#cheap camera challenge

[zeroloop]

Videocamera 4K entry-level: la scelta giusta per iniziare

Videocamera 4K entry-level: la scelta giusta per iniziare Se stai cercando una videocamera 4K entry-level senza spendere una fortuna, questa potrebbe essere una soluzione interessante. Grazie alla sua dotazione completa, offre tutto il necessario per iniziare a registrare senza dover acquistare accessori aggiuntivi. Contenuto della confezione Nella confezione troverai: Cavo HDMI Cavo…

[witchywithwhiskey]

to save me from tears

pairing: DARK!bucky barnes x female reader

summary: you thought you were going on a weekend getaway to the cabin of the guy were seeing, but it turned out bucky barnes had no intention of ever letting you leave. now, one year later, it's the anniversary of an important milestone in your relationship, and he knows just how to celebrate the special occasion.

warnings: 18+ content (minors do not interact!!!), dark themes and elements, non-con/rape, abduction, drugging, imprisonment/captivity, sexual exploitation of reader, forced camgirl work, live-streaming sex, smut, rough sex, painful sex, unprotected sex, piv sex, anal sex, double penetration, oral cockwarming with a dildo gag, squirting, sex toys, bondage/shibari, sadism/forced masochism, ass spanking, degradation, objectification, dacryphilia, choking, breathplay, dirty talk, praise kink, pet names (doll, winter slut), mind break, reluctant stockholm syndrome, reader passes out during sex, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, if i missed something please let me know!

word count: 5.6k

a/n: here's my second entry for @the-slumberparty's december daze challenge, using the prompt: Has it been a year already? my last fic was so sweet that apparently i had to balance things out with the absolute darkest, filthiest fic i've ever written. i guess i was feeling some type of way, idk!! anyway, i hope y'all enjoy ♡

december daze challenge masterlist

Frank Sinatra’s “Silent Night” played softly from a speaker in the corner, the chords lilting serenely through the cold basement, the choral harmonizing of the background singers becoming a soundtrack to the depravity you were forced to endure. 

It occurred to you that you might wonder how you’d ended up where you had, but you knew exactly how—you’d trusted the wrong man.

Bucky Barnes had been charming from the moment you met. The former army sergeant had wooed you with ice skating dates and trips to the book store, regaling you with stories from his childhood growing up in Brooklyn over cups of hot chocolate and herbal tea. 

He’d seemed perfectly normal, like the kind of man you’d want to settle down with, and you found yourself wanting to start a new life with him. It hadn’t been long, but you thought he was the one, and you began planning what that new life would look like in your own imagination.

Apparently Bucky had been determined to give you a new life as well, but he hadn’t given you a choice about what that life would look like. While you’d been picturing a cozy apartment in the city before buying a house and moving out to the suburbs, he’d been planning something much different.

It had all started that weekend in December, when Bucky had invited you for a weekend away at his cabin upstate. You’d been seeing him long enough that you trusted him, and you were excited, hopeful, even, that your relationship would deepen on the trip.

You were so happy about spending a whole weekend alone with Bucky that you didn’t think anything of the darkness in his voice when he’d warned you to never, under any circumstances, go into the basement of the cabin. 

Then, after a weekend filled with delicate kisses and gentle lovemaking, you’d been packing to return to the city when a soft cloth had covered your mouth and nose and you’d smelled something sweet. You hadn’t known it at the time, but that was the end of your old life, and you didn’t even have the time or the strength to fight.

You didn’t know how much time had passed when you’d woken up in the cold basement that would become your only home in the months to come. A thick leather collar had been wrapped around your neck, connecting to a chain that was attached to the heavy wooden frame of the bed you lay on. To your horror, you’d realized you were clad in lingerie that wasn’t yours, some cheap set that still managed to fit you perfectly.  

Bucky had been waiting for you to notice him at the foot of the bed, standing next to a camera aimed directly at you. 

“Welcome to your new life, doll,” he’d said, a depraved smirk spreading across his handsome face—and expression you’d never seen before. “Time to earn your keep.” His blue eyes had been glittering with dark excitement as he’d clicked a button on the laptop linked to the camera and crawled onto the bed with you.

That had been the first moment you’d seen the real Bucky Barnes, and he’d spent every day since then showing you exactly how vile and perverted he truly was. He’d kept you in the basement of his cabin and forced you to fuck him on camera, using the money he made from it to buy you more cheap lingerie and all manner of toys to use on your body.

The sharp, cracking sound of a palm meeting soft flesh filled your ears, the subsequent stinging sensation reverberating from your ass through the rest of your body effectively dragging you back into the moment of your latest debasement. 

The pain of Bucky spanking you with the full force of his strength only joined the other aches already living in your body—but you knew better than to complain or cry or whimper. You’d made that mistake early on, but Bucky had only seemed to soak in your pain like it fueled him. 

The first time he’d spanked you, you’d begged him to stop. Instead, though, he only hit you harder, grinning ear to ear while he’d told you that you had no idea what you were in for yet, fake pity dripping from his tone.

But in the present moment, your pain wasn’t only coming from Bucky’s palm. 

Your shoulders ached from the way your arms had been tied behind your back, your hands gripping your forearms and constrained by intricate knots of cords wrapped around your body. To further restrain you, your calves were tied to your thighs, leaving you bound and unable to move with your ass high in the air while your face was shoved into the bed.

In honor of the holiday season, Bucky had traded in the coarse rope he typically used for a long string of multicolored Christmas lights, one end plugged into the wall so your skin was washed in shades of blue, red, green and yellow. 

The string of lights was much more uncomfortable than the rope, even though that had burned. The wire holding the lights together was so thin, and the small bulbs dug painfully into your skin. If you didn’t know your discomfort was exactly what Bucky wanted, you might’ve let him see how unhappy you were with your current predicament.

Instead, you hid your face in the blankets of the bed, trying to focus on anything except Bucky’s big cock fucking into your cunt at a bruising pace. 

Unfortunately, it was impossible to ignore him, his hard length plowing into your body. Not even the cheery lights wound around your body or the Christmas music playing out of the bluetooth speaker in the corner could distract you from the feel of his cock inside you.

Another jarring smack resounded in the cold basement a brief second before the sting of Bucky’s spank quaked through your body. The strike was hard enough that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out. You didn’t want to give him that, even if it would’ve been muffled by the blankets under your face.

“How many times do I gotta tell ya, doll,” Bucky huffed, his voice patronizing and impatient, like he was talking to a misbehaving child. “Look at the camera when I’m fucking you.” He spanked you again, so hard you felt your entire body tremble under the weight of it, then he grabbed and groped your ass cruelly enough to leave marks. “Our audience wants to see your face—don’t ya, fellas?”

That last part was directed at the camera. You turned your head, tipping your face toward the lens just in time to catch the reflection of the rakish grin Bucky shot to whoever was watching. 

The chat box on the screen of the laptop set up just out of frame lit up, the audience for your daily stream with Bucky telling the both of you just how much they wanted to see your face while you were fucked by his fat cock. 

Your eyes caught a few of the filthy, degrading messages before looking away. You refused to believe the way your cunt clenched was in response to what you’d read. You absolutely were not getting turned on by the depraved life your captor forced you to live.

Bucky’s large body curled over your back, his hand wrapping around your throat and lifting your head from the bed so the camera could better see your face. The position shoved his cock even deeper into your cunt, ramming painfully against your cervix and, against your will, your face contorted at the twinge deep in your body.

The chat lit up, chimes dinging fast and furious as the messages came in, and Bucky reached for the laptop so he could read what your viewers had written. 

All the while, his hips kept grinding idly against your ass so his cock rubbed even harder into your cervix, making you let out a little whimper of anguish. His fingers tightened around the sides of your neck, enough to cut off your ability to breathe, and your whimper turned into a desperate, scared little keen.

You felt Bucky grin against your cheek, and you could’ve kicked yourself for giving him exactly what he’d wanted—a reaction. But at least his grip loosened, though you knew it was only because he didn’t want you to pass out too soon.

“The chat says you look like such a pretty little toy when I fuck you all tied up like this, doll,” Bucky cooed in your ear, grinding harder into your cunt. 

You sunk your teeth deep into your lower lip as your whole body trembled under the assault of Bucky’s thick cock. Despite yourself, you felt your cunt clench hard around his stiff length, wetness frothing and gushing from your hole as he made a mockery of your protests. 

Before you’d met Bucky, you would’ve sworn you didn’t like pain. You’d have said you hated it, in fact. 

But after so many days and months of being speared open by his fat cock, all three of your holes ravaged by his hard, unrelenting manhood in his need to dominate you, to conquer your body in every way possible, you couldn’t help your pussy’s response to it.

You told yourself it was some kind of defense mechanism, that your body had begun to react to pain the same way it did pleasure. It was the only explanation you could bear to endure. Because if you admitted you’d begun to like the way Bucky fucked you and abused you…

“Ohhh, listen to this one,” Bucky crooned excitedly, drawing you out of your thoughts and giving you a distraction from the way he was working your body toward its undoing. “‘Happy anniversary to the Winter Soldier and his Winter Slut!’”

The names were, of course, fake ones that Bucky had chosen to give the audience of your streams something to call you both. His was based on his past as a sergent, combined with the season when he’d taken you captive, while yours showed his ownership over you.

You hated it. You didn’t want anyone thinking Bucky owned you. 

But Bucky either didn’t notice or ignored the way you grimaced when he read the fake names aloud. He turned his eyes, filled with cheerful wickedness, toward the camera.

“Has it been a year already?”

The question was full of charm, and you could almost imagine it coming from the Bucky you’d originally met. The one who might’ve celebrated your one-year anniversary with a recreation of your first date, ending with a heartfelt proposal that the two of you move in together. 

Instead, the question hadn’t even been asked to you, but to the camera—to the audience of loyal, degenerate perverts who watched your streams. 

The quick, successive chimes from the laptop drew Bucky’s attention back to it, and he hummed in acknowledgement as he read through the messages. 

His fingers squeezed around your throat, making you choke harder for the camera, adding to the small sounds of anguish that were slipping from your lips while he kept up his merciless grinding, his cock bruising your cervix.

A new sound, one like a cash register, joined the dinging chimes of the chat message and your heart sank. 

That was the sound of people in the chat sending extra tips on top of the subscription fees they paid to get access to your streaming channel. It meant they were making requests for Bucky to do something new—and that never resulted in anything good for you.

Before you could glance at the laptop to try to get an idea of what was coming, Bucky sat back on his haunches, hauling you up with his hand around your throat. Between gravity and the change in position, it felt like Bucky’s cock pushed even deeper into your cunt, pressing against your cervix so hard it stole the breath from your lungs.

“It’s the one year anniversary of your very first stream, doll,” Bucky announced gleefully in your ear, using his free hand to slap at your tits. They were bound between two strings of the Christmas lights wrapped around your body, your soft tits highlighted by the shining, multicolored hues. “Do you have anything to say to our audience, my little Winter Slut?”

It was clear Bucky wanted you to thank them for their loyal viewership, but resentment held your tongue. Memories assaulted you of the very first stream you’d been forced to do.

Bucky had pinned you down on that very same bed, using nothing but his strong hands and large body to pin you to the mattress while he tore your cheap lingerie off your body. Then he’d ravaged you, slapping and groping your tits before biting them so hard you’d started crying. 

It had been the only foreplay he’d offered you before he’d shoved his cock deep in your cunt. He was so big and your body was so unprepared that you’d screamed, which only made Bucky laugh. He’d told you, mockingly, that there wasn’t anyone around to hear you scream—only the audience on the dark web where he was streaming your defilement for who knew how many people who were just as vile as Bucky.

Bucky’s fingers digging deep into the sides of your neck brought you back to the present moment, small gasps falling from your lips as he cut off your air again. Your pulse pounded in your head, but you still managed to notice that Frank Sinatra’s “Silent Night” had given way to another Christmas song, the festive music so at odds with the dread and fear pooling in your belly.

“I guess my Winter Slut is feeling ungrateful today, chat,” Bucky said on a laugh. 

His tone was mocking in a way that sent a shiver racing down your spine, and you refused to believe it might be anticipation. Your body quaked when his soft mouth brushed against your cheek, the gesture almost like a kiss as he turned his head so he could murmur in your ear.

“Our audience wants to see something special for our anniversary, doll,” he cooed. “They want to see me break you.” 

Unease and something else flooded your veins, the conflicting emotions warring for dominance as you struggled to make sense of the way your cunt had clenched around Bucky’s cock when he’d said he was going to break you. You pressed your mouth into a grim line, still determined not to show your reaction to Bucky or the camera, especially when you didn’t understand what was happening to you. 

In the year that you’d spent as Bucky’s personal cam star, you’d endured a lot—and if anyone had asked you, you’d have said you hadn’t enjoyed any of it. But over time, that had begun to change. You’d been fighting it, fighting your body’s responses to Bucky and every depraved thing he did to you. It was becoming so hard, and you were growing so tired of fighting, of pretending…

 “I have just the thing—but first, let’s fill this slut’s mouth,” Bucky was telling the camera, and you forced yourself to focus back on the moment to prepare yourself. 

Bucky shifted to the side, grabbing something from the basket of sex toys he kept next to the bed during streams. When you saw what he pulled out, you bit your lip against a helpless whimper.

He’d pulled out a penis gag, but it wasn’t just any normal penis gag—it was one he’d specially ordered for you. Instead of having a two or three inch dick attached to the strip of leather that would tie around your head, there was a full-sized dildo replica of Bucky’s cock. His big, thick cock.

You tried to keep your mouth closed when Bucky pressed the tip of the silicone cock to your lips, but he only tutted at you with a patronizing click of his tongue. Shifting his fingers from your throat to your cheeks, he dug them in until it hurt. Your jaw gave way.

“That’s a good little cock slut, open for your Winter Soldier,” he cooed patronizingly, shoving the fake dick into your mouth without preparation or remorse.

You gagged as the stiff dildo invaded your throat, tears beginning to flow from your eyes and spit dribbling from the corners of your mouth. Your arms yanked against the Christmas lights holding you bound, but that only forced them to dig deeper into your skin, making your struggle hurt that much more.

While you were distracted by trying to adjust to the silicone cock shoved deep inside you, Bucky secured the leather strap around the back of your head, tying it into place and making it impossible for you to do anything but hold the dildo in your mouth and breathe through the way it bulged in your throat.

Then Bucky was dumping you unceremoniously on the mattress and pulling his cock from your cunt, leaving you to fall face first into the blankets while he hopped up off the bed. You were thankful you could muffle your whimper at the loss of him in the sheets, even as you knew that whatever he had planned would be so much worse than him just fucking you while tied up and gagged.

“I was going to save this one for Christmas,” he was saying from behind a privacy screen beside the bed. It was set up to make sure the camera would only show viewers what Bucky wanted them to see—which was you, and everything he did to you. “But since it’s a special occasion, I’ll let you have your present early.”

When Bucky stepped back into view, your heart nearly stopped. 

A leather harness was strapped onto Bucky’s hips, a dildo attached so it hung below his cock. The contraption, which had clearly been specially ordered because you’d never seen anything like it, wasn’t what shocked you, though—it was the size of the dildo. 

The fake dick was easily twice the size of Bucky’s cock, bigger around and just as long. Staring at it with wide eyes, you genuinely didn’t think it would fit in any of your holes, no matter how roughly Bucky tried to stuff it in. But your cunt was between your thighs like it couldn’t wait for him to try.

Despite your dedication not to give Bucky or the audience any kind of reaction, you couldn’t help the, “No, no, no, no, no,” that came from your mouth. You couldn’t fathom the massive dildo fitting inside you, let alone you enjoying it, no matter how much your body warmed at the prospect of being fucked with it.

Your protests were muffled by the gag in your mouth, to the point that your words were indiscernible, but their meaning must’ve been understood because Bucky chuckled as he walked back to you.

“I know what you’re thinking, doll,” Bucky said conversationally while he climbed onto the bed and retook his place behind you. “There’s no way it’ll fit.” 

He grabbed the knotted string of Christmas lights where they crisscrossed between your shoulder blades, pulling your torso up off the bed so your face was level with the camera. You tried not to look at your reflection in the lens, your mouth split open around the dildo in your mouth and your eyes round as saucers, but it was hard not to stare at the look in your eye—the look of something like fear… or excitement.

“But that’s what’s so fun about it,” Bucky went on, dragging the hard length of the silicone dick through your dripping wet folds, coating the fake cock in the mess of wetness your body was leaking against your will. “It will fit—and it’s going to ruin your cunt.”

Once upon a time, you’d thought the same thing about Bucky’s cock. 

The first time you’d had sex with Bucky—before the cabin and the basement and the camera—you’d taken one look at his cock and whimpered in fear. But he’d been so gentle, promising you that he’d take it slow, that your pussy was made to fit his cock. 

He’d taken his time, kissing your lips and cheeks and all over your face while he worked his cock into your pussy, giving you another inch only when you’d adjusted to the last and relaxed in his arms. Slowly, and with what seemed like an endless amount of patience, he’d opened you up for him. 

That night, he’d made love to you in deep, toe-curling strokes that had wrecked you. He’d seemingly rearranged your body to be the perfect fit for his cock, and then he’d given you the best orgasm of your life.

No wonder you hadn’t stood a chance. 

More than a year later, the memory felt like a dream. It was so faded around the edges, aged by the months spent taking Bucky’s cock roughly, furiously, whenever and wherever he wanted, all while he streamed your debasement for the audience on the dark web.

“You’re going to be so loose that you won’t even feel my cock anymore, doll,” Bucky was saying as he dragged you back to the moment by thrusting his own hard length into your cunt, soaking himself in your juices. “You’ll have to beg me to fuck you with this massive dildo just to feel anything again.” He paused, chuckling to himself as he bent over you, pressing a kiss to your spine between your shoulder blades before murmuring darkly, “That’s your Christmas present this year.”

