#but i know that thats the one thing that might hold me back sometimes so

[puppyeared]

i feel like im not making any sense but does anyone else feel like there are stories that let u run with them and ones that spell everything out for you

[cvnt4him]

Think’n ab cock warming izuku

A lazy Saturday morning, he has to get up later to finish some papers but that's a problem for later izuku. You wake up earlier than him for the first time ever, you admire his beautiful features whilst hes in slumber land.

His forest green hair being portrayed in the most beautiful lighting, said lighting brightening up his face despite being asleep, he's such a bright person he doesnt even need the suns array of beautiful sunshine for that. His slightly chewed lips dry yet so plump and kissable, the freckles that popped out more due to the sun's colors beaming on his beautifully tanned skin. He was gorgeous.

You leaned down to plant a gentle kiss onto his sleeping face, cupping his cheeks as you do so. The touch on his face makes him jolt and try and scoot away, his eyes squeezing shut and annoyance being painted on his features, he groans and tries to pull away but only to stay in the same place due to you holding his face.

Izuku was annoyed and opened his slightly crusted eyes to see your face, his eyes immediately softened. Finally being able to see his gorgeous emerald green eyes, you smile in content. He hums and closes his eyes again before you pepper kisses all around his face.

“ good morning~“

You sing in his ear, making him hum once more. He didn't want to be awake, izuku wanted to lounge around all day and be lazy with his other half before he had to go and teach a bunch of noisy kids, who he did love dearly.

“ you're always awake before me! I'm surprised I managed to get up before you!“

Izuku peers his eyes open slightly to look up at you with furrowed brows in annoyance, he groans and rolls his eyes before closing them again, all you can do is giggle at your adorable husband. You scoot in closer to him and squeeze his cheeks making him huff.

Izuku then sits up and yanks you into him making you bury your face in his chest. Your eyes widened in surprise but you weren't exactly complaining. He holds you close with a tight grip ensuring you can't move even if you tried.

“ go t’sleep baby. ’know you're tired, j’s get some rest hon.“

Izuku lazily gets out, his speech slightly slurred and his voice raspy and groggy do to the morning. He was a morning person, by all means but sometimes all he wanted was to be lazy with his significant other, and you seem to be ruining it by touching him whilst he's trying to sleep.

“ ’zuku m’not tired.“

“ shut up.“

Trying with all of your might you manage to squeeze out of his arms and roll onto of him making him turn over on his back, he groans and looks up to you with angry eyes ones you never really seem to see.

“ can I cockwarm you?“

His once angry eyes were now wide and confused. You wake up and the only thing on your mind is dick? Really? He groans again with a blush to his freckled and still baby-like cheeks, a scar on his right cheek. He was hesitant, he really was fathoming it, debating, thinking about it, whatever you want to say he truly was.

Izuku was having a hard time deciding, he did want you to do that to him only because he was particularly pent up, you two hadn't had sex in about 3 weeks? Thats far too long for someone like izuku, he would never force you to do something of the sort, normally you initiate sex and he happily obliges, but you both have been very busy recently and haven't had time to do much more than hold each other when nightfall returns at the end of everyday.

Izuku finally had an answer, he gulps and looks back up at your happy and waiting eyes. You would've been okay with either answer, really. You just wanted him to be inside of you. With a blush still on his cheeks, he nods to you before looking away.

“ I want a verbal answer my love.“

He sighs at your words, eyes shutting as he clears his throat trying to get rid of the grogginess of the morning time.

“ yes, you can c... cock.. warm me...“

Izuku manages to get the confirmation out as you giggle and lay down beside him, confused he follows you insuit, you scoot back into him and pull down his sleeping shorts just enough to get his flaccid cock out. You stroke him a little trying to get him to harden up, gentle tugs at his fat and heavy cock in your hand, the weight of it is always nice but the stretch is always better. The thought alone brung a smile to your face.

Izuku watched your movements closely, admiring the way you were so sweet and gentle with his member, so careful with such soft movements it made him twitch in your hand. With that, you knew he was ready. He gulped as you turned around and pulled your underwear to the side scooting back onto him and pushing his cock inside of you.

You both wince and groan and make some kind of noise as he tries to push his way inside, you were tight and he felt just how much so, going straight to his head as he gulped down hardly. His brain was getting fuzzy from the intense squeeze to his cock, you really should've prepped yourself first. with a couple of minutes waiting you finally manage to get him inside, he bottoms out almost immediately he's always so needy and impatient when it comes to things like this he ended up thrusting into you making you fall forward and moan.

“ zu what are you.. doing?“

You ask slightly out of breath, he was choking on his breath trying his hardest not to absolutely ram his cock in and out of you like he knows he needs. God izuku was so horny he just wanted to fuck you so badly.

“ s- sorry.. hon I- ngh~...“

He sentence was ended by a muffled groan, you really were squeezing his cock so tight. You take breather and scoot back into him, his cock still being buried deep inside. It makes him moan softly into your ear as you get closer, a beautiful noose that you always welcome and are always pleased to hear. He hums in a whiney tone on accident, getting extremely red when you laugh at the desperate sound escaping your poor husband.

You sigh happily as you can feel his heavy cock stuffing you full, twitching occasionally when you pulse around him. Izuku held you close wrapping his hands around your stomach, he buried his face in your neck trying to lull himself back to sleep, you intoxicating smell so sweet and driving him absolutely feral. He tried so hard to go back to sleep but he was having a hard time, his cock was so deep inside of you and only getting deeper as time passed yet he wasn't fucking you. Not like he wanted to.

Izuku sighed desperately and defeatedly as he looked down at you only to see you asleep with a smile on your face. For fucks sake. There was no way he was getting back to sleep, and absolutely no way hes not blowing his load deep inside of you.. if he even gets to cum.

[hyukalyptus]

something nice — sub!fem!reader x dom!yeonjun x servicetop!kai

cw. reader is in an established (open) relationship with yeonjun, cucking? (kai eats reader's pussy while yj watches lol), cunnilingus ofc, nipple play, orgasm denial, edging, pet names (baby, jjun), begging, mention of "punishment" but nothing's ever done, yeonjun and kai talk about reader and what they're gonna do to her (without her understanding—everything is consensual in the beginning, but read note below), let me know if there's anything else. notes. IMPORTANT: ok so the tea with this one. the idea here is that the reader doesn't speak korean well and kai and yj are speaking korean to kinda talk about the reader and what they're gonna do to her so she doesn't understand. nothing aggressive, just describing what to do to her body so she's kinda surprised? SO!! anything in italics is in korean. thats important!! also idk how i feel about this???? smut under cut. wc. 1.5K

“Did she give you a reason or did she just break up with you?” You’re eavesdropping on Yeonjun and Kai—not that they’re being very secretive. They’re talking about a woman Kai’s been seeing while you play video games and attempt to translate in your head, but you're not being too successful, catching a few words here and there. 

“She did say one thing,” Kai says hesitantly. “But it’s kinda embarrassing.”

“What is it?”

“Well,” he starts, scooting closer to Yeonjun to awkwardly whisper something to him, twiddling his thumbs, running his fingers through his hair.

“Oh,” Yeonjun chuckles. “That’s…man, if you get really good at that, you could date anyone.”

“What are you talking about?” You finally pause your game, curiosity getting the best of you. Looking up, Kai looks like you caught him stealing cookies from a cookie jar while Yeonjun tries to hold back a chuckle. The three of you exchange looks until Yeonjun rolls his eyes to bluntly say—

“Eating women out.”

“Yeonjun—!” Kai says, shoving his arm.

“What?” He chuckles, returning the shove. “I eat her out all the time. She knows what it is. She knows you eat pussy too.”

“But that’s why that woman broke up with you?” You ask. “Because you…you're bad at eating pussy?” He blushes, averting his attention to the floor while he clasps his hands together, nodding shyly.

“Be honest, babe—am I good at eating you out?”

Looking between the two of them, you sit up and say, “Yeah, you’re probably the best I’ve had, but we’re super compatible, you know? We’re, like, super in love. That makes a big difference sometimes.”

Holding back a cocky smile, he asks, “But, objectively, I’m pretty good, right?” You shrug and nod—really, he probably is the best you’ve ever had, but that’s another story. 

“What makes it good?” Kai asks.

Humming, you think before saying, “First, he doesn’t go straight for it.” Turning red and ears getting warm, you gush and— “Oh god, Kai, don’t look at me when I tell you this.”

“Ah, this is ridiculous,” Yeonjun exasperates. “Do you just wanna practice on her?” You both whip your heads in his direction. “If you’re comfortable with it, of course,” he says to you. “Just thought it might be helpful.” 

Oh, how did you end up here? Laying in Yeonjun's bed, clenching your thighs together out of nervousness. “Remember, this is kinda specific to her. Pay attention to what whoever you’re with wants.” Kai nods, kneeling at the foot of the bed.

“She already said this—” Yeonjun says. “I don’t go straight for it. I kiss her first, then make my way down there.”

“You want him to kiss me?”

He shrugs and says, “If you’re alright with that.”

“If you are,” you say, looking Kai in the eyes. Both of them can’t help but notice the confidence you seem to be exuding, especially compared to Kai. Trembling fingers reaching for your cheek, he looks at you for permission one final time. Finally leaning in, his lips press to yours. 

You’d forgotten what it was like to have a first kiss with someone. Kai’s kisses are different from Yeonjun’s. Kai’s are much more cautious, more careful—not necessarily shy, but careful. It quickly turns hot and heavy. But you remember Yeonjun is watching you, suddenly overtaken with bashfulness, you break the kiss to glance over at him. 

Him and that sinister smile. 

Turning back to Kai, you crash into his lips again, humming into his mouth and smirking to rub how much you're enjoying this in Yeonjun's face.  

“Touch her,” Yeonjun says. “Kinda slowly, but then a little more intense.” Kai does as he’s told, his hand dragging up your hip to squeeze your tits. “Under her shirt.” 

His hand on the outside of your bra feels new and exciting. Reaching around your back to unhook it, you break the kiss to take your shirt off, pulling at the hem of his. 

“Slow down for a second,” Yeonjun chuckles and Kai listens, placing gentle kisses to your collarbone. “Lick her nipples.” Swirling his tongue around your nipple, you gasp, reaching for his hair. “Pay attention to which one she likes better.”

Kai tests both, slyly licking between the two. After testing the waters, he picks correctly. You chuckle thinking about Yeonjun sitting on a chair across the room, smirking in approval. You could look for yourself, but you can’t bring yourself to open your eyes. 

“Keep licking her until her hips roll.” This is a bit crazy, isn’t it? The guy you love telling another man how to fuck you the way you like. “Not yet.” Yeonjun switches to Korean, making you roll your eyes. If you didn’t have the energy to translate in your head earlier, you definitely can’t focus enough to translate now.

Lips trailing down your body, he tugs at your shorts, but keeps your cute pink panties on. Yeonjun talks him through every move—to lick his thumb and rub your nipple, to press his nose to the outside of your panties, to skate his lips across your inner thighs. 

Your hips roll uncontrollably, practically begging him to taste you. 

“Kai—” You whisper, your body instantly burning at the sound of the both of them chuckling. Pulling your panties down and off your legs, he throws them to Yeonjun who happily wads them up to sniff them and smell how delicious you are. 

Licking his thumb again, he keeps rubbing circles over your nipple as he finally licks your clit, your back arching as soon as he touches it. 

“Fuck—” You say breathlessly, looking down at him as his eyes sparkle up at you, your head dropping to your pillow with a thud. “Who the fuck is this bitch that says you’re bad at this?” He shakes his head, digging deeper into your pussy. 

Smiling cockily, you look over at Yeonjun, trying to control his breathing. He can’t help it—the two of you are just too hot together. He's never been able to enjoy this kind of view before. Seeing how every part of your body reacts to being touched—it's an incredible view.

“Please tell me he’s allowed to make me cum, baby,” You beg.

“Of course,” he chuckles smugly. “If he can.” Kai’s eating you out like he’s absolutely starving. And it’s true—he can’t help it. You taste too fucking good. 

Your eyes squeeze shut as you start squeaking, throwing your head back. 

“Okay, that sound means she’s gonna cum soon. Try to bring her as close to the edge as possible and then stop.” 

“Fuck, Kai,” you breathe. “Right there—yes.” You can’t believe how good he is at this, especially given the reason you're under his tongue right now. He’s supposed to be bad at this, right? 

You’re so fucking close and he can feel it. “Don’t stop—” he brings you right there. And then he does it. He stops. “Agh, fuck you,” you groan. Looking down at him, his smirking at you, eyes flashing between you and Yeonjun. 

He doesn’t waste too much time before getting back to your pussy, flicking his tongue over your clit. 

“Take it away from her for a bit. Lick her nipples again.” He does just that. You’re aching, bucking your hips over and over, desperately trying to relieve some kind of tension. But his tongue does feel amazing on your tits. Threading your fingers through his hair, you tug at it hard. He groans, his mouth dropping open like you just unlocked a new kink of his. 

Now he can’t take it anymore. Hips jutting forward, you feel the roughness of his sweatpants drag against your center, relieving some of that tension. You gasp, resorting to begging him to get back to licking you. 

“No, don’t,” Yeonjun says sternly. 

“But I want to,” Kai whines back, looking at your pussy hungrily, sticking the tip of his tongue out, giving his best begging eyes. But Yeonjun just shakes his head, satisfied with watching you uncontrollably rolling your hips up toward Kai’s mouth. Kai compromises, wrapping his hands around the backs of your thighs to yank you closer to him and presses his lips to the skin right around your clit, teasing you even more. 

“Babe—” you breathe, begging Yeonjun with your eyes to let him continue licking you. 

“I know, baby, I know…” he responds, his voice low and rough. He finally lets him lick you again. But he doesn’t show much mercy. He repeats the same tactic over and over—having him bring you right to the edge, even to the point of tears, then he stops right in his tracks.

"I'm gonna tell you to stop, but I want you to keep going, okay?" Kai nods, agreeing to his instructions. Bringing you to the edge again, you're begging for mercy, begging to cum. "Don't let her cum, Kai," he says, making tears form in your eyes. "Stop—"

And he does.

"I told you to let her cum that time."

"Sorry," he smiles up at him, licking his lips. "It's so fun to see her beg like that though." Tilting his head toward you, he says, "Look at her...she's got tears in her eyes. Isn't that the hottest fucking thing you've ever seen?"

"It's okay, baby," he says, fingers flowing through your hair while Kai's mouth finds your clit again. You're moaning, gasping for air, swearing, screaming, anything to try to find a release. "Not yet. Don't let her fucking cum, Kai." You don't think you can handle this much longer. Edging is nice, yes, but this? This is bordering torture.

"Please, please, please, Jjun..." you trail off. "Just please let me cum. I can't take it anymore."

"I know you can take it, baby. Fucking taking it so well..."

It's building again. That knot in your stomach that gets tighter and tighter with every second. That white hot fire in the pit of your stomach waiting to explode.

"Don't stop, Kai," you blurt. "I'm gonna cum—" Slamming your palm over your mouth—you shouldn't have said that. He's gonna make you regret saying that.

"Don't let her cum," he orders.

But his grip gets tighter. His tongue licks furiouser. His face digs deeper. You're so fucking close. Closer than you've ever been tonight.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, Kai..." your orgasms crashes over you like a bolt of lightning. "Yes, fuck yes, that feels so fucking good." You feel like you're having an out of body experience. It's one of the best fucking orgasms of your life. "Don't stop, right there." You chest heaves with heavy breaths.

Coming down from one of the best orgasms of your life, your vision clears up and all you keep thinking is how much Yeonjun's gonna make you pay for this. You came without his permission—what's he gonna do now? Everything flashes across your mind: not letting you cum for a week, spanking you until your ass had his hand print on it, tying you up for hours, you're not sure.

But he doesn't do any of that. His hand caresses your cheek as he smiles down at you, "Did that feel good, baby?"

Confused, you nod, "Mhmm." You're still nervous, looking around at everyone's reactions. Kai's smirking while he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Bad at eating pussy my ass," you say, shoving his shoulder with your foot.

"Ah, I knew you a had a little crush on him...I've seen how you look at him." Your face turns beet red. He's noticed that? Oh god... "I just wanted to do something nice for my baby."

[norrizzandpia]

this is about oscar? part 3 but its freak by doja cat 🙏🏻

I fear y/n has released an entire album this time lol @golden-flora

The Album (OP81)

Summary: She’s done singles, one song at a time about her and Oscar’s sex life, but, now, she’s ready for a whole album.

