

Just feeling everything settle.

He stays inside you for a few long seconds—breathing hard, his forehead pressed lightly against yours, the heat between your bodies thick and grounding.

Neither of you speaks.

Eventually, he shifts.

Withdraws with a low groan, like he didn’t want to but had to. You wince a little at the loss, at the sensitivity. He notices.

“Hang on,” he murmurs.

He stands—a little unsteady, a little flushed—and crosses to the corner without putting anything back on. You watch him: tall, bare, hair a mess from your hands. He grabs a towel from a low shelf and brings it back, gently nudging your legs apart to clean you up.

You half-laugh through your haze. “Didn’t take you for the towel type.”

“I’m methodical,” he mutters, like that explains it.

You tilt your head. “Is that what we’re calling this?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just focuses on being careful—one hand steady on your thigh, the towel warm and folded, the silence less awkward than it should be.

Then, quietly: “I’m sorry I didn’t have a condom.”

You blink.

His voice is low, calm, but not casual. Intent.

“I’ll get Plan B tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll—figure it out. I just didn’t think…”

He trails off.

You reach for his wrist. “It’s okay.”

He looks at you, really looks, and nods once. More to himself than you.

He tosses the towel to the floor. You sit up slowly, legs unsteady, shirt still off, everything about this moment too real to feel like aftermath.

He starts to pull his fireproofs back up.

You watch him for a second. Then, without thinking, you ask:

“Do you regret it?”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hesitate.

“No,” he says. Then, quieter: “Do you?”

You shake your head.

“I don't think so,” you whisper.

And you mean it.

For a long moment, neither of you moves.

Then your eyes drift to the bench, where your camera still rests, right where you left it.

You reach for it.

Not out of instinct. Out of something slower. Softer. He watches you, but doesn’t stop you.

You flick it on. Adjust nothing. Just cradle it in one hand as you shift down onto the cot again, your body still warm, your shirt forgotten somewhere on the floor.

Oscar follows.

He lies beside you, then settles halfway across your chest—head tucked into the curve of your shoulder, one arm looped around your waist. His breathing slows against your skin.

He doesn’t speak.

You lift the camera, carefully—just enough to frame the moment.

No posing. No styling. Just him, resting against you, the tension drained from his body, his face soft in a way you’ve never seen it before.

You take one shot.

Just one.

No flash. No click loud enough to stir him. Just the soundless capture of something unrepeatable.

You lower the camera and let it rest on the floor.

Then you press your hand to the back of his neck, fingers brushing the sweat-damp hair there.

He doesn’t move.

And for the first time all night, you let yourself close your eyes too.

The light coming through the slatted blinds is too thin, too early, and absolutely not the kind of light you wanted to wake up to.

You blink. Once. Twice. Then freeze.

Oscar is still asleep on your chest.

His arm’s heavy across your stomach. His mouth is parted just slightly, his breath warm against your ribs. The sheet barely covers either of you. Your leg is tangled between his. Your camera’s on the floor, lens cap off, body smudged from where your hand landed in the dark.

And from somewhere beyond the door, you hear voices.

Early. Sharp. Professional.

Your blood runs cold.

“Oscar,” you hiss.

He doesn’t move.

You jab your fingers into his side.

He grunts. Groggy. “Five more—”

“No, Oscar. People are arriving.”

That wakes him up.

He blinks fast, eyes wild for a second, then zeroes in on your very, very naked body, “Shit.”

You’re already rolling off the cot, grabbing for your shirt, your underwear, anything. He sits up, hair sticking up in every direction, blinking hard like he’s trying to reboot.

“Where are your—?” he starts.

“Somewhere under you,” you snap, tugging your jeans over your legs with one hand while trying to find your bra with the other. “How the fuck are people already here? It’s—”

He glances at the clock.

“Five fifty-eight.”

You freeze. “AM?!”

He shrugs, one leg in his fireproofs. “We’re a punctual operation.”

You glare. “You owe me a coffee for this.”

“I’ll bring it with the Plan B,” he mutters, hopping on one foot, still trying to get the other leg into his pants.

You both freeze.

Half-dressed. Half-wrecked. Fully undone.

Your eyes meet—and something flickers. Not fear. Not regret. Just recognition.

Then the laugh slips out.

His first. Yours chasing after it. Quiet. Breathless.

It’s not elegant. It’s not even sane. But it cuts through the panic like oxygen.

And somehow, it’s enough to pull yourselves back into motion.

By the time you make it out of Oscar’s room, it’s six-fifteen.

The sky is still dark, just starting to take on that pale, pre-dawn blue that makes everything look more suspicious. The air is cool against your sweat-damp skin. Your shirt clings uncomfortably beneath your jacket. Your hair’s a disaster. There’s dried spit on your collarbone.

You try to ignore it.

You sling your camera bag over one shoulder and walk fast, like speed is professionalism. Like maybe if you move quickly enough, no one will notice that your bra is in your pocket.

The paddock is starting to stir—lights in the garages flipping on, early logistics staff wheeling carts, someone laughing too loud over a radio.

You don’t look at anyone.

Instead, you beeline for the McLaren hospitality suite—the same corner booth you’d claimed last night.

You slide into it like you’ve been there for hours.

You open your laptop. Plug in your card. Scroll through a few photos like you’re reviewing footage from a very long, very productive night.

You sip from the cold cup of tea you left there the evening before.

Someone passes by and nods. You nod back, like, Yes, I live here now.

And when you’re finally alone again—no footsteps, no voices, no Oscar—you flick through the frames.

And there it is.

Oscar. Half-asleep on your chest. One arm slung across your waist. Face soft. Human. Completely unguarded.

You don’t smile. You don’t linger.

You just right-click and rename the file:

DSC_0609_OP81

Then you close the folder.

The room is quiet. Still holding the shape of him.

You let it sit for a few more minutes—the aftermath, the ache, the image that still feels too close.

Then you move.

Hotel. Shower. Clothes. Routine like armor. You scrub his breath from your skin and pull your hair back like a statement.

By the time you reappear, you look like someone who’s been working since dawn.

You slip back into the hospitality suite just after seven-thirty, hair still damp, your badge hanging neatly over a neutral jacket. You walk like you’ve been here all night. Like you didn’t sneak out of Oscar Piastri’s driver’s room just before the first truck arrived.

The booth where you left your laptop is still yours—same coffee cup, same open Lightroom window, same half-edited photo of brake dust curling off a rear tire. You slide into the seat like nothing’s changed.

Your body aches.

Not in a bad way.

Just in a you-should-not-have-done-that-on-a-thin-mattress-with-an-F1-driver kind of way.

You sip lukewarm tea. You click through a few photos. You try to find your place again—in the day, in your work, in your skin.

You almost have it.

And then Oscar walks in.

He’s clean. Composed. Damp hair pushed back. Fresh team polo. His eyes sweep the suite once, briefly, and stop on you.

Not long. Just enough to register.

You feel it in your throat. In your chest.

He keeps walking.

You don’t look up again. You wait until he’s out of sight.

Then, casually, like you’re just checking the time, you unlock your phone.

There’s a tag notification at the top of the screen.

@oscarpiastri tagged you in a post.

Your stomach tightens.

You tap it.

The photo loads slowly—the Wi-Fi is never good this early—but you already know. You can feel it before it appears.

And there it is.

One of yours.

Oscar, from Friday. Fireproofs rolled to the waist. Helmet in hand. Standing just off-center, eyes somewhere past the camera. The light is warm and sharp. The moment is quiet.

He looks human. Present. Exposed.

You didn’t submit that one for publishing yet.

You didn’t even color-correct it.

But he posted it.

No caption. No emoji. No flair.

Just a tag. 

Your throat goes dry.

You swipe up to see the comments.

'he NEVER posts like this' 'why does this feel personal' 'who took this photo?? i want names' 'soft launch energy or what'

You lock the screen.

Then unlock it again.

Same image. Same tag. Same hush in your chest.

He chose this. Publicly. Silently. Deliberately.

You don’t know what to feel.

Except seen.

And maybe a little bit fucked.

You flip back to Lightroom, but your fingers don’t move.

