#the face of a man who knows tens of thousands of people are about to scream A MINORRRRRR

[moonstonejpg]

ours (k.bakugou x reader)

"your hands are tough, but they are where mine belong in"

sum. bakugou is having a bad week, thankfully his girl is always there to make the bad days a little better

cw: a little angst, fluff at the end!

i hate hate hate paparazzi!! loosely based off of this and the song ours by taylor swift

It had been a rough week for Katsuki.

First, the hero rankings were announced, and he found himself at #15—not even in the top ten. And he swore it didn't bother him, that the rankings were just a stupid popularity contest. But you saw the way his shoulders slightly slumped in disappointment and the way his fists clenched so hard that the half-moon imprints of his nails in his skin stayed for hours after you had smoothed his fingers out.

It broke your heart to see him like that—and then yesterday he got into a silly fight with Izuku, one that was filmed and taken way out of context by thousands of people on the internet. Which in turn prompted the resurgence of people saying he didn't even deserve to be on the list at all, let alone at #15.

bakugou is mentally unstable lol

i worry about his gf tbh, those anger issues are a huuuge red flag

right?! i hope that poor girl gets out of that

she seems so sweet, he’s probably threatening her or something

It was just one hit after another for him.

And now, as he stares out the window at the crowd of paparazzi with a clenched jaw, the only thought in your mind is how this is strike three. All he wanted to do was take you out for a nice dinner to thank you for being so supportive this week, but he couldn't even do that without a swarm of media leeches waiting outside.

"Kats, we don't have to go. We can just stay here." You say quietly, worried eyes set on his tense shoulders.

"No," he growls, "I'm not letting them ruin this too." He positions himself in front of you before taking a few hesitant steps out the front door of your shared apartment building.

His warm hand envelopes your own, fingers threading through before tugging you behind him, half shielding you with his large body. The flash of the cameras and the noise of the crowd makes your vision blur, but Katsuki is moving fast, fingers tightly gripping your own while his gaze is laser focused on the awaiting black car parked on the other side of the street.

Everything is moving so fast, the shouts of the various reporters melting together around you. But you can't hear a word they say, the sound drowning out any specific words, until—

“Why him?”

And you nearly miss the step below as you freeze. The question has you rearing back as if you'd been hit, your eyes dancing towards the sound of the question. You see him right away, a male reporter who is nearly frothing at the mouth for a reaction. The reporter leans forward, eyeing you hungrily as he waits for an answer. And usually, you wouldn't give them any time of day, the daily harassment towards you and every other pro-hero and their significant other almost daily a good enough reason toignore any of their probing questions. But how could you ignore this?

“Why him?” you parrot back, white-hot anger burning through your body at a rapid rate. You don’t think twice before you’re ripping your wrist out of the blonde's hand and taking angry strides towards the reporter. You're nearly toe-to-toe with the man, and while he is a full head taller than you, he shrinks a bit from the look on your face.

Katsuki comes up beside you, gently tugging at your wrist.

“It’s not worth it.” He says lowly, looking down at you with something like sadness tinged in his eyes. And your heart cracks, picking up on the one thing he isn’t saying but you know he’s thinking.

That he’s not worth it.

And you can’t have that, you can't have Katsuki thinking that he isn’t worth any of this, because he is. He is worth everything, and despite being in each other’s lives for years now, the fact that he still doesn’t see that is devastating.  

Your body begins shaking from a mix of anger and adrenaline as you look at the crowd around you. A slow hush falls over the crowd, as if they are waiting with bated breath to see what you have to say.

“Because he is the kindest human I have ever had the pleasure of knowing; kinder than any of you will ever be. And what has he ever done to you to make you so obsessed with twisting every move he makes, every word he utters into something that makes him look like the bad guy? And for a quick buck? You all should be ashamed of yourselves.” After shooting a glare around the crowd, you keep your chin high as you grab a stunned Katsuki’s hand and drag him towards the car.

You gently push him in, keeping a hand smoothed over the back of your dress as you crawl in after him, slamming the door shut with more force than necessary.

The car ride to the restaurant is eerily quiet, and as the adrenaline begins to leak out of your body, your brain catches up to what you did. And yeah—they did need to be told off, but you start to wonder if this is something that will get him into trouble.

You weren’t a hero and you didn’t have a lick of media training, why did you think causing a scene would be a good idea? The thoughts spiral in, and you want to bury your face in your hands as dread slithers its way into your stomach.

When you get inside the building, you are ushered towards the back of the restaurant by the host, presumably to where your table is located. But before you round the corner, Katsuki is tugging you into a dimly lit closet, fingers making quick work of the lock. Even after the door is bolted shut, he stands and faces it, as you just watch the outline of the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders.

“Kats?” You say quietly, a hand hovering over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I just—”

He shakes his head, a disbelieving laugh pushing its way out of his mouth.  

“No, you—” He shakes his head again, then turns around to face you, his body crowding you up against the wall. His eyes are dark, twinkling with emotions you can’t place. Both of his hands come up to gently cradle your face, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“Have I ever told you that I love you?”

You blink up at him, confused.

“Not only was that the hottest thing I have ever seen, but—well, that was the first time anyone has stuck up for me before.”

“I would do it again—anything for you really. You’re worth it. And I know that’s hard for you to believe, but you are. They can say whatever they want, but I know in my heart that I do not deserve you, and that you ” You say quietly, eyes locked on his. He smiles, eyes shining, before leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your temple.

“Oh, my sweet girl.” He whispers in the dark of the room, thumbs caressing your cheeks.

“I love you Kats.”

“I love you too. Now, how about we ditch this place?” He asks, leaning back to tug at his tie, before bending forward to loop it around your neck. “I think that new ice cream parlor is open. So, sundaes on me?”

You nod, a giggle escaping when he bends down and tugs the ends of the tie, your body falling into him. He lets out a gentle laugh, the sound like a gentle breeze on a hot day. It has your smile stretching across your face, your heart singing in response.

He reaches down to unlock the door, but when he flicks the lock back, nothing happens. Katsuki tries again, but again, nothing happens. It doesn’t budge, not the second time he tries or the fifth, or even the tenth time he tries. On the eleventh try his hand slips from the lock, his eyes colliding with yours.

It’s silent for a few seconds, and then a laugh bursts out of him, followed by another and another. The sound has the grin staying locked in place on your face, relief flowing through you at the change in his mood.

“We—we’re stuck.” He gasps out, hands falling on his knees as he hunches over, deep laughs spilling out of him. It isn’t long before you are on the floor next to him, trying to catch your breath around your own laughter.

[webism]

pornstar!choso has a curated look that throws off a lot of his costars. strong build, straight-set face, hands made to choke and tear… most of those he film with don’t expect to be doted on the entire time.

people joke that pornstar!choso falls a little bit in love with every costar he fucks or gets fucked by. that glossy look that always pulls at his face by the time a scene ends, how his lip trembles with a need to be kissed raw when he cums. he says it's just the bliss of his orgasm—that he gets emotional in the moment, but it doesn't mean anything. well, until he meets you.

pornstar!choso who looks you up before his shoot because your name sounded vaguely familiar when it left his agents lips. he could have sworn you'd fucked before, because when he rolls the syllables of your name on his tongue they're nostalgic and taste like the sweat and laboured breaths of a long night between satin sheets. had you shot a scene together before? or had it been a one night stand?

pornstar!choso who realises that no, he hadn't slept with you before. but the familiarity of your name isn't a coincidence—he's fucked his fist to your videos more times than he can count. your name hits him like lightning, he had typed it into his search bar late in the night, cock hard and in need of instant relief. it's almost scary how well he knows you, what sounds you make when you get close to cumming, how you often arch your back and try to run from the overwhelming pleasure, how your eyebrows knit together when you're feeling so good it almost hurts.

pornstar!choso who realises with a now-red face that you probably don't have a clue who he is, and yet he's cum in time with you for months now. he's pretty sure he's drained his wallet at least twice on your cam shows... what if you recognise his name and piece it together with his username that he donates under? he debates cancelling the shoot, faking covid to get some time at home to hate himself endlessly.

but pornstar!choso realises that this is his chance to get to know how you really feel. he's imagined it so many times, as he fucked fake pussies or his closed fist using spit or his own cum as lube. you'd be warmer, undoubtedly tighter... so much prettier. and he wants to know more: would you prefer to take control and turn him into the toys he so often pretends are you? would you lay back all pretty and let him ruin you on his cock? how deep could you take him he knows he's big but you seem so eager, would you take him to the base with ease or would he have to force it in? bully your pretty pussy until it stretches to his shape?

pornstar!choso who hates the fact that your first, and possibly only, time together would be in front of a production crew and under the unsympathetic lights of a porn set. but he'd fuck on a stage in front of thousands if it means a taste of you.

pornstar!choso who makes it to the shoot before you do, comes ten minutes early to settle his anxieties and get a feel for the scene ahead. the director tells him its a simple shoot, that choso is meant to let you ride him for a while until you pull off and suck his cock for a nice close-up facial shot. the way the director speaks so clinically about sex with you makes choso grimace, he feels pathetic for feeling like this. like he'll be a changed man after feeling you around his cock, which is already painfully hard.

pornstar!choso who hates himself for stumbling over his words when he meets you. he wishes he had never looked you up, though he doesn't doubt seeing your pretty face like this would have wrecked his confidence regardless. you're kind, greet him with a shy smile as if he isn't about to slip balls deep inside of you.

pornstar!choso who, once he has you sitting on top of him on that bed—cameras pointed dutifully as you start to play your role and hike your skirt up so you can sink down on his cock—he can't handle the thought of fucking you like it's nothing, like it's not been the crux of his fantasies in the dark hours at night.

pornstar!choso who, probably to the detriment of his career, pushes you backwards onto the bed and connects his lips to yours in a kiss that surpasses every single fantasy he's had in his mind. you taste good, and he wants more. he speaks against your lips, asks whines a question that makes your stomach coil. 'can i eat you out first? please?'

pornstar!choso who is chided by the production team as he gets his head under your skirt and laps at your pussy in the most desperate act of need he thinks he's ever displayed. those that claim he falls in love with each shoot would be wholly correct in this case: he is in love with the taste of you, with the way your legs trap him in and ask for more. he could eat you for hours, run his tongue from your clit to dip it inside of you in reverence of the goddess he believes you to be. and you laugh at the absurdity of his hunger, at the courage it takes to run off script, and the pure need in which he eats you out.

pornstar!choso who only stops once the director threatens to cut the scene entirely. his cock hurts with how hard it is though, and he thinks the redirection of blood has made him lightheaded, because when he's made to sit back and let you sink down onto his length he swears he meets god.

pornstar!choso who can't help his whines as you ride him, an addiction already laying down roots in his brain. he has to try and think of anything less godly than you to hold on to his orgasm though, because the combination of your body and having subconsciously trained himself to associate you with climaxing is all too strong, and he's a hairs breadth away from cumming prematurely and ruining the scene.

pornstar!choso who realises as you continue, however, that your moans arent the same as he's heard them before, though the speakers of his phone. you're more breathy with him, your moans are less honeyed, more raw—as if coming from your chest rather than your throat. he wonders for a moment if he's not good enough, if you're having to fake your pleasure to save face for the cameras. but you're soaked, and even above the sounds of your shared pleasure he can still hear the squelch of his cock rutting in and out of you.

but before pornstar!choso can question himself further, your eyes are widening and you're latching a hand onto his throat as your pace increases. he can feel the way you tighten impossibly around him, the way your hips stutter and your pupils blow out with lust—you're cumming. and of course he remembers his instructions, to let you climb off of him and take his load over your face... but you're not climbing off of him.

pornstar!choso who understands the pointed look you manage to give him, that it's your turn to bypass the scene direction. you want to be greedy, to feel him finish inside of you, even through the confines of a condom. your moans arent fake, they're the first real ones you've let sound on a porn set—and choso is pulling them from your lungs like a choir's conductor.

pornstar!choso who can't last a minute longer, now with the way you lean in and coax him to climax with your voice, the soft praise that leaves your lips is an aphrodisiac and all too powerful. he sees stars when he cums, full blown galaxies too complex to imagine. call it an out-of-body experience or not, but choso is lost in his orgasm for long enough to warrant you bringing him back down with a soft kiss to his lips. he looks sinful: his hairs come loose, messy and stuck to his forehead. his eyes, though, are what's going to be the subject of a few screenshots taken by his fans: he looks totally infatuated.

pornstar!choso who, after taking a few minutes to settle himself after the shoot, watches as you walk over to him, a very pretty smile pulling at the corner of your lips before you lean down and peck his lips goodbye. he assumes it's the last he'll see of you, that there's no way he's worthy of every tasting you again. that night, he's scared to brush his teeth, to lose the way you linger on his tongue.

pornstar!choso who debates fucking his fist to the memory of you in bed that night. he thinks you've ruined masturbation for him, or sex in general: nothing could quite be the same. and as if its a sign from god that he's done enough good in his life to deserve some positive karma, his phone dings.

a photo of you, a pretty vibrator laid over your stomach. your laptop open in the background, his porn playing on the screen.

attached, a message that makes the poor boy cum in his pyjama bottoms. 'lets meet up again. i want to tie you up and film how stupid you get with a vibe strapped to your cock—a movie just for us, though. no audience.'

pt 2 in the works :p

[letsbangts]

warm up || jjk

⤷ summary: when you help him warmup

⟶ pairing: jungkook x reader

⟶ word count: 2.1k

18+ // mdni

⟶ genre: smut, fluff, established relationship au

⟶ content: boyfriend!jk, idol!jk, porn with some plot, the other members make a small appearance

⟶ warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content: fingering, kissing/making out, nipple sucking, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it up babes), big dick jk, soft dom jk, rough & soft sex, creampie

↬ a/n: this was inspired by this request so @kloserpeenguintiljk I hope I delivered! & to everyone who reads hope you enjoy and let me know what you think! angel xoxo

masterlist ˚.⋆˚.⋆˚.⋆ join my taglist

"Kook, I don't think we should," you insist while trying to pull your hand away from your boyfriend's grasp in resistance.

He ignores you, still dragging you down the hallway to his hotel room. You press your heels into the floor to keep from moving forward, achieving no success due to the man's strength. But you continue with your plea,

"What if the guys get angry with you?"

He looks back at you over his shoulder with a quirked brow, "Get mad at me for wanting to spend time with my girlfriend?"

"No, get mad at you for skipping practice," you say.  

It is the first time you have joined the guys on tour. When Jungkook asked you to come, the decision was easy; you would rather be with him than be apart for months. There is no debate about that. But you are beginning to worry if you are more of a distraction to him than anything.  

He should be downstairs for rehearsal with the rest of the group in the hotel's banquet hall, where they are currently staying. Yet here, the main vocalist is dragging you to his room for a quickie, even though it never is quick with Jungkook.   

"I'm not skipping practice; I'm just going to show up a little late," he shrugs. "Plus, I have over ten years in this career. I think I have earned that."

"I just don't want everyone to blame me for being here and having you run off," your bottom lip juts out in a pout.

You reach in front of the door to his room; he lets go of your hand to unlock it before turning around to face you. Jungkook steps forward to close the distance, his thumb gliding over your lip.

"No one is going to blame you. So put this back in your mouth." His tone is soft, his lips barely brushing against yours.

You comply, but a frown stays as you look up at him through your lashes. He grins at you and cups your face to give you a peck on the lips before reaching for one of your hands and taking it in his as he opens the door and walks in backwards, pulling you in with him.  

"And I don't think anyone would blame me for sneaking off with my girl if they had one as beautiful as mine."

"I didn't come along with you to keep you away from your work, Kook," you smile gently.

Jungkook closes the door and then closes the distance between you again, his arms slipping around your waist.

"I know it's my fault for having no self-control when it comes to you, baby," he winks.  

You playfully smack a hand against his chest with a giggle while he presses his forehead to yours.

"Now," Jungkook says, his voice low, "will you stop worrying and just let me love you?"

You bite your lip and nod, and he moves his hands to your hips, pinning you against the wall near the hotel room door.

He grabs hold of your neck and brings his mouth to it. Your chest against his chest, he presses his lips to your skin; as your fingers tangle in his hair, it becomes tousled almost immediately.

"Bringing you along with me was the best decision I could have made," he mutters between gentle kisses with his pillowy lips. His soft touch gets you riled up enough to drive you insane. Then the damn tease adds, "I get to perform on stage for thousands of people and then return to my room to perform for my girl."

"You are such an idiot, Kook," you laugh airily. "I'm an idiot, too, for forgetting how insatiable you are."

His voice falls quiet when he contests, “How could I not be when you are so irresistible?”

His lips meet yours; the kiss is slow and sensual, with tongue and teeth soon joining in, becoming sloppy and intense. Jungkook presses a knee against the wall, settling it between your legs to pry them apart and keep them that way.

