#this is unedited...huh?

[eyelambspider]

𝟎𝟔. 𝐄𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐇𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫 & 𝐁𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 || 𝐊ö𝐧𝐢𝐠

Day SIX of Kink/Creeptober!! Here is a list of my prompts & event terms!

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : monster!könig x gn!reader 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : Now that you're his (and aren't deterred by the tentacles hiding under his hood) König really doesn't want you to leave. At least, not without a little mark on your skin. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 600 ! 𝐚/𝐧 : this ones more softer but uh-König's needy so- yeah könig's got cuteness aggression towards you :) 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 : established relationship, possessive/obsessive/jealousy themes, tentacles (smh), FLUFF, suggestive (like light smut?)/grinding

𝐀 𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐋, 𝐒𝐀𝐃 𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐓. He didn't want you to go so soon.

"Liebling..." he hissed like a loving murmur, trying to convince you to stay with him. "Please?"

He didn't beg, not to a man with a gun pointed to his head, not for anything... except for you.

König was doing everything in his power to change your mind. The tall colonel had you propped on his lap, facing him. His strong arms barred around your waist, cradling the back of your head and trying to smother his face into your scent.

You squirmed a little. He could feel your hips shifting in a way that made him grin against your skin. Purring lovingly into the crook of your neck. The tentacles he once cursed poked out from the bottom of his sniper's veil, tentatively prodding your soft skin.

He adored your skin. The smell, the way it tasted so sweet.

"Please?" he repeated again, feeling a bit disheartened when you didn't answer him initially.

He was getting a bit pushy now. Squeezing your body tighter to his chest, loving the way you just squished against him. Tangling his rough hands into your hair.

You were so verdammt cute.

"König," you stared, the tone implying exactly what he worried.

You were going to leave.

A low growl ebbed from his throat. The tentacles writhing a bit angrily at the thought of letting you go for even a second right now... but he knew he had to.

"Verdammt, sag meinen Namen nicht so…" he whispered, snuggling into your collarbone maybe one last time. Second last time.

He just wanted a bit longer.

"I just... don't like that I can't go with you," he admitted through his teeth. He would be unable to protect you, and although you insist he doesn't need to...

He see's the way other men look at you.

The thought makes him pout again, unexpectedly grinding his hips flush again yours, bouncing you softly in his lap.

"I'm sorry," he grumbled hotly against the shell of your ear. The tentacles from his face slowly receded. From wrapping lovingly around your ear, to playing with the tips of your hair, and unlatching from your neck... to pulling away reluctantly.

König sat up with a sigh and peered down at you, still trying to convey how hard it was to physically let you go. Pouring the emotion into his eyes.

Then he saw it.

Those deep sapphire eyes of his flickering down from your face.

The last of his tendrils had tucked back under his sniper mask comfortably, but there, on the delicate flesh of your throat. One of the suction cups had left a little red mark, one that was quickly fading away.

Before you could shift off his lap, thinking you were finally free. König grabbed your hips with a small, suggestive purr in his voice "Maybe I should give you something before you leave, schatz."

Although his mischief had you... dubious, you sighed and let him pull you back with a soft smile. He was adorable.

König dipped his head back down towards the side of your neck, a tendril lifting the mask just above his mouth so that his lips could feel your skin.

He nearly groaned, feeling your pulse beneath his teeth. A smirk playing on his scarred lips as he imagined how pretty you would look with his little bite marks all over your skin.

It would leave no doubt in his mind then: He would let you leave only once you were covered in them. Enough for every other man to see that you were his.

König panted against you, kissing gingerly before he nipped the sensitive flesh harshly, leaving a pretty bruise under his tongue.

[emry-stars-art]

The prince in public vs once he’s in the privacy of his room ⤴️

[ninetqs]

lesbian lestappen oh my god you've written SUCH an excellent little brainworm i am never going to stop thinking about them tysm <33

here's all of what i wrote for it (unfinished) just for you anon (unfinished) (did i mention it will never be finished) 6k words. some of those words are nsfw so be warned

Charles barely has time to rip her helmet off before Jenson’s grinning face fills her vision.

She’s seen this scene before. Twice, actually. And neither time did she see it directly from the sidelines; she watched the post-race interviews later, once she was back in her apartment and thoroughly wasted. 

Jenson, with all the bright-eyed joy and energy only someone not strapped into a car for hours could have, thrusts a microphone into her hand. His eyes practically sparkle.

“Charles, congratulations!” His hands flail a little, a gesture that looks like it wants to be a hug but doesn’t quite have the nerve. She manages an apologetic smile. Under different circumstances—sans camera and crowd—she’d probably take him up on it. He knows it too. “How are you feeling?”

She’d rehearsed this answer in her head a hundred times, crossing the finish line, and yet now, with Jenson in front of her, the script has evaporated.

“I am…” She shifts the mic awkwardly between her fingers, and it feels heavier than it should. “Overwhelmed. Happy. So, so happy.” She breathes in deep, trying to ground herself, though it’s no use. The adrenaline’s still surging, refusing to let go. When she looks up again, Jenson’s nose is scrunched, his smile all shaky like he’s seconds from tears. Cute, she thinks distantly. “We—the team—have worked for years for this moment. Hoped for it. To see it come true is a dream.”

It’s not the polished, eloquent answer she wanted, but it’s something. Her skin’s slick with sweat, her pulse still hammering. She should be forgiven for not having it all together. If anyone deserves a pass, it’s her.

Jenson bobs his head, a blur of motion. “I can only imagine,” he says, enthusiasm practically bubbling over. His grin is infectious, pulling a tired but genuine smile from her. “You didn’t look nervous at all out there.”

“Of course, I was very nervous, but—” Charles falters, the words forming a knot in her throat. It’s impossible to articulate this feeling. Jenson knows—he’s been there, lived it—but the fans, they deserve to understand. “Once I got into the car, though, I didn’t think about anything else. Even if the race seemed uneventful, I couldn’t let my focus slip, not for a second. Especially not on this track. But then, in those last few laps… my mind started to wander. To Jules, and my father…”

She glances sideways at the camera, wondering if the vultures online will feast on this—call her an attention-seeker for dredging up the dead. But it’s the truth, isn’t it? 

Again, Jenson nods, hanging onto her every word.

“Being the first Monégasque to win here at home—just incredible,” he says, laughing a little. “And with the weight of all that pressure? Wow.” Charles feels the heat in her cheeks, letting the praise sink in, filling her up like water on dry earth. Then, cruelly, he adds, “Plus, being only the second woman after Max? Your family must be doubly proud.”

A chill runs down her spine, something inside her curling up, shrinking into itself.

Max. Always Max, like a shadow she can’t outrun.

“I hope so,” she manages, clutching the microphone tighter. “And I hope I can do it again next year.”

Not entirely unprecedented, then. She takes in the crowd and reminds herself that at least Max will never have the support of the entire nation. 

It leaves a bitter sting in her mouth nonetheless.

-

Three years ago, Charles spent her Sunday evening after the Monaco Grand Prix curled up in her bed with a giant tub of ice cream and a twitchy finger that kept tabbing between fifteen different YouTube videos. Some were of random stuff to take her mind off the race, others were of the race her mind refused to let go of. One was called Funny Charlotte Leclerc Monaco Compilation. A handful were interviews of people who actually finished the race. Unfortunately, she spent the most time watching those.

She popped open a bottle of wine Pierre had given her years ago when she reached Max’s. She can distinctly recall the sweet taste of plums down her throat as she listened. 

“How does it feel to be the first woman to ever finish the Monaco Grand Prix?” the interviewer had asked. Maybe it was Jenson. It could have been Rosberg. Her memory of that day is fuzzy.

It was windy out, but Max’s hair stayed stuck to her red cheeks, making her look like a cherry. She had answered in a joke like she always did. “I’m the first woman to win at many tracks, it never gets old.” She laughed, and waved her hand. “No, no, but more seriously, Monaco is a very historic place, of course, so…” Charles tuned out after that. 

Historic, yes. But not home. Max might live in Monaco—Charles sees her against her will sometimes, at the grocery store or the gym—but it will never be her home. 

Then, unimaginably: 2022 was even worse.

Charles didn’t even bother with the wine that night. The bottle sat untouched as she pulled out the small box stashed under her bed, the one filled with things Andrea would have a coronary over if he ever found out. She got high enough to see colours she didn’t know existed, hoping to blur the sharp edges of another disappointment. 

And still, through all the haze and frustration, Max remained unaffected. Well, not entirely unaffected—Max had sent her a text, asking if she was okay, if she wanted to go out, do something to take the edge off. It was thoughtful, even kind, but all Charles could think was: I’d rather you care about the race than about me. 

Who gives a damn if Charles is the second woman to win anything, when the first woman doesn’t care at all about keeping track? It makes Charles furious, how effortlessly Max shrugs off everything that matters to her. It’s easy for Max, of course. Easy to be nonchalant about records when you’re winning all the time. Meanwhile, Charles claws her way to pole by the skin of her teeth and more hours in the sim than she can count.