Warnings: dirtiest one of the series, sexual discussions, Oscar being cocky

Note: THE NEXT INSTALLMENT OF THE WHO IS OSCAR PIASTRI SERIES IS HERE EVERYONE!!!! Hope you like it, i added some new things. First, as you know, y/n releases an album here, but, also, at the end, instead of smau, it’s just a regular story abt them on a podcast 🤭

y/nnn Oscar, the album, out tonight with a track list of Freak, Agora Hills, Dick, and Pussy Poppin 🤭

Comments:

Mclarensgirly SHE NAMED THE WHOLE THING OSCAR IM FUCKING CRYING

F1fan2023 using a photo McLaren took is cray

- y/nnn say it with me everyone: he looks hot!

- Mclarensgirly he looks hot!

- ln4andop81 he looks hot!

- f1fan81 he looks hot!

landonorris plz. plz don’t release it. I’ve never felt terror like this in my entire life after seeing that track list

- y/nnn don’t you put your life on the line every weekend to drive a car?

- landonorris yes.

oscarpiastri anyone want to come to the listening party?

- Danielricciardo no.

- landonorris absolutely fucking not

- logansargeant YOU THINK IM GOING TO BE LISTENING TO THESE???

- y/nnn y’all are some fake ass bitches

oscarpiastri haha have fun everyone!!!

- ln4andop81 mans is enjoying himself

- oscarpiastri more than enjoying myself

- landonorris like I’ll literally kill you

—

TWITTER

Mclarensgirly i would just like to say that this is the man all those songs are about

- ln4andop81 i mean she did say “tied him down to my queen bed” in freak so that pic does fit the sub allegations

- f1fan2023 she also said “love it when he hit and smack too” in agora hills

- Mclarensgirly also said “hold me down, when a hole need dick”

- f1fan81 also said “he want a quickie, let him lick me, then I started gasping. The way his tongue be going crazy, you wouldn’t imagine. I let him stick me, hair got frizzy, I might let him crash it”

- Mclarensgirly also said “He put that woo all down my throat until i started coughing.”

- ln4andop81 OKAY OKAY I GET IT 😭

- ln4andop81 but also like… lets talk abt it

- Mclarensgirly IVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS

- f1fan2023 “he like it when i bend it over and i arch my back. He tap me on my shoulders, i said ‘yeah, i like that’” YOURE KIDDING.

- ln4andop81 i envision that in my head at night

- Mclarensgirly oh?

- ln4andop81 moving on! “Pull the panties to the side, watch a movie and make it two. We just finished number one, but I’m ready for round two” YUM.MY.

- F1fan81 sometimes i wonder if I’m jealous of Oscar or jealous of y/n

- Mclarensgirly real.

- ln4andop81 we also need to talk about Dick bc she literally goes “i met the boy in the 6, but measurements wasn’t a six” UHHHHHHH

- f1fan2023 it baffles me that he’s packing that seriously

- ln4andop81 nothing baffles me when it comes to that boy now that y/n sang “When I made a little mess on it, he told me to clean my act up” BRUHHHH THATS FUCKING HOT AS SHIT

- Mclarensgirly “Skirt up, fuck in the backseat. Take that shirt off, baby, put it on me. Got me like ‘yeehow’, ride it like a horsey. Kinda like seesaw, up and down on the D, give it to him” McLaren’s kicking and crying rn bc they know they cant take their car back from Oscar after y/n confirmed they christened it

- f1fan2023 okay okay but can we talk about “suck a little dick in the bathroom” in agora hills (slay song btw i ate that shit up)

- ln4andop81 YEAH BC IM GOING TO NEED SOME MORE INFO THAN THAT. WHEN. WHERE. WHAT.

- F1fan81 i bet your ass it was in the mtc

- ln4andop81 or in the Australian Grand Prix paddock remember when no one could find him after the face was over and all he said he was with y/n? SHE HAD TO HAVE BEEN GIVING HIM CELEBRATORY HEAD

- Mclarensgirly honestly? They prob did it in both

- oscarpiastri mhm

—

Oscar and Y/n sat next to each other on the soft sofa of the studio. They giggled with the podcast host as she said their introduction.

“Breaking the internet right now with their sex life, Oscar Piastri and Y/n Y/l/n! Hi, guys, welcome.” Samantha, the host, spoke to them.

Y/n and Oscar mumbled pleasantries, their legs squished together even with all the space to Y/n’s left. The woman was quick to getting into the topic of conversation, having already discussed boundaries with the couple before the cameras started rolling.

“So, Y/n, you’ve just released a small album that focuses mostly on Oscar and the things you two get up to in the bedroom. Were you ever nervous to share these songs with the world?”

Y/n nodded, “At first, yeah, all the way back when we started with 34+35, but it got easier once I saw the overwhelming support for it. I think the best part about releasing them is seeing the jokes that the fans make about Oscar and that side of him.”

Samantha smiled, “That leads me to my next question, Oscar, were you ever nervous to have people know about that side of you? Seeing as it was such a shocker.”

He laughed as he adjusted his position, throwing an arm around his girlfriend, “Um, well, I didn’t think it was that shocking. We didn’t expect people to go haywire over hearing that I lean more towards the dominant side. We kind of assumed people inferred that.”

Samantha’s jaw dropped, “Really?! Oh! I’ll be honest, I was quite surprised when I heard it.”

Y/n shook her head, “I don’t know, I guess the way Oscar is in front of cameras is drastically different from how he actually is. He’s still very soft spoken and quiet, but a bit more outgoing.”

Samantha nodded as she glanced over her next question, “Oscar, what’s your favorite song off this album?”

“Oh, I am so ready for this. Agora Hills.” He answered immediately, smiling proudly at the others in the room.

Y/n turned to look at him, “Really?! Why?!”

His head leaned from side to side, “Just, it’s more romantic? I mean, you talk about tying the knot alongside the sex stuff.”

Y/n and Samantha laugh at his comment, Samantha agreeing, “No, I see what you’re saying. Y/n, you do say you want to show him off multiple times throughout the song.”

“Because I do!” She exclaimed, leaning into her boyfriend lovingly.

He kissed her temple, listening intently to Samantha.

“Your interactions with the fans are hilarious. Do you guys look forward to fucking with them?”

“Hell yeah!” Oscar exclaimed, “Once I caught wind of the fact that they didn’t think I did shit in the bedroom, I became very obnoxious when rubbing what happens between Y/n and I in their faces.”

Y/n cooed jokingly, “Aw, Osc, was your masculinity damaged?”

He rolled his eyes at her, laughing at her dig and pushing her away softly. They came back together, though.

“Before we move on from this subject, I want to ask Y/n, was the over six inches comment really true?” Samantha eyed her as Y/n glanced beside her at Oscar, silently asking him if she could do what he knew she wanted to do.

He nodded at her, shaking his head lightly as she said, “A lady never kisses and tells.”

Silence passed as she raised her hands and aimed them around nine inches apart. Winking suggestively at the camera, the women in the room gasped.

“IS THAT NINE INCHES?!” Samantha screamed, causing all of them to fall into a fit of giggles.

Y/n brought the microphone to her mouth and whispered, “Oh, yeah, it is.”

[wink-wonk]

.

[lizardboiii]

Breaking up ┃One Piece Pt. 1

Scenario: Having a huge fight with your bf which ultimately leads one of you to saying something you regret.

"I wish I never met you."

Characters: Monkey D. Luffy, Roronoa Zoro x Fem!reader

cw: 18+, SFW, Angst, Hurt/No comfort, vulgar language

☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *.

Monkey D. Luffy

“You never even treat me like we're together!”

You were at your breaking point, figuratively and literally. In the last three months that you and Luffy had been together, not once did he change the way he acted towards you. It felt as if you were still just Luffy’s nakama. Well today that was all going to change. You had a plan.

It took some convincing, but you finally managed to get Nami and Ussop to help you set up a romantic dinner in the Sunny’s crow’s nest. Two of Luffy’s favorite things, food and you. It was perfect.

With preparations taken care of, you waited patiently for Luffy to arrive. Your aforementioned captain was currently exploring the island you were stopped at. But with the sun starting to set, he'd be back for dinner any minute now.

So you waited. 

And waited. 

And waited….

You waited till the candles were near burnt out. Waited till the food went ice cold. Waited till your eyes stung from holding back tears.

Monkey D. Luffy had stood you up.

Your own boyfriend. 

Slamming the napkin delicately placed across your lap onto the table, you pushed yourself to your feet. Humiliation creeped its way up your neck. Never in your life have you ever felt so worthless. 

Holding back hiccups, you dragged yourself out of the crow’s nest and away from the undisturbed meal. What was Nami going to think? All that preparation for nothing. You clenched your hands into tight fists. The next time you see Luffy you swear you were going to-

“y/n!”

You spun on your heel to face the familiar voice. Luffy’s face smiled brightly at you, blinding you more than the moonlight. It was almost enough for you to forgive him. Almost.

“Wait up!”

Scoffing, you glared at his cheery form before turning away from him. All you wanted was a shower, not excuses. 

Luffy caught up with your silently seething form with ease, spinning around you like top. He pranced around as if he were a crow and you his shiny treasure. Your name falling from his lips like a mantra.

Try as you might, eventually you gave into his pestering, voice sharp as nails, “What do you want, Luffy?”

Luffy’s grin widened despite your tone, “Sorry I couldn't make it, y/n. There was a festival in town, you should have come. There was an all you can eat buffet, Tra-guy and Jaggy were there too!” He scratched his chin, “Maybe next time you can invite everyone else so we can all eat together again!”

Your eye twitched, “Why would I invite the whole crew to our date?”

“Date?”

You stopped in your tracks, “Yes, date. You know the ones you're supposed to take your girlfriend out on? That kind?”

You could practically see the gears turning in his head at your reply. 

“But I have multiple girlfriends?” “WHAT?”

“Ya! You, Robin, Nami,” Luffy used his fingers to count, “Oh, and Vivi!”

You face palmed, “Not “girl” friends, Luffy. A “girlfriend”. Someone who’s more,” You reached for Luffy’s hand, “Special.”

“But all my friends are special,” Luffy pouted, gingerly returning your touch.

Laughing, you shook your head, “I know. But…It's a different type of special. It's when you wanna hold their hand, and you wanna be near them no matter what,” You met his confused gaze, “It's someone you love.”

“Then why would I wanna do that with you?”

“Huh?”

It felt like your body hit a brick wall. Every word ripped from your throat. He was joking right? It was a sick joke but a joke no less. 

“I don’t think I love you.”

You blinked in confusion before choking out a response, “T-Thats okay. Sometimes it takes a while to realize you love someone. It's not immediate.”

Luffy hummed, “I'm not sure I even want a “girlfriend”, y/n.”

A nervous laughter erupted from your throat, “Luffy, what are you talking about?” It felt like your heart might leap out of your chest.

“I like how my friends are now. I don't need a “girlfriend”. I have my Nakama. I have you.”

The world suddenly stopped spinning, and only for a moment the ocean quieted and the breeze hushed. Then, as if nothing happened, the world began to turn as normal, leaving behind your hollowed out body.

"...what?"

Cheeky smiled, Luffy repeated his words as if it was only the news, "I don't need a "girlfriend" I have a crew!"

The empty feeling in the pit of your stomach slowly filled with rage. First, he stood you up. Now? Now, he wants to pretend you guys aren't even dating!?

“Luffy, we're dating! What are you talking about? I asked you out almost three months ago!” You snapped, “Why did you even say yes to me if you didn't want a "girlfriend"?” 

“I don't know,” He cocked his head to the side, “I just thought you wanted to be closer friends.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in disbelief, “What?”

Luffy shifted in his sandals, clearly uncomfortable, “I thought you wanted to be my “girl” friend, not my “girlfriend”.”

“Are you joking?” Your skin felt red hot as if your whole being was ablaze, “You thought I wanted to be your “girl” friend!? Did it ever once occur to you that friends don't hold each other’s hands!?”

Luffy quickly retracted his hand from your grip, scratching his head in thought, “Not really.”

“Oh my god,” You couldn't tell if you were laughing or crying at this point, “This whole time you never thought we were together? Ever?!”

“I guess we are a bit closer than everyone else,” Luffy’s brows furrowed in thought.

“A bit?” You ran your fingers through your hair, “We spend every waking moment together! I've confided in you, you've confided with me. You know things about me no one else does!”

To his credit, Luffy looked ashamed, “I’m sorry, y/n. I guess…I just never noticed how you really felt.”

You rolled your tear filled eyes, “Obviously.”

“I can try if you want-”

“Forget it, Luffy,” You held your hands up in defeat, “Just forget it. Whatever you thought was going on here is over.”

Luffy grabbed your arm, “What! I don't want that!”

“You don't seem to want a lot of things,” You shrugged his grip off, “Including me.”

“y/n.”

You wiped your face clear of tears.

“We're done, Lu.”

☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *.

Roronoa Zoro

"Do I need to be a sword just to get a minute of your attention!?"

Three hundred seventy-six, three hundred seventy-seven, three hundred seventy-eight-

“Are you still counting?”

You rolled your eyes, “Yes, mom.”

Zoro ignored your annoyed response, preferring to continue his push ups below you. Huffing, you rested your chin on your hand. He had been going at this for hours now. You were starting to feel nauseous as your form jostled every time Zoro went up and down with you on his back.

“How much longer?”

Zoro grunted, “When I reach two thousand.”

“Two thousand!?”

Your sudden shout made Zoro shoot up quickly, knocking you off balance. Your criss-crossed form easily flew from Zoro’s back to the ground below. You fell hard, slamming your shoulder into the wood floor. 

Hissing, you rubbed your now sore arm, “What the hell, Zoro!?”

“Shit.”

The moss head was quick to his feet, offering you a hand, “Dammit, you should've been more careful.”

You snatched his extended hand and scoffed, “I wasn't the one who moved so suddenly.”

Pulling you to your feet, Zoro continued to hold your hand, “I wasn't the one complaining so loudly.”

“I can’t help it. We’ve been here all day,” You played with his larger fingers, “Plus, you promised you'd explore the island with me today.”

You could hear Zoro grumble under his breath before sighing loudly, “Training is more important right now.”

You furrowed your eyebrows, “What, why?"

Your thoughts raced around in your head to find a reason for Zoro's sudden uptightness. You were quick to settle on striking golden eyes and a small dagger. Dracule Mihawk. He and Zoro had put on quite the show only weeks ago.

Rubbing Zoro's palm, you quirked a brow, "Are you still hung up about that Mihawk guy beating you?”

“I'm not hung up.”

You flinched at Zoro’s tone, “You clearly are.”

Quickly dropping your hand, Zoro turned away from you, “Listen it doesn't even matter what you think. You wouldn't understand. You're not a swordsman.”

“I'm not a swordsman but I'm definitely your girlfriend,” you snapped at his back.

“Just because you're my girlfriend doesn't mean you can control my training.”

“Just because you're a swordsman doesn't mean you can just dismiss me.”

The room filled with a silence thick enough to cut with a sword. You thought you might drown on land. Staring into Zoro's rigid back, you tried to manifest any form of response from him.

Finally, after what seemed like eons, Zoro rolled his shoulders and turned to face you. Your breath caught in your throat at his expression. It was dark, almost...menacing. It was a gaze he normally reserved scum marines and enemy pirates alike, but never for you.

“You're the one who's dismissing me!”

A forced laugh erupted from your mouth, “How am I dismissing you, moss head?” You crossed the space between the two of you, “By telling you to take one measly break?”

Zoro’s eyes bore into your own as if trying to find his next words. Grabbing your hand, he placed it on his bare chest, “Do you see this?”

You tensed at the feeling of the scar tissue, Mihawk.

“This...this scar is why I have to be stronger. For the crew. For Luffy,” Zoro squeezed your hand, “For you.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, “Zoro, I didn't-”

“Maybe we should break up.”

You paused, mouth stuck open in shock, “...what?”

It felt like you had swallowed glass, pins and needles running down your esophagus into your stomach. But the glass still wasn't enough to fill the large pit beginning to form.

Gently, Zoro pushed your hand away from him, “This relationship,” he took a deep breath, “Might be too much of a distraction.”

You never really understood when people said it felt like their heart was being ripped out of their chest. But now? It felt like your whole chest cavity had been removed. 

Slowly, hot tears began to cascad down your rosied cheeks, “You think I'm a distraction?”

Zoro paused, his internal conflicted evident on his face, “...yes.”