He lifts up your skirt, grazing your thigh and trailing along the hem of your panties. His fingers skim along your pelvis until he slips under your panties, into the familiar warmth, finding your clit. He circles it gently, and you sigh at the contact. Then, his touch disappears, only for him to lick his thumb and resume his actions. He swipes your clit in a back-and-forth motion while diving back in for a heated kiss.

When his fingers travel down to tease the entrance, your eyes roll back, and your knees buckle. You moan when he parts your folds, pushing in only the tip of his middle finger.

"So wet already, baby?" he whispers before he shoves the entire finger into you, moving it in and out at an agonizingly slow pace.

You know Jungkook likes to drag things out, a tease by nature, and usually, you love it; however, he does not have time for that right now, so you take action to help move things along quicker and cup his erection, already hard beneath his track pants.    

He releases a breathy chuckle, catching on—“Are you rushing me?”

"You said this would be a quickie on our way up here, did you not?"

"That I did."

And with that, he pulls his pants and boxers down far enough to free his cock. You take him in your hand; he is big in your grip, thick and veiny. You pump him to get him hard quicker, but he is already fully erect in your grasp.

He groans and pulls back, dropping to his knees; he uses his inked hand to lift your leg, positioning it on top of his shoulder. Your breathing quickens, knowing what he is about to do as he kneels, his head disappearing under your skirt and between your thighs. Jungkook is truly not wasting time because he pushes your panties aside, and his mouth connects to your core instantly. He slides two fingers into you effortlessly, curling his digits. His fingers are so deep and relentless, matched by the slow and precise movements of his damn tongue.

It doesn’t take him long to increase his speed as he pulls you closer by your thighs and plunges his tongue deep inside you. You moan, and your hands grip his hair as your back arches off the wall.  

You stumble slightly, lost in the pleasure, and Jungkook notices, instantly reacting; his head emerges, placing your foot back on the ground as your panties slip back into place, and your skirt settles on your thighs again.

"As much as I want to take my time with you, we have got to move fast; get your cute ass on the bed, baby," he says, patting your ass and kissing your hair. However, his remarks contradict the gentle gesture as he continues, "We can always continue tonight, and I will make it up to you."   

You let out a gasp as a shiver moves through your body; his words empty your mind and stimulate every nerve in you. Yet you remain steady as he pursues your lips on the path to his bedroom. Jungkook uses his foot to push the door closed before you both stumble toward his bed, removing your clothes along the way.

You lie with his body hovering over yours, his hands returning to explore your skin, and his gaze trailing up and down as if he is seeing you for the first time tonight. You push his hair back as he aligns himself with your entrance, and then he sits up properly, beginning a sensual movement of sliding the head of his length up and down your pussy, thickness rubbing against your folds. You are so wet that he almost slips in when his tip reaches your hole. After a moment, he hovers over you again, one forearm by your head to brace himself as he pushes the head in.

He uses the proximity to kiss you again, whimpering into the kiss as you grip his shoulders for support. He parts from you, his forehead resting against yours.

"I am so fucking grateful to have you, baby. Not just on tour with me, but in my life," he whispers.

Does he not realize what he means to you? So you tell him.

Your hands hold his jaw, and you gaze deeply into his eyes, your lips brushing against each other.

"You are everything to me, Kook. I am so grateful to spend my life with you, and I could not be more proud to be by your side and watch you live your dream."

A hand settles under your knee, lifting one leg over his waist, starting to move. You moan as you pull him in, and he nuzzles your neck while he makes love to you tenderly. He gently leans forward, his arms going under yours to hold onto your shoulders, and then he pounds into you, causing the entire bed to shake.

Your voice trembles as you moan out his name, matching how your thighs quiver when he thrusts in with all his strength and as deep as physically possible while your eyes shut so tightly. His moans sound wild as his long locks hang and tickle your skin, damp with sweat, much like his forehead. Your hands glide over his smooth back again, now hot and covered in sweat.

The intense passion takes over both of you.  

"I love you," his declaration is muffled but becomes more distinct when he pulls back to look at you, expression moonstruck as he repeats, "I love you so much, Y/N."

“I love you, Jungkook.”

The exchange of intimate words between you encourages him to slow down as he gazes at you fondly. You push back his sweat-soaked hair from his eyes, which flit from your lips to your nose and then to your eyes as he caresses your cheek, crashing his lips against yours again.  

You feel the pleasure beginning to take over your body; you squeeze tightly around him.  

“I’m going to come, Kook.”

“Come with me, fuck–,” he groans as your nails drag over him. “Come for me, baby.” 

Your walls begin to flutter, pulsing repeatedly, and you can feel his cock twitching as you milk his orgasm out with yours. Affected by your clenching, he moans against your cheek, closing his eyes before you feel him empty his release into you; you shudder as he fills you up.

You remain like that for a minute, chests heaving and hearts racing. Your eyes flutter open, and you peer down to see how Jungkook is recovering, still pressed against your chest. You caress his hair, gently scratching his scalp as your body calms.

You’re still breathing hard when he falls back against the mattress next to you, his softening cock slipping out of you as he moves. You lie like that for a minute, your heart slamming in your chest, eyes dropping shut as you attempt to recover. His cum is starting to leak out of you and stain the sheets beneath you, but you can’t find a fuck to give about it right now.

You eventually feel the bed shift as Jungkook rolls over, pulling you close to him with a soft grunt. He gently kisses the crown of your head, and you can feel him smile a bit before he speaks with a cheeky grin.

“Now, I am ready for practice.”

Jungkook walks into the banquet hall with flushed cheeks and messy hair. A spring in his step as he approaches the table at the side of the room to retrieve his mic and in-ears.

The members are taking a water break when they notice the youngest's arrival and take in his appearance.  

"Look who decided to grace us with his presence," Taehyung remarks.  

"Done getting your dick wet and came to join us?" Jimin adds.

"For now, yeah," Jungkook smirks, "Why, jealous?"

Seokjin and Yoongi let out a snicker at the quip.

"Gross."

"Ew."

Taehyung and Hoseok exclaim simultaneously, both grimacing, while Namjoon stands there with a mortified look.  

"No, annoyed," Jimin continues, "You're supposed to be here hitting high notes, not making your girlfriend."

"I'm only thirty minutes late; I haven't missed much."

Jimin opens his mouth to respond, but Namjoon's voice cuts him off.

"At least he's here now; let's just move on, now that we have everyone here," the leader concludes before the situation escalates further.

The seven guys come together in the middle of the floor, getting into formation. Namjoon signals for the music to begin, and Jungkook comments before the track starts playing,

"My body is all loosened up anyway now, so just think of it as a warm-up."

[pochaccoups]

cw — nsfw minors dni, possessive reader, reader referred to as a woman, oral (f receiving), mention of breeding, creampie, i need other people to stop perceiving my man

Some days dating an idol is everything you’ve ever dreamed of.

Other days you’re reminded that millions, maybe even tens of millions, of other people want him. You’re reminded by the Instagram comments, videos, Tweets, news articles that fawn over him, all of which garner thousands of views and likes from other people who agree—he’s the perfect man. Strong and buff and hot and kind and gorgeous.

They’re not dating him though. You are. And it’s not that you’re insecure—far from it, in fact, because of Seungcheol’s attentiveness—but sometimes when your feed is riddled with things like fancalls where your boyfriend has been trained to play along as a fan’s boyfriend, you just need a little reassurance.

One of the things you love about dating Seungcheol is that for you he’s built a space where you can be entirely honest with him about any anxieties you have. It means that when you do need his reassurance, you don’t hesitate in voicing it.

“Seungcheol, you’re mine right?”

“I hope so,” he quips, scrolling along on his laptop. Unfortunately for you, he’s too accustomed to your clinginess, which means that sometimes he fails to recognise what you want to hear from him.

You swat at his shoulder like an irritated cat. “Tell me you’re mine.”

He looks at you then and realises you’re being entirely serious.

“Why wouldn’t I be yours? Did I do something?” he asks, now shutting his laptop over. Whatever schedule he’d been emailed about gets shoved to the very back of his brain, replaced with only you.

“No, I just-”

“I can’t have a conversation with someone without bringing you up, and you think I’m not yours?” he says, reaching forward to wrap his hands around yours. His thumbs rub circles into your skin because you’ve told him once or twice how comforting you find it.

“I panic if I don’t have the Hello Kitty cherry keychain you got me when I go overseas, and you think I’m not yours?”

You giggle, growing suddenly shy at his words. His ability to woo you with his words even after two years is impressive, though it shouldn’t be a surprise when his suave and charming attitude was what pulled you to him in the first place.

You give a yelp as he tugs you into his lap without warning, presses you flush against his hard body with the strong hands you love so much.

“I’ve been looking at a ring for you, and you think I’m not yours?”

Your mouth parts with bewilderment and your heart skips a beat, though you barely have the time to comprehend the implications of his confession because he’s ghosting his lips against the curve of your neck.

“Have I not been good at showing it? Is that it?” he asks, grazing his teeth against your skin. You’re under his spell already, eyes rolling into your head as you grow breathless. His palms are hot, gliding under your t-shirt—his t-shirt—sending a shiver along your spine. “Or is my princess just clingy?”

You pull away from him just to pout in his face, but his glassy eyes are dark with desire and it means you don’t stand a chance. Not when his hands have moved to your thighs, inching their way between your legs, rubbing softly at your clothed crotch in a way that has you bracing against him immediately.

“Tell me, baby,” he urges, ghosting his lips against your neck, turning you into a puddle with such ease that it’s embarrassing.

“I want you to show me, Cheol,” you admit. Despite the quiver in your voice, you’re stern. “Show me you’re mine.”

He wastes no time tearing your shorts and panties down your legs, sinking to his knees on the floor in front of you, and diving straight between your legs.

He eats you like a man starved, laps at your clit like it’s life or death, peers up at you with hearts in his eyes as you moan and cry so sweetly it makes his dick swell in no time.

Seungcheol has you all mapped out; knows you like the back of his hand. He knows exactly how you’ll whine when he sucks on your clit, how you’ll tug at his hair when he glides his tongue through your folds, how you’ll buck your hips when he circles your clit with the tip of his tongue because you need more.

“More, Cheol,” you cry, echoing his thoughts. So predictable.

He grins against your cunt, pulling back just to let a little glob of saliva drop on it before his mouth latches onto you again. Seungcheol eats you out with a determination that’s dangerous. He’s aware of the telltale signs of your impending orgasm; your moans growing higher and your body unable to stop shifting, and when he knows you’re close, he’ll stop at nothing to give you what you want. What you need.

His tongue grows ruthless, dragging over every inch of your pussy with vigour until you’re crying his name at the top of your lungs and your fingernails are digging into the roots of his hair. He finally lets up a little, just enough so as not to overstimulate you as you cum, and he’s lapping up every drop of your arousal like he hasn’t seen water in weeks.

“I’ll never get over how sweet you taste, fuck,” he utters between the sounds of him slurping at your cunt, and it’s so lewd that your entire body flashes hot.

“Need you in me, baby, please,” you whimper, watching your boyfriend pull away from you with glistening, swollen lips, with his chin and cheeks covered in you. He’s quick to shrug his pants and boxers down his legs, frenzied almost, like he’ll die if he’s not touching you.

Seungcheol leans over you to melt his lips against yours. He’s messy, his tongue licking into your mouth in a way that should be overbearing, but there’s an underlying tenderness in the way he kisses you that feels more like he’s pouring his love into you.

“Yours,” he mumbles against your lips. You flinch when he glides his cock along your sensitive cunt, bumps your swollen clit because he can’t help but torture you just a little when you’re all splayed out for him so pretty. His tip catches your hole, making you keen when he still doesn’t slip inside.

“Seungcheol,” you whine, locking your ankles behind his back, pulling him in closer. His face softens when he sees how badly you need it, when he remembers that he’s not making you work for anything, because he has one job and one job only right now—to show you he’s all yours.

In one fluid motion, he slides all the way in, buries himself in you to the absolute hilt like it’s his home, the stretch so good you practically sob. He wastes no time, fucking you with tenacity, letting go of any semblance of self-control the second he feels the warmth of your cunt wrapped around him.

“God, how could I be anyone else’s when this is the pussy I get?” he grunts, fingertips gripping at your hips, guiding you along his fat cock so deliciously that your eyes roll into the back of your head. “My fucking dream woman.”

“You fuck me so good, Cheollie,” you moan, your fingers finding their way to the back of his neck, tugging at the slightly grown out hair there. You pull him in close, your face next to his so your breaths can intertwine, and you whisper, “all mine?”

“All yours. Only yours,” he replies, his thrusts growing faster, harder, more erratic, more debauched from how your pussy grips him, sucks him in. “Let me fill you up, baby. I’ll give you everything.”

You whine at the thought, making him hiss when you clamp down around his cock, but he refuses to slow his pace. In fact, he only fucks you harder into the couch. “Please, yes.”

“Maybe I’ll put my kids in your belly, huh? Will that convince you?”

You nod your head frantically. “Want it, Cheol.”

He only replies with a moan of his own, taking your hands in his and pinning them to the couch. His cock throbs, your cunt dripping wet as you both near the edge of your release.

“Gonna cum for me?” he asks, strained, like he’s holding himself back.

You only nod again, and Seungcheol’s thumb finds your clit, drawing circles until finally he unwinds the knot inside your belly, and you cum with another cry of his name, your walls clenching around him so harshly that he’s spilling inside of you not a moment later.

The kiss he gives you after is so contrastingly soft that you nearly pass out, but it’s the most Choi Seungcheol characteristic you can think of—to fuck you like an animal and kiss you like a loving boyfriend after.

“I love you,” he says, his voice still husky with his orgasm, but there’s nothing but sincerity in his words.

“I love you more,” you reply, smiling like the angel you’re not.

“Not possible.”

“Oh? I don’t believe you, so I guess you’ll just have to show me again.”

Seungcheol narrows his eyes. He pretends to be unamused. He loves it though. He loves being yours.

[nsfwruru]

top payer!huh yunjin(g!p) x OF!reader

hear me out… yunjin as your biggest supporter on OF, and that she’s your top payer to the point you want to get to know her. only for her to beg you to do a video collab so she can fuck your cute little face. she’s just a fein for head!!!!!😣

cw: filthy smut(masturbation, cum eating, use of videotaping, Yunjin receiving), porn with some plot, not proofread,, use of ‘S/N’ for “screen/name”

You didn’t know anyone in the industry, maybe a few faces here and there, but no one quite noticeable, well maybe due in part that you where a faceless content creator. Not much was known about you, other than the occasional kinks and preferences you’d naturally post under your frequent photoshoots. Having “fans” didn’t help much either, they all just so happened to have tacky screen names that hid their true identity— Well, that was the case until you came across an account that would frequently pay for extra access to your photos, with her name and face plastered onto her casual viewing account.

“huh yunjin” it displayed, the username just being ‘yunnnnjin” something that’s just so intriguing, since you never really saw anyone so proud to display that they looked around the website. Honestly it was really just a pleasant surprise knowing someone was actually human looking through your photos, and occasional videos. Also the fact that she was absolutely stunning in her profile picture kinda made you suspicious, wondering if this could be a bot. I mean, her dark red hair, which complimented her big brown eyes and plump lips, it was all too good to be true!

The only reason you ever believed that this was a real person running this account was the amount of payments she made. It was absolutely absurd! Not only was she paying for literally all the extra spicy photos you posted— but it came to the point she went out of her way to make excess payments just for the hell of it! Your debit card was absolutely popping every single business day with more and more installments that this Yunjin girl sent you. Of course, you were a high paid model, who wracked up 40-50k a month, but honestly even how much she was paying you was too much.

And the weirdest part of it was she was paying thousands to ten thousand every week, without even a single comment or peep from her. Someone with that kind of spending habits must be someone who has some weird parasocial relationship… right?

Wrong!

It was always apparent that she kept a safe distance, never reaching out or demanding more raunchy photos from you, it just seemed like she was a viewer enjoying the content from afar. The idea of her doing this was perplexing, when people who sent far less on your photos where demanding far more than her. It was in some odd way, endearing to you. Coming to the point where you wanted to reach out to her and just get to know the woman who was practically paying your bills at this point. Not wanting to sound like a creep, you silently slid into her chat box with her, and sent a message. (Only for her to reply in a heartbeat.)

you: “Hey I saw you paying so much on my content thank you so much!”

yunnnnjin: “hi”

yunnnnjin: “yeah np, ur very beautiful”

you: “thank u sm!”

you: “I don’t want to sound ungrateful but why do you always pay extra? you don’t have to >_>”

yunnnnjin: “ah.. i just find you stunning”

you: “your my biggest supporter thank you!”

yunnnnjin: “this might be a weird question to ask, and I’m not demanding anything from you.”

you: “hm??”

yunnnnjin: “but can we film a collab”

staring right at your computer, your reading glasses was slowly falling down your face as you opened your jaw in disbelief. Did she seriously just say that? After mere minutes of meeting? What the fuck? So maybe she wasn’t any better than a man because what the hell just happened. You thought maybe you could trust her, believe that she wasn’t one of those entitled fans who felt the need to claim every inch of you, but I guess not. Honestly you felt disgusted she could ask this so quickly, but a morbid curiosity filled your mind, this could be a perfect way to make a little more money.

yunnnnjin: “sorry that was weird”

yunnnnjin: “i shouldn’t have said anything im sorry”

you: “… do u have a photo of ur face, like a video or something you can record right now so I know what I’m working with.”

