#and this will probably get flagged for content too...

[byfawn]

THE CONTRACT

↳ oneshot | 10.8k | lowercase intended

preview: you signed a contract in desperation for money, thinking it was a joke of sorts—desperate times call for desperate measures. but when you're taken by two masked men who don’t plan to hurt you, just keep you, you realize this isn’t a joke anymore.

↳ note: this is a dark romance with heavy psychological elements and morally ambiguous characters. while the ending leans into tenderness, there is a lot of blurred lines. reader discretion is strongly advised. i really held back a lot while writing this because i was not in the mood to have my account flagged again lol. maybe one day i'll get the balls to go full throttle!

↳ content warnings: this fic contains explicit non-consensual elements (kidnapping, confinement, drugging, forced captivity), psychological manipulation, stockholm syndrome themes, graphic sexual content (including cunnilingus, spanking, edging, denied orgasm, forced orgasm, overstimulation, anal play, double penetration, breeding, pussy slapping, praise, and degradation), power dynamics, forced feeding, and emotional trauma.

the bright glow of your laptop screen lights up your cramped apartment. outside, the city echoes with distant sirens and the occasional drunken shout, but inside, the silence is deafening. your fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling slightly.

the eviction notice on on the coffee table stares back at you in big, bold red letters reading final warning. almost as if it was some kind of death sentence. you hoped it would't come to this but hope could only get you so far. the last thing you needed right now was to be homeless in this shady neighborhood during the dead of winter. you've sold everything of value—all of your jewelry, your books, even a good chunk of your clothes. but it wasn't enough. it was never enough.

so there you were, curled up on your sunken couch, scrolling through the darkest depths of the internet. the places people only whisper about in hushed tones. your breath comes in shallow, uneven bursts as you click through encrypted forums, each one darker than the last. the air in your apartment feels thick, heavy with the weight of your desperation.

you spent hours working late nights and early mornings but it was never enough to crawl yourself out of the debt that has been sucking you into a blackhole. 

then you see it.

the sanctuary.

the site is sleek, almost too polished—like it was designed to lure in people exactly like you. no flashy banners, no pop-ups. just a single, ominous listing under experiences:

be taken. be kept. no questions. $500,000 payout upon completion.

your heart stutters in your chest. half a million dollars. that kind of money would be life changing. more than enough to wipe your debts clean, to start over, to breathe again. you could finally move out of this shitty hell hole that is a pathetic excuse of an apartment. 

it was probably a scam but what harm would come from just filling out the application. some twisted joke or a phishing site made to prey on the desperate. you weren't stupid, you knew that. but your fridge was empty, your bank account was overdrawn, and the landlord's threats were starting to sound like promises.

but the questions that follow make your skin prickle with unease:

do you consent to full surrender? yes.

are you prepared to give up all rights for the duration of the stay? yes.

are you mentally and physically prepared for an intensive period of isolation, obedience, and environmental conditioning? yes.

do you understand that comfort and care will be provided at the discretion of your handlers, not upon request? yes.

you swallow hard, throat dry as sandpaper. the rules are deliberately vague, the language clinical, detached. it claims that it is a hundred percent legal and consensual, but something about the way the words sit on the screen makes your stomach twist.

it feels like a game. a dangerous, twisted game—but you're desperate enough to play.

your cursor hovers over the sign button. for a moment, you hesitate, the rational part of your brain screaming at you to close the tab, to walk away. but then you think of your landlord's sneer, the way your stomach aches from skipping meals, the crushing weight of knowing you're one missed payment away from being out on the streets.

against your better judgement, you click sign.

you hold your breathe as you wait for what happens next. the screen of your laptop goes black. anxiously, you ram your fingers against the keyboard in an attempt to bring it back to life. the screen remains black, the shocked reflection of your face staring back at you. 

you can't help but laugh. it comes out nearly hysterical. with everything going on, the last thing you needed was your shitty laptop giving out on you. as you reach to close your laptop, the screen mysteriously flickers back to life with a single message written across it:

leave your door unlocked tonight.

you slam the laptop shut, the sudden silence in the room pressing in on you like a physical force. your pulse roars in your ears, your palms slick with sweat. what the absolute hell did you just agreed to?

fuck, it's too late to back out now. and no amount of prayers or demise can undo what you had just signed off on. for all you know it was probably some stupid prank set up by a group of teenagers who didn't know any better. that night when you went to sleep, you locked the door and triple checked the windows before heading to bed. 

you spent countless hours tossing and turning, you were far to anxious to even close your eyes, afraid that the dark will swallow you whole. you opted for sitting on the edge of your mattress, knees drawn to your chest, listening to the creaks and groans of your apartment building. every noise makes you jump, your heart insistently pounding in your ears. every creak made your skin crawl, quickening your pulse. 

the clock strikes past 2:00 a.m. your eyes sting from hours of fighting off much needed slumber. you had a shift at the coffee shop that started in three hours. but despite your exhaustion, your body refusing to relax. before you knew it, light was softly filtering through the blinds, the dark of the night gone at last. the apartment was quiet and still as it could be as you stretched your sore limbs. staring into the mirror, your eyes were bloodshot and your face looked drained of life.

there was a part of you that felt like an absolute and utter idiot for even believing that something was going to happen. still, you couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed. it wasn't in the apartment itself, or in the air, or the light. it was in you.

you dragged yourself through your shift at the coffee shop, running on caffeine and adrenaline. the hours passed in a blur. you made drinks, wiped counters, and forced yourself to smile at customers who would never guess what you had done the night before. you kept checking your phone, half-expecting a message, a warning, something. but there was nothing. it felt almost as though a weight was lifted off of your chest. 

by the time your shift ended, you were too exhausted to think straight. you walked home in a haze, the cold wind biting at your skin. after a quick hot shower, you bundled up under your comforter and drifted off into some much needed slumber. 

you don't know what wakes you.

maybe it's the shift in the air, the sudden absence of sound. maybe it's the weight of a gaze you feel before you even open your eyes. but when you do—there's a man standing at the foot of your bed.

your breath catches, your body locking up in pure, animal instinct. he's tall—too tall—his broad frame nearly swallowing the dim light from the streetlamp outside. the shadows cling to him like a second skin, but you can make out his face due to his mask, the glint of something dark and unreadable in his eyes.

you don't scream. you don't even move. your lips part, but no sound comes out. 

then instinct finally kicks in.

you lunge for your nightstand, scrambling for anything to defend yourself. his hand snaps out, catching your wrist in a grip like iron. your pulse thunders in your ears as you twist, nails raking against his arm. a growl rumbles in his chest, low and warning.

"none of that," he murmurs, voice rough.

you don't listen. you can't. panic floods your veins, sharp and electric, and you thrash, knee jerking up. a second pair of hands grabs you from behind, locking your arms against your body. "fuck," a new voice mutters, voice thick with a british accent. "she's a fighter."

you writhe, teeth bared, but they're too strong. he reaches reaches into his pocket, pulling out a syringe. the liquid inside catches the light and you thrash against them even harder.

your breath comes in ragged bursts. "no—no—"

"shhh," the first man soothes, almost gentle, as if he's calming a spooked animal. "just a little pinch."

the needle sinks into your neck.

you gasp, the burn of the injection spreading fast. your limbs grow heavy, your vision blurring at the edges. the last thing you see is the second man's masked face tilting as he studies you, his grip never loosening.

"sleep now, little one," the first man murmurs.

and just like that—the world goes dark.

when you wake, its feels like your skull has been hammered in. you could practically feel your heart pounding in your head. your neck still sore from whatever the hell you were injected with. your mouth feels dry and tastes of copper and cotton. when you try to swallow, its like sandpaper grinding against your throat. you slowly start to piece together the reality around you. 

first it's the smell of damp concrete and something metallic. then the cold, seeping through your clothes and into your bones. finally, the pain, a dull throb at your neck where the needle went in.

you blink against the dim light. you're on a mattress, thin and lumpy, pushed into the corner of what looks like a basement. the walls are bare concrete, the only light coming from a single bulb swinging gently from the ceiling. there are no windows.

you try to lift your head and immediately regret it as the world tilts violently. a soft whimper escaping your lips. when you try to stand up, the chain around your ankle yanks you back. your breath hitches. it's thick, industrial-grade, bolted to the floor and connected to a leather cuff tight enough to leave marks but not cut off circulation.

"she's awake."

the voice comes from the shadows near the stairs. the british one steps into the light, holding two mugs. steam curls from them in the cold air. he's changed clothes and is now wearing black tactical pants and a tight gray henley that stretches across his shoulders. his mask remains firmly in place, the familiar skull fabric hiding his features. only his eyes are visible, glinting in the low light as he studies your pain-tense form.

he sets one mug on the floor near your mattress and keeps the other for himself. "drink. it'll help with the headache."

you don't move. your throat burns with thirst, but you won't take anything from him. not again.

he sighs, crouching down to your level. "suit yourself." he takes a sip from his own mug, watching you over the rim. "you put up a good fight back there. surprised me."

"go to hell." your voice comes out cracked, barely above a whisper.

you can tell he's grinning even through his mask. "already there, darling."

the creak of the stairs makes you both turn. the larger masked man descends slowly, his massive frame barely fitting. he's changed into a black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. the sight of those thick veins running under tanned skin makes you swallow hard. his face is concealed by that distinctive hood—the fabric obscuring everything except those unsettling eyes that track your every movement.

"she's not drinking," the british one says. there's something possessive in how he watches you, something that curls heat low in your belly even as your mind screams in protest.

the hooded man tilts his head, the fabric shifting with the movement. "she will."

he reaches into his pocket with deliberate slowness and pulls out a phone. your phone. his fingers tap the screen before turning it toward you. the glow illuminates the loose threads of his hood as you see the bank notification—$100,000 deposited into your account.

"first installment," he says, voice muffled slightly by the fabric. "as promised."

you stare at the number until the screen goes dark, reflecting back the shadowy outline of his concealed face. it's more money than you've ever seen.

the british one nudges the mug closer with his boot. the ceramic scrapes against concrete. "now will you drink?" there's a challenge in his voice that makes you want to both obey and defy him, the contradiction tying your stomach in knots.

your hands shake as you reach for it. when you look up, they're both watching you with something like satisfaction, and the heat in their eyes has nothing to do with cruelty and everything to do with possession. it should terrify you. part of you wishes it did.

the hooded man pockets your phone, the movement making his hood shift. for a second, you think you see the shadow of stubble along his jawline before it disappears back into concealment. "rules are simple," he says. the fabric moves with each word. "you stay. you obey. you get the rest."

"and if i say no?" your voice comes out breathier than you intended.

the british one's laugh is hollow. "you clicked the button, love. that was your signature." he steps closer, and you don't pull away when his thumb brushes your lower lip. "we all know what you really want."

the hooded man's hand settles on your waist, large enough to span nearly half of it. his breath is warm through the fabric as he leans down. "this is your life for now," he murmurs, and the promise in his voice makes your traitorous body arch toward him. "be a good girl and accept it."

the bulb flickers as they leave. the lock clicks. outside, wind howls, but inside, you're burning up. you're torn between horror and shame and filled with the aching need they've awakened in you. the tea sits forgotten as you press your thighs together, disgusted with yourself and yet already wondering when they'll return.

the silence after they leave is suffocating. you slump back against the mattress, your fingers trembling where they clutch the mug. the tea has gone cold, but your skin still burns where they touched you. you hate it. you hate how your body betrays you, how your pulse jumps at the memory of rough hands and low voices.

the chain around your ankle clinks when you shift, the sound too loud in the empty basement. you should be planning an escape. you should be screaming. instead, you're staring at the spot where the british one stood, the way he brushed your lips with his calloused hands burned into your mind. perhaps it was the after effects of the drugs that they gave you making you hallucinate?

you don't know how long has passed but you're most certain that it has definitely been a few hours. you're stomach is grumbling, the last thing you consumed was a day or two ago—a croissant and cup of coffee from the cafe. the hunger was gnawing at your stomach and you were starting to feel dizzy. 

 the door clicks open without warning. you jerk upright, chains rattling, as the british one strides in carrying a tray. the smell hits you first—roasted meat, fresh bread, something herbal that makes your empty stomach clench painfully.

"brought you dinner, darling," he says, setting the tray just beyond your reach. steam rises from the plate, curling in the damp basement air. your mouth waters before you can stop it.

you force your gaze away. "i'm not eating that."

he crouches with predatory grace, balancing effortlessly on the balls of his feet. "oh?" his fingers tear off a piece of bread, holding it up. "smells good though, doesn't it?"

when you don't answer, he tsks. "such a stubborn little thing." the bread brushes your lips. you press them tighter. his other hand grips your chin, forcing your head up. "come now. you'll need your strength."

"for what?" you snap, trying to twist away. his grip tightens.

"for all the fun we're going to have." he presses the bread harder against your mouth. "eat."

you lunge suddenly, teeth aiming for his fingers. he moves faster, twisting your head to the side and pinning you against the mattress. his body presses down, all hard muscle and controlled strength.

"naughty," he breathes against your ear, hips grinding down just enough to make your breath hitch. the bread is still in his other hand. "you want to play rough? fine." he nips your earlobe. "but you're still going to eat."

you thrash violently, nails raking down his arms, legs kicking uselessly beneath his weight. he sighs dramatically. "have it your way." in one smooth motion, he pulls his mask up just enough to reveal cruel, smiling lips and pops the bread into his own mouth, chewing slowly while watching you struggle. "shame. it's really quite good."

your stomach growls loudly. you can feel your face grow heated from embarrassment but your far to prideful to eat anything he offers. you can see his eyes light up with dark amusement. 

before you can react, he's grabbing another piece of bread and chewing it deliberately. you barely have time to gasp before his hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back. his mouth crashes against yours, tongue forcing the food past your lips. you choke, but he doesn't let go until you swallow, his teeth nipping your bottom lip as he pulls away.

your chest heaves, torn between rage and the shameful realization that your body is responding to his dominance. he tears off another piece, chewing slowly as he watches you. you know what's coming. your breath comes faster.

"open," he commands. when you don't obey, he pinches your nose shut. instinct makes your lips part, and he's on you again, feeding you another mouthful with his lips and tongue. this time, when he pulls away, a whimper escapes you before you can stop it.

"that's it," he coaxes, feeding you another bite. each morsel comes with a stroke of his fingers, a whispered praise that coils heat low in your belly. "so good for me."

when the food is gone, he lingers, thumb wiping a crumb from your lip. you bite down hard. he yanks back with a laugh, examining the teeth marks on his thumb. when he finally stands, adjusting his mask back into place, you're left panting, your lips swollen, your body thrumming with conflicting sensations.

"feisty till the end," he muses. "i like that." he collects the tray, pausing at the door. "sleep well, princess. you'll need it."

your can feel the exhaustion of the past two days and a 12 hour shift wearing down on your body. as much as you try to fight it off in fear of one of them coming back down, your exhaustion wins and sleep comes heavy and unwilling. your lips still tingle from the forced feeding, your skin buzzing with the memory of his hands on you. you dream of mocking voices and teeth at your throat, waking in gasps only to find the basement still dark, still empty.

when you wake, it is to the feeling up being watched—a feeling that you have known all to well lately. it's him. the hooded one. he seems to be much gentler compared to the one with the british accent. 

he's seated in the corner, silent as a shadow, his massive frame swallowing what little light filters into the room. you don't know how long he's been there, but the way his head tilts when your eyes meet tells you its been far to long. his gaze catches yours slow, deliberate, like a predator savoring the moment its prey realizes it's caught. 

"you're awake." his voice is low, muffled by the mask, but it scrapes over your skin anyway. he doesn't move. doesn't blink. just stares, those unreadable eyes tracking the way your breath hitches.

you sit up slowly, chain clinking, your muscles stiff from the cold floor. instinct has you crawling backward before you can stop yourself, shoulders pressing into the wall as if that could save you. "what do you want?"

he stands in one smooth motion, the movement too graceful for a man his size. the bucket in his hand sloshes, water dripping onto the floor between his boots. "you need to wash."

your stomach drops. "no."

he doesn't react, just sets the bucket down with a thud and nudges it toward you with his foot. the towel draped over his arm is crisp, white—a mockery of cleanliness in this basement. "you're dirty," he says. 

heat floods your cheeks. "i'm not undressing in front of you."

"no?" his head tilts, the edges of his hood shifting. beneath the fabric, you imagine his lips curling. "then you stay dirty." he crouches suddenly, fingers snagging the hem of your shirt. "unless you want help."

you slap his hand away. "don't fucking touch me."

his grip closes around your wrist like a vice, yanking you forward until your chest nearly brushes him. "fight all you want," he murmurs, dragging your trapped hand under his mask. his tongue flicks out, tracing your knuckles through the fabric, slow, as if savoring the salt of your skin. "you'll give in eventually. i'll ask again nicely. take it off."

"no."

one hand fists in your shirt and yanks. the cotton fabric tears like paper. cold air hits your bare skin and you gasp, hands flying up to cover yourself. it's pointless. he's already grabbing your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand. his gaze darkens as he drinks in the sight of your bare chest. your nipples harden under his sharp stare and you can't help but squirm. you shouldn't have found this attractive but it had wetness pooling at the apex of your thighs. 

the damp cloth traces your collarbones, slow and methodical, wiping away your sweat. you bite your lip to stop the moan threatening to escape.

"so sensitive," he murmurs, the cloth dipping lower. he releases your wrists and grips your waist, holding you still as he washes between your breasts. your breath comes faster, your nipples pebbling under his attention. "see how your body reacts?"

you squeeze your thighs together, but he notices. of course he does. his knee nudges them apart as he crouches before you. the cloth drags down your stomach, over your hips, leaving fire in its wake. when it reaches the waistband of your shorts, you whimper.

"shhh," he soothes, even as his fingers hook in the fabric. "i'll take care of you." the rip of fabric echoes in the quiet room. you should be ashamed, should fight harder, but his hands on your bare skin feel too good. you melt under his rough hands like putty. you find all the fight that you had slowly simmer down under the gentle care of his hands. 

the water is cool, but where he touches you burns. his fingers trace every curve, every dip, cleaning you with a reverence that makes your chest ache. when his thumb brushes your inner thigh, you jerk, a broken sound escaping your lips.

"so perfect," he growls, his masked mouth pressing against your knee. "so responsive." his hands slide up your legs, washing away the last traces of dirt, leaving you exposed and trembling.

no one has ever been so attentive to you. not when you were scrounging for food in dumpsters at twelve. not when you burned with fever that left you immobile in that shitty studio apartment with no one to even bring you medicine because you had no one. the first tear falls before you can stop it. 

he pauses. "look at me." when you don't, his fingers grip your chin, forcing your gaze up. his masked face tilts, studying your wet cheeks. "crying?" his thumb swipes under your eye, collecting tears. "why?"

"because you're—" your voice cracks "—you're fucking monsters. and this is the kindest anyone's ever touched me."

the confession hangs between you, raw and ugly. his breathing changes, the mask fluttering slightly. for a long moment, he just watches you shake, his grip on your waist the only thing keeping you upright.

was it the emotional wear and tear of the past 48 hours sneaking up on you? or even worse, the lifetime of neglect that you had faced resulting in any kind of attention, good or bad, making you feel seen? you had been numb for so long that the sensation of tear running down your heated cheeks felt foreign. it was almost as if a dam had burst within you. 

his hands resume their work, slower now. the cloth moves down your thighs with unbearable gentleness, washing away dirt and years of neglect. "let go," he murmurs against your knee, his lips brushing skin through the fabric. "just let us take care of you."

you sob when his fingers find the scar on your hip—the one from when you fell through a rusted fire escape at fourteen and stitched it up yourself with fishing line. his touch lingers there, warm and steady, and something inside you fractures.

maybe it wouldn't be so bad, you think wildly, to let them break you. if their hands put you back together after. if they keep looking at you like you're something precious instead of disposable. 

"there," he whispers when you're clean, pressing a towel to your damp skin. his hands tremble slightly as he dresses you, buttoning the fresh dress with careful fingers.

you hate how much you crave his approval. hate how badly you want him to touch you again. but most of all, you hate that when he leaves, the cold feels unbearable—and that the scent of him lingers on your new clothes, wrapping you in something dangerously close to comfort.

the days blur together in a haze of careful hands and quiet commands. the british one that you have come to know as simon comes like clockwork—morning, noon, night—feeding you bites of food between teasing remarks. "open wider, princess," he'll murmur, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip until you obey. sometimes he makes you eat from his fingers. sometimes from his mouth. you always flush, always protest, but your lips part easier each time.

and the tall one that goes by konig is the one who washes you, his massive hands surprisingly gentle as they scrub away your resistance along with the dirt. he notices everything—how your breath hitches when his fingers graze the back of your neck, how your thighs press together when he kneels between them to wash your legs. "so responsive," he praises each time, his masked mouth brushing your ear. "such a good girl for me."

 you had lost track of how many days you had been holed up in the basement. how long did they plan to hold you captive? you had wondered if there had been anybody out there looking for you. although, that was highly unlikely given that you're parents weren't in the picture and you had no friends. maybe your manager at the cafe had filed some kind of report, she was a sweet old lady who always checked in on how you were doing because she knew that you lived alone in a shader part of town. 

as the days passed you started to formulate ways you could escape. the first order of business you had to tackle was the stupid chain on your ankle. luckily for you, there had been a bobby pin from your hair that you had kept hidden under your mattress.

you waited until the house fell silent, until even the creaking floorboards above had stilled. then you went to work. the lock was stubborn, but you were stubborn too. the first click made your pulse spike. the second had your hands shaking with anticipation. 

