#we stand for the whole flag here

[rainyn0ise]

It’s June 1st now, so happy Pride Month! 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️

[tmblrtips]

Friends of tumblr new and old! A little PSA.

Something that’s started happening on tumblr in the last year or so is users self-censoring their posts. This is common practice on sites like TikTok where any “unapproved content” will get a post taken down hastily. This led to users on those sites, most especially TikTok, censoring their words in their captions and on-video texts to get around the sites’ censors. Some examples are “k!ll” for kill, “seggsy” for sexy, “3rotic” for erotic and a long, long list of others. On a site like TikTok where there is no filtering system to block any content that you don’t want to see, this doesn’t really affect other users that much. However, on Tumblr it’s a different story.

Here, we have a tagging system that, admittedly, is kind of hit or miss. That in itself deserves its own explanatory post. What it does really well on though is filtering/blocking! If a post is tagged with, for a very necessary example, #suicide , a person who has that tag filtered will have an altered version of that post show up on their dash, like this:

That “View Post” button allows the user to have the full post appear, should they like to see what it is. But because of the filtering system, we’re able to very specifically curate which posts do and don’t appear on our dashes.

That all being said- what I’m asking you here to do is to NOT self-censor your words! If a post regarding suicide is tagged as #su!c!de or su!cid3 or any other variation on the spelling outside of #suicide , any users who have simply #suicide filtered/blocked will have that post come up on their dash without any sort of filtering to keep them from seeing its content. So please, spell words as they are actually spelled and tag posts with whatever pertains to the posts that lets users and the tagging system properly identify and filter as needed.

Thank you! And happy blogging!

[alloutshirt]

disclaimer : this is a personal life vent look away

shouldn’t be sharing this but i need to take it off my brain (wow reading it back it really sounds like i lost my mind but unfortunately it’s all true and not all of it fits in 30 tags lmaooo)

[no-144444]

my girl- (o.piastri no.81)

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summary: fans made an edit of oscar and you being in love since your prema days.

pairing: oscar piastri (no.81) x fem! driver! reader (no.28)

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Oscar Piastri being in love with Y/n Y/l/n for 15 minutes straight, and vice versa  (F2 -> F1)

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Clip 1: Prema video 

Bahrain Airport, F2 season beginning, March. 

“And here we have the 3 year reigning champion of the Indycar Junior series, making her F2 pivot, Y/n Y/l/n!” Rob cheered as he woke you from your nap on the plane. 

“Shut up,” you groaned, pushing the camera away with a chuckle. “I'm tired, leave me be.”

“The plane is landing, idiot!”

“Hush!” you laughed. “That means ages until we get off, get your camera away Rob!”

Rob and you had gotten the same flight from London, and you’d become fast friends. He was eccentric and overtop, but a good laugh. You were sure you looked crazy. 6 hour flights do that to a person. You and Rob chatted to the camera about the weekend, and you introduced yourself to the Prema fans. Not many people gave a shit about Indycar, and even less cared about Indycar junior. 

As you disembarked the plane and got through security, people stopped you and Rob for photos and whatnot, then you finally got out of the airport. Angelina was standing there with a camera and a big ‘welcome’ sign, and another two very tired teenage boys beside her. 

“Y/n!” she cheered, pulling you both into a hug. “Rob!” 

Little did you know, Rob’s camera was pointed at Oscar, who turned to Fred with a shocked expression and whispered: “She’s gorgeous.” 

Beside him, Fred chuckled. “Go for her.”

“No way I have any chance with her, I-”

“I can hear you, y’know?” you cut in, coming over to introduce yourself. 

He went redder than a tomato, and you all just laughed. 

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Clip 2: Sky Sports channel

Bahrain International Circuit, 27th of March 

“And it’s No. 28 who sees the chequered flag first, the rookie, and the only girl on the grid, Y/n Y/l/n! Pole position in her first race!” 

“That’s P1 Y/n, congratulations,” your race engineer, Pedro, beamed as you crossed the finish line. 

“Motherfuck Guanyu is fast mate, we need to watch out for him- oh, and the other Alpine boy that was trying to flirt with me, what’s his name?” you answered. The Prema garage was full of laughter as you outed Oscar. 

“Oscar Piastri? No.2,” Pedro chuckled. “He failed to flirt with you?”

“Well, bless him, he tried to,” you chuckled as you parked the car. “He’s cute though.”

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“That’s P6 Oscar, and just to let you know, Y/n Y/l/n has outed you on the radio and on live television saying that you tried and failed to flirt with her,” his race engineer said. 

Oscar laughed, finding the situation funny. “My mum’s going to tweet about that.”

“She also called you ‘cute’, if that helps with any bruised ego?”

Oscar’s face lit up under his helmet. “It definitely does,” he chuckled. “Thanks mate.”

“I’d wingman you any time,” he chuckled. 

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Clip 3: Prema video

Prema Headquarters, Grisignano di Zocco, Italy, April.

“Hello everyone,” Robert smiled at the camera. “Today we will be going for a drive, I’d better call Oscar in.”

Oscar sat in the passenger seat and did his belt as they caught up and told the viewers what they’d be watching. 

“So, today, you will be joining us for a drive around the Italian countryside,” Rob smiled. “And we will be answering your questions.”

“Let the questions begin,” Oscar added. He pulled one out of the bowl and read it aloud. “Who’s your favourite Prema team member?”

Rob smiled. “That’s hard, I love the whole Prema team so much, but… yeah, that’s hard. Maybe my race engineer, Fred? I get along quite well with him,” Rob giggled as Oscar nodded.

“What?” Oscar laughed.

“I know your favourite,” Rob smirked. 

Oscar looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Who?”

“La tua ragazza,” Rob chuckled as Oscar rolled his eyes. “What? It is true! You love her!” (La tua ragazza = your girl in Italian)

“I’ve met her once, mate!” Oscar laughed. 

“So you don’t like her? I can ask her out?” Rob deadpanned. 

“Well, no, you can't-” Oscar was cut off by Rob’s laughter and he decided to stop trying to fight him about it. Everyone on the team knew that Oscar Piastri was infatuated with you. 

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Clip 4: Georgie O’Hara’s deleted youtube video. 

Haileybury and Imperial Service College, England. 

“Ok, that’s an awful idea!” Oscar yelled over his friends. “They already know you’re the ones doing it!”

“It’s fine! It’ll be fine!” Elijah, a good friend of his, smiled. They wanted to set off the fire alarms again, for the third time that week. Deodorant and stupid teenage boys did not mix, especially when they refused to put it on themselves and waste it on fire drills instead. 

Georgie turned to his phone, addressing the viewers "Oscar's a goody-two-shoes, if you couldn't tell."

Suddenly his phone rang from an unknown number, and before he could leave it ring, Anthony (another friend of his) answered. “Oscar Piastri, incoming F2 champion’s phone, how may I help you?”

Oscar laughed, but suddenly stopped when he heard you. 

“Not if I have anything to do with it,” you chuckled at his friend. “Anyways, can you just ask him to ask Elijah not to do the fire alarm thing between 11pm and 2am? The girls in my room and I are sneaking downstairs to watch a film and we don’t really want to get caught.”

Oscar covered his face and groaned, then took the phone off Georgie. “Hey-hi, Y/n. Yes, of course, we won’t do the fire alarm thing, ever again. Sorry.”

He turned his back as his friends made kissing noises and certain gestures at him. 

“All good, thanks Osc,” you smiled. “You and your friends are welcome to join us if you want.”

Oscar could’ve sworn his heart stopped beating. “I’ll ask them,” he smiled. He turned to his friends. “Y/n’s inviting us all to a movie, we’re sneaking out tonight,” he informed them. 

“I don’t want to-” Anthony started, but Georgie silenced him with a kick to the shin. 

“Mate, this is Oscar’s one fucking chance with his girl, shut up,” He scoffed.

“Is that a yes?” You asked over the phone.

“Yes!” they all answered. 

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As the night went on, you found yourself getting more and more tired. Oscar was beside you and you could tell how he was trying to play it cool, but failing miserably. You could practically see the way his heart leapt out of his chest when you held his hand. As ‘The Empire Strikes Back’ ended, you squeezed his hand before getting up and letting go. 

“Alright, I’ll clean up, everyone else go back upstairs before you get caught,” you whispered. The ‘movie room’ as the students called it (it was technically the staff room but no one really cared) was a mess. Blankets, cups, wrappers and pillows were everywhere. The group slowly shuffled out as you were left with only Oscar. Georgie had forgotten about his camera and it was still recording where he’d put it down to get some shots of everyone watching the film. 

“I can help,” Oscar whispered. 

You shook your head. “Seriously, you go ahead. They already hate me at this school anyways,” you chuckled. 

“Please let me help?” he asked again. You couldn’t exactly say ‘no’ to his puppy dog eyes, could you?

“Fine,” you smiled. 

You two chatted quietly as you cleaned up the room, and finally met at the door to leave. 

“I really enjoyed tonight-” You started, but you were cut off by Oscar kissing you. His arms wrapped around your waist and your arms wrapped around his neck once the initial shock wore off. You both pulled away after a few seconds. You stared up at him as his usually-blank face turned to one of panic.

“Sorry if that was forward, or-or weird- or-” He started, but now it was your turn to cut him off with a kiss. 

He pulled back smiling, and he didn’t move his hands, or try to move away from you. There was a moment of silence. “Can I take you on a date?”

You chuckled. “Yes.”

Oscar was elated. 

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Clip 5: Sky sports channel and Prema footage

Circuit de Monaco, Monaco, Monaco, May 22nd. 

You were excited as you stepped onto the podium, victorious. It had been a difficult few laps at the end, Guanyu overtaking, then you overtaking, and over and over, but you got the chequered flag first. You were breaking records, breaking barriers as a woman in motorsports. You’d won Monaco, your first time racing there. In the Sprint, and the feature race. You were on top of the world. As you raised your trophy, the crowd cheered and Oscar was cheering the loudest. 

You looked to your left, him standing on the podium for the first time this season, and you smiled. 

“Feels good, huh?” you smirked. 

“Feels great, but I’ll be coming for your step next,” he smirked.

“You wish Piastri,” you scoffed, then uncorked your champagne bottle and sprayed it on him and Zhou.

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Clip 6: Sky Sports channel, Prema footage

 Autodromo Nazionale di Monza, Monza, 17th of July, Sprint Race. 

“And it’s Y/n Y/l/n into the wall in a bad collision with Liam Lawson, only 2 laps till the end!” 

Everything was in slow motion, one second you were in control, the next you were flipping into the wall. 

“Red flag, red flag Oscar, huge crash in sector 3, come in, come in,” his race engineer said. 

“Who was it?” He asked, slowing his pace. 

“Y/l/n and Lawson, straight into the wall.”

“Is she ok? Is she out of the car?” he asked calmly. 

“Not yet,” he answered grimly. The Prema garage was eerily silent as they watched the stewards struggle to get you out of the car. 

As he came up on sector 3, he saw you. The car was upside down leaning against the barrier, they were putting out the fire. Shit. Shit. Shit.

You and Oscar had been dating for a few months now, and he really liked you. He passed by in horror as he saw that you weren’t out of the car yet. He was getting more and more nervous as the moments went on. He caught sight of Liam. He was out of the car. He beckoned Oscar over and he obliged, letting him hitch a ride back to the pitlane with him as he drove slowly. As they got back to the pitlane, they both jumped out as the race was finally deemed as cancelled, and the boys walked off, waiting for news. 

“What happened?” he asked. 

“It was a total mistake, my car had mad fucking oversteer and I just hit the throttle too hard, and then she was in the wall,” he answered. “She’s not even out yet.”

“She’ll be ok,” Oscar said, trying to convince himself as well as Liam. “She’s strong.”

Liam nodded, and went off to the RedBull garage with his head held low. Oscar walked into the Prema garage and his mom immediately pulled him in for a hug. Beside her was your parents, looking terrified. 

“You’re ok, thank god,” she whispered. She didn’t care about the multiple cameras pointing at them, her son was alright. 

“Is there any news yet?”

“They’ve pulled her out of the car,” your dad answered, eyes glued to the screen. 

“Is she responsive?” Nicole asked. 

“Yes!” You race engineer answered, happy that you were alive. There was a collective sigh of relief throughout the garage. “Complaining about lower back and leg pain, as well as a definite broken arm. She won’t be racing for a while,” he added, his tone becoming more and more sombre. Oscar watched as your mother broke down in your father’s arms, and he felt like throwing up. You wouldn’t be racing, you wouldn’t get to do the thing you loved. 

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Clip 6: Prema video

ASST Brianza - Vimercate Hospital, 18th of July.

You woke up in blinding pain a few hours earlier. Everyone had worked so hard to make everything ok, to make you comfortable, but all night all you did was sob. The pain was unbearable in the car, you thought you were going to die, you thought you weren’t getting out of the car. 5 fractured vertebrae, 3 broken ribs, a fractured hip bone, and a broken arm apparently wasn’t a joke. No racing for the rest of the year. Your life was over. 

“Fuck,” you whispered as you sat up and pain shot up your back. 

“Hey,” Oscar’s soft voice brought you out of your upset, and back into the room. He took your hand. You felt bad, he’d been there the entire time, and honestly, he should probably be at the track already, ahead of today’s race. You’d tried to shoo him but he wasn’t having it, much more in favour of being with you and cluing you in on how your parents reacted to him being your boyfriend. Awkward. “Take your time.”

You nodded, grateful that he was there, then turned your attention to the camera Angelina had brought with her and set up to take a ‘statement’ video. “Hi Prema fans, and my fans. Yesterday was pretty rough, and with a heavy heart I have to tell you that I won’t be able to continue this season in F2. My back was badly damaged yesterday in my collision with Liam, which was a complete accident and not anyone's fault, and I definitely don’t blame Liam. I love racing, and I’ll still be at the majority of the races to support my teammates, and my boyfriend. This is just a very unfortunate event that pulls me out of the game for a while, but I’ll be back. I hope you miss me on track, and just know that I’m alright. Thank you for the support, bye for now, Prema family.”

Oscar wrapped his arms around you and smiled. “I’m the boyfriend,” he added, making you laugh. 

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Clip 7: Prema footage

Jeddah Corniche Circuit, Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, 4th of December

“And Oscar Piastri sees the chequered flag first! Winning a sprint race and the feature race this weekend!” 

You jumped up and down beside Chris, his father, as he came into the pitlane. He was the lead of the championship. He was going to win F2. No doubt about it. 

The past 5 months had been difficult. You’d been back at school for a while, only now cleared to travel again, but you were happy to be back at the tracks. It felt good to watch Oscar win in person. 

Chris wrapped his arms around you as you both celebrated. Oscar’s radio came on. 

“God guys, good drive. Looks like Y/n is my lucky charm,” he laughed over the radio. The last races hadn’t gone so well for him, but he was straight back to winning with you here.  

You were smiling the whole way to the barricade, but that ended when about 50 people were against your back, pushing violently. Chris and Mark were trying desperately to get them to back off, but they couldn’t stop them. You promised them you’d be ok, but the pain was getting unbearable, and Oscar hadn’t come over yet. 

“Guys, move back!” He shouted as he ran over, just finished taking off his helmet. “Make some space!” The team obliged, but he still decided to be dramatic and lift you over the barrier. “You alright?” he asked, but you just wrapped your arms around him.

“You’re incredible Osc,” you smiled. “I love you so much.”

And there it was, out in the open for the first time. Too bad you forgot you both had microphones on. 

He smiled wider than you ever thought possible for his face. “I love you too. So much baby,” he pressed a kiss to your cheek. “You should be up here with me,” he added and you nodded, it still being a sore subject. “And you will be. Next year.”

You nodded, grateful for the hope and support he offered you. “Go! Go to your team!” you laughed, pushing him on. Before he let you out of his grasp, he grabbed your waist and stole a sweet, quick kiss. 

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Clip 8: Prema footage

Yas Marina Circuit, Abu Dhabi, 12th of December 

He’d done it. He was the F2 champion. Sadly next year he would only get to be the Alpine F1 reserve driver, which meant no consistent racing, but that was still incredible. 

You waited by the barricade as he came in, and he went straight over to you. He pulled his helmet off, then his bandana, and pulled you in for a kiss. The rest of the team ‘ohh’ed and ‘aww’ed but neither of you cared at all. He’d won. 

“Congratulations F2 winner,” you smirked, pulling away. 

“Thanks baby,” he smiled. 

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Post-race interview

“So, how does this feel, Oscar?” she asked. 

“It feels amazing, y’know, we’ve all worked so hard at this for the whole year and it’s just really special to have everyone here, especially my girlfriend Y/n. I’m missing her on track, so it’s good to still at least have her in the paddock,” he smiled, and the camera cut to you, beaming up at him.

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Clip 9: Prema footage and Sky Sports channel 

Bahrain International Circuit, Sakhir, 19th of March, Sprint 1. 

“We’re in the Prema garage,” Oscar explained to the camera in front of him. He was in full Alpine gear, being a reserve driver meant being a marketing machine, but this wasn’t for Alpine, this was for you. “And my girlfriend is about to go and do her first race back since the accident last season. Let’s go interview her about it!” He walked through the garage, searching for you, and finally found you. “Y/n! Any time for an interview?”

You turned to him and smiled. “I always have time for you,” you wrapped your arms around him, hugging him close. His grip on you was tight but you didn’t mind. You pulled away and turned to the camera.

“So, how does it feel to be back?” He asked.

“Amazing. I thought my life was over when I was told I wasn’t allowed to race for half a year.”

“And who helped nurse you back to health?” He smirked, batting his eyelashes at you. 

“Your mom mostly,” you chuckled. You’d spent the entire off-season in Australia with Oscar and his family, and Nicole had been so considerate and careful about your healing injuries. 

Oscar rolled his eyes. “Yeah… that’s probably true,” he chuckled. “How do you feel being on Pole?”

“It feels good. We just have to stay quick this season. I didn’t rush my healing just to lose,” you smiled then pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’ve to get in the car now, love you,” you smiled. He wrapped an arm around your waist and pressed his lips to yours with a ‘good luck’, then let you go. 

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“And can she do it? Yes she can! Y/n Y/l/n is coming in with a bang! A Sprint Pole and a Sprint win! That is a statement, ‘I never left’!” 

“That’s P1 Y/n, well done!” Pedro called over the radio as the Prema garage went crazy. 

“Thanks for everything guys, great car, great drive-”

“Great driver,” he added. 

You pulled into the pitlane and got out of the car, celebrating as they got the photo of you on the car. You ran over to Oscar at the barricade as you pulled off your helmet and balaclava.

“That’s my girl!” he cheered as you pulled him in for a hug. “See? Nothing's changed.”

You pressed your lips to his. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he smiled and pressed his lips to your cheek. “I’m loving this WAG lifestyle,” he chuckled. 

You laughed. “It suits you.”

He chuckled. “Alright, you’re being called for the interview. Love you,” he smiled as you walked off, giving your hand a squeeze. You blew him a kiss back. 

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Clip 10: Prema video 

Prema Headquarters, Grisignano di Zocco, Italy. 

You were laughing with Logan, doing a ‘Who knows who best’ challenge and both of you were failing miserably. 

You put the headphones on and the music started, making it impossible to hear him. You watched as the room erupted in laughter, then Logan nudged you to take the headphones off. 

“What is the most annoying thing about you?” He asked, holding back giggles. 

“I know what you’d say,” you chuckled. “Me and Oscar.”

The room erupted in laughter as he nodded. “Exactly!” 

“You’re just jealous,” you chuckled. 

“Why? ‘Cause I don’t have a girlfriend?”

“No, because I have Oscar and you don’t,” you shot back, and everyone started laughing again. 

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Clip 11: Sky Sports Channel

Yas Marina Circuit, Abu Dhabi, 20th of November 

“And after a season of domination from the woman in red, Y/n  Y/l/n sees the chequered flag first with a staggering 425 points! This F2 season will go down in history!”

You’d done it. You’d done it. You were an F2 champion, and next season you’d be in an F1 car fulltime, racing alongside Oscar, Logan, and Nick. You’d made it. 

You jumped out of the car, amazed at your season. It’d been win after win, fastest lap after fastest lap, pole position after pole position. You’d worked so hard. 

“You did it baby!” Oscar shouted as you ran over. You jumped into his arms, and let him hold you up. He looked at you like you held the sky up, like you were the greatest thing on the planet. “You’re incredible.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” you smiled. “ I love you so much.”

“I love you so much more,” he pressed kisses to any inch of skin he could, more than proud to be yours. 

You chuckled as he tickled you with his kisses, before you realised that you needed to go fulfil your duties. He put you down, but before you could leave, he grabbed your waist again. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Osc.”

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Clip 12: Sky Sports channel, McLaren footage, and RedBull footage

Bahrain International Circuit, Sakhir, 2023. 

“A disappointing result for Oscar Piastri, but an incredible run for Y/n Y/l/n, P1 in her first race! I’m sure he’ll be pleased with that for his long-time girlfriend!” 

 Oscar was pissed off, but his mood was lifted by your result. You were incredible. He cheered in his own garage, happy for your win. You’d won your first race. Who else did that? The first woman to ever do so. 

He was in awe of you. 

He exited his garage, ready to see you after your win. He saw you getting out of the car and running straight into the arms of your team and he smiled. He finally caught your eye after some time, and you ran over, wrapping your arms around him. 

“I’m so sorry,” were the first words out of your mouth. “If I could trade our cars, I would Osc, I really would,” you sighed.

“Don’t even joke about that. Don’t make your first win about me. This is about you, my brilliant, incredible, winner,” he pressed his lips to yours in a short, victory kiss. “I love you, yeah?” “I love you too,” you smiled. 

“You were amazing out there,” he smiled. 

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Clip 13: McLaren video 

Jeddah Corniche Circuit, Jeddah, Saudi Arabia 

“Who is your teammate's favourite person?” Lando asked, then looked at the camera and rolled his eyes. “Oscar’s is Y/n because he’s a traitor.”

Oscar burst into laughter and looked at Lando. “That’s not fair! We started dating as teammates!”

“Oh sure Osc!” Lando sighed, playing up the drama. “That’s what they all say.”

“But it’s the truth!”

“Anyways, moving on from Oscar and his traitor girlfriend, who’s my favourite person Oscar?” 

“Max Fewtrell?” 

Lando thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Him or my parents or siblings.”

Oscar took another question out of the bowl and chuckled. “What’s the other person’s red flag?”

Little did he know, you’d come in to visit him and were actively sneaking up behind him. 

“Yours is your refusal to ever use a hairbrush,” you answered for Lando, and Oscar jumped, making everyone laugh, especially Lando, who fell off his chair. You chuckled and wrapped your arms around Oscar's neck from behind, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Came to say hi,” you smiled, kissing his cheek. 

“Came to air out my business online?” He questioned, laughing. He took your hands and led you around his chair, sitting you on his lap. “When did you get in?” he asked, resting his head on your shoulder as Lando tried to compose himself. 

“Just now, came straight from the airport,” you nodded, leaning back against him. 

“Bad flight?”

“Nah, I was on Max’s jet. He’s offered me to ask you two if you want to go back to Monaco after this weekend with him. I am,” you answered. He nodded, gently playing with your hands as he listened to you. 

“Sounds good to me,” he smiled. “Tell him ‘thanks’, yeah?” 

You nodded. “‘Course,” you got up to leave but he pulled you down by the arm and pressed your lips together quickly, then let you go. “Love you,” you called after yourself. 

“Love you too,” he called back, ready to get back to the interview. 

“Can we keep that in?” Ellie, their marketing manager asked. 

He shrugged. “Sure, why not.”

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Clip 14: Hattie Piastri’s tiktok vlog

Piastri residence, Melbourne, 2023 

“Y/n’s over there with Oscar, and Addie is with May and mum and dad are with Tim over there,” she explained to the camera pointing everything out. In the video you and Oscar were laying on the grass in the setting sun, utterly exhausted from your weekend of racing where you’d gotten p2 and Oscar had gotten p8. His arms were wrapped around you as you lay on top of him, smiling. 

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Clip 15: Sky Sports channel, RedBull footage and Nicole Piastri’s instagram

Circuit Zandvoort, Zandvoort, Holland

“And can she do it? Yes she can! Y/n Y/l/n beats teammate Max Verstappen to first place, and she sees the chequered flag first! What an incredible season this has been for the rookie!”

As you crossed the finish line, you almost felt sick. You’d beaten Max, giving you a lead in the Driver’s Championship. He’d been 10 points ahead. Now, you were 15 points ahead of him. 

“That’s P1, P1 Y/n congratulations,” Pedro smiled. 

“Thanks Pedro, and thanks everyone, really well done. Car is perfect, thank you all so much!” 

“And Oscar’s P9, if you're wondering.”