The cursor hovers over a batch of unprocessed photos. Tire smoke. Candid Lando. Engineers pointing at telemetry. Everything you’re supposed to be focused on. Everything you usually love.

You stare straight ahead, forcing your breath to even out.

Footsteps approach—light but confident.

You don’t look up until he’s beside you.

Zak.

Coffee in hand. Shirt pressed. Sunglasses hanging off his collar like it’s already noon. He doesn’t sit; he just leans one hand on the booth’s divider and glances at your screen.

“Anything good in there?” he asks.

You click once, purely for show.

“A few,” you say.

He nods. Then gestures vaguely toward your phone, which is still facedown on the table.

“You see what Oscar posted?”

Your throat tightens.

You don’t look at him.

“Yeah,” you say. “This morning.”

There’s a pause.

You don’t fill it.

Zak hums. A noncommittal sound. But there’s something behind it. Something knowing.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen him post a photo of himself that wasn’t mid-action,” he says. “Certainly not one that… quiet.”

You glance up. He’s not looking at you. He’s scanning the room, like he’s talking about the weather.

Then he looks down.

“That one yours?”

You nod. “Yeah. From Friday.”

“Hm.” He sips his coffee. “Good frame. Eyes open. Looks like a person.”

You don’t answer.

Zak straightens, adjusts his watch.

“Well,” he says, already turning away, “don’t let him steal your best work for free.”

And then he’s gone.

You don’t move.

Because your heart is pounding.

Not from guilt.

From the sick, unshakable feeling that something real is happening, and people are starting to see it.

You’ve made it almost four hours without thinking about it.

Or at least—without actively thinking about it.

You’ve answered emails, flagged selects, and dropped a batch of your best Lando photos into the team's "for publishing" drive. You’ve even had a second coffee. You’ve done everything you’re supposed to do, professionally and invisibly, just like always.

But your phone’s still sitting face down next to your laptop. And it keeps catching the corner of your eye like it knows.

You flip it over. No new notifications.

You open Instagram anyway.

The post is still there. Still climbing.

Sixty thousand likes now. More than three hundred comments. You stop scrolling after the third one that says something about the way he looks at the camera, like he knows who’s behind it.

You close the app.

You open it again three minutes later.

You don’t know what you’re waiting for.

Until the screen lights up.

Oscar Piastri

10:02 a.m.

You okay with me posting that? Didn’t mean to make things harder.

You read it once.

Then again.

Then three more times, like you’re searching for a different meaning. Like the phrasing might shift if you look long enough.

It doesn’t.

You picture him typing it—sitting somewhere behind the garage partition, race suit half-zipped, that permanent crease between his brows as he stares at the screen too long before hitting send. You picture him thinking about the photo. About what it looked like. About how it felt.

About you.

You rest your phone on your thigh and stare out the window beside your booth.

It’s bright now—full daylight. The paddock’s humming. Lando’s somewhere laughing too loudly. Zak just walked by again, talking about tire wear. You’re surrounded by normal.

But nothing feels normal.

Your phone buzzes again.

Same name.

Oscar Piastri

10:06 a.m.

I’ll still get the Plan B. After work. Just didn’t want you to think I forgot.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

Not because you were worried—but because he remembered.

Because even now, back in uniform, back on the clock, back in the world where no one is supposed to see what happened, he still thinks about what comes after.

You rest your phone on the table. Thumb hovering.

You type:

Thank you. Don’t worry about the post.

You don’t overthink it. You don’t reread it. You just hit send.

And that’s enough.

INBOX

Subject: Assignment Continuation: Photographer, Track & Driver Coverage

Hi,

Following an internal review of mid-season content delivery, we’d like to formally request that you continue in your current capacity with McLaren through the following season. Your on-site coverage—particularly around driver documentation and live access environments—has added measurable value across platforms.

Please note that this recommendation also reflects internal feedback, including a request from one of the drivers for continuity.

If you’re open to continuing, we’d be happy to align on updated terms and logistics for the remaining calendar.

Best regards,

Lindsey Eckhouse

Director, Licensing & Digital

McLaren Racing

notes: well... it's no 'let him see,' but i'd say not too shabby. let me know what you think!! <3

taglist: @literallysza @piceous21 @missprolog @vanteel @idontknow0704 @hydracassiopeiadarablack @andawaywelando @yeahnahalrightfairenough @whatsitgonnabeangelina @missprolog @emily-b @number-0-iz @vhkdncu2ei8997 @astrlape

IF YOU’D LIKE TO BE ADDED TO A TAGLIST FOR ALL OF MY FUTURE F1 FICS, COMMENT BELOW

[dinodaweeb]

Helmet Logic

Din Djarin (The Mandalorian) x Gn!Reader

Summary: You ask Mando what would happen if you kissed his helmet.

The Razor Crest—okay, new Razor Crest—was quiet tonight. That rare kind of stillness that settled after a mission gone right and bellies were full. Grogu had already curled into his floating pod, snoring softly, little arms tucked against his chest.

You and Din were sitting across from each other at the small workbench. He was cleaning one of his weapons. You were pretending to read a datapad, but really, you were watching the way the muscles in his forearms shifted as he worked.

Listen, you’re only human.

Helmet on, as always. Classic Mando.

“Hey,” you said after a moment, breaking the silence.

Din grunted in response, not looking up.

You leaned forward, chin in your palm. “What would happen if I kissed your helmet?”

The tool in his hand froze mid-motion.

You watched the stillness stretch between you like an elastic band pulled taut.

“…What?” he asked finally, slow and measured, like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you right or if his brain was glitching.

“If I kissed your helmet,” you repeated, biting back a grin. “You know, boop—right here.” You tapped your lips, then pointed at the beskar covering his face.

He turned his helmet slightly, regarding you like you were some strange creature from the outer rim.

“You… wouldn’t,” he said after a pause, like it was obvious.

“Why not?”

“Because… that’s not how that works.”

You tilted your head. “How what works?”

“Personal boundaries. Honor. The Creed.” He gestured vaguely with the cleaning cloth.

You tried not to smile. “I’m not asking to take it off, Mando. Just kiss it. Like… affectionately patting your shoulder. But with my lips. For science.”

He made a low sound in his throat. “That’s not science.”

You leaned a little closer. “Come on, Din. Don’t you wanna know what it feels like?”

“I know what beskar feels like.”

“Do you know what it feels like to be kissed through beskar?”

Another pause. And then, quietly: “No.”

You could feel the tension in the air now, warm and strangely charged. You leaned back slightly, letting it breathe. But your eyes stayed locked on his visor.

“I just think it’d be cute,” you added lightly. “You know. Like a ‘thanks for saving my life for the twelfth time this week’ kind of kiss.”

Din stared at you, unreadable.

Then—

“Don’t.”

You blinked. “Don’t what?”

“Kiss it.”

You raised a brow. “You said I wouldn’t. Now you’re saying don’t. Sounds like you’re worried I will.”

He didn’t answer.

Which, frankly, was all the answer you needed.

So you leaned across the workbench, planted a ridiculously soft, dramatic kiss to the middle of his helmet—right between where his eyebrows would be—and then leaned back like nothing happened.

Din didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

You might’ve killed him.

Grogu squeaked in his pod and cracked one eye open, then giggled sleepily before rolling over.

Still, Din didn’t move.

“…Are you okay?” you asked after a solid twenty seconds of silence.

“I…” He trailed off.

You watched as he slowly set down the weapon, then stood up a little too fast. The bench scraped awkwardly against the floor. He turned—too fast—and smacked into the wall.

Clang.

“…You okay there, Mando?” you asked, biting your lip to keep from laughing.

“I’m fine.”

“Because it looked like you just tried to walk through the bulkhead.”

“I said I’m fine,” he snapped, more flustered than angry.

You stood up and followed him toward the cockpit.

He kept his back to you. “That was… unwise.”

You grinned. “Why? Because it short-circuited your brain?”

“Because it’s… complicated.”

“Do you want me to apologize?” you asked, stepping closer.

“No.”

That surprised you.

