#there is the rational part of me that knows this must have just been my brain trying to just catch up

[nanamiskentos]

SPORTS CAR ✤ jujutsu kaisen

SYN. ➤ Zero decorum, max horsepower, full send. They don't just want the checkered flag, they want you wrecked and beggin'. This grid certainly doesn't play fair!

𝐉𝐉𝐊 ➤ Getō, Gojō, Tōji, Chōsō, Sukuna, Kashimo, Yuki, Shoko

cw ─ MDNI. afab!reader, FORMULA 1 AU, semi-publíc, praise, cockpit séx (highly inaccurate), possessive séx, chóking, spánking, reader is called 'bunny' in kashimo's, rough hándling, dírty talk, créampié, óral (f), mirror séx, backshóts, under the table, voice kínk, fíngeríng, overstím, squírting, medical pláy, tríbbing, strípping, cervíx kissing

wc. 8k

呪術廻戦 NOTE ( author says ) i've watched every sports car x f1 edit on tiktok i think. any likeness or resemblance to real f1 drivers is only a coincidence, nor is this reflective of the real profession 😭 didn't write this with particular racers or teams in mind.

☁︎ GOJŌ SATORU ➤ p1 & panting

". . he did it in tokyo, he did in kyoto, satoru gojo wins again, folks! that's his fifth prix win this season! absolutely unbelievable, my god."

the engine's still ticking down, the comms are crackling. you can barely register the deafening cheers before you're being yanked forward, senses overtaken by the scent of peppery armani.

"satoru –, wait," you're gasping, half-tripping into the cockpit as the pit crew's radio voice filters in.

"gojo, repeat, are you still in the car? you need to –"

but the headset cuts off with a click as he tears it from your ears, tossing it somewhere that you can't see. his crimson race gloves have been pulled off, but gojo's skin is still searing hot, slick with sweat and speed. pink lips parted, panting, not just from exhaustion, but from the look he's giving you.

"you're lucky i didn't pull you in mid-lap," gojo grins, and you fight the urge to tell him how impossible that would be, as his sharp white canines peek out from underneath his wolfish grin, flushed with victory, "baby, did you see that finish?"

you know the rational option here would be protesting, knowing that the team is probably workin' themselves up into a flurry in the garage, but it's hard not to feel light-headed and so damn hungry when gojo's gripping your waist, and dragging you just in front of the console, right up against the curve of the cramped cabin. thank god, the team opted for a mildly roomier cockpit this year, or else. . .

his helmet's off, snow-white hair a mess, and his jewel-blue eyes are electric, "i've got 'bout five minutes before they notice i'm not doing interviews." gojo's already pawing at your thighs, fingers desperate to tear down the waistband of your underwear, "i want them to wonder where i am."

gojo's teasing hands slips between your thighs, already playing with your slippery centre, and your boyfriend's leaning in, that rasp echoing against your cheek, "wanna show me how proud you are of your winner, baby?"

the car's still hot, the windows are fogging, and outside. . .the cameras are still flashing. but inside, it's just you and gojo, and the scent of burnt rubber and carbon fibre, and he's clearly not letting you go 'till you've screamed louder than the crowd.

gojo's already shoving his scarlet racing suit down to his shapely hips, movements sloppy with urgency as he settles you in his lap. long leaking cock already smearing a thin line of pre over his chiselled abdomen, "just a few minutes, sweets," he's murmuring against your throat, "we can make it work, yeah?"

you shouldn't, you really shouldn't. the entire paddock must be outside. the media, the team, the telemetry crew. . .everyone is either lookin' for him, or watching the live feed gojo's just abandoned. or they know not to look too closely, it's hard to challenge the king of the track when he's just pulled another podium win.

gojo's hands are rocking your hips back and forth, and he's determined to have as much of your slick coat his base before he truly snags his cock in. tongue laving at your jumping pulse, peppering sharp kisses against your soft flesh.

"t-toru –," you try, shaky breath catching as he continues to grind your folds against his cock, parting them to slot his thick shaft between them. teasing, and so sensitive.

"you looked soo hot standin' there," gojo murmurs, cerulean eyes lidded and starving to feel you drip arousal all over him, making a sticky mess, "lookin' so g-gorgeous, and – heh, this wet all f'me? is that it, baby? can't even think straight."

you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders as his thick, bulbous tips snags against the hood of where you're most sensitive, giving your clit that most delicious friction you'd been craving.

"yeahhh," gojo purrs, nosing along your jaw, "i saw ya', crossed the finished line and thought how l-lucky i am that you're mine."

god, you just need to breathe through it, breathe through the incredible aphrodisiac that's called gojo satoru. he's already tweaking his fingers through your sopping cunt, dragging them against your folds to reach up and pinch at your clit.

"we don't have t-time –" but your thighs are shaking, heart already jumping at how close the stimulation has you to knocking on the door of a brilliant orgasm.

"i'll make time," gojo simply says, already lining himself up. the fucker's giggling to himself, heady and drunk from his win, slowly pattering his fingers up your abdomen as though he knows just how deep he's going to be. kneading at your groin, like x marks the spot.

the stretch simply steals the words from your mouth, rendering your language into a soft mush, shaken by how delicious his cock feels in your sticky, gummy walls. your head lolls against his broad, flushed shoulder — the creamy skin mottled strawberry-pink.

gojo's hissing, low and feral, absolutely gone as he holds you down, filling you straight to the hilt, each vein pressing and melding against your pussy.

"hahh, oh, baby," your boyfriend groans, bucking up once to test the clear water, fast and deep, like he wants to feel every tremble of your form above him, "always s-so perfect for me after a win."

the pace is brutal, desperate, made worse by how little space there is in the cockpit. your back slams into the dash, but it's softened by his large hand splayed across the skin. legs hooked haphazardly over his carved waist, bodies tangled in both victory and vice.

plap! plap! smack!

"ya' feel t-that," gojo pants, thrusts growing harsher, cock pressing up against that sweet spot that makes you sob, "that's what champions do, heh."

every low swirl of his shaking hips is hypnotic, and so dizzying, making a filthy mess that you know is going to puddle and seep into over his groin, soak into the curl of white hairs dusting the base of his girthy shaft.

"you gonna' cum for ya' w-winner?" gojo gasps, that priggish, love-struck grin still painted over his gorgeous features, even as his voice begins to shake, "say it, baby. tell me i'm your f-favourite."

"you, s-satoru," you half-sob, half-plead, "you're my favourite. god, it's so deep." wrecked, begging, and he groans like this is the podium he wanted all along.

your orgasm hits like white noise, blotting out the world beyond. you can barely register his stuttering hips, his sharp curses of your name, god, he loves you. his sharp breath hitches as gojo follows you over the edge.

satin-like ropes of cum shooting up to fill you up soo perfectly, and the world champion is sinking his teeth into your neck as he moans your name, low and ruined.

"i can't believe you were that horny n' hard after a race," you scold, body still trembling from the aftershocks. feeling warmth pool between your tacked groins, as your arousal mixes with him seed.

"you love it," gojo replies, not a hint of shame colouring his voice, "besides, this car's seen worse. like the time i got myself off, jus' thinking about you in spain. was only lookin' at you through the windows, that was enough."

"you did it on your own in this car, just from looking at me?"

gojo kisses your jaw, "don't shame me, i'm a sensitive man." he snickers as you smack his, holding you tighter.

outside, the pit crew must be losing their minds. but inside, gojo just won the real prize, and he's buried inside.

☁︎ GETŌ SUGURU ➤ in the devil's seat

the telemetry room is freezing, cold enough to keep everyone sharp and alert, absolutely on edge. but noting could make you more on edge than the hot seat that you're currently sitting in right now. just besides geto suguru, headseat askew, trying to not to moan when his fingers scissor through your folds again.

on the wall, the sector times update in real time, and god. . .the room is packed. screens flickering, engineers perched over the high chairs as they murmur, utterly focused on the little red dot zipping across the map.

see, you'd joined the team for simulations, not stimulations. but you're hardly one to complain, not when you know how much of an effect this has on geto. his sculpture-carved jaw is ticking, a faint flush blooming on the back of his neck that could be easily attributed to the excitement of the race.

"gojo, purple in sector two," geto's flatly leaning into the silver microphone, voice entirely level, "box this lap, copy?"

his other hand is under your waistband. two fingers, long and expert, utterly merciless, circle your slick folds deep and slow. knowing exactly how to make you tremble without a sound, thankfully, with the table in the way.

the rough pads of geto's fingertips are soaking up every beading drop of your arousal, his knuckles glossy with your release. he leans in, cool lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice low and determined, "c'mon, stay still. don't want my pretty girl embarrassing herself."

you can only nod, biting your lower lip so hard that you swear iron blooms on your tongue. but it had been hard to resist anything when geto suguru looked at you like that before quali, pulling you aside and asking you to shadow him during the race. violet eyes lidded, the faintest watercolour brush of rose plastered over his cheekbones.

and. . .your headset is still on. one wrong noise, one hasty move, and everyone will probably hear exactly how you shadow the famed geto suguru. you're sure your microphone levels are low enough so they don't pick up on the constant, sloppy squelch! of geto's middle and ring finger plunging into your dripping core.

"my clever girl," geto coos, but his eyes don't shift from watching the golden boy's onboards (gojo satoru, of course). well, aside from the temporary loss in his composure when you clench the sticky walls of your inner muscles against his fingers, his ink-dark lashes briefly fluttering wide in shock. lookin' close enough to spill a thick load in his slacks.

your body must be shaking now, your thighs trembling with the herculean exertion that geto's pulling from you. every new lap, every clean turn from gojo is matched by geto sinking his fingers deeper into you, drawing slack and curling up against that sweet, rough patch until you choke on a whimper.

a wan smile twitches his lips, almost amused. fond, even. he's caught it, he knows just how close you are to spilling over his hands. that release that he's just equally desperate to chase, geto needs you to fall apart on him.

"there it is," geto's purring, and you can barely hear the excitement his tone over the ringing in your ears, "good girl." someone's leaning over from behind, and thank god they can't see exactly what's been going on beneath the table, "suguru, sector 3 delta just spiked."

geto doesn't blink, temporarily halting the wet sloshes that he's composing between your thighs. rather, focusing some much needed attention on the swollen bundle of nerves beneath your mound, "that's expected. wind change near turn fourteen."

his thumb roughly tacks beneath the glistening hood, "you're doing so well," geto breathes against your temple, "think you've earned a reward after this. . .or a punishment, what'd you say?"

it only takes three more tender, pounding hits of his long fingers against the most sensitive spots. your eyes flutter shut, mouth pressed thinly as you're determined to not cry, nor gasp and moan. but each swipe of geto's digits against your clit undos your resolve further and further, your thighs shaking from the extra stimulation.

and when gojo wins the pole, cheers breaking through your headset, the room leaping to its feat, geto doesn't even flinch. he's slowly withdrawing his hand from your waistband. fingertips pruned, sticky and warn as he slips them into your mouth. discreet, hungry.

"clean up, gorgeous," geto gruffly whispers, his mauve eyes drawn to how your lips eagerly part around his index finger, "we should celebrate tonight."

your head must be spinning, legs numb from what geto has wrought from you, that dazzling orgasm that leaves the world awash in shades of silver and white. you can taste yourself, that bittersweet tang on his fingers, and it renders you dazed.

"thaaaat's it, beautiful," geto laughs, licking the last of your moans and release from his finger, "now you're learnin' real strategy."

☁︎ RYŌMEN SUKUNA ➤ crash into me

the door of the driver's trailer slams shut behind you, like a starting light hitting green. your back hits the wall you before you can even speak, before you can even wonder at what exactly has gotten into your fiancé now.

ryomen sukuna's warm hand is wrapped around your throat, a thumb gently soothing at the lower juncture of your jaw. his other hand is still smudged with track rubber and sticky grease, gripping your waist tight enough to deliciously bruise.

"they think i'm reckless," sukuna's voice is a hot, sharp growl in your ear, "then let's give 'em a reason to blacklist me, eh, sweetheart?"

perhaps it would be wiser to interrupt him, to warn sukuna that the media is still swarming outside, and this is the last thing the fia will tolerate from him. but russet eyes are almost. . .tender as they roam over you, his grasp on the base of your neck enough to make your brain melt and your knees forget how to hold you up.

"wanna' be my podium, girl? i should have you on your knees, don't ya' agree?" sukuna's still in his fireproofs, unzipped just enough to expose the broad, tan expanse of his chest. the inky-black tattoos crawling down his skin, some sin-streaked marks that you ache to press your lips to.

maroon eyes gleam, still utterly high off the chaos of the race, from the penalty that cost him his pole for the rest of the weekend. and you? well, you're gonna' have to be his victory lap instead.

you moan, wanton and improper, as sukuna's mouth teases down your neck, pressing to your collarbones before clawed nails tear open your blouse as though it's a paper flag, yanking you forward by a sturdy, yet thin chain. bringing you closer still, eye to eye with the racer that the world calls the king of curses.

and of course, what else would be dangling from the chain but his name? sukuna, the kanji letters encrusted with small precious stones, a gift that he had surprised you with for your most recent anniversary.

"hah, you wear this for me? cute lil' trophy like you're my number one fan, orrr my good luck charm?"

sukuna pushes you against the opposite wall, jostling the numerous trophies that already litter the shelves. you gasp, certain that pools of arousal must already be glistening between your thighs. his hand slides lower, rough and greedy, impatient as he tends to be. slipping past the lace edge of your panties to paw at your sopping folds.

he's groaning, hot and heavy, feeling just how wet you are. sukuna's almost ecstatic at the thought that his girl was walkin' around with such a. . .waterpark between her legs. primed to gush over him, to soak the base of his cock with every nasty thrust that he's daydreaming about.

"you're s-soaked, sweetheart. you're likin' this, aren'tcha?"

your head lolls as you nod, succumbing to the sweet hands of pleasure throbbing below your groan. sukuna smacks your thigh, and the force is hard enough for your eyes to flutter open, his warm hand gently running over the stung skin to soothe the flesh, "eyes on me, girl. remember what i said 'bout being my podium? ya' gotta' earn it."

there's little warning before sukuna scoops you up, lifting you bridal style, only to throw you down onto the little couch in the corner of the trailer, yanking the remainder of his race suit down with a snarl, "s-see, this is what they gotta' know. i can't do. . .slow or soft. i win, heh."

you know full well that sukuna is capable of both slow and soft, and thick, heavy strokes that dig through your cunt as he often holds you down in the most delicious mating press. but you're not eager to quite rain on his ego parade, unless, of course, it's a different sort of rain from between your legs that he can eagerly lap up.

sukuna must be leaving marks on your hips, teeth on your collarbone, handprints on your thighs. each thrust of his thick, wide cock must be some punishment for the stewards, for the world, for the fact that he didn't really get to break someone out there today.

but you, his gorgeous wife-to-be? you can take it, and sukuna has to hide the rapid flush blooming over his face, opting to nip at the back of your neck.

"we're gonna' do this 'till those fuckin' stewards retract that penalty," sukuna pants into your ear, thick cock rummaging sweet patterns right up into you as the tufts of soaked blush-pink hair are pressed right against you. imprinting the thick vein that runs along the underside of his cock in a way that has you seeing stars and gasping oh so prettily, "or 'till the walls fall in, whichever comes first."

☁︎ TŌJI FUSHIGURO ➤ wrenched wide open

it started with a wrench, and no, not a metaphorical tool. a literal wrench, dropped from your armful of gear, clanging far too loudly against the concrete in the empty garage. you're flinching, cursing under your breath. it's past dark, rain still slickin' the floor outside, and most of the team's already gone.

you shouldn't be here, you're just the rookie. you're supposed to be following orders, not fuckin' around with loose bolts and leftover adrenaline. which is exactly when you realise that you're not quite alone.

the metal shutter behind you slams down with a mechanical growl, loud and final. you whip around. . .toji fushiguro. beefy arms folded, sweat clinging to the curve of his neck. verdant eyes darker than engine oil, and just as dangerous.

he doesn't speak right away, just watches as you clench your thighs, almost sub-consciously (or so he thinks, little does he know that you know just how to rile him up).

"you always this sloppy, doll? or just when i'm watching?"

your skin is flushed, heat crawling up your spine as though it's chasing the storm outside. toji's eyes are deliciously dragging down your body, lingering on the curve of your hips, the way your soaked polo clings to your chest.

he knows exactly what you want.

toji's already moving, and he's on you in two steps, rough fingers curling around your wrist, grunting as he tugs you backwards. your spine hitting the warm sidepod of the car, the paint is still slick from rain and truck dust, and it makes you shiver.

"i rebuilt this v6 before breakfast," toji mutters, voice thick with gravel, and the promise of upcoming sin, "let's see if you can last longer than that."

one of toji's veined hands are braced beside your head, the other already on your thighs. teasing, slow as they drag up your soaked coveralls until —

"you ever been fucked like this, doll? no? good, first time for everything."

toji doesn't wait, he doesn't hesitate, for he lifts you as though you're just another part he's decided to torque into place. your legs wrap around his waist out of sheer instinct, and he's grinding deeply into you. a thick and heavy bulge pressed right up against you, his scarred lips grazing your ear, "look at ya', all squirmy for me in your pretty team gear. bet ya' touched yourself thinkin' about this, 'bout me."

hah, he's right. but you're not going to give him the express satisfaction of knowing just how many times you had straddled the edge of your bed back in the hotel, legs spread wide as you softly grazed your swollen clit with rough fingers, imagining it was toji picking you apart.

you stifle a lazy, drawn-out moan when toji finally shoves your coveralls down, when grease-stained fingers slide between your thighs with no patience, just raw want. you can see how toji's jaw slackens, maw wide at how soaked you already are.

"f-fuck," toji grins, pressing his forehead to yours, so his choppy raven bangs gently kiss your skin, "you're wetter than the goddamn track out there, doll."

his fingers are fast, expert and precision-tuned. two knuckles deep and curling just right, while toji's other hand fists in your shirt, dragging you against his muscled chest, "stay quiet f'me." and it's not a suggestion.

you try, but the noise still slip in tiny gasps and stuttering moans, caught against his shoulder as he works you open with practiced ease. your hands claw at his arms, at his rippling biceps as he preps you.

"that's it, gorgeous, let go. you gon' cum for me already?" toji grunts, thumbing at your clit with precise precision, "yeah? who knew you'd like being handled like a busted part? it's okay, girl, i got you."

you're shaking, barely biting back a whimper as he works you right through, feeling his lengthy cock already hard and pressing through his thick, rough pants.

it's an earth shattering orgasm that launches right at you, your back arched against the side of the car, his fingers still dipping through your glossy folds. toji's coaxing you right through the orgasm as if he's fine-tuning a prized engine.

and then, he's pulling right back. unzipping his pants with one hand, the other still planted firmly between your thighs, "hope ya' weren't planning on walking tomorrow, doll."

the wiry, fine hairs at the base of thick cock immediately brush up against your ass, such was the firm precision and speed of toji jackhammering himself into his new delightful home. heavy and deep, so you can feel the smack! of thick, weighted balls against your plush flesh.

the stretch burnin' in the best way possible honestly, and you're crying out, but his palm claps over your mouth immediately, emerald eyes narrowed and sleazy grin crooked, "ah, ah, gotta' be quiet. wouldn't want the interns hearin' what their favourite engineer gets up to after hours, eh?"

you just moan against his palm, and toji groans. hips slamming harder, rougher and relentless. his other hands grabs your jaw, thumb sliding down to press into your throat, not choking. jus' holding, reminding you who's in charge. for now, you blithely wonder, visions of milking toji dry already blooming in your mind.

but it's hard to not fall apart almost immediately, his thick tip swabbing at your most sensitive points. twitching, and pulsing, clenching around toji's cock in a way that makes him follow suit. thick, glossy ropes of heavy, strong cum spurting right out of him, the sheer volume so much that it leaks straight out of you, dribbling down your thighs.

toji's biting hard enough to leave marks, claiming and branding. and you would swear that you hear him whisper sweet nothings that he would sooo deny in the morning, praises about how you're the sweetest thing ever, and he's just gotta' have you.

and then, simply just because he's toji fushiguro, he grabs the nearest shop rag, wiping at the mess from your stomach and thighs without blinking. stuffing it into his pocket as though it's nothing, "gonna' head back and get myself off with this doll, see ya' at the briefing tomorrow." already zipping up, packing that monster-length cock (yeah, seriously) back into his pants.

and. . . did he just steal your panties? you stare dumbly after him, hearing his footsteps recede as your maw slackens, before you quickly pick up the pace, "hey! toji, wait up!"

