#when blister showed up i GASPED

[norrisradio]

TRUE LOVE OF MINE

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "You with the dark curls, you with the watercolor eyes / You who bares all your teeth in every smile" - Lady Lamb, Dear Arkansas Daughter

ᝰ PAIRING: lando norris x reader | ᝰ WC: 5.5K ᝰ GENRE: best friends to lovers (we cheered!), reader = ex karting driver + med student, you have loved lando since the day you met etc etc etc ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: fun fact - the colors used in the title/headings on this post are actually the colors of lando's eyes from this post // this was a behemoth of a fic to write and i'm still nto entirely pleased, but the people yearn for lando norris ꨄ requested by anon!

send me an ask for my line by line event.ᐟ

The first time you see Lando Norris, he’s face-down in the mud, crying because someone called him a posh baby in the paddock, and you think he’s the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen.

There’s mud crusted on his cheek like it belongs there, curls pressed damp to his forehead, and his whole face is crumpled like paper in a storm. He’s got one sock half off and a fresh scab on his shin, and still, somehow, he looks like he belongs in a painting. The messy kind. Watercolor, probably. Something soft and bleeding at the edges, impossible to frame.

He’s eight and you’re eight and a half, which means you get to say things like “it’s okay, babies cry,” even though you don’t really mean it. He wipes his face on his sleeve and looks up at you with blotchy cheeks and kaleidoscope eyes, like someone spilled a little too much green into blue, and says, “I’m not a baby.” You believe him.

You sit next to him on the curb, knees knocking together, watching his kart like it’s some sacred thing. The sky is gray, threatening rain, and he’s all flushed skin and scraped palms and frustration. 

“They’re just jealous,” you mutter. He doesn’t look at you. “Of what? That I cry like a baby?” “No,” you say. “That your eyelashes are stupid long and you drive like the kart owes you money.”

That gets a huff out of him. Half-sob, half-laugh.

You offer him your juice box. He doesn’t smile, but he bares his teeth when he takes it, all crooked and endearing and real. That’s the thing about Lando. He’s always been real.

He holds out a sticky, dirt-streaked hand.

“I’m Lando.” “I know,” you say. “Everyone knows.”

You shake his hand anyway.

A month later, you beg your parents to sign you up for the junior karting class — not because you like cars (you don’t, really), but because you like him. Or maybe just the way he lights up when he talks about apexes and engine sounds like they’re things that breathe.

You come home smelling like oil. Your knuckles blister from gripping the wheel too hard. You cry once when you spin out and hit the barriers; but he’s there, pulling your helmet off like you’re made of glass, telling you, “You looked cool, though. Like, action movie cool.”

He makes you want to win. So you start trying.

When you’re eleven, he wins a race with his hair slicked back by sweat and wind, curls flattened into chaos. He leaps from the kart like he’s weightless, helmet swinging from one hand like a trophy of its own, and the grin he throws at you — all teeth, no restraint — nearly knocks you over.

“Did you see that?” he shouts, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Did you see?”

You did. Every lap. Every line. You saw the way his hands tightened before the last corner, the way his shoulders settled like he’d already decided to win.

You hand him his water bottle.

“You were okay.”

He gasps. “Just okay?”

“You’ll be cooler when you stop smiling like you’re showing your teeth to the dentist.”

He grins wider. Shoves you lightly with the back of his hand.

“Admit it. I looked sick.”

He did. He always does. Even like this, eyes stormy and pale all at once, flushed with the kind of joy that doesn’t need to be explained. He’s not handsome yet, not in the way the magazines will call him later. But there’s something about the way he holds a moment. The way you can’t look away when he’s in it.

Later that summer, you win.

It’s not a big race. Junior category, barely a crowd —but he’s there. Leans so far over the barrier during your final lap the marshal tells him to get down before he falls in.

You don’t hear the cheering. You don’t even feel the medal when they hang it around your neck. All you feel is Lando barreling toward you at the speed of light, helmet in one hand, arms wide, like you’re the one who gave him wings.

“You were flying,” he breathes, practically vibrating. “You were magic.”

You pretend to scoff. “Guess I’m not just here to hand you water bottles.”

He pulls you into a hug anyway. No hesitation. Just heat and sweat and the faint scent of petrol and whatever soap he uses. His heart’s pounding against your shoulder like he’s the one who just won.

Later, when you look at the photos, you don’t care about the trophy in your hands. You care about the boy behind you — curls wild, smiling so hard it looks like it hurts.

At fifteen, you start noticing the way other girls notice him.

It starts in Italy, or maybe Spain. Somewhere with sunburnt afternoons and the scent of burnt rubber curling off the asphalt like smoke. The girls linger after his heats now. They lean too close and laugh too loudly. Twisting their hair, asking if he’s going to the after-party, the lake, the whatever.

You stand beside him in the hoodie he gave you two summers ago: faded navy, sleeves chewed at the cuffs. It smells like sunscreen and old fabric and something unnameable that has always just been him. You pick at the hem while they talk, eyes on his profile.

The same boy you’ve known since he was sobbing on a curb with gravel in his socks has started to shimmer, like something just out of reach. Something made of light and speed.

His hair’s longer now, curling wild at the edges of his helmet. His smile’s the same, though. All teeth, all instinct. It still takes up half his face like he hasn’t learned how to hide anything yet.

But he doesn’t smile at them. He never does.

He looks at you. “You’re quiet,” he says, tugging at the drawstring of your hoodie. You shrug. “I’m always quiet.” “Not with me.”

He says it like a secret. Like he likes that about you — that there’s a version of yourself reserved just for him. You don’t say anything back, because you're not sure your voice would work even if you tried.

That night, you find yourselves walking the hotel parking lot, drinking vending machine soda that tastes faintly like metal and sugar. The sky's a navy bruise, and everything hums: the street lamps, the asphalt, your pulse.

“You’re kind of becoming a big deal,” you say, finally.

He laughs, low and a little shy, like you’ve caught him off-guard. “Don’t say that,” he says. “I’ll get cocky.”

“You already are.” You bump his arm with yours. It’s too dark to see his face clearly, but you know he’s smiling wide, teeth and all, like he’s baring it just for you.

And maybe he is.

Because even now, even with sponsors circling and flights booked across Europe, even with interviews and mechanics and the way his name sounds over loudspeakers, he still comes to your races.

He’ll show up between practice sessions with a baseball cap pulled low and sunglasses that don’t do much to hide him. You’ll spot him first, sitting on the pit wall like he’s always belonged there, one leg swinging like a kid with too much energy.

“Why do you still come?” you ask him once, after you’d placed second and felt like it wasn’t enough.

He shrugged. “Because I like watching you win.”

You think about that now, under the flicker of a buzzing lamp, watching the way his lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks when he looks at you. His eyes are still that strange in-between — not quite blue, not quite grey, always shifting like skies about to storm.

Like watercolor left out in the rain.

You look away first.

You always do.

At sixteen, you run until your lungs burn. You don’t stop until your fists hit his front door, nails bitten down to nothing and eyes already stinging. He opens it in a hoodie three sizes too big, and the second he sees your face, he doesn’t ask.

He just pulls you in.

You’re crying too hard to speak at first, shoulders shaking, throat raw. He closes the door behind you and guides you to the stairs like it’s muscle memory, like this has happened before, and maybe it has, in smaller ways. Skinned knees. Lost heats. Bad days.

But this is different.

“They’re making me quit,” you finally get out. “They said— they said I have to focus on school. On real life.”

You say it like a curse. Like “real life” is something you never asked for.

Lando’s quiet for a moment. His hand curls around your wrist, thumb brushing a soothing rhythm over your pulse. His eyes — moss green in the dark — watch you without blinking. Always watching. Always knowing.

“Come on,” he says.

You frown. “Where?”

“Just— trust me.”

He doesn’t wait for you to agree. He just grabs his keys and your hand and pulls you out into the night. The wind has teeth. The sky hangs low, indigo and velvet. When you realize where you’re going, your heart breaks all over again.

The track sits behind the hill, silent and sleeping.

Lando hops the gate first, then turns and offers you his hand. You take it, fingers cold in his. He pulls you over like it’s nothing.

The lights are off, but the moon’s enough. It glints off the asphalt, pale and silver, the same way the sun used to gleam on your helmet when you’d throw it off at the end of a race, breathless and laughing. Back when your name had a number next to it and your dreams had engines.

Lando walks the edge of the track, then steps aside, gestures toward the start line like he’s offering you a crown.

“One more,” he says. “For old time’s sake.”

You laugh, watery and shaking. “There’s no kart, idiot.”

He shrugs. “Run it.”

So you do.

You take off, sneakers slapping the track, heart thudding like it’s trying to break through your ribs. Your hair whips behind you, tangled and wild, and you run like you used to race: reckless, full tilt, like the only thing that’s ever made sense is forward.

The wind hits your face and the tears dry on your cheeks and the world blurs around the edges. You run with everything you are; for every lap you’ll never finish, every podium you won’t stand on, every flame they’re trying to snuff out of you.

When you make it back to him, gasping and breathless, Lando is watching like he always does, with something quiet and fierce behind his eyes. Like he sees not just you, but the version of you the world won’t let exist anymore.

You collapse next to him, panting. He says nothing for a long time. Just sits beside you on the track, knees pulled to his chest, hoodie sleeves swallowed over his hands.

“You’ll come back to it,” he says eventually, soft like the curve of a turn. “I know you will.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He glances over, and for a moment, he looks like a boy again: the same boy with curls damp from rain, whose smile could split the sky. A boy who’s watched you win, lose, burn, rebuild. A boy who’s carried your dreams in the quiet way he carries everything.

“Besides,” he says, nudging your knee, “I’m still gonna win stuff. Someone’s gotta keep me humble.”

You laugh, finally — a real one. It cracks through the ache like sunlight through smoke.

“Always with the fast mouth,” you murmur. “And an ego the size of an engine.”

He grins. All teeth. Unashamed. Something ancient flutters in your chest, something that’s always been there but has never had the nerve to speak.

You don’t say you are the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen, but you think it. You don’t say I’ve loved you since I was eight and a half, but maybe he knows.

Maybe he always has.

By eighteen, Lando’s face is in magazines. He’s a headline now, a profile shot under stadium lights, a name that doesn’t need explaining anymore. He smiles with his whole face — wide and unguarded — and sometimes you see a photo that feels so much like him you have to close the tab and sit with your hands in your lap, breathing slowly.

You still see the boy who once spilled chocolate milk all down his overalls at Silverstone and sobbed so hard he hiccupped for twenty minutes. The one who used to braid daisy chains into the laces of your boots between heats. But now there are articles that say things like rising star and British darling, and he fits in their glossy pages better than he should.

He FaceTimes you after qualifying P1 for the first time. It’s late, past midnight, and you’re still in the library, alone but for the hum of the vending machine and the ache behind your eyes. You almost don’t pick up.

But then you see his name flash on the screen — 🚦LAN-DON’T CRASH🚦 — and your stomach flips like it used to before lights out.

He’s still in his race suit, curls a mess of damp ringlets, cheeks flushed like he’s been running. There’s something in his eyes, too: watercolor green, vivid and blurred around the edges, like adrenaline and disbelief have soaked into his skin.

His smile breaks the second you answer. Wide and wild and so familiar it stings.

“Did you watch?” he says, already breathless.

“Obviously,” you say, tipping your phone back so he can see the chemistry notes scattered across the desk. “Had it up on mute during organic synthesis. You’re lucky I didn’t scream when you took the final sector.”

“You think I was okay?”

“You were sick.”

He pumps a fist and flops back onto some impossibly white hotel bed, still grinning like a kid who’s snuck past curfew. The camera wobbles, then steadies on his face again: flushed and freckled, sweat still clinging to his jaw. He looks happy.

You used to know that feeling. That kind of high. The kind that only came with rubber and gasoline and the blur of corners taken clean.

Your helmet lives in the back of your closet now, tucked behind winter coats and forgotten notebooks. You’ve traded it for lab goggles and timed exams, for ink-stained hands and the quiet sort of excellence no one applauds. Your medals sit in a shoebox beneath your bed, and you haven’t opened it in over a year. You tell people you’re pre-med now. That it’s what you’ve always wanted.

Two years have dulled the ache. Sandpapered it down from a blade to something you can live with. Sometimes you still dream of the track, of the smell of rubber and the scream of engines, but you wake up and make coffee and keep studying until the want quiets again.

Lando watches you for a second. He sees things other people don’t — always has.

“You good?” he asks, voice soft now, like it used to be when he’d sneak out to meet you by the tire stacks after dark.

You nod, a little too fast. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He raises an eyebrow, not buying it. “What are you working on?”

You sigh and flip your notebook toward the screen. “Chemical compounds. I’ve got a practical on Monday. Enantiomers, ketones, the whole gang.”

He makes a face. “Nerd.”

“National treasure,” you correct, dryly. “And future doctor, maybe.”

He lights up at that. “Sick. You can be my medic when I crash.”

You roll your eyes. “So I’ll see you, what, every weekend?”

“Exactly,” he says, smug. “We’re soulmates, remember?”

You want to say, you with the stupid grin, you with the disaster curls, you with the heartbeat I could always find in the noise.But instead, you shake your head and say, “God help your insurance.”

He laughs, throws his head back, bares every tooth like he always does. There’s a soft curve in the center of his front two that never straightened out, even after braces. You used to tell him he looked like a Labrador when he smiled like that. You still think it now, but it feels like something tender and sacred, like a memory you keep pressed between pages.

“I miss you,” he says, quieter now.

You don’t say I miss the version of me that only exists around you.You just whisper, “Yeah. I know.”

The call ends eventually. It always does. But you sit there for a while after, your notebook untouched, watching the ghost of his smile in your screen’s reflection.

You’re twenty-one and a half when Lando sneaks into your college graduation. You don’t see him at first. You’re too busy sweating in your robe, clutching your diploma like it might disappear, wondering if your cap looks stupid in photos. Your parents wave from the stands, your friends cheer, and you try to hold still long enough to soak it in — but it never lands quite right. Everything feels too big, too loud, too fast.

Until he finds you.

Until he hugs you from behind and says, low in your ear, “Told you you’d look cool in a cape.”

You twist around, and there he is, in a hoodie pulled low over those unmistakable curls, sunglasses at night like the world’s worst disguise. His smile is crooked, tired. Familiar.

“What the fuck,” you whisper. “Aren’t you supposed to be—”

He grins wider. “I skipped media day.”

Your jaw drops.

“Shhh,” he adds, holding a finger to your lips. “I’ll get yelled at later. Worth it.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or hit him. So you do both —thump his arm, then drag him into a hug, still warm from the sun and whatever it means to grow up.

He stays through the party, tucked into the background, stealing finger food and smiling like he’s always belonged. He doesn’t pull attention the way he does on track. Here, he just… exists beside you. Quietly. Constantly. Every time you turn around, he’s already looking.

Later, long after the music dies and your parents have gone to bed, the two of you end up on the grass in your front yard, barefoot, robes ditched, diplomas crumpled somewhere behind you. The stars are blurry, a little from distance, a little from everything else.

He lies flat on his back, arms spread like a kid making snow angels, and says, “I’ve got a flight in two hours.”

You hum. “FP1?”

He nods.

You both fall quiet. The silence between you has never been uncomfortable. It stretches like elastic, worn in with years of knowing — from tire stacks and afterschool karting, from night tracks and vending machines, from every version of growing up that had the other curled into its corner.

“I’m scared,” you admit, finally. “For med school.”

Lando turns his head to look at you. You’re lying close, your hair fanned out against the grass, fingers plucking gently at the blades. You don’t meet his eyes, but you feel them on you. The color of seafoam, soft in the dark. The kind that still knocks the breath out of you when you're not bracing for it.

“You’ll be great.”

You scoff. “You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Why?”

There’s a rustle of denim and hoodie fabric, and then he’s sitting up, pulling something from his pocket. A worn-out square of photo paper, crumpled and soft at the edges. He presses it into your hand.

You blink. It’s a picture of the two of you, age nine, arms thrown around each other in the pit lane. His curls are messy and stuck to his forehead, flushed cheeks stretched in a grin so big you can count every tooth. You’re buried in his side, beaming up at him like he hung the sky. Lando’s holding a trophy, but even then, he’s not looking at it. He’s looking at you.

“You gave me your gummy worms right after that,” he says. “Said I earned it.”

You run your thumb over the crease down the middle. The image is faded now, but you remember the moment like it’s stitched into you.

He says it like it’s obvious. Like gravity. “Because we’re soulmates. And I feel it in my bones.”

You don’t answer right away. You can’t.

The stars above you scatter like sugar across navy velvet. Your eyes sting.

“You know,” you say after a while, voice low, “If you crash, I’ll be the one stitching you back together.”

He grins. Not his media-trained one — not the sharp, rehearsed smile he wears under paddock lights — but the real one. The one that splits across his face without warning. That bares all his teeth like he’s never learned to hold anything back. That’s lived on every page of your memory since you were old enough to chase him across a track.

“That’s hot,” he teases.

You roll your eyes. “You’re a nightmare.”

“But I’m your nightmare.”

And that’s the thing, isn’t it?

It’s always been him. Him with eyes that shift with the light, that catch everything, that still find you first.

You with your goggles and your notebooks. Him with his fireproof gloves and nowhere to land.

You, who traded circuits for classrooms.

Him, who never stopped circling back to you.

He looks at you like he always has, like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense. You think maybe you believe him.

That you’ll be okay.

Because he said so. Because he always shows up. Because he’s flying across the world in an hour, but somehow, you’ve never felt more grounded.

At twenty-three, he invites you to Monaco.

You’re dead on your feet when he calls. It’s nearly midnight and you’re cramming for your pathology exam, cross-eyed from the fluorescent lighting in your apartment. You don’t even remember what you said exactly; something like “med school is killing me and I swear to God I haven’t seen the sun in four days.” Laughed it off with the tired grin he knows too well.

You forgot it by morning.

He didn’t.

Now, a week later, you’re barefoot on his balcony, letting the gold-tinged air sink into your skin as the sun sets over the Riviera. The track lies sprawled beneath you like a secret. The sea beyond it glints like something ancient, something wild.

