#ty lanky

[volfoss]

Literally need to learn how to sew soooo bad it's not even funny

[demonwebs]

u can't tell me every single female drow vhaal crossed paths with in menzoberranzan didn't immediately tug on his pointy lil ears and made him shrink down a few inches

[lovebugism]

i feel like eddie doesn’t seem himself as “hot” but obviously you do. you’re on your way to a pool party and steve’s and he walks out in just swim trunks asking if he looks okay (they were thrifted and he’s just making sure they fit correctly okay 🥹). y’all barely even make it to steve’s because you can’t get over how GOOD this man looks.

you're so real for this anon. ty for requesting :D — the one where eddie munson has no idea how pretty he is (established relationship, hurt/comfort, cw for mentions of body insecurity and allusions to smut 18+ | 1.1k)

Eddie stands in the corner of your bedroom, before the full-length mirror propped against the wall, and pokes himself once in the stomach. The pale, pudgy skin there dips under his pointer finger before bouncing back in place. He can’t stop looking at his tummy, which sits just barely over the hem of his swim trunks. 

It’s hardly noticeable. Nothing anyone else would bother looking twice at. But to him, it’s so distressingly obvious that the sight alone makes his chest ache.

“Do these look okay?” Eddie mumbles absentmindedly, not looking back at you as he runs his ringed fingers under the elastic edge of the plain black shorts. The gesture is obviously an anxious one — like, if he does it enough times, maybe he can stretch it out a bit. (It hasn’t quite worked for him yet.)

Your silence is palpable and hardly encouraging. 

Eddie looks at you over his shoulder, deep brown eyes glimmering with melted chocolate and distant worry, half-hidden behind his wild curls. He finds you lying in the middle of your bed — with your head in your palms and your feet kicked up behind you — staring right at him.

Your eyes meet. You blink hard, face burning as your glazed-over gaze regains its life once more. “Hm?” you hum, then clear your throat.

Eddie’s lips quirk faintly upward. A mere flicker of a smile at your coyness. “I asked if these looked okay.”

You look him up and down to admire his form, (which you’d been doing the entire time, in truth, only now you’ve got the go-ahead for your unabashed leering.) 

Your boy is a tower of milky white quartz — full of lanky limbs, fading tattoos, and dustings of sparse hair. As far as you’re concerned, Eddie Munson was carved by Michaelangelo himself. A hand-crafted sculpture lost to time who somehow wormed his way into your heart and Forest Hills trailer park alike. 

Your eyes trail from his pretty face, to his long neck, to the black widow tattooed on his collarbone. They land finally on the happy trail below his belly button that disappears into his swim shorts. 

Your breath catches in your throat. You swallow hard and try to come up with something to say as your brain short-circuits.

“Yeah. Yeah, they look— they look great, Eds,” you stammer, rising from your lounged position on the bed to sit along the edge of it. You squeeze your thighs together when a dull throbbing settles suddenly between them. “Do they fit okay?”

Eddie, unaware of your blossoming desire, turns away. He looks back at his reflection, and his eyes fall immediately to his stomach. He runs his pointer fingers under the hem of the shorts and pretends it does something. Though, it doesn’t change how much of his torso is on display just now. Or how pale his lanky legs are after being hidden all summer season.

“I think so,” he murmurs with an unconvincing waver to his voice. He shifts his weight on his bare feet and caves. “I don’t know— I think I’m just gonna change.” 

You rise from the squeaking mattress. The oversized tee you’re using as a makeshift cover-up floods your smaller form. You catch the boy’s wrist before he can reach for the clothes he left in a pile on your floor. 

“You promised you weren’t gonna wear jeans!” you protest in a playful whine.

Eddie meets your pout with a more exaggerated one — brows twisted, nose scrunched, mouth snarled.  “I know, but I hate these,” he says with a louder whine.

“I don’t want you to get heat stroke and die,” you confess, mousy and obviously sarcastic, as you fall into the boy’s bare chest. 

You wrap both arms around his waist and rest your chin on his sternum, blinking up at him with pretty, glittering eyes. You can smell the floral shampoo in his hair from here, and the musky cologne on his neck you bought for him last Christmas.

Eddie cups your cheeks with softly calloused palms. “Good to know,” he quips with a lopsided smile that he then kisses you with. The crooked grin tastes faintly of nicotine and boy — a nostalgic feeling more than a real flavor.

“I’m serious, Eds,” you tell him with a stern glint in your eyes, chin bobbing against his chest with every word. “They look great on you, okay? Cross my heart.”

His chest sparkles at the compliment. Warms so much it starts to hurt all over again. 

And it’s not that he thinks you’re lying, he just wishes he believed you more. Or that he could see himself through your eyes or something. They always get so squishy around the edges when you look at him — with an adoration he doesn’t know he deserves.

“You’d tell me if I look like an idiot, though, right?” he wonders, half-joking.

“I tell you you look like an idiot all the time,” you deadpan, equally half-joking.

That gets a laugh out of him. “Fair enough,” the boy nods with a quiet chuckle.

“But I like these. Seriously. You should wear them,” you advise firmly and step back from him. Eddie mourns the warmth of your body when only your hands reach out to touch him. “And you can blame them for making us late…”

Eddie’s brows furrow at the mischievous lilt in your voice. “We don’t have to be at Steve’s for another, like, fifteen minutes,” he insists with a breathy laugh that gets caught in his throat when your hand dips under the hem of his swim trunks. “Oh?” he hums with a crooked smile.

You nod with your bottom lip trapped between your teeth. The fuzzy hair of his happy trail tickles the soft skin of your fingertips. His skin is soft and warm and inviting. Your hand starts to ache with the longing to feel him completely.

Eddie forgets how to breathe when you cup his stiffening cock in your supple palm. His eyes go heavy as his pink mouth falls softly agape. “Oh…” he repeats, deeper and more far away this time.

You grin in the face of his distant pleasure, which you seem to give him with little effort now (like a total fucking minx.) Eddie’s chest twists at the roguish twinkle in your eye. He knows he’s surely in for it now, but he doesn’t mind it. He yearns for it, really.

He only hopes that Steve won’t mind either — when the two of you show up at his place a half hour or more late, mussed with an obvious pleasure and reeking of it just the same.

[gyuswhore]

Fifteen to Forever

"I can’t not be happy when I know I have you."

PAIRING: hockeyplayer!choi seungcheol x f!reader

SYNOPSIS: Fifteen was the age you had met Choi Seungcheol at a school hockey game. Forever was the age you would find yourself spending with him.

CONTAINS: fluff, angst, smut (MINORS DNI), growing up, tears (a lot), distance, this is so emotional you will be in your feels, kissing, p in v sex (unprotected), clit stimulation, handjobs, happy endings bc we love them, i think that's it

WORD COUNT: 6k

masterlist

[AN]: thank you so much @ressonancee for birthing the idea of hockey player cheol in the first place, reading over some of the bits and helping me w some of the plot!!! ty for letting me ramble in your dms lol. hockeyplayer!cheol WILL reappear in other fics bc I'm obsessed with the idea, for now, I hope you enjoy this angsty fluffy creation <33

It wasn’t until the last echo of the slammed car door had faded that you realized, yes, mom, I do actually want you to go in with me. 

But alas, as the last tresses of exhaust from her car fade into nothingness, you accept that you’d have to do this alone. Gripping the straps of your brand new backpack helps you ground yourself as the increasingly erratic breathing takes over you. It sinks in now that you’re alone. 

There’s a honk, and you realize you’re still frozen in the drop-off zone, the mom in the Subaru not appreciating the 7 AM delay to drop off her own high schooler. You wonder if her kid would let her drop them off inside. 

Scurrying into the entrance of the open gates, you find the courtyard full. Huddles of teens laughing and yelling despite the early morning hour, not a spare square foot on the grass. You try to find someone who looks like an adult but fail, hoping you’ll be luckier once you’re inside the building. 

You do find yourself lucky as you find a line of teachers at the entrance, ready to greet the new batch of freshmen on their first day of high school. There are a few other kids who look as tense as you, but you feel better with the way the administrator pats your shoulder as she hands you your schedule, assigning you to a lanky sophomore to show you around the building that’d become your second home for the next four years. 

Jeonghan tells you his name as he leads you into your homeroom, where you deposit your bag before going back out. He’s peculiar, you decide. He tells you to never walk without looking at the floor on Monday mornings to save your shoes from the occasional start-of-the-week breakfast hurl. He tells you in the cafeteria that the lasagna was horrible, but not the sloppy joes; the sloppy joes were good. He tells you in the gym that the coach would let you off if you rubbed a little eyeliner under your eyes, “he’s an empath.” 

By the time he’s listing off clubs and teams, you feel a little less nervous, pushing you back into your fuller homeroom with a sign-up sheet and a goodbye. You don’t get to say thank you. 

Kwon Soonyoung slips into the empty seat next to you, introducing himself a little louder than you’d anticipated, but you suppose you needed the enthusiasm. He innocently slips you his home number and hopes out loud that you’d be the best of friends. 

You get in the car that afternoon, responding with a wider-than-expected smile at your mother inquiring about your day. 

“It was great! I think I’ll like it here.”

You found it strange that the rink was so packed for a high school hockey game, but that was before you saw the ten-foot banner and face paint. Soonyoung sits on your right as Jiwoo places herself on your left, both donned in blue and yellow, sandwiching your uncoordinated outfit. For whatever reason, you’d thought movies exaggerated the hype around high school sports, yet the support for the boys entering the rink roars into your ears to prove you wrong. 

They win, and with the way the rest of the team pats him on the back after sending in the last puck, you assume it’s all thanks to the boy with the Choi on the back of his jersey. 

He removes his helmet, hair flopping into his eyes as you realize you know him. He was always in the cafeteria with Jeonghan, the boy who gave you a tour on your first day, along with many other boys from his year. It was hard not to notice them with the ruckus they were always causing, yet you found them easy to drown out with the rest of the noise. 

“What’s his first name? The guy with the 08 on his back?” you ask Soonyoung. 

“Oh, that’s Seungcheol. Dude’s a fucking progidy or something.”

“Prodigy,” Jiwoo corrects. 

“Yeah, that. Jihoon said the only reason they got to finals last year was ‘cause of this guy.” 

You watch as he drinks from his bottle from the benches, smiling at his coach and teammates as they debriefed. At least you were guessing that was happening; the only thing you were thinking about was how you could hear his laugh from where you sat. And how it was making you smile, too. 

You stare at your worn shoes that glow in multicolors as the beats in the gym warp and stagger through the speaker. You’re on your third punch, finding yourself awkward without something to occupy at least one hand. 

You had danced a little with Jiwoo, watched with bright eyes as Soonyoung dance off-ed yet another senior to his victory, giggled as you let another freshman, Jun, take Jiwoo away for the next dance. You now lace the edges of the party, taking a breather as you down the remnants of your punch, already trailing the memorized path to the snack table. Maybe you’ll try some of the lemonade this time. 

There’s already somebody occupying the lemonade cooler when you get there, back to you as you patiently wait for him to finish up. He moves away, leaning against the table. He takes a sip from his cup, and you move forward to fill your own. 

It’s Seungcheol. You recall his name as you recognize his face. He somehow looks as haphazard as you last saw him from yesterday’s hockey game. 

If he had come in with a tie, it’s long gone as he has his collar popped and shirt unbuttoned the first few steps. It doesn’t end there as you note the hair that dresses his eyes, soaked in what you cannot imagine is water with the way you saw someone with a similar build typhoon across the floor with nearly as much vigor as Soonyoung has had tonight. 

He’s downing the cup in haste, and you take a sip of the slightly tart drink as you debate if you should say something. 

“You did really well yesterday. Congrats,” you decide to say. 

He emerges from his cup to acknowledge you sipping on your own lemonade, “Oh, thanks. Were you there?” 

“Oh, yeah, I was. First hockey game, went with my friends,” you let out a little chuckle, not understanding why you suddenly felt so awkward. 

“Cool,” he answers plainly, mouth glistening and posture stagnant. “You’re friends with Soonyoung, right? Seen him hang around Jihoon a lot.”

“Yeah, he’s — he’s friends with everybody,” you laugh a little, and you hear him laugh with you. 

“How do you handle him? He’s giving a run for everybody’s money out there,” he gestures to the dance floor with a smile. 

“He mellows out after a while; he’s just excited,” you say, understanding his bewilderment.

“How’re you finding high school so far?” he asks when he runs out of things to say, yet forgets that he can easily excuse himself. But he doesn’t.

“Pretty alright. I’m having fun so far.” You don’t need to ask him the same, knowing well that the sophomore was having the time of his life.

“Good to hear, hope it stays that way for you.”

It’s another painful five seconds before you see Jiwoo waving at you from afar, pointing at something Soonyoung is doing. 

“Uh, I’ll see you around, my friend’s waving me over–”

“Oh, sure, uh, I’ll see you around.”

You give him one more tight-lipped smile as you wave from waist length before retreating. 

“Wait!” 

You turn around at his voice. 

“I never got your name.”

Seungcheol took you on your first not-date in the spring.

Not-date because neither of you had labeled it as such, but you were pushed to reconsider when both Jiwoo and Soonyoung insisted.

He had brought his car that you slipped into after school to drive to the movies, where he bought you popcorn and paid for both of your tickets. He held your hand as you walked out of the theatre, wide-eyed and all smiles as you discussed the film you had just sat through for two hours. 

His palm fit in yours like it belonged there, and maybe it was your fifteen-year-old brain talking. Still, you never expected to be this comfortable with him — especially after the possible insinuation your friends had instilled. 

He drove you home that night as you searched for a million excuses to stay a little longer in his car as he parked in front of your door. But alas, you open the car door at the end of the night and are surprised to find him doing the same as he walks around to where you get out. 

“I had a lot of fun today,” you say in your rehearsed line.

“Me too,” he smiles. “The weather’s getting nicer, we should see the cherry blossoms next weekend. If you wanted to. We can take the car again.” 

He didn’t kiss you, at least not on the lips as he hugged you at your front door and pressed his lips to your cheek. 

You were quick to squeak out your goodbyes after that happened, slamming your door shut as you vaguely heard him drive off. 

With a hand to your racing heart, you count to ten. Perhaps you’d reconsider that not-date after all. Besides, you had cherry blossoms to look forward to. 

Choi Seungcheol kissed you, really kissed you, when he brought the team to the cup they missed out on last year, throwing himself at you as soon as you appeared before him. He was sweaty, half-dressed in his gear with his skates still on as he embraced you tighter than anyone ever had before. 

He put his lips on yours the second he saw your face as you pulled away, unable to help himself despite the groans and retches of his teammates, despite the fact that an entire bleacher’s worth of people saw you both. 

Not that either of you cared; you were just happy he didn’t have his mouth guard on (and that he kissed you before you couldn’t help it yourself).

It was in your junior year and Seungcheol’s senior year that you began to hear the absurdities about the strength of your relationship, that you wouldn’t make it, that high school sweethearts never do. 

With shaking hands, you grip your boyfriend’s arm as he has a conflicted look in his eye. 

“No,” you say. You wonder where all of this strength was coming from when you all wanted was to cry. “You’re gonna go. You will go. I won’t let you throw all of this away because of something that’s never gonna waver.” 

He’s silent as he refuses to meet your gaze. The voices were getting to him, his older college friends laughing when he suggested that his relationship would last both college and the distance it would bring. He realizes he’s not so sure anymore. 

He sits cross-legged in front of you on your bedroom floor, mentally prepared to walk out for the last time. 

“You’re supposed to be happiest about this; I don’t understand why you insist I leave. And so far away?” he looks slightly bewildered. 

“Because you’ll regret it if you don’t. This isn’t about me, Cheol, it’s about everything you’ve worked for all these years—”

“Us, what about us? I’ve worked on us, too.”

“Why have you gone years without listening to a word what other people say to only listening to them now?”

“Was it just me, then? Because it feels like I’m the only one worried about our future together—”

“Choi Seungcheol, stop right there.” Your voice is brittle, and you don’t know how long you can keep the tears at bay. 

“I…I don’t know what to think,” his shoulders slump even lower. 

His hockey scholarship would take him so, so far away. He thought you were strong enough for this, but with every anecdote, every comment, every dejected “have it your way” to his resilience, he wonders if the both of you would be forced to fight a losing battle if he left. 

There were sports universities here at home, but there was no you with his scholarship. 

“I’ll tell you what to think. Will you listen to me?” 

Slowly, but surely, he nods. 

“You can get the scholarship you’ve always wanted, and we can stay as we are, although a little farther away.”

He looks like he wants to say something but doesn’t.

“I believe in us. And if you don’t right now, I’m ready to believe for the both of us. We’ll get through this.” 

In the end, Seungcheol believed you over everything the world told him, praying he wouldn’t let you or himself down as he laid with you on the last night he’d call his bedroom home. 

Graduation was a happy endeavor, momentarily forgetting what lay ahead as he enjoyed his last hours with all his friends in one place. The heavy feeling returned as the night progressed, agreeing to spend the night with him, tucked under his covers as you listened to his heartbeat. You wonder how long it will be until you're able to do this again. 

As you lay in his stripped bedroom, there’s little either of you say, an unspoken agreement to not sleep, not tonight. He has an early morning, but he doesn’t really seem to care as he continues to fiddle with your hair, kissing you at intervals like he's trying to bring back the feeling when it begins to fade. 

There’s little you can talk about when you’re trying to memorize each other’s scent. You remind yourself to give him your sweater when morning comes, already noting the hoodie you need to remember to pick up, the lone one he left you in his closet. 

But as the first rays of sun peeked through the blinds, sending stripes of sun into the bedroom, you tried not to feel the hard clench of your heart as the bare room came into sight. Despite the snoozing of alarms, the multiple knocks on his door, and the dawn of a new day, you let yourselves have an extra five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes. 

Just you and him before it would be you, and it would be him.

Seungcheol called you more than you called him. It was everywhere, even if it was just to say a quick “I love you” before a game, to hear your voice before he went to class, to listen to you complain about an assignment before he had to do his own. 

As resilient as you showed yourself to be, you’d be lying if you said there was a part of you that was afraid of how much faith Seunghceol held for the both of you, but at ease you were with the constant bugging he’d do and the bugging he seemed to appreciate back. 

By Christmastime, he’d texted you his itinerary for the holidays, explaining how he couldn’t spare a second to things like thinking. Most of his list involved spending all day rotting indoors with you. 

As much as Seungcheol had hoped you’d pick a college nearer to him, he was less scared when you finally announced your college decisions close to graduation. The past year had proved a lot, mostly that you both were stronger than the distance. Which is why he was the first to congratulate you when you got into the college of your choice, despite the fact that you’d be even farther away, leaving home in what felt like the opposite direction to him. 

You were scared too, mostly of how Seungcheol would react, but seeing the smile break out on his face when you told him gave you all the reassurance you needed. That summer brought you the best memories of your teenage years, with Seungcheol, preparing for you both to leave. Except this time, the air was less tense, fewer tears shed, fewer solemn goodbyes at airport gates, and less desperation in both of your hearts. A surety that you’d come back to each other. 

Seungcheol was offered a contract with his dream hockey team when you were on the cusp of your final year. He told you nearly two weeks after he received the first email, not believing it until he was pestered to do so by the representative. 

You cried on the phone that night, the ache in your chest unbelievably present as you wished you could hug him at that moment. He denied his own tears, but you knew his glassier-than-normal eyes weren’t just through the camera lens. You told him you were proud, you told him this was only the beginning, that you needed to sit in the bleachers with his jersey on for every game he’ll ever play, that he was about to have an entire career to be proud of soon. 

He let a couple tears slip. 

And when he showed up to your graduation, sitting next to your family, you gave him the biggest hug you could muster from your bones. That year may have been the last you’d have to endure apart, but it was somehow the hardest. 

It was in that moment, when you pulled away to look at his smiling face, that the years registered in your mind. 

You’re fifteen again, seeing Seungcheol for the first time, donning the features he hadn’t grown into yet, the features you hadn’t grown into yet. You have to tiptoe to meet his lips now, see a man where there was once a boy, the deep set of maturity behind his pretty eyes. 

When he drops the last of your boxes into his — your shared apartment, you’re brought to the stark realization that you're going to stay here.

It’s when you’re unpacking your toothbrush, placing it in the cup right next to his that you realize you could do whatever you wanted with each other without having to work around flight schedules. It’s when he’s hobbling around wooden planks and screws in the bedroom, putting together the brand new queen-sized bed to replace his too-small twin, that you realize that you weren’t here for the week, or for the month or for any set amount of time; you were here forever.

At least that’s what you hope as you watch him collapse the last of the cardboard boxes to recycle, shoving in the corner of the entryway, leaving that job for tomorrow. 

By the time you emerge in the living room after a shower, Seungcheol has already begun to unpack the delivery food on the coffee table. It’s an array of delicious smells, slightly soggy food, and mounds of styrofoam and plastic wrap; a feast for your tired, tired bodies. 

The dumplings are amazing, and the warm feeling in your chest expands as you realize you can now order them whenever you like. 

Seungcheol picks out the chopped chilies from his food, migrating them onto your own plate as he talks about his next practice session without interruption. 

A thought occurs to you in that moment as you watch him down his cola. “Hasn’t coach put you on a diet plan?” 

“Yeah,” he says normally. You merely stare at him, not understanding how any of this junk could be any good for his form, especially when you know he’s good about abstaining when it comes to training. 

