#all of your hands are red there is no getting out of this clean

[honey-on-your-tongue]

𝙲𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚞𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚂𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚗 𝚁𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚢, 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟷𝟹 (𝚗𝚜𝚏𝚠)

part 12

Simon has to admit, with so much sex you two have been having, he’s gotten pretty used to it. Which means he lasts longer. Which means he takes full advantage of it and ensures you get at least two orgasms before he gets his.

But not tonight. Tonight, he wants to see how much you can take.

You’re lying in bed, your lips meeting his as he leans in for a kiss as his fingers dip into you. Your whine is muffled by his mouth, legs spreading farther apart as he starts a slow rhythm. In and out, coated in your slick, his fingers curl to find that spongy spot in you that you so enjoy.

You hold onto his shoulders, mewling as your pussy greedily sucks his fingers deeper, always so eager for more.

“You’re so beautiful, baby. Such a good girl, aren’t you?” he murmurs as his mouth trails down to your neck, licking and kissing at the skin. “Always so gorgeous when my fingers are in you.”

He works you up slow, not playing with your clit yet, only dragging his thick fingers against your gummy walls for a long while, making your pleasure grow, grow, grow, but never being quite enough to make you come.

You’re sweating, mewling and begging by the time he decides to give you what you need. His thumb presses against your clit, drawing lazy circles on it as his fingers continue fucking into you.

“Simon! Fuck! Yes!” you squeal, pussy tightening around him, body trembling as your first orgasm comes over you.

Simon’s fingers slow but never stop, only his thumb removes itself from your clit. He keeps those slow, deep strokes as you come down from your high. When he sees you’ve recovered enough, he starts up again.

His fingers fuck you perfectly, filling you and pressing against your g-spot with ease. His thumb comes back down on your clit, making your hips jerk.

“What are you doing?” you ask breathlessly, eyes fluttering shut. “Si? Aren’t you gonna fuck me?”

“Not yet, baby. Not yet,” he says.

His fingers drag against your walls, feeling how warm and wet you are, his cock leaking precum onto the front of his pants. But he doesn’t care. He needs to make you come again and again until you can’t take anymore.

This is past due.

He pulls orgasm after orgasm from you, each one coming faster and stronger than the last. Your body is shiny with sweat, your legs weak, voice a little hoarse from how much you’ve squealed and moaned and whimpered his name. The mark of your nails is imprinted into his shoulders, the feel of your cunt around his fingers as delicious as ever.

After another mind-blowing orgasm, you push him away, shaking your head. “Si, I can’t ‘nymore,” you whimper, body limp. “Can’t take any more.”

Slowly, Simon withdraws his fingers. Your slick has coated all the way down to his knuckles, it’s dripping down your thighs, has made a very noticeable wet spot on the bed under where you lay.

He licks his fingers clean before patting your hip gently. “Fifteen orgasms ain’t a bad start, honey,” he says lowly, grinning. “Though I think I can get one more outta ya tonight.”

He pushes his pants down, cock standing proud and hard and aching, the tip red and soaked with his precum.

Despite the many releases you’ve already had, you nod, eager for his cock as always, your hands reaching for him.

He lets you pull him closer, lets you wrap your arms around his neck and push your hips against his so your soaked pussy rubs against his cock.

Simon hisses lowly. “Hold on, hold on,” he grunts and reaches down, rubbing the tip of his cock between your puffy folds before he slides in.

You gasp, whimpering. The fulness his fingers provided doesn’t even come close to the fulness his cock offers. He’s so big and long, always stretches you open no matter how prepared he’s got you. It’s a delicious sensation that’s almost too much and yet never enough at the same time.

Simon fucks you hard, his body achy and needy for a release of its own. He can barely focus on anything but the feeling of your cunt, hot and wet and tight around his cock, and his mind is spinning.

You whimper. “Fuck! Fuck! Simon!” you squeak, nails dragging over his shoulder blades, head thrown back in ecstasy.

He leans down, takes the opportunity to bite and suck at your neck, leaving hickeys everywhere so everyone else can see them. He hopes everyone knows you’re his.

He fucks you harder, hips slamming against yours roughly. He pulls out almost all the way before shoving back into you, emptying your cunt before filling it again with every stroke. Hard and deep and rough, a way for him to claim you, to remind you and him that you’re his. His undoing, his girl, his love.

You poor thing, all fucked silly, body weak, can barely take much. It doesn’t take long for your body to start shaking, legs quivering, pussy tightening.

Simon reaches down, tracing your clit with his thumb as he angles his hips so his cock presses against your g-spot.

And that’s when it happens.

You squeal, body shaking as you come, a gush of your slick spurting onto him, soaking his lower abdomen and his hips. He gasps, grunting at the realization that you just squirted, and his hips falter.

His orgasm hits him too fast, too hard, and he fills you up with thick, sticky ropes of his cum. “Fuck! Fuck, baby!” he growls, stilling and keeping his cock deep in you. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Oh, God.”

You’re weak, lying on the bed all boneless, soaked in your own slick. All out of it, you mumble, “What jus’ happened?”

Simon grins, chuckling roughly. “You just squirted all over me, baby. Made one big mess.” He leans down and kisses your forehead. “And from now on, I’m gonna try and get you to do it every time I fuck you.”

---

Taglist

@booboobear-12 @lilychristine01 @smzyyx @mxsatorisimp @akkahelenaa @crypticlxrsh @m-0-ssy-m-3-ss @actualpoppy @dawnnightshade666 @dethspllz @massivecandycrusade @mentally-unstable-hottie13 @shushyoudontknowme @readinggeeklmao @despairingrat @h0lydrag0ns @poseidonsbichild @sillylittlereader @vanillarosekiss @jangles-the-clown @lem-hhn @doubledizzy22 @http-bell @readingthingy @velvetdimond @thegaywitchofwhimsy @weaniebeaniebaby @havoc973 @lucienofthelakes @keiminds @8pmismybedtime @i-wanabe-yours @happysmappy @jp600fox @moonbluff @hobiebrownenthusiast @dragons-flare @canyonmooncreations @foxintheferns @dreamland08 @fertilise-me @dravenskye @hobiebrownenthusiast @liidiaaag @viviansvault3 @alwayzmsbehavn @nicolebarnes @tysukier @icouldntthinkofanythingclever @cd-mr 

*if you wanna be added to my Ghost taglist, lmk 💛

---

Simon Riley masterlist

[luxcuriousao3]

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE I NEED MORE WOLF HYBRID!READER PLEASE ILL DO ANYTHING!!!! TwT

Hahaha I'm so glad you like it!

cod masterlist

Munich is as gorgeous as everyone always says.

You find the closest available hostel and drop your bags there, before leaving to wander around the city in a bit of a daze. You don’t really know what to do with yourself, packless and adrift in a foreign country. It’s uncomfortably reminiscent of your time in America. When the sun goes down, you head back to the hostel and go to sleep early, body wrapped protectively around your bags. In the moments between sleeping and waking, you can convince yourself that they’re your former packmates, and you’re not painfully alone.

Days two, three, and four go much the same way. On day five, you find yourself at a cozy little coffee shop, sitting in the corner booth and sipping on an overpriced—but very well made—dark roast. You stare into the paper cup like your coffee holds all the world’s secrets.

Maybe it knows why your pack turned on you.

With a forlorn sigh, you get up, downing the last sip of your drink and heading towards the trashcan. But before you reach it, a massive figure blocks your way. Listless from depression, your usually sharp reflexes don’t kick in in time, and you bump into them. Their piping hot drink spills down the front of your shirt, and you let out a wolfish yelp of pain, jumping back.

“Es tut mir so leid!” The huge figure exclaims in a surprisingly high-pitched voice. You look up to see a very, very tall rabbit hybrid looking at you in undisguised horror. His coffee cup is on the ground, a slowly growing puddle forming at your feet. He twists one of his long, light brown ears between his hands, big blue eyes full of anxiety. “Es t-tut m-m-mir—”

“S’fine,” you cut him off, wincing as you pull the wet fabric of your shirt away from your front. You’re sure you’re going to have a lasting red mark. But what’s one more scar? It’s not like you have anyone to fuss over you every time you get hurt. You’re packless. A stray. “Get me some napkins, yeah?”

The rabbit hops into action, going over to the service counter and using one of his absurdly long arms to reach over and steal a roll of paper towels. The employees cry out in outrage, but when they see the mess he makes a beeline towards, they sigh in grudging acceptance of his thievery and go back to work.

Frantically, the rabbit hybrid fruitlessly starts trying to wipe your shirt clean with a wad of paper towels. You blink, standing still, and debate whether you should punch him for basically feeling you up. But after staring at his pale face for a moment, you decide he’s too freaked out to even realize what he’s doing, so you let it go. Instead, you grip his wrist, stopping him, and slowly push his hand away from your chest. Only then does it seem to register, and he flushes almost as red as his hair, starting to stutter apologies again. You hold up a hand to stop him, and he goes silent, still just staring at you.

“Do you know where the closest clothing shop is? I need a new shirt,” you say blankly. He nods vigorously, babbling something in German—presumably the shop name—and then gestures for you to follow him. You do so, carefully stepping over the puddle of coffee.

[yuyuyukiii]

The Outfit? Offensive ⛐

Summary: The paddock thought race day was intense. Then a five-year-old showed up with glitter sunglasses and a clipboard. Chaos followed.

Content: cuteness, chaos, toddler logic, paddock drama, fashion crimes, soft dad moments, glitter-level confidence, and even retired or inactive drivers somehow getting dragged into the drama

Author's Note 🏎️:

I’ve always liked writing cute stuff, especially with some of the drivers or team principals as dads since a few of them are older now and it just fits so well. This one was super fun and chaotic to write, so I hope it made you smile. If you have any requests or ideas you want to see written, my DMs and request box are always open!

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

Security didn’t question her. Probably because she looked like she owned the place.

By the time the first batch of drivers had checked into the paddock, she was already seated outside the motorhomes in her tiny foldable chair, glitter sunglasses on, clipboard in hand, and a sign (written in crayon) that read:

FASHION CONTEST. WINNER GETS HUG + CANDY. + and maybe sumthin else if u dress rilly rilly good ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜

The “judge” was Y/N. Age five. Future fashion dictator. Also known around here as “Toto’s kid.” Which explained how she had clearance before sunrise and knew exactly where to set up for maximum drama.

Max Verstappen was first in. Walked through security. Barely two steps in and—

“Minus three! AGAIN with the Red Bull shirt? BORING.” You scribbled with flair, then flipped your whiteboard. “You get a zero.”

Max blinked. “It’s part of my job?”

“Not my fault you picked the boring work shirt,” you pouted. “Why no sparkles or colors or fun?”

He walked away muttering something about unfair systems and needing a stylist.

Then came Oscar, pink hoodie and all.

“POINTS for pink! You’re automatically higher than Max!” she cheered.

Oscar blinked. “Thank you…?”

The others trickled in like lambs to the fashion slaughter. Charles got a 6.5 and was already arguing about it.

He blinked. “But this is Dior.”

“I’m five,” you replied flatly.

Lando got a 4.25 because of his mismatched socks. “A four point what?” he repeated, stunned.

You raised your board. “Four. Point. Two, Five. Don’t argue with the system.”

Carlos came next, looking a little too confident in pastel colors and suspiciously clean shoes.

“Mmm. 7.4,” you said, scribbling on your whiteboard. “Points for the matching socks.”

George looked scandalized. “Wait, he gets a 7.4?”

“You’re not up yet,” you warned him.

As more drivers arrived and got judged, the area around your chair became less a walkway and more a pit lane of chaos.

“I better be higher than Carlos,” George muttered, peeking at your notes.

“You’re not,” Gabriel said from behind him.

“You got a five,” Kimi added helpfully, “and a note that says ‘pants are too tight.’”

“They are!” you shouted.

At one point, Lance walked up wearing Crocs. The judging panel went silent.

“Crocs?” you asked, peering over your whiteboard like a judge on TV. “Two out of ten.”

Lance looked like you personally offended his ancestors. “They’re limited edition!”

Pierre came back holding the ice cream like a peace offering. “I brought you something, look.”

You squinted. “Is it chocolate?”

“No…”

“Then it’s a 5.5.”

Valtteri arrived next, holding a protein bar and a juice pouch like he was paying tribute. You took the juice and sipped dramatically.

“You’re now a 6.2,” you announced with a proud nod.

Fernando, ever the opportunist, approached with a bag of chips. “What if I throw in a selfie?”

“I can’t eat a selfie,” you said.

“She’s right,” Nico Hulkenberg muttered. “Give her the chips.”

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

By mid-morning, the judging line was done.

But instead of going to their garages to get ready like professionals, the drivers started hovering behind Y/N’s chair like she was hosting the paddock version of the Met Gala.

Then it happened. Someone, probably Lando, pointed at a poor, unsuspecting crew member just walking by with a headset and clipboard.

“What does he get?”

You looked up. Squinted. “His jacket’s cool. 6.6.”

“6.6?” Ollie nearly choked. “That’s higher than me!”