You clenched your teeth together tightly, “Screw you, Zoro! I can barely get you to pay attention to me when someone even mentions the word “sword” but I'm the distraction?!” You jammed a finger into his chest, avoiding his scar, “If you needed an excuse to break up with me so badly you could've at least chosen a good one!”

“I’m sorry, y/n,” Zoro favored staring at the ground, “But if I want to be the greatest swordsman I can't be with you.” His hand captured the one buried in his chest, "Not yet at least."

You ripped your hand away from him, "If not now, then never." Your eyes searched Zoro's, looking for any sign of regret, "Choose, Zoro."

"Its over, y/n," Massive arms pulled you into a warm hug, "I'm sorry."

Clutching onto him, you sobbed silently. It wasn't fair. Why couldn't he just have both?

"I love you."

“Fuck you.”

☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *.

Requests Open!

[xxxsaturnxx]

König head cannons

As requested on my most recent poll!! I did try to keep it very neutral and ‘fluffy’. Please let me know who else i should write for im always looking for new ideas!!

König keeps a little journal with him at all times when he’s deployed. Just something to vent at or doodle in. He’s not the best artist but he tries, he even has small doodles in almost every page that kind of look like you.

His journal is VERY private the only person thats allowed to take a peak in there every now and then is you. Sometimes when he’s busy somewhere else in the house and he leaves his journal unattended you put tiny love notes in the corners of the pages.

While he’s not deployed König has three moods. Couch potato, horn dog, and the biggest ball of energy anyones ever seen.

König in couch potato mode is just a giant weighted blanket. He’ll lay on the couch taking up the entire couch just watching a movie or show of his choosing. You can try to join him but only if you can lift a part of him up, and if you can’t the floor or his lap would do fine.

König while he’s all energetic can mean a couple things for you. He’ll either want you to join him on a run or hike, but his idea of a small hike or a short run might just kill you half way through.

NSFW MDNI

When könig is riled up he’s practically glued to you in someway. His hands would most likely fall on your chest or waist trying to feel every inch of skin he can reach. His mouth would be marking you all over your neck, chest, and legs are going to be covered with bite marks and hickes red and sore.

Sometimes when he’s particularly desperate humping is to be expected. In those times you can bring down this massive 6’10 hulking man into nothing more than a whiny mess, Begging for your touch. He’ll look up at you while on his knees with those beautiful ocean eyes begging for any kind of attention/friction.

If hes just gotten back from deployment best believe the first thing hes looking for is you. He’ll drop everything at the door slamming it with his foot. The second he spots you his hands and lips are all over you. He mumbles against your skin about how much hes missed you before taking your lips into his.

Later that day he makes sure that you feel every inch second hes missed you. Almost breaking the bed, couch, you and table throughout the night. He does make sure to slow down every once and a while to just love on you and to also give you a break.

Königs stamina is very well above average much like the rest of him. He understands that breaks are important so you don’t break. ( as euphoric as it would be)

His after care routine is just as much for you as it is for him. Back rubs, bathroom trips and head scratches are some favorites but just having him there still breathing heavy wiping the sweat from your brow and giving you soft kisses all over your face is definitely on the top of all favorites.

König rarely loses control when you’re together, always couscous of how you feel and react. But there are those moments when he just snaps in the best way possible.

Sometimes he snaps before hes even entered you and he just grips the base of your head and positions you like you’re nothing more than a rag doll. König just relentlessly thrusting in and out of you while hes holding you still with one hand pushing your head down by your neck and the other sinking into your hip.

Other times könig and you are mid stroke when he snaps. Positioning you under him almost being crushed by his weight. He mindlessly pounds into you like a wild animal, both times ending with him filling you over and over again till hes had his fill, leaving you dripping and cock drunk.

It is almost guaranteed that you wake up the next morning sore and bruised but very satisfied. He’ll apologize for losing control by pampering you the entire day, so expect a lot of cuddles, kisses, and being fed your favorite foods.

[jeonghantis]

✧ — NO INHIBITIONS, STRANGE CONDITIONS.

PAIRING ⇝ kim mingyu x reader.

SUMMARY ⇝

road safety could not hold you back from wanting your boyfriend despite how stupid of a idea it is. kim mingyu was just as stupid.

TAGS ⇝ established relationship, smut, pwp.

WARNINGS ⇝ language, gn!reader but with female parts & wears skirts, distracted driving (DRIVE SAFELY PLEASE), explicit sexual content (MINORS, DNI!).

WORD COUNT ⇝ 3.7k words.

note: welp. LOL! mingyu driving drove me mad. this is 2 of 2 fics in celebration of mingyu month. a complete 180 from the first one i fink! oops! and yes i'm aware it's may now and i apologize deeply. but celebrating mingyu should be an all-time thing. the title is taken from the song leaving me feeling confident by the driver era. don't think the song would go specifically with the fic, i just liked the wording. this is completely self-indulgent so as always, not proofread hehe. not as good as i hoped it would be but i hope you enjoy regardless.

reblog for kim mingyu. thats it. (and to support me).

smut tags under the cut.

SMUT TAGS ⇝ ROAD HEAD! (dick sucking while driving), dom/sub dynamics, switch!mingyu, switch!reader, mingyu is kinda sub until he's not, reader is dom until they're not, size kink (reader is smaller than mingyu), use of the petname "darling" "baby" & "angel", dirty talk, praise (reader gets called "pretty"), degradation (whore, slut), hairpulling, mild begging, groping, oral (m), fingering (f), gagging, throatfucking, cunt slapping (once), cum eating, mingyu is ROUGH (man does not know his own strength but is caring afterwards), reader being used as a toy, cockdumb and cock hungry reader, reader probably got major oral fixation, big dick!mingyu like Big Big (could imagine mingyu being ridiculously big or reader just has small hands).

Wandering hands had become quite a shared habit, how natural it was for their fingers to gravitate towards each other. It was always welcomed, of course, when it acted as a need of comfort from the other. When there was not one moment where they were not craving for each other.

But this was a problem. Several problems. Two very conflicting problems.

First, not only is your hand caressing him at the moment, it’s artfully roving over to his crotch. And Mingyu truly loved your bold actions and might have appreciated it if it had been within the confines of their apartment. But it was in the confines of his car, in the middle of a highway.

Second, the problem to the first problem, was that this was his wet dream come true.

It’s a no-brainer what should be deemed more urgent. Mingyu didn’t want to careen their vehicle over the edge and risk their very lives for the sake of getting his dick wet. 

But. 

But the danger, although he knows it should, doesn’t entirely frighten him. It was a wet dream for a reason.

But Mingyu should be smart about this. He has to be smart about this.

Meanwhile, you’re thinking you may be utterly stupid about this. 

Most times, you would consider yourself a cautious person—someone who would always second-guess every decision, and hell, maybe third or even fourth-guessed. Truly, you were an overthinker. Sometimes, you wished you could just stop thinking altogether.

And that time has come now. There was absolutely no question of your decision, not even a single thought process done, when you reached to palm your boyfriend’s clothed dick. You only knew that you were being ridiculous, but it was because Mingyu looked ridiculously hot right now driving the way he does, glancing at you and smiling the way he does. What the hell were you supposed to do?

What you’re saying next is entirely pulled out of the shallowest part of your brain riddled with unbridled lust. And it challenges Mingyu’s logic and worsens his agony.

“Can I put it in my mouth?” you ask innocently, peering at him with big, curious eyes. 

“I might kill us both, babe,” Mingyu said, pearly canines bared when he wore a strenuous smile. He spares an urgent glance at how your hand sits perfectly atop his growing erection, nails dragging on denim. His grip on the steering wheel tightens.

“I trust that you won’t. You’re a good driver,” you claim, smiling sharply as you give him a tilt of your head. “Is that a no?”

There was no immediate response from him, his eyes fixed stubbornly on the road that lay ahead. Yet, you still caught the clench of his jaw under the flash of a streetlamp, the whitening of his knuckles. It was insanely unfair how Mingyu could still look so gorgeous when frustration twisted his features—or was it you who simply loved seeing his frustrations?

Mingyu weighed his options. Their apartment was still many ways away, he doesn’t know if he could tough it out for that long. He’s thankful the highway is nearly void of other cars, but is utterly bitter over how it stretches on seemingly forever, leaving him no room to pull over at all. He had to maintain focus on the winding paths. He tried not to think of the deft work of your hand on him. He tried not to think of how your mouth would soon replace it. But his pleasure-ridden body betrays him miserably—his hips lifting itself into a slow rut right against your hand.

“Endangering our lives just so you could fill your slut of a mouth,” Mingyu spelled out slowly, each word sharp. “Is that what you really want?”

“Yeah,” you chirp, entirely unaffected by his tone and he could practically hear the smirk in yours. “You could say no.”

He looks at you. “I could.”

“So, say it.”

A sliver of a smile as he turns away again. “I don’t think I will.”

“Oh?” The flutter deep in your stomach intensified, the anticipation having you on the edge seat almost quite literally as you’re leaning closer, adding a little more weight on his crotch. “Why not?”

“Because I dreamt of this,” he divulges, an airy sigh slipping from his lips. “Dreamt of your pretty lips wrapped around my cock in the middle of traffic, of your frustration when I’m unable to help you force my entire length down your throat.” 

“How filthy,” you jest, a shit-eating grin pulling your lips wider.

A pointed gaze. “You literally just offered to suck my dick in the first place.”

A shrug. “Fair.” 

Mingyu’s right hand reached for yours. The largeness of his palm fully encompasses your own as he presses down on it, applying enough delightful friction on himself for a strangled moan to get caught in his throat. 

“Just do it,” he exhales, his breathing ragged. “My dick is about to explode.”

“What a poet,” You snicker and give his dick a playful squeeze which only earns more of his choked noises. But thankfully, you’re merciful as you are excited and reckless. He hears the rustle against leather as you’re maneuvering yourself, folding your legs under you. His heart beats a little loudly against his chest, thrumming up to his ears and down to his dick, as lithe, dainty fingers make quick work on his belt and the button of his jeans. 

“Keep your eyes on the road for me, baby,” you say as your hand dives in to finally, finally, bring his awaiting cock out. “We both don’t want to be dead so soon before I give you the best orgasm of your life.”

“Then hurry up,” Mingyu seethes through gritted teeth.

He’s nearly at full length, and though you’ve held him countless times, you’re still marveling at the sheer size of him, how he sits heavily on your palm, throbbing thickly. Your fingers just barely come into a circle when you start to stroke him with an unhurried and leisurely pace, feeling the full extent of him.

“This hard just from me groping you?” you coo, tone a honeyed venom, as you run a thumb over his slit. “Trying to act all cool with me when you’re just as desperate to fill my slut of a mouth.” 

“Baby,” Mingyu said with heavy breaths that taper off into croaked groans. “Please don’t tease.”

“Don’t be so impatient,” you tut. “I promise I’ll make you feel good, but you have to be good and keep driving. Can you do that for me?” 

Mingyu swallows hard, the lump on his throat bobbing, and gives an obedient nod of his head before adjusting himself with a straightened back which might’ve been the umpteenth time he’s done so since you’ve offered your sinful proposal. 

“Good,” you hum, preening at his easy compliance, and dip your head down.

Mingyu bites down on his bottom lip hard when you take one small, tentative lick at his weeping slit. A ditzy giggle bubbles up your throat when he throbs almost immediately in response and your hand squeezes at the base of his cock in return. You continue with a few more teasing flicks, lapping up the bitter taste of him on your tongue, and only when you feel Mingyu’s thighs flex and strain to jerk up into your mouth do you ultimately indulge him.

“Oh fuck,” the poor man cusses out when you down him as much as you could, your mouth a luscious wet warmth as it envelopes around him. “Holy fuck, baby, that’s so good.” 

You hum appreciatively around his unbelievable girth, sending vibrations coursing down the just as unbelievable length that only has Mingyu whimpering praises more. A hand makes up for the rest of him that your mouth couldn’t quite reach just yet; it works in perfect tandem with your slackened jaw as your head begins to bob up and down on him.

Mingyu does not dare steal a glance in total fear of losing all sense of himself at what is most definitely the most lecherous view of his fantasies coming to life. His head stays firmly pinned against the leather-clad headrest, twitching eyes hell-bent on the road. But he could still hear the obscenity of it, all the wet glugs and sucks as your cheeks hollow out for him, and it does all but aid his concentration, gradually winding a burning hot coil deeply set in the pit of his stomach. The wandering habit presented itself as his right hand began to move (thanking the high heavens for making him left-handed), and glided over your back and all the way down under the impossibly short skirt you wore.

“That’s it, angel,” Mingyu drawls out in encouragement, his hand grabbing at the supple flesh of your ass. “You’re taking me so well.”

Hearing his praise and feeling his straying hand only spurs you to dip your head lower, attempting to swallow down more of him. There’s a sense of satisfaction when he bumps the back of your throat and you find that you have been able to take more than half of him in your mouth. But it’s fleeting when the latter half of Mingyu’s dream comes to light sooner than anticipated—that frustration, a consuming greed, of wanting to take him whole. And like he alluded to, you knew it wasn’t possible if he wasn’t fucking your mouth open, which is entirely out of the question. You’re still trying for some form of compensation—a hand wringing at the base, tongue lapping hungrily at the sides of his cock with lewd slurps—and it all comes out good when jerking out moans from Mingyu, but it’s short in appeasing you. It’s desperation now that’s having you creep further along his length, and it’s so so messy with the obscene amount of saliva cascading down his shaft, coating him with a wet sheen. You resist the urge to gag every time he hits the back of your throat and try to veer your focus on breathing through flared nostrils, eyes fluttering shut in concentration. 

It’s laughable how easily that focus is broken when prying fingers begin to pull your flimsy underwear. 

“I couldn’t help myself,” Mingyu averred, flashing a sly smile your way, before he’s gliding a calloused digit over your folds, gathering at the wetness trickling out.

Your mewls are broken and garbled, a new surge of spit gushing down, dripping on his lap. Instinctively, your hips swivel back hungrily in search of more blissful friction, as you peer up at him through wet lashes, a stray tear flowing down your cheek. 

Mingyu catches it when he casts a quick glance again. He notes the utter desperation contorting your expression, the glistening cheeks a sign of your eminent passion, and something deep inside him both inflames and melts at the same time. His eyes are assessing the road when it flickers back up, and there—the greatest silver lining known to man (just Mingyu) kissing the dusky sky—is the end of the highway. He doesn’t speed for it, no, instead he forgoes it, just the slightest bit as his foot eases off the pedal. He forgoes it for the sake of securing the vehicle, for the sake of slipping his a finger inside your wet channel as a reward for the glorious way you worship his cock. 

The surprised, choked-out groan you exude goes straight to his dick, quite literally. And he’s echoing it, staggered but loud enough to drown out the music flowing from the speakers. 

“I’ll pull over soon,” Mingyu imparts, gently hooking the digit and stroking your walls. “Just a little longer, baby, then I’ll fuck your throat. You’d like that too, won’t you?”

You pull off him with a satisfying pop, a string of spit threading between his cock and your glistening lips that’s quickly broken when both hands replace where your mouth’s been, stroking hard and fast. You glance up at him with your bottom lip tucked between your teeth, holding back your moans as your hips sway back into his finger. 

“Be quick,” you whisper, eyelids flickering, and you lean back down to trace the veins along his cock with your tongue. “I want all of you in my mouth. I want you to bury your fingers in me. I want you to abuse me until I'm a mess of spit and tears.”

Fuck. 

Mingyu slams on the acceleration. He’s still commandeering the vehicle securely with one hand, but the finger inside you goes still, letting you use it as you please with shallow rocks of your hips and clenches of your walls. He takes a right when the road opens up and pulls up in a relatively empty parking lot very swiftly with the practiced ease of the seasoned driver he was.

Up until then, you were suckling on his tip, coaxing thick, pearly rivulets out of him onto your tastebuds. If it had been possible to be drunk off of precum, you certainly appeared to be buzzed out of your mind with how much you were giggling and lapping at him for more. You were impossibly gone in the pleasure of giving your boyfriend pleasure that you weren't given enough time to prepare yourself for the absolute reckless and barbaric nature that would be forced upon you.

Safely parked, Mingyu ignored the garbled whines when he pulled his finger away from your clenching walls as he goes to quickly undo his seatbelt. Mingyu reached for two firm fistfuls of your hair, used it as a rein to properly align your mouth for him to shove his way inside promptly without so much of a warning. Gone was his usual gentle nature, he’s completely ruthless. The power of his thrusts is terrifyingly inhumane, his sac slapping up against your chin with ease now that he waives your own comfort. He’s focused on gaining his pleasure and his alone.