Then, without anymore preamble, Bucky sat up and pulled out. You didn’t even have time to beg or whine before he lined his cock and the dildo up at the entrances to your tight holes, then shoved both into you at the same time. Bucky buried himself inside you so deeply, so thoroughly, that it felt like he was pushing into the very core of your being, conquering your soul just as completely as he’d conquered your body.

The intrusion was so sudden, you never had a hope of preparing, and all you felt was the devastating sting of being stretched past your limit, the overwhelming ache of being stuffed full beyond what you thought your body could ever take. 

Pain eclipsed any semblance of pleasure you might’ve gotten from having both your holes stuffed full, and your eyes rolled back in your head, a piercing cry tearing from your throat. A white hot burn scorched through your body, and your mind went entirely blank, leaving nothing but depraved annihilation in its wake. 

“Oh fuck, fellas, she’s so fucking tight like this,” Bucky groaned, talking over your head into the camera. “I can feel the fake cock splitting her open—it’s making her ass so fucking tight.”

Humiliation and shame swept through your body at his words, turning the burn into something slightly more bearable, almost pleasurable. There was something about being ignored, being treated like nothing more than a fleshlight or a fuck doll while Bucky completely decimated your body that was so… 

You shook your head. No. You weren’t going to finish that thought.

“Fuck, I don’t know how long ‘m gonna last,” Bucky was grumbling, and you weren’t sure if he was talking to you or your audience.

The words should’ve sounded like music to your ears. You should’ve been happy the torture was almost over. Instead, you felt a pang of disappointment deep in your heart. But you didn’t have time to unpack what that could mean because then Bucky started fucking you.

His hips pulled back until only the tip of his cock and the dildo were still in your ass and pussy, then he plowed forward, shunting his entire length and the fat, massive fake cock into your holes once again. The pain of being split open was already starting to fade, an all-consuming pleasure creeping into the edges of your awareness against your will.

On Bucky’s third thrust, you moaned. 

Your mind was hazy with a mixture of pain and pleasure that was leaning more toward the latter, and with the cock gag in your mouth, you were helpless against the reactions Bucky was wringing from your body. The sound of pleasure slipped from your lips unbidden, and your face heated in shame, which only served to add more fuel to the fire burning through your body.

“Did ya hear that, chat?” Bucky crowed, slapping your ass painfully hard—hard enough that another muffled cry was wrenched from your mouth. “Our little Winter Slut is enjoying her Christmas present! She loves getting her cunt ruined, don’t ya, doll?”

He slammed deep into your body as he asked the question and you were powerless, incapable of doing anything but moaning obscenely for the camera, tears streaming down your cheeks and joining the spit that coated the lower half of your face. Long strings of drool and tears were hanging from your chin, dripping onto the bedsheets below.

Distantly, you heard the chimes from the chat log and the cash register sounds as messages and money poured in. They were coming so fast and so furious that you couldn’t even begin to fathom how much money you were making for Bucky while he broke you with his cocks.

Bucky must’ve heard the sounds too, because he doubled his efforts. He picked up the pace of his thrusts, fucking you hard and fast, spanking your ass mercilessly while his other hand still held you up off the bed by your Christmas light restraints. It meant that your face was framed perfectly in the camera frame.

It occurred to you that you should let your gaze drift off, let your mind retreat somewhere deep inside itself where you could hide from Bucky and what he was doing to your body. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the camera’s display panel.

There, you could see the scene Bucky had constructed—your body tied up in glittering, technicolor Christmas lights; your face covered in tears and drool, lips spread thin around the base of the cock gag; your throat bulging from the fake dick buried deep in your mouth; your tits bouncing between the strands of lights.

Behind you, with a look of deeply depraved joy on his face, was Bucky Barnes. 

He was naked save for the harness belted around his hips and the santa hat on his head. His big body was on display just as much as yours, his broad chest swathed in pale skin and chiseled muscles, his arms bulging as he held you up and spanked your ass. 

Bucky’s dark hair was falling into his handsome face, but the strands didn’t hide the merry grin on his lips or the way his blue eyes glittered with wicked delight as he stared down at the place where his cock and the massive dildo were brutally fucking your holes.

It was too much to watch your defilement. It was too depraved and too…hot.

God help you, but something must’ve finally broken inside you because it was so fucking hot to watch yourself be violated on camera while jaunty Christmas music played in the background and hundreds, if not thousands, of perverts watched Bucky have his way with you. 

Your pussy spasmed and clenched around the fake cock in your hole as you thought about those people watching you. It turned you on that the audience knew Bucky was fucking you against your will and not only were they doing nothing about it, they were taking their own pleasure from watching you be ravaged. Your cunt drooled even more.

Bucky Barnes had officially broken you. 

That was the only conclusion you could reach, because when you’d met him more than a year ago, you never would’ve imagined that your pussy would be creaming all over a fat, girthy dildo while Bucky fucked your ass and held you tied up with Christmas lights for anyone on the dark web to watch. 

But after a year of being fucked hard in every one of your holes, Bucky had finally broken you down until you’d joined him on his level. He’d torn away every ounce of shame, every bit of what had made you you, and remade you in the image of his perfect toy. You were a doll, his doll, just like he called you.

The realization filled you with a sense of peace you never would’ve expected, your body relaxing as your mind went blissfully blank. It was easier this way, you told yourself, as you breathed a sigh of relief. All that was left of you was Bucky Barnes’ perfect doll—his Winter Slut cam star.

Bucky must’ve felt or somehow sensed your submission because he groaned a filthy sound of pleasure and shoved his hips flush against your ass. He paused for a moment, his hand groping your ass possessively before pulling back and ramming home again, burying himself even deeper inside you, the massive dildo bullying your cervix as he pounded into you.

“That’s my girl, take your Winter Soldier’s cock like a good little fuck doll,” Bucky purred, his voice taking on a tenor of contentment you’d never heard before. It was like he was praising you for your submission, for finally giving yourself over to him, mind, body and soul. “You’re being such a perfect Winter Slut, taking me so good and crying so pretty for the camera.”

You preened under his praise, using what little strength remained in your body to shove your hips back onto Bucky’s cocks, fake and real alike, while you sucked enthusiastically on the fake dick in your mouth. Tears flowed harder from your eyes and you sobbed your pleasure, choked sounds of enjoyment falling from your lips.

You could feel the most devastating orgasm of your life building in the core of your being, and you were eager to chase it, knowing it would rewrite the fundamental fabric of your self. 

“Fuck yeah, doll, be my perfect little cam star,” Bucky rumbled, slapping your ass in encouragement, the sting of pain swirling with the pleasure he was wringing from your body and adding to the burning bliss scorching through you. “Show the chat how good my Winter Slut can cry for their money—show them how much you love feeling me ruin your holes for Christmas.”

Bucky rutted into you, pounding into your cunt and ass so hard that the clapping of his hips against your skin was filling the basement and almost drowning out the new Christmas song that had begun. It felt so good, so fucking good to be fucked and filled in every hole, that you were close—so close you could nearly taste it.

“Fucking take it, Winter Slut, take the only cock you’ll ever feel again,” Bucky growled, curling around your body and taking your throat in his hand. He squeezed tightly, grinding his cock and dildo into your body, so deep, you could feel them in your guts. “For the rest of your life, you’re gonna do nothing but take my cock and be my pretty little cam star—you’re all fucking mine.”

Something snapped inside you and you felt liquid gush between your thighs, coating the massive fake cock in your cunt. Your squirt sprayed down to soak the sheets beneath you, and all you could do was revel in the pleasure flooding your body, every limb trembling with the force of it while you gasped and cried around Bucky’s hold on your throat.

When he realized what you’d done, Bucky whooped with triumph, crowing into the camera that he’d made you squirt, that you were his perfect little fuck doll cam star. But you were too consumed by your oncoming release, which was barreling toward you with the force of a freight train. 

Before it finally hit you, and you came so hard your eyes rolled into the back of your head and you passed out, Bucky wrapped himself more tightly around your body, his chest pressing into your back and his arms wrapping around your front. He choked you with one big hand while the other groped and played roughly with your tits.

To your surprise, he brushed a kiss to your cheek in a gesture that felt affectionate.

“You’re making me so fucking proud, doll,” he cooed in your ear, and you thought, for a moment, that he sounded just like the sweet Bucky Barnes you’d met all those months ago. “You’re the best Christmas present I ever could’ve asked for.” 

Just then, your release slammed into you and you screamed—and there wasn’t anyone around to hear you except Bucky and his camera. 

Overwhelming pleasure washed through you, darkness creeping into the edges of your consciousness as your body convulsed and you choked on the dildo in your throat while your other holes clenched around the cocks that had split you open beyond your limit.

The last thing you heard before the weight of your release dragged you under was the festive synth pop chords of another Christmas song, and Wham! singing, “This year, to save me from tears, I’ll give it to someone special.” 

Somewhere inside you, you knew that everything was going to change once you woke up. Bucky had finally broken you, and you’d given him your ultimate submission. Nothing would be the same, but you found that that didn’t scare you as much as it once might have.

You belonged to Bucky Barnes and you’d finally accepted that as fact. He’d taken everything else, but you still had your heart left to give—and you were certain it wouldn’t be long before you gave him that too. Maybe, at least, it would save you from tears…

As you came so hard you passed out, you accepted that your thoughts, your pleasure, your mind, your body, your soul—your everything—belonged to Bucky Barnes. Then, everything went black.

december daze challenge masterlist

[norrisradio]

REDLINE

⚡︎ PAIRING: lando norris x drag racer! reader ⚡︎ WC: 5K ⚡︎ RECOMMENDED LISTENING:  sports car, tate mcrae • fast lane, bad meets evil • earned it, the weeknd • the hills, the weeknd • partition, beyonce • swim, chase atlantic • into you, ariana grande • all mine, brent faiyaz • come thru, summer walker & usher • kiss it better, rihanna ⚡︎ INCOMING RADIO: mannnn this was supposed to be a 1K drabble | also max fewtrell makes an appearance | thank you thank you @haologram for crossing fandom lines to beta this for me lol

⚡︎ SUMMARY: "You drive like you’ve got something to prove.” // "And you look like you’ve got something to lose."

Lando already knows he’s going to hate this.

The underground racing scene isn’t his thing. He’s spent his whole career perfecting precision, shaving milliseconds off his lap times, pushing his car to the absolute limit within the rules. 

This? This is chaos. The air smells like burnt rubber and cheap gasoline, headlights casting sharp shadows across the cracked pavement. Too much noise, too many people trying way too hard to look cool, and Max is grinning like an idiot because he loves this shit.

“Tell me this isn’t sick,” Max says, practically bouncing on his feet as he takes in the scene.

Lando scoffs, shifting his weight against some random car, arms crossed. “This is something, alright.”

Max elbows him. “C��mon, mate. Live a little.”

“I do live. I just prefer my races with less cigarette smoke and, y’know, rules.” Lando gestures vaguely to the chaos around them. Some guy in a hoodie is revving his engine like it’ll make his car faster. Someone else is already getting into a screaming match over a bet. It’s all so—

Then he hears it.

Not the shouting, not the music blasting from someone’s half-broken speaker—this cuts through all of it. A low, aggressive growl of an engine, shifting into a sharp screech as tires fight for grip against the pavement. 

The kind of entrance that makes everyone turn their heads.

Lando feels it in his chest before he sees it.

The car whips into the lot like it owns the place, sliding to a stop in one perfect, controlled motion. The scent of burned rubber lingers in the air as the headlights cut through the crowd, casting sharp, fleeting silhouettes before they shut off.

And then the driver steps out.

You move like you belong here, like the entire night revolves around you. Fireproof gloves tugged off finger by finger, jacket unzipped just enough to reveal the glint of a chain at your throat. There’s a confidence in the way you walk—calculated, effortless, like you already know you’re the fastest person here.

Lando straightens up before he even realizes he’s doing it.

Max catches it immediately. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, mate.”

Lando swallows. No—he’s seen something much more dangerous.

The night feels different now. The air still hums with conversation, music thumping in the background, but Lando barely hears any of it. His world narrows to the sound of your boots against the pavement, the faint scent of fuel and heat trailing behind you as you pass.

Max is saying something, probably chirping at him for looking interested for once, but Lando ignores him.

You toss your gloves through the open window of your car, barely sparing the gawking crowd a glance. Someone claps you on the back in greeting, another shoves a wad of cash into your hands—winnings, no doubt. You take it all in stride, movements smooth, practiced.

Lando has seen confidence before. It’s in the way Lewis carries himself in a press conference, in the set of Max Verstappen’s jaw before a race. But this—this is different. It’s not posturing, not bravado for the sake of a camera.

It’s knowing, certainty.

Then, just as easily as you arrived, your attention shifts. Your eyes flick across the lot, landing on him like you had already known he was there.

Lando doesn’t look away.

Your mouth curls, amusement flickering across your face. You don’t say anything—don’t need to. There’s a challenge in your gaze, a silent, well?

Max nudges him. “You’re staring.”

Lando exhales through his nose. He pushes off the car, tilting his head slightly, meeting your challenge head-on. “Yeah?” he mutters, just loud enough for Max to hear.

“Yeah,” Max confirms, grinning. “And I think she just clocked you as a rich boy who doesn’t belong here.”

Lando rolls his eyes but keeps his gaze locked on you.

You smirk, like you heard every word. Then, without a second glance, you turn away, walking toward a cluster of racers by the starting line. Someone hands you a drink, another shouts something about a rematch, and just like that, you’re gone.

Lando feels something settle low in his stomach. Not quite annoyance, not quite intrigue—something in between.

Max claps him on the back. “Told you this was sick.”

Lando doesn’t answer. He’s already moving, drawn in before he can stop himself.

The crowd swallows you up, but Lando doesn’t lose sight of you. You move with purpose, cutting through clusters of people with ease, exchanging nods and half-smirks like you own the place. Someone tries to throw an arm around your shoulders—some guy in a too-tight jacket, riding the high of a recent win—but you sidestep him smoothly, barely sparing him a glance.

Max is still talking beside Lando, but it’s just noise now.

The engine of your car still ticks with heat, the scent of burned rubber sharp in the cool night air. Up close, the machine is a beast—low-slung, built for speed, every inch of it tuned for performance. Lando recognizes the modifications immediately. Whoever built this knew what they were doing.

Another race is forming, drivers lining up, engines roaring to life. Someone leans into your space, gesturing toward the starting line, voice eager—challenging. You tilt your head, considering, and Lando catches the quick flick of your fingers against the side of your car—absent, instinctive, like checking the pulse of a living thing.

Then, just as you look up, your eyes catch his again.

This time, you don’t just smirk. You look at him.

Lando lifts his chin slightly, closing the space between you with a few easy steps. He’s aware of the weight of eyes on him, the way a few people glance between you like they’re already anticipating something. He’s the outsider here—money, privilege, rules.

But speed is speed. And if there’s one thing Lando Norris knows, it’s how to race.

"You drive like you’ve got something to prove," he says, voice just loud enough to carry over the rumble of engines.

Your smirk deepens, slow and sharp. "And you look like you’ve got something to lose."

A flicker of something hot sparks in his chest. "Wanna find out?"

It’s reckless. Stupid. He doesn’t even have a car here—his McLaren is miles away from this cracked asphalt, from these makeshift start lines. But none of that seems to matter when you step in closer, tilting your head just enough for the streetlights to catch in your eyes.

"You any good?" you ask, low, almost teasing.

Lando huffs a quiet laugh. "I guess you’ll have to find out."

Max’s car is a piece of shit.

Lando realizes this the second he slides behind the wheel, adjusting to the low-slung seat, the stiff clutch, the god-awful steering. It’s not that it’s bad—Max has clearly thrown a stupid amount of money into tuning it—but it’s nothing like what Lando is used to. The weight distribution is off, the gearbox isn’t nearly as tight as it should be, and the brakes? Terrible.

He flexes his fingers against the wheel, rolling his shoulders. It’ll have to do.

Across the lot, you lean against your car, arms crossed, watching him with an expression that says you’re already picturing his loss.

Lando sets his jaw.

Someone shouts, "Bets in! You know the drill!"

Money changes hands fast. There’s no doubt where the majority of the bets are going—you, the undefeated, the local legend. Max, the bastard, doesn’t even hesitate before handing over a few bills against Lando.

"You’re actually the worst, you dick," Lando mutters.

Max grins, slapping the roof of the car. "Love you, mate. Don’t die."

Lando exhales hard, focusing on the street ahead. The makeshift track is barely marked—just a stretch of cracked pavement, a sharp corner past the old warehouse, and a long straight where the finish line is drawn in neon chalk. Simple.

Someone stands between the two cars, arms raised.

Lando grips the wheel tighter.

You rev your engine once. A sharp, cocky sound.

Lando’s pulse kicks up. He should win this. He’s an F1 driver. Speed is in his blood, his muscles, his bones. He can read a car better than anyone here—feel the road, sense the grip, anticipate every slide before it happens.

The starter’s arms drop.

Lando slams the gas.

The tires screech, struggling for grip. For half a second, the car stutters before it launches forward, and Lando immediately feels the difference. It’s not the precise, weightless acceleration of a single-seater. It’s rougher, heavier—less forgiving.

But he adjusts fast.

First gear. Second. He watches the revs, the way the car shudders slightly at the shift. Max’s tuning is decent, but Lando has to fight it, keeping the car straight as he pushes through the first stretch.

Then he glances to his left—and you’re gone.

No, not gone. Ahead.

His stomach twists.