*Yunjin sent 5 video attachments*

Admittedly you were scared to open the files she sent you, maybe this was all a prank and some sick friend was pulling this on you. But something just drew you in as you hovered your mouse on the reveal bar, clicking the photos, the blur was lifted and you were greeted with plethora of videos to look at. From first glance everything seemed to check out, but you wanted to make sure she didn’t just snag these from the internet.

The first video included her in a soft white robe, someone clearly putting makeup on her plush skin as she sat down. Humming a tune in the background that was oddly familiar to you, maybe a little too familiar.

The other 3 videos included her doing such mindless task like doing her make up, drinking coffee, even dancing to the beat of the music. But that’s not what interested you the most, what you gravitated toward was the video, with the first few frames being her face scrunched up, closing her eyes at her screen.

Playing the video, you were greeted by muffled groans, and the sound of skin rubbing against one another, almost in a rhythmic motion. As each time the skin glided across the other, she would let out the most intense moan, pleading with someone in front of the camera. Her eyes darting towards the scream as her mouth opened slightly, not clocking what she was doing until her moans became so loud, that the speakers on your computer started vibrating. Oh! She’s jacking off! While recording herself! How interesting!

That’s not what caught your eye though, it’s when she brung the camera down to the base of her thighs, propping the camera behind her thick perched up cock as she started rubbing it up and down. Her moans turning into pleading as she called out your screen name repeatedly, begging for her release like she was imagining it was your hands around her girth. She was far too much for you— to the point watching the precum dribble from the slit of her member made your skin crawl. You wished it was you making her feel that way, so you decided to continue watching until she reached her climax. Watching her hands slide up and down, quickening the pace and using her cum as leverage to fuck herself using her palm, made you go crazy. It wasn’t until she reached her maximum, as her legs buckled up slightly with her back arched cumming all over the screen. The bed squeaking as she fucked her hands aggressively to reach that climax she-oh-so desired. Your name rolling of her tounge so naturally as “fuckin’ so good” and “shit”, was mixed into it.

you: “wow”

you: “so you are real.”

yunnnnjin: “haha sorry if that last video is weird jst wanted u to know how much i want to collab”

you: “make sense, uhhhhhh i think we can, do u have an address?”

yunnnnjin: “perfect, and here’s my address, but tell me if you ever come over I’ll plan everything ahead”

You might’ve been sick in the head, because now you stood rooted in place standing in front of the door of her apartment. For all you knew she could’ve been a perverted killer on the loose, but seeing that video of her changed the trajectory of your life.

Knocking on the door, you heard someone stumble over themselves as the reached the door with a thud. A small groan escaping from a woman’s lips as she hurriedly pried the door open, your heartbeat racing. Finally as she opened the door, you met her brown gaze as her red hair fell gently over her face and covered a lot of her defining features. “You actually came.” Yunjin taking all of you in, being surprised that it was actually you as you covered your face with a black mask. Without warning she dragged your wrist and lead you into her nicely decorated apartment. All of her decor being of welloff brands and photos of her with 4 or sometimes 5 other girls.

She dragged you over to her bedroom, only to be met with professional lighting setups, cameras and other video recording tools set all around. She was clearly a little too prepared for her own good, down to the box of condoms that sat nicely on-top of the black bedsheets. “I got this all for you— I’m sorry if this is too much, but I didn’t know what else to do when you gave me this opportunity.” Tilting your head in confusion as from your knowledge she must’ve gotten all this equipment recently, since nothing about her profile said “model” or “photographer.”

“Ah thank you but you didn’t need to do all of that, besides I brought my video camera with me for a reason.” You insisted pulling out the black bag inside your even bigger gym back, showing her the camera as you slid it out. She stared back at you, her cheeks flushed in embarrassment as she looked back at everything she had prepared, mentally cursing herself when she should’ve know that you’d bring something fancy. “Oh this is a shame—“

“It’s fine, if you have everything set up, we can use this instead of what I’m using now, it’s probably better quality anyways.” And so you did, you began recording the first few clips, just some lingerie shots with Yunjin, or photographs with her tongue pressed agonist parts of your body. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, but watching her boxers press up against your stomach, feeling her stiffened cock onto your tummy, made you feral. Greatful that you wore a face mask to cover your true identity, because with out it you’d be drooling by the contact of her boxers.

Thankfully, after snapping some promiscuous photos of the both of you, Yunjin offered to take some solo shots of you. This type without your top out, something that was so natural for you to do, made Yunjin’s breath hitch as your breast pooled into the free air. Fuck, you didn’t know how much she wanted to touch you right now, to have your nipple in her mourn while she played with your other breast. Or fucking your face and letting her precious cum fall down your chin and down to your chest. As the camera clicked on and on, her mind was too preoccupied with thoughts of fucking you mindlessly. Having her cum all over the nastiest parts of your body, while you scream her name all day long. And finally ripping off that black mask you used to cover your adorable face with so she could spurt all over you.

It took you a few minutes— actually almost half an hour to tell that her hardened cock was pressing even harder against her fabric, begging to be let out. As her mind drifted in and out of reality, you tried your best to snap her out of trance with no avail. “Yunjin—“ You called out her name once, “Yunjin?” A second time as you inched closer to her in your kneeling position, looking up at her soft gaze as she stared down at you. Before you could say her name one last time you where faced up, inches apart her hard member, looking up at her with, those, eyes.

Yunjin didn’t respond, not for a long time, her hands reaching out to your hair as she continued to click some more photos. Tangling her delicate slim fingers into your hair, taking more and more photos as you called out to her. “Fuck, S/N, you look so good” She mumbled, taking her hands out of your hair to pinch your cheeks up to give her your whole attention. Her breathing heavy as she watched your even movement, and how your face masked heaved up and down as she did so. “Can I fuck you princess, please— please let me use your pretty mouth baby.” Yunjin murmured, pulling her hands away from you as she held the waistband of her boxers.

Without any second thought, you brung your hands up and yanking it off of her, not wanting to admit that you wanted this more than her. As her boxers slid off so easily, you could see her cock take its place as it sprung up, the sheer size of it hitting her stomach as she had a painful erection.

It took you in awe for a few moments, the both of you not doing anything as you stared at her member, while she looked down at you in anticipation. “Holy shit— uh, can you get the video camera then?” You asked while Yunjin shook her head vigorously, tripping over herself to fully take off everything and grab the video taping camera on the side table. Running back, she began recording and pointing the camera down at you, indicating that the shot was already rolling.

You lifted your mask a little bit to place the head of her pink cock to the edge of your lips, placing the mask over, giving her little kitten licks as you do so. The sudden contact of your mouth on her most sensitive part made her let out the dirtiest moan, and bring her free hand to tangle it in your hair. “Fuck, that felt so nice baby.” She groaned out, petting your hair as you continued to bring your mouth to the base. The sheer size of it making you tear up, unable to handle how much you had to put in.

Yunjin was getting off to this, getting off to your gagging, getting off to the feeling of your small mouth around her dick, just getting off to the idea of you. “Is it— hah, too big princess?” She breathed out as she buckled her waist, pushing you to deep throat her thick cock. Leaving you to gag even more as she was pressing up against you, the tip off your nose touching her pelvis as she brung you deeper down. The sounds of your muffled gagging gave her more leverage to fist your hair and fuck into you. Letting dribbles of cum and salvia accumulate as drizzle down your chin. Luckily the mask you wore was able the cover the lewd juices leaking out from you mouth as you took her all.

Bobbing your head back and fourth, her fist was still clawing at your hair as she fucked your most so nicely. “Fuck— fuck…” She groaned, her dick writing in your mouth as you hummed, “mpfh” letting the vibrations of your voice to leave a nice sensation around her. Your tongue swirling around in circles, nose touching her pelvis as hot air coming from your nose sent shivers down her spine. From the way her hips where proceeding to buckle clearly indicated that she was close to climaxing.

With a few more thrusts into your mouth in an almost apathetic way, without any hesitation— she released all of her salty seed into your mouth. Slowing pulling away as she swayed the rest of her cum inside, the lose of contact made a popping noise. “Shit.” Yunjin examined how good you looked as she slowly pulled off your mask, to admire the cum and saliva dribbling down your mouth. Ripping her hands away from your hair, she placed her thumb on where the main stream of liquid resided, and pushed everything back into your mouth. “Swallow it up.” Yunjin demanded, watching you make a show out of it, going as far as to open your mouth after you finished. “Mm, good girl.”

urgahfhhhh I was gonna add so much more but after this I got drained smh. full on smut sex scene cummin’ up when I feel like it LOL!!!!

[pumpkin-bats]

One Piece Boys As Lovers - Headcanons

The poll has spoken! I kinda figured this was gonna be the result but I was curious anyway. So without further ado-

Law:

Works with you asleep in his lap.

Doesn't get jealous often, but it's obvious when he is.

Not big on PDA but loves subtly showing people that you two are together, and looks real smug about it the entire time.

Massages your hands when he's distracted or thinking about something and accidentally made it into a habit, so now he does it to bring him comfort.

Lots of late night cuddles. He's a big koala. The stickiest parasite, does not let go even when bribed.

Huffs at a lot of your most energy draining ideas, but always goes along with what you want or say regardless. Often has a fond smile as soon as you aren't looking.

Zoro:

A lot of nap time sessions where he's your pillow and blanket. But he'll wake up the second you ask him to.

Spars with you and tries to teach you to swordfight because he likes sharing his interests with you.

Does not make it obvious, but he worries about you a lot.

Doesn't like it when you're out of his sight for extremely long periods of time, it makes him antsy.

Holding hands almost all the time in public. Not as much in private, because the private time between the two of you is a different kind of safe intimacy.

Has a sixth sense for when you're upset and acts on it instantly.

Sanji:

Favorite foods, all the time, at all times. No food request is off the table, he'll make anything you crave when you crave it without any fuss. Sometimes he'll make it just because.

Really likes to dance with you, whether it's wildly spinning around the room or slow dancing under the moonlight.

The physical embodiment of 'just to be the man who walks a thousand miles to fall down at your door.'

He's very weak to cheek kisses. Melts. Like butter.

Rubs your shoulders when you're tired.

Matching couples outfits. His idea of matching with you is wearing a shirt or tie that matches the general color of your outfit.

Ace:

He occasionally takes you stargazing where you spend the entire time making up constellations and the stories behind them. Eight times out of ten you end up huddled together and asleep outside.

Cuddling gets rough in the summer because his temperature runs high, but it's non-negotiable during the colder months. Personal heater go brrrrr.

Holding hands while walking down the street, swinging your arms and laughing like love struck fools.

A lot of adventure themed dates. Amusement parks, hiking, canoeing, or even little walks through the park.

Needing to label your food in the fridge so he doesn't eat it all. He eats it anyway, but always apologizes and makes up for it.

Brags about you a lot to his friends.

Mihawk:

Candlelit dinner dates that become regular dinner nights because they happen so often.

Makes you breakfast every morning and knows how you take your coffee/tea like the back of his hand.

Pet names. It's always 'my dear' or 'darling' and never just your name.

Not the most physically affectionate but always takes care of you.

Occasionally he'll do something for you and you'll be like 'oh I love this' and then he'll proceed to respond with 'I know, you- [brings up extremely obscure habit/interest/trait/tic of yours]'.

Sleeps significantly better with you in his arms and the morning after a night without you he'll offhandedly mention how he slept well but not that well.

Buggy:

You do each other's nails and makeup. Sometimes when he's too tired, he'll ask you to do his makeup for him.

He adores it when you play with his hair. Whether that be styling it, washing it, or simply just running your fingers through it, he loves it all. Goes literally weak in the knees and has to sit down.

Bad jokes when drunk that are so bad the both of you spend an hour straight just laughing.

He gets very easily embarrassed whenever you do nice things for him or compliment him. His face gets redder than his nose- which you may or may not tell him.

A lot of singing together. All kinds of songs and tunes, at any time of the day. Also very loudly. Sometimes off key.

He'll try to be straight faced around you, but the second you say something or make physical contact he giggles like an idiot. He's very shy about physical affection, and acts nervous about it every time.

Crocodile:

The physical embodiment of 'they asked for no pickles.'

He really likes to keep an arm around you whenever he's next to you, and will occasionally tug you a bit closer.

Long, mellow conversations that turn into late night talks.

It's hard to tell when he's jealous because he tends to glare at anyone and everyone that gets a bit too close to you.

Buys things for you. Not to be nice, it's actually a genuine problem. He buys way too many things for you because he tends to get something if it reminds him of you, which happens often.

Does face masks with you on the weekends and you can occasionally convince him into doing a spa night with you

[postracehair]

gold rush

max verstappen x reader | 2.4k

max verstappen stands across the room from you at someone else's party. he's not yours, but he could be.

cw: cursing, perhaps overly introspective, allusions to sex, kissing, semi-established relationship without commitment, confessions, being desperately in love with max

a/n: this is a little different from my usual style. i...wrote it in two parts while wine drunk and yearny and listening to gold rush by taylor swift on repeat. it's a lethal combo for a girl, let me tell you. posting in honor of today's qatar win. i really like this one. please be nice to me. <3

--

It's torture.

Standing here across the room, glass in hand, watching.

He just looks so fucking good.

"Fuck me," you mutter. Some deep, animalistic urge tells you to bite clean through the rim of your wine glass. Chew on the shards until they're sand and swallow them easy as anything. It would probably be less painful than what you're currently doing.

Watching.

The object of your scrutiny straightens almost imperceptibly. A minuscule lengthening of his spine invisible to anyone who isn't examining his every move. For someone who is watched more often than not, you're surprised he feels your eyes on him.

But he does.

Max Verstappen turns away from his conversation partner slightly, a barely there shift of his chin to glance around the room. Blue eyes like the fucking ocean or some other cliche you can't think of right now. His focus face, you've called it. That got him to laugh, once, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes driving your heart into a frenzy.

Evaluating, cataloging. Looking for the racing line and finding -- you.

Leaning back on the wall not ten yards from him, wine glass in hand.

You're going to heat it up with your palm holding it like that, he'd told you once. You have to hold the stem.

They teach you that in Monaco? you'd teased.

Flirtations. One of a hundred, a thousand. Nothing memorable for him, you tell yourself. Each conversation an axis-shifting event for you.

It's embarrassing, actually. To want someone this much. To be one of millions.

But you know. You know how he looks in an empty room, how he mutters to himself when he folds his laundry, how he straightens his shoes against the wall of every hotel room.

You know him.

Maybe that's why this is dangerous. You've got ammo, you've got evidence. You know that Max Verstappen is like the rest of the world. A boy who wanted desperately turned into a man who has everything. And still wants.

Is that what binds us all together? The depth of our longing?

Max finds your gaze and holds it. The girl he's talking to -- pretty, smart. You know her peripherally -- keeps speaking, hand not holding her drink waving in the air, eyes focusing somewhere above his hairline.

Lots of people make this mistake. It's all in his eyes, if you can stand to look at them. Everything he's feeling. A challange that, once met, melts into an open door. He'll show you everything if you just step over the threshold, invited or not. Sometimes all we want is someone to bang on the door when we're already in bed. Make us get up, come downstairs. There you are. I was waiting for you.

The eyes tell you everything. You take a long sip of your wine and he watches, jaw ticking. He didn't shave today. The light stubble makes him look older, though you know his heart. Fluttering like a boy's, yearning like a child's. He wants just like you do. If only you knew what and just how much.

I don't know what comes next, he said. His head in your lap, hair soft and golden between your fingers. What else is there?

So much, you said. You traced the line of his nose with the pad of your thumb. That's the best thing about it.

About what?

Life.

There is a world in which you came to this party together. Distant, fuzzy. You mussed his hair with your hands after begging him to leave the gel on the shelf. He kissed off your lipstick before you made it out the door. The steady beat of his heart under your palm in the doorway, a sure reminder of the dip he makes in the universe. Your center, always orbiting around him.

Reality is louder. More crowded, smells like champagne and burnt pastry. It's a room full of people where you can only look at one. Where he's looking back.

