#this show flashes before my eyes every time i so much as blink

[stormyoceans]

VV was and is always my favorite performance from Jimmy and Sea. It's such a great story about love, friendship......and the COLORS, goshhh the colors 😭 your gif make me feel so nostalgic

SOOOOOOOO TRUE OF YOU TO SAY THAT ANON VICE VERSA WILL REALLY ALWAYS BE THEE SERIES™ LIKE EVERYONE ON THAT SET WAS ON A MISSION TO PUT AS MUCH CRAZY PEOPLE JUICE IN THOSE CREATIVE DECISIONS AS THEY POSSIBLY COULD AND BY GOOD DID THEY DELIVER

they simply gave us everything!!!!!!!! colors symbolism cinematography storytelling originality imagery characters' growth the soundtrack of all time the breaking of the 11 episode curse the reflection on the self friendship family accountability romanticism parallelism soulmatism true lovism actor sea tawinan outselling outslaying outperforming everyone and doctor jimmy showing up on set every single day to gaze at sea with a love so all consuming and full of yearning and a devotion so palpable and plain to see it drives people to the brink of suicide!!!!!!!!!!!

every week was just win after win after win and then we got our skyy 2 and proceeded to win some more we literally won so hard that i could actually taste the colors they used in the show IT REALLY WAS SUCH AN UNPRECEDENTED UNPARALLELED UNMATCHED TELEVISION EXPERIENCE I GENUINELY MISS IT EVERY SINGLE DAY NOTHING WILL EVER COMPARE

[gutsby]

Bigger in Texas

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: Joel won’t fit.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Size kink (seriously, don’t read if you hate big dicks / disgusting descriptions) Penis and pussy pronouns. Virginity loss. Age gap. Praise kink. Daddy kink. Joel ‘hung like a fucking horse’ Miller is a soft dom and also a good teacher. Competence kink (?)

Note: Somebody made a fic challenge to use penis pronouns, and I can’t for the life of me remember who it was. If y’all find them please show them this and tell them I love their brain 🫠

Update: @sp00kymulderr you’re a legend for this. Dick pronouns are engrained in my brain, and I’m forever grateful.

Word count: 2.3k

This wasn’t the life Joel Miller had pictured for himself.

The dead coming back to roam the world and eradicate most of its population, for one. The cold. Finding his baby brother way out here in Wyoming with a wife and a child on the way. The looks he was getting these days. It’s not like he’d asked to get mixed up with a girl your age. It just happened. And since damn near every-fucking-thing that had “happened” to him since outbreak day fifteen years back had been bottom of the barrel, full-blown nightmare territory, the second he saw a good thing fumble across his path, he’d seized it—you.

You, who were young enough to be his daughter.

You, who’d never seen a man fully before meeting him.

You, who hadn’t squeezed so much as a finger in herself.

But much like his past, Joel Miller was a sordid and sick kind of man, and he had the cock to prove it: presently weeping precum at the site of your softest, tightest hole, smearing the pearly-white slick through your folds with a sound so sweet it was nauseating. Begging for entrance.

“Oughta have a boy your age pop your cherry, kid.”

It was simple.

“Ain’t right havin’ a man my age all in your guts.”

And true.

The head of his cock made another wet, sickening noise through your folds, and as though instigated by the sound, your eyes flitted to the source. You smiled.

“Probably. But I want you,” you answered. Soft.

Joel got harder, and he hadn’t thought that was possible. His gaze joined yours, and the sight nearly finished him.

Beneath him, your legs had spread wider, showcasing that perfectly glistening seam alongside the head of his cock. He looked huge. Or you looked small. Or perhaps it was both, and he was old, and he really shouldn’t be doing this at all, but then his hips stuttered a bit and his length pushed in. Joel hissed and seized the headboard.

It wouldn’t even go in. The tip just stretched the rim.

“Baby, fuck—” Joel whimpered.

“He’s so big.”

Three little words from your lips, and it almost did him in.

Again.

You wriggled your hips and flashed another happy grin.

“He wants in, daddy. I can feel him pulsin’ like I am.”

You volleyed a look up to Joel as if to say, ‘So that means we’re ready, right? Will you let me have him?’

And, strangled by guilt as he was, Joel couldn’t resist.

He let his big, bulbous, leaking head sink in the tiniest bit, and he let out a groan. Your walls were so tight. This was him, too—his tip was oversized, just like the rest of him—and when it notched in an inch, Joel could see the pain flash quick in your eyes. His hips moved to retreat.

But then your heels were lifting and digging in his ass, and though strained, your voice made it out, weakly:

“Don’t, daddy. I want him.”

Joel couldn’t dream of refusing.

And his vision blurred more at that word, him.

“I-I know. He wants you too, baby—”

Another quarter-inch.

“—so, so bad.”

��Daddy!”

Joel had to blink to try and wake from his daze. His tip was so warm, hugged so perfect and snug and wet, that he didn’t even realize that was all that fit. He was stuck.

You whimpered again.

“‘S’too big, daddy. Just make him go in.”

Your eyes rolled with indignation and overwhelming pleasure alike, and your hips squirmed again. This time, you tried to nudge him in deeper, but your body simply wouldn’t budge; you’d reached the widest part of him.

“Honey, it’s—”

“Hurtin’! I need you inside me.” you cried, impatient.

“Just takes a little time to get there, darlin’—”

“Well, get to it, then. A tip ain’t enough.”

Joel’s face flushed. He might’ve been forced to bite back a laugh under any other circumstances, but this was your virginity. His bed. Your naked bodies, together, tonight.

He wasn’t about to rush it now and fuck everything up.

“This tip’s about to paint your pretty insides white and make you wait til next week to try again if you keep it up.”

That made you go still.

You shook your head while Joel released the headboard from his grip and took your hip in it instead. He grunted.

“Sweet pea, you gotta see—” he resumed, voice low, “—it won’t feel good for you or me if I just…push right in.”

You sighed, feeling his hold tighten.

“Tongue and fingers only do so much. You gotta learn.”

You whined, digging your feet in deeper when his tip drew back to your entrance. Looking a bit squeamish.

“Be brave…and patient for me.”

From the look in your eyes, Joel could tell you probably hated him right now. That was just fine. He adjusted his hips to a more comfortable place, and then he pinched your hip bone. He nudged you back, and he let you wait.

Then, right when you opened your mouth, he sank in.

Joel thrusted with only his tip, the size of a small lime, and he fucked your hole gently. Back and forth. Shallow.

It did enough. You squeezed both his forearms.

“Oh, daddy.” Your bottom lip trembled as you said it.

With his free hand, Joel smoothed your hair back.

“Yeah, what is it, baby?” he murmured, dulcet as ever, “Thought you said the tip ain’t enough for you, sugar.”

His words came slow. His strokes were delivered quick, though tenderly. Your brain appeared to be in a fog, or a trance, as your chin dipped down toward your chest, and you watched him breach the first inch of you repeatedly.

“Curious little thing.” Joel couldn’t fight the chuckle now.

“He’s so…” you trailed off.

You squeezed his arms, and he squeezed your hip back. He let you watch him fuck you with only his tip, and when your head began to tilt back from the strain, he reached up with his other hand and held the back of your neck. He felt you clench at that, and you both groaned.

“So…big,” you finished, eyes glazed.

“I know.”

This went on for the longest time: Joel stretching the first precious inch of your pussy with the head of himself, you watching and breathing deeply, whimpering occasionally, and him holding at the nape of your neck like a softer touch might lose you to him forever. Was this teaching? When you clenched again, he reckoned it was.

“That’s it, honey. Watch her swallow me.”

“Stretches real pretty for the tip, doesn’t she?”

“Bet she can’t even fit another inch of this cock.”

Suddenly, your head was jerking up under his hold.

Eyes flaring with a hot, juvenile kind of anger: “I can!”

Joel clicked his tongue against the backs of his teeth and pretended not to hear. He also had to feign indifference when your walls tightened and all but choked his head and a wave of new pleasure surged up through his body.

“She can, Joel, I’m serious!”

Another two seconds of this and Joel sensed he might see tears. Though his gaze had trailed up to yours, and the look in his appeared stern, deep down, he was just as quick to want to cave. He just hid it better than you did.

“You think so, sweet pea?”

“I know so. I need it.”

“Need him?”

“Y-Yes.”

How sweet you seemed. How naive you must be.

Joel might’ve been mean, but he wasn’t cruel. He also liked teaching lessons as much as he enjoyed showing you the way, so in the next second, he obliged. He took the last shallow thrust of his tip and sank into your cunt.

As he filled you, you whined. It only took an inch or two.

“Da-a-ddy. Please.”

You must’ve been begging for lenience. Joel retreated.

Then, much to the man’s surprise, you kicked your feet. Not in relief but in protest, shaking your head up at him:

“Put him back. Please. D-Deeper.”

It was as though Joel’s brain had exited through the back of his head and all rational thought escaped him, for the moment. The only voice he heard was yours. It was pleading. And in between your legs, you were soaked.

So drenched to allow him another inch. Then another. Then another. Joel fucked in gently and felt a seismic wave of pleasure seize his limbs—and likely yours, as well. It was as though in two blinks, you’d forgotten the pain altogether. You were suffused with need instead, eyes wincing and lips curling and sounds leaving your throat like an animal in heat. Want him deeper, please.

Joel sawed back and forth with just those five or so inches and made you writhe underneath him. Felt you clamp down on his thick, slippery cock and heard the remnants of your shared arousal making sounds as your body accepted him. Stretching wider. Getting wetter. Bringing him closer to the edge with every breath.

“She’s doin’…so good f’me,” Joel told you, brainless.

His thumb drifted to your clit. He rubbed it gently. No sooner had he finished the first circle around that nub when your hips were stirring again—this time incensed.

“Daddy.”

“I know, baby. I know.”

Joel kissed the top of your head, thumb insistent. When his eyes met yours, he was surprised to find them wet this time. Tears pooling and streaking down to your temples while your body bounced gently beneath his thrusts. A whimper trembled out, and Joel slowed.

He could tell from that look you didn’t want him to stop, though. It just felt so good. So, instead of dropping his pace too much, Joel cupped your chin in one hand, and with the other, he kept thumbing at your clit. Humming.

“Poor thing’s never had something this big in ‘er, huh?”

You shook your head. Cried a little more.

Joel kissed the tears on one side, lips smiling as he did.

“I can tell, baby. But she’s taking it so well.”

“Y-Yeah?”

His hips sped up a little. The thrusts were still shallower than they normally would be, given your state, but they seemed to be working well enough. You winced again.

Joel kissed the other side of your face to take more tears.

“Uh-huh,” he answered, “Openin’ up real nice for daddy.”

It was like his words worked as well as his thumb on your clit. You whimpered again, lips parting a little wider now, and the sound that came out was as desperate and feverish and fuck-drunk as Joel had ever heard it.

“S-Say it again,” you pleaded.

“Say what?”

“That he’s…stretchin’ me open. Makin’ me his.”

The soft, slick resonance between your body and his seemed to amplify even more—you were getting wetter, and Joel’s thrusts all but shook the bed with their force.

His eyes darkened when he felt you tighten again.

“Yeah? You like hearin’ all the filthy fuckin’ things your daddy’s doing? The way he’s breakin’ you in for him?”

You nodded. Your throat constricted with a moan.

And, just when a fresh set of tears seemed to be close on the horizon, Joel lowered himself to you. He held you to his chest, hips working relentlessly, and he watched your face screw up in pleasure. A trace of pain surfaced again, but it was soothed with a kiss. Joel grinned against you.

Between your thighs, his cock was throbbing with a feeling just as big. He knew he couldn’t keep this up much longer. Hurting and aching and needing as you were, he had to make sure that you would cum first.

When his cock grazed a fleshy, sensitive patch inside your walls, he knew it wouldn’t take much. He went on:

“C’mon, sugar. Daddy’s split you open on his cock so nice, least you can do is cum for him. Can you do that?”

His nose brushed yours. His thrusts sped up. You nodded, quickly, and when he shifted in the bed with his thumb still on your clit and his lips and his stubble grazing your mouth with every push of himself, he felt it.

It was a small pulse, at first.

Joel thought you might be adjusting—clenching—again, when the lips that were trembling against his own parted more. Your arms wound around his neck, and suddenly the throb of your walls around his member got tighter and tighter and tighter. One more second and your cunt might’ve squeezed the hot, sticky seed right out of his body and flooded your insides with it, but then came release. The ‘o’ of your mouth let out a shriek, at last, and your body went soft around him, beneath him, whining in turn, ‘Daddy, daddy, please’ while the muscles once taut and unflinching gave him reprieve. Fluttering repeatedly.

Joel fucked you through it. He talked you through it.

He stroked your hair, and he held you tight. Called you his sweetheart, pretty thing, perfect girl, you’re doin’ so good f’me. Keep going. That’s right, cum all over daddy. He told you to take what you needed, and without another word, he felt just that. Your cunt spasmed around him, and you consumed every inch he gave and drank every drop of spend shooting out in thick spurts.

You fell boneless on the bed when all was said and done.

You looked happy, and that made Joel even happier.

He stroked your cheek, and you leaned into it, clearly drained while your gaze held his in a weak sort of look.

It was soft. Loving, even. It could’ve been romantic.

Then Joel’s hand slipped down to the nape of your neck again. Your muscles were limp, like all the rest of you, but somehow, he was able to hold you up. Tilt your chin a bit.

Make you peer down between your shaking legs, where his cock was still sheathed inside you—partly, anyway.

Your eyes widened. Joel grinned.