Now, standing in the chaotic, neon-lit depths of Jimmy’z, two tall glasses of something fruity already down, she’s still thinking about Max. The absurdity of it stings. It’s embarrassing, if anything.

“Charles, another!” Joris shouts, shoving a third glass at her. The second one is still in her other hand, empty. “You are not allowed to zone out, not today!”

Charles smiles, suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude towards her friends. 

“Take this one back at least,” she jokes, and shoves the empty glass towards him. “Get yourself another too and we will drink them together!” 

Joris grins. “Sure, princess.”

Charles huffs, but the effect of the alcohol on her mood can’t be understated; she doesn’t feel more than a stir of annoyance at the nickname. 

It’s fine if her friends say it. They love her. They’re happy for her. They care that she’s the first woman to win the Monaco Grand Prix and not be in a Red Bull. That, and the thousands of fans who cried for her today, are who matters.

-

By the time Charles and Joris are done, they’ve probably downed enough alcohol to fill an entire bathtub. She can barely stand on her own by the time they leave, her legs wobbling like they’ve forgotten how to hold her up. Andrea tuts softly and hooks an arm around her to guide her back home. Her feet, suddenly aware of their existence, throb painfully with every step, and she winces. Andrea keeps giving her sharp little pinches to keep her from nodding off mid-walk.

“Water,” he commands, sliding a tall glass across the kitchen counter once they’re inside. Charles slumps into a chair, the effort of just sitting upright making her feel like she’s run another race. “And painkillers for tomorrow.”

“Those don’t even work,” she mutters, her words slurring slightly. “You know that.”

Andrea rolls his eyes in that way he always does when she’s being difficult. “Drink the water, then. I’ll text everyone and let them know you’re still alive.”

Of course she’s alive. She’s a Formula One driver. She drives really fast cars for a living. Like, really fast. A few litres of alcohol? Please. That’s nothing compared to what she does on the track. 

In fact, she feels fantastic. A strange, buoyant kind of euphoria settles over her, and she can’t even remember why she was pissed off earlier.

“This is amazing,” she tells Andrea, almost giggling at how brilliant it all seems now.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, ruffling her hair with a half-amused sigh. “To bed with you, champ.”

Charles stumbles through her nightly routine with Andrea watching over her like a prison guard. By the time she gets the toothbrush in her mouth, her awareness of him fades into the background. The minty aftertaste hits her like a freight train—far too intense—and she pulls a dramatic face that has Andrea snorting with laughter.

“You won today,” he reminds her, his voice soft but firm, as if grounding her in the moment as she sits on the edge of her bed in freshly donned pajamas. “You fucking won, Charles. You don’t need to dream tonight.”

Charles hums, a sleepy, noncommittal sound, her body already too heavy with exhaustion to respond properly. The next moment, she’s out cold.

-

Monaco is a very small place. Charles goes grocery shopping and sees Lando picking out bananas. Charles goes to the gym and comes face-to-face with George’s attempts at a thirst trap. Charles drags her friends to the movies and the person in front of her in the popcorn line is Kevin. 

Charles exits her apartment, and two seconds later she’s staring at Max. They’re in the middle of a sidewalk, for fuck’s sake.

“Charles,” Max greets. Her tone is as unreadably affable as always. “I’m surprised you aren’t still hungover.”

“Hah,” Charles forces a laugh. She only drank on Sunday night. It’s Wednesday. “I’m fine, thank you for asking.”

She already knows what Max will say before she says it. “I didn’t ask,” with a shrug and a good-natured grin. “Where are you headed to?”

Charles glances down at herself. She’s in her running clothes: headband to soak sweat, cotton white shorts for easy movement. It’s pretty obvious where she’s headed to.

“Pier,” she answers anyway, because she’s nice. 

Max’s face lights up. “I’ll join you.” 

She doesn’t look dressed for a run. Charles would bet a hundred euros Max had been on her way to the grocery store. But she can’t say no without seeming rude, so she just nods.

“Okay.”

The jog to the pier is uneventful, save for a few people pulling out their phones to snap videos of them running side by side. Charles feels the weight of Max’s gaze on her back, a persistent itch she can’t shake, but at least Sylvia will be happy. Free PR, if nothing else.

When they stop in a quieter area, Max wipes sweat from her brow, raising her arm just enough to flex her bicep. Charles isn’t sure if it’s on purpose, but it feels deliberate.

“I haven’t seen you around,” Max says, her tone conversational, like it’s perfectly normal to expect to run into each other daily.

“I’ve been busy,” Charles replies. It’s true, at least. “Celebrating, and then resting.”

Max nods, but there’s something unreadable in her expression. “Looked like a fun party, Sunday night.”

Ah. Charles should’ve seen this coming. She should’ve lied, avoided this little jab of pettiness. She bites the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to stay calm.

“It was,” she says lightly, not giving Max the satisfaction. “All my friends and family were there. Even my mother.”

She watches Max’s expression flicker just the tiniest bit, but it’s enough. Small victories.

“Is the Prince of Monaco your family now?” Max’s brows lift.

“Obviously not. He is just—supportive.” 

Max doesn’t seem to notice. Or, more likely, she just does not care. “It must have been quite the celebration then. A win in Monaco, the Prince attending...”

“Yes, it was.” Charles wipes sweat from her forehead, wishing she could wipe away this conversation too.

Max’s eyes linger on her, bright blue in the sun. “You didn’t think to invite me?”

“I didn’t think you’d want to come,” Charles says.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Max tilts her head, seeming genuinely puzzled.

Charles pinches the bridge of her nose. “You didn’t want to party the last time I won.”

“That was two years ago,” Max points out, unhelpfully.

The statement pierces through the little threads of patience Charles still has like a needle through fabric. She digs her nails into her palms to stop herself from balling her fists. Don’t do something you will regret.

“Alright,” she says, the word clipped. “I apologise, then. I should have asked.”

“Why are you mad at me?” Max asks, instead of saying anything normal like it’s okay or no problem.

Charles rolls her eyes this time. She can’t help it. “I’m not mad, Max.”

“You are.” Max’s relaxed tone finally snaps. Her thick brows furrow, concern etching lines into her forehead. “You’re like this sometimes after this race—after Monaco, but I thought since you finally won this year, you would be happy.”

“I am happy,” Charles bites out. Again, not a lie. “I am very happy, actually, and I don’t think you know me well enough to say otherwise.”

Max goes quiet for a moment, and when she speaks again, it’s slower, measured. “Well,” she says carefully, “as I’ve tried to tell you before, I’d like to know you better.”

“Putain,” Charles spits, her cheeks going bright red. 

There’s almost certainly someone filming them right now, tucked away on a balcony, phone raised, ready to capture their moment for TikTok. The video will get clipped, stitched, dissected. The comments will roll in: Charlotte Leclerc is so arrogant lol, how does she have the audacity to yell at the only other woman in the sport? Especially when Verstappen is a three-time WDC and Leclerc barely has six wins! Laughing emojis, rolling eyes, the works. She can already picture it.

“I am not having this conversation, Max,” she says, voice stiff and low. 

“Why not?” Max openly frowns now. “You’ve been avoiding me for days—”

“You are not so important to me that I have to go out of my way to avoid you,” Charles laughs, somewhat in disbelief.

“Yeah, okay,” Max scoffs. “We live like a block apart from each other, but I haven’t seen you in a week. Not to mention you normally—”

Charles cuts her off with, “Good talk. See you in Canada.”

“Oh my god, Charles, will you just—”

Charles turns on her heel and jogs back the way they came. After two blocks, she glances over her shoulder and finds Max isn’t in sight anymore. 

She allows herself a measure of relief by exhaling without feeling like her chest is about to cave in.

Fucking Max, she swears in her head, and isn’t that the problem?

-

Max is not very clingy. They rarely talk outside of work, and Max never seeks her out on purpose. They cross paths by chance, yes—often at that, but Max would never stoop so low as to show up at her hotel doorstep begging for attention. 

What Max is is affectionate. Touchy, more like, given that there’s little actual affection in it. When Charles happens to be near, Max will touch her just because. A hand around her waist or fingers digging into her shoulder. 

Or like now: squished together in a booth at the dinghy club Lando dragged them all to, to celebrate his second win. 

Charles isn’t exactly in a celebratory mood given everything that’s happened recently, but Pierre requested she come and she can’t say no after bailing on the post-Silverstone festivities. There’s only so many parties one can miss before people start nagging.

The high from winning Monaco wore off just as quickly as it came, but so did her annoyance. Now, seeing Max’s smile doesn’t make her fume, at least not beyond its normal extent. 

“Another?” Max asks, nudging Charles in the side. Charles blinks at her, dazed and overwhelmed by the pounding music reverberating throughout the room. She’s pretty sure Lando took over the DJ booth, and it shows. “A drink,” Max clarifies.