He smiles at the questioning look on your face, setting down his utensils, “It’s our first meal, in our first home. I think we deserve to share this with each other.” 

A smile breaks out on your face at the thought of this being your first meal, the first of many meals together in this home. Of all the meals you’ll share in every home after this, every day. 

And while Seungcheol finds himself sacrificing his diet to enjoy all of this greasy grub with you, you will also find yourself occasionally sharing his awfully bland chicken breasts and salads. All to share with each other. 

Walking into the bustling restaurant in your uncomfortable shoes and your arm around Seungcheol’s, you’re quick to find the group you’re looking for. 

The noise is a dead giveaway, and you quickly realize they haven’t changed. 

You hear Soonyoung before you see him, his distinct laugh echoing the loudest across the sea of mingling heads. A loud banner hangs at the end of the room with your high school grad year. 

You detach from Seungcheol as he finds his junior friends, and you find yours, taking both Soonyoung and Jiwoo into a bone-crushing hug. It’s been a while since you last saw them. The crowd of familiar faces greets you, making small talk with everyone as they introduce you to their partners and even their children. You’ve grown; all of you have. 

“Seungcheol’s here too. You guys were together in high school, right?” somebody asks you at some point during the night. “He graduated before us, though; wonder who he’s here with.” 

You don’t blame them for assuming, considering both of you have been in your own circles all night. That, added to the obvious assumptions of high school sweethearts, you only laugh a little as you reply with a wider-than-usual smile. 

“Oh, he’s here with me,” 

You go home with a permanent smile stuck to your face, talking more animatedly than usual in the car ride home. Seuncheol mirrors your smile as he listens. 

Your good mood prevails for the rest of the night, even as you slip under the covers, ready to end the night on a happier-than-usual note. Seungcheol is reading his book when you crawl under his arm, head on his chest, and your arm slung across his torso. You feel his lips on the top of your head, the faint sound of his book being placed on the bedside table.  

“What’s got you so smiley?” he asks with one of his own.

You shake your head as you reply, “Nothing. I’m just happy I saw Soonyoung and Jiwoo.”

“I’m glad you saw them too. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

You hum in response, suddenly remembering a conversation you had. “You know, Jess asked me who you were there with.” 

“Figures,” he shrugs before laughing a little.“How much did she hesitate before asking you?” 

“Looked like she was holding it in for a little bit. Don’t blame her, though. She probably thought we ended it in epic teenage fashion.” 

He snorts at that, “Probably would’ve if you didn’t talk some sense into me.”

“Probably would’ve if you didn’t trust me like you did,” you crane your neck to look at him. 

“Glad I wasn’t that far gone,” he whispers, a faraway look in his eyes despite looking directly at you. “Haven’t doubted us ever since.”

There’s that warm feeling that spreads throughout your body, an overwhelming feeling of contentment coming over you. There was nothing, nothing, that could convince you to be anywhere else, especially anywhere that wasn’t in his arms. 

“Sometimes…well, a lot of the times, I think about us,” you start. “I thought us hitting six months was enough to tell me I’d be with you forever.” 

He smiles at the thought of high school you, starry-eyed, awkward little kids. He remembers the way you blushed when he kissed you for the first time in front of the whole school, the heat that had risen to his own face at the time. 

“And then we hit a year, and then two years,” you remember every surprise for every anniversary, from when you’d collect your allowance for weeks to get him something he’d like. 

“And then college happened. I tried being so positive, but I had never been more scared for us. I hope we never have to go through something that hard ever again.” You almost sound like a child not wanting to go to the doctor’s office, but with the way you feel yourself tighten your grip around him, you don’t think it’s any different. 

You can feel your eyes begin to well, and your voice begins to shake. It was nearly comical how quickly the smiles were turning into sentimental tears. 

Seungcheol places a kiss on your lips, and you know it was meant to be reassuring, but it only wrenches open the floodgates. The tears begin to make their way down your face, sniffles muffled as you go back to burying your face in his chest, his shirt soaking the wetness. You can feel a rumble in his chest as he laughs at your state. He’s also squeezing up your sides and placing kisses in any place he can reach. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you murmur into his shirt. 

“It’s okay. Today was very reflective,” he reassures, letting you stay hidden. 

“I just—” you sniff. “I just wanna stay happy like this all the time.” 

It’s only then that he guides your stained face away from his shirt to bring you to look at him, wiping the remnants of your tears as you try to keep the fresh ones at bay. “We’ll be happy, even when we’re sad. I can’t not be happy when I know I have you. I love you too much for that.”

“I love you,” you whisper into his lips, arms around his neck as you pull yourself to him, chest to chest. You kiss him properly, pecking him a few times to have your fill. 

And then he’s pulling away, ever so slightly to bring a bare millimeter of gap between your lips. His hands burn where they rest, one on your waist, one on your thigh. He’s breathing hard. Both of you are. 

“I’m gonna say something so not fit for right now,” he breathes.

You can’t help but freeze in his hold as you register his words, hesitating before you ask. “What?”

“Marry me.” 

It comes out as the same whisper, directly into your lips as he utters the words. Like he was keeping a secret from the walls and the furniture, like they were only meant for you; because they were only meant for you. Your heart stops, and you vaguely wonder if you’re breathing at all. 

“I—” he takes a long, shaky breath from his nose. “I was supposed to do this a little differently, but…”

You watch him reach over into his bedside drawer, the one you never touch, and bring out the smallest velvet box. Opening it reveals the prettiest, most delicate diamond you’ve ever seen, the jewel glinting and sparkling even in the dim bedroom lights. 

That’s when you let out a tiny gasp, feeling the tears return, dripping down your face one after the other. “Choi Seuncheol, you bitch.”

You’re sobbing at this point, and it has him sitting up straighter, leaving the box to the side as he lurches for you when you pull away. 

“Wait, fuck, sorry, I thought,” he exhales in frustration, hands trying to pull yours away from your face as you cry into your hands. He sounds desperate. “I got carried away, I don’t know what I was thinking—”

“No, it’s not that,” you finally manage through hiccups. 

“Yes, of course, I’ll marry you, I’m just fucking emotional.” 

You hear him laugh again, no doubt out of pure relief, as he nearly doubles over at the situation. 

You’re a little calmer as you continue to sniffle, watching him with a half-disgruntled, half-amused expression, “Put it on, stupid, or do I need to cry again for you to do that.”

You don’t need to tell him twice as he slips the ring on your finger, the perfect fit, the perfect jewel, the perfect ring. 

Bringing him closer, you kiss him again, lips pressed hard on his as you try to communicate every last emotion into it. You’re out of words, and you hope he knows what you're feeling. You know he knows; he always knows. 

He’s reciprocating with the same vigor, arms coming up to wrap around you so tight it pushes you flush against his body. He nips at your lip, running his tongue over it for good measure before letting it enter your mouth. You let him take the lead, let him guide you through every motion, every step forward. 

You’re putty when he pulls off your clothes for you, feeling your heart scream in protest whenever he pulls away to get rid of the obstructions. Your emotions were in a delicate place, and you suddenly couldn’t handle not being able to feel him against you consistently. 

He does well to make it quick, moving back on top of you to occupy your mouth once more. He tries to migrate lower, latching onto your neck to continue his ministrations there, but you don’t let him as you pull his face back to yours again.

“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth before latching onto his lips.

He lets out a low grunt, pulling away for breath as he whispers it back, “I love you more.”

If you won’t let his mouth move, you let his hands do whatever they wish, feeling them move lower against your sides to reach your hips. His thumbs draw circles on them as he slowly moves his hands to where you can feel the arousal grow. 

His fingers hit your bare heat as he plunges them into your folds, encasing your clit between his fingers. He drags them up slowly before moving back down, all the way to your now sopping hole to brush against the opening. 

You sigh against his lips as he pushes his finger in slowly, lips releasing yours as you throw your head back to feel his digit around your walls. He pushes a second one in without hesitation, and you know he’s just as desperate as you right now. 

He’s only two fingers deep, and yet you feel yourself beginning to come undone. He always knew what to do when he wanted to stretch you out faster, always knew what to do when he wanted to draw the pleasure out, keep you writhing for hours. 

Right now was different; it felt like he was holding himself back to the point where it was almost painful. If he wasn’t worried about the stretch, he would’ve buried himself inside you already, and yet, when he feels you clench undeniably hard around his fingers as you orgasm, he feels like he might’ve cum himself. 

His low moans echo off the walls with your louder, more desperate ones, riding out your high as you feel him bring his other hand up to rub your clit in fast circles, making the pleasure last. Coming down from your high, you feel him pause for a moment as he peppers kisses on your face, down your jaw and neck, finally coming to press his lips against yours. 

“You okay?” 

You nod in response, already grasping at his boxers to yank them down. Despite having just orgasmed, the satisfaction is yet to come, needing to feel him inside you before you combusted entirely. 

He helps as he discards himself of the final obstruction, letting you stroke his painfully hard member in your hands. The face he makes is heavenly as you watch him feel your hands wrapped around him. The impatience takes over as he finally removes your hands, instead pinning them beside your head as he guides himself to your entrance. 

Seungcheol goes back to planting himself onto you entirely, knowing exactly what you wanted from him, needing to feel him against you so flush and tight. He lets you wrap your hands around his neck as he finally begins to push himself into you, letting his tip graze the beginning of your entrance. 

He breathes into your neck in deep, deep exhales, trying so hard not to cum before he’s even entered you entirely. He takes his time pushing into you, focusing on your fingers as they play with his hair, your palms running down his shoulder blades in a pathway. He closes his eyes as he sheaths himself in you completely, continuing his steady breaths to not come undone before you. 

He begins to move when he feels like he’s gotten a hold of his bearings, feeling you hold onto him as he starts thrusting into your cunt. The sounds you make are bliss; the feeling of every inch of your skin on his is making him lose his already lost mind. 

Your arms drop when they can’t hold onto him any longer, your hands remaining on him regardless, in some way or the other. Seungcheol takes hold of your hand, emerging from the crook of your neck to bring it to his mouth. He kisses it, your palms, the back of your hand, your fingers, directly over the rock he slipped on you himself. 

The tenderness of his actions makes your brain rattle against your skull, the building feeling in your abdomen coming so close to collapsing into release. You find yourself pushing yourself up on your elbows, face finding the crook of his shoulder as you push yourself back into him when pulled back in the slightest. 

You’re so close now, so, so close. “Cheol,”

“I know, darling. Cum for me, baby, I’ve got you, I’ve always got you.”

You release to the sound of his voice, the words that tumble from his desperate mouth, the feeling of his own cum shooting inside your spent walls. He continues to thrust into you as you both let out the loudest moans of the night, letting yourself get wrapped up in the feeling of each other before you lose your peak. 

You register nothing as you feel him drop his weight on top of you, letting the moment pass. 

Despite having had nights rougher, more lengthy than this, you somehow feel more spent than you have at the end of any of those escapades. The answer comes to you in the few minutes it takes for you both to catch your breath, Cheol being just as fatigued as you despite his athlete stamina. 

You feel him continue to press his lips onto your skin, letting you do the same to him in between kisses. Neither of you speak for another few minutes, letting the heaviness of your hearts come forth in the showers of love you seem to want to give each other. 

He’s grasping your left hand, toying with the ring fitted there. “I can’t wait to spend forever with you.” 

A picture of the both of you hangs on the wall in your bedroom, dim yet decipherable in the low lights. There’s a moment where you have a flash of that same photo on multiple different walls. Different shades of neutral, in different rooms in different houses. It’s the same picture. 

You think of what forever might hold for the both of you, separately and together. You let the prospect of every step, every change, and every milestone wash over you in waves that keep coming, crashing back to feed into another. 

Change, you rehearse. There had been lots of it, and yet you had merely scratched the surface of what life was about to throw at you. You knew that, Seungcheol knew that. But you found yourself, in that moment, convinced in entirety that change is good, whether it feels good or bad. 

Distance makes the heart grow fonder; you didn't realize the meaning of the phrase until you had to live apart from the love of your life. Painful, difficult, sometimes agonizing, yet also necessary, you conclude. You wonder if your love would ever have grown this deep if you hadn’t felt life without each other. 

You think of how far you’ve come, how you’ve grown with each other. There was an encompassing of gratefulness that came with every step you had taken, and with every step you would take henceforth, you knew that for certain. 

Perhaps you would find yourself voicing these emotional thoughts to him, but not now. The unspoken was louder than anything you could say. 

“I can’t wait to spend forever with you, too.”

taglist (strikthru could not be tagged): @rubyreduji @vampirexlotita @simqly-yunjin @tomodachiii

[astralnymphh]

sick!ellie is the best, and irrefutably the worst menace. hot soups and action movies in bed did not endure this girl well enough, for a strange wellspring had infected her with energy aplenty. how exactly did she dispense that energy? by making you the object of her sick-in-bed entertainment!

“come here, babe. i won't get you sick.. please?” she would strainingly call out to you, her lanky arms at a stretch outwards, reaching for air she hopes becomes the shape of you in her hold. “just one cuddle for the sick girl?” she ended with a horrid and snotty sniffle, conflicting to her convinces. you cringe to admit it, but you complied each time; it was more than just one cuddle for the sick girl. it lasted throughout the hollow night and resulted in interrupted kisses in the dark. obviously, from sneezing: starting with sweet sensations puckered on your neck, to the inevnitable retreating, eyes unevenly squinting, and guttural, “ahh—choo!” that was shoved into the split ravine of pillows.

“sorry babe,” she would stuffingly drawl and slowly lift her ditzy face up, freckles popping like text in a book from flesh vampirically drawn of life. “did i accidently get it on you?”

then there were the retro 'n robust action movies you managed to tuck her down for. was she at all complying? well, halfway! to spell it out: locking her eyes with the screen at random and pity intervals, sticking spoonfuls of hot soup indeed into her mouth, sometimes into yours. “here comes the annoying, screeching pterodactyl!” she spoke in theatrics, swooping and wooshing the spoon carefully through the air until she nudged it to your mouth. god, this girl acts so stoned when ill. “save it for our kids, alright?” you ply the spoon from her fingers, feeding it into her cracked-open lips instead. “wait—wait, babe, did you say kids?” she nicks the lopsided spoon from her mouth, perked up as a sunflower. “you wanna have kids?”

neither one of you could abandon those vulnerable times, however. sunken lightly into the edges of something blue as morning glory, there was the empty residence of burden. having the flu is a simple, prosaic thing, but it creates a stump in time nevertheless. “sorry for wakin' you up like that i just.. mhhn, just felt it rush, y'know?” the trills of her exhausted speech echoed softly in the bathroom, a chuckle afterwards muddled in the basin of the toilet bowl. “don't want you to feel like you have to come in and hold my hair back everytime. maybe i should start tying it up?”

ellie made light of these situations to eradicate obligation and sentimentality. it took time out of your day, your night; she has this under control, she insists. but you kneeled beside her anyway, collecting her hair in the webs of your thumbs and reciprocating her weak grin, rubbing the warm hill of her upper-back as she plunged those retches right back in. “such an idiot, ellie,” you commented after, brushing thin baby hairs from the frail and pale color of her cheek. “why can't you take yes for an answer?”

“pshh—” she blows from her mouth, amused and propping up on crossed arms. “cause i like being taken care of by you—way too much.”

sick and silly ellie is one of my weak spots, i think. ohh i have so many ideas for her.

[roadkillremi]

Catch Me.

Billy Loomis X F!Reader X Stu Macher

MasterList

Warnings : MINORS DNI,( the following is all consented ) degrading, tying up, chasing around with a knife, chasing through woods, language, exposing the readers chest, a small grinding moment

Summary : Billy and Stu love to play their little games on Reader. This time it's a game of cat and mouse in the woods. But what happens when she makes it past the woods?

Billy reflected his sick games onto you all the time. He would pick out clothes for you to wear. They would be the most feminine and dainty things. This time it was a white night gown that went to your ankles. Billy smiled at you, "So pretty.". You looked up at him, "Billy I wanna go to bed.". He looked at you, "and leave me alone?". You darted your eyes around the room.

"No- I'm just tired." You whined. Billy shook his head, "You should have thought of that earlier. Before you called me all needy and shit.". You looked down ashamed of yourself, Billy grabbed your chin.

"It's okay, baby. Let's play a game, hm?". You looked up at him, "Billy I'm bad at games." You whispered.

"Shh, not at this one. Now let's play one of your favorites when we were kids.". Your eyes widen and you shook your head.

"Yes. Let's play cat and mouse in the woods." He grabbed your wrist taking you outside. You breathed heavily, you were sure it was another psychotic break from his mother leaving. He walked to the border of the woods.

"You run. I count to 15.".

"What about Stu?-" you whispered. Billy looked into the woods, "You know what happens when I catch you. So Run.".

"Billy. I'm scared." You said softly. He looked over at you, "Do you know what to say when you're uncomfortable?". You nodded, "What is it? What's the word?". You swallowed, "Parrot." Billy nodded, "Now run." He demanded. You took off wincing at the pain of your bare feet hitting the sticks. You glanced behind you, nothing yet. You stumbled down a hill tripping onto your knees. You hissed in pain, you heard Billy's boots against the leaves. You stood up quickly trying to find a hiding spot. You darted around finding two big rocks to hide between. You hated to admit it, but you loved running from Billy. He knew it and that's why he did this to you. You heard a low whistle and foot step. You looked down at the ground trying to steady your breath. Billy squatted by one opening of the rocks.

"Found you."

You crawled out the other end and ran off. You knew if you ran far enough you'd make it to Stus house. And you'd win.

His heavy steps were close behind you. The cold air stung your lungs. You pumped your arms faster as you saw Stus house in the distance. You felt relief in you and tried to run faster in the field of overgrown grass. Billy's footsteps grew faster and louder, you stumbled upon the porch. You banged on the door, "Stu! Stu! Open up!". Stu opened the door and you ran in and slammed the door shut. Stu looked at you a bit surprised.

"What's wrong?" He asked. He held you close to his lanky body.

"Someone's chasing me!" You panted, a knock on the door echoed. You shook your head, "Don't answer it, Stu.". Yes I backed up from him as Stu opened the door with a soft chuckle. Billy walked in and looked at you.

"This is the farthest she's made it..." Stu said with a wide smile. Billy nodded, "It is. She usually trips so God damn much.". You backed up into the couch causing you to fall. Billy and Stu walked into the living room looking down at you. Billy squatted, "What now, Bunny?".

"I-I won!" You fussed. Billy smiled and gently grabbed your chin.

"So naive. So dumb. So Pretty. That's why you're our final girl." He said grinning. Stu sat you up right, "Look at your dress it's all dirty.". You looked at Billy, "He made me wear it.". Stu put his finger on his chin, "Better take it off so I can wash it.". You shook your head, "No.". Billy stared at you, he leaned into your ear.

"Are you still wanting to play?"

You nodded, he backed away before standing up.

"Stu take her upstairs." He demanded. Stu grabbed at your hips, you pushed him away getting up. Stu took out his pocket hunting knife flicking the blade up. Billy gave Stu a small nod, you ran up the stairs. Stu laughed running after you, "Come on! Don't be scared, baby!". You ran around the hallways before locking yourself in a bathroom. Stu banged on the door, "Let me in!". You stayed silent, "I know you're in there.". The doorknob jiggled aggressively before it went silent. You stayed there waiting for a sign of him. You slowly creaked the door open looking down the hall. You stepped out silently walking, Billy pushed you against the wall.

"Get off!" You fussed. Billy smiled, "Got her.". Stu huffed, "I wanted to catch her.". Billy glared at him, "Then handle the brat.". He threw you towards him, Stu grabbed your wrists and pulled you into his room.

"You're okay with this?" Stu asked softly. You nodded, "Yes, Stu.". He smiled pushing you onto the bed, Billy walked in holding rope.

"Let's see if she wants to be a rope bunny for us.". Billy grabbed your ankles. You kicked at him trying to fight it off. He smacked your leg leaving a red sting. He tied your ankles together tightly. You kept fighting against Stu as he tried to grab your wrists. He put his knife up to your neck, you stopped fighting him. You stared up at him instead, Stu smiled and grabbed your wrists tying them together.

"What now?" You ask softly. Billy tilted his head to the side, "We hurt you." He smiled. Your eyes widen, he chuckled "Don't worry.". He grabbed Stus knife dragging it down your nightgown.

"It won't last long.".

Stu stood above you staring down at you. He grabbed your face smooshing your cheeks.

"Don't worry, sweetie. Its the stuff you like.". He let go of your face and back away with a wide smile. Billy pushed your ankles up revealing your underwear to the two men.

"Seems like she's enjoying it." He smiled. He put his knee onto your clothed cunt. He pushed it down watching you whine beneath him.

"Poor little whore. So needy for us." Billy whispered. Stu watched intensely, "Should've thought twice before calling us. Telling us how much you wanted us." Stu cooed. You groaned causing Billy to apply more pressure. You moaned softly grinding against his knee. He smacked your thigh causing you to yelp.

"fucking whore." Billy muttered. Stu hiked up your night gown more revealing your chest.

"No bra either." He tsked looking back at Billy. You grunted, "Asshats" you Whispered. Both the boys looked up at you, "Let her go" Billy Whispered. Stu backed up obeying Billy. Billy got up and left the room, Stu followed. You stared at the door and yelled their names.

No answer. You yelled again and again until your voice grew tired. After what ft like hours Billy walked in.

"Done being a little bitch?"

