#Real-time object tracking

[nexgitspvtltd]

Exploring the complexities and advancements in real-time object tracking!  Dive into the challenges faced and the cutting-edge innovations revolutionizing this dynamic field.  

[superbat-lmao]

A “buddy” vigilante story where Jason and Tim go back in time during Dick’s time as Robin, when the Worlds Greatest Detective was still young.

Basically, they significantly change the past and in the most annoying way possible. Tim knows that no one will know it was them and has been pretty morally flexible about the whole thing. They go down the list of rogues, down the list of siblings, bickering about it the whole time.

Jason kills the Joker, Tim rescues Cass, and both of them try and get one over on the other about their past selves.

Because Tim tries to talk baby Jason into stealing the Bat’s tires early while Jason’s out murdering Zucco, and Jason’s out snatching Tiny Tim and his camera from rooftops trying to leave him gift wrapped in the batcave while Tim’s out stealing info from Luthor.

It’s one giant clusterfuck but they’re successful because Tim and Jason combined are absolutely lethal and no one ever saw them coming.

Meanwhile, they keep running into Robin and absolutely losing it over seeing their oldest brother so young and angry.

Dick tries to track them down after they killed Zucco, he wants to ask why. What the hell they could possibly be doing or why that would matter to them.

Tim pushes Jason off a roof.Jason lights Tim’s ancient computer on fire. Tim tears a book in half. Jason takes pictures of Tiny Tim and sets them as his wallpaper. It’s a comedy, your honor.

And probably the worst headache Batman will ever get.

[bokuwatetsuo]

kaneda is the kind of guy who you think rides sport bikes daily. maybe even a crotch rocket squid. but in reality he rides cruisers and standards and off road bikes LIKE they're sport bikes

[batsplat]

from the stuff i’ve heard marc’s former honda teammates (dani jorge and pol in their media careers but joan also i guess) say about him now that they’re racing is generally quite positive, both on a professional/riding level but also seemingly on a personal level? i’m wondering what you make of that given that, yeah, marc doesn’t seem like a very good teammate (unless you’re alex who i’ve left off this list). like MARC wants to separate on and off track stuff and it seems like all of these guys are willing too at least in retrospect, so he can’t have truly burned bridges with them. do you have any thoughts on that

(x, x) most riders are quite good at not burning bridges with each other! it's not like marc's competitors don't know that this stuff is kinda part of the game. I mean, all of marc's past teammates were also trying to assert themselves within the internal hierarchy... you can say that certain teammates engage in 'worse' behaviour than others, but, like, these people do understand they're supposed to be fighting each other! a baseline degree of nastiness is factored in and will be accepted to a greater or lesser extent by your rivals - especially when it comes to asserting yourself in intra-team power struggles. you might hate the other guy in the moment, but generally speaking once the active part of the rivalry is done with... you will probably get over it. marc's fellow riders are aware of how ultra-competitive marc is - and to a certain point they do respect it, not least because they're aware that this is part of the reason why marc has ended up with all those titles. it's like dani said, right, it's marc's strong suit. and in general, you do have to say that there's relatively few teammate pairings that devolve to the level of toxicity that it completely destroys the interpersonal relationship. you might need some level of preexisting animosity... most of the purely competitive sins can be healed with a little time

on the 'separating on-track and off-track' thing... well. this is kind of a question of how you define these things, you can say that marc generally speaking isn't going to massively hold grudges over isolated on-track incidents or whatever... but he doesn't just leave his fighting to the track, and personally I've also never felt he can entirely separate these things out in his mind. can you really say his professional and private relationships with other riders are completely detached from one another? mostly, he's opted to be pretty disengaged from his fellow riders as a collective, and obviously that's a good way to not take things too personally... it's all part of the game, isn't it? sometimes it's good to go with the straightforward approach: marc tells you he will make your life hell, he does indeed make your life hell, and then you both move on with your lives and can maybe actually have a pretty amiable relationship with him in years to come. he's not really defying your expectations at any point here, is he now? it's still a question for each of them as individuals as to whether they think that kind of behaviour is above board and acceptable or not... but everyone by now knows that marc plays these games, so it's not like they're going in blind

and it's not like other former teammates are constantly badmouthing each other. I mean... look, let's just cut to the chase here and bring in valentino as our reference point (as he is for the sport as a whole, which by the way does also help create a certain baseline of acceptability for marc's antics - maybe goated riders are just supposed to be dicks who knows). vale's premier class teammates were 1) nobody (2000-01), 2) tohru ukawa (2002), 3) nicky hayden (2003; 2011-12), 4) carlos checa (2004), 5) colin edwards (2005-2007), 6) jorge lorenzo (2008-10; 2013-16), 7) maverick vinales (2017-20), 8) franco morbidelli (2021), and 9) andrea dovizioso (2021). of these eight men (let's just exclude 'nobody' for now), do you know how many had serious complaints at any point about valentino as a teammate? that's right, it's one guy. one. some of valentino's other teammates, like hayden, checa and edwards, were even quite actively positive about their whole experience. this is the thing - you do need some specific circumstances for teammate rivalries to escalate from 'being kinda bitchy every other month' to 'actively fantasising about stabbing each other'. not accounting for natural interpersonal animosity, let's list some circumstantial factors that you need to get a bridge-burning-worthy level of feud:

you need a competitive bike. it is possible to beef about development direction when you're in the trenches (cf late 2010's yamaha, 2020's honda)... but generally speaking this is going to be quite low-level petty stuff, not actual war

you also need something that approaches competitiveness between teammates. if one teammate is unquestionably stronger than the other one, then it is very unlikely that you are going to get any open hostilities. the tension comes when the two sides are close enough to each other for the internal hierarchy to actually be a contentious issue (this is also basic self preservation... if you're the far weaker teammate then you do not want to make the situation troublesome, because then you will be the one to be fired)

following on from those first two things... well, it doesn't hurt to have a title fight in the mix. there are also other ways you can generate competitive stakes, like, for instance, if you and your teammate know that one of you will be out of a job soon. basically, it helps to have something to squabble over

it is maybe easy to forget how rare it is this century for teammates to be fighting directly for a title, let alone over the course of multiple seasons. only two 1-2's since the year 2000 and they're both for the factory yamaha's (though 2006, 2011-13 and 2017 did all prominently feature two factory hondas). which means that for valentino, the prerequisites were met just the once in his premier class career... and yes, the results were pretty memorable, but (topic! for! another! post!) it's worth pointing out that even that relationship was pretty much 'fine' whenever there was a sizeable disparity between the two of them performance-wise (2008 and 2013 are the most clear cut examples). I think the way I'd frame it with marc is that he has a bunch of mildly dubious strategies up his sleeve to assert himself within the team, which don't really deviate that far from what you'd expect from a rider of marc's calibre and only need to be escalated under specific circumstances. that doesn't mean he doesn't have the potential to be ruthless, but up until now it's mostly been a fairly 'acceptable' level of ruthlessness on the intra-team level... and not something that is likely to make other riders actually hate him

taking marc's teammates one by one... dani was the closest to meeting the bridge-burning prerequisites, though he was only a title rival in marc's rookie season. and marc did go further with him than he did with anyone else, and dani has made some pointed comments about marc's style as a teammate... but yes, he is fonder of marc these days. partly I'd just emphasise again that this is a fairly natural progression when you've stopped directly competing for long enough, and partly it's also just a question of individual personality - dani's not massively into holding grudges. then there's jorge, who... I mean, they might as well not have been teammates, given that jorge was either too slow or too injured to even be sharing any track space with marc. you have to put that one down primarily to circumstance, seeing as jorge's own track record on the teammate front isn't exactly spotless. marc and jorge beefing in 2019 would have been pretty dumb and also a massive waste of everyone's time in a year in which marc singlehandedly won the team's championship. even those two needed more to get things going

moving on to the dark years, pol and marc had an extremely stop-and-start partnership on a honda that was generally pretty uncompetitive... so the only stuff they could get ever so mildly irritable about were riveting incidents like 'marc saying pol wasn't the biggest championship threat' (neither of them were) or 'pol saying he'd copy marc's set up' (which proved entirely useless). not exactly title decider territory, is it now, and marc very much had pol covered as a challenger throughout their partnership. also, those two do have a longer history! they've known each other since they were kids and hold a pretty significant place in each other's careers. now that pol's more or less retired, it's natural there'll be quite a lot of sentimentality there - which will paper over any small cracks that appeared during those two years. and joan was a one year teammate at a time in which the bike was consistently close to offing them both. they only managed to start a sunday race together as teammates on thirteen occasions. it would take some serious effort to engineer a feud with that little opportunity, and, really, why on earth would you bother. maybe if honda had gone for rinsy rather than joan for the factory seat, it could've been a bit more prickly, but it's unlikely that it would have escalated beyond that

this is the thing, right, the only one of these partnerships that would have been worth burning bridges over was dani, and even there marc pretty much had him handled after the first season. in general, marc has been pretty clear on how he's not interested in making friends with the other side of the garage while the teammate relationship is ongoing... which is fine! there's some prominent-ish teammate pairings that are actually good friends, some teammate pairings where one of them is actively helping out and advising the other one, but some riders prefer to just keep their distance. it would have been a little silly of marc to start a feud with a teammate who is galaxies away from being a competitive threat, let alone a title rival, but generally it is possible to toe the line between 'attempting to suppress your internal rivals enough to stop them from becoming a problem for you' and 'taking radical enough action to make your internal rivals despise you'

especially in the post-dani era, marc never really had any need to push things too far... and, let's face it, how many of your teammate relationships end up with burnt bridges is also quite frankly a question of luck and circumstance. do you want to guess which top rider on paper has the worst track record this century with premier class teammate feuds, in terms of a) how many they've had, and b) how little public reconciliation there has been since the end of the rivalry?

yes, that's right, it's the first name that comes to mind when you're thinking of toxic and conflict-prone riders: andrea dovizioso. that old devil, constantly causing trouble. just couldn't stop undermining his poor, innocent teammates. can somebody please stop this ruthless bully before it's too late

I think you get the point. I would personally suggest that dovi is not in fact the worst teammate it is possible to have in a motogp top team. he just happened to find himself in a situation where he was teammates with two separate guys he did not click with at all, in situations that involved a pairing of riders who were (or had the potential to be) competitive with each other, as well as some proper stakes attached to the rivalry. in general, situational factors are going to determine this stuff more than anything else... and marc more often than not does have a reasonably good feel for picking his battles. he's flirted with the line, but he's mostly avoided crossing it. he hasn't had to

[otome-dissection]

*taps microphone* *clears throat* You know what. I think yakuza 5 actually went pretty hard

*feedback noises*

[kageyuh]

caught ya! | ★ nerd!armin arlert x roommate!reader pt. 1

cw/pairing: nerdy armin, glasses armin, catching armin beating his meat, masturbation, kinda nsfw (nothing wild), perverted? roommate armin x reader summary: you catch your roommate moaning your name during the act. you've always known he was a nerd, but who knew he was a pervert, too?

armin is a gooner.

you lost count of how many times you caught your glasses-framed roommate mid-sesh, fleshlight in hand, lube at the ready, sat on his desk chair with a hentai open and visible on his monitor.

it has become such a common occurrence, in fact, that you barely even flinch when you swing his door open today to pornographic moans and high pitched noises coming from the screen. the one thing you didn't expect, however, was him moaning your name as he pleasured himself.

you're frozen in place, hand hovering above the door handle as you process what you're hearing. you scooch closer to the wood, ear pressing against it to eavesdrop. but there's nothing but the moans of the characters that are likely gracing his screen with big busts and crevices.

were your ears playing tricks on you? there's no way that armin has a thing for you, right?

you're waiting, pressed against the door, when you hear the padding of footsteps. you stumble forward as the door swings open, revealing a panting, sweaty, and slightly confused armin.

his rectangle glasses are slightly foggy, and he's looking back and forth at you and the door before putting two and two together.