“You did great, baby. Ready for the other half of him?”

can y’all believe this image is what inspired this fic HA

it’s only Thursday i’m sorry 😔

[fanfictionismyaddiction]

Close call

Word count: 1.2k

Pairing: lando Norris x reader

Summary: After a heated argument that leads Y/n to storm out into the rain, a near-death accident brings Lando and Y/n back together

________________________________________________________

The day had started off fine—normal, even. You had both been in good spirits after Lando’s last race weekend. He had been on the podium, and the celebrations had been nothing short of electric. But then, like a storm brewing on the horizon, small tensions began to rise between you two. It was always something—little things that built up over time. The missed texts, the rescheduled plans, the constant feeling that his attention was always somewhere else. Today, it had finally come to a head.

“I’m not asking you to choose between me and your career,” you yelled, your voice shaking, eyes burning with unshed tears. “But I need to know where I stand, Lando. It’s like I’m just an afterthought to you!”

Lando stood on the opposite side of the room, hands clenched into fists by his sides. His jaw was tight, anger simmering in his eyes. “That’s not fair! You know how much I care about you. But I can’t just drop everything every time you feel neglected. This is my job. My life.”

“And what am I, then?” you shot back, stepping forward. “Just something on the side when it’s convenient for you? I sit here, waiting—always waiting—while you go off and live your dream. What about my life, Lando?”

His face twisted with frustration, and he ran a hand through his hair, pacing. “You knew what this was when we got together! You knew racing would come first, that my schedule is insane. What do you expect me to do? Quit?”

Your heart pounded in your chest, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “I expect you to make time for me! To show me that I’m important, that I matter! But you don’t, Lando. It’s like I’m just… background noise.”

Lando’s eyes flashed with anger, his voice rising. “That’s bullshit! You know that’s not true. I’ve been trying, but you keep pushing and pushing, like nothing I do is ever enough for you!”

“Because it’s not!” you screamed, tears spilling over now. “I’m tired of feeling like I have to fight for a place in your life. You’re never here, and when you are, you’re not really present.”

He stopped pacing, his face hardening as he glared at you. “Maybe if you actually supported me instead of complaining all the time, things wouldn’t be so hard.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You took a step back, your breath catching in your throat. “You think I don’t support you?”

Silence.

“I’m at every race, every event, doing everything I can to cheer you on. I rearrange my entire life around your schedule, and you still have the nerve to say I don’t support you?”

Lando’s face softened for a brief moment, but the anger flared again. “I didn’t mean it like that. But it’s exhausting, alright? Trying to balance everything when it feels like you’re constantly on my case.”

You blinked at him, tears falling freely now. “On your case? You think I enjoy feeling this way? I’m exhausted too, Lando. I’m exhausted from waiting for you to show up.”

His expression twisted, and for a moment, he seemed to want to respond, but something snapped in you before he could speak. You turned on your heel, storming out of the living room and heading towards the door, grabbing your jacket as you went.

“I can’t do this right now,” you muttered, pulling the door open.

“Where are you going?” Lando demanded, his voice sharp behind you.

“I don’t know. Anywhere but here.”

Just as you stepped outside, the sky that had been so clear all day suddenly let loose. Rain poured down in thick sheets, soaking you within seconds. You didn’t care. You needed to get away, clear your head, breathe something other than the heavy air of your apartment. You began walking, not even knowing where you were going. You were too hurt, too angry, and too tired to think clearly.

Behind you, Lando hesitated at the door. He hated seeing you like this, but his pride kept him frozen. You didn’t wait for him to follow, assuming he wouldn’t.

The rain pelted harder as you walked further, your clothes drenched, your hair sticking to your face. You kept going, lost in your thoughts, but as you stepped off the curb to cross the street, everything changed in an instant.

The loud honk of a car horn blared, headlights flashing in your peripheral vision. You turned just in time to see the vehicle barreling toward you, too fast to stop. A surge of panic shot through you, freezing your legs in place.

Suddenly, something slammed into you from the side, sending you tumbling to the ground. The impact knocked the breath out of your lungs, and your body hit the pavement hard. The world spun as you lay there, rain pouring down on you, gasping for air. You realized someone had pushed you out of the way—Lando.

He had run after you, faster than you realized, and tackled you just in time to get you out of the path of the car. The vehicle screeched to a halt mere inches from where you had stood, its tires skidding on the slick pavement.

“Y/N!” Lando’s voice was panicked, hands shaking as he pulled you up, eyes scanning you for any injuries. “Are you okay? Did it hit you? God, please tell me you’re okay.”

You coughed, trying to catch your breath, but your chest ached from where you had hit the ground. “I’m… I’m okay,” you whispered, wincing as you sat up.

He knelt beside you, his wet hair plastered to his forehead, eyes wide with fear and guilt. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I shouldn’t have let you walk out. I should’ve—God, if I hadn’t run after you—” His voice broke, and you saw the terror in his eyes.

You reached up, placing a shaky hand on his cheek. “Lando… I’m fine. You saved me.”

He shook his head, his throat tight with emotion. “I was such an idiot. I should’ve listened. I should’ve been there for you.” His voice was low, filled with regret. “You’re right. You’ve been there for me through everything, and I’ve taken it for granted. I’m sorry.”

The rain continued to pour, soaking both of you, but in that moment, none of it mattered. You let out a shaky breath, wiping the wet strands of hair from his face. “I shouldn’t have said the things I did. I just felt so… lost. But I know you’re trying. I see it, and I’m sorry for making it seem like it’s not enough.”

He pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly as if he was afraid to let go. “I love you,” he whispered against your hair. “I’ll make this right. I promise.”

You held onto him just as tightly, both of you soaked to the bone but no longer feeling the cold. The fight, the anger, the hurt—it all seemed so small compared to what had just happened. You almost lost each other in more ways than one.

“I love you too,” you whispered back, and this time, it felt like a promise.

[emmyrosee]

His foot taps anxiously against the floor of the flower shop, eyes glazing over the beautiful bouquets and vibrant colors that splash under the fluorescent lights that crackle above his head. The smell of so many flowers is getting into his head, powdery and sweet, but the nausea brewing inside of him is not budging.

He messed up. He knows that.

He also knows he relies on the bet that you’ll accept flowers every time he messes up, which while seldom, happens more than he still would like.

You deserve the utmost love and respect. And he can’t stand that sometimes, he feels like he can’t give it to you and has to hope flowers will be enough for your trust again, like a bandaid on a scraped knee.

After this, he’ll run to the bakery for a pastry, wrapped in a little box, waiting for you to enjoy it-

What is he thinking, countless gifts won’t make up for it, for all he’s done. You’ll never forgive him, each bouquet and each slice of cake when he messes up surely is only driving you away, and he cards a hand through his blonde hair as he has a small, teeny freak out in front of the display.

He looks to the old man next to him who easily picks out a bouquet of assorted flowers with a predominantly purple color story. The old man sniffs them, and smiles, before sighing happily. He turns to Atsumu with small nod, “think she’ll like ‘em?”

Atsumu tenses up before offering the old man a small chuckle, “sure is one of the prettiest bouquets in here,” he encourages, and the man hums as he looks around the boquete for any imperfections in the petals. “She’ll be lucky to have them from ya, yessir.”

The man smiles, “no, son; I’m lucky to have her.” He sighs dreamily, “there isn’t enough bouquets in the world to show her how much she means to me.”

Atsumu freezes. For some reason, unbeknownst to him, a lump forms into his throat at the man’s words. He tries to swallow it thickly, keep his emotions at bay before he wails to this strange man about all the ways he’s hurt you over the years and how always, he’s never been able to fully forgive himself despite you assuring that you do.

This argument would be no different.

Atsumu nods his head in understanding, “I think you might be in the same boat as me,” he says, wondering if this man too, is making up for a mistake he made. If this man is trying to repent, and the first way to do it is to bring her flowers, a symbol of a love he’s determined to keep blooming, keep alive, keep beautiful.

But maybe, just maybe, he’s not relying on the fact that flowers are an apology, perhaps they’re being purchased just because, just to make you smile.

Perhaps Atsumu should start doing that for you. Just something nice.

Something to look forward to.

The man chuckles once more; it’s raspy, like perchance he’s one to indulge in a cigarette when the craving arises, but it’s comforting, and for the first time in hours, Atsumu feels a little more at ease.

“At least we’re in the boat, my friend,” the man says. Atsumu swallows thickly once more, but he flashes the man a comforted smile.

“You’re right. We sure are, sir.”

The man bows at the blonde, “you take care of yourself,” he says simply, before coolly turning to make his way to the registers. Atsumu looks back at the boquetes and grabs one that reminds him of you; bright and pristine, like bubbles on a warm day, a warm blanket at night. Like the movie you can repeat by heart by now, but he’ll still watch with you like it’s the first time.

He smiles, sniffles and blinks the sting in his waterline, thrilled to be in the boat with you.

[charliemwrites]

Part 2 of Neighbor!Johnny!

(Feeling a bit ✨naughty✨ this Christmas Eve so… here.)

After the fight with Ryan, you try to keep your distance from Johnny — keep the peace and all that. The more you think about the accusations your husband made… the more that guilty pit in your stomach grows.

It’s all been platonic, at least on your end. Sure, you let Johnny get away with a bit more than the average stranger, but he’s a good friend! Nothing you wouldn’t let one of your other friends do. (Even if you would find the lingering touches and general disregard for personal space a little strange from someone else.)

Sure, you have a suspicion every now and then that Johnny has more than platonic feelings for you… but they’re fleeting. Every time you worry that he’s about to cross a line, he always draws away from it. Evens out his smile, break his gaze, drops his hand. You’re close, that’s all.

But… if it’s bothering your husband. Well, you’re obligated to take that into account, aren’t you?

Even if you ache, missing your friend. Missing his silly little jokes, his cheeky grin. Miss his company while you do laundry, a helping hand in the yard, even just someone to chat with over podcasts and tv shows.

Hell, you miss hugs. Ryan’s never been big on… affection. Especially not in public.

(Barely in the house, either, really. You’ve tried talking to him about it. He swears he loves you, he just doesn’t show affection that way. You struggle to figure out why that’s so with you when he has no problem hugging his mother, sister, hell, even his secretary.

Actually… you struggle to figure out how he shows you affection. So you’ve stopped trying to figure it out at.)

But Johnny. Oh, Johnny is just so sweet to you. A hug when he greets you, a hug before he leaves. A kiss to your cheek when you hand him a drink or a snack. A hand on your hip when he leans past you to get things from high shelves. Nudges to your thighs during good parts of shows.

You miss it. Him. The friendship you’ve built in your too-quiet home, where the other neighbors seem to like your husband so much more than you.

“What’s goin’ on, hen?” Johnny asks one morning. You’ve been keeping coffee dates meetups on the porch. Which is almost worse, because it’s cold and you find yourself cuddling up to the heat he exudes like a furnace. “Hardly seen you in a month; miss my best girl.”

“Sorry, Johnny,” you sigh, rubbing at your face. Ryan’s been working late most days this week, comes in so late and wakes you up. “Just… Ryan, ya know.”

His jaw tightens, eyes flashing dangerously. You’re reminded suddenly, inexplicably, of just what Johnny does for a living. How often you’ve seen him just back home with blood still buried in his nail beds.

“Dinnae, hen,” he replies. “What about ‘im?”

You fidget, eyes on your half-empty mug. It feels wrong, admitting relationship quibbles to someone outside of family. You used to have a policy that marriage matters should stay within the marriage. But… it’s hard when it feels like you’re the only one working on the marriage. It’s a lot of work to do alone.

“He just… he doesn’t think it’s proper,” you admit, “how… how often you’re over. How close we are.”

“That so?”

You hunch your shoulders, feeling wrong. Feeling guilty for a whole new reason; for disappointing Johnny.

“Look at me, bonnie?”

He has to tip your chin up with his hand to get you to meet his eyes. His expression is softer than you expect.

“What about you, eh?”

“Me…?” You blink, peering up at him through your lashes.

“Yer feelings are all I care about, hen.”

“Johnny,” you sigh, trying to reprimand, but sound more pleading instead. He shakes your head a bit, gently; his own reprimand.

“Answer me, bonnie.”

“I like spending time with you,” you whisper.

The corners of his mouth twitch up as he hums.

“‘Course ye do,” he hums, “‘n I like spendin’ time with you. It’s not fair of ‘im, is it?”

You blink, brows pulling together in confusion. Johnny continues, the thumb on your chin gently stroking.

“Not fair of ‘im to keep you all cooped up here, come home so late, neglect ye when he is around,” he coos. “And now he’s tellin’ you to keep away from your best friend.”

He tsks, that dangerous glint in his eyes again.

“Wastin’ his tongue for bullshite when he should be usin’ it to lick your pretty pussy.”

Your mouth drops open, shock and heat flooding you hotly. “Johnny!” You gasp, scandalized.

He finally cracks a grin again. “Tell me I’m wrong, bonnie, ‘m not! When’s the last time he worked you over the way you deserve, huh? When’s the last time he made you squirt all over your sheets?”

You shove at him and then cover your burning face, trying not to squirm. Can’t answer because it would be proving him right and you don’t want to encourage his scandalous teasing.

“Bet he’d try to make you change ‘em even if he did,” Johnny grumbles, shaking his head. “Disgraceful. You ought to be put to sleep on a nice, thick cock.”

Whack!

“Oi! What was that fer?!”

“You’re being a creep, Johnny!” Your stern tone in undercut by your embarrassed laughter. “Quit talking about my shitty sex life.”

“So it is shitty!”

“Shut up!”

When a discreet box shows up at your door two days later, you know exactly who it’s from.

…that doesn’t stop you from using the (shockingly detailed and realistic) dildo inside the packaging.

