#and turning it into a lower-key version

[coldgoldlazarus]

Lewa: Dual axes, that split into dual VTOL glider wings that mount to her arms, and dual bladed tonfa; extra weapon is an additional logging axe.

Matau: Dual single-sided straightswords that mount on his back and split into biplane wings; plus a rotary saw staff as a backup.

Kongu: Laser Crossbow with a blue core. Extra tool is a big lasso for wrangling Rahi; and of course Kongu's decked out with multiple Cordak Launchers because two hands :)

Tahu: Lava board that splits into four; giant dual greatswords, and slightly less giant dual backup swords. His extra weapon? Dual backup backup swords. And as a bonus, he gets a pair of battle flags, that are also dual backup backup backup swords. And if he ever runs out of physical swords, he can use his elemental powers to make a flame sword. Sword.

Ekimu: Giant forging mallet, with an adjoining circular buckler shield with a sawblade function. The two can be combined into a weird tricycle for mobility. No swords in sight, except the ones that come out of his forge.

Jaller: Big circular shield that can be thrown like a disk, and an adjoining Laser polearm of some sort, with a green core. His extra weapon is one(1) singular, reasonable shortsword. (And obligatory Cordak Launcher)

[itwoodbeprefect]

one thing that's good about every version of cherry magic is that by virtue of its core premise, and, indeed, the full title of the japanese series (Cherry Magic! Thirty Years of Virginity Can Make You a Wizard?!) you know that you will be getting at least one character who is at least thirty years old. and i can't tell you how much i love when characters are at least thirty years old. it's excellent, we should do more of that

[windor-truffle]

like most songs, Mamoritai White Wishes sounds haunting in minor key 😅

[sacred-treasure]

𝘿𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙧

𝗙𝗨𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗚𝗨𝗥𝗢 𝗧𝗢𝗝𝗜 𝘅 𝗙𝗘𝗠!𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥

Summary: Toji comes home after a long shift to you, his sweet roommate, asleep on the couch. His innocent admiration turns into something darker as he gives into repressed desires

Warnings: dark content!!—dubcon, somnophilia (touching over clothes, reader orgasms while asleep), age gap (toji's in his 40s, reader's in her early 20s), pet names, smut, 18+, do not read if any of these are upsetting to you!!

Word Count: 2.75k

Author's Note: This is loosely based off of @holeforzenin's Roommate Toji series. That version of Roommate!Toji would not do something like this, but the idea of that dynamic had us both reeling and I absolutely had to write something about it!!

Toji was tired. No, exhausted.

He’s honestly not sure there’s a word in the dictionary that can truly sum up the total depletion of energy from his overworked muscles. Each work day is never just as short as the schedule says and with him working a blue collared job, there’s absolutely no way he gets to clock out unscathed.

Every night he comes home to a silent apartment, a cold bed, and dinner already packed up in two tupperware containers in the fridge. They have matching sticky notes attached to them; one says “dinner!” and the other says “for lunch!”, and if he’s honest, he finds the little smiley faces you draw beside the messages endearing. But he probably would never admit to it. Not to your face, at least.

He’s used to the hum of the microwave as he lets the scent of spices from your cooking fill the small space of the kitchen. Toji may not be good at expressing it but he’s truly quite thankful to have you around the apartment. It’s hard enough having a job that demands every waking moment from him—not to mention the stacks of billing statements sitting on the dining table—but having to plan meals after each night is truly something he doesn’t have time for.

But tonight, he has something better than a homemade meal waiting for him.

Toji unlocks the front door with one of the keys attached to the old carabiner hanging off his belt loop, the simple action feeling immensely laborious. Grabbing hold of the doorframe, he toes off his shoes one after the other and neatly sets them beside your pair of converse, the soles scuffed and worn with their age. When he finally raises his head, he’s met with your sleeping form draped across the couch.

Typically, you finish separating his meals after eating a portion yourself and spend the rest of the night in your room studying until your brain physically can’t cram any more information inside of it. He never asks for your attention, though he misses it dearly at night, and tends to cling onto the memories of your laughter filling the living room.

A sudden applause snaps him back to the present and he turns his head toward the sound. The television is still on, one of the old cartoons you mentioned you grew up watching plays softly in the background. He scoffs and shakes his head at some joke that falls flat before stepping with heavy feet further into the apartment until he’s towering over the couch where you lay.

The light from the screen bathes your face in a warm glow. He takes this moment to really commit your features to memory, although he doesn’t know the exact reasoning behind his actions. The scene from the show changes and the colors illuminating your face alter their hue. He thinks you look pretty like this, peaceful at last after all your running around between chores, classes, and work.

Toji doesn’t even think before reaching down and tucking a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. Your nose crinkles from the tickle of his finger brushing across your cheek, but your eyes remain shut. A smile tugs at his lips as he finds the action kind of adorable.

His eyes begin to wander lower as he focuses on each one of your steady breaths. The rise and fall of your body is accentuated by the thin tank top that clings to your chest, the strap beginning to slip off your shoulder and exposing another inch to the line of your cleavage. He feels heat slowly begin to crawl up his neck and he immediately fixes his gaze on the wall above your head.

“Fuck, Fushiguro, you know better,” he scolds himself.

Has it been a while? Yes. Has he ever viewed you in that light before? Well, if he’s honest it has crossed his mind. He can’t exactly blame himself. All he’s had time for is work and barely getting enough rest before doing it all over again the next day. There hasn't been time to even think about getting into a relationship, much less having time to find someone for sex.

However, having a cute, young girl in the house certainly makes things interesting. He’s only had thoughts that involve you for a brief moment, and the second he realizes what he’s imagining, he forces himself to stop.

Though, there’s something about this scene that stirs in his stomach before settling below his belt. It’s a feeling he can’t name, but one that isn’t altogether unfamiliar. It’s something akin to lust, but there’s another emotion curled around it—guilt, or maybe shame. He knows the role he plays in your life and he knows damn well he shouldn’t even be considering something like this.

But today Toji is just too tired.

That indescribable feeling in the pit of his stomach returns but for once, he allows it to stay. His fingers reach for the remote to the television, sparing only one glance to press a soft button to mute the sound before placing it back on the table. 

You look so pretty like this: hair sprawled out across the throw pillow, lips parted slightly with silent snores, pretty legs draped along the length of the couch. He doesn’t know why, but even with all the immense tons of guilt, he can’t stop himself from sinking down on the cushions beside you.

He tells himself he’ll only touch for a second. That’s all—he just needs one second to feel your warmth. But once his hand finally touches you for himself, he wonders why the hell he hasn’t done it sooner.

Soft doesn’t even begin to scrape the surface of just how heavenly you feel. His calloused palms lightly trail over the length of your shin, fingers curling around your smooth skin before brushing his thumb over your knee. Each touch is soaked in affection in its own specific way. Toji’s emotions blend and create something new he’s never felt before.

He lets out a heavy sigh through his nose as he halts his movements altogether. Reasoning and desire fight within him, his head is screaming protests that are ignored as his body’s instincts win the internal battle.

As he shoves the remaining guilt aside, that small spark in his stomach roars to life.

Toji leans down and presses his scarred lips to the bend of your knee. The touch is featherlight and innocent in its own way. With the close proximity, he can smell the scent of your body wash layered underneath the sweet smell of the lotion you lather yourself with after each shower.

The contact of his warm skin is met with goosebumps and he watches with awe as they scatter along the expanse of your leg. A smirk tugs at his mouth when he sees just how sensitive you are, even while unconscious. His eyes trail along your thigh, watching as the bumps spread higher and higher before they disappear under the hem of your pajama shorts.

The thin matching set you’re wearing does nothing but aid in the sense of guilt he’s already drowning in. It reminds him of how vulnerable you look like this, but he tries to reason with himself that he’s been good up until now, right?

His rough fingertips glide over your thigh but come to a full stop when they’re engulfed in the warmth pooling from your core. He hasn’t felt anything so welcoming in months—he doesn’t remember the last time he felt another person’s presence, besides the little moments he’s spent with you. But sexually? He feels like a goddamn teenager all over again.

The twitch of his cock behind his jeans is undeniable and he’s gritting his teeth in frustration at just how easily this is getting to him. But still, he presses on, his thumb swiftly pulling the hole of your shorts to the side and exposing your pink panties.

“Shit,” he mutters to himself in the otherwise silent room. The tension is so thick he wonders if choking on the air would be enough to kill him or if his racing heart would give out first. His hand moves of its own accord, traveling down to the worn denim and cupping the growing bulge below his belt. It’s screaming for relief, for any kind of friction, and his palm does little to stop the continuous blood flowing to the area.

Toji hesitantly reaches for your clothed center, his fingers pressing gently to the supple skin between your thighs. The heat nearly makes him flinch and he swears he hasn’t felt something this soft in his entire life. You let out a quiet sound from his touch as you stir in your sleep. His eyes widen like a deer caught in headlights but you merely change the angle of your arm before drifting back off once more.

Toji swallows once before continuing, his eyes trained on the barely noticeable line along the center of your panties. His thumb reaches blindly to the gentle slope of your body and makes contact with your clit. He applies the slightest bit of pressure, smiling as he notices the way your leg twitches, unsure of whether to close or not.

Your head turns and your eyebrows pull together in pleasure at the slow circling of his thumb. On a particular hard press, your breath hitches before breaking off in a pitchy whine. He’s absolutely certain he’s never heard anything sound as sweet as that noise and he’s determined to hear more.

He runs his pointer finger along the center of your folds and watches in awe as the fabric darkens immediately from your slick. He feels his body react strongly to the sight and suddenly his own underwear are sticking to him after a rush of precum leaks from his swollen tip. His freehand curls around his cock and squeezes just underneath the head, refusing to loosen his grip.

The sensation of the damp fabric sticking to your most sensitive area has a shiver creeping up your spine and your skin pebbles once more. Toji’s lust-filled, green eyes follow them in their wake up until they dive under the thin material of your tank top. Your nipples harden in response, peeking the fabric as they stiffen.

This is the most restraint Toji has ever shown in his life, he’s absolutely sure of it.

Every nerve in his body is set alight and is screaming out to touch you more, touch you the way he truly wants. His mind floods with the most perverted images: your eyes shiny with unfallen tears, his name falling from your swollen lips, you seeking him out when you just can’t finish yourself off. Every scene piles on top of the one before until anything left of his conscience is fully submerged in the thought of you.

“T…Toji?” Your voice weakly calls out into the quiet space, shattering the silence. His eyes immediately lock onto yours, taking in the dazed expression on your face. You’re blinking sleep out of your eyes but still drowning in the unconscious fog you were just under.

“Shh, shh, shh,” Toji placates gently, neither of his hands even attempting to stop their motions.

“W-What are you doing?” The tremor in your voice is notable as your gaze casts downwards, watching his wrist moving between your thighs. You gasp at the feeling, suddenly aware of how alarmingly tight the coil inside your stomach already is. “Mmm, Toji, I don’t know if you should be—,” you attempt to warn him, but he cuts you off once more.

“Let me take care of you. Just like I always do, right?” His deep voice is different than you’ve ever heard before. It’s rougher now, something gravely laced into his tone that isn’t the usual fatigue that you’re used to hearing after his late night shifts.

“I take care of you, don’t I, sweetheart?” He presses further, awaiting an answer. You hesitantly nod your head before resting it back against the pillow you had been sleeping on, letting the sensations of his experienced hands roll over your tired body.

“Attagirl, there she is. I got you,” he mutters to himself as he sees your eyes beginning to flutter shut. He pulls his hand away from your clit and begins to rub the inside of your thigh soothingly. His touch makes the slight panic flea your mind, he can physically see the tension leave your body as you give into your unconsciousness lulling you under the waves once more.

“So good for me…” The whispered words fall on deaf ears but he smiles at your features falling back into the peaceful state again. His cock is pulsing faster than the rise and fall of your chest, aching to be freed from the old denim of his jeans. But he focuses all his attention on you instead.

He brings his calloused palm back between your legs to cup your covered pussy once more. This time, he tugs at the bow at the center of the waistband, watching with a stifled groan as the panties bunch up between your folds. The action only defines your body even further and he has to bite back the urge to tear the fabric entirely.

“You’re fuckin’ ruining me,” Toji grunts as he presses his thumb back to your clit. He moves quicker this time, determined to make you feel good. He applies more pressure on each circle around your sensitive spot and your body begins to reel from it all.

Your thighs shut around his hand, rocking up into his touch subconsciously. Small whines begin cascading from your mouth and it only spurs him on further.

Toji doesn’t slow his actions when he notices you coming for him. He merely watches as your back arches, hips chasing after your orgasm as breathy, broken sounds spill past your parted lips. Your stomach clenches, thighs tensing as your hand comes to weakly push his larger one away when the pleasure blurs into overstimulation.

“Tojiiiii.” Another weak whimper escapes your slumber as your leg faintly twitches with his slow circles. Pride soaks the smile that adorns his face and he can’t even help the whispered praise that leaves him.

“Good girl. Did so, so well,” his speaks softly, the words dripping with adoration. You begin to move again and his eyes follow to your fingers that softly curl around his palm. There’s a fondness in his chest as he watches you reach out to him, looking for his support even in your subconsciousness.