You’re already taking the first turn, and fuck, you’re fast. Not just in speed, but in reaction—the way you throw the car into the curve without hesitation, without a hint of fear. Lando should be gaining, but your car barely loses momentum as you swing around the corner, back tires skimming the edge of the line.

Lando grits his teeth and follows.

The back end of Max’s car wobbles slightly as he pushes it harder, forcing the tires to grip through the turn. It’s recoverable, but it costs him time. Precious milliseconds.

You don’t make mistakes.

Halfway through the lap, Lando knows he’s losing.

He’s not slow—he’s never slow—but he’s playing catch-up, watching the way you control the car like it’s a living thing. Every movement is effortless, a perfect balance between aggression and calculation. You brake just enough, accelerate at the exact right moment. There’s no wasted motion, no second-guessing.

Lando has never lost a race like this before.

On the final straight, he pushes harder, shifts faster, coaxes every ounce of speed out of the car. The finish line rushes closer, and for a brief, wild second, he thinks maybe—

But you’re already there.

You cross first, smooth and decisive, engine growling in victory as you ease off the throttle.

Lando slams the brakes harder than necessary. The car skids slightly before stopping. His pulse is roaring.

The crowd erupts. Cheers, laughter, money exchanging hands. Someone claps him on the back, but he barely feels it, still gripping the wheel too tightly.

Then you step out of your car, pulling your gloves off finger by finger. You don’t even look winded.

Lando exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair before climbing out. The night air is cool against his skin, but he still feels overheated, heart hammering against his ribs.

You approach slowly, amusement flickering in your eyes.

"Not bad, rich boy," you murmur, just loud enough for him to hear. "Maybe next time you’ll actually keep up."

Lando scoffs, shaking his head. He should be annoyed, frustrated, pissed, but instead—

He grins. "Next time," he echoes. "You better watch your back."

You tilt your head, considering. Then, with a smirk, you toss something toward him.

He catches it without thinking.

Your gloves.

His fingers tighten around the worn leather as you turn away, disappearing back into the crowd.

Max appears beside him, whistling low. "Well, that was humbling."

Lando lets out a breath, still staring at the spot where you stood.

Yeah.

And he’s definitely coming back.

The following month, Max barely gets a word out before Lando’s already moving.

"—the race," Max starts, grinning like he already knows the answer.

Lando doesn’t hesitate - grabbing his keys, shrugging into a jacket, barely listening to whatever chirpy remark Max throws his way.

"This time," he says, twisting the McLaren fob between his fingers, "we’re taking my car."

Max hoots, half-laughing as they step out into the night. "That’s what I like to hear! Rich boy’s got a grudge."

Lando doesn’t respond. He just flicks open the door, slides into the driver’s seat, and starts the engine.

This time, he’s coming to win.

Max barely has time to park before Lando’s door swings open. The hum of the engine hasn’t even settled when he steps out, shoulders loose, expression unreadable—but there’s an edge to him tonight. Something sharper.

The underground lot is exactly the same. Same flashing lights, same heavy bass thumping through cheap speakers, same mix of cigarette smoke and burnt rubber lingering in the air. But Lando feels different.

Last time, he was just an outsider, an F1 driver slumming it for a night. This time, he’s here for you.

The moment he steps out of the McLaren, people notice. Conversations dip, eyes flick his way, nudging and murmuring. They remember. The rich boy who lost. The one who had no business stepping into your world and thought he could keep up.

Lando doesn’t care. He doesn’t belong here, not really, but he walks like he does, like he’s already claimed his place. 

He scans the crowd, searching—

He spots you before you see him.

You’re leaning against your car, arms draped over the open window, deep in conversation with someone. The streetlights cast a glow over your skin, catching on the curve of your jaw, the glint in your eyes as you laugh at something said just under the roar of an engine revving in the distance.

Your gaze slides over, meeting his like you expected him. And there it is again—that flicker of recognition, the slow curl of your mouth as your gaze drags over him, lingering just a second too long.

Lando smirks.

Your attention shifts downward, toward the car he brought this time.

It’s sleek. Aggressive. Built for this.

When your eyes flick back to his, he catches something new in your expression. Intrigue.

He takes a step closer, watching as you push off the car, unfolding yourself from your stance with the kind of ease that says you already know how this is going to end.

"Didn’t think you’d come back," you say, voice lilting, teasing.

"Didn’t think you’d lose," he counters smoothly.

Your brow lifts, amused. "Lose?"

Lando tilts his head slightly, nodding toward your car. "We both know I wasn’t racing at full capacity last time."

You hum, considering. "So this time," you say, voice lower now, "you’re actually planning on giving me a challenge?"

Lando exhales a quiet laugh. He takes another step forward, close enough to catch the faint scent of fuel and adrenaline clinging to your clothes. "This time," he murmurs, "you’re gonna have to work for it."

A slow smirk tugs at your lips, something almost dangerous flickering in your gaze.

"You in?" he asks.

You lean in, just slightly. "Always."

The way you circle his car is almost predatory.

Lando watches, arms crossed over his chest, as you trail a slow, deliberate path around the McLaren, fingertips grazing the hood, barely-there touches that send something electric down his spine. You’re not just looking—you’re assessing.

"720S," you murmur, half to yourself. "4.0L twin-turbo V8. 710 horsepower. 0 to 60 in 2.8 seconds. Top speed of… what, 212?"

Lando huffs a quiet laugh. "Done your homework, have you?"

You glance up, and that’s when he feels it. The shift.

The streetlights catch the glint in your eyes, something unreadable, something sharp enough to cut.

"No," you say simply.

His breath catches for half a second.

It’s not arrogance. It’s not bluffing. It’s something worse.

You don’t need research. You don’t need specs. You don’t even need to think about it. You just know.

And fuck, if that isn’t the most terrifying and arousing thing he’s ever seen.

"That’s cute, though," you add, stepping back to admire the car from another angle. "Bringing something that might actually stand a chance this time."

Lando exhales, rolling his shoulders back, forcing himself to shake off whatever the hell that was. "I’d be worried about you keeping up, but we both know that won’t be a problem."

Your smirk deepens. "Guess we’ll see, won’t we?"

The crowd thickens as people catch on to what’s happening. The air shifts, charged with something electric, something inevitable.

The last time, Lando didn’t stand a chance.

This time, though—

He flexes his fingers once before sliding into the driver’s seat, pulse steady, jaw set.

This time, it’s different.

Lando's fingers tighten around the wheel, his eyes narrowing as the starter counts down. The engine purrs beneath him, responsive, eager. The McLaren hums with potential—his car. His edge.

He’s done his homework this time. He knows every curve of the track, every bump in the road, how the tires will react. This is his race to win.

Max’s voice still echoes in his head, teasing. "Don’t embarrass me, mate. Seriously."

Lando doesn’t need the reminder. He’s already way past that.

The second the starter’s arms drop, Lando slams the gas.

The engine roars to life, and for a fleeting moment, he feels invincible. This time, he’s ready. The 720S surges forward, an animal on the prowl, the weight of the car shifting smoothly under his control. He’s quicker, tighter around the turns, feeding it power where he’s sure the road will grip. The crowd’s energy pulses like a drumbeat, the sharp hum of your engine just behind him.

But then—

You’re there.

Lando doesn’t hear you. He feels you.

The growl of your car is like a whisper in the wind at first, and then—then, it’s a presence. It’s too close, too precise. You slip through the corners like water—no hesitation, no doubt. You’re there when he shifts too late, when he lets a tire drift too wide. There’s no room for error with you.

He feels it, that knot in his gut, that constant pressure at the edge of his focus. You’re pushing him, making him work. He’s sweating, feeling the limits of his car, pushing it to the edge, just like he knows you are. The finish line looms.

A fraction of a second.

His pulse thunders in his ears. He punches the gas. The McLaren leaps forward, tire squealing as he tries to find the last of its power, but it’s too little, too late.

The line.

You’ve crossed it.

Lando watches as your car passes, just a breath ahead of his. The roar of the crowd crashes over him, the cheers fading into a dull buzz as his eyes snap to the space where you’ve already slid into a slow roll. You’re casually pulling off the track like you’ve just taken a stroll through the park.

He doesn’t even get the chance to stop fully before you’re there.

You lean down, leaning in close, close enough that Lando can feel the heat of your breath brushing his skin, warm and steady. You meet his gaze, eyes glimmering with a quiet triumph, and the edge of your mouth curves up.

"Nice try, pretty boy," you whisper, voice low and playful, but there’s something in the way you say it that makes his heart skip a beat.

Then, just as fast as you appeared, you’re gone. Turning on your heel, slipping through the crowd like a shadow, the sound of your laughter hanging in the air like smoke.

Lando stays in his car for a long second, fingers tight around the wheel, pulse racing. Pretty boy.

Fuck.

The air smells like burning rubber and gasoline, thick with heat. Lando should leave—he knows that. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lingers.

Leaning against the hood of his car, he watches you go again. Three more races. Three more wins. Each one more effortless than the last. It’s surgical, the way you move, how the car bends to your will, how you make even the most aggressive drivers look like amateurs. There’s no mercy in the way you drive—just raw, controlled chaos.

He swallows. Fuck, that’s attractive.

Lando’s eyes track every move you make, and Max is none the fool. He notices the way Lando doesn’t even blink when you leave your latest challenger choking on the tailpipe of your car. He notices how, with every second that ticks by, Lando’s grip on reality slips a little further, watching you move.

"You know," Max says, voice laced with teasing, "if you stare at her like that any longer, you might actually catch flies."

Lando doesn’t respond, just shifts his weight, a half-hearted attempt to hide the fact he’s still watching you as you walk toward the starting line again. Max grins, unbothered, leaning on the hood of the car.

“Pick your jaw up off the floor, mate,” Max drawls beside him, nudging him with an elbow. “You look like you’re about to start drooling.”

Lando shoves him off the hood, ignoring the sharp bark of laughter that follows. His attention is already back on you.  The race starts, but it’s like the world slows, distorting as he watches you go, your movements fluid and effortless, the hum of the engine a symphony beneath you. His fingers itch to feel the wheel, to push something that will give him the same kind of power, the same kind of presence you carry so effortlessly.

Then, as if on cue, you finish, once again besting your opponent with ease. The cheers of the crowd are distant, drowned out by the beat of his pulse.  But when he glances back, you’re already looking at him.

And then you’re walking toward him.

It’s deliberate—the sway of your hips, the way the dim glow of streetlights glints off the sweat at your collarbone. You reach out, the condensation on the glass cold against his fingers as you press a bottle of beer into his hand.

“Enjoying the show, rich boy?” you ask, smirking as you crack your own bottle open.

Lando lifts a brow, fighting the way his stomach tightens at the sight of your lips wrapped around the mouth of the bottle as you take a slow sip. He swears you do it on purpose.

You lean in, close enough that the heat from your skin warms his. The air between you crackles with tension.

"You know," you murmur, teasing, "you really do look out of place here. Rich, pretty boy F1 driver, surrounded by all these… real drivers."

Lando’s lips twitch, amusement flickering in his chest. "Careful now," he says, his voice dropping, "that’s the second time you’ve called me pretty. I’ll think you’re flirting with me."

You cock an eyebrow, the hint of a challenge in your gaze. Slowly, you lean in, fingers brushing his chain, the cool metal cold against your warm skin as you trace it with an almost deliberate slowness.

"And if I am?" you ask, the question soft, but the implication sharp.

Lando swallows, his pulse quickening despite himself. He should have an answer to that. Something cocky, something that will let him walk away from this with at least some semblance of control. But he’s coming up empty.

So he doesn’t say anything at all.

Instead, you settle next to him, the beer bottle cold between your palms as the two of you watch the next set of races. This time, Lando isn’t just watching from the sidelines. He’s with you, standing close enough that the heat of your body feels like a magnet, pulling him in without effort. You’re right there beside him, close enough that every time someone messes up—a late brake, a slip on the curve—your eyes flick to him, and the unspoken agreement hangs in the air.

At some point, Max disappears—not that Lando notices. Not when you’re murmuring under your breath about a driver’s lazy cornering, not when you hum in agreement at his observations, a quiet acknowledgment that shouldn’t make his chest feel as tight as it does.

For a second, Lando feels like he’s on the same level as you, and the rush of that—of being in sync with you—is more thrilling than anything else in the night. His breath catches as he leans in slightly, lowering his voice. "Watch the way he enters the final turn—if he doesn’t fix that, he’s gonna lose that spot."

You don’t even glance at him, but he sees the small twitch in your fingers as you tap your bottle lightly against your lips, clearly holding back a smile. That hum again. It’s a low sound, the kind that stirs something restless in his chest. 

The game continues.

Your eyes never leave his when you take a sip from the bottle you share, your fingers brushing his as you pass it back. A drop of beer spills onto the back of your hand, and before he can even register it, you’re licking it clean, slow and deliberate.

Lando swears under his breath.

The bass from a nearby car suddenly pounds heavier, reverberating through the asphalt. You push off the hood, stretching your arms above your head, body moving like liquid as you cock a finger at him in invitation.

He should hesitate.

But he doesn’t.

His feet move before his brain catches up, like you’ve got some invisible tether wrapped around his ribs.

You dance like you drive—effortlessly. Like you know exactly where to be, how to shift, how to move. Lando tries to keep up, tries to match your rhythm, but you make it impossible. The way your body brushes against his is teasing, the heat of you just out of reach, and it’s fucking maddening.

Then, he gets too close.

His fingers graze the stripe of bare skin at your waist, a feather-light touch, but he feels the way your breath catches, the slight arch of your body pressing into him before pulling away just as quick.

You laugh, low and intoxicating.

“You wanna kiss me, pretty boy?”

Lando nods before he can think better of it.

He doesn’t trust his mouth not to say something stupid. So instead, he leans in, closing the space between you, heartbeat hammering—

Only for you to pull away.

His breath stutters.

Your lips brush the shell of his ear, voice all sugar and sin.

“Then earn it.”

Lando has always been the good guy. The golden boy. The one who follows the rules, the one who does what he’s told—strict diets, early nights, training regimens that dictate every inch of his life.

But you?

You’re the kind of chaos that should come with a warning label.

Every glance, every smirk, every casual drag of your fingers along his chain only coils that tension inside him tighter, until common sense isn’t just slipping away—it’s fucking disintegrating.

His hands find your hips, grip just shy of bruising as you move together, bodies pressing and pulling like a tide he can’t escape. The bass thumps in his chest, or maybe it’s his own heartbeat, the sound of it nearly deafening.

"I think I've earned it already," he murmurs, voice rough, head tipping down until his lips nearly brush yours.

You grin, teeth flashing, eyes dark and dangerous. "Is that so, pretty boy?"

His breath hitches, pulse spiking at the way you tug his chain just enough to make him stumble forward, make him feel the heat rolling off your skin.

"Flirting again, are we?"

You hum, tilting your head, considering. And then—

The sharp nip of teeth against his earlobe sends a full-body shudder through him.

"Did you earn it?"

Lando's never understood the phrase weak in the knees before, but suddenly, it's painfully clear. His legs feel like jelly, his stomach like free-falling through Eau Rouge in the rain. Your breath, warm against his skin, sends heat lashing through his veins, makes his fingers tighten their hold on you, makes the last thread of his restraint snap clean in half.

"Fuck earning it," he groans, hands sliding up your back, tilting your chin up as he crashes his mouth to yours.

It’s reckless. It’s unhinged. It’s like taking Eau Rouge at full throttle without knowing if the car will stick to the track—but fuck, it’s heaven.

You taste like beer and danger, and when you press even closer, molding yourself against him like you were meant to be there, he swears he could die like this, and it would be worth it.

Your laugh—low, indulgent—vibrates against his lips, and it damn near ruins him. You kiss like you drive, all confidence and sharp edges, fingers tangled in his curls like you already own him. And maybe you do.

Lando’s hands trace the dip of your spine, pulling you closer, needing you closer. The crowd, the pounding bass, the scent of burning rubber in the air—it all fades. There’s only you, the press of your body against his, the way your lips part just enough to let him taste you, to let him sink deeper into whatever madness this is.

Then, just as quickly as you gave it, you take it away.

You break the kiss, but you don’t go far. Your lips hover, teasing, a breath away. Lando’s chest heaves, fingers flexing at your waist, fighting the urge to pull you back in. You grin against his skin, breath ghosting over the corner of his mouth as you murmur, “Not bad, pretty boy.”

Lando swears under his breath. His pulse is a wild thing in his throat, his grip tightening. “Not bad?” His voice comes out rougher than he expects, something raw under the teasing edge.

You tip your head, eyes flicking over his face, searching for something—maybe an opening, maybe just amusement. Whatever it is, you must find it, because your grin turns lazy, all feline satisfaction as you drag a single finger down his chest.

“Could use some work,” you say. “But I suppose you’ve got potential.”

Lando exhales sharply, half a laugh, half something that aches. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, shaking his head.

You smirk, stepping back just enough to give him air but not enough to let him breathe easy. “Come find me when you think you can do better.”

And just like that, you’re gone, disappearing into the crowd, hips swaying, leaving him standing there, heart hammering, tasting the ghost of you on his lips.

Max reappears at his side, looking far too smug for Lando’s liking. “So,” he drawls, “we’re coming back again next time, huh?”

Lando runs a hand through his curls, still reeling, still burning.

“…Yeah.”

