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quickestgold · 4 months ago

Note

Okay but LISTENNNNN. Reader and Jack having feelings for eachother but he pulls back (she’s still new , too young , etc) he’s been cold and she decided to take that day off work and go to Pitt Fest and …oh no…. (Still lives but it’s BAD)

Strip Her: Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader

Synopsis: Amidst a mass casualty event, Jack’s medical instincts clash with his personal life when the woman he loves risks her own life to save another. Is he about to watch you die?

Warnings: Canon-typical depictions of trauma/gun violence, mass shooting, GSWs, blood; Reader basically does what Santos did, but in the field hah! > No "good girl" energy from Jack, just anger for putting yourself in danger lol

Word count: 2k+

A/n: Thanks so much for sending this in, so sorry it's taken so long!! Lmk what you think!! ♡

This is not exactly in our mass casualty plan.

Blood is for the ones we can save.

Ten other patients will die if you put all of your energy into saving this girl.

Jack’s own words haunt him, playing through his mind on a torturous loop.

He looks at Robby, pleading for something. Then back at you, watching you fight for your life.

"Hi, handsome."

"Wanna come over after your shift?"

Read.

You huff out a humorless laugh. The old man really left you on Read.

You know Jack isn't a big texter, making the age-gap between you hilariously obvious. But today it gets to you.

Jack isn't your immediate superior, but you wonder if this is why he's been acting cold. More than usual.

The ER staff love to talk. Of course they do. But neither Jack nor you care about that. You’ve made it clear there’s an undeniable connection between you.

So, you’ve acted on it.

The last couple of months have been bliss, an unspoken understanding of exclusivity.

But now, Jack's been distant. Swapping shifts, avoiding working with you.

Was it something you did?

You've already double texted him today, wishing him a good shift and letting him know that Robby's asked you to 'babysit'.

How embarrassing. But you draft another.

"Heading to Pitt Fest now, will be up for some fun when you get home... ;)"

You delete the last part. God. Don't show your age!

"Heading to Pitt Fest now, see you soon."

You hit send.

Code Triage. Emergency Department Now.

The mass casualty event is in full swing. Patients come and go. Green. Yellow. Pink. Red. Black and White.

It's a haze of coordinated chaos.

Jack keeps trying to reach you in-between treating patients, leaving you countless voicemails.

Of course he would.

"Hey, Y/N. It's Jack. Call or text me the second you get this message, okay?" His voice trembles. "She's not picking up."

"I can't reach Jake either." Robby mutters.

"I'm sure they're ok." Dana offers gently.

Time slips away, minutes turning into hours. Their shift was supposed to end a while ago, but they've stopped keeping track.

"I'm going to check on triage." Robby announces, stepping out to help Shen and Ellis assess incoming patients. "No pulse. Black and white. Pink zone. Strong pulse. Unresponsive. No obvious GSW. Red zone GSW left chest."

A familiar voice cuts through the noise. "She was talking when we first got into the truck. T- There was so much blood."

"Jake!" Robby's at his side in a flash.

"Robby! Leah got shot. It's really bad...", Jake cries out.

Robby is at a loss for words, his medical instincts fighting the fatherly ones in a gruesome match.

"I've been putting pressure on the wound the whole time", Jake stutters.

"That's good. You're good", Robby reassures him, more for himself than Jake.

The team rushes Leah into the ER. Jake follows closely behind. "You can't stay with her. There's no room and we need to work on Leah right now", Robby says firmly, getting to work immediately.

Jack spots them and hurries over, panic rising in his chest.

"Where’s Y/N?" he asks, voice tight.

"I- I don’t know," Jake mutters. "She stopped Leah’s bleeding, then went back in."

"What do you mean?" Jack growls, trying to keep his voice calm.

Robby looks up, taking in Jake's words. The lines on his forehead growing deeper.

"People were screaming. The shots were so loud. She- She went back to see if others needed help." Jake's eyes well up, before he is wheeled off to get treated.

Of course you would put someone else's safety over your own.

Others might see it as noble, but Robby and Jack think it's reckless.

They exchange a look, knowing there's nothing they can do to reach you. To make sure you're okay.

Jack is called to another patient, while Robby proceeds to work on Leah.

Despite their best efforts, it's not enough.

Minutes pass. Jack watches Robby closely, his desperation becoming more evident by the second. Dana gives Jack a knowing look, recognizing the only person who can reach Robby right now is him.

Jack steps closer, glasses off, his voice gentle.

"The bullet tore through her heart", he says softly, giving Robby time to process.

"Anyone else with a wound like this is pronounced dead in the field. You can't keep up with the blood loss. If she was our only patient, we'd do a thoracotamy, maybe ECMO. But even then, I doubt we'd get her back." Jack's words hang heavy in the air, but he continues.

"We're gonna lose ten other patients if you put all your efforts into saving this girl." Jack doesn't let it show, but it pains him to see Robby hurting like this.

Robby does one final pulse check. But Leah's heart is no longer beating, the realization shattering his own.

"Okay, we're done", Robby whispers, breaking.

"We stopped at 19:47", Dana declares. "Move her to Pedes?", she asks gently.

Robby just nods.

"You want me to go with you to talk to Jake?"

He shakes his head. "No. No, thanks. I got it."

But another gurney is wheeled in. Robby notices first.

"Jesus Christ", he mutters. "What's going on?"

"Female. 30s. GSW to the right inguinal region. Retroperitoneal bleed", Dr. Mohan declares. But there's someone else kneeling at the end of the gurney, holding the patient's leg up. Robby and Jack's eyes widen, when they meet yours.

"The bullet must have tracked north and hit the external illiac", you state nonchalantly, ignoring the stunned looks from your colleagues.

It was supposed to be your day off.

"Dr. Y/LN did a REBOA in the field to stop the bleeding", Samira continues.

"You did what?!" Robby gasps, incredulous but unable to hide his pride.

Jack is by your side in an instant. "Are you shitting me?"

"Hello to you too, Dr. Abbot", you smile weakly, still focused on the patient’s wound.

Another time, your smile would’ve lit a spark. Not now.

Jack's anger is palpable.

You’ve seen it before, his cold, stone-faced demeanor, always one existential crisis away from breaking. But never directed at you.

"Are you hurt?" Jack’s voice is dangerously low.

He's scared.

Robby and Jack scan your blood-soaked clothing. You quickly dismiss their concern.

"Uncontrollable bleeding from a pelvic artery, no other options. I blew up a balloon in the aorta to stop the bleed. Going in a few inches, zone three, below the kidney. I just needed to hit the femoral artery."

You hesitate, but go for it anyway.

"Piece of cake", you grin, weaker than usual, but you hope they don't notice. They do.

"Radial's stronger." Mel confirms.

Robby and Jack both notice your uneven breathing but chalk it up to the stress and trauma you've experienced.

"Also, GSW to the chest, left hypochondriac region. Probable internal bleeding", you continue.

"No. That's not true-", Samira objects.

You direct everyone's attention to your own chest, your breathing becoming erratic.

"What?!" Jack's voice cracks, disbelief, shock and fear hitting him all at once.

You feel like you can hear your own heartbeat, the ER growing eerily quiet at your confession.

"Okay. Let go of her leg", Robby orders in an intimidating tone.

"Gurney!" Jack barks.

"I need to lock the balloon first." You stare directly into Jack's eyes, knowing he won't budge. You turn to your friend and mentor, pleading.

"Robby." He knows you're right.

"Do it." Robby nods, ordering Whittaker to check the wound once you're done.

"BP's 110, by palp", Donnie announces.

Jack remains frozen, his mind racing a million miles a minute.

"The balloon can stay up for an hour max. Get IR and Vascular on the case." Robby directs, before drawing everyone's attention back to you.

Your patient is stable.

You've done what you can.

But the blood loss is catching up with you.

"I- I think it's a through-and-through. My back hurts like hell and my legs feel funny." Jack snaps out of his trance, his training kicking in.

Robby lifts your top, shocked at the severity of the injury. Jack shuts his eyes, unable to stomach the sight.

It must be bad.

But it doesn't hurt too much.

Not a great sign.

"Okay. Stabilize her", Robby orders, multiple hands are on you immediately, steadying you. Grabbing the base of your neck, your shoulders and hips, securing you in place.

You're still sat on the gurney, but have now let go of the patient's leg.

"Strip her", Jack commands, voice low and firm, eyes dark and unreadable.

You try to lighten the mood. "Gee, buy me dinner first, won't you?"

A few giggles from the team, but Jack's lips are tightly pressed together in a fine line, facing downwards.

Dana cuts through your top, leaving only your bra. Unusual. But you're relieved to not flash your coworkers. You'd rather like to maintain the mysterious vibe you've got going on.

"Cowards", you tease. More chuckles, but worry growing on everyone's faces.

You whisper to Jack, "I'm sorry."

He doesn't respond. Can't look at you. Instead he orders a chest tube and a unit of blood.

A sharp gasp rips through you, the weight on your chest suddenly making it hard to breathe. "Fuck, that hurts." Any last traces of playfulness vanish, replaced by something else.

Fear.

Jack realizes he has to save his anger for later. "Hey. It's okay", a slight smile now tugging at his lips. "I've seen you worse", but the vulnerability in his voice betrays him.

Shit. It must be really bad. He's cracking jokes now?

Your anxiety spikes.

Is Jack about to watch you die?

You shiver at the thought. Or maybe it's the blood loss. Probably both.

Your vision blurs. Your thoughts get foggy.

"J-Jack?" You're not sure he hears you. Or anybody really. Did the words even come out?

Your eyes flutter shut. There are no more thoughts.

Only darkness.

Robby orders Jack to step back, the roles tragically reversed.

This is not exactly in our mass casualty plan.

Blood is for the ones we can save.

Ten other patients will die if you put all of your energy into saving this girl.

Jack’s own words haunt him, playing through his mind on a torturous loop.

He has been distant with you. But not because of your age, or your careers.

No, it's because letting you in means risking losing you and he knows he can't survive that kind of pain. He’s seen too much death, too much loss. And loving you only makes that fear stronger.

He looks at Robby, pleading for something. Then back at you, watching you fight for your life.

"I know." Robby is laser-focused, but shudders at the thought of Jack up on that roof again.

Painfully aware of the inevitable cost of losing you.

They won't. They can't.

Monitors and machines beep in a faint rhythm.

You wake, eyes heavy. A familiar figure is propped up in the armchair beside your bed.

He looks like shit.

Jack's wearing the same bloodstained scrubs, dark circles beneath his eyes, hair dishevelled. On second thought... it's a look.

"Hi, handsome", you whisper, unsure if it’s the relief of being alive, the pain meds or just seeing Jack, but a wave of comfort floods you.

He leans in, eyes wide with tenderness.

"Hi, beautiful."

His gaze radiates a warmth that kept you alive, even when your skin grew cold.

"How are you feeling?" His voice is soft. So unbelievably soft. The anger has subsided, but you know there’s a conversation you’ll have another day.

He takes your hand in his, squeezing it gently.

"Peachy", you exhale, giving him a warm and genuine smile. He returns it, his shoulders relaxing more with every steady breath you take.

You hesitate, but finally go for it. "So, about you leaving me on Read." Your smile turns into a familiar smirk. "You know only old people leave voicemails, right?"

Jack's breath catches in his throat, caught off guard. He chokes out a strangled laugh.

"You're unbelievable", he says, before leaning down, his lips brushing gently over yours.

The grip this man has on me I swear... Also, I'm still in shock from ep13 and I fear it's only getting worse... Jack being so rational about letting Leah go was So Painful, so writing this was very cathartic. Pls comment/share your thoughts below. ♡

#the pitt #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #dr abbot x you #dr abbot x reader #shawn hatosy #the pitt hbo #michael robinavitch #dr robby #jack abbott #jack abbott x reader #dr abbott x reader

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mariasont · 6 months ago

Note

Early seasons Spencer’s gf joining the team and quickly realizing just how used to Spencer she is bc the rest of the team’s reactions to him are so different from hers

Cinnamon Sticks - S.R

a/n: obsessed with the idea of baby spencie having a gf who just gets him while he's still an awkward, nerdy little genius! thanks for requesting bestie so sorry it took so long i am the worst LOL

masterlist

pairings: early!seasons!spencer reid x fem!reader

warnings: established relationship, secret relationship, relationship being exposed bc these two are just so in love

wc: 1.7k

Garcia burst into the bullpen like some sort of whirlwind that was practically painted in neon, her scarf fluttering behind her almost like a cape. She juggled a precariously full cup of coffee, while her phone teetered between ear and shoulder as if testing the limits of human dexterity.

"I swear to all that is holy, if my life doesn't slow down in the next five minutes —"

The sentence derailed as she misjudged her pace, the coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the cup. She stopped abruptly, but not quick enough to stop the scalding liquid from spilling over and searing her fingers.

"Oh, fantastic! Just what I needed!" she huffed, waving her hand like it might stop the sting.

She threw herself into the closest chair with a dejected sigh, slumping back and fixing the coffee cup with a murderous glare, like this was just another tally in a long line of grievances.

Your eyes darted up from your work, only for a moment, enough to confirm what you already knew. You hadn't been working here long, but it was long enough to recognize the phenomenon that was Garcia: a blur of movement and words, mid-rant before anyone had the chance to catch up. It was like clockwork really.

You risked a glance across the desk at Spencer, who was so absorbed in his notebook it was a wonder he even remembered to breathe. If Garcia's antics registered as white noise to anyone, it was him. But then, almost like he had a radar for being watched, he looked up, catching your gaze.

His eyebrows lifted into a subtle what can you do? expression, and you couldn't help but smile back.

That was the thing about Spencer. He had this uncanny knack for knowing exactly what you were thinking, almost as if he had a cheat sheet for your brain. And maybe he did, like his brain worked three times faster than everyone else's in the room (which, let's face it, it definitely did). But instead of that being intimidating, it was oddly reassuring.

"At this rate, I'm one bad email away from alphabetizing my entire pantry for stress relief."

Spencer's notebook hit the desk, and there it was, the shift you loved to look for. His shoulders drew back, face lighting up, the kind of thing that signaled his mini-lecture was incoming.

"Organizing your pantry is actually a practical stress management technique. By categorizing items, you create a structured environment that reduces decision fatigue. Its why people feel calmer in tidy spaces, it's psychological."

Morgan held up a hand. "Psychological, huh? Sounds like you’re just trying to justify your weird love affair with labels, pretty boy.”

“Don’t forget,” you added absently, flipping a page in your report, “it also saves time when you’re cooking. I think you called it practical efficiency."

The words slipped out without much thought, but as soon as they did, the bullpen stilled. You glanced up, heart sinking as you saw every face turned in your direction.

Morgan’s grin was the first thing you notice, wide and knowing, stretching across his face. He tilted his head, eyes bouncing between you and Spencer like he was putting pieces together in real time.

“Wait a minute,” he said, sitting forward with a gleam in his eye. “Did you just quote him? Like, word for word?”

Your cheeks heated instantly. “What? No. I mean — maybe. I don’t know.”

“Pretty sure you did,” Morgan shot back, smirking. “Man, what else has he been teaching you? You got the periodic table memorized too?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair. “Oh, please. If you’ve been around Spencer long enough, you’re bound to pick up a few things. He’s like a walking encyclopedia.”

“Well,” Spencer said, his head tilting slightly as he spoke, “your cinnamon sticks always end up at the back of your pantry. That’s why I figured you might appreciate the idea of organizing by use frequency. Like I said, practical efficiency.”

The moment the words left his mouth, you knew he’d made a tactical error.

Garcia gasped, her eyes lighting up like she’d just been handed the juiciest piece of gossip of her life.

“Oh. My. God. Spencer Reid, how exactly do you know what the back of her pantry looks like?”

You froze, rooted to the spot as the realization hit you like a cartoon anvil.

This was bad.

Spencer’s expression mirrored yours for half a second, bug-eyed panic, but he quickly scrambled for an answer.

“It’s, um… a logical assumption,” he stammered, his fingers toying with the pen in his hand, a nervous tell he couldn’t quite suppress. “Spices like cinnamon sticks always seem to migrate to the back of the pantry unless there’s an intentional system in place.”

Morgan let out a long, low whistle, rocking back in his chair with enough force to make it creak.

“Nice save. But I don’t think Garcia’s buying it.”

Garcia tapped her chin, clearly enjoying herself far too much. “Oh, no, no, no. This is too good. I mean, logical assumption my fabulous behind! Cinnamon sticks in the back of her pantry? Really? What’s next? A detailed analysis of how she stacks her cereal boxes?”