You jerk your chin towards the back hallway, the one the leads to the bathroom only the girls go to in pairs. To debrief, to prepare. A secret from the hostess meant for moments of reprieve. At the very least, you'll need one of those.

It you're lucky, one of those will come to you on two legs and stormy eyes.

Could you be imagining it? Wouldn't be the first time you lived in your head a little too long. But -- fuck. The dreams you've had. The way you've looked at your life and slotted him into it. It's almost too easy, a game with no stakes. But the buy in is steep, nonrefundable. How you got here is irrelevant. You have to pay up.

You wind your way through laughing people, velvet dresses and barely buttoned shirts. Sparkly eye shadow and satin bows, well-wishes and chaste kisses. 'Tis the damn season, indeed. 

The hallway is quiet. No one in the bathroom, the door hanging open, light off. You lean back on the wall, glass loose in your fingers. Eyes closed, wondering if you'll wake up somewhere else. Somewhere you want less, somewhere your blood isn't singing, isn't begging you to get closer to him.

"You look nice," Max says. Your lips curve into a smile, a smirk, a grimace. Are they not all the same around him? Teeth showing, muscles out of control. He bypasses all of your sense, worms his way into your bloodstream with just a word.

"Thanks," you manage. Eyes open, now, and fuck, you feel it. Right in the chest, like a punch that digs beneath your ribs and takes its pound of flesh.

Max looks good. You saw it from across the room but here, in front of you, you can see it more clearly.

There's something about him. A boyishness that remains around the eyes, the mouth. Hopeful mischief, maybe. Eternal youth, promise, faith.

God. This would all be so much easier if you weren't in love with him.

He studies you. Takes his time, gaze tracing the lines of your face. Your brows, your lashes. Nose, lips. Lips. His eyes stop there.

"You were staring," he says. Never one to back down from a challenge. Never one to let you off easy. It's a compliment, the way he drags you to the ring. Keep up with me, he's saying. Make it interesting.

"Yeah," you say, slowly. It drips out of your mouth, lingers in the air between you. "You look good."

His eyes flash. You're meeting his expectations. Always hard to live up to those, when the standard he holds himself to is so damn high. He expects you to climb up that mountain, too. If only to show that you're wiling to. That he's worth it. That you want to.

And he does look good. Max values honesty above most things, but his cheeks flush all the same. It's pretty, not that you'd tell him that. Maybe one more glass of wine and you would. It's not an original thought, far from it, but you reach for him all the same, liquid courage loading the barrel and cocking the gun.

You cup his cheek, thumb pressing to the corner of his mouth. Like a marionette with his strings cut, he sighs. You breath with him, leaning in. Everything else fades away, the world turning around the place where his skin touches yours. Palm on his stubbled cheek, eyes locked like you're moored to each other.

This is why you haven't let him go. Because it's like this. It's insane.

And Max knows it.

"What are we doing?" he whispers. His throat bobs and he looks unsure. Not an expression you've seen on him very often, but maybe that's the punchline.

This matters to him. Maybe as much as it matters to you. He leans into your palm and the fingers of one hand curl around your hips, pressing hard enough to bruise. He carefully tugs your wine glass from your grip and sets it on the thin table in the hall before crowding you agains the wall.

"I don't know," you whisper back. You're close enough that he must feel your breath on this lips. It's inexplicable, this feeling -- you should know. You've tried.

He reorients everything, you've said over and over again. It's like I'm seeing the world for the first time, but with him in it.

His breath is hot on your lips. "I need you," he says. "I --" He swallows. Pupils swelling, mouth set. You half expect him to pull on a racing suit and get in the car.

"Max," you manage. It's not a surprise, not really, but it stings the way that only the things you want can. "I--

"Nothing else is like this," he says, sounding more sure than you've ever heard. "No matter what, or who, it's not like this. I'm always thinking of you."

Something inside you crumples. Your very bones, maybe. Your heart, surely. He can't just say these things.

"Don't say if it you don't mean it," you manage. Your throat is thick, tears resting just behind your eyes. It makes sense to no one else, this love. This passion, this soul tie.

"I mean it," he says, voice steady. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't ask this of you, but I am. I'm asking."

Love me. Stick by me. Tell me you feel it, too.

You close your eyes again, but what appears behind your lids is no less than what's actually happening to you. This is the stuff of dreams, the deepest part of your heart that beats his name.

"I don't know how to do this," you whisper. His lips drag from your pulse point to your ear.

"Me neither," he replies. "But we have to try."

"I've wanted you for so long," you gasp. His fingers have snuck under the hem of your shirt, nails scratching up and down your back. "Max--"

Your name is a prayer on his tongue, a blessing, a benediction. A plea. You've never felt so safe as when he is at your altar.

"Let's go," he says. "Let's get out of here."

The where doesn't matter. The how, the why, the when. It doesn't matter.

Sometimes, things just happen the way they are supposed to. Lovers unite, reunite, and love. Is that not enough?

"Bet you say that to all the girls."

Your voice is hoarse, ragged. The opposite of his well-honed determination, his tunnel vision. You wanted this, didn't you? But you're stalling. Having and wanting are different.

"No," Max says. "Hey, look at me."

For all your talk, you keep doing anything he asks. It's so easy. You are so safe in his hands, even if they burn.

He presses his lips to the corner of your mouth and you open your eyes. Despite the drinks you watched him down they're clear. Ablaze with certainty.

"Max," you whisper. His nostrils flare.

"Just you," he says. "You have me. Just you."

He does this thing, when he's away. You bought him a keychain -- a lion, of course -- on a whim. Figured he'd throw it in a drawer somewhere and forget about it. But then he sent you a photo from a country you've never been to, holding up his keys, the lion dangling in the sunlight.

You get photos from all around the world, now.

Maybe...maybe, you can believe him. Maybe you can take. Maybe dreams can bleed into waking.

What else is there to do? His jaw ticks, lips parted as he exhales. You feel it, warm and shaky. That won't do.

The kiss doesn't surprise him. It's inevitable, a corner he's driven in his sleep, the finish line that always waits for him. Max always knows where he is going and maybe he knew you were on the way here, too.

And god, does he know how to kiss you. You're the one who leans in but he takes the wheel quickly, one hand pressing into your lower back under your shirt and the other dragging up your ribs to settle on your jaw. He licks into your mouth like there's a secret to find, like he can peel back your layers and find your heart in his palms, beating in time with his.

Nights in his bed, slow mornings watching him wake. Phone calls just to hear you breathe, texts and gifts and hints that, if you'd just say so, this could be more. This could be it.

But he's waited. You realize he's waited for you.

"You have me," you say, pulling away with a gasp. His lips chase yours, hovering so close that every word makes them brush. Your hands are woven in his hair, noses pressed together. Almost one person. "Max," you breathe. "You have me."

There are a thousand ways this could go wrong. Even if your world orbits around him, even if his heart is magnetized to yours, a star in the sky always pointing north -- reality is not so kind. It will be hard. No one will understand. People will want what you have, what you will hold dear for the rest of your life.

But it doesn't matter. Because Max -- a world champion, a boy who wanted who became a man who had everything -- is holding you. He smiles so wide it spreads to you, two smiles pressed together in the dim light of someone else's party.

"Okay," you whisper. "Okay, let's go."

He kisses you once more, sloppy, teeth clacking, and grabs your hand. Out of the hall, through the party, barely a word for anyone else. Everybody wants you, you told him once. Hm, he'd said. I don't know about that.

But he gleams. He shines, flushed cheeks and bright eyes as he looks back to check that you're still there. Squeezing your hand in his, a man on a mission. Following that racing line all the way home, all eyes on him. But he knows where he's going.

Out of the party and onto the quiet street, breath floating up and away in excited puffs. Under the streetlight Max looks ethereal. Beautiful, boyish, in love. He's a dream come to life.

Your dream. Looking back at you like he's thinking the same.

He says your name like he's been looking everywhere and finally found you. Reaching the end of the road, throwing the door open and falling to his knees. An answer. The answer.

He kisses you on the empty street. You fall, and fall, and fall.

Together.

[stvrnioloslvt]

stripes and polo's - Matt Sturniolo

genre: fluff / t.w: none / pt.2 here

—★—

"i don't know what to wear..." you sigh throwing your phone on the bed, your friend on speaker.

"well, why don't you take something from matt's wardrobe? you only need a shirt anyway." you look around matt's room, checking to see if he has any spare shirts on the loose. however, it seemed that he had cleaned the whole room that morning, leaving it spotless and tidy.

"i can't exactly ask him, he's streaming with chris"

"and? just take one now and tell him later. i'm sure he won't mind, he has a thing for you in his clothes"

"that's not true," you mumbled, a rosy blush tinting your cheeks. you knew that your friend wasn't wrong, but it felt so wrong admitting that your childhood best friend had some sort of interest in you...and you did too.

"yeah yeah, if that helps you sleep at night..."

you ignore her remarks, digging through matt's clothes until you found something that caught your eyes: in the middle of black t-shirts, grey sweaters and an overall basic wardrobe, there was a striped polo hidden at the back of the drawer. you pulled it out, turning it around to check for any holes or stains.

"i think i found something," you announced to your friend, putting the polo on. it didn't fit you perfectly, as it was bigger than your shirts, but you didn't mind at all. you rose your hands to your face, smelling matt's familiar scent on the shirt, relishing in the comfort of one of your favourite people.

"i'm hanging up, i'll go tell him that i took his shirt. meet you up in ten minutes, yeah?"

"sure thing, love. see you in ten," and just like that, your friend had hung up.

you glanced at yourself in the mirror one last time, fixing your hair with your hands. you took your phone from the bed and exited matt's room, walking up the stairs to chris's room. as you got closer, you heard loud and clear the two boys screaming at each other, laughing at something stupid chris said.

your hand grabbed the knob, pulling it and entering the room just as chris started addressing the chat again. "chat, matt's type is someone who would pull off man's polo's, i'm telling you." his wholehearted laugh died as soon as you came into view, his face falling into one of pure surprise. he mirrored matt's expression, eyes wide and open mouths as you made sure that you weren't completely visible for the viewers. a little bit of the polo's sleeve was in view, enough to make the chat explode with comments.

you blushed as you realised how terribly timed your appearance was, and how badly matt's reaction had affected you. he eyed you up and down, slowly, taking in each by each of your body, mindlessly reaching out to you, pulling you closer. your heart drummed harshly against your ribcage, trying to escape its home.

"matt-" you called out anxiously, trying to pull him out of his mind, reminding him that there were thousands of viewers who were waiting for his next move, observing like hawks looking for their next prey.

"you look...good," he breathed out, smiling softly at you. behind him, chris was frantically trying to cover up the scene that was unfolding in front of everybody's eyes.

"thank you," you whispered, "do you mind if i borrow this one for the evening? i'm meeting up with a friend of mine."

"go on, sweetheart, it's all yours."

you smiled, turning to leave the room. just as you were exiting, chris read one of the comments: "someone wrote 《matt should teach us how to manifest quickly, cause that shit was crazy》 and i couldn't agree more."

"what are you talking about, that's my best friend..." but even as he tried to hide his blush, it was clear that behind his hand there was a big smile plastered on his face.

who knew, maybe in the future things would change.

©stvrnioloslvt

𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐏𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃/𝐎𝐑 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐌𝐘 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊. 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐎 𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐀𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓

hello everybody! hope you liked it, let me know if you'd like a part 2. also, would y'all like a tag list?

remember that my asks/requests are always open, i'd love to get to know you guys!

thank you.

love you all,

-bree♥︎

[yandere-daydreams]

Hear me out hear me out on this concept idea

Southern gothic small town pastor Geto AU

tw - non/con, manipulation, unbalanced power dynamics, financial abuse via organized religion, and implied kidnapping.

wait that would actually be so hot of him actually.

i don't know what is about geto but he just,,, radiates scummy religious figure energy to such an atrocious degree. like, couldn't you just imagine him moving from small town to small town, posing as a country-values pastor to scam his ever-growing congregation out of their life's savings and retirement funds before smuggling himself away and moving on to fresher meat? if he works quickly, the whole operation takes a little less than six months, and he's got such a charming smile and such a soothing voice - no one's ever so much as thought twice about trusting him, not really, not unless they wanted to be the next town outcast.

well, no one aside from you, of course.

it's cute - just how suspicious you are of the man who has your chronically truant parents sitting in the front row of his chapel twenty minutes early. you'll tell anyone who's got the time to listen that you don't like his hollow expressions, that you don't find his sermon-topics appropriate, that you don't trust how quickly he showed up after your last pastor suddenly went missing. no one listens to you, of course. you burnt that bridge when you decided to move away to some big, new-age city and attend some expensive, self-aggrandizing university. like him, you'll only be in town for a few months, just until the start of your next semester, but unlike him, you actually care about what's going to happen to your neighbors after you leave. the fact that you stopped going to church entirely after he took over doesn't help. in a town like this, you might as well be signing the warrant for your own social exile.

you make an effort to keep your distance, but he just can't seem to pay you the same courtesy. in a town like yours, it's can be hard not to run into familiar faces, especially when he seems to stop in at the general store where you picked up a summer job every other day, when he mentions to your mother that they could really use an extra pair of hands at the church's monthly bake sale or tells your father that he might want to bring a helper the next time he comes to fix up a few things around the sanctuary. you're always so flustered around him, always so brooding - like you think someone's going to believe you just because you cross your arms and pout. he savors any chance he gets to touch you - whether it's his hand ghosting over the small of your back as he moves past you in a narrow hall or your body pressing into his after he forgoes your offered handshake in favor of a nice, tight, neighborly hug.

and, when you come to him, he thinks he might finally know why people try so hard to get into heaven. it goes without saying that you're irate, shouting at him from the steps of his parsonage as you demand he return the tens of thousands of dollars that your mother so generously donated early that day, but it's not hard to convince you to come inside, to get a glass of wine into your hand under the pretense that, if you really drove all this way just to yell at him, it's the least you deserve. things devolve from there - your glass looks a little empty, why doesn't he top you off while you tell him what a terrible person he is? you've already finished that bottle, but he's got a gorgeous vintage red, and you're just starting to slur - he's sure it'll be fine. and, oh, well, you're far too drunk to drive yourself home, but don't worry, his bed's big enough to share. and oh, look at that, don't you feel lucky to wake up naked and sore in an unfamiliar bed, the handsome young pastor's cock still buried inside of you? he's sure your parents will be elated when you two tell them about your new engagement (because, of course, you can't just sleep with your local pastor and expect to come out of it without a ring on your finger, can you?), even if you seem a little upset right now.

it's only as he watches you sob into his chest, his arms wrapped around your waist and his cum still dripping out of you, that he decides he might be able to stay in this particular small town for a few more months. just long enough to find a way to take you with him, when he leaves.

[therealcocoshady]

POV : You’re Marshall Mathers’s girlfriend and he worships you

Author’s Note : Hi guys ✨. I feel like it’s been a while since I last published something on here. Enjoy this little blurb I wrote. It’s kind of random but I think it’s kind of cute still 💕.

Marshall Mathers doesn’t really enjoy being treated like a king wherever he goes. He knows people give him special treatment out of respect, because he is a huge fucking superstar, but he doesn’t really care for it. He’s just a normal dude at heart, you know ? He likes it when things are kept simple. He’s not a huge fan of the deference, of people practically bowing and curtsying to him because he is Eminem. It’s weird.

But when it comes to you ? People better treat you like the absolute monarch that you are. This man will not accept anything less for the woman he loves. You are his sun. His days start and end with you. You are a deity he worships day and night and people better put some respect on his lady’s name.