“Oh.” Charles says, looking down at the empty glass in her hand. She hadn’t even realised it was empty. “Sure.”

Max waves someone over and shoves the empty glass towards them. Charles watches the movement of her hand and thinks about how unfair it is that Max’s hands are two centimetres wider than hers. It must affect her grip strength, make it easier for her to hold the wheel. 

“I’m glad you’re not mad at me anymore,” Max says, chuckling as her hand drifts to rest on Charles’ thigh, right where her dress ends. The touch is casual, almost too casual, and Charles feels a prickle of irritation despite herself. “Even though I still don’t know why you were mad.”

“I wasn’t mad,” Charles lies for what feels like the twentieth time.

“Sure,” Max says, a playful glint in her eyes, her hand still resting exactly where it was.

It’s like being back in that alley again—the heat rising to Charles’ cheeks, spreading too fast, too obvious. She can already feel the flush creeping up her neck, but at least the dim, awful lighting in the club might pass it off as alcohol instead of what it really is: embarrassment.

Max knows her too well. She leans in, close enough that Charles can feel her breath on her neck, waiting. Waiting for her to give in, to glance back, to react to how casually Max is touching her in the middle of a club with half the grid and their partners milling around.

“Max—” Charles sighs, her voice low, strained. “Not in public.”

Max’s hand slides off like it was never there, her laugh light and breezy. “Okay, okay,” she says, amused. “I’ll let you drink a little more. Maybe that’ll help get that stick out of your ass.”

Before Charles can snap back, the server arrives, placing two tall glasses of something pink and syrupy on the table. Max grins and hands one to her without missing a beat.

“Let’s just drink,” Charles mutters, her patience running thin. If she’s going to have to deal with Max and her casual provocations tonight, she’d rather not do it sober.

Max’s grin widens, all easy confidence as she lifts her glass in a mock toast. “Cheers, baby.”

Charles clinks her glass against Max’s with a grimace and a pooling heat between her legs.

-

It was always “princess” when she was younger, but not the flattering kind. When they called her that, they meant to dismiss her, to belittle her. You’re too pretty to belong here. You don’t really want this. They couldn’t stomach how well she drove, so they pinned her success on everything else. Her father, Jules—it surely had to stem from them, as if her talent were just a product of her surroundings rather than her own blood, sweat, and tears.

No matter what she did, how well she performed, it was always too pretty, too privileged, too lucky.

Until the wins started piling up. Then “princess” took on a new flavour, but it still didn’t taste any better. Now it’s said with a smile, a nod to how perfect she looks even after hours in the cockpit. Her dimples, her curls that never seem out of place, her lashes that stay long and dark. 

There’s only one person who can get away with saying it without lighting that spark of irritation.

“You are such a princess,” Max says with a chuckle, her eyes dropping to the bright red panties Charles is wearing. Still, somehow, despite Max’s best efforts.

“Not everyone fancies going commando in public,” Charles huffs, though her cheeks betray her.

“I wasn’t judging. I think they’re cute.” Max pinches the edge of the fabric between her fingers, pulling lightly at the hem. “They’ll look even cuter around your knees, though.”

Charles rolls her eyes, but the flush deepens. “Just get on with it before I change my mind.”

Max doesn’t hesitate. Her hands are strong as she lifts Charles by the thighs, positioning her with ease, before yanking at her panties with a deliberate roughness. The seam catches against her skin, sending a sharp jolt through her, heat pooling low in her belly, spreading like wildfire up toward her chest.

Months of dancing around each other, teasing, resisting. And for what? To give in so easily?

She squirms under Max’s gaze, feeling exposed, too open, laid out on the scratchy hotel bed. But exposed is exactly how Max likes her. There’s no question about that.

“You’re very pink down here,” Max observes. “Little princess with her princess parts.”

Charles swings a leg over Max’s shoulder, a warning more than a real kick. “You are so annoying,” she says through gritted teeth. “You can put your tongue to better use, no?”

“Your wish is my command,” Max drawls, and lowers her head to do exactly that.

-

Monza is glorious, and it’s easier to drown her own trepidations out among the roar of the Tifosi. Charles is on top of the world as she hoists the P1 trophy, basking in the elated cheers of the crowd.

As she stumbles off the podium, Carlos wraps her in his arms and presses their wet foreheads and noses together. Carlos squeezes her ribs tight enough to bruise. She can’t find it in herself to mind. Charles has to pull away lest someone get the wrong idea, half-laughing as they nearly tumble onto the green.

“You did it!” he shouts.

“I did it!” she shouts right back.

The team hoists her up for photos, and the noise never stops. People rush around her—a wave of hands and congratulatory touches—and she’s almost overwhelmed by the love and admiration emanating from them.

She feels like a god, almost. It’s a terrible, arrogant comparison, but it’s true. She’s transcendent. Her supporters cry, they weep, they break down into tears of joy on the grass as they sink to their knees. What kind of power does a person have to make someone fall to their knees in ecstasy? Not in bed, but over a fucking sport? She would know.

After the interviews and the onslaught of media and congratulations comes Max. There’s no hesitation as Max walks toward her across the bar. Charles feels that same rush, but this time, she doesn’t push it down.

“You won again,” Max states. Simple. Not quite soft. Just an observation of the obvious.

“Yes,” Charles affirms.

“A little iffy if you only win at your own tracks,” Max teases.

Over Max’s shoulder, she sees Alex shoot her a look. A look that says don’t rise to the bait. Just ignore her.

But if I don’t bite, I will never win, is what she said to Alex in a darkened bathroom before the press started to arrive, shoulder to shoulder at the sinks as Charles washed her hands.

What will it be, when Max loses a championship? When Charles doesn’t just take pole, take a win, but something far greater? Will Max still want Charles after she gets it?

She needs to savour it while she can. She deserves it, tonight. Deserves all of it, more than anyone has ever wanted to let her have.

“There’s no ‘if,’” she tells Max.

“Touché,” Max hums. Her lips crook, and a slow, vicious shudder of anticipation roils through Charles, to the marrow of her bones. “You’re probably eager to celebrate. Am I allowed to join in on the festivities this time?”

Max’s words are so measured, so controlled, but Charles knows better than anyone how much that mask holds back.

“You seem to be the eager one,” Charles says pointedly.

“How could I not be?” A hand settles on her arm. It feels familiar. Max leans closer so that no one else hears what they whisper to her. “You know what happens when you win. Your cheeks get all pretty and red. That’s my favourite look on you.”

“Such a charmer,” Charles says, voice hoarse. The glass she’s holding sits between them, and a gentle touch from Max guides it to her lips. The cool glass presses up to her mouth and Max’s lips brush her ear. Max’s cologne, perfume—whatever it is—slithers in through her nose, and it’s sharp, tangy, like a fresh spritz on a hot neck.

Charles closes her eyes. It would be easy enough to steal a kiss. No one is paying them much attention anymore; not even Alex.

Just as she’s about to do something stupid, Max pulls away and smiles at her.

“My hotel is nearby?” she says, sounding so unabashedly hopeful that Charles can’t even make fun of her for it.

“I think I’m needed here,” she whispers back.

Max’s lips twist into a pout. “I guess so.” She sighs. “Maybe later?” Charles watches her fingertips, follows their slide down her chest, away from her chin. “If that’s—If you’d like.”

It’s not quite a stutter, but for someone with double her wins this season, it’s awfully hesitant.

“Later,” Charles promises, and waves Alex over, finally.

-

Max’s tongue is sharp in ways that aren’t limited to her words. No matter how many times this happens, Charles is always surprised by how deftly she works her, mouth hot on Charles’s thigh.

“Let me—” Charles thrashes, but Max’s arm is secure around her stomach. “Let me, fucking—not like this,” she whines.

She hates it when Max makes her come before Charles can put so much as a hand on her. It feels a bit like she’s losing at something. Even though Max always insists she’s happy on her knees, Charles doesn’t buy it. Nothing feels better than being worshipped.

Max, predictably, ignores her and pushes a third finger in, her tongue tracing a slick pattern up her belly. “You come best when you have a little bit of a hard time with it,” she says.

“Fuck you—”

Max’s palm grinds against her clit, and Charles grunts. When she glances down between her legs, Max has a cheeky grin in place.

“I’ll fancy my chances with that,” Max replies easily, and nips Charles’ inner thigh like a cat. Charles throws her head back and moans.

There will never be enough time. Not enough to catch her breath fully while her heart races like a jackrabbit, and certainly not enough to do everything she wants to Max.

“Roll onto your stomach and spread your legs.”

Charles obeys without thinking. The first orgasm rolls through her when Max pulls at her hair, grinding her own cunt against Charles’ hips, dripping onto her. Then the second comes after Max forces her head down and rims her, the thumb on her asshole sending shudders through her whole body.

She never gets Max on her back that night.

-

Mornings after are Charles’ least favourite part of this, probably. This isn’t a concept she can touch without being burned, but somehow that’s only worked to entrench the fever in her skin more deeply.

