#say to keep them. then toggle them back on | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

inkedtae · 8 months ago

Text

between roar and whisper ⇾ bgc. [M]

⎡ Your passion for him toggles between a roar and whisper. He’s not satisfied until your eyes roll. ⎤

⌁ pairing; slytherin!chan x gryffindor!reader (f.)

⌁ genre; hogwarts au, pwp, e2l, some angst, smut, 18+

⌁ word count; 9.4k

⌁ summary; the princess of gryffindor has no business lurking around the dungeons, other than to destroy the demon of slytherin that is… or so she thought…

⌁ warnings; mentions and brief depictions of an abusive relationship, mentions of alcohol, dom!chan, brat!reader (reader is thicc), infidelity, sir kink, size kink, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, rough sex, bondage, humiliation, overstimulation, degradation, dirty talk, clit worship, fingering, choking, light rimming, squirting, gagging, spanking, tit slapping, cum play, spit play, anal play

⌁ 🎧 now playing... ✩

» prefer ao3? keep reading here

» a huge thanks to jen ( @itaeewon ) for making this amazing banner for me, and my amazing beta-readers, who i owe a million hugs to for making this fic readable, jen ( @anobodyslove ), stardust ( @skzdust ), and nephele ( @jisungchan )

⟶ please note that, despite still attending Hogwarts, all characters are of consenting age

Lumos.

The tip of your sycamore wand glows against the dungeon walls. It smells of murky roses and still saltwater. Your face scrunches in disgust as the bitter notions settle upon your tongue. You resist the urge to gag, walking down the long corridor. You duck under hanging cobwebs and try to ignore the scurry of rats along the edge of the stone floors.

Did he guide you down hidden tunnels as some sick joke?

“Meet me by the prefect’s lavatories around midnight,” he’d said, tonguing his cheek and raking his gaze over your frame.“We’ll discuss a truce then.”

You’re not interested in a truce. You just need to obtain proof of his misconduct and abuse of power. After tonight, the Headmistress will think twice about dismissing your accusations of cheating and bribery. Maybe, she’ll stop turning away your owls as well. You’re not certain you can stomach the humiliation of receiving another returned letter in the middle of the crowded common room.

It all ends tonight.

The lying, the cheating, the complete disregard for anyone but himself— you’re tired of it. You just want to experience one day without students nagging you in the common room or great hall or even during class about his destructive behaviour. Despite telling the students countless times to approach the prefects and head-pupils, the responsibility always gets tossed back to you. The prefects claim they can’t risk their positions by making serious accusations against a fellow member of their staff.

“You’re the only one with a credible enough reputation to be taken seriously,” Nayeon, the head-girl, once told you.

You might just scream at the next person who says that to you.

The end of the corridor presents a ladder. As you are about to take hold of the wood, a black, fury insect makes itself known. You slightly squeal at the sight, jump back.

“I’m gonna kill him,” you mutter before flicking your wand to magically shake the spider, and any other crawling critters, off. Begrudgingly, you begin your ascent up the ladder.

Alohomora.

The latch unlocks. You grunt, pushing open the door. It falls onto the floor with a loud thump. You freeze, shoulders to your ears, hoping no one has heard. When only silence replies, you climb through with a soft grunt. Kicking the door shut, you brush off your clothes and resist the urge to shudder at the thought of one of those bugs finding themselves on you.

“You can just take those off,” a deep voice says, tone dripping in arrogance.“You won’t need them in here.”

Moonlight seeps through stain-glass windows, cascading upon an all too handsome face. However, the room is primarily illuminated by a warm glow of candles levitating above. Under the orangish flicker of the lights, he sits in a grand foam-topped bath. His wet hair is slicked back, eyes dancing with mischief as he tilts his head to observe you. You swallow thickly at the sight of his bare chest and those strong arms, leaning back against the rim of the porcelain green tub.

Vermilion vanilla and smoked sandalwood saturate the room, emerging from bubbles that float out of the foam and burst around you. The sweet taste is on the tip of your tongue. Intoxicating your senses, the scent ripples into your subconscious, unravelling a memory from Potions class weeks ago.

Professor Hylithe purposely paired Gryffindors with Slytherins, forcing you to sit by him despite your many protests.

He flashed that same smirk, cocked that same brow and teased, “I won’t bite,” only to lean in and whisper, “unless you ask nicely.”

The moment he inched closer that musky vanilla scent invaded your senses. Your eyes watered; breath almost hitched as you held it. Still, you didn’t want to exhale it too soon, wishing to inject it into your bloodstream.

The same urge tugs at your senses now, electrifying your nerves with a desire to lean into his masculine scent of comfort and stability.

“Don’t be shy,” he goads, pulling you out of your thoughts.

You roll your eyes. “Get your ass out here, Bahng.”

“I'd rather bang in here.”

You can tell by the smirk playing on his lips he’s proud of himself. You fight off a chuckle, sucking in your cheeks.

“You picked now to bathe?” you ask as you climb up the steps of the bath.

He shrugs, averting his gaze to twirl his fingers between the bubbles. “It’s hard to find the time when I’m constantly being summoned to the Headmistress’s office.”

So, she has been getting your owls. You try to mask your relief, crossing your arms over your chest. His attention lingers on the gesture. You knew there was an ulterior motive to his sudden talks of peace. If you continue to expose his impropriety, he might be revoked of his prefect privileges.

“Maybe if you stopped being an ass and started following the rules, instead of bending them for your cockroach friends and girls you’d like to bed, you would be able to fit whatever you want in your schedule.”

He smirks. “Am I sensing a hint of jealousy?”

You mock his smile. “I have a boyfriend.”

Rolling his shoulders back, he breathes a humourless chuckle. “Right, what was his name again? Jake?”

“Jim.”

“Whatever,” he hisses. “Hell of a quidditch player.”

You tentatively nod.

“Heard he has a tendency to be a beater off the field as well.”

Shifting your weight, you shake your head. “Are you unfamiliar with the concept of a rumour, Bahng?”

“That’s not exactly denial, is it?”

Lips dry, you take a moment to lick them and swallow thickly.

No one understands Jim— no one tries to, anyway. He’s thoughtful when it counts and nearly always caring. He’s just protective of those he cherishes. He allows you permission to hang out with your friends because he wants to ensure that you’ll be safe no matter where you are. And you like it when your boyfriend has input on your clothes. You’re so used to wearing a uniform, sometimes you forget how a proper woman is supposed to dress— that’s what Jim tells you. He is always here to remind you because he cares. He made that very clear himself.

Yes, maybe sometimes he becomes so passionate he cannot think straight, but it’s not intentional. He’s filled with so many emotions, it’s hard to contain them all at once. Besides, he always makes it up to you, showering you with cuddles, kisses, and your favourite chocolate frogs. He’s completely capable of being a gentleman.

“He just has a temper,” you reply, voice quavering. You clear your throat before adding, “I’ve heard that you do as well. Aren’t you dubbed the Demon of Slytherin?”

A smile tugs on his full lips at the mention of the title. “Not with the people I care about,” he clarifies.

“Well, look at that,” you tease. “I didn’t think you cared about anyone other than yourself.”

He thumbs the corner of his mouth, tongue poking against his bottom lip. “Come in and I’ll enlighten you a bit more.”

You raise an unimpressed brow. “We’re here for peace-talks,” you remind.

“And I’m not talking until you get in here.”

He can’t be serious.

You scoff, glaring. That usual smirk is nowhere to be seen. He maintains your gaze, expressionless. The only movement is the constant clenching and unclenching of his jaw as he waits.

“I can look away if you’d like,” he taunts, the lightest impression of a smile on his lips.

He really isn’t serious, you realise. He’s only toying with you, mocking your known tendencies to be a straight-edged, highly academic student. He thinks you’re some prudent angel who condemns all excitement and never dares to laugh out loud in public.

Gritting your teeth, you grab onto the hem of your sweater and pull it over your head. The way his brows shoot up only fuels your defiance. With every button you undo, his jaw loosens a bit more. You watch his throat bob at the sight of your satin pink bra and hear his breath hitch when you pull it off.

His dazed gaze follows your hands around the zipper of your short, pleated skirt. A part of you wishes you had matched your panties with your bra solely for the sake of consistency, but the baby-blue cotton will have to do.

He roams his eyes over your curves as you flick off your shoes and socks before meeting yours once more. You gather your hair, inhaling and exhaling slowly under his careful watch, and tie it back into a sloppy but tight bun. Big, brown, and once boastful, his eyes now swim with notions of marvelled intrigue.

As you take a step into the bath, you notice he neatly folded his clothes on the edge of the tub, flicking your attention between him and his precious clothes. Then, you hold his gaze, plaster your sweetest smile, and push them into the water.

He raises his brows, about to object when you say, “That’s for being a pompous ass.”

He tries to hide his smile with a bite of his lip.

Your knees wobble as you continue to wade through water and foam. Perhaps it’s the warmth of the bath, or the cover of bubbles, but the reality of the situation has finally dawned on you. Shedding your garments one by one, you have stripped your inhibitions in front of the most cunning douchebag you’ve ever been blessed to meet. What if he tells his friends? What if he embellishes the events and turns you into a conquest?

What if Jim finds out?

“What happens here stays between us,” he suddenly announces, as if reading your mind. “Not even the ghosts will know.”

“How can I be sure?”

“I’m not uncivilised, princess,” he smirks. “I have my honour.”

You pause, waiting for the glint in his eyes that often follows the delivery of his vicious jokes. Instead, sincerity swirls in those brown eyes. You wonder if perhaps you’re a fool because you believe him.

You take a seat to his left, maintaining a more-than-respectable distance. Collecting extra clusters of bubbles, you arrange them before your full chest. You’ve made your point, you tell yourself. And he’s seen far more than Jim ever has— both must never know.

“I can’t hear you from there.”

“You can hear me just fine.”

“What?”

You lean your head back with an exasperated sigh. “Merlin give me strength,” you mutter before inching a bit closer.

He tsks, beckoning you towards him with a curl of his fingers.

You comply, drawing nearer and nearer. When he continues to summon you closer, even at an arm’s length away, you lightly splash him.

“This is close enough,” you spit.

From the way he smiles, you realise he was trying to see how close he could get you. Jaw tight, you shake your head.

“Can you be serious for two minutes?” you ask, voice sharp. “We shouldn’t even be up this late. We have a Transfigurations quiz tomorrow.”

Confusion furrows his brows. “No, we don’t.”

You try not to smile at the way he speaks, accent thickest when he’s perplexed.

“Every second Thursday at nine, we get a pop quiz on the last two chapters,” you explain. “If you paid attention to anyone but yourself, you’d know that.”

“I don’t think anyone but you knows that,” he replies through a chuckle.

He can see the pride flash in your eyes, spreading onto your lips through a little smile— you know he can. He mirrors the expression, and you expected it to be another instance of mockery. However, upon the absence of that mischievous glint in his eye, you’re inclined to believe that he might actually mean it.

Is he proud of you for being so observant, so keen?

You hold your breath as he reaches over to move a strand of hair from your face. He tucks it behind your ear, then gently traces your jaw. You gulp a nervous lump down your throat.

Holding your chin between the edge of his finger and thumb, he quietly asks, “You want to be serious?”

You slowly nod.

“Tell me why the Princess of Gryffindor is dating a leach.”

“Why do you care?”

“Satisfy my curiosity.”

Why is the thought of satisfying him not completely revolting?

He’s a liar, a charming hustler. He has, somehow, slithered his way into everyone’s good graces, always getting what he wants, when he wants it. He gives absolutely no thought to the regulations either, sneaking his way around every rule and blaming it all on your fellow Gryffindors. It’s infuriating. You’re much more witty, much quicker than him. You’re a better quidditch player too, and, if he hadn’t manipulated Madame Hooch into making him the star-player of the season, you would have easily secured that title.

So, why, after all the trouble he has caused you, does the mere mention of his satisfaction exhilarate you?

You move to release yourself from his touch, but he holds you tighter, forcing you to maintain eye contact. Clenching your jaw, you inhale sharply through your nostrils. Your eyes narrow.

He flickers his attention to your scowl, thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

You exhale carefully, cautious not to press your mouth against his touch. “Some say being with Jim makes me the princess,” you confess.

He tongues his cheek.

“You don’t agree?”

“When I look at you, all I see is royalty,” he softly says, voice steady and deep. “And I can assure you that has nothing to do with him.”

“I’ve known him forever,” you try again.

He arches a brow. “You’ve known him for a little over a year,” he corrects. “You’ve known me forever.”

He’s right; you really have known him forever. The memory of him on the train on your very first day of school, sitting in the compartment across from yours, resurfaces.

He was just some snot-nosed thirteen year old, supervising his loud friends as they arm wrestled. He caught you staring and winked.

You gagged in disgust.

He’s a flirt, you remind yourself. And you mustn’t forget that there’s a catch to this line of questioning.

You tear yourself out of his grasp, hardening your gaze. “You’re not going to worm your way out of this conversation, Bahng. Tell me what it’s going to take.”

He settles back against the tub, rolling his shoulders. “What’s the point? You’ll never do it.”

You pause, attention flitting down to where the foam gathers by his waist.

Is he… big, you can’t help wondering.

The dark chuckle tumbling from his full lips reminds you of your annoyance. Gulping, you muster your most disgusted sneer and glare at him.

He’s shameless.

“You sicken me,” you spit.

That little chuckle manifests into a full, deep laugh. His pretty eyes twinkle with mischief as he tongues his cheek.“You’re so dirty,” he teasingly chastises.

You don’t mean to shiver, but he shoots you a suggestive look and suddenly you feel hot.

“All you have to do is ask me nicely.”

Brows knitted, you scoff. “I’ve asked you hundreds of times.”

“You’ve demanded,” he corrects. “Besides, I didn’t like your tone.”

You could smack him right now. You could push a wave of water in his face, disorienting him for a moment so he doesn’t see your hand wind back, and hit him upside the head. Clenching your fist, jaw tight, you fight against the urge.

A jeering smirk tugs on the corner of his lips. He’s reaping all too much amusement from your misery.

Inhaling deeply, you swallow your pride and begin, “I was wond—”

“Sir.”

“What?”

“Start with ‘Sir’.”

You scoff.

“You want me to stop, right?” he asks, voice dripping with condescension.

You’ve never been more thankful for the amount of foam floating amongst you. Your thighs press together tightly at his tone, almost quivering under the water’s surface. You don’t think you’d be able to walk away so haughty and moral if he could see just how much his charm could potentially sway you.

“Sir,” you pointedly add, “I was wondering if you would please find it in your poor little excuse of a heart to stop terrorising my housemates?”

He hisses, squinting and tilting his head. “I’m detecting sarcasm.”

“I’m detecting bullshit.”

A look of mocked condemnation colours his face. “Now, now, princess. Didn’t I tell you to ask nicely?”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Everyone calls you that.”

“Not like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I belong to you.”

What an interesting reality that would be— calling someone like him your boyfriend. Walking with him to class, letting him hold your books, or play with your hair, or adore the outfits you pick out and practise flying together. The images conjure themselves so clearly in your brain, you could’ve sworn they were memories. Even holding his hand would make your legs weak.

All wicked notions of mockery fade within a blink. There’s a crease between his brows and his eyes narrow, but they are not full of taunting amusement nor unruly mischief. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think they’re full of pity.

“You’re not property to possess,” he affirms, tone disparaging as if the thought is unnatural. “You’re an idol of worship.”

“How blasphemous,” you joke, playing along.

He does not laugh. Sucking in his cheeks, brows furrowed and head shaking, he redirects his gaze to the bubbles in front of him. You watch his jaw flex, throat bob. Even the candles, floating above, dim and cast shadows over his handsome face.

“I’ll see what I can do about keeping Gryffindors out of trouble,” he suddenly concedes, shifting his arms off the edge of the tub for the first time. They disappear under water as he continues, “You’re going to have to warn them against bothering Slytherins though.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

What is that voice?

Usually light, laced with arrogance and mischief, his voice floats like a sweet melody, only to land sharper than a blade. Now it is plagued with melancholia. Slow, raspy, he almost sounds defeated, like he’s given up.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

“Nothing.”

Your face folds into confusion. Tilting your head, you let out a breathy chuckle. “I have known you forever, Bahng. And I know that you are a man of very pretty words, the prettiest sometimes.”

He casts you a sidelong glance, quirking a brow as a smile hovers over his lips.

You ignore his giant ego and continue, “One word answers are not in your arsenal, unless they’re lethal.”

“Your point?”

“Something is bothering you.”

“Why do you even care?” He sighs, finally meeting your gaze.

You resist a smirk. “Satisfy my curiosity?”

Conceit has no place on his face. A soft smile settles, caressing his features with genuine astonishment. Perhaps it wasn’t what you said, tossing his words back at him. But rather how you said it. Uncertain, perhaps even slightly cheeky, you posed it as a question. Your right shoulder came up to your cheek, and voice slightly pitched.

He lets out a chuckle. Parting his lips, you think he might finally express himself. He shakes his head, looking down instead.

“All this because you promised not to trouble me anymore?”

He shuts his eyes, bites his lip. You hear him inhale sharply, watch him release his lip to glide his tongue over his teeth. His jaw tenses then he meets your gaze. Cold, annoyed, he regards you with scrutiny.

“When have you ever been in trouble because of me?” he asks, voice so level, it makes you tremble. “When your friends were called to the Headmistress’s office two weeks ago, were you asked to join them?”

How the hell does he know about that? The Headmistress reassured Jim and the rest of your friends that the professor who witnessed the drunken broom-rides around the courtyard would not share it with the other pupils. She gave them a month’s worth of detention and praised you for not partaking in their shenanigans.

“Who do you think was on duty that night?” he questions. “Who do you think sent you that signal from the astronomy tower? Who do you think convinced the Headmistress that you were safely tucked in bed, unaware of the fact that your little leach stole your broom?”

The blood drains from your face.

“Do you even know what that toad said when the Headmistress questioned your involvement?”

You shake your head.

“He told her that it was your idea. That you were the one who smuggled the alcohol from some secret passage you found near Honeydukes. He told her that you were the one that woke him up and begged him to come out with you. He cried.” His voice simmers with fury, quiet and steady, as he draws nearer. You press your back against the tub. “He babbled like a baby and dragged your character through the mud.”

You crank your head back to maintain eye contact. You’re careful not to take a full breath, hoping your breasts don’t brush against his chest. However, you swear the tips of your hardened nipples still graze his skin. The possible contact fogs your brain. You blink to force yourself to remain focused, trying to register his words, the implication of betrayal they reveal.

“But he told me—”

“He’s a fucking liar,” he seethes. His gaze bounces around your face, as if suddenly aware of your proximity. Attention lingering on your lips, he confesses, “I’ve shattered reputations to keep you out of trouble. So I have to ask, ____, when have you ever gotten in trouble because of me?”

You part your lips to mention the onslaught of complaints you receive daily due to his insolence, but it all seems meaningless now. Why would someone known as the Demon of Slytherin shatter reputations for you? He doesn’t seem very sentimental, yet he lied for your sake.

Going for a late night fly in the courtyard really was your idea. You had too much coffee one night, trying to stay up long enough to finish your report on the history of alchemy due the next morning. Having finished your scroll earlier than you thought, still buzzing with energy, you suggested a broom race to your friends.

Jim heard you talking about it the next morning, and scolded you for being so thoughtless. He woke you up that night, ordering you and your roommates to get out of bed and join his friends for a race. Your roommates eventually brushed him off, but his grasp on your arm left no room for refusal.

You were made aware of the alcohol, or rather its influence, when you witnessed Monroe fly face-first into the side of the castle.

“I’m going to bed,” you said. You dismounted to hurry inside when Jim caught hold of your robes.