Your breath hitches without meaning to.

“I used to dream about racing this track,” you say, barely above a whisper. “When I was fifteen, I’d watch the onboard cams on my laptop and try to memorize every corner. I knew the lines like poetry.”

Beside you, Lando is quiet. But when you glance over, there’s a glint in his eye, the one that always spelled trouble. Or magic. Or both. His curls are pushed back haphazardly, like he ran a hand through them too many times on the flight, but there’s still that boyishness, untamed and familiar.

“What?” you ask warily.

He doesn’t answer. Just grabs your wrist. “C’mon.” “Lando—” “No time. Let’s go.”

You barely have time to yank on your sneakers before he’s dragging you out the door, past the sleepy concierge and down the quiet streets like he’s done it a thousand times. He takes sharp turns with muscle memory, his fingers tight around yours.

Only when the city’s noise has thinned and the streetlights spill onto the famous asphalt do you realize where you are.

“Lando,” you whisper. “We can’t—” “We’re not driving,” he grins. “Just running it. Like when we were kids, remember?" “FIA—” “Would fine me until my hair turns gray.” He pauses. “Still worth it.”

Your heart kicks against your ribs, but your legs are already moving.

You run.

Past Sainte Devote, hair flying behind you. Past the casino, your laughter ricocheting off elegant facades. You’re breathless by the tunnel, aching by the chicane, but he’s still pulling you like he did when you were kids and he insisted you could make it to the top of that hill if you just didn’t stop.

The air smells like salt and speed.

By the time you reach the harbor, your lungs are burning and your face is flushed and he’s glowing, cheeks pink, smile wide, teeth bared like he’s daring the night to find a brighter joy than this. He looks every bit like the boy you fell in love with fifteen years ago.

The one with grass stains on his overalls. The one whose curls never obeyed a comb. The one who grinned like mischief itself. The one whose eyes — not blue, not quite green — shimmered like someone had taken watercolors and washed them into something soft and stupidly beautiful.

You stop, breathless. He does too.

And for a second, it feels like everything’s still. Like the world just pressed pause.

Later, you sit at the edge of the marina, legs swinging over the water. Your shoes are abandoned on the dock. The air is heavy with the scent of engine oil and sea spray. The waves slap gently against the boats, like applause winding down after a show.

Beside you, Lando says nothing. But you feel him watching. And when you turn, he’s looking at you like he’s never seen you before.

But of course he has. He’s seen you in worse light: that post-rain haze in your old garage, your hair frizzed to hell and braces catching on your lower lip, oil on your jeans and mud on your ankles. He’s seen you bleary-eyed on FaceTime at 3AM. He’s seen you panicking over exams, crying in the paddock, snorting over bad pizza and better jokes.

Still, he looks at you now like he forgot the color of your laugh until this exact moment brought it back. His hair hangs loose over his forehead, still damp from the run, and the way his mouth twitches — almost a grin, almost not — makes your stomach turn over.

He bumps your knee with his.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Better than okay.” “You looked happy back there.” “I was happy back there.” “Good.” He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “I miss that.”

You glance at him, surprised.

“Miss what?”

“You. Like that.” He exhales, eyes trained on the moon's reflection on the water. “Laughing. Running. Being ridiculous with me.”

You don’t say anything.

He does.

“I miss you all the time,” he says, voice low. “Even when I’m with you.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re always somewhere else now. In your books. In your head. In hospitals I can’t pronounce.”

Your heart tugs at the edges. He doesn’t sound bitter. Just tired. Honest.

“I get it,” he adds. “It’s important. It matters. But sometimes I think about that summer when we were fifteen, and you stole my hoodie, and we made fake pit passes just to sneak into the garage.”

You laugh, quiet. “We were so stupid.”

“We were so happy.”

The silence after that isn’t awkward. It’s full. Like the city’s holding its breath.

You look over at him. Really look.

His lashes are darker now. His jaw’s sharper. A lock of hair curls against his temple, untamed. But he’s still him. Still the boy in the mud, the boy who taught you how to drift on your cousin’s farm, who shared his Capri-Sun at the track because you forgot yours, again. Still the one who taped your wrist when you wiped out in the rain and told you you’d make it to Monaco someday.

And here you are.

“Lando,” you murmur. “Yeah?” “I missed you too.”

He doesn’t wait this time.

He kisses you like he’s been waiting years to remember how.

And maybe he has. Maybe you both have.

The world blurs for a moment: the moon climbing higher, the boats bobbing gently below, the buzz of the city dissolving behind you, and all that’s left is him.

All sun-warmed skin and trembling fingers and eyes the color of every good memory — soft-washed, warm, like light bleeding through a window at golden hour.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath mingling with yours.

“I didn’t think you’d let me do that,” he whispers.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

You both laugh. Just a little. Just enough.

You’re twenty-five when you catch him watching you from across a hotel room in Japan. There’s a storm outside, low thunder rolling through the glass, and Lando’s shirt is damp from the run to the lobby. His curls are still wet, clinging to his forehead in loose, chaotic swirls. He should be tired — hell, you’re tired — but he’s watching you like you’re something new.

It’s not the first time he’s looked at you like this. Not by a long shot.

He’s never been subtle about it, not when he warms your hands in his pockets on cold walks back from the paddock, not when he lights up the second your name shows up on his phone. He’s the kind of boy who leaves his heart in plain sight, who grins with his whole body, who never learned how to want quietly.

You feel his gaze before you meet it. The kind that makes your chest go a little soft, like the edges of a photograph curling with time.

“You’re staring,” you say, without looking up from your textbook.

“I’m allowed to,” he replies. “I’m in love with you.”

You blink. Not because you didn’t know — he’s never been subtle — but because of how easily he says it. No drama. No orchestra. Just him. Lando, who once stuck gum in your hair during a twelve-hour drive to Wales. Lando, who whispered you’ve got me into your hair the night your grandmother died. Lando, who still trips over his own shoes in hotel corridors and grins like a child when room service arrives.

You toss a pillow at him. “Say it prettier.”

He catches it one-handed, kaleidoscope eyes glinting in the dim light. Smirks. “You make me want to write poetry, but all I know how to do is drive.”

That shuts you up.

His eyes crinkle at the corners, a blue-green haze in the lightning glow, and he grins wider, like he knows he’s just won something. Like he’d lose a thousand races and still call this the prize.

“Told you,” he murmurs.

There are races, years, chapters.

Seasons where you barely see each other, where you wake up to hotel ceilings and unfamiliar time zones and forget what city you’re in until he kisses your shoulder and mumbles something in a sleep-heavy voice like, It’s Thursday. We’re in Austin. His curls are flattened from sleep, his voice rough at the edges, and his arms still warm from whatever dream he was having.

Sometimes he wins. Sometimes he doesn’t. You never love him any more or less.

He still gets grumpy when he’s hungry, still laughs at memes from 2014, still buys you the weird flavored gum at petrol stations because you used to love this stuff, remember? Still leans into your space like gravity’s something personal. Still has a grin that cracks through your worst moods like sunlight.

There are cameras. Headlines. Speculations. But you’ve always known who he was.

You know the versions of him that never make it to the press: the quiet frustration of a red flag, the way he presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek when he’s nervous, the silence he sinks into after a loss. The way his curls flop over his forehead when he finally takes off his helmet. The way he says your name when he’s scared. The way he finds you in every crowd like it’s instinct. How his eyes — storm-colored, sometimes soft, sometimes sharp — flick to you the second anything starts to feel too loud.

And you’ve always let him. You always will.

He’s thirty-one when you find an old photo in a drawer: the two of you, muddy and grinning, barely ten years old. His curls are a mess, more fluff than form. You’re wearing his jacket, sleeves bunched up to your elbows. Neither of you have front teeth. You’re both sun-drenched and ridiculous.

“God,” you mutter, holding it up to the light. “We were a disaster.”

From the kitchen, he says, “Still are.”

You hear the clink of a spoon against ceramic. The rustle of his socks on the tile.

“You still love me?” you call, teasing, but not really.

He appears in the doorway, hoodie half-on, spoon in his mouth. He’s older now — jaw more carved, eyes a little softer around the edges — but the grin he gives you is the same one from every memory that matters. That lopsided, toothy thing like he’s always one second from bursting into laughter. A single curl falls against his temple, and for a moment, it’s hard to tell what year it is.

He swallows and says, “I’ll love you even when we’re bones.”

You believe him.

You always have.

[cheriladycl01]

Qatar Heat - Grid x Driver! Reader

Plot: Everyone has a hard time at the Qatar GP, most needed medical attention once the race finished, some drivers retired and some continued even though they threw up in their helmets. What happens when the female of the grid, who already struggles with body temperature regulation finishes the race?

It was Thursday, which was media day in Qatar which meant that right now you were walking round the paddock in shorts and your Aston Martin Team top.

"Lance, hey are you okay?" You ask your team-mate. You'd known him since last year as the reserve driver for Aston Martin, Seb wanted you to take his place after retirement.

"Yeah, its just so hot. And Henry's still making me do training" he complains.

"I know but think we got the ice bath's later!" you grin excited to have the ice bath. After a hot day of training it was like a reward. So you did your ball exercises and you did a track run for the media team. Afterwards you were about to lay down on the track ground but it was blistering when you put your hand to it.

"Tires are gonna get shredded" you complain a little out of breath to Jessie your personal trainer.

"Can we go get water and smoothies now?" You ask and Sid one of the media guys who had followed you around today nods. You guys get out of the sun before running into the garage and collecting as many people's orders from the garage as you can.

You bring everyone back what they wanted on a tray. Sid filmed you the whole time, so he could upload it to the Tik-Tok saying that the new Aston Martin waitress is pretty cool. And another one joking that you can always fall back on waitressing if F1 falls through which you found hilarious.

"Okay, Lance Y/N. Ice bath time!" Mike Krack informs you both. You go into your driver room changing into your bikini that'd you'd brought with you. You pull the Aston Martin polo back over, feeling as though it would be odd to walk out the back of the motorhome in a bikini.

You see the cameras on you and immediately smile. You go up very close to the camera.

"Hi guys, i felt awkward coming out in just my bikini so Aston Martin Representation!" you whisper before stepping back and poking your thumbs at your top to show them what you were talking about, as if it wasn't obvious.

Looking to your left, Lando, Oscar, Alex and Logan were also all doing icebaths out the back of the motorhome too.

"Looking good boys" you shout after wolf whistling in their direction, they all laugh having finished their icebaths coming over to you and Lance.

"Come on" Alex gestures you towards the ice bath. You roll your eyes pulling the top over your head and passing it to Alex, he steps back looking at the other three boys who are shamelessly staring at you.

You were the current youngest on the grid. 21 years old, so Oscar, Logan and Lando all took a liking to you, not only because of the age similarities but because of your sense of humor.

"Ready Lance, you ask your team-mate whose shirt was just pulled off and handed to Mike who was helping the social media team.

"Lets make this interesting. First to fully submerge wins"

"That's not exactly fair your from Canada...okay your on" you shout and before anyone can blink your jumping into the ice bath. Your up to your thighs before you watch as Lance starts to sink down. Not even thinking about the cold you just force your whole body down. You can feel the cold all around your hair as it floats up and you can feel the cold water on your eyelids.

You come back up with a gasped breath before looking over at all of them.

"Who won, it was me right?" you say with your eyes blown wide as Lance emerges.

"Yes, but your fucking crazy" Lando laughs looking at the smile that comes across your face.

"Hahaha Suck that Stroll! I win" you say looking over at him.

"Ohhh you know what we should do" you say looking over at the camera that was still pointed at you.

"We should do a thirst trap of me, so people can edit me on TikTok!" you exclaim and Oscar chokes, while Logan and Land laugh as your started to lean back in the bath, running your hands through you hair.

"Y/N how many times have we talked about this" Your PR manager exclaims trying to stop the admins from filming.

"Oh come on its what they want!" You exclaim.

After that night, you went out for food, a healthy meal of course that Lance payed for as the looser of the bet.

Friday First Practice was good, you'd come in 4th just behind the two Ferrari's and Max.

Qualifying was just as good, you were starting in 4th next to Lewis, with George and Max ahead of you for Sunday's race and that was locked in. It was exhausting, you were boiling but you pushed. Lance was angry with the car performance and got angry at Henry, you were shocked to see and hear what happened when you were still driving and scolded Lance, before nearly fainting from being dizzy.

Again, you did the ice bath dinner and slept.

Now to focus on Saturdays sprint. You did well in the first two sprint shoot outs. But ended up retiring the car in Q3, starting in 9th position.

You were so faint for the whole race. Today, it was hotter than all the other days. Your fireproof felt more clingy to your skin than usual and the water in the car was heating up quicker than it normally did.

At one point during the sprint race the water was so disgusting to drink you actually spat it out in your helmet on reflex.

You finished in 8th gaining 1 point for the team who congratulated you. You stayed in the car as you pulled into the garage for a minute before you stripped of in the garage down to tank top and your underwear. You sat on the cold garage floor, head in your hands as you panted, looking for breath.

A team member brought an orange juice up to you, tapping you on the shoulder to which you shake there hand and thank them for the gesture.

You sip it slowly, not wanting to gag like you had before.

"How you doing sweetheart" Mike comes up to you, everyone in the garage had reported to him, how red and beat up you look coming out the car. You look at him and nod.

"It's always been harder for me" you laugh looking up at him wiping the sweat from your forehead before it falls down into your eye.

"What do you mean?" he asks crouching down so he's at a similar level to you.

"I mean, you've probably never checked my medical papers right. And women struggle with heat more than men anyway but my body doesn't regulate its temperate that well... so I've always struggled with being hot in the car but this is next level" you sigh to him.

"Are you going to be okay to race. We can get Drugovich to fill" Mike says concern filling his face as he can tell your struggling from the speech pattern and labored breathing.

"No i promise I'll be okay and I'll bring us home points" you smile.

I'm going to go congratulate Oscar on his Sprint win. You smile before holding you hand out for help. He helps you up and you trot over to Mclaren pulling the taller male into a hug the minute you see him.

"You did amazingly Ozzie" you grin, still holding onto him.

"Hey! I did well as well" Lando interrupts and you roll you eyes before turning to look at the man baby behind you.

"Yes yes, well done on P3 Lando Norris" you grin pulling him towards you and hugging him. He hugs you back before lifting you and squeezing you making you groan at the harshly shown affection that you were used too.

"How you feeling about tomorrow starting P4?"

"I'm hoping for a podium with my boys" you grin, pulling them both in, one arm round each of them.

"With us starting P6 and P10. I doubt that" Oscar groans, knowing he stuffed up Qualifying the other day, along with his team mate.

"Never say never. Tomorrow's going to be a hard race for everyone"

Sunday was the day that everyone struggled as you'd said.

Max actually ended up crashing out, and after coming back on the track, the car didn't have the pace it had from the start of the weekend.

"Come on Y/N, win in rookie season will look amazing. Keep holding. You've got Oscar behind 2.3 seconds gaining and Lando behind him. 3 laps left" you engineer inform.

"Guys the heat's really getting to me" you voice but its barley recognizable through the radio.

"Not long left, just push until the end" the engineer says but his voice waivers, he could tell you were struggling but unlike Logan who retired early on, lap 40 and with only three laps left there was no point especially when you were this close to a win.

"I - I know" you waiver, you control the car, speeding up trying to get this done as quickly as possible.

Martin Bundle - AND IN HER ROOKIE SEASON Y/N Y/L/N IS THE WINNER OF THE 2023 QATAR GRAND PRIX

"Guy's I need to get out this car now" you cry, tears forming in your eyes.

"Okay copy that"

"I cant move" you cry, the only thing that was able to move from your body was your hands which were shaking.

"We're sending pit crew to help" your engineer says. You see race marhsalls come up to your car, where Oscar and Land pull up alongside you. They both jump out hugging their team who were stood their waiting for them both. They turn to congratulate you thinking you'd be there next to them with the Aston Martin team but see you still sat in the car.

"Oh my god, she's shaking" Oscar says looking closer at you.

"She's in shock, from the heat" Lando says running over Oscar behind him.

"Y/N hey hey hey. Its okay its okay" Lando says flicking up your visor so he could see you. He honestly could have cried at the sight. He saw you looking so exhausted and out of it, the tears in you eyes and the sweat underneath them mixed.

"Come on baby lets get you out" Oscar voices, pulling Lando back by the shoulder and leaning down into the car, putting his arms under your knees and the other behind your back before lifting and pulling you out the car.

"Can we get a cold towel over here" Lando shouts which makes your head dizzy. Oscar sits you on the car wheel, pulling your helmet off, and then your balaclava. You were extremely red in the face but he still thought you were the prettiest girl he'd ever seen.

So did Lando, he had for a while, and he would always flirt with you when you were the reserve Aston Martin driver. But he cared for you, and seeing you like this pulled at his heart strings.

"You did so well today darling" he compliments. He pulls back your hair that was sticking to your face, doing it in a low bun so it wasn't tight but was out of your face and off your neck.

Lando unzips your race suit, pulling it down off your shoulders so your in your fireproof top before laying the cooling towel around you neck.

"Just breath" he smiles at you handing you and Oscar an icy bottle of water than was handed to him by his team. They got you to the cool down room where you sat on the floor with your back against the wall and your cheek resting on the cold marble.

"Great race guys. Said I'd have a podium with my... my boys" you smile, before you feel the urge to throw up. You get on your knees grabbing the bin before spilling the food you'd eaten before the race into the bin. Oscar sits next to you rubbing your back.

"Come on lets go get weighed" Lando sighs. Oscar goes first, the you and Lando watches the figure seeing you'd lost a whole 6 kilograms which meant that you'd lost 9 over the whole weekend. He, Oscar and Logan would all have to go out for a big meal to all put the weight back on.

The podium was amazing, first place and sharing a podium with Lando and Oscar had never felt better. It was a shorter podium as they wanted all of you to seek medical attention. You were eventually declared to have heatstroke and were forced on home rest in a nice a/c-ed room and lost of Peach Ice Tea's.