Max’s hotel room is predictably fancy, and Charles gazes around it now, with Max still dozing off beside her. She looks like a curled-up bear. There’s something small and appealing about her sprawled on the sheets like this—something different to her larger than life presence on the podium, or on the track.

Charles slips out of the bed without jostling her, somehow. Quietly, she tiptoes naked through the room, and tries to find something of hers in the piles of clothes. Her bra goes on first. She fishes her panties out from between the bed and night stand, where they’d been tossed aside and forgotten. They’re a lost caught; her jeans go on commando.

As she’s slipping on a sock, something hefty and warm wraps around her middle, nearly knocking her off her feet.

“You should know better than to bend over in front of me,” Max says.

“Good morning,” Charles huffs, standing up properly. She lets Max turn her around, and she tries not to let her face flush when she gets a face full of Max’s bare tits. “I have a meeting in an hour, just so you know.”

“A virtual one, I assume,” Max says. “An hour is a long time.”

She looks down the bridge of Max’s nose. Charles’ fingers hover up against the muscles of her chest, almost touching.

“Not when it comes to you,” she says.

Max doesn’t even bat an eyelash, just smiles. “For breakfast, Charles. Not sex.”

Inside Charles, anticipation simmers. For the food, naturally. “Well, hurry up then.”

Max doesn’t waste time in calling for room service. Charles takes care to stay quiet in the background, careful not to let the staff member on the other end get any juicy gossip about there being a woman in Max’s room at seven in the morning. When she hangs up, Max prowls towards her again. The kiss she plants on Charles’ lips is just long enough to make heat bubble and spit at the bottom of Charles’s stomach. Soon, Max’s fingers are tangled in her hair and her tongue is in her mouth. Just the suggestion of Max’s breasts up against Charles’ makes her breathing unsteady.

“Already?” Max murmurs, amusement colouring her words. “You do have stamina, I’ll give you that.”

“You started it,” Charles accuses.

“Can’t blame me for being greedy,” Max points out, as her fingers trail down to Charles’ chest. Charles wishes she hadn’t found the bra, now. “We don’t usually get mornings.”

Charles thinks about what Max said at the pier. I’d like to know you better. Here, with the morning sun coming in, she feels closer to letting Max take a crack. “Better make the most of it, then.” Not an invitation, just a quip.

The food comes after a few minutes of frantic, slightly delirious making out. Max releases her and goes to the door to answer, taking care to wrap her towel completely around her torso.

[archersartcorner]

Some more spoodles (Spock doodles) I’ve had saved for a bit… Art block still rough but I do wanna draw so bad. If yall have simple requests feel free 2 send some in hehe

[horsegirlwarcrimes]

sneak peak of what im working on for my next fic after What I Need Right Now ☆⌒(￣▽​￣ )

[bnhxx]

I have GYAT to start writing about my best boy Carlos,,,,,members of the jury, it's time

SO MY MAN MY RESPECTFUL POOKIE 🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️

Personal

[Edit]: okay I took the liberty to actually organise this bc it was just verbal diarrhoea ksjsksj

Also this list is NOT exhaustive bc im always thinking up more shit about this man sksgdhdbd

- Man's got game but honestly I think if you did some cute n wholesome shit he would kagsishshw. Like he would have such a GOOFY smile on his face and eat that shit up. Gifts, handmade things, compliments, letters or little sticky notes you leave for him, it really bolsters his confidence. Not that he needs it, but it feels special and makes him warm and fuzzy inside.

-Whether you're always like that or it's a sometimes thing he's gonna tease you though.

"Aww, ya big softie,"

-like he's spent majority of his life in militias and such, he's not used to softness. Apart from the softness and protectiveness he showed his little brothers, and the softness that was shown to him by his mother-which was fleeting at best considering most memories of his childhood would be filled with the thievery he'd resort to to keep his family alive. Hes never really been encouraged to show it, either way-its seen as a weakness.

-and it's not to say Carlos is suffering from good old toxic masculinity, he holds sm respect for Jill and yes she leans into the more hardass fem cop role to protect herself and yes he also STILL flirts w her but tbh the fact that he's respectful and let's her brush him off without getting mad, that's still a big step imo

-bc he's literally been around those types of people for most to all his life. Raised by a militia, basically, and toxic masculinity is so rampant there simply because it's a good coping mechanism for having to fight and kill ppl all the time? Just, switch off those emotions. Don't feel bc you might go absolutely insane with the guilt if you do.

-so yeah, Carlos, though he certainly doesn't seem to be in the chokehold of toxic masculinity, he's still very much affected by it.

-But I think he'd lean on those around him in his journey to healing that sort of fight flight mode, all day, every day, macho man w a cigar hanging out of his mouth type persona.

- He's very much a, if I didn't have the people around me to support me, I wouldn't have gotten this far type of person. And he'll do the inner work if it means becoming a better version of himself.

-like my man's saw Umbrella and was like yeah nah fuck that

-and that takes GUTS. Tyrell really was right when he called Carlos a balsy such and such he has courage for days. So in conclusion he definitely would have the courage to go and heal for himself and others. 100%.

-Definitely takes me as the gym bro to make friends with everyone at the gym. He's there to shred and sometimes he's a little show off but hey, he worked for his gains why not show em off y'know?

- He'll also be the first to rope some asshole in if they're making someone uncomfortable. He likes going to the gym and he'd hate for it to become a place with a bad vibe, not on his watch!! So if he's in the gym is just chill vibes

-theres these dudes on tiktok that are gymbros but they're constantly playfully flirting or making dirty jokes w each other that's Carlos lol.

-I think Carlos would also like hiking. He wouldn't mind camping, so long as he's got a good group to go with-(that usually makes or breaks the camping trip imo) but he prefers to take a hike. The views are worth the pain, he says, trust me!

(You'll believe him when you get back to the picnic sites and he brings out the lunch he had prepped bc you wouldn't go without it jabsjshsjs)

"You're food is what's worth the pain, not the view, Carlos," (he would call you a gremlin for this but it's worth it to see his silly smile)

-Also, cooking!!! Carlos LOVES cooking it's canon. He prefers cooking for people because being able to see his friends or s.o's face when they try his food makes all the hard work worth it. He also gets to spend time with everyone which is a bonus! So if you're friends or dating, expect big dinner parties. As rowdy as they can be they're actually quite chill once everyone's had some of Carlos' special in their belly (we all rubbing our tummies like 🤰🤰🤰 after that food baby kahsisbsj)

Ideal type.

-ON that, he's very family oriented. Because of his upbringing and how he was raised to his personality, but yeah-man's had to fight for his family from day 1 p much. So big protective older brother vibes here. He'd definitely make a good dad!

-I can only see him as a military man bc of his upbringing 😭 but this man is DEF having a reflective moment at the end of RE:3 like while Jill's freaking out bc bye bye Racoon City and trauma he's like,,,okay idk if this life is the one I wanna LIVE so I think he dabbles his toes in a bunch of odd jobs here and there while he's in hiding, post RE:3.

-Like he learnt a LOT of employable skills from the military and he'd definitely go up the ranks but he??? Doesn't know what he really LOVES to do so??? He tries a lot of things tbh.

-In saying that his social circle is WILD. Like I'm talking he picks up a random person off the street, brings them to a party with some of his work colleagues and old workmates from his other job and everyone's Like WHAT do we all have in common 💀

-you know big silly man and you're all gonna love his cooking that's what!!

-he is a silly goofy guy he loves to joke around, but not at the expense of others!! So, he's actually got a lot of friends. They type of person that had loads of friends but only a couple of really close ones ngl.

- Also likes to make mundane things fun by inviting his friends. He's the type to call his friend up like, let's go grocery shopping together bc I hate doing this alone 💔

-and it's a two in one bc his friend is there!!

- I think his ideal type is someone whose not afraid to stand up for what's right. Assertive and forthright are bonuses, but at the end of the day he seeks someone whose moral compass aligned them with the good of people, or someone who cares about community, and others. Someone who, if they see something wrong, won't just look the other way.

-assertiveness and forthright is hot asf in a woman and he loves to see it!! (You and me both brother whew 🥴)

-I think also he comes from a background that's very community centered? So the whole individualistic culture of America and Western cultures would be a bit,,,strange. He'd at least want someone who is willing to have a community mindset bc he just wouldn't vibe too well w someone like that in the long run 🤧 Like it's not like he hates it but how??? Are you alive??? You live like this bro??? Y'all Western countries good????

- deal breakers for him are family, blatant assholes lmao, cheating, and gamblers.

-Hes pretty goofy too underneath it all so he'd want someone who he can be silly with. Someone who won't judge on that, who even plays along with him. He'd adore someone who he can just be silly with. My silly big guy.

-like PLEASE at least crack a smile at his jokes he would low-key take it personally if you didn't laugh or crack a smile when he's joking around or being silly (he would take it VERY personally but he'd stay chill on the outside lmao)

- he plays around a bit after RE:3 bc man's 21, like, what did you expect. But he's also upfront about what he expects from the relationship and expects them to be, too!