☁︎ CHŌSŌ KAMO ➤ throttle control

you noticed choso kamo before he ever even spoke to you. everyone else at the pre-season shoot was all swagger and self-tanner, yelling over for each other and muggin' for the cameras like it was monaco already.

choso, though? off to the side in full black and mauve team gear, rain jacket zipped up despite the heat. headphones in, hazel eyes still as he seemed to be gunning for the most not like other girls title ever.

not shy, not awkward. just. . . still. like the calm before the thunder, the silence before the powerful storms that often rolled in with your fellow drivers. like gojo satoru or hajime kashimo, ugh.

he's often quiet, and never resistant. rookie drivers usually have some sorta' ego or walls. choso has neither. he just nods, your name falling from his pale lips in low and reverent symbols. moving aside so you can stand beside him for the sponsor shoot. no plastered, winning smile, just eyes that track you like the managers track the telemetry data.

you ignore the heat curlin' in your stomach, or you try to. and it's just soo much worse when you catch his eyes on you, watching again. and again, as though you're a famous painting with strokes that he wants to memorise and commit to preservation.

so, there's really no other move but to corner him after the barcelona press run, heart pounding like a misfiring clutch, "what?" you're teasing, "you only speak in throttle maps and finish times?"

choso says little and less, but his voice is as quiet as rainfall as he sniffs, cheeks flushed sakura-blossom pink, "i would touch you, if you would have me. and then, i wouldn't know how to stop."

yeah, you remembered that you stopped breathing after that, right when everyone was being rushed into their cars, the respective engineers snappin' in their ears.

but choso crashes out in a stormy qualifying. a rookie mistake, too fast on the apex, rear tires losing grip. he's not hurt, thank god, but the radio teams go dead, and when you tumble back to the garages, he's soaked, still in his fireproofs, fists clenched with eyes dark and hollow, as though he's miles away from here.

"choso –"

he grabs you, not harsh nor urgent. just sudden, desperate. right behind the stacked tire warmers like a man starving for you, and you only.

"don't leave, angel," choso pants, voice ragged against your neck, "not yet, need to feel something good, something. . . that isn't failure. i mean, c-can i –"

you nod once, a thick lump suddenly in your throat presenting an ironic whiplash to the low throb in your groin. it starts soft, it always does with him, and it doesn't surprise you.

choso's hands are wet, shaking, ghosting up underneath your compression top. one glove still one, the rough texture pinching your pert nipple, teasing over your chest. the other glove? he pulls off with his teeth, slow and silent as he tosses it away. touching you like every second of it is a prayer answered.

and then, finally, choso kisses you. not a peck, nor testing. devouring. slick mouth on yours as though it's the last lap, and you're the checkered flag. his tongue drags against your lips, fingers twisted into your waistband as though he's afraid you vanish from his grasp.

"y-you're the only thing that makes me lose control like this, angel," choso whispers, voice raspy and streaked with gravel, barely audible under the storm still hissing off the track. he's got you on the back of the wall now, kisses trailing lines down your throat, soft teeth scraping skin.

you can only arch for him, dizzy with the weight and want of him. knowing exactly what typa' width and length he must be packing in the pretty curve of his blue-veined cock.

his hips grind against yours, slow at first, as though he's restraining himself, but the second your mouth releases a soft whimper, "cho –, please," well. . . the switch flips, and he's gasping. mouth biting at your jaw, your collar, hands suddenly everywhere.

gripping, pinning, claiming. his glove slides under your panties like silk over fire, fingers moving in smooth n' practiced strokes that make your knees buckle.

"so w-wet already," choso murmurs, breath warm against your skin, "you like when i touch you like this, angel?"

you nod, or maybe, you cry out in pleasure. he swallows up the sound with his mouth on yours. fucking you with his fingers 'til you're shaking, overstimulated, clutching at his dark fireproofs with nails and moans, and fevered pleas of more, choso! more!

"been thinkin' about how you'd sound," choso groans, face buried in your neck, "when i make you cry." and you do, from the pressure, the stretch, the relentless way he owns every inch of you.

his other hand quickly pushes the band of his boxers down. revealing the prettiest cock that you'd ever laid eyes upon, glorious and standing tall, and already leaking. your mouth waters, salivating at the idea of laving over each purple vein.

so when he finally pushes into you, raw and thick, buried deep, your whole body arches into his. slotting like the most perfect puzzle pieces, as choso whispers your name as though it's holy.

"mine," choso breathes, fucking you slow and deep, and you feel almost heady on his scent (well, that and the wafting fuel). but he rummages his cock through you as though he's carving you right out, "mine, say it. p-please, say it, angel."

oh, and you do. over and over, 'til it's not even words anymore, just sounds, sobs, tremours between kisses and moans, and skin on skin. after, when your back is sticky with heat, and his mouth is still at your throat, choso doesn't let go, peppering his lips to your waiting mouth, "i'm sorry, didn't mean to be rough."

you have a faint vision of headlines tomorrow, tiktoks being posted blatantly circling the blooming love bites over your neck, and you just can't help but pull him in closer, looping your arms around his thick neck to meld your lips against his, "don't apologise, cho. just don't stop."

his smile is small, tired, but lovestruck. kissin' you again like he's already addicted.

☁︎ HAJIME KASHIMO ➤ disqualified for conduct

so. . . you had been warned. every other pr manager on the team had handed you his file like it was some cursed object. one crossed himself, another just whispered, "he's impossible to manage, good luck."

they were talking about hajime kashimo, the track's golden boy, of course. thunder on the track, a menace in the paddock. the gist of it was pretty simple: he wins, he grins, he fucks.

you figured it couldn't be that bad. you'd handled difficult drivers before, all of their inflated egos, tempers and tantrums, so why would you not be ready?

oh, how wrong you were.

he doesn't even try to pretend to be decent during interviews, flirting and batting his lashes through every question like the camera was his bedroom mirror. you did your best to pretend your breath didn't hitch, and your thighs didn't jump and clench with each 'good girl' bestowed upon you.

"tch', kashimo, zip up those fireproofs. you gotta' be on the big screen in ten."

teal eyes undoing you (truly, undressing you) with lightning-precise intensity, "you can zip 'em up now, bunny. and you can unzip them after podium too."

"go fuck yourself."

"oh, when you say it like that, maybe –"

yeah, that sums up the push and pull relationship between you and hajime kashimo. so it's not a vast surprise when it all pools over one hot afternoon in monza. practice is long over, and the team is distracted by data feedback and tire degradation, somethin' about slamming down the big hotshot, gojo satoru.

but of course, 'round the corner, it's just your luck. kashimo, half-naked, towel slung low, with cyan hair loose and damp over his toned, sculpted shoulders. you try not to trail your eyes past the beads of exertion that slick across his carved abdominals.

"keep looking at me like that, gorgeous," kashimo snickers, towel slipping just an inch in a way that answers the question of whether the carpet matches the drapes, "and i'll put you in my cockpit instead of the car."

you shove him, doing your best to fight the furious flush threatening to sink you to your aching knees, "seriously, that's the best you could come up with?"

"is that a yes, bunny?"

"only if you win tonight."

ah, but you should have known hajime kashimo is never all bark, no bite. he walks the talk, and there's nothin' that man craves more than a challenge, a fight to get his blood roaring.

it slips your mind entirely, that vow of yours, not even when the entire team is leaping up and down, pulling each other into tight embraces as kashimo scores pole position once more. his turquoise, jewel-tone eyes are bright, wild despite the late hour and the physical exertion of over an hour of supersonic speed.

a hand is already pulling you into the back of the motorhome, setting you right down over. . . the champagne crate.

"hah, knew i had to win out there, gorgeous. knew i had to win just for you."

it's hard to know who initiated it, but you're kissing kashimo, and he's kissing you, — pouring the taste of expensive liquor and mint into your mouth as you suck on his tongue, rake your nails through his scalp.

kashimo's whirling you around, sinking his sharp teeth into your neck, "let's do a lap, bunny. face down, ass up? i can show ya' my best handling."

yeah, what hajime kashimo lacks for in hefty girth, he makes up for in sheer length. kashimo's groaning into your ear, hissing as his cock finally sinks into the soft embrace of your glistening pussy, one hand on your hip and the other rattling hard enough against the plush of your ass to leave fingerprints.

smack!

"sound off for me, gorgeous."

smack!

"thaaaat's it, be loud. everyone should know that i'm the one who's got ya' so pretty, just folded over for me."

you're gnawing on your lower lip, tugging at the skin, desperate to not babble out mindless cries of his name, and kashimo notices. and he's no fan of that, elegant hands grabbing your hair and pulling you up so you can both face the truck's back mirror.

"look at yourself," kashimo pants, still thrusting so deep in you that you're certain each vein has been permanently memorised and printed in your guts, "look at how good ya' take me, like you were built for it."

" –jime, hajime, 'm close," you whine, eyes absolutely cross-eyed and hazy as you let yourself get lost in the sweet, sweet sensation. moaning his name broken and breathless, and it's enough to shatter the infallible kashimo.

kashimo's grunting, a thunderclap in your ear, as he tears the remainder of your underwear off with a sodden rrrrrip! whirling you around once more to hike your leg up onto the crate, swung around his waist to draw him closer inwards.

you know when he finishes inside you, as though he's chasing the fastest lap. hard, quick and deep enough to leave your legs boneless and quivering.

"gonna' make you c-cum again," kashimo groans against your ear, kissing your shoulder as he mouths at your tits, "one more. c'mon, bunny, give it to me, i earned that trophy. wanna' fuck you in my racing suit next."

☁︎ TSUKUMO YUKI ➤ manual override

you still remember your first interview with tsukumo yuki. she had flounced into the room with her black race suit peeled halfway down, sports bra damp with seat, sipping champagne from the bottle.

but you had barely finished your first question before the statuesque blonde had leaned forward, gaze hungry, "you wanna' talk about control systems, baby, or do you wanna' know how i make people lose theirs?"

you should have walked away, but instead, you watched her lick frothy champagne off her thumb like it was all you ever wanted. and you were. . . hooked. now yuki seeks you out in the paddock, every time, pressing too close, tugging you closer by your lanyard, murmuring in your ear, "lookin' a lil' stiff, doll. want me to loosen you up after quali?"

so, this time, she had just set p3 in the wet, slippery rain. helmet already peeled off, golden hair flipping over her face as she catches sight of you, recorder in hand.

"yuki, congrats on quali! do you think the wet weather gave you any –"

a quick hand snatches the mic, plucking it right off your collar and shoving it deep into her thick pockets, "baby, we got plenty of time later, hah, for an interview."

that adrenaline-high look in her big, brown eyes is all too recognisable, and you should have foreseen how she'd drag you right behind the trailer. pinning you to the hood of her personal car, no doubt worth millions, skin still searing from the race.

"come onnn, ya' like fast girls, don't you," yuki whispers, voice a low purr, her sun-streaked hair tickling and kissing your cheek. she's laying you flat across the hood, race suit still hanging half-on, grinding her hips down until you're gasping, biting your lip with whimpers of please, please. . . more!

"say it louderrr, sweetheart." her lips pressed to your navel as you whine for her to sweep her tongue even lower.

"c'mon, you interview champions, right? maybe in your interview, you can tell the press how good i fuck." a kiss now dotted over your hips, slowly following the juncture angle down to your throbbing mound.

"y-yuki," you mewl, unable to hold back the hungry, raw cry when she parts your thick, outermost folds to suckle at your clit, "ouuh, so sensitive. . ."

no mercy, no hesitation. she laps at your folds as though she's setting the fastest lap record, grinning as you're shaking, "that's my pretty girl. still breathing?"

if you wrench your head far back enough at an uncomfortable angle, you can see just how filthy the sight is. yuki's entirely on her knees now, golden hair splayed about her as she nips and licks at your dripping cunt, her chin all glossed up as she drags the lower half of her face through your wetness.

through the haze, you realise that yuki's murmuring something. groaning low into your pussy as though she's speaking to her. the biceps in her muscled arms rippling as she slathers a thick kiss to your cute, twitching clit, "three."

her short fingernails trailing through your cunt, teasing at your winking, glossy entrance, "two."

pink lips separating from your pussy with transparent, clear strands of tangy glossy, and yuki's smacking her mouth, clearly some form of pussydrunk that only you unlock within her, "one."

and bulls-eye, the scrape of her finger in a crooked, come-hither moition against that small, rough patch in your pussy makes you squeal, then groan. the sensation building up until it's just too much and you're gushing over her face. thin, liquid arcs splattering against yuki's beautiful, delighted features as she slaps at your sopping pussy.

"think they'll let me keep a strap in the trailer just so ya' can do that alll over again?"

☁︎ IEIRI SHOKO ➤ flatline me

who hadn't heard of shoko ieiri? the doctor for your team, the surgeon, gorgeous with cinnamon brown hair and dark eyes. you had gotten used to seeing her with a lighter in one hand, and your medical file in the other.

stitchin' bodies back together with blinking, and yet, she couldn't care less about your hotshot reputation. and frankly, you only wanted her even more. so when you ended up with your top off, sprawled on the infirmary table after some stupid spin-out, icing your thigh and nursing a bruised shoulder, you had tried to be charming.

"am i finally your favourite patient, doc?"

shoko only glances up from her scrawled notes, the barest twitch of amusement tugging at her glossy, peach lips. she was still striking a match, lighting a cigarette with practiced ease, her gaze settling on you like a blade to skin.

"hah, hardly," she huffs, "but you could scream the loudest, how 'bout that?" elegant fingers already coming to rest on the waistband of her blue slacks, and you can't help but gulp. resisting the urge to blow your cool or let out some obscene looney-tunes ass wolf whistle.

"strip," shoko murmurs, her tone cool, "i can't help you get better unless i can a proper look." she must be confident that no one would dare interrupt her, that none would walk in while you're urgently pulling your sports bra off your head — and she's discarding her pants elsewhere, revealing creamy, pale thighs that you're desperate to sink your teeth into.

you can feel her oak gaze on you, cataloguing every bruise, every scrape as though you were just another anatomy lesson. but you certainly don't miss how her pink tongue briefly laves over her lower lip, her eyes widening as they roam over your bare chest, focus on how you shimmy right out of your racing suit — till you're bare and naked, legs crossed one over the other .

chilled fingers finally touch your thigh, prodding the faint bruise you've acquired with sharp pressure. you're not ashamed to admit it, a moan escapes your trembling lips.

"you're sloppy, sweet thing," shoko mutters, voice as smooth as ill-fated poison that's honey to your ears, "crash dummy with a death wish."

you hiss as she slaps your thigh, just once. . .not gently. her eyes focused on how your flesh ripples under her touch.

"diagnostic," shoko adds, lips quirked faintly as your body tenses under her hungry gaze, "don't whine, 'cause i warned you." her hands are cold, and the soft pads of her fingertips pinch at your hips, pulling the tender flesh up as your thighs clench. you know that there must be some translucent slick seeping into the medical bedding beneath you.

"i don't think you've earned this," shoko concludes, finally pulling away from you, "but i'm tired of standing up." her fingers hook into the elastic band of her sleek, dark underwear, pulling the fine-woven fabric down until she can kick it off.

leaving your mouth slack in awe at the wondrous prospects you've landed with — the soft curl of dark hair between her thighs, and how shoko's pushing your hips down, climbing onto you so you can peek a flash of slippery pink as she settling over your groin. your pussy already pulsing and twitching at the mere brush of contact between the two of you.

shoko straddles you now, her lower half entirely bare as she pins you in place, cool hands running over your bare chest, your wrist, your jaw. she's still got her tight-knitted blue top clinging to your chest, the white coat thrown over her shoulders, and you're desperate to peel them off her.

"keep quiet, sweet thing," shoko orders, her voice a low hum against your throat, "or i'll have to find another way to shut you up." it's obscene, hearing the wet, sloppy slick of your folds kissing hers.

god, she moves like she's dissecting you, studying you. controlled, methodical and merciless. you're already shaking beneath her, every nerve burning, every sound you made swallowed by the pressure of her palm over your tongue. or the bitter taste of dark coffee on her tongue.

your body arches, hips twitching to desperately attach against hers, aching to feel the kiss of her clit against your own. flushed muscles quivering as whines of her name fall from your lips in a begging, pleading tone, but it doesn't seem to move shoko to helping you finish faster.

"don't be pathetic, pretty," shoko pants into your ear, her sleek dark hair falling over her face. and it's some satisfaction to know that she's just as affected, and that the low throb against your groin is her filthy release absolutely drenched over you, "i've barely even started."

everytime you felt as through your climax was in arm's reach, her touch would ice over, only to flood you with heat again, a cruel rhythm that left your head spinning.

"you look good like this, sweet thing," shoko murmurs, tilting her head as she straightens her spine, angling her hips so she can press herself to your sticky folders even more.

you whimper, and she laughs — even as your legs can't stop shaking and you feel too fucked-out in this bed of pleasure to even form a coherent thought. until all you can chase after is the fastening pace of her hips against yours, the sight of shoko dipping her fingers between your folds to sip at your arousal.

you're not even embarrassed at the utterly pornographic moans escaping your kiss-stung lips, sharp cries of shoko's name echoing through the infirmary as she soothes sharp circles over your clit, grinding her pussy against yours with your thighs intertwined.

"god, you taste so s-sweet," shoko bites off, dark eyes peering down at you, almost as though she's embarrassed that you've pulled these reactions from her.

wet cunts tacked to each other as she swipes a hand behind your back, pulling you up so she can hook her legs around your waist. jostling up n' down, over and over, and you catch the doctor's almost wolfish grin, she's guiding your hands beneath the fabric of her top, "c'mon, are you gonna' help me or not, baby?"

[haezye]

CRAZY RICH ASIANS ! TEASER

OVERV. sohn yn is happy to accompany her longtime boyfriend, evan, to his best friend’s wedding in korea. she’s also surprised to learn however that evan, or heeseung’s, family is extremely wealthy and he’s one of the most eligible bachelors in all of south korea. thrust into an unwanted spotlight, now she must compete with snobby socialites, odd relatives, and most of all: his disapproving mother. WRNGS. cursing, miscommunication NOTE. heeseung is referred to as evan, will change later on! so sorry for the wait as well

PARK JONGSEONG'S WEDDING HALL

You had never felt so humiliated in your life.

“Her family is ridden with problems! Her father isn't dead at all! He's very much alive. Her mother cheated on him with another man, and then ran to New York. You know what type of scandal this would’ve caused for us? We have a reputation to uphold! You have a reputation to uphold! Do you or do you not understand that!?”

“Mom, you had no right to do this, Yn w--”

“Would you be rational for once!?” Mrs.Lee exclaims, “Do you or do you not?”

“I understand perfectly that you’ve just violated my girlfriend’s priva--”

“Our family cannot be associated with a family like hers,” she hisses, venom dripping from her words. You bite back tears, your fists clenching angrily. 

"She wouldn't lie about something like this," Heeseung quietly says.

"The proof's in the paper," his mother hisses, "This woman can absolutely not be associated with us whatsoever,"

Humiliation.

Shame.

Hatred. 

“Well good for you,” you whisper, “I don’t want part of this shitty family anyways,” you turn around, and then run because that's the only way that you can hide the tears that drip from your eyes as you leave behind the man you had thought was your forever.

PRESENT DAY

“You know you can just order your own right?” you grumble, watching as your boyfriend takes a giant chunk of ramen from your bowl. You stare at his barely touched sushi.

“Nah I’m good with my sushi rolls,” he grins shamelessly.

“Evan,” you groan, “You always say that and end up eating everything,”

“No I don’t!” he laughs.

“Excuse me?” you call, catching the attention of your waitress, “Sorry could we get another bowl of tonkatsu ramen? Thank you!”

“Hey! You’re so dramatic, it’s not like i’m stealing,” he exclaims, “It’s sharing,”

“Sharing?” you echo, “You can’t be serious right? Pay me back for those giant bites you took idiot!”

“Sure Yn, whatever makes you happy,” 

“Pay up if you want me to be happy,” you tease.

“But. . .” he starts, “I think I have something that might make you happier,”

“Oh yeah?”

“How about us taking a trip to the East?”

“Like. . .” you say, taking a sip of broth, “The East Village?” he laughs at your words, ruffling your hair teasingly.