Din turned slightly, enough for you to see the edge of his helmet over his shoulder.

“It’s not that I didn’t like it,” he said carefully, voice low and gravelly. “It’s just that I don’t… know what to do with it.”

You softened. “You don’t have to do anything. It was just a kiss. Through a helmet. Not a big deal.”

He hesitated. “It was to me.”

And there it was—just a crack in the armor. A glimpse of something raw beneath the beskar.

You stepped closer. “I won’t do it again if you don’t want me to.”

He turned around fully now, and for a long second, you just stood there—close, hearts beating a little too fast.

“I didn’t say that,” he murmured.

You smiled. “Then what do you want?”

Silence.

Grogu hiccupped in his sleep.

And then—

“I want…” Din paused, like the words were foreign on his tongue. “I want to… deserve that.”

Your heart twisted. “You already do.”

He looked at you—visored gaze locked on yours, unmoving, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

And then, finally, he reached out and touched your hand—gloved, tentative, but deliberate.

The kind of touch that said thank you for seeing me.

You squeezed his fingers. “Still confused?”

“Extremely.”

You laughed.

He bumped into the doorway on the way to check on Grogu five minutes later. Again.

——!

The next morning, Grogu climbed onto your lap and gave you his breakfast ration of space macarons. Din watched from the corner, arms crossed, head tilted.

When you met his gaze, he didn’t look away.

And before leaving the room, he passed you—and tapped his forehead lightly against your shoulder in a motion so brief you almost missed it.

But you didn’t.

And it felt a lot like a kiss.

a/n: pretend I watched the show 😂

[letterlitter]

Let go (nsfw)

Lando Norris x reader

•Lando needs to relief stress after a bad weekend

•tags: smut, semi public, handjob (male recieving), Lando is a sad baby, moaning

•word cound: 1.6

It had been a rough few weeks. You had been away on business and Lando was racing but things weren't going as well as you both hoped.

All had gone downhill after the first race of the season which Lando had won. MCL39 was fast and everybody knew that, yet Lando had been struggling to get it right and use the car's potential to its fullest. He had been updating you through video or phone calls and he repeatedly told you how much he could use a kiss; to which you would reply with a giggle and a "very soon baby" and when you finally made it to the Saudi gp, it was a nice surprise for Lando and the press.

The qualifying had gone terribly for Lando and he wasn't happy about the results at all. You could see him pouting and rolling his eyes from behind his helmet as he got off the car.

You tried to find him in every crowd and be in his sight even when he was busy to let him know you were there, watching and supporting him in real time but eventhough he always smiled back and tanked you several times for it, it wasn't enough to keep him out of his own head.

Sunday, race day

Lando was starting in the middle, closer to the back of the lineup than the front. You and the team sat in the garage hoping for the best and while you had your eyes on Oscar dominating the race, you were worried about Lando. He was doing pretty well with the overtakes and the overall pace but everyone was now more focused on the screen showing how Oscar was going to take the win.

You liked Oscar, he was very talented, hardworking and well deserving of the achievements he had; but your heart broke for Lando, since no matter how had he pushed and how hard he was on himself, he didn't seem to always get it right. You loved him despite every obstacle the media or both of your lives' circumstances were putting in front of you but it hurt your heart to see him try and not see results. You knew how it felt like, to run as fast as you can and be the smartest version of yourself but see someone else doing it better with less effort.it was a tiny part of how brutal life could be. Lando had talked about it to you as well. You knew his struggles and the roller coaster his mental state would go on every single race after his first win last year in Miami.

Before, he would just settle for a podium or some points; but after expanding his capabilities and achievement's limits, he couldn't stop himself from being hungry for the best all the time even when it wasn't realistic. He was hard on himself and the pressure had gotten to him these past few weeks.

Lando ended up 4th on the Saudi gp and while he had done an amazing job, everyone's focus had been on Oscar getting the win for the team.

Lando came in after one or two interviews, helmet in hand, sweat dripping from his forehead. He gave the team in the garage a nod and went straight to the dressing room. He didn't talk to anyone or say much. "Just straight to privacy and silence where he could overthink his brains out" you thought as you stood up, held your hand to stop his engineer, Will, who had taken a step to go after him.

"Let me" you mouthed to him and slowed your steps towards the room to let Lando have his few moments of silence.

"Hello, anyone here?" You tapped your fingers on the door as you pushed it open to find Lando sitting in the farthest corner of the couch in the dressing room. Race suit still on and hanging from his hips. He lifted his head from his hands when he heard your voice and managed a "it is what it is right?" Smile at you.

You sat next to him, "very nice job today. Honestly. And not because you're sad"

Lando scoffed. That was a good sign.

"What's the point when I have done shit for the third week in a row."

"Says who?"

"Me. It's like I waited for Oscar to catch up. I just can't believe I'm this bad...actually I kind of do"

"Don't say that about yourself baby" you rubbed your hand on his back. His fireproof cold from the dried sweat, "I know you beat yourself up because you have high expectations of yourself" you slided to the floor to make Lando's held down head face you, "but with almost every standard you're still doing really really good. And you still have plenty of time to make up for it all. You will only have less chances to mess up and that's it."

Lando exhaled.

"I just think you need to let loose a little bit." you cupped his cheek with a hand and lifted his face, "Stop blaming yourself"Lando looked into your eyes for the first time with a faint smile on his lips.

"Hello there" you whispered

"Hey" his smile widened

"You want a kiss?"

"Please" he sounded desperate

You kissed him long and deep.

You kept wanting to pull away but Lando was following you, even as you tried to stand up.

The kiss seemed to get more passionate and more than just a kiss as moments passed on. Lando's hand started messaging your back, trying to find a way under your vest.

"Slow down mister, this isn't your race track" and you kissed your way down his face to his neck, tracing the helmet marks on his soft skin; Feeling his body heat with your lips, tasting his sweat. Your hands pushed his race suit's zipper lower before he pulled back a second, "the door"

You stood back to let him go and turn the lock. You usually didn't care but the last thing both of you needed right now was getting caught while everybody in the world were behind those doors.

But as soon as he came back two second later, you didn't hesitate to push him to a wall and put your hands on him, pushing his suit lower, getting to his hardening bulge after you had grinded your hips on him before.

"I see you miss me huh?"

"Is that even a question?"

"No not really"

You slightly rubbed and squeezed his balls over his underwear. Making him moan subconsciously. Lando's eyes popped from the unexpected volume of his own moaning.

"Turn it down pretty boy, people might hear us" and you rubbed your hands more firmly, making him visibly suffer. There was something about Lando after a race that made you want him so badly. Maybe it was his wet hair or the red marks on his face. Or maybe it was his wet eyes from the tears he tried to hold back earlier. It all made you...want him.

You slided down Lando's underwear, releasing his long, hard dick. First you were thinking of getting down on your knees, but you couldn't possibly miss the scenery up there. Lando's forehead was filled with wrinkles as your hand touched the skin of his penis. You could feel the slight vibrations of his neck under your lips while he moaned in his throat and tried not to be loud.

"Oh fuck y/n" he let out when you started teasing his tip with your thumb, "are you trying to...fuck..trying to kill me?"

"Shhhhh" you kissed his lips to shut him up. This was going to be slow and relieving. All of his attention and focus had to be on you and trying not to moan instead of the race results; even if it was for a few minutes.

Lando's moans were getting more frequent by the second. At one point his patience was so lost that he hit the back of his head to the wall behind him, with his fingers digging into the skin of your back. "You wanna come?"

Lando answerd with an impatient moan.

"I need those words baby" you looked up at him and smiled at his squeezed shut eyes and tilted back head.

"Please."

"Please what?"

"Oh fuck off y/n"

In a regular day, your would've listened and stopped whatever you were doing to tease him even more. But you felt he had been through enough for today so you took up the pace and moved your hand faster on the pre-cum covered surface you were working on.

"Come for me baby. Come"

You reached for a towel on the sofa in time to clean everything up before Lando got cum on both of you.

He let out a final exhale of comfort and finally opened his eyes.

"Come here" he pulled you in a tight hug as he came down from the high.

"Feel better?"