“We’re not done,” he sneered, pulling you towards him. You held your breath, knowing it wouldn’t end well if you reacted to the stench of whisky seeping from his mouth. “Did you leave your little friends out here when you flew with them?”

A bright green flare suddenly shot up from the astronomy tower. Jim loosened his grip to marvel at the sight with his friends.

You took the opportunity to slip away, rushing back to your dorm.

Blinking out of your memories, you watch as he pulls himself away, returning to his previous place in the tub. He sits back against the porcelain, wet arms resting on the edge.

You bite your lip at the sight of his glistening muscles. You’re not sure when he got so big, coming back to school a couple of years ago with broad shoulders and a buff chest.

Leaning his head back, he shuts his eyes and mutters, “Towels are by the steps.”

It’s time to go.

So why can’t you move?

Your legs tremble, wrinkled fingers twisting in your lap. Stand up, you tell yourself. Stand up, dry off, get dressed and leave the way you came.

Why would he lie for you, you can’t stop wondering. Why would he warn you before sending professors to detain your disorderly friends? Wouldn’t he gain more by diminishing your credibility?

This must be one of his games. He’s agreed to a house truce, but perhaps he merely wants to channel his deviant tendencies onto you.

You study his features at the thought. Though his eyes are closed, head still titled back against the edge, his jaw is tight. He grinds his teeth like he’s trying to swallow profanities. You shift your attention to his hands, large and vein-laced. His knuckles are white from how tightly he clenches them.

Could he perhaps be— No! The Demon of Slytherin would find that laughable. Of course, he’s not interested in you. It’s all a game. It must be.

“Why aren’t you leaving?”

You lick your lips. “Why did you lie for me?”

The candles flicker.

“You know why.”

“I really don’t.”

He tongues his cheek. You bite back a shameful moan.

“It’s the same reason why you refuse to say my name.”

You gulp. “Bahng,” you reply only for him to chuckle.

He peeks a sidelong glance at you before laughing some more and shutting his eyes. “You’re cute when you’re in denial.”

“Are you capable of giving me a straight answer?”

“Yes.”

You roll your eyes. He’s really going to make you say it. How did he even know you’ve been avoiding it? Has he been eavesdropping on your conversations with your friends? It’s not as though it means anything serious anyway. You just can’t get used to his name on your tongue. You’ve uttered it once in the Great Hall to one of your friends and hatefully realised that you in fact like how it sounds.

However, that cannot mean that you like him. It just means that you might be inclined to tolerate him as a classmate, or perhaps even an occasional friend. He’s not entirely horrible. He’s never late. He’s never raised his voice at his friends, and you are all too aware of how loud they can be. He has an easy smile. He’s clever. He’s athletic. He would be a dedicated, determined, devoted boyfri—.

“Oh my god,” you whisper.

He sits up, rolling his neck. “You’re pretty slow for one of the top students of your year,” he taunts.

You should be insulted, absolutely disgusted that Bahng, the cunning Demon of Slytherin, has a crush on you. You should swear at him, splash him in the face with the foamy water and storm out just as you should have when he asked you to call him ‘sir.’

However, you find that your heart beats faster, breath already ragged. You find that you inch closer, flitting your gaze between his eyes and lips. You find that you do not want to hurl your dinner nor any other insults you usually have locked and loaded when you see him in the halls.

Panic surges through you at the realisation that maybe… maybe you might like him too.

“I have a boyfriend!” you suddenly announce, though you’re not quite sure who you’re trying to remind.

His voice is tempered, gaze knowing as he replies, “I’m not forcing you to stay, princess.”

I have a boyfriend.

“And if I do?” you ask as he scans your features. “Would you tell him?”

I have a boy.

“No one will know,” he repeats.

I have a friend?

“Promise?”

I have… I have…

“I vow to you my honour and dignity.”

You reach for him, finding that he is already moving towards you. Lips latch. A whirlwind of wonder circles from the pit of your stomach, flooding your chest with desire. Febrile, fierce, the force seers his name into your flesh, pumps his breath through your lungs.

Ch-ris, Ch-ris, Ch-ris, your heart beats.

Your tongue fails to keep up with his, swirling and twirling to eventually give into his guidance. You just need him closer, grappling onto his large shoulders. Arching your back, you shove your chest against his.

His hands find their place on your waist. He hugs you against him, his hammering heart beating as one with your own. It’s so natural, so quick, the way your bodies find a rhythm, congruently propelling excitement.

And then it slips, distinct amongst the shared panting, “Chris.”

You feel his hands slide down to your thighs and tighten their grip. Letting out a little squeal, you clutch onto his shoulders as he swiftly lifts you atop the thick edge of the tub.

Chris stands between your legs. A little voice is screaming at you to push him away, but you find yourself leaning back, further spreading yourself for him.

It seems to be all the confirmation he needs to advance. His hands trail up along your thick thighs. He gropes at the flesh, watching your brows furrow and lips quiver. His thumb presses against your clit.

Your legs tremble, water rippling where your feet still dangle beneath the surface.

Chris smirks. He circles the bundle of nerves, eyeing your features as they succumb to the gentle pleasure. Licking your lips, you resist the urge to buckle your hips into his hand, body tensing.

“Yeah,” he coos, rubbing your thigh. “You like that, princess?”

Before you can reply, he dives his head between your legs. His lips latch around your clit, sucking harshly. Your breath hitches, stifling your moans in the base of your throat.

His tongue presses between your folds. The warm, wet sensation itself triggers a whiny moan, but the growl that rumbles from the deep crevices of his chest has you gripping onto his head.

Chris is famished. He laps at your clenching hole, slurping on your desire with vigorous determination. He wraps his arms around the undersides of your full thighs and feasts. He shakes his head with a deep groan. You knew you liked that big nose of his for a reason, moaning loudly as he nuzzles against your clit.

Hips roll into lips. You tremble. His grip tightens as his tongue pushes through. Fingers tangled in his hair, you gasp a moan and pathetically move your body against his face.

Chris pins you in place. He has a pace set, a steady in-and-out rhythm, that does not require any assistance.

It’s brutal.

Fast and rough, he tongues your gushing pussy, further smothering his nose against your bundle of nerves. The ongoing groans he emits do not ease the intensity of his passion, vibrating against your sex.

“Fu-ck,” you choke out, squirming over his tongue.

You think he might drown in you but then he replaces his tongue with rougher fingers. Your arousal glistens over his chin and cheeks under the wavering candlelight. Ardent eyes hold your desperate ones. You have trouble focusing on the emotion flooding his gaze as his fingers curl within you.

You’ve felt your high growing for a while, but have not been so distressed by its presence before this moment. You grip onto the edge, eyes fluttering shut as your hips rush up to meet his fingers.

Chris darkly chuckles. “No, no, no, no, open your eyes, princess,” he coaxes, pace becoming more aggressive. “Look at how well you fuck my fingers.”

Your lip quivers as you focus your attention downward. Your body has a mind of its own, rolling desperately up to his hand. It’s pitiful, really— the avidity, the urgency, the willingness you display at the mere curl of his fingers, pressing the most perfect spot over and over. You haven’t even been able to find it while trying to pleasure yourself. And the couple of times you’ve allowed Jim to attempt to fuck you, you were more eager to finish than to begin.

A weak moan escapes you as you meet Chris’s cocky gaze. You never want this end, shameless in your realisation. You never want him to leave, never want to stop gawking at his handsome features as his fingers unravel your worries.

“C-can,” you start, pussy clenching tightly around his digits. “Can I pl-ease c-cum, sir?”

His eyes darken. Jaw tight, he wraps a hand around your throat.

You meant to gasp, but an embarrassingly erotic moan tears through his hold instead. It spurs him on, his pace becoming unmanageable. The bath around him thrashes from the force of his strong arm.

His fist tightens around your neck. Your needy moans shatter.

“Cum on my fingers, pretty girl,” he whispers.

You must confess that you might have cum whether or not he gave you permission, the urge undeniable. Undone in mere seconds, you throw your head back. Your body quakes, hole clenching sporadically as you gush and gush. Your hips eventually still. Your legs tremble as your orgasm shudders through you. For a second, you feel the room spin. Blood rushes up to your head, disorienting your senses.

“That’s a good girl,” he purrs.

If you’ve been so good, why hasn’t he stopped? His fingers, while slowing down, still maintain a steady force. His hand still grips around your throat, choking all your high pitched whines as your orgasm washes over you.

“C-Chris?” you shakily ask once you sit up again.

A sparkle of sinister satisfaction winks in his gaze.

You swallow thickly, hips shifting to escape the ongoing pleasure. “Chris,” You firmly repeat before releasing the edge of the tub and gripping onto his wrist. “Chris, please.”

Your efforts are useless, his force much stronger than yours.

“Don’t you wanna cum?”

“I d-id,” you whine. “I c-came, sir, please.”

A pleased growl rumbles from his chest at the title.

Pride sprouts in your stomach, or perhaps it’s another orgasm? It gathers around your clit. You furrow your brows at the sensation, pussy now clenching around his fingers tighter than before. Your release usually knots and twists under your stomach, threatening to gush between the sporadic tensing.

You think you might need to urinate this time, however. The thought rushes blood to your cheeks.

“Chris,” you try to warn.

Tongue licking the corner of his mouth, Chris raises a knowing brow. He smiles devilishly.

Does he know? Does he care?

You don’t have time to find out, letting go of his wrist to grab back onto the edge. Your hips freeze, body rigid as another wave of pleasure overwhelms you. Moans trickle out through sobs, the blissful gratification becoming all too much.

Hand shifting from your throat to your waist, Chris holds you steady and pulls out his fingers to a spray of your orgasm. He does not recoil at the splash, but further coaxes it as his fingers rush flat over your clit.

Your body does not feel like your own, overridden with galvanising pleasure. Senses lost, you don’t realise the damage you’re on the verge of causing. Writhing, a pitched, loud scream splits through the swashing of the bath and splatter of your release from the depths of your lungs. Perhaps your vision is foggy, but you swear you catch the stain-glass windows tremor.

Chris ceases his harsh ministrations. He’s stifling his laughter as he pulls you back into the bath. His hand clamps over your mouth— your whines even louder at the sudden halt of satisfaction.

“Sh, sh, sh,” he soothes as you crank your neck back to look up at him.

Though, mind still hazy, you cannot help wondering if he likes the image of you beneath him or if this is simply the best position to silence you.

Why not both, you can almost hear him reply.

Chris must see some sort of dialogue in your eyes because he narrows his own. “Do you want to get caught? Is that why you screamed?” He removes his hand from your mouth, only to trace it with his thumb. “You want your precious house to see this— see me between your legs?”

You cannot help your smirk, quirking your brow. “You do look good there.”

“Yeah?” he asks, breath fanning over your lips.

When you nod, he smiles, the curve of his lips so devastatingly beautiful you wonder how on Earth you ever denied him for so long.

“As good as you’d look gagged?”

You furrow your brows, about to question him when you feel it. Wet silk slithers along your arm, looping around your bicep and up your shoulder. Green and silver, you watch as his tie travels around your neck, slightly tightening— teasing.

When you meet Chris’s gaze once more, you find they glow with rapturous lust. How long has he thought about this, about you? Does he spend his nights with the image of you at his mercy, mouth bound? Does he crave it when you sass him?

You part your lips to accommodate the tie, holding his gaze. As it loops into a tight knot behind your head, Chris tenderly takes your hands and guides them to your back. The same cool, wet sensation of silk begins to bind your wrists. It must be your Gryffindor tie. The irony is not lost on you. You felt bound by your house to see him and now he has bound you by your house to fuck you. It’s clever, admirable— already more stimulating than attempting to cum at the clueless hands of your boyfriend.

“Do you trust me?” he asks again. It’s like he cannot believe it himself.

“Foolishly,” you tease between the gag.

He smirks, caressing your chin.

“Completely,” you add. Whatever playfulness once twinkled in your eyes, fades into seriousness. “Undoubtedly.”

That’s enough, your pride warns.

“Desperately.”

You’re a fool. A pitiful, needy fool. So vacant of true connection, you’d chase anyone willing to offer you a mere moment of grace and attention. Who is the Demon of Slytherin besides some snake that cons his way through the school, for you to trust him so reverently?

The man who shatters reputations for you, a little voice revels.

Chris secures his fist around your throat again. He applies little to no pressure while pressing a soft kiss to your chin. You can smell your arousal on his face. Though you want to, you cannot deny the shameless quiver of your lower lip.

“Do you trust him like this?”

You should feel cold, recoiling in remorse and disgrace. You should blink yourself out of the trace Chris has lulled you into and demand he unbinds you. You should thrash and scream until someone ultimately hears and rescues you, declaring him a savage beast. You should remember your boyfriend’s name, even recall what he looks like.

Peering up at Chris, all you see is him, all you can bother to chant is his name. Like a broken record, it loops, sliding between thoughts. The only person etched in your soul is Chris.

“Who?” you ask in response to his question.

Chris bites back a smirk.

In a motion so swift you’ve missed it, Chris bends you over the edge of the tub. His hands station at your hips to pull your backside above the water’s surface. He laughs, the sound so sweet and pure you cannot help joining, because you already arch your back, perking your ass up high for him. His hands circle the surface fondly.

For a second, you believe that Chris is your boyfriend and you two do this sort of thing all the time.

And then his tongue returns. Pulling your cheeks apart, Chris dives between, tonguing your tiniest hole. Round and round, teasing a possible penetration, his tongue dances as you clench. Words fail you as only breathless moans sound, fraught and hiccupped. He abandons his ministrations for a split second to slurp on your resurfacing arousal.

“You taste like heaven wrapped in sin,” he mumbles against your folds.

A wavering moan replies through the gag.

You hear the water thrash rhythmically as Chris drags his tongue up from your sensitive pussy to your asshole. Again and again, he moves slow, steady like he wants to savour every last drop you have to offer.

“P-please,” you whimper.

Chris pulls away to gather saliva and spit it back onto you. Face smothered between your cheeks, he hisses,“Please what?”

A broken moan trails in response, body trembling from the aggressive vibrations of his words.

Between kisses on your clenching hole, he questions,“What do you want?”

You can’t take much more of this, toe curling as he continues to plant wet kisses, teasing you. “F-Fuck me,” you plead, holding back desperate sobs. “Please, please, pl-please, fuck me, sir!”

A pleased hum resonates against your hole. Your legs tremble.

Chris detaches himself from your rear. Waves lap around you as he stands to his full height. He pushes up your cheeks, pushing you further over the edge of the tub. His tip pokes at your dripping hole.

Excitement buzzes through your veins, knees wobbling. You fist your hands and hold your breath.

“Do you want my cock, princess?” Chris breathlessly asks, voice husky.

You hurriedly nod.

A hard smack lands on your left cheek. Jolting, a loud shriek escapes you. You try to turn back your head to glare at him, but Chris pulls your hips up again, forcing you back into your bent position.

“Use your words.”

“Yes!” you beech, swallowing profanities. “Yes, yes, yes!”

He rubs the stinging surface, lowly groaning his approval in two simple words: Good girl.

Your knees give out. Chris holds your hips firmly, like he anticipated the reaction. “That’s why you always try to behave, right?” He asks, and you swear you can hear that knowing smirk plastered on his lips. “You like being praised.”

Before you can question how he can possibly know that, his tip breaches.

Your mouth hangs open, but your voice crumbles in the base of your throat, breath stunted in your lungs.

Chris squeezes himself between your walls, imprinting his fingers onto the fat of your hips. “Fuck,” he purrs.

You’re relieved to hear he is just as broken as you are, finding your voice again. You weren’t sure you’d be able to face him tomorrow knowing you melted for him while he remained perfectly composed. Releasing soft, quiet moans, you spare a look back at him.

His head tilts back, throat bobbing as he swallows thickly, but then he straightens it to look back down. His face scrunches in pleasure watching his cock slowly shove into you. He wants to catch every second of it, lifting the fat of your ass to see himself bottom out inside you. He quietly hisses, grabbing handfuls of your cheeks.

Your eyes meet and you expect his to convey the same surprise yours do, having been caught witnessing something…. intimate. Instead, arrogance twinkles and he shoots you a wink.

“You’re insufferable,” you sneer.

He smirks, thrusting in reply.

Your self-righteous glare falters into teary pleasure.

His expression remains unchanged, however, as if he knew one manoeuvre of his hips would be enough to silence you. Reaching for the knot behind your head, Chris forces your head forward. You moan at the rough flick of his wrist, voice peaking as he yanks on the tied gag like he’s reining a horse.

The smack of skin on skin, the splash of the bath around you, even the full-chested growls Chris roars, cannot overtake the whiny, broken moans you release. Every thrust coaxes a louder sound, tearing through your throat as you try desperately to keep it down. He’s just so fast, so big, you cannot contain yourself, pushing yourself back into him.

His free hand slips into your bounded fists. The delicacy of his touch in the midsts of such rough rutting, cradles your heart. He holds your hands firmly and for a second, you forget where you are. It’s just you and Chris and the floating bubbles now infused with vanilla, sandalwood and your blended arousal. On the threshold of something real, you tighten the clasp of your fingers around his hand.

Is Chris looking for reassurance or is the gesture enough to tip him over the edge?

His thrusts snap into a force so strong, you’re certain he would have toppled you over the lip of the tub had he not been holding you so firmly. Vigorous, deliberate, his hips pound into you, rubbing against your clenching walls.

Your legs shake and shoulders ache from the strain of having them fixed in a certain position for much too long. Still, you need more, more—

“More!” you cry, and you hope he can understand you through the gag.

Water splashes out of the tub in great waves as Chris increases his speed. Though the cacophonous melody of your desires fills the room, you swear you hear him whisper, “Whatever you want, princess.”

Eyes rolling, drool dribbling down your chin, you almost fall limp on the edge. Your toes curl, body shakes from the onslaught of pleasure as he thrust, thrust, thrusts into you. You cannot keep still if your sanity depended on it, cannot keep quiet either. You half expect another prefect to barge in or a ghost to emerge and investigate the sounds of your shared pleasure.

You cannot endure it anymore, cannot endure him. Clenching tightly, you meet his movements with eager force. Your moans jump an octave in pitch. His name pours from your quivering lips like a desperate prayer.

His cock twitches.

And all at once, ecstasy arrests your bones. Muscles tense, walls sporadically clench, your orgasm ripples through your aching body. Blood rushes to your head. The high fogs your mind, muffles your hearing and you lay limp over the thick edge of the tub as Chris unloads his desire deep in you.

Nearly half the bath water is all over the floor and you catch his reflection within the spill. His hungry brown eyes are locked on your worn body, on the way your full frame jiggles with the intense impact of his thrusts. Another rope of cum shoots within you at the sight of your voluptuous backside. Chris gropes each cheek, biting his lip.

You wiggle back into him and a little smile tugs on the corners of his plump lips. He hums soft growls, tilting his head to gage the best possible angle to view your rear. He traces gentle circles over the surface of your cheeks before trailing his touch up along your spine and you don’t realise you’re trembling until his fingers brush back down.

While your voice is high-pitched, whimpering between heavy breaths, Chris’s voice drops an octave as he shushes you. The low rumbles resonate within your bones, tenderly soothing you.

The knots around your wrists and head, loosen. Your house ties fall as he pulls out of you. A whine escapes, but Chris is ready. He continues to softly shush you, pulling you up and onto his chest. He wraps his arms around your waist, engulfing you in his warmth.

“You’re okay,” he whispers. He turns to sit again, seating you between his legs. “I got you.”

You tell yourself that you just need to catch your breath. Once you stop panting, and your mind stops whirling, you will untangle yourself from him, threaten to destroy him if he utters this to anyone, and leave. You just need the world to stop spinning.