“Better?” Mingyu laughs darkly. “Were you struggling all this time? Is your mouth filled up enough now? C’mon, pretty baby. Let me hear those gags.”

You do let him hear it, all the gurgles and violent retches made around him. You fucking know this’ll leave you voiceless the next day—hell, maybe for the next few days if you continue moaning against the repeated force—and yet you’re still indulging him, conceding your entire being to him almost too easily, almost too enthusiastically. 

Like the sick person you were, the brutality has you practically soaking wet through the fabric of your underwear. If you weren’t in such a rough position, you might’ve reached back to relieve yourself of the incessant throbbing of your core. And Mingyu held the mantle now, your authority beaten right out of you, so you weren’t so sure if he would appreciate you doing anything else other than being his cocksleeve.

So instead, with tears a steady stream down your face and lips red and swollen, you let him abuse you, narrowing your focus on the sliding weight of his dick on your tongue, your head laxed for him to fully control with no restraints or complaints. A perfect little toy.

Your pleasurable suffering wouldn’t last for long. Mingyu was close to breaking himself. You feel his thighs tense from where you gripped him for balance, his panted moans rising in volume against your ears. 

“You’re going to swallow everything I give you, you got that?” Mingyu drawled. “Every single bit. You wanted your mouth filled, yeah? You take it all, darling.”  

Your responding, muddled moans are a warm wet ring around him. If you could see him, you’d find how pleasure cruelly contorts his features. It takes a couple more messy, stuttered strokes then the burning coil inside him that wound so tightly snapped so violently. A surge of warmth overwhelms Mingyu, his muscles tensing and seizing, and a long, broken noise is ripped right out of his chest, as he comes in thick ropes of white right into your mouth.

The salty, warm cum of him glides down your throat like melted cream. You do try to guzzle it all down as told, but he always comes in such heavy loads. Coughs threaten to tear your throat but you’re suppressing them with the greatest effort until hot tears streak down your cheeks, your chest heaving wildly. 

“So good,” Mingyu exhales, his grip on you loosened as he takes to petting your hair with such affection as he rides out the remainders of his high. “You’re so good for me, angel.”

Satisfied after gulping down the last spurt of him, you finally let up with a small whimper, your frame quivering as you sat yourself back on your folded legs, your eyes eager when it found him. Mingyu still looked unbelievably good sweaty and flushed. You couldn’t even begin to imagine what you might have looked like with your hair strewn about and swollen lips.

Mingyu didn’t seem to care. He was smiling at you with great fondness as if he had not just abused your mouth like a mere plaything. He reached to wipe some excess cum on your chin with a thumb before immediately shoving past your swollen lips. Still quite pliant, you lick it up earnestly, giving another wanton moan around him.

“Fuck,” Mingyu starts, huffing out a breathy laugh. “You’re my wet dream come true.”

“You’re welcome,” you try to lilt, but it comes out raspy and painful. 

Mingyu notices the wince in your expression and frowns, a hand immediately moving to cradle the side of your throat tenderly. “Does it hurt?”

“Well, you were not exactly gentle, Gyu,” you pointed out humorously, but caught sight of the slight concern lining his face and you quickly followed up with, “But I loved it a lot. It was hot. You were hot.”

Mingyu still looked concerned but at least the corners of his lips twitched at your addition. “I could tell you loved it. You took me really well, angel.”

“And I’d do it again and again,” you said, grinning. “Even though I’m pretty sure my windpipe is bruised.”

His hand lifts to hold the side of your face, a thumb smoothing over your cheek, as he looks over you for a moment. There’s a strange little glint in his eyes, and in your recovering state, you couldn’t quite place what it was, but it has your stomach churning again.

“I should make it up to you, shouldn’t I?” Mingyu murmurs, head cocked to the side as he smiles.

“Could you?” you ask in turn, voice soft. “Please?”

“I’ll take care of you,” he croons, raising his hand up to brush your hair back, his fingers threading through your hair. “Don’t worry your pretty little head.”

Mingyu reaches over you, promptly maneuvering your seat backwards. He eases you until you’re laying flat on your back, and his hands move to grip at your thighs, lifting them and spreading them wide. The breeze that hits your cunt has you trembling and you feel absolutely exposed when Mingyu only watches your tiny frame unfold before him, eyes drinking in the sight with an insatiable hunger. He brushes a knuckle over your soaked folds, tentative, before pressing it roughly against your throbbing clit. You’re whining, arching your back off the seat as a rush of searing pleasure courses up your veins.

You’re whining even louder when Mingyu draws back. You try to reach for his arm but it’s useless when it’s thickly corded with so much power.

“Looks like I didn’t ruin your throat enough if you’re this fucking whiny,” Mingyu remarked sharply with a laugh. He does reach a hand back but your excitement quickly fizzles out just as it spikes when a slap lands quick and sharp on your cunt and you’re jerking in your seat. “Sit still and wait quietly.”

You press your quivering lips into a thin line and nod your head obediently.

With a pleased smile, he pulls back once again. He fixes himself, shoving his dick back into his underwear, followed by sweeping his long hair back and away from his face. He takes his sweet time and doesn’t spare you a single glance as if you weren’t there at all, all the while you couldn’t keep your eyes off of him, the anticipation simmering sickly in your stomach. Then, he’s suddenly reaching for the gear shift, setting the car in reverse, and pulling out of the parking lot.

“W-Where are we going?” you asked urgently.

“Home,” Mingyu replied casually, turning the wheel adeptly with one hand. “Where else?”

You looked down at yourself, at the compromising position he forced you in and forced you to hold. “But - ?”

As if to answer your question, his right hand roves over to you and between your legs. He starts with a press on your clit, then caresses the roughened pad of his finger down to where you leak, before bringing it right back up to start again, and again, and again.

“I promise I’ll make you feel good, baby” Mingyu echoes your words, a vicious smile pulling his lips. “But you have to be good and hold yourself up like that. Can you do that for me?”

“Are you getting back at me?” You meant for your words to come out as an aggravated hiss, but it came out pathetically as a soft whimper.

“Yes,” he responded, not wasting a beat, and peers at you, a dark glimmer in his eyes. “And because this is another wet dream of mine.”

“How lucky,” you start, taking in a shaky breath when Mingyu rubs short, tight circles on your sensitive nub. “How lucky you get to fulfill two of your dreams today.”

“It’s all because of you,” Mingyu grins and, without warning, slides two thick fingers inside you. “Now, answer the question.”

“Yes,” you gasp out immediately, the sudden breach stinging so sharply, but your walls gave a sickly delighted spasm around him anyway. Your arms come up and hook themselves around your knees, bringing it up to your heaving chest. “Yes, I can.”

“Good,” he hums, curling the digits and pressing it roughly against the sweet nerves inside you. “Tough it out because this time, I will not be pulling over.”

© circlesol. all rights reserved. do not re-publish, translate, plagiarise, edit any of my work on any other platform.

[thecosmosdefys]

hi how u doin?♥ would u do general relationship hcs for ghost and könig pls?? :)<3

What dating Ghost & König would be like

Pairings: Ghost x GN ! Reader, König x GN ! Reader

Warnings: Violence, Cussing, Death

Synopsis: Just headcanons of how I would think Ghost or König would be in a relationship!

Author's Note: HIIII! Im doing good thank you so much for asking! Also I wasnt sure if you meant like? Ghost x König or like X reader headcanons so I went with what I thought you mightve meant? If this isn't what you wanted don't be afraid to put in another ask for my inbox!!! Also just want to note how excited I get when someone puts an ask in my inbox- I get so excited- It literally makes my day! Love you guys <333

Dating Ghost

I feel like if you dated ghost, at first he would seem a little cold around you? Like he wouldn't know what to do with emotional or physical intimacy. He doesn't give you the cold shoulder but he is so awkward at it at first.

Don't expect him to say I love you first, or even realises he loves you? Like before you guys start dating he is always around you, and picking to go on missions with you if your apart of the 114, but he doesn't seem to realize even though everyone around him does.

Once he starts getting comfortable with the relationship, he is like showing you off to everyone. You're like his prized trophy and he could not be happier. Like he's telling everyone all the time about you, and even your little accomplishments, god he loves you so much!

He will do things he doesn't want to do, if it means he gets to see a smile on your face? Like he hates christmas parties, but if you find yourself wanting to host one? He's already making a list of who's invited and what you might need. (He may even wear one of those ugly christmas sweaters for you but don't count on it.)

Physical intimacy? To him thats just even holding hands and it takes months for him to open up to you like that. But after he opens up, god hes all over you. In the mornings he's hugging you from behind. Never stops kissing you in public. He is disguting with his PDA, hes all over you all the time, and sometimes its cute and then other times your like "Simonnn stoppp" and he will... for 3 minuites-

He is so domestic when he is at home. If you need anything he is absolutely helping you. He will be your little apprentice when your cooking and everything. Sinks broken? He's fixing it. You are missing an ingredient for your food or baking stuff? He's on his way to the store to get it for you. You haven't been able to clean up the house? He's on his hands and knees scrubbing.

If you have a mental illness? He's helping in anyway he can. Even when he's away hes making sure your taking medicine if you're taking it, or reminding you about your therapist appointments. He is all over helping and doing his best to help make life easier for you even if just by a little bit.

Dating König

Literally what the fuck. He is the biggest god damn teddy bear you have ever seen. Out in public he is brooding and angry looking, but in private? He's on his knees doing anything you want him to do.

He is the biggest fan of soft touches. If you're out in public at the grocery store he's 100% rubbing his thumb over your knuckles, or just being sweet. He might brush your hair out of your face if it's in it or hindering your sight.

He will do your little routines and when I tell you it is hilarious to see this big beefy man, with a pink glittery face mask on his face, man its hilarious. When he's home he's doing your little haircare and facial care routines with you. He's oiling his hair, or putting face masks on, maybe even little cucumbers on his eyes. (of course you're taking pictures for blackmail.)

He remembers the little things about you. Sometimes when he comes back from missions he will have picked up something, or bought something that reminds him of you, or something you like. You had mentioned to him that you love forget-me-nots and you came home one day noy realizing he was home, and there was a bunch of pressed, perserved, forget-me-nots in a frame. (He ended up hugging you from behind and almost scaring you into dropping it a few seconds later but that's irrelevant)

He may not be super public about your relationship with him, but it is pretty obvious. When your out in public, he's behind you scaring the shit out of anyone who may bother you. You're his and he wants everyone to know that. Maybe you hang out with the crew one day and he has his arms slung around you, or wrapped around you in some way that screams "This is mine".

He may not actively always do things in the house, but he hovers around. He also loves to leave little things so that when he is gone you remember things that are important for you to do, he knows you have a bit of a bad memory.

Just like ghost, if you have a mental illness he is all for supporting and helping you. If you need someone to talk to he is holding you in his arms as you talk to him. He even makes sure your meds are always accessable to you, and helps in any way he can.

[wordsarelife]

—hits different

pairing: isaac lahey x fem!reader

summary: isaac and you both like each other, it just takes some time for you to realize that the other does as well..

warnings: underage drinking

notes: this should've been posted yesterday.. i'm so sorry

"have any of you seen y/n?" isaacs voice beamed off the walls of the large room and both derek and scott turned their heads so sudden, he wondered if he had just interrupted something.

"y/n?" scott wondered "haven't seen her since school"

"well, obviously she's not here" derek exclaimed with a roll of his eyes and isaac sighed.

"i know" he stretched "i just wondered if any of you knew where exactly she is" he widened his eyes to make a point, which was answered with another eye roll from derek and a shrug from scott. "well, thank you for all the help. i'll go find her myself then"

"she might be hanging out with stiles" scott said as isaac was already walking out of the door.

despite scott being not sure, isaac decided that it did not hurt to drive to stiles' house and have a look for himself. he often found you in the company of the boy, which sometimes made him wonder if there was going more than friendship between the both of you.

he stopped the car before stiles house and got out, walking up the front porch and knocking on the door.

"hey" stiles exclaimed when he swung open the door.

"hey" isaac greeted "i'm looking for y/n" he explained, before he tried to take a look inside "is she here?"

stile shook his head "no, she mentioned something about a club, and some other friend that was going with her"

"huh" isaac nodded, with a tight-lipped smile. "thats kind of weird of her, isn't it?"

stiles just shrugged his shoulders and isaac nodded finally.

"okay, ehm, thanks man"

"sure" stiles nodded with a tightlipped smile, at the lack of movement from isaac, he raised his brows "is there still something i can help you with?"

"uh, yeah" isaac smiled uncomfortably "what's the name of the club?"

"the sinema, i guess" stiles replied shrugging "it's the only club around here"

"yeah, right" isaac raised his arm, lazily waving goodbye, before he walked back to his car.

"is there one story that does not involve isaac lahey?" your friend, amy, loudly asked your, trying to be heard over the music.

"sorry" you replied "we're just very close"

"yeah, yeah" amy nodded her head, having heard enough of the boy in the last hour "that's exactly why you're gonna get drunk out of your mind and forget all about him"

"i'm not sure that's how it works" you noted.

"well it does in my books" amy furrowed her brows, holding the tequila shot in your direction.

you took the glass, admitting that you couldn't think of a better solution yourself, so it couldn't hurt to try hers. anything to get your mind of the blonde boy was greatly appreciated.

the night passed by quickly, you were a drunken mess, slurring about everything and anything.

"you know what i find weird?" you asked amy, both of you laying in the sitting booth of the club.

"no, what?" amy replied, a giggle breaking out between her lips. you joined into her laughter, unable to contain yourself, before you quickly shook your head, focusing back on the matter you were trying to discuss.

"well, scott said that isaac doesn't fancy kylie" you began, rolling your eyes at the name of the girl. at the same time you felt kind of bad, she hadn't done anything to you and yet here you were, saying her name like she had ran over your dog. "but if that's true, why is he always sending her these fuck me eyes?"

"fuck me eyes?" amy repeated, giggling once again "i'm not sure that's a thing, honey"

"i'm sure it is, i've seen it first-hand from stiles to lydia"

amy laughed even louder amidst the fact that you had spied on other people to prove your point.

"i think that's just stiles personally" she shrugged.

the thing about being drunk was that there was no way to direct any feelings, when you were drunk, your mood shifted like you were sitting on a roller coaster.

"can you please take this seriously?" you asked, your tone etched in annoyance and frustration.

"but you're being ridiculous" amy shook her head and you sat up, crossing your arms.

"i'm not trying to be" you muttered, the first tears escaping your eyes.

"y/n, sweetheart" amy cooed, sitting up as well and dropping an arm around your shoulder. "don't cry about him again please" you felt bad that it was your fault that the mood had shifted so drastically. both of you had so much fun all night and now you had gone and spoiled the mood.

"sorry" you cried. "i just miss isaac so much and i wish that he would miss me too whenever we're not together"

unbeknownst to you, isaac did miss you just as much as you were missing him.

"excuse me?" the bouncer turned around, raising his brows at the boy that was absolutely not dressed like he was going clubbing.

"what?" the man asked, watching the blonde boy expectingly.

"i was searching for my friend" isaac explained "she's about this tall" he held a hand up, before he continued to describe the color and length of your hair, what you were probably wearing and how your voice sounded "she's really pretty, really nice, most of the time at least" he ended his description.

the bouncer, who was ready to turn the boy away with an annoyed 'do you think i know everyone inside?', paused, when he noticed two girls stumbling out of the entrance. "that her?" he asked, pointing a finger in their direction.

"wow" isaac muttered impressed, before he nodded "yeah, thanks man" he patted the bouncer's shoulder, before he walked up to amy and you.

"isaac" you slurred as you recognized the boy behind amy.

"yeah, yeah" amy nodded "we already discussed him, honey"

"no" you shook your head, pointing again "isaac!"

amy almost sighed in relief when she noticed the boy approaching. even though she had the same amount of tequila shots as you, she had calmed down a bit and was way less drunk than you. she could handle alcohol much better than you anyway.

"hey" isaac smiled with a lopsided grin.

"isaac!" you slurred once again and the blonde boy laughed at your excitement.

"do you think you could take her home?" amy asked "my boyfriend just came and we want to stay a bit longer. i'd invite the both of you along, but i think y/n's had enough"

"of course" isaac nodded "no problem"

"thank you" amy smiled gratefully, before she hugged you goodbye and pointed her boyfriend out to isaac, so he was sure she was not alone waiting for him.

