#when i SHOULD have enough space for it it's so fucking weird

[djsangos]

//apparently nintendo has its own version of wrapped, and apparently i have a problem.

493 hours played, but 211 of those hours were played in sploon.

which means that 26% shooting as my second top played genre was JUST sploon because i do not play any other shooters.

[wildflowercryptid]

something that's been weighing on my mind ever since learning about the situation with ezra / toonimal is seeing how these predators will take the active hostility that is frequently directed towards minors in online spaces to their advantage and use it to prey on vulnerable children. i think that we as adults in online fandom should probably come together and maybe rethink the language / manner we go about interacting with kids bc clearly the way things are rn is causing active harm.

like obviously, if you're an adult and aren't comfortable with minors interacting with you or your content, you should be allowed to set that boundary and should be vocal about it, ( especially if the content you create isn't safe for them to consume. ) but i don't think talking to them like they're a blight on all that is good and holy is the way to go about it. maybe just saying you're an 18 plus account will suffice, you don't have to tell them to fuck off.

[astridthevalkyrie]

everything you see ab being the oldest daughter is true btw why am i the family therapist AND punching bag smh

long ass depressing rant in the tags srry i got a wee bit emotional

[moe-broey]

Would I be proving my therapist (who has been voicing some concerns about my depression maybe getting worse but like I feel like it's fine) right by cancelling my appointment tomorrow cause I just don't wanna. Like all I have to report is that I'm tired and I wanna rest and I just don't really feel like it y'know

[kerosene-saint]

I hate being an aroallo autistic person whose sexually matured before I'm allowed to have sexual liberation

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[xavieremix]

okay so the tags on that last post got me feeling those melon collies so i'm just gonna. tagdump in here. slightly sensitive topics? so uh. scroll down (or press J to jump to next post). or read my thoughts like the morning paper. sorry. cheers.

[herd-reject-arts]

So I'm leaving work and something darts in front of me, maybe 10ft away, too fast for me to see what it is. Peek around the tree blocking my path and I see this

Just like... a whole ass hawk. Dude's gotta be about 1.5ft tall. Massive fucking bird. And it's just staring me straight in my soul like this, even as I try to move ahead. It didn't budge. And there's only this path back to my car unless I want to walk on a busy highway. So I have the option of Death By Raptor or Death By Truck.

So I walk in the poison ivy filled patch off the sidewalk. Guy still isn't moving. Still staring me directly in the eyes. And I do this thing when animals are behaving strangely where I'll talk to them, so I'm just like, "Hey, man. I don't know you. You don't know me. This feels really threatening. I'm just trying to get to my car, dude. Can I get some space please? You're a big fucking bird. I see those claws. You could kill me right now, but I'd appreciate if you didn't, ok?"

It didn't move until I was about 2ft away. Again: I'm as far from it as I can be without walking into the street. It clearly wasn't going to budge. I walk past, thing flies up (silent, btw. Scary) and lands on a brick wall a little further ahead

Anyway. Weird guy. Nearly shit my pants when I noticed a bird big enough to carry off a fully grown cat was just... there, staring me in the face, unwilling to move away from me, a human, something it should see as a threat. I watched behind me the whole rest of the way to my car, just in case this bird decided to help me shed this mortal coil. 10/10 experience. Super cool guy.

[shadow4-1]

I'm just imagining using a secluded space on base to do some yoga away from the 141, only to realize Ghost's been watching disapprovingly the whole time.

Like, what you lack in raw strength compared to the boys, you have in agility. You're not nearly as rigid. You're flexible, and it's only because you take the time to work on it. You have several methods but dancing and yoga are by far your favorite.

Neither hobby you can enjoy on base much, because well...you always get stared at. So, you take it upon yourself to clear out part of old studio space used for storage. It's kind of crappy, with cracked tile and dust bunnies galore, but it'll do. You play some music in your earbuds and do your beginning stretches on your mat.

When you're in the zone you're in the zone. You end up in a place far away and yet still within yourself. The burning stretch from some of your maneuvers feels so good you nearly groan. You get lost in the personal meditation. One certain position uses a specific pair of muscles in your lower back. It takes you a moment to realize why it makes you gasp. You bite your lip and decide to take a short break.

As you untangle your body you feel something's off. You're physically fine, but your heart starts to race. Your stomach lurches. You move to stand, suddenly startled by seemingly nothing.

"Yer doing it wrong."

And just like that Ghost makes himself known from behind a shelf. He's in his workout clothes, which isn't much but some slinky basketball shorts and a tank top. Black of course. His mask is the soft one he uses when he's not on the field.

You scoff at him, still feeling on edge but also relieved at no immediate threat.

"You do yoga?" You ask incredulously. "Fine, big guy. Show me how it's done."

He rolls out a mat and gestures for you to copy him. It's a simple move, one you've perfected. And yet he still shakes his head at your form. You try it again. Wrong. Again. Wrong.

"Where am I going wrong?"

You don't expect him to reach over and grab your back leg. He pulls it out further. You stumble and he rights you with the same arm. He tuts at you, but he's the reason you're off balance.

"Lift your back. No. Higher. Your hip should be down."

Next thing you know he's behind you, his large hands making your body twist and bend. You end up in the same position as you'd been in earlier, but this time you can really feel the stretch. Maybe he was right, you were doing it wrong.

You tilt your back up and feel the familiar stretch. It's better than you've ever been able to get it on your own. You can't help the soft groan that leaves your lips. The last time those muscles had been used was before you joined the 141, when you'd still had a boyfrie-

Two hands grab at those spots. Large thumbs work circles into the areas. Despite yourself, you moan. This was going a bit too far but...

The more he kneads the more you fall to your knees. You can't hold the position with your back up anymore. You practically collapse onto the mat, ass up, Ghost knelt over you.

He still doesn't let up. His thumbs dig into those circles hard enough it should hurt but instead you only feel bliss. You bite your lip, it feels so fucking good. Eventually he relents, and stops digging into you. You whine at the absence.

"That feels so good." You groan, voice sounding way too needy for what just occurred.

"M' glad." Ghost huffs amusement evident in his tone.

Ghost grabs you and flips you over onto your back. He grabs one of your legs and pushes it as far forward towards your head as he can without hurting you. He does the same to the other. It's a weird position, but it's not far off from some of the other ones you're used to. It burns but it also feels good. Considering you're flat on your back, you feel supported.

You smile up at him, a little breathless but also happy that he's willing to help you out. Yoga did not seem like something any where near his wheelhouse.

"I didn't know you liked yoga. How did you learn about this stuff?" You ask, using your own arms to hold your legs in position as Ghost gets up higher on his knees.

Ghost huffs behind his mask as he looks down at you. He narrows his eyes, his head blocking out the white light of the overhead flourescents. You feel a hand slide between the material of your shorts and the curve of your ass.

"The Kama Sutra."

[monstersflashlight]

Chasing the bounty hunter (Day 5/8 of the 10k followers event)

Griffin x gn!reader || primal play, chasing, breeding, cum inflation, size difference || tw: kidnapping

When he captured you, you were surprised about it. You followed him for days, tracking all his movements, being on his tail until you were almost ready to catch it… But he got to you first. You weren’t expecting him to turn around and chase you down. And above all, you weren’t expecting the rush of adrenaline and heat that the chase gave you.

He captured you and brought you to his house in the mountains, you didn’t know what you were expecting but a cottage-core cabin with enough greenery to be a botanical garden wasn’t it. You were surprised about it, too. And what shocked you the most was how nice he was. He captured you because you were following him, because he knew there was a price on his head and you were a bounty hunter. He knew all of that, but instead of killing you on sight, he captured you to keep you around. It felt a bit insulting that he treated you almost like a pet… But it also made something inside of you burn hotter than the sun.

He insisted on you going away, but you didn’t want to. If you went back to the village, you would have to explain why the griffin wasn’t with you, how you let him escape… And someone else would end up trying to catch him. So you stayed. (You didn’t think too much about how it just felt right to be with him, how comfortable you were in his house…)

You spent there about two weeks by the time you wanted nothing else but to climb him like a tree. The house was immense, perfect for his big body but a bit difficult with your human size. He didn’t mind though, he helped you get everything, he cooked for you, and he let you his nest to sleep at night. It took you four days to convince him you should sleep in the nest together, there was enough space. If you woke up sprawled over him, it was just an unconscious thing… right?

But without realizing, feelings started to grow. You became tender of him, every little quirk he had made you melt inside, and you knew he felt the same way. He kept looking at you with fire in his eyes, but also with a fondness so deep that made your heart beat faster and faster.

It took you two a month to kiss for the first time. His beak was a weird feeling against your mouth, but in a way… it worked. It worked and it felt great and made you moan against him, your body melting as he grabbed your waist and pulled you up against his body. It was exhilarating.