You nodded, he cut the top letting you free. He gently picked you up out of the bed carrying your tired body out of the room. Stu was in the hall waiting for you, "Is she okay?" He whispered. Billy shrugged carrying you downstairs laying you on the couch. Stu kneeled down to your level.

"Did we go too rough?"

You shook your head, "No, just tired.". Stu nodded before sitting on the couch snuggling you. Billy sat on the other end, his hand placed firmly on your thigh.

[arminsumi]

DRINK ME!

Quenching a vampire's thirst... in more ways than one!

Featuring : Sukuna, Satoru, Suguru, Nanami, Choso + fem!reader

Warnings : 🔞 mdni/r : suggestive/smut/18+ content, horny vampires, blood, tying up (Sukuna's), biting (thighs, wrist, neck, hip), creampie / unprotected sex, oral (giving/receiving), face-f*cking, c*m drinking, "sl*t", double d*ck!Sukuna (and double penetration), there might be errors, +++

Note : ah this is a bit silly but idc i love vampires. they can suck me if i can suck them back if u know what i mean 😋🤤👍 enjoy!!

Sukuna

"Comfy?" he grins devilishly at you.

He's bound you to his throne... with your legs spread wide. You can't move an inch, only struggle against the restraining rope.

You made a deal with him; he can drink from you if he fucks you good afterwards as a reward.

He's relishing in your shudders, lightly tracing his sharp nails up your thighs just to elicit a small moan out of you.

His lips come closer, intense gaze burning into yours as he does so. You yelp and squeak when he drags his fangs over your thigh, scratching, inching closer to your panties and inhaling your aroused scent.

"What a nasty slut, getting wet from this." he mutters against your skin, scolding you with his eyes.

Then he sinks his teeth into the flesh of your inner thigh. He smirks as he drinks — and he drinks a bit too much, he gets a bit blood-drunk, so when he's done and coming up to level with your face, he crashes his blood-painted lips on yours and kisses you feverishly. It feels like his kiss knocks the wind out of you.

You feel the fingertip of his middle finger massaging into your pussy, searching up and down for your clit, finding it in no time and applying pressure while he breathes against you. It's buzzing, oversensitive, because he made you wait so long.

"P-please... c-c'mon don't tease... I've been good, r-right? I let you drink so much... please gimme your cock."

He just laughs, big hand trailing down his body to stroke his cock.

"Oh you've been a real good girl, alright. Don't worry. I'm gonna give you some good slut treatment. You better take everything I give you..."

It's hard to take everything he gives you, because by "everything" he meant both of his fat cocks in your tiny cunt and tinier ass... they fill you out so deliciously, pumping in and out of your holes until they get loosened up.

Your holes milk his cocks so perfectly, he's grunting and shooting his seed deep inside, squeezing your body.

"Take it, be a good fuckin' girl and take it... fuck." his composure slips for the small seconds of his orgasm, and his muscular thighs shudder 'n his meaty biceps twitch.

Satoru

"You taste so good..." he rasps. "Come on, let me have some more, yeah?"

He's already had a drink of you tonight — at the candlelit dinner that he forced you to attend; but he's greedy and wants more, not just a wine glass' worth of your blood.

"Greedy bastard..." you scoff, "If you want it, come get it."

You make him chase you down the corridors of his haunted mansion, enjoying the chase wholeheartedly. He pins you to the wall and wedges his knee between your thighs, his big lanky body casting a tall shadow over you as he sinks his fangs deep into your neck for the second time... it's his favorite spot to bite, not just because it gets you going, but because everyone will see his mark there (especially when you wear those low-cut gowns he buys you...)

He's giving you a feral sort of look. Your blood stains his lips. He's a sloppy eater; rivulets of blood drip down his chin and pool in his collarbones. You're a bit dizzy and weak from how much blood he sucked out of you, and he thinks it's cute.

"Thanks for the drink." he murmurs suggestively, "Now how about you suck me next?"

And oh, it's so funny to him how quickly you drop to your knees and willingly open your mouth. The bulge of his cock through his tight pants is mouth-watering.

You're so dizzy, he has to guide you up and down on his length; Satoru's a groaner and an eye-roller when your lips wrap around his cock. He's too long, always poking at the back of your throat and daring to stuff all those inches down it.

Your jaw aches as he fucks your face, but don't worry... he replenishes you as promised, with a mouthful of his creamy cum which you happily swallow.

Suguru

He speaks in a soft yet sinister voice.

"Just a little sip? I promise it doesn't hurt as much as you think."

He certainly wasn't intending to take just one sip. You knew that, yet still you willingly exposed your neck to him.

"Oh, no no, not your neck, pretty thing... give me your wrist."

Why does he want to drink from your wrist? Because to him, it feels more erotic than the neck.

He lays you on an alter, kissing and lapping his tongue at your inner wrist before biting into the sensitive flesh. He's sensual, he languidly sucks and gulps down your blood.

His kimono is loosely tied enough so that you can see that attractive strip of his defined torso.

He laughs while licking a stripe up your forearm, collecting the blood dripping down it. You're trying to thumb the kimono off his shoulders, your whole body hot and needy.

"Suguru... please... y-you got me all worked up, do something about it..."

"Aw, you want me to lay you here? Well I can't say no to those eyes. Let me relieve you... it's only fair, you gave me your body. So I'll give you mine. Spread your legs."

Nanami

He's more of a gentleman than a blood-sucking fiend. He's stoic. A neat eater. He'd never want to stain your clothes with blood, especially not this expensive outfit he bought you...

"Darling, are you really sure? It's going to hurt a lot for you."

When you give him consent once again, he hooks a finger onto his tie and pulls it down to loosen it.

He kisses the place he wants to bite, and pierces your skin with his fangs carefully. The second he tastes your blood, he loses composure, and holds your body tightly against his like you're a meal he's about to devour.

Nanami's so sweet. After a drink from you, he spoils you in between his luxury bedsheets, with his fat warm cock of course! He grunts 'n pounds harder each time you say "right there!", never missing a sweet spot because he knows your body so well by now.

Choso

He's brutally shy, just a college classmate that eyes you out down the corridors and walks very quickly past you while hanging his head in shame. And truly, Choso is so ashamed of his vampirism, so when you find out he's mortified and you have to chase him because he runs and hides his face in his scarf.

But after you give him reassurance, he feels less freakish. He stutters when you offer him a drink of your blood.

And when he drinks from you? He kneels for you, sinks his fangs into the plush of your hips... those hips that he swears hypnotize him.

He whimpers when he gets a taste of your blood, and feels himself getting hard just thinking about sinking his tongue inside your tiny cunt.

He wipes your blood off on the back of his hand and looks at you, cute fangs hooking over his quivering bottom lip.

"Th-thank you... for that... hey, do you mind if I kiss here?" he asks so shyly.

"Mhm, sure~" you smile down at him and it makes his tummy flip.

So he kisses 'n noses between your thighs, whimpering right onto your warm pussy. In no time you're pushing your panties aside an letting him swipe his tongue up and down your slit. Oh he's so lucky :( he gets to eat you out after drinking you up.

"So good... you taste so fucking gooddd..." he's choking on your juices, pleasuring your pussy like an amateur virgin because he is an amateur virgin, but that just makes it better.

"Cum on my face, please please please mmmf!" he begs, tongue stuffing inside your tight hole and wriggling around.

When you cum on his face, he cums hands-free in his pants and makes a big stain :(

© arminsumi

I do not permit the copying/reposting/translation/plagiarism of my works. Do not steal what I've worked hard to create.

This is fictional work.

[leclsrc]

it’s never over ✴︎ cl16

genre: childhood friends to friends with benefits to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, several references to 70’s music, 

word count: 12.9k  

You must have lost the plot along the way, because pretending to date your childhood best friend was not on your 2023 bingo card. (Neither was the fact that things are looking a lot more real as time passes.)

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... handjob (f receiving), penetrative sex, semi public sex, praise central, size kink

auds here… hi hi hi!!! you’ve no idea how much i missed writing posting and interacting w u guys. thank u for all the love & follows i’ve gotten in my periods of mia. more things soon i promise ty for ur patience love love love u allll 🌟🤎🤠💋 this is my love letter to fic tropes. i feared if it was too long i’d lose the plot somehow so i had to condense it. i truly hope u all like it :) will try & reopen reqs sometime soon to get inspo kicking

It’s later than late. The lights are strobing purple and blue, the “let’s get you even drunker than you are” headache inducing kind. The floor is crowded, swelling with teenagers who are probably too young to get in, drunk off cheap aperol and watered-down tequila shots. You’re balancing yourself on a barstool, one hand busy wrapped around a slim glass, the other clawing your miniskirt lower because the air bites at your legs.

“Another voddy Red Bull!” You’re slurring, mind spinning almost as fast as your vision. You almost drop your empty glass in your rush to look for another one—but right as it slips clumsily out of your fingers, it’s caught. 

Charles, your cocktail’s knight in armor and yours just as well, is eighteen. His hair is  light brown and long, but not draping over his eyes like before. You know before because you’ve never not known before—Charles has been your best friend since you were five.

Snoopy, he says, voice steady and calm in your ear. His frame is still lanky but he’s tall and his grip on your shoulders is enough to quell the yelling. You pout. Get me another voddy red, you plead. Charlie, it’s my birthday. He smiles to himself, knowing your vision’s too cloudy to see him and your mind’s too bogged to remember any of this. You’d already slipped up and told two bouncers you were seventeen and not eighteen, like your poorly-Photoshopped ID suggested; Charles had to keep you in check, lest you or your friends end up kicked out of the club.

A song booms in through the speakers and your eyes widen with recognition. Charles doesn’t anticipate your reaction fast enough, affording only a stumble backwards when you attempt to leave the barstool to dance. He swears under his breath, mind recounting the five previous dance sessions that left you exhausted and out of breath earlier.

I’ll get you a vodka Red Bull if you sit down, he tells you. He enunciates because, twelve years later, you still can’t wrap your mind around his thick European accent. Sit down.

Alriiiight! You hoot, throwing two fists up in the air. Customary for many bartenders on nights as busy as this one, a free shot is thrust into your vacant hand and you cheer loudly, much to Charles’ chagrin. With whatever malice the eighteen-year-old can muster, he casts the bartender a dirty look before turning to face you again, worried. He places a hand on your shoulder and watches, half-anxious and half-endeared, you take the shot and visibly grimace at the raw taste. Fuck. It’s gin I think, you sputter. Charles presses: You okay?

More than, you holler, smiling. I am officially seventeeee— 

The bartender’s eyebrows furrow, the thirty-something businessman in the adjacent stool turns to look—so Charles has no choice but to shut you up, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours before you can seal your fate.

Your eyes widen briefly, and when Charles feels the passed seconds are sufficient, he pulls away. You stare, eyes hazy, at the pretty boy you’ve had feelings for since you turned fourteen, and lean in to kiss him again. 

—

Pascale is hosting her weekly Sunday brunch at the Leclerc residence, all French windows and wide kitchens and bowls of fruit. As always, your place is at the kitchen island picking at plates to taste test them. Bonjour, Arthur drawls when he walks in. He turns to Pascale. Mum. Then you. Snoopy.

You halt biting into your forkful of arugula and turn toward the younger Leclerc, eyebrows raised. “What’d you just call me?”

“Snoopy,” he says simply. He’s beside Pascale, one arm wrapped around her affectionately. “Or, Snoops, if you like that. Yes?”

“Who told you about that nickname?”

“Lorenzo.”

“Hasn’t been in use since your voice was cracking every sentence.”

“Tête de noeud.” Pascale swats his arm and he yelps, so you resume your arugula with satisfaction.

Charles is late for reasons he did not disclose, but everyone is used to it. The open kitchen door stretches into the front yard, where the table is set up and Lorenzo is setting the places. You know that although you usually expect a few more relatives, today’s just for the family—and you, but you’re basically family.

“How is Paris?” Arthur asks, licking hummus off a spoon opposite you. Your position is reminiscent of how you spent afternoons after school with Charles before, and the memory strikes a chord in you. Strange nostalgia, fondness.

“It’s fine.”

“Oh really?” He laughs in-between nibbles of carrot.

“I got an offer for a higher position,” you relent. Pascale calls you both, and you get up and walk toward the yard to sit down. “If you must know.”

“Oh? Let me know how that goes.” He follows you, carrot slice in hand, chewing. The conversation is cut short by the smooth noise of Charles’ decidedly un-smooth parking outside.

You’re seated at your usual spot—in-between Charles and Lorenzo, across Arthur—when the former finally walks into the yard. He looks tired, moreso than usual, bags under his eyes deep and hair a bit more disheveled.

He sits beside you. “I need to talk to you.” Then, quieter, “Private.”

You hum confusedly, eyes flitting across the three other people at the table to gauge their reactions. They’re equally aloof. “Wh—now?” He nods.

You end up talking in the kitchen. He’s sighing the whole fifteen steps there, rubbing the bridge of his nose, exhaling, inhaling. Ever observant, and of someone as close to you as he is, you pick up on the tiny actions, behaviors. Charles is wringing his hands. He’s tried to pop the same knuckle twice. He isn’t frantic—he’s scared. You lean against the counter, waiting, eyes looking him up and down to identify his exact emotions.

“Tell me,” you press. “Whatever it is, I won’t judge.”

“The—my—the iCloud of my phone has been leaked. The press found out.”

When you were eight and he was nine, you and Charles summered in Villefranche with your mum and dad. The weather then was the kind you could write love letters to and about—blue skies, salty wind, soft sand. The current was calm enough that you could ride the gentle waves without fear of going under or straying far from the shore, where your parents sunbathed blissfully.

Don’t drown, he’d warned you, ever protective. You wore pink floaties over your arms, so it was already difficult to.

You dove under with great effort, fighting against the buoyancy, and poked his bare knee, surfacing to watch his reaction. He grimaced. Slowpoke, you teased, swimming away. You wondered then what it might feel to drown. Maybe not in the blue water of Villefranche, but anywhere else.

You think it hurts to drown? You blubbered, bobbing above the wave. Charles swam in front of you and wiped water off your face gently. I hope you never find out, he said, smiling.

But this is you finding out. This is it now, the drowning. Your fingers flex over the edge of the counter and you gulp, eyes fluttering with nerves. “Shit?” It comes out like a question from how nervous you are. “Um, sorry. What are we—” But your question is cut short by Pascale’s voice, cutting through the tension like it’s wet cardboard. The agreement is silent and mutual: save this discussion for later.

—

Charles can’t wake up fast enough. There are calls, texts, voicemails from every officer on his team, which isn’t that surprising given he’s up two hours late. But the amount—the sheer amount of notifications is dizzying. Overwhelmed, he finds it in himself to pull up his search engine app and let his fingers possess themselves.

All he types is his last name, and then The Sun article is splashed onto his face like a pot of scalding coffee: “F1 DRIVER ICLOUD LEAKED, PERSONAL PHOTOS ALL OVER INTERNET.” Daily Mail is next, of course, watering down the situation to seem more dirty and scandalous: “Naughty Driver? Charles Leclerc’s iCloud Hacked, Reveals Mystery Girl.” And then of course Page Six, who doesn’t miss a beat—

Wait. He blinks and presses the back arrow to return to the previous webpage. He reads over it again, slower this time. Mystery Girl? Shit—no. No way. It’s almost (it should be) silly, the way he’s reading vigorously over the reports like he’s a fan, but he’s anxious. He scrolls, because if any tabloid is daft enough to publish the leaked photos, it’s got to be the Daily Mail.

He pauses his quick swiping when his eyes harden with recognition, and staring back at him, on his phone’s full brightness, is a picture of you on his lap at Christmas. It’s the one Lance took while attempting to guess Charles’ password, one of you wine drunk with his head buried in your neck.

It’s unmistakably him, at his own house in Monaco where the drivers had a holiday get-together. It’s unmistakably you, hair draped over your face, three gold rings on your fingers. You had just given him a Strokes vinyl, he recalls. That’s why you were hugging.

There’s another one of you playing Scrabble in his bed—he’s not in the frame, but he remembers taking it. This, he could deny. He’s not in it, and he’s pretty sure the fans don’t know his house this well. Already his brain’s doing manual damage control, dread filling his veins at the thought of reading through his team’s frantic messages.

Another message stands out, pinned on top of all the others—from his mum, reminding him about brunch. He gets ready half-focused, half-lucid. Fully worried. He worries about the PR crisis this may cause, about his iCloud security, about the reactions online. Above all, though, he worries about you. About what he should tell the press. About how “actually, we’re not dating, we just fuck constantly” might hold up for the fans.

—

You’re twelve and Charles thirteen, both of you seated across Hervé and Pascale. Behind them stand your own parents, and they all look stern. What this is, Pascale says gently, is a family meeting. Okay?

Okay. It leaves your high voices in shaky unison. You both know what you’re doing here—you snuck out of school to catch a movie earlier, the teacher naturally caught wind of the misdeed, and now you’re in a meeting for it.

Snoops, Charles whispers, trying to ease your nerves with lighthearted commentary. This is the worst.

No, you want to tell preteen Charles—this is. You’re older now, yet still subjected to similar questioning, though today it’s Pascale going solo. It’s been three days since the fated day where the press leaked the pictures of you and Charles in compromising positions, and like any boomer, she’s used Facebook to her advantage and gotten ahold of the compromising pictures, too. 

“How long?” Her voice is enunciated in hard syllables.

“Mum—”

“Answer the question.” She looks back and forth, moving into territory of intense questions. “Both of you.”

“Um.”

“Because… I’ve been…”

You notice it immediately, given your observant track record: her shoulders relax and her lips smile just slightly. You sit still, and wait for the next words out of her mouth. “…waiting for this all my life!”

You and Charles watch in mild horror as Pascale’s face goes from firm to absolutely elated. Her eyes soften and a smile spreads over her face, illuminating her with pure joy. Do you even know how many bets I made with your papa, Charles? She claps her hands together several times.

Charles opens his mouth to verbalize dissent, but she doesn’t take it—she’s already droning on and on about how long she’s waited for this to finally happen. Your eyes glide over to the doorway of the dining area, where Lorenzo and Arthur watch with smug looks on their faces. Little shits won’t help you. You don’t even try to protest, and at some point Charles gives up, too. You don’t know how it’ll come across, anyway.

Ninety minutes later, you’re in Arthur’s bedroom rifling through his desk and praying you don’t find anything too gross. He’s on his bed throwing a bouncy ball up in the air, conversing with Charles about your gameplan with their mum.

The sky outside is in limbo between afternoon and night. It’s cloudy, so the sunset is a pale yellow instead of angry orange. “Why not just tell her the truth?”

You’d also thought that was the easiest option, escape route, exit path. But that would involve breaking Pascale’s heart, and that was out of the question for you, let alone Charles, certified mommy’s boy.

“I can’t, Arthur.” Charles’ voice is steady and unwavering.

“You can.”

“No.”

“Fine. Next best thing then.”

You fiddle with a Rubik’s cube, then turn in the seat. “What?”

“Pretend you’re dating.”

“Arthur,” you say seriously. “Shut up.” But he doesn’t join you, and you realize neither does Charles. You stare blankly at both of them, unwilling to believe they’d actually bank on this as an actual plan. 

“You guys realize this kind of thing never works? Zero percent success rate.”

“It’s just paddock appearences. You’re not pretending for millions of people,” Arthur says, shrugging. He catches the ball and throws it to you—you catch it one-handed. “You’re pretending for Mum.”

“Sure. And by extension, millions of people. Are you dense, or do you think the paddock appearances will just breeze by everyone who saw the leaks?”

“Ughhh. You’re acting like it’s impossible.” Arthur holds his breath before he utters the next sentence. “Like you two aren’t fucking every other w—”

“—oh, my God!” Shocked, you get up, and so does Charles. “Wh—I’m—language, Arthur!”

Charles balks. “How did you even—”

“I didn’t. But merci mille fois for confirming my theory,” Arthur quips faux-sweetly, smiling dopily. “I mean, I was going to find out! Your pictures are so… intimate. So just pretend to date and throw Maman off your scent.”

You protest briefly, wrestling with the option, and reconvene on the bed, you cross-legged and leaning on Charles’ shoulder and Arthur in front of the both of you. He’s always had a knack for schemes—he never got caught sneaking out, which destroyed your and Charles’ record of being caught twelve times by either of your parents. It’s a bit childish, but he gets the job done.

“Do it for… let’s say a month. Tell Mum you���ve been dating a while—Christmas isn’t that long ago, and that was the least recent picture. D’accord?”

You both nod, hyperfocused. 

“During race weekends, be all over each other—shouldn’t be hard—especially in front of Mum. People might catch you doing it, but I wouldn’t worry.”

“No, wait—I mean.” You shrug. “People—tifosi—they know I’m Charles’ friend. They’re going to be all over the fact that we’re apparently dating.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll use palatable density,” Charles says, nodding.

You pause. Arthur does, too, sensing something off.

“You mean plausible deniability.” Your deadpan voice is tinged with amusement, muffled into his shoulder. 

“Right, ouais, that.” He smiles, chuckling a bit; his shoulder shakes with it and your head nearly slips off. He brings a hand to cup over your jaw and hold you steady. “Sorry.”

“S’fine.” You sigh. “I’m totally okay with this. Just worried it’s going to have unintended consequences.”

Arthur quells you with rushed explanations about how it’ll be over and you two can say something like we decided we’re better off as friends to really sell the thing. At the seven-minute mark of your and Charles’ intense interrogation, he promptly kicks you out to figure out if you’re willing to do it yourselves.

