#you can knock them out by hitting it hard enough!

[moon-fics]

Pool Day

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary: The team decided to request a pool, not thinking it would be made. Now, they have a pool.

A/n: Ugh! I love a good beach/pool episode! But this time, the relationship is established.

When Valentina asked if there was anything the team wanted in the tower, she meant like a training simulator or a chef. So, when Yelena spoke up, saying she wanted a pool, everyone backed her up. No one expected Valentina to actually go through with it because she didn't like them.

So, when Valentine announced the pool was done, everyone was flabbergasted. They were most astonished by the fact that she built it outside where the sun could be enjoyed. However, she said that was the last unnecessary request she'd be entertaining.

Of course, when the first day of summer rolled around, the pool was not forgotten.

---

You sit at the edge of the pool with your legs under the water. You're thankful you had time to buy a new swimsuit. It wasn't the best one you could find, but it'll do.

Yelena has found interest in sleeping on one of the floats. She's knocked out as the float hits one of the walls of the pool. Meanwhile, John is in the shallow area drinking a fruity smoothie. For the most part, everyone is relaxing for the first time in a while.

You sense a presence behind you and immediately turn. You're far too late, as two pairs of hands shove you into the chilly water. Your entire body is submerged, and water enters your nose. You pop out of the water, coughing and wiping your nose.

When you finally look up, you see Alexei and Bob standing where you were sitting. Alexei is hands on knees laughing and pointing at you as if he's pulled off a master prank.

"Is the water nice?" Bob asks. He holds out his hand for you to take. Even after shoving you into the pool, he's still kind enough to pull you back out. You should just take his hand and be thankful for the refreshing dunk. You aren't that type of person.

"Oh, wouldn't you like to know?" You grip his forearm and yank as hard as possible. He doesn't take a lot of effort to pull. The splash from his fall wakes up Yelena, who lifts her sunglasses as Bob pops up from the water.

"'Ey, I don't want any rough housing," She points at you and Bob with a raised eyebrow. "Don't wake me again," She warns and puts her sunglasses back on.

The moment Yelena is back to resting, Bob's arms wrap around your waist. His head rests on top of yours, and water drips from his chin to your nose. He creates a sort of shade over your face to block out the sun.

"I could get used to this," You keep your voice down. Bob hums in response. He sways both of you carefully while he enjoys the closeness. "Did you swim a lot in Florida?"

"Oh yeah, like, every day." He nods without hitting your head. He relinquishes his hold on you and spins you around to face him. "It was either the pool or the beach. I preferred the beach because when the wind is strong enough, the waves get super high."

"That sounds fun," You say. "We should have asked for a wave pool, too." You laugh. Maybe you can suggest it to Valentina as a way to train for water-based threats. Though you doubt she'd accept that answer.

"The last time I was in a wave pool, I got kicked in the head three times," Bob chuckles. His hands move to rest on your waist to keep you near him. "I'm pretty sure they should be banned for how dangerous they are." His face becomes serious as he thinks.

"Oh, you can't handle some waves?" You tease. You already have something in mind and begin floating away from him. His brows furrow, and he watches you get a few feet away. You wind up your arm and roughly glide it across the surface to create a small wave.

It drenches Bob once again, but once the splash clears, he's gone. Before you can react, his hands are on your legs. He efficiently drags you under, but cradles your head before it hits the floor.

You open your eyes, but the water makes everything blurry. All you can see is Bob's outline as it gets closer. His hands cup your face, and his lips press against yours as gently as possible. The kiss only lasts a few seconds due to a lack of air, but those seconds are like a treasure. His lips are all you can feel as your senses are blocked by the water.

When you emerge, you gasp for air, but he doesn't. You chalk it up to him having more experience in bodies of water than you.

Once you catch your breath, he calls your name. You look towards him only to be hit in the face by water. He forgets how strong he is and gets Yelena and John wet.

"Oh, come on!" John groans. He holds up his half drank smoothie that now has chlorine water in it.

"Ok, that's it! No more pool for you two!" Yelena shouts.

[verstappenverse]

You Belong With Me / Part 2

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max never believed in soulmates until he met you. The only problem? You’re already dating Lando. Somewhere along the way, between late-night calls, inside jokes, and everything in between, you and Max became best friends. He tells himself it’s enough. That the friendship is worth the ache. But as your connection deepens, Max starts to wonder if maybe, just maybe, you feel it too.

6.8k words / Part 1 / Masterlist

After weeks of cold distance and polite smiles and safe topics.

Just one line.

Are you awake?

His heart jumps.

Yeah

You reply straight back with a question.

Can I come over?

He doesn’t even think, just replies.

Always.

Minutes later you’re at his hotel door.

No pre-tense. No cameras. You slip into the lobby in a hoodie, sunglasses tucked into your hair, and the moment he sees you, it hits him all over again.

That ache.

You’re quiet at first. Nervous like you’re not sure where to start or whether coming here was a mistake, but Max doesn’t push. He just lets you in, literally, into his suite, into his silence, into the space he’s tried to keep empty so he wouldn’t miss you as much.

Now you’re here and sitting on the edge of his bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, twisting the fabric like you’re anchoring yourself to something. You look like you’ve been crying. Your makeup is smudged in a way that suggests you wiped it away with your sleeve hours ago.

“I’ve missed this,” you say finally, voice barely above a whisper. “You.”

Max sits beside you, heart thudding.

“You don’t have to explain,” he says. “I know why you pulled away.”

You turn toward him, eyes shining. “Do you?”

He swallows hard. “Yeah. Because if you didn’t, people would start asking questions and you’d have to answer them.”

A beat.

You don’t deny it.

Instead, your fingers brush his, light and barely there, but enough.

Max turns his palm up, wordless, letting you decide, and when you place your hand in his, shaky but deliberate, it feels like gravity itself shifts.

The room feels still. Like a held breath. Like the world is waiting.

And Max, foolish, hopeful, hurting, thinks maybe this is it. Maybe this is the moment everything shifts. Maybe you’re about to tell him you can’t keep doing this thing with Lando, not when you’re here, not when this feels real.

You look up at him. Really look, and Max feels the wind knocked out of him by the weight in your gaze. It’s not just guilt or confusion or pain. It’s everything he’s been carrying alone for weeks, mirrored right back at him like a cruel, beautiful reflection.

Like home.

Like hope.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you whisper, like it hurts to admit. “I don’t know what this is. What I’m supposed to do.”

Max’s heart splinters a little, but he nods. He gets it. He’s been living in the space between right and want for too long now.

You shake your head, eyes glossing over. “I feel like the worst person in the world.”

“You’re not,” he says quickly. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Your voice cracks on the next words. “Haven’t I though?”

He stays quiet.

Because what can he say? You’re here. Not with Lando. Sitting on his bed. Holding his hand and yet nothing’s happened. Not really... but everything has.

“I hate that I miss you,” you say, dropping your gaze to where your fingers are grazing his. “I hate that I look for you before I look for him. That I... God, Max, I hate that I let this get so far.”

His throat tightens. “I let it get here too.”

“I don’t want to hurt him,” you say.

“I know,” Max whispers. “He’s a good guy.”

You swipe at your cheek with your sleeve. “And you… you’ve been this—this constant. I don’t even know how it happened. It’s like I blinked and suddenly you’re the first person I want to tell everything to. The one I think about when I’m—when I’m—” You cut yourself off, mouth trembling.

Max doesn’t press. He just watches you fall apart quietly, the way he’s always watched you gently, completely, without expectation.

You breathe in sharply, trying to hold yourself together. “This isn’t fair. To him. To you.”

“No,” he says. “But it’s real.”

You look down at your joined hands. Your thumb moves, just once, across the back of his hand like it wants to remember him and then, slowly, reluctantly, you pull away.

And that’s what undoes him. Not the leaving. Not the silence. That. That small, devastating act of removing your hand from his.

His fingers curl into a fist instinctively, trying to hold onto the warmth you left behind. It’s ridiculous how empty his hand feels. How it burns with absence.

You stand before he can say anything, and he follows, because his body reacts before his mind can stop it.

You wrap your arms around yourself, hoodie sleeves swallowing your hands. “I shouldn’t have come.”

“But you did,” he says gently.

You nod, almost ashamed. “I wanted to see you. I needed to. I just... I don’t know what to do with any of this.”

“Then don’t do anything,” he says softly. “Not tonight.”

Max watches you, shoulders tense, hand still near the door like you’re caught between fight and flight.

“I’d wait,” he says quietly. “You know that right?”

You look up at him, a question in your eyes.

“I’d wait until you’re ready,” he says. “Even if it hurts. I’d rather have pieces of you than nothing at all.”

You break then, quietly, a single tear sliding down your cheek. You glance at the door. Back at him. Eyes filled with so much ache it nearly knocks him over.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I never mean to hurt you.”

“I know,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean it didn’t.”

You hesitate one more moment like you might stay, like you might turn back, maybe you’ll say fuck it and fall into him and damn the consequences, but then your hand brushes the doorknob.

And you leave.

Like you were never there. And Max stays exactly where he is, staring at the closed door, wishing he could hate you, but all he feels is love, and the echo of what almost was.

The next day everything’s different again.

Not just different. Intentional. As if someone rewrote the script overnight and forgot to tell him.

Something happened.

Something shifted.

Max doesn’t know what, not exactly, but he can feel it in his chest, heavy and sharp and un-ignorable.

Lando has his arm wrapped around your waist as you move through the paddock, his hand tucked into the back pocket of your jeans, fingers resting there like a claim, the kind of touch that screams mine without a single word. He kisses you before his interview, tucks your hair behind your ear in full view of the cameras, pulls you in tighter whenever someone says your name. For show, or for him, Max isn’t sure. Maybe it doesn’t matter, maybe the result’s the same.

And you let him.

He watches it all unfold like a slow-motion car crash, the kind where you see the impact coming a mile away, but you’re strapped in, locked down, powerless to stop it. The kind that already hurts before the metal hits.

It feels like someone’s punishing him for the night before.

Everywhere he turns, there’s another image, your hand in Lando’s, his head on your shoulder, your laugh caught mid-frame as if it’s never belonged to anyone else. It’s everywhere, on screens, in camera rolls, on the lips of reporters who call you F1’s golden couple like it’s gospel. And Max doesn't want to look, but he also can’t look away.

And Lando?

He keeps glancing Max’s way.

Little flickers. Measured looks. Eyes that land on Max like warnings. Like questions.

Each look says something Max doesn’t want to read. There’s something in his eyes suspicion maybe, or recognition, or the start of a storm neither of them has the words for yet.

Like he knows.

Like he’s not about to lose you without a fucking fight.

Max doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t confront. Doesn’t text.

He just gets in the car.

Slams the visor down.

And when the lights go out and the race begins, he drives like the track owes him something blood, redemption, answers. Like the throttle is the only thing still speaking his language. He pushes harder, faster, past the edge of control, because flat-out is the only way to silence the sound of your voice echoing in his head, soft and broken, saying his name in the dark.

As if he can still outrun the part of him that just for a second, believed you might have been his.

By the time he pulls into parc fermé his hands are shaking. From adrenaline, maybe. Or something worse. He barely hears the congratulations through his earpiece, the cheers of the team, the noise of victory that doesn’t feel whole.

Later he finds your name in his phone. Stares at it for ten minutes.

Types:

Was last night nothing?

The words sit there on the screen, raw and vulnerable, but his chest tightens the second he sees them. He deletes them before he can talk himself into believing he’s owed an answer.

He tries again.

Did he know you were with me?

This one lingers longer. His thumb hovers over the send button, breath shallow, mind spiralling with the what-ifs and the maybes and the brutal reality of the day that followed, but that one disappears too.

The phone slips from his hand and lands on the bed with a dull thud. Max pushes up from the mattress, crosses the room, and plants himself at the window. The glass is cool against his forehead as he leans in, staring out at the city lights flickering below.

The thoughts come fast, then all at once:

I should’ve kissed her.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

I should’ve said more.

I should’ve asked her to stay.

But he didn’t. He let the moment slip through his fingers like sand, too respectful of lines that had already blurred.

And now you’re back where you started, and he’s alone.

He exhales slowly, rests his head against the window, and whispers the truth he’s not sure he’ll ever get to say out loud.

“I wanted you to choose me.”

But you didn’t.

And now, he doesn’t know if you ever truly would.

After Singapore Max starts to feel it slipping, not all at once, but piece by piece, like a slow leak in something airtight. A quiet hiss. A steady drain.

Lando has momentum.

A string of podiums. A perfect qualifying streak. Lap times that raise eyebrows. Confidence that’s no longer tentative or boyish, but solid, effortless. The kind that reads as charm in every interview, in every fan clip, in every article that now starts to wonder if he’s the one to watch.

And her.

Max tells himself it’s fine. Tries not to care. Tries harder not to show it. He focuses on the car, on the next session, on the next track. He keeps his jaw tight during press conferences. Shrugs off every loaded question with the same rehearsed calm. Says the right things. Nods when asked about the championship gap

But it claws at him in the quiet moments, in the gaps between sessions, in the hollow of his hotel room, when the TV hums softly in the background but offers no distraction. In the seconds before sleep, when the world dims and the truth bleeds in like static.

It’s the little things that wreck him the most.

Max watches it all from the other side of the garage. From behind mirrored sunglasses that hide more than just his eyes. From interviews where he stares too long at nothing. From cool-down rooms where your laughter filters through walls. From highlight reels where your shadow always falls close to Lando’s.

And he pretends. He pretends harder than he ever has.

It comes to a head in Mexico.

The paddock is blistering, loud, crowded, pulsing with media, photographers, sponsor reps and too much sun. Max is already running hot beneath the collar, physically and otherwise. His head isn’t in it. Not fully. Not with the way you’ve been avoiding him again. Glancing away like you can’t look at him for too long without something giving you away.

He catches sight of you in McLaren garage by the espresso machine. You’re holding a coffee, staring down at your phone, there’s a strand of hair stuck to your cheek from the heat, your mouth is pursed in concentration, unaware you’re being watched.

When you glance up and see him, you smile small and shy. A softness that hasn’t fully left you, not yet. Familiar in a way that makes something sharp lodge under his ribs, and for a second the noise dulls.

But then Lando comes up behind you, slinging an arm around your shoulder like he owns you. He walks up like it’s easy, like it’s natural, like he’s not about to ruin the last sliver of calm Max has left. Like you’re not something fragile Max has spent months tiptoeing around.

Lando says something into your ear that makes you laugh, but it’s not your laugh. Not the one Max knows. Not the one that takes up space, that makes people turn their heads because it’s real and unfiltered and yours. The one that used to erupt in his car, over his headset, in the spaces he was allowed to have.

This one feels practiced. Not fake exactly, but safe. It does something to Max he can’t quite describe. A twisting, hot thing under the skin, like jealousy and grief and regret have all tangled into something volatile.

He doesn’t mean to confront Lando. Not really, but fate has a way of lining things up when you least want it to, twisting paths until there’s no option but collision.

After quali Max cuts across the paddock, towel slung over his neck, race suit unzipped to his waist. He’s heading toward the Red Bull motorhome with a thousand things on his mind, sector times, tire strategy, the way your laugh didn’t reach your eyes earlier, and none of them prepare him for the moment Lando turns the corner.

They nearly run into each other.

They’re alone. No cameras. No press. No audience to perform for.

Lando’s got that half-smirk on his face, the kind he gets when he thinks he knows something.

“Good session,” Lando says, holding a water bottle lazily.

Max doesn’t smile. Doesn’t offer back the usual banter.

Instead, he meets Lando’s eyes and says, evenly,

“How is she?” he asks, quiet, but pointed.

Lando’s brow lifts slightly. “What?”

Max keeps his gaze steady. “She used to check in.” He pauses. “She doesn’t anymore.”

Lando’s mouth presses into a line. “Yeah. I noticed that too.”

Max swallows. “Did you ask her to stop?”

“It’s not really your business,” Lando says, calm. Honest.

Max studies him. “Did it bother you?”

Lando lifts a shoulder in a slow shrug. “Should it have?”

Max doesn’t respond. His throat is too tight to trust his voice.

Lando gives him a long look, not smug, not angry. Just… measuring.

“She chose to pull back,” he says finally. “I didn’t ask her to.”

Max’s jaw tightens.

They stand there for a moment, the hum of the paddock still around them but oddly distant. Two drivers at the top of their game, suddenly reduced to something rawer. Something much more human.

Then Lando says, “You two were getting closer.”

It’s not an accusation. Just a fact.

Max doesn’t flinch, doesn’t deny it, doesn’t deflect. He just lets the truth settle between them and replies, quiet and full of truth, “She’s the best part of my day.”

Lando doesn’t have anything to say to that. He looks at Max like he’s seeing him clearly for the first time, and then he turns and walks away.

The media has a new favourite narrative.

'The Changing of the Guard.' 'Is Lando Norris the Future of Formula 1?' 'Lando & [Y/N]: The Grid’s Newest Power Couple?' 'The Secret to His Success May Be Off Track.'

Max doesn’t click the articles. He tells himself it doesn’t matter, that the media has always been full of noise, but the headlines are impossible to miss.

He sees them in airport lounges, on Twitter threads, in the photos pushed in front of him during press. They flood his feed no matter how many accounts he mutes. They’re brought up during press conferences by journalists who smile too wide, asking loaded questions disguised as casual banter.

Max pretends to scroll past. Pretends they don’t sting. Pretends that your face beside someone else's doesn’t twist something deep and awful inside him.

But it does.

Because you’re everywhere. And you’re not his.

The girl Max can’t stop thinking about. The one who used to send him dumb memes when she couldn’t sleep. Who would spiral at 2 a.m. about things that didn’t matter to anyone else, but mattered to him because they mattered to you. The one who never made him feel like a machine or a headline or a name printed in bold font, just Max. Just a guy who liked sim racing and late-night drives and eating takeout on hotel balconies.

The one who laughed at his sarcasm when no one else even noticed it was a joke.

The one who once upon a time curled up near him and told him he made her feel safe.

And now?

Now she won’t even meet his eyes.

Max knows you both let it get to this. Let the space grow so wide between you that he doesn’t even know how to cross it anymore.

He doesn’t know how to quiet the voice in his head whispering the same unbearable thought over and over again.

You were never mine to lose.

But he lost you anyway.

He dreams about you.

Not the dramatic kind. Nothing wild or movie-perfect. No grand declarations. No kisses in the rain.

Just small things.

You, barefoot in his kitchen, standing on cold tiles with one sleeve pushed up and the other slipping down. Your hair is messy, tied up badly, strands falling into your eyes as you laugh at something stupid he’s said while leaning against the counter, stealing raspberries from the container in his fridge.

You curled sideways on his couch, legs tucked under you, wearing his hoodie like it was made for you, absently playing with the drawstrings and focused on the TV while he’s focused on you, memorising the shape of that moment

You in the passenger seat of his car, windows down, wind tangling your hair while you sing along loudly, shamelessly, to a song you pretend to hate. You catch him watching you at a red light and you roll your eyes, cheeks flushed, mouthing what? like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to him.

It’s never more than that.

But it’s always enough to leave him aching when he wakes up.

The days stretch long and weightless. Travel. Press. Team briefings. Another race. Another win. Another podium he doesn’t remember standing on.

You’re still around. He sees you in the paddock. In the background of photos. Tagged in stories. Walking just a few steps behind Lando, or standing off to the side during interviews, always smiling at the exact right moment.

You’re everywhere, and yet you’ve never felt further away.

Your texts, if they ever come, are polite. Neutral. Stripped clean of the voice he used to hear in every sentence. They read like someone else wrote them.

No late-night sarcasm. No weird TikToks. No spiraling paragraphs about nothing in particular.

He answers, but it’s like talking through a window that used to be open and is now sealed shut.

He sees everything, and you let him see nothing, and he doesn’t know how to stop missing someone who’s still in the room.

Then comes Abu Dhabi.

The final race. The end of the season.

He stands on the top step of the podium with champagne in his hair, the championship he clawed tooth and nail for, and another trophy in his hands, but it doesn’t mean as much without you there.

And so it finally breaks.

The paddock is winding down, quiet, exhausted. Mechanics peeling off into the shadows, interviews finishing up, the buzz thinning out into something calmer.

Max is walking back toward the Red Bull motorhome when he sees you.

You’re standing nearby, close enough that he thinks it has to be intentional. Alone. No cameras. Just you, arms folded, shoulders curled slightly inward.

For the first time in months, Max doesn’t hesitate. He walks straight toward you, barely thinking, throat already tight.

“Why do you do it?” he asks, voice quiet but sharp, cracking into the stillness.

You blink, startled. “Do what?”

“Act like there’s nothing between us.”

You blink, startled, already tensing. “Max—”

“No,” he cuts in, stepping closer. “You don’t get to do that. Not after this year. Not after everything. I know you feel it. You looked at me like I was the only thing keeping you sane in Singapore. And then you walked away like none of it mattered.”

You drop your gaze, jaw clenched. “I had to.”

He laughs once hollow and bitter. “Why? Because people noticed? Because he noticed?”

You don’t answer.

“I’ve seen it,” Max says, voice rising. “The way you look at me when no one’s watching. The way your voice changes when we talk. You might have pulled away,” he says, “but you never let go.”