Only, Chris’s arms are so strong and secure. And with the heat he radiates, the tenor of his deep voice, the brush of his panting breath against the crook of your neck, you cannot bring yourself to fight it. Your body is spent, muscles aching and bones brittle from the rush of pleasure that you still feel fuelling your needy nerves.

More than that though, you can feel your mixed arousal between your legs. And you don’t hate it. You try— you want to hate it. But, it feels so right. It feels like this is how you should be spending every night, this is where his arousal belongs: on your body.

Chris presses a soft kiss against your shoulder.

Your eyes flutter open and you meet his gaze.

“Are you hurt?”

It has just occurred to you that no one else has ever held you this close after any sort of intimate moment. You’ve given your boyfriend, whose name still evades you, everything you have. You’ve gotten on your knees for him, swallowed his loads, pretended to gag on him, and reassured him that he was not quick at all and it was perfectly normal to release within the first few thrusts. You sacrificed your own pleasure multiple times and still, no one has coddled you the way Chris does now, let alone asked you if you’ve been hurt.

Tears sting your eyes. You blink them away, avert your gaze to the remaining clusters of foam and bubbles.

“What hurts?”

His voice is so soft, so delicate, you find it hard to fight off your tears.

You shake your head, not trusting your voice.

Chris shifts to try to meet your gaze. He rubs his hands along your biceps, brows knitted in concern. “Tell me where it hurts,” he practically begs.

“Nothing hurts,” you whisper.

He stiffens, hands pausing mid-stroke.

You chance a glance over your shoulder.

Despair gleams in his eyes. He sets his jaw and swallows thickly before asking, “Do you regret this?”

“No,” you reply before you can even really process the question. Your next words simply tumble out of you. “I couldn’t regret this if I tried.”

Hope twinkles in his gaze, dimming the gloom that once clouded it. He caresses your chin and smirks.

You roll your eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head,” you tease.

He tongues his cheek. “Tell me why you’re upset then. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Chewing on your lip, you wonder if you should be honest. You know he likes you now, but you cannot help wondering if he is simply attracted sexually to you or if this really means something to him. And if it is just sexual attraction, will you be able to weather his rejection?

You inhale deeply. He has seen every part of you, heard every drop of desperation in your voice. It might be merely sexual, but there is still a certain level of intimacy within that as well. And if he is taking the time to soothe you and check in with you after such vigorous devotion, then it must mean something, right?

“No one…” you trail, unsure how to word it.

Chris brushes your loose strands out of your face. His patience stirs something foreign in the pit of your stomach. It’s warm and whole and welcoming— Happiness.

“I never get aftercare,” you breathlessly confess. “I was beginning to think I don’t deserve it.”

You swear you see anger flash in his eyes before sadness settles. “You don’t deserve to be treated like anything less than royalty,” he says, deep voice caressing your heart. “I will destroy anyone who thinks differently.”

You kiss him, soft and slow. He quietly hums in against your lips.

Pulling back slightly, you whisper, “Then, I’ll always be your princess.”

The Great Hall bustles with chatty students gossiping, fighting over food, or rough-housing. The bright morning sun shines through the grand windows as the smell of breakfast lures you in behind your roommates.

You rub your eyes and suppress a yawn.

“Come on,” Fiona says, tugging on your robes.

You shuffle after her, adjusting your tie. It still smells of vanilla and sandalwood, drawing memories of last night to the forefront of your mind. It’s not like you can ever forget what happened. If the smell of your tie did not invoke any memories, the ache of your muscles or lingering wetness in the apex of your thighs would do the trick.

An arm wraps around your waist. You stiffen when you turn to find Jim smirking down at you.

“Morn—” you begin, attempting to brush off his touch.

His grip tightens. You suppress a hiss, knowing any indication of pain will only set him off.

“You didn’t wait for me.” His lips are curled in a boyish smile, but his eyes simmer with annoyance.

You try to push his hand away again, but he only seems to squeeze your side harder. “I woke up late,” you explain before adding, “Please let go.”

“You woke up late,” he repeats with a dry chuckle. “You seem to have enough time to shower. I can smell your vanilla soap.”

In the corner of your eye, you find Minho, one of Chris’s Slytherin friends, halt mid-step as the mention of vanilla scents. He turns to look between you, Jim, and Chris, who sits a few paces away and is burning a hole through Jim’s skull. A knowing look flashes in his eyes and he smirks at you.

Jim catches him staring, furrowing his brows. “Fuck off, snake,” he quietly hisses.

Minho glares at him.

You take the distraction as an opportunity to slip away. Jim is already one step ahead of you, tugging you back into his chest with a pointed tug of your robe. You stumble back with a quiet yelp.

Minho, brows knotted, sets his jaw. “I think she wants you to let her go.”

“I think I told you to fuck off.”

“I think we’re over.”

Jim snaps his attention back to you. “What?”

You put all your strength into ripping yourself out of his grasp. “We’re,” you start, tugging your robe out of his fists, “done.”

“What do you mean?”

“We. are. not. dat-ing. an-y. more.”

The Great Hall falls silent— or perhaps it’s been quiet for some time. You are not sure and frankly, you couldn’t care less. All you want is to be as far away from Jim and his sweaty, red face as you possibly can.

“You— Don’t fucking speak to me like that,” he seethes, advancing towards you.

Chris stands between you and Jim. You don’t remember hearing his footsteps but here he is, towering over Jim. Minho and Changbin, a fellow Gryffindor, stand on either side of him.

You are suddenly all too aware of the quiet murmurs echoing around the Hall. In the corner of your eye, you catch your roommates nervously staring, confusion and concern crumpling their faces.

“Sit down,” Chris orders.

Jim sneers, but that anger of his soon falters as Minho and Changbin take a step forward.

“What is the meaning of this?” Headmistress McGonagall asks, emerging from the back door by the staff table. She hurries down the middle aisle, clutching onto her dress, a look of pure condemnation on her face.

Chris turns to the Headmistress with a charming smile. Minho and Changbin quietly slip back into their seats as Chris explains, “I was just reminding Mr Prewett that profanities are not tolerated at Hogwarts, Headmistress. You know how forgetful he could be.”

McGonagall narrows her gaze at Chris. She then looks at Jim and finally at you. Her attention bounces between you and Chris a couple more times before asking, “Is that so?”

You nod along with Chris.

Jim clenches his jaw.

“Well, I never thought I would see the day that Ms ____ would agree with Mr Bahng,” she announces, staring at the two of you a moment longer. She hums then finally turns to Jim. “Mr Prewett, please report to my office after breakfast.”

And with that, she waves the students back to their meal and returns to the staff table.

You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding.

“You’re going to regret this,” Jim mutters. “No one is going to treat you the way I do.”

You shoot him a humourless smirk. “Good.”

Chris stifles a laugh.

The sight of his playful eyes and plump lips have you suppressing your own smile. You shake off the flutter of your gut and find your place beside Fiona at the table.

“What the hell is going on with you and Bahng?” she asks as you fill your plate.

“You ever notice how Jim would always give me a plate with less food than anyone at this table and then rush me out of the Hall before I can go for seconds?”

Fiona stiffens.

“I didn’t either,” you confess, scooping another heaping spoonful of scrambled eggs. “I think Chris did though.”

Her green eyes drift back to where Chris sits. A little chuckle escapes her as she turns back to her food and shakes her head. “I think McGonagall was onto something,” she laughs.

“What do you mean?”

“I just never thought I would see the day that the Princess of Gryffindor would rule over the Demon of Slytherin.”

You can’t help but smirk, a rush of warmth blooming in your chest.“I suppose there is a balance between a roar and whisper after all.”

note; please do not leave hate towards me or any other readers. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work.

#chantober 2024 #mirohsaurorasociety #bang chan smut #bang chan fanfic #stray kids smut #stray kids fanfic #chan x reader #bang chan x reader #stray kids x reader

528 notes · View notes

t1red-twilight · 3 months ago

Text

one bed

summary: one bed trope with bobby😩🤚💜

content/warnings: gn!reader, fluff, forced proximity, pining, jake seresin plotting

wc: 0.8k

masterlist b. f. masterlist

the crew had decided to go on a road trip, and conveniently, jake booked one room short. you had insisted that you’d just find another motel nearby, seeing as they were a dime a dozen in the area you were in. bob, the sweetheart he was, insisted that you stay and he leave.

and, of course, jake “solved” your problem by introducing the concept that you two stay together. the glaring issue being that neither of you were confrontational enough to say no to the other. you did not want to hurt bob’s feelings, at all. before anything else could happen, jake shoved the key in your hand and sent you on your way.

another issue quickly presented itself: there was only one bed. cliche, and way too convenient for this to be a coincidence. you weren’t blind to how seresin (teamed up with bradley, on some occasions) sat you and bob together. it did not help that you turned bright tomato red when in the same room as bob either.

who could blame you? he was so sweet and kind, and incredibly easy on the eyes. you were surprised that bob hadn’t caught on yet but you weren’t going to push your luck.

you pushed the key into the lock and opened the door, only to be met with one queen bed sitting proudly in the center of the room. the pieces slid into place: of course jake would pull so thing like this. you could practically hear jake cackling at the idea.

put the nervous wreck with the very reason they hyperventilated in the same room and expect them the share a bed. hilarious.

“i can take the floor,” you said. the motel looked clean, but did not have a couch. only a sad cuck chair mocked you from the corner.

bob looked at you incredulously. “what? no you’re not. i will.” you shook your head in protest.

“no, bob. it’s fine, i promise. don’t worry about it.” you had already moved to grab a blanket from the closet, only to see that there wasn’t one.

you felt bob encroach on you from behind. “this place is too cheap for extra amenities, go figure. not that i’d let you hurt your back on the floor anyway,” bob stated. he was much closer than you anticipated. you could practically feel the vibrations from his voice on your neck. “if it’s alright with you, i’m fine sharing the bed.”

you turned and tried to keep the flush on your face to to a minimum (even though you knew the effort was fruitless). “yeah, um- that’s fine with me.” that was mostly a full sentence, good enough.

you traded off getting ready for bed in a mostly comfortable silence. when time came to actually address the awkward elephant in the room, bob had a simple request. “can i take the bed by the door?”

“yes, that’s fine. i don’t mind.” you slipped into the side by the window and laid down stiffly. the bed dipped as bob slid under the sheets. the mattress was fine enough.

a few minutes passed. the only to be heard was the hum from the clock on the nightstand. “i’m going to turn the heater on, is that okay?” you asked. the chill from the night air has seeped into the room and begun to sink into your bones.

bob hummed in affirmation before responding, “that’s fine with me.”

you walked over the the heater unit under the window and fiddled with it. nothing. you rapidly pressed the power button, still nothing. the temp screen was blank, even after you assaulted the “increase” toggle. you exhaled exasperatedly.

“everything okay?” bob asked.

you pinched the grudge of your nose. “it’s broken. it won’t even turn on.”

“you mind if i check?” you mumbled a quiet ‘go ahead,’ and bob walked over. you sat on the bed as he, more patiently than you, messed with the machine. “yep. it’s definitely broken,” he stood with his hands on his hips.

you had begun to shiver at this point. “i would say that we could ask for a room change, but i doubt they have enough rooms for that.”

bob paused for moment, clearly in thought. “if you don’t mind, we could just…share body heat?” your jaw tensed at the thought of getting to be that close to him. “sorry, that might be weird.”

“no!” you said, a little too quickly. “no, that’s okay with me. but only if it’s okay with you.”

“i’m perfectly okay with it,” if it wasn’t so dark, the look on his face might have seemed like he was…smiling?

bob walked around the bed and got underneath again, you mirrored him. he held one of his arms out, gesturing you toward him. tentatively, you scooted over. you laid down on his chest and his arm curled around your back. your torso was up against his, legs brushing against each other.

you’d never admit it out loud, but he smelled quite nice. fresh like laundry and eucalyptus. each of his breaths tickled your scalp, and lulled you into a trance-like state. “are you warm?” he questioned.

“yes, thank you,” you responded. he pulled you in just a little bit tighter and your breath hitched. quickly after that you fell asleep, bob following soon after.

#lee’s writing <3 #bob floyd #x reader #fluff #bob floyd fic #bob floyd fluff #bob floyd x reader #top gun maverick

359 notes · View notes

glowettee · 3 months ago

Note

Hi Mindy! I’m a college student and I’m struggling to go to bed at a decent hour (think 3 am bedtimes every day) because of the amount of homework I have. Do you have any tips for time management so I can figure out how to get my homework done all during the day so I’m not losing sleep? (Any app recommendations or suggestions on how to schedule my day would be greatly appreciated). Thank you so much! I love your blog and I love seeing your posts🩷

how to get your life together & actually sleep: time management tips for college✨

hi love! 💌 first off, thank you so much for your sweet words. they genuinely made me smile. i’m so proud of you for wanting to improve your time management and prioritize your sleep (honestly, sleep is like the ultimate self-care, and you deserve it). i know college can feel like a whirlwind of assignments, deadlines, and just… life. staying up until 3 am is no joke, and it’s amazing that you’re ready to make a change. let’s make your routine feel a little more manageable and a lot more magical.

☁️ romanticize your productivity: first thing’s first: mindset. instead of viewing homework as this scary, endless task that eats up your nights, try to romanticize it. create a cozy study ritual. light a candle, make a cute study playlist (ex: lo-fi mixed with soft acoustics), and set up your space in a way that makes you actually want to sit down and work. i know it sounds silly, but giving your study sessions a soft, aesthetic vibe can make them feel less like a chore and more like a peaceful little routine. i have a lot of posts talking about this

🌙 break down your workload: sometimes it’s not about how much work you have but how it’s organized. take a few minutes in the morning or the night before to make a list of what you actually need to accomplish. break it down into small, bite-sized tasks. for example, instead of “study for chem exam,” write down “review chapter 4 notes,” “do practice problems,” and “make flashcards for key concepts.” checking off small tasks feels way more rewarding than staring at a big, vague to-do.

💡 create a time-blocking ritual: i’m obsessed with time-blocking because it feels like giving each task its own little home. instead of doing everything all at once (which is just chaos), dedicate specific chunks of time to each task. for instance:

🌼 9-10 am: review lecture notes

✨ 10-11:30 am: work on that essay (no distractions)

🍓 11:30-12: take a break, stretch, grab a snack

💻 12-1: group project research set timers to keep yourself accountable. i use the “focus keeper” app for 25-minute work sessions with 5-minute breaks. it’s surprisingly motivating!

📅 the magic of reverse scheduling: if you know you want to be in bed by, say, 11 pm, plan your day backwards from there. schedule your evening wind-down routine (like skincare, a little journaling, and tea) and work your way back through the hours, assigning tasks in reverse. this way, you’re prioritizing sleep as non-negotiable and shaping your day to respect that.

✨ my fave apps for dreamy productivity:

notion: perfect for creating aesthetic, organized to-do lists, study schedules, and even journaling about your progress.

flora: turns studying into a game by planting a virtual tree while you focus. if you leave the app, the tree dies (no pressure, right?).

toggl: tracks your time so you can see how long tasks actually take. it’s eye-opening to realize you might be spending way more time scrolling than studying.

clockify: like a little personal assistant that tracks your study sessions and breaks. it’s simple and kind of addicting to see how productive you’ve been.

habitica: makes productivity feel like an RPG game. complete with character upgrades when you check things off. honestly, it’s too cute to resist.

💖 mindy’s personal tips:

📝 batch similar tasks: do all your note-taking at once, then all your problem-solving. your brain doesn’t have to keep switching gears.

🎯 use the “two-minute rule”: if something takes less than two minutes, do it right away (like replying to emails or organizing your notes).

🕰️ the 1-3-5 rule: pick one big task, three medium tasks, and five small ones to accomplish each day. it keeps your to-do list from being overwhelming.

✨ romanticize rest too: treat your sleep as sacred. create a pre-bed routine that you actually look forward to, like reading a few pages of a lighthearted book or doing a little night yoga.

🌸 don't forget how important 'no' is: sometimes, we overcommit because we’re too nice to say no. it’s okay to protect your time! practice polite ways to decline extra responsibilities when you know they’ll eat into your sleep. like, “i’d love to help, but i have to focus on my assignments tonight. let’s plan something for the weekend!”

🌙 gentle evening wind-down: your body needs time to transition from productivity mode to sleep mode. about an hour before bed, turn off your screens, dim the lights, and switch to calming activities. i like using the “calm” app for guided meditations that feel like little bedtime stories.

🌱 become a morning person (yes, it’s possible)

one trick that really works is having something to look forward to. think of a tiny, indulgent ritual that you save just for mornings. maybe it’s a frothy matcha latte with vanilla syrup, journaling in a pretty notebook, or listening to your favorite podcast while you stretch. the key is to make mornings feel like a gift to yourself rather than just the start of a grind.

set your alarm to a song that makes you feel good!! something soft and happy. bonus points if it’s different from your usual playlist because it’ll feel special. place your phone across the room so you have to physically get up to turn it off. i also love using the “alarmy” app because it makes you solve a simple puzzle before it stops ringing (annoying, but effective).

once you’re up, avoid falling back into bed by making your bed immediately. it’s like telling your brain, “we’re up now. no going back.” then, try a quick, gentle morning stretch to wake your body up without feeling rushed. mornings can actually feel soft and peaceful if you give yourself permission to take it slow.

as for getting enough sleep the night before. make it non-negotiable. treat your bedtime like an important meeting you can’t cancel. remind yourself that a well-rested mind works way better than a sleep-deprived one. it’s all about romanticizing rest as part of your productivity rather than seeing it as wasted time.

give it a week, and see how you feel. even a small shift, like waking up 30 minutes earlier, can make your day feel more spacious and less chaotic. being a morning person is just about creating tiny habits that make mornings feel like a calm beginning rather than a rushed scramble.

🌸 micro productivity okay, let’s be real... sometimes the idea of sitting down for a three-hour study session feels completely overwhelming. that’s where micro productivity comes in. instead of blocking out huge chunks of time, break your tasks into mini-sprints that fit into the small gaps of your day.

for example, while waiting for your coffee to brew, you could make a quick list of your priorities for the day. during your commute or while you’re eating lunch, review your flashcards or skim your notes. those little moments add up, and suddenly your workload doesn’t feel as intense because you’ve been chipping away at it throughout the day.

one of my favorite apps for this is “quizlet.” you can make digital flashcards and quickly review them whenever you have a spare moment. or use “ankidroid” for spaced repetition. it’s great for subjects that require lots of memorization.

another trick? the “two-minute rule.” if a task takes less than two minutes, do it immediately rather than adding it to your to-do list. this helps clear out small, annoying tasks that tend to pile up (like replying to emails or organizing your desktop).

i also love the idea of micro journaling. sometimes, when you’re overwhelmed, writing down just one thought or feeling can give your brain the clarity it craves. it doesn’t have to be a full journal entry, just a few words that capture your mood or intention.

don’t underestimate the function of small wins. every tiny task you complete builds momentum and makes the bigger assignments feel more doable. it’s like telling yourself, “i’m already being productive today. let’s keep that energy going.”

the goal is to make productivity feel more like a series of little achievements rather than one massive to-do list. micro productivity helps you stay on top of things without burning out, and it feels way more manageable when your schedule is packed.