"were you spying on me?" he asks incredulously, stepping back as if he were a cowering rabbit. the horrified look on his face causes you to avoid his gaze.

"no," you lie out your ass, voice rising in pitch. you clear your throat. "i was just about to ask if you wanted to go see that new titan movie."

he's raising an eyebrow at your excuse. "right now?"

"yes, right now." you nod. you pull out your phone with swiftness, eager to change the topic. "next showing starts in 30, so we gotta leave now if we wanna catch it."

he's nodding along, seemingly unconvinced, but agrees. you let out a sigh of relief as he shuts his bedroom door again, mumbling a, 'just give me 5 minutes.'

the evening goes by swiftly, and the incident is pushed to the back of your mind for the rest of the week. armin's ramblings and theories about the series flood your head, and his moans from that day seem to be the least of your worries as midterms approach.

it's only a day before your chemistry exam, and you're approaching your roommate's door to ask him for help with the study packet.

it's closed, as usual, and you lift your knuckles to leave a knock on his door when a pitchy, strained moan makes you stop in your tracks.

"ngh- y/n, fuck..."

your jaw drops. that's not real, is it? before you can think, your hand is turning the doorknob, swinging the door open.

it's a mess. lube on the floor, fleshlight discarded on the desk, tissues scattered across the carpet. you don't even have time to analyze the setting you've just barged into before the blonde-haired boy is stumbling out of his gaming chair, mouth gaping like a fish as he stammers an excuse, hard, reddish cock still exposed in his hand.

"w-what the fuck?!" he's turning away now, attempting to shield his nudity. he's still donning his green top, and he struggles to stuff his cock into his khaki pants as he panics. "don't look!"

you cover your eyes, but an image from the corner of your gaze peaks your curiosity. "armin..." you start, slowly lifting a finger to point at the object. it's tiny, almost hard to miss, but it was stuffed messily into the drawer, causing the face on the polaroid to be exposed. "is that my picture?"

he yelps, hands darting out to snatch the photo from sight, hiding it behind his back. he's fully dressed now, but anxiously avoiding your curious gaze. "that's...private." he says, shifting his weight. "now what do you need? i was clearly in the middle of something."

"no, no." you're shaking your head, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. you're not going to let him off this time. "you were jerking off to my photo."

armin looks like a child who just got caught with their mother's makeup. he shuffles, eyes trained on the floor. "i wasn't."

you take a step closer to him, and he steps back cautiously. but before he can get any farther, you dart past him, snatching the polaroid from his fingertips.

"hey!" he's jumping, and you're tackled down onto his star-trek bedsheets as he attempts to wrestle the image out of your hands. when you catch a glimpse of it, you gasp.

it's a candid photo of you, short pajama shorts riding up so that the flesh of your ass is peeking out, and you're donned in a thin tank top that leaves little of your cleavage to the imagination. you had been seated at your desk, a mouthful of ramen puffing up your cheeks as you turned to face the sound of the camera with a shocked expression. heat creeps up your cheeks as you shriek. "why do you have this?!"

armin huffs, collapsing over you. "stop..." he grumbles, pushing his face into your chest. "you look hot in that."

his shy demeanor has your expression softening. you reach up to pat his hair soothingly. "it's alright, i'm not mad."

his head darts up in realization, eyes wide. "i swear 'm not a pervert, though!" he's defensive, lifting himself off your chest. "i-it's only because i like you a little!" he's rambling now, squirming in anxiety. "and the feelings will go away, so don't worry..." he trails, noticing your silence. he follows your gaze down to...oh.

his movement had landed you two in a rather precarious position, with your legs spread, him kneeling between them, and his crotch pressing against your core. with an obvious tent, of course, as it was still bulging from his...activities. and now that he's noticed this, his pants almost seem to get a little bit tighter.

also, his hand is on your boob.

he groans, throwing his head back to stare at the ceiling. blush creeps onto his cheeks, and he almost feels like he's going to get a nosebleed from how perverse this scene is.

is this...his lucky pervert moment?

no. nope. nope! he shakes the thought from his head, springing up from the bed and drawing himself away from you. he had lowkey just confessed, and now he's thinking about your body? what a douchebag. he scolds himself internally. "i'm so sorry," he repeats frantically, arms waving in front of him. "i didn't mean to, i'm so sorry, i just--"

you cut him off with a wave of your hand, sitting up on his bed with a laugh. "armin. it's okay, trust me, i know it was an accident. and honestly, you can keep the photo. it doesn't bother me, but..." you eyes trail up his fidgeting figure as he attempts to cover his boner by pulling down his shirt. "will you be okay?" you say pointedly. your gaze is fixated on the bulge in his pants.

"y-yeah." he stutters, sweat dripping down his temple as the heat on his face rises. "sorry, can you get out now? i need to...take care of it." he mumbles ashamedly.

you cock your head curiously. you'd be lying if you said you never had a thing for your nerdy roommate, but all hope had long been lost since you determined his waifus would come before he'd set his sights on any real girls in his life. but now that his interest in you is real and tangible...

in that second, you make a decision.

"want me to help you out?"

part 2 here

a/n: should i continue this? (i will)

banners: the reason why the new issue is xxx is because of the new salesman MY FAVVV LOL

[snekdood]

OK OK.... last one. sorry. lmao

[sirfrogsworth]

I've been thinking deeply about "good people" and "bad people" and how those labels don't work for me anymore except in rare cases (Elon, Trump, MTG, etc).

I've switched to good and bad behaviors as much as I can.

Jay Leno the comedian was just bad behaviors all the way down. He literally made Monica Lewinsky's life nearly intolerable. He was in some part responsible for her brush with suicide. Not only did he make jokes about her every night, but he has kept those jokes in his act TO THIS DAY.

He was probably the first mainstream transphobic comedian. When Cher's son Chaz Bono came out as a trans man, Jay did jokes for months. To his credit, he later did an interview with Chaz and you could see in real time Jay thinking, "Oh, this isn't what I thought." It seemed like meeting an actual trans person changed his perspective a bit. (Imagine that.)

And, of course, the entire saga screwing over Conan was just peak bad behavior. Conan's 60 Minutes interview is the perfect thing to watch if you want to know more.

HOWEVER...

Jay Leno the boss is a solid dude. He was the Anti-Ellen. Got along with everyone. Took an interest in their lives. He'd give them extra jobs like paying the art department to recreate vintage car advertisements for his car museum.

He rewarded loyalty and took care of his crew for the run of his show. He'd give them bonuses and expensive gifts for years of service. When there were strikes he would pay their salaries. He was so loved as a boss, that many of his crew members stuck with him for the entire run of his Tonight Show. They once did a thing where they showed the crew babies born during the Tonight Show and it looked like they brought in the entire student body of a grade school.

Jay Leno the car historian is a sweet old grandpa doing important work in conservation. Cars are a part of our history and I think it is important to have a robust historical sample. Jay does not just collect expensive cars just to have them and show off his wealth. He collects cars throughout history, preserves them as they were (to the best of his ability), and he *drives* them.

So many museums will do this historical pausing thing where they take an old thing, stop any current degradation, and then preserve it from that point forward. Or they might restore the car to its former glory and then do the pause. Keeping it on display and never driving it again.

But I find this problematic with cars for a couple of reasons. First, when you do that, you lose the context of how the cars needed to be maintained. You can lose access to mechanics that can work on them and create parts for them. Cars are not just visual objects, they are mechanisms with thousands of moving parts and the history of those moving parts is important too. Cars need to be driven to be maintained. The longer you let them sit, the more they will break down, the harder it will be to keep them in working order for preservation. Perhaps one paused and one driven would be a better approach due to the risk of accidents.

But also, the experience of driving these cars is important historically. How fast were they? How good was the acceleration? How did they corner? What did all the buttons and dials do? Were they fun to drive? Were they scary death traps? (Looking at you Dodge Viper. How many dentists did you kill?) The actual driving of the cars has important historical context. I think car museums should be next to a track and people should be allowed to experience riding in them.

Jay is an amazing historian and has a wonderful sampling of important cars going back to steam. He even has a steam fire engine from the early 1900s. He is a gracious host and gives lots of people access to his collection. He does weekly videos so there is a great visual record of this history and anyone can watch and learn about these old (and new but inaccessible) cars.

If you were to poke me with a stick, I'd say Jay Leno the comedian is a giant asshole. And Jay Leno the boss and historian is a solid dude.

And holding those two ideas in my head breaks my brain a little.

But I think there is merit in thinking of people as collections of good and bad behaviors rather than just giving them a singular verdict of good or bad person.

Jimmy Kimmel is another interesting study in good vs bad behavior.

He started doing comedy in the misogynistic manosphere genre. Famously, he did "The Man Show" with Adam Corolla. What's funny about that is I think Jimmy thought it was mostly satire (though he was absolutely problematic) and Adam was a true believer who thought he was really sticking it to those feminist bitches.

Jimmy Kimmel might be one of the most public examples of genuine, authentic growth. A person who analyzed his bad behaviors and decided to limit or replace them with good behaviors. I'm guessing his marriage and family helped push him along. But he started this journey long before that. He learned he could still push the limits of crude humor and even satirize his misogynistic past while generally being a solid dude. Slowly he became one of celebrities' favorite shows to go on. And, because of his growth, he started making friends with tons of them. You would not believe how many big stars are good friends with Jimmy Kimmel outside his show.

And when Trump came along, Jimmy got fucking WOKE. (The OG usage) His empathetic side came out in a big way. He couldn't hold it back with his crude man humor facade. He started caring about the world and what his kids were going to grow up in, and he added scathing political humor to his repertoire.

Jay Leno remains apolitical as much as possible with some mildly shitty conservative views popping out every once in a while. He is into old school WWII style patriotism and thinks everything should be made in America. Like, when someone says a car part is made in America, I worry Jay is just going to jizz in his pants right on camera.

Is Jay Leno a bad person? Sometimes. Absolutely.

Was Jimmy Kimmel a bad person? Sometimes. Absolutely.

Is Jimmy still a bad person? Not as far as I can tell.

Is Adam Corolla a piece of shit? Absolutely. Absolutely.

[2pndr]

CHANCES ARE YOU'RE ABOUT TO LOSE.

A/N: Written for a prompt by @suchsweetstories. Much love for hosting!

Cho Miyeon x Male Reader smut

3.3k words

“I already hate it here.”

“You do not.”

“Well, It’s supposed to be spring, right?”

“Mhm.”

“Then why the fuck is it so cold?”

Miyeon doesn’t look up from her phone. She’s too busy squinting at a map of the racecourse. You wager she’s trying to figure out how far the champagne tent is from the betting tables. To her, those are the kinds of metrics that matter. 

“It’s Melbourne,” she shrugs. “The weather changes every six minutes. A bit like your mood,” she adds cheekily. 

You roll your eyes. “Feels like winter in a wig.”

“Aw,” she mocks, finally sparing you a look, giving your bicep a theatrical squeeze. “Is my big baby cold?”

You glance down at your outfit—four layers deep and still doing fuck-all against the wind. “...Yes.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” she says, leaping over a puddle. “This is the perfect weather for betting.”

“I’m sorry, what now?”

