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yanmuffins · 2 days ago

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I've been thinking and I've come to the conclusion that it wouldn't make much sense for Bruce to neglect one of his children.

Think about it, in canon, most of the mistakes he made that ended up harming his family were either because he was completely buried in work, or because he was slightly manipulated, both by the narrative and by third parties.

In addition, he also cannot fully communicate with others, both because of his early trauma, the loss of his parents, and all the loneliness caused by the grief he went through growing up. Not to mention the years of self-discipline and training he went through to become Batman. From everything he's seen and experienced, and all the scars he has, I can't imagine how much that grief and and especially a sense of justice, survived.

so I don't think he would simply neglect one of his children

What I propose is; accidental negligence. Think about it, if he is busy all the time with both Batman and his other persona, Brucie Wayne, and then the justice league, investigations, meetings of Wayne Enterprise, galas, charities, other rich people, the usual rogues gallery of Gotham, etc, etc, I don't think he has much time to spend with anyone.

He is able to spend more time with his other children because they are all vigilantes, like him, and are usually just as busy as he is. Having a civilian child in the middle of this mess wouldn't do much good, especially if that child doesn't know what they do most of the time, like, y'know, vigilantlism.

Imagine everyone's absolute horror when they realize, after the p&f reader is unfortunately busted, that they paid so little attention to that child that she managed to do all these crazy things right under their noses for the whole summer. And who's to say she hadn't been doing this before this summer? How many things have they inevitably missed in her life?

What I mean is that to counter the p&f reader's luck, everyone in the batfam is unlucky enough not to be able to spend time with her. And they are aware of it.

Their guilt would be immense and the angst would be delicious.

(And it would explain how Damian hás time to spend with p&f reader, since he's a kid and his only obligations are school, socialization and being Robin, so he would technically have more time??? If that even makes sense???)

context &. context.

YOU!! YOU GET IT!!

I wholeheartedly agree!

Not that "accidental" neglect is any better, it's neglect all the same and has negative consequences in so many levels. But when we're talking about Bruce Emotionally Constipated And Terrible At Communication and Could Sometimes Make Better Choices Regarding His Kids Wayne, it could absolutely happen.

I'm not one to make character analysis because I have very shallow knowledge of Batman lore, but...

Like you said, all of Bruce's children participate in vigilantism. They're all extraordinary, most have horrible trauma, and have relied on Bruce for guidance. They are all Robin, and more relatable to him, in a way. That means he's consequently more involved in their lives, more physically there engaging with them, forming an emotional bond, acting as a mentor and father figure. On top of that, like you said, he has a whole life as Bruce Wayne and Batman going on.

Which brings us to neglected! Reader, more specifically mine: P&F! Reader and Vampire! Reader.

On a... financial, material level, I believe they wouldn't want for anything. Alfred is the one managing their bank account and making sure they're well-provided for and though it's fun for angst purposes, I don't think they would have a tiny little bedroom isolated from everyone in the manor, mostly because it's our favorite butler who would select which bedroom Bruce's child would be staying at in this gigantic mansion with plenty unocuppied rooms. Alfred would NOT put you in the broom closet. It would be a bedroom that's at least as big as Damian's in Son of Batman, for example.

(I more than understand suspension of disbelief and playing around with all sorts of interesting concepts and characters, so I'm not criticizing anyone!)

In fact, I think it's kinda worse that, say, you have a bedroom that's a wall across from Tim's and he still kinda forgets you exist.

Also, I believe Bruce's kid would absolutely have access to a more than generous amount of money. Not broke at all.

So the only type of neglect going on here is of the emotional kind. Your father and your siblings have created tight-knit bonds amongst themselves based on their shared experiences and the proximity brought by them all working as vigilantes, and you're just not a part of the club.

Timing is also relevant.

P&F! Reader arrives at the manor some time after Damian, which means that not only have all relationships been formed over the years, Bruce has also experienced having kids, as well as having a biological child suddenly enter his life. They're a fish out of the water, and their dad is kinda awkward about this (apparently) normal child that showed up at his doorstep. While Damian is still kind of adapting, running around at night trying to bypass Bruce's security system and solve dangerous cases by himself, P&F! Reader is in their bedroom having a virtual sleepover with their Metropolis friends, streaming movies and eating caramelized popcorn.

Fun fact: Damian and P&F! Reader are neighbors. He was not happy about Alfred placing his half-sibling on the room right beside his for the longest time. P&F! Reader has definetly caught him sneaking out, but they're no snitch. And you're right, he does have more free time, and he's also on summer break so no school and no homework to worry about. He's got free time to be his sibling's keeper.

And as we all know, the impression that P&F! Reader is just a normal regular kid that totally doesn't build ridiculous thingamabobs in their spare time, it's kinda easy to forget they're there amidst the Wayne family mayhem(s). Bruce is also kinda doesn't really know what to do with this kid or how to connect with them, but they don't really demand immediate attention and seem to be doing fine – so he probably shouldn't worry too much, right?

You could also argue that he's kinda awkward (emotionally constipated) with this kid and is very bad at consoling and accomodating them after the trauma that made them have to move in with him. He doesn't straight up forget they exist, although he starts paying more attention to them after Damian gets more involved in ther bio sibling's antics. And when it comes to siblings, it's just easier for their relationship to never evolve past more superficial interactions (with the exception of Damian who decides to mind P&F! Reader's business earlier on, more or less). P&F! Reader doesn't know about the vigilantism for a long time, so it's natural that they're excluded from any and all matters regarding that. And because everyone else is so busy with their own lives and P&F! Reader seems to be doing fine, so easy to overlook, has plenty of friends in and out of their new school and the Batfam is already a formed unit... Well, you get the picture.

There's also the matter of Damian. He is the kid that "needs more attention" because of his background. He's been through a lot. Nevermind the possibility that you might also have gone throguh your own fair share of trauma, at the end of the day you're the easier kid. The "okay" kid with regular problems. Which is sad and unfair, but that's what we're here for, isn't it? And Dick is the biggest offender when it comes to that.

Not that P&F! Reader is bothered by any of that! They have an amazing summer ahead of them. 😎 It's definetly Batfam being unlucky that prevents them from spending time with P&F! Reader, but that allowed them to mostly enjoy summer without being smothered by their family. The guilt would be unmatched, that is for sure.

"And who's to say she hadn't been doing this before this summer?"

Hehe :)

Vampire! Reader (she was not mentioned but I'm talking about her anyway, spoilers for the fic because i want to rant) is a different story. Again, timing. She arrived at the manor sometime between Dick leaving for Bludhaven and Jason being brought in, so she didn't really get a chance to develop a deeper emotional connection with Dick. That also means Bruce was a lot younger when he is faced with a biological child being thrown at his door, not to mention the less-than-ideal-circumstances in which she came to be in his custody.

And after trying to make her his newest sidekick didn't work, in the coming years he would dedicate most of his time to fighting crime as Batman and taking care of/mentoring Jason who had a rough past and is now his new sidekick. Connecting and relating to Jason was easier than connecting with Vampire! Reader, but he always made sure to check on her and make sure she was okay (and the answer was always yes, because of course it was).

During this time Jason and Vampire! Reader were actually pretty close, but then he, uh. Kinda died horrifically. So not only was Vampire! Reader dealing with the loss of her brother, her father was now full-on neglecting her, self-absorbed in his grief, so she felt the proper thing to do would be repress her emotions to accomodate her father and try to be his emotional support. Not that it worked, but she was there! So we have the emotional neglect and we have Vampire! Reader starting to take a parental role for her own father because he's not being a parent for her. She was also completely alone in that huge manor with the exception of Alfred because none of the other kids were in the picture yet, and Dick had long since moved out. As you can see, not very nice :)

From then on she just kinda blends into the background. Financially she's provided for. She is her father's daughter, so communication and expressing emotion are not her forté, but she tries her best to connect with the incoming batkids. It does not work. I have said this before, but she is the mature child, the (again) normal one who puts other people's needs before her, so she doesn't complain when Bruce makes time for literally every other kid who becomes Robin except her. But don't be mistaken: Bruce is definetly more controlling and aware of Vampire! Reader in comparison to P&F! Reader due to reasons (guess you can say early yandere signs?). Jason too is... Sort of complicated. The situation here is definetly darker and resonates with tone of the story better. And when Bruce realizes how terrible he was? Oh, boy.

So I guess you can play around a lot with the neglectful! Reader trope, and that's what makes it so entertaining. Yeah. That's all I have to say for today, I guess??

#I LOVED WRITING THIS POST.#this took me out of suffering from the heat while working on the fics lmao #asks.#yandere batfam #yandere batfamily #p&f! batsibling.#vampire! batsis.#long post.#yandere batman #yandere batfamily x reader #yandere batfam x reader

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comicaurora · 3 days ago

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Have you watched the new castlevania nocturne season?

Yes!

(Spoilers)

IT SLAPPED

My primary difficulty with season 1 is I didn't feel like I had enough time or reason to get attached to Richter, since he didn't get to do much in-depth character stuff while he was busy repressing the hell out of everything, and I think this season absolutely corrected for that. He's very lovable, and the animators even make him adorable sometimes, which is nice.

Annette! Queen of the season! She and Mel Medarda are shaking hands in the gold-trimmed magical girl transformation department. The way they portrayed her journey through the spirit world and the gods of her people was incredibly beautiful! The idea that, no matter how far away she is, the people she loves and the culture she hales from are never more than a step away. Gorgeous.

Vampirism is colonialism! Bathory claiming Sekhmet's power is colonialist appropriation! Drolta refused to leave her dead and at peace and became one of those who desecrated the tomb! The themes are incredibly simple and yet rock solid!

Maria's extremely understandable emotional breakdown in the beginning half of the season managed to avoid being tiresome, even though she was mostly causing problems because of it. I loved the scribbly animation of her dark portals, and the way they animated her eyes when she was really lost in it.

The narrative reframing of Big Badass Superheroes Kick Ass into a more grounded "we're just small people doing our best in a big, cold world, and the first battle is against our own despair" narrative felt extremely solid, and strangely comforting. Might just be me and my headspace, but I hate it when I'm stuck with a bad situation I can't brute-force my way out of. It's oddly reassuring to be reminded that even larger-than-life heroes in stories they're the main characters of can't just Gumption and Badass all the world's problems away in one fell swoop.

You can tell Alucard is kind of thrilled to be actually Old and Ethereal and Wise now. He was faking it so hard in original Castlevania.

They watched a SHITLOAD of DBZ before choreographing this season and it shows. Like. I'd say parts of it are explicit homage. Drolta getting bisected and her POV splitting in half Frieza-style, Richter and Alucard getting trapped in a timestop midair, and we even got Bathory being briefly sketchy-whited-out by a massive energy attack.

On that note, choreography and fighting styles! Richter fights in a completely distinctive way to everyone else, and I think they intentionally minimized his use of the whip to distinguish him from Trevor. Richter Throws Hands. Half his moves are boxing, and it felt like he was channeling Street Fighter whenever he got in close with anyone. You don't often get the combo of a spellchucker AND a brawler, and it was extremely rad.

He fucking volleyball-bumped Alucard's meteor attack. What the fuck. Hell yeah

#asks #not aurora #media recs

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ecstarry · 2 days ago

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@into-the-jeggyverse / discuss / 335 words

“I’m fucking freezing.” Barty took one more drag of his cigarette while the rest of the group nodded.

“We need to stop smoking,” Regulus said, shivering.

The smoking area outside their building was packed. The weather was awful, but that had never stopped them—or the other twenty students crammed into the space—from starting their mornings with a cigarette.

They’d made a pact to quit smoking once, but it didn’t even last a week. Inevitably, they found themselves back in the same circle.

Remus joined them moments later, with Sirius right beside him.

Regulus had gotten used to it by now, his brother and his boyfriend hanging out with his friends — at least in this setting. Sometimes Peter would join them, always rolling his own cigarettes like the pretentious bastard he was. Regulus hated to admit it, but they did taste better.

“Oh, there you are,” a warm, familiar voice came from behind him.

James.

Even buried under an unnecessary number of layers James looked good. Regulus found himself distracted by his arms, his thighs, his—everything. His mind wandered, picturing all the ways they could keep each other warm.

“It’s freezing, I can’t believe you guys are too fucking addicted to tortute yourselves like this," James said.

In unison, everyone immediately told him to fuck off. Everyone except Regulus.

His friends, his brother, and even Sirius’ friends turned to him, eyebrows raised, waiting for the comeback they all knew was coming. But Regulus stayed silent.

One by one, they drifted away as they finished their cigarettes, leaving only Barty and Regulus behind.

Barty grinned knowingly.

“No. I won’t discuss this with you,” Regulus spoke before Barty opened his mouth.

“Since when do you hold back?” Barty teased.

Regulus only shrugged in response.

“Don’t tell me you want to fuck Potter.”

“Finish your cig. We have class,” Regulus replied, stubbing out his cigarette and turning away just in time to hide the blush creeping up his neck.

Actually, I will fuck James Potter, Regulus thought to himself.

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reikomizuao3 · 3 days ago

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I prefer multichapter fics because I read too damn fast, lol

both?

My muse and i scream at each other for hours until a chapter gets written. sometimes hours turns into months

mostly in music but sometimes reading other books/fics

I would appreciate more constructive criticism, I don't get very much of it

I am my own beta and it is an extremely important process to me

I prefer third-person narration so that's how all my stories are written

The climax is the best part

I try to comment on every story I read but sometimes I genuinely can't think of anything to say

Nothing came up!

Mama Bear by ArcticVulpix; She's Mine Then by ArcticVulpix; The Liberating Power of Radical Forgiveness by green_carnation_product

Not getting feedback is EXTREMELY UNMOTIVATING. I want to know why people read my stories, I want to know what my readers like and don't like.

writing an idea as soon as it pops up in my head. I have ADHD and am likely to forget the idea within literal seconds

I put myself into the shoes of the characters, I often end up crying

I uh.....have to get off to write smut, and I'm not very good at it

Right now I'm just trying to finish the fics I currently have posted

I like nature, so I tend to go for long walks when I have the opportunity. Mostly just try to get through life until the inspiration strikes again

It depends on the story. most of the time, I'll write a plot summary before the title

"Bad Grandparent Alma Madrigal" and "Alma Madrigal Bashing" kinda go hand in hand together

I noticed that I use Alma from Encanto to vent my anger and trauma from my mother a LOT

I WOULD LOVE TO!! Where oh where are you dear co-author?!?

Incest, pedophilia, rape. Pretty much my worst triggers.

Don't give up, and don't be afraid. There's someone out there who will LOVE your work

I don't think I've ever actually gotten bad writing advice

Bad Miracle. It's an Encanto horror AU, horror is my favorite genre and it's my first time writing a horror story.

Tres Oruguitas. It's my longest fic and I'm currently struggling to finish the final chapter

The actual writing process, lol

Sometimes a sentence, sometimes 3000 words

Refer back to answer 3

NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO SEE MY ROUGH DRAFTS BUT ME

Depends on the story

TheCuriousCalico (RIP), ArcticVulpix, GamerBearMira

I'm currently working on three different novels

Published and living comfortably

Sometimes people are just fucking evil. Not every villain needs a tragic backstory

Very badly

When it feels right

Sounds fun

I REFUSE

@gamerbearmira has done amazing fanart from my fic Whatever it Takes which really warmed my heart!

I'm ALWAYS rereading fics!

