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nanamiskentos · 3 months ago

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SPORTS CAR ✤ jujutsu kaisen

SYN. ➤ Zero decorum, max horsepower, full send. They don't just want the checkered flag, they want you wrecked and beggin'. This grid certainly doesn't play fair!

𝐉𝐉𝐊 ➤ Getō, Gojō, Tōji, Chōsō, Sukuna, Kashimo, Yuki, Shoko

cw ─ MDNI. afab!reader, FORMULA 1 AU, semi-publíc, praise, cockpit séx (highly inaccurate), possessive séx, chóking, spánking, reader is called 'bunny' in kashimo's, rough hándling, dírty talk, créampié, óral (f), mirror séx, backshóts, under the table, voice kínk, fíngeríng, overstím, squírting, medical pláy, tríbbing, strípping, cervíx kissing

wc. 8k

呪術廻戦 NOTE ( author says ) i've watched every sports car x f1 edit on tiktok i think. any likeness or resemblance to real f1 drivers is only a coincidence, nor is this reflective of the real profession 😭 didn't write this with particular racers or teams in mind.

☁︎ GOJŌ SATORU ➤ p1 & panting

". . he did it in tokyo, he did in kyoto, satoru gojo wins again, folks! that's his fifth prix win this season! absolutely unbelievable, my god."

the engine's still ticking down, the comms are crackling. you can barely register the deafening cheers before you're being yanked forward, senses overtaken by the scent of peppery armani.

"satoru –, wait," you're gasping, half-tripping into the cockpit as the pit crew's radio voice filters in.

"gojo, repeat, are you still in the car? you need to –"

but the headset cuts off with a click as he tears it from your ears, tossing it somewhere that you can't see. his crimson race gloves have been pulled off, but gojo's skin is still searing hot, slick with sweat and speed. pink lips parted, panting, not just from exhaustion, but from the look he's giving you.

"you're lucky i didn't pull you in mid-lap," gojo grins, and you fight the urge to tell him how impossible that would be, as his sharp white canines peek out from underneath his wolfish grin, flushed with victory, "baby, did you see that finish?"

you know the rational option here would be protesting, knowing that the team is probably workin' themselves up into a flurry in the garage, but it's hard not to feel light-headed and so damn hungry when gojo's gripping your waist, and dragging you just in front of the console, right up against the curve of the cramped cabin. thank god, the team opted for a mildly roomier cockpit this year, or else. . .

his helmet's off, snow-white hair a mess, and his jewel-blue eyes are electric, "i've got 'bout five minutes before they notice i'm not doing interviews." gojo's already pawing at your thighs, fingers desperate to tear down the waistband of your underwear, "i want them to wonder where i am."

gojo's teasing hands slips between your thighs, already playing with your slippery centre, and your boyfriend's leaning in, that rasp echoing against your cheek, "wanna show me how proud you are of your winner, baby?"

the car's still hot, the windows are fogging, and outside. . .the cameras are still flashing. but inside, it's just you and gojo, and the scent of burnt rubber and carbon fibre, and he's clearly not letting you go 'till you've screamed louder than the crowd.

gojo's already shoving his scarlet racing suit down to his shapely hips, movements sloppy with urgency as he settles you in his lap. long leaking cock already smearing a thin line of pre over his chiselled abdomen, "just a few minutes, sweets," he's murmuring against your throat, "we can make it work, yeah?"

you shouldn't, you really shouldn't. the entire paddock must be outside. the media, the team, the telemetry crew. . .everyone is either lookin' for him, or watching the live feed gojo's just abandoned. or they know not to look too closely, it's hard to challenge the king of the track when he's just pulled another podium win.

gojo's hands are rocking your hips back and forth, and he's determined to have as much of your slick coat his base before he truly snags his cock in. tongue laving at your jumping pulse, peppering sharp kisses against your soft flesh.

"t-toru –," you try, shaky breath catching as he continues to grind your folds against his cock, parting them to slot his thick shaft between them. teasing, and so sensitive.

"you looked soo hot standin' there," gojo murmurs, cerulean eyes lidded and starving to feel you drip arousal all over him, making a sticky mess, "lookin' so g-gorgeous, and – heh, this wet all f'me? is that it, baby? can't even think straight."

you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders as his thick, bulbous tips snags against the hood of where you're most sensitive, giving your clit that most delicious friction you'd been craving.

"yeahhh," gojo purrs, nosing along your jaw, "i saw ya', crossed the finished line and thought how l-lucky i am that you're mine."

god, you just need to breathe through it, breathe through the incredible aphrodisiac that's called gojo satoru. he's already tweaking his fingers through your sopping cunt, dragging them against your folds to reach up and pinch at your clit.

"we don't have t-time –" but your thighs are shaking, heart already jumping at how close the stimulation has you to knocking on the door of a brilliant orgasm.

"i'll make time," gojo simply says, already lining himself up. the fucker's giggling to himself, heady and drunk from his win, slowly pattering his fingers up your abdomen as though he knows just how deep he's going to be. kneading at your groin, like x marks the spot.

the stretch simply steals the words from your mouth, rendering your language into a soft mush, shaken by how delicious his cock feels in your sticky, gummy walls. your head lolls against his broad, flushed shoulder — the creamy skin mottled strawberry-pink.

gojo's hissing, low and feral, absolutely gone as he holds you down, filling you straight to the hilt, each vein pressing and melding against your pussy.

"hahh, oh, baby," your boyfriend groans, bucking up once to test the clear water, fast and deep, like he wants to feel every tremble of your form above him, "always s-so perfect for me after a win."

the pace is brutal, desperate, made worse by how little space there is in the cockpit. your back slams into the dash, but it's softened by his large hand splayed across the skin. legs hooked haphazardly over his carved waist, bodies tangled in both victory and vice.

plap! plap! smack!

"ya' feel t-that," gojo pants, thrusts growing harsher, cock pressing up against that sweet spot that makes you sob, "that's what champions do, heh."

every low swirl of his shaking hips is hypnotic, and so dizzying, making a filthy mess that you know is going to puddle and seep into over his groin, soak into the curl of white hairs dusting the base of his girthy shaft.

"you gonna' cum for ya' w-winner?" gojo gasps, that priggish, love-struck grin still painted over his gorgeous features, even as his voice begins to shake, "say it, baby. tell me i'm your f-favourite."

"you, s-satoru," you half-sob, half-plead, "you're my favourite. god, it's so deep." wrecked, begging, and he groans like this is the podium he wanted all along.

your orgasm hits like white noise, blotting out the world beyond. you can barely register his stuttering hips, his sharp curses of your name, god, he loves you. his sharp breath hitches as gojo follows you over the edge.

satin-like ropes of cum shooting up to fill you up soo perfectly, and the world champion is sinking his teeth into your neck as he moans your name, low and ruined.

"i can't believe you were that horny n' hard after a race," you scold, body still trembling from the aftershocks. feeling warmth pool between your tacked groins, as your arousal mixes with him seed.

"you love it," gojo replies, not a hint of shame colouring his voice, "besides, this car's seen worse. like the time i got myself off, jus' thinking about you in spain. was only lookin' at you through the windows, that was enough."

"you did it on your own in this car, just from looking at me?"

gojo kisses your jaw, "don't shame me, i'm a sensitive man." he snickers as you smack his, holding you tighter.

outside, the pit crew must be losing their minds. but inside, gojo just won the real prize, and he's buried inside.

☁︎ GETŌ SUGURU ➤ in the devil's seat

the telemetry room is freezing, cold enough to keep everyone sharp and alert, absolutely on edge. but noting could make you more on edge than the hot seat that you're currently sitting in right now. just besides geto suguru, headseat askew, trying to not to moan when his fingers scissor through your folds again.

on the wall, the sector times update in real time, and god. . .the room is packed. screens flickering, engineers perched over the high chairs as they murmur, utterly focused on the little red dot zipping across the map.

see, you'd joined the team for simulations, not stimulations. but you're hardly one to complain, not when you know how much of an effect this has on geto. his sculpture-carved jaw is ticking, a faint flush blooming on the back of his neck that could be easily attributed to the excitement of the race.

"gojo, purple in sector two," geto's flatly leaning into the silver microphone, voice entirely level, "box this lap, copy?"

his other hand is under your waistband. two fingers, long and expert, utterly merciless, circle your slick folds deep and slow. knowing exactly how to make you tremble without a sound, thankfully, with the table in the way.

the rough pads of geto's fingertips are soaking up every beading drop of your arousal, his knuckles glossy with your release. he leans in, cool lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice low and determined, "c'mon, stay still. don't want my pretty girl embarrassing herself."

you can only nod, biting your lower lip so hard that you swear iron blooms on your tongue. but it had been hard to resist anything when geto suguru looked at you like that before quali, pulling you aside and asking you to shadow him during the race. violet eyes lidded, the faintest watercolour brush of rose plastered over his cheekbones.

and. . .your headset is still on. one wrong noise, one hasty move, and everyone will probably hear exactly how you shadow the famed geto suguru. you're sure your microphone levels are low enough so they don't pick up on the constant, sloppy squelch! of geto's middle and ring finger plunging into your dripping core.

"my clever girl," geto coos, but his eyes don't shift from watching the golden boy's onboards (gojo satoru, of course). well, aside from the temporary loss in his composure when you clench the sticky walls of your inner muscles against his fingers, his ink-dark lashes briefly fluttering wide in shock. lookin' close enough to spill a thick load in his slacks.

your body must be shaking now, your thighs trembling with the herculean exertion that geto's pulling from you. every new lap, every clean turn from gojo is matched by geto sinking his fingers deeper into you, drawing slack and curling up against that sweet, rough patch until you choke on a whimper.

a wan smile twitches his lips, almost amused. fond, even. he's caught it, he knows just how close you are to spilling over his hands. that release that he's just equally desperate to chase, geto needs you to fall apart on him.

"there it is," geto's purring, and you can barely hear the excitement his tone over the ringing in your ears, "good girl." someone's leaning over from behind, and thank god they can't see exactly what's been going on beneath the table, "suguru, sector 3 delta just spiked."

geto doesn't blink, temporarily halting the wet sloshes that he's composing between your thighs. rather, focusing some much needed attention on the swollen bundle of nerves beneath your mound, "that's expected. wind change near turn fourteen."

his thumb roughly tacks beneath the glistening hood, "you're doing so well," geto breathes against your temple, "think you've earned a reward after this. . .or a punishment, what'd you say?"

it only takes three more tender, pounding hits of his long fingers against the most sensitive spots. your eyes flutter shut, mouth pressed thinly as you're determined to not cry, nor gasp and moan. but each swipe of geto's digits against your clit undos your resolve further and further, your thighs shaking from the extra stimulation.

and when gojo wins the pole, cheers breaking through your headset, the room leaping to its feat, geto doesn't even flinch. he's slowly withdrawing his hand from your waistband. fingertips pruned, sticky and warn as he slips them into your mouth. discreet, hungry.

"clean up, gorgeous," geto gruffly whispers, his mauve eyes drawn to how your lips eagerly part around his index finger, "we should celebrate tonight."

your head must be spinning, legs numb from what geto has wrought from you, that dazzling orgasm that leaves the world awash in shades of silver and white. you can taste yourself, that bittersweet tang on his fingers, and it renders you dazed.

"thaaaat's it, beautiful," geto laughs, licking the last of your moans and release from his finger, "now you're learnin' real strategy."

☁︎ RYŌMEN SUKUNA ➤ crash into me

the door of the driver's trailer slams shut behind you, like a starting light hitting green. your back hits the wall you before you can even speak, before you can even wonder at what exactly has gotten into your fiancé now.

ryomen sukuna's warm hand is wrapped around your throat, a thumb gently soothing at the lower juncture of your jaw. his other hand is still smudged with track rubber and sticky grease, gripping your waist tight enough to deliciously bruise.

"they think i'm reckless," sukuna's voice is a hot, sharp growl in your ear, "then let's give 'em a reason to blacklist me, eh, sweetheart?"

perhaps it would be wiser to interrupt him, to warn sukuna that the media is still swarming outside, and this is the last thing the fia will tolerate from him. but russet eyes are almost. . .tender as they roam over you, his grasp on the base of your neck enough to make your brain melt and your knees forget how to hold you up.

"wanna' be my podium, girl? i should have you on your knees, don't ya' agree?" sukuna's still in his fireproofs, unzipped just enough to expose the broad, tan expanse of his chest. the inky-black tattoos crawling down his skin, some sin-streaked marks that you ache to press your lips to.

maroon eyes gleam, still utterly high off the chaos of the race, from the penalty that cost him his pole for the rest of the weekend. and you? well, you're gonna' have to be his victory lap instead.

you moan, wanton and improper, as sukuna's mouth teases down your neck, pressing to your collarbones before clawed nails tear open your blouse as though it's a paper flag, yanking you forward by a sturdy, yet thin chain. bringing you closer still, eye to eye with the racer that the world calls the king of curses.

and of course, what else would be dangling from the chain but his name? sukuna, the kanji letters encrusted with small precious stones, a gift that he had surprised you with for your most recent anniversary.