"bye!" you slurred in her direction as she took off.

isaac watched you in silent amusement. "let's go home, yeah?" he smiled and you nodded, your eyes already halfway closed.

he helped you to the car, all while you put on a tremendous rendition of taylor swifts 'love story'. you missed half the lyrics and weren't singing the right notes, but isaac didn't mind.

"pretty good" he complimented laughing once your singing had been finished.

"thank you, isaac" you smiled at him, dragging out his name. "your name is so beautiful" you smiled before you repeated pronouncing it slower every time.

the sunlight streamed through the window, hitting your face and waking you up with an unpleasant grogginess. your head throbbed, and your mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. slowly, you opened your eyes and glanced around, realizing you were in your own bed. relief washed over you briefly before flashes of the previous night trickled back.

you remembered the club, the tequila shots, and then… isaac. you groaned, hiding your face in the pillow, trying to bury the embarrassing memories. what had you said to him? something about his name being beautiful. you cringed inwardly. you could not remember his answer, nor anything that happened after.

a sudden noise from the front door made you sit up abruptly, the room spinning a little from the movement. you steadied yourself, listening. someone was trying to come into the house. your heart raced as you quickly as you oustretched your hand, reaching for the phone on the bedside table.

"amy?" you whispered as soon as you friend had picked up.

"y/n?" amy wondered. you could tell that she had just woken up herself, her voice almost breaking. "who's that?" another voice asked and you could imagine henry, amy's boyfriend laying next to her, confusion evident on his face.

"it's y/n" amy whispered harshly, before her mouth was closer to the phone again. "what is it, honey? it's the middle of the night"

"it's past eleven" you whispered harshly "and someones trying to break into the house"

"what?" you couldn't see what she was doing, but imagined she was sitting up in bed, due to all the noise she was making.

"someone's breaking in" you repeated.

"shit" amy said worriedly "okay, it's alright, henry can come and-"

before she could finish, the front door flew open. you quickly slipped onto the ground so you could hide behind the bed. "too late" your voice was a pitch higher as you basically screamed in a whisper "they're inside"

"shit, shit, shit" you could hear rushed movements on the other side of the phone "get up, idiot" amy screamed at henry (you assumed) "our friend is getting murdered"

"amy" even after all the years at the side of scott and stiles and every bad situation they had gotten themselves in, you had never been so scared before.

"it's alright, babe" amy tried to sound calming, but failed miserably "we're coming to help you"

"y/n?" a voice called and steps neared your bedroom. you couldn't help the sigh of relief escaping your lips.

"are you dead?" amy screamed and you held the phone away, your ears ringing from the loudness of her voice. "did they find you?"

"well if they didn't before, they would have now" you muttered "i'm alright, it's just isaac"

isaac opened the door, just as you had finished speaking. you raised your hand, waving at him and he walked around the bed, eyebrows furrowed.

"i'll call you back later" you said into the phone, ending the call before amy was able to say anything else.

"so, what are you doing, exactly?" isaac asked, amusement sounding through his voice.

"i thought someone was trying to break in" you shrugged, you saw no sense in lying.

"oh sorry" isaac scratched the back of his neck "i didn't mean to scare, you asked me to stay yesterday, so i slept on the couch and went to grab some breakfast for us"

"oh god" you held your hand in your hands, not being able to look at him "i can't even remember half the car ride yesterday, let alone anything that followed after" you looked down and only noticed now that you were wearing a pyjama.

"you changed yourself" isaac quickly said as he noticed the worry on your face "you asked me to give you a pyjama and changed while i waited in the hallway"

"sorry" you shook your head "i shouldn't have assumed—“

"no, no" isaac quickly interrupted "it's fine, please don't apologize"

you stood up and both of you were now standing in front of each other. "did i say something embarrassing yesterday?" you asked. you weren't sure if you wanted an answer to that, but you had to know.

isaac smiled. "well, you told me that my name was beautiful, which no one has done before, so it's greatly appreciated"

"that's it?" you wondered.

"eh, no" isaac looked a bit uncomfortable now and your smile died down.

"did i say something inappropriate?" your eyes widened "did i say something that made you uncomfortable?"

"no, but" isaac looked out of the window behind you, his cheeks reddening more and more "you said that you really really liked me"

your eyes widened even more and you looked down in embarrassment. "oh my god, i'm so—" you paused, remembering a very important detail from the night before "wait, why were you at the club yesterday?"

isaac laughed. "i was searching for you, actually" he admitted.

"oh really?" you smiled up at him.

"yeah" isaac shrugged "that's also why i stayed even though i live three minutes away, because i really really like you too"

a wave of relief and something warmer washed over you. isaac's words took a moment to sink in, and when they did, your heart fluttered.

"you... you like me?" you repeated, hardly believing what you were hearing.

isaac nodded, his cheeks still tinged with a light blush. "yeah, i do. i have for a while now, but i didn't know how to tell you. when stiles said you were at the club last night, i thought it was the perfect chance to see you."

you couldn't help but smile, the nervousness in your stomach slowly turning into excitement. "you asked stiles where i was?"

"yeah" isaac shrugged, laughing "i thought you were with him, because i always thought there was something going on between the two of you"

"oh, isaac" you shook your head "that couldn't be more wrong. as i said last night: i like you and only you. stiles is like a brother to me, i couldn't never even, no—ew"

isaac giggled, before he stepped closer, his expression softening. "i'm glad we finally got that out in the open."

you nodded, feeling a sense of anticipation building. "so, what now?"

isaac's lopsided grin returned. "how about we start with breakfast? i got your favorite from the bakery down the street."

your stomach growled at the mention of food, and you laughed. "that sounds perfect."

[superums]

monkey d. luffy's 5 love languages

gender neutral readers. fluff. improper grammar. no uses of (y/n) or (name). established relationship. strawhat-coded reader. i tried to lean into luffys childlike personality without infantilizing him... tell me how good i did that please. is meant for opla!luffy but it can go for anime!luffy as-well. spoiler free

color coded text: luffy

physical touch: luffy is very touchy feely. he likes wrapping his entire body around you like a wet noodle just because he can and you're going to have to deal with that!! he loves giving you cheek kisses or small bites on your fingers, shoulders and chest but in a non-sexual way! he loves holding your hand and swinging it back and forth. he thinks is super fun and he'll do it really hard sometimes and make his arm loose shape and flail around in the wind.

acts of service: you could ask him to get a star out of the sky he'd do it!!! he'd do little things like get things off of shelves, grab something from your room or giving you a piggyback across an island but he'd literally do anything you ask him to without a second thought..well maybe be sides share his food, he'd have to think about it foe a second and then give you a piece. but fr he's big on helping you though, he likes doing things for you. and if you ever asked him why he dose he wanna help he'd be like 'because you need help' which translates to 'because i like being with you'.

quality time: you two spend alot of time together not only because you live on a boat together (with the crew ofc) but he also seeks you out when he's bored. downtime on the ship is v common because it can take weeks to get from point A to point B and thats where you come in. sometimes he takes you to the figure head and makes you tell him stories or talk about your thoughts. other times you just sit on the deck and sunbathe while he holds your hand it all depends really.

giving/receiving gifts: it doesn't take alot to impress him he's like a baby—easy to please! you could give him a fish & he'd wiggle it around before yelling at asking sanji to cook it for him. his gifts however are usually one of two things either— 1) it takes trials and tribulations to get or 2) it comes of as simple to someone from the outside looking in but it means alot to him no in between! like lets you say you want a apple he'd somehow fight a congregation of alligators to bring back 1 apple then he'd ask for a bite. ORRRRR he gifts you something like a drawing of you that looks rushed and childish with gears around it but it took him an hour—you watched him as he would go back and forth between looking at you foe a minute and scribbling and erasing on his paper. some might make fun of him for that but you of all people know that it means a lot to him that you have!

words of affirmation: he talks about you like you hung the moon and stars you could be a marine, a civilian, someone on his crew it doesn't matter. he'd tell everyone how he feels about you regardless if you're there or not. he never misses a moment to talk about you highly though his vocabulary is a little limited so he doesn't say things like "you're extravagant" or "i admire you." when he compliments you he says things like "you're so fun." and "i like you so much." again his words are surface level to those who don't know him but he really does think highly of you even if his words don't exactly reflect it but actions are louder than words anyway.

[grandlinedreams]

Heya!! Hope you’re doing well <3 love the writing you’ve been spoiling us with ^_^ 🫶

If you’re open to requests, would it be okay to ask for headcannons form Zoro, Sanji and Law and a reader who unintentionally “works till they drop”? Like, they’re bothered or upset about something- but isn’t sure how to confront or deal with it, so they just keep on working till they just crash in bed, sleep, wake up and repeat?

Sorry if thats a bit much to ask-! You can ignore this eheh… wishing you the best and hope you have a good day <3

Oh i absolutely can do that!! But also I hope you're doing well bb, make sure to eat well and stay hydrated!!

[Heads up!: some unhealthy habits, comfort, the boys being good boys 😌]

Zoro ㅡ He may give the impression that he doesn't pay attention to what you do during the day, but he does ㅡ especially when you usually end up napping with him sometime during the day.

So when you stop and he starts seeing less and less of you because you're busy from sun up to sundown, he knows something is up. He also knows that confronting you outright probably isn't the best eay to go if it's something you haven't brought up yourself, so he does it in a roundabout way.

Grabbing at your hand when you pass by his napping area of the afternoon, he simply tugs until you end up leaning against him, arm thrown over your shoulder. "Nap with me," he says simply, and you frown.

"Zoro, I have stuff to doㅡ"

"It'll be there when you wake up." His tone is firm, clear that he won't be taking a 'no' for an answer. When you relent, he hums. If you fall asleep, that's fine. If you don't, that's also fine ㅡ Zoro's intent is to just get you to stay still long enough for your body to get some rest.

And then later, if you feel up to it, he'll ask if you want to talk.

ㅡ

Sanji ㅡ Like Zoro, he knows your routine and any deviation from it immediately sends off warning bells, especially when you start neglecting the snacks and drinks he brings you. (It doesn't go to waste, you give it to Luffy who has no qualms in telling Sanji it's him who ate/drank them, not you.)

"Mon petit chou," he coos as he sets down the delicate flute and plate, "A snack befitting someone as sweet as yourself."

"Thanks Sanji," you say, "I'll eat it in a second."

You don't look up, and Sanji frowns. "I think Luffy might finally get a cavity if you keep feeding him extra sweets."

You freeze. "Sanji...it's not that I don't want to want it, I just..." He holds a hand up.

"Being busy is fine," he says, tone soothing, "but you need to make time for yourself too."

He's right, you know that ㅡ amd you appreciate the reminder, as well as the affectionate hand on your shoulder and kiss to your forehead.

When Sanji checks later, both the glass and plate are empty, and smiles to himself Luffy whines about not getting a predinner snack.

ㅡ

Law ㅡ Truthfully as someone who does the exact same thing, Law's a little horrified it takes him as long as it does to see how bad it's gotten with you.

He feels guilty and tries to get you to talk about it because he knows something is bothering you ㅡ and if you don't, he gets it. But he also won't just sit back and let you tear yourself apart like that either.

So when he demands you take breaks, he does so himself ㅡ gives you the ultimatum of building healthier coping skills with you rather than let you do it alone.

"Are you speaking as my captain or my doctor?" You ask at one point when he tells you that you need to take a break, and his eyes flash before he leans over you.

"As your boyfriend," he intones, lets his fingers drift along the line of your jaw and up to brush hair from your face. He isn't above using affection as incentive, and it's amazing the turnaround he gets from you when kisses are involved.

[leclsrc]

stay, at least for breakfast ✴︎ cl16

genre: angst, just. angst, fluff

word count: 9.2k

You love once and miss always.

notes... internet translated ita/fre, non linear format so might b a tad confusing but thats it

auds here... this fic is a tad long sry. many thanks to mack who recommended the most painful songs to me that got me through writing the last couple of scenes. ik i said i wasn’t sure when i’d release this but here it is :)

You’re the only person Pierre knows in New York, so you’re the first one he calls. You suggest you meet just at your place, so you can smoke more freely, because so many people complain about the smell these days. You stall. You say the L train is broken. You say you’re tied up with work at the firm. But Pierre sees through you and eventually you meet anyway.

He looks the same, and just seeing him reminds you of so much. Shadows and outlines of memories long gone. You try to keep up the pretense of being okay, to remember that truly, your mind has been elsewhere lately—off everything, off the memories, on work, on cases. You try not to bring him up, even if it’s inevitable that he arises; you keep conversation to a polite minimum. 

Pierre offers a cigarette, a Camel light. You’re a fourth’s way through the stick.

“He asks about you, sometimes.” And then just like that, your world has ceased to turn.

“Oh?” A beat. “What do you say?”

“Just the usual. You’re working on this and that case for the law firm… you went to Greece in the summer.”

You and Pierre are still close, but it’s difficult to forget why. You two are connected by Charles, by a friendship so sacred it warranted a dinner for a Pierre-exclusive introduction. You’d grown close then, and when the breakup happened, it became hard for Pierre to maintain close contact with both of you. 

Selfishly, you wanted him to see how broken you were, so he could report it all back to Charles, etch every last detail of your pain. But Pierre is more mature than he’s given credit for.

“Okay.” You say blankly, unsure of how to bridge a less tense topic.

Perhaps sensing the apprehension, Pierre does it instead. “Do you remember when we bought shaving cream and made Charles look like Santa?”

It was in here in Manhattan, you recall, when Charles had dragged Pierre along with him to visit you over winter, when he’d been dating you for nearly two years at the time. Your flat was just above a bodega that had a comical amount of cheap cans of shaving cream that you and Pierre had found so absolutely silly, birthing a series of Charles-related pranks. After your grocery run, you’d returned to your place, where your boyfriend was fast asleep, mouth half open.

Shh. Quiet, you’d said, spurting shaving cream along his chin, his jaw, laughing silently.

Pierre had followed suit until finally, a beard of Nivea Men bounded down to Charles’ torso. You’d snapped a picture; the shutter sound had woken him up to a red-faced you and Pierre.

He was a good sport about it, kissed you with laughter, so you, too, had a beard of froth. Pierre took a Polaroid with a gifted camera of you on Charles’ lap, arms entwined around his neck, both of you bubbly with the cream, cheeks achy with smiles and laughter. You pretend to forget where it is, to forget that it’s tucked in a box you open once in a while. 

“I miss him sometimes, you know.” The confession rips through you, exacerbated by the cigarette.

“I know.” Says Pierre, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You realize maybe it is.

I still have so much love for him, you wish to say. But where will I put it? Will I keep this inside of me forever? A great, monstrous, shameful thing it is, to love somebody who’s left. But here I am doing it, trying to fill a void that feels like a crater. Where do I put this love? Maybe I can give it to somebody else, somebody new—but I’d say it’s not the same.

You think you’ll always hold a torch to Charles, even when the fire burns through the wood, ash trickling onto your arm until it hurts. And even then, when the light’s gone, when the flame’s wounded you and licked deep into your heart and bones, like it has now, you’ll linger, still holding this torch, still yearning, still unwanting to let go. Still loving. How desperate, you think. How human.

You clear your tobacco-flavoured throat. “It’s em—it’s embarrassing,” you say instead, throat closing up midway, in a futile attempt to water down your intense emotions. They threaten to crawl up your throat, force secrets out of you with the ease of ripping a piece of paper in half.

“Is it?” He asks, open-ended. “N’est-il pas honorable d'être si aimant?”

“Pas si ce n’est pas réciproque.” You scoff.

But he’s relentless, persistent in his pursuit to prove a point. “No. Love isn’t embarrassing, or pathetic, when it’s one-sided. It means more that way, when it’s not reciprocated. It means you’re selfless. It means the love is real.” He turns toward you, and in a billow of smoke, asks, “Does it not?”

You stare, left speechless. All you muster is: “Va te faire foutre.” 

—

You exit the room at eight-thirty with your toothbrush still foaming in your mouth. You stretch your arms over your head, combing a hand through your bedhead. Your eyes are half-shut, and already you smell it before you see it.

Pausing in your tracks, you rub the sleep out of your eyes. “Charles?” You call out, still out of the kitchen’s view. You try to remember if he was in bed when you crawled out, but your mind was still cloudy then, and the desire to pee took precedence.

You turn toward the bedroom door. “Charles, come out here. I think something’s on fire in the kitchen. Babe!”