“You heard me,” she says, flashing a grin. 

“Betting.”

*

So. Miyeon has this habit.

And no, it’s not the gambling. That one’s more of an addiction—chronic, incurable, and one you’re practically enabling at this point. This is more like a side effect. A telltale symptom of the greater illness: the way she insists on solving every problem she has with her mouth.

Not metaphorically.

Not diplomatically.

Literally.

And you don’t mean that in the sense of persuasive debate, or even manipulation—though she’s proven time and time again she’s more than proficient in both. You mean she actually gets down on her knees, flashes those doe eyes, and opens wide like you’re playing here comes the fucking aeroplane.

Take today.

Much like how she got you to fly across the globe in pursuit of the Melbourne Cup—a four-minute loop of men in silks and tiny hats riding million-dollar livestock and whipping them into cardiac arrest—she’s now “talked” you into letting her bet on it.

You resisted, of course. But when she wants something, Cho Miyeon is an unstoppable force, and you are far from immovable object.

She’d cornered you in one of the racetrack bathrooms, leaned back against the sink, spread her legs, flaunted her hair and pouted like the tragic lead of a noir.

“Just one little bet,” she pleaded and you said “absolutely not,” and she said “pretty please,” and you said “no way in Hell,” and she said “I’ll suck your dick,” and you said “Miyeon, we’ve talked about th—oh fuck, okay, alright, Jesus Christ.”

So now you’re zipping your jeans with a sigh, running a hand through your hair and staring daggers into the man in the mirror. In addition to asking him to change his ways, you’re also asking how the fuck he lets this keep happening.

It's like you’re not even a participant in your own downfall anymore. You’re a spectator—front and centre to watch yourself make the same mistakes with the same woman in differing degrees of filthy bathrooms across time zones.

You wash your hands. Not because they need it—Miyeon did all the work this time—but because it buys you a second. A pause. A breath. A reprieve before stepping out into the light where, you know disaster, (Miyeon), awaits.

That and to ask yourself:

How the fuck did I end up here?

*

“The race that stops the nation,” Miyeon had declared with starry eyes about a week ago. She was lying upside-down on your couch, kicking her feet to the ceiling, tossing grapes into her mouth, and making a mess of the misses on your carpet. “You can’t tell me that doesn’t sound appealing.”

You sighed—as you always do when Miyeon suggests travelling half-way across the world to bring you half-way to financial ruin.

“Alright, let me get this straight,” you began, already pinching at the bridge of your nose. It’s a gesture usually reserved for tax season and Miyeon-induced headaches. So, it tracks. “Two-dozen jockey’s ride in a shambolic circle for a few kilometres—no obstacles, no jumps, no real turns—and you want to fly a dozen hours to watch it in person?”

She had obviously realised how shitty of an idea this was on paper (or at the very least it looked that way in your eyes) and decided she needed to sweeten the deal. “We can do other stuff while we’re there,” she pouted.

“Like what? Lose even more money playing ‘pokies’ instead?”

Miyeon hesitated for a moment. You could practically see the responsible answer try to claw its way to the surface. But as always, self control eluded her.

“Doesn’t sound like a bad idea to me…” 

“Oh Miyeon,” you groaned. “For the love of Go—,” 

“Okay fiiiiiine. We could… explore the city!” she offered. “Try a museum or two. Go to a vineyard. Maybe pet a kangaroo!”

“Those all sound awfully like things you’ll forget about the moment you see a betting table.”

She rolled onto her side, head in your lap. “Come on. I’ve never been to Australia. And the Melbourne Cup is iconic!”

“So is the Titanic,” you retorted. “Doesn’t mean I want front row seats to the sinking.”

Miyeon simply grinned. “Except instead of drowning in water, it’ll be in our newfound wealth!”

A hand went over your face, you needed to massage your eyeballs. “Let me make something very clear, Miyeon. Even if we do go, there will not be—under any circumstance—any bets placed. No chips traded. No casinos entered. No horses backed. If you so much as glance at a gacha machine, I will not hesitate to cancel every card we have.”

“Okay, okay. Jeez, I can live with that.”

“That includes the secret debit card you keep behind your license.”

“NO! PLEASE! ANYTHING BUT THAT,” she was practically screaming, shaking your shoulders like maracas. 

It was your turn to grin. “Then promise me something,”

She was nodding like a puppy.

 “No betting.”

Miyeon straightened like a soldier and folded an arm over her chest. “Hand on my heart,” she declared. 

You nodded, almost satisfied. Obtusely unaware of the mistake you were making.

“Well,” you said, completely smug, “at least that makes your promise valid.”

She blinked. “My what?”

“We haven’t decided on going yet. The trip’s still up in the air.”

Miyeon blinked. You could see the wheels turning. 

“Oh,” she said, full of sudden inspiration.

You barely had time to blink before she was crawling into your lap, lips arriving at yours. “Then maybe I should convince you,” she whispered, one hand dragging down your chest, the other already plotting its path toward your jeans.

And you, in your infinite wisdom, said nothing.

Suffice it to say: you went to bed that night very, very convinced.

*

She talks like she’s an expert.

Like she’s spent years refining her own scientific method. Like she’s read the stats, studied the field, hand-picked the jockeys and trained the horses herself. Like she’s here with a plan—all permutations of intentional, calculated and precise.

She has none of that.

What she does have are the very same things she always brings to the betting table: blind optimism, questionable fashion choices, and a gambling history that reads like a case study in the sunk-cost fallacy.

She’s lost money on mice, cats, dogs, vulturine guinea fowls, fantasy stocks, actual stocks, motorsports, chess, video games, tabletop games, competitive rock-paper-scissors, a crab race in busan, one underground mahjong league in Okinawa, another in Kabukicho, another in Dohtonbori, and about a dozen shogi matches with the homeless in Yokohama.

She put six-thousand dollars on the World Cup final based solely on how hot she thought the coaches were.

There was a brief but financially devastating stint with marble racing.

She’s placed money on rock skipping. Celebrity baby name predictions. Whether or not the next Pope will be left-handed.

(As well as another few dozen cases you didn't end up committing to memory. Tack on another few dozen for the times she's undoubtedly gambled behind your back.)

And yet, no matter how many times she’s been burned by Lady Luck—how many “can’t-lose” bets are lost anyway, or how many hot tips go cold the second they’re placed—Cho Miyeon simply does not quit.

She adjusts her sunglasses—not for the sun, which has yet to make a single appearance today, but for dramatic effect. Then she plants her hand on your shoulder, squares herself toward the track like she’s on a TED stage, and resumes the yap.

“And that’s the neat part,” she’s saying now, continuing on from a spout of nonsense you were lucky enough to have tuned out of, “the odds are just a reflection of the pool, right? It’s not real probability. It’s not math-math, it’s like… vibes-math. It’s what everyone else thinks is going to happen—which is already flawed because people are fucking idiots. So really, by betting on the thing no one bets on, you’re actually smarter than everyone else. It’s kind of meta if you think about it.”

You don’t think about it.

“Like, take today for example. Look at these poor, unfortunate, not-winning-shit, souls.” She scans the crowd for a moment, searching for a target. “Oh, like that guy over there? Fedora and the double Windsor? Amateur. You can tell purely by the way he’s dressed he’s betting based on bloodline and track record. Rookie mistake. That’s how you lose money. The real winners—me for example—we bet with instinct. Intuition. Gut feelings. And sometimes alcohol.”

You raise an eyebrow.

Miyeon nods solemnly, as if that makes it gospel.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” she continues, even though you’re very much not thinking anything. “You’re thinking, ‘But Miyeon, didn’t you once lose 700 dollars betting that the royal baby would be named Gundalf?’ And to that I say: yes. But also, the UK had a chance to make history. They chose George. Fucking George. Cowards.”

She doesn’t even pause.

“Or maybe you’re thinking about the crab race in Busan. Which, to be clear, I still maintain was rigged. Oh, and that sperm race in LA? You can’t convince me those weren’t tampered with. You think one swimmer wins by ten lengths without pharmaceutical assistance? Please.”

You try to interrupt.

You choose not to bother.

“Anyway, the point is—betting is about more than just numbers. It’s about story. Narrative. You have to feel the arc: that upward trajectory that comes from being overlooked. You want the underdog, but not too under. You want mystery, but not scandal. You want a horse with baggage, with a little trauma sprinkled in for spice. Something to prove is what I'm saying.”

She gestures toward the big screen showing a replay from the previous race. A horse in bright orange silks is dragging itself over the finish line, dead last.

“Not him though. Orange is the worst color. Proven fact: Bad luck. Studies show it interferes with the horse’s chi or aura or whatever. I don’t remember where I read that—a subreddit, maybe—but still. Reliable source.”

Then she spins around, squints down the stretch, and points at a brown mare doing a very unbothered trot.

“But Whispering Sheila?” she says, near reverent. “That’s a horse that gets it. That’s a horse who’s seen some shit. I mean, just look at her. Not flashy. Not showy. Just focused. Professional. She’s got the legs to take her to the end and back!”

“She was disqualified last race for biting the handler.”

“Exactly! She’s got edge!”

Miyeon folds her arms, completely satisfied, the sunglasses now fully askew on her nose. You stare at her, and consider, deeply, the cosmic imbalance of power between your ability to say no and her ability to not give a fuck.

She smiles. 

“So. Shall we?”

“If I say no, are you going to drag me to the bathroom again?”

“Perhaps,” she beams.

You sigh the deepest sigh.

“Guess I have no choice then.”

Because truly, you don’t.

*

You’re not expecting a lot. That much is a given. 

You’re standing there, arms crossed, mentally preparing yourself to watch twenty-four tiny men in coloured silk slap the shit out of their horses for a couple minutes and call it sport. 

You’re also prepared to lose. 

In fact, you’ve been conditioned to lose. 

You are the emotionally battered war vet of betting by proxy. Weathered by half a decade of Miyeon induced headaches, panic attacks, and bankruptcy scares. So it goes without saying that you’ve long since made peace with the inevitability of financial ruin.

Which is why what happens next makes absolutely no sense.

The gates open with a clang. And then Whispering Sheila—Miyeon’s pride and joy, her bet of the century, her four-figure “hunch”—takes off like a fucking torpedo.

You blink.

Then blink again.

Your mind isn’t playing any tricks. Sheila's in front. Not just in front—she’s leading the charge like a horse-shaped war general. Her strides are long. Her form is beautiful. The wind parts for her like Moses at the Red Sea. And for the first time in her presumably disappointing life, Whispering Sheila isn’t just exceeding expectations.

She’s shattering them.

And beside you, Miyeon is absolutely losing her shit.

“She’s FLYING!” she screams, hopping up and down on the concrete. “Look at her—LOOK AT HER! Did I not say she had the legs?! I TOLD YOU SHE HAD THE LEGS!”

You don’t dare answer. Don’t dare jinx it while the impossible unfolds.

Sheila holds the lead through the turn. The crowd roars. Miyeon screams louder. 

You feel it then.

Not belief, no. Not that strong.

But… suspicion. Suspicion that Miyeon might’ve—against every possible odd, against the universal laws of cause and effect, against the deeply rigged simulation that is your life—actually gotten one right.

God, are you naive.

Because just as the final stretch begins—just as Sheila is poised to make history—

She stops.

Not because she trips. Not because another horse cuts her off. She just… stops. Veers off course. Loses interest. Maybe remembers an existential crisis she was having earlier.

One moment she’s a champion.

The next?

She’s taking a scenic detour near the fence, tail swishing like she’s out for a casual trot—all while the rest of the field barrels past like a freight train.