"hah, you wear this for me? cute lil' trophy like you're my number one fan, orrr my good luck charm?"

sukuna pushes you against the opposite wall, jostling the numerous trophies that already litter the shelves. you gasp, certain that pools of arousal must already be glistening between your thighs. his hand slides lower, rough and greedy, impatient as he tends to be. slipping past the lace edge of your panties to paw at your sopping folds.

he's groaning, hot and heavy, feeling just how wet you are. sukuna's almost ecstatic at the thought that his girl was walkin' around with such a. . .waterpark between her legs. primed to gush over him, to soak the base of his cock with every nasty thrust that he's daydreaming about.

"you're s-soaked, sweetheart. you're likin' this, aren'tcha?"

your head lolls as you nod, succumbing to the sweet hands of pleasure throbbing below your groan. sukuna smacks your thigh, and the force is hard enough for your eyes to flutter open, his warm hand gently running over the stung skin to soothe the flesh, "eyes on me, girl. remember what i said 'bout being my podium? ya' gotta' earn it."

there's little warning before sukuna scoops you up, lifting you bridal style, only to throw you down onto the little couch in the corner of the trailer, yanking the remainder of his race suit down with a snarl, "s-see, this is what they gotta' know. i can't do. . .slow or soft. i win, heh."

you know full well that sukuna is capable of both slow and soft, and thick, heavy strokes that dig through your cunt as he often holds you down in the most delicious mating press. but you're not eager to quite rain on his ego parade, unless, of course, it's a different sort of rain from between your legs that he can eagerly lap up.

sukuna must be leaving marks on your hips, teeth on your collarbone, handprints on your thighs. each thrust of his thick, wide cock must be some punishment for the stewards, for the world, for the fact that he didn't really get to break someone out there today.

but you, his gorgeous wife-to-be? you can take it, and sukuna has to hide the rapid flush blooming over his face, opting to nip at the back of your neck.

"we're gonna' do this 'till those fuckin' stewards retract that penalty," sukuna pants into your ear, thick cock rummaging sweet patterns right up into you as the tufts of soaked blush-pink hair are pressed right against you. imprinting the thick vein that runs along the underside of his cock in a way that has you seeing stars and gasping oh so prettily, "or 'till the walls fall in, whichever comes first."

☁︎ TŌJI FUSHIGURO ➤ wrenched wide open

it started with a wrench, and no, not a metaphorical tool. a literal wrench, dropped from your armful of gear, clanging far too loudly against the concrete in the empty garage. you're flinching, cursing under your breath. it's past dark, rain still slickin' the floor outside, and most of the team's already gone.

you shouldn't be here, you're just the rookie. you're supposed to be following orders, not fuckin' around with loose bolts and leftover adrenaline. which is exactly when you realise that you're not quite alone.

the metal shutter behind you slams down with a mechanical growl, loud and final. you whip around. . .toji fushiguro. beefy arms folded, sweat clinging to the curve of his neck. verdant eyes darker than engine oil, and just as dangerous.

he doesn't speak right away, just watches as you clench your thighs, almost sub-consciously (or so he thinks, little does he know that you know just how to rile him up).

"you always this sloppy, doll? or just when i'm watching?"

your skin is flushed, heat crawling up your spine as though it's chasing the storm outside. toji's eyes are deliciously dragging down your body, lingering on the curve of your hips, the way your soaked polo clings to your chest.

he knows exactly what you want.

toji's already moving, and he's on you in two steps, rough fingers curling around your wrist, grunting as he tugs you backwards. your spine hitting the warm sidepod of the car, the paint is still slick from rain and truck dust, and it makes you shiver.

"i rebuilt this v6 before breakfast," toji mutters, voice thick with gravel, and the promise of upcoming sin, "let's see if you can last longer than that."

one of toji's veined hands are braced beside your head, the other already on your thighs. teasing, slow as they drag up your soaked coveralls until —

"you ever been fucked like this, doll? no? good, first time for everything."

toji doesn't wait, he doesn't hesitate, for he lifts you as though you're just another part he's decided to torque into place. your legs wrap around his waist out of sheer instinct, and he's grinding deeply into you. a thick and heavy bulge pressed right up against you, his scarred lips grazing your ear, "look at ya', all squirmy for me in your pretty team gear. bet ya' touched yourself thinkin' about this, 'bout me."

hah, he's right. but you're not going to give him the express satisfaction of knowing just how many times you had straddled the edge of your bed back in the hotel, legs spread wide as you softly grazed your swollen clit with rough fingers, imagining it was toji picking you apart.

you stifle a lazy, drawn-out moan when toji finally shoves your coveralls down, when grease-stained fingers slide between your thighs with no patience, just raw want. you can see how toji's jaw slackens, maw wide at how soaked you already are.

"f-fuck," toji grins, pressing his forehead to yours, so his choppy raven bangs gently kiss your skin, "you're wetter than the goddamn track out there, doll."

his fingers are fast, expert and precision-tuned. two knuckles deep and curling just right, while toji's other hand fists in your shirt, dragging you against his muscled chest, "stay quiet f'me." and it's not a suggestion.

you try, but the noise still slip in tiny gasps and stuttering moans, caught against his shoulder as he works you open with practiced ease. your hands claw at his arms, at his rippling biceps as he preps you.

"that's it, gorgeous, let go. you gon' cum for me already?" toji grunts, thumbing at your clit with precise precision, "yeah? who knew you'd like being handled like a busted part? it's okay, girl, i got you."

you're shaking, barely biting back a whimper as he works you right through, feeling his lengthy cock already hard and pressing through his thick, rough pants.

it's an earth shattering orgasm that launches right at you, your back arched against the side of the car, his fingers still dipping through your glossy folds. toji's coaxing you right through the orgasm as if he's fine-tuning a prized engine.

and then, he's pulling right back. unzipping his pants with one hand, the other still planted firmly between your thighs, "hope ya' weren't planning on walking tomorrow, doll."

the wiry, fine hairs at the base of thick cock immediately brush up against your ass, such was the firm precision and speed of toji jackhammering himself into his new delightful home. heavy and deep, so you can feel the smack! of thick, weighted balls against your plush flesh.

the stretch burnin' in the best way possible honestly, and you're crying out, but his palm claps over your mouth immediately, emerald eyes narrowed and sleazy grin crooked, "ah, ah, gotta' be quiet. wouldn't want the interns hearin' what their favourite engineer gets up to after hours, eh?"

you just moan against his palm, and toji groans. hips slamming harder, rougher and relentless. his other hands grabs your jaw, thumb sliding down to press into your throat, not choking. jus' holding, reminding you who's in charge. for now, you blithely wonder, visions of milking toji dry already blooming in your mind.

but it's hard to not fall apart almost immediately, his thick tip swabbing at your most sensitive points. twitching, and pulsing, clenching around toji's cock in a way that makes him follow suit. thick, glossy ropes of heavy, strong cum spurting right out of him, the sheer volume so much that it leaks straight out of you, dribbling down your thighs.

toji's biting hard enough to leave marks, claiming and branding. and you would swear that you hear him whisper sweet nothings that he would sooo deny in the morning, praises about how you're the sweetest thing ever, and he's just gotta' have you.

and then, simply just because he's toji fushiguro, he grabs the nearest shop rag, wiping at the mess from your stomach and thighs without blinking. stuffing it into his pocket as though it's nothing, "gonna' head back and get myself off with this doll, see ya' at the briefing tomorrow." already zipping up, packing that monster-length cock (yeah, seriously) back into his pants.

and. . . did he just steal your panties? you stare dumbly after him, hearing his footsteps recede as your maw slackens, before you quickly pick up the pace, "hey! toji, wait up!"

☁︎ CHŌSŌ KAMO ➤ throttle control

you noticed choso kamo before he ever even spoke to you. everyone else at the pre-season shoot was all swagger and self-tanner, yelling over for each other and muggin' for the cameras like it was monaco already.

choso, though? off to the side in full black and mauve team gear, rain jacket zipped up despite the heat. headphones in, hazel eyes still as he seemed to be gunning for the most not like other girls title ever.

not shy, not awkward. just. . . still. like the calm before the thunder, the silence before the powerful storms that often rolled in with your fellow drivers. like gojo satoru or hajime kashimo, ugh.

he's often quiet, and never resistant. rookie drivers usually have some sorta' ego or walls. choso has neither. he just nods, your name falling from his pale lips in low and reverent symbols. moving aside so you can stand beside him for the sponsor shoot. no plastered, winning smile, just eyes that track you like the managers track the telemetry data.

you ignore the heat curlin' in your stomach, or you try to. and it's just soo much worse when you catch his eyes on you, watching again. and again, as though you're a famous painting with strokes that he wants to memorise and commit to preservation.

so, there's really no other move but to corner him after the barcelona press run, heart pounding like a misfiring clutch, "what?" you're teasing, "you only speak in throttle maps and finish times?"

choso says little and less, but his voice is as quiet as rainfall as he sniffs, cheeks flushed sakura-blossom pink, "i would touch you, if you would have me. and then, i wouldn't know how to stop."

yeah, you remembered that you stopped breathing after that, right when everyone was being rushed into their cars, the respective engineers snappin' in their ears.

but choso crashes out in a stormy qualifying. a rookie mistake, too fast on the apex, rear tires losing grip. he's not hurt, thank god, but the radio teams go dead, and when you tumble back to the garages, he's soaked, still in his fireproofs, fists clenched with eyes dark and hollow, as though he's miles away from here.

"choso –"

he grabs you, not harsh nor urgent. just sudden, desperate. right behind the stacked tire warmers like a man starving for you, and you only.

"don't leave, angel," choso pants, voice ragged against your neck, "not yet, need to feel something good, something. . . that isn't failure. i mean, c-can i –"

you nod once, a thick lump suddenly in your throat presenting an ironic whiplash to the low throb in your groin. it starts soft, it always does with him, and it doesn't surprise you.

choso's hands are wet, shaking, ghosting up underneath your compression top. one glove still one, the rough texture pinching your pert nipple, teasing over your chest. the other glove? he pulls off with his teeth, slow and silent as he tosses it away. touching you like every second of it is a prayer answered.

and then, finally, choso kisses you. not a peck, nor testing. devouring. slick mouth on yours as though it's the last lap, and you're the checkered flag. his tongue drags against your lips, fingers twisted into your waistband as though he's afraid you vanish from his grasp.

"y-you're the only thing that makes me lose control like this, angel," choso whispers, voice raspy and streaked with gravel, barely audible under the storm still hissing off the track. he's got you on the back of the wall now, kisses trailing lines down your throat, soft teeth scraping skin.

you can only arch for him, dizzy with the weight and want of him. knowing exactly what typa' width and length he must be packing in the pretty curve of his blue-veined cock.

his hips grind against yours, slow at first, as though he's restraining himself, but the second your mouth releases a soft whimper, "cho –, please," well. . . the switch flips, and he's gasping. mouth biting at your jaw, your collar, hands suddenly everywhere.

gripping, pinning, claiming. his glove slides under your panties like silk over fire, fingers moving in smooth n' practiced strokes that make your knees buckle.

"so w-wet already," choso murmurs, breath warm against your skin, "you like when i touch you like this, angel?"

you nod, or maybe, you cry out in pleasure. he swallows up the sound with his mouth on yours. fucking you with his fingers 'til you're shaking, overstimulated, clutching at his dark fireproofs with nails and moans, and fevered pleas of more, choso! more!

"been thinkin' about how you'd sound," choso groans, face buried in your neck, "when i make you cry." and you do, from the pressure, the stretch, the relentless way he owns every inch of you.

his other hand quickly pushes the band of his boxers down. revealing the prettiest cock that you'd ever laid eyes upon, glorious and standing tall, and already leaking. your mouth waters, salivating at the idea of laving over each purple vein.

so when he finally pushes into you, raw and thick, buried deep, your whole body arches into his. slotting like the most perfect puzzle pieces, as choso whispers your name as though it's holy.

"mine," choso breathes, fucking you slow and deep, and you feel almost heady on his scent (well, that and the wafting fuel). but he rummages his cock through you as though he's carving you right out, "mine, say it. p-please, say it, angel."

oh, and you do. over and over, 'til it's not even words anymore, just sounds, sobs, tremours between kisses and moans, and skin on skin. after, when your back is sticky with heat, and his mouth is still at your throat, choso doesn't let go, peppering his lips to your waiting mouth, "i'm sorry, didn't mean to be rough."

you have a faint vision of headlines tomorrow, tiktoks being posted blatantly circling the blooming love bites over your neck, and you just can't help but pull him in closer, looping your arms around his thick neck to meld your lips against his, "don't apologise, cho. just don't stop."

his smile is small, tired, but lovestruck. kissin' you again like he's already addicted.

☁︎ HAJIME KASHIMO ➤ disqualified for conduct

so. . . you had been warned. every other pr manager on the team had handed you his file like it was some cursed object. one crossed himself, another just whispered, "he's impossible to manage, good luck."

they were talking about hajime kashimo, the track's golden boy, of course. thunder on the track, a menace in the paddock. the gist of it was pretty simple: he wins, he grins, he fucks.

you figured it couldn't be that bad. you'd handled difficult drivers before, all of their inflated egos, tempers and tantrums, so why would you not be ready?

oh, how wrong you were.

he doesn't even try to pretend to be decent during interviews, flirting and batting his lashes through every question like the camera was his bedroom mirror. you did your best to pretend your breath didn't hitch, and your thighs didn't jump and clench with each 'good girl' bestowed upon you.