“He has a lightning bolt on his arm,” you said proudly. “That’s awesome.”

Some poor team staffer walked by with a coffee tray and got hit with:

“Okay, why does he get a 5?” Alex pointed aggressively. “He’s literally wearing beige. Like, beige on beige. He looks like a bread roll.”

“BEIGE SNEAKERS TOO,” Nico gasped.

“I think he’s just doing his job,” Zhou said gently.

Another guy walked past wearing skinny jeans and a massive team jacket.

Oscar pointed. “That jacket’s so big it has zip codes. Why does he get an 7.2? And I got a 4?”

“I like big jackets,” Y/N said.

Fernando pointed at another staff member passing by. “Okay, and why does she get a seven? What did she do?”

You tilted your head. “She smiled at me before.”

George looked personally betrayed. “That’s not fair! I smiled at you all morning.”

“You also wore pants that looked like they couldn’t breathe,” Yuki muttered.

Someone else walked by, probably a logistics guy.

“0,” you said.

“Finally,” Max muttered.

“Wait, no. 3,” you said, thinking hard. “He gave me gum yesterday.”

Alex narrowed his eyes. “Wait. Are we really losing to people just walking by?”

You looked at him. “You wore that hoodie yesterday. And yesterday was not fashion day.”

Someone else passed, this time pushing a catering cart. “6.7,” you decided. “The food smells yummy.”

“Unbelievable,” Nico muttered. “Outscored by a sandwich guy.”

“Sandwich guy has style,” you added, chewing a gummy worm.

Another poor soul walked by with a clipboard and two phones, just trying to do his job.

Liam pointed. “Him. That guy. Why does he get a six and I got 4.5?”

“Because I like his phone case,” Y/N said, totally confident.

Everyone turned to stare.

“What’s on his phone case?” Logan asked.

“A duck. In a hat.”

Liam dramatically collapsed. “I lost to a duck.”

“Don’t say that sentence out loud,” Franco said, wheezing.

“I’m judging the judge now,” Oscar announced. “This whole system’s rigged.”

“You’re just mad you peaked at 4,” Pierre smirked.

“I bribed her,” Oscar said. “She took the Oreos. She took them.”

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

Somewhere else in the paddock, a reporter hesitated mid-question and glanced at his earpiece.

“Sorry, Toto,” he said carefully. “There’s… a situation.”

“What kind of situation?”

“Your daughter’s judging the drivers.”

“She’s what?” Toto blinked.

“It was cute at first. But now the drivers have formed a line, and they're heckling anyone who scores higher than them.”

Toto stared.

“They’re terrorizing innocent staff,” the reporter added. “One guy just walked by holding cables and got a 6. George is demanding a recount. And someone might’ve cried. We don’t know who. We just know one of them walked off muttering, ‘I got a two. A two.’”

Toto closed his eyes for a second. “Where is she now?”

The reporter just pointed. “Follow the chaos.”

With a sigh, Toto turned and started walking. As he stepped outside, he was immediately hit by the sound of complaints.

“I got a three? Can you believe that?” an engineer said loudly, holding a banana like it had failed him.

“Look at me. I got a two,” someone else muttered. “She said my shoes look like ‘marshmallow blobs.’”

“She’s not wrong,” another voice chimed in.

Toto paused, slowly dragging a hand down his face.

This... was going to be a long weekend.

—

And things were only getting worse.

The bribery escalated fast. Isack came with gummy bears. Yuki offered a big bag of Cheetos. Franco brought stickers. Zhou offered gum. You accepted everything like a tiny goblin hoarding treasure.

You pointed suddenly, like you just saw a crime. “Wait. He has Crocs.”

Lance looked like he was about to cry. “You already rated me!”

You blinked. “I did?”

“Yes! You said two out of ten. In front of everyone!”

“Oh.” You stared at his feet. “Yeah. Now you get a 1.6. The socks made it worse.”

Lance threw his hands in the air. “They’re also limited edition!”

“They’re limited ugly,” you said, munching on your Tim Tam like nothing happened.

Off to the side, the drivers had started judging each other.

“Why is he a seven?” Alex pointed at Zhou. “He’s literally wearing that.”

Zhou folded his arms. “This is Balenciaga.”

“Yeah,” you said. “But I like purple.”

“I have purple socks!” George yelled from the back.

“Too late,” you replied, taking another bite of Tim Tam without even looking at him.

—

After all the snacks, and panicked sock changes, the board had definitely changed. And now? Everyone wanted to know who climbed, who fell, and who got pity points.

“I better be higher than YOU,” Lando muttered under his breath.

“You wore mismatched socks,” Yuki pointed out.

“I changed them! I literally ran back to my room!” Lando yelled.

Pierre leaned in smugly. “She said my outfit had ‘French flavor!’”

“You got a 4.8!” Franco yelled. “How is that flavor?”

“It’s called ✨style✨,” Pierre replied, flicking invisible dust off his shoulder.

“Bro, you’re wearing boat shoes!”

“She said they were yacht-core!”

"She gave me a sticker and told me to 'try again later," Logan added, offended.

"Huh. I got bumped up to a 6,” Oscar muttered to no one in particular.

"That's solid. That's decent."

"You're lucky," Alex said "She looked at my pants and said “what's happening here?'"

“Bet I look better than Nico,” Carlos added smugly.

“He got a four,” you muttered. “Because I said his shirt looks like a couch.”

“Hey!” Nico protested from the back. “It’s vintage!”

“She gave me a 5.2,” Esteban muttered. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you’re five-point-two out of ten,” Yuki said. “Be grateful.”

Then George came storming back, holding your scorecard like it was a trophy.

“I got an eight,” he announced, waving it in the air. “Eight! Highest so far. I am literally winning Fashion GP.”

He turned like he expected applause. There was none.

“You bribed her,” Alex said flatly.

“I did not! I matched my socks and wore pastel. I’m a fashion icon.”

“She said your pants were too tight earlier,” Yuki muttered.

George pointed at you. “Yeah, but she said they’re tight but committed. That’s growth.”

“She just gave you pity points,” Pierre said.

George scoffed. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

Carlos raised a brow. “You really think you’re winning?”

“Obviously. You got a 7.4. I got 8. Highest score. I’m unbeatable.”

Right on cue, Lewis strolled by, humming to himself.

He was in full chill mode, wearing a silk bomber jacket with hand-painted flames, tailored trousers, silver chains, and reflective sunglasses. The grid might as well have been his runway. Everyone else just looked underdressed.

He paused when he saw the crowd. “Hi? Is there a meeting I forgot about?”

Your eyes lit up. “Lew Lew!”

He blinked. “Oh no. Am I being judged too?”

You stood up, arms wide. “You get a hundred out of ten!”

The crowd gasped.

George actually dropped his scorecard.

“That’s not even allowed!” he cried. “You said the limit was ten!”

“You’re just mad you peaked too early,” Lando said, wheezing.

“He gets more than a candy and a hug,” you declared. “I will spend my whole race weekend with you.”

Silence. Shock. Betrayal. Emotional damage.

George stood in stunned silence, watching all his fashion dreams crumble.

“She WHAT?” Yuki gasped.

“No, no, no, hold on,” Pierre cut in. “That was not in the prize list.”

“Had I known that,” Charles muttered, “I would’ve worn the leather pants. The ones I saved for Monza.”

Oscar blinked. “I gave her my last pack of Oreos and got a six. Lewis just exists and gets her soul?”

Max looked around, offended. “If I knew that was on the line, I would’ve worn a full suit!”

Isack scowled. “Should’ve told us. I would’ve ironed my shirt.”

Carlos crossed his arms. “Why didn’t anyone say that? I literally brushed my hair today. That should’ve counted for something.”

Fernando raised a finger. “Where was the memo that spending time with the cutest kid on the grid was on the table?”

You wrapped your arms around Lewis’ legs. “You always dress good. Not like Maxie. He wears Red Bull every day.”

Amidst the chaos, just as George’s soul visibly left his body, Toto turned the corner and found you proudly holding up a whiteboard.

You grinned and pointed directly at him. “Papa! You get the same as Maxie. Zero out of ten… but plus one because you’re my dad.”

Toto blinked. “I get a one?”

“Yup. Same uniform. Same boring.”

“How is it boring? We’re literally at work!” Max yelled, gesturing at his team gear like it made perfect sense.

Toto nodded. “He’s right, though. We have to wear it.”

“See?” Max said, pointing at Toto like he’d just won a case in court. “It’s mandatory!”

You shrugged. “Still boring. Papa, you should wear a fun hat or something.”

Toto looked down at his black team jacket, then at Max. “Maybe we are the problem.”

Lewis crouched beside you, his grin far too satisfied. “By the way,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “she told me the prize for winning is spending the rest of the day with her.”

There was a collective groan from the grid.

Toto sighed, rubbing his forehead. “You’ll be spending the rest of the day in the Merc garage, young lady.”

“No,” you said immediately, pointing at Lewis. “He won. I go with him. You better start dressing good.”

Toto blinked like she’d cursed him.

Lewis just smiled and held out his hand. “Guess I have a co-pilot this weekend.”

The grid was devastated.

Oscar looked like someone stole his snacks (the oreos). George was still trying to argue about scoring criteria. Pierre quietly whispered “bro…” under his breath.

Somewhere in the background, Lance was still yelling about his crocs.

And your fashion reign?

Had only just begun.

By the time you walked away with Lewis, bag of Cheetos in one hand, whiteboard in the other, the grid was still recovering from the fashion carnage you left behind.

And next time? They’d better dress like their contracts depended on it.

END.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

[theanglesstories]

~ zoey x reader ~

kpop demon hunter

I had extra time to write, sooooo here's a little fic !

You Look Better With Her, Right?

It started with giggling.

Not suspicious giggling.

Just… classic, Zoey giggling.

From her spot on the kitchen counter, knees pulled to her chest, her phone half-covered by her sleeve, her whole face pressed into her shoulder.

You were halfway across the living room, folding clean hoodies into a pile, when she snorted so hard she almost dropped the phone.

You didn’t even look up. “What now?”

Zoey rolled onto her side, voice already teasing.

“Babe, you need to come see this. The internet ships you with Rumi.”

You smiled to yourself. “That’s not new.”

“No, no, this one’s good. There’s slow zooms. Rain overlays. A clip of you fixing her necklace with, like, tragic piano in the background.”

You finally turned, raising a brow. “That was for a music video.”

Zoey grinned wickedly, flipping her phone around. “Doesn’t matter. LOOK.”

She played the edit on loop.

Soft lighting. Rumi turning toward you, eyes lowered. Your hand brushing her collarbone to clasp a tiny pendant. A swell of music. Text across the screen:

“sometimes souls meet without touching hands.”

You tried not to laugh. “That’s so dramatic.”

Zoey didn’t laugh with you.

She shut off the video and tossed the phone onto the couch beside her.

Still smiling—but it had cooled now. Smaller. A little tight.

“You do look good with her, though,” she said lightly.

You blinked. “Okay… where are we going with this?”

Zoey tilted her head back, staring at the ceiling like it had answers.

“I mean, she’s all soft-spoken and graceful and mysterious. Like a Studio Ghibli girlfriend. And you’re so... calm and thoughtful. It makes sense.”

You walked over and touched her ankle.

“And where does that leave you?”

She looked down at you and smirked. “The chaotic bestie that third-wheels my own relationship?”

You frowned.

“Zoey—”

She hopped off the counter and laughed, too loud.

“I’m kidding!”

But her eyes didn’t match the sound.

You caught her wrist gently before she could disappear into the hallway.

She didn’t fight you.

But she didn’t meet your eyes either.

Her voice was softer this time.

“…I know I’m a lot. And sometimes I wonder if people look at me and think, ‘she’s fun, but exhausting.’ You know?”

She paused.

“And then I see posts like that, and I think—of course they want you with someone more balanced.”

You stepped closer, brushing your fingers under her chin.

“Zoey. Look at me.”

She hesitated, then did.

Her eyes were glassy now, red at the edges.

“I love your chaos,” you whispered. “But I don’t love you despite it. I love you because of it.”

She swallowed.

You continued, softer now.

“You remind me that life isn’t supposed to be quiet all the time. You shake the still water. You make things move.”

Zoey let out a slow breath, shoulders curling in as she leaned against you.

“…I don’t want to be the funny girl who gets left behind.”

“You’re not, and never will be” you murmured, kissing her temple. “You’re the girl I want next to me when the whole world is spinning. Because you spin with me.”

She let out a teary laugh, wiping her face on your hoodie.

Then, voice muffled:

“Okay but like—should I make an edit of us?”

You smiled. “You’d make it chaotic on purpose.”

“Exactly,” she grinned, sniffing.

[sparklestormandsoda]

If you’re open to AUs, Spider-Woman reader who gets hurt during a fight and is totally able to hide the injury…for a complete total of 10 seconds. The girls find out Reader is injured and idk you can go from there, just please be fluffy if you

yas i fw au's

The demon never landed a clean hit—not really. Reader moved like lightning, webbing it up mid-lunge, flipping off a building’s edge, and cracking a joke while yanking a support beam down on its head. The fight was messy, but nothing she couldn’t handle.