"I thought I was seeing stars are you crazy?"

You chuckled, "yes I may be"

Lando kissed your forehead a few times before he let you go.

"I have to get back out there. Also take this with you" he took the gray towel by the clean part, "and destroy it."

"Okay"

"I mean it y/n." He shouted as he was walking out the door. Making you laugh with relief seeing the difference between the way he came into this room and the way he was getting out of it.

[slytherinboysvip]

!Motorcycle rider bf¡ Theo Nott

(Nsfw! Your boyfriend Theo has a motorcycle now.. and a hot fucking helmet.) (helmet kink? lol idk) smut smut smut

Your boyfriend Theo didn’t have many outlets to get away from his thoughts, before it was smoking which he’s attempting to slow down on for you, occasional journaling not that he’d ever let you see that, and now his newest and most favorite hobby riding his motorcycle.

To be completely honest at first the idea terrified you, an angry Theo driving around on a motorcycle going any speed he pleased “Starò bene amore mio, tu sei il mio portafortuna”(ill be fine my love youre my good luck charm). You’d also be lying to yourself if you didn’t say he looked damn fucking good in his helmet. So good in fact that you needed him to fuck you in it.

It’s like his whole demeanor changes when he puts it on, you can’t see his face yet you know his beautiful sleepy eyes are looking directly at you underneath, yet all you see is his fit body and it just did something to you. It didn’t matter what he was wearing as long as that helmet was on his head you were drenched.

𓆙𓆙

The first time you rode on the back of his motorcycle was amazing. He bought you your own helmet “I had to get it for you baby it screamed you, and it gave an excuse to finally make you ride with me. Not that you haven’t done that before” He winked while putting it over your head. You were glad it was on so he couldn’t make fun of your profuse blushing but who cares it’s because of your hot boyfriend.

He put his helmet on and you nearly fell to your knees he looked so fucking hot. Without saying anything he lifted you up and onto the back of the bike and got on in front of you. “Can you hear me principessa?” You jumped hearing his deep voice in your ear “Yeah? how can I hear you Teddy?” You were so confused “I got mics duh, had to be able to hear my baby. Now hold onto my waist we’re gonna get going don’t let go.” His voice was demanding and you did as he said.

Wrapping your arms tightly around his waist, he grabbed your left hand and kissed it before putting it back down and kicking off, You didn’t expect it but the bumpiness of the road was doing something to you. You tried forgetting about it, it wasn’t happening, you weren’t getting turned on, but you were.

Your hands mindlessly wandered down onto your boyfriend’s crotch, rubbing slightly yet acting oblivious. “What do you think you’re doing there, hm?”. You almost forgot your boyfriend could hear you, “Nothingg, just resting my hands duh” You added some pressure and heard a small groan turning you on even more than before.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish doll” One of his hands came down and stopped your hands forcefully, a small moan escaping your mouth unwillingly. “My cute slut” He chuckled pulling your hands back up and going back to both hands steering.

𓆙𓆙

It has been long enough and you needed him to fuck you in the helmet. At this point all you had to do was tell him, of course he’d do it he does anything for you but the act of having to ask is so embarrassing, but its what has to be done for your own sake.

Reluctantly walking over to your boyfriend you quickly somewhat quietly expressed your feelings “Ireallyreallyneedyoutofuckmeinyourhelmetorilldie”. He looked at you with a confused look “Say that again but in actual words this time” He placed both hands onto your shoulders looking deep into your eyes, yet another weakness of yours. “I want you to fuck me in your helmet” You mumbled just enough for him to understand, trying to look away .

He chuckled before pulling your face to look him in the eyes again “il tuo desiderio è il mio comando, principessa” (your wish is my command princess). He got up and turned you around, “Keep those pretty little eyes of yours closed for a second”. You heard him walking away and did as he said before feeling a tap on your shoulder, “Turn around doll.”. Doing as he said you were greeted by a helmeted Theo, “Holy fuck you’re so hot”

“You know what you asked for, don’t waste time get on the bed for me slut”. You just nodded quickly before running for the bed and undressing. “Good girl, know just what to do for me. Get my pants down for me”. Pulling them down as much as you could you grabbed his growing dick and putting it into your mouth looking up at him from the bed, this entire view and situation made your pussy fucking drip.

You could hear his low groans coming from underneath the helmet and it was making you want more, “Please fuck me Teddy, please I fucking need it” You were looking up to your own reflection and seeing yourself covered in saliva because of this and made you feel something you never felt, you just wanted more. “Lay back then, I want you to fucking watch me.” He removed his shirt and holy shit he everything became even better. You definitely weren’t protesting this.

His rock hard abs, his throbbing big fucking dick and his helmeted head. He was like a god. Lining himself up to you he rammed deep inside making you give out a loud moan, his pace was immediately picking up hitting all the right places. His right hand came up to your pussy and he easily found your swollen clit begging for attention, he began swift circles over your clit with his thumb moving it side to side occasionally, It was already making you go over the edge. Everything about this moment was everything you needed.

Your pussy began clenching around his dick, your orgasm nearing and moans increasing, he kept his pace and underneath the helmet he was a mess, moaning and cursing because of how good your pussy felt. “è una bella merda, tesoro” (thats that good shit baby) He moaned deeply. Even though your legs were shaking and you couldn’t control your moans he kept going. Pace now increasing and still not leaving your clit alone. You were being so overstimulated but it never felt so fucking good.

He pulled out but before you could even say anything you were roughly flipped over onto your stomach and pulled back, legs reaching the floor lifting your ass up and slamming right back into your pussy. Screaming moan leaving your mouth “FUCK THEO MM”. Your screams only encouraging his behavior making him go even harder, hitting far and deep you were a mess and he was going feral.

He reached his hand forward grabbing onto your jaw shoving two of his fingers into your mouth yanking you back forcing you to arch, he leaned forward his helmet barley in view but enough for you to get turned on some more, his dick was driving you insane. “You’re so wet mm” he moaned “Fuck im gonna cum again Theo!!” You announced as you collapsed back down to the bed, nothing changing but him holding your hips up to continue fucking.

Your eyes were rolling back and you were feeling nothing but numb pleasure going dumb. “Cum for me good girl, mm fuck” “I love your pussy..” He stroked deeply “..and i love how much of a needy whore you are for me” He stroked harder and quicker “..and mm I fucking love.. filling you up” He moaned his last words feeling his cum shoot deep into your pussy unexpectedly making you moan. “Fuck theoo”.

He gently pulled out and spread your pussy lips watching intently as his thick white cum dripped out. Finally walking over to the side table and getting tissues to clean you off. “Now to take this off and get you properly cleaned up” He removed the helmet and he was sweating underneath which was also attractive to you. “Fuck it was hot in there but fuck that was hot” He laughed and you laughed along “That was definitely fucking hot. We need to do it again sometimee” You laughed again.

He lifted you off the bed and brought you into the bathroom sitting you down onto the toilet and starting up a warm bath “Any of your cute soaps today love?” He asked while looking through your box of bath bombs “Hmm, surprise me” You smiled at him and he went to looking. “This one’s perfect” He plopped in the only all black one that is definitely going to stain the tub.

He helped you into the bath and got into the shower next to you, being able to see him was funny but it’s just from the stomach up so it’s not much of a show. You sat there relaxing watching the water drip down his muscled back and felt content after that entire thing. This was most definitely needed.

Hopefully you enjoyed that<33 I know i’ve been gone for a bit but writes block LOL anywho im not sure how this is so lmk!!!

Masterlist

[zyhkoo]

☆ I need a doctor, oh! batboys x medic!reader

fluff, gn!reader

they surprise you while you work

a/n: i was inspired by this one tiktok that says “my husband thought he could escape me so i made an appointment “ i thought it was so cute haha

Bruce Wayne

Breaktime, finally. You sighed and leaned into a chair in your personal break room. You loved your job as a medic, but the problem is it was just so tiring. You closed your eyes, your body relaxing to the comfortable silence around you.

Being a Vigilante by night and a doctor by day was a very tiring job.