"tch', kashimo, zip up those fireproofs. you gotta' be on the big screen in ten."

teal eyes undoing you (truly, undressing you) with lightning-precise intensity, "you can zip 'em up now, bunny. and you can unzip them after podium too."

"go fuck yourself."

"oh, when you say it like that, maybe –"

yeah, that sums up the push and pull relationship between you and hajime kashimo. so it's not a vast surprise when it all pools over one hot afternoon in monza. practice is long over, and the team is distracted by data feedback and tire degradation, somethin' about slamming down the big hotshot, gojo satoru.

but of course, 'round the corner, it's just your luck. kashimo, half-naked, towel slung low, with cyan hair loose and damp over his toned, sculpted shoulders. you try not to trail your eyes past the beads of exertion that slick across his carved abdominals.

"keep looking at me like that, gorgeous," kashimo snickers, towel slipping just an inch in a way that answers the question of whether the carpet matches the drapes, "and i'll put you in my cockpit instead of the car."

you shove him, doing your best to fight the furious flush threatening to sink you to your aching knees, "seriously, that's the best you could come up with?"

"is that a yes, bunny?"

"only if you win tonight."

ah, but you should have known hajime kashimo is never all bark, no bite. he walks the talk, and there's nothin' that man craves more than a challenge, a fight to get his blood roaring.

it slips your mind entirely, that vow of yours, not even when the entire team is leaping up and down, pulling each other into tight embraces as kashimo scores pole position once more. his turquoise, jewel-tone eyes are bright, wild despite the late hour and the physical exertion of over an hour of supersonic speed.

a hand is already pulling you into the back of the motorhome, setting you right down over. . . the champagne crate.

"hah, knew i had to win out there, gorgeous. knew i had to win just for you."

it's hard to know who initiated it, but you're kissing kashimo, and he's kissing you, — pouring the taste of expensive liquor and mint into your mouth as you suck on his tongue, rake your nails through his scalp.

kashimo's whirling you around, sinking his sharp teeth into your neck, "let's do a lap, bunny. face down, ass up? i can show ya' my best handling."

yeah, what hajime kashimo lacks for in hefty girth, he makes up for in sheer length. kashimo's groaning into your ear, hissing as his cock finally sinks into the soft embrace of your glistening pussy, one hand on your hip and the other rattling hard enough against the plush of your ass to leave fingerprints.

smack!

"sound off for me, gorgeous."

smack!

"thaaaat's it, be loud. everyone should know that i'm the one who's got ya' so pretty, just folded over for me."

you're gnawing on your lower lip, tugging at the skin, desperate to not babble out mindless cries of his name, and kashimo notices. and he's no fan of that, elegant hands grabbing your hair and pulling you up so you can both face the truck's back mirror.

"look at yourself," kashimo pants, still thrusting so deep in you that you're certain each vein has been permanently memorised and printed in your guts, "look at how good ya' take me, like you were built for it."

" –jime, hajime, 'm close," you whine, eyes absolutely cross-eyed and hazy as you let yourself get lost in the sweet, sweet sensation. moaning his name broken and breathless, and it's enough to shatter the infallible kashimo.

kashimo's grunting, a thunderclap in your ear, as he tears the remainder of your underwear off with a sodden rrrrrip! whirling you around once more to hike your leg up onto the crate, swung around his waist to draw him closer inwards.

you know when he finishes inside you, as though he's chasing the fastest lap. hard, quick and deep enough to leave your legs boneless and quivering.

"gonna' make you c-cum again," kashimo groans against your ear, kissing your shoulder as he mouths at your tits, "one more. c'mon, bunny, give it to me, i earned that trophy. wanna' fuck you in my racing suit next."

☁︎ TSUKUMO YUKI ➤ manual override

you still remember your first interview with tsukumo yuki. she had flounced into the room with her black race suit peeled halfway down, sports bra damp with seat, sipping champagne from the bottle.

but you had barely finished your first question before the statuesque blonde had leaned forward, gaze hungry, "you wanna' talk about control systems, baby, or do you wanna' know how i make people lose theirs?"

you should have walked away, but instead, you watched her lick frothy champagne off her thumb like it was all you ever wanted. and you were. . . hooked. now yuki seeks you out in the paddock, every time, pressing too close, tugging you closer by your lanyard, murmuring in your ear, "lookin' a lil' stiff, doll. want me to loosen you up after quali?"

so, this time, she had just set p3 in the wet, slippery rain. helmet already peeled off, golden hair flipping over her face as she catches sight of you, recorder in hand.

"yuki, congrats on quali! do you think the wet weather gave you any –"

a quick hand snatches the mic, plucking it right off your collar and shoving it deep into her thick pockets, "baby, we got plenty of time later, hah, for an interview."

that adrenaline-high look in her big, brown eyes is all too recognisable, and you should have foreseen how she'd drag you right behind the trailer. pinning you to the hood of her personal car, no doubt worth millions, skin still searing from the race.

"come onnn, ya' like fast girls, don't you," yuki whispers, voice a low purr, her sun-streaked hair tickling and kissing your cheek. she's laying you flat across the hood, race suit still hanging half-on, grinding her hips down until you're gasping, biting your lip with whimpers of please, please. . . more!

"say it louderrr, sweetheart." her lips pressed to your navel as you whine for her to sweep her tongue even lower.

"c'mon, you interview champions, right? maybe in your interview, you can tell the press how good i fuck." a kiss now dotted over your hips, slowly following the juncture angle down to your throbbing mound.

"y-yuki," you mewl, unable to hold back the hungry, raw cry when she parts your thick, outermost folds to suckle at your clit, "ouuh, so sensitive. . ."

no mercy, no hesitation. she laps at your folds as though she's setting the fastest lap record, grinning as you're shaking, "that's my pretty girl. still breathing?"

if you wrench your head far back enough at an uncomfortable angle, you can see just how filthy the sight is. yuki's entirely on her knees now, golden hair splayed about her as she nips and licks at your dripping cunt, her chin all glossed up as she drags the lower half of her face through your wetness.

through the haze, you realise that yuki's murmuring something. groaning low into your pussy as though she's speaking to her. the biceps in her muscled arms rippling as she slathers a thick kiss to your cute, twitching clit, "three."

her short fingernails trailing through your cunt, teasing at your winking, glossy entrance, "two."

pink lips separating from your pussy with transparent, clear strands of tangy glossy, and yuki's smacking her mouth, clearly some form of pussydrunk that only you unlock within her, "one."

and bulls-eye, the scrape of her finger in a crooked, come-hither moition against that small, rough patch in your pussy makes you squeal, then groan. the sensation building up until it's just too much and you're gushing over her face. thin, liquid arcs splattering against yuki's beautiful, delighted features as she slaps at your sopping pussy.

"think they'll let me keep a strap in the trailer just so ya' can do that alll over again?"

☁︎ IEIRI SHOKO ➤ flatline me

who hadn't heard of shoko ieiri? the doctor for your team, the surgeon, gorgeous with cinnamon brown hair and dark eyes. you had gotten used to seeing her with a lighter in one hand, and your medical file in the other.

stitchin' bodies back together with blinking, and yet, she couldn't care less about your hotshot reputation. and frankly, you only wanted her even more. so when you ended up with your top off, sprawled on the infirmary table after some stupid spin-out, icing your thigh and nursing a bruised shoulder, you had tried to be charming.

"am i finally your favourite patient, doc?"

shoko only glances up from her scrawled notes, the barest twitch of amusement tugging at her glossy, peach lips. she was still striking a match, lighting a cigarette with practiced ease, her gaze settling on you like a blade to skin.

"hah, hardly," she huffs, "but you could scream the loudest, how 'bout that?" elegant fingers already coming to rest on the waistband of her blue slacks, and you can't help but gulp. resisting the urge to blow your cool or let out some obscene looney-tunes ass wolf whistle.

"strip," shoko murmurs, her tone cool, "i can't help you get better unless i can a proper look." she must be confident that no one would dare interrupt her, that none would walk in while you're urgently pulling your sports bra off your head — and she's discarding her pants elsewhere, revealing creamy, pale thighs that you're desperate to sink your teeth into.

you can feel her oak gaze on you, cataloguing every bruise, every scrape as though you were just another anatomy lesson. but you certainly don't miss how her pink tongue briefly laves over her lower lip, her eyes widening as they roam over your bare chest, focus on how you shimmy right out of your racing suit — till you're bare and naked, legs crossed one over the other .

chilled fingers finally touch your thigh, prodding the faint bruise you've acquired with sharp pressure. you're not ashamed to admit it, a moan escapes your trembling lips.

"you're sloppy, sweet thing," shoko mutters, voice as smooth as ill-fated poison that's honey to your ears, "crash dummy with a death wish."

you hiss as she slaps your thigh, just once. . .not gently. her eyes focused on how your flesh ripples under her touch.

"diagnostic," shoko adds, lips quirked faintly as your body tenses under her hungry gaze, "don't whine, 'cause i warned you." her hands are cold, and the soft pads of her fingertips pinch at your hips, pulling the tender flesh up as your thighs clench. you know that there must be some translucent slick seeping into the medical bedding beneath you.

"i don't think you've earned this," shoko concludes, finally pulling away from you, "but i'm tired of standing up." her fingers hook into the elastic band of her sleek, dark underwear, pulling the fine-woven fabric down until she can kick it off.

leaving your mouth slack in awe at the wondrous prospects you've landed with — the soft curl of dark hair between her thighs, and how shoko's pushing your hips down, climbing onto you so you can peek a flash of slippery pink as she settling over your groin. your pussy already pulsing and twitching at the mere brush of contact between the two of you.

shoko straddles you now, her lower half entirely bare as she pins you in place, cool hands running over your bare chest, your wrist, your jaw. she's still got her tight-knitted blue top clinging to your chest, the white coat thrown over her shoulders, and you're desperate to peel them off her.

"keep quiet, sweet thing," shoko orders, her voice a low hum against your throat, "or i'll have to find another way to shut you up." it's obscene, hearing the wet, sloppy slick of your folds kissing hers.

god, she moves like she's dissecting you, studying you. controlled, methodical and merciless. you're already shaking beneath her, every nerve burning, every sound you made swallowed by the pressure of her palm over your tongue. or the bitter taste of dark coffee on her tongue.

your body arches, hips twitching to desperately attach against hers, aching to feel the kiss of her clit against your own. flushed muscles quivering as whines of her name fall from your lips in a begging, pleading tone, but it doesn't seem to move shoko to helping you finish faster.

"don't be pathetic, pretty," shoko pants into your ear, her sleek dark hair falling over her face. and it's some satisfaction to know that she's just as affected, and that the low throb against your groin is her filthy release absolutely drenched over you, "i've barely even started."

everytime you felt as through your climax was in arm's reach, her touch would ice over, only to flood you with heat again, a cruel rhythm that left your head spinning.

"you look good like this, sweet thing," shoko murmurs, tilting her head as she straightens her spine, angling her hips so she can press herself to your sticky folders even more.

you whimper, and she laughs — even as your legs can't stop shaking and you feel too fucked-out in this bed of pleasure to even form a coherent thought. until all you can chase after is the fastening pace of her hips against yours, the sight of shoko dipping her fingers between your folds to sip at your arousal.

you're not even embarrassed at the utterly pornographic moans escaping your kiss-stung lips, sharp cries of shoko's name echoing through the infirmary as she soothes sharp circles over your clit, grinding her pussy against yours with your thighs intertwined.

"god, you taste so s-sweet," shoko bites off, dark eyes peering down at you, almost as though she's embarrassed that you've pulled these reactions from her.

wet cunts tacked to each other as she swipes a hand behind your back, pulling you up so she can hook her legs around your waist. jostling up n' down, over and over, and you catch the doctor's almost wolfish grin, she's guiding your hands beneath the fabric of her top, "c'mon, are you gonna' help me or not, baby?"

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fanficgirl429 · 1 month ago

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Jealous Bucky

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Prompt: Bucky gets jealous when Torres flirts with Y/N

The hum of fluorescent lights cast a pale glow over the East Side briefing room of the Helicarrier hangar. Equipment cases lined the walls, gear sorted and labeled with precision, and the scent of metal, oil, and sterilized fabric filled the air. Sam stood at the table in the center, hands braced on either side of a glowing tactical map.

Y/N leaned against the edge, tying her hair back into a messy braid, a black combat vest snug over her base layer. Her movements were quick but unhurried—second nature. Bucky watched her from across the room as he adjusted the shoulder harness of his stealth suit. His fingers moved slowly, distracted. He'd already checked his gear twice.

She caught him looking and gave him a soft, secret smile. The kind of smile that said I'm okay. The corner of his mouth lifted in return, subtle but real.

“You two gonna kiss or kill something?” Sam asked, not even looking up from the map.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “You know which one I’d prefer.”

Y/N rolled her eyes with a half-laugh, walking over to Sam’s side as Joaquín Torres pulled up a holographic overlay from the nearby terminal.

“Guard rotations are clockwork,” Torres said, pointing. “Three-man teams sweep the corridors every twenty minutes. Entry point’s here, west stairwell. You’ll have a five-minute window to get past the security grid.”

“And once we’re inside?” Y/N asked, leaning in, her fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the table. Bucky’s gaze followed the motion.