"and what do we have here?"

you nearly jump out of your skin—your blood turns to ice. simon’s voice comes from directly behind you, his shadow swallowing you whole. you don’t even have time to turn before konig’s hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back.

"naughty girl," he murmurs, plucking the pin from your fingers. his mask brushes your cheek as he inhales sharply. "you smell like fear. you should be scared."

simon crouches in front of you, his knife flashing as he taps it against your ankle cuff. "we give you pretty dresses. feed you from our hands." the blade gently slides up your calf, making you shiver. "and this is how you repay us?"

you spit at him, the saliva landing on his boot. "go to hell."

simon’s laugh sends shivers down your spine as he wipes his boot clean with slow, deliberate strokes. "oh sweetheart," he purrs, sheathing his knife with a click that echoes in the silent basement. "you just earn yourself a proper punishment."

konig’s grip in your hair tightens as he hauls you upright, his other hand wrapping around your throat in a way that shouldn’t make your pulse jump but does. "such a bad girl," he murmurs, his masked lips brushing your ear, the heat of his breath making you shiver. "needing to be taught a lesson."

you thrash against him, nails scraping at his arms, but he doesn’t budge. the hard planes of his chest press against your back, his arousal evident even through layers of tactical gear. simon stands with that infuriating smirk, rolling up the sleeves of his henley to reveal corded forearms that have no business being so distracting. "over my lap," he commands, settling onto the edge of the mattress with deliberate ease.

"fuck you!" you snarl, twisting in konig’s hold. your heart pounds not just from fear, but from the way his fingers flex against your throat, the way simon’s eyes darken as they rake over your body.

konig tsks, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into yours as he easily maneuvers you face-down across simon’s thighs. the cold air hits your bare ass as konig yanks your panties down in one sharp motion, his knuckles brushing your sensitive skin and leaving fire in their wake.

"such a pretty little ass," simon muses, running his calloused palm over one cheek in a caress that feels more possessive than punishing. "gonna look even prettier all red and marked up."

the first smack lands without warning, sharp and stinging. you yelp, fingers digging into the mattress as heat blooms across your skin. "bastard!" you spit, but your traitorous body already responds, your nipples pebbling against the rough fabric of simon’s jeans.

simon just chuckles, delivering another sharp slap to the same spot, the pain melting into something dangerously close to pleasure. "count them, princess. or we start over." his thigh shifts beneath you, pressing deliberately against your aching core.

"never!" you gasp, but your hips rock forward instinctively, seeking friction.

the next blow comes harder, making your eyes water even as your cunt clenches around nothing. konig’s hand settles between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned as simon begins a relentless rhythm—left cheek, right cheek, each smack louder than the last, each one sending jolts of heat straight to your throbbing clit.

"o-one," you finally crack out in a broken voice, shame curling in your belly even as your arousal grows.

by the fifth spank, your thighs shake—not just from pain, but from the way simon’s massive hand covers nearly your entire ass, his fingers brushing dangerously close to your dripping slit with every impact. the sharp sting radiates through you, mixing with the low throb between your legs until you can’t tell where the pain ends and the pleasure begins.

"f-fifteen," you choke out after another brutal spank, your ass burning like fire. tears streak your face, but worse—your juices coat simon’s jeans where you grind against him, your body betraying you completely. you’re a sobbing, snotty mess by fifty, but your cunt pulses with need, aching to be filled.

simon pauses, rubbing circles over the heated skin of your ass. "fast learner that we have here," he murmurs, his voice rough with arousal. his fingers dip lower, brushing against your soaked folds and coming away glistening. "oh? what’s this?" he holds his wet fingers up for konig to see, his smirk widening.

you whimper, hips jerking away from his touch, but konig holds you firm, his other hand sliding down to squeeze your abused cheeks. "she’s dripping," he observes, his voice thick with amusement as he presses against you, letting you feel the hard length of him through his pants. "such a dirty little thing, getting off on her punishment."

"i’m not!" you protest, but your traitorous body clenches around nothing, your clit throbbing with each heartbeat. the scent of your arousal fills the air, mixing with leather and gunpowder in a way that makes your head spin.

simon’s next smack lands directly on your pussy, the sting mixing with pleasure so intense you scream, your back arching off his lap. "liar," he growls, delivering two more sharp slaps to your swollen lips that have you seeing stars. "your cunt’s begging for more. should we give it to her, konig?"

the taller man hums, his fingers sliding through your folds to circle your aching clit with terrifying precision. "i think she’s earned a reward," he decides, pressing down just hard enough to make you writhe, your hips chasing his touch. "after she apologizes, of course." his thumb flicks over your sensitive bundle of nerves, drawing a broken moan from your lips. "well, little one? what do you say?"

you bite your lip hard enough to taste blood, refusing to give them the satisfaction even as your nails dig into the sheets, your body arching toward konig’s skilled fingers. simon’s hand comes down again, this time on your already burning ass, the sharp sting making your clit throb against konig’s relentless circles. "fuck! okay, okay! i’m sorry!" you sob, the words torn from you as much by pleasure as punishment.

konig’s fingers don’t stop their torturous movements, his other hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "sorry for what, little one?" his voice is rough velvet through the mask, that accent curling around the words in a way that makes your stomach flip.

"for t-trying to escape," you gasp, hips rocking shamelessly against his hand now, your resistance crumbling with each expert stroke. the way simon watches you—those piercing eyes tracking every twitch of your body, the way his jaw tightens when you moan—sends fresh heat pooling low in your belly. "for being a b-bad girl."

simon’s palm lands one final, stinging blow before soothing over the heated skin, his touch almost tender.

"good enough," he decides, flipping you onto your back with effortless strength. his eyes darken at the sight of your tear-streaked face, your heaving chest, the way your nipples pebble under his gaze.

"look at you," he murmurs, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip. "all marked up and still so defiant." the way his voice drops sends shivers down your spine. "we’ll break you eventually."

konig’s fingers push inside you without warning, curling against that sweet spot that has you seeing stars. "she’s close," he observes, though the way his breath hitches betrays his own arousal. his fingers piston in and out, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room as you arch off the bed, your body taut as a bowstring. "should we let her come?"

"not yet. the first time she comes, it will be on my cock." simon leans down, his breath hot against your ear as konig’s fingers still, leaving you teetering on the edge. "don’t even think about touching yourself, i will be watching."

"next time you misbehave," simon promises, his teeth grazing your earlobe in a way that makes your cunt clench around konig’s fingers, "we won’t stop at just a spanking." the dark promise in his voice has liquid heat dripping down konig’s fingers. "understood?"

you nod frantically, your entire body trembling with denied release, your skin oversensitive and burning wherever they’ve touched you. konig withdraws his fingers with a wet sound, wiping them deliberately on your inner thigh, marking you with your own arousal. "good girl," he murmurs, the praise curling around you like smoke. "now sleep."

as they leave, the door locking behind them with finality, you collapse onto the mattress. your ass still burns, your cunt still aches, and worst of all—your fingers itch to touch yourself despite simon’s warning. you press your thighs together, biting back a moan as the friction sends sparks through your oversensitive nerves.

curling into yourself, you press your face into the pillow to muffle your frustrated scream. you should be planning another escape, looking for a weakness in routine, trying to get out of the shackle but you find yourself wondering on how they would taste and feel instead.

sleep didn't come. just the endless replay of konig's murmured praise, simon's dark promises. the way they'd worked you over like a shared project, all rough hands and calculated tenderness. you bit your lip until copper flooded your tongue, but it didn't stop the memories—konig's breath hitching when you clenched around his fingers, simon's grip in your hair as he forced eye contact while konig touched you.

the next morning arrives with no relief. you wake tangled in sweat-damp sheets, your body still thrumming with last night's denied pleasure. every shift of fabric against oversensitive skin sends sparks through your nerves, making your teeth clench. you press your thighs together tightly, but the pressure only makes it worse —a constant, aching reminder of their control.

"someone didn't sleep well," he observes, setting down the breakfast tray. the scent of coffee makes your chest tighten with something dangerously close to homesickness.

"fuck you," you mutter, but your voice lacks its usual bite.

he chuckles, perching on the edge of the mattress. "eventually." his fingers trail up your bare leg, pausing at the bruise konig left yesterday. when you flinch, he presses harder, his thumb circling the mark. "hurts?"

you shake your head, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

"liar." the word is almost affectionate as he reaches for the breakfast tray. "open."

when you hesitate, his free hand slips beneath the sheets, finding your still-throbbing core with terrifying accuracy. "i said," he repeats, fingers applying just enough pressure to make your hips jerk, "open."

you part your lips with a shaky exhale, letting him feed you the first bite. his smile widens as he wipes a crumb from your lip with his thumb. "see? was that so hard?"

konig enters silently, his massive frame filling the doorway. his masked face tilts as he takes in the scene—simon's hand still under the sheets, your flushed cheeks, the way your fingers clutch the blanket in white-knuckled fists. "trouble?" he rumbles, moving to stand behind simon.

"just reminding our girl who takes care of her," simon replies, feeding you another bite. this time, konig's hand joins his under the sheets, his fingers replacing simon's. his calloused fingers drags against your sensitive flesh, making you gasp.

"so wet," konig murmurs, his other hand stroking your hair. "even after last night." his fingers work you with clinical precision, never quite giving you what you need. "do you want to come, little one?"

you bite your lip hard enough to taste blood. the answer claws at your throat, but pride keeps it locked behind your teeth.

simon leans in, his lips brushing your ear. "say please," he whispers, "and maybe we'll consider it."

the tray sits forgotten as they reduce you to a trembling mess between them—konig's relentless fingers, simon's filthy words. when you finally break, a whispered "please" slipping past your lips.

simon's fingers dig into your thighs as he pushes them apart, the cool air hitting your needy cunt. his mask is lifted just enough to reveal his smirk before he leans in, tongue dragging a slow, torturous stripe through your folds. you whimper, back arching off the mattress, but he pins you down with ease, his grip bruising.

"so fucking wet," he mutters against you, lips sealing around your clit to suck lightly—just enough to make your toes curl but not enough to push you over. his tongue flicks and teases, alternating between soft licks and sharp nips that leave you gasping. konig's hand strokes your inner thigh, his other palming himself through his pants, the quiet sound of fabric rustling filling the room.

"please," you choke out, fingers twisting in the sheets.

simon pulls back with a wet sound, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "please what?" he taunts, dragging his cock through your slick, the thick head catching on your clit. you jerk, a broken noise escaping you. "use your words."

"please—fuck me," you plead, hips lifting desperately.

he doesn't make you wait. with one brutal thrust, he's inside, stretching you to the limit, the stretch burning so good. his hips snap forward, setting a punishing pace from the start, each drive punching a moan from your lips. konig's hand slips between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in time with simon's thrusts, the dual stimulation making your vision blur.

"gonna come?" simon growls, fingers digging into your hips. "told ya the first time you'd come would be on my cock."

you shatter with a sob, your cunt clenching around him as pleasure crashes over you in waves. the orgasm so intense that it hits you like a freight train. simon fucks you through it, his own release following shortly after with a groan, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you. konig's breath is ragged behind his mask, his hand moving faster over himself until he grunts, spilling over his fist.

simon pulls out with a satisfied hum, thumb swiping through the mess between your thighs before pressing it to your lips. "good girl," he murmurs, watching as you lick it clean. konig's hand strokes your hair, his touch almost gentle compared to the wreckage simon left behind.

"next time," konig says, "i'm taking your ass, little one."

konig's fingers curl around the cold metal of the shackle, the one that's been clamped around your ankle for weeks—maybe months, time blurred down here in the dark. the click of the lock releasing is the sweetest sound you've ever heard. your skin tingles where the rough iron had been, the sudden absence of weight making your leg feel almost weightless, like you could float away.

the relief is immediate. the constant pressure, the chafing, the way it bit into your flesh every time you moved—gone. you suck in a sharp breath as blood rushes back to the spot, the sensation both prickling and soothing at once. you reach down without thinking, fingertips brushing over the raw, tender skin. it's sore, yes, but god, it's free.

he watches you for a moment, his masked face unreadable, before he hooks an arm under your knees and another behind your back, lifting you like you weigh nothing. your body protests weakly—every muscle limp, every nerve still buzzing from simon's rough treatment—but you don't fight it. you can't.

the basement stairs creak under his boots, each step taking you further from the damp, mold-scented air, closer to something you'd almost forgotten existed. real light, real air. your vision swims as he carries you into the hallway, the sudden brightness making you flinch. it's not even that bright—just a dim lamp flickering on the wall—but your eyes burn anyway, unused to anything but shadows.

he kicks open a door, and then you're being lowered onto something soft. a bed. actual fabric beneath you, not concrete, not that pathetic excuse of a mattress. your body sinks into it, the mattress cradling you in a way that makes your throat tighten. you want to cry. you might already be crying.

konig's hand drags over your bare hip, possessive but not cruel. "rest," he orders, voice gravelly. "you'll need it."

you don't have the strength to answer. the second he pulls the blanket over you, your eyelids give out, heavy as lead. the last thing you feel is the ghost of his touch on your cheek before darkness swallows you whole.

later that evening, you stir to the feeling of large hands sliding beneath you, lifting you with surprising care. your body aches, muscles still heavy with exhaustion, but the pain is duller now—soothed by the deep, dreamless sleep you'd fallen into.

konig's voice is softer than usual, almost tender as he murmurs, "time to get you cleaned up, little one."

you blink up at him, disoriented, but there's no cruelty in his touch, no impatience. just steady, quiet control. the mask is still in place, but his movements are gentle as he carries you down the hall, the sound of running water growing louder with each step.

when he pushes open the bathroom door, steam curls in the air, the scent of something warm and herbal—lavender maybe—filling your lungs. your breath hitches. a real bath. not a bucket of cold water dumped over your head, not the rough scrub of a rag while you shiver on the basement floor.

the tub is already full, water glimmering under the dim light, little bubbles floating on the surface. konig kneels beside it, testing the temperature with his fingers before turning back to you. "can you stand?" he asks, voice low.

you nod, though your legs tremble when your feet touch the tile. his grip tightens just enough to steady you, his other hand sliding around your waist to keep you upright. the care in his touch is almost startling—like he's handling something fragile, something precious.

he helps you step into the water, and the moment it closes over your skin, you nearly whimper. it's so warm, so soft, the heat seeping into your sore muscles, loosening the tension in your back, your shoulders. you sink deeper, the water rising to your collarbones, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel clean.

konig doesn't rush you. he sits on the edge of the tub, one arm draped over the rim, watching as you slowly relax. when he finally reaches for the soap, his movements are methodical, careful. the washcloth glides over your skin, scrubbing away the grime, the sweat, the lingering traces of simon's touch. he's thorough but never rough, his fingers lingering just a little longer on the places where bruises bloom—like he's memorizing them.

when he reaches your hair, his touch turns almost reverent. he tips your head back, cupping water in his palm to wet the strands before working the shampoo through with slow, massaging circles. your eyes flutter shut at the sensation, a quiet sigh escaping you. it's the closest thing to kindness you've felt in so long, and it makes your chest ache.

"better?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

you can only nod, throat too tight to speak.

he hums in approval, rinsing the suds away before lifting you from the water with effortless strength. a plush towel wraps around you, absorbing the droplets as he pats you dry with surprising tenderness. his hands linger on your hips before he lifts you again, carrying you back to the bed.

the sheets are cool against your skin as he lays you down, but the warmth of the bath still lingers beneath your flesh. he looms over you, his masked face unreadable as he reaches for something on the nightstand—a small bottle of oil.

"gonna stretch this pretty little ass for me," he murmurs, uncapping the bottle. the scent of vanilla and something spicier fills the air as he pours the oil over his fingers, warming it between them. "you'll take it so well, won't you? always such a good girl for us."

his free hand spreads your thighs, exposing you completely. you shiver, but not from cold. there's something about the way he looks at you, the way his voice drops into that rough, possessive tone that makes your stomach tighten.

the first touch of his slick fingers against your rim makes you gasp. he circles slowly, teasing, watching how your body reacts. "so tight," he growls. "gonna ruin you for anything else."

just as the tip of his finger begins to press inside, movement catches your eye—simon, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. his gaze is dark, hungry, tracking konig's every movement. when he pushes off the wall and stalks forward, your breath hitches.

"look at that," simon murmurs, dragging a calloused finger through your folds. "already wet for it." his touch is rougher than konig's, less patient, but it sends a jolt of heat through you all the same.

konig chuckles, the sound low and pleased as he works his finger deeper. "she loves it," he says, twisting his wrist just enough to make you whimper. "don't you, little one? love being stuffed full?"

simon's fingers find your clit, rubbing tight circles that have your hips jerking. "fuck," he breathes, watching konig push a second finger in. "look at her. greedy little thing."

the stretch burns, but the pleasure simon coaxes from your clit makes it impossible to focus on anything else. konig scissors his fingers, stretching you further, his other hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "soon," he promises, voice thick with want, "it'll be my cock. gonna wreck this perfect ass until you can't walk."

simon leans down, his breath hot against your ear. "and i'll be right here," he murmurs, "playing with this pretty cunt while he does."

the plug is cold when konig presses it against your hole, but the way he works it inside—slowly—has you arching off the bed. simon's fingers curl inside you, matching konig's pace, and when the plug finally pops into place, you come with a broken cry, their praises ringing in your ears.

the room is hazy as they pulls away, simon's fingers glistening as he drags them slowly from your soaked cunt. you're still trembling, oversensitive and boneless, but he doesn't let you rest for long.

"open," he commands, pressing those same wet fingers to your lips.

you obey without thinking, tongue darting out to lick them clean, the taste of yourself sharp and familiar. simon hums, satisfied, before reaching for the tray he'd brought earlier. the food is simple but to you, it might as well be a feast.

simon doesn't hand it to you. instead, he picks up a piece of fruit, holding it to your mouth. "eat," he says, voice rough but not unkind.

you take a bite, the flavors exploding on your tongue, and you have to force yourself not to whimper. it's so good, so much better than anything you've had in what feels like forever. simon watches you chew, his dark eyes tracking every movement of your throat as you swallow.

"that's it," he murmurs, grabbing another piece. "good girl."

he feeds you like that making sure you take your time. konig watches from the foot of the bed. you can feel the weight of his gaze. it's heavy, possessive, and it makes your skin prickle even as exhaustion tugs at your limbs.

when the tray is empty, simon sets it aside and wipes your mouth with his thumb, the gesture almost tender. "sleep now," he orders, pushing you back onto the pillows.

you don't have the energy to resist, not when your body feels so heavy, so used. the plug inside you is a constant reminder of their claim, but right now, even that can't keep you awake.

the last thing you see is konig leaning over you, his hand brushing your hair from your face. "rest," he says, voice softer than you've ever heard it. "we're not done with you yet."

escape is the last thing on your mind as you doze off. 

the next morning, sunlight filters through the curtains, painting golden stripes across the bed. it had been so long since you'd waken up to the sun. you stir as the door creaks open, konig's broad frame filling the doorway. 

"morning, little one," he rumbles, voice still rough with sleep.

you sit up slowly, the soreness in your body a dull ache now, more memory than pain. the plug in your ass still feels foreign. konig crosses the room in a few strides, his hand coming to rest on your shoulder. "feel better?" he asks, tilting his head.

you nod, and something in his posture relaxes—just slightly.

"good," he says. "then let's get you dressed."

he doesn't give you a choice, but his hands are gentle as he helps you into fresh clothes—soft cotton pants, a loose sweater that smells faintly of him. when he kneels to slide socks onto your feet, his fingers linger over the fading marks from the shackle, his thumb pressing lightly against the tender skin. 

you had fallen so into routine with the two of them that your old life was a thing of the past. it's not like you had anything or anyone to go back to. at least here, you had a roof over your head and you didn't have to worry about when or what your next meal would be. 

"no more basement," he murmurs, more to himself than you.