💫 stay motivated when your energy is low we’ve all been there. those days when your brain feels like it’s wrapped in a fog, and the idea of tackling your to-do list feels impossible. it’s okay to have low-energy days, but let’s find a way to work with them instead of against them.

first, check in with yourself. is your low energy from lack of sleep, stress, or just general burnout? sometimes just identifying the reason helps you figure out what kind of self-care you need. if you’re physically tired, maybe your focus should be on rest or low-effort tasks. if it’s more mental fatigue, try switching up your study space or doing something creative to break the monotony.

use the idea of “productive rest.” sometimes, resting doesn’t mean doing nothing. it can be as simple as switching tasks to something lighter, like organizing your notes or doing some gentle stretching while listening to a podcast related to your coursework. this way, you’re still moving forward, just at a gentler pace.

set up a reward system to motivate yourself. for example, after 20 minutes of studying, give yourself a 5-minute break to scroll through pinterest or listen to a song you love. use apps like “forest” to stay focused during your work session and then celebrate with a cute coffee break when your tree grows.

also, be kind to yourself. it’s okay if you’re not operating at 100% all the time. instead of pushing yourself to be overly productive, prioritize what actually needs to get done. sometimes, just getting one important task out of the way is enough for the day, and that’s completely valid.

remember, your energy levels fluctuate, and that’s perfectly normal. don’t pressure yourself to be endlessly productive. balance is key. the goal is sustainable productivity, not burning out from trying to do everything at once. listen to your body, adjust your pace, and know that it’s okay to take breaks when you need them.

💫 final thoughts: it’s all about balance, being productive during the day is great, but you’re human. you can’t be on 24/7. give yourself grace when things don’t go perfectly. the goal isn’t perfection; it’s progress. prioritize rest as much as you prioritize getting things done, and your mind (and grades) will thank you.

xoxo mindy

189 notes · View notes

absdoll · 2 years ago

Note

Hi bee:3 requesting for Abby eating out or playing with readers 🐱 with her fingers while reader is playing a game

It's all I've been thinking about lwjeuvesivdsi

hi qt ૮ ˶´ ᵕˋ ˶ა i luv this idea ! ty for requesting 🎀

cw : pervy!abby <3 my beloved ♡ // reader is playing animal crossing new horizons !

“abs! guess who just came to my island?!” you squeal as abby lifts her head from her book to meet your sparkling eyes. “hmm let me guess, the weird looking red dog?” she asks, quite genuinely.

“wh-… oh! cherry? she’s so cute! you’re mean.” you furrow your eyebrows at her, offended she called one of your favorite villagers weird looking.

your girlfriend smirks, a sigh leaving her mouth. abby gets a rise out of making her sweet doll-face frown and pout. abby knows it’s wrong to think such dirty thoughts about how innocent you are. the way your cute little butt peeks out of the bottom of your cotton shorts when you try to reach the top cabinet. when you’re all doe-eyed and curious asking her what she wants for dinner. how you sit crisscross applesauce in the big comfy living room chair, looking so small and fragile. and right now, the way you’re so giddy about a silly animal video game. she takes a deep breath as she moves over to where you’re lounging.

“i’m sorry baby, can i see?” abby rests her head on your shoulder, her right hand settling on your bare thigh. you giggle when she gives your soft flesh a little squeeze.

“it’s chai! i’ve wanted her to move to my island since i started playing!” you ramble on about your beloved blue elephant. “she’s just like cinnamoroll, look!” you tilt your nintendo switch screen in abby’s direction, biting your bottom lip in excitement, so happy you get to share this moment with your favorite girl.

abby glances at the game for a moment, then looks up at you, your eyes glistening. she looks back down at the screen, noticing your small fingers toggling with the knobs of the device. she takes another deep breath.

“mm so cute angel, i love the little teacup on her head.” abby kisses your shoulder. “i’m gonna get something to drink from the fridge, you want anything?” she inquires. you shake your head no, too focused on trying to make a good impression on your new guest.

the tall blonde stands to walk to the kitchen, stopping to stretch her arms above her head, letting out a long sigh. she turns around to give you a sweet look before she leaves the room, but her eyes fall somewhere else.

as you sit with your legs in the butterfly position, your pretty pussy on half display. abby clenches her fists, she’s resisting the urge to pry your game out of your soft dainty hands, pin them above your head, and fuck you dumb. she can’t hold back much longer.

“baby,” abby breathes, she walks back over to you, kneeling before you, elbows on your knees. “just keep playing, okay? don’t mind me.” you’re too busy cleaning up your island and making small talk with your digital neighbors to give abby any more than a “mhmm! okay bibi!” and she knows it.

abby begins planting gentle kisses to your cold thigh, humming against your skin as she sees goosebumps rise up your legs. you shiver a little when her face gets closer to your half covered heat. you move your game slightly to the left, looking down at her. “what’d i say pretty girl? hmm? eyes on the screen, don’t look at me again.” abby softly speaks through her pebbled kisses. you frown, confused, but decide to listen and be the good girl abby wants you to be.

abby’s mouth is nearing your pool of slick, you can feel the warm breeze of her breaths tickling your entrance. she uses her nose to reveal your wet pussy from your shorts.

“abs!” you attempt to close your legs around her head, but she knows you, she knows your movements. she knows that you like to play this little game where you say “nooo abs! don’t wanna! too sensitive!” and then a few seconds later, you’re spread wide open, desperately waiting for her skilled tongue to plunge into your aching hole.

“cmon princess, i don’t have to tell you again, do i?” abby coos. “spread.” her voice a little huskier.

you nod and relax your legs. you resume playing, eyes glued to the screen again, quickly getting distracted by the singsong isabelle is putting on outside town hall.

abby’s tongue now inches away from your puffy pulsating clit. all she can think about is devouring every last ounce of you while you sit there, so innocently focused on something far less disgusting than what she’s doing.

your perverted girlfriend watches as your cute hole tightens around nothing, a smile forms on her freckled face. she extends her wet pink muscle and licks a gentle zigzag from fold to fold. “mm-aahh!” you let out in a high pitched moan. abby shoots you a glare, a warning, that if you acknowledge what she’s doing again, she isn’t gonna be so sweet and soft anymore.

she’s drinking your pussy, tongue circling your sensitive nub, slurping every drop of white cream that’s sticky all over her chin. abby glances up at you, “good girl, so proud of you angel.” you bite your lip so hard that you wince a little at the sudden taste of blood, but you know better than to look at abby, let alone let her know how good she’s making you feel.

abby slides one finger into your pussy with ease, your drenched entrance practically sucking her in. “so wet for me.” she’s making out with your thumping clit, curling her index finger up, the pad perfectly tapping your g-spot.

you can’t breathe, you can’t think, you’re trying to move the controls of your game, your hands shaking. all you want to do is buck your hips up to her face, shoving her tongue so deep inside of you that feel her nose touch your clit over and over and over. “you’re close princess, i can feel it.” abby hums.

she’s going so agonizingly slow, the soft sensation of her saliva mixed with the unhurried pump of her finger, you’re dying for her to pick up the pace — and that’s exactly what she isn’t gonna do.

“cum slowly for me baby, ride it out.” abby continues lapping up your slick, using her free hand to hold your legs open. “that’s it sweet girl, riiight…. there.” you’re cumming all over her face, from her nose to her chin, her face is buried in your juices.

“let me hear that pretty moan of yours.” abby’s eyes fixated on your blissed out face. finally granting you permission, you scream out in euphoria, “uug-uuuh aahh aaa-bby-y-y!”

abby removes her finger, plopping it in her mouth, eyes rolling to the back of her head as she sucks your cum off.

sliding your shorts back up your legs and kissing the top of your head, she starts to walk towards the kitchen. “you want something to drink now?” she teases.

a/n : i loved writing this ପ૮๑ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ๑ აଓ hehe if u don’t love pervy!abby then idk what to tell u , ur missing out ! 😵‍💫💕 hope u enjoyed bbs <333

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆ @whore4abby @hersweetheart @enbesbians ♡🧁

#🧸 bee writes ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚#✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚ ✉️ : reqs #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson smut #abby anderson fanfic #abby the last of us #abby anderson tlou2

2K notes · View notes

oddlydescriptive · 2 months ago

Text

Reset, Chapter Thirteen

Series Masterlist

Thanks for being patient and supportive, guys. I am going to try to get two out on top of this, as this is technically last weeks chapter, but I am doing my best. I had some really awesome people reach out and check-in on me this week and honestly, I needed it. I put a lot of pressure on myself with every chapter- i feel like it's been so good up to this point so with each chapter I am pressuring myself to keep the quality up and sometimes it's just a lot. Your guys' support means everything to me.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

The car’s quiet except for the faint hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of paper from the back seat. Just a daytrip- a quick jaunt to London for a sim technology conference. A few presentations, more than a few handouts, a mediocre lunch service. A stop-in before Brazil. Necessary evil. For RedBull. For Redline. Just business.

Christian drives with one hand on the wheel and a tired sort of ease, eyes focused on the dark stretch of motorway that cut back toward Milton Keynes. Max sits in the passenger seat, arms crossed, cheek propped against his knuckles, watching the world smear by through the window- headlights, hedges, the vague shape of trees pressed up flat against the night.

In the back seat, you’ve turned the quiet into something else. Not noise, exactly. But motion. Intent. Working- of course you’re working- your laptop balanced between your knees, a mess of pamphlets and printouts spread across the leather seat like a dealer laying down cards. Brows drawn, your mouth slightly parted in concentration as you thumb through the stack, cross-reference a spec sheet from another, then type something with sharp, purposeful taps.

Every so often, you pause- chewing at your thumb, the nail already raw from a day’s worth of absent-minded worry- before returning to the keys with renewed precision. Max can hear it: the rhythm of you cataloguing, organizing, making sense of all of it. Like it wasn’t enough to have gone to the presentations, shaken hands, taken the obligatory photos- no, you needed to digest it. To dissect it. To turn just business into something useful before the car even hit the roundabouts.

Max doesn’t turn to look. He doesn’t need to. He can feel the energy coming off you like static- tired, but alive. Like you’d spent all day holding yourself still and were only now allowed to exhale, alone in the backseat with your chaos.

He shifts in his seat, jaw tight. It was easier when you weren’t in motion. Easier when he could convince himself you were a moment. A blip. Not someone with velocity.

Christian’s phone buzzes against the dash, screen lighting up with a name. Max’s eyes flick to the center display: Franz Tost. Christian exhales through his nose. Not annoyed. More... contemplative.

Max feels it immediately- whatever this is, it’s not for public consumption. Not immediately. Not without decision. Christian reaches for the phone, thumb hovering over the screen a beat too long. "Should I- " he mutters, mostly to himself, then glances in the rearview mirror.

Whatever he sees must make up his mind. He hits accept and toggles it to Bluetooth with a practiced flick of his thumb. "Franz," he says, slow and even. "You’re on speaker. I’ve got company."

A pause. Static. Then Franz’s voice comes through the speakers- faintly German-accented, clipped, all business. "Ah. I see." Christian doesn’t reply. Just keeps driving, one hand steady on the wheel.

"I’ve looked through the numbers," Franz says finally. "Not exactly standard."

"It’s what was offered," Christian replies.

"That’s clear. Still surprising."

Christian lets out a soft huff of breath. "It’s lean."

"Very."

Behind them, the rhythm of keystrokes falters. Then stops. Max hears the soft click of a laptop being closed. Paper shifts. Something about the silence feels intentional- weighted. Max can feel it. The way you’re listening now. Still as stone. Like even the creak of leather beneath you might give something away.

“Do you think… the dynamics of the workplace will be an issue?” Franz says, voice low, deliberate.

Christian shrugs like it’s nothing. Like they haven’t all spent months navigating politics sharp enough to draw blood. “I have yet to be concerned. Besides, if we were worried about workplace dynamics we’d start letting robots drive the cars.”

There’s a pause- thin, wire-tight. “Pipeline?” Franz asks.

Christian doesn’t even blink. “Not an option. We’ve already had this conversation.”

“And Helmut?”

Christian’s fingers shift against the leather steering wheel. “Aligned.” That one lands hard. Max feels it settle in his chest like cold water, the kind that bites deep, spreads slow. The shape of it starts forming before he can name it. Something real. Something decided. Like he can feel what’s coming before he knows it.

Franz exhales, measured. “So we’re settled, then.”

Christian glances briefly toward the passenger window, then back at the road ahead. The lights of the motorway slide past in rhythmic blurs, gold and white and rain-slick. “We’re settled,” he says.

In the backseat, you don’t move. You’re leaning forward now, just slightly- one hand braced against the center console like it might pull you closer, the other curled in your lap, knuckles pale.

You don’t say a word.

You just listen.

Christian adjusts his grip on the wheel, his tone suddenly lighter. “She’s in the car,” he says, like it’s an afterthought. “If you want to say it yourself.”

A beat of static follows. The sound of breath caught somewhere in the ether. Then Franz, as calm as ever, as clinical as a scalpel: “Welcome to Alpha Tauri.”

You freeze.

No sound. No movement. Just a single breath drawn too sharply through your nose. One hand lifts, slow and instinctive, pressing against your mouth like you can catch the words before they settle. Like you can hold them inside a moment longer, keep them suspended.

Christian smiles, not unkind. “We’ll let it sink,” he says. “I’m sure she’ll be calling you shortly.”

The line clicks off.

Silence rushes in- not gentle, not still, but dense, like a pressure front collapsing inward. It doesn’t settle so much as press, heavy against Max’s chest, coiling in the space between words that never arrive.

Christian says nothing. His hands stay steady on the wheel. Max doesn’t move. Even the road quiets. The tires hum low beneath them, more suggestion than sound, a soft whisper across wet asphalt.

It hangs there. The weight of it. The finality.

You’re on the grid.

Max is still chewing on the words when he hears it.

A sharp crack- plastic slapping leather- your laptop shoved aside with zero ceremony, skidding half off the seat before your bag catches it. Papers follow in a loose explosion, fluttering across the backseat like confetti fired from a gun. Handouts, notes, color-coded madness- gone, scattered.

And then-

You scream.

Not a yell. Not a cheer. A full-throated, spine-snapping howl as you slam the window control. The glass barely halfway down before you’re already half out of it, one arm braced on the door frame, the other thrown back like you’re summoning gods.

“FUCK YEAH!” you roar into the night. “I’M ON THE FUCKING GRID!”

Christian twitches behind the wheel, startled. Max blinks. Then you’re laughing- wild and sharp and goddamn unstoppable- as the wind slaps your hair across your face in tangled streaks. Your voice rips through the air outside the car.

“SEE YOU IN BAHRAIN, MOTHERFUCKERS!” you shout, head tipped back like the stars are listening. “I’M ON THE GRID, ASSHOLES! YOU HEAR THAT?!”

Your joy carves itself across the motorway. A minivan swerves slightly in the next lane. A lorry honks, long and confused. Someone flashes their brights from behind. You don’t care.

You’re laughing too hard to breathe, shoulders shaking, half-out the window and fully alive, clinging to the door like the car can’t hold you anymore. Like you might just launch.

Max stares straight ahead. Jaw slack. Heart pounding. Vision tight. Christian chuckles, low and amazed. “Guess it’s sunk in.”

You make a sound- something between a gasp and a growl, half-feral, wholly triumphant. “Fucking- yes.” Then you fall back into your seat, limp with joy, breath hitching, face flushed and lit from somewhere deep. Your hair’s a wreck, your papers are gone, your voice is probably halfway to hoarse-

But Max has never seen anyone look more alive.

He was still angled toward you- barely- just enough to see you in the mirror’s corner. And God, it was like looking directly into the sun.

He’d seen you a lot of ways. Snapping. Spitting. Glaring at him across conference tables with a heat that made engineers forget their talking points.

He’d pressed you, more than once, just to make you crack. Just to see if you would. He liked the fury. Liked knowing it was in you. Liked proving to himself you were human. Mortal. That the clean professionalism and perfect posture was just a veneer. Poking, needling, pressing on every bruise until something bled.

And you had snapped- sometimes with anger, sometimes with ice. You’d lashed back at him, sharp and venomous, and every time he’d told himself good. That’s what she is. That’s all she is.

But this?

This was the first time he’d seen you raw with joy.

You look alive in a way that almost hurts to witness. Like if Max blinks, you might burn out entirely. Like he’s seeing something he was never meant to. Not in the wild. Not without armor.

In the driver’s seat, Christian chuckles, low and warm. “You get it all out?”

You don’t lift your head- just groan through a smile, breathless and giddy. “For now.”

Christian glances back, a casual flick of the eyes that still carries weight. It’s not mocking, not patronizing. Just... paternal. The kind of look that says you’re still a kid to me, no matter how many contracts you’ve signed or late nights you’ve spent grinding data until your hands cramped. The kind of look older men give young people when they forget, for a moment, that the person in front of them is already pulling weight like someone twice their age. “You should call your friends,” he says. “Go out. Get a beer. Raise hell.”

You blink up at the ceiling of the car, dazed and glowing. “God,” you rasp, voice still wrecked from screaming, “a beer sounds incredible.”

Then you turn your head, just slightly, and aim it at Christian with a deadpan delivery so dry it nearly evaporates in the air. “But Christian… my only friend is a thirty-seven-year-old man who’s probably eating dinner with his wife and children right now.” Your words are casual. Inevitable. Like you’ve already made peace with it.

Christian laughs- but there’s a stutter in it, like it catches halfway through.

Max doesn’t laugh at all.

The silence after your sentence lands just a little too sharp. Not cruel. Just honest. The kind of silence that fills a room when everyone realizes they knew, but didn’t think about it long enough to feel it.

Christian recovers first, though his voice is a shade softer now. “Yeah,” he says, smiling again, but less brightly. “That’s right. I forgot.” He looks forward again. “Eighty-hour weeks don’t leave much room for socializing.”

“Shocking, I know,” you mumble, dragging a hand over your face.

You don’t sound bitter. You don’t look like someone who got lucky. You look like someone who fought. Who scrapped. Who bled. Who won. For the first time all night, Max turns. Really turns. He looks at you. And doesn’t say a thing.

Because it hits him- not as thought, but as truth:

You’re not going anywhere.

You’re not fading. Not flinching. Not folding under the weight of it all like he used to tell himself you would- had to, eventually. That the system would grind you down the way it does to everyone who shows up too bright, too earnest, too unwilling to play the long game.

But you haven’t gone quiet. You haven’t disappeared. You’re not dissolving under pressure like a sugar cube in rain.

You’re here.

And not just physically, not just taking up space in the backseat of a car you didn’t drive, but here, in the way that matters. Unshakable. Bright. Absolutely alive. Max feels it settle- not like a punch, but like something heavier. Slower. A recognition that doesn’t ask for permission.

For the first time, Max knows- really knows- that whatever he believed would happen to you, isn’t going to happen. Whatever he wanted to believe- whatever petty, bitter hope he might have nursed- that somehow this would be temporary, a half-season-long disruption, a footnote… that you would do- or not do- something to send you packing and out of Redbull, out of Formula, out of Jos’s fucking mouth… he knows better now.

You’re not going to get overwhelmed and disappear.

You’re not going to say the wrong thing in a meeting and lose your shot.

You’re not going to flame out under pressure, or back down when the paddock sharpens its teeth, or get so disillusioned you hand back your badge and walk away quietly like a shadow that never mattered.

No.

You’re going to fight. You’re going to stay. You’re not passing through.

You’re arriving.

And it’s happening right in front of him.

He watches you, sprawled in the backseat with your hair still tangled and your smile too big for your face, like you’ve cracked open and joy is leaking out in every direction. Your papers are a mess. Your laugh is too loud. Your voice is still hoarse from screaming at the motorway.

And he can’t be mad about it.

Not right now.

Because it’s hard to be bitter when you’re watching someone’s dream wrap itself around them in real time- hard to resent the way your eyes keep slipping closed like you’re trying to hold it all in, to stretch the moment before it passes.

It makes something ache in him. Nostalgia, maybe. A memory long buried. And God- he remembers what that felt like.

The first time the call came. When he got his call. When everything he ever wanted was suddenly, actually his- and nothing had gone wrong yet.

When someone outside the walls of home- outside the garage, the track, the echo chamber of expectations- just said it, plain and certain: You’re good enough. No stopwatch. No lecture. No icy silence after a second-place finish. Just a voice on the other end of the line saying, You belong here. You, yes you.