“Split and sweep,” Sam said, already sliding into briefing mode. “Y/N and I take the server room. Bucky clears the vault corridor. We regroup at extraction in twenty.”

“Sounds clean,” Torres said. Then his eyes flicked to Y/N. “Wish I was going with you guys. Could use someone with your instincts on my team.”

Y/N raised a brow. “You calling me predictable or reckless?”

“Neither,” he replied, a grin tugging at his lips. “Just saying, if I had someone like you watching my six, I might not get shot at so much.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed.

Y/N laughed it off, casually stepping closer to Bucky without seeming to realize she’d done it. But he noticed. He always noticed. The subtle way her body leaned toward him when someone else was around. The way her hand rested on his forearm briefly, grounding both of them.

Torres was still grinning, oblivious. “You ever think about switching teams, Y/N, let me know. I could use a partner who looks that good and knows how to break a guy’s arm in two seconds.”

Bucky’s voice cut through the air. “She’s not switching anything.”

The room stilled for a second too long. Sam looked up, eyebrows raised. Torres blinked and took half a step back, holding his hands up in defense.

Y/N let out a slow breath and gave Bucky a look—half amused, half warning.

“Just saying, man. No offense,” Torres said.

Bucky didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and walked toward the lockers, snapping his gloves tighter than necessary.

Y/N followed.

When they were out of earshot, she leaned against the locker beside him, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“You know I’m not going anywhere, right?” she said softly.

Bucky looked down, then back at her. “Yeah. I know. Doesn’t mean it’s easy watching someone else talk to you like that.”

Y/N tilted her head. “You think I care what Torres thinks? I let you zip my vest this morning.”

His eyes flicked to her chest, then to her face, his voice lower now. “Yeah. That was the highlight of my day.”

A smile played on her lips. “I can give you another highlight, but we’ve got a mission in ten.”

“Damn timing,” Bucky murmured.

She stepped closer, hand brushing lightly against his side—right where his arm met flesh. “I’ll be careful.”

“I know.”

“I mean it,” she whispered. “I don’t want you losing your mind if someone so much as looks at me funny again.”

“Too late for that,” he muttered, then softened. “But I’ll keep it together. Just… stay close. And come back to me.”

She pressed a quick kiss to his lips, unseen from the others. “Always.”

Sam called from across the room, “Time to move out, kids. Jet’s hot and ready. Let’s go look cool and kick ass.”

Y/N turned with a wink. “Let’s go make some noise.”

Bucky watched her walk away—confident, calm, dangerous as hell. And his.

He took a breath, squared his shoulders, and followed.

No one would ever get close enough to take her from him.

Not on his watch.

The mission had ended hours ago.

Madripoor had been chaotic—twisting alleys, cold steel corridors, fire flashing off concrete and bad choices. But they’d made it out. Banged up, bruised, a little breathless, but alive.

The quinjet hummed softly as it cut through clouds somewhere over the Atlantic. Sam had passed out three seats back, his arm thrown over his face, muttering occasionally in his sleep. Bucky sat near the front, freshly bandaged, bruised, quiet.

Y/N sat curled up across from him wearing one of his hoodies and her tactical pants, legs tucked beneath her. She’d changed out of her suit, hair loose now, damp from a quick shower at the airbase. Her eyes had been on Bucky since takeoff—not in worry, but something else. Something quieter. Deeper.

He looked tired.

Not physically—though the gash on his shoulder was proof enough the mission hadn’t gone easy—but emotionally tired. Like he’d been holding onto something all day that still hadn’t been said.

She crossed the aisle and slid into the seat beside him, saying nothing at first. Just letting the silence speak.

He glanced at her, then looked away. “You should sleep.”

“You should talk to me.”

A beat passed.

He exhaled. “You could’ve been killed today.”

“You say that like it’s not part of the job.”

His voice dropped. “It’s different when it’s you.”

Y/N turned in the seat, facing him fully. Her hand reached over, fingers brushing his knuckles—just barely. But he felt it like a jolt.

“You saved me. Again.”

“I shouldn’t have had to.” His jaw flexed. “I should’ve cleared the corner faster. Should’ve—should’ve gotten between you and that guy.”

“Bucky.”

“I saw the way he raised the gun. He wasn’t aiming at me. He wanted you. And all I could think was—”

He stopped himself. Chest rising, falling. The words stuck somewhere between his lungs and his heart.

“All I could think was, what if this is the last time I see you?” he finished, softer now. “What if I lose you before I ever get to tell you…”

Her hand moved to his jaw, thumb tracing the stubble just below his cheekbone.

“Tell me what?” she asked.

He met her eyes, blue and stormy and full of something that cracked her open inside.

“That I love you,” he said. No hesitation now. No fear. Just the truth.

Y/N’s breath hitched. She was already smiling, already blinking away tears she hadn’t realized were there. “Took you long enough.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Guess I’m still learning how to say things before I almost lose them.”

She cupped his face, pulling him in gently, and kissed him—slow and deep. When they parted, her forehead rested against his.

“I love you too,” she whispered. “Even when you’re brooding and jealous and act like you invented angst.”

His lips curved against hers. “I did invent angst, actually. 1943. Patent pending.”

She laughed, and he held her close, letting the sound soak into his skin.

They stayed curled together for the rest of the flight, her head on his shoulder, his fingers tangled in hers. No words needed.

Outside, the storm had passed.

But inside the quinjet, something far more powerful had settled.

Peace. And love.

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jungwnies · 5 months ago

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F1 GRID | Independence Day

୨ৎ : featuring : max verstappen, lewis hamilton, george russell, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by @runnergirl234) : celebrating the fourth of july with your f1 boyfriend <3

୨ৎ : genre : comedic romance & fluff ୨ৎ : tws : fireworks??? idk... ୨ৎ : word count : 3148

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : you guys should know how much of a sucker i am when it comes to introducing someone to a different culture, this was so so so fun to write🥲

ʚ・max verstappen

max didn’t get it.

“so, you just eat a lot and blow things up?” he crossed his arms, eyes narrowing like this was some elaborate prank.

“pretty much,” you said, handing him a beer.

he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “you americans are insane.” but he cracked open the beer anyway.

the backyard was packed. the grill smoked, the table was buried under piles of burgers and hot dogs, and a guy in an eagle tank top was aggressively tong-flipping ribs like his life depended on it. kids sprinted past with sparklers, and someone had already set off a rogue firework that nearly took out a lawn chair.

max surveyed the chaos like he was analyzing a new circuit. someone shoved a hot dog into his hand, and he stared at it like it was an untested setup change.

“no cutlery?”

“no, max. just eat it.”

he sighed but took a bite anyway. chewed. nodded slightly. “not bad. bit plain.”

he grabbed the mustard and squeezed way too hard. a horrifying amount of it slopped onto the bun. he stared at it for a long moment before taking another bite. his expression didn’t change, but you could see the regret.

“this was a mistake.”

when the fireworks started, he barely reacted at first, just tilting his head to watch as red and blue bursts lit up the sky. the next one was louder, the kind that rattled your ribs. he flinched, just a little.

“bit excessive,” he muttered.

someone handed him a sparkler, and he held it like it might explode in his fingers.

“just wave it around,” you said. “it’s fun.”

max verstappen does not “wave things around for fun.” but after a few seconds, he started moving it in small, cautious circles, still frowning in deep concentration. then, like it was a matter of principle, he traced out the number 1 in the air.

of course.

you laughed. he shot you a glare. “say nothing.”

the grand finale kicked in, launching fireworks in rapid, ear-shattering bursts. max, now fully resigned to the chaos, took a long sip of his beer and gave a small nod.

“alright,” he admitted. “i kind of get it.”

another firework exploded so hard it shook the ground. he blinked.

“…still think you’re all insane, though.”

ʚ・lewis hamilton

lewis adjusted his bucket hat, surveying the backyard scene with an amused but slightly wary expression. smoke curled from the grill, country music blared from a bluetooth speaker, and someone was setting up a folding table for what had been described to him as “competitive beer pong.”

“you lot take this holiday seriously, huh?” he mused, sipping on an iced matcha he had brought himself.

“it’s america’s birthday,” you said.

he chuckled. “right. and what’s the game plan? burgers and blowing things up?”

“basically.”

lewis shook his head, grinning. “so, absolute carnage, then.”

he fit in better than he probably expected. within ten minutes, he was deep in conversation about plant-based grilling techniques with someone’s confused but intrigued uncle. he took over the aux at one point, replacing the country anthems with smooth r&b, nodding along as he flipped a veggie burger with the confidence of a seven-time world champion.

when someone handed him a sparkler, he twirled it effortlessly between his fingers, making little figure eights in the air. “alright, i see the appeal,” he admitted, watching the light trail behind his movements.

then came the fireworks.

lewis leaned back in his chair, watching the first one explode across the sky. his sunglasses, which he had no reason to still be wearing at night, reflected the red and blue bursts.

“these are, what… not regulated?” he asked as another one screamed into the sky.

“not really.”

he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “man, if i did this in monaco, they’d fine me and take my yacht.”

still, he looked genuinely impressed. when the grand finale hit, shaking the ground with an almost comical level of intensity, he let out a low whistle.

“alright, america,” he said, tipping his hat slightly. “you do know how to put on a show.”

just as he said it, someone behind him lit an illegal firecracker that shot sideways, barely missing a parked truck. lewis instinctively dodged, years of racing reflexes kicking in.

he stared at the scorched grass for a long moment, then slowly turned back to you.

“yeah, i’m gonna stick to silverstone celebrations.”

ʚ・george russell

george arrived looking like he had just walked out of a country club. polo tucked in, hair perfectly styled, white sneakers that had clearly never touched a patch of grass. he took a slow, deliberate look around the backyard. shirtless guys were shotgunning beers, someone was wrestling with a grill that was clearly too hot, and kids were launching bottle rockets dangerously close to a tree. he exhaled through his nose and adjusted his watch like he was mentally preparing for what was about to unfold.

"alright," he muttered to himself. "let’s see how this goes."

at first, he took the polite approach. he asked well-structured questions about barbecue techniques, nodded attentively as someone explained the art of smoking ribs, and accepted a plate of food he clearly didn’t recognize with a determined sort of curiosity.

then he saw the keg stand.

he narrowed his eyes, watching as a group of guys hoisted someone upside down, beer pouring straight from the keg into his mouth while the crowd chanted encouragement.

"what exactly is happening there?" he asked, arms crossed.

you explained. he blinked. "and people enjoy this?"

before you could answer, someone clapped a hand on his back. a very large, very enthusiastic man in an american flag tank top grinned at him. "you're up next, british boy."

george let out a small, nervous chuckle, glancing at you like he was waiting for an escape. you just grinned. "it’s tradition."

for a moment, it looked like he might back out. then something shifted in his expression. that familiar look of determination. the same way he looked before attempting an impossible overtake. he squared his shoulders, handed you his drink, and nodded once.

"alright. if i’m doing this, i’m doing it properly."

what followed was the most technically flawless keg stand anyone had ever seen. a perfect lift-off, immaculate form, and balance so steady it looked choreographed. when he landed back on the ground, he wiped his mouth, adjusted his polo, and looked around.

"was that acceptable?"

the entire backyard erupted.

by the time the fireworks started, he was fully committed. the polo had been replaced with a ridiculous red, white, and blue hat. he accepted a plate of chili cheese fries without hesitation. he was even chanting “usa! usa!” along with a group of strangers like he had been waiting his whole life for this moment.

as the grand finale filled the sky, he leaned over to you, shaking his head with a laugh. "i have to admit, you lot know how to celebrate."

then someone behind him misfired a roman candle. the fireball shot sideways, missing him by inches. he spun around, hands on his hips, eyes wide.

"right," he said, voice slightly higher than usual. "and that is where i draw the line."

ʚ・carlos sainz

carlos had questions.

"wait, wait, wait," he said, holding up a hand as he surveyed the absolute chaos of the backyard. "so, today, we eat like… ten hamburgers, drink cervezas (beers), and then we throw fireworks at each other?"

"pretty much," you said, handing him a beer.

he exhaled through his nose and shook his head. "los americanos están locos, eh? (you americans are crazy, huh?)"

but he cracked open the beer anyway.

carlos adapted quickly. within ten minutes, he was fully involved in the grilling process, standing next to the guy manning the barbecue with his hands on his hips, nodding like he was strategizing a pit stop. when handed a hot dog, he examined it critically.

"where is the jamón? (ham) no chorizo? (spicy spanish sausage)" he asked, looking personally offended.

"just eat it, carlos."

he sighed dramatically but took a bite. then another. his expression didn't change, but he gave a small nod.

"okay, está bien (it's okay). but if i put aceitunas (olives) on this, it would be better."

then he saw the fireworks table. his eyes narrowed. "who is in charge of this? porque esto looks very unsafe (because this…)."

before you could respond, someone lit a firecracker that immediately fell over and shot straight across the lawn. carlos flinched, ducking like it was a rogue piece of debris from an f1 crash. his head snapped toward you.

"¡ay, madre mía! (oh my god!) this is allowed?"

you shrugged. "kind of."

his hands went to his hips again. he muttered something in spanish that you were pretty sure included words not suitable for broadcast. but by the time the real fireworks show started, carlos had finally given in.

reclining in a lawn chair, beer in hand, he watched the sky light up with red, white, and blue. he exhaled and shook his head with a small smile.