Sleep was almost non-existent on work days, the most you got was three to six hours. You looked like an ill patient instead of a doctor at this point. But the hospital wasn’t busy today, so you went to the break room to relax.

Tap tap tap.

There was something tapping on the window, but you didn’t care to check whatever it was, so you continued to close your eyes.

Tap tap tap tap tap tap!

“…”

The tapping sounded more aggressive now, you groaned and turned your chair to the window.

“Oh my god..”

And there he was, in his signature bat suit and with that grim look on his face. You immediately walked up and opened the window. You helped Bruce sit on a chair as he tries not to fall on you.

He removed his helmet and there were a series of injuries and bruises on his poor face.

“What happened? I thought you didn’t have any patrols till later?” you frowned, your hands holding his face so you view him better.

He replied back with his gruff and clearly intimidating voice “Duty calls.” yeah of course.

You sighed, “Well.. you stay here okay? I’ll find something to patch you up, I’ll lock the door so no one sees you.” Bruce gently holds the hand that was touching his face.

“Thank you.”

Jason Todd

You had just finished patching up a patient in the emergency room, you wiped the sweat off your forehead and stretched. Today was a busy day, but it was normal. There are patients getting admitted left to right and your job was to tend to them.

“Um, doc..” one of the nurses approached you, you looked at her “Yes? What’s the matter?” you asked.

She fidgeted “Uh, we have a patient and he told us he specifically wanted to be treated by you..?”

Your brow raised “Me specifically? Do I know who they are?” you asked, your tone was skeptical.

The nurses led you to the room this mysterious patient was in. You opened the door to see Jason with his full suit on with injuries all over. As well as flowers on his left hand…

Your eyes widened as you immediately locked the door.

“Hi, Doc.” Jason greets casually “Jason why are you here? Hold on, let me take a look.” you said as you took a good look at his scars.

“Nearest safe house was 2 kilometers away and this was way near.” he replied, for a moment you blankly stared at the flowers on his hand. “What are these for?”

Jason looked at the flowers then at you “I thought I could give you a gift on the way.” he shrugs.

Dick Grayson

“Here's the next patient doc, they’re in your office.” the nurse gives you the details about your next patient. You smiled and took the folder “Thank you.”

You loved your job as a vet, you got along well with your sweet co-workers and you had this passion with animals.

As you read the document in your hands, you found all of this strangely familiar. You opened the door to the room and yep you're right.

There he was, with his signature goofy grin and the adorable dog in his arms.

“Hey Doc, looking good as always.” he slyly says, Haley barked clearly excited to see you as well. You scoffed, but you can’t help but smile as well.

You know for a fact Haley is definitely well, you and Dick had just strolled her around the park a day ago. You did the checkup anyway and nothing was wrong.

“She could use a vaccine, she needs her rabies shots.” Dick says, you put your stethoscope down and nodded. “Okay, I’ll be right back.” you said.

But Dick was not satisfied. “Hey, hey, hey, miss, vet, doc?” you stopped your tracks and turned to him “No kiss? What is this?” you sighed as you walked back to him and kissed him on the cheek.

“See you in a minute doc.” he grins, you said nothing and quickly walked away.

The nurses and staff snickered and teased you all day, you couldn’t do anything but flush at their attempts of teasing you.

discoed server

[leyavo]

| Infestation | 2

Part 2 previous part> [Bug masterlist]

Ever since Bug joined the 141…

The guys keep going on about calling an exterminator whenever they see you hanging out with Roach.

“Looks like we’ve got an infestation.”

Roach as always doesn’t say a thing, scrolling through his phone and humming to himself.

You’re paired with him on most missions, something about being able to communicate with your own kind. Roach doesn’t speak, but you find your flow quickly, speaking up for him every now and then over the radio. *Roach whisperer*

Soap makes little antennas above his helmet with his fingers when he’s talking about Roach.

Gaz asking you what type of bug you’d be when you’re all bored out of your brains, waiting for the go ahead to move forward. “Roach is already taken,” he says pointing to Sanderson beside you.

“Why’s he called Roach?” You asked Price, knowing you wouldn’t get an answer from Roach himself.

Well you did ask, but it was like trying to guess at a game of charades. Roach’s hands swatting through the air, head bobbing and boot stomping as if you were fluent in whatever the fuck he just signed. Definitely not sign language either.

“Fuckers hard to kill.”

You start to understand him the more you’re around him. How he points to the floor when you need to crouch beside him, the darting of his eyes showing you his desired direction. His palm tapping your upper arm to get your attention. He might not talk, but his vocal with his sounds. A little screech when’s a bit too close to death, a whistle when he’s impressed or clicked his tongue when he’s annoyed. (He does talk but rarely).

Fuckers hard to kill.

“I give him two minutes,” Ghost mumbled over the radio. The guys placing bets on how long it’ll be till Roach crawls out crumbling building.

You’d narrowly missed an explosion, sprinting away from the blast. Only getting thrown forwards by the impact instead of stuck in the destruction.

And they were right. You don’t know how Roach emerged from the rubble in one piece. Simply patting a flicker of ash eating through the sleeve of his jacket. No cocky remark as he slipped back into formation and scanned his surroundings.

Part three

[holyblonded]

vroom vroom | stargirl

pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader, mapi leon x teen!reader, lucy bronze x teen!reader

summary: alexia, lucy, and mapi are tasked with teaching you how to drive

warnings: near death experience in a car, idk about spain’s driving laws but in most states in the US, you get your permit at 15 1/2 and then hold your permit for 9 months and be at least 16 and 3 months before you get you license so this is what it’s based on

notes: in my mind, both keira and lucy are still with barca 🧘🏾‍♀️

“You cannot be serious right now,” you said, staring in disbelief as Alexia secured the bicycle helmet onto her head, adjusting the straps with absolute precision.

“As a heart attack,” Alexia replied, now moving to put on elbow pads.

You turned to Olga, who was sprawled out on the couch, highly amused by the unfolding situation. “Tell her she’s being ridiculous.”

Olga smirked, barely holding back her laughter. “Amor, you are being ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously safe,” Alexia corrected, tapping the side of her helmet with confidence.

Your jaw dropped. “Ale, you’re teaching me how to drive. A car. Not a bike, not a scooter, a car. Why are you dressed like you’re about to enter a roller derby?”

Alexia crossed her arms. “Because the last time I let you sit behind the wheel, you nearly drove us into a bush. I like my life, and I intend to keep it intact.”

“That bush came out of nowhere!” you defended yourself, exasperated.

Olga snorted. “Bushes don’t move, Estrellita.”

You shot her a glare before turning back to Alexia. “Fine. If you’re going to be like this, then I get to wear my own safety gear.”

Alexia nodded approvingly. “Good. I have an extra helmet in the trunk.”

“That is not what I meant!” you groaned, dramatically flopping onto the couch.

Olga was shaking with laughter at this point, wiping her eyes. “You should’ve just taken the lesson, Estrellita. Now you’re both going to look like two children trying to qualify for their go-kart licenses.”

Alexia smirked. “Better safe than sorry.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I refuse to be seen in public with you like this.”

“Too bad,” Alexia said, grabbing the car keys and motioning for you to follow. “Because we’re going. And if you complain, I will make you wear knee pads too.”

You groaned, dragging your feet toward the door.

“Have fun, kids!” Olga called after you, still giggling.

“You have got to be shitting me!” you exclaimed, freezing in place as you climbed into the driver’s seat, only to be met with Mapi and Lucy sitting smugly in the back.

Both were decked out in full protective gear—helmets securely fastened, elbow and knee pads strapped on like they were about to be thrown into a demolition derby rather than a driving lesson.

“Why are the two of you here? And the helmets? Really?” You gestured wildly, turning to Alexia, who was climbing into the passenger seat like she was about to endure the worst experience of her life.

“Because I can’t do this alone anymore,” Alexia muttered, rubbing her temples like she was already regretting her choices.

“The helmets and guards are for our protection,” Mapi chimed in, adjusting the straps on her helmet until they were practically cutting off circulation. “Last time I took you driving, you nearly hit a mailman.”

“In my defense, he came out of nowhere,” you shot back, crossing your arms.