When for one, fragile moment, it wasn’t about consequences. Wasn’t about slammed doors or missed dinners. Wasn’t about endless laps in the cold, and the rain, and the dark until his fingers felt closer to shattered glass than part of his hands. Wasn’t about waking up too early and going to sleep too late, body humming with exhaustion and nerves because he couldn’t afford to mess it up again.

When it wasn’t about making up for the weekend before. Or the one before that. It wasn’t about hearing that voice- sharp, cold, disappointed- repeating the same five words on loop: You should’ve done better.

When all the pressure hadn’t calcified into armor. When his name hadn’t yet become a shield. Before the PR machine. Before the politics. Before the paddock turned love into leverage and every podium into proof he deserved to be there.

It didn’t matter that it took Jos all of forty-five seconds to get on the phone and start planning his promotion from Toro Rosso.

Because that one single moment was his. And you’re standing on the edge of that moment right now, drunk on it- without even needing the beer.

And Max-

Max feels something sharp twist in his gut. It’s not hatred. It’s not even resentment.

It’s longing.

Melancholic. Jealous, if he’s honest. Not of your talent, or your seat, or even your rise- he has his own throne, his own empire. But of the feeling. That raw, high-voltage, maybe this is really happening kind of magic that only happens once. Maybe twice, if you’re lucky.

He didn’t realize how long it’s been since he felt it. How much he misses it.

And now here you are, soaking in it like it’s sunlight, and he can’t look away.

He remembers that version of himself. Bright-eyed. Hopeful. New. A kid that joked with Carlos and followed Danny around like the ground he walked on held secrets worth learning.

And somehow, that’s what he sees in you. Even now. Even after everything. And for the first time in a long time, Max doesn’t can’t bring himself to resent you for it. Maybe he will. Maybe tomorrow. That’s okay.

But not tonight. You can have this one. He’ll allow it.

The car settles again. But the silence isn’t heavy now. It’s expansive. Open. Like someone cracked the seal on a room that had been airless for too long. Only the rhythmic click of the blinker breaks it when Christian changes lanes. The faint drag of tires. And every so often, your laughter- quieter now, but still alive, still glowing. It’s a small sound. Crooked. Half-choked, like it sneaks up on you before you’ve decided to let it out.

Like the disbelief keeps reappearing in your chest, uninvited, and all you can do is laugh it off.

Max doesn’t turn back again. Not directly. But every time it happens, every time that sound breaks through the quiet- low, giddy, almost disbelieving- his eyes flick to the mirror. Just once. Just long enough to catch the outline of your shoulders trembling with it. Then he shifts back to the window, like it’s nothing.

Like it doesn’t land.

It does. It lands hard. That laugh- it gets under his skin, sure, but deeper than that. Under everything. Under the detachment, under the static, under the thick layer of contempt he’s wrapped around you for months. He doesn’t know how to describe it. Only that it sounds like something he’s never been allowed to feel.

Freedom.

They drive like that for ten more minutes. No one speaks. Christian hums softly under his breath, barely audible, the sound light and tuneless. You’re still stretched across the back seat like gravity let go of you. One boot perched against the center console, your head tilted just so against the cool window, your body loose with joy.

Max doesn’t check the mirror again- eyes forward- and that’s when he clocks it. The exit they always take- the familiar loops that gives way to the roundabouts toward the factory- slides past on the left, untouched. Christian doesn’t slow. Doesn’t glance. Just keeps driving, calm and unhurried, like this is exactly the plan.

Max straightens a little. Frowns. “You missed- ”

“Got anywhere to be?” Christian asks, voice casual- too casual to be innocent. Max glances at the clock. It’s late. But not late enough to matter. Not like he’s missing anything.

There’s no warm meal waiting for him at home. No one checking the time, waiting for the plane to land, watching the door, asking him how the event went, if he learned anything useful at the presentations. He’s not getting texts. Not really. There’s always someone to talk to, sure. Always someone to entertain the idea. But no one waiting.

And that’s what it comes down to. There’s no one waiting for Max Verstappen. So he shrugs, voice even. “No.” And it’s the truth. He has nowhere to be.

No one to be there for.

Christian just nods once. Says nothing else. Doesn’t explain. Doesn’t need to.

He flicks the indicator, turns onto a narrower road without hesitation. The headlights carve through a tight lane lined with old brick, terrace house fronts with trimmed hedges, and lampposts glowing, warm. It’s not unfamiliar, exactly. It looks like any other suburban stretch near Milton Keynes. Just unexpected.

From the back seat, you must notice- slow and half-alert- blinking off your daze like it’s something you can set aside. Max can hear your diagram confetti rustle as you sit up. “Where are we going?” Christian doesn’t answer. Just keeps driving, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth like he’s enjoying whatever surprise he has planned. And then the car slows.

A small pub sits ahead- not some posh gastropub or dimly lit cocktail den- but a squat, weathered building tucked just off a residential bend. The paint on the wooden sign is chipped, peeled in layers down to bare grain. Warm light glows behind the glass, spilling across the wet pavement in patches that flicker against the cooler silver of streetlamps. Each time the door opens, muffled music and laughter leak into the air, caught and swallowed again when it slams shut. It’s not dingy, but it’s old- dated in the way that means history. Too lived-in to be a tourist spot, but too loved to be a complete shithole. Everything about the place looks aged and uneven- the kind of pub that’s been there longer than the people inside it.

Christian pulls into a small space right outside. The engine goes quiet. For a moment, no one speaks. Max flicks his eyes toward the pub, then toward the rearview mirror.

“What are we doing here?” you ask, voice hesitant, caught somewhere between confusion and quiet amusement as you lean up between the front seats and look out the windshield- like maybe the side windows had tricked you- like you maybe weren’t parked in front of a neighborhood pub.

Max watches you from the corner of his eye- your gaze flicking between Christian and the battered old pub with a strange mix of suspicion and something softer. You sound like you want to laugh, but you’re not sure yet if it’s safe.

Christian doesn’t miss a beat. “We’re getting a beer.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like it doesn’t mean anything. But Max knows it does. Small as it is, this- this- is Christian giving a damn. Maybe not loudly. Maybe not in words. But enough to drive off-course. Enough to stop here.

You just blink at first. Max can see it- how the words take a second to sink in, like your brain needs time to register the gesture for what it is. You look out at the pub again- at the weathered door, the faded signage, the people slipping out of it, hunched against the cold, heads ducked low in the kind of wet that soaks you before you feel it.

Then your mouth tugs upward. Slow. Like you’re not used to smiling for no reason.

“This place is…” your voice trails as you scan it again, and Max sees the way your shoulders twitch- something uncoiling, piece by piece, not quite sure if it’s allowed. “...perfect.”

You don’t bounce out of the car. Don’t flash your teeth or strut toward the door like a woman who owns the world.

But you do move with purpose. Like maybe the world is giving you something tonight, and you're not going to waste time questioning it. You step out into the night, trailing behind the glow leaking from the pub’s front door like you’re trying to catch up with warmth before it changes its mind.

Christian follows a beat later, stretching like an old dog before straightening his jacket. He gives the place a once-over with that strange brand of affection older men save for even older bars. Like a decent pint is something personal.

Max stays where he is. Hands resting in his lap. Still. Watching. Hesitating.

He doesn’t know why he hesitates. He doesn’t hate pubs. He’s been to plenty. But this place… this moment… it feels like it wasn’t meant for him. Not really. Like he’s accidentally stumbled into someone else’s memory being made.

And you look so happy.

Not in the way he’s seen before- not the polished post-race smiles, not the forced cheer of sponsor events. This is different. Bare. Quietly radiant. You’re not floating just out of orbit of this world anymore. You’re walking right into it, like it finally has space for you.

Max breathes out through his nose. Slowly. Then he moves.

Deliberate. Grounded. Shoulders drawn tight under the weight of something he won’t name. He climbs out of the car, planting his feet on slick pavement, the cold nipping at any exposed bits of skin- his face, his ears, the sliver of skin where his pants are tailored just so to the tops of his shoes. His hands slide into his coat pockets, fingers curling into the seams.

Not because he’s cold. But because he doesn’t quite know what to do with them when a night starts to feel this gentle.

“This place looks like it hasn’t passed a health inspection since the ‘80s,” he mutters, mostly to himself. Flat. Observational. No real teeth.

You glance over your shoulder, eyes catching his for a flicker of a second. Your mouth quirks. “It’s personality.” It’s teasing, it’s just two words- but it might be the first time you’ve ever said anything that borders on being friendly to him- not professional, not heated, not frustrated. Not what he makes you to be. Just… what you are. Warm. Kind. Like you’ve forgotten what a pain in your ass he is.

Christian just laughs, the sound low and amused, and claps Max on the shoulder with a firm pat that borders on a shove. “One beer. You’ll live.”

Inside, the air smells like fryer grease and varnished wood, like carpets that have soaked up too many rainy shoes and Sunday pints. A tapestry-patterned grid of carpet stretches out beneath scuffed tables and mismatched chairs. There’s a low hum of conversation, football playing on two TVs mounted high in the corners, sound just under the level of speech. One chalkboard lists drink specials in smudged white chalk; another advertises upcoming game coverage on SkySports and a Sunday poker night in barely-crooked block letters.

It’s not a shithole.

It’s just... used. The way good things are.

Max pauses just inside the doorway, his eyes scanning the room like he’s trying to map out exits. There’s a stiffness in his spine, a quiet discomfort that doesn’t read as fear- just unfamiliarity. The place is too normal, too small, too honest. Nothing here needs polishing. A dozen patrons, maybe fewer. Mostly older men, coats still on, eyes half-lidded as they nurse their drinks like they’re waiting to be tired enough to sleep.

No one looks up. No one gives a shit who just walked in. This place doesn’t want anything from him. And for reasons he doesn’t understand, that feels... almost comforting. Max exhales through his nose. Something tight uncoils in his chest, just barely.

“This,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else, “is my kind of place.”

Christian beelines for the bar the second they’re inside, already tossing a half-wave at the barkeep like he’s a regular, or just pretending to be one. His voice disappears into the low hum of the room- easy, warm, familiar.

And just like that, Max is left trailing behind you.

He doesn’t mean to. Not really. It just sort of happens. One step after the other, unthinking. The carpet firm underfoot. The air too warm against his face. He watches the way your head tilts slightly as you scan the room, the subtle pause in your step when you realize he’s following you- not like a bodyguard or a shadow, but like someone who didn’t make a decision fast enough and now doesn’t know how to back out.

You don’t say anything.

But your shoulders pull a little tighter for half a second, the way people do when they’re trying to decide if they’re being hunted or accompanied. Then, with a misdirected kind of purpose, you veer toward the left. Max follows.

The side room is empty. Blessedly, perfectly empty.

Same worn tapestry carpet, same faint scent of beer and furniture polish, but quieter. Detached. A few scattered tables and chairs. A dart board. One pool table- it doesn’t match either of the ones out front. And a jukebox against the wall- an actual jukebox. Old-fashioned. And mechanical. Not touchscreen, not curated. The kind that requires real coins and real commitment.

You hover near the doorway for a second, then walk in, slow and casual, pretending you’re assessing options but already choosing. You pick a table in the back- half-tucked near a radiator that clicks softly under the window. You don’t look at Max, but you know he’s there. You can feel him behind you.

He hesitates in the doorway again, just for a beat, before stepping inside. His steps are slower now. Intentional. He slides into the chair across from you, because like fuck is he going to sit next to you. And then it happens.

That terrible, silent, brutal minute where neither of you says a word.

Because no one made you sit here, together. There’s no team debrief. No overbearing fathers. No media duty. No camera crew waiting to catch the dynamic. No podium to share. Just... a table. A chair. And the awful weight of silence.

Thick. Ugly. The kind that knows it’s silence. The kind that grows louder the longer it stretches.

You glance toward the main bar, then back at Max, your expression flickering into something a little too neutral. Your voice is light but strained, like you’re trying to casually toss something into the void to break the tension.

“Do you think Christian’s ordering for all three of us or… do you think I should- ?” You gesture vaguely toward the door, a half-lifted hand that immediately regrets existing.

Max blinks at you. “He’ll get three.”

You nod a little too fast. “Yeah. Right. That makes sense.” And that’s it. Nothing else. Just those sad, wrinkled words sitting in the air like a damp napkin no one wants to pick up.

Silence again.

It’s impossible to tell if the talking or the not talking is more awkward.

Neither of you looks at each other.

Christian returns- mercifully- carrying three pints with the kind of practiced balance that says this isn’t his first pub trip. The tray is plastic, probably older than all of them, and each glass is filled to the brim with a different shade of gold.

He doesn’t say much. Just slides the drinks onto the table like he’s delivering a verdict and claims the seat beside you, sighing as he shrugs off his jacket.

“Here we are,” he says. “The best thing I’ve done for either of you all week.”

Your hands are already around the glass before he finishes talking.

Pilsner, probably. Crisp. Cold. Head still holding. You stare down at it like it’s a religious experience.

Max watches as your fingers tighten around the glass. Your shoulders are still a little hunched from the lingering discomfort of whatever the hell that silence was, but now there’s something else bubbling up behind your eyes. Energy. Relief. Joy.

You lift the pint slightly, almost toasting with yourself, and then just laugh- a short, breathless thing as you shake your head. “I’m trying to think of something to cheers to,” you say, voice warm and hoarse. “But all I can think about is how fucking good this is going to be.”

You grin down at the glass. “I haven’t had a beer since I moved here. I- God.” You cut yourself off with another soft laugh, this one less strained. “It just looks so good.”

You say it like it’s more than beer. Max watches you. You’re entirely infatuated with your glass, which makes it easier to do.

He hasn’t seen you like this. Not really. Not happy, not glowing, not vibrating with the kind of low-key anticipation people usually outgrow once the world teaches them better.

He shifts in his seat and picks up his own pint. Ale. Bitter. Familiar.

Christian raises his glass and taps it gently against yours with a knowing grin. “Then stop thinking and drink it.”

You don’t need to be told twice. You lift the glass with both hands and knock back a third of it like you’ve just been pulled out of the desert. It’s aggressive, almost theatrical, except it’s not. You don’t even seem aware of how intense it looks- just drink until the foam’s down your throat and the glass is heavy again on the table.

“Fuck,” you breathe, wiping the back of your hand across your mouth. “That was exactly as good as I knew it was going to be.”

You sit back in your chair with a soft thump, spine loose, mouth curling like the weight of the day finally slipped off your shoulders. Max watches it all with a kind of passive disbelief. Not judgment, not exactly. Just… surprise.

You don’t look like yourself.

At least, not the version of you he knows. The one clipped and coiled, always tucked neatly into meetings, simulator data, tight-lipped PR nods. This is different. This is you opened up, like someone’s unzipped your skin and let something feral crawl out.

And it’s… weird.

Not bad. Not good. Just wrong somehow. Off-kilter. Like seeing your teacher at the grocery store in sweatpants, or hearing someone usually stiff and composed let loose a bark of laughter that doesn’t belong in their mouth.

“Best beer I’ve ever had,” you say into the foam, laughing softly to yourself. “Not even close.”

Christian’s grinning, already halfway into his own pint. “That’s because this is your first proper pint.”

“Hm. Probably.” You nod, like he’s just confirmed something sacred, then shift your attention toward the jukebox across the room. “Wonder if that thing still works.”

Christian cranes his neck, squinting toward the machine. “Not unless you’ve got change.”

Without missing a beat, you grab your purse off the floor and haul it into your lap, already unzipping a side pocket. “I’ve probably got a few twenty-pence pieces in here. My order at the work vending machine always gives me 20p back.”

You dig around, knuckles disappearing into the depths- keys, old receipts, some rogue stick of gum. Then the jingle of metal.

Max watches, eyes flicking from your hands to your face and back again. You’re buzzing. Not just from the beer. From something else. Movement. Relief. The sheer absurdity of the moment.

And he can’t figure out if it’s entertaining or uncomfortable. He doesn’t like you. Not really. But seeing you like this- unguarded, messy, alive- it feels like catching a stranger undressing in a room you weren’t supposed to enter.

He doesn’t look away.

But it doesn’t sit right, either.

A scatter of coins clatter into your palm. Mostly 10ps and 20ps, one suspiciously sticky quid. Then, with a pleased hum, you stand and cross toward the jukebox, slotting the first coin in with a satisfying clink.

Max follows, slow and curious, hovering beside you, scanning the vinyl list for something that he’d like to listen to.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. He just assumes.

Of course you’ll hand him one. Why wouldn’t you? That’s what you do. If he asks for a file at the factory, you get it. If he shows up late to a meeting, you fill the gaps. You’re polite. Accommodating. Always willing to smooth over his edges, like that’s part of your job description.

So he holds out a hand. Expectant. Waiting.

You turn. See his outstretched palm. And for a moment you just blink at it. Then you burst out laughing. Not a scoff. Not a bitter exhale. Laughter. Full-bodied, surprised, involuntary.

“Oh my God,” you choke out, grinning wide. “You really just assumed I was gonna give you one. Like, full faith.”

Max blinks. Hand still out, suspended in the air like a loose wire. You just shake your head, still laughing, and tuck the rest of the coins into the back pocket of your pants. “What?” he says, flatly.

“What?” you echo, eyes wide and tone syrupy-sweet, the kind of sweet that makes your teeth ache. “Oh, sweetie, bless your heart. You must’ve forgotten- we’re not at the office. I don’t have to kiss your ass here.”

Max freezes, not because the words sting, but because they don’t. And your tone- it’s like creamed sugar. It’s too gentle. Too soft. Like there’s a knife slipped under the lace of your reply.

And he doesn’t know exactly what just happened.

But he’s pretty sure you made fun of him.

He stares at you like you’d just malfunctioned. Max leans in, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His tone is measured, almost too calm- because the idea that you wouldn’t hasn’t even occurred to him. “Just pass me one.” he says.

You don’t even bother to lift your eyes. “Why would I do that?”

He blinks, as if surprised by his own impulse. Like he’s just remembered he’s supposed to ask. “Because I want to pick a song?”

You finally meet his eyes, and in them you catch something warm- a glimmer that isn’t full mockery, but rather a spark of amusement, light and unexpected. “And I want to own oceanfront property in Arizona. Guess we both have dreams.”

Max blinks.

You're serious.

He stares at you, genuinely gobsmacked- more from the unexpected tilt of the moment than from your words- because it’s not just that you’re refusing, it’s that you’re enjoying it. That the second you’re off Red Bull property, the second you're not in your work clothes and obligated to keep things diplomatic, you put your foot down.

Over a twenty pence coin.

For months, you’d always given in to him, you’d always played the part as best you could, no matter how he acted: polite, professional, bending just enough so he could assume it was his idea.

But now?

Now you laugh- loud, unreserved laughter that rings out clear as you fish a single coin out of your pocket and hold it up like a prize. It’s the kind of laugh that feels raw and real, and it cracks the weight of the past wide open. The idea that you might hand him a twenty-pence piece simply because he wants one is absurd- so absurdly funny that it seems the universe itself has tipped the scale.

Max’s mouth parts in a tentative “You’re serious?”

“Oh, deadly,” you reply, your tone light but edged with challenge.

And it’s not just a boundary- it’s a message.

I don't owe you anything.

He narrows his eyes, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. “Come on.”

With a casual flourish, you hold the coin between two fingers, letting it catch the light- a tiny sun in your grasp. “If you want a song that bad,” you say, your voice sweet and teasing, “I’ll give you one. But you have to get on your knees, right here, and tell me I’m the best support driver you’ve ever had.”

The room between you shrinks in that moment. It’s more than the clink of coins or a request- it’s a defiant echo of balance, a playful wager that recasts every past slight into something strangely equal. And in the soft glow of the jukebox’s failing neon tubes- Max, for a brief, unguarded moment- is wrestling with that truth.