"okay," he admitted. "es un poco loco… pero me gusta. (it’s a little crazy… but i like it.)"

then, just as he said it, another rogue firework went off sideways. this one nearly took out a folding chair. carlos was on his feet in seconds.

"no, no, no! that is not normal! esto es peligroso! (this is dangerous!)"

you couldn't stop laughing as he pointed accusingly at the guy holding the lighter.

"¡hermano, tú no sabes lo que haces! (brother, you don’t know what you’re doing!) give me that thing!"

and just like that, carlos sainz was suddenly in charge of the fireworks, directing the entire show like an engineer over the radio.

ʚ・charles leclerc

charles was trying very hard to be polite.

it was his first fourth of july, and instead of some wild backyard rager, you had brought him to your family cookout, thinking it would be a nice, relaxed introduction to the holiday. that was your first mistake.

he had been handed a plate piled with enough food to feed a small country, your uncle had already declared him an honorary american, and your grandma had called him “such a handsome young man” at least three times. charles was handling it all with his usual charm, smiling and nodding as your family quizzed him about monaco like he was an ambassador rather than a formula 1 driver.

“you ever driven one of them nascars?” your cousin asked, chewing on a rib.

charles hesitated for half a second. “uh… no, not yet.”

“bet you’d be real good at it.”

he smiled. “i hope so.”

your cousin nodded seriously, like he had just made a groundbreaking discovery, then handed charles a sparkler. the wrong end.

charles, being charles, took it without question.

the second the lighter touched the tip, he yelped and dropped it straight onto the grass, shaking out his hand like he had just suffered a catastrophic brake failure.

“oh! merde!” he blinked at his fingers, then looked at you, eyes wide with a mix of betrayal and confusion. “it bit me.”

your cousin cackled. “man, you gotta hold the other end.”

charles gave him the most unimpressed look you had ever seen. “yes, i see that now.”

despite the initial trauma, he tried again, this time holding it the correct way. he watched the sparks flicker and pop, his expression turning thoughtful.

“this is actually nice,” he said, moving it gently through the air. he traced out a shape, pausing, then tried again. “i was trying to do my number, but i think i made a… fish?”

you leaned in. it was, indeed, a fish.

"close enough."

the fireworks started just as he got comfortable, your dad setting them off from the driveway like it was a carefully planned operation. charles leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the sky as red, white, and blue bursts lit up above.

for a moment, he was quiet, just watching. then he exhaled and smiled. “this is really beautiful.”

you were about to agree when another one went off way too close to the ground. charles flinched so hard he nearly spilled his drink, eyes darting toward the launch site.

“is it supposed to do that?”

your dad waved him off. “eh, it’s fine.”

charles did not look convinced. “i don’t think that is fine.”

another firework whistled sideways into a bush. charles shot up out of his chair.

“no, no, no—this is not normal!”

your cousin just laughed. “welcome to america, man.”

ʚ・lando norris

lando had never looked more out of his depth in his entire life.

and that included the time he got stuck on a beach in monaco.

you had brought him to your university’s fourth of july party, thinking it would be a fun, casual experience. that was your second mistake. your first mistake was underestimating how unhinged your friends were.

“okay, so let me get this straight,” lando said, standing in the middle of a backyard that looked like it had already survived three different safety car restarts. “you guys drink an obscene amount of alcohol, eat way too much food, and then you—what? just set things on fire?”

“yeah, pretty much.”

he blinked. “that’s mad.”

and yet, here he was, already double-fisting a beer and a plate of nachos, blending in like he had been here all semester.

the night started off fine. he played beer pong, overthought his technique, lost anyway, and then blamed the table for being “not regulation size.” he had his first ever corn dog, called it “weird but kinda amazing,” and then proceeded to eat three more. he even wore a ridiculous red, white, and blue cowboy hat that one of your friends had aggressively placed on his head.

everything was going smoothly. then someone handed him a roman candle.

“wait, what am i supposed to do with this?” he asked, inspecting the long tube like it was an unfamiliar steering wheel.

“just hold it and point it up,” you said, already realizing this was a mistake.

your friend lit it, and lando immediately panicked.

“oh my god, it’s on fire—IT’S ON FIRE.”

“yes, lando, that’s the point.”

“I DON’T LIKE IT.”

“JUST HOLD IT STILL.”

“I CAN’T.”

the first fireball shot out, straight up into the air. the second one did not.

instead, it veered at a slightly concerning angle, skimming past the roof of the house and nearly taking out a string of decorative lights. lando let out a full-on shriek, dropped the roman candle, and sprinted five steps away like the thing had personally offended him.

the candle, now abandoned, continued shooting rogue fireballs across the yard. your friends scattered. someone dove behind a cooler. one of your more chaotic friends cheered. lando, meanwhile, had his hands on his head, looking like he had just witnessed an absolute strategy disaster.

“oh my god,” he wheezed. “i almost died.”

“you did not almost die.”

“that was the most unsafe thing i’ve ever done, and i race at 200 miles per hour for a living!”

despite the near-death experience, lando stuck around. mostly because someone handed him another beer, and he was too emotionally drained to do anything but drink it. when the actual fireworks started, he stayed a healthy distance away, sipping his drink and shaking his head every time one exploded a little too close to the ground.

by the end of the night, he had recovered enough to join in on the chanting. he even put the cowboy hat back on.

“alright,” he admitted, exhaling. “that was actually kinda fun.”

then someone suggested doing sparklers. lando immediately held up both hands.

“no. absolutely not. i’ve learned my lesson. you lot are psychos.”

ʚ・oscar piastri

oscar piastri was trying his best.

you had invited him to your family’s fourth of july cookout, reassuring him it would be a relaxed evening with good food, nice company, and minimal chaos. that had been a lie.

now he was sitting on the porch, gripping a lemonade like it was a contract extension, watching your uncle aggressively flip burgers on the grill while your little cousins ran barefoot through the yard with sparklers. someone had already spilled an entire bowl of potato salad, your aunt was yelling at your dad about lighter fluid, and a bluetooth speaker was blasting country music at a volume that should have been illegal.

oscar took a slow sip of his drink. “so this is normal?”

you nodded. “completely normal.”

“right,” he said, nodding slightly. “that’s concerning.”

to his credit, he was doing his best to fit in. he helped carry the extra chairs outside, listened to your grandpa tell a very long-winded story about how “kids these days don’t know how to drive,” and politely answered every single person who asked if he knew daniel ricciardo.

he even attempted a game of cornhole. it did not go well.

“mate, you’ve got to actually aim,” your cousin said as oscar’s beanbag completely missed the board.

“i am aiming.”

“then why does it look like you’re throwing a penalty kick?”

oscar’s next toss went even further off course. he turned to you, deadpan. “i don’t like this game.”

the real trouble started when your little cousin, clearly taking advantage of his foreign guest status, decided to hand oscar a firework. not a sparkler. not a small fountain. a full-blown roman candle.

oscar held it with both hands, staring at it like it was an unexploded bomb. “am i being set up?”

“just light it and hold it up,” your cousin said.

oscar frowned. “that sounds fake, but okay.”

he did as he was told, but the second the first fireball shot out, he visibly tensed, gripping the firework like he was on the final lap in monaco. another fireball launched, and he let out a quiet but very real “oh no.”

“it’s fine,” you reassured him.

“it doesn’t feel fine,” he said, carefully adjusting his stance like he was bracing for impact. “how long does this last?”

“maybe ten more shots.”

oscar sighed. “great. love that for me.”

when the roman candle finally fizzled out, he let out the slowest exhale of his life and handed it back like he had just completed a dangerous mission.

“alright,” he said. “i have now contributed to the chaos. that should fulfill my american initiation, yes?”

the night ended with fireworks, which oscar watched from what he clearly deemed the safest possible location—standing just inside the house, one foot over the threshold in case he needed to make a quick exit.

when someone asked if he had fun, he paused for a moment, considering his answer.

“well,” he said, taking another sip of lemonade. “i still have all my fingers. so i’d call that a success.”

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wandascrush · 3 months ago

Text

Is it really you?

Pairing: Sharon Carter x f!reader, Avengers x f!reader, Natasha Romanoff x f!reader, HYDRA x f!reader

Part 11 of the DIWK series!

Tag list: @esposadejoyhuerta @kissesfornat @ayrtonwilbury @casquinhaa @womenarehotsstuff @caffeine-pup @seventeen-x @blacatto

Warnings: violence, murder, guns, blood, explosions, fire

It had taken Sharon four months, but she finally found you.

The lead had come from a corrupt Europol contact—one she had to break fingers to get talking.

A flash drive, encrypted with information on something called Project Nightshade. HYDRA had set up an operation deep in the Carpathian Mountains. Remote. Isolated. Off the grid. The kind of place you disappear into and never come out.

It was only when she finished reading that she realized you were the project.

Carter spent weeks monitoring the perimeter, tracking movements, listening to intercepted comms. The base was heavily fortified, tighter than even some old SHIELD black sites. HYDRA wasn't just hiding a prisoner.

They were hiding a prized possession. They were hiding you- Asset Nightshade.

Cold hands tightened around the scope of her sniper rifle, positioned on a high ridge overlooking the facility. She had no backup, no official sanction. Just herself, her weapons, and you at the end of this mission.

She peered through her scope, scanning the compound’s exterior.

Armed patrols at every entrance. Sniper nests on the rooftops.

Security drones circling the perimeter.

Getting in was going to be a nightmare.

Getting out with you?

Even worse.

Her earpiece crackled—an old mercenary contact she had bribed for blueprints.

"Carter, you got about a ten-minute window during shift rotation. After that, they lock it down tight."

Sharon exhaled slowly, lowering her rifle.

Ten minutes. That was all she’d have.

"Ten’s all I need," she muttered, pulling down her mask and slipping down the ridge.

Sharon moved through the forest like a shadow, boots silent against the damp ground. The air was sharp with the scent of pine and rain-soaked earth. She timed her movements with the shifting patrols, slipping between blind spots, ducking beneath sensor towers.

The moment the guard at the back exit turned his head, she struck.

A knife to the throat.

A quiet, clean kill.

She dragged his body into the shadows, stripping him of his access card.

——————-

The facility was a fortress. Deep underground, lined with reinforced steel, the kind of place where things went in and never came out.

But Sharon wasn’t looking for a way in.

She was looking for a way out.

She found you in a cell guarded by two burly men—

The guards fell easily. It was almost disappointing.

You didn’t react when the cell door hissed open.

You should. Your training demands it. But there’s no tension in your shoulders, no shift in posture. Just blankness.

You sit on the metal cot, hands resting on your thighs, still as stone.

Sharon steps in, gun raised, breath tight in her chest.

She barely recognizes you.

Your hair is damp, messy from sweat. Your face thinner. Shadows cling to the hollows of your cheeks, and bruises bloom beneath your skin like wilted roses. But still, Sharon thinks to herself, still beautiful.

“Y/N,” she whispered, her voice tight with urgency.

Your head lifted slightly, eyes unfocused.

Recognition flickered—but not enough.

Sharon’s stomach twisted. They had done something to you.

She knelt beside you, hands gripping your face. “Listen to me. It’s me. It’s Sharon.”

You blinked slowly.

“You’re an intruder.”

Her eyes widened in disbelief.

“No, no, no. Not an intruder, L/N.”

A flicker of softness flashed in your eyes, a moment of recognition from your last name.

Sharon’s voice softens, but only for a second, “Yeah babe, that’s right. It’s me, I’m your friend. And we need to move.”

When you didn’t immediately stand, she pulled you up, throwing your arm over her shoulder.

The moment your legs buckled, she knew—they had weakened you. Drugged you. Rebuilt you.

But they hadn’t taken all of you.

Not yet.

Sharon shoved a gun into your shaking hands. She trusted you wouldn’t hurt her.

“Think you can still shoot?”

Your fingers curled around the grip automatically. Muscle memory. Second nature.

You exhaled shakily.

She watches as your hands flex—calm, methodical—ready for a fight if need be. But there’s no recognition in your face.

No hesitation.

No warmth.

Only the mechanical precision of a weapon awaiting orders.

She swallows hard, her heart breaking in real time.

“Lets get the fuck out of here.”

Your gaze flickers, an almost imperceptible shift, but she catches it

A small crack.

But then, just as quickly, it’s gone.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say flatly.

Sharon doesn’t hesitate.

She raises her gun and aims it right at your forehead.

“You don’t get a choice.”

Her voice is firm, her grip steady. But inside, she’s terrified.

The alarm blasts through the facility and chaos erupts. The sound of boots running starts to grow close.

They know. Fuck, they’re coming.

Sharon curses under her breath, grabbing your wrist. “Move.”

You don’t resist. Not exactly. But you don’t comply either. Your training demands submission to orders—and right now, there are two voices in your head.

One is Sharon Carter.

The other is the voice of HYDRA. Your maker.

Your steps are too silent, too controlled, moving like a predator as she drags you through the corridors. No fear. No hesitation.

Even in escape, you are efficient.

A beauty designed to obey.

Shots whiz past, bullets pinging off the metal walls as guards flood into the corridors.

Sharon ducks behind cover, returns fire with deadly precision, taking out two men before yanking you down with her. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she snaps. “Help me!”