Any remaining energy is completely drained from your body after the orgasm he brought forth. He watches your body fall into a deeper sleep than before he even interrupted, your chest reverting to its slow rise and fall. He gives a light squeeze to your curled fingers before standing up to finally retreat to his room for the first time tonight.

“Get some rest, pretty,” he whispers against your forehead as he bends down. His lips press a gentle kiss to your temple as he cups the back of your head, the act completely innocent in nature.

When Toji finally sinks into the soft mattress of his bed, he’s drowning in the memories of what just occurred. His cock still aches for his attention, swollen tip flushed and shiny with precum. He frees himself from the confines of the denim, wincing when his hard length slaps up against his stomach. The same hand that brought on your orgasm wraps around his thick dick. It doesn’t take long until he’s spilling white, a choked back grunt stuck in his throat as he pictures your soaked panties.

The next morning, the both of you dance around each other with a thickness in the air. Toji’s unable to meet your eyes due to the knowledge of what he’s done.

“Did you sleep well?” You ask innocently from the kitchen counter, your back facing the man twice your age. Toji chokes on his coffee, setting the mug down all too fast while clutching his chest.

“Shit,” he curses as he catches his breath. “Y-yeah. Guess I did?” The statement twists highest at the end and comes across as more of a question. “Late night. ‘M beat. How about you, kid?”

“I slept okay, I think? Had a weird dream last night,” your voice grows quieter as the flashes of Toji’s face foggily return to your brain. “Felt so realistic, though…”

[strawberrystepmom]

dante x f!reader. established relationship, fluff. | wc 807, reading time: less than 5 minutes.

“Oh shit!”

You exclaim too quickly as you walk into your kitchen after tossing your keys and bag aside and taking your shoes off. The wall between the entryway and the kitchen is a blind spot, leaving you unprepared to walk in on a towel clad, still dripping from the shower version of Dante who grins and points at you.

“Welcome ho-o-o-me.”

He sings his greeting while you press your hand against your chest, trying to catch your breath and slow your heart rate from the surprise of seeing him. It’s never that shocking that he makes his way into your apartment, he does know where the spare key is. A spare key that is just the one you had made for him he insisted that he couldn’t take so you hid it in a place you knew he’d find it.

Clearly it has been used.

You eye him up and down though it’s playful, folding your arms over your chest while approaching him.

“Let me guess. You used the good stuff in the shower and have finished off the last of the juice by now too, right?”

Dante shrugs in response, turning the shrug into a shimmy that gradually becomes something more frenetic, his whole body moving in response. The ends of his hair drip onto your floor yet it’s impossible to do much but smile sweetly at his rolling chest and shaking hips.

“Is this your version of a mating dance?” Whispering out of the corner of your mouth, you raise your brows while wrapping an arm around his moving hips. “I feel like a girl bird or something right now.”

“Dunno, is it working?”

Shaking your head, you grin up at him. Distraction successful, he notes to none but himself.

“Hi handsome,” the words are muffled while you press a kiss to his smiling mouth.

Dante’s hand naturally falls to the small of your back and he pulls you against him, chest to chest, and swaying softly in place with you. You look down to check on your feet, quickly returning them upward to glance at him. Those pretty blue eyes stare down at you, his lips curling into a fond smile when his eyes fall upon the crinkle of your nose.

You lean against his bicep, letting him rock you at a rhythm nobody but him can hear.

Copying the little sing-song in his voice from earlier, you raise your eyebrows expectantly while asking. “Seriously, what are you doing?”

He pulls you tighter against him and you place your feet atop his, letting him take full control of whatever is happening. A big hand slides from your lower back to your ass, cupping it gently. The damp towel over his thighs gets the front of you wet but whatever worry it causes fades away while you let him step you around, holding onto you and swinging you in a makeshift circle. He indicates he’s about to dip you and you giggle, bending backward over his arm and wrinkling your nose again while he leans in to collect a small kiss.

“Making myself at home just like you always tell me to.”

Grinning, another giggle springs out of you.

“You mean it this time?”

A stronger man would stick to his values and say no. He’d avoid this - the domesticity that makes a wild man tame and lazy. He’d decline the comfort of your shampoo and sheets, the fridge that’s always semi full, the pleasure of seeing the owner of his favorite pair of lips and hands and other things in her natural habitat.

A man is only as strong as his biggest weakness. Dante’s fortunate that his weakness possesses so much strength of her own, enough to keep pushing the issue until you knew he’d eventually give in.

He nods, his amused-at-your-surprise smile fading into something fond. A knowing smirk perhaps, always certain that you knew he’d end up giving in eventually. A simple bow of his head puts it just above yours.

“Yeah,” he kisses you and you greedily allow it, the dancing pausing while his towel slides a little lower on his hips. Both of you burst into a fit of childish giggles, the arm you have slung around his waist pinning the towel in place to keep him decent.

“Think I’d have to be an idiot to keep leaving such a good thing.”

His lips barely part from yours yet he continues to speak, the dancing paused in favor of touching, hand sliding across every still clothed part of you they can touch. Lost in the moment, you slide your arm upward and the towel wrapped around his hips falls to your feet.

“Yeah, I think so too.” You whisper, lifting a foot to kick the towel aside while he reaches to grab your thigh and wrap your leg around his waist.

Never one to miss a signal, you hop up and wrap them both around him, resuming your giggling and kissing while being carried off to christen the couch like it hasn’t been done a thousand times before.

At least it’s a couch you technically share now.

[baigepueckers]

Caitlin Clark X Reader

Muscle Memory

You notice it first when she wraps her arms around your waist one night after practice.

You’re in her apartment, standing in front of the stove, not actually cooking but sort of staring into the bubbling water like it might make dinner appear if you wait long enough. The light above the sink flickers. You’re wearing one of Caitlin’s old Iowa tees…it hangs just above your thighs, soft from too many washes…and thick socks to protect your feet from the cold tile.

She comes in quiet, like always, keys hitting the counter, shoes kicked off by the door. You don’t turn…you never need to. You just wait.

And then two strong arms slide around your waist. No warning. No hello. Just Caitlin, pulling you into her chest like she needs to make sure you’re real. Her hands splay over your stomach, her chin finding its way to your shoulder, her breath warm against your neck.

You let out a little sound…half laugh, half exhale. “Hi to you too.”

“Missed you” she mumbles into your skin, her voice scratchy with fatigue. But her grip doesn’t match it. Her grip is sure. Firm. And strong. Stronger than it used to be. You notice the way her forearms press into you, the way her biceps flex slightly as she holds you tighter, and it sends a flutter through your chest…and lower.

You lean back into her instinctively. She notices.

“You’re not even cooking” she says, lips brushing your jaw. Her teasing is lazy, affectionate.

“You’re not even letting me breathe.”

But you don’t move. Not one inch. You just let yourself melt into her hold, grounding yourself in the feeling of her arms around you. Her strength. It’s new, in a way. Not that Caitlin was ever weak, but this version of her…post rookie year, offseason trained, muscles earned…is next level. Her arms aren’t just toned now they’re powerful. Full of intent. Evidence of every lift, every sweat soaked session, every morning she chose work over rest.

And the way she holds you? It’s like she knows. Like she likes knowing that you notice.

“You’re the one leaning into me” she murmurs, her smirk audible in her voice.

“Hard not to when you’re built like this,” you shoot back, tipping your head slightly so your temple rests against hers.

She laughs, low and smug. “Built like what?”

“Like you could pin me to the wall or carry me bridal style to bed with one arm.”

Now she really laughs…full bodied and warm. She nuzzles your neck, squeezing your waist just enough to make you gasp.

“Noted.”

You think you imagined the effect…the subtle awe you felt…until the next afternoon at the gym.

Caitlin’s in a white cutoff tee, arms bare, ponytail bouncing as she runs drills. You’re sitting cross legged on the sideline, water bottle beside you, phone in your lap, pretending to check emails but really just… watching. Tracking every movement. Every flick of her wrist, every step back, every gather and rise. The way her biceps tighten as she pulls up. The control in her forearms when she holds her follow through. You can see the muscle in her shoulders shift under the shirt, the hint of sweat glistening along the curve of her arms.

She’s not showing off. She never does. But God, she doesn’t need to.

You catch yourself biting your lip.

Caitlin jogs over to grab her towel, pausing when she sees the look on your face. She raises an eyebrow. “Need something?”

You blink up at her, throat dry. “Yeah.”

She cocks her head. “Yeah?”

“To bite your arm” you say, deadpan.

She freezes. Then bursts out laughing. “My arm?!”

You nod solemnly, standing to meet her at eye level. “It’s not normal how good they look. You’ve crossed into new territory. I need to make sure you know.”

She grins, flushed but pleased. “I lift one offseason and now you’re feral.”

You shrug. “It’s not just the muscle. It’s the way you use it.”

She steps closer, leaning in so her lips brush the shell of your ear. “You’ll get your chance later.”

You don’t say a word. You just shiver.

And later comes…late, long after the sun has gone down and your bodies are wrapped up in each other in the quiet of her bed.

She’s lying beside you, skin flushed, still breathing heavy, the sheets low on her hips. You’re tangled against her chest one leg thrown over hers, your hand resting on the arm curled around your waist. You trace her bicep absently, fingers dancing along the skin, feeling how solid she is beneath your touch.

“You worked hard for these” you whisper, almost reverent.

She hums, brushing her nose against your hair. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I can feel it. When you hold me down. When you lift me. Even when you’re just… touching me.”

You glance up. She’s watching you with soft eyes, a hint of pride in them. And something else too…something tender. Like she’s grateful you see her this way.

“You like it?” she asks quietly.

“I love it.”

You bring her hand to your lips, pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist, then to the crook of her elbow, and then slowly, teasingly…you sink your teeth into the curve of her arm, just enough to leave a mark.

She lets out a soft gasp, eyes fluttering shut.

“You weren’t kidding,” she mutters, half-laugh, half sigh.

“Never am.”

And the way she looks at you..like she could take you apart with just her arms and then hold you together again with the same strength…makes your stomach twist with something warm, something heavy, something safe.

She pulls you closer. You go willingly.

Because Caitlin Clark might be strong enough to carry a team.

But tonight, she’s strong enough to hold you.

And she does.

One arm tucked beneath your shoulders, the other draped across your lower back, her hand pressing gently against your spine like she’s memorizing the shape of you. You breathe her in…the clean sweat of her skin, the worn cotton of her tank top, the sweet breath of exhaustion in her chest. Her fingers trace slow, lazy patterns along your side, like she’s still too wired to sleep but not willing to let go of you even for a second.

You shift slightly to nuzzle against her neck. Her pulse is steady there, strong under your lips.

“Do you feel it?” she whispers after a long silence.

You tilt your head up. “Feel what?”

She flexes her arm around you, just barely. Not showing off. Just holding you tighter…like she’s asking, this?

You nod. “Yeah. I feel it.”

“It’s not just muscle,” she says quietly. “It’s… I don’t know. I think part of me did it for you.”

Your chest tightens. You pull back just enough to meet her eyes. “Cait…”

She shrugs, suddenly bashful. “I mean, yeah, I needed to get stronger for the season. But I also wanted to feel good… look good when I held you. Wanted you to feel safe. Wanted you to see me and think… she’s got me.”

You’re quiet for a second. Just staring at her. Letting it sink in.

“You’re ridiculous” you whisper, threading your fingers through hers.

She smiles faintly. “You love it.”

You nod. “I do.”

Then, lower: “I love you.”

And the way her arms wrap around you then full bodied, all in, every inch of her pulling you close until your heart is against hers…makes you feel like you could stay right here forever. Wrapped up in her strength, her softness, her everything.

She kisses your forehead once, then your cheek, then your lips. Slow. Unrushed. As if she knows there’s nowhere else either of you needs to be.

Eventually, you feel her start to drift her breath slowing, her muscles easing, her grip still firm but more tender now. You curl into her, safe and weightless, letting her hold all of you.

And she does. All night.

[harryspet]

well kept [2] r. cameron

[warnings] dark!ceo!rafe x reader, size difference, billionaire!older!rafe, shy!reader with low self-esteem, reader is a person who stutters, boss x personal assistant, heavy abuse of power, emotional/mental manipulation, NONCON, little editing, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK 18+

A/N: Pls reblog and let me know what you think!

word count: 4.5k

In which you officially enter into a world of high stakes and intense demands.

well kept masterlist

Your fingers traced the smooth edge of the new work bag that sat on your desk, a pristine luxury item whose brand you didn’t immediately recognize. It was medium-sized, big enough to fit your brand-new laptop, and an off-white color with pebble-textured leather. 

“Wow, you clean up nice,” came a voice from behind you. You turned to find Eleanor approaching, coffee in hand.

Instinctively, you pulled down your skirt as she looked you over. You were effortlessly polished, for sure. You usually only get your hair professionally done for special occasions, opting for simple protective styles you could do yourself. However, you had to admit you felt pretty with your hair in a neat, braided rose that reached down to your lower back. 

The clothes only amplified this unfamiliar sensation. After trying on eight outfits the previous night, you had settled on a cherry-red cropped blazer and a matching pleated skirt. You’d chosen the shortest heels Rafe had sent—a pair of white kitten heels adorned with gold bows. Your makeup, subtly applied, complemented the overall look.

Eleanor set her things down, straightened, and placed a hand on her slender hips. “Take your bag,” she said. “I’ll show you where Rafe expects you to work.”