“I want us to fuck,” you blurted as he took the weeds out of the garden. You were sitting in the shade because he was worried your fragile skin would get burned.

He didn’t even turn around to answer. “We can’t.”

But you weren’t having any of his nonsense. “Oh yes… Yes, we can. Definitely can. I want to. You want to. We can.” He turned around then, his eyes tracking your every movement as he checked for your reactions. You bet he was checking for your vitals signs with his super-senses.

“You are so tiny. I would break you,” he told you, his voice leaving no room for argument.

But if you were something was stubborn as fuck. “And I would say thank you after,” you teased, being more than okay with him squeezing you if that meant getting him to fuck you senseless. “Come on, dude, you want it. I want it. Let me have that good, good griffin dick.” You knew he would appreciate your bluntness, but also that it would make his proper self get all blush-y.

He looked so flustered that you wanted to giggle. “You were sent to capture me.” Well, he had a point there, but at the moment you wanted nothing else but to be chased. And to be captured.

“But you captured me first. And now I don’t want to capture you anymore, I like you… I- I might love you,” you confessed, your heart beating fast. His face was unreadable, but you didn’t leave him room to say anything before you continued talking. “And I want to fuck you until we are both breathing hard and covered in fluids.”

“That- That sounds disgusting,” he said in a joking tone.

“Stop being a lying liar who lies. Don’t you want me?” You asked, analyzing his body for any response to that question. He nodded intensely, his big body moving with the inertia. You giggled and nodded, too. “Have me, then.”

He was doing the freaky vital signs again to look for some kind of signal that you were lying, when he didn’t find any, he asked: “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t look that convinced, always worried about your humanity. “But what if…” You didn’t let him finish that thought.

“I’m gonna stop you right there. I’m gonna run, and you are gonna chase me, and when you get me, I hope to be pounded into the ground until I’m full of cum and my legs don’t function anymore.” His face was like a poem, a filthy, filthy poem. You could see his nostrils dilating as he imagined the picture you just formed for him. You were so ready to be fucked senseless. “Okay?” You asked again, wanting to make sure he wanted it as much as you did.

“Yes.” He agreed, his eyes burning with desire. “Now run.” His growl was enough to send hot lava through your veins, excitement and arousal filling your insides until you were trembling as you bolted from there.

You ran through the forest like a soul followed by the devil. First you couldn’t hear a single noise over your heartbeat, but as the house disappeared in the distance, the forest around you became alive. You could feel everything. The sound of little animals, the sound of the breeze moving the leaves and the flowers, the smell of dirt and spring in the air… and the metallic taste of your fear and arousal. You knew he was behind you, you could feel him following you but couldn’t see him. The excitement of the chase was making you all kinds of turned on.

Your heart was beating so hard you feared he could hear it, he probably could. And you knew his scenting was a lot better, so he could probably track you just by arousal alone. You were so horny at the moment that you could scream.

“I can smell your arousal, smells like honey.” You could hear him inhale behind you, growling at every intake of breath. “You want to be caught that bad?” His voice was teasing, like nothing you’d heard before. He was always so proper… But right then he sounded like sex and wildness, and that made you even hotter.

You kept running, but you didn’t get too far. When he caught you, he pushed you to the ground, his big body covering you. His breathing was labored behind you, and you smirked, knowing he was as affected as you with your little chase-scene. He ripped your clothes off and you groaned, mourning the lose of your shirt and pants for a total of three seconds before you felt the tip of his dick against your hole and you cried out.

He pinned you to the ground and started entering you, bit by bit until he was settled so deep inside you could feel him at the back of your throat. So big, so wild. “You okay?” He whispered, always the gentleman.

“Yes. Fuck me.” He didn’t have to be told twice.

He fucked you like a madman, in and out at the speed of light as he grunted and growled and went feral over you. Telling you how good your hole felt, how amazing you were and how glad he was he captured you that day. You were dizzy with desire and pleasure.

He made you come twice before he came inside of you, just like you asked. You knew it would be a lot, but you weren’t expecting the sheer amount of cum… He filled you until your stomach was bloated and you were a messy drooling body over the forest floor. You were drunk on his cum, and you didn't want to analyze how much of a cum-slut you discovered you were in that exact second.

He didn’t pull out. His dick still hard was nested inside of you as he breathed hard against your ear and you whimpered. Your stomach felt too big, your hole too raw… But that didn’t stop him from fucking you full over again, making you cum twice more in the process, the filthy sounds of his cum dripping around his dick were exhilarating.

And when he said: “I might love you, too.” Your world shattered into a million pieces once again.

[knightjpg]

Brick by Brick

And like a dog who's learned a new trick Simon rings your bell the next day. Wasn't happy with how he left it, and wasn't that faucet leaking? He's got plenty of spare wood in his shed, don't you worry. What's that about the boiler making a weird noise? He'll take a look at it, might have something for the draft in the hallway too. Pay him? What are you talking about, he does stuff like this for fun. Don't sweat it, love. Just hand him that wrench.

tags: construction worker simon/neighbour reader

part 1 | part 2

Summer is the worst time of year for construction work outside. Up early before the birds are awake to try and beat the heat, arriving on site at six or earlier with bleary eyes and creaky joints from the day before. It means coming home at four or five with lots of day left to get through yet without the will or energy to do anything beside shower, eat, watch some telly, and sleep. 

The pay is good and it beats sitting in a cramped office all day, but when Simon gets home with aching knees and the thrum of a headache at the back of his skull it's hard to remember why on Earth he chose the career he's in. He's drenched in sweat, large dark patches adorning his pits and back. 

It's one of those days where very little can make him stray from his commute straight to home to collapse into his big falling-apart chair, but today it's not really up to him. A large moving truck blocks his driveway. The faded company logo against dirty white overtakes the entire view of his windshield, though Simon can see the back doors are still swung open. No one to attend to it, though. 

Simon noticed the FOR SALE! sign had gone, of course. Remembers feeling vaguely pleased, even, that the home next to his wouldn't be empty anymore, because he of all people knows exactly how quickly places can fall apart without anyone tending to it. But right now all he feels is tired, and hot, and really fucking annoyed. Just when he's clicked his belt loose to get out of the car and see if the dolt belonging to the truck is anywhere to be found, voices carry from the open front door. 

“...last. I'm afraid it's a little heavy, though, so maybe we should get the boxes out first?” 

And out steps the sweetest little thing he's ever seen. Hair tied up, tight little top, and shorts that give him ample view of your legs.  

Maybe summer's not so bad after all. 

You're talking to a bloke wearing a uniform that matches the moving truck and who looks flushed in the face from exertion. As soon as you clock Simon's car, though, you stop mid-sentence in surprise, and then quickly walk to him, brows furrowed apologetically. 

“Oh, I'm so sorry—you're trying to get past us, aren't you?” Simon gives you a nod, and you turn back to the mover. “Would you mind moving the truck up a little? I don't want it to be in the way.” 

There's precious little parking space ahead, so Simon rolls down his window and calls out to you, “Jus’ backing up a few yards s’fine.” He gestures to his driveway so you know that's where he's headed, and you flash him a smile and a thumbs-up in understanding. 

The truck is moved, Simon parks his car, and you pull another heavy-looking box from the cube. You never reach your new doorstep with it; Simon steps in and lifts it from your hands. You blink up at him, lashes fluttering sweetly with surprise. “Oh—are you sure? It's heavy...!” 

One corner of Simon's mouth tugs up. Tired as he is it weighs next to nothing, and he can't resist holding it with one arm, holding out the other. 

“Can take ‘nother if you need.” 

You laugh and assure him this is quite enough, then jog back to the truck while Simon pushes past the half-open door to his new neighbour's home. 

It's a mess, of course. Piles of boxes, scattered furniture, rolled-up carpets. Simon puts the box down in the living room, then saunters back outside to lift another from your hands. He does the same with the couch; the mover is struggling and Simon doesn't trust him not to let it fall and crash. And you're such a little thing. Just doesn't feel right, watching you rush around and struggle without stepping in. 

With Simon's help it's quick work. The mover thanks Simon before driving off, but he's not really listening. There's much more important things to pay attention to. 

You're pretty. Cheeks flushed from exertion, breathing hard, flyaway hairs from your ponytail sticking up in odd directions. Simon has to suppress the urge to smooth them away. 

"Thanks so much for the help,” you tell him earnestly. “I'm sorry we were in the way—we thought we'd have a little more time before people started coming home from work.” 

“S’alright,” Simon says. It's nearing evening, now, the sky above you glowing in pale pink and oranges hues. The little smatter of trees across from you rustles with a gust of summer wind.  

You introduce yourself and insist on giving Simon your number “in case there's ever anything you need.” Simon's more concerned about a young woman living all on her own but takes your number all the same, watching your pretty little fingers tap it in on his phone. 

“I mostly work from home, but I'm very quiet and boring,” you tell him with a smile. “You don't have to worry about noise.” 