Or so she thought.

It wasn’t until after Huntrix sealed the Honmoon breach and the sky stopped bleeding red that Rumi said it.

"You're walking funny."

"I'm walking cool," Reader grinned, brushing off a smear of blood from her jaw. "There's a difference."

Rumi raised an eyebrow. Mira glanced over. Zoey, too distracted tying up loose ends and any remaining demons, didn’t catch it. Yet.

But the way Reader winced just a little when she crouched down?

Yeah. That was the end of her acting career.

“You’re hurt,” Mira said sharply.

“I’m not,” Reader said immediately.

“You’re literally bleeding through your suit,” Rumi added, voice low and dangerously unimpressed.

Reader looked down.

Ah. So she was bleeding through her suit.

A clean tear across her side, hidden under the black and red spider-patterned fabric, now sticky with blood and webbing residue. Not deep, not life-threatening. Just stupid. Just painful.

Just enough for Mira to start fussing immediately.

“I told you not to take the front line alone—”

“I had it under control—”

“You flipped off a lamp post mid-battle and taunted the demon, Reader!”

“Okay, but it was funny!”

Zoey finally looked up, blinking. “Wait. You’re bleeding?”

All three of them crowded her in an instant. Reader had fought off eldritch horrors, radioactive nightmares, and one very persistent ex who also had spider powers—but nothing was scarier than three idol-demon-hunters glaring at her like she’d kicked a puppy.

Zoey placed a gentle hand on her arm, her teasing smile dropping. “You okay? For real?”

Reader hesitated. “...Little dizzy. Kind of stingy. Not the worst Tuesday I’ve had.”

And then, like the dramatic hero she was, she fainted.

__

She woke up on Mira’s lap.

There was a cool cloth pressed against her forehead, warm hands wrapping a bandage around her side, and the faint scent of vanilla and ozone—Zoey’s body spray. Someone was humming softly.

“…You dumbass,” Mira muttered, voice trembling slightly. “You scared the hell out of us.”

“I thought I was being cool,” Reader mumbled weakly.

“You were being reckless,” Rumi said from across the room, arms crossed and pacing. “You think we care if you win the fight? We care if you come back.”

Zoey leaned down and kissed her cheek, careful and featherlight. “You don’t have to impress us, y’know. You’re already kind of our favorite person.”

“Kind of?” Reader slurred.

“All right, definitely,” Zoey giggled.

“You’re not invincible,” Mira said more softly, brushing a hand through her hair. “Even if you climb walls and crack jokes like you are. Let us protect you too, sometimes.”

A pause. Reader’s eyes fluttered open again.

“…So none of you saw the flip I did off the lamp post?”

Zoey, Mira, and Rumi all groaned in unison.

someone pls request a scarletwitch!reader i wanna write it so bad

requests sent through my buy a coffee will be prioritized but ya girls broke and living off of monster energy so anything in general helps- Buy me a coffee <3

lmk if you wanted to be added to my kpdh taglist! private message me as comments get lost in notifications

kpdh taglist: @spookyanxiety, @forgetfulsmols, @notheroverthinker, @rumiskimbap, @halle5s. @jellyofthefishes, @tundra1029, @zanystarfishpanda, @dinosaur-hehe, @amishreyac, @insomniyuuh, @driedmangoslices6, @sydforreal24, @sra7riddle-malfoy, @tsukimoon-chan, @theselilwonders, @tickle-monnster, @pandafuriosa60, @marcylated, @atomic-babomb, @stxr-lilac, @allaji, @homo-arsonist, @etcherrie, @ludwigvonbaethoven, @all-things-lilac, @kpopgirliez, @sweetcici-123

[sirfluffletin]

hiii !! i absolutely loved the x reader of the killers can i request for you to maybeeee make one of the survivors?

Pegging The Survivors

Survivalist & Support Addition

Noob

They're extremely nervous, which shouldn't come as a surprise. With most things regarding people or situations with people they are a rigged fumbling mess, this is made worse two fold when that person is you. Although their eagerness to please outweighs their initial anxiety.

-

"A-are you sure you want to do... T-that... With me?!"

"Who else would I ask?!"

"...I... Uhm, well if you want to."

"Noob... You don't have to if you don't want to, we've talked about this."

"Y... Yes I want to. Please."

-

Honestly probably knows more about it than you do, Noob was a party animal before becoming forsakened, they have definitely been around the block. That still doesn't stop the from burying their flustered face into your pillows, shaking like a leaf in the cold air despite both of your body temperatures being close to burning.

Hold them down, press them into the mattress you need to make sure that their comfortable and prepped before inserting anything in, including your fingers. Kiss their neck and tell them how lovely they are, roll them so they're on their back and look into their teary eyes, whisper how good they are for you. Soon you’ll get trembling arms wrapped around your neck pulling you flush against them as the place soft fluttering kisses to your neck and face.

They're a crier once you began thoroughly working them open, head tilted back arching off of your bed, knuckles sheet white from how tight they have your bedding bawled in their fist. Mouth hanging open as incoherent whimpers which try to form your name spill from their mouth. Ground your hips deep into them and they'll sob, as they cum untouched. 

Get a few Bloxy cola's into them and maybe they can be convinced to go another round, get a few more and maybe they'll ride you, if they're wasted they'll slobber all over your strap giving it a good cleaning after you're done.

007n7

He doesn't immediately say no when you suggest it and explain why you want to try it with him. He just doesn't really understand why either of you would want to do that. Getting him to say yes is… Not gonna be easy. Not because he’s got any issues with it, it's just not something he's really into.

He'll agree as a reward, or a gift and once he's finally stark naked, on his back; legs spread with you between them... It’s a wonderful sight to behold, seeing his nervous frown as his eyes flit everywhere except at you, watching his anxious, tense exterior slowly crumble as he loses himself to pleasure. Work your mouth on him til He's all hot and bothered, all but thrusting up into your mouth, clenching his teeth with stifled grunts when you lick under the base of his cock. Or you both could go a round so he could fuck his nerves away, parting you legs with practiced ease before ascending; resting on your hips. 

Either way, once he's nice a compliant he takes it like a champ. His whole body is flushed pink, along with the tip of his cock that bobs, forsakened between the both of you. He wears his fucked out well, brows knit complimented with lidded unfocused eyes and a red swollen lip from the amount of times he's bitten it.

He's secretly a slut for praise, tell him how good he's taking you, how handsome he looks right now, and he'll cum so fast and hard coating both your stomach and his.

Elliot

'Oh... Oh! You want to put what?! Where?!'  He's all wide eyed and as red as his uniform once you explain it to him. You can’t tell me this man wasn't a virgin before you came around, his ideas of sex is very soft sweet and vanilla; just another way to show how much he loves you. This... Must be your way of showing how much you love him? 

He's not turned off by the idea per-se, ease him into it and let him think it over a bit and once he's been thoroughly convinced; he's already in your bed on his hands and knees looking back at you with a almost playful innocence asking if this is a good position?

He tries not to be a pillow princess, truly, but as soon as you hit that spot that makes his back arch and his fingers curl into your sheets, He's out of commision. He looks so good face down seizing with each pump of your hips; leting himself whine and moan out your name, where all he can think about is how good you feel inside him and how badly he wants to cum.

Be a soft Dom if you want to absolutely destroy him. Whisper praise and affirming words as you gently rock into him, pressing the sweetest kisses to his neck and into his hair, tell him how much you love him how amazing and caring he. You’ll have him shaking and trying not to cry as you handle him like he's the most precious thing in the world. (He is.)

Builderman

Call him old-fashioned but, this man doesn’t know a thing about pegging. You’ll have to sit down and explain it all to him and he’ll sit there calmly, just nodding and asking the occasional question. He’s very much the “whatever you want dear,” husband, He's been through too much, nothing surprised him.

He doesn't keep his composure well when you get down to it, his whole body flushes and his cock jerks when you start playing with his hole, fingering him open nice and slow even though you're gentle he still makes a small hiss of discomfort at the unfamiliar stretch. Being so tense doesn't help him much either, even fitting two fingers in were a struggle of your own, his little gasps escalates to groans when you both find a steady pace, but when you finally brush against his prostate his whole body jerks and seizes as he cums from just your fingers alone.

Unfortunately, Builderman is a bit... Older, he may be tired just from that first orgasm. Although don't be discouraged you can continue if you would like, he won't stop you but you'll get more lip and grumpiness from him than you'd like.

Taph

So eager to please, the question barely left your mouth before they sighned a simple 'yes'. no convincing is required. Obeys your every order without question, no matter how demeaning. Need him to lie on his hands and knees in his nest? Of course. Need him to spread himself open for you? Done. Need him to rock himself back on your strap til he cums? Anything you want. Want him to beg for you to finally let him cum? He's already grovelling at your feet with his hands clasped in prayer. 

The only caviot is that Taph is deathly silent, the entire time. Even in the midst of you fucking them down they're peculiarly composed, except for their fingers digging into their pile of bedding, the erratic, soundless inhale and exhale of their chest, and their hand between his legs pumping his cock in time with your strokes.

[jjmeii]

only TOJI knows your pretty little pussy inside and out.

knows that you love when he spits on it real filthy, when his thumb rubs lazy circles over your sensitive clit, fingers teasing your needy hole, plunging once, twice, curling upwards before locking inside to the hilt and rocking your absolute shit with his rough palm, drawing out your beautiful breathy moans and that sweet climax he’ll get on his fuckin’ knees for and lick right out of your sore, swollen folds.

his cock’s always a damn mess, flushed red and leaking before he even gets to the good part.

you beg for him, that’s what got him in trouble in the first place. you’re so willing to do anything he asks, so pathetic for sex, pleading to be filled, right little fuckin’ slut, desperate to suck his dick down your throat, to swallow his salty seed, to be good and pliant for him.

to please him.

TOJI’s a big man but fuckin’ you open with his mouth before he takes you raw and comes inside that breedable pussy is the least he can do. and that dirty mouth you got on you, fuck him sideways, so smart, always provoking him, taunting him—that shit’s gonna kill him one day. if it doesn’t kill you first.

fuck a baby into me, please you told him the other day while he was hitting it from behind, angry cocktip bullying your cervix. harder, faster, i need you so bad, so fucking bad, always with the beggin’, fuckin’ with his mind, needy little brat, nothing’s enough for you, not even when it’s all said and done, three loads leaking out of you, juices dripping past your ass staining his sheets, smelling of nothing but his warm cum and masculine scent.

TOJI takes your mouth on his, tongue shoving past swollen lips, letting you taste yourself. your greedy moans get him hard instantly, and then he’s slammin’ your head into the mattress again, hair fisted, until it’s three hours later and you’re passing out in his arms, fucked properly dumb and unable to walk, to speak one coherent fuckin’ thought.

“pretty little baby,” he whispers, kissing down your neck softly. prey to the big bad wolf. “what have i done to you?” but he’s smiling. he’s touching his cock to your dried up tears.

he loves you the best like that. not able to get up and walk away from him. in his bed, in his house, permanently naked, where he knows where you are at all times, can have you whenever he fuckin’ wants, wherever he wants, full tits on display, purple and bruised, his favorite view, ass abused, skin glowing with sweat and his thick release.

you’re not allowed to shower until he decides he’s done paintin’ you white, and then he’s whisking you up, wrapping your tired legs around his muscled torso, formidable, calloused palms under your ass, walking you both in the bathroom, slathering shampoo in your wet locks and rubbing gently, apple gel lathered down your curves with bare hands, past your thighs, and forcing open again, and again, pussy-whipped man, fingers caressing faintly between your folds, sliding his digits slow and steady, getting you clean if you promise to give him one more, even if he has to coax it out.

“you gon’ be a good fuckin’ girl, right?” barely there taunts that have your stomach tightening, your insides coiling. “gon’ be good for me, baby? let me have it,” hands everywhere, his hands all you know, holding you upright, sending you straight to hell. “let me fuckin’ have it, come on, come on,” growling deep and guttural in your ear, lifting your arms over your head, back colliding with cold, wet tile.

he overpowers, stands over your entire life and watches as you fall apart. massive wall of a man, dark hair, dark eyes, sinful mouth, monster cock. you think you made a mistake following him here, but you can’t even remember why.

fucking is the only way he communicates. and by his standards, the days, and weeks and months he’s had you locked up with him—TOJI adores the fuckin’ ground you walk on. will do anything for you, be anything you need him to be.

so why would you need anything else?

he’s all.

he’s everything.

[queen-of-gotham]

Soft Moments

with The Bat Boys, Roy, Kyle, and Wally.

Notes From The Batcave: For ✨this✨ request, I added my favorites too because I love the red heads and Kyle Rayner even though they’re not batboys 🤣

All characters are of adult age in this writing, and Duke has long hair because I personally want to see him with twists so bad. 😭

Bruce Wayne

The sun barely crests the Gotham skyline, muted gold light slipping in past blackout curtains. You stir first, you usually wake up before him, not long before, just a handful of minutes.