"no more basement," you repeat after him. 

then he stands, offering you his hand. "come. you can see the rest of the house."

your breath catches. real freedom—even if it's just within these walls—feels like a dream. konig leads you through the hallway, his grip firm but not restraining. the house is larger than you expected, the floors polished wood, the walls lined with framed maps and black-and-white photographs.

but it's the library that makes you stop.

floor-to-ceiling shelves, packed with books of every color and size. your fingers twitch at your sides, itching to touch, to explore. konig notices, of course. he always notices.

"go on," he says, nudging you forward.

you don't need to be told twice. the moment your fingertips brush the spine of a book, something tight in your chest loosens. you pull one out at random, the weight of it familiar and comforting in your hands.

konig watches as you curl into an armchair, your knees tucked under you, the book open in your lap. he doesn't join you, just leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. but he doesn't leave either.

the silence is comfortable, broken only by the turn of pages. you lose yourself in the words, the story pulling you under, and for the first time in so long, you forget—forget the basement, forget the pain, forget that you're anything but a girl reading a book on a quiet morning.

until konig shifts, pushing off the wall. "simon's back," he says, and just like that, the spell breaks.

your fingers tighten around the book, but you don't protest when he takes it from you, marking the page with a slip of paper before setting it aside.

"later," he promises, his hand sliding under your chin, tilting your face up to his. "if you're good."

the rest of the day goes by in a blur, you even asked simon if you could cook dinner and he agreed although he was wary of letting you use a knife, reasonably so. 

the knife feels heavy in your hand—too much power after so long without any. simon watches from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, his dark eyes tracking every movement. you can feel his gaze like a physical weight, but you focus on the vegetables in front of you, slicing them carefully.

"slow," simon murmurs, stepping closer. his breath ghosts over the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. "don't get too excited now."

you nod, forcing your hands to steady. the rhythm of chopping is almost meditative, the repetitive motion soothing. simon hums in approval, his fingers brushing your hip as he reaches past you for a glass. the casual touch makes your stomach tighten.

dinner is simple—pasta, roasted vegetables, a sauce simmering on the stove. it's more than you've cooked in months, maybe years, and the domesticity of it feels surreal. konig appears just as you're plating the food, his mask pushed up just enough to reveal the sharp line of his jaw. he inhales deeply, nodding.

"smells good, little one," he says, taking his seat at the table.

simon doesn't say thank you, but the way he cleans his plate tells you enough.

the meal is quiet, the only sounds the scrape of forks and konig's occasional low comment. you eat slowly, savoring each bite, hyperaware of their eyes on you. when you finish, konig takes your plate without a word, stacking it with the others.

then simon stands, stretching lazily before fixing you with a look that makes your pulse jump.

"bed," he says, tone leaving no room for argument.

you obey without hesitation, your body already reacting to the command. konig follows, his presence a solid warmth at your back as you climb the stairs.

your room is dim, the bed neatly made—just as you left it. but you don't get the chance to admire it before simon is pushing you onto the mattress, his hands rough but purposeful. 

"you did good today," simon murmurs as he strips you of your clothes, "so we'll make it good for you too."

the mattress dips under their combined weight as konig settles behind you, his massive frame caging you in. his thick thighs bracket yours, forcing your legs wider. you can feel the obscene stretch of his cock already—hard and leaking against your ass—as he works the plug inside you with slow, filthy twists.

"fuck, look at you," simon growls from between your legs, his calloused fingers spreading your drooling cunt wide. "clit all swollen and begging, and this greedy little hole—" he slaps it, making you jerk, "—dripping just from getting stuffed in the ass. fucking perfect."

konig’s hand fists your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat as he finally pulls the plug free with a wet pop. the cold air hits your stretched rim for just a second before he’s pressing the thick head of his cock against it, spit-slick and relentless.

"breathe, little one," he rumbles, but doesn’t give you time to adjust before he’s sinking in, inch by brutal inch. your back arches, a broken scream tearing from your throat as he bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass.

simon doesn’t let you recover. he flips you onto your back, your legs hooked over his shoulders as he slams into your cunt in one brutal thrust. the angle is deep, his pubic bone grinding against your clit with every snap of his hips.

"that’s it, take it," simon grunts, his thumb pressing down hard on your clit as konig starts moving behind you. the stretch is unreal, your body stuffed impossibly full, their cocks rubbing against each other through the thin barrier of your walls.

konig’s hand slides around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your vision blur as he murmurs, "feel that? both of us inside you, owning you." his thrusts are slower, deeper, dragging against your oversensitive rim with every pull.

simon leans down, biting your nipple through the fabric of your shirt. "gonna fuck you so full, princess," he snarls. "gonna pump this tight cunt until it’s dripping with me—then watch as he seals it all inside you."

you’re sobbing now, your body strung tight between them, pleasure and pain blurring into one unbearable wave. konig’s free hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise as he picks up the pace, his balls slapping against your ass with every snap of his hips.

"come," simon demands, slapping your clit again. "come on our cocks like the filthy little thing you are."

you shatter with a scream, your cunt fluttering around simon as your ass clenches down on konig. they don’t stop—just fuck you through it, their groans mingling as they chase their own release.

simon comes first, his cock pulsing inside you as he grinds deep, filling you up just like he promised. konig follows with a low snarl, his thrusts turning erratic before he spills, his cum mixing with simon’s as it leaks out around his still-hard cock.

for a long moment, the only sound is your ragged breathing and the wet drip of their spend onto the sheets.

then konig leans down, plugging your ass again, now filled with his cum. "my perfect little one," he murmurs, pressing a kiss through his mask to your pulse point. "you did so well."

simon just smirks, tapping your swollen clit once more just to watch you twitch. your body is limp between them, every muscle trembling from overstimulation. for a moment, you think they’ll leave you like this—used and sticky and aching. but then simon shifts, his arms sliding beneath you, lifting you like you weigh nothing. you whimper at the movement, your oversensitive skin protesting, but he hushes you with a low hum.

"shh, princess" he murmurs, carrying you toward the bathroom. "we’ll take care of you."

the water is already warm when he lowers you into the tub, the heat soothing your sore muscles. konig follows, a damp cloth in hand as he kneels beside you.

"look at you," simon says, dragging the cloth over your stomach, wiping away the evidence of their claim. "so pretty when you’re all fucked out."

you shiver, but there’s no bite to his words—just quiet satisfaction. konig takes your hand, his thumb rubbing circles over your knuckles as simon cleans between your legs, his touch surprisingly careful despite the way you flinch.

when the water starts to cool, konig lifts you, wrapping you in a towel before carrying you back to bed. the sheets have been changed, fresh and soft against your skin. simon presses a glass of water to your lips, his free hand cupping the back of your neck to help you drink.

"slow," he warns, but his voice lacks its usual edge.

you swallow obediently, the water soothing your raw throat. konig climbs in beside you, pulling you against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. simon settles at your back, his arm slung over your waist, his breath warm against your shoulder.

"you can leave tomorrow if you want, the rest of the money promised to you will be wired to your account," konig murmurs into the quiet, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your arm. the words hang in the air, heavy and unexpected.

you go still against him.

simon’s grip tightens slightly at your waist, but he doesn’t argue. just waits for your response.

the offer is real. you can tell by the way konig’s chest rises and falls, measured and slow, like he’s bracing for something. like he already knows.

your throat feels tight. you think of whatever shitty life awaits you beyond these four wall. you had nothing to go back to. yes, the money would be nice but not as nice as whatever this was. you think of the careful way simon had fed you, the way konig had held you after. you think of the basement—the cold, the dark, the ache of being nothing.

and then you think of this.

the weight of them around you, the heat, the way their touches have started to feel less like a threat and more like...something else. something you don’t have a name for yet.

you press closer to konig, nuzzling into the space between his collarbone and jaw, his mask tickling your nose. his breath hitches, just slightly.

"no," you whisper.

simon exhales against your shoulder, his arm curling tighter. konig’s hand stills on your arm before sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, his thumb brushing the spot behind your ear.

"good choice, princess" simon rumbles, and you hear a rustle behind you followed by a kiss to your shoulder. you lean over to see that he had taken his mask off, it was your first time seeing him without it. your heart catches in your throat, you hadn't expected him to be that attractive.

konig doesn’t say anything. but when you tilt your head up to look at him, his mask is off, his dark eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them. he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours, and you close your eyes and drift off.

the days melt into weeks, then months, then years—each one softer than the last. the basement gathers dust, its door left permanently ajar until one day konig tears it off its hinges and turns the space into a wine cellar. you laugh when simon fills the first rack with cheap beer instead.

their masks stay off more often than not now. you learn the way simon’s nose scrunches when he laughs, the way konig’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks when he’s fighting sleep. they learn the way you hum when you cook, the way your toes curl when they kiss that spot behind your knee.

mornings find you tangled in their arms, afternoons in the library with your head in konig’s lap as simon reads aloud (badly, on purpose, just to hear you giggle). evenings are spent on the porch, watching the sunset paint the sky in hues of gold and violet, their hands never far from yours.

[gothamundernightlight]

K-Pop Demon Hunters Headcanons

- Rumi and Mira were both privately educated; Rumi because of Celine’s fear about Rumi’s patterns being discovered, and Mira because her family is uber wealthy

- Mira and Rumi didn’t get along together when the band was first put together, because of this. Mira had a deep-seated distrust of anyone who she considered to be like her parents, and Rumi’s reputation as music royalty and her isolating tendencies were red flags in that respect

- The two had many creative differences, and frequently fought, but the only thing they could agree on was that they both were insanely protective of Zoey

- Zoey doesn’t need protection, she can handle herself just fine, but she grew up an only child, and both Rumi and Mira are the closest thing she can imagine to sisters so she doesn’t mind

- Zoey isn’t just torn between her culture and her upbringing, she’s torn between her parents too. A child of divorce, her mom lived in South Korea and her dad in California, and their custody agreement was split, so Zoey went to school in the US while with her dad and spent the summers with her mom. This means she didn’t get to hang out with people a whole lot in either country, and while people thought she was interesting, they didn’t share her interests, so she was pretty isolated

- Zoey is a big Sunlight Sisters fan because it was something she could bond with her mom over, so meeting Rumi and Celine for the first time was an experience.

- Mira has an older brother that she doesn’t speak to anymore. She was cut off from her parents after they refused to accept her for who she is, and he picked their side. Mira pretends it doesn’t bother her, but will admit she’s closer to her friends than she ever was with him. He on the other hand has a daughter that LOVES Huntrix and doesn’t know Mira’s her aunt, so she punishes him every day by listening to Mira’s music

- Mira outright rejects luxury items. Her parents’ wealth bothered her growing up, so she frequently uses her fame and money to support small businesses and charities, and would happily wear cheap clothes over designer, and even a sleeping bag over a bespoke gown. The most expensive things she voluntarily wears are the concert costumes, but they’re okay because even those are “luxuries” her parents would never approve of

- Rumi bought them all loungewear, including the fun patterned pajama sets, which all the girls frequently wore on their downtime. The other girls originally thought it was a quirk, not realizing Rumi used it as a way to keep herself covered even in private.

- Bobby was planning to leave the music industry after being a manager for so many bands that tore apart, but Celine brought him in to keep the girls together. He’s terrified of what failure will mean for them, not because of the demon stuff (which he doesn’t know about) but because he cannot take seeing another group of people he cares about become nameless strangers to each other and their fans

- Huntrix accidentally started a wave of self-defense classes becoming popular amongst their fans after letting slip in an interview that they use martial arts and fight training to stay in shape. It was covered up with the brand of being hunters, but honestly, all of them kinda dig that their fans could defend themselves if need be

- Mira was the first one of them to get recognized in public after the band got popular, because of her iconic hair. The interaction was super sweet, but all three started covering up when going out in public after that in case they got caught fighting

- Zoey is probably the most active on social media out of all of them, which she uses as a way to decompress, and has multiple fake accounts so that she can interact with content online without being swarmed by fans

- Rumi loves plants, but isn’t good at keeping them on the best watering schedule, so Zoey found an app where she can track the plants and set reminders for herself to care for them

- Mira and Zoey have a lot of inside jokes with each other as Rumi hangs out with them less and less during their downtime before her patterns are revealed. Rumi treasures the first inside joke all three make with each other after that because it truly is a sign she doesn’t have to keep walls between the three of them anymore

- The fans notice a significant change in Rumi’s style after the events of Namsan Tower, as it becomes less modest and practical. Some like it, some don’t, but all of them appreciate how much more comfortable she looks on stage afterwards and they love that for her

- Sussie (the magpie) and Derpy (the tiger) come to live with the girls after the final showdown with Gwi-Ma. Sussie loves Mira, who happily lets the magpie hoard things in her room, and Derpy can frequently be found napping with Zoey. On one occasion, it became a group nap with all three girls leaning on Derpy and the tiger was in heaven

- Derpy’s OCD does lead to some funny moments though. He recognizes that the girls’ shoes need to be neat, and he lines them up, but doesn’t realize they should be paired together. After multiple instances where the girls each sport mismatched shoes outside, they now have to check every time that the shoes match when lined up

- Sussie’s hat collection grows as each of the girls continue to make him different ones for different events, even making him something to match their stage costumes, but his favorite hat remains the one Jinu made. Rumi pets him knowingly every single time she catches him wearing it, because they both miss him

- The girls very nearly refuse to record a studio version of “Takedown”, because of everything that was happening at the time of writing it, but eventually agree to do an EP with it and “What It Sounds Like” at the request of the fans. It is a win when between the two songs, the fans massively prefer the latter

- To recover from the game show slide snafu, they return to do the Spicy Challenge. Out of the three, Rumi has the best spice tolerance, and blows Baby Saja’s performance out of the water with the host crawling off the stage in tears begging for help. The spice company sponsors a show after that and Rumi has a lifetime supply of hot sauce that they keep in the penthouse. The show is aired, and Rumi becomes a meme, which makes Bobby so proud

- For a long while after Namsan Tower, the girls are frequently asked about the Saja Boys and their abrupt disappearance, especially Rumi, who is often implicated to have had a relationship with Jinu. She denies it every time, but her eyes always get so sad so no one believes her and the reporters learn to stop asking

- On the world tour they did before the events of the movie, the girls did a show in Los Angeles and Zoey got to show her friends all of her favorite places growing up. They even drove past her old high school, and were very surprised to see a message on the school sign commemorating the concert, for no other reason than because the school is proud of their alumni

- Also while in LA, Zoey goes on a rap battle tv show and goes absolute ham on her opponent, which is where the image of her “rapping scarily” comes from. She gets invited to collab with a bunch of rappers after that and is even offered an opportunity to do her own solo album, but she turns that down because she loves singing with Rumi and Mira

- The girls get offered the chance to return to the MET Gala, and Rumi blows everyone out of the water by actually tracing her patterns on with body paint, and wearing one yellow contact lens to really show off her “inner demon”. She makes the top of the best dressed list and it becomes a makeup trend on social media

I’d love to hear what other headcanons y’all have!

[soupserum]

THATS SO REAL THATS SO REAL HELP??? we have an audience of 1 (one) thats so real like. hes got so many flags. hes like the fucken CARICATURE of a wuxia mc so WHY is hyv abandoning him SO SHORT??? WHYYYYY WE NEED MORE YQ CONTENT WAIT I LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE THAT FIC I DNDT KONW THEY HAD AN ESSAY IM GONNA READ THAT RIGHT AWAY HOW EXCITING!!! I LOVE ANALYSES ESPECIALLY WHEN THEYRE ABOUT MY FAVES literally like thats his dad. and jing yuan is well used to the stress of taking care of the luofu so it must be way harder with so many other ships (especially since yanqing was fighting bureaucracy at every turn to get a million and one reforms passed) yanqing stumbles in and jing yuan thinks wow he lasted way longer then i expected & immediately bashes himself for that like THATS YOUR KID GO GET HIM IN BED LITERALLY AAAHH. i think jing yuan would wear his hair down & yanqing would keep it up but he'd play with different styles (courtesy of march going 'LET ME BRAID OYUR HAIR LET ME BRAID YOUR HAIR LET ME BRAID YOUR HAIR x1000' (she does that to dhil and jing yuan too its just an accepted part now. i mean what else are you supposed to do when you have short hair and u have one million long hairstyles you wanna try (attack the men)) real real real. i NEED them to cuddle,. i feel like dan feng would be #1 cuddler he loves that shit (1 hes coldblooded 2 he probably had like zilch human contact for most of his life 3 he loves his friends!!!) jing yuan is a cuddler too (i mean. what else u expect) baiheng is ABSOLUTELY a cuddler yingxing & jingliu are the least cuddly of the bunch. but they will 100% (cue hcq fighting about whos turn it is to hold yanqing) HAHA THATS REAL he sees a problem and thinkgs is anyone gonna fix that?? no?? Ok my turn

sneak peek of a tentative timeline for my erudition yanqing fic!! ughh ive only got like 3 chapters of the mainfic done and i need to post the prequel before i can post the mainfic & for this one im trying to get the whole fic written before starting to post, instead of like swmtbb where i write as i post. UGHH I HATE THIS KID

in case you're wondering why swmtbb updates so slow... its bc of 1. writers block and 2. this fuckign thing but i prommy its worth it i love this fic

[wei-ying-kexing-apologist]

Random QL Superlatives: 2024 Edition

Well I see @lurkingshan started the trend, so I better hop on

Most Heartbreaking Use of Weather: Let Free the Curse of Taekwondo

gif by @my-rose-tinted-glasses

I am going to be honest. Korea really fucking came for my throat with multiple shows that wielded weather as a weapon against my emotional state. But Hwang Da Seul absolutely wins the award for destruction of my very soul via snow. I swear to god every time it snowed in this fucking show I was losing my mind over the scene that played out before me. First it was doorways that crushed me (shout out to To My Star 2), and now it’s three snowflakes on Do Hoe’s cheek. 

Most Emotionally Charged Inanimate Object: Ossan no Pantsu ga Nandatte Ii Janai ka (aka No One Cares for an Old Man’s Underwear)

gif by @avorbl

Not a BL but one of the most important stories involving queerness of the year imo. When Makoto went back to that store to buy that wallet for Kakeru I kid you not I spontaneously erupted into tears. This was not the first nor the last time that this show made me bawl like a hungry newborn, but it for sure was one of the best indicators that Makoto was not only beginning to accept, but internalize and reshape his worldview to be more loving and accepting of difference. 

Most Realistic Fight Between a Lawyer and Henchmen: Doku Koi: Doku Mo Sugireba Koi to Naru (aka Love is Like a Poison)

gif by @conscbgb

Step aside Matthew Murdock! There’s a new lawyer in town and he absolutely cannot fight for shit! Honestly an iconic moment in this show to see Shiba Ryo take an offensive stance and then immediately get his ass beat in to the ground because he’s a fucking lawyer, not a goddamn superhero. Also it gives Haruta a wonderful little opportunity to show off his skills and to save his loser boyfriend who loves him. 

Most Important Hand Flex Since Pride and Prejudice (2005): The Trainee 

gif by @namtanlovesfilm

HELLO! I THINK WE MOVED PAST JANE’S DESK GRAB A LITTLE TOO QUICKLY! Seriously, not only was it a great hand scene in general (which you know I live for) but it was also a quick and easy way to demonstrate 1) Jane has feelings for Ryan and is trying to hold back and 2) Jane understands the inherent power imbalance between him as an AD and Ryan’s boss and Ryan as an intern. Zero points for Judy.  

Best Creepy Smile: Dead Friend Forever

gif by @lilitblaukatz

HI HELLO I’M ALREADY YELLING AGAIN! BARCODE! BARCODE TINNASIT! As disappointed as I was with the way DFF ended, I was blown out of the fucking water by Barcode’s performance as Non. From KinnPorsche to here that boy has grown astronomically as both an actor and singer, and I’m really proud of him. He had to navigate a lot of different emotional centers with some incredibly terrible things happening to his character. He was able to make Non extremely sympathetic and also creepy as hell! Be On Cloud lost out big time with Barcode leaving the company. 

Best Use of a Dildo: Knock Knock Boys

gif by @pharawee

Honestly for all the BLs that include sex, we rarely get the acknowledgement that sex toys exist, much less the actual usage of said sex toys. I loved that Almond visited a sex shop, purchased a dildo, and that we got to watch a scene of him attempting to use it. This show was honestly the biggest surprise of the year for me in terms of enjoyment. I wasn’t even really interested in this show but love Seng and wanted to support his work and then this was absolutely delightful and honestly Almond and Latte stole the show for me. Good job boys!

Best Distinction Between Reality and Fiction: BL Drama no Shuen ni Narimashta: Crank Up Hen! (aka I Became the Main Role of a BL Drama)

gif by @itagakimizuki

Full offense to a particular corner of fan culture, the way that the boundaries between real life and fiction have been known to blend when it comes to emotional bonds between fans and famous people can be very toxic and genuinely dangerous to the health and safety of everyone involved. It is difficult for me to think of a show that made me laugh as hard, as loudly, or as often as I Became the Main Role of a BL Drama did, and yet it included one of the most innocuous but brilliant lines of the year when Akafuji realized that his feelings for Aoyanagi were Real and that he could not have those feelings and continue to think of himself as Aoyanagi’s fan. Iconic. 