- I think he'd be the type to get jealous, if his s/o had a different life than his. Like, white picket fence, smart (this I'd big bc nowhere in Carlos' backstory does it say he had a formal education past military training 🥲), homebody type. Like, he feels almost out of place in their life. Like a stray they picked up off the road, and he needs reassurance that your not just there for his looks and his yummy beefy arms (but yes, he admits they're a plus)

-So someone who's in tune with their and others emotions would be great for him! An attentive s/o who isn't afraid to call out his jealousy (gently) and lovingly remind him that he's the only one they want. ESPECIALLY if it's looking like a long term relo!

-also he'd want someone who shares some hobbies bc he loves doing things w ppl he loves! So if you're not a nature person then honey, you got a big storm coming.

-also I think he'd give it a pass if you has opposite hobbies but you love learning about his ‼️‼️ like when he comes home from his camping trip his s/o is like, so, how was it? Or they're sharing him little camping tips and tricks online or cooking recipes, just show they're interested and talk about his hobbies even if they aren't into them. He'd love this just as much ‼️

-I actually think he'd do really well adopting kids too, because, if he can give a kid a better life?? Tbh just pitch it like that his whole 'for the blood of my family name' would go down p quick bc if he could save a kid from living a childhood he had to he would no light reaction ‼️

- family, because he wants to have a family of his own. He wants to have his own blood if he can which is strange my guy but I respect that. Sort of in a more traditional sense of like I survived and now my family will live a better life type mentality, keep the family tree going y'know?

- If his partner could not/does not want to have kids though I think he would try other forms like surrogacy or ivf or even adoption, because if he found someone he really loved at the end of the day a family isn't simply determined by blood. It might take him a while to get on board with tho but stand on business he'll wrap his head around it eventually.

-again, sort of going off the point earlier but just shitty or selfish people is a no go. Like not caring for others to the point of blatantly putting others at risk to get what you want, not feeling bad about it at all? that's a no no. Obvious reasons here, he fought against impossible odds to put the middle finger up to Umbrella for what they did soo what did you expect?

-cheating, because honesty is key. Cheating is pretty unanimous but like, Carlos is the type to not forgive that. Ever. How could you cheat on the baby boy like he's been through ENOUGH YOUR HONOUR 😭😭😭

-kind of unrelated but I have his dbd voice line of "You're gonna be okay, I promise," in my mind at all times of every day kahsjek

-gambling, because it's such a throw away of large amounts of money. It just doesn't seem right to Carlos. Addiction is hard to break, he gets it, but particularly in large amounts-gambling is just lowkey disturbing to him. He grew up poor so could not be him betting the chance to eat on huge amounts of money. Like he's desperate but he thinks gambling is a scam. Bc it is kshsidjd.

-ALSO there was this tiktok comment on how he paces infront of his s/o's house with flowers to hype himself up and ‼️ yes ‼️ he would so do this it makes me wanna cry thinking about it.

Misc.

-LIKE I could be in the clutches of the ENITITYS realm and still feel good bc Carlos is there, he may move like a turtle in dbd but my man's moving mountains keeping the team together give him a pass ‼️

-everyone saying bring Carlos back to re, capcom you left us in a cold, cruel, Carlos-less world, but, BUT....let's just imagine for a moment my man finally found peace after re3 and is just on a beach sipping mimosas. He deserves this he's spent his whole 21 years of his life fighting, give him peace I beg!

-let's live in the delulu that my man's finally got a break from all that shit 🤱

- I want him to just RelAx, take a load off, sit back and enjoy the sunshine after everything bc 😭😭😭

[blueflyingturtleontheway]

So, I've heard some voices here and there lamenting how little Gabe content - especially new Gabe content - there was and you know what? I completely agree, so I thought why not, I can try to add my little droplet into this tiny sea of Gabe appreciation we have here on tumblr.

Summary: Elena visits Gabe in his house for the first time and learns something new about his past.

Word count: 1937

AN: just some friendly fluff really, headcanon heavy, from Elena's POV but Gabe centric

"Oh, watch out, the first step is-" Gabe turned around just in time to catch Elena when she started to fall backwards. "-loose."

"Thanks for the warning." Elena shot him a glare when she regained her balance. In response Gabe only sent her an unapologetic grin and pulled her up on the next step.

"Everyone's so used to it by now that we keep forgetting to fix it with my dad," he explained as they finally reached the first floor.

The stairs led to a narrow corridor, with the same room placement as the bakery beneath it. Two doors on the right, one on the left and a wide opening to the living room at the end. In a few brisk steps Gabe opened the door on the left and invited Elena in with a courteous gesture.

"Welcome to my humble abode, your highness."

Her highness graced him with a nod and slipped by him, into the small room. Elena gave it a quick one over. It was indeed small - in fact, there probably wasn't much more space than what each guard got at the barracks - and the decor wasn't much fancier either. Cream colored walls, a thin bed by the window, a wardrobe opposite of it, one wall taken up by a bookshelf and a small cabinet by another made up basically all the furnishing of the room.

"Humble is a good word." She nodded solemnly, earning herself an eye roll from her friend. They both chuckled.

"Hey, it's your room that's out of the norm, you know?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Elena retorted, thinking about how three or even four such rooms would fit into hers. She walked over to the cabinet and picked up some trinket. "But it's nice to finally see where you grew up."

Gabe couldn't stop a fond smile sneaking onto his lips when he noticed the badge she was examining.

"Yeah and I didn't really get to change much here in the past five years. For example this thing I got back when-"

"Gabriel!" He was interrupted by his mother's voice from the bakery.

"I'll tell you in a moment," he sighed. "Make yourself at home!" He added from the doors and quickly ran downstairs to his parents.

Elena took another look around the room. It wasn't entirely empty, she had to admit that, and the poster of Antonio Agama on the inner side of the door confirmed that Gabe didn't change the decor much since he moved out.

She moved to the bookshelf and moved her hand across the titles - though there weren't that many of them to count. The lower shelves were taken up by some boxes and bags and what could've been a neatly packaged tent. Then finally a whole shelf dedicated to the whole collection of Antonio Agama's books. Elena chuckled to herself when she read some of the more dramatic titles and noticed even one that wasn't in Avaloran. On the next shelf, between other various travel books and biographies, was only one book by señor Agama, titled simply 'The Gecko's Tale'. Driven by a hunch she took it out and couldn't help but laugh when she read the blurb on the back. Although that explained how the whole kingdom found out that she's a bit adventurous too.

Finally her gaze got to the plant on top of the mantle. Hidden so deep in the room, it extended its ivy like stalks towards the sun, climbing a string helpfully hung between the bookshelf and the window.

Down on the windowsill two other plants looked out on the little cobbled square behind the house. Elena leaned in to smell the orchid and noticed something half hidden behind the pot. Slowly, so as not to accidentally damage the plant, she reached for trinket and retrieved it into the light. It turned out to be a wooden doll, painted to resemble a familiar navy and maroon uniform...

"Is this you?" She turned to Gabe as soon as he entered the room and showed him the figurine with a wide smile.

Gabe stopped for a moment. Furrowed his brows as he tried to see what Elena was even holding, and then furrowed his brows even more when he recognised it.

"Of course not," he grumbled, closing the small distance between them. "It's just an old thing anyway."

"It does look a bit like you though." She jumped away from him at the last moment.

Gabe gasped. Elen giggled and moved her hand away when he tried to reach her.

"Why would I even have a figurine of myself?"

For a moment they circled each other, like two lions judging if it's worthy to fight the opponent for a steak, except the steak was now wooden and 15 centimetres high. They both hunched subconsciously and made their steps in the fencing manner.

"I don't know, why does Esteban have a whole wall of his own portraits?" A sly grin slid on her face. "But I see you've decided to match his collection."

"Oh now you've done it." Gabe shook his head to hide his smile and in the split of a second was right by her. Feigning to go right for the prize, he swiped her legs out from under her.

Elena waved her hands in the air giving Gabe just the opportunity he was waiting for. He swiftly yanked the figurine from her hands, giving her the last push to fall backwards completely. He turned his head with a victorious grin, just in time to see her legs rising at the height of his knees. And suddenly the ground was much closer than before.

He folded his arms to his chest, protecting the figurine with his body and rolled on the floor. Though he didn't have to roll far, of which he was promptly reminded by his head crushing into the cupboard.

He groaned loudly and let his body fall limply to the floor.

His pained complaint was answered by Elena's laughter from the bed.

"I'm getting too old for this," he mumbled and Elena's laughter only got louder.

Finally he sat up and lifted the figurine to his face. He carefully examined it for any cracks or splinters, checked if the joints in the limbs didn't fall out and most importantly if the head was still on firm. Finally when he made sure the trinket didn't get damaged, he let out a relieved sigh.

"You're lucky it's still whole," he grumbled, rising to his feet.