Would You Rather? - With Your Lovely Host, Casita! Yes I would recommend

I don't take joy in it, but it's great for venting

Refer back to answer 6

BOTH!!! MUAHAHAHAHA!!!!!

driven by trauma

it depends, lol

Refer back to answer 6

Block and delete

Tres Orguitas at 87,110 words

Total word count: 170,234

I don't always respond to comments, I'm a low energy potato

50/50 split

finally posting a chapter

I just love Mirabel Madrigal so much, she's my little cinnamon roll

I like using big words, call me pretentious

I edit as I write

Brainstorming

I tell everyone, I'm not ashamed

I was a little starstruck, lol. don't have to be a celebrity to get that out of me XD

cause i like it

I have a love/hate relationship with cliffhangers

When a woman's vagina is referred to as "her sex", I click off IMMEDIATELY

lesbians written correctly

I can't wait to finally write the last chapter of Tres Oruguitas

When people pressure me to update, I remind them that I'm a human being and you cannot force me to write faster. Also I WORK FULL TIME, I barely have time to write fanfic!

I love a good prompt. A couple of my stories are inspired continuations of other fics

listen to music, watch tv, take long walks, read books

I'm not embarrassed of any of my current works, though I do think this fic is the worst: The Accident: Alternate Ending (note: If you've never read 'The Accident' by Diane Hoh, you will not understand the context)

ENTHUSIASTIC AS FAWK

I have several notebooks dedicated to each fic and I will fine comb them before updating my stories (but my ADHD will still scramble things up a bit, lol)

most of the time i write the ending first only for the plot to end up completely different

My love of tormenting the Madrigal family (Encanto has become my vent fic fandom XD)

Does it have the "Alma Madrigal bashing" tag? Do the Madrigals suffer before getting a happy ending?

Currently, this last chapter of Tres Oruguitas is KICKING MAH ASSSSSSS

In Tres Oruguitas, Alma was going to have a brief reunion with the family at Antonio's request, but would have been banished/killed by the miracle

In Tres Oruguitas, Bruno and Alejandro cuddling in the library for the first time. Allow me to sample you a snippet:

Deciding he needed more cuddles by virtue of being adorable, Alejandro lifted Bruno up with ease, causing him to yelp loudly as the floor was suddenly no longer beneath him. Alejandro chuckled, cradling the startled man close to his chest as he settled them down on the couch. Bruno clung to him, face redder than the tomatoes in the garden, and only loosened his grip when he was sure he wasn’t going to fall.

“I-uh—heh. You startled me. Maybe a little warning next time?” Bruno hid his face in the large man’s chest, wondering how they’d gone from discussing books to cuddling on the couch.

“That’s fair. I couldn’t help myself, you’re just so cute, and I wanted to cuddle you forever.” He gave Bruno a gentle squeeze, running a hand through his curls.

“U-um, that’s—wow, you think I’m cute?”

“Yeah, you’re my adorable ratoncito.”

Bruno’s face may as well have been glowing at this point, and he let out an embarrassed squeak. Alejandro cooed at him, giving him another gentle squeeze.

Get to know your fic writer!

Do you prefer writing one-shots or multi-chaptered fics?

Do you plan each chapter ahead or write as you go?

Describe the creative process of writing a chapter/fic

Where do you find inspiration for new ideas?

Do you like constructive criticism?

Do you have your work beta'd? How important is this to your process?

How do you choose which POV to write from?

Do you prefer the beginning, middle, or end of a story?

Do you comment on stories you read?

Cltr+f "blinks" on your WIP & copy paste the first sentence/paragraph that comes up

Link your three favorite fics right now

how does receiving or not receiving feedback/support impact you?

what’s a common writing tip that you almost always follow?

how do you write emotional scenes? Do you ever feel what the characters feel? Do you draw from personal experiences?

How do you write smut scenes? Do you get very visual or detailed? How important is it to be realistic?

How many fic ideas are you nurturing right now? Share one of them?

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Best writing advice for other writers?

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Which of your fics would you call your wildest ride?

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On average, how much writing do you get done in a day?

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Name three of your favorite fanfic writers.

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Share a snippet from a WIP

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How would you describe your style? (Character/emotion/action-driven, etc)

How many times do you usually revise your fic/chapter before posting?

What do you look for in a beta?

Do you ever get rude reviews and how do you deal with them?

How long is your longest fic?

What’s your total AO3 word count?

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

How do you spend your time when it comes to fanfiction? Are you primarily a fic reader, writer, or a perfect 50/50 split of both?

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What’s something about your writing that you pride yourself on?

Do you prefer editing as you write, or waiting until it’s finished?

What part of the writing process do you enjoy the most? (Brainstorming, outlining, writing, editing, etc)

Does anyone in your personal life know you write fic? if not, would you tell anyone?

Have you had a writer you admire comment on your fic? What was that like?

Why do you continue writing fics?

Thoughts on cliffhangers?

Something you hate to see in smut.

Something you love to see in smut.

Tell us about what you’re most looking forward to writing – in your current project, or a future project

How do you deal with writing pressure (ie. pressure to update, negative comments, deadlines, etc.)?

Do you prefer prompts and challenges, or completely independent ideas?

What, if anything, do you do for inspiration?

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When asked, are you embarrassed or enthusiastic to tell people that you write?

When it comes to more complicated narratives, how do you keep track of outlines, characters, development, timeline, ect.?

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You’ve posted a fic anonymously. How would someone be able to guess that you’d written it?

What scene in [Fanfic Name] took the longest to write? What was difficult about it?

Did you have any ideas that didn’t make the final cut of [Fanfic Name]?

Do you have a favorite scene you’ve written from [Fanfic Name] story/chapter?

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yetanotherexhaustedalchemist · 2 days ago

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Yet more TWST HCs

Cater likes gossiping with the living paintings around campus. He tells them all the modern-day student tea and they tell him about the drama that went down two centuries ago in return. (He has acquired a surprising amount of blackmail material on the staff through this.)

If Lilia can't find Silver anywhere, the first place he checks is Scarabia. That's because whenever Kalim finds Silver asleep in a weird place, he gets Carpet to scoop Silver up and take him back for a nice place to nap.

Fellow/Ernesto is LUCKY that the event ended the way it did. If he actually succeeded in capturing everyone (and not imminently letting them go), he would have had some of the most powerful people and organizations in the world after him. (Is this even a headcanon? Idk)

Ace can do the splits. Idk why this makes sense to me. He's not very flexible besides that though, somehow

When he's particularly annoyed at Azul and Floyd, Jade leaves pebbles and gravel in hidden places that they'll only notice when they're going to use it (like in Floyd's shoes or in the jar for Azul's quill ink).

Yuu and Ruggie form a pact after Chapter 2 where they exchange chores and errands sometimes. Like if Yuu takes care of the laundry, Ruggie will do the shopping and drop Yuu's groceries off at Ramshackle. Later, Jamil joins the pact as well. (In return for a good dinner, they'll take care of Kalim for however long he needs for a break.)

Vil does a great job of making any trans/nonbinary students in Pomefiore feel welcome and at home. He offers haircuts, make up and fashion advice, voice training and more to anyone who asks.

Riddle is very sheltered when it comes to romance, even when it doesn't regard himself. Because of this, he has a tendency to assume a couple are just friends despite how close they are (like Vil and Rook) or think a duo is already a couple (Adeuce). This has led to many miscommunications and unintentionally funny situations.

Kalim actually does invite Malleus to a lot more events than he thinks, but the invitation always ends up getting lost due to improbable chains of errors.

Rook's family is from the Shaftlands nearby Fleur City, but they've lived in the Sunset Savannah for several generations.

Yuu's come up with a Fun Little Game for Friday game nights (usually with the first years but anyone who's interested is welcome) where Yuu tells them about a historical event from their world and everyone has to guess if it actually happened, or if Yuu's just making things up. Every time they think they've figured things out, Yuu hits them with a "the country that declared war on birds and lost is an actual thing that happened".

I don't think literally anything in-game suggests this, but. Hey. Memories from the 'lost in a book' events, while they vanish out of the books, carry over to other books. So when appearing in The Nightmare Before Christmas, Yuu, Riddle and Azul get all their memories from Stitch's Tropical Turbulence flooding back.

When Silver was young, there were a few occasions where he wanted to do something that was exclusive to rainy days (jumping in puddles, looking for frogs/worms or just listening to the rain, ect) but it was sunny with no chance of it raining. If he was ever particularly disappointed, Lilia would just so happen to mention the problem to Malleus. It could start raining minutes later. (Did he do it? Of course not, what a silly question.)

Ruggie usually avoids Jade (fair, he's terrifying), but they've had a few good conversations about common edible plants. It was surprisingly informative for them both. Jade now sometimes 'just so happens' to bump into Ruggie and continues the discussion, and Ruggie is smart enough to not bring up how convenient it all is.

Silver often helps pigeons build their nests. He's also unexpectedly passionate about messenger pigeons, and how messed up it is that they were bred to be messengers and then called dirty when they weren't useful anymore.

Yuu does this thing where they say the most insane, out-of-left-field things which baffle their friends, then when they're asked about it later, they swear they don't remember saying that. (It's usually something vaguely prophetic, exhausted and annoyed, or about The Mouse.)

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idontactuallyremember · 2 days ago

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Dom!Thanos x fem!reader

NSFW HEADCANONS

CW: consensual slapping, popping pills, name-calling, slight somnophilia, talk of rough sex in general

DNI IF YOU'RE NOT 18+

(This man has so many kinks in my head that this list could've kept going forever. Part 2?)

- He LOVESSS kinky, nasty shit- he'll try anything at least once.

- Switch!Thanos but he prefers to be dominant

- The first time you ever fuck, he pops a light pink pill in your mouth- "Take it..." He insists. As you chew and swallow he pats your head, kisses your forehead, swirls circles on your back, "Such a good girl..."

- He sometimes gets nervous he's too much for you- but you love it just as much as he does.

- Hearing you say his name will make him crazy, he begs you say his name "just one more time, I'm so close..."

- He lovesss edging you- teasing you till you can barely breathe, barely see, barely think.

He knows you deserve it once your words start making no sense- ONLY when you grow delirious will he fuck you.

"Thanos... please.. I just- I need... I want to... Can I please have it? Patient, Good..." You sputter.

"Aw, baby. You want me so bad, huh? Use your words..."

- He calls you "good girl", "Princess", "Puppy", "Bunny"

- He also calls you "his toy", "his slut", "his slave"

- He loves public sex, name-calling, marking. He likes it ROUGHH.

- He doesn't know what PDA means. He doesn't understand people get uncomfortable if you are too close. He will kiss you in public and wrap his arms around your waist. He will tease you in public- kissing your neck and ears, grabbing your ass. When you hug him, he will WITHOUT SHAME grope you up and down.

- He loves touching on you when you're sleeping next to him (he gets high and horny and just needs you right then. He loves it when you wake up slightly grouchy at him for waking you up only to fuck.)

- One day, he leaves multiple hickies on your stomach- you don't object- but after he's done you notice he's left multiple love bites- in the shape of a "T".

"That way, if anyone sees you, they know you belong to me." He says.

- HE LOVES TYING YOU UP- he knows crazy knots you've never seen anyone do before. The way he wraps the rope around your ankles, your arms and wrists with such precision is so hot. He compliments you endlessly as he works, "Look how pretty you are for me, huh? Yeah, you like being all tied up? You want me to be in charge?" He grabs your face roughly as you look away, embarrassed, "Say it."

"I want you to be in charge."

- Humiliating you 💜 Pet Play 💜 To have you begging 💜 Choking 💜 Spitting on you- in your mouth 💜 Skull-fucking 💜

- He talks to his friends openly about the sex you two have, with details. He knows it embarrasses you and that there's nothing you will do about it.

Nam-Gyu asks for every detail imaginable and Thanos offers them up like it's nothing, boasting about how easily you'll let him do anything to you.

- He 100% slaps you during sex (He asks first, of course)

- You're bratty one day and while you're being punished, he leans down, his necklace nearly hitting you in the face, "You were so fucking bratty today... You need to be punished more, don't you think?"

- You only nod meekly in response

- "A slap across the fucking face would teach you, wouldn't it? I bet you'd be a good girl for me then."

- You nod again, "Yes, Daddy."

- HE FUCKS YOU RAW ONLYYYYY

- This man is VOCAL. He moans wildly, not caring who hears you two. He whimpers softly in your ears- grips the sheets or your hair as he cums inside you- feeling your tight walls clench around him.

- Sometimes he's allowed to be as loud as he wants- but he makes you stay quiet. He'll put a hand over your mouth or throat to shut you up.

- "Shut the fuck up, slut. You're fucking loud... Do you really need everyone to know that badly? You need the world to know how good my cock feels?" He spits, "Just take it and shut the fuck up."

#thanos x reader #Thanos squid game #choi su bong #choi su bong x reader #choi su bong squid game #dom!thanos x reader #dom!thanos x fem!reader #player 230 #player 230 squid game #I need him in ways that I don't even understand #thanos smut #thanos squid game smut

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floralscented · 2 days ago

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤGOTHIC HORROR! — vampire!dean

the most loyal of soldiers build their armies, expand their ranks. they do not get attached to their underlings. they do not find solace in you.

content warnings, devotion to the highest, unhealthiest degrees. slight emotional manipulation. blood & gore depictions. minor self h/rm, but not with harmful intent. bloodplay. nsfw elements & insinuations, undetailed. voyeurism? undetailed. bi!dean. nick saint cameo. i made up this vampire lore as far as i'm aware, so discrepancies to the media you know is purposeful!

dean was far used to the act of bleeding a person dry; it was you that was troubling him.

there came times in which he could not bring himself to take the victim out of their misery. it gnawed in the back of his mind, as they choked and spluttered on the blood pouring from their lips, that this life he’d carelessly taken had been cut too short. this one, his mind would tell him, was meant for something greater.

and he’d singlehandedly snuffed that flame.

dean was far too old, now, to wallow in guilt or feel bad for actions he willfully chose to make. but if there was anything keeping him human, it was his conscience.

his mouth was still crusted with the blood he’d ripped from your throat when he brought his wrist up to tear into his skin. no blood naturally pumped through him anymore, but the accumulation of his immortality and abilities kept a supply cycling through him so that the body he inhabited did not wither or concave in on itself.

droplets as thick as cream and as dark as the richest wines pooled in the teeth marks he’d left on himself. his body was, for all intents and purposes, dead; he did not feel pain when he tore open his wrist, and he did not feel pain as it already began to stitch itself together.

his unmarred arm slips beneath your upper back, raising you enough to cradle you into his chest. your eyes are as vacant as his must appear — death tended to get impatient, and steal the souls away before the heart finished its thrum. your breaths are ragged and thick with the blood pooling in your lungs. death’s rattle. he was here, then.

death always seemed to follow the dead. it was why genuine, true hauntings usually ended in death, too, for those involved. that place is cursed, the mortals whisper about the homes, the abandoned buildings, the decimated ruins of destruction, everyone dies there.

it is lonely to die and be dead. sometimes the spirits or the creatures are impatient, and need something new to play with. sometimes, their conscience wakens from the deep slumber it typically stayed in, and reminded them that the people they feed from deserved second chances as much as they believed that they did not.

even in your semi lucid state, you struggle against him, trying to force your mouth away from the skin he presses to it.