[slattlicker]

absolutely need jschlatt with a gf who loves taking pictures. i'm talking digi cam and phone pictures just of anything and everything but especially her big handsome boyfriend

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * flash me, baby ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: you’re obsessed with taking pictures of your boyfriend. he pretends to be annoyed. he’s not. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: thank you to the lovely anon who requested this ♡ because of you, i now present this soft and slightly spicy scrapbook of domestic pda and boyfriend worship.

warning: digital love letters via camera. pics of big boyfriend ahead.

enjoy! ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡)

✧✧✧

✧✧✧

you were somewhere in osaka. or maybe yokohama. one of the quieter shopping strips with too many stalls and not enough sidewalk. your camera kept bouncing against your ribs with every step, but you didn’t mind. you were too busy watching him weave through the tables like he knew exactly what he was looking for.

he didn’t.

he stopped in front of a folding table covered in chopstick holders—tiny ceramic animals in little baskets.

he picked one up immediately. a beige cat hugging a pair of dark chopsticks like it was hanging on for dear life.

"look at this guy," he said. "this is you when you think i’m gonna steal your fries."

"that’s you when you realize i did."

he turned toward you, hand still holding the cat up like an offering. the look on his face was smug—half-challenge, half-invite. the kind of look that always made your hands itch for the shutter button.

"don’t," he said, seeing your fingers twitch toward the lens.

"say cheese."

you lifted the camera and caught him mid-eye roll. caught the curve of his mouth, the sun on his face, the slight shift in his expression when he saw you smile behind the viewfinder.

click.

he sighed, dropped the cat gently on the table, and muttered, "you're gonna owe me for that one."

"you buying it for me?"

"are you buying it for me? that's the real question."

you didn’t say anything. just grinned, walked up to him, and brushed past him, looking among the other vendors' goods with a shake of your head.

later, you found it on your desk, along with a bowl of dressed up ramen noodles, with a bowl covered in similar beige-colored bears.

✧✧✧

✧✧✧

you’d promised yourselves you were just going in for drinks.

it was almost midnight. you were both tired, a little sweaty from the walk, and your feet had started to ache in that way that made you pretend they didn’t. but the convenience store was glowing like a little plastic oasis—too bright, too cold, absolutely irresistible.

he made a beeline for the hot food section like he’d been thinking about it all day.

"they’ve got... meat tubes?" he said, pressing his hands to the glass like a child. "wait. is that... a pizza bun?"

"you’re not eating that," you said, pulling him gently by the sleeve.

"you don’t control me."

you did, but he still grabbed one of those vacuum-sealed sandwiches with the crusts cut off like it was a gourmet dinner. he also picked up something labeled “egg salad but more mysterious” (your words), two types of onigiri neither of you could confidently identify, and a soft drink that, according to Google Translate, said “please shake gently before love.”

you bought it anyway.

you sat outside on a low concrete step next to the trash bins—him with the sandwich, you with your camera balanced on your knees. the old one. the cheap little digi cam you dug out of your parents’ closet. it made everything look warm and grainy, like a memory before it even happened.

he unwrapped the sandwich like it was a relic.

"jesus christ," he mumbled, full-mouthed. "this is terrible."

"i told you," you laughed. "let me take a picture."

he turned toward you, mouth open, still mid-chew, eyes half-lidded in betrayal.

"are you serious?"

"deadly."

click.

he groaned through a mouthful of bread.

"you’re gonna show people that, aren’t you."

"maybe."

"it’s food crime. i look like i’m eating drywall."

you flopped onto the bed with a rice ball in one hand and your phone in the other. "you chose that sandwich. you chose this life."

"i chose you too," he groaned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, still chewing.

you leaned your head against his shoulder, balancing your camera on your thigh, and quietly enjoyed one of the onigiri you still couldn't identify.

✧✧✧

✧✧✧

you should’ve known he was up to something.

you were only gone for five minutes—just went to wash your face, swap your jeans for sweats, nothing serious. but when you came back into the hotel room, there he was:

on the bed. fully clothed.

propped up like it was a fucking modeling shoot.

"what," he said, like he hadn’t clearly posed himself. "you’re looking at me weird."

you blinked. he had one of those ridiculous round pillows pressed to his chest, hands spread over it like he was about to pitch it at your head—or dare you to come wrestle it from him.

"you’re about to start shit," you said.

he smirked. "depends. you bringing that camera over or not?"

you did. obviously.

he watched you cross the room like he was bored. like he wasn’t arching his back just a little. like he didn’t know his shirt had ridden up slightly, waistband showing, belt askew. his shoes were still on. his eyes followed you the entire time.

you raised the camera.

click.

he grinned at you, lazy and mean and gorgeous.

"hope you’re printing that one for your little shrine."

"it’s going in my folder," you said, checking the screen.

"yeah? label it 'daddy issues' while you’re at it."

you threw another pillow at his head. he caught it one-handed. didn’t break eye contact.

you didn’t take any more pictures after that.

your hands were busy.

✧✧✧

✧✧✧

you found it by accident.

you weren’t snooping—you were just digging through his suitcase looking for your hoodie. he was still in the shower, humming something that sounded suspiciously like the Wii theme. but the zipper was half-undone, and something inside caught your eye.

you thought it was one of your notebooks. but when you tugged it out—spiral-bound, soft cover, a little bent at the edges—it wasn’t yours at all.

you opened it to reveal...

photos.

not just of him—though there were plenty of those, ones you’d taken with your digi cam and others pulled from your phone. there were little receipts from your outings, handwritten notes scribbled in by him.

but the further you flipped, the more things changed.

your photos stopped.

his photos started.

they were different—grainier, less composed. less frequent. like he was trying to take the picture, but then got caught up in the moment of it all to care about framing or

one of you cooking in his kitchen, back turned. one of you at the window in your hoodie, lit up by the vending machine glow. a blurry one of you asleep with your mouth open and a candy wrapper stuck to your cheek.

"you weren’t supposed to find that yet."

his voice came from the doorway. towel slung low around his neck, hair damp, face unreadable. you hadn’t even heard the water shut off.

you looked up, startled. "you took pictures of me."

"yeah," he said, slow. "didn’t think you’d mind."

you swallowed. turned another page.

the hotel bed again, but this time you were in it. sprawled on your stomach, still in your clothes from the day before, one hand buried under your cheek. the light was low—soft, orange, early morning. you could tell he’d taken it while you were still asleep.

underneath, scribbled in his handwriting:

my sleepy girl...pretty even with drool <3

you felt your chest tighten.

“there aren’t as many of me,” you said, quieter now.

he stepped closer. “you move too fast.”

you turned to look at him.

he was closer than before, towel slung over the back of a chair now, shirt damp where it clung to his collarbone. but his face—open, warm, that rare brand of sincere—was what made your pulse skip.

“you’re always the one behind the camera,” he said. “thought maybe i could be the one to memorialize us...you, for once.”

"...memorialize?"

"uh...commemorate. remember. preserve..." he glanced away, then back at you, eyes flicking down to the open album in your lap. “but hey...you’re always catching me when i’m not looking. you ever notice that?” he said. “eating something gross, in a stupid pose...”

“...you make it easy.”

"you make life easy."

your breath caught.

that one hit different—unexpected in how simple it was. how true it sounded coming from him.

he shifted forward, just slightly, like it pulled at him to say it. like he couldn’t not.

“seriously,” he said, voice low. “you make it easy to be... seen. i know i act like i hate the camera, but i don’t. not when it’s you.”

you stared at him, the photo album forgotten in your lap. his hair was still damp. his shirt clung to his chest. and that look—soft, wrecked, like he meant every word—made you ache a little.

“you want more pictures of me?” you asked, just to tease.

“i want all of you,” he said. then, after a beat: “in every light. every season. every angle. even the ones you hate.”

you smiled. small, stunned. maybe a little shy.

“...you’re such a sap.”

"good thing maple is my favorite flavor." his grin cracked wide at that—boyish, stupid, all teeth.

“gross,” you said, nudging your foot against his.

“romantic,” he corrected, stepping in close enough that your knees brushed.

you didn’t back up. didn’t look away. just let him lean down until his forehead bumped yours, until the air between you got syrupy with something warm and dumb and dangerous.

“go get the camera,” you said, breath barely above a whisper.

his hands slid to your waist.

"i don't think we'll need the camera for this next part, babe." he leaned in, smile brushing against your jaw.

"oh yeah?" you breathed, tilting your head in an attempt to chase his smile.

"some things are better in motion."

[dolcecherub]

Don’t Cha ༊*·˚

❥ pairing: oscar piastri x female reader

❥ tags: op81, drunk!reader a little, pining and heartbreak, happy ending, angst, some other stuff lol

❥ yap: had a burst of energy and wrote this in a few hours, based on this lovely request here!! hope it’s as good as you hoped anon, and I hope y’all enjoy <3

❥ word count: 2.5k

The bar is dimly lit, the lights low and warm, filtering through cheap string bulbs, fluorescent neon lights and half-sipped cocktails. Bodies moulding against each other to the bass you felt thrumming through your chest.

It’s the kind of place that you go to pretend, escape if you will.

It had been a long weekend, the Miami Grand Prix having been exciting yet tiring for you and the rest of the McLaren team. A few people from engineering and the PR team decided it was worth the celebration, and who were you to decline?

And so you found yourself tucked into a little, off-the-curb bar in Miami, swaying your hips to the sound of a strong bass and some bad karaoke. Your cheeks flushed with heat, and the alcohol coursing through you. A velvet dress clung to your body, makeup light to avoid sweating it off in the Miami heat, and a cute pair of black heels. You told yourself you dressed up simply for your own pleasure. Your mind catches the lie as he walks in. 

You pretend not to notice him.

You’re far enough away to pretend you don’t see them.

Pretend not to acknowledge the way your chest tightens seeing his arm around her. Your hand grips your glass tightly as his eyes catch yours, dark and curious.

You feel your body flush at his gaze. You didn’t expect him to show up, but you suppose Lando told him about the group’s plans. You tell yourself it’s always about the group.

You see Lando walk up to him, hand on his back, greeting him as they chat. Taking a final sip of your drink, you place it on the bar counter before rejoining some of the girls, pushing Oscar away from the forefront of your mind, unsuccessfully.

Your eyes can’t help but wander back to him as you dance, his arm around her shoulder bringing her closer as he places a kiss on the crown of her head, your heart clenching.

She’s always there, always. The girlfriend he always brings to race weekend, who doesn’t know tyre strategy or how he gets quiet and fidgety before qualifying. The one who barely smiles for him and rather only for the cameras.

It’s torture watching them.

It’s as if he knows you’re watching him, maybe he does, perhaps that’s why he refuses to look at you now.

You pretend it doesn’t hurt.

You feel a hand grab your arm, pulling you closer to the karaoke area, one of the girls, Ella, dragging you away.

“Come on,” your friend hisses, half-drunk and fearless, holding the karaoke list in one hand like it’s a challenge. “You have to sing,” she pleads, “One song, you know, the song.” She yells over the noise of the club.

Your eyes flick back to Oscar. You shake your head, “Not tonight.” She follows your eyes, pinpointing the exact shift in your mood, and she rolls her eyes.

“Oh, don’t be boring, just do the song.” She drags, pushing you forward as she gets up to talk to the DJ manning the karaoke station. “The Pussycat Dolls one,” she says, eyes sparkling with malice. “You know, the one that makes men cry and women rage.”

Your smile is bitter, “Subtle.” You laugh sarcastically.

“And that’s what makes it perfect!” Ella giggles.

You glance back at Oscar. He’s nursing a drink as his girl chats to another, skillfully ignoring him aside from the physical contact.

Something snaps in you. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the sweet ache in your chest that never goes away when you’re near him. Maybe it’s the fact that he looks miserable, that even with her beside him, he looks utterly alone. Maybe it’s the sheer, desperate desire to make him feel something, anything directed at you.

You scrawl down your name on the paper, the pen scratching aggressively against the cheap paper as Ella cheers triumphantly.

“You’re evil,” You mutter lovingly, a subtle smile on your face.

“I try my best,” she grins. “Now make him suffer.”

When the host calls your name, you slide onto the stage like a secret. Your velvet dress clings to your body viciously, leaving nothing to the imagination as a few boys holler at you.

The music starts before you’re fully ready, but then again, you’ve been ready for months. The opening beats slink through the bar like smoke. It’s sultry and confident, everything you claim to feel on the outside, a thin veneer over the raw, exposed nerve beneath.

A few heads turn, some hollering at the song choice, and others focusing on you. His head turns, eyes locking with yours as you sing through the first verse, body swaying to the beat, hands roaming your body as you put on a show.

Oscar freezes, utterly and completely dumbfounded. The blankness in his eyes is replaced by a sudden, intense focus that pins you to the spot.

♪I know you like me (I know you like me)♪

♪I know you do (I know you do)♪

♪That’s why whenever I come around, she’s all over you♪

You bite out the lyrics, eyes still stuck on him as he licks his lips. You sing it like the truth, audience blurring around him, his arm loosening from around her shoulder.

♪And I know you want it (I know you want it)♪

♪It’s easy to see (It’s easy to see)♪

♪And in the back of your mind, I know you should be fuckin’ with me♪

The lyrics purr through the speakers, thick with implication, his jaw ticking. The words hanging in the air, undeniable, a public accusation.

♪Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me♪

♪Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was a freak like?

You sing it with purpose, a fake smile plastered on your face as you perform, only for him. Every word is deliberate, he looks like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

♪Don’t cha? Don’t cha, baby♪

♪Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was raw like me?♪

♪Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was fun like me?♪

You hear Ella sing alongside you, eyes still locked on Oscar. His arm drops from her shoulder, his girlfriend finally noticing, nudging him lightly.

♪Fight the feeling (fight the feeling)♪

♪Leave it alone (Leave it alone)♪

♪‘Cause if it ain’t love, It just ain’t enough to leave a happy home (uh-uh, uh-uh)♪

You watch her lean in to say something to him, lips close to his ears, trying to grasp his attention. He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t hear her. Because you’re still singing, and he’s watching. His mind aches to look away, and somehow he can’t, his gaze locked on yours with a mixture of shock, recognition, and something raw and painful.

♪Let’s keep it friendly (Let’s keep it friendly)♪

♪You have to play fair (you have to play fair, yeah)♪

♪See I don’t care but I know she ain’t gonna wanna share (Ah, ah-ah)♪

The words are claws, real and cruel. Only because they’re true. It’s not just a song anymore.

It’s a declaration.

You see the tension in his jaw as she looks at him, confused, then irritated. You keep going, disregarding her actions as you sway, a few hollers coming from the dance floor.

♪…I’d probably be just as crazy about you if you were my own man♪

The lyric bites with truth, your voice dipping lower as you finish off the last chorus.

Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me? (Oh)

Don't cha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me? (Like me)

Don't cha? Don't cha, baby? Don't cha?

Don't cha wish your girlfriend was raw like me? (Raw)

Don't cha wish your girlfriend was fun like me? (Big fun)

Don't cha? (Ah-ah-ah), don't cha?

The final lyric lingers like a question in the air between you.

By the time you finish, the bar erupts. Whistles and applause, you see Ella cheering you and Lando cupping his mouth as he yells out encouragingly. Some guy at the front was shouting something, drunk and appreciative. You finish with a defiant smile, the mic stand your only support as your heart hammers a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

You slink off the small stage, heart pounding. But your eyes are still on him, and his are burning. With what, you don’t know. Anger? Guilt? Desire? Maybe all of it. You yell to Ella that you’re stepping out for air.

You’re outside before he can reach you.

The air bites at your skin, a slight breeze nipping at you, a sharp contrast to the smoky warmth of the club, your pulse still racing from the performance. You needed space, just a breather alone, you think, running a haphazard hand through your hair.

You barely get two minutes of it before you hear footsteps; you know they’re his.

Oscar finds you, your head whipping around to see him walking towards you, quick and purposeful. He stops a few feet away, hand tousling his hair before he crosses them.

“That was a hell of a choice,” he says, voice low and rough. It’s not an accusation, but it sure as hell isn’t praise either.

You turn completely towards him, the biting air making your eyes water slightly. “It’s just a song, didn’t think you’d really notice.” You snap.

He scoffs, bitter as he rolls his eyes, a sour smirk crossing his face. “Hard not to, you were singing it at me.”

“Maybe I was,” you say aggressively. “Maybe I’m tired of pretending like I understand what’s happening.” You admit, arms wrapping around yourself subconsciously.

He runs a hand through his hair, letting out a sigh. “What is happening, then?”

You stare at him, your chest aching to get closer. His eyes are locked onto yours, glassy and dark, his expression grim. “You tell me, Oscar. You’re the one who calls me when you’re upset or you’ve crashed. The one who finds me in a crowd, like I’m the only place you recognize. The one who looks at me like you’re drowning and I’m your last breath of air. And yet you’re still with her.” You spit, emotions wracking you as you admit your confusion,

He flinches. It’s subtle, but you notice. You always notice.

“I didn’t mean to drag you into this,” he says, breath catching. You shake your head at his misunderstanding.

“You didn’t drag me into anything, I ran to you. Every single time, I picked up when you called, let you talk to me like she wasn’t right there. I ran straight into it because it was you. It’s always been you.” You confess, voice breaking near the end as you look away.

Silence.

The air between you is thick, suffocating with unspoken words. You continue, “But you’re not mine to want, are you?” It’s a statement, not a question.

He grabs your wrist, pulling your arms away from your body as he steps closer. His fingers are warm against your skin, your heart pounding in your chest as warmth radiates off of him in the breeze.

“She doesn’t get it,” he says hoarsely. His voice is low and strained. “She never did,” He clarifies, his grip tightening. “She doesn’t understand. Racing. You. Me-”

“Don’t,” you whisper, interrupting him, heart cracking at his words. The words are a plea. “Don’t say it unless you’re going to do something about it.” Your chest rises and falls fast as you lightly gasp for air.

A beat. Then another. “Why are you still with her?” You ask quietly, as if the question will break him. He swallows, a shift in his eyes, the way something finally breaks.