You laughed, though it sounded more like a bark than anything natural. “You’re all reading way too much into this. Spencer just knows weirdly specific things about, well, everything. That’s kind of his thing, remember?”

“Mmhmm,” Garcia hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Alright, genius, I’ll let it slide this time. But I’m watching you.”

“Please don’t,” Spencer muttered under his breath, earning a round of laughter from the team.

Garcia spent a solid ten minutes in full interrogation mode after that, her eyes narrowing with each and every pointed question she lobbed your way. Morgan, of course, was no help. He leaned back, grinning like a kid with a front-row seat to the circus, his smirk practically screaming that he knew they were this close to striking a nerve.

Spencer and you had been so careful. You'd been dating long before you joined the BAU, but the moment Hotch had called to offer you the position, you both knew you'd have to keep things under wraps. Dating a coworker was one thing; dating Spencer Reid, a genius with an accidentally too-honest mouth, was an entirely different challenge.

You hadn't expected it to be this hard, though. Keeping the secret wasn't the worst part, it was pretending he wasn't the center of your universe every time you walked into the room. It was keeping your hands to yourself when all you wanted to do was smooth out the messy strands of hair that always fell into his eyes. It was biting your tongue when someone interrupted his long-winded tangents because the truth was, you loved hearing him talk.

The hours stretched on, and the bullpen slowly thinned out. Garcia was the first to leave, blowing a kiss to the room. Morgan left soon after, pausing to flash you one last grin before disappearing. Even Prentiss packed up for the night, muttering something about needed an extra shot of espresso tomorrow morning.

"You handled that well."

You looked up from your report to find Spencer by your desk, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other skimming lightly along the edge of the divider. His expression was surprisingly soft, almost bashful, as though he had been waiting to get you alone.

"Handled that well?" you repeated, raising an eyebrow. "You were the one who almost blew it, Spencer. Cinnamon sticks? Really?"

He smiled, lips twitching upward as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Okay, I'll admit that wasn't my most subtle moment. But in my defense, they do end up at the back of most pantries."

You couldn't help but laugh, shaking your head as you leaned back in your chair.

"We're lucky Garcia got distracted. If she'd pushed any harder..." Your voice drifted into a soft sigh. "That could've been bad."

"That was a close one."

The quiet that followed wasn't uncomfortable, but it felt a little more substantial, if that was the word, filled with that miniscule ache that always bloomed in your chest when he was near.

Spencer stepped closer, his hand brushing against the edge of your desk. His body angled toward you, like even when you weren’t touching, he couldn’t help but gravitate toward you.

“You know,” he said, his voice softer now, “I don’t think she actually suspects anything. But we should probably be more careful.”

"Probably," you replied, drawing out the word in a teasing, sing-song tone. “Unless you’d rather keep showing off how ridiculously well you know me.”

His cheeks flushed a soft pink, but he didn’t look away. Instead, that shy, boyish smile, the one that always made you a little breathless, spread across his lips.

"That's going to be hard," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I noticed a lot about you."

You could feel the flush creeping up to your neck, and you mentally cursed him for how easily he was able to do this to you.

"You're lucky I like you."

His smile widened, and his eyes crinkled at the corners in that way they only came out at specific moments. Like when he successfully performed a card trick for the team or when he stumbled across an original copy of a book at a library sale.

The same one you'd seen when he talked about his mom on her good days, or when you asked him on a date.

You leaned forward. "And since I like you, any chance you'd want to kiss me right now?"

"How could I not, with you looking at me like that?"

The angle was clumsy, your chair too low, his frame leaning awkwardly over, but all of that melted away the second his hands found your face. His thumbs brushed soft circles against the place where your cheek met your jaw.

His lips were soft against yours at first, testing, before growing firmer, more sure. The kind of confidence that came with a hundred familiar kisses before.

Time seemed to slow, or at least for you it did, the rest of the world nonexistent.

The sound of a throat clearing broke the spell, and you jerked back from Spencer, your chair wobbling slightly as you turned toward the sound. You immediately regretted it — your lips felt swollen, your face hot, and there was Prentiss, leaning against the doorframe.

"We were... uh, testing something," you blurted, avidly avoiding eye contact. "You know, like... oxygen exchange! For scientific purposes."

Spencer blinked, then mumbled, "Oxygen exchange? That's the best you got?"

"Shut it," you hissed through gritted teeth, not daring to look at him.

Prentiss arched a brow. "Relax, lovebirds. If this is your idea of scientific research, I'll make sure Garcia doesn't find out. You're welcome."

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#spencer reid x fem reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fem!reader #reid #dr reid #dr spencer reid

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littledykeblue · 14 days ago

Text

(𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟏/𝟒: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑)

──𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊 (𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐍𝐎𝐖);

(drummer!sevika x reader): your friend invites you to see a band you have no interest in. that is, until you see the sexy drummer.

wc: 8.9k | cw: drummer!sevika, new fan!reader, dom top!sevika, bottom!reader, oral sex (r! & s!receiving), biting, scratching, hair-pulling, mating press, doggy style, a little spanking, strap-on usage, pet names: doll & baby, blink & you'll miss it dry humping, MINORS DNI.

note: this is part one of four in a mini-series i'm going to put out! the others will be vi, caitlyn & jinx aka the rest of the band. hope you enjoy this first installment!

It's pure chance that you end up standing outside in line to see a band you know next to nothing about. Your friend, Raven, just so happens to work at a pretty popular music venue, and she takes turns offering your whole friend group free tickets. Usually, you only cash in for bands you already like. No need to spend a whole night primping and standing in a sea of sweaty strangers just to be underwhelmed.

But this time, Raven insists. Says you'll want to go. If not for the music, then for the spectacular eye candy.

You ask her for the band’s info, figuring a quick scroll through their Instagram will be enough to decide whether it’s worth the effort.

Hotwired.

Cool name, at least. You pull up their page and immediately wonder how you’ve made it this far in life without even hearing about them. Every single member? A complete knockout. It's almost suspicious.

You don’t even mean to, but soon you’re moving over to Google. Once you manage to collect yourself and pick your jaw up off the floor, that is. It’s immediately clear they’ve got a loyal (and horny as hell) fanbase, made up mostly of women who are deep in the trenches.

Jinx does lead vocals. She looks like an edgy punk fantasy brought to life, all smeared eyeliner and that permanent shit-eating grin. Her scandal list reads like a greatest hits album: breaking paparazzi cameras, getting banned from festivals, allegedly attending an orgy or two. That last one may or may not have been debunked, but nobody really cares.

Then there's Vi, the guitarist, and easily the one with the sluttiest internet presence. Just from surface-level scrolling, you can tell the girl’s allergic to shirts and addicted to sticking her tongue out in literally every picture. You kind of get it. If you had a tongue piercing, you’d show it off too.

C.K.’s their bassist and easily the most mysterious. She’s always wearing a mask in every photo, and there are entire threads dedicated to speculating who she really is or why she never shows her face. She's got basically zero solo content. No interviews, no side accounts. The only time you ever see her is through blurry crowd pics or carefully curated shots on the band’s main page.

But the one who really stops you in your tracks is the drummer. Sevika. She’s clearly the oldest in the group and by enough that it’s become part of her brand. If you had a dollar for every time someone called her “mommy,” you could quit your job and live off the passive income.

It doesn't take long before you’re deep in her personal pages, scrolling through photo after photo, each one somehow hotter than the last. If you had to pick favorites, you’d be stuck between a pic of her holding some grinning girl in a headlock (because you wish that was you) or a candid shot of her half-sprawled on the tour bus couch, shirt rucked up just enough to show a hint of stomach and whatever tattoo’s inked there. It causes a delusional fantasy of seeing the tattoo in full, up close and personal.

If you weren’t sold before, you definitely are now. It’s only after you’ve been scrolling for the better part of an hour that it occurs to you: maybe you should actually listen to some of their music. Just to be sure. After all, no amount of raw sexual magnetism is worth two hours of garbage sound at floor-shaking volume.

Hotwired sounds exactly how you expected them to sound: fast, loud, and chock-full of debauchery. Beautiful.

Just like that, you’re hooked. Fully on board. You start counting down the days like it’s Christmas, and somehow, each one drags slower than the last, like time itself is conspiring against you. You keep yourself sane by cycling through outfit options and FaceTiming Raven late at night to workshop looks and lock in the plan. She promises she’ll make sure you get the real experience, not just general admission hell.

Eventually, Saturday rolls around.

You show up to the venue with your makeup sharp and your outfit toeing the line of try-hard, feet already bouncing from nerves and excitement. The line out front snakes down the block, full of people in ripped fishnets and smeared eyeliner, all buzzing with the kind of feral energy that comes from knowing you might lock eyes with your parasocial crush for two seconds if you stand in the right spot.

Right on cue, the Hotwired tour bus rolls past, slow enough to make you wonder if the band's inside looking back at all of you, too. It's blacked out with a massive decal stretching across one side: a grimy chrome version of their logo with electric blue slashes through it, like claw marks.

The second it passes, the crowd screams like it’s the second coming of Christ. You can't lie—you want to scream a little, too.

Then the front doors crack open and Raven steps out, scanning the crowd. She spots you almost instantly, waving you over. You push through the line, ignoring the side-eyes and muttered complaints, until you’re at the front. The bouncer squints down at you, arms folded like he’s about to be a problem, but Raven just gives him a pointed look and a playful nudge.

“Come on, Jakey,” she says, all syrupy. “You know she’s with me.”

He rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “One of these days, Rae…”

“And it still won’t be today,” she cuts in, already grabbing your wrist and pulling you past him. He lets you both through without another word.

Inside, the venue is way cooler than you expected. It’s grungy in that on purpose way, walls covered in layered gig posters, old stickers, and marker-scrawled graffiti.

The stage is low and intimate, set against a wall of distorted LED panels, and the ceiling is just high enough to make you feel like the place might implode if the mosh gets too wild. The lighting is red-tinted and low, and the air already smells like cheap beer and heat.

You both make a beeline for the bar, down a quick drink that tastes like battery acid and sugar, and then squeeze your way up through the crowd until you’re right at the barricade. Prime real estate. Raven beams at you, smug as hell.

“God, I cannot wait,” you say, adjusting your top and already scanning the stage for signs of movement. “I'm probably going to come as soon as the first shirt comes off.”

"I wouldn't be too worried," Raven answers, grinning. "The same thing will probably happen to fifty other girls. Me included."

"I seriously can't believe you've been gatekeeping them from me. Bad friend." You shake your head in mock disappointment.

Raven nudges your shoulder with her own. "Don't be like that," she says, "you're the one who refuses to listen to anything new. It's like pulling teeth with you."

"Fair."

"But, let's not ignore the fact that I've got us in the splash zone," she says, jerking her head up towards the stage. "There's no better spot to get the band's sweat flung on you. Plus, you're much more likely to get shit thrown to you."

You throw your arm around her shoulder and grin. "You are the best."

Soon enough, the lights dip a little lower and a trio of guys jog out onstage. The crowd cheers, not as loud, but still excited. The opener's called Time Killers—some high-energy, slightly chaotic boy band with a surprisingly tight sound.

They don’t waste too much time introducing themselves, just launch into a fast-paced set full of pounding drums and catchy guitar riffs. They’re not the main event, but they do a damn good job of loosening up the crowd, bouncing around the stage, shouting into the mic between songs, cracking jokes about Hotwired being backstage drinking half the rider.

By the time their set wraps up, everyone’s a little sweaty, hyped, and more than ready for the main act.

The moment the lights dim again, the energy in the room spikes. There’s a shift in the crowd, a low wave of buzzing conversation, giggling, camera flashes, the rustle of people scrambling to get their phones out. You can hear the name Hotwired murmured like a prayer, over and over.

They don’t make a big entrance. No theatrical intro or pyrotechnics. The girls just start filtering onto the stage like they own it, which, based on the screams that immediately follow, they absolutely do.

You spot Jinx first, bouncing out like she’s been shot out of a cannon, grinning wide and immediately flipping off the crowd. Then Vi, strutting in all pink hair and tank top and shoulder muscles, throwing up a peace sign and mouthing something probably filthy to someone in the second row. Caitlyn walks on like a ghost, calm and unreadable behind that signature mask, bass slung across her back.

And then there’s Sevika.

She stalks. Head down, focused, with a thick cable slung over one shoulder and a case of hardware in her grip like it weighs nothing. She moves through the dim lighting like she’s been doing this forever, every motion efficient, practiced, precise. There’s something about the way she pauses to check the rigging on her kit, nodding once to herself before moving on to the next thing, that makes your stomach swoop. You can tell she’s the kind of person who doesn’t leave anything half done.

And then there’s the outfit.

She’s wearing a cropped black vest that clings to her chest and cuts off just under her ribs, exposing toned abs and a stretch of skin that shows more of that dark ink winding up her side. Tight black jeans hug her hips and thighs in a way that should be illegal, chains swaying at her sides with every step.

Her arms are bare, heavy with muscle and shining a little under the stage lights from sweat or moisture. Silver rings gleam on her fingers, and there’s a low-hanging necklace tucked just under her collarbone. Her drumsticks are shoved into her back pocket, and when she turns—Jesus fucking Christ—you catch a full view of her ass and have to actively fight the urge to grab the barricade for support.

"Pretty sure I just came,” you murmur, staring like you’ve forgotten how to blink.

Raven snorts beside you. “Close your mouth. You're drooling.”

You try to. You really do. But it’s hard when Sevika finally finishes setting up, drops into her stool with her legs spread, and starts rolling one stick across her knuckles while the other taps absently against her thigh. She glances out at the crowd, expression unreadable, but something about the way she scans the front row makes you feel like she sees you.

A ridiculous thought that is very fun to entertain.

The moment the final mic is tested and the lights slam to full brightness, Jinx charges to the front of the stage and throws her arms out wide like she’s about to dive into the crowd. The audience erupts—screaming, whistling, people on shoulders, someone in the back launching a glitter cannon that immediately gets sucked into the venue’s weak-ass ventilation system.

“HELL-O, MOTHERFUCKERS!” Jinx shrieks into the mic, voice cracking in a way that somehow makes her even hotter. “Hope you’re ready to get wrecked, because we came here to ruin your night in the best possible way!”

The crowd loses it again, people chanting her name, some already trying to crowd surf. Security looks exhausted and the first song hasn’t even started.

Jinx paces the front edge of the stage like a manic preacher, motioning behind her as she speaks. “You know us already, but we're gonna do introductions anyway because holy shit do we deserve to be screamed at tonight. On lead guitar, is my lovely sister, Vi!”

Vi throws up the horns and leans into her amp, strumming a heavy chord just to flex. The crowd answers with a shriek that nearly drowns out the feedback.

“We've got the ice queen herself on bass...the one and only C.K.!”

Caitlyn lifts her bass one-handed like it weighs nothing, offering the crowd a slow, deliberate bow. Someone near you yells, “Show us your face!” and immediately gets booed into silence.

“And in the back, banging the drums, which I know some of you wish you could be, it’s Sevikaaaaaa!”

You don’t know how Sevika can roll her eyes while still looking like she’s enjoying herself, but she manages. She twirls a stick between her fingers, then throws her arms up once and brings them down hard for a crack of the snare that shudders through your chest.

"And, of course, around here we save the best for last," she says, hopping off the stage and approaching...you. She holds out her hand as if for a handshake and you oblige as quickly as your brain allows you to catch up.

"I'm Jinx! Nice to fucking meet ya!"

Jinx grins and jumps back on the stage, spinning back toward the mic, breathless and grinning. “We’re Hotwired, you’re ours now, and this one’s called ‘Burn the Breaklights.’ Let’s see what you’re made of!”

The guitar tears in first, loud and dirty, then Caitlyn’s bass hits low and deep, and finally Sevika drops into the rhythm like she was built for it. The whole room moves. It's one of the songs you listened to on repeat earlier in the week, so you already know a good bit of the lyrics, already know the moment the beat’s gonna break, already feel your body falling into sync with it.

You and Raven lose yourselves in the moment, dancing like you’ve got something to prove, like the music's a possession. Her hair’s sticking to her face already and you're probably flashing everyone behind you every time you jump, but none of it matters.

Not when Sevika is on stage, muscles flexing with every strike, jaw tight, eyes laser-focused on the set. She looks absolutely lethal. Every time you try to look away, your gaze snaps right back to her. It’s like she’s holding the tempo of your heart along with the song. Every beat, every drop, every filthy crash of the cymbals—it’s her.

And yeah, you're watching the whole band. But you're watching her the most.