Miyeon goes silent.

The crowd does not.

Laughter breaks out. Even the drunk guy next to you mutters a heartfelt “Jesus Christ” into his stubby.

You watch, horrified, as the horse Miyeon picked using nothing but “vibes” and a conspiracy theory about saddle colour, trots across the finish line somewhere around a full minute behind the rest of the pack.

Dead. Fucking. Last.

You don’t say anything right away.

You don’t have to.

The anger radiating off your body could power a suburban home.

Broken, shattered, hollowed, you shakily ask:

“…Did we just lose four thousand dollars?”

There’s a pause.

A suspiciously long pause.

Then, from beside you:

“Okay. So.”

You turn.

Don’t fucking say it, Miyeon.

“...I may have added an extra zero.”

*

So. Miyeon has another habit.

 And no, it’s not the rambling, that one’s ingrained in her personality—endless, vexing, endlessly vexing, and one you always just have to kinda sit through. This one is embedded in her DNA:

After every catastrophic loss, every burnt dollar and ruined future, Miyeon’s only instinct is to fuck about it.

Biological, you’ll call it.

It’s like the humiliation hits her bloodstream, and she can’t metabolize it unless she’s writhing on your lap, hissing that she’s “so fucking stupid,” crowing that you “should punish her for it,” and then, in the same breath, telling you to “shut up and fucking choke me.” Perhaps it’s some kind of sick evolutionary adaptation. Perhaps it’s just the way her neurons have always crashed and burned together. Perhaps it’s simply a coping mechanism.

And if so, right now—back at the hotel, with her panties jammed in her mouth, your cock in her cunt, and one hand clamped around her throat—she’s coping.

Hard.

You can feel her smile against your wrist—cheek pressed there, eyes half-lidded, lashes glued with mascara and tears. Her skin is deeply flushed from effort and oxygen deficiency and maybe just a little bit of deranged satisfaction.

Her hips grind back harder.

Because Cho Miyeon doesn’t regret. Doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t learn.

She fucks.

Like she thinks if she moans loud enough, grinds desperate enough, takes you deep enough, the universe might reverse time. Whispering Sheila will cross the line first. The crowd will roar. She’ll be a genius again. A prophet.

A fucking billionaire.

But right now, she’s just a mess. A mess you’re making messier.

You tighten your grip around her neck. Her eyes roll. And with your other hand gripping her hips, you drag her back into you like this is a problem that can be solved through sheer physics.

She lets out a muffled scream—half pleasure, half penance. The soaked lace in her mouth dampens it, but not enough to keep the neighbours guessing. Her body’s trembling now, pitchforked between orgasm and complete oblivion.

She chooses the former.

It starts with the twitch—spine arching, legs kicking out like they’re trying to run from the heat curling up her nerves. Then, the sound, clawing its way past the gag, echoing around the room and putting a ruthless smile across your face. Her whole body convulses, clamps down, seizes up like your cock is the only thing tethering her to reality. She writhes on it like it owes her money. Like if she cums hard enough, she might get that extra zero back.

You hold her through it. Don’t ease up. Don’t slow down. You fuck her through the climax until she’s gasping through the lace, until tears are dripping onto the sheets, until every broken sob sounds like the word “sorry” in some dialect only she understands.

“Shouldn’t’ve added the zero,” she’s groaning, garbled and guilty and absolutely destroyed. “Shouldn’t’ve—shouldn’t’ve—fuck, I’m so—”

You slam into her again.

Harder.

She chokes on her words.

Good.

Let her regret it. Let her wear it. Let it bleed out of her one desperate cry at a time.

You lean down, lips ghosting her ear.

“Say it,” you growl.

She whines.

“Say what?”

You pull her head up by her hair, your other hand still a noose around her throat.

“That you’re my stupid fucking girl.”

And Miyeon, of course, barely hesitates. Because shame isn’t something she avoids.

You loosen the panties just enough for her to gasp:

“I’m your stupid fucking girl.”

Then—without even being told—she adds:

“Now ruin me for it.”

So you do.

*

After, it’s quiet.

She’s still breathless. Still warm. Still glowing with that dumb post-catastrophe grin like losing forty-thousand on a mare with anger issues was just a minor hiccup in an otherwise flawless plan.

And to her, maybe it was.

You brush a thumb over her temple. She nuzzles into it, half-asleep, humming like she didn’t just obliterate the budget. Like you’re not going to have to explain this on the phone with your bank at 8 a.m. Monday morning. Like she didn’t promise—hand on heart—not to gamble. Again.

And still, some pathetic part of you is already bracing for the next one.

The next bright idea. The next sugar-slick pitch from her upside-down on your couch. The next whispered “babe, hear me out,” followed by airfare, adrenaline, and another financial obituary with her name scrawled across it in hot pink pen.

You’d like to say you’ll draw the line.

You won’t.

Because tomorrow, there’ll be a new scheme.

New odds.

New disaster.

And for some inexplicable reason, you’ll be right there beside her. Wallet lighter. Heart heavier. Lips already forming the words:

“Okay, but this is the last time.”

Even though you know it’s not.

(And it never will be.)

[mickyschumacher]

[APHRODISIAC CHOCOLATES! PT.2]

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: they say you should learn something new every day. in oscar's case, it's a double-edged sword. today, he learns he is also really thankful for not reading the fine prints. or in which oscar's secret santa gift hits the both of you for the second time. 𝐏𝐓. 𝟏 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄!

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: 18+ (minors dni), unprotected sex (protect yourselves!) shower sex, blowjob, asking to go raw, p in v, teasing, oral sex, mutual orgasms, cumming outside, still an (over)consumption of aphrodisiacs

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: oscar piastri x gf!fem!reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2k+

𝐀/𝐍: as usual, proofread-ish. for the people who wanted a part 2 and for the person who said they wouldn't be disappointed bc i was nervous about making one (🥹 ily, you're a real one)... hope you like it! ♡︎

🏎️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | ⚽️𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

"I think we're going to have to thank Daniel," you joked, finally regaining your words.

"Later," Oscar sucked in a sharp breath. "Like three hours later."

You furrowed your brows, looking up at Oscar, only for him to be looking down. Following his gaze, your eyes honed in on the object capturing both of your attention.

"Oh..." you pursed your lips.

God, were these chocolates living up to their name.

Oscar tucked your hair behind your ears, fingers dancing across your skin. "What did you dream about?"

You blinked blankly before mending your brows as the sudden question. "I–what? What do you mean?" You asked, peering up at him with confusion.

"Your dream earlier on. I didn't get to ask. What was it about?"

All of a sudden your throat felt like a desert; so so dry. There was something almost unsettling about the cheeky glint in those brown eyes watching you. You let out a small sigh, suppressing your eye roll. "Well, first, we were in the shower–"

"In the shower?" Oscar repeated with raised eyebrows and an amused smile.

Your hand stretched out to hit him lightly. "Yes, you idiot. The shower," you sighed yet again before continuing, "well, it was initially sweet. We were doing the usual, shampoo, soap, water fights, and what not. And then you, acting like some sort of horny monster, decided it would be fun to eat me out against the wall."

"And then?" Oscar queried quietly, hand gently gliding down the curve of your body.

You cleared your throat, trying to keep on track. "Um, then I returned the favour," you shrugged timidly, feeling goosebumps litter your skin, trailing after his touch.

Oscar grinned. "Returned the favour?" He repeated, losing himself to his own thoughts as he spoke. "You sucked my cock? How?"

You almost choked on your spit. "W-What? What do you mean 'how?'"

"How did you do it? Did you start from the tip like you usually do? Or did you start from the bottom, grazing your teeth all the way up?"

You sucked in a sharp breath. "I... I started from the tip. I know how you like it. Special attention to the slit and to the bottom. All down my throat. Till you could see the small little bulge in my throat. And then I swallowed every single drop."

Oscar swallowed his saliva. You met those puppy eyes, yet again surprised at the desperation swirling around, drowning him.

He watched you tilt your head almost innocently. "Why?" Swollen lips jutted out, face still flushed and riddled with sweat from the previous round. "Want it to come true?"

A groan fell from Oscar's lips, eyes shutting for a second. "God, yes."

Wordlessly, you observed him quickly remove himself from your grasp, moving his hands under your body, lifting you up into the air. You let out a squeal, waves of cold air hitting your warm body. "Osc!"

"I'm trying to hurry!" You heard him yell as you watched the carpet of your bedroom suddenly turn into the tiles of your bathroom. You felt Oscar place you gently down onto the shower floor, pulling the handle.

You let out a yelp at the intrusion of cold water across your skin. "Oscar, that's fucking freezing!" Ready to take a leap out of the bathroom.

You peeked an eye open at the boy who was simply smiling at you as the water pelted down on your bodies. "I guess I'll just have to warm you up in the first place."

Before you knew it, Oscar's lips were back on yours as though they had never disappeared. Your hands fell to his neck, while his wet hands encircled your waist, bringing you as close as he could. He kissed you with an indescribable sense of urgency, nipping away at your lips.

You gasped at the sheer force of the kiss, allowing him to take advantage of the open access, darting his tongue into your mouth. Your muffled moans filled his ears and long gone were the worries of the cold. Only warmth burned through the both of you.

The sloppy meeting of your lips, the occasional clang of your teeth, or the pure suction of need set you alight. Oscar groaned, a shiver running through his spine at the feel of your hand roaming his hair.

To be honest, it was difficult to see with the now slightly warm water coming down. But even then, Oscar could see it clear as day. The way your eyes sparkled looking up at him and the way your lips glided down his bare neck, trailing his chest before resting at his v-line, knees pressed on the floor... fuck, he was dreaming.

Out of your peripheral, you could see Oscar's muscles tense as you gathered the saliva in your mouth, spitting the lube down onto his cock. The low exhale from his lips made you smile momentarily.

"I'm gonna make you feel so so good, okay?"

Before he could even respond, your hot breath washed over his cock, making him twitch. Oscar's head fell back on the shower wall, feeling your hot tongue lick the tip of his dick, paying special attention to his slit. "Oh shit," he moaned, entirely lost.

His arms travelled to your wet hair, wrapping the strands tightly around the surface of his hands, guiding your head with the little control he could muster. Oscar's teeth sunk into his lip upon the twirl of your tongue and the light graze of your own teeth against his tip. "F-Fuck," he croaked, "you're so good, baby."

You hummed in response, savouring the salty taste of his precum before opening your throat a little more to take his cock fully. You feel him poorly guide his cock into the tighter tunnel, the action bombarded with a string of moans from his mouth.

Your thighs clenched at the sounds, all your arousal mixed with the falling warm droplets. You could tell he was close by the way his hips began to move as though he was in a chase. You could only help further by sucking him even harder.

Oscar blinked away the water, eyes falling down to your throat, knees almost buckling at the sight of the same little bulge in your throat. Furthermore, the sinking of your nails in his thighs.... fuck... it was another sort of cruelty waiting to be released. Closing his eyes, he cursed with a senseless yet ravenous moan, feeling the coil in his stomach began to unravel.

Suddenly Oscar's eyes shot open. His hips stopped moving. You peered up with raised brows, wondering why on earth he was edging himself as he pulled you up to meet you face-to-face.

"That is not how the dream went," you lightly chided, hitting his chest lightly.

Oscar braved a small smile, chest heaving with a crazed adrenaline as he caught your arm. His free hand brushed your wet face. "I love your dream, I really do," he said with an emphasised look down below. "But I need to be in you again."