One thing for sure was you never wanted to race in Qatar as this time of the year again.

Taglist:

@littlesatanicassholebitch @hockey-racing-fubol @laura-naruto-fan1998 @22yuki @simxican @sinofwriting @lewisroscoelove @cmleitora @stupidandunnecessary @clayra-g @daemyratwst @honey-belden @moonypixel @lauralarsen @vader-is-hot @ironcowboycopnickel @itsjustkhaos @the-untamed-soul @beebo86 @happylittlereader @ziejustme @lou-larcher5 @thewulf @purplephantomwolf @chasing-liberosis @chillyleclerc @chanthereader @annoyingmoonballoon @summissss @evieepepi08 @havaneseoger08 @celesteblack08 @gulphulp @fandom1ruined2me @celebstories @starfusionsworld @jspitwall @sierruhh @georgeparisole @dakotatankbig @youcannotcancelquidditch @zzonsbeek @tallbrownhairsarcastic @mellowarcadefun @ourteenagetragedy @otako5811 @countingstacksandpanicattacks @peachiicherries @formulas-bitch @cherry-piee @hopexcroc @mirrorball-6 @spilled-coffee-cup @mehrmonga @bigsimperika @blueberry64857959 @eiraethh @lilypadlover @curseofhecate @alliwantisadonut @the-fem1n1ne-urge @21stcenturytaegi @dark-night-sky-99 @spideybv28 @i-wish-this-was-me @tallrock35 @butterfly-lover @barnestatic @landossainz @darleneslane @barcelonaloverf1life @r0nnsblog @ilove-tswizzle

[shaisuki]

Hello!

I'm in looooveeee with ur work <3

So I wanted to ask if you could do a fic about yandere toji who kidnapped chubby darling... but still degrades her....and after chubby darling has had enough, she lashes out on him. He punishes her (　＾ω＾)

and chubby darling escapes the first chance she gets to do so ( i would love a scene where darling tries to fight toji off!! )

I love your works ♡♡♡

Thanks for reading this !

Byee (^-^)/

(*ゝω･*)

there isn't a way to fight someone like toji.

he was built for the violence and anything that entails with it. killing someone is easy as ripping a paper and toji with his reputation as an assassin didn't sit with you well. knowing you were in his grasp with no way out.

since the day where he introduced you to your new home, it was hell. you were the outlet for his frustrations while you played the dutiful role of a housewife. a warm meal served to him when he comes home while he earns the cold cash. a clean home that devoid of any dirt and unwashed laundry that would had last for days without you and a pussy for him to warm his cock whenever he wants it and a body to use as an outlet for his frustrations.

the first time you showed resistance to him, you ended up with a sore ass that if he took it even further you'll end up with blistered skin from how harsh the spanking was and from how rough he was when he took you.

it was a warning to never do it again and if you did it again, you were dead meat long time ago. you didn't resist after that and you played along to his whims that it almost drove you crazy. you're not going to get chummy from a assassin who took you away from home. never.

doesn't mean that you never counted the days, crossing out the dates in the calendar will you ever be free to him.

sweat trickled down your forehead when you hear the front door open. his steps heavy and dull thud can be heard. you never pry what his bag contains. it was not your business and you don't want to be involved in whatever shady dealings he had.

you listened for a moment. toji can be unpredictable at times. sometimes when he lost in his gambling, he'll come home with that irritating look on his face and he calls for you. telling you to put him in a good mood and you never say anything and you take it with your lips sealed and movements that was almost robotic. it's only temporary is what you console yourself.

a shiver went down your spine when you felt toji's presence behind you. it feels like he wasn't almost there that's what got you here in the first place. you didn't see him coming. “what're you doin' princess.” you ignored him. biting the inside of your cheek to avoid any remarks that you will regret.

the brute of a man ignored your silence and his eyes travels to the sundress you wore. fitting like a glove to your plush body. “looking pretty, dressing up for someone?” he sneers. cupping your sex behind you, his breath fanning your round cheek. you try not to wince.

“as if you'll let me go outside to meet someone.” you bite your tongue after that but you realize it's too late. well, might as continue it. say the things you'll get punished for.

a almost wheeze escapes through your lips. your hands scratching his arm but despite that, he remains unfazed. trying to pry his hands off you that is wrapping around your throat. it was enough to choke you without much cutting your air supply.

toji's voice were gravelly as he spoke. shaking his head in a manner that he can't believe what he was seeing and hearing. “you still have the fire in you and i thought you lost it after shaping you to be my own personal bitch.”

“fuck you.” a choked gasp coming from you when he tightens his grip around your throat. “i'll never submit to someone like you.” wincing as you see the veins in his arms bulge and you were really pissing him off.

toji licks his lips. dragging to where his scar is. “oh, really?” he snarls. his eyes darkening like he wants to kill. his bloodlust was all over and you can feel it. “let me see if i won't make you submit by doing thi–”

shards of glass came clattering on the cold floor. your hands came scrambling to whatever stuff it can get on and the vase was the first thing you had grabbed and without hesitation you slammed it to the side of his forehead. blood trickles where he was struck and it wasn't for toji to keel over. he only looks at you, annoyed like it wasn't a damage to be hit with a vase. this man took bullets and stab wounds and won't be alone defeated by being slammed with a vase.

angered by your action, with a strength that was easy for him, he slammed you to the cold marbled table of the kitchen that it almost cracked at the impact. you let out a cough. trying to get much air as you can. your air being cut off by being almost strangled let your mind forced to survived of possible scenarios to help you escape the danger you were in and without thinking, you kicked him hard as you can between his legs.

that loosens his grasp into you and giving him no more to recover, your eyes darts to the toaster resisting. it's funny how you look at it, and you doubt it can damage him further but it was better than nothing. you raised your arms holding the toaster and gathering all the anger you have for him and then slamming it behind his back. you hear him curse and without turning back, you ran.

grabbing a small bag that you prepared when push comes to shove and this was the time. after hastily putting your shoes on. you ran like the wind after slamming the door behind you.

without turning back and going for the nearest bus stop and with that, tears streamed down your face. not bothering the odd looks bystanders were giving you. cause for the first time you were free. free from that hell hole and yo his grasp. you ain't going back here and going to the farthest you only know.

this must be the taste of freedom and for the first time, you can breathe.

[changetyre]

Ouch II Charles Leclerc x Reader

SUMMARY: One of the things Charles had to learn about you when you started dating was your ability to get hurt with just about anything and anyone who crosses your path.

WARNINGS: short, minor injuries, dizziness, allergies.

A/N: Inspired by me and my proneness to injury which has been on an all-time high this month 🥲

"Tss-" Charles's head popped up immediately at the sound of you hissing, a million scenarios running through his head about how you'd injured yourself this time.

"What happened mon amour?" He rushed over to you watching as you clutched your finger tightly, your face contorted in pain.

"I closed the cupboard on my finger somehow." You showed Charles the small blood blister forming on your finger where you'd pinched a piece of skin.

"Cherie what am I gonna do with you." Charles held your injured finger placing a small kiss on it before bringing you into a hug.

_____

"Oh my god Charlie look!" You spotted at a big dandelion field on one of your walks with your boyfriend.

"Amour wait-" Charles wasn't fast enough to stop you as you happily ran to it. "Just be careful please." he didn't have the heart to stop you as you ran through it.

"Charlie take a picture of me!" You happily giggled as you watched the white fuzz rise around you.

Charles laughed gladly capturing the moment in his phone. It all seemed too perfect.

As you walked the rest of the way home Charles noticed you kept scratching at your hands and arms. "What's wrong my love?" he asked.

"Nothing." He knew you always tried to play your discomfort and pain down.

"Let me see." He grabbed your hand gently bringing your arms into view which were growing rashes. Charles gasped at the sight. "Amour!"

"I think I might be allergic to dandelions." You looked so defeated it tugged at Charles's heart. He was glad you were wearing jeans impeding your legs from rashing too.

"Aww mon bebe." Charles kissed your temple. "C, mon let's get you to the doctor." He held your hand as you left the house once more.

_______

"He's good, and has a lot of potential." You and Charles chatted casually as he washed the dishes while you dried them and put them away.

"He's young though, I'd hate for the same thing to-" You gasped as a plate slipped from your hand, you tried to catch it but it had already broken by the time you tried to save it.

"Cherie you okay?" Charles quickly dried his hands rushing to you.

"I'm fine just ugh, a broken plate." you sighed frustrated as you leaned down to start cleaning up.

"It's just a plate darling you sure you're alright?" Charles crouched down with you.

"Yes I- Oww." you pulled your hand away quickly after trying to grab a large piece of the broken plate. "Oh my god, why?!" You were frustrated with yourself for not being more careful.

"Let me see." Charles pulled your hand towards him seeing the small but deep cut on your palm starting to bleed a lot. "Okay come here." Despite his worry, Charles wasn't fazed with your injuries anymore always quick to jump into action. He grabbed a paper towel wrapping it around your hand.

"It doesn't even hurt just stings a little-" Charles hated the way you always got so disappointed with yourself after getting hurt.

"It's okay amour, just hold it and keep your hand up while I fetch the first aid kit." He kissed your cheek before rushing off.

_______

"and then the next thing I know Steph is on one of the tables grinding on some random dude-" You paced around the living room telling Charles about last night through tears of laughter.

"No way!" Charles laughed with you picturing the scene, hoping he could've been there with you.

"Yes and so Freya was trying to get her down and somehow ends up getting lifted onto the table herself-" you could barely catch your breath between laughter. "You should've seen her face, she was mortified when the dude and Steph started dancing on her-" you wiped the tears from under your eyes.

"What did you do?" Charles laughed more so from your laughter than the story itself.

"Well Freya was looking at me with like this plea for help so I-" a loud thud silenced you. "Fuck-" You cursed as you'd managed to hit your funny bone in the corner of the wall hard.

"You okay baby?" Charles immediately sat up.

He watched you rub at your elbow. "Yeah I-" You stumbled a little making him rush to stable you. "Ooh, I'm a little light-headed."

"You must've hit your funny bone pretty hard." He carried you to the couch with him and your vision went blurry for a few seconds.

"That was weird." you opened and closed your hand as pins and needles filled your arm.

"It's okay baby I've got you." Charles pulled you into his side.

You sighed, waiting for the feeling and lightheadedness to pass.

"I'm sorry." you apologized to Charles as you nustled into his chest.

"What are you sorry for amour?!" Charles cupped your cheek making you face him.

"For always making you worry and not being careful enough, I obviously don't do it on purpose but maybe if I was more careful and-" You started.

"Hey shh-" Charles shushed you with a sweet kiss. "Don't be silly." He hugged you tighter. "I love you just the way you are, injuries and all even if I prefer you never got injured again. It's just the way you are and to me it's perfect."

You couldn't help but giggle. "I love you Charlie." You looked up at him, cupping his cheek this time so you could kiss him.

"I love you more, my injury-prone girlfriend." He kissed you again.

[oneforthemunny]

what is and what should never be (remastered) |older!dilf!eddie munson x reader| II

prompt: you agree to go on a date with mr. munson- eddie.

part 2 of the older!eddie x reader series, remastered version lol!

contains: age gap (eddie is early forties, reader is late twenties early thirties, all consensual), language, drinking, smoking, p in v sex, oral (fem and male). mentions of divorce & eddie was previously married. 18+ minors DNI I'm so serious.

Your knee bounced underneath the table, freshly polished nails tapping against the faux-leather lined menu in your hand. You couldn’t will yourself to look over at Mr. Mun-  

Eddie. You had to remind yourself, cheeks heating at the playful reminder he’d given you earlier.

“Mr. Munson? Makes me feel old, sweetheart.” He had teased you when he picked you up. 

He’d held the door open for you and everything, a bundle of red roses in the passenger seat.  "Told you I was old school, sweet thing." Eddie purred, sending you a wink that made your thighs clench together, hoping he couldn’t see the way you’d squirmed in blistering heat under his gaze.

 Eddie sat across from you, an envious kind of calm in his demeanor that you desperately hoped you could channel. He was so collected, a painstaking reminder of his seniority over you. It made your heart flutter and jump every time his eyes would meet yours, peek over the menu at you.  

“So,” Eddie placed his menu down, breaking the silence that fell between the two of you. “Brielle tells me you went away for college?” 

“Yeah,” You squeaked, swallowing your beating heart with a slight cringe. “I mean, yes, I did.” Your eyes met his, the low light of the art deco lamp shining in them. 

“What did you study?” Eddie pressed, tongue rolling on the inside of his cheek. 

“Don’t laugh,” You gave him a soft glare, lips curling in a playful grin. “I majored in Art History.” 

“Art History?” Eddie’s lips spread in a smile that matched yours. You noticed the creasing in his stubbled cheeks, dimples peeking through. “You know I gotta ask the question now.” 

“Oh, please don’t.” You groaned, shaking your head. 

“I’ve got to.” Eddie shrugged. “What are you going to do with that degree?” 

“C’mon,” You laughed, lips pursing, lashes batting at him flirtatiously, satisfied at how his brows raised. “Uh, you know… I thought I would be like Charlotte York, y’know?” 

Eddie blinked at you. “From Sex and the City?” You blinked back. 

“Is that… A movie?” 

“No.” You gasped playfully. “You don’t know Sex and the City? The show? I mean, there’s movies too, but it’s a show. The best show.” 

“Sounds like a good one.” Eddie purred, a seductive tone in his humor that had your tummy flipping, rushing with exciting heat. 

“Um, so, I-I wanted to buy and sell art. Work in a museum, do the whole thing.” You tilted your head slightly. “Didn’t exactly work out.” 

“You’ve got time.” Eddie hummed. 

You rolled your eyes lightly. “I don’t know. I feel like it’s probably unrealistic. Probably will end up being the part time art teacher at the elementary school for life. Maybe even work up to a full time spot.” You giggled, crossing your fingers playfully in the air. 

“Is that what you do now?” Eddie asked. 

“Yeah, that and the barista thing. It’s easy. Both of them are.” Nerves bubbled in your chest under his gaze. You knew you were rambling, fuck you were rambling, but how could you not? When he was looking at you so calmly, when he was looking right through you. 

“The, uh, the district can’t pay a full time art teacher, so I come every other week.” Your nails tapped against your thighs to keep your fidgeting hands from ringing under the table. 

“Yeah? That’s cool. Bet it’s fun.” Eddie grinned softly. “I always liked when Brielle was little, and she’d come home with some creation.” Your heart swelled at how he beamed, how he lit up when he talked about Brielle. 

“Especially after my- well, my divorce.” Eddie smiled shyly, and through the dim lights of the restaurant, you swore you could see a blush. “I was living in this shitty little apartment. I had nothing on the walls, didn’t even really unpack because it was like, what’s the point, y’know? Brielle would always bring me drawings and stuff she made in art class to hang on the walls. She told me it made it look less boring.” 

Your giggles mixed with his own soft laughter, shoulders relaxing for the first time, tension finally breaking. The waiter came with your glasses of wine, a gentle break from the affection blooming between the two of you. 

“So,” You swirled the riesling around in your own crystal glass, looking at him over the rim. “Now I have to ask the question.” 

Eddie’s right lip tugged in a smirk, one he tried to hide with a roll of his tongue. “Lay it on me, sweetheart.” 

Your cheeks tingled with prickling heat, taking a steadying breath to soothe your jittering nerves. “You’re divorced?” 

“Yeah.” Eddie snorted lightly. “You think I’d be here if I wasn’t?” 

“No, I didn’t,” You shook your head, chin ducking to hide your burning face. 

“I’m kidding.” Eddie soothed, knee brushing against yours under the table playfully. “What do you want to know? I’m an open book.” 

“When’d you get divorced?” You said into the crystal of your glass, voice echoing before you swallowed your wine. 

“When Brielle was eight.” Eddie continued, fingers drumming against the wood of the table. “We were married eight years, together almost a year before that. Gina- my ex- she got pregnant, and… I don’t want it to sound like that. Brielle, she’s the best thing that ever happened to me-” 

“-No, I get that.” You nodded. “I get what you’re saying.” 

“I thought it was the right thing to do. We were really young and- honestly? We were scared shitless at the time. Figured we should do it together, and…” Eddie trailed off with a sigh, shoulders slumping in defeat. 

“And?” You pressed, the alcohol in your system already, loosening up your nerves. 

Eddie’s lips twitched, a small huff blowing through his nostrils in soft amusement. “And when your seven year old asks Santa for her parents to stop fighting for Christmas, you have to make difficult choices.” 

“Oh,” Your brows creased gently. “Yeah, I guess that would do it. You two fought a lot?” You couldn’t stop the question from coming out, tumbling past your lips in curiosity. 

“Yeah, we did.” Eddie said with a small laugh. “It… We just weren’t good together. We hated each other- well, I shouldn’t say that. I didn’t hate her. We just couldn’t get along. Couldn’t get aligned no matter how hard we tried to, and when you’re raising a kid? You need to be aligned.” 

You nodded, an iron grip on your wine glass as you took another sip. Your brain raced with the urgency to fill the uncomfortable silence, coming up blank and void of anything. 

“What about you?” Eddie broke the silence. “Your parents divorced?” 

“No they’re not.” You shook your head. “Still together.” 

“That’s nice.” He nodded. “You’re from Hawkins?” 

“Pretty much. Moved here when I was in second grade.” 

“So not that long ago.” Eddie’s lips curled in a wicked grin, eyes lighting with something so exciting. Filled you with rushing heat from head to toe. 

"Ha-ha." You deadpanned sarcastically, lips rolling to try and bite back your own grin. 

Eddie held his hands up in mock defense. "I'm just trying to address the elephant in the room, sweetheart.” 

“What elephant?” Your eyes rounded innocently, feigning confusion. It was adorable, Eddie’s heart skipped at it. This was fun- you were fun. 

“C’mon,” Eddie faltered, a breathy laugh slipping out. “I mean, it’s not a secret I’m a little bit older than you.” He pressed his pointer finger and thumb together, and for a moment, you got to see the etchings on them.