He is not giving you the princess treatment. No. This would be good enough for any peasant. If he could, this man would build altars and monuments for you. You are his religion. Your birthday and the anniversary of your first date are holidays he refuse to work on. Doesn’t matter if he’s offered hundreds of thousands of dollars for a ten minutes performance, he simply refuses to be away from you on those days. And if you so much as utter an « I need you », this man will drop absolutely everything. He’s done it in the past and he absolutely has no regrets about flying for five hours on a day off from tour to be able to surprise you at work after you mentioned it was « so hard being away » from him. He is usually mindful about climate change but for you, this man will turn into Taylor « taking my jet for a ten minutes flight » Swift. He literally doesn’t care about the world burning as long as there is a smile on your face. Marshall is not a big spender but for you, he doesn’t care about numbers. His goddess deserves the very best and, thank God for that merch money, he is able to give it to you. He’s not a diva but he demands the very best for you. He couldn’t care less about the water brought to him in his dressing room before a performance. But he makes sure it’s your favorite brand. Same for snacks. If he has to fly someone to another country to get something for you, he absolutely will. In his mind, it’s the least he can do for the woman who blesses him with her presence. He is almost offended when someone fails to greet you properly and he absolutely is when someone straight up disrespects you. If he could, he would fight duels in your honor. Somehow, you managed to turn this stoic individual in the utmost gentleman. When he’s by your side, you will never be caught walking on the wrong side of the pavement, having to hold your own bags. He’d rather die than have that. But you’ll never be caught. Because he protects you like you’re the most precious treasure there is. He’s never caught in your presence, because he doesn’t want to have you plagued by the media and harassed by fans and, yet, he manages to show you off. In private, he doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he’s head over heels with you. Your name is on his lips constantly, and the way he talks about you shows just how devoted he is. At first, people close to him got a little worried. Who were you ? What were your intentions ? It seemed like you were out of nowhere. Walked into Marshall’s life one day and, from then on, he was addicted. They had every reason to be suspicious. And then, they met you. And they understood. They got to witness the genuineness of your interactions, how your eyes mirrored Marshall’s devotion, the way he leaned into your touch so naturally and just how you seemed to heal the parts of him that had been left raw. For the first time in forever, they saw him at peace. Not merely content. Happy. They expected to hate you, because what kind of high maintenance brat has the most stoic man they ever knew act like a puppy ? Only, they couldn’t. It wasn’t quite clear how things worked out between you and Marshall and, in hindsight, it was none of their business. But they couldn’t hate you when it was clear as day that « Em » as most call him, had finally found a safe space. So you won them over as well, and they gave you the princess treatment.

[stuffeddrawer]

cw: alcohol, throwing up bc of alcohol word count: 1068 MDNI

⁽ᵖᵒˢᵗ ᵈᶦᵛᶦᵈᵉʳ ⁻ ᵃˢᵐᵒᵈᵉᵘˢ⁻ᵖˢᵈ⁾

You’re used to being on the outside, looking through glass containing delicate and well curated friendships. You’ve tried, God knows you’ve tried, to get out there, to try and befriend others, have what they have, but you’re always the ‘oh, yeah’ the afterthought, if not outright forgotten.

You live alone, with a dog that seems more interested in the food you eat rather than you yourself.  You don’t have any friends, save for the one that you met online years ago, but they live in another country altogether. You know they have their own group of friends, and you’re okay with that – you’re elated for them. You know it’s hard for them to make friends, but they still seem to have an easier time than you do. It’s almost as though you’ve forgotten how to even talk to people outside of work.

In short, you’re a loner.

A loner who somehow ended up at your boss’ house for a party. You’re still trying to figure that one out. They’ve invited your coworkers, obviously, and friends of their own that they’ve curated throughout the years. You’re all close in age, there’s no awkwardness felt watching one another drink and get drunk. There’s no wincing or judgement when one has a shot, and the other sips on wine.

You’re a loner who’s plastered themself into the corner, slightly overwhelmed by both the music and the people, trying to figure out how to even talk to them. Again, that creeping feeling roars in your chest – You’ve gone and forgotten how to talk to people, haven’t you? Your brain tells you. You wince without making too much of a face, more of a shudder, as if fighting off a sudden chill when the entire house feels like it jumped up by ten degrees.

You’re a loner who’s somehow caught the attention of not one, not two, not even three, but four pairs of eyes, and you haven’t noticed how they’re all looking at you. Albeit in turns, but to them, you’re stunning, like a breath of fresh air even when it feels like you yourself are suffocating under all this noise, stuck between a wall and your coworker’s drunk boyfriend who seems to be flirting with the monstera plant next to you. You try not to laugh. You fail to suppress a giggle, which only seems to make the four pairs of eyes light up at the sight of that smile, even though it’s small, on your lips.

You’ve never been a social person – maybe that’s why you have no friends, save for the one in your pocket, living a thousand miles away. You’ve never been a social person, yet somehow you’ve managed to end up with someone’s arm around your broad shoulders, keeping you close and grounded. He smells like citrus, smells bright – explosive. His cheerful and charming smile distracting you from the insane noise that seems to have only gotten louder the more and more people drank. Your coworker’s boyfriend isn’t slick with how he throws up in the soil. Poor plant.

You’re not a social person, yet somehow you’ve managed to wrangle possibly the most prettiest man you’ve ever laid eyes on, in a damn ball cap no less, and he’s serving you your next drink – just a simple beer, but it’s enough for you right now. You’re too hot and flushed to be enjoying anything else, really you should be drinking water, but the way this man dotes on you, those big brown eyes of his staring at you as if you’re the only one who’s ever mattered, is making you a little dizzy. Not the alcohol, certainly not that. You’ve not nearly had enough. You’ve never had someone look at you the way he is.

You’re the least social person out there, but there’s something about the way that this man with mutton chops has his hand on the small of your back, guiding you out of a crowded area of the house to someplace more open. There’s something different about that kind, quokka-like smile of his. Where one might see it as condescending, you only see it as a silent question, asking if you’re alright, waiting, patiently, almost. If you weren’t so on guard, if you weren’t so tense and uncomfortable with the amount of people here, with how rowdy these people were, people you work with, you’d be swept off your feet. Which is exactly what this man is, these men are trying to do.

You’re not a social person at all, but somehow, sitting outside with this masked stranger, this burly stoic man, is calming and slowly the conversation begins to flow easily, starting with what you do, what your average day to day is, and somehow you end up giggling at a few of his dry jokes that no one really seems to laugh at. You’re not a social person, no, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have a wickedly dry sense of humour – you get his. The air might be chilly but surprisingly, you’re comfortable, warm. Seen.

You’re definitely not the most social person in the universe, yet somehow, you’re walking out of that party with four new numbers, four new names, four new friends. You’re a loner who’s walking out of that work-house-weird stupid coworker’s-boyfriend-flirted-with-and-threw-up-in-the-monstera-plant party with a big fat smile on your face, more energised walking out of it than you went in. Your cheeks hurt from smiling and laughing at Johnny’s dumb jokes. You’re a little tipsy from the drinks Kyle made you, but also ensured you had plenty of water and something in your stomach. You still feel John’s hand on your lower back, and you can still feel Simon’s presence next to you, offering silent comfort.

You’re not the most social person out there. You’re a loner. You stay alone, live alone, cook for one, and have a small amount of dishes to clean, just for yourself. Food goes bad before you get a chance to finish it, always making more for lunches, forgetting you’re pretty much a loner.

You’re not so much that same loner anymore when you’re waking up on a lazy Sunday morning with all four of those men in your new Alaskan king-sized bed, each of them pressing lazy morning kisses to each other's heads, groggy “g’mornings”, gruff huffs at being woken up. You’re happy you’re not so much of a loner anymore.

[frostara]

To serve, my beloved

Cregan Stark x Karstark!Female

Synopsis: If you pray hard enough the Gods may listen in your words; or do not – they may decide what is better for you.

Wordcount: 1k

Tags: Overall fluff, female character insert as I don’t like “Reader” labels, mind you this is medieval time and character’s view on things is misogynistic and partly delusional

Notes: Well here I go, hopefully some of you will like it! I desperately lack Cregan content here so guess time to make some of my own!

Oh, to be a wife to a good man...

It had always sounded like a fever dream to her. Something that she could not reach in her position. Her husband will be same to her kin - bitter and harsh on tongue, not someone who would love her or their kids, perhaps. She would be stuck with him, and mistake her not, she tried to look upon her future, finding hope that she would love her kids and husband, but, evil thoughts would still come back.

Thus it felt like a blessing from Old Gods when Astrid's father, lord Karstark, took her to Lady's Summons in year 125. Lady of ten and five years was given a chance for a life bettered by the will of Gods. At first, she felt trully amazed, faces and pictures dancing vividly in her head as she tried to portray what would it be like in Winterfell? What things would lay upon her gaze and who would she meet?

Her father made sure that she would be educated on story of the house they had served for many years and it's head - Lord of Winterfell. Listening to the stories, she knew he was a real man, someone to take rulement in his hands and be a true leader, a man who would have thousands following him. Her father would tell her about Starks with so much proud, not forgetting to mention the ancestory they shared.

-Fret not, my girl, conduct yourself with honor and do not forget that we are of the winter sun.

And Astrid listened. When she reached Winterfell after all the days in travel, she could not hide away relief that soon changed for worry - the time had come. All the things she was taught and saw with her eyes were put to use by her. She smiled at people, tried to talk to many and get to know this place. Her father indeed was an example to follow along the teachings of her lady-in-waiting.

But could anyone prepare her for the man when she saw him? Lord Cregan looked like a real wolf in man's skin: dark hair and eyes black like burnt wood in fireplace with furs wrapped around him, or rather, sitting on him like a trophy of a freshly killed animal. Perhaps, wisperers were true. Once he was a boy that killed his uncle, now was of tough kind. His features were heavy with shadows that danced on his face. Astrid thought of how she would look standing in the place beside him - hair of wood colour and eyes of cold water in a river. Mayhaps, she was a match to him.

She in fact was. Were it the other lords or masters or Cregan himself, but he did look at her. And was pleased with her company, as Astrid was later told, because the look on his face was hard to read, and she was worried of herself. Nonetheless, three weeks after the Summon through wich she was in Winterfell, a wedding ceremony was soon to be prepared. She had quite some time to meet people who were serving here as well as some other nobles or rather their children. What really caught her eye was the weirwood tree.

She knew that it had some remnants of ancient wisdom in it. It’s red leaves and face – mesmerising look. Astrid came to it with wary at first, as if she was invading a sacred place and putting a dark spot on it. She only had enough courage to look at it. Then, she dared to touch it and beg for some advice. In hopes that Gods would answer her she would sit or stand there, trying to realise what awaits for her.

The day she was dressed in furs, with hair combed and heart full of excitement mixed with anxiety was she standing in front of him. They only met a couple of times and there still was a lot she wanted to know about Cregan. He looked like he knew it all: what is it like to take a wife and create a family; to be the Warden of the North and the Wolf. Astrid thought they will have lots of moons for him to share his knowledge and to ask each other questions.

And as for now, as his cold lips would be on hers and his hands will wrap around her she will stay quiet – words are left for later.

[ir-abelas-vhenan]

Fermented Fruit Juice

I saw a post a while ago talking about how Varric ended up "winning" against Solas, and really liked it. I've been revisiting a lot of Inquisition dialogue lately and found perhaps my favorite conversation between the two when it comes to highlighting their ideological differences. It also foreshadows why Varric "wins" at the end of Veilguard (within the confines of the endgame choices we're given) even in death.

The crux of it: Varric lives in a world in which his very existence is an act of resistance, while Solas sees resistance as a trial that must be endured to get desired results.

As always, once I get started I'm sure this will be very long, but I love that we got the chance to see a very rare instance in which Solas concedes a point to one of his companions.

Solas: Once, in the Fade, I saw the memory of a man who lived alone on an island. Most of his tribe had fallen to beasts or disease. His wife had died in childbirth. He was the only one left. He could have struck out on his own to find a new land, new people. But he stayed. He spent every day catching fish in a little boat, every night drinking fermented fruit juice and watching the stars.

Varric: I can think of worse lives.

Solas: How can you be happy surrendering, knowing it will all end with you? How can you not fight?

Varric: I suppose it depends on the quality of the fermented fruit juice.

As always with Inquisition dialogue, I am obsessed. But this moment does such a great job of laying out the fundamental building blocks of each character.

Solas comes right out of the gate and lets us know who he is. He is united with the man living in the ruin of all that his life used to be.

Solas, too, is living alone in a world where all he once knew has been taken from him. Before his sleep he had a master to serve, and then a rebellion to lead. He fought, he was relentless; his people were suffering but they were whole. There were opportunities to find comfort, familiarity, or even just a new normal amongst new lands and people, but he rejected them (I think perhaps this is best shown through the murder of Felassan/the plot of the Masked Empire). Now, he lives as much as he possibly can in the fade and waits for his opportunity to restore the world he believes he ruined in his quest to save it (imprisoning the Evanuris through the creation of the veil).

Varric, conversely, has been tearing his way through this (to Solas) new world his entire life. I also think it's worth noting that his attitude is probably an absolute smack in the face to Solas, who knows what the dwarves once were and is responsible for the loss of their dreams and the ruination of the titans. But Varric doesn't need to know what was lost in order to know what an uphill battle he faces in Thedas as a dwarf. And fuck, he's from Kirkwall, he knows exactly how much worse life can get than a quiet existence with food, drink, and the stars for company.

But because these two have such a cool dynamic of agree-to-disagree/mutual admiration for each other, Varric thinks the story over and renews the discussion.

Varric: What's with you and the doom stuff? Are you always this cheery or is the hole in the sky getting to you?

Solas: I've no idea what you mean.

Varric: All the "fallen empire" crap you go on about. What's so great about empires anyway?

Varric: So we lost the Deep Roads, and Orzammar's too proud to ask for help. So what? We're not Orzammar and we're not our empire.

Varric: There are tens of thousands of us living up here in the sunlight now, and it's not that bad.

Varric: Life goes on. It's just different than it used to be.

Solas: And you have no concept of what that difference cost you.

Varric: I know what it didn't cost me. I'm still here, even after all those thaigs fell.

God I love what the dialogue in these games used to be. There's so much I could talk about, but I think what I want to focus on is the idea of empire being so smoothly fitted in to the discussion.

Varric, knowing Solas isn't fully satisfied with his answer, ruminates and comes back swinging. This is also where I'll add that part of the reason I think Varric throws Solas so badly is because he's what Felassan could have been with more time to form his arguments. When Solas made the choice to take Felassan's game piece off the board, our favorite slow arrow was just coming to terms with the idea that there is beauty in taking what an imperfect world offers you and making the best of it. Varric is comfortable in this viewpoint, and Solas can't just kill him on a mission or at Skyhold. He has no choice but to hear the argument he fights to ensure he doesn't have to hear.

And damn, what an argument. Without meaning to, Varric cuts to the quick of what has been haunting Solas. You cannot snap your fingers and re-establish Empire as it once was. Orzammar has cordoned itself off from the rest of the world, does not ask for help, and clings to an ever-crumbling old order. Even if you tried, too much has changed. Dwarves are not what they once were, and more and more have returned to the surface. Life goes on. It's just different than it used to be. And Solas has never been able to confront that possibility.

True to form, he pushes back. But why not give it a try? Why take what you've been given when you could wrest what you've been denied from the hand that holds it? How can you do nothing?

Solas: You truly are content to sit in the sun, never wondering what you could’ve been, never fighting back?

Varric: Ha, you’ve got it all wrong, Chuckles. This is fighting back.

Solas: How does passively accepting your fate constitute a fight?

Varric: In that story of yours—the fisherman watching the stars, dying alone—you thought he gave up right?

Solas: Yes.

Varric: But he went on living. He lost everyone, but he still got up every morning. He made a life, even if it was alone.

Varric: That’s the world. Everything you build, it tears down. Everything you’ve got, it takes—and it’s gone forever. The only choices you get are to lie down and die or keep going. He kept going. That’s as close to beating the world as anyone gets.

Solas: Well said. Perhaps I was mistaken

And then Varric hits him with it: a life alone is still a life. There is nothing that time will not take from us. What Solas fails to understand (and we can blame this on his pride, on his crusade he cannot lay down until he is free of his duty to Mythal, or his straight-up sentimentality) is that if Elvhenan hadn't fallen through the actions of the Evanuris and those he took to stop them, it would have been something else. Life is a wailing gnashing unrelenting song that will never be satisfied and can never cease dragging all that falls before it into its maw in the hopes that finally something will be enough. When it tears something down, your only choices are to "lie down and die or keep going." And again, as a Kirkwall survivor, Varric knows this. An occupying force remove your political leader? Quell the violence and try again. The chantry explodes? Save the city's mages from their bloodthirsty jailer and make sure there's a tomorrow where you can fight to fix it.

We know this doesn't dissuade Solas, the burden he's placed upon himself it too great, the ways that war has shaped him have scarred deep. Part of the tragedy of Solas is how he's been walking the dinan'shiral so long that he is incapable of turning around. Every step he takes has sent sharp rocks cutting into his feet, and it would kill him to turn around and see just how little of a distance he's covered. He cannot let go of resistance as a concentrated action, as fighting until there's nothing left but ruination.

But it is no small feat on Varric's part to get the Dread Wolf himself to concede a point. And a step further than that, Solas respects his friend, and respects the life he's built amongst the scraps of what once was. I don't doubt for a minute that Varric was a key part of why Solas was able to start seeing the world around him as a little more real.

And then of course we get Veilguard.

It is here that Solas dooms himself.

"You came a long way and made a valiant effort, Varric, but this story does not end with my downfall."

But it does. Because even if Varric, like Felassan, is taken off the table, Rook endures. And what is Rook in this game if not the very continuation of Varric's fighting spirit: an absolutely untested newbie who through miracle after miracle (regardless of the issues I may take with that) is the very portrait of "But he went on living" ?