“don’t make this harder,” dean grunts, your struggles surprisingly strong for how little life essence still lingered in you. the adrenaline burst before your body gives, he imagines. it makes him more forceful.

you choke and splutter, and he knows by now what his blood looks like on the skin of the lives he takes. yours, fresh and the color of ripe strawberries. his, thick and deep red, the color of decay.

there will be three minutes between your subsequent death and the revival. he does not have many that he sires, but each one was personable enough to remember these details. four of them, portraits lined on the walls of his dusty, towering home. portraits the only thing that dean has left of them, as they all unceremoniously left him when they realized how unhealthy it was to linger.

maybe you would stay. dean hoped that you did not.

he hears your heartbeat splutter out its last revs of life, and feels when your body becomes a heavier weight in his arms. three minutes, one hundred and eighty seconds, for him to look at you without you trying to claw through his clothes and pierce a vein.

if you’d asked, dean would not know how to explain why he’d chosen you. there were many bodies that he left in his wake in the century that he’d been alive. there were exactly a handful now of ones that he’d chosen to keep.

his first was because he was his friend, once. closest friend.

his second was because she was lovely, and he thought he might have loved her.

his third was a child, and he torments himself about this one constantly.

his fourth was a mistake, by all accounts of the word.

his fifth was… you. pretty? yes. significant? he didn’t know. you had to be, or else his conscience would have stayed silent and slumbered on for another decade or so. but there were no indicators that you would have any impact on his life.

dean has always called it the shift, because the vampyr that had sired him called it such. when a soul slips away and the body is lifeless, and then suddenly, a jolt, as if what had been set free had been sharply snatched back.

another wave of adrenaline pumps your heart back to life for a split second, enough to propel you conscious.

dean lets you fall from his arms gracelessly. he takes a step back that is quick enough to instead be feet away from you.

this is the part that dean does not ever get used to. the rage. how angry the bonded are to have been spared. did they not know that dean did this for them?

you look ravenous. it is no surprise that your speed is the first part of your new undead abilities that you tap into, when you launch yourself at him, fingers fisted tight and unwavering while you desperately try to claw at him.

“don’t,” he repeats, fiercer this time, as he twists away before your teeth can sink into his skin, “make this harder.”

he predicts the next words out of your mouth before they’re even spoken. “i am hungry.”

hungry, and his blood, to you, would taste sinful and addictive. salted caramel and bourbon, a friend had once said, tracing his tongue over dean’s throat and sinking his teeth in.

it is always the shift of a new youngling vampyr that draws the memories of the others from the depths of his mind. if he isn’t careful, dean is going to end up doing something stupid — like writing them a letter, like calling, like…

you’re screaming, now. thrashing in his grip as if you were seizing, desperate to break his hold and gnaw the marrow out of his bones.

he tightens his hold. snaps your wrist with nothing but a little more force from his fingers. that is what brings you to a halt. your broken wrist, hanging at an awkward angle.

“behaving now?” dean asks, still keeping the hold on your wrist, only tight enough to feel the bones beneath the surface of your skin knitting together, the skin pulling taut.

you rip your hand free from his, as if only then realizing the lengths of your strength. good. dean was not restraining you to hold that power over you, but mostly to keep control of the situation. it is best for the fresh vampyrs to discover their abilities on their own.

“what have you done to me?”

that one hits closer to home than dean wants it to.

it does not strike as deep in his heart as it could; there are words he hears, still, from previous decades that remind him of his first four bad choices.

you would be different.

you had to be different.

trust does not start with secrets. but it is not something that should be handed out so freely. and so it is a conscious choice for dean to hold out his wrist in offering while still maintaining the physical distance between you two.

“it will be better if you drink,” he starts, his voice low and nearly apologetic if it wasn’t so self satisfied. “some things are hard to hear on an empty stomach.”

it was the same, though, as it always was. dean, letting you feed from his wrist like someone starved, while he tried to piece together the sugared down version of what he’d done to you. he always puts so much strain on himself; rushing the time with those sired to him, attempting to speak coherently as if his mind was not thrumming with the effects of your venom in his system.

you closed yourself off into the room of his manor that he designated for the freshly turned vampires. they were closer to being human than he was, and humans needed space for themselves.

the door was always locked to him. never once, in all five of his sired, had one of them invited him in. and so he spends a week outside of said door, listening in out of fear of what would happen if he did not.

he'd gotten chaotic with the one prior to you. reckless, impulsive. dean would not let himself make the mistake again.

at least he was busy in those moments that he waited on your reappearance. dean was never one to make use of his time, usually; he had forever, why would he clean the bookcases now when in his equivalent to a blink, they'd be dusty again?

he wrote letters. four letters. olive branches extending blindly into the dark. the ravens carried them away. the birds were the only ones who knew where they were, after all. like he'd never been invited into their space, his original underlings had never bothered to send a postcard, either.

that little fact hurts like a bleeding wound, in one instance.

it aches like a bruise, in another.

it tears him open, in terms of the third.

it feels like solace and healing, with the fourth.

perhaps they would take up the invitation to come back to the manor tomorrow, if only for a night. more than likely, they would ignore him, and continue to let him rot.

out of the seven days he'd lingered outside your room, it is now that dean finally opens his mouth to speak. he will not let you abandon him like the others.

"if you starve yourself in there, i'm not permitted to enter and lay you to rest," dean calls from the heavy wooden frame.

your silence on the other end is unnerving. dean is in the middle of opening his mouth to call to you again when your voice rings out, finally. "go to hell."

"i am also not permitted in there, either," he says back, with a little twitch of his lips. "you may hate me and be angry with me all you want, i will never deny you the human feelings you cling to. but your strength is important."

it's a conscious choice of words. calling it livelihood when there is no ounce of life left within you did not go over well with the others.

his ears strain, but he hears it. the padding of the bedspread dipping, the near silent, inhuman steps to the door, the harsh click and turn of the lock. useless, he wants to say, your invitiation is the only thing that keeps you from him. but there are little human things that every single one of his underlings still maintained. he was not cruel enough to take them away, too.

dean suspected that you'd look weary. seven days denying yourself what you wanted tended to do that. he does not offer his wrist this time, but he does nod backwards down the darkened hallway. "it is my due diligence to wean you off, not encourage the bad habit."

"that does not make any sense," you snap at him, your sharpened vision blowing the pupils in your eyes wide. you are trying to study the portraits hung on the walls. he quickly extends a hand, not crossing the threshold of your room, to stop you. "i do not want a tour of my prison."

dean's mouth quirks again. you remind him of himself, and his first love; second sired. "it is not a tour of the prison, it is a lead to the kitchen."

"what could you possibly have in there?" your words are fierce and vile, spat at him like they will somehow poison him. "the dead do not eat vegetables."

"the dead keep their blood cold and from spoiling in the refrigerators. do not try to explain to me what you know nothing about."

you stare at him for a long while before one of your feet steps out of the boundary. "i do not want to drink blood."

dean nearly snorts. he did not want to, either. "but the second i spill my blood, you will be clawing at me for a taste."

your pupils are still huge when they land on him. the hunger has been wearing you down; he sees it in your lack of inhibitions. he lets his hand fall when it is clear you will not take it. "but it is my responsibility to not let you become addicted, even though i know the temptation to tear my clothes off and tear into me must be unbearable."

"you have a lot of arrogance for a man who must force all of his playthings to stick around," you say, and it hits a little too close for comfort. he is glad that you did not take up his hand, because he might have lashed out.

he leads you down the hall regardless, this time in a silence that feels as heavy as lead. he breathes deeply, slowly, though it is entirely useless of a gesture. it'd been a long time since dean had to take ten deep breaths, to maintain his composure. while you and his others had your habits, he'd considered his long forgotten.

as he promised, the ancient kitchen is empty. the fridge is nothing more than a metal box on claw feet, the table coated in a thick layer of dust. the cabinets, once deep mahogany, were grayed.

dean grabs a wine glass from the cupboard and sets it on the dust coated countertop. he opens the fridge door and, lo and behold, there is a severed arm lit up like a halo in the center rack. if he was capable of it, he'd blush. how embarrassing to leave leftovers scattered around when he knew he had guests.

he shoves the fingers out of the way and closes his hand around a vial of blood instead. you would probably like it from the source better, but you would not like anything until he acclimated you off of his taste, and onto human blood.

another mistake that he has since fixed.

he pours the vial into the glass, and then shatters it on the edge of the countertop. the shard is what he uses to break the skin of his wrist, letting the blood pour in a slow stream into the glass too. less than how much you took from him a week ago, though still more than he should. he was bound and determined, it seemed, to let history repeat itself.

your control is better. the little one that'd turned, a week in, was still climbing over the counters and throwing furniture to get to the open wound in his arm. a week in self-proclaimed isolation had done well for you.

when dean turns, he holds the glass out. "won't be as good as you will wish for it to be," he says, his arms folding across his chest, "but it is a necessary evil, i assure you."

"i do not want this," you try to argue, but your voice is weak, and you take a sip anyways in the same breath. a sip becomes a long drink becomes the glass is emptied.

dean doesn't bother making a comment on it. you'd still poked an open wound earlier. grudges were more often than not held longer by those who lived forever. "we all do things we don't want to do."

"is that how you justify it to yourself?"

at least this time, you have the decency to regret it. it is easier to be kind to him when his blood is in your system. hard to be angry with when you want to devote your every breath to him.

dean is not in the mood to play tonight, though. his other bonded might come the next day. it was important to him that he was prepared for it, and not wallowing in the cruel words you weaponized against him without knowing how true they were.

"goodnight, beautiful," he says anyways, as he turns to leave.

he has never been good at denying himself indulgences.

you sense the stranger's presence before you see it. undead, like you, like the one who turned you. there is no heartbeat but there is a steady thrum of blood, still as a stagnant pond.

"interesting," the person says. deep voiced. heavy footsteps indicate big, heavier shoes, thudding hard on the hardwood of your room's floor. male, you imagine. "and here i thought he wrote because he missed me."

your eyes fly open, and there he is. you did not see much of the paintings on the wall, but that was the first, the one closest to where your room's door was. broad shoulders, tall in stature, and looking entirely too amused for your comfort.

sleep was not necessary for you, but it was peaceful, in a way, to imagine you still could. the act of going about your every day routine brought comfort that you hadn't imagined you'd feel lost without.

"who are you?" you ask, unable to tear your eyes from him. dark mop of hair. piercing light colored eyes that, too, have not left yours.

his eyebrows bounce, and the lift of his lips indents dimples into his cheeks. "i'm the first you."

the riddled, vague speech was becoming old and frustrating at once. "explain it."

"what, this whole situation? or what i mean?" he tips his head to the side, eyebrows raising even higher on his forehead, disappearing behind the soft, dark bangs. "words hold meaning, little fang. you live too long now to use them so uselessly."

the man from the painting is nearly as infuriating as the one who'd bitten you. "the whole situation. he is keeping secrets from me."

"because dean winchester does not know how to properly treat the toys he feels entitled to play with," the man's response is immediate, shrugging off the coat from his shoulders. "i feel the best place to start is the hall."

you sit up slowly in the bedspread, your expression twisting. "the hall?"

something akin to bitterness drapes across his face like a mask. "get up. there's not a lot of time between the flicker of the switch and him noticing the light is on."

riddles again. this time, you do not argue. instead, you clamber out of the bed and follow in silence behind him out of the room. right beside your doorframe is a light switch you both never noticed the presence of, and never noticed was always off.

he flips it up, and the hall lights golden.

peeling maroon wallpaper gives way to wooden boards. the trim is curling in on itself, deep mahogany exposing the pale splintered wood. but what somehow remains untouched, undusted, well kempt, are the paintings.

four large portraits evenly spaced along the side of the wall that your room is on.

a man, a woman, a child, a husk.

the one closest to you is identical to the man stood beside you; the same but younger. fresh clothes off of the rack, unmarred by the long life that you imagined he'd had so far, if he was truly the first.

the next is beautiful. warm skin that's golden underneath the hall's lights, curls spilling down her shoulders, a little smile on her mouth. on her shoulders rest the straps of a sage green dress that cuts at the cups and turns into picture frame.

the third is like a punch in the stomach. a little boy with terror in his glossed eyes, his lips parted like he was shuddering down gasps that did nothing to alleviate his panic.

the fourth used to be a man, you think. a long mop of brown hair, warm eyes. but the humanity ends there, and in its place is greyed skin, a vacant expression, dirty and thin clothes from a time period that was no longer.

"i don't understand," you breathe out, unable to look away from the sight laid out before you.

the man beside you straightens. "his best friend, his first love, his first save, and his brother."

it is a plain enough answer, but there's not enough detail to lessen the blow of it. there's a lot to unpack, and so you land on a starting point. your finger reaches out to tap the wooden frame of the first portrait. his portrait. "it's you."

"not really," the man says, stepping forward to brush a finger's worth of dust from the tops of the frames that you could not see. "he picked to preserve my memory from a time when i actually liked him. that has not been me for... hell, decades now."

you step forward to examine it better. the bottom of the frame is engraved. nicholas.

nicholas steps around you to stand in front of the woman's portrait. he dusts along the top of this one, too, with his finger. "cassie." his voice is wistful, memories and history you don't know built in between the words. "i imagine she will not be around today."

"what's today?" you ask, even though the answer feels so disconnected from you. here are people that the man who turned you — dean — cared for desperately, and now... you. how did a person even go about unpacking decades worth of history and find a place for themselves within it?

his smile is spread thin across his mouth. "a day of desperation for him, i imagine. it comes every decade or so, when dean feels the need to line his mistakes up and check in."

"is that what you think this is, nick?"

dean's voice cuts through the silent buzz in the hall, and your eyes shoot to the end of it, where he takes up the entire width of it.

"well, you certainly don't love us anymore," nick says back, that bitter smile leaking into his words, now, "that sentiment is made exceptionally clear when you make a fifth and then think of the others you subjected to this life."

you want to shrink away. you did not want to stay here, but being used as a weapon in their argument feels like poison in your veins. you did not know dean, especially did not know nick, but already you had become a thorn in the sides of both of them.

"don't spoil the mood before the others come." dean turns on his heel before he glances over a shoulder. his eyes land on you, and then nick's, and all it seems to do is rub salt into wounds you did not mean to make exist.

"you are a fool to think that cassie will show, let alone bring jude."

jude. the child, or the man who looked more like death than he did like a person?

dean's jaw visibly ticks. "i was a fool for thinking that, at the very least, you wouldn't show."

"don't be unkind in front of the baby vampyr, dean, it's unbecoming."

it was not unbecoming to you. uncomfortable was the better word for it. there was no comfortable way to witness an argument rehashing itself after decades of time elapsed.

you begin to walk through the middle of their argument, not making any sort of eye contact with dean as you brush past him. it is not your business, and you will not make it as such.

the men do not follow you to the kitchen. part of you is desperate to listen in, well aware that you can now. the other part does not want to get involved in their drama anymore than you've already become.

it would be easier to detach from them, you'd thought. but there was no easy way to unwind from around dean winchester when he'd sank his teeth into you. you just didn't know it yet.

dean does not know how this always happens, or he does, and it is just not something he wants to address.

nick was his first mistake. everything a vampyr creating a sire bond could do wrong, he did. he let nick feed on him whenever he wanted. he let nick become addicted. and then he let nick leave, knowing that nothing would ever be able to satiate him; no person, no experience, nothing. not unless it was dean. and it was made clear, the day that nick left, that dean was the last thing that nick ever wanted to see.

and yet every time dean got lonely, confined to his own solitude, he could send a raven and know that the only one who would come was nick.

cassie was successful in cutting dean off. was the only one that was, really. jude might have come if cassie hadn't declared herself his caregiver, and ran off with him in the night. it is wishful thinking at best.

sam...

he didn't think about sam if he could help it.

no matter what, though, dean ended up here, in this exact position. knelt on the soft mattress of his unused bed, letting nick sink his teeth into dean's shoulder, his throat, his mouth. blood coated his skin like a second layer. it didn't ever bother dean; nick always cleaned up after himself.

"a new one," he all but snarls into the curve of dean's shoulder. "do you think so little of me, of us, that you dare repeat the same mistakes you always end up making?"

he's a little heady with nick's venom working through him. there's a lot of it, too, because nick is incapable of stopping himself. he's starved until dean makes the decision to call on him, and so he does not hold back on the fixes he feels entitled to.

and dean could never be mad at him for it, because this is the monster that he created.