“What’s wrong with that?” You were shocked at your own boldness. Eddie certainly was too, brows lifting before his lips spread in a wolfish grin. “I’m having a good time.” 

“Yeah?” Eddie’s eyes lit up. “Me too. Between me and you, this is the first date I’ve enjoyed in a while.” 

You pressed your lips together, fighting back your own giggly grin threatening to show. "Oh, this is a date?I thought this was just a thank you dinner, Mr. Munson?" You challenged, playfully raising a brow. 

You smirked when you saw his cheeks flush underneath the light, lips twitching and twisting into a smug smile. "If that's all you want it to be, that's all it'll be." Eddie said, fingers tapping on the table. "But I really am having a good time talkin' to you. Enjoying your company."

"It's been nice talking to you, too." You agreed with a breathy sigh. "It’s been really nive, actually. The last few times I've been on a date it's been..." You cringed at the memory. "This is way better, let's just say that."

"So it is a date?" Eddie teased, raising a brow playfully. The wrinkles in his forehead deepened as did the small ones by his eyes, a grit to his look that left you feeling flustered.

The waiter returned with a refill, saving you from a response. Your body burned when Eddie nodded, motioning for your glass to be refilled. 

Eddie lifted his whiskey out to you in a toast. "To you. A thank you for the other night, and tonight." You smiled bashfully, clinking your glass delicately against his, a familiar giddy rush of heat you hadn’t felt in a long time returning to the pit of your belly. 

You weren’t entirely sure how it happened. 

If it was the wine, or the countless stories Eddie told you exaggeratedly that left you laughing so hard your sides ached. Maybe it was the dimples, how they’d crease in a wicked grin when he’d say something that made you blush. How he’d catch his tongue between his teeth, eyes darkening in the most exciting way. 

Maybe the wine was to blame. Two glasses turned to three, you’d slipped beside Eddie in the booth after the waiter filled your fourth glass. Gone was any apprehension about the night, nerves disappearing with every wine soaked giggle. 

You’d shut the place down, the last two lingering in the same booth as the staff cleaned up, loudly stacked chairs and passive aggressive sweeps under your table until Eddie finally paid the bill. “Let’s get outta here.” 

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders on the way to the car, smitten at the way you leaned into his side. Eddie had opened the door for you, not at all ready for you to fist his shirt, pulling him in for a sloppy kiss. The strong scent of his spicy aftershave overtook your senses, blended perfectly with a hint of cigarette smoke. You could taste the whiskey from before on his tongue, mixing with the remnants of the wine left on yours, a perfect collision that left your head spinning deliciously. 

Your hands found his hair, tangling your fingers through his curls, pulling him deeper and deeper into you until you found yourself here- pressed in the backseat of his truck, his weight pressing you into the leather seats. Forearms planted on either side of your head to keep himself above you, Eddie’s lips moved against yours expertly. You thought he’d be a lousy kisser, too old to be good at it- it was a pleasant surprise that he was quite the opposite, clearly with years of experience that perfected his craft. 

You were beneath him, writhing and grinding into his thigh, feet sliding the length of his calf. Insatiable- needy, even. 

"Sweetheart, hold on." Eddie breathed, pulling apart so he hovered above you. “Wait.” He laughed, pushing away when you clawed at him, desperately trying to pull him back to you.

 His curly tendrils fell onto your cheeks, ticking them when he looked down at you through thick, dark lashes. Your eyes rounded so sweetly up at him, lips swollen and kiss bitten. 

Eddie sighed gently, a content yet sharp exhale you could feel, your chest still on his. "This is great. Really great, but..."

The hummingbird beat of your heart stilled entirely, taking a sharp breath in. You knew it was coming. The inevitable 'I can't do this with you'. The fall, the crash back to reality. It was too good to be true, too odd to work anyways. You cursed yourself for letting him get you this far. You were stupid to think this was going to work. You knew better.

"I just,” Eddie huffed, smacking a hand against the headrest, pushing up. Your legs tightened around his hips frantically, one last desperate attempt to stop him. 

“Hang on. I gotta move. My back is killing me." Eddie sighed, shaking his head as he adjusted so he knelt awkwardly between your legs, still hunched in the back of the car.

You blinked. "What?"

Eddie scoffed lightly, grinning, face still inches from your own. "C’mon, I'm not young like you, baby. Can’t do the backseat as easy anymore. Not as good as I once was." He smiled, tossing you a wink that had your body screaming with excitement. 

You smiled shyly, scooting back into the seat to make room for him, mumbling a quiet apology. "No, it’s not- I wanna do this. I just-I gotta go somewhere where I'm not so cramped. If you wanna do this.” Eddie added the last part quickly, eyes scanning your features carefully. 

“Yeah, of course.” You giggled, lip tucking between your teeth. 

“Back to my place?” Eddie grunted, fumbling to find the door handle. You nodded, pulling to adjust your clothing. 

The two of you stumbled through the front door, limbs clinging and grabbing the other, fisting and shoving clothes off in between feverish kisses. A trail of clothing following the two of you to the living room. You dropped to your knees before he could pull you into the room, stopping in the entrance, his hands planted on the door frame above you.

Your hands shook with excitement, fumbling with his belt. “Easy,” Eddie rasped, looking down at you through lidded lashes. “Take your time, baby. No need to rush. ‘M not goin’ anywhere.” 

Your thighs squeezed, rubbing together for friction, his hands finding your hair as you licked his tip. One hand gripping the back of his thigh to keep you steady, and the other cupping his balls, squeezing as you rolled them, smug at the grunts and hushed moans of pleasure spilling from his lips.

"Fuuuck, baby." Eddie groaned, stilling his hips. "Just like that. All the way. Good girl." He groaned, looking down at you through half-lidded eyes. You felt another trembling gush of excited wetness flood your panties, clenching around nothing but an aching desire to be filled, taking him deeper.

You swallowed him as far as you could, only gagging when he pushed past your throat. "C’mon, you got it. You can do it. Do it f’me? Ah, yeah, just like that.” Eddie panted, head tipping back when he touched the back of your throat. “Atta girl, good girl. Such a good girl for me, aren't you, baby?" Your nose brushed against his coarse hair at the base of him, eyes pricking with tears.

He pulled out of you unexpectedly, a small whimper leaving your lips. "That's a good girl." Eddie cooed, calloused fingers wiping the wetness from under your eyes. "Someone's gotta take care of you, huh? Your turn now, hm?"

Eddie led you to the couch, hands gripping your waist, baring you for him. Your body trembled at the way his eyes darkened, looking at your puffy, slick lips with a hungry, nearly predatory look. Legs over his shoulders, your nails digging into the cushions behind you as your hips bucked, held into place by his steady grip until you were crying out his name. He was a pro, that much was for certain.

You told him that, body still shaking with after shocks of pleasure that left  your mind spacey from your second orgasm. He'd simply laughed. "Years of practice, baby doll." Throwing you a wink, smooching the inside of your thigh sloppily before letting his fingers run through your slick, sensitive folds.

He'd finally got you into his bed, stumbling down the hallway, before you propped yourself on all fours near the edge of the bed. He'd fucked you, hard. The squelch of your pussy being filled with him echoing off the walls, mixed with whimpers and groans from the both of you, a sinful melody that neither one of you wanted to end.

You'd pushed him on the bed, climbing on top before you sank down on his cock. It was a thank you for the dinner, you decided, and for everything afterwards. Nails digging into his tattooed chest as you sank down, brows pinched and eyes shining taking- feeling every single inch of him inside of you. You felt so full of him. It was overwhelming, dizzying the way he felt inside of you. The head of his cock bumped, teasing the sensitive spot that made you gush, leaving your body burning and aching for him.

Eddie's hands dug into the meat of your hips and ass, a low grunt falling from his chest. Your hips swiveled, sucking him in with ever pleasure filled gallop on top of him.

"You close? Y'gonna cum for me, sweet thing?" Eddie whispered, your whiny response making his cock twitch, groaning at the squeeze of your walls around his length. "Doin’ so good. Shit- feel so good. Go ahead. Cum f’me, baby." His fingers traveled up your body, flicking and twisting your pebbled nipples.

You clenched, rhythm stuttering, sitting fully and grinding against his base for friction. "Oh, fuck," You whined, high and nasally. "I-I’m really close- oh!” Your body stuttered when his calloused thumb pressed to your clit, circling it and sending you spiraling into pleasure.

Your brain blanked, eyes rolling back as you clamped down on him, leaning forward for support as he held you up. Eddie smirked, moving you so you were on your back, still buried inside of you.

"'M gonna finish up, alright? I'm close." Eddie whispered, pressing lazy kisses up and down your neck, breath ghosting over your collarbones leaving you shuddering. You nodded dumbly, sensitive and starry eyed still as he thrusted in you.

"You're such a pretty thing, you know that? Beautiful, baby." Eddie teased, nipping and sucking at your neck. The stubble of his beard rubbed against your skin, leaving it raw and chafed in its wake, not that you minded. He collapsed on top of you after he finished, chest slick against yours. You could feel every stuttering, ragged breath. 

Your thighs were trembling, still covered in a sticky sheen of sweat, dizzy as your body slowly settled. Melting into the mattress, the realization of it all came flooding back into your mind. Your eyes cut to Eddie sheepishly, anticipating a look that would send you into another deep wave of shame. Instead, he lit a cigarette next to you, jimmying the window open just barely, letting the smoke pass through. 

He looked over, handing it over as an offering, which you shook your head. "Good," Eddie's gruff voice said, blowing smoke in the opposite direction. "Nasty habit. Don’t start it, you’ll never be able to stop." He grinned.

You felt a blush coming on, one that never quite made it. Your own body too exhausted, heavy with sleep, the effects of the wine finally settling in your system. "Thanks for takin' me out tonight." You sighed, cheek pressed to the cool linen of the pillow. "'M glad you asked me out."

"Anytime, sweetheart." Eddie said through a cloud of smoke that fell from his lips. “Had a good time too. Let’s do it again.” That same wicked grin spread across his lips, devious and daring. Your body tingled with excitement, nose pressing into the pillow to hide your sleepy smile.

[luveline]

i feel like the kbd girls would be absolutely over the moon about blue toilet water, steve’s little home improvement promotes him to coolest dad ever, and sweet bethie wants to invite her friend over to show off their cool blue toilet water

(i just remember thinking that was like the coolest thing ever as a kid)

Steve doesn’t hide his smile. “Girls, it’s not gonna be as exciting as you think it is.” 

Avery, Beth, and Dove sit in a line on the bathroom floor, watching. 

“It’s gonna be blue, dad,” Avery says. “That’s exciting.” 

“Sort of weird having you all watch me clean the toilet.” He’d bleached and scrubbed and bleached again, and now he’s wiped down the tank and removed the lid, he’s peeling open the blister pack for the blue cistern tablets. 

“Gross,” Bethie says with a wrinkled nose. 

“It is kind of gross, but that’s why I clean it so much. Okay, are you guys ready? I’m gonna drop it in.” 

They all stand at once to crowd him. Steve tosses a tablet into the cistern and grins as the water turns blue immediately. His fingers are stained with it. He replaces the lid and rinses his fingers before he forgets. 

“Okay. Ready?” 

They all agree in their ways. Avery slaps her hands together and nods, Bethie says, “Yeah!” and Dove attempts to climb his leg like a sloth up a tree trunk. 

“Wait!” Bethie says, tapping Steve’s stomach and running out of the bathroom. Her feet thud across the landing and into your room. 

She drags you into the bathroom by the hand. “Okay, now you can, dad!” 

Steve meets your eyes. “You ready? This is about to change our lives.” 

You look around the upstairs bathroom in surprise. “Woah, what happened in here? It looks like a hotel. Did you scrub the grout? Incredible.” 

“Mom!” Avery yanks you by your shirt to the toilet. Too many people in one place, you smush in next to Steve and he gives you a flirty smile on instinct. “Dad, please do it. I can’t wait anymore.” 

“It’s really gonna let you guys down.” Steve stands at full height and reaches for the flush. 

He presses it. Blue water floods the bowl and, despite the girls having seen exactly how he managed it, they all gasp. Dove giggles wildly against his leg before she reaches her hand toward the water, fingers a hairs width from the bowl when you catch her and drag her up into your arms. 

“Oh no no no,” you say sweetly, turning her to see everyone, “we can’t do that, can we? We don’t put our hands in the toilet.” 

“Wow,” Beth says. “Wow. Dad, it’s magic. Now we can have blue pee.” 

“That’s not how that works, bug.” Steve takes Beth by the shoulders for a quick squeeze, then touches Avery’s, trying to get them to move on. 

“It’s really cool, I love it. Can we have other colours?” Avery asks. Dove squeals in your arms to be put down, but you’re tickling her sides in an attempt to appease her. 

“I’ve only seen blue ones,” Steve says, reluctant to let her down. 

Avery looks exactly like him as she frowns. “Oh.” 

“Can I ask Francesca to come?” Beth asks suddenly, nudging Avery out of the way to look up at him. “Please, dad, can she come look? It’s amazing.” 

“Oh, honey, I think Francesca’s probably seen it before. But we can still ask her tomorrow if she wants to come over, okay? When the rest of the house is clean, not just the bathroom.” 

“Fat chance,” you interject quickly, snorting. 

“Excuse me?” Steve asks. 

You laugh again and dive away as he pokes your side. “Get away from me, freak. I almost dropped my baby.” 

“I can clean this whole house top to bottom in a day. I could do it in my sleep,” Steve says. 

“Sure thing, honey.” 

Avery pokes you in the stomach. “Not nice, mom.” 

“Not nice, mom,” Steve parrots, grinning. “Wow, look at that. This blue toilet water brought us all together.” 

[starryhyuck]

tiny dancer. (m) — PATREON EXCLUSIVE

pairing: balletmentor!hyuck x afab!ballerina!reader

words: 8.3k+

summary: your dreams of becoming a professional ballet dancer lie in the hands of lee donghyuck.

genre: fluff, smut

warnings: public sex, fingering, blowjob, ballet horndogs, pussy eating, overstimulation, squirting, choking

this fic is exclusive to the $5 tier on my patreon, which you can access here! below is a tumblr preview

The best thing about the Academy is its ability to encourage the most timid of dancers to come out of their shell and bask in the spotlight. The worst thing about the Academy is its ability to pick apart every flaw that you weren’t even aware you had.

It all comes to a head in your last year, when the National Ballet Company is meant to evaluate your performance and decide whether or not you have the chops to become a professional dancer full time. You’re so desperate for their approval that you’ll do anything to succeed, even if it means putting up with the insufferable Lee Donghyuck.

“I would think there was a treasure map in that mirror from the way you keep staring at it.”

You huff, stumbling over your fouetté as you glare at him. He sits in the corner of the room, twirling the remote in his hands that’s used to play the music. He’s staring at his fingernails but you know he’s quietly observing you like a hawk. Nothing about your routine slips past this man, even on the nights you wish he wasn’t paying attention.

“I need to see myself to know if I’m doing well,” you reply defensively.

Donghyuck laughs. “Do you think you’ll have a mirror on stage when you’re in front of hundreds of people watching your every move? You have to trust yourself. It’s the only way the company will treat you with respect. They don’t hire dancers who need to see their fouetté to know that it’s working.”

You clench your jaw, holding back a few choice words that will surely land you in a punishment of pirouettes all night.

Donghyuck had been the star pupil of his year, shining brighter than any other dancer in the class and catching the eye of many choreographers on a global scale. You used to hear whispers about him constantly in the halls, with most of the girls squealing in excitement whenever he walked past. He was the hot shot on campus, which is why it came as such a devastating blow when he broke his ankle at his first show. The crack of his bone echoed throughout the theater, inciting gasps from everyone as they watched the talented Lee Donghyuck destroy his career before it could even begin.

It’s why he now has the time to coach you for your audition. His ankle is still taped up and he has to walk on crutches while a bored expression remains permanently on his face. He lost the spark he was so famous for possessing, being able to light up a room with his laugh.

You’re not certain why Donghyuck chose you out of all people to mentor. He had a line out the door of beautiful dancers who were far more graceful, and had much better chances of making it far in the industry. But he wanted to advise you, and you can’t say if it was for the better or worse considering how eager he is to make you feel like the worst ballerina in the world.

“Show it to me again without the mirror,” he instructs, getting ready to press play on the remote. “Make me feel what you’re supposed to be feeling. You’ve been given the ultimate test in this dance — ballet or love. I want to see the conflict stirring inside you.”

You exhale before getting into position, avoiding gazing at the mirror and allowing the dance to take over your body. You’ve picked the most emotionally-driven routine out of your back pocket, hoping you could make up for what you lack in technique. Your teachers have consistently praised you for being able to win over the room by dancing with your heart on your sleeve, and you’re counting on this advantage for your company audition.

You twirl until your feet grow blisters on top of blisters, wanting to prove to Donghyuck that you could do this. After all, he was staking his own reputation on the line for you. If you failed miserably, rumors would spread regarding his inability to dance for himself and his lack of good teaching.

By the time you finish, you’re exhausted and spent. Dancing used to feel like you were flying through the air, but lately, it’s been nothing but a means to an end.

Donghyuck doesn’t clap for you. He sits in his chair, musing to himself as he rubs two fingers over his chin. You place your hands over your hips, sighing to yourself as you blow stray hairs away from your face.

He comes to a conclusion, setting the remote down and grabbing his crutches. He balances himself until he’s standing, and he hobbles over to you. “No practice for the next week,” he says, startling you by his instruction.

“I’m sorry, what?” You clarify, taken aback. “This audition is in less than a month. I’m not taking a break.”

He shakes his head. “You have the technique and you have the emotion. The only thing you’re lacking right now is the love for the art. I can see it draining slowly from you with each passing day. You can’t become a principal dancer if you hate putting on your pointe shoes.”

Your bottom lip trembles. “Donghyuck, I can’t fuck this up.”

You think about your parents back home who have supported you devoutly. You think about the countless nights you’ve spent in the cold practice room. You think about the money you’ve shelled into a constant supply of pointe shoes and leotards. Every moment in your life has been leading up to this audition, and the thought of your dream crumbling around you is too much to bear.