But you just stare at her.

Your fingers flex—your mind foggy, uncertain. You were always trained to protect, to fight.

And then—

A voice crackles through the HYDRA comms, sharp and authoritative.

“Agent Nightshade. Don’t disobey your makers.”

Your body seizes. Breath hitching.

Another, sickly sweet voice cracks through the comms, “Sister’s Keeper.”

In an instant—your brain goes blank.

Sharon sees it happen. Watches the point of control in your eyes get ripped away.

You strike first.

A kick, inhumanly fast, meant to take her down.

Sharon barely blocks, stumbling backward, disbelief flooding her veins.

“Jesus Christ, Y/N!”

But you’re already moving.

It’s like you can’t even hear her.

Her gun is kicked from her hands before she can react.

The fight is brutal. Precise. You don’t miss.

But neither does she.

You were trained together, years ago. Before the Avengers. Before the lies. Before all of this shit.

Sharon knows your patterns like the back of her hand.

But this dark, grimey, underworld has changed you.

She blocks a blow aimed for her throat—

And makes a split-second decision.

She doesn’t dodge.

Your fist slams into her jaw, and she crumples.

You stand over her, chest heaving, fingers trembling. Your body stills. Your mind flickers. The world slows.

Sharon Carter is on the ground.

You put her there.

The fog in your brain stumbles, just slightly. Something pangs in your chest, not physical pain. But sadness.

Her voice, hoarse, breaks through the static.

“You’re still in there.”

Your vision swims. The alarms blare.

Sharon reaches up, pressing something into your palm. A small silver device.

A trigger.

She gasps, coughing from the impact, but her eyes never leave yours.

“Press it, Y/N.”

Both sides of you are screaming

You press it. And the entire HYDRA facility explodes.

The walls around you shudder, a deep groan echoing through the underground facility as fire licks up the hallways, chasing oxygen like a starving animal.

You’re still standing. Somehow.

Your breath comes out in ragged gasps, and something unfamiliar twists in your chest.

Emotion.

The numbness isn’t gone—but it’s cracking. Fractured.

And Sharon is still there.

She’s coughing, one hand pressed to her ribs, but she’s alive. Alive because you didn’t finish the fight. Alive because you stopped.

She stares at you through the smoke.

“Y/N,” she rasps, voice fraying at the edges. “We have to move.”

You hesitate.

Your body can’t move. The trigger words won’t allow it.

But the base is burning. Second by second, the walls crumble and flame.

And the only voice left in your head now is hers. Samantha’s.

Sharon knows she has little to no time left, and in your frozen state she whips the back of your head with her gun. Your limp body is practically thrown over her shoulder like a rag.

She carries you through the ruins of your prison, her legs are so tired they nearly give out.

You two are so close to an exit tunnel when someone pops out of the smoke and dust.

A slow clap echoes throughout the burning hallways.

“Touching,” Samantha’s voice coos, sickly sweet and venomous. “The rogue little blonde came all this way for the broken one.”

Sharon’s spine goes rigid.

Still holding you in one arm, she slowly reaches into the back of her belt with the other—fingers wrapping around the grip of her sidearm.

Samantha steps through the hallway, firelight dancing along the steel of her knife.

“I should’ve known you’d come for her,” Samantha muses, circling closer. “I always wondered what happened to that little SHIELD rat. The one who didn’t quite belong anywhere. Auntie Peggy must be oh-so disappointed.” She feigns a pout.

“Funny,” Sharon murmurs, rising to her feet and easing your unconscious body gently behind a half-fallen support beam. Her voice is steady. Low. Lethal. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

Samantha grins. “She was always going to belong to us. You never stood a chance. Project Nightshade has been years in the making. By coincidence, Y/N came to us, betrayed us, and became our perfect weapon. It was meant to be.”

Sharon lifts her gun.

Samantha lunges.

It’s fast—almost too fast—but Sharon is faster.

The first bullet catches Samantha in the side.

The second one lands in her leg.

She stumbles, but keeps coming, teeth bared, blade flashing. “She’s ours”

Sharon ducks the swing, slams her boot into Samantha’s knee, right as a knife plunges itself into her ribs. A scream rips from her throat but she doesn’t stop, and fires again—this time point-blank.

The bullet tears through her chest.

Samantha staggers, choking on blood.

“I used to tell her about monsters like you,” the blonde slowly walks to look over Samantha’s body.

She tries to speak, but blood is gurgling out of her mouth and nose.

Sharon puts her last bullet between Samantha’s eyes.

She doesn’t look back.

#natasha romanoff angst #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha romanoff x female #natasha romanoff x wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x fem!reader #wanda maximoff x female reader #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #sharon carter x fem!reader #Sharon Carter #marvel #the diwk series

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actiwitch · 2 months ago

Text

Like 90% of the time* "some people can't go vegan🙄❌️👎" as anti-vegan rhetoric comes from people who IT DOESNT EVEN APPLY TO.

There ARE specific situations where people need to eat animals to survive-- severe poverty, living off the grid, specific health conditions, food deserts-- plant based diets are able to support mostly anybody, but because of the carnist world we live in it isn't /available/ to everybody.

And vegans UNDERSTAND THIS. When we are advocating for veganism and the end of speciesism, we obviously aren't fucking talking about a starving child in Africa (yes someone has said this to me) and I'm tired of even dignifying this bullshit with a response.

We are addressing everyday people in our own communities-- people like us who absolutely can go vegan. The same people who weaponize serious situations like poverty to misrepresent a LIBERATION MOVEMENT.

To try to bash and misrepresent one of the strongest ways we can use our voice as consumers to resist oppression and environmental destruction, isn't just fucked but is also stupid. It's not helping anyone, especially not the vulnerable populations you use as misrepresented sheilds to your own ignorance.

In our increasingly bigoted and environmentally destructive planet (especially here in the US) we don't have time for this bullshit.

(* this is in my and others experience as activists who've had conversations with many others about veganism. It might not be your experience, especially if you aren't an activist)

#veganism #vegan #activism #activist witch #activist #leftism #leftist #leftblr

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sophsbookstore · 1 year ago

Text

Somebody Come Get Her

Lando Norris x driver!reader ｡･:*˚:✧｡

Masterlist can be found in navigation!

Word count: 1,627

“I'm literally fine!” She is not fine. Infact Y/N is the drunkest she's been in a while.

After placing in the points at the Montreal Grand prix, while simultaneously celebrating her friend's second place win, Y/N decided that getting absolutely wasted in Montreal was the best thing for herself to do.

“Y/N how many shots have you taken?” A concerned Lando Norris questions his best friend.

“This many.” Y/N says, holding up two middle fingers in front of Landos face.

Lando tried to hold in his laughter, Y/N wasn't a big party girl. Sure she would always accompany the rest of the grid out to parties after races, she usually doesn't drink that often, going a little crazy once a season, but never this crazy.

“I'm going to get you some water, please don't drink anything while I'm gone, okay?” Lando scolds Y/N. “Can I trust you won't do anything stupid?”. When the girl gives him a thumbs up he takes it as his sign to move, quickly walking to the bar, Y/N books it to the other side of the club, spotting a small group of wag’s sitting together.

Not even thinking twice she bolts to the other side of the tight Montreal club, speed walking as fast as her designer heels can take her. Lily Z spots her, not really the party girl herself notices Y/N practically falling over herself trying to get to them.

Laughing, Lily taps one of the girls on the shoulder, they all turn to face Y/N instantly getting up and running to the girl with drunken excitement.

“Holy fuck you guys are so hot.” Y/N blushes, giving each girl a compliment before finding Lily in the back of the group. Y/N clings onto the Australian for dear life, Lily doing her best to hold half of Y/N’s body weight.

The girls walk back over to their couch in the VIP section of the club, all of them talking over one another while house music blasts throughout the small room. Back at the bar Lando is constantly looking over his shoulder, trying his best to find Y/N, making sure she stays near him.

Just as he thought, when the bartender finally hands him his drinks she's gone. “Of course she's gone.” Lando scolds himself for thinking that she would have actually stayed.

Placing his hand over the top of her drink, Lando aimlessly walks around the club, trying to find Y/N so he can take her home. Back at the couch the girls are starting to move to the dance floor, all of them going crazy for the international house music being played on the speaker.

As Y/N spins around, her eye catches something in the middle of the club, a pole. The pole is placed in the middle of the club, sitting atop an LED podium. Throughout the whole night many people have drunkenly got on it and sloppily spun around. “Look!” Y/N shouts, all the girls following her line of vision to the pole.

“I need it!” before anyone can say anything Y/N sprints to the empty pole, practically jumping onto it before spinning around. The sudden movement of the pole triggers the people around to stare at the girl. For being absolutely wasted Y/N managed to do pretty well for herself, random girls at the club shoving money in her bra as her friends and random patrons cheer or record on their phones.

The sudden cheering alerts Lando, a big crowd of people move toward the center of the club, Lando turns, seeing what he feared most. Knowing this was going to be a PR disaster for Y/N if the videos got out he abandons her drink on a random table, moving quickly through the crowd covering any camera he can in the process.

“Excuse me, pardon me, sorry.” Lando says to complete strangers before making it to the base of the pole. Without a second thought he grabs her arm, pulling her into him. Drunk off her ass Y/N collides into Landos chest. “Come on, I'm taking you home.” Lando snakes his arm around Y/N’s waist, moving the two of them closer to the door as another girl jumps onto the pole.

“Why did you do that? I was having so much fun.” Y/N pulls away from Lando, folding her arms in front of herself, trying to get some stability.

“Y/N come on, you're too drunk right now.'' Lando puts his hands on his hips, the both of them knowing she has no chance in this fight.

“I'm staying, that's final.” Y/N turns away from Lando, walking back to the big group before suddenly she's swept off her feet. Lando kneels down next to Y/N grabbing her waist once more before throwing her over his shoulder.

Holding onto the back of her knees, Lando pulls his keys out of his pocket as he walks toward the exit of the club, eyes following the pair as they walk away. “Damn Lando, why didn't you ever say anything about this dumpy back here?” Y/N giggles, her face against his lower back.

Lando laughs, carrying her all the way to his car. He holds the door open for her, helping her into the front seat before buckling her in. Lando quickly moves to the other side of the car, typing in Y/N’s hotel a few blocks away, before starting the car and driving off.

“Oh shit!” Y/N shouts, pulling the money out of her stuffed bra. “I'm rich!” She cheers, throwing the money all over Landos car.

“Where did you get all of this?” Lando says, picking up a twenty from the dashboard.

“People just kept giving them to me, I ate.” Y/N shrugs. Lando smiles at the girl, Y/N turns her attention to the window beside her, resting her head against the glass as her eyes start to shut.

Lando plays some soft music to help Y/N fall asleep, within seconds she's out. The drive doesn't take long, about fifteen minutes, when Lando parks he takes a minute to admire the girl beside him, carefully tucking a loose hair behind her ear to wake her up.

Y/N stirs in her sleep, Lando whispering for her to wake up as he goes to her door to help her out. With a combination of alcohol and sleep deprivation it's a miracle Lando got Y/N to her room, avoiding eye contact with guests and staff on his way to the elevator.

Lando lets the both of them into her room, helping Y/N into bed before placing Advil and water next to her bed. “You're so hot.” Y/N whispers, her glassy eyes stare at Lando.

“You're so drunk.”

“It doesn't mean I can't point out the obvious.” Y/N shrugs, closing her eyes and pulling the comforter close to her body.

“I'll see you in the morning, Y/N.” Lando smiles, setting up a “bedroom" for himself in the living room.

Lando spent the whole night thinking about Y/N, her dancing at the club, what she said before she went to bed. Lando has liked Y/N ever since they joined Formula 1 together, the two have always been inseparable, an iconic duo in motorsport.

CLACK! “Fuck!” The sound of something falling, quickly followed by a semi quiet swear, wakes Lando up.

A shirtless Lando moves his head toward the sound, his gaze falling upon Y/N wearing a tank top and plaid pajama pants. The pair look at one another, Lando notices her wet hair and beautiful bare face.

“Goodmorning!” Y/N gives lando an awkward smile.

“Good Morning to you too.” Lando gets off the couch, stretching before walking over to Y/N, the girl's eyes looking him up and down before the two become face to face.

“Be honest, how drunk I was last night.” Y/N grabs a banana off the counter.

“Honest?” Y/N nods, wanting to know what stupid thing she did. “There was a pole at the club, it may have gotten a lap dance from a certain female driver.”

Y/N drops her banana, her face getting hotter by the second as she covers her mouth in shock. “No I didn't.'' Lando decided that he wouldn't tell her about how many strangers filmed the whole moment. “Please tell me that was it.”

“You told me I’m hot, which boosted my ego an unhealthy amount.” Lando laughs.

“Oh, that's not that bad.” Y/N shrugs, picking the banana up off the floor. “You are.” She starts unpeeling the banana, taking a bite out of it before going to get a cup of water.

Lando was shocked, too stund to speak. Y/N turns around laughing at Lando’s expression. “What, you seriously didn't know?”

“Know what?” The man quickly asks.

“I've had a crush on you for the longest time, I thought it was so obvious!” She finishes the water, throwing away the remainder of her breakfast.