The rest of the show barrels forward like a freight train, no breaks, no mercy. Hotwired barely pauses between songs, each one bleeding into the next with sharp edges and screaming vocals, the crowd more than happy to go feral with them. You lose track of the setlist and, honestly, your sense of time somewhere between song four and five, when Raven boosts you up and the crowd takes you.

You float above the chaos for what feels like forever, arms raised, cheeks aching from how hard you're grinning. Hands guide you forward, and for once you don’t care about the potential for bruises or that someone definitely copped a feel on the way down. You land near the barricade again, wild-eyed and breathless, just as Jinx reappears center stage holding a massive water bottle.

She grins like a devil. “Y’all look thirsty,” she purrs, then proceeds to douse the first three rows, including you and Raven. It’s a full-body splash, soaking your shirt and leaving your hair damp.

Raven bursts into laughter, slapping your shoulder and yelling, “Told you the splash zone was real!” while you push wet strands out of your face and try not to melt on the spot.

Things only get weirder from there. Midway through the set, a man in a giant inflatable t-rex costume lumbers out from side stage like it's the most normal thing in the world.

Jinx doesn’t miss a beat—she grabs a mic stand like a weapon and launches into a full-on choreographed battle with him. The t-rex flails, Jinx spins around dramatically, and the crowd eats it up. It ends with her knocking him down (gently), then dropping to one knee and serenading him with what turns out to be a surprisingly heartfelt punk ballad about falling in love during a Godzilla rampage. You laugh so hard your stomach cramps.

Later, they open up the floor for an all-girl pit. Jinx leans into the mic, hair stuck to her face, absolutely unhinged as she screams, “If you see a man in this pit, fuck his shit up!” and the crowd loses it.

You hesitate for half a second before Raven shoves you in with a wicked grin. It’s wild and a little terrifying but weirdly exhilarating. Everyone’s laughing and pushing and grabbing each other’s arms to stay upright, and when someone does spot a guy creeping in from the side, three girls immediately bodycheck him out like it’s a sport.

By the end of the set, your voice is half gone, your limbs feel like rubber, and you know you’ll be sore as hell tomorrow—but you’re still not ready for it to be over.

The lights flare brighter, the stage bathed in reds and purples, and Jinx struts to the edge of the platform with a wicked grin like she’s about to start a riot. Her hair’s stuck to her face, eyeliner smeared to hell, shirt clinging to her body like a second skin. She’s practically glowing with sweat and adrenaline and the kind of manic joy that only comes from setting a crowd on fire for an hour straight.

“This our last one of the night,” she says, breathless and grinning. “But I’m gonna need a few pretty girls up here to help us close it out.”

That’s all it takes. The front row surges forward like a wave, everyone screaming and reaching, girls practically climbing over the barricade in the hopes of being noticed. Jinx motions to the band behind her. “Vi, Sevika. Make sure they're cuties!”

Vi gives a mock salute and hops off the stage, already laughing. Sevika follows, more reserved but clearly amused as her eyes start sweeping through the front row.

They make a whole damn show of it, taking their time, dragging it out, pointing at random girls then shaking their heads like they’re not quite right, just to drive the crowd insane.

You’re crammed up against the barricade, half-smashed by girls on either side trying to crawl over you. One of them elbows you in the ribs and you wince, gripping the rail to stay upright.

Then Sevika’s in front of you.

She’s massive up close, towering and flushed from the heat, vest clinging to her body and dark ink gleaming under the lights. She looks right at you, eyes dragging down once—deliberate, slow—then reaches out and grabs you by the waist like it’s nothing. You barely get a word out before she hauls you up, slinging you over one shoulder like you weigh nothing at all.

The crowd screams.

You catch a brief flash of another girl being thrown over Sevika’s other shoulder, but you can’t see who it is—just that you’re both being carried through a sea of flashing lights and flailing hands. You’re deposited back on stage with all the grace of a sack of laundry, but when you right yourself, blinking against the brightness, you realize the other girl Sevika grabbed is Raven. She’s laughing, eyes wide, clearly having the time of her life.

Vi drops two more girls off, and Jinx bounces over, practically vibrating with excitement. “Alright, you guys,” she says into the mic, pointing with a flourish. “I want you to dance for your fucking lives. This one goes out to every pretty, punk girl in this crowd tonight!”

The band slams into the final song like they’re possessed. It’s dirty and fast and fun as hell, the kind of track you can’t help but move to, and that’s exactly what you do. You let it take you, let your body roll with the beat and the bass and the screams of the crowd. Jinx loops an arm around your waist at one point, dragging you into a messy, chaotic spin before grinding against you in rhythm with the chorus.

Vi makes a little show of guiding one of the girls down on her knees; she stands with her legs spread on either side of the girl's lap and starts in on her solo. She makes those string sing and the girl under her seems to be having the time of her life. The crowd fucking explodes.

You don’t even care how sweaty you are or what you look like. You just dance, laugh-singing the lyrics you half-remember, head tipping back as the lights pulse and the drums pound. When the final chord hits, the sound crashes down like a wave, and the entire venue moves as one—cheering, screaming, lights flickering wild and strobing.

Sevika stands as the last echoes of the drums fade. She pulls one of her sticks from the kit, the end cracked and splintered and walks it over to you. She presses the worn, warm stick into your palm and winks.

You don’t even try to act cool about it. You just stare down at it, dazed, while security helps you and the others off the stage and back over the barricade.

"Goodnight, you heathens! You've be a wonderful crowd!"

You and Raven slip out through the side exit marked Employees Only, the one she mentioned earlier, where the bands usually dip out to avoid the chaos at the front. The alley behind the venue is dimly lit and smells like smoke and spilled beer, but it’s quiet, tucked away from the thrum of the still-buzzing crowd. You’re both flushed and half-drenched in sweat, breathless in that post-show haze, riding the high and crash all at once.

Raven fishes a crushed cigarette pack from her purse and slides one between her lips. “Got a light?”

You open your mouth to answer, to say no, but let me check, but a voice cuts through the quiet, low and unmistakably rough.

“Here.”

You both turn.

Sevika’s standing a few feet away, cigarette tucked into the corner of her mouth, shoulders slouched like she’s been here the whole time.

Her leather jacket’s heavy with patches and pins, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and the silver zippo she’s holding out gleams in the streetlight, engraved with something you can’t quite make out. Her gaze flicks between the two of you, but then it lands on you and sticks.

Your breath catches. There’s no stage lights now, no distance, no wall of noise. It’s just her. Big as hell, close enough to smell the smoke, and somehow even hotter like this—casual, confident, not sweating a damn thing.

“You looked real good on stage,” she says, eyes narrowing just slightly, like she’s still sizing you up.

It's entirely possible that you might just float away. “Oh. Uh, thanks. You—you too. Sounded. You sounded good. The whole time.”

Raven coughs into her fist, poorly masking a laugh.

Sevika smirks, nods once like that’s all she needed to hear. Then she jerks her chin toward the drumstick you’re still clutching for dear life. “Want me to sign that?”

You don’t even hesitate. “Yes. Yes, please.”

She pulls a sharpie from her back pocket and scrawls something across the wood—longer than just a name. She caps the marker with a flick, hands the stick back, and says, “Keep it to yourself.”

You nod. Maybe too fast. Words are hard when she’s looking at you like that, relaxed and a little amused, cigarette smoke curling between you.

“Y’all have a good night,” Sevika says, slipping the lighter back into her jacket. She gives Raven a quick nod and you one last glance before turning and heading off down the alley, boots heavy on the pavement.

It takes you a second to remember how to breathe. Then you look down at the stick.

Sevika’s number is written right there in blocky print.

“Oh my god,” Raven hisses, grabbing your arm. “She gave you her number. You're so fucking in there, dude!”

“I—what do I do? Should I text her? What if she invites me to her hotel room? What if she actually wants to hook up?”

Raven looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “First of all, we’ve got our protocols. You text me your location, share your location, take the selfie timestamp, we do the whole checklist. Second—babe, you only get one life. And that woman just handed you a golden opportunity.”

You nod slowly, dazed. “I need a shower first.”

“Yeah, no shit. We’re going to my place. It’s closer.”

You pocket the drumstick like it’s breakable and follow her out of the alley, heart pounding harder than it did in the pit.

You’re sitting cross-legged on Raven’s bed, freshly showered, skin still warm from the water and nerves buzzing under the surface. Your hair’s damp, your hands are clammy, and your thumb is hovering over the glowing green call button on your screen. Sevika’s number is typed in. Still feels unreal. Raven’s already changed into her sleep shorts and an oversized tee, lounging beside you like this is all very normal and not a life-altering decision in the making.

“Just do it,” she says, biting into a granola bar like this is nothing. “She gave you her number. She signed it on a fucking drumstick. She wants you to call.”

You take a steadying breath, nod once, then hit the button before you can talk yourself out of it. It rings once. Twice. Three times.

Four.

“Yeah?” Sevika answers, her voice low, a little gravelly, definitely tired but not annoyed. It curls in your ear like smoke. “Who is this?”

You clear your throat. “Uh. It’s me. From the alley. With the drumstick.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then:

“Oh.” Her tone shifts, interest sharpening like the flick of a lighter. “I was wondering when you’d call. Wasn’t sure if you would.”

You smile, cheeks heating even though she can’t see you. “Why’d you give me your number?”

“Thought you were cute.” She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Felt like it was mutual.”

Your heart skips. “It was. Definitely was.”

Another pause, this one slower, more thoughtful. “You cool if I come pick you up?”

Your breath catches. You glance over at Raven, who’s staring at you with huge eyes and mouthing holy shit. “Are we...are we gonna hook up?”

Sevika laughs—a real one, low and genuine. “Only if you want to, doll.”

Your stomach flips and your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to. “Yeah. I do.”

Raven silently screams, her hands waving in the air before she plants both fists into the comforter like she’s watching a playoff game.

“Send me the address,” Sevika says. “I’ll swing by soon as I can.”

You nod, then catch yourself. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll send it.”

“See you in a bit,” she says, then hangs up.

You lower the phone slowly. Raven grabs both your shoulders like you just won a gold medal. “SEVIKA is on her way to pick you up. What the fuck. You’re gonna have to tell your future kids about this one.”

“I’m not gonna have kids,” you mutter, dazed.

“You might after tonight!”

You groan and flop back onto the bed, phone clutched to your chest like some cheesy teen rom-com. Raven throws you a pair of lip glosses and demands outfit approval.

"What happens in that hotel room will be concerning to the general public," you say, grinning.

Raven squeals. "And I can't wait for you to get back here so you can give me every juicy, disgusting detail!"

The distant rumble of a motorcycle reaches you before the headlight cuts through the quiet of Raven’s street. You step outside just in time to see Sevika roll up—heavy boots planted as she kills the engine, the machine still humming under her. She’s wearing the same leather jacket from earlier, helmet tucked under one arm, and she looks unfairly good with her hair pulled back, a fresh cigarette behind one ear.

“Hey,” she says, voice low and unreadable.

You manage a breathless, “Hi.”

She holds out a matte black helmet. "Want help?"

You nod, and she steps in close, fitting it over your head and buckling it gently beneath your chin. Her fingers brush your jaw—intentional or not, it still makes your heart skip. She checks the strap, gives it a little tug, then nods in approval.

“Put your arms around me,” she says, already mounting the bike again. “Hold on tight.”

You slide onto the seat behind her, hands fumbling slightly before you wrap your arms snugly around her waist. Her torso is solid under the leather, the bike humming beneath you, and you can smell her cologne.

Then you’re off.

The city streaks past in a blur of streetlights and neon signs, wind rushing past your body, your heart pounding louder than the engine. You don’t know how long the ride lasts—fifteen, maybe twenty minutes—but when Sevika slows and pulls into a quiet hotel parking lot, you’re not ready for it to end.

She kills the engine and dismounts first, then helps you off like she’s done it a thousand times before. She pulls a cap from her jacket pocket and a pair of sunglasses from the other, handing them to you with a small smirk.

“Just in case there’s anyone waiting around,” she says. “You wouldn’t believe the kind of creeps who’ll sell a blurry photo for a couple hundred bucks.”

You nod and slip both on, grateful for the moment to compose yourself. Sevika reaches for your hand—no hesitation—and laces your fingers with hers like it’s no big deal. She leads you inside, her grip firm but steady, only releasing your hand once you reach the elevator.

She steps in first and turns you around so that your back is facing the small overhead camera in the corner. The doors slide closed with a soft ding, and you can feel her eyes on you as you pull the cap off, then the glasses.

“C’mere,” she murmurs.

You face her, and she lifts her hands to your hair, smoothing the parts that got windswept on the ride. There's a stubborn bit that refuses to lay right and she tucks it behind your ear, her knuckles dragging slow along your cheek.

The moment lingers.

Then Sevika leans in and kisses you—soft at first, her lips warm and unhurried, but the second you respond, it tilts hotter. Her hand slides to the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist, and you melt into it, helpless against the way she feels. You lose track of time in the haze of it until—

Ding.

The doors slide open and Sevika breaks the kiss with a breath, but not a word. She takes your hand again, tighter this time, and leads you down the hall with singular focus. You pass a door that swings open just as you’re walking by.

Jinx steps out, half-dressed in a tank and cutoffs, hair a chaotic mess. “Yo, Sev, do we have any more—?”

“Fuck off,” Sevika says without slowing, without looking back.

Jinx laughs. “Rude.”

Sevika stops just long enough to unlock her door and yank it open, ushering you inside before pulling it closed behind you with a satisfying click. The lock turns, the sound final.

Sevika’s on you with a purpose, crowding you back against the door with the full heat of her body, her mouth claiming yours in a kiss that’s immediately filthy.

Hot and open-mouthed, all tongue and teeth, the kind of kiss that leaves your head spinning and your knees already getting soft.

You gasp into her, but she doesn't give you a chance to speak, her hands already gripping your hips like she owns them. You feel her smile, dark and dangerous, against your lips as you let your fingers explore—first the firm planes of her stomach, defined and solid under the hem of her shirt, then lower, to her ass, where your hands squeeze without hesitation.

That earns you a reaction.

Sevika groans into the kiss, deep in her chest, and grinds her hips against you, slow and deliberate. You feel everything: how solid she is against you, how good she knows it feels to make you feel this. Her mouth moves to your jaw, to your neck, biting and kissing like she wants to leave evidence.

“I see you're done with the shy shit,” she mutters, before grabbing you by the back of your thighs and lifting you clean off the floor.

Your breath catches with a startled sound that turns into a moan as your legs instinctively wrap around her waist. She holds you up with just one arm, effortless like it’s nothing. Her other hand slips up the front of your shirt, rough fingers dragging over your stomach and up to your chest.

She doesn’t even bother with the bra—her hand finds your tit and gropes, slow and possessive, her thumb circling your nipple until you’re arching into the touch.

She pulls back just enough to look at you. Really look. You’re panting, lips kiss-swollen and eyes already half-lidded, your makeup smudged from the ride and the kiss and her mouth all over your throat.

“Goddamn,” Sevika says, quiet, almost reverent. “You really are a pretty little thing.”

You smile, dazed, about to say something—

“Shame, really.”

You blink. “What is?”

She grins, teeth flashing as her eyes drag across your face. “That I’m gonna have to ruin all that pretty makeup.”

"Oh my god, please." It comes out a little more desperate than you intend for it to, but Sevika seems deeply pleased by the turn of events.

She slips her hand from under your shirt and steadies you against her hips before walking the both of you toward the bed. The way she moves is careful, but the heat in her eyes never dims. When she lays you down, it’s with a gentleness that throws you off after the rough edges of the last few minutes. Her hand lingers on your thigh as she still stands above you.

“You still want this?” she asks, voice quieter now, more grounded. It’s the most serious she’s sounded all night. “No hard feelings if you don’t.”

You shake your head so fast it’s almost pathetic. “I do. I—like, really do.”

Sevika’s expression softens, just slightly. “Then get undressed.”

You scramble to obey, stripping off your shirt first, then your shorts, both discarded over the edge of the bed without much ceremony. Her eyes never leave you. She watches the way you move, takes in every inch of exposed skin like she’s memorizing it, and the intensity makes heat rise in your chest. You fight the stupid reflex to cover yourself.

“I like the matching set,” she murmurs, stepping closer, the fronts of her thighs pressing into the mattress as she leans forward. She hooks a finger under your waistband and snaps it lightly against your skin. “Put this on for me?”

You nod, breath caught in your throat. “Yeah.”

“I appreciate the effort, doll,” she says, and leans down to kiss you again, mouth hot and teasing. She nips your bottom lip, not hard enough to hurt but enough to pull a gasp from you. “Think you’ve earned a little treat, hmm?”