“You won’t,” he says with confidence, resting his hands on your shoulders as his crutches dig into his underarms. You stare into his eyes, which hold the same determined look you used to identify in posters of him scattered across the city. “I know you won’t. I’ve never let a student’s potential fade under my training.”

“I’m your first and only student.”

He grins. “Exactly.”

want to read the rest? access the $5 tier on my patreon here!

[arminsumi]

🔞 WHO IS SHE? (2)

GOJO さとる

A Kyoto student gives the Six Eyes a run for his money during the tournament. Are they really fighting or just flirting?

M.LIST

2k

Synopsis : After a long back-and-forth fight full of flirting, Satoru loses. You win the bet. Afterwards, you overhear him boasting about getting a blowjob to Suguru, so you decide to show both losers how weak your mouth can make them!

Warnings : 🔞 MDNI/18+ content : rivalry, sexual innuendos, flirting, giving blowjobs (Satoru + Suguru at the same time), sub!Gojo + sub!Geto, dom!reader, brief edging (poor Satoru), +++

Tags : @hlrnet / @froufrousnowman / @luffysfav / @weirdlychaotic / @r0ckst4rjk / @satoryaa / @elicheel / @boketj / @armani78 / @maxytx-blog

Playme : She's My Collar

Satoru felt something cut his cheek.

He stopped, felt up the stinging wound with his fingertips and looked at the blood, then darted his eyes nervously around his environment in search of you.

Not this shit again. We’ve just begun… is she hunting me down or something?

“Hey Sex Eyes.” You greeted jokingly. “Sorry, I mean Six Eyes.”

Satoru’s head swivelled around to find you. His heart skipped a beat when he saw you sitting cross-legged on one of your freaky optical illusions.

“Hey Kyoto Princess.” He sneered. But he was nervous now that you were here. “You must be obsessed with me to seek me out so quickly. The event's just begun.”

You fake gasp, “Me? Obsessed with you? No wayyy!”

He watched your lips curl into a naughty smile and he felt a small shiver wrack his body.

Satoru looked at you like he was trying to undress you with his eyes.

“Hey, pretty boy, pay attention – aww I almost had you there!” you kicked your feet childishly after Satoru narrowly avoided… something.

It still nicked his neck. And it pissed him off that he couldn’t see your technique.

Fighting with Satoru felt like having sex. That’s what you said at some point just to fluster him. He panted and glared at you after finding unsteady footing on blistered ground.

He felt checkmated and felt his blood boil. You’re so tiny, you shouldn’t be able to fuck him up this bad.

“Whatcha thinkin’ bout?” you asked.

“The consequences of losing to you.” He answered with a serious face. He was thinking about the bet you made with him.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I've changed my mind; fuck your bet, I’m not pathetic enough to lose just to get my dick sucked by some fuckin’ princess – who probably can’t even do it right.”

“Aw you’re so full of pride…” you replied disappointedly, “What a pity. I liked it when you were pathetic for me. And I was looking forward to seeing your…” you made your cheek bulge with the tip of your tongue, “… seeing your losing face.”

Satoru’s cheeks burned.

“Fuck you.” He retaliated.

⁕⁕⁕

“Suguru, she’s tailing me.”

“Damn, she’s obsessed with you.” Suguru joked.

“Have you tried using your dragon on her?” Satoru asked, nervously looking around for you.

“Nah man I haven’t tried nothing on her; but I can try. I’m curious.”

At some point, Suguru tried to launch a surprise attack on you with his dragon curse. You looked at him, after splitting the dragon down its middle, as if Suguru’s attempt was the most pathetic thing a man has ever done in front of you.

“She’s a fucking nightmare!” Suguru growled when he reunited with Satoru.

“Tell me about it…” Satoru replied, doubled over with his hands on his knees. He looked tired.

You waved at them. They had to avoid you for a while.

They put their heads together and thought up a plan to try and throw you off balance. A joint attack to weaken you so that Satoru could win – definitely against the rules.

You thought you caught Satoru alone, but ended up being sandwiched between the two best friends. Suguru smirked behind you and Satoru grinned like a jackass in front of you.

“Oh, are you tag teaming me? Isn’t this against the rules?” you laughed.

There was an underlying sexual tension. Suguru restrained you in an oddly erotic position, roughly pinning your arms behind your back with his veiny hands. Your ass grazed his crotch and it drove him nuts. He could smell your perfume – it made his head fuzzy like he was high.

Catching your breath, you made a comment, “Damn, I can’t judge your faces… are you guys gonna kill me or fuck me?” you laughed.

“Hey, I mean, one of the rules of the tournament is to not kill each other, right?” Suguru murmured.

Satoru squatted in front of you, emulating your pose, and made his face level with yours. He shadowed you.

“You know what people are gonna talk about after today? “Oh, you know that big-mouthed Kyoto princess lost to Gojo Satoru and Geto Suguru. She really was just all talk.”” Satoru taunted.

You went silent. Satoru looked smug. They thought you were silent because you thought you were defeated.

⁕⁕⁕

A week earlier.

“Hey, Satoru, did you hear about the Kyoto student that’s coming to this year’s tournament?”

Satoru lazily turned his head, suckling on an ice lolly. The summer heat was at its peak that day. He and Suguru loitered around the vending machines in the shade of a blossoming tree.

“Who?”

Suguru said your full name. Satoru furrowed his brows.

“And who is she?” he sneered.

“Apparently she’s a special grade like us. I heard Yaga talking to Gakuganji on the phone yesterday…”

Satoru laughed when Suguru told him more about the Kyoto student.

“Sounds like the principles are too far up her ass to remember that I exist.”

Suguru hummed. “You know what they’re calling her? “The Strongest”.”

Satoru choked on his ice lolly because he laughed so hard. “Fuck off, seriously?”

The two of them kept talking about you. Satoru was getting loud and cocky.

“Do you really think you can put her in her place, or are you just being cocky?” Suguru genuinely asked.

“Of course I can put her in her place… I’ll squish her like an ant.” Satoru replied confidently and smugly rested his head back on his hands. His sunglasses were slipping down his nose.

I’ll win against a Kyoto princess any day.

⁕⁕⁕

“I can’t believe you actually lost to her, Satoru. I left you alone for one second.”

“Hey! I chose to lose because it was a beneficial decision.” Satoru replied.

“What the hell does that mean?” Suguru asked.

Satoru looked at Suguru and made his cheek bulge with his tongue. Suguru’s mouth fell open and his head tilted forward in disbelief at what he was insinuating.

“No fucking way. Are you serious?” he asked.

Satoru nodded smugly.

“You lucky bastard! God I’m jealous… what was it like?” Suguru asked eagerly.

“Heaven, dude, heaven. Her lips were so fucking soft… and wet… and glossy…”

“Fuck, really?” Suguru listened intently.

“Mhm… I think I came harder than I ever have in my whole life.” Satoru boasted.

A familiar voice spoke and made them jump.

“Oh yeah – it sure was a lot to swallow, Satoru.”

The boys whipped their heads around at you. They stiffened at your sudden appearance, feeling like deer caught in headlights.

“I’m so sorry.” Suguru quickly apologized, “We were just—”

“—talkin’ about how good I can suck cock?” you raised your brows and crossed your arms.

Their cheeks burned.

“Satoru, I hope you didn’t leave out any details.” You smirked. They listened to your kittenish tone and felt blood rushing down to their cocks. “Hey, Suguru, did Six Eyes leave out the fact that he bust before I could even get to the best part? I think I was on my knees for two minutes.”

Satoru’s face went completely red.

“What the hell!”

You continued, ignoring Satoru’s aggressed look, “I’m sure you could hold out for longer than him, right Suguru?”

Suguru widened his eyes, “Yo—?”

You winked. In such good timing, your friend Sam rounded the corner of the corridor and told you that Gakuganji requested your presence. He wanted to congratulate you.

“Aw, m’kay I’ve got to go, boys. But I think I’ll be seeing you two later, won’t I?” you teased.

You poked your tongue into your cheek. The two tall men felt stiff and agitated in their uniform pants.

What a sight; two of the strongest sorcerers being reduced to dumb, horny losers all because of the Kyoto student.

When you left, Suguru let out a breath that he didn’t realize he was holding in the whole time.

“Fuck. She’s hot.” Suguru said.

“Yeah, I know.” Satoru sighed.

⁕⁕⁕

Sneaking out at night was risky.

But there you were, on your knees, reducing the two strongest sorcerers into whimpering, pathetic men.

“Sh—shit, that feels so fucking good.” Satoru gasped, feeling your lips slide up and down his cock. “Fuck!” he threw his head back and gritted his teeth.

Suguru watched intently and slowly glided his fist up and down his own cock, waiting his turn very patiently. The way you sucked his best friend’s cock had him mesmerized.

Satoru moaned and closed his eyes when he started feeling his orgasm approach. “Oh, god… just like th-that. I’m so close.”

You slid off his cock just before he came. Edging Satoru turned him into an even bigger loser than he already was.

“Wait! Fuck — please, I was so close!” he whined.

You smirked and licked your lips, “Too bad.”

Suguru’s jaw slacked as you slid your lips down on his cockhead. You hummed at how thick Suguru’s cock felt; you had to open your mouth wider to accommodate him. He groaned when you started sliding up and down while Satoru watched.

Suguru’s legs buckled when you hollowed out your cheeks and started sucking harder.

“Fuuuck…” he groaned, leaning his head back in bliss.

You suckled out his precum, gulping it down.

Suguru gasped when you took a break from suckling his tip to swirl your tongue on his tight balls.

Satoru’s cheeks burned red as he watched you suck on his best friend's balls. He had this total dumb look on his face when you started stroking his cock while sucking on Suguru.

“Fuck, I’m close.” Suguru warned, his back sliding down the wall as his knees buckled again.

You sucked his cock faster, humming naughtily and keeping eye contact that made his stomach flip. You slid your lips off his cock and started stroking both of them to their orgasms, gliding your hands up and down on two cocks looked so slutty.

Their moans sounded downright pathetic. They were so dumb for you, you were sure you could have asked them to do anything for you. Real dumb boys getting their dumb, fat cocks stroked by your skilled hands.

“Mmm, do my boys wanna cum in my mouth together?” you asked, “Come on, I’ve worked hard ‘n I’m thirsty~”

They moaned and whimpered together, slumping against each other’s shoulders. You stayed in your split-squat pose, which drove them nuts both during the tournament and now when you were sucking their souls out of their cocks.

“Yes, please! Let us cum in your mouth!” Satoru squealed, feeling his orgasm build up quickly. “I’m gonna cum s’much!”

You took turns kissing and making out with the tips of both of their worked up cocks, rubbing them together. You stuck out your tongue and Satoru swears the image of your slutty face burned into his mind immediately. Satoru came first, then Suguru followed, and they painted your tongue and lips with their milky cum.

They could barely stand upright after cumming in your mouth. Their legs gave out.

“Aw, look at that…” you talked smugly, wiping some cum off your lips and sucking it off your finger.

You raised yourself from your squatting position. Satoru and Suguru looked at you through dazed eyes, totally enamoured by you.

“… I think I sucked all your strength out of your cocks. You might have to stop calling yourselves the Strongest.” You giggled devilishly.

“You fuckin’ succubus.” Satoru seethed, annoyed at himself for being weakened by you.

Just you wait. One day I’m gonna be stronger than you and have you bent over screaming for me.

© arminsumi

I do not permit the copying/reposting/translation/plagiarism of my works.

Do not steal what I've worked hard to create.

This is fictional work.

[donatellawritings]

please some toxic, possessive, and straight up insane rafe 🥲

tee-hee … my favorite, sorry if it’s short!

rafe cameron was and will always be possessive of you, you were his girl, and his alone. in recent times, he’d found different outlets when it came to getting his blistering jealous streak under control. when he was of a sound mind, he’d simply put you in check — whispering low warnings into your ear, or lightly nudging the side of your chin with his knuckle. you were pretty good at keep rafe down to earth, enough to where he’d mentally check out of a situation, instead of sending his eager fist into someone’s jaw. again, this was when rafe was of a sound sober mind. once cocaine and alcohol viciously coursed their way through rafe’s veins, he became an exhilaratingly impulsive decision-maker, much to your dismay. it was difficult to bring rafe down from his peaking highs of anger, but you knew that it was simply his insecurities being pushed to the forefront.

you were sat on the couch, your tired doe eyes focused on the trashy reality show you’d been engrossed in for the evening — your swollen lips were slightly parted as you subconsciously held your thumbnail between your teeth, your shiny blown out hair cascading down your shoulder blades as you curled into the couch wearing rafe’s oversized crewneck and lace pink panties that failed to cover the curve of your plush ass. you lazily brought your thumb from between your teeth, and down to your gifted chain as you rolled the diamond ‘R’ initial between your thumb and index finger. your wispy lashes began to slowly blink together as you sighed sleepily, letting out a short yawn as the front door could be heard opening, then slamming closed.

“wh-where’s my pretty girl?” rafe’s slurred voice boomed through the foyer, causing your eyes to open as you flinched out of your dozed off state. an excited gasp left your lips as you crane your head back, holding your arms open with a cheesy grin. rafe’s bloodshot baby blues widened with an exaggerated excitement as he stumbled towards you, “there she is — m’pretty princess, hi baby,” he slurred, earning a small laugh from you as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing a loud and wet smack of a kiss to his dry lips.

pecking his lips, once more, your threaded eyebrows furrowed in confusion as rafe let out a strained sigh, absentmindedly wrapping his hand around the base of your throat. you were used to rafe’s touchy behavior, so you breathed out a small laugh, “y’okay, papi?” you smiled, your heartbeat racing a bit quicker as rafe leaned his forehead against your chest, maintaining his hold on you. rafe remained in this position for a beat, before dragging his head up, allowing your contrasting gazes to meet. his blown pupils took up a large portion of his usually bright blues, his eyes glazed over as he dropped to a knee before you.

rafe’s mouth opened and closed as he struggled to find the perfect words, his hand circling around his head as he forced out a chuckle, “y’know, m’gonna make you my wife, one day, a-and m’gonna take care of you — i’ll give you the whole fuckin’ world, mama,” he ranted, his hand slightly tightening around your throat as he became lost in his own rant. rafe nodded to himself, tapping his chest as he continued, “s’gonna be you and me — i won’t le-let them take you from me,” he cried, his eyes welled with hot tears. you remained silent, leaning forward in an attempt to cradle rafe’s face as he pushed you back down by your neck.

your heart thumped against your chest as rafe suddenly stood on his feet, both of his arms falling at his sides as you took the opportunity to stand in front of him. your small hands gently grabbed his face as your bright eyes search his — you knew that he was both drunk and high, he could barely even look at you straight. “what’s going on? nobody’s taking me from you, rafey,” you cooed with a soft smile, watching as rafe fumbled with the waistband of his belted slacks, your smile falling to a frown as he revealed his gun.

“rafe—”

rafe brought the gun to his lips as he shushed you, a daze smile tugging on his mouth as he brought his free hand to your shoulder, “i’d fuckin’ kill for you, princess — swear, i’d do it and it wouldn’t even bother me,” he mumbled, his lowly hung eyes not missing the way you froze still. your pretty little pout quivered with impending cries, causing rafe’s gaze to widen with dramatized concern, “no-no, don’t be scared, m’the one who s’gonna protect you, baby — why-why are you fuckin’ cryin’?!” rafe rambled, his pathetic whines turning into a deep scream as he forced his forehead to smush against yours. a soft cry seeped through your lips as rafe shook his head furiously.

“you’re scaring me, papi,” you squeaked.

rafe ran a hand through his hair, his chest heaving as he pulled away from you, lightly knocking the butt of the gym against his head. tears streamed down his structured cheekbones as he gestured towards you with a loud cry, “i just wanna protect you, baby,” he sobbed, leaving you an anxious mess as your slapped your hand over your mouth. rafe let out another blubbering cry, the sound of your name leaving his lips causing your heart to ache as he lowered himself to the flower, holding his head in his hands.

you carefully lowered yourself to the floor as you crawled over to your boyfriend, softly tapping your delicate fingertip against his knee, “rafe, please,” you whispered, leaning on your knees as rafe brought his hand to the back of your head, holding you in place by your hair.

your swollen lips remained slightly parted as rafe sighed, “do y’love me, princess?” he questioned, his head cocked to the side as you nodded, tears rolling down your puffy cherub cheeks, “say it,” he muttered.

“i love you,” you spoke sincerely.

rafe nodded wordlessly, releasing your hair from his grip as you took the chance to climb onto his lap, your legs wrapping around his waist as he secured an arm around your back, and one around your neck. “no more cryin’, mama, m’gonna keep you safe,” he reassured, rubbing his gun clad hand up and down your back.

[cod-indulgences]

hiiiiiiiiii

could you write something for simon or price about being spanked after a long day where you were a bitch to him????

something really juicy and maybe finish it off with an anal punishment 🙂‍↕️🤔

totally understand if not and if this is too much!!!

love you and your work 💓💓💓💓💓

Simon Riley x female!reader, punishment, spanking, anal, dubcon, noncon anal, mention of piss but not pissplay

Simon's hand is strong as iron around your wrists, holding them in place against your lower back, and you whine and plead as his other hand yanks down your pants and underwear. The edge of the table bites cold into your hips.

"Simon, please, I said I'm sorry- I'll be better!"

The man hums noncommittally, and you strain to look over your shoulder at him. He's just staring at your ass, groping each cheek with his big hand, and you squirm when he tickles your hole with the tip of his finger.

"Baby..." You whine, and are cut off when his hand swings through the air and lands on your bare ass with a SMACK.

Simon doesn't hold back at all, and you howl, feet kicking where your pants trap your ankles together.

Another swing, and the tears start coming as your ass burns under his palms- smack, smack, smack. Each meeting of skin to skin burns through you like an electric shock.

"Better?" He says, and slams his palm to the soft crease between your ass and thighs. "We've talked about this, you can't just pop off whatever's in your head. Talk! To! Me!" Three more smacks into your thighs. "If something is wrong, you tell me, don't fuck around acting like I've fucked up because I'm not a mind reader." You sob as he goes back to your ass, God, it must be blistering. His hands are so big, there's no space to get away from it- just pain layered on pain, burning-stinging-pressure until it feels like your bones are going to break under him.