You speedwalk, concern taking over—you didn’t pay enough attention to fire drills in primary school, clearly. Once you peek into the kitchen, however, your concern is only exacerbated, but not nearly as much as the extreme confusion that begins to well up inside you. There, at your stove, is your boyfriend himself, clearly fully awake and conscious, and holding a frying pan in mid-air that’s billowing smoke.

Having heard your voice already, he feels your presence and turns slowly. His gaze blinks from the pan in his grip to your totally incredulous stare.

“I can…” He pauses. “I’ll try to explain.”

“Very smart save, babe,” you say, but it’s muffled by your toothbrush.

“You sound stupid,” he retorts.

You remove the toothbrush and try to speak as coherently as you can through the spearmint foam. “I don’t think you’re in a position to be giving me criticism right now.”

“Fair,” he says, flitting his gaze over to where he holds the frying pan in mid-air. “I will explain as soon as you rinse your mouth. I promise.” You narrow your eyes, wondering if maybe this is another tactic to get himself out of trouble, but you figure it makes sense. If you’re going to scold him, might as well not spray toothpaste everywhere.

You grab your phone on your way back, where the disarray has not subsided in the least. He’s wearing your kiss the chef apron, stained with grease and pancake batter, both vital ingredients to bacon and flapjacks, neither of which are to be seen anywhere.

“What’s going on, Charles?”

“I wanted to cook you a surprise breakfast. But I can’t get the stove right.”

“Tu es fou.” You laugh, inspecting the smoke-scented pan. “Pourquoi n'avez-vous pas simplement pris à emporter?”

“Je voulais être pensif!” He defends, pouting. “Sorry. I’ll clean up the mess.” He deposits a batch of dishes at the sink as you watch in amusement. Your boyfriend is usually a good cook, you’ll say—he makes a mean stack of pancakes, and anybody can cook bacon, really. You suppose this is all just one honest mistake, born from a desire to surprise you on this morning.

He’s scrubbing at the pan when you wrap your arms around him in a backhug. “Thank you anyway. You’re the sweetest, Charles.”

He turns, a bubble of dish soap on the tip of his nose and hums. “Does this get me boyfriend points?”

“Alright, Jesus, a hundred of them.” You smile fondly, meeting his lips in a soft kiss. He makes you toast as compensation, takes the time to cut the crusts off the bread and the pulp out of the orange juice and the big bits out of the jam. He does his best, perfecting the art of toast and breakfast and, by extension, making you happy.

—

“Un amaretto sour, une bouteille de rose et un dirty martini,” you order smilingly in smooth, sure French.

The waiter nods and after thanks are exchanged, he leaves your table alone. In your limited knowledge of Paris, you’ve chalked it up to a few things: many people will be rude, the serving sizes will be petite, and the men will be anything but trustworthy. You’ve tried them before and they all go the same way, slipping out of hotel rooms with disarming desolés, buttoning their polos as they go.

So here you are, characteristically silent, because your friend is flirting with a guy and you refuse to do the same. 

“You speak French?” The guy across you asks curiously. He talks like he’s always smiling, eyes turning into half-crescents. He’s accented, but you’re unsure of the origin—it sounds French, in the same way it kind of doesn’t. You nod politely.

“Ah? Où est-ce que vous l'avez appris?”

“Université,” you respond. “J’ai etudie le langue français, mais… est trés difficil.” He laughs, nodding like you’ve said the funniest thing in the world. Half-crescents.

“I’m Charles. I grew up—I’m from Monaco, so I speak it. And Italian. Joris and I.” He elbows his friend, who your friend is flirting with. Oh, Monaco. So… not French.

“I’ve never been,” you say, letting yourself loosen up a bit more. 

“It’s very small. You should go sometime.” An implication of something hangs in the air, like clouds over France. You smile, bashful, nodding along. 

“I’ll make sure to.” The drinks arrive and flow through the night, laughter passed along the table like wine. At some point you and Charles get up to dance, but are quickly put to your chairs by the waiter—you mutter some slurred remark about how why play music if you can’t dance?! 

But he is funny, and charming, and pretty. You find yourself staring at him in a very desperate, schoolgirl crush way, lip bitten and cheeks warm when he catches you.

Later that night, tipsy off the alcohol, Charles the Monegasque presses a kiss to your cheek and asks, shyly, if you’d like to come to his hotel. You tease him, just to see the half-crescents again, and then you’re in his car and in his room, top pulled off and bra unclasped, laughing drunkenly into his neck when the pleasure reaches its crux. And you hope he doesn’t ask you to leave the next day, drifting into sleep with his arm slung over your waist.

—

You like Charles’ voice in real life.

This is because it means you feel it more than hear it, a low thrum through his chest and into your ear. It lets you know he’s close by, which is the best kind of reassurance, because he never usually is. It doesn’t matter what he talks about—the day past or about to begin, racing, family—all you can really digest is the amount of love and care he puts into his words.

Most of the time you hear his voice through the layered, stuffy audio of your phone or your laptop, when they can’t quite catch up to his lips, when the Internet lag is just that awful. If you’re lucky, he sounds more like himself, but nothing compares to hearing it for real, the whispers and murmurs and roughness of it all. He’s here, and you’re home, content just to listen.

You’re in Monaco; it’s your fourth day here. You’re off school for two weeks before you dive into midterms, so you spend it in Europe, because you haven’t seen Charles in ages. Lately he’s been pixels, voice memos, bubbles of words. But now he’s Charles, real, tangible, yours.

Life has become easier when he’s around, a fact wholly owed to his presence. When he’s here, you feel at ease, like laughter is effortless and loving is natural. But there is a ticking timebomb you sleep on, and it’s your impending departure, your flight back to the city, your resuming of normal life. Of life without him.

“I’ll be in Geneva next week,” he tells you, voice throaty from having just woken up. They’re the first words out of his mouth after he hangs up the early morning phone with Andrea. It’s an invite, even if it’s phrased as a statement; he awaits your affirmation, should it come. He invites you to these things often, as a way to introduce you more into his world. The words rumble through him, slowly onto your fingertips that waltz silently across his bare chest. They skate while you formulate a response.

“Okay,” you say quietly, half-asleep still. “I have… a huge recitation coming up, so I don’t think I can make it. Criminal law.”

He tenses, and you feel it. But his words say something else. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I wish I could,” you say, as compensation. It’s what you’ve both grown used to lately, wishing. Wishes that, for all your trying, never seem to come true. I wish I could make it. I wish I could visit. I wish we could celebrate together. I wish I was there for the podium, or the grades release, or the job offer phone call. I wish, I wish, I wish, and not much of anything else. Just wishing. Wishing, wanting, never getting.

“Yeah,” he says, sighing. “I wish you could, too.”

The dissonance between the voice that rumbles through him and into you—comforting—and the words that leave—a touch too sharp—strikes through you like electricity. “I’m sorry,” you say achingly, and the morning is silent as you both fall back into ignorant, blissful sleep.

—

“Aaaaand that pretty much evens us out to a solid 12-3.”

You finish tracking the score on your Notes app, closing your phone and facing your boyfriend’s pouting face of defeat. 

As always, the loser packs up the chessboard first—the wooden pieces click noisily against each other as he folds up the game, to be won (by you, no doubt) another time. Between work and the general upkeep of a relationship that’s constantly long distance, you and Charles find it difficult to begin and maintain romantic traditions.

But there’s always the assurance of chess. To air out grievances, to pass the time, to play footsie under the table. You and Charles always play, keeping a seasonal tally of near-daily games—during flights, pre and post race, after sex, at brunches with family.

“You’ve been cheating,” he accuses jokingly, storing the chessboard and inviting you onto his lap.

You’re in Nice today, housesitting for a friend while Charles spends time off racing. He claims it’s sufficient practice for when you one day buy a place together; two, at that: one in New York and one in Monaco. The days have passed in chess games, pots of coffee, and slow dances in the kitchen while you wait for pasta to boil or rice to cook. 

“You’re just jealous,” you tease, clambering atop him. Your arms loop around his neck, his around your waist. “Don’t worry. The tally will restart in September.”

“I’ll best you then.” Here, in this still moment of silence, where the sunlight from outside filters in just right and illuminates every detail of Charles’ face, you can almost feel your heart swell to an unimaginable size. You connect the moles and freckles with the tip of your pinky, traveling lower until it rests softly against his lips. He smiles, flexing against your touch. 

“Sore loser,” you say, flirtatious, playing with his hair.

“I think I keep losing,” he starts, hands tightening around your frame, “because every time I see you, I forget how to do the most ordinary things.”

You bite back a smile. “Hey, don’t try to charm yourself into a win.”

“Can’t help it, the winner’s too pretty,” he teases back; your lack of retort leads you to press your face into his chest. He smells like he always smells, clean and woody and a bit like your own perfume, your pretty boy. You inhale, breathe him in and ground yourself. Here, miles away from Monaco, even farther from Manhattan, you are home.

—

“How do you tell people you broke up?”

“I say we wanted different things,” you reply, two puffs into your second Camel.

A white lie, a half-truth, a rehearsed answer after being asked the same repetitive question so many times. You and Charles broke up because at that point, nothing about you made sense. You were growing older, and with age came the stupefying realization that nonsense wasn’t always romantic. If it didn’t make sense, it never would. But you did want the same things, you suppose, at least to some extent.

You know you wanted marriage. After law school, it had to be, and in Europe, somewhere sunny and windy and flowery with a sea nearby. A small affair, family and friends. You know you wanted kids, two or three, a bunch of Charles lookalikes, tufts of light hair and bouts of crazy energy. You know you wanted a house—not a flat, a house, a brownstone in Manhattan, a big property in Monaco. You wanted so much of the same things.

Perhaps that is why Pierre will never understand the magnitude of the way you miss Charles. You dream of him when you’re awake, of the times you spent together that finished abruptly. You look for him in everyday objects. You keep the tissue paper conversations, you want to say, even if it’s so, so mortifying, so raw to admit it.

“But you didn’t,” says Pierre, because he knows it.

“We didn’t. But what other explanation is there?” Where a concrete summary of your breakup is supposed to be, there lies grey matter, webs of explanation spanning years and months and questions unanswered. 

“I get it,” he replies. But he’s not you, or Charles, so he doesn’t.

—

Charles looks at you and imagines your smiling face in every moment of his future. Holding a child, under a veil, half-asleep in the morning, flushed and warm after a few beers.

You’re—you’re you, and he just loves you, in a way he will never be able to articulate. He drives for a living—he looks at all kinds of statistics, worded and encoded onto machines and computer screens. But this love isn’t quantifiable. Not in numbers, not in speed, not in words, stanzas of Italian. His love for you is indescribable; it exists in a wordless plane, massive and all-encompassing, carved and chiseled finely.

When you’re absent, the world seems duller, a bit more empty. But it’s okay, he thinks—you’re here now, across the room, in nothing but lingerie, your dress pooled at your feet. You’ve both just arrived from another social gathering, with so many people, and an afterparty arranged by Max.

You’d utilized your well-used secret signal for parties that directly translated to “let’s go home”—bringing up peanut butter meant you were well past exhausted and needed to leave. One “the dessert would’ve been so good with peanut butter” later and you’re here. Years of being together means you’ve both created a vocabulary all your own, lexicon and phonetics making up a language of love and familiarity. Nobody else will ever get this, he thinks. It’s just yours.

You’re removing your makeup in the mirror, and oh, well, you’re beautiful. He wonders what he has to do now to be able to find you in the next life, to be able to meet your eyes again for the first time and fall in love with you the way he did.

You’re what he looks for after a race, after a win, after a DNF. So he can, if just for a moment, let his guard down and allow himself to be yours, yours and only yours, collapse into your arms from ache and overwhelm and find reprieve there. With you, he lets himself go, lets the façade fall, lets himself stay in your touch before he deems himself ready to be with the rest of the world.

“Hey, you,” you call, and he blinks. “Eyes up here, buddy.”

“I just love you,” he says sleepily. 

You tug on a nightshirt—his, from ages ago—and crawl into bed beside him, raising a teasing brow. “Sex is off the table.”

He laughs. “I wasn’t trying to get into your pants.”

“Good,” you half-yawn, yanking the lamplight closed and nestling yourself beside him. “I look horribly un-sexy.”

“The shirt’s kinda doing it for me.”

“Go to sleep.”

—

It’s raining today, for the first time in a dull stretch of weeks. The fall comes in angry, noisy sheets, made more furious by the wind. Wrapped in one of his hoodies, you clasp a mug in your hands, staring sullenly out the window, wondering when Charles will be home. Something has shifted in the weeks since you last saw each other, since you flew back out to New York and Charles didn’t finish in the last race.

Sometimes everything feels impossible to touch, like you don’t know what the next step is, let alone how to take it. There’s a certain uncertainty to where you stand, a possibility that, if the seconds tick just right, everything will crash down. This isn’t a feeling you’ve ever had before, but you suppose this is the only way to learn how to deal with it.

It’s comforting, then, when you hear the keys jingle at the door.

Your flat, as expensive as it is, has a quirk to it; the door only opens when you jerk it with your knee twice. You hear it, the double thump, and in almost childish excitement, you set your mug down and pad gently over to the foyer, so you’re ready for him when the door opens. Everytime you’re apart for this long, the routine is standard, and first thing you do is hug—so hard, so tight, your legs wrapped around his waist, his face in your neck.

“Hey,” Charles says, seeing you wait idly by the front door. You inch forward, but freeze. He heaves his luggage in, smiling softly, tiredly almost, pressing a brief kiss to your cheek and then disappears into the bedroom. The lump in your throat doesn’t go away when you slowly realize the hug you’d awaited, prepared for even, does not come.

You follow him instead, to the bedroom, where he’s still quiet, shirtless and picking out something from the drawers. He turns when he hears you. “Have you seen my grey hoodie?”

“Yeah, it’s in the wash.” You pause. “I used it last week, sorry.”

“I tol—it’s,” he says, inhaling, “it’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, taken aback by how affected he is. “I can get it dried.”

“It’s okay.” He insists, a bit sharply, tugging on a different shirt instead.

The air is thick, threatening to break, and you’re hopeless, lost, left wondering—what the hell is going on. You try your best anyway, humming as you take a seat on the bed and fold the bits of laundry you’d abandoned in the morning.

“Pascale’s inviting us over tomorrow,” you open, finishing a pair of shorts and depositing them into the drawers. Your arms wrap around him, and he holds them there. This is good, you think. This is okay. “For brunch, because Arthur’s going to be home. I told her okay—since I’m back in New York by Tuesday and you’ll be in Italy then, too. We haven’t had brunch with your family in forever. God, they’re going to be asking questions about marriage, and engagement, and ki—”

“Stop.” The room goes still. “Why did you tell her okay?” He asks, disengaging the hug and turning toward you fully. 

You’re like a deer in the headlights, confused, lost all over again.

“Charles?” You prod, gently. “Is… are you okay? I mean, we always greenlight brunch.”

You watch him pinch his nose bridge, exhale, close his eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” You echo, stepping forward. He steps back, avoidant.

“Don’t,” he says. “Please, just… don’t.”

You’ve heard this often lately. In fact, no—you’ve maybe felt this more than heard it. This—this distance, this space, this push. Every call unanswered, every flight missed, every text answered with a brief, apathetic OK. You can’t quell the fear, the panic swelling in your chest, because you can feel him floating away, just out of grasp.

“Talk to me,” you say, because it’s the only thing that can bring itself to leave your mouth. It’s weak, it’s desperate, lacking composure and firmness. “Nous pouvons travailler à travers cela.”

“Non,” he says, as if he knows it already. “This, I—I just. I think I just need some space.”

Space.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll be in the living room.”

“No, I’ll go,” he insists, like he’s doing you a favor. I’ll save us the nasty fight, he seems to convey. I’ll go. So he does—grabs a coat and wrestles himself out of the door, with barely anything left to reassure you, just a short kiss and a hand on your hair. It’s performative, you know this, but you’ll take it. You don’t have much to accept these days.

The night passes, still and quiet, without the jingle of keys or the double thump at the door.

Even in memory and introspection you will come to find this moment and remain capable of recounting every thread of detail, ones as small as the eyes of needles, every prick of pain that pokes at you. Because even if you see him the day next, and even if he greets you with a kiss, and pulls you aside to apologize profusely, and even if you feel so loved in this very moment, with hugs from Pascale and jokes from Arthur and check-ins with Lorenzo, the fact has secured, burrowed itself into the dark crevice of your heart.

You will look back on this one day, and think, with the kind of certainty so crushingly absolute: yes, this is when it all went wrong.