[le16erc]

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬, 𝐭𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐬 ☆ 𝐨𝐩𝟖𝟏 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐚 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐝.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐦 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲! 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭, 𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐬, 𝐝𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭 (𝐛𝐜 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞, 𝐭𝐨𝐱𝐢𝐜 𝐨𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝) 𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐝𝐝 𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐩

𝐚/𝐧: 𝐒𝐎 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐨𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐬!! 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬 (𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐞𝐫𝐚, 𝐢 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰) 𝐬𝐨 𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞. 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐂 𝐈𝐌 𝐋𝐀𝐙𝐘 𝐎𝐊 𝐋𝐘 🤍🍒☀️

• 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐩𝐢𝐜 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 <𝟑

𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐤’𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐞𝐜: 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐲 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐚 !!! .........................................................................................

oscar was a simple man, one who liked routine. he had a preference for everything, and a time he liked to do them. perhaps he bordered psychotic in the way he went about his daily routine, but he’d dismiss anyone who disagreed. needless to say, he was more than livid when his friend reached out to ask for a favor. where was the organization? the thoughtfulness of a possible letter in the mail that gave him some advance? just think, him, oscar piastri, seven time world champion, driving last minute like a fucking loser all the way to his friend’s house in texas to show face at some wedding. god, he could’ve sworn this was his mates’ third marriage in the last two years.

maybe he was bitter of the fact that someone his own age could get his own life together, parading around under the guise of simply being a planner and irritated at the suddenness of this. lando, a friend from oscar’s own university days and current teammate, was beyond messy. he had kids left and right, not even including his two previous marriages. oscar internally cursed the bastard, because as messy as his life was, it was his own. it was the seventies, a progressive time when you could get away with being famous as well as an absolute deadbeat without the blink of an eye. he had it easy, lando was able to make his brief rounds every so often to remind his children that he was, in fact, alive, and couldn’t be present due to his work.

“well, fuck, Lando. what a great fucking time for you to call.” he groaned over the landline, leaning against the wall as he fiddled with the wire. it was two days before said wedding, and oscar refused to catch a last minute flight in coach. absolutely not.

“look, i completely forgot about the wedding. my bird’s been the one planning it, i didn’t know the date!” lando pleaded, a dopey smile evident in his voice over the phone. “mate, there’s gonna be so many people there. i dont know half of them, id really appreciate you coming.” he said.

”how do you expect me to get there? it’s gonna be hell to drive.” oscar said, gagging at the thought of driving all the way from California to Texas. “and how do you forget your own wedding, anyway?”

“been busy sneaking around with that broad from Germany, so I haven’t exactly had much time to focus on flower options. and drive that new countach! she’s a stunner.” lando added, the voice of the man forever untied but destined to settle echoing through to the ears of the unmarried.

“and how do you know that i’m not busy?” he mumbled, dragging a tired, unoccupied hand over his face. he really did have no plans for the weekend, but that sounded far too lame to say out loud.

“right, well, clear your schedule.” lando ended, and as soon as he knew it, he was in the car. with a bit more convincing and a quick trip to his beloved suit shop, oscar found himself on the dreaded journey. he watched the city flash by as he drove, the early morning sunlight gleaming off the buildings that adorned this wretched city. he hated fresno, but god, did it love him. ever since he’d won his first championship back in ‘66, he promised himself that the world would be his from then on. he’d treat himself to whatever and whoever he liked, no strings attached, which meant that he had multiple houses, multiple girls, and countless expenses. he was single and free, he was it. the man to be, on track and in the city. nights would go by where he wouldn’t ever have an empty bed, the sheets kept warm by some groupie or the other. all these thoughts of his solitude flooded his rarely vacant mind as he began driving away from the city, watching the highway begin to fan out into an emptier view and lead him into a surely dreadful weekend.

…………….……………………………………………………………

it was ten hours into the twenty four hour drive, and exhaustion began to seep into oscar’s eyes. he could barely keep them open, lolling his head back and forth to will himself awake. he turned the radio off completely, some popular isley brothers song soothing him much more than he’d have liked it to. the clock now barely struck 3:00 p.m. and the warm sunlight spilling into the car ebbed away at his drowsiness. he shook his head and continued on, suddenly motivated to find somewhere to stop. he needed to find a gas station, to maybe get a soda and stretch his legs.

“for fuck’s sake.” he grumbled, pulling over to a small gas station about an hour later. he figured that after driving along the barren roads for god knows how long, this dingy little shop was actually heaven sent. the sleek maraschino countach slid across to the ramp leading off to the gas station, oscar finally grabbing the keys and stepping out of the car. as he stretched and pulled at his sore muscles, he allowed his eyes to wander over the scene straight out of a Wild West film. there was nothing much around, a few old trucks littering the mainly empty dirt lot, one of which presumably the vehicle of whoever was servicing the inside of the store.

“just this, please.” he said gruffly to the older man working the shop minutes after walking in, placing an ice cold soda on the counter. he had spent a good bit walking around the tiny shop and examining the lame selection offered. there was a bruised banana, beef jerky that was surely old, and the only safe thing; the fridge. the gentleman, boasting a name tag that branded him “robert”, mumbled an incoherent response and took the cash with his aged fingers.

“you’re not from here.” the man said, making a statement rather than asking a question.

“no.” oscar replied, the pair intently watching as “robert” sorted out his change.

“what’re you passing through for?” robert offered as they exchanged simple conversation. minutes later, oscar found himself back in his car, sipping his glass bottled coca cola as his mind drifted to robert’s local recommendations while he drove. not that oscar would actually care, but he did wonder how exactly these texans did much of anything when the “best restaurant around” was owned by robert’s own family, and happened to be the only one within a few miles’ radius. you can’t exactly compete when there’s nothing to compare, he said to himself.

……………………………………………………………………………

the hour now struck 4:30, and he was renewed and ready to tackle the hours he had of driving ahead of him thanks to the pit stop and half finished soda. he focused on how everything looked the same, the browns all blending into one melancholy canvas of barrenness and dread that skimmed his windows. as much as he hated the state he was currently residing in, at least california had some damn greenery. he switched on the radio, some up and coming band going by “fleetwood mac” ringing through the car. he’d heard this song before and hadn’t been too impressed. they were a work in progress, he supposed. just as he began humming along to emerald eyes, something lingered further down the road. he couldn’t place what exactly it was, the mirage on the road making him do a double take.

just as he removed his aviators to get a better view, he squinted and made out the figure of a girl waving him down. he slowed the car, coming to a halt as she ran up to the sleek automobile.

“hi.” she beamed, slipping her sunhat off and revealing a gorgeously dimpled grin before he was able to process that it was, indeed, a person and not a cactus. he nodded indifferently, signaling for her to continue. “im sorry to bother, but are you headed into town?” she tilted her head, looking over to him through her thick lashes.

“i don’t know. im trying to get to paris.” he said, chewing at the leg of his sunglasses.

“napoleon paris or here paris?” she teased, leaning against the door. he simply blinked, staring at her and questioning her sanity. “jokes, jokes. i can get you there, if you get me where i need to go.” she offered sweetly.

“you look hot.” he mumbled the obvious to the girl, eyeing the droplets of sweat adorning her sun beaten skin. she had clearly been out here for a while, but not enough to burn.

“take me to dinner first.” she winked.

“i meant sweaty. you look sweaty.” he rolled his eyes. “just- look, if you promise to shut up, you can get in.” he said, raising a brow at her as she perked up and slid into the passenger seat happily. “is town very far from here?” he said, turning down the radio and putting the car back into drive. she simply shook her head quietly, hands on her knees and looking straight ahead.

……………………………………………………………………………

”how old are you?” he mumbled with a passive gesture of his hand, the other gripping the wheel as he narrowed his eyes on the road. his mind lingering in its filthy state at the sight of her skirt riding up her sunkissed thighs.

“old enough. and you?” she grinned at the break in silence that couldn’t have come sooner, tilting her head to beam up at him with that blinding gaze.

“me? how old are you? dodge the question again and i will actually drop you off at the next servo.” he glanced over at her, unimpressed but endeared by the girl and her little smile.

“the actual fuck is a servo?” she raised a brow with her southern twang, giggling at his aussie terminology as she helped herself to the mexican coke sitting in his cupholder.

“right. america. you call it a petrol station?” he said, his eyes never leaving the boiling road.

“a gas station. we call it a gas station, you leaf water drinker. and im 23. happy?” she rolled her eyes playfully, making herself right at home in the car seat. he internally sighed. that made the gap eleven years, pushing his moral limits. he couldn’t help the way his eyes caught a glimpse of her full lips wrapping around the mexican coke, or how a sweet little moan escaped her dehydrated throat as the sugary tar coated her mouth. wasn’t she disgusted to drink out of a strangers bottle? he couldn’t decide if his perfectionist tendencies were driving him crazy with how carefree the action was or if he was really turned on by the fact that his lips had also touched the glass. was she really so filthy? was this her way of telling him that she thought he was just as good looking?

before he could reply, she slid her cherry red boots off of her feet, tossing the leather into the backseat carelessly. “you’re not from here.” she stated matter of factly, identical to robert.

“so i’ve been told.”

“the servo thing gave it away.” she cooed, leaning back and looking over at him. they allowed a comfortable silence to be exchanged between driver and hitchhiker, the afternoon sun still beaming into the warm interior of the car.

”is it true that southerners have good hospitality?” he asked, making light conversation despite the growing annoyance in his pants. within the few moments that they’d gone wordless, she’d adjusted herself in his seat so many times that he wondered if this girl had ever been in a car. each time she moved, though, her skirt rode higher and higher; even allowing him a glimpse of her cherry red panties underneath. he merely blushed and looked ahead, trying to not play the part of perv picking up girl and kidnapping her.

“oh, of course. we take care of our guests real good down here.” she said, a hint of suggestion peeking through her words as she fiddled with the charm bracelet on her wrist. her flirty nature was eating him up and spitting him out, her hungry eyes watching him from behind her brown, face framing bangs.

“is everything with you sexual?” he gently scolded, tossing a patronizing glance over to her. who was he to be talking? he was just as bad, he’d never go a day without some sort of relief.

“excuse me!? i am NOT dirty minded! it’s not in my nature to joke about sex. not that i’d know, of course.” she gasped playfully.

“ok, ok! im sorry. no dirty jokes.” he chuckled softly at her defensiveness. cute. she was ready to hold her own. once again, silence filled the car as they drove for another thirty minutes. surprisingly, it wasn’t uncomfortable. she’d chime in with a few words every now and then, clearly considerate of the driver’s quiet nature.

“you’re a virgin, then?” he tried, his words softly coaxing a response from her.

“the purest peach around.” she grinned cheekily, those dimples deepening into her golden skin.

”and why is that?”

“men lie. i’ve never met a man i really liked, anyway.” she smiled, crossing her legs and getting comfortable.

“i like you.” he smiled, casting a glance over to her.

“good thing you’re tolerable.” she replied sweetly. …………………………………………………………………………

this girl was heaven sent. absolutely just the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. she had barely just learned his name, that he was some racecar driver, and that he grew up in australia. oscar wasn’t sure how he got here, pulled over to the side of the road as she sucked him off, but he wasn’t going to complain.

“mhmm! just like that, baby. yeah, good girl. you got it.” he nodded, groaning as she slid up and down his length. she was gagging and drooling all around his thick girth, her nose hitting the base as she hungrily searched for more to take down her throat. he was right, this girl was downright nasty. “and you’re supposed to be a virgin, girl. how’d you get good at this?” he purred, taunting her innocence with his mocking tone. knowing she was too hungry for the taste of his dick to pull off and reply, he rolled hips hips up into her mouth, burying himself as deep as he could go.

“hungry girl, huh? is my cock a good first for you, babe?” he cooed, smiling as he wiped the drool off her chin and stuck the shining digits back into her mouth, alongside his length. he pushed her head down further, letting her take every inch of him. he wasn’t surprised that she could take it all, after all, she did promise that good ‘ol southern hospitality.

“mhm!” she groaned around him, eyes pricking with tears as her mouth stretched to accommodate him. she nodded in an attempt to reply, only to find that this made him groan out louder. noticing this, she began bobbing her head and sucking harder, wanting to get this stranger off as best as she knew how.

after a few more minutes of her devoting her mouth for his use, he felt that coil tightening, about to snap. as much as he wanted to cum deep down her throat and watch her swallow, he needed to know how he felt bent over a bed and taking every pound of his cock. with this, he pulled her mouth off of him from the makeshift ponytail in his fist, the devastatingly erotic “pop” making him want to cum right then and there.

“why’d you stop?” she whined, batting her lashes and wiping her eyes as he zipped himself up.

“your first time isn’t gonna be in my car.” he huffed, adjusting himself in the seat and speeding off. the words may have sounded like honey to her, like he wanted to make her first time special and treat her right. but really, deep down, oscar was a manipulative narcissist looking for a quick fuck. eighty dollars on a dingy hotel room was nothing to him, if it meant that he’d get to feel her against his skin. ……………………………………………………………………………

”so…” she tried her best to purr, batting those pretty lashes up at him from the rough motel sheets. the unexperienced girl reached for his hand, to which he responded swiftly and gently took her cheek in his palm. they’d landed at some awkwardly placed motel, right off the side of the road and practically entirely vacant. the attendant at the desk was old and careless, paying no mind to the couple all over each other in the middle of the day.

“first times are awfully special.” he offered a gentle smile laced with something she couldn’t quite place, but knowing that figuring it out would mean something she didn’t want to know. “you don’t wanna make the wrong decision. don’t wanna give yourself up to some stranger looking for a nice ass. not when you’re this pretty.”

“there’s real bad men out here, looking for nothing but to do you wrong.” he spurred, his fingers resting across the flat of her stomach. they trailed lower, playfully tugging at the red lace panties she wore. “an innocent girl like you can’t really see that, though.” he mumbled, eyes trained on the way her pretty breasts sat in her little push up bra. he took one hand, caressing the skin there before flicking the tiny bow sat between the valley of her chest.

“are you one of those?” she cooed, leading the hand sitting on her stomach to her mouth. she gently, almost lovingly, welcomed two of his fingers into her mouth, pumping them slowly in a hypnotizing rhythm.