"I'm sorryyy!" You cry, and burst into new tears when Simon drops your wrists to hold your ass open with one hand, and lay more slaps with his other right over your hole. You scramble, instinctively trying to get away, but it's worse, so much worse, Simon just keeps smacking as you flail, knocking you off balance. Your hobbled feet slip, and you catch yourself on the table, trying not to fall- and Simon just picks you up and puts you back where you started, switching to his other hand as he continues his assault on your ass.

It doesn't stop. Just constant burning hits from his hands, no matter how much you beg and promise. Simon is unreadable, the glimpses you get of his face just showing the focus he normally keeps for military ops.

Finally, is hand stops, smoothing over your ass. You can feel the rough scrape of his calluses over the welts on your skin. You sag limply, sobbing, and nearly miss the clinking of his belt buckle as he shifts behind you.

"Now, to make it stick," he says, and you gasp and whimper when his cock rubs between the folds of your pussy. There's a humiliating amount of slick there, squelching a little as he notches the head inside, and you moan in relief as he slides in- thick and heavy, stretching you out, and Simon grunts as he teases you with a few slow thrusts. You rock back against him, taking the pleasure along with the burn in your ass.

Then his big hands settle on your hips, holding you down against the table, and your breath stutters as his cock slips free of your cunt and instead catches against your asshole. "Simon- baby, no, wait-!" You cut off with a shriek as his cock bullies inside your ass, a space too small for it suddenly stretched past its limits. Your hands try and push him away, flailing, only to be caught up again and held in place as Simon brutally fucks your ass.

His balls smack your pussy on each thrust, and you sob as the pain overwhelms the little pleasure left in your clit. "Well? What do you want? Tell me," he barks, and slaps your ass, making you shriek again. It's horrible, pain inside and out. "Use! Your! Words!"

You try and spit something out, but every hard fuck sends your mind spinning. "I- don't- Simon-" you gasp, and when he spanks you again you cry out, liquid dripping down your leg. You pissed yourself.

He speeds up, taking your breath away entirely, just a throbbing pain in your ass and between your legs, and you sob into the cold table. "This is your punishment," he says, "and you can tell me to stop or you can take it until I'm done. Your call." His free hand slips between your legs, and he wets his fingers against your cunt before circling them over your clit. Your whole body clenches, and he moans, his cock twitching. "This doesn't stop either. Come or don't, I don't care."

You break on the table, clit throbbing, tears rolling down your cheeks as your boyfriend fucks your ass, dragging you into orgasm with your clit, so twisted up with pain that you can't even tell when you come- it's all a mess of sensation, everything narrowed down to the feeling of his cock swelling inside you, Simon spilling his own come into your guts, holding his hips against your ass so that his jeans scrape and scratch your bruised skin.

When he finally releases you and pulls out, you slide to the floor, a mess of come and tears. You blink up at him, gasping, and moan when he moves to lift you up. Your ass burns under his hands as he carries you to the bedroom.

"Sorry," you whisper as he lays you down, a towel already set out with some bruise cream and Tylenol.

"I know love," he says, and spreads your cheeks to look at the sore, puffed out rim of your hole. "But you won't forget this, yeah? Now lay down and let me clean you up. You'll be riding my cock in the morning."

[frostbitebakery]

Nutshell.

“Let’s put you out of your misery,” Doom says, checking the charge on his blasters while keeping an eye on the stray droid crawling towards an abandoned E-5 rifle.

.

“You’re mine,” Doom grits out, gets his fingers around the leg of the droid making for General Tiplar. He pulls, rolls. The droid is on his chest and he clamps an arm around it, sinks his knife into its neck. Wipes the blood out of his eyes.

.

“I need answers,” Doom says, arms crossed so he doesn’t try to strangle the holo. “See that you get them.”

“I will get them,” Rex promises, voice stoic to resemble a Commander’s.

Doom doesn’t snort but it’s a close call.

“I’m sorry for your lo—“

He flicks the comm off. He doesn’t have the capacity for niceties.

Tiplee is slowly finishing the transport box for her sister. “We fought a lot growing up,” she says. “We were in separate crèche clans even.”

His jaw ticks under his bucket.

“We only grew close once we were both adults. People are in motion, always. In body, in spirit. Sometimes you are only meant to meet at later points in your life even if you’ve known each other since you were born.” She strokes a careful hand over Tiplar’s forehead. “I will let you say your goodbyes.”

Doom steps up to the box once Tiplee is gone.

Tiplar hasn’t gone grey yet. There’s a furrow burnt in her brows, the confusion over a clone shooting her carrying her to death.

“I will watch over her,” he states. Promises don’t mean anything in war. So he doesn’t promise. His heart skips a beat. He was meant to watch over Tiplar as well.

.

“Botany,” he slurs out, clinks his cup to Tiplee’s when she holds hers up. “I love sunshine. And plants. There’s so many!”

“I’m gonna,” she hiccups, booze sloshing over the rim of her cup when she points at him, “I’m gonna sneak you into the gardens in the Temple and show you the strawberry patch.”

“Sneak?” He thought everything in the Triple Zero Temple is free to roam for all Jedi.

“Totally,” Tiplee agrees with an enthusiastic nod and he realizes he’s spoken aloud. “But sneaking is funnierer— funner— funyun?”

He nods right back. “Funyun sounds right.”

.

“What do you mean, poisoned?” Doom asks. According to survival sim training, the strawberries look pretty unpoisoned.

Tiplee holds up a berry, turns it around a bit. “The Dark is ever growing. Spreading throughout the Galaxy, into the earth of every planet. It has changed the very matter of things.” She smiles up at him. “I remember them sweeter.”

.

“I will help your strawberries be the best they can be, I— promise.” He wretches the word out of himself. Pulls and pulls until it’s off his tongue and out in the open. “Hold on until then, yes?”

Tiplee smiles at him, taps her thumb against his temple. “Doom, you have found a place where you feel you are meant to be. It will be alright even if my time has come.”

.

“Uhm,” he says. Blinks. Swallows.

Maxir leans back, hands disappearing into the robe sleeves. “I’ve read this wrong?”

Probably not? “I don’t know,” he almost says until instinct takes over to not show indecisiveness. “Yes.”

Maxir’s face colors. He doesn’t tend to get cute blush spots high on his cheeks but rather an all consuming flush that looks close to blistering. “I’m sorry. I misjudged. It will not happen again.”

Jedi are so graceful in their apologies, Doom has learned. It’s charming.

He holds up a ripe non-perfect strawberry. “You look like this.”

“I beg your pardon—“

.

“You’re safe,” Doom gasps, wildly looking at Maxir’s frozen figure. “You’re safe.”

“Come here. Sit down.”

The calm authority in Maxir’s voice has him on his feet and back on the ground before he knows it.

“You are safe,” Maxir reassures him for whatever reason, filling Doom’s spotty vision and leaving room for not much else. “May I touch you?”

It’s a new helper droid. Gangly limbs for reaching deep into the foliage without damaging it. Looking like a B-1. The clippers looking like a blaster.

Its head lies halfway across another crop’s field. The body stabbed with its own limbs and the clippers.

“You are safe.”

Doom doesn’t believe him yet.

.

“I don’t recognize you anymore,” Doom says to his reflection.

There’s laughter lines around his eyes, his mouth. He has freckles from the sun. Permanent dirt under his nails he recognizes as dirt, not blood. His body is covered in flowers.

Last night he met up with the last of the 962nd and Master Tiplee. Six, Mimic, and a few others had helped him haul around the huge crates of produce into the AgriCorps’ building and kitchen.

They’d blasted each other’s asses while peeling, tasting, cooking, and fighting over seasoning. They fell asleep under the stars, occupying chairs and hammocks dotting the terraces. Tiplee had drooled on his shoulder, the tips of her fingers still red with strawberry juice.

“I don’t recognize you anymore.”

“Mrnng,” Maxir mumbles, slowly shuffling his way past Doom to the shower.

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Doom says to his reflection.

.

“No,” Doom murmurs, wrings his shoulder against the doorframe to Maxir’s office.

The desk is cluttered with data pads and flimsiwork bearing the AgriCorps seal. Analyzing crop conditions and rotations has taken up most of what is left of their day after tending to the fields and labs.

Maxir looks at him over his glasses before pushing them up, ruffling the short hair just under one of the horns. “No? I surely thought there was caf left…”

Doom pushes himself away from the door, takes the three steps to the desk before sitting down on a free-ish spot. “No, you didn’t read it wrong,” he non-explains. “Also, for safety reasons I disposed of the last of the caf.”

Maxir glances at the clock above the desk. “It’s been five hours. The sludge level must still be within reason.”

Doom blinks blandly at him.

Maxir blinks back before it visibly clicks. “Oh!” He buffs the back of his hand against Doom’s thigh. “I told you I’m nearly always right. Also,” he parrots back with a mischievous grin, “the fact we’ve kissed and held hands and you let me dote on you—“

“Excessively.”

“Excessively,” Maxir agrees. “I broke all constraints when I bought you last meal that one time.”

Doom pushes Maxir away from him by way of the rolling chair he’s sitting in while Maxir recalls in detail and with a lot of hand gestures how Doom had gracefully accepted being cared for.

“Or when you let me clean all the petri dishes by myself,” Maxir says excitedly, seat slowly spinning in a circle. “You were snoring so adorably on the lab bench.”

“I regret meeting you.”

“Mimir shoo for half the night cycle!” The chair slowly rotates back towards Doom. Maxir’s eyes soften. “I, for one, am very glad we met when we did.”

WIP and backstory

[sehtoast]

Protect Me (Homelander x gn!Reader, Powerswap!au)

homelander!reader x human!John, nightmares, hurt/comfort | Fic Directory

You sob on him.

It’s never happened before and neither of you particularly knows what to do about it. You’ve always been, well, you.  The Homelander is not someone who is breakable.  You’re not some weak kneed baby who can’t hold it together, who can’t swallow all the pain you’ve been put through and resist the urge to choke upon how badly it wants to spew out anyway.

He knows precious little about your life.  You’ve always wanted to keep it that way.  Nothing would hurt you more than to see those beautiful blues of his gazing at you as though you were anything less than who you’d built yourself up to be.  And yeah, sure, you’ve come home to him drenched in blood, no better than a wet dog needing someone to save it from the mess it’s made rolling in the mud– but this? 

You never meant for him to see this. You should've known better than to fall asleep. But you just… you felt so safe with your head on his chest and his heartbeat lulling you. 

You thank whatever pathetic excuse of a god is out there that you didn't blindly lash out at him when he woke you. The worst he got was the threat of glowing eyes that dissipated as soon as you recognized his voice.

But this..? God, there wasn't meant to be choking, sputtering sobs.  No fingers curling into your hair to tug painfully in an attempt to distract from how the void in your chest swallows you whole.  He shouldn’t be witnessing your snotty upper lip or the heaving of your chest.

This isn’t you.

But it is.

You refuse to touch him even as he holds you, cooing in your ear about how it’ll all be fine and that you’re safe with him– all the bullshit.  He is all you have, and you can’t for the fucking life of yourself defile him with your grip, can’t risk hugging him too tight or perhaps snatching away a hand and removing it entirely by accident because you’re so out of control.

You have to take it out on yourself.

He pulls you close, but you can’t do anything more than hide your face in the crook of his neck.

“Talk to me, sweetheart. You can tell me.”  John coos, fingers scritching softly at the nape of your neck.  You can smell the stress response raging inside of his body.  He reacts to your woe as if it were his own.  Cortisol.  Elevated blood pressure and pulse. Shaky breaths. 

You want to shove him away.  

Pity.

But you can’t, so you don’t.  Instead, the dam breaks and out comes everything.  The nightmares, the labs, the scientists, the bad room and the goddamn furnace. 

You could still feel its heat after you woke up gasping, desperately heaving against the unbreathable, scorching air.  Too hot, lungs too dry, skin on fire with not a single mark to show for it.  The way the doctors would crank the dial as they peered in at you like a zoo animal, uncaring no matter how much you screamed.  

Unbothered even when you’d stop.

You’re not even sure your words are coherent.  You’ve wept each one into his neck, still too afraid to peek and find him looking at you differently.  Your nails dig into the skin of your bare arms.

“It’s too– I can’t– I still feel it–” And there's no rhyme or reason for why you do. Not even now, when rehashing it restores that blistering burn beneath your skin that radiates deep into the marrow of your bones, does it make any sense.  You shiver and shake against him.

It’s all you’re good for.

He shifts to the side, fumbling with something on the nightstand, but does not release you.  “Y’feel that?”  John asks.  “Fan’s on now.  Nice and cool, okay?”

The first gusts kiss your back and you practically flinch at the ghostly touches.  It’s a shock to your system and almost burns in its own right, even with his hand trailing up and down your back, fingers smoothing over the curve of your spine, nails lightly dragging in that way he knows you simply adore.

John leans back onto the bed, bringing you with him.  “You’re not there, babe.  I promise.”  He murmurs.  He takes you by the hand, unfurling the grip you’ve got on yourself to press kisses to your knuckles.  “We’re here.  My place.  In bed.”  He tells you, voice as sweet as honey and thick with the remnants of sleep that hadn’t quite been shocked from his system.  “You’re safe.”

He’s said it a million times now.  

“You’re safe and I love you so, so much.”  He rasps through the tightness of his throat, through the little sob that finally breaks through whatever restraints he’d placed on it to make it this far. Knowing that he’s taken it all to heart guts you in the worst way.

John’s legs tangle between yours and pull you close, as if to make sure there wasn’t a single inch of you left unprotected from his embrace.  He holds you even through his own shivers, completely exposed to the chilly breeze after having kicked the covers to the end of the bed.  Anything to draw you away from the illusion of heat, anything to spare you one more moment of agony.

By the time your heart rate simmers down from its erratic thumps and the blistering burn of the furnace is no longer digging beneath your skin, the only sound to be heard is his chattering teeth despite how valiantly he tries to hide his own discomfort.

If he were anyone else, you wouldn’t care at all.  But he’s not just anyone.  He’s not some casual fuck or one of the many who have dangled love over your starved maw.  He’s your Johnny, your greatest love, the kindest man you’ve ever known and the brightest light you’ve ever stumbled upon in this world.  You would topple nations to guarantee his happiness.

He reassures you that he’s fine when you scoff and yank the blankets back up to cover the both of you. 

“No, no, no–” he rattles. “S’fine, I promise.  I don’t want you to–”

You cut him off with a kiss.  You meant only for it to be a single drawn out peck to his lips, but you find that the deeper it becomes, the better you can convey all that you need.

Your love.  Your appreciation.  How fucking much you care.  Everything words fail to deliver.

All while you continue pulling up layer after layer until his lower lip ceases its chilled quivering between yours and his body stills from its shivers.  You don’t untangle yourself from his hold, nor does he move away from yours.  Stranger yet, even with the nightmares still fresh in your mind, the heat you find yourself enveloped by now is far from one that burns.

His flesh against yours, the warmth emanating between you, his heated breaths gasped against your lips– it’s all one big balm that soothes every ache and pain into nothing more than the distant memory it should be.

Neither one of you lets go, not even when sleep settles over your restless minds and pulls you to other worlds.

This time, you dream of him.  Of your Johnny in his cute little sweaters, of how he springs out of his chair at work to throw himself into your arms, of how he comes to your penthouse after his shifts are up just to see you.  You dream of his lips upon your cheek as you dance among the clouds, blue eyes taking you in as if you were the most magnificent sight they’ve ever held.

And when you wake?

Those same oceanic eyes twinkle with a smile that is simply all for you.  They don’t look at you differently.  They don’t judge you or make you feel weak for having told him of your horrors.  True to the nature of his very existence, your Johnny does something so wonderfully special with just one look.

He makes you feel safe.  He makes you feel protected.

He makes you feel loved.

[yoongsriverandme]

jjk || nsfw // 1:22 A.M.

jungkook looks so pretty.

he's tied up and panting, trembling and tugging on his restraints as he desperately searches for the warmth of your hand.

the rope leaves behind a beautiful blistering pink, deeply contrasting his tanned abs, which were tensed so hard you thought he'd get a cramp.

his bindings were pulled taunt against his bent legs, which were forced open; blindfolded and completely at your mercy.

exhilarating.

his tongue fiddles nervously with the jewelry that ran through his lip.

"mommy?"

jungkook's words were breathless, and it penetrates the heated yet relatively quiet atmosphere.

"yeah, baby?"

he sounds so meek, and it makes something dark warm in your gut.

"where are you?"

you can't help the smile that breaks out on your face.

"'m right here, koo."

you place your hand back on his spit and lube soaked cock - a chicken or the egg moment, which came first? but you digress.

he gasps before it bleeds into a whine, and you can tell he's desperate to thrust into your palm, but the rope makes it almost impossible to do so.

"thought i told you to behave." you murmur in faux anger, but it seems to arouse him more, if the twitch under your fingers was anything to go by.

"'m sorry, 'm sorry." he whimpers, panting. "i'll be good. promise."

"aw, so sweet kookie." you praise. "if you keep that up, i might let you cum."

"wanna cum so bad mommy... do whatever you want."

"yeah?" you smirk.

"mhm." he whines.

"hm..." you hum in thought. "whatever i want you say."

he cries out when turn on the small bullet vibrator next to you and hold it to his tip.

"then i want you to cum, just from this."

"i... ah!" he cries out when you drag it down his base, holding it to the sensitive vein on the side.

"you what? you can't do this for me?"

"no, no, i can!"

"good. then show me."

⁘ preface: i only use bts as face claims! they are my muses, so anything they say or do, do not reflect their real life character!