Silence.

Your eyes snap back to his, and for a moment, they’re glassy. Vulnerable. Then you say, quietly, “You don’t understand.”

“Then help me,” he pleads. “Explain it to me. Because from where I’m standing, we had something. We still have something. So why won’t you leave him?”

You flinch.

And for a second, a split second, he thinks you’re going to say it. That you’ll let it all collapse. That you’ll finally stop choosing the version of yourself you think the world wants.

But instead, your voice comes out small. “Because it’s not just about me.”

You shake your head, exhaling like it’s hurting you. “You really think I can just walk out of one relationship and into yours? Do you know how that’ll make me look, how that will make us look? That it won’t follow us? That it won’t destroy what we could be before it even starts?”

Max shakes his head, his voice rough. “I don’t care.”

“Well I do!” you snap, the words coming fast and cracked. “It’ll look like we were cheating. Like I used him. Like I just traded up the moment you opened your fucking door. He’s never done anything to deserve this.”

Max’s face tightens. “And I have?”

“No,” you whisper, pain flashing across your features. “I’m trying to do what’s right, what’s best for everyone, but it just—” Your voice breaks. “It just feels like I’m failing with every move I make. You make me want something I shouldn’t even be thinking about… things I don’t know how to want without hurting someone else.”

“So what?” Max says, voice rough. “We punish ourselves for it. Pretend it doesn’t exist?”

You hesitate. Your voice shakes. “It’s not about punishment. It’s about not burning the people we care about just to have what we want.”

“But what if I want you anyway?” he asks, eyes shining now. “Even if it’s complicated. Even if it’s messy. Even if it ruins me.”

Your breath catches, and you look at him, really look at him.

“I can’t leave him. Not for you. Not for us. Because if I do, we don’t start something new, we start something already broken. Something built on guilt. I’ll lose you both. And it’s selfish... I’m being selfish and it's already breaking me everyday, but I don’t think I’d survive that.”

“I don’t care what anyone else thinks!” he fires back. “Be selfish! I care about you. I care about what you want. And I know part of you wants this, wants me, so what the hell are we doing?”

Your breath hitches. And for a second, he thinks you’re going to fall forward and kiss him. Say fuck it and end the pretending.

But you just shake your head again.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It could be,” he says, quieter now. “If you let it.”

You don’t answer. You just look at him , eyes glassy, mouth parted like you’re drowning in everything you don’t have the courage to say.

And then, softly, like it’s costing you everything:

“I’m sorry, Max. I'm so sorry.”

He nods, he doesn't know if he has the energy to fight anymore

You turn before he can fall apart in front of you, before you change your mind, before he asks you to stay again.

And Max watches you walk away one final time.

No goodbye. No promises.

And all he can think is…

You said sorry. But you never said I’m wrong.

You never said you didn’t feel it.

You just said you can’t.

That’s somehow the worst part, because it means he wasn’t imagining it. It was real... and he still doesn’t get to have it.

The off-season is quiet.

No races. No noise. No schedule to chase. No distraction from the fact that he’s been left with nothing but his thoughts, and the sharp, unbearable memory of your voice cracking as you said, “I’m sorry, Max.”

He goes home to Monaco and tries to reset.

He throws himself into training like it might erase the sting, early runs through cold, dark streets, weights he pushes until his arms give out. He spends hours on the simulator, hands locked around the wheel until his knuckles ache.

And every day he checks his phone.

Still no message from you.

You’ve gone silent.

No texts. No likes. No comments. No digital fingerprints at all. No presence.

You’re just… gone.

Lando’s still posting, still partying, still being Lando, but there’s no sign of you in the background anymore. No stories of you behind the camera. No tags. No shared locations. No blurry selfies in hotel mirrors. No trace of your voice in the background anymore.

At first, Max tells himself not to hope. Maybe you're just laying low. Maybe you're still with him, just private now.

But then the rumours start.

It begins with a headline, buried at first on low-tier gossip sites.

'Are Lando Norris and [Y/N] over?' 'No New Year’s posts? Fans suspect a split.'' 'Lando removes several pictures of [Y/N] — breakup confirmed?'

The kind of articles Max usually scrolls past without blinking, gossip columns, fan speculation, digital junk food, but this time he reads them.

He scrolls through the articles in the middle of the night, eyes darting over every detail like he might find the truth hidden between the lines. Fingers tapping, scrolling, pausing, zooming in like the truth might be there in a photo caption or an untagged image.

He reads Reddit threads, fan comments, wild guesses. Some say you’ve broken up. Others think it’s a soft launch for something new. One comment simply says, ‘She vanished.’

There’s no official statement. No confirmation. Just silence. Max hates how familiar that silence has become.

But this?

This feels different, because now he’s watching the story unfold the way the world always has from the outside. Guessing. Hoping. Praying for signs.

You’ve disappeared and he doesn’t know what that means, but he knows what he’s hoping it might mean and it terrifies him, because hope is dangerous. Hope is the thing that’s been clawing at his chest since Singapore and whispering in his ear since Abu Dhabi, always telling him that maybe you walking away wasn’t the end. That maybe you needed time

Max doesn’t know what’s more painful, believing it, or the risk of being wrong again.

When pre-season testing rolls around, Max is sharper behind the wheel. Controlled when everything else feels impossible to grip.

The rest of the world buzzes back to life, the hum of engines, the shuffle of engineers, the tension of interviews. He keeps checking the paddock like you might suddenly appear around the next corner, but you don’t.

No one knows where you are.

Not even Lando.

Max finds that out in the hospitality lounge of all places. Lando’s there, slouched on a couch, sunglasses on, water bottle in hand, pretending to be more relaxed than he probably is.

Carlos walks in and drops onto the couch next to Lando.

“So,” Carlos says casually, “is [Y/N] coming out this year or what?”

The question hangs in the air a second too long.

Lando shifts in his seat. Pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and glances a little too quickly towards Max, and Max sees it, that flicker of discomfort, the kind you can’t fake.

“No,” Lando’s jaw tightens. “We’re not—she’s… doing her own thing.”

That’s it. No explanation. No joke. No follow-up.

Max doesn’t speak, but his chest thunders.

You’re not with Lando. Not anymore.

Max doesn’t know what the fuck to do with that, because he’d spent all off-season imagining what it would be like to hear those words, all year maybe. He’d played it out in the quiet, sleepless hours wondering what he’d say, what he’d do, how fast he’d find you once it was real, and now that it is real, you’re unreachable.

No texts go through.

No "seen" receipts. No replies. No ghost emoji reaction at 2 a.m. like you used to send.

Your socials have been silent since Christmas. Not a whisper of your voice in someone else's story. It’s like you vanished. Like you dropped off the grid and took the last pieces of him with you.

No one knows if you’re traveling, hiding, healing, or just staying as far from everyone as possible.

He doesn’t sleep that night, all he can hear over and over is the last thing you said to him.

“I’m sorry Max.”

And he realises with a cold twist of clarity, maybe you didn’t just run from Lando.

Maybe you ran from him. From what he made you feel. From the truth he couldn’t stop offering even when you weren’t ready to hear it. He wonders if loving him scared you more than losing him.

You might be gone, but Max can’t stop looking.

It starts subtle. A question here. A passing mention there.

He asks your mutual friends carefully at first, like it’s just curiosity.

“You heard from her lately?”

“She still in Monaco?”

“Did she change her number or something?”

Most people shrug, say they haven’t seen you in weeks, some say months.

Even Lando shrugs when Max finally works up the nerve to ask directly.

“I don’t know,” he says, voice flat. “We haven’t talked.”

Max doesn’t believe him at first. It feels too convenient, too detached, but there’s something in Lando’s face tight and unsettled that tells him the split wasn’t entirely his idea. That much is clear.

Somehow, that makes it worse because now Max doesn’t just miss you he worries about you.

The next part isn’t subtle.

Max starts searching for you like it’s a compulsion. A second skin. A habit he can’t shake.

He scrolls Instagram every night, eyes scanning for any hint of you. Old photos, tagged friends, even archived stories.

He goes through the accounts of people you used to hang out with. Public ones. Private ones. He’s not above sending a follow request or two if it gets him closer.

He sees a blurry photo from a rooftop in Barcelona a girl in the background who might be you, has her hair tied up the way you used to, face turned away.

He zooms in so much the image pixelates.

It’s not you, but still he keeps looking, because it’s not just that he misses you anymore.

It’s that you were his person.

It feels like a lifetime ago now, but you were his best friend. The one who made everything feel less heavy. The one who gamed with him until 3 a.m., whispering through headsets while the rest of the world slept, laughter stifled like teenagers sneaking around their parents.

The one who’d FaceTime him from the floor of your hotel room just to show him a weird bruise shaped like Australia on your shin. You'd tell him about your day, your weird hotel neighbours, a pigeon that followed you through the paddock, blurry screenshots of his own confused expressions from fan edits. You didn’t even care if he responded, you just wanted to see if you could make him smirk in front of Horner.

Max had let you into parts of himself no one else ever touched the unpolished parts, the wired-too-tight corners, the quiet thoughts that never made it past interviews. With you he didn’t have to be Max Verstappen™ he could just be.

You got him. In this rare, impossible, borderline psychic way that made him feel like maybe his brain had finally found its match.

The first race of the season comes and goes. Everyone says he’s back in form. Stronger than ever. Pundits talk about how sharp he looks. How he’s starting the year with the same fire. How the winter break clearly did him good.

They don’t know he nearly missed the team briefing because he was trying to decode the playlist you used to send him before lights out. Trying to figure out if the final track meant something. If you’d left a message in the lyrics.

They don’t know he still checks the hotel lobby after every session like you might be waiting. Missing something no one else saw him lose.

He texts you once.

Just one word.

Please.

No reply.

He deletes it two days later.

By the second race, he’s unraveling.

Not in the way people notice. Not in lap times or sector performance. On paper, he’s still sharp, still Max, but GP knows him too well.

He finds Max outside the paddock, sitting on the edge of a loading bay, shoulders slouched like the world’s gotten too heavy again.

“You okay?”

Max nods. Lies. “Just tired.”

GP doesn’t call him out, not directly. He just folds his arms and stands there, quiet, watching him the way only someone who’s sat through a hundred versions of Max’s silence can.

“This about her?” he asks gently.

Max doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. It doesn't surprise him that GP has caught on, has probably known this whole time.

GP sighs and sits beside him. “You ever think maybe she’s scared?”

That hits harder than Max expects it to.

Max stares down at his hands. “Of what?”

GP doesn’t sugarcoat it. “You.”

Max turns to him, blinking.

GP continues, softer this time. “Or not you, exactly. Just… what it means to love someone like you. Loudly. Completely. Knowing what it might cost her.”

Max stares down at his hands, fingers flexing slightly. “I never asked her to lose anything.”

“No,” GP says, steady. “But that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t have.”

He pauses, watches Max for a beat, then adds gentler, more deliberate. “She probably thinks she’s protecting you too.”

Max’s head lifts just slightly, something flickering in his eyes.

“She’s seen what happens to the people closest to you. The press, the fans, the scrutiny. The way your name fills every headline, every comment section. The timing, the fallout, the narrative they’d build around the two of you? People would tear you both apart. You might not care what they say about you, you never have, but I’d bet anything she does. For both of you.”

He pauses, then adds, “She’s probably doing what she thinks is right. Protecting you. Protecting herself. Maybe even protecting what you had… by walking away from it. And I bet she thinks the longer she stays gone, the better chance you’ll have of letting her go.”

He lets that land, lets Max sit with it. Somewhere deep down Max knows he’s right, but it still doesn’t make it easier.

That night in the privacy of his hotel room he opens your old texts again. Scrolls to the stupid things, the inside jokes, the stupid selfies, late-night thoughts about the universe.

He scrolls slowly.

Which one’s your favourite again? The cinnamon squares or that weird Dutch one that tastes like sweet gravel?

There’s a photo attached. You, standing in the cereal aisle at midnight, eyes wide, phone held high Max remembers how you’d FaceTimed him right after, spinning in circles in the aisle, laughing under your breath while trying to pronounce the Dutch cereals. You couldn’t find the exact one he told you about, it had been discontinued, but you still wanted to get something close. Just so it would be waiting for him when he landed.

He almost laughs.

Almost.

The paddock’s gone quiet after the third race of the season.

Media’s finished, fans cleared out, lights shutting off one by one.

Max doesn’t plan it.

He’s walking without thinking, letting instinct tug at his feet. He finds Lando near the McLaren garage alone, still in his fireproofs, fingers tugging absently at the collar like it’s strangling him.

Max doesn’t hesitate.

“Lando.”

Lando turns slowly, jaw already set, eyes dull with something Max can’t name. “You want something mate?”

Max walks up slowly, hands in his pockets. His heart is already pounding, but his voice stays low.

“I need to know why you let her go.”

Lando stiffens. There’s a pause long enough to make Max wonder if he’s about to get hit, but then Lando exhales.

“I didn’t let her go Max.” Lando says, hoarse now, “I just... couldn’t reach her anymore. It wasn’t about me in the end, she tried man.”

Max frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She was already halfway gone when we were still together,” Lando mutters. “And don’t act like you didn’t know that.”

Max doesn’t flinch. “I knew something changed. I didn’t know how much.”

Lando scoffs. “You were the change Max.”

Max clenches his jaw. “I didn’t ask for it to happen like that.”

“No,” Lando agrees. “But you didn’t stop it either.”

There’s bitterness in Lando’s tone, but underneath it something hollow. Like he’s not angry anymore just exhausted.

“You think I didn’t notice how she looked at you?” Lando goes on, voice cracking. “Every fucking race weekend? Like you were oxygen and she was drowning next to me.”

Max swallows hard. His throat burns.

“She tried,” Lando goes on. “Tried to fight it. To stay. To be fair. To pretend it wasn’t happening, but you… you made her feel something she couldn’t un-feel.”

Max steps closer, quieter now. “Then why didn’t she choose me?”

Lando finally meets his eyes and it might be the most honest Max has ever seen him.

“I guess she was afraid it would break you. The way it broke me.”

Silence. Nothing but the hum of a few generators and the ghosts of a thousand interviews echoing down the paddock.

Max exhales through his nose, steadying himself. “Where is she?”

Lando shakes his head. “I don’t know. Really I don't.”

Max stares at him for a long beat, but there’s no lie in his voice and so he turns to walk away, but Lando calls after him not angry, not bitter.

“If you find her,” he pauses, swallows, “don’t screw it up. Make all of this worth something.”

Max stops in his tracks, breath caught somewhere in his chest.

He turns back just enough to meet Lando’s eyes across the dim space between them, no pride, no walls. Just two people standing in the wreckage of the same storm, and nods.

The next day he does something he hasn’t done in years.

He books a commercial flight with no return date. No private jet, no team itinerary, no one to track him.

Leaves the paddock after the race before the final interview’s finished, ignoring the calls, the handlers, the carefully structured schedule meant to keep his world spinning.

No one knows where he’s going, but he knows.

You once told him where you’d go if you ever needed to disappear. He remembers the conversation now with startling clarity, it got lost somewhere in the chaos between time zones and shared screens, you said it like a throwaway thought and the fact that it took him this long to remember, after everything, after all the nights he spent missing you makes him want to tear something apart, because now it’s all he can hear.

“There’s this little town outside Florence...” you told him, smiling at your ceiling during one of those sleepless 2 a.m. FaceTimes. “No cell service. No noise. Just olive trees and time.”

He laughed back then. Called you dramatic. Told you you’d last two days before begging for Wi-Fi and a proper coffee.

Now he doesn’t care how late it is. Or how reckless it sounds. Or how stupid it feels to pin everything on a single thread of memory.

Now he’s on a plane with nothing but a backpack and your voice in his head, chasing a place you once imagined in passing like it was a dream.

Chasing a ghost.

Chasing you.

Taglist - @yara011 @rikersmunky @oddends @putherup @princessria127 @how-am-i-serpose-to-know @danielricroll @gahrcons @a-library-ofmy-own @hott1es @halleywrites @ymreads @cmleitora @osclerc @lyapark @inmynotes63 @whistlef0rthechoir

[sswed]

so if you need a hero

kika nazareth x firefighter!reader

A/N: pure unadulterated smut, thus minors DNI, thanks

wc 3k

It's midnight and your shift is about to end when the bell rings and you're suddenly behind the driver's wheel of a van just minutes later, yawing so hard that your eyes tear up slightly. Thankfully, it doesn't seem to be anything serious since it wasn't a specific code, so you're alone in the van and get there to notice no smoke or visible fire in the apartment building.

You slam the door closed on the red van and make your way inside, the lobby is nice enough but you don't have time to look around properly. Instead, you ignore the elevator, just in case something is actually wrong and climb up the concrete stairs.

You're exhausted, having worked for nearly a whole 24 hours straight with only short power naps and surprisingly hot in your work polo as you make your way up floor by floor. After a short while, you reach the door.

Number forty six stares back at you, gold bright and shiny, clashing with your muted appearance.

There's no smoke coming from under the door nor is it open which means that there isn't any spreading fire, or so you hope. You knock on the door with the back of your hand, grazing your knuckles on the wood.

It swings open to reveal a rather panicked looking gorgeous woman, like out of a film or romance novel, who nearly makes your jaw drop open. Yet, you're quick to focus and spot a small huddle of smoke in the kitchen sink.

You push past her gently without a word to check it out, cringing as your dirty boots touch her polished floors. Clearly, they had been cleaned recently and now you were ruining them. You would take your shoes off but it's a little late now and you don't think your socks are any cleaner.

You arrive in the kitchen and peer over the counter to look at the sink to see a smoking toaster. It seems to have set fire for some reason and is now chilling in the sink.

You relax, it's nothing major, just a toaster malfunctioning because that's what they do.

You turn around to look at her, "Sorry for that, I-"

You rub the back of your neck with a palm and smile sheepishly as she looks at you with a slightly shocked expression. There is something else there too but you can't read it, the way her eyes widen before squinting puts you off course.

You don't think you've felt like... this since your last break up, even then you’d never been so overwhelmed and now you aren't sure how to speak without sounding like a squeaky toy because this random woman has the most gorgeous eyes in the galaxy.

A warm mix of brown and sunset yellow that's making you feel more than just warm.

"I thought it was something... A little more serious," You grit your teeth at the way your voice comes out a little high.

This girl has got your heart beating quicker than it usually does. She's got pyjama shorts on with little cats and a ratty looking shirt but you don't think anyone else could pull it off or at least anyone you know.

"I-" She blushes and then it hits you- You haven't offered an introduction or anything.

"I'm Y/N, from the fire department, we got a call?"

She nods and then smiles lightly, "Yeah... That was a little bit impulsive."

The silver of her teeth that peek out from her lips make her want to break out in a wide grin, the kind that makes your eyes crinkle a little.

"I'm Kika."

You smile and nod, you want to tell her it's a beautiful name, perfect for someone like her but you catch yourself, you really don't want to be weird, not in the middle of the night. So you glance behind you and turn your focus towards the now broken toaster which has stopped smoking.

"Can I ask what happened?"

Kika flushes red for a moment then laughs unexpectedly and something jolts in you. It's like a bolt of lightning down your spine that has you feeling very hot and energized, as if you could go run a marathon in your heavy work boots and scream whilst doing it.

Kika's been having a... difficult night. Her toast had gotten stuck in the toaster so she did the natural thing and stuck a knife into the slot to reach for the bread. She didn't get the bread, instead she got a jolt through the knife and a small fire.

So she did the natural thing, panicked a little or maybe a lot, called the fire department and then unplugged the toaster and threw it into the sink.

Truth be told, it hadn't been that bad, she's a little shaken up from the electrical shock but most of all. She had hit the jackpot with the fire department, they had sent her the hottest looking firefighter she's ever seen and she's watched plenty of crappy TV to know what hot firefighters look like.

The second she had opened the door and your eyes pierced hers, she felt undoubtedly flushed and she wanted to say that the fire isn't in the sink but in her.

"Hello?" You say, trying to get Kika's attention and she seems to snap out of it when she looks up at you.

Those brown eyes meet yours and you feel like the world could explode without you noticing. They've captured your attention like nothing else and you don't know how to rip your gaze off Kika's, you're stuck and you know that if you could choose, you would never walk out that door again.

"Sorry... I- Stuck a knife in the toaster and that happened." Kika mumbles awkwardly and you resist the urge to chuckle at her blushing cheeks.

"Okay, I would recommend not doing that again," You joke with a serious tone and Kika breaks out into a giggle that has your heart aching a little more.

You don't know why or how but this feels different to any other encounter you've had, something... It's like a breath of fresh air after a while in a smoke infested room. You need her, this Kika.

"I figured that out after the toaster set on fire," Kika scoffs playful and now it's your turn to laugh because how can someone be so perfect?

So beautifully funny and stunning at the same time, right in front of you, in the same universe that you're in.

"I- will take the toaster with me. For the sake of convenience," You say and turn around, thankfully hiding the furiously blush on your cheeks.

Kika's having a weird effect on you, one that you aren't sure you want to get rid of but unfortunately, your shift has officially ended and Kika doesn't need your help anymore.