“hmm?” he snapped out of the trance that her lips coaxed him into, blinking a few times at the sight of a virgin sucking his fingers like his lovers before her.

“those men. are you like those men, mr. piastri?” she cooed, saliva dripping from his fingers as she took a moment to speak.

“no, love. ‘m not like them. they wouldn’t even be in a hotel room with you, you know. they wouldn’t even know what to do with a pretty little whore like you.” he grumbled, lifting her pretty hips and turning her over to lay on her stomach.

“they’d have just picked you up and fucked you in the car, in exchange for saving you from that sun. they wouldn't even have taken the time to get you all hot and bothered.” he continued. his hands greedily grabbed at the plush fat of her ass, hungrily teasing whatever flesh would fit in his palms.

“weren’t you so lucky that it was me that picked you up? hmm, pretty thing?” he purred, pushing her thighs gently so her back would arch.

“mhm.” she sighed dreamily, nodding face first into the sheets. “id say you’re due for a thank you.” he said, his hands resting on her waist. “thank me for picking you up off the side of the road, and bringing you here. i know you can say that. thank you, baby.” he spurred.

“thank you.” she gasped softly as his fingers trailed down to tease her soaking cunt through her panties. the words spilled so easily, the foreplay painfully natural, as if she’d lived this before with him.

“fuck, you’re soaked.” he grunted, bringing his fingers out from under to inspect them. he eyed the glistening digits, simply wanting to suck them clean. he knew she had to taste heavenly, he knew it in his bones. “do you ever touch yourself?” he mumbled, his lips resting against the tanned skin of her back as they made their way to her center.

“what?” she mewled softly, lost in the moment as this man devoted his attention to her.

“have you ever fucked yourself? easy question, baby. i know you can answer it, you’re a smart girl.” he taunted sweetly, to which she couldn’t verbalize a response as his fingers worked her. the cute whimpers spilling from her lips along with the melody of her soaked cunt and it’s juices pooling around his fingers onto the sheets was answer enough.

“well, clearly not that smart. you did hop right into my car, huh?” he mumbled, his mouth sloppily placing open mouthed kisses as he dragged his mouth right over her clit.

“god, you’re such a fucking slut. look at this cunt, taking all three at once. you like that baby? you like me fucking you like this on my fingers so you can take my cock like a good girl?”

“oh, but do you think you can? you think you’re up for taking me all the way, baby?” he feigned sympathy with a fake pout, internally desperate to just sink balls deep into her. he moved up, mouth now attached to her neck as he slowed his hand.

“yeah. I want it to be you.” she nodded desperately, batting those thick lashes up at the man. her pink lips were all glossed and shiny thanks to his precum from earlier, and that was all the confirmation he needed to pull his fingers out and pump his dick.

“should’ve come to texas sooner if i knew there’d be pretty little sluts like you waiting for me.” he said briskly, tapping her rosy cheek with one hand as he lined himself up with the other.

“i want you in me so bad.” she keened softly, fluttering her lashes up at him. she let out a breathy groan as he slid in with one swift motion, his hips hitting her back as he pushed himself to the hilt. the sigh that fell from his lips was nothing short of hungry, like fucking her raw was something he was made for.

“i bet you do, i bet all you’ve been thinking about since you got in my car was my cock. you wanna get fucked stupid on my fat dick, don’t you, girlie?” he grunted, his hips rolling and bruising that spongey spot that made her cry out.

“mhm, yes. been thinking about you fucking me so hard since you picked me up. wanna be so good for you!” she mewled, working her hips back to meet his thrusts.

“this pretty little pussy’s gonna remember me, gonna fuck it so good that it won’t wanna ever take any other dick. you want that, doll? ” he groaned, tilting his head back to watch his cock slide in and out of her. the sounds echoing through the motel room made no promises of aftercare or a morning after, and his hands pulling at her hair played as the reminder of this. her high pitched moans danced through the room, echoing around the space as he held the small of her back.

“that’s right, this is all you needed. pretty thing just needed to get stuffed, huh? look at how good she’s taking me, like your little cunt was fucking made for me to use.” he sighed into her ear, working her harder as the sounds of skin slapping filled the small space. mid thrust, his eyes became trained on the soiled walls of the dingy room. ironic, he thought, taking a girls virginity in a cheap motel room with cherries on the nasty, peeling texan wallpaper. it was almost like a little sick joke from the universe, reminding him of the absolute bastard he was.

his pace was devastatingly delicious, making the heat pool in her stomach as she got worked over for the first time. she made every effort to keep up with the experienced, older man, never faltering in working her hips back on him.

“fuck. you’re so fucking tight. cute little cunt hasn’t ever been touched.” he punctuated the words with a achingly good, hard roll of his hips, the smirk on his lips undeniably proud of how drunk she was on him. he groaned, his head lolling back as his hips possessed a mind of their own. he moved out of purely animalistic greed, hungry to gnaw at this fresh piece of meat dangling over him. he was greedy. he was full fledged pussy whipped, high on the way she just took him.

“gonna cum in you. you want my baby? hmm?” he cooed, slamming into her with a renewed fervor as he contemplated all the way he could get her all messy. he wanted to cum all over her smooth skin, to make her scream out, to push her so hard that she’d never be satisfied with any other man.

“please!” she gasped, her own hands needily roaming over her own body to satisfy her hunger for his hands. the heat once again pooled uncontrollably, her hips moving to meet his and her back arching to get impossibly close to him. she didn’t know how to feel about him, but his dick made her consider changing last names. she was young, impressed by the fact that a man, one of the members of a gender she’d signed off as horrible, got a whole room for her just so he could fuck her right. “it’s yours, it’s all yours! my pussy’s yours, daddy. want your babies inside of me.” she cried out with welling eyes as he slammed her back onto him, word vomit spilling from her lips as desperation chased her down the long corridor of her impending orgasm.

“you want it? take it. it’s all fucking yours, babe. cum all over my dick, do it, baby.” he spurred, grunting as he worked himself closer. he moved the brown waves cascading over her shoulder, placing hungry kisses on her skin. with a loud cry, she came harder than he’d ever made a woman cum. he continued pounding her through her orgasm, desperate to get his.

he allowed the moment to consume him, basking in this little breeding kink that had come to light thanks to lando and his family. maybe oscar did want that, maybe he yearned to come home to little kids running around his house and a pretty wife to take care of. he finally felt it, cumming and coating her insides with that pearly white he’d seen so many times before. he grunted, mouth falling open as he moaned loudly at the feeling.

“fuckkkk.” he groaned, slowing his pace as he shook with the shocks of overstimulation. he fell into to sheets, tossing his head back to savor the warmth running through his veins. the girl, whom he had not even taken the time to find out her name, rested against his shoulder. she nuzzled into him, her hand tracing mindless shapes on beach kissed skin for a few moments before he regained his energy.

……………………………………………………………………………

“im going.” he said simply, sitting up and stepping into his boxers. he got dressed quicker than he ever had before, running his hands over his tee to manually iron out any wrinkles. it wouldn’t quite be respectable to walk out of a motel looking like he’d just gotten laid, now would it?

”what do you mean?” she said, looking up at him from the damp sheets in disbelief. her eyes welled slightly, shining with the reminder of what a jerk he could be. “we just- you can’t-” she stuttered, sitting up on her knees to reason with the much taller man.

“i meant what i just said.” he shrugged, buckling his belt. “there’s no way to misunderstand that.” he shot a pointed look at her, practically rolling his eyes at her naïveté. did she honestly think he’d stay? she couldn’t have possibly expected him to ask for her home line, really. if anything, he was doing her a favor, preparing her for the cruel fate of a pretty thing like herself. he did her a favor, and she repaid him. plain and simple.

“you’re gonna just leave? you said you liked me?!” she cried, sniffling as she swam in the rough, cheap sheets that had surely been witness to this exact scene before.

a bit of guilt chewed at him as he stood at the door steps away from the bed, looking back at her once more. wordless, he stepped out and into the air kissed by the warm sunset. he thought over the fact that, maybe for the next girl, he wouldn’t even book a room.

“men lie.” he repeated her earlier words from the open door, finally leaving to get back on the road. he did have a wedding to make it to, after all. 𝐟𝐢𝐧.

……………………………………………………………………………

[despairots]

━━ [ LYNEY! ] OBSESSED & FIXATED.

[ gender neutral! reader / they them pronouns used! for everybody! ] ━━ genre: fluff & small suggestive themes.

content warning ━━ light suggestive themes, swearing, lyney having cringy pick up lines but it’s okay because it’s lyney. shit writing since i haven’t written in a long time :( [ authors note: i love lyney so much, him and nikolai made me realize i love magicians & i might make a bsd masterlist soon cuz i also fixated on that. i remember watching season 1 of bsd in 2020 but got bored so i stopped but i started watching a month ago so. ]

lyney and lynette’s magic show always makes your day, it was one of your favourite parts of your day. watching them pull magic tricks on the audience and you, despite you knowing how they work were still entertaining.

what made your heart accelerate was when lyney’s eyes would laid on you, with that flamboyant smirk and tipping his hat towards you could make anyone swoon, and it wasn’t a coincidence that you’ve fallen in love with him.

it was coincidence that you had bumped into him despite you trying to avoid him, it was like something drawn you in to have met him in person, and embarrassing enough, he had caught you by the waist even though you weren’t going to fall on the ground.

“hello there, my dearest lotus bloom.” he teased, pulling you up and planting a kiss on your gloved hands, flustering you. “lyney! i— um.. sorry for bumping into you.” you apologized, covering half of your flustered face with the back of your other hand.

he chuckled with closed eyes, his hand still holding onto yours, “don’t worry, my lotus bloom. i wanted you to bump into me.” his words confused you but it wasn’t as if he didn’t spoke in riddles or won’t elaborate why.

bump into you? he noticed your confusion as he chuckled again, pulling a rose behind your ear and handing it to you, flustering you even more. he was such a cliché it was adorable, and watching you get flustered just because of being around him made him feel pride swell deep inside him

he knew your flustered looks when his eyes landed on you and he knew his effects on you as well, it was quite obvious as lynette picked up on her twin brother being more extra then usual.

“are you trying to impress them?” lynette sighed into her tea cup, blowing some steam away as freminet had question on who she was talking about, “hmph! they just caught my eye, dear sister!” lyney huffed and crossed his arms, freminet and lynette looking at eachother, not believing his words.

“is it [name] you’re talking about it?” lyney instantly snapped his head towards his little brother, “[name], you say?” freminet nodded at lyney as he questioned on who freminet knows them, “[name]’s a painter, younger kids ask them if they could make a certain piece of art and they finish it within seconds.” freminet explained, and that was lyney’s final straw to make you his.

“i must say, my dear lotus bloom, you sure have caught my eye.” he smiled at you, the same smile that would swipe people of their feet as he flashed it at you, “caught your eye? but lyney, i’m just a regular guest in your audience.”

you raised an eyebrow, twirling the rose in your hand, looking down at it. lyney placed a finger under your chin and made you look at him, “you, [name], are a special guest in my audience.” he whispered, eyes flickering to your eyes and your lips.

you blinked at his words before red reached your cheeks quickly when your brain had process his words and his actions, his gloved thumb glided against your shaky bottom lip, “a very special one..” his voice went down a nouch, getting closer to your lips.

“lyney..” you whispered, placing a hand on his shoulder as he placed a hand on your waist to pull you closer.

you must be dreaming, right? wrong. everything you’re experiencing is real, every shape he traced into your skin was real and his lips on yours was real as well. nothing you are experiencing is fake.

you threw your arms around his neck to draw him closer, never wanting to be separated from him again since you two felt like puzzles pieces that fit with eachother.

who knew being obsessed and fixated would’ve helped you to get that boy.

[greenorangevioletgrass]

if this is a sin, a punishment (a.d.)

Pairing: art donaldson x popstar!reader

Summary: three years, three encounters. Moving on is a fickle thing, and why is it always worse the second time around? (part 1)

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: smoking, drinking, language, greek mythology references, some german slander lol, almost cheating?, art doesn't give a fuck lol, so much pining, hella angst (i swear the next part will be happy i swear!)

Notes: im back! work has taken up my brain capacity, and while im very grateful to write for a living now, i was unable to write for fun lol. but we're back, and i hope we'll have a good time reading. Big up to @ysuftmikey and @tommysparker for being awesome and hearing out my incoherent rambles about this story. But anyway, please comment, reblog, talk to me and tell me what you think about it! Happy reading!

**i do not have a taglist. Follow @ficsbygreenorangevioletgrass andd turn on the notifications to be alerted for new fics and updates!**

Paris, June 2012.

As the new face of Dior, your appearance on the front row of their runway show is paramount. You’re not just there because you have to, you’re there because you love it. It’s equally important that you are well-versed in the thoughts behind next season’s trends of the fashion house. The fashion show is as much a celebration of craftsmanship as it is a coveted social event, and you’re oh so happy to be a part of it.

Or so you said in your Vogue cover story. 

In reality, you’re getting decked out and posing for pictures and scrutinizing the details of every look that comes out because it’s a job. Sitting next to some buff dude in a manbun that barely gives you enough space for yourself.

His broad shoulder bumps against yours, effectively snapping you out of your reverie. “Oh, sorry.”

You’re about to murmur a politely dismissive remark, but it all fades away when you see his face, profile-first. It’s been almost a full year since you last saw that silhouette. There’s no way of forgetting it, even underneath the dramatic lights of the runway, not even if you tried. 

“It’s you,” you breathe out, all wide-eyed and slack-jawed like an idiot in front of him.

He hears you before he sees you, really sees you, and his heart nearly stops. Of course! You’re right under his nose, and he didn’t see you. And how he yearned to see you since that night in London. How he wanted to lay it all out on the line, pour his heart out, but instead what comes out is…

“It’s me.”

The whole world starts again, pretty people milling back around as you blink. Warmth returns to your face, as you finally regain some sense. “Art!”