"it will be different this time," dean slurs around his own pointed teeth. the sired taste like nothing to him, but he's always finding himself lost in the moment, with nick. they were both gluttons, in a sense.

nick leans in to capture his mouth in a kiss that is more teeth than lip, puncturing dean's bottom one with his fangs and sucking on it. "you said that about sam," he dares to say, dares to, because there was an unspoken rule that no one could talk about sam, and only nick ever seemed to breach it.

"sam was—"

"a mistake," nick interrupts, lifting his mouth off of dean's. his eyes are pitch black, his mouth is stained and glossy red. still, as weak as it's making dean, his chest swells at the sight of the color staining his skin now. no longer so pale and death-stricken. "we were all your selfish mistakes, dean, and now sam is in the caverns—"

dean grasps at nick's throat with his fingers, pushing him backward, creating space. "enough."

"staked," nick strains out anyways, and maybe he would have kept pushing, would have forced dean to confront his worst possible choice, if not for the floorboard outside of the bedroom door creaking.

you, stood watching, mouth agape. it must have been quite the sight. two men, nearly naked, coated in the deep dark of one of them's blood.

not to mention how the conversation steered. nick had reacted the same way to hearing about dean's slip in judgement. black magic to restore as much humanity back to his long dead brother as possible, and then the turning process to try and prolong him.

black magic was never simple, and never gave without taking. sam was less than human, less than vampyr, and now permanently staked in a coffin in the caverns so that he could not tear through the fabrics of the world and destroy it.

nick's mouth curves upward in a bloody, toothy smile at you, which only serves to make dean grimace. you were not safe around him; not when nick was always the most possessive over what he deemed to be his sire. "little fang."

mortification shifts onto your expression now. as dean always could, he sensed the general sense of where your head was at. he always could with his sired. nick needed dean in every way he could possibly imagine, and still, it would never be enough. you were beginning to realize why dean was so adamant on breaking the addiction quick, because your head was beginning to swim with the same thoughts that tormented nick.

dean did not want him to invite you in here. for some reason, this felt too intimate and intense for you to be thrown into. dean was doing so good with you, keeping you at arm's length, close enough to get your fix until you were free from him, far enough so that breaking away would not be difficult.

it is to his horror that dean is the one to say it. "come in." it's barely a breath. it weighs a thousand pounds on his chest. "if you'd like to."

nick's gaze is a physical weight on him. it speaks a thousand words that he does not utter out loud. i told you so, it seethes in dean's ear, you are the same as us, as much as you despise it. addicted and foolish. desperate and needy.

it is both relief and torment that you turn the other way and leave. relief, because you still have a chance. torment, because the voices were right.

he was not a good man.

dean was going to end up hanging a portrait of you, too.

notes. lots of lore cld still be unpacked with this random au i threw together starting last night. so if u want a part two or something ... let me know hehe. i tried to make it as gothic as possible bc u know ... the title or whatev ... but if it's not good or it's too much MINDDDD UR BUSINESS ACTUALLY. anyways thank u for reading love u!

tags. @titsout4jackles @moonstruksandco @starzify @ultravi0lence14 @itzavahere @sagegreen17 @bruceewayne @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @deansbeer @blushpinkdoll @warpedless @sabrinasopposite @k-slla @deansbite @foolinthera1n @honeyryewhiskey @angelblqde @whyyouegg @bluemerakis @fallbhind @florchids @figthoughts @beausling @chevroletdean @mccartneyqp @bluestrd @sthefferrete @rubyvhs @tortureddarkstar @aileenunfiltered @frosttbitessam @theosaurous @blushpinkdoll

#──★ dahlia's jrnl #──★ gothic horror #──★ saint nick #vampire!dean #vampire!reader #jensen ackles #jensen fucking ackles #jensen ackles one shot #jensen ackles x reader #jensen ackles x you #dean winchester #dean winchester one shot #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #vampire dean #supernatural #supernatural one shot #spn #spn one shot

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elodieunderglass · 3 days ago

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👆note that the reason that shaming/guilt trips are common is not because the person “doing them” to others necessarily expects them to be effective. People posting guilt trip activism aren’t going “oh gosh I really hope this methodology will help people the most.” (Because it doesn’t.) but laying shame on others does give some feelings of power and control. And many times that isn’t bad. For people who are powerless and have little control, it is understandable! Shame is a shortcut button you can press to try to get people to stop doing stuff. Often the stuff they’re doing is horrible. It’s natural to reach for it.

However…

That’s not to say it’s bad or done by bad people. Often it IS venting. Saying “shame on you” is cathartic. Many people posting guilt trip activism are beaten down or burned out. They might feel like shame is the only tool left in their box, or they might just need to vent. Calling out shameful behaviour is not an inherently bad thing.

But it’s important to remember that the impulse to shame others - especially if they listen, especially if they change - is a nasty rewarding little bastard. It’s rewarding, it feels good, it gives that person power and control. It’s a shortcut button! It’s an addictive one!

we can picture a parent/educator/leader who uses shaming too much as a tool, and we can understand how ineffective they are (and sometimes, how effective they are!) and the negative impact that they have on people. Leaning on the shortcut button is bad for your own character, too - it means you don’t develop your skills beyond shaming.

The trick is to disengage from that cycle of shame and reward; don’t let it become the only tool in your box! It’s bad for you as well.

Zooming out, shame is a dominance behaviour that relates to the rules of the society the person operates in. It’s tremendously ineffective to shame me for (for example) being bisexual, because according to my rules , it’s highly embarrassing and sad to be anything else. There are cultures with a framework that makes it extremely shameful to be bisexual, and people who are abused to make them fit into the framework; all of society is expected to participate in regular shaming and censure and guilting to ensure that nobody expresses bisexuality. Effective shaming requires there to be agreed-upon rules of what’s unacceptable; using shaming as a tool shows the framework of what’s considered unacceptable, and REQUIRES the framework to be in place.

It’s damn hard to kinkshame or bully furries on tumblr. Everyone has agreed that they aren’t doing anything shameful. But it is easy to shame them in an American megachurch.

But historically shame has worked, hasn’t it? How come you can easily picture a Victorian female activist shaming the powerful men of Parliament for their treatment of orphaned children? How come you can picture it working? Because they all operated in a Christian framework that stated children should be cared for, and women appealed to the religious authority as being above the authority of the state. Religious appeals have been effective in the past, offering a separate set of rules to control behaviour, hence the rise of right-wing attempts to consolidate religious power as well.

From this flow a couple of things:

1. a culture that relies on shame (and disgust and fear) to control people is going to be more oppressive than one that doesn’t. It’s also going to have very controlling, very detailed, very specific frameworks in place. To shame Gays, it has to be agreed-upon that it is Wrong to be Gay, so they’ll install a framework of Being Illegal to be Gay. You have to install the buttons in order to press them.

2. At any point, people can simply decide not to be ashamed. Despite tremendous social pressure in times and places, queer people have been proud. Despite knowing exactly what the public think of them, people practice hobbies, kinks, fashion, beliefs, and behaviours that other people don’t like. They always do and they always have. Shame stops being a weapon when people don’t care; they can simply decline to hold the button for you to press any more. Shame requires that everyone consent to the framework! Hence the anxiety about “normalising” queer liberation, or the existence of trans people - the fear is that if trans people stop being afraid and guilty, the buttons will break, and there will not only be more trans people, but they’ll be hard to control.

What flows from that are that people can resist shame effectively if they have a community that supports them. You can find this sympathetic (queer people support each other and resist shame) or distressing (a loved one falls down a conservative social media rabbit hole that turns them into a horrible person.) but it shows that shame wears off as a tool the instant that people decide to stop caring, especially if they have help. “Who cares if I lose YOUR good opinion, when that gives me THEIR good opinion?”

But finally - the reason shaming hasn’t fixed the world yet (by anyone’s definition) is because truly powerful people just don’t feel much shame. They don’t consent to the framework where other people’s opinion have any weight. They believe they’re in charge of society and therefore free of consequences or needing to care. Their first step when installing frameworks and buttons is to make a rule saying “I don’t have any buttons and nobody is allowed to press them.” This is what exactly why they sought the power to begin with. Shame requires that everyone agree that we are all social animals and our opinions of each other are worth something - powerful people do not think we are worth anything.

Conclusions: online activism using shame is ineffective for many reasons, including the fact that it’s a stopping behaviour and that people don’t really make positive actions based on it. it’s understandable why people do it, though. It’s one of the only real “rebalancing” tools for powerless people - if their society has frameworks that allow for the rebalancing of social power. Next, shaming feels good, especially when it works. It’s understandable to reach for it as a shortcut, but good leaders shouldn’t rely on it. Shame stops working when people stop caring about it. People can resist shaming with support, if they don’t care about other people’s opinions, or if they have enough power to insulate themselves. Powerful people have already decided that they do not care about being shamed.

Not that anybody asked, but I think it's important to understand how shame and guilt actually work before you try to use it for good.

It's a necessary emotion. There are reasons we have it. It makes everything so. much. worse. when you use it wrong.

Shame and guilt are DE-motivators. They are meant to stop behavior, not promote it. You cannot, ever, in any meaningful way, guilt someone into doing good. You can only shame them into not doing bad.

Let's say you're a parent and your kid is having issues.

Swearing in class? Shame could work. You want them to stop it. Keep it in proportion*, and it might help. *(KEEP IT IN PROPORTION!!!)

Not doing their homework? NO! STOP! NO NOT DO THAT! EVER! EVER! EVER! You want them to start to do their homework. Shaming them will have to opposite effect! You have demotivated them! They will double down on NOT doing it. Not because they are being oppositional, but because that's what shame does!

You can't guilt people into building better habits, being more successful, or getting more involved. That requires encouragement. You need to motivate for that stuff!

If you want it in a simple phrase:

You can shame someone out of being a bad person, but you can't shame them into being a good person.

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a-big-apple · 2 days ago

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if someone's trying to really beef up a character's voice, what advice would you have for them (in general or in TLT in particular)? what are some major voice missteps you've seen esp given your extremely thorough reading of the series👀

jeej u always ask the most interesting questions!! i feel like in general, for me, i'm pretty good with remembering and recognizing voices (like, how they actually sound) and good at remembering iconic lines. so when i'm trying to write a specific pov, i'll sometimes revisit examples of the tone i'm going for by watching bits if it's a show, or listening to bits of the audiobooks for TLT, and then as i'm writing and editing i'll kind of read everything back to myself in that character's voice.

but that's a particular skill i have that may not be more broadly useful, so...in general, some of the things that stand out to me are vocabulary, register (like how formal or informal), and demeanor.

so for example, gideon has a really large vocabulary, and she uses big and/or obscure words for specific effect, usually to needle harrow, but not as much in everyday speech. she's also often crude, and she'll use slang, and she uses humor to defuse and disguise rather than speaking seriously very often, so when she's being honest and frank it has a big effect. her internal monologue isn't very formal, and neither is her speech most of the time, but the formality might increase when she's kiriona, for instance!

whereas harrow speaks very formally and precisely, might not use as many contractions (almost everybody uses contractions in normal speech and it sticks out when someone doesn't, this is a bugaboo of mine, but harrow does genuinely sometimes go super formal), and uses her own big vocabulary in her regular dialogue a lot more often. she's used to oratory, she's the leader of a religious order, she's pretty good at stringing together a speech whether it's intended to inspire or to tear somebody down.

then you've got somebody like camilla, who doesn't speak much but has a very dry humor when she does, and is more likely to truncate or leave off unnecessary words, making her come off kind of brusque. she waits to talk until she has something necessary or important to say, but she knows how to tease. she's fairly informal, but she can slide into an academic register very easily, and she almost always calls everyone, even palamedes, by their title instead of their name.

sentence structure can come into this too, for narration from a particular pov! gideon is observant but also sometimes misses things or doesn't have all the information, her narration might include more questions or commentary to herself. harrow is intellectual and scheming and sometimes super unsure, so she might have longer and more convoluted sentence structure in her narration. cam is super straightforward, so her narration might be full of observations and thoughts and feelings that she keeps to herself, but with more short sentences, a more clipped rhythm that matches her speaking style.

other things that can sometimes rub me wrong or stick out are endearments and nicknames! there are some characters who will make up names for people and keep using them (gideon) and some who will almost always use a respectful title or name (cam) and some people who throw endearments at everyone willy nilly (cytherea and augustine come to mind). if a character has a canon endearment or set of endearments that they default to, or specific ones for specific people, it really helps keep the voice in character to keep using those. harrow uses beloved for alecto, and it means something when that transfers to gideon in fic in place of griddle, or just her name. pyrrha uses kiddie, and six million other things, but only with nona and later a bit with kiriona. ianthe and coronabeth both flirt with nicknames that the objects of their attention either despise or don't seem to allow from anyone else (harry, jody, millie). gideon uses all her wild thesaurus superlatives for harrow, but when it's a crisis moment and she's showing her heart, she uses honey.

this is just my personal pet peeve i think, but love/baby/babe are SO overused as defaults, when there are so many good opportunities to either use something that the character does say in canon, or find something unique that fits the character and the relationship in the fic. and imo, these should always be used sparingly and for specific emotional effect, unless you've got a character like pyrrha who i think always uses nicknames for nona. (frankly, griddle is very cute but harrow doesn't actually use it as much as fic wants her to)

so i guess, tl;dr advice is to relisten/rewatch/reread the voice of the character you're trying to get into, and think about the way they say things and the way they present themself, and take note of any quirks they have that can be put to good use later!

#this got long oops #but i've been thinking about it a lot with what i'm writing now too #writing #thx for the ask bro!!!#the locked tomb #fanfiction

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silent-hill-2-official · 12 hours ago

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Hi, you summoned me, the big gorgeous linux fairy, and this is the Jack Joy's Guide to Linux. This is going to be a long read, so be prepared.

Chapter 0: What do we want? The first thing I would recommend is asking what you want from linux. Linux is open source, has 30 years of dedicated nerds working on it, and is driven by giving people choice and control over their computer. You got options, but with that decisions to make. Is it simplicity? Is it Stability? Do we wanna game, or is this basically just a fancy browser machine with some word processors attached? It all depends on knowin what you want, because there is going to be something that will cater to your needs. Chapter 0.5: Making the tough call The second thing to know about linux is that you are going to be giving up some stuff to gain a LOT of control over your computer. Linux has done a wonderful job getting easier about what it offers, but ultimately you are going to run into some jank. You are going to have to be prepared to touch the scary obelisk that is the terminal. And you are going to have to say goodbye to some programs that just don't work on linux. If you use Adobe Products you are SOOL for example. There are replacements, but you will inevitably end up having to learn something new. Personally, I found the task to be refreshing to get myself acquainted with stuff, but that isn't what everyone wants. Hopefully this is not a dealbreaker.

Chapter 1: Go Oynon, I need to collect my tools.

To Install Linux, you are going to need a few things, and before you begin to just follow this guide as you are doing it, read this entire chapter as there are going to be some things that are gonna be important to know before you get into things.

A flash drive (preferably just a big USB stick, messing around with USB to SD card readers got me a fucked install of mint once)

Balena Etcher

Your preferred Flavor of linux

Some knowledge on the bios of your machine

And preferably a secondary boot device in your machine (IE a second SSD)

First grab the ISO file of the OS you want to install on your PC, which maybe you have already had a potential distro of linux in mind. If not, let me recommend some potential good candidates for someone first messing around with linux.

Side Tangent 1.1: Jack Joy's Pixie Picks for easy Linux Distros

Linux Mint is the gold standard for stupid simple linux distro. It just works*, it comes with a DE(desktop Enviroment) that is reminiscent of windows 7 so adjustment should be minimal and overall, is very uncomplicated. Is a bit bland tho. *(things still break sometimes)

Ubuntu meanwhile you probably already heard of. Think of it as the MacOS of Linux. It has the most company support, it's DE called GNOME is very MacOS like in it's design language, incredibly stable, but also very poor in customization. If something says tested on linux, a lot of the time, it means tested on Ubuntu.