For some reason that isn't the selling point it should be. When Simon stands inside his hallway, house empty and dark and quiet, he wishes he still lived in a shitty apartment with thin walls on the bad side of Manchester. Maybe then he'd hear your footsteps, or better yet, your voice. Instead the only thing waiting for him at home is silence. Heavy and thick, where he's ripped away from sweet sunshine and plunged underwater. 

-

Simon is halfway to falling asleep on the couch when the bell rings. He groans, drags a hand over his face, and glances up at the TV. The football match is still going. The camera pans over a cheering crowd, their cries distant and quiet. 

He mutes the thing entirely and heaves himself up to open the door. Swear to God, if this is the fucking salesman again... 

“Hi there.” 

You give Simon a little finger wave, your other hand cradling a round oven dish. When you shift on your feet the protective foil on top rustles noisily. 

You look a little more put together than you did yesterday—rested, showered, fed. Just as pretty. 

Although, speaking of fed... 

“Alright?” Simon asks, eyes on the oven pan. He's only catching a faint whiff of something, but whatever it is smells really fucking good. His stomach reminds him that the only thing in his fridge are a couple cans of beer.  

You nod and lift the dish with a shy little grin. “Yeah. Um. I wanted to say thanks again, for yesterday. And I wanted to test out my oven, so...” 

You hold the dish out for him to take. Simon's fingers brush yours, large meaty paws easily twice the size of your own. When he peels back the foil you add, “Shepherd's pie. I thought about cookies, but I wasn't sure if you'd like those.” 

The scent hits him, then, rich and hearty and buttery smooth. The dish is still a little warm. 

Fuck. When was the last time he ate something homemade? 

“No, I'll eat anything,” he says, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. He hasn't showered yet. Must look a nightmare. Does he stink? “Thanks.” 

Your whole face lights up, and Simon's neck feels hot. He averts his eyes to avoid your gaze and pretends to inspect the pie instead. Jesus, what is he, twelve? “I'm glad. I'll leave you to it, then.” 

D’you want to come in for a drink?  

It's on the tip of his tongue, but he can't get the words out quite right and gives you a brusque nod, watching you walk back to your own home before closing his door all the way. 

He eats at his kitchen table and finishes the whole thing in one go. Chases bits of flakey crust with his finger, licks up every leftover crumb. The meat is tender and juicy and for a while after the only things he smells is golden-brown potatoes seasoned with rosemary. 

He mourns it when it's gone, of course. Has half a mind to go over right now and ask if your cooking is for hire—Simon can't remember the last time he felt satisfied. When he ate not just for the sake of fuel or convenience but because someone wanted him to have something nice, something special. Is it special? Is he special? Are you going around the neighbourhood handing out cookies and pies to just anyone? 

Simon's sigh is loud in the silence and sticks to the kitchen walls. 

The pre-made frozen meals are fine, of course. Empty plastic containers fill up the rubbish bin. They're easy and cheap and most days Simon's glad just to have something warm in his stomach.  

And yet. 

The next day Simon stands at your door at six in the evening sharp, holding the clean dish in his hands. You invite him in for a cup of tea, because unlike him you have good manners, and you sheepishly apologise for the stacks of boxes everywhere. 

“S’alright,” Simon says, carefully manoeuvring around a large pile of books. “I don't mind.” 

And he doesn't, though he does feel like a bull in a china shop. Large and much too coarse for the little tea cup you hand him while the kettle whistles on the stove. 

“I'm afraid I don't have much to go with it,” you say with a flutter of your hands. “Do you like ginger snaps? I think I've got a pack somewhere.” 

You don't wait for his answer and pry open one of the cupboards. First come the ginger snaps, then the box of Earl Grey, which you hold up to him with a triumphant smile. “Unpacked the important stuff first.” 

Simon frowns and jerks his chin to the cupboard. “S’it stuck?” 

“Oh—yeah. They all are.” You give the wood a little knock. “It'll take me some time to get to fixing everything. The house went for a good price, but only ‘cause it needs some love.” You give him a rueful smile and get up, wiping your hands on your thighs. “I'm not all that handy, so I'll have to take it bit by bit.” 

Simon rises before you finish your sentence. "Let me see.” 

“Oh, no, it's okay. It's not a big deal, really—” 

Simon crouches down, slowly, to spare his knees, and tests the hinges. The wood is rotten in certain places, the hinges old and rusted. Rather than fixing it up it should be replaced entirely. You really better had gotten this place for good money, because this will take more than a bit of elbow grease to repair. He prods at the hinges, tuts, and looks up at you. 

“Ready to fall apart, this one. You said they're all like this?” 

You nod, worry creasing your brow. “I—yes. Well, the kitchen is. The bathroom seems alright. Is it worse than I thought?” 

“Might be. You have anyone look at this?” 

You shake your head. “I'm starting to feel silly about it now, but I was going to look up how to do it myself.” 

Simon straightens. “I'll go get my kit.” 

-

It's not as bad as he feared. Two cabinets need tearing down completely, but the others are worth saving. Simon warns you the repair job will fuck the wood, but you tell him it's no problem; you'll paint over it anyway. 

You feed him tea and ginger snaps while he works, asking him several times if he wouldn't like a break, hasn't he done a lot already? You feel terrible about having him work on his day off. Didn't he say he worked construction? He must be so tired, poor man. You insist he stay for dinner. “You've been so helpful—it's the least I could do.” 

Simon takes a breather to watch you cook. Chicken, pasta, summer salad. The sun sinks lower and hits you straight on from the kitchen window, painting the edges of you a dazed red-gold. An angel's halo. 

“You big on reading, then?” 

You turn down the heat and put a lid over the pan to join him at the table. Simon's eyeing the many books strewn about on top of boxes that say “pans” and “kitchen supplies”. Le Morte D’Arthur. Histories of the Kings of Britain. Beowulf. There's even one that prompts a vague, long-forgotten memory from his school days— The Canterbury Tales.  

“I am. Always have been.” You nod to the books. “I teach at university—medieval literature. But I'm working on my own research on the side.” 

Simon lets out a low whistle. His pretty bird is a clever one. Smarter than him, that's for sure. He might be big and strong but he's got bricks for brains. 

That's what his dad always used to say, anyway—that he's stupid. Those always were his kinder moments. 

“That explains all the books y’got.” 

“There sure are a lot of them, aren't there? I swear moving really makes you realise just how much stuff you own...” You shake your head. “I'll have to get a bigger bookcase.” 

“Think it's impressive.” 

Your eyes crinkle with a smile. “Not as impressive as knowing how to fix my cabinets! I don't know how I would've managed by myself.” You hop up from your seat to check the food, then ask over your shoulder, “Is that something you do a lot for work, too? Carpentry and the like?” 

Simon shakes his head. “We do the heavy lifting. Clearing a place out, laying the foundation. Johnny—my coworker, he's mostly on machinery. Kyle does transport and plumbing. I do the heavier handiwork.” 

You hum and start plating the food while asking him more questions. Is the pay good? Is his boss fair? Are his coworkers nice? 

Price's fairly strict is what he is, Simon answers, and you laugh again. He likes that. Likes that he gets you to do that. 

He wolfs down a plate of his pasta and devours the chicken. It's fragrant, roasted with lemon and thyme, bursts between his teeth. He tells you more about Johnny, that he's a cocky bastard who likes playing with electricity way too much, but that he's also a loyal friend. That he's a hard worker—that all of them are. 

When his plate is empty and he's eyeing what's left in the pans you push them closer without saying anything, and prompt him to tell you about that time a plumbing line exploded and Kyle got soaked from tip to toe in disgusting gunk. He smelt like sewage water for weeks. 

Simon doesn't even realise how much he's talked until his throat starts feeling rougher than usual. You make it easy somehow. If he'd thought you would look down on him because of your own job he needn't have worried. You're not at all like what he imagines when he thinks of professors, none of the stuffy superiority complex he's used to weathering when people find out all he does all day is chafe his fingers on hard cement.  

Maybe you're just good at faking it, but he doubts it. The sparkle in your eyes when you listen to him so intently has to be real. 

You send him home with a warm thanks and dessert, and Simon feels something in his chest lurch when you peer up at him through your lashes in the doorway, smiling and sweet. Can't remember the last time he went out for dates. Can't remember having the time or energy for it. 

And like a dog who's learned a new trick Simon rings your bell the next day. Wasn't happy with how he left it, and wasn't that faucet leaking? He's got plenty of spare wood in his shed, don't you worry. What's that about the boiler making a weird noise? He'll take a look at it, might have something for the draft in the hallway too. 

Pay him? What are you talking about, he does stuff like this for fun. Don't sweat it, love. Just hand him that wrench. 