Best Use of Subtle Foreshadowing: Love for Love’s Sake 

gif by @my-rose-tinted-glasses

Shout out to the sound of water, shout out to some of the opening visuals, shout out to red rimmed eyes, and video game malfunctions that increased as time went on, and shout out to Tae Myung Ha being absolutely drenched after running through the school. Not only were the performances commendable throughout but the story itself was phenomenally supported by hair and makeup, sound, and special effects. I beg you all never to forget the importance of those that work behind the scenes, because goddamn did so much of this show suddenly get darker with context.  

Best Backing Track to Hear Over My Tears: Tsukuritai Onna to Tabetai Onna (aka She Loves to Cook and She Loves to Eat)

Kasuga sitting alone in the darkness of her own car, calling her father and officially, permanently severing ties with her father because she has found her strength thanks to the people she currently has in her life was such a highlight of this year. And of course they really drive the stake through my heart by lifting that entire scene up by having Kasuga walk out of the lonely dark and into warm companionship with fucking ‘Chosen Family’ by Rina Sawayama and Elton John playing in the background. WHAT A PERFECT SONG CHOICE! I am about to cry just thinking about it. Also, I definitely totally did not pause in the middle of typing up this post just to rewatch that scene…I don’t know what you’re talking about….

Best Use of Catholicism: Marahuyo Project 

God. This show struck an incredible number of layers when it gave us Archie. The way his grief and his fear and his internalized homophobia caused him to say and do some truly vile, harmful shit to the queer kids on the island was so heartbreaking and real. I have not really gotten the image of Archie’s neck where he’s been scratching at the rosary out of my fucking head since I watched it. This show was beautiful, and brilliant, and full of light and life, and pain, and it included an intersex character which is only the second of the 180+ shows I’ve watched out of Thailand, Japan, Korea, Taiwan, and the Phillipines to have done so. 

Best Use of Internal Screaming: Cherry Magic Thailand

gif by @zhouxiangs

(AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH)

Best 'Mark Me Down as Scared and Horny' Face: Unknown

Wei Qian was not prepared for the fact that sending Zhi Yuan to the United States only made Zhi Yuan stronger. I want to acknowledge that this show had a chokehold on me almost all the way through the end for being rather heavy, but that I was especially impressed with Modi's performance as Wei Qian. And it must be said that the look of panic in his eyes when Zhi Yuan feeds him the congee is comedy gold.

Gayest Little Run: Love in the Big City

(could not find any gifs of Go Yeong running in the park so please enjoy this lovely gif by @taeminie )

Again this is not a BL but the way my tumblr community has engaged with this book and this show is one of my favorite parts of the entire year and this is still a really important piece of queer media. I really hope Nam Yoon Su wins all the fucking awards for his performance as Go Yeong. He breathed so much life and texture into that character and it was a joy to watch him take this wonderfully difficult and complicated character on such a beautiful emotional journey. Also he fully committed to the gay little run and that alone is award worthy. 

__ Shout out to all the thoughtful, intentional, and beautiful queer shows that got made this year. Please tag me in other superlatives if they get made, I want to see what people loved or connected to in the show offerings this year. Love you, family <3

@bengiyo asked to be tagged in superlatives.

[cy-cyborg]

Free Manual Wheelchair Reference Models

ID: A banner with grey 3D models of 5 kinds of manual wheelchairs in a line in front of the disability pride flag and text that reads "Manual Wheelchair References" /End ID

For disability pride month, I decided to release a pack of 3D manual wheelchair models.

The pack includes 5 wheelchairs:

2 Active urban-style chairs (one of which includes a smart drive)

1 off-road active chair

1 children's wheelchair

and 1 standard "hospital" wheelchair).

All the wheelchairs are based off either wheelchairs I or friends of mine have used

Downloadable here!

or on the Clip Studio Paint Asset Store (ID 2097442) (there's been an issue with the CSP version, but the models in the download folder can be imported into clip studio paint until I can fix it)

More info about the download contents below:

The first download link includes the original .Blend file with all 5 chairs, as well as individual .obj or .fbx files the chairs (All but 1 have an .obj file, as they're only meshes. The chair with the smart drive is rigged, which is why it has an .Fbx file instead so it will retain that information) as well as a "read me" file that explains in more depth what kind of disability/character/lifestyle each chair is made for (These are just what I had in mind when I designed them, they are usable by other characters who don't fit the suggestions for the most part!) I wanted to include the Read Me contents in the CSP Asset Store listing, but CS said it was too long lol.

Also, as the title says, these files are free to use! While it's not mandatory, I would appreciate credit if you use them (or even just a tag so I can see the cool art you make with them!!)

I actually made these ages ago, the original plan was to use them in a series of posts then release the pack, but I never got around to making the series and so they've just been sitting here. I took a day off from art fight attacks to clean them all up and get them ready to post. If you experience any issues, let me know and I'll try to fix it up.

I had a couple more that were supposed to be in the pack including a sports (basketball/Tennis) wheelchair and some different styles of wheelchair, but I think the files corrupted so once I fix (or remake) them, I'll probably make a second pack.

If you have any issues, please let me know!

[whorelaud]

reader doing the ‘he’s the best big brother ever’ trend on bf!rafe warnings none/rafe being salty in reader’s comments

Rafe’s gaze hovered over your figure, admiring as you shuffled around to adjust the phone positioned on the counter. You set the timer, stealing a glance in Rafe’s direction, who stood and observed like a lost puppy; unaware of what to do with himself. “I’ll start recording on three, please don’t say or do anything weird, okay? My account is done for if another post of mine gets flagged.”

“Alright baby, start it.” He assured, his statement not convincing whatsoever. You simply rolled your eyes, doing as he ordered, hurrying to press the record button. You straightened up, taking Rafe’s side as you fixed up your hair, instantly flashing the camera a smile when the blue line appeared on the screen. 

Rafe crossed his arms, brows knitting into a frown upon hearing your next words. “If you wanna get to him,” you started, suppressing your giggles as you addressed Rafe with your thumb, then back at your chest. “You’ll have to go through me first.” 

“What are you saying?” Rafe scoffed, slightly taken aback when you turned around, your arms filling the majority of the view. You reached for his face, cupping his cheeks in your hold as you forced his head down, until his eyes leveled with yours. 

Rafe instantly melted when you sweeped him in a kiss, arms naturally finding the curve of your waist, in an attempt to deepen the kiss. A groan of complaint bubbled out of his throat when you moved away, not giving him the satisfaction of getting what he wants, and instead turning back to the camera, with his hand loosely hugging your side. 

“He’s the best big brother ever!” You uttered between chuckles,  sensing the way Rafe stiffened from your side. 

“What the fuck?!” His eyes widened with shock, flashing you a look of disbelief, watching as you erupted into a fit of laughter, unable to maintain character at your boyfriend’s reaction. “Best what now? Delete that shit!” 

“Oh my–” you continue to giggle, amused by the hint of annoyance washing over Rafe’s expression. “You’re the best, I can't ask for a better brother figure–” 

“Enough with your bullshit, man!” He interrupted before you could further speak, aiming for the phone. “You and your stupid TikTok challenges.” 

“Wait, Rafe!” You snatched your phone from his hold, knowing the latter;  he was probably going to delete it. “I’m posting it, your reaction is funny.” 

“You’re not posting that!” He argued, groaning when he strived to take your phone, merely for you to dodge his hold. “C’mon baby, what if they actually think I’m your brother? You already have so many thirsty men in your comments.” 

“Relax, baby.” You rolled your eyes, embracing the boy in a hug, too engrossed by the video on your phone to spare him a glance. “It’s a trend, besides, who in their right mind kisses their brother?” 

Yeah, maybe you should’ve listened to your boyfriend. 

–

andy6928h Let daddy take you out on a date

rafecameron Hop off her dick

alibabefaen Check your Dms for A surprise 👅

rafecameron This is not funny.

user6292936 Get rid of that twig hun 🌹 I will treat you so much better

rafecameron She is completely fine and content with me, therefore, she will NOT be needing you, thanks.

rafecameron Actually yk what f*ck you 🖕🏼

rafecameron Stop hitting on MY girl please and thanks. She is MINE.

a/n old trend ik... but this was too cute not to do :'(

[foxmulderautism]

a plot point in until heaven is that felix straight up does not tell his place of work that his literal father died bc he didn’t think it was a big deal and im currently trying to imagine what a scene would look like if i actually wrote up him telling someone That but i just got flashbacks instead of having to tell my uni through email that my mom had terminal cancer and they just replied saying as an external student i wouldn’t have access to all the support services

[seeliemansi]

Mr. Crawling hated Bath Time and Showers

Warnings: 18+, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, hint of SMUT, ghost revenge. It's not that bad.

my first post was flagged. dunno if it was reported but seriously?

🧼

No thoughts but forcing Mr. Crawling to take a shower. He has been crawling around since you met him and you have noticed his dirty and tattered clothes. There wasn't a problem when you two were still in that old abandoned building. But in your apartment? Being unclean is a no go. Just like a dog who hates baths, Mr. Crawling hated the idea to the point that he refused to go out of your closet. He had been repeating the same words as you try to pry the doors open.

"You not love me?" "Why bath?" "Not love me that's why bath?" "I like you but you not like me."

You admit it was kind of adorable. It was the same when he panicked when asked if he wanted his hair to be cut short.

You are getting out of nowhere and so with a promise, you told him that he can ask you of anything if he takes a shower. Just like offering a dog a treat during training. It took a lot of reassurance, but in the end, he allowed himself to bathe. If it was that easy.

And just like a vengeful dog that shakes its fur, to spray the excess water on its owner - Mr Crawling did the same.

He flinches, and he jerks, splashing water all over your already small bathroom. And ultimately drenched you, when he strongly pulled you down with him after he freaked out when the hot water turned cold because he was taking too long. You have no choice but to take a shower as well or you'll get a cold.

You can't help the tick of annoyance when he sighs in content as you help dry his hair. His head is on your lap, and he seems refreshed and peaceful. If he wasn't so cute, you will probably get back at him. But he looks so clean, comfortable, and glowing with happiness.

Maybe next time.

Showers always make you feel drowsy. You blink slowly and feel relaxed as he looks up with a wide grin. You can't help but give him a peck on the lips and kiss on his forehead. Such a good boy.

You chuckle when you hear his infamous giggle. You were about to continue drying his hair when he quickly moved, grabbed your shoulders and forcefully pushed you down the couch.

"Done! Me treat!" He declared.

"What?"

He didn't even give you enough time to think when he suddenly held both of your legs and pulled you closer to him. You remind yourself to apologize to the neighbors if they complain about the noise.

He didn't even give you enough time to raise yourself using your elbow, when he raised both your legs up, put it on his shoulder, and giggled as he was face to face with your clothed core. You can feel his hot breath and you gasped when he sniffed you down there. His giggles reverberate as he teases you with an experimental lick.

"Shower here too. Wet."

Is all you remember him say as you felt a full blown shiver of want from your head to your toes. It will be a long night for sure.

He may be cute but Mr. Crawling can be extremely vengeful because you had a hard time walking the next day. He made sure that it wasn't only him who would crawl around. And weirdly enough, after that, he was the one who reminded you that he needed a shower.

[ateezlibrary]

pink slip (m) • smg

pairing: street racer!mingi x street racer!reader

tags/genre: street racing au (fast & furious-esque), smut with plot, lots of dirty talk, rivals to lovers, sexual tension, one bed trope but it's the passenger seat, mingi won't admit he's jealous, dom!mingi x dom!reader (this'll be fun)

word count: 6.8k words

synopsis: mingi says he's the best driver in the city; you'd strongly disagree. after weeks of post-race banter and spending a little too much time with another guy at the meet, mingi won't admit he's jealous—and you won't admit you like it ...

notes: 18+ content (mdni!). my best friend won't leave me alone until she gets her racer bf fantasy fulfilled, so here we are. enjoy!

it was near impossible to hear the sound of your thoughts.

the crowd surrounded the starting line like vultures, their cheering coupled with the bass thumping from speakers hooked up in neighboring car trunks. you smile to yourself in the driver’s seat of your nissan 370z, admiring the newly wrapped black cherry exterior. she idled with her usual hum, no bells or whistles that you needed to rev your engine for. after all, it’s not like you needed to compensate for something the way some men did.

mingi’s ’98 gt-r skyline, on the other hand, resounds off of the garage pillars with a deep-throated growl. everything about his car screamed loud—the throttle, the strikingly red paint, the spoiler. it was a bit much for your taste, but you knew he needed a car that matched him perfectly. he revs his engine once, taunting you to play into his game. with a roll of your eyes, you wrap perfectly manicured hands around the wheel, the hum feeding into the adrenaline pulsing under your skin.

the race is about to start just as it always does—everyone clamoring in the crowd over who they’ll place bets on, flag girls unfastening their bras for the starting line. your phone vibrates against the center console and you glance down, scoffing to yourself at the routine message you expected before every race against mingi.

[from: skyline] try to keep up this time.

now bitter at the mention of your narrow loss during your last race, you glance over at mingi and his broad, cocky grin. focusing on the exit of the parking garage that leads into the abandoned industrial complex, the noise grows quiet as you zero in on the flag girl that steps into the center. she’s perky, a dangerously bleached blonde with the tiniest miniskirt and crop top that leaves little room for imagination.

i’ll have to ask her where she got that skirt, is all you think to yourself as she lifts her hand in the air, lilac bra above her head at the ready. 

“ready!” she calls, the crowd cheering in response as if they were the ones about to take off.

“set!”

your grip tightens on the gear shift, foot tapping at the pedal as you keep the clutch disengaged. mingi’s engine roars beside you, eyes narrowed slits as he locks in.

“go!” she declares, lilac bra now left in the dust as you both launch out of the garage. the sound of the crowd grows distant behind you, now replaced with the scream of your engine and tires hitting asphalt. the course isn’t unfamiliar to you, a regular favorite when you and mingi would race.

like clockwork, you shift into second gear in one clean motion. the wind howls around you as the speed’s sheer force presses you into the seat’s leather. mingi hangs tight on your left, his car perfectly parallel to yours as you drive deeper into the complex of abandoned buildings. you can hear his gloating in your head, the way he tried so hard every meet to get under your skin and undermine your driving skills. it only fuels your rage—and your engine—as you pull past him, flames roaring from your exhausts as you trigger the nitro.

mingi does the same, and the shit-eating grin that graces your face reminds you that he’s probably cursing himself for not doing it sooner. the race continues around the complex in a roaring dance, waving and weaning through a mess of scaffolding and crumbling warehouses when you’re faced with one last turn to return to the garage.

he’s just milliseconds short of braking after you, throwing him a few feet wide as you barrel into the garage. your tires screech and echo throughout the floors, silencing as you slow to a stop and mingi pulls in just about half a car’s length after you. pulling your hair out of your face, your chest heaves as you fight to steady your breath. you don’t even take the time to look over at mingi, your eyes fixated at jongho as you await his confirmation.

biting down on his apple in hand, he chews through a final, “it’s hers.”

a contented sigh forces its way out of you, adrenaline pulsing against your veins as you pop through your sunroof with a resounding, “fuck yeah!”

the crowd hollers in response, your crew cheering from their section of the meet. you blow a kiss in their direction, graciously accepting the bottle of hennessy that yeosang runs over with to pour down your throat. the liquor warms your body, calming the nerves that had knotted your core before the race started. finally, you lock eyes with mingi.

he’s leaned against his skyline, clad in his crimson racing jacket that’s twin to his wrap. otherwise, his outfit is all black—much like your usual outfits of choice. to a stranger, you’d go together like it was nobody’s business. little would they know that there wasn’t a chance in hell you’d go for someone like mingi outside of a little friendly competition.

“what was that you said about getting used to losing to you after last weekend?” you call, cupping your ear in a mock attempt to hear him better. mingi scoffs, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek as he shakes his head.

“getting lucky doesn’t count,” he answers, his own crew passing drinks around their section behind him as they tune into the banter.

“oh, i don’t think it’s ‘getting lucky’ when we’ve raced this complex … how many times now?” you pull yourself from the sunroof and step out so that you can meet mingi face-to-face.

he’s visibly annoyed, something that brings you a sense of accomplishment at the way you’re also able to get under his skin. yunho, his right-hand man, widens his eyes in anticipation for mingi’s response as he sips from his red solo cup.

“next time you want my attention, you don’t need to do all that,” he chides, making your blood boil. “just ask.”

“is this a really bad attempt at flirting or is this just how you cope with loss?” you ask, earning a chorus of ‘oohs’ from the forming crowd.

“could be both. multitasking’s one of my talents, you know.”

“apparently, driving isn’t.”

“damn!” wooyoung, another one of your crew members, calls out from the midst of the crowd and you fight against the smile that threatens to tug at your lips.

“careful, angel. keep talking to me like that and i might fall for you.”

“good luck. seems like you’ll need plenty of it before our next race.” with a coy wink, you wave goodbye to his crew and sift through the crowd so you can take your car back to your own.

you practically feel mingi’s eyes firing daggers into your back as you take off.

* * *

the next weekend follows the same pattern—the sun dips below the horizon, the garage lights come on, and the crowd begins to form. neon lights hover from the rafters, casting shades of blue and green over the modded cars that lined the center lanes in rows. there were no significant races expected for the night other than a handful of petty bets, meaning drivers were planning to spend the time dancing and drinking the night away.

not like they wouldn’t have done that, regardless.

the engine of your 370z hums as you pull into your usual spot, closest to the speakers and furthest from the entrance to the garage. most of your crew is already there, hoods propped up and liquor flowing as they pass tools with one hand and solo cups with the other. the air is warm when you step out, quietly admiring the outfit you’d chosen for the night—worn denim miniskirt (thank you, flag girl for the store recommendation), black crop top and your favorite leather jacket that matched your knee-high boots perfectly.

“supra’s looking nice, yeosang,” you call out, earning a wave from him with a wrench in hand as he hovers over the front of his car. “you’re gonna need to show me what you’ve done with the diff mounts.”

“for sure!”

“there’s our drift princess,” wooyoung cheers, handing you the bottle of hennessy. “or should i say, drift angel?” you toss him a dirty glance before throwing your head back and having a shot.

“call me that again and i’m walking off with your ecu. let’s see you try to race on foot.”

“pardon me!” he croaks, pretending to be hurt as he takes a sip of his own drink. “in all seriousness, i haven’t seen mingi tonight. his crew’s here, though.”

“probably nursing his hurt ego after losing last week,” you guess, the smile on your face triumphing over any real concern you might have had.

as if on cue, the roar of his skyline cuts through the music, wheels slowing to a stop as he pulls into his spot with his own crew across the lanes from you. he lifts himself out with a long stretch, one that makes him look a bit like a cat. his hair falls in his face in loose black waves and he’s wearing a black muscle shirt that keeps his arms on full display. you look for a second too long, something you notice as you tear your gaze away from him and back to yeosang’s description of the ignition coils he’d been installing.

the night carries on and you spend some time saying hello to other crews and to get updates on their latest mods. they’re all happy to see you, congratulating you on your win from the weekend prior. you feign modesty, hiding your gaze with a laugh. mingi keeps his eyes on you the entire night, even as he spends time doing the same.

now that’s something you didn’t notice.

suddenly, another engine’s roar cuts through the playlist and the music lowers as an unrecognizable car pulls in. the driver pulls to a stop just shy of your crew and your pores raise as you turn, now on high alert. everyone’s attention is captured by the newcomer, the chrome silver mazda rx7 a beautiful addition to the growing collection at the meet. you can feel eyes on you as you approach the stranger, about to confront them when wooyoung bolts out excitedly.

“seonghwa!” he cries out, fastening the latch on the hood of his own car before running over. the door opens, and a gasp slips past your lips unexpectedly. the driver—or seonghwa, you assumed was his name—was undeniably beautiful. his eyes meet yours behind a wispy curtain of black bangs, his gaze still piercing as he offers his hand to you.

“this is seonghwa,” wooyoung repeats. “he just moved to the city. he’s been into racing as long as i’ve known him.”

“a newcomer,” you reply, eyes never leaving seonghwa’s as you offer him your name. he repeats it, the sound of his voice like melting honey as he presses a kiss to the back of your hand.

“pleasure’s all mine,” he drawls, leaning against the side of your car. “wooyoung’s talked about you nonstop. told me you’re a real beast on the streets.”

“i get around,” you shrug, though the smile on your face almost hurts. “wanna see what i’m working with?”