You wedge yourself into Charles’ front seat, knowing you were headed to his place anyway. You massage your temples with one hand and fiddle with the hem of your shorts with the other. Nervous. Antsy. “Did Fred say anything?”

“Got the IT team to fortify my account.” 

“You think this thing’s going to be okay from a professional standpoint?” You look up and toward him; he’s already gazing at you, eyes soft. “I’m worried. Plus, with my job offer thing in London and New Y—”

“Don’t be.” He starts the car and maneuvers out of the driveway, into the dips of Monaco streets and the familiar route back to his place. “Bitter with the sweet. The only thing you need to worry about”—he takes your hand in the centre console, laces your fingers together loosely—“is your acting skills.”

“God, you’re right.” You sigh, looking out the window. “How am I going to pretend I can stand you?” Then, for good measure, you squeeze his hand wrapped in yours.

—

You visit Monaco from uni in London over spring, and for the first time in months, your schedule aligns with Charles’—though you learn this indirectly when you visit the Leclerc home. Pascale, of course, is the one who tells you his new flat’s address before she presses a kiss to your cheek and then leaves to run errands in the city. Alone, and in a burst of excitement, you make the drive there, take the elevator upstairs and shove the door open without knocking. He’s there. Your Charles. You can tell because the music he plays is loud—The Kooks—like his ears are still fourteen and not twenty-one, like he’s still in middle school and not in Formula One.

“Save your eardrums,” you say, before beelining toward the couch and leaping onto him for a hug. He sits up to match your energy, arms wrapping around you, sitting up straighter to keep you from totally falling atop him. 

“How’s uni?”

“Shit,” you say into his hair. It smells like his shampoo and his favorite cologne. Clean, soapy. “Obviously. How’s the Ferrari?” 

“Amazing.” He smiles. “Obviously. How’d you know I was in? Mum told you?”

“Ouais. She’s running errands. Listen, can we drink tonight?” You sigh, parting from the hug and sitting across him.

Yeah, sure. His voice is concerned, thick with worry. You shake your head—it’s not that deep, you tell him. It’s just—I had a bad date before I left and it’s put me in the worst mood.

Oh? He leans back, clasping two hands behind his head as he goes.What happened? He laughs. 

You tense visibly, rolling your eyes despite yourself. “He was just weird. Nothing.”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “You shy, Snoops?”

Ha-ha. You roll your eyes, but your face is flushed and your gaze avoids him. You reach up to tuck the loose strands of hair by your ears behind them, face warm. You’d never talked with Charles about boys or flings before—maybe several times, but never in full detail. It was always vague umbrella statements, like Ryan is boring or Greg is such a prick, but never anything beyond that. Come to think of it, you don’t know why, either.

“You can tell me.”

“The—when we—I had to fake,” you say cuttingly. “You know.”

He purses his lips and smiles, eyebrows furrowing. I don’t, actually. Something unnamed trills through you—through your stomach and into your fingertips. Your first time talking to your best friend in real life after months of uni and racing and this is the topic? It’s, if anything, a sign of your growing up, you guess.

Charles lets up on the teasing and you end up rejecting the club in lieu of sharing a bottle of vodka, throwing it back raw and without any type of chaser (to really prove nothing at all; you don’t even know why any sane human would do this). You do a Just Dance party on his TV, even try out drunk sim racing and FIFA, but by the end you’re well exhausted and retired to the couch again.

His voice is wavy and tipsy when he speaks. “You really had to fake it?”

“Yeah.” You pout. “Can never—um, finish, I dunno.” Your inhibition’s gone, shame loosened and untied by the vodka. You shift in your position on the couch.

“Maybe because it was too casual.” His voice hardens.

“So you’re saying I should…” You swallow dryly, eyes fluttering. “Sleep with somebody I know?” You’ve dropped the implication and it floats up, hangs above.

His eyes flick over to your legs, folded on the couch. The hem of your shorts. Your fingers playing with your empty shot glass. He didn’t mean anything by that. He’s half-sure you didn’t. 

“I am just saying that a good friend would do that for you.”

“You’re a good friend,” you say, volume low. 

Five minutes later you’ve properly crashed into each other, him pinning you down against the couch, licking fire up your throat. His lips trail across your jaw. 

He dips a hand into your shorts, presses against your clothed core. He’s smiling. So wet for me. He’s got his mouth pressed messily up to your jaw, when he sinks one finger all the way in, slow and stretching; and you’re clenching around him—

Come on, he’s saying. Insisting. You’re trembling, yanking desperately at his hair as he pumps his finger slowly in and out of you, aching to be full of him, to take him deeper. 

He slips another one in, and you feel the cold of his ring pressed against your entrance, then he’s fucking them into you and you’re leaking around them. 

Yes, yeah, Charles—you’re gasping, airy breaths tapering into whimpers that sound sinful, desperate. He knows you so well already. Presses his fingers against your sweet spot, watches your eyes flutter.

So needy, and you’re chanting his name under your breath as he quickens his pace, craving the stretch of him desperately. I know you want to cum, baby. He’s calling you baby and you’re closer, so much closer. Come on, for me, yeah? 

You melt, crashing and crumpling into him and shuddering as you release all over his fingers. He presses his forehead to yours and lets you take a beat. You feel giddy and dizzy and warm, which is weird because you don’t feel drunk at all anymore. This dizziness is something different. It’s Charles.

“Are we going to do that again?” You ask meekly, hand still in his hair.

“Only if you want. Whatever you want,” he says. He’d do anything for you. He’d do whatever you wanted.

“I do, I do want.” And Charles, the good friend he is, helps you out.

—

Imola is humid, warm, and the racetrack is absolutely teeming with people. But you’re not there—clad in linen shorts and a fresh tank top, you’re walking around the vicinity of the track, cup of gelato in hand, sunglasses over your eyes. The restaurant near you is playing music out loud. Beside you, singing along and drafting a list of wedding appetizers, is Lorenzo.

“Lamb chops?” You suggest, licking amaretto off the plastic spoon. The weather is pleasant enough that people are crowding the streets without it being too unbearably hot. Stevie Wonder flows from the speakers, permeates the entire block.

“I was thinking more seafood.”  

“Tuna? Make ‘em little tacos.”

“Good idea. Think I’ll go for those. Hey, are you sure you’re on board with fake-dating my brother?”

You turn sharply toward him, taken aback. He hadn’t brought it up in the week and a half this plan had been in the works—he’d been privy to it the entire time, too, which makes it weirder that he’s asking so suddenly.

“I meaaan…” You slow your pace, contemplative. A shy smile plays at your lips, brows knitted together. “It’s only going to be for a month. Ish. So, yeah. Are you—do you—sorry. Is it alright with you? Sorry.”

“It is not not okay.”

“So it’s…” You pause. “Okay.”

“It’s—yes, but I worry, is all. How sure are you that this won’t hurt anyone?”

“I don’t know, it’s… bitter with the sweet. And who’s getting hurt… like the fans?” You laugh a little. “They’ll live, won’t they?”

“Like you.” He pauses. “Like Charles.”

—

Pierre is running a comb through his hair, staring at himself in the mirror; his Narcissus moment is interrupted by a banana to the back of his head. Bonjour, he says, monotone and already knowing the culprit.

“We need to talk.”

“Could this possibly be about the news of your brand new ‘girlfriend’ over last week? Where is she, by the way?”

“With Lorenzo. Listen, here’s the thing. Mum thinks we’re dating, and I don’t know how to tell her we’re not—so I won’t.”

“Lie to your mum, go ahead.” Pierre crosses his arms and hums.

“Tais-toi. It’s for her own good.” 

“So you’re going to pretend to date.”

 “Ouais.” 

“Should be easy. You guys are hooking up and making out or whatever all the time.”

Charles pauses and lets the silence speak for itself. When Pierre makes a noise of confusion, he gives. We don’t kiss, he says finally. She thinks it is too intimate, and we ‘are not dating,’ so sex is the only thing we do. Sex, and if you still have leftover antsy energy, you pull on his shirt and sit up against the headboard to finish a crossword puzzle. Sometimes he helps you, but most of the time he’s just there to press lazy kisses to your hair and temple, cheekbone and jaw—never your lips.

“You don’t kiss?” Pierre’s genuinely shocked. “Putain, you’re a hero. How does that even work?”

“We just do not kiss. We fuck, but no kissing.” He shrugs. “It’s always been that way.”

“So how about her birthday?”

“She doesn’t…” Charlex exhales tightly. “Remember.”

“Charles,” you suddenly say, head appearing into the doorway. “Oh, hey. Fred said you might be here. What are you guys talking about?”

“Sprint racing,” Pierre says, an easy lie.

Charles, though, is never good at the lying bit. “International tariffs.”

—

Your only memories of your seventeenth birthday are applying lip gloss and mascara, wearing your shortest skirt and tightest top, and reciting your supposed date of birth in line like a mantra. Anything after that’s been sprayed off by the ultra-clutch strength of vodka. Which, you’ve been told, was your drink of choice.

“Headache’s better,” you moan over the phone, face squashed onto your pillow. “Mum gave me an Advil but I was so sick all morning.”

“Did you snog anyone?” Charles is always teasing.

“God, I wish.” You shut your eyes and try to remember if your drunken stupor had somehow managed to get you successful in lip-locked matters. Nothing comes up and you wipe a dry hand over your face, heaving a sigh. “I really wanted to kiss Matthew but I think he left before you and I did.”

A pause. Then Charles clears his throat. “You mean you and me and the police car that escorted us home?” He snorts.

“You’re such a prick!” You scream into your pillow, laughing. “I already thanked you for being my literal savior last night.”

He smiles to himself. “You’re welcome.”

“Did you have fun?” You flop onto your back and stare at the stick-on stars on your ceiling. You make a mental note to try and remove them.

“Bit boring because I vowed not to drink at all, but I got to dance. Bitter with the sweet, right?”

—

“Nervous?”

“I mean, fuck, yeah.” You fix the hem of your dress, speaking to Giada through the phone. “Pascale’s waiting for us on the paddock. And so are, like, a hundred photographers.” You wince. “Can you even imagine Charles and me? It’s just—I dunno—it’s weird.”

“It isn’t,” she says, laughing. “Not really. It makes sense. Plus, aren’t you on the whole arrangement?” You envision her air quotes.

“Yeah, but”—you slip your sandals on—“it’s on and off, and that’s not dating. It’s sex. Two different things.”

“Is it really, though? Considering how close you are outside of bed, aren’t y—”

“Okay, input no longer needed,” you laugh. “Bye, Gi. I’ll text you later.”

You reunite with Charles just by the paddock entrance. The throng of fans holding cutouts and posters notice you two before anyone else does, inciting a collective bout of yells around the both of you. He notices your blue silk dress first, eyes unmoving. “You look like the sky.”

“Thanks, man.” A beat, and you squint through your sunglasses. “That’s a compliment, right?”

“Sure.”

“Prick.” You peek over them and to the fans, who wave more aggressively when they notice you’re looking. Nervously, you raise a hand and wave back, and the noise heightens. “I think I’m going to be replacing you.”

“Dream on. On y va?”

You turn back to him, smiling, and you both enter at the same time. His hand wraps around your waist, dips a bit lower to rest at the small of your back as you walk—the fans clearly dig it, because everyone’s yelling in a frenzy as you depart. What are you doing, you ask through your smiling teeth.

“Did you forget we’re supposed to be dating?” He maintains an equally pleasant (totally duplicitous) façade, smiling. 

“I didn’t think,” you say, still smiling falsely, “that you’d put your hands on me five minutes into the whole agreement.”

“Smile, honey,” he teases. “I see at least five cameras at us right now.”

“It’s seven,” you beam. “Dumbass.”

“Again with the competitive streak.” memory

“I totally deserved to win last week’s game. You’re just a sore loser.”

“No you’re just a—hi, hi, hello!”

Your walk to the motorhome is interrupted by running into a friend of Charles’—someone from McLaren, one of the executives there. While Lando has been informed of your stunt, nobody else on that team has. 

They handshake and he waves at you politely. “Whole paddock’s buzzing with news of you dating,” he says, smiling. “It’s a tad crazy! I remember seeing you as Charles’ plus one back when he was in Formula Two. And now you two are dating. How did—well, if you don’t mind me asking, where’d it all happen?”

“Oh,” you say, laughing. “Yeah, Monaco.”

“Texas,” Charles says at the same time.

Alarm bells go off in your head at the totally random, unwarranted statement out of Charles’ mouth. Texas? Neither of you have even ever been at the same time. “He means”—you say, coughing and nodding—“we went on this, um. Wild West themed, um, restaurant in Monaco, and that’s where he asked me out.” You make a face that you hope conveys you get it, and it seems to work.

“Definitely not what I had in mind, but if it worked, it worked, eh?” He grins. “I guess I always knew you two would end up together. Alright, ciao!”

You’re smiling and waving after him as he leaves, and then you’re (semi) alone again, or at least within your own space on the incredibly crowded paddock. 

You turn to him, unable to hide your confusion. “Um? Texas?! What’s up with the backstories?”

“It slipped out! Sorry. But nice save.”

“You’re so f—” You try to scold him, but can’t, bursting into laughter and leaning forward to laugh into his chest. “Texas, really?”

“Sorry,” he says. You feel the vibration of his own laugh through his chest and it’s warm and nice. You peel yourself off lest you look too clingy, and resume your walk to the motorhome.

Ferrari is crowded, filled with people and strategists and guests. You’re given a bottle of water and then hounded with questions from the team who haven’t been informed of the situation at hand. David, one of the engineers close to Charles who you’d previously spoken to in one of the earlier races, asks to borrow him.

“Ciao, ciao.” They speak in one of the outdoor patio areas. “Is everything okay?”

“The car is fine. I just wanted to ask about the girl.” David punches his arm, playful. “You finally got her!”

“Oh.”

“It’s just… I remember all the times she would show up and you’d tell me about how much you liked her… I don’t know, it’s perfect for things to end up like this, no? Bravo!”

“Oh, si. I’ve just been, you know…” He looks through the glass sliding door and into the hospitality, where you’re talking to Isa and Carlos, sunglasses over your hair. Your hands are moving quickly, and you’re smiling while talking. He wonders what you’re so passionate about. When you’re caught in fits of happiness and passion, you’re extra animated. Your eyes are lively, and your lips can’t stop curling into a slight beaming smile. Now, maybe it’s France, maybe it’s crossword puzzles, slim chance it’s your job—whatever it is, he could watch you talk like this for hours. He thinks it’s beautiful, the way you transform, the way you smile, when you talk of things you absolutely love. 

“… crazy about her forever.”

—

There are banners, Italian flags, and Charles’ face on every other wall. He’s done his first hat-trick of the season (of several more, you’re hoping). You’ve foregone the usual clubbing for dinner with a smaller group of people, but only because you’ve been told the nightlife is bleak and you’d rather save that energy for the next race.

Lando picked out the restaurant—he’s “on a massive Yelp high” trying to get the best restaurants in every city they get to. He’s tried two over the weekend, and is hoping this guns for first place. The restaurant’s name is long and so very Italian, to the point where your semi-fluency fails you. The food is amazing, though, and so is the wine—a whole other level of grape-flavored bliss.

You’re in-between Joris and Charles, nursing your fourth glass while Charles downs a bottle of beer. Light conversation flows through the table, but your sleepiness only allows you to hear some of it. You’re content with the white noise.

Lando is getting a new cat, Lewis bought a new pair of shoes—oh, no, shares in the company that makes the shoes—Joris bought the shoes, Lorenzo will now buy the shoes, why isn’t anyone paying attention to Lando’s cat. It’s funny, entertaining, and the perfect nightcap to your immensely exhausting day of acting.

Wine tipsy makes you loopy and snoozy. By default, your head lolls onto Charles’ body; he immediately wraps a sweater-clad arm around your frame, leans back, pulls you closer. Doesn’t miss a beat. In fact, while doing so, he’s even able to get a dig in against Lando’s affinity for cats.

“No more wine, m’kay?” He whispers quietly, angling his head to yours. 

“Oh, but it was so good, though.” You mope, but nod in agreement. “I could seriously drink wine out of a keg here.”

“Sure did that a lot with beer.” You laugh, punching his bicep with what little space you’re given. “You sleepy?”

“Yeah. But I’m fine,” you respond, smiling. “Now shut up. I need to know what happened to Lando’s cat.”

Lewis leaves first, claiming he’s into this whole “sleeping at 9PM” thing, and Lorenzo follows to get ahead of an early flight tomorrow. It’s you, Joris, Charles, and Lando now, and you’re good as dead, eyes half-shut and fluttering, head slipping off his shoulder.

How was it? Lando asks, lowering his volume to keep from being too jarring. Day 1, fake dating? I actually read something like this in one of those, um, fanfiction stuff the fans do. Joris and Charles cast him a half-weirded out, half-amused pair of looks, but Lando defends himself. They’re actually pretty good, guys. I read one where I ended up with my rival or summat.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, Lando,” you croak, voice raspy with sleepiness and a day of bubbling laughter, “but Charles and I probably didn’t do your fanfiction kink justice.”

“Ignoring the emasculation.” He says, turning beet red. “What’d you do, then? Wasn’t it hard?”

“It was hard, but it’s like that.” Charles likes to substitute the phrase it is what it is to it’s like that, a result likely stemming from his trilingual childhood. “We just. Pretended. Oi, we held hands in front of the cameras.”

“Yeah, you can get a good wank in if that does it for you,” you joke. Lando hurls a cube of parmigiano at your face; it lands squarely and you flip him off, the table erupting with peals of laughter.

“In all seriousness, though—how are you two okay with this? I know I’d be second guessing my feelings every second.”

You shift, trying to hide your obvious lack of answer. It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then Charles says, “We’re both comfortable with each other, I think.”

“Yeah, comfortable enough that we can, you know, be honest.” You’re looking at Lando when you say that. You don’t know how well you could repeat the sentence if you were looking straight into Charles’ eyes.

You leave the restaurant with a generous tip, and Charles helps you pull your coat on when you’re out the door, back into the chilly night air. It’s then that all four of you catch news via text, of a club invite somewhere in the city.

“It’ll be fun, guys.” Joris and Lando stand in front of you and Charles, bumbling with excitement. “I heard Lil Tjay is going to be there.”

“It sounds very fun,” you say, smiling, “but I might pass out if I drink anything other than water, and I have zero energy. You three go ahead.”

“Wh—no, I’m not going, either.” You raise an eyebrow at Charles. “Serious! I wasn’t in the mood much, anyway. Joris, take Lando’s car and we’ll take mine.”

“Alright,” Lando whistles. “Suit yourselves, agoraphobes.”

“Joke’s on you”—Charles smiles, smug—“I don’t know what that means.”

“Not the dig you think it is, Charles,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Night, Joris, Lando. See you guys tomorrow. Use protection!”

“Should be saying that to you guys,” quips Joris with an evil grin that he closes the car door on.

The climb into the car feels like a chore in itself with how tipsy and sleepy you’ve become. Charles likes to bring his Ferrari to race weekends, but you convinced him to use a different car for this one, because you honest-to-God can’t stand the low seats anymore. 

“You want dessert?” He asks when he’s rounded the car and settled into his seat. “Gelato, a cone, biscotti…”

“No, no,” you say, voice thin. A palm covers your shutting eyes; blindly, you reach for his hand. It’s easy because he sees you searching and takes your hand to cut it short. “I’m good. So sleepy. Can I sleep at your hotel room?”

“Sure.” He starts the car, waves to the wait staff idle by the entrance, and drives off. “How was the day as my fake girlfriend? Anyone ask about me?” He wiggles his eyebrows, flickering his gaze to your figure beside him. “Wasn’t too tough, I hope.”

Imola whizzes by, trees and city, and a poorly stifled yawn escapes your lips, wine stained. You laugh sleepily. “It was a bit awkward, but bitter with the sweet, right?” He smiles, nodding, and you continue. “Yeah, few strategists, some people who knew you from Prema. I was talking to Isa and Carlos, too, earlier. Even if they know it’s fake.”

He recalls seeing you talk to them through the glass. “About?”

“You.”

—

The sun is merciless on the clay courts, and so are your shoes, shuddering against the surface in your continuing attempt to beat the opposing team. Charles cowers behind you—he’s scored less than half of your points thus far—but you’re on a mission, like your competitive self always is when you’re put in a position to be able to win.

You’re two points down now, and the noontime is becoming increasingly itchy and unforgiving; across you both, Giada and Joris call a mutual time out. “That’s not allowed!” You say, petulant.

“This is a practice session,” Charles says gently, nearing you. “Mate, none of us are actual players.”

You wipe sweat off your forehead. “Right. Désolée. I’m just—I’m in the zone.”

“Ouais, I get it. Relax, m’kay? We got this.”

You shake yourself off and hop a few times, skirt bobbing by your waist as you go. Your braid bounces on your shoulder and you nod, turning your racquet over in your grip. 

Charles pings the ball hard and it soars over to land just shy of the line, seemingly scoring a point for you two and securing your win. Giada and Joris chime in with protests, claiming that the ball’s out. You throw your hands up in question.

“Okay, what? That was clearly a point!”

“Snoops, I think they might be right. The ball looked out to me,” Charles says, wrapping a sweaty arm around your red shoulders.

“What are you talking about, Charlie? That ball was in! I saw it!” You elbow yourself out of his grip, aghast.