“I thought that was my desk.”

“He’ll tell you where you need to be and when you need to be there.”

Her answer was simple enough. 

You entered the luxurious space that Rafe called an office once again. Even when he wasn’t in the room, you were intimidated by it, “He had this brought in for you,” Facing the wall on the side of the room that held Rafe’s desk, in the corner, was a simple mahogany desk. The miniature version of Rafe’s desk. A cushioned stool was placed underneath and on top were a notebook, a cup of pens, and a small lamp, “This is where he’ll expect you most mornings. You’re to review his calendar before he arrives, memorize it, and you’ll brief him on the day when he walks in.”

“I’m ssss-supposed to be in here with him …all day? What if I, you know, need you?”

“I’m right down the hallway, or you can email me.”

Eleanor spent the next thirty minutes showing you their emailing system and how to access Rafe’s calendar. She even shared a large cheat sheet she’d made with all of Rafe’s preferred restaurants, coffee shops, hotels, and the names and numbers of his home staff.

When she left you alone, you looked around the room. The view of the office from your corner was daunting. However, your heart had been beating too fast ever since you met Rafe. 

You turned your attention back to the calendar system. It was sleek and well-organized, and luckily, it was straightforward enough to navigate. You took note of his key meetings for the day and repeated them over in your head. You wrote down some notes in case your mind drew a blank. It was your first day, and he’d give you some grace, right? 

You needed to be able to anticipate these needs, but all you knew about Rafe Cameron was that he was complex and demanding. 

The sound of footsteps in the corridor drew your attention, and hurriedly, you glanced down at your note sheet again. Standing from your seat, you smoothed out your skirt, and with your notes in hand, you folded your palms in front of you. 

Unconsciously, as he pushed open the doors, you sucked air into your lungs. You held your breath until his eyes met with yours. In comparison to when you first met him, he was dressed down. He wore a short-sleeve black polo black dress pants, black leather penny loafers on his feet and a briefcase in hand. His face was stoic as he looked you over and let the doors close behind him. As big as they were, they were practically silent went they closed, adding to the ominous feeling in the room. 

You smiled, or tried to, “Good morning, Mr. Cameron, I’m–”

“I want you right here,” He interrupted, pointing down at the floor a foot before him. You stepped forward, hoping you wouldn’t trip like you had while practicing walking in them. Despite how he towered over you when you were this close, you made yourself comfortable there, “You’ll be right there every day when I walk in. Try again.”

“Good morning, Mr. Cameron-”

“I prefer Sir.”

Try again. Unfortunately, you were pretty used to being interrupted and forced to stop and start your sentences. “Good morning, Sir.” You were smiling as much as you could, but your throat hurt like your body wanted to cry. “Today, you’ll sss-start with three sss-separate online conferences with potential investors: Mr. Daniel, Mrs. Hunt, and Mr. Rivera. After lunch, you’ll have your weekly group meetings with department heads. You’ll start with Finance at one o’clock, Legal at two, and Design and Architecture at three. Your meeting with Property Management at four o’clock was canceled but rescheduled for Wednesday. For the rest of the day, you will be free to catch up with emails and ssss-submit the …. sss-ssss-strategic plan report you’ve been working on.”

He nodded once throughout your briefing, his face remaining impassive. You thought he might cringe at your mistakes, but he didn’t. You couldn’t help but feel like a strange choice for this job. Why would someone like him want to listen to you? 

“Good,” he confirmed, and you were relieved only for a moment. You were okay until he started to look you over, “Turn around.”

You weren’t sure why you looked in his eyes to see if he was being serious. Of course, he was being serious. Awkwardly, you face away from him until he adds, “In a circle, please.”

You felt your cheeks heat up from embarrassment before you faced him again. 

“I have a question,” You said.

“Yeah?”

“About the clothes. I …I didn’t know if it w-would be okay to return ssss-ssss-some of them. I just, there’s sss-so many.”

“And?” Rafe pressed, his brow furrowed. 

“I-I don’t have that much room for them.”

“Hmm,” He thought briefly, “How’s this? You take a picture of yourself in each outfit and then email them to me, and I’ll decide which ones I want you to wear. But everything red can stay. I like the red.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he brushed past you and returned to his desk. Unsure whether you were supposed to move or stay put, you waited in place. 

“I’ll take a coffee. Black. Thanks.”

Eager to escape the room and not feel the weight of his gaze, you hurried out of the doors. Panicked, you approached Eleanor’s desk, waving your hands to get her attention. She was on the phone, but you mouthed “Coffee.” Acting as your life vest, she pointed you toward one of the many doors that lined the wall across from the reception area. 

Inside, you expected to find a normal breakroom, but the room’s decoration reminded you more of a lounge. Black coffee should be easy enough, but your hands shook slightly as you worked the modern, sleek coffee maker. After you prepared the coffee, you took a breath, and made your way back to his office. You kept yourself as composed as possible, and he glanced up at you briefly as you entered. You set it carefully on the coaster near his computer. 

He didn’t directly look at you or the coffee; you took that as your sign to retreat to your desk. 

You sat quietly as he attended all three of his virtual meetings. Inevitably, you started to listen. Sometimes, you’d tune in, wanting to learn something, but you gave up a few times after realizing how complex things were. 

When he finished all his meetings, he spoke up, “What are the arrangements for lunch?” 

“Lunch …” You echoed, thinking about the calendar you recognize, “Is there sss-something sss-specific you’re in the mood for, sir?”

“On Mondays, I have lunch with my COO and CFO. We have standing reservations at several restaurants. You’ll need to pick one, call, and make sure everyone knows the plans.” 

“Okay,” You nodded, “Yes, sir.”

Was that on the cheat sheet? Had you missed that? After scrolling a few times, you will find the list of restaurants and senior team members. 

You called The Prime, an upscale steakhouse, for Rafe and his senior team, ensuring every detail was perfectly arranged. When it was time to leave, you stood to bid Rafe goodbye, only to be told you were expected to join him. Quickly gathering your things, you followed him down the elevator to the parking garage. Eleanor gave you an encouraging thumbs up and smile as you passed her.

You must’ve looked frightened. 

Rafe’s choice of vehicle, a massive black truck with gleaming rims and immaculate leather seat, wasn’t a surprise, but his courteous gesture was. He opened the door for you and gently placed a hand on your hip to steady you as you navigated the high step into the truck.

“Th-Thank you,” You spoke, your voice small before he closed the door. 

As you sat during the ride, you felt your thighs were too exposed. You crossed your legs, trying to alleviate that feeling, but it proved useless, “You’ll get used to it,” Rafe’s voice snapped you out of being consumed by your thoughts. You hadn’t realized he was even paying attention to you. 

Hesitantly, your eyes roamed over him. His shirt's short sleeves did little to conceal the strength in his arms and the defined lines of his chest. 

“You have a boyfriend?” He asked, his tone relaxed. He wasn’t allowed to ask that, but you recalled the words he had used with you the week prior. Would you fuck him? He’d already crossed a line. You needed to get used to his brashness, “A girlfriend?” He continued. 

“I-I-I,” Breathe in, slowly release, “I don’t.”

“Have you ever had one?”

The underlying implication of his words made you defensive, and you crossed your arms, “Have you, Sir?”

He let our a short laugh, “You just seem a little uptight,” Your lips parted and eyes widened.

“What-”

“I haven’t dated anyone seriously in a while. But you don’t need to date someone seriously to get what you need from them. I guess I’m just wondering if you have someone who . . . relieves your stress.”

“I really, really don’t want to answer that,” You spoke slowly. 

“Relax, we’re just talking. Is this going to be a problem? I’m just trying to get to know my newest employee.”

It felt like a mind game. He wasn’t like anyone you’d ever met before—every word, every glance from him seemed designed to put you on edge, to make you second-guess yourself. 

“No, sir,” You replied, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Are you a virgin, Y/N?” He asked suddenly as if he’d had some brilliant revelation.

“N-No,” You stuttered, lying through your teeth, “I’m not.”

He made a “hmm” sound as he glanced at you, “Of course you’re not. Forgive me; I shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

You understood quickly he wasn’t actually looking for your forgiveness. He was testing you, pushing boundaries just to see how you’d react. 

When you arrived, Rafe pulled up to the valet stand, and a nicely dressed attendant quickly came over to open your door. You managed to step out with as much grace as you could muster, feeling the weight of Rafe’s eyes on you as you did. He was out of the truck in a heartbeat, striding around to join you, his hand again guiding you with that firm touch on your lower back. It was possessive, a silent declaration that you belonged to him, at least for the duration of this lunch.

The restaurant's setting was sophisticated and private, and you reached the table reserved for your group. The two of you were last to arrive, which meant all eyes fell on you as Rafe pulled out a chair for you right next to his seat. Two men were at the table, and you were taken aback by the fact that they were as young as Rafe. 

“Guys, this is Y/N,” Rafe gestured to you, making himself comfortable, “Y/N, meet Topper Thornton and Kelce Adams.”

You managed to speak to them, though your words stumbled slightly. They eyed you the same way Rafe often did, like prey. You could almost imagine your name listed on the menu in front of them. But Rafe, with a swift shift in conversation, cut off their questions, his tone a clear warning. When you took a bit too long to decide on your meal, Rafe didn’t hesitate. He ordered for you the moment the waiter arrived, a subtle reminder of the control he held over every aspect of your life, even what you ate.

You couldn’t help but notice that Topper shared Eleanor’s last name. Were they married? Siblings? The thought lingered as you made a mental note to ask her later. Without another word, you pulled out your notebook, ready to take notes for the meeting.

Something in his last meeting had angered him. When he returned to his office, you watched him cross the room; your mouth wanted to form the words to ask, “What’s wrong?” but your lips pressed into a thin line instead. 

As he settled in his desk, you pretended to be engrossed in your notes, hoping to avoid his attention. Ignoring the cold air in the room and the dark cloud hovering above him grew impossible. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched him. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers and tapped at the surface of his desk. Was it anxiety he was feeling? 

“Come here, Y/N?”

Startled, you dropped your pen on the floor, the sound making him fully turn his head towards you. Awkwardly, you picked it up and set it down on your desk. You fixed your skirt as you crossed the distance between his desk and yours to keep it from riding up. 

“Yes, sss-sir?” 

His eyes were dark as he spun his chair to face you, “Tell me,” He began, “What do you think you did wrong today?”

Your mind raced. Did you do something wrong that you hadn’t realized? There were plenty of mistakes, but it was only your first day and you’d been completely thrown out of your comfort zone. 

“I’m not ssss-sssure, sss-sir,” Your voice was barely above a whisper, a grimace on your face as you tried to force out the words. 

“Not sure?” He echoed. 

“I should’ve know t-t-to …” You pushed through that “stuck” feeling, “Make your lunch reservations.”

“That’s one.”

“Uhm,” Your voice trailed off as your bottom lip shook. You felt like a child being scolded. Why did you keep freezing? Why did you let him speak to you that way? “I-I-I-I-I…”

“Does it hurt, you know, when it gets that bad?” Rafe leaned back in his chair, his arms folded against his chest, now looking at you with curiosity and frustration.

You shook your head because it was all you could manage.

“You can’t think of anything else, huh?”

“I’m sss-sss-sorry,” As a tear fell from your eye, he stood from his chair. 

He shushed you, grabbing ahold of the top of your arms, “You know I could have chose anyone for this job?”

You nodded. 

“But I chose you,” You nodded again, “I do love to see you apologize, sweetheart, but you have to know what you’re apologizing for.”

“I’m sss-sssory,” You couldn’t help the apology that tumbled out again, “Fff-for not knowing.”

“There you go, yeah, that’s better,” He pulled you closer, and you felt his hand brush the strands of your hair over your shoulder, keeping it from your face, “I told you this would be a mutually beneficial relationship. You need money, someone to care take care of you… I need ... I need you. When you’re with me, you’re mine to do with as I please. Do you understand?”

You nodded, feeling like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. He dominated the space, his presence suffocating, and the fear of displeasing him made your breath catch in your throat. The boundaries between you blurred even further, leaving you more trapped than ever.

“Good girl,” one of his hands wrapped around the side of your neck. His gaze pierced into yours, his mind racing behind them, and he sighed as he mentally concluded, “I can’t punish you just yet.”

“Punish?” You asked in a whisper, his face moving in closer. 

“You gotta learn somehow, right?”

Your eyes darted from his eyes to his lips, panicked. Nothing could have prepared you for him smashing his lips against yours. One hand was on your neck, and the other wrapped behind you, pulling you into him. Even as his kiss overwhelmed you, your mind couldn’t let go of the word he had just used—punish.

“I have to fuck you. I have to,” He growled between kisses. 

Your hands pushed at his chest, but it was like trying to move a brick wall, “Please, Rafe,” You tried to say. Part of you thought using his real name would snap him from his trance, but he groaned into your mouth. 

You’d never been kissed like this; no one had ever explored you with their tongue, and part of your mind seemed to rejoice. The other part, the rational one, told you to escape. You started to use your strength to pull from him as you stepped backward, but that only made him grip you harder. 

You yelped, and when Rafe opened his eyes again, he smiled. Whatever weighed heavy on his mind before had clearly been relieved by the game he was trying to play. You stumbled back when he let you go, almost falling on your behind, “Go on,” He said with a smirk, “Just makes it more fun for me.”