“love to,” he answers, his smile twin to yours as he follows you to your 370z. the pair of you observe what’s under the hood, commenting on the nice work yeosang had done to help you tighten your turbo clamps. seonghwa hums in approval and props his hand on the edge of the fender, just shy of yours. not quite touching, but close enough for you to notice.

“yeah, she’s got a real nice turbo set up,” a voice interjects, and you grit your teeth as you whip your head towards mingi. he stands on the other side of the hood, arms crossed with a lazy smirk etched across his face. “shame it’s doing more for her ego than her torque curve.”

“funny,” you quip, turning fully to face him with a scowl. “didn’t sound like there was much of an issue with it when i smoked you last weekend.”

seonghwa laughs and your chest swells with pride. you can see the way that dogging on mingi in front of a newcomer hit a nerve. he sucks his teeth, his gaze darkening in the way that he glares back at you.

“like i said, lucky,” he bites back dryly. “let me know if you can do it again with this build when i’m done with my mods.”

“sounds like i’ll be okay,” you retort, stepping a little closer to seonghwa just to pry at mingi’s fragile ego even further. his jaw tenses, and you swallow.

“you know,” seonghwa interjects, glancing back at your engine bay with a smile, “she’s got a pretty clean set up.”

“figure anything’ll look clean compared to a factory rx7,” mingi replies dryly, and seonghwa raises an eyebrow.

“factory?”

“mingi,” you scold, setting aside your petty banter for one moment. seonghwa was a newcomer to the meet, which meant he was deserving of a fair shot at earning everyone’s respect without being subjected to ridicule by mingi. “don’t be an ass.”

“you heard me,” mingi answers, completely ignoring you in the process.

“well, which one’s yours?” seonghwa asks, folding an arm over his chest and tapping a finger against his chin. “no, wait—let me guess.” he pretends to scan around the garage, his gaze falling on mingi’s crimson skyline across the lane. “the skyline?” mingi nods. “i like the red. easy to spot in my rearview.” you can’t help but laugh at seonghwa’s insult and mingi huffs, the tension between the two men beginning to earn a circling crowd. 

“let’s test it, then,” seonghwa answers coolly, lifting himself from your fender and strolling to his own car just beside yours. he calls over his shoulder at mingi, “race me?”

for the next ten minutes, the tension crackles in the air as the two men line their cars up at the garage exit. seonghwa looks calm, collected in comparison to the rage that practically radiates off of mingi. you shake your head from your spot beside yeosang, taking another sip of your drink. you’d never seen someone beat mingi, save for yourself. you had to hand it to seonghwa—he had some nerve going up against one of the best drivers at the meet as a newbie.

“ready, set, go!” in a split second, a blue bra goes flying as the two men take off.

you knew mingi’s car like the back of your hand—he’d shown you himself the kinds of upgrades he’d made to his engine and it was a force to be reckoned with. on the other hand, you’d never seen seonghwa’s build and couldn’t imagine what was under the hood. they follow the traditional route for races throughout the complex, complete with the twists and turns that few cars had cut through in a time shorter than yours.

the garage is spared of any engine sounds for some time, music thumping when a flash of chrome reenters. you gasp at mingi pulling his skyline a split second behind seonghwa, his face like stone as the crowd surrounds them. if he were upset, he didn’t show it the moment he stepped out of his car and gave seonghwa a pat on the back.

“decent run,” is all he says, reclaiming his drink from yunho with a smile as he heads back to the corner of the garage with his crew. everyone seems dumbfounded for a moment by his reaction, a completely different response from when he’d lost races to you in the past. nonetheless, they all continue the party in full swing. seonghwa pulls his car back into the spot beside you, receiving a shot of tequila down the throat from wooyoung as his prize.

“impressive,” you call over to seonghwa, sat on the hood of your car with a bottle in hand. he grins, leaning over your hood so that he could get closer to you. “might need to take you up for a challenge sometime soon if you’re planning to stick around.”

“i’d like that,” is all he says, his eyes shifting slightly from your eyes to your lips. you feel your cheeks flush in response, glancing out the side of your vision at the way mingi had his eyes locked on you. in an effort to egg him on further, you giggle at seonghwa, leaning closer so that you were just a breath away.

“you’ll have to show me what’s under the hood,” you nearly whisper, looking up at him through your lashes.

mingi continues to glare from his corner, fighting against the rage that nips at his core. his drink is untouched, still in hand as his gazes remains fixated on you. the way you were in that little outfit tonight, his plans to tease you about your last race upended by an obnoxiously skilled newcomer. yunho senses the displeasure and leans against his shoulder.

“you good, bro?”

“huh? yeah,” is all mingi says, his eyes never leaving you. “all good.”

* * *

the next night, you opted to spend some time at yeosang’s garage to work on your suspension since he was out of town visiting his grandmother. his garage was peaceful, near an open stretch of land just outside of the city that you and the rest of the crew would do practice runs on. you admired the stars through the open bay doors as you worked under the headlights, a welcome break from the glaring leds.

the sound of an engine roaring outside throws you off, causing you to drop the wrench you were using to tighten another coil. cursing mentally, you put aside your tools and peer out of the opening to see who’d pulled up.

“yeosang!” a voice calls out, and you freeze.

what is he doing here?

“oh, it’s you,” mingi realizes, standing awkwardly in the doorframe with work gloves in hand.

“well, i’m not gonna bite,” you chide, pulling off your own gloves and moving over to him. “yeosang’s visiting his grandmother tonight. what’s up?”

“need him to take a look at my valve springs. he’s usually more light-handed than i am with them.”

“sure you don’t want my help?” you offer, already heading to his car before he can protest. “it’s not like i’m one of the best racers in our group or anything.”

“yeah, yeah,” is all he says, popping his hood for you to inspect. taking a closer look at his cylinder head, you almost immediately identify the issue with his valve springs.

“they’re fatigued,” you point out, noticing the wear-and-tear in his springs. “i’m guessing you might have put too much pressure on ‘em during the race yesterday. might want to replace them with tighter ones if you’re planning on getting angry and speed racing someone every time they insult old skyline over here.”

“what are you working on?” mingi asks, shifting his attention to your car instead. you scoff in disbelief at the way he shrugged off the way his ego crumbled the night before.

“trying to install larger injectors. need to sync it better to the new system.” you glance down at mingi’s engine, biting at your lip for a moment. “can i actually take a look at yours?”

slowly, mingi nods, as if he’s glad to take the attention off of his sore losses. he points out how he and yeosang worked on optimizing his fuel trims, the way that it was able to run his car more smoothly in turbo. that was an issue you’d run into before—it was difficult to keep your car consistently within a certain speed range when your fuel was less sustainable than in a car like mingi’s. he glances over at you, watching as you take in all of his information.

“matter of fact …” he trails off, glancing out at the dark expanse of open roads under the starry skies, “why don’t you test it out yourself? easier to feel it than me explaining it.”

“really?” you ask, a jolt of excitement at the idea of getting to handle a car as hefty as mingi’s. he almost smiles—really smiles—at the way you perk up at the offer.

“c’mon.”

settled in the driver’s seat, you suddenly feel a bit more nervous at the idea. mingi senses this, pulling your hand in his and over the gear shift. his hand is warm over yours, eyes focused on his odometer as you rev the engine. his voice is low, steady as he guides you into how to shift the gear so that you’d feel what he’d been talking about. your mind is muddled at his instructions, surprisingly distracted by the feeling of his skin on yours as you fixate on the readings in front of you.

“got it?”

“yeah,” you lie, shifting your focus to the drive ahead of you. like clockwork, you fall into the steady rhythm of shifting gears and listening to the differences in downshifting compared to your car. following the roads to the nearby lookout, you opt to test out how the shifts work on a curvier, steeper route.

mingi observes you in silence, the way that you confidently handle his car like it was nobody’s business. the wind whips your hair away from your face as you bite down on your bottom lip in focus. there’s something magnetic about it, the way you almost tame the beast that his car is. he was no stranger to loving the way handling his car felt, but seeing you do the same with such ease did something to him. his chest tightens for a moment as you round the corner, sparing a glance in his direction with a satisfied grin.

you bring his car to a stop at the edge of the lookout, city lights blurring into a myriad of twinkling stars down below in the valley. it was usually empty around this time of night and was a place you loved to come up to on your own. you lean back against the driver’s seat with a deep sigh before stepping out into the cool night air.

“she rides like a dream,” you comment, earning a raised eyebrow from mingi as he follows you to the front of the car.

“was that a compliment?” he asks, finding a seat on the hood.

“i’m complimenting the car, not the driver.” boldly, you take a seat beside him and continue to look out at the city.

“still can’t admit you like me,” mingi drawls, leaning back and placing his hands behind his head. he glances over at you, that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes that you weren’t about to back down from. “it’s okay, angel.”

“i like watching you try hard to impress me,” you hum, trying to ignore the way that his hand over yours felt just moments prior. heat radiates off of the hood, a welcome warm embrace from the cold night. mingi rolls his eyes, turning his head to you.

“didn’t realize i was trying.”

your thigh grazes against his as you sit up, ignoring the way it sent a shiver down your spine. of all the weekends you’d spent at car meets together, bickering and going at each other’s throats, you’d never stopped to weigh the realities of what your connection to mingi was. you both were hotheaded, both cocky and full of yourselves.

“mmm, you were. trying so hard to race me all the time. the staring.” mingi’s eyes widen ever so slightly and you chuckle.

“i don’t stare.”

“you definitely do.” you lean closer, dying to push his buttons yet again. “if i didn’t know better, i’d say you were jealous of seonghwa yesterday.”

“of what?” mingi scoffs, his gaze shifting as you watch the thoughts race through his brain. “his rx7? he can keep it.”

“so, it didn’t bother you the way he was with me for the entire night?” you ask, finding newfound ammo in the way that you were able to make mingi jealous. whether it was because of some sort of feelings for you or sheer pride yet again, you didn’t know. you didn’t care.

“not when you’re on the hood of my car tonight, angel.”

“sure,” you scold, rolling your eyes and landing on the compression shirt that hugged mingi’s torso near perfectly. you look back up at him and notice the way his eyes had grown darker.

“what’s that look for?” you ask, smug. “you starting to sweat, mingi?”

“doesn’t faze me.”

“i suppose,” you murmur, eyes dragging over his face and lingering just a second too long on his lips. “but it gets under your skin.”

his jaw tightens. “very funny. keep testing me.”

“is that a threat?” you ask, unflinching as you hold his gaze. mingi exhales slowly, frustration evident on his face.

“you act like you’re so untouchable.”

“well, no one has,” you say, finally looking back out at the city as you brush your hand against his side in a movement that could either be a warning or an invitation.

“you just want someone to chase you.”

you arch an eyebrow, heat radiating from more than just the car at this point. your stomach tightens at the thought of mingi growing more frustrated, his muscles tensing beside you. it was a dangerous line to cross, one that you hadn’t even given much thought to beyond shattering his ego. “isn’t that what you’re doing?”

he sits up, his lips brushing against your ear. this is the closest he’s ever been to you, skin on skin aside from working on cars together (and the one time he’d held your jaw slack while wooyoung poured more tequila down your throat than you could recall). your heart pounds against your chest, almost like it’s threatening to escape. his body is warm beside yours as he leans in to you with a humorless laugh.

“chasing you?” he scoffs.

your smile doesn’t falter, fire still thrumming against your veins. “maybe you’re just worse than you think at hiding how much you want me.”

his laugh is low and sharp now, more breath than sound. you feel it more than you hear it as he lowers his gaze at you. “you just love running your mouth, huh?”

“you gonna do something about it?”

there’s a pause, your question hanging in the air as it pierces the tension you both have been dancing around for weeks.

hunger flickers across his face and his hand snakes around your waist, the other coming up to wrap firm fingers around your throat. it almost as if he wants to convince you he’s in control. he pulls you back against him, your spine arching slightly as his chest presses flush against you with ragged, uneven breaths.

“you think you can handle it?”

“i’m not scared of you.” you laugh, but you can feel how hard he’s breathing against his restraint. “just trying to see if you’re all talk or not.”

“get in the car, then.” his grip tightens and for a split second you feel him hard against your hip. the sensation makes you swallow as you feel his lips brush against your ear again.

“say please.”

mingi’s hand finally drops from your throat, only to grab your wrist as he hauls you off of the car after him. before you can catch your breath, he opens the passenger door and pulls you onto him as he settles into the seat in one swift motion. your knees dig into the cracked leather on either side of him, now with your hands on his neck. his palms instinctively settle on your thighs, forcibly pulling your weight against his. the friction lures a breathy moan out of you and a dark chuckle out of mingi. he shifts slightly, grinding his hips up into you hard enough to make you gasp. he smirks at the feeling of your nails pressing into the back of his neck.

“had plenty to say on the hood,” he snarls, lips barely grazing yours as he speaks. “i thought you—”

he’s cut off as you rock your hips against him, hands snaking to grab and pull his hair so that he’s forced to tilt his head back. the sound that he lets out is pathetic, something that sounds more like a whine than a groan. you scoff and press further into him, his cock hard against his jeans. his chest heaves as his hand leaves your thigh, reaching for the back of your head so that he could pull you close and capture your lips in a heated, messy kiss.

his lips are soft against yours but he is anything but. his tongue slips into your mouth, hands tangled in your hair as he presses against you. the friction becomes almost unbearable as he pulls away, catching your bottom lip in his teeth.

mingi laughs under his breath as you pull away from him, eyelids heavy from lust as you fight to meet his gaze. “out of breath already?”

“you’re the one making all those needy little sounds,” you coo, gasping at the feeling of his fingertips creeping up your thigh in slow, deliberate strokes. he gets dangerously close to your core, prying at the hem of your shorts so he could feel you through your panties. his fingers draw painfully slow circles around your clit, forcing you to jerk your hips against him.

“right,” he scoffs, relishing in the way you grind against the smallest of touches. “me.” mingi uses his other hand to pull you closer, his lips meeting your ears again in a desperate groan. “let me hear how good it feels, baby girl.”

finally, you comply after restraining yourself beyond the friction you allowed yourself. you let out a whine as his fingers brush against the hem of your panties, dancing between skin and fabric as mingi raises an eyebrow. he knows he’s getting a reaction out of you. even worse, he’s enjoying the fact that he’s the one causing it. you bite down on your lip, fighting off another moan as you glance down at him.

“finger me,” you coax in what’s more like an order, savoring how his pupils blow wide as you play into how filthy he’s acting. his lips part slightly, his breathing still ragged as he grabs your underwear in a fist and tears the fabric apart. you’re almost ashamed at how much it turned you on—almost. he retreats and extends his hand upwards, watching as you latch onto his fingers and glide your tongue along them obediently. groaning at the sound they make as they leave your mouth, he slips them into your folds without hesitation. 

your body trembles at the feeling of mingi’s fingers sliding in and out of you, pumping and curling at the right spot every single time. his thumb presses against your clit and your eyes nearly roll back, head hanging at the sensation as he lets out a breathy laugh.

“fuck, you look so good riding my fingers like that,” he groans, moving against the rhythm of your hips that began to buck against his hand. your mind is clouded from the pleasure, the car window growing foggier from where your hand was pressed to keep you steady. “such a good girl.”

mingi continues his pace, hitting the right spot over and over again so that he can earn another moan from you. you can barely form coherent thoughts, your body moving on instinct. he shifts slightly, free hand cradling the back of your neck as he says, “think you can take more?”

you scoff at his bravado, slightly—but not visibly—disappointed at the removal of his fingers. you grab his wrist, bringing his fingers back to your mouth and tasting every last drop of yourself. his eyes are hooded with desire, tongue darting at the corner of his bottom lip as he watches you.

as you finish, mingi lifts you off of him and steps back out of the car. you glance over at him, not skipping a beat as he gets onto his knees, denim on asphalt as he pulls your shorts off. he leans in to draw circles around your clit with his tongue, humming contently as he laps up how wet you’re getting under his touch. you pull your thighs together, his head flush against skin as he slips his tongue in deeper.

“fuck, mingi,” you call out breathlessly, grabbing at his hair with desperate hands as he lets out a low chuckle against you. the vibration causes you to arch your back in response, in need of more of his touch than his fingers or tongue. he gets the hint, pulling away and brushing his tongue across his lip with a slick grin.

“you want me to fuck you?” he asks, lifting himself off of the ground so that he hovered over you once more. you meet his gaze, eyebrows furrowed stubbornly.

“i’m not going to say it.”

he reaches for you again, pressing rough circles against your clit as you writhe under his touch.

“say it.”

“i—i won’t—fuck!” he’s got three fingers slipping in and out of you at this point, eyes wild as he looks down at you expectantly. trembling against the seat, you gasp down air in shaky breaths as you finally cave in. “okay!”

mingi pulls out again, hands now reaching to unfasten his jeans as he slips his belt out of the loops. he looks down at you for a moment, his own chest heaving as he steadies his breathing. before you can get another word in, he’s had you turned over onto your stomach and your hands outstretched towards the driver’s seat. his weight presses firmly against your back, his arms surpassing yours as he fastens his belt around your wrists and the gear shift. he pulls on it as tightly as comfortably possible, your hands unable to shift from their position.

“seriously?” you ask, face down and ass up on display for him as he slides off of you. he frees himself from his boxers and you almost pity the fact that you’re faced away from him and unable to see what he looks like. you just know he’s big.

brushing the tip of his cock against your entrance, you can hear the strain in mingi’s voice as he calls out to you.

“hold on, baby girl.”

before you can reply, he’s shoved himself into you in one swift motion. you were right, he’s big—even so far as to say too big. he doesn’t ease himself in, going at a rough, steady pace without question. your nails dig into the leather of the gear shift, filthy moans and gasps slipping past your lips at the way he’s pounding into you. you can barely hear anything over the sound of your own pleasure until mingi lets out a string of deep-throated groans, telling you how good you feel on his cock and how badly he wants to keep fucking you.

he grips the roof of the car with a frustrated groan, his other hand on your hip as he steadies you to drive deeper into you. the car rocks with every thrust, creaking under the weight of mingi’s force as he can barely keep himself upright. your mind flickers briefly to your previous banter with him, the tension that grew and grew until it combusted with you getting fucked stupid in the passenger seat of his car. you don’t even consider if someone is watching, and frankly, you don’t care at this point.

“god, i’m gonna cum,” you cry out, legs shaking as you feel his hand press against your stomach. you feel every inch of him thrusting in and out of you, the sound of his moans mingling with yours and clouding every rational thought in your mind.

“that’s it, baby,” he groans, his own pace starting to stagger. “cum all over me.”

mere second later, you feel the weight of the impending climax fall apart as you cry out, twitching and trembling from the way mingi thrusts even harder to urge you to ride out your high. your legs shake under his weight, weak from hypersensitivity as mingi continues to fuck you.

“i’m not done,” he says, and you can practically hear the smirk on his face as he says it. his pace returns, harder and deeper than before. you’re overly shaken at this point, moaning every time his hips meet yours and your clit feels friction. he wraps his arm tightly around your waist, unleashing a final stretch of deep thrusts until his own orgasm finally approaches and a low, guttural moan slips past his lips. he’s dripping by the time he pulls out of you, settling himself and hurrying to his side of the car to unbind your wrists.

“thank you,” is all you mutter, reaching for your discarded shorts on the asphalt and ignoring the feeling of them against bare skin as you remember that mingi tore apart your panties.

the two of you sit in silence for a moment after getting dressed and settling, looking out at the city lights and the peaceful night that was a stark contrast from the kind of night you just had. mingi glances over, same as ever with his cocky grin and his hands lifted behind his head.

“hope you can come up with a few more compliments now than just my car’s mods,” he teases and you roll your eyes as you’ve finally come down from your high.

“we’ll see.”

[kashverse]

bedtime stories are essential for a child’s growth—they bring families together, foster creativity, and, occasionally, make your children dream a little too wildly. but when your husband is involved, bedtime stories become something else entirely.

sukuna, with his eyes gleaming under the dim nursery light, cleared his throat. babykuna, bundled up in a nest of plush blankets, stared up expectantly, little hands clutching a well-loved, slightly drooled-on copy of the little mermaid. the two feline overlords of the household, mr. pickles the maine coon and baby the orange tabby, sat at the foot of the bed like judgmental literature critics. “alright, brat, let’s get this over with,” sukuna grumbled, flipping the book open with unnecessary force.

“once upon a time, there was a little mermaid who was a total dumbass.”

babykuna giggled. sukuna smirked, feeling accomplished.