Bruce’s face, in sleep, is something sacred. A sight you linger in every morning. The frown lines disappear, the years fall away. He looks peaceful, almost boyish. You resist the urge to reach out and trace the sharp line of his jaw. Instead, you stay still, soaking in the rare quiet.

But then a low voice, rough with sleep, rumbles…

“Five more minutes,” he murmurs, arms tightening around your waist. He’s warm, impossibly so, you’ve made the joke of him being your personal heater more times than you can count. He buries his face into your shoulder, stubble scratching your skin in the gentlest way.

You laugh softly, “You said that twenty minutes ago.”

“I meant this five.”

You twist in his hold just enough to look at him. He blinks slowly, his eyes still heavy, still storm-colored. But there’s a softness there only you get to see.

“I’ll get up if you do.”

Bruce kisses your forehead, then the tip of your nose, “Negotiations have failed.”

And you don’t try again. Not when his heartbeat is steady against your chest and his breathing falls back into rhythm. You stay, safe in the quiet gravity of him.

Dick Grayson

The smell of pancakes wakes you before the sun does. Typical Sunday.

There’s music drifting from the kitchen, something peppy and ridiculous, probably from his “Sunday Brunch, Baby” playlist. You shuffle out in one of his t-shirts and round the corner to find Dick shirtless, wearing plaid pajama pants that hang low on his hips, and doing a dramatic spin with a spatula in hand.

“Morning, beautiful!” he calls, like he didn’t just nearly drop a pancake mid-flip.

You slide onto the counter while he moves around the kitchen like it’s a stage, singing along terribly to Madonna as he pours syrup in a heart shape on a finished plate.

He turns, sees your sleepy smile, and crosses the kitchen in three steps to press a kiss to your lips. You taste the coffee and sugar on his lips.

“Taste tester?” he asks.

“Always.”

He scoops a bit of batter with his finger and holds it up. You lean forward, licking it off with exaggerated slowness. His grin sharpens, his free hand settling on your bare thigh.

“Careful,” he says, voice low, “I might take that as an invitation.”

“Don’t you always?”

He winks and flips another pancake. You think, maybe, this is what heaven feels like… messy kitchens, warm kisses, and a man who worships you before breakfast.

Jason Todd

The world is quiet when you wake up, save for Jason’s voice and for once, Gotham stays that way.

Jason’s still beside you, propped up against the headboard with a paperback in one hand, his other arm curved loosely around your waist. You shift and feel the smooth rise of his chest under your cheek. He smells like clean linen and cedar soap. Safe.

He glances down at you with a barely-there smile, thumb brushing the edge of the page.

“Morning,” he says, soft enough not to break the spell.

“Did you sleep at all?” you mumble into his skin.

“Enough,” he lies.

You reach up and take the book from his hand, setting it on the nightstand, “You were reading out loud.”

“I was?”

“Mhm.” You nudge your nose against his collarbone, eyes already heavy again, “You do it when you think I’m asleep.”

Jason doesn’t deny it. He shifts so you’re resting fully against his chest, pulling the blanket higher over your shoulders. The silence stretches, warm and comfortable.

“You know,” he murmurs finally, voice rumbling under your ear, “you make everything less… harsh. Just by being here.”

You don’t answer. You just hold him tighter, and Jason closes his eyes, listening to the quietest sound in his world.

You.

Tim Drake

The first thing you notice when you come downstairs is the trail of monster cans and the coffee mug.

Four, to be exact. The mug is still steaming with fresh coffee. Tim’s curled up on the couch in a blanket that’s halfway fallen off, his laptop open but dark, fingers limp over the keyboard. There’s a smear of highlighter ink on his jaw.

You sigh, tug the blanket over him properly, and brush your fingers through his hair.

He stirs with a soft noise and blinks up at you, dazed, “Hey…”

“You fell asleep again.”

“Did not.”

“You have highlighter on your face.”

He groans and reaches for you blindly, his hand finding your wrist, “C’mere.”

You drop your weight beside him on the couch and let him pull you into his chest. You fit there like it’s your designated place, curled beneath the blanket, legs tangled, hearts beating together.

His chin rests on top of your head, “You smell good,” he mutters, already drifting again.

You kiss the base of his throat, “I was gonna let you sleep.”

“M’not sleeping,” he insists, halfway snoring already, “Just resting with you.”

You smile against his collarbone.

When he finally wakes again, groggy and blinking in the soft morning light, he holds you closer and whispers like a wish, “Can we just… stay like this forever?”

And you whisper back, “Yeah. We can.”

Duke Thomas

He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, back resting against the couch, controller abandoned beside him.

Your fingers move steadily through his hair, sectioning, parting, twisting with practiced care. Duke hums low in his chest, half asleep, totally relaxed. The late night playlist hums in the background, soft R&B wrapping around the room like a blanket.

“You okay?” you ask softly, fingers sliding some product through a coil.

“Mhm,” he says, head tipping back slightly to rest against your thigh. “Feels good.”

You smile, “You always get so sleepy when I do your hair.”

“It’s your hands,” he mumbles, “They feel like home.”

Your fingers pause, just for a second, heart squeezing in your chest. Then you keep going, taking your time with each twist, making sure it lays perfectly. Duke’s breathing slows into something steady and content, eyes fluttering closed.

“You spoil me,” he whispers, like a secret he’s too soft to say in daylight.

“You deserve to be spoiled.”

He opens one eye and looks up at you, lips curved in the smallest smile, “You put love in every twist.”

You lean down and press a kiss to his temple. “Anything for you.”

And even though it’s nearly midnight, you sit with him for another hour, twisting his hair, loving on him, and building a moment he’ll hold in his chest for a long, long time.

Damian Wayne

It’s early, too early for most people, but the Wayne townhouse is already stirring.

You’re doing your morning skincare routine when the door creaks open and Damian steps inside, half awake, bare feet silent against the tile. One of his cats slips in after him, winding herself around your ankles with a soft purr.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just reaches for his toothbrush and lines up beside you like this is something you’ve done every day for years.

“Your hair is a mess,” he mumbles through toothpaste.

You smirk, “You gonna fix it for me?”

“Tt. You’d be lucky.”

Still, when he finishes, Damian doesn’t leave. Instead, he picks up your brush and starts gently dragging it through your hair, careful and methodical as you start to brush your teeth.

The cat hops up on the counter and watches with regal approval.

You rinse your mouth and meet his gaze in the mirror. “You’re very domestic for someone who says he’s not a morning person.”

“I simply prefer not to speak in the morning,” he replies, smoothing your hair down like it’s a priceless artifact.

You lean back slightly until your head rests against his shoulder. His hand comes up automatically to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing just under your chin.

“I like this,” you murmur.

Damian presses a kiss to your temple and says, quiet as a confession, “So do I.”

Roy Harper

The fire crackles low, casting soft gold over the tent flaps and the curve of Roy’s cheek where he rests it on your shoulder.

You’re both bundled in one sleeping bag, legs tangled, your back against his chest. His arms are warm around your middle, fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles over your hoodie.

“You warm enough, baby?” he murmurs against your neck, voice thick with sleep and gravel.

“I’m good,” you whisper, your hand resting over his, “You?”

He nuzzles in closer, “Got you, don’t I?”

You smile and shift slightly, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. Across the firepit, marshmallows that fell off your sticks earlier are turning into charcoal. You don’t care. Roy’s heartbeat is steady against your spine, and the sky above you is wide and endless.

He hums a soft tune under his breath, some old folk melody you don’t recognize. It melts into the sound of the wind in the trees.

“You ever think about just… leavin’ it all behind?” he says suddenly. “Find some little place out west. No noise, no bullshit. Just us.”

You twist in his arms to face him, “You’d last two days without trouble.”

He grins lazily, “Yeah, but they’d be real happy days.”

You kiss him slow and sweet. He rests his forehead against yours and whispers like a promise, “Ain’t nothin’ better than this. Just you, me, and the stars.”

Kyle Rayner

There’s paint on your forearm.

Bright green. The same shade as Kyle’s eyes.

You glance down at it, then at him, completely unapologetic as he sits cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by open tubes and a canvas that was supposed to be the focus tonight.

Instead, he’s got a streak of blue across his cheek, three colors smeared on his shirt, and a grin that could power a city.

“Seriously?” you laugh, “You got paint on me again?”

Kyle leans back on one hand and looks at you like you hung the stars, “Babe. You look amazing.”

“You say that every time I get messy.”

“Because it’s true every time.”

Before you can argue, he crawls closer and drags his finger gently down your cheek, leaving a swipe of red behind. “Now you match the sunset.”

“Oh my god, Kyle-“

He interrupts, kissing you before you can finish. Slow, gentle, one hand cupping your jaw while his thumb brushes the fresh paint he just left behind.

When he pulls back, his voice is low and quiet. “You’re my favorite masterpiece.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart skips anyway. He reaches for his sketchpad, settling back into your lap like it’s the most natural place in the world.

“You mind?” he asks, pencil already in hand, “Wanna draw you like this. All soft. All mine.”

You rest your hands in his hair and nod, soft smile on your lips, “go ahead.”

And in that messy studio, with the scent of turpentine and the hum of his music in the air, Kyle Rayner draws you like you’re his whole world.

Because you are.

Wally West

You come into the kitchen expecting to find breakfast.

What you find instead is flour on the counter, eggshells on the floor, and Wally zipping back and forth at top speed, half dressed, hair wild, and popping blueberries into his mouth with every pass.

“Babe,” you say, stepping over a rogue banana peel, “what is happening in here?”

He skids to a stop in front of you, holding a half burned piece of toast like it’s a victory, “I was making you breakfast!”

You eye the mess, “And… eating most of it yourself?”

“Gotta keep the engine running,” he says, grinning with absolutely no shame, “Fast metabolism, remember?”

You roll your eyes, but before you can start cleaning, Wally wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you into his chest. “Hey,” he says, voice suddenly softer, “Don’t worry about it. Lemme make it up to you.”

“You gonna try again?”

“Nope,” he replies, resting his chin on your shoulder. “You’re making it. I’m your support staff now.” He sways you gently side to side, “Chef morale. Quality control. Hot guy supervisor.”

You laugh and kiss the side of his jaw, “no idea how this is ‘making it up to me’, but okay.”

He smiles like sunshine and spins you in a slow circle, planting a kiss on your cheek, then another on your neck, and another at the corner of your mouth.

“I don’t need anything else when I’ve got you,” he murmurs, almost shy.

You smirk, “That was cheesy.”

“And true.”

It is. Because with his arms around you, even in a flour covered disaster zone, your heart’s never felt so full.

✨Join the Taglist✨

🪺DC Comics Masterlist🪺🦇Return to the Batcave🦇

[smokebombsandspotlights]

🏁 “for him”

pairing: 2025 f1 grid x reader (platonic) genre: angst & comfort, with a heartwarming finish summary: you’re a rookie driver for Mercedes, and after a devastating loss mid-season, your return at your home Grand Prix becomes something more than just a race. word count: 1,218 words warnings: mentions of grief, car accidents, hospital stays, physical injury (broken ribs), emotional vulnerability notes: lewis is your mentor. the grid is one big dysfunctional family. platonic love wins. (I won’t mind if you like, reblog, or follow)

Silverstone Circuit – Thursday Press Day

The media pen was just as chaotic as you remembered it. Bright cameras, bored journalists, and enough microphones shoved in your face to build a small fortress. You held your breath, adjusted your black Mercedes cap, and tried to smile.

"Y/N, this is your first race back after missing two rounds. How are you feeling physically?"

A breath. "Recovered. Ready. Hungry."

Another question. "You were in a terrible accident. We know your father passed, and we're so sorry—"

You tensed. The PR rep stepped forward, but you raised your hand gently. You could handle it.

"I know a lot of people are here today because of my dad," you said, voice steady. "I wouldn't be on this grid without him. So yeah, it's been hard, but I’m grateful to be back. And I’m racing for him now."

That was all you could give before Lewis’ familiar voice cut in beside you.

"Alright, give the kid a break, yeah?"

A warm hand on your back, a teasing smirk on his face. Just like always. The media pack turned to Lewis Hamilton like moths to light. You exhaled in silence.

**—

Friday Free Practice**

The paddock felt like home again. Every mechanic that waved at you, every driver who offered a fist bump—it all stitched you back together, piece by piece.

Carlos: “I missed my little chaos twin.”

Charles: “You better not come back faster than me.”

Oscar: “Do we get celebratory cookies if you beat Lewis?”

You had laughed more in one morning than you had in weeks.

But it was Lewis who never left your side for long. He hovered like a protective ghost, offering water, helmet tweaks, and subtle nods of encouragement.

"You sure you're good, rookie?" he asked between FP1 and FP2.

"Yeah," you nodded. "My ribs don't scream when I turn anymore."

"Good. You scream enough for the both of you," George piped in from the corner, and you flipped him off with a smile.

Lewis leaned in before FP2 and murmured, "If it gets too much, you tell me. You’ve already won just by being here."