You pick the cooled toaster up and hug it close to your chest before turning around to face Kika again, who is now standing by the open door. You can't read her face, it's a smile but her eyes aren't as bright as they were before.

You walk towards the door, probably leaving behind a trail of dry mud which makes your stomach tighten with cringe. You've probably made Kika feel awkward with your staring and now you're leaving behind a mess for her to clean.

You cross the threshold into the corridor and swing around to look at Kika one last time. She's still as radiant as she was the first time she opened the door and you aren't sure you want to leave, even if it means standing outside the door forever like some kind of stone statue.

"I'll be going now, if there are any further emergencies please call us," You recite the taught phrase like a prayer back to Kika and she nods but doesn't speak so you decide to shuffle back around and make way for the stairs.

You think it's all over and you'll go back home, probably think about Kika before falling asleep but you feel a hand wrap around your bicep. It makes you stil in the middle of the hallway and slowly turn around to face Kika.

"I- Sorry, that was... forward," She rambles a little and you listen with rapt attention, every word comes out like honey, melting you inside.

"Are you busy?" Kika askes, her once glazed over eyes now crystal clear as they look up at you.

Your heart skips a beat and you think you're going to pass out from excitement. You shake your head firmly, all your previous tiredness fading at once.

"I've never had more time than I do now," You reply with a slight smile, still holding the toaster to your chest.

Kika nods slightly, then looks down for a moment and you think it's all going to fall apart and she's just going to say okay but then her head snaps up and she quickly leans in to kiss you. You let her because, truth be told, that's all you've dreamed of since laying your eyes on her.

Her lips are soft and gentle on yours like she's unsure whether you want this or not. You kiss back with desire, opening your mouth and letting her tongue slip in to trace each individual tooth while you groan into her.

One of Kika's arms comes to wrap around your neck, tugging you down to meet her height even more and you nearly drop the toaster on the floor from the contact. Goosebumps spread across your arms and the hair on the back of your neck stands tall all of a sudden.

You've been shocked by her kiss and your heart is racing ahead of you.

She pulls back soon after but her arm doesn't leave your neck instead the other comes to join it and she looks at your bruised lips quickly before meeting your eyes.

"I think there's a fire in my bedroom, want to check it out?" Kika whispers and you hear every word as if she had shouted it.

You chuckle and grin. Nothing sounds better at that moment.

"Should have told me straight away," You purr and Kika winks before unwrapping her hands from your neck and turning around, prompting you to follow her.

You take fast steps after her, hot on her trail until you reach the front door again. She pushes it open and you come in, put the toaster on the floor and rip your shoes off to place them next to the broken machine.

Once you straighten out and stand up, Kika launches herself at you and you catch her with ease. You rest your hands around the back of her thighs and let her wrap her strong legs around your middle.

Then she leans in and kisses you, it's not as gentle as before, it's filled with teeth and tongue but it feels just as right.

"Which way to the bedroom?" You say, catching your breath and Kika smiles against your lips.

"It's down the hall on the right," Kika murmurs into your ear and you feel a rush go down your spine.

You walk quickly to the bedroom and you can hear Kika chuckle as you speed walk. She's got her arms around your neck, holding you tightly and you don't think you've experienced anything better than this.

"I'm not going to run away," Kika says in a sultry voice and you feel the fire in your stomach get bigger.

"And I want to solve this fire as quickly as possible," You grumble playfully as you finally reach Kika's bedroom.

It's a nice room with a cosy interior but you could care less right now, you want Kika, now. You throw her on the bed gently and crawl up the bed until you've reached her. She's just these narrowed dark eyes that liquidate your insides and make you want to stay in bed with her forever.

"Aren't you my hero, then?" Kika smirks and you can't help but groan that question.

"Fuck, maybe," You reply as you play with the hem of her shirt.

Kika's hand comes to rest on yours and he guides it up and into her shirt, letting you feel the smooth skin under the ratty tee. It feels like marble, purely perfect under your callused hand.

She leans forwards, never letting go of your hand that is up her shirt and mewls into your ear.

"Then I think you need a reward."

That goes straight to your core and you nod your head quickly. Kika giggles besides your ear before leaning back and stripping her shirt off to reveal her chest. She then guides your hand to it, allowing you to feel the soft tissue.

You genuinely don't think you've seen better boobs in your whole life.

They fit in the palm of your hand perfectly, like they were made for it and when you trace Kika's nipples with the tips of your fingers she leans back with her mouth open. She gasps out a high moan that sounds like music to your ears.

You lean towards her and allow yourself to run a hot lick over one of her nipples. The action has Kika arching in your grasp with a breathy moan coming from her that settles into your core.

You give a few more kitten licks on each nipple, giving yourself enough time to appreciate Kika's chest before pulling back to look at her. Kika's eyes are screwed shut and her mouth is open slightly in pure pleasure.

She opens her eyes soon after she registers the loss of contact and smiles sweetly at you.

"Can I give my hero her reward now?" Kika smirks and you nod.

Kika's hands immediately find the bottom of your polo, tug it up and over your head before discarding it. She pauses in to take in your body, running her eyes over your fully uncovered arms and abs with blush coating her face before focusing flipping you over.

You let her do so and she ends up straddling your abs. You look at her with pure lust, she's all you want, nothing more, nothing else. Then your eyes focus in on the front of her sleep shorts, they're drenched to the bone with a patch of wetness on the front.

Kika lets you watch as she slips a hand into them and circles her clit with her own fingers. She moans at the contact of her own fingers and you take a sharp breath in, she looks so hot that your stomach flip flops a few times.

You swallow deeply and lick your lips at the sight, nothing has ever looked better than Kika right then, touching herself because of you.

She takes a few more minutes before sliding her hand out and discarding the shorts completely. Instead, she now sits on your abs completely naked and drenched to the point of smearing it all over your torso.

"You ready?" Kika raises a brow and you nod immediately. You'd do anything she wanted right now.

Kika chuckles and then slowly makes her way up your body until she's settled over your face and you're waiting for the best part. She grinds down directly on your mouth and she tastes like what you imagine divine waters do.

"Shit, that's-" Kika whines about you and you reach to grip her hips tightly.

You flatten your tongue against her clit and she rolls her hips like she was waiting for this moment just like you were. You decide to swirl your tongue around her at the same time and Kika is launched into a series of gasping breaths and yelps.

"Fucking hell!" Kika moans above you loudly.

Her hands now gripping the headboard strongly for support and you in turn rest your hands on her muscular thighs that rest on either side of your head.

"I- I wanted you to fuck me the second I opened that fucking door," Kika groans out and grinds right into your scalding tongue.

She's beautiful, you can even tell with your eyes closed and the way she's whining so loudly above does something unexplainable to you.

"I would have let you have me on the counter if it meant that you would," Kika admits mid moan and you press your tongue harder to her clit at the admission.

You would have done anything Kika wanted if it came from her.

"God, I'm so close!"

Kika shakes a little above you and all you can do in response is grab her hips to encourage her to continue. She rolls her hips in long strokes and you drink her wetness like an endless fountain. You've been dying for it and now you won't waste the opportunity.

Kika comes soon after with a high yelps and thrash that has her rasping for breath and your mouth drenched in her wetness. You give her kitten licks through it until she rolls off you and onto the pillows.

Kika looks radiant, almost glowing with a light layer of sweat coating her as well as you. She turns to you and grins then leans in to give you a watery kiss.

She can taste herself on your tongue but it doesn't matter because the two of you are too wrapped up in all of this to care.

When you break apart, you lean back against the pillows to catch your breath and try to slow your heart rate before you blow up into a million different pieces.

Kika is just so brilliant that you can't help but never want to stop.

You turn your head on the soft pillows to look at the side of her face, it's just as beautiful as the rest of her and you don't know why, but you'd let her do anything to you.

"Can I stay the night?" You ask, slightly sheepishly.

Kika grins and throws an arm over your shoulder, pressing you tightly against her once again.

"Can you stay forever?"

You chuckle and nod. If she'd let you, then you'd stay for more than forever.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddieholidaydrabbles.

Overheated

Pop-Up Prompt: School's Out For Summer | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Recreational Weed Use, Language | Tags: Set Post S2, Car Trouble, Crossing Paths, Confident Bisexual Steve Harrington, Jim Hopper is Done With These Two Kids

Eddie scurries down the packed hallway, knocking shoulders with anyone that dares to get in his way. He slams into the push handles of both of the glass double doors, shoving them wide open. The sun is bright, blinding him, but he doesn't give a fuck.

School's out for summer.

School's out forever.

Eddie can't wait to get out of this place. He's pretty sure he failed his last final, but he's not coming back for a third senior year. No fucking way. He's done forever, graduated or not.

He runs across the parking lot, his wallet chain banging into his thigh. Swinging open the van door, throwing his backpack into the passenger seat with a thud.

Firing up the engine of the van, he puts the pedal to the metal and gets the fuck out of Dodge. 

There's a box of tapes next to his seat, and he's fiddling around. Looking for the Alice Cooper tape he's pretty sure he has. Somewhere. Joint hanging from his lip. Attempting to pull another hit, unsuccessfully trying to keep it lit while he fucks around.

Being done with school is something to fucking celebrate.

When he looks up, he's rounding the curve of the highway, and right next to the road, barely off the pavement and in a really dumb spot, is Steve Harrington.

Eddie taps the brakes, slowing. 

Harrington has the hood up, and by the look of the steam billowing from underneath, that expensive-ass car has overheated. Rich kids really are just like them, it turns out.

And Eddie shifts his foot, aiming for the gas pedal. Planning to press back down on it. Harrington isn't his problem. 

But the van overheats all the time. And Steve's got a gallon jug of water in his hand. He really shouldn't do that.

Eddie honks his horn, and Steve looks up. 

Fuck it.

Eddie pulls over, dropping the joint in the ashtray, and backs up until he's closer to where Steve's parked.

"Don't do that, dumbass, you'll crack the block!" Eddie shouts, hopping out of the van. Both feet hitting the grass of the ditch. "You need coolant."

"I don't have coolant," Harrington says.

Eddie swings open the back of the van, and starts rummaging. Steve leans over his shoulder, he can feel the heat of him, far too close. 

When he gets his hand on the jug, Eddie holds it up, victorious. Spinning around, making Steve take a step back.

"How much is it worth to you?" Eddie asks, grinning with all his teeth.

Harrington puts his hands on his hips, and the look on his face is so goddamn bitchy. Eddie's never seen anything like it on another dude. It's uniquely Harrington, somehow.

"Munson," he says, but reaches for his back pocket, for his wallet.

Eddie laughs. 

"Your car is too hot right now, anyway. You need to let it sit."

And Harrington looks dejected. 

"Just for fifteen minutes or so. Not forever," Eddie adds.

"Oh. Okay. Thanks."

Eddie puts the jug down by the front of Steve's car, shoulder bumping Steve's on the way down on purpose.

"You smell like weed," Steve says, and Eddie barks out a laugh.

"No shit. I was celebrating the end of this torture we've called high school until I saw your dumb ass getting ready to do dumb shit."

Steve laughs, and it's genuine. Eddie's stomach clenches against his will. 

"Got enough to share while we wait?" Steve asks, and Eddie nods even if he knows he should fuck right off and leave Harrington's ass here on the side of the road alone.

But he opens his arm, gesturing towards the van, even against his best judgment.

Steve Harrington's tongue is in his mouth, and Eddie's so fucking hard. His body is traitorous. Steve's hand is in his hair, and—

"Harrington! You in there?" 

Eddie jerks back so fast, so hard, at the banging on the back of the van, that he whacks his head. He is so fucked.

"Is that Chief Hopper?" Eddie asks, but Steve's already crawling through the van, swinging open the side door.

"Hop!" Steve yells, "It overheated again."

Eddie straightens his clothes, his hair, and climbs out behind Steve.

Jim Hopper is bent over Steve's hood, pouring in the coolant. Checking the other fluids, and Eddie wonders if he should run while he has the goddamn chance.

"I told you to get it into the shop," Hopper says, and Steve is making excuses. Like a kid.

They've got a weird dynamic. 

Hopper straightens up, "Start it for me."

Steve hurries around to the driver's door, and climbs in, doing just that. 

Hopper slams the hood closed, gives him a thumbs up, and Eddie hears Steve whoop with delight.

Eddie is just standing there like an idiot. He should have gotten out of here. But no, he's standing around like a fucking fool just because he kind of wants Steve Harrington to kiss him again.

Chief Hopper turns and looks at Eddie, "You smell like marijuana."

"Uh, that was a skunk," Eddie lies.

Hopper rolls his eyes, and takes a menacing step closer, "I know better. You're lucky I'm not on duty, kid."

Eddie nods, swallowing. 

Hopper walks over to Steve's driver's door, leaning down, "Have Munson follow you home and park it until you get it into a mechanic. Got it, Harrington?"

Steve nods.

And then Hopper stomps off, back to his truck, slamming the door.

Eddie gets back in the van, and he wasn't asked, just told indirectly, but he follows Steve back to his house. He pulls in the driveway behind him, rolling down his window.

"It get hot again?" Eddie asks.

Steve grins, shaking his head as he jogs over, smoothly hopping up on the running board of the van, sticking his head through the window, pulling himself close to Eddie's face.

"No. But I did."

Then he grins, like a cocky asshole. 

Eddie suddenly gets why girls always fawned, as Steve kisses him again.

If you want to write your own, or go see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun! ❤️

Note: I don't think Eddie's van actually has a running board. Please accept the vision for what it is, lol.

[baigepueckers]

Nika Mühl X Reader

Close Enough Part 2

It starts with a mug.

Nika notices it sitting alone on the coffee table, abandoned mid sip…Y/N’s favorite one, a chipped UConn logo on one side and a fading gold ring around the rim. Usually, she rinses it out, flips it upside down to dry by the sink. But not today. The inside is crusted with coffee that’s gone cold. That’s the first red flag.

The second comes when Nika hears coughing down the hall. Not just a casual morning throat clear, but that heavy, chest deep kind that makes her freeze in place mid stretch in the kitchen. The kind that sounds worn out.

She pads quietly toward the hallway, socks sliding a little on the hardwood. Her body’s still waking up, hoodie sleeves too long over her hands, but her brain’s already on high alert. She stops outside Y/N’s bedroom door and taps the edge with her knuckles.

“You alive?” she asks softly.

There’s a long pause. Then a congested groan. “Barely.”

That’s enough.

She opens the door, just a crack. What she finds makes something in her chest tug, painfully.

Y/N’s in bed, curled on her side with blankets pulled up to her ears. Her hair’s in a loose, falling apart braid, skin pale except for the flush across her cheeks and nose. Her laptop sits untouched beside her, midterm review screen dimmed. A half used tissue box rests on her chest like a sad accessory.

“Oh, babe…” Nika says instinctively. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“I feel like it,” Y/N mutters, voice raw. She tries to push herself up on one elbow and immediately winces.

Nika’s beside her in two seconds, hand hovering behind her back as she helps her sit up.

“You’re burning up,” she murmurs, pressing her fingers gently to Y/N’s forehead. It’s too warm…that slow building fever warmth that makes Nika instinctively shift into full care mode. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Y/N shrugs, small and guilty. “Didn’t want to bother you. Thought it’d go away.”

Nika doesn’t answer at first. She just sighs, long and low, like she’s trying to exhale the ache behind her ribs. She reaches down and straightens the blanket at Y/N’s legs, smoothing it like it’ll help somehow.

“Okay” she says, already standing. “Stay here. Don’t move. I’m going to the store.”

“You really don’t have to…”

“I do,” Nika interrupts, already grabbing her wallet and keys from the counter. “I’m not about to let you rot in bed and suffer. You’d do the same for me.”

Y/N gives her a look, tired but touched. “You’re kind of overachieving right now, you know that?”

Nika shrugs, feigning nonchalance even as her heart slams stupidly hard in her chest. “Can’t help it” she tosses back over her shoulder. “I’m European. We’re dramatic.”

The store trip takes longer than it should…mostly because Nika keeps second guessing everything.

She stands frozen in the medicine aisle, staring at three different types of cold remedies, mentally debating which one won’t knock Y/N out too hard but will still break a fever. Then she grabs both, plus cough drops, tissues with lotion, vitamin C powder, and a tiny stuffed bear from the dollar bin that makes her feel like a loser until she imagines Y/N laughing at it in that low, sleepy way she does.

She adds a pack of lavender scented Epsom salts at the last second, unsure if Y/N will even use them, but somehow it feels like something someone would do if they really cared.

By the time she’s back at the apartment, she’s sweating through her hoodie but refuses to let the plastic bags cut into her wrist too deep.

Y/N hasn’t moved much…now curled into a tighter ball, visibly shivering, laptop screen shut. Nika slips into the room as quietly as she can, setting the grocery bags on the desk and pulling out items one by one with the precision of someone laying out medical instruments. Soup, Gatorade, crackers, a forehead thermometer, DayQuil. She even cuts the orange like her mom used to, fingers flying out of habit.

When she turns back around with a tray in hand, Y/N is watching her.

“You really did the most” she rasps, weak but smiling.

Nika sets the tray down beside her and kneels at the edge of the bed. “Only the best for my favorite roommate.” Immediately regretting the words.

“I’m your only roommate.”

“Exactly” Nika says, tucking the blanket higher over Y/N’s chest without thinking.

There’s a beat of silence. Y/N looks at her, eyelids drooping from exhaustion, but her smile softens into something small and warm.

“Thanks, Ni” she says, and it’s so soft it barely registers.

Nika’s throat goes tight. God, she hates how good it feels to be needed by her. To have an excuse to hover close, to care too much, to fuss and touch and stay.

“You wanna sleep?” Nika asks, voice gentler now. “I’ll be here.”

Y/N nods, sinking back into the pillow, face turned toward her. “Will you stay for a bit?”

The words are barely there. But Nika doesn’t hesitate.

She climbs up and settles on top of the covers beside her, careful not to shift the mattress too much. Their arms are close…so close…but she doesn’t touch. She just stays. And stares at the ceiling. And listens to Y/N’s breathing slow.

After a while, Y/N’s hand slips over, brushing lightly against Nika’s wrist…an unconscious reach, maybe, but it feels like everything.

Nika stays still. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just closes her eyes, lets herself memorize the sound of Y/N breathing beside her, lets herself feel the pulse in her own throat.

Eventually, Y/N drifts off, face soft in the half light. Nika watches her sleep.

It’s unfair, really…how beautiful she still looks with messy hair and a red nose and faded chapstick. It should be illegal. And it makes something inside Nika ache in that familiar, hopeless way. The feeling that’s lived under her ribs for months now, quiet but constant.

She leans her head back against the wall and lets herself just… watch. There’s no one else to see her staring. No one else to catch how her fingers twitch every time Y/N shifts closer. There’s a whole kind of grief, she thinks, in loving someone who leans on you this tenderly and doesn’t realize how much it’s costing you not to kiss their forehead and stay forever.

She doesn’t mean to stay for hours.

But the light outside their window shifts from late morning to golden afternoon, and still, Nika doesn’t move. At one point, Y/N murmurs something in her sleep and her hand slips further toward Nika’s arm…fingers resting, barely curled around the hem of her hoodie sleeve.

And Nika lets it stay there.

She doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe too loud, doesn’t blink too fast…like if she holds still enough, the moment won’t break.

Just this, she thinks. Let me have this.

Now, it’s barely dusk. The light in the apartment is a sleepy gray, and Nika’s phone buzzes quietly beside her…but she doesn’t reach for it. She’s too busy watching the slow rise and fall of Y/N’s breathing. Her hair’s a mess and her skin is clammy, but to Nika, she looks…God, she looks so soft. So hers, even if she isn’t.

Then suddenly….Y/N jolts upright.

“Whoa…hey,” Nika says, startled. “What’s wrong?”

Y/N doesn’t answer. She throws the blanket off, hand clamped over her mouth, eyes wide and panicked.

And Nika knows.

She scrambles after her before the pieces fully click. “Y/N?”

She hears the retching before she even makes it down the hall. The bathroom door is ajar and Y/N’s on the floor, one hand gripping the toilet seat, the other braced against the tile.

“Oh my God,” Nika breathes, dropping to her knees beside her. “Hey. Hey, I’ve got you.”

Y/N’s too far gone to respond. Her shoulders tremble as she heaves again, and Nika doesn’t flinch once. She gathers Y/N’s hair gently in one hand, the other rubbing slow, firm circles between her shoulder blades.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, low and steady. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

When it finally stops, Y/N slumps back with a ragged breath, eyes glassy and face pale. Nika immediately wets a cloth and presses it to her forehead, heart hammering at how weak she looks.

“You should’ve told me you felt this bad,” she says, voice too soft to sound mad.

“I thought I was just tired” Y/N croaks. “And then you were warm, and I didn’t want to move…”

That sentence shouldn’t mean anything.

But it does.

Nika swallows hard and tries not to focus on the way it curls inside her chest, warm and awful and hopeful all at once.

“Come on,” she says gently. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

She helps Y/N to her feet, careful not to let her wobble and guides her back to the sink. She runs the water, offers her toothbrush, fills a cup. Y/N leans against her the whole time, completely unguarded.

Back in the bedroom, Nika coaxes her into clean sweats and one of her own hoodies without comment. She fluffs the pillows and remakes the bed, easing Y/N under the covers like she’s something delicate.