© yoongsriverandme 2025-26

[drunk-on-dk]

Tight Laced | Kim Mingyu (m)

Pairing: shop clerk!mingyu x afab!reader Genre: fluff, smut, roller-rink!au, 70s!au Rating: 18+ (minors do NOT interact) w/c: ~4.7k

warnings under the cut!

warnings: reader is on a budget and a bit clumsy; reader is called a square; explicit smut scenes; protected sex!; oral (fem receiving); sensitivity from multiple orgasms (fem); marking; public sex(?); mingyu hooking up on the job (?); desperate, whiny Mingyu; pls lmk if I’m missing anything; apologies as there may be some errors

a/n: I’m so excited to be back with a new post, especially as part of the 70s;teen collab with @svthub. I’m so thankful to be a part of another collab, it was so fun to really get into writing again and take some time to really enjoy writing a fluffier piece. Please be sure to go give love to each of the creators in the collab, they are all amazing, please go to this link to give their works a read!

Roller skates and Saturday night disco lights.

You wanted nothing to do with it, especially when most of your days were spent in your college’s library, trying to rack up as much spare change that you could with such a low paying part-time job.

Nevertheless, the job was arguably worth it. The library was peaceful, and the downtime allowed for studying. Other than classes, you really didn’t stray far from organizing shelves and spending nights at the cozy cavern of books that funded your education.

Which is exactly why it was shocking to your roommate, the outgoing and spunky Julie, when you strolled home at your usual time on Saturday afternoon and showed a bit more curiosity as she prepped for the night’s events. As per usual, her free-spirited attitude helped loosen you up after your morning shift, plopping down on your leather couch with a huff of relief.

“What’s so fun about going to the disco rink every weekend?” You pondered aloud, observing as she packed away her roller skates into her mini duffle, an anxious hand of yours reaching out to the pet rock sat on the end table.   

“Oh, c’mon, Y/N,” Julie exhaled with a smile, spinning around to show her typical skating garb, pin straight hair whipping around her shoulder like a movie star. As per usual, she sported nylon disco shorts and a fun colorful top. “It is so fun to get dressed up, skate around, socialize, and groove to some great music. You’ve got to try it one day! It’s freeing, and God knows you need some of that.”

You chuckle, unable to deny that maybe, just maybe, it would be nice for you to get out and let loose for once. It does seem like a good time, especially since Julie never misses a single weekend since the rink became the hot spot, but you know all too well that she is the most positive person you’ve ever met.

As if Julie can sense your consideration, she gasps, clearly excited to make her next suggestion. “Why don’t you join me tonight, Y/N?”

“I don’t even have skates,” you counter, but it’s a feeble argument, knowing that it won’t suffice as an excuse for Julie. “You also know I’m a klutz,” you add, whining, as if that makes it any better.

“Well, we can get you a pair. They are sold cheap at the shop in the rink, or you can rent them. Plus, if you end up falling, just hang around and enjoy the music. Don’t be such a square.”  

It’s a solid argument, Julie can practically see your walls crumbling down as you finally accept her invite to join her for the first time in the past year. It’s all a blur as Julie squeals, immediately dragging you towards her closet and holding up options for tonight.

As if you were Julie’s own personal Barbie doll, she quickly dresses you in what she finds suitable for your first night out. A pair of cut-off shorts and a colorful halter top to match hers. She doesn’t forget the finishing touches, pulling out a pair of thick socks for the both of you.

“Believe me, don’t forget to wear these,” she states, hinting at the risk of blisters, but they suit the final outfit regardless.

Before you have the chance to change your mind, you find yourself alone at the skate shop, considering if you should just purchase a pair of skates or rent them.

However, you were already enjoying yourself, the car ride to the rink with Julie’s friends was fun, and the appeal of the night was already becoming clear. Maybe it would be worth it to just suck it up and buy a pair. Julie had offered to stick around and help you with the skates, but you shooed her off to ensure she made the most of her night, promising that you’d join her sooner than later if all goes well.

You’re lost in your thoughts, the sound of ABBA reverberating in the background as you compute and make mental calculations on how much money you can spare to spend on a new pair of skates. That is up until a larger figure situates himself on the counter across from you.

“Aren’t they slick?” Dark, almost puppy-like eyes meet yours, the sudden presence of the shop clerk in your personal bubble snapping you back into reality.

It’s almost hard to speak, the clerk is a handsome man with fluffy raven locks, and, to be quite honest, you’re not so sure what he’s calling ‘slick.’ “Pardon me, but which ones are you referring to?”

“Oh,” he laughs shyly, his head flipping between you and the skates behind him almost nervously. “I’m not quite sure myself actually, I thought you may have been looking at the skates on the top right shelf, usually people just need some words of encouragement after they’ve been looking for so long.”

Goodness gracious, he is endearing, you think. There is something so boyish about his presence that makes you feel a bit more comfortable around him, even if he has looks of a Casanova actor.  Even if his arms are rippling as he shifts his weight on the counter in front of you.

“Well,” you pause, taking a second to read the name on his name tag, “Mingyu, is it?”

He nods, a little too eagerly and you’re almost worried he’s going to shake up all the blood in his head.

“I have been looking at all the pairs, Mingyu. Just not sure on the price, and I’m not so sure it’s worth buying a pair if I don’t even know how to skate. Any recommendations?”

Mingyu considers your situation for a minute before turning around to face the shelving behind him. You can’t help but blush slightly, finally noticing his tight corduroy pants that accentuated the length of his legs. He seems to settle on a pair quickly, dropping them on the counter in front of you with a satisfied look on his face. The slam of the skates on the counter pulls you out of another bout of spacing out.

“Alright, space cadet, I’d recommend these. They are great for someone on a budget, but the wheels won’t lock up on you and they look nice too,” he’s a good salesman, they do look nice, but you still find yourself worrying more than one should for a leisurely activity like this.

Mingyu senses your reluctance and decides to throw in one last sales pitch, “plus, if you purchase these now, I will throw in a free skating lesson with the one and only professional roller-skater.”

“Hmmm,” you hum, hesitant fingers running over your purse zipper as you wait for the punch line. “And who would that be?”

“Me! Who else would it be?” Mingyu exclaims, his bright smile immediately reflecting one onto your face. He seems so pure and kind; how could you even say no to the offer?

“You’ve sold me,” you laugh, finally diving into your purse and gathering up the right amount of bills to make the transaction.

Mingyu is swift with accepting the money, wasting no time to hand you the change before promptly starting on the laces, blabbering mindlessly about how you won’t regret your purchase. Honestly, he’s talking too quickly for you to even process what he is saying.

It was quite astounding how he so easily sold you on the skates. He could be twisting your arm for all you know, but his smile seems so earnest, so you’ll give it a shot.

Worst case, you’ll come back on another day when he isn’t working and attempt to return the skates.

“Are you ready? Let me help put these on you,” Mingyu asks, dropping a ‘Be Right Back in 15 minutes’ break stand on the counter and skating around through the back gate with your new skates in hand.

He guides you to a nearby seat and starts explaining the best way to lace up your skates. Mingyu asks for your name at some point, and all you can do is stutter out your name nervously in response. It’s all garbled after that, your mind going blank as it becomes increasingly difficult to focus as his fingers help lace up your new skates, large hand wrapping around your ankle and sending goosebumps up your spine when he deems they are laced tightly enough.

“Laces too tight?” He asks, the question innocent, but the way his eyes flicker up towards yours sends heat right to your lower stomach.

“Nope, all good. At least I think.”

Mingyu chuckles, sensing your nerves and patting your knee in support, “alright, well get up then. Let’s try them out.” He slaps his thighs before standing upright, holding a large hand out for you to take, and pulling you up with him.

Feeling like you were just born with new legs, you’re hesitant to start moving, and you quickly realize how precarious the skates are. Instinctually, you grasp onto Mingyu polo, and he is quick to give you tips on how to keep you balance.

Mingyu assists in guiding you towards the rink, reminding you of techniques on keeping balance, and letting you know you two will take a lap slowly around the rink first.

It doesn’t take long for Julie to notice you two, her jaw dropping when she sees you latched onto the stranger for dear life as he holds your hand, pulling you along the side walls of the rink.

She sends you a look from across the rink, hair flowing in the wind before she slows down her speed. You shrug, a blush coloring your cheeks as Mingyu attempts to regain your attention by tugging gently on your fingers.

“Sorry about that,” you apologize, almost stumbling and falling backwards as you redirect your attention, but Mingyu is quick-thinking to steady you. “I’ll focus better, I know your time is precious as a professional roller skater.”

It’s an attempted joke, and warmth fills your chest when he laughs, his eyes lighting up with joy as he does a little wiggle move in an attempt to prove his skills to you.  

“No worries let’s keep on truckin,” he winks, continuing the lesson without another beat passing. His hands stay linked with yours, skating backwards easily as he corrects your feet from a pigeon-toed position to pointing outwards.

Time goes by too quickly with Mingyu, he’s all too charming for you, and the wind that flows through his and your hair as you skate together makes it feel like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. You can understand why Julie loves Saturday night skates so much, the atmosphere is phenomenal, Julie occasionally slapping your behind when she passes by and thanking Mingyu for his help.

Skating also sounds especially appealing if Mingyu is here on these nights.

It’s disappointing when the night comes to an end. Julie has to practically tear you away from Mingyu’s skate shop, especially since he had to return back to the counter after a couple of laps, but he continued to spend the night and share tips with you. He even agreed to give you another free lesson.

Of course, you ended up joining Julie the next weekend for another skate, absolutely satisfying her as well. As exhilarating as it was knowing that you got to see Mingyu again, it was also exciting having more time with Julie, and being able to enjoy the hobby she loved so much with her. You’d even claim that some of Julie’s free-spiritedness was rubbing off on you finally.

Shockingly, you had denied picking up another shift at the library. Your boss wasn’t quite happy with your response, but Julie had encouraged you with a thrilled “stick it to the man” before dragging you out for another night.

Ultimately, Julie was right, skating was absolutely freeing, and you now had something to look forward to on the weekend other than spending hours of your life working.  

However, inevitably, weeks passed rapidly, and you surprisingly became quite good at skating after how frequently you’ve visited the rink.

It’s been about a month since first joining Julie at the rink. Now you’ve become addicted to the weekend, absolutely looking forward to the loud music of the disco rink, colorful lights, and especially having the chance to see Mingyu’s dazzling smile.

Now you find yourself gliding across the floor much easier now, Mingyu signaling a thumbs up each time you pass by the skate shop, looking proud of how well you’re able to keep up with Julie as she drags you beside her and sings along with the Bee Gees, ABBA, and Donna Summer songs.

Sometimes you even do a little spin on the skates to show your new and improved skills. It makes both Mingyu and Julie laugh, Mingyu shouting “groovy moves” towards you both as you begin to coordinate your spins.

Yet, there’s a twinge of disappointment inside of you, knowing you no longer have the excuse that you’re poor at skating, and will no longer require the assistance of Mingyu. Thus, no longer feeling the burn of his fleeting touches as he helped encourage you to skate faster. No longer feeling the flames erupt inside your belly as he held your waist to balance you. No longer feeling his hot breath on your neck as he spoke instructions near your ear, even if it was just so you could hear him over the blaring music.

The only thing that kept you fed was that he only seemed to smile at you each time you passed by, even when most rink attendees had their eyes on him as well.

Julie seems to catch onto your fleeting looks, nudging you as a slower song came on to cool the rink, the lights dimming low and the disco ball being the only light radiating the rink. Mingyu’s tied up helping another girl around your age at the counter, her flirtatious nature clear as she covers his hand with hers.

Mingyu seems unsure about this advance, withdrawing his hand, but politely helping the girl with her rental skates.

“You two are ridiculous,” Julie sighs, “he’s clearly into you, you’re clearly into him, and both of you are too well-mannered to say anything. Hold on.”

Before you can say anything, Julie kicks your ankle, it’s a light kick, but it’s hard enough that it makes you bend over in slight pain. Like the speed of light, Julie is stomping off and skating over towards Mingyu’s shop. You can’t tell what she says to him, clearly pointing towards you, and you’re already preparing for the worst by the way Mingyu’s eyebrows raise almost up to his scalp.

Julie looks smug as Mingyu rushes towards you, the look of concern on his face making your heart beat a little too abnormally as you grip onto the sidewalls of the rink for support.

“Are you okay, Y/N? Why aren’t you sitting down? Julie should have taken you off the rink,” he seems stressed, quickly making his way into the rink and examining your bent over state.  

“Oh,” you gasp when Mingyu’s arm wraps around your waist, encouraging you to lean all your weight into his broad body. “What do you mean? Julie just – “

“Your ankle,” he mutters, looking down at your feet worriedly as he finally sits you on a bench off the rink. “We need to get these skates off, come back to the shop with me really quickly, I have a med kit in the backroom, and I can wrap your ankle up.”

You don’t know what to say, unsure of the turn of events, shooting Julie daggers with your eyes as Mingyu carries you past her, but she looks all too smug for your liking.

Mingyu is prompt, carrying you into the backroom of the shop and propping you up on a small counter next to a sink. It’s a small room and it’s a tight fit for the two of you. The proximity is enough to make you feel dizzy as he searches for the med kit.

Mingyu’s deft fingers work expertly to unlace your skates, he sighs as his warm hands run over the lace marks left on your ankles where your socks didn’t cover. There’s also a clear red mark from where Julie had kicked your ankle.

“Does it hurt a lot? It doesn’t look like it’s bruising just yet,” He looks over your ankles worriedly, but quickly notices nothing is wrong.

“Um,” you quiver awkwardly, your cheeks becoming as bright as red roses as his soft eyes meet yours. “No, it doesn’t really hurt, but I didn’t injure myself. Blame Julie.”   

He chuckles, shaking his head in exasperation with a small smile as he begins to realize the set up done by Julie. “I knew Julie might have been bullshitting. I told her you looked like a pro out there, but I know how clumsy you can be, space cadet, so I thought you may have actually hurt yourself.”

You hadn’t noticed Mingyu’s hands running up and down your thighs in a comforting motion until silence fell between you two.

“Well,” you breathe out, the air escaping your chest shakily as you become increasingly aware of how close you really were to Mingyu now. The goosebumps that paint your skin didn’t help hide the effect Mingyu had on you as well. “I’m OK now, so can you just put my roller skates back on?”

Mingyu nods, warm hands now leaving your skin and leaving a burning spot behind as he picks up your skates on the ground. The slight whimper you let out didn’t go unnoticed by Mingyu as his shoulder brushed your knees on the way back up.

Subconsciously, your legs begin to move without second thought, opening a bit wider and allowing for Mingyu to slot himself between your thighs. The air around you two begins to feel suffocating as his fingers softly grab your ankle once again, just like the first time, and sending heat right down to your lower stomach.

“Are you sure you’re OK, Y/N?” Mingyu breathes out, his fingers wrapping around your right ankle and lifting your leg up a bit teasingly. “You seem like you can’t catch your breath? Are you sure it doesn’t actually hurt?”

You know he’s teasing you now, his voice dropping an octave lower as he stares directly into your eyes between his dark lashes. The way he massages your ankle hints that he knows damn well that your ankle is perfectly OK.  

“Yes,” you gasp as his finger dips into your sock, slowly unraveling the material and blowing on the exposed skin of your leg.

“Does it tingle?” He whispers, voice so deep that it practically reverberates through your head.

“Yes,” you’re practically whimpering as his hands run up your calf, past your knee, and over your thighs until his fingers reach the cutoff of your shorts.

“Good or bad?” His fingers dig at your skin gently, pressing into the sensitive skin as his lips close in dangerously towards yours.

“Good,” you sigh, you could practically feel his lips against yours at this point, your entire body tingling with desire as he closes in on you. It’s practically electrifying.

“Is this OK with you, Y/N?”

“Of course,” and with your consent, Mingyu presses his lips against yours, the soft buds melding against yours without much effort.

He’s quick to devour you, tongue sliding across your lips begging for permission. Of course, you oblige, accepting the deepened kiss needily. Mingyu’s fingers slide even further under your cutoffs, making the kiss between you two even hungrier as you feel his nails dig into your plush skin.

Mingyu whimpers into your mouth when your hands find their way into his hair, the sound of him driving you closer to insanity as he lets you lead the kiss for a bit. You’re amazed by how pliable he is, loving the way he presses closer to you with each gentle pull of his thick locks.  

Breaking the kiss for a moment, Mingyu hums, “can I take these off of you, Y/N?” He’s pulling at the waistband of your shorts now, the desperation of his tone making your entire body buzz with anticipation.

“Of course,” you sound winded, but Mingyu sighs in content, hastily working to remove your shorts after swiftly unbuttoning the waistband. He’s quick to capture your lips with his again, the hunger clear in the way he pushes into you, easily pulling your shorts off and discarding them on the floor.

Mingyu’s eyes are wild when he leans back to observe you, his look darkening as he focuses in on your bare thighs. He practically loses his mind when he notices a wet spot on your panties, the cotton slightly darkened and he’s dropping to his knees before you can protest.

He’s at a perfect height, large hands grabbing onto your ass in order to pull you towards the edge of the counter, his eyeline leading right where you’re the most vulnerable.

“Can I please taste you?”

“Please,” you beg, head throwing back in pleasure when he slots his mouth over your panties, nose nudging your most sensitive spot as he sucks at the wettened fabric. His mouth his hot on your clothed cunt, sending a ping of delight through you as he licks at the cotton. “Not enough.”

Mingyu moans as if to acknowledge your plea, one finger hooking at the fabric before his tongue dives between your folds. He’s immediately messy with his actions, tongue lapping passionately, tasting as much of your sweet nectar as possible as he works you closer and closer towards your first burst of overwhelming heat within your core.

Your hands are weaved in his hair again, encouraging him to lap and suck on your clit as the pulses of pleasure become even more unbearable to hold. He coaxes you to your first orgasm with one sharp suck to your clit, your juices spill out all over his tongue as he gladly licks it all up.

Mingyu doesn’t give you much time to recoup, standing back up to kiss you hungrily, allowing you to taste yourself on his tongue as he begins to work at his belt buckle. With your help, he’s able to pull his corduroys off, reaching for a condom in his wallet before dropping the pants to the ground.

He’s unable to roll it on himself as you kiss and nibble at his neck, desperate whines escaping Mingyu’s mouth as you decide to take over. He feels a bit of relief when you work it onto his cock easily, the tight latex squeezing his aching length as you begin to slowly jerk him off.