You nodded again, eyes shining.

But you weren’t here just to participate.

You were here to race.

**—

Saturday Qualifying – P2**

Pole slipped through your fingers by 0.017 seconds.

Verstappen smirked, Red Bull helmet under one arm. "Close one."

You grinned back. "I’m just warming up."

Lewis beamed at you behind the Mercedes wall, clapping hard, like you’d already won.

You finished media duties exhausted, but your heart was light.

That night, you stood on the balcony of your Silverstone hotel, staring out over the rolling green.

You touched the pendant hanging under your fireproofs—a small keychain from your dad’s garage. He gave it to you after your first go-kart win. It had survived the crash. Somehow.

You held it to your chest and whispered, “Tomorrow’s for you.”

**—

Race Day – Sunday**

Nerves buzzed in your stomach like bees in a jar. Your home crowd roared every time your name flashed on the jumbotrons. “Y/N! Y/N! Y/N!”

You exhaled sharply and climbed into the cockpit.

"Clear mind. Clean start. Have fun," Lewis said into your comms from the garage.

"Copy. And maybe—just maybe—I’ll bring it home for Mercedes."

He chuckled. "That’s my girl."

Lights out.

Turn 1 was a blur. So was Turn 2.

Max held the inside line, but you were patient. Lap 7: DRS on Hangar Straight. Lap 23: pit stop perfection. Lap 41: Red Bull fumbled their tire change.

You saw your opening.

Lap 43, you took the lead.

Then came the radio:

"Y/N, you are P1. I repeat, P1. Bring it home."

The last 9 laps were the longest of your life. Every turn was agony. But not from the ribs. From the pressure.

You could almost hear your dad’s voice in the cockpit. “Breathe, kiddo. You’ve got this.”

Final corner. Final lap. You crossed the line.

Cheers erupted. Fireworks exploded. You screamed.

"THAT’S FOR YOU, DAD!" you cried, punching the air as your engineer yelled in your ear.

Lewis’s voice cracked on the radio: “She did it. She actually did it.”

You pulled into parc fermé and leapt from the car. The roar from the crowd nearly knocked you over. Your whole body shook. Fans waved signs: Y/N DESERVED THE WORLD, ROOKIE OF THE YEAR, FOR HER DAD.

George hugged you first, despite finishing P5. Then Charles. Then Oscar.

Then Lewis.

He pulled you into the longest, tightest hug you'd had in weeks. You didn’t let go.

He didn’t either.

You could feel the tears starting, and when he stepped back, he didn’t hide his either.

"You raced like a world champion today," he said quietly, hands still on your shoulders. "He’d be so damn proud."

You nodded, unable to speak.

He looked back toward the crowd and muttered, "Let’s get you on that podium."

**—

The Podium**

You didn’t hear the anthem through your tears.

You didn’t see the trophy being placed in your hands until someone nudged you.

You stood there, high above the Silverstone circuit, soaked in champagne and sun, eyes searching the clouds.

"That one was for you, Dad," you whispered to the sky.

**—

Post-Race – Sky Sports Interview**

"You won your home Grand Prix," the reporter said, barely containing his excitement. "First rookie to win here in decades. What’s going through your head?"

You wiped your face with your sleeve, still dazed.

"I think... I think I needed this more than I knew," you laughed weakly. "It wasn’t just a race for me today. It was closure. Or maybe the beginning of something new."

The reporter smiled, nodding. "It’s no secret you and Lewis Hamilton have grown close this season. He looked emotional today, too."

You looked over your shoulder where Lewis stood just off-camera, arms crossed, watching you with that same proud, brotherly glint in his eyes.

"Yeah," you said softly. "He’s been my anchor. When everything fell apart, he made sure I could stand back up."

You faced the camera again.

"And I hope I made my dad proud today."

**—

Mercedes Garage – Late Evening**

The garage was quiet now, long after the fans had left and the lights had dimmed. You stood near your car, the smell of rubber and fuel still lingering.

Lewis walked in, holding two paper cups.

"Chamomile tea. For the reigning queen of Silverstone."

You smiled, took the cup, and sat beside him on the low wall.

For a moment, you both just sat in silence.

"He would've loved today," you murmured.

"He did," Lewis replied without hesitation. "He watched every corner with you."

Tears stung again. But this time, you let them fall.

"You remind me a lot of me," Lewis said suddenly. "The fire. The pressure. The grief."

You turned to him.

"You carry it all so young, and yet... you still shine through it."

You laughed, hoarse. "Yeah, well. I learned from the best."

He looked at you like you were already more than he could’ve ever taught.

"You know," he said, standing up and holding out a fist, "I don’t think you're just here to race."

You raised an eyebrow. "No?"

He smiled.

"I think you're here to change everything."

You bumped fists.

And you believed him.

[heartofafiend]

When sickness strikes.

The weather can be a treacherous creature — sun lulling you in inconspicuous, rain slowly planning its attack, wind striking suddenly with chills from the depths of Antarctica; one couldn’t as well forget the pollen — an assassin unseen in plain sight with no mercy (thanks evolution). All combined they create a perfect recipe for disaster. Their victim? You.

The moment your voice cracked and you heard the pause on the other side of the line you knew you were in trouble. You tried to act it out, trying your hardest to not speak too much, to not speak through your nose, and yet you were betrayed by your throat. You cannot even squeeze a word in before you are sent off to bed with a teasing “someone forgot her umbrella, again”. You didn’t know if the sweat was from the fever rising up or from how he sounded. You didn’t even second guess the quick goodbyes that were out of place, the quick “drink a lot of water and rest”. Maybe he just wanted you to rest. You made yourself into a burrito on the coach, you might as well do just that. 

He stepped into the apartment like he owned it, and this space officially filed a complaint to the fleet about his absence. He was so glad he had the spare key and decided to be quiet, stopping himself from just barging in with the force of a supernova. How could you let yourself get sick? Did he not text you enough about the weather? — he was basically your meteorological center at this point. Did he not tell you to make sure you have the umbrella? Or did something else happen that you didn’t tell him about and now this was the outcome? He really needs to ask you to move in with him, there was no other way to prevent you from self sabotaging your health — you weren’t but there was no way to put it into his head, you tried, failed, tried some more, and then just accepted the title of your own worst enemy (and his, because if you die so does he — it was two-in-one afterlife deal). 

His features softened once he saw you, a mountain of tissues on the coffee table beside your curled on the sofa form. Nose red, matching the color of your cheeks. This was not the time to dwell on the fact that even when he was mad a second ago it all vanished just by seeing your cute face. Illegal, you were illegal in his eyes, and oh was he a criminal in indulging himself in this crime. 

He picked you up, leaving the bags of shopping on the side, kissing your head lightly as he carried you to the bed. 

“You will be the death of me, pips.” he whispered when you whined at the feeling of cold sheets. He tucked you in and rolled his sleeves before getting to the kitchen. Shaking his head at the mess you made, a faint smell of lemon remedy in the cup made him shake his head.

He woke you up to give you some warm food, flicking your forehead when you tried to scold him for coming — there was no discussion, or way to chase him away. A quick shower, where he practically stood in the doorway, like waiting for you (or the soap) to drop to the floor, any minute now, any minute. There was no chance of telling him you were not that sick. 

He was much too much helping you blow your nose like you were five, applying some cream on it before the skin got irritated more than it already was after your nose cleaning session on the sofa. Fuzzy warm pj was waiting for you with socks, that you violently choose not to put on. And when you protested and wanted to get up, to at least offer him some help with cleaning? Well, you were now a blanket burrito and there was no wiggling out of this situation. 

He didn’t allow you to join him for another reason — as much as he didn’t exaggerate the flu, it didn’t mean his hands did not shake, hypersensitive to any sounds that might flow from the bedroom just in case you would call him. If you were here, he would not be able to do a single thing other than watch you like a hawk. Your clumsiness was the name of the game, usually cute, now it would really be the death of him.

Caleb didn’t care if he would catch the bug if he kept you close for the next few days, or how long it would take for you to get better. His priority was on you, and he would probably lock himself away if at the end of it all he got the flu from you. Hypocritical, and you were very well aware of it, ready to kick the door open if that happens. 

This is why you didn’t (you couldn’t your head was so, so heavy) kick him out when he slipped into the bed. 

Letting out a grunt when your cold feet touched him (rude)— you are not going to get rid of him that easily.  

[bemyluvr]

You Gotta Keep It Hush

Joel miller x reader| slight Tommy x reader

summary: Soon after closing, The Tipsy Bison’s freshly clean bathroom gets dirty during a quickie on the sink. Trying to stay quiet is easier said than done.

cw: pwp, public sex, exhibitionism, slight voyeurism, Tommy sorta kinda watches and listens, light degradation, slut shamming, begging, creampie. MDNI

The bathroom door of the Tipsy Bison creaked shut behind you, the beaten lock shuttered shut with a soft snap that felt way louder than it should in the dimly lit, tiled space.

The bar was closed, the last patrons long gone, but the faint clinking of glassware echoed from around the corner where Tommy was starting the process of closing up for the night, unaware of what his brother and favorite bartender were getting up to.

The air smelled of stale beer, cheap perfume, and homemade lemon disinfectant. The warm ambiance coming from the yellowed light above the sink buzzed, shining on your faces against the bathroom mirror.

Joel’s hands were on you before you even settled in to what was happening, lips grazing against your collarbone, breath hot and lips urgent. You gasp at his sudden force as his thick thighs push your front up against the wobbly countertop.

“Y’gotta be quiet now, don’t think we want my brother to hear us.”

Joel whispered, his graying beard tickled against your cheek.

You relax into his touch, as hands snake up tenderly around your torso. His calloused fingertips run teasingly against the soft flesh of your belly. Palms leisurely creeping high until he’s halfway up your chest, fingers begin to slowly, unbuttoning your denim blouse.

“Let's get this off now, yeah?”

Joel questions, as his hands continue down, undoing your top just enough for your breasts to spill out the thick fabric. The cold air hits your nipples and you feel him grin as they harden against his hands.

“No bra? Naughty girl”

He teases palming the sensitive plush skin of your breasts.

“was in a rush.”

You grunt, stifling a gasp as he twists your nub between his thumb and forefinger.

He continues, moving to the other perked breast, massaging it before his other hand is moving down your waist popping the button on your jeans.

You gasp as his hand meets your mound, fingers rubbing against your sticky slit through soaked underwear. He uses your open mouth to his advantage and kisses into you.

Returning the kiss, you kiss him back while his other hand comes off your breast and aggressively grabs your face.

The creaking from the floor, mixed with the clinking sounds through the thin walls from the bar made your heart flutter and your hands shake.

The thought that Tommy was looking for you or maybe even him walking in here and seeing you like this, pupils wide, lips bruised and tits spilling out your top with Joel's hand down your pants. You whimper into Joel’s mouth imagining all the possibilities of you two getting caught.

“How’s it that your so fucking soaked and i’ve barley touched you.”

He barks, counting the slow torturous stroking against your panties. Taking his soaked fingers and moving them to circle your clit.

With a pleading look, your big eyes stare back at him, gaze reflecting in the mirror quietly insisting for him to touch you.

“Come on, we both know how much you’re enjoying this.”

You whine, pushing your hips forward into his touch when suddenly he’s ripping his hands out of your pants and tugging your jeans and panties down your legs.

“Desperate little sluts like you don’t get what they want.”

He tuts, as he leisurely unbuckles his metal belt.

Painfully you watch, he unbuttons his Levis just before taking his hard pulsating member out of his underwear. His tip red and angry as its exposed to the cold air, he hisses, taking it into his hand and slowly stroking the shaft. Using his boot he kicks your legs apart enough for his body to fit and slowly runs the head of his cock against your slick folds.

Your hips chase his cock , crying out in frustration as his tip repeatedly just catches against your entrance.

“Remember who’s in charge baby, you act like a brat and I'll treat you like one.”

Joel utters, as his darkened brown eyes stare clearly through you in the mirror.

“I-I need you Joel please I’m sorry, I’ll be good I’ll be quie-“

You cry out, before he’s filling your walls in one hard push.

Arching your back you scream out loud, spreading your legs wider in pursuit to match him, clenching against him as you attempt to adjust to his size.

Joel’s hand instantly clamps down against your mouth, pushing your head into the mirror as it reflects your fucked out state as he fills you repeatedly, snapping his hips into yours.

Your back arches whilst shaky hands attempt to grip anything in your vicinity to keep yourself upright. His eyes lock on yours daring you to be quiet at the same time his movements became bolder fucking you into the sink. Panting through pleasure, you attempt to keep up with his brutal pace.

Suddenly a loud shatter comes from the other side of the wall making you and Joel freeze, lips hovering against your neck as your pulse hammers in your throat.

“Fuck”

You curse, barely audible.

Both of you don’t move a muscle as you're waiting for another noise in the vehement silence.

His cock twitches in your heat and you whimper, hearts pounding holding back in anticipation. Soon enough, the faint sounds of a broom sweeping against the floorboards vibrates through the wall.