“When I get my fucking hands on Zak Brown I will rip his fake fucking toupée off for giving him such a shit car,” You groaned. “Great drive guys, thanks.”

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You walked into the paddock as they all cheered both you and Max on. Max had gotten P2, unhappy with not winning, but not mad that you’d won. He saw what you were doing for motorsports all around the world, how much pressure you were under as the first female driver in a long time, and how hard you were working. He wasn’t going to make your life harder by being an asshole off the track too. He gave you a celebratory hug and moved onto his driver’s room, as you stayed out with the engineers, chatting and celebrating with them. 

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Nicole Piatri’s instagram live 

“Hi everyone, Osc and I are right now, trying to sneak into the RedBull garage to see Y/n,” Nicole explained and behind her, Oscar smiled and put both thumbs up. 

“I’m going to be told off for this by Zak, so, sorry Zak. I want to see my girlfriend, my bad,” he chuckled, his apology only half-assed. 

Nicole and him continued faffing around the paddock for a while, until Nicole caught your eye through the window. You ran over to the door beside them and let them in, pulling Nicole in for a huge hug as Oscar waited behind her with a wide smile. 

He spoke to the live. “Apparently my girlfriend likes my mum better than me-" 

You cut him off with a kiss as you laughed at his antics. “Shut the fuck up,” you chuckled. “You’re such a baby.”

“I missed seeing you in the conference,” he shrugged, holding you close as his mum took the phone and documented this moment between the two of you. “I love you,” he smiled. 

“I love you too,” you chuckled, kissing his cheek. “P9? Not bad.”

He rolled his eyes and smiled. “P1? Not bad,” he lifted you into his arms making you squeal. 

“Osc! Put me down!” You squealed. 

“Let me win next time,” he chuckled. “Then I’ll put you down.”

“What do you want me to do? Switch our cars?”

“Ideally,” he chuckled, kissing your cheek and putting you down. “But I guess I’ll settle for watching you be gorgeous on the podium every week.”

“The fans are loving this!” Christian joked as he watched over Nicole’s shoulder, seeing how the chat was going crazy.

You both turned to Nicole with confused faces. 

“You’re still filming mum?!” 

This live has now been ended by the host. 

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Clip 16: Sky sports channel

​​Lusail International Circuit, Lusail, Qatar 

“Oscar Piastri has done the job brilliantly, the Australian driver will see the chequered flag first! Oscar Piastri wins the sprint to take McLaren to the top step once again!” 

“That’s P2 Y/n, Oscar P1,” Pedro announced. 

“WOOOOO!” You screamed, elated for him. “Fucking legend!” 

“I said P2 for you,” he reminded. 

“Shut up and be happy for him, just once,” you chuckled, pulling into the pit lane to park. You watched as Oscar got out of the car as you got out of your own car. Immediately, he ran over to you, wrapping you up in his arms as you celebrated together. 

“You did it!” You shouted, jumped around in each other's arms. “You’re fucking incredible.”

“You put up a good fucking fight,” he chuckled, smiling like a kid. 

“You’re going to look so sexy at the top of the podium,” you smirked and he blushed hard. 

“I wish you wouldn’t say stuff like that in public,” he chuckled, then hid his face in your neck as you laughed. 

---------------------

Post-sprint conference 

“So, this is a question for Y/n and Oscar,” an interviewer started. Both of you looked up, exhausted from the late night race. “Does your relationship prohibit you from racing to your full potential? I believe Y/n, you could’ve caught up. Did you give him this win?”

You scoffed, appalled that anyone would have the audacity to ask such a thing. “For fuck’s sake,” you sighed. “No. I couldn’t have. You know how you know that? Because I would’ve if I could’ve. I love Oscar, and I’ve loved him since I was about 14 years old, but that doesn’t mean that I let him win. He’s a ridiculously talented driver, and a fucking genius with strategy. His car is great too. But out there today? That was pure talent. I can love him, and wholeheartedly race him too,” you answered, getting annoyed at the comments like these you two constantly got. “And another thing, I’m getting really fucking sick of the questions about our relationship. Do you really think we’d be together if we couldn’t race each other and not come back to each other and be proud of each other? Seriously? Where is your critical thinking?”

The room was full of whispered conversation as you dropped the last diss, and beside you Oscar was looking at you with huge heart eyes. Anyone could see it from a mile away, he loved you. He chuckled, wanting to add his two cents as well. “Yeah, exactly. The only thing she lets me win in is chess, right?” He looked at you with a smirk and you rolled your eyes. 

“You won once, asshole,” you chuckled, pushing his hand off your thigh. 

“Then we stopped playing,” he shrugged, a cocky smirk very-present on his face. 

“We ran out of time,” you shrugged, feigning innocence. 

He cocked an eyebrow. “Sure.”

The tension in the room had been dissolved in the comedic moment, and you were thankful for Oscar’s calm exterior. You moved closer to him on the couch, and he wrapped an arm around you, smiling wide as you pressed a kiss to his hand, the one closest to your face. 

---------------------

Clip 17: Drive to Survive 

Yas Marina Circuit, Abu Dhabi

“How are you feeling?” Oscar asked, sitting in your driver’s room with you before the race. He knew how worried you were, how much you wanted this. You had to win. You and Max were neck and neck. You just had to get more points than him, starting from P2. 

You sighed, standing between his legs and messing with his hair, favouring trying not to think about it rather than talking about it. He grabbed ahold of your waist and pressed his face into your torso, pressing kisses to wherever he could reach, trying to make you laugh. 

You chuckled and pushed him away, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I’m alright, I promise. Just stressed.”

“You won’t be stressed in a week,” he smiled. “We’ll be in Melbourne.”

You smiled, and kissed him again. “We will. Waves and relaxing. Nothing else.”

“Well, and Logan,” he chuckled. “So… ‘Merica and all that,” he smiled as you laughed at his bad joke. He got you down to his lap and he pressed a kiss to your cheek. “You’ve got this, don’t worry.”

“Wow, anxiety cured,” you replied sarcastically, making him laugh. 

---------------------

Clip 18: Sky Sports Channel

Yas Marina Circuit, Abu Dhabi

“And it is an incredible season for the first female in modern F1, Y/n Y/l/n sees the chequered flag first, with a Driver’s Championship 1-2 with her teammate Max Verstappen! This makes her the first female ever to win the F1 Driver’s Championship title! What an inspiration!” 

You’d done it. You won your rookie season. You were World Champion. You were a legend. 

“WOOOOO!” You screamed as tears rolled down beneath your hemet. “We did it! We did it!”

“We did it!” Pedro screamed. You knew the entire RedBull garage was going crazy right now. “You did it Y/n!”

“Thank you, everyone! This would’ve been impossible without you all! Amazing year! Incredible work!” you beamed. 

---------------------

“That’s P6, P6 Oscar,” his race engineer announced. 

“Did Y/n get it? Did she win?” 

“Yes, your girl is a World Champion,” he smiled. 

“YES! YES! THAT’S MY FUCKING GIRL!” he screamed, elated at the news. He knew you could do it. He’d always known you could do it. 

He rushed to get to the pit lane, ready to celebrate with you. He jumped out of the car and pulled off his helmet as fast as he could, watching as you ran over to him. 

“You did it!” He cheered. “My fucking girl.”

“I did it!” You cried, over the moon. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” you smiled. 

His eyes filled with tears as his heart swelled with pride. “You’re amazing. I love you so much Y/n.”

Neither of you cared about the cameras around you as you went in for a kiss. You didn’t care about how sweaty and gross you both were, you didn’t care about the grief that the pr team would give you, you didn’t care. 

You were a World Champion. He was your everything. You were his everything.

---------------------

navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

[saetoru]

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。yours, always yours

synopsis. satoru has always been yours—and he needs you to know you’ll also always be his

— word count. 2.4k (read the breakup fic first for better understanding, but can be read as a stand-alone)

— contents. fem! reader, college! au, rich boy! gojo, post-getting back together angst that gets a little heated <3, minors do not interact, fingering, unprotected sex, edging, satoru cumming too quick <3, creampie, tbh the smut is short and a lil rushed my b, it ends in fluff tho !! trust !! there is fluff !!

— notes. tbh this will probably get flagged rly fast but oh well u win some u lose some. anywayyyyy here is the make up sex bc yall nasties deserve it <3 jk love u guys

satoru falls first. and he falls hard. everyone knows it, it’s never been a secret.

“you want me to wash your hair?” you ask gently, kissing his shoulder as the water falls over his head. he hums, nodding absentmindedly as he stares blankly at the tiles of your shower wall.

“sure,” he mumbles, “don’t tug.”

“i never tug,” you roll your eyes, snorting. he huffs a small chuckle, but it’s not the usual laugh satoru gives you. it’s mechanic, almost—just there to fill the space. “baby?” you ask softly.

“yeah?” he asks, “oh, should i bend a little? sorry, i—”

“what’re you thinking about?” your hands cup his cheeks, gentle and warm from the hot water as it soaks his skin.

he shakes his head, trying to smile as he clears throat. “just how nice it is to be pampered. maybe i’ll let you break my heart every once in a while so i get my back scrubbed and hair washed like this.”

“satoru,” you insist. you know—and he knows it too. “tell me?”

“why’d you do it?” he mumbles, “why’d you listen to him?”

“toru, you know why,” you sigh, “you know i didn’t think there were any other options.”

“you could’ve talked to me,” he furrows his brows, “just because my stupid old man threatens you with my stupid inheritance doesn’t mean we have to break up.”

“i was afraid you’d choose me.” it comes out as a whisper, like a confession you can’t bear to admit.

“i would have chosen you,” he agrees, “why’s that bad? how’s that wrong—”

“you’re not thinking about the bigger picture,” you shake your head, “that company is yours. you’ve spent your whole life—”

“so what? was i supposed to give up the rest of my life for it too?” he asks tiredly—satoru’s defeated. he’s never been defeated, it’s the most magnetizing thing about him.

even before you date him. he asks and asks and asks no matter how many times you say no. because there’s always a chance you’ll say yes, and he’ll never stop as long as there’s a chance.

“i’m sorry,” you sniffle, lips wobbling, “i could have….i should have said something. i didn’t want you to make a choice young and then….and then regret it.”

“you think i’d regret you?” he’s wounded—absolutely wounded at the words.

satoru has always been careful, diligent and so, so meticulous to love you right, to love you how you need to be loved. hadn’t that proven enough? that he was in it for the long run—for forever? he’d been so sure you’d be his future, that the break up feels like waking up from a peaceful dream to a house fire—devastating, with smoke in his nose and lungs that he can’t breathe right, and everything gone within a moment before he can even register it.

he stares at the ashes in despair. nothing prepared him for the hollowness of not being yours—because satoru has never cared to make you his. all he’s ever wanted was to be yours.

you’re quick to remove him from everything, deleting pictures from your socials, untagging him from posts, removing him from your private stories and close friends list. he doesn’t understand how you could change your mind so quickly—and then he realizes you probably don’t. because he knows you—better than anyone ever has, satoru knows you.

so he’s comes to you, drenched from the rain, from standing outside your door even as the water pelts against his skin because he’s determined. he’s going to get an answer out of you, going to make you explain why you pulled him in so close, let him reside in your heart and fall asleep to the comforting rhythm of its beating—and then push him out like he’s nothing. what made you push him out?

and finally, when he does, when you let him be yours again and admit it’s never what you wanted, that it’s because it’s what his father wanted—well, satoru can’t keep his composure. don’t you know? hadn’t he always told you? hadn’t he poured his heart out and let you know every moment he’s always been stuck dangling from his father’s fingers? stuck somewhere between the sky and ground, too high to feel the floor under his feet but never high enough to feel the wind in his face.

you’ve always known, always listened—and fuck, you held him some nights too, let your fingers dip into his hair and soothe his sorrows of always being stuck.

satoru’s always been stuck, always had every choice made for him and every instruction carefully laid out on the table. and then you decided to make his choice for him too, walking away and choosing his future for him like he’s never had a say.

he’s always been stuck, but never with you—but now, he wonders if that’s changed.

“no,” you squeeze his cheeks, “no i don’t think you’d regret me….but satoru losing what you have is a big thing,” you mumble, “people work their whole lives not having a fraction of what you do. that’s a lot to let you lose.”

“i’ve never seen my dad kiss my mom,” he stares at you, hard and unwavering, his eyes stare into yours, “he’s never held her hand or made her laugh. and you know what she told me? that she would sell her share of everything to have what we do. why do you always look at me for what i have first?” he asks angrily, the water pouring over his shoulders as they shake, “why can’t you just look at me first for once?”

“i do look at you,” you insist, “toru, all i ever see is you—”

“then stop caring what he says,” he says louder, his voice echoing through the small bathroom of your small apartment.

everything about your home is small—smaller than satoru’s especially. but he loves it, thinks he’d rather be here than anywhere else.

because it’s yours. and as long as you’re here, the world fits into this tiny apartment, the galaxy too.

“okay,” you say shakily. and then you nod, looking him in the eye, “you’ll handle it?”

he nods, kissing between your brows, “yeah, i’ll handle it. who else is gonna take over that company anyway?”

“but what if he finds someone else? and then he—”

“he won’t. my grandpa will shred him.”

“but he’s old, and he stepped down, so what really can he do if your dad decides—”

“god, baby,” he groans, pushing your body against the wall gently, “i love your voice, but you talk so much. i’m wanna listen to something else.”

his lips find your neck, sucking gently at the skin, hand trailing to your tits before his thumb circles your nipple. it’s slow, deliberate, teasing as it rolls over the bud.

you whimper, clutching onto him as a breathy, “t-toru,” leaves your lips.

“yeah,” he nods, “that’s what i wanna listen to instead.” his lips are in a grin against your neck, kissing and biting until he reaches your collarbone. “anyone dm you after you took me out of your socials?” he asks bitterly.

“j-just one,” you admit through a stutter, “b-but i didn’t even open it! i wasn’t really—oh, toru,” you gasp as his finger finds your clit, spreading your legs as he lets out a soft growl at your words.

“what? just cause my face isn’t on your instagram suddenly you’re not mine?” he asks, thumb rubbing harsh circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves—you close your eyes, moaning as your arms wrap tightly around his neck. “you’re always mine,” he murmurs against your ear, low and careful so you hear him well, “yeah? got that?”

“got it,” you nod furiously.

“got what?”

“‘m al-always—oh, fuck,” you mewl as one finger prods at your entrance, gathering your slick before slowly sliding through your walls.

“c’mon, sweetheart,” he says firmly, “finish your sentences.”

“always yours, toru! always yours—please, please j-just…”

“just what?” he raises a brow.

“more,” you sob—it’s a broken plea as your hips thrust against his finger.

he’s quick to slide in a second, thrusting his digits mercilessly into your soaked cunt, his palm gliding over your clit as the slick sound of his fingers fucking you is almost drowned by the water in the back.

your water bill will be high this month. you decide it’s a sacrifice satoru deserves.

“you think someone could ever learn this body better than me? make you cum like i can? you think anyone will ever love you enough to learn you like i do?”

“n-no,” you pant, his fingers hitting that spot inside of you so perfectly, you feel that dull ache build up quickly. it’s good—everything with satoru is good. his other hand finds your chest to pinch a nipple, twisting and squeezing until your nails leave indents on his shoulders as you moan loudly. “no one—no one but you.”

“exactly,” he growls, “how could you leave me? how could you leave us?”

“‘m sorry,” you sniffle, whimpering when the tips of his fingers slam against that spongey spot of your walls, fluttering around him and squeezing him in. you’re close—so close that you almost don’t know what he’s saying anymore, too focused on the way your impending orgasm is approaching. fast. “i’m sorry, i’ll never—ever leave again.”

“say you love me,” he demands.

it sounds like he’s pleading, though, if you listen closely. there’s a small crack in his voice, a slight shakiness that makes you force your eyes open and stare at him and whisper, “i love you, satoru. i love you.”

and then he rips his fingers out—right before you’re about to cum. you gasp, pleading nonsense as you cling to him and buck your hips and search for something, anything to take you over the edge.

and then you hear a sniffle. is he crying? is that wet droplet on your shoulder a tear or the water? you’re too busy calming down from your orgasm dying before it ever came to focus.

satoru’s hard against your thigh, throbbing and painful to sink into you. he strokes himself a few times, whimpers as his thumb gathers the pre cum from the sensitive tip, smearing it along his length as he shakily lets out a quiet moan.

“f-fuck, i gotta feel you. please, can i? please—”

“yes,” you pull him closer, grinding your heat over his hard-on, “yes please, toru. more, need more.”

he’s sliding along your folds, dragging the tip of his cock along your entrance and smearing a mix of your arousal with his. and then slowly, ever so gently, he’s pushing into your after that, pushing past your walls and bullying into your soaked cunt, curving into you perfectly.

it’s only been a week—you feel like you haven’t felt him in years. but it’s familiar. you remember every part of him, including every vein that drags along your walls and makes your head spin. he remembers every part of you, including where that spot is that he needs to angle his hips to find.

he slams into you, hard and rough and fast—doesn’t even let you adjust your position to hold onto him tighter before he’s thrusting his hips and fucking into you desperately. you can feel him, every inch of his skin against you, every part of him that’s touching you. and you can feel the way his cock nudges past your folds, the friction burning pleasure through ever nerve.

satoru knows how to fuck you, just like he knows how to love you, he knows your body—every dip and ever curve, every place to touch and every part that has you gushing around him. it’s just the way he is, too good at giving you what you want, what you need.

when he moans, it’s breathy and he’s panting as he lets out those soft whimpers that make your head spin. “feel that? feel me?” he asks, grunting as you squeeze around his length.

“yeah,” you breathe, “‘m so full.”

“i need you. please, please,” he murmurs, “can’t lose you, baby. never you,” he chants, the quiver in his voice tearing you apart.

“i’m right here,” you gasp, lacing your fingers with his and squeezing his hand. he squeezes back, just to let you know he’s there too, “right here, baby. you got me.”

and then he cums, just as soon as you whisper that—he spills right into you with a broken cry, his hips rolling, needy and desperate and so, so lost on the pleasure. he’s too busy working himself through his high, trembling over your body to care he’s cum too quick—and you don’t have it in you to tease him. you can feel the hot ropes of cum filling you, painting your walls white, fucking deep into you as the blunt head of his cock slams into you without a second of hesitation.

but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t falter that brutal pace as his hips slam into you, perfectly kissing your sweet spot every time. and before long, you break—your head pushes back against the wall behind you, mouth parted as you wail his name and cum—hard. you’re quivering and spasming around his swollen cock, enough that he whimpers at the way you’re so tight.

it’s good, it’s always good. satoru makes you feel good. he’s the best you’ve ever had—the best you’ll ever find.

and then you hear it again, the sniffle into your neck as he clutches you tightly. you know for sure that wet droplet is a tear this time, and your fingers tangle into his hair as you stroke the wet strands.

“i love you, toru,” you murmur, “my sweet boy. i’m sorry, okay? i’m so sorry.”

“don’t do that again,” he huffs in between tears, “that was so mean. so mean.”

“i said i won’t,” you chuckle, fighting back your own tears, “how long are you gonna hold this against me?”

“how long do you plan on being mine?”

“well,” you pull him from your neck, cupping his cheeks as you wipe away tears and peck his lips softly, “i think….forever.”

“well, get ready, then,” he glares softly, “i’m gonna hold this against you forever too.”

“okay,” you nod, “that’s fair.”

“and i love you too,” he adds, “but block whoever dm’d you. it better not be that zenin boy.”

“block those girls who’s pictures you liked,” you shoot back, glaring at him with a pout of your own.

“don’t yell at me,” he mumbles, leaning into your touch as your thumb strokes his cheek, “i’ve had a rough week. you have to be nice.”

dabitee anon. are u seeing this. did u see the satoru who cums too fast. did u see it. report back if u saw this. i repeat, dabitee anon report back if you see this

[xxlelaxx]

Situations have situationed cause God forbid my family be normal about stuff...

But I've had some interesting conversations yesterday and am now considering how to proceed in handling one Person.

The issue is that they are mentally ill and mentally ill people do stuff they regret.. but at the same time I've had it. And they've had it rough. I know you do stupid shit when caught up in stuff..

but at the same time... I think I spent a big chunk of my life getting manipulated by that person and I'm not sure that they even care... Like they suffered and were hurt, yes, but they keep blaming everyone and ignoring the things around us. Hell, my sister and I got told that we are the reason for them developing an eating disorder cause they would horde all the "special snacks" (we didn't have a lot of money) and refuse to share while we always did. All we wanted was them to share and stop being a selfish ass (an issue this person still has). My sister has long lasting issues with this cause they kept stealing her food??? And they complained about being locked up as a kid (definitely wrong) and being made to feel like an animal (also very wrong) but they would attack us in a very scary and feral way. Like we had no choice except them hurting us a lot unless we locked them up. It was wrong but nobody was helping and at some point you're over being hurt. They refuse to acknowledge that they used to hurt us... like they would kick us (mainly my sister I kicked back) and threaten us with physical violence to the point. At some point I started fighting them for fun so they would get it out of their system. Like consensual beating between siblings (also wrong, but nobody knew and it helped). They even sought me out to have those fights cause they helped them calm down and we had signals for when things got too heated or personal. That doesn't make the things that happened okay, but it's not like everyone was evil and just hurt the little baby. And now they keep having angry breakdowns and destroying stuff and making us feel bad about it even though they got themselves into that situation and they refuse to take responsibility for anything they do. How is it our fault that they have anger issues??? I've told them before that I get anger being too much but this could be seen as something being manipulative (which I had forgotten about but this also isn't the first time). It is starting to feel like they do it on purpose cause this just happens when they don't wanna do stuff. (Same as with using self harm as a way to pressure us to act like they want). And now supposedly it's our fault for triggering them??? But they ignore the well established and known triggers of others? Like there have been situations where they purposely triggered my sister and they never really apologized??? And we haven't even been rude. We've been very nice about this situation which many people would not have been in an attempt to save their relationship with some friends they met in the last year. They keep backstabbing us for other people but going off about loyalty as if they even know what that word means. And they also talk down about us sometimes cause a therapist made the mistake to tell them they had a high IQ. Now they believe they are so much smarter than everyone else but are not able to do their own resume for a job they needed half a month ago because they struggle so much with their ADHD... Which at this point I also can't hear anymore. Like it's disabling but can you please stop pretending that everyone else is beneath you when you literally cannot do anything on your own and rely on those people you shit talk to do things for you??? You're not better just like they aren't better for being able to do things you can't do. This is just rude. Also everyone around you not behaving like you want to is not because they are stupid but because humans are different???

Like we've apologized for what we did in the past several times but I'm over being blamed for everything cause someone can't make real tangible progress in 5 years of therapy... And especially for things that just aren't my fault or they refuse to communicate. We're not here to be punching bags and fixing their mistakes and never really getting anything back. That's not how life or relationships work.

Another thing is that I know this therapist was someone elses therapist and they did the exact same thing. They were told multiple times their behavior was manipulative and they were aware of it and kept doing it. Also because they were "so smart". So I think the therapist might be enabling this behavior.

I really wanna be supportive and understanding for their sake but I don't know for how long I can listen to being blamed for everything while everyone pretends they do no wrong... Cause honestly they broke a fucking chair into six pieces and blamed us for self harming while this situation is fully their own responsibility.. like they are a grown up. Not a kid anymore. This was preventable if they had acted according to the role they assumed in this whole situation. This is the second time we are going through this and the first time they agreed to taking up that role. A role that was obvious they would have to assume to get what they wanted out of this. If you can't handle the responsibility you don't get to reap the benefits. That's just how it is. And if you know you are not capable of those things, don't get into those situations.

Like for once in your life take accountability instead of pretending everyone else is to blame and out to get you while life has been giving you chances for free just cause you are male presenting and have a very supportive family.

[absolutely-esme]

Amity Park is different

Amity Park has a local superhero.

He's great. He works hard to protect his town. That said, Amity's local hero is a teenager. The people he relies on to help and support him are teenagers. The town's superhero defense is a handful of kids figuring things out on their own.

They do good, but sometimes the people of Amity have to be prepared to lend a hand or hold their own for a bit. That's just how life is under these conditions. Communities come together and support each other. It's fine. People adapt. Life goes on. They're really doing quite well.

A class from Amity Park visits a museum in Gotham on a field trip. They get caught in an unfortunately timed Scarecrow attack.

Scarecrow should have known better than to activate the fight or flight responses of a group of Amity Parkers.

The gas canister drops and discharges. The field trip group explodes into action.

A pair of Football players quickly overturns a table and use it as a shield as they charge the goons with the most firepower. Cheerleaders toss each other into the air for aerial attacks. Nerds turn objects from a nearby Janitor closet into a surprisingly effective trebuchet with astounding speed. One girl utilizes impressive martial arts skills.