You crumbled at the last word. The crack of his voice was laced with whatever plant or fruit you had both over consumed. He was so so needy. The pleading eyes, his aching cock begging for a release, his hands eagerly travelling across your body.

"What about the condom?" Your whisper was just heard over the water.

Oscar sucked in a sharp breath, mouth feeling dry all of a sudden. "I... can we go raw?"

You pursed your lips. Raw... you had thought of the idea more times than you'd like to admit. Obviously, a baby with Oscar wasn't something you were considering at the moment. You had discussed this, hence the condoms. And sure there was birth control, but the list of side effects was never-ending. Plus, you were never good with remembering pills anyways.

You weren't quite sure whether it was the aphrodisiacs or you, probably a mix of both. But you couldn't quite seem to get the idea of really feeling his cock for the first time out of your head.

This whole thing was already reckless and crazy as it was. What was a little more?

"Obviously, if you don't want to–" Oscar started, fumbling over his words urgently.

"Yes."

"–it's up to you because I respect your choice–"

"Osc, yes."

"Hmm?" Oscar blinked, finally registering what you were saying. His brown eyes widened before a smile washed onto his face. "Yeah? I mean I didn't really imagine it happening in the shower but... I was thinking something a bit more romantic."

You chuckled softly. "Well, I never thought we'd be drugged up on chocolates from your friend and yet, here we are..."

Oscar grinned, swiftly bringing his lips to yours. Your hands flung to his face, bringing him closer to you as his hands travelled down the sides of your body, every curve and crevice committed to memory.

His grin deepened further at the sound of your breath hitching. His fingers inched closer to your hips, aligning your body to him. He let out a slow exhale, cock painfully waiting to feel you.

Briefly, Oscar's eyes flickered back to your face. Thumb nudging you to look at him. "If anything feels wrong and I mean anything–"

"I'll tell you. Promise," you smiled softly, giving him a long kiss.

Oscar smiled in return, holding your gaze with the intention to capture this moment entirely as he slowly rubbed the tip of his cock against your engorged pussy. He could hear your soft whimpers through the droplets of water. A rippling tremble rumbled through his body while he pushed his cock into you, letting your wet arousal soak him entirely.

Oscar had never been so happy to capture your reaction. The inevitable parting of your lips, the silent gasp, the crease between your brows, the tightening of your walls against his cock... fuck, it drove him crazy.

"You okay, baby?" He asked with a shallow breath. The nod of your head green-lit him to fully bury his cock into your pussy, allowing you to feel every full inch of him, raw.

A small burn travelled through you. Oscar was stretching you out like never before. You felt so full. Fuck.

"Osc, please move.'

The plead from your swollen lips was so desperate. Like you were about to fall apart.

"Oh my God," Oscar groaned against your wet skin, fingers tightening around your hips as your words replayed in his head. His hips began to snap into you, rutting his aching cock into your warm walls. Fuck, you were gripping his cock so tight... he could've sworn he'd cry if he wasn't so fixated on the way you felt.

His hooded brown eyes couldn't help but watch his cock come in and out of your throbbing pussy, shit, you were creaming all around him. He could feel the coldness of the shower wall touch his back as he brought you even closer, drilling his cock further into you. His lips moved towards your nipple, tongue twirling around in circles as your pants filled the moist air.

"Oh fuck!" you cried, hands reaching out to grab his shoulders–anything.

You could've sworn the sounds of your skin slapping against his was echoing throughout your house. Even over the water, it rebounded of the walls, melding in with your lewd moans and the obscene squelch of your pussy craving more and more of Oscar's cock. You had never felt anything quite it.

You could feel Oscar's hand move from your hips, inching down your v-line to meet your clit. A shudder ripped through your body as he thumbed the sensitive nerves in slow circles.

"Come on, baby," Oscar encouraged, lips sloppily meeting yours. His moans were getting beyond desperate, hips beginning to pick up their pace. "Show me how good you feel, hmm? Cum for me."

Your mouth fell open as a crash of white began to take over your eyes. The water began to blur with the waves of your orgasm hitting you one after another. Your body was shaking in his hands, your own hips bucking to ride out the high for as long as you could.

Your pussy was so fucking tight, gripping him like a vice. Oscar let out a throat groan as he fought to open his eyes. He rushed to take his cock out of your folds, as much as it pained him. "Fuck, f-fuck, open your mouth, baby," he urged, own hand sliding up and down his cock.

Oscar moaned at the sight of you on your knees, pretty lips and tongue all open for him. His hips stuttered against his hand as ropes of his hot cum spilled onto your tongue. "Oh fuck, fuck, fuck! Yes, fuck, take it, baby. Take my cum!"

A sigh flew out of his mouth as he slowed down and the waves of his climax came to an end. Oscar softly groaned at the sight of you, bending down to kiss you. The salty taste of his cum mixed with your arousal... fuck, he loved it.

Gently, he brought you up to meet his eyes once again. Your chests both heaved in an attempt to regain your breath.

You were thankful Oscar was holding you against him: you're legs felt like jelly.

"Can you walk tomorrow?" Oscar teased, pushing your wet hair behind your ears.

You rolled your eyes, hitting his chest lightly. "You're an asshole."

Oscar chuckled softly, pressing a small kiss to the side of your head. He sighed once again, hands rubbing your back soothingly as the silence was filled with the running water. "I love you," he whispered against your skin, "Thank you for trusting me with this."

You smiled, knowing exactly what he was talking about. "I loved every second of it, baby. And for the record, it was very romantic."

"And hot?" Oscar raised a brow, a small grin playing on his face.

You suppressed the urge to roll your eyes again. "Are you going to thank Daniel?"

Oscar pursed his lips at your words. "Absolutely not."

© 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐘𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑

[desigal-26]

Because I believe that no one acknowledges the fact that Oscar has won such beautiful trophies

Pretty Trophies

Oscar Piastri x Female!Reader

He had pretty trophies, but none compares to her

‘“You’re the best prize I’ve ever gotten,” he whispered, like it was a secret just for her. “For all the years I’ve struggled. For the pressure, the sacrifices, the doubt. For the late nights, the empty airports, the near-misses. You are the thing I never saw coming. And nothing I’ll ever win on track will feel as important as winning you.”’

Warnings: Reader gets a bit insecure—but no worries, our Osc is there to handle everything. Just Fluff.

Word Count: 1.2K (I know, it’s short)

Oscar sighed contentedly, pressing his back against the hotel room door as it clicked shut behind him. For a moment, he let his eyes fall closed, allowing the events of the past few hours to settle around him like soft, triumphant waves.

He was leading the World Driver’s Championship.

The first Australian to do so since his own mentor — and now manager — Mark Webber.

Five wins in eight races had earned him 186 points and a ten-point lead over his teammate. The numbers were surreal. Clean. Ruthless. Beautiful.

But for tonight, Oscar didn’t care about standings, margins, or strategy. Not now. Not after a day like this — a day that had meant more than just a P1.

This win had been personal.

His young sister, Eddie, had flown in for the race, her bright grin beaming down from the garage. And sitting in the paddock, heart in her hands and eyes full of pride, was the woman he loved — attending her first race of the season.

He had made sure to sign the champagne bottle in both of their names, a quiet little gesture captured on camera — though it took fans a while to decipher what it meant. And by the time they had… it was already making the rounds on Twitter, Instagram, and F1 Tumblr edits with captions like “soft launch of the century.”

But none of that mattered as much as the woman sitting on the bed in front of him now.

He opened his eyes, and the moment he did, the tired, composed exterior of a race-winning driver melted into something far more vulnerable. Something real.

There she was — his girl — perched cross-legged in one of his shirts, her gaze soft as she studied the newly acquired trophy resting in her lap. Her fingers traced the sharp, intricate lines of the Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya like it was something sacred.

Oscar’s breath caught a little. Not because of the win. But because of the look on her face.

That reverent little smile.

The shine in her eyes.

The faint pink in her cheeks from when Lando had teased her about being “Oscar’s Lady Luck” in the media pen.

She was his calm in a storm, the quiet balance in his fast-paced world. Before her, he didn’t believe in luck — only in precision, data, and consistency. But then she arrived like a quiet miracle — a soft summer breeze across his sunburnt skin, a snowfall that whispered instead of screamed. Something divine choosing to belong in his world of rubber and fire.

The bed dipped slightly as he settled beside her. He didn’t speak — he just watched. Not the trophy. But her.

“You’re staring,” she murmured, eyes still fixed on the curves of the trophy.

“You’re staring too,” he countered, voice low.

“At an inanimate object,” she said with a shrug, finally glancing up — her lips curved in a smile that made his chest ache in the best way.

With a sigh, she gently placed the trophy on the bedside table, her eyes flicking back to his. “I’ve got what I really came for anyway,” she whispered, voice playful, and edged closer to him with a mischievous twinkle in her gaze.

“You’re thinking something,” Oscar observed, eyebrow raised.

“Am I?” she whispered back, nose brushing his as she pressed a featherlight kiss against its tip.

He immediately scrunched his face, caught off guard, which made her burst into a giggle — full, warm, and alive.

“You love doing that,” he groaned, though the corners of his mouth curled helplessly into a smile.

“I just love your nose scrunches,” she said matter-of-factly, her voice all sweetness and mischief. “They make you look like a golden retriever.”

He rolled his eyes, but his hands had already moved — one sliding around her waist to pull her against him. She yelped in surprise, half-laughing, half-gasping as she landed in his lap, hands pressed to his chest.

“Careful,” she warned, voice breathless. “You’re still a national treasure right now. Must protect the asset.”

“I’ll risk it,” Oscar murmured, brushing her hair gently off her face. “Besides… pretty sure you’re the one who brought me luck today.”

She tilted her head, smiling softly, eyes locked on his. “Then I guess you’ll have to keep me around till Abu Dhabi, huh?”

He didn’t even blink.

“Long after that,” he promised.

She giggled softly, still caught in his embrace, before her eyes flickered toward the gleaming silver resting on the bedside table.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, “You love collecting pretty trophies, don’t you?”

The question caught him mid-movement. His fingers paused where they’d been brushing the curve of her back, his brows knitting in faint confusion. He tilted his head to the side, an amused quirk in his lips.

“What?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.

She grinned and gestured lazily toward the Spanish Grand Prix trophy. “I mean, just look at that. And the rest of them. Last year’s Hungarian GP, this year’s Chinese, Saudi Arabia…” She wrinkled her nose in mock frustration. “And I know I’m forgetting a few. Maybe Bahrain?”

Oscar chuckled under his breath. “You’re not wrong,” he murmured, his eyes warm as they studied her.

She shifted just enough to rest her chin against his chest, her voice still playful but quieter now — edged with something she didn’t name.

“You like collecting beautiful things. Earning them.”

Oscar didn’t speak at first. He just looked at her, really looked — the way her lashes fluttered, the way her mouth tilted into a half-smile even as her eyes held something a little more fragile. A little unsure.

And then he gently tilted her chin up so her gaze met his completely.

“I do like collecting beautiful things,” he said softly, voice slow and certain. “But those trophies? They’re just metal. Stats. Symbols.”

His thumb brushed against her cheek, the gesture unbearably tender.

“You’re the best prize I’ve ever gotten,” he whispered, like it was a secret just for her. “For all the years I’ve struggled. For the pressure, the sacrifices, the doubt. For the late nights, the empty airports, the near-misses. You are the thing I never saw coming. And nothing I’ll ever win on track will feel as important as winning you.”

Her eyes widened slightly, the air catching in her throat.

Oscar smiled gently, forehead brushing against hers.

“I’d give up every podium for you. No hesitation.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was full. Of meaning. Of weight. Of promises unsaid but deeply understood.