“No, like South Korea. For spring break,” he says, “It’s for Jay’s wedding. We’ve been dating for almost two years now, I think it’s time you meet my family and friends,”

“Seriously Evan?” you laugh in disbelief.

“So serious,” he grins, “And you can even meet up with that. . interesting friend of yours again, the college roommate?”

“Haewon?” you grin, “Well she has been asking me to visit her,”

“Perfect!” he says, “Wouldya look at that, it’s fate,” you smile at his words, and he reaches over the table to grasp your hand, “So what do you say? Will you, Yn Sohn, come with me to Korea?”

“How could I say no now?” you giggle, he leans in, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead. And from two tables over, a girl narrows her eyes at the scene, a smirk growing on her lips. She stands up confidently, clad in an exspensive chanel jacket and mini skirt.

She struts through the restaurant to the door, extending her hand out to take a selfie. She slows down as she walks by the scene in front of her, snaps a photo, before furiously typing into her phone.

She grins.

ASIARADIONOW [img.392] Just saw Lee Heeseung with his girlfriend Yn Sohn. They're coming to Park Jongseong's wedding. Spread the word! What a nobody 🤣

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(HAEZYE 2025)

[wasiandude]

The trip to the beach.

A collaboration with @misctf .

Steve was the most cliché of the word "nerd" with only 5'4 tall, with pimples and with irritating little voice he was the target for the jock boys in his university. But despite being victim of sneers and bullying, he was the happiest student in college, he always smiled, helped people and was quite studious. So the mockery towards him mattered little to him. Today was a beautiful Saturday afternoon, Steve was studying hard in his room, he didn't have any plans for today and he didn't care to have one either, his parents were not home so he enjoyed being alone quietly until someone knocked on his house door.

"Who could it be?" Steve sighed, “I’m really behind on my work.” He looked at the essay he was in the midst of completing, “I should...” The second knock was louder, “Must be important.”

Steve quickly made his way to the front door. As he went to open it, he paused. He could hear the boisterous laughter from the other side, the frequent use of the word ‘bro’, and a few belches. His stomach dropped.

“What could they possibly want?” Steve thought miserably, “I should really...” He sighed. It wasn’t in his nature to just ignore someone. What if they needed help?

“Oh shit! Look who it is! What’s up lil’ bro?” Garrett laughed, emphasizing the word ‘lil’. He put his arms behind his head, his biceps bulging.

“Uh hey.” Steve stammered, “Uhm, I...I...” His mind was racing, trying not to stare. Garrett was rather good-looking- dark hair and eyes, his chiseled face framed by a well-groomed, short beard. And looking further down, it was obvious that his years on the baseball team did wonders for his body- all of which was framed nicely in his tight tank-top, “Sorry, just studying today.” Steve blushed, mentally admonishing himself for making it so obvious that he had a thing for the star pitches on the team.

"Studying?! Lil’ dude, come on.” Garrett groaned, nudging one of the other jocks, “Seriously dude, how lame. How about this? We came here to invite you to the beach.” He placed his firm rugged hand on Steve’s shoulder and grinned, “Lil’ dude, it’s gonna be fuckin’ lit. Cheerleaders, booze, you name it. When’s the last time you did something like that, huh lil’ dude?”

Hearing this, Steve raised an eyebrow. None of these things were as appealing to him as Garrett likely thought they’d be. Although, the naively optimistic part of Steve wanted to imagine this could be the start of a friendship with Garrett. Part of him yearning for closeness with the jock. But Steve shook his head before adjusting his glasses- on what planet would he ever be friends with Garrett?

"I don't want to be rude or offensive, but why are you inviting me?” Steve questioned, “Jake and Logan were just bullying me the other day.” The two jocks behind Garrett snickered, earning them a disapproving look from Garrett.

"I know... Dude, but believe me we want to make peace, me and my bros promise we won't make fun of you again!” Garrett replied, no hint of insincerity in his tone, “Besides, it's Saturday and being at home? It's boring as hell."

Steve sighed, mulling over the offer. Would it be nice not to be bullied by these meatheads? Yeah. Would it be nice to spend time with Garrett? Yeah. Did he really think they’d make peace after this? Steve sighed again- the rational part of him saying to shut the door. The other saying to give these bros a chance.

"Okay, okay... I’ll go.” Steve said, the uncertainty of his choice evident in his voice.

“Oh sick lil’ bruh, but like, don’t sound too disappointed.” Garrett laughed, slapping him on the back and knocking the wind out of his small frame.

“But really, I’m doing this to make peace.” Steve insisted, “No funny business.” He tried to sound confident and stern. Garrett smiled and gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up, “Oh and..." Steve bit his lip, “This is so embarrassing but it’s been so long since I’ve been to the beach. I don’t really have any appropriate swimwear.”

"That shouldn't worry you bro! Give me a second." Garret grinned, “You’re just in luck, lil’ dude.” Garrett seemed way too excited, “Check out these!” His bro reached into a bag and handed him some green shorts with a bit of blue and gave them to Steve. "Here! These shorts belonged to one of our bros. Well former bro. He went on to bigger and better things.” Garrett sighed, “Internship or some shit. Brains and brawn, can you believe it?” The other jocks snickered.

Steve looked at the shorts and made a face of disgust. Did Garrett and his bros really think he would wear someone else’s shorts? Why did they seem to have them ready too? Steve awkwardly grabbed the shorts, and looked back over at the group of jocks.

"Garrett... I uh." Steve could see the look of excitement in Garrett’s eyes. Like he was proud of something, “I don’t really feel comfortable wearing another guy’s shorts. And besides, these aren’t going to fit me."

“And why not, lil bro? I wear my bro’s stuff all the time.” Garrett grinned, “I understand that you don't have the same muscle mass as us, but they’re shorts, shorts look good on everyone."

"Yes... but..." Steve sighed- how was he going to make these oafs understand his discomfort when they clearly had no shame?

"Dude, just get changed. We’ll wait here for you." Garrett grinned, “Come on bros, I’ll get the car started. I got a bomb playlist.”

Steve watched as they walked back to their car, all chuckling and talking about their beach plans. And before long, loud obnoxious music filled the air. Steve cringed, worrying what his neighbors might think of the loud music.

“The faster I get this on, the faster we get out of here.” Steve figured, walking back to his room.

Once there, he quickly undressed and examined himself in the mirror. He frowned as he examined his short and lanky frame- his skin pale from the hours spent indoors studying. His brown hair a curly mess atop his head. Nothing compared to the healthy tans and meaty muscles Garrett and his bros sported. Steve shook his head, ignoring these negative thoughts. Instead, he turned his attention to the pair of shorts in his hand.

"This is so disgusting...” Steve mumbled, taking a whiff of them, “Oh god, did they even wash this?” Steve was instantly teleported back to his high school locker room- the smell wafting from these shorts an unpleasant reminder of his days in gym class, “What have I gotten myself into?”

He grimaced as he slowly pulled the shorts up his skinny legs, where they rested over his Marvel boxer briefs. Yet despite his initial disgust, he was surprised to see how well they fit. He figured he owed Garrett some credit- shorts do look good on anyone. Steve walked over to his closet, rummaging around until he found on of his old discarded tank-tops. After placing that over his skinny frame, he smiled.

“Okay, I kind of look the part.” He commented, flexing his skinny arm, “Almost.” He laughed, thinking how ridiculous he must’ve looked.

And as he turned away from the mirror, he felt a wave of vertigo wash over him. He stumbled forward, catching himself against a wall. Steve groaned and wiped some sweat from his forehead, trying to make sense of the sudden dizziness. But as quickly as it had come on, it had passed. And Steve awkwardly walked to the front door, each step feeling somewhat heavier and requiring more focus.

“Oh lil’ dude, you look great!” Garrett said, approaching him, “You’re more than ready for the beach.” He raised an eyebrow, “Ah wait, lil’ dude you forgot your shoes. Logan! Grab ‘em a pair from the trunk.”

Steve only nodded, not really paying all that much attention. His mind felt foggy, his body heavier. When Logan threw the pair of worn-out sandals at his feet, Steve just slid them on. They were clearly too large for him, but he didn’t have the mental bandwidth to make a comment.

“Lookin’ good on ya!” Garrett grinned, putting an arm around Steve’s shoulder and leading him to the car, “God, you reek, lil’ dude.”

Steve shook his head, “No... it’s... it’s the shorts.” He replied, “They smell...”

“Sure, sure lil’ dude.” Garrett chuckled.

Steve wanted to say something in response, but he felt a slight achiness in his feet. And when he looked down, he could have sworn that they looked bigger and now sporting tufts of hair. In that moment, Steve could’ve also sworn that his nostrils were being invaded by an increasingly intense odor- reminiscent of the locker room but somehow worse. Sour and musky, all at once.

“Alrighty lil’ dude, get in.” Garrett said, "Let's go!"

Steve could barely focus. The smells, the boisterous laughter, and the blaring laughter from the bros around him. He grimaced as a can of beer rolled around in the backseat, hitting his foot. He watched as Logan reached down and smirked, before shot gunning the can of beer while his bros cheered.

“Lil’ bro, why don’t you try one?” Garrett asked from the driver’s seat, “Pregame for me, since I’m drivin’ and shit.”

“I’m good.” Steve replied, clearing his throat. His voice sounded off, “I’m not feeling too...”

A beer was thrust against his skinny chest and he looked over at Logan, who had a wide grin on his face. Steve held the beer, staring at it closely. And with his meatier hands, cracked it open. Steve never drank- it wasn’t his thing. But as he cracked open the can, he felt compelled. He was gonna chug it. And as the bros cheered him on, Steve did just that. As he did, he couldn’t possibly realize the bulge in his shorts was growing. His member growing in size, going from a measly 5 centimeters to an astonishing 14 centimeters, a dense forest of pubes sprouting around his new member.

“Buuuuuuuurrrrrppppppppp.” Steve grinned slightly as he crushed the can in his hand as his bros cheered, “That wasn’t so bad.”

“Fuck yeah lil’ dude!” Garrett cheered from the front.

“That was sick bruh!” Logan playfully punched Steve’s arm.

Steve looked down at where Logan punched him and his eyes widened. His arms... his skinny arms... they looked bigger? More defined. Muscles Steve knew he had but never saw were suddenly becoming quite obvious to the naked eye. He looked up at Logan and then up to Garrett.

“Hey somethin’s...” Steve froze. That baritone voice couldn’t possibly be...

But no one paid him any attention. They were going on about the cheerleaders, although Steve noticed Garrett was oddly quiet during the conversation. Occasionally glancing at Steve through the mirror. Steve stirred uncomfortably as Garrett stole glances at him. Why did he keep looking at him? He blushed slightly, trying to appear smaller, but his growing pecs and widening frame made that difficult. He was taking up more space now, becoming uncomfortably close to Logan.

“Dude, can you...”

“Not my fault this car’s so fuckin’ small.” Steve’s eyes widened. He would never talk like that, “What the fuck?” The fogginess in his mind was starting to dissipate. He was becoming acutely aware of his newly massive frame, enlarging pecs, and arms that looked more like tree-trunks than sticks.

Garrett turned to look at him and smiled. "What's wrong bro? You look good.”

“I... don’t... fuckin’...” Steve groaned as his tank-top ripped and he tossed the ruined fabric into the trunk.

He grunted as his muscles pulsed again and again. His frame expanding larger and larger, while Logan just grinned, despite losing more room in the back of the car. Steve gasped as small blond hairs erupted from his massive arms and traveled up. And when they finished coating his massive forearms, the hair in his pits exploded into a dense, musky forest. He grimaced at the smell wafting from them, yet at time went on, the smell was becoming familiar. Somewhat nice actually. He brought his hands to his head as his head started pounding. And in the car’s mirror, he saw that his hair was becoming blond. His curly locks reshaping into a sporty cut. His face becoming sharp and defined, his lips puffing up and forming into a permanent smirk.

“Eric, bruh, you good?” Garrett asked.

Steve let out a baritone groan, “Nah bruh, who the fuck’s Eric?” He grabbed his head again, “That’s... not... my... name...”

As he made eye contact with Garrett, he could feel it. A set of memories. Gym sessions with Garrett. Going to sporting events. Playing videogames. Waking up in each other’s arms... tearing each other’s clothes off... fucking... Steve realized in that moment. Garrett and Eric. They were more than frat bros... they were... A small smile formed on Steve’s lips as he felt Eric’s personality and mind overtake his. And in that moment, he came. The climax so intense that he passed out in the back seat.

“Took him long enough.” Logan chuckled, “You happy Garrett?”

Garrett nodded and parked the car, “Alright bros, give him some time to rest.” Garrett smiled at his sleeping boyfriend, “I’ll be right behind you all.”

As his bros started walking to the beach, Garrett opened backseat door and smiled at his hunk of a boyfriend. He ran a hand down his jaw and gave him a quick kiss, before grabbing his cum-soaked shorts.

“Was hoping you’d save that for me.” Garrett smirked, “But all good, bruh.” He kissed him on the cheek, before quietly shutting the door. He’d let Eric get some rest- besides, they had a long night ahead of them.

[ezrasbedroom]

i’m a big fan of the concept of a man that is obsessed with my tits and consequently makes it his goal to desensitize me to them so he can take advantage.

like… every time i come over, the first thing he does is grope me through my shirt and make a face when he realizes i’m binding. he fusses about how uncomfortable it must be and how he’s worried about my health until i feel compelled to take my binder off to appease him. it’s whatever, i tell myself. i’m not that dysphoric anyways.

from there on out his hands are under my shirt playing with my tits more often than not. no matter what we’re doing, he’ll idly have a hand slipped down my collar, or a finger tweaking my nipple, or just outright play with them while we talk. he tells me he likes them, but also vehemently assures me that he still sees me as a man. i don’t question him.

yet i can tell he’s staring at them when i move, watching the way they bounce when i get overly excited. it’s opportunistic and frankly perverse, but a part of me loves the attention — and really, it’s just nice to get a break from binding.

so i deliberately start choosing not to wear a binder when i come over, reaching for old bras instead. i opt for lower cut tops, shirts that make my tits look nice. i rationalize it by telling myself it’s more comfortable, and there’s no harm in looking good.

he’s obviously pleased with my choices. i’m showered with love and seemingly unrelated compliments at a significantly higher frequency when my tits are out. he picks up the habit of commenting on women with nice tits, joking that he’s always been a boob guy and that a girl with a “good rack” is a massive turn-on. i begin to wonder if i am included in that category.

it doesn’t take long for his behaviour to shift during sex once he knows i’m accustomed to attention being given to my tits. hesitant brushes quickly morph into shameless groping, and it doesn’t take long until i’m on my knees naked looking up at him while he jerks off to the sight of them.

it’s only when he’s balls deep inside my pussy, eyes trained on my tits bouncing up and down as he thrusts, that he let’s the words “good girl” slip out of his mouth, sandwiched in between praise for how gorgeous my body is and how horny it makes him just to watch them. and it’s only then that i realize i don’t care if he perceives me as a woman — it’d been a while since i even tried to dress like a man around him. it’d been a while since i wanted to.

he finishes inside me and tells me that he hopes i get pregnant, because he wants my tits to get bigger. i just nod.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

I am not the asshole, and I think this whole thing is stupid, but I was promised that if I sent my side of things to this blog I could pick the hotel for our honeymoon, and I am marrying a man who once tried to take me BACKPACKING of all things, so this ask has become a necessity. In light of that:

AITA (I'm NOT) for planning the seating for our wedding in a logical way?

I got engaged in June, apparently in part because of my partner writing in to this blog (I don't know how to find or link to his posts, but I'm the man who got the cat to bite him, if that rings any bells?). At any rate, for the past ten weeks, I've been in the beginning stages of planning our wedding with my fiance, whom I have been secretly attempting to remove from the planning process as much as possible. I have ALREADY been given a list of his must-haves, and I AM incorporating as many of them as our budget allows. This has NOTHING to do with the emotional side of the event, and EVERYTHING to do with the fact that this is an idiot with no real planning experience or taste who thinks he knows more than me.

For the most part, this has worked very well. I'm the one who's been collating all the contact information for things, so I just replaced all the emails for the tacky companies with false addresses, responded to his inquiries as the companies to say the date was already booked or the price was outside our budget, and let him filter his way to the ones I DO like on his own. I also made a fuss about being "willing to compromise" on the few things he's picked I'm completely fine with in the hopes I can use it to make him compromise later, and have been humming portions of the songs I want on the playlist in the hopes he'll think he came up with the idea to include them himself.

None of this is the real problem. The PROBLEM is that he is deliberately ruining my seating chart, by moving our horrible friend's seat when I'm not looking.

The man in question dated both of us at one point in our VERY early 20s (both ended BADLY), is generally the messiest person we know, and will almost certainly get sloppy drunk and try to make a speech IF he does make an appearance. I'm banking on the fact that he won't, because he's also ridiculously wealthy, and will almost certainly send us some very lavish gift in lieu of coming.

He is SUPPOSED to be sitting beside my fiances aunt, at the same table as his grandmother, his work friend, and her girlfriend, because all four of these women are stone cold terrors who I believe are more than capable of keeping him in line on the slim chance he does come. My fiance INSISTS they won't be able to have any fun if they're running interference all night, and keeps moving him to sit at the head table instead. You know, where WE are. I finally caught him switching the label magnets on my planning board last night, and confronted him.

I tried leveraging how much I've been compromising already, that he's almost certainly going to RSVP no, and that I shouldn't have to deal with him on our big night. My fiance said he knew about all the fake emailing and such, and told me, and I QUOTE: "Look, the mind game shit was hot when it was just about the colour scheme or whatever, but I actually care about this. So you can suffer with everybody else, or you can do the normal thing and not invite a guy you hate to our wedding, you weirdo."

I said that if I did that, it would take out half his groomsmen, he called me an asshole and said I should go explain this to "literally any rational adult" so they could tell me I was in the wrong, and now here we are.

Would you recommend calling my fiance's bluff, since he doesn't want the man sitting near us either? Or should I focus on ensuring he'll turn down the invitation no matter what, so the matter of where he WON'T be sitting can be a moot point?

What are these acronyms?

Original post

The update

[covenofagatha]

But you're my stepmom! (Part 9)

Word count: 2100

Warnings: mommy kink, rough sex, bondage, spanking, oral, overstimulation

Taglist: @stayevildarling@i-just-cannot@hazey-g@buttercandy16@320viada@evilangels-stuff@rmaximoff@morganismspam23@aboutcustardcreams@sasheemo@rigglemethat@walkethisway@mommywandas@r-3-becca@harknessshi@ihaveawifebutwerenotmarriedyet@polaris-likethestar@ahintofchaos

You don’t hear from Agatha after that for a day and a half. 

You can’t help but feel like you did something wrong. Was it making her pull over on the side of the road because your needy cunt was begging to be filled by her cock? Was it taking her hand with yours and holding it for the rest of the drive to get pizza? She didn’t seem to mind in either moment. 

Nothing else had happened Monday night once you two had come back to the house. She had given you a chaste kiss in the car, telling you to behave, and you had. The hug you’d given her before you left for the night was the picture of appropriateness. 

Everything had been fine, so why was she icing you out like this? 

It’s sixth period on Wednesday when you finally get a response from her. 

You’re sitting in Biology, textbook standing straight on your desk to hide your phone, staring at your messages with Agatha. 

You’ve sent probably close to thirty texts since Monday night, all of them going unanswered. You were confused at first, then angry, then sad, these emotions spilling into your various messages. 

I had a really nice time with you tonight ;) 

Hey, everything okay? 

Agatha what the fuck 

I’m sorry for whatever I did, please just talk to me. 

You’re wondering if you should send another one now when suddenly, the bubble with three dots pops up. 

She’s typing. 

For the first time in a day and a half, she’s not actively ignoring you. You hold your breath, almost afraid to keep watching. 

Sorry I haven’t replied. Come over after school? 

No explanation for the radio silence. You feel bitter and debate not answering just so she gets some kind of semblance of the hell you’ve been going through. 

But it’s Agatha and she has you under her spell. You can’t imagine not obeying.

Okay. You type back. 

You get a gut feeling that tells you something is wrong. 

Fuck. Did your dad find out about you two? The thought sends your heart racing and nausea climbs into your throat. 

You tell yourself that surely your dad would’ve said something to you if he had found out that you and his wife were fucking. This rational thought helps a little bit but you know that something isn’t right. So if it’s not that, then what is it?