“It was his job to be there! That’s why it’s called mail delivery. You don’t deliver it from the sky!”

Lucy snorted, reaching for her seatbelt. “Yeah, Ale called us in for backup after she told us about the bush incident.”

You groaned, slumping against the wheel. “The bush was literally in the way!”

“The bush was on the sidewalk, Estrelleta,” Alexia deadpanned.

“Okay, whatever. Everybody buckle up,” you muttered, pressing the button to start the car.

“Oh trust me, I’ve been buckled since the moment I sat down,” Mapi said, yanking the belt so tight that it looked like it might fuse with her body.

“Same,” Lucy agreed, giving her helmet a few extra taps. “You can never be too careful.”

Alexia sighed, pressing the bridge of her nose. “Alright, let’s go over the basics again before we even think about moving.”

“I know the basics,” you huffed.

“Oh, do you?” Alexia raised an eyebrow. “Then tell me, where’s the brake?”

You pressed your lips together, staring at the pedals. “Uh, the left one?”

Alexia inhaled sharply, her grip on the passenger-side handle tightening.

Lucy whispered to Mapi, “We are so gonna die.”

“You’ll be fine,” you waved them off. “Alright, here we go!”

And with that, you slammed your foot down.

The car jerked forward like it had just been launched out of a slingshot, sending Mapi and Lucy flying back into their seats with strangled yelps.

“ESTRELLETA!” Alexia screeched, bracing herself against the dashboard.

“BRAKE, BRAKE, BRAKE!” Mapi yelled, gripping the back of Alexia’s seat for dear life.

“I am braking!” you argued.

“No! You’re accelerating!” Lucy shrieked, hands gripping the ceiling as if that would help.

You let out a panicked scream, slamming your foot down on something—thankfully, this time, it was actually the brake.

Everyone lurched forward with a collective oof, and for a moment, there was complete and utter silence in the car.

Alexia, breathing heavily, turned her head very slowly to look at you.

“What,” she said, voice eerily calm, “was that?”

You gave her a sheepish smile. “A test?”

Lucy let out a weak laugh from the back. “Yeah, well, I just saw my entire life flash before my eyes, so that’s fun.”

“I think I had an out-of-body experience,” Mapi muttered, still clutching Alexia’s seat. “I literally saw myself floating above the car.”

“Okay, okay, let’s try again,” you said, clearing your throat.

“God help us,” Alexia mumbled under her breath.

This time, you actually listened to Alexia’s instructions (mostly). The car started smoothly, and for a few blissful minutes, it almost seemed like things were going well.

Until you had to make a turn.

“Turn slowly, slowly—” Alexia started, but it was too late.

You turned the wheel way too fast, sending the car swerving violently.

“SLOWLY, I SAID SLOWLY!” Alexia yelled, grabbing onto the handle above her door.

“WHY IS THIS THING SO SENSITIVE?!” you shrieked back, trying to straighten out.

Lucy and Mapi were screaming in the back.

“ESTRELLITA, I SWEAR TO GOD—” Mapi howled.

“I WANT TO GO HOME!” Lucy shouted.

Somehow, miraculously, you managed to get the car straightened out again. Everyone sat there, breathing heavily.

Alexia had her face buried in her hands.

Mapi looked like she might be reconsidering her entire life.

Lucy was muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.

Then, you approached a stop sign.

Alexia exhaled, nodding. “Alright. Good, now—”

But instead of gently stopping, you slammed the brake, sending everyone lurching forward again.

“I SAID GENTLE!” Alexia yelled.

“My bad!” you huffed.

“I HAVE WHIPLASH,” Mapi announced dramatically, rubbing her neck.

“Oh my God, I think my soul left my body again,” Lucy muttered, eyes wide.

And then, finally, you parked.

You leaned back in your seat, exhaling in satisfaction. “I think that went well.”

Alexia turned her head slowly, staring at you like you’d grown a second head.

Mapi and Lucy were both still gripping their seats like they were waiting for the final impact.

“Well?” Alexia repeated, voice dangerously high-pitched.

You grinned. “Yeah! Nobody died, right?”

Alexia blinked. Then she turned to Lucy and Mapi.

“I need strong alcohol,” she announced.

“Agreed,” Mapi and Lucy said in unison.

You pouted. “That’s rude.”

Alexia pointed at you. “You are never driving without supervision.”

“I don’t think my heart can handle another lesson,” Lucy admitted.

“I know mine can’t,” Mapi added, pulling off her helmet with shaky hands.

“Oh come on, I wasn’t that bad!” you protested.

Alexia just gave you a look. “Get out of the driver’s seat before I have an aneurysm.”

With a dramatic sigh, you unbuckled and slid out of the car. “Such little faith.”

As you walked off, Mapi turned to Lucy and muttered, “Next time, we bring airbags.”

Lucy nodded, still dazed. “And a priest.”

[no-144444]

nothing has to change- o.piastri

your first season as an f1 driver doesn't start the best, and you quickly realise McLaren doesn't like women very much. On top of that, your race engineer is as smug as the rest of them, and you have to deal with him all the time.

pairing: race engineer! oscar piastri x f1driver! fem! reader

warnings: lots of misogyny, lando is an asshole in this, illusions to ed behaviour, reader is not in a good head space, all of mclaren is super sexist, mentions of crashes and injuries.

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight | part nine | part ten | part eleven

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You were the World Driver’s Champion, as of 4pm that day. Yes, that could change in the next few races, half the season was still left, but you were proud. 

And so was Oscar. 

He stood at the very front of the barricade, a bright smile on his face as you ran over, wrapping your arms around him and the rest of his family. 

“You did it,” he whispered. “You’re amazing.”

You smiled, pulling your helmet off. “I did it.”

You felt proud of yourself. Proud that you could still excel in a team that didn’t want you. Proud that you had given them the points. Proud that you had let Oscar into your life. Proud that you had proved yourself worthy of RedBull, and much more. 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

You sat beside Oscar and Nicole at the dinner, across from Lando and Zak (who had invited themselves, much to Oscar’s chagrin). You quietly chatted to Nicole as Oscar made pleasant conversation with Zak and Lando. She noticed how you weren’t really… there. You kept looking at Lando, or Zak, or another team member. You were uncomfortable, nothing like the headstrong, loud girl she’d met yesterday. You were shy, reserved, and a little on edge. 

When you left the table to go to the bathroom, she tapped her son. “Get her out of here.”

He shrugged, sighing. “She won’t want to be rude-”

“Oscar, she’ll do anything you ask her to. Go.” 

He nodded, following you with your bag and jacket in hand. Kids these days. 

“Going to fuck her?” Lando scoffed, too drunk for his own good. A lot of the table stopped and gasped. Lando had never been so… vulgar. Oscar was disgusted. Just because neither you or Oscar worshipped the ground he walked on, didn’t mean he had to make the both of you miserable.

“What is your problem?” Oscar finally couldn’t take it. It was bullshit, Lando was an asshole. 

“It’s clear you’re in love with her,” he chuckled. 

“Fuck off Lando,” he shouted. “You’re such a dick! You’re so self-absorbed you wouldn’t even recognise someone interesting if they actually slapped you in the face. You don’t understand Y/n, and for her sake I hope you never get close enough to. You are a shallow, shitty, infuriatingly untalented asshole, with an ego the size of England. Maybe I’m in love with her, but at least I don’t act like she’s not there to feed my own tiny ego.”

And he turned around to see you standing there, a shocked expression on your face. You looked slightly terrified too, but he just decided to blame the shock. 

“Y/n I-“ he started but you cut him off by grabbing your things from his hands, and turning tail. The entire room was silent for a moment. “Fuck!” Oscar groaned, running out after you. 

He couldn’t have, he didn’t. He didn’t fuck this up. Lando didn’t fuck this up for him. He didn’t. 

He better not have. 

He raced through the streets of a city he didn’t really know, pleading that he’d find you. When he did, it was from a distance. You were sitting in a park. Your head in your hands. 

Lando had fucked it up for him. Slowly, he walked closer, too cautious to startle you. 