“Please,” you say, dazed and already too far gone to pretend otherwise. She could ask for anything right now and you'd probably give it to her.

True to her word, she climbs onto the bed, settling between your legs with all the casual confidence in the world. The sight of her down there—strong shoulders framed by all that jewelry, hair messy from your fingers, her mouth so fucking close—is enough to knock the air out of your lungs.

Your hands slide into her hair without you realizing it, fingers curling, needing something to hold on to. She grins up at you, a slow, wicked thing that curls at the edges of her lips.

“You can pull,” she tells you, voice low and sure. “Bite me, scratch me, scream my name. I like it all.”

The mental image—her skin marked up by you, bruises blooming across her chest, fingernail lines trailing her back—makes your head spin. But then Sevika drags you out of that thought with the swipe of her tongue, slow and deliberate, straight through your soaked folds.

Your mouth falls open.

She doesn’t ease into it. Her whole mouth is on you, her tongue pressing in deep before she pulls back to suck your clit into her mouth, hard and focused. Loud, wet sounds fill the room, and every moan that spills from her makes your body twitch. She likes it, you can tell. Likes how wet you are, likes the way your hips buck despite yourself.

Then she’s burying her tongue inside you, her nose pressed tight against your clit, and it’s too much, not enough, perfect. You can’t help the way you grind down against her, chasing every ounce of pressure. Your grip in her hair tightens, probably bordering on painful.

But Sevika just groans, the sound rumbling straight into your core, and slides a hand up to your stomach to pin you in place.

“Just stay still,” she mutters, mouth brushing wet heat against you, “and take it for me.”

You try to stay still like she asked. You really do. But it’s impossible with the way her mouth is working you over, like she’s got something to prove.

She’s relentless—no breaks, no mercy—tongue curling and flicking in a rhythm that feels obscene in the best way. The hand pressed to your stomach keeps you from squirming too much, but your legs are shaking and your fingers are locked in her hair now, tugging with each desperate half-aborted roll of your hips.

Your vision blurs at the edges. Your head falls back against the bed with a ragged sound that might be her name. And when the heat finally crests and crests and then snaps, it hits like a punch in the gut. Your whole body tenses, thighs locking around her head as you cry out, louder than you mean to, legs trembling with the force of it.

Sevika moans into it, like she's savoring every second, riding it out with slow, indulgent licks that make your stomach twitch.

You try to catch your breath, chest rising and falling fast, but Sevika doesn’t move away. She kisses your inner thigh once. Then again. Her hands stroke over your legs, gentle now, grounding. She lets you breathe. Just for a moment.

Then she’s back, mouth brushing against your still-sensitive clit with a teasing hum.

“Think you’ve got another in you, doll?” she murmurs, already kissing her way up your inner thigh again. Her voice is warm now, low and coaxing, like she already knows the answer.

You whimper, your hips giving a weak twitch toward her mouth even as your legs tremble with aftershocks. "Y-yeah."

“That’s what I thought,” she says, smug and soft all at once.

She takes her time now. Her mouth moves slow and deliberate, licking through your folds with featherlight passes and pressing gentle, wet kisses to your clit. The overstimulation hits sharp at first, your thighs jolting under her hands, but she soothes you through it.

“So fuckin' pretty,” she murmurs, breath hot against your skin. “Even when you’re falling apart.”

Her hands stroke up and down your thighs, lazy and tender. She palms the meat of them, lets her thumbs trace soft circles until you’re relaxing under her again, the sharp edge of sensation melting into something sweeter.

“You’re doing so good for me,” she adds, voice low and full of heat. “Just let go. I got you.”

You bite your lip, overwhelmed and wrecked and somehow still burning for more. Your hips start moving on their own, rocking up into her mouth, and Sevika hums her approval. Her tongue moves with slow purpose, dragging you up and up again until your fingers are tangled tight in the sheets and you’re begging without even realizing it.

The second orgasm is softer. Like your body is unraveling instead of bursting. You moan her name as your thighs clench, your back arches, and your entire body goes loose under her hands.

Sevika kisses your pussy one last time—slow and warm—before finally pulling away, her face slick, her grin downright criminal.

“Fuck,” she mutters, dragging the back of her hand across her mouth. “You taste even better than I imagined.”

You can’t speak. You don’t even try. All you can do is lay there, dazed and ruined, as Sevika presses one last kiss to your thigh before finally crawling off the bed. You hear her crack her back and exhale like a boxer between rounds.

“You still got more for me, or do you think you’re about done?” she asks over her shoulder, heading for the mini fridge tucked into the corner of the room.

You’re half melted into the mattress, still catching your breath, but you sit up enough to catch the water bottle she tosses your way. It’s one of those tiny ones that might as well be a sip, and you kill it in seconds. Sevika watches with a smirk, arms crossed over her bare chest.

After a beat, you mutter, “Give me, like, twenty minutes.”

She laughs, low and warm and amused by your commitment. “You sure? Not every day you get to wear out a groupie.”

You roll your eyes, but your grin gives you away. “It’s not every day you get to fuck a rockstar, either. I’m making it count.”

“Yeah, you are,” she says, grabbing the remote and flopping down on the bed beside you. She sheds her jeans and shirt in one smooth motion, leaving her in nothing but a sports bra and a pair of boxers that sit a little crooked on her hips. She doesn’t seem to care.

The TV comes on to some late-night rerun, but you’re not really watching it. You’re more focused on how Sevika leans back against the headboard and opens her arms like she’s inviting you in.

You take the invitation.

Your head ends up in her lap, and her hand finds your hair almost instantly. She scratches gently at your scalp, twirling strands around her finger, trailing soft touches down the side of your face. It’s lazy and warm and kind of unfair how good it feels. You could fall asleep like this, safe between her thighs with the dull buzz of the TV in the background.

But after maybe ten, fifteen minutes, your fingers start to drift.

You let your nails rake lightly along her thigh, aimless at first, but then you start tracing slow lines higher and higher. Sevika hums, a lazy warning you don’t heed.

“What are you up to?” she asks, voice low, indulgent.

You glance up at her from her lap and smile. “Can I eat you out?”

Sevika raises an eyebrow, clearly pleased by the request. “Fuck, yeah,” she says, already shifting her hips. She lifts up so you can tug her boxers down her legs and toss them somewhere across the room.

You get a little rush from the sight of her: already wet, glistening, the proof of her arousal slick on her thighs. Just knowing that she got like this from going down on you is enough to make your head spin all over again.

So you start slow, just for a second, before you sink your teeth into the soft flesh of her inner thigh and bite. Hard.

Sevika lets out a sharp breath and flexes beneath you. Her hand tightens in the sheets beside her, but she doesn't stop you. Doesn’t want to. You sink another bite a little higher, then lick over the mark you just made, feeling her muscles jump beneath your tongue.

Your hands grip her thighs tight, nails digging in, not gentle at all now. You want her to feel you.

“Fuck, that mouth,” she groans, hips twitching toward you.

You get to work for real, licking a stripe up the center of her, then circling her clit with your tongue just enough to tease.

“Don’t hold back, doll,” she tells you, voice ragged but sure. “C’mon. Show me how bad you wanna impress me.”

You do. You really do.

She groans your name, threading her fingers tighter in your hair as your mouth drags wet and firm over her clit. Her thighs bracket your face and you feel her start to grind into it, chasing the pressure, not shy about what she needs.

“You’re so good at this,” she murmurs, voice dipping into that same low register that makes your spine light up. “So fuckin’ eager. Knew you’d be like this.”

Your hips press into the bed without thinking. She keeps going.

“Keep that tongue right there. Just like that, yeah. That’s it, baby. You’re making me proud.”

You moan against her, desperate now, and she laughs, wrecked and fond.

“God, you like hearing me talk, don’t you?”

You nod, mouth still busy, and Sevika rewards you with a groan so filthy it vibrates straight through you.

“Then earn more of it,” she growls. “Don’t stop now.”

Sevika’s breathing gets heavier. The muscles in her thighs are twitching under your grip, her hand tight in your hair now as she guides you exactly where she wants you.

“Fuck, baby! just like that,” she growls, low and rough. “Don’t stop. Don’t even think about it.”

You keep going, your mouth locked on her clit, tongue moving in tight circles, your grip firm as you hold her in place. Her hips are starting to roll, slow and unrestrained, chasing the rhythm. Her growls turn to moans, strained and filthy, falling from her lips like she’s already on the edge.

“Gonna come all over that sweet mouth,” she grits out. “You gonna take it for me? Be good and take it?”

You answer with a desperate noise, nodding against her just enough to make her groan again. She plants both hands on your head and presses you harder between her thighs, grinding against your mouth.

“Ohh, fuck—fuck, fuck—”

Her voice cracks as she comes, body tensing hard around you. Her thighs clamp tight on either side of your face, and you can hear the breath rip from her lungs in a guttural sound that’s half curse, half praise. She holds you there, trembling through the high, hips stuttering against your mouth until the worst of it passes.

When she finally lets up, her hand slides gently to your cheek, her thumb rubbing over the damp skin. She strokes along the curve of your jaw, then drags that thumb over your bottom lip.

“Open,” she murmurs, watching you with heat still burning behind her eyes. You do. She presses her thumb inside, slow and deliberate, and grins when you suck it instinctively.

“Good girl,” she says, and you’re already shivering again.

Sevika pulls you up her body in one smooth tug, hands warm and sure as they slide up your sides. When your lips meet, it’s messy, open-mouthed, all tongue and teeth and hunger. Her hands trail down to your ass, gripping it in both palms, like she’s trying to ground herself with the feel of you.

She feels you humping against her thigh, subtle but obvious, your body already begging for more. She breaks the kiss with a crooked smirk. “Oh? You ready for me to fuck you now?”

You nod, breathless, flushed, still clinging to her.

“I figured,” she murmurs, voice dipping into something darker. “Get on all fours for me, doll. Be good.”

You do exactly as you’re told.

Hands pressed into the sheets, knees spread, chest lowered like submission comes naturally. The room is quiet for a beat, save for the rustle of fabric, the dull zip of a bag opening behind you. You hear the soft thud of something heavy being set down, followed by the low click of buckles, the faint stretch of elastic, and the subtle shift of weight as Sevika moves behind you.

You don’t have to look to know what’s coming.

Then you feel it. The press of something thick against the swell of your ass. It drags slow and deliberate along your soaked folds, the pressure of it undeniable.

“Feel that?” Sevika murmurs, one hand sliding across your hip. “You’re about to take every inch of it.”

Your breath catches as the tip nudges your entrance, slick already clinging to your thighs. She doesn’t give you time to overthink it—just starts pushing in, slow but steady, giving you the stretch inch by inch. You gasp, biting into the pillow, your body gripping around her as she fills you completely.

And then she starts to move.

Sevika fucks like a force of nature, brutal and relentless. Her grip on your hips is bruising, nails digging into your flesh with each thrust. The sound of skin slapping skin echoes through the room, matched only by the ragged moans pouring from your mouth.

“Look at you,” she growls, voice close to your ear now. “Taking it like you were made for it.”

A hard spank lands across your ass, sharp and stinging, and you cry out, the pain shooting straight through your core.

“So fuckin’ wet for me,” she spits. “Dripping down your thighs. Bet I could slide another toy in and you’d still beg for more.”

“Sevika,” you moan, wrecked and breathless, clinging to the sheets. “Please—more, fuck, don’t stop—”

“Oh, I’m not stoppin’,” she promises, slamming into you harder, the snap of her hips making your arms buckle. “Not until we've ruined these fucking sheets. Not until you scream for me.”

Your moans pitch higher, blurring into sobs of pleasure as the coil in your belly pulls tight. You feel your climax crash through you—sudden, all-consuming—and Sevika doesn’t let up. Not for a second.

She presses one hand flat to your lower back, holding you down, keeping your chest against the mattress while she fucks you through it. Every thrust punches the air from your lungs, your legs shaking beneath her, your orgasm stretching into something messy and endless.

Sevika doesn’t waste time after that.

She flips you with ease, palms steady on your hips, and settles between your legs again, the strap dragging hot and slick along your sensitive folds. Your body jolts with the contact, overstimulated and twitching, but she doesn’t push in just yet. She leans down, eyes locked to yours, breath brushing your lips.

“You still with me?” she asks, voice husky.

You nod, a little shaky. “I—yeah. I just don’t know if I can come again.”

Sevika smiles, slow and devastating, and kisses your cheek. “Don’t need you to come, baby. Just need you to feel good. Can you do that for me?”

"Yes. Fuck, yes, Sev," you answer as she drags the toy through the slick mess you've made between your legs.

Then she lifts your legs, hooking them high over her shoulders. “Hold these up for me,” she says, guiding your hands to the back of your thighs.

You do, for a little while.

She presses into you again, deep and steady, sinking all the way in until her hips meet yours. You both groan in tandem, your bodies clenching around each other. The position drives the strap deep, dragging against that spot inside you just right. It’s too much, but somehow not enough.

Sevika’s pace starts slow, calculated. She's watching you the entire time, studying your face, your mouth, the way your chest rises and falls.

Her own pleasure is mounting fast: her breath growing heavier, her face flushed, brow furrowed in focus as she grinds into you with a rhythm that has you seeing stars.

You're whining now, panting, squirming under the weight of sensation. “Fuck, I can’t—can’t hold them anymore—”

Sevika shushes you, not slowing down. “It’s okay, baby. I got you.”

She takes your legs in her arms, folding you tighter, pressing you into a deep, delicious arch as her hips grind harder into yours. You're pliant under her, fingers gripping at her back now, clawing down her sides, holding on like your life depends on it. She fucks you slow and deep, chasing something now—her own release evident in the way her rhythm starts to falter.

You bite your bottom lip hard enough to taste blood, eyes fluttering open just enough to watch Sevika. God, she’s a sight—head thrown back, jaw clenched, her abs flexing with each motion, a quiet string of curses falling from her mouth as she works her hips into yours like she’s trying to fuck you into the mattress.

And when she starts to fall apart, it’s all the more beautiful for how she keeps holding you through it. Still kissing you. Still murmuring filth in your ear. Still grinding into you with the kind of focus that says she’s not done giving you everything she has.

The sun's just starting to creep over the skyline when Sevika pulls up to Raven’s place, the low rumble of her motorcycle cutting through the early quiet of the neighborhood. The sky is still a little pink around the edges, and the world hasn’t quite shaken off the night yet. You’re tucked behind her on the bike, arms snug around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder as the engine dies.

Sevika pulls off her helmet and looks at you, a slow grin tugging at her lips. She reaches over and helps you undo yours, fingers lingering a little longer than necessary beneath your chin.

“You good?” she asks, her voice still that gravelly, just-woke-up tone that makes your stomach flip.

“Yeah,” you say, smiling. “Kinda feels like I dreamed all of that, though.”

She chuckles and leans in to press a kiss to your cheek. It’s surprisingly soft for someone who handled you like that only hours ago. “Nah,” she says. “I’m real. And so was all of that.”

Your fingers fidget in your lap. “So…is this like, a one-time thing? Or...? I gotta be honest with you, Sevika, I've never hooked up with anybody like you before.”

“Doll,” she says, cutting you off with a look that’s half fond, half amused. “You think I give my number out to just anyone?”

You try not to smile too hard. Fail.

Sevika taps the side of your thigh with two fingers, a wordless cue that it’s time to hop off. You do, handing her the helmet back and smoothing your hair down as best you can.

“I’ll call you,” she says, sliding her helmet back on. “Promise. This isn’t the last time you’ll see me.”

And with that, the engine revs back to life, and she peels off down the street, her silhouette disappearing into the city just as the sun fully crests the buildings.

You’re left standing barefoot on the curb, last night’s clothes still smelling like her skin and cigarette smoke, Sevika’s phone number burned into your contacts and her touch in your memory.

Raven opens the door for you, coffee in hand. “So,” she says. “You gonna tell me everything, or do I have to drag it out of you?”

You just smile and walk inside, cheeks still warm, heart still hammering

#𓆩♡𓆪 ─ blue is typing... .ᐟ #sevika #sevika x reader #sevika arcane #sevika smut #sevika x you #series: hotwired #lesbian #arcane smut #rockstar!sevika #drummer!sevika #🕷 ─ littledykeblue

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nayiana0 · 17 days ago

Text

"Keep Talking"

choi san. your sweet, obsessed boyfriend. always calling, always craving. you thought it was just a late-night check-in—until you realized what he was doing on the other end of the line. and when he shows up at your door? he’s not holding back. it gets breathless. possessive. messy. and the next morning? he still can’t keep his hands off you.

wc : 5.4k

tags : explicit content, phone masturbation, softdom!san, fingering,oral , praise kink, light degradation, dirty talk, teasing, overstimulation, established relationship intimacy, aftercare, reader is clingy, san is obsessed with you in the softest filthiest way, fluff.

a/n: this man calls you while he’s jerking off, shows up 20 mins later, wrecks you again, and then has the nerve to wipe your makeup off like you’re his entire world??