You completely pour over every single interaction you’ve had with Agatha and this consumes you until the last bell of the day rings. You don’t even remember walking across the hall to seventh period but you clearly must have. 

On the drive to your dad’s house, a pit grows in your stomach with every turn that brings you closer to an inevitable confrontation. You absolutely hate conflict.  

You take a deep breath before ringing the doorbell. Your palms are sweaty and your heart feels like it’s pounding in your throat. You remind yourself to breathe. 

Agatha opens the door and moves to the side to let you in. “Hey,” she says quietly. 

And that sets you off. “‘Hey?’ That’s all you’re going to say? I haven’t heard from you since Monday! I texted you like a million times and you say ‘hey?’ What the actual fuck, Agatha?” 

Pain flashes in her eyes and then it’s gone. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Things were happening, I was busy.” 

You scoff and roll your eyes. “Were you also busy when you fucked me in your bed? In your car? When I went down on you on the couch and made you cum harder than my dad ever did?” You wish you hadn’t brought up all those memories because now you’re angry and turned on. 

At the mention of your dad, she grabs your wrist with a bruising grip and drags you upstairs. She brings you into her room and shoves you against the wall with unnecessary roughness, her lips catching yours in a harsh kiss. She bites your lip so hard that your mouth fills with blood and you hate how hot you find it when she licks it off her own lips. 

“Are you okay?” You ask, seeing the black glint in her eyes. Something is off. 

But she doesn’t answer, only slides her hand up to clasp your throat. Your breath hitches in spite of yourself and her eyes darken. “Do you trust me?” 

“Yes,” you say without thinking. You know you shouldn’t let her touch you until she explains herself, but you are too desperate to feel her hands on you again. Her face lights up in a wicked way and she leads you to the bed and shoves you down so your stomach is on the bed, ass in the air. She flips your skirt up and you shiver at the cold air on your bottom. 

You can almost hear her grin as she slides her fingers up and down your covered slit. It’s embarrassing how wet you’ve become from her practically manhandling you. 

“Good,” she says and her hand cracks down on your ass. You gasp and lurch forward on the bed, the sting clearing all the thoughts in your head. 

“Fuck!” 

Her hand tangles in your hair and she pulls you up so your back is now flush against her front. “Count for me,” she whispers lowly in your ear and then lets you go so you fall back onto the bed. 

“One,” you say weakly. 

She spanks you again and your hands grapple with the bed sheets. 

“Two.” 

Again. 

“Three.” The pain has started bleeding into pleasure and you begin slowly rocking your hips against the bed to release some of the tension building between your legs. 

“Ah, ah,” she tuts, hands grabbing your waist, holding you still. Her fingers dig into the skin and you inhale sharply. “Don’t move.” 

“Mommy,” you beg, panting for more. You have to tense your muscles so you don’t start grinding again after she slaps you again. “Four.” 

“Almost done, sweetheart,” she coos, rubbing her hands on your ass cheeks, soothing the burn. Agatha literally has to peel your underwear off because of how wet you are. She then spreads your thighs even more and takes in the sight of you. “Oh, baby, you like this a lot, don’t you? You’re dripping onto the bed.”

You keen and nod your head pathetically. 

“Last one. You’re being such a good girl for mommy.” 

You arch your back in preparation, but this time, she smacks her hand straight on your pussy, fingers landing directly on your clit. You cum from just the bit of stimulation with a guttural moan and she watches in awe as your body contorts. 

“Five,” you say weakly, once you’ve come down from your wave of pleasure, just in case she wants you too. She laughs and flips you over, not giving you any time to recover before burying her head between your legs. Your back shoots off the bed and your hands immediately find purchase in her hair when her tongue gives you a filthy lick but she stops. 

“No touching,” she warns. 

“But, mommy!” you protest. 

She stands up and walks to her nightstand, your cunt cold against the air now that she’s not near you. 

Agatha pulls something out and walks back over to you. “Move to the top of the bed,” she instructs. You do without hesitation. She climbs on top of you, showing you the two lines of rope that were behind her back. You whimper involuntarily. “Are you okay with this?” 

“Yes,” you rasp, too quickly and she chuckles evilly. She leans down to give you a quick peck on the lips and then she makes quick work of tying you to the bed banisters. 

“Not too tight?” She checks and you move your wrists experimentally. You feel like with the right amount of force, you could free yourself if you needed to. 

“They’re good,” you say, voice clouded with lust. “Can you–” And then you stop, unsure if it’s okay to ask. 

“What do you want, baby girl?” Her fingers stroke your thighs reassuringly. 

“Canyoufuckmewithyourcock,” you spit out. She raises an eyebrow, silently prodding you to slow down. You try again, forcing yourself to pause after each word. “Can you fuck me with your cock?” 

She groans out loud. “Such a good girl, using your words like that. Since you took my spanking so well, I think I can arrange that.” She goes back to the same drawer where the restraints were and pulls out her harness and strap. She shimmies out of her pants and hastily gets ready for you. Your hips have started undulating ever so slightly in anticipation. 

She climbs back on the bed, rubs her strap-on against your opening to lube it up, and then slowly pushes in. You immediately feel better with the fullness, your anxiety at Agatha’s weird silence the last few days ebbing away. She gives you a second to adjust to the size and then starts fucking you like an unhinged woman. 

She snaps her hips with every fast thrust, pulling a strangled noise out of you each time. You’re both panting with the exertion and one of her hands finds your throat again. She squeezes and your cunt clenches around her cock, making it harder for her to move. 

“Mommy, fuck, yes,” you sob, the pleasure making you lightheaded. All of your senses are completely overridden by her. All you can feel is Agatha and you wish more than anything you could touch her. But being tied up and completely at her mercy is driving you absolutely crazy. “I’m so close.” 

You can feel her smirking against your skin where she’s leaving bite marks and then soothing the spots with her lips. She keeps fucking you just right. 

“Don’t cum yet,” she says, voice gruff. You whine and she grabs your chin with the hand that was around your throat and turns it roughly so you’re making eye contact with her. “Who do you belong to?” 

She picks up the intensity of her thrusts, if possible. You’re teetering on the edge. “You, mommy, only you!” You wail. 

“Good girl,” she purrs. “Cum for me.” As if you’d be able to stop yourself. 

Your second orgasm hits you much more intensely and you can’t stop chanting her name as she fucks you through it. Your mind goes blank for a second in the bliss. 

She pulls out slowly, leaving a gaping emptiness inside you. It doesn’t stay that way for long, though, because after she takes the strap and harness off and throws them across the room, Agatha moves down the bed and thrust her tongue into you. She sucks your clit into her mouth and you gasp at the stimulation. It’s too much as she eats you out with renewed fervor.  

“Mommy, fuck,” you mewl and strain your wrists against the ties. “It hurts.” 

She pauses for a moment to look up at you through hooded eyelashes. “You can give me one more, can’t you?” 

You nod meekly and she grins, diving back between your folds. It doesn’t take much for her to coax you back to the edge and a few minutes later, you’re crying out her name when you cum for the third time, her hot mouth knowing exactly what to do to make you scream. 

You wince as she gives you one last lick and then she climbs up to pull you into a deep kiss. Her tongue moves into your mouth with raw hunger and you go to put your hands around her before you remember that you’re tied up. Agatha notices that you’re struggling and smirks before untying you. You move your stiff arms around to get the blood flow back. 

“How was that?” Agatha murmurs. 

“Really good,” you answer honestly. Your brow furrows. “Are you okay? You seem a little off.” 

She doesn’t say anything, just lies down on her back on the bed. She motions at you and you cuddle against her body, head resting on her shoulder. Her arm comes around you and you draw soft patterns on her stomach, enjoying the feeling of her warm skin. 

You almost forget that you asked her anything and you’re about to drift off to sleep when she whispers, “Your father is having an affair.” 

[claramelooo]

HEYYY! It's me again! I'm so happy with all the support words and the great proportion this story is taking that I got excited and I just want write more and more to you guys!! (I'm vacations btw lol)

First of all, I would like to say that I don't know much about the US admission system, so if I got it wrong, please correct me.

Second, if you have any suggestions to improve the story's progress or speed up my writing, feel free to contact me.

Last but not least: enjoy it and comment plsss <3

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Paring: Mommy Dom Wanda x Brat Fem reader

WARNING: +18

Summary : Wanda wraps you in the web she has created.

Read here: Prologue | Part 1 – Predator | Part 3 - On your knees

Velvet Chains

The Prey

It was around 3 a.m., and Wanda sighed, staring at the ceiling of the bedroom. The silence was broken only by the lazy whirring of the fan. Vision lay asleep beside her, turned away, breathing deeply. The space between them on the bed felt like an unbridgeable chasm. She turned her head to look at him for a moment but felt a weight in her chest as she realized there was no warmth there, no real connection.

Sex with Vision had always been… functional, almost mechanical. It was always about him—his needs, his desires. There were moments when she tried to convince herself that this was normal, that love was above all a commitment, but nights like this made it clear: something was terribly wrong.

Wanda shut her eyes tightly, trying to push away the frustration building up inside her. It wasn’t just the sex. It was everything. The suffocating predictability, the lack of intensity, the absence of something she had never been able to name but missed with an almost painful ferocity.

And then there was you.

The memory of your face, the way you looked at her during dinner, came rushing back like a storm. Your eyes held a mix of defiance and uncertainty—something Wanda couldn’t get out of her mind. Since seeing you, there had been a growing need inside her, something primal and overwhelming. It wasn’t just desire—though that was undeniable. It was the way you made her feel, as if she were alive for the first time in years.

Wanda sat up in bed, running her hands through her hair, frustrated with herself. It was wrong. That much was obvious. You were young, inexperienced—a delicate soul who deserved freedom, not the weight of the obsession she felt growing inside her.

But the more she tried to rationalize, the more inevitable it seemed. There was something about you—your innocence mixed with a quiet resilience, as if the world couldn’t break you, no matter how hard it tried. It was hypnotic. She wanted to shape you, to dominate your strength and fragility all at once, to explore every nuance of you until there was nothing left to hide.

A shiver ran down her spine, and she pressed her fingers against her temples, trying to stifle the thoughts.

“This has to stop,” she murmured to herself. “This isn’t who I am.”

But the truth was, she wasn’t sure who she was anymore. With Vision, with the life she had built—it all felt so distant, so colorless. And then you appeared, and the entire world gained a new vibrancy, an intensity she hadn’t realized she craved until she felt it.

She looked at Vision again, still turned away, still oblivious to the storm raging beside him. For a moment, Wanda felt a wave of guilt, but it disappeared as quickly as it came. Because the reality was clear: she would never feel whole with Vision.

The clock read 3:23 a.m. when Wanda slipped out of bed, her bare feet meeting the cold floor. She needed space, needed to think, but she knew that every step she took was leading her deeper into dangerous territory—a path of no return.

Reaching the living room, she grabbed a bottle of whiskey—Vision only drank it to celebrate work promotions—and took a swig straight from the bottle, hoping to drown out the chaotic thoughts of you, of Vision, of herself.

But they didn’t go away.

As the alcohol coursed through her veins, Wanda felt her body float. And then, she felt ready to do something she had never done before. With trembling hands from adrenaline and excitement, Wanda picked up her laptop from the coffee table and searched for what had been on her mind since the moment she first laid eyes on you.

The video was artificial, the expressions of pleasure fake, the moans hollow. But the scene itself sparked Wanda’s imagination.

She pictured you moaning beneath her as she slid a good, thick strap inside your tight little pussy, pinning your arms above your head, leaving you completely at her mercy. She imagined slapping your pretty face until you gave in, sticking your tongue out to accommodate her fingers, letting her lubricate them before slowly sliding them into your tight little ass, driving you wild.

Denying you orgasms until you begged her with teary, pleading eyes. Pushing you until you finally said the one word you so desperately needed to say—and that she so desperately needed to hear.

Wanda also fantasized about riding your face, making you drown in her wet pussy, suffocating on her juices. Marking your neck and chest with bruises she would proudly touch the next day.

These thoughts alone were enough to make Wanda forget the adult film on her screen and focus entirely on you. Her fingers worked diligently over her clit, her body trembling as the signs of orgasm built within her. Moments later, she came, her eyes rolling back, her legs shaking.

Oh, fuck. She had to have you soon.

 [...]

The city library was a sanctuary of sacred silence, where whispered voices mingled with the soft rustle of turning pages. You had returned to the country with a single purpose: to study. Your mother never missed a chance to remind you that your bright future hinged on a prestigious university. But after everything, Yale felt like an unattainable dream.

Not anymore.

You still had a chance to transfer and adapt to a new routine—though adjusting had never been hard for you. You’d spent your 18th birthday alone, blowing out the candle on a strawberry cupcake someone had given you, wishing for the power to change your life.

And now, here it was.

Determined, you worked tirelessly to achieve an excellent GPA, nurtured relationships with your professors, and spent the remaining months meticulously preparing your early decision application.

Then came the waiting—waiting and waiting for that damn call. Time passed. You turned 20—too old for a Christian boarding school, too young to face the world—and found yourself staring out of the same window.

When your father finally called, his expressionless voice carried the weight of your shattered dreams.

And now, here you were, standing before an old building with beautiful architecture that probably held some intriguing history. With a pile of notebooks and a battered binder in hand, you pushed open the heavy doors and stepped into the library's main hall. The comforting scent of aged paper and polished wood enveloped you.

The plan was straightforward: find a corner, avoid distractions, and lose yourself in formulas, essays, and reading lists for the next few hours.

But fate, it seemed, had other ideas.

As soon as you entered, your eyes locked onto something—or rather, someone—that made your stomach churn. Behind the lending counter stood Wanda Maximoff.

She wore thin glasses that only accentuated the intensity of her piercing gaze. Her hair was tied back haphazardly, loose strands framing her face. When you walked in, she looked up, and a dangerous spark flashed in her eyes—something intense, hypnotic, and unnervingly expectant.

It was as though she’d known you were coming.

You felt the shift in the atmosphere before you could process it. Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction—dangerous, predatory.

"Oh, my, my… What a surprise," Wanda murmured, her voice low and sweet, yet carrying an underlying weight that twisted your stomach. She left her computer and moved toward you, hands clasped in front of her like she owned the place.

You cursed softly.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure, Dekta?” she asked, her accent curling around your name in a way that made your core tighten despite your best efforts.

“I’m here to study.”

“Ah, yes… Yale, isn’t it?” Her lips curved into something between a smirk and a sneer, making your fists clench at your sides. “Your parents mentioned it,” she mused. “I admire ambition—though ambition without focus is a waste, don’t you think?”

Your eyes narrowed. "I have focus."

She took another step closer, her presence suffocating. “Do you now?”

“I’m not a child, Wanda,” you snapped—perhaps a bit too loudly for a space that demanded quiet.

For a brief moment, her pupils expanded, eclipsing the green in her eyes. If you weren’t so innocent, you might have seen the excitement pooling in her gaze. But you felt it—the way your body betrayed you, heat pooling low in your belly, your nipples hardening beneath the thin fabric of your bra.

Her expression shifted, the intensity replaced by a false, sugary smile.

“Oh, of course, because you’re such a big girl now, aren’t you?” Wanda tilted her head, her tone deceptively kind but dripping with condescension. Her eyes seemed to dissect you, reading your every reaction like an open book.

“I’m an adult,” you retorted, forcing your voice to remain steady. “I don’t need anyone treating me like I’m still in a school uniform.”

Wanda’s steps were deliberate as she sidled past you, gesturing lazily to a nearby table. “An adult, you say? Funny, because what I see…” Her gaze swept over you and then to the table, “…is a little girl with big dreams, crumbling at the slightest challenge.”

Your entire body tensed. You loathed the way she spoke to you, as though she had the right to dissect your maturity.

“You don’t know me,” you shot back, defensive.

“Don’t I?” She raised an eyebrow, her smile slow and menacing. “Then why are you trembling, Dekta?”

You opened your mouth to deny it, but the words caught in your throat. She was right. Your hands, clutching the binder, were trembling slightly, your heart pounding too fast.

Wanda noticed. Of course, she noticed.

“See?” she whispered, stepping closer, her voice soothing yet laced with control as she reached out to brush a strand of hair from your face. “Adult or not, you still have a lot to learn.” Her words dropped to a murmur, almost too soft to hear: “And I’ll teach you everything.”

Before you could react, Wanda straightened, creating distance as she adjusted her glasses—a deliberate motion that left you inexplicably yearning for her touch again.

“Now, find your table and study. Show me this sharp ambition of yours.”

“You don’t control me,” you snapped, anger flaring briefly.

She chuckled, the sound devoid of warmth. “Oh, Dekta… I don’t have to. You’re already doing exactly what I want.”

With that, she turned and walked back to the counter, leaving you trembling and unsettled, as though you’d just lost a game you didn’t know you were playing.

After 40 minutes of calming down and trying to stop thinking about the woman, you finally manage to focus and regain control of your thoughts. Math had always been something very abstract to you, perhaps even more so than philosophy. There was something about numbers that seemed to elude the logic of your brain, as if every equation were a puzzle with its solution written in a language you couldn't quite comprehend.

You sigh, your eyes fixed on the book's page, where a series of elegantly aligned formulas stared back at you with an almost cruel indifference. It had always been this way. Essays were your forte—your words flowed like a river, structured and persuasive, but numbers? They slipped through your fingers like sand.

With the pencil in your hand, you begin to scribble what seemed to be the first step toward a solution, but your mind soon wavers. Math, with all its precision, left little room for intuition. Every mistake was exposed, every misstep impossible to hide. You had always hated that.

Suddenly, Wanda's presence invades your thoughts again, like a shadow you can't escape. The way she looked at you, as if she knew exactly where your weaknesses lay. Worse, as if she was willing to exploit them.

You shake your head, trying to banish her image, but it’s useless. It’s as if she were still there, standing behind you, watching, waiting for you to fail.

And maybe that was exactly what you needed.

"Okay," you whisper to yourself, turning the page of the notebook with more determination. "This isn't about her. This is about me."

Your strength had always been your ability to adapt and overcome challenges. No matter how impossible something seemed, you had an inner resilience that kept you trying. That was what made you special, even when everything seemed against you.

But that strength came at a price. You were stubborn, almost obsessive, and the idea of failing—for yourself, for your parents, for Wanda—was intolerable. That need to prove your worth, to be good enough, was both a gift and a curse.

Feeling a touch on your shoulder, you jump as if you’d been shocked. Looking at the hand that touched you, it belonged to an elderly woman with a friendly expression on her face.

"Looks like your study session was productive, right?" the lady asked in a voice trembling with age. You simply nodded, still confused by the sudden approach. "But I must inform you, dear. We’re closing now."

"Oh. Yes, of course… I’m sorry," you said as you stood, hastily packing your belongings. "I didn’t even notice the time." You offered an embarrassed explanation.

The lady just laughed, sweetly.

"It's all right! Wanda asked us not to disturb you," she said as if it were nothing, but for you… you felt your pulse quicken with your heartbeat, felt your heart warm at Wanda's indirect gesture.

You looked around, hoping Wanda would appear again to provoke you—to make you surrender to her dominant aura.

But with a click, the library lights turned off, leaving you alone with your confused thoughts.

Letting out a tired sigh, you enter your house. Today had been exhausting, but your mind was at peace from finally breaking out of your loop of procrastination and self-sabotage. It was draining, but it was gratifying—enough to make you proud of yourself.

Arriving in the living room, you see your mother smiling, which makes you raise an eyebrow at her unusual gesture. Noticing you, she stood up, laughing.

"Sweetheart! Come here!" she called, making grand gestures that filled the room.

As you reached the center of the living room, you saw her.

There she was. Wanda Maximoff, sitting in your living room as if she owned the place. Her posture was impeccable—relaxed, but not sloppy. Long legs crossed, her expression composed. She held a teacup in her left hand, her long fingers resting on the porcelain as if it were a luxury item.

Your heart raced. You froze in the doorway, looking from your mother to Wanda and back to your mother.

“Oh, sweetheart, finally!” your mother exclaimed, her voice full of enthusiasm. "I can hardly believe our luck. Wanda offered to help you with your studies! You know how much I worry about your preparation for Yale, and now she's willing to guide you!"

You opened your mouth to protest, but no words came out. Everything felt like a blur. Wanda? The woman who had just turned your afternoon into an emotional whirlwind? Now she was here, in your house, looking more dangerous than ever?

"I simply did what anyone would," Wanda replied, her voice soft but firm. The tone carried a duality: apparent humility, but a pride you could feel beneath the surface. She rose slowly, placing the teacup on the coffee table. Her gaze met yours, and you felt that same shiver from the library.