“How about…” He suggests quietly. “We let them win? You did win the last”—he pauses to count—“five sets. Come on, Snoops. They need this. Bitter with the—”

You take a deep breath, staring into his eyes. “Fucking sweet, right, okay. Fine, fine.” 

Charles thinks he’s in the clear and he’s managed to extinguish your flames of frustration—that is, until you walk into the Leclerc household for lunch an hour later and, after greeting Pascale and Hervé, you point squarely to the jar on the kitchen counter. “Five euros.”

He splutters. “Five? Wh—non, non! I was trying to calm you down.”

“You were blind and gave Giada and Joris a fake win,” you say playfully.

“Saluuut,” Lorenzo greets, sitting at the stool beside yours. “Quoi de neuf?”

“Charles has five euros for the jar.” The jar, the infamous jar, sometimes dubbed the Dumbass Jar when Pascale’s out of earshot. It was Lorenzo who first made it up after three straight instances of Charles pulling a push door (three different establishments).

Arthur’s joined in at this point, but its biggest indirect donors are definitely Lorenzo and Hervé, who view it as just about the funniest thing in the world. Out of pity, you don’t call dumbass too often, but the tennis loss is bruising enough that you warrant the usage.

“You heard Snoopy. Five euros. We’ll be able to get milkshakes with this money after next week.” You high five. “At this rate, Charles, you could open a restaurant in Paris.”

“He’s going to race,” you correct. You both watch a begrudged Charles junk a bill into the nearly-full jar. “What race driver is going to open a restaurant?”

—

You meet Yuki Tsunoda on a flight to Nice. You’ve seen him several times before, not too frequently but enough that his name and face are familiar on your mind. Also a personality trait that Pierre would bring up in fond conversations with you and/or Charles: he loves food, apparently.

“Yuki’s volunteering AlphaTauri to be your hideout,” Pierre tells you and Charles, across him. 

Turns out, the hardest part (insofar) of this whole schtick: the officially appointed paddock photographers are being extra sneaky with it, finding the best vantage points to snap pictures of an unwitting you and Charles.

They’re like hawks, watching for even the slightest glimpse so they can post the photos on Instagram and get clicks.

So, just a few hours earlier, Charles asked if there was a place you and him could talk if needed where photographers wouldn’t be awaiting you already, and this was the answer.

“If it’s too much trouble, feel no need to… you know.”

“Nonsense.” Pierre smiles goofily and Yuki pokes him to stop, pausing his session of eating a quesadilla (where he’d even acquired it, you’re clueless). “Yukino would be happy to.” 

The flight lands and the drive to Monaco is infected with notoriously slow traffic; you pop an Advil to try and alleviate the motion sickness. Pierre and Yuki, it seems, have joined you even outside of the flight. They’re in the backseat offering bits of conversation.

“Oh, mate, we should totally play tennis while we’re here.” Pierre sighs. “Didn’t you guys play before?”

“Mmm, yeah,” you mumble with a lilt of amusement at the memories from basically a decade ago. “At the country club. Doubles always, otherwise I’d knock Charles out of the park.”

“Hey, I won a couple times!” He protests weakly. “Like… twice.”

You laugh out loud. “Anyway, Pierre, do not bring me into tennis. I get all competitive and develop anger issues.”

“I had to calm her down twice a set,” Charles says; you swat him lightly to silence him. “Still do.”

“You know, if the Dumbass Jar still existed,” you say cuttingly, “I swear I’d be able to buy off Ferrari with that money.”

—

Monaco is swelterinly hot today. You know this because you know the weather here, you know the curves and ups and downs of it—this is your home. And today is hot. Every few minutes a breeze filters through the air and you can hear journalists or PAs sigh a collective breath of relief before they’re all subjected to the inane, high-degree weather again.

It’s also, according to Arthur, a good day to kiss in front of the cameras. He says it easily over a plate of sliced kiwi, with a devious smile, because he assumes your friends-with-benefits arrangement equates to constant kissing. But the truth is you’ve never kissed Charles, and it intimidates you.

“Do we have to kiss?” You play with his bracelets, sitting beside him on the sofa. The talk of kissing entertains the thought of sex and you can’t help but mentally complain at the remembrance that you haven’t gotten laid in weeks.

“If you don’t want to—”

“I do.” You splutter, eyes going wide, face warm. “No! I mean I don’t mind. If it sells the thing.”

“D’accord, then we will.” He smiles. “That okay?”

“Sure. First kiss,” you say. Your voice feels as clammy as your hands.

“First.” He looks away.

You take your woes off the kiss by playing a friendly round of tennis with your favourite opponents, Giada and Joris. They bemoan your competitive nature (that, to be fair, allots you and Charles three straight wins), and Giada incites a protest for a girls versus boys round.

You both embarrass Charles and Joris, heckling them as you win another two straight games. Charles runs over to you when you throw up the L sign on your hand, lifting you up and making you squeal.

“Put me down, loser!”

Giada and Joris exchange a look. Amused, knowing. “Charles! You’re such a cunt.” You kick hard, and manage to snag his abdomen, so he gently places you onto the clay again. He laughs and paces back over to his side, and you play with the tail of your braid as you watch.

You play set after set, but the kiss comes anyway. When you know photographers can see you—by the entrance—and it happens faster than your mind can muster. He’s leaning in, you’re reaching up, and your mouths slot together. It’s—and it feels crazy to say it, but—

It’s perfect. It’s lovely. You smile against his lips like they belong there and like they’re familiar and yours and like maybe this is all you’ve ever wanted, and like they deserve the smile, because they do. You feel your need to pull away before you can’t help but keep him tethered to you always. It’s strange and it’s not platonic—you’re mature enough to admit that, but not enough to label exactly what it is.

You spend the day with your fingers pressed to your lips, like you’re sealing the memory. Hours later, Charles wins. There’s massive uproar and you’re in the crowd when it happens, in the sea of strategists going to congratulate him on winning Monaco, which—that’s—it’s winning Monaco. Your ears ring by the end of it and your throat’s dry from your own cheering. Carlos comes in second, and the outlook for their team is going much better than it’d been at the start of the year, so there’s a lot to celebrate.

And celebrate you do. It starts with being pinned up against the door, hungry kisses along your jaw and neck. One kiss, it seems, has broken the dam from the few years you’ve spent abstaining from the kissing. He’s just finished interviews. He’s only just changed into his polo, and now he’s tugging it off again, feverish.

This is rushed and dirty, down low and dark. Only one light’s been switched on and he’s hiking your dress up, panties down with one hand to tug his cock out with the other. He’s kissing you—kissing you stupid, almost. Like he’s waited forever to taste your lips and now he’ll starve if he’s away for just a moment. He needs you. So have me, you want to say, all of me, push me up against the wall again and cover my mouth with your palm. Or don’t, don’t—so everyone knows I’m yours.

He presses your chest against the wall so your back’s turned to him, thrusts in with a breathless, throaty grunt. 

“S’ big,” you’re saying, clawing at words the pleasure bars you from finding.

“Barely even in,” he whispers. “Slow down, baby, come on, take it.”

Your toes curl. You’re high on the win, on the kissing, on Charles, on the slow delicious stretch of his cock. “I’m taking it, I’m taking it,” you say, shaky. He thrusts, slow and deep and dirty, until he’s bottomed out and you’re tiptoeing from the overwhelm.

“I feel you,” you’re whimpering, moans and gasps leaving your mouth. You blindly search for his hand, find it against your hip, drag it to your abdomen, under your dress that he hasn’t even fully removed. “I feel you there,” you say, an edge of teasing to your voice.

His cock’s bulging, almost, out of your stomach, and it’s getting you both all lightheaded. He thrusts harder, a devious smile felt against your neck.

I need it, Charles, you plead, please, please fuck me harder. You feel it coming, the familiar pleasure intensifying so quickly—you don’t usually cum so early, he’s always making you wait for it—pussy squeezing around him.

Jesus, already? He’s groaning but a laugh escapes, breathy and amused and taunting. He’s fucking you harder, faster. It’s so good, each hit getting you closer. Taking me so well, you’re bruised all over now, baby. You hate how well he knows what turns you on; memories of mornings post-sex spent inspecting the purple marks on your hips flash through your head and you’re even closer now, shaking, whimpering, begging.

You’re half-sure someone can hear, but it doesn’t even phase you. Harder, deeper— and you’re collapsing, legs spasming uncontrollably, orgasm so intense it’s on the brink of totally hurting. Tears roll down your sweaty face and he kisses them away, cumming onto your back to wipe off in a few minutes.

“I never even”—you pant, tired—“got to say congratulations.”

“That was more than enough.”

—

Charles is elated when you tell him his family has thrown a party for him the day next. He’s boyish in that way, optimistic and kiddy, the kind of person who’s up at five-thirty to announce their own birthday. 

He drives you both to his childhood home, a route so familiar he could drive with his eyes closed. (“I hope you’re not driving closed-eyed,” you’d warned.)

Even if he could, anyway, he’d rather not. The scenery of Monaco is stunning, ever-changing, and he never tires of it—the buildings, the skies, the trees and shrubbery, stores lining the streets, clean entrances. 

And you—in the passenger seat, humming softly to a song of his choosing. Drives are always better when you’re in the passenger seat.

The turnout is generous: extended family, and several friends from school. There’s bowls of fruit, salad, plates of salmon and racks of lamb, knobs of butter with warm bread. Pascale commands the kitchen—visible in how she leaves it cluttered with bowls, ingredients, whisks still dripping with syrup or batter, spoons licked for tasting. The good kind of clutter.

Lorenzo has also taken reign of the AUX, because it’s 70’s music playing, which is what he’s fond of for family gatherings like these. It’s My Cherie Amour now, Stevie Wonder mellowing across the lawn and into the house.

Charles knows you love the kitchen as much as his mum does, so when you get to the house, he’s not surprised to see you leave him in favor of checking out what damage has been done to your favorite marble countertops. He watches Pascale turn from the gas range, her eyes lit when she sees you, inviting you into an embrace. 

You look like the song playing, pretty and lovely, breeze in the summer. He almost loses himself in thought before his great-aunt Eden places two bony hands on his arms and greets him in feeble Italian.

He flits his eyes away from you, if just briefly, and faces the woman with a smile on his face. “Ciao, zia,” he says, voice buoyant, happy. “You came here to see me, no?”

All five-foot-one of her shakes in disagreement. She wags a finger for extra measure. “No,” she says. “Sono venuto a vedere la tua ragazza.”

His eyes widen. “She’s—” He pauses. He debates telling Eden you’re not actually his girlfriend, that this was a setup to appease Pascale and, by extension, tifosi. But he backtracks.

He shouldn’t, but he gives in, lives out his dreams for a bit. “Ah, she’s over there, zia. Con mamma.” He points to the open door, and to you on the far end of the room inside, holding a spoon. “Beautiful, yes?”

“Molto,” she says proudly. “You marry her?”

Fact: his great-aunt has the worst memory. She forgot Charles’ name twenty times, let alone niche facts like this one. Another fact: she rarely shows up to family events. Maybe now, because it’s a racing thing; but baby showers and funerals, she’s at home. So he indulges a bit more.

“Si, we’re engaged. But—it’s a secret, zia.” He grins. “Non dire a nessuno. Okay?”

“Sei fidanzato?!” She claps once, excited. “Ay, Charles. I waited my whole life for this moment, si?” And she’s wobbling away, still muttering under her breath.

—

“How is my son?” Pascale’s voice is teasing. She sighs happily. “For years I wondered if this would happen. And it really is.”

“Oui, sure is,” you sing-song, laughing a bit awkwardly. “We’re—he’s okay. We’re great. In love.”

“Oh, in love,” she swoons. She leaves you, after fifteen more minutes of detailed discussion, with half a spoonful of vinaigrette to taste-test, departing to check on the guests for a few minutes. In her place arrives Lorenzo, already bearing a shit-eating grin. “Saluuut.”

“Mmm, good to see you, too.” You taste the liquid and add lemon to the bowl. “How’s wedding planning?”

“Think we’ll throw a shower. Is that pretentious?”

“No,” you say, mulling over it. “Sure, a bit. But just don’t make it a whole thing, you��re golden.”

“I see.” He sighs fondly. “You know, many a conversation we’ve had right here at this counter. About anything.”

—

You loosen your school tie, slicing an apple like you so often do, waiting for Charles’ karting practice to end. Pascale had fixed you a bowl of something, Hervé a glass of orange juice. And somebody else would always, without fail, steal your food. A hand swipes two slices form your chopping board and your head whips up.

“Lorenzo!” You stomp your foot. “Stop stealing! That is my apple.”

“You mean the Leclercs’ apple.” He laughs, pops another slice into his mouth, smiling. 

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. The braid beside your head shakes with it as you continue slicing it into perfect quarters. He pipes up again: “How was school?”

“Shit, as usual.” You lower your voice and smile, leaning in. “Pascale scolded me earlier, for saying that word.”

“Did Papa?”

“Obviously not. He fist bumped me.” You share a laugh, both chewing on apple slices now. “Anyway, I aced a math test, had aubergine for lunch… got driven here by Charlotte’s mum.”

“Charlotte?” Lorenzo hums conspiratorially, making a mmmm sound. You look up from the yellow chopping board, furrowing your eyebrows. He persists: “Mmm. Cha-r-lotte.”

“What’s up with Charlotte?” Bit impolitely, you ask, in-between chews.

“I think she likes Charles, a little.” You nod slowly, trying to follow. Charlotte liking Charles. Your Charles. Wait, no. Not your—or nobody’s, really. Just Charles. Yeah.

“What? Bull!” You narrow your eyes. “Says who?”

“Why do you care?”

“Wh—I don’t!” You squeak, caught. “Just… I think I’d know, Lorenzo.” You make a tch noise, crossing your sweater-clad arms. “So—says who?”

“I saw her leering at him during his birthday party.” 

“You’re wrong,” you say, but you don’t really know who you’re convincing. He reaches over for an apple slice, and you move the chopping board out of the way sharply.

“Mon dieu, you’re snappy. Fine, fine. I might be wrong,” he relents, shrugging. He gets up and slides beside you to be able to acquire more slices. “I talked to her during the party, too.”

“Weirdo,” you tease, allowing him to take a few more. “About Charles, yes?

“No, about her brand new dress.”

“You’re the funniest Leclerc brother, I assure you.”

“She told me…” He says, louder this time, shushing you effectively. “She told me she ‘finds Charles cute.’” Air quotes, shrug. “But that they ‘probably won’t’ date.”

“Huh. Did, um. Did she say why?” You play with the tail of your braid, shuffling back and forth on your flats. You don’t know why you’re so fidgety—you aren’t nervous, you don’t think.

“Because…” he says, chewing to allow for a pause. “She said every time she looks for Charles to try and ask for time alone, or on a date, or something, he’s already following you around like some puppy.”

—

You comb your hair into a bun and venture into the patio, having avoided a good chunk of the noon heat. You greet some relatives politely along the way, and receive a hand squeeze from great-aunt Eden. At one of the tables is Charles, beside Joris and another friend, and Giada and Charlotte across them, an empty seat beside the latter.

You seat yourself in it and Giada kisses your cheek. “Hey. Ça va?”

“Fine,” you say, smiling. Then you lower your voice to a whisper. “Do you remember when I told you about my crush on Charlie? For the first time?”

“Yeah,” she whispers back. “Around… 2013.”

“Ouais. And… and it disappeared after that,” you say. “Right?”

“You said it did,” she says. “A year later. When we were sixteen.”

“Right.” You think. Seventeen onwards—you’d never formed a full-fledged crush on Charles. “Okay. It’s nothing. Just a memory. I was just. Yeah, oui.”

“Oui, let’s eat.” The memory fades and so does your running mind. Charles’ eyes meet yours across the table, and suddenly you feel a little less like your thoughts have ripped you open.

—

When you and Charles were younger, you adopted the adage “bitter with the sweet.” Charles will have people believe it was made by the both of you, with philosophical minds stretched so far beyond their years. Well, revisionist history. The truth lay in the Carole King song of the same name you’d heard on the stereo.

Those are the exact words Charles tells Ted when he’s interviewing for the Spain Grand Prix. It’s a hot day and you’re especially doubled down on by the fact that he’s finished ninth. 

You’d been fake-dating for the cameras all weekend. At all costs, you try and avoid interviews, but the damned Drive to Survive producers insist on a soundbite and start following the two of you around everywhere (only to find your conversations sound very weird and niche, and not scandalous or sexy).

Pascale also called—Charles first, and when he didn’t check his phone, you. You spent an hour on the phone just talking about the race. About the penalties and the nasty headlines that followed, and just everything.

“I’m glad you’re there,” she says. “God knows he needs you.”

You end up biking to try and relieve the stress, posing with fans for pictures.

“I’m such a big fan. I stalk Charles’ Insta like, all the time, and it’s crazy how you guys are dating.” A teenaged girl laughs nervously. “Where’d it happen?”

“Texas!” He, again, tries out the bit to appease the fans but you have to extinguish the flames of his blatant lies.

“He’s kidding,” you interject. “It’s just—it just happened, really.”

How does something just happen? Someone told you once, in a Paris bar, that love is like an echo. It’s always there, in the underbelly, underneath it all, and then one day it echoes, like a bass drum or a cymbal. And the echo—the echo is you feeling it. You feel the echo, the all-encompassing echo, even if the love itself’s been there all along.

With Charles, it’s out of the question. You love him. He’s your best friend. You trusted him before you even learned what trust meant, for Chrissake.

How could you not love him? That seemed impossible. The love was there. The love’s always been there and it’ll never go away.

It echoes at half-past-two in Barcelona, when he whips past you on his bike and says on your left. The breeze pulls your hair to the left, covers your face, and when you rake it away he’s stopped to check if he accidentally bumped you in his rush to look cool.

You’re creepily observant; you’ve been told this many times before. What people don’t know is with the observance comes even more questions. Ifs, whys, wheres, whens, hows, God the hows. The questions keep coming because there’s never an answer.

“Are you okay?” He asks. Green eyes glittering like a lake. Smile like the sun. Hair curly at the ends. “Did I hurt you?”

Then you realize. In the matters of love, every question—every single question. Every single one. The answer is Charles.

“Of course not,” you say. And you smile.

—

You almost drop your book in your rush to scurry past the paparazzi. They’re still busy on the two figures (Alex and Lily, you think) on another end of the paddock, which allows you only a few moments to try and evade them.

Others are stationed near the Ferrari hospitality, which means you’re going to need your hideout. Yuki had texted Pierre who had texted Charles who had told you that it was all clear to go there for a few minutes while waiting for the photographers to clear out.

Hurry, Charles is saying. Laughing. His hand’s gentle in yours. You want them there forever. You want to drag the tip of your nail over the barely-perceptible grooves of his fingerprints so he knows how much you need him.

The days post-Spain were spent biking, watching shows, listening to music, eating food. The travel to Canada—long, cold, compression socks. Pascale had called mid-flight to check on her “favorite pair”—you maneuvered yourselves into a much more cuddly position to appease her, and her giddy smile was incentive enough to stay that way for ninety minutes.

You’d been in a weird mental state trying to grapple with your rapidly returning and intensifying feelings for him, which have dawned on you all at once.

But he makes it better. You’re still laughing when you wedge yourselves in, eyes meeting.

And then you’re quiet.

The gaze you share is intense, but almost unsure, like you’re supposed to be looking away anytime now. You step backward shakily, and his hand moves from your waist to the small of your back to keep you from stumbling any further. You’re closer now. But this shouldn’t feel as strange as it does when you two have been in much more scandalous positions before—what’s different?

He’s so close, so so close, his green eyes looking right through you. You lean closer, ready to kiss him like you have before, ready to feel his mouth slot softly over yours, comforting and safe and Charles.

Funnily enough, it’s then that the illusion breaks, his grip loosening and the distance between you increasing. He coughs twice, awkwardly.

“Shit—sorry,” you say profusely, clearly having read the moment wrong. Embarrassment wells up in your system, warming your face. You laugh to diffuse the tension but it barely does anything.

“No, don’t—” He exhales, squeezes the bridge of his nose, trying to find words. “It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you. I do.”

“So kiss me,” you suggest simply, looking around for anything that might stop him. The embarrassment ebbs away, replaced quickly by confusion. 

“I don’t want to kiss you in an AlphaTauri stock room,” he mopes, burying his head in his hands in clear frustration. “An AlphaTauri stock room.” He repeats it in a hushed whisper, disbelief etched all over his pretty face.

“Charles,” you begin, smiling already, the quaint way that makes his knees go weak every time. “You’re acting like you and I haven’t kissed before.” 

“This is different.” He says firmly, looking away lest he lean in involuntarily. He interjects with conviction, not realizing what he’s implying until the implication’s hanging in the air. The longing kills him softly, and he feels if he looks at you a second longer he’ll kiss you anyway.

It’s a wonderfully confusing feeling. You open your mouth to respond but you can’t; your brain tacks itself onto his sentence, the division created between the kisses before now and the kiss that might happen anytime soon.

“H…” you trail off, throat drying. Blinking, you try again, “How different?”

He looks up, eyes conveying all the things his lips never will. This is different. You know it. I love you this time.

The answer is exchanged and accepted wordlessly. You slip out of the room when Pierre tells you it’s okay to, and it’s only then—only then—that Charles’ hand leaves your body. You seem to burn alive with its absence.