Of all the games, you liked this one the least. You turned to flee, but before you could reach the door, he lifted you off the ground. You screamed, and the next thing you knew, you were being thrown onto the couch. Rafe pinned you down easily, his weight crushing you as he reached for your legs. You shut your thighs tightly, and his glare felt like a knife in your side.

“Do not!” He exploded, and you whimpered, “Hey, hey, sweetheart, I don’t want you to ever close your legs to me.” 

“Rafe, please … please d-don’t,” Someone would hear. Eleanor would hear, wouldn’t she? She’d stop him before he went too far. 

“God, I’d beat your fucking ass if I didn’t need to be inside of you right now,” He growled, prying your legs apart and tearing away your underwear as soon as he could feel it. He wrapped one hand around your throat, squeezing just enough to keep you pinned down, while the other undid his belt. “You don’t make demands anymore, do you understand?”

“I’ve-I’ve nnn-never…”

Understanding flashed in his eyes. 

“You're a fucking virgin?” You nodded, feeling a small piece of hope, “We can add lying to that list of things you’ve done wrong, huh?”

He seemed to pause which you felt grateful for. His belt was already undone, his hips sinking into yours, “No one’s ever tasted you?” You shook your head, “You’ve never had a cock in your mouth either?”

You looked away, embarrassed. 

“Fuck,” He breathed out, “You’re gonna be all mine.” 

“Please-” You tried again, but he silenced you, pressing his lips to yours again. 

This time, he was more deliberate with his movements. His hands traveled higher, and he reached into your shirt to gently knead at your breasts. He moved slower like he was savoring the moment. At the same time, you felt even more tortured. Your body betrayed you, responding to his caresses as if they were safe, as if he were someone you trusted. He was making all the right moves and your mind felt even more confused then your body. 

Fingers pinched gently at your nipples and your lips parted into a moan. He used it as an opportunity to explore your mouth further. Next, he moved down your jaw and then he nuzzled his face into your neck. There was a place on your collarbone he’d found, one that made you yelp in pleasure, a spot you didn’t know existed. That’s what he wanted. To conquer you. 

You felt warm between your legs and a slickness as you tried to move your legs. Rafe was still taking his time. He’d lifted your shirt, pulled down your bra, and placed your left breast into his mouth. You cried out, your back arching in an automatic response. If he kept going, you knew you could finish just from this alone, and the thought filled you with a mix of shame and despair.

Slowly, methodically, he dismantled your guard. 

When he sensed you were ready, that he’d successfully turned your body on, he pulled down his briefs. You couldn’t bring yourself to look down. It was gonna hurt, either way, why dwell on the size? “Tell me,” He kissed your jaw, leaning down to your ear, “Ask me to take your virginity.”

You tensed, “I-I d-don’t.”

“I can make it hurt, Y/N,” He warned, “I promise, you want me to be gentle”

He pressed his tip against your entrance, and you were already cringing, “Fucking ask me, or I’ll push it all inside.”

“Will you …t-take my virginity?”

“Please,” he corrected, a dark satisfaction in his tone.“Where’s your manners?”

“Please, take mmm-my vvvv-vvvv-virginity,” He slowly started to enter you, and you pressed your hands against his chest. 

You started to breathe heavily, “T-T-Too mmm-mmm-much.”

He pushed in more, “That’s just half, sweetheart. Take a deeper breath for me."

You listened even though he was hurting you. Even now, you believed him to be better than you. Looking up at him, you slowly breathed in and out. As you controlled your breathing, he started to move in and out of you. He cursed and grunted into your ear, soon falling into a rhythm. 

Pain began to blur with something else, something you didn’t want to acknowledge. 

It was a foreign feeling, being full of him, reaching to parts of you that had never been discovered. The only thing that felt wrong to you was how it was happening. Is this how it always felt? So completely all consuming? You were warm everywhere, a pressure building at your core, and you struggled to make a sound other than a moan. 

With each thrust you let out a yip, not realizing that you’d stopped pushing at his chest and started pawing at it. That only encouraged him further. He reached underneath you, lifting your left leg to your chest, as he grabbed a handful of your ass. He pried you open further in this position and he looked down at you …almost grateful. He was savoring you and every moment that he was touching you, infiltrating your body. You’d never had someone want you like this. 

Before you were even really aware of it, the pressure inside of you had built to a crescendo, and you’d cried out against Rafe’s lips. 

He smiled against yours, “Good girl, sweetheart,” Tears escaped your eyes again, this time because of how confused your hormones were. It felt like an uncontrolled explosion of emotion. 

Now, the sensation actually felt like something you couldn’t physically handle, “Oh my god, o-oh my god, ” You spoke over and over as you went back to pushing at his chest. 

“Stay,” he commanded, his body pressing you down further as he slowed his movements, his rhythm faltering. “I’m almost done,” he added, a hint of amusement in his voice. “You’re squeezing so tight.”

“Please,” you begged, your legs starting to shake. “Please, Rafe.”

Your words seemed to bring his climax. Your second orgasm came painfully, and you scrambled to free yourself from under his weight after he finished sinking into you. Your legs didn’t stop shaking, but at least you could catch your breath. 

Your bare bottom hit the plush carpet of his seating area, listening as Rafe’s heavy breathing slowed. You fixed your bra and top before you started to search for your underwear. To your dismay, they were completely torn. 

“I’ll get you some new ones, some nicer ones, yeah?”

You nodded, though you weren’t sure why. Feeling his gaze, you pushed your skirt down next. Looking down, you realize his remnants were sliding down your thighs. You just shut your legs tighter. A hand on your back made you glance up at him. His eyes were still dark, but there was more satisfaction than before. 

“We’re done for today, but before you leave, uh, Eleanor needs to see you.” 

He stood, and you looked away as he started to zip up his pants and fasten his belt again. 

“Th-That’s it?”

“Until tomorrow,” He said, his tone returned to business, as if the last few minutes were merely part of the workday.

You thought he was returning to his desk, but Rafe walked to your desk and collected your purse and computer. As you stood, your body ached, and you realized how disheveled you must look. Was your makeup smudged across your face? Did he bruise the back of your thighs? 

Rafe brought you your things, his hands finding your lower back, “Go home. Get some rest. And don’t forget about those pictures, yeah?”

You nodded although your mind was elsewhere. The next thing you knew, you were standing on the other side of the door, clutching your bag tightly to your chest. Your mind started to wonder what exactly had caused all this. Was he mad at you, or was that I an excuse to …ruin you. 

When you made it to Eleanor’s desk she asked you, “How was your first day?”

You nodded, trying to shake your expression into a smile, “I-It was … o-okay.”

There was no way she could have missed it in your eyes or in your appearance, but she continued, “I just need you to sign that NDA before you go. It’s completely standard procedure. It just assures that everything you see and hear is confidential. Protects the business.”

You took the papers from her and you tried to keep from shaking, “I can explain anything you need-”

“That’s okay,” You shook your head, knowing you just wanted to go home and hug your stuffed frog, “Thank you.”

You flipped through it quickly and signed your name where she indicated, “There’s one more thing. Are you on birth control?”

You stared, knowing the implication of the words. Why didn’t she warn you before you agreed to this?

You shook your head.

“You’ll need a Plan B. Should I pick it up for you, or would you prefer to do it yourself?”

Of course, you’d had friends who’d bought it before but the idea of going by yourself right now made you want to be sick. And you couldn’t tell your friends … at least not yet, “Could you … g-get it?”

“Of course, I’ll have it tomorrow,” She nodded and offered you a polite smile, “Do you need any help getting to the parking deck?”

You shook your head quickly, “I www-walked, thank you.”

As you made your way to the elevator, you wondered how your day spiraled so entirely out of your control.

Please reblog WITH your thoughts on the chapter to be added to the taglist for the story :) Also pls feel free to send me anons about your predictions/what you'd like to see in the story!

[obito-in-disguise]

This was the third time this week Satoru had come home late from work, well past 11 PM. You sit up in bed, faintly hearing the familiar jingle of keys and the heavy thud of his footsteps climbing the stairs.

The bedroom door swings open, and he steps in with a deep, tired sigh. The moment his eyes land on you, his expression softens. With a theatrical exhale, he yanks off his blindfold and all but collapses into your waiting arms.

"Crush me, why don't you?" you wheeze with a giggle, wrapping your arms around him. But as your fingers felt the tight tension in his body, your smile faltered.

"You calling me fat? That's offensive, you know" he mumbles, not bothering to move.

Gently, you tug his head from your shoulder, cupping his cheek and frowning at the dark circles beneath his eyes. "I hate how they work you to the bone… my poor baby"

He nuzzles his cheek into your palm, voice low and weary. "Nothing I can't handle" his reply is humorous but his exhaustion betrays him.

You give him a once over. "This is what you call handling? You look like you're about to keel over."

He chuckles finally rolling off you. "I've been through much worse, I'll live"

Sitting up, he cracks his neck and groans, while you joined him, your fingers instinctively finding the sore spot on his shoulder.

"Toru, take off your shirt and lay down" you instructed with a smile. "I'll give you a massage."

He eyes you warily "You don't exactly have gentle hands, baby. It's fine."

You gasp in shock. "What the hell Satoru? I give the best massages, now lay down"

He sighs in defeat, he knew he would regret this but he had no choice, he pulls off his shirt and lays down on his stomach, his face stuck in a grimace.

"Oh stop it, you're literally gonna eat your words in a minute" you huff, feeling insulted. How dare he question your expertise?

Another sigh escapes him followed by a soft grunt, as you straddle his back before sitting on his butt and cracking your knuckles ominously in preparation.

"Alright sweets… prove me wrong"

He flinches, feeling your fingers dig into his shoulders as you start your 'massage'. Stars flash across his vision as you massage the muscle above his collar bones like they were your mortal enemies.

"Ow! Ow! princess please not that hard!" he yelps, jerking his shoulders away.

You groan, placing your hands on his lower back. "You need to trust me, Satoru… this won't work without a little trust."

He manages a forced smile. "it's not that I don't trust you, it's that this isn't a massage"

Scoffing, you cross your arms "You're being paranoid, you're not letting yourself enjoy this"

After a moment, he sighs, "Fine then… I trust you. Go on."

With a grumble, you resume your massage. "Just relax" you whisper. But as you press in again, his body tenses and he yells, "Ow! Shit!"

"See? You don't trust me!" you exclaim, throwing your hands up in frustration.

He turns his head back to look at you in exasperation "It's not that I don't trust you, it's just that you're diggin your fingers into my skin…it hurts!"

"That's the only way it'll work, Toru!"

He exhales "It doesn't have to hurt to be effective, baby. It's a massage, not a mauling."

"Very funny" you deadpan, pinching his side softly as punishment for his snark.

He flinches "I'm just saying, your version of a massage feels more like torture than relaxation"

"Fine then, sorry I tried to help" you huff, climbing off his back.

He chuckles watching you climb off angrily. "I didn't say you can't help me. I just said you can't do it the way you were. You have to be softer, like this"

He turns over, laying on his back, beckoning you back onto him. He grips your hips, gently lifting you to sit on top of him.

His fingers run up and down the flesh of your thighs softly, rubbing firm but gentle circles into the muscles.

You nod, getting his point but can't resist the urge to defend the honour of your massage "mine was gentle too…"

He snorts, tilting his head "Hardly, it felt like you were trying to punish me"

"ha ha, whatever" you say dryly, climbing off him again, gesturing with your fingers "roll over, lemme try again"

He obliges, rolling onto his stomach again "Ok, I'll give you one more try. But don't make me regret this"

He's pleasantly surprised when you assume your position again and start the massage, this time much gentler.

"There, that's much better…"

He can finally feel the tensions and the pain start to ease out of his muscles, replaced by the gentle movements of your hands.

You can't help but smile "See? you just needed to trust me."

He chuckles lightly "Alright, I admit I was a bit on edge but you can't blame me after that first attempt"

"Alright alright, we get it Satoru"

He chuckles again and sighs, starting to feel his eyelids get droopy, his body relaxing entirely.

The massage goes on for a few minutes more, the atmosphere settling into a comfortable silence.

"Feeling better yet?" you ask him tenderly, only to get no response.

He had fallen asleep, his lips slightly parted, body limp. You smile, rubbing his back before slipping off him.

You place a kiss on his cheek before leaning over and turning off the lamp, leaving the soft glow of the moon to watch over the room.

"Goodnight, Satoru"

tiny taglist: @catlover19282

Feel free to check out more of my jjk fics and other stories!

[peepshow321]

TaskRaccoon Premium: Chapter 1

Josh was at a dead end. For years he had put his entire focus and energy on his education and studies, above his social life, his health, and his finances. He came top of his class in History and Classics and so in his head all that hard l work had paid off, but now that he had graduated... what was next? His classmates had swanned off into internships and graduate programmes, but Josh found himself in the summer after graduating with no job, no prospects and, most importantly, no money.

Josh's parents had supported him throughout his further education, but now that he was back home they decided to treat Josh like an adult. And that meant rent. Josh balked at the suggestion, but his parents were adamant and so Josh found himself on the job hunt.