There are days when it's hard, of course. Simon is only human, and spending days and days on sizzling hard concrete would wring anyone dry. The project is coming along nicely, but at the height of summer there's plenty of times when even the promise of your smile isn't enough to keep him from falling asleep on his couch—often on an empty stomach. 

But during the weekends he rings your bell dutifully. Six o’clock becomes something sacred in his mind, sweet relief after praying on his knees for hours smoothing out cement. It gets to the point where he turns down Friday drinks with the guys more than once because he's got something to go home for now, his pretty little bird that's never once mentioned a boyfriend of any kind. 

“You really should let me pay you.” 

Simon gives you a look before pushing his large shoulders further into the cabinet under the bathroom sink. “Should be the one payin’ you. I know I'm doubling your grocery bill.” 

He eats more at your place than his own these days. It gives him incentive to rush through a shower, dress like something resembling a human, then wait at your doorstep to be let in. Wagging tail and everything. 

Your cheeks darken and you duck your head. “No, um... It makes me happy. To see you eat my cooking, I mean,” you confess a little shyly. “I feel like I'm the one getting everything out of this. I hope I'm not keeping you from—from spending time at home, or with your family.” 

“S’just me, love.” Simon pauses, pretends to inspect the pipes. “Less you don't want me coming ‘round anymore.” 

“No, no,” you say hastily. “No, I like—I like the company. Really.” Your voice softens. “And I'm not just saying that because I appreciate the help.” 

Simon exhales, shifts a little to accommodate the strain in his boxers, and holds his hand out for the screwdriver. 

[moonstruckme]

okay sooo mae i have this idea for emt!marauders! you know how some people have mistaken appendicitis/ruptured appendix for bad period cramps (bc period education is so abysmal). im imagining a reader who thinks they’re having the worst period pain ever and the marauders are trying to help, but once reader describes their symptoms the boys are like ‘uhmmm no babes you literally need an organ removed rn’.

i hope you are having the best day <3 sending you all the good vibes!! <3

Sending good vibes back, thank you lovely <33

cw: stomach pains, mention of hospital/surgery

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 974 words

“Shh, I know, baby.” 

“You don’t,” you moan bitterly, pushing your face harder into Sirius’ lap and clutching your heating pad to your stomach. 

“I—yeah, I guess you’re right. Sorry.” He continues to toy with your hair, fingernails scratching lightly at your scalp in an attempt to soothe you. On the other end of the couch by your feet, James watches you with a sad puppy look. Sirius’ hand brushes across your temple, and he makes a sympathetic whining sound. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re hot.” 

“It hurts,” you whine in earnest. 

“Do you want some brownies?” Remus peeks out of the kitchen. “I’m almost done with these, but you’re welcome to some batter if you can’t wait.” 

You nibble your lip, looking at him apologetically. “I don’t think I feel well enough to eat anything.” 

Remus gives you a compassionate look and disappears back into the kitchen. Another wave of sudden, sharp pain makes you suck in a breath, curling tighter in on yourself. Sirius coos. 

“Fuck, what did I do to deserve this?” You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to breathe through the pain. “It’s never usually this bad.” 

“Does it hurt in your back, too, angel?” James leans forward, rubbing tentatively at the base of your spine. 

“No, not—not this time. It’s so weird.” 

His eyebrows bunch. “Why don’t you at least have some of your tea? That usually helps, doesn’t it?” 

You press your face into Sirius’ stomach. He palms the back of your head protectively, thumb rubbing the skin by your ear. “Honestly, thank you, but I really don’t think I can. 

“You should, dove,” says Remus, coming in from the kitchen to crouch by your head. He takes your tea and presses it into your hands, brushing a kiss against your hairline when you take it. “Sit up and have a few sips before it gets cold.” 

Reluctantly, you do as you’re told, allowing Sirius to help you into a seated position. He pulls you gently into his lap, making sure your heating pad stays situated, and you raise the cup to your lips. James rubs your ankle encouragingly while you drink. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks at your pinched expression. 

You mash your face into Sirius’ shoulder, ashamed. You feel horribly dramatic. You must have the lowest pain threshold in the whole world. “I can’t decide whether to go to the toilet. I feel like I could be sick, but moving makes it hurt worse.” 

Remus takes your cup from you, setting it back on the table. He’s frowning. “Moving makes it worse?” 

You nod miserably. 

He touches his knuckles to your forehead, brows stitching together. “How long have you been feeling nauseous?” 

You make a low, piteous sound. It feels impossible to think clearly with your stomach radiating hurt. “I dunno. I think it’s because of the pain.” 

“Was it the same time that the cramps started?” 

“I think so.” 

“Alright, thanks, sweetheart.” He kisses the space between your brows. “Do you mind if we check on something really quickly?”

You feel your eyebrows furrow. You’re about to ask what he means when James takes your heating pad, pulling it off of your middle. 

“Just for a second,” he promises at your distressed expression. “I’m gonna feel your stomach, okay?” 

You nod, wanting whatever this is over with so you can get your heating pad back, but when James’ fingers push gently into your lower abdomen, the pain triples. You cry out. 

“It’s okay,” Sirius coos, holding you tighter to his chest while James backs up to allow you to fold your knees in again. “It’s okay, baby, he’s done.”

“Jamie,” Remus asks softly, “would you get us a bag ready, please?” 

You blow air out through your mouth, trying to calm yourself as the pain fades back to the way it was. Sirius pets the back of your head, his other arm wrapped firmly around your shoulders. “A bag for what?” you ask weakly. 

Remus looks at you, his face conveying both apology and tenderness. “We’re going to go to the hospital,” he says slowly. 

“Wha—why?” You feel immediately frantic. Tears press at your eyes. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”  

“He’s telling you why, baby, listen.” Sirius kisses your head. 

“You’re not having period cramps,” Remus says patiently. “The good news is, we can fix it. The pain will go away, and you’ll be completely fine. But to do that, we need to go to the hospital so you can have your appendix taken out.” 

As he explains, Sirius is pressing kiss after kiss into your hair, holding you close and rubbing your back when you get upset. You make your dissent known, but Remus is calm and understanding. He answers your questions honestly, tells you about the procedure, promises they’ll be with you for as long as you’re awake. Before long, James has returned with a backpack of supplies for an overnight stay and your pillow under his arm. 

He sets them both down on the coffee table. Slips one arm behind your shoulders, another beneath the crooks of your knees. 

“No sense in walking when you’re poorly, right angel? Sirius, you can carry her things, yeah?”

Sirius groans as he slings the backpack over his shoulder. “Fuck, did you pack all her books?” 

“Just the essentials.” James kisses the bridge of your nose. “Wouldn’t want you getting bored in there. You doing alright?” 

“I don’t see how it can get worse,” you manage. You know you must look awful, eyes red from withheld tears and face creased with pain. James’ brows hook sympathetically. 

“At least you’ll feel better in a few hours, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Remus answers for you. He sets a palm on top of your head as he moves past you both to get the door. “We’ll have you all fixed up soon, dove.” 

[leclsrc]

wanna be nearer ✴︎ mv1

genre: 18+, fuck buddies ahhhaha, smut, porn w/o plot basically...

word count: 3.6k  

It seems every time you tell yourself to stop, Max comes back into your life and all sense of resolve crumbles. title from this

auds here… hiii :) req'd by SO MANY PEOPLE i can't even start compiling all the asks hahah but if u asked for this here it is! writing's been tuff for me lately but this was the one thing i could continue daily (weird) also there is a case to be made re: max's hottest pictures being like 1 pixel in resolution... hope u all like it!!!

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... sexual tension, penetrative sex, some vague sexting/a sex tape being watched, praise/dirty talk central, size kink, unprotected sex, handjob (f receiving), max being a meanie

It’s busy today. You haven’t seen him all day. 

To be fair, you weren’t necessarily looking—not at first, anyways. How many days had it been since the last time, now? The one in your hotel room? Almost two weeks, you think. The real answer’s blurry in your head, especially when you count the close calls, but this should be a record for you two at this point. Neither of you acknowledge that the only reason you’ve been so good at staying away from each other is because when you’re not roped into the same media junket, you avoid each other at all costs.

The media pen is full; everybody’s shoulder-to-shoulder because a few other networks bought their way into the space for the Singapore race. Right when your mind settles back into the focus of work, though—

“Here,” he says, his voice rough and tickling your ear. You nearly stumble forward, shocked at how his voice almost vibrates through you, a low trill that ripples top to bottom.

His hand settles at the small of your back, like his verbal confirmation wasn’t enough on its own; it’s big and his thumb rubs softly at the smooth strip of skin in-between your low skirt and your top. “Passing through.”

“Sure,” you say, dry. “Sorry.” You clear your throat and cant backwards into his touch—briefly, before you step forward and allow him to pass fully. Across you, Lissie looks up from her phone and you sense her trying to gauge why you’re so close to Max.