“Sorry I ruined your night” Y/N whispers, eyes barely open.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Nika says and she means it. If anything, her heart feels like it’s hanging by a thread.

She brushes Y/N’s damp hair off her forehead. “You scared me, that’s all.”

“You stayed.”

“Of course I did.”

Y/N’s hand finds hers under the blanket.

“Can you stay a little longer?”

Nika’s voice catches in her throat. She nods. “Yeah. I’m not going anywhere.”

[whosyourmommy69]

Always Something

this story contains mature content

based of this post

Your back hits the mattress hard, breath leaving your lungs in a shaky gasp. Rafe’s on top of you before you can blink, mouth pressed to your throat, his body caging you in.

“You always run that pretty mouth until I shut it for you,” he mutters, lips dragging along your collarbone. His voice is low, rough with anger, and something else. Something darker.

Your nails dig into his back, just below his shoulder blades. “You didn’t shut anything, Rafe. I let you talk because I felt bad for you.”

He’s looking down at you with that smug, half-unhinged smirk that always makes your stomach drop and your thighs clench.

“You always talk the most shit right before I fuck the attitude outta you,” Rafe mutters, voice rough with arousal and contempt. “It’s like you want to be put in your place.”

You arch an eyebrow, even as your body betrays you, already pulsing for him.

“Go ahead, Rafe. Do it, then,” you bite out, breathless but defiant. “If you think you can.”

His expression darkens. “Oh, baby. You don’t want to test me tonight.”

You do, though. You always do. Because this is how it starts every time with an argument, a slammed door, your bodies colliding like war and worship. You live for this sick little cycle.

He lets go of one wrist just long enough to rip your shirt over your head, exposing your chest to the warm, humid air of his room. He doesn’t even look, he just leans down and sinks his teeth into the curve of your breast, sucking a bruise into your skin while his other hand fumbles with his belt.

You whimper, trying to wriggle your wrist free again, but he just grabs both and shoves them harder into the mattress.

“Stop fighting me. You love this shit.”

His pants hit the floor. Then his boxers. You barely have time to breathe before he’s sliding your panties down your legs, not bothering to undress you fully,he never does. He likes it better, half-dressed, like he couldn’t wait.

And he couldn’t. His cock’s already hard, tip flushed and leaking. He glances down at you, eyes flicking from your parted lips to the heat between your thighs.

He strokes himself once. Twice. Lines himself up.

“You're wet already?” he scoffs. “God, you’re pathetic.”

“Then why are you so hard for me?” you shoot back, voice wobbling despite your bravado.

That sets him off.

He thrusts into you hard, so deep, so fast it knocks the wind out of you. Your back arches off the mattress, mouth falling open in a silent cry.

And Rafe doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even give you time to adjust, just starts fucking you in that rough, relentless rhythm that makes the headboard slam against the wall.

You can’t think. Can’t speak. All the things you were going to yell at him vanish with every brutal snap of his hips.

“Not so mouthy now, huh?” he pants, grabbing your jaw with one hand and squeezing just enough to make your eyes water. “What happened to all that attitude?”

Your hands are still pinned. Your legs wrap around him, heels digging into the small of his back like you’re trying to climb inside him trying to fuse and fight all at once.

even when your mouth is spitting venom.

“I hate you,” you whisper, staring up at him through heavy lashes.

His thumb brushes over your bottom lip. “Say it again.”

“I. Hate. You.”

His pace picks up, rough and relentless, his breath hot against your jaw. “Yeah? You hate me so much you keep coming back.” He punctuates each word with a hard thrust. “Keep letting me fuck you like this.”

“Hate me. Hate me while you cum all over my cock.”

He lets go of your wrists just long enough to slide his hand between your bodies, pressing two fingers to your clit in harsh circles. Your back bows. Your moans get louder, breath catching in your throat as the pressure builds too fast.

“Rafe-”

“That’s it. Say my name. Moan it like a little slut.”

You do. Over and over. You’re seconds away from cuming and you both know it.

He leans down, forearm braced beside your head, pressing your body deeper into the bed with his weight. His chest is slick with sweat, his jaw clenched tight, eyes locked on yours like he’s trying to crawl inside your mind and ruin you from the inside out.

“You’re mine,” he growls, slamming into you. “Say it.”

You shake your head. That’s the one thing you won’t give him.

He grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks your head back just enough to bare your throat. His lips press there, voice low and threatening.

“Say. It.”

You come instead.

Hard.

Your body convulses, clenching around him, heat flooding your core as stars explode behind your eyes. You cry out his name, nails raking down his back, sobbing with the release you didn’t want to give him but needed more than air.

And still, he doesn’t stop.

He fucks you through it, chasing his own high now, groaning against your neck like he’s breaking apart with you.

“Fuck,fuck, you feel so good”

He buries himself one last time, grinding deep, and then he’s spilling inside you with a strangled moan, arms shaking as he holds himself up over your trembling body.

Silence falls. The only sound is your ragged breathing and the faint creak of the bed under your weight.

He finally collapses beside you, chest heaving, hand reaching to tangle in your hair again, this time softer. Thumb brushing over your cheek.

You don’t move. You can’t. Your body feels shattered, like every nerve is still short-circuiting from him.

“You hate me, huh?” he murmurs after a long moment. “Still wanna say that?”

You turn your head to glare at him, eyes half-lidded. “I do.”

He smirks. That lazy, dangerous grin that always spells trouble.

“Good. We’ll go again in five.”

I stayed up all night writing this I hope yall like it!

[wisteria-bae]

THE FATU CHRONICLES - 1

Paring: Naomi x OC! (Deja) x Jimmy

Divider by @cafekitsune.

Summary: Porn, no plot. Used as practice for 3somes (2am ovulating hits hard).

A/N: I am so terrified rn, but as promised, here you go @charmed-dreamssss ! Now, there are two more scenes that I couldn't fit, so I may make a part 2 and 3, depends on my anxiety lmao. Speaking of, I'm gonna go log off for the rest of the week now, bye 🏃🏾‍♀️💨

SMUTTY ASF, MDNI <3

DEJA was flat on her back, writhing against soft white sheets, her thighs twitching with every flick of his wrist. Her brown eyes fluttered shut, then flew open again, only to fall closed once more - lost in the waves of pleasure crashing through her.

This was all her fault.

Had she remembered to switch back over from her private tab, they wouldn't have seen all the saved videos on there. They would've just looked up a restaurant on Google like planned, and been on their way. Hell, Deja could have even been knocked out by now, deep in La La Land.

But no, she fucked up and now she had to pay for it.

A wet slap echoed in the room, jolting her back from her spiraling thoughts. Her hips jerked upwards as a sudden sting prickled between her legs. Looking down, she locks eyes with Jimmy who stared up at her like a man starved - wild, dark-eyed, pupils blown wide with lust. He didn't break eye contact as he slowly pushed his two thick fingers back into her now slightly red and stinging pussy.

Deja arched from the mixture of pain and pleasure that was overwhelming her senses, gasping with a sharp breath, "Oh my God, yes!"

He was making music with her pussy; he flexed and scissored them slowly before curling deep with precision. The slick, obscene sounds filled the air, getting louder the more he skillfully moved his hand.

"I'm touching my pussy?" He asked, voice a deep rumble in his chest that made her wall clamp around him like a vice. “Hm? I’m all up in my pussy, ain’t I?”

“Yes, baby,” Deja moaned, slurring the words, “Ooo you all up in there, so fuckin’ deep.”

Jimmy gave a low hum of approval before glancing down at the floor, “Not as deep as my dick in her throat.”

Below him was Naomi, on all fours, leaned in close, lips sealed tight around his cock. She moaned in response to the praise, sucking harder, hollowing her cheeks. He rewarded her with a few quick, brutal thrusts, making her choke just enough to earn a gleam in his eyes.

He reached down with his free hand, grabbed Naomi by her hair, and pulled her mouth off his dick with a clean, filthy pop.

Taking the opportunity, Jimmy spit straight into her mouth. Naomi swallowed it eagerly, her tongue immediately sliding along his length again - slick with spit, warm, hungry. She didn’t miss a beat, swirling her tongue around the head before taking him deep again, all the way to the base.

Jimmy exhaled hard, his eyes fluttering shut. “Ohh, yeah. She’s takin’ it real deep. I’m talkin’ all the way, baby.”

He glanced over at Deja, who was already staring up at him, lips parted, chest rising quick, hanging onto his every word.

“You can take it all the way too, can’t you, Pretty Girl?”

Deja nodded with her bottom lip poked out, eyes full of heat and need. That look alone made his cock twitch hard; Naomi gagged again around him, but Jimmy was already shifting focus, leaning forward, spreading Deja’s thighs wider with one hand.

“Yeahhh,” he growled, “Let’s take it all the way.”

He shoved his fingers back into her with a speed that made her jerk, the sudden stretch dragging a loud cry from her throat. Deja’s pussy squelches and gushed at the action - slick, swollen, and so damn responsive. Puffy pink lips fluttered around his knuckles, struggling to keep him out, but already giving in. Juices were slowly trickling out and onto the bed, making a small wet spot.

Jimmy wanted to make that spot bigger. He wanted to make her squirt right then and there - he could have done so easily. But, then the memories of what Naomi found on Deja’s phone came flooding back and he had to close his eyes to pace himself. He could make her squirt in the morning, tonight they were fulfilling her desires one fuck at a time.

Jimmy’s fingers plunged in and out of her relentlessly, dragging over every sensitive ridge inside her. Deja’s moans came in broken, breathy bursts, her hips twitching with each stroke. Her curls stuck to her damp forehead, chest rising and falling like she’d just run a mile.

“Look at you,” he murmured, eyes locked on her soaked center. “So fuckin’ messy for me.”

Deja bit her bottom lip but couldn’t hold back the whimper that escaped when he twisted his fingers inside her, pressing up into that soft, spongy spot that made her toes curl. Her thighs tensed around his hand, and she reached down, blindly gripping at the sheets as if to ground herself.

“Jimmy,” she gasped, “I can’t- baby, I can’t-”

“Yes, you can,” he cut in, his voice firm but low, coaxing her toward that edge. “You gon’ come for me right here. All over my fingers. I feel it, shit, she’s fuckin’ creaming.”

Deja’s back arched again, her body betraying her best efforts to ignore pleasure just for a little longer. Her pussy clenched down hard, a desperate rhythm, fluttering around his fingers like it was trying to pull him in deeper.

He leaned over her, pressing soft and wet kisses all over her stomach and pussy mound. “Don’t hold back, baby,” he mumbled into her skin, “Let go. Daddy's got you.”

Deja’s breath hitched as she tried to hold on until she just couldn't.

Her whole body jolted: legs trembling, stomach tightening, and a high, desperate moan pouring from her throat as she came. Her pussy squeezed his fingers in pulsing waves, wetter than ever now, creamy slick dripping down the crease of her ass. Jimmy never slowed, working her through every second, pushing her through the aftershocks with more hot kisses until she was squirming and crying out again from oversensitivity.

He pulled his fingers slowly and gently, staring down at her wrecked body with pride.

“Look at you,” he said again, softer now. “My pretty girl.”

Deja lay limp, lips parted, breath shuddering. Her eyes fluttered open slowly, glossy and dazed, still caught in the afterglow. Jimmy looked back down at Naomi, his fingers still glistening with Deja’s slick. He offered them to her without a word.

Naomi’s eyes lit up. She opened her mouth and took them in, slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact with him. Her tongue curled around each digit like she was savoring a treat meant just for her. When she pulled off with a soft pop, she hummed low in her throat.

“There you go, mamas,” he praised, dragging his wet fingers down her chin before turning his attention back to Deja.

She was still laid out, breathless and glowing, her thighs slightly parted like her body hadn’t figured out how to close again. Jimmy leaned over and kissed the inside of her knee, trailing soft kisses up the length of her calf, slow and reverent now.

“Came so hard for me, Pretty Girl,” he murmured, lips brushing over her skin. “But we not done with you yet.”

Naomi got off the floor and crawled up beside Deja, her naked body warm and close. One of Naomi’s hands slid gently up Deja’s neck, while the other was gripping her hair firmly, lifting her into a slow, open-mouthed kiss. Deja melted into it, tasting herself on Naomi’s lips, moaning softly into her mouth. Jimmy sat back for a second, watching them with a dark hunger in his eyes, stroking himself slowly.

Naomi’s lips migrated across Deja’s cheek and down her neck to her sternum, where she paused, feeling the frantic pulse beneath her skin. That made her smile - Deja was still riding the edge, breathless and dazed, already on the verge of unraveling again.

Naomi turned her head, dragged her tongue over the swell of Deja’s breast, then wrapped her lips around one nipple and sucked hard.

Deja cried out softly, arching into her mouth, the sudden heat making her hips roll instinctively. Naomi didn’t let up, she flicked her tongue in tight, teasing circles before switching to the other breast, kissing and sucking, leaving glistening trails behind. Her hand never left Deja’s hair, holding her steady, grounding her in the moment.

“Mmm,” Naomi hummed against her skin, her voice low and hungry. “You're still so sensitive…”

“Too sensitive,” Deja whispered, squirming, but there was no real protest in her voice. Her eyes fluttered open, finding Jimmy’s dark gaze still locked on her.

He was still on his knees on the floor, hand wrapped tight around his cock, stroking slow and steady. The muscles in his thighs were flexing, the veins in his forearm standing out as he watched her fall apart again under Naomi’s mouth. He couldn't help but mumble out soft moans as Naomi straddles Deja, breast still in mouth, and arches her back to where her glistening pussy presented itself to Jimmy.

Naomi didn't even have to ask. He immediately stood up - one foot on the floor, one knee bent on the bed - and spread Naomi's soft checks apart. He wasted no time in dragging his thick and hot tongue all over her pussy, swirling around eagerly trying to collect as much juices and slick as he could. And when he gathered all of that, he pushed his tongue deep inside Naomi, searching for more. Taken by surprise, Jimmy's actions caused Naomi to buckle forwards, removing the hand wrapped in Deja's hair to brace herself against the headboard. Moaning into her skin, Naomi sucks, licks, and nips at Deja's chest, making the two mounds glistening with a sinful mixture of spit and her own cum.

Deja could barely keep still now - Naomi's weight atop her, the heat of her mouth, and now the deep, rhythmic moans Jimmy let out between her thighs - it was all too much. Her breath hitched again, thighs trembling as Naomi’s teeth grazed her nipple just right.

"Fuck," Deja whimpered, arching into the contact, her back bowing prettily.

Naomi smiled against her skin, lips wet and slightly swollen. “That’s it, Pretty Girl. Stay right there for me.”

Behind her, Jimmy was devouring Naomi with the passion of a starved man. His fingers dug into her ass as he licked and fucked her with his mouth, tongue working in deep, filthy circles. When Naomi moaned loud against Deja’s chest, it vibrated through her ribcage, and Deja swore she could feel it all the way down to her pussy.

Naomi's hips rocked back into Jimmy’s face involuntarily, chasing his tongue, and he responded with a low, pleased grunt that only spurred her on more. She spread her legs wider, bracing herself fully, and looked down at Deja with flushed cheeks and hooded eyes.

"You wanna know what he's doing?" Naomi whispered breathlessly against Deja’s throat. “He’s eating my pussy while I suck on these big ass titties." She slapped Deja's left breast, causing it to jiggle and bounce slightly. "Mhm, we got him real fuckin' hungry tonight.”

Deja nodded, dizzy and dazed, lips parted as her hands gripped the sheets tight. Her body felt like it was floating - no thought, just heat and want and sensation.

Naomi tried to return to her assault on Deja’s breasts, but Jimmy was eating her pussy like he was trying to swallow her soul - his whole mouth engulfed her, full and lush beard rubbing hard against her clit and inner thighs. Naomi couldn’t help herself; she started grinding on his face, head thrown back in pleasure, moaning wildly as her breasts bounced right in front of Deja’s face.

"Unh, unh, unh, Jim-my! Fuck Daddy, that's right, eat my pussy. Eat my fucking pussy!"

While Naomi praised him, Deja had her own mission. She was playing fishhook with Naomi’s breasts, tongue out and mouth wide as she stretched her neck to catch one of her nipples. She missed once, twice, then finally locked her lips around the lucky one, sucking hard, flicking her tongue around like it was the only thing keeping her alive.

Naomi almost collapsed from the double-team. She whimpered, body shaking, hips pushing into Jimmy’s mouth while her hands flew to Deja’s head, cradling it close.

Loud moans and sloppy, wet smacks - like straight-up water - echoed from where Jimmy worked, his tongue thrusting deep while his palms gripped her ass, encouraging her to ride his face. He met every bounce with a matching thrust of his tongue, then smacked her cheeks twice, the sound sharp and filthy. “Ooo, y’all,” Naomi cried out, voice cracking, “Y’all got me leaking! Unh - holy shit, this feels so good. I’m gonna cum in a minute, oh my God!”

Fuck a minute, Deja and Jimmy thought at the same time.

Without a word, they both intensified their rhythm: Jimmy’s tongue pressing deeper, and Deja’s mouth sucking harder. Naomi didn’t stand a chance. She fell apart in less than twenty seconds, her body jerked as the first wave hit her - back arched, mouth parted in a silent scream before it cracked into a loud, guttural cry.

“FUCK, I’m-!” Her sentence broke off into a helpless sob as her thighs trembled and ass shook against Jimmy's face. She tensed up hard, the orgasm ripping through her like a shockwave, her pussy clenching against Jimmy’s tongue, slick gushing with no mercy.

Deja held her through it, arms locked tight around her waist, mouth never leaving her nipple. She sucked like she was trying to drink Naomi dry, her tongue flicking relentlessly, determined to ride that high with her. Naomi collapsed forward again, this time allowing herself to fall on top of Deja, burying her face into her neck with trembling kisses and broken gasps, mumbling incoherent praise against her damp skin.

Jimmy finally pulled back with a wet gasp of his own, face absolutely soaked, beard glistening with Naomi’s release. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking, chest heaving.

“Yeah,” he chuckled darkly, admiring the view of Naomi shuddering on top of Deja. “Now that's how I like to eat.”

Naomi didn’t even have the strength to sass him. Her body was boneless, draped across Deja like a satisfied, sweaty blanket.

Deja giggled breathlessly, still licking her lips. “She said a minute,” she murmured, taunting, voice low and teasing. “Didn’t even last half of one.”

“I was set up,” Naomi panted, muffled against her neck. “Y’all some cheatin’ ass freaks.”

Jimmy leaned over and kissed Naomi’s spine, then licked a slow stripe up between her shoulder blades just to make her shiver.

“You love it though,” Jimmy murmured, voice low and rough. Then his gaze snapped over to Deja, eyes burning with that same hunger from before.

“My pussy need a longer break or what?”

He wasn’t really asking, he already knew the answer. Without waiting for confirmation, he gently shifted Naomi to the side, letting her catch her breath. Then he climbed fully onto the bed, settling between Deja’s thighs like he belonged there.

Her body was already trembling, cunt still glistening, lips parted, breath catching as her eyes locked on him. She looked starved for him - just as desperate as he was.

Deja reached for him, fingertips grazing his jaw. “Mm-mm. She ready, Big Daddy. She want it all. Don’t hold back.”

Jimmy growled low in his throat and grabbed her thighs, pushing them up until her knees kissed her chest, folding her open. “Is that what she said?” he asked, voice husk with lust. He dragged his middle finger through her folds, slow and deliberate, groaning at the creamy sound. “Mmm, she talking. Pretty ass pussy. I’m ‘bout to eat it.”

“Yeah,” Deja moaned, arching her hips, “Eat her, baby.”

Jimmy leaned in and gave her a long, filthy stripe up her pussy, then pulled back with a smirk and a click of his teeth. “Sweet ass pussy. Don’t make no fucking sense.”

He dove back in, this time swirling his tongue around her clit, teasing it with lazy, wet circles. Deja twitched, gasping, hips trying to chase his mouth.

“Mhm,” he hummed against her, licking again, deeper, messier. “Imma get my fill tonight. Y’all gon’ feed me today.”

Next

A/N: So that was the first part… as you can see this stuff is LONG 🤣 I’ll start editing the second part tmr, hope y’all enjoyed it! Any feedback is much appreciated!

Taglist:

@uceyliyahh @charmed-dreamssss @darkandlight00 @moxley99

[moluvies]

time ꔛ armin arlert x f!reader

a/n: first time writing straight smut i fear and it's also not proofread😿🙏‼️

words: 4.6k

cw: reader with fem anatomy, soldier!reader, friends to lovers, takes place a bit before s4, SMUT!!, pinv sex, fingering, confessions, MDNI !

˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡

"Hey, you're doing fine. Seriously," Armin said, hoping to calm your nerves as you practiced aiming at the cans off in the distance.

"I'm missing everything," you sighed in frustration, placing the end of the rifle on the ground in front of you. "How is it possible I even graduated from the 104th when I can't even aim?"

"You saw Connie yesterday, right?" Armin pointed out with a small smile.

"Yeah, but he eventually gets the hang of everything." You felt utterly defeated. For the past 3 days you were practicing with guns, the anti-Marleyan refugees supplying them and Commander Hange encouraging you all to find the time to practice with them. After all, now the battle wasn’t simply exclusive to fighting titans.