It’s a Ferrari 1-2. You snap a thousand pictures with Isa and Carlos holding Carlos’ trophy while Charles is doing interviews, and they invite you to join them for the break. You’re open to it—the win, the good standings, they definitely warrant a celebration for the few weeks’ break. So your original itinerary is Portugal—beaches, coasts, food—but the jet re-charts a route and the flight is cut much shorter because you’re in New York City.

—

Somewhere in Manhattan, a wedding shower is thrown on an outdoor rooftop. “This is one hell of a wedding shower,” you squeal excitedly when you spot him, bringing Lorenzo in for a hug. Your yellow dress flows in the wind. “I thought you guys were going to throw it in Monaco?”

“Yeah, well… why not here, right? It’s beautiful.” He gestures to the skyline, smiling. “Plus, Charles, Arthur, and Mum were already near the country for work, so we got ahead of it. Everyone was happy to fly out.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I love it.” You beam. “I can’t believe it, either. When’s the final date?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but the wind is knocked out of him by Charles barreling into his arms for a hug. You roll your eyes at the latter’s childish behavior, smiling despite yourself. They part and Charles finds his place beside you, arm snaking around your shoulders. “What a wedding shower!”

“Don’t flatter me, dipshit,” Lorenzo jokes.

“It’s a lovely one.” Lorenzo thanks him. “An amazing shower. You know, it’s a total golden shower!”

You purse your lips. “Charles—”

“A golden shower, mate. Absolutely.”

That garners at least three odd looks and you calmly place a hand on his chest to whisper don’t ever fucking say that again it means something completely different please don’t embarrass me or your brother. 

For all your embarrassment, you make up for it in having the literal time of your life. The food is good, the city view is amazing, the weather is fair and the music—Desafinado now—is amazing. “I could see myself here,” you say offhandedly to Charles, who nods back with a faint smile. He’s half-distracted.

“You look beautiful, by the way,” he says, squinting from the sun in his eyes. “Very.”

You part ways at some point—Pascale whisks him off, no doubt for another long round of questioning about your relationship, and you meander around with a glass of champagne.

You’re halfway through swiping a mini quiche when a hand wraps around your wrist and squeezes to get your attention—Charles’ great-aunt Eden. She speaks only intermittent English, and your Italian fails to carry you through well enough, but you smile and greet her. “Ciao, Eden!”

“Ciao, bella.” She smiles. “Flight was long.”

“Oh, yeah. New York’s far. I might work here someday. I’ll hear results in around two weeks, but I’m hoping for London instead.” You slow your speech.

“When will you two wed?”

“Wed?” Your face warms and you stutter through a giggly mess of a sentence. “Oh, Eden—zia—no, no! We’re just friends.”

“My Charles told me you two are to be married.” You both crane your heads to the right, where Charles is leaning against the terrace railing talking to one of your friends, Matthew, animatedly. He meets your eyes, sees Eden beside you, and seems to connect the dots.

Jokingly, perhaps, he raises his hand and wiggles his empty ring finger. You can’t help but smile as you turn back to the old woman. “Oh, did he, zia?”

“Si, he did.”

“Well, we’re just going to let it happen, then. You’re invited. Front row.” You kiss her cheek and she smiles, wobbling off to drink more wine before any of the adults can stop her.

It’s announced then that the dance floor is open, and many of Pascale’s friends filter through to show off their moves to the 70’s music. You watch, amused, at the display of dexterity to Frankie Valli and Aretha Franklin. You cheer them on, content to watch them against the backdrop of the New York sunset.

When Ain’t No Mountain High Enough plays, the dance floor grows, because nobody can resist the song—not even Charles, apparently, who takes your hand without preamble and takes you, squealing, to the centre.

You sing each of the parts, like you always do when the song comes on. It’s semi-tradition at this point: you take Marvin Gaye’s, Charles takes Tammi Terrell’s. You both exaggerate your dance moves and pretend you’re performing.

His hand’s in yours, winding you around and pulling you close. At some point he starts robot dancing to entertain you. It works—you laugh out loud, your eyes half-shut and faced to the stars above. He could write a poem about this. Or a song.

The song ends and you lean onto his shoulder to take a breather—then the photographer swoops in and takes a picture. “That’s going into the RSVPs!” He says, accent unmistakably American.

“Does he know we’re not the couple here?” You ask.

Do we know we’re not the couple? Charles asks himself.

The night escalates as the “oldies” leave, and Matthew, Joris, and Giada join you both for one last round of drinks again. You’re all standing at the exit making conversation; Lorenzo attends to his friends at the other end of the terrace.

“I feel young again,” Matthew says, liberated by Tito’s vodka. He takes another swig and pulls his coat on.

“You’re twenty-five, calm down,” you joke. “Dodged that bullet.” You’re poking fun at the semi-massive crush you had on Matthew in secondary school, and a laugh passes through the four of you. “Anyway, you three be careful. No driving.”

“Jesus, but really—I haven’t been this drunk since you”—he points at you, laughing—“turned seventeen at that club, Amber? No?”

“Oh, God. Y’know, same.” You fail to notice Charles and Giada share a look. “I remember nothing from that night! Or, like, the first two hours at least.”

“I remember drinking my body weight because of heartbreak,” he jeers. 

“Heartbreak? Were you—were you with anyone?” You ask, confused.

It happens before anyone can stop it. “No, when Charles kissed you. And you kissed him after. Alright, night mates! Lorenzo—merci!”

Oh, fuck, you hear in the back of your now-muddled brain. Giada’s voice.

You open and close your mouth. “Ch—wait, he—what?”

“I—let’s talk here,” Charles flounders, dragging you to a more secluded spot and facing you. The three of your friends exit; Giada waves, apologetic. “When… we were at Amber… and you were absolutely hammered, we kissed. It was twice—just twice. And you didn’t, um. Remember a thing.”

You’re unsure. “In Amber?” You blink, confused. “What do you mean?”

“We… I don’t—I mean, I understand why you don’t remember. We kissed that night.”

“So that’s… Charles… You didn’t tell me.” Your voice quivers, like a wire flicked. “Why didn’t you say it at the time?”

He doesn’t give you an answer. He just looks at the counter, imagines the way your eyebrows furrow, your lips move, eyes glitter. He can’t give you one. He doesn’t want to hurt, disappoint, sadden you. He wants to get on his knees and root you here, so he’ll have all the time in the world to come up with an answer.

“Charles.” But he loves you, and he can at the very least be honest for you. “Look at me.”

“I was scared.” His eyes gravitate to yours.

“Of?”

“It felt stupid, is all. That you didn’t remember, and maybe you did but you were pretending you weren’t. I didn’t—it didn’t—sorry.” He laughs, stutters. “I convinced myself it didn’t mean anything because we didn’t have feelings for each other.” He pauses. “Then.”

“Well,” you say, slow. Eyes stuck to his. “How about now?”

“Now?”

“I love you, now. I mean, isn’t that all this is? Loving? Even if? De—despite of?” 

And this—God. This is how it feels. He’s looking at you and you’re telling him you love him because you do, and finally he’s been over with reassurance.

You love him, too. That way. He trembles with it. His hands are shaky when they lace into yours, like you’re a shrine, a prayer, and he feels like maybe these are the emotions that swirl through the human body when one wins the lottery and gets struck by angry lightning at the same time.

This is it, he thinks. Profound and lovely and an echo of sweet memories. He’s yours. Here in a city unfamiliar to both of you, yet to be conquered, your fingers lace lightly and you smile, smile, smile at each other, as if you’re the last two people on Earth. He’s yours, so foolishly in love with you.

Even far from home, you’re both filled with warmth, with longing. Extended stares, pits of your stomachs welling up with something lovely in between homesickness and nostalgia. Here again, you again, us again—it’ll always be us again, your heart seems to say, surrounded by the same love the same hurt the same sad the same everything, you and me, all the love in the world, all the confusion, we’re here. It’s never over.

Across the terrace, Lorenzo watches. Two figures, laughing, emanating happiness, gentle unkowing love. You two have finally made it here, after what felt like a thousand trials and dreams and stories.

So even if you’re taller, in high heels and a yellow dress—and Charles is broader, in a suit and tie—Lorenzo thinks he can blink and see the two little kids who hosted a tea party in the backyard. He can blink again and see you hugging, eyes shut, his lips pressed to your forehead to convey the intimacy nothing else will do as well. 

“So what now?” You ask. Again with the questions. In your defense—it begs so many follow-up questions. A love so many years in the making—layer after layer after layer—of course it begs all the questions, almost to the point of overwhelming capacity. What’ll we tell Pascale? The fans? The family? Everyone?! 

But one look and he makes it better. His green eyes, bright against the deep black of the skyline. You’ve grown. You’ve done it. You’re here. “We’ll figure it out.” He smiles. “We deserve this kind of ending, don’t you think?”

—

“He has my name.” A tubby finger points to the boy on the greeting card. “That one.”

“And who’s the dog?” Asks the girl beside him, hair wound into a plait. She likes this boy. He’s cute. She plays with the end of her braid and stares, eyes flickering in-between him and the card they’re staring at.

“The name’s right there. They’re best friends.”

“Okay, that’ll be me.”

“So that’s us.”

“Oui.” She smiles. “Charlie and Snoopy.”

–

read an omitted scene here :)

[myspacebrat]

𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖋𝖑𝖊𝖘𝖍

succubus steve x eddie munson x girlfriend reader

summary: after finding a weird book of summoning spells from the library, your boyfriend eddie proposes an idea where you’d put the spells to good use, but what happens when you both actually summon a succubus demon who’s been starved of his lustful desires for centuries?

warnings: smut ahead, 18+ mdni, monster fucking, big dick steve, mmf threesome, oral sex ( f & m receiving), p in v sex, p in a sex, dom!steve, sub!eddie, sub!reader, spit as lube, being spanked and choked by a tail, squirting, breeding kink, cream pie.

authors note: another one shot for y’all, hope you like! As always thank you to my baby loves @xxhellfiregirlxx & @take-everything-you-can for beta reading, and always listening to my crazy ideas <3

wc: 3.1k

“This is such a bad idea.” You grumble as Eddie’s eyes squint, trying to make out the scription that was hastily written in the black leatherback book your boyfriend had found when he was in the library, browsing the shelves for a new fantasy book.

Instead, he found a creepy looking one filled with summoning spells and incantations.

“C’mon babe, this shit isn’t real. Who would leave a legit book of spells in a library? A Hawkins library, no less.” He huffs with a devious smirk “the only demon you’ll be summoning tonight is this big dick having one, right here.” He pacifies before chuckling at his own words as he continues drawing out the intricate looking pentagram.

You scoff and roll your eyes as you sit on your shared bed, socked feet dangling off the side as you watch the metalhead; his tongue poking out while he curves the chalk, finishing off the circle.

He quickly looks up at you in disbelief, “what? You tryna say I don’t have a big cock?” He taunts as his lips curl up into a mocking smile. “Oh Eddie, I don’t think it’ll fit! Your cock is so big! You stretch my pussy out so good!” He teases in a high pitched voice that you are certain, sounds absolutely nothing like you.

“I sound nothing like that you ass!” You screech as you pick up and throw the black bunny stuffie your boyfriend had recently won for you at the Hawkins annual All Hallow’s Fall Festival.

“Baby! You’re gonna fuck up my masterpiece. C’mon!” Eddie cries as he throws it back where it previously sat, between your two pillows.

“Well I don't sound like that…I sound way hotter.” You protest before playfully sticking your tongue out at him, making the boy quickly jump to his black boot clad feet and lunging at you. You both fall back onto the plush mattress as Eddie's body weighs you down.

“Stick your tongue out at me again and I'm gonna bite it.” He playfully growls in your ear before softly biting at your lobe.

“Ed’s I can't breathe, get off!” You can no longer hold back your giggles when he begins nuzzling his nose into your neck.

“Okay, undress and put that silk robe on. I'm gonna go stand in the closet and when I come back out, I’m no longer Eddie, okay?” He reminds you as his nose sweetly rubs against yours. “You remember what you're supposed to say?” Your boyfriend questions before standing up and making his way to the closet, dramatically whipping open the bi-fold doors before clambering his lanky body inside.

“Yes, of course I do.” You mutter before standing up and making quick work of removing your cropped t-shirt, little sleep shorts, lace panties and socks.

Eddie winks at you then quickly closes the doors. You slip your silk robe on, loosely tying it around your body before crouching down to get on your knees in front of the pentagram and black burning candles. You wait a few minutes before you begin to recite the words on the paper:

Lilith, please receive this offering. I give this truthfully and willingly

May the light of these candles burn brightly and guide your son to me

The light from the candles flicker as a heavy draft from your cracked window seeps in, sending a deep chill down your spine.

The closet doors burst open and Eddie steps out, wearing a shit eating grin and red devil horns he had picked up from the local costume shop. He was shirtless, his tattoos on full display, black jeans laying low on his hips showing off his deep v lines you always went crazy for, the chain wallet he often wore caught your attention as it swayed while he sauntered over, boots stopping right in front of the pentagram you were kneeled behind.

“Hello, little one.” Eddie growled, but something off in the corner of the room caught your attention, a black figure that swiftly moved out of the shadows, white teeth gleaming as he sent you a sinister smile.

“Holy shit.” You murmur, making Eddie’s face break character as he curiously follows your eyes to the shaggy haired demon who had now fully revealed himself to you both.

Eddie’s whole body turns in shock as his black boots side step the perfectly laid out incantation.

“Holy fuck!” Your boyfriend shouts as the back of his knees hit the bed, he quickly loses his balance, body bouncing off the mattress as his eyes almost pop out of his head from his state of panic. “Who the fuck are you? W-what do you want?” He stammers, his voice cracking as it came out too high pitched for his liking.

You sit there with wide eyes, your body feeling as if it's being weighed down by a ton of bricks and unable to move as the demon studies you, from head to toe before hungirly licking his blood red lips.

“Well you summoned me, silly child.” The demon says before he begins to study your boyfriend.

“N-no, w-we didn't mean to.” You finally spoke before standing up and moving closer to Eddie, but as you do your robe slips open exposing your bare breast and cunt to the demon.

The succubus looks around with a snarl on his face.

“Oh but it looks as though you did, little mortal.” He chuckles as his eyes find the leatherback book splayed out on the floor. “What is the meaning of this if you did not summon me?” He asks as his clawed hand motions to the summoning circle.

“We were roleplaying.” Eddie admits as his cheeks tinge pink from his confession.

“Roleplaying?” The demon questions before he stops right in front of you, his glowing eyes take in you and your boyfriends terrified faces.

“Y-yeah, we uh well I was gonna play the demon and she was supposed to summon me, then we’d ya’ know?” Eddie stutters before making a crude gesture to the demon.

“Hmm, I see.” The succubus says as his clawed hands rub against the soft skin of his chin.

The closeness gave you and Eddie the opportunity to take in the horned monster's face, his rather human looking face. He had dark curled horns surrounded by perfectly coiffed brown hair, honey brown eyes that appeared to change to a glowing yellow when he was excited. His face and body were covered in beauty marks, he was dressed in clothes that looked like they were from centuries ago but his arms were big and muscular and his hands were veiny with long pointed claws. You and Eddie couldn’t help but to think he was fucking beautiful, enthralling.

“W-what’s your name?” You ask as your robe slips back open, revealing your hardened nipples to both males.

“You may call me Steve, my sweet one.” The succubus purrs before his hand reaches out towards your bare breasts, his clawed thumb gently rubbing against your peaked bud, making you shiver but you make no attempts to move away.

“Hey man.” Your boyfriend demurs, but the words come out weaker than intended.

“Shh, little lamb.” Steve murmurs, bringing the same hand he’d just caressed you with, up to Eddie’s lips “You’ll get your turn.” He winks at the boy, whose eyes are now cartoonishly bulging from his head.

Steve steps closer to you both, his very prominent erection now making itself known, as his hands move to yours and Eddie’s faces. He rubs his thumbs over both sets of your lips as he moves in closer towards the metalhead sitting beside you.

“Would you like that, pretty boy?” The demon solicits, his lips mere inches from your boyfriends, so close that Eddie could feel Steve’s shallow breaths.

Eddie had never found men much attractive but he couldn’t deny the allure he felt for the demon standing before him.

“I-I would.” He admits with a slight nod of his head before the succubus pulls him into a passionate kiss, tongues swirling against each other as you look on in desperate arousal.

“Mmm.” The demon hums after he pulls back. “I need to fuck you both.” He declares before bringing his swollen lips to yours, he licks into your mouth making you moan into the kiss, he removes your robe and slips it off your body. His hands rub over your tits, down your sides and land on your hips, holding you tightly as his lips continue to move against yours.

“Sit on his face, sweet one.” Steve demands, easily lifting your hips and moving you further back on the bed.

“Lay back for me, little lamb.” The demon tells Eddie before he falls to his knees and makes rapid movements to remove the metalheads belt, button and zipper. Eddie lifts his hips up, helping the succubus as he roughly rips his jeans down the rest of the way.

You straddle Eddie’s face, your glistening pussy captures Steve’s attention as he now hungrily eyes you and your boyfriend's sexes.

“I haven’t played with such a pretty cunt and cock in what seems like eons.” The demon groans before taking Eddie’s tip into his mouth and sucking.

Eddie moans as his tongue swirls over your swollen clit, he takes your bundle of nerves into his mouth and lightly sucks. Your head falls back in pleasure before he’s gliding his tongue down and licking into your pussy, tasting your sweet nectar. His favorite flavor.

The succubus working between your boyfriend's thighs takes his cock further into his mouth before wrapping his abnormally long tongue around the metalhead's girthy length. Eddie’s eyes roll back as he continues to lick and suck you. The rings on his fingers are digging into you just as his black polished nails are, creating a sting that amplifies your pleasure tenfold.

“Fuck, your tongue feels so good Eddie!” You whimper as you feel your orgasm creeping up on the horizon.

When you bring your head back down, your eyes immediately meet the glowing pair you've vaguely grown familiar with. His long snake-like tongue moves up from Eddie’s asshole to his balls, then up to lick the beads of precum that had built up in his absence while his long, wet, pink muscle made its travels further south.

“Are you going to cum, little one?” Steve questions before his tongue dashes out to lick at his obscenely wet lips.

“Mmhm!” You whine as your mouth drops open into the perfect little ‘o’ as heavy moans begin to fill the room.

The demon crawls up your boyfriends body, straddling his waist, rubbing their cocks together as he begins licking at your clit while Eddie fucks you with his tongue.

“Cum for us.” Steve demands, his thumb now taking over, making swift gentle circles.

“Oh! Oh!” You mewl as your legs shake, knees digging into the mattress as you ride your boyfriend's tongue, while the succubus continues to rub circles on your sodden clit.

“That’s it, pretty thing. Yes, that’s it!” Steve growls, hips still bucking creating the perfect friction as his and Eddie’s cocks rub together, both of them leaking with need.

Once you’ve come down from the euphoria, Steve manhandles you off of the long haired boy and onto your back before he grabs Eddie’s glistening chin and begins licking your slick off of his lips, he quickly dips his tongue into the other boys mouth moaning as he sucks your taste off of the metalheads wet muscle.

When they finally come up for air, the demon turns his attention back on you, making his way between your twitching legs.

“Here is what is going to happen, little doves…” Steve huffs as his eyes roam over your body that lay still beneath him. “I am going to fuck her little cunt as you fuck me.” He growled, his glowing eyes now on Eddie.

“Uh, okay.” Your boyfriend mutters as if he still hasn’t fully comprehended what’s happening, but his cock is so painfully hard and throbbing he’ll do whatever you or Steve asks of him.

“You..” he says as he points a long nailed finger in your flushed face, “on all fours. Now.”

You do your best to move quickly while the demon is still kneeling between your spread thighs. Once you’ve successfully shifted your body onto your knees, head face down into your sheets as you arch your ass nice and high for him. When you begin to wiggle in anticipation a quick whip is descended onto your backside, making you wail out in pain and pleasure.

That definitely was not his hand!

You look over to Eddie whose eyes are wide as his hand comes to a full stop around his cock.

“Holy shit, was that a tail?” Eddie asks in disbelief.

you look back at Steve who is now rubbing his tip along your entrance, gathering your wetness onto the heated skin. You decide to confirm you and your boyfriend’s suspicions when you wiggle your hips impatiently again, and just as Eddie had said a black spiked tail came out from behind the demon giving you another good lashing that made your eyes water and your teeth bite down so hard on your bottom lip you could practically taste the blood.

In one swift motion the demon plunges his big, girthy cock inside of you, steadily dragging it against your walls before his thrusts slowly begin to speed up into an unforgiving pace.

Steve looks down at where Eddie is still sprawled, the look on his face is that of utter shock.

“Get back there and fuck me. Now.” The succubus growled as his eyes glowed, before desperately hissing from the tightness of your pussy around him.

Steve hadn’t been fucked by another man in centuries, and holyfuckingshit if he wasn’t the most backed up he’d ever been, but I guess that’s what happens when you haven’t been summoned in a millennia. He needed that ultimate power of fucking and being fucked.

“Well, I’ve never fucked a guy before… do I need something to make it wet before I-I…” your sweet, sweet boyfriend bashfully asks Steve.

“Just spit will do.” The demon groans, as his once erratic hips fall to a leisurely pace.

The metalhead spits on his fingers before he’s bringing the big glob between Steve’s cheeks and timidly rubbing it against his puckered hole.