"Good evening, Dekta," she said with an intonation that made your skin tingle. “I hope you don’t mind my visit. Your mother and I were discussing how I might be helpful for your academic ambitions.”

“Of course,” you responded automatically, trying to keep your composure. “Thank you so much for your help, Wanda.”

Wanda smiled, a small, calculated smile. There was no genuine warmth in it, only something... satisfying. As if she were celebrating an invisible victory.

"In fact," she continued, taking a step closer to you, "I thought we could make this mutually beneficial. Your studies require dedication, and I noticed you have potential. In exchange for my guidance, perhaps you could help me a few hours a week at the library. There are tasks that require... youthful energy."

Your mother seemed more than thrilled with the idea. “Oh, that would be wonderful, wouldn’t it? You’d spend more time learning, in such an inspiring environment!”

You knew you had no choice. Your mother was already beaming, and any refusal would be a family disaster. But above that, there was Wanda, with that look that seemed to pierce your soul, as if she knew that deep down, you didn’t want to refuse either.

"Sure," you finally replied, trying to sound neutral. “That sounds great.”

Wanda took a small step back, satisfied. "Excellent. We’ll start tomorrow."

Your mother clapped her hands, excited. "I’m so proud of you, sweetheart! And so grateful, Wanda, for being willing to help my baby.”

Hearing your mother’s last words, Wanda’s body tensed, clearly disliking the way she referred to you.

Wanda looked at you again, placing a light smile on her face, but her eyes... they had an almost predatory gleam.

“It will be my pleasure,” she said, but you knew there was much more to that phrase than your mother could understand. "Well, it’s late, and I still need to put Tommy and Billy to bed. S/n, would you walk me to the door?"

Finally, you snapped out of your trance upon hearing your name. "O-of course."

As the older woman passed through the door, she turned to look at you again, her eyes gleaming. “You looked beautiful today, darling.”

The compliment made you blush, and the air felt thin, making it hard to breathe.

“Hmm, what do we say when we’re complimented, Dekta?” Wanda broke your trance once again, touching your chin in a firm grip, forcing you to look at her.

"Thank you, Wanda," you replied softly, in an almost submissive tone. Almost. The exhaustion of the day weighed on your shoulders, and Wanda’s sweet voice left you weak, hypnotizing you and slowly turning you into a needy kitten.

"Good girl." She caressed your face with her fingertips, almost as if you were a raw diamond—precious and ready to be shaped. By her. By her hands.

You hadn’t noticed—perhaps due to exhaustion—but Wanda's hands were trembling. The woman trembled as she touched you, as she felt the warmth emanating from your fragrant, untouched skin. Wanda felt blessed, as if finally that scared kitten was learning to trust her.

"We’ll see each other tomorrow, yes? Good night, beautiful girl." She didn’t want to say goodbye to you. She wanted to stay, make you kneel, rest your head on her lap, and stroke the top of your head to hear you purr.

The mark she left on you lingered until you fell asleep, embedding itself under your skin, making you dream of her, of her floral scent—it was something citrusy. Orange? Lemongrass, perhaps? The fragrance clung to your body, your mind, and suddenly, Yale seemed like a distant dream, and Wanda was the only thing you could dream about.

~*~

Poor S/n... A milf caught her.

Tag list <3

@rosekjsses @vyvvycg @3liyuh

If I forget someone, pls remind me in the comments!

[mind-intheclouds342]

Do it for them - Co-captain reader x Curly

Previous - Part 14 - Next

"Today you look much better."

You mentioned Curly smiling at you and resting your forehead against his.

"You've stopped smelling like a cremated corpse, it must feel so good to have clean bandages and your wounds disinfected."

You closed your eyes with a smile, enjoying being close to him without having to move away because of the overwhelming stench he used to emit.

Curly: "...I...wa...wann..."

You suddenly opened your eyes upon hearing the sound of a voice, leaned back, and fell backward to the ground with the chair and all.

"No! Don't you dare! Don't do that again! That scared me!"

You stood up and quickly adjusted the chair to sit back down in front of him.

You opened his jaw to see his tongue and pressed it with your thumb to be able to see his throat.

"Nu-uh, your throat is still damaged, don't talk, I don't care."

He let out a huff when you said that.

"Did you just huff at me??? In these conditions, are you giving me an attitude??"

For some reason, it seemed like he was enjoying your reaction.

"Oh, you like seeing me angry now?? What are you trying to do?" 

You raised your hands when you asked that question, and he kept staring at your left hand, letting out a murmur upon noticing the rings on it.

"Mm? This? I found it when I tried to see if anything could be useful from the cockpit..."

You looked at your hand, seeing the rings, you had almost completely forgotten that you had his with you.

You took it out slowly and showed it to him up close.

"Now I'm not so angry about the fortune you spent on these rings, if they withstood an explosion they are of very good quality."

You smiled at him, lovingly observing the ring, remembering the day he proposed to you and knowing that from that moment your life would change forever.

"Who would have thought we would end up like this? Mm? I can say it, when I was little I never imagined I would go to space. Although i did dream of a handsome husband"

You could notice a hint of sadness in the sigh he gave, quite aware of his current state and that he would never be the same man as before.

"Do you still have doubts? If I will still be by your side when we return home?" 

His gaze turned to you when you mentioned that, it wasn't a lie, he had been thinking about that possibility.

"Do you think the only thing that made me fall in love with you was your pretty little face? Can't you believe that I can still love you seeing you like this?"

You smiled, resting your forehead against his again, looking directly into his eye.

"I didn't believe it either, when you met me, I was a mess, a drug addict, disheveled, stinky, and with a terrible attitude, I have to admit it... But that didn't stop you from falling in love with me, did it?" 

He rolled his eye to try to avoid your gaze.

You put his ring back on your ring finger next to yours.

"The day he wants to leave you, I'll take off this ring, okay? Until then, I don't want you to worry." 

You kissed his forehead, ready to go get the rations for the day.

Curly: "...I... I- I'm sho-.rry..."

"What did I just tell you a few minutes ago?? Nothing to talk about." 

You crossed your arms and shook your head.

Curly: "...I lo..ve you..."

Hearing those words again after so long, your cheeks began to burn, you turned your face because you didn't want him to see you with tears in your eyes, about to cry from joy.

"Me too! Don't forget it!"

You mentioned loudly, quickly leaving that room, took a deep breath, and leaned against the wall, unable to believe you were reacting the same way as when he first told you.

Daisuke: "Captain, are you okay?"

"Ah-! Daisuke, don't just show up out of nowhere! What do you need?"

Daisuke: "Do you want to swap my meat noodles for your cheese ones?"

He smiled, showing you the package of his food; it seemed that Swansea had gotten ahead and had already distributed the rations.

"Sure, sure... Go change it."

Daisuke: "Thank you! You're the best!"

You sighed, resting your head against the wall.

"Just a little more... I'm already getting sick of that food... I need to cook something real..."

[marlshroom]

came to the fucked up realization after finishing gravity falls again last night the parallels of the dream bubble bill made for mabel and the literal state of delusion he keeps himself in.

in the book of bill on the page where bill cipher describes how he figured out a way to manipulate her into giving him the rift, it says:

"Summers ending, my guy. Ending to death, bro. She'd do anything to make it last just a day longer. Probably something RASH and OUT OF CHARACTER, even!"

as we know, mabel cannot handle the fact that she will be growing up. that the relationship with her brother is going to change. she is scared of high school.

bill then says "That was it. She'd never make a deal with me. But she'd make a deal with someone she believed could give her more time. The dream was done. I had her."

bill then creates the dream bubble for mabel, he makes every one of her dreams come true, a place where time is still and she can be a kid forever. a lie so great that she wont have to face the truth.

in journal 3 on one of the pages bill is writing in code, we see this:

[ID: "I ask you, why must[should] time only move forward? Why must cause preceded effect. Who voted on the law of physics."]

my friend helped me break down what bill means by this:

why can we only move forward in the 4th dimension of time. why does something have to make another thing happen, why must cause come before the effect. why cant you move backwards, in the other direction, change the decisions youve made.

how interpret this is bill asking why he is not able to back and stop what he did to his family. he says to ford that he tried and failed to undo the past.** why did him wanting people to acknowledge his advantages instead of suppress him lead to the destruction of his whole dimension?

**(i just want to point out that this is probably the time where bill is the MOST open to anybody, or at least the first. to his henchmaniacs he had been telling them that he liberated his dimension until the oracle discovered the truth. here, to ford, he got so much closer to telling the truth. he SHOWS ford the last atoms of his world. he says that it was destroyed by a monster, not that it was liberated! destroyed)

back to when bill says "I had her" about mabel, he had her cause he knew exactly what needed to happen to trap mabel in a delusion because it is exactly what he is doing to himself. creating a fake narrative of what happened to him, that he was vindicated in killing his whole dimension. only ever doing exactly what he wants because confronting the truth is too scary for him(good fucking lord). the morality page offers good insight into this too.

i am actually just going to quote the whole page and highlight the important part. it speaks for itself really

"THE POINT IS it's[morality] is a very flexible concept! But parents and presidents don't want you to know that, because then you might start asking other questions, like who put them in charge, anyway? So they cram your brain full of guilt and regrets for transgressing the laws that they just made up(the laws that they made to prevent the destruction of their dimension, regardless of if the law + the wrongful medication of a fucking baby triangle did any good to actually prevent it). Wouldn't it be nice if you could put all that baggage down? Quell the shame that follows you everywhere for a lifetime of crimes? MAKE THE SCREAMS FINALLY STOP? The good news is you CAN silence that annoying voice, and here's how!

DENIAL

Works 100% of the time in every situation. What you you mean there are people who disagree? I can confidently say there aren't!

RATIONALIZATION

If you can do it, you can justify it! "Truth" is open-source code and anyone can edit it anytime! Want to be like me? List 3 "evil" things and then 3 "reasons why they're actually good." You'll be rationalizing like Bill in no time!

DETACHMENT

Did you know 100% of your human cells die and are replaced every 7 years? That means that anything you did 7 years ago wasn't even you-it was some dead loser! You can't be held accountable for what a dead person did! What? You think this is just another form of rationalization? I DENY THAT!

THE BILL CIPHER DECISION METHOD!

Working over the eons, the voices in my head teamed up and worked out a foolproof method for making any decision in any situation.

DO WHATEVER I WANT."

ooooooooooooooooooh boy.

he is fully admitting here that he is living in a completely different really in order to justify doing whatever he wants. he gives mabel the tools to deny, to rationalize, to detach herself from the reality of it all. that time has to move forward. and he thinks it will work because it worked on himself.

but it doesn't work on mabel because she understands that she needs other people. shes vunerable, she lets people in, admits when shes wrong. and bill cant do that because it would destroy the fantasy he's created for himself.

[inside-lees-mind]

I’m sorry for all the requests but Dr.stone brain rot is killing me 😭:

May I order a headcanon (once facking again) where their s/o’s family was extremely poor in the past, so when Ryusui made currency they spent the least amount of money, rarely eating out of habit and trying to not make the same mistake their family did before?

If there was a Tsukasa part I believe that would only fuel his anger more for the rich and greedy ngl 😭

Anyways, if you do my request once again. Thank you from the absolute bottom of my heart! And remember to always take care of yourself pookie <3

- Sincerely, 🍙 Anon

Reader’s Family was Poor in the Past

Hi!!! Thank you for the request! :) and do remember to take care of yourself too! Sorry this is so late to when you sent this in 😭 there is so much in my inbox, I jump around.

I chose Senku, Gen, Tsukasa, and Ryusui for this.

Senku Ishigami

He wasn’t too concerned with what everybody was doing, but your behavior doesn’t go unnoticed.

He watched as you picked through almost thousands of drago and only spent a few, and it almost seemed like you were scared to.

Ryusui had practically thrown drago at you because you were nearby and he complimented you and gave you plenty of money, so why were you spending SO cautiously like you were down to nickels and dimes? (I know nothing about Yen so I don’t know if there is an expression equivalent in Japanese)

You have nothing to really save the money for, so why were you debating so hard over spending it on a shirt. You wanted the shirt, didn’t you?

Eventually, he’d found out from somebody that knew you that your family was poor. He had thought something like that must have been the case, but now he knows for sure.

He’d likely encourage you to spend a bit more. Either that, or he’d bluntly tell you there is no reason to keep the money so close to you anymore.

Gen Asagiri

If he had that much money, he’d be blowing it.

You had thousands of drago that Ryusui had just handed you. And you were clutching onto it like you’d be robbed of it and be left for dead without it if you loosen up just a little.

You hesitated to get cotton candy, despite how much you said you missed the taste.

He watched you and soon noticed your behavior was like those who were less fortunate to have to ration to survive.

You didn’t need to do that here, the money isn’t that important. At the end of the day, the hunters in the kingdom of science would bring home food rather people paid them for the meat or not.

The community doesn’t run off of money, so your behavior is unnecessary. So he’d probably talk you out of it.

He’d come stand beside you, talking to you softly.

“Money isn’t that important here. You don’t need it to pay for a house. And the beasts of people we have here do the hunting for us, and never once have they asked for money. Nor would they deny you food if you couldn’t pay. You can save some… but maybe spend half? Plus…” he leans in to whisper, “Ryusui would gladly pay for you if it ever came to it. I’m sure a man like him will never run out of money.”

Tsukasa Shishio

Dragos have been around for a while, but you’re still clutching onto them like it’s life or death.

Francois doesn’t make you pay them for food. The hunters (him, Hyoga, etc) don’t make you pay them for meat or anything.

So your behavior has got to be engraved into you.

He might be on the side of kingdom of science, but deep down, this rise of currency and capitalism bothers him.

watching you struggle to let go of money makes him angry.

The world they used to live in had brought you to this point, and that pisses him off.

He knows what that’s like. He fought for money. He became famous for money. All for money for Mirai. Just so his sister would live.

He had to pay people to keep his sister alive.

And old men paid for the rights to land and he had no grounds to even do anything about getting beat down by one for picking seashells. That man OWNED those seashells.

He doesn’t know exactly what you went through, but he’s got an idea.

He doesn’t say much, but he makes sure to give you plenty of food and he’ll buy things for you and give them to you.

Honestly he’s so sweet.

Ryusui Nanami

Spend money, get bitches. Yk. (This man would hate the word bitches for sure. But I had to say this. Like side note, but he’s an advocate for the word to be offensive when leaving a man’s mouth)

Ryusui gave you thousands of drago and stepped back. He expected you to spend it, give to the economy, etc.

But you held onto it like you were gonna need it soon.

He doesn’t really know what that’s like. He’s always had lots of money.

Well, once he had a smaller allowance, but even that would be a lot to most other people. He doesn’t realize this so much, not until he sees you.

He’s confused at first.

What else is there to do in life than get all that one wants when they want it? Get your money up, keep your money up, spend your money up. Yk. The 3 pillars to life. (This is not what they are)

He gives you more money.

But you try to deny it.

He insists. Then he watches you clutch onto it like you’ll need it all in an hour.

He probably goes over to encourage you. Telling you to see things how he sees it.

And then you probably explain why you just can’t. You’re scared you’ll end up like your family was as a kid.

He begins to see what you mean, and he’ll probably spend some money on you.

“Don’t be scared. There isn’t anything to worry about money about here. Even if everything had a cost soon, I’d pay for whatever you needed. And all these people would surely do you a favor even if.”

[honeysorwell]

all of it (all of you) 

Pairing: Melissa Schemmenti x fem!Reader

Prompt by anon + Idea for reader's nationality by anon

Synopsis: After more than 10 years with the same hairdresser, Melissa Schemmenti must change salons.

Tag list: (Since this is my first time writing for this character, I thought it best not to tag anyone. So if you want to be tagged just let me know.)

Warning: MELISSA AND Y/N ARE MAaaaD *in Ava's voice*

Words: 4k

Synopsis of the story + Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10

Enjoy!

Link on AO3

Chapter 1 - changes

Barbara Howard's friendship had a transformative impact on Melissa Schemmenti's personal life from the beginning.

The religious woman's friendship at the beginning of the redhead's career made the Italian woman rethink a lot about herself. Regardless of their moral differences, how their individual relationships with religion are almost opposite, or even their small disagreements, one thing right at the beginning turned Melissa's world upside down.

The once chaotic and disorganized woman discovered the calming practicality of being hostage to well-established standards with a Christmas gift from her black coworker in her second year working at Abbott Elementary.

A schedule with a small calendar.

The year she received that gift, the redhead was furious with what was left written between the lines.

Disorganization.

After all, Melissa had absolutely everything under control.

She always had.

In her own way.

And Melissa also thought it was stupid to waste precious time that could be spent working by just planning to work, but after a terribly inconsistent semester (with more art, music and physical education teachers leaving Abbott than she can count on one hand), the redhead decided to give it a try.

So, 22 years ago Melissa started to use a schedule and a calendar every year faithfully and never looked back.

As she got older, the certainty of her upcoming appointments and how easy was to change what was needed on that sheet of paper to make better use of her time kept Melissa calm even during all the chaos that continued to live in her head and in her classroom every day. But everything changed when the spaces on pages that were reserved especially for her monthly visits to her family's hairdresser were now blank.

Rationally, the redhead knew that the hairdresser who had taken care of her grandmother's hair for the last twenty years of her life, two of her aunts out of town, washed and cared for her mother's hair every week, and three of her sisters periodically couldn't last long. But Melissa couldn't help but feel fooled and betrayed when Andrea Rossi announced her retirement.

The redhead hadn't been Andrea's client for her entire life, after all, the older hairdresser's regular clients had always been her priority. However, Melissa began to be part of the select group of Schemmenti women helped by Andrea when her former hairdresser (the one who had a Greek accent and many opinions that she hated but didn't discuss because he was her brother-in-law's friend), decided to call her Melinda, even after having her as a client for over three years.

Melinda.

Even though it was seventeen years ago, Barb still remembers the angry redheaded hurricane that entered the teachers’ lounge that week and still manages to make jokes about it whenever she gets the chance.

Monthly visits to the older woman had started with a simple hair color, but unlike her old hairdresser, Andrea had become much more than that for Melissa.

It was a ritual, a moment of care that for a long time brought her joy and confidence. It was talking animatedly with an Italian woman who showed her affection and care, something neither of them would admit out loud but was lacking in the Schemmenti family when it came to recognizing Melissa’s efforts and personal victories.

And now it was over.

“Ragazza (girl), don’t be like that… I’m old now, my hands hurt more than I can handle after a busy weekend,” Andrea tried to justify herself, stroking Melissa’s head with a tender smile as she finished coloring her hair that day, but which did not hide the weight of the decision.

“And what am I gonna do now? Let the grays give me another 30 years in less than 6 months?”

“Don’t be silly! I’ve already transferred all my clients to hairdressers that I trust. You included! So stop it now!”

“I don’t want someone new.” Turning uncertainty into resistance is like armor for the redhead, even though she knows she has no choice, her brain still tries to break the meaning of Andrea’s retirement, “It’s going to mess up my entire schedule, Andrea! Two classes and now with you gone? I almost went crazy with the first semester of the year alone, now I know I’ll as soon as classes start after winter break!”

“I know that, Mel, and I'm really sorry. That’s why I talked to the hairdressers I know, and the best choice for you is Y/N, my last trainee. She’s great, hard-working, very talented and was willing to easily change her own clients’ schedule to see you at the same time I see you every month, she also works just five minutes from here. Ahe is young and kind, you’ll like her.”

“But I don’t know her.” Even though she didn’t admit it, the idea of ​​a stranger touching her hair disturbed Melissa deeply, and the murmur that left her mouth made a point of emphasizing this.

The change came too quickly, and with it, a wave of anxiety took over Melissa's heart. This feeling was temporarily drowned out by her more than exhausting routine. She was the hostess of the Schemmenti family's Thanksgiving dinner, and this, along with the end of the year, drained her ability to think about her other problems. But when the following month arrived along with the return to school after winter break, her colorless hair also started to show again, so Melissa swallowed her pride and went to the salon that Andrea had recommended to her.

Riverfront Roots.

The name was silly, a clear reference to the Delaware River that Melissa preferred not to think about too much as she looked at the large letters printed on the facade of the place. As soon as she entered the new salon, the smell of hair products and the sound of blow dryers buzzing caught her attention. The place was modern and well-decorated, but Melissa couldn't feel completely at ease. The smell was different, the decor was different, the voices were different, and the redhead hated evey single one of these things.