You blink and wait for him to disappear, wondering what you’ll tell her—how, more like. How the conversation even opens. How you’d phrase the truth, which in itself is a horribly grey area. Well, Lis, if you must know, Max and I have casual sex. A lot. It’s actually not very casual. We stopped now, but—yes, Max. That Max, yes. 

“What about Max?”

Your eyes snap upward and then to your left, where you can see Max’s figure disappearing into a crowd of engineers. They return to Lissie and you feign confusion to mask panic. “What?”

“You were spacing out and then suddenly said his name.” She presses the tip of her pen onto her chin, humming. She doesn’t look at you and you thank God for it—eye contact would’ve rattled the truth out of you in seconds.

“I…” You shake your head. “I was irritated with—I’ve been irritated with him all morning. It’s. Yeah.”

“Oh,” she says, nodding, looking away for a second but not pausing. “Oh, okay. D’you wanna go over this edit again?”

—

The stale air of his hotel room, alleviated only by the vaguely fragrant linen spray they use when he’s out, is what greets Max when he arrives in the afternoon.The first thing he does—the only task he’d even thought of en route here—after the door clicks shut is pull up his Messages app and type.

Just got to hotel. He tosses his phone onto the bed while he waits, tugs his cap off and rakes reckless fingers through his hair. His new stylist’s got him onto jeans that don’t “look painted on” (you once said, verbatim), but he’d rather die than lounge in denim, so he swaps them out for just his Calvins.

His mind’s lethargic, but even his version of lethargic is high-drive for others—his brain has the silly tendency to work in absolute overdrive. He itches for a drink and orders a Scotch on the telephone. He checks his phone, which is lying facedown still, and as soon as he picks it up it chimes with your reply.

OK, nice. Did u need something?

No, just wanted to let you know. He hits send, then adds another. You’re off @ 8?

Ended early, I’m in the car. He’s in the middle of drafting a response when you send a follow-up.

I thought we agreed no contact unless business

He scoffs out a dry laugh. Despite himself, he reads the text in your voice, his brain completing the image of the bossy tone with crossed arms and a wickedly arched brow. In response he types: Can’t even update a friend nowadays? I am very tired you know.

Rules are rules, he reads. Then, Get some rest.

Yeah. Got a drink.

I said rest, not drink. Even then he can hear the exasperation in your voice.

How was work? I hurt a muscle doing training. That’s why I’m at the hotel early.

Feel better soon, you send. Had some press stuff today. Boring shit

Yeah? I missed you today.

Really?

A lot. He hums and leans backward, lets his head settle into the pillow, the smell of the linen spray consuming his nostrils. He waits for his phone to buzz, vibrate softly on the hard surface of his chest. It does, after a few minutes, after he’s let his eyes shut and let himself rest them for a bit, after the room service comes knocking and gives him the Scotch he’d requested while ago.

He’s back sitting on his bed when it vibrates. He picks it up and reads: How much?

You’re awfully easy to rile up. He smiles around the rim of his glass—he knows exactly where this is heading. 

So much I think I’ll watch some videos of us.

The only caveat of casual sex as two people who essentially dislike each other is the fact that it’s all under wraps—which means if you two try to sneak off together, or are even caught in the same vicinity, people raise suspicions. And that means there are weeks where you barely get to fuck.

And that means you both grow antsy for it. He makes fun of you for being needy, when you’re tipsy and palming at the denim of his jeans or when you bend over when you know he’s looking. But the truth is he grows needy for it, too, craves you like you’re all that matters—he gets extra handsy, drops another innuendo when he knows you’re listening. There is a case to be made that he’s worse, in fact, because fans sometimes skirt around his words and wonder why he sounds so flirty when you’re the reporter in the room.

It was difficult but eventually he found a minor workaround: sometimes he films the two of you. There’s none of those propping his phone up kind of stuff, he just fishes for it in the middle of fucking you so he can store it for himself. It’s locked on his phone and he only has a few (the few has grown in number lately), but God it gives him release when he needs it and you’re not there.

I’ll call you when I’m at the lobby, comes the response. It’s always futile, the attempts to stay away from each other.

He pulls up the folder and lets his eyes skate over the thumbnails, squeezes himself through his boxers. Fuck. He can’t seem to decide what he wants to watch—the ones of you sucking him off, the ones of his fingers stretching you out. He recalls the whine in your voice in each of them, the pleads that escaped you for him to fuck you harder.

So Max, for the life of him, can’t even count how many times these videos have made him cum. But there’s one he hasn’t seen yet—the one he took the night before you two parted. You’d become extra needy on this night, preceding the season, he supposes, the separation. You already were anticipating the deprivation, starved for him more than usual. He’d have kissed you pretty, given you one orgasm after another and still you’d want more. And on this night it was you who asked him to film, you who wanted all of them on tape, so you’d both have something to tide you over until he got to fuck you again.

He pulls his cock out and strokes over it. And with his other hand, he presses his thumb on that video.

In it he’s fucking you in the dark, keeping the phone’s flashlight on your pussy as he sinks his cock into you. When he pulls back out the light reflects on the slick coating his dick, makes it glisten. It looks so wet, sounds so wet, with each thrust into you. He remembers just how it feels; he imagines that he’s back in your bed, fucking you again; that his fist is your pussy, and the spit lubricating it is the wetness that’s drooling out of you on camera.

He can see how tight you are—the way your pussy grips the shaft each time he pulls his cock out, greedy for him. Just like you.

The two of you were supposed to be quiet, too. You were at a hotel, your room beside another driver’s; you were supposed to be careful not to stir anyone. But your moans are louder than he remembers; so is the way you say, breathily, between gasps, Right there, Maxie, m’so close. Max inhales through his teeth, his cock throbbing at that—that Maxie, the cute little whimper out your mouth.

He strokes himself faster, watches the way your fingers slip into frame to rub at your clit, his thrusts getting sloppier and sloppier. He can see, hear—feel how wet you are, the sound of your cunt growing wetter with every thrust. He hears his own voice again, mutter out So good for me, yeah? And your babbled affirmation in response.

You cum hard, your slick getting everything wet and shiny and Max watches himself cum next. His dick’s already spurting when he pulls out and lets himself release on your lower stomach, some of it shooting onto your tits. He blinks, anchors himself back, quickens his wrist and digs his heels into the bed to keep himself from coming. Just a second longer. He knows what comes next and he needs to see it.

Like clockwork, he watches two of your fingers swipe through his cum, bringing them up to your lips. You blink up at the camera and smile. Quit it, your lips mouth, pink and cum-slick. Put it down, Maxie… fill me up again. He releases in weak spurts over his fist, a damp, flushed grunt escaping him as he does. He feels like the air’s been knocked out of him.

His phone rings and he presses it to his ear. “Hey, angel. Come on up.”

One week later

“Vodka,” you say to the bellboy when you get to the elevator. “To my hotel room. Very cold. Please. And thank you.”

The guy scurries off to fetch it for you, and five minutes and one elevator ride later, you're wrestling himself into your room, flexing your sore foot. Japan does hotel rooms well. The leather of your Manolo digs into your foot the way it does after you’ve walked the entire day and you can feel a blister forming on the back of your right heel but it doesn’t really matter, you guess, if you’re already home. Hotel-home, anyway.

You expect to find solace lounging on your bed, waiting out the hours to your morning briefing for the race and throw back a glass or two of vodka. 

Instead, you find Max on your couch. He’s sipping ice-cold vodka—your ice-cold vodka.

“Hey, pretty,” he says. “Good vodka. I got staff to wire my FIFA on the TV.”

You just stare. “My TV. What,” you say, your eyes spotting the bottle of frosty vodka by his glass, “are you doing here?”

“I hadn’t seen you all day and I wanted to,” he explains simply. “Do you want food or something?”

“Food? I—nevermind,” you shrug. You’re frozen by the door, only just warmed now from the cold air that bit at your bare legs. “Max, how long have you been here?”

“Since Will Buxton started the post-FP debrief,” he huffs. He fiddles with the remote in his grip and extends it to the TV, where FIFA comes to life. “Aw, come on, angel. I know, I know. No sex and all that. I just like your company, you know?”

“Please. Go fuck yourself,” you scoff, toeing off your shoes and wiping your hands on the fabric of your skirt. He says one thing but you expect another—it’s only natural, given all the other times one of you had failed to keep a similar promise. But still you walk yourself beside him, fix the strap of your short dress, and allow him to pour you a drink.

“You know what I’ve been thinking about lately?” He asks absently. “About how you’re always having these talks with me about… about not having sex anymore, but you never even last two days.” He raises you the glass. “What is it, relapsing?”

“Fuck you,” you mutter. “It’s only because you keep trying to get me all hot and bothered.” You recall each time: in Monaco, in Madrid, in France. “Maybe if you got off my back once in a while, we’d be back to normal.”

He shrugs. “You just don’t have strong resolve.”