He lets out a breath through his nose- almost a laugh. Almost. No chance. Max Verstappen is not going to beg.

That’s the one thread he clings to, even as the night starts to loosen around the edges- warm light, cheap beer, and the comforting weight of anonymity settling over the room like a blanket no one asked for but doesn’t mind.

But asking again doesn’t really count as begging, right? It’s not like he’s on his knees or anything. He’s mulling it over when ‘just one beer’ unanimously becomes ‘just one more.’ He doesn’t remember saying he’d stay this long. But he doesn’t remember not saying it either. He also doesn’t remember asking for a second round, but one shows up anyways- probably Christian’s gesture of good will or penance or plain old morbid curiosity, but either way, Max doesn’t argue. He takes the pint and lets the chill hit his hand, then his throat, and plans his next move through half-lidded eyes.

It’s not that you’re being mean. Not really. You’re just… unbothered. Casual. Infuriatingly in control of this very stupid, very small situation.

He waits until you’re halfway through your second beer to try again.

Max hovers just behind you with his mug, arms crossed loosely, watching as you slot another twenty-pence piece into the old machine, your fingers dancing along the laminated list like you’re selecting fine wine instead of vintage trash-pop. He’s scowling, hovering just close enough to keep asking. Needling. Pestering. Because now it’s a matter of principle.

“You can’t possibly need all of those.”

“Probably not,” you hum. “Think I’ll hang onto them just in case. Unless?”

When two locals approach the edge of the room- one in a Saints jersey, the other nursing a cider- and ask if you and Max want to team up for doubles on the lopsided pool table, you glance at him for just long enough that he thinks his respectable performance might have bought him some leverage. Wrong. Denied. Kneel. He scoffs.

“I’m Max Verstappen.”

You shoot him a look so full of icy amusement that it could be a patented cooling system. “Kind of embarrassing if you can’t afford 20p then, you think?” There’s something so pleased in your voice, like you can’t believe he’s gift wrapped you a third opportunity to tell him no in the same night. Like you’ve already collected the return on your little shenanigans, and now Max is shoveling over interest for free.

He doesn’t get it. He really doesn’t. You’ve always been accommodating. Tolerant. Even when he was an asshole- especially then- you still handed him things without making it a fight. You played the part. Took the hits. Smiled through clenched teeth.

Every appeal he makes, you swat down without lifting your voice, without raising an eyebrow. Just that same calm, clipped response- get on your knees. It becomes a rhythm. A bit. A game that neither of you acknowledges as a game, but plays to win.

You make your next selection, humming under your breath again, and Max stares at your hands- at the last few coins still gleaming in the half-light. They might as well be orbiting stars. Unattainable.

The worst part is that now he really wants to play a song. Not even to win. Not even to prove anything. He just wants the satisfaction. The hit of dopamine. The petty victory of hearing his music next.

And you’ve made it a hostage negotiation.

He paces. He sighs. He sits down on a barstool for thirty seconds, then stands back up. Sighs again. Another drink. Maybe his third. Or fourth. Time gets weird in warm places with sticky floors. Fuck, he wants to play a song.

And then it happens. Something cracks.

He groans- loudly, dramatically- and drops down to one knee right there in front of the jukebox, his jeans collecting samples of whatever filth settles on the floor of a place like this. “Fine,” he spits. “You’re the best support driver I’ve ever had.”

His voice drips with so much sarcasm it practically coats the walls. “Truly. Couldn’t have done a single thing without you.” You stare down at him like he’s a sewer rat that’s learned to tap dance. Amused. A little revolted. Deeply entertained.

And then you grin. It’s not cruel. It’s not even smug. It’s pure, unfiltered delight.

Then, without fanfare, you flick a twenty-pence coin toward the floor. It falls soft on the carpet. Rolls. Spins to a stop just out of his reach. You don’t say a word. But the look on your face- God- you don’t have to.

You’re glowing. Not in the clean, polished way people look when they’ve just won something shiny and official. No, this is something messier. Deeper. Satisfaction pulled from the pit of your stomach, slow and earned.

Max stares at the coin.

Then at you.

Then back at the coin.

And fuck- it’s humiliating. Which might be why it’s perfect. After everything he’s put you through- the weeks of sabotage, the debrief interruptions, the psychological bruising dressed up as excellence- you get to watch him bend.

He reaches down and picks it up.

You laugh. Low and loose and entirely unbothered. Like the idea of him groveling for your spare change is the funniest thing you’ve seen all week.

And maybe it is.

Because he feels it. In his spine. In the back of his throat. The shift. The tilt. This isn’t just a joke anymore. This is power. Yours.

And for a moment- a long, stretching second longer than either of you probably intends- he holds your gaze. That coin is still cold in his palm. Small. Silly. Heavy in ways it shouldn’t be. Then he turns to the jukebox. Scrolls deliberately. Finds the most obnoxious ABBA song in the catalog. Hits play.

Out of spite. Out of principle. Out of sheer, fucking petty survival.

Your laughter follows him as he walks back toward the table- bright and alive and echoing like it’s chasing him down. And God help him-

Max doesn’t even mind.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

The car hums low beneath them, dark outside now- later than it feels. Streetlights streak through the windshield in rhythmic bursts, washing Christian’s hands on the wheel in gold every few seconds. The roads are mostly empty, quiet, tucked in.

The silence in the car isn’t awkward.

It’s something else.

Max slumps slightly in the passenger seat, just enough for his spine to ease off the tension that’s been riding him all day. He’s not drunk, not entirely. But there’s a looseness in him now- beer-soft and slow, like someone’s untied a knot in the center of his chest without asking his permission.

His gaze drifts, half-lidded, unfocused- then catches the rearview mirror.

There you are.

Sprawled back in the seat again, just like you were earlier, but this time you’re warm with victory and booze and something that looks dangerously close to peace. Your head’s tilted toward the window, eyes half-closed. One sneaker up on the seat, your jacket unzipped, your fingers idly fiddling with a keychain that had come in your convention bag.

Max forces his eyes forward. Then a beat later, they drift again.

Back to the mirror. Back to you.

He keeps doing it. Keeps catching himself. Keeps looking. And every time he does, the image plays again in his head like someone queued it up and hit repeat:

That coin.

The way you held it between your fingers like a king holding court. That smirk. That casual little toss to the floor, like the indignity of him crawling after it might scratch the surface of what he actually deserved. And fuck- maybe it did scratch the surface.

Maybe that’s what’s been clawing at him all night.

Because in that moment, on the grimy floor of some shitty pub, he had deserved it. And you’d known it. Had looked at him like yeah, fucker, I’ve got you. Like pulling him down to the floor made up for every interruption, every data sabotage, every small, cruel, calculated erosion.

And the worst part?

It worked.

He hadn’t felt humiliated. He’d felt- God, he doesn't even know. Exposed? Levelled? Something so real it almost hurt.

You’d leveled the field with one coin.

He rubs at his jaw, tilts his head like it might shake the feeling off. His eyes flick back to the mirror.

You're still there. You’re always fucking there. Soft now, somehow. Not unguarded, not entirely, but less braced. Like the night gave you something back. Like you won something that didn’t come in a contract or a race result.

Max shifts in his seat again. Clears his throat. Doesn’t say anything.

But he looks.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

You’re folded into the backseat, the hum of the road under you and a pub buzz still warm in your veins. Not drunk, not really. Just soft around the edges. Floaty. Like your body hasn’t caught up with your life yet.

You’re going to be in Formula One.

You say it again in your head- quietly, like a secret. Not because it is a secret anymore, but because something about the shape of it still feels fragile. Like saying it too loud might undo it. Pop the balloon.

Formula One.

God, you can’t wait to tell your mom.

The thought hits you hard enough you blink at the window, like the reflection might steady you. You picture her face. The way her eyes will go wide, her mouth open just a second before the joy breaks loose. You can already hear the way she’ll say your name- half disbelief, half vindication, all pride.

You feel it rise in your chest, tight and hot. You would cry, probably. If you were capable of that sort of thing- of happy tears. So you settle for smiling into the dark window instead.

And then- eyes.

You catch them by accident. Just a flicker in the rearview mirror. A flash of blue. Max. It’s not a look. Not really. Not loaded. Just… brief. The ghost of eye contact. But the second it happens, both of you look away. Like it burned.

You turn your head, pretend you were adjusting your jacket. He shifts in the front seat like something itched. And that should be it. Should’ve passed. But you don’t mean to- you swear you don’t- but your eyes flick back up to the mirror, just once, just to check if he’s still- He is.

Staring.

Not in that cold, calculating way you’ve come to expect. Not annoyed. Not unreadable. Just... watching. Quiet. Caught.

So you stare right back. You don’t know why. Pride, maybe. Challenge, probably.

Fuck, why is it electric? It’s not charged with romance. There’s no tenderness to it. It’s something else entirely. Like striking flint. The glint of blade against blade.

He doesn’t look away. Neither do you. You don’t move. And in that breathless little standoff- somewhere between the motorway and the factory- you realize something terrifying.

He might see you.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Series Masterlist

#f1 #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #f1 x reader #formula one #f1 fanfic #max verstappen x y/n #max verstappen x you #mv1 fic #mv1 x reader #mv33 fic #mv1 #mv33 #mv33 x reader #formula 1 x you #formula 1 #formula 1 x reader

143 notes · View notes

lokis-army-77 · 1 year ago

Text

Game over

gamer!sub!Eddie Munson x dom!fem reader

Word Count: 2.4k

All you want after a long day at work is your boyfriend. With his nose stuck in a video game, you decide to take matters into your own hands.

Warning: 18 +. Pegging, sub eddie (kinda implied switch at the end?) dom reader, hand job, mommy kink, implied aftercare

Thank you to my beta readers <3 @munson-blurbs. and @lofaewrites

Masterlist

The stairs to the trailer creaked as you bounded up them and straight inside, the metal storm door closing behind you with a loud bang.

"Babe?" You hear Eddie’s faint call from his room down the hall.

"Yeah, it's me!" You yell, setting your bag down on the kitchen counter, practically skipping to his room.

When you cross the threshold, Eddie is perched on the edge of his bed, legs spread, elbows resting on his knees and a Playstation controller clutched in his hands. He glances at you, then back to his game, fingers moving toggles and pressing buttons furiously.

You walk over to him and lean down, kissing him on the lips quickly before falling back on the bed.

"How are you, sweetheart?"

"Better now that I'm here. I hate working on Saturdays."

"I know, baby, but you're here with me now." He places a large, warm hand on your thigh and squeezes before returning to the controller.

"Humph..." You hum in response.

A quiet sigh leaves your lips when you stretch out over the well-used mattress. "Lay down with me." You tug on his arm.

"Not right now, baby, let me finish this quest first, okay? Then I'll lay down." Eddie doesn't even turn to you as he speaks, his eyes completely glued to the screen.

You huff in disappointment but curl up next to him, closing your eyes. Then, after a few minutes, an idea popped into your head.

Rolling over, you get onto your hands and knees and crawl around behind Eddie.

"What are you doing?" He laughs.

"Just want a hug s'all." You slot yourself around him. Chest to back, legs on either side of his, and your arms coming to squeeze around his stomach.

Eddie pauses for a second, taking his hand and rubbing yours. He’s warm against you, it’s radiating from him, comforting you. You can hear his heart beating as your ear presses against his strong, wide back.

He is completely unaware of what you are fixing to do, which puts a wicked smile on your face. Snuggling in closer to him, the scent of cigarettes and old spice filled your nose. Slowly, you let one hand drift down further. Eddie tenses but says nothing.

You keep going.

Your fingertips ghost over the elastic band of his grey sweatpants. A puff of air exits your nose in a stifled giggle as you pull the strings playfully.

"Baby-" Eddie sounds breathless.

"Yeah?" You ask innocently.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing-" You hum. Trying not to laugh as you begin to slip your fingers under the band. Eddie gives a shocked gasp when your hand comes to rest over his cock, still covered by his boxers.

"Babe, not right now, I'm doing something,” he all but whines.

"Keep doing what you're doing, Eds, don't mind me." You squeeze his cock gently. The sharp intake of breath he took had a warmth spreading through you. His cock hardens under your touch.

"Fuck. Please, just let me finish this part."

You shake your head, palming him through the boxers. "You can finish it, I'm not stopping you, baby."

He mumbles your name weakly. You give him a firmer squeeze.

"Now Eddie, you know that's not what you're supposed to call me,” you tut.

"Fuck," he breathes shakily. "Mommy, please."

You smile as he reluctantly says the name. "That's a good boy."

You trace your fingers up the quickly hardening form of his cock then you move them under the elastic of his boxers, touching the soft, warm skin and coarse hairs. You use your other hand to push back the piece of clothing that confined him, pulling him out, and letting the waistband of both sweatpants and boxers rest under his balls.

Eddie sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth when the cold air of his room hits the hot head of his cock.

You rest your forehead against him and just feel. The weight of him in your hand, the erratic beat of his heart, the in and out motion of his tummy as he took each breath.

Taking him up into your hand you give him two rough tugs. "Spit for me." You raise your hand and Eddie whimpers, leaning his head down to let a glob of spit fall into your open palm.

"Good boy." You praise him, kissing his clothed shoulder. You take his cock back up, smearing it with his spit, making him slick.

Eddie's whimpers accompanied the quick shucking sounds. Leaning around to look at his face, he had his eyes shut tight.

"Now, Eddie, open your eyes. How can you play your game with them closed?"

He struggles to open them and it takes a few more seconds for him to start using his controller, but he does eventually.

You move your hand more, smoothing your thumb over the head of his cock. It’s wet there, but not from spit; from the bead of pre-cum seeping out.

Eddie’s hips buck up in your hand and you take it away quickly. "Don't be greedy, baby."

"M'sorry mommy," he heaves, trying to keep his voice steady.

You kiss his back in response, your other hand finding a home under his shirt, nails scratching gently over his abdomen.

The ripple of his muscles has you humming. He’s struggling to keep it together and you’re enjoying every moment of it.

With a firm grasp, you start up again. The speed of your pulls starts slow and then gets faster. Every time Eddie squirms under you, you slow down again. His body shakes against yours, his legs and abs tense as he tries to obey.

"You're doing so good," you praise him.

Taking the hand that was on his abdomen, you run it down until it rests on the head of his cock. Slowly you circle your thumb over the slit, pulling a choked gasp from the man.

The sounds of his strangled moans and whimpers have wetness seeping into your panties.

"Please, it feels so good." His voice cracks, wavering in pleasure.

"Yeah, baby? Mommy's making you feel good?"

"Mhm." He nods furiously. "Can't focus anymore."

The controller shakes in his grasp and you finally give in. "Okay, baby, you can stop playing your game."

"Thank you, thank you, thank you." He flings the controller back behind you on the bed in an instant. His body relaxes only a little as the added stress of trying to play the game is lifted only for him to tense up again when the hand on his head moves to cup his balls.

"God, I'm gonna cum."

You shake your head. "No, you aren't. Not until I say so." You roll his balls between your fingers delicately as you tug his cock faster.

"Fuck, please, Mommy." He cries.

"Please, Mommy, what?" You continue your assault on him, planting open-mouthed kisses along his back.

"Please, can I cum?" His hands fist the sheets on either side of your legs, knuckles white from the force.

"Hum.." You pretend to think. "Not yet, baby, want you to hold it."

He shakes his head, swishing around his face. "No, please, no. I'll do anything if you let me cum."

"Anything?" You grin.

"Yes, anything."

"Why don't you let Mommy use her strap? Hum?"

"God, yes." He moans loudly into the open air of the bedroom.

You smirk. "That’s the answer I was looking for." You give him a few more rapid strokes. “You may cum now.”

Eddie makes a choked noise from the back of his throat and in an instant, he is letting go. White ropes of cum cover your hand and create a mess on the front of his shirt and pants.

"That's a good boy, making a mess of my hand," you chuckle.

Bringing your covered hand to your mouth, you lick. "Mmm. You always taste so good."

Eddie’s body is slumped against yours as he comes down from his high. You struggle to push yourself out from under him. Once you have, you throw yourself over the edge of the mattress to rummage under the bed.

You breathe a satisfied huff when your fingers graze the box you were looking for.

Pulling it out, you open the lid to reveal the bright purple dildo nestled snugly in its strap ready to go. Lifting it out you looked at Eddie, who had pushed himself up the bed some and was watching closely.

"Are you ready, baby?" You ask.

Eddie nods, turning himself onto his stomach without having to be told.

Standing, you give his ass a good pat before pulling his sweatpants and boxers down his legs. "Such a good boy for Mommy, Eddie. After this I'll let you eat me out as a reward, how's that sound?"

"Sounds so good, Mommy."

It takes a moment for you to take your clothes off and secure the strap. As you do, Eddie also rids himself of his shirt, tossing it to the floor.

Standing behind him you reach for his hips, pushing him onto his knees. With his ass now up in the air, you nestled up to him. The tube of lube you had also grabbed from the box, presses into your leg before you grab it and squirt a generous amount onto your fingers.

A shiver runs up Eddie's spine at the cool feeling of the lube as you smooth it around his hole.

His whimpers were like music to your ears. The soft, almost quiet volume of them warmed your chest as you pushed a finger into him.

"Ah, fuck." He squeezes around your finger, burying his fists into the sheets.

“Feel good?” You ask as you gently pump your digit.

Eddie nods. His hair is hiding if face from you, reaching over him you brush the strands away. You’ve barely begun and his expression is just so fucked out. His brows furrow and his mouth is hanging open as he lets out silent moans.

You keep a slow and steady pace until he feels stretched out enough to add another finger. Your other hand traces lines up and down the expanse of his back. Goosebumps rise in the wake of the delicate touches.

Eddie lets out a desperate whine as he looks back at you. “Please- please, I need more, Mommy.”

Tilting your head and raising your eyebrows, you motion for him to go on.

He huffs into the sheets before speaking again. “Want your cock. Need it.”

You pull your fingers away from him and watch as his hole gapes slightly for you. “That’s just what I wanted to hear.”

Repositioning, you align the firm, silicone dildo to his entrance, taking the time to reapply the lube. Eddie rocks back on his knees slightly and as he does so, the tip of the toy glides over his waiting hole.

“Easy there, sweet boy. Don’t get too eager or I’ll stop.” Your hand stings as you give a sharp spank to his ass, emphasizing what you’ve said.

Eddie grunts, frustrated but settles with his back arching for you.

With gentle movements, you begin to push the lube-slicked toy into him. You imagine if you could feel him stretching around the fake cock, that he would be tight, squeezing the absolute life out of you as wanton moans erupt from him.

“Doin’ so good,” you praise. Eddie takes you easily enough as you slot yourself to the hilt in a matter of seconds.

Wasting no time, you grip his hips, holding him firmly as you start to thrust. Sweet, wet sounds begin to fill the room as you fuck your boyfriend. His whimpers accompany the rhythmic slapping sounds of skin on skin.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Eddie cries into the sheets below, body writhing.

You praise him gently, letting him know how well he’s doing for you, how good he is for taking your cock. Tracing your nails over his back, you feel him shudder. You begin to trail your hand down and around to his chest before reaching his wanting cock.

When you wrap your hand around his length, milking him, he tenses. “It’s alright Ed’s, Mommy’s got you.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not gonna last-” a breathless moan flies from his lips.

“Just a little longer, baby, be good for mommy and maybe she’ll give you a treat.” Your hips rut faster, in and out, in and out. Eddie’s moans are almost so loud you think the neighboring trailers will hear. But that’s okay, you want them to know how you make him feel, how he begs you for his release like the good boy he is.

Eddie arches his back and spreads his legs even wider, giving you a better angle to pound into him.