"Hey, I was being careful." Elena now sat up too and sent him a playful smirk. "All the way until you decided to trip me like that."

Gabe rolled his eyes again and huffed in pretended annoyance.

"So if it's not a limited edition General Nuñez action figure," Elena continued. "What is it?"

Gabe sat down next to her and thought of an answer for a moment. He changed the position of the little soldier's arms and reached for a pin to put into his hand as a sword.

"It's really just an old toy," he said finally. "But you know, it has sentimental value."

He finally passed Elena the figurine, so she could take a look at it herself. It wasn't as old as she thought at first. The paint was faded, but still held onto the uneven surface of the wood and as she moved her fingers across it, she realized that it must've been all whittled by hand, by someone who put great care in it, but wasn't a professional.

Still the amount of details was impressive, especially in the construction of the thing. She moved the tiny soldier into the proper fencing position and to her delight found out that it fits flawlessly, the wire on the joints creaked quietly, as if it had been waiting for an opportunity to shine for ages.

She glanced between the figurine and Gabe on her left for comparison. The uniform, despite the familiar colours, was a tad different, it resembles more what she remembered from her childhood, than the uniform Gabe was wearing at the moment.

"I got it from my first fencing teacher," he continued.

"The same one who threw coconuts at you driving training?" Elena raised a brow, earning herself a chuckle.

"Yeah, the same one." A sad smile reached the corners of his eyes as old memories resurfaced in his memory. "He was a tough man and always talked about how big an annoyance I am, but -" he gestured to the figurine and shrugged.

"Well, that explains why it looks like you," Elena bumped him with her shoulder. "I'm sure he could've already seen that you'll be a great guard."

"Oh, I don't think he even wanted me to be a guard," Gabe laughed again. "But you know, the situation was a bit different." He pondered something for a moment before continuing. "And to be fair, I didn't even realize that it was supposed to be a guard at the time, I was pretty sure he just came up with the design by himself. I only really connected the dots a few years ago, when I found this old thing again."

Elena nodded silently and put a comforting hand on his arm. She could see that this topic wasn't easy for him.

"Though maybe what you said was the point." He straightened suddenly and his gaze went back to the figurine. "Maybe he wasn't completely against me joining the guard, just... joining the right one."

His smile became wider and it was like his whole face lit up. Elena raised the little soldier's arms to make it cheer. They both laughed at how expressive this piece of wood was.

"So where is your coach now?" Elena asked, caressing the wooden toy one more time.

He only sighed at first and for a moment his gaze became clouded again, before he shook his head to cast the memories away.

"I wish I knew," he sent her a sad smile. "One day he just... disappeared. A few trinkets and one letter is all the proof I have that he wasn't just my hallucination."

Elena's lips twitched in a matching sad smile, but before she could say anything, they both heard a voice from downstairs, calling the unmistakable word 'dinner!'

Gabe clapped his hands on his knees and sprung up to his feet.

"Ah, just in time", he extended his hand to Elena. "I think eating is a much more fun topic than discussing the weird things I did in my childhood."

Elena examined his face for a moment more, but gave up on asking all the questions that pushed to the tip of her tongue. She sent him a smile instead and accepted his hand.

"Oh, you mean you did more weird things?" She made the little figurine gasp.

"I feel like I shouldn't have started this topic," Gabe laughed.

"Oh no, you won't escape now." She poked him in the chest and put the little soldier in his hand. "I gotta know all the crazy stories."

"Okay, okay, I'll tell you something," Gabe raised his hands in defeat. "But you can't mention it to my parents, please, they'll never stop until they tell you my whole life story."

Elena made a theatrical gesture of tapping her lips in thought as she backed out of the room.

"I'll consider it," she sent him a wide grin and in a second turned and ran towards the stairs.

"Hey- wait!" Gabe called out, running right after her to save what was left of his reputation.

[carcarrot]

idk what happened but my brain is finally working again so now im back to writing stuff or at least finally writing letterboxd reviews. for those of you that caare

[sophfandoms53]

I’m confused how/when Hisam laughed with Jared and Luke, I thought he left the HN room before Cory?

I might have this backwards, but i know i saw people talking about how Hisam was still talking about Kirsten with Luke and Jared after it happened which could mean he had gone back into the room. But maybe they were talking about the discussion they were having about Kirsten prior.

And i remember seeing somewhere on Twitter that Hisam made a comment about it to Luke, which is why him acting like he didn’t hear anything is so ???

Bc they cut the feeds during the situation and for the last day or so it’s incredibly confusing to stitch everything together bc we’re missing so much information.

[bitd]

dear magnus (SUPER old oc project) is on my mind again and its like. magnus + washington are so funny. [shows up at your house because its the apocalypse and i dont know where else to go] Um hi

[leonardoeatscarrots]

Sharp canines, you know.

autism is living by vampire rules. light sensitivity. eating the wrong food makes you want to die. need to be explicitly invited places. weird sleep schedule. eating the same thing every time. specific rituals and routines. burst into flames at the sight of a crucifix. etc.

[rowarn]

cw: gun play, throat fucking with a gun im sorry, simon coming untouched, masturbation (reader) I NEEDED TO GET THIS OUT OF MY BRAIN SO unedited

simon with a gun kink that he's kept hidden would be crazy.

imagine ur big, beefy husband coming home after a long deployment. he's tense, his fists are clenched tight and it's clear he's got a ton of steam he needs to blow off.

at first, you expect a normal night together of him plowing you into the mattress so hard that the bed creaks and hits the wall with every thrust. the kind of fucking that leaves you trembling for 15 minutes after you've finished and cleaned up. the kind that has him pulling you into his arms to soothe and coo at.

but something is different this time.

he starts removing his gear one by one as usual but instead of removing the holster with his gun and safely placing it down, he unholsters the gun completely.

you're watching with bated breath as he unloads the weapon, carefully pulling it back and peering into the chamber. you're watching his hands move, admiring how strong his fingers are and how the veins in his hands bulge out with every movement

you deviously excited by the time he approaches you -- the gun still in his hand.

he brings it up, placing the nozzle against your chin, finger hovering off the the trigger. but you know how well-trained he is -- how good he is at his job. you know that he could have that finger on the trigger in a milisecond, faster than you would even be able to comprehend.

"open," he orders, a voice that sends shivers down your spine. it's firm, rough, authoritative. it's a tone you imagine he uses when he's on the field.

soliders bow to his every whim and you're no better. but unlike those who are trained to obey him because it's their job -- you obey him because you know if you do, you'll get the sweetest reward in the world; that thick, full cock still hidden in his pants.

your panties are already wet and sticky and your brain’s already feeling fuzzy by the time you open your mouth. 

the shock of cold is the first thing you recognize followed by the tang of metal as the weapon settles on your tongue. your lashes flutter as you look up at your husband, face still obscured by his balaclava but his pretty, brown eyes burn holes into you nevertheless.

he slowly and carefully slides the gun deeper into your mouth until it presses against the back of your throat and you involuntarily gag. a groan rips from his cheeks as he watches the tears gather on your lashline.

"that's it, pretty," he coos, "bet you wish that was my cock huh?" you nod your head as best you can with the weapon lodged in your throat, "maybe i'll give it to you if you put on a real nice show for me."

his words take a moment to register in your fuzzy brain but once they do, your hand is flying down between your legs at record speed. you slip it beneath the band of your panties, barely lifting his shirt that you're wearing out of the way so you can finally find relief in the ache that has settled in your cunt.

your folds are wet and sticky as they part around your fingers and you struggle to swallow around the gun in your mouth. there's no give to the metal and drool begins to dribble down your shin in long, thin strings.

simon's cock is hard, heavy and leaking against his thigh. this has been one of his best kept secrets, to watch you submit to his gun -- to the weapon he has used to murder countless people with.

and here you were, doing as you're told, throating his gun while you play with your pretty cunt. he can hear how wet you are, can see the way you desperately hump your own hand trying to get your fingers deeper and deeper. but they'll never feel as good as his, you both know this.

so all you can do is tearfully look up at him through clumped lashes as you choke and gag on the gun he continues to keep stuffed down your throat.

his cock throbs at the thought of being where his weapon is now. he envies it.

you mutter something, muffled and incomprehensible but he knows what you're saying. he can see the way your pupils blow out, hear the way your breathing grows erratic and choppy. you're trembling and breathless, messily jerking your hips into your own hand as you desperately look up at him -- begging for anything to push you over the edge.

his finger finally lands on the trigger of his gun and he sees your eyes widen but the desperate, teary look you give him only tells him more of what you need.

there's a muted, empty click when he pulls the trigger. the gun is empty, you both know this -- but it sends you over the edge anyway.

simons cock twitches and twitches, balls tight and heavy before he's spurting his load down his thigh at the sight of you cumming on your own fingers and moaning around his gun.

the hand holding the weapon trembles as he cums untouched at the entire scene. you pull your head back, gasping for air before pulling your hand out of your panties.

simon lurches forward, you don't even have time to react before he's taking the sticky, messy, cum-covered fingers into his mouth.

he's on top of you, pressing you down beneath his weight, the gun tossed and forgotten on the bed because now all he can think about is fucking you into the mattress. <3

[waterbottlegrey-blog]

The stories bout the cleverness of ravens are true. You can see Brent's car as you walk out of the house for the last time, with everything that could be detached with clever raven claws and beaks detached. it's quite impressive. They'd somehow managed to pull apart the lights without breaking the light-bulbs. They'd lined a circle around the hummer with them.