This proved trickier than Josh anticipated. Turns out the local libraries and bookshops didn't care about his top degree; they wanted experience. And as Josh lowered his sights to restaurants, cafes, even the bowling alley, he found himself receiving the same feedback.

Needing to save making cash quick, a sympathetic interviewer told Josh to pick up the odd job on TaskRaccoon - an app where Josh could choose to help people with tasks like moving furniture, watering plants, doing shopping in exchange for a small fee. It wasn't perfect, especially as Josh didn't really have the build or inclination for manual jobs, and Josh often found himself doing jobs he never expected while at school. But over time Josh felt an unexpected satisfaction with earning a buck and paying his parents. So much so that Josh had bigger aspirations - moving out of his parents place.

That, of course, required money. And while Josh worked hard with the TaskRaccoon jobs he was given, he needed something more.

On a random Tuesday afternoon, a solution seemed to land out of nowhere on Josh's TaskRaccoon app: TaskRaccoon Premium. Out of nowhere, Josh's app pop-up with a link to a Premium version of the app. It was an additional service where workers such as Josh would get a boosted fee for the same types of tasks plus, according to the app, receive "all the skills and know-how to complete the task to perfection." Josh figured that last bit was maybe the app providing how-to guides on how to complete the more common tasks, which he took as a nice freebie.

To lure users in, there was even an offer - sign-up to TaskRaccoon Premium, perform a randomly assigned task, and receive double the boosted fee. Josh had done his fair share of the most common tasks on the app already (walk my dog, assemble my shelves, do my groceries) so figured it was well worth his while to take the gamble. And so Josh bit the bullet, sign up for a Premium account, and waited to be given his first random task.

Without any pause and without any fanfare, Josh's first random task appeared: "I need someone to clean my pool". Josh groaned; it wasn't the first time he had seen a pool cleaning request but it was one he always chose to ignore because he felt he didn't have any of the right equipment and would have no idea where to start. And while this new Premium version had offered access to "skills and know-how", there only thing on the app was an address. Josh couldn't even see an option to cancel.

Josh wavered, but as he saw the blue sky outside and remembered the promise of a doubled fee, he decided to go for it. He could rake some leaves out of a pool easily enough. The address was only a 15 minute drive away, so Josh grabbed the keys to his mum's sedan and got going.

It felt good to be outside and Josh enjoyed the sunny drive. So much so that he didn't notice his mum's humble car begin to change. The front section became blockier and more basic, her touchscreen sat nav becoming an older model. The seats and interior decor became faded, and Josh had to readjust his seating position as the car seemed to somehow lift off the ground. The steering wheel grew in size and, to match it, bizarrely, so did Josh's hands. Without warning, Josh's pale hands began to darken in complexion and as they grasped the now-rough wheel Josh didn't notice the veins that ran down with now lean and well-rounded hands.

Josh pulled up to a red light, momentarily confused about how he seemed to sit above the surrounding cars. He also felt cramped in the car and realised that his seat was pushed up way too far. He, a bit embarrassingly, was the same height as his mum so he never normally had to adjust the seat, but as he pushed the seat back he realised just how much he needed to stretch out his legs. As the light turned to green, he was oblivious to his jeans riding up and becoming a loose pair of swimming shorts, revealing his now lengthy and toned legs, feathered with dark hair.

Josh pulled up at the designated address shortly after, a sizeable house in a nice neighbourhood. As he got of the car, he was for a moment confused by his need to climb out of the car and then felt off balance when he landed on the tarmac. Before he could interrogate any further though, he looked in surprise at the pick-up truck boot filled with pool cleaning gear. A voice in the back of Josh's mind told him to panic - why the hell did he suddenly have all this gear - but remembering that he had a job to do Josh collected the gear and approached the house. Josh stopped en route to take his jumper off to enjoy the warm sun, not noticing the way his new well-fitted tank top which hung closely to his chest and showed off his slightly more toned arms or the darker shade of his skin...

Josh carried the gear with surprising ease to the front door, and was warmly welcomed by a middle-aged women who introduced herself as Beth. Beth showed Josh to her garden where a medium-sized pool sat, clearly long overdue a clean. Josh thanked Beth, pausing a little at the vague lilt coming out of his month. Was it just him, or just his voice sound deeper...

Josh got to work. The pool needed much more than just some leaves removed but with every task, Josh found himself instinctively knowing what to do. Which pump to use, when to apply chemicals, how to get the pH levels perfect, it all just flooded into Josh's mind. And he was surprised at how flexible he was at reaching all the right places - Josh didn't love manual jobs but he almost felt like his reach had gotten better. It was hot work though and Josh removed his baseball hat and towelled his brow and face, briefly feeling unfamiliar stubble on his face and thick short locks of hair on his scalp.

It wasn't long before Josh has completed his job, a sense of pride sweeping over him as he stared into the now pristine waters. That pride however quickly morphed into confusion as he gazed at the reflection in the shimmering water. Maybe it was distorted, but there was no way that that tall, dark reflection could be him. He was shirt, slender, pale, wasn't he?

He dropped his net and stared at his hands. His suddenly thick, dark hands. Josh began to breath sharply as he noticed just how high up he was, that he was in an outfit that he had never bought, and that his short, pale self had seemingly been replaced with a tanned, lean body.

As Josh was clutching at his newly stubbled face and grasping at the space where his small paunch should be, Beth came out with a pitcher of cool lemonade. Josh spun around in panic, and before Beth could say anything he muttered "lo siento" and ran back to his car.

Josh stopped sharply outside as he stared at the beaten up pick up truck outside Beth's drive, a truck that sat where he thought his mum's sedan should be. A truck that keys in his pocket unlocked. Breathing deeply, and trying his best not to panic, he clampered into the car and pulled down the mirror, staring at the unfamiliar dark eyes that stared back at him. Dark eyes amongst a handsome face, with a strong chin covered in thick but trimmed stubble and framed by dark, tightly curled locks. "What the fuck" Josh uttered, eyes widening at the accented deep voice that emerged.

Josh explored his tightly muscled body now covered in a light sweat when his phone pinged. He unlocked it - the phone recognised his face even if Josh didn't - and the TaskRaccoon app popped up, showing a task completed and $500 dollars deposited in his account.

But what kept Josh's eye though were the other task options appearing. There were more pool cleaning jobs, but also other tasks ranging from moving furniture, plumbing, and even covering people's work shifts. Josh noted that there was an option to cancel his "Premium" membership, but some of the fees weren't to be sniffed at. His breathing calmed down and Josh sat into his car seat, and pondered his options.

Chapter 2

****

Hi all!

Some of you may have seen this story on other sites, but I'm bringing it to Tumblr for the first time and with pics! There will also be some small tweaks as I post over the next few weeks.

As always, welcome any feedback or chats!

[oceantornadoo]

best friend!johnny mactavish x f!reader SMUT

you know a regular best friend shouldn’t touch you like johnny does. unfortunately, you let him do it anyways. he always has to have a hand on you: squeezing your waist in passing, pinching your earlobe when you’re not listening to him, a hand on the nape of your neck as he walks next to you. it leads to a lot of confusion with others, but you love it, love knowing where your friendship stands based on how much he touches you. some might call it anxious attachment but to you it’s survival, having lived through toxic friendships with shady people. unfortunately, it also means whoever you go out to dinner, the waiters assume you’re on a date.

johnny told you to get dolled up so here you are in your favorite cocktail dress, his hand on your thigh as you eat at the bar. it’s better than any date you’ve ever been on, mainly because your favorite sports team is playing on the bar TV and you can burp whenever you want.

before you leave, the woman who’s been staring at him all night approaches. she’s pretty and when his hand drops from your thigh, your heart sinks. “excuse me if this is too forward, but are you two on a date?” you shake your head no before johnny can answer, already sullen. she smiles sweetly at you before turning to johnny, hands fidgeting adorably. she introduces herself and sticks out her hand, which johnny takes. “john.” he replies, and you frown, having never heard him use that version of his name. “i just wanted to say i think you’re handsome and was wondering if i could get your number?” johnny’s eyes flick over her head and land on yours, eyebrows raised. you freeze your facial expression, not sure what he wants from you. finding something in your eyes, he turns back to her and shakes his head. “‘m nae datin’ right now, lot happenin’ at work. ah appreciate the offer tho'.” he shoots her a charming smile and even though she’s been rejected, the power of it sends her flittering. “oh, it’s no worry! enjoy your night.” and with that, she takes her leave.

“you could’ve said yes. we’re on leave.” he shrugs, flagging the bartender for another round. “could’ve.” he buys you one round, then two, until you complain about having an early morning tomorrow (it’s a yoga class but you hold firm anyway).

he tells the taxi driver there will be only one stop, his address slurred out. “i have to go home, johnny,” you pout, making no move to tell the driver your own address. when the car stops at his place, johnny crowds your back, his chest pressed to the seam of your spine. you take his keys from his hand, a familiar dance of unlocking the building door and walking up the stairs, fiddling with his three locks until they all click. you toe off your heels and collapse dramatically on his couch. your stomach is heavy from dinner and drinks, eyes closing as you consider giving into an impending food coma. when you blink them open again, it’s too late. johnny’s shadow falls on yours, his weight smothering you into the couch.

“get off, johnny, i'm too full for this.” his head is flush to your stomach, a place he’s touched with hands but never like this. you thread your hands through his mohawk and half-heartedly try to push him away. “off.” he grumbles at your tone, giving in slightly to your ministrations as he slides down. your dress is rucked up to your thighs and you don’t realize it until the gentle fabric of his shirt brushes them.

“johnny…” he turns, eyes dark as his face presses into your lower belly. “ah can make ye feel good, hen.” he slides further, his nose bumping the gusset of your underwear as you remember how you forgoed shorts under your outfit. your hips buck at the sudden pressure against your clit, encouraging him further. “it’s jus’ me, lass. can smell ‘er from here.” you whine at his tone and the force of his gaze. johnny exhales onto the seam of your cunt, sending you shivering as his breath cools the wet spot on your panties. your core pulses, making the decision for you.

“ok.” you whisper. he yanks your underwear to the side, pressing his nose to your aching clit. you buck again but this time he holds you down, strong hands beating the muscle of your legs. his tongue peeks out and licks, the smooth glide of it a feeling you haven’t felt in a long time. “taste s’ fuckin’ good.” he has to be lying but his eyes seem truthful, wide and eager like a puppy dog. your hand is still in his hair and you tug him up until his mouth finds your clit, sucking gently. “you’re a mutt, y’know that?” you slur, drunk on the power in your hands. all johnny does it nod and suck more, his thumb finding your hole and easing you open. he plays you like an instrument, adjusting his ministrations based on the sounds you emit. despite only one finger inside you, you feel full, and wet from johnny's constant touches at dinner.

your orgasm creeps up on you easily, core fluttering as johnny makes a mess of your cunt. you can feel wetness slip down onto the couch, but with how much johnny is enjoying himself, you don’t even feel embarrassed. the spell is broken when you hear keys in the door, unlocking it loudly.

“johnny, johnny, it’s si-", he cuts you off with another finger pressed into you, scissoring them so he can press your cunt closer to his face. you squeeze your eyes shut and when you open, a hulking mass of a man is trekking through the living room. “fuckin’ ‘ell, you two lost me a tenner t' gaz.” you can’t even respond, johnny eating you out with renewed vigor. with every lick and suck, he brings you closer and closer to the edge. simon opens his bedroom door and slams it shut, the sound of rock music drifting through his walls a moment later.

“fuckin’ squeezin’ ma fingers, bonnie. c’mon, ah ken ye want t’ come.” he rarely calls you bonnie and that’s what sends you over the edge. as your core flutters, you remember the other times he’s called you that. in a hospital room, cuts on your brow and your arm in a sling. in a desert with dirt in every crevice, a week without showering. and now, at the altar of your thighs, eating you like his last meal. johnny keeps licking at you until you tug him off forcefully.

despite you being the one to orgasm, he looks wrecked. lips red with effort, his stubble shining with your wetness. he gives you that same charming smile and you close your legs, never minding his fingers still inside you. “taste like heaven, hen.” you squeeze your thighs until he removes his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them like a lollipop. worry crashes over you like a wave as nerves buzz under your skin.

“is that- are we-“ you scramble off the couch, escaping to his bedroom with johnny on your heels. “‘s wrong?” your underwear is half off your legs and there’s wetness between your thighs and you’re worried that you’ve changed the one friendship you can depend on. that’s what’s wrong. you try to cover your eyes with your hands, but he doesn’t let you, tugging them so they’re pinned to your sides.

“doe, talk t’ me.” you sniffle, completely undignified. “i just- can’t lose you as a friend, johnny. you’re my best friend.” johnny kisses you, your slick wet on his lips. he pulls back before you can blink. “dinnae think anythin’ else, hen. y’r my best friend too. nothin’s changin’.” you frown, gesturing between you two. “what about…” he shrugs. instead of answering, johnny tugs your dress over your head. skilled hands slide your underwear down your thighs. he leaves for his closet and returns a moment later, a worn t-shirt in your hands. you put your hands up and he slides the shirt over your head in a practiced manner. “better?” you nod, still confused. “made us closer friends, righ’?” you nod again. “nothin’s changed, then. we make the rules.”

when you climb into bed, something feels wrong. he sleeps like usual, on his side with a bit of space between you. when you turn around, your back to him, it finally clicks. “you didn’t come.” you murmur. the bed moves as he shrugs. “‘ll get off in the morn.” instead of replying, your hand fumbles behind you until you find his stomach. he doesn’t stop you, allowing your hand to dip down into his boxers. his cock is heavy in your hands, thick and straining with effort. you scoot closer but the angle is awkward, your hand slipping as you try to put it in. johnny takes the reins, a large hand covering yours as he eases his cock into your seeping hole, still wet from earlier. johnny tugs you into him with a hand to your lower stomach, pressing against the slight bulge there. “sleep, hen, an’ i’ll fuck ye in the mornin’.” finally satisfied and full with the weight of him as your hole stretches, you sleep.

more best friend johnny here

[forsakeofabetterusername]

I made a zine about adjusting cheaper wheelchairs, after adjusting my NHS wheelchair.