“Mmm, that’s it.” The succubus hisses before Eddie begins to slowly sink his middle finger into the tight hole, it almost sucks him in immediately and he bottoms out to the knuckle within seconds, god he’s so tight and warm, Eddie couldn’t wait to be engulfed in his little asshole. Those are words he never thought he’d utter to himself. But here we are.

Once he’s gotten three fingers in, and has pumped them in and out enough times to successfully find the demon's prostate.

Eddie removes them before spitting on his tip for extra lubrication, then lines his hard, aching cock up with Steve’s hole and slowly but surely pushes in.

The feeling that comes over both males is very obvious as throaty grunts and groans fill the room. Finally Steve starts to pick up his pace as he fucks into you with reckless abandon. You can feel your boyfriend fucking the demons cock into you even harder, which causes more wetness drip from your stretched hole and down to the succubus’ balls that harshly slap against your clit.

“Oh! Yes, fuck that’s so good!” You whine as your eyes roll to the back of your head.

The grunts coming from your boyfriend who’s hands now roughly grab at your waist, using you to fuck himself deeper into the hole he’s pounding, and Steves hisses and whimpers, make you feel as though you’re floating on the precipice of blinding white pleasure.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. Mmhm.” You continue to moan as you’re being fucked absolutely dumb.

“You hear that?” Eddie whispers into the demon's ear, “you’re making my girl feel so good, am I making you feel good, too?” Your boyfriend questions before licking at the succubus’ neck, then taking a chunk of skin between his teeth and biting before it turns into a harsh suck.

“Yes, yes you are making me feel so good!” Steve howled, the pleasure of both you and your boyfriend had the demon’s thoughts disintegrating into nothing but filling and being filled.

When you begin to fuck yourself on Steve’s cock, pushing back to engulf even more of him into your soaked walls, his tail swings out from behind him, swiftly wrapping around your neck and pulling your body up towards his.

“Am I fucking you good, little one?” Steve murmurs into your ear, creating a pleasant chill down your spine.

“Yes, it feels so fucking good!” You admit once his tail loosens from around your throat.

“Are you going to cum for me?” He whispers again, both males' hands caress your body as your high begins to peak.

You can hear Eddie mutter over Steve’s neck “cum for us baby.” The acknowledgement from the love of your life sets off your orgasm as you begin to shake and writh making the demon's tail tighten around your neck creating the most perfect spacey feeling that has your high lasting far longer than usual. A splash of liquid hits Steve’s thighs as your moans grow louder.

“Fuck!” Steve growls, his tail completely leaving your neck and swooping back to where it came from, causing you to fall face first into the mattress, tears and drool wetting the sheets beneath you as he drills harder into you, the need for his release makes him move at an inhuman pace.

Eddie stills allowing the demon the fuck himself on the metalheads cock as there is no way he can keep up with the thrusts he’s fucking you with.

“I’m going to breed this little fucking cunt, while your boyfriend breeds my asshole.” Steve hisses into your neck, before his groans get louder and his warm spunk shoots deep within your walls.

Steve clenches so tightly around Eddie’s cock, milking the cum right out of him as it shoots into his used up hole. Your boyfriend whimpers and whines at the feeling of being completely squeezed of every last drop.

Eddie falls beside you, both of you panting to catch your breaths, bodies mere seconds from being taken under by drowsiness.

Your boyfriend moves the hair out of your face before playfully pinching at your cheeks, the demon looks on at the tender display of affection between two lovers, it makes his chest tighten with an unfamiliar feeling.

“Oh, but we are not done, we have all night and my hunger has yet to be satiated.”

𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 & 𝚛𝚎𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚜!

[judasofsuburbia]

something something kindergarten teacher! steve who is so tired of going on bad dates. kindergarten teacher! robin who doesn't want him to give up.

“Really? The date went that bad?” Robin asks again. 

“Yes,” Steve drones. “I swear she looked like she’d rather be at the dentist than on a date with me.”

Robin makes a sad face at him. Steve continues to sort the paint jugs and throw out any that have been mixed with other colors. Robin finishes putting toys back into cubbies and sanitizing the fake food. 

“Okay so,” Robin starts. 

Steve immediately holds up a hand. “Don’t say ‘maybe she’s not the one but someone is’. I’m sick of this, Rob. I feel like I’m just better off alone.”

“Not true,” Robin argues. “You’re a catch. You’re attractive and good with kids. You make me laugh so hard my ribs shake. You’re a great listener and you make amazing cocktails. Great helmet of hair. Who wouldn’t want to date that?” 

Steve’s heard it all before. He loves Robin, he does, but it doesn’t seem to matter what she thinks of him because no one in this town wants to make it to date two with him.

He used to be so good at this. Always had a girl on his arm at football games in high school. Always had a date to prom. Always had some girl to make out with at parties. Even when he realized later on in his twenties that he liked boys too, he still couldn’t find one that took his attraction seriously.

Steve Harrington? Like both? Unheard of, apparently. 

Still, Steve didn’t want to start the first day of school on a bad note. “Thanks, Rob. I might need to lick my wounds for a second but I’ll get back on the horse I promise.”

“Good because our marriage pact could be closing soon,” Robin mumbles with a sly smile. 

Steve’s head whips around. “Are you‒”

“I have a ring picked out,” Robin practically squeals. 

Steve does his best to gently set down the paint jugs and rip off his latex gloves before darting across the room to pick Robin up in a twirling hug. He kisses her head repeatedly until she’s groaning, giggling, and shoving him off. 

“Rob, that’s amazing,” Steve breathes. He squeezes her tightly again. 

“You better keep your mouth shut,” Robin warns with a pointed finger. “It’s so hard to surprise Nancy Wheeler but I think I’m finally going to be able to.” 

Steve’s grinning from ear to ear as he mimes zipping his mouth closed. “Secret’s safe with me.”

The alarm on Steve’s phone breaks them out of their little love fest and suddenly the halls are filled with parents, children, and teachers gabbing to high heaven. Robin gives him a salute before crossing over onto her side of the classroom. Technically, there is a foldable partition between the two rooms but it will be a cold day in Hell if Robin and Steve ever actually separate their classrooms. 

Steve goes to stand by his door and greet his new gaggle of students. He high-fives each of them as they walk through the door and points to their assigned cubby and seat.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s looking around the room and sees that two seats are still empty. Dustin and Max Munson. He didn’t see them at parent-teacher night last week but he knows from their file that they’re fraternal twins from a single, widowed dad. He tries to keep an eye out for them but he knows the other kids are getting restless. 

Then he hears, “Oh, Mr. Munson, you’re actually in Steve’s‒sorry, Mr. Harrington’s class. He’s just right across the way.” 

Steve glances across the room and does a double-take. Across the room is the alleged Mr. Munson, this tall, lanky man with curly brown hair that hits his shoulders with a blank bandana tying down the top of his head, big brown eyes, a leather jacket with pins, a white tank top, and coverall sleeves tied at his waist. He’s positively breathtaking. 

Holding either hand are Max and Dustin. A little redhead with a baseball cap, overalls, and a striped shirt. A little brunette curly head with green khaki shorts and a shirt with a dragon on it. Mr. Munson smiles apologetically at Robin and walks across the room to Steve’s. Dustin bolts to his assigned seat and starts talking animatedly to Will Byers who looks a little scared out of his mind but is quickly rescued by Mike Wheeler who is just as excited. Max stays glued to Mr. Munson’s side as he walks up to Steve.

If Steve’s not mistaken, Mr. Munson looks him up and down before speaking. 

“Sorry we’re late,” Mr. Munson says and of course, his voice is pretty too. “This one is a little nervous about being away from her dad.”

Steve draws his eyes away from the strong neck and pale collarbones that poke out from underneath his jacket to the scared girl. He bends down to her level and gives her a soft smile. 

“Are you Max? I’m Mr. Harrington,” Steve says.

Max blinks, inching more and more behind Mr. Munson’s pant leg. 

“School’s kinda scary, huh?” Steve asks. 

Max nods.

“I know I get a little nervous on the first day and I’m the teacher,” Steve admits in a small, dramatic voice. He sees the tiniest sliver of a smile on Max’s face. “I’ve sat you next to Lucas Sinclair,” Steve points to the smiling kid on the other side of the room. Lucas gives a small wave. “He’s a very nice boy and I think he even likes the Bulls,” Steve gestures to Max’s hat. “So, I think you guys will have loads to talk about. We’re gonna have a really fun day, okay? And then you’ll get to tell your dad all about it.”

Max glances timidly around the room again and slowly lets go of her dad’s pant leg. Dustin rushes over and shows Max where her cubby is which detaches her completely. Max sits next to Lucas who does get very excited over her hat. Steve and Mr. Munson watch her relax little by little. 

“Holy sh‒shirt," Mr. Munson coughs and smiles sheepishly. "Wow, uh, you really know how to talk to them. Literally made her a friend within five seconds."

Steve stands and tries to regain composure now that the irresistible dad’s attention is on him. 

“Thanks,” Steve says quietly. “The first day is always a little tricky.”

Mr. Munson holds out his hand and says, “Eddie.”

Steve takes it, feeling a little dizzy over how firm his grip is and the callouses on his hands. “S-Steve. Harrington.”

“I’m sorry we couldn’t make it last week. Last-minute towing emergency for Chief Hopper,” Eddie says, finally dropping Steve’s hand. 

Steve playfully rolls his eyes. “I’ve been telling him for years that he needs to dump that old hunk of junk already. I’m guessing you work for Munson Mechanics?”

Eddie smiles boldly and glances down at his attire. “Yeah, that’s where I get this sick uniform. Very exclusive.”

“I’m jealous,” Steve laughs nervously, trying desperately to keep his eyes on Eddie’s face. But even then, his eyes are so pretty and his smile is so radiant. There’s faint stubble on his upper lip and jaw. Steve wants to run his fingers over it amongst other things.

“Well, I won’t keep you much longer,” Eddie smiles, clapping Steve on his back. “Maybe I’ll get you a free oil change for your trouble.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble‒”

Eddie leans forward a little and squeezes Steve’s shoulder. He whispers, “Or maybe I just want to see you when there are not twenty five-year-olds staring at me.”

From this proximity, Steve can smell his cologne and lingering car oil. He can feel his brain cells dying every second he inhales the intoxicating aroma. Steve breathes shallowly, too aware of the growing blush on his cheeks, and says, “S-sure. I’d like that.”

Eddie smirks and has the audacity to wink before going to each of his kids, ruffling their hair, and kissing them goodbye with a big wet smack on their cheeks. He passes by Steve again and murmurs, “I won’t say goodbye to you like that. Not yet, at least. Good luck with my little gremlins” before walking out the door. 

Steve hears the clunk of his boots echoing down the hall and each step makes his heart beat louder against his ribs.

He dares to look at Robin across the room who is staring at him with a smug grin on her face. She mimics getting on a horse and does a little lasso with her hand. 

Steve adjusts his glasses, clears his throat, and says in his best teacher voice, “Alright friends, who’s ready to start kindergarten?” 

EDIT 2/8: READ THE FULL FIC HERE 🤠

[meowcatsposts]

Necklace [Ao'nung]

✎⁾⁾⁾ note: reader is metkayina & Ao'nung is probably OOC

Overview

Boy is jealous (not good at hiding it, either-)

Why? The Sully kids.

He has a necklace he wants to give you, but he just can't

You hissed in Ao’nung’s face–baring your teeth just a little bit–hoping he’d get the message. Your eyes burned. Your tail swished. The Sully kids looked at you in awe. How were you, a mere Metkayina, able to stand up against the Olo’eyktan’s son? 

Ao’nung and the rest of his gang remained silent–awestruck, even. No one dared to oppose him, really, let alone hiss in his face! You were a bold one, for sure, to do something like that. 

“Leave them alone,” you said. It struck ice into everyone’s hearts but you felt calm, unlike the blood roaring in your ears; perhaps it was Eywa who was soothing you. “We’re all equal. Get that into your thick skulls.”

From that day on, the Sully kids stuck to you like glue–even dragged you around so they wouldn’t get bullied.

Great timing. Absolutely perfect.

Ao’nung couldn’t shake off this…sting from earlier. He thought you’d react like him–not like his sister Tsireya. He thought you didn’t like outsiders; you even said you’d only accept a Metkayina mate! You and Tsireya were too warm to the Sully kids–who had five fingers, lanky blue bodies, and thin tails–helping them and cheering them on in the ocean. What were you–a freak, too? 

Ao’nung looked down at his hand. Resting on his palm was a necklace, hand-made by him–for you. He wove the cord by hand, always doubting if it would be too tight or too loose. He hand-picked every shell; they had to be the perfect size. He even waited until nighttime to pick out the ones that glowed the prettiest, the brightest. And the clasp–the hardest part. He hand-carved a small conch into a clasp, so you needn’t go through the trouble of tying the necklace. It took him hours to complete. Sometimes, his hands got so tired he had trouble feeling his fingers the next day. (But he’d brush it off; he was Tonowari and Ronal’s son, after all–the Olo’eyktan and Tsahik.)

Ao’nung’s blood boiled. To think that all his efforts would go to waste! 

“(Y/N)! (Y/N)!” Tuktirey squealed. She latched onto your leg and gazed up at you with her gleaming, glowing eyes of childish glee. 

“What is it?” you asked, wondering what the youngest Sully kid wanted. Tuk was cute, always running around the marui and playing with the sea life. 

“Can you take me to the ilu again? Please?” she pleaded. It was almost every day she asked you to take her to feed the ilu, watch the ilu, or ride the ilu, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say “no” to that cute little face. 

Taking Tuk’s smaller hand into yours you replied, “Ok,” with a smile adorning your lips. 

Ao’nung gazed at you from afar, blood pumping hotly. His heart was beating fast, even he could tell. Like Tsireya, how were you able to treat the Sully kids so nicely, like they were Metkayina? He was supposed to be kind, respectful, but right now, he just couldn’t. Especially when you were being so cordial and smiley–even defended them! What were you thinking?

He saw you and the little Sully girl ride an ilu, giggling and laughing. And it wasn’t the first time, either. On other occasions he saw you mingling with Neteyam, Lo’ak, or Kiri, helping them with their breathing, ilu riding, diving…way more than necessary, in his opinion. Heck, you even touched them!

A burning scar lingered in Ao’nung’s mind. Your teeth, bared at him. Your eyes, boring through him. Him! Him! Not the outsiders! 

Ao’nung gripped the hilt of his fishing spear. Hard. So hard until his knuckles turned bluish-white.

You, Ao’nung, Rotxo, and other young Metkayina were to fish along the reefs, so you left Tuk under Kiri’s care. The little one would be safe with Kiri, you knew.

“Thank you,” the older Sully girl said, bobbing in the water with Tuk. 

The water, glistening off your skin. The sun, shining on your hair and your eyes, lighting them up like halos. The ocean, hugging and caressing your body that cut through the gentle waves so fluidly.

“Ao’nung,” Rotxo whispered, throwing glances your way; he easily guessed what his friend was thinking. “Your fish swam away.”

Seeing that his prize was nowhere to be found, Ao’nung clicked his tongue, eyes narrowing in disgust. He was supposed to be a skilled hunter and diver for his age–not staring at some freak-lover.

“You caught enough, though,” Rotxo added quickly, hoping to quell his friend’s frustration. It seeped through his entire being, Rotxo could tell, and it unnerved him. Why was Ao’nung acting so prickly?

“You good?” Rotxo asked, looking into Ao’nung’s eyes. They’ve been cloudy for the past few days. 

“I’m fine,” Ao’nung replied curtly. He didn’t dare look into Rotxo’s eyes. Or else he’d crumble and tell him everything. 

Everyone had returned from fishing, and you were nowhere to be seen–probably with the Sully kids again. That thought alone had Ao’nung’s blood boiling mildly.

Rotxo snorted and rolled his eyes. Ao’nung wasn’t fine, duh. 

Ao’nung snapped, and he snarled, “What?” 

“Just making sure you’re not going to pick a fight with Lo’ak again,” Rotxo teased. After a short, uncomfortable silence he whispered, “You know you can tell me.”

Ao’nung just grunted. 

“It’s about (Y/N), isn’t it?” Seeing that his friend’s ears perked up a little, Rotxo continued, “Just give your gift. At least you’ll be able to confess.”

At first you thought Ao’nung gave it to the wrong person, but it wasn’t so. His eyes were way too shy, way too genuine. They were soft, reflecting the moonlight, not hard like obsidian. And they darted around like fish.

A necklace, handmade, lay in your palms. Woven delicately into the cord were several small shells, each placed an equal distance from each other. In the day they would reflect the sunlight, glimmering softly. At night they would glow prettily, almost like the sky–purple, blue, a tinge of pink. At the end of the necklace was a clasp, carved out of a conch. Speckles of pink dotted the glossy ivory. You remained silent the whole time, out of words; words just couldn’t express the feelings swirling in your heart. 

Ao’nung, on the other hand, was growing agitated, quietly wondering if you’d reject his gift. His eyes flitted from your wide ones to the necklace as he fought the urge to jump into the ocean. (The necklace took him ages to craft, though, so he prayed to Eywa you’d accept it with a smile, at least.) 

Finally cutting the thick silence he asked bitterly, “What, you hate it?” The poor boy tried to hide the hurt gurgling in his stomach. “I can take it back–”

Before Ao’nung could snatch the piece of jewelry from your hands you pulled it back to your chest, replying with a defiant, “No!”

“What?” Ao’nung’s ears flattened slightly; he was confused. “Then why were you quiet?”

“I…I like it,” you said shyly–so softly that Ao’nung doubted his ears. “I like it a lot…I just don’t know what to say.” After a brief pause you found the words you were searching for, and gazed earnestly into Ao’nung’s eyes. “It’s beautiful. Very, very beautiful. Thank you.”

You accepted his gift! Bitter feelings washed away, Ao’nung nearly melted right then and there. He thought he could get sucked into those sweet eyes of yours. 

“...Here,” he mumbled. “I’ll help you put it on.”

Ao’nung, with a gentleness that even he was surprised at, parted your hair. It was his first time touching you like this, so tenderly, so affectionately. With trembling fingers he brought the cord around your neck, and clicked the clasp shut. After huffing (more out of stress-relief than frustration), he stood in front of you and eyed the necklace that rested beautifully against your collarbones. Then, a beaming, prideful smile creeped up his lips.

It fit perfectly.

blue dividers by: firefly-graphics

[cinnahoons]

𝐁𝐔𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐌! ₊‧.°.⋆🫧•˚₊‧⋆.

𖦹ׂ 𓈒 🐇 જ⁀➴ riki helps you dye your hair on the floor of your bedroom, but did you really have to pick that color?

nishimura riki x fem!reader; wc 1.8k; genres pure fluff, established relationship; cw none; notes i edited a riki selca for this drabble who’s gonna congratulate me!!! + i listened to magnetic by illit 5000 times while writing

there’s a knock at your door, gentle, and then it’s swinging open, a chestnut colored blur with the tall, lanky figure of your blonde-haired boyfriend appearing behind it.

“‘kay, i got it,” he murmurs, slipping his shoes off and padding with socked feet over to where you’re sprawled on the floor of your bedroom. you push down against the carpet with your palms, groaning with the effort of having to sit up from the comfortable position you’d been in. riki sits down next to you, crossing his legs.

in his hand is a box of l’oreal hair dye, a light bubblegum pink. he fiddles with the packaging a little, his eyebrows furrowed as he tears the top part of the box off gently. you reach over in excitement, tongue poking out as you take the box from his hands and pull out the packet inside.

“it’s gonna look so cute,” you gush, reaching for the small extra bowl you and riki had brought into your room earlier when you’d bleached your hair. you’d long since opened the windows, the acrid smell of the bleach almost completely faded. it had been risky work, what with the running risk of dropping bleach onto the carpet, but you’d managed to pull through.

riki glances at you from the corner of his eye, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“i still can’t believe you want pink,” he murmurs, watching as you tear open the packet and pour the color into the bowl. he makes a face at the small mountain of rosy paste, the strings of his large, plush hoodie twirled around his finger. “it’s the worst color ever.”

you pout at him, handing the bowl to your boyfriend as per the usual routine.

“i think it’s pretty.” you maneuver your body around so that your back is facing riki, your freshly bleached hair freed from any elastics. “you don’t think it’s gonna look good?”

there’s a little sigh, and then you feel hands in your hair, pulling out a section at the bottom of your head and tying the rest up with an elastic. riki reaches into the bowl of color with a bare hand, ignoring the brush (he stopped using it after the first couple times he’d done this for you in the last years), and takes a small amount onto his fingers. a moment passes, and then he’s raking the color into your hair, tugging ever-so-gently at your scalp as he massages the dye into every last strand.

you hum contentedly, allowing the boy to help you as you fiddle absentmindedly with the fabric of his socked foot. he wiggles his toes—an action that he knows you find adorable despite its childish implications—causing a giggle to float out of your chest. sunlight from your open window beams against your face, yet it somehow isn’t as warm as your boyfriend’s presence behind you.

“since it’s you,” he starts, leaning closer to squint at a strand before thumbing on an extra bit of color, “it’ll look good. even if it’s pink.” he says the last part a bit downcast, eyes trained on the (no doubt sickening, in his opinion) pink bowl of dye sitting between his legs. the words come out like they’ve literally taken years off of his life, to which you’re only able to roll your eyes fondly.

a couple more minutes pass, and riki’s about halfway done with your hair. you’re rocking side to side, humming the tune to a random song as he works. eventually, you decide there’s no better pastime than to annoy your boyfriend.