A boy with Black hair and blue eyes flits about the battlefield pilfering and disassembling weapons with a shocking degree of efficiency as a Goth girl follows him around and bludgeon anyone who attempts to make a grab for him with a stand that had been holding up a rope barrier, and a boy in a beret lays down cover fire by launching pencils out of a makeshift bow formed from a binder and rubber bands with a startling degree of accuracy.

The teacher flits around pulling kids out of the path of attacks they hadn't seen, stowing any injured behind cover, and giving foes solid thwack on the noggin when the opportunity arises. He actually ends up knocking out Scarecrow himself.

The statement "We're not trapped in here with you. You're trapped in here with us," is repeated several times by different people.

When the Bats or police arrive, they have to carefully pull the feildtrip group off of the unfortunate rogues.

It takes a while to get the antidotes administered, but they do eventually manage. The class remains in defensive formation the whole time.

When the kids finally calm down enough to give statements, they mostly just say that Scarecrow gets what he gets for deliberately activating Amity Parkers' fight or flight responses. After the antidotes take effect, the class seems unfazed and goes about their business as soon as the authorities allow.

Some other visitors to the museum upload videos of the event online with titles like "the one class that was prepared for a field trip to Gotham" and "What kind of place is Amity Park, and why haven't I heard of it before?"

It doesn't take long for people to edit the videos to set the fight to music. Popular song choices include Ballroom Blitz, Bring 'em Out by Hawk Nelson, and the "we like to party" song from the six flags commercial.

Now the Bats are investigating Amity Park (and why they haven't heard of it before).

[dorothylarouge]

US Presidents as Dril Tweets

George Washington: another day volunteering at the betsy ross museum. everyone keeps asking me if they can fuck the flag. buddy, they wont even let me fuck it

John Adams: "ah boo hoo hoo i want to post Foul comments to content leaders" Fat Chance, Dimwit. I will annihilate you under bulwark of the Law and God.

Thomas Jefferson: Q: If your post was proven by a counsil of wise men to be racist, or bullshit, would you bar it from the record? A: I do not delete my posts

James Madison: (sniffing a crumpled up one dollar bill i found on the floor of a dog kennel) ah.. thats greenbacks baby

James Monroe: for decades i have traversed the unforgiving mountains and rivers of south america, hoping to catch a glimpse of the fabled "ass downloader"

John Quincy Adams: "This Whole Thing Smacks Of Gender," i holler as i overturn my uncle's barbeque grill and turn the 4th of July into the 4th of Shit

Andrew Jackson: handing Faves over to my enemies is FRAUD !! base, contemptible FRAUD!

Martin Van Buren: Food $200

Data $150

Rent $800

Candles $3,600

Utility $150

someone who is good at the economy please help me budget this. my family is dying

William Henry Harrison: (spends all of 7 seconds skimming some blog posts) yep. just as i knew all along. having pnuamonia is good

John Tyler: fuck "jokes". everything i tweet is real. raw insight without the horse shit. no, i will NOT follow trolls. twitter dot com. i live for this

James K. Polk: thhere is no such thing as charisma, and art is fake. the only metrics by which we must determine the worth of a man are Strength and Wisdom

Zachary Taylor: the doctor reveals my blood pressure is 420 over 69. i hoot & holler outta the building while a bunch of losers tell me that im dying

Millard Fillmore: trying to heal..... please donate to my go fund me... $10 will make me less racist... $100 will make me extremely less racist...thank you...

Franklin Pierce: blocked. blocked. blocked. youre all blocked. none of you are free of sin

James Buchanan: #NationalGirlfriendDay please cherish your gal's.. in honor of us, the single Boys who must sacrifice all companionship to #CarryTheBrand...

Abraham Lincoln: unloading an entire belt of ammo at me with a minigun or some such device will now get you "Blocked"

Andrew Johnson: who the fuck is scraeming "LOG OFF" at my house. show yourself, coward. i will never log off

Ulysses S. Grant: i regret being tasked the emotional burden of maintaining the final bastion of morality and Nice manners in this endless ocean of human SHIT

Rutherford B. Hayes: using the toilet when i hear Our national anthem start to play. i do what i must. i stand tall in complete agony; as shit runs down my leg,

James A. Garfield: too much truth in such little time. feeling the heat cominh down to silence me... signing off........ for now

Chester A. Arthur: i WILL wise the fuck up. i WILL super charge my content for 2017. i WILL get blue check mark

Grover Cleveland: the way i see it, people who come on here and submit content that is not up to par, could possibly be considered the "Villains" of this site

Benjamin Harrison: i help every body, im not racist, i keep myself nice, and when i ask for a single re-tweet in return i am told to fuck off, fuck myself, etc

William McKinley: boy oh boy do i love purchasing large amounnts of Fool's Gold. wait a minute... fools gold fucking sucks. this stuff is no good..!! Fuck !!!

Theodore Roosevelt: IF THE ZOO BANS ME FOR HOLLERING AT THE ANIMALS I WILL FACE GOD AND WALK BACKWARDS INTO HELL

William H. Taft: ah.. the perfect Souffle! cant wait to dig in to t(*EVERY PIPE IN MY HOUSE EXPLODES AT THE SAME TIME, COVERING ME IN SHIT AND BOILING WATER*

Woodrow Wilson: the conflicted supersoldier stares over the horizon as he smokes a cigarette. "war is the most fucked up thing ever." he takes a sip of beer

Warren G. Harding: somebody please Bribe me

Calvin Coolidge: aggressively joyless oaf hhere. painfully obnoxious respect demander checkign in. extremely dim witted frowning man looking for pals

Herbert Hoover: it is really quite astonishing that I have yet to win The Lottery, given how good I am at selecting six numbers and saying them out loud

Franklin D. Roosevelt: ive never heard of this “europe” but it sounds like a big bunch of shit to me

Harry Truman: everybody wants to be the guy to write the tweet that solves racism once and for all because it would look good as hell on a resume

Dwight D. Eisenhower: my "F*&k It!! Let's Go Golfin" t-shirt maintains a tenacious stranglehold on my life. after 1,125 days of Golf my body is twisted, deformed

John F. Kennedy: when you do sutuff like... shoot my jaw clean off of my face with a sniper rifle, it mostly reflects poorly on your self

Lyndon B. Johnson: incredibly handsome , charismatic famous boy credited with ending income inequality after saying that slumlords should be called "dumblords"

Richard Nixon: i attribute the complete failure of my brand to the actions of detractors, oor my “trolls”, as it were, as well as my own constant fuckups

Gerald Ford: shutting computer down until the shitty moods & attitudes can fuck off., if you need me ill be on my other computer, sititng 60° to my right

Jimmy Carter: i warnned you all that bad things would happen if you kept letting your wives wear jeans. AND NOW LOOK! the damn gas prices are up again

Ronald Reagan: spend a lot of time thinking about how sometimes even war criminals can be heroes sometimes... Dont like it? Click the unfollow buttobn

George H.W. Bush: just thought off an idea i believe to be bad ass. lets find the address of the leader of isis, and mail him/ her pieces of our SHIT

Bill Clinton: were at the point now, that when i offer to impregnate my girl followers, people assume my motives are sexual. disgusting, grow the fuck up,

George W. Bush: friday night gathering up together a big pile of things i like to respect (flags, crucifixes ,etc) and just roll around in it ,give kisses,

Barack Obama: my IQ has increased 10 points ever since i stopped tollerating people mucking about, on the time line

Donald Trump: THERAPIST: your problem is, that youre perfect, and everyone is jealous of your good posts, and that makes you rightfully upset.

ME: I agree

Joe Biden: I will shut the fuck up , IF , it will restore the Harmony. I will get on my knees like a dog and make that sacrifice, for the sake of Calm

[rambling-at-midnight]

Don't Go Disappearing On Me Again

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Summary: Jason's lost too much to lose you, too. (We stan healthy communication in this house)

Word count: 2.3k

Ow.

You've never worked Friday nights before at the restaurant, and you never want to again. And you'd thought Saturday mornings were bad.

But one of your favorite coworkers had called you in a panic early this morning, begging you to take her shift, because her lab group's department at GCU was going out to bowling and it would be a great networking opportunity. You were the last person she called, but everyone else before you had declined because they were either scheduled or determined to avoid the shitshow.

And because you were weak, you gave in and said you would cover her Friday night shift as long as she covered your Friday morning shift.

So you two swapped shifts, and you went into your library internship in the morning instead of the evening. It wasn't a particularly hard job, but end-of-week returns had you dashing all over the three floors, so your feet already hurt before you walked into the restaurant.

Right before coming in, you'd texted Jason that you'd gotten held up, and it was a good thing you did, because you haven't had a single break to look at your phone the whole shift. He likely wasn't even awake yet—last night's patrol had been tough on the both of you, him because he came home half beaten to death, and you because you'd had a heart attack waking up in the middle of the night to your bloody boyfriend passing out on top of you in bed. But you usually got home around six from the library, and it was looking like you wouldn't be back until ten at the earliest, so you wanted to let him know. It was going on hour seven after starting at two p.m., when the restaurant switched from its brunch to dinner menu. Personally, you think two p.m. is obscenely early to eat dinner, but apparently rich people loved eating at weird hours, because you had had nonstop tables the entire night.

But the good thing is that the restaurant closes at nine, so you’re almost there. After your last three tables eat and leave, all you have to do is clean your section, close your checks, and clock out.

In the kitchen, you lean against the fridge, rubbing your hips and knees. You’re a little too young to feel so creaky after seven hours on your feet. After all, Jason works all night, doing athletic feats you could never dream of.

You can't really complain, though. You'd gotten lucky with your tables; they'd all tipped well. Maybe you could even add a little bit to your savings account instead of shoving every paycheck right at your student loans, which just keep growing, no matter how much you pay.

“Oh, no,” says Charlotte, one of the other veteran servers at the restaurant. She’s staring at the camera feed display, which is tuned to a livestream of the restaurant’s entranceway. “Don’t you dare seat me now, Ashley, I swear to God.”

“What time is it?” your head jerks up. “We’re about to close, right? Is someone looking for a table?”

“Yeah,” she says, pointing to the screen. “The hottest man in the world just walked in our front door.”

You just hum, not bothering to look in favor of pulling out your phone. You know for a fact that the hottest man in the world is actually at home in your bed right now. “The kitchen’s stopped receiving tickets. No way Ashley seats someone right now.” The screen doesn't light up when you click the power button. Well, shit. It's dead.

“I can’t tell what he’s saying.” Charlotte squints at the screen. “He’s, like, huge. Does Ashley look a little scared to you?”

You’re out of the kitchen without even looking at the screen. You speedmarch right past your tables, ignoring one man’s halfhearted attempts to flag you down for more ketchup. A righteous fire is boiling in your gut. You’ve been here long enough that the managers won’t fire you for telling off any customers that harass the younger workers that are more scared to stand up for yourself.

Your mouth is already open, ready to spew forth the beginning of your tirade, when you recognize the man in front of Ashley at the host stand.

Dressed in gray sweats and a dark T-shirt, slouching slightly, he looks even worse than when you kissed his forehead goodbye that morning. The bruise on Jason's face has properly colored now, purple and blue along his jawline. His hair looks a little flat, like he's been wearing his helmet, which is strange.

Jason's eyes snap onto you the second you appear, and you falter at the intensity there. Something has happened, but you're not sure what.

"Hey," you say, a little hesitant. "What's up?"

Ashley exhales with relief. "So you do know him."

"Yeah," you say without breaking eye contact with Jason, who's staring at you with the same expression you think a wolf would wear when stalking a hare. "He's my boyfriend."

You expect Jason to tell you that someone was in an accident. Someone's in the hospital. Something terrible happened to your apartment while you were gone.

He says none of those things. Instead, Jason says, "I didn't know you picked up a Friday shift."

Ashley's face goes blank.

"I told you I would be home late."

“No,” he corrects. “You texted me that you were being held up.”

“Yeah, at work.”

“And then you disappeared.” Jason’s jaw clenched. “Did you know that a bank was held up this afternoon? Your bank?”

“Oh, shit,” your hand flies up to cover your mouth. “My phone died, I don’t know when. You couldn’t check my location and see I was here?”

He just shakes his head, stiff and wordless.

“Hey, Y/N.” It’s your manager approaching the host stand now, customer service smile on and eyes taking in Jason’s appearance. “What’s going on up here?”

“Hey, Steve,” you say. “Sorry, this is my boyfriend Jason—Jay, this is my manager, Steve—”

Jason gets the hint and smiles close-lipped, reaching to shake Steve’s hand.

“My phone died so he came to see if I needed a ride home.”

“As soon as your tables leave and your section’s clean, you’re good to go. Oh, and you have to roll silverware.”

“It’ll be at least another hour,” you say apologetically to Jason.

“Okay.” His eyes keep boring into you like he’s trying to send you a telepathic message. He’s mad, you get it, but it makes you a little mad, too. You’re a grown adult. Yeah, the miscommunication was your fault, and it’s fine for him to be worried, but he looks close to Red Hood levels of anger, which is totally unwarranted for this situation. “Is it cool if I wait at the bar for you, then?”

“Of course!” Steve answers for you. "Our bartender, Lacy, will be happy to serve you while you wait." He checks his watch. "Until last call, that is."

"He didn't scare you, did he?" you ask Ashley as soon as Steve leaves. You smile at Jason, trying to tease him, but his expression doesn't twitch. "He looks mean, but I promise he's a big ol' softie."

Jason just grunts, but on his way to the bar, he doesn't forget to drop a kiss to your forehead. It warms you from the inside out.

As soon as he's gone, Ashley blurts out, "What happened to his face?"

"Motorcycle accident," you fib. "Oh, my table's calling me."

You rush over to take care of the poor man's ketchup—he's been waiting almost five whole minutes—and check out another party. The back of your neck prickles as you do. Every time you glance at the bar, Jason's green eyes are locked on your every move. It flusters you so much that when your table leaves, they say thanks, and you respond with, "Good morning!"

"What?"

"Thanks, you too!"

You run back to the kitchen, and everyone immediately starts interrogating you about your 'huge hunky boyfriend' (Charlotte's words, not yours).

By some miracle, all your tables clear out by closing time, and you’re out by 9:20. There are still a couple people at the bar, but Jason’s up immediately to walk out with you, leaving his water glass on the counter.

He doesn’t say anything, though you can feel his eyes on you whenever you aren’t looking. You won’t fight in public, so you follow his lead and stay quiet.

He drove your car to pick you up, and even though he’s obviously mad, he holds the passenger door open for you before getting into the driver’s seat.

The drive home is silent. He parks in the spot for your shared apartment, then immediately, quietly, asks, “Why’d you pick up a shift without telling me?”

"It was super last-minute," you say. He's still facing forward, so you do the same, eyeing his profile out of the corner of your eyes. "Like, it happened this morning. I thought you were sleeping, so I didn't want to blow up your phone with texts. I thought you'd just check my location and see where I was when you woke up."

Jason's hand clenches on the center console. "I woke up and I was terrified."

"I'm sorry—"

"And the bank, and your wording, and your phone was off—"

"I know," you say, putting your hand over his fist. He unclenches immediately to lace his fingers with yours. "I'll make sure I tell you next time."

Jason takes a deep breath in, then lets it out. In a rush, he finally turns to face you and says, "I don't mean to be controlling."

You blink. "I don't think you're being controlling."

"You don't?" Jason frowns. "Then why were you so mad when I walked into your work?"

"Mad? I'm not mad—you're mad at me."

"I'm not mad at you, what are you talking about?"

"You've been glaring this whole time! And you didn't say a word this entire car ride."

"Because I thought you were angry. I wanted to give you space."

"Okay, wait, wait, wait." You hold up a hand. "Let me get this straight. You're not mad at me?"

"No," he says earnestly. "I was worried and scared, but you're an adult. You don't have to ask for permission if you want to pick up a shift at work." He makes a face like the thought disgusts him.

"Okay," you say. "Okay, well if you're not mad at me, I'm not mad at you, either."

"Then why did you look so pissed when I walked in?"

You press your lips together to keep from smiling. "Well, we have cameras that show us up front while we're in the kitchen, right? One of my coworkers was watching and said 'the hottest man in the world' walked in and I didn't look because I thought the hottest guy in the world was still asleep in my bed—"

Jason covers his face with his hands. You can't stop your smile now, and you pull them away so you can look at said handsome face. "And I didn't even look because I'm such a loyal, awesome partner—"

"You are pretty awesome," he agrees, trying to sound serious, but he's grinning like an idiot, too. His cheeks are flushed pink.

"I know I am. But then Charlotte said that the hostess, Ashley, looked a little intimidated by him, so I walked out to see if she needed help."

"Aw," Jason says. He lowers his chin to look at you from underneath his lashes, pretty as a picture. "Were you going to give me a stern talking-to?"

"I can still give you one," you offer.

"Maybe later."

He's still grinning, and you're still grinning, so the both of you are grinning at each other like idiots in the car.

You want to kiss him, and he's your boyfriend. You're allowed to do that whenever the two of you want, so you take Jason by the chin and pull his mouth to yours.

Jason sighs against you, and it's like all the tension in his body melts away. One hand comes up to cradle your jaw, the other on the back of your head.

You break away to murmur, "Are you patrolling tonight?" He's still so beaten up.

"No," he whispers, voice low and gravelly in a way that has butterflies whipping around like a tornado in your stomach.

"Good. Wanna go up and be the hottest patient in the world while I look at your wounds?"

"Only if you're the hottest nurse in the world."

"Oh, but then who will be the hottest chef in the world who makes dinner?"

"The hot chef is on vacation right now," Jason joked. "But I can be a really hot food-orderer. What takeout are you in the mood for?"

"You're the injured one. What do you want?"

"I want whatever you want."

You narrow your eyes in a glare. "Well, I want whatever you want."

"You gotta make a decision," he says, already on his phone. "You're the hottest decision-maker in the world, I'm the hottest food-orderer."

"Chinese?"

"You got it."

Right before he dials the number, you grab him and kiss him again. When you pull back, he chases after your lips. It's so tempting that you give him another firm peck before you pat his chest once.

Jason blinks twice, looking dazed. "What was that for?"

You shrug. "I just wanted to kiss the hottest man in the world."

"Oh, my God." He groans and covers his face again, but you can see his red ears. "You're never gonna let that go?"

"Mmm." You pretend to consider it. "No."

DC taglist:

@evalynanne @mismatchsposts

Forever taglist:

@lemirabitur @annymcervantes @queenmissfit  @iksey @thehyperactiveteen @luxmoonlight @andreasworlsboring101

[pennjammin]

PONYTAIL.

JJK HALLOWEEN! gojoxreader

SUMMARY ❥ you have a huge, embarrassing crush on the star of the jockey team on campus. you thought you’d kept it low key, ‘till he approaches you at a halloween party, and shows you that the mechanical bull isn’t the only thing you can ride.

CONTENT ❥ collegestudent!gojo, smut, unprotected, slight breeding kink mention, college!au, athlete!reader, afab!reader, athlete!gojo, drug/alcohol use, spit kink, switch!gojo, switch!reader, masochism, sadism, aftercare, car sex.

song inspo: can’t get enough - j. cole

WC: [8.1K] MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

Crisp fall air brings out the gooseflesh among your skin; hair that's not there trying to rise at the thrill of tonight's festivities. The sidewalks are packed to the brim of frat boys, sorority sisters, general slackers and... even an alumni or two. So many people to choose from, you think.

Everyone’s in costume; faces concealed by masks, clouds of smoke mixing with the breeze, and overstimulating noises from animatronics. The holidays were here. You should be trying to find a relationship, to cuddle you through the cold, but right now you just want to bone.

"Where do we even start?" you hear your friend ask from behind you, as your whole group walks - stumbles, more like - down the middle of a road that has been closed to through traffic.

"Whatever house has the most fine men standing outside," your other friend answers with a grin.

You agree, because you had already shot down a fair amount of Don Julio - and the heat of the drink had travelled straight to your core, a small throb arising in your cunt the more you glance around and see the variations of muscles poking out from underneath masked strangers’ costumes. You’d easily find the satisfaction to your hunger, but you’re impatient.

You hum longingly as your eyes fixate on a crowd outside of a large house, painted black. There’s fog rolling over the lawn, but that’s not what draws you in; it’s the group of men deep into a drinking game out front.

Without warning your friends, you beeline over. You wonder if any of them are as needy as you feel right now. The liquor alone could not justify the painful feeling of heat all throughout your nerves; it was mostly your hormones. Pathetic, you tell yourself, so incredibly ready to sit down on someone’s cock.

As your friends follow you down the pathway to the large house, you feel several pairs of eyes stick to you like bologna on hot asphalt. That's right; you and your girls are just pieces of meat dangling in front of a den of lions.

You're not surprised, though, because you’re in a brown leather brazier, accentuated by puffy white sleeves that hang off your shoulders, tucked into a skirt. You have a whip on your hip, and your boots are up to your fishnet-covered knees - one of which leads to the garter holding a toy gun against your thick thigh; to add, it shoots out a little pow flag when you pull the trigger.

And it's clearly mesmerizing in the way that you wear it well, walking right into the party with your liquid confidence through the roof, aware of one of your friends falling behind to entertain someone who had called out to her.

Once inside the belly of the beast, you're farther away from the center of attention; it seems that everyone on campus had read your mind about picking this particular house to step into. It made sense; the house was huge outside, but even bigger within.

The room is littered with men and women alike; most sloppily grinding on one another on the edges of the room, others filling their noses with bad things, but above all: you notice there are cheers coming from somewhere in the center.

You realize why as you part through the crowd, dusting your friends to see what the excitement is. And when you see it, you feel yourself grow both confused and aroused.

There, under a bright red spotlight, is an entire brown and white mechanical bull. Somehow, it had fit into this massive room, and there’s still plenty of room leftover for the influx of students. You're as impressed as the rest of the group, who watch as an ebony-haired man lacking a costume walks around to check the plugs on the bull, and bleakly instructs everyone to take several steps back.

Bass had been booming under your feet, competing with the sound of blood rushing through your ears, but it’s slowly fading away now; a voice travels over the remaining bustling.

Everyone seems to freeze as out from the crowd walks a tall, lean individual with powdery skin. He's wearing something similar to you: a black button-down shirt, leather pants, and brown boots, but most importantly - you feel your breath hitch when your eyes land on the delicious black Stetson that rests atop his contrasted snowy locks.

You feel mixed things blossoming in your chest: unease, desire, and… embarrassment.

You’ve been completely obsessed with the boy in the Stetson for months. Satoru, ‘Toru, and Gojo all being the names he answered to. You’d hopelessly pined over this Satoru, each time noting in your mind just how attractive you find him. He’s on the jockey team; you always see him in a tight, white riding suit with his helmet perched against his hip. You’re the soccer team captain, so you share a field for practice, and, well… Satoru doesn’t make it any easier for you to lock in while you train.

Your friends had noticed your infatuation and would giggle about him to you, saying how you looked like a cockdrunk puppy when he would kick himself on top of the horses - all of the muscles in his legs and arms moving underneath the skin you desperately wanted to crawl into.

He managed to pour gasoline directly onto your fire the first time he’d bumped into you on your way to the locker rooms.

“Careful, ponytail,” he’d said, a smug wink fluttering from his eye.

Then it happened again. And again. Each time you bumped into one another, he barely said two words to you, never seeming to truly notice you or take you in. This didn’t stop you from wearing your hair in a ponytail every single time, though.

He would likely not even recognize you now, given your costume and heavy finesse of makeup, a striking contrast to the sweat sticking your hair to your forehead and your muddy soccer jersey every time he’d seen you in the past. But you knew you recognized him, given the way your body was already responding to his presence.

"Alright now, y’all can't all be this shy," Satoru’s horrible attempt at a country accent booms into the crowd, gesturing wildly to the mechanical animal. "Anyone wanna be the guinea pig? Someone's gotta. I'm definitely not doing it."

A bit of laughter erupts but yet, the crowd remains still. You notice people trying to egg their friends on to test it out, but no one is either drunk or brave enough yet. Satoru continues to glare around the room, walking slowly as the spurs on his boots clack against the hardwood floor, as if he is genuinely a westerner interrogating everyone.

You suddenly feel a gush of pressure hit your back, and four hands send you lurching forward, causing you to accidentally step out beyond the crowd and into the center of the room with the snow-haired man. You exclaim loudly and your friends cheer, which prompts him to turn and look at the commotion.

"Well," Satoru’s velvety voice says, lowering his eyelids into a heated squint. "Seems we have a winner."

His lips disappear as they tuck in to wet themselves, and when they pop back out they are glistening under the red light. Though you cannot see his eyes under the harsh lighting, you can feel them, as well as the heat traveling up through your belly. You wonder then if he might possibly be remembering you.

No way, you tell yourself.

You attempt to turn and look at your friends, who are no doubt giggling endlessly at their little prank, but your head hardly cocks to the side when your hand is being grabbed by a larger, warm one.