“Mommy,” he cries and you just shush him.

“Mommy- umph,” Eddie’s hand reaches back to hold the one you have still resting on his hip. With intertwined fingers lean over him and kiss his sweat-dampened skin.

Your tongue slips from between parched lips to taste the saltiness of him. You lick a long, wet stripe over his spine. “I want you to cum for me, baby. Can you be a good boy and do that for me?”

Eddie whines, high-pitched and long as his body tenses under your touch. Your hand tugs at his cock faster. You begin to trace your tongue along his neck, resting your lips against his smooth skin.

His breathing is ragged and his body trembling. His hips buck down into your hand before he’s thrusting himself back. Releasing a cry of pleasure as you bring him to the edge and then over.

You sit back on your knees, slowly removing yourself from him. Taking time to admire the mess you've made to your boyfriend, your eyes trace over the curve of his ass to the heaving of his chest. He looks delicious, so much so, you want to devour him again, but there will be time enough for that later.

Eddie slowly falls to one side, catching his breath. “That was so fucking good.”

You smile, all tooth and rosy-cheeked. “Was it?”

He leans closer to you, pulling you in for a kiss as he mummers, “Always is.”

The kiss is deep and slow, more passionate than what you had both just finished doing.

“When’s it gonna be my turn to fuck you like that?” He asks.

You push him away playfully. “Let's get you clean up and then we’ll talk.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #joseph quinn #joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn smut #stranger things x reader #stranger things smut #stranger things fic #female reader #sub eddie munson #dom reader

870 notes · View notes

ravenstargames · 8 months ago

Text

✦ Lost in Limbo Devlog #13 | 11.11.24

Feels good to be back! This is our first post-Kickstarter devlog and I'm so excited to be writing it.

First of all— Lost in Limbo was successfully funded on September 20th, 2024! 🎉🎇

Yep, it has been almost two months, but it's still something to celebrate! Thanks to every single one of you for making this possible! We didn't meet all our stretch goals (there were a lot and taxes are a pain) but that doesn't mean we are giving up on those. More on that another time.

There's a lot of things we want to show y'all, so let's jump into it!

A sneak peak of Envy's postcard!

Raquel has been working hard on getting the "special postcards from your favorite LI" ready to send them to print ASAP! Initially we were going to use art we already had of the LIs, but we thought it was more exciting to offer y'all exclusive art pieces. After this, Raquel will focus exclusively on the rework of the sprites!

We hosted a few polls and got a lot of feedback. If you missed it, you can check it here!

Astro says hello :^)

As you know, the Extended Demo will feature more locations, including a glimpse of the MC's city, Faybourne! Astro is getting the main street ready for you and your bestie as you go on about your day. I've calculated around three / four different and new locations to properly pace the demo as we imagined it in the first place!

The writing deparment (me. i'm the department) has been focusing on the Extended Demo script. I have a lot of things to play with, like the flavor choices, the personality choices, and more. I want to create a proper balance because one of the things y'all asked for was more choices, and the pacing needed a bit of fixing, as we already knew!

The Extended Demo will actually introduce characters you've heard about, like your mom, your ominous grandmother, and your bestie. So no more talking about them, you'll actually get to meet them like we wanted to!

There will also be more time with the LIs, and hopefully the amount of time you spend with each one of them will feel more balanced, too.

Programming has been an adventure! Huge shoutout to Feniks for helping me figure out how to properly make a toggle for the timed choices as well as helping me polish the personality system. What a lifesaver!

So the timed choices toggle now works perfectly. That means you'll be able to turn them off if you'd like to play the game without being jumpscared by a timer—that doesn't mean you won't be able to mess up, though, on purpose or not :^) This is a dark game, after all!

The personality choice system lets you decide how the MC reacts to things including the nature of your romance with the LI. That means dialogue will automatically change in certain parts of the game to reflect the personality of your MC, some options will be locked, some unlocked, etc. There's three different personalities available.

For colorblind folks, the choices will have a different icon when you hover over them for you to know they're different!

Also, I've started coding some extra mini cgs Kayden's been working on! There'll be more in the Extended Demo to enhance the experience, so we hope you enjoy them! :^)

All the packaging stuff has arrived to our provisional headquarters (Raquel's home), and our business cards have been secured! Every backer with physical goodies will receive one for free :^) This month has been all about managing Backerkit, orders and merch, as well as preparing the Extended Demo. We hope we can receive everything very very soon and start shipping packages starting December!

For now, that's it! There's a lot of stuff going behind the scenes, a lot of things that need attention, and a lot of planning happening. Also the catastrophe the DANA has been on our cities is keeping me a bit on edge, but I'm trying to focus on work. This Saturday I'm going on a trip to Greece with my family, so I'll disconnect then! It's our first time traveling to a different country since I was like...seven years old? And we have been saving up and preparing a lot for the trip, so we are excited :^)

I hope everyone has been taking care and doing alright! Have a huge hug from the Ravenstar Team, and see you around!

#lost in limbo #visual novel #otome #devlog

171 notes · View notes

losergames · 1 year ago

Text

Chop Shop is strictly 18+ for language, themes, and potential explicit content.

🔗 - Game Intro | Bug Report | Ko-Fi

Episode Three is now available! (+ 86,000) - PLAY HERE

Get your first taste of the underground car scene.

Meet some other players in the game.

Be made an offer.

5 achievements up for grabs!

And more!

AN: thank you so much for the patience - i've been dying to put this update out. lots of new characters and lots of variation!! there are 3 major paths to choose between in this ep, i recommend trying them all out! and thank you to my betas for keeping me sane lmao

This update comes with a patch and UI refresh (Version 1.1.2) Notes are under the cut. If preferred, you can access them in game in the start menu.

STORY

EPISODE 01:

MC should now be able to smoke! Buying cigarettes at the shop was not triggering correctly. If playing with an old save, you DO NOT have to restart as code at the beginning of EP 03 has resolved the error. Player will need to restart if they wish to read smoking related scenes in previous episodes.

Updated MC Name selection. Player can now choose from a list of names instead of having to input one to proceed.

Player can now give Taha their chocolate bar if it's in their inventory.

When asking Maz about their scars, the second choice 'You want to ask about it but you're going to keep your mouth shut.' should now take you to the correct response.

Extended and updated 'End Game' scenes.

EPISODE 02:

If MC is faint after exiting the car, but also drunk, they should now get the fainting scene, followed by Dilani helping the MC in the bathroom.

UI + TECHNICAL

SETTINGS:

Autoname Save is now defaulted to ON. This is to add ease and flow to gameplay, especially for mobile, tablet, and app users, instead of calling for an inputted saved name. If player wants to input save names, toggle Autoname Saves to OFF.

Autoname Save previously only used the forename of the MC but now includes the surname as well.

Removed the Fullscreen toggle as it is only intended for desktop use. Player can still toggle fullscreen function via the UI bar on the desktop interface.

Added a choice indicator toggle. (This probably won't come into effect until EP 04 or 05)

Changed serif font from Vollkron to EB Garamond.

OTHER:

Changing the MC's pronouns via the Dashboard has been updated. Additionally, after confirmation will take player back to the Dashboard and not close the dialog boxes entirely.

Hovering over 'Personality', 'Motives', and 'Skills' titles in the Dashboard will now display an information box with a definition. Mobile and tablet users will need to tap on the title.

'Resume Game' now only appears on the main menu when there is an autosave in the saves log.

Choices styling changes.

General UI and button style changes.

Fixed errors with the text message styling.

Added styling for reading text off of a page in game.

Darkened blue in light theme 'Skyline' to reduce eye strain.

CREATE A SAVE

Introducing Create a Save! This feature allows players to quickly manufacture a save file and start at a later point in the game.

Set your identity, appearance, history, and statistics; including personality, motives, and skills. Continue to set key decisions made in previous episodes.

Randomise options available for creating a PC and key decisions.

OTHER

Fixed gaps and spacing issues.

Minor phrasing and sentence structure changes.

Grammar and typo fixes.

whew -- that's a lot of patch notes! apologies for so much that needed to be fixed.

this update shouldn't break/ mess with saves but as a disclaimer i will say, if you spot anything funky, broken, or you don't think things are triggering correctly, try starting a new save. the new create a save feature is incredibly code heavy, and it's been tested relentlessly, but i wouldn't be surprised if something crops up.

if starting a new save doesn't resolve your issue - please submit to bug report or just send me an ask/message.

some things have been meaning to get fixed for Some Time - thank you to everyone that is using the bug report form!

apologies if there are typos and/or bugs - this was a long one to edit and my lovely betas did an OUTSTANDING job reading so much for ep 3 - thank you so much again!!! this time i am going to give it a bit more time before i put together a patch so i can grab more error responses haha.

create a save has also added a wee chunk to the word count, somewhere around 6k, but i'm not including it in the episode 03 word count as it's purely code. so, if you think the total wc is off, that's why!

if you've read this far, happy reading and thank you so much for the continued support!! :) - becky <3

#chop shop #chop shop game #interactive fiction #twine game #cs patch #cs update

679 notes · View notes

republicsecurity · 1 month ago

Text

Training Log, Subvocal Capture: Collar Edition

Flex fingers. Polymer gauntlet creaks like fresh snow. Collar’s alloy rim is a cold halo in my palm—weightless in the suit’s servos, but heavy in implication. LG44E watches me, chin level, pulse thrumming in my visor readout. Training dummy with a heartbeat.

Assess & Approach. One pace to his oblique. My HUD traces escape vectors in faint red wireframe—comically useless; classroom walls, zero exits. Eye‑contact rule nonetheless. His pupils track the collar, not me. Good dog.

Draw Collar. Thumb the latch at my waist; carbon port opens like a stingray’s mouth. Collar unfolds, LEDs dark. Wrist display tags it: MK‑IV / SN‑X72M4C27 / STATUS: ARMED.

Positioning. Segment hinges breathe apart with a silvery hiss. No obstructions; green service LED blinks once—ready to bite.

Placement. Raise, slide, glide. Polymer pads kiss skin below his jaw. He stiffens as the joint clears his occipital ridge.

Gentle Seating. Press inward. Soft thunk—segments flush. I feel the resonance through my glove, like locking a railcar coupler.

Lock‑In. Silver button, thumb pressure. Twin micro‑flares spark left and right, two‑tone chirp in my audio feed. The collar contracts by two millimetres; LG44E’s swallow stalls halfway down his throat.

Verify. I tug. Zero give. HUD pings: LINK VERIFIED.

The UI blossoms: battery 98 %, vitals nominal, muscle‑tension curve spiking then settling. Default output RED – STUN‑HOLD flickers, waiting for a conscience that isn’t coming.

I toggle to BLUE – COMPLIANCE. Motors murmur. LG44E’s shoulders roll back, spine straightens, head pivots toward the northern wall—exactly where the courseware says a compliant detainee should orient.

There it is: the quiet hum of sovereignty. A feedback loop of authority routed through ceramic, alloy, and wet nervous tissue. My glove twitches a command—step forward. Collar relays, his legs obey. Another twitch—kneel. Servo whine, then knees to mat in perfect cadence.

It isn’t pleasure, I tell myself; it’s proof of system integrity. The MK‑IV does what it’s built to do: move muscle, still doubt. But a shadow of a smile ghosts across the corner of my HUD‑reflected lips. Not pleasure—feedback. Positive, precise, absolute.

LG44E’s heart rate steadies. Bio‑Vitals Array likes what it sees: compliance at ≤ 65 bpm. I log the metrics, flag the session complete.

Thumb‑press again—collar blooms open, LEDs wink out. Training manacles released, man inside left blinking, sweat‑slick but unharmed.

Systems checklist scrolls: Collar integrity 100 %. Cadet response within spec. Behavioral override latency 14 ms.

Inside the armour’s hush, I exhale. One more drill closer to graduation, one more proof that control—properly applied��is indistinguishable from peace. ***

LG44E — Neural Debrief Buffer (unfiltered stream)

Neck’s bare. Air‑con bites like January steel. UK90F circles—silent servo hiss, armor lacquer gleaming under institutional fluorescents. The collar in his gauntlet looks absurdly small, like a toy halo machined from night.

Heartbeat tags my eardrums. Stay still, keep breathing. Training drill, they said. Easy. Then the hinge flares wide and the thing is right there, cool polymer pads brushing skin below my jawline. Reflex: step back. Legs don’t. I told them to. Knees twitch but the rest is statue.

Soft pressure, a click—no pain, yet the world shrinks to a ring of alloy hugging my throat.

TWO‑TONE CONFIRMATION.

Double chirp vibrates skullbone; micro‑flares strobe at periphery. Something deep inside clutches—like the collar has found a loose thread in my spine and pulled.

Chest tightens. I can still breathe, but every swallow feels audited. Hudless—no helmet—so I can’t see what UK90F sees, but I feel it: a thin algorithmic hum skating my muscles.

First command lands like static in marrow. Shoulders snap back, spine locks straight. I didn’t move them. I felt them move. Delay maybe a quarter‑second between his intent and my body’s compliance—enough time to recognize the theft.

Step forward. My boots obey, soles slapping mat, knees articulating with hydraulic precision I never owned. Pulse spikes—collar compensates: a wash of tingling warmth in neck and shoulder, coaxing BPM back toward green.

Kneel. Quads fire autonomously, joints fold. From this angle I see reflection in the training room mirror: me, bald crown bowed, collar glowing calm blue at the larynx. Looks almost serene. Feels like a puppet whose strings hum with electricity.

I try to raise a hand—nothing. Fingers twitch inside gauntlets but forearm stays holstered at thigh plate. Command priority overrides voluntary motor plans; my own impulses relegated to background noise.

Strangest part isn’t terror—it’s clarity. Thought floats free when flesh is requisitioned. Like being spectator and exhibit simultaneously. UK90F logs vitals; I register the soft tap of his gloves on HUD keys somewhere above me.

Then release—silver latch, collar breathes open, gravity returns. Arms mine again, heavy, sweat‑slick inside poly‑mesh. I’m upright, but a phantom echo lingers: the afterimage of borrowed motion.

Conclusion: the MK‑IV doesn’t just restrain—it edits. Body as executable code, collar as root access. Training memo said “Compliance through technology.” Understatement. It’s compliance through repurposed will.

I flex fingers—still shaking. Not fear, exactly. More like awareness of permissions that can be revoked at the press of a thumb. And the knowledge that next time, the commands might not end at kneel.

105 notes · View notes

changingplumbob · 9 days ago

Text

Second Round - Day Three (Gonk) 2 of 3

@sleepyselkiesims, @sanitysims, @bakersimmer,@invisiblequeen, @abbysimsfun, @fallin4fiction

Bright and early, the household wakes up. Room order was randomised, Evelyn and Arista got the ground floor rooms. A wheel was spun for type of shower the contestants would have (opportunity for energised, flirty or inspired moodlet) and whether they would brush their teeth (possible confident moodlet). Once they are finished getting ready they're sent to breakfast. Autonomy is toggled on and room doors are locked.

The order the contestants arrive at breakfast matters a little. Deanna compliments each of them in the order they arrive. Those who are talked to early seem to have more chance of fitting in autonomous socials with Deanna. They might fit in a joke, flirt or gossip between her complimenting others.

Yasmine may have been upstairs but she is first to breakfast! She rolled a brisk shower so it was speedy. As Deanna greets her Kristina walks in grumbling.

Deanna: Are you alright Kristina?

Kristina: *sighs* I hate being stuck indoors. It makes me all tense

Yasmine: I mean it's pretty cloudy today

Arista: And it looks like rain

Evelyn: Hopefully the challenge is indoors. Nic! Are you alright?

Nicola: *scowling* I got shampoo in my eyes

Nephinae: Hate when that happens. The longer the hair the more risk of a bathing betrayal

Kristina: It works best if you don't wash your hair too often. It produces lots of natural oils that keep it healthy and don't need to be washed out right away

Yasmine: I've heard that! Plus it's better for the planet to use less

Nicola: I just wanted my hair to be nice

Arista: Come here Nic *hugs* Your hair looks amazing even if you got shampoo in your eye

Evelyn: So what do we think is behind the curtains?

Deanna: Maybe I'm hiding the Wizard of Oz back there

Kristina: Not that creep! He's such a con artist. The scarecrow is the superior character

Arista: *smiling* I like when he says "some people without brains do an awful lot of talking"

Nephinae: It's me! Kidding. Did you ever read that book to your students Nicola?

Nicola: My kids tend to go for more contemporary narratives

Evelyn: There are so many good books being published lately, but we can't forget the classics

Yasmine: You ever notice how the "classics" all seem to be written by white men

Everyone else: Yes!

Deanna and Evelyn stayed chatting at the table while Arista volunteered to do the dishes. Yasmine pulls Nephine aside and tries to talk to her about the benefits of fabricating over simple woodwork but Nephinae is doubtful. Wielding a chisel is just such fun!

Nicola and Kristina both seem to have the whim to calm down before the challenge. Nicola chooses to go relax on a lounger in the pool, good thing she can't burn today. Kristina meanwhile decides to clear her head outside by cloudgazing.

Cloudgazing when it's cloudy... brilliant or her erratic trait?

With breakfast cleared away everyone gathers in the lounge. Devin walks in dressed up and the contestants wonder what could be in store for them today.

Devin: Morning ladies. Welcome officially to round two. Today we have a challenge that we hope you'll enjoy... karaoke

The contestants murmur while Devin grabs the remote.

Devin: Now normally we'd get someone in to coach you but showbiz is a busy world. We've reached out and there is a star willing to offer some advice and wisdom. They've sent us in a video where we asked them for some tips and checked in on their work

Devin hits play and the contestants murmur again as Amiyah appears on screen.

Amiyah created, captured and written by @deardiaryts4

Devin on video: Do you have any tips for our contestants singing today?

Amiyah on video: Warm up, warm, up, warm up! I cannot stress that enough. You can start with a simple “me” x9. Also relax and stand with your feet apart, it helps when belting out those hard to reach notes.

Devin: Most of you should know Amiyah, she's a voice many listened to growing up. I'm excited for the comeback. We're not expecting you to sing like Amiyah, she's in her own league. Just pick a song and let the tech match how accurate you are, just like singstar. Wait, are some of you too young to remember singstar?

Deanna traded places with Devin in front of everyone.

Deanna: Of course it would be rather unfair for me to ask you to perform without putting myself out there first. So to kick things off today I'm going to sing Three Little Birds by Bob Marley

Rise up this morning, smiled with the rising sun Three little birds pitch by my doorstep Singing sweet songs of melodies pure and true Saying, "This is my message to you-ou-ou"

Deanna: Good luck everyone

Arista: AAAAAA so exciting!! I love singing!

Arista chooses to sing Blossoms by The Amazing Devil

And for a time there is timelessness Endless furore To the dark I said pour and forgot to say when And the words that you wrote Come back blacker than smoke: "I'm so sorry, I've done it again"

Evelyn: Oh yay, I love singing! Not so much in front of people but hopefully I'll do okay.

Evie chooses to sing Running Up That Hill by Kate Bush

And if I only could I'd make a deal with God And I'd get him to swap our places Be runnin' up that road Be runnin' up that hill Be runnin' up that buildin' Say, if I only could, oh

Nephinae: Ahem! (vocal warm up) Me-me-me-me-me-me-meeeeeeeee! Okay let's go!

Nephinae chooses to sing I Lied To You by Miles Catton

I hope you can stand it, stand it all 'Cause what l'm out hеre doing, you didn't preach at all See, I'm full of the blues, holy water too I know the truth hurts, so I lie to you So preach on, speak your words I know the truth hurts Yes, I lied to you I love the blues I love the blues

Kristina: Oh, this is exciting! I love getting up to sing happy songs. Ballads are cool if you're a pro, but I go for the crowd-pleasers where the audience sings along and everyone has fun. Then no one notices if I hit a bad note!