EndeavourOS is my linux distribution of choice. It's based off of Arch Linux, which is what powers the Steamdeck with SteamOS, and as such has a lot of nifty Arch linux niceties, like the Arch User Repository, and KDE Plasma as it's DE. It tries to combine being user friendly while letting you tinker with everything, it is on the cutting edge of linux, but that also means that stuff CAN break more often.

With this side tangent over, install balena etcher and flash your ISO on your USB stick.

Reboot your PC, and as it boots enter into your BIOS. Most systems use the F12 function key, but it might also be any of the other F keys because no one can agree on anything in the fucking tech space. From the BIOS your going to want to look into your boot order and if your USB stick is available, pull it up in the order. If it isn't there, your gonna have to wrestle with your BIOS as there might be some secure boot shenanigans going on. BIOS' vary so much that you'll have to look into your system in particular (which could be a good time to learn more about your PC in general).

Once done, exit out of the BIOS and things should hopefully be happening. Depending on the Linux Distro you used this might look more or less scary, but if it looks like it is doing some WEIRD SHIT instead of booting windows, it's going good. At some point you'll enter a "live enviroment" of your OS (a version of the OS that exists entirely from the USB that will be gone once you reboot) and an installer will be on the desktop or have popped up automatically (at least, for all three of the beginner friendly Distro's I recommended. Please don't try to install raw Arch Linux on your first Linux Install.)

Once the installer gets to formatting drives is where we have to do a hard pause, because formatting drives is SCARY and DANGEROUS if you aren't doing it to an extra drive that has nothing in it. In general it is always scary and dangerous. The installer is going to give you a bunch of options on where it wants to be put, and what it is going to do to the drive where it makes itself at home. If you are putting this on an extra SSD, tell it to do what it wants with that extra SSD and bob is your uncle. If you are putting this on the same drive as your windows install, you are going to have to be real careful and tell it to make a partition, give it however much space you can give it, and voila. Or, if you just want to ensure you never go to windows ever again, nuke the entire drive, in which case you might want to invest in another USB drive to keep a clean copy of a non shit windows OS. Think of that USB drive as an "In case of emergency, Break glass" type safety precaution.

The Installer will finish, either asking you to reboot the PC or doing so by itself, and once it is done it will now do the standard linux boot sequence. Congratulations. You have transitioned your PC from widows to whatever flavor of Linux picked your fancy. From here on out, what you do with your PC is up to you and you alone. Fuck around. Look at all the software that came with your linux install, especially the actual software store where you can get even more stuff.

Hope this guide helped.

im sure someone already made a post about it but i came across a ublock origin add-on that blacklists around 950 AI websites and disables AI overview ☝️ so u can be free from seeing AI in your search

#linux #linuxposting #I am sorry this is such a long guide #i wanted to make it shorter but it always felt like i forgot something that might be messed up by someone #i wanted to be as thourough as possible

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pinkkkkat · 14 hours ago

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Hi!! Hope ur having a good day! Could I ask u to write something abt caitvi x fem!reader who forgets to take care of herself (bonus points if she's a workaholic)

hi i’m SO late i’m so sorry baby

(reader is a student because i’m an overworked student and this is self-indulgent like everything else i write also this is nsfw sorry if that’s not what you wanted anon! no use of y/n)

it’s not new for you to work yourself to the bone. whether it’s pulling more than one consecutive all nighter to get papers finished on time, or spending full twelve hour shifts in the library pouring over your books and notes, you slip easily into an all-work and absolutely no play mindset (not that showering or hey, eating, counts as ‘play,’ but anyways)

usually, nobody notices. so what, you disappear sometimes (for weeks), but you always pop back up looking normal, so it doesn’t draw attention. everyone knew that you were a dedicated student. the only reason caitlyn notices you’ve stopped caring for yourself is because she sees the trait of obsessively working until you drop reflected in herself

you started dating caitlyn and vi in the early summer, so they had ever seen you in your element. when the academy starts back up in the fall, your girlfriends are excited to see the sparkle in your eyes when you tell them about your passion, hands moving animatedly as you talk at a rapid pace. vi often teases you for being a nerd, but cait is much the same, so it’s two against one there

anyways

i think cait would bring it up to vi first, asking if she’s noticed how you’re starting to pull away a little, and when they do get to see you, you’re not yourself. usually, you keep your appearance well put together, hair down and outfit chosen to bolster your look-good feel-good attitude. lately though, the bags under your eyes have become prominent, and some nights you don’t come home, saying you’re gonna work late at the academy, but then not going home at all

at first, vi is just super proud of you, for working hard at what you love. she understands what it’s like to want something so bad that you can’t help but “stay in the grind.” she sends you texts in the group chat often throughout your busy days, pictures of her at the gym or a gif of little cat, always with a message saying she’s so proud of her girl, that she loves you

after cait mentions how worried she is, vi starts to notice that you’re not as cheery as before, on top of the eye bags an disheveled appearance that is starting to become your staple look. she’s frustrated with herself for not noticing and taking care of you, and with you a little for not taking care of yourself. cait convinces her to let her try and help first, as someone with a more similar academic experience

caitlyn starts showing up at the academy, at least once every day. she brings food, and coffee, and sometimes she gets jayce, but more often viktor, out of the lab to accompany you. she always takes your hand, dragging you from what you’re doing to sit with her and just talk. she’s subtle about her worry, not wanting you to feel guilty, but wanting to change your habits slowly without you noticing (cait is so conniving i love her)

as the semester continues, you only seem to get worse, despite cait’s best efforts. cait is consistently holding vi back from saying something blunt, because she doesn’t want to upset you, or to cause you to give up on what you love all together out of guilt. in the end, you end up coming to them, having completely exhausted yourself and tilting your last straw

it’s late when you get to the kirraman household, knowing you girlfriends are there. you don’t know what time it is, the sun having set some uncounted number of hours earlier. you knock on the door (even though you know you can just walk in), embarrassed about how bad you’ve let yourself get. cait opens the door and envelops you in a long hug after taking one look at you, standing on her porch in a big sweatshirt, sniffling a bit, unwashed hair piled onto the top of your head

“oh my darling, come inside”

she’s warm and so soft with you, and you’re already feeling better. cait shushes every attempt you make to apologize, for showing up out of nowhere after not really showing up at all for a little while. she brings you up into her room, where vi sits on the end of the bed

vi nearly knocks you to the floor with the force of her hug. she’s strong, and she’s whispering to you about how much she loves you, and how proud she is of you for coming to them for help when you need it, for recognizing that in yourself. her words bring you to tears, and her arms wrap tighter around your torso. you feel cait join in on the hug, tucking you and vi under her chin and squeezing her arms around you both

they bring you to take a bath, and vi gets in first, hissing at the hot temperature of the water. you sit between her thighs, and she wraps her arms around your torso, calloused hands covering your entire stomach. cait sits on the edge of the tub, asking you about your work, and sternly but lovingly detailing how much time you’re allowed to spend at the academy from now on, until you find an appropriate balance between your work and your life. vi hums in agreement with everything cait says, punctuating every particularly harsh sentence with a soft kiss to the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder

they leave you in the bathroom to wash your hair in he shower, and when you come out of the bathroom, you’re wearing one of vi’s hoodies from her gym, and cait’s too long pyjama pants, and you look more refreshed than you have since the summer. you look so cuddly and cute that cait starts cooing at you, and you giggle, batting her hands away when she squishes your face

vi is sitting on the bed, manspreading in that way that she does, and she’s smiling softly at her two girls

(NSFW NOW BTW)

“c’mere baby”

and you do, standing between vi’s legs as she wraps her hands around your waist. you lean down to kiss her, and soon enough her tongue is licking at our b otto’s lip, and you’re opening your mouth to let her in, your hands draped loosely around her neck. you sigh into the kiss when vi’s hands starting palming at your hips, your waist

vi pulls you into her, lifting you effortlessly into her lap so you’re straddling her. the kiss gets deeper, and you whine when vi pulls back. she smiles at you, and tilts her head towards the top of the bed

“how pretty is our girlfriend, huh baby?”

you turn to look, and there’s cait, wearing your favourite set of pink lingerie and sitting up against the headboard, hair down and legs spread open only slightly. you flush a bright red when you see her, mouthing parting slightly when you lick your lips. vi bounces you on her lap for a moment when you don’t say anything

“tell her baby”

“cait, you’re gorgeous”

vi leans into mouth at your neck, murmuring to you about keeping your eyes on caitlyn, and you do. you’re still blushing, silly in your position, but you can’t help it, with how caitlyn is staring at you while vi sucks marks into our soft skin. vi shimmies further onto the bed with you, and hooks her hands under your thigh to lay your down softly on the bed, your back pressed to cait’s chest

cait is immediately sweeping your hair to the side and digging her teeth into the side of your neck, causing a sweet little noise to slip out of your mouth. vi groans at the sound, pressing a strong thigh up against you as your hands make purchase on her biceps. cait’s mouth on your neck is teasing, a nip followed by soothing kitten lick, and vi is holding herself up above you, her free hand hooking under your knee to bring your leg up over her hip as she pushes her leg against you more firmly

eventually, you’re getting desperate and whiny, and vi gives in as soon as she hears the first “vi, please,” slip from your beautiful mouth. she pulls your (cait’s) pyjama pants down, panties too, and your immediately rucking your hips into nothing, searching for some friction to help you out. normally, vi is a lot more teasing, but not today

“vi is gonna take care of you, okay sweet girl?”

and vi does. she presses her hands onto the backs of your thighs, pushing them open and up. without any prelude, she gets to it, licking through your wetness and groaning at the taste. you’re arching away from cait, whose one hand has taken to holding your hips in place to help vi, the other tucking itself underneath your (vi’s) hoodie to pluck at your nipples

it takes no time at all for your girlfriends to have you a whimpering, squirming mess, begging to cum. cait is whispering softly to you, hot breath slipping over the shell of your ear, shushing you and telling you how good you’re being for them, how much you deserve to feel good, and could you cum for them, please?

you do, of course. it cracks through you, hips stuttering on vi’s mouth, legs trying to clamp shut but stopped by vi’s strong hands. vi works you through it until you’re whining and pushing at her head, overstimulated. you collapse in heavy breaths, thoroughly sated and exhausted

caitlyn is instantly tugging at you to turn around, head resting on her chest. she pulls you tight to her with a hand on your waist after readjusting your sweatshirt to be comfy. her spare hand comes up to run through your still-damp hair. vi slides your panties back on but abandons the pj pants, kissing her way up your bare legs and rewinding you of how well you’ve done, and again how proud she is

vi tucks herself up behind you, spooning you, arm thrown over both you and cait. that’s how you fall asleep, pressed tightly between the two of them. you drift off instantly, and over your head, vi and caitlyn smile at each other

you don’t overwork yourself again

#anon ask #anon answered #caitvi arcane #caitvi x reader #caitvi x you #caitvi x reader smut #caitlyn x reader #caitlyn kirraman x reader #vi x reader #vi x you #vi x reader smut

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nxlx96 · 3 days ago

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The Boy Saviour - Oscar Piastri x Reader (she/her)

Hi, this is my first time writing x reader, and the idea came to me at 3am a few nights ago while i was trying to sleep and hasn't left me live ever since. This is also my first time posting on tumblr so bear the simple format.

Trigger Warning: Non-consensual drug use, as in, reader gets roofied in a bar (Not by any named character nor any of the drivers, so rest assured on that sense). There is also recreational alcohol consumption and a bit of off-camera violence.

WC: 8381

Also, this is more of a pre-slash story rather than a romantic one. That's all I have to say, I'll shut up and let you read.

Please let me know what you think!

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · · 𖥸 · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Post race driver parties are not an uncommon thing, although it is much more frequent in the European leg of the season; when everyone is in the same country or near enough they don’t care for a few hours of commute -Today's crowd was composed of Charles, Oscar, Max, Lando, Alex, George, Pierre, Carlos and as a star guest, Daniel-. These parties were often the perfect way to try and unwind from the pressure of the season and to smooth out whatever incidents happened on track. A few passive aggressive interchanges, three shots and everyone’s usually back to laughing and buzzing along.

Tonight they had followed Charles’ recommendation and gone to a club in the more residential area of Monaco, away from the yacht club and the casino. It was still tightly packed with people dancing on the dancefloor and the bar was busy as the drinks kept on coming, but the people there didn't care much for them and they were able to enjoy themselves without worrying about having too many eyes on them.

They had a booth in the second floor alcove, allowing them an almost full view of the dance floor if anyone cared to look down, but they were too busy roughhousing and laughing. She’d gotten used to it, of course, having grown as a girl in motorsports it’s simply part of the package. But sometimes she still needed a break when they were behaving like that, because while they recognise her as a proper rival, a true competitor despite gender bias, being drunk they sometimes forget they have size and strength to their favour while having their fun, and their brawling and heavy shoulder slaps felt a tiny bit too annoying while tipsy. Overwhelming.

So she excuses herself to the bar, shaking the glass that now only tinkers with half melted ice cubes. She gets a few nods and a stray thumbs up but the chatter continues like before.

The layout of the club had the bar as the centerpiece gemstone, the first thing you see when you come though the main entrance across from the massive dance floor. The dance floor’s design is full of different height platforms, similar to those at Jimmy Z. Their booth on the second floor has a perfect view of all the first floor, except for the public entrance, which is right underneath it.

Coming down the stairs, she followed the platforms' paths that led her to the bar once again, choosing a stool to sit and wait for the bartenders to take her order.

On the wall to her left, the DJ booth rises itself over all the platforms in its own little block, colored lights sprouting from the base towards the right of it, in the corner between the bar and the DJ there is the smaller door they were escorted through, directly from the parking lot behind the establishment. On the opposite wall there's a hallway that leads to what she assumes are the bathrooms, judging by the long queue of women she can see standing in the hallway.

A tap on the countertop brings her attention back. The bartender asks for her order in French, and her basic understanding of the language allows her to order a raspberry mojito without spluttering too much. A sweet enough concoction to help smooth out the straight Vodka shots they downed back at the table.

In no time, a new clear plastic cup was placed in front of her. A tall cup full to the brim with rum and sparkly water. A mix of raspberry puree, lemon and mint sitting at the bottom. She grabs the straw and starts mixing the cocktail, but the ice floating on top, and the decorative mint leaves that float at the top threaten to overflow the cup when she does, so she has to take another bitter sip of almost pure liquor before actually enjoying the sweetness.

She rested her elbow on the bartop and her chin in her hand, alternating between swaying to the music, looking at the bartenders preparing fancy and complicated cocktails and looking around the crowd dancing on the floor. It wasn’t exactly a quiet place, but it did provide respite from the boys’ rowdiness. Occasionally there would be people who sat in the barstools next to her. Some of them made some sort of small talk while waiting for their drinks to be ready, but no one lingered in her space for too long, allowing her to unwind on her own.

♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭

As a woman in life, you learn to know when to follow your instincts. Call it bad omen, gut feeling or sixth sense. Sometimes you subconsciously register danger before you see or hear something. In this case, she felt a tight coil in her stomach -looking back it might have been more of a natural reaction than not a bad omen-, her adrenaline spiked like she’d been in the car after miraculously avoiding a collision. Her hands trembled a bit as she sneakily tried to look around. There was a couple at the bar two seats to her right, too engrossed in each other to be the source of panic. As she swiped to the other side, her hand caught the straw of her cup, pulling it from inside. She tried to catch it but it rolled over the edge of the bartop, falling to the ground.

Fucking breathe!