“she fell in love with some random guy she saved from drowning, which—let’s be honest—probably should’ve been a red flag for him. but, whatever, she went to a shady sea witch, literally signed away her voice, and—”

mr. pickles gave a loud, drawn-out meeooow. baby, not one to be outdone, stood up and began kneading at sukuna’s arm aggressively, a clear sign of feline displeasure. babykuna’s giggles faltered, little brows furrowing.

the great and mighty sukuna was being heckled. by a pair of cats. “what?” he scowled. “this is realism. the brat needs to know that—”

baby lunged. tiny paws, soft but full of silent rage, landed squarely on sukuna’s chest. mr. pickles followed, his sheer weight nearly knocking sukuna off balance. “oh, you read it then, you furry little dictators!” sukuna barked, trying to reclaim his spot, but it was too late—the feline coup had begun. babykuna, sensing an opportunity, reached out with tiny hands.

“mamaaaaaa!”

within seconds, you were summoned, the true ruler of bedtime stories. with a smug smile, you took the book, settled in beside babykuna, and began reading in a voice so soft and mesmerizing that even the cats curled up, content. sukuna, defeated, crossed his arms and sulked. “i was getting to the part where she turns into sea foam,” he muttered.

“and that,” you said, flipping a page gracefully, “is why you have been overthrown.”

meanwhile, in the nanami household, peace reigned. yuuji was already buried under his blanket, head resting on your shoulder as nanami turned a page in james and the giant peach. his voice was smooth, perfectly paced, as if he were personally trained by roald dahl himself.

“…and then, the peach broke free, rolling down the hill, gathering speed—”

you sniffled. nanami paused. “are you crying?” he asked, a single brow raised.

“it’s just… the way you narrate…” you wiped your eyes dramatically. “it’s so good.” yuuji, completely unbothered, snored into your arm.

nanami sighed, closing the book for the night. “if i recall correctly, you made me read matilda three times in a row last week just because you liked my narration.”

“and i regret nothing,” you declared. yuuji snored louder. nanami shook his head and leaned over to press a kiss to your temple, then to yuuji’s forehead. “alright, lights out.”

meanwhile, at the fushiguro household, bedtime negotiations were in full swing. “megumi, mama’s got an early mission tomorrow,” you reasoned, tucking him in. “so just one story tonight, okay?” megumi crossed his arms, unimpressed. 

“papa’s not home yet.”

“he’s working.”

“so that means i get two stories when he’s back.”

you sighed. your son was already a little strategist. giving in, you started with your usual—a story about a brave princess who tamed a dragon with kindness, something soft and magical. by the time you finished, megumi’s eyes were drooping. perfect. he was almost asleep.

then, the door creaked open, and in walked toji. megumi perked up immediately. “papa, story!” toji groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “didn’t mama already—”

“two stories. it’s a rule,” megumi declared. toji gave you a look, and you simply shrugged. you weren’t the one who raised a bedtime tyrant. so, toji sat down at the edge of the bed, cracking his neck before launching into a very different kind of tale.

“aight, kid, so there was this guy—real nasty piece of work, always hid out in this old warehouse, right? well, guess what? i—uh, i mean, our hero, batman—had to take him out before sunrise.” your eyes narrowed.

“toji.”

“what?” he grinned. “i’m censoring it.”

megumi, already half-asleep, murmured, “what happened next?” toji smirked. “our hero dodged a knife, flipped over the bad guy, and bam—knocked him out cold. then he disappeared into the night.” megumi was completely out, breathing soft and even.

toji shot you a wink. “works like a charm every time.” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “you’re not supposed to use your assignments as bedtime stories.”

“why not?” toji smirked. “keeps him entertained.”

“you’re gonna turn him into a vigilante.”

he kissed your cheek, grinning. “well, at least he’ll be well-rested for it.”

in the gojo household, bedtime stories are a prime-time production. "alright, babytoru," gojo grinned, settling into bed beside his six-year-old daughter, who was vibrating with excitement. "where were we?"

“season six, episode four!” she announced. “princess toru and the forbidden candy kingdom!”

“aaahh, yes,” gojo smirked, flipping through an invisible script. “last time on bedtime stories, princess toru was betrayed by her most trusted royal advisor—sir mochi the talking panda.” babytoru gasped.

“mochi betrayed me?!”

“tragically,” gojo nodded. “but! fear not, for your knight in shining armor—sir papa—has infiltrated the candy kingdom’s fortress.”

"did he bring weapons?"

"no! he brought the power of love and charisma, obviously."

babytoru clapped. gojo, fully immersed, dramatically reenacted the entire rescue operation, throwing in last-minute plot twists, a villain redemption arc, and a musical number (he made up the lyrics on the spot). this bedtime story series started when babytoru was four, and now, at nearly six, they were six seasons in, complete with christmas specials, crossover episodes, and merchandising potential. if gojo played his cards right, he could sell the rights to a producer friend, get an animated series going, and dedicate it all to his little girl.

"alright, that’s a wrap for tonight!" gojo declared. 

babytoru yawned, already half-asleep, mumbling, “next time, we need a new villain...” 

gojo smirked, tucking her in. "leave that to me, princess."

little did she know, next episode was the mid-season finale.

geto believed bedtime stories should be meaningful. something with moral lessons. his twin girls? they did not share this belief.

"okay, papa, one more story!"

geto sighed. "fine. but this one comes with a lesson."

the twins, already suspicious, huddled under the covers. “once upon a time," geto began, voice deep and soothing, "there were two little girls—very much like you two—who forgot to brush their teeth before bed."

the twins gasped.

"they thought, 'what’s the worst that could happen?' but then... the tooth fairy came."

the room fell silent.

"but papa," one twin hesitated, "isn't the tooth fairy... nice?"

"ha! that's what they thought! but this tooth fairy? she didn't collect teeth under pillows. she took them straight from their mouths!"

the twins screamed, clutching their toothbrushes as if their lives depended on it. that night, they slept with their toothbrushes in hand. extreme? maybe. effective? absolutely.

the family dentist was thrilled.

choso’s approach to bedtime stories was simple: classics, classics, classics. his four kids—twin girls and twin boys—were raised on a steady diet of great literature. tonight, they were rereading the great gatsby. "papa," one of the girls yawned, “why does gatsby love daisy so much?” choso sighed deeply, looking out the window as if the tragedy of it all pained him personally.

"because, my little ones," he said, flipping a page, "gatsby believed in the green light, that orgastic future that year by year recedes before us."

one of the boys muttered sleepily, "papa... you read that every time."

"and yet," choso said solemnly, "you still do not understand."

by now, the kids could quote entire passages from memory. sometimes, at school, they would just casually drop lines like, "so we beat on, boats against the current—" and confuse their classmates. one time, during a parent-teacher meeting, their teacher had pulled choso aside and asked, “mr. kamo, why do your children know the complete works of f. scott fitzgerald?” choso had simply nodded in approval.

"good," he said. "their education is going well."

[heesimp]

https://www.tumblr.com/heesimp/782220255572459520/in-a-mood-and-sunghoon-is-bias-wrecking-me-right?source=share

what if both ideas combine like hoon asking his girl for threesome/open relationship in which is girl ended up agreeing to but in one condition, he needs to use condom then he'll try to purposely break the condom

unedited. contains themes of infidelity/dubcon/threesomes.

don’t like, don’t read.

+++++

Throughout Sunghoon’s life, he’s always gravitated towards nice girls.

They’re nice, easygoing, and it’s never been hard for him to date girls when he looks as handsome as he does. His girlfriend knows this very well after being with him for the past year and a half. Sunghoon is just as nice and respectful as she is. He didn’t know much else other than the quiet girls who match his introverted tendencies.

The sex is just fine. Sunghoon puts his dick in a wet pussy and cums every time. Sex before bed and on special occasions feels like he’s making sweet love to his loyal girlfriend who enjoys being some kind of trophy girl in proximity to someone as eye catching as Sunghoon.

He’d whisper sweet nothings in her ear and hold her hand while she orgasms around his thick cock. She’s content with him suffocating her body against the mattress and how his hands roam her naked chest until he’s squeezing and pinching her nipples. He was fine with it too, until meeting you at a bar one Saturday night.

Sunghoon swears it was just a one time thing. He was with his friends with two beers in his system when you brush against his arm at the bar. Sunghoon looks down to see you standing beside him, seemingly paying no attention to him. He turns back to try and get the bartender’s attention (unsuccessfully doing so until you wave your arm out to flag one, who tells you he’ll be with you in a minute).

“What’s your poison?” You ask him.

“Hm?” Sunghoon leans down to hear what you’re saying. That was his first mistake. You grin and step on your toes so he can hear you better and put your hand on his bicep.

“What’s your poison?” You repeat. Sunghoon blushed at your touch and hopes you don’t see because of the dark light in the bar.

“Beer for tonight.”

“Any specific kind?”

Sunghoon looks at you like he’s confused until the bartender comes back. He diverts his attention when you order and open a tab. He’s surprised when you tell the bartender to put whatever he wants under your tab. It’s the first time a stranger bought him a drink.

He knows he should probably say thank you and walk away, but he’s so grateful to save $15 on beer that he follows you to the dance floor and tries not to drop his drink in the process. It’s packed and warm, and the cool bottle in his hand isn’t doing anything to soothe him. Your body being so close to his own isn’t helping either.

Sunghoon doesn’t know how it happens. He drinks half of the beer while you dance on him and the two of you get to know each other just a little more before your hand slides down his abdomen. Sunghoon doesn’t stop you when your hand touches his belt, and he doesn’t stop you when you cup his crotch.

He isn’t thinking about his girlfriend. Instead, Sunghoon’s thinking about the fact that he’s rock hard for someone he met twenty minutes ago. Being touched by you in public is exhilarating for him. He doesn’t think he’s ever experienced a high quite like this.

You kiss on his neck and grope him through his pants until he’s gripping your body like he’s scared you’ll stop. You don’t, though. You squeeze his hard on and push your hand underneath his shirt to feel his toned abs and tell him you live ten minutes from this place.

Against his better judgment, Sunghoon follows you into a taxi and restrains himself from public indecency until the two of you are in the confines of your apartment. The kisses are wet and messy. You let him shove his big dick in your mouth and he experiences fucking a tight throat for the first time. It makes him cum so hard that he feels sorry when your mouth gurgles the cum and spit. Something about the way you smile at him makes his dick twitch.

Sunghoon eats your pussy like he’s starved on your bed until you squirt and fucks you like he’s got some pent up steam he needs to let go of. The sex is hot, raw, and nasty between the loud moans and realizing that he’s fucking without a condom for the first time.

When you sit on top of him and glide his swollen tip against your pussy, Sunghoon says something he might regret.

“I have a girlfriend.”

Your hands, which are steady on his shoulder, grip him just as you’re about to sink on his cock. You look down at him and he’s looking right back up at you, wondering if you’ll kick him out and leave him to fist himself to the memory of your naked tits and ass when he gets home to his girlfriend, who is no doubt asleep at this hour.

But you don’t. You sink halfway down on him and feel his fingers dig into your asscheeks.

“She must not satisfy you.”

When your ass touches his thighs as you bounce on top of him, Sunghoon finally realizes what he’s been missing all along. You’re so much tighter than his girlfriend. You’re wetter and nastier than she is with your sharp words and aggressive touch. It encourages him to grope your body disrespectfully until you moan into his mouth, tongues clashing until spit falls from between you two.

He ends the night by fucking you from behind with his hands spreading your ass as he watches himself disappear into your tight little hole. Sunghoon doesn’t think when he cums. He doesn’t think to ask you if you’re on birth control, and quite frankly, he doesn’t care (and neither do you).

Sunghoon leaves that night with your number in his phone and doesn’t feel an ounce of regret when he walks into his apartment and sees his girlfriend sleeping on her side of the bed. All this time, he’s been missing out on incredible, controlling sex. The porn he watches when he’s alone doesn’t satisfy him anymore. He’s unlocked a new version of him and doesn’t want to go back to regular, vanilla sex, and decides to start seeing you a few times a week.

Maybe part of him feels guilty for cheating on his girlfriend. Maybe he should’ve broken it off the first time. It’s too complicated and you don’t seem to be bothered by it, so why should he change his life if he’s having mind blowing sex?

He’s extra touchy with his girlfriend one evening, pressing his crotch against her ass and caging her boys between his arms and the counter. She’s caught off guard because he’s never been like this—perverted, touching her body without asking first. Sunghoon’s hands glide from her shoulders to her ass as he kicks her feet apart and bends his knees enough to slot his semi-hard dick between her asscheeks.

“Let’s have a threesome,” he mutters while kissing her neck. His lips are so gentle, a contraction to his wild request.

“You want to invite another person into the bedroom?”

“Mhm.” Sunghoon ruts his hips into her ass and she grips the counter for stability. “Don’t you think that would be hot?”

“I don’t know…”

“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it.”

“Well…I haven’t.”

“Never?”

She shakes her head. “Never.”

“Hmm, well, I’ve been thinking about it for some time now.”

“What?”

“Yeah. It would be hot to fuck two people at the same time.” Sunghoon pulls her shorts down and pulls his sweatpants just low enough to make his hard dick spring free, where he spits on it until she hears him jacking off behind her.

“W-Where is this coming from? You’re not usually so forward.”

Sunghoon doesn’t tell her much about why he’s thinking about it. Maybe it’s the thought of making excuses to have sex with you with his girlfriend’s permission, or maybe Sunghoon wants her to know exactly how he likes to have sex. No more of that vanilla shit. He wants rough, creamy sex that leaves them both sweaty and spent.

His girlfriend gasps when he breaches her hole and pushes half of himself inside of her. Sunghoon holds onto the counter and starts to thrust in and out, and all his girlfriend can do is keep her legs open to welcome his cock.

“H-Hoon, you need a condom.”

“Shh.” He turns her jaw and kisses her lips. “Just enjoy it.” Sunghoon pushes the entirety of his dick inside of her until she jolts forward.

“I’m serious. Fuck.”

“Feels so good,” he moans. Her wetness splashes onto him and he fucks her faster, thrusting his hips right against her ass until she’s squeaking.

“Too much!” She moans.

“But so good, right? Think about how good the sex will be if we invite someone else.”

“Do you have someone in mind?”

Sunghoon moans. “Yeah, I do. You’ll like her.”

“Her?”

He pulls out when he cums and leaves her ass with his hot seed dripping before pushing it around with his tip.

His girlfriend relents to the threesome, eventually.

It’s a bit awkward when you come to his apartment on the night it goes down. His girlfriend looks like she’s uncomfortable with the fact that her boyfriend is letting another girl touch his body, but neither of them are paying much attention to anything but sex.

The three of you are in the spacious bedroom and Sunghoon can’t help but stare at you when you take off the dress you wore for tonight, revealing exquisite lingerie that barely hides your chest and pussy. His girlfriend feels a bit unprepared in her lacy short nightgown that once used to entice Sunghoon because of how her breasts spilled from the top. Has she worn this too much? Does Sunghoon not like this dress anymore?

It’s almost like Sunghoon is in his own little world when you push your tits together in front of him. His cock springs to life against his boxers and doesn’t shy away from his girlfriend’s touch when she pulls them down his legs. Your hands glide all over his sculpted body as she sinks to her knees and take him in his mouth, but it’s not enough.

It’s never enough. She’s too polite with it and never takes the risk of choking on his dick. He’s big and girthy, and he knows his girlfriend won’t ever indulge him when it comes to throat fucking. But she does her best and bobs her head halfway down his cock in an attempt to get Sunghoon to focus on her instead of watching you touch him. It barely works.

“Why don’t you kiss Sunghoon while I blow him.” You pull her off of his cock and she sits there, stunned at how a stranger could ever command her when in the presence of her boyfriend. She’s too shocked to fight back when you push her body aside to kneel in front of him and shove his cock inside of your mouth.

She looks up at Sunghoon for some kind of reassurance. He beckons her up from his knees and surges forward to kiss her while your mouth sucks on his balls as your hand strokes him, thumb swiping his sensitive slit. He loves that you pay attention to his sack and make a mess of him there. He loves your tight throat and the way you tease his too by gliding your tongue without pushing yourself too hard until you’re ready.

Sunghoon is lost in the feeling of your mouth and drools against his girlfriend’s mouth. It’s messy and drips onto her chest. She wipes it with her hand and focuses on the way he’s moaning directly into her, but a pang of jealousy echoes in her heart when he realizes he’s moaning because of you.

Too little too late to realize, though. Your head’s pushing and pulling away from his crotch at a rapid pace and he’s tipping his head back while grunting at the feeling of you choking on his fat dick. He’s moved his hands from his girlfriend’s waist to lock your head in place. Sunghoon parts his legs and thrusts deeply into your throat, letting the sounds of your loud gags ring through his ears as he chases his first orgasm.

“Stay still.” He says. “Relax your jaw and let me fuck you.”

His girlfriend pulls away, shocked with his command and the tone of his voice. She watches with tears nearly brimming in her eyes when he watches her boyfriend lose himself in your mouth and when he wipes the spit spilling out. Blowjobs with him are always sweet and sensual. They never look or sound like this.

“What a good girl.” Sunghoon mutters with his eyes closed shut. “I’m gonna cum.”

That’s your only warning. He pushes himself all the way to the back of your throat and cums deep, his hot seed making you choke with every breath you take. Your mascara is beautifully smudged. Sunghoon takes his thumb and wipes underneath your eyes with his cock still lodged in your throat.

He kisses you when you stand up and gropes your ass. The girlfriend stands a bit awkwardly to the side, pussy wet from seeing Sunghoon’s monster cock, but jealous that he’s kissing you like that. He’s barely touched her all evening. She has to pry a hand from your body for him to touch her.

Sunghoon pulls away from both you and her eventually to lay down on the bed with his cock still rock hard. It stands tall and he beckons you over his face with a sly grin that makes his girlfriend quirk an eyebrow, but he pays no mind when your pussy is right in front of his face.

When you take a seat, Sunghoon’s moan vibrates against your body. He’s gripping your ass and leaving indents in your skin while you moan and grab onto the headboard for stability. His tongue prods and thrusts inside of your wet entrance and precum erupts from his tip.

His girlfriend strokes him with her tiny hand delicately like it’s a foreign object to her now that she’s seen your throat on him. She thought she knew Sunghoon—they lost their virginity to each other—but he just let another woman suck him off. The thought of giving him a blowjob when he’s engrossed in you doesn’t sit well with her. Might as well reclaim her rightful spot and cum on his cock, right? She grabs a condom from the desk and puts it on him, experimentally touching his balls the way she watches you do it earlier.

She sinks down on him and uses his thighs as leverage, bouncing on his dick until he’s reaching her cervix. His girlfriend moans alongside the two of you and tries to ignore the painful scene of your pussy on top of his face as she chased her orgasm.

She clenches her pussy around him and fucks herself onto his cock. The rubber doesn’t feel as good now that she knows what it feels like to fuck without one. But she moans anyway because his cock is huge and her boyfriend’s body is sinful.

“Sunghoon.” She whimpers. When he doesn’t respond because he’s too focused on making you cum, she whimpers his name again, a sick feeling of ache and pleasure dwelling in her chest.

She rides him until she cums and stills her body as the shocks override her senses. His girlfriend holds onto him for stability as she finishes and carefully slides herself off of him, pulling the condom off and discarding it in the trash.

You come with a loud moan when she looks back and he’s grunting like a madman against you as you do. Back arched in ways she’s never been able to before, Sunghoon’s girlfriend walks back to the side of the bed as you get off of his body and as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Can’t wait to fuck you.” Sunghoon says shamelessly as he stares at your bare body once you’ve taken the bra off. He tugs on himself when you lay on your back and spread your legs, pushing his tip inside of you until his girlfriend’s hands pull him back.

“We agreed on using condoms.” She says, looking at Sunghoon like she’s pleading with him. He sighs and pulls out of you reluctantly before putting the rubber on himself. His girlfriend nods in satisfaction, but her body remains frozen when Sunghoon eagerly climbs back on top of you.

Your hole winks at him the more he stares at it and plunges right back into you.

“I needed this.” He groans as he sinks the entirety of his cock into you.

Sunghoon bends down and places his arms next to your head while he spreads his legs wider on the bed, knees digging into the mattress. His warm balls slap against your ass when he pulls himself back to thrust into you at a brutal pace that makes you feel like he’s trying to get you pregnant.

The skin slapping echoes in the room while you rush to wrap your arms around his muscular shoulders and claw your nails down his back. His girlfriend sits on the edge of the bed, naked. She watches as Sunghoon pounds his fat dick right into your pussy and feels a pang in her chest when he focuses all of his attention on fucking you.

He can feel your wetness splashing onto his abdomen the more he fucks you. Sunghoon’s purposely moving roughly in an attempt to break the stupid protection—it’s not like the two of you use it when you have sex anyway—but fears his girlfriend will end this before he can cum.

So he does. He fucks, and fucks, and fucks. Sunghoon groans like an animal when your tight walls clean around him like you’re trying to entrap him in your pussy forever. It’s so warm and wet, so slippery. You’d feel better if he wasn’t wearing a condom.