Kristina chooses to sing Riptide by Vance Joy

Lady, runnin' down to the riptide Taken away to the dark side I wanna be your left hand man I love you when you're singin' that song and I got a lump in my throat 'cause You're gonna sing the words wrong

Yasmine: *excited* listening to strangers put themselves out there by doing karaoke is part of the fun of going to a bar

Yasmine chooses to sing Closer by Tegan and Sara

The lights are off and the sun is finally setting The night sky is changing overhead It’s not just all physical I’m the type who won't get oh so critical So let’s make things physical I won’t treat you like you’re oh so typical I want you close I want you I won’t treat you like you’re typical

Nicola: I don't think I carry a tune very well, but I have the perfect song - do we get to pick our own?

Nicola chooses to sing the Theme Song from Full House

Clouds as mean as you've ever seen Ain't a bird who knows your tune Then a little voice inside you whispers "Kid, don't sell your dreams so soon!" Everywhere you look, everywhere you go There's a heart (there's a heart), a hand to hold onto Everywhere you look, everywhere you go There's a face of somebody who needs you Everywhere you look

Devin: Our two winners who each get a solo date are Arista and Nicola

Evelyn: Aww darn.. well, I guess I have a reason to practice more

Nephinae: I want to take accountability for my actions of offending the ears of my friends and family...

Evelyn: You weren't that bad

Nephinae: *smiles* Thanks Evie but I wasn't that good either

Yasmine: *shrugs* it was fun to perform and listen to the others

Kristina: I didn't win, but at least we all had fun at the Y-SiM-C-A!

Yasmine: You sing, I'll do sit ups

Kristina: *confused*How do you always have so much energy?

Guest Star Amiyah from @deardiaryts4 Villa Renovation by @paracosmic-sims

#DatingDeanna #DatingDeannaRound2 #sims 4 #the sims #simblr #my sims #ts4 #active simblr

61 notes · View notes

soubi122 · 2 years ago

Text

A Helping Hand

This was a quick scenario that I couldn't get out of my head and for the life of me, it had me squirming in my chair at work. Not edited, forgive the sloppiness.

Warnings: fingering, f!oral, smut, anal (pt3), implied exhibitionist (pt3), dubcon at the beginning of part 3, overstimulation, vibrator, it was all over the place. Sorry if I missed anything.

MDNI! - respectfully, GO AWAY!

Scenario:

Being a member of a gang was already thrilling enough with the constant fights and feisty members. The bond between you and them was on a platonic level, though you’ve never dared cross the line with them, subtle touches and glances had your heart racing. You’d still seek adrenaline to keep you entertained every now and then. Exploring new things was nothing new, you’d enjoy trying fun little things in public and basked at the risk of getting caught. Earlier that day, you decided to walk around with a wireless vibrator inside you. You kept toggling with the remote between the low and medium settings, you had no intention of keeping it in all day until you realized that it was pushed a little too far up. Your fingers couldn’t reach it and when trying to shut it off - the button got stuck, ultimately breaking the controller and making the setting go a little higher. An emergency meeting didn’t give you time to go home and change, when you went to a restroom to try and get the toy out, you couldn't reach it. You had no choice but to attend the meeting in a fucked up state. That was the thing though, no one ever caught on to your little lewd actions but this time, it didn’t go as planned. During the meeting, they noticed how you kept fidgeting, kept your distance and refused to sit down. Your face was dusted in pink and your eyes were glossy - almost as if you were dazed or high. After the meeting, you were pulled aside and confronted.

1. Who takes you home and punishes you? Draken, Mitsuya, Baji, Kazutora, Smiley, Sanzu, Kokonoi, Mochi, Mucho, Rindou, Shion

“Oi…are you not feeling well?” He asks and places his hand on your forehead to check for a fever. He could hear your unsteady breathing and the tremble on lip got him on high alert. It was mortifying to have your captain/teammate potentially discover the real reason you’re feeling faint. The softest whimper and unintended puppy eyes had him worried for you. Without hesitating, he swung you over his shoulder and left the meeting area. The others were concerned that something may have happened or that you fell ill but did not follow unless instructed.

He took you home and could feel how your body continued to shiver and your shortness of breath - they had him on edge. Laying you down in your bed, he was about to dash out of the room to get some medicine but you stopped him by snatching his arm. “Wait…it’s not what you think.” You say almost in tears. “You’re in pain, don’t try to tough it out!” He exclaims and snatches his arm away to head to the doorway. However, he freezes the moment he hears you moan out his name. You didn’t mean to but just as you called out his name - your climax hit you like a truck.

Turning around to face you, he sees you clenching the sheets with your back arched and legs spread. Was he imagining things or did you actually call out to him in a rather lewd way? “...(Y/N)?” He barely manages to say before your 2nd orgasm washes over you. You're a moaning and panting mess. Oh that look, he’s seen it various times in porno videos - a lump began to form in his throat as he struggled to say something. At this point, you’re moaning your sentences to him and reaching for him. “Oh god! Help me get it out!” He rushes over and begins to unbuckle your pants, pulling them down and sees the wet patch in the pantyline.

His heart is pounding out of his chest, you were his friend and teammate, and yet he’s stripping you as if he’s your lover. “I-It’s stuck! The vibrator…take it out! Take it out! OH FUCK!” Your moans were like a call of the night to him, he saw your chest heaving and your slick beginning to seep through the fabric of your panties. He begins to pull your pantyline to the side and couldn’t help but get hard at seeing your bare pussy coated in your juices. “Fuck (Y/N)...” He exhales a shaky breath and slowly slides his fingers between your folds, gathering the slick to coat his fingers. The sensations were embarrassing but your desperation made you not give a shit about who was touching and seeing you. You just wanted this thing out of you.

The sweetest moan dripped from your lips like honey along with his name when he prodded your core. He could feel the vibrations from your toy and his breath hitched at your warmth. “Hurry! Please, I’m about to cum!” You cry and beg him as your hips begin to move on their own. The sensation of his fingers stretching you out was driving you wild. He dove deeper into your cunt and was purposefully touching spots inside your walls to get you to react. He never knew that he’d fall in love with the sound of his name coming from your lips. “Almost got it…” He pretended to struggle.

The third orgasm was clawing its way out. He threw you over the edge when his thumb began to circle your clit. “What are you-ah! Fuck fuck fuck!” You scream and throw your head back in ecstasy as he ripped the third orgasm from you. He had front row seats to see your squirt all over his fingers and wrist. With your whole body twitching and trembling, he couldn’t help but bask at seeing you at this mercy. The mischievous grin that spread across his lips made you clench around his fingers. “Ngh…please, I’m begging you…” You’re out of breath, sweating and a beautiful mess. “Take this as punishment for doing this at a meeting…though I’m sure someone else would have loved to punish you, I’ll just have to take care of you myself.” He says and lowers his head between your thighs.

With one long swipe of his tongue, you felt your surroundings melt and your voice kept calling out to him. Your hands gripped his tresses and tried to pry him off but his hot tongue felt too good to stop. Somewhere somehow he ended up stripping you bare and oh how your body had him in a trance. Those perfect tits he’s only ever dreamed of putting in his mouth or play with, they were now begging to be touched. His touch was tender on your breasts. Placing open mouth kisses and gentle pinches, seeing you react to his every move had him in the clouds. “Who would have known that our little princess was…well, a perfect little slut.” His tone of voice made a chill run down your spine, you’ve never seen him like this before. Let alone even heard anything about this type of behavior from him. He wouldn’t, would he? Would he dare to cross the line between friend and lover? It’s a little too late for that. Those lines were blurred the moment you screamed his name.

The entire night he had you ruining the bed sheets and screaming until your throat was sore. His constant teasing, his touches, the first time kissing him - it all felt so surreal. To think that your teammate would have ulterior motives, well to be fair they just happened to blossom in the midst of your risqué action.

Finally, after an eternity he pulled out the still vibrating toy. You were left a complete mess, barely moving with your bare chest heaving and drool dripping from the corner of your mouth. He examines it and thinks to himself, This little thing was driving you insane? Twisting the toy, he was able to open it and take out the batteries, making it stop. Tossing it aside, he looked down at you, devouring your naked form and positioned himself to give you something more to scream about.

2. Who needs it to be spelled out for them? Mikey, Takemichi, Chifuyu, Angry, Inui, Shinichiro, Hakkai, Kakucho

“(Y/N), you ok? You don’t look so good?” He asks with a concerned look on his face. You nod weakly and begin to walk away, however, your knees give out and he catches you. The way your body was trembling, he was afraid that you were probably catching a cold or the flu. “I’m taking her home, she’s not feeling so well.” You try to explain that you’re ok but he wasn’t having it. The others remained quiet, it’s like they knew something else was up but only chuckled and shook their heads at the clueless man taking you home.

Barely managing to get through the front door and into the living room, he sits you down on the couch and runs to your kitchen to look for medicine. You were left panting and clutching the couch pillows for stability, desperately holding back. It was becoming too much, your body felt hot and your vision was beginning to go white. You bite your hand to keep from making too much noise, the pent up orgasm had you sliding down to the floor.

When he comes back with a glass of water and medicine in hand, he sees you doubled over on the floor with tears in your eyes. “Oi! What’s wrong? Should I take you to a hospital?!” He puts the items in his hands on the coffee table and rushes to your side. Only when he places a hand on your thigh, he feels a slight vibrating sensation and panics. “What’s going on?! Are you having a seizure?” He tries to get you to sit up straight but you refuse to move to avoid looking him in the eyes. “N-Ngh…No hospital…” You barely manage to say between a moan. This poor soul thought you were groaning from being in pain. The sensation of a second orgasm was creeping up on you, making your breathing unsteady and your moans get a little louder. He thought you were going to die. He managed to roll you over but the moment he did, you moaned his name and buried your face into his chest. Your hands were gripping his shirt for dear life with shaky hands.

“I’m here, I’m here - but how can I help you if you don’t tell me what's wrong?!” He exclaims and worries that you might not live to see tomorrow if he doesn’t get help. Looking up at him, your face was dusted in pink and you had tears streaming down your face. The look of innocence and embarrassment only made his heart flutter, were you actually ok? “I…I need help.” You mutter and place your hand on your womb. He was slightly confused now - “Are you cramping or something? I don’t think I can help you with that.” He says and looks away embarrassed that he was panicking over you getting your period. You huff and take his hand, placing it lower and closer between your thighs. “No… the v-vibrator. It’s…it’s stuck…” He couldn’t comprehend what the hell you were talking about until he felt the vibrations a little better.

His face went as red as a tomato when he realized what you were referring to. “O-Oh… you mean you…” He feels his heart rate spike when you whimper and moan. Saying his name while you’re in this state immediately made a tent in his trousers. Oh shit. He thinks to himself as he tries to hide it. “Your fingers are - ah! Oh god… they’re longer than mine.” You whine, leaning him back on the couch and lay back on his chest. His brain short circuited, was he going to have to finger you to get the toy out? Indeed he does.

Placing yourself between his legs, you could feel the raging hard on he had. You were feeling faint again, this was your teammate, your friend but you had no one else to turn to and you don’t think you’d last until the battery ran out. There was no way! Pulling your pants and panties down, you remove them completely - exposing your bare cunt for him. You felt his member twitch and throb on your lower back. He was in shock and could only pant at the site below him. “Please, you need to get it out!” You cry out to him and reach for his hand. His hand was shaking and you felt like this was a really bad idea, but you were desperate. Calling his name, he snapped out of his daze. “I’ve never done this before.” He says and lets you guide his hand between your folds. “I won’t hurt you will I?” He was worried that his fingers were too long or too thick. Shaking your head no, you reassured him that he wasn’t going to hurt you.

When his fingers prodded your entrance, you let out a squeak and instinctively moved your hips into him. Feeling how your body grinded against his cock made him let out a small moan. This was wrong, this was so wrong but you were begging him for help. “Deeper…” You simply say as you try to bite back another moan. He follows your instructions and slowly slides his fingers inside you. The warmth of your walls and feeling of your slick coating his fingers - he thought he was going to bust at any moment. “Oh fuck…fuck, hurry up! I’m so close…” You moan out loud and begin to grind your hips into his fingers. His fingers curl as he tries searching for the toy and ends up hitting that spongy spot that makes you see stars. Throwing your head back into his shoulders, you scream his name and grind against his member, bringing him to the edge of insanity.

He stopped searching when he felt you squirt all over his fingers, and he pulled his fingers out to see that they were covered in your sheen juices. Temptation was eating away at him, he didn’t know whether to continue efforts or just make you cum again. Panting and out breath, you beg him to take it out. “Ngh…please!” Without hesitation, he gripped your hips and slid his fingers inside you. Going deeper and making your back arch, he had you at his mercy. You could hear him panting and felt his member throbbing - he was having a harder time than you were.

Finally, he managed to pull it out and you both remained on the floor, panting and a little embarrassed. Looking up at him, you noticed how his lips parted and how enticing they were. When he looked down at you, he saw you staring at him in a daze. “(Y/N)...” He pants and you bite your lip at the sound of his voice. All other sounds in the room faded and only the pounding of your hearts could be heard. Slowly, you both closed the distance and ever so gently brushed your lips against his - this moment was intimate, tender and full of yearning. When he caved and kissed you, it was innocent - could this be his first kiss? Who knows, at this point in time nothing else mattered, he fingered a woman for the first time and perhaps he might just get laid for the first time.

3. Who punishes you in front of everyone? Izana, Ran, South, Taiju, Hanma

“You seem to be lost in the clouds, woman.” He sneers. Panic begins to take over as you notice that he’s getting closer. If he finds out he will never let you live it down. “Nn-no, what are you t-talking about?” You stutter on your own words and avoid eye contact with him. “Is that so?” He hums and takes your hand, leading you towards a ledge where you and him can sit down. Crap, you didn’t want to sit down or else the vibrations could be heard against the hard surface. “The meeting is over, may I be excused?” You say nervously and almost pant your words. His ears perked up at hearing you panic. “No, take a seat - I need to talk to you.” He grins and forces you to sit.

The way you’re shifting and leaning back against the wall, he could see that whatever you had was driving mad. When he sat next to you, you scooted away a little but his immediate reaction was to pull you in close by the hip. Opps…when he did, you let out a moan and he felt the faint vibrations. “Oh? Don’t tell me…” He says and cups your chin, making you face him. Your teary eyes and pink dusted face made him bear a toothy grin. One that you wished you didn’t cause. “Wait…Please, it’s not what you think. I-I didn’t mean to come to the meeting like this.” You say and tremble under his searing gaze. Your quivering lip only further accelerated the malice growing inside him. “…did you want to get caught? Hmm?” He whispers heavily in your ear. He was sending shivers down your spine with his sardonic tone. You shake your head no and beg him to let you go home. He quickly placed you on his lap with your back against his chest. Nothing could have prepared you for the next moment.

The others were now staring and wondering what kind of trouble you got yourself into if you’re being lectured or toyed with by him. He motioned for one of his subordinates to come closer and gave him a single order. They all paused for a moment, thinking that he wasn’t serious. But the fire in his eyes made the subordinate quickly follow his instructions. With trembling hands the poor male quickly unbuttoned and unzipped your pants. In an instant you were pantless. “What are you doing?! Stop!” You yell but your mouth is quickly covered by your teammate’s/captain's hand. “You’re going to show everyone why you were having a hard time focusing on the meeting.” His voice was loud enough for all other members to hear. Your flushed face and tear stained cheeks only made him more merciless. His thick member was now throbbing against your ass. He was going to lay you bare in front of everyone.

Having him hold your legs apart for everyone to see the shameful mess you made of yourself - it was mortifying but you couldn’t help but enjoy the excitement of being seen. All member’s eyes were on you and your slick coated cunt. “Now everyone here knows how much of a filthy little slut you are…” He coos in your ear and hooks one arm under your thigh, letting the other leg drop and he plunges two thick fingers in your core. Your lewd moan had others palming themselves, they never thought you would be this bold and have a sex toy inside you during a meeting. Of course with your luck, you got caught by one of the worst people in the gang.

“Are you really that desperate for something between your legs that you resorted to this?” He chuckles as you try to close your legs. His strength made it almost impossible to even budge. “Enough! Please…I’m gonna-” You begin to beg but he cuts you off with a laugh and sinks his fingers in deeper. The way his fingers are thrusting inside you had you seeing the fucking aurora borealis lights. The lewd sounds of your own juices could be heard as your orgasm was forced out of you. You felt your eyes roll back into your skull when he continued his motions, he was going to make you come undone again. “W-Wait! I just came! Stop!” You cry and writhe in his lap. Your hand tried to stop him but you had little to no strength left. The tingling in your spine made your back arch and oh how he made a mess out of you.

“If you wanted pleasure…you could have just asked, (Y/N).” He teases and nibbles on your ear. You bite back a moan but he grips your jaw and forces you into a sloppy kiss. All reasoning went out the window. Your friend, your teammate/captain crossed the line and yet you wanted him to treat you a rougher. Some members had to excuse themselves to either relieve the tension in their trousers or change their trousers, they busted when your pretty pussy squirted and clenched around nothing.

“Fuck…fuck…I’m begging you…ngh! Take it out, I c-can’t reach it.” You whimper and bite his lip. Oh? That’s why she showed up like she did, it’s in too deep? He thinks to himself and hooks one arm under both your thighs. Lifting you he manages to release his throbbing cock and places it right at the entrance of your tight ring. The hot tip touching your back entrance made you squeak in surprise and panic. There was no way you were ready for this. For him to fuck you from behind when there is a vibrator inside your sopping cunt while everyone watches, just the thought made your core throb and clench around the toy.

With the amount of slick dripping from you, he didn’t need much to prepare - he rubbed his tip against you to gather enough for him to slide into you. When his tipped prodded you, you thought you were going to die. It was so thick, it felt like you were going to tear. “It’s too big! Fuck fuck!” You moan and dig your nails into his thigh. His husky moan echoed in your ear and you felt him go in inch by inch. “See darlin’...you want me just as much as I do. You're taking me so well.” He pants, lowering you into him and thrusts the last remaining inches inside you. Taking a moment to adjust to his length, he let your legs rest on his thighs - it gave you the opportunity to move at your own pace. To show you off like this, he wanted everyone to know that you now belonged to him. They will never get the chance to see you like this again. Besides, who would be able to fill you up like him? No one.

All the other remaining men were stroking themselves over the clothes, they were enjoying the show and couldn’t help but think of how you would feel on their cocks. The combination of him filling you up, the vibrator and the lewd scene that unfolded in front of their eyes - it made your hips move. “That’s my good girl... ” He moans and places his hands on your hips, guiding you and keeping you steady. You swore you could feel him in your throat, his length had you feeling more sensations than ever before. Being dazed and spell bound by him - he knew that you'd come back more. You had, there was no way anyone else would satisfy you.

Everything was going so fast, that by the time you realized you were bouncing on his cock - you saw that the others had their cocks in their hands. They were jacking off to seeing you get fucked and oh the audience loved every second of it. Each time his cock hit the very edge, you felt the vibratory push against your golden spot and he noticed it. You were already tightly squeezing his cock but the more you got closer to infinity, the more he thought it was going to lose it. “I’m cumming, I’m cumming!” You cry out and throw your head back into his shoulder as your body twitches and releases your essence. He too came undone and filled you to the brim. His thick seed dripped down and hit the ground with a loud thud. He thought you were squeezing too hard still when he realized that the vibrator was still inside you. "Almost forgot about this…" He chuckles and removes it, tossing it into the crowd of men who were trying their hardest to clean up the mess they made.

To think that they had a filthy little minx amongst them, too bad they didn’t get to you sooner.

END

842 notes · View notes