—

“Is he seeing anybody?” Halfway through the third stick.

“No,” Pierre says, blowing smoke out into the air.

“Be honest.”

He snorts. “D’accord. An Italian girl, few months ago, but it’s over. It was quick. Very. And you?”

The information makes you weak in ways you refuse to share. “Just… testing things out with this guy.”

“Does he know about Charles?”

The silence is telling. “About Charles” is an awfully broad topic. 

Charles was such a big part of who you are, and who you’ve been, and what you’ve been through. How would you even begin telling somebody about you both? The bits and pieces, the great figure eight, the tiny infinity. The moments within the moments, memories within memories. The love. The way you loved, the way you sought him, the way you have yet to replicate the feeling of loving him, the way you wait for the next life, so you can seek him all over again. 

There is “does he know Charles,” and there is “does he know about Charles,” and the two are so cruelly separate and different. Anyone can know Charles; he is, after all, world-famous. You don’t know how he’s doing in motorsport these days, because a lot of the time the Google search for his name suggests ex girlfriend right beside it, and that’s enough to stun you into not searching again. But still he’s famous and renowned, so of course he’d be known. But for someone to know about him, what he meant to you—it feels like you’d be reciting a novel in an effort to explain how the both of you began, became, and ended. Reciting sonnets and stanzas of prose, of moments painfully intimate, of habits that have yet to die, of things you wished to be taught by him. 

“So, no.” You nod softly.

—

The possibility of spending Christmas with either of your families grows thin as December begins. Between final exams and racing meetings, neither of you give, discussing over hours-long calls and coordinating calendars. You find that your only common free day is the seventh of January, which is effectively well past the holidays. You’ve sunk into a pile of misery at the very real chance of spending the holidays by yourself. It’s not a pretty idea, despite the fact that you’ve befriended loneliness lately.

Outside your window, Manhattan is caked in snow; it reminds you of Santa Claus Charles, with his foamy frizzy beard and kisses of froth and the Polaroid on the fridge. You wonder if Charles, wherever he is in Europe now—traveling multiple times a day—remembers you, too, in these little mundane things.

He’d called on the third of December, when it was three in the morning in New York. You picked up after two rings, busy studying, and mumbled a sleepy hello into the receiver.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, clearly excited over something. 

“Bit early, honey.” You’d said back amusedly, highlighting phrases on the textbook.

“Just saying it now, because the next time you hear me say these words, it’ll be in New York.”

You didn’t register his words until you realized you’d tinted two entire paragraphs fluorescent yellow.

You blinked. “Wait, what’d you say?” 

“I’m there by the twenty-fifth, evening. Found a sweet spot in my calendar thanks to Joris.”

“If you’re joking, Charles, I swear—”

“I’ll see you then,” he had said; even then you could hear his smile through the scratchy audio of international calls.

That’s what you’re doing here, over your stove cooking chicken to commemorate your first Christmas together. You stick a thermometer inside it, busying your mind with thoughts of dinner instead of the fact that you haven’t spoken to your supposed guest in over a week.

Like many fights lately, this began over something irrational and grew into a serious, temperamental discussion about your future.

About moving in together and how impossible it seemed. About raising kids or getting engaged. Everything was written on different pages for the two of you. Your plans were always years too early, years too late, never aligning. Bilingual paragraphs eventually devolved into exhausted intermittent texts, check-ins if it mattered, and barely any concrete discussion at all.

It’s mortifying to have to say the phrases “like many fights lately.” You wonder what it proves about the two of you, about the relationship you share. Has it gone sour? No, you tell yourself. But this yogurt dip will, if I don’t put it in the fridge. You wipe your hands off after you do, rechecking your phone; still no texts or calls or updates. He’d texted this morning, a brief and simple see you soon, but hadn’t responded to your text.

Chicken, mashed potatoes, candles ready to be lit. You fiddle with the pink Bic, lighting and unlighting, sighing. 

You dial the airline eventually. They man both public and private flights, so they should know something about his jet. Something, anything—any tidbit of information is useful to you right now. You’re embarrassed, alone on Christmas in a dress you thought was beautiful hours ago but now only seems over the top and mocking. A woman picks up your call after it’s transferred thrice.

I just need to know the ETA of this flight, you say. Under Charles Leclerc. He gave me the flight code. 

Silence. You hear the bustle of the airport on the other end and wonder if Charles is there in that bustle, in his puffer jacket he uses in the winter, holding a suitcase and waiting for the delayed plane. Or maybe he’s already here in your timezone, in a cab bumbling with excitement, or in the elevator, or right outside, fist posed in front of the door—

A snowstorm, she says, her voice tinny through the phone. The pity in her voice makes you want to smash the landline to pieces. So sorry. If you’d gotten your husband to book just two days earlier, you two would’ve been together. Why don’t you call him, sweetie?

She is right about the unsolicited booking advice, wrong about the title. Charles is not your husband. You hang up after mumbling something you can no longer remember, too exhausted to be rude or polite at this point, and turn to face your dining room. Your texts go unanswered, and in your earlier effort to save energy, the lack of heating has caused your phone screen to grow cold to the touch. The roast chicken is getting cold now, too, the mashed potatoes cool, the sourdough stale, the butter melted into ugly coagulated puddles, the wine sweating all over the table.

You eat two bites before depositing a clean plate at the sink. The flat smells of pine and citrus; it’s stronger because you’re by yourself, with no Charles to cloud the room with his own scent. Your phone remains silent, your heart drowning slowly in a cloud of imprecise sorrow. And you realize, remembering the airline officer’s words as you unplug the lights from the Christmas tree and let the moonlight swallow the room, that Charles is not your boyfriend, either.

He texts the morning next, says he’ll make it on the next flight, twenty-six. He doesn’t apologize and you unwrap presents alone, from friends, shipped from family. You wallow in your loneliness, humiliated by your need for him, a need that is met only on the seventh of January.

—

“Are you and Charles okay?”

Lorenzo is always the first to ask. He’s intuitive, and you think maybe it comes with age, but damn if it isn’t infuriating when he knows something is up before anyone else. You purse your lips, hope your laugh is a good enough substitute for an answer.

“Are you?” Obviously, it’s not.

“We’re… we’re just working through things.” You’ve had two glasses of bourbon, and your eyesight is blurring the way your words do. You’re in a big Manhattan ballroom, just several floors underneath your hotel room. Charles is somewhere socializing, because of course he is, and you can’t take your mind off school, because of course you can’t.

“But you’re good, right?” He sounds hopeful, like your answer is the only thing that can convince him. Does he think you aren’t? What has Charles been telling him? Your breathing quickens, grows frantic.

“Yeah.” It convinces nobody, not even yourself. He nods, smart enough to drop the subject, and you’re alone again. This is the umpteenth gala you’ve been to this week alone, all for something or other along racing. You grow used to the faces, the introductions, the gentle nos when asked if you two are engaged, because why would you be? It’s a farfetched idea, engagement. 

The bathroom is half-full when you usher yourself inside in your gown, almost tripping with how fast you try to make it to the mirrors. There are two middle-aged women beside you lazily drawing lipstick onto their faces, their French accents thick as they converse.

“…So I decided to divorce him.”

You stare deep into the mirror. You look like a caricature of yourself, a puppet. Where is Charles? He overestimates your capability to be alone.

The other woman goes, “I can’t believe he didn’t see it coming.”

“I know! You’d think he would notice, no? Bah, men.”

“You’d felt it for a while then, too.”

“Tch, I really did. Just goes to show.”

Before you digest it, you’re turning and intrusively asking: “How did you know you wanted to divorce him?”

They exchange a look that’s as condescending as it is patronizing. Here you are, a naive twenty-something asking for relationship advice like you’re some know-it-all. You feel like a child suddenly, meek and curling in on yourself. Answer me, you want to say, tell me how it feels, tell me how you knew. You look petulant.

“Well,” she says, eyes meeting yours as she closes the tube of lipstick, “sometimes, dear, you just know.” It clicks closed.

“Yes,” says the other. “You just know. When you wake up one day and you feel it, that’s just it.”

Bullshit. Easy answer. You won’t know, you want to say.

No matter how stupid, how cliché, it sounds, you’ll never know this feeling. This feeling of nonchalance over a relationship lost, of laughter over unsuccessful love, of casually coloring the same lips that talk so abrasively of a lover. Because you have Charles, and Charles has you, and what else is there to know?

The rest are candles on a cake, kisses under a blanket, orange juice served over toast, arguments that end with compromise and a hug. The rest is love. These two know nothing about it. They know hurt and heartbreak and denial. They know nothing but this sad, sad feeling.

It must be sad to know, you think, even if the exact suffocating feeling crawls up your spine and wraps around your throat on the elevator ride back to the room.

—

This is boring

You scan over the scribbled phrase on the embossed, no doubt above asking price, tissue paper given at this (granted, boring) charity ball. Stifling a laugh, you fish a pen out of your purse, rereading the words and judging your outgoing response. In neater penmanship, you quickly write a message below it.

OK let’s end things.

He laughs when he reads it, eyes crinkling into half-crescents, mouth in a wide, silent smile. He mulls over a response and when you get it—

No goodbye sex? Quelle poisse. You giggle, rolling your eyes and squeezing his hand underneath the table, putting your little game on pause lest you get in trouble for not listening to the speaker onstage. This kind of lovely, comedic push and pull is what keeps you always entertained with Charles; he always, without fail, manages to make you laugh. Your easy, instant, but equally profound connection to one another constantly has you revisiting the idea of soulmates, of destiny.

Prior to meeting, your and Charles’ lives were barely entwined. You were a law student in America, Charles a racing driver based in Europe. A year ago, to the date, you’d been in Paris on vacation, when a friend invited you out to get drinks somewhere along the Seine. You had three case studies waiting on your laptop, but something tugged at you to accept the invite. 

Had you not been up for drinks in Paris that night, for instance—you’d never have met. And the drinks wouldn’t have been suggested in the first place if Charles got home from a meeting early, expressing boredom over the phone to Joris, who relayed it to the girl he was currently flirting with, who relayed it to you. You would never have talked if you didn’t order cocktails in French, prompting him to ask where you learned the language. 

And if you hadn’t, in a haze of rosé and amaretto sours, accepted the handsome guy’s invite back to his hotel—where would you be now? The series of little things make up where you are now. 

“Je t’aime,” he whispers into your hair.

But, then again, Charles has never felt like a stranger. You’re so sure that if you’d declined, or if Charles’ meeting ended on time, or if Joris was single, or if you ordered in meek English instead, you’d still be here, laughing over irrelevant tissue paper conversations, holding Charles’ hand under the table.

“Moi aussi,” you murmur. So sure.

—

God is the best scapegoat.

You first realize this when you’re ten and your favorite necklace snaps in half. You’d been running around, you moved too fast, it stuck on a branch, and became forever unfixable. You’d skipped on the usual nightly prayers as some sort of petulant, rebellious counterattack. You’re fifteen when you’re friendzoned, a first for you. You convince yourself it’s God playing tricks on you. You’re sixteen when you get an F for skipping class too often; you tweet God wtf is happening to me and you giddily watch it get thirteen likes. You’re not alone in this revolt, you think. You’re seventeen and a half when you lose your virginity; it sucks. You’re on top and you learn the art of faking. So you lay on your bed and bemoan Him for the misleading introduction to sex.

It becomes easy to blame God, moreso than usual, when the matter is one of life and death and danger. Being with Charles puts you in this position often. You curse God when something happens during a race that causes your heart to snag in itself and skip a beat or go five times faster. Inversely, it’s dreadfully difficult for you, innately unreligious, to pay thanks to God. Charles knows this, and is always the first to say “thank God” when a race goes well.

You throw around the phrase a few times, but it’s rare. Most, many, all times—it’s “oh, thank fuck” or “I’m so happy you’re safe.” It’s almost like you actively avoid the phrase, so whenever you say it, Charles is momentarily stunned; sometimes it’s after a particularly nasty circuit, or a rainy race day when you physically cannot withstand the stress of watching the love of your life drive fast under such bad conditions.

You have nothing to thank God for.

The hotel room is thin-walled and cold. Just last night you’d been tangled into each other for warmth, but now you’re throwing your suitcase onto the same bed and shoving laundry inside. No folding. No organizing. You make quick, messy work of it to avoid the conversation Charles so desperately tries to coerce out of both of you. The chessboard from last night’s game—5-7—lies abandoned, folded up at the foot of the bed. You ignore it. 

“I’m sorry I left you alone,” he says, lazy almost. He seems to say oh, fine. If you need me to say sorry I’ll say it, here.

“You don’t understand.” You say, cutting phrases short to avoid saying anything you’d rather harbor inside yourself.

“Then enlighten me,” he shoots back. “Please, really. Dis moi tout.” He sounds sarcastic.

“I don’t fit here,” you respond cuttingly. If he chooses to be sarcastic, you think—then be it. You’ll be blunt. You’ll exaggerate. You’ll be impulsive, if for once in your life, you have to be.

“Here, in your life.” You clutch a shirt to your chest. “We don’t make sense. We never did, and you know what? We never will. I honestly don’t know why we keep trying. It’s pointless to believe this could ever work. In between our careers, friends, and schedules, it takes more work for us to see each other for just a day than to push a fucking rock uphill. Ç’est inutile et tu le sais—tout ce travail pour rien.”

Your words sting, join the draft leaving through the crack in the window, turn into dew that stains the vines of the hotel exterior. The ones about to leave his mouth, though, stay put, cement themselves in the grooves of your brain. You’ll think of this exchange years from now, and the words will never blur, sore on your tender heart.

A pregnant silence follows your soliloquy, prompting you to look up and meet his eyes. He says it then. “Pourquoi se disputer pour rien? Let’s just end things.”

“Fine, let’s just end things.” You repeat. Struck, hurt, and angry, you say one last thing, in a valiant attempt to get the last word in. “Thank God.”

The seconds tick by like days, where you look at one another, thinking the same thing. So that’s it? When did it all turn to this? You push past him, bearing your suitcase and messily wiping your face of tears, pretending not to notice the hitch in his voice when he mumbles a quiet goodbye.

Your steps to the elevator tick by like hours, and you take the time to think of how you’d lived much of your relationship thinking that, with how strong your and Charles’ personalities are, a breakup would be messy. Loud. A yelled out fight, tears, thrown curses and hurtful names. You’d always thought, with much conviction, that you would end with a bang.

Many previous fights had gone something like that. There was Thanksgiving, where you ushered him out of your family home to avoid anything escalating into a yelling match. Bang.

There was post-race, where, in the throes of frustration, you two had a heated exchange and you left the paddock in tears. Bang.

There was nothing, however, that couldn’t be solved without a shag and a kiss and an apology. So, reasonably, you expected the final fight to be the loudest. The angriest. This relationship, you were so sure—this would end in a bang. Because you and Charles love the same way: strongly, with so much conviction and noise, and the line between love and spite is more frail than you think. A great big bang, where finally you collided in ways you’d never done before, every frustration, every complaint, thrown back and forth like comets, like war.

But you are wrong. It doesn’t. 

It ends with you softly sighing, arms crossed over your torso to shield yourself from the ache in your chest, tears slipping then falling unstoppingly in the elevator. It ends with a night’s sleep taking up one side of the bed. It ends with Charles deceiving himself into thinking you didn’t just thank the Lord that your relationship has just crumbled to nothing in the bounds of this thin-walled, cold hotel room.

—

“Say something to me,” you say quietly, like you’re afraid to disturb the still morning silence of Paris. “In Italian.”

It’s a corny, cheesy request, no doubt inflamed by the butterflies in your stomach when you think about the night before and one romantic comedy too many. But you ask for it, anyway, your leg bumping his under the too-thin cotton blanket of his hotel. You found yourself here this morning after a night of sweet French alcohol and slurred, flirty conversation.

“Assomigli al resto della mia vita.” He says, smiling.

“Okay. What’s it mean?”

“I won’t translate it for you, because it’s a bit cliché.” He narrows his eyes.

“All of European language is cliché.” You laugh. “Come on, tell me.”

“I will one day,” he says, “I promise. I swear!”

The promise of “one day” is upsettingly romantic. Barely a day after you first met, first bonded, first kissed, first had sex. Okay, fine, you two hadn’t really gone the traditional route of dating, but here he is waxing poetic in Italian, finger tracing your bare arm. “One day,” you say, just so you’re sure.

“Yeah. One day.”

His hand finds yours, and fingers are laced together. Words wrestle themselves out of your throat nervously, a question that might seal the morning. “Should I go?”