Armin had been sitting with you at the unofficial shooting range for nearly an hour now, and you've successfully knocked a whopping 5 cans so far.

You go on to miss another, causing you to sigh again dramatically. Armin stands, chuckling more to himself as he steps closer to you. "You're overthinking it," he states simply. You ignore him, shutting one eye as you aim. Armin covers his ears before you pull the trigger, grazing the next can with the bullet but not fully penetrating it.

At that point, you couldn't even sigh. It was getting ridiculous and quite frankly super annoying. Titans, whatever. They were big - a big, open target that was pretty much impossible to miss. Cans were another thing entirely, and you couldn't imagine being in a scenario where you were obligated to shoot at a moving, living being.

Armin takes one look at your pouting face and grins, trying to hold back a laugh in order to not make you feel worse than you already were. "Just relax," he says gently, reaching out and adjusting the posture of your shoulders before pulling away. "Don't squeeze the trigger too hard, either," he adds, covering his ears in preparation for your next shot.

You take a deep breath in, trying to relax your mind and body, before you pull the trigger. And what do you know? You still missed.

It took everything in you to not crash onto the ground and throw a tantrum, but your reputation would be in shambles if Armin saw. Not that he'd tell anyone, but it still took a lot of strength to hold yourself together and not completely crash out.

"It's okay," he laughs, taking the rifle from your hands. "Just give it time."

"What if I don't have enough time?" You ask, taking a few strides to the table to pick up a canteen of water.

He hadn't thought about it lately, but it all was dawning on him that time was very limited now. It could happen in an instant that something could change for the worst. With the knowledge of Marley and the impending war between the nation and your little island, it was tough to stay laid-back or even think of time as something unlimited. As a child, it was so easy to imagine time as something that never ran out. Here in the current situation, though, that wasn't really an option.

"I get what you mean," Armin finally replied, the silence thick between you two.

It seemed you both thought of things you haven't done yet, seen yet, or even said yet. And that feeling was nauseating, causing your own heart to swell and your mind swim with the thoughts of things you'd do if you had all the time in the world.

But you didn't. And that realization was panic-inducing, to say the least.

"Dinner's ready! Unless you two plan on starving out here!" The voice of Jean provided a momentary distraction, allowing you both to move on from that conversation.

You wait for Armin to start moving towards the mess hall first, then you fall into a stride beside him. "Well, if time's running out I better start hitting those stupid cans," you joke, making Armin let out a laugh.

ꔛ

The evening went on relatively normally after that. You sat with your usual friends at dinner and hung out near the training grounds for a bit before you all eventually decided to call it a night one by one.

You sat in your room at the barracks alone, your rank granting you a separate bedroom (which was just implemented largely due to all the new buildings seeming to sprout up all over Paradis). The setup was similar to a dorm, with a small cubic room to sleep in but shared bathrooms and shower spaces. It was nice and definitely an improvement to being forced to listen to Sasha's snoring every night.

A soft knock on the door made you perk your head up from the book you were reading. You stood up and walked over, only to be greeted by Armin standing on the other side.

"Hey," you said with a smile, "can't sleep?"

Armin, a grin instantly tugging at his lips at the sight of you in your pajamas, nodded in response. "Yeah. I have been staying up pretty late, though, recently," he added the last part almost shyly, as if to justify being up at the late hour.

You step out of the way after opening your door wider, allowing Armin to take a few strides inside. Your dorm was equipped with all the things a soldier might need to pass the time. A bookshelf next to your small bed and a desk in the corner with papers scattered along the surface. A dim lantern gave the room a warm glow and a cozy feeling, along with the dainty curtains that covered the window that were thin and soft but nice for the warming weather.

"I was just reading," you say, shutting the door. "Sometimes I miss the training days where all of us girls would stay up late talking, but also I could go without a lot of things from then."

Armin laughed, taking a seat on your bed and eyeing the book you were reading previously. "You're telling me. The boys' barracks were always full of surprises, often not good ones," he replied.

You dropped next to him, letting the silence begin to stretch and envelope around you two before Armin cleared his throat.

"Listen," he started, head turning toward you but eyes not meeting yours as if he was nervous. "I was thinking a lot about our conversation earlier," he admitted. "About... time. And it kind of scared me a bit, if I'm being honest."

You nodded, understanding what he was talking about. "I know, me too," you replied. "Who knows what'll even happen tomorrow, let alone years into the future? It's scary."

"Yeah," he agreed. "It got me thinking about things I put off doing because I assumed I'd have the opportunity to do them later. I always assumed these were things I would always have time for, but that's just not the case. With the lives we live, as Eldians and as soldiers, it's tough to say if we'll have time for anything."

The words hung in the air between you, carrying the weight of a truth both of you had been avoiding. You nodded slowly, understanding exactly what Armin meant.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is..." he hesitated, his voice faltering slightly like he was holding back. He paused, taking a deep breath as he finally turned to meet your gaze. His blue eyes, usually so calm and kind, were now swimming with a mix of fear and determination. "I'm done wasting time."

You blinked, momentarily stunned by the look in his eyes. "What do you mean?" You asked, eyes never leaving his.

"You know what I mean," he said, his voice a bit rough with nervousness and something else.

Your heart fluttered when the meaning of his words started to sink in. The vulnerability in his expression, the way his voice trembled ever so slightly, the way his fingers curled into fists on his knees as if trying to muster up courage—it was all so... Armin. And it made your heart ache.

"Armin, I..." you started, unable to really find the words to reply with anything else. Especially when he began to shift closer.

With a whisper of your name, his hands gently cupped your cheeks as he slightly leaned in as you felt yourself do the same. Before you could say anything else, his lips were on yours.

The kiss started soft, almost cautious, like he wasn’t entirely sure if this was okay. But the moment you responded, your hand slipping to the back of his neck to pull him closer, all hesitation melted away. It was like something inside him snapped, and suddenly the kiss was anything but cautious.

Armin kissed you like he had been waiting for this moment forever, like he was terrified it might be the only chance he’d ever get. One of his hands moved to hold you at the waist, his lips moving against yours with an intensity that made your heart race.

Your heart was pounding so loudly you were certain he could feel it. There was nothing gentle about the way he kissed you now, nothing reserved. It was desperate, heated, and filled with all the emotions he had been holding back for so long.

When his tongue slowly traced at your lips you were unable to decline, your mouth parting as it gently slipped inside to meet yours. Armin let out a soft sigh at the feeling of your tongue and lips, his grip on your waist tightening just a bit. Your fingers tangled into his blonde hair as you kissed.

Armin’s hands slid down from your waist, his fingers brushing over the soft fabric of your sleep shirt—thin, worn, and barely concealing the warmth of your skin beneath. His touch was teasing, exploratory, as if he was mapping every curve, every breath you took. His lips never left yours, though the kiss had slowed into something deeper, more deliberate, his tongue tracing lazy patterns against yours.

When his fingers grazed the hem of your shirt, he pulled back just enough to murmur against your lips, his voice rough with want but still laced with that careful consideration. "May I...?"

You nodded, breathless, and he didn’t hesitate any longer. His hands slid under the fabric, palms skimming up your sides, his thumbs brushing just beneath the swell of your breasts. He exhaled sharply through his nose, a quiet laugh escaping him as his fingers traced higher.

"No bra?" he murmured, his voice low and teasing, though his cheeks were flushed. "I mean... I get it. Comfort first." His thumbs circled your nipples, already stiffening under his touch, and he smirked. "But damn, is it convenient."

You huffed a laugh, but it dissolved into a gasp as his fingers pinched lightly, rolling the sensitive peaks between them. "Armin—"

"You okay?" he asked, though his hands didn’t stop, his touch alternating between soft caresses and firmer pressure, testing what made you shiver.

You nodded, biting your lip as his mouth left yours to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down your throat. His teeth grazed your pulse point, and you arched into him instinctively, your fingers tightening in his hair.

"Good," he breathed against your skin, his hands sliding fully up to cup your breasts, kneading them with a slow, deliberate rhythm. His thumbs flicked over your nipples again, and he grinned when you whined. "I’ve thought about this. A lot. Way too much, if I'm honest. How you’d sound. How you’d feel."

His lips found the dip of your collarbone, sucking lightly before dragging his tongue over the spot, soothing the sting. One hand left your chest to trail lower, fingers dipping just beneath the waistband of your sleep pants. "Tell me if you want me to stop," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin.

You shook your head, your hips shifting toward his touch. "Please don't."

Armin laughed, low and breathless, before his hands slid further down into your waistband, fingertips tracing the curve of your thighs. "Then let me—" His breath hitched as his fingers dipped lower, brushing against the heat between your legs—only to pause.

His eyes flicked back up to yours, wide with disbelief. "...No panties, either?"

You grinned sheepishly, shifting just enough to press yourself against his hand. "They're uncomfortable, too," you protested.

Armin groaned, dragging his fingers through your slick folds with a shudder. "Fuck, you’re killing me." His touch was featherlight at first, teasing circles around your clit before dipping lower, just barely pressing inside.

"Armin—please—" You whimpered, hips rocking against his hand.

He kissed you again, swallowing your moans as his fingers continued their exploration. "You feel so good," he breathed against your lips. "Tell me what you want. I’ll give you anything. You know that?"

His words made your heart skip a beat. You instantly leaned forward, pressing your lips to his roughly as his fingers rubbed circles over your wet clit.

Armin��s breath hitched at your kiss, his fingers gliding effortlessly through your slick folds, each stroke teasing another desperate whimper from your lips. His thumb pressed firm circles against your clit while his middle finger teased at your entrance, dragging up and down in slow, torturous strokes before finally—finally—sinking inside.

"Fuck—" His voice was rough, his pupils blown wide with lust as he watched your face contort in pleasure, your thighs trembling around his hand. "You’re so tight…"

The first push of his finger was slow, deliberate, letting you adjust to the stretch before he curled it just right, rubbing against that sweet spot that made your back arch off the bed. His lips crashed back onto yours, swallowing your moans as he added a second finger, stretching you even further, his palm pressing firmly against your clit with every thrust.

His fingers worked you with relentless precision, curling and scissoring inside you, each movement sending sparks of white-hot pleasure up your spine. Your nails dug into his shoulders as your hips rocked against his hand, chasing your release with desperate, broken gasps.

His fingers curled inside you, dragging against your walls in slow, deliberate strokes, each one making your hips jerk against his hand. "Fuck, I can feel you squeezing me, (Y/N)... like you don’t want me to pull out."

You whimpered, your nails digging into his shoulders as he added a third finger, stretching you just enough to make your breath stutter. His thumb circled your clit in tight, relentless motions, matching the rhythm of his thrusting fingers. The slick sounds of your arousal filled the room, obscenely loud in the quiet space between your ragged breaths.

"Come on," he urged, his voice thick with lust as he watched you unravel beneath him. "Let me feel it—let me feel you come on my fingers. Please."

And God, you couldn’t hold back any longer—not when he was touching you like this, not when he sounded so desperate for it. Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, your back arching yourself into him as you cried into his shoulder, your pussy clenching around his fingers in rhythmic pulses, soaking his hand with your release.

Armin didn’t stop—not even as you writhed beneath him, oversensitive and shaking. He kept fucking you through it, fingers still buried deep inside you, his thumb still working your clit until you were sobbing, your legs twitching with the aftershocks.

Only then did he finally slow, pressing a kiss to your parted lips as he pulled his fingers free—glistening with your arousal. He brought them to his lips, his tongue darting out to lick them clean with a low, satisfied groan, his cheeks flushed a deep red.

"Armin!" You scolded, embarrassment seeping in at the way he tasted you.

"I'm sorry, was it too much?" He asked softly, one hand placed gently along the curve of your hip, and his eyes full of consideration and care.

You shook your head, unable to resist anything about him when you saw just how much he cared for your comfort. Remembering him being here wasn't just about fucking, but because he was trying to tell you something without using words. Something you similarly felt, but were never brave enough to act on.

Your heart pounded wildly as Armin leaned down to press another tender kiss to your lips, his fingers brushing along your heated skin with a reverence that made your stomach flutter. "I'm sorry, I just wanted to taste you," he admitted softly, breath fanning against your mouth.

The words sent another rush of warmth between your thighs, but before you could respond, his hands were already moving—slowly beginning to unbutton his shirt. Your breath caught as he tossed it to the floor, revealing the lean, toned frame of a soldier who had long since shed the softness of his cadet days. His skin was marked with faint scars, the proof of battles fought and survived, but the way he looked at you—eyes dark with need, lips slightly parted—made him seem almost vulnerable in this moment.

His hands slid up your body, fingers tracing along your ribs before tugging at the waistband of your loose sleep pants. You lifted your hips, letting him peel them off slowly, his breath hitching as he revealed the bare, glistening heat between your thighs. "You're beautiful," he breathed, before he moved his hands to the waistband of his own pants.

Then, his pants slid down his legs, and your gaze dropped.

His cock stood fully erect, thick and flushed a deep red at the tip, veins running along the length of it. It wasn’t massive, but it was perfect—curved just slightly upwards, the head already glistening with precum as it twitched under your hungry stare.

You bit your lower lip, your fingers reached out, ghosting along the length of him—just once—before he caught your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm before gently guiding you back onto the bed beneath him.

The weight of his body settling over yours sent a shiver down your spine, the warmth of his skin pressing against yours as he leaned down to capture your lips again. His hips rocked forward, the hard length of his cock dragging through your slick folds, spreading your arousal along his shaft in a slow, torturous glide.

He leaned in to kiss you slowly, savoring the taste of your lips, your skin, the way your body molded so perfectly under his. "You're so beautiful," he whispered, hands pushing your hair back and out of the way of your forehead.

"Mnh... and... you're so wet," Armin groaned, slowly sliding his erection through your dripping slit. His hand held onto his cock, guiding it as he rubbed the leaking head over your clit before pressing it down to drag it over your entrance. Up and down he teased you maddeningly with long sensual strokes, his shaft growing damp and slick from your juices.

Armin grunted as he continued to slide his cock back and forth between your glistening folds, teasing and stimulating your clit as well. "Oh, my God," Armin shuddered, his member throbbing almost painfully in his grip, the broad crown glistening proof of your arousal.

Armin couldn't stop thrusting his hips now, the tip of his cock fluttering just slightly as if trying to push past your entrance and dive deep into your tight heat. He fought the urge to simply drive forward and bury himself balls deep inside you. He wanted to do so badly to watch you come undone beneath him. But even so, he wanted to savor you. Savor the moment.

"Armin," you whimpered, thighs and hips trembling every time the tip nudged at your clit, feeling wetness still seep onto the flesh of his dick. "Stop teasing, please," you say, brows furrowed as he continued the torture.

"I'm sorry," he grinned sheepishly, his hips also twitching slightly. You knew he was having trouble holding back also, but if his goal was to just get you unbearbly wet, he was doing a pretty good job.

Your breathing grew heavier as Armin continued to torture you with the slow drag of his cock against your wet cunt, the swollen tip parting your folds to dip teasingly into your entrance before he retreated, the drag of his length through your slick an obscene sound in the quiet room. Each deliberate pass over your clit made you jolt and shudder beneath him, your thighs clenching around his hips as he stoked the desire building rapidly in your core to a fevered pitch.

With every pass, he pushed into you just a little bit deeper until the fat head of his cock finally caught on your entrance, stretching you open with tender slowness as he sank into your tight, gripping pussy inch by inch. Armin groaned at the feeling of your walls fluttering around him, so hot and slick and gripping his length tightly.

"Fuck...you feel incredible," he rumbled, his breath coming in hard pants now as he finally bottomed out inside you, every thick centimeter of him buried to the hilt in your grasping heat.

"Armin," you whined, earning a small smile from him.

"I know, baby," he said softly, composure barely holding on.

Armin captured your lips in a sweet kiss as he started to move, rolling his hips with deliberate slowness, letting you feel every drag and pull as he fucked into you torturously slow. It was different from how he'd touched you with his fingers, deeper and harder, more purposeful as each thrust seemed focused on hitting precisely that perfect spot inside of you that made your toes curl and your back arch clean off the bed.

"Feel good?" He asks, looking down at your flushed face and the way sweat began to gather at your forehead, his hand still pushing your hair out of your face as he fucked you.

"Mhm," you reply, hips rolling on their own to meet every thrust of his hips, driving his cock deeper inside of you. "Harder, please, Armin," you requested with a whimper, eyes meeting his.

"I've got you," he responded, then shifted his weight to pull you closer, impossibly closer, his arms holding you against him tightly. "I've got you, baby," he repeated, this time his lips grazing softly against your ear.

Then, his pace increased, and you had nowhere to go as he fucked you while holding you in a tight hug. "Armin!" You cried out against his shoulder, the feeling of his thick cock plunging into your dripping pussy again and again, the drag of his cock against your walls overwhelming as he fucked into you with an fervor that stole your ability to think. Your thighs trembled around his pistoning hips as he breathed into your ear, sweat starting to bead along his forehead as he drove himself deeper, harder into your body with each roll of his hips, chasing your pleasure and his own with single-minded focus.

"God—fuck—I've wanted this for so long," he groaned, his grip tightening around you as if he was afraid you’d slip away. "Wanted you... for so fucking long."

His thrusts were brutal, each one driving his cock so deep inside you that you could feel his hips slamming against your clit with every snap of his pelvis. But despite the rough, almost punishing pace, his words were tender—sweet—like he was pouring out every hidden feeling he'd ever had for you in between the filthy, wet sounds of your bodies moving together.

"You don't even—ah—know how many times I thought about this," he panted, his teeth grazing your shoulder before soothing the sting with a gentle kiss. "How many times I imagined fucking you just like this—holding you so close to me."

You whimpered, overwhelmed by the force of his thrusts and the raw emotion in his voice. His cock was stretching you so perfectly, hitting that spot inside you with every deep plunge, making your vision blur with pleasure.

"You feel so good," Armin grunted, his voice thick with lust and something deeper—something like love. "So good," he whimpered.

His hips stuttered as he adjusted his angle, fucking up into you with sharp, punishing rolls of his hips that made your toes curl. One of his hands slid into your hair, gripping gently but firmly as he forced you to look at him—his kind blue eyes burning with need, brows furrowed, his lips parted in pleasure.

"Tell me you feel it too," he demanded, his voice rough but pleading. "Tell me you've wanted this—wanted me—just as much. Please."

You could barely form words, your mind clouded with pleasure, but you managed a breathless nod, your nails digging into his shoulders as he fucked you through another wave of mind-numbing ecstasy.

"Say it," he urged, his cock twitching inside you as he felt your walls clench around him. "Tell me—fuck—tell me you're mine. Please say you're mine."

"I'm yours," you gasped, arching into him as the coil in your stomach tightened unbearably. "Always yours—fuck!"

Your climax crashes over you like a tidal wave, your entire body tensing as you cry out his name—"Armin!"—your nails raking down his back as your pussy clenches around him in desperate, rhythmic pulses. The pleasure is overwhelming, white-hot and all-consuming, and you cling to him like he's the only thing keeping you grounded as waves of ecstasy shudder through you.

Armin groans, his thrusts growing erratic as he feels you clamp down around him, your slick walls milking his cock mercilessly. "Fuck—fuck—I can't—" His voice is ragged, his hips stuttering as he fights to hold on, but the way you’re gripping him is too much. With a final, shuddering groan, he pulls out just in time, his cock throbbing as thick ropes of cum stripe your stomach, hot and sticky against your skin.

For a moment, all you can hear is the sound of your own breathing, harsh and uneven, mixed with Armin's labored pants as he nearly collapses on top og you, his body trembling with exertion. His arm shakes as he holds himself up just enough to avoid crushing you, his forehead pressing against yours as you both come down from the high.

Slowly, gently, Armin shifts to prop himself up on one elbow, his free hand reaching for his discarded shirt nearby. He cleans you up with careful, reverent strokes, his touch achingly tender as he wipes away the mess he made.

"Sorry," he murmurs, though the way he smiles tells you he's not that sorry. "Got a little carried away."

You laugh breathlessly, your fingers threading through his sweat-damp hair as he leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. "I’m not complaining."

Armin smiles against your mouth before pulling back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes warm with affection. "Good." He shifts to pull the covers over both of you, tucking you against his chest as his fingers trace lazy patterns along your spine. "You okay?"

You nod, giving Armin a sweet kiss first to his flushed cheek and then his lips.

"I meant everything. I really like you. Everything about you," he says into your hair after you pulled away, holding you close and praying you'd say the same.

"Me too," you reply, letting yourself relax in his embrace.

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

I'm having a lot of fun with this.

Anyway.

"Alright," Ford said, moving around the bed and tucking Stan in, "that should do it. How do you feel?"

"Uncomfortable." Stan replied, glaring at the ceiling, "Annoyed. Why are we doing this?"

Ford moved to readjust the device he'd stuck to Stan's head, padding some pillows around it to try and help ease some of the pressure.

"To see if we can pin point how you're managing to dream walk, and hopefully boost your consciousness to give you some awareness."

"Alright, and why is he here?" Stan moved his head as much as he could to stare at Fiddleford, who was already snoozing away on one of the cots Ford had dragged into Stan's room along with all the fancy machines Ford was using to monitor Stan's brain or whatever.

