#dnf drabble

[pennotfound]

For @chasing-stardust-22 a little fic inspired by this post:

https://www.tumblr.com/chasing-stardust-22/787010168968921088/just-picturing-dream-coming-back-to-their-hotel?source=share

Enjoy!

Stupid vidcon.

George flopped back onto his hotel bed and let out yet another exasperated sigh, as if Dream would somehow be able to hear it from wherever he was.

They were supposed to be in sync, right? Soulmates or something like that?

Dream should definitely know how upset George was about not being able to meet fans with him. About being locked away in his room like some princess with freakishly long hair.

It was just so stupid.

George came to Vidcon to spend time with Dream. And yes, he wanted to spend time with his other friends too. Like Gia, Larray, and Puffy.

But to be discouraged – to be flat out banned – from greeting fans with Dream. It was nothing short of evil.

Homophobic even.

George rolled over in bed and reached for his phone, just as it dinged with another twitter notification. So what if he'd been following drupdates with his secret fan account? It wasn't like he was obsessed or anything. He just wanted to see what Dream was up to, that's all.

And yeah, maybe he'd watched that one clip of Dream giving a fan one of his signature smirks. On loop. For ten minutes.

George was just about to open twitter for the latest when the door to his room opened and Dream strolled inside, practically glowing from the praise that he'd been showered with for hours.

Truth be told, George was happy for his best friend. Dream deserved all of the love he was given and more.

And yeah, he wished he'd been able to share in that, but absorbing it from him this way was just as good, right?

Right.

“So,” George sat up in bed, then patted the mattress next to him. “How did it go?”

“It was amazing!” Dream plopped on the bed beside him. “There were a bunch of people I met yesterday that I got to talk to again, and some new people and oh–” Dream rolled into his side to face George, a casual smile on his lips as he looked George dead in the eye. “We got engaged, by the way.”

A blink.

Another blink.

“What?” George squeaked.

“You heard me,” Dream poked George's chest lightly, his grin growing wider with each second.

“But I didn't even… how could I…”

“Wait, you're not taking it back, are you?” Dream stuck out his lower lip. “The speech, the grand gesture? I thought you loved me, George. I thought you wanted to spend the rest of your life with me.”

“But I –” George blinked again, harder this time. Maybe he was dreaming. Yeah, that's it. He fell asleep and this was all just a projection of his subconscious.

George pinched himself.

Nope. Very much awake.

Dream turned away, wiping at his eyes as his shoulders trembled. “It was a joke, wasn't it? And in the middle of June? I was so excited to plan our wedding.”

“Dream,” George touched his shoulder, guilt clawing at his gut. He was still so confused, but he couldn't bear to see Dream like this, especially if he was somehow the cause. “I'm sorry, Dream. I just… I don't remember proposing. Are you sure it was me?”

Dream took a deep breath, then rolled back towards him, face surprisingly dry. “Of course it was you, idiot. Who else would wear a cape and a mushroom hat?”

A cape.

A mushroom hat.

“Dream!” George gave him a shove that sent him erupting into giggles. “You little… you got proposed to by a fucking cosplayer?”

“Yeah,” Dream laughed some more. “So, are you jealous?”

“Jealous? Me?” George huffed as he rolled his eyes. “Never. In fact, I knew you were joking the whole time. I was just… just playing along.”

“Oh really?” Dream propped himself up onto his elbows, raising one brow and giving him that little smirk he knew George couldn't resist. “You don't fool me, George. Just admit it, I got you. I got you good.”

“Never,” George crossed his arms, turning away from Dream as all of his frustrations rolled to a boil under his skin. “It's bad enough that I couldn't be there with you, and now you rub it in my face?”

“George,” Dream reached out to touch his arm. “It was a joke. I didn't mean anything by it.”

With another huff of air out his nose, George shrugged Dream's hand off his shoulder. “Yeah. Whatever.”

“George,” Dream's voice softened as he scooted closer to George, bumping their shoulders together. “I'm sorry. Really I am. I didn't realize how upset you were about the meet and greet.”

George took a deep breath and exhaled, trying and failing to keep the rush of warmth from rising into his cheeks.

“What can I do to make it up to you?” Dream whispered in his ear. “We could go get sushi together. At that fancy place you like.”

“Don't wanna get dressed up,” George shrugged.

“Then how about going shopping? Pick anything you want and I'll buy it for you,” Dream suggested.

George rolled his eyes. “So you're trying to buy my forgiveness? Wow, wait til the fans hear about this. You'll get cancelled. Again.”

“George,” Dream's voice was lower now, more serious. “What do you want? Just tell me. Or show me.”

“Show you?” George turned to face Dream, gaze falling to perfect pink lips lined in stubble that would feel amazing against his skin.

“Yeah,” Dream leaned in until their lips were a breath apart. “Show me.”

So George did.

And as their lips devoured each other hungrily while limbs tangled in cotton sheets, George thought to himself that maybe it didn't matter if he wasn't with Dream before at Vidcon.