Notes: Your wheelchair ‘service manual’ is a good resource for adjustments! You can often google them. Also, with the wheel adjustments, be prepared to move the breaks. Google how to measure for a wheelchair to find your seat width, and if you want to get extra, look at seat depth. Leg length is usually done by adjusting the footplate height.

Image description and printable version under the ‘read more’ .

Image Description:

An 8 page zine. Both images have the same content but the first one is arranged to be read on a computer. I am going to describe each page.

First page reads “A cripple’s guide to.. making a cheap(er) wheelchair work for you” and in smaller writing “by Sock - who uses an Invacare Action 2NG”. There is a drawing of a wheelchair in the centre.

Page 2 reads “Choosing a wheelchair. Look for adjustability (can you change wheel height? COG?), seat width (as close to your size as possible), and arm rests that can be lowered/removed.” Each item has a small drawing illustrating the point.

Page 3 reads “Adjusting a wheelchair. You will need… Allen key set (bike ones are good!), Pliers (for holding bolts) and Phone (for access to manuals, taking photos at each step.” Each item has a small drawing of it.

Page 4 reads “1. Adjust Wheel height. This can be done where the wheel “plugs in”. Your fingers should touch the wheel hub centre. If you can, move the wheel forward too (centre of gravity adjustment).” There is a small drawing of the wheel base, an arm reaching down to touch the centre of the wheel and a wheel base with an arrow pointing to the right showing it being moved.

Page 5 reads “2. Arm rest adjustments. Get your armrests as far down and as far back as they go. I keep mine on because of muddy weather/to protect clothes from spokes but you can also just remove them!” There is 2 drawings of a rounded and straight arm rest.

Page 6 reads “3. Modding castor wheels. Adjusting the height will change the seat angle. Smaller castor = easier turning, but makes rough pavements harder.” There is a drawing of a tilted chair with big castors and a straight chair with small castors, with a double pointed arrow between, with the caption “Play around!”

Page 7 reads “4. Footplates. You can take the footplates off and toe propel. You can make a foot sling out of a belt/luggage strap/paracord.” Both have an accompanying illustration. Then there is a note saying “if you have poor circulation, weakness, etc. oh might just want to keep the footplates on”.

Page 8 reads “5. Cushion. You need a cushion for your chair. Depending on how long you sit/how bony you are, you might need to spend a little more” then “£: Foam. ££: pressure relief cushion. £££: EBay/second hand for jay, invacare, low zone etc.”

End.

Printable version:

[bunnysbrainrot]

Camgirl

Relationship: Dean Winchester x f!Reader

Content: Explicit sexual content. Male masturbation, female masturbation, exhibitionist/voyeurist themes, reader is a sex worker.

Summary: On a frustrating night off, Dean can’t seem to find the right ‘material’. When his usual content isn’t satisfying him, he ventures elsewhere, only to be met with an oddly familiar face. 

Words: ~1,500

The keys on Dean’s laptop click slowly as he enters a new search. It was a category he didn’t visit often, but sometimes there were some good choices. He hits ‘enter’, redirected to a new page, a list of assorted videos, the thumbnails all showcasing the most pivotal moments in the shoots. He released a sigh as he mindlessly scrolled past videos of couples, couples, threesomes, and more couples. It was hard to picture himself there, without the clean-cut, almost sterile version of porn he was used to. The cliché videos of pool boys and plumbers led him into a brick wall, itching for something different. 

His finger freezes on the trackpad as his breathing halts. Dean’s attention focuses on a video’s thumbnail at the bottom of the screen. The star of the video faces away from the camera, their lower half taking up a good half of the screen, a small skirt covering the top of their ass. But, it was the remaining details in the background that made Dean stop dead in his tracks. 

A brick wall is in the back of the frame, a concrete wall to its right, a minimalist bed in the middle of the room. The low lighting, the wall decorations he had seen just yesterday, it seemed…

There’s no way.

Half in disbelief, half in curiosity, Dean clicks on the video link: ‘Testing out my new toy ;)’

His breath catches in his throat as he stares at the loading circle, the screen temporarily black. It’s his last chance to turn back, to continue in ignorance and be able to look you in the eyes again. There was no way it was you, but a deep eagerness made him stay on the page. 

Dean starts abruptly when the video begins. A small intro tune and a title card with some cutesy star name that he refused to commit to memory, like he did with other stars he enjoyed. If this was you, he’d rather forget it all.

The person backs from the camera setup, smiling innocently into the lens, and Dean’s blood runs cold. 

Shit.

From the second he saw your face he was hooked. He willed for the strength to click away, to pause the video at the very least, but Dean couldn't. Disbelief flooded his expression despite a growing tightness in his abdomen, stirring as he watched on. You wasted no time, turning away from the camera and walking toward the ‘new toy’ mentioned in the title - a girthy, purple dildo was suctioned to the hard floor, a small bottle of lubricant sitting nearby. A towel was laid out next to you, two pillows from the head of your bed instead cushion your knees from the cold, rough floor. 

“Fuck,” Dean curses himself, his hand instinctively rushing to adjust his boxers. 

As if you’d heard him, you looked back into the camera, ensuring you were in frame for the perfect shot. You lean forward, the small skirt from the thumbnail riding past your ass, revealing your sex to the audience, a skimpy thong the only thing between Dean and heaven’s gate. 

You hook your finger on your thong and tug it to the side. Dean lets out a soft groan as you spread your folds for the shot, tracing your entrance with your middle finger, before dipping it inside. You stifle a moan, barely audible, a noise that he’d never before heard in these walls. 

Your slick coats your fingers when you pull them away. Fuck, you probably didn’t even need the lube - Dean chuckled to himself, you probably really got off on this. Didn’t you know that this could’ve happened eventually? Maybe you simply didn’t care if he’d found it. It didn't take away from the embarrassment, this invasion of your privacy.

Dean’s hand slips into his boxers, gripping the base of his cock warily before moving. Though guilt panged in his stomach, it eased away as he began with slow, smooth strokes.

What you don’t know won’t hurt you, right?

It was reason enough. You had thrown Dean enough flirtations for him to question if there was substance to them. He had never hidden the fact that he thought you were special. Hell, he'd let you sit shotgun in Baby instead of Sam, much to his younger brother’s protests.  

You ease the dildo past your entrance, sucking in a breath before pressing yourself lower, carefully adjusting yourself to the toy's size. Onscreen, your pussy spreads wide for him. Dean slowly pumps himself in time with your movements, his cock throbbing in his palm. His eyes flit between your ass and your face, your expression changing to ecstasy as you inch lower and lower down the dildo’s length. Leaning forward, with your chest against the cold floor, you bounce yourself into a steady pace. 

Dean just wished that you would just make some sort of noise. He’d never watched a video so quiet, save for the wet noises coming from your cunt. Another realization both stilled and excited him. 

Was he home when you filmed this?

It would explain the silence, maybe you were just shy in the bedroom...

Nonetheless he itched for more, stroking himself in time with you, picturing anything close to the real thing. He’d never know what the girls in these videos are like up close, but this time, it bothered him. How could you be so close, yet untouchable? 

“Aah, fuuuuuck,” you whisper. Music to his ears. 

You finally urge yourself down the dildo’s full length, the base of it spreading your hole wide for the camera. Dean swipes his thumb over the swollen head of his cock, spreading a new bead of precome along his shaft. He pictured himself there instead, putting his cock there in place of that pesky purple toy. Minutes before, he couldn’t have ever imagined seeing you like this, but now, it could never be the same. 

In the video, almost pitifully, you try to pick up your pace. The pleasure takes you over, stopping you from keeping your speed. Each time you cave into the bliss, you lurch forward and tease yourself with a few small strokes, barely at your entrance. Dean picks up the slack on the other side of the computer screen, avidly pumping his cock as he watches your pussy twitch around the dildo. Teasing yourself with the toy’s head is enough to send Dean reeling. You come back down for a few final, deep strokes, before the video abruptly stops, cutting to a still screen, promoting another site for the ‘full video’. 

Dean’s hand slows as his high pauses. Frantically, he hastily rewinds the video back a few minutes, taking everything in for a second time. He was so close, it was too late to find another video, you were all he could focus on. You had been such a help to him, and you didn’t even know it yet. 

For a second round, you bob along the dildo’s length. Dean braves himself to turn up the volume for just a moment. Your noises quietly fill his room, stirring in his mind while he brings himself to the edge of his pleasure. With a strained groan, Dean’s cock twitches as his come leaks into the fabric of his boxers; he milks himself thoroughly, his eyes never leaving the sight of your pussy. In his leveling breaths, Dean stretches his boxers to look at the mess inside, throwing his head back and letting out a breathy laugh. 

Your video keeps playing in the background while Dean hastily cleans himself off with a tissue. His thoughts race, mulling over the fact that he would, at some point, have to look you in the eyes again. He just hoped he could hide it well enough when that happened. 

He tosses the tissue into his garbage can, throwing a few more atop it for good measure. He stands fully, bracing his hands to his lower back as he stretched, debating a nightcap to cool off. 

Padding down the long hallway to the kitchen, Dean made a beeline to the fridge, reaching in for the familiar, cold glass of a beer. In the distance, someone clears their throat, his hand halts on the neck of the bottle while he listens out for you. His gut tightens with shame. His conscience had been right, there really was no way he could look at you the same way, and that was all his fault. Dean prayed you wouldn’t be able to see it in his eyes. 

In a moment of resolve, Dean grips the beer bottle and lets the fridge close as quietly as possible, making his way out as quickly as he’d come in. He urges himself down the hallway, looking dead ahead before your voice shakes him. 

“Night, Dean,” you say after him, your tone softly upbeat. 

He looks to you from the side, giving a terse smile. Your head cocks to the side in confusion as he speeds down the hallway back to his room. Odd. 

You mutter, “What’s his deal?”

Hi lovelies, I know a story has been looooong overdue. I appreciate your patience and support during my unofficial hiatus. I'm getting back into the swing of writing again, and I have plans for more parts of this story if you're looking for more. I kept hitting this brick wall with trying to write Sam, so the Dean lovers get their juice today

Asks/requests are open as always.

Much love,

Bunny

[niallhorxns]

Niall Horan x Reader: Not Like Him

Prompt: Because of your past, you hate confrontation. One day, Niall comes home particularly grumpy.

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: anxiety, past verbal abuse mention

A/N: hi all!!! continuing to try and post on here. please feel free to send any niall x reader prompts / ideas my way :)

You’re in the midst of putting a dish you just washed away when you hear the front door open, then suddenly slam shut. The pictures hanging on the wall rattle as you peer around the corner anxiously. The first thing you see is Niall bustling through the door. Normally, having Niall home would cause a surge of warmth and excitement to rush through you– but today, instantly, you recognize that something about his demeanor is off. 

He throws his flannel on the chair and with his back facing you, runs his hand through his hair. When he turns to you, there’s no warm smile or cheerful greeting. Instead, he takes a few steps then tosses his keys on the counter, letting them slide carelessly across the surface. He makes no effort to even acknowledge your existence. 

Instantly, a lump forms in your throat, making it harder and harder to breathe. You hate tension… Or any sort of confrontation, really. Your parent’s entire marriage was built off tension and confrontation– passive aggressive comments and slamming doors leading to screaming, which then led to shattered dishes or dented walls. 

Your father had a temper. And it didn't matter how well behaved or helpful or unseen you were. Something always managed to spark his anger. The nights he drank were worse, and as the years went on, the sober version of himself made less and less of an appearance. 

Although you didn't recognize it at the time, looking back, you knew that you spent the vast majority of your childhood living on edge– always waiting for the yelling or the screaming. You were afraid more often than not. And that wasn't something you could just unlearn when you were old enough to leave– no matter how far away you were.  

In fact, it took years of hard work to heal from the trauma you'd experienced. But for so long, it felt like no matter how much therapy you attended or self-help books you read, there was always a part of you that was just stuck. 

Until you met Niall. 

Niall was the missing piece. His presence alone was healing. He was calm and safe and consistent. He was patient and gentle and kind. And when you finally got up enough courage to tell him about your childhood, he listened carefully, his brows furrowed somberly. It was like your trauma caused him physical pain– that's how much he loved you– how much he felt with you. 

With Niall, you could safely work on communicating without screaming matches or slamming doors. It had taken time, but slowly, piece by piece, you started to rebuild, until you actually felt like you could trust someone again. 

And of course, even now, in the midst of whatever this unknown territory was, you trust him. But despite that, tension is radiating off from him. It’s almost palpable in the air– suffocating you. 