Straw forgotten, she grabbed the cup and twisted around in her stool, swiping the room with her gaze. To her other side there was a group of friends rowdily chatting, no different from the drivers’ table upstairs. He made eye contact with one of them, a guy not participating in the conversation. He seemed embarrassed to have been caught staring as he turned red and avoided eye contact. Too shy, too far away, probably not that either. She started scanning the crowd on the dancefloor with her heart almost at her throat.

Without a straw, she was left to swirl the whole cup to stir its contents. No one in the vicinity was particularly close to her bubble, or paying special attention to her, but the sensation didn’t go away. Some movement from the group at her side made her tense up, but it was a small part of them that walked towards the dancefloor. Shy boy included. The ones left at the bar were immersed in conversation, crowding together to hear themselves over the music. So she relaxed again.

She’d been tilting the drink to her lips when she finally realised that her nearly melted ice cubes had sunk to the bottom of the cup, and the whole thing looked cloudy. Her heart stopped in her throat, closing her airways.

I’ve been drugged.

The realisation sinks in, but it feels unreal.

Is this really happening to me?

The glass is on her lips, and she tilts it back, but keeps her mouth sealed; knowing that whoever did it must be keeping an eye on her. Her jaw is clenched so hard it’s almost difficult to breathe. Her first instinct is to throw the whole thing on the ground, but it’s less than half full now. Whatever they put in it has been in her system for long enough. Her next thought is to notify the bartenders, but she hesitates before turning around. There had been no one near enough on her side of the bar to get close to her drink, and she’d kept her hand over it at all moments; but of course the rim was wide and there were gaps between her fingers where someone could have dumped something in. For now the bartenders are also suspicious. Twisting her arm, she sets the drink on the table behind her; uncaring now to leave it unsupervised.

The damage has already been done anyway. She figures.

Her heart rate does nothing to slow down, and her thoughts do not help at all. She is in imminent danger with no way out. She’d left her purse at the booth upstairs, and doesn’t have her phone at hand. She looks up in the direction of their table. Under the strobing lights she can see the crowd of drivers has dwindled down. She can distinguish Alex, George, Carlos, Max and Lando sitting up there; the rest of them might be somewhere in the dancefloor. The idea of trying to get the attention of the guys up there was also discarded, since it will alert her assailant too, and she has no guarantee it’ll get the guys’ attention. Trying to find the others in the crowd sounds just as impossible a task as to find a needle in a haystack.

Her hands shake. The safest alternative that comes to her mind is to run to the women’s bathroom. The crowd queuing in the halfway has reduced, and the hallway looks dark; but it’s her best shot.

Over the corner of her eye something catches her attention. A white button up shit that looks almost fluorescent under the black lights. The figure skirts around the dancefloor, following almost the same path she took to get to the bar, but it’s clear his destination is not the same, since he doesn’t slow down and seems to be aiming for the bathrooms instead.

“Oscar!” She yells before she realises. It might have sounded a bit too strangled, a bit too panicked, but it catches his attention. She’s reaching a hand out to him, and he extends his arm for her to grab as he gets close to her stool.

“Oh hey,” He looks sort of confused, and she doesn’t blame him. They do gravitate to the same groups, But they’re not particularly close friends, so her calling out feels awkward for both of them. “Didn’t realise you came here.” He gestures awkwardly to the bar, but she’s too relieved to have found a safe person she doesn’t even hear what he’s saying.

She jumps from the stool, holding onto his wrist. “Come dance with me!”

He hesitates “... You know I’m not-” She’s still not listening, she hesitates between abandoning her cup at the bar, but grabs it at the last second and turns back to him.

“Just one song, come on!”

“I was going to-” He tries again, but this time she digs her nails into his skin, and desperately tugs him with a trembling hand. He doesn’t put any more resistance, simply trailing behind her as she tries to find a pocket of space for them among the moving bodies. As she walks she feels her blood rushing to her head. She’s feeling too tipsy and woozy for the amount of alcohol she’s consumed; and whatever hopes the whole thing had been in her head crumble like sandcastles at the sensation of her bambi legs. But she has her way out caught in a deathgrip by the wrist, she can still get out unscathed.

As soon as she finds space for them, she stops and turns around to face him, getting close in his space to be heard over the loud music. She wraps Oscar’s arm she’d been tugging on, around her waist, in hopes he can hold her up in case her legs give out and wraps hers around his body too.

She can feel Oscar’s hand in her back, blindly trying to find a patch of fabric to settle on top of. His avoidance of the naked skin of her back settles a minute worry in her mind. Yes, he is a man. Yes, she would probably feel more comfortable coming to her own teammate for help. But Oscar is still safe, he won’t take advantage of her. He is safety.

“Are you sober?” Is the first thing that comes out of her mouth once they’ve settled their positions and start to loosely sway to the beat of whatever song is playing.

Oscar is looking more and more confused at the sudden serious tone of her voice and the way it contradicts the easy smile on her face. She’s still acting up like nothing’s wrong. “Uhh yeah, I came in my car.”

Oscar you blessed man.

“Great! I need you to take me to the hospital right now.” Oscar freezes completely and she tries to keep the easy smile on her face. “Someone put something in my drink and I think I’m going to pass out soon.” His face does something complicated, and one of his hands tries to go for the cup on her hand, but she moves it out of his path, tripping over her own heel in the process. He catches her before she can stumble.

“Why are you still-?” He looks tense in a way she hasn’t seen him many times, he instantly understood the seriousness the situation entails. She’s so glad he believed her, a worry she hadn’t even processed having.

Her confidence starts waving, there is not much time to explain and her voice shakes as she tries to fill him in. “You have to take it- I- I don’t know what they put in- The doctor can… I don’t know-” She feels like she's twelve again, trying to explain to her mother that she accidentally broke her favourite mirror and cut her hand. “They can analyse it or whatever,” she finishes lamely.

She can see it more clearly now, he’s not just tense, he’s angry. At her or on her behalf? She doesn’t know him well enough to be able to tell the difference.

“You’re so…” Careless. Irresponsible. Stupid. Her eyes fill with tears and he feels like a scolded child. “... smart.” He says instead, not following the script in her mind.

“I kno- Wait what?” He shakes his head, moving past the topic. His voice holds urgency now.

“Do you know who did it?” He’s looking past her, scanning the crowd behind her.

“No I- There was no one near except the bartenders… I-I didn’t know if they- A-and I didn’t know who to ask for help!” She sniffs, and clears her throat, swallowing around the tightness in her throat.

He notices her trying to maintain her composure, and smoothes out his expression. “It’s alright. You found me, and I will help you, okay?” In a very unlike-himself moment he wraps his arms closer to her, holding her in a loose hug. Maybe it’s the relief that comes from Oscar’s reassurance that makes her body relax, loosen up. She takes the moment to really get a deep breath, trying to regulate her heart rate, knowing an accelerated heartbeat will only speed the effect of the drug. The music is already hard to hear even with how the deep base thrums in her bones. She lets her head fall forward onto his shoulder and Oscar’s arms tighten around her like a vice, but when she stays standing up he relaxes. “Let’s get you out of here, yeah?” She’s pretty sure she just gave him a small heart attack, but she can’t really find the strength to apologize, so she simply takes another deep breath, this time taking in the smell of his cologne, and nods her head.

She steps back, trying to maintain balance on the small heels of her shoes, and allows Oscar to grab her arm to guide them through the crowd. It’s a bit scary, how fast she seems to be falling under the effects. What would she have done had Oscar not been there?

Oscar is aggressively polite as he makes a path for them towards the exit, loudly excusing them as he pushes through. She walks behind him, gaze set on his broad shoulders. They’re almost out of the crowd when she feels a hand closing in on her arm. She flinches and removes her arm before they can grasp her, and steps even closer to Oscar, almost stepping on his heels. “Oscar-” She manages in a squeaky voice, but he must hear her because he holds together and broathens his stride. The hands do not follow, only shoulder bumps as they make their way though.

They get out the doors in no time. The space outside is deserted, late enough that everyone is either at home asleep or inside the club. Oscar turns to her, scans her and points toward the side street that she assumes would lead them around the building towards the private parking lot. “My car’s this way.” She briefly looks back to the doors, but they stay closed so she nods. Maybe the hand was her imagination, or a simple accidental brush of a hand.

Her steps are still mostly steady but Oscar still keeps a hand on her left forearm, the warmth from his hand is a stark contrast to the cold air of the Monegasque night. The sweat that had layered over her body is cooling off rapidly as they round the building and by the time they’ve walked the length of the side street and caught sight of the actual parking lot, shivers have started to rack her up.

Oscar briefly lets go of her arm to fish the keys from his pocket and she instantly misses the warmth. Now untethered she slows her walking, paying a bit more attention to where she’s placing her feet. He clicks off the alarm and the navy blue McLaren Artura at the other end blinks its lights at them. “There’s our ride.” Oscar is smiling as he looks back, extending his arm for her again, but his eyes stray over her shoulder and the expression freezes in his face.

A hand wraps on the arm that Oscar hadn’t been holding and it feels nothing like the Australian's careful and grounding hold. It burns as it takes a bruising hold of her and tugs her to the side. She stumbles with the force of it, body already feeling too close to a ragdoll to comfort. Her voice is strong but not steady as she demands, “Let me go.” She tries to back away from the foreign body, but her ankle gives up and twists painfully. She stumbles but holds her stance and tries to push away from the nasal french voice speaking at her in a sultry voice. The arm that had been trying to push away from the tall man gets caught from the wrist. The drink sloshes and some of it spills over her fingers and onto her dress.

Just as he’s starting to use his weight against her, a body steps in between them. She collides with Oscar’s shoulder a bit, but her right arm is freed, and she pulls it back towards her. “Get your fucking hands off.” She has never heard him sound so angry. His accent has deepened like she’s never heard before. But he is still gentle as he wraps a hand firmly on her left arm. She can feel him pulling the guy’s hand and prying his fingers open to release her. She uses his back to support herself as she helps pull her arm free from those thick fingers.

Once freed she stumbles back again, but the Aussie has a firm hold on her and keeps her upright. The guy tries to go around Oscar to get her again, and over the driver’s shoulder she looks at his face for the first time as Oscar pushes firmly with his forearm to keep him away. Tan complexion, prince-y dark hair and a well groomed beard.

In any other circumstance she would have said he was attractive, but now she can only feel nauseous at the fake nonchalant smile the guy is sporting. With her muddled brain she half understands he’s trying to excuse this as a misunderstanding. He catches the words ‘friend’, ‘together’, ‘mine’ and ‘drunk’. She has no idea if Oscar even understands what the guy is saying, but he seems set on getting him away from her.

After a more forceful shove that makes the assailant stumble back, Oscar looks over his shoulder and lets go of her, pushing her towards the parking lot. “Get in the car.”

She nods dumbly as she turns in the direction where the lights flashed earlier. The parking lot is only mildly illuminated, but it’s enough for her to be able to locate the Artura among the other luxury cars parked there. There are more confrontation sounds coming from behind, and what sounds very much like a hit, but she doesn’t look back. All her attention and remaining brain power is going to try to reach the car at the end of the parking lot. Her right ankle throbs painfully with each step, and the uneven terrain makes it three times harder, because when the fuck did the pavement turn to gravel?

She leans on a pink Porshe 911 as her legs buckle, the McLaren is right there. There’s the sound of another car starting up, more yelling but she’s already rounding it from behind towards the passenger door. The sound of angry screeching tyres spinning out without traction in the gravel grinds her head and the pain in her ankle is too much; her right leg gives out completely, the other one follows shortly and she’s going down. She tries to drag her hand on the car to find a purchase on something but there’s nothing other than the squeak of her sweaty hand on the polished paint. Her knees take the brunt of the impact, and it stings.

The angry car has sped off, and she’s pretty sure she hears it clip the wall of the sidestreet. She takes a deep breath and lets herself fall seated against the car, knees to her chest, back to the door. Dumly, she notes that the cup still has some liquid on it, its red is just as dark in the low light as the small pinpricks of blood on her knees.

She registers footsteps getting closer to her, and for a second her heart rate speeds up again until she hears her name called by a worried Australian. She bangs her head against the door, willing herself to keep her eyes open as she answers back. Oscar’s footsteps speed up and in no time he’s kneeling in front of her, warm hands on her biceps as he looks over her body. He brings a hand to remove stray pieces of hair from her face and she can see a hint of blood on his knuckles.

“Are you okay?” The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them.

🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎

Oscar cannot believe his ears. “How am- Are you forreal?” An incredulous chuckle escapes him because this girl, shivering on the floor with scraped knees and blown out pupils, who almost got kidnapped by a stranger in a foreign country, is more worried about him than about herself. He shakes his head and wipes his knuckles, showing her the unbroken skin. “I’m alright, see?” Her eyes scan his hand for a second too long before nodding. Her head bobs in a sleepy manner, and he knows he has to hurry. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” She’s breathing heavily, but Oscar can’t be sure if it’s an after effect of whatever drug the asshole put in her drink or the exertion of the situation. “My ankle hurts,” He looks down at her feet, still clad in heeled slippers with a complicated ribbon. Neither of her feet looks particularly swollen or bruised for now. “I’m scared…” Her voice is much softer, almost a whisper, but in the emptiness of the parking lot at night, it almost seems to echo.

He grabs her arms again, rubbing up and down “It’s okay, it’s over now.” She keeps shivering under his arms and Oscar doesn’t know if it’s the cold or shock starting to settle in, “Can you walk?”

Her eyebrows furrow and she tilts her head in a terribly adorable gesture, “Walk where?”

“We need to get you into the car”

“But-” She slaps the back of her hand against the car, “I’m here”

Oscar can’t suppress the smile, “Yeah, but unless you’re planning on driving, we need to get you around the passenger side.”

“... Fuck.”

“Force of habit, yeah.” He grabs onto her forearms. Her skin feels cold and sticky with dried sweat. “Come on, let’s get you up.” She pulls alongside him, but as soon as her right foot is firm on the ground, she makes a face and he takes more of her weight as she falters, her other leg not cooperating much.

“Oscar” The slugginess in her voice makes the R in his name sound much breathier. “I don’t think I can walk.”

“Alright, well-” He bends down and swipes her legs off the floor, holding her in a princess's carry. She makes a strangled sound and her arms come to grab at his shoulders. The cup tilts dangerously but she rights it just in time. “Much easier this way.” He makes his way over to the passenger seat and bends his knees to open up the door, depositing her in the seat. “Ah look!” Wedged right in between the seat and the door, is a hoodie he’d abandoned maybe a few days ago. He pulls it and sets it on her lap, taking the cup from her hand. “Think you can get it on by yourself?”

“Mm-hm”

“‘kay, you do that while I figure out where to keep this.” He closes the door and rounds the car again to his seat, looking around the small space to find a safe place to place it without spilling what little liquid remains on it. As his companion wrestles with the fabric, she kicks an abandoned water bottle. “Bingo.” He leans down to grab it. A small shake reveals to still have stale water he poured out of the window before pouring in the remaining cocktail into it. He screws the lid back on and keeps the cup too, just in case. He drops both items in the footrest of the passenger before looking at the occupant. She’s relaxed into the seat, and her eyes are closed. Fear creeps in for a second, “Ready to go?”

thumbs-upHe gets a thumbs up in response. Still conscious it seems. He reaches over and pulls her seatbelt on, knowing he will ignore all speed limits to the hospital. After a second of consideration, he shakes her arm until she’s blinking up at him. “Try to stay awake, yeah?” He grabs his phone, to call Lando. It hasn’t been longer than 10 minutes since he left their table, but he needs someone to call the police on the guy, and let Lando know he needs to get a new ride. He looks at his companion, she’s looking at his phone as it rings in his lap. “If you feel like throwing up let me know, yeah?” He says as he pulls out of the parking lot.