Quickly Joel was moving again, hips rapidly plunging in and out of you. You mewl, hips pushing back chasing your own high.

“Go on baby, fuck your self on my cock.”

Joel drawls, snaking his hand around to circle your clit as the other puts two digits down your throat.

“Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

Clumsily you gargle out, barely audible approaching your release.

“Look at ‘er, she’s so wet fuckin’ sucking me in. This pussy was made for me.”

Joel howls, plunging his cock all the way out before slamming back in.

“Be a good girl, yeah? Come on, come for me all over this cock, take it, it's all yours baby.”

Joel groans out, feeling you tighten from his words knowing both of you are close.

Joel removes his fingers from your mouth letting your moans melt into the wet sounds of skin slapping echoing in the bathroom. His calloused hand slides over to rip the lock off the door as the hinges creak it wide open.

“Look at you, sounding like a whore begging for this dick. I bet you want Tommy to hear huh? Hear you getting whored out on the job in his bathroom.”

Joel groans, continuing to hammer into you.

“Gonna cum in this pussy, make sure the whole town knows who she belongs to.”

Joel continues pushing you over your limit.

The cool draft from the bar fills the steamy room as you wail, eyes shut, shaking. A white hot feeling overtakes your body meeting your orgasm. Screams fill the room, traveling through the bathroom to the bar. Joel isn’t too far behind you as he cums inside of you. Thick ropes coating your insides mixing with your release. he leans over your sweaty back, breathing heavily.

With the both of you out of breath, he hisses and pulls out in one swift motion. Feeling the loss you wince, as he gathers a towel to wipe the excess begging to drip he cleans you up and fastens his jeans. Suddenly thick hands are gently helping you back into your jeans, you button your top and follow him out the door.

The lights are turned off as the both of you walk around to the front of the shop, looking around for any signs of Tommy.

“Looks like he missed your little show. Can’t believe ya pulled that one off.”

Teases Joel, breaking the silence in the dark empty room.

“I’ll have to relock the entrance again since he’s gone, he probably thinks I slipped out without telling him goodbye.”

You say annoyed, getting your key fob out of your pocket.

Walking to the twin large oak doors you go to leave, exiting right after Joel with the keys in your hand. As you turn your back around, your met with a large hand above your head. Opening the door out comes Tommy with an unreadable expression.

Meeting his brown eyes you jump, pupils blown and cheeks burning you smiled up at him. Terrified of what he possibly heard, you stand there frozen as he takes his set of keys and locks up.

Turning around he looks at you and takes note of your appearance.

“Saw you were a little occupied tonight, I better see ya tomorrow night sweetheart.”

Tommy goads, with a smirk and waves to Joel further ways down the sidewalk.

You begin to parrot the same sentiment back but find yourself unable to form words. Tommy notices your hesitation and chuckles, bowing his head,he winks at you.

You and Joel walk back home in the snow covered streets. Guilt flushes over you as the only thing your able to think about is Tommy. Wondering how much of you Tommy saw tonight and how you’re going to get through your next shift alongside him.

authors note: this is my first ever post and first time ever writing a fic please be nice. Feedback is much appreciated!

[yunnimilk]

Lovebomb Aphrodisiac

Kyousuke , , Yaguchi x READER

૮⸝⸝> ̫ <⸝⸝ ა summary . Akemi has given you a dessert for lunch. Whether or not he spiked it doesn't matter... What matters is the beautiful man in front of you

˵ info . Reader and Yacchan are virgins. Reader is a clean freak. Reader is gender neutral but AMAB. No penetrative ex. Pre- established relationship

૮꒰ tags ꒱ა　 . Dominant Yacchan . Blowjobs (yacchan receiving). Coming Untouched. Dub-con(?) (Reader isn't in the right mind but they consent) . Drugging . Nipple play.

w.c . 3.2K

SMUT AHEAD

Sudden pain in your throat overtakes your senses.

 It could only mean one thing.

 You’ve fallen to a cold.

Although it’s not unnatural for you to get sick. It was a particularly important week. Exams were starting up, and you prepared for them–or at least tried to. Seeing as you obviously couldn’t attend classes today, you stayed in your dorm. Trying to work your brain throughout the day would’ve made you feel worse–possibly making you more ill than you are. You would forget everything you learned by how fried your brain is.

Whenever you got a cold, your mother would’ve made you soup to cleanse your body. She’s not here though. You wouldn’t be able to get it anyways, you were stuck here for the time being. 

You should’ve bought antibiotics when you came here. But it’s been increasingly difficult from all the distractions, and sometimes you just didn’t have the money. Unfortunately, it came back and bit you in the ass, because now you’re sniffling. And god, it was horrible. Surges of pain echoed in your entire body. You can’t even move, and the skin on your nose has most likely rubbed off from how much you were wiping it. You can’t just stay in bed though, it was disgusting to lay in your own sweat. And speaking of that. You feel moisture dripping down your forehead.

How disappointing. You were looking forward to eating lunch with Yacchan. With your studying and his club activities, it was difficult managing your time together. Missing the exam would be less upsetting if it meant you could see him. But you can’t.

Speaking of lunch, did you eat something weird? You remember that Akemi gave you Dorayaki. It was tasty, you always loved red bean paste in your desserts. Although, you should've stopped eating when it tasted unusually sweet.

'Why am I so fucking stupid'

Knowing him, he probably drugged it.

Agh. . . Life is so unfair. Every time you try to plan something, it fucks you over.

Why can’t you have your way sometimes? 

You raise your arm. At first, you flinch from the pain. It hit you like a truck. How the hell are you going to move your entire body? Not only that, but you smell like shit. Who would’ve thought that armpit sweat doesn’t smell good?

God, a shower sounds good right now.

If you could fucking move!

…

'I wonder what he's doing right now…'

Poor Yacchan, he's certainly worried by now. First period has already started. You two always sat next to each other. On the rare occasion, you pass notes. You'd look over and you saw him so focused on his assignments. He had a habit of creasing his eyebrows whilst working. It was cute.

You remember his confession. Well. . . if it could be described as that. All he did was kiss you. It caught you off guard. It was unlike him. You didn't think he was in love with you. In fact, you thought he hated your guts. His nasty expression only proved your suspicions.

But lately, your days have been serene.

It's insane how. . .

Uhm. . .

Did you hear something?

There are rapid footsteps in the hallways.

Then. . .

your door shot open with such force.

It could've broken the hinges.

You rose up from the noise. As soon as you heard the loud banging, you screamed your lungs out.

'FUCK!'

"FUCK!"

fuck. You bring a hand up your throat and cough. It felt like you were hacking up your heart. The pain was so unbearable. Would you lose your voice over this?

You're so focused on the burning sensation residing in your esophagus that you aren't able to see who came in. More like. Barged in.

"IDIOT! WHY THE HELL ARE YOU STILL IN BED!"

You whip your head around.

'Yacchan?!'

"YACCHAN?!"

You meant to sound nicer. You cringe at your voice. It was hoarse—it sounded like you've been mute your whole life, and you were just learning to speak. He definitely knew. If it wasn't for the fact that you sound like death. The other giveaway was when he saw you hold your neck ache from your screaming.

May the lord have mercy on you. . .

You saw his expression change. It seems like he also doesn't like your new voice. . .

He softened. His snarled mouth forming into a light frown. His furrowed eyebrows raised up. The worst part of all, he had to see you like this. What a way to start the morning. You are certain that you look like a mess. You didn't have to grab a mirror, you can just feel it. Your greasy, unkept hair felt heavy. Your skin feels hot—the sweat doesn't help. Your eyes were so sore that you wanted to close them, but you aren't even tired.

"[F/N]-Chan. . . Damn it! You're sick?!"

He waddles over to your bed. He brings his hand towards your cheek. His touch his delicate. You feel his fingers graze over your lips—But just for a second. Your cheeks flush from how close he is. How intimate his touch feels. Your body relaxes under him. If there was an angel on earth it would be him. You sigh, finally focusing on something else other than the soreness of your person.

Then he pinched you.

"AGH! DAMN IT ALL TO HELL! Why'd you have to get sick!"

Poof! That angel was gone! This is Yaguchi we're talking about.

"OW! STOP THAT ASSHOLE!"

You shot back.

The pads of his fingers were pinching and pulling the sides of your face. He was scolding you—or. . . at least you think he was. Your mind told you to stop listening.

Now everything felt freezing. What the hell?!

It was boiling a second ago! This might be the worst you've ever felt. How could you take a bath like this. The only thing your bathing in is your own juices . . .

"Hey. Hey! HEY! DUMB ASS!"

Yacchan snaps you back to reality. But you can't concentrate like this.

You slouch in his arms. You don't have enough strength to keep yourself up. This is the worst.

Yaguchi stammers when you suddenly plopped yourself against him.

Ah. . . Seeing you like this was so cute.

You've had an absent-minded look—it was like you were stumped on a math question. But you weren't in class. You were a kicked puppy in bed. His face was searing, and his soul was soaring. He felt like he could fly! Alright . . .

He'll have to take care of you then.

"Don't fall asleep on me now. Have you taken medication yet?"

He picks up your head. Palms on each sides of your cheeks. He immediately catches on how teary-eyed you looked. He was staring at a star right now. Your face was a deep tomato color, it was a wonder how you were still conscious. The fat on your frown squished under his hands. You were dependent on him.

This feels good.

Yaguchi has to stop himself from tackling you.

He looks away so you won't notice his gleeful expression.

". . . No. . . I didn't take. . . uhm . . . medication. . . ye. . . yet"

'They can't even talk. . . Fuck. . .'

Yacchan was relishing in your adorableness.

He noticed a faint smell. It was similar to when he was finished with soccer practice—except it smelt worse. Whenever he exercised, All he wished to do was to take a shower. Cold water hitting his skin to contrast the heat his body exhibited.

And it was clear you needed one too.

The smell of sweat was clogging his nose

"Hey, get up. You need to take a shower"

You grumble on his school shirt. Face buried in his cologne. It's powerful, it's like h submerged himself in his own perfume. It's harsh scent was giving you a major headache.

Your head is about to burst. You practically feel your blood vessels popping. The pain was so horrible that you feel your eyes flaring up. The migraine was persistent—body enduring the grueling torture. Your fingers squeeze the sleeves of Yaguchi's uniform. Hoping to release some of the pain if you took it out on something. Your boyfriend could feel you squirming under him.

With a sense of pity, he wraps his arms around you. He encloses you in a bear hug. Although he was beaming at you obedience—he was mistaken by how ignorant he was. It hurt to see you in such pain.

"Agh. . Hold on. ."

You hum in confusion.

Hold on for what?

Your body unexpectedly ascends. Have the gods come for you? Did you die because of how sick you are? Which is a slight exaggeration because it was just Yacchan hoisting you up.

A chirp emerges from your throat.

Well you think it did—it's hard to tell from your clogged ears.

"Yacchan. . ."

"Mm?"

"Yacchan. . ."

"What? What is it?"

"…"

His eyebrow quirked up.

What the hell was that?

…

'Weird—'

"YACCHAN!"

"OW! . . .WHAT THE HELL?! DON'T SCREAM IN MY EAR YOU FUCKING IDIOT!"

Before he scolded you more, you were already fast asleep. Soft snores crammed into his ears—Fuck that gave him a heart attack.

When did you get so bold. He should drop you just for that.

'Hah. . .'

You didn't weigh as much as he thought. He could throw you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes—but the change in position might make you vomit in return so it would be better to just not. Either he was extremely muscular, or you had the same amount of body fat as a toddler—it still fed his ego.

He could already imagine the praises you would sing when he shows his strength off. He could taste it.

But. . . There was trouble ahead.

The goal is to bathe you. The obstacle is that he wasn't exactly comfortable taking your clothes off while you were unconscious. It wouldn't matter if he tried anything or not. seeming that it was an invasion of your privacy either way. It wouldn't have been much of a trouble if you two had sex—at least once before.

But. . . Of course. . . You haven't.

He doesn't want you to feel uneasy with him.

Shit. . .

'What do I do'

Should he just get it over with and wash you?

The infirmary is closed. He couldn't get you supplements to make you conscious.

Maybe he doesn't have to shower you.

However. . . it would be vicious to leave you in this state.

…

Agh! Whatever!

He was planning to get you in that tub and he's following up with that plan.

He looks around your room to find the bathroom door. It's neater than his room. When you first came over, you were astonished by how much trash there was. He could be confused for a hoarder—and you believe it! It's a wonder how the school doesn't have a roach infestation, he could conjure up an entire ecosystem in there.

It was only when you shamed him for it that he entirely cleaned all of it up. Whether the garbage piled up after is none of your concern. This was also an opportunity to look around your dorm. You were a decorative person. By the looks of it, it seems like you were going to stay here for a while. It makes sense you made yourself at home. If Yaguchi was being honest, he never got into adorning his place like you.

It seemed childish then and it still seems like it now.

When he walks past your posters. He remembers how he had the same ones when he was younger. His mom gave him some, although he was never interested in them.