She opened her mouth to say something, but emotion clogged her voice, and instead, she leaned in — pressing her lips softly to his. It wasn’t rushed or fiery, but reverent, like she was answering with everything she couldn’t put into words.

When they pulled apart, she whispered against his mouth, “You make it very hard to stay composed, Piastri.”

He smirked. “Good. Because I’ve been completely ruined for composure since the moment I saw you in that bloody paddock sundress.”

She laughed, her face buried in the crook of his neck now, and he held her tighter, as if the world could melt around them and he’d still be exactly where he wanted to be.

With her.

His real victory.

[sunderwight]

SV fic where Luo Bingge discovers that Shen Jiu had a long-lost half-brother or something, and subsequently decides that he's going to infiltrate the minor sect which this "Shen Yuan" belongs to in order to get close to him and then indulge in revenge fantasy 2.0 when it inevitably turns out that Shen Yuan is like Shen Jiu (i.e. a horrible abusive scum teacher).

So Bingge uses some magical object or technique or other, makes himself look like a scrawny 12-14 year old, then puts himself in Shen Yuan's path in hopes of convincing the man to take him on as a disciple. The idea being that after Shen Yuan abuses him, Bingge will be justified in reenacting his Shen Qingqiu Revenge Arc again and maybe finally feeling some closure about the whole thing.

Yes, this is a very deranged plan. No, no one is going to tell the emperor of the three realms that. Bingge also wants it to be clear that this has nothing whatsoever to do with his recent escapade in an alternate universe, except that he was inspired to find Shen Jiu's relative as a consequence of that. But he's absolutely sure that this guy is going to turn out just as rotten as his brother, given the opportunity. That is definitely the only reason he is doing this!

Flash forward about four years. Bingge's retainers are begging on their knees for him to actually come back and do some administrative work. The harem is running itself at this point and they're all very terrified of the situation with Liu Mingyan and Sha Hualing (i.e. ruling with lesbian iron fists) and whatever the heck Ning Yingying is up to (no one is certain but it's something). The outer provinces are rebelling. Mobei Jun's somehow found another weird human surnamed Shang to cavort with, except this one is basically running admin for the entire northern kingdom now and no one's even sure if they're fucking or if it's some kind of mind control situation or what.

Bingge is annoyed. He doesn't have a good explanation for why a bunch of demon lords would be showing up on the doorstep of Tiny Cultivation Sect to beg him for anything. They're going to spoil his cover! And they're interrupting his schedule! It's already four o'clock and he hasn't started on Shizun's dinner yet! Shoo! Get lost!

Anyway, eventually some of his demon followers get desperate and dramatically kidnap him. Shen Yuan is horrified and grieved when it seems that his precious disciple, so like white lotus Luo Binghe from the novel, has been captured by demons. He tries to track the assailants down, but they've covered their tracks too well. In the end, there's only one path left to him to pursue: taking this matter to the protagonist!

Yes, the protagonist! Because the thing is, Shen Yuan noticed the similarities between his disciple and the book character he so admired. Not only that, but he did manage to glimpse Bingge one time from afar. It wasn't anywhere near to a real interaction, but it was enough for him to notice the strong resemblance between the protagonist and the mistreated little lamb who showed up at his doorstep. A resemblance for which there can only be one explanation:

Shen Yuan's disciple is one of Binghe's kids!

Yes, he had it figured out since fairly early on. Not only was there a resemblance, and not only were their dispositions quite similar, but also the boy showed a lot of signs of some demonic heritage. Shen Yuan was just working up to broaching the subject, partly because he had been trying to avoid any direct or even indirect interactions with the emperor, and partly because he... became somewhat reluctant to part ways with his student. Sue him! He got attached! And anyway, he knew how missing child plots usually went. There was probably someone in the harem who was out for his disciple's blood, and it wouldn't be safe to send him back into that mess until he was strong enough to look after himself.

But as is inevitable, the plot seems to have reclaimed Shen Yuan's student all on its own.

He just... needs to make sure that it isn't a tragic outcome. It seems it falls on him to make the emperor aware of his son's survival, and subsequent peril, and help launch a rescue!

Which also means approaching Luo Binghe in person, which he knows is very risky indeed, due to his connection to the infamous Shen Qingqiu! He'd been avoiding the protagonist at all costs for that exact reason.

But if it's his only hope of rescuing his disciple, he will simply have to take the risk, and hope that enough time has passed that Luo Binghe doesn't read too much into a shared surname and a passing resemblance. Or that restoring the emperor's long-lost son to him will be worth seem lenience for the crime of being connected to Shen Qingqiu. Maybe if he's lucky, he will even be allowed to continue visiting his disciple! (Ha, yeah right! More likely, Luo Binghe's going to take his head for hiding his own kid from him for so long!)

Anyway, cue Luo Bingge running around swapping between his Emperor and Disciple forms, dramatically trying to orchestrate a situation where he can fake the emperor's death and go back to the sect with Shizun as his disciple, or something, only for it all to blow up in his face because Shen Yuan keeps flinging himself between Bingge and potentially fatal threats that could plausibly kill him???

[flowersforbucky]

acquainted

bucky barnes x reader (undercover stripper!reader x undercover bodyguard!bucky)

word count: 3.3k

warnings/tags: SMUT, oral (male and female receiving), vaginal penetration, language, strip club setting, creepy dude being a piece of shit, violence and a brief mention of blood, protective/possessive bucky, reader is afab, no use of y/n, touch her and die trope, Bucky might have a slight lingerie kink... 18+ only!

The pulsating fuschia and lime green strobe lights illuminating the club had been making your eyes throb for the last three hours. EDM plays so loudly that you're surprised blood doesn't trickle down from your ears. Not to mention the suffocating combination of cheap perfume, body odor, cigars, and booze that permeates the air makes your empty stomach churn.

If you never step foot into another nightclub when this is all over, you'll consider yourself lucky. Not just any nightclub - one of New Orleans’ scummiest strip clubs.

Five goddamn nights of this operation and not a lick of progress.

Your objective was simple - obtain proof that the owner was operating a sex trafficking ring out of the club, and then call for the back-up squad parked a block away. So far, you had not been able to acquire any kind of definitive proof. No hints of anything shady going on behind the scenes, and you had yet to even see the owner make an appearance at any point since the mission began.

Everything seems as above board as a strip club can be.

One last night, you compromised with Fury. One last night and if it went as the last few have, you were done, and he owes you a few days of paid leave for putting you through this.

“If you don't stop picking at your garter belt, it's not going to have any sequins left.” Bucky's low voice murmurs through the communication device placed discreetly in your left ear.

“If you don't stop watching my every movement, you’re not going to have any unbroken toes left,” you threaten lightly, taking a sip of your drink - just a Shirley Temple, to keep up appearances. “Shoes like this could do a lot of damage.” You glance down at the pointy heels of the black velvet stilettos.

“Is that not my job?” he counters. You don't have to look over at where he's standing in the corner of the room to know he's smirking. “To not take my eyes off of you?”

“Then do your job. Watch me. You don't have to make comments on my sequins to do that.”

“Alright, alright,” he concedes. “I'll be over here, admiring your sequins from afar. You won't even know I'm here.” The com line clicks off before you can retort.

Except you absolutely would know that he's here. Just as you have the previous four nights of this mission - painfully aware that he's here, tracking your every movement in the skimpiest outfits you've worn in your life, doing the most provocative dances imaginable, and flirting with men that you wouldn't touch with ten foot long poles in real life, all while he keeps to the sidelines in case something were to go wrong.

Keeps to the sidelines and just watches you. Even when one of the dancers approached him to ask if he'd be interested in a private dance once he's off the clock on the first night on the job.

Even when there's gorgeous, topless women crawling on the stage and all but humping the pole in his direct line of sight.

He isn't here to look out for them, of course. He is here solely to keep you safe if things were to go sideways. But you had assumed you would have caught him sneaking glances at the dozen other women at least once by now.

It's almost your turn to go up on stage. You've performed a solo set every night so far, and you still feel every bit as nervous as you did the first time.

You enjoy dancing, actually. In the comfort of your own room, when listening to music alone. When you go out with friends, occasionally. When you took ballet lessons as a child. This, however, was leagues out of your comfort zone.

“The creep from a couple nights ago is back,” Bucky's voice is a strained whisper in your ear.

“Gonna have to narrow it down a bit for me, Barnes. You could be referring to at least half of the men in here right now.”

“Sitting in front of the stage, to the left,” he mumbles back. “He's wearing a red wife-beater–”

“See him,” you interrupt, your eyes zeroing in on the short, stout, beady-eyed fuck who had been thrown out of the club night before last. One of the other security guards on duty chucked him out when he repeatedly got too handsy with one of the girls who had been giving him a lap dance.

“Fantastic,” you huff under your breath, as you finish touching up your lipgloss and reapplying the iridescent baby pink body glitter across your chest. “Just in time for my dance.”

You get up from your seat at the bar and adjust your lace bustier and thong as the announcer calls your stage name.

“He won't lay a finger on you,” Bucky assures you as you're walking up the steps of the platform.

There's a weak round of applause and a few whistles as you take your place on the center of the small stage. You give a vague nod in the direction of the DJ’s booth to indicate you're ready for your song to begin.

An upbeat but sensuous synth-pop song pours out of the speakers throughout the room and you begin to sway your hips.

You're hyper-aware of the fact that you can see Bucky making his way closer to you, away from his position in the back of the room. He settles when he's just a few tables behind the man in the red wife-beater.

There's an eruption of butterflies in the pit of your belly at how close he is. Each night prior to this, he has kept to lingering around the exits and the far wall towards the back of the club. Now, he's close enough that you can actually see his eyes following every languid movement that your body makes around the pole.

“Take your fucking top off!” a grating voice bellows from the audience. “We want to see your tits.”

You don't have to look to know who the voice belongs to. You decide to ignore him, hoping he would stop if you didn't give him any attention. You go to wrap your thighs around the pole again, preparing to spin–

“Did you not fucking hear me?” he shouts even louder this time, audible to everyone over the roaring music. “I said take your fucking–”

A flash of movement in your peripheral vision causes you to freeze around the pole. You turn your full attention to the ruckus, just in time to see Bucky fisting the man's greasy, shoulder length hair and pulling his head back. The music comes to an abrupt pause.

“You don't fucking talk to her like that,” Bucky snarls. “In fact, you don't talk to her at all, you don't look at her, you don't even breathe the same fucking air as her.”

The man is thrashing around, trying and failing miserably to get out of Bucky's grasp.

“Let me go you fucking–”

He doesn't get to finish his sentence before Bucky snaps the man's head forward, sending his face crashing into the granite tabletop.

The instantaneous pool of blood that contrasts so starkly against the white stone snaps you out of your fear-stricken trance.

Bucky pulls his head back up, forcing the man to look up at him.

“It's not my fault she refuses to show off those perfect–”

You all but jump off the stage - miraculously not breaking an ankle in the six inch heels - and rush over to where Bucky still has the man's hair yanked into his fist.

Just as Bucky is beginning to shove the man's head downwards again, you place both of your hands on his chest, gently but effectively shoving him backwards. He immediately releases his grip on the man as the other few security guards on duty arrive to detain the pervert.

“Hey, hey,” you place your hands on his biceps, trying to turn his attention to you and away from the man who he's still glaring after, as he's hauled off by security. “I'm fine, yeah? Everything is fine,” you try to assure him, though you're not sure your shaky voice sounds very convincing. “He's just a creepy, entitled asshole.”