He murmurs your name as he hugs you, and he never wants to let go. He wants you to fucking come home with him because home doesn’t make sense until you’re here.

“Wow…” he flashes that signature crooked smile as he marvels at you���not stare, marvel. “What are the odds, huh?”

“I know!” You fight the flight of the butterflies in your stomach, but it’s impossible. “You grew your hair out, huh?”

“Yeah, just… trying something new.” His hand reaches up to the back of his neck sheepishly. 

The blond mop no longer frames his face like Apollo incarnate. You can actually see his face better now with his hair pulled back. The depth of his eyes, and the soft parenthesis of his smile. But at the same time, his facial features look… a little heavier now. A little older. More mysterious.

But of course, you can’t say any of that to him, so you settle with, “Well, you look great.”

Art lets out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. He’s rocked this look for a while now, but he wants—no, needs— you to like it.

“I heard you won the French Open, by the way. Congratulations.” Your hand lands on his shoulder, much like the last time you saw him, but neither of you address it. Not outwardly, anyway.

(If his heart flutters, he hopes you won’t notice.)

“Ah well, it’s… yeah. Thanks!” He can’t help but light up. He wonders if Wimbledon has hooked you into tennis, or maybe, just maybe, you were keeping up with him…? “What have you been up to?”

“I’ve just been in the studio a lot. Recording, mixing, mastering the new album…  boring shit.”

Art shakes his head. He doesn’t believe anything you do is boring. “When’s that coming out?”

“November. And if all goes well, we’re gonna tour it next summer.”

“Holy shit.”

“You know what they say. The devil works hard…”

But this unstoppable force of nature in front of him works harder. It has been almost a year since you last saw him. Eleven months and some 20-odd days since you shared that cigarette on that balcony. Since you broke his heart. And he still looks at you like a goddamn miracle. It disarms the fuck out of you.

“Hey, listen—”

“There you are!” a tall, leggy blonde cuts him off mid-sentence with a kiss to Art’s cheek, rambling in German as she takes the empty seat on his other side.

Fuck. 

Art replies back to her in German, a little more hushed, but your head is already reeling. You don’t know what to make of this feeling in your gut—it squeezes you from the side, and twists you all the way to your throat. Like wringing the air out of you. 

Art smiles almost apologetically at you, his hand falling on the woman’s knee. “Yeah, this is… Tatiana, my girlfriend.”

You exchange pleasantries and shake hands. Maybe. It’s all a blur and you’re fighting tooth and nail to stay present in this conversation. 

You manage a smile, pushing through the ache of trying to sound courteous. Friendly. Normal. “I was just telling Art that I’m going on tour this summer. You guys should definitely come to a show.” Emphasis on ‘you guys’.

Art opens his mouth, but Tatiana goes ahead and answers for him. Her glossy lips pull up into a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. She doesn’t even bother hiding it. “Hm, we’ll see. Art is very busy with his own tour, you see.”

“Of course. For sure.” You nod at Tatiana, getting the message. Your gaze barely grazes Art, even though you want nothing more than to reacquaint yourself with his features.

Art watches you turn away, fixing your gaze towards the runway, and his heart aches. The way his hand rests on Tatiana feels cold—he might as well be resting his hand on a railing. 

He keeps his gaze straight ahead at the models coming and going the entire show. And if he accidentally catches a glimpse of your profile, or your manicured hand when he looks down on his lap, he’ll take what he can get. God knows he doesn’t get to ask for anything for more. 

*****

The Dior afterparty is held in some French chalet, and after making the rounds with Tatiana, Art feels himself disengaging from the group conversation altogether. He mutters out an excuse to get a breather and wanders up the winding staircase. There are still people along the hallway, chatting and drinking by old-ass paintings and bust statues and tall vases. 

Art takes a gamble and opens a door, simply eager for some peace and quiet. The knob gives and the room is dark, save for a large bay window on the other side, the moon shining bright… and the girl sitting there.

“Hey, room’s taken!” You flick the ash off of your cigarette out the window, ready to fend for your occupation. But then you catch a glimpse of his face in the light, and you relax. “Oh. It’s you.”

Art feels his face flush. He really should back the fuck off and leave, but his feet only bring him closer and closer to you into the room. “Sorry, I was just trying to find someplace quiet. I didn’t realize…” he cuts himself off when he sees the cigarette between your fingers, and he chuckles.

“What? You know I smoke.”

“A woman of taste, huh?” His eyes flicker to the pack propped on the windowsill in amusement and he wonders if you smoked Marlboro Green because of him (You do.)

You grab the pack and slide a cigarette out for his easy access, but he doesn’t take it. Not right away. Shit, was this a bad idea? Does he not smoke anymore? “Come on, your secret’s safe with me.”

Art takes another look at the cigarette, then at the door. He raises his forefinger in wait, going over to shut the door closed and then rushing over to you with a mischievous smirk at the cigarette. He looks like a kid, giddily settling in for a forbidden vice. 

This time, you’re the one leaning over to light his cigarette. His hair falls over the other side of his face, and you watch him tuck the loose strand behind his ear. His eyelashes resting on his skin as he takes that delightful first drag. He can feel the nicotine hitting him straight to his head, and that’s how he wants to consume you.

You settle back in your seat against the wall, the smoking hand hanging out the window, and Art does the same. He sees your legs folded over to the side, almost touching him, and he has half the mind to pull them over his lap.

“It’s been a minute, huh, Art?” You take another drag, trying to calm your nerves down a little.

“Yeah, it really has.” He throws away his smile up at the moon, amused at how familiar this is. “Why are you hiding out here?”

”My shoes are killing me.” You absently massage your ankle with your free hand, throwing a sideways glance at your pair of So Kate’s on the floor. “And my social battery’s shot down.”

”That’s not very Dionysian of you.”

It makes you smile. He still remembers (though, in his defense, the whole encounter last year was pretty hard to forget). “I beg to differ.” You lift up a bottle of Moët that you stole downstairs. 

Art’s smile widens as he makes a grabby hand at the champagne. You happily hand it to him, fingers barely grazing against him. He takes a swig and thinks, let me just steal your kiss from the lip of the bottle. It tastes better than the five other glasses he had back at the party.

“So how have you been?”

An easy question for a loaded answer. Art shrugs. “Ah well, you know. Still training, still competing…”

“You still pushing that rock uphill, huh?” You can’t fight the knowing grin on your face.

Art groans with a haze of smoke in his wake, leaning back against the wall. “Ugh, don’t remind me. I’m all about that Sisyphean grind.”

“Shut the fuck up!” The words fly out of your mouth, and it makes him laugh. And you can’t help but laugh with him. “You just won the French Open. Isn’t that like a—what do you call it, a… Grand Slam right there?”

He raises his eyebrows at you, impressed at your improved tennis knowledge. Maybe Wimbledon did hook you in. “Yeah, well… I still need to win the US Open. It’s the only one that counts, right?” 

It’s absolutely ridiculous, Art knows that, but until then… There's no rest for the wicked like him. And you see right through him. It’s almost like looking in the mirror sometimes.

You roll your eyes, and he thinks it’s the cutest thing ever. “What are you, pressed for time? Relax. You’ll get there.”

“Fair point.” Art nods, hiding his flush in another swig of champagne. “In that case, things are pretty good. Training is good, I’m winning matches, hoping to win more…” he pauses, tucking a loose strand of gold waves behind his ear, “Tatiana and I are doing… well.”

He sounds almost regretful when he says it. But then again, you’ve gotten pretty good at gaslighting yourself into thinking it’s all in your head.

“That’s good,” you settle with a neutrally encouraging response. “She seems nice.”

This time, Art gives you the look. And he always looks so smug when he does it too—the little head tilt, the crooked smirk he’s sporting like he’s excited to get the rare leg up from you. It’s adorable.

So you relent, taking the champagne and chasing it with a huff of smoke.

“I’m sorry about Tatiana this afternoon, by the way. Didn’t realize she would be so…” he grimaces as he struggles to find the right word. Domineering? Territorial? Just outright bitchy?

“Nah, it’s fine. I just chalked it up to her… German predisposition, that’s all,” you deadpan, tapping the ash of your cigarette out the window.

“You’re horrible.” Art grins. He loves it.

There’s that smile you’ve been missing. “Besides, I didn’t know you speak the language.”

“I can get by. My coach is German, my best friend speaks German… I’ve been picking up more from Tatiana, but it’s mostly just… angry.”

His words make you frown. That doesn’t sound like a very happy relationship, if your girlfriend keeps shouting angry shit at you in her native language. Art is perfectly aware that you’re catching on.

And again, it feels like the two of you are operating on two levels of communications. The first one is whatever is spouted out of your mouths, and the second through these wordless looks that say so much more. With every exchange, there’s always a choice; to stay on the surface, or dive in.

Maybe it’s the sparkling liquid courage, or the white haze you share in this little nook, but your next response is neither a safe bet nor a daring risk.

“Do you guys fuck in German? Because that can’t be sexy.”

He cracks up, caught completely off-guard by your question. Leave it to you to always keep him on his toes. “No! God no. Absolutely not. That would be terrible.”

“I can imagine! Like, what would you even say?” You sit up to put on your worst voice possible, but making it breathy and porny, “Ja… ja… ooh, scheisse… oh, ich komme!”

Art bursts out laughing. A true laugh that comes from the belly. The kind that makes his face open up. “What in the Hitler was that?!” He keels over in absolute stitches.

“I mean, I don’t know!” 

The two of you laugh longer than it’s funny, like you’re both relieved from this charade of civil acquaintanceship and finally free to be who you truly are.

Which, in this case, means immature goddamn giggly children. 

Art relishes in this warmth. He has missed this so much, that he nearly forgot he never had this with you in the first place. His face softens. “What about you?”

“Oh, I don’t talk dirty in German. It’s unpatriotic.”

“Fuck off.” He can’t fight the giggles that’s taking over him, not when you’re already laughing at your own joke. His mind nearly gets sidetracked with the thought of you in bed. Would you keep making these witty one-liners while talking dirty? Or would you be completely pliant if he kisses you all over ehile balls deep into you— focus up, Art! “I meant… How’s the boyfriend?”

You smile wryly. It was your fault to joke about Tatiana, and now you got what’s coming back at you. You take a swig at the champagne, trying to play it off casually. “Didn’t work out.”

Oh. It’s sad news, really. But why is his heart perking up, knowing there’s no more guy on the phone on her end this time? “That’s a shame. Are you alright?”

“Well, I’m real fresh out the slammer, so… not really. But…” you shrug easily. “I’ll live.”

Art’s face softens. Sometimes the moments of vulnerability seeps through the cracks of your dry humor, and he gets to see the real you. The storm that’s brewing between your ribs. Head against the windowpane, most of your lipstick either on your cigarette filter or champagne bottle. A picture perfect of secret melancholia. 

“You wanna know the weird thing is?” You inhale the cigarette, and exhale the fumes through your nose, eyes still fixed on the darkness outside, the bitterness is just pouring out. “I can always see how it ends.”

“What do you mean?”

The sensations run through your veins faster than your brain can muster up words. The butterflies of initial attraction back then—the elation, anticipation… and that funny feeling, that ache in the gut that paints the picture. The fight or the cold war that ends it all. And how are you supposed to come back from that, knowing what you know?

“I can always predict the end… right at the beginning.” You put out your cigarette and tosses it out, the faux nonchalance rising again. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am Cassandra.”

Art’s heart aches at that. It doesn’t feel right to be good this time. He almost wants to take it back, renounce Cassandra and he’ll give up Sisyphus so the two of you can be something else. Something different.

Something together.

Art puts out his cigarette as he studies your face. The pensive frown, the look of surprise… he loves that about you and everything in between. “I missed you,” he quietly admits. 

And there it is. The air is knocked out of you, and it’s just churning in your chest cavity. “I know,” you whisper back.

He leans in and touches your arm tentatively, and you don’t pull away. You can’t even if you tried. He traces the outline of your hair, his long fingers finding home on the side of your neck. His thumb traces your cheek, so carefully that he fears you would disappear into thin air. He needs you. Needs to know that he’s not hallucinating this.

This moment. This feeling. 

You.

You take his wrist, but you’re not sure whether it’s to pull him away or keep him there. “But we shouldn’t.”

“I know,” he echoes, although the way he fully leans into you is a whole other story. “I wanna kiss you so bad.”

“We shouldn’t.” You want to say it’s just him, you want to say that you’re stronger. Better than that. But the truth is, you gravitate towards him as much as he does to you, and now you’re just sitting there, both inching closer to each other until your foreheads are pressed together. “We can’t.”

He can’t find it in himself to lie anymore. He can no longer bring himself to care about the girlfriend he had, or whatever reason you’re thinking of right now. Valid, he’s sure, but he doesn’t give a shit anymore. “I know we can’t. But we want to, don’t we?”

“I’m not a homewrecker, Art.”

Art lets out a quiet huff. His thumb is still tracing along your jawline as if trying to commit your features to memory. He shakes his head softly. “If anyone’s a homewrecker, it’s me. It’s definitely me.”

“Art…”

“Yes?” You can wreck his whole existence, and he would thank you wholeheartedly. What bliss to be ruined in the hands of you. 

To his surprise, you pull him into a hug—and to be honest, you’re kind of beside yourself too. It makes him pause, but as soon as he realizes what’s happening, he surrenders.

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, with one hand caressing his long hair. You won’t give in, not to your desire. Not tonight. But for a moment, you let yourself imagine what it’s like to be in his arms. What it’s like to be his. 

Each breath he takes hurts because you steal every single one of it, but he swallows it down. His arms encircle your waist, and he braves through the pain because this is his only chance to pretend. Art burrows himself into your neck and makes a home there. You gladly let him in.

For the longest time, you just… stay there. 

“I never want to leave…” there’s such pain in his tone. Such sorrow. Defeat.