You instantly look in the direction of it, your eyes traveling up your arm in disbelief, only to find Satoru is smirking at you.

"N-No, this was a mistake," you try to argue, but he is already gently coursing you towards his body, and your legs feel like jelly as you mindlessly obey like a little doll.

"Don't be afraid," he murmurs to you, hypnotizing you with his voice as he walks backwards, guiding you right to the steps that will allow you to get onto the bull. "You look like..." he pauses, cocking his head to the side and your heart drops, "you'd know how to hang on, no? You've got those strong legs."

You let out a breath. He still doesn’t recognize you. But you know he is referring to your thighs, which are on the larger side from all of the exercise you do for soccer. He's right, you do have the strength to keep yourself on the bull, but whether you want to do it in front of everyone remains to be seen.

"My friends pushed me forward," you blurt out, "I-I really… don't think I can do this."

His voice has lowered by now. It seems like he wants only you to hear him. Not that it mattered, as the crowd is still quite loud and so is the music thumping from another area of the house.

"I think you can," he responds, dipping his head forward like a proper cowboy, feeding into the twisted little costume he’s in. "My name is Satoru, but you can call me ‘Toru. What's yours, madam?"

You almost blurt that you already knew his name, but catch yourself.

"It's Y/N," you say bleakly, knowing he’s only asking to tell the crowd, not because he is interested in knowing who “ponytail” really is.

Not that he has indicated at all that he remembers you, which makes a little twinge of jealousy poke you in the heart because of the way he was looking at you. He must look at every woman like this.

"Y/N," he repeats slowly, as if memorizing the name, simultaneously gliding his piercing eyes down your body again and stopping briefly on your leg — the one with the gun strapped to it. "Give us a show, pretty girl. I think everyone is looking forward to this."

You'd reached the steps to the bull. You begin to suspect that Satoru is the “everyone” in question. You want to try and fight him more, but something about his voice, his unhindered belief in you despite being a total stranger caused you to want to prove him right.

You can do it, you can ride it and not fall off, no matter how intense the settings.

One final look at him, and you release your hand from his, realizing the two of you had been standing there holding hands this entire time. He broke away, but not before giving you another look that might as well have had fire attached to it in the way it sent searing erotica up your body. You’re disgusted at just how awfully, hopelessly, desperately in love with him you are.

The crowd had been falling more quiet as you approached the chopping block, it felt like. But now, it's returned to cheers and whooping as you get on your tip-toes and sling one leg over the side of the bull, your skirt bunching up around your hips.

You spot your friends, who have acquired more drinks; colorful green and purple ones. They lift their cups when they notice your eye contact, and make kissy-faces as encouragement. Or perhaps they’re making fun of your obvious puppy-like expression every time you so much as look at Satoru.

"Alright everyone," he announces suddenly, clapping his hands before walking around to the front of the bull and patting its headless neck. "Y/N has bravely stepped up to the plate tonight. Since you’re all too pussy.” Laughter from the crowd. “Let's see how long she can last."

He turns and looks up at you, dropping an eyelid down into a familiar wink and clicking his tongue.

An irritating piece of man, he is. He doesn’t have to be so damn gorgeous, easily distracting you as you grip onto the reigns around the bull's nonexistent neck, all the confidence draining smooth out of your mind.

You don't have time to think about it much more because of the sheer level of noise that erupts from the room; the crowd has erupted into whoops and whistles, music’s blasting around you. A good old fashioned hype party song, that has prompted the crowd to lose their mind.

The red light makes it hard to see much of anything beyond the first row of people, which is helpful for your nerves, but it also means that since Satoru is standing the closest to you and the bull, he is the only thing you can clearly see, as he presses the button to trigger the ride.

You gasp as it begins vibrating, something you had not expected to happen. The bull jerks to the side, before the rear end perks up, knocking you plain forward and winding you. Your breasts bounce upward and the crowd oo’s.

Satoru smugly continues to operate the bull, keeping it slow as he courses it to knock forward and back, forward and back. You sit back up, trying to defeat gravity, your grip still strong on the reigns. But little do you know that you’ve been out of control since you stepped on the floor. Satoru’s taking his precious time sinking his claws into you.

Your thighs dig into the side of the bull and Satoru spins you, jerking up the rear again; the force knocks your skirt up.

You gasp, wanting to let go of the rope to adjust it, but you know you’re going to fall off if you do. You've made a vow that you cannot fall in front of Satoru, no matter how far he pushes you to your limit. Besides, you figure, having your ass our in front of him wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

The crowd cheers, realizing Satoru is operating the machine solely for their gaze, and not necessarily to challenge you.

But you have yet to put that puzzle piece together.

You continue innocently focusing on staying up, but make the mistake of looking at Satoru again. He's looking up at you from beneath his eyelashes, his top teeth poking out as he tugs on his bottom lip with them.

"Doin' so good," he mouths, pushing at the the controls again.

You groan a bit, the vibration of the bull suddenly feeling even more intense, though it's likely just a combination of your imagination and the tequila.

Your head falls back as the bull begins to move in a galloping motion. More cheers erupt, and a darkening gaze is shot from Satoru that you can't see with your head tilted.

The vibrations shouldn't feel this good, you think. You start to feel embarrassed at the thought of getting wetter on top of this bull, in front of all these people, but you can't help it; your eyes flutter closed as you try to focus beyond the pleasure.

Satoru is drinking up the sight like a glass of water in the middle of the night. He can see his effect working more and more on you, your thigh muscles flexing harder as you dig them deeper into the side of the bull. You must not think anyone notices, but he can. A sick fuck he was to currently be jealous of a literal robot.

You suddenly spring your eyelids apart and cry to Satoru that you have to stop. You can't handle the ecstasy creeping up on you, your embarrassment outweighing your desire to prove yourself a strong bullrider. If he keeps operating like this, you’ll cum all over the back of the bull.

Satoru looks hesitant but he ultimately stops the ride, and you take a deep breath when the vibrations come to a halt. The bull steadies and you loosen your thigh muscles.

Despite feeling like a failure, the crowd cheers anyway; you were up there for what felt like a lifetime, but realistically it hadn't been long, and you were expecting people to clown on you for not lasting. It's not like you couldn't stay up; it was more like you couldn't hold your pathetic desire to bone the cowboy at bay.

Satoru comes around and helps you down, the same routine as before with his hand in yours, only this time you're putting some weight on him as you feel yourself struggling to stand with your legs apart.

"You did so good, pretty girl," he coos, not even phased by your body weight. "Rode so well. Thighs a bit sore now I bet, hm?"

You feel your stomach knotting up at his word choice. "A bit," you answer grimly. "The vibrating didn't help."

"Really," he drawls, not even attempting to make it sound like a question. "How so?"

You begin to suspect he knows exactly how. His hands have found your elbows, his arms wrapped around you to keep you steady, and you find yourselves in a darker corner of the room with a convenient lack of a crowd. You blink and the bull seems a great distance away. No one is looking for you, either.

"Doesn't matter," you huff, looking at the floor. "It's embarrassing to say."

"Say it," Satoru purrs, taking your hands in his before placing them both right over his chest pecs. "Tell me what it did to you, hm? Maybe I can help, ponytail.”

You gasp then, your eyes immediately shooting up to meet his face. You almost fall over at the idea that he knows who you are, that he’s recognized you. This means that now he absolutely cannot fix what the bull had done to your poor cunt, although... with the way he's eating you alive with his pupils alone, your morality wants to fly right out of the window and beg him to fix it.

"Made me so horny," you breathe, immediately smacking yourself in the mouth at the coercion of your confession. “Th-That is not what I meant to say.”

Satoru's chest shakes against your palms as he laughs, "Adorable. Got all hot and bothered from a bull ride? Should’ve known that’s all it would take.”

Your face heats immediately. "I've been drinking," you admit with a slur, sinking farther away from sobriety. "Normally it-it’s not that easy.”

You laugh, trying to mask it as a joke, but Satoru's face is dangerously still.

“It is,” he murmured, “you always have the same little expression on your face at practice, just from seeing me.”

You want to be embarrassed that he’d caught you. But right now, your darkest, perverted fantasies are coming alive right before you; and you’d be a fool not to feed into them.

"Because..." you breathe out, feeling your back hit a wall, unsure how you ended up here. "Why do you always look so good?"

"Been thinking the same thing," he mewls, leaning over you with his hands still holding yours to his body. He lets them go then, and puts his own flat against the wall on either side of you. "Got up there and rode the bull like a champ - you can imagine what it did to me."

"What could a perfect stranger have done?” you whisper, knowing, begging, wanting the answer to be something raunchy and wet in your ear.

Instead, in a flash, his rock-solid pelvis is digging into your stomach, and he twists his hips to allow you to feel the even more solid length under his leather pants.

"We’re not strangers, ponytail," Satoru hums in your ear, just like you’d wanted; warm breath traveling through your hair and down your neck. “Always see you eyein’ me on the field. Goin’ outta ya way to knock into me afterwards. Been at this for months.”

You can't help the little whine that escapes your mouth. Your cunt had been pulsing all night, but now you can almost hear it. It's screaming at you to slide your hands down his body, to reach the waist band of the leather on his pants and then dare to explore further—

His gasp takes you out of your clouded fantasy, as you realize it's not a fantasy at all. Your hand is resting cutely over his bulge. You had been acting on your twisted, unwarranted desires from weeks ago all along.

"Ngh, knew I chose the right costume," he murmurs in your ear. "Knew it’d finally get your attention, get you to wanna ride me.”

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip. You’d been caught, being so obviously needy. You wish you can say you’re embarrassed, but when your hand doesn’t immediately move away from his dick, you know you’re fucked.

You feel yourself shuddering, your hands moving from his waist, over his ribs, passing to his shoulders; your palms sliding over thick, unidentified shapes and running down the curves in his arms. You couldn’t stop, you needed to know what all of him felt like.

“You didn’t have to be a cowboy to get me to ride you,” you whisper, “but if you care about saving horses that much-“

"Hah- shut up," he grunts. "'Fore I take you against this wall. Shouldn’t - hngh - be doing this here.”

“Isn’t this your frat house?” you question. “Take me,” you pause when his gaze darkens, “take me to your r-room.”

He groans, a velvety sound that raises the imaginary hair back up on your neck.

“Not mine, but I’ve got an idea.” He backs away from you, and the cold sensation of his body heat leaving yours makes your heart thump in pain. “C’mon, pretty.”

So he takes your hand again, and again you let him lead you around like a little pony. You don’t see your friends anymore, but you imagine the groupchat is blowing up. They no doubt saw you disappear into the shadows with Satoru.

You manage to escape to the outside without so much as a second glance from anyone, as you’ve started a riot for a turn on the mechanical bull. The memory of riding it seems so distant now.

“So tell me,” Satoru begins suddenly, pulling you hard against him, and you stumble before he puts a hand on your waist to steady you. “Just how long did you intend to keep watching me? Makin’ me all nervous before you made your move?”

You are stunned by his bold line of questioning, but he knows full well how tipsy you are, and that you’re going to answer as honestly as you can.

“I made a move the first time I ran into you,” you squeaked. “Thought you’d take it from there, but guess your balls aren’t big enough.”

This makes him grunt a bit. “If I would have made the first move, you’d still be limping. I don’t like all the small talk.”

“I see,” you purr, “otherwise you wouldn’t be leading me to this field, would ya, ‘Toru?”

“Not a field,” he corrects. “I’m parked back here. What do y’think I am, a serial killer? Wouldn’t just fuck you in the wilderness. ‘Less you asked.”

It had a nice ring to it, but you aren’t quite wasted enough to not care about being seen out in the open like that.

You reach his car and, pretending to be a gentleman, he opens the door for you, and while you sink in, he goes to the trunk. You begin to feel your heart race; you hardly know this man, actually, and maybe you’re stupid for thinking with your cunt instead of your head. Letting him lead you out back, all alone to his car.

Your nerves ease when he joins you in the back seat, nothing more than a bottle of liquor in his hand.

“Think we need to loosen up some more,” he says sternly, unscrewing the cap. “Not that I need alcohol to take care of you, ponytail, but it’ll definitely make things interesting.”

You nod in agreement, knowing you can certainly use more liquid courage. You wait for him to pass you the bottle, but instead you feel chilly fingers connect to your chin, and his thumb courses your face towards his.

“Open those lips f’me,” he murmurs lowly, tilting your chin up towards his face and bringing the liquor bottle closer to yours.

Your eyes widen in realization of what he’s about to do, but the throb between your legs has resurfaced full force at the ghost of a grip he has on your chin.

Hot liquor is sliding down your throat before you even register that you’ve parted your lips. You gasp and close your mouth into a bubble, trying to breathe through your nose as the liquor starts to go down harshly.

Satoru’s watching you intensely, “Don’t swallow it all,” he instructs quickly, to which you find yourself glaring at him.

The interior of your cheeks is going numb, and he’s telling you not to swallow.

What he does next, though, makes your skeleton jump out of your skin and back in again.

He opens his mouth; his long, fat tongue sticking out as far as it will go with a delicate curve in it. He points to his open mouth, while looking at you through his eyelashes.

You feel your face go numb. Your cunt was pounding now, secretion wetting your inner thighs and covering your pussy. You spread your legs a bit, trying to use Satoru’s backseat as something to grind down onto.

You begin doing so as you sit up straight a bit and lean forward, before pushing your cheeks out to spit a steady mix of liquor and your saliva right onto Satoru’s glistening tongue. He hisses immediately, before gripping you by the neck; taking you by surprise when your air flow becomes restricted. Your face is jerked to his as he swallows the liquor you just spit into his mouth, nipping your bottom lip.

“Tastes s’good,” he rasps, “Know you’ll taste even better.”

“But—“ you want to ride him already.

Wanna get him deep in your belly, use your hips to wring more of those deep moans from the depths of his throat. You don’t know if you can wait for that.

“But what?” Satoru challenges, applying pressure to your massive thighs with his palms. “Y’should know by now you can trust me. Didn’t I take care of you on the bull?”

He slides his finger up your stomach and to the cups of your brazier, tucking the tip of the digit inside and tugging the material down, a nipple begging to be exposed.

“Had it vibrating as hard as it could,” he continues, cocking his head to the side, careful not to let his Stetson slide off. “Still can’t get you riding it like that outta my head. Fuck.” He hisses again and—

Crack!

His hand comes down hard on your thigh, pulling a pathetic cry out of you. You look up at him through your lashes; he’s so beautiful with the way the moonlight casts a glow along his jaw, his wet lips, and the brim of his Stetson.

“Quit looking at me like that,” he says, creeping closer to you.

“Make me,” you mouth brattily, and so he does.

Keeping his hands both occupied on your thigh and your throat, he finally crashes his desperate lips against yours, creating harsh reverberations through your teeth. He starts the kiss off hard and unsure, but once you’re kissing him back, the kisses get sloppy, ferocious, desperate.

You let out a whimper against his lips, and in the split second your mouth is open his tongue has made its way inside. The muscle clashes with yours, drenching your mouth in his saliva as he takes your tongue for his own.

Meanwhile, his hand has left your throat. It’s back on the trim of your brazier, and without warning, his fingers gives it a harsh tug and your breasts are out.

He doesn’t break away from the kiss but he does glance down and start palming the meat of your chest, pinching one nipple between his index and thumb.

Not much noise is made besides your shared frustrated grunts as he breaks away from your sloppy kiss, leaving his drool all over your mouth and chin as he dips his charming head down to latch onto your nipple.

He pulls one of your legs up onto his lap, as he nestles himself next to the other one, now between your legs, and you’re forced to lean back against the window and press your hand against the back of the passenger seat for balance.

Satoru is not showing your breasts any mercy. His hand glides across the skin on your leg, before he takes his fingers in a walking motion up your thigh and then quickly grabs your tits into each hand, gathering large loads of spit and hacking them onto your chest, the glorious sound of the fluid hitting your skin making you wetter and wetter and—

He takes a big hand and pop! smacks your achingly solid nipple, dragging a loud, embarrassing cry from you.

“S-Satoru—“ you moan, undecided if you want to tell him that it’s too much.

“Hmm?” he questions, the word coming out muffled as he now has a mouth full of breast again, his tongue swirling greedily over your areolas and sending signals to your tingling nerves.

“S’alot,” you stutter, “feels t-too good.”

“Don’t care,” he shrugs, pulling away from your chest and bringing his face back up to yours, “not finished with you. Not even close.”

You whine as he cracks a smack on your tit one more time for good measure. Now he’s pulling your legs, causing you to lose balance and fall onto your back.

The back seat is spacious, but you think there’s no way he’s going to be able to bend his body to do whatever he thinks he’s about to do.

He doesn’t seem to be thinking like you, though, because his hands hike up your skirt and he hisses at the sight of your panties, not even hesitating.

“S’cute, look at the little cherry,” he grins seductively, poking the fat of your pussy with a sharp finger.

He’s referring to the pattern on the front of your tiny white thong, but you’re hardly paying attention because your mind is still ringing at his sudden contact with your cunt.

Rip!

His hands are tearing apart your poor little fishnets, paving a way for him to get your panties off. He succeeds, struggling a bit to get them past your boots; folding your knees up to your face as he does so, commenting on your flexibility.

“Hah- I love athletic girls,” he says aloud. “So flexible. Gonna have your ankles by your ears, ponytail.”

You squirm underneath him at his threat, but he’s already pinning your legs up, your boots grazing across the ceiling of his car as he stares down at your glinting pussy - dripping all over his expensive white leather.

If the alcohol wasn’t currently hitting you like a train - your brain mushing and swirling from being slapped and pushed around - you’d be trying to force your legs closed to hide from him.

“Such a fucking pretty pussy,” he grits out, leaning forward and shooting a collection of spit out of his mouth right onto it. Your eyes roll, the warmth of his body fluid landing right over your clit, making the bottom half of your body twitch. Satoru grins.

“Don’t even need my spit, y’so wet; I just love the way it looks on you,” he murmurs, keeping his hands firm on the underside of your thighs, “‘M gonna mark you with all my fluids, pretty.”

“Shut up,” you cry out, “if you’re still talkin’ it means your face isn’t stuffed with pussy.”

“Mm, ponytail gets fiesty,” Satoru looks at you from between your thighs and bites his lip, “there’s no fun in rushing right into these things, you know.”

He turns his head to the side, still wearing his Stetson - it’s somehow managing to hang on through all of the filth - and he plants a soft little kiss to your inner knee. Then another to the other leg. He rinses and repeats this process until he’s far up your thighs, and you can feel his breath dancing over your dripping hole.

“F-fuck,” you scream out, getting more frustrated, “‘m gonna shove your face if you don’t stop.”

“Try,” he challenges, but his eyes say that if you do, you’ll be teased for even longer.

"Wh-Why are you doing this to me?" you pant, ramming your knee into his rib playfully.

"Cause truthfully," he says lowly, "I liked the little game we had going. Building up the tension. Hate to see it end..." he drags his finger down the side of your thigh, making you shiver. "And hmm, you are such a pretty girl, begging like this. Imagine if your teammates knew that their beast of a captain was in the backseat of a car, begging to have her pussy eaten? Imagine!”

His breath tickles your cunt as he cracks a mean laugh, his head tilted down so that you can’t see his expression under his hat.

You swallow in embarrassment. You always go for a little teasing, but this is extreme. Before you know it, your hand has popped out before you, and your fingers splay out over the cowhide of his Stetson as you push - hard - and push until his arrogant little mouth is against your pussy.

He’s shut up instantly, groaning softly against your skin as his tongue darts out on instinct, lapping up your juices.

“That’s right,” you whisper with ache in your voice, “shut up and eat that shit.”

Your head lolls back against the window panel in Satoru’s car. He’s not even bothering to argue with you now, lost in his own heaven of your delicious nectar. If you could see past his hat you’d be able to watch as his face becomes wet and shiny, as your secretion dribbles down his chin in a heavenly mix of saliva. His tongue drags down between your folds, making you squirm, but it’s nothing compared to when he shoves his tongue right into your wanton hole.

The cry you let out vibrates against the interior of the car. Satoru’s hand has come up underneath your thigh, pulling your leg to rest across his back as he’s slid down into a crouch on the floor. His hand cracks down on your leg in the same spot as before, this time digging his fingernails down into the flesh after the slap.

You hiss, but ultimately feel even more turned on as he drags his tongue back through your juices, finding your clit, narrowing it out as he flicks it back and forth, back and forth, the same way he had been rocking you on that damned bull.

“S-Such a fucking mess,” he moans against your skin, trying to catch all of your secretion but it’s impossible with the way he keeps eating you - you’re flooding the seat, your inner thighs, and his smug little pale face. “Tastes so good. Can’t imagine how good you taste after a long game, fuck.”

You furrow your eyebrows embarrassingly at the the thought of what he was implying - your cunt all sweaty after soccer and he’d prefer that over this? You want to shudder in disgust but, picturing yourself hiked up on the wall with your soccer shorts discarded, a leg over his shoulder as Satoru ate you alive like this - works you up more than you figure you can even get at this point.

“S-Satoru,” you whimper, feeling the pool of heat twist up your insides as the familiar feeling of ejaculation creeps up on you.

You reach and grab his hat, digging your fingers into the leather, your legs clenching against his cheeks as you try to control the shaking that you know is to overcome you the second you orgasm.

“I know that sound,” Satoru purrs against your clit, “cum for me baby. Cum all over my tongue, like y’been wanting to for months.”

That’s all it takes. And god, Satoru does not show mercy as the wave starts at your clit and pushes all the way through your body, down to your curling toes in your boots and up to your nipples, which are still dancing free over the rim of your brazier.

The shakes come quickly, intensely, harsher than you’ve ever felt them before, as Satoru’s tongue rides out your high for you, not stopping until you’re just slightly twitching.

“Beautiful,” he hums, parting his mouth from you and sitting up in the backseat. “Satoru one, Y/N zero.”

You frown at his use of scoring, knowing it’s just to get under your skin.

“I’ll even out the score, fuck you,” you hiss.

“Please do, ponytail,” Satoru grins.

You find yourself pulling your legs back quickly, your thighs still a little weak and shaky as you sit up on your knees. You quickly unzip your boots and toss them somewhere in the front. Then, you grab Satoru by his ungodly black button-down and drag him to the middle of the seat.

He’s looking up at you in a mix of awe and smug, but you’re trying to pretend you don’t feel his eyes on you so that you may maintain your confidence.

You throw your right leg over his waist. Now, you’re straddling him, bare cunt over warm leather, dragging all of your juice and cream over his lap. He doesn’t seem to mind.

You fumble between your legs to unbutton his pants and then unzip them. He assists you when he raises his hips for a second, allowing you to get his pants down just enough that his bulge is pressing against you through his boxers.

He’s looking up at you with slanted eyelids, his pupils blown to black with the rim of ice-blue hardly visible. He’s clearly so tipsy, just off of the little bit you’d spit into his mouth, meanwhile your body is hot and your vision is getting blurry, nothing on your mind except getting his cock inside of you.

But oh, he deserves the teasing he’d given you. You use your hand to palm him, but simultaneously drag your hips over his lap, your sensitive cunt twitching as you do so.

His head falls back, his Adam’s apple thumping gloriously in his throat. His eyes flutter closed but only briefly.

“Fuck- shit,” he groans. “‘M sorry ‘bout the teasing, ‘kay? Want you to take advantage of me already. F-fuck, please-“

His begging is so delicious. If he thinks this is going to decrease the teasing you’re bestowing upon him, he has another thing coming.

Probably you.

“Oh?” you hum, giggling. “What’s that? Satoru begging now? How the tables have turned…”

He groans again, “S-Sick, innit? The way I want to be balls deep in that wet ass cunt. Don’t wanna wait anymore. You’ve kept me dangling for so long. Please-“

He whines. He actually whines, followed by a low whimper as he pokes out his bottom lip and lifts his head to look at you again.

A smart move on his part because you are absolutely hypnotized by his eyes, and before you know it, your hand is passing the elastic band on his black boxers. You find your hand running over bare skin - what a slut, he’d shaved. You gasp as you continue to slide your hand down to try and grab his tip - but it’s not there. It’s so far deep into his pants because he’s simply that large.

You scoot back on his lap a bit and finally whip his cock out, and it bounces a bit at its own sheer heft. There’s a pretty curve in it and thick veins swirling the sides, leading to a fat pink tip.

You realize you’ve been staring, but also slowly stroking it, admiring the fuck out of this perfect cock that you knew you would be thinking about for weeks.

“Like what you - hah - s-see?” he coos, closing one eye and glancing down at your hand sliding delicately over his length with his other.

“Mhmm,” you reply, “just imagining how good it’s gonna hurt. Your cock gonna make me cry, ‘Toru?”