"If this works, and you're aware," Ford said, going over to the computer hooked up to Stan's head and pressing some buttons, "then I'd like to see if you can link out dreams and explain what your doing. Maybe we'll finally get more than 'a big lizard said I could'"

Stan couldn't move his to glare at Ford, so he settled with a growl and the ceiling.

"I don't know what else to tell you. There was a big lizard, and it said I could!"

"Yes, and I believe you, it's just extremely unhelpful."

Stan huffed, then glared at Ford as he came into view.

"Ready?"

"Are you? All I'm doing is-" before Stan could finish his sentence Ford held up his hand and blew pink powder into his face. Stan had just enough to cough and blink at Fords wheezing face as his brother accidentally inhaled whatever he'd just drugged Stan with, before he was out, falling into a sea of Stars.

Fords coughing fit followed him into his dreams, and he groaned. Hopefully he hadn't knocked over any of the equipment when he collapsed, or they'd have to do this tomorrow. Ford looked up at his twinkling mindscape, watching books flap in the distance.

This was new, usually he wasn't aware until Stan popped up and gave him a heart attack or interupted whatever he'd been dreaming about.

"Stanley!" Ford called, walking along a book path, "Stanley! Where are-Ah!"

Ford yelled as he was suddenly falling, stars and equations zipping past him as the books he'd been standing on disappeared. Before he could focus and create something to stop his fall he hit the ground hard, toppling over with a groan.

Then he yelled again, when something slammed on top of him. Whatever it was groaned too, and they laid there for a moment, groaning.

"What in- Stanford?"

Ford groaned at Fiddlefords voice, and the weight disappeared. Ford sat up, rubbing at his chest and trying to remember that this was a dream, and therefore non of his pain was real.

"Fiddleford," Ford said, looking over at his friend. They were on a dock, sticking out into an endless midnight sea. Above them was a green sky, with blue clouds, and behind them was a multicolored beach, a familiar if blurred waterfront going on in both directions. It looked flat, like the buildings would fall over or disintegrate if he touched them.

Fiddleford was wearing his pajamas, but Ford was wearing a roguish version of his normal outfit. His red shirt had the top buttons undone, his sleeves were rolled up, and he had a strap going across his chest with several buttons but not serving any purpose he could find. He looked like some strange combination of a pirate and adventurer.

"When we wake up," Fiiddleford said, pushing himeself to his feet and holding out a hand to help Ford up, "remind me to tear into your brother about how he goes about his dream round ups."

"I don't think it'll help," Ford said, dusting himself off and looking for Stan, "Most of the time he's not doing it on purpose, and now... well, that remains to be seen. Stanley!"

There was still no sign of his brother, much to his confusion. Before he could suggest heading up to the beach the ground started shaking and a set of stairs started rising out of the water, right at the end of the dock. Black water rushed off it as it came up, and small, multicored axolotl's scampered off it. They jumped back into the water, disappearing into the night sea.

Ford exchanged looks with Fiddleford, then snorted at the ruffed green floral shirt and brown poofy pants he was now wearing. There was a white lab coat on top, except it looked like tail coat. A pair of rainbow googles was on his head, and his banjo was starpped to his back, minus the string. He was Less of a pirate/adventurer, and more of a bard/nobleman/scientist.

Fiddleford grimaced at it, then sighed, "Remind me to talk about his sense of fashion too."

"Thats a lost cause i fear," Ford said with a shake of his head and a smirk as he led the way to the stairs, "Now lets go, hopefully he's waiting for us down there."

Fiddleford grumbled, but followed. The sound of their footsteps disappeared once they hit the first step, and the water felt like the barest of pressure once they hit the water line. Ford slowed down as it reached his knees, trying to find the next step with his foot so he wouldn't loose his footing and fall.

This turned out to be pointless, as once they were waist deep the stairs disappeared, turning into thousands of tiny rainbow axolotl. Ford shouted, then took a deep breath before his head hit the water and his vision went black.

He froze, before he realized he wasn't unconscious, just blind. The stars that had glittered on the surface were no where to be seen, and the only reason he knew he wasn't in some deeper sleep was beause he could feel Fiddlefords hands clutching his arm like a lifeling. HIs lungs started burning, and he kicked his legs and tried to swim back towards the surface.

"What are you doing?" Stan asked, and Ford whipped around to see his brother, floating right next to him. If it wasn't for the water pressing in all around him, Fords jaw would have dropped at the sight of him.

He wasn't an axolotl, but he wasn't himself either. His two forms had mashed together, resulting in his human shaped brother, with frills sticking out of the side his head, speckled skin, and a tail. He was wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of boxer, but what really caught his attention was Stan's eyes.

They were pitch black, staring straight at him.

Ford made a questioning sound at him, and Stan tilted his head, like he did when he was an axolotl and Ford asked him a question. Then he blew a raspberry and maybe rolled his eyes, reaching forwards to grab Fords hand and probably Fiddlefords with the other.

He had no idea, despite how clear Stan looked, he still couldnt see his friend.

"You guys gotta stop using your brains," Stan said, dragging Ford forwards as he kicked his legs and wiggled his tail, "Its a dream! Why're you tryin' to breath?"

Ford glared at him then tried to scream when Stan suddenly let go and surged forwards, slamming his weirdly textured hands on the sides of Fords face, pushing the bubble out. The starange dream water flooded his mouth, and he coughed at the strange taste of hopes and never ending potential for a better future.

He bent over and coughed some more as it went down his throat and into his lungs, not burning like drowning but fuzzy like clouds.

Dreams were so weird.

He looked up to see Stan patting Fiddlefords back, then gasped.

The pitch-black void had been replaced, dazzling his eyes with starlight. Far below him he could see a blue and pink mist, with shimmering seaweed growing out and waving in an unseen current. The stars were all around them, darting around and twisting around like fish, swimming around the plants and going on endlessly in every direction.

"Stanley," Ford whispered, reaching out to run his hand over one of the starweeds, "This is beautiful."

"I guess," Stan grumbled, grabbing their hands again and swimming further along, "Too crowded for my taste. Its impossible to find what i'm looking for sometimes."

"What do you usually look for?" Fiddleford asked, looking around at the stars and kicking his feet, "Isn't this a dream? You can just make what you want."

"Pssshh" Stan said, letting go and doing a somersault, before twisting to swim around them, "Gotta find you, don't I? It was such a pain, look how many stars are out here! You ever try finding just one!"

Ford shot Stan a look of confusion, then examined a nearby star. It looked idencical to the rest, in a soothing blue color. He turned back to Stan before he let himself get distracted, focusing on his brother.

"Stanley," he said, getting his attention, "how do you feel? Do you remember who you are?"

"What kind of question is that?" Stan asked, twirling around and swimming over them, "Of course i know who I am, I'm me!"

"And whats your name?" Fiddleford asked, trying to swim closer to Ford. Ford reahed back, and they clasped their hands together as Stan circled them, not a care in the world.

"Easy," Stan said, "I'm Sssssss-"

"-tanley," Ford interupted, before his brother could keep making an 'S' sound, "That's your name, can you say it?"

"Hmm." Stan squinted at him, then shook his head, flopping the frills back and forth, "Thanks, but i know my own name, Suord."

"Suord?" Ford asked, bewildered.

"And anyway, this is a dream!" Stan spread his arms out, wide grin on his face, "Lets play some games! Go on an adventure! Have some fun! What do you want to do?"

Stan tilted his head, eager expression on his face. Ford sighed, then smiled back at him. While it seemed his awareness of himself was as gone as ever, this was the first time he'd actually asked them what they wanted to dream about. Usually Stan just did what he wanted, and either ignored or couldn't comprehend their complaints.

"I've been hankering for a robot dream," Fiddleford muttered next to him, "Seein' some folks obliterated that I can't very well do in the wakin' world."

"You got it Fiddlecube!" Stan shouted, grabbing their hands and dragging them back through the starlit sea. Fiddleford muttered about 'Fiddlecube,' but Ford ignored him, focused on Stan's strange hybrid form.

He'd have to ask Stan what he remembered, once they woke up. Hopefully their readings would be more helpful in determining the source of Stan's ability.

Until then he let himself enjoy their dream adventure, laughing with Stan as Fiddleford amassed a robot army, then set it loose on various annoying peers and fellow scientist.

It was only a dream after all.

The next day the readings, much to his annoyance, had configured themselves in such a way that everything showed an axolotl face, sticking out its tongue, and the words 'The giant lizard said he could'.

[dina-winchester]

What We Were ⁵

Read part four here

Pairing: Dean x You

Summary: Dean’s always there when you need him most, no matter what.

Warnings: Graphic depictions of injury, blood, angst with comfort, emotional scenes, no use of y/n

The Endgame

It’s the next night. You can feel the weight of your injuries, fresh stitches pulling uncomfortably at your side as you walk through the woods. Your hand instinctively presses against them, the pressure reminding you of how much damage was done, how much you’re still trying to recover from.

The cold night air bites at your skin, but the pain is sharper. You’re moving slower than you’d like, your flashlight flickering as you sweep it across the trees, keeping your gun tucked into your waistband for when you need it. But part of you knows this isn’t like before. The Wendigo’s faster, stronger, and you’re not the same. You’re too rusty. You haven’t been in this life for a while, and it’s showing.

Then, through the trees, you see it.

The mouth of the cave.

A sliver of hope cracks through the storm of fear in your chest. Maybe, just maybe, Nick’s in there. You swallow hard, forcing your breathing to slow, trying to steady your shaky hands. The cave seems so close, but in the back of your mind, you know it’s not enough. There’s still so much to do. So much danger.

But the thought of Nick, the possibility that he could be alive, sends a surge of adrenaline through you. It’s almost enough to make you forget the pain, to make you forget how much you’ve been through already.

The cave is right there.

You push through the pain, stumbling forward, heart pounding as the thought finally takes shape—Nick might be inside. That hope flares in your chest, just for a moment.

Just as that thought crosses your mind, the world explodes into movement.

A snarl rips through the night, and before you can even react, that’s when it hits.

The Wendigo slams into you from the side. You scream, the sound ripping from your throat as claws tear across your ribs, reopening stitches and adding new wounds. You’re thrown like a rag doll, your back crashing against the forest floor with a brutal thud that knocks the air out of your lungs.

Your flashlight skids off somewhere into the dark.

Pain explodes in your side. You’re gasping, eyes wide, adrenaline screaming through your veins. You see it closing in, the Wendigo moving with that inhuman speed, and you grab for the flare gun, hands slick with blood.

You fire one flare. It misses—barely grazes the damn thing—but the burn makes it hesitate. It snarls and recoils, the flames licking its side. You scramble back, bleeding, your fingers clawing through leaves and dirt as you grab the last flare with trembling hands.

Your limbs are sluggish, every movement agony, but you refuse to stop. You won’t stop. You’re fumbling the flare into the barrel when the Wendigo charges again. It knocks the gun from your grip and claws you across the thigh, sending you sprawling to the ground.

You scream again, louder this time, raw and furious.

Your vision is going fuzzy now, the darkness creeping in at the edges. But you’re still moving. You’re crawling, dragging yourself toward the gun, breath coming in short, panicked gasps. You reach it with shaking fingers, flipping over onto your back, blood soaking into your shirt, staining the dirt beneath you.

You start loading the flare again.

Hands shaking.

Breath hitching.

Your heart’s hammering so loud it’s all you can hear.

You think—this is it. You’re going to die here.

And still, you keep going.

Then—Sam and Dean show up.

They’ve been tracking the case themselves. A string of deaths in your area caught their attention. They didn’t expect to find you in the middle of it.

Dean sees you bloodied and shaking, on the floor trying to load a weapon with trembling hands.

Your name is being called out.

His voice—panicked.

“Dean!” Sam’s voice joins it, closer now, fast and alarmed.

You don’t dare look away. Your eyes are locked on the Wendigo just feet away, your fingers fumbling with the flare gun like it’s your only lifeline—because it is.

But suddenly there’s movement behind you, boots pounding, flare gun sounds off, the wendigo bursts into flames with a nasty roar—and everything else stops.

You collapse backward, panting, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes as Dean drops to his knees beside you, grabbing your face with blood-covered hands.

“Sweetheart—oh my god—”

You can barely see him, but you feel him. Dean drops to his knees beside you, his hands cradling your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. His breath’s ragged, panicked, like he just ran through hell to get to you—and maybe he did.

“I got you. I got you, okay?” His voice cracks, and that’s what really gets you. Not the blood. Not the pain. That.

Your lips part, trembling. “Dean…”

Sam’s just behind him, already checking the perimeter, flashlight beam shining on whatever’s left of the creature and then into the cave. “It’s dead—we’re in the clear. Dean—she’s losing a lot of blood.”

Dean doesn’t move from you.

Your fingers twitch weakly around the flare gun, still cradled to your chest. “Did I… did I hit it?”

“Damn right you did,” Dean breathes, brushing hair back from your face with trembling fingers. “You torched the son of a bitch just enough to keep it off you. Jesus, sweetheart…”

You laugh, just barely. A breath of a sound. “Still got it.”

Dean presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut tight, like if he just stays close enough, it’ll be okay. “You stubborn, reckless… brilliant pain in my ass,” he whispers.

You shiver hard, and Dean shrugs out of his jacket, laying it over you as gently as he can. Your blood is on his hands now—literally—and he doesn’t care. He’s still holding your face like you’re breakable, like the next breath you take might not come.

“I stitched myself up,” you mumble. “Didn’t hold.”

“No,” he says, a whisper thick with fury and grief, “it didn’t hold because you went out here alone. Sweetheart, what the hell were you thinking?”

You look up at him, vision swimming. “That my friend might still be alive.”

Dean falters. “Your friend?”

“Nick.” You nod slightly, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. “I had to try, Dean. I couldn’t just sit and do nothing. You know I couldn’t.”

His jaw clenches. You can feel the war inside him—between wanting to yell and needing to keep you breathing. The latter wins, barely.

“We’re getting you out of here,” he says, voice steely now. “You hang on, alright? Just… stay with me, sweetheart.”

Dean’s arms tighten around you like he knows—like he feels it in your blood-soaked silence.

You shake your head against his chest, weak but stubborn. “I’m not leaving… not without him…”

Dean pulls back enough to look at you, panic flashing in his eyes. “Sweetheart, you’re bleeding out—”

“I can’t,” you rasp. “Not until I know if he’s in that cave.”

Dean’s eyes snap toward the jagged opening just ahead, the one you were crawling toward before everything went to hell. The realization hits him like a truck. You weren’t just hunting. You were hoping.

Sam’s already moving, his flashlight beam cutting across the trees. “I got it,” he says. “You get her stable. I’ll check the cave.”

“Sam—” Dean starts, but Sam’s already gone, slipping past the rocks and into the darkness with practiced ease.

Dean swears under his breath, then looks down at you again. “You should’ve called,” he mutters. But his voice is softer now, not angry—just wrecked.

You close your eyes, exhaling like it hurts. “I know.”

A minute passes like an eternity.

Dean shifts, pulling off his overshirt and pressing it firmly to your worst wound, right over your ribs. You hiss and arch slightly, eyes fluttering. His palm stays steady, firm, even as your blood soaks through the fabric and your fingers grip his wrist.

“Hey—stay with me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, grabbing a roll of gauze from his jacket pocket. His hands move fast, shaking but sure, working around your body to bind the gashes as best he can. “You’re okay. I got you. Just breathe.”

Your body is trembling in his arms, your breathing shallow, but your eyes are fixed on that cave entrance. You refuse to shut down. Not yet. Not until you know.

Then—

“Dean!” Sam’s voice echoes from inside, sharp and urgent. “He’s alive!”

Your breath catches.

Dean’s head snaps toward the sound. “Son of a bitch…”

You almost sob with relief, a fresh wave of tears flooding your eyes. “I knew it,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I knew he was in there…”

Dean lowers his forehead to yours again. “You were right.”

“I had to try…”

He nods slowly, hands still cradling your face. “You saved him.”

Sam appears a few seconds later, supporting a barely-conscious Nick, pale and filthy but alive. Dean shifts you in his arms, but you’re already fading now—body giving out under the weight of blood loss and relief.

Still, you smile weakly through it. Because you did it.

You found him.

And you didn’t stop until you did.

Your eyes flutter. You want to say something. Tell him you’re glad he’s here. But all that comes out is a soft, broken breath as you finally let yourself go limp in his arms, pain pulling you under.

Dean gathers you up carefully, whispering to you the whole time like it might anchor you to the world.

“I got you, sweetheart. You’re okay. Just hold on.”

A/N: I hope you liked this chapter! Thanks for reading and thank you for every reblog. You guys rock! Let me know if you’d like me to add you to the tags. 🫶🏻

Tags: @candy-coated-misery0731 @pillowjj @piertomaximoffsgirl @chaoticbasicallyuselessbisexual @mrswinchester3 @robynn9436-blog @cherryresidence @shanimallina87 @amourcri3s @mandee7 @reluctanthalfwayoptimism @samlou @almostshamelesstale @alexfms97 @bigmoodyjoody @deanswifeyy

Thank you so much, once again. You guys are awesome! 🩷

I’ll keep you tagged throughout this series, if you ever want me to remove you, please let me know. If I forgot to tag anyone, please mention in the comments. 🫶🏻

[gojoidyll]

THE GIRL WHO CRIED WOLF. PT 2

Wolf Hybrid ! Toji x Fem ! Reader

Toji takes you away from the brutal aftermath of the fight in order to collect his reward for winning a bet. Which is when you formally meet the snow leopard who you patched up before.

warnings | reader referred to as "pretty nurse" , nipping/licking reader's ear , grammatical errors , etc.

You nervously stood next to Toji as you found yourself in a long line. Some hybrids were cursing low under their breaths, while others were wearing shit eating grins. Toji among them wearing a smirk of his own.

“What’s this line for?”

“To collect debts,” he nodded forward, “the shabby desk up there is where we either collect what we won or give up what we lost.”

The line moved up and you took a shaky step forward while being sure to stay by Toji’s side, “what do you guys bet?”

“Money.”

You quirked an eyebrow, “money? But-“

Toji gave you a wolfish grin, “believe it or not, we bet money and win money for our fights. A lot of us hoping that the money we get will be enough to live in the real world, but that is of course… if one could even escape this place.”

“And you Toji?”

“What.”

“Do you think you’ll get out of this place?”

He lifted his hand, his long claws scratching at the back of his head, “nah, some of us come here to have some fun while others are trapped here by people who never want them to see the light of day again.”

“And you?”

“I’m the latter.”

You pursed your lips as the line moved up again. Slowly but surely you were learning more and more about Toji. And you couldn’t deny your curiosity either. Despite only knowing Toji for awhile, you can’t really see a reason why anyone would want to keep him down here. You also thought back to some of the other hybrids and humans you met. The snow leopard definitely seeming like someone who was here for fun and Sukuna … you shivered, he seemed like someone who just wanted to fight.

“Holy shit! You actually won for once?!”

You felt someone wrap an arm around your shoulders and pull you close, the side of your face pressing hard into the outlined muscle of his stomach. You heard a low growl reverberate in Toji’s throat as he looked at the newcomer which made you look up too, your eyes widening slightly as you looked at him.

The snow leopard form the infirmary!

“Gojo brat, don’t touch the nurse like that-“

Before Toji could knock the cat off of you, ‘Gojo’ was already backstepping with you still in his hold. He looked down at you as he did so.

“Heya, pretty nurse. I didn’t get to introduce myself before, but I’m Gojo Satoru.”

His name sounded familiar to you…

“Are you,” you hesitated a bit, “by chance in relation to the Gojo Corporation.”

You felt his tail flick against your thigh before traveling down and curling around your ankle, “aww, so you heard of me?”

“Just rumors,” you stuttered out, “but why are you here?”

He bent down, his breath hitting your ear, “can you keep a secret?”

You glanced at Toji, his whole body language screamed danger as he stood in a tense stance.

You found yourself nodding when you looked back at Gojo causing him to grin.

“Cause I’m bored,” he finished before giving your ear a little nip making you squeal before he burst into a fit of laughter as he leaned back up.

“Go-“

He squished your cheeks between his free hand, “Satoru,” he said.

“Satworoo,” you managed to say between your squished lips.

You felt his tail uncurl from your ankle and gently slide along the expanse of your leg before leaving you be and letting you go.

“Much better, pretty nurse.”

Gojo looked back at Toji and gave him a little grin, “my next match is coming up soon, pretty nurse and it’s against Toji over here. You should come take a look at it.”

You nodded again as he took his leave, but not before giving you a little wink.

Toji huffed as he reached for you and grabbed your wrist before tugging you in the spot that was right next to him. Any onlookers in the room unnoticed the exchange either because they were too busy patting themselves on the back or cursing at their own misfortune and betting habits.

“You’re fighting him,” you finally managed to ask, but it was like Toji didn’t hear you when he bent down to you and sniffed the side of your head. His nose nudging the ear that Gojo had bite lightly.

“Toji-“

You squealed again when you felt his tongue on your ear, right where Gojo had nipped at. It wasn’t until the line moved again that Toji brought his mouth away. His eyes trailing along your ear before landing on your shoulders where Gojo’s arm had been. He let go of your wrist then before pushing you a little and slinging an arm around your shoulders.