“Me neither…” It chokes you from the inside out. But he won’t be the one to end it, so you’ll have to take one for the team. “But we have to.” 

He knows that, but his heart shatters anyway. You kiss him on the forehead, lingering as if it would tell him what you wanted to say. All the what-ifs and could-have-beens. It’s all a tangled mess in your throat, impossible to get out.

You feel a droplet where your hand cups his face the same time Art feels a single tear slide from his forehead down his nose. It’s comforting and disconcerting at times. .

For a fleeting moment, Art nearly hopes this is the moment you change your mind. Say ‘fuck it’ and stay.

But you pull away, and all hope is lost. It leaves with your laughter that echoed in this room just moments ago. 

You take a deep breath, and with a gentle swipe of his tears and tenderly fixing his tousled hair, you do the right thing. “I’ll see you around, Art.”

Art barely manages a nod, staring at the intersection between the wall and the windowpane, as you gather your shoes and your purse and pads out towards the door.

Thunk. 

He turns and sees you leaning your head against the doorknob. Your shoulders are shaking in silent sobs, and he wants to chase after you so bad. But before he can move, you turn the doorknob and disappear out of sight. Leaving him worse off than he ever thought after holding you. 

[webslingingslasher]

https://www.tumblr.com/webslingingslasher/752847373085081600/i-wanna-miss-fratpeters-nose-so-badly

how does he react!!

THAT SENT TOO FAST I WASNT FINISHED😭

does he get shy?? does he pretend he’s unaffected or is he like do it again and again and again!!!🥹

--

soft!frat!peter <3

'what was that?'

you surprise attacked him with a kiss and went right back to watching tv, but this kiss wasn't on his mouth or his cheek so he's a tad bit confused.

'a little kissy.' it happened too quick. he saw a flash, felt a quick peck and you were submerged into netflix like nothing happened. 'want another?' it was rhetorical, you push up to place another to the same spot.

'why my nose?'

you steal another. 'why not?' and another. you go for a third after his bashful laugh, you swear you see a hint of pink coat his cheeks. 'i don't know, i've never had one, i guess.'

sometimes peter drops his lack of intimacy a little too casually. this is one of those times, how has no one ever given him nose kisses?

'have you ever felt like you wanna kiss every inch of me? not in a sexual way, but like, you wanna kiss me because i'm so cute?'

'i'm scared you'll read into my answer.' that's a total yes.

'well, there's a bunch of different types of kisses, so you're welcome for showing you another.' peter bids for your attention. 'what are the different types of kisses?'

'hm,' you sit up to straddle his lap. 'i mean, you know about this one.' a light peck to his forehead. 'and this one,' another on his cheek. your lips brush over his as you whisper, 'and you love this kind.' your hand on his chest tells you your guess was right.

'what else is there?' warm hands rest on your thighs, peter's speaking softly with his focus on you and you only. you could tease him, but you're going to take this delicate moment and file it away to replay when you’re questioning if he’s worth waiting around for. 

'you just learned about this one.' peter didn't know he could like attention on his nose so much. but when it comes from you, of course he does.

'any more?' he doesn't want it to end.

'how about an eskimo kiss?' peter's heard of them, but he's never had one so he pretends like he doesn't know what it is. you lean down to push your nose against his, you dig in at the last second before pulling away.

'the harder you do it, the more you love them.' you're not sure if that's true or not, but you heard it somewhere and it's nice to think about. 'that seems dangerous, you might end up with a broken nose.' you could scream about the undertone of his sentence, but you won't. it's another thing to file away.

'then you might like butterfly kisses.'

'what's-' peter stops, little flutters dance over his cheeks. his heart pounds hard, a swirl of matching insects take flight in his stomach.

'what do you think about that one?'

'do it again.' you cup his face before blinking against his skin.

it's airy, a hint of something youthful, wholesome, comforting. it's like stepping outside and feeling the sun coat over your arms, heating you from the inside out, gifting you with warmth you didn't know you needed or lacked.

it reminds him of you.

it's his favorite.

'you like them?' there's no question this time, he's got a full on blush. 'can i have another?' he savors the tickle. you give a finale, sealing it with an overdramatic 'muah!' against his lips.

'i like your flutter kisses.' you finger comb his hair, laying down any stray pieces from moving around on his pillow. 'you can have flutter kisses whenever you want.'

peter doesn't need to be told twice.

'flutter kisses. i demand more butterflies.'

'be careful, you might attract a whole swarm.'

peter makes prayer hands and mouths a 'thank you,' with his eyes closed before going dead weight underneath you.

'i'm ready to be suffocated.' 

[shitsndgiggs]

hiiii girlll,

i get injured this week while playing sports…and i have an idea for an imagine with hector.

is that a good idea to write about the reader who’s injured and hector helps her and he’s really caring.

or maybe you prefer to write about hector who is injured ?

as you want !!

thanks !! 🫶🏼🫶🏼

CARING TO THE EXTREME - HÉCTOR FORT

Héctor taking care of you are your injury

Héctor Fort x fem! reader

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿

I winced as I shifted on the couch, adjusting the ice pack on my ankle for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

The injury wasn’t even that bad—a twisted ankle during training—but Hector was treating me like I’d broken every bone in my body.

I couldn’t even get up without him swooping in like some kind of overprotective guardian.

“Do you need more ice? Water? A snack? I could make you some tea,” Hector asked, hovering nearby with his hands half-extended, ready to help.

I sighed, trying not to roll my eyes. “I’m fine, Hector. I can get the ice myself, really.”

He frowned, shaking his head as he knelt beside me to adjust the pillow under my leg. “No, you stay right there. You need to rest.”

“Rest, right.” I looked at him, incredulous. “You’ve said that like fifty times already.”

“And I’ll say it fifty more times if I have to,” he responded firmly, grabbing the remote and placing it in my hand. “Just relax, watch something. I’ll be here if you need anything.”

I glanced at the clock, noting the time. “Don’t you have training? You should’ve left an hour ago.”

Hector stood up straight and shrugged. “I took the week off.”

I blinked, staring at him. “You what?”

“I took the week off,” he repeated casually, like it was no big deal. “I want to be here to take care of you.”

I groaned, covering my face with a pillow. “Oh, no, please no. Let this week go by fast.”

Hector chuckled, gently pulling the pillow away from my face. “Come on, it’s not that bad.

I peeked at him, half-annoyed, half-amused. “Not that bad? You’re acting like I’m completely helpless! I can still move, you know.”

He shook his head, arms crossed over his chest, giving me that soft but stern look that always made me melt. “You shouldn’t be moving around too much. You need to let your ankle heal properly.”

“I can still do some things,” I protested, sitting up a bit. “Like—”

Before I could finish, Hector reached over and gently pushed me back into the pillows. “Not a chance. The only thing you should be doing is resting. Let me handle everything else.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” I said, though my tone had softened, a smile tugging at my lips.

“Maybe,” he agreed, grinning. “But I don’t care. I’m taking care of you, and that’s final.”

I tried to pout, but it was hard to stay annoyed with him when he was looking at me like that—so determined, so caring. “You’re too much sometimes, you know that?”

He laughed and leaned down to press a gentle kiss to my forehead. “Maybe. But I love you too much to let you do anything while you’re injured.”

I sighed dramatically, shaking my head. “Fine. But I’m counting down the days until you have to go back to training.”

“Sure you are,” Hector teased, sitting down next to me on the couch. “But deep down, I know you like being spoiled.”

I snorted. “I wouldn’t call it being spoiled. It’s more like being babysat.”

“Same thing,” he shrugged, flashing me that playful smile.

Despite the teasing, I couldn’t help but feel a warmth in my chest. As much as Hector’s overprotectiveness was driving me a little crazy, it was also kind of sweet—his way of showing just how much he cared.

And while I’d never admit it out loud, having him fuss over me wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

“Well,” I muttered, snuggling into the couch, “if you’re going to insist on taking care of me, you could at least get me some popcorn.”

Hector’s eyes lit up with triumph as he jumped up. “Coming right up!”

As he dashed into the kitchen, I couldn’t help but laugh to myself. He really was relentless—but maybe, just maybe, I didn’t mind that so much after all.

[spitdrunken]

i keep thinking about essentially being like. velvette's 'charity case' model and how your relationship develops from there.

notes: fem!reader, velvette calls you ugly LMAO, beyond that... no warnings, really. surprisingly the most healthy vee relationship ive written yet!

velvette's typical models all look similar, reminiscent of the modeling industry back when you were alive. tall, skinny and, more important than anything else, human-looking. most of them could pass for humans in a costume.

you… do not. you just didn't get quite that lucky with your demon form! really, you can say that the vast majority of people drew the short end of the stick, at least by the kind of standards that people like velvette set. maybe you're a bat, with a snout you've deemed as pig-like taking up most of your face. or a sheep, your single-slitted, dead eyes making even you uncomfortable. perhaps you're more formed after an object than what you would consider a person, or plant-like in nature! in any regards, due to the way lucifer chose to have you reborn you firmly do not fall within hell's beauty standards.

all of that means you were absolutely not expecting to be accepted when you went ahead and applied to a job with someone as famous and perfectionistic as velvette. it had started as a joke, really. you'd posted a purposefully horrible picture of yourself on vitter, with a stupid caption like; "do u think that :skull::heart: would kill me for submitting to open casting looking like this lmaooooo" (you have to use emojis to talk about the vees, as the socials owned by them are notorious for taking anything remotely negative down.)

and unexpectedly, your post randomly did some pretty big numbers, with people egging you on and some practically begging to tell you what kind of insults she would sling at your head. you saw some people copying your original as well.

so you're like! whatever!!! you don't think that you'd even get through the application process, much less velvette herself. nothing will end up happening, so, who cares? but then, somehow, despite everyone and their mom wanting to model for velvette, you get… through? and you even get an interview scheduled with velvette herself?

she takes one look at you as you walk in, and just goes: oh my god. this really is grim. and you're hardly seated, before she continues. look, i don't have the time for niceties, and introductions are entirely unnecessary. i'm sure you already know this, but you're not here because of your looks.

yeah. you figured that. …i guessed so. but i'm still sitting here. so, why?

instead of getting a real answer, you're shuffled off into a shoot, different outfits flashing on top of your body, faster than you blink, velvette's face settled into a scowl, till it suddenly lights up. it doesn't go… super well, you've never really done this and, if you had, velvette's attitude surely wouldn't help. you never really get clarity as to why you're being hired, when a contract is shoved in front of you.

(the reality of the situation is that velvette had seen you trending, not trending-trending, but still a noticable. she realised the demand for someone like you, a 'relatable' every-demon being thrust into this new world, and documenting it online. her company can claim they accept 'all kinds of demons', and some poor suckers will feel less excluded when looking at her fashion, buying it more quickly. win-win-win!)

she tells you to you're face that you're the ultimate challenge. if she can fix someone like you up to in a half-decent model, it just shows that she really is a fucking goddess. maybe you're not as pretty or as used to everything as the rest of the models, but that doesn't mean you don't put in any effort now that you're there. the other girls won't associate with you whatsoever, but you do listen in on their conversations, pretending to mess around on your phone, coming to know the kind of make-up velvette likes. you tirelessly browse online, mostly on vikvok and vitter, figuring out the current trends. and after a while, velvette takes a look at an outfit you picked, and actually says…

this is pretty decent. it won't look good on you, but i can use this. maybe, somewhere along the way, you become more of an assistant or outfit suggestor for velvette, only occasionally stopping in for shoots. velvette never accepted anyone in a similar position to you, even though vox tried her to get an assistant for ages, and she wouldn't have accepted you either if you'd obviously being vying for the position. but you weren't, and your position just kind of naturally developed that way.

your shtick as a 'charity case' has somewhat been abandoned, though velvette still dumps clothes in your arms sometimes and tells you to try them on. maybe you're one of the few people who gets her to laugh, and the only one who she freely bitches to about all of her models. (she does this to vox and valentino too, but it's not the same. they don't care as much, nor do they really know who she's talking about.) she lets you sort through some of the open casting applications and help pick out the theme for a shoot.

of course, absolutely everything you do has to go through velvette first, and she still criticizes you aplenty, but you can't help but feel she has grown… fond of you, in a sense? sometimes, you swear you see her wearing outfits you'd picked out for another model… and while she shittalks everything that moves, you just happened to listen in on her giving a model a tonguelashing for talking bad about you. either way, you've certainly come to like her a lot more. you're now even mutuals on vitter and vikvok! much to the delight of the tiny following you'd grown on there. she even posted a picture of the two of you on there! …that means you've really made it.

maybe at some point, when her company has hit a new milestone and, in a rare slip-up (or perhaps valentino gave her a super strong drink on purpose, thinking its funny) she gets pretty drunk. you end up sitting opposite of each other in a bar, with her having decided on the spot to put some make-up on you, leaning in close to check her work, fingers gliding slowly over your skin. a situation that feels entirely too intimate for this setting, not helped by the half-lidded look in your eyes. …i have changed my mind. she mumbles, slurring her words are little. you can look pretty, after all.

you sputter out a oh really, and you only realised that now?! in order to break the heaviness of the air, the unspoken tension that makes your heart skip a beat, and velvette laughs.

(maybe there's hope for the two of you yet.)

[lucasandlily]

Rui x Reader who is really affectionate, but can't touch him because of The Curse.

A/N: I'm alive!! Rui my beautiful beautiful tragic boy. I've actually been having a lot of brainrot for this game, particularly an isekai AU that made me contemplate making RP blog (I love you guys btw. This is probably my first fandom where they're so active, I've been really well connected with this fandom somehow and it's so fun!!), so I figured I might as well be writing it down now. This is an idea I've had spinning in my head for a while, so it's VERY self-indulgent/insert, but enjoy!! AO3 link here

Rui's POV. Second-person pronoun "You" is used. Angst! But also fluff!! (825 words)

You’ve always been an affectionate little thing. It’s something Rui finds adorable about you, staying optimistic despite all that looms over you, not letting any of the ghouls he KNOWS can be more than a little much sometimes destroy your positive attitude. It’s as if you decided to be the light in a place that literally has dark in its name, and he lov admires you for that.