Your phone buzzes just as you’re settling into bed.

Incoming Call : San 🏔

You smile immediately, warmth blooming in your chest. You put him on speaker and curl into the covers, voice soft and sleepy.

“Hi” you murmur.

There’s a pause on the other end. A breath.

Then:

“…Hey.” His voice is low. Rough. Just a little hoarse.

You frown softly. “You okay?”

“Mhm.” A sharp inhale, followed by a quiet exhale. “I just… wanted to hear your voice.”

That makes you smile again, soft and unsuspecting.

You rinse your mouth, crawl into bed, and tuck the phone against your cheek.

You laugh softly, cheek pressing to the pillow. “You miss me that bad already?”

“So bad,” he murmurs, almost too quiet.

“I missed you too.” You roll onto your side, voice warm. “How was your night?”

Another pause.

“…Fine.”

There’s something in the way he says it.

It’s not unhappy, just… distracted.

Like he’s somewhere else entirely.

You squint, sensing it now — the air between you feels thick.

Like something is happening, and you haven’t caught up yet.

Your brows knit at how breathless he sounds. “Are you… working out or something?”

“…Sort of.”

“Sort of?” You giggle. “You sound weird,” you tease, voice gentle.

There’s a pause. Long enough to notice.

Then you hear it — the tiniest sound.

A slick sound.

Wet. Rhythmic. Subtle.

Your mouth parts slightly. “San?”

“Keep talking,” he says quickly. Breathlessly. “Don’t stop talking.”

Your heart skips.

Your voice falters. “Wait… are you —”

“I miss you,” he cuts in, voice heavy, strained, and definitely aroused. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

“You’re—oh my god, are you touching yourself?”

He groans — low and unfiltered. Like your voice alone is enough to drag him under.

“Yes,” he whispers. “Fuck, I couldn’t wait anymore.”

You blink at the ceiling, suddenly burning everywhere. “You called me… to jerk off?”

“I called you because of you,” he murmurs.

“Because I kept thinking about your mouth. Your voice. The way you sound when I—” His breath stutters. “When I’m buried deep inside you.”

Your breath catches.

“Tell me something,” he whispers.

“What?” you breathe.

“Remind me how you taste.”

Your thighs press together instinctively.

“San—”

“I’d be on my knees for you right now,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know. Tongue deep in you, hands keeping you open. I miss the way you shake.”

You press a hand to your chest. Your heart’s racing.

“Your voice, baby. I swear.” His breath catches. “You’re so soft when you’re sleepy. It drives me insane.”

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

“.. Are you close?” you ask, voice barely a whisper.

“Mhm,” he moans. “Keep talking, please. I’m—shit—I’m right there.”

You bite your lip. Then slowly, softly:

“You’d ruin me if you were here, wouldn’t you?”

He lets out a desperate noise.

“I’d take you so slow,” you whisper. “Just to hear you beg.”

He groans again, sharp and broken. His breathing gets faster.

You hear the subtle, unmistakable sound of his release — his moan is raw, whispered, like he’s trying not to be loud. Like he’s completely wrecked.

You lie there, blinking, flushed all over, heat rolling through you.

There’s a silence on the other end. Just the sound of his breathing, finally slowing.

“…I’m coming over,” he mutters eventually, voice low and raspy.

You laugh softly, heart still racing. “San…”

He groans. “I need you.”

And something tells you this night isn’t over yet.

–

You’re still in bed when your doorbell rings.

Your whole body stills.

You climb out of the covers, heart thudding in your chest, and tiptoe barefoot to the door.

When you open it, the hallway light spills over San — his dark hoodie pulled over his head, eyes shadowed, lips parted.

His chest rises and falls like he ran here, not drove.

He doesn’t say a word. He just looks at you.

Then?

He steps in, shuts the door behind him, and grabs you.

You gasp as your back hits the wall.

His mouth crashes against yours, hot and desperate, like he needs to taste you just to breathe.

“You,” he growls between kisses. “You make me lose my mind.”

His hands roam everywhere — under your shirt, across your hips, gripping your ass like it’s his. You’re lifted onto the wall in one smooth motion, legs wrapping around him on instinct.

“San—” you try to catch your breath, but he kisses you again, rough and deep, before pulling back just enough to speak.

“You sounded so fucking sweet on the phone,” he murmurs, dragging his nose along your jaw.

“That little sleepy voice. All shy. You knew what you were doing.”

“I didn’t,” you whisper, flushed and breathless.

He bites down gently on your neck. “Liar.”

You squirm in his grip, heat pooling between your legs.

His hands slide up your thighs and you realize — you’re still not wearing underwear.

He realizes it too.

“Of course you’re not,” he mutters, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“I didn’t know you were actually coming over—”

“You think I care?” His voice is gravel now, thick with need. “You think I can sit at home after hearing you like that on the phone?”

One of his hands slides between your legs, fingers dragging through your slick folds.

You cry out, head falling back against the wall.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Already soaked.”

You nod, breathless. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

That’s it. That breaks him.

He carries you towards your bedroom, mouth on your throat the entire way, and you cling to him like your life depends on it.

When he lays you down, it’s with more reverence than you expect — like even in his desperation, he still wants to worship.

He peels your shirt up, kissing each inch of skin he reveals.

Your ribs. Your chest. He brushes his nose over your nipple and groans low in his throat, like he’s trying to memorize you.

“Look at you,” he whispers. “So fucking perfect.”

You reach for him, and he comes willingly, laying his body over yours, slotting between your legs.

You can feel how hard he is — straining through his sweatpants — and your hips twitch up, chasing friction.

He kisses you again, slower this time, deeper. Like he wants to feel how badly he missed you.

Then he pulls back just slightly. His forehead rests on yours. His breathing's still ragged.

“You want me?” he murmurs.

You nod.

“No. Say it.”

“I want you,” you whisper. “I want you so bad it hurts.”

He groans, like the words physically affect him, and his hand trails between your thighs again.

“I’m not gonna be gentle this time,” he mutters. “I can’t be.”

You whimper. “Then don’t be.”

And then he sinks two fingers into you — slow but firm, curling just right — and your whole body arches off the bed.

He watches your face, eyes dark. “This is what you wanted, right? To drive me crazy? To have me aching for you?”

You nod again, mouth open, gasping.

He leans in close, lips brushing your ear.

“Well, baby,” he murmurs, voice like velvet and smoke, “you got me.”

“Take this off,” San growls, tugging at your sleep shirt, not even waiting for you to comply.

He peels it up and over your head like he owns it — like you’re his — and throws it somewhere behind him without looking.

You’re bare now. Completely.

And he just stares.

Chest heaving, jaw clenched, like he’s trying to hold himself back — but he can’t. Not anymore.

“You drive me so fucking insane,” he mutters, running both hands down your ribs, to your hips, spreading your legs wide with his knee. “You know that?”

You whimper when his fingers return to your center, teasing just barely. Your back arches. His eyes drop to watch every reaction.

“Already soaked for me again,” he whispers. “And I’ve barely even touched you.”

You reach down, grabbing at the waistband of his sweats.

“Please,” you gasp.

“Please what?”

“San—”

“Tell me,” he snaps, voice low and commanding. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you in me,” you cry, breath shaking. “Please, San. I need you.”

He exhales hard through his nose — then strips.

His hoodie and shirt go first, then his sweats and boxers in one tug, revealing his hard, leaking cock, already red at the tip.

Your mouth waters.

He strokes himself once, twice, eyes still locked on you.

“Turn around.”

You blink. “..Huh?”

“I said turn the fuck around.”

The edge in his voice sends shivers down your spine.

You scramble onto your hands and knees, and he grabs your hips immediately, pulling you back toward him until your ass is pressed to his cock.

He drags the head through your folds, just once — and groans like it physically hurts to hold back.

Then he thrusts in.

Hard.

You cry out, head dropping to the mattress as he bottoms out in one deep, punishing stroke.

His hand grips your hip, the other tangling in your hair, pulling your head back so he can lean down and growl into your ear.

“This is what you wanted, huh?” His hips slam forward again. “Wanted me so desperate I couldn’t wait another second?”

You moan, hands fisting the sheets. “Yes—”

“Wanted me to ruin you?”

He sets a pace that’s relentless — deep and unrelenting, every thrust dragging across the most sensitive part of you.

Your body jerks forward with each one, and you swear he’s somehow deeper than ever before.

“San—fuck, yes—” His grip crushes you tighter. “Say my fucking name.”

You sob it again and again, lost in the rhythm, and he keeps pushing.

Keeps driving into you like he’s chasing something buried inside your core.

Your legs start to shake. You're so close.

“Not yet,” he growls, he growls, yanking you upright so your back presses hard against his chest “I said—not yet.”

He keeps fucking into you while his hand slides between your legs, rubbing your clit in fast, devastating circles.

“Hold it,” he growls. “Hold it until I say.”

You’re gasping now, practically sobbing from how full you feel — how stretched and raw and desperate you are.

“I—I can’t—”

“Yes you can.” He licks the shell of your ear. “You’ll come when I tell you to. Be good for me.”

And somehow… you obey.

He fucks you through it — deeper, harder, his hand still working you mercilessly — and just when you feel like you can’t take it anymore, he growls:

“Now. Let go. Fucking come for me.”

Your orgasm hits like a wave breaking, loud and wet and devastating. Your entire body arches, thighs trembling violently as you convulse around him.

You don’t even hear yourself scream his name — too lost in the pleasure — but he does.

And it snaps something in him.

He pulls out and flips you over, not even giving you time to recover before he thrusts back in — face-to-face now, eyes burning.

“I’m not done,” he whispers

You can barely breathe, so overstimulated, so full. But you take it — you want it — because the way he’s looking at you? Like he needs to own every piece of you?

It’s worth everything.

He chases his own release now, hips slamming into yours at a punishing pace, his mouth all over your throat, jaw, chest.

“I love this fucking pussy,” he grunts. “You’re made for me. You know that?”

You nod, crying out again as he fucks into your oversensitive cunt. “Yes—yes, I’m yours, I’m—”

“That’s right.”

He buries himself deep one last time — so deep you swear he’s in your soul — and groans your name as he spills inside you, his body trembling against yours.

For a long moment, he doesn’t move.

Just breathes. Heavy, ragged, still inside you. One hand on your jaw. The other clutching your waist.

Then?

He kisses you. Deep, slow, reverent.

And when he finally pulls back, eyes soft, he strokes your cheek gently.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod, dazed. “I think you rearranged my spine.”

He laughs softly, presses a kiss to your forehead, and pulls out slowly, careful with your sore body.

Then he disappears into the bathroom — and comes back with a warm towel.

He wipes between your legs so gently it makes you tear up a little.

Then he crawls back into your bed with a whispered, “C’mere, baby.”

And you fall asleep wrapped in him — ruined, wrecked, and held like something precious.

—

That morning you wake to the smell of butter and maple.

The early morning light is filtering in soft and slow, and the sheets are tangled at your waist, your body sore in all the best ways.

Your thighs ache. Your neck has faint bite marks. You feel like you were worshipped… and maybe a little destroyed.

You blink sleepily.

And then you hear it — a gentle clatter from the kitchen. Something sizzling. Then a muttered curse.

You smile. San.

When he appears in the doorway — shirtless, sweats low on his hips, hair pushed back from his face — he’s holding a tray.

Plates stacked, two mugs, something golden and syrupy filling the air behind him.

He’s grinning like he knows he’s being hot about it.

“I made you breakfast,” he says, voice raspy with sleep, setting the tray on your lap. “Don’t freak out.”

You blink at it. Pancakes. Eggs. Fruit. Even whipped cream??

Your brows knit. “…San.”

He’s climbing into bed beside you, already grabbing a strawberry off your plate and popping it into his mouth like he didn’t just cook a five-star brunch.

You narrow your eyes. “How do you even know where my whipped cream is? You’ve literally been here like .. twice.”

He smirks around the bite. “What, you think I don’t pay attention?”

You stare him down.

He leans closer, hands slipping under the blanket over your lap. “I paid attention to a lot last night.”

You swat at him. “San! I’m eating!”

“You’re trying to eat,” he murmurs, kissing your shoulder. “But I made the mistake of seeing you like this — hair all messy, no bra, all cute and sore — and now I’m distracted.”

You flush, tugging the blanket up to hide the fact that you are, in fact, still completely naked beneath it.

He feeds you a piece of pancake — literally feeds you — and you groan at the taste.

“This is so good.”

He hums. “Yeah?”

You nod through your bite. “You’re annoyingly good at this. I was prepared to lie to protect your pride.”

San chuckles and presses a kiss to your cheek. “I’ll take that as a win.”

You’re halfway through eating when his hand starts creeping again — under the blanket this time, fingertips grazing the top of your thigh like it’s casual.

You shoot him a look. “Don’t.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You are literally touching my thigh right now.”

“I’m admiring it.”

“San.”

“Mhm?”

You squint at him. “You’re obsessed with me.”

“I literally am,” he says, no hesitation, dipping down to kiss your bare shoulder again. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yes,” you say. “And it’s so distracting.”

He bites back a smile and leans in close, lips brushing your ear.

“You wanna know what’s distracting?” he whispers, hand slowly sliding higher. “The fact that I spent all night in you — and I’m still hard just thinking about it.”

Your stomach flips.

You grab your fork again with shaky fingers and murmur, “Eat your pancakes.”

But you already know this breakfast-in-bed is about to become a part two of last night — once again… you won’t be finishing your meal.

—

After the breakfast-that-you-did-not-finish (because San decided you were the real meal), he finally lets you rest — for like, ten minutes.

You’re still under the covers, half-limp with sleep and soreness when you feel him climbing out of bed again. You hear the water start in the bathroom.

Then he comes back to the doorway, shirtless, damp towel in one hand.

“Come shower,” he says gently.

You crack one eye open. “You go. I’m dead.”

He smirks. “If you’re dead, then you won’t mind if I carry you.”

You narrow your eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

And then he does. Pulls the blanket off of you and lifts you like it’s nothing, making you yelp as you cling to him.

“SAN!!”

“You left me no choice,” he teases, voice smug in your ear as he carries you into the steam-filled bathroom.

The water’s already perfect — warm, a little hot — and when he steps in with you, he moves so carefully, hands steady at your waist.

You let the water hit your back, sighing at the heat, and close your eyes for just a second — until you feel his fingers in your hair.

Your eyes blink open. “…What are you doing?”

“Washing your hair.”

You eye him skeptically. “Are you washing my hair or do you just want to touch me again?”

San blinks, expression a little too innocent. “Can’t it be both?”

You groan, laughing despite yourself. “I knew it.”

He smiles as he lathers shampoo in his hands and starts working it into your scalp with surprisingly gentle, practiced fingers.

The way he massages your head, runs his fingers through every strand, careful not to tug — it feels so soothing you actually sway into his chest.

“Mhm… I take it back,” you murmur. “You can do this forever.”

“I plan to,” he says softly, voice near your temple. His hands slow a little, sliding down, rinsing out the shampoo as you lean back.

He keeps going — conditioner, a few more forehead kisses, and now his thumbs are brushing under your eyes, wiping away the faint smudges of leftover makeup.

He does it like it matters. Like he’s memorizing you.

“Why are you looking at me like that,” you ask softly, heart hiccuping.

“Because I’m lucky as hell,” he says without even blinking.

And just like that, you’re melting all over again — but not because of the hot water.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pull him in slow, press your lips to his under the falling spray.

It's slow, slow — the kind of kiss you sink into with your whole body.

He hums against your mouth.

The kiss deepens, steam curling around you both, and you feel him grip your hips like he might forget what he was doing.

You pull back just enough to whisper, teasingly: “You're getting distracted again.”

San smirks. “You literally taste like vanilla and warm water. How am I supposed to focus?”

You laugh into his shoulder. “Finish rinsing me, San.”

And he does.

But the way his hands keep slipping a little lower? You’re pretty sure you’re not leaving this shower untouched.

—

The shower ends with your back pressed lazily to his chest, both of you reluctant to step out into the cooler air.