“F-Fuck yeah,” he shudders, “gonna have you screaming, pretty. Loud as you want - no one can hear. Need you to milk this cock.”

“S-Shut up,” you groan, only because his words were driving you mad - and you would not last even another sixty seconds without his length penetrating your poor insides.

But, you suddenly remember the whip on your waist. Albeit made out of a cheap, rope-like material, the gears in your head start twisting like the delinquent that you are.

You catch Satoru’s wondering eye as he silently asks you why you aren’t bouncing on his cock yet - but you manage to ignore the expression as you thwip out the long black prop and quickly get it around Satoru’s neck before he can so much as gasp in surprise.

His eyes widen when he realizes you’ve made a leash out of your whip, tightening it at the base of his throat and coiling it around your wrist, bringing his face closer to you.

He’s so stunned that he remains silent, but his plump lips are parted in surprise, which you take as an opportunity to bite into the bottom one - harshly.

You suck on it as you lift your hips and your free hand finds the base of his cock - then you slide it between your folds very purposefully and agonizingly slow.

“Holy fuck,” Satoru whimpers against your mouth. “Y’doing me so dirty, Y/N, fucking ruining me. God…” he adds, “I’m so fucking obsessed with you.”

You gasp at the confession, and then at the feeling of his tip pushing into your dripping hole, as you drag your hips down to sink yourself onto him.

His eyes immediately roll back, and you let go of his lip, keeping your grip on the whip as your pussy adjusts to his size - feeling the drumming pulse coming from his veins tap your walls erotically.

You try not to clench, but as you suspected, it hurts so good - you’re trying not to focus on the pain. But he’s just so thick, so filling.

You whimper and in the same moment, feel a coil of fingers wrapping into your hair, curling it around his knuckles to keep you from moving your head.

“Ride this shit,” he growls, his eyes suddenly back open and completely aware. “Put those sexy ass hips to use.”

He grips one with his free hand for emphasis, tightening his grip on your hair, suddenly making you wish you’d opted for the ponytail tonight. You cry out at the mixes of searing pain and pleasure, as you’ve managed to take all of his cock inside of you - his tip kissing your cervix painfully. You decide now you can try to move, so you use your toes to push yourself back up, finding your pace.

“It’s too big,” you complain, albeit very fakely; your grip on the whip turning your knuckles white as it’s the only thing you can do to distract yourself.

Your other hand digs into his shoulder, and he hisses.

“Nuh-uh,” he coos, “you can take it, pretty. Deep breaths, know you can be a good cockwarmer f’me.”

Your breaths are coming out in short little pants. Slowly you’re adjusting to his size, and with you slicking up his cock it’s easy to start gliding sinfully up and down, up and down-

Satoru leans forward against your restraint and greedily takes your mouth onto his. He squeezes your hip harshly to get you to moan, then shoves his tongue hungrily inside your mouth. While his tongue works on harassing yours, his cock works on bruising your uterus. You’re bouncing quicker now, but he’s meeting you halfway with animalistic thrusts of his own.

Aside from heavy breathing, the squelching sound of your wet walls against his dick accompany the clapping of your ass against his groin. You start rotating your hips, bringing one forward before the other, creating a wave-like motion as you ride your slutty little half-horse into oblivion.

His eyebrows are furrowed, his eyes shut tight, his mouth only hanging onto yours by his teeth as he continues to whine into the air. You yourself have gone up a few octaves, your moans competing with his, making the atmosphere even more erotic.

“Oh, fuck,” Satoru moans, “s’tight. S’good. Such a perfect fucking pussy, fits right over me. This shit was designed just f’me. Fuck, wh-why you fuckin’ me like this?” He shudders under you, releasing your lip from his teeth and opening his eyes. “Y’must want my fuckin’ babies, all in your stomach.”

Your eyes roll back as you repeat a very sultry, “All in my stomach.”

So cockdrunk off him, if he wants to fill you to the brim you’ll let him. You’ll let him have his way with you however he wants, at this moment, if it meant he’d keep fucking up into you this good - if it meant you could have his cock more than just tonight. You’d never wanted to obey and be so good for someone before now.

“You are being so good,” Satoru purrs, which makes you realize you said the last sentence aloud. “My pretty ponytail. Taking me so well. I know it hurts, baby, but you got it. You can have all of my cock - anytime you want. I-I’m…” he had been speaking clearly, but a particular thrust had made him lose his footing, bringing back his tipsy voice, “I-I’m yours to use. To ruin.”

Your eyebrows furrow, you gasp at the velvety statement. You know he’s just drunk, you are too, but you’re so incredibly fucked. Despite his words, he’ll probably never even look at you again after this, and it pains you deeply. You can’t think about that now though, because heat is rising in your stomach.

“God, Satoru,” you mumble, “keep fucking talking. Keep talking so I can cum all over you. Please, please, f-fuck.”

“Ngh, need you to cum,” Satoru says. “Wanna feel the way you pulse when you cum. Bet you can squirt f’me too, huh? Know you’ve got it, so wet like that.”

You shake your head, your hand loosening the grip on the whip; you just don’t have the strength anymore.

You lean back, arching against him, and he takes the opportunity to pop your breast right into his mouth, gripping onto your nipple with his teeth before he sucks like a starving man.

“P-Please, God… mmph,” you drag out, eyes rolling as you can barely bring yourself to make noise with the overwhelming amount of pleasure you’re experiencing.

But you’re taken by surprise when his hand is suddenly coming away from your hair, and his arms wrap around you in a tight bear hug. Your hand has no choice but to fall from the whip as your own arms wrap behind his neck to steady yourself - and just as you think you’re about to regain balance, Satoru starts mercilessly slamming his hips up into your ass.

“SHIT!” you scream out, the loudest you have since being in the car.

Flap, flap, flap - as he absolutely destroys the inner workings of your slick pussy - determined to bruise your cervix and leave it swollen and aching for him.

“You. Are. Gonna. Cum. For. Me,” he grits, punctuating each word with a hard thrust.

You feel tears brimming your eyes; it’s just so good, hurts so bad, you can’t get enough.

You find yourself seeing and saying nothing but his name over and over for the few seconds right before your orgasm, and then your poor body is spasming on top of Satoru’s as he fucks you through your high - your insides clenching and twitching, and then a gush! as your body has decided that an inner orgasm isn’t enough. Satoru was right - you’re squirting all over him, his pants, and the backseat.

His eyes bug out as his eyebrows furrow, taking in the sight of the magnificent pool you’ve left on him.

“So fucking hot,” he moans, “can feel that shit pulsing on me. F-Fuck. My turn—“

This brings him over the edge right along with you. You’ve gone limp against him, leaning your entire torso on his as he maintains his hug on you and squirts his thick ropes of hot cum all into your uterus.

You cannot see anything except white stars in your vision as you’ve lost yourself in recovering from your orgasms, and he’s not bothering to slide himself out of you just yet.

“S-So addicting,” he sighs, leaning his head against your shoulder, his hat finally falling off behind him, revealing the fact that his hair is stuck to his sweat-covered forehead.

His cock is twitching inside of you, but you can’t think about that now. You’re trying to regain your sight as well as the ability to breathe.

You lay there against each other, still filled up. His grip has loosened on you, but his hands are delicately petting the skin between your shoulder blades, his arms not letting you go.

You’re now just trying to catch your breaths, bodies pressed together in a lustful bliss as you come down off of your highs, soberness creeping up on you.

“Was better than my fantasies,” Satoru says softly, his hands still gently roaming the skin on your back.

“Mine too,” you giggle in response, the pants slowly becoming normal breaths again.

Satoru gently tugs on your hair to bring your face back level with his, and looks up at you, as innocent as can be.

“Y’know what this means, right?” he questions, squirming a bit underneath you just to remind you that his cock remains inside of you. “You’re never gonna be able to get rid of me. M’gonna need access to this pussy, at least once a week. If not more…” he tapers off before adding, “Only, of course, if you’re up for it.”

“Absolutely!” you squeak out a little too fast, to which Satoru gives you a charming crooked smile and leans forward to peck you on the lips.

“Well then,” he hums, “don’t think we can go back in the party with our cum all over us. Can I offer you a ride home, ponytail?”

You blink down at him. His gentlemanly nature from the party has returned, truly taking you aback, because of the way he was just muttering filth a moment ago.

You took him up on his offer though, legs shaking as you crawled to the front and got your skirt and boots back on. He’d had to exit the car and get back in, his long legs prohibiting him from just crawling to the front.

You can tell he’s sober now, he better have been, otherwise he wasn’t driving you anywhere. But you knew he was when his hand gently rested on the thigh he had abused the entire time, rubbing soft circles to soothe the red handprints he’d left.

You sigh, knowing you’re completely fucked. Hooking up with him was a step in the right direction, but who was to say he’d ever want to be anything more than this? Lots of things to think about, but right now, you just relaxed under his touch as he drove you back to your dorm.

And when you saw him again, it would be at your scrimmage a week later. You’d already filled your girls in on everything, down to the nasty details they’d begged to hear. That’s why they shoved you off the bleachers the minute it appeared that Satoru’s team was done practicing.

Satoru arrived in the hallway right on cue, and you hit him with your customary bump of the shoulder.

“There you are, ponytail,” he mutters, glancing around before gently pulling you into a maintenance closet. “Thought you’d bailed on me.” He presses a fat kiss to your forehead, making your heart flutter. “Been thinking about you all week, need to take some stress out on that pretty pussy.”

You squeak quietly, running your fingers through his hair, missing the way he looked in his Stetson but being able to appreciate his practice attire just the same. His hands find the band of your jersey shorts and begin tugging them down.

“Wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” you coo quietly, your back hitting the wall. “How d’you wanna do this?”

“Well, I certainly enjoyed you on top last time,” he purrs, “but - hah - sometimes, even the cowboys need a break from riding.”

I. AM. SO. FERAL FOR JOCKEY/COWBOY GOJO WTFFF

And he’s such a gentleman STOPP <33

ok this was the most fun thing ive ever written. that’s all bye.

~ pennjammin

[harrysfolklore]

the bestest - lh44

summary: lewis hamilton wins the silverstone grand prix, and his daughter thinks he's the bestest. wc: 1.7k. based on this request

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

The British Grand Prix always carried a unique significance, but this year felt particularly momentous. Fans filled the stands, waving flags and banners, their cheers echoing through the circuit.

For Lewis, this year felt extra special because his wife and little girl were joining him, and that was enough to give him an extra boost of motivation for the upcoming race.

Alana Hamilton is just four years old, and she's the light of your lives. She's a curious child who always has a smile for everyone, her bright eyes constantly scanning her surroundings for new wonders to discover.

And she has her father completely wrapped around her tiny finger, everybody knew it.

Alana clung to your hand as you made your way to the paddock, her eyes wide with wonder at the spectacle around her. She had been to races before, but this time she was more aware of her surroundings and everything happening.

“Mommy, look at all the people!” Alana exclaimed, her eyes wide with wonder as she held your hand. “They’re all here for Daddy?”

“Yes, sweetheart, a lot of them are here to see Daddy race," you smiled at her, "He has a lot of fans who love to cheer him on."

“I’m going to cheer the loudest!”

Alana’s gaze followed every movement, her curiosity sparking with each new discovery. She was soaking it all in—the hustle of the team members, the hum of the engines, the vibrant colors of the team uniforms.

When you and Alana arrived at the team garage, Lewis was there, busy with pre-race preparations. He looked up, his face lighting up at the sight of his family.

“There’s my little girl,” he said, bending down to scoop Alana into his arms.

Alana giggled, her small arms wrapping around his neck. “Daddy, are you going to win today?” she asked, her voice full of hopeful excitement.

Lewis brushed a kiss on her forehead. “I’m going to give it my all, princess. With you cheering me on, I have a really good feeling about today.”

As Lewis held Alana, George Russell, his teammate, walked by and smiled warmly at the scene.

"Well, if it isn't the Hamiltons, my favorite family," he said, his tone friendly and genuine.

Alana's face lit up with recognition. She remembered George from previous encounters and team events. "George!" she exclaimed, waving enthusiastically from her perch in Lewis's arms.

"Hello there, little champion," George chuckled, giving Alana a gentle high-five. "Are you excited for the race today?"

"Yes! Daddy's going to win because he's the bestest driver in the whole wide world!" she declared with innocent confidence, looking at Lewis with adoring eyes.

Lewis couldn't help but beam with pride, though he tried to maintain a humble demeanor. "Well, I don't know about that, sweetheart. There are a lot of great drivers out here today."

"But you're the bestest, Daddy," Alana insisted, her conviction unshakeable.

George laughed good-naturedly. "Well, Lewis, looks like you've got your biggest fan right here. No pressure or anything," he teased.

You smiled, watching the interaction. It was heartwarming to see how the team had become like an extended family, especially for Alana.

"Alright, princess," Lewis said, giving Alana one more squeeze, "Daddy needs to finish getting ready for the race. You be good for Mommy, okay?"

Alana's grip tightened around Lewis's neck, her little face scrunching up in defiance. "No, Daddy, don’t go!"

“Sweetie, Daddy has to race now," you gently stroked her back, "We’ll be right here watching him the whole time.”

As Alana clung tighter to Lewis, her eyes welling up with tears, you could see the conflict on your husband's face. He hated leaving her upset, but the race was about to start.

"Hey, princess," Lewis said softly, gently prying her arms from around his neck. "Remember what we talked about? Daddy has to go fast in the car so he can come back to you even quicker."

Alana's lower lip trembled, but she nodded, reluctantly loosening her grip. "Okay, Daddy. Be fast and be safe."

"I will, princess. I promise," Lewis kissed her forehead tenderly.

He handed her to you, and Alana nestled into your arms, still watching Lewis with wide, admiring eyes. He turned to you next, his expression softening.

"I'll see you both soon. I love you."

You smiled, leaning in to kiss him. "Be safe out there."

With one last glance at his family, Lewis turned and headed towards his car, his determination renewed by the love and support he carried with him.

As you made your way to the VIP viewing area, Alana's eyes darted everywhere, taking in the sights and sounds of the bustling circuit. The roar of engines filled the air as the cars lined up on the grid.

"Look, baby," you pointed, "There's Daddy's car. Number 44, remember?"

Alana nodded eagerly, her eyes fixed on the sleek silver Mercedes. "Go, Daddy, go!" she shouted, even though the race hadn't started yet.

Throughout the race, you explained what was happening in simple terms Alana could understand. She cheered every time Lewis's car came into view, her enthusiasm making everyone around melt.

"Daddy's car is going so fast! He's the bestest!" Alana exclaimed, her eyes wide with wonder.

When the final lap came, the tension was palpable. You held Alana close, her little hands clutching your shirt as she watched Lewis take the lead. As he crossed the finish line first, the grandstands erupted in roars.

Alana’s eyes widened in amazement. “Mommy, did Daddy win?”

“He did, sweetheart!” you exclaimed, hugging her tightly. “Daddy won!”

"Daddy won! Daddy won!" she chanted, her voice filled with pure joy.

You couldn't help but laugh at her enthusiasm, your own heart swelling with pride. "Let's go see Daddy, shall we?" you suggested, taking her hand.

You hurried to the pit lane, eager to congratulate Lewis. As he climbed out of the car, the sight of you and Alana brought a huge smile to his face. He reached out, and Alana practically leapt into his arms.

“Daddy!” she shouted, hugging him tightly. “You did it!”

Lewis laughed, his eyes shining with happiness. “We did it, baby girl.”

Lewis held Alana with one arm and reached out to pull you into the embrace with the other. The three of you stood there, a little island of family amidst the chaos of the celebration.

"I'm so proud of you," you whispered to Lewis, giving him a quick kiss.

Alana, not wanting to be left out, planted a big kiss on Lewis's cheek. "Me too, Daddy! You're the bestest ever!"

As the celebrations continued around you, Lewis kept Alana in his arms, not wanting to let her go. She had always been clingy with him, especially since he was away a lot of weekends for races. She missed him a lot, and every moment they spent together was precious to her.

When it was time for the post-race interview, Lewis tried to set Alana down, but she clung to him, her small hands gripping his suit. “No, Daddy, hold me.”

“Come on, sweetheart, let Daddy do his interview,” you coaxed.

Lewis looked at you with a soft smile. "It's okay, I'll take her with me. I'll pay whatever fine the FIA gives me," he said, adjusting Alana in his arms. You couldn't help but chuckle, knowing how much this moment meant to both of them.

As Lewis approached the interview area, he saw a familiar face waiting for him - Nico Rosberg, his former teammate and rival. Nico's eyebrows raised slightly at the sight of Lewis carrying Alana, a small smile making its way to his face.

"Lewis, congratulations on your win today," Nico began, microphone in hand. "And I see you've brought a special guest with you."

Lewis grinned, bouncing Alana slightly in his arms. "Yeah, this is my daughter Alana. She's my good luck charm today."

"Hello there, Alana," Nico smiled warmly at her, "Did you enjoy watching your dad race today?"

Alana, suddenly shy in front of the camera, buried her face in Lewis' neck but peeked out with one eye. "Daddy is the bestest," she mumbled.

The crowd around them collectively "aww'ed" at her adorable response. Lewis chuckled, patting her back gently.

"Well, Lewis," Nico continued, "that was an incredible drive today. Can you talk us through that final lap?"

As Lewis answered, discussing the intricacies of the race, Alana stayed nestled in his arms, occasionally lifting her head to look around curiously and playing with the zipper of her father's suit.

When the interview concluded, it was time for the podium ceremony. Lewis knew he couldn't take Alana up there with him, no matter how much he wished he could.

"Alright, princess," he said softly, "Daddy has to go up on the big stage now. Can you stay with Mommy and watch?"

Alana's grip tightened, her lower lip trembling. "No, Daddy, I want to stay with you!"

You stepped forward, gently prying Alana from Lewis's arms. "Come on, sweetheart. Let's watch Daddy get his big trophy. We can wave to him from here."

Reluctantly, Alana allowed herself to be transferred to your arms, her eyes never leaving Lewis. As he walked towards the podium, he turned back to blow a kiss to both of you.

You found a good spot near the podium, holding Alana up so she could see clearly. Her eyes widened as she watched Lewis climb the steps to the top of the podium.

"Look, baby," you said, pointing. "There's Daddy on the top step. That means he won!"

Alana's face lit up with pride and excitement. "Daddy won! Daddy won!" she chanted, clapping her hands.

As the British national anthem played and Lewis stood tall on the podium, trophy in hand, Alana watched in awe. When Lewis spotted you two in the crowd, he gave a special wave and blew a kiss your way, making Alana squeal with delight.

"He sees us, Mommy!" she exclaimed, waving back furiously.

You hugged her close, your heart full of love for your little family. "Yes, he does, sweetheart. He's waving just for you."

As the champagne spray began, Alana giggled at the sight of her daddy getting all wet. It was a perfect end to a perfect day, one that you knew would be etched in your family's memories forever.

[yieldtotemptation]

PROFESSIONAL ft. Bae

bae x male reader smut

8k words

For those keeping score at home, Bae Jinsol does appear to have the upper hand.

Not just because of who she is—the looks, the celebrity, the whole perfect package of it all; that's a dime a dozen in your line of work.

It’s how she haunts you.

The messages she leaves on your phone. The way she says your name.

The photos.

So, yeah. Despite the fact that you’re ostensibly just her personal trainer, and therefore, ipso facto, the ‘one in charge’; it’s becoming all too apparent that the balance of power in your relationship with Bae is, well, to put it simply, not exactly professional.

Which makes it no surprise that even though you’re at the gym a half-hour early; a black coffee in hand, ready to chase the one already running through your veins—she’s already there.

Stretched out like a cobra; hips to the ground, back arched, chest high.

Her reflection in the mirror greets you with a knowing smile.

Unsurprised. Unbothered.

Like she's been waiting for this—planned it all out. Down to the exact second that you’d walk in, discovering her in the centre of your private gym, splayed out in a pose chosen specifically to make you feel like you're intruding on something intimate.

Showing off the sharp planes of her abs, the muscles of her legs, the curve of her ass, and that dangerous strip of skin that makes you want to—

"Looks like I beat you again, sir."

You swallow. You somewhat regret giving her a personal key.

“Just getting warmed up.” Bae slithers out of the stretch, sinewy and fluid, turning over and around so she can properly face you; so she can properly present herself to you.

A glance—a gawk, really—has you rethinking your earlier assessment. Most of your clients are a dime a dozen. But Bae, looking at you, looking like that. Gorgeous, fit, unattainable yet somehow within your reach and daring you to do something about it—she’s a whole other currency.

She's been here for a while now, you can tell. Beads of sweat have started to slick her skin; over her brow, down her neck, pooling at the crevices of her collarbones. And the show she makes of wiping across her throat with the back of her hand, leaving a glossy sheen.

You ponder licking it off.

Long enough for her to catch you being unprofessional, again. To her credit, Bae just hums a note of amusement, gracious enough to let the moment pass as if it never even happened.

“You don’t need to do that,” you say, which could really be in reference to anything at this point. “We’ve got one hour. Warm-up included.”

“I know,” Bae answers, revisiting a long-standing argument, "But I like to be ready."

“Ready,” you echo, tasting the sound of the word on your own tongue.

“So that we can make the most of our time together,” She continues, twirling a peroxide-blonde curl around her finger, stirring up entirely inappropriate images of Bae, and her hair, and your hands, and oh God. "I only have you for one measly little hour, after all."

She lets the implication hang in the air, planting her flag (bright red, of course). It gives you an opportunity to take a long sip of your coffee; the burn from it sliding down your throat a welcome distraction.

You clear it with a cough.

"Well," you say, setting your mug aside and putting on the face of someone who isn’t severely compromised by Bae's casual, shameless attempts at whittling down your resolve. "Let’s not waste any of those precious minutes."

There's this grin on her face, as endearing as it is infuriating; and you can already hear the reply she’ll make before it comes, the way she’ll twist your honest words into lurid innuendo. Something with enough plausible deniability to keep it from crossing any lines of proper decorum you’ve tried to set, but pointed enough to blur them.

Something like—"Oh, I plan on making every second count."

You emphasise, “Exercising.”

Bae plays along, “What else would we be doing?”

More of this game, presumably.

The one you've been playing for the entire month you've known her, this routine you've established—you trying to keep things on track, do the job you’re actually being paid by her company to do; and Bae pushing back, pushing you as far as she can.

Trying, hoping, to inevitably bring you to that point where you break, where your veneer of professionalism finally slips away and you give her the type of workout she really wants.

You really should know better.

Should know to ignore the innocent requests to 'help stretch her out' or 'massage this cramp in her thigh'. Should know not to indulge the flirty banter; the 'oh, you're so much stronger than me', or worse yet, the blatant, 'but I bet you're not as flexible.'

You should have never let your hands linger, held her close when she asked you to correct her form, taken your time to navigate the curve of her hip, the small of her back, the slope of her legs.

Definitely should not have given her your personal number. Fuck, you should have blocked hers. Not read any messages, not even dreamed of replying. Not opened the photos, not fucking saved them and revisited them night after night after night.

(Because ultimately, the main party at fault is you.

After that first time, that first session; when you excused all the innuendo as coincidence, pretended the flirtations, the touching was just down to Bae being her normal, bubbly, extroverted self.

And then, when she convinced you to come into the shower because she just couldn’t seem to get the hot water to work, well—

Yeah.

Somewhere between making her moan your name and fucking her into the tile walls; you really, really should have known better.)

But today—today won’t be the day you give in.

The first time was a one-off, a fleeting lapse in judgment. Won't happen again.

You’re the trainer. She’s the client.

You have your clipboard, and your workout plan.

And Bae…

Bae’s biting her lip; blushing at you like a schoolgirl with her first crush.

“So, how do you want me, sir?”

(Bent over, on top, pinned underneath, from behind—you could fill the whole session with your long list of answers; but none of those are on the clipboard.)

You fight the urge to laugh, or scream, or maybe just drop to your knees and surrender.

Instead, you reproach, “Bae.”

“Sir.”

Laying it on thick; the innocence, the arrogance, the knowing in those doe eyes. Something she said to you once rattles in your mind: "Everybody needs an outlet, don't you think?"

Bae swings her legs around, tucking them under her so she’s on her knees. She’s looking up at you, those wide eyes and that even wider smile, sizing up every inch of you through her long lashes.

"I know what you're doing," you try, but it's not enough. Knowing is only half the battle.

"You do?" Bae's playing coy, keeping her tone light and breezy. "And here I thought I was just trying to be a good student."

A finger on her thigh, to dance along the hem of her shorts, peel it back just slightly, only to let it snap back into place.

“Clock’s ticking.”

There's a correct response here, you think, one that keeps you both on the straight and narrow. Not that you get a chance to find it, because Bae's leaning forward, placing her hands behind her back, pushing out her chest and arching her spine just so.