“You gotta be kidding me.” Y/N stares at Lando, trying her best to read his emotions. “I've had a crush on YOU for the longest time!” Lando explains, both their smiles getting bigger and bigger.

“Well then what the hell are we waiting for!” Y/N steps closer to Lando. “Can I kiss you right now?”

“Always.” Lando replies, taking Y/N face in his hands before kissing her passionately.

“Finally.” Y/N says as the two pull away from one another. “But seriously, remind me to never drink in Canada again.”

#lando norris one shot #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris #lando x reader #lando norris x y/n #formula 1 #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x you #lando norris x driver!reader

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elodieunderglass · 5 months ago

Note

Hi! I saw you mention in a post about people being into a thing in a weird way, and you mentioned permaculture. I dont know anything about that, could you elaborate? (serious question, just curious)

(This is in reference to a post that talked about the difficulty of having some interests (like Vikings) that are notorious for being shared with really right-wing people. For example, a tattoo with Norse runes could mean someone is a normal and interesting person who likes history and fantasy fiction, or they could be a vile white supremacist. I added to the post mentioning that permaculture is one of those interests, and that I wasn’t going to talk about it.)

I am not the first or only person to say this about permaculture, but I’ll take a stab at explaining it to an outsider.

What is permaculture? Permaculture is a term coined in 1978 to describe an approach to land management and food production based on how things work in ecosystems, centering the environment, and based on the ethical principles of Earth Care (sustainability, rebuilding of the environment, survival without destruction), People Care (meet people’s needs fairly and simply, build community) and Fair Share (find a balance of consumption, recognise limits around what can be taken from the environment, and share as much as possible.) movements like rewilding, reforestation, self-sufficiency, intentional communities, sustainable food production, regenerative agriculture and so on are all aspects of interest in permaculture.

However, by itself it’s kind of a nebulous term, because it’s applied to everything with a lofty wave of the hand; everything from somebody’s weedy old tomato plants, to a radical commune, can be vaguely described as “permaculture.” It’s possibly most accurate to call it an umbrella term for some loosely related fields, than a political movement or widespread agricultural practice. That’s part of the intention; by coining the term and describing what goes into it, the founders of the philosophy were trying to clarify communications; obviously, forms of permaculture have been practiced historically for all of human history!!! The usefulness of the term and definition is all about clarifying a unified package of philosophies to set against the behemoth of conventional, capitalistic, extractive land-management.

Ok so given that “everyone can do permaculture/ you can do it with your raised beds right now!” there’s a lot of overlap with people interested in individual self-sufficiency, off-grid living, rewilding, etc at home. in terms of online communities those are particularly vulnerable to sharing interests with right-wing people. In particular, isolationists/separatists/sovcits, right-wing preppers, nationalists, and of course, The Fucking Tradwives.

Why? Well, permaculture/self-sufficiency are connected to ideas of alternatives to the current system, and attract people who are interested in that. The most obvious is ecofascism although people are finally more aware of this (sending the ecofash into the coverts of being crypto-ecofash, but whatever, it’s a win that they feel less comfortable.) There may be a distrust of authority/the state which can be quite normal (don’t pledge allegiance to the USA flag!) and can be right-wing (MAGA people storming the capital did so because they claimed to distrust the state.) There may be a distrust of science/medicine, often hand-in-hand with the sort of “back to nature/ the earth is wiser than we are / indigenous practices” rhetoric that sounds quite lofty and righteous, but doesn’t quite explain why you haven’t vaccinated your kids, iykwim? Anything back-to-the-land should be examined carefully, because it CAN be progressive - or white nationalist - and sometimes both. Anything including a withdrawal from society ditto - yes, even if it’s a queer commune of witches growing tomatoes or whatever - because “withdrawing from multicultural/inclusive/tolerant/diverse/public-transport-having cities to a secure place of purity and control” is a necessary pillar of right-wing separatist thought. Anything talking about connection to the land should be considered attentively.

None of those are problematic and most are interests or behaviours that any normal person might have. They have to be considered carefully for context. Often, quite kind people can accidentally repeat unfortunate things, or speak badly.

It also doesn’t mean that all of permaculture is a tar pit - it just happens to overlap at certain points with the right-wing agenda, and often, the left-wing are bad at spotting that. It’s natural to accidentally absorb weird politics without examining them - that’s why propaganda is effective. All of these worries about pipelines/algorithms are based on the fact that that bad politics can form from quite innocuous beliefs. These are just some spaces/words where I’ve noticed it’s worth paying attention.

I’m personally wondering if I’m noticing the use of “indigenous” being slowly pushed into a space that worries me, rather like “traditional, heritage, natural, spiritual” have been? But I have not seen Indigenous people discussing this yet.

Also, other people have written about the tradwives so hopefully you can fold in what you know about that. There are also TERFs in permaculture; my harebrained theory is that radical feminists in general like the idea of having control over the environment, but want it to feel like a wise, sacred feminine thing. I was in some casual Facebook permaculture groups some years ago and the amount of schisms felt entirely like a) eldritch Catholicism or something??? B) fandom drama. There would be incredible stuff happening like the formation of splinter Facebook groups called like “Women In Permaculture 2.3 No TERFs” and “Gender Critical Women in Permaculture 2.3” which were 7 evolutions away from an initial “practicing permaculture” group.

In real life, people are unfortunately weirder and more open about it, but easier to avoid and less insidious. But that’s for another time.

@samwisethewitch has this good post with lots of resources in this space that aren’t pipelines of worrying ideology: https://www.tumblr.com/whovianuncle/773929827585638400 (by looking at the title alone, you can hopefully see some of the reality and scope of the problem enough that it isn’t just Elodie running their mouth!)

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iheartmonaco · 8 months ago

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Dirty Boy (FC43 x m!reader)

Tags:- Cockdrunk Franco, oral sex (reader receiving), subspace, begging

Everyone was congratulating Franco for his outstanding driving. Even his idols, Lando Norris and Charles Leclerc and Lewis fucking Hamilton congratulated him, acknowledged his talent and hard work. You loved that in barely three races, the world of Formula 1 had taken such a liking to your boyfriend. What was there to not like about him? He was funny and flirty and charming, and he looked like a complete hotshot.

"They all love you, Franco," you said with pride dripping from your voice. The two of you were lying on your bed, Franco with his head pillowed on your shoulder as you read aloud the tweets about him.

The tips of his ears turned red, a featherlight pink adorning his apple cheeks. "I didn't expect them to at first," he whispered, "with Sargeant being dropped in the middle of the season. I'm glad they do, otherwise I would not have survived James Vowles being such an asshole."

You laughed at his blunt honesty, kissing the top of his head. "Of course you would have survived, baby. You're a phenomenal driver, even Lewis Hamilton thinks so. He said it himself, didn't he?"

"Mhmm. I guess."

You say up to look at him. "What do you mean you guess? You don't think so? You've scored more in three races in half the grid, and that's far more than anyone else could have in that blue tractor."

He threw a pillow over his face and said something, muffled by the pillow. You took it away from his face and saw his flustered face. "Franco. What is it?"

"If I have been doing so good then why have you not congratulated me yet?"

You furrowed your brow, not quite understanding what was going on. "Franco, I've been congratulating you since you got asked to race in Formula One. Have I not said it enough? Because I'm sorry, baby, I'm so fucking proud of you, I couldn't have been more proud—"

"Not like that!" he whined.

"How then?" you asked exasperatedly. He looked down at your crotch, cheeks pink. You caught his gaze and his blush darkened as he quickly looked away. "Oh." Because if there was one thing Franco loved as much as racing, it was your cock. "Oh."

He met your eye with a copy smirk. "So? Are you going to give me my congratulations?"

"Oh yeah? Tell me what you want, baby, and I'll give it to you."

"Don't tease, amor," he scowled, "you know what I want."

You laughed and leaned down to kiss him. "Aren't you mouth today? I guess pretty boys like you are used to getting what they want." You say with your back against the headboard, throwing your sweatpants off. Franco settled between your legs eagerly. He eyes your half hard cock with hungry eyes. "Are you waiting for permission, Franco?" you asked.

He just never stopped being good for you, did he? Franco nodded.

"Good boy. You can have it."

There were two things Franco was exceptionally good at: racing and sucking cock. He stroked it a few times, getting it to full hardness before he licked the shaft from base to tip. Wet heat enveloped you and he sucked, creating a delicious vaccum.

"Ah— there you go. That's a good boy. You're doing so good."

Your praise spurred him on and he moaned around your cock. Soon, Franco was bobbing his head up and down, getting you deeper and deeper into his mouth, until the head hit the back of his throat. You grabbed his curls, not quite pulling, just holding him there.

"Franco? Can you breathe, baby?" He hummed, then met your eyes, nodded. "That's good. Stay like this."

You helped him relax his shoulders, letting him place his arms on your thighs and stroking his back. You saw the exact moment his movements went lax. His brain emptied out, no longer processing anything but the praise falling from your lips and the weight of your cock in his mouth. He forgot to even swallow, spit trickling out of the corners of his mouth and pooling at the base of your cock.

Franco closed his eyes. A calm, almost content look settled on his face. He looked so pretty, lips stretched wide around your cock, drool running down his chin, breathing slowly through his nose.

"You're so pretty, baby. So fucking gorgeous with your mouth full of my cock." You ran your fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp. Franco sighed happily. "Do you want me to get you off too?"

He hummed, not answering your question. You gently pulled him off your cock. Franco looked at you in confusion like he had just woken up. His gaze was still cloudy.

"Franco, baby, do you want me to get you off as well?"

He palmed at himself through shorts as if noticing his own aching erection for the first time. He shook his head. "Jus' need you," he slurred, "just need your cock. Can I touch m'self?"

"Of course, baby. You can touch yourself. Here." You nudged his bottom lip with your tip. He opened his mouth, sticking his tongue out. God, he didn't even know what he was doing, did he? Franco took you into his mouth, fisting the length he couldn't swallow. Slipping a hand into his own shorts, he began to stroke himself off. What a fucking sight that was.

When his movements started to get sloppier, you grabbed the hair at the back of his head and took control of the pace. You held him still, fucking into his mouth as he fisted his cock.

"That's a good boy, fuck, Franco, so good for me, baby." He whined loudly, sending vibrations up your cock. "Oh fuck. You gonna come, baby? Go on. Come for me. You did so good."

Franco came with a cry that was like heaven on your cock. "Franco," you groaned, coming in his mouth. He swallowed messily, drops of cum dribbling out of the corners. You pulled out of his mouth with an audible pop and stroked his cheek softly.

He nuzzled into your hand and murmured, "m'dirty, came in my underwear."

You smiled at him, picking him up to carry him to the shower. "Yeah. Dirty boy."

#Completely forgot to post this here #f1 x male reader #f1 x reader #mads writes #franco colapinto x you #franco colapinto smut #franco colapinto fanfic #franco colapinto imagine #franco colapinto x reader #franco colapinto #Franco Colapinto x male reader #x male reader

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agendabymooner · 2 years ago

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SOMETHING JEALOUS !!! DANIEL R. X FEM!READER feat. lando norris (18+)

summary: jealous danny = generous danny. (part two-ish to something watchful)

content warning: use of explicit language, smut under the cut (minors dni!), not proofread, dubcon, pwp, voyeurism (danny makes lando watch, consensual) + masturbation (m), filthy filthy content, dom!daniel x sub!reader (and dom!lando), based on a request from my inbox

note: the max verstappen smut reached 1,000+ notes 😗 enjoy xx

something sinful (smut) masterlist

a - n masterlist

o - z masterlist

lando furrowed his brows at the sight of her, watching as she pouted. her gaze was going to burn a hole into the booth table, lando thought as he looked around the headache inducing and strobe light flickering room. where the fuck was her boyfriend, daniel?

“he’s with some chick over there,” the british man must’ve spoken aloud because of how she answered the question without any amusement in her tone. she gestured at the bar area, where lando found daniel ricciardo chatting up with some lady with his typical grin.

what the fuck was danny doing making someone laugh that wasn’t his girlfriend?

“fucking beats me, lando,” she huffed out.

“shit did i say that out loud?” lando asked as she nodded with a begrudging expression. “never mind that— why are you pouting and sulking, girl?”

“it happens whenever your boyfriend would come chatting with people that aren’t you,” she said grimly.

“cheer up,” lando grinned, slinging his arm around her. in a drunken haze, he hadn’t minded his actions but if he was sober he knew how poor this would be for his friendship with daniel.

daniel was possessive. everyone knew that.

every driver in the grid knew that no matter how much they'd drooled over his girlfriend. everyone’s mothers knew not to get too close whenever she was around.

lando was playing with fire but he couldn’t help it; his buzzed self wanted to comfort his friend— his friend’s girlfriend.

and daniel had immediately seen it. the aussie’s sight darkened when he found his girlfriend laughing with lando while they chatted amongst themselves.

she seemed to be having fun, which was good for certain reasons but daniel only wished he could cut lando’s arms off as he watched the british man get a little too comfortable and close to her.

it was almost as if the woman that daniel was chatting with had disappeared. his gaze burned holes through his girlfriend’s demeanour and figure as he tried to contain his frustration and jealousy.

and by the time she looked at him, she knew that she was done for. that the lust and jealousy in daniel ricciardo’s eyes would come with a price.

what she didn’t expect, however, was that the price would come along with a company in a form of a british driver. the one that slung his arm over her shoulder. lando.

the pout on her face, alongside the smudge of her mascara, was what daniel paused to see for a brief moment.

his jealousy was the result of his girlfriend’s unintentional close contact with lando norris, and he could admit that. and the messy features of her face was a result of daniel’s jealousy— admiring her silently as she whined about his cock.

when he circled around her and reached behind her, he tutted and murmured, “so wet for me, sweetheart.”

she laid flat on her stomach, her cheeks spreading thanks to daniel’s observant hands before he let go and smacked her right cheek. she moaned pitifully, eyes closing as her cunt throbbed around nothing. “danny, please…”

“nuh uh, don’t ‘danny please’ me now, doll,” daniel grinned darkly. “you have to tell me what you wan’, pretty girl. you can’ whine and expect me to give it to you.”