“m’not throwing up.” Her angry eyebrows are back.

“Okay, then you can help me explain to Lando-” Just then, the Brit’s voice comes through the car speakers.

“Heeellooo? Mate did you get lost on your way back or what?” He’s half yelling to hear himself over the music. It’s a miracle he even heard his phone ring.

“No, I’m taking the Alpine princess to the hospital.” He sneaks a look at her as he accelerates down the narrow monaco streets. She’s still awake, biting her lip as Lando processes the words.

“You what! What happened!? The fuck Oscah?”

He’s about to start explaining, but she speaks up “Some guy spiked my drink, I found Oscar and he got me out.” He has to keep his eyes on the road, but he can see out of the corner of his eye how she cuddles up into the seat. “I’m alright… Pinky promise.”

“Lando, listen, I need you to get Charles to call the police.” The traffic light up ahead has turned yellow, but Oscar doesn’t slow down. It’s the middle of the night and there are no other cars around, so he floors it right as it turns red. “I’ll give you a description, and his license plate. I need you to report him to authorities.”

“Fuck.” He says, eloquently. “Yeah I-” There’s a bit of silence from him, but the music is still humming loudly in the background. “I think I see Charles upstairs, I’ll go get him now.” Oscar can hear him speaking to someone, but it’s muffled like he lowered the phone. Almost a full two minutes later he speaks up again. “Kay, got Charles and Pierre here. They want to know if you’re really okay, sprout?”

Oscar is slowing down for a curve. Because as much as he would love to go as fast as during the actual race, he doesn’t know these streets as well, so he has to be careful. The silence stretches for too long, and as he turns to look at her again, he finds her completely asleep.

“Shit, she passed out.” He presses harder on the gas pedal, Lando curses too. “He tried to grab her when we were getting to the parking lot. She twisted her ankle and scraped her knees, but other than that, she’s physically alright.” Streets and buildings blur as he speeds by. “Asshole was as tall as George or Alex. Lanky and tan. Dark hair, beard. I broke his nose, and probably his cheekbone before he ran away.” As he approaches a speed bump, he throws his hand over her chest to prevent her from flying around.

This time it’s a new voice, Charles “He took off running?”

“No, in a car. Porsche 911 Turbo S, Dark green.”

“Did you get the license plate?”

Of course I did, who do you think I am?

“M3T9. He busted a backlight as he drove off, if that helps.”

“I will get on it, do not worry he will not get away.” Despite the noise, Oscar can hear how dark Charles’ voice becomes, and he remembers that Charles is a very prominent figure here; the prince of Monaco who is friends with the actual prince of Monaco.

“I’ll leave you to take care of him, then.”

“Yes yes, I will get him. You just get the petite poupée to the doctors, yes?” He has no idea what that means but it sounds like an affectionate nickname.

Oscar nods to himself in the car, “We’re already here, she’ll be alright” He can see the URGENCES sign of the Centre Hospitalier Princesse Grace. He eases his foot off the pedal, as he turns into the mostly empty parking lot.

“Keep us updated!”

“Will do.”

The call disconnects and he’s left to pick a parking space that isn’t reserved for ambulances. Once he’s turned everything off, he turns to her and shakes her arm, calling her name to try and wake her up, but it’s futile. She’s breathing deeply, sound asleep. He rounds the car and opens her door. He leans over her legs to grab the bottle and scoop under her knees and in the process he discovers she did not manage to get both her arms though the sleeves of his hoodie, and that her right is still tangled inside. He almost huffs a laugh at that. Almost.

Picking her up again feels different than when he did it 10 minutes ago, because her body is too lax, too malleable. This time she makes no sound when he hoists her up, and her head lulls back, stretching her neck over the arm he has under her shoulders. She looks and feels like a ragdoll in his arms as he stands up and uses his elbow to drag the door down and closed; he quietly seethes at the thought of her being like this in the hands of such a vermin.

How anyone could find such an unresponsive body attractive is a question he doesn’t even want to think of. Instead he stops to adjust her neck, letting her head rest on his collarbone instead of the previous uncomfortable position and fixes the hood over her head to cover up her face. It is the middle of the night, but he has learnt that every wall has eyes and that everything can and will be posted online. He has nothing to hide his face with, but protecting her identity in a moment of such vulnerability is his only priority in his mind after getting her help.

He’s careful of pushing the doors with his shoulder. The reception is empty except for the receptionist behind the desk. He sighs inwardly at that. The woman looks up and stands up immediately upon his arrival at the desk, his French skills are nonexistent, so he wholeheartedly hopes she understands English. “We were at a club and someone put drugs in her drink.” The woman nods once, so Oscar takes that as a sign that she does and continues. “She passed out in the car while driving here, like five minutes ago.” He’s not as oblivious as to think he looks innocent holding a dead looking girl, and the face of the woman, carefully stoic, sets his nerves on fire.

“Did she say what was put in it or who did it?”

“No, but she asked me to bring what was left of the drink, because she said you could analyse it to treat her,” He sets the bottle on the counter and hikes her up in his arms. “She’d thought it was one of the bartenders, but as we were getting to the car the guy came and tried to take her by force.” He omits the part where he punched him and instead lets his trump card subtly show. “My friend Charles has already called the police to report the assault.” Despite how common it is, the name must register in her mind, because she makes a double take, between Oscar’s face and the face half hidden in his chest. “Please help her,”

“Of course we will help.” She shakes her head like the thought of them refusing attention was a personal offence. She presses a button behind the counter and rounds the desk to take a better look at the girl in his arms. She produces a penlight from a pocket and gestures towards her. Oscar twists to allow her to get closer. “How long ago did she consume the drink?”

“Uh…” The nurse opens one of her eyelids and flashes her light, studying pupil reaction. “I have no idea, she found me around 15 or 20 minutes ago, she’d already realised by then and didn’t drink the rest of it, but I don’t know how long it was.” He can hear footsteps from behind, another nurse is coming from the personal hallway. “She started shivering too, but I don't know if it was cold or shock. I gave her my hoodie and it has stopped now, at least.”

The woman nods, and as the new nurse comes closer, she starts -hopefully- translating what he’s said in rapid French. It’s like watching Charles, Pierre and Lance gossip during drivers’ parade. The bottle is handed too, and when the exchange ends, the new nurse takes a cursory look, stops at Oscar’s face and mumbles something back before continuing their path towards the next hallway.

“We will get a room set up for her, do you want me to bring a wheelchair in the meantime?”

“No, I’m alright.” She’s deadweight, but not as heavy as Oscar would have imagined, he’s also trained enough during his life, he can hold a few more minutes. The receptionist goes back around the desk and starts asking questions about her for what Oscar assumes is a registry sheet. A new concern sparks in his mind, and he accidentally interrupts one of her questions with his own request. “I don’t know if I’ll be allowed to stay with her, but could you at least make sure she doesn’t get a male doctor?”

Her serious and stoic facade falls at that, and for a second she reminds Oscar of his own mum. “I’ll make sure of that, and I do think you might be able to stay with her. It’ll help her to see a familiar face waking up.” She gives him a reluctant smile and resumes asking if he knows her blood type.

The other nurse comes back just as they’re finishing, and leads him to a room where they’ll be treating her. As he lowers her from his arm, he remembers to mention a detail he’d forgotten. “Hey, uh- Her ankle… She said it hurt, and might have twisted it.”

The nurse nods, and answers in a much more prominent accent. “We will take x-ray of it. Your hand is okay?”

Oscar looks back to his hand. There’s redness on his knuckles and a bruise is starting to form around the bones, but he flexes his fingers a couple of times and it only stings a bit. “No, I’m okay, thanks.”

“Okay, now you wait outside, I call when ready, yes?”

“Yeah, thank you.”

He closes the door behind him and walks to a nearby bench, using the time to update Lando via text. In return he gets told that Charles stormed off the bar, Pierre, Carlos and Daniel in tow. The rest of them are deciding how to carpool home; and that everyone will keep the situation under wraps, including whoever Charles has contacted. He says that Alex will be stopping by the hospital soon, to drop off her forgotten bag and phone and whatever else she’s left at their table.

The receptionist nurse passes by Oscar in the way to her room and lets him know they’ll take her for an x-ray; and that after that, he might wait inside her room if he wishes, in turn he lets her know he will jump out for a second because another friend will bring her stuff from the bar. The woman nods and gives him the number of the room they will take her after the x-ray for him to come back.

His phone rings just as they’re rolling her bed out. He only catches a glimpse of an IV line connected to her arm before they wheel her down the corridor, he too turns away.

Alex is waiting with his emergency lights on. When he sees him come out of the doors, he gives him a tired smile. Oscar leans against the door and they stay in silence for a while. It’s colder out now, or at least it feels like that now that adrenaline is no longer coursing through him. The light sweat he’d worked up earlier is drying cold against his back. He raps his knuckles against the blue paint of Alex’s car, bringing the Thai’s attention to his bruised hand.

“I heard you broke his nose?” Alex’s tone is teasing, if maybe a bit impressed.

“Got a couple hits, yeah.” Oscar closes his fist, the skin tightens over his bones. The memory of a bone cracking under them probably shouldn’t feel as satisfactory as it did. “Should’ve done more.”

It comes much more bitterly than he’d expected, and Alex places a hand over his wrist, patting him “You did more than any of us, don’t beat yourself up.” He reaches to the passenger seat and pulls a small handbag and Oscar spots a jacket hung behind the seat. “You cold?” Alex must have seen his eyes stray, and as he pulls it from its perch Oscar notices the Williams logo on it.

“Nah mate, I’d rather be cold.”

“Ah, come on I can’t let the boy saviour freeze tonight.”

“No, no, never in a million years you’ll catch me wearing Williams merch,” He grabs the handbag and steps away when Alex tries to push the jacket into his arms too. They’re both laughing as the jacket falls to the ground and Alex is left half hanging off his window to grab it. Oscar watches him struggle for a second or five before deciding to have mercy; so he grabs the jacket and stuffs it in Alex’s face, turns on his back and starts walking back to the doors so he can’t attempt to hand it to him again.

“Oscar!” Alex calls between fabric and laughter, and Oscar turns just in time to catch a juice bottle headed straight to his face. A second one follows right after, he fumbles with it since both his hands are occupied, but he manages not to drop it, Alex snaps his fingers in faux frustration at that. “Take care of her!” He says as he starts his car again.

“Will do, mate.” He watches as Alex drives away until his tailgate lights disappear behind a wall, just then he turns back into the hospital. As he makes his way back, he rearranges the stuff in his hands; he holds the purse under his arm since it doesn’t have any straps, and studies the bottles. Alex had gotten orange and apple.

Which one would she prefer?

He has no idea, really. He always sees her drinking either water, isotonic drinks, or energy drinks. Apples or oranges? There is a new receptionist at the desk, and when Oscar rattles the new room number, he is directed to the elevators with instructions to the second floor where lower grade emergencies are treated.

He only has to wait around 10 more minutes before she’s wheeled back in. The initial receptionist seems to be the one assigned to her, as she is the one that stays and explains to Oscar that there isn’t any fracture in the ankle. It seems like just her soft tissue was affected and she’ll get by with wearing a brace and sports tape for a few days. The lower half of her body is covered by the sheets while his hoodie covers the rest. One of the sleeves has been pushed up to make space for the IV, and Oscar can see that her foot is resting on a couple of pillows to keep it raised. Her shoes are in a little cubby under the bed, cubby to which he adds her purse.

He gets told there isn’t much they can do about the drug except keep her hydrated and let her body work it though, because it has already been absorbed by her bloodstream, along with the alcohol she’d consumed. But that the sample analysis revealed it to be non-threatening, it’ll just leave her with a nasty hangover. Despite the slight pessimistic tone, the information leaves him relieved, and he relaxes into the chair he’d sat to wait. He thanks the nurse and watches as a new person in different colored scrubs, carefully and efficiently wraps her ankle in neon blue sports tape.

Before long, he’s left alone with her, with instructions of pressing the call button if anything happens, but to try and rest because it could be hours before she wakes.

He tries to keep himself busy whilst keeping an eye on her. He messages Charles with the name of the drug that was put onto the drink, and the only answer he gets is a demon emoji, a fist emoji, hands clapping and another fist. Confused, he simply reacts with a thumbs up. He updates those who have messaged him to ask about her condition, but doesn’t go further than that. He settles on drinking the orange juice, and leaves the apple one in the bedside table next to her bed, scrolls through social media for a while and checks up on her again, but it has been a long and eventful day, and when his eyelids become too heavy, he doesn't fight them very hard.

🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎

Waking up feels like a heavy G crash. There's a pounding in her head that goes at the same tempo as her heart, and it takes conscious effort to take a deep breath. There's a slight throbbing on her bicep, on the wrist of the opposite arm and a sharper throb on her right foot.

She's laying sideways in a soft enough bed and there is little light from what she can see through her eyelids.

But it doesn't smell like her bed at all.

Instead there's the smell of a different laundry detergent, artificial minty eucalyptus shampoo and a herbal mix. It smells distinctly like men, and the unfamiliarity of it makes her heart race, worsening the pounding of her head.

There's a blank in her memory when she tries to remember the previous night. She knows she was going out with some of the Monaco based drivers, and that she'd abandoned the table at some point. That's where everything starts to get fuzzy.

There are flashes.

A body close to hers in the dancefloor. The cold air outside the club. Falling into the gravel. Hands roughly grabbing at her, and a french accent. Falling asleep in a car.

Panic really does settle in at this point, and tears blurry her vision when she opens her eyes; but the room is nothing like she expects it to be. She's in a single bed, and there is a heart monitor that is displaying her rabbiting heartbeat. A saline drip that is halfway empty connected to the back of her hand.

A hospital?

The light is warm and dimmed, seemingly coming from a lamp behind her. She looks down at herself and finds a hoodie that is not hers, and totally is the source of the smells; but looking under it’s collar reveals the same dress she wore last night.

She slowly turns her head, still wary of the raging headache. The overhead lights are off, and her foot is propped on a pillow under the blankets. She wiggles her toes and twists her ankle. A sharp pain sparks, but it's not unbearable.

The other side of the room is half hidden by the glare of the lamp that makes her blink before her eyes adjust to the light.

A figure is sitting in a chair, sound asleep and covered with a blanket identical to hers. Oscar’s arms are crossed across his chest and his neck looks like it will hurt when he wakes up.

More memories rush to her mind as she turns fully to that side; Lando's voice over the speakers of the car, Oscar's worried face in the dancefloor, his broad back as he pushed another man from her. The light is low, but she can see a bruise forming on the hand where Oscar is holding a half full bottle of juice.

Slowly, she registers the smell of stale car and something so uniquely Oscar that brings tears back to her eyes.

“Oscar?” Her voice is low, croaky and shaky, full of tears when she speaks. But the reaction is immediate, he's awake in a second. His head snaps back into the right orientation and he clutches the bottle in his hand. Maybe she should feel guilty for waking him up, but that is a too complicated emotion to think of right now, instead there is a pool of relief as he meets her eyes, and an immense amount of trust as he whispers her name and detangles himself from the blanket to get close.

“You're okay, you're okay.” It's obvious he doesn't know what to do about tears, his hands move around uselessly and he looks so constipated it's almost funny. “Are you hurt anywhere? I can- I can call a nurse?” His hand finally decides to hover over a call button at the side of her bed, but she claps hers over his instead, and attempts to dry her face with the other.

“No, it's okay. I'm- I'm okay,” She hiccups again, and his other hand comes to rub up and down her arm; an action that also feels familiar and warm. “Thank you, Oscar.” Her voice is still choked up, but very earnest. She squeezes his hand and he squeezes right back.