You’re the one who finally reaches for the knob, sighing. “We should get out before we start round 2 just from steam.”

San grins behind you, shameless. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You swat his thigh without looking.

He helps you out first, careful with his hands as always — but the moment your feet hit the mat, he’s already reaching for a towel.

“Sit,” he murmurs, patting the bathroom counter like he owns the place.

You arch a brow. “I can dry myself off.”

“Please?,” he says with a glint in his eyes, already kneeling a little to start at your legs.

You give in — because you're sore, and he’s impossibly warm like this.

Gentle and full of affection. His hands work slowly, drying every inch like he’s mapping you all over again.

He glances up at you, curls damp and stuck to his forehead. “Still mad I carried you in here?”

You give him a small smirk. “No. But only because your massage game is elite.”

“Elite, huh?” He drags the towel up your thigh, fingers lingering too long before he slides it higher. “Do I get a trophy?”

“You’re already trying to earn one,” you mutter.

His only response is to kiss the inside of your knee.

You twitch slightly. “San…”

“Just drying,” he says — entirely unconvincing, because his hand stays exactly where it doesn’t need to be.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur, blushing.

But still — you don’t stop him.

He stands slowly, now using the edge of the towel to press soft, careful dabs to your chest, your arms, your neck.

He trails it up to your face, and your breath hitches at how gentle he gets — like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

His thumbs brush beneath your eyes again, drying what little water clings to your lashes.

Then he leans in and kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

You're smiling now. You can’t help it. “I thought you were drying me off.”

“I am,” he murmurs against your skin. “But you’re very… distracting.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re the one making this impossible.”

He hums and wraps the towel around your body fully now, pressing it snug at your back like he’s hugging you and drying you at the same time.

You lean into him. “You really can’t keep your hands off me, can you?”

He pulls back just enough to look at you — eyes soft, adoring, almost like you’re something rare and glowing. His voice is quiet but honest: “Nope. And I don’t plan to learn how.”

Your chest squeezes, heat curling all the way down your spine.

He presses a kiss to your nose now. Then your lips. Then murmurs: “C’mon. Let me get you into something cozy.”

You smile, letting him lead you — wrapped in his towel, in his arms, in his attention.

And the truth is: You don’t want him to stop touching you, either.

—

That evening, your living room is dim, the only light flickering from the soft glow of your TV — low volume playing some show neither of you are watching.

You’re straddled on San’s lap, facing him, your thighs resting on either side of his hips, one of his old hoodies swallowing you whole.

The fabric smells like him — faint cologne, detergent, that warm scent you know better than your own by now.

He’s shirtless beneath you, just lounging in some gray sweats, all tanned skin and quiet muscle, his arms looped loosely around your waist.

Your fingers are tangled in his hair, gently twirling one around your finger as you talk — about nothing, really.

Something dumb. Something comforting. You don’t even remember how the topic started.

And you’re not really paying attention to your words anyway — not when he looks like this.

His bare face is unfairly beautiful. His jaw is sharp and clean from shaving.

The light catches the slope of his nose, the tiny beauty mark just beside his left eye, the sleepy droop of his lashes as he listens to you — and God, his lips. Full, soft, kiss-bitten from earlier.

You feel like you could cry just from looking at him.

You run your thumb gently across his cheek. He closes his eyes briefly under your touch.

And then — too soon, too cruel — he shifts slightly beneath you and murmurs,

“I have to leave soon.”

Your smile fades. “What? Why?”

He exhales slowly, rubbing his hand down your back like he’s trying to soften the blow.

“I have work in the morning. Early.”

Your heart drops a little.

You blink at him, lips parting. “But… can’t you stay tonight?”

“I want to. I really do.” His voice is soft. Regretful. But firm.

You feel your chest tightening already, throat beginning to ache with the heat of unshed frustration.

“I barely get to see you anymore,” you whisper.

“I know.” He brushes his knuckles against your thigh. “I hate it too.”

Your arms slowly wind around his neck, pulling yourself into him, burying your face into the crook between his shoulder and jaw.

You don’t say anything at first — just hold him there like if you’re quiet enough, he’ll change his mind.

He strokes your back gently.

“I’m not leaving yet,” he says, voice quieter now. “I’ve got a little time.”

You cling tighter. “Can you sleep over again? Just for tonight?”

A pause. It lasts too long.

“I can’t,” he says, and this time it sounds like it hurts him more than you. “If I don’t go home, I’ll be late.”

You nod, but you’re not ready to let go. Your arms stay locked around his neck. You hate how warm he is. How safe. How rare.

“I’m gonna miss you,” you murmur brokenly.

His hand slips under the hoodie, spreading wide across your back. He cradles you there, holds you tighter.

“Aw, baby…” he whispers, leaning his head into yours. “I’m gonna make time for us. I promise. This isn't always going to be like this.”

You sniff, but you don’t cry. Not yet.

“Don’t promise if you can’t keep it.”

His voice cracks. “I will. Even if it means losing sleep. I’ll be here. I want to be here.”

There’s a long silence between you two.

Just the sound of his breathing against your neck and the quiet, creaking shift of the couch when he leans back again.

Then you whisper something, voice soft and a little bitter:

“…And stop calling me when you’re jerking off, okay? It makes me want you even more.”

That surprises a low chuckle out of him — hoarse and heartbroken.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, a soft, rueful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“But I love calling you,” he admits. “It’s the only way I feel close to you when I can’t be here.”

You sigh, cupping his jaw, thumb brushing over the faint stubble.

“You don’t need to call me to feel close to me, San. You are close to me. Always.”

He nods once, eyes shimmering just slightly.

Then you both fall into a long, warm silence. He holds you.

You stay in his lap, hoodie swallowing your bare legs, his fingers tracing soft circles on your thigh like he doesn’t want to let go.

You know he’ll leave soon.

But not yet.

So you press your lips to his cheek. Then his nose. Then his mouth.

You whisper, “I’ll wait for you.”

And he says, “You don’t have to wait long.”

But still — the ache stays.

Because even when love is strong… it still hurts to say goodbye.

—

Masterlist

#ateez #ateez fic #ateez smut #smut #choi san #choi san fanfic #choi san imagines #choi san smut #san smut #san scenarios #san fic #san

2K notes · View notes

suliigwp · 18 days ago

Text

Lucky Page — OP81

Oscar Piastri x reader | established relationship, SMAU

SULI: have this little treat before the next chapter of tronab — I'm obsessed with this man. Short and sweet🧡 also please pretend it says Saudi Arabia instead of Miami in a pic😘 you'll get it

Warnings: Thirsty comments, sexy jokes

SUMMARY: Every time Oscar Piastris girlfriend posts him on her private Instagram page before a race— he wins

China race week

Liked by pastrypriv, lando.jpg and 21 others.

y/npriv: IM GONNA EAT HIM (lando ipad kid behind 'em)

16 comments.

lando.jpg: I was reading your post🙄

pastrypriv: only you're allowed to eat me

↳ y/npriv: 👀

↳ pastrypriv: can you be wholesome for just a second?

charl3smess: no bc why does he look like he’d taste like strawberry yoghurt

car1105.finsta: I bet he smells like sunscreen I gifted him

a.lbonbutmakeitferal: I think if you bite him he’d make that lil “ow :/” sound

↳ y/npriv: CAN CONFIRM. tested. 7/10 bite resistance

piastrilicious: what the hell is going on here

georgewearssocks: blink twice if they’ve put seasoning on u

↳ lando.jpg: he blinked once. medium rare incoming

↳ y/npriv: dinner’s at 8 x

↳ car1105.finsta: save me the elbow

↳ charl3smess: i want the cheek. soft bits hit different

↳ a.lbonbutmakeitferal: dibs on the fingers

↳ pastrypriv: you guys are sick

↳ y/npriv: bff you literally said I'm allowed to eat you

↳ pastrypriv: bc I wanted to be devoured with love 💔

...

Liked by mclaren, landonorris, oscarpiastri and 1M others.

yourusername: First win of the season and so many more to come! I'm so proud of you🧡

24k comments.

oscarpiastri: Couldn’t have done it without my good luck charm 🧡

↳ yourusername: Are you calling me the tire strategy again 😒

↳ oscarpiastri: Maybe 👀

piastribabe99: SHE MANIFESTED THIS I KNOW SHE DID

landonorris: Here we go. Can’t wait to hear about this for the next 3 months.

↳ yourusername: You’ll live.

↳ oscarpiastri: You’re just mad I finished ahead 😌

↳ landonorris: Don’t test me little man

mclarensunshine: this is my Roman Empire. the way she looked at him on the podium 😭

↳ wagsonsight: HER EYES WERE GLOWING

danielricciardo: OH HE’S WINNING WINNING 🔥

↳ yourusername: more things than the race if you know what I mean

↳ danielricciardo: oop

↳ lando: WHAT IS THIS BEHAVIOR

↳ oscarpiastri: y/n.

gridwives: their dynamic >>>>>

maxverstappen1: Congrats, mate. Let’s see if you can do it twice 😉

↳ yourusername: 👀 challenge accepted

↳ oscarpiastri: 😬

oscarpiastriluvr: She’s the proudest gf and I’m sobbing about it

carlossainz55: You better frame this post. Historic moment.

↳ yourusername: Already making a scrapbook 🧡

↳ oscarpiastri: I’m scared

f1wifematerial: real love is posting him even when he still has champagne in his hair

...

Bahrain race week

Liked by charl3smess, a.lbonbutmakeitferal, georgewearssocks and 19 others.

y/npriv: how he was looking at me last night

22 comments.

pastrypriv: Y/N!

↳ y/npriv: just like last night

↳ lando.jpg: stop this madness 😭

lando.jpg: YOU NEED TO GO TO CHURCH. IMMEDIATELY.

↳ y/npriv: my god is busy blessing Oscar

↳ lando.jpg: I’m calling his mum

m4xisnumberone: I should not be here

↳ y/npriv: then leave

↳ m4xisnumberone: not until I report you to the FIA

charl3smess: I will never unsee this

↳ lando.jpg: SAME

↳ charl3smess: why are you everywhere

a.lbonbutmakeitferal: Delete this before I make a group chat without you

↳ y/npriv: you wouldn’t dare

↳ a.lbonbutmakeitferal: try me

georgewearssocks: This is entirely inappropriate

↳ car1105.finsta: just say you’re jealous

↳ georgewearssocks: 😐

car1105.finsta: wait so is this a before or after quali kind of look

↳ y/npriv: Carlos?

↳ car1105.finsta: i’m just trying to understand the timeline 🧎‍♂️

↳ pastrypriv: this is so humiliating

...

Liked by car1105.finsta, m4xisnumberone, lando.jpg and 22 others.

y/npriv: LAWRD HAVE MERCY

comments.

lando.jpg: GET A GRIP

↳ y/npriv: I physically CANNOT

↳ lando.jpg: you need to be stopped

m4xisnumberone: nah cause this one actually made ME flinch

↳ y/npriv: 😌

↳ m4xisnumberone: NO

charl3smess: you’re not normal

↳ y/npriv: he unzipped his suit and so did my sanity

a.lbonbutmakeitferal: not to be dramatic but i feel unsafe here

↳ y/npriv: okay but imagine you saw this in PERSON

↳ a.lbonbutmakeitferal: i’d pass away

car1105.finsta: you didn’t even try to be subtle

↳ y/npriv: didn’t even TRY

↳ car1105.finsta: that’s love i fear

georgewearssocks: Lord have mercy? No. We need a restraining order.

↳ y/npriv: try and catch me 😌

↳ georgewearssocks: i’m telling Oscar

dannyricc3: yeah okay this one is a little bit illegal

↳ y/npriv: delete your jealousy x

↳ dannyricc3: i’m texting your mother

dannyricc3: Not Oscar keeping his silence

↳ pastrypriv: let me be

...

Liked by dannyricc3, m4xisnumberone, car1105.finsta and 17 others.

y/npriv: HE WON AGAIN. TWO IN A ROW. i’m not saying it’s because i posted him last night but i posted him last night.

18 comments.

lando.jpg: no because this is getting weird now

↳ y/npriv: don’t act like you’re not scared

↳ lando.jpg: i AM

↳ lando.jpg: imagine how big the gap would be if you attend a gp👀

charl3smess: if he wins three in a row i’m opening a shrine to you

↳ y/npriv: start collecting candles

a.lbonbutmakeitferal: I KNEW IT. WITCHCRAFT.

↳ y/npriv: consider me your local track witch 🧹✨

↳ a.lbonbutmakeitferal: you’re too powerful

georgewearssocks: I was skeptical. Now I’m terrified.

↳ y/npriv: you should be

m4xisnumberone: This is how cults start

↳ y/npriv: you’re just mad i didn’t post you

↳ m4xisnumberone: DON’T

car1105.finsta: can i send a photo of ME with puppy eyes for this week??

↳ y/npriv: lol no. this account chooses oscar now.

↳ car1105.finsta: brutal

pastrypriv: Two wins. Coincidence.

↳ y/npriv: say that again when you’re holding another trophy next week

...

Saudi Arabia Race Week

Liked by gridlife2025, paddockfashionista, waglifeinsta and 45k others.

F1GossipFeed: Spotted at the Saudi Arabia GP: @/yourusername making a stylish appearance in the paddock! Looks like she’s here to support @/oscarpiastri in person this weekend. ✨🏎️

12k comments.

f1fanatic_23: Love seeing the support! Hope Oscar feels the energy 💙

gridlife2025: She always looks so cool, no wonder Oscar’s killing it this season

raceweekbuzz: VIP vibes for sure, who else wishes they had paddock access?

speedqueen_94: This is the motivation Oscar needs to bring home another podium 👏

paddockfashionista: Okay, her outfit is EVERYTHING. F1 fashion goals!

motorsportjunkie: Supporting your driver in person? That’s next level. Respect.

tracksidevibes: I’m here for the power couple energy, can’t wait to see them at the podium

...

Liked by lando.jpg, georgewearssocks, pastrypriv and 22 others.

y/npriv: trying something today🤭 good luck my boys!

10 comments.

lando.jpg: You better post me twice for extra luck

↳ y/npriv: double the trouble 😈

pastrypriv: Don’t jinx it, witch

↳ y/npriv: oh, I’m blessing you. Big difference.

charl3smess: Proof that the best wingwomen come with filters and funny faces

m4xisnumberone: I demand a selfie too or I’m boycotting podium photos

a.lbonbutmakeitferal: Make sure you send one to me or I’m crashing your next Zoom call

car1105.finsta: Officially the best hype squad captain

georgewearssocks: I see the power of good vibes in action

dannyricc3: This energy is everything. Good luck boys, don’t disappoint!

...

Liked by yourusername, nicolepiastri, ln4 and 2.3M others.

mclaren: ✨ DOMINANCE ✨ What a sensational performance from @/oscarpiastri and @/landonorris today at Saudi Arabia! A commanding 1-2 finish, crossing the line nearly 30 seconds ahead of the rest of the pack. Pure teamwork, focus, and speed. 🏆🏆

77k comments.

f1fansworldwide: That’s how you show up and shut it down. McLaren is back baby! 🔥

oscarpiastrifan: Oscar and Lando are unstoppable when they’re together. Loved every second of that race!

landonorrisfanclub: A 30-second gap? Unreal. Proud of my boys 🧡💙

yourusername: My boys did THAT 👀💥 So proud!!

↳ mclaren: our lucky charm🧡

...

Private Group Chat—

'Paddock Hazard'

@/yourusername:

ok but seriously… 30 seconds ahead??

Lucky Page magic strikes again 💅✨

@/lando: I want to believe but you’re gonna have to post me solo next time or I’m out 😤

@/oscarpiastri: I’m not sure if I believe this “Lucky Page” thing but… can’t argue with results 😂

@/maxverstappen1: I’m starting to think you’re the real driver here tbh

@/charles_leclerc: Not gonna lie, I’m lowkey jealous of this power you’ve got.

@/alex_albon: So when’s the ritual? I wanna join the cult.

@/yourusername:

First, you gotta post the ugliest selfie you have.

No exceptions.

@/lando: Nooooooo

@/oscarpiastri: If posting on the Lucky Page means I keep winning, I’m down to let her do whatever she wants.

@/yourusername:

Careful what you wish for… next race I’m posting the one of you with bedhead.

@/lando: Wait, that was private!

@/maxverstappen1: I vote for more bedhead pics. It’s only fair.

@/charles_leclerc: Honestly this chat is the best thing about race weekends.

@/alex_albon: Agreed. Also, when’s the group photo for maximum luck?