“I’m not, I ended it,” He says quickly, voice shaking. The words are almost lost in the breeze, but you hear them perfectly. “Just now, after your song. She stormed out.” He spoke quietly.

Your breath catches. You stare at him, stunned. “You what?” You asked breathlessly, needing the confirmation again.

“I should’ve done it months ago,” He confesses, his voice stronger now, relief washing over him. “But I kept lying to myself. Telling myself it was easier. That I wasn’t already in love with someone else.”

Your heart trips, a frantic drum in your chest as his words settle in. “Say it again,” You plead, heart aching to hear the words, the confirmation that this isn’t just some sick joke.

He steps closer confidently, the streetlights casting a shadow across his face, emphasizing his features in a way that makes your head spin. “I’m in love with you.” He says, clear as day, as if no wind were strong enough to carry those words away from you.

“Every time I see you, I try not to. I try to pretend like you’re not all I think about. Every time she said something that didn’t fit, I thought about what you might say. All I wanted was you.” He admitted, his eyes running over your face, trying to understand you without words.

Your chest aches with how much you’ve wanted this, how long you’ve imagined those words.

Still, of course, you’d make him earn it.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” You whisper, moving slightly closer to him, craving to be close.

“Because I’m an idiot,” He chuckles dryly, “I didn’t know what I was doing, I didn’t know how to. I know I was unfair, and I-I’m not asking you to forgive me right away, I just need you to know. I need you to believe that it’s always been you.” His voice filled with urgency.

A second passes, and everything is still. No music, no crowd, no noise, just the two of you and everything that was never said.

Then you move, surging forward and grabbing the collar of his shirt with both hands as you pull him down, lips crashing into his. It’s messy and careless, months of restraint snapping in half.

He kisses you feverishly, like he’s making up for lost time. His kiss is desperate and unsteady, lips and breath, tongue sliding over your bottom lip as his hands find their way to your waist. He holds you tightly as if you’ll disappear if he doesn’t. You stand up a little on your toes, trying to get more of him as he pulls you closer.

He nips your bottom lip, making you gasp at the teasing, allowing his tongue to slip in and brush against your own, tangling messily as you whine. You break apart only when the air runs out, foreheads pressed together, your breaths tangled.

His lips are glossy, a string of saliva momentarily connecting your lips before it breaks. His cheeks are flushed, eyes dark and focused on you. You’re certain you look similar.

“I’ve been waiting to hear you say that, been waiting for you to realize that I was always right here. I love you.” You say breathlessly, the tiniest smile breaking through the emotions. His shoulders sag with relief, eyes brightening at your smile, as if it lifted any weight left on his shoulders.

“I’m not saying it just once,” he murmurs, closing his eyes. “I’ll say it every fucking day if you let me.” He promises, placing a soft kiss on your lips. 

And in that moment, tangled up with Oscar in your own little world stripped down to nothing but the truth, you think that maybe, just maybe, you will.

*·˚

[mattslilies]

Kiss Cam - M.S.

"should we?" ... "why not?" or, the one where bsf!matt and bsf!reader end up on the game's kiss cam... and it sparks something new warnings: none!! unless u count kissing i guess! word count: 1.1k

you and matt had been friends since childhood, and you had always been incredibly close. you were in the same schools, lived in the same neighborhoods, and for a while, played the same sports.

you two had always been the athletic ones out of your sets of siblings, and that had only strengthened your friendship, through extra time spent together, and healthy competition.

eventually you had aged out of high school sports, but with both of you wanting to stay close to home, you had, of course, ended up at the same in-state college. you often carpooled home, but more importantly, you were each other's game buddies.

it didn't matter what was playing, you went to almost every one that you could. as long as you both were free, you would be found somewhere in the stadium, attending other in-state collegiate games as well.

this weekend was no different. you and matt were attending a basketball game for one of the bigger colleges near you, the tickets having been fairly cheap at the last minute. living so close to campus, you both had your cars, and decided to take a little trip and go together.

half a bucket and two sodas down, it was finally halftime. neither of you really cared who was winning, you just enjoyed watching the sport. you were laughing at all of the people swarming in and out of the stadium, knowing that the halftime concession lines were absolutely insane right now.

"aren't you so glad that we got our food during the first half?"

matt nodded, a few kernels of popcorn slipping from his hand as he put some in his mouth.

"yeah, i would hate to be stuck in those lines right now. those poor workers."

you laughed, agreeing, and went back to scrolling on your phone, looking up occasionally to see how long was left on the twenty minute break. it was at that point that you noticed the silly halftime games starting on the screen. you nudged matt, grabbing his attention.

"look, they're doing the cup shuffle with the ball under it."

matt shook his head, exasperated.

"i always lose these, i can never keep track of where it ends up."

"you got it this time!"

he did not, in fact, have it that time, but you got it correct, as usual. neither of you participated in the dancing challenges, but you thoroughly enjoyed watching the camera pan around to the people who were. it went through a few advertisements before returning, the infamous "Kiss Cam" logo taking over the screen.

both of you watched as it panned to a couple in the stands, before moving to two strangers, and giggled at the looks of awkwardness on their faces, and their shaking heads "no."

the giggle was quickly wiped off of both of your faces as the camera filled with a familiar scene. yourselves. shock was clearly displayed across matt' face, and you could only imagine that your face mirrored the same expression, as you looked over at him.

the stadium was cheering, and you were about to start shaking your head "no" like the two people before you, when matt spoke.

"why don't we do it?"

you were floored, but instead of denial, a question slipped out of your lips.

"should we?"

"why not?"

he had a point, you guessed. matt was incredibly attractive, and your friendship was strong enough to survive a kiss, right?

before you knew it, your lips were on his, his hand on the side of your face. screaming was heard from all around you as the camera captured the entire thing. he didn't hold the kiss for too long, pulling away to breathe, but his face was covered in a red flush when he did.

you both just stared at each other for a few seconds, before he broke the tension.

"you're a really good kisser."

you stumbled over your words, your brain seeming to short circuit, but eventually getting a sentence out.

"thanks, you are too."

he let out a short laugh, turning back to his phone, an easy smile on his face, as if he hadn't just kissed you like he'd been dying to do it forever. you tried to shake off the awkwardness and nerves as best you could, attempting to enjoy the rest of the game.

you'd kissed your friends before, why was this so different?

matt didn't seem bothered, so you forced yourself to not be bothered either. as the game went on, the tension melted away completely, and by the time you were in the last few minutes of it, you and matt were laughing like you had never quit.

matt had driven you there, your car having been low on gas that day, so you walked back to his car. getting in your usual spot as passenger, you quickly connected your phone to the aux cord, pulling up your shared playlist.

you had similar music tastes, and had a long concert on the way home from the game. you had almost forgotten about the events of the night, until you pulled back into the closest parking garage to your apartment building.

matt always walked with you to your apartment, as your room was just down the hall from his. that didn't change, but what did was his normal goodbye. he looked like he was going to say something, but then hesitated before speaking.

"i had a great time tonight."

you smiled, agreeing.

"so did i. we always have fun, don't we?"

there was still hesitation in his features, and the questioning look on your face prompted him to speak his mind.

"we do, yeah. tonight was better, though."

your mouth opened, then closed, processing what he meant.

"the kiss?"

he looked down, his hands in his jacket pockets.

"yeah. i really enjoyed that."

you forced yourself to push down the anxiousness inside your body, knowing that this was your opportunity to explore this possibility. you and matt had been close forever, and you couldn't deny that he was an absolute dream. that kiss had completely rocked your world, changing your perspective, and you would kill to experience his lips on yours another time.

so, with a deep breath, and a surge of confidence, you smiled at him, before unlocking your door and pushing it open.

"wanna do it again?"

an answering smile spread across his face as you grabbed his hand and pulled him into your apartment. his hand easily found your waist, your lips reconnecting before the snick! of the door closing was even heard in the hallway.

a/n: i was fighting for my life trying to finish this, sorry its so short, i wrote this from a hotel bed on vacay

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

taglist <3

@courta13 @quinnynation @bowsandsturniolos @mqroonsturn @emely9274 @lizzyzzn @mattsbows @mattybsgroupie @sophand4n4 @leah-sturniolo @wr1tingsonthewall @sturns-mermaid @immaqulate @sweetshuga @user1smvtysturniolo @adoremattsturns @55sturn @chrisissobabygirl @backwardshatnick @jadest0ne @lezleeferguson-120 @sheluvsthesturniolos @faith5drpepper @thecrawlys @evansturn @eeyoresturnz @h3arts4harry

if you would like to be added to my taglist, click here!

[jellychee]

”i don’t wanna get undressed for a new person all over again.”

╰┈➤ rin itoshi x reader ╰┈➤ wc: 581

🎧: undressed - sombr

The restaurant is dim, tucked away between shuttered storefronts and rain-slicked streets. You wouldn’t have come here if you had anywhere else to be. If the buses were running, if your roommate answered her phone, if tonight didn’t feel like too much all at once.

You drop into a seat by the window, your soaked jacket clinging to your back, and order something cheap and hot. It’s nearly empty inside, just you and the low hum of the old TV bolted to the wall. You barely notice the match playing at first. But then his name cuts through the static in your brain like a sharp inhale.

Rin Itoshi.

Your eyes flick up.

There he is, on the screen. Hair damp with sweat, jaw clenched, eyes locked forward like he’s running toward something only he can see. The camera catches his face for a moment, those same eyes that used to look at you like they couldn’t decide whether to stay or run.

Your stomach knots. You shouldn’t be surprised. He’s always been running.

The food arrives, but you don’t touch it. You just sit there, watching the boy you used to love tear across a field like the world’s trying to catch him. And maybe it is. Maybe that’s why he never stayed.

You remember how quiet he was when you first met. Not cold. Not mean. Just guarded, like he didn’t want anyone too close. But you were persistent, showed up when he didn’t ask, smiled when he barely looked your way, peeled him back layer by layer.

He let you in.

And for a while, that meant something.

You think about the nights he’d sneak into your dorm, shoulders tense like he didn’t know how to be wanted. The way he’d lie next to you, eyes closed, but never quite asleep. Like even in the safest places, his mind was still at war with something.

You think about how he looked at you when you touched him. Not lust, not affection, but fear. Like being seen made him raw.

But you didn’t stop.

You kissed his bruises. You learned how to read his silences. You told yourself he just needed time. That you could love him into something whole.

He let you undress him, physically, emotionally, and you thought that meant he trusted you. That he loved you, even if he never said it out loud.

After he left, you tried to move on. You really did.

There were other people. Other hands. Other mouths. Other beds.

But none of them looked at you the way Rin did. None of them made you feel like every glance was a challenge, like every touch meant something more than just a night of pleasure.

None of them let you undress them the way he did. Not just skin, but soul.

And you never let them undress you, either. Not really.

You still loved Rin, even when it hurt. Even when he disappeared into a world too big for you to follow.

Now, as he scores a goal and barely reacts, as his teammates rush to him and he doesn’t even smile, you feel that familiar ache press into your chest.

You still love him. Maybe you always will.

But watching him now, you finally understand.

He never knew how to be yours.

And maybe he never wanted to be.

The rain outside keeps falling.

Inside, you finish your meal in silence.

And you don’t look back at the screen again.

a/n: I LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE SOMBR SO MUCH I NEED TO SEE HIM LIVE RN OR ILL COMBUST SOMEBODY BUY ME A CONCERT TICKET AND MY LIFE IS YOURS

[ew-selfish-art]

Dp x Dc AU: Not exactly a meet cute between Jazz and Jason.

Jason's had a long night of beating the shit out of a gang that dared to sell in his territory, the last thing he needs is the Bats on his tail. He can always sense them when he leaves Crime Alley- they watch for him. Waiting for him to fail. It pisses him off.

So Jason shakes his tail, he's pretty sure it's the demon brat, parks his bike, removes his helm and heads into the loudest bar he can find, ditching his mask along the way. There are no camera's and there was no one watching, so Jason just looks like any other angry frat guy at the bar. Well, he supposes that the Leather jacket might be a stand out.

He grabs a drink, and looks at the time. Jason just needs to wait out the chance that a baby bird saw his bike and hope that curfew kicks in before this has to be a 'conversation'. Besides, the music is good and despite all the people, the crowd is pretty behaved.

"Hi! I'm so glad you're here!" A woman approaches, he can tell she's had a few drinks from her walk but her eyes scream sobriety and fear. She's tall in her flats, her hair looks disheveled (from dancing maybe) and her outfit screams 'this is the one fun black top I own'. She's beautiful and her approaching him might've been a wet teenage dream if his suspicions weren't immediately raised.

"I certainly am here." Jason replies, a smirk set into his features easily and as he straightens out his back he can see the three men watching the back of her head like predators. They're wearing super lame white hoodies and coats, like they're organized somehow.

"That's why you're my hero! Always ready to grab me at a moment's notice! Any chance you'll be good to leave after you finish that drink?" Her eyes are pleading but she keeps the same happy smile and joyful tone the whole time.

"Nah, no worries about the drink. It was cheap and I was just getting bored with it anyway. " Jason explains, setting his glass down on the counter. He's mentally photographed the three creeps, "Did any of your friends also need a ride home?"

"Nope! They all got in an uber... without me. So they'll be just fine!" She explains and there is an anger in her eyes that clearly meant she was telling the truth. Her hands are straightening out his jacket collar, making it look like they're more comfortable with each other than just strangers. She lays her hands flat on his chest once her task is completed and Jason feels his throat go dry.

"I'm always telling you to find better friends. Now c'mon, I parked out back." he wraps an arm around her waist, though its not tight, and peers over his shoulder. These guys weren't going to leave without a fight it seems, Dumb, Dumbie and Dumber are all watching her with evil in their eyes.

The two of them walk out and before she can even say thank you, the door swings back open and she's sucker punched one of the assholes and Jason's pulled his gun out for the other two.

"You gents are gunna go home, or you're gonna end up in the dirt. Pick." Jason growls. Not taking him seriously at first, he shoots one dudes foot and the last one standing looks like he might pass out. He picks up his fallen comrades and backs away into the bar.

"For ancients sake those dudes were trying to traffic the hell out of me." She sighs, and Jason holsters his gun.

"Yeah no shit. You okay?" Jason inquires.

"I will be. I'm Jazz, thanks for saving me Hood."

"I'm no-"

"You're literally leaning comfortably on Red Hoods motorcycle that still has his helmet perched on it. No one would do that unless they were suicidal or him." She challenges, but then a look changes in her eyes and she almost looks nervous "But still, do you uhm, wanna get out of here?"

He blinks. She was trying to pick him up? AFTER finding out he was a crime lord??

The answer is that yes, Hell Yes, Jason does want to get out of here. None of the Bats will bother him while he has a civilian, not at the diner he takes her too and certainly not while he's taking her back to one of his safe houses.

Jason had expected one of his siblings to show up in the morning and cause a ruckus. He hadn't planned for a dude to let himself into his kitchen screaming about government agencies tracking Jazz down that wasn't related. Turns out it's her brother and he's floating and no he's not going to explain why he's there or how he found them.

Jazz has a lot to explain to the both of them and it starts with "So I can admit that I have a thing for motorcycle guys-"

[coco-loco-nut]

Barnstormer

pairing: charles x reader

summary: charles can’t help but to fall for your small town charm

a/n: so @vitalverstappen and I have been grinding on this prompt for a while (i sent the jumble of ideas to V.V. after this being in my drafts for a few months). read the sister story linked at the end!

masterlist requests open

——————————

Once again, you are in your home country to race, only this time it’s in Austin. You spent the break on your family’s ranch back in Montana, riding your horse and reconnecting with nature. You always joked that you are the racing version of Hannah Montana.

“Y/n, it must be nice to be back home. You certainly look the part,” Laura starts your interview with F1TV.

“Ah, well Austin is much different than Montana. Two different types of cowboy, I’d say,” you are dressed like you just came from the stable. Boots, jeans, hoodie, hair in a braid, and your hat. A quick look says you aren’t a driver.

“How so?”

“Well, they like the spice down here much more, and I’d say that we are much more equipped to deal with snow. One thing I do know is that we both love a good rodeo,” you feel your hat be removed from you head as you speak. Turning to your left, you see Charles put it on his head.

“Yee haw, little lady,” Charles does what might be the worst Texas accent you’ve ever heard.

“Charles Leclerc, you did not just grab my cap by the brim. I don’t think you know what you just did,” you take your hat back, by grabbing the crown - you aren’t an animal, holding it at your side as to not make fans think anything of it.

“Well, I’ll let you sort that out,” Laura turns to the camera. “Stay tuned for an exclusive interview with Y/n and Liam Lawson as we discuss being rookies, Lightning McQueen, and more,” Laura says, letting the camera cut away.

“Sorry we couldn’t get more of an interview, I gotta explain cowboy culture to Charles,” you cringe, pulling the Ferrari boys away. Charles listens as you ramble about how it’s rude to touch a hat, then straw versus felt and why despite it being past labor day you are wearing straw, and finally that his act of taking your hat could be seen as a sign of flirting. You reach the Alpine home and quickly dart inside.

“Mate, I don’t think she got it,” Carlos shakes his head as Charles groans.

“I’ve been trying all season, she just isn’t getting it,” Charles whines, sure you will never pick up on his flirting.

That night you take the boys to a bar just outside Austin that some friends back home recommended, they said it was where a lot of rodeo cowboys go. It does not disappoint, the neon offsetting the wood with Tim McGraw crooning on the speakers. You practically run to the bar to order your favorite cheap beer.

“Some of my friends said this is the best bar in town,” you yell over the music.

“Logan? He was your childhood best friend right?” Franco says, hoping that he got it right.