“Excuse me?” You scoff, irritation scratching at your throat.

“Wanna test that out? Come play.”

Your eyes flit over to the bright screen, all exhaustion cleared from your system. An animated Kylian Mbappe kicks a football in a loop. “Fine. One round and you’re out of my room.” He throws his hands up in surrender and you make a move to sit next to him. Max puts his hands out towards you then, nodding. You mistake it for some handshake, accept them, and then he’s wrangle you onto his lap facing outward. You feel your pulse at your throat as he pulls you tight against him.

“This is cheating,” you say, your voice dry.

“You got it wrong. Teaching.”

He moves his fingers atop yours, explaining what to press, what goes where, what to do for this or that. He can smell your perfume, hear your stilted breaths, and when he peeks over your shoulder he can see where your dress falls loose, showing the lace of your bra and your tits underneath them.

If he had it his way, he’d hike your dress up and have you ride him. But he’s given you a challenge.

You play a practice round and end up scoring a few goals, fingers making quick work of the buttons. Behind you, Max watches, content, answering your questions when you ask them hurriedly—how do I do this? That? Did I just score?

You score once, then twice, then three times, and before you know it you’re scoring in quick succession. The game is fun—it’s easy. If Max was trying to give you a hard time, he failed. You grow determined, competitive within seconds (something he really should’ve anticipated), and you’re scoring goals with skill that you’d confidently say rivals Max’s.

Max. You almost—almost forget he’s there, and then you sit up straighter and you’re hit with the sensation of his dick pressing into your ass. You inhale sharply and the controller clatters to the floor.

“You okay, pretty?” His hand comes up to rest on your knee, inching closer and closer with every hitch of your breath. Your hand, now free of the controller, seizes his, stopping it right at the middle of your thigh. 

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah? You look stressed.” He doesn’t move. “You were so close, too, weren’t you?” The score stares you right in the face: 4-5. “Maybe you just need to get your mind off it.” It’s so bullshit, so extremely obvious, but he’s right in your ear and his hand is so near where you’ve missed its presence.

You’re usually competitive. You can usually hold your ground. But with this and him—

“Maybe,” you breathe, loosening your grip. He spreads his legs, spreading yours in the process, and brings his hand closer, running slender fingers over the lace material of your underwear until you’re squirming. It grows damper the more he touches, your mouth hanging open with stunted whimpers.

“You always come back to me, schatz, don’t you,” he says, whispers against your ear. You wrench a moan out. “Remember the first time? You interviewed me in Abu Dhabi… you teased me the whole day and begged to come thrice in my room. The time in Monaco you touched yourself to me when I was in the next room. The time we almost hooked up in Miami…” He groans, to himself more than you. “You’re a dirty girl.” He’s curling two fingers inside of you now, grazing against the sweet spot pulls the most delicious moans out of your innocent mouth.

“Every time… you go, that was the last time.” While your mind recaps the memories he’s busy spelling into your ear, Max’s fingers are curling inside of you against that sweet spot just right, and your moans are getting louder and louder.

“Fuck,” he huffs, watching your flushed face get more and more euphoric.

“Aw, pretty, look at that,” Max laughs. He’s looking at your thighs, watching the way they tense and shake as his fingers stroke your g spot. Each pump and curl into your twitching pussy feels better and better, and your dripping walls are starting to clench around his fingers.

“Wait, I—I can’t,” you pant, lolling your head onto his shoulder and involuntarily bucking your hips upward. 

“Yeah you can,” he orders. “It’s so easy to get you to cum, isn’t it? Or is that just for me? The driver you hate the most?” He laughs. “Get all wet for the guy you couldn’t care less about. Say you hate me and get my dick nice and wet the next day.” You’re grinding onto his three fingers now, shameless with it.

“Are you gonna cum?” He asks.

“Oh,” you whine. “Yeah, fuck—yes.”

“Tell me what you’re gonna do,” he says wickedly. You can hear him smile.

“I’m gonna—please—I’m gonna cum,” you pant, tension coming to a halt and then bursting all at once out of you. His other arm holds your hips down against him, and you spend a minute and another twitching, your skin sticky with sweat and slick.

It’s not long before you’re whirled back to face him, your hands making quick work of his jeans. It’s a skill you’ve both mastered, the art of the quickie—in closets, hotel rooms, with sweaty, open-mouthed kisses pressed along the column of your throat, moans swallowed. 

He hikes your dress up and your panties to the side, immediately bullies his cock into you—the glide is slow, but easy. You’re so fucking wet.

“Fucking big,” you gasp out. “Jesus, Jesus—fuck.” Your head drops and presses against his; he uses the opportunity to kiss you. You moan into it, feeling the stretch, your slick wetness dragging down the length of him as he thrusts up, up, further. “Been a while.”

“Feel good, though, yeah?” Your toes curl and you nod; you’re flushed all over and you need him to hurry up. You grind downward, onto him. He does, then, fucks you hard and fast, like he’s thirsted for this for way longer than he did. You’re squirming, all wet, and it tempts him to go harder. Your face is shiny with sweat, lips drawn in between your teeth.

“Slo—slow down,” you manage, babbling; he doesn’t, speeding up his thrusts until you’re moaning his name. “Max—wait—fuck, you’re so mean,” you whine, wrapping your arms around him and letting him take control. 

“You’re fine,” he grunts, pulling out almost all the way. “You take my dick so well, schatz, every fucking time. Don’t you?”

“I do,” you gasp out, and he’s slamming into you gain. You cry out loudly, sniffling from the overstimulation—you’d barely recovered from your initial orgasm and already you’re hurtling into what feels like three at the same time. 

“For someone who doesn’t like me,” he sneers, “you sure do moan like a slut, huh?”

His words get you more turned on than you’re willing to admit, but you shake your head.

“No?” He laughs, breathy from the effort. “Maybe I should film you now. Send it to your boss, let him see his stellar reporter’s getting Verstappen’s dick wet.” 

Finally, the tension building inside of you reaches a head, and your pussy starts to twitch around his dick. He notices, grunts sharply and leans forward, shuddering as he releases into you. Your moans are choked and tapering into whimpers as you release slick all over him, and you attempt to catch your breath, collapsing onto his still-clothed, now-sticky chest. You scratch at the dri-fit material and inhale him, the smell of his cologne, his sweat. You bite at his earlobe, laugh when he flinches.

“That,” you say into his skin, “was the last time.” It’s both seriously and as a joke, playing off of what he’d remarked earlier.

“Jesus, princess. I’m still inside you.” 

You giggle and drum lightly along the plane of his chest. In a few minutes he’ll pick you up to shower, but now you’re content to inhale him in. Quietly you wonder why you just can’t get enough of him—if you were in better senses, you’d have realized he was thinking the same thing about you.

[no-144444]

nothing has to change- o.piastri

your first season as an f1 driver doesn't start the best, and you quickly realise McLaren doesn't like women very much. On top of that, your race engineer is as smug as the rest of them, and you have to deal with him all the time.

pairing: race engineer! oscar piastri x f1driver! fem! reader

warnings: lots of misogyny, lando is an asshole in this, illusions to ed behaviour, reader is not in a good head space, all of mclaren is super sexist, mentions of crashes and injuries.

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

You were the World Driver’s Champion, as of 4pm that day. Yes, that could change in the next few races, half the season was still left, but you were proud. 

And so was Oscar. 

He stood at the very front of the barricade, a bright smile on his face as you ran over, wrapping your arms around him and the rest of his family. 

“You did it,” he whispered. “You’re amazing.”

You smiled, pulling your helmet off. “I did it.”

You felt proud of yourself. Proud that you could still excel in a team that didn’t want you. Proud that you had given them the points. Proud that you had let Oscar into your life. Proud that you had proved yourself worthy of RedBull, and much more. 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

You sat beside Oscar and Nicole at the dinner, across from Lando and Zak (who had invited themselves, much to Oscar’s chagrin). You quietly chatted to Nicole as Oscar made pleasant conversation with Zak and Lando. She noticed how you weren’t really… there. You kept looking at Lando, or Zak, or another team member. You were uncomfortable, nothing like the headstrong, loud girl she’d met yesterday. You were shy, reserved, and a little on edge. 

When you left the table to go to the bathroom, she tapped her son. “Get her out of here.”

He shrugged, sighing. “She won’t want to be rude-”

“Oscar, she’ll do anything you ask her to. Go.” 

He nodded, following you with your bag and jacket in hand. Kids these days. 

“Going to fuck her?” Lando scoffed, too drunk for his own good. A lot of the table stopped and gasped. Lando had never been so… vulgar. Oscar was disgusted. Just because neither you or Oscar worshipped the ground he walked on, didn’t mean he had to make the both of you miserable.

“What is your problem?” Oscar finally couldn’t take it. It was bullshit, Lando was an asshole. 

“It’s clear you’re in love with her,” he chuckled. 