The question rests in the air. How do you want your eggs, he wants to ask. Or would you want pancakes or waffles or bacon? Or bread, a croissant with coffee and compote? He wants to know all these things, hear all your answers, watch your eyes twinkle with amusement at the silly questions. So he’ll ask them, he figures. He’ll ask them if you don’t go.

“Stay,” he says. “At least for breakfast.”

—

Pierre leaves after a few more hours. He says Yuki texted him about some Mexican place they need to try. The night next, he is brought up in conversation: “Who were you with last night?”

“A friend,” you explain. “He’s an old friend, Henry.”

Henry Maxwell, the Wall Street guy you’re seeing, who’s inviting you to a charity ball a month into dating. To you, that’s basically a sign to end things, but you allow him to explain his invitation. Babe, don’t you think networking in New York is a gold mine for everything great these days? Don’t you think we need to network if we ever move in together?

“Henry, n—I mean. It’s just going to be another one of those stuffy city galas where everyone tries to out-wealthy one another,” you half-joke. In truth, the reason why you’re so adamant on not going is because this is just about the worst first date idea ever conceived—from experience, you’re sure you’ll have barely any time alone to get to know each other, whisked away to socialize with groups of other people.

“Oh, lighten up,” says Henry, with a sheepish smile. “You’re my plus one on the RSVP, so you can’t complain.”

“Am I?” You ask, chuckling. It’s a bit weird. But he’s excited, and asking, and convincing, so you tug a green silk dress out of your closet and take an Uber to the hotel address. Nevermind the fact that you’ve been here before.

You squeeze Henry’s hand when you walk into the massive ballroom, and not five minutes later you’re facing a crowd of people, drowning in taffeta skirts and wool suits and champagne and snooty small talk. Henry is charming, Henry is kind, Henry is a smooth talker.

He’s the ideal prototype of a guy you should be dating right now. His hand never leaves the small of your back, playing with the satin of your dress, laughing into your neck. You’ve faced several groups of business magnates and supermodels; right now, he’s introducing you to a big journalist for the Post.

She’s in the middle of talking about some hippie retreat to Thailand or somewhere or other when your eyes glide across the room, bored, searching for something to occupy you. To be frank, you really don’t care about ayahuasca.

The hands on the clock seem to halt just for you, just for now, suspending this moment in time like a mosquito in amber. Your eyes meet—and if you’d been less careful or maybe more tipsy, you might have mistaken his gaze for a stranger’s. But your heart demands hurt, demands the memories, demands the sick, sweet nostalgia threading through you like needle to cloth. Your heart demands you to remember, but the demand is so painfully easy to obey because you’ve never forgotten. All at once hate and love arise in you, like great big waves conflicting against one another, until you feel swollen with longing and spite, finding reprieve in the green of his eyes.

Timing, destiny, God. Whatever it is, it’s decided to play some silly joke, because here you are. In the precarious balance of a memory and a figment of your imagination, here you are. In the gap between never and always, here you are. You might appear to be strangers, stranded across opposite ends of this marble ballroom, but to both of you, the idea is almost unfathomable. No, not strangers; you two are anything but.

You are you, and he is Charles, here again in the place where it all ended.

He is never a stranger, and he could never be. He is Charles, your Charles, the beautiful boy who took up years of your life and explored every inch of your heart and mind. He is Charles, who broke your heart, he is Charles, whose heart you broke. But now, he is just Charles Leclerc, racing driver and charity gala attendee, conversing with the same crowds, mingling as he always does. Did. The usage of past tense is a painful pill to swallow.

Charles feels like it’s torture, suffering, a slow punishment, to be rooted to the ground and to do nothing but look. How can he look away now? He is rooted to the tiles, thick vines keeping him here, even if his heart tells him to go, run, now. He is stuck, tacked by the stillness of the memories that play back through his head, the love and the sorrow. You’re still you, hair a little shorter, brows a little darker, but you’re still you. The you he had once, held once, loved and lost once. The you he wishes to have, hold, and love once again.

For a moment, a fleeting, short, moment, he wishes to blink, to nod and to signal for you to meet him outside, on the balcony, so he can straighten his tie and press a polite hand to this person’s shoulder and say excuse me and leave, slip quietly into the night. So maybe you can tug on Henry’s suit jacket and say I’m sorry and join the crowd of gowns and satin and leave, run, go. Because you’re you. And what a sweet lie it would be if he said he wouldn’t do anything for you.

In the end you stay, and you stare, rooted still, time moving the way grass grows. When he smiles, you smile back, and the answers to what if are quietly fabricated in the limits of your imagination.

—

“I miss you. I know it’s—I know this is weird to say, after so long. After not talking for such a long time.”

“No, I understand. I miss you, too.”

“Right… well, how have you been?”

“Same old. You?”

“Yeah, same. How’s everything?”

“It’s… it’s okay. How’s life?”

“Tough, but great.”

“I noticed you were with someone.”

“Yeah, no. That’s—it’s sort of—I don’t see it going anywhere, really. It’s kind of over.”

“Oh? Is it?”

“Listen, I’m… sorry. For—just for everything. I’ve lived the past few years thinking about everything and still hoping I could someday apologize properly. I’m just glad I’ve been given the chance. And I think things ended without… without… I just don’t think we were mature enough. And sometimes now I think—it’s you, it’s still you.”

“Don’t apologize. Can you believe it happened right here?”

“I know. It’s almost crazy—”

“You left a bottle of scent at my place. It’s… it’s still half full. Sometimes I—nevermind. I mean, I think of you a lot. Probably too much for my own good. I think of us, our past, our relationship.”

“So do I.”

“—I love you. I try to stop it, I keep trying but I always end up here. Always here, back here, loving you.”

“If you didn’t see me tonight—would you have felt this way?”

“Oh, I feel… I feel it everyday. I think I’m always going to love you.”

“I’m always going to love you, too.”

[f1nalboys]

thinking about priest!sinclair brothers...

warning for priest fuckery (obviously), perverting the catholic faith (my bad), corrupting priests, being corrupted by priests, sacreligious shit, spiritual bdsm of sorts, and all the weird icky stuff that comes with me talking about fucking priests. you know. also warning bc i know fuck all about the actual ins and outs of priesthood so... dont be on my dick please <3

priest!lester is the priest you accidentally corrupt. youre in the confessional and youre spilling your sins and hes on the other side of the lattice biting at his lip trying not to imagine all the filthy things you talk about happening to him. you talk about your crush on a priest there, how you touch yourself to the thought of him sometimes, how you know its wrong but you just cant help but work yourself over to the thought of this holy man fucking you until it hurt and lester cums in his pants, his hand over his mouth to keep quiet. he had already been questioning his faith but now he knows hes in the right path; the two of you need each other. you need to be cleansed and he does too, and he knows that together you both will find the light and do just that even if there are some bumps along the way.

priest!vincent is the priest that you are corrupting without even meaning to. he knows what his supposed goal is but then he meets you and leading you to gods light is the last thing on his mind. he wants you. he wants to worship you, not God. he wants to get down on his knees in front of you, look up into your patient and kind eyes, and admit all his transgressions. he is willing to take whatever punishment you give him because he knows salvation lies inbetween your legs and if he holds on just a little longer, if he speaks to you softly, if his touches are soft and quick, you'd be willing to give him that. you'd be willing to allow him to touch you and to worship you and to treat you like a god if he asked sweetly. you might think hes attentive to the rest of the congregation but he isn't. he could close his eyes and pick you out from your scent alone and thats how he knows that he was meant to be your worshipper, your devotee.

priest!bo is the priest that knows hes corrupting you and he loves it. he knows youre a lost member of the flock, that when you came to his small and private office to ask him to speak to you that you were looking to be lead back into the light of gods embrace. he knows that. but he doesnt care. what he cares about is how sweet and innocent you look and how he wants to crush that under his boot. so he tells you that the only way for god to forgive you, really forgive you, is if you listen to every word bo tells you. even when its scary, even when its confusing, even when its innapropriate. when bo tells you to kneel in front of him hes doing it to set you on the right path. when he tells you to take his cock hes doing it to cleanse you from the inside out. when he tells you that you'll have to come back again and again and again until you begin to crave him when youre not there hes doing it because he knows its the only way for god to forgive you. and eventually, one faithful night, he'll get you to admit that you think of him as god and he'll smile, lean down with his hand tilting your head up, and he'll tell you that he is god and that youre the first member of his congregation.

[agaypanic]

smutty blurbs w eric forman?? 😱

Eric Forman Smutty Headcanons

Masterlist

Request Something!

A/N: couldn’t really think of blurbs so i decided to do some headcanons, also i dont have too much in depth knowledge about star wars. Eric might be a bit ooc but idc lol

C/W: smutty content (duh), roleplay, mentions of bondage, i feel like thats it

***

Loves roleplaying lmao

Remember that episode where Donna dressed up as Leia for him and he had the stormtrooper helmet??

Yeah yall do that

Sometimes, it’s hard to stay serious because he’s having too much fun with it

“Tell me what you know about the Rebel Alliance’s plans, prisoner.” You could tell that Eric was lowering his voice underneath the bulky Stormtrooper helmet. You had to keep yourself from giggling so you didn’t break the illusion of being a Stormtrooper’s prisoner.

“I’ll never tell you.” You responded defiantly, glaring at your boyfriend’s hidden face. 

Eric took a step closer, bringing a hand out from behind his back to reveal a Stormtrooper gun, which you remember getting him for his most recent birthday.

“Be obedient, and you might be rewarded.” Eric pointed the fake gun towards you, his bulky white helmet tilting to the side slightly. “Resist, and you’ll regret it.”

“Don’t point that blaster at me.” You backed up as much as possible, trying to appear scared, but it wasn’t long before your back hit Eric’s headboard.

“Actually,” Eric said, lifting his helmet off his head and looking at the gun, “It’s an E-Eleven Blaster Rifle, Y/n. We’ve been through this.”

“Oh, so sorry.” You rolled your eyes before laughing at Eric’s seriousness. Pushing off the headboard, you crawled over to the end of the bed and kneeled on the mattress in front of Eric. His eyes followed your body, his own stiffening at your seductive stare. “Is that another blaster in your pocket, Mr. Trooper? Or are you just happy to see me?”

“Storm-trooper,” he corrected, his voice quiet as he slowly let the helmet slip back down. You sighed but quickly brushed it off.

“Mr. Stormtrooper.”

Good at foreplay

His nickname’s “foreplay” for a reason lmao

Well, it’s supposed to be an embarrassing nickname

But once he starts dating you, he becomes a bit proud of the nickname

“Eric.” You whined, squirming around on the bed. “Please, do something!”

“Shush.” Eric’s hands lightly trailed up and down your sides underneath your shirt, the contact making you shiver. “Be good, Y/n.” He lifted your shirt over your head, and you helped pull it off, throwing it somewhere in Eric’s room. 

Soon, you were almost naked, your underwear being the only thing covering you. Yet Eric completely avoided the place that ached for him most, no matter how much you begged.

“You’re such a tease.” You pouted.

“Oh, it’ll be worth it, baby,” Eric smirked as he lowered himself to the end of the bed, pushing your legs apart. “Just you wait.”

Back to roleplay real quick

Makes a lot of references to movies or comics

Either during sex or the reference leads to sex

Days where you and Eric had the house to yourselves were rare. With Red being retired, Hyde living in the basement, and the Forman’s house being the hangout spot for your friend group, it was hard to find alone time unless you wanted to be at your house or go somewhere in Eric’s car.

But on the rare days when no one was home, the two of you took full advantage of it.

“Spider-Man’s so cool,” Eric mumbled as he read through a comic book, holding it with one hand so his other arm could be wrapped around your shoulders while you watched TV.

Taking full advantage usually meant sitting in the living room instead of hiding in Eric’s room or the basement.

“I wanna be one of Charlie’s Angels so bad.” You responded as you watched Jill Munroe, Kelly Garrett, and Sabrina Duncan kick some ass. Eric looked up at the screen and smirked before looking at you.

“I’d let you interrogate me in a bikini.” You jokingly slapped his chest, making your boyfriend laugh before returning to his comic. “God, having web shooters would be so awesome. Swinging from building to building, fighting crime.”

“Yeah, and you can tie people up.” 

It was an offhand remark, as you were only half listening to Eric while watching TV. But then you felt Eric’s intense gaze on you, and when you made eye contact, you realized how he took what you said. His eyebrows raised suggestively, and soon, you were turning off the television, throwing the comic book onto the couch, and racing up to Eric’s room.

[kaldurahms-lover]

Hello, can I request Sal fisher x gn!reader, maybe a one shot about Sal showing y/n his face for the first time

AGH THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING THIS I NEEDED AN EXCUSE TO WRITE IT WJSHSJHS

Pairing: Sal Fisher x Reader

Warnings: use of y/n, fluff, sal's face oops, i kinda fucked up the different tenses but i cannot be bothered to fix it, very minor swearing, not proofread.

Word Count: 773

A/N: takes place when Sal and the reader would be around 17 and have known each other for like two years

Sal knew he had to let y/n see his face at some point. They were the closest friend he had. (Larry doesn't count, Larry's family.) He knew in the back of his mind that it made no sense for the person he's closest to to be the last one in their friend group to see him without the prosthetic, hell, even Neil had seen him (i know in canon only his dad, larry, ash, and dr. enon have seen him. ssssshhh). He had no clue why he hadn't shown them besides his romantic feelings for them, they would never judge him. So when he heard them telling Todd how they felt like he didn't trust them...

"I just don't understand. It's his decision and I don't want him to show me if he isn't comfortable with it. But thats what hurts, is that he isn't comfortable with it. I love Sal, he's my best friend and I would do anything for him, I just can't help but feel like he doesn't trust me. And I know I sound terrible, being upset that someone I care about isn't ready to unpack their trauma with me, but I can't help it."

He knew something had to change.

Y/n was over within minutes, making the quick trip up from apartment 304. Sal ushered them into his room quickly, wanting to do this before his dad got home. They were obviously very confused, sitting down on his bed and asking if everything was okay.

"Do you think I'm uncomfortable around you?"

Y/n was taken aback by his blunt question. "Sal, what?"

"I heard you talking to Todd, y/n."

"Oh. Sal, I'm not upset with you, I didn't mean anything by it–"

He cut them off. "I know. I'm gonna ask again, do you think I'm uncomfortable around you?"

y/n gulped. "Sometimes I feel like maybe you don't. But who you take your prosthetic off around his completely your choice, I don't want you to do it just because you heard me say something to Todd, I want you to do it because you trust me and want me to see you."

"Thats the thing! I don't know why I don't want you to see me. You're my best friend, and I fucking love you, and you should've seen me years ago."

Y/n sighed. "It's okay. I promise it's okay."

Sal doesn't say anything, he just unclips his mask. Before Y/n can even realize what's happening, Sal's hand is the only thing holding his prosthetic against his face. He lowers it slowly, freely presenting his face, every scar, every bit of missing skin, the way it's now much more obvious that one of his eyes is also a prosthetic. His eyes are down, not wanting to see their reaction despite willingly removing his armor.

"Sal..."

"I know. It's not pretty."

y/n put their hands up and moved their head back as if offended. "Not at all what i was going to say. You're so pretty. In a very unconventional way... but theres nothing wrong with how you look. Can i..." Their hands reach out to cup his face, but they keep their distance until they have permission.

He nods and suddenly they're holding him so gently, as if they're afraid he might break under their touch. And as they softly caress his scarred skin, Sal melts. In fact, he gets so lost in the moment that it takes him a moment to realize they're talking to him.

"Sal? You still with me here?"

"Huh? Oh. Yeah. Yeah I'm just... processing. No one's ever really had anything nice to say about me taking this off. I mean they've never had a huge problem but they haven't... they haven't reacted like this."

"Can I kiss you?" The question is sudden, purely formed from y/n thinking out loud. It takes everything in them react at how shocked Sal looks.

"What?"

"i'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything, I don't want to make you uncomfortable or mess up us being friends–"

"No no no, y/n. Yes. Please. For the love of all things good, please."

"Really?"

"Really."

That was all the confirmation y/n needed before their lips were connected. It was awkward, considering the scar tissue and the fact that it was very obviously Sal's first kiss, but it was sweet. When they pulled back, y/n rested their forehead against Sal's.

They smiled. "Hi."

"Hi."

"This what you expected when you asked me to come over?"

"Hoped? Maybe. Expected? Never."

"Learn to expect this every time I come over now."