“how much do i have to pay you to get you to say i chose the perfect color?”

there’s silence, and then riki is snorting, putting his hands up to your head again to massage slowly against your scalp.

“don’t push it.”

a smile creeps onto your face. your eyes flutter shut to the comforting feeling of his fingers in your hair, breathing in slowly through your nose.

“name a currency. dollars? gift cards? new jewelry?”

he starts to laugh, then. it’s a tinkly sound that sets a nerve alight in your brain, bubbling and fizzing like a little can of sweet, syrupy soda. your smile widens, and even though riki can only see your back, you’re sure he knows.

“i’m trying so hard not to call you an idiot right now.” his own smile is apparent through his voice, a lilt to it like he’s fighting to keep the corners of his lips down.

a warm feeling spreads in your chest. you have so much adoration for the boy carding pink fingers through your hair, from his way-oversized hoodie to his wriggly toes. it’s taking all the strength you can physically muster not to lean back and get hair dye all over the both of you, just to be wrapped in his embrace.

“what about kisses?” you supply cheekily. riki pauses, his hands stilling in your hair. after a moment, he says:

“...i can be persuaded.”

he pulls his fingers from your hair at the same moment that you start to turn around, resting with your knees to the floor as you come face to face with your boyfriend again. he’s giving you his best glower—although it’s definitely more of a goofy cartoon rendition, at best. you giggle at him.

“hurry up,” he mutters, a pink flush to his cheeks as he eyes the dye plastered all over your previously bleached-blond hair.

you wobble on your knees a little as you crawl closer, fitting between his legs and bracing your hands against his shoulders.

“i’m about to give you the best kiss of your life,” you tell him, your voice dripping in mock seriousness. he squints at you, a smile playing at his lips.

“pink is the greatest color of all time,” he blurts, like the words are acid, his eyes closing immediately in waiting. you gaze at his face for a second, mapping his moles like constellations, your eyes drifting over his pouty lips and landing square on the tip of his nose.

where you’ll do it is no contest, really, because you’re leaning in to press a sweet butterfly kiss against his nose without much more than a split-second decision. he waits for a beat longer, eyes still closed, before he pops one open to reveal a confused brown iris.

“you cheated,” he deadpans, his face cupped in your hands. you brush a thumb over his eyebrow before letting go, backing away from him with a teasing smile.

“no i didn’t. i kissed you, like i said i would.”

“that wasn’t a real one,” he grumbles, grabbing your shoulders and maneuvering you around gently so that you’re sitting with your back to him once again. you laugh, the sound sticky and sweet in your chest.

“i didn’t know there was such a thing as a fake kiss.”

“whatever,” he replies, swatting at your shoulder with no force. “i didn’t need one anyway.” then there are hands in your hair again, slipping against your scalp to finish the final section near your forehead.

“‘m sorry,” you giggle, even though you’re not.

he finishes shortly, and you stand up on wobbly, slightly numb legs. you pad across your room, turning on the light in your bathroom, with riki whisking away the empty bowls you’d left behind and bringing them to your sink. he works on washing them as you slip into the shower, rosy rivulets of water running down your body like unicorn tears. you can’t help but to shiver a little, the cold water rinsing your hair sending goosebumps all across your skin.

riki hands you a towel when you step out, one that’s already stained with a myriad of different dyes from your past hair adventures. you towel up your hair, dressing quickly in the pajamas you'd been wearing while riki finishes rinsing off his hands in the sink.

when he turns around he’s squinting at you, pulling the towel off your head even as you protest weakly. your fresh, pink hair tumbles down, and riki chuckles to himself as he grabs a hairbrush.

the motions are familiar, the comfortable silence permeating the routine tugging at your heartstrings like gentle rain. the brush runs through your locks with sweet fervor, smoothing any knots that might have formed in the shower. in the end, your hair air-dries, the color in its final form a lovely shade of shiny pink.

“oh,” riki says, staring at you with a completely blank look on his face. but his voice sounds like he’d just come to the realization of the century. “it’s pretty.”

something about it—the way he’s a steely revelation of nothing, and yet he’s brimming with something like fond curiosity, is so completely riki that you could die. happiness surges in your throat, and the soda can in your brain pops open again, the same sugary sweet bubbles from earlier zipping off like little candied neurons.

“yeah?” you mumble, fighting to keep a wide grin from invading your face.

he nods silently, blond bangs flopping against his face.

“i told you, didn’t i?

he purses his lips for a second before his mouth is twisting into a smile, a quiet laugh tumbling from his chest.

“you did.”

you walk closer to him, giggling. he reaches out, letting you clutch at his forearms for balance. and then you’re smiling at him, and neither of you are saying anything but it somehow feels like you’ve said it all.

he shifts, cupping warm, bubblegum hands over your cheeks. the staining reaches just past his palms—like raw, honest evidence of the way he loves you.

and then he’s leaning in, bumping his nose against yours intentionally before hes titling a little to the right, your lips meeting in a soft kiss.

his hands slip to the back of your head, blending in with your soft pink locks. as he kisses you, lips slotted against yours tenderly, his fingers twirl in your hair.

you break apart with shy smiles, heat in your face and a staticky buzz in your head. riki lips are pink, and he pulls his hands away from you to run them through his hair.

“transaction completed,” you giggle, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“oh, shut up,” he replies, screwing his face up in gentle amusement, and then surging forward to tackle you with a hug.

.ೃ࿐

at the end of the day, when riki’s grabbing his stuff and getting ready to drive back to his house for the night, you decide to take a picture together.

he stands behind you, pink-stained hands wrapping around your torso to rest on your stomach. his head dips down to rest on your shoulder while you hold your phone up to snap a picture in the full-length mirror standing before you.

a lone, pink stripe of hair rests against riki’s face, a shock of color against the light blonde of the rest of his head.

he kisses you on the cheek.

click!

tags! @tyunni @vousty

[lovebugism]

What if reader's friends convince her to go on a date with another guy, and this guy is an absolute jerk? I think reader would call Eddie and ask her to come pick her up - why is every guy an asshole? Except Eddie of course 🖤

ty for requesting :D — grumpy!eddie rescues you from a bad date then offers to take you on a better one (friends to lovers, hurt/comfort ish | 1k)

bug's summer fic fest (⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

The sunset matches the color of your Slurpee. A fiery red and orange hue, like the mango and strawberry concoction in your cup. You sip from the plastic straw and pretend to taste the sky in your mouth — pretending not to notice the pounding bass of Eddie’s van as he peals into the parking lot. 

You sit on the curb and keep your eyes trained on the cracked pavement under your feet. All cool. Like you hadn’t called him for help at all.

“You could’ve been more specific about where you were, you know?” Eddie shouts, punctuating his question with the slam of the car door. His worn sneakers scuff the concrete with each of his rushed strides. You’d almost think he was actually worried about you.

“I told you I was at the payphone by the Seven-Eleven,” you shrug, tilting your chin to look up at the boy when he stands ahead of you.

“There’s four of those,” he argues, with his lanky figure looming over you. He pushes his leather jacket off his sides (which he wears in spite of the summer heat) to put his hands on his hips. “Seriously. I counted ‘em all in the half hour it took me to find you.”

You squint up at him, hardly apologetic after the shit day you’ve had. “Well, sorry for not being more clear,” you spit in a cynical monotone.

“Apology accepted,” Eddie shrugs. He huffs and sits on the curb next to you while you slurp audibly at the slushie in your fist. He leans over to knock your shoulders with his. “What happened?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Figured… Can I have some, at least?”

He’s only partly surprised when you hand over the drink without protest. He takes it in his ringed fist, looks inside to observe its content, then sips at the red straw (trying to ignore the nagging thought that your lips have been where his are now). The strawberry-mango mixture melts quickly on his tongue, foreign and sweet. “’S nice.”

You scoff like you’re owed the compliment. “Right? I let Josh try some earlier, and he said it tasted like shit. I was like, you know what, this is my final fucking straw.”

Eddie’s face screws. He wipes dramatically at his mouth with the back of his hand, hopelessly trying to erase the other asshole’s DNA. “Are you serious?” he mumbles, all annoyed ‘cause you hadn’t thought to warn him beforehand. You don’t seem to understand his meaning, though, as you shrug lazily in response.

“Well, him trying to feel me up in his car was my actual final straw. But then he hated my all-time favorite Slurpee, and I didn’t even want to look at him anymore. I just told him to leave me here.”

The only thing Eddie hates more than putting his mouth where Josh’s has been — other than the thought of Josh taking you on a date at all — is the idea of Josh not treating you right. His chest burns with a withheld rage.

“Are you talking about fucking Josh O.?” he scoffs and passes the styrofoam cup back to you. “Like, the moron from Mr. Mundy’s, Josh O.? That’s who Steve set you up with?”

“Unfortunately,” you grumble and take another sip, more casual about the subtle spit-swapping than the boy beside you had been.

“He was basically setting you up for failure, then. You know that, right?”

“I just wanted a free meal,” you confess quietly.

Eddie squints. His eyes flit from your profile, to your fidgeting hand punching holes in the ice with your straw, and back to your profile again. “Well, did you get one?”

“Yep. We split one burger at the diner.”

A laugh sputters from his pink mouth.

Your head whips to glare at him. “It’s not funny.”

Eddie props his elbow on his knee to hide his smile behind his ringed hand. “I mean… It kinda is, though. ‘Cause even I could buy two meals for us, and I’m basically the brokest fucker in this town.”

“Are you offering?”

His brows pinch. “Offering what?”

“To buy me a burger,” you say in a mousy voice, pretending to be innocent as you peer at him beneath your lashes, all doe-eyed.

“What?” Eddie scoffs through the sparkling in his chest. As a self-proclaimed metalhead, there was absolutely nothing metal about confessing to stupid crushes. “No.”

“Well, it sounds a lot like you’re offering,” you tease before wrapping your lips around the straw of your drink.

“Well, this sounds a lot like talking for someone who doesn’t wanna talk about it,” he mocks.

Your eyes narrow in annoyance. You part from your Slurpee and mumble through the ice on your tongue. “I wasted my quarters on you,” you deadpan.

Eddie rolls his eyes. He rises from the curb with a huff, wincing at the distant ache in his long legs. “C’mon, weirdo. Let’s go,” he urges, towering over you again.

You shake your head, gaze averted, suddenly shy. “I’m okay here.”

“Let’s go.”

“I’m serious, Eds. I don’t feel like going home right now—”

“I’m not taking you home,” he scoffs like it’s obvious. Your eyes flit back to his, suddenly hopeful again, and he tries not to cower. “I’m taking you to the diner. So I can get you a real meal.”

You seem particularly moved by the uncharacteristic act of kindness. “Really?”

“Yes, really— I don’t want you to starve to death,” he grouses, feigning annoyance ‘cause it’s easier than facing his real feelings in the face. “Now, let’s go before I change my mind.”

He walks off ahead of you on long legs, leaving you behind to catch up. But, because he isn’t a total asshole, he opens the squeaking passenger side door for you.

“Can I get a milkshake, too?” you wonder with a scrunched nose, helping yourself onto the cracked pleather seat.

“Don’t push it,” Eddie squints. He goes to shut the door, then catches the pretty pout pinching your features. “Fine,” he groans before slamming it shut.

[fullfriendnerdclutch]

"Fuck bro, that spell shared by Hugh is legit!" exclaimed Ricky from Alvaro's body

"Look at you two, not so strong anymore, aren't you? Yall won't get away from this until we drain our balls on you two lol, just like what you guys did to us last week drenched us with your piss!" said by Toby from inside Leon's body

"That will teach you to not mess with people, not like you will be able to mess with people ever again looking like that, ha!" chimed Ricky

As they lowered their pants to reveal their former bullies fat uncut cock, the two bullies can only cowered in fear as they eventually felt the humiliation (and warmth) of being drenched in piss. The two former nerds in control of their bullies body simply smirked as they enjoyed their sweet retaliation. Then, Ricky from inside Alvaro body (the one with the snapback) said

"Fuck dude, I just remembered about Benny and Eddie and some other guys telling their plan to Hugh. They planned to use the spell not on the jocks in campus, they planned to use it to their awful families and some other people,"

"What? That's possible?"

"Yeah....I don't remember Hugh explaining any limitation. Just imagine Benny and Eddie swapped their bodies with their Marine brothers?"

"Aw shit, go check the group chat, maybe they shared pictures or anything,"

As planned and predicted, Benny shared a picture to the group chat of a selfie he took in his older brother's body while Eddie stood next to him, both older brothers are best friends and always teased the shit out of their two brainy younger brothers.

But not stopping there, Ty shared a selfie of his older brother, Darius, clothed in tight UA that emphasized Darius insanely ripped physique. The chat that followed confirmed that Ty is now inside Darius and he stated that he needed to skip game night session for tonight as he got "business to settle" with his older brother now trapped in Ty's lanky body.

Meanwhile, Ian shared a picture of his manipulative uncle that took care of him ever since his parents dead in his bathrobe with a glass of wine. From the angle, Ricky believed that the picture was taken while the cameraman kneeled, and it seems like Iam really swapped with his uncle.

Reading the whole changes caused both Ricky and Toby having a hard-on, which is ten more times more beautiful and intoxicating as they are now in possession of Alvaro and Leon's monster cock that easily reached 9 inches when hard. Looking at each other's eyes, they laughed maniacally as they shoved the entirety of their meat inside their former bullies that still drenched in piss and too afraid to even fight back. The revenge is just starting, and it's not going to finish anytime soon

[sillysowa]

Request, write as you please but

Now hear me

Plus size reader and hobie is just like 'Sit on my face, i will eat you out like a pie' Reader tried to explain that wouldn't be smart in case he lost airflow and his response is something along the lines of "Ill Die A HAPPY MAN"

-🧁Anon

Love, love, love, this—ty cupcake anon🙏 I apologize for the wait! I’ve found myself writing multiple works at a time.

TASTE LIKE HEAVEN

PAIRING: HOBIE BROWN X PLUS-SIZE!FEM!READER

GENRE: SLIGHT ANGST, SMUT

WORD COUNT: 0.8K

WARNINGS: BODY INSECURITIES FROM READER IN THE BEGINNING, ORAL FEM RECEIVING, FACE-SITTING, ASS SLAPPING

AUTHORS NOTE: I JUST LOVE WRITING CUNNILINGUS, KEEP IT COMING

SYNOPSIS: HOBIE CONVINCES HIS GIRL THE BEST WAY TO GO IS DEATH BY FACESITTING

—

Hobie is tall and lanky. He knows that how you feel about your body is something he may never understand, but he absolutely loves you and is willing to try.

Your body is so incredibly beautiful to Hobie in ways that he can’t even put into words. When he’s found you staring too hard in the mirror or at skinnier women, getting insecure when shopping for clothes or continually struggling to find an outfit because you’re having a bad body confidence day, it absolutely wrecks him.

The two of you were currently making out in his room, lying on your sides. He had noticed how shy you had been with sex these past weeks, and he wanted to help you—even if it meant walking you through taking a step out of your comfort zone,

“Luv, ‘wanna try something.” He states, out of breath from your kiss. He nestles a pillow under his head and lays back, grabbing your hands and guiding you on top of him.

“H-Hobie, I-“

“C’mon! It’s alright, I want you to.” He assures you, looking up into your eyes like you hung the stars—gaze full of admiration and eyebrows pinched in desire. You allow yourself to at least get on his lap, confused when he, still fully clothed, starts to remove your shorts.

“What are you thinking, Hobe’s?” You ask with a teasing sigh. You were nervous. You knew Hobie hated when you refused to do certain things out of insecurity or fear over your weight compared to his. Hobie ‘couldn’t give a rats-ass’ as he has said previously. You still felt anxious. You were now nude waist down, and Hobie got a mischievous glint in his eyes that made your stomach drop,

“You’re gonna sit on my face.” He said casually like it didn’t send a chill up your spine,

“No. Nonono, Hobie that’s not a good idea.” You instantly attempt to shut it down, moving to get off of him when his hands lock on your hips, his surprising super-human strength catching you off guard.

“I know you’d have the time of your life riding my face, darling. Just let me show you how good it can be.” He begs, squeezing your hips. Hobie would truly never make you do something you don’t want to do, but he knows you’d love it. He understands that you’re just struggling with the idea of resting your full weight on his face.

“What if you…can’t breathe?” You mumble, trying to make up an excuse despite the throbbing you feel between your legs. Hobie instantly lets out the most seductive laugh you’ve ever heard, his hands tightening on your hips and shaking you slightly, his gaze falls back on you before he simply smiles and says,

“I can’t think of a better way to go.”

Before you knew it, he was guiding you through it, your pussy right above his face and your hands on the headboard.

“Give it to me, luv.” Hobie groans. His eyelashes flutter closed as you gently sit on his face, your thighs around his head. He hums, expertly eating you out the moment you’re in his reach—your moans filling the room. His tongue is everywhere, his hands moving your hips with a steady rhythm, helping you ride his face just like he wants.

“Atta girl, baby,” He moans into your pussy, “Fuck my face, doll.” Hobie messily eats you, his eyes rolling into the back of his head and his grip on your hips tight. He slaps your ass and fungus fucks you, his eyes up gazing at your fucked our face. He notices your desperate panting and whines of his name, looking down at him with your face heating up from the overwhelming pleasure. The sound of his mouth working on you, the heat in the room, the feeling of his warm tongue in your tight pussy—it’s almost too much to handle—but the aching in your thighs as you desperately try to not rest your full weight on Hobie is worse. Suddenly, you feel his hands snake around your thighs and pull you down onto him as if you weigh nothing. You gasp and moan brokenly at the feeling, Hobie letting out a deep primal noise and slapping your ass, urging you to ride him. You pause a moment to look down at his face, only his eyes visible with you using him as a seat. Your hips slowly start to move on him, Hobie nodding in approval as you ride. The feeling of your orgasm nearing clouds your senses, your hips rapidly thrusting on Hobie’s face as you moan his name into the room,

“Hobie!~” You moan his name as you cum, your hands gripping the headboard as your lover drinks you up. Your head falls back, lifting yourself up a bit and taking deep breaths as Hobie licks the mess up. He kisses your thighs before you fall over onto your back, your clit pulsing and your head spinning. Hobie smiles and kisses you, the taste of your orgasm all over his tongue and lips. He pulls away, and the tent in his pants makes your pussy clench around nothing. Hobie leans down and kisses you where you’re sensitive, chuckling

“Have I ever told’ja you taste just like heaven, luv?”

[silvergyus]

thinking about line cook yeonjun...

sfw. tw: cigarettes

he started after you. a new cook to fill in on the line and help with to-go orders. it was a relief honestly and had been a while since there was anyone new on staff

you notice him immediately. he's tall and good looking and doesn't yell like some of the other cooks

you shoot each other flirty looks for a few weeks whenever you're in the kitchen picking up your tables' orders

you get a moment away from the bustle of the restaurant, ducking out into the alley to calm yourself in the cool night air. yeonjun is out on his smoke break

he looks so cool, his bangs falling out of his backwards hat, his lanky form leaning against the wall, the cigarette between his lips burning orange in the blue night

you talk to him, finally, actually talk to him. it's short, but it's enough

he draws you in, as cliche as line cooks and waitresses are, but you can't resist him

he puts his number in your phone before flicking the butt of his cigarette onto the dirty concrete, grinding it out with the heel of his beat up sneaker. he smells like smoke when he leans in to whisper in your ear, telling you to text him when you're off

he goes back inside, leaving you stunned, ears burning and butterflies fluttering in your stomach

the other waitstaff immediately notice the shift in your behavior. they joke that you must have a crush on the new guy, that it's finally happening, your waitress rite of passage- crushing on a line cook

you deny it- nothing happened between you two!- but they don't believe you

it doesn't help the way that yeonjun winks at you when you go back to run orders

the way he saves you food and whips up "something special" for you from time to time

the special treatment he seems to give you and no one else

weeks go by and you text him only from time to time, the conversation barely leaving the topic of work

but he's sweet, flirting and chatting with you when it's slow

he comforts you when you spill sauce on yourself, a huge mess down your front and all over your shoes. he goes so far as to come to the front and tell your manager that you need to go home when he refuses to cut you

it's the first time you see yeonjun actually mad

but his voice is still soft when he takes you under his arm back to the tiny server station so you can grab your bag

he has that same gentleness when you can't stop the tears that form after hours serving a picky table, doing your best, your brightest smile plastered on in the middle of a dinner rush. the table hogged all your attention and kept you from being assigned others, only for them to leave no tip

yeonjun smells like kitchen grease and lingering cigarette as he pulls you aside, rubbing circles on your back as you try to calm down, letting the frustration rush out and away in his arms

you stay late that night rolling silverware in a back booth. he walks you to your car

he looks at you sincerely, tilting his head to look through his lashes

"I meant it when I said to text me. we can talk about more than just work, you know"

your body immediately heats up and you thank years of serving experience for letting you keep your cool

the other servers have a sixth sense, you swear, the way they all know about your date with yeonjun before you even say anything

the two of you are the talk of the team, everyone wanting to know what his place is like, how good of a kisser he is

"you did kiss him, right? if I were-"

"okay that's enough" you cut off your coworker before she can speculate too far

you like to keep what you and yeonjun do outside of work between just the two of you

even though he still gives you special treatment when you are on the clock

tagging: @doumachi (ty for screaming about him with me), @miupow , @dearlyjun , @https-yeonjun , @theresawtf