“Get on your knees.” Sunghoon tells you, only for you to clamber into position when he pulls out. You hear him tugging on himself over the condom until he plunges back into you with one feet planted on the mattress while he has his other knee in the air.

“Yeahhh. What a nice fucking pussy.”

His balls push against your clit and spanks you in a way that makes a string of moans echo throughout the room. His girlfriend watches with a mixture of terror and intrigue. Why is Sunghoon never like this with her? What’s gotten into him that he’s barely paying attention to anything but you?

Sunghoon grips your body and slams himself into you, pulling you against him and pushing you away to chase his high. He looks like a king when he fucks like this. It makes her wish she was in your place.

Your body collapses onto the bed from his sheer force and Sunghoon keeps having sex with you like that even though you lay limp beneath him. Your hole accommodates his girthy size and he’s long given up on trying to break the condom when your pussy feels this good.

He moves you to your back once more and pushes his chest down to yours. Your tits squish against his pecs while he captures your lips in a searing kiss, his own hips slanging against your own.

“Hoon, stop.” His girlfriend says while she’s hesitantly putting her hand on his upper back in an attempt to remove him from you. “I-I don’t like this.”

“Fuck, I’m so close.” He moans right with you when he feels you cream around him. The rubber is so slippery.

“Sunghoon…” she pleads.

He doesn’t listen. She watches like a pathetic voyeur and doesn’t have the strength to pull him back even though she tries her best to pull his body off of you. Sunghoon refuses to give up when he’s so close to cumming inside of you and tries to shrug off her attempts to stop him from fucking you even more.

“I’m gonna fucking cum.”

“No, please…” his girlfriend whispers. “Sunghoon, please.”

“Taking this cock like a champ.” He mutters against your lips. “What a good girl, huh?”

“Fuck!” You moan.

“Here it comes, baby. Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna fill you up. Take it. Fucking take it.”

Sunghoon pushes himself to the hilt and clenches his ass when he’s shooting his load right into the condom. His girlfriend watches you clamber to hold him tightly against your chest and as he closes his eyes shut and keeps his mouth wide open when he cums.

His girlfriend watches as he returns to your mouth to kiss you. Her heart shatters at the sight of him kissing another woman, but this is what she agreed to, right? Isn’t this normal?

“I’m gonna get us water.” She croaks. Sunghoon pulls away and out of you to look at her briefly.

“Good idea.”

He returns his attention to you and she gets up, dresses herself without panties and walks out of the room to fetch three glasses.

It isn’t until she hears you giggling that she peeks her head around the door and watches Sunghoon remove the condom. His cum drips down his cock while you sling your legs over his lap and sink down on him, his white cream spreading between the two of you.

She nearly chokes when Sunghoon’s hands grip your asscheeks and help you ride him like he’s done to her a million times before.

But she promises to get water, so that’s what she does.

[saetoru]

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。yours, always yours

synopsis. satoru has always been yours—and he needs you to know you’ll also always be his

— word count. 2.4k (read the breakup fic first for better understanding, but can be read as a stand-alone)

— contents. fem! reader, college! au, rich boy! gojo, post-getting back together angst that gets a little heated <3, minors do not interact, fingering, unprotected sex, edging, satoru cumming too quick <3, creampie, tbh the smut is short and a lil rushed my b, it ends in fluff tho !! trust !! there is fluff !!

— notes. tbh this will probably get flagged rly fast but oh well u win some u lose some. anywayyyyy here is the make up sex bc yall nasties deserve it <3 jk love u guys

satoru falls first. and he falls hard. everyone knows it, it’s never been a secret.

“you want me to wash your hair?” you ask gently, kissing his shoulder as the water falls over his head. he hums, nodding absentmindedly as he stares blankly at the tiles of your shower wall.

“sure,” he mumbles, “don’t tug.”

“i never tug,” you roll your eyes, snorting. he huffs a small chuckle, but it’s not the usual laugh satoru gives you. it’s mechanic, almost—just there to fill the space. “baby?” you ask softly.

“yeah?” he asks, “oh, should i bend a little? sorry, i—”

“what’re you thinking about?” your hands cup his cheeks, gentle and warm from the hot water as it soaks his skin.

he shakes his head, trying to smile as he clears throat. “just how nice it is to be pampered. maybe i’ll let you break my heart every once in a while so i get my back scrubbed and hair washed like this.”

“satoru,” you insist. you know—and he knows it too. “tell me?”

“why’d you do it?” he mumbles, “why’d you listen to him?”

“toru, you know why,” you sigh, “you know i didn’t think there were any other options.”

“you could’ve talked to me,” he furrows his brows, “just because my stupid old man threatens you with my stupid inheritance doesn’t mean we have to break up.”

“i was afraid you’d choose me.” it comes out as a whisper, like a confession you can’t bear to admit.

“i would have chosen you,” he agrees, “why’s that bad? how’s that wrong—”

“you’re not thinking about the bigger picture,” you shake your head, “that company is yours. you’ve spent your whole life—”

“so what? was i supposed to give up the rest of my life for it too?” he asks tiredly—satoru’s defeated. he’s never been defeated, it’s the most magnetizing thing about him.

even before you date him. he asks and asks and asks no matter how many times you say no. because there’s always a chance you’ll say yes, and he’ll never stop as long as there’s a chance.

“i’m sorry,” you sniffle, lips wobbling, “i could have….i should have said something. i didn’t want you to make a choice young and then….and then regret it.”

“you think i’d regret you?” he’s wounded—absolutely wounded at the words.

satoru has always been careful, diligent and so, so meticulous to love you right, to love you how you need to be loved. hadn’t that proven enough? that he was in it for the long run—for forever? he’d been so sure you’d be his future, that the break up feels like waking up from a peaceful dream to a house fire—devastating, with smoke in his nose and lungs that he can’t breathe right, and everything gone within a moment before he can even register it.

he stares at the ashes in despair. nothing prepared him for the hollowness of not being yours—because satoru has never cared to make you his. all he’s ever wanted was to be yours.

you’re quick to remove him from everything, deleting pictures from your socials, untagging him from posts, removing him from your private stories and close friends list. he doesn’t understand how you could change your mind so quickly—and then he realizes you probably don’t. because he knows you—better than anyone ever has, satoru knows you.

so he’s comes to you, drenched from the rain, from standing outside your door even as the water pelts against his skin because he’s determined. he’s going to get an answer out of you, going to make you explain why you pulled him in so close, let him reside in your heart and fall asleep to the comforting rhythm of its beating—and then push him out like he’s nothing. what made you push him out?

and finally, when he does, when you let him be yours again and admit it’s never what you wanted, that it’s because it’s what his father wanted—well, satoru can’t keep his composure. don’t you know? hadn’t he always told you? hadn’t he poured his heart out and let you know every moment he’s always been stuck dangling from his father’s fingers? stuck somewhere between the sky and ground, too high to feel the floor under his feet but never high enough to feel the wind in his face.

you’ve always known, always listened—and fuck, you held him some nights too, let your fingers dip into his hair and soothe his sorrows of always being stuck.

satoru’s always been stuck, always had every choice made for him and every instruction carefully laid out on the table. and then you decided to make his choice for him too, walking away and choosing his future for him like he’s never had a say.

he’s always been stuck, but never with you—but now, he wonders if that’s changed.

“no,” you squeeze his cheeks, “no i don’t think you’d regret me….but satoru losing what you have is a big thing,” you mumble, “people work their whole lives not having a fraction of what you do. that’s a lot to let you lose.”

“i’ve never seen my dad kiss my mom,” he stares at you, hard and unwavering, his eyes stare into yours, “he’s never held her hand or made her laugh. and you know what she told me? that she would sell her share of everything to have what we do. why do you always look at me for what i have first?” he asks angrily, the water pouring over his shoulders as they shake, “why can’t you just look at me first for once?”

“i do look at you,” you insist, “toru, all i ever see is you—”

“then stop caring what he says,” he says louder, his voice echoing through the small bathroom of your small apartment.

everything about your home is small—smaller than satoru’s especially. but he loves it, thinks he’d rather be here than anywhere else.

because it’s yours. and as long as you’re here, the world fits into this tiny apartment, the galaxy too.

“okay,” you say shakily. and then you nod, looking him in the eye, “you’ll handle it?”

he nods, kissing between your brows, “yeah, i’ll handle it. who else is gonna take over that company anyway?”

“but what if he finds someone else? and then he—”

“he won’t. my grandpa will shred him.”

“but he’s old, and he stepped down, so what really can he do if your dad decides—”

“god, baby,” he groans, pushing your body against the wall gently, “i love your voice, but you talk so much. i’m wanna listen to something else.”

his lips find your neck, sucking gently at the skin, hand trailing to your tits before his thumb circles your nipple. it’s slow, deliberate, teasing as it rolls over the bud.

you whimper, clutching onto him as a breathy, “t-toru,” leaves your lips.

“yeah,” he nods, “that’s what i wanna listen to instead.” his lips are in a grin against your neck, kissing and biting until he reaches your collarbone. “anyone dm you after you took me out of your socials?” he asks bitterly.

“j-just one,” you admit through a stutter, “b-but i didn’t even open it! i wasn’t really—oh, toru,” you gasp as his finger finds your clit, spreading your legs as he lets out a soft growl at your words.

“what? just cause my face isn’t on your instagram suddenly you’re not mine?” he asks, thumb rubbing harsh circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves—you close your eyes, moaning as your arms wrap tightly around his neck. “you’re always mine,” he murmurs against your ear, low and careful so you hear him well, “yeah? got that?”

“got it,” you nod furiously.

“got what?”

“‘m al-always—oh, fuck,” you mewl as one finger prods at your entrance, gathering your slick before slowly sliding through your walls.

“c’mon, sweetheart,” he says firmly, “finish your sentences.”

“always yours, toru! always yours—please, please j-just…”

“just what?” he raises a brow.

“more,” you sob—it’s a broken plea as your hips thrust against his finger.

he’s quick to slide in a second, thrusting his digits mercilessly into your soaked cunt, his palm gliding over your clit as the slick sound of his fingers fucking you is almost drowned by the water in the back.

your water bill will be high this month. you decide it’s a sacrifice satoru deserves.

“you think someone could ever learn this body better than me? make you cum like i can? you think anyone will ever love you enough to learn you like i do?”

“n-no,” you pant, his fingers hitting that spot inside of you so perfectly, you feel that dull ache build up quickly. it’s good—everything with satoru is good. his other hand finds your chest to pinch a nipple, twisting and squeezing until your nails leave indents on his shoulders as you moan loudly. “no one—no one but you.”

“exactly,” he growls, “how could you leave me? how could you leave us?”

“‘m sorry,” you sniffle, whimpering when the tips of his fingers slam against that spongey spot of your walls, fluttering around him and squeezing him in. you’re close—so close that you almost don’t know what he’s saying anymore, too focused on the way your impending orgasm is approaching. fast. “i’m sorry, i’ll never—ever leave again.”

“say you love me,” he demands.

it sounds like he’s pleading, though, if you listen closely. there’s a small crack in his voice, a slight shakiness that makes you force your eyes open and stare at him and whisper, “i love you, satoru. i love you.”

and then he rips his fingers out—right before you’re about to cum. you gasp, pleading nonsense as you cling to him and buck your hips and search for something, anything to take you over the edge.

and then you hear a sniffle. is he crying? is that wet droplet on your shoulder a tear or the water? you’re too busy calming down from your orgasm dying before it ever came to focus.

satoru’s hard against your thigh, throbbing and painful to sink into you. he strokes himself a few times, whimpers as his thumb gathers the pre cum from the sensitive tip, smearing it along his length as he shakily lets out a quiet moan.

“f-fuck, i gotta feel you. please, can i? please—”

“yes,” you pull him closer, grinding your heat over his hard-on, “yes please, toru. more, need more.”

he’s sliding along your folds, dragging the tip of his cock along your entrance and smearing a mix of your arousal with his. and then slowly, ever so gently, he’s pushing into your after that, pushing past your walls and bullying into your soaked cunt, curving into you perfectly.

it’s only been a week—you feel like you haven’t felt him in years. but it’s familiar. you remember every part of him, including every vein that drags along your walls and makes your head spin. he remembers every part of you, including where that spot is that he needs to angle his hips to find.

he slams into you, hard and rough and fast—doesn’t even let you adjust your position to hold onto him tighter before he’s thrusting his hips and fucking into you desperately. you can feel him, every inch of his skin against you, every part of him that’s touching you. and you can feel the way his cock nudges past your folds, the friction burning pleasure through ever nerve.

satoru knows how to fuck you, just like he knows how to love you, he knows your body—every dip and ever curve, every place to touch and every part that has you gushing around him. it’s just the way he is, too good at giving you what you want, what you need.

when he moans, it’s breathy and he’s panting as he lets out those soft whimpers that make your head spin. “feel that? feel me?” he asks, grunting as you squeeze around his length.

“yeah,” you breathe, “‘m so full.”

“i need you. please, please,” he murmurs, “can’t lose you, baby. never you,” he chants, the quiver in his voice tearing you apart.

“i’m right here,” you gasp, lacing your fingers with his and squeezing his hand. he squeezes back, just to let you know he’s there too, “right here, baby. you got me.”

and then he cums, just as soon as you whisper that—he spills right into you with a broken cry, his hips rolling, needy and desperate and so, so lost on the pleasure. he’s too busy working himself through his high, trembling over your body to care he’s cum too quick—and you don’t have it in you to tease him. you can feel the hot ropes of cum filling you, painting your walls white, fucking deep into you as the blunt head of his cock slams into you without a second of hesitation.

but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t falter that brutal pace as his hips slam into you, perfectly kissing your sweet spot every time. and before long, you break���your head pushes back against the wall behind you, mouth parted as you wail his name and cum—hard. you’re quivering and spasming around his swollen cock, enough that he whimpers at the way you’re so tight.

it’s good, it’s always good. satoru makes you feel good. he’s the best you’ve ever had—the best you’ll ever find.

and then you hear it again, the sniffle into your neck as he clutches you tightly. you know for sure that wet droplet is a tear this time, and your fingers tangle into his hair as you stroke the wet strands.

“i love you, toru,” you murmur, “my sweet boy. i’m sorry, okay? i’m so sorry.”

“don’t do that again,” he huffs in between tears, “that was so mean. so mean.”

“i said i won’t,” you chuckle, fighting back your own tears, “how long are you gonna hold this against me?”

“how long do you plan on being mine?”

“well,” you pull him from your neck, cupping his cheeks as you wipe away tears and peck his lips softly, “i think….forever.”

“well, get ready, then,” he glares softly, “i’m gonna hold this against you forever too.”

“okay,” you nod, “that’s fair.”

“and i love you too,” he adds, “but block whoever dm’d you. it better not be that zenin boy.”

“block those girls who’s pictures you liked,” you shoot back, glaring at him with a pout of your own.

“don’t yell at me,” he mumbles, leaning into your touch as your thumb strokes his cheek, “i’ve had a rough week. you have to be nice.”

dabitee anon. are u seeing this. did u see the satoru who cums too fast. did u see it. report back if u saw this. i repeat, dabitee anon report back if you see this

[isasweetie]

౨ৎ in which you run into rafe’s arms whenever there’s trouble. not that he minds, of course.

being rafe’s girlfriend meant relying on him for everything. it made him feel wanted, and made you feel safe. so although it went against all your morals as a woman, it just felt right crawling into a cute boy’s muscular arms whenever you needed comfort or help. whether someone made your drink wrong, or a boy was hitting on you, or anything else really, rafe was there to help you out. you’d just grab his hand or pull him aside, and he’d mutter an “i gotcha, kid,” before going to handle it.

he’d assumed you’d be okay going to a friends birthday party. he wasn’t invited, it was a ‘no boys allowed’ kind of party. just gossiping pillow fights and giggles. and these were your friends, if you had any issues you’d sort them out yourself. but, spoiler alert — he was wrong.

rafe was at tannyhill, sitting on the couch on the balcony as he replied to his fathers email about the dumb cross that rafe wanted to sell. it was probably around two hours ago when you left, in your cute dress that he bought you, giving him a big kiss before leaving with a birthday gift in hand. the sun was setting, it wasn’t even that late. so he certainly wasn’t expecting a security alert that the front door was opening, nor your pouty face appearing at the balcony door as you opened it slowly.

your lips were red, matching the unnatural hue on your cheeks. little white lines stained from your eye down to your jaw. your eyelashes were droopy and had little wet drops on them. which leaves him to one conclusion; you were crying.

“..shit,” he mutters under his breath, drawling out the word with parted lips and sighing as you plop yourself down beside him. “what happened, baby?” an arm instantly wraps around your shoulder, pulling you into his side. you instantly cuddle into him, like you always do. right back in your lover’s arms.

“..anna,” you sniffle, voice soft and shaky. “i don’t get it. i don’t get why she’s so nice to everyone except for me. hates me for no reason, rafe, she hates me—“ a quick interruption on his part, quickly shutting you up because you’re not answering the question properly.

he finds it hard to believe that anyone could hate his girl. “what did she do?” he asks, making sure you’re looking him in the eyes so you really understand what he’s asking for. specifics.

“she’s just so rude. said my highlights were way too grown out, said my dress did nothing for my figure and washed out my tan, said that my nail polish was chipping..” you trail off and sniffle. “anything to prove im not perfect, rafe. like duh, i know im not, but she likes to point it out. then she always giggles like it’s just a silly joke,”

“..uh huh,” he hums along. “‘n you know thats not true, right?” he checks, as if it’s obvious.

“well it is true. haven’t gotten my hair done in months, and my nails are chipping, so..”

he sighs. “not that part, kid. c’mon,”

“…that was the only part, rafe,”

“talking about the ‘perfect’ part,” he clarifies. “you know you’re perfect, c’mon, don’t start saying you aren’t,”

“no one’s perfect,” you counter.

“i beg to differ,” he shrugs. “now c’mon, whaddya want me to do about this bitch, huh?” he changes the topic before you argue and he has to assure you more.

“nothing, rafe,”

“nothing?”

“mhm.”

he huffs and leans back on the couch. he knows you. you don’t want him to do nothing about this. “why the hell are you here then, if you don’t want me to do anything?”

“to see my handsome boyfriend ‘n tell him what happened,”

“..right,” he says after a moment. “sure thing, kid. i won’t do anything. whatever you want,” you can tell he’s lying through his teeth.

you smile softly at his agreeable attitude, his voice and touch alone comforting you more than anyone else could. so you cuddle into him more, doe eyes looking out at the sunset overlooking tannyhill, at the american flag waving in the humid wind. you’re perfectly content letting him dry the leftover tears and spending the night with him instead of your little friends.

but you and him both know he’s gonna be making an angry phone call to a certain girl after you leave.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Seventeen

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, selective mutism, strong language, sexual content

Notes — This might be one of my favourite chapters so far. I really feel in the swing of things, so (maybe) expect a 2nd update later today!

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

2021 (Azerbaijan — Austria) 

Amelia liked Greece.

She fit in here — in white flowing dresses and messy dark curls, always salt-tangled. She liked Lando in loose button-downs and shorts, golden and relaxed in the sun. She liked Pietra, Max’s new girlfriend — Brazilian, warm, and probably the most beautiful woman Amelia had met in a long time.

She liked the way Lando looked at her when she slipped into Portuguese with Pietra, years of quiet practice finally paying off — and if the darkened rings in his eyes meant what she thought they did, he liked it too.

She liked that she’d made a friend — a real one. A female friend who laughed at her terrible jokes and never minded when Amelia took a moment too long to process something. The language barrier helped in that way — sometimes Pietra didn’t get it either, and they’d laugh their way through it together.

Max and Lando seemed pleased to see them getting along, but Lando especially — because he knew. He knew what it meant for Amelia to have someone. A girl to do her makeup with in the evenings, giggling and tipsy on shared wine, leaving mismatched lipstick stains on either side of the same glass.

Greece felt easy. It felt right.

It felt, for once, perfect.

— 

They avoided seafood restaurants, Lando’s irrational fear of fish too entertaining yet deeply rooted to ignore, and settled on a small bistro by the water instead.

Amelia, in a powder blue dress and white strappy sandals, curled into Lando’s side, her sparkly blue eyeshadow catching the fading light. The evening breeze was cooler than expected, and she’d left her shrug in the hotel room. Lando didn’t say a word, just slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her in closer, steady and warm.

He was deep in conversation with Max about the upcoming Quadrant merch launch — all bright and serious and businessy. Across the table, Amelia caught Pietra’s eye. The two women shared a quiet smile, and Pietra flagged down the waiter for another round of wine. White, of course — they were both wearing pastels, after all.

Max ordered garlic bread for the table.

Amelia flinched, her lip caught between her teeth, a tiny, familiar tell. Before she could say anything, Lando added easily, “And a basket of plain bread, too.”