"Okay, so we're going to the glen," you say. "And we're finding my parents."

The young raven, who'd introduced himself as Cup-Noodle-Thief, CNT for short, has been waiting for you patiently. He croaks excitedly, flies around and does a barrel roll. Atomic-Crisco, the elderly one, is on your bike's handlebar already.

"We should hurry then. It's a day's flight, and you need to make it before the rising of the moon," he says.

"And we really should know your heraldry before that. I've heard some of them can be really harsh about protocol," adds CNT.

You shrug, and load your tent into the saddle bags.

You really don't care about stuff like that right now. You want some answers. You want to know why they'd never came to look for you. The changeling is suppressed to return, that's the story. They're supposed to come back for it. There's at least one story that goes like that. And they'd left you here.

CNT croaks at Crisco. Crisco jumps on the seat.

"Fine, what about it? I thought you said you don't know what house I'm from." You say.

You've been talking and observing them logn enough to know that Crisco is a stubborn old bastard. He won't move until he gets his way.

"I can make an educated guess," he says, wryly. "You'll need to buy some mirrors. And fresh bread. Pricey liqueur wouldn't hurt." And he says nothing more.

You sigh. It's a bit alarming that they won't tell you what they know before getting you to the glen. But fuck it.

It does take an entire day to get there. In the end, its just an abandoned strip of land beside a highway. You got the bag of bagels, and merlot, and 60 hand-held mirrors.

The rest of the flock caught up with you when you were in the traffic jam, getting out of the city. You just know CNT led you to take that route on purpose, somehow. YOu just hope they didn't cause the car accident. As it was, you missed the moon-rise, and used up both of your first-aid kits.

"Alright, so can you tell me now?" You demand once you've set up the tent.

"Of course, my Lord," says CNT. The rest of the ravens are perched in the shrubbery and the lone tree around your little camp. The gas stove is bubbling away, Crisco nudging the lid every once in a while so it won't overflow.

"So, I'm pretty sure you're Dark-Fae, because of the whole, you know, reality warping, but the specific house is trickier. They'd keep the details of the descen-"

"Hold on," you interrupt. "Firstly, how do you know 'reality warping' but not HOA, and also, I've been warping reality?"

There's a chorus of croaking and laughter from around you.

"Aye," sounds a voice from behind the tent.

You jump to your feet. There's a fuck-off huge man, with a homely face, dressed in what would be best called bondage-lumberjack outfit, coming around to sit at your fire. He's smiling, but it's a smirking smile.

You eye him carefully. You've been in a hundred biker bars, and you know that swagger.

"Proper greeting is 'hello, how are you', so let's start there," you snap.

Crisco chuckles at the pot.

"Your first retainer, it seems. You could do worse. What ho, dryad. How fares thy clan?"

You keep you face blank, your heart hammering in your chest. This is what comes from now hawing the heart to grab the old feather-duster and shaking him until explanations fall out. The large man stops smirking, at least.

He grins, trying for charming. He'd probably pull it off to anyone else, but you're used to navigating Father and his flock of fawning bitches in the congregation for minimum bodily harm. You can just about smell the apprehension of someone that's trying to buff his way higher in the pecking order. "I'm tough, tougher than you, really, no, really, just please don't check-"

"Lawrence, at your service, My Lord," he says. "How do you fare?"

You don't point out that you're more of a Lordship. Gentleperson? Bah. The particulars of your gender are irrelevent right now, and the ravens have been using it more as a title than anything else, anyways.

"I fare impatient. What reality warping?"

Lawrence smirks again. You feel a stab of pity. He's trying so hard, bless him, he wouldn't last one day in the Inner Divinity Circle.

"You're a Fae Lord of the Shaded Shack, Lord. Reality warping is your purview. You can impose your will on the world, the way you think things should be." He sits on his knees like in a Japanese movie, the leather rig creaking as he rolls his shoulders. The light from the lantern shines of the straining buttons on the plaid shirt. Is he...?

Nevermind.

"Be nice to know what that is," you say pointedly to Crisco. He manages to conwey a shrug.

"Young Cup-Noodle-Thief was enjoying his first attempts at fool-dom, Lord. I felt he should try, as he will replace me. I am...old."

He tries to twist off the gas stove. Lawrence reaches over and twists it for him. His demeanor is entirely changed. He's now blank-faced and subdued. His eyes are lowered.

Your mind races. There's a hierarchy here. You can see the outlines. Atomic Crisco just implied something important. Fool is taken, and above Retainer.

"I got ways to go," mutters CNT. "But yeah. It's like, an area of effect. And I know an HOA is a thing fancy neighbourhoods have, it's like, an important flock within the flock that no-one likes. And I was trying to sound fancy, cause we though you were a fancy Fae Lord that was taking a holiday. Sorry," he adds.

You forgive him immediately. CNT was the goofball of the flock, and before... today, you always loved to whatch what stupid escapade he'd get himself into.

"You're still not explaining yourself," you say softly.

CNT looks at Lawrence, then pointedly at you. Lawrence, for his part, is still lowering his eyes.

"This world is... soft, to a being of your power, my Lord. We didn't know you were a High House until you made the rest of the flock like us."

He nods towards Crisco. He croaks, then says in a jovial tone:

"It was a lark to see the lowbeast flockmates suddenly awaken one day with cognition. One day your biggest puzzle is the shine of a trashcan and why you can't eat it, and the next you're Wise and re-inventing the descartian reasoning of existence in a panic."

"Hey, man, fuck you," sounds from one of the bushes. A chorus of laughter sounds. You chuckle. CNT preens, and Crisco nods approvingly.

"So because I spoke to you since I was little-"

"We spoke back. I already was Wise, courtesy of Lord Star, but of the rest, Cup-Noodle-Thief was the first. Do you remember giving him his name?"

You stare at CNT. You called him that, you remember, when you were watching him in the park.

"Yeah, I was eating those noodles, and then suddenly thought Hey, these aren't meat, they just smell like meat, what the fuck? An then panicked because I thought my thoughts were someone talking," says CNT.

"So this Lord Star is my father?" you ask.

"I have no idea, I'm sorry, my Lord." Crisco looks ashamed.

"Yeah, they keep kids under wraps until they come into their power. You could be, or you could be one of the hundreds of others. Powers are random, people just join the High Houses later once they manifest based on them. I'm not even fully up on those, I found maybe a dozen Houses to figure out your heraldy, and I was focusing on weasels, cause you had so much plushies of them, and green and black colours and do you know how many houses-" Okay, so he tried to guess your house based on what you wore? Poor guy. You wore exactly three shades on green and black, and- Lawence shifted.

"You know more about Houses and things, right, Lawrence?"

Lawrence takes a deep breath. You narrow your eyes. He looks... stubborn.

"It's not the privilege of a retainer, to advise, my Lord."

"Not a privilege of a dryad to try and usurp a Wise Awakened, either." snarks CNT, "But it looks like your woody self grew a pair of more than just fruit, eh?" He looks hopefully towards you. Crisco groans.

You groan.

You can apparetly warp reality to the point of granting cognition, your one retainer is a extorting dryad, and your Fool makes dirty puns.

"You can kneel there until you feel otherwise," you tell Lawrence. You give it 10 hours, because he's a stubborn one, he's kneeling on rocks, and he's feeling it already. You hate thet you can predict that so accurately.

He looks startled. Yeah buddy, and I won't cave even if you hold your breath, either, you think. There's laughter from the flock around you.

Still, your stew is done, and you have some answers. You'll eat, sleep, and get more answers.

You always got strange looks whenever you fed the neighborhood ravens. “I give them food, they give me company,” you’d say. One day, a raven excitedly comes up to you and whispers, “A neighbor plots against you, my lord.”