“I’m sorry about… back there-” he whispered. 

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” you sighed. “I just… it’s a lot, yeah? I don't exactly see myself as the poster-girl for romance.”

He looked at you. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve never really done this before. And I’m awkward and weird, and I’m rude to you-” 

“I don’t mind if you’re rude to me-” 

“You should,” you told him. 

You were both quiet for a moment, and he understood that this was a fork in the road. He could either push you too far, or he’d ruin everything if you felt the same by not speaking up now. The air was charged with an uncertain electricity, and he wasn’t perfectly sure what to do. Oscar was a man of logic, but love was illogical. He liked facts and numbers and a set of rules to follow. He didn’t like feeling uncertain. 

But he was happy to feel uncertain if it meant he kept you. 

“This doesn’t have to change anything,” he told you. “If you don’t want it to, we don’t have to do anything about it. I’m happy to be your friend. I’m not expecting anything.”

You looked at him, and when he saw the unshed tears in your eyes, his heart hurt. He gently reached a hand up and cupped your cheek, carefully wiping them away. 

“I don’t want anything to change,” you admitted. “I really like having you around Oscar.” 

He smiled, though he was slightly disappointed. Rejection from the pretty girl he was in love with was going to sting either way, even if she’d just told him that she actually enjoyed his presence. “That’s fine with me,” he whispered. 

You stared at him, silently asking for reassurance, and he nodded. 

“I’m sorry I can’t be-”

“Don’t apologise,” he reminded you. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I think I do,” you said, looking down again. “I just… I’m not in the headspace to be in a relationship. McLaren is really… it’s a lot for me.”

So you did like him back? He couldn’t really decipher what that meant, but he’d work on it another time. 

“That’s alright,” he smiled. 

You couldn’t be more shocked by his behaviour. Yes, Oscar was the nicest man you knew, but you assumed he’d be mad, or at least a little bit annoyed at you. But he was just the same, kind, caring, lovely Oscar that he always was. 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

After he walked you back to your hotel room, you stewed over your decision for a few hours. Maybe you did want Oscar like that. Maybe you were just self-sabotaging yourself as always. Maybe you were just being more cautious than you needed to be. 

But then you reminded yourself that this was Oscar that you were talking about. The only person in the entire world who supported you. You couldn’t let him get too close, lest he see all of you, and then you were sure he’d be gone for good.

You couldn't lose him. 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

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[captain-bubble-wrap]

QUINN WORRIED ABOUT YOU AFTER AN ACCIDENT 😬😬😬😬😬😬😬😬

This one broke my heart to write. I'm sorry it took me longer than expected to finish.

CW | Car accident descriptions and injuries.

It had all happened so quickly; the literal blink of an eye. 

You had the right of way but the driver in the other car never saw you. One minute you were excited for that evening's plans, and the next you were drifting between consciousness and not. The sounds of everything had been so loud that your ears were ringing to the point of near deafness. Both the driver's side and rear of the vehicle were crunched and crumpled inwards; all of the airbags had deployed throughout the interior. The whiplash from being hit had jerked your head so violently to the side there had been enough force to give you a concussion and the seatbelt would fracture your collarbone; your right foot and ankle were broken due to so much impact against the gas pedal they had snapped; your right knee would hit so violently against the center console it would tear your MCL. 

All in a matter of seconds. 

You were headed to the arena to watch the Canucks play at home. Now, you were headed to the hospital in an ambulance. Worst of it all, Quinn wouldn't know until the game was over that anything had happened to you. Once he got to the arena, he was off his phone until post-game and you, yourself, wouldn't want such news given to him mid-game anyway. However, right now, you weren't conscious enough to even have that worry. 

The game would result in a Canucks win over the Oilers but that high-note to the night would come to a devastating end when one of the team's athletic trainers would break the news to Quinn. Pulled into the hall, following his post-game media interviews, Quinn would find himself unsure of how to process what he had been told. The trainer monitored his star player, taking in every subtle emotional que he'd show, but it was mostly just blank stares and shaky hands. 

"Are you alright?" The trainer asked. "Can we do anything for you?"

"Uh...no-- no, I uh..." Quinn stuttered. He had processed what he had been told, but to make comment on it was proving impossible. "I've gotta...I need to--"

Noticing Quinn was trying to say he needed to go, the trainer filled in the blanks. "Let us know if there's anything you need, alright? Be safe getting there."

Quinn nodded before turning towards the dressing room. He'd nearly trip over his own feet in the process, catching himself on the wall behind him. Back inside the players room, Quinn said nothing to no one, kept his eyes down and tried to hurry yet everything he picked up he fumbled. 

A few of the guys would notice their captain's change in demeanor but just watched on, because no sooner was Quinn in the room, he was out, and running and wouldn't stop until he was in his car. 

He'd remain in a complete daze the whole drive to the hospital. Traffic was still congested around the arena and Quinn tapped nervously on the steering wheel, silently pleading for things to get moving. 

"Ah, come on, come on, come on!" He said exasperated, his palms sweaty with anxiety. 

Eventually, he'd fly into the parking lot, and make a break for the automatic doors of the hospital. 

"May I help you?" Asked the woman behind the desk. 

"My girlfriend was involved in a wreck this afternoon. I don't know her room number."

The woman eyed Quinn curiously. His hair was still wet with sweat, forehead still marked red from his helmet, and he was wearing the same clothes he wore beneath his gear. There simply hadn't been time to worry about changing. By now, the wreck had been near five hours ago, but he couldn't help when he had arrived or the state he was in. He gave your name and she scrolled through the directory to give him your room number.

"Second floor of the Pattinson building," she said, rattling off directions of how to get to the ICU building. Quinn retained some, but not all, of the twist and turns he needed to take and would have to get assistance in finally getting to you. Outside your recovery room, your mother sat talking to one of the nurses in charge. She'd nearly interrupt the nurse to get up and embrace Quinn without a second thought.

"Oh my god, Quinn! I'm so glad you made it!"

"How is she doing? What happened?" His voice cracked and was shaky.

"I don't know! She told me she was headed to the arena, then I got word that she had been in an accident. It's not good, Quinn. I mean, she's okay, but it was a really bad wreck. They had to cut the car apart to get her out!"

"I need to see her, may I?"

"She's awake now, yes." The nurse replied, Quinn having turned to her for the permission. 

"Do you mind?" He asked your mother, and she gave her well-wishes with tears in her eyes. He'd give her another hug before quietly entering your room following her blessing. 

"Quinn?" You said, your voice hoarse from the intubation tube and not above a whisper. 

"Oh...baby," he choked out, not getting far into the room before his feet stopped moving. You looked so broken, laying there connected to all manner of machine and he hadn't begun to prepare himself before walking through the door. 

Your vision was blurry from the concussion, but you knew his outline regardless of the double vision. Had you felt better, you would have lifted your arms to him, but every limb felt like it weighted one hundred pounds each. Instead, they'd remain by your side when he finally managed to approach you. 

"Sweetheart, I'm-- I'm so--," he couldn't speak through the tears. He put his head against yours on the pillow, nuzzling against your temple as gently as he could. His weeping completely took away his ability to speak an audible word. As best as you could, you'd turn your face toward his, although minimal due to the neck brace. 

You couldn't handle hearing him cry like that, in fact, you had never seen Quinn cry until now. His fingers didn't know where to go, not knowing if where he placed them to touch you would cause you pain so instead, they clawed into the mattress and sheets.

"Quinny?" You whimpered, struggling, being unable to reach out for him.

"I'm-- I'm here, I'm here," he managed, his lips grazing your cheekbone. Your skin was bruised and red from the airbags, and every time you took a breath it hurt. Your eyes finally locked on to one another's with Quinn finding it so hard to see you like this, and him being powerless to do anything for you. "I'm sorry I-- I'm sorry it took me so long to get here. Baby, I'm-- so sorry."

"It's not your fault. I'm just glad you're here now," you strained. Your throat felt like you hadn't had a drink in a week, but you had to talk to him. 

His cheeks were flushed red and streaked with tears that continued to fall without end. All you wanted to do was reach up and wipe them away but lifting your arm was slow and he would stop you halfway through. 