Her top stretches over her, a sports bra that’s somehow both modest and obscenely revealing; clinging to her—she’s filling it out, her nipples poking through like two little darts, demanding your attention.

She tilts her head, smirks, and it hits you like a sucker punch.

That’s the pose.

You’ve seen it; it’s been seared into your brain. The centrepiece of a photo that she so casually sent you in the middle of the day, just to ‘get your opinion on her progress’.

(Only then, all she had on was her smile.)

A sigh, because you know—this is it.

The last exit off the highway, the last chance to say no, to keep things strictly above board and not let this get any more complicated than it already is. But you’re nearing a wreck on the side of the road, and you can’t help but want to stop and look.

Fuck it.

Fuck the clipboard, fuck the workout plan, fuck not giving in. You can always try (and fail) again the next session.

Bae reads your mind. "Time for some cardio, then?"

“Get up,” is your answer. (A command, a plea).

She’s quick to rise to her feet, smugness gone, and in its place shameless glee as she witnesses you crack and concede defeat in real time. 

This is how you'll rationalise it:

There’s only one way to take back control of this situation. At her core, Bae’s an extremely simple person. She sees something she wants; she gets it. She’s a fire—all she does is burn hot, and the only way to keep her from turning your professional life to ash is to feed the flame.

Just enough to manage it.

You step closer, she takes a step back. You follow, each step, each sway of her hips a metronome set to a rhythm that says ‘yes’. She keeps backing up, leading you on until she’s seated on a bench. Placing her hands on her knees, pushing them apart, spreading her legs in a V; an open invitation to the space between.

You're not sure who's training who anymore.

Putting that thought aside—lines can be redrawn, boundaries reset. If you’re going to get some form of authority back, it’s not going to be with words. So, you do the only thing that makes sense in a moment that's lost all logic.

You lean down, take Bae by the chin, and you kiss her.

Something sounding like your name slips from Bae's lips as your tongues meet; as her hands find the back of your neck, pulling you in so she can lick into your mouth and get a taste of your morning.

Eager, greedy, demanding; full of all the pent-up need that’s been festering since that first encounter—when you had her creaming down your thighs and screaming your name. There's little tenderness to be found in the kisses, the licks, the nibbles that follow, you’re both too desperate for any kind of sweetness right now.

Bae’s hands are everywhere; peeling your shirt over your head, tracing the lines of your stomach, digging her nails into the meat of your shoulder. Your own hands are busy too—squeezing her thighs, cupping her ass, drifting up her skintight shorts in search of the heat that’s been keeping you awake at night.

"Took you long enough," she murmurs against your mouth, the words barely discernible but the triumph tinging them crystal clear.

An acknowledgment groaned against her lips, breaking away from the kiss to trail down her neck, licking away that spot you've had your eyes on the whole time. Tasting the salt of her sweat, the sweetness of her skin, revelling in the tang of the forbidden, the vanilla of the inevitable.

It’s some wonder, truly, of how a girl like her—all youthful glow and sharp edges, sculpted by both genetics and sheer force of will—wound up so utterly obsessed with you.

“Because of what you said when we first met,” Bae whispers in your ear, bites on the lobe, and you’re realising that maybe your thoughts haven’t been as silent as you assumed.

“Oh?” Is all you have to offer, because that memory is far gone, and your mind has far too little bandwidth to focus on anything that isn’t her wetness, seeping through the fabric of her shorts and staining your fingertips. 

The dampness—it's a dead giveaway. Yet you still ghost a thumb over her, press down just to confirm, make her inhale, sharp. And sure enough, there it is. Or rather, there it isn't.

The audacity.

There's a giggle from Bae as she feels you discover her secret; that it's just her shorts that are keeping you from being knuckle deep inside of her, and nothing else.

Bae recites your words back to you, only from her lips they’re far more honeyed, sticky and sweet against your cheek. "You said that you'd—ah—that you’d push me."

She’s sighing, melting into you, hips slowly grinding against your fingers, so achingly close to begging. Turning up the heat, you let your other hand glide up her abs, feel the need radiating from her, the muscles tensing and rolling with every slight movement she makes.

You’re reaching for her sports bra when she finds her voice, continuing through gritted teeth, "You said that you wouldn't take it easy on me."

Her breath stutters as your thumb traces the bottom of her top, fingers digging beneath her bra line. With one swift tug, the fabric's pulled away from her body, yanked over head in a blur of motion, leaving her breasts bare and heaving before you.

They’re small, yes, but the curve, the fit, the weight of them in your hands—just right.

“You said that if I—ah fuck—”

You can’t resist, really, your lack of self-control has been well established. So, you kiss her chest, licking a path through the valley between her breasts, drinking in the sweat that pools there, that little reservoir of desire.

“You said that if I tried hard enough, I’d be—God, yes—I’d be rewarded.”

Words, simple instructions you’ve given to countless other clients, but Bae. Twisting them, hearing what she wants to hear, or maybe what you intended all along? (Who’s to say.)

“You weren’t lying, were you, sir?”

You don’t have a response—what is there to say now, anyway? Any words would just be noise, inconsequential compared to the symphony of gasps and groans playing out between you both.

There’s a dusky pink nipple just waiting for your touch, all swollen and sensitive. You don’t disappoint. It’s in your mouth, rolling between your tongue and teeth, pebbling under the attention. It’s so easy to get lost in them, in their taste and feel, in her hands threading into your hair, pulling you closer, as if you need the encouragement.

You’re indulging in her, yes, but right now, there’s little you wouldn’t do to make her keen. Your other hand doesn’t rest; fingers are at work, pressing down, circling her clit through the nylon, making her arch up into you. These touches, swipes over her stiffened nub; she's falling into you.

Needy little sounds spill from her mouth, sweet nothings and half-formed pleas; bad things, dirty thoughts that most would regret ever even thinking, but of course, Bae only has the best of intentions. You’ve got her right where she wants to be; where she needs to be, and fuck she just takes your breath away.

You look up at her, feel her, and the absurdity of it all is dawning on you. To think someone like Bae would ever need training.

She was already perfect the first time you met her.

The long, pale-white expanse of her legs, all toned muscle and elegance. Her ass, the tight curve of it, fuller, rounder than should be possible on a frame so dainty. Her stomach, her thighs, her arms, (God, did you already mention her abs?), every flawless fucking inch of her.

A work of art, meticulously crafted by some divine hand; there’s nothing to be done by mere mortals except worship.

Let it be known the irony is not lost on you, when you let her nipple slip from your mouth and relay your next instruction: “Get on your hands and knees.”

Bae doesn’t need to be told twice.

With grace that’s far too practiced to be interpreted as anything other than a deliberate tease, Bae swings her body around, shifting her weight until she's on all fours.

Standing before her, watching the muscles in her back flex, her ass peeking out from beneath the elastic of her shorts. They’ll be ripped off entirely in due time.

But first, a kiss for your troubles. Over your sweatpants, branding you through the cotton as hers.

“Finally,” she breathes, making you swell, throb under her gaze.

Fingers hook into your waistband, pulling down your pants with ease. Your cock springs free, slapping across her lips, leaving a wet streak on her gloss. It shines.

A giggle, a raise of her bleached brows—like it’s a surprise. Like she hasn’t been made intimately familiar with your length; felt it buried deep inside her, painting her walls, her throat, with your release.

The tip of her tongue peeks out, just enough to swipe across the slit, to scoop up the pre-cum beading out of it. You hiss through your teeth, hips jerk forward, but Bae’s too quick—draws back with a laugh. She’s enjoying this, this little game of hers. The brat and the trainer, the cat and the mouse, the idol and the grown man who’s supposed to have his shit together.

“Tease,” you groan, your hands finding her hair, tugging gently to remind her of her place.

“Sorry, sir. Couldn’t resist.” 

A wink is all the warning you get, and she’s diving down.

No more preamble, no hesitation at all—Bae’s been waiting for this all fucking month, and she’s dead set on making up for lost time.

She’s taking you in, all of you, all at once; her mouth stretching wide to accommodate the girth. The feel of her, the wetness, the tears at the corners of those big, round eyes, and the question in them—'think you can handle this?'

Fuck.

She’s sloppy; so immediately, noisily sloppy.

Cheeks hollowing out, taking you deep, making your hips buck and collide with the back of her throat for that agonising split second before she retreats; only to do it again. Faster, harder; making you doubt the ability of your knees to hold out.

A fistful of her hair, if only to keep you upright.

She’s all over the place—popping your cock from her lips, kissing down your shaft, licking around the base, a cheeky graze of teeth along your balls, and then back again, swallowing you down until you can feel her nose nuzzling into your groin.

You’re a mess of sensations, pleasure coiling in your stomach, a knot inside you tightening with every wet sound she makes.

It’s her enthusiasm that does it, really. She’s not trying to be good at this, not trying to impress you with her skills. She’s just plain desperate for it.

Her moans vibrate through you, muffled by the thickness of your cock. She’s saying something, words that you can’t quite make out, that takes a moment to translate: "Needed this," she gasps around your length, "Missed it so much."

An admission: you’ve really fucking missed it too.

“This beautiful, beautiful cock,” Bae slurs, sliding your cock out of her throat to catch her breath, so she can take a break to wonder. “How many has it ruined, hm?” Her tongue flicks out, scooping the globs of saliva and pre-cum hanging from the head. “All those pretty little girls you train.”

There’s envy there, and you’re barely managing to groan out, assuage her, “Just you.”

“I find that so fucking hard to believe, sir.” Bae says, resting your cock on the edges of her cheeks. “Those tight cunts, those eager mouths and asses, and you're telling me—" she swipes her tongue along your shaft, leaving a wet trail in her wake "—that it's just me?"

Her voice, her fucking words; too, too much. It’s all you can do to not just grab her by the neck and fuck her face raw. (A dream for her, probably. To have you grab her throat and made her choke on you).

“Well, if you say so,” she’s unconvinced; not that it does anything to slow her down. Back at it, back at making her eyes water, at needing these panted, desperate gulps of air between mouthfuls of you.

The little things—her lips glued around your shaft, her throat a tight, warm fist, and her eyes. Looking up at you like she's afraid if she doesn't, if she stops moving and averts her gaze, you'll pull away.

As if.

“Bae, you’re so fucking good at this,” you’re blurting out, because she is. She really, really is.

Wet and filthy and so fucking delighted to let you know, “All for you, sir.”

And you believe it—she makes you believe it.

Everything’s for you, even when she’s not supposed to be. The sound of her, choking and gagging, the wet, slobbering noises of her devouring you, echoing off the empty gym walls.

The sight of it all; tearing your attention to a million different places. There’s the Bae in front of you, focused entirely on your cock, on letting you use her mouth like a toy, plunge your length deep down her throat to make her cry, to make her cheeks flush.

Then there’s the Bae in the mirror, the reflection bouncing off the polished chrome surface behind her. Her ass, rising and falling, in time with the bobbing of her head; and that soaked spot right at the centre of her shorts, the bullseye growing and growing with every second that passes.

Fucking amazing, incredible, too good, too much to handle; spilling out of your mouth as those pouty pink lips of hers slide up and down, drool pooling around your base, slipping down your thighs, a wet mess dripping onto your floor.

“And to think you wanted to stop this from happening,” she’s chiding, offended really, voice raspy with the effort of speaking around your cock.

There’s no argument to make, not when you’re too busy taking in the sight of your cock disappearing back into her mouth. She’s impatient now, not letting up, not even for air; just taking you in deep, deep, so deep she’s trying to swallow you whole.

You’re sliding down, down her throat, and she’s got you; this suction around you that holds you there and it’s a sheer miracle that haven't completely dissolved inside her. Your hips are thrusting forward of their own accord, your hand still in her hair, but not pulling anymore. Just holding on.

The world narrows down to just the two of you, the gym spins around you; the lights, the equipment, everything blurs into a sea of white noise, and all that remains is the wet sound of her mouth and the hotness of her throat, the fistfuls of her blonde hair, her eyes, these pretty drops of chocolate brown; and it’s all building and building and tightening and tightening, until—

"Stop."

It’s a pain to say, but necessary; if you still want a fighting chance to make it out of this with at least some of your dignity intact.

A gentle tug of her hair has your cock slipping from her mouth with a wet pout; leaving the warmth of her lips for the sudden chill of the gym’s regulated air. Bae looks up at you, panting, lips swollen and shiny, drops of you smeared from your base to her chin.

“Something wrong?”

A pause until the room stops spinning, so you can collect yourself and wonder why you’re even here. “I need—" you start, but the words catch in your throat. What do you need? To not fuck your client? To try to keep your job? Or to hear her scream your name, have her beg and beg and beg, drill her into every surface possible—every bench, rack, wall, fuck even the elliptical if she’s game.

Coherence comes and goes, and Bae remains seated on her heels, supplying her own suggestions. “Need to stretch me out? Make me really sweat?”

"Still with that?"

"Tired of the wordplay?" She laughs, and you can't even be mad—you're the one who gave her the opening.

"What do you think?"

Bae takes her sweet time looking you up and down, greed in her gaze, as she takes in you; straining from the effort of holding back. From your chest, down your stomach, landing on your cock, still painfully standing at attention.

"I think," she says, drawing out that word, sliding it over her tongue like a piece of candy, "That I regret not asking you to send me any photos back."

That brings a smile to your face; and it’s enough to clear the fog from your head. You steel your resolve, give her the one thing she’s been craving, from the moment she saw you walk in:

A firm order: “Stand up. Take those shorts off before I rip them off myself.”

You give her room to lift herself off the bench, legs unfurling one at a time and stretching beneath her. She wiggles her hips in this dance as she kicks off her sneakers and shimmies out of her shorts; the nylon clinging to her skin before it’s peeled away to reveal… nothing.

Just her bare, naked flesh—pink and perfect.

Tearing away from her momentarily, from the living canvas of long legs and naked anticipation, ignoring the fucking twirl she does for you, because yeah, she’s fully, adorably aware of just how insanely, lights-out good she looks.

You turn to the bench, kick up the backrest from a flat to an incline; doing your best to pay no mind to Bae, waiting. Rather impatiently, bouncing restlessly on the balls of her feet. The teacher’s pet, so needy for a morsel of attention.

Back to her, unable to suppress the smirk spreading across your face as you take a seat. “Squats.”

Her face. The amusement, the excitement, the acknowledgment that you’re now completely on board with this derailment of a training session—it's all there, painted across Bae's features in glorious, full-colour high definition.

She takes a step forward, sauntering over, one hand sliding down to trace over her mound, to tease herself; tease you. And when she’s close enough, she swings her legs over your thighs, straddling your waist, taking hold of your shoulders and bracing herself against you.

Dripping already, cunt barely kissing the tip of your cock, the heat of it all; it’s a living, breathing entity in the room—thick, heavy, making the air feel charged.

And then, without another word, she sinks down.

A long, hot breath from Bae's mouth: “Fuuuck me.”

Slow, delicious torture has you groaning, has her biting down on her lip. The way she takes you in, the way you push into her, inch by inch—feeling every little twitch of her walls, every throb of your cock; it’s all just so fucking perfect.  

“Good girl,” you find yourself saying when she bottoms out, when your cock completes her, turns her into something beautifully obscene.

“God, you’re just so,” she starts with, but the words get lost somewhere between the shallow gasps and harsh breaths that follows.

She’s staring at you, deep into you, and there’s this satisfied grin playing at the corners of her mouth that makes you want to do everything she hasn’t had the breath to ask for.

"Thank you," she manages instead.

And then she’s moving. Slowly, so goddamn slow, taking her time to feel every ridge, every vein; making sure she’s got you all to herself. Her chest heaves up and down, her tits bounce dangerously close to your lips. You spy past her, enamoured with her reflection, how her back flexes and tenses, how her spine curves with each descent, how her ass cheeks clench each time you fill her whole. 

It’s these tight little squats, this wonderful rhythm she’s setting, these squeezes of her pussy around you, the juices of her cunt slapping against your thighs as she bounces.

“Creaming everywhere, so fucking messy.” You’re taking stock of her; of this mess she’s leaving, all over herself, all over you, all over the bench and down to the ground. You can’t even be mad because, “It’s a good look on you, Bae.”

From a distance she’d be the purest depiction of innocence; the sweetest angel, the kind that would be painted on stained glass and prayed to by the masses.

But here, up close, biting down on your shoulder, devouring your cock with her cunt, moaning in your ear things that would make the Old Testament blush; she’s fucking pornographic.

Yet, she says, “Sir, I can’t handle this—”

You pause, holding her by the hips, eliciting this whine from her lips. “Too much?”

“No, not that, it’s—ah. It’s too slow,” Bae whines, emphasising her point by slamming her hips down onto your thighs, the slap of skin on skin bouncing off the mirrored walls. “I need it fast. And hard. Like you said, I need to sweat. It’s there—I’m right fucking there—so, can we—fuck, can we just go?”

Bae, Bae, Bae.

She makes your blood sing and your cock throb.

Makes you give it to her, just like she asked.

Fingers dig into her hips, thumbs pressed into the softness of her flesh, and you lift her slightly, only to pull her right back down. Like she asked: fast, hard, and you’re thankful you shelled out extra for benches that could take punishment.

“God—” Bae cries out, high-pitched, a scream that has her shaking; not because you’re hurting her, there’s no pain to be found here. It’s all just bliss, pure, unbridled bliss.

So, you lean in, suck one of those pretty little peaks into your mouth, swirl your tongue around, and she’s jolting, her cunt clamping down on you, so tight, so fucking tight.

Every part of her, from the top of head to the tips of her toes, is tuned to this frequency of need. Her nipples, especially so; they’re so sensitive, so attuned to your every touch. They tighten to pebbles with the slightest swipe of your tongue, when your teeth dare to graze them—any pressure from your lips and she shivers.

"That’s—fuck—that’s so much better," she’s panting, “Isn’t it, isn’t it so fucking good?”

You rumble something of an affirmative into her chest, too occupied to bother with words, too busy mapping out her chest, her breasts, that lovely dip between, with your tongue and teeth and hands.

And you’re suddenly having trouble remembering, or forgetting altogether—what was it really that was stopping you from doing this sooner? What could possibly make missing out on this, missing out on Bae’s sighs and moans, missing out on the blistering heat of her cunt and the tightness wrapped around you worth it?

Sure, you had her (had each other) in the shower—slippery, steamy, illicit—but it had been so fleeting. Just a glimpse into what had been begging to happen since she first entered your domain, all smiles and sly glances.

Now that she's in your lap, taking your cock like such a good little slut, you can’t stop the images flooding your mind, feeding your imagination with every conceivable scenario.

Tasting every inch of her, exploring every crevice with your tongue, every peak and valley with your fingers. Spending hours just learning her. In due time, in due time; not now, when she’s riding you like she’s trying to break you—or at least, break the bench.

“This, exactly this,” Bae breathes into your neck, her nails raking over your shoulder blades, leaving these angry red crescents that burn and sting. “Fuck, fuck, I want it just like this—"

Getting more erratic, louder, closer.

So, you lean back, content to let her do all the work, watch her climb that peak. You could take all the time in the world, watch her waste away the very expensive fee you’re charging her company for your time. It’s what she wants, and isn’t that how it goes—the customer is always right?

"This is exactly what I want to do, exactly what we're going to do every session from now on," Bae’s instructing, voice a whip crack in the quiet of the gym. She’s getting braver with each moan that escapes, each grind of her hips that sends you deeper. "You’re going to fuck me, hard, rough, just like you fucking promised."

You can't help but laugh, the situation absurd, the words rolling off her tongue like she’s rehearsed them. "Every session, huh?"

"Every. Single. One," she confirms, her eyes fluttering shut as she starts to bounce faster, her pussy swallowing you up in a wet, delicious rhythm. “No more hiding, no more pretending. Just me, you, and this gym, as much as we need, whenever we want. Fuck, doesn't even have to be scheduled, I'll just call you and you better be here ready to fuck my brains out."

"Alright, Bae," you grit out, something inside you tightening at the thought of her calling you, begging for it like she is now, "If that's what you want, that's what you'll get."

It’s a contract, signed and sealed with the slickness of her cunt, the heat of your skin, the promise in her eyes that she’ll be good, so good for you—or at least, good enough to get more of this.

"But remember," you say, unlatching yourself from her tits, making sure to catch her eyes. "I don't do easy. You want this, you're going to work for it."

Bae bites her lips, “Yes. God yes.”

You correct her. “Yes, who?”

“Yes,” Bae grins, “sir.” 

Something shifts; the dynamic swinging for the first time in your direction, and it’s clear now. Clear to you, to her, that from now on as long as you’re taking her—pushing her—to that precipice, you’re the one calling the shots.

So, you guide her, guide her hips with your hands; setting a new pace. One that’s demanding, borderline violent, that has her chanting—“yes, yes, yes”—the syllables falling from her lips like sweet little prayers to some depraved deity.

She’s coming apart, leaving herself so vulnerable and bare, like she'd just die on top of you if you didn't stop fucking her back to life. It’s so, so painfully lovely, you’re seeing the most beautifully crafted sculpture crumble into dust. You’re in awe of her. You’re in—

Fuck you might be falling for her.

That’s a revelation to keep tucked safely away, because you couldn’t think of a less appropriate time for confessions. No, now’s the time for grunts and groans, for the sound of her wetness and the smack of her ass colliding with your thighs.

"Am I good for you?" Bae mewls, "Am I good for you, sir?"

She’s so, so good. So fucking good that your answer is a knee-jerk reaction. “Fucking incredible, Bae. Such a good slut. Getting fucked like this, used. Taking it so fucking nicely.”

Red colours her cheeks as they flush at the praise, a silent plea for more. And so you give it to her, pushing harder, faster, showering her with these gems of depravity that only someone like Bae could bring to the surface.

“You’re just loving this, aren’t you? Getting so close. So desperate to give it to me,” you’re taunting, feeling her walls closing in around you, feeling her body coiling up tight. “It’s okay, let go. You can let go.”

So close to the edge she’s practically dancing on it. She’s fighting it, fighting against the wave, her cunt spasming around you, her breaths hitching and coming in these sweet desperate little pants.

You can taste it; she just needs that extra push, that hard fucking to bring her there. A demand: “Cum. Cum for me now, Bae. Show me how good you can be, show me how much you want this.”  

And finally, a gasp, “Say my name. Call me by my name, please.”

A hand at the back of her neck, bringing her ear to her lips, so you can whisper the name you’re fucking her hard enough to forget. “Jinsol.”

It’s fucking immediate.

The words leave your mouth, and she shatters. Fine china thrown against a brick wall.

Waves of it hitting her, a shudder at first, then a fucking tsunami; ripping through her, stealing away any last semblance of bodily autonomy she might’ve had left and leaving her as a puddle of trembles and shivers and pure need.

You keep pumping, calling her every dirty name in your book—whore, slut, your little toy, your good girl, just Jinsol—again and again until all she knows is your voice.

Each name you give her, it’s a spark that sends her higher, makes her cum harder, and she just goes and goes and goes.

"Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuuuck," Bae whimpers, eyes squeezed shut so tightly you can see the veins pulsing at her temples. And you keep going, you keep pushing her, because you can't get enough of this—of her, of the power she's given you, of the way she's so obviously yours in this moment.

You want to mark this occasion, leave a sign that it was real, that you really did fuck her to oblivion. It has you kissing into her neck, sucking at the pale flesh, biting down just hard enough to make her whine.

"You're mine," you burn into her, in that nook between her neck and shoulder. "You're all mine."

Ragged huffs signal the end of it, the come down from the high—but you’re hardly done with her. You can’t be—not when you’re still this hard, not when she’s still so fucking wet around you, not when you’re feeling like this, like you could drown in her without ever needing to come up for air.

"So good, so fucking good.” She collapses, her body folds into yours, and she’s giggling, all breathless and boneless.

Of course she’d be like this, over the fucking moon. She’s got what she wanted, what she needed; made you promise to keep giving it to her whenever she wanted.

She reaches for you, fingers trace the line of your job, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, smudging a bit of her own gloss there. "I knew you’d be perfect," is what she says, right before she kisses you, "Perfect for this."

The tangling of your tongues, the taste of mint and sweat, and the smiles you’re sharing against each other’s lips when you flex your cock inside her.

“I’m not done yet,” you remind her, pulling back from her kiss, pulling your bottom lip out from her teeth. “Far from it.”

“Not going to let me catch my breath?” Bae teases, acting like this isn't entirely her fault. Like she wasn't the one that pushed you this far, that dug underneath all your layers of professionalism and responsibility until she found someone that could match her appetite.

“No.”

You’re up, pushing yourself up to your feet, keeping her impaled on you, fucking her up into the air and forcing her to wrap her legs around your waist.

And then, with a strength fuelled by lust and want and a need to just fucking cum in this slut; you drop her on her feet, spin her around, and plant her hands against the mirror.