She wasn't so reluctant to little changes in her daily life, but that week was so exhausting. The two classes together made a point of actively getting on her nerves, Gary also changed some of the lemonade brands in the vending machine and none of the new ones lived up to the taste of the old ones. The man made a point of telling the redhead that it wasn't done on purpose, thanks to the end of their relationship, and she genuinely believed him, but even so, such a change in such a tiring week only made the teacher's discomfort that Saturday morning turn into a gratuitous and deep antipathy towards everything. Including the new place.

The woman of Italian descent approached the counter, where a receptionist graced her with a friendly smile.

"Hello, how can I help you today?", was the question that greeted Melissa, with a kindness that, in the redhead's mind, was completely unnecessary.

The teacher hesitated for a moment before answering sharply, ignoring the hello offered to her.

"Schemmenti. Melissa Schemmenti. I have a coloring booked here. A recommendation from Andrea Rossi." While the receptionist checked her information, Melissa looked around, trying to get used to the new habitat, but she barely had time to do so because, in less than thirty seconds, the receptionist escorted Melissa to a chair in front of one of the largest mirrors in the salon.

The chair that was chosen for the redhead was a little isolated from the other people present, who were laughing and talking without worrying about the noise, but if the redhead was being honest with herself, she actually preferred it that way.

“Hello, Melissa. My name is Y/N and it’s wonderful to meet you. I hope you fell welcome and comfortable here with me. Andrea has told me wonderful things about you and I have her notes in my hand to make sure you leave here satisfied.”, a younger woman with a thick accent appeared out of nowhere, vomiting the words at Melissa with a smile and a sweet voice that were already starting to give the redhead a headache.

The speech seemed rehearsed, still genuine, but her voice seemed too practiced to instill comfort in the redhead. And if that wasn't enough, the younger woman was enthusiastically waving a note in her hand like a triumph, making Melissa even more insecure about Y/N's talent than she already was.

The teacher knows she's not an idiot but… This hairdresser wasn't even thirty years old. This Y/N was clearly in her early twenties, with rich hair and a quick smile that probably lit up the room more than those stupid ringlights that surrounded the chairs in that place.

Not to mention that she was beautiful.

Very beautiful.

A part of Melissa, hyper-aware of her own age, felt the bitter taste of envy take over her tongue as she looked at the younger woman's reflection in the mirror in front of her, but another part, even more recklessly, awakened a dormant desire in her mind.

However, even with that spark hidden behind Melissa's eyes, their initial interaction couldn't have been worse.

Y/N seemed excited, first asking Melissa for permission to touch her hair – something the redhead almost said no to, just to see if that smile would die on her lips – but quickly the hairdresser started discussing ideas for Melissa's hair, something that forced the redhead's voice to sound cutting:

"I just want to continue with what I've been doing since my hair roots changed color.", Melissa made sure her voice sounded as sharp as she intended, "Get those ideas out of ya head and just do what Andrea used to."

The lack of niceness caused Y/N to feel strange, but the hairdresser tried to remain calm despite the discomfort.

New clients were always a little insecure, so the Brazilian woman would just prove to the one in front of her that she had talent.

Y/N always had magical hands. When she was still a little girl, on the hot afternoons in her hometown, she would have fun braiding the hair of her school friends. Long locks of hair shiny thanks to the summer sun and strands yellowed by the chemicals of several women in the city often passed through Y/N's hands as if she were an artist molding a sculpture.

Her friends loved the hairstyles she did. At first, they were not at all sophisticated due to her young age, but they were done with so much love and dedication that they always seemed to transform any hair into something unique. For Y/N, it was more than just fun.

It was a passion.

When she reached her teen years, that passion became something more serious. Y/N was not satisfied with just doing the hair of her friends and family. The Brazilian woman wanted to learn, she wanted to master the art of transforming people's hair into something even more special.

That's why when she graduated from high school, Y/N started studying, and within a few months, she was already working professionally at a salon in her city. It didn't take long for her to be recognized for the quality of her work. Her skill with scissors and dye made her quickly stand out among other professionals. She knew what she was doing, she knew how to transform people into more beautiful versions of themselves, she knew what her clients wanted and, most importantly, she knew how to make them feel good.

Little by little, Y/N began to stand out even more and her life began to change.

She knew that her talent could not be limited, and so, when some close friends who had already moved to the United States began to encourage her to try her luck in Philadelphia, Y/N was scared at first. But if the chance to start over in another country meant more opportunities, she couldn't let this pass, even if the exciting idea had the power to scare her. But even though she was frightened, she was soon embarking on a new chapter in her life in a plane.

It was hard to save money for the travel, it was hard to get all the necessary documents to enter the USA legally, it was hard to leave loyal clients behind, and it was even harder to leave her country and its traditions. But the youthfulness of her soul and the hope of a new life embraced her heart and the hairdresser decided to give herself this chance.

Wen she arrived in Philadelphia, Y/N felt, at the same time, small and full of possibilities. The city was big, the competition was powerful, and she was seen as just another foolish immigrant.

But she was determined.

The Brazilian woman knew that her skill could be the key to a promising future. She just didn’t expect that her future would be shaped by Andrea Rossi, an older and more experienced Italian hairdresser who worked at a well-known salon nearby.

The story happened by chance. One of Andrea’s regular clients mentioned that her son had gotten a haircut from a really new Brazilian hairdresser.

“It was something very different… Like those stupid things we see on TikTok, but it was exactly what James wanted, and we had never found anyone willing to do it. What this young woman did perfectly and without thinking twice, and my son loved it!”, the woman commented in admiration before giving the older woman an idea, “You should meet her!”

Andrea was curious and, figuring she had nothing to lose, asked for more information about the Brazilian woman. The client was enthusiastic and told the Italian one everything she knew and, even though she was skeptical, Andrea let her curiosity get the best of her and decided to see it for herself.

The next day, she went to the salon where Y/N was working and, observing closely, immediately noticed the young woman’s skill. The Brazilian woman had the touch of someone who knew what she was doing, an eye for beauty trends, and the needs of her clients, but she also had more than that.

Y/N had a natural connection with people, a charisma that, combined with her smile and strong accent, made any client feel at ease, and Andrea saw that.

So the Italian woman wasted no time. She called Y/N for a chat at the end of her shift and, soon, took her on as her last pupil before announcing her retirement.

Normally, hearing Andrea Rissi's name made Y/N happy. All the advice, recommendations, affection, and wisdom shared by the older woman were a pleasant memory for the Brazilian woman.

But there, while she tried in vain to be nice to what was Andrea's transfer, having her work compared to the older woman's began to annoy her.

First, the owner of those pretty green eyes began to verbalize her dissatisfaction with the work tools Y/N used, telling her how much she preferred Andrea's work tools, which were always on display for her clients to see. Then the redhead started rolling her eyes at Y/N's coworkers, who, since they had no clients, were chatting spiritedly while planning to get their nails done at the end of the day, muttering how much she would appreciate some peace and quiet.

But the first sign Y/N gave that she was definitely not the type of person who would just ignore or shrink from Melissa's bad mood was when the redhead made a point of directly comparing her work to Andrea's before Y/N even started dyeing her hair.

"Andrea never parted my hair like that. You'll leave my hair full of spots, kid!"

Trying to preserve the good mood she had woken up in that morning, the hairdresser chose to be sneaky and ironic. Y/N looked around theatrically and curiously, as if she was searching for something important, and Melissa, unable to contain her fear and confusion, made her voice present.

“What are ya?”

“Nothing. Just looking for Andrea Rossi since you want to talk about her so badly.”

Receiving only silence as an answer, and thinking that the unhappy attitude of that client was over, the hairdresser continues her journey. Y/N measures the dye with all the care in the world, making sure to double-check on the scale in front of her that the weight is correct when compared to what Andrea gave her over the phone before applying the dye accurately, fearing giving Melissa another reason to complain. The Brazilian woman divides Melissa’s hair locks with the focus of a professional with much more experience, doing everything she can to not lose a single blonde hair, and when she goes to wash it, she does so with a gentleness that surprises Melissa.

But the teacher doesn’t want to admit it, so she continues to stare sullenly at the mirror, even while Y/N gently untangles her wet hair.

When the redhead’s hair is nice and completely ready to be dried, Y/N looks at her hair curiously before turning once more to Melissa’s reflection in the mirror.

“I usually do this before dyeing, but what do you think about maybe cutting a few inches? The ends are starting to lose their shape.”

“I don’t want to cut anything.”, the words are said low enough for no one but the hairdresser to hear but Y/N, but with a hint of anger that surprised the young woman, “And stop talking, your voice is too annoying for the kind of mediocre work ya deliver, kid.”

It was insensitive. Even to Melissa.

The redhead knows that Andrea would never send her to a bad hairdresser. She knows she is being harsh and critical to someone who gave her no reason to do so, but before she realizes it the words have already escaped her mouth.

But the teacher simply has no idea what was coming.

The hairdresser’s eyes widened, large pupils full of rage meeting the teacher’s gaze through the mirror, shocked by the words said by Melissa. And, before Melissa's mind can even work on instigating any remorseful reflexes, Y/N grabs a large chunk of hair from the redhead's bangs and takes a pair of scissors out of her pocket with her free hand, quickly placing them right on Melissa's forehead, exactly where her hair grows, like a more than concrete threat.

“Listen to me Philadelphia's beauty, I don't know what kind of hairdresser you expected when Andrea transferred you to me but as long as you sit in my chair you will respect my work and listen to my fucking suggestions.”, it is said as a whisper, but the hairdresser's anger and her thick accent along with the slight pull she gives the redhead's hair make the whole interaction sound indescribably scary, even to Melissa, “I've been nothing but polite and respectful to you, but I'm starting to regret accepting someone so unfortunate in my char that they think they can criticize my work without even knowing me.”

There, locking eyes with Y/N ​​in the salon mirror, Melissa understood how much she had crossed the line.

Melissa took a deep breath, filled with adrenaline at the thought of losing the top part of her hair, before nodding her head, causing Y/N to put down the scissors and let go of her bangs as she returned to work normally.

And then silence.

Dead silence.

The silence between the two women was so thick that it seemed to fill every corner of the room, making the sound of the dryer and the conversations around them sound muffled and filling the air with a corrosive feeling.

The scene from minutes ago was still boiling in Melissa's mind, repeating itself like a scratched record. Now, as if Melissa had finally come to her senses, the redhead wanted to disappear. She wanted to jump out of the chair and run away from the mirror which reflected her own guilt and shame. But she couldn't. Her anxiety combined with the idea of ​​leaving now, before the end of her service (something that could be even more disrespectful than her words), did a magnificent job holding her body in place, like an invisible chain that kept her feet on the floor and her mouth gagged.

With her fingers drumming on her apron-covered leg as the Brazilian woman prepared to style her hair, the teacher wanted to believe that it hadn't been so bad, that maybe Y/N had already forgotten what was said. But she knew that wasn't true. The weight of the moment still hung between them, thick and uncomfortable.

Y/N doesn't cut her hair or even mention the idea once again. The hairdresser just dries her red hair perfectly, but now with a serious gaze and a hurt look on her face. The Brazilian woman vehemently ignores Melissa's green eyes throughout the entire process, and the teacher stupidly decides too late that she prefers the incessant smile that remained on the hairdresser's lips minutes ago.

Melissa thought about apologizing, but the idea of ​​speaking made her breathing quick and shallow, along with the fear of seeming too desperate.

It was then that her eyes fell on the small ceramic jar in the corner of the counter next to her chair. It was decorated with hand-painted flowers and had, in crooked but legible letters, the words: "Tips for Y/N" next to a QR code. Even with the virtual possibility of compensation, the jar was open and with a significant amount of dollars, coins, and two lollipops, which Melissa just knew had been left there by a child.

And so, an idea formed, hesitant but clear in the teacher's mind.

A good tip seemed perfect, silent, indirect, but still meaningful. As the minutes passed, anxiety whispered again in Melissa's mind, wondering if Y/N would believe that she was doing this because of the guilt she felt at that very moment and not because of the regret that was now eating her mind. But the alternative of doing nothing was simply unbearable for Melissa.

The redhead knew she couldn't leave without at least trying, even if in her own way, to make amends.

When Y/N finished applying a light-smelling oil to the teacher's hair and walked away, silently letting her know that her work was done, Melissa tried to meet the hairdresser's eyes and give her a small smile through the reflection in the mirror, which she knew would be nervous, but which could give her an idea of ​​what was going on in Y/N's head.

But Y/N didn't look up at Melissa.

When Melissa got up from the salon chair, her racing heart didn't stop her from taking two generous bills from her wallet — much more than she would give for just an appointment to dye her hair— and walking over to the pot. Her fingers were shaking slightly, but before anything could be done, she was interrupted:

“I don’t want your tip.” Before the two hundred dollars could enter the ceramic pot with the Brazilian’s name written on it, Y/N placed her own hand over the top to the object, successfully blocking Melissa from doing what she intended.

“M'kay. Now you’re being ridiculous!”

With those words, the hairdresser's eyes finally focus on the green ones again, still filled with an anger that Melissa rarely sees in people who have a disagreement with her (too used to the regretful and submissive ones) and the redhead was shocked by this when Y/N actively chooses to ignore her accusation by saying:

"I'm willing to give you the exact coloring mixture that Andrea developed for your hair so you can find a hairdresser who is like the silent imitation of Andrea that you are looking for.", and before the redhead even has a chance to answer her with an apology that would apparently be necessary, the hairdresser quickly collects everything that was used in the teacher's service and directs Melissa a few more words before walking away without looking back, "Call the salon when you want the measurements and the receptionist will share them with you with pleasure. Have a good rest of your day."

[concretejunglefm]

𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒… 01

Summary: When you were convinced to visit a male strip club, you didn’t anticipate that the guy you locked eyes with on stage and who subsequently pulled you up for a routine, would turn out to be the same guy whose roommate advert you’d be responding to less than 24 hours later.

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x reader.

CW: nothing really other than some mentions of suggestive dance moves at a strip club.

WC: 3.2k.

AN: Alright, so I’m not sure how many parts this will have. All I know is that this is for fun I hope you enjoy Noah being a lovable himbo.

Dividers: silent-stories.

Fic Masterlist

ROOMMATE WANTED

Are you struggling with parental issues, a questionable job, broken hopes and dreams, or perhaps hiding your pain behind a morbid sense of humor? If so, you might just be the perfect roommate for me!

Conditions:

No crazy people, but you must be willing to help deter a few crazy exes.

My dog must like you.

Food policy: what’s mine is mine, and what’s yours is mine.

Perks:

You’ll have a private bedroom and bathroom.

There's an outdoor pool and an inflatable pool for when the main pool is being cleaned.

An outdoor bar that is fully stocked. 

A grumpy neighbor next door who’s always ready to offer unsolicited advice and openly judge your life choices.

When you answered the Craigslist ad for a roommate, you must have been on the verge of insanity because no rational person would have responded to that ad, would they?

It doesn’t alleviate your concerns at all when you receive a response from the poster, not even twenty minutes later. First, they thank you for your interest, and then they send you a time and date for a potential meetup and viewing.

Well, at least if they’re a serial killer, they work swiftly, ensuring you don’t have to struggle to find a new place before your eviction notice expires.

With a huff, you slump back into your desk chair and your eyes fall upon the pile of papers, the eviction notice sitting atop them all.

Your original landlord had been a kind and understanding old man, though he may have been a bit too lenient with the rent at times. However, everything changed when he passed everything on to his son. Suddenly, you were facing stricter rent deadlines, increased prices, and cuts to the services included. You were barely able to keep up with the demands until you were presented with the eviction notice.

Craigslist became your last resort, and a desperate one at that. You either had the good fortune to catch Moby Dick in the initial hours of browsing the ad’s, or you were about to be pulled in and devoured by sharks.

Reaching for the notice, you push it aside to reveal a flyer for a live male strip show. Four shirtless guys with various tattoos across their hands, arms, chest, and even necks pose in the picture. Their latest show is tonight, and you quickly snap a picture of the flyer before sending it to the group chat.

You: I need a night out. Anyone else? Troy: Hot, sweaty, tattooed covered men grinding on me? Count me in! Brooke: I’ll bring the baby oil. Troy: Why do you need baby oil? Brooke: In case they run out, duh. You: I’m already having regrets.

By 9pm, you find yourself entering a club that’s already half full. You hadn’t anticipated the ambiance; you always assumed such places to be seedy and tucked behind alleyways. However, this one was high-end and well-decorated, though dimly lit to enhance the atmosphere.

Partially distracted by the music and the bustling crowd, you miss your name being called. However, from the corner of your eye, you catch Troy ushering you to join him over at the bar.

“What on earth are you drinking?” you ask, watching him sip on a colorful fruit cocktail.

“A Big Dipper,” he flashes a cheeky grin and gestures his head down towards the bartender, a man with long hair and wearing a ball cap, sporting a Lord of the Rings shirt. “I wouldn’t mind trying his, if you know what I mean.”

Troy winks, and you laugh, shaking your head as you gaze back at the crowd of people settling into their seats at the various tables scattered throughout the club which surround the main stage area in the center. “Where’s Brooke?”

“She went to ‘freshen up’, which I believe is a euphemism for removing her panties in anticipation of throwing them at her next victim.”

“Come on, be nice,” you nudge, a slight laugh escaping your lips. Even though it might sound a bit harsh, it was an accurate observation. Despite being your closest friends, Troy and Brooke had always shared a unique love-hate dynamic.

After ordering a drink for yourself, Brooke runs across the room, nearly squealing as she grabs both your arms. “Hurry! I’ve found the best seat in the house tonight!”

She bounces excitedly on her way to the table, and your eyes widen in realization as you notice how close to the stage you all are.

“Oh no, no,” you exclaim, shaking your head in disbelief. 

“Oh, yes! You’re going to sit here and watch hot men undress and dance for your pleasure, and you’re going to enjoy it.” Brooke places her hands on your shoulders, gently pushing you down onto the seat.

You groan in response, rolling your eyes slightly with a huff. “Alright, but if we’re chosen, I’m not going up there.”

You’ve heard the stories from their previous performances about how they select audience members to receive lap dances, sometimes even lifting them onto their waist and carrying them through a full routine. The idea makes your face flush, not only because of the hot stranger gyrating on you, but also because of the thought of being on stage in front of an audience. That’s the part that worries you the most. It’s ironic for someone who dedicates their life to being watched by an unseen audience on Twitch, making it their career.

As the house lights dim and the stage lights brighten, Brooke starts stomping her feet excitedly beside you, grabbing and shaking your arm as the introductory music begins.

The first performer to step out is a man dressed entirely in black, including a long black jacket and sunglasses, appearing as though he’s stepped straight out of The Matrix movies. As heavy industrial techno music plays in the background, he begins to strip off layer by layer, revealing a pair of tight black pants and a strappy black tank top. A quick glance down at his pants confirms the reason for his choice of the stage name, ‘Thicky’.

It’s such an obvious name choice that it leads to Troy choking on his straw, causing both you and Brooke to burst into laughter.

The second performer, the drummer, descends from the ceiling, playing his drums with an animalistic energy that lives up to his stage name ‘Animal’. He’s already shirtless and headbanging to the rhythm, his bare, tattooed chest glistening with sweat, which is noticeable even from your seat in the audience. 

Next, ‘Mr. International’ steps out, another who’s clad entirely in black, similar to his stage partner, except for his hair is longer and his black pants are leather. He exudes a dominant aura as he struts around the stage, captivating the women in the crowd with his presence. Many of them increase their screams and even throw extra cash towards him as he approaches the edge of the stage.

When the final introduction for ‘Viper’ commences, you must resist the urge to burst into laughter as a towering, dark-haired man adorned in tattoos saunters onto the stage, exuding an aura reminiscent of an iconic character from Top Gun. However, the moment he begins shedding the layers of his ‘uniform,’ your jaw drops in awe, and your eyes widen with genuine admiration as he reveals his body, draped in a sleek black skin-tight tank, tattoos adorning almost every inch of his visible skin.

“I think we’ve discovered her kryptonite,” Troy remarks across the table to Brooke, but you barely notice it, completely captivated by the man and his commanding stage presence in front of you.

You can’t take your eyes off him during the show. He stands tall and handsome, exuding an aura of charisma that draws you in, even as the other men on stage begin their dance routine. For a fleeting moment, you swear his gaze locks onto yours as he scans the audience, and your heart races with excitement at the thought. Suddenly, an overwhelming desire surges through you to be chosen when the time comes for an audience member to join them on stage.