“Logan? No, although he is my friend. You really don’t know how far Montana is from here and Miami, huh,” you swig your beer before narrowing your eyes at the Argentinian. “Are you even old enough to be here? How did you get in?”

“Franco is 21, barely, but he is,” Alex says, a little put off by the place. Most of them did try to fit in, but everyone in the bar can tell they are tourists based off them wearing felt hats when it’s blistering hot outside.

“Oh, they have a bull,” your eyes light up as you quickly make your way to the mechanical animal. You don’t care if it’s embarrassing for you or the guys, you want to see them fall off.

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Max asks, wary of the old machine.

“Sure, that’s what makes it fun. Why don’t you go first?” Your eyes challenge Max as a small crowd watches on, interested at the goings of your group.

“I, uh,” it doesn’t take you more than a second to realize that the boys are scared. You square your shoulders, finishing off your beer.

“Alright, but you’re missing out, it’s mighty fun,” you shrug, taking your hat off and setting it upside down on a table beside the operator. You hand him cash as you step onto the worn blue mats, eyeing up your worn, red competitor.

“Don’t you think this is a bad idea? I don’t want to explain to the team how you got hurt,” Pierre’s panic is evident even as the guys pull out their phones to film.

“Yeah no, I learned from the best. My hometown best friend is a champion rider,” you expertly mount the mechanical bull, unphased as it starts bucking. You hang on much longer than the boys would’ve, and when you feel yourself be about to get thrown off, you dismount with a flourish.

The guys are speechless beyond cheering for you as you put your hat on, heading back to the bar for another beer. Men tip their caps to you and you blush, a little overwhelmed by the attention.

Charles knows enough to know that you put on a show and have the interest of even more guys now. It doesn’t help that your boots and shorts show off your legs just right, and the tee you chose fits perfectly. Your hat adds a layer of mystery as it helps hide your eyes, but not your beautifully curled hair.

You don’t do much the rest of the night other than drink the guys into a hole, get violently drunk, and stand on a table singing Dolly Parton.

You pull up to the paddock the next day wearing a college football jersey, the school you’ve supported since you were a young kid.

“Texas or Georgia?” someone yells at you and you can’t help but step back in disgust.

“Neither, I’d rather die,” you yell back, despite not having a team in the SEC.

“How are you alive and still manage to look good,” Franco groans, walking beside you.

“Sheer will, and a bit of my mama’s secret recipe,” you grin.

“How does he do it?” Charles asks Max, watching Franco effortlessly flirt with you, even though Franco doesn’t realize he’s flirting.

“No idea. Have you talked to Mick, he’s pretty close with her. Maybe he has an idea,” Max shrugs.

“Mick? Like Mick Schumacher?”

“Yeah, they karted together. You could also just talk to her,” Max suggests, pushing his friend in your direction.

“So you are actually a cowgirl?” Charles asks you once Franco drops back to yap with Max.

“Yeah, my parents have a working ranch. I help out when I can, since they helped find people to house and train me throughout my career,” you smile.

“That’s so cool. You have your own horse too, right?”

“Yeah, do you want to see him? He’s a feral mustang that we domesticated, I’m thinking of breeding him with a quarter horse soon,” you pull up photos as Charles tries to understand everything you said.

“What a pretty rider,” Charles hopes you might pick up on an obvious flirt.

“Thanks,” the compliment barely registers in your mind.

“Maybe you could teach me how to ride sometime,”

“Oh, I was going to have Mick, Pierre, and Logan come up after Brazil. You should come too, hopefully we will beat the snow. There’s already been some, but if you bundle up you will be fine,” your smile melts Charles’s brain.

“Snow? Already?” Charles can’t imagine it, it hasn’t even been Halloween.

“Oh yeah, nothing like a warm cider and a fireplace though,” Charles can hear your accent come through.

“So are they dating?” Franco asks, observing how close you and Charles are standing.

“No.”

“But he likes her?”

“Yes.”

“And she likes him?”

“Hard to say,” Max shrugs.

“I am so confused,” Franco stares at you and Charles, it’s obvious you both like each other.

“Me too,” Carlos agrees, having come to retrieve Charles when he overheard Franco’s conversation with Max.

“Y/n is a smart woman, but she certainly cannot pick up on flirting,” Max shakes his head, walking off.

Charles did join you at your ranch before Las Vegas, with strict orders from his trainer on how to keep up with his training. Charles wasn’t expecting a whole complex of barns and houses. You could almost call it an operation.

They were all shoved in the back of your pickup, luggage safe on the bed of the truck, as you and a ranch hand chat in the front of the car.

“You boys are lucky there’s room in the main house during your stay,” the ranch hand had joked. Because the group arrived so late, it’s straight to bed for everyone. Everyone except you.

Charles is restless, and despite his better judgment, gets out of bed for a change of scenery. He walks into the living room, looking at family photos, school yearbook photos, and pictures of your races. Some of your first trophies are proudly displayed above the fireplace, as well as a picture from your first time in the points in F1. He takes in everything, it’s clear how proud your parents are of you.

Charles finds you on the porch, with a steaming mug and quilt thrown over your legs. You are staring at the sky, not really paying attention. He’s freezing, wearing more layers than you, but he sits beside you anyway. You hand him a spare quilt, which he thanks you for.

“It’s nice, to slow down out here, the open skies and quiet,” you break the calm silence.

“It seems busy around here,”

“You have to be. It’s a hard business, no days off. I’m lucky that we are a larger ranch and my family can afford things like my career. Most of my friends stay and work full time, some work for us now. The guys out there are just going in for the night to the bunk houses, they will be up at dawn ready to work,” you explain. Charles was right in that this is a business, and a large one.

“Makes me feel bad that we are here on a break then,” Charles rubs the back of his neck.

“Don’t be. Plenty of ranches book out guest houses for tourism, it’s good income. Plus, you are here as my guest. The town will love to meet new people,” you reassure him, reaching to pat his hand.

“So, I guess you really don’t know every city that we visit?” Charles grins. None of the drivers ever bothered to look up where you are from, so they joke that you know Miami, Austin, and Las Vegas like they are your home town. However, they’ve been taking it more seriously as of late.

“No,” you whisper, a hint of a smile on your face as you watch the snow fall. You find yourself tucked under Charles’ arm before you bid him goodnight, going to bed.

You are up early, eating breakfast with your family.

“What’s your plan for the day?” your mother asks as you help clear the table.

“I think a trail ride then go into town, I don’t want to impose too much, but I’ll probably show them around,” you say, thinking of a schedule.

“Why don’t you do a late lunch in town? I have some things for you to pick up,” you agree with her idea.

“Go ahead, Mama, I’ll clean up,” you say, knowing there is administrative work to do.

The boys meander down about an hour later as you are finishing baking a bread you started yesterday.

“Morning boys,” you wipe your hands as they stand cluelessly in the kitchen. “Take a seat, I’ll whip you up something quick,” you motion to the kitchen table as you head to the fridge.

“Do you need help?” Logan asks, but your look quickly tells him to shut up.

“Coffee’s in the pot if you want some, milk in the fridge, food will be ready in a few minutes,” you wave the offer off.

“What’s your plan for today?” Mick asks, quickly taking to the coffee.

“I’ll take you on a trail ride and tour around some of the ranch, then we will go into town and grab lunch. After dinner we can go to the bar if it isn’t too bad out,” you look out the window, most of the snow has melted off already, but you can never be too careful. The boys quickly eat what you serve them and you take them out to the barn.

“Need help?” Charles asks as you blanket and saddle four horses, one he recognizes as yours. It’s impressive, watching you easily sling the heavy saddles on.

“Hold these, stand still,” you hand him the reigns, making sure he is in a safe position.

“Are you wearing chaps?” Mick notices the tan leather covering your jeans.

“Yes, and you all should too. You will thank me later when the wind isn’t biting at your legs. We should have some extras, hang on,” you grab a few pairs and tell the boys how to wear them.

“This is quite fashionable, I should’ve worn them in Austin,” Charles twists his legs, looking at the western wear. You just shake your head and continue getting the saddles ready.

“This is weirder than I thought,” Logan says, a little uncomfortable in the gear as you help him mount the horse.

“Sit up straighter, and widen your legs a little,” you fix his feet as you speak, adjusting the saddle and stirrups. You help each of them mount the horses you saddled before mounting your own horse.

You start with the tour before the trail ride, and the boys are feeling a little sore from the trotting as they dismount.

“I’m impressed your hat stayed on,” Mick says as he feels his muscles ache.

“That’s the point of a proper fitting hat. You can tell your trainers you had your workout for the day. Come on,” you make them follow you to the truck. As you get into town, you get stopped every other minute, being asked how you are and who your friends are. The boys look around the small store as you pick up your mother’s order.

“You and your boyfriend make quite the handsome couple,” the clerk, a church friend of your mother, says. She observes your startled face and smiles. “The one with brown hair, he seems very protective of you,” you look at Charles and catch his eye, causing both of you to look away with a blush.

“We aren’t dating, he’s a friend that I race with. They all are,” you deny, but you can’t help but wonder why your heart skipped a beat at the accusation.

“Sure honey, but you should see the way that boy looks at you,” you take the package, mind spinning.

“Thank you, Mrs. Anderson,” your voice is quieter as she pats your hand.

“You take care now, don’t forget about your roots when you become a big star,”

“I’ll dedicate my first win to you all,” you smile, taking a step away from the old oak counter.

“Good girl. Watch out on the roads tonight,”

“Yes, Ma’am,” when you approach the guys you notice how you and Charles naturally gravitate towards each other, but you are quick to distract yourself before you think too much about it.

“Everything alright?” Mick asks, poking your head. You swat away his hand as he goes to poke you again. Logan and Charles are trailing you, talking about something that you couldn’t care less about.

“Yeah, just thinking about something the shop owner said,”

“That Charles likes you?” Mick says, you huff and walk a little faster.

“He doesn’t though, Mickie. We are just friends, he’s never even flirted with me. Besides, I don’t even like him like that, and I would NEVER date someone on the grid,” lies, well mostly. The grid part is pretty true, that’s a mess you don’t wasn’t to touch. Mick can read you like a book, he’s your best friend and basically your brother. He wraps an arm around you and pulls you into a side hug as you walk.

“He flirts with you endlessly, you are just too blind to see it. Meine Liebe, he is so in love with you that he would crash someone out for you,” Mick looks at you, watching the gears in your brain turn.

“Well, if he is flirting with me that much, he really needs to step up his game,” you look at the sky, then to Mick.

“It’s a shame you are basically my brother, why can’t we date?” you groan, Mick loudly laughs.

“Alpine would hate that, can’t have two of their drivers dating,” Mick lowers his arm, poking your side.

“They are separating us, but our love shall prevail,” you carry on, enjoying the antics.

“Even Mick flirts with her easier than me,” Charles groans, looking at Logan for backup.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, but they are literally the definition of siblings separated at birth. They joke like that all the time, he’s just her best friend,” Logan shakes his head.

“So there’s a chance?”

“Not with your flirting,” Logan pats Charles’s shoulder as they approach your truck.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here, there is a storm coming,” you turn the key in the ignition, watching the boys get in the truck. Logan calls shotgun, leaving Charles and Mick in the back.

“Who let dying cats sing?” Mick teases you and Logan as you sing along with a country song, earning him the bird from both of you.

“Alright boys, wash up and then be down here for dinner. We won’t wait for you,” you say as you park the truck. Charles grabs the package for you, carrying it inside.

“I’ll take that, son,” your dad grabs the package from Charles as you walk through the door. “Y/n,” you follow his beacon, leaving the boys alone.

“Well, I will see you all in a bit,” Mick heads to his room, it’s obvious that he’s visited before.

Much to Charles’s dismay, he makes no progress on the flirting end for the rest of the week. When you get to Las Vegas, you are swept up in media and team duties. Charles sees more of Pierre than he does of you that weekend. He does notice when you post on Instagram.

instagram

y/username brought the boys home with me, still wouldn’t call them cowboys

mickschumacher to be fair, Logan and I fit in pretty well, Charles though…

charlesleclerc hey!

y/username charlie… you still don’t know how to wear a hat correctly

alpinef1team we 🫶 our cowgirl (and Cowboy Mick)

mercedesamgf1 our* Cowboy Mick 🤠

scuderiaferrari it’s okay Charles, even if you aren’t a cowboy, we still love you (Mick was ours first, back off)

charlesleclerc hey! you are supposed to be on my side

mickschumacher love the support guys 💙🩵❤️

user29 the shared admin parenting 😭

y/username charlie, it’s okay, not everyone is cowboy material

user aww, she brought Logan with her. best former grid friendship

user4 so we are ignoring the part where she got them all to wear chaps?

logansargeant you hear that mick? i’m better than you

mickschumacher impossible, i’m literally her best friend

y/username and they looked wonderful in them 🥰 (i love you two equally)

user2 poor charles, always forgotten even if they weren’t friends until recently

charlesleclerc best cowgirl and teacher in Montana ❤️

y/username only Montana? i’m wounded, you’re uninvited from the next trip

Mick hung around, pulling double duty for Mercedes and Alpine. He watched the race from the Mercedes garage, a tense place to be during the race. The Mercedes team qualified poorly in Q3, leaving them in the midfield. Logan accompanied him, an odd sight for most fans.

You had qualified well, with you and Pierre in P6 and P7 respectively. A crash up front took out Max and Lando, leaving the two of you in a battle with Oscar, Charles, and Carlos. A late safety car and a well timed undercut allowed you to move into P2, fighting for the win with Pierre right behind you. With five laps left to go, you find luck on your side once more. Oscar locked up, giving you just enough room to overtake him. When you cross the line five laps later, you feel tears running down your face.

“We did it, holy shit! Great work team, I’m so proud of you guys. This win is for the huge support network I have back home - I told you I’d dedicate my first win to you, and it’s for this team who has struggled and fought to be in the position to win races again,” you say on the radio as you take your cool down lap, waving to fans as you drive past.

The feeling of standing on top of your car is like nothing else, the crowd electric with you first win, a home win.

Pierre pulls into P3, quickly hoping out to embrace you, rubbing your helmet.

“We did it! You are amazing!” Pierre cheers.

“Finally a podium for us,” you agree, joining Pierre in heading to the barricades to celebrate with the team.

Charles makes his way to where you are putting on your team hat and sipping water a few minutes later.

“Welcome to the home win club,” he hugs you, wishing he was on the podium too.

“Thanks, Charlie. Sorry, I’m just so overwhelmed,” you smile but tears start to flow out of your eyes again. This is likely the only win you will ever get, and you know that.

“Amour,” his voice is soft and sympathetic as he wipes the tears off your cheeks. “You deserve every bit of this win, you drove so well,” he reassures you as you nod, sniffing the tears away.

“Interview time, champ,” Pierre grabs you, pulling you towards Guenther. He quickly shoots Charles a look that says he’s talking about this later. Pierre is protective of his teammate, and he isn’t scared to rip into his childhood friend if needed. You watch Pierre speak, then Oscar, before it’s your turn. They wait for you, not wanting to leave you vulnerable to the media.

“Y/n, first off, congratulations on a monumental win. How are you feeling?” Guenther asks, his voice jovial. He watched you grow as a driver in the Ferrari program, so he feels a bit proud.

“Overwhelmed, mainly,” you laugh, taking a moment to gather your thoughts. “I, uh, carry the legacy of many women before me, those who drove, served as test and reserve drivers, and affiliated drivers. I really hope this win made them proud and make the girls driving in lower formulas know they can succeed here too,” you say, still breathing a bit heavier.

“That was one heck of a drive, how were you able to take the win?”

“A lot of luck, and confidence. I knew that I had to take some risks, especially on that overtake and defending the last few laps. I’m glad that Max and Lando are okay, those collisions aren’t fun,”

“One more question and then I will let you get your trophy. How will you take this confidence into the last two races?”

“Just keeping the energy up with the whole team. They’ve worked hard to get Pierre and I on the podium, and it’s nice to see it pay off, especially at my home race. You never really know when you will get to the podium, so I think we will just cherish this and hope the points keep coming,” you say, relieved to be done with interviews for now.

“Thank you, congratulations again,” Guenther says, letting you go. You give a wave and disappear to where Pierre and Oscar await.

“An all Alpine podium,” Mick teases, waiting around the bend for you.

“Former, but I guess it counts,” Oscar smiles as you launch yourself at your best friend.

“I’m so proud, meine Liebe, and I know Dad is too,” he hugs you tightly. Mick lets you go a moment later, promising to see you after the podium.

The cooldown room is nice, you relax in the chair as Oscar and Pierre chatter, watching the race highlights.

“Nice defending, you were a brick wall against Charles,” you fist bump Pierre.

“Ready?” Oscar asks, dragging you out of your seat. Pierre is the first out and onto the podium. “Just breathe, this is your moment,” Oscar reminds you before stepping out. Before you know it you are being drenched in champagne.

“This is just the start of the celebrations, mon amie,” Pierre says, wrapping an arm around you as you head back to the motorhome.

“Drinks on me tonight,” you cheer, ready to shower off the champagne and get media over with.

You are one of the last to arrive at the club, mostly because your phone died and you had to wait on it to charge. However, that just means you had more time to pregame, and you did.

“Oscar!” you drunkenly cheer, wrapping your arms around the Aussie.

“When did you get here? Are you already drunk?” he asks, trying not to laugh.

“Mhmm,” you nod, “I drank with Logan,”

“Logan is here?!” Oscar looks around the room, trying to spot his friend.

“No, silly, he’s in Miami. He was on the phone, duh,” you walk towards the bar, ordering a round of shots for your friends and you. You don’t hesitate in downing it, ordering a drink to take with you back onto the floor.

“How much have you had to drink?” Franco asks, wrapping an arm around you to keep you steady.