“i- ah,” she cried out as she felt a sharp pain from her roots, being pulled up by him as she whimpered, “wan’ you to fuck me, danny. wanna feel full.”

“yeah? you want my cock?”

“hm- mhm~” she nodded eagerly, his hand restraining her movement.

“d’ya want to be fucked full?” he asked again, making her nod. his maniacal smile faltered for a brief moment as he pointed her head towards in front of them. “by who? me or him?”

“open your eyes, pretty girl. tell me who’d you want to fuck you,” and she did, her glistening eyes sharing contacts with lando’s lust blown pupils as he sat on the chair across the bed, his cock hardening as he continued rubbing the tip of it.

this was filthy, the three of them could admit— but they could also admit that they were getting immense pleasure from this.

if daniel was going to make someone watch them as they fuck, she might as well make him jealous all the time. it was just a surprise that, of all the people who would be up for this, lando would be the one to watch and get pleasure out of his best friend’s filthy fantasy.

she stammered, “y- you, danny- i want you to fuck me- hah~ fuck! yes, like that!”

lando incoherently sighed at the sight of her being filled to the brim by daniel’s cock, watching her tits bounce while daniel fucked her roughly. lando continued to stroke his length as he watched the couple.

“fuck, fuck- shit~” she cursed, drool falling down her lips as she sucked on daniel’s fingers to keep herself silent.

“tell ‘im how you feel, baby,” daniel pulled his fingers away from her mouth and smacked her ass.

“so good,” she moaned.

“that’s it, baby?”

“‘m so full and it’s so good, lan,” she babbled coherently. “‘is cock is so good, fuuuuuck~”

“yeah? is that right, girl?” lando taunted, stroking his cock as she cried in pleasure, tears falling down her eyes as daniel continued to spear her insides with his cock. “gettin’ too dumb now, princess? is it because it’s so good?”

she nodded eagerly as sounds of hips snapping echoed around the room, her cunt making squelching noises as daniel fucked her from behind.

“answer him, doll,” daniel demanded firmly. “use your words or ‘m not gonna fuck you.”

“yes!” she managed to get it out of her mouth as she cried and babbled, “fills me so good, hah— and he- fuck! shit, danny please want more!”

“had i known that you were into this kind of bullshit, i would've made you jealous way before this,” lando teased.

“don’t push your fucking luck,” daniel growled lowly. “be grateful we even let you watch. stop talking and watch her fall apart— you’re gonna miss the good part.”

#formula one smut #daniel ricciardo smut #daniel ricciardo imagine #formula one imagine #f1 smut #daniel ricciardo x reader #dr3 x reader #dr3 imagine #lando norris #formula 1 smut #f1 imagine #formula 1 #f1 #daniel ricciardo #formula one #♔ something sinful ⎯ f1 smut

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jovial-thunder · 1 year ago

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Lancer on a physical tabletop with Lego minis!

We finally did the thing! I roped my siblings into playtesting a game of Lancer using Legos and a physical tabletop. The sitrep was to destroy five buildings, marked in red, because the Karrakins were using the installation to track their mobile hidden base (our home campaign is a blatant ripoff of Deserts of Kharak).

Things that need improvement:

better way to measure tiles. We were doing 4cm/space and had to do a lot of multiplication. Going to try wood dowels with tiles marked + get some kind of grid underlay.

similarly, we need aoe templates

I used too much terrain, it got messy

should get status rings/tokens to mark lock-on, etc

Things that worked well:

it was sick as hell to be able to physically destroy Lego terrain and mechs as they fell

we used physical dice? For lancer?? And it turns out clicky clack math rocks continue to be inherently great.

witchdice works well on mobile devices for character sheets so not every PC had to have a full laptop

different height-terrain was fun, though it made movement costs tricky to calculate

I'm excited to keep trying out different setups. All the terrain and stuff I've collected is pretty modular (lego makes that easy) so it'll be fun to see how wide a range of map types is possible.

#lancer rpg #lego #mecha #tabletop rpg #tabletop games #wargaming #lancer

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htchnr · 2 months ago

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꩜ tire you out 𑣲 WADE KINSELLA.

𖦹 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭. 𖦹 𝐛𝐮𝐲 𝐦𝐞 𝐚 𝐤𝐨-𝐟𝐢!

「 ꜜsummary,, [based on this scene that i edited.] you can't seem to get tired enough to sleep well, so Wade helps wear you out. author notes at the end. 」

「 ꜜcontent,, teasing ⋆ piv sex ⋆ unprotected sex ⋆ creampie ⋆ nail scratches ⋆ Wade is 100% a service top imo ⋆ overstimulation ⋆ multiple orgasms (f) ⋆ fluff at the end. ꜜwc,, 1,8k. 」

you groan as you drop down on Wade's couch, legs stretched across his lap like it's a second home. you lay all stretched out, arms covering your face.

he nearly chokes on his beer at the force, setting the bottle down to in turn dig his fingers into the supple skin of your calves. " hey, meant to thank you for blowin' out the electricity at my place last night. " he teases, pulling your leg up so he can drag his lips across the bare skin. " it's greeaat to practice living off the grid in case of a war with the zombies or whatnot. " he nips at the skin.

you huff, " sorry, i just can't sleep these past few nights. s'like i'm up all night tossin' and turnin'. " you groan from under your arms.

Wade grins, that sleazy, cheeky staple grin of his. " maybe you're just not tired enough at night. " he trails, calloused fingers still massaging your calf. " f'you wanna 'work out' a little, or whatever, " he continues, pulling you further up the couch by your thighs. your ass now pressed against his thigh as he leans down over you a little. " no need to blow the power out. i'll just come by. " his voice is low, you can smell the beer on his breath.

you peak out from under your arms, that wicked glint in your eyes. he grins wider. " oh yeah? " you sit up straight, Wade's hands easily guiding your knees to rest on either side of his hips.

he nudges your nose with his, " oh yeah, " he whispers, pressing a wet kiss to your lips. " get you aaall tired out and relaxed, " he trails his lips down your jaw. " eyes barely able to stay open, " he presses an open mouth kiss to your throat, his tongue lingering a little. " all ready for bed. "

his voice has a slight pitch to it as you slowly roll your hips against his. you can feel his grin against your skin as his teeth skim the wet flesh, his lips latching onto the area. " oh shit- " he revels in the hitch of your breath as he suckles at the skin, slowly and precisely leaving a trail of blooming bruises down to your chest.

you pant, your hips stuttering. your hands hastily cup either side of his face, pulling him up to look at you. you mash your lips against his, both of you moaning at the feeling. his hands grip your hips, aiding their movements.

you pull away just enough from the kiss, panting against his lips. " Wade? "

he looks up at you with heavy eyes. " yeah, baby? "

you close your eyes at the sight of his, dropping your head to his shoulder. " i need you- need you to wear me out. " you breathe, trailing your lips up his throat. " need you so bad. "

he groans, nodding breathlessly as he tangles a hand in your hair and pulling it back. " shit- yes, ma'am. " he presses his lips urgently back against yours, manoeuvring you both so you're on your back with him between your legs.

" m'gon' make you feel so good, i promise, baby- shiiittt.. " he breathes as his hands work at your clothes, pulling your shirt up to find you already completely bare beneath. he sucks in a breath, hiking your legs up over his hips as he latches his lips onto the supple skin of your breasts.

and you know he'll keep his promise.

" oh fuck, fuck fuckkk- " you chant as his fingers work tight circles against your throbbing clit, his hard cock slowly slipping inside. your thighs shake where they're resting against his, your hands shooting up to drag up your face and tangle into your hair.

Wade lets out a deep moan as he keeps slowly pushing in, feeling your suffocating walls try to simultaneously push him out and suck him further in. " you can do it, baby, c'mon i know you can- " he strains, his fingers not once faltering in their pace.

you shake your head, your hips jolting with each spark of pleasure. he nods his head in return, " yes you can, give me another, pretty doll, c'mon. "

" can't- s'too much- " you sob, eyes rolling back as he starts to pick up his thrusts.

he leans down, briefly faltering the pace of his fingers as he rests his sweaty forehead against yours. " i know you can give me one more, you're being so good f'me, sooo good.. " he pants, each pulse of your walls pulling him embarrassingly closer to the edge.

he watches your face scrunch up against his, brows knit tight in the focus on your high. you swallow shakily, your thighs starting to tremble more. you nod, slowly at first, then with each swirl of his fingers you nod more frantically.

" that's my girl- c'mon, give me one more. " he grunts, the pace of his hips picking up even more. his fingers slip against your wet cunt with each thrust, your eyes rolling back in pure ecstasy.

" shit- m'gonna-! " you gasp, your fingers digging into his strong biceps, then back to scratch against his back again. with a few more swirls of his fingers and heavy thrusts, white hot pleasure shoots through you, eyes clenching shut as your whole body trembles against him as you cum once again.

" that's my good girl, that's it- give it all to me, baby.. " he moans, fucking you through your high as he chases his. " you're so good f'me-- fuckin' fantastic. " he rambles, his face screwing up as he comes closer with each thrust.

he whines with each drag of your nails against his raw back, the thought of the marks alone spurring him on even more. " please- " you hiccup, tears of pleasure dripping down your face. " need you to cum f'me-- need to feel you inside- " you plea, gasps and hiccups streaming from your lips.

" shit, fuck-! okay, yeah. okay, baby. " he breathes, his face dropping down to bury in the crook of your neck. " anything you fuckin' want. "

you nod, tear streaked cheek pressing into his hair. " please- please pleaseplease-! " you repeat, your nails digging deeper into his back.

" oh fuck- m'gonna-- " he whines, pressing sloppy, all-teeth kisses to your collarbone.

" yes-! please give it to me! "

" oh lord- " he stammers, hips stuttering before they slam to a halt. you gasp as he presses deeper into while he cums, feeling rope after rope spill into you.

you smooth your hands up his sides, quickly up and down, as he slowly comes down from his high. his hips lazily thrust, slowly fucking his cum up into you.

one of his hands moves to smooth over your wet cheek, lust-blown hazel eyes staring down at you. he exhales deeply with a tired smile, leaning down to press his lips against your in a tender kiss. you smile into the kiss, tired returning it.

he pulls away after a minute, resting his sweaty forehead against your equally sweaty one. he slowly pulls out, a string of curses leaving him as he watches his cum slowly leak out of your pulsing cunt. he sucks in a breath, dragging a hand down his face. " fuckk.. " he groans at the sight.

you nod tiredly with an airy chuckle, dropping your head back against his couch. " yeah.. "

he wraps his arm around your waist, manoeuvring the two of you around with a grunt until you're laying in top of his chest. he exhales deeply, pulling a stray blanket off the back of the couch and drapes it over you both. you yawn, wiping at your wet face before resting your cheek against his sweaty chest.

he grins lazily, one arm securely wrapped around you as his other hand traces shapes against your bare arm. you both bask in the quiet moment, just simply enjoying each other's warmth.

he gently pinches your arm, pulling a hum from you. " there, that tiring enough, ma'am? " he teases.

you huff, your hot breath fanning over his chest. a faint and tired hum leaves you-- you're already almost asleep. he smiles at the sound, pressing a kiss to your hair. " sleep tight. " he whispers, eyes closing as he's not far behind.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ⋙

you groan as you slowly stir from your sleep, eyes clenching shut in a poor attempt to block out the sun. " well, g'morning sunshine. " you can hear the grin in Wade's voice as he rounds the couch.

he kneels down in front of you, two mugs of coffee in hand. he sets them down on the worn out coffee table before turning back to you. he smiles as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. " how'd you sleep? "

you let out a deep exhale, nuzzling against his hand as it cups your cheek. " like fuckin' heaven. " you mumble.

he laughs, pressing a kiss to your cheek before lifting your legs up so he can sit on the couch. he lowers them into his lap, tenderly stroking your calf. " well, guess i'll be gettin' a call more often, huh? " he grins, that sleazy, sleazy grin.

you grumble something into the couch, before lazily kicking your foot up against his chest. he chuckles, instantly grabbing a hold of it. " i'm kiddin', baby. " he assures as he presses kisses along the bridge of your foot. " m'just glad you slept well. "

「 authors note,, y'all he's just sooo.... southern men are my weakness 🫠. send me Wade requests PLSSS i'm dying for some ideas. ꜜwade taglist,, @imnez-daydreams @karinas-void .」

𑣲 join the taglist ٠࣪⭑꩜.ᐟ

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