Varric may not get to be the one to talk Solas down at the very end of the game after Mythal waves her hand and unleashes her second-in-command, but by delaying long enough to stop the ritual, by refusing to give up on his friend that stares at the stars every night with nothing but his fermented fruit juice for company, he ensured someone would be around who could.

In one of the less kind endings that person is Rook, dragging themselves into the fade with Solas out of sheer spite or sending him there against his will. In the kinder endings, it is the Inquisitor, letting their friend/heart know that at last, merely surviving another day is enough. And I like to think that it is within those kinder endings that Solas thinks of Varric each time he works to soothe the titan's dreams and make life just a little better for the tens of thousands living in the sunlight. Perhaps, in this world where he is finally free, he appreciates the gravity of ensuring others have a chance to keep living in a world that is hell-bent on taking. Maybe he even finds a cup of that fermented fruit juice in the fade, sits with his feet dangling over an endless abyss, and drinks to his friend's honor.

I'll leave y'all with a final bit of dialogue I love.

RIP Varric Tethras, an absolute fucking baddie who forced Fen'harel himself to part with just a smidge of his pride and recognize someone that reminded him of what he once was--wiser than most--and in the subtext of this conversation, wiser than a pining spirit of wisdom himself.

Solas: Do you ever miss life beneath the earth? The call of the Stone?

Varric: Nah. Whatever the Stone - capital S - is, it was gone by the time my parents had me.

Solas: But… do you miss it?

Varric: How could I miss what I never had?

Varric: But say I did have that sense, that connection to the Stone. What would it cost me?

Varric: Would I lose my friends up here? Would I stop telling stories?

Varric: I like who I am. If I want to hear songs, I'll go to a tavern.

Solas: You are wiser than most.

[inkdrinkerworld]

Hi! Love your blog. Its totally fine if you haven't/say no but have you ever thought about softdom! Spencer Reid having a lactation kink too? Like maybe he really enjoys it ever since you had the baby but also does it to help you out when youve already breastfed baby according to schedule, and they're too full and uncomfortable.

omg yes!! this is such a smart thought! cw: lactation!kink, mom!reader, dad!spence

spencer was nervous to bring it up first, especially when you had started overproducing.

you’d feed your baby, pump and bag milk and still be full.

it was more milk than either of you knew what to do with and spencer had read that breast milk is good for people of any ages.

“bug, can i try something?” he asks as he tucks your daughter into her cot beside your bed.

“try what spence?” you’re still full of milk and your breasts are a little hard as you press on them.

“i read that you can consume breast milk no matter how old you are and seeing that you’re overproducing i thought,” he runs a hand through his hair as his cheeks heat.

“i thought i could help.” he shrugs as he sits on the bed beside your thighs.

“if you think it’d help and if you’re not grossed out by it.” spencer’s eyes go wide.

“grossed out? i’m not grossed out by you. plus breast milk contains lots of lymphocytes that help with fighting infections.”

you chuckle and nod, “if you’re sure,” spencer is a thousand percent sure.

he lays in your lap, and tugs the straps of your nursing bra down. “you can’t have them both down,” you say sternly but spencer is already latching onto your exposed nipple. “spence,” you gasp, hand combing back his hair as he pulls milk. “feels good.”

he smiles around your nipple and his hand goes to your other exposed nipple and thumbs at it.

spencer times himself, ten minutes on one side and then he moves away. “did that help, darling?” milk is pooled at the corners of his mouth and his eyes have gone a little droopy.

your hand touches the top of your boob and you sigh as it feels soft and looks smaller than the other.

“yeah spence, thanks.” you say, already reaching for your pump to do the other side when spencer bats your hand.

“i wanna do the other side too.” he attaches to your other nipple before you can say anything else.

spencer spends a little longer on the other side, it takes more time to get the milk flowing. he understands why your daughter favours your other nipple.

“you’re an amazing husband, you know that?” you say as he pulls off and fixes the strap of your nursing bra.

spencer’s eyes are almost completely closed as he blushes. “you’re an amazing wife.” his words are slurred as he rolls over to his side of the bed. “they didn’t say that breast milk makes you lethargic in all those books.”

that makes you giggle softly as you slide down the bed and lay so your foreheads are touching. “i think that’s more to do with the suckling motion.”

your fingers brush his forehead and his hairline, watching his eyes flutter shut. “are you tired?” spencer asks and you smile.

this is your husband, the man who, even on the verge of sleep he wants to know if you are too. you’re positive if you tell him you’re wide awake he’d hold his eyes open till you were.

“yeah, if you give me a kiss first.” spencer puckers his lips and presses his lips to your jaw then your lips.

“i love you,” he slurs and you hum, tucking your face under his jaw.

“i love you too, spencer. get some sleep my love.”

[delulujuls]

saudade | as12

funny how you can miss someone you never met, right? my heart was aching today a lot and i cried even more while writing this so yes, it is long and it is sad, so you decide if you wanna read this or not. if you do, please enjoy if its even possible to enjoy bawling your eyes out lol

oh ayrton, you will always be missed

summary: during senna's funeral y/n has flashes of their shared past and what they could have together

warnings: for sure its intense, 5.6k words of pure sadness, thats it basically

pairing: fem!mclaren!driver x ayrton senna

It was a warm, pleasant day. The beginning of may didn't disappoint with the weather at all. A light, warm breeze swayed the flexible branches, on which fresh leaves were green. The sun was pleasantly warm, but it wasn't unbearable heat. Birdsong could be heard, but so could crying. On this day, mourners outnumbered the blossoming buds on the trees.

A crowd of people had gathered in front of the church, but it was nothing compared to the crowds still on their way. Everyone was dressed in black, and the only point of color in the black mass was a yellow dot, which from a bird's eye view resembled a sunflower petal, thrown onto the black, fertile soil. It was a helmet, a yellow racing helmet, which no one gathered there needed to be introduced to. In trembling hands, a young girl held it, never once moving it away from her chest. She held it against herself so tightly, as if she wanted to feel the warmth emanating from it, but it radiated coldness, like the inside of the church she was about to enter, barely able to keep herself on her feet.

Inside the chapel, it hadn't yet become crowded; the military made sure that the family and friends entered the church first. Inside, there was a grave silence, broken only by the occasional blowing of noses into tissues or a stifled sob.

The girl was aware of what was happening, she knew where she was and why she was there. However, her brain stubbornly avoided connecting the dots and completely pushed the facts out of her consciousness. If it had, she would probably have thrown the held helmet deep into the church, and it would have stopped only when it hit the wooden, solid coffin. The girl's gaze never once lifted towards her.

"Y/N, can you hear me?," the girl flinched when Ron's words reached her for the umpteenth time, "You know you don't have to be here, we can be outside."

The girl blinked several times, and at that very moment, her brain stopped pushing away the facts. Ron held her arm, his eyes swollen, his face even redder than usual. She herself pressed the helmet to her chest, so tightly that only when she moved it away from herself a little was she able to fully breathe. She raised her eyes and looked around. She stood in the front row of benches, where at the very top, just in front of the altar steps, stood the coffin. A large, carefully ironed Brazilian flag lay on it, its freely hanging ends touching the fresh flowers lying beneath it.

"Y/N…," the man began again, this time quieter. He saw tears in the girl's eyes, and he was about to continue, but she pressed the helmet tighter to her chest and started walking forward. She only moved the helmet away from herself when she placed it on the coffin. Y/N fell to her knees and began to sob, pressing her forehead against the hard lid. However, the lid of the coffin wasn't the only thing that separated her from her friend. The worst was death.

It was a brisk february morning. Silverstone Circuit had not yet woken up, there was no deafening roar of engines in the background, and the smell of burnt rubber didn't hang in the air.

Although it wasn't a race day and only a handful of people were milling around the facility, unlike the tens of thousands who usually flooded in for the weekend races, this day was expected to be exciting and full of emotions too.

Certainly, it was so for the 23-year-old Theodore Racing driver, who, sitting in the passenger seat on her way to the circuit, nervously picked at her nails. However, she should now be referred to as the "former Theodore Racing driver" because on this day, she had a test day at McLaren, with whom she signed a contract two weeks ago. In the past two months, the girl's life had changed dramatically. A few days after her birthday, she became the European Formula 3 World Champion, winning the title by just one point. One! The fact that she was so young and the only woman to rise so high meant that many people had their eyes on her and followed her every move. However, most people who hadn't seen her driving at over 200 kilometers per hour thought that being a woman automatically disqualified her from the sport. Ron Dennis, the head of McLaren, was familiar with her skills, though, and seeing how well she performed in the lower levels, he decided to take a risk and give her a chance. One of his proteges, however, wasn't so sure about this decision.

"Girl? You want to replace Prost with a girl?"

Senna, upon hearing the candidate to replace Alain, who, after five years of dealing with him, decided to quit and move away from McLaren, only shook his head.

"Yes, that's exactly what I plan to do," Ron lit a cigarette and shifted his gaze from the car to the disgusted face of the Brazilian, "Maybe she'll calm you down a bit. It's a miracle I found anyone to take Prost's place, no one wants to work with you!"

Ayrton snorted and shook his head again, unable to believe that his boss wanted to do something so idiotic. Silence fell in the garage, none of the mechanics intended to interrupt their conversation. Just like everyone else in the team agreed with Ron that it was a miracle to find anyone willing to take Prost's place, the same majority couldn't imagine a woman starting to race in Formula 1. Especially alongside a driver like Senna.

"A few races, and she'll quit on her own," the Brazilian muttered, "You'll see."

"Pray that she likes you and wants to race for us."

When the car stopped in the gravel parking lot, the girl got out and put on her sunglasses. Tom, her manager and a close friend of her father, just glanced at her and rubbed her back. He knew perfectly well how stressed she was. No one would be prepared for so much in such a short time.

"Everything will be fine."

"You don't have to say that."

He sighed and just pointed with his hand towards the entrance to the facility, letting her through the glass doors. He didn't convince himself too much. Shortly after, after receiving the appropriate instructions, they reached the paddock. Here, the sun didn't glare in her eyes, so the girl took off her glasses, looking around. An empty Silverstone was something unheard of.

"Good morning, welcome, good to see you,"

Ron, standing in front of the garage, as soon as he noticed the girl, broke off from the conversation with one of the mechanics and smiled at her, shaking her hand. She showed up for the tests, so he thought she deserved a shot. Maybe this would work.

The girl made an effort to smile and nodded at him. Fortunately, she didn't have to engage in a conversation with him because he was immediately engaged by her manager. She was glad that in moments like this, someone else could spare her from meaningless chatter.

"Good morning."

She greeted, approaching the car where a few men were working on the wheels, wing, and cockpit. Some of them spoke up, while the rest just nodded at her. She immediately felt unwelcome, and barely a minute had passed since she appeared in the garage. However, this was nothing new to her, she would lie if she said she was surprised. But the most important thing for her was that Ron treated her as an equal, or at least didn't make her feel like she didn't belong here. That gave her a sense of comfort. She didn't need a crowd standing behind her; she only needed two people who had her back.

The girl slowly walked around the car. The new, ready-for-the-season MP4/4 looked very good. Next to the car marked with her number stood another, practically identical, differing only in the number painted in red on the front.

However, the owner of the car was nowhere to be seen, at least not in sight. Y/N hadn't had the opportunity to meet Ayrton personally. The drivers' presentation with the car was scheduled for the end of the month, so it was quite likely that until then, she would have time to mentally prepare herself. She knew Ayrton from stories; she could watch his battles both on and off the track on television, the domestic war he waged with Alain Prost which ended with the Frenchman's departure to Ferrari.

Y/N knew she would have to face many things, one of which was Senna.

"Ready?"

Ron's voice snapped her out of her thoughts, he held a helmet and jumpsuit for her in his hand. She nodded and took the items from him, going to change. When she returned, she took her place in the cockpit, and after some time, when everything was ready, she followed the instructions and took her place on the track. She took a deep breath and clenched her hands on the steering wheel, staring at the start lights. When they went out, the girl sped off with squealing tires and the roar of the engine.

Ron and Tom stood next to each other, watching her movements on small monitors. After some time, the mechanics also began to glance at the monitors, seemingly more interested in whether she hadn't crashed yet than in her results. What surprised them was the sight on one of the displays showing her current lap time, which now stood at 1.38.412 seconds. Ron smiled and shook his head in amazement. The young girl was incredible.

The car itself wasn't handling badly. Besides feeling like a huge boat, to which she was definitely too small, it was actually a well-engineered machine. A few more laps, and she should be able to tame it completely. Although this fact was reassuring. When the girl spotted the checkered flag, she obediently pulled into the garage. She turned off the engine and unfastened her seatbelts, but she didn't get out of the car or take off her helmet because Ron was already beside her, hugging her tightly.

"Young lady, you flew in that car!" The man helped her out of the car, and she took off her helmet and balaclava, taking out the earplugs. "I told you, you did amazingly. Unbelievable lap time, great driving."

The girl wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and blew a strand of wet hair from her forehead.

"It's a really good car, sir."

"A good car without a good driver is just a good car, and a good car with a great driver is a masterful car," Ron shook her hand again, "Brilliant job."

The girl returned his smile, and when she glanced at Tom standing a few steps away, he was also smiling, his smile was the kind of "I told you so."

Y/N gave appropriate feedback to the mechanics and strategists, who now seemed to pay attention to her significantly more than when she first appeared in the garage that morning. Their faces still tried to remain impassive, but nevertheless, they noted everything she had to say. When it was all over, the girl went to change. She washed her face with cold water and looked at herself in the mirror, clenching her hands on the cold sink. She did it.

When she managed to cool down and calm herself down a bit, clutching her helmet under her arm and holding her jumpsuit in the other hand, shortly after she left the bathroom. Suddenly, she bumped into someone, and that someone turned out to be someone she sincerely didn't want to meet that day.

"Watch where you're going."

Senna muttered, holding a lit cigarette between his lips. He gave her a quick glance and disappeared through the doorway, his jumpsuit rustling as he walked away.

The girl squeezed her helmet tighter under her arm and returned to the garage, putting things back in place. After receiving the last praise and handshake from Ron, she said goodbye and left the paddock with Tom. Ayrton pretended to be too busy preparing for the start, so he didn't honor her with even a single glance. When he heard Ron praising her driving, he only snorted under his breath and shook his head. When the garage fell silent again, Ayrton took his place in the car, getting ready to drive.

"1.38.412"

Senna looked up when Ron spoke above his head.

"1.38.412," he repeated calmly, "The lap time of a twenty-three-year-old after her first drive in a Formula 1 car."

The Brazilian snorted and lowered his gaze, putting earplugs in his ears.

"I hope you'll be better than the girl."

Ayrton didn't hear his words anymore because he put on his balaclava and helmet. He didn't believe the girl had achieved such a lap time. And even if she did, it only spoke of the car's capabilities, not her skills. Senna hoped he would be faster by at least a few seconds. He had been racing in Formula 1 for almost five years; he was incredibly fast, and above all, he was a man!

When the tests ended, and he returned to the garage, satisfied with himself and his driving, the first thing he did was to look for Ron's reaction, wanting to see his expression when he rubbed his nose in it. However, the Brit looked at him indulgently, and Senna, not knowing what he meant, quickly tried to free himself from the seat belts. The Brit simply turned the monitor towards him and pointed with his finger at something that, according to Ayrton, was a big mistake.

Between him and the girl, there was a difference of a few seconds, indeed. But Ayrton was slower.

When Senna freed himself from the car, hastily took off his helmet and balaclava, and removed the earplugs, he was about to say something when Ron stopped him, pressing a cassette to his chest.

"Here, watch it tonight and see how the twenty-three-year-old beat you."

Ayrton squeezed the cassette in his hand and only watched him leave, unable to utter a word. It was some kind of absurdity!

Absurd or not, Senna spent the evening in front of the TV. He sat on the couch, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He frowned and carefully watched the recording from the camera placed in her cockpit. He saw how she aggressively entered corners, braking as late as possible, and how quickly she stepped on the gas when the centrifugal forces stopped working. He took a drag and blew smoke from his mouth, rewinding the tape from the beginning, just as it ended. The recording lasted twenty minutes, and he watched it for the seventh time, counting each lap on his stopwatch. Every time, the result was the same.

He couldn't wrap his head around what she had done, but he decided to consider it just a stroke of luck. She had a better day; he had a slightly worse one. Moreover, it wasn't the testing session or even the qualifying rounds that determined the winner, but the race itself. Driving on an empty track without rivals wanting to take your position was one thing, but racing in a competition where everyone wanted to beat you was a completely different matter. If someone had told Ayrton then that four years later, that girl would shed tears at his funeral, he would have told them to fuck themselves.

Y/N felt a strong arm around her waist, trying to lift her. Ron's heart broke seeing her in such a state. However, he couldn't help her even if he wanted to.