He spots the sign you labeled "Bathroom", I mean how much more obvious could it be. It's the bathroom.

When he opens the door, he's greeted with a beachy scent. It appears that you deep-cleaned the place. It smelt great. Yacchan was used to the filthiness he lived in—he was used to boys his age not taking care of their things. At the time, he was appalled by their negligence—now that he's older, he doesn't care.

"Geez, what a clean freak. . ."

He means that as a compliment.

He was about to place you down. . .

Before you groaned. . .

"Huagh. . ."

…

'Uhh. . .what the fuck'

"[F/N]?"

Did he imagine it? Did he accidentally hurt you? If that was the case, he would plummet himself down a cliff if you asked him to.

He places you on your lidded toilet. You sat yourself down, not caring about your current position.

"Hmmn. . ."

Uhm. . .

"Hey."

Yacchan grabbed your arm. Wanting to comfort you by his touch.

It seemed like you did.

In a different way.

"Hu. . Mn. . ."

Yacchan jolted away.

"What the hell was that?!"

Okay. . .

That was definitely a moan.

Okay.

What does he do?

He looks down.

Okay.

You're hard.

Shit.

"Uhm. . . [F/N]?"

Your clothed dick was tingling. You can feel it straining against your underwear. The aphrodisiac has taken effect. You feel your nipples tensing up—the area around them were hot to the touch. You breathing quickened from the slightest movement.

Meawhile, Yacchan was panicking. He felt himself getting aroused. Seeing you subconsciously spread your legs, revealing yourself, was too much to handle. He wanted to grind himself on your bulge. As much as he wanted to, he has to keep in mind of your current condition.

He was thinking about that.

But you kept thrusting up. Your cock finally reaching stimulation. You could feel it shift around as your underwear moves from your thrusting. You feel your pre-cum melt down your pernium and reach down your hole. The thought of you getting wet almost brought you to orgasm.

"Hugh. . .! Hm. . ."

Yaguchi felt himself swallow. Hard.

God, you don't know how much he's containing himself. He wanted to tweak your nipples until your screaming.'

Fuck it.

He launches himself on you.

His soft lips collide with yours. Saliva dripped down your chin, and his tongue was inside your mouth. You feel you chest getting hot. His tongue reaches deeper, he was practically fucking your mouth.

His hand traces your torso. His fingers graze over your clothed buds. With this thumb, he presses them upward.

Electric pulses reach down your dick. You can feel Yaguchi's other hand carress your inner thigh. Hand dangerously close to your hard-on. The suspense was killing you.

He pulls away to catch his breath. Your lips were red to prove how harsh he was. A string of saliva connected you two.

Your tongue lolled out of your mouth. Sore and wet.

"Hmmn. . . Ya. . . Yacchan. . ."

That tipped him over.

He flails around with your zipper. You groan from the little excitement he gave you.

Your underwear was soaked. He could see the complete shape of your cock, there was no point in wearing it anymore. Your pajama shirt was disheveled, parts of your body were flushed.

He took it off.

There was a string of pre-cum from the head of your cock.

Jesus Christ, what is he going to do with you.

"I know. . . I know. . . Fuck, you look so good. . ."

His teeth grip your neck. The pain twinged through your system. The pressure is so good. Your finger intertwine with Yacchan's uniform sweater. If his body wasn't in the way, your thighs would clench together.

You feel your cock twitch. Your balls throb for release.

Nails scratch his back and you pull him further. You feel his hot mouth nip your skin. His lips slosh together on yout throat, causing spit to drip down your collarbone.

At this point, you wondered if he was a vampire by how much he knawed on your neck.

Your quivering hand reaches down his pants. You kneaded the obvious bulge in his bottoms. Yaguchi paused to moan in your neck, his lower lip tremble. His legs shake with ecstasy, this only encourages him further to touch you.

Yacchan's pointer and middle finger traps your nipple. He fiddles with it, making sure to abuse it as much as possible. By now, it became more sensitive and hard. You can feel Yaguchi driving his cock in the palm of your hand—the shape felt like he was fucking into a fleshlight. He was out of it.

He stops himself from feeling you up. He stands up straight to pull his pants down.

Judging from his pubic hair, he takes care of himself.

You could see how his dick was completely still. It was red-hot and steaming. You gulped from the sight, you can't wait to throat it.

But how?

You're not that experienced with sex.

…

Eh, you'll figure it out.

You're not sure if you're sweating from the aphrodisiac, or because you're nervous. It's better to try, right?

You part your lips to suck the head. The juice from his penis engulfs your esophagus. You squeeze your legs together, trapping your balls.

It's so fucking good.

Yacchan whimpers from your wet cavern. He feels the bumo of your lips sucking his cock. He's holding himself back by not oushing your head down. He imagines the gagging sounds. He imagines how fucked you'd look.

"H. . .Ah!"

Shit. That made the base of you dick pulse in anticipation.

Forget penetrative sex, you can get off on this alone.

The heavy scent of sex fills the room. The lack of oxygen made you cockdrunk. The sweaty smell made your esophagus tighten up. Your hips shift back and forth on the toiler seat, the stimulation was getting you closer to euphoria.

You grab Yacchan's hip to blow him faster. He looks down to see your head bobbing up and down. The sight was lewd. Your tongue was going over every vein. Shock streams over your lover's body as he can't contain his voice any longer. His hand hold yours.

"Hm! Nmgh!"

Your whole body convulses. You know that you're cumming. Your penis jerks up, letting your sweet nectar shoot out. Your back arches from the intense pleasure.

Meanwhile, your wailing sends waves of delight to Yacchan. The shuddering of your moans was enough ti tio him over the edge.

"Ah. . . Ah! Fuck! Mnn!"

He quickly grabs your head and pushes it to take all of his cum.

"Ah. . ."

"Huu. . ."

You slouch back on your seat. Chest moving up and down. God, oral sex is exhausting, if you two had to do anal it would knock you out.

Yacchan swipes the sweat off his forehead. His legs felt heavy. It was good, but so tiring.

Oh yeah.

He had to wash you.

"Wait hold on. You need to shower. You look disgusting."

"Excuse me?!"

"Don't get so squeaky with me. I'll shower with you"

He grabs your hand and helps you up. You get a pat on your back, signaling you to move on and take off your clothes.

You lean on his body in case your legs give out.

He was right. Your body feels sticky.

"How are you by the way. Did your cold wear off?"

"Yeah. But I'm not sure it was a cold."

?

"What do you mean??"

"Eh. . . I'll tell you during the bath, come on."

Yacchan kissed your cheek.

At least he doesn't have to worry about seeing you naked now.

𝇋 𝇌 Yun' s note. Your beloved Yunni is back. Wanted to make a fanfic about cutie Yacchan. Hope it's good !

[carnivorousblooms]

Managers Time Off

MDNI and FDNI

Bottom Bobby x Top Male Reader

Nsfw under the cut

Warnings ⚠️ ⚠️ ⚠️  - bitting, body worship, mating press, overstimulation, light BDSM, missionary, dinner after care

Synopsis - With Bobby's time off, his husband (you) has decided to take him to a quiet lake house and show him how much you really love him. All of him.

Work count ~1.5k

Bobby had just been told by HUNTR/X to take some time off. Much to your joy, since you had been trying to plan a vacation to take him on. Now you have the golden opportunity, with the girls wanting Bobby to rest after the whole Idol Awards with the Saja boys. Rumi insisted that Bobby needed a break, they all did, it was stressful. As his Husband you so graciously had plans for everyone made! You have wanted Bobby to yourself for a while now. So you sent the Girls off to Paris, get their minds off of being Idols/Hunters, from Demons. Then you took Bobby out to a rural part of South Korea. A small town hidden between two large mountains, each with springs and rivers running down from the tops, all leading down to a large tranquil lake. You got one of the only AirBNB's in the area, a small home, just a bedroom, bathroom, living room and kitchen. Minimalist, a way to pull him away from the limelight of managing HUNTR/X. At least that's what you wanted. Bobby never really stops talking about the girl, you don't mind after all they are like your kids at this point. The downside is most people can recognize their names and connect the dots that you're a degree from the Idols. It's not a real issue, really all that happens is that you and Bobby Mostly Bobby get more attention, hospitality, gifts, etc. People hope to get HUNTR/X to come if they leave a good impression

But you have a plan to get Bobby all to yourself like he was supposed to be the whole time. You pull a few strings and get a couple of the other HUNTR/X representatives to distract the more needy villagers for a night. To your delight Zoey even called Bobby to make sure he stayed with you! Its the early afternoon, about four or so, that's no time to fuck your husband. He hasn't even had dinner yet! Oh but you have some devious plans once dinner is over~

── ⋆⋅♤⋅⋆ ─── Kitchen ─── ⋆⋅♤⋅⋆ ─────

Obviously you can't feed Bobby just Anything before the evening you have planned. No, it has to be something that tastes good and supposedly helps your later activities. Seared Salmon with fried mushrooms as the main, and chocolate dipped strawberries with a molten lava cake for dessert. As you're finishing up Bobby walks into the kitchen after a call with the girls. “Honey, what dishes are clean?” He asks as you just shake your head to the general direction of a stack of dishes next to the sink. He places two plates next to the stove top, you move to quickly serve both of you an equal amount of food. He continues as he opens a cabinet and places a bottle of red wine and two cups on the table, “It's nice when it's just the two of us… As much as I love the girls, I still want one on one time with you.” He pours wine into the cups, as you set the table. Plates next to each other with utensils, then starts the gentle prying. “Honey, you don't usually set up events with fans. Want to tell me what tonight is really about?”. You stare at him for a few seconds before blinking and chuckling nervously, your husband can always tell when you're up to something. You begrudgingly admit “Well I was planning to ask you to have sex after dinner… if you were in the mood to, of course…”. You abandon setting the table, instead opting to grab your husband's hands, bringing them up to your lips and kissing his knuckles. You mutter against the skin of his hands, eyes looking towards his face pleading, “Please Darling? It's been a week since we last were intimate”. Your heart starts to race as he sighs and nods his head, his hands cup your face pulling you up into a deep loving kiss. You respond immediately by biting his lower lip, knowing he'll gasp, and slipping your tongue into his mouth. You slowly back him up against the nearest wall as your tongue dominates his, making him gasp and moan in the short seconds he can pull away. You only pull away when your hands start exploring his body, the body you've explored so many times yet still find yourself falling in love over and over again with. Your mouth quickly moves to his neck, biting down, sucking hickeys onto his skin and pulling on it gently. A deep hum leaves your throat as Bobby shakily breaths out “..H-how… how about we eat dinner after… you fuck me?... I'm always hungry after we have sex…”. A dark grin spreads across your face, before you usher him into the bedroom.

In less than five minutes you have Bobby fully naked, a roll of silk ribbons in your hands. You gently wrap two strands around his thick thighs, making sure it doesn't hurt him, then you bring the ribbons up and tie them up around his upper arms. You wrap another ribbon around his wrists keeping his hands right in front of his supple chest, his nipples already hard wanting attention making his large pecs look so alluring you could forgo the rest of your plans and just suck on them until he's sobbing.

No! Self-control, control yourself. You need to make this good, maybe then Bobby will let you tie him up more often.

For now you settle for getting on your knees and start biting, kissing, and sucking on his thighs. You gently pull on his skin with your teeth, causing deep purple hickeys to appear. Once you're satisfied with how many marks you left on his skin, your gaze moves up to his face. It's an amazing view, staring past his hard cock, his wrists tied at his chest, and tears running down his cheeks. A dark amusement fills you as Bobby squirms try to stimulate himself in any way. Oh you love how easy it is to get him to this point.

You've always been able to make him come undone, it's a talent you're quite proud of. Though you would say a good portion of what makes him so sensitive is how much he works, always ignoring his needs until you step in and cut him loose. You trail kisses down his marked up thighs, down to his fat ass. God you love it. You bite down repeatedly on each of his cheeks, slowly moving down towards his hole.

“Three…” whispered between breaths and bites.

You gently grab his thighs, forcing his legs even further apart.

“Two…” muttered slightly louder, just enough Bobby can't quite make it out.

You smirk softly as his hole desperately clenches around nothing. You lead forward, and start eating him out, your tongue slipping inside him. His walls spasm and squeeze your tongue as he cums all over his stomach and chest.

“...one…” spoken against his ass, making him shiver and arch into you.