[tojisun]

!! it’s very silly and unserious and the only reason it’s long is because it’s so vivid in my head. unedited as hell </3

nosy neighbours tf 141 got me giggling. and it’s not even inherently sexy nor attractive, it’s really just them being in people’s (or a person’s) business.

thinking about how, in retirement, they still bought a house together because it’s so odd to have separate lives. and so they bought one in the suburbs, with five bedrooms and four baths, and a really big backyard. kyle picked up gardening so the backyard was not just a plus but a damn requirement.

so they move in, not giving a damn about that one old WASP couple across the street watching them all with a sneer because apparently moving in with your mates is unusual. well, whatever. fuck them.

then they meet their new neighbour. you’re single—divorced, price would tell them later—whose life is centred around your 9 to 5 job at an office in the city which you wake up at 5am for.

you leave the house at 6:30am and then amble back home when it’s pushing 8pm. it’s a boring life; a boring routine. not even your little front lawn of cared-for wild flowers managed to hold their attention longer than a day.

so with that said, they’d like to go on a record and say that it’s all johnny’s fault.

friday evening, he started the game by saying, “she bought a baguette.” he paused. “and a bottle? it's shaped like lube?”

john blinked, setting his book down. “what.”

mactavish shrugged, still peering from the crack in the curtains. kyle walked in then, his apron all dirtied. “hey, i’m craving a baguette.”

johnny laughed and looked at price like price was supposed to get something from that. of course he didn’t, but johnny’s always been good at carrying the momentum so, to no one’s surprise, he repeats the observation three days after the previous one.

“bag’o coal and lemon bread. what the hell.”

“that’s a disgusting dinner combo,” kyle chirps, switching the channels.

simon throws a pillow at him because he had been watching a documentary about moths when kyle changed the program without asking him.

“it’s just monday,” john finally replies, cementing his participation in the game. “why’s she buying lem—did she not grocery shop?”

johnny looks at him, wide-eyed. “that’s a good question, sir.” then he turns, ignoring them again to peer at their neighbour. john’s sure you’re back in your home so he really doesn’t know what johnny’s watching at that point.

simon was successful at wrestling the remote control back to him, and the program’s returned to the moths.

.

thursday evening, two and a half weeks after monday’s lemon bread and bag of coal, the game picks up again.

“who the hell makes a rug purchase during the weekdays?” kyle asks, his voice teetering between fascination and concern.

“how long’s the rug?” johnny replies, all of them watching as kyle stands in front of that slip of window they now use for ‘bird watching.’

kyle spreads his arms out—2.5 ft.

“huh,” johnny says. “for the toilet, you reckon?”

“probably for the cat, actually,” simon cuts in.

“what cat.” john doesn’t even know who asked that, but really—what cat?

“a round thing,” simon answers. “grey fur.”

“aww,” johnny croons. “that’s cute.”

john sighs and turns back to the morning paper’s crossword puzzle for the day.

.

you don’t join the neighbourhood’s annual summer barbecue party much to their disappointment. although, in all fairness, john understands your decision because they wouldn’t have gone to it anyway had they not found out that the host this year was going to be that WASP couple who still sneered at them every chance they get.

the wife, of course, couldn’t turn them away in front of the other neighbours who particularly loved kyle and, shockingly, simon so there they are, eating what is begrudgingly some good ribs while listening to the neighbourhood gossip.

and while each story was riveting, nothing could honestly hold a candle to their ‘bird’ and your peculiar grocery runs.

.

one evening, you come home with a man. john tells them it’s your ex-husband, admitting to them that yes, he’s now used up their once-a-month pass to accessing ‘special’ resources with regards to finding more about you.

“think they’re fuckin’?” johnny asks, no longer feigning disinterest.

kyle groans because it had been more than a minute now since johnny dropped a card from his stack; they tried their best to be patient as they waited, thinking mactavish needed more time since, apparently, he’s never played cards before—growing up as a catholic boy, he’s always been told that any form of gambling was a gateway to eternal damnation.

john didn’t have the heart to tell him that you didn’t have to make bets to be able to play cards.

“maybe,” simon replies, ignoring kyle’s angry grumbling. “why else would she bring him home? her house ain’t really a wonder.”

“…how do you know that?” kyle asks, his words measured and slowed.

simon blinks, then he sniffs, before looking away.

“hey!” mactavish screams, catching on. “we agreed no tampering with anythin’ of ‘ers!”

“yeah? well tell ‘at to cap’n too—he was already there when i broke in.”

johnny turns to him with a theatrical betrayed look. kyle drops his head on the table because the game’s been fully abandoned now.

“sir,” johnny says, his voice airy like he’s speaking mid-gasp. “you didn’t.”

john licks the back of his teeth, then, “jus’ wanted to see ‘er cat, s’all.”

.

the ex-husband leaves three hours later with a familiar rug tucked to his side.

.

“huh,” simon murmurs, his voice so faint that john almost missed it. “tulips and tuna today.”

johnny and kyle would’ve loved the update but the two are away for the week.

john messages it to the group chat.

suds (19:21)

> holy shit she’s improving.

.

oddly enough, it took them six months since they moved in for them to finally talk to you.

or, well, for you to talk to them.

“i’m havin’ a yard sale tomorrow,” you say after the introductions have passed, your lips tugged up in a shy smile.

john honestly couldn’t even remember how he used to envision you—old age caught up to him and for a whole while, you were nothing but a coloured blob in his eyes since they turned out to be more damaged than expected—but whatever that had been was erased the moment you stood before them.

shy and awkward, your back slouched just a little like you’re trying to curl into yourself in the face of their rapt attention, but even then you’re beautiful.

“yeah?” kyle asks, smiling; the first to break out of the trance you put them into. “and would y’need help, pretty miss?”

“oh, you,” you murmur, strained laughter peeling from your lips. “and yeah, i do. would that be alright? i tried moving my old couch downstairs and my back almost gave out. i swear, i thought i was going to see the lord today.”

johnny laughs, loud and booming. “well we’re glad that you didn’t die today, otherwise who would take care of little truffle, huh?”

john barely stopped himself from heaving out a loud sigh, an attempt made more challenging when he caught the way kyle whirled his head to glare at mactavish, the act not any less subtle since it startled you too. simon grumbles something incoherent—it’s lost amidst johnny’s petering laugh and your swelling horror.

“…how, exactly, do you know my cat’s name?”

[ink-n-shadow]

i saw this post about types "talking you through your orgasms" and i had to discuss the types that the 141 men would be. i couldn't stop myself

TALKING YOU THROUGH IT

𝜗𝜚 the one about how the CoD men talk you through your orgasms

𝜗𝜚 characters: john price, kyle "gaz" garrick, john "soap" mactavish, simon "ghost" riley (reader is gender neutral) 𝜗𝜚 cw: smut (minors—DNI), praise kink, dirty talk, slightly mean!simon, unedited 𝜗𝜚 a/n: lmk how we feel about the slightly different format (i'm still making edits but)

john price is definitely cooing softly in your ear about just how pretty you look, just how sweet your hole looks stretched out on three of his thick fingers, just how beautiful you look with drool slicking down your chin and unshed tears clinging to your lashes. “fuck, jus’ look at ya, doll—so fuckin’ pretty all split open on my hand, yeah? no, don't close yer thighs when ya come—wanna see how pretty y'look when ya tighten up 'round my fingers." doesn’t stop praising you or blabbering on about how pretty you look even after his softening cock slips out from between your thighs, his spend tricking out of your used hole and your tearstained face hidden away in the crook of his neck.

kyle garrick is the giggling kind, nose buried deep in the hair at your temple and his lips curled up into a smarmy grin as the rough pads of his fingers glide across the slick, molten flesh of your arousal with practiced ease. "feels good, yeah? got your legs just right tremblin', 'nd I've barely even started, sweetheart. shhh, shhh—'m only teasin', baby. tell me how good it feels." and he's totally the type to make you keep talking as he bullies his fingers into your heat, stopping every single time your words jumble together and your whiny moans begin to overpower your coherence. "keep talkin'—y'don't want me to stop, do you? s'what i thought—go on, then. what were you saying about my fingers hitting something just right?"

johnny mactavish is the condescending kind, azure eyes focusing on the way your eyes slowly cross as another orgasm ravages your nerve-endings and makes a scoff fall from his lips. "again, birdie? dinnae think y'had it in ya—how many's tha'? three, right?" but he's not slowling the pace of his thick fingers as they continue practically carving out your insides, fingertips mashing against that one spot that had your brain melting out your ears and moans slipping off your tongue. even the kiss he leaves against your forehead seems condescending, a knowing grin on his face as he feels your gooey insides gripping onto his fingers tighter. "yeah, tha's right—gimme a fourth. y'can do it, birdie—then i'll fuck my cock into ya, i promise."

simon riley is the (sometimes, not all the time) degrading kind, honeyed eyes meeting yours in the mirror in front of your bed as he forces you to watch the way his fingers disappear between your slick thighs. "look at tha', pet—greedy fuckin' hole, innit? already got three fingers 'nd you're practically beggin' for more, huh?" you would've answered him if he hadn't have stuffed your underwear between your lips, your eyes fighting to stay opened as your toes begin curling in the impending crest of your high—only for simon to rip his fingers from your fluttering hole, instead shoving the lube-covered fingers into your mouth until his middle finger brushes the back of your throat and the underwear slips out amongst the gagging. "didn't say y'could cum, did i? no (shaking your head for you with his fingers still buried in the back of your throat), don't think i did. knew you were a greedy lil thing—c'mere, be a good pet and suck me off."

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