To your surprise, his eyes do meet yours when that moment arrives, and it feels almost like a scene from a movie as he approaches, raising a hand and beckoning you with his finger.

Each performer had already conducted their own routine with an audience member. ‘Animal’ had one sitting on his lap while he performed a drum solo and was suspended in the air once again. ‘Thicky’ performed a whole chair routine, giving them a lap dance. Lastly, ‘Mr International’ rode the signature Pony suspended from the ceiling with an audience member, grinding against them from behind.

Now, it’s the final routine with ‘Viper’. As you stand to take his hand, he guides you up to the stage, instantly pulling you against him.

Lifting you from the floor, he holds you up, then brings you to sit on his waist. From this close-up, you notice the faint shade of eyeliner around his eyes and how his body shimmers with body glitter, including subtle highlights on his face and along his cheekbones. Some of the glitter is already transferring onto you. 

Before you can become too mesmerized by the sight of him, he starts dancing along to the music, bouncing you slightly on his waist. It takes all your willpower not to burst into a fit of giggles, especially as his intense gaze locks onto yours.

When he lowers you to the floor, he continues to grind, wrapping your legs around his waist before rolling you both over. He keeps you seated on his waist, arching his back and rolling his hips upward in a smooth, rhythmic motion that vibrates between your thighs.

Suddenly, the urge to giggle is replaced by overwhelming embarrassment at how much you’re enjoying this, completely unaware of the room full of eyes watching you both, most of which are likely filled with envy as you both mimic riding him like he is your own personal pony, perfectly matching up to the lyrics of the song playing. 

By the time you regain your composure and the song reaches its end, you’re flustered as you return to your seat, fanning yourself with your hand as you walk back on slightly unsteady feet, unable to suppress the grin that stretches across your face.

“It seems like you enjoyed it more than you anticipated.” Troy leans in closer to you, speaking in a sing-song voice that elicits a roll of your eyes.

“Oh, hush,” you playfully swat at him. 

As the guys gather to perform their final routine of the night and take their bows, you swear you catch his eye once more, with ‘Viper’ shooting a cheeky wink down at you, sending a rush of heat through you.

You can sense, somehow, that this won’t be your final encounter with him. 

Craigslist guy: It’s just off Limes Drive. The house you’re looking for is the one on the corner.

You’ve read the message over and over again, for about the fifth time now, and you’re staring directly at something that’s definitely not a house on the corner of Limes Drive. In fact, it’s just an open piece of land. Suddenly, you start to wonder if you’re being Punk’d or if this person is actually a serial killer.

Pocketful of Sunshine begins to play as your phone rings. The caller ID displays Craigslist dude and panic starts to set in. Is he calling to reveal his sinister plan to kidnap and kill you?

It then hits you that watching those true crime shows before bed might not be such a good idea after all.

Clearing your throat, you answer, holding your phone up before speaking tentatively. “Hello?”

“Hey! Have you seen the house yet?”

“What exactly am I supposed to be seeing?”

“The house!”

Is this guy serious? “There’s no house here.” You look back at the patch of land and huff. “Listen, if you’re calling to waste my time—” He cuts you off abruptly.

“Woah, woah. I’m not wasting anyone’s time. I’m standing outside right now.”

You search around because either he’s lying or you’re blind. There’s no one in front of you, and just as you turn around completely, you catch a guy waving from his driveway. “Is that you? The tall guy who’s waving?”

“Yes! See, I told you it was here.”

“You mentioned the corner of Limes Drive!” You growl through bared teeth.

“No, I said it was just off Limes. But you’re here now, so come over and take a look around!”

He sounds so unbothered by the fact that he was wrong, amused even, and somehow that irritates you slightly.

Pocketing your phone, you quickly glancing both ways before crossing the street, and running up to the drive, stopping before the guy waiting for you. Recognition washes over you as you come face-to-face with the same guy you were not only watching strip last night, but had even performed on stage with him.

He looks different when he’s not under those stage lights, without the faint eye makeup or covered in glitter. The same body glitter you still have stuck to you this morning, even after showering.

“You’re Viper, aren’t you?” Your gaze narrows, and you notice his lips curling into a grin.

“You’ve heard of me? Wait…” His gaze locks onto yours, and you feel a slight warmth spread through your body as recognition dawns on him. “You’re the girl from last night, aren’t you?”

Your hand instinctively reaches up and rubs against the side of your neck at his recollection of you. “That’s me. Or, you know...” You offer him your name, extending your hand for a proper introduction.

“Well, you can call me Noah then.” Somehow, you hadn’t quite anticipated what his real name would be, but it being ‘Noah’ didn’t even cross your mind.

As he guides you up the driveway and into the house, he starts rambling about the house’s features, almost repeating most of the information mentioned in the Craigslist ad.

“So, what do you do for a living?” Noah asks, momentarily glancing down at you.

You nearly miss his question, too preoccupied with admiring the intricate tattoos adorning his arms and neck.

“Hmm? Oh! I’m a Twitch streamer,” you respond, dismissing it and following him through the house as you take in the rooms.

“Wait, seriously? Do you have a complete setup and everything?” You catch the way his eyes gleam and start to quietly laugh. It’s genuinely endearing, both his interest and the enthusiasm in his tone.

“Yeah, it’s not perfect, but I’m gradually making progress.”

“So, you have the dream job, right? You play games for a living.”

You take a moment to ponder the idea because while it’s your dream job, it comes with its challenges. However, seeing his excited expression makes it difficult to shatter his heart with the harsh reality of being a Twitch streamer, especially in the current climate.

“I suppose so, yeah.”

“Perhaps I could join a stream sometime. If you need a skilled dancer to keep the audience entertained, I’ll be your man.” He raises his hands and points his thumbs at himself, the gesture eliciting a laugh from you.

For a fleeting moment, your mind wanders to alternative ways he could be useful on stream. Many streamers collaborate with others, but you can’t help but find yourself drifting into more explicit thoughts.

Your eyes fixate on his mouth, watching the way it moves as he speaks, and the brief licks of his lips between words. The sensation it ignites in you is even more intense than the night before when you were on stage with him, but you swiftly shake your head, dismissing the thought.

If you intend to accept his roommate offer and move in with him, you need to stop having any and all inappropriate thoughts about him.

“And the pool is just out there,” you finally regain your focus as he guides you through the kitchen, gesturing towards the back door. Your eyes then fall upon the boarded-up doggy door. 

“Why did you board up your doggy door?”

“To stop my ex from coming back.”

Great, so he's a misogynist, you think, completely taken back by such a comment.

“I wasn’t kidding about the crazy ex mentioned in the roommate ad. My previous one somehow managed to squeeze through the doggy door.”

“Oh…,” realization dawns on you. As you glance over at the doggy door once more, you can’t help but wonder what man could make you act so crazy that you’d crawl through a doggy door to get back with him.

“We managed to last another two months after that, so it wasn’t a terrible idea on her part. I thought boarding it up after our last breakup would prevent her from literally crawling back into my life and my home... again.”

For a moment, you find yourself staring at him, completely unsure of what to say. Were you sorry about the breakup or his ex’s sudden reappearance in his life? Either way, it felt like an insensitive thing to say.

“Let me show you where your room will be!” he says, leading you upstairs and pointing out his other roommates' rooms: Jolly, the guy nicknamed ‘Mr. International,’ and Davis, another friend who works at the club.

“The dog is actually Davis’,” he informs you.

“Oh, so you lied on your Ad. That’s very naughty,” you tease, but he just laughs and gives you a soft ‘yeah,’ as if he were a child being scolded for something minor. He’s innocent either way.

Reaching the room and the en-suite that will be yours, you step inside and begin exploring. You size up the space and assess the room’s condition.

Turning back, you see Noah standing in the doorway. “My room is just next door,” he says. “I promise you’ll have your privacy. There’s even a lock on your door if you need it, see?” He gestures to the door handle.

You feel a sense of ease knowing you’ll have your own space and a potential safety measure already installed.

“I really like it,” you whisper under your breath, nodding as you take in the room once more. Compared to your current apartment, it’s more spacious, and the rent is almost half the price.

“It’s yours if you want it!”

“Uh…” Did you want it? It was the perfect size, and there would even be space to set up your streaming equipment. You’d have your own bathroom, a pool, and a dog. 

There are perks, but you can’t help but feel a slight twinge of embarrassment when you look back at Noah and remember the night before, when he had you bouncing on his waist, simulating outrageous sexual positions in the form of dance moves.

“Sure. That would be great.” You move towards him, stopping at the doorway, where you meet him still standing there. It amuses you how close to the door frame his head reaches and makes you realize that you’d misjudged his height when he was on stage.

“I promise I don’t usually make a habit of moving in with a guy the day after he grinds on me,” you add, trying to keep the mood light and softly laughing.

“Okay,” he says.

Maybe he doesn’t catch your joke, or maybe he just thinks it’s an odd thing to say. Either way, Noah’s reply makes you wish you hadn’t said anything at all, and for the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

You can only hope you won’t regret agreeing to move in with him.

tagged: @fadingangelwisp @deathblacksmoke  @geminigirlfromfinland @fuck1ng-queen @xxkittenkissesxx @lacy1986 @ami--gami @halfalgorithmhafdeity @dominuslunae @tosoundlessdarkistare @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @lonelydragonlady @th4t-em0-k1d @amelia-acero @dollieomens @i-love-the-smell-of-your-blood @sitkowski @death-ofpeace-ofmind @ichoosetenderomens @chey-h @blade-dressed-in-red @bloody-spades @athenexe @trvshdxddy @collapsedglasshouses @bluehairpunklol

[artificial-transmutations]

Wrong bag, bro

Music blared from my headphones while I was running on the treadmill when I first saw the guy. It was obviously his first time in the gym, and after having gotten a short introduction, he looked around uncomfortably before approaching the weights. I sighed and stopped the treadmill. It was a good gym, at least judging from the equipment and the cost. The staff, however, was... improvable. It was clear that the new guy had no idea how to start and he would probably hurt himself like that.

"Sup? You're new here?" I said as I approached. He almost jumped when he heard my voice. I took a good look at him when he turned around. He wasn't very fit, at least compared to me. I mean, I'm no bodybuilder, too, but I do go to the gym a few times a week and try to stay in shape. The other guy was visibly unfit, with a small belly and no definition at all, but hey, we all have to start somewhere.

"Uhm. Yes. Actually, I wanted to lose a bit of weight. I'm Jonas. Do you work here?"

I chuckled. "Na, man. I'm Travis, and I just work *out* here. Why are you trying to get fit?"

Jonas seemed to be a bit embarrassed when he answered. "I... hope that will make dating easier. It's hard to find a boyfriend like... this."

He gestured down his body.

"Hey, you should do this for yourself, not for someone else. But yeah, I get what you mean. Chicks dig muscles, too."

The last part was probably unnecessary and somewhat spoiling the message, but I couldn't help it. It was a reflex to make clear I was straight. Really stupid, I know, but hey, that's just the straight genes talking.

Thankfully, Jonas took the hint and didn't hit on me as I showed him the ropes. He was mightily insecure, but a nice dude. After a while, he called it a day and we went to the locker room together. Having started early, I felt it was time to head home, too.

I took out my gym bag from my locker, as did Jonas, and got my soap out.

"Are you not going to shower?" I asked as Jonas just changed to his street shoes.

"Oh, eh, no, I'll shower at home." he said, and I understood. That guy was so self-conscious it would probably be hell for him to shower in a communal shower, so I just shrugged and said:

"Alright. See you around."

After the shower, I went to my gym bag to change into my street clothes but when I opened it, the contents seemed unfamiliar. Of course. Jonas had the same black gym bag as I did and must have grabbed the wrong one. That could happen. I just hoped I'd meet him again so we could swap back the bags. For now, it wasn't that much of a problem. I didn't have any valuables in there, and it seemed that Jonas had brought a towel as well, so I could just use his to dry myself.

What had been in there, however, were my street clothes. I mean, it wasn't a big deal, I could just wear my gym clothes until I got home, but somehow, I got curious and rummaged through the contents of the bag. There was something that immediately jumped into view and that was...

A pair of pink boxer briefs.

I mean seriously? How much gayer could it get?

I was just about to stuff it back into the back, when I hesitated. My gym compression shorts were soaked with sweat, and apparently, the boxer briefs seemed to be clean, I rationalized, but somehow, I *wanted* to put them on, for some weird reason. Well. I shrugged and just acted on the impulse, I mean, it was just a pair of underwear, right?

As it turned out, poor Jonas must have been not that well-endowed. The pair of boxer briefs was awfully tight and hugged my ass and my junk so firmly it was almost a second skin. I looked in the mirror and was a little surprised. My cock wasn't exactly small, but the underwear still didn't leave much to imagination either. But they were clean, and the fabric was quite pleasant to the touch, so I decided I would wear them until I got home.

Man, Jonas was probably in for a surprise when he discovered my XXL jockstrap from my bag. And unlike his - sorry - faggy underwear, I had worn that thing for a day now, so it wasn't exactly clean. I mean, there wasn't any reason for him to put it on, but what if he was curious? Or what if he was a little pervert who liked to experience the smell of a real man?

I shook my head. Where had that thought come from? I quickly got dressed in the rest of *my* clothes and drove home. However, during the drive I couldn't quite shake the thought of how Jonas might just be sniffing my jock, jerking his pathetic little cock furiously while doing so. Man, I really had no idea what was wrong with me today. When I arrived at home, my cock was hard and leaking pre into Jonas tight little pink underwear. Looks like I needed to blow off some steam.

I put on some lesbian porn and fished out my cock and balls from its tight confines. I have to admit that jerking off while wearing Jonas' briefs was oddly exciting.

At first, my eyes were glued to the two chicks on the screen, but as I got close to shooting my load, I leaned back and closed my eyes. Images of Jonas, wearing my much too large jockstrap came immediately and unbidden, but it was too late. With a groan, I came all over my toned and defined upper body.

I needed a moment to recover after that before I could start cleaning up. I stuffed my junk back into the pink underwear without really thinking about it, but realized it wasn't quite as tight as before. Perhaps the fabric was adjusting to my bigger mass. I was just about done with wiping the cum off my chest when my phone dinged with a message from an unknown number:

Unknown number:

"Hey there, it's Jonas, from the gym today. It seems like I grabbed the wrong bag when I left, and I want to return it to you. Can you give me your address?"

I thought about it for a moment while I saved his name to my phone. He probably found my number on the lost and found card, and I was just to agree, when I stopped. There was no rational reason not to swap back the bags as soon as possible and I had no plans for today. But...

Travis:

"Sorry, man, I can't today. How about tomorrow? We can meet at the gym."

I seriously had no idea why I lied, but not-so-little Travis twitched in the underwear as I wrote the message.

Jonas:

"Sounds good. Sorry I took your bag, I only noticed when I got home."

Travis:

"Don't worry, there's nothing important in there. Just my sweaty jockstrap, haha."

What was I doing? Why would I chat with a near stranger about my underwear? I was interrupted by the answer from Jonas.

Jonas:

"Yeah, I have found that thing already."

I hesitated. My cock was straining against pink fabric again, even though I just jerked off a few minutes ago. I really shouldn't be that excited, and I really shouldn't lead the poor gay guy on, but I couldn't help it. My fingers typed all on their own.

Travis:

"I see. And what did you do with it?"

It took a while before the next answer came in, and I feared that I had alienated the guy.

Jonas:

"Well, I'm wearing it right now."

Ha! I knew it! That guy was a pervert after all. I looked down at the tight pink boxer briefs struggling to contain my erection, while a small patch of precum had formed at the tip of the tent. Takes one to know one, right?

Travis:

"That old thing? I'm sure it smells sweaty as hell right now. Can you show me?"

Almost instantly, Jonas sent a picture of himself, wearing only the jock. It was way too big and baggy on him, and I could see his whole body in all of its unfit glory.

But somehow, it didn't look so bad. Absentmindedly, I squeezed my cock while looking at the picture. Then, with a mental "What the hell", I snapped a selfie for Jonas as well, of me wearing his pink boxer briefs. I didn't care to hide my boner, although it was less obvious than I thought. Might as well give him something to drool over, right?

After I had sent the picture, I looked at myself in the mirror some more. There was disappointingly little pump on my frame considering that I just came back from the gym. In fact, I looked even smaller than before I went to the gym. That couldn't be true, right?

But the bathroom scale confirmed. This was crazy! You didn't just lose five kilograms of body mass just like that. Especially, since my body mass was mostly muscles!

I took another look at the mirror, but it was true: my arms, my legs, even my chest. Everything looked less defined than before. And my chest was pretty smooth, too. I usually shave it, but since I have a high testosterone level or something, there's always a stubble remaining. Not so today. As I felt my chest with my hand, there was only smooth skin. What the hell was going on?

I looked back at my phone, and Jonas had answered again.

Jonas:

"Looks good on you, you should wear it more often! ;)"

Did he really think so? My heartbeat quickened on the praise from Jonas, and I could feel my cock reacting again. It must have gotten soft over the whole panicking, but reading this single line from Jonas was enough for it to strain against the tight underwear again.

Except... It wasn't *that* tight anymore. Sure, it was still a pair of boxer briefs and was supposed to cling to the skin, and it did, but before, my muscular ass, pelvis and of course, my large cock had filled it to the breaking point. Not so anymore. In fact, it fit pretty snugly, and although my cock was hard as a rock, the bulge it produced was much smaller than before.

My phone dinged with another message.

Jonas:

"Are you still there, Tray? You're still in for the gym later?"

Later? I thought we had said tomorrow! And why did he call me Tray? I quickly composed an answer.

Travis:

"Do we have to? I thought we'd said tomorrow."

The answer came immediately.

Jonas:

"Stop whining, Tray! I know you wane be big like I, so you must work hart!"

I cringed from the amount of spelling mistakes, but before I could answer, Jonas sent another Pic.

Was that still the same guy as before?! Sure enough, he was wearing my jockstrap, and the face was similar, but boy was he *ripped*. His arms and legs looked like he basically lived in the gym, and his hairy chest was sitting heavily on his perfectly sculpted eight pack abs. He even had a tattoo!

I looked back to the mirror in distress. I was positively scrawny, and not just in comparison. *My* arms and legs looked like twigs from a tree that were about to break from a strong wind. And were Jonas had all that chest hair and stubble on his chin, I was totally hairless, except for my perfectly styled bleached blonde hair.

I started to hyperventilate and had to lean on the sink to not fall.

What the hell was happening here?!

The phone dinged again, and I picked it up.

Jonas:

"Excpext yu wantto let ur tongue work out insted Todays bitch canceled and I Ned so to worship my "

It was getting really difficult to read, but I got the gist of it. But that wasn't right, right? Jonas was gay, just as me, and... Hold on, I... No, Jonas. Jonas wasn't gay, he was bi. Of course, with that fuck stick inside his smelly jockstrap, he'd fuck everything that moves.

All by itself, my hand had entered my pink boxer briefs and was jerking like crazy. Luckily, there was enough room in the underwear, as it was a bit loose usually. Even with my delicate hands, I couldn't close my hand around my shaft, it was just too small for that. So, I jerked with two fingers until I could finally stop myself. My cock wasn't as important for the upcoming meeting as my beautiful ass and my eager tongue that would submissively lap up every drop of sweat from Jonas manly body, so he would reward me with that magnificent cock of his. But still, no need to spoil the fun.

Tray:

"I'm coming over right now, Sir!"

I hope you enjoyed this little switchup! A few additional images can be found at my tip jar :)

[beckyninja]

Desecration

Pairing: Demetrian Titus x FemOC

Warnings: A lot of dark implications in this one, Leandros is almost at the depths of his corruption; mentions of surgery

The Vengeance Squad is on the way! But will they be in time?

Find the previous parts of this series on my Masterlist. Comment and ask to be added to/removed from the Taglist. And remember, my DMs and Asks are open!

Something is wrong.

Titus felt it the moment he stepped from the Thunderhawk’s ramp, back into the hangar of the Resilient. Everything looked as it had when he departed. Tech adepts labored over machinery, chanting as they worked. Servitors shuffled and clanked. Serfs bustled about on a thousand different tasks. 

None of those serfs were Sera.

Unsurprising. From the expressions on my brothers’ faces, it seems no one expected my return.

Rationality declared he had no reason to expect her presence. But something else… something deeper… snarled.