@/yourusername:

Only if you promise to not fight each other

@/georgerussell63: you expect too much from us

@/maxverstappen1: No promises.

@/georgerussell63: see?

@/oscarpiastri: Whatever happens, Lucky Page is here to stay. Thanks for keeping my podium streak alive

_____________________________________________

Taglist, comment to be added; @angstynasty @cryinghotmess @mits-vi @dramaticpiratellamas @mimisweetz @mrssaturday @chiara8104 @moonlight-girls-posts @linnygirl09 @rue-t @danielricroll @the-vex-archives @trees-are-books @blodwyn4u @yoruse @ccrickett-t @l-a-u-r-aaa @multifans-things @woderfulkawaii @azrinableuet @mayax2o07 @everyday-is-sunday365 @devilacot @faithxyu @freyathehuntress make sure you can be tagged!

1K notes · View notes

cherrybr4t · 10 months ago

Text

seungcheol makes you squirt (+18, mdni)

WARNINGS: somnophilia w/ consent, est relationship, daddy!cheol, (reader calls him daddy twice?) dom!cheol, sub!reader, unprotected sex, squirting, pet names, slight degradation, orgasm denial, not comfy = don’t read!!

seungcheol is determined to make you fall apart tonight.

after making you squirt a few nights prior, he had a deep carnal desire to see you break apart again and squirt around his cock, his fingers—anything.

he loves when you lose all inhibitions when it comes to him—and he dwells on the fact that he’s the only one who can drive you to that point.

knowing how sleepiness makes you enter a new realm of high—giving up control, all senses heightened, he waits til you’re fast asleep.

entering your shared bedroom, his eyes fall upon your sleeping figure and his heart swells at your peaceful state. his needy cock follows suit, staring to swell at the thoughts of what he’s about to do to you.

pulling away the edge of your comforter, his mouth waters at your cute little nightie, so fuckin’ adorable. he traces the pink lace hem of your satin shorts, and admires the way the edges rides up your pretty ass as you lay on ur side.

gently flipping you on your back, seungcheol kisses your tummy, before pulling down the thin material, only to be met with your bare cunt. your scent hits him in the face and he groans at how sweet you smell.

looking back at your pretty face, he notices you’re still sound asleep—probably exhausted from the long day of work. he takes one big obscene slurp up your cunt, stopping at your clit, twirling it around with the tip of his tongue. closing his eyes, he savours the moment, sucking in the bundle of nerves and gently tugging on it with his teeth.

seungcheol notices how your juices are starting to gush from the bottom and smirks knowingly. testing the waters, he inserts a finger in slowly—and it slides in so smoothly.

knowing your favourite combination, he continues to suck and play with your clit as his fingers work non-stop, massaging your soft walls. he loves the way your cunt remembers him, still sucking him in when you’re in a deep slumber.

he hears a soft whimper from above and his eyes trace over your features. his poor baby, probably thinking she’s having an erotic little dream about him.

your breath quickens, and seungcheol recognises the telltale signs of your incoming orgasm that’s about to hit you. he stills his fingers in you, focusing on curling his knuckles up quickly, to stimulate your g-spot, and at the same sucking on your engorged clit like his life depended on it.

a few quick breaths before you start to come undone all over his fingers and tongue. your chest heaves up and down, and small trickles of sweat start to form on your hairline.

he removes his fingers, not wanting to waste any drop of your precious cum, he sucks his own finger dry, growing harder at the taste of you.

seungcheol gets his cock ready, pumping it a few times, teasing his own slit, letting his pre-cum glisten on his thick head. he groans. he could get off simply at the sight of you laying so cutely in front of him.

instead, he drags the tip across your little cunt, coating his cock with your juices before slowly entering you. it’s only when he bottoms out that you start to stir awake.

“cheollie?” you rub your eyes, propping your elbows up to get a clearer picture and grasp on what was happening.

“shh baby, it’s okay, it’s okay, just wanted to play with your pretty pussy. couldn’t help myself,” he starts to move, watching your limp body too tired to move as he wrecks that small cunt of yours.

“nngh, cheol….” you whine, feeling all senses stimulated, and extremely sensitive though you didn’t know why. it took you a while to get out of that foggy-too-tired-to-comprehend-anything state, but you loved the inebriated feeling that came with it. the immense pleasure causing you to space out—you couldn’t think about anything but his cock.

“yes baby, i’m here,” cheol knows how you’re feeling. he knows how the blitzed feeling makes you cum even faster, and he is in fact very determined to see you squirt for him—because of him—on your pretty sheets that you guys picked out together.

his overwhelming feelings of possessiveness take over as he hovers over you with your legs hung over his big shoulders. “my cute baby, look at you so strung out, but clenching me so fuckin’ tight,”

your eyes roll back, barely being able to keep them open, every glimpse of cheol you catch; you savour. his dark eyes never leaving you, his plump lips parted, letting groans and grunts escape him.

“s’good daddy, feels so gooood,” you whine out repeatedly, that being seemingly all you know what to say.

“mm my baby, don’t got a thing in your head right now huh, just how good daddy’s cock making you feel?” he feels you clenching even tighter and this time, when he feels your second wave of orgasm approaching, he stops, and pulls out his creamed cock.

a broken cry escapes you, and he flips you around, pulling your hips up while pushing your back to make you arch further. you turn your head to the side, feeling frustrated that your orgasm got stolen right in front of you; you cry out, begging for him to just continue fucking you already.

“i know you like it when i do that baby, don’t go throwing a tantrum on me now,” he grabs hold of your hair and gathers them into a makeshift ponytail as he slides his cock back into your cunt.

pulling on your ponytail, he finds a pace that makes him cock his head back, string of curses finding their way on his lips and a consistent line of groans escaping at each slapping of cheeks against him.

your jaw slacks, and your eyes shut as you feel like you’re being transported into a different realm again.

“ch-cheol, daddy…” all you can do is repeat his name like a mantra, thanking him for fucking you so good.

“that’s right, love it when i have you all dumb on my cock, i’m all your pretty little head is filled with,”

still gripping your ponytail tight, he reaches down to rub at your sensitive clit, which has been begging to be touched—insatiable, that one. his rough finger pads make friction with your wet and slippery bud and you scream with whatever energy is still left in you.

“wanna cum cheol, gonna cum—s’too fucking good i-i can’t,”

“hold it. good girls cum when they’re told to, and you’re my good girl aren’t you,” he says that, but his fingers rub faster and faster, switching between figure 8’s and tight little circles which makes you dizzy.

“i-i am but, your fingers,” you beg.

when seungcheol feels like he’s pushed you to your limit, he orders you to stimulate yourself even more.

“play with your tits for me baby, want all your senses to be stimulated for me,” and your hands immediately reaches under your nightie top, fingers playing with your sensitive nipples—one pinch and you cry out another beg.

“please daddy, i need to cum,” you decide to play your cards carefully. “wanna cum around your cock cheol, need to milk your cock dry,” knowing that cheol always needs you to cum before him.

“yeah baby? wanna milk me dry? let me fill you up so fuckin’ full?” cheol gives in, and puts more pressure onto your poor clit.

“fuck baby, cum around daddy’s cock, let me see you claim this cock as yours baby,”

your head goes empty as you feel hot flashes throughout your body, before you jerk forward onto your hands, and you feel spurts of liquid shooting out of you, and you feel a long coil of rope unravel out your lower abdomen as you continue jerking.

“fuuuuuuck, that’s a good girl, let it all out for me baby,” cheol moans at the sight of you squirting for almost a hot minute, making a mess on the pretty sheets, some landing on his cock which he’s desperately pumping as he watches like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen.

he joins you in that moment of ecstasy as he shoots his own serving of hot cum onto your pretty ass.

he sighs, coming down from his high—and activated his after care mode immediately, getting warm towels to clean you up, with a new set of nighties for you to put on after your now needed shower.

he leaves trails of kisses everywhere. “you did so good for me baby, sorry to wake you up, i know you’ve had a long day,” a small pout makes way to his pretty cherry lips you love so much, and you giggle.

“i told you cheollie, i love nothing more than to wake up with a little surprise like that,” you pull him down to kiss him, and he swoops you up to carry you to the hot bath he’s left to finish cleaning you up.

🫦 hi guys!!!! i miss cheol so much,, this is me expressing how much i miss daddy cheol, not a day goes by without a thought of him wrecking me. oke i hope yall liked this,, leave a like/cmt/rb if u did 💋 MUAH XOXO 🍒

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rosemaryhoney27 · 3 months ago

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"Diplomacy for the Feral and the Damned"

Bruce had just sat down in the Batcave with his second cup of post-patrol coffee—black as his mood, strong enough to keep a Kryptonian awake—when his private line buzzed. Not the Batline. Not the board line. The one buried so deep in encryption and passive-aggressive threats that even Oracle called it “Extra-Paranoid Mode.”

He stared. [Incoming Call: Vladimir Masters]

Bruce blinked. “…Oh, this is going to be a day.”

He answered with the flat monotone that had driven Gotham’s underworld into therapy. “Vlad.”

The holographic screen flickered to life—and there he was. Vladimir Masters, looking every inch the eccentric billionaire and possibly more ghost than man now. Silver-haired, in a robe that screamed “I paid three million for this and regret nothing,” surrounded by classical art, levitating books, and the faint crackle of ectoplasmic interference. The whole aesthetic screamed “If Lex Luthor was haunted by a Victorian novelist.”

Vlad beamed. “Brucie!”

Bruce’s eye twitched. “Don’t call me that.”

“It’s lovely to hear your voice, dear cousin. It’s been too long.”

Jason, eavesdropping from the shadows with popcorn, whispered, “Wait. Cousin? Since when do we have that brand of family drama?”

“Shh,” Tim muttered, scribbling something labeled Possible Interdimensional Ghost Cousins Conspiracy.

“I need your advice,” Vlad continued. “Something very personal. Deeply serious.”

Bruce sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What now, Vlad?”

Vlad leaned forward, the screen staticking briefly. “How do you get your children to be civil with you?”

There was silence. Real, echoing, existential silence.

“…I wasn’t aware you had adopted children, Vlad,” Bruce said slowly, like trying not to scare off a rabid raccoon.

“I haven’t. Not technically,” Vlad said breezily. “But my godson is staying with me. Lovely boy. Has the appetite of a black hole and the sense of self-preservation of a rabid badger.”

“...Oh god,” whispered Dick, “he sounds like all of us.”

“Cute that Masters thinks we’re civil,” Damian sniffed. “How charmingly misinformed.”

“Wait. He said godson?” Tim asked, eyes lighting up. “Do you think—could it be—Phantom?”

Vlad didn’t notice the peanut gallery commentary. “The boy has caused four minor diplomatic incidents, bitten a baron, vanished into the ceiling during a formal gala, and accused a senator of being a reptilian. Which turned out to be accurate, but the delivery was unkind.”

Bruce squinted. “That sounds like… Dick, Damian, and Tim at the Wayne Foundation Spring Gala ‘19.”

“I know!” Vlad pointed at him like a man discovering fire. “That’s exactly what I said! He’s like your sons! In one small, glowing, vaguely feral body!”

“Glowing?” Steph mouthed. “Definitely Phantom.”

“So, cousin dearest,” Vlad purred. “How do you get them to listen? How do you parent the chaos incarnate?”

Bruce took a long, tired sip of his coffee and simply said, “I don’t.”

“…You don’t?”

“I survive it.”

“Bold of him to call this survival,” muttered Cass as Jason started texting Alfred for cookies and emotional support.

“Each one is an unpredictable event wrapped in trauma and tactical gear,” Bruce continued flatly. “They will not listen. They may occasionally pretend to. But only after chaos. Much, much chaos.”

Vlad sighed, running a hand through his hair. “So there’s no secret Wayne method? No clever strategy?”

“...Cookies?” Bruce offered.

From beneath the desk, something gnawed at Vlad’s ankle.

He glanced down and hissed, “Danny, stop that, I told you we don’t bite family!”

“He said that senator looked like a snake,” came the muffled voice. “And I was right.”

Vlad groaned. “Why couldn’t he just be one kind of disaster? Why all of them?”

Jason grinned. “I like this kid.”

“New cousin,” Steph agreed. “Absolutely chaotic. Ten outta ten.”

Vlad looked back up at Bruce. “So. No help?”

Bruce looked thoughtful. “Keep fire extinguishers on hand. Avoid hosting events near chandeliers. Always assume they have at least two hidden weapons. And get used to being called ‘Dad’ at the most inconvenient political moments.”

A pause.

“Also,” he added, “tell him you’re proud. Even when he’s a disaster. Especially then.”

Vlad blinked. “...That worked for you?”

Bruce glanced around the cave. Steph had stolen Tim’s notes and was writing “FERAL COUSIN CLUB” across the top. Jason was already planning a trip to Amity Park. Damian was silently judging the snack selection of this new relative. And Dick was on his phone already texting Danny memes.

“…Eventually,” Bruce muttered.

“Charming,” Vlad sighed.

From under the desk: crunch.

“Danny! Stop chewing my furniture!”

Danny peeked out, sharp-toothed grin gleaming, eyes flickering green. “Tell B-man I wanna go to one of those galas next time. I wanna meet chandelier boy.”

Jason fist-pumped. “YES.”

Bruce just sighed. “...I’ll warn the staff.”

#dpxdc #jason todd #danny fenton #danny phantom #vlad plasmius #batman #vlad is tired #damian wayne #Danny fenton is a little shit

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v1enny · 3 months ago

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Having a hard time falling asleep? Let's watch your boyfriend's stream.

It's 2 AM. How long ago was it when you said you'd sleep? when you told your boyfriend "goodnight"? You have no idea but it's 2 AM and nothing is taking you down.

Instead, you log in your twitch acc, entering your boyfriend's stream hoping for dear God he doesn't notice and click. There he is, playing the game.

"Wait wait— what happens if I click the other option? Let's save ending A and pick the other one" he speaks through the mic having his subs talk through him about making a big mistake bc of a sudden jumpscare incoming, but he doesn't listen and flinches at the sudden attack of the monster. A long pause— "well now I know" before laughing it off and looking at the comments when suddenly he stops. "Wait guys, let me just get some water, Ill brb"

At this point you're indulged in the stream before noticing that your boyfriend is actually calling you behind him and when you answer "Why didn't you tell me you were awake?" you're met with the softest voice ever, is he sulking? "I couldn't fall asleep" you answer, having him in pause once again. A long one— Babe, give me 20 mins okay?" before going back in his room.

"Hi guys, so emergency announcement. I might end the stream soon, but I'll play for a bit of 20mins, okay?" Seeing the sad replies in the comments and begging for them to understand before playing for a few mins.

"See you tomorrow, guys. Thank you for understanding. Bye" seeing the pitch black screen before being brought back to the home tab of twitch. Hearing his voice once again when he opens the door, "Babe, why didn't you tell me you couldn't sleep" in his once again sulky voice. He walks towards you, lies down onto the bed, and grabs you by the waist pulling you close to him.

"I didn't want to disturb you in your stream" you reply back. "Oh babe, nothing you do disturbs me a bit. Are you having a hard time falling asleep?" nodding to his question he places a kiss on your cheek before hugging you. "Well I'm here, let's try again?" nodding again in response as you close your eyes in his arms.

#kenma x reader #yamada akito #haikyuu drabbles #haikyuu x reader #y/n

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awkward-teabag · 4 months ago

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I think part of it is TF2 wasn't about rank-climbing, there weren't class limits (unless you played on a server that had them), and the match time limit was more about changing things up (unless you played on a 24/7 server) than cramming in as many games as possible.

Team sizes were also larger than what modern hero shooters are.

So while there were elements we'd now consider part of the hero shooter (FPS, class-specific abilities/weapons, archetypes, etc.) it was still mostly an arena-based FPS and considered to have RPG elements added in (classes, different class-specific weapons, cosmetics, etc.)

Sure there were loot boxes but the point was that you played for fun and if that meant you got stuck on single map because RED kept bunkering, that was what would happen. There wasn't a battlepass to care about or push to knock out as many games as possible for fear of missing out on battlepass XP or having your ELO dip.

It was also designed so people could drop-in or leave and would auto-balance which, combined with larger team sizes, made it less punishing to a team if someone had to leave or decided to AFK because they got tilted.

Like with MOBAs, hero shooters have a major problem with people getting spiteful and punishing their team for it.

My experience with TF2 was it was a game you could play solo or team up with strangers, so if a member of your team got pissy, people could compensate or switch to being more solo play. It wasn't the same all-but-guaranteed loss the way it is in hero shooters—team numbers only mattered so much and it wasn't uncommon for teams with fewer players to still win.