"Y/N, please…," he began, but she shook her head, overcome with tears. Wet stains of tears were visible on the flag covering the coffin. The girl was trembling all over, it was a miracle she could breathe. Since the accident, it seemed like Y/N was handling the tragedy very well, just being sad and quiet. No one had any idea what was yet to come. Everyone who saw Y/N by the coffin, this sight of a broken girl, felt nothing but sympathy. The bond she had formed with Ayrton seemed stronger and much richer in emotions than any he had with any of his partners. Ayrton wasn't just her teammate, he wasn't just a friend or sometimes her biggest enemy. From the very beginning, Y/N mattered to him, and if he said otherwise, he was simply lying.

The official skills assessment test for the girl was scheduled to take place less than three weeks after her first visit to the McLaren garage. Now, however, an official presentation awaited her at the reception hosted by the team. One evening at the company headquarters, a banquet was held, attended by far more people than initially anticipated. Most of them were journalists who had to announce to the world the phenomenon that was a woman at the top level of motor racing.

"It's more crowded here than I thought," the girl admitted when she entered the team headquarters with Tom by her side.

"Everyone is curious about you. There are even a couple of journalists from Australia, believe it or not," Tom said.

She looked at him in shock. "And they flew here specifically for this presentation?"

He smiled and nodded. "They'll be talking to kangaroos and kiwi birds about you," he joked, trying to lighten the mood. And it worked because she giggled at his words. However, her smile faded when she noticed Ron talking to Ayrton and two other men in suits.

"Everything will be fine. You did well on the tests, so you'll do well here too," he said softly, rubbing her arm when he noticed her expression.

"There weren't any sharks in suits and piranhas with cameras there," Tom was about to add some words of encouragement when Ron spotted them and raised his hand with a glass in it, trying to get their attention. They approached him, and he greeted them, introducing them to the directors. Ayrton, standing aside, was mindful of how many people were now watching him and wondering if his new teammate would share Prost's fate. However, the Brazilian had no intention of making an effort for gestures he didn't intend. Nevertheless, courtesy demanded it, so he extended his hand, which she hesitantly shook.

"Senna," he said, his Brazilian accent strongly evident in his last name. "Welcome to the team."

The girl introduced herself as well, but it was hard for her to maintain eye contact. Not because he was almost half a head taller, but because of the confidence emanating from him. It was his team, his place, and his time, and she was just a guest. There was no room for discussion.

Fortunately, the awkward situation was soon interrupted as the drivers and management were invited onstage. Ayrton gestured for the girl to go ahead, and she began to walk in front of him.

"I hope you don't grip the wheel as weakly as you do hands," he murmured behind her, quietly enough so no one else would hear, but loud enough for her to hear his words.

Y/N lowered her gaze, feeling a wave of heat wash over her. Even if she wanted to respond, she couldn't. He caught her completely off guard.

As they stepped onto the small stage, they stood behind one of the cars prepared for this season. The girl intertwined her fingers behind her back and straightened up, standing next to Ayrton. He might play his stupid games on her, but she had no intention of showing that she would easily give in. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and almost believed that his comment had gone unnoticed, but her cheeks were flushed. Normally, he would probably snort under his breath, but now he kept his composure.

After a few words from Ron and the board members, the floor was given to the drivers. The two of them remained on stage, each with a microphone in hand. Now it was time for the media, for their pressing questions and burning issues.

Ayrton sat relaxed, almost bored. His legs were bent at the knees, slightly apart. One hand was around his waist, resting his elbow on it, holding the microphone in the other hand. He answered questions briefly and to the point, not dwelling more than necessary. His attire alone indicated that today's banquet was just a formality; he wore a suit, but instead of a shirt, he had a white T-shirt, and on his feet were sports shoes.

Despite her best efforts not to stress out, Y/N was far from as calm as Ayrton. She sat up straight, one leg crossed over the other. Although her red dress practically touched the floor, she glanced occasionally to make sure nothing was out of place. She felt like every move, even the smallest one, was being watched and analyzed. She felt she wasn't focusing on the content of the questions but on how she appeared.

The girl blinked several times, trying to find a sensible answer to the question that had been directed at her a few seconds ago.

"Could you repeat that?" she asked, feeling a bit embarrassed about her inattention. Ayrton, however, heard the question well.

"I asked if you think you're good enough to compete with men or if you're just here for publicity? Racing is still a male-dominated sport, and it seems like you're just trying to prove something rather than compete," the man in glasses squeezed the voice recorder in his hand and looked at her expectantly. Seeing her confusion, he sighed, "I see you're not too bright, so let me ask directly - do you really think you belong here? Do you have what it takes to keep up with the boys on the track?"

The girl panicked a little; this question completely threw her off guard. Emotions overwhelmed her, and she couldn't utter a word. But there was someone who could speak and had an exceptionally sharp tongue.

"I see that, Mr. - again, for whom are you writing?" Ayrton spoke up, furrowing his brows.

"John Ruffleck, Guardian."

"Ah, of course, the Guardian," the man clicked his tongue indulgently. "Clearly, you are the one that didn't shine with intelligence, asking last year's Formula 3 world champion if she fits in here." Y/N was shocked to hear that Ayrton stood up for her. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Despite still sitting calmly, the Brazilian was ready for a verbal battle. "If I fit in here, then the 23-year-old who set a better lap time than me during the tests also fits."

Ayrton bluntly silenced the journalist, who merely muttered a quiet "Thank you" and lowered his head.

Several more questions were thrown in by Ayrton, steering the conversation away from sexist undertones. By the end of the conference, there were no more questions about sexist issues. The drivers got up from their seats, and Y/N turned off her microphone, placing it on the sound table as Senna did the same.

"Thank you," she said, looking at him. He also looked at her, but this time his expression didn't express annoyance or boredom, as it did two times before when their eyes met.

"Don't thank me," he said, taking two glasses of champagne from the waitress. "You are allow to drink, right?" he asked before handing her one of them. She nodded and took the glass from him. "Don't thank me, just learn to counter such nonsense. If they're rude, we can be rude too."

Y/N took a big sip of champagne. Her mouth was dry from nerves.

"I don't want to be rude, it's not proper," she said.

"Not proper?" Senna scoffed. "Because you're a girl?"

"Because they'll think poorly of me"

"Do you really care what that bunch of idiots thinks?"

The girl lowered her gaze. Ayrton was right.

Did she really care? She was a driver; she was supposed to deliver good results. She wasn't supposed to please the audience.

She was about to reply when Ron approached them, cursing the Guardian journalist's stupidity. He was so caught up that he didn't even notice Ayrton sending the girl a final glance and then finishing his champagne, taking out cigarettes from his back pocket, and walking away towards the exit. Y/N only watched him go. At that moment, neither of them had any idea how much she would learn from Ayrton, or that he would gladly take on the role of a teacher himself. No one would have even thought of it then.

When Ron managed to lift the shaken girl, she reached for her helmet again and pressed it to her chest. When she looked up, across from her, on the other side of the coffin, she saw a man in a wheelchair. Frank Williams looked at her in silence, but his gaze was apologetic, his face sad, and his eyes looked like he hadn't slept for days.

"Why?" Y/N whispered, but she wasn't sure if anything managed to leave her lips. Williams didn't need to hear her; her eyes said it all. Even if he couldn't hear her question or look into her swollen, tear-filled eyes, he would know perfectly well that she blamed him for his death. "Why, Frank? Why?" Maybe even more than she blamed God.

"If you can hold on to me for longer than five seconds, I'll let you pass," Ayrton said, exhaling smoke. He sat on one of the crates outside McLaren's garage, wearing sunglasses. The weather for the upcoming race looked exceptionally good, but Senna wouldn't mind rain.

"Are you challenging me?" the girl asked, squinting and looking at him against the light. They were sitting outside, where it was quieter, as the mechanics worked inside the garage.

"Why would I?" the man chuckled, taking another drag. Seeing her uncertainty, he offered her a cigarette, trying to reassure her with his gesture.

Y/N took the cigarette and inhaled the smoke, which tickled her throat, making her cough. She wrinkled her nose and after a moment handed him back the cigarette.

"Don't you want to test my braking skills and eliminate me from the race?"

Ayrton laughed and shook his head. "So, I do have a bad reputation after all."

"Definitely not the best," the girl said softly, smiling uncertainly. Ayrton playfully nudged the crate she was sitting on with his foot. He genuinely liked this girl; in fact, he could and wanted to work with her. Now he was even willing to let her win the race if she showed that she could keep up with him. She had demonstrated many times that she could drive at an exceptionally high level, so Senna was willing to show some humanity and let her achieve her first victory, especially on home turf. He stubbed out the cigarette and stood up, taking off his cap and placing it on her head, pulling it down over her eyes.

"Five seconds," he repeated, walking away as she adjusted the cap on her head.

The girl decided to take up the challenge, realizing that such an opportunity might never come again. Ayrton and collaboration? They were complete opposites after all. Y/N, who started the next day from the last place on the podium, managed to fight her way up to second place at the beginning of the race. She spent the next forty laps chasing after Ayrton, wondering if there was any point in chasing him if she couldn't overtake him. Seeing his familiar helmet in the side mirror, Ayrton smiled. He added a bit more throttle and began counting to five, but the girl's car didn't seem to be falling back. When the agreed time was up, much to everyone's disbelief, both on the track and in front of the TVs, Senna slowed down and obediently let her pass. Unable to believe her own eyes, the girl pressed the gas and took the lead, crossing the finish line with him.

She only believed in her victory when Ayrton offered her his hand and helped her onto the podium.

"Five seconds," he said, smiling at her.

"Five seconds," she replied, returning the smile.

How much she would give to see Ayrton again, even for five seconds. To be able to hug him for five seconds, see his smile. Five seconds now would last like an eternity, for which she would pay any price.

The church was filled with people, mostly family and friends, individuals directly connected to Ayrton. The remaining people were outside, surrounding the church, also gathering along the main road. There were talks of crowds, thousands who came to bid farewell to their hero. They too would give much to see Ayrton even for five seconds. Whole, alive, before the Imola accident.

Y/N held the helmet on her knees, looking at it with vacant eyes. She ran her fingers along the edges, tracing the stickers and sponsor names. She squeezed the soft padding inside. She closed her eyelids. Five seconds.

"Necessity is the mother of invention," Ayrton said, loud enough to make the girl jump. She was barefoot, wearing shorts and a bikini top, with his helmet on her head, visor down. She waved a piece of cardboard towards the grill, trying to ignite it better and not wanting the smoke to get in her eyes, deciding to use whatever she had at hand. And hoping Ayrton wouldn't get mad that she used his helmet for this.

The man smiled and shook his head, placing the wood he held in his hands next to the grill. Standing next to the girl, he lifted the visor and looked into her eyes. She looked at him apologetically.

"I'm sorry, I-"

"It suits you," Senna interrupted, smiling. "Possibly even more than me."

"Do you think so?"

The man nodded. His hair, damp from swimming in the lake, fell onto his forehead, and his brown eyes sparkled. Ayrton had been looking at Y/N like this for some time, in a way that many would describe as tender. Certainly, the girl wasn't just a teammate to him, as who would invite a teammate to their hometown to meet their closest family. Certainly not Ayrton.

"I love you, Y/N,"

He confessed as he lay on the jetty, gazing at the starry sky, where there was no trace of the hot Brazilian sun anymore.

The girl laughed and took a sip of beer, lying next to him and leaning on his arm. Both were drunk, so she was sure Ayrton was joking. However, when his confession was met with silence and he turned to look at her, his face was deadly serious.

"I mean it, Y/N. I love you,"

"You can't love me, you have a girlfriend," she replied, still laughing. There was no way he was serious.

Ayrton got up and without a word, kissed her, wanting to prove his words. When he pulled away after a moment, there was no smile on the girl's face. He was about to say something again, but she touched his cheek and returned the kiss, and he pulled her closer, holding her tightly in his arms. That night, they would find out how much they meant to each other.

Senna meant a lot to the girl, there was no doubt about it. He also meant unimaginable things to all those who took part in the funeral ceremonies, not only in Brazil itself but worldwide. It might have seemed like the world had lost an incredible man, someone who in life had already become a legend. Who would have thought that this living, almost mystical legend was just a man? A man who is mortal. Surely no one looked at Senna that way. Certainly not Frank Williams, who eventually decided to agree and accept Ayrton into his team, bearing an incredible burden now. Senna was supposed to lift his team to great heights, and his tragic death dealt a blow, not so much personal as it was business-related. However, at that moment, that mattered least.

Y/N and Ayrton sat at the kitchen table, eating a late dinner in silence. They were in their shared home in Europe, but for the past few months, the walls of the house seemed to be becoming more alien with each passing day. The atmosphere was as thick as it is now, when none of the people sitting at the table even bothered to steal a glance.

"Why didn't you tell me you wanted to go to Williams?"

The girl asked, stirring the contents of her plate with her fork. Ayrton tightened his grip on the glass and took a few sips from it.

"Ayrton-", "Why did I have to tell you?" he entered her words and looked at her, "Just to make you try to stop me?

Y/N blinked several times. She was shocked. She had the impression that the man sitting opposite was a complete stranger and someone she had never known before.

"To stop you? I'm your girlfriend, I should be the first to know about your plans, not hear from strangers."

"Did it change anything? Did something happen that you didn't find out from me?"

"Yes!" she shouted, slamming her hand on the table. She was so done with all of this. "I'm fed up with you treating me like an enemy for several weeks!"

"Don't you dare raise your voice at me!" he stood up, leaning over and pointing his finger at her. "You have no idea how much I had to do to get that offer, how much it cost me!"

"I have no idea, because you don't tell me anything!" she also stood up, pushing his hand away, which he was aiming at her face, "Fame has gone to your head, you're acting like a complete idi-" She didn't get to finish because Ayrton slapped her across the face. He didn't realize when his open hand met her cheek. Y/N grabbed her cheek and looked at him in shock. At the moment of the strike, he also seemed to snap out of it, as if he had been hit himself.

"Y/N, I'm sorry," he said calmly, trying to approach her, but she backed away a few steps, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that."

"But you did," she said with a trembling voice, tears welling up in her eyes, "I don't recognize you anymore, Ayrton".

As the funeral rites began, the last thing on Y/N's mind was their recent arguments, of which there had been plenty lately. Nonetheless, since the incident when he raised his hand to her, Senna understood he had crossed a line. The only upside of the whole situation was that they had started talking again, and Ayrton had come to realize that Y/N was not his enemy. Yes, on the track, the girl might be someone he now had to defeat even more than usual, but she was still his friend, his girlfriend, his partner. Speaking of partners, many women appeared at the funeral, but four of them spent exceptionally long periods by the coffin. They had a lot in common, yet none of them deigned to exchange glances. Each of Ayrton's partners, even today, on such a dramatic day, looked at her as if she were an enemy. Viviane made sure none of them sat on the bench where the family was seated. Y/N belonged to the family. She didn't intrude, Ayrton invited her himself.

"Maybe you should take a break?" Sid Watkins persistently tried to persuade Ayrton and Y/N to withdraw from the upcoming race. "Two weeks, you'll come back to Monaco in better shape, with lighter minds."

Senna sat on one of the crates behind the Williams garage, elbows resting on his knees. Y/N repeatedly wiped her tear-streaked cheeks, trembling hand holding a cigarette. An hour ago, the qualifying session for tomorrow's race was interrupted by Roland Ratzerberger's serious accident. The man was taken to the hospital, but many said he was taken from the track already dead.

"This shouldn't have happened, there shouldn't have been talk of such an accident," the girl repeated, almost hysterical. She was in tremendous shock, having witnessed the accident herself as she was the one who followed Ratzerberger's car.

"They need to cancel the race," Senna said dryly, his gaze fixed on a point in front of him. "We can't race here, not after something like this."

"And if they don't cancel?" Sid looked from Ayrton to Y/N. "Will you race in such a state? You won't sleep over this until tomorrow."

"If they don't cancel, we'll race for him. I'll drive the best I can to honor him with a victory," Ayrton decided, raising his gaze and looking the doctor in the eyes.

"You like fishing, right? Why don't you go back to Brazil, catch some fish, relax. If you want, I'll come with you, I could use it too."

Senna rubbed his face with his hands, intertwining his fingers and pressing them against his lips. Again, he fell silent. He knew they couldn't not race; he certainly couldn't afford to tell Frank after months of effort that he wouldn't start tomorrow. He couldn't do that.

"I don't want to race," Y/N admitted, shaking her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Ayrton, he, Roland-" the man rose without a word and hugged her tightly. He enveloped her in a strong embrace, stroking her hair. Watkins saw that Senna was thinking intensely. And no matter what he said or did to convince him to skip the race, he would do it his own way.

"Think about it, Ayrton. Just think about it," he said one last time. Senna looked him in the eyes and nodded in silence.