You continue to eat him out ignoring his orgasm in favor of wringing another one from him. You pull away from his ass, replacing your tongue with two fingers, gently scissoring him open. You stare at his writhing form within the binds you loving tied him up in. You teasingly comment “Bobby, my handsome husband… want something bigger than my fingers or tongue?” at the same time curling your fingers up into his prostate, gently rubbing it until he cums again. A lot less this time but he's left breathless, wanting, needing more. But he's in no state to beg or ask right now, so taking his desperate bucking hips as a yes, pulling your fingers out of him. You stand up, slapping your hard cock against his thigh. You hum softly as he moans and whimpers, lining the tip of your cock up to his preped hole. You slowly ease into him, inch by inch, letting him adjust to your size. Once your fully inside him, you grab his legs folding him into a mating press. You examine his teary eyes, flushed face, shaking lips. He's fine, conscious enough to use any safe words you have in place. You languidly thrust into him, feeling how tight he still is. A knowing grin spreads across your face before you start to roughly fuck him, your gaze locked on his pecs. On how they bounce and roll around his bound hands, leaning in closer to latch onto one you suck roughly, nibbling on the hard nub. A deep groan leaves your throat as he cums on both your stomachs, making him clench around your cock. You can loosely make out his pleading cries “...H-harder… there… there… cumming… cumming…”

You keep a steady pace, making Bobby sob with each thrust. He can't hold onto you like he usually does, he can't dig nails into your back as you overstimulate him. He comes undone again, his cock twitching against his stomach as a small amount of cum following from the tip. All his clenching has made it hard for you to keep it together, so you slam as far in as you can before pumping a thick loaf of cum inside his ass. As you pull out, you undo the ribbons and softly mummer into his ear “Let's eat dinner… we can go a few more rounds later tonight…”

I hope this was good, I'm happy to hear any suggestions for improvement! - Bloom

[lucy-literates]

could you do a Malachi Barton x reader fix where it’s during zombies 4 and they’re learning choreo and reader is like an amazing dancer and everyone is impressed

A/N: Love this!! Hope you do too!

You Got Moves, Babe

You walked into the rehearsal studio in your oversized hoodie, headphones slung around your neck, and a lazy stretch pulling through your spine. You hadn’t said much yet — just offered a sleepy smile to everyone — but when the choreographer clapped their hands and shouted “Let’s warm up!” your whole posture shifted.

Malachi noticed. Of course he noticed.

He’d been watching you for days, actually. Ever since callbacks, when you breezed through the auditions like it was a formality. You weren’t cocky. Just confident. That quiet kind of confidence that made people either intimidated… or completely obsessed.

Malachi? Yeah. Obsessed.

You took your spot beside him, bumping his shoulder with yours.

“You ready to keep up with me?” you teased, wiggling your eyebrows.

He grinned, trying not to look too obviously down bad.

“Only if you promise not to completely humble me in front of everyone.”

“No promises.”

The music started. A fast, punchy remix for one of the new Zombies 4 tracks — all sharp footwork, high energy, clean lines.

And then you moved.

You moved.

It was the kind of dancing that made people stop pretending to stretch. Even the choreographer paused to stare. You hit every beat like it was second nature, like the song was built around you. Not just technical — you had swag. A smirk, a wink, a roll of the hips just so.

When the track ended and everyone clapped instinctively, Malachi was just standing there, stunned, sweat sticking his curls to his forehead.

“Bro,” one of the background dancers said under their breath. “She’s crazy good.”

You turned to Malachi, panting lightly but smiling like you hadn’t just murdered the routine.

“Still keeping up?”

He blinked at you. “Are you even human?”

You fake-thought for a moment. “Might be part alien. Haven’t decided yet.”

He laughed, stepping closer, hand brushing yours. “Okay, no. I need a moment. How do you move like that?”

You leaned in. “Practice. And maybe because I know you’re watching.”

His face went so red.

You were already walking away to get water when he called out, “Wait—was that a flirt?!”

You looked back with a grin.

“I don’t try, Barton. I succeed.”

He watched you go, heart pounding and brain short-circuiting. The routine wasn’t even half over and you’d already wrecked him more than the choreography ever could.

Tag list:

@laylayschipzz

@purplerose291

@imnotnotgabrielle

[terriyeah]

Phainon x Male!Reader⭑.ᐟ (NSFW)

You chuckled at Phainon's antics as he put his arm around your waist, whisking you away from your friends to a secluded, tight alley.

Your smile still on your face as you look at his, his flushed expression catching you by surprise as you gasp at the sensation of his hips grinding down on yours. Shuddering and biting down on your bottom lip to muffle any sounds that dare escape, "Phainon— here? I mean, anyone could- could walk in here and I-I—" he shushed you by capturing your lips in a feverish kiss.

His tongue prodded your lips for entrance, you parted them, your cock twitching inside your pants as you feel how warm it is, he's burning up. He isn't talking, at all, that's making you nervous but his hand roaminb and groping around your ass and waist is really distracting you from the fact. Your sigh into the kiss turns into a breathy moan as his knee digs into your crotch, your thighs flexing and twitching a little at the sudden stimulation.

His fingers slowly, sensually found their way to your zipper all the way from your chest, his fingers leaving goosebumps that have you shivering in their wake as both of your body heat makes the cramped alleyway hotter than it should be.

Sweat clings to his face, and yet, he still looks so hauntingly handsome you feel entranced. Entranced by the way his eyes are fixed on yours, his lips slightly parted in heavy breaths, his muscular chest almost heaving, his cheek, ears, and nape flushed red as he watches you while his knee keeps pressing up on your clothed cock, his fingers fiddling with the zipper.

"You— I just, I— fuck," he breathed out shakily.

His head dropped down on the juncture of your neck, he breathed your smell, though now sweaty because of the cramped space, his knee never stopping its circular movements as his hand fiddling with the zipper finally achieved what it wanted, only your underwear in the way of your cock springing free. He didn't even hesitate as he dove his hand straight down your underwear, stroking you a few times before taking it out. You hiss as you feel air hit your dick, the way his fingers keep stroking isn't helping to stop the way its throbbing against his hand as you whine.

He pressed a kiss on your temple, his eyes now down, focused on your hard, weeping dick with rapt attention as he sped up his strokes, feeling his own dick throb in his pants at your pre-cum coating his fingers.

You were a mess against him, shaking, moaning, sweating, he felt all of his senses get overtaken by you, your smell, your sounds, the way you writhed against him as he tugged your dick a few times, smiling when his name leaves your lips in a shout.

When you do cum, its messy, its loud, its everything Phainon adores in you as your body shakes, your dick spurting out so much cum Phainon's hand and the upper part of his pants on his left leg is drenched in it, even through the haze of just cumming, you can hear yourself groan from the embarrassment.

Phainon chuckles, "eyes on me, now."

You do just that, the hot air between you turning static when he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks your cum clean off his fingers, maintaining eye contact the entire time. Then, as if he didn't just get you hard again, smiles sweetly, cups your cheeks and gives you a kiss.

[neonbluehazardsign]

A Kiss With A Fist (Is Better Than None)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/68375226/chapters/176952746 (ao3)

You don’t know when everything changed. All you wanted to do was help Eddie—he was stressed, and it was clearly taking a toll on both him and Volt. You decided to talk with him, late one night after the Breaker Box had closed.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

The music is set to a low, smooth tempo, the lights are dimmed, and everyone else has gone home. You’re seated at the bar, watching Eddie as he cleans a glass. His hands are rough, recently acquired bruises and scars scattered across the skin, and a twinge of guilt flares up in your chest. You know it’s not technically your job, but Eddie does so much around the bar, and you want to help him. “Eddie?” Your voice is quiet as you call his name—you don’t want to screw this up before you even bring up what you want to ask him. He sets the glass he’s cleaning down, fixing you with an almost annoyed stare. You know better though, catching the fond glint in his eyes. “What do you need?” 

“It’s not really what I need, I was just wondering if I could help you with the electrical stuff,” you explain. Eddie sighs, placing the glass in his hands up on the shelf before giving you his full attention. “You know I can’t let you do that,” he murmurs, something heavy that you can’t quite read in his voice. “Please? You can be there, make sure I don’t mess anything up,” you plead, trying to wear him down. Something flickers in his expression, annoyance or something akin to it, before he smooths it over. “I told you no.” 

You groan in frustration, slumping back in your chair. “Can you just let me help? It’s not like working alone is going to get you anywhere important—“ The lights flicker once, then twice, prompting both of you to look up. Then they go haywire, and the bulbs burst, leaving the two of you in darkness. The air in the room feels charged with electricity. A hand grabs your wrist, pulling you out of your chair. Volt. You stumble, pushing at his hand, but he doesn’t let go. 

An expression you can’t quite read is visible on his face, something between angry and shocked. “Volt,” Eddie starts, a cautious edge to his voice. His hands are bone-white where they wrap around the edge of the glass he’s cleaning. “No,” Volt growls, a dangerous quality to his voice that you’ve never heard directed at you before. “They don’t get to talk to you like that.” He directs his attention back to you, a cold emptiness in his eyes. “You’re cut off. Go home.”

“Wait—“ Volt doesn’t listen, beginning to drag you to the door when you don’t move on your own, still shocked at how he’s acting. “Get out. You can come back when you can be nicer.” When you begin to struggle, wanting to talk it instead of whatever this is—he grips your hand hard, and you can sense what’s about to happen before he does it. Volt shocks you, hard. It hurts, and maybe he regrets it. Shock is clear on his face before you shove him off of you, backing away with your injured hand cradled to your chest. “Live wire—“ he begins, guilt evident in his voice. 

You straighten up, ignoring the heat pulsing in your hand. “Go fuck yourself, Volt.” The door slamming in your face feels final. Your shoulders slump, the adrenaline wearing off. Everything that just happens slams into you at once. Hot tears bloom up along your waterline, neon lights blurring in your vision as you back away from the Breaker Box. Breath shuddering, you inspect your hand as you walk home. Volt really did a number on you—the skin is a deep, angry red, charred at the edges. It spirals up your arm in jagged, sharp swirls. 

You shove your sleeve down over your arm, hiding it from your view. The rest of the night feels like a blur.

You collapse on the couch in your apartment, frantically digging through your med kit to find bandages and sterilization cream. The dull ache in your arm just reminds you of what happened every time it flares up, and you set your jaw, twisting the cap of your pain medicine open. You take two.

Sleep doesn’t come easily—you’re still haunted by your actions, and you replay tonight’s events in your head, wishing you could’ve done something different. Not pushed Eddie, tried harder with Volt—anything. You just wish it didn’t end like that.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

When you wake up that morning, you check your phone near-obsessively, hoping to see a message, a missed call, but nothing happens. Something dark and heavy settles into your chest when you realize they truly don’t want to see you anymore. The days drag on, and before you know it, it’s been a week. You try to busy yourself with hobbies, but it doesn’t work. The dark-haired librarian reminds you of Eddie, the tall man with the beautiful smile at your local pottery class resembles Volt too closely.

It’s late one night when you decide to go to a bar. It’s not what you’re used to—the music is fast and loud, rock instead of the jazz that’s usually playing in your ears. The lights aren’t the warm oranges and yellows that you’re familiar with, they’re bright white instead, harsh on your eyes. They’re not here, though, so you’re willing to make the sacrifice. You order a drink, grimacing at the bitter taste. It burns going down your throat, leaving behind a sharp buzz. You’re three drinks in when someone sits down next to you.

They look so much like them that it almost hurts, and your breath catches in your chest. Dark eyes like Eddie’s glance at you, and their lips curve into a half-smile like Volt’s. “Having a fun time?” they purr, their voice smooth. You grin, spurred on by the alcohol in your system. “I’d have a better time if I could get to know you,” you breathe, watching as their face breaks into a dangerous smile. “I like you,” they admit, pulling a long sip from their drink. You finish the last dregs of your own drink, closing out your tab and turning back to them. “Do you want to come home with me?” They laugh, taking your hand, strong and sure. “Lead the way.”

^*^

You both stumble into your room, a tangle of heat and hands, pressing marks to each other’s skin. They end up on top of you, panting hard with a triumphant grin on their face. “What would you like me to do to you first, pet?” they coo, cupping your face. You hesitate, remembering how Volt and Eddie used to do the same. They clearly pick up on your hesitation, pulling back slightly. 

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” they remind you, voice soft. You shake any lingering uncertainty off, pulling them into another kiss. “I want to do this,” you murmur against their lips. They kiss you harder, teeth digging into the corner of your lips, and everything dissolves into fire and heat and their tongue on you.

The next morning, you wake up to an empty bed. Your blankets are tucked around you, your windows cracked open. There’s a note on your pillow. 

Sorry, pet. Something came up, but I hope I can meet you again.

Below their note, there’s a string of numbers, presumably their phone number. Tears blur your vision, and you crumple the note, tossing it somewhere in your room. Everyone leaves you. Nobody stays, and it’s breaking you. Your breathing is unstable as you curl in on yourself, unable to stop the rush of unwanted thoughts.

The glint of the knife you keep on top of your bedside table catches your eyes, and you swallow hard, pulse beating fast as you reach for the weapon. It’s small, but you still keep it sharp, enough to cut if you need to. The blade is cool against your skin. Do it, some small, ugly part of you thinks. Nobody would miss you. You stare down at the knife, chest tightening. The longer you look, the more you realize that this is a bad idea. You toss the knife away from you like it’s burned you, hands shaking before they curl into fists. It’s hard to leave your room that morning.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

You’re fine now, right? Even if you still keep the knife near your bed, even if you can’t stop thinking about them, you’re fine. You can handle it, even if there’s no one there to comfort you.

You’re fine.