He can’t help but feel the bitter green of envy though, when he watches you ruffle Lyca’s hair after he whines at you for treating him like a dog. 

He pointedly turns away from the look Ed gives him over your head when you relax into his chest after he leans over your shoulder.  

He just laughs along at your drunken antics when you nuzzle into Haru’s hand, somehow even more touchy when your cheeks are flushed with alcohol. 

He tries not to remember the flash of hurt, confusion, the first time he’d backed away from your hand when all you wanted to do was give him a pat for a job well done. He doesn’t know if it hurt more when your face morphed into regretful understanding, or when you apologised and told him you’d try not to do it again. 

Rui tells himself it’s for the better when he notices you’ve been avoiding him for the past week. He’d have done the same to you anyway, if he realised his feelings were starting to fester. He tries to not let it get to him when he hears you enter the Obscuary mansion, only to quickly patter up the stairs without stopping by the bar first, as you would have done previously. 

Maybe before, he would have made it a little competition to see who could mess up the other’s hair more. He’d watched you run your fingers through Lyca’s after you’d tousled it out of place, anyway. Maybe in another life, you’d gently hold his face as you showered him with kisses. He’d do the same to you anyway, if he wasn’t forced to keep his hands to himself. 

If he didn’t notice you hold your hand back every time you saw his mask slip. If he didn’t see your hand stop short before pulling it back to tell him he had a bit of hair out of place. 

It’s all just part of the cursed life, he tells himself. He should be getting used to it by now, he sighs as he walks down the hall over to his room. 

Behind him, he hears the jingle of the bell you like to wear on your keychain. He turns at the sound of your quick steps approaching. 

“Rui! Ruiruiruiii!!” You call.

“Ah, there you are! Haha, I’m not going anywhere you know~ though I guess I don’t mind being chased?” He teases as you approach. 

You smile up at him brightly, “I have something to show you!” You tell him, he notices now that you have a hand behind your back. 

“Hm? Aw, did you get me a gift? And here I was thinking you were hiding from me!” He regrets the words the moment they leave his mouth. Your smile falters a bit as you blink at his confession. 

But before he can backtrack with a “Just kidding!” your smile lightens again, eyes filling with some sort of resolve as you pull out… a glove on a stick? in your other hand.

He doesn’t pull away when he feels the simulation of a hand on his head. He can’t, when you look into his eyes with such unmistakable fondness. The awkward, stilted movements as you try to run the imitation hand through his hair communicates how long you’ve wanted to do this, and the tears that well up in his eyes betray how much he’s needed it. 

He feels the cloth soak up the tears when you move the glove down to hold his face. It feels soft under his skin, and he can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. 

“How long did it take you to make this?” He asks as you let him lace his fingers with your hand extension. He squeezes the plush hand, feeling the soft give before it reaches the stick inside, inspecting where the glove and stick are attached. 

“Um! A week? It took a bit of experimenting to get it to stay on… And they don’t really sell gloves on campus either.” 

Your eyes crinkle when you look at him, the corners of your lips pull up triumphantly when he lets go of the hand to let you pat his head again. 

“You deserve at least this much,” you tell him. “I know it’s not really the same or anything, but I don’t wanna leave you out, y’know?” 

“It was worth it though, if it made you happy.” You look into his eyes as you say this, and he can’t help but believe you.

Reblogs and Comments are appreciated! I love you (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)⁠✧⁠*⁠。

[colossrat]

Anyone interested in the superficial lives of Gotham's socialites knows what a chicken Bruce Wayne is. This is a persona that Bruce puts a lot of effort into as no one would think that a playboy like him would be Batman, he's too busy kissing and making bad jokes with hot people.

That said, he is careful not to repeat the people he spends a night with. He makes mental notes to only be seen in public with this person again after a semester maybe

But one day, he finds himself forced to attend a party alone. The women he planned to flirt with and appear in front of the paparazzi just did not show up and he finds himself needing to pull someone to his side. He watches every corner of the room intently, looking for people he hasn't hung out with in the last six months, only for his eyes to be reluctantly locked on an oddly familiar, yet unfamiliar man.

This would be Clark Kent aka Superman, disguised as a high society figure looking for information from Lex Luthor and perhaps some gossip for the daily planet. Changing his posture, clothes, a fake earring and wig he SURPRISINGLY passes off very well as a shy playboy who has a lot of money but little attitude.

Outcome? After Bruce stares at Clark for 20 minutes mentally cursing himself while trying to remember WHERE he could know that guy, his mind suddenly wanders to memories of another strong man with a jaw as sharp as his, and he subtly finds himself thinking, "He kind of looks like Superman...?" and then once again “I never got with him? Strange” because IN FACT he has already effectively flirted with all the gay bi pan or any men from Gotham's high society who would subtly remind him of his co-worker.

Clark, breaking into a cold sweat (not really) thinking that Bruce Wayne was suspicious of him because of his farm boy attitude, begins to sweat even colder (not really) when the prince of Gotham approaches with a charismatic smile  and an extra drink, sticking to himself for the rest of the night with stupidly bad but very effective flirting. He finds himself laughing awkwardly as Bruce eats him with his eyes from head to toe.

But no matter how much Wayne flirted with that guy, making him blush, laughing like an idiot with those hands without knowing where to stop, he couldn't get ONE PHOTO. Clark was just very good at turning his face away at the right time, or covering up, hiding like a little mouse. Bruce thought it was strangely cute, but MY GOD, what's the harm in letting yourself be part of a little gossip? He needed an alibi that he was at that party before going around like Batman beating up some bad guys, but Kent wasn't cooperating at all. None of his photos would be in any gossip magazine if they weren't newsworthy like “Bruce Wayne caught swapping spit with mysterious playboy from Gotham”

Normally it wouldn't be that difficult for him, normally it wouldn't be difficult at all. This made him strangely motivated and curious about his new friend. However, he was never really able to find out more, as Clark left the party in the blink of an eye when he heard some crimes nearby.

In the end, Bruce had to cause a scene by pretending to be drunk to get the flashes in his direction. Nothing that showing your underwear while taking a shower in a decorative fountain won't solve.

This happened and months passed, to this day Bruce feels stupid for not having gotten that man's contact, also wondering how he disappeared from the face of Gotham since he never saw him again. But he wasn't a villain or informant since nothing happened in any way related to that party after that. So he wasn't a bad guy? Who was he???

Sometimes he thinks about it before going to sleep, losing the will and going to spend three hours in the Batcave researching the socialites who have already set foot in Gotham and trying to find this handsome man that he couldn't figure out.

im sleepy so maybe this is messy

[marypaol]

Glistening White

Draco Malfoy x fem!reader

Summary: Draco invites Reader to a party, something she’d never think of herself being at. But soon she gets drunk and things take a turn.

Warnings: Drinking underage, people being drunk, party behavior, tension. I think that’s all???

Note: Thank you so much for requesting! I hope you enjoy it, I think it was a lovely idea. :)

Note #2: This is the first time in making an exception when it comes to my requirements, I want it to be my last, but we’ll see how future requests go.

This is to the wonderful @wenclairwednesday! I hope you liked it, and I’m sorry in advance for the not-so-happy ending. Hehe.

Masterlist

“No.”

A dark chuckle was heard in response, and, turning to the boy next to her, sees his eyes roll back in soft annoyance.

“It’s better than staying here in this gothic room. It’s lonely.” He said, eyes moving to the ceiling to emphasize his point. It did seem a little dark, but it couldn’t help it when the sun went down, revealing the darkness of the emerald green that surrounded the room.

She took her turn to roll her eyes. “It’s not lonely.” She stated, a small pout showing on her lips. “Besides, there’s that Charms essay I have to finish.”

Draco had a small smile on the corner of his mouth, blinking soft showing his tiredness but she bet he would still be awake enough to go the party he so wanted to go to.

“You and your bloody homework. Just copy off me tomorrow at breakfast.”

She scolded immediately. “No, Draco! Professor Flitwick-”

“I was joking, loves.” He laughed at the look on her face, desperate to do her own work and not copy another student’s.

“My answer is still no.” she said bluntly, grabbing another chuckle from him as she looked back down at the book she had her hands, a sign the conversation was over.

“But Crabbe and Goyle don’t want to.” He decided to point out, head bending down to meet her eyes under her eyelashes. She spared a glance at him before looking back at the pages.

“So?” She asked plainly and ridiculously. He groaned soft.

“So, I’ll have no one to annoy.” He replied, smirking when she glared at him, lips in a thin line. “And I want you there.” He added quietly. Her eyes softened upon the sight of him now, no longer trying to send daggers out of her pupils.

“Really?” She said, hesitant at his act he was potentially putting on. He nodded, locks bouncing.

She sighed, snatching the bookmark he was fiddling with and marking her page. “Fine, but if you do one stupid thing, I’m out of there. Hear me?”

He grinned. “Crystal.”

“I hate it here.”

The soft emerald light blared the room, lighting it up in the best way. It lit her up in the best way, Draco’s eyes scanning down her face every chance he got.

The room was full of people, music pounding the floors and walls, giving the space a heartbeat.

He chuckled nonetheless. “We just got here.”

She nodded, painted lips pursed. “Yeah, and I’ve already decided that I hate it here.”

“Can’t turn back now,” Draco pointed out, grinning. “I haven’t done anything stupid yet.”

He was rewarded another glare, dark eyes framed around long black lashes, making them easier to get caught into.

“I’m getting a drink.” She mumbled, desperate to try to calm herself down, and Draco could tell. She was biting her lip, chewing the flesh gently between her teeth, having no idea how much her anxiety habits affected him. Draco quickly sat down on a nearby sofa, squirming to find a comfortable position.

She soon came back, her body moving like liquid in a glass throughout the room, gliding to him with little to no effort.

Her stained lips were no longer displaying a nervous look, but a smiley one. Her teeth were showing, flashing him with happiness he didn’t know he could feel.

“This is good!” She blurted, mouth around a glass rim of a glass, throat bobbing as she took in the liquid, sitting down next to him, their legs brushing. The fabric of her dress was smooth like silk, and if only he could feel it through his slacks. His available hand though crossed across his lap, now fidgeting with the material, oily between his finger tips.

Draco laughed at her outburst, other arm that wasn’t touching her dress’ material on top of the couch, hand coming in contact with her hair strands, pushing it out of the way so he could see her sparkling eyes. He was seeing a new side of her, normally used to seeing her snappy and stubborn, quiet and stern when it came to school work. Now she was giggly and courageous, already springing up to get another glass after she heard his response.

She came back for the second time, this time sitting back, her spine against the armrest of the sofa, toned legs coming up to rest on his lap. She sat pretty close to him, so her knees were on top of his, and if she leaned only a little forward he would be able to feel her breath on his cheek. His hands subconsciously moved to her legs, fingers stroking the soft skin there. He didn’t even take a single sip of Fire Whiskey and he was already drunk on her.

Her gaze was on him, eyes forcing him to look back at her. His silver eyes met hers, chest twisting in the most perfect way possible, enough to make a rush of unknown emotions flood his senses.

Her arm stretched out to put her glass on the table next to the sofa, but his eyes didn’t dare to move from her face.

Once the glass was discarded, her butt moved forward on the couch, eyes not moving from his. A invisible string tired their eyes together, neither of them being able to look away. She slowly sat up, on her knees now, and Draco found himself following her movements with his sight, not wanting to miss a single thing.

Her right leg swung over his lap, now strangling him. Draco sucked in a sharp breath, welcoming her in by doing so, hands practically shooting to her waist, stroking her dress fabric. She grinned, eyes clearly no longer looking at his eyes, but at his flushed mouth.

She lent forward, lips coming to his left ear, flesh touching the skin briefly; Draco felt a spark of warmth and excitement roll down his back, then shooting back up to meet his heart.

“Kiss me?”

Draco sucked in another breath at the request, sharper than last time, this time holding it. His back shot from the couch, chest meeting hers, and he felt the heat from her skin vibrating against him.

She said it so innocently, like she had no idea what she was doing to him. She didn’t demand it, or order him to do it, she asked. And for some reason the innocence in her tone made Draco flush so much more.

She leaned back from his ear, eyes twinkling like a star in the night, but they were so full of want as she looked at him that it made him buff out the breath he was holding, right in her face, hair blowing against her cheeks. He looked at her, straight in the eyes with such tension he felt like there was a block of butter in between them, so thick and tense he could take a knife and glide right hrough it.

He swallowed, just then realizing how dry his throat was. He wasn’t one to get nervous, not to mention flustered, but here he was, melting like frozen water in a hot place.

“W-we- I mean, I-I can’t.” He sputtered, voice soft and shaky, and her eyebrows raised in question. Her hands went to his hair, pure white strands tangling themselves in her fingertips, softly scratching at his head, and Draco couldn’t stop his eyes moving to the back of his head, tipping back until he felt his hair touch the back of the couch. He composed himself despite the continuous sensation, making eye contact with her once again. It was only then did he see the soft motion of her bottom lip jointed out, making it look bigger in size. She was pouting.

“Why not?” She asked again, hands moving from his hair to the front of his suit he slipped on, rubbing at the collar, dangerously close to his neck.

He held his breath again for a good few seconds before breathing through his nose.

“Y-you’re drunk.” He reminded simply, swallowing again when she scanned face, stopping at his lips. She kicked her own before meeting his gaze with her eyes, innocence shining within them.

“No I’m not.” She protested softly.

“Yeah, you are.” Draco managed to speak firmly this time, despite his never ending efforts in his prior responses. She simply shook her head, leaning forward until their noses brushed, the innocent skin to skin touch was breaking the way through his chest, straight to his heart, making him feel something he didn’t normally feel; her lips were so close to his-

He broke away.