“Yeah, I’m fighting him.”

You pressed your lips together, still obviously thrown off about him licking your ear, but you decided to ignore it, hybrids were different than humans. But that still didn’t stop your heart from racing.

“Is he tough?”

Toji thought back to the fight between Gojo and Sukuna and how it ended with Gojo winning.

“He is.”

It was finally Toji’s turn to collect his reward. The men at the desk being slightly miffed that Toji actually won this time as they gave him his reward.

“Will you win?”

You didn’t know what was causing you to pry, but you end up blaming it on your curious mind.

“Nope,” he popped the ‘p’ as he tugged you along out of the line and away from the desk. You looked up at him then, but he didn’t look back at you.

“You shouldn’t watch it,” he said finally as you both entered a long corridor, “you didn’t much like the fight tonight, so you definitely won’t like mine.”

You nodded along as he escorted you back to the nurse’s office where a few people were already waiting for your return.

“Toji-“

He cut you off again by shrugging his arm off your shoulders and reaching up to pat your head.

“Stay in the nurse’s office.”

You watched him leave, a worried look still plastered onto your face even as the ones waiting for you called out to you and were asking for help.

[wormholxtreme]

Her hand on his chest, over his heart, right where it belonged. The feeling of being struck by lightning was starting to fade when she touched him, but the flutters remained. He pulled her close, a hand wrapping around her waist as he leaned into her touch and her kiss. This is what it felt like to be happy, to feel like the axis of the Earth was finally turned back into the right alignment. "The only thing that's easy is how I can breathe again being around you." he murmured softly.

It took him a few minutes to set the buns out on the stove top before he shuffled his way back in the bedroom. She looked absolutely stunning, dressed in his shirt that hung just low enough to cover her. The stars hit his eyes, glazing them over as the smile hit his lips, just in awe of her. "The uh...buns need a few minutes to cool down." he told her finally tearing his eyes away from her and rummaging through his drawers to find some clothes.

Peeta's morning routine was relatively the same, with the exception of her distracting him. Not that he minded one bit. He dressed in a simple cotton t-shirt and a pair of comfortable denim jeans before sitting on the edge of his bed to set his leg in order. He patted his thighs triumphantly, reaching out to take her hands and pull her close, capturing her lips in another kiss.

"Here, I have some sweatpants you could wear while we wait for Effie." he handed her the garment.

"You wanna stay here? Or accompany me on my errand?" he asked, starting to put the extra buns in a clean but used basket. "I promise not to let them bug you too much." he grinned. He wouldn't press her to join him, but no fiber of him wanted to be without her.

It felt strange walking the hallways, the feeling of finality washing over him. What a difference a day makes. Never in his wildest dreams would he have thought he would be walking the halls with Katniss, and now it would be the first and last time.

He knocked on a few doors, the residents eyes going wide with wonder at seeing the Mockingjay before them, but Peeta kept the conversation light and easy. He gave them some buns, shook their hands, made small talk and said his goodbyes. The last few buns though he reserved for the head of the co-op.

A tall broad man with deep dark skin answered. "Charlamagne!" Peeta greeted happily. Before the man could respond a little girl ran through his legs, clinging to his leg yelling his name excitedly.

Peeta handed the basket over to her father before scooping her up with ease and a laugh. "Theodrada!" He spun her around until she faced Katniss. "Look who I brought."

The little girl gasped, big brown eyes going wide as she whispered back. "The girl from your paintings...? She's even prettier!"

Peeta nodded in agreement, resting his temple on hers. "I know right? But let me not be rude. Theo, Charlamagne, this is my wife Katniss." He introduced her.

Charlamagne, extended a hand to her. "Nice to meet you finally." he said laughing at his daughter. "I take it you're here to take him home?" he asked eyeing Peeta knowingly. "I'm sure your district misses him. He's been a big help here. When he showed up, the building was so quiet. Everyone was too busy being scared about the new order of things but Peeta, he just made it all so easy. I've been trying to get him to run for mayor for the last two years but he refuses. Just bakes his bread and hands it out to whoever looks hungriest."

Peeta rolled his eyes, the blush rushing to his cheeks. Praise was hard to tolerate, especially these days. "No one in the Capitol wants a District Twelve member as their representative." Peeta stated pointedly.

"Yeah but you're more than that and you know it." Charlamagne retorted good naturedly. "So when are you headed out?"

"First train we can get." Peeta replied.

Charlamagne laughed with the shake of his head. Theo's face contorted into a deep frown. "You're leaving?"

"Yeah Theo, I gotta go home." Peeta replied giving her a squeeze before setting her down. "That means it's up to you and your dad to make those croissants you love so much. I'll send the recipe." Peeta gave her a wink and a smile.

The pleasantries stretched for longer here. Theo giving Peeta one last longing squeeze while Charlamagne patted his shoulder and shook his hand in goodbye.

Peeta's fingers found where they belonged intertwined in Katniss's hand as they headed back to his flat. "Sorry that was more intense than I expected." he shrugged as they made it back inside.

Katniss looked up at him, water still clinging to her lashes, her body flushed from the warmth of the bath and the weight of everything he’d just said. Her eyes met his, and something in them softened.

"You make it sound easy," she murmured, her voice barely more than a breath. A smile breaking onto her face. "Like just because it’s you, and me, and a bench with suction cups, it’s supposed to make sense."

Her fingers brushed over his chest, tentative, but there. Real. Present. "I want you there. With me. I want new memories in the house" She leaned up and kissed him again, not because she needed to convince him but because Katniss wanted to shower him with affection.

“Breakfast,” she echoed. “Then clothes. Then goodbyes.” A pause, a cheekier smile, “Then we go home. Back to twelve”

The towel clung to her like a second skin, damp and heavy as she watched Peeta smile. He made it sound so simple. A plastic bench. A house full of ghosts. A future wrapped in warm bread and goat milk and good mornings.

Katniss took the towel he offered, drying her face, her arms, her legs — anything to keep her hands busy while the ache in her chest shifted. Peeta was already thinking about breakfast, about clothes, about home. He was always like that. Moving forward. Rooted in hope like it was just part of his nature. And she loved that about him.

But some part of her, the coiled part that never really stopped bracing for loss, felt herself balk. Like if she let this moment stretch too far, it would slip. And he’d be gone again. Katniss reached for his shirt, slipping it over her head as she pulled back on her panties. Slow mornings, rain storms, love. What a life they might live...

"It feels unreal, finally bringing you home "

[mattslvrxo]

first series!!

part { 9 }

꣑ৎ { famous user x chris sturniolo } ꣑ৎ

{ ! } contains: sex, stalking, nsfw content, adulatory , only fans, swearing, .. etc

based on the song

╰┈➤ ❝ . ۫ . Les . ۫ . ❞۫

by Donald Glover

{ your pov }

it was supposed to be a quick stop.

twenty minutes, max.

show face at some rooftop party in soho, say hi to people we half-know, take a drink we don’t want and leave separately so nobody could start rumors.

that’s what we told ourselves.

that’s what we promised.

but then i saw him.

that clean black tee that clung to him like it had no choice, his baggy jeans fitting him perfectly.

and the second he saw me?

his jaw clenched like he was holding back something violent.

he tried to keep it cute. casual. lean on the bar, sip his drink, talk to some guy from a brand meeting like i didn’t exist across the room.

but i could feel him.

his eyes dragging over my body every time he thought i wasn’t looking.

the way he tracked the hem of my denim skirt. how his grip tightened on his cup when i licked gloss off my bottom lip.

by the time he moved, i already knew what was gonna happen.

he came up behind me without saying a word, breath warm on my neck, voice low enough to set something dangerous off in my gut.

“you wore this for me?”

i didn’t answer. didn’t need to.

i just looked at him over my shoulder, tilted my head, and walked straight toward the hallway behind the bar.

he followed like he had no choice.

and then—door shuts.

lock clicks.

backs hit walls.

his hands are all over me in seconds.

ripping the tension to shreds.

like he’s been starving and i’m the first taste he’s allowed himself in weeks.

he grabs my face, my waist, my ass—pulls me into him so hard i moan against his mouth.

i claw at his shirt, tug him closer, feel him grind against me like it’s not just making out anymore—it’s possession. it’s need.

his fingers slide up under my skirt, palms rough, knuckles grazing my inner thighs like he’s testing how far he can go before i break.

“fuck, you feel good,” he groans, dragging his lips down my neck.

“you know what you do to me?”

he lifts me up without warning, sets me on the cold marble of the sink like i weigh nothing.

i spread my knees automatically.

let him step between them.

let him rut against me while i kiss the air out of his lungs.

his mouth is everywhere.

down my throat. across my collarbone. back up to kiss me so hard i can’t even catch my breath.

he palms my breast through the thin fabric and i whimper, tilting my head back, giving him full access to every inch of skin he wants.

i’m soaked.

panting.

so far past rational that when we hear the doorknob rattle, neither of us stops.

we freeze.

only for a second.

his mouth brushes mine.

“don’t say a word.”

someone knocks.

someone calls out, “hello?”

i bury my face in his neck and laugh.

it’s breathless and stupid and wrong—but god, it feels good.

he kisses me again—quick, brutal, like punishment. then he pulls away just enough to fix my skirt and brush my hair off my shoulder.

but when we unlock the door, step out into that hallway—one at a time, casual like nothing happened—

i already know we’re fucked.

a girl near the end of the hallway is staring at us.

phone in hand.

screen already glowing.

mouth open like she’s seen a ghost—or maybe a scandal.

and it’s written all over us.

lipstick gone. shirt wrinkled. chain twisted.

his hand still brushing my waist like he forgot to let go.

she doesn’t say anything.

just stares, then runs.

and i swear the silence between us feels louder than the entire rooftop crowd.

i look up at him.

“you said we’d be careful.”

his eyes are still dark. still burning.

“we were,” he says, like it’s a joke.

“you have no idea how bad i wanted to fuck you in there.”

my whole body lights up.

and when he smirks and laces his fingers through mine?

i don’t pull away.

—

chris’s pov

i should’ve left ten minutes ago.

i told matt and nick i was just showing face. five minutes max. not even gonna drink.

but then i saw her.

and every single ounce of willpower went straight to hell.

she looked unreal.

tight black skirt. glossy lips. that look in her eye that said she knew exactly what she was doing.

and i hated her for it.

hated how good she looked.

how fast she could fuck up my focus with one smirk.

i tried to ignore it.

i really did.

but then she walked past me like she didn’t even see me.

and i lost it.

i followed her like i didn’t care who was watching.

pressed her up against the wall of the bathroom like i owned her.

kissed her like she wasn’t some secret anymore.

we were messy. too loud. too rough.

hands under clothes. her leg wrapped around me.

i could feel how wet she was through her panties and i wanted to tear them off with my teeth.

and when someone knocked?

we didn’t even flinch.

she laughed.

that little breathy sound that makes my brain short-circuit.

and yeah, when we stepped out, we got caught.

not by some camera guy—worse.

some random girl with a phone.

the kind that tweets in all caps and screen-records everything.

she saw my hand on the waist of the baddest girl on the internet.

saw the smudged lipstick.

the look in our eyes.

it’s done now.

no going back.

and i don’t even care.

because fuck the secrecy.

fuck the fake DMs and sneaking around and hiding who the hell she is to me.

taglist: @birlemsbae @elianamattlvr @sagesturns @adoreyousturniolos @sturnizolo @chrissturnslovergirlx @slvt4chrissturniolo @sturniolo-szn2 @matts-girlfriend @chrispleasure @sturns-mermaid @loverrgirl3 @chrisspussygang @kait123456789876543 @sturnsiolos0 @chrissv4mp @auttysturnz @chrizfavlilslut @chrissonnyangel @mattsweethart @mattscumdump @sturnitup @sturnshood @sturniologlaze @sturnswiftie @sturn-baby05

[4ever-me]

Your boyfriend gets jealous of you hanging out with your friends.

🫧 Pairing: Baekjin X Fem!Reader

🫧 Warnings: jealousy, unprotected sex, Dom!Baekjin, impact play(?), strength kink(very light), Baekjin is a little sensitive, degradation (whore).

does not follow the drama's storyline, so all the characters are of legal age. Minors DNI

🫧 A/N: This was a request, so I hope you like it. <3 English isn't my first language

You had just come back from an afternoon with your friends: Baku, Gotak, Sieun and Juntae. Your boyfriend, Baekjin, had already shown how uncomfortable he felt about you hanging out with them, but they were just your friends, and you were already friends with them before you met your boyfriend. You had nothing to do with Baku and Baekjin's fights.

He always asked you to hang out with him and his henchmen, but you thought they were idiots and preferred to stay with your friends. You didn't hang out with them as often after Baekjin told you he didn't like them. But that wouldn't make you completely distance yourself from your friends.

You were on your way to the bowling alley where Baekjin spent half of his time. He had called asking you to come to his office. You go downstairs, seeing several young people gambling, smoking and drinking; you see some guys from the Union and go straight to your boyfriend's office.

You stop at the door, knocking and waiting for his answer. When you hear his muffled voice, you go in and close the door right away.  You see Baekjin studying, staring at the papers as he writes. Your body walks towards his desk, stopping in front of it; the boy continues writing without even threatening to look at you. He puts down his pen, touches his cell phone, sees the time it took him to solve the problem, stops the timer and looks at you for the first time that night. His beautiful, drawn eyes look at you firmly and perhaps a little angry, different from the normal look he always gives you.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, trying to understand his look. He doesn’t answer, just stares at you. And that’s when it hits you: he’s jealous. He knows you were with Baku and his friends.

“Look, I’m sorry! I know you don’t like this, but my friends are important to me too!” You try to make his anger subside, but he just turns his head, giving you a sideways, ironic smile, before looking back at you. He stands up and stops in front of you with his face close to yours.

"No need to be jealous. They're just my friends..." Before you can finish speaking, he grabs your neck, pushing you against the wall; without letting go of your neck, he presses his body against yours.

"I don't care if they're your friends; I'm your boyfriend and I don't like you going out with them!" He squeezes your neck and you feel the air leaving your lungs. And you're not lying when you say you're loving it.

Your eyes close, feeling your panties get wet. He lets go of your neck, slapping the side of your face; not too hard, but enough to turn your face to the side.

"Look at me when I talk to you!" He grabs your face, forcing you to look at him. "Isn't one man enough for you? Do you need five to satisfy yourself?" He mocks, spitting mean words in your face. You whimper, trying to speak. He lets go of your cheek, holding your neck again, but without squeezing.

"I just need you..." Your voice is low.

"That's good to know" He smiles, caressing her face "So next time, obey me when I say you won't go out with those guys." He slaps your face again.

Baekjin slips his hands under your skirt, easily ripping your panties. You jump in fright and he doesn't even give you time to recover before pulling the fabric of your shirt, making the buttons pop off.

He pulls down his pants, grabbing your legs and making them intertwine around his waist, lifting you off the ground with ease. He thrusts his already hard cock into your wet pussy, you gasp at the sudden stretch, feeling it burn, since he hadn't prepared you. He doesn't wait and starts moving, you grip his shoulders tightly.

Your boyfriend wasn't usually rough in sex, he was calm and delicate, always caressing you and touching you as if you were going to break, but you loved it when he fucked you hard like that.

You see him looking at where you're connected, opening his mouth a little in a silent moan. You know he's sensitive and especially when he's inside you, and you know he's holding back as much as he can.  He comes out of his trance and holds your legs tighter, before moving with even more force, you moan and close your eyes, he lets go of one of your legs, grabbing your face and squeezing it, you open your eyes.

"Look at me" He says firmly "You're already so sensitive that you can't even keep your eyes open." He mocks again. The hand that was on your face goes down to the middle of your legs, rubbing your sensitive bud, you get closer to his face trying to kiss his lips, but he pulls away smiling.

"I don't kiss whores" He pulls your bra down, staring at your breasts. You whimper, squeezing yourself around him, feeling your orgasm approaching, but he stops, taking you off the wall, going towards the table, dropping everything you had on it, and laying you down, moving quickly again, he grabs your breast, squeezing it. He moans softly, looking back at your pussy that grips his cock tightly.  He speeds up, you feel his cock twitching inside you and you feel your orgasm approaching again, he starts rubbing your clit, you tremble and scream his name, when you reach your climax. You feel the warm sperm inside you and Baekjin lies on top of you, breathing heavily in your ear, before speaking.

"I expect you to obey me from now on."

[procrastinating-story-writer]

Crashlanding Hedgehogs

Chapter Two

Chapter One

Credit for image: Link

Dividers by @jays-cave-of-rp-memes

Chapter summary: Doing a nice deed should not have come with you nearly losing your life. Hedgehogs are assholes.

Warnings: Reader curses when under stress.

Who knew acting like a Samaritan would result in you having a busted lip, aching ribs, and singed hair.

Stupid, fucking, anthropomorphic hedgehog and dam you're bleeding heart. When you brought him into your home last night, he was out cold. You managed to carefully take the debris out his quills and set him up in the guest room.

Throughout the night you made sure to check in, yet he never moved from where he was placed.

The shock of your life came the following morning, whilst brewing a cup of coffee; a beam of red light hit the window in front of you. This caused the singed hair, the glass to shatter, and your kitchen blinds to catch on fire.

You quickly ripped them down. There is no way you'll allow your house to go up in flames.

The morning was turning into a clusterfuck of events that you were not ready for.

You, like any rational person, thought to be under attack, grabbed the first thing to protect yourself - a frying pan.

Another beam shot at you as you turned. Again, like a miracle or just good reflexes, dodged and dived for cover.

"Stop attacking me!"

Off goes another beam, more shattered glass. The busted lip came as a foot connected to your face when you turned the corner of your island.

"MOTHERFUCKER!"

Having enough of being attacked, you started throwing every pot, pan, utensil you could get your hands on and at the same time trying to find a way outside.

The opportunity presented itself after the hedgehog who could teleport appeared behind you, sending you flying towards the backdoor, after a hard kick.

You have never exited a door so fast in your life, the frying pan clutched tightly in hand. Every curse word known to man left your lips, annoyed about everything.

"I SHOULD HAVE LEFT YOUR UNCONCIOUS ASS OUTSIDE! I WAS ONLY TRYING TO HELP. IS THIS HOW YOU REPAY A GOOD DEED!? YOU'RE AN ASSHOLE!"

The dive off the back porch would have made any athlete swimmer jealous as you dodge another beam.

You painfully landed on your stomach, wind knocked out of you.

Sadly, the chase came to an end when a foot pressed down on your back, pinning you to the ground. How can he be so blasted heavy? Your lungs hurt... it was hard to breathe.

"Who are you?"

The deep, cold voice above you caused your brain to glitch a bit before you remembered this was the enemy.

"Get off me!"

the foot pressed down further "You're not in a position to make demands."

You whimpered out your name.

"Where am I and how did I get here?"

"You're on the planet Mars and you so happened to crash land in my backyard."

"This is not Mars and continue to piss me off and I'll paint the grass red with your blood."

Well fuck and he meant it too.

"Look, all I know is that you fell from the sky last night, crash landed in my yard, and I took you inside and cleaned you up. You're in London, on Earth, and I seriously mean you no harm."

Silence passed "yet you've armed yourself with a weapon."

You groaned at the sheer stupidity of it all "buddy! you attacked me first and if you must know this is a frying pan, a cooking tool. It is not a weapon."

It felt like forever, but the foot finally came off your back. Rolling over, you took in a gulp of air, praying that he would go away and leave you alone.

A shadow hahaha appeared over your face. Oh great!

Opening your eyes, red orbs looked into yours. He looked kind of adorable if it wasn't for the scowl on his face nor the attack on your life.

Before you could say anything else, he teleported away. It left you dumbfounded. Was it safe for you to move? Will he return? Well, now what?

It took some time for you to move but when you did and the adrenaline leaving your system, all the aches and pains appeared.

Standing to your feet left you wheezing, head and side throbbing and vision spotted. The walk inside slow and painstaking.

The frying pan was left abandoned in the sand. You didn't see the pair of eyes that observed your sorry state.

"Time to check on the damage to my kitchen and cancel that project. There is no way in hell I'm getting that done in time. Stupid fucking hedgehog."

[themaclean]

Give And Take (1/2) Characters: Joel Miller/Reader. Summary: 4,956 words, vaguely between S1 & S2, You!Reader in Jackson. Warnings: Nothing you wouldn’t see in the show. ( Ao3 )

Of all the skills in the world your mother could have taught you, it had to be how to cook. And sure, it isn't wholly useless. Most skills were some kind of useful in Jackson, but most got by fine without your help. She could have taught you how to make those salves to soothe burns from the sun or how to make a fishing line with a branch and some twine.

But by the time she passed, something you had to see through, all you had was a mean spaghetti recipe and a whole host of makeshift meals. You knew how to treat meat to soften it, how to bring out the flavor with local herbs. Stuff that people didn’t think about when they were fighting clickers night and day, their shoes worn through and sweat on their brow.

You were who the people of Jackson went to if an anniversary was on the way or if they had a date to impress. And you got your share of payments, a favor here or a new pair of boots there. But you weren't saving lives and you weren't building infrastructure.