“Fuck off Lando,” he shouted. “You’re such a dick! You’re so self-absorbed you wouldn’t even recognise someone interesting if they actually slapped you in the face. You don’t understand Y/n, and for her sake I hope you never get close enough to. You are a shallow, shitty, infuriatingly untalented asshole, with an ego the size of England. Maybe I’m in love with her, but at least I don’t act like she’s not there to feed my own tiny ego.”

And he turned around to see you standing there, a shocked expression on your face. You looked slightly terrified too, but he just decided to blame the shock. 

“Y/n I-“ he started but you cut him off by grabbing your things from his hands, and turning tail. The entire room was silent for a moment. “Fuck!” Oscar groaned, running out after you. 

He couldn’t have, he didn’t. He didn’t fuck this up. Lando didn’t fuck this up for him. He didn’t. 

He better not have. 

He raced through the streets of a city he didn’t really know, pleading that he’d find you. When he did, it was from a distance. You were sitting in a park. Your head in your hands. 

Lando had fucked it up for him. Slowly, he walked closer, too cautious to startle you. 

“I’m sorry about… back there-” he whispered. 

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” you sighed. “I just… it’s a lot, yeah? I don't exactly see myself as the poster-girl for romance.”

He looked at you. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve never really done this before. And I’m awkward and weird, and I’m rude to you-” 

“I don’t mind if you’re rude to me-” 

“You should,” you told him. 

You were both quiet for a moment, and he understood that this was a fork in the road. He could either push you too far, or he’d ruin everything if you felt the same by not speaking up now. The air was charged with an uncertain electricity, and he wasn’t perfectly sure what to do. Oscar was a man of logic, but love was illogical. He liked facts and numbers and a set of rules to follow. He didn’t like feeling uncertain. 

But he was happy to feel uncertain if it meant he kept you. 

“This doesn’t have to change anything,” he told you. “If you don’t want it to, we don’t have to do anything about it. I’m happy to be your friend. I’m not expecting anything.”

You looked at him, and when he saw the unshed tears in your eyes, his heart hurt. He gently reached a hand up and cupped your cheek, carefully wiping them away. 

“I don’t want anything to change,” you admitted. “I really like having you around Oscar.” 

He smiled, though he was slightly disappointed. Rejection from the pretty girl he was in love with was going to sting either way, even if she’d just told him that she actually enjoyed his presence. “That’s fine with me,” he whispered. 

You stared at him, silently asking for reassurance, and he nodded. 

“I’m sorry I can’t be-”

“Don’t apologise,” he reminded you. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I think I do,” you said, looking down again. “I just… I’m not in the headspace to be in a relationship. McLaren is really… it’s a lot for me.”

So you did like him back? He couldn’t really decipher what that meant, but he’d work on it another time. 

“That’s alright,” he smiled. 

You couldn’t be more shocked by his behaviour. Yes, Oscar was the nicest man you knew, but you assumed he’d be mad, or at least a little bit annoyed at you. But he was just the same, kind, caring, lovely Oscar that he always was. 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

After he walked you back to your hotel room, you stewed over your decision for a few hours. Maybe you did want Oscar like that. Maybe you were just self-sabotaging yourself as always. Maybe you were just being more cautious than you needed to be. 

But then you reminded yourself that this was Oscar that you were talking about. The only person in the entire world who supported you. You couldn’t let him get too close, lest he see all of you, and then you were sure he’d be gone for good.

You couldn't lose him. 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

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[vivwritesfics]

u should do like a foursome. where the winners on the podium get to fuck y/n. Like Lando Charles and max. Weird idea oop

18+ ONLY

Warnings: Smut, foursome, eating out, blow jobs, hand jobs, face fucking, spit, swallowing, soft dom!max, hard dom!lando, switch!charles, face riding, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (don't have sex, because you will get pregnant and die), riding, denial, doggy, praise, anal (fucking and fingering), overstimulation, sub space (i suppose)

I tried to include recovery time but i forgot ill be honest

3.4K

Celebrating for Max, Lando and Charles meant one thing: getting drunk in the club.

They'd all spotted her across the dance floor at the same time, swaying her hips with the music, drink in her hands. All three of them wanted her. It should have caused an all out war.

But she noticed them, noticed as the three of them stared. Moving her hips from side to side, she walked over to them, walking over to Lando (as he was standing in the middle).

Her fingers played with the chain around his neck as she looked at the other two boys. She said something, something none of them could hear, and went up onto her tip toes to whisper in each of their ears.

It must have been the alcohol, because they never would have done it sober. Never would have followed her back to her apartment with other drivers beside him.

Max stumbled into her apartment first, hands around her hips as Lando and Charles followed.

His lips were on hers as she kicked off her shoes and reached back to unzip her dress. Once he saw her struggling, Charles walked over to pull the zip down, kissing her neck as he did.

Just lando was left standing there, feeling a little left out. So, she reached out her hand, reaching past max, reaching for the chain around his neck.

When she pulled lando closer, Max began kissing down her neck as she began kissing Lando. She stepped out of her dress without breaking away from anybody, leaving her in her underwear.

Charles couldn't stop himself from cupping her ass. Her eyes shut as he did, letting out a quiet whine.

But still, her underwear was blocking too much of their view. It was gorgeous, sure, but the boys couldn't wait to see it on the floor.

Charles slipped his hands beneath her underwear, still cupping her ass. Lando pushed the straps of her bra down her arms as Max undid the clasp.

As her bra fell away from her body, Max looked away. Not out of politeness, not because he felt like he shouldn't be looking at her in such a state, but to look around her apartment. He looked towards the kitchen, at the counter top.

Suddenly, she was in his arms. Charles and Lando followed as Max placed her on the counter top. She sat there, leaning back on her hands as Max got to his knees.

Immediately Charles and Lando attached themselves to her breasts, each of them taking a nipple between their lips. She threw her head back as they worked, this enough to get her wt. Soaked even.

On his knees Max pulled her underwear away from her body. He discarded it on the kitchen floor and dove right in, kissing her thigh before moving her legs over his shoulders.

He licked and sucked as her folds, tongue swirling around her clit. She let out moans and whines, gripping Charles and Lando's hair as Max's tongue prodded at her hole.

"Holy shit," she gasped, legs shaking around Max's head as he brought her to her first orgasm of the night.

The boys pulled away from her as they stripped down to nothing. Still on the counter, she watched as Lando reached back to unclasp the chain from around his neck. "Leave it," she said and he halted his movements, leaving the chain dangling around his neck.

Curling her finger in a beckoning motion, she led them through the apartment and towards her bedroom. At first the couch was temping, fucking each of them on the cushions, but there wouldn't be space to take all of them.

Grabbing a hold of Lando, Charles and Max, she sat them on her bed and got down onto her knees in front of them. She wrapped her hands around both Max and Lando and held her mouth open for Charles.

It was hard work, moving her hands up and down Max and Lando while working Charles in her mouth in the same rhythm.

But the boys were all moaning as she either sucked or tugged. Out of the three of them, Charles was enjoying it the most, but that was because it was easier for her to concentrate on him.

When it got to be too much, she released her hold on Max and Lando, concentrating all of her efforts on Charles. He gripped her hair as he let out breathy moans, letting his hips stutter as he came in her mouth.

Releasing her hair, Charles laid back, breathless as Y/N swallowed, wiping any excess away from her mouth.

She took time to recover as she moved onto Lando. He was rock hard, vein prominent as it climbed up the side of him.

After a good minute of recovering, she placed her hands on her knees, signalling to him that she was ready.

But Lando had other ideas. He caressed her cheek before placing his hand beneath her chin. "Open wide," he said and she opened her mouth, sticking her tongue out and shutting her eyes.

Something warm and let hit her tongue. She opened her eyes and looked up at him, at the grin he wore as he looked down at her. That was when she realised what he had just done, that she had just swallowed his spit.

And she loved it.

Her jaw ached as she sucked him, moving her mouth up and down his shaft. Her tongue swirled around the tip and ran along the vein. Just like Charles, Lando held her hair. But he didn't just grip onto her, he held her hair as he thrusted his hips forward, effectively fucking her face.

It was aggressive, but she was grateful. She wasn't having to do any of the work with how her jaw was aching, Lando taking complete control.

Tears sprung to her eyes as spit ran down her chin. The noises she was making had the other two looking over, eyes blown wide. They'd never seen Lando, the youngest of them all, so dominating and aggressive. It had Max's arousal getting to painful levels and Charles ready to go again.

Just before Lando came, he pulled her off of his cock, moving his hand up and down his shaft as he pointed towards her chest. She wiped away her tears as he came on her breasts.

Using a finger, she gathered a little bit of cum and put her finger in her mouth as she stared into his eyes, "Holy fuck," Lando hissed as she licked his cum off.

With an aching jaw and painful knees, she shuffled over to Max. "Best saved for last, huh?" He joked.