Because garlic made Amelia’s stomach turn.

And of course Lando knew that.

—

Their hotel suite was quiet, the sounds of the Aegean sea whispering through the open balcony doors. The linen curtains fluttered in the breeze. 

Amelia perched on the edge of the bed, brushing salt from her curls, moisturiser sinking into her sun-kissed skin. Lando was barefoot on the carpet, fiddling with the bluetooth speaker, trying to find the right playlist; something soft, without lyrics, something she liked. Jazz, maybe. Something Spanish. 

“You’re stalling,” she told him, voice quiet and teasing.

“I’m setting the vibe,” he replied, glancing over his shoulder with a grin. “Gotta be romantic. It’s our last night here. Want it to be proper special for you, baby.” 

She laughed, quiet and fond, and he finally gave up and crossed to her. His big hands settled on her hips before sliding around her waist, guiding her back into him. She rolled her head back to rest on his collarbone, eyes all wide and wanting as she gazed up at him.

They moved together without words. No rush. No performance. Just touch… slow, steady, familiar. His fingertips glided down her arms like he was memorising every new freckle that the sun had brought to the surface. Her arms slipped beneath his shirt to trace the heat of his back, anchoring herself there. His nose brushed hers before he kissed her. Once, soft and searching, and again, deeper, more certain, like he’d been waiting for it all day.

“You’re freezing,” he murmured, fingers grazing her collarbone like he could warm her just through touch.

“I’m naked,” she said, feigning innocence, but her smile gave her away.

He laughed quietly against her mouth. “How convenient for me, hm?”

They melted into the white cotton sheets. Every part of her was familiar to him now — the heavy pressure she needed him to put behind his touches in order to stay grounded, the way she stilled under his hands, breath evening out when he pressed his chest to hers, his weight a quiet reassurance. She didn’t need to ask. He just knew.

No rush. No performance. It was connection in its purest form, deliberate, tender, like they were made of the same skin and light. Like the world shrank down to the rhythm of their heartbeats. 

She whispered something in Portuguese, just to make him smile.

He did. Wide, dimpled, wrecked with love, his eyes full of her.

Later, wrapped in one of his shirts, she pressed her face into his neck and mumbled, “You’re warm.”

He kissed the crown of her head, voice low against her curls. “Sunburned.”

—

In Azerbaijan, the problem wasn’t Max.

It wasn’t the car.

It wasn’t the strategy.

It was the fucking tyre.

Amelia winced as the feed cut to Max, out of the car, still on track, kicking the shredded rubber that had ended his race.

“Fucking hell,” Christian muttered from two seats down.

She leaned toward GP, jaw tight. “What’s he saying?”

GP sighed, reaching up to mute his comms. “Nothing appropriate.”

“Red flag,” someone murmured behind them.

Amelia closed her eyes.

She could already see it — the headlines, the photos. “Max Verstappen — championship battle over already?”

It would fuel the fire already smouldering inside him. The one he’d inherited from his father, who was now audibly swearing in the garage. She could hear him from the pit wall.

Her eyes flicked to Christian. He was already looking at her.

In that moment, as the tyre fragments scattered across the Baku circuit and the title race teetered in their grasp, they were both thinking the same thing.

Fuck.

— 

Amelia lay curled in her childhood bed, eyes tracing the glow-in-the-dark stars still scattered across the ceiling — the same ones she’d begged her dad to superglue up there the night they moved from Florida to England. She’d been eight. Shell-shocked by the change. Silent for three days straight before breaking it only to whisper: “Can we put the stars up, daddy?”

They were still there. Nearly twelve years later.

Lando was sitting against the headboard beside her, thumbing through an old photo album, chuckling quietly at baby pictures and awkward school portraits. She peeked up at him through her lashes — here, in her room, in her space. Taking up oxygen and memories and all the soft, sharp things in between.

Her eyes flicked to the window seat. Winced.

She thought about the weeks she’d spent there. Curled into herself, silent. Thinking, thinking, hurting. Wondering why he’d stopped talking to her. Wondering what she’d done wrong.

“Don’t ever…” she started, voice barely a whisper, then paused to breathe. “Please don’t ever hurt me again, Lan.”

He froze. Gently set the album aside, then pulled her up and onto his lap without a word. Held her tight. Looked across the room and saw it too — that small corner where she’d waited for him to come back to her.

“Never again, baby,” he said, voice thick, arms secure around her. “Never.”

She curled her fingers into his shirt and didn’t let go. Not until her mom called them down for dinner.

— 

They approached France with a renewed, razor-sharp focus.

Sim sessions doubled in frequency. Max had her holed up in his Milton Keynes flat for four straight days, dissecting every inch of the car; every flaw, every advantage, every hypothetical curveball. She barely saw daylight, only telemetry and takeaway containers and so much coffee.

At the factory, she gave the upgrades a final inspection, glaring down the engineers who kept pushing to tweak the ride height, despite her repeated insistence they’d already found Max’s sweet spot for Paul Ricard.

She spent a few hours with Adrian, though they barely touched any kind of real work. Instead, they spiralled into a familiar rabbit hole; V10 engines, their physics, their poetry, and the chaos they’d wreak under modern regs. It was indulgent. Comforting.

She spotted Christian a few times in the hallways. Passing glances in the cafeteria. An awkward silence that settled between them like fog.

It would’ve been easier, for both of them, if he could just swallow his pride and apologise for trying to control the narrative of her life.

But he didn’t.

So nothing changed.

— 

Max won in France.

And he didn’t just win — he dominated.

A perfect undercut. A flawless strategy.

An overtake two laps from the end.

“Simply lovely, mate.”

A 1–3 finish for the team.

Amelia clapped her hands, grinning as she leaned across to watch the pit crew spill over the wall, fists pumping under the chequered flag.

After Max’s disaster in Baku, it wasn’t just a win.

It was redemption. 

— 

She found Fernando after the race, walking with him through the paddock. They spoke about the state of Alpine's setup, her questions casual, his answers blunt.

“It is a mess,” he said, waving his hand as though the topic was beneath him. “But they can give me a car, so I will stay until a better offer comes along.”

Amelia nodded, her mind already drifting to the young driver being promised the world at Otmar Szafnauer’s behest. She couldn’t trust them though. Not when the team was so clearly disjointed.

She made her way to Max next, pulling him into a tight hug. “If we can beat them here, we can beat them anywhere,” she whispered into his ear, feeling the heat of his pride radiate back at her.

Then, she found Lando. No words were necessary as he pulled her into his arms, holding her close. His ear was open, waiting for her praises. She whispered them to him as they moved to his driver’s room, him collapsing onto her in a mixture of exhaustion and contentment. 

Her hand clutched the fabric of his shirt as she whispered, “Do you know anyone who could get me Mark Webber’s number?”

Lando's laughter echoed softly against her ear.

—

Amelia walks into the room, takes a seat across from Mark, and locks eyes with him, staring until he’s the first to blink.

Breaking the silence, she says, “I don’t trust Alpine, but I understand why Oscar does — they’ve invested a lot of time and money into his junior career.”

Mark nods in agreement and follows up with, “I don’t trust them either.”

A tense pause. Stalemate.

She leans forward slightly. “I’ve got an idea. Nothing's set in stone. If he gets the Alpine seat, I’ll back off. But if he doesn’t…”

“A back-up plan,” Mark guesses.

Amelia smiles, a glint in her eye. “Yes.”

— 

They plane-shared with Charles, Max, and George on the way to Austria. Amelia sat quietly, her iPad resting on her lap as she scrolled through Pinterest, putting together an outfit board. Every so often, she’d tilt it toward George, giving him a silent ‘hm?’ as if to say, what do you think? without needing the words. George always knew, offering a quick response or nodding along with her choices.

Going non-verbal wasn’t something that happened often, but when it did, Amelia could never pinpoint the reason. Sometimes, it was just the weight of everything around her, the noise, the constant motion, and she’d retreat into silence. A soft hum, a cough, a tongue click; they were her ways of communicating in those moments.

Lando and Max, sitting across from them, exchanged a glance, both watching the interaction from afar.

"You think she’s okay?" Lando asked, his voice low, filled with concern.

Max nodded, eyes still on Amelia. "She's overwhelmed," he said quietly. "Trying to act like she’s not. It’s too much, I think."

Lando’s worry deepened, but Max’s words were a small comfort, as he thumped Lando on the shoulder. “Another holiday as soon as there’s a break. Yeah?”

Lando smiled, pulling out his phone and checking the calendar. It was a habit now, syncing their schedules. He sent a quick message to his travel agent.

— 

After dropping off their luggage at the hotel, they met her dad for dinner at a local Italian place. Amelia snapped a few pictures of the pretty table settings, and Lando insisted on taking some of her in front of the wall of vintage wine bottles. “You look so pretty, baby,” he murmured, making her smile.

Her dad and Lando talked business and golf for most of the meal, their conversation a distant hum as Amelia scrolled through her Twitter feed, still not feeling up for much interaction.

At the end of the night, she gave her dad a tight hug before they parted ways, silently hoping that her love would come across through touch rather than words.

Their suite had a balcony, and Lando set up a little scene with blankets and chairs, ordering two bottles of Sprite to their room. Amelia ignored the chair he'd set up for her, instead collapsing onto his lap with a soft laugh and a surprised huff from him. “Jesus, warn me next time, baby,” he teased.

She buried her face in his neck, mouthing at the skin. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice muffled and her breath shaky, fingers clenched against him.

He rubbed a steady hand up and down her back, voice soft. “What for?”

She shrugged, kissed his neck again, and closed her eyes, just letting the quiet settle around them.

— 

The next morning, Amelia called Pietra, high-pitched giggles echoing from the bathroom as they gossiped in Portuguese over FaceTime. She sat in the sink to get closer to the mirror, balancing her phone on the taps while applying her eye makeup.

Lando lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He listened to the two girls talk in a language he didn’t understand, probably about him. A smile tugged at his lips.

— 

Two weeks. Two consecutive Austrian races. Same track, different name.

Amelia sat with Jos in the debrief room, going over Max’s notes from last year’s race. Adrian walked in, having just checked the car setup. GP and Max followed a few moments later, Max with a paper coffee cup in hand and dark circles under his eyes.

Amelia frowned at him. "What’s the matter? Did you not sleep well?"

His gaze flickered to Jos, then back to Amelia. "No, just… nothing. Don’t worry about it."

She studied him, trying to decode his expression; his head slightly tilted, eyes narrowed. Her attention then shifted to his neck, where the collar of his Red Bull polo had slipped. A dark bruise marred the skin, with four tiny indents around it.

With a huff, she reached across the table to adjust his collar, covering it up.

Sitting back, she noticed both Jos and Adrian were staring at her.

She frowned. "What? I hate hickeys."

Jos blinked at her, then shifted his gaze to Max.

Adrien winced.

Max? He just sighed.

— 

She found Lando in his garage before the Styrian race.

He was starting on the second row, practically sandwiched between her two Red Bulls.

Pulling him close, she kissed him softly and whispered, “Do well, be safe.”

She smiled at her dad, nodded at Will, and waved at Daniel, who winked back at her.

— 

Max wins by a huge margin. The car had been flawless all weekend, and that didn't change during the race.

He jumps out of the car and into his engineers' arms, who scream and cheer in pure joy. Red Bull’s first home race of the season, and he’s won it by a mile.

He runs straight to her next, finding her in Parc Fermé instead of the pit wall like usual. She squeals as he picks her up by the waist and spins her around, his helmet still on.

“Zusje,” he crooned, full of energy and excitement.

She grins, pats the side of his helmet, then shoves him off toward the scales. “Go get weighed before they fine you.”

— 

The championship swings in Max's favor after the second Austrian race.

And suddenly, the question isn’t Can Max win the championship? It becomes When will he win it? Amelia pores over the data, analysing their history with each upcoming track, measuring the numbers.

She runs into Lewis in the paddock after Max’s second win. She opens her mouth to greet him, to ask how Roscoe’s doing, to check on him after so long without talking. But he keeps his head down and brushes past her, leaving her staring after him, eyes burning.

She finds Fernando first. Falls into his arms, a heap of sniffles and unjust sadness. She understands why Lewis is angry, knows how competitive this sport is, and how much she has to do with potentially denying him an eighth championship.

“Mi niña,” Fernando murmurs, holding her tightly, his eyes hard. “Who upset you?”

She doesn’t tell him. Doesn’t want him to make any rash decisions during the next race. She just lets herself be comforted, and when Fernando eventually hands her off to Lando, she lets herself really begin to cry.

NEXT CHAPTER

[camille-aurelie-deveraux]

Hi queen! I hope you have an amazing day. Could I please request Oscar with an Asian reader and her teaching him a bit of Japanese or something. When McLaren films some content everyone is like really impressed Oscar speaks such good Japanese. And he is like all thanks to my girlfriend

Language of Love

McLaren’s media team was buzzing with energy on a sunny Thursday morning in Melbourne. The garage had been cleaned and cleared to make space for a casual filming setup. Two director’s chairs were placed in front of a backdrop that read “Language Challenge – Aussie Edition,” with small Japanese flags printed in the corners.

Lando was the first to arrive, grinning as he read the sign. “Language challenge? What is this, Duolingo: Driver Mode?”

Oscar followed closely behind, a coffee in hand, looking way too calm for what was about to unfold. “You’ll see,” he said with a mischievous smile.

They took their seats, and a member of the media team handed each of them a little whiteboard and a marker.

“Okay boys,” the director began, “we’re doing a Japanese word guessing challenge today. You’ll each hear a word in Japanese, and you’ll have to write what you think it means. Winner gets... bragging rights.”

Lando groaned dramatically. “Why do I feel like Oscar has an unfair advantage?”

Oscar just smirked and leaned back in his chair. “Well... I might have had a little help.”

The camera rolled, and the first word was played through the speaker.

"ありがとう (arigatou)"

Lando looked like he was having a brain freeze. “I’ve heard this before,” he muttered. “It’s in anime, right?”

Oscar was already scribbling confidently.

Lando finally wrote something down: ‘Good morning?’

Oscar held up his board: ‘Thank you’

“Correct!” the media person called out. “Oscar gets the point!”

Oscar turned to the camera and grinned. “All thanks to my girlfriend. She’s been teaching me.”

Lando narrowed his eyes. “Wait, since when do you speak Japanese?”

Oscar chuckled. “Since I met her, really. She moved to Australia from Japan back when we were still in school. Her English was still a bit rough, and I kind of... helped her out. And she helped me with Japanese. It became our thing.”

Lando’s eyes widened. “Mate, that’s like... so romantic. You’re casually bilingual now?”

Oscar shrugged modestly. “I wouldn’t say bilingual. But I can hold a conversation.”

The next word came through:

"猫 (neko)"

Lando blinked. “What the hell was that?”

Oscar grinned. “Come on, you’ve seen enough memes to know this one.”

Lando shook his head. “Nope. Not a clue.”

Oscar wrote down ‘Cat’ and lifted his board.

“Correct again!” the host called.

Oscar smiled fondly. “She taught me that one when we saw a stray kitten near the station. She just went ‘あっ！猫！(Ah! Neko!)’ and ran to pet it. I had no idea what was happening at the time.”

Lando laughed. “You were probably like, ‘Is she casting a spell?’”

Oscar laughed too. “Pretty much.”

“Say something in Japanese!” Lando urged. “Impress me.”

Oscar glanced at the camera and then straightened up a little, his voice soft but confident.

“彼女は僕のすべてです。”

(“Kanojo wa boku no subete desu.”)

(“She is my everything.”)

The room went quiet for a moment. One of the media girls in the background softly whispered, “Oh my god.”

Lando clutched his heart. “Okay, that’s not fair. That’s like weaponized sweetness. How is Yn real?”

Oscar laughed, cheeks tinting pink. “She’s the best. Honestly. I wouldn't have survived half my teen years without her.”

Another word popped up:

"勉強 (benkyou)"

Lando scratched his head again. “Nope. This one’s a mystery.”

Oscar wrote quickly: ‘Study’

“Correct!”

Lando sighed and tossed his marker down. “Okay, clearly you’ve been holding out on us. You’re secretly a genius.”

Oscar laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not even close. It was just hours of flashcards and cuddles and helping her with pronunciation. She wanted to get better at English so badly. I remember staying up with her, going over vocabulary, watching movies with subtitles. We made a deal: if she learned a new English word, I’d learn a new Japanese one.”

Lando stared at him. “You guys are like... the most wholesome couple in F1.”

Oscar smiled shyly. “I’m just proud of her. Moving countries at that age? Learning a whole new language? She’s incredible.”

The last word came up:

"愛 (ai)"

Oscar smiled instantly, no hesitation. He wrote ‘Love’ and lifted the board.

Lando peeked over and then sighed in defeat. “You know what? I’m just going to go cry in the car.”

The media team burst into laughter.

“I think we all need to find someone like Yn,” one of the camera guys said.

“She sounds like a dream,” another added.

Oscar leaned toward the mic. “She’s real. And she’s watching this, probably shaking her head because I still mess up my particles sometimes.”

Back at home, Yn was sitting on the couch, curled up with a blanket and a cup of matcha, her laptop open and the McLaren video playing.

When Oscar said, “彼女は僕のすべてです,” she smiled so hard her cheeks ached.

She grabbed her phone and texted him:

“You’re such a show-off. But I love you.”

He replied a minute later:

“愛してるよ (Aishiteru yo). You taught me that.”

Later that evening, Oscar came home to find Yn waiting at the door, arms crossed, a playful glint in her eye.

“You know, now everyone’s going to expect you to be fluent.”

Oscar grinned and wrapped his arms around her. “That just means you’ll have to keep teaching me.”

She raised a brow. “Alright, then. Let’s see if you remember this one—‘おかえり (okaeri)’.”

He leaned in and whispered, “ただいま (tadaima).”

(Welcome home / I’m home.)

She kissed him softly. “Perfect.”

And somewhere online, the McLaren video was trending under the caption:

“Oscar speaks fluent love.”

🧡🦊🪸🍁🧡🦊🪸🍁🧡🦊🪸🍁🧡🦊🪸🍁

Hello, my lovely reader. I hope you all enjoyed reading my story. Send me some requests if you have any wishes.

Also, I tried my best with Japanese, so please forgive me if there are any mistakes.

See ya next time!

-Cami🧡🦊🪸🍁

[solxamber]

Floyd, Romantic, [Obsessed by Sophie Powers and Ashley Sienna]

Thank you, Sol. I love you and your writing! So much so, that I hav notifications enabled for Tumblr on Do Not Disturb. 💚

that's so flattering omg <3 and I'm probably blowing your notifs up with my yapping oops

"Obsessed" || Floyd Leech

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠: Obsessed by Sophie Powers and Ashley Sienna

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 440

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: Suggestive Content, (Implied) FWB to Lovers

Floyd is a walking red flag, a living, breathing warning sign. His moods swing like a wrecking ball, his sharp teeth flash too often, and he looks at people like they’re little toys just waiting to be broken.

And yet, you want him.

It’s ridiculous. You could have anyone. You are the moment, the one everyone knows, the one everyone wants. People look at you and fall over themselves trying to get your attention, but it’s wasted on them, because you only have eyes for Floyd Leech.

And what’s worse? He knows.

You should hate the smug way he grins when he catches you staring. Should be embarrassed when he yanks you into some dark corner, presses his lips to yours, and mumbles against your skin about how funny you are—so obvious, so easy to read.

But you don’t. You live for it. You love the chase, the thrill, the secrecy. The way he gets bored of everything except for you.

And when he kisses you, when his sharp teeth scrape over your lips and he hums like he’s tasting something sweet, you feel like you’re unraveling.

Maybe it’s dangerous. Maybe you should want something safer, something softer.

But you don’t.

You want Floyd.

You want the way he grabs your wrist and tugs you into empty classrooms between lectures. The way he leans against walls, watching you with lazy eyes like he’s already planning the next time he’ll get you alone. The way he pulls you into his lap and drags his teeth over your throat, grinning against your skin when you shiver.

You should be ashamed of how desperate you are for him, but you’re not.

You’re obsessed.

You want more. More of his hands on your skin. More of his lips on yours. More of his time, his attention, his everything.

And Floyd—he’s unpredictable, but even he has limits.

So when you’re tangled up together, limbs loose and breaths even, he hums, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Shrimpy,” he drawls, voice slow and lazy. “You ever gonna be mine for real?”

It takes you a second to process, your heartbeat stuttering in your chest.

You don’t answer—not with words, at least. Instead, you push yourself up, cupping his face in your hands, and kiss him like you need him to breathe.

He groans into your mouth, fingers digging into your hips.

You pull away just enough to meet his gaze, to see the flicker of something wild in his eyes before you murmur against his lips, “I already am.”

And when he grins, all teeth and danger, you think you might never get enough of him.

Masterlist ; Valentine's Event