Noticing that Bucky is shaking beneath your touch, you rub your hands up and down his arms in hopes of calming him down.

He finally meets your gaze. He doesn't say anything for a moment, just stares at you as he takes a few deep breaths.

“Go get dressed,” he orders you calmly after a moment. “I’m getting you the fuck out of here.” You want to leave too badly to even think about objecting.

You make a beeline for the changing room, where you throw on a sweater and force your pants over your heels, not even bothering to change out of the lingerie and stilettos.

Bucky's waiting for you right outside the door as you sling your duffel bag across your shoulder.

“How mad do you think Fury will be that we are abandoning our positions?” you ask in a hushed tone as Bucky ushers you through the club, his metal arm wrapped around your waist.

“Not as mad as I am that he's had you doing this bullshit for no reason for almost a week now.”

You and Bucky exit the club as quickly as possible, ignoring the curious and confused stares of the other dancers and security guards. He guides you down the block, then through an alleyway where his motorcycle is parked in a heavy silence - other than the obnoxious clanking of your heels against the pavement.

Bucky straddles one leg over the seat of the bike, taking his place in the driver's position and then hands you the helmet.

“Wait,” you pause before putting it over your head. “I'm starving.” Your stomach growls, as if on cue. “Can we stop and get some take-out?”

He looks at you incredulously. “I just shattered that guy's nose and likely severely concussed him and then just dipped. Our cover is essentially blown, don't you think we should get back to the motel room and lay low until the morning?”

“There's a Chinese place open late just a few blocks from the motel–”

“If I say yes will you put on the helmet and get on the bike?”

Taking that as a win, you slide the helmet over your head and hop on behind him. You wrap your arms securely around his midsection in a tight hug and he takes off down Bourbon Street.

You spend the drive trying to ignore the thought that of all the times you've ridden on the back of Bucky’s motorcycle, you don't remember him ever feeling so tense beneath your touch.

Half an hour later, you're lounging on the rickety motel bed, stuffing your face full of sweet and sour chicken and vegetable fried rice while Bucky fills Sam in on what happened over the phone.

He sits in one of the small chairs at the singular table in the corner of the room, his posture rigid. He answers all of Sam's questions with clipped, one-word responses as he massages his temple between his thumb and forefinger.

He hangs up the phone, refusing to meet your gaze. Instead, he pretends to be interested in the episode of Family Guy playing on the old motel TV.

“Your egg rolls are going to get soggy,” you tell him, pushing the to-go box across the mattress towards him.

“I don't have an appetite right now,” he says, picking up the box of food as he stands. You grab his bicep in your hand as he begins to walk past where you're sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Hey,” you say, stopping him. “Everything's okay. Really. Don't let that guy get to you–”

“A little late for that, don't you think?” He snaps, pulling his arm from your grasp. You sit back, too stunned by his reaction to know how to respond. You just stare after him as he crams his take-out box into the motel room's mini fridge.

“I shouldn't have reacted so harshly,” he says after a moment, still facing away from you. “I couldn't stop myself. He spoke to you that way, and I could have killed him and not thought twice about it. Probably would have if you hadn't intervened.”

He turns back to you. You're frozen in place.

“Do you know what that's like?” He asks, taking a step closer to you. “To feel like you aren't in control of your own body? To be so irrationally protective of someone that you'd kill for them without a second thought?”

You feel like all air has been stripped from your lungs. He's just inches away, staring down at you from where you sit on the edge of the mattress. The way he's looking at you makes your skin feel like it's on fire.

“Because that's what you do to me. That's how you make me feel.”

Heat pools between your legs.

“Come here,” you say - it sounds more like a question than a command.

He closes what little distance is left between the two of you, and pulls you up from the mattress by the tops of your arms so that your body is flush against his.

His mouth hovers over yours - not quite making contact, though you can feel his breath fan across your skin.

He takes his flesh hand and cups the side of your face with it, his thumb trailing across your bottom lip. His metal hand wanders down your back until it reaches the curve of your ass - grasping your cheek in a firm hold and squeezing until his touch borders between pleasure and pain.

“This is what I wanted to do to you every time I saw a man so much as glance in your direction in that club,” he whispers against your mouth. “I thought about bending you over the stage and making them watch me take you right then and there, but they didn't deserve to see that.”

“They aren't here to see us now,” you murmur as you bring your hand to cup the noticeable bulge of his jeans, eliciting a hiss from him. “So what are you going to do now?”

There's a dark grin spread across his face. He pushes you, softly but effectively, back down on the bed. You scoot back a few inches on the mattress, and then bring one of your feet up to remove the stiletto heels that you'd completely forgotten to take off upon returning to the motel with your haul of Chinese food.

“Oh, no,” Bucky laughs lowly. “I want you to keep those on. I've grown to like those quite a bit.”

Your cheeks warm in both arousal and bashfulness. You begin to push your pants down your thighs as Bucky kneels on the ground and helps you maneuver the fabric around your shoes. The sweater that you threw over your bustier goes next.

You're left in the lingerie set that you wore at the club.

“Call me jealous,” Bucky sighs as he begins trailing sloppy kisses up the insides of your thighs. “Call me possessive, call me crazy..”

You lay back down against the scratchy comforter as Bucky gets closer and closer to where you're aching to have him the most.

“But I don't want anyone seeing you like this but me.”

He pulls the already soaked lace material of your thong to the side, exposing your cunt.

He licks up your center torturously slow, causing you to let out a sharp exhale. He repeats the motion, and then locks his lips around your clit. Your hands shoot to his hair, fisting your fingers through the short brunet strands.

He eats you until you're a mewling and squirming mess beneath him.

You come hard, clenching your thighs around his head and riding his face through your orgasm.

“Stand up,” you instruct him as soon as you can think semi-clearly.

He obeys without any hesitation. The warm glow of the singular lamp in the motel room highlights the way your slick coats the lower half of his face.

You get up on your hands and knees before him and he lets out an audible groan at the sight in front of him. He bends down enough to kiss you - cupping your face in both of his hands and tipping your head up to give him a better angle to slip his tongue into your mouth. You moan into the kiss - the ache between your thighs reappearing already.

He removes his hands from your face, unbuttoning his pants while still kissing you.

You pull away to help free his cock from the confines of his boxers. Your mouth waters at what's directly in front of you. He's impressively long and girthy, with a thick vein running up the side.

You pump him a few times in your hand, swirling your tongue around the pre-cum dripping from his slit. He's already putty in your hands - groaning above you and placing his metal hand around the back of your neck to keep you where he wants you.

After you've run your tongue up and down his length a few times, you spit on the tip of his cock and massage it over the entirety of his shaft before taking him as far into your mouth as you can in the first go. He throws his head back, moaning your name.

You feel him hit the back of your throat and you gag before pulling back.

He curses under his breath, nudging himself slowly back towards your throat again.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl,” he praises and you moan around his dick. He gradually increases the speed at which he pumps himself into your mouth, obscene noises echoing off of the thin motel room walls.

When he pulls out, you feel drool running down your neck and mascara-tinted tears leaking from your eyes.

“You're so gorgeous like this for me,” he tells you, and despite knowing that you look thoroughly fucked out, you believe him. “Will you turn around?”

You do as he asks, turning around on your hands and knees. You lower your chest down to the bed so that your ass is angled upwards.

“Jesus Christ,” he grunts under his breath. He grips your hips with both of his hands, yanking you to him. His erection juts against the cloth of your underwear.

He tugs them aside once more, giving him access to tease your slit with the head of his cock. You rock backwards, grinding against him. He brings his flesh hand around your stomach and reaches down to rub your clit as he begins to slowly fill you from behind.

He pauses for a moment once he bottoms out, giving you time to adjust to the fullness of him before he starts fucking into you.

The combination of him slamming into you at such an intense angle and massaging you so perfectly has your climax building shamefully fast.

You grunt his name, bouncing your ass to meet his thrusts. “I'm gonna come,” you mewl, knowing he's on the verge of doing the same as his movements become uneven.

One, two, three more pumps and you can feel your pussy clenching around him as you come together.

You pull off of him, collapsing onto the bed and rolling onto your back. He crawls over you, propping himself up on his arms above you.

“You know,” he stares down at you, his eyes trailing to your breasts that are now spilling out of the black lace bustier. “As much as I hated every second of that mission, I do hope I might get to see you in some of these outfits again.”

♡♡♡♡♡

my masterlist!!!

[atomicrebelfire]

✍️Tommy Kinard: Speculating His Rank in the LAFD (Canon + Structural Analysis) 📊📋🧵

📍TL;DR: Based on canon clues and real-world LAFD structure, Tommy Kinard is most likely a 🎖️Fire Helicopter Pilot V—the highest pilot classification. His career path is unusual: he started in suppression at the 118 before transitioning into Air Ops using his Army flight experience.

-----------------At your own risk- Lets Spiral-----------------------------

While the show hasn’t explicitly stated his rank, there are enough visual, behavioral, and contextual clues/crumbs to build a solid case for where he fits within the LAFD—especially given the real-world structure of Air Operations.

Similar to Tommy’s military-to-LAFD career timeline, this is meant to be both canon-compliant and grounded in how the real LAFD operates, in order to build a plausible theory around Tommy’s role, rank, and seniority. It’s part character study, part structural breakdown.

🔍 Canon Facts/Clues (What We Know)

Tommy is introduced in S2 as a ground firefighter at the 118, and reintroduced in S7 as a helicopter pilot at Harbour Station.

In 7x04, he tells Buck that he used to be a pilot in the Army.

He has over 20 years of service in the LAFD (stated on-screen based of begins episodes).

He has taken helicopters out without formal clearance (7x03, 8x15). While reprimanded afterward, the fact that he has the access and autonomy to do so is notable.

He is seen launching without escort, clearly trusted to operate independently and justify his decisions after the fact.

He casually offers to teach Buck how to fly (7x04), suggesting he holds—or is qualified for—a trainer or flight instructor designation.

In 7x06, Tommy arrives at the hospital in turnout gear, soot-covered, after a fire at Angeles Crest. Raising questions about whether he was working suppression or Air Ops.

In 8x15, Tommy performs evasive maneuvers while being pursued by military helicopters—diving low, climbing high, and weaving between towers—as part of an aerial diversion to buy time and deflect pursuit.

In 7x03, Tommy helps Hen bypass red tape by taking a helicopter without official approval, offering only a vague line about Central Bureau and brushing off objections from Melton.

🚁 How Most LAFD Pilots Get There

In real life, becoming a helicopter pilot in the LAFD follows a specific and highly competitive path:

Most candidates begin with military flight experience or are already civilian-rated pilots (e.g., with commercial or instructor licenses).

However, even military pilots must first complete four years of full-time suppression duty within LAFD before becoming eligible for Air Ops roles—there are no direct-entry exceptions.

That said, their military flight hours and FAA qualifications do count toward pilot certification requirements, making them strong candidates once they transition.

They are hired into pilot trainee roles (Fire Helicopter Pilot I or II) and must pass rigorous evaluations.

Air Operations is a separate track—pilots do not typically come from suppression (ground firefighting) units.

As a result, most LAFD pilots have never served on engines or trucks.

Pilots usually work 12-hour shifts (day or night), typically on a 4-on, 4-off schedule, and remain on-call at the airport rather than responding on the ground.