Funny thing about that – both those jobs landed squarely on the magnanimous Joel Miller who lived next door. The same man who was the backbone of the town, called upon daily for every little thing the people needed. The same man who frowned his way across Jackson for the past month and the same man who'd shot your brother when he turned on patrol.

At first you were glad to see him upset, because screw him. He’d knocked over one of your lawn gnomes and hadn’t so much as apologized, and he’d borrowed some scissors last month and hadn’t given them back. Sure, he was a good looking guy, but that passing truth thinned when you weighed it against the mounting slights – oh, and the fact he had your brother's blood on his boots.

Every time you saw Joel and Tommy together, your chest ached.

Because they had each other, and who did you have?

You weren't close to anyone, not since you'd arrived several months back. And what little conversations you did have often circled back to supplies or whether you'd cover a shift on the wall for someone.

Transactional, curt and quick.

And maybe that was your fault.

You didn't exactly push yourself to socialize, but you were polite and you were sweet and you were helpful. You just didn't know what else to offer or what else to do, as people had their circles and you orbited like a starving pup by the back of a butcher.

And maybe that was why Joel stood out to you, because he orbited too.

When he wasn't with his daughter Ellie, who you hadn't seen with much as of late, or with his family, he orbited too.

He orbited and frowned and that was your thing.

That was the narrative you spun up to amuse yourself as he stomped through shallow snow, not yet heavy as the weather sat indecisive between autumn and winter. You sat on your porch, mug of expired cocoa held between bony hands. Winter had stripped you of most of your cushion, a fact you felt as a strong wind whipped against your face.

And then your door fell off.

The damn thing clean skidded down the front porch like a sled, hitting the ground so hard you couldn’t help but shriek. You thought clickers or somesuch had finally breached the wall, eager to gnaw on your bones.

“Wood rot,” Joel said, his hand flat on the frame. He stared at it, gaze fixed on the door’s rotted hinges. He’d defaulted to it like it was his child, laying in the snow after a fall. He moved to look at the door frame where it’d been torn from, his frown no less deep. “Made nasty work of it.”

“I didn't do it.”

Joel exhaled out a sound, somewhere between amused and annoyed that he was amused. “I know you didn't do it. Just what it is, nasty work.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Rot?” Joel said, a brow arched.

“The door. It's freezing out here, I’d rather my house not be freezing, too...”

Joel gave a polite smile and smacked the frame, the force enough to spin him towards you. “Yeah, easy enough.”

“What’ll it cost?”

“No cost.”

“You can't do it for nothing,” you said, brow furrowed. “I can sew, I can paint… I can cook.”

“Yeah, I can do all that too,” Joel said in a dismissive voice. “Ain't nothing personal, darling, just… Don't need payment for something so small.”

So small, yet you couldn’t do it yourself. You gave a mincing smile, arms folded tight to your chest under your cardigan. You had been so pleased with yourself, your favorite mug cracked on the pavement below your porch, mixed in with the dirt and the dead daisies.

You’d clean it up later.

It took an hour or so of him umming and ahhing by your front door, but then it was done. And he had insisted that he didn't want payment but you made some spaghetti anyway for him, because it was easier to force food on people when it was right in front of them.

And Joel fixed the door and took the damn spaghetti. Deal done, case closed. You refused to have a blank check of a favor owed to Joel Miller. Not that he’d ask anything untoward of you, merely that it painted you as useless. If you couldn't offer anything, you were a bleeding wound in Jackson, only here to take, take, take.

It wasn’t until a few days later you went to find your broken mug but it wasn’t in the flower bed. Maybe the stupid thing had turned into dust from the cold, you didn’t know how science worked. It had been a gift from your brother from one of his first patrols, but it had been an abysmally ugly thing. The handle was a fat pink dog with a nasty smirk and the text wrapped around it said something about bad girls being better, or something stupid like that.

And you didn’t want to think about how you didn’t have much here in Jackson. Or how you would miss that mug because your brother had damn near pissed himself with laughter when you saw it, and how you tried to be nice about it because you thought he was serious about the gift. 

Then your damn window broke from some heavy hail, you almost cut your foot open on it. And Joel fixed that too and you made him a casserole that time.

The pattern went on, where some small thing would break and Joel would fix it. Then he'd say he didn't want anything and you'd make him the best damn meal out of spite, because fuck him for his charity work.

He'd return the trays or containers, clean and scrawled with something short. It'd be something like ‘much appreciated’ or ‘good food’. One note even had a smiley face on it, but it was rough-shod and lopsided. Even his damn smiley face looked like it was frowning.

You had to wonder if the note made it less strange than a random kitchen pan turning up, but you kept them.

You kept a whole jar of Joel’s tiny compliments, on receipts or torn pages of books. Different pens too, some black, some blue. One was glittery pink and you had to wonder if Joel noticed but then didn't care, or decided if he rewrote it, it'd be more like caring. You pictured Joel with his glittery pink pen out on patrol, bent over a counter or a decayed desk. A desk with wood rot, easy to fix.

You pictured his grimace when he realized the pen was glittery pink ink, that hesitation before he kept writing.

The pink note only said ‘good’ like it killed him to write it.

One night Joel came over to fix your porch stairs without speaking to you about it first. You heard the scrabbling and screws, and then saw his brown-grey hair poking over the lopsided stairs. One had sunk in and you kept stumbling over it.

You had to watch him work.

He saw you out of the corner of his eye and let out a scoff of a sound. He kept working, focused, as if you weren’t there. But he said he hated watching you nearly fall over every day on your way to the center of town. That it was a hospital visiting waiting to happen and Jackson couldn’t spare the medical aide.

And, in his defense, he raised a fair point.

You didn’t want to bug him about it, given you leaned too heavily on him. He wasn’t your personal handyman but he felt like it, with how he’d handle any issue as quickly as he could.

“You could eat here tonight,” you said. “If you eat here, you don't have to bring the tray back.”

“Something wrong with how the trays come back?”

“Yes,” you say, your voice severe. You almost had him for a moment, his eyes widened as he leaned up to look at you. “I'm fucking with you – no, just would be nice. Some company.”

Joel’s eyes twitched as he sized you up. His tongue flashed between his teeth before he put his head back down, eyes narrowed in the bright sunset. “Hate how much you swear,” he said under his breath.

Your eyebrows shot up your forehead. “Damn, fuck, shit, bitch,” you said. “I'm a grown ass woman Joel.”

“Swearing doesn’t make you grown.”

“Trust me, I’m grown.” You stared at him, your hands framed against the porch fence. “You gonna eat here or not?”

Joel laughed because he had no reason to say no – you knew he lived alone, more or less.

“I think it'll do us both a world of good,” you said with a firm smack on the fence. “Be like a date. Bet you haven’t had one of those in a while.”

Joel gave you a side-eye that you couldn't read. Could be because he killed your brother or because you annoyed him, but there were some rankles to him. You didn't care so much – you always liked to see people enjoy the food you made. It was the best part of making meals and the handwritten notes were polite at best.

You didn't let Joel slip away, not even as he said he should shower before dinner. That was an excuse if you ever heard it. So you hounded him until he was done and helped him pack up his tools.

“Y'like a damn puppy,” he said as he straightened his posture.

You let out a bark, if only to see him wince. “You're just fun to fuck with.”

Joel winced but followed you inside.

Dinner came and went, both quiet and comfortable. Joel was the quiet type while you found it easy to yap away. And when it came to Joel, you needed to heckle him or it’d be both of you sitting in silence. You weren't so good with new people, but once you got warmed up to them, you were impossible to shut up.

A fact poor Joel failed to account for.

“You got a wife, Joel?”

“No,” Joel said, flatly.

“Husband?”

“Is this you hitting on me?” He leaned back in his seat, wrists rested on the kitchen table.

“Is it working?”

“No.” Joel shook his head. “I’m about all I can handle.”

“Dramatic,” you said, unaffected. “I was married for a while but he got bit. Had to shoot him. Nothing unique.”

Joel stared you down, like he was waiting for a punchline that wasn’t coming. “Doesn't make it hurt less,” Joel said.

“Being blunt softens the hurt. No point stumbling around it, aching.” You gave him a smile like an apology. “I loved him, but loving someone won’t make them better, not from this fungus shit. Even if you wish it will all be okay, it’s just… It is what it is, or whatever they say. Life goes on.”

Joel toyed with the dark brown bottle, fingers light against the wet neck of it. You didn't expect to bring up Lucas but it was the truth of the matter. People didn't die of old age much anymore, it was almost always at the hands of the damn cordyceps. Or, in part, by the hands of those not yet turned.

“So you're alone here?” Joel gestured to the house.

“I am,” you said. “I know you have a daughter, right?”

“She's at that age,” Joel said with a deep ache in his voice. “No time for… Just, priorities shift. Life opens up once you hit eighteen, nineteen.”

“Just means you raised her to be strong enough to handle her own,” you said by way of reassurance. “She'll come back to you when she's worked through that teenage independence.”

“Don’t care so much if she comes back to me, or whatever she does. Long as she’s…” Joel trailed off, like he didn’t even know himself what he wanted for her.

“Happy?”

“Alive,” Joel said.

You let out a soft laugh, eyelids drifting as the cheap mulled wine hit your stomach. “I appreciate you, just… What you do for the town, and what you did for me.”

“Fixed a door, some stairs… Ain’t done much,” Joel said with a shake of his head.

“My brother,” you said, sparse on details or much of anything. You didn’t want to speak at length about it, but you never said thank you. You’re pretty sure when Joel told you what he did, you slapped him. He took it and you hadn’t spoken since.

Joel’s lips tugged in a smile but gave up just as quickly. Like he wanted you to know he’d heard you, but he wasn’t the sort to smile. It was a shame. He was rather handsome when he smiled, a fact that bounced in your head over and over.

But he seemed to get it, and that much was appreciated.

You sat in silence with him. Your wine in your hand, his beer in his. There wasn’t much to talk about, not more than you’d already said. The town center was getting some new soil for the gardens. A new little shop opened up, selling things they found on patrol. But Jackson wasn’t really about the money. Hell, the town didn’t even really have currency aside from booze or cigarettes, maybe medicine. Everything was bartering, favors and kind words.

It was give and take.

“Did you wanna fuck?”

Joel’s hand stilled on his beer, like he’d stopped mid-sip.

“That came out really blunt,” you said with a laugh. “Forget it. Sorry, I…”

“Really just cut to the quick,” Joel said, his voice scratchy from the hops. “I don’t really…”

“You are gay.”

“No,” Joel snapped, like he might leap over the table at you. “Not that it’s – don’t matter, what people…” He stumbled over his words, stuck between anger and flustered, if you were to guess. “I meant, I’m not really looking for all that.”

“For sex?”

“For a girlfriend, or wife…” He adjusted in his seat, like he didn’t know what to say to get himself out of here.

“I didn’t say commit,” you said, your brow raised. “I said sex.”

“Why?”

You had to laugh, the sound quick and sharp through the tense air.

“I… I know why people have sex,” Joel almost growled, like he hated to say the words at all. “I’m twice your age, girl. I don’t wanna get into the how and why of it all, or why that ain’t a good idea.”

“Something to do,” you said, your voice lower. “Not really any other guys in town who seem to care about me… Not like I’m asking you to make an honest woman of me.”

Joel looked no less mortified. There was a wan, distant look in his face, still relaxed in the seat down the table from you. And he kept his gaze on you as you picked through the plates you’d laid out to save what you could. Leftovers were a godsend here at the end of the world, so even if he’d half-eaten a piece, you saved it. Never knew what would be your last meal.

You pottered around the kitchen, between cabinets and by the cooler box shoved full of snow. In some weird way, being so blunt was easier than a back and forth dance. It’d been a few months since he’d first fixed your front door, weeks of little notes, plenty of dinners exchanged, and those little lingering looks.

And then you leaned against the kitchen counter, your hands by your hips as you stared him down.

“You didn’t say you didn’t wanna fuck,” you said. “You said you don’t wanna make it a big thing.”

Joel caught his lip between his teeth and adjusted in his seat, his head tipped to the side.

“I mean it how I said it,” you said, a soft smile on your lips. “It’s something to do. And I don’t care how old you are, I’m damn near thirty. Might even be past it, time has a funny way lately. Hard to keep a finger on the pulse of it when you’re alone.”

You didn’t mean for your voice to crack at the end there, as you confessed how lonely you’d been lately. But that seemed to be the nail in the coffin for the man seated a few paces away.

Or, for the man who’d closed the gap, near a head taller than you, grey and lined in a way few men were. He’d survived. Hell, he’d lived. He’d damn near rendered Jackson a new pulse and a new lease on survival.

“I appreciate dinner,” Joel said with a slow nod. He set his bottle by the sink, to be washed. And then as he got that final brush close to you, he was gone again and you keened after him.

A sound like a whimper crawled out of your throat, muffled by your pouted lips.

And that got him. Or you got him by the collar. Or one of you stumbled, because his hands were on your hips and the next moment your ass was on the counter and his hips were lodged between your thighs.

God, your mother would be fuming if she saw you be so reckless, to chase a man who wanted nothing from you except a quick fuck and a free touch up to your insulation. He’d tend to your house and care for your lawn but that was as far as Joel went. Until now, anyway, his cock hard enough to stand out against his worn denim jeans.

“This what you want?” Joel asked, and at first you thought he was trying to dirty talk you. But then you pieced together with the softness in his big, brown eyes and the worry in his jaw that it went deeper.

“You’re what I want,” you said, blunt. “I want you, Joel.”

Joel made a sound so rough you’d never in a million years have thought he’d be the one to make it. It came from low in his chest, the same fight as a man about to tear into clickers, the same man who would kill a dozen men if it meant you were safe. It was the same growl Lucas had, the same nasty impulse that kept you safe for so long.

And now you had a little flicker of it from a man you’d never expected to crack.

It was a messy kiss, too much teeth. You hadn’t kissed anyone for years, and you supposed the same must be true for Joel. You were both single, at least, and it’d been months since you arrived. No women you knew had snared Joel.

And even if he’d slept around, you couldn’t find it in yourself to give a fuck.

But from how he cradled your head as he pushed you against the wall, how slow and intent he was with his hips, he didn’t seem like the type.

And then his fingers were on your belt and you helped him with that.

After a bit of a struggle and a chilly reality check as your ass came into contact with a stone countertop, you tensed as he cupped you.

“Y’good, darling?” He whispered against your ear, mouth angled by your ear as he swallowed audibly.

“Very, very,” you said, drunk on sensations alone. “So good.”

Joel smiled, or it felt like it with how his cheek curled against your neck. “Good.”

You nodded until he started stroking you through worn cotton panties with some cartoon cat on the front. They’d made you laugh, because pussy, but you hadn’t meant to seduce your aloof old man of a neighbor. You prayed he didn’t look down, or if he did, he was too enamored with the idea of fucking you to bring it up.

Jackson had limited clothes.

And then you couldn’t bring yourself to care about that because everything between you was so hot and slick. Your hips canted in time with your moans, and then all you wanted to do was shred the damn panties and get him inside you. But he found a midway point as he pried your panties aside, enough to tease you with his index and middle finger.

Joel nosed through your hair, face buried away from your gaze. It made it much more like fucking rather than something intimate if he refused to look at you, so you went with it. You didn’t care either way – even if he’d been uninterested the whole way, well, you’d live. He was still helpful and you still made bomb spaghetti.

“Please Joel,” you said into the open air, head rocked back so you could stare at the ceiling. You yanked off your shirt, two buttons yanked off by how much you struggled.

Joel shifted back, enough to take in your chest, one hand flat against your ribs. His thumb ghosted against your breast and you grabbed his hand to make him touch you, like he needed permission. And he took it with gusto, his dark brown eyes even darker as he settled into this rhythm with you. He kissed down your throat, your chest, messy and quick as he nipped at your nipple.

And then he slid a finger into you, his thumb rough against your clit and the world made sense again.

The day to day of it all, the struggles, the misery, the way you dragged yourself from the canteen to the store to the house you’d been given when you arrived. Everything felt so dreary and you often wondered what was the point. And maybe it was sad to say, that this moment of genuine release, this one moment between you and someone else, this was what you were missing.

Just a little time, with someone who rasped away all the bullshit with every lap of their tongue or curl of their fingers. God, it had been so long, you could almost come from the sheer relief of the act at all. But you weren’t so lucky, or unlucky, as to find release so easily. But Joel angled for it, drunk in his own way on how you reacted. Each time you moaned or twitched, his lips twitched, like he wanted to smile.

It was right there, but he wouldn’t let it out.

And you rode his fingers, just his index, then his middle and index, and you wanted more, you needed more, and then it was something else you needed.

“Fuck Joel,” you gritted your teeth like you might bite him. “Fuck me, Joel.”

“Least you have a reason to have such a dirty mouth,” Joel mumbled, his lips hovered by her breast.

“Joel,” you repeated.

“This is plenty,” Joel said.

And he had the cruel clarity to fuck you harder with his fingers, three now, his observant eyes fixed to whatever made you twitch more. And you hated him in that moment because he wasn’t going to fuck you, you could tell. He was fixing you the same way he fixed your damn door, or your stairs, where he knew what it’d take to get you to work the way you were meant to.

“Please, please,” you begged, your hips writhed as you tried to throw off his momentum.

“Darling,” he said, his hand slowed. His lips parted but then his mouth shut, some private misery in his face.

“If…” You panted, trying to catch a thread of a thought rather than chase your own bliss. He was dressed, you were naked except for your stupid pussy panties. “Do you want to fuck me?”

Joel shook his head, more out of disbelief than dismissal. “You need a fix, you got it.”

“No,” you gritted your teeth. “I… I wanted you, Joel. If you wanted to, too, obviously,” you added, mumbling, afraid to be too pushy.

“Been a while,” Joel said, his voice slow. “Not sure how it’d even go.”

“You put your cock in me, and we thrust 'til we feel good,” you said, breathy and slow. “Promise it’s easy, I can show you.”

Joel’s hands went to the counter either side of you. “It’s everything after.”

“What, if I get pregnant?” You blinked slowly at him. “So what.”

Joel looked like he might leave, right then and there.

“I don’t know, Joel, fuck, I was married twelve years, fucked before that plenty, never got pregnant. And I tried. I tried often, and a lot, and…” You trailed off with a shrug of your shoulder. “If you somehow knocked me up, you’d be doing me a favor and performing a miracle all at once.”

Joel parted his lips, his expression so much less lost in the moment, back to reclusive, like he was responsible for you.

“We don’t have to,” you said, slow, shaky, like you didn’t know what to say. You were buck naked on your kitchen counter with an erect Joel Miller staring at you like he felt sorry for you. “Or, we can get condoms, do it another time.”

Joel tongued his teeth, like he didn’t know what to say.

You shooed him away, your legs curled up as you twisted away, feeling stupid for even trying in the first place. You gave him a tense, distant smile, like you got the message. “Felt good,” you said with a wave of your hand.

“We could do that.”

You shot him a look as you yanked your shirt back on. You’d have to find some navy buttons to replace your wayward ones that had plinked across your kitchen floor. 

Joel caught your jaw and pulled you closer, to kiss you like he had when you’d first started to fuck around. He kissed you long and slow, deeper than he had before. And when he pulled back, he thumbed your cheek hard. “Do it proper, another time.”

You nodded, unsure if you could speak. You doubted he meant it but it was a nice thing to say. Your thighs ached as you adjusted, his rough hands like a phantom still in motion. You made a soft noise from the back of your throat.

“C’mere,” Joel muttered, his hand on your thigh. He prised you apart, far easier than he even anticipated as you slid closer to him on the counter. He sank down, face-first in your panties with the cat on the front. “Fuckin’…”

“Language,” you said with a gasp.

And then Joel fucking Miller tore the panties clean off, a disaffected raise of his brow. And then he was tongue deep in your pussy, back to the same rhythm he’d been at before. And you hadn’t even the heart to whine or complain, or to kick up a fuss that he wasn’t giving you exactly what you asked for.

Because his beard felt so nice, rasped against your inner thighs and against your cunt. He shoved your heel onto the edge of the counter, your legs spread wider, your core in quick quakes as he alternated his fingers and tongue. Quick, quick, quick and then it was all you could do to keep yourself in place.

And then you rode out an orgasm onto his stupid face, still mad he’d teased you but relieved he’d given in, too. It was a strange mix of frustration, because it wasn’t exactly what you wanted, but it was also the best orgasm you’d had in living memory. And maybe that was recency bias, or some other sex-drunk thought, but all you could feel was his tongue deep in your cunt and the quakes he coaxed from you.

Fucking asshole.

And then you came down and Joel hovered around, like he didn’t know what to say or do. And then he said it was late, and he should get back to his place, and he’d like some leftovers to go, for Ellie. And you let him take it, as it meant he’d have to come by to return the tray.

And you would hold him to what he’d said, about how he’d find some condoms and fuck you like he promised. You’d be polite about it, but after each patrol, you’d sidle up to him. But he said he’d do you proper and you didn’t want to say he owed you, because he didn’t. It was more like you owed him, because he’d seen you through an orgasm and that was just kind neighborly behavior, to make sure you took care of one another.

Give and take.