Late in the afternoon, Ayrton and Y/N returned to the hotel. They didn't talk much; Y/N occasionally wiped her eyes with a tissue. Ayrton held her hand a lot. When they lay in bed, Senna laid on her stomach, wrapping his arm around her waist. The girl began to run her fingers through his damp hair.

"I don't want to start tomorrow, Y/N," he said softly. He was facing away from her, she couldn't see that he was crying too. "I have a bad feeling."

"You know nobody can force you to do it," she said calmly, her other hand stroking his cheek. "Maybe Watkins is right? Let's fly to your parents, spend time with the kids. It's been two months since you've seen them."

"I can't," he said, wiping his face with his hand. "I can't, nobody needs a driver who doesn't race."

"Ayrton—" "Just hold me," he interrupted, sitting up. The girl obeyed his command, sitting between his legs and hugging him tightly. Both were silent; Y/N tenderly stroked his head and tense back.

"This will be my last season," he said, not moving an inch from her. "I've done enough; I don't need more. I want to focus on something else, on more important things."

"On what, my love?" she asked gently, still stroking his hair.

"I want to be a dad,"

Senna surprised her with this confession. The girl smiled.

"Would you like to have a son or a daughter?"

"A daughter, oh, how I'd love a daughter," he said, pulling away to look at her face. "Would you like to have a child with me? And become my wife?"

Y/N smiled and nodded. "You know I would."

Ayrton returned her smile and cupped her face in his hands, kissing her deeply.

"Te amo, querido,"

"I love you too, Ayrton. And i will always do."

"And i will always do," Y/N said qiuetly, watching as the coffin slowly descends into the ground. Nothing can destroy such love, certainly not death.

[skateordiebitch]

I LIKE HER || D.F. x reader

‘i’d give the world to her

as long as my heart's still beating

as long as she's next to me

because i like her’

summary: dominic goes to your house for thanksgiving. to say he's nervous... is an understatement.

inspired by '20191009 i like her' by mac demarco! this was so cute to write, even though my parents are definitely not like this and i have never invited a significant other over... like ever LMFAO. i also wrote after i smoked and made it an reader x elliot story. (???) so i had to re-edit all of it this morning. last time i'm ever doing that😭

enjoy, and as always, requests are open <3

The drive to your parents’ house was quiet, but not in the usual, comfortable way. 

The silence hung in the air, thick with tension and anticipation, rather than the easygoing, relaxed kind you’d grown used to in the car with Dominic. 

His fingers gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were bone white, his jaw clenched in concentration, and every now and then, he glanced at you with a nervous, half-smiling look that almost made your heart ache. 

It was endearing in a way, but also a little disconcerting. 

This was the same guy who could walk on stage in front of hundreds of people without flinching, who seemed to breeze through life with his trademark devil-may-care attitude. 

Yet today, in the face of Thanksgiving dinner with your parents, Dominic was unmistakably, undeniably terrified. 

You watched him for a moment, your mind spinning with a thousand thoughts. You’d known Dominic long enough to know how much he hated being vulnerable, how much he hated showing weakness. 

But here he was, acting as though he were about to face a firing squad instead of a family dinner. It was hard to reconcile with the confident, magnetic man you knew. 

“Babe, you’re acting like you’re about to go into court or something,” you teased gently, reaching over to rub his shoulder in a reassuring gesture.

He let out a breathy laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

His gaze remained fixed on the road, his expression still tense. “I might as well be. Your dad hates me, doesn’t he? I mean, he’s gonna hate me for sure. I’ve heard all about him.”

You rolled your eyes, fighting back a smile. “My dad doesn’t even know you yet. Besides, you’re gonna charm him just like you charm everyone else. Remember when you met my friends? You had them in love with you in, like, ten minutes.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to marry your friends,” he muttered under his breath, still staring at the road with a furrowed brow.

Your heart skipped a beat at his admission. 

It wasn’t the first time he’d hinted at something more serious between you two, but this was the first time he’d put it so plainly. 

His face flushed as soon as the words left his mouth, and he cleared his throat awkwardly, trying to cover up his slip. “I mean… I’m just saying, meeting your parents is a big deal. Like, huge. And what if I mess it up?”

His voice trailed off, and you could hear the uncertainty in it, the raw vulnerability that was so unlike the confident, carefree persona he usually put on. 

You leaned in, your hand resting gently on his arm. 

“Dominic,” you murmured softly, your voice full of affection, “You’re not going to mess it up. Just be yourself. That’s the guy I fell in love with, and I promise, it’s the guy they’ll love, too.”

He glanced at you, his eyes softening just slightly, the weight of his worry easing a little. He gave you a small, almost shy smile. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It is easy,” you reassured him, squeezing his hand gently. “Trust me.”

—

When you finally pulled up to your parents' house, the scene that greeted you was exactly what you’d expected: a whirlwind of activity. 

The smell of roasted turkey and pumpkin pie wafted out the door as your family bustled around, setting the table, carrying in food. 

Your mom was the first to spot you, her face lighting up in a smile as she hurried over to pull you into a tight hug. 

“Y/N! I’m so glad you’re here,” she exclaimed, pulling back just enough to look at you. Then her eyes shifted to Dominic, her gaze appraising but friendly. “And you must be Dominic! Oh, we’ve heard so much about you.”

Before he could react, she pulled him into a hug as well, surprising him. He blinked in surprise, eyes wide for a second, but recovered quickly, offering her a warm smile. “Thank you for having me… It’s an honor to be here.”

Your mom laughed, waving him off as though he were a nervous child. “Oh, please, don’t be nervous. Come on in and make yourself at home.”

As you walked inside, your dad was standing near the kitchen, his arms crossed in a way that made him look more intimidating than he actually was. 

His thick eyebrows were arched in that signature skeptical way you knew all too well. Dominic swallowed hard, his anxiety creeping back up as you nudged him gently forward.

“Dad, this is Dominic,” you said, your voice casual, but your heart was hammering in your chest, too.

Dominic extended his hand, his palm a little damp, and your dad took it with a firm grip. “Dominic, huh? So, what’s this I hear about you being a musician?”

“Yes, sir,” Dominic replied, his voice a little tight but polite. “It’s something I’m really passionate about.”

Your dad gave him a measured look, nodding slowly. “The music industry can be tough. I hope you know how to fix a car, too. It’s good to have a backup plan.”

You stifled a laugh, nudging Dominic’s shoulder with playful affection. “He’s got more talent than you’d think, Dad.”

Dominic cleared his throat, trying to shake off the nerves that still clung to him. He rubbed the back of his neck and gave your dad a tentative smile.

“Yeah, it’s... not the easiest career, but I love what I do. And I’m lucky to have people who support me.”

Your dad hummed, his expression still unreadable. He motioned toward the dining table. “Well, dinner’s almost ready. Why don’t you two take a seat?”

Dominic followed you to the table, but he felt your dad’s eyes lingering on him, sizing him up. He leaned close to you as you sat down, whispering, “Is he always this intense?”

You smirked, whispering back, “Only when he thinks I like someone.”

Dominic laughed nervously, glancing at you for reassurance, and you shot him a quick wink. The tension in the air seemed to lessen just a little.

---

As the evening went on, Dominic started to find his footing. 

He was surprisingly good at navigating the conversation, drawing people in with his self-deprecating humor and lighthearted stories. 

He told everyone about his disastrous attempts at joining his school’s basketball team—complete with exaggerated, comedic flair—and regaled your family with embarrassing anecdotes from his childhood. 

The more he shared, the more relaxed everyone became, and your mom, who was already refilling his drink and piling mashed potatoes onto his plate, seemed to be warming to him more with every passing minute. 

“So, Dominic,” your dad said, setting his fork down and fixing him with a serious look. “What exactly are your intentions with my daughter?”

You groaned softly, shooting your dad an exasperated look. “Dad, don't—”

But Dominic cut you off, his voice steady despite the tremor of nerves beneath it. “I like her,” he said, his eyes meeting your dad’s. “A lot. Like, I really, really like her.”

The room went silent, the only sound the faint scrape of your mom’s fork against her plate as she froze mid-bite.

You blinked, stunned, your heart doing a flip at the raw honesty in Dominic’s words.

Your dad raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “Is that so?”

“Yes, sir,” Dominic continued, his voice gaining strength. “I know this might not be the usual way things go, but your daughter... she’s incredible. She’s smart, funny, talented, and honestly, she inspires me. I don’t take that lightly.”

Your dad stared at him for a moment that felt like an eternity before finally nodding. “Well, Dominic” he said gruffly, “I can respect a man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to say it.”

Your mom beamed, breaking the tension. “I think that’s sweet. Don’t you, honey?”

Your dad grunted, which, in his world, was as close to a blessing as Dominic was going to get.

And at one point, while you were helping your mom in the kitchen, you couldn’t help but sneak a glance at the dining room. Dominic was seated next to your dad, who was animatedly showing him how to carve the turkey. 

Dominic, who you knew had probably never held a carving knife in his life, was listening intently, his expression one of exaggerated concentration. 

“Well, look at that,” your dad said with a proud smile as Elliot made a rather passable slice through the turkey. “You got it!”

Dominic looked over at you, beaming as if he had just won a prize. 

He came back to the table and offered you a slice of turkey, his grin practically glowing with pride. 

“Guess I have a new backup career,” he said, his voice low, and you couldn’t help but laugh at how ridiculously pleased he looked.

“You’re doing amazing, babe,” you whispered, squeezing his hand under the table. “And by the way, you’re definitely passing the test.”

He squeezed your hand back, the relief in his smile obvious. “Thank God. Your dad was terrifying for a minute there.”

“He’s just protective,” you said, your voice soft as you glanced at your dad from across the room. “But he likes you, trust me.”

As the evening wore on, the laughter and conversation grew more relaxed. Everyone was at ease, sharing funny stories, teasing each other, and enjoying the food. 

Your dad had even stopped making “backup plan” comments, and you could tell that Dominic was starting to truly feel like he belonged. 

—

When dinner was over, you and Dominic decided to step outside for a quick walk to get some fresh air. The cold night air was crisp and refreshing, the stars shining brightly above, and you both walked hand in hand down the quiet street. 

“See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?” you teased, nudging his shoulder.

He let out a long breath, pulling you close to his side. “Honestly? I was more nervous than I’ve ever been for a show.”

“Well, you pulled it off,” you said, smiling up at him. “And now my parents love you.”

Dominic let out a long breath. “Not gonna lie, I think your dad just aged me by ten years.”

You laughed, slipping your hand into his. “No, you did great. And for the record, I like you too.”

Dominic dramatically froze, his eyes wide as he looked down at you. “Wait. No way. You do?!”

You smiled, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Yes, idiot. I do. A lot.”

Dominic grinned down at you, his forehead pressing against yours. “I didn’t want to just impress them, you know. I wanted them to… see how much I care about you. How serious I am about you.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you just stared at him, breath caught in your throat. “Dom…”

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his eyes soft and steady. “I don’t want to be with anyone else. And I wanted them to know that.”

You stood there, frozen for a moment, the weight of his words settling over you like a gentle but undeniable truth. 

The crisp night air seemed to fade into the background as you searched his eyes for any sign that he didn’t mean it. 

But there was nothing but sincerity, nothing but warmth.

Your chest tightened, and you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of your mouth, even as a lump formed in your throat. “Dominic,” you breathed again, your voice barely above a whisper.

He lowered his hand from your face, but not before his thumb traced the curve of your cheek, his touch lingering like he couldn’t quite bring himself to pull away. 

The tension that had gripped him earlier in the evening—his fear of not measuring up, of not being good enough for your family—seemed to have dissolved completely. 

Now, standing under the vast, quiet sky, he looked like a man who knew exactly what he wanted. And what he wanted was you.

“I mean it,” he continued softly, his voice steady. “I’m in this. With you. All the way.”

You felt your heart swell, that familiar warmth spreading through your chest, pulling you closer to him. 

The way he said it—so earnestly, with so much confidence—left no room for doubt.

You had always known Dominic was passionate about his music, about his career, but hearing him talk about his feelings for you, about how serious he was about the two of you, made everything feel… different. Bigger. Realer.

“I’m glad,” you said, finally finding your voice, your hands slipping around his waist as you leaned into him. “Because I don’t want anyone else either.”

He smiled then, a soft, private smile just for you, and it felt like everything you needed to say was already understood between you. 

There was no need for more words. 

Instead, he cupped your face gently, pulling you in, his lips brushing against yours in a slow, deliberate kiss—one that spoke volumes more than words ever could.

After a long moment of silence, he finally broke it with a grin. “So, do I still have to do the dishes to make a good impression?”

You laughed, pulling back to meet his eyes. “Absolutely. That’s part of the initiation.”

Dominic groaned dramatically, throwing his head back in mock despair. “The things I do for love...” 

You laughed again, the sound light and carefree, the weight of the evening finally lifting. 

He pulled you close, his arms wrapping around you as he lifted you off your feet in one smooth motion, spinning you around as you squealed in surprise. You both tumbled into a fit of laughter, your heart soaring in his arms.

When he finally set you down, he kept you close, his hands still resting on your waist as you both stood there in the quiet street, the laughter tapering off into contented silence. 

For a moment, everything felt so right, so easy, and the world seemed to narrow down to just the two of you, standing under the stars. 

“You know,” Dominic said quietly, his voice low and serious again, “I think I could get used to this.” 

His thumb traced small circles on the back of your hand, the same thumb that had strummed a guitar for hours in front of audiences but now held your hand like it was the most important thing in the world.

You leaned into him, your head resting against his chest. “What, the being nervous part? Or the Thanksgiving dinners?”

He chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Well, I didn’t think I’d ever say this, but… Thanksgiving dinners are kind of great. Even with all the anxiety.”

You smiled up at him, feeling a surge of affection that was almost overwhelming. “I’m glad you think so,” you murmured, “because there are going to be a lot more of them. I’m kind of attached to this family, you know.”

His eyes softened, the playful teasing replaced with something deeper, more earnest. “Yeah, well… I plan on being around for all of them. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your breath caught again, and this time you didn’t try to hide the way your heart swelled in your chest. He wasn’t the type to say something like that lightly, and you knew he meant it. 

There was a certain finality to his words, a quiet but unmistakable promise.

Before you could respond, Dominic nudged you gently, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. “But seriously… dishes?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to hold back a smile. “Yes, seriously. You’ve got to pay your dues somehow.”

Dominic groaned again, but his grin was back, and it was impossible to miss how relieved he seemed. 

The tension that had been building in him all day, the worry about impressing your parents and meeting their expectations, seemed to have melted away completely. 

It was as if the approval he’d so desperately sought had been given, not through grand gestures or perfect words, but through simple moments of connection, laughter, and genuine sincerity.

“Alright, alright,” he said, pulling you closer again and pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. “Dishes it is. But you know, I’m going to need something in return.”

You arched an eyebrow, sensing a tease in his voice. “Oh? And what might that be?”

He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “How about a lifetime supply of Thanksgiving dinners?”

Your heart skipped, and you could feel the heat in your cheeks as you laughed softly. “Sure,” you whispered back, “Maybe, you’ll even get something else, too.”

Elliot’s eyes darkened with playful curiosity. “Oh yeah? And what would that be?”

You leaned in closer, your lips just a breath away from his. “You know what I mean,” you said, letting your words linger in the air, a teasing edge to them.

His breath hitched, his grin widening. “At your parent’s house?!” 

“Okay, maybe not here… But, when there’s a will there’s a way— I have a car, you know.”

“Well, then I like the sound of that,” he muttered, and you could feel the heat between you shift, the playful tension suddenly charged with something more electric.

“I’m gonna do those dishes so damn fast,” he said, his hand sliding down your back as he pulled you closer again. 

You leaned into him, lips brushing against his in a kiss that was a little slower, a little more promising this time. “Good,” you whispered against his mouth, “because I always keep my word.”

—

The quiet of the night stretched on around you, but you didn’t mind. It was peaceful, comfortable, and for the first time all evening, it felt like everything had come full circle. The anxiety, the awkwardness, the moments of uncertainty—gone, replaced by something so much more real. 

Something you both could stand on.

Dominic squeezed your hand one more time, and you both stood there for a few moments longer, just holding each other, as if savoring the last remnants of the day.

Finally, with a small but contented sigh, he let go of you reluctantly. “Alright, we should probably head back in before your dad starts hunting me down for that backup career.”

You laughed and took his hand, tugging him back toward the house. “I think we’ve earned our place here, don’t you?”

He smiled, his arm slipping around your waist as you walked back toward the warmth of the house and the sounds of family inside. “Yeah. I think we have.” 

And as the door closed behind you, you realized you couldn’t have asked for a better Thanksgiving, a better future— one where Dominic, despite all his nerves and uncertainties, could be part of the family.

And that was more than enough.