You have to say something– Niall will understand. 

“How was your day?” You ask nervously, already knowing the answer. 

Niall walks right past you to the fridge, pulling the door open and ignoring your question.  

You bite your lower lip, your anxiety settling like a rock in your stomach. This feeling felt too familiar… 

“Is everything okay?” you ask. He pulls out a beer, showing no sign that he even heard you. He cracks it open, the sound alone sending shivers down your spine as you’re instantly reminded of all the nights your father would drink five beers before even recognizing you were home. But Niall is not your dad, you remind yourself. Niall is gentle. Niall is kind. 

He takes a long swig before walking towards the stairs.

“Niall?” you say, worry evident in your tone. 

He doesn’t stop. 

Niall isn't like him. Niall cares about your feelings. Niall loves you.

You follow him a few steps, knowing that you can’t let him just go to bed this… angry? Upset? Whatever he is– 

“Niall, what’s going on–”

“Oh my God!” He bellows suddenly, waving his arms and spinning in his tracks to finally look at you. “Can you leave me alone for one goddamn second?!”

Before you can quiet down your brain or repeat all the ways Niall was different from your father, your body reacts as if they are one and the same. You flinch harshly from his sudden movements and loud tone, like your body remembered exactly how it felt to live in your house twenty years ago. And before you can help it, the glass cup in your hand falls to the floor, shattering around your feet. 

The noise makes you snap out of your trance. Looking down at the mess you made, your mouth goes dry. Your whole body has already begun shaking and you can feel the tears fighting their way to your eyes. 

“I’m sorry–” you whisper, choking back a sob. Then you brace for the screaming– the berating. Clumsy, stupid, idiot. 

Nervously, you kneel down, tucking your hair behind your ear while you try to pick up the broken glass. What the hell is wrong with you? It’s obvious Niall had a bad day. So why couldn’t you just leave him alone? The last thing he needs is you making and being a mess. 

“Sorry–“ you mutter, it’s so quiet though, you doubt he hears. “I’m sorry,” you repeat. You’re so anxious you don’t even grab a dustpan, you just start collecting pieces of shattered glass in your hand. Your vision quickly becomes blurry with tears as they streak down your cheeks. 

“Shit,” you vaguely hear, but you don’t stop trying to clean up. You’re frantic, grabbing whatever you can off the floor before he can get more upset about it. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

Through your clouded vision, you can’t see what you’re collecting off the floor– all you know is that you have to keep cleaning it up.

“Baby, stop–”  

The voice is distant.

“I promise I’ll clean it up,” you say, hands shaking so violently, you wonder how no pieces have sliced open your skin yet. 

“Baby–” 

It’s just background noise. 

“Hey, hey, hey.” 

You vaguely see a figure kneel beside you and before you can wave him away, Niall reaches out– hand cupping yours before forcing open your fingers. As soon as the glass is out of your hand, you see him reach up to toss it on the counter before kneeling back down to be on your level. 

All it takes is one arm wrapping around your shoulders for you to break. Suddenly, you can’t hold back the sob that’s been sitting in your throat. The second it escapes from your lips, Niall pulls you into his chest tightly. 

“C’mere,” he exhales, chin resting on your head while he slides the both of you back against the cupboard. You let out a choked gasp and cling to him. 

His arm winds tightly around you, locking you in place. “I’m so sorry,” he breathes.  

“I have to clean it up–” you cry.  

“Shh,” he soothes. He rocks you on the floor like that, his arms wrapped around you securely.  Your breathing is choppy as you shake against him. Niall grabs your bicep with his hand, holding you steady while his thumb rubs up and down your bare skin gently, trying to calm you down. 

You’re not sure how long it takes for you to feel like you can think again. Time stands still as you settle into his embrace. Niall’s embrace– you remind yourself. Not your father’s. Because your father wouldn’t embrace you after yelling like that. And he certainly wouldn’t embrace you after you broke a dish. 

After a while, your breathing gradually returns to normal again. Moments later, you feel him shift. “Did you cut yourself?” he asks carefully. 

He supports the majority of your weight, all but lifting you off the floor before scanning the length of you. 

You shake your head. At least you didn’t think you did. 

Niall nods before reaching his hand out. “C’mon, let’s get away from the glass.”

You take it willingly, sighing as you feel the warmth from his palm spread through your hand. He guides you away from the pile of glass and towards the kitchen island. He helps you settle into one of the tall stools. 

“Hey,” you hear him whisper. But you’re still staring at the mess, so worried about cleaning it up. Until you feel firm, but careful hands cupping each side of your face– forcing your attention to shift towards him. “Hey,” he repeats. 

His calloused thumb trails along your cheek. Before you know what you’re doing, you’re leaning into his touch, craving his comfort. 

“Did you cut yourself?” he asks again, clearly not trusting your earlier response. 

To be fair– you’re not even sure that you trust your earlier response. By now, you feel like you’re actually back in your own body, and feel no pain. So you shake your head, this time more convincingly.  

As soon as you give the confirmation that you’re alright, Niall takes a step forward and wraps his arms around your shoulders, crashing his body against yours.  

“I’m so sorry,” he says, lips ghosting against the top of your head. “I didn’t mean to yell like that.”

You nod into his shirt, pinching the fabric between your fingers and breathing in the smell of him. Niall is not your dad, you repeat. Niall apologizes. Niall loves you. 

“It’s okay,” you whisper, you were slightly more calm. “I’m sorry I was so annoying– I’m sorry I broke the glass.”

You feel Niall shake his head above you. “No–” he says firmly. “I don’t give a shit about the glass. I had a shitty day,” he sighs. “A really shitty day. But that’s not your fault.”

“I should have just given you space.”

He shakes his head again, pulling back from his embrace to look at you earnestly. “No– We’re supposed to talk about things. I promised you I’d always talk to you about things, and I broke that today.”

He brushes a few loose strands of hair from your face, before wiping some stray tears stuck under your eyes. “I know how much yelling activates you– I know it sets you off, and I just wasn’t thinking.”

“You’re allowed to get annoyed,” you remind him. “And angry. You’re allowed to yell.” 

“That’s not how you and I communicate,” he says. “That’s not ever how I want to communicate, and I’m sorry. I’ll do better next time”

Squeezing him tighter, you nod against his chest. 

Because Niall is not your father and you believe him.

[oscpstri]

everything but you | bearman

bearman x fem!reader, 768

ollie bearman had everything— the car, the dream, the career. but the one thing he wished for but never had, was you. and he hated it.

INCLUDES: reader is arthur leclerc's girlfriend, sorry we compare careers here but i love the both of them ok pls dont kill me, slight angst

NOTE: inspired by jessie's girl (the glee version again) !! this was originally supposed to be another set of drivers but i switched to ollie bcs the damn lacy edits have gotten to me again man. also im kinda wasted writing this so pls bare w me

( masterlist | more OB87 )

Ollie Bearman was in Formula 1. Arthur Leclerc was not. And that should have been enough.

He had the seat, the career, the fame, the experience. He was in every media day panel and in every post-race interview. He had casual conversations with world champions and raced wheel-to-wheel with the greats. He lived the life he always dreamed of, high at the top, only getting better.

Arthur never made it to Formula 1. He could have if time allowed him. He didn't have Lewis Hamilton's phone number saved in his phone, nor did he talk to Fernando Alonso every weekend before a race. He wasn't the one who flew private planes with the other rookies, nor laughed beside a four-time world champion during a driver's parade.

Ollie had everything Arthur wanted. Everything but the girl.

"Fuck, I'm so stupid. What if I never walk again." You sit up from the hospital bed, grimacing at the pain in your ankle.

Ollie sat in front of you on a small stool, looking at the bandages wrapped around your foot. "Ok first of all, you're being dramatic. It's a sprain."

You look up at Ollie with pursed lips, he meets your eyes with a certain tenderness that you always found comforting. "Second of all, you're not stupid. You got excited, it happens."

You groan in embarrassment, covering your face with your hands. "I can't believe I'm sitting in a hospital room because of my boyfriend."

Ollie's eye twitches at this, "Who didn't pick up, by the way."

You place your hands on your lap, slumping in the bed as you look at the Brit. "Hey, he's probably busy on the sim."

So? Ollie wanted to say out loud, but refused.

You were at home when you got the news that Arthur would be competing in more endurance racing for the rest of year. Happy for him, you started jumping up and down and landed on your foot wrong, resulting in you spraining your ankle and calling your best friend at 8 in the morning.

You insisted that you were fine but by the time Ollie got there, your ankle was swollen and he knew better than to leave you in pain. So he drove you to the hospital to get properly treated.

"Thanks, Ollie." You turn towards him, a smile on your face as he leaves the apartment keys on the table. "You didn't have to do all that, you know."

He smiles back. "Anything for you."

You see his reply as friendly, Ollie's heart skips a beat.

"You wanna go to Qualifying later? I could scrounge up a spare pass."

You shake your head politely, "No, thanks. I'm waiting for Arthur to get here for tomorrow."

Just as fast as it sped up, Ollie's heart shattered once more. Arthur, right.

It wasn’t supposed to bother him this much. You and Ollie were childhood best friends and always in the same circles. You'd been at every single one of Ollie's races in the lower Formulas and tried your absolute best to watch as many as you could now that he was in Formula 1. You were his friend first. You’d been there the whole time— before the call-ups, before the pressure, before Arthur ever made a move.

Ollie had every chance. Every moment. Every excuse to say something. But he didn’t. Too focused. Too careful. Too convinced he had time. After all, Ollie was the reason you were in the Prema garage all the time in the first place.

But Arthur? Arthur didn’t wait. He just said what he felt and you picked him.

Now Ollie was racing in front of the world while silently choking on the fact that the guy still stuck in his shadow had the one thing he didn’t.

He saw you at the race the next day. You were wearing his team colors, in his garage, with his hat on, and shouting his name from the pit lane. But no matter how loud you screamed for Ollie Bearman, the sound of your laugh resonated louder when you talked to Arthur Leclerc.

Ollie won, he had podium, he had the champagne, but he didn't have the look of love in your eyes whenever you looked at him. He didn't have his hands on your waist as the crowd screamed when he popped the champagne.

He had the seat, the headlines, the future every young driver dreamed of.

But none of it mattered when you were in the garage with someone else— someone he’d beaten a hundred times— and still lost to in the only way that mattered.

[vivwritescrappythings]

squeeze

tattoo artist!eddie munson x fem!afab!reader

Eddie is your tattoo artist and long term boyfriend, one night you have an idea of how to spice up your next tattoo session.

an: idk why I thought of this but I did

cw: fem and afab reader, needles, tattoos, unsanitary tattoo practices, don’t let anyone do this to you, p in v sex, cockwarming, masturbation, mild dubcon, mentions of marijuana use, i picture this version of eddie as older, masochism, swearing, dirty talk, not proofread.

wc: 2.3k

masterlist

MDNI

—

It was only after a few joints that you could have ever thought this was a marginally good idea. You and Eddie were well baked by the time you stumbled out of his van in the alley, eyes bloodshot and a wide smile on your face. The rest of the tattoo shop was dark as Eddie snuck you in the back door, the two of you giggling like vandals as though it wasn’t his shop. The keys jingled as he tucked them back into his pocket, nudging you toward his station.

He turned on the harsh fluorescent lamps surrounding the leather chair in the center of the small space. Paper screens separated it from the rest of the store, drawings and sketches stuck haphazardly all over the dividers and walls. “You’ve been drawing more,” you murmured, looking over the magnitude of new additions.

Eddie was already wiping down the chair and getting set up, looking over his shoulder at you with a hum of acknowledgment. You took in the way his shoulders filled out his worn Metallica shirt, his jacket hanging on a hook near the back door. There was something about his warm, chocolate-colored eyes that made your heart flutter every time he glanced at you.

“You gonna pick something out or just stare at me?” he asked, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

You rolled your eyes, a little too stoned to come up with a response you considered to be clever enough. The wall of flash tattoos beckoned you closer. Eddie had given you countless tattoos at that point, insisting that dating a tattoo artist meant you had to get all your work done by him.

Anyone else would just be cheating.

It was how the two of you met five years ago: you came into the shop with a crumpled piece of paper with a book quote you loved scrawled onto it looking to get your very first tattoo. Eddie had stolen you from the guy who usually took the walk-in clients with a saccharine smile, ushering you to his little sectioned off area and charging you half what he normally would for a tattoo that size. You left with fresh ink and Eddie’s number, and the rest was history.

You squinted up at dozens of drawings crudely taped to the wall, admiring the smooth linework and the variety. There were a few from his Hellfire days, fleshed out Dungeons & Dragons monsters and sets of dice high up near the ceiling. The rest were the typical subjects: skulls and flowers and doodles of food and ghosts.

It was hard to decide, your arms folding over your chest as you worried your lower lip with your teeth. Normally it was a quick decision, you’d pick something off the wall or had an idea of your own and Eddie would be off to the races.

That time it took Eddie pulling out the battered notebook he insisted he did his best work in, his name scratched into the black cover. “How about this one? Been workin’ on it, thought it would look good on you,” he murmured, flipping it open to a page in the middle.

The drawing was beautiful, detailed and delicate while still fitting with the rest of your tattoos. You realized that Eddie was listening when you told him you wanted to tattoo your sternum a few months ago, the pages littered in drawings that were suited to the smooth patch of skin over the bone. As always, he knew what you wanted more than you did.