“Mmmm, five shots,” you giggle then poke his cheek, pushing his face a bit due to your sloppy motions. “You’re cute, just a babbyyy,”

“You are very pretty as well, how’d you know I have a thing for older women,” Franco flushes, the flirting coming out of nowhere. He honestly thought that you and Charles were dating, but he can’t help that he’s a natural flirt.

“Pierre! George!” you walk away before he can even process everything. You are off to do more shots, intending to get fucked up.

“You okay?” Max asks, quickly replacing you at Franco’s side.

“Y/n was just here, she’s an odd drunk, can she even drink that much?” Franco asks, very confused.

“She brought Tennessee moonshine to a race last year and she out drank Valtteri. I didn’t realize she’s been here,” Max looks around, searching for you.

“Whatever she drank earlier was strong then. Aren’t she and Charles dating? Why was she flirting with me?”

“Who knows,” Max shrugs, leaving Franco confused and alone as he spots you back at the bar in the VIP section the drivers reserved.

“You are cut off for now,” Max shakes his head as he stands beside you, taking the drink from your hand and keeping it for himself.

“Charlie! Tell Max to give me my drink back,” you pout, crossing your arms as you lean back against the bar, stumbling a little as your back hits the edge.

Charles’s eyes rake across you in concern as he quickly reaches out to steady you. He looks away at Max to get a silent read on the situation.

“Amour, how much have you had to drink? Didn’t you just get here?” Charles is more worried that you may have been drugged, no one acts like that after one drink.

“Five shots,” Charles watches you count on your fingers, holding up seven of them.

“And here?”

“Um, three shots and a drink. I just got here fourty minutes ago,” your words slur together as dizzying lights flash around the bar. The change in music tells everyone that Lando got behind the DJ booth.

“You are cut off for the hour, go dance some of it off then I will buy you a new drink,” Max says, winking at Charles. Before he can respond, you are dragging Charles onto the dance floor.

“You are a terrible flirt. You know who told me that you like me? Mickie,” you poke Charles’ chest as you dance close to him. Charles wraps his arms around your waist, keeping you close but providing support.

“It must’ve worked if you know now,” Charles leans down slightly, voice low against the pulsing music. You tilt your head up more, looking at him through hooded eyes, his body moving against yours as the bass builds up.

“No,” you say, lips centimeters away from brushing against his as the beat drops. “You need to work harder to earn me,” you slip out of his arms, going to find your aforementioned friend, leaving Charles alone and horny.

You find yourself back at the bar, no one there to stop you from drinking more. Well, that is until Mick shows up right before the bartender walks back over to you.

“Let’s celebrate the win, if you drink any more right now you will puke in 10 minutes,” Mick pulls you away, back to the other drivers. Fuck Charles, the bar is your one true love and Mick is denying you it.

“Here,” Lewis hands you a drink which you happily take. It’s just a mocktail, but you don’t know that.

“To our cowgirl and her first win!” Carlos toasts, cheers ringing out across your group. You catch Lando sneaking away back to the DJ booth, and you quickly follow.

“Lando, let me play a song,” you beg, and who is Lando to deny you after your first win? The grid gravitates towards the two of you as Lando helps you set yourself up.

“What are you playing?” Lando yells as you quickly pull up your song. Your devilish grin tells him everything as he helps you blend it into the song currently playing. The song slows as a low “tu tu tu tu” rings out, the lights turning in to focus on Max.

“Is this because I took away your drink?” Max yells, embarrassed and a little annoyed even though he thinks it’s funny. The rest of the guys are singing along, teasing Max. That’s the last thing you remember.

You wake up groggy on the couch of your hotel room, Mick in the bed. Based on the weird feeling in your mouth, you were puking before you fell asleep. Stumbling, you cross the room and crawl into bed beside Mick.

Mick wakes you up a few hours later, cup of coffee in hand.

“How much do you remember of last night?” he asks as you lightly groan, launching into your past memories.

You virtually sit down for a podcast later in the week to discuss your win.

“How does it feel going viral?” The one podcaster asks after you discussed your career and fighting in the midfield.

“Viral? Honestly, I’ve been so busy since the win that I haven’t been on social media,” you laugh, very confused.

“Gen Z has taken to you, you are all over TikTok and Twitter,”

“That’s wild, thanks Gen Z,” you smile, giving the camera a little salute.

“The after party seemed fun,”

“From what I remember, it was. It’s always a good time going out with the guys. Can I confess something?”

“Please do,” the podcaster says, eager for some gossip.

“I thought Franco was too young to be out with us. The first time he showed at the bar in Austin, I genuinely thought he was about to be thrown out,” you say, letting the conversation stay of that for a bit.

“So, a photo of you and Charles dancing at the club after your win went viral. We asked him about it and this is what he had to say,”

“Oh yeah, we’re dating, didn’t you know?” Charles says, looking quite serious, but you know it’s a joke, at least you think it is.

“Haha, yeah we are engaged, almost got married in Vegas. Didn’t you know?” you joke, stifling a laugh.

The podcast blew up and Alpine ate it up. The media team was quick to partner with Ferrari to do a couples challenge in the Alpine motorhome. You quickly leave once it’s done, escaping to your driver’s room. Charles follows you, sitting beside you as you take a deep breath.

“Sorry, it’s all a bit overwhelming. I am from a small town, I’m just not used to this type of attention,” you say and Charles holds your hands, providing comfort as electricity courses through you.

“You don’t have to be. Your fans think you are perfect, I think you are perfect,” Charles says, your eyes meeting his, searching for signs that he isn’t telling a lie.

“You do?”

“Of course I do. I’ve been in love with you forever. You are beautiful, and kind, and smart,” Charles trails off as his eyes flicker to your lips. His right hand finds itself moving from your hand to your cheek. He leans in, lips brushing yours as he hesitates - waiting for you to take action.

You tilt your head up, mind spinning as you take in his scent and the moment. You don’t waste another moment, pressing your lips to his. Charles tenderly pulls away after a minute, resting his forehead on yours.

“I didn’t lie in that interview, amour, you are my cowgirl,” he says softly, a hint of relief in his voice.

“Yours? Oh no, Charlie, you will have to work harder to win that,” your sly smile tells him that the challenge isn’t over yet as he leans in to kiss you again.

“My stubborn, stubborn cowgirl,”

Can’t get enough? Check out @vitalverstappen’s sister story ⬇️!

[signedaiko]

Hiiii! May I request some platonic headcanons for MTMTE? I was thinking about a g/n human reader pulling some pranks on some bots on the LL (Ratchet, Rodimus, Rewind) and what their reactions would be.

Ratchet | Rewind | Rodimus [MTMTE]

In which you try pulling a prank on some of your friends aboard the Lost Light.

Reader is: Gender Neutral | Human | Autobot. Platonic.

Ratchet

Your friendship started with you making teasing comments, which eventually led to jokes and seemed to be verging towards pranks

Ratchet was a grumpy one, so while your jokes are welcome, there is a time and place for them

One of those times is not the first thing in the morning, especially when he's preparing to get into a surgery

And yet, as he went to enter his office, he was surprised to run into some kind of thin, transparent film that forced him back onto his aft

You'd spent the whole night lining the door of the medbay with several rolls of plastic wrap, knowing his optics would still be woken up

It came to bite you in the ass; he wakes you up from your sleep after the all-nighter by yelling your name and banging at your door

He's pissy, and now he's making you sit on his desk all day, watching the surgery, and banging his fist on the table every time you start to doze off

You can sleep when he's done and when he feels you've learned your lesson for startling him so early

Rewind

You were the life of the party, in many ways

A lot of Rewind's best recordings come from you

Were all humans this fun? Or were you some rarity?

Either way, he's a big fan, and he's always got his camera rolling if you're there

You also make him feel special because none of your jokes or pranks are aimed at him

In fact, you usually request his help with pranks, be it as small as catching it on tape or something like replaying someone's voice to lure another of the crew

That's what made your plan against him so effective; he never expected himself to be a target of your genius

Until one late evening, he enters the habsuite to get some rest and-

Wait

Why is everything on the wrong side?

Chromedome is there resting, and Rewind wakes him up to ask what's going on

"What are you talking about? Are you feeling okay?"

Chromedome fully convinces Rewind he may have something wrong until he pulls up a clip of the room

"Fuck." He hears your small voice come from somewhere behind Chromedome, and he's running at you

"Both of you! Traitors!"

Rodimus

Rodimus knew you better than most others, and while he pretended to scold you in front of Ultra Magnus all the time, he liked the energy you brought

Besides, he was always pulling small pranks of his own, usually on Ultra Magnus, which was cheap and easy, but pranks nonetheless

That meant he presented a challenge, though

Rodimus was very good at telling you were up to something and had caught many of your pranks before

Unfortunately for him, most is not all, and he'd once again been fooled by your trickery

You'd mixed powdered sugar into his paint polish, which made it look shiny at first, but once dried, it left him very sticky and matte and made his paint look uneven

Oh, he knew who'd done it the moment someone pointed it out, and he wasn't going to let you get away with it so easily

Next thing you know, Siren is over the ship's comms claiming there's an emergency and that Rodimus is severely injured in the med bay

Of course you go racing to see him, unaware the announcement was only to your hab suite

He sat there, Rewind by his side, recording as you burst in with emotions evident on your face, only to realize what he'd done

Asshole

Authors Note - I am actually, secretly, the least funny person in the universe so I hope these parnks were realistic in some shape or form! Thank you for requiesting 🩵

[missust3l3vision]

100 FOLLOWER CELEBRATION!!

A Crowd

Description: Arthur and George have something to ask Y/n.

George was in love with Arthur and Arthur was in love with George. Neither of them knew it either. Simply hiding their affection under a blanket of platonic or drunk actions.

But when it came to you? It was much more difficult to hide.

It was far from a secret that Arthur liked you. Probably since the moment he met you and his eyes turned to hearts. George on the other hand wasn't as obvious. And yet many already knew.

Lingering looks were the Clarke special. They both liked you just as much. They just had a hard time telling you and knowing if it was worth it. Ruining a friendship was something they both wanted to avoid.

Now the three of you were filming a video for Arthur's channel. A cheapest outfit challenge. With the first rounds being casual clothing and now the finale.

Dress clothing plus they had to wear it in public. The boys had gone first and now were waiting on Y/n.

"Okay Y/n come out!" Arthur called from the foyer. Him and George had been wearing cheap suits they bought online. The material was itchy and Georges was a bit small.

"Okay, but I need you to know I hate this dress." A moment later she began to come down the stairs. The sea foam green dress hugging her in all the right places.

Both George and Arthur were stunned. There was no way that dress was less than £20. It looked magnificent, well anything you wore did, but this was different.

"Wow.." the boys said unison. Making the girl raise an eyebrow. Before checking out their suits.

"You know, that shade of purple is perfect for your complexion," You tease Arthur. His suit was supposed to be navy blue but instead showed up more of an grape colour. "And you George, look at that tight fit."

You hid your laugh behind your hand. The two were blushing as they told you to fuck off and that you needed to head to dinner.

Walking to the uber Arthur lingered behind for a moment seeing through the window that George sat in the front seat and Y/n in the back. She looked from her phone to him and gave him a smile.

She had the best smile.

Both him and George knew it. After getting it they were off to dinner. The go pro caught everything. How much the boys complained about their cheap suits and that Y/n was lucky enough to have a half decent dress.

Sipping on expensive wine and enjoying their company the cameras were shut off and left the three to just talk.

George and Arthur would begin to ramble on about something before trying to rope Y/n back into it. Her following along and talking when she wanted to.

It was easy. It was nice. That was until a different waiter came to the table.

"Ah, what a lovely couple," his accent was thick as he refilled their glass with wine. "I think? Which one is your lover?" He asked to a stunned Y/n.

Her turning to the boys who were equally confused by the odd prying. She went to explain that neither, when George answered for her.

"She's the third wheel." He said putting his arm around Arthur. The man quickly nodding in agreement. The waiter eyed them before walking away.

"I thought we were a three person couple." She teased getting a light laugh from the boys but more than that an idea that planted itself in them.

Why not?

"Can I ask you two something?" George asked quietly, his eyes downturned but honest.

Both you and Arthur shared a look before nodding and encouraging him to continue. George takes a deep breath.

"Can we be more than friends?" You stopped. Within the busy restaurant your table was frozen. Arthur was first to talk.

"Yes." He then paused seeing your reaction "Well, if Y/n is on board. I'm sorry I sort of jumped the gun-"

"I'm in." You said finally finding your words. "This is new to me, I'm going to need time and help to navigate this."

George and Arthur nodding. Eventually once dinner was over and they discussed more of the details they decided to walk home.

The cold nights air nipped at your bare arms, you didn't even notice it. Your mind was buzzing. It wasn't until George draped his jacket over your shoulders that you noticed how cold you actually were.

"Damn, I was about to do that." Arthur joked from beside you. In this tiny moment you realised how perfect this moment was.

[purpurkatart]

Hello! After having some time to get over my loss for the Pokemon TCG Illustration contest, I decided to write up a small blog entry about the process and include some WIP pictures. Feel free to look below if you want to read my ramblings on the process.

Idea Generarion-

So coming into this contest, I knew I wanted to make a mixed media piece. In terms of theming I chose something that not only reflected a “magical moment” for a Pokemon (in this case meeting a legendary Pokemon), but also a moment when playing the games myself. In fact this piece was inspired by my awe when I first encountered a box legendary in game, as before I thought my teacher was lying to me when he said you can catch the legendary on the box!

This is the concept sketch that started it all! At the time my main concern was getting ideas down and seeing how they looked. Thinking about things like how would the composition would look, how would the colours look. So on and so forth.

I didn’t want to focus too much on the sketch and wanted to start making the physical object, so out of some cheap paper I started making a set up testing out size, scale, composition. I didn’t want to get too attached to the original sketches only to realise I couldn’t make it in real life… I went though a few drafts trying to get things right, slowly adding in aspects such as background objects and higher quality drawings.

After completing the draft I bought the images back into procreate to experiment with colours. This is the point where I made the mistake of thinking I had plenty of colours to choose from, not realising I would be limited by what I could buy from various yarn shops. That or hope I could find the right colour online, but that was always a gamble. If I don’t stop talking about this now I’ll get sidetracked talking about how much I miss yarn shops…

Anyways, I cut out the individual pieces that I would make within the background and used them as a guide for crochet assets. For this part I wanted to use different stitches to create textures such as the ripple stitch, bobble stich and some cable stitches, I feel bad as I never took any work in progress photo so of them. Let’s pretend you’re looking at a photo of a half finished crochet abstract shape.

Finally onto the main event, the Pikachu (and Suicune). The decision to make Pikachu a plush was based on what I would have liked to make for the 2022 illustration contest (if I wasn’t geographically challenged!!) Despite being British I decided it would be fun to make anyways, so I could experiment. I never got around to that but decided it would be fun to try for this edition.

Making the pattern was HARD! As I wanted Pikachu to have a unique pose, I had to work out different methods to plush i’ve made in the past which have been somewhat relaxed in their posing. I ultimately ended up making each part individually, pinning it together and then making adjustments as needed. It didn’t start out great however I ended up with this weird Pikachu shaped thing that did the job. Throughout this process I would regularly photograph it in the background to try and catch any issues early on. For example if the ground needed to be a different shape.

Photographing the final price was interesting. I felt bad for my partner as I essentially turned my dining table into a mini photography studio! I spent several days waiting for different lighting opportunities and experimenting with different light. Marking down different camera angles to ensure I have all of my bases covered. I easily took over 100 photos to get the perfect shot! In the below photo you can see washi tape being used to rest out different positions for the sculptures.

And that leads me to the peice! Even though i’m sad I didn’t make the top 300, I am pleased with the work I did for this piece (and my flygon entry too!). I’m glad I decided to experiment with ts peice and look forward to refining my methods in the near future!

[sematarygirls]

               MORPHINE ANIMALS.

♯┆"this may just be a vacation for you, cameron, but it's my life," ⏤ in which, rafe cameron joins a pogue band in an attempt to rebel against his father and show him that he does have ambitions, even if they're unconventional, but everything goes awry when he finds himself having to choose between his cushy, luxurious lifestyle and the gritty, raw world of rock n' roll, challenging everything he's ever thought he wanted.

       NAV ! Part Double Zero. Part Zero.

 🎧 ⊹ᡣ𐭩₊⋆ ─── INTRODUCING THE BAND.

[THE CAMERA SMASHCUTS FROM A SERENIC OCEANVIEW OF THE SUNSET TO A BLURRED SHOT OF A DINGY BASEMENT. LOUD ROCK MUSIC REVERBERATES THROUGHOUT THE ROOM]

          HERE IS.... MORPHINE ANIMALS !

 🎤 ⊹ᡣ𐭩₊⋆ ─── 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄.

rock n' roll soul .ᐟ  lead singer of morphine animals.  555.  bell bottoms.  smudged eyeliner.  band tees . faded denim.  setlists scribbled on bar napkins. cigarette butts.  cheap leather.  vinyl records.

    [THE CAMERA FOCUSES ON A GIRL, RED LIGHT FLOODING HER FACE AS SHE SINGS INTO A MICROPHONE MOUNTED ON A STAND, ADDING TO THE GRUNGY ATMOSPHERE OF THE OTHERWISE DARK ROOM.]

    [JOHN B'S VOICE EMERGES OVER THE MUSIC]: See that girl right there?

    [THE CAMERA SLOWLY ZOOMS ON HER FACE, FITTED WITH A BIG, GLEAMING GRIN AS SHE FEELS THE MUSIC FLOW THROUGH HER BODY, EACH WORD FALLING FROM HER LIPS WITH PRACTICED EASE]

    [JOHN B VOICEOVER]: That's Y/N Y/L/N, but she goes by NICKNAME. She claims it's more "rock and roll," whatever that means. She's a Pogue, probably one of the coolest I know—but don't tell her I said that. She's got a killer voice. I think she's a natural born star, but she says that pogues can never make it beyond this island.