He shoved her off his lap, a soft gasp escaping the very lips he was so close to touching, the silk of her dress gone from his very fingertips.

His hands brushed the skin of her arm when it flew up, but he was quick to make the touch a brush in the first place.

Those hands went up and buried themselves in his hair, cheeks flaming as his feet began to make a massive effort to leave, but not until a hand held him back.

“Wait! I’m sorry.”

Her voice.

He turned to look at her, his eyes now surprisingly blurry from the extremely unwanted tears threatening to spill, but he couldn’t dare to let them do so.

She looked sobered up enough, the harsh shove she didn’t deserve snapping her out of the daydream she was in. Her eyes too were glossy but not from tears, but from drinking. Well, to be literal, Draco didn’t know the real reason for her blurry eyes but he didn’t want to admit she was in the same condition as he was.

“J-just stop. I don’t need that right now.” He spat, surprising both of them at his outburst that was way out of expectation.

“Need what, exactly?” She tried to pry, her stained lips quivering and his chest squeezed at the very sight.

“Your pity, that’s what.” He replied quite sharply, and he hardly ripped his hand out of her grip, a not so satisfying sting buzzing his skin at the action.

Her eyes broke, displaying the deep feelings that were flooding in her chest. He always found her eyes so expressive compared to his, his being so cold and empty, while hers were so full and lovely, just like her.

And unlike him.

So he left the room, quite quickly, leaving her broken eyes, silky dress, and the glistening white of her heart behind.

[xythlia]

⎙ — 𝐉𝐎𝐘𝐓𝐎𝐘.𝐓𝐎𝐑

› WELCOME TO THE RED ROOM... RESERVED FOR GUESTS OF PARTICULAR TASTES

› toji x f!reader

› word count : 2k+

- ̗̀໒ warnings : sex work, on camera, choking, my spit kink shining thru again, biting, backshots, (1) ass smack, fingering, cervix fucking, reader has hair long enough to pull, squirting, rough sex, full nelson, creampie

You take a drag of your cigarette, bleary sleep deprived eyes doing their best to focus on the obnoxious flashing neon sign. WE'VE GOT A DOLL FOR EVERY TASTE. It makes you scoff as you grind the but out beneath your scuffed shoe, that's all they think of you all as, dolls. Props that just so happen to moan and squirt.

For the most part you keep your complaints to yourself, money is money. Not that this was what you ever pictured you'd land on as a career but it could always be worse.

Exhaling the last of the crisp night air from your lungs you pull open the sleek silver backdoor to Cloud Nine. The back hallways are made up of dim, twisting corridors. Some lead to the back offices, to security, but as you hook a left to brush past a tinkling bead curtain you're met with the large open dressing room you all share.

You prefer to spend as little time back here as possible, doing the bulk of your prep at your apartment before you're on for the night. You can't stand their mindless, giddy chatter. It also prevents you from getting attached to any of them, or taking on a puppy so to speak.

Before you can finish tucking your bag and coat away in the dingy locker your floor manager is waving a piece of paper in your face.

It makes your stomach flip.

"You got swapped, Angel can't do the red room and you're the only other experienced girl in tonight."

The red room was only ever offered on nights an experienced doll was on the floor, since the people reserving red rooms always have a... particular taste in mind. Newer girls wouldn't be able to handle it. As much of an annoyance as it is to be switched with so little notice, you don't mind. It can get dull shaking your ass for run of the mill patrons all night, plus the red room is where the real money is.

"One or-?" You ask vaguely.

"One guy, don't keep him waiting alright?" She says dismissively.

You grab the piece of paper, the list of what you will and strictly won't do for a red room service. It was standard fare: creampie, light sadism, degradation, ect. Since it wasn't too extreme you didn't bother filling it out, it's easier to just tell the guy.

It's not far to the private rooms, and part of you is more than a little eager to see just who reserved one of these eye wateringly expensive sessions.

Even bathed in the dim red lights you could tell he was attractive, dark hair and eyes that held something elusive even though he kept contact with your own.

"I didn't bother filling this out, nothing you requested is off limits for me." You smile as you let the paper flutter to the floor, taking the seat beside him on the plush lounge.

Out of the corner of your eye you see the blinking light on the camera, he already set it up to record. It makes you quirk a brow at him, usually even the most gutsy ones are a little camera shy.

He smirks at you. "I'll be gentle."

With the way he says it you know it's a lie.

With a grin you lay back, propping a pillow under your head and trying not to focus on that little green recording light in your peripheral. The worst part is being filmed, but that's part of the rooms appeal. These guys pay for the ability to record the entire session not just for being able to fuck someone with no holds bared, but the catch is the club also gets to upload it.

The feeling of his skin brushing against yours cracks your train of thought. His fingertips are calloused, hands rough but he doesn't have the look of a working man. As those fingertips caress a trail down your inner thighs you shiver, letting out a quiet gasp.

"Puttin' on a show?" He purrs.

You give a breathy giggle, winding your arms around his muscles back as he leans over you between your legs. "Isn't that what you paid for?"

He pushes against you, lips brushing experimentally against yours, and deepens it to something harsh and hungry when he feels you start to squirm beneath him. His touch feels like fire, scorching a path across your skin with every grope and fondle of your body. You feel a familiar sensation of dizziness, of lightheadedness; every movement is skilled and purposeful, a deliberate attempt to steal the breath from your lungs and leave you choking on your own spit.

His lips begin to make their way down your neck, sucking hard against the delicate skin and making you groan with every nip of his teeth. In a daze you help him undo the straps of your barely there top, head tipping back when his mouth finds one of your nipples. They get the same rough treatment as your throat, and he gives a particularly sharp graze of his teeth clearly just to hear you yelp.

Your hands cup your breasts, kneading them, as his mouth dips marks a path down your stomach. Caught up in your own eagerness you wiggle your hips slightly, anticipating what's coming only to feel him grip your legs and yank you down further. The suddenness makes you wince, propping on your elbows to see just what he has in mind.

The way he's looking at you, with such debauched hunger it sends butterflies off in your chest. You don't even know his name but you know this is the kind of man a red room was designed for. As he leans forward again between your legs you feel his erection press hard against you, making the fabric of your panties slide against your clit with delicious friction.

Before you can ask, beg, for more his thick fingers glide up the column of your throat and press hard against the sides. Squeezing against your carotid artery and making your mouth drop open. As soon as your lips part you see the shimmer against his bottom lip, watch in fascination as a thick clear string of spit comes down to meet your tongue.

Sucking his lip he brings his face barely an inch from yours, through the fuzz of your restricted blood supply you notice a scar on the corner of his mouth.

"I didn't pay for you to look at the fuckin' camera." His voice is low, gutteral.

The second he lets go your body is automatically sucking air into your lungs, hard and sputtering as you lift your hips up to grind against him. In one smooth movement, before you can even process it properly, he's got you flipped on your stomach and pulling your ass up and back.

Your cheek presses against the plush fabric, eyes squeezed shut feeling his fingers run over your damp panties. There's not even enough time to relish in the contact before two fingers have the fabric pulled to the side, his knuckles sliding past the ring of muscle makes you moan against the lounge seat.

Hearing the soft shuffling of clothes you know he's undressing, even while his other hand is occupied with keeping his fingers scissoring against your slick walls. The sudden emptiness of his fingers withdrawing was quickly replaced by the head of his cock sliding through your arousal, making you suck in a sharp breath.

Just from that little contact you can feel he's got girth and heft, excitement makes you dig your nails into the lounge and press your chest down against it, keeping your ass higher.

You hear him scoff and the sting of his hand coming down hard against your skin makes you cry out, but it's nothing compared to the biting pain as the swollen head pushes against your soaked hole. The stretch is agonizing, you're not sure any amount of prep would've been sufficient. You groan, bottom lip caught in your teeth as you feel the fabric against your face getting wet with the spit seeping from the corners of your mouth.

He doesn't wait for you to adjust before slamming his hips against your ass, hard enough to make your breathing hitch in your throat, and you can feel him brushing against your cervix. The pace is brutal, making your body jostle and shake with each thrust.

Slick squelching mingles with the sound of skin smacking skin to form a perverse melody that only heightens the tension building in your gut. Frantically you slide one hand down to rub you neglected, aching clit but before you can make contact he's got you pulled up by a fistful of your hair. The sting of pain makes tears prick in your waterline as blubbering moans spill from your lips.

The way your body rocks forward with every brush of his cock against your cervix, the way his girth makes your cunt feel overstuffed, it all makes your head spin. His grunts join the obscene cacophony of sounds along with your whines when he lets go of your hair to support your body with one arm while his other hand catches your jaw in a bruising grip.

You squirm, feeling the hot tracks of tears slipping down your cheeks but his hold is steadfast. If you had more presence of mind you'd swear you could feel your heartbeat not just through your entire body but in your cunt too.

As you dissolve in his hold, a crying whimpering mess, he pushes you back down face first into the lounge, holding you by the scruff as he repositions to hit deeper. Your moans fracture into gasps and hiccups as you clench down around him, finally able to rub frenzied circles around your clit and feel that compressed coil snap inside you.

The lounge becomes incredibly damp around your knees and your brain feels as if it's coated in sticky, thick honey.

You whimper pathetically as he yanks you up again, never breaking his pace, forces you to look straight into that ever blinking green light.

"Not all you can take is it?" He sneers, hooking fingers into your mouth and whatever reply you had gets lost in the garbled sounds you choke out around them.

When he suddenly pulls out you groan, body feeling exhausted and boneless on the comedown from your orgasm but he isn't done with you yet. He lays on his back, supporting you on top of him as he makes sure your pussy faces the cameras lens and slips back inside you.

Your eyes roll back as you struggle to help support your own weight. It catches you off guard when pulls you down so your back is pressed against his chest, both of your bodies slick with sweat and various other fluids. His arms loop beneath yours and his fingers lock together behind your neck, making your breaths come in wheezed yelps and your legs automatically rise up.

The muscles in your thighs are screaming from the strain and your lungs burn again, you feel yourself camping around him, walls throbbing and sucking his cock back in with every thrust.

You can't help but sob and blubber hoarsely, begging to cum again with every sharp upswing of his hips. His pace breaks up quickly the tighter you squeeze him, devolving into sloppy thrusts until you feel his cock throb inside you. Warm, sticky heat spreads inside you and you sigh brokenly in his hold.

The cameras unfeeling, fish eye lens catches the creamy white rings forming on his cock, the way his cum drips out of your sore pussy when he slides out of you with a throaty, satisfied groan.

You grin, slow and lazy up at the ceiling. Red room sessions aren't just about the money, they're the most... fulfilling.

[hollowtakami]

Hii! I followed you from an old account that for some reason didn't let me make requests, but now I went back to my hawks era and with it came my obsession with his fics.

Aniwaaays, me and reverse comfort are one, so I was wondering if you could show how reader (s/o) comforts Hawks after suddenly reuniting with his father or just see a photo of him. like, idk brings back a lot of bad memories for him and I would like to see some of it if it's not too much trouble <3

I love You btw, and sorry if i bother u with this

content: mentions/implications of child abuse/trauma, reverse comfort, keigo has c-ptsd, him and reader are both trying their best

a/n: hiya anon! it’s no problem at all, i will always enjoy answering asks and writing for my darling kei<3 and thank you sm, that really makes me smile to know that people genuinely enjoy my work! ^^

Keigo saw so much flash before him every time he blinked.

He remembered the way his teeth would grit when he squawked, spat; the way his hands looked before they came down crashing, a tsunami of scarred skin that would scar him just the same.

Be it physically, or mentally.

Keigo found himself paralysed by the picture, printed in black and white. It might as well have been blood soaked into the newspaper, crumbling in the hero’s faltering grip.

For a moment, the avian wasn’t sat at the table with a breakfast, made with love, laid out like a declaration. But for a second, he was a beaten fledgling who’d been plucked of his autonomy.

Keigo blinked. He was holding a newspaper, he was not there.

The poor baby bird on the floor had dared to get up, the one wing that still flapped crushed under the boot of his father.

He was eating breakfast, the sun was on his skin.

Keigo was not there, physically.

You were surfing some butter around a pan, ready to make some scrambled eggs for you and your boyfriend. Letting the butter melt for a moment, you smiled.

Turning around, you beamed, “I’m using butter for the eggs this time, not oil, just like Fuyumi told me!”

Mentally, Keigo was there.

Noticing the way your partner looked as though he had been turned to stone, your heart grew cold. You switched off the gas hob, almost gliding through the kitchen to the dining table where Keigo sat, paralysed.

“Baby?” You whispered, your words falling on death ears.

The newspaper shook in the avian’s hand, your eyes flicking to the front page. There he was, Keigo’s father; Takami The Thief.

When he was drowning under the surface of his anxiety, you knew better than to startle him. You pulled out a chair and sat beside him. Your hand gently covered his like unexpected snow. You felt how cold his skin was, be it from the morning breeze or the fear laced in his blood.

“You’re home, birdie,” you said, clearly. “He’s not here, he never will be.”

Your words were firm, and for a moment you swore you felt Keigo’s fingers twitch under the blanket of your hand.

“I- I feel like, like I can’t breathe,” was all Keigo could say.

You inched closer to Keigo, wrapping your arms around him. Careful not to touch his plumage, as to not trigger him further, you squeezed him in your embrace.

“Smell the flowers, spread the pollen,” you gently instructed, “just like the therapist taught you, yeah?”

Keigo inhaled sharply through his nose, a shaky breath leaving his open mouth soon after.

The two of you repeated these steps together, completely forgetting about your cold breakfast waiting for you on the stove.

“I promise you, Keigo,” you lifted up his bangs, kissing his forehead. “I’m not gonna let him get to you.”