Hero shooters feel so generic and it's largely companies chasing a trend where the goal is not to make a fun game, it's to find something players (seem to) like and monetizing the hell out of it.

TF2 wasn't flawless but it was built to be fun first, make money second. The foundation was laid when it was supposed to be an enjoyable game that people had to buy to play. It only became free-to-play later and ramped up on the cosmetics when it was F2P but it was still built around being an alternative to FPS games at the time.

There was only so far Valve could go when the foundations were set and there was an established playerbase that may not follow to a remake or stick with TF2 if the whole game was overhauled to focus on money.

Companies don't have those restrictions if they're building a game from scratch and don't even have a playerbase to consider.

Honestly have never truly understood the appeal of hero shooters. There’s something about the Overwatch/Battleborn/Concord/Apex formula that just doesn’t get me excited at all.

Maybe it’s the forced lore that’s not really present in-game because they want you attached to a character to sell cosmetics until the end of time.

Maybe it’s the heroes abilities which are a nightmare from a balance perspective, and I just generally dislike engaging with multiplayer metas.

Maybe extraction games are just ass because they always just devolve into death matching anyway.

A good example is Battlefield. The worst thing that ever happened to Battlefield was releasing Battlefield 2042 and making every character some quippy marvel-esque douche with a super specific skill. Early playtests from the new battlefield looks like it’ll be a return to form.

Anyway, down with hero shooters, we must return to the glory of Quake arenas and old-school team death match.

#it's like with the mmo boom and how suddenly a bunch of companies jumped on it because 'infinite income forever'#only to realize the playerbase is vocal but not big and those profits got a lot smaller when the ongoing costs were factored in #'cause you can't just drop an mmo and call it a day; players won't stick around if you do that #hero shooters have wider appeal and don't need as much ongoing development #dropping a map and new character once a year and a balance patch quarterly (if that) is easier and cheaper #than coming up with new story lines and/or whole new areas and/or whole new mechanics #which you kind of have to do since people were (presumably) paying monthly so if you wanted that to continue #you had to do something #hero shooters try to consume as much as your time in a similar way and punish you if you dare not play for a season or two #tf2 was built at a time where people bouncing between games was the norm/expected so you weren't really punished if you #went and played something else for a bit #yeah you might have missed out on a new map/new weapons/a holiday event but that was basically it #you could stop playing for years and come back and be where you were before #maybe with some rust and less options when it came to loadouts but you could jump right in #with hero shooters you have that plus missing battlepass(es) plus having your elo drop to the point you need to grind to have fun again

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oystermark · 4 months ago

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Mohawk Mark x M!Reader (Suggestive)

synopsis: you're the only man version of yourself across all mark universes, still, he seems to recognize you just fine.

A/N: i wanted to make this longer with sinister and no goggles mark but it has been almost a year since i wrote anything and i got really tired.. but i can take requests. having said that im sorry if this is shit, its been a while.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────

You sigh wearily as you drag your feet out of your bathroom, a towel wrapped around your hips as you use another one to dry your hair. It has been… a long week to say the least. Your boss decided that you’re the guy to pawn off every little responsibility to, you’ve been sitting on your office desk like a shrimp for weeks, you arch and crack your back with a satisfied moan.

You pick up your phone and toss the towel on your hand to your couch as your eyes drift to the news blaring on your TV.

“Multiple versions of Invincible have been spotted around the city—”

You feel your heart rate pick up as you look through your window without getting up from your seat, your instincts kicking in, though if one decides to come after you…

“Stay in your homes, stay hidden and stay safe, these dangerous vers–”

You turn off the TV with a sigh.

This… “Invincible” guy happens to be your childhood friend, also your first kiss at 13 when you were both nervous and he wanted to feel how it felt to kiss a guy and then high school happened and–

No. Stop.

Shit happens, life happens, people break off contact without meaning to all the time. Though, it does hurt when that person has been your friend since 3 years old, the person that shared his first kiss with you.

You can’t– don’t know what to call him now though, the last time you talked was… a year ago. For your birthday. He remembered that, surprisingly. Does he even still… look at guys that way, does he even remember–

This isn’t the time for this.

All this to say, in your professional opinion, none of the Mark’s would give a shit about you so you should be safe and sound. You don’t have anything to worry about.

You put your phone down and get up.

You hear the glass of your windows shatter before the sight registers in your mind. Your eyes shut, your arms defend your face as instincts kick in but you never feel the incoming cuts of the broken glass. Instead, the air is knocked out of your body as Mark slams you down on the floor with his body.

“What the fuck– You– hold up,” he sputtered as your gazes locked, yours is terrified while his turns from glee to…confusion?

He yanks you closer to his face by your chin with an iron grip as he looks you over,

“Well… it is you, huh. Just a dude now, though,” just as you finally think to say something he yanks you up from the floor and sits you down on the kitchen table –when did you even get here– and he saunters closer.

“Look at that, all ready for me too?” he coos, his eyes drifting to your —almost undone by now— towel, he steps closer, his hands planted on either side of your thighs, “did you know I was coming?” he snickered at his own immature joke.

“What– what the fuck are you doing here?”

You finally spoke and it felt like torture through your dry and constricted throat, your hoarse voice evidence of your nervousness. He cackles as his hand moves from where it was planted, to your ass and giving it a squeeze, his smirk widening when you let out a surprised gasp.

“Nice ass”

You don’t know what to do, you feel frozen, you could try to fight, punch, run, do something.

You’re frozen, either because of fear or because of how frayed your nervous system is from overworking for years that your body just gave up when being confronted with a fight or flight response and just deciding to freeze.

He pouts and squeezes your ass even tighter, making you groan in pain, “Come on babe, say something, I missed you– well, you weren’t a dude but, I know it’s you,” his other hand deciding to pinch and grope your thigh as he goes on, “I know you aren’t so boring, so c’mon, this is foreplay isn’t it? I bet you’re used to doing this shit all the time with your mark–”

He feels the impact of your punch on his throat, letting out a surprised but satisfied groan he looks you in the eyes, opening his mouth before you interrupt him with a glare, “I don’t know which version you are or whatever but me and ‘my’ mark don’t have anything to do with each other. Not...not for a long time,” finally hearing your voice, although hoarse, plus your glare and fuck that punch has him so fucking turned on already. He can feel the uncomfortable constriction of the suit becoming more and more prominent as you speak.

“Which means I’m not a leverage or a hostage to be used, I– I won’t give you any kind of advantage so just– please just—” your rambling gets interrupted by his lips latching onto your neck, you let out a whimper involuntarily as you try to push him off of you. Grabbing his hair –as much as you can anyway– you pull his head back with as much force as you can muster and headbutt him. Which goes as well as you’d expect. Your vision blurs and your ears ring, you can feel blood seeping from your nose as your ears finally register the exhilarated laugh.

“Yes, fuck! That’s it baby, give it to me, I can take it,” he cups your face with one hand as the other brings your bodies closer by his other hand on your ass, “let me show you what that little bitch boy could only dream of doing to you, what you’ve been missing out on,” you groan in pain as he plants a rough kiss on your lips, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip with very clear intention to draw blood.

#invincible #invincible x reader #invincible x male reader #invincible variants #invincible variants x reader #male reader #mark grayson x male reader #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson #mohawk mark #mohawk mark x reader

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teaeodora · 17 days ago

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"IN THIS HOUSE, THE WIFE REIGNS SUPREME! "

a/n: am i back? or perhaps this is a mere illusion..

synopsis: when faced with their wife's wrath, even the mightiest men of the land are forced to comply.

contents: small anecdotes, maybe ooc diluc because once again I am bad at writing him??? implied!female, whipped men (why not?) loser coded cuties scared of their wifes, mentions of pregnancy (wriothesley), swearing (mild), fluff, i blanked out mid way writing this but it is what it is and i find it cute, self indulgent.

not proof read.

DILUC !

Master Diluc was always in control. After all he ran the biggest winery in the entirety of Tevyat. Ledgers, Budgets, Circulation of goods, transactions, loans — this man could do it all.

On paper, he was the perfect husband. He was secure in himself, didn't take anyone's incompetence and preferred a quiet life with you. What more can a man desire?

However, as the saying goes - nothing is perfect. So having Kaeya, his stepbrother's continuous coercion into drinking was the imperfect part of his life. It was ironic really, being the owner of a winery, he held a distaste for alcohol and preferred grape juice.

Yet today he sat in his own tavern, one glass down. How had he come to this? How did he magically end up with one whole glass of wine in his system, coursing through his veins? He had no recollection.

He half heartedly listened to Kaeya and Rosaria's conversation when his ears caught another conversation. Two customers talked about having "wife" troubles and how they regret marrying so suddenly.

It was almost as if his tongue had gained consciousness of its own and the word fell out of Diluc's mouth, "As a man, if you only love one woman and then married her immediately—"

"Master Diluc" Kaeya tried. TRIED to stop this man.*

"...then you're truly foolish," Diluc finished. The silence that came next was merely the calm before the storm.

"Is that so?" the voice spoke up from behind. If anyone held the world record of sobering up in a matter of seconds- it would be Diluc Ragvinder right now.

"So..are you clever..or foolish for loving and cherishing me?" You leaned in, eyes radiating the clear sign— one wrong move and the celebrated Dark Knight Hero would be straight into his grave.

Diluc blinked once, twice- before stammering out in a fit of panic "uh..uh yes..yes ofcourse, I am foolish," he quickly admitted.

That may have saved him for the couch tonight but Kaeya was certainly not going to let him live this down.

ALHAITHAM !

Alhaitham never hid the fact that he disliked being the Acting Grand Sage. The only positive part of the circumstance was that he had access to all the documents and he could analyse them all he wanted and leverage them to his favour in the future. If needed.

Thing was, now he had to oversee twice as many workers of the Akademiya and it was twice as grating at his nerves. He'd rather be rejecting applications into the Akademiya for his own amusement than be a leader. He was clear with he wanted — peace, quiet and stable income. Rest? He didn't care enough or purposefully tuned it out.

He was been a slight hardass to the employees, critiquing their work, pointing out alignment issues on documentation, muttering something on the lines of a 12 slab long relic being easier to decipher than this utterly mind numbimg report submitted by one of the freshers. He couldn't take it and reallocated the guy to some other department.

Now the others were worried of meeting the same fate. So desperate times called for desperate measures. You.

Alhaitham sat that day in his office, feeling uneasy. Why did it feel like something bad was going to happen?

Click. Click. Click.

Oh, he'd recognised that sound anywhere.

"I have heard that you are being a hard ass...to the employees..." you stood near his desk, foot tapping in a rhythmic motion, screaming "You better have a logical explanation"

Alhaitham gulped. Gulped. His adam's apple bobbing up and down in subtle apprehension. "Look, it is just that their work isn't upto the mark—"

"Then instruct them instead of firing people and causing terror."

Alhaitham was the Acting Grand Sage. He was the highest authority. He held dominance over every operation. However, domestic operations seemed to be the one field where he seemed to be rendered helpless at.

WRIOTHESLEY !

Fontaine, the land of mechas, tea parties, elegant dresses, and ofcourse downpours.

The bakery was warm, contrary to the cold weather outside, full of delightful scents of baked bread, steaming buns, delectable cookies and much more. The owner smiled to themselves, cleaning the top of glass display, content with what they had established.

The bell rang, signaling someone entering the bakery. Who in their right mind would come in this downpour? The owner took the appreance of the man soaked from head to toe, his black hair damp and a bit flattened, the overcoat hanging off his shoulders seemed heavy and dripped with water. His boots thudded against the floor as he approached the counter.

"...Your Grace!?" The owner sputtered at the sight of the Duke of the Meropide, a man who was as illusive as they came. "What brings you here?" The owner couldn't help but ask, seeing the man who braved the storm and was now in his store.

"I need your sweetest baked good. And please, stuff it with extra chocolate. Extra means extra. The Duke emphasied on the extra part.

"Yes but...if you don't mind me asking, why are you out here in such a weather?"

"Because my wife is craving something sweet. And that's an order as far as I know it," the Duke laughed, both from amusement and the fear of being murdered in cold blood by a woman 27 weeks into pregnancy.

"Oh."

"Oh indeed."

Wriothesley returned 30 minutes later, both proud and tired, "here love I got you the—"

You looked at him and sheepishly grinned "um i actually want your spicy BBQ ribs..."

...

Someone end him please.

NEUVILLETTE !

Neuvillette scribbled at the paperwork that piled up on his desk. Admistrative reforms, trade permits, policy amendment suggestions, court cases...

Tick tock tick tock

He glanced at the time. It was 8:30. He had strict orders to return home by 9. Non negotiable. After all his lovely wife said she would prep the best dinner date for the both of them and had been looking forward to it the entire week.

He couldn't help but smile the memory of her smile, her excited words as she explained her plans for the date, the different things she'd bake. It made his heart flutter. Neuvillette was a person unable to feel things — his position as the Chief Justice demanded that from him. Yet amidst all that, he enjoyed having a small space of comfort and familiarity he had created for himself. Just you and him. Nothing else.

Problem was—

8:35

"Monsieur Neuvillette, you've got these letters, some from the nobles, few from the common public." Sedene, the melusine receptionist reported, placing the heap of letters on his table.

8:40

"Monsieur, have you reviewed the case files for tomorrow? The board is asking for it." Sedene asked, waiting as he got up to retrieve the files.

He sighed, satisfied that he was finished with his duties for today. Now he could organize his space and still have time to get back home—

8:45.

"Monsieur! This needs your immediate approval! Its about amendment demands in the overseas trades by the foreign envoy"

Neuvillette wanted to pinch his nose. Seriously? How is it that the moment he fathoms the thought of some leisure...work finds its way to him? He was desperate to leave.

"Please tell them that my work hours are over and to come back in the morning." Neuvillette politely said.

"But they are not listening Monsieur—"

...sigh guess he had no choice.

He knew you would be furious. After all, he was 30 whole minutes later. Not one minute, not two but 30. As expected you were furious and it made fear and nervousness creep up his spine. The Iudex was a man of utmost authority. His judgement was absolute and his confidence was resolute.

Yet, all seemed to combust at the sight of you.

"Why?"

"Stubborn foreign envoy" he replied curtly, not beating around the bush.

You nodded before chuckling at his serious expression. "Relax honey, I am not going to skewer you with a fork."

Neuvillette exhaled in relief, "Thank god. Though I sincerely apologise my love."

"Oh no need. Just your company is enough" you smiled before going back to reheating the food.

Neuvillette didn't believe in falling in love twice. But hell he just did. With the same person that he devoted his heart to from the start.

ZHONGLI !

"Honey, you're going out, yes?' You called out to Zhongli, who was finishing up getting ready for the day.

"Yes dear," Your husband replied in a deep opulent tone, enough to make your knees buck every single time.

"Please get milk, eggs and meat on your way back...we are out of it and I won't be able to make stew with just vegetables," You peeped out from the kitchen. He smiled, "ofcourse. I'll be back by noon."

Zhongli had impeccable memory. He could recall every moment of every war from millenias ago. Yet a small voice nagged at his brain. He was forgetting something. What was he forgetting?

"Director Hu, am I forgetting something?"

Hu tao turned around, looking utterly baffled, "you? Forgetting something? That's impossible Zhongli."

Zhongli thought for a bit more before agreeing. Yeah, he never forgot anything. Maybe it was just him overthinking...

If only he had listen to all the alarms that warned him for what was about to come.

"I am home" Zhongli announced softly, taking off his shoes and stepping into the house.

"Welcome back!" You greeted him with the same warm smile the Lord of Contracts had grown to love. In his eyes, not even the mostly radiant Cor Lapis could match your radiance.

Then the dreaded question came.

"Did you get the groceries?"

pause. visible sweat drop.

So that was what he forgot.

"Um.." Zhongli sheepishly scratched at his cheek,* "...it seemed to have slipped my mind. You see dear, Director Hu needed my help with the funeral preparations and then Childe accompanied me to this ancient artifact stall where they were selling rather intriguing pieces—"

"So, you forgot groceries but bought artifacts?"

"..."

And for the first time in a thousand centuries, Deus Auri had to stare at a dinner full of artifacts after his beloved reprimanded him, saying "since artifacts are so important, might as well satisfy your hunger with them too."

a/n : IT IS FINALLY OUT. THIS HAS BEEN IN MY DRAFTS SINCE LAST YEAR AKANDOAUDS I had such a fun time writing this- and giggled so much. So i hope you giggled too. Have a good day/night smoochies my loves.

creds: @teaeodora , banner creds : hoyoverse

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