                     UP NEXT...

 🎸 ⊹ᡣ𐭩₊⋆ ─── 𝐉𝐉 𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐊.

adrenaline junkie .ᐟ  guitar god.  666.  calloused fingertips.  spilled beer.  stained tees.  sun-kissed skin.  guitar pick necklaces.  burnt out cigarettes. band posters. gradfitied walls. bonfires.

    [THE CAMERA SLOWLY PANS TO THE SIDE, FOCUSING ON THE MIDDLE OF THE ROOM. A BOY'S EYES ARE SHUT TIGHT, HIS HANDS WORKING THE CHORDS OF AN OLD, RED ELECTRIC GUITAR, NICKS AND SCAPES LITTERING THE VARNISH, GIVING IT A WORN, ROCK N ROLL FEEL]

    [JOHN B VOICEOVER]: That handsome blondie right there would be JJ Maybank, my best friend since birth. He can absolutely shred on the guitar, but he really only joined to make Y/N happy. His motto is to have a good time, all the time. Plus, as he always says, being famous wouldn't hurt..

                   AND FINALLY...

 🥁 ⊹ᡣ𐭩₊⋆ ─── 𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐍.

rebellious rich boy .ᐟ  badass drummer.  888. whiskey breath.  dilated pupils.  fast cars.  bloody knuckles. gold chains.  expensive cologne.  designer jeans. drumsticks and bad decisions.  cocaine residue.

    [THE MUSIC CEASES AS THE SONG COMES TO AN END. THE CAMERA ZOOMS BACK OUT, ALLOWING A WIDE-ANGLED SHOT OF THE ROOM THAT INTRODUCES A VISUAL OF A THIRD PERSON SITTING BEHIND A DRUMSET. HIS LIGHT BROWN HAIR, TYPICALLY SLICKED BACK IN A NEAT MANNER, IS STICKING OUT IN ALL DIRECTIONS, BEADS OF SWEAT GLISTENING ON HIS FOREHEAD AS SOME STRANDS CLING TO HIS FACE. HE LICKS HIS LIPS, LETTING OUT A LABORED BREATH.]

    [JOHN B'S VOICE CUTS BACK IN, THE FAINT ADMIRATION THAT WAS PRESENT BEFORE NOW COMPLETELY GONE, REPLACED BY ANNOYANCE]: Last and certainly least is Rafe Cameron—so called, Kook prince and king of the assholes. He's only in the band because they couldn't find another drummer good enough. Unfortunately, musicians are sparse in Kildare.

                BUY TICKETS HERE !

                                ୭ৎ

notes .ᐟ not as aesthetic as i wanted, but i hope you guys like it !! i'm not sure how i'll tell this story yet, but i think i want the next part to be the track list, and then every chapter is a "track" (soleil stop making such complicated series challenge!!!)

tags .ᐟ   @starkeysprincess / @cometmultiverse / @lovemesailor / @all4l0vee / @kissesfrmriri / @bradshawed / @rafeslittleangel / @bakugouswaif / @fakedhearts / @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 / @piastrify / @kisselxoll (you can ask to be added or removed at any time !!)

[sophieaimelesmandarines]

Personal redraw challenge

We are talking about early Conan, so of course they brought their physical cameras and camcorders to Kyoto hahah ~ Inspired by episode 18

The goal, or intention of my personal redraw challenge is to take scenes from late Conan and redraw them as accurately as possible in the style of early Conan in an attempt to recreate the old and nostalgic feeling of cel animation that went lost with the switch to digital animation. (And because I hate the washed out rhino style)

I’m not a professional by any means and my tools are too cheap to imitate glass & celluloid, but I’m having a lot of fun and I would love to see more people redraw late Conan ^ ^

[hazelfoureyes]

Angel’s Alastor

「Warnings/Promises: Angel x Alastor, bondage, rutting into beds, rutting into pants, Alastor keeps his dick in those pants, kisses, smooches, tentacle fucking, masturbation, cum eating implied??, karaoke reference」

Angel imagines Alastor is his co-star in a naughty film. Luckily he has just the toy to help him get into the scene.

MinoRS DNI 👨🏻‍🏭🙅🏻

The offer to fuck on camera was partly a joke and partly an invitation.

Angel had the ability to later say it was just self deprecating humor to even allude to wanting to fuck Alastor. The radio demon. The strawberry pimp.

What a laugh, Tall Dark and Creepy? Famously, whether he had a term for it or not, disinterested in sex?

When he stopped to think about, watching Alastor sip a whiskey and stare off into the void, what would that even look like?

Sex with Alastor, that is.

Angel watched his mouth part and peeked at his tongue. He sure did talk a lot, maybe his tongue had some skill. Wagging all day made for a strong muscle.

And he was strong. Not a hunk by any measure but he could tear apart airships and summon minions with a snap. Kinda hot. Power always added a level of attractiveness. 

Alastor’s ears … twitched. Perhaps a bug had landed on one. Angel’s head tilted a little as his eyes followed down Alastor’s long neck. Did he have chest fluff to match the ears? His happy trail… red? Black? What about his backside? A little tail?

Hooves…. Angel could take them or leave them. But he lingered at the calves and arms. Where he knew the black faded into the tan pallor of his face.  Did his cock fade too? A gradient Angel could squeeze and try to feel through his skin.

“What about you, Angel?”

“Oh fuck, I totally zoned out and forgot we were … we were doin’ something. Sorry Charlie.”

Charlie’s fingers templed, “We were having a conversation. About how you think redemption is going?”

Angel blinked away the tingle up his spine as Alastor’s attention turned to him, “Yeah that sounds great, sign me up okay? I’m headed out,  I gotta go for a walk or some shit.”

It was ‘some shit.’

A couple drinks, a few rounds of karaoke, and a quick make out session with a very generous stranger and Angel found Alastor had disappeared entirely. Until he curled into his bed to let the spinning room rock him to sleep.

And he wondered…

If Alastor was one of the guys in his shoots. The big bad who kidnapped him….

Angels arms were tied behind his back—

No, Angel stopped, Alastor would never go through the motions of tying someone up.

Angel's arms were held above his head and behind his back by writhing and curious black tentacles. A dark and smoky room, Alastor standing pretty as his shadows did all the work. 

“I’m going to need your cooperation, Angel Dust.”

Angel struggled, “Not a chance. Val would kill me and he’s a lot scarier than you.”

“Now now, you’ve barely let me explain the details.” Alastor took four swift and long strides to be within touching distance. “You report back what the Vees discuss. No theft, no clandestine recording devices.”

Alastor had to look up to meet Angel’s indignant gaze. 

“And what’s in it for me?” A smirk. 

“That depends, what do you want?” Alastor’s clawed hand touched his hip, “Anthony.”

Angel peeled off his shorts and vest. He’d found a fun narrative, one he wanted to see through. A hand wrapped around his still half soft cock and began gentle tugs.

“You don’t have what I want.” Angel bit his lip. He watched the radio demon’s brow arch, a challenge. “So why don’t you stop playin’ and either let me go or get your dick out.”

A laugh he’d heard a hundred times before bouncing off the walls he hadn’t bothered to imagine, “Dirty mouth for an ‘angel’.”

“Oh you don’t even know the half of what my mouth can do.” His tongue rolled out and beckoned Alastor closer, “And I ain’t no angel.”

His dark eyes stayed calm as new appendages began ripping off Angel’s clothes. “Oh that’s right. Angel Dust. You’re a drug. Cheap and addictive.”

“Aww and I thought you didn’t watch my movies!”

“I have no interest in filth.”

“You sure ‘bout that? Seem interested enough in  me.”

“You, Anthony, are not filth.” Alastor’s hand slid down Angel’s stomach, past his erection and balls. “You are art best seen up close. Intimate viewings only. Where patrons can take their time to admire the details.”

Alastor’s fingers pressed gently at Angel’s puckered hole. 

Angel tried to slow the prodding of his now lubed fingers at his entrance. Alastor would be frustratingly slow. But he wanted Alastor to rush in, to hurt him a little. But then why even think of him? Anyone could do that. Everyone does do that.

Alastor’s middle finger slipped in. Angel wanted a kiss, wanted anything more but the overlord didn’t allow him any movement.

A second finger. Quick and sloppy thrusts, poor preparation but more than some. A third finger, Angel moaned Alastor’s name. 

Once he started he couldn’t stop, “Alastor. Alastor. Alastor!” Every time he said it louder it made his fingers feel like they could truly belong to Alastor. Leaking and fully erect, his dick was pulsing in reply.

“Oh fuck, Alastor. I know you have more for me. Come on, daddy.” Angel’s ass was rocking against those quick fingers. “Gimme more. Ya can’t break me.”

A wicked grin, Alastor’s free hand coming to rake through Angel’s chest fluff, “Oh, I absolutely can. But, luckily for you, I’m not interested in seeing you in pieces.”

Three fingers slipping in and out with slicked ease, Angel rummaged in his side drawer feeling around for the shape he was seeking. Tongue out with concentration until he felt the little bumps and the curve he needed. 

He’d rarely used the tentacle dildo, but suddenly it seemed like a very convenient purchase. The tip was so thin, the base so wide. 

From point a to b, Angel lost track of the storyline. He just needed to skip ahead, quick fingers to hungry tentacles working in time with the real life toy. A taper that allowed Alastor to reach deeply but still stretch his hole with enough burn to keep Angel’s attention on where they connected. Could Alastor feel him? How much was he able to sense through his shadow appendages?

His face didn’t let on, no slip of what he was feeling. 

Angel’s soul was his own when outside of Val’s studio, time he’d happily sell to Alastor to see the man so much as break a sweat. But he could, at least in his head.

“Would it kill ya to kiss me?” Angel wished he could hide his need better but even in his dreams he was melting for a chance to feel Alastor. Skin to skin, wet warmth anywhere on him. “I could make ya see stars behind your eyelids.”

A hum, hand slipping up his neck and to his jaw, “Dear I don’t need to close my eyes to see a star.” Angel held his breath as Alastor leaned in, a slow tilt of his head threatening to pull another moan from him. His eyes closed and he waited for that feeling of soft lips against his.

And he waited.

With a huff he opened his eyes to complain about the hold up, but his words got caught in his throat when he saw the expression on Alastor’s face. Knitted brows and heated cheeks, he’d never seen such a needy look.

A look that twisted back to its usual smirk when a thrust into Angel pulled a shocked whine from the spider demon. Even in his dreams he would be made to beg. 

“Do ya want my help or not?” His voice was huskier than before, struggling to keep his reactions to a minimum. 

“Oh? A kiss is all it costs? There’s the cheap part.”

“And I’ll show ya the addictive part if ya hurry up already.” Maybe Alastor was loosening the restraints, maybe Angel was just adept at escapes, but he managed to pull a hand free. 

Grabbing hold of the smaller demon by the ear he pulled Alastor into a kiss. 

Another moan. He felt the heat of the blush reaching his own ears; it was just a kiss. But it made him twitch at the idea. Even as the long black toy bottomed out, his mind was on the ghostly pair of lips he could almost feel. 

Like a man with time to kill, Alastor didn’t let Angel slip his tongue in until he heard the hunger in his breaths. And as Angel’s tongue reached deeper into his mouth, so did the tentacle in him. His knees began shaking, finally both holes full of Alastor. 

Angel’s tongue danced behind his teeth, going through the motions. He wanted more friction. Rolling onto his stomach, Angel began rutting into his bed. 

Alastor pulled him close, grinding his crotch into Angel’s leaking cock. Every roll of his hips pulled a gasp from the porn star.

“You're gonna get your pants all dirty.” Angel’s mouth left Alastor’s long enough to comment but Alastor’s leaned back and out of reach when he tried to return.

“Hmm, I’ll have to make you lick them clean after.”

Angel’s head fell back, he gripped the toy with five fingers around the base and pumped it in and out. Every return to his tight heat seemed to stretch him a little wider, prod new depths no dick had ever managed to reach before.

If it wasn’t Alastor, he’d be scared. But the two hands holding his hips in place as his precum was smeared into the overlord’s pants felt like a safety net. Alastor wouldn’t go too far. He was a master at pushing limits and that was it.

Angel’s mouth hung open, drool sliding down his chin as his hips picked up speed. A hand came between his legs and began stroking his shaft. He wanted to cum.

He needed to cum. He dropped his head back down and let his free hand slide across the lapels of Alastor’s suit.

Twisting the toy, he hit it.

“There!! You’re hitting my spot. Don’t stop.” Angel’s body shook. The radio demon grabbed him gently by the neck and gave a testing squeeze. 

Angel’s hand tightened slightly on his throat. Just enough to make the pressure in his head become noticeable. 

“Alastor please, I’m close. Don’t stop, don’t ya dare fuckin’ stop,” his slit was sliding across the precum soaked fabric. It was rough, but made him cry as he grew harder and more sensitive. “Gonna cum soon.”

His cock was still rubbing into his silky blanket despite his hand’s direct help. He pulled a throw pillow into his mouth and screamed. Every ounce of his brain’s focus went to his dick and caused his hand to slow the thrusts into himself.

He was pulled into a breath stealing kiss. With Alastor’s mouth on him again, exhales across his skin, Angel came with a cry. Alastor’s tentacle buried deep in him as his cock pulsed lines of semen across the demon's pants.

Angel‘s hips kept thrusting, smearing his seed into the blanket and across his knuckles. He took his hand off the toy and let the spasms of his twitching hole push it out and back onto the bed. 

Alastor’s tongue swiped up Angel’s lips. He didn’t stop rubbing his lap into the groaning demon even as his tentacles all withdrew. Angel fell to his knees before long and thin fingers pulled his chin up.

“Now, lick.”

༻Masterlist༺

˖ ݁𖥔.Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult.𖥔 ݁ ˖

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @moonmark98 , @hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain , @harley2223-blog , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima a , @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon n , @aether-th3-enby , @dontfuckbutimfab , @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12 , @star-kujo-platinum @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @rubyninja1 , @simphornies

, @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog , @thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @psipies , @howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf , , @fizzled-phoenix , @phobophobular , @mariaclarade-la-cruz1 , @whateverlololo , @roxxie-wolf , @a-case-of-attachment , @multifandomfanatic02 @watereddownmilk , @bontensbabygirl

[icesapphireserpent]

Ford’s POV here

My parents love survivor so over Father’s Day we were watching it. Now all I can think is how stupid good Stanley would be at it?

Just modern Stanley watching reality tv when motels have it available. Endurer is his favorite. He loves the drama and calling out liars while he’s chugging cheap beer. He likes the host David and that he doesn’t put up with bullshit. The episodes where the loved ones show up are… he usually changes the channel if it’s that one. Unless he’s already hammered. Then he blubs like a baby. It’s one of those nights he sends an application to the show. He’s a little too honest about why he needs a million dollars. Figured a sob story like getting back to family might help. It’s not like they’d ever pick him with his records. But he gets a call three weeks later.

Stan is ecstatic. A warm beach? Constant swimming in the sea? Paradise. Sure there’s not a lot of food, but when is there ever? Changes pretty quickly when they win fishing line. Finally gets to put those sailor skills from high school to use. And Stanley is used to being chummy with people who have it out for him.

It’s not easy. Stanley tries to stay unseen both not too good or too bad. But Stan’s a big personality and on a tribe specifically picked out of the ruthless contestants. Yeah.. he should have been less charismatic in the interviews leading up to this. Should have held off on going so hard on the social aspects of the game but it’s so damn easy! Plus that one guy was pretty hot Stan had to kiss him before the alliance voted him off.

Might be why he was on the chopping block the next time. But Stan couldn’t help flaunting a little. He’s never been good at anything, much less a game (without cheating or card counting). It really was dumb luck he saw the immunity idol in Rick’s bag. Can’t believe that idiot didn’t even plan to bring it to the tribal council.

So Stan makes it to the merger. He makes it to the final five. He can taste that $1 million. And sure Pa wanted millions plural but it should be enough to get Ford as many Master’s and Doctorates at that stupid fancy school he always wanted. But all that hope dries up the next morning.

He’s first awake but Bianca is the one who finds the note for the Endurers. She makes him go wake everybody up so she can read dramatically to the group.

“For weeks you’ve called this island your home

Now we’ll make it so you are not alone~!”

She gasps and Stan’s heart sinks. Fuck. He’s not gonna have anybody.

“Todays challenge comes in pairs

So someone comes to make it fair!”

Who writes this crap anyway?

And despite everything the group picks up on Stan’s mood change. He tells the group he’s fine he tells the camera in an aside he had fun while this lasted.

They make it to the challenge area and one by one everyone gets some body. A parent, a kid, hell Bianca was family-less but her girlfriend showed!

Stanley’s alone.

To rub salt in the wound David walks over to him. “Now Stan you said that you didn’t have anybody.”

“Yeah. You gonna be my pity partner?” It doesn’t get the laugh he wants.

“As much as I’d love to I don’t think your brother would appreciate that.”

Holy shit Shermie? He has a bunch of kids to look after.

But it’s not. It’s FORD. Ford is walking across the sand. Stan doesn’t even realize he’s running until he full body tackles Ford.

“I’m still fucking pissed at you.” Ford hissed.

“Well you can be pissed once I get you that million dollars.” Stan promised.

“…what?”

It’s then that David confirms that the loved ones are here to stay.

Ford as buff as he is now is not good at lying. Ford has also never seen the show.

The rest of the show is Stan and Ford fighting and hijinks-ing their way through the game.