Mingyu’s close to losing his mind when your hips buck in anticipation, your small hand still working at his length, and he stutter out a request. “C-Can I- please feel you completely?”

“Yes,” you moan, hips lining up with his as his tip glides between your folds, sensitivity sending a jolt through your body when he brushes your clit. “God, Mingyu, just do it.”

Mingyu’s length slowly enters you, your walls sucking him in without hesitation, waves of pleasure immediately warming you as his length and girth fills you all too perfectly.

Mingyu’s hands are gripping at your hips, his own muscles shaking as your walls take him in easily. You’re squeezing his cock in a way that has him moaning a bit too loud, your shushes reminding him that he is at work, and you are still in the rink. Even if the music drowns out your noises.

His thrusts are slow at first, ensuring that you can take every inch of him before he picks up his pace. Mingyu’s moans only get louder as your walls begin to pulse, squeezing with each unforgiving thrust of his hips, becoming groans as he dips his head into your neck, teeth sucking harshly at your skin as you breathe out in ecstasy.

He’s precise with each thrust, his tip nailing a spot so deep inside of you that you begin to see stars as your eyes roll back in pleasure. Your hands grip at Mingyu’s back, an attempt to ground yourself as Mingyu’s length fills you so deliciously, that you think you’ll be addicted for the rest of your life.

“Holy shit,” you cry out at one particularly hard thrust, the fiery heat building at your core, and you’re not sure how much longer you can keep quiet, nor how much longer you can keep your second orgasm at bay. “M-Mingyu.”

Something flips in Mingyu when you moan out his name, hand coming up to grab you chin as he forces your eyes to meet his. His pace quickens impossibly, his pubic bone brushing against your clit occasionally and bringing you closer to your breaking point.

He’s egged on by the wild look in your eyes, your swollen lips as his name falls from your mouth like a prayer, and he encourages you to come as obscene sounds come from the space where you and he connect.

“Make a mess of me, Y/N,” he pleads, even when he’s hammering into you there’s a hint of desperation in his tone, and all you can think about is making him fall apart himself. Your walls clench tighter around him, pulling yet another groan from him as the burning pleasure in your core explodes throughout your body, your thighs shaking as you feel the release spread like wildfire.

Mingyu is quick to follow, hot cum filling the condom inside of you, sending a second wave warmth throughout your core as his cock pulses. Mingyu’s canines dig deeply into your shoulder in attempt to hide his groans, only intensifying the sensitivity of your throbbing clit as he continues to thrust shallowly inside of you, riding out his high until the last second.

You’re like two naïve kids in love when he pulls his length out, tossing the soiled condom into the trash and making a note to really clean up the backroom before he leaves tonight. He giggles bashfully into your neck, observing the dark marks he left from his attempts to muffle his noises, but it only leaves him desiring this more and more. His nose comes up to nudge yours, pulling you in for one final sweet kiss.

“What about another lesson?” He whispers between kisses. “Looks like you’re a pro out there now.”

“I don’t think I’ll be needing those anymore,” you giggle, squirming as Mingyu fixes your panties back into place. He looks a bit disappointed, as if he’s unsure where to go from here. Slowly he helps you get dressed, buttoning up your shorts after he pulls his own pants back on.

“Y/N?” Mingyu tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, and you nod expectantly. “You know I don’t just give out free lessons to anyone, right?”

You almost laugh boisterously, but you simmer down quickly as Mingyu’s lips form a slight pout. “Oh really?”

“Yes, really,” he says very matter of fact, “I only offer them to the most special of people. I even tied your laces extra tightly to make sure you wouldn’t twist your ankle. Yet look where we are now.”

“Well, I did learn from the best,” you prod, “I guess you didn’t teach me to watch out for Julie’s though.”

Mingyu chuckles, the same endearing sound you’ve grown used to. “That’s true, I guess no professional could have been prepared for Julie’s antics.”

“So, what now?”

“What about a date? Or a couple’s skate? Think you can keep up with me?”

You laugh teasingly, “how about can you keep up with me?”

“I should have never sold you those skates,” Mingyu jokes, pinching your nose, but his eyes give away that he’s in way too deep, absolutely head over heels about you. “Why don’t we go test that out? How about we test out that theory every weekend?”

Roller skates and Saturday night disco lights. How could you have ever wanted nothing to do with these two things?

[lagunaseca2013]

❄️ or 🌪️ for the ask game!

hiiii arrow! thanks for playing :)) here’s an excerpt from choke yourself out, my reconciliation white whale that i write approximately one sentence of every six weeks lol

—

Valentino is wrestling with the espresso machine in his boxers, his gray-streaked curls flattened on one side of his head from when he’d pulled out of Marc that morning, soft and overstimulated, and unceremoniously collapsed right back to sleep. He’d startled awake an hour later, a little sweaty, and dragged Marc into the kitchen to conquer la bestia. La bestia was shiny and chrome, and had mysteriously appeared in the kitchen four days into the two weeks Marc had spent getting reacquainted with Valentino post-dramatic-Argentina-situation, and neither of them have successfully managed to operate it without Luca’s help.

It was entirely unclear to Marc if Vale knew that his pet espresso machine shared a nickname with Enea Bastianini and simply didn’t care, or was maybe making some sort of convoluted joke about Marc taking his seat a few years back. Between all the fucking, and the strange liminal space both of them had been trying to avoid leaving, he hadn’t really bothered to ask.

The beast was so ridiculous and complicated that Vale had sheepishly ended up calling his brother to teach him how to turn it on, Marc trying not to laugh too loud at the stupid faces Vale was making at him from across the island. Something about the tan slope of his shoulders as he hunched over the contraption, Luca’s annoyed instructions going mostly ignored in favor of pulling levers and pushing buttons, had Marc’s cock twitching with interest.

He glanced down at himself, trying very hard not to think about how he was wearing the same sleep shirt Vale had lent him the only night he’d ever spent at the ranch before. It’s tattier now, the paint cracking enough that CHE SPETTACOLO was only visible if one squinted and already knew what they were looking at.

Ten-some years later, Marc thumbs the uneven hem and locks eyes with Vale as he slowly inches it up. He can tell the exact moment Vale realizes that Marc is getting hard. His blue eyes narrowed into familiar slits, the gaze of a predator.

Marc swallows hard, his fingers still twisting the hem of the borrowed shirt, suddenly unsteady. Valentino is watching him, expectant, his hands braced against the counter like he’s ready to push off and cross the room at a moment’s notice. The espresso machine hisses as it finishes heating up, but neither of them pay it any attention. Then, from the phone still clutched loosely in Vale’s hand, a tiny voice pipes up in the background of Luca’s call. A little girl’s giggle, high and sweet, followed by Luca’s half-distracted, “Sí, sí, un attimo, bambina.”

Marc blinks. He hadn’t even known Luca had a kid. He hadn’t really thought Luca was the type, considering how much time Luca had spent inside of Pecco over the course of the past season, but—well. That’s none of Marc’s business, is it?

Vale stalks over, bullying his way between Marc’s thighs until he’s practically spread eagle on the counter, nipping at his jaw and then his earlobe, which makes Marc shiver and gasp. Then, his phone buzzes in his hand—Luca, still on the line. For half a second, he hesitates. Then, without breaking eye contact, he presses the button and hangs up. Marc’s breath catches, something sharp and hot curling low in his stomach.

“You,” Vale says, with the same laser intent focus he gives his bike, his hands tightening against Marc’s jaw, “are trying to distract me.” Marc hums. “Is it working?” Vale’s eyes flicker down, taking in the way Marc has been inching up his stolen sleep shirt, showing off the smooth slope of his thighs, the telltale half-chub he’s not even pretending to hide. Vale’s thumb swipes across his jaw, a slow drag. “Barely,” he lies.

Then, he pulls away—just long enough to yank open the drawer by the stove, retrieve a blister pack, and dry-swallow the little blue pill inside. Marc snorts, “You could at least pretend to have some restraint.”

“I could,” Vale agrees, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth. "But where’s the fun in that?"

The espresso machine lets out a sudden, jarring beep. Vale glances over his shoulder, and then back to Marc, his head tilted expectantly. “Allora,” he says, tracing his thumb against Marc’s neck, applying slight pressure when his eyes flutter shut. “Maybe we try again tomorrow.”

[thetriumphantpanda]

in his healing hands | joel miller

Summary | You come back from patrol with a broken body - knees and feet aching with age and the physical toll of the world. Joel knows exactly how to help you, putting his hands (and mouth) to good use.

Pairing | Joel Miller x F!Reader

Word count | 1.8K

Warnings | Foot massage (not in a fetish way), knee massage, soft!Joel, oral sex (f receiving), Jackson-era, no use of y/n, no explicit reference to age but reader does say the line 'I'm getting too old for this' so make of that what you will (I’m 28 and I say this, so make her whatever age you wish!), nothing else, just porn without much plot tbh.

Authors note | So, I did a 25km charity trek yesterday and when I tell you my body is wrecked? My body is wrecked. My knees are shot, my feet have never known pain like it, my lower back is screaming at me. So, naturally, Joel massaging my aches and pains and then eating my pussy was the natural thing for my brain to come up with. Slight shoutout to @mvtthewmurdvck for the massage oil idea here... I couldn't resist. Enjoy - this was written and edited on my phone in about 3 hours so be kind.

Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi

You’re too old for this. You’d been on your feet for what felt like a lifetime, though it hadn’t been more than twelve hours. Still, it was enough for the new boots Tommy had given you to cause blisters on the balls of your feet, and for your knees to feel like they had shattered under your skin. You had to speak to him, you think, as you hand your rifle back to the weapon store. Tommy needed to find a job for you that didn’t require you traipsing through the forest, up and down hills, otherwise your body was seriously going to give up on you. 

One foot in front of the other, it’s slow moving to his house. To your house. That’s still something you’re getting used to, the fact that your belongings, though they are few and far between, are now entangled with his. Your boots sit next to his by the door, your clothes hang alongside his in the wardrobe, you have a bedside table on your side of the bed. It’s strangely domestic, but you wouldn’t be without him, without Joel. He is what keeps your feet moving, no matter how much you want to collapse onto the ground and cry from the pain. 

The sun is setting, the slow pace back down your final hill and into the gun store mean you’re later than usual. When you push the door open, Joel is stood in the kitchen, his back to you, broad and straining against his t-shirt. You think you could watch him from behind forever. Immediately, you feel the stress you’d been holding in your shoulders dissipate from your body. The pain is still there though. 

Joel turns around slowly, smiling at you gently, his hands are clutching two steaming mugs of coffee. You’re still scared to ask what exactly he traded for it, but you’re grateful for it none-the-less when it’s pressed into your hand, and he’s kissing your forehead, pushing a gentle hand on your back, driving you towards the couch. He sits down, his own age showing in the way his knees audibly creak as he sits. 

You follow suit, a sharp gasp of pain leaving your lips as you sink into the couch cushions, legs sticking out straight because you can’t bare to bend them anymore. Joel is sitting up, concern across his face, because you never let on when you’re hurting, so for you to audibly wince when you try and get comfortable, he knows it must be bad. 

“Where are ya hurtin’, baby?” He asks, setting his coffee cup down on the table. 

“Backs of my knees,” You grumble, tipping your head back in pain as you try and shift into a comfortable position, “And my feet.” 

Joel slowly moves off the couch, sinking to his knees in front of you. His deft hands are unlacing your boots, pulling them off your feet, peeling off your socks after them. He has his hand wrapped around one of your ankles, tilting your foot to look at it, “What did I tell ya about breakin’ these in?” He scolds, head tilting to the boots on the floor, “Told ya you’d get blisters.” 

“The only place I ever go is on patrol Joel, I can only wear them in on patrol.” You shoot back, frustration in your voice. 

“Alright baby.” He lets this one go, realising you don’t need chastising, just helping. 

He takes your left foot in his hand and presses him thumb into the arch of your foot and you moan. You actually moan in relief as he works his thumb up to the ball of your foot, avoiding the blister that’s built there, pressing a thumb into the skin next to it. 

“Jesus fuck, Miller,” You groan, starting to press your foot into the pressure of his thumb, “Do the other one.” You ask, gesturing your hand to your other foot. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

He shifts his hand, repeating the same movements as before, thumbs digging into the arch of your foot, moving upwards slowly, until he presses slightly too hard into the ball of this foot, making you hiss instead of groan. He squeezes your ankle, knowing that he’s probably now causing more pain than anything else. 

“How’s about I run you a bath?” He murmurs from his knees, “Then we can get you nice and comfy in bed.” 

The warm water had gone some way to soothing you, but as you hobble from the bathroom down to your bedroom, the searing ache in your kneecaps is causing small tears to bloom at the edge of your vision. In the bedroom, Joel is already propped up against his pillows, glasses perched on the end of his nose with a book in his lap. It’s still warm, so he’s not put a sleep shirt on, he looks positively delicious and if your whole body wasn’t pain, you’d straddle his hips and show him just how much you needed him. 

He looks up from his book when he hears your heavy footsteps coming towards the bed, “Hot water help?” He asks, chuckling slightly when you flop, unceremoniously, down onto the bed, face-first, groaning in relief at the weight finally being off your body. 

“Will you…” You mumble into the sheets under your mouth, turning your head to him to he can hear you properly, “Will you do the backs of my knees?” You ask, “Just massage them a bit and see if it’ll help?” 

He shuts his book and drags his glasses off his face, setting them both down on his bedside table, pushing the sheets back from his lap, moving himself up on his knees next to you. He reaches over and sinks his fingers under the edge of the towel you’ve got wrapped around you, pulling it out from under you to drop it to the floor, leaving your backside naked to him. 

He runs his hands down your back, wide palms skimming over your warm skin, he stops to squeeze the globes of your ass as his hands continue their path down the backs of your thighs, all the way down to the crook of your knee. He leans over you, body pressed gently to yours as he fishes around in the bedside drawer for a moment, pulling out the small vial of oil he keeps there. 

Tommy had given it to him months ago, during the winter, when Joel’s joints seized up with the cold – you’d been the one massaging his back and his shoulders then – with the rosemary scented oil that someone in town cooked up, meaning the hard-to-find pills stayed in the hospital for emergencies only. 

You listen as he squeezes a tiny amount of oil into his palms, rubbing them together to warm and loosen the oil, before he’s got those palms wrapped around one of your knees, pads of his thumbs gently pressing into the aching muscle there. 

“You tell me if I’m too hard, okay?” He speaks softly behind you, a pattern of dragging one thumb, and then the other, across the plane of skin there, swapping between each knee until you’re a mouldable mess of a human. 

“Feels good,” You breathe out, head pillowed on your arm, “I ever tell you how good you are with your hands?” 

Joel laughs now, “Feelin’ better, huh?” He speaks, oily hands leaving the backs of your knees to trail back up to your ass, giving you another squeeze to see if you’re going to tell him to fuck off or not. 

He leans forward, lips pressing a soft kiss to the bottom of your back, “Think you told me once or twice,” He comments, answering your earlier question about his hands, “But, if I remember correctly, you think I’m better with my mouth.” 

His lips press a kiss to one of the cheeks of your ass, then the other, before he’s gripping the meat of you in his hands, squeezing and spreading you open for him, he notices you tense a little, and that simply won’t do, “Relax, will ya?” He encourages, “Promise I’m gonna make you feel real good, baby.” 

He knows that he can’t shift you up onto your knees, or bend them much as all, but God he has to taste you. He shifts himself a little, from straddling your legs, to shifting them open a little so he can rest between them. You’re still led on your front, head resting on your arms, tilted round gently to look at him as much as you can. 

He settles in between your thighs, body spread out much like yours is, with his mouth just inches from your weeping core, that’s been gradually gathering slick since he started touching you downstairs on the couch. His hands are back gripping the meat of your ass, using them to spread you apart so he can finally see you already dripping for him. 

“Can you lift up a little, baby?” He asks, watching with satisfaction as you move a little so he can finally get his mouth on you. 

He dips his tongue into your aching cunt first, using his tongue to lap up the delicious slick he’s already drawn from you. It’s already obscene, the sounds of his slurping, the way he literally drinks from you, tasting every part of you. Then, from his place behind you, he moves his head so he’s lapping at your clit. Soft, gentle flicks with the tip of his tongue, swirling the mix of his saliva and your slick over the little bundle of nerves in such a way that you’re crying out for him already. 

“Easy baby,” He grins into your cunt, “You that worked up, huh?” He pulls away slightly, “Do I need to make you come? Will that make everythin’ better?” 

You push yourself back onto his mouth and he obliges, because he can never deny you, especially when you’re this delicate and pliable, all from his hands helping to stop you hurting. He’s giving you wider, longer swipes of his tongue across your clit now, alternating when he wants back to those tight circles with the tip of his tongue until you are literally a quivering mess, teetering on the edge, waiting for him to tip you over. 

“Joel,” You whimper, hips chasing at his tongue as it sweeps across your swollen clit, “Make me come, please.” 

He doesn’t even bother to reply, just latches his lips around your clit, sucking for pressure, but still driving his tongue over it, until you finally let go, body shaking and a chorus of his name and pleas for him not to stop echoing through the room. And he doesn’t, not until he’s sure that his tongue has worked every ounce of your orgasm from you. He pulls away from you, wiping the slick from his face onto the back of your thigh before he collapses down on the bed next to you. 

He rolls you gently onto your side, pulling your body into his. His hand pulls at your knee gently, bringing one of your legs across his body to rest on him, hand staying warm and solid on your still painful knee, as his other arm snaked under your neck and around your shoulders to anchor you to him. 

He is still in awe, as you fall asleep against him, with his hands wide against your clammy skin, that these were once the same hands that killed people, tortured some of them even, the same hands that cradled his dying daughter all those years ago, now used to ease someone else’s pain, to make someone else feel better. He uses those hands now, running gentle patterns across your skin as you fall asleep, hoping that when you wake up, it’s made all the difference, even though he knows if you’re still hurting, he would stay here forever, running those hands over your aches and pains to heal you.