"No, no, baby, it's-- I'm okay," he shushed, gently coaxing you to return your arm back to where it had been. "Just-- just stay still, sweetheart."

Closing your eyes, you bit your bottom lip to try to keep from crying yourself. Your ribs hurt and crying would absolutely be too much to handle. 

"I love you so much-- so, so much," he confessed, brushing some hair from your forehead. "I'm so sorry this happened to you! I wish I-- I wish I could have been-- there for you." He struggled again to speak, a hand pressed to his mouth to somehow stifle the emotions that were getting the better of him. 

"I love you, Quinn."

"I don't want to imagine being without you, Y|N--! I'm so glad you're-- I'm so glad you're alright." He was struggling to take a breath now, gasping for small little breaths between breaks in his words. If only you could have embraced him. 

"I'll be okay," you reassured, your eyes getting watery. 

"No, no, please don't cry sweetheart," Quinn pleaded, seeing you tear up. "It's okay-- It's-- You're going to be okay. I'm going to take care of you, I promise."

Your mind was in a haze from pain meds and the trauma, but you remembered tonight's game would mark the beginning of a 3-game road trip for Quinn's team. "You're going to be gone."

"I could probably request leave," he said, struggling to regain his composure. 

"I don't want you to do that. They need you." Talking was getting harder and harder for you do, but as long as he was there, you'd keep talking to him.

"Baby, you need me more!"

Your eyes pleaded for him to understand where you were coming from. "I don't know how long I'm going to be in here, Quinny. I just want to go home!"

"Shh, shh, baby, don't cry. Try to relax, please! This is the safest place for you right now. Trust me-- I wish you were home, too. I wish this had never happened." Quinn's eyes were so red as he frowned looking at you, smoothing your hair to calm you. No amount of his kind words or gentle touches were going to help you right now, not as long as you had to lay in that hospital bed and he had to leave you there. Soon, there was a knock at the door.

"I'm sorry, but we're nearing the end of visiting hours," the nurse said regrettably, seeing the state you were both in. "They resume tomorrow morning at 8am."

"I'll come see you in the morning before we fly out, okay?" He reassured you, a soft kiss placed on your forehead. "I promise."

You'd give him the faintest nod you could as silent tears marked your cheeks. "I love you."

"I love you so much more, sweetheart."

- - - 

Quinn couldn't stay long the next morning. Your care had taken longer than was originally anticipated and he was forced to remain in the hallway until the nursing staff had finished what they needed to. When he was allowed in, he spent the entire time stroking your skin, almost like he had forgotten what you felt like beneath his fingers. He had missed your warmth in his bed, waking up beside you in the morning, and the sound of your voice in his apartment. Even though you had to spend long spans of time apart throughout the season, this hit so much differently. You were hurt, not yet out of the woods, and he couldn't be with you. Now he had to leave you for over a week and still remain focused on his job as if nothing had happened. 

"Here, I brought you something," he said, trying to give you a reassuring smile. "That hoodie you always steal from me."

Struggling, you gripped it beneath your fingers as he laid it across your chest. You could tell he had sprayed it with that Dior cologne you had bought him for Christmas. "It smells like you. Thank you, baby."

"You're welcome," he smiled, kissing your bruised cheek. "Hopefully it gets you through till I get back."

"I don't want you to go," you whined, for good reason. 

His smile faded quickly in a frown, fingers brushing hair away from your face, "I don't either. I talked to your mom this morning. She said if they released you before I got back, she's stay with you in the apartment. She said it would be too hard to take you back to their house because of all of the stairs."

You were thankful Quinn and your mother had such a good relationship. They meant the world to you, both of them, and it was going to take both of them to get you back on your feet. 

Eventually, he had to leave, so to make it to the airport on time and it hurt worse to watch him go today than it had last night. You knew it was because you wouldn't be seeing him tomorrow. 

"I'll call you every night, okay? Your mom said they recovered your purse from your car and she's going to bring it to you today."

"Oh, okay," you mumbled, your heart hurting from him starting his goodbyes. "Thank you."

He kissed you one more time, for as long as he could before finally having to be on his way. 

"Please, be careful," you urged, your fingers curling around the fabric of his hoodie. "I love you, Quinn."

"I love you, too, sweetheart. And I will. I'll be extra careful, promise." 

- - - 

The ten or so days Quinn was away passed by so slowly. The video calls with him had been a blessing although anytime you had to say goodbye it had ripped open those emotional wounds all over again. Your mother had brought you home two days ago and it had been nice to be back in the bed you shared with him, now if only he was there with you. Currently, you were laying near the middle of the bed, tucked in with your foot propped up with a pillow. You had just had a light lunch and taken the pharmacy worth of pills that had been prescribed for your recovery. Soon, you'd be drifting off for a nap at around the same time Quinn would be returning home. 

"I just got her asleep," your mom said after welcoming him. 

"How's she doing?"

She looked down, her lips pursed. "It's been a slow go of it, if I'm being honest. That concussion turned out to be a lot more severe than they had originally thought which has made her sleep schedule a nightmare. She cries all the time, she doesn't want to eat, and the pain has given her an attitude at times. I know a lot of it is because she misses you. I know my daughter, Quinn."

He let a soft sigh escape his lips. He couldn't blame you for how you were feeling, he had just hoped to have better news to come home to. 

"All of her meds and doctors instructions are on the counter. She won't need to take anything until dinner, aside from the pain pills. I'll warn you: she doesn't like to take them. She doesn't like how they make her feel, and she only really takes them if the pain gets unbearable."

"Okay, thank you. I appreciate everything you've done."

"Thank you, hon, truly. I'm happy she has you."

Once your mother left, Quinn locked the door, turned all the lights off and made his way to the bedroom. Quietly, he pushed open the door and leaned against the doorframe. Initially he smiled, but the longer he looked, the longer he was reminded of everything that had happened and the reason you were bed ridden. The neck brace was no more, but the bruises still remained, and the boot on your right foot and ankle. Your breathing was shallow when he walked over towards you, that's when he caught sight of you still clinging to that hoodie he had brought you like a security blanket. Carefully, he'd climb into bed and lay down facing you. His hand found your free one; his fingers trailing across your skin hoping to gently coax you from the faint sleep he hoped you had drifted off to. 

"Sweetheart, can you hear me?" He whispered, placing a kiss to your shoulder. "I'm home, baby." 

You managed a whimper, a sleepy kind of affirmation that you had heard something that had stirred you, but your eyes remained closed.

"Baby, it's me," he said again, this time his lips against your cheek. 

After a few more seconds of his fingers against your body your eyes would blink open, a smile instantly appearing. 

"Oh, Quinny!" you mumbled, lazily. "How long have you been home?"

"Just a little bit, I've been watching over you, but I got selfish. I wanted you to know I was here."

Lifting your hand, you reached for his face. His curls were in full force today, soft and something you had missed playing with. Something so simple as hearing him breathing you had missed. Quinn was finally home, and for a while this time. 

"How are you feeling?" He asked, scooting closer to you. "I've missed you so much."

"I've missed you more," you quickly replied. "I feel like I'm probably expected to. Everything hurts, I can't move without pain, breathing still sucks. I had a coughing fit yesterday and I thought I was going to die."

"Oh sweetheart, I'm sorry. I was hoping you'd be feeling better."

"I'll get better now that you're home. I just wanted you to be here."

Quinn smiled, "Me, too, babe. Me too, but now we're both finally home. Everything is okay now."

You nodded as your eyelids felt heavy again. He'd give you another kiss, making sure you had everything you needed. 

"I'm okay," you said, "I'm just tired."

"Then sleep, baby, you need it. I'll be right here, okay? I'm all yours. Anything you need, anything you want, just let me know and I'll get it for you. It's my turn to take care of you."

Quinn would drift off to sleep with you, your fingers interlocked as you slumbered. Although it was unfortunate you were still severely hurt, this was the only place he wanted to be. He wouldn't let you out of his sight for anything. He doted on you like a princess, making sure you wanted for absolutely nothing. 

He was everything you could ever wish for.