“You don't have to thank me,” She wipes her eyes again and looks back up at him, he's giving her a half smile that pushes a dimple into existence. It's such an adorable new discovery that she can't help the rush of emotions that comes. She lets go of his hand and sits up to pull him into a hug.

“The fuck you mean i don't have to thank you!?” It sounds half muffled against the fabric of his white shirt. “You saved my fucking life, Oscar” His hands come to wrap around her back and tears spring up again at the thought of what could have been. “He could've-”

“Shhh, let's not think about that, yeah? You're alright and that's what matters.” His hands rub circles between her shoulders, “Charles took care of everything else.”

“What’s that mean?” She sniffs, trying to keep the tears from soaking up his shirt.

“I have absolutely no idea, but he knows people who can hide his crimes, I'm not worried about him.” I'm worried about you, “How are you feeling?”

She takes another deep breath. The smell of eucalyptus and laundry detergent is stronger when it comes from the source. She lets go and wipes her face again with the sleeve of her -his- hoodie. “My head hurts and my ankle stings, but I'm alright,” Thanks to you. “I just feel very hungover.”

“Here,” She hears the shake of liquid, and upon removing her hands, Oscar's is offering an unopened bottle of apple juice. “Alex got us these.”

She grabs it and pouts at him, “It's my favourite. Thank you.” The last line comes out more charged than intended, but that's alright because she doesn't think she'll be able to stop thanking him anytime soon.

Oscar simply smiles like he knows, he lightly shakes his head and starts filling her in on what happened after she “fell asleep” as he says. She has no idea what time it is, but there is no rush right now, she's safe and in good hands, and when sleep starts lapping at her feet, she lets herself be swiped by the tide because she trusts Oscar to be there when she wakes up again.

The end.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · · 𖥸 · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

well, if you got here, i want to thank you for reading this the whole way through. as i said earlier, this came to me at 3 am and did not leave my head again, so i had to bring it to life. i hope you enjoyed despite the slightly dark topic.

from my research, i learned that not some drugs are undetectable to the naked eye, so always be aware of your drinks and who is close to you. i hope this story stays as a fictional thing and that none of you ever have to deal with something like that.

taka care and thank you again for reading!

Love,

Nini.

#oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri #formula 1 #f1 #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic

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novascharms · 3 days ago

Text

no boys allowed! — rafe cameron

no boys allowed at the sorority house after 7 pm. of course, rafe sneaks into your window a couple of days a week.

content — fluff, smut, p in v w.c — 2.7

monday — 11:32 p.m.

being in a sorority was your favorite thing in the world. the sisterhood, the living arrangements, the benefits. it was everything you could wish for and more. you even loved your president and rush chair despite their sometimes strict-ish rules. it wasn't too bad; good grades, good behaviour, mandatory attendace at all chapter meetings, events, and rituals, dress a certain way, talk a certain way. blahblahblah. those were all things that had been ingrained in you long before you came to university but the no boys after seven o'clock rule? that one was a little tougher to swallow. a girl has needs.

you weren't sure how quiet you were being, you never could really focus when rafe had you like this, ass arched up, face roughly stuffed into your frilly off-white anthropologie pillow. you could vaguely hear the moans coming out of your drooling mouth but most, if not all of your focus was on rafe pounding his thick cock into your gummy walls, abusing your aching pussy, "quiet, baby..emily will rip me a new one if she hears us," rafe's voice barely broke through the sex haze you were in as you rutted into your sheets.

how could he ask you to be more quiet but fuck you even harder? "rafe..! mm, p-please.." you blubbered, tears in your eyes as his hands gripped your waist still and kept you from sinking into the bed from sheer lack of strength. he let out a low groan when you pushed back into him at every thrust, "that's it, that's my girl."

“oh god, oh god, rafey..!” you whimpered when rafe’s tip hit your cervix and slammed against it over and over driving you completely silly. he buried himself deep inside of you whilst holding your hips and relentlessly pounded into your sweet cunt. “doin’ so good, baby.” he grunted against your neck as your cunt sucked him in eagerly. “look at that pussy suckin’ me in..”

his hips drove against you, fucking into your hole and hitting that fuzzy spot that made you delirious every time. rafe had to shove your head into the pillow to muffle your whines that were only getting louder as he drilled into you.

just then, a quiet knock on your door. "hey, you okay in there?"

your eyes widened, panic taking over your body when you recognised the rush chair, aaliyah's voice. fuck, fuck, you were screwed. even more screwed considering rafe was still pounding your pussy relentlessly. "rafe.." you whispered with the hope that it would sound like a warning but it just sounded like the most pathetic, quiet whine.

"mm..mhm..y-yes!" you cried, your eyes fluttering from the pleasure and you arched your back even more, gripping your pillows for support.

"you sure, girl? you don't need a medic, right? because steffi was vomitting yesterday so we had a medic for that and i just don't want the board to think we're milking all their resources for—"

"yes!" you screamed out, the feeling of pure ectascy taking over your body and your vision went all white. you could hear rafe quietly groaning as he pumped his load into you only a second after you came.

"yes, you do need a medic?"

tuesday — 9:08 p.m.

it wasn't usually every day. the sneaking in. this week was just going to be a stressful one, for the both of you. you had a midterm in the morning, class from 8 to 6 on thursday and you had to squeeze a manicure inbetween one of those classes so you wouldn't even get to eat lunch with rafe (tragic), friday morning rafe was going away until saturday morning which you truly saw as a crime against you, saturday you had a mandatory sorority event that would take the whole day but atleast rafe was coming as your date and then sunday rafe had a frat thing where you could unfortunately not be his date because it was members only. so, basically, everyone hates you and the world is against you.

"rafe, i have to study..!" you gripped the edges of your desk and planted your feet to the ground as rafe tried to tug you away from your notes and laptop. "you've been studying all day, it's time for a break." he said firmly and his arms came around your waist, lifting you from your chair. you almost screamed but closed your mouth upon realising emily would come running and see rafe here two hours past curfew.

rafe threw you onto your bed in the least graceful way he could and you bounced into the pillows with a gasp. "it's clear you've never studied for a statistics exam. breaks don't exist in the land of statistics." you say and roll your eyes when he sits on your bed with this stupid smile on his face that made it impossible not to love him.

"i had statistics in my first year. pretty sure the prof had a thing for me." he laid his head down on princess peach's head. not her actual head. a plushie of her head which he was crushing with his even more massive head. "mm." you hummed and gave him a nasty once-over. he laughed so hard you had to smash the nearest pillow on his face with wide eyes. "rafe, quiet!" you hissed, with your body almost toppled over him with how quick you jumped to silence him.

he was still smiling when you removed the pillow 10 seconds later. "you enjoyed that." he said and he was absolutely right, you did enjoy that. "it felt very liberating to shut a white man up, yes." you smiled like you had just done something to be truly proud of. "well, that was my break—" you were halfway across the bed when rafe grabbed your ankle and tugged you right back where you were. luckily the sheets muffled your shriek. "you're going to break your brain, doll." he sat up and pulled you between his legs.

"i'm going to break your bones if i fail my exam tomorrow." the threat was empty, hollow, transparent even. on a bad day, you couldn't even open a jar of peanut butter and you knew the two-ish hours you still wanted to study probably wouldn't make much of a difference BUT what if? what if maybe? just maybe it did? then you'd blame rafe and you'd be forced to bring harm to this beautiful boy you loved so dearly. just because he wanted you to rest instead of working yourself to death.

"in that case, my bones are fine." he murmured pulling you against his chest, his warm hands slowly travelling up your blue loveshackfancy pyjamas. your head dropped onto his chest as his hand gently cupped your tits, the calluses on his palm brushung against your sensitive, hardened nipple. he kissed along your ear, the tip of his nose grazes your earlobe before quietly asking, "you just need some rest, don't you?" your hand rested lightly on his arm as he fondled your tit in his hand and you sighed with a subtle nod, body melting like putty in his hands.

his other hand travelled down to your pyjama shorts, his fingers teasing your clothed slit, pushing gently against that warmth yet making sure to not push all the way in just yet. your back arched, a whimper escaping your lips at the fleeting feeling. "rafe.." you whined, eyes fluttering, bracing your neck and he hummed leaving kisses along your exposed skin. "n-need you." you murmured, your hand still on his forearm, praying he'd just slip it down your shorts already.

"yeah? you need me? my sweet girl needs my fingers?" your eyes close and the fluttering that takes over your body makes you wonder if you didn't just cum at just his words. it wouldn't surprise you.

"help me out, sweetheart." he says and you were confused for a moment until your eyes opened to his fingers inches away from your lips. you didn't hesitate, eased his digits into your mouth in desperate need to just empty your brain, stop the overflow of thoughts and this was the perfect solution.

your tongue coated his fingers in spit and held onto his wrist to slowly push his fingers deeper down your throat. you whined around his fingers, pupils dilated, completely lost in the motion and rafe's hand comes up to wrap around your throat, pushing up just slightly so your head was tilted up giving him the perfect view of you greedily sucking his fingers. "shit, baby, that's perfect.." he sighs and you can feel him hardening against your ass, you have this burning desire to push back, to grind slowly and drive him insane but you feel too weak to do anything, focus on anything with his fingers inches deep in your mouth.

the moment ended entirely too soon but you had no time to utter out a whiny complain because his hand was down your shorts and fingers between your folds, grazing your slit and thumbing your clit. you gasped and arched away from him the moment his thumb made contact with your slit. "c'mere." he pulled you right back in, flesh against his chest. he made sure your legs were nicely spread apart before he started circling your clit, "rafe..rafe!" you moaned, head dropping on his shoulder as your hips bucked against his fingers.

he focused his attention on your clit, thumb rubbing circles on the sensitive nub that absolutely drove you. you writhe in his arms, his hand covering your mouth so you didn't alert anyone with the whines coming out of your mouth.

you were constantly trying to close your legs and then spread them wide again, unsure of what you really wanted. rafe made sure to keep them open. "oh, god, rafe, god!" you cried and a gasp escaped your lips when you felt his fingers push inside of you. your toes curled on the pink bedsheets, fist tightened around the princess peach plushie rafe was resting on earlier.

rafe kissed down your neck, sucking on your skin and the pleasure from both his lips and his fingers made it impossible for you to think straight at all, you whined, writhing against his fingers, broken moans coming from you. "f-fu.." you stammered and gripped rafe's wrist, "f-fu..dge." you cried, eyes rolling back and you vaguely heard rafe's quiet chuckle at your inability to curse even in these moments due to years of sorority drilling. "m' close.." you whined feeling his fingers thrust into the deepest parts of you, digits angling just perfectly whilst his fingers gave your clit all the attention. "gonna cum for me, princess?" he rasped and you moaned, nodding furiously and pushing your hips against his fingers, "please, p-please..!" you felt that overwhelming sensation, the stars in your vision, the arch of your back and then your pussy was creaming all over his fingers.

you went limp in his arms, exhaustion taking over completely as rafe slowly pulled his fingers out. he slowly hoisted you up, arms under your thighs and on your back. "where r we goin'.." you mumbled sleepily, "the bathroom for a shower, baby." he says and you were shaking your head knowing very well that there was no way you were going to stand on your two legs right now. "ah, so you'd rather sleep all sticky in a dirty bed?" he asked and you stiffened, immediately shaking your head.

shower it is.

thursday — 7:09 p.m.

he was here again but today was seriously, totally justifiable. yesterday after your midterm, he had class and then he had to pack so you didn't see him at all. then today had been a marathon of misery: classes from 8 to 6, a meltdown in the middle of the day over your botched nail set—because you’d been too timid to correct your nail tech—and now you were stuck with these nails for weeks. you’d cried, teary-eyed and embarrassed, brushing off questions about your distress because admitting to crying over a nail set seemed absurd.

on top of that, the awful weather wrecked your hair just two days before an event and three days before wash day, leaving you utterly defeated. you’d called rafe in tears, your voice breaking for barely two minutes before he was on his way, determined to make his girl feel better.

now, you’ve claimed your rightful spot on rafe's lap, straddling him with your arms wrapped securely around his neck. it started innocently enough—soft kisses and tender words murmured into your ear—but quickly escalated. his hands settled on your hips, guiding them in a slow, languid figure-eight motion.

his lips moved against yours, soft and deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world. it didn’t take long for him to coax your lips apart, drawing him closer. you focused on the sensations grounding you: the feel of his hair between your fingers, shorter at the back, and the way he groaned when you tugged. the fresh, clean scent of lemons and lavender lingered on his skin, a sign that he’d showered after the gym—he’d never ever come to your room without making sure he was clean.

when you finally pulled back for air, your breaths mingled, and his forehead rested against yours, his patience infinite as he waited for you to catch your breath. “you’re tired,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. and he was right. you were exhausted—up since 8 a.m., crying once already without the reprieve of a nap (criminal), and now it was 7 p.m. but you didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to let today end because tomorrow, rafe would be gone.

“m’not,” you whispered, stubbornly shaking your head. his eyes narrowed knowingly, and he began to trace slow, calming patterns along your spine. you peppered his lips with soft kisses, each one met with gentle reciprocation, but your resolve didn’t last long. your eyelids grew heavy, and eventually, your head dropped onto his chest, his warmth lulling you into much-needed rest.

sunday — 10:11 p.m.

apart from sex with rafe, wash day was probably the most intensive part of your whole week. it was not only hard on your arms but also very, very time-consuming. you enjoyed it—most of the time. it could feel therapeutic and you did love getting clean but then other times it was frustrating and tiring and you just wanted to give up and shave your head. you didn't though.

it was in the middle of rinsing your hair that rafe invited himself into the bathroom. you could see him through the foggy shower glass closing the toilet lid and sitting down. "you're taking too long."

you rolled your eyes and slid open the shower door, "i should just shave my head, right? i could totally pull off the britney look." your hand reached for your towel and you wrapped it around your body tightly before getting out of the shower and slipping into your fuzzy slippers. "or jada pinkett smith." you stared at yourself in the mirror trying to imagine yourself bald and rafe scoffed, "you'd have a mental breakdown within ten minutes of doing something like that."

you couldn't dispute that. "you would still love me, right? if i was bald like britney and jada?" you looked at rafe, brows raised and he hesitated for just a second, not even—a millisecond. you gasped at him and violently threw three rolls of toilet paper at his head. he held his hands out, "woah, no, no! i was just imaginging it, baby, fuck." he stood up, pulling you into his chest even though it was getting him all wet. "of course, i'd still love you."

you watched him through the mirror, arms crossed over your chest, completely unconvinced by his confession. naturally, he started leaving kisses along your shoulders and neck, making sure to not leave a single spot unkissed. "i'd choose you every time, over and over." he quietly says, those blue eyes boring into yours and you’re really not sure how it happened. it just..kind of did.

10:19 p.m.

"you're so goddamn tight, fuck," rafe grunted as he thrusted his cock inside of you, pounding into your tight cunt over and over. "p-please! h-harder.." your voice was high and breathless, head resting against the cool sink, holding onto the edges tightly. rafe could hardly believe how much you were clenching around him.

“rafe! rafey!” you whined, hoping your voice didn’t carry despite how loud you were being. your head rested against the damp sink, fingers curled around the sink as rafe pounded into your cunt, snapping his hips relentlessly. “my needy girl..”

“y-your girl..” you repeated with misty eyes as rafe’s thick cock slowly brought you closer and closer to that fuzzy place. “come on, doll. cum for me, sweetheart..” rafe fucked you until you creamed all over his cock, legs trembling and barely conscious.

#novawrites #noboysallowed #sorority!reader #rafe cameron #rafe x reader #rafe x you #smut #rafe smut #p in v #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe blurb #rafe cameron blurb #rafe fic #pet names #fluff #blackgirl! reader #blackgirl #poc!reader #blackgirl!reader

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