Something is wrong.

Titus began his march toward the Apothecary. Reports to Captain Acheran could wait. His twin heartbeat spiked, with anticipation or anxiety he could not tell. He quickened his pace until his armor creaked in protest. A few Ultramarines called out as he passed. He ignored them.

“Little Healer.” He rumbled. “Sera.”

Throne, it has been too long!

Too long since the sound of her sweet voice. Too long since her soft arms twined about his neck. Too long since he inhaled her intoxicating fragrance. 

Titus ached.

And still, the nagging thought.

Something is wrong.

He turned a corner, nearly trampling a pair of techpriests, and came into sight of the Reclusiam. 

Blood.

The scent jerked him to a halt. Every detail of his surroundings burst into sharp definition. Red spattered the floor just outside the great, gilded doors. A group of cleaning serfs huddled off to one side, whispering, their shoulders hunched.

“She wasn’t supposed to be here! Who even was she?”

“I don’t know. She traded places with old Gaius.”

“Why on Holy Terra would any serf want this duty?”

“I’ve never seen… him… that angry.”

A collective shudder ran through the huddle.

“What happened here?”

The serfs flinched at Titus’s booming question. Almost as one, they dropped to their knees, heads bowed. A few trembled.

Titus frowned. A simple question, and these serfs acted as if he’d threatened them with chainsword revving. 

“You need not cower. I mean you no harm.”

Finally, a woman with a nose that had been broken sometime in the recent past, spoke. “It is our great shame to tell you, my Lord, that one of our number angered the Holy Chaplain, and he visited his righteous wrath upon her.”

Titus clenched his fists, unease settling in his gut. “Who?”

“I don’t-”

“Wait,” a younger man, missing one eye, broke in, “I think I saw her once, in the Apothecarion.”

Titus didn’t wait for more. With a speed that no being of his size should have attained, he raced for the nearest lift.

Please, God-Emperor. Not her.

***

Chairon paced the Apothecarion. Back and forth. Back and forth. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. He’d never liked this place. The stench of chemicals and antiseptics irritated his sinuses. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

His eyes fixed on the door leading to the surgical room.

“I must return to duty.” Gadriel had said. “I will… make an excuse for you, Brother Chairon. Inform me when the medica is able to speak.”

If she is able to speak.

The thought hurt worse than it should have. The image of Vesta laying there, choking on her own blood, replayed over and over again in his mind. It sparked faded memories of a childhood long gone. Of a boy running through the chaos of the Word-Bearers assault on Calth, finding a burning home.

And the slaughter within.

He’d never forget the choked groan from Apothecary Callistus as he knelt over the writhing body. Never forget the look in his eyes as he gathered her up and tore back to this Apothecarion, Chairon and Gadriel close on his heels.

Once again, Chairon’s eyes darted to the door. Behind which, a team of baseline medicae fought to save a life, overseen by the Apothecary himself.  

He resumed pacing.

Warp damn me, we should never have allowed this to happen! We sent an innocent into danger. Alone… unprotected…. 

Shame wrapped icy fingers around both his hearts. First the Lieutenant’s serf. And now sweet Vesta. Vesta with her eyes that reminded him of springtime on planets long lost.

He should have protected her. He should have protected both of them. He’d failed. And all because of… him.

Rage burned in Chairon’s chest. Clawing to be set free. The same rage he’d felt when he witnessed the cruelties of the Thousand Suns upon Avarax. And again when they fought the Sorcerer on Demerium. 

Even if you are not Chaos-corrupted, Chaplain, you are a traitor. One who preys upon the innocent is a traitor to all our Chapter stands for!

And he still had the Lieutenant’s Sera in his clutches.

“Enough!” Chairon turned to leave the Apothecarion. “I can do nothing here. But I can avenge-”

The door hissed open.

“Where is she?”

***

Only an hour had passed since the Thunderhawk unloaded its passenger onto the Resilient, and rumors reached even the innermost chambers of the Reclusiam. A candelabra shattered against the wall, followed by a sparking servo skull. A cherub was snatched from the air and ripped in half. 

Bestial snarls sent Sacratium serfs scuttling for safety in the darkest alcoves they could find. They whispered prayers to the Emperor and rubbed aching scars, marks of their Lord’s previous bouts of temper.

“Alive?!” The roar ripped through the incense-clouded air.

Leandros stood, bare-chested, in the midst of the ruin he’d wrought. Wild eyes darted, searching for another vessel for his wrath. They fell upon the blind servitor he’d assigned to the Harlot’s cell, creeping along, blood-stained bandages clutched in its skeletal hands. A moment later its head rolled to rest at the foot of a shrine.

Titus, alive?! How? No! 

He’d been so sure. So sure the mission would bring about the Heretic’s fall. A cleansing of his soul through glorious death. Or, better, a spotlight revealing the depths of his corruption. 

Either way, an end to Demetrian Titus.

But, now….

Leandros raked his hands over his face. Control. He needed to regain control! Surely this was a test of some sort. Surely the Emperor would provide clarity if he just listened hard enough, focused hard enough, believed-

The thought slipped into his mind like cool silk over fevered skin.

You tried to pass your task on to another.

He stilled.

Did you not feel it when your whip scourged her tender flesh? The rush of… purpose… when your touch made her gasp in cleansing shame? 

Deep, deep within the man Leandros used to be, warning bells rang.

Punishment is your right, your privilege, your duty.

“I see….”

The Heretic returned so you could inflict the punishment that is your due. And what better way to punish him, than to take that which he calls his own? 

“I… I have….”

Have you? Have you taken her? In all the ways you dreamed, alone, in the dark? 

The warning bells grew louder. He pushed them away.

Images filled his mind. Images he’d barely allowed himself to dwell upon. The Harlot, broken, bloodied, bare, splayed upon his cot.

Punish the Heretic by ruining the Harlot. Desecrate the desecrated. Only then will you be able to purify her soul. And the pleasure you will feel? Your Emperor-given reward for being so, so faithful.

Don’t you want your reward, Chaplain?

Leandros eyes turned toward the cell. His body burned. Hardened.

“I do.”

***

Ultramarines were supposed to be rational. Logical. In absolute control of their emotions. 

Titus stood like the marble statues so prevalent upon Macragge. He neither frowned, nor snarled. No bared teeth. No gasping breaths. Still and silent.

He’d never felt more out of control in his long life.

Not Sera.

The sheer relief he’d felt at Chairon’s reassurance. Followed by confusion. Then consternation as his battle brother revealed who did lie near death, in that surgical room. Questions had followed. 

Then… emotions. Wild and mixed and nothing like any Ultramarine, any Astartes, should ever feel. 

Horror. Grief. Shame. Rage. Horror, grief, shame, rage. Horrorgriefshamerage.

Chairon was apologizing, his voice cracked. Titus barely heard him.

Sera.

He should never have left her behind. Calgar would have understood. Why didn’t he explain? Why didn’t he try?

The Apothecarion door hissed open again behind him.

“Lieutenant!”

Titus turned, slowly, to face Gadriel. 

“Sir, I… we… she-”

Titus slammed him against the door with a bang of metal on ceramite. “She was supposed to be safe with you!” 

The Sergeant looked stricken. “Forgive me-”

“Forgiveness? You ask my forgiveness?!” 

He drew his fist back, only to have it caught by another.

“Brother, no!” Chairon forced himself between the two of them. “Brother Gadriel and I share blame for this. But you never warned us of the hatred the Chaplain bears you. We did not know!”

The anger bled away. 

My fault. If I had been honest with my brothers, trusted them!

And now Sera paid the price for his reticence.

“Leandros….” Pushing away from his squadmates, Titus lunged toward the door. “I will kill him.” 

For her, for my Little Healer, for Sera. And Warp damn the consequences!

He sensed Chairon and Gadriel falling in behind him. “This is not your fight.”

“If the Chaplain is so corrupted, it is every Ultramarine’s duty to see him removed.” Gadriel intoned.

“I would kill him for Vesta’s sake alone.” Chairon spat.

“As would I.”

All three of them turned to the bloodstained figure exiting the surgical room. Callistus’s eyes burned with vengeful fire. 

Chairon stepped forward. “Vesta…?”

“Lives.” The Apothecary sighed. “We repaired the lung, set the ribs. Now we wait.”  He looked down at the blood on his gauntlets and spoke as if to himself. “So small when I took her into the Chapter. I worried she would be crushed underfoot, so I sat her on my shoulder as I worked. A never ending stream of questions rattled into my ear.”

Titus had never seen the veteran smile. Then that smile faded, and he looked up.

“You are not the only one who has failed to protect one dear to him.” Moving to a locker against one wall, the Apothecary removed a chainsword. “Vengeance, brothers.”

“Vengeance.” Gadriel and Chairon growled in tandem.

Titus said nothing.

The four of them stalked through the halls of the Resilient. Serfs fled before them. Ultramarines watched in bemused silence. They shouldered through the doors of the Reclusiam to find it empty.

Good. Titus thought. The fewer brothers who see this, the better.

The door to the Chaplain’s inner chambers was locked. A few kicks and chainsword cuts solved that. Somewhere, an alarm blared.

“No going back, now.” Gadriel muttered.

“Look!” Chairon took a few steps to one side, bent, and lifted what looked like a cleaning serf’s bucket.

Opening it, he revealed a battered servo skull. “Perhaps Vesta managed to record something after all.”

“Keep it.” Callistus grunted. “We will need its evidence when we are tried.”

Titus clenched his teeth. “I care not for trials. I care only for-”

Blood. Again. Stronger.

The four of them moved as one toward the tiny barred cell set into the far wall. 

“What is this?” Chairon sounded shocked.

“Hmph.” Callistus leaned forward to peer through the bars. “I have heard of such things for punishing erring Sacratium serfs. I did not know our Chaplain made use of them.”

Gadriel remained silent, fingers flexing around his bolt pistol.

Titus inhaled, and nearly choked. “Sera’s blood.”

The cell reeked of her. Of her fear. Her pain. He took in the manacles… and the shredded robe. A dark suspicion grew.

“Emperor… no….”

“He must have moved her.” Gadriel rasped. “But where? And where is he?”

Titus snapped his head from side to side. The dark suspicion consumed all before it, filling him with sick dread and a sense that they were running out of time.

Then, something glimmered in the candlelight, on the floor next to another, smaller door. He rushed to it.

My laurel leaf. Her laurel leaf.

“No….”

The muffled sob hit him like a bolter round.

“Please… stop….”

“SERA!”

He rammed his shoulder-pauldron into the door with all the force only an enraged Astartes could muster. It shattered.

And Demetrian Titus stepped into a scene from his darkest nightmares.

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[tacobacoyeet]

More dilf Patrick!! Pls!!!🤭🤭🤭

i am sorry it took me so long to get to this. i have been thinking So Much. there is smut MDNI!!!!! also i did not proof this at all i was quite literally just yapping

-----

hear me out: he’s wearing those old ass shorts. you know the ones. frayed at the bottom, loose at the thigh, hanging low enough to hint at the curve of his hipbone. and they have a hole. somewhere vaguely obscene. and he will not throw them out. “they’ve got history,” he says. yeah. so does the roman empire. let it die.

he also has a mug that says "best dad" in comic sans and he drinks his coffee black out of it like it’s some kind of war ration?? always finishes the last two bites of your food. carries cheez-its and specifically the tangy great value fruit smiles in his hoodie pocket and forgets they’re there until bedtime.

and then there’s the dad stuff that just—does something to you. the way he crouches to tie tiny shoes and mutters “double knot for safety” with his brows furrowed like a surgeon. the way he lifts the kid one-armed onto his hip and groans like he just deadlifted 200 pounds. the way he kisses their head and says “you good, champ?” and then walks around the grocery store like that for twenty minutes. like it’s nothing. like he wasn’t once a world-class athlete. now he’s just a dad with a half-eaten granola bar in his back pocket and spit-up on his collar.

and you shouldn’t want him more now. but you do. so badly it’s stupid.

he gets the mail barefoot in the rain. does bath time with a towel wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. makes grilled cheeses with the baby strapped to his chest and sings off-key lullabies to a beat that doesn’t exist. he reads bedtime stories in a funny voice even when he’s tired. insists on brushing their teeth "together as a team" even though it takes ten fucking years. he's always been a fan of overcomplicating things... LOL.

you catch him folding onesies in the laundry room—folding, not shoving into drawers—and you’re gone. you back into the dryer and he raises an eyebrow like “babe?” and you’re like “babe.” and then the dryer’s on and the baby monitor is quiet and he’s fucking you up against the clean whites because he’s still got it. he never lost it.

and then later he’s limping slightly, rubbing his back, saying “think i pulled something” while putting aquaphor on the baby’s butt and you’re just sitting there stunned. who is this man?????

also: sunday morning sex when the kids are at art and tashi's. slow and lazy and filthy. he lets you ride him for so long it’s almost mean. your bellies touch. your chests touch. everything is touching. and he moans like you’re doing something unspeakable just by loving him like this. just by wanting him now. like this. after all these years. after the weight and the hair and the way his back cracks when he bends to pick up a sock. you still want him. and it undoes him.

he’s yours. he’s always been yours. and now there are tiny humans sleeping in the next room with his eyes and your smile and he still looks at you like he can’t believe it.

this next section about you bring pregnant. i must admit i had to take a Break because my thoughts were a little crazy!!!! but we are up. anyway: he doesn’t just like the changes. he’s obsessed with them. stretch marks? he traces them like constellations. swelling? he kneels between your legs and kisses every inch. softness? he talks about it like it’s a fucking miracle.

you complain about feeling huge and he goes “good.” not teasing—genuinely pleased. “means you’re growing our kid. means your body’s doing its job. means you’re mine.”

sex while pregnant? his favorite. the extra sensitivity. the way your body cradles his. the need. he takes his time. checks in. holds your belly like it’s part of the rhythm. mutters things that make no sense and still make you cry. "so beautiful. fuck. how are you real?"

and after? postpartum?

when you feel like a stranger to yourself—sore and squishy and leaking and tired—he’s there. nosing at your neck while you pump. holding your hips while you cry over clothes that don’t fit. carrying you to bed when you fall asleep mid-feed.

he’s careful, but not scared. when you’re ready, he touches you like he never stopped wanting you. like the body you’re grieving is still his favorite thing in the world. maybe more so now.

he kisses your belly with so much love and admiration. groans about how soft you feel. his hands don’t leave your skin. his voice drops to a whisper. “all mine. all this—mine.”

and when you flinch or get shy? when you mutter “i don’t feel sexy” he freezes. stares at you like you’ve just insulted god. and then he fucks a correction into you because he will Never ever accept you not thinking you aren't beautiful. we already know patrick feels things deeply!!! he's crazy about you!!!

he doesn’t need you to bounce back. he needs you to stay. to let him memorize every version of you. to believe him when he says he’s never wanted anyone more.

and you start to believe it. a little. when he looks at you like that. but then he makes some fuckass comment about how his bones aren't equipped for that kind of strain anymore and you just roll your eyes and move on. small victories

[demonpiratehuntress]

anxious

Portgas D. Ace x F!Reader

summary - you're very anxious and prone to panic attacks, and your boyfriend seems to forget that after a bad mission.

warnings - a little bit of angst, mean and kind of toxic Ace, hurt/comfort, panic attack triggers (or at least they are for my anxiety, idk about you guys but a warning anyway), implied but not confirmed cheating (Ace)

You were just trying to be thoughtful.

You hadn't known his mission had gone so sour.

It was a harmless surprise, and you hadn't known that he felt so strongly about it.

"SURPRISE!"

His expression went from anger, to shock, and back to anger in the span of ten seconds as he realised what was happening. One look at the decorations and the cake confirmed it.

"(Name), what is this?" Ace's hard gaze turned on you.

You shrunk back a little ,not used to being on the receiving end of that look, "You never celebrate your birthday, so I wanted-"

"There's a reason I don't!" He raised his voice, making you flinch.

"I-I'm sorry-" You started, panic flooding your body. "I didn't-"

"Think? No, you didn't," he cut you off harshly. "If you were thinking, you would have asked me first!" Small flames flickered on several parts of his body as he stepped closer, glaring menacingly.

At the first sign of your body trembling, Marco stepped between the two of you, "Ace, stop."

You felt humiliated. The rest of the crew had seen everything, and your face burned with embarrassment. You shook slightly, the panic growing until you became unsteady and stumbled, catching yourself on the wall.

You turned and fled, hot tears streaming down your face.

You barely made it into the room before you couldn't take it anymore, your entire frame shaking so violently you couldn't keep your balance. You fell to your hands and knees, unable to breathe as you sobbed.

Someone came in behind you, and you made out a figure trying to help you up, but you couldn't tell who it was before you passed out.

-

You woke up in your bed, but with an empty spot beside you. You frowned deeply - Ace hadn't slept here with you last night. He was never that upset with you, he always craved your touch regardless.

You sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. You felt horrible, not just emotionally but physically too. Still, you got up to get ready.

Your first action was to find Marco, because if Ace hadn't come back last night then it must have been the doctor who put you in your bed. Which you were grateful for, but embarrassed about.

"(Name)! How are you feeling?" He offered you a warm smile when you eventually found him.

"Better," you admitted, "But..."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"It's not you who needs to apologise," you sighed. "But anyway, thank you for helping me last night. Have you seen Ace?" The moment you saw Marco's expression, your anxiety returned. "What?"

"(Name)..." He sighed. "I shouldn't tell you."

"Why?" But even as you asked, unease gnawed at you slowly and made you uncertain you wanted to know the answer.

Before Marco could answer, someone's shout from outside made you freeze up.

"Ace, there you are! Finally made it back from the bar? With all those pretty women that were surrounding you, we feared the worst!"

It was a harmless joke to the crewmate who'd spoken, but those words crushed whatever hope you were holding onto that you could talk to Ace about what happened.

Marco quickly went to close the door, "You can stay here if you'd prefer not to see him." He eyed your trembling hands, then added, "I think it would be best if I go talk to him."

All you could do was nod, before you had to force yourself to sit down. The anxiety you felt increased tenfold, making your head spin. The dizziness worsened, to the point that you felt as if you were going to faint again. You tried breathing in and out deeply, but that failed and the tears came before you could stop them.

How could one small issue, that could have been talked through rationally, cause this much hurt?

When you eventually ran out of tears and stopped shaking, you decided you'd had enough. Ignoring Marco's suggestion to stay there, you left his room and left the ship, going onto the island it was docked at.

Acting as if you didn't hear the confused calls and shouts of your concerned crewmates behind you.

A hand closed around your wrist before you could get too far, and without thinking you swivelled around and punched your assailant square in the nose.

Ace let go and stumbled back, a surprised and pained grunt leaving his lips as he covered his sore appendage, "I deserve that."

"What do you want?" You asked emotionlessly, arms crossed.

"To apologise," he looked up at you, guilt clear in his eyes. Hurt and panic joined it when he reached for you again but you flinched away from him. A first.

"For insulting me or for going to be with other girls on your birthday?" You snapped, crossing your arms.

His guilt worsened, "I...both."

"This is the worst apology I've ever heard."

"Look, I'm sorry," he pleaded, "I'm really, really sorry. You didn't make me upset, you never do. I was just...the mission went bad, and I barely got out of there and I was just so frustrated that I couldn't see or think straight. And I ended up hurting the person I love the most because of it." He stepped closer slowly, shoulders sagging in relief when you didn't move away. "I know it's not an excuse, and I feel so, so horrible for being the cause of a panic attack...But please let me make it up to you, I want to celebrate my birthday with you. You're the reason I want to celebrate it now. Please..."

The sincerity of his words and the pain in his eyes were enough to convince you that he was truly sorry. You sighed, finally letting your guard back down and taking his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"I forgive you, just...don't do it again. If you do I will throw you into the ocean."

His eyes lit up and he engulfed you in the tightest of hugs, "Deal!"

He sucked up to you hard the following few days, doing anything and everything you asked. He knew the crew took advantage of that and asked you to tell him to do certain things, but he never protested because he knew he had a lot to make up for.

He brought you breakfast in bed, forcing himself to wake up earlier than he would usually just to get you food for when you woke up. He made the bed and cleaned the room, organised your clothes and attended to you every need.

Because the thing about Ace is that he cares deeply, and loves even deeper. If he hurts someone he loves more than anything, he doesn't forgive himself easily and he grovels, hard. Even if you've already forgiven him.

But that's what you loved most about him, his passion for and commitment to the ones he loves.