No warning, no easing her in; she’s still so wet, cunt slick and slippery. Just slide back in, slam into her from behind, watch her come apart.

It’s all in front of you, all playing out across her pretty reflection: her face twists, her tits jiggle, her abs, God how they tighten and release all at once.

Taking back a handful of her hair, yanking her head back to claim her neck; all these sweet things—"watch yourself get fucked, Bae, look how pretty you are for me.”

And she laughs, she actually laughs, because it’s all she can do when you’re gripping her hair so tight, scraping your teeth across her neck, making her feel you all thick and hard inside of her.

A hard buck of your hips sends her forward, presses her cheek to the mirror, staining the glass with the heat of her breath.

“Look,” you demand, “look how perfect you are taking my cock like this.”

She obeys; staring at herself in the mirror, watching herself get fucked, get filled, get taken. It’s just too much. She’s too much. You’re too much. This whole fucking situation is just too much.

"Fuck it's so—you're fucking me so—"

"Didn’t you say you could take it?"

Bae's response is a whine, a clench of her cunt around you. "I can, I can take it, sir," she gasps. "Whatever you have for me. But you're just too..."

You lean in, eager to hear her confession. "Too what?"

"Too much! Too big, too good, too everything."

A fucking compliment and a challenge all rolled into one. "Is that so?"

"Y-Yes—I’m just so—just need you to—please fucking cum," she groans, barely audible over the wet sounds of your bodies slapping together. "Do whatever you want to it, to me, to my pussy, please, just please, please, please."

You're breaking her, turning her into this teary mess of moans and whimpers, tapping into something innate inside her, something that wants to be bent to your will, to be used by you, to be treated like the slut she craves to be in this moment.

And fuck, it’s addictive.

"You're going to scream my name.” You’re telling her, telling her how the rest of this situation, how the rest of your entire relationship is going to play out. "You're going to cum all over my cock again, and then you're going to tell me how much you love it."

"I will, sir," she nods furiously to you, to herself in the mirror, "I'll do anything you say."

You just can't wipe the grin off your face.

Thrusting into her, fucking her like you've never fucked anyone before. Like you own her, like she's nothing more than your toy to play with—to use and abuse and enjoy.

She’s screaming your name—no, not your name—“sir, sir, sir, fuck me, sir”—and—“more, sir, please, pretty please.”

More for her—a hard smack to her ass that makes her jump, makes her eyes water. But it also has her push back against you, fucking you back, more frantic than ever. A second smack cracking through the gym, and already there’s red blooming on her skin, marring the perfect pale flesh.

"Sir, please," she cries out, her voice high and tight. "More, more, more."

You oblige, your hand coming down again and again, painting her ass with the sting of your palm. Each smack has her pussy clenching around you, her lips begging for more.

"I love this," she admits, shakily. "I love it."

You slap her again, and again, and again—each hit punctuating her moans. "Say it," you demand. "Say it louder."

"I love it, sir," she cries, the filthy fucking admission bouncing off the walls. "I love it, I love it, I love it!"

Her orgasm builds again, her body tightening around you, a vice. The tension in the air is suffocating, you’re fucking in for it now, dooming yourself to this delicious cycle of sin with every thrust.

Bae, your Bae, all pure white and angry red now, the beauty still standing despite your best efforts to bring it to ruin.

She's there, and you're done waiting.

"Now."

It's that fucking easy.

That's what you think as you watch Bae unravel all over again, all over you; slipping into that sweet, sweet oblivion that you’ve coaxed out of her.

"God, sir, fuck!"

Hammering into her, fucking her apart; through the pain, through the ruinous pleasure, pressing her up against the mirror, squishing her tits into the cold glass.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, sir, fucking me so good, making such a mess, you’re—" But that sentence dies before it even can get started, and all that tumbles out of her mouth is, “fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck—”

She’s fucking gone.

Bae crumbles against the mirror, and you fall into her, keeping your body glued to her back. The clenching, the shivering, the twitches and the gasps; the patchwork of bruises and bites and crimson you’ve left all over her.

You follow.

Something dark, a guttural grunt, and you pull out of her, this sloshing noise from her cunt as you do.

Without your cock Bae just falls to the ground, bracing herself against the wall while she gathers herself—twists her body into something beautiful.

Before you can even process what she’s doing, what’s happening at your feet, she’s in position; that pose again. And you realise what it was: the kneeling, the hands behind the back, the tits out, mouth wide open, tongue waiting.

A preview. A promise. An invitation.

“Sir, your cum, if you please—"

A sledgehammer to your fucking soul—that's what it feels like when you finish.

One, two, three pumps of your cock and your vision goes white, like someone's shone a fucking flashlight right into your eyes, and the only thing you have left is the intense, throbbing release all over Bae.

Ropes of it spurt from your cock, painting her face with thick, white streaks. There’s more sirs, more thank yous and pleases and fucks, (you swear you catch a daddy in there as it hits her); but she doesn't flinch—no, she opens her mouth wider, needy for every drop.

The first shot hits her square in the forehead, sliding down the bridge of her nose and into the waiting cavern of her mouth.

Another shot goes wide, spattering across that dark freckle on her cheek. Another hits her chin, another ruins her hair, the last sprays over her tits; all these shots just covering her, turning this fucking idol into your personal cumslut.

“God, yes, sir,” she slurs through the cum, earning every single drop, “I’m just covered in it. So, fucking much. It’s so good.”

A stumble back on your feet, a step away to assess the damage as you slowly stop pumping your cock. Bae on her knees before you, just drenched with your cum. Bae your client, if she still can be called that anymore.

What else could she be? Your lover, your sub, your obsession, your… what? You’re not quite sure what to call it, call her, other than a big fucking mess.

But, as you watch her happily lick your cum off her own skin, you can’t resist giving a final instruction. “Swallow.”

“Yes, sir.”

You are so, so fucked.

Bae, sweet and obedient, takes her finger, scooping up every trace of you from her cheek, her tits, all along the ridges of her abs. All this hot, hot white you’ve expended on her, marked and branded her with.

It all happens in slow motion; she laps it up, paints it over her lips, pushes it into her mouth. Sticking out her tongue, presenting it to you in one big sticky glob, making sure you're seeing nothing but her be such a good girl for you.

And down her throat it goes.

"Good enough, sir?"

You lean down, wipe the last drop off her temple with your thumb. She opens her mouth, helps you push it in, sucks on it greedily as if it’s the last taste of you she’ll ever get.

There’s a thought to give her more, to fill her mouth until she’s addicted to your flavour. But you don’t—not yet.

You must save some things for later.

Bae’s content to stay there, kneeling, cheek resting your thigh, utterly cum-drenched; fingers idly dancing along your softening cock, toying with the last few drops of cum that still cling to your shaft.

You break the silence with a sigh. “Guess I should get used to this, huh?”

Bae sings, “Every single session.”

“Christ.”

That draws a chuckle from her, and you shoot her a warning look as she dares to kiss your cock once more. “Care to show me how the shower works again?”

You roll your eyes.

“I mean, only if we have the time.”

At this point, you’d give her your every waking hour if you could. A glance at the digital clock on the wall has you guesstimating—"It'll be a squeeze."

Bae, never to miss an opportunity, “Isn’t that how you like me?”

“I thought we were going to stop with the wordplay."

"Can't help it, sir." Bae's arms snake around your leg, sidling just that inch closer. "You just bring it out of me."

"Ah, so it's my fault."

"Of course. This whole thing is your fault," she tells you, donning the expression of a saint; all wide-eyes and sweet smiles. "You just had to make me yours."

"Mine?"

"From now on, yes."

“In that case—” You bend down, lifting Bae up, hoisting her up in your arms as easily as any other weight in the gym. She giggles into your neck, her body fitting into yours like you've been doing this for years. The warmth of her, the press of her breasts into your chest, her legs looping around your waist—it’s all so natural. “While we still have some time left.”

“Before your next client?” She asks, oh-so-innocently, like she isn't prying, isn't trying to make a home for herself in the remaining hours of your day.

“Sullyoon.”

“Oh,” Bae says once, processing, and then again, “Ohhh.”

You blink, trying to keep up with wherever her mind is racing to next. “What?”

The smile that widens on her face is going to haunt you, you can tell. “Oh, nothing,” she says, but she’s got a secret she’s just dying to share.

But she won’t, not yet.

Bae’s fingers trace a pattern down the centre of your chest, playing over your sternum, circling your navel, and then—there’s that smugness again—heading south. “I was just thinking I might stick around for your next session.”

It’s a declaration, not a question. The way she says it, so casual, so flippant, it’s like she’s talking about sticking around to watch a movie, not grossly overstepping even more lines before you get a chance to redraw them.

And then you're back at square one.

“Just to make sure you and her keep things strictly professional."

[oldpotatoe]

"the first casualty, when war comes, is truth"

i wish i wasn't writing this.

i wish i didn't have to caveat this whole statement with "by the way, i strongly condemn the killing of innocent civilians in any circumstance whatsoever" because i am a muslim and obviously every muslim voice represents all 1.8 billion of us, right? but your faves can go on instagram and loudly proclaim there is no two sides to this - i stand with the apartheid state bombing and starving children! with no consequences whatsoever. right.

i wish i didn't have to filter every bit of information i saw because of rampant lies and misinformation boosted across social media, especially when it shrouds the actual atrocities happening. it's still unconfirmed whether 40 babies were murdered by hamas militants - if true, it is an awful, awful act done by the lowest of the low. but as we speak, 447 children have been confirmed to be killed - murdered - in gaza just in the last few days.

i wish i didn't see videos of those murders. i wish i could wipe away the horrific wailing of a father as he clawed his daughter's lifeless body out of rubble, falling to his knees as he cried for her to wake. i wish i didn't see mothers clutching small, bloodied bundles in their hands, screaming and screaming and screaming. i wish i could forget that i have been seeing iterations of these videos coming out of palestine from 2021, 2014, 2009, 2006 - oh, basically anytime israel decided to launch an offensive on gaza.

i wish children didn't make up 47% of gaza's 2 million population, of which 4 out of 5 were living with PTSD and depression as per a report from last year (aka before this latest shitstorm started), because living in an open air prison under constant threat of bombing really helps make those childhood memories extra special. i wish these children were considered as human as those across the border, their lives as important and meaningful.

i wish that literal war crimes were not taking place in gaza right now. this includes the war crimes by hamas of taking innocent hostages - hamas, may i remind the reader, is a palestinian terrorist organisation but not all palestinians are hamas - and also the war crimes of the israeli government by literally ordering a siege of gaza with "no electricity, no food, and no fuel." this is to ensure that the children who aren't already dead are well on their way, i guess.

i wish we weren't watching an ethnic cleansing literally taking place in front of our eyes.

i wish i didn't feel so helpless. i wish i could console my friends who are on the daily losing multitudes of relatives, and who now have no way of finding out who else they've lost until the electricity comes back on. i wish my words didn't feel so hollow.

i wish i could wave a palestinian flag in solidarity but i may get arrested for it here, in the uk, so better not.

i wish. i wish. i wish.

[endless-ineffabilities]

The Bolter (part nine) (18+)

Steve Rogers x f!reader / Bucky Barnes x f!reader

synopsis : Steve carries out his decision to return to Peggy, aiming to live out the rest of his days with her. But this means he's leaving everything behind - he's leaving you. Did he make the right choice? Will there be anything left with you to come back to?

in this chapter : Sam, Bucky, and you head to Madripoor with an unlikely ally. Steve says goodbye to Peggy, then travels in time to where he truly belongs.

themes/warnings : language, even more pining, even more smut!, Zemo being Zemo, Sharon cutting through our bullshit

word count : 5.8k

main masterlist ▪︎ series masterlist

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The 1950s, seven months after Steve’s arrival

Steve sits by the window, watching the fading sunlight pour into the room. For the first time in months, he feels calm—an eerie, unnatural calm, like the eye of a storm. He has come to accept the truth, bitter as might be: this was never his home, and soon, it won’t exist at all.

Mobius had warned him. When he goes back to his timeline, it will be as if none of this ever happened. This branch, this brief stolen life with Peggy, will be pruned. She will never know what they had here. Steve will fade from this time, and she will move on, be with the man she was always meant to be with, and have the children she was destined to have. She will live the life she was always supposed to.

But he will remember everything. He will carry the ache of knowing that none of this was ever really his to keep. 

And deep down, Steve knows it’s the right choice. His normal, whatever semblance of it he can grasp, is always going to be with you. It has always been you with whom he belonged. With his friends. With Bucky. 

His very being is meant for the picket line and not a picket fence.

“Are you ready?” Peggy’s voice breaks the silence, and Steve turns to find her standing in the doorway, looking at him with those sharp, knowing eyes. She has accepted it, just as he has. There’s no anger, no confusion. They’ve had too many talks in the past week about this—about how something always felt off for both of them, like an invisible weight pressing against their happiness. 

“I am,” Steve answers. 

“It didn’t feel right, did it?” she says quietly. 

“No… it didn’t.” He hesitates, the truth weighing heavy. “But I think I know why.”

She steps closer, her hand reaching out to touch his arm. “You don’t belong here, Steve,” she says gently, her voice unwavering. “You belong with them. You belong with the one who truly holds your heart.”

When he lifts his eyes, there’s something new in them. Certainty. “Yeah. I do. But I’m glad we had this. Even if it was never meant to last.”

Peggy’s smile is bittersweet as he presses her hand to his lips. “Me too.” 

Steve nods, his throat tight as he steps away. Hunter pads over, his loyal companion waiting patiently by the door. Mobius and Loki wait in the other room, the quiet harbingers of the life he’s meant to return to.

“Goodbye, Peggy,” he says, for one final time. 

“Goodbye, Steve,” Peggy says, her voice filled with quiet grace. “Go get your girl.”

A shiver runs down his spine. You had said the exact same words when he left you. But it didn’t stick, because he was too stupid to realise that you had always been his girl. He can picture it so well, picture you, and the thought of seeing you again soon inspires an overwhelming happiness in him.

“Ready?” Mobius asks, his usual lighthearted demeanour replaced by something more solemn.

“Yeah,” Steve says quietly. “I’m ready.”

Loki taps the device, and with a flash, Steve’s world shifts.

And just like that, he’s on his way home.

2024, seven months after Steve’s departure

Your first encounter with the Flag Smashers did not go as expected. Or maybe it did. Fighting a bunch of serum-powered radicals – kids, practically – on top of cargo trucks moving at high speed was perhaps the likeliest outcome of this whole thing. After everything you’ve been through, in your decade and a half as the Huntress and all your run-ins with the Big 3, this is just another afternoon, just another mission.

Except the appearance of John Walker threw you in for a loop. Captain America, he calls himself, but there is no chance of you ever addressing him by that name, and you know the same goes for Bucky. John isn’t even carrying the right shield, the only shield, the one Steve brought with him. All he dons is a replica, much like he himself is one. 

Seeing that red, white, and blue paraded around almost made you forget about the kiss you shared with Bucky before the fight. Almost.

But you feel its undercurrent in every moment, you catch glimpses of it when you close your eyes, you feel him… and you know he does too.

The three of you made your way back to New York, recuperating in your apartment, and planning the next move, but what Bucky proposes seems the farthest from sensible.

“Zemo?” Sam stops mid-step. “Tell me you’re joking.”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. “He knows about the serum. More than anyone alive.”

“Yeah, and he’s also the guy who tried to tear the Avengers apart,” Sam counters. His voice is rising, filled with disbelief. “You want to break out a criminal mastermind? For what, a history lesson?”

“I’m not saying I like it,” Bucky says. “But if these Flag Smashers have the serum, then he’s our best chance at understanding what we’re up against.”

You can see Sam’s shoulders stiffen, his eyes wide with incredulity. You, though—your gut reaction is different. Zemo is dangerous, but your concern isn't for yourself or Sam. It’s for Bucky.

You meet his gaze. “Bucky… do you really think you can handle him? Zemo’s not exactly a small problem.”

He looks at you, something quiet and intense behind his eyes. “I can handle it,” he replies. “I have to.”

There’s a finality to his words, but they don’t ease the knot forming in your chest. Sam throws up his hands. “This is madness! I’m just supposed to be okay with busting a guy out of maximum security prison? You people are crazy.”

A moment of silence passes before you let out a resigned breath. “We don’t have much of a choice, Sam. If Bucky thinks this is the way forward, I trust him.”

Sam glares at both of you, then mutters under his breath, “You two have been spending way too much time together.”

The Berlin Correctional Facility is colder than you expected—both literally and figuratively. 

Sam checks his watch, then gives Bucky a sideways glance. “You know, this is the part where I remind you again that this is a bad idea.”

Bucky shrugs, his expression unreadable. “Noted.”

Sam sighs. “I just want it on record that I’m the voice of reason here.”

You smirk, leaning against the wall. “Come on, Sam. What’s life without a little danger?”

“You don’t get to say that when we’re about to break a supervillain out of prison,” Sam deadpans.

The plan, despite its insanity, goes off without a hitch. The guards are neutralized with minimal force, and the security systems go offline like clockwork. You hack into the mainframe to open Zemo’s cell, and when the door finally slides open, you see him—Helmut Zemo, calm and collected, standing there as though he’s been waiting for you all along.

He steps forward, his movements slow and deliberate, like a cat stalking prey. “I must say, I didn’t expect visitors.”

You glare at him, your hackles rising instantly. “Let’s get one thing clear. This is a means to an end. One wrong move, and you go back in.”

Zemo’s lips curl into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Of course. I wouldn’t dream of causing any trouble.”

You don’t believe him for a second.

Zemo’s private jet is the epitome of luxury—plush seats, dim lighting, the hum of the engines barely audible. Chump change compared to what Tony used to travel in, but still. It’s surreal, sitting in this polished environment, knowing you’re en route to one of the most dangerous cities in the world with one of the most dangerous men in the world.

You’re seated across the aisle from Bucky. His body is tense, his fingers twitching in his lap as if he’s holding himself back from something. You wish there was something you could say to ease the weight he’s carrying, but you know better than to push him. Not now. Not with Zemo sitting across from you, watching everything with sharp, calculating eyes.

Zemo leans back in his seat, looking far too relaxed for your liking. “I must say, I’ve always had a fondness for Madripoor. It’s a city of endless possibility, wouldn’t you agree?”

Sam glances up from across the aisle, his expression unimpressed. “Yeah, I’m sure it’s paradise for a guy like you.”

Zemo smiles, but there’s no warmth in it. “It’s a place where the lines between good and evil blur. A place where one can truly be free.”

Your grip tightens on the armrest, and you glance at Bucky. His face is turned toward the window, his jaw tight, eyes dark. You lean closer, keeping your voice low. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” he says, but you can hear the lie in his voice.

You open your mouth to press further, but Zemo speaks up again, cutting through the tension. “It’s interesting, isn’t it? The way history repeats itself.”

You glare at him, your protective instinct flaring. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Zemo’s eyes flicker between you and Bucky, his gaze too knowing for comfort. “It’s just... curious. The way you watch him. The way you stand between us.”

You feel a surge of anger rise in your chest, but you hold it back, keeping your tone steady. “You’re not part of this conversation.”

Zemo chuckles, leaning back. “No need to be defensive. I’m merely an observer. But I must say, the loyalty you show to him... it’s quite touching.”

Bucky shifts beside you, his hand balling into a fist. You place your hand on his arm, silently communicating that Zemo isn’t worth it. 

You warn lowly, “Don’t push it, Zemo.”

Madripoor is a city of lights and shadows, the streets buzzing with a kind of energy that makes your skin crawl. Zemo leads the way, his steps confident as he navigates the underworld with ease. He fits right in, and so do you. You’re not unfamiliar with the city yourself, with many of your contacts residing here. Sam picks at his flashy fur coat, having to wear the guise of the Smiling Tiger, and you have to bite back a laugh.

What you hate is Bucky’s role in this. Zemo insisted that Bucky act the part of the Winter Soldier again, and seeing him slip into that persona makes your stomach turn. You’ve fought so hard to help him leave that part of himself behind, and now he’s being forced to wear it like a mask.

You stick close to Bucky, your eyes constantly scanning the crowd for threats. Your hand brushes his occasionally, a silent reassurance. He doesn’t speak, but you can see the conflict in his eyes, the way his jaw clenches every time someone looks at him like he’s a weapon.

Zemo’s voice cuts through the noise. “Ah, here we are. The Brass Monkey Saloon. You’ll need to put on a show, Soldier.”

Your heart twists at the cold way Zemo refers to him. Soldier. Like Bucky’s nothing more than a tool, a means to an end. You step forward, putting yourself between them.

“Watch yourself,” you snap, your voice low and dangerous. 

Zemo raises an eyebrow, clearly amused by your protectiveness. “Of course. I merely meant that appearances must be kept."

The atmosphere inside the Brass Monkey Saloon is thick with tension. Zemo’s plan, of course, involves a show of force. Bucky takes on the role, fists flying, and you stand helplessly on the sidelines, watching as he dismantles anyone who stands in your way. You can see the fear in the faces of the crowd, the whispers of “Winter Soldier” passing between them.

When the chaos finally subsides, Zemo steps forward, calm and collected. “Very convincing, James,” he says, clapping Bucky on the shoulder.

You can’t help yourself. “Don’t touch him.”

Zemo leads the way to Selby’s hideout, the plan already set. You, Bucky, and Sam follow close behind, nerves taut. You can feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on you, recognizing not just the Winter Soldier, but the Huntress.

Inside Selby’s lair, things unravel faster than you can react. The exchange was supposed to be smooth—get the information on the serum, figure out who’s behind the Flag Smashers. But Selby, sly and dangerous, catches on too quickly. The words turn heated, tension thick in the air. When the situation escalates, a gunshot rings out, and Selby collapses to the floor.

Everything goes to hell. 

Selby’s guards surge forward, the entire operation blown to pieces. You don’t even have time to think before the room erupts into chaos, bullets tearing through the air. 

Bucky grabs your arm, pulling you toward the exit. “We need to move!”

The narrow alleyways of Madripoor are a maze, and no matter how fast you run, the sound of pursuit is never far behind. Your heart pounds in your chest, adrenaline surging as you push forward, leading the way through the twisting streets.

“I can’t run in these heels!” Sam yells, his voice tight with effort as he ducks behind cover.

The sound of gunfire grows louder, and just when it seems like you’re cornered, Sharon Carter appears from the shadows, her expression all business. 

“You guys really know how to make an entrance.”

The tension in Sharon Carter’s loft is thick enough to choke on. You can’t deny the relief that floods through you at her arrival—she’s saved you from the brink more than once—but the comfort quickly dissolves the second she opens her mouth. Sharon’s never been one to coddle, and it’s clear she’s ready to let you know exactly what she thinks about this whole situation.

Her apartment reflects her new life in Madripoor: sleek, stylish, and modern, with a hint of danger lurking beneath the surface. The large windows offer a panoramic view of the chaotic city below, bathed in the neon glow of a world where morality has always been in short supply. You’re reminded of who Sharon has become—the Power Broker, controlling Madripoor’s criminal underworld from behind the scenes. And yet, she’s still the woman you fought beside, the woman you trusted implicitly. Your friend. 

“You’ve made a mess of Madripoor,” Sharon says, leaning casually against the bar, one eyebrow raised as she surveys the room. Her eyes flick between you, Bucky, Sam, and Zemo, her smirk cutting. She takes a slow sip from her glass, her posture relaxed. “You’re lucky I showed up when I did.”

“Yeah, we didn’t exactly have time to send out a save-the-date,” Sam mutters, his voice dripping with sarcasm, though you can tell he’s thankful. Sharon’s saved you all from a sticky situation—again.

Her gaze shifts to you, and that smirk widens, a playful but knowing glint in her eyes. “Still running around with these boys, huh? After everything?”

There’s an edge to her words, something that cuts deeper than you expected. Sharon’s always had a way of seeing through you, right to the heart of things. But this time, her words carry an extra weight. You know what’s coming before she even says it, but it still feels like a punch to the gut when she does.

Her eyes dart to Bucky, who’s standing tense and silent beside you, his shoulders tight. Then, they come back to you, her lips curling slightly. “You and Steve were… close. And now, here you are, keeping Bucky in check.” She pauses just long enough to make it sting. “Seems like you’ve got a type.”

Your stomach twists, and you catch the slight flicker of movement from Bucky, the way his fists clench at his sides. His face remains stoic, but you know him well enough to see the storm brewing underneath. Sharon’s words have struck a nerve. 

“What?” you say, keeping your voice even, though there’s a sharpness to it. Your heart races, and you try to keep the emotion out of your voice.

"Wow," Bucky mutters dryly, "she's kind of awful now."

Sharon shrugs, feigning casualness, but her eyes gleam with amusement at you. “It’s just… interesting. You and Cap. And now Cap’s best friend. Two men who can’t escape their own shadows. You seem to have a thing for complicated.”