🧩 Real-World LAFD Air Operations Structure

LAFD helicopter pilots are classified under the following civil service ranks:

Fire Helicopter Pilot I or II - Pilot Trainee Roles

Fire Helicopter Pilot III – Entry-level pilot

Fire Helicopter Pilot IV – Senior operational pilot

Fire Helicopter Pilot V – Training/lead pilot (sometimes informally called “chief pilot”)

These ranks are lateral to suppression-side ranks like Firefighter, Engineer, or Captain. While pilots typically don’t carry the "Captain" title unless cross-trained—but senior pilots often operate with comparable authority within their unit.

🧭 Why Tommy’s Path Is Unusual

Tommy’s trajectory breaks the mold in several important ways:

He began his LAFD career in suppression, working as a firefighter at the 118.

Only later did he transition to Air Ops, requalifying based on his Army flight experience.

This kind of cross-track shift is rare—most suppression-side firefighters never move into aviation roles, especially after years on the ground.

🔄 Update (Post-Publication): As clarified by a kind commenter, all LAFD helicopter pilots must begin in suppression roles. So Tommy’s path actually aligns with departmental requirements.

What still makes him stand out, though, is how long he remained in suppression—over a decade—before switching tracks. That kind of deep dual experience is rare.

He’s probably one of the few who might have earned credibility in both areas: the fireground and the flight deck.

This dual-track background probably makes him a unique versatile asset with extensive experience to the department.

🧵 What That Tells Us About Tommy

Tommy’s military aviation experience likely included high-risk flying, tactical decision-making, and possibly training roles—skills that directly translate to LAFD Air Ops.

He entered the LAFD through standard firefighter routes—like all Air Ops pilots must—but instead of transitioning to aviation early, he stayed in suppression for over a decade before requalifying as a pilot. (But why?! 💭🤔)

That makes his path both rare and earned.

His ability to take out helicopters independently, despite the fallout, signals a level of seniority and operational trust only afforded to top-tier personnel.

His offer to teach suggests a CFI (Certified Flight Instructor) license or LAFD-equivalent designation, reinforcing that he may also serve in a training or mentoring role.

Tommy might still be dual-certified (implied by full turnout gear after the Angeles Crest response. (Or the show forgot he’s a pilot?!)🫨🤐)

His evasive flying during the diversion mission —dodging military helicopters —points to tactical or combat-style flight training. Possibly special ops. (So sexy.😘)

He’s senior enough and holds enough field authority or just bold enough to fake it to casually override protocol with a “You didn’t get the call?” deflection.

🧠💥 Conclusion: Most Likely Rank 🎖️

Tommy Kinard is almost certainly a Fire Helicopter Pilot V, or at the very least, a senior Pilot IV on the cusp of promotion. He’s not formally titled “Chief Pilot,” but functionally operates as one—with over two decades in LAFD, firsthand suppression experience, and the kind of authority and autonomy that reflects a deeply trusted position and seniority to push limits.

He may not wear Captain’s bars, but between his dual-track career, leadership instincts, and ability to push protocol when it counts, he clearly stands shoulder-to-shoulder with the station’s most senior personnel. 💬 If I missed something or misread a clue, feel free to correct me (kindly)—or share your own version. Always open to digging deeper. After all… the writers clearly aren't worried about consistency. 😌

📎PS: 🤷‍♂️ All of this is, of course, pure speculation—built off canon clues/crumbs, real-world LAFD structure, and my completely healthy, not-at-all obsessive need to spiral over every background detail the show refuses to explain. I know 9-1-1 isn’t always that deep (and sometimes barely tries). Don’t worry, I’m seeking a therapist. 🙃👩‍⚕️ learning to chill.😎🪭

if you read till the end 🫡 & don't ask why we needed to know all this!

✨ Update: Added more canon evidence from 8x15 and 7x03 that reinforce Tommy’s seniority + elite training 👀🚁 (That somehow got lost in my Excel-to-Tumblr exchange. Damn. I need to stop. I’m putting myself in a time-out. Bye.) ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- PS 2: Okay, so I did mess that up🤣—turns out all LAFD pilots need to start in suppression for 4 years, and someone kindly pointed that out (thank you!! 🙏). Just to clarify, this post isn’t absolute fact—I don’t have a firefighting background, just sharing what I could find. Also, I am not from USA. please take all of this with a grain of salt. this is just a fun exercise. I've now learned even more about fire department structures than I ever planned to.

Seriously guys, stop enabling me 😭 I should be updating my resume, not drafting municipal org charts for fictional men.

[awhhayden]

GOD BLESS YOUR DADS GENETICS ⋆˚࿔ [PT.1]

CONTAINS : [ fem!reader x dilf!james x son!sam ]

DISCLAIMER: I do not condone cheating, this is fictional and all characters are 18+ [ NO INCEST ]

꩜.ᐟ You had been dating Sam kelly for six months now. You were always over at his house lounging around in your tiny pjs and skirts. Sam lived with his father James kelly, Sam’s mother left when Sam was very young. James had always enjoyed teasing you and poking fun at Sam. You couldn’t help but enjoy both of their companies…

꩜.ᐟ Sam Kelly, who’s house you have practically lived at for the past Six months, who would give you soft kisses in bed, and would rub your back until you fell asleep. Sam Kelly who would show you his favorite comic books and let you play Taylor Swift as loud as you wanted on his brand new stereo set.

꩜.ᐟ James Kelly, who’d wake you and Sam up with pancakes and bacon, who’d carry you upstairs to Sam’s room after you fell asleep on the couch whilst Sam was at work. James Kelly who’d let you pick out a cheesy romance on movie night and act like he wasn’t interested but was secretly invested, James who’d roll his eyes and smile and hand you his credit card to go grocery shopping for the house.

꩜.ᐟ Tonight you lounge on their couch, Your legs dangling off the edge as you lay your head in Sam’s lap, Sam munched on a bag of chips whilst you both watched the TV, Suddenly the front door clicked open and James walked around the corner into the living room and tickled your feet, you yelped and snatched your legs up “James!” you squealed, he laughed his deep hearty laugh and wiped his dirty hands on his work jeans “I ordered pizza kiddos” he said. James always ordered you guys pizzas on Fridays, “Sausage?” Sam asked rasing his eyebrow, “You know it” James winked his eye.

30 minutes later the three of you were sat in the living room, Pizza and soda in hand scrolling on Netflix. “Oh! can we watch That one?” you asked excitedly pointing to yet another Romance movie. “What?! No! you picked last week!” Sam objected. You gave him a pouty look. James cleared his throat, “How about this one? we will meet in the middle” James suggested. “Fine by me” Sam shrugged, you nodded.

Torwards the end of the movie you were dozing off, Sam got up from the couch “I’m gonna go smoke real quick” he leaned down and pecked your forehead before walking out the back door. You snuggled into the arm of the couch sleepily. James sat in the recliner sipping his beer, eyes on the TV screen. You yawn and stretch, James glances over at you and laughs “Tired Princess?” he asks raising an eyebrow. You stand up “Yeah Yeah,” you wave him off as you head up the stairs “Goodnight James” you yawn once more, He looks up the stairs “Goodnight sweetheart” he calls after you.

꩜.ᐟ late in the night James woke up. He yawned and stretched before standing up and stepping into his slippers. He rubbed his eyes before lazily walking out into the hallway and towards the bathroom. Halfway through the hall he stopped dead in his tracks. Was that?…he thought to himself. “Oh Sam mhm” he heard you moan quietly yet softly. James took a step forward to Sam’s bedroom door.

the bed was creaking slightly. Your soft moans and whimpers could hardly be heard, but James heard them. His face reddened and he took a step back. His palms were sweating and for the first time in a long time, James Kelly was flustered. He hurried to the bathroom and quietly shut the door. It wasn’t enough. Your soft moans could still be heard. James leaned forward palms on the sink trying to ignore the betrayal in his pants. He looked in the mirror and saw his flushed expression. He splashed some cold water on his face.

James’s mind was racing he flipped the seat down and sat down on the toilet. The growing tent in his pants was obvious and he groaned. James hesitated before he reached his hand down in his pants. He wouldn’t be able to sleep like this. He leaned his head back and palmed himself. Another moan could be heard from behind the wall and James sighed as he stroked himself again.

Before he knew it he was stroking himself in time with your moans. Faster and faster. He imagined your pretty face, your soft skin, your concentrated face as you chased your high. He imagined it was him on top of you with you withering and moaning beneath him. It only took a few more strokes before James quietly groaned as he released himself onto his stomach.

as he cleaned himself up your moans had stopped and he assumed you guys had finished. He splashed some cold water in his face once more and looked at his reflection ‘what the hell is wrong with me?’ he thought in shame and disgust. You were his son’s girlfriend for crying out loud. You were 20+ years younger than him. You were to soft. Too sweet and innocent for someone like him.

꩜.ᐟ the next morning you awoke to the smell of pancakes and the bed next to you empty, You scurried out of bed and hopped down the stairs. “Hmm yummy” you commented as you walked into the kitchen. Sam was at the table eating a plate, “Sammy, why didn’t you wake me up?” you pouted at him. He grinned “I know better than to wake sleeping beauty” he teased. James was at the stove flipping pancakes.

He quickly plopped them down onto a plate before turning around and handing it to you without a word. His expression was something you couldn’t place. You took the plate before walking past him to the butter and syrup. Your shoulder brushed his arm and he quickly stepped back and cleared his throat, “I..um- I’ve got to get to work. See you later Sammy” James said patting Sam’s shoulder before walking out the door without another word. You arched a brow “What’s up with him?” you asked Sam as you poured syrup on your plate. Sam shrugged “I guess he didn’t sleep well” he said taking another bite.

and indeed he didn’t….

ahh kinda nervous about this series! not sure where it’s going yet but let me know what team ur on so far…

TAGLIST: @anakinstwinklebunny @fredswrite @divineani @speaknow-sw @nikiloveshayden @haydensheartt

ask to join!! <3

[abigfatboi-bhm]

Somehow didn't realise I got so fat that I'm 200 pounds heavier than the ideal, healthy weight for my height. At 24 I've managed to get my bmi to an eye-watering 56.

So of course I can't buy clothes from normal shops anymore, my waist is near equal to my height. My thighs are the size my waist should be. That isn't normal.

Seatbelts have become a challenge. Fighting against my overindulged, oversized belly. They don't always conquer the girth either. It's mortifying trying to hide my unbuckled belt for the duration of an uber ride.

People avoid sitting next to me on public transport. They don't want to share their seat with my overflowing fat.

I'm weak-willed and food-addicted to the point my poor body has to constantly struggle under conditions it was never built for. Constant pressure, constant strain.

This is the prime of my life. I should be fit. Healthy.

But I can't stand, or walk for long without feeling like I'm going to die. Stairs leave my gasping, and I can't get up from a kneeling position without holding onto something for support. I built fat and then some, but no muscle.

All that weight pulling on my back, begging for me to sit down, have something to eat, take your mind off the pain. All the pressure on my joints (my health...). It's making me lazier, more sedentary. Objectively worse.

I was never meant to get this big. Nobody was. Hell I told myself I'd stop at 250, okay fine 300. 350 is more than enough, for real this time... but 400lbs is so close, closer than 300 is. I'll be there before I know it.

It was avoidable, hell it's reversible. In theory, anything is possible. I could conquer my food addiction. Develop an interest in personal fitness, or sports. I'm sure there are loads of gyms around me to pick from. I could take up my friends countless offers to join them at the gym. They'd be relieved, happy to help if it means getting my life on track. I should get serious about my well-being before it's too late.

But I think I'm too far gone. The point of no return is well and truly behind me now.

Especially with how many people are out there loving watching me descend further into gluttony. Desperate to pitch in, to share responsibility of my pitiful, massive size. To, by every metric, make me worse.