She swallowed thickly as she put her mouth around him and hollowed her cheeks. Just like the other two, Max gripped her hair, but he pulled her off of him. "Gorgeous," he muttered as he ran his thumb over her bottom lip.

"Charlie," said Max.

As if he already knew what to do, laid down on the floor behind her. He grabbed a hold of her hips and pulled her on top of him, sucking and licking at her folds.

She was hesitant at first, but, after some gentle coaxing from Max, she settled down on his face.

Her eyes closed as Charles worked her like an expert, his tongue flat and broad as he licked her in a long stripe. His tongue played with her clit before he sucked on it.

"That's it," whispered Max as he petted her hair.

As if rejuvenated, she moved her mouth back to Max's cock, sucking in time with Charles's licks. Ignoring the ache in her jaw, she worked back with ferocity, taking him all the way, until her nose was pressed against his pelvic, before pulling back.

Max moaned. He kept a hold of her hair, kept his hips still as his moans filled the apartment. "That's it," he whispered, his eyes squeezed shut.

Suddenly she stopped as she let out a cry, pulling away from Charles. Her legs were shaking as she went up onto her tired knees, and Charles kissed the inside of her thigh one more time before he pulled away from her, leaving her to bring Max to completion.

He wasn't far off, hips stuttering as he held himself at the back of her throat. He spilled inside of her mouth and she eagerly swallowed before lifting off.

Suddenly they pulled her up, dragged her to her feet. "Who do you want first?" Charles asked with a glint in his eye, and Y/N reached for Lando.

The brit was happy to oblige. Max and Charles cleared off the bed as she laid back and Lando climbed on top of her. His necklace hung over her as he grinned, tongue between her teeth.

He leaned down to kiss her, his lips bruising against hers. As he kissed her, he pushed her legs apart, using one hand to hold himself up and the other to part her folds. He held himself as he pushed forward.

She let out a cry as Lando thrust forward. He kept his eyes locked onto her face as he set a pace, slow at first, but his thrusts were still hard. When her only reply were moans, whines, face scrunched up as her eyes shut, Lando sped up his pace. He gripped, his head against her shoulders as his hips snapped against hers.

The sounds of skin against him filled the apartment. Lando moved away from her shoulder, his necklace swaying above her as he fucked her.

Her moans came out hot and heavy as Lando's thrusts sped up, his pace seemingly impossible. She clenched around him as she face scrunched up, bringing her to her third orgasm of the night.

Lando have one last particularly bruising thrust, cumming inside of her. Breathlessly, he pulled away from her, laying on the bed beside her quivering, sweat covered body.

Max was next, but he gave her a moment to recuperate, considering how clearly exhausted she was. She looked at him with half closed eyes, hands resting on her stomach.

After what felt like no time at all, she beckoned Max closer. She stood on her own shaking legs and gestured for him to lay down on the bed before her. He did so, placing his hands behind his head as he grinned up at her.

She sat herself on his midsection, legs on either side of him. She leaned down, kissing him softly. But Max pushed it further, his tongue invading her mouth. She squeaked in surprise, but didn't pull away.

His hands moved from behind his head to hold her ass, his grip so firm it definitely left bruises. She didn't mind though, a reminder of this night was exactly what she needed. No, the memories of this night were never leaving her mind.

She held his cock as Max used his grip on her ass to raise her up.

She lowed down onto him, eyes fluttering shut as her hands rested on his chest. Max was thick within her, her walls clenching around him.

Max grunted as he moved his hips, bouncing her on top of him. He couldn't keep his eyes off of her as her body bounced.

"Come on, pretty girl," he said as he moved. "I want to hear you."

She moved as Max moved her, manhandling her like she was a ragdoll.

Still thrusting up into her, Max moved his hands up to her back, pulling her body down on top of him. He shut his eyes as he sucked her nipple into her mouth.

"Oh my god," she cried, holding herself up high enough for Max to give her tits attention. Max was hyper aware of everything, of the way she clenched around him. "I... I'm-"

But with the way he was fucking her, she couldn't get the words out. To Max, that was reason enough to pull her off of him, leave her dangling on the edge without pushing her over. She cried out as she fell onto the bed beside him, clenching her legs together. "Please," she cried as she reached down, but Max grabbed a hold of her hands, preventing her from sorting herself out.

"No way," he said and brought her hands to his cock. She moved her hands up and down his shaft until he came in her hands. She looked at him with a glare as she licked the cum from her skin.

"Charles," said Max and the Monégasque took his place on the bed. "Don't let her cum," Max said to him as he placed her so that she was sitting on Charles just as she was Max.

As she sank down onto him, tears sprung to her eyes. "Ride him," she heard Lando say as he rested against the wall.

She tried her best, but she was already exhausted. After watching her struggle to bounce, Lando walked over and took charge, bouncing her on top of Charles.

But he quickly got bored and went back to slowly tugging himself as he rested against the wall. Charles looked up at her as she continued to bounce, but he quickly lifted her off of him. He flipped them over, propping her up on her hands and knees as he got behind her.

From that angle, all of them could see just how wet she was. Drenched, with a mess already on the bed beneath her. And they weren't done with her yet.

Charles watched as she shivered when he pushed his finger between her folds. It was a mix of her and everything of Lando's that Max hadn't fucked out of her. He lifted his finger to his lips, tasting it, tasting them. "My turn," he said and pushed into her.

With her hair knotted around his hands, Charles wildly snapped his hips against hers. He held her hip with the other hand, squeezing hard enough to leave bruises. Cries and whines and moans left her lips as he fucked her into the mattress.

But then Charles let go of her hair. His pace slowed as he squeezed her ass, pulling her cheeks apart. His thumb ran over her hole, not quite pushing in. That's where he'd be in a matter of moments. "There's lube in the drawer," she said through her gasps of ecstasy.

Max reached into the drawer and pulled out the bottle of lube. He coated his fingers and reached between the bodies of her and Charles. "That's it," he said as he gently pushed his index finger inside of her hole, going up to his knuckle. "Good girl."

Her eyes were squeezed shut as Max pushed his finger in and out of her hole. "You're doing so good for us," said Charles, his thrusts matching the slow pace of Max's fingers.

Her moans turns into incoherent babbling and Max pushed Charles away before she could cum. He worked in another finger, his free hand on her as as he stroked her soft skin. "Good girl," he whispered again, speeding up his thrusts. "I'll need to get one more in, okay?"

He kept trusting, but he kept to two fingers as he waited for her to nod into her pillow. "Use words, gorgeous," he said.

It was a struggle, but she managed to get the words out, to tell him how much she wanted it.

She cried out at the stretch as Max words one last finger in. "Good girl," he said once again as he thrust in and out, opening her up. "Think you're ready for us?"

Again, she nodded and Max realised words were going to be too much for her. He pulled his fingers out and laid himself down on the bed, manhandling her back on top of him, just as she was before. With a hiss she sank back down onto his cock, feeling familiar inside of her.

"Hold onto me," said Max as Charles climbed into the bed behind her.

She placed her forehead on Max's shoulder, squeezing him tight as Charles pulled her cheeks apart again. He held himself as he pushed towards her tight hole, slowly pushing in.

The feeling was indescribable as Charles pushed all the way in. She cried out, biting down onto Max's folder at the burn. "Fuck," Charles hissed, his forehead thrown back as his eyes shut.

Only Lando was left. He stood just to the left of them, in the perfect place for her to reach over and suck him off. He stood ready, but she wasn't, not yet.

Charles had to set the pace, his thrusts being the thing to move her on top of Max. It took a while to get used to, before she could turn her attention to Lando. But he understood, that was clear by the way he stroked her hair.

Charles picked up the pace and she moved away from Max's shoulder, taking Lando into her mouth.

Sucking him off was a real challenge as she was rocked between Max and Charles. Her eyes were squeezed shut as Lando held her head, fucking her face once again.

It was all too much and she came for the fourth time. The three men held her up as they fucked into all three of her holes, using her until they came.

Lando came first, pulling out of her mouth as she swallowed. She looked up at him, still rocking between Max and Charles, her expression completely fucked out. Max was next, cumming inside of her. He didn't pull out though, staying inside of her while Charles continued to snap his hips against hers.

Charles's jaw was clenched as he gave a few last thrusts, cumming inside of her ass. He pulled away, watching as he leaked out of her. She fell onto the bed, out of breath as she looked up at the three men.

As Charles put a blanket over her, Max and Lando walked through her apartment, searching for her bathroom. When they found it they ran the bath for her, getting it to a suitable temperature before they went back into the bedroom.

"Think you can walk?" Charles asked her as he ran his fingers through her hair.

She shook her head and Charles nodded, easily picking her up and following Max and Lando into the bathroom.

[terriblebicho]

I am probably having one of the most hyper-specific dilemmas rn.