You bite back your immediate retort, but before you can respond, Zemo—because of course he has to chime in—speaks up, lounging against the wall with that smug, knowing look that makes you want to punch him. “Ah, the familiar,” he says, voice silky. “It’s natural to seek comfort in something... predictable. But I wonder, how much of this is about James, and how much is simply because he reminds you of your precious Captain Rogers?”

You feel the room go cold, and the weight of Zemo’s words settles like a stone in your chest. The air around Bucky shifts, his calm demeanour fracturing just enough for you to see the tension rippling beneath. His posture stiffens even more, his jaw tight, but he doesn’t speak. The silence is worse than anything he could say.

“Leave him out of this,” you snap, your voice barely above a whisper, but the threat is clear. Zemo’s eyes gleam, dark and dangerous, but he raises his hands in mock surrender.

“Of course,” Zemo says, his smile widening. “But… leave who out of it? Which one?”

Sharon watches you closely, her smirk fading slightly as she steps closer. For the first time since she spoke, her gaze softens. She knows you—really knows you. The unspoken history between you feels heavy in the air. She tilts her head, studying you with a sharpness that you’ve come to expect from her.

“Can I have a word?” Sharon asks, her voice quieter now, almost gentle.

You nod, barely noticing the others as Sharon gestures for you to follow her into a more private corner of the apartment, away from the tense stares of Bucky and Zemo. Once you’re out of earshot, Sharon leans against the wall, crossing her arms. The playful glint is still in her eyes, but there’s a seriousness there too.

“You know I don’t mean to be harsh,” she says, her voice quieter, more personal. “But you and I... we’ve always been able to call it like it is.”

You exhale, your shoulders sagging slightly. “Yeah, well, some things are harder to call than others.”

Sharon watches you for a long moment, her gaze searching your face. “It’s been a long time since Steve left. I get it. I do. But you and Bucky...” She trails off, her eyes flicking back toward him. “You’re not fooling anyone. Least of all me.”

You swallow, unsure how to respond. You’ve spent so long trying to navigate your own emotions, keeping them at bay. But here, it feels impossible to ignore any longer.

Sharon takes a step closer, her expression softening. “He’s not Steve. And I know you know that. But Bucky—he’s been through hell too. And I see the way you look at him. The way he looks at you.”

Your throat tightens, and for a moment, you can’t speak. Sharon does have a way of cutting through the bullshit, of seeing things for what they really are. 

“I’m not—” you start, but Sharon cuts you off with a small, knowing smile.

“I’m not saying it’s the same as what you had with Steve,” she says. “But maybe that’s a good thing. Bucky’s different. And maybe that’s what you need.”

You glance back toward Bucky, who’s still standing with his back to you, his shoulders tense, his hands curled into fists at his sides. You can feel the weight of his emotions, the way Zemo’s and Sharon’s comments have hit him harder than he’s letting on. You want to go to him, to tell him it’s okay. That he doesn’t have to be Steve. That you don’t want him to be.

But there’s a part of you that’s still tangled up in the past—in Steve’s shadow.

Sharon places a hand on your arm, pulling your attention back to her. “Listen,” she says, her voice gentle but firm. “Whatever this is with Bucky... don’t let it slip away because you’re still holding onto something that’s gone. Steve’s not coming back. But you’ve still got a chance—with him.”

You take a deep breath, nodding slightly, but the knot in your chest doesn’t loosen. Sharon squeezes your arm, offering a small smile before she steps back, her smirk returning as she glances toward the others.

“All right,” she says, her voice louder now, more playful. “Enough emotional introspection for one night. Let’s figure out how to get you out of Madripoor before you make an even bigger mess.”

Zemo, lounging against the wall with a glass in his hand, raises an eyebrow as you sit down beside Bucky. He doesn’t say anything, but his smirk is enough to get under your skin. It’s like he can feel the emotional turbulence swirling around you.

Sharon saunters back into the room, her heels clicking against the polished floor, a confident ease in her step. “Well, now that we’ve aired out some of that dirty laundry, maybe we can focus on the job at hand?”

Sam, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet through all of this, gives Sharon a look. “Yeah, and maybe we can talk about why you didn’t feel the need to mention how deep you are in Madripoor’s criminal scene, huh?”

Sharon doesn’t miss a beat, throwing him a cocky grin. “I’m an opportunist, Sam. Madripoor offers a lot of opportunities.”

Sam mutters something under his breath, clearly not satisfied with that answer, but it’s clear Sharon has no intention of explaining herself further. And you don’t push her on it either, even though you’re the only one here who knows exactly what her role is in this city. You’ve never questioned her decisions before—everyone has to survive somehow—but seeing her now, it’s hard not to wonder if she’s lost herself in the shadows.

“I trust you’ll all stay out of trouble until I arrange our next move?” Sharon says, her eyes flicking back to you, a knowing glint in her gaze. It’s subtle, but you can tell she’s still watching you closely, assessing everything—especially your unspoken bond with Bucky.

Before anyone can respond, she turns and walks out of the room.

After escaping the chaos and making it back to Zemo’s safe house in Riga, the adrenaline finally starts to fade. It’s well past midnight when you make your way into your designated bedroom. You drop onto the bed, your heart still racing, trying to calm the storm of emotions churning inside you.

Sleep never comes easy to you—a side effect of your chosen life. One of high stakes and adrenaline. A lot more losses than wins, if any of your successful missions can even be considered wins at all.

After an hour of staring up at the ceiling, your eyes tracing the curves of the rosettes, Bucky enters your room, as noiseless as a cat. You raise your head sharply on instinct, but relax as soon as you see his figure. His shoulders are slumped as if the weight of the world rests upon them. He glances at you, and you can see the struggle etched across his face.

“Can’t sleep?” you ask, sitting up and patting the space beside you on the bed.

He purses his lips, not saying anything for a moment. After a while, and with a resounding sigh, he settles at the foot of the bed, his back to you.

“What you saw back there…” he starts, his voice low. “That wasn’t me. I’m not the Winter Soldier anymore.”

“I know,” you say softly, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder soothingly. “I’ve always known. You’re just Bucky.”

“I don’t… I don’t want to ever lose control,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

“You won’t,” you say firmly, shuffling closer to him. “You have me.”

Bucky turns halfway, meeting your gaze. “I want to prove to you that I’m not him,” he says, his voice thick with conviction. 

Your throat suddenly feels dry. You don’t know anymore if he’s referring to the Winter Soldier or Steve. You can tell that Sharon’s comments rattled him. You’re familiar with her humour, so you know that she didn’t mean anything negative by what she said, but Bucky might have easily taken them to heart.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” you whisper. 

His gaze softens, and then he’s leaning in, capturing your lips with his. There is no goddamn way you’re falling asleep now, with the fire he’s igniting within you. You pull him closer, your hands threading through his hair as he deepens the kiss. 

“Are you sure?” you whisper against his lips, breathless. A roll in the hay at the height of a high-risk mission is not beneath you, especially with someone like Bucky. With these things, a heated release of pent-up tension might be just what you need. But you want to be sure that he needs it too. That he needs you. 

He nods, eyes searching yours. “I want this. I want you.”

In one fluid motion, he takes your lips again, this kiss softer, more deliberate. He relishes in you, taking his sweet time, his tongue raking the outline of your lips. You melt against him, feeling the warmth of his body pressing against yours, as well as the cool of his left arm wrapping around your torso. 

“Bucky,” you breathe, breaking the kiss momentarily.

“Just Bucky,” he replies, his voice thick with emotion.

He tugs you against him, the two of you moving in a slow, sensual dance. You feel the weight of everything—the mission, the past, the chaos—slipping away as you lose yourselves in each other. His hands grip your waist, pulling you closer, as you taste the sweetness of his tongue.

“I want you,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice thick with desire. “I want to show you how much you mean to me.”

You shiver at his words, the sincerity behind them sending a rush of heat coursing through your veins. “Then show me,” you whisper, your heart pounding in your chest.

The world tilts slightly as he lays you back against the soft sheets. He hovers above you, his expression a mix of desire and reverence, as if he’s afraid to touch something so precious.

“You’re so beautiful, doll,” he breathes, his gaze travelling over you as if memorising every detail, and you suddenly forget how to speak. 

You’ve never considered yourself meek by any means, always able to stand your ground. The last time you’ve actually felt shy, and felt blood rush to your face at the attention of an admirer was with….

You shake Steve out of your thoughts.

“It’s just me,” you say, mirroring his earlier words.

His lips curve into a soft smile, and you can see the flicker of warmth behind the shadows that often cloud his expression. “Just you is everything,” he replies, his voice dropping to a whisper.

His hands slide under your shirt, fingers brushing against your skin, igniting every nerve ending. The sensation is overwhelming, and you gasp against his mouth, the heat pooling low in your belly.

“So perfect,” he murmurs, his lips trailing down your neck, kissing a path along your collarbone. Each soft touch leaves a trail of fire, and you can’t help but arch into him, your body instinctively seeking more.

“Bucky,” you gasp, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as if you can fuse your bodies into one. “Please.”

His response is immediate. He pushes your shirt up, baring your torso to him, and you feel exposed yet completely alive under his gaze. Then he leans down to press soft kisses along your midriff. The sensation is electric, maddening even, as he drifts ever lower. 

Bucky lifts his head, meeting your gaze with a burning intensity. “Let’s make this moment last,” he murmurs, his eyes darkening with desire as he shifts his weight, settling between your legs. His hands find the hem of your pants, his fingers grazing your skin as he slowly pushes them down your legs, along with your underwear, revealing you completely to him.

“Bucky,” you moan, when he kisses a trail along your inner thigh. “Patience, doll,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down your spine. You watch him as he continues his exploration, his kisses drifting higher until he reaches your core, and the breath hitches in your throat when he sucks at your aching bud.

The heat builds, swirling around you as he loses himself in you, the world outside fading away completely. You can feel the tension tightening in your belly, a delicious coil that threatens to snap.

“I’m getting close,” you breathe after a long while, the words almost lost amidst a long bout of incoherent moaning. You reach down and roughly push his face into your pussy, wantonly craving more as his tongue laps at your juices. 

Bucky responds with a growl, his hands gripping your hips as he pushes you closer to the edge. “Let go,” he murmurs, his voice low and filled with desire. “I’ve got you.”

With those words, you explode, pleasure crashing over you in waves as you cry out his name. He holds you tightly, a steady anchor as you ride the waves of ecstasy, feeling more alive than ever.

As the pleasure subsides, you gasp for breath, your heart racing as you come down from the high. “You okay?” Bucky asks, hovering over you and brushing a stray hair from your face.

You nod, your body still buzzing from the aftermath. “Better than okay,” you reply, a smile creeping across your lips.

He chuckles, the sound resonating deep within his chest, a rich, warm sound that makes your heart swell. For all his worries about falling back into the darkness, you find that he is slowly becoming your source of light. 

“I want you to know,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, “that was only the beginning.”

“Oh really?” you tease, raising an eyebrow, letting your fingers trace along the contours of his vibranium arm.

“Yeah, babydoll,” He grins wolfishly, and you’re glad to see this playful side of him resurfacing. 

You roll on your side, pressing a playful kiss to his lips. “Well, I’m all for that.”

He undresses in a haste, his motions careless and frantic that his black shirt gets stuck around his head, earning a giggle from you. His groans are muffled when he protests, “It’s not funny.”

You reach up to help him out of it. “It’s kinda funny.”

When he’s finally free of the confines of cotton, his hair is all mussed. He looks downright adorable that you could just melt at the sight. But then he frees himself of his trousers too, his thick cock bobbing erect from his boxers, the vein running down its side angry and swollen. 

He’s not just adorable; he’s sensual, virile, erotic.

And you want him so fucking badly.

But he beats you to that admission. “You drive me crazy,” he rasps, his hands massaging your sides. “In the best way possible.”

“I could say the same about you.” There’s a teasing glint in your eyes as you lean back slightly, letting your fingers wander down his chest, tracing the solid lines of his body, each muscle taut and inviting. He groans softly at your touch, his head dropping slightly as his control wavers. 

He positions himself just right, teasing at first, his breath ragged as he enters you slowly, inch by inch. The stretch is exquisite, your body tightening around him as a disjointed gasp escapes your lips. His jaw clenches, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment as he savours the sensation.

“You feel so good, doll,” he groans, his voice hoarse with restraint. There’s a primal hunger in the way he looks at you—like he’s claiming you, and that realisation ignites something deep within you.

You meet his thrusts, your hands gripping his back, nails biting into his skin as he starts to move. His rhythm is slow at first, deliberate, as though he’s drawing out every moment of pleasure, letting it pool deep inside you. Each thrust pushes deeper, more intense, as he slams his pelvis into you.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice dripping with possessiveness, his lips brushing against your neck before he bites down softly, enough to make you moan his name.

“Fffuck, yes, Bucky—”

“You’re so tight,” he gasps, his voice thick with need as he watches your reactions, the way your body responds to him. “God, you feel incredible.”

Before you can respond, he shifts his angle, driving into you harder, deeper. Your knees are pressed together, pointed to one side as he lifts your hips slightly. Every time he ruts into you, he hits that fleshy, sweet spot in your cunt. 

“Yes, Buck!” you gasp. “Just like that.”

“Look at me,” he demands, his voice barely above a growl. “I want you to remember this every time you think of him.” His words are punctuated with a dangerous tinge that almost makes them sound like a threat. A warning. 

“Want you to fall apart around me, doll. Go on. Cum on me,” he commands. His movements grow frenzied, his body shaking with intense pleasure as he drives his cock mercilessly into your core.

You practically scream out hoarsely, the sound mingling with his as he follows you into bliss, his hot seed filling you completely.

Bucky collapses beside you, panting, and you turn to face him, a blissful smile breaking across your lips.

“That was fucking incredible,” you whisper. 

He catches his breath, his fingers trailing along your cheek, his gaze softening. “You have no idea how much I needed that,” he admits. 

“I can kind of tell,” you tease lightly. 

He smiles, a wicked glint in his eyes as he leans in, brushing his lips against yours again. “You’re amazing.”

You smile back, despite the pang of wistfulness in your heart. Because even as his memory lingers, you can feel yourself falling deeper for Bucky. 

“Thank you,” you say sincerely, “So are you, Buck.” You take a breath, the words caught in your throat, as you desperately attempt to address whatever it is that needs to be addressed, but he sees the turmoil in your eyes, and gently cradles your face with one hand.

“I’m sorry, I don’t… I don’t know…” you mumble. 

“Hey,” he says, offering a soft smile, “it’s okay, it’s okay.” You feel hopeless—it should be you consoling him. About whatever this is, and how the memory of Steve continues to complicate everything. Perhaps it always will. But here he is, carrying that burden for the both of you.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, a gesture carrying nothing but tenderness. 

Maybe even love.

“I’m with you, doll,” he promises. “Until the end of the line.”

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Some notes in the margins:

I'm kinda rushing through the events of tfatws, but I want to reach a certain point in time for Steve to make his entrance!

Writing this made me really, really feel for Bucky. My allegiance sways every week. I don't know what to do 😫🥲

oh, and the header images have been updated to include our Buck! As always, I am keen to know what yous think about this chapter 💙💙💙

[no-144444]

3 minutes- l.norris

summary: lando overshoots an overtake, and you go off the track. what then ensues is the most stressful and awful 3 hours of his life.

pairing: lando norris x fem! rbdriver! reader

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He overshot it, and you were off the track. 

“Fuck!” he screamed, looking in his mirrors. “Is she ok?” 

“Red flag, red flag! No info yet Lando, keep going-”

“Is she getting out of the fucking car?!” he screamed. Everything was too much, too fast, too difficult. Every single person in the stands was silent, or maybe his brain was just filtering it out. He couldn’t hear anything, just his own voice, his own breath, and the beat of his own heart in his ears. He needed information, he needed to know that you were walking out of the car. He needed to know you weren’t dead. He needed to know if he still had a fiancé. It was bad. He knew it was bad. It was the third lap of the fucking Sprint. 

“No info-”

“Don’t give me that shit! Is she getting out of the car?!” 

“She is exiting the car, yes.”

And fuck, Lando could breathe again. 

“Assisted,” Will added and his heart dropped. “They’re stopping the session, bring it back to the pits.” 

Lando screamed. As he slowly drove towards the pits, he could feel the eyes on him. The drivers, the media, the fans. All of them wondered the same thing as him. Had he really fucked everything in his life up? 

He parked in his own garage and ran out to the RedBull garage, needing more information than anyone was willing to give him. 

“What is going on?” he demanded of your race engineer, Ryan. 

Ryan sighed. “Have you seen the footage yet?” 

“Don’t show it to him!” Christian demanded, crossing the garage to get to him. “You shouldn’t be here, get out of my garage.”

“She’s my fucking fiancé, if I want information, I’m getting it Christian.”

“You’re the one who fucking killed her!” he screamed. 

The garage went quiet. Lando’s heart rate sped up, his eyes glossed over. He couldn’t have lost you. He didn’t lose you. He refused. He became so much more aware of everything around him, the dead silence in the garage, the way everyone else’s eyes were wide, or subdued. The way Max stilled. The way Christian just stared at him. The way everyone stopped breathing. He could feel every inch of his race suit on his skin, he could feel every curl on top of his head, every bead of sweat that fell from his skin. He took a deep breath. 

“She’s gone?” he asked in a broken whisper, looking at Ryan. Ryan looked down. 

“They got her back!” Henry, your lead mechanic screamed, informing the entire garage that you in fact, were alive. “She’s breathing, she’s awake!” 

There was a collective sigh of relief. With the aid of Max, Christian backed off enough to allow Lando to see the footage and hear the whole story. 

He watched in horror as the front left of his McLaren hit the back right of your RB and sent you flying. Somehow, you’d become airborne and flipped 8 times. 8 times. He counted it. The car hit into the barriers, and it split. 

You didn’t move. The cameras turned away. The marshals ran. George ran on, his car had been hit with debris, the same for Franco, Liam, and Alex. They ran over, trying desperately to help you out. George and Liam carried you over to the ambulance. You were limp. Unresponsive.

“She died for 3 minutes,” Ryan explained, a sombre tone in his voice. “She’s on her way to the hospital now.” 

He looked down, the tears flowing freely. You had died. For 3 whole minutes, you were gone. 

“We think it was the impact of the spinning, and then hitting into the barriers. And… her Hans device was faulty. It wasn’t put on properly, and it came off during the first spin.”

“What about the halo?” he asked. 

“It was crushed in the flips. She took the full impact of the last two with no Hans deivce. It was a miracle she didn't break her neck.” 

He felt like he’d been slapped. 

“We’ll get a car ready for you now. She’ll want to see you,” he explained, wrapping an arm around Lando and bringing him out into the paddock. Ryan, Max, and Henry shielded him from the prying eyes of the media, and got him into a car to the hospital. 

What then ensued was the longest car ride of his life. Sao Paulo traffic was awful on a good day, but fuck. This was excruciating. What was worse was the inner turmoil he was dealing with. Would you ever want to see him? Would you leave him after this? Was this the end? Would you ever get back into an F1 car?

When he finally made it to the hospital, he was rushed to the ICU, walking behind a nurse. 

“She’s in a stable condition, and she’s awake. She’s been asking for you,” she explained and a weight was lifted off his shoulders. You wanted to see him. You asked to see him. 

He turned the corner into your room and he met your eyes. Bloodshot, with a burst blood vessel in one of them. You were bruised and broken, too many casts to count. 

“Lando,” you smiled.

You smiled. 

He rushed over to your side, sitting in the seat at the side of your bed. “I’m here.” 

Your eyes were welling up in tears. “I wanted to see you before I left the track but they said I had to go,” you explained. “This isn’t your fault Lan. It was a racing accident. It was a mistake.” 

He stared at you for a moment. How was it that you could sit there, in pain, traumatised, and comfort him? If he was a better man, he probably would’ve told you it was his fault, and not start crying at your kind words. 

He started tearing up, bowing his head as to stop you seeing. “I don't deserve you.” 

“You do,” you whispered, cupping his cheek. “You do, Lan. You’re here. I know you, and I know you’ve been beating yourself up for the last 3 hours. You didn’t kill me. I’m still alive.” 

“I killed you for 3 minutes,” he croaked out. 

“Racing killed me for 3 minutes. My defence killed me for 3 minutes. My ego killed me for 3 minutes. It wasn’t you, Lando. I turned into you, I’ve watched the footage,” you assured him. “Don’t blame yourself. I don’t.” 

“I’m so sorry,” he whimpered, wrapping his arms around you carefully. 

“I’m ok,” you whispered. “You're ok. It’s ok.” 

You both knew it would take some time to get over this, but you knew you’d do it together. That was the important part.

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navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

[local-dragon-haunt]

hey! i’m an artist and i was wondering what about the httyd crossover art made it obviously AI. i’m trying to get better at recognizing AI versus real art and i totally would have just not clocked that.

Hey! This is TOTALLY okay to not have recognized it, because I DIDN'T AT FIRST, EITHER. Unfortunately there’s no real foolproof way to distinguish real art from the fake stuff. However I have noticed a general rule of thumb while browsing these last few months.

So this is the AI generated image I used as inspiration. I will not be tagging the account that posted it because I do not condone bullying of any type, but it’s important to mention that this was part of a set of images:

This is important because one of the BIGGEST things you can use to your advantage is context clues. This is the thing that clued me in: right off the bat we can see that there is NO consistency between these three images. The art style and outfits change with every generated image. They're vaguely related (I.E. characters that resemble the Big Four are on some sort of adventure?) and that's about it. Going to the account in question proved that all they posted were AI generated images. All of which have many red flags, but for clarity's sake we'll stick with the one that I used.

The first thing that caught my eye was this???? Amorphous Blob in the background. Which is obviously supposed to be knights or a dragon or something.

Again, context clues come into play here. Artists will draw everything With A Purpose. And if what they're drawing is fanart, you are going to recognize most of what you see in the image. Even if there are mistakes.

In the context of this image, it looks like the Four are supposed to be running from these people. The thing that drew my attention to it was the fact that I Didn't Recognize The Villains, and this is because there is nothing to recognize. These shapes aren't Drago, or Grimmel, or Pitch, or any other villain we usually associate with ROTBTD. They're just Amorphous Blobs that are vaguely villain shaped.

Which brings me to my second point:

Do you see the way they're standing? There is no purpose to this. It throws the entire image off. Your eye is drawn to the Amorphous Villain Blobs in the background, and these characters are not reacting to them one bit.

Now I'm not saying that all images have to have a story behind them, but if this were created by a person, it clearly would have had one. Our group here is not telling a story, they are posing.

This is because the AI does not see the image as a whole, but as two separate components: the setting, and the description of the characters that the prompter dictates. I.E. "Merida from Brave, Jack Frost from ROTG, Rapunzel from Tangled, and Hiccup from HTTYD standing next to each other"

Now obviously the most pressing part of this prompt are the characters themselves. So the AI prioritizes that and tries to spit out something that WE recognize as "Merida from Brave, Jack Frost from ROTG, Rapunzel from Tangled, and Hiccup from HTTYD standing next to each other".

This, more times than not, is going to end up with this stagnant posing. Because AI cannot create, it can only emulate. And even then, it still can't do it right. Case in point:

This is not Hiccup. The AI totally thinks this is Eugene Fitzherbert. Look at the pose. The facial structure. The goatee. The smirk. The outfits. He's always next to Raps. Why does he have a quiver? Where's Toothless? His braids? His scar??

HE HAS BOTH OF HIS LEGS.

The AI. Cannot even get the most important part of it's prompt correct.

And that's just the beginning. Here:

More amorphous shapes.

So these are obviously supposed to be utility belts, but I mean. Look at them. The perspective is all off. There are useless straps. I don't even know what that cluster behind Jack's left arm is supposed to be.

This is a prime example of AI emulating without understanding structure.

You can see this particularly in Jack, between his hands, the "tassels" of his tunic, and the odd wrinkles of his boots. There's just not any structure here whatsoever.

Lastly, AI CANNOT CREATE PATTERNS.

Here are the side-by-sides of the shit I had to deal with when redesigning their outfits. Please someone acknowledge this. This killed me inside. THIS is most recognizable to me, and usually what I look for first if I'm wary about an art piece. These clusterfuck bunches of color. I hate them. I hate them so. much.

Anyways here's some other miscellaneous things I've noticed:

Danny Phantom Eyes

???? Thumb? (and random sword sheath)

Collarbone Necklace (corset from hell)

No Staff :( No Bow :(

What is that.

So yeah. Truly the best thing to do is to just. study it. A lot of times you aren't gonna notice anything just looking at the big picture, you need to zoom in and focus on the little details. Obviously I'm not like an expert in AI or anything, but I do have a degree in animation practices and I'm. You know. A human being. So.

In conclusion:

(Y'all should totally reblog my redesign of this btw)