“Yeah, it’s perfect,” you finally said, tracing it with your fingertip.

“Yeah? You sure?” Eddie asked, already rifling through drawers to put together a stencil.

You nodded, biting your lower lip as you sat back on the leather chair. “Matches everything else you’ve put on me,” you said, making yourself comfortable as he went off to trace out a stencil.

You fidgeted with the well-worn Corroded Coffin shirt you were wearing, running your fingers over the torn-up hem and looking up at the ceiling tiles Eddie had painted black.

Meeting Eddie must have been the luckiest moment of your life. You never thought that you’d find someone, for some reason you’d been convinced that you were beyond what anyone wanted—destined to be the old lady with the cats at the end of the street. But Eddie wanted you, he wanted you fiercely and with a passion that was almost startling sometimes.

“Alright, dove, shirt off,” Eddie said, startling you out of your thoughts. He rounded the corner with the stencil in hand, chocolatey eyes focused on you.

You complied, slipping the shirt off your head and tossing the fabric onto a nearby folding chair. The cold air in the shop made you shiver with just your pajama shorts on. You’d forgone wearing a bra, the trip to the tattoo parlor borne from a spontaneous idea you had in the living room of your shared apartment.

“Never gonna get tired of that,” Eddie mumbled, staring at your chest as you settled back onto the cold leather. You rolled your eyes as your face started to heat up, part of you wanting to cover your chest with your hands.

Eddie stood between your legs, rolling over the silver tray that held the little containers of ink and gloves and his machine. He’d already washed his hands, his fingers were cold as he shaved off the smattering of vellus hairs covering your skin. You squeaked when he wiped down your skin with an alcohol pad. His tongue poked out when he concentrated, his brow furrowed as he started to apply the stencil.

He pressed firm to get it to transfer, pulling the strip of paper away and reaching for a mirror for you to see it. It was weird to see yourself reflected back in the small hand mirror. You sat up to properly inspect how it looked between your tits, the U-shaped stretch marks between them catching and shining in the fluorescent light. The mirror tilted up, letting you see your own bloodshot, hazy gaze in the mirror. The blunts Eddie had rolled earlier were strong.

“Looks great, Eds,” you said, lips quirking into a grin as you settled back on the chair. Eddie hummed, letting the mirror drop with a clatter on his drawing space as he went to wash his hands again.

He came back ready, black latex gloves pulled over his hands and hair tied back in a low bun at the nape of his neck.

Bony hips knocked the insides of your thighs apart, your boyfriend curling down over you. “You still feeling up to the rest of this?” he asked, a brow lifting until it disappeared under his frizzy bangs. You were silent for a minute, taking in the sincerity of his expression. “You don’t have to if you’re not feeling right, dove. I can just do the tattoo and we can go home.”

You furrowed your brow, shaking your head and blurting out protests a little too eagerly. It made him grin, boyish charm returning to his stubble-ridden face as though he wasn’t a day out of high school.

“If you feel uncomfortable, what do you say?” Eddie prompted softly, leaning forward to nudge his nose against your temple. He didn’t touch you with his hands, keeping them sterile.

“Yoo-hoo,” you mumbled a little sheepishly. Eddie picked it, the safe word always made you roll your eyes.

He hummed sweetly, pressing a kiss just above your eyebrow. “That’s right,” Eddie said, the simple praise already making you feel warm.

You bit your lower lip as you looked up at him, watching him get the machine going and getting ink on the needles. It felt like your body was buzzing with anticipation, your knees squeezing at his waist.

“Help me out, can’t get my hands dirty,” Eddie said, twisting to fuss with something on the tray next to him. You didn’t care about what he was grabbing, only reaching forward to loop your fingers in the waistband of the sweatpants he was wearing. On a normal day he wouldn’t be caught dead here in sweatpants.

The original idea had come from you. Something in your stoned mind combined to make you ask Eddie if he’d ever thought about cockwarming while giving a tattoo. He looked at you like you’d grown a second head, but fifteen minutes later he wanted to bring your fantasy to life.

“Been so fucking hard ever since you brought this up,” Eddie hissed through his teeth as you pulled his sweatpants down over his cock. It slapped up against his stomach, the tip flushed red and already leaking. You swallowed thickly, reaching out to wrap your hand around him.

The soft moan coming from Eddie’s pink lips was gratifying in more ways than you expected, satisfaction making you feel warm as you looked up at him through your lashes.

“You want me to take my shorts off?” you asked quietly, tilting your head to one side. There was a thrill associated with being naked in the tattoo shop. Of course, it was the middle of the night as no one would have reason to be there, but it still felt scandalous all the same.

“Yeah,” he said, the harsh buzzing of the tattoo machine starting as he touched the needle to the ink. The sound was familiar to you now, part of you associating it with Eddie. “It’ll be complicated to do this if you leave them on.”

You rolled your eyes, letting go of him to strip yourself of your shorts. He cursed under his breath when he saw you completely naked on the chair. Brown eyes traveled over every curve and slope of your body, taking it all in with reverence as his tongue poked out to run over his bottom lip.

There was a brief pause, the two of you waiting for the other to do something. Eddie ended up taking charge.

“Play with yourself for me,” he mumbled, staring down at your cunt. His gloved fingers twitched. “Get her nice and wet.”

Your face heated up at his request, bashfulness binding your chest together for a moment. It was impossible not to comply with Eddie’s request, your fingers finding their place between your legs. You touched yourself without fanfare, your fingertips settling on either side of your clit and rubbing in tight circles.

His gaze was locked on your cunt, chin pressed to his chest and lips parted. Normally you would be embarrassed under that kind of focus, but the awe shining in Eddie’s eyes made your anxiety slip away.

Your movements were practiced and smooth, sending electricity up and down your spine. It was easy to get turned on, your breaths eventually becoming pants and wetness building up around your fingers. His jaw was clenching, you knew he wanted to pull your fingers away and touch you himself.

He huffed, swallowing hard before directing his gaze to your eyes. “Alright, let’s do this,” he said, stepping in closer between your legs. “Before I just decide to ruin my sterile environment and fuck you the right way.”

The idea was enticing, making you bite your lip as you considered. But you already came all the way down here and had the stencil placed and ink in the tattoo gun. And you wanted to make your fantasies happen.

You grabbed Eddie’s cock, your wet fingers smearing down the length of it. Of all the times you fucked, you almost never were the one to guide him inside of you. It was a bit clumsy as you dragged his tip through the soaked seam of your cunt, nudging against the swollen bud of your clit a few times.

Finally you hit your mark, Eddie’s deep moan filling the air as he slotted himself inside of you with a strong thrust. The patch of dark, soft curls at his base brushed against your already sensitive clit. The stretch made you see stars. Your head rolled back against the leather chair, a breathy whine pulling from you as he rubbed against every gummy ridge and gooey spot inside of you.

“Eddie,” you whimpered, brows pulling together as you looked up at him. He seemed to be going through a similar sense of euphoria, his long lashes fluttering against his cheekbones as he breathed into the feeling.

His eyes open, pupils expanding like ink in water as he curled over you, readying the tattoo machine over your chest. He blinked hard, rutting softly against you once… twice… before steadying. The concentration was incredible to witness, his expression hardening and jaw flexing again.

“You ready, dove?” he asked, briefly glancing up at you before staring at the patch of stenciled skin like he could burn a tattoo into it with just his eyes.

“Yeah,” you breathed, feeling like your entire body was made up of TV static as you willed yourself to relax on the chair.

He nodded, the familiar buzz of the tattoo gun starting again. It pressed to your skin like fire, the vibration carrying from the gun all the way down into the flat bone of your sternum. You held your breath without meaning to, toes curling.

Eddie groaned, a smile finding its way onto his face. “You’re squeezing so fucking tight around me,” he said, voice a bit raspier than normal.

You made a conscious effort to relax, staring up at the ceiling and tapping the tips of your fingers along the sides of the chair. “Sorry,” you murmured, a giggle echoing from you as Eddie resumed the line he was tattooing.

Each stab of the needles kept your body alight, teetering you on the edge of pain and pleasure. “You're such a masochist.”

You smiled, your gaze hazy and your pussy fluttering a bit as you took shallow breaths. “I know, it’s gonna be a long night.”

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

Oh shit I’m late||Charles Leclerc x Fem!Reader

Summary—your period is late so that can only mean one thing that you are pregnant.

Warnings: Anxiety spiral, late period/pregnancy scare, mention of children, mild language, lots of emotional support

Word count 1010

A/n— my period still hasn’t shown up so…. Also I’m doing a Lance stroll version of this

You’d been tracking it on your phone.

At first, it was just a passing “huh.” A two-day delay, barely even enough to raise an eyebrow. You’d had stressful weeks before, late nights and irregular meals, and your body always caught up eventually. But when day five rolled into day eight, and then into week three, your stomach had been in a constant state of low-grade panic.

You’d stared down at the calendar that morning, mind a blur, fingers shaking slightly around your toothbrush as you did the math again. And again. And again.

You weren’t ready. Not for this. Not for anything close to this.

And Charles oh god. You loved him. You adored him. But his life was fast, full-throttle, and the thought of bringing a child into the whirlwind of Formula one,prying eyes and the constant travel made your chest clench painfully. Not because he wouldn’t be supportive because he would, that's just who he was and he would be amazing at it.

But you weren’t ready to be anything other than his girlfriend. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

You’d barely spoken all day, and by the time Charles came home from sim work, the anxiety had pooled so deeply inside you that it sat like a stone in your stomach.

“Mon amour?” he called softly, pushing the door to your shared apartment open, the usual quiet thud of keys in the bowl. “You didn’t text me back, are you okay?”

You were curled up on the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. You hadn’t even turned on the lights.

His eyes adjusted quickly. He was kneeling in front of you a second later.

“Hey,” Charles murmured, concern blooming across his face. “Talk to me.”

You blinked, eyes burning. “I think I might be pregnant.”

The words tumbled out in one breath, one trembling rush. And then silence. That awful, echoing silence where your heart pounded against your ribs like it was trying to escape.

Charles’s eyes widened slightly, lips parting but not with panic. Not anger. Just quiet understanding.

“Oh.”

“I haven’t taken a test,” you rushed on, fingers twisting in your sleeves. “I…God, I know it could just be stress, or maybe I’m off because of travel, or because I haven’t been eating great, or…I don’t know…but I just… I don’t feel right, Charles, and I’m terrified.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Instead, he reached forward and took your hands gently, thumbs rubbing slow, grounding circles across your knuckles.

“Okay,” he said softly. “First things first—breathe with me, alright?”

You hated how shaky your inhale was. But you followed him. In for four. Hold. Out for four.

When you opened your eyes again, you found him watching you with the kind of quiet care that made your throat ache.

“I’m not mad,” he said, like he needed you to know it before anything else. “And whatever’s happening, you’re not alone in it. Not for one second. I won’t allow it.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. “I’m not ready, Charles. I don’t think I ever will be.”

“That’s okay,” he said instantly. “We don’t have to be. We’re allowed to just be us. And if this is just a scare, we learn from it. If it’s more, we talk. We decide together. But you don’t have to carry this alone, chérie.”

You couldn’t hold it back anymore. The tears spilled over, not from fear anymore, but from sheer relief.

He moved up onto the couch beside you, wrapping you tightly in his arms. You pressed your face into his shoulder and let yourself breathe for the first time in days.

“I love you,” you whispered.

Charles kissed the side of your head. “I love you more. And I’ve got you. No matter what.”

The next morning, you woke up to the dull ache in your lower abdomen that you’d been dreading but deep down you were happy for.

It took a moment to register, your brain still hazy with sleep. You blinked at the sunlight filtering through the curtains, curled deeper into Charles’s warmth beside you, then you sat up slowly. That familiar heaviness settled between your hips. You got up quietly, padded to the bathroom, and confirmed it.

There it was. Your period. Almost three weeks late. But here.

You sank down onto the closed toilet lid, shoulders sagging with relief. No tests, no doctors, no life-altering decisions looming over your head like a storm cloud.

Just you. Just your body saying, Hey. You’re okay.

When you finally came back to bed, Charles was still half-asleep, cheek squished against the pillow, messy hair tumbling over his forehead.

He blinked one eye open when you slid under the covers.

“You alright?” he mumbled, voice raspy with sleep.

You nodded, nose scrunching a little. “I got my period.”

His other eye opened. A beat of silence, then:

“…Oh. Oh.”

You both just stared at each other for a second, then burst out laughing—quiet, relieved, slightly hysterical giggles muffled by the blankets. You pressed your forehead against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around you tightly.

“Thank God,” he said, half laughing, half groaning. “I was trying to act calm but I was losing my mind last night.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes narrowing playfully. “You were so calm! I thought you were fine.”

“I was lying,” he admitted. “So hard. I was like, Charles, be mature, do not panic, do not cry, do not propose marriage out of fear—”

“Oh my God.”

“—and now I’m allowed to freak out a little bit, yes?”

You both dissolved into laughter again, arms wrapped around each other like you were the only solid things in the world.

When the laughter faded, he kissed your forehead gently.

“You’re okay,” he whispered. “We’re okay.”

You nodded into his chest. “We really are.”