After all, he had Dream now, and no one - not even a cosplayer, would ever get Dream this way.

And that's how it was meant to be.

[livingproofoftbd]

has anyone made this connection yet because i just realized it and completely froze for like 10 solid seconds

so in paranoid, the start of the second verse is “drafting at 2 am, those texts i never send” right?

in Heat Waves (fanfic), doesnt dream draft a whole bunch of messages to george that he never sends (until yknow)?

it’s a long shot, just something that i noticed that i’m gonna spend the rest of the night thinking about

[mahikamihan]

💙 Sacrifice

Dream pushes Sapnap and George through the glowing portal. George has never seen Dream so flustered, not even when the hunters were chasing him down in the good old days. His face is damp with sweat, and he’s been breathing heavily, injuries from travelling the Nether and earlier attacks from the Titan finally catching up to him and wearing him down.

Time seem to slow down when George took in the new surroundings. They were trapped under rock and gravel, the Titan could easily follow them through and they wouldn’t have time to dig and escape. Dream was panicking, his back against the crumbling wall. His face contorts in desperation, mind reeling looking for options to get out of this situation. His gaze meets George, and the helplessness, the regret, the fear showing through for one moment. He forgets that despite the confidence and the showmanship that Dream posesses, he’s still a young man tossed into a mission that’s way over his head.

George makes his decision.

“Sapnap, take my stuff!” George tunnel visions, removing everything from his inventory— bread, rose, weapons, armour— “Give me your pickaxe.”

“Geo- what are you doing, George?” Sapnap asks as he follows his instructions, making space for the thrown objects scattered on the floor. “George! What are you planning?”

He ignores Stinknap’s demands and faces Dream who stays silent, confusion now on his face “Dream, I have to go,” George feels a lump on his throat, all the unspoken things he wish he had time for sticking like goo he can’t spit out, “I- I have to go.”

Quickly, before he thinks too hard on it. George pulls Dream's face and brushes his lips gently— just ever so gently—to the corners of Dream's lips.

He doesn’t give Dream the chance to reply. George runs back through the portal and breaks the obsidian.

He’s trapped. A looming monster roars in anger.

[dwtdog]

George can’t help the way his eyes follow golden wings as they pass by him, feathers perfectly arranged and shining in the low light of morning. The man they belong to is equally as alluring, his hair just a few shades darker than his wings, his shoulders broad. 

George’s own wings twitch against his back where he has them carefully folded so as to not take up too much space in the already crowded cafe he’s chosen to do his work in this morning. He can feel eyes on him, but he hardly pays them any attention- it gets old, eventually, and he’s been dealing with the stares for nearly ten years by now. 

The man vanishes into a coming crowd, and George can only track him by the heads that turn to follow. He supposed he’s no different- pulled so easily from his work by an omega.

With a sigh, he ducks his head and pulls his attention back to the spreadsheet filling his screen, data to be wrangled into a usable form. It’s not his usual brand of work, but he’s been asked to do increasingly more recently, new assignments falling on his desk every morning, with no raise in pay to accompany them.

The rest of the morning passes slowly, not a single other winged person passing by the window. It’s not unusual- alphas and omegas are rare, incredibly so, and the chances of George and the man with golden wings being in the same vicinity is a miracle in itself. 

“Excuse me,” a voice says, and George feels a tap on his shoulder. He sighs, preparing himself for whatever may come. His only respite is that whoever has approached him hadn’t started off their interaction by touching his wings- a depressingly rare joy.

George turns with a tight-lipped smile affixed to his face, and is met with the wide eyes of a child, and the more tentative gaze of a woman who appears to be her mother. “Ah- hello,” he says awkwardly. 

The child’s eyes widen further, and her mother places a hand on her head. “Sorry to bother you, but she wouldn’t leave until we said hello. I’m sure you’re used to hearing that though.”

George grimaces. It’s certainly true, but he does have a soft spot for kids. “That’s okay,” he says, a more genuine smile appearing. “It’s okay to be curious- I’m sure I was the same when I was your age.”

“Can I touch them?” the girl blurts out, and George and her mum both wince.

The woman opens her mouth to speak, but George beats her to it. “I’m glad you asked, but they’re very personal. It would be like- like if I asked to touch your ear.”

The girls mouth forms into an O. “Do you ever hit them on stuff?” she asks, carrying right along, and George laughs.

“All the time,” he says with a theatrical groan. “They never make doors wide enough.”

She has more questions, and George humors her until her mum checks her wrist. “Oh, sorry darling, but we really need to get to the store. Tell the nice man thank you?”

“Thank you!” she immediately chirps, looking at George with stars in her eyes. He raises his hand for a fist bump, and she returns it with glee.

He waves as they leave, even twitching a wing out in farewell. His back twinges as he does, a reminder that he’s been sitting for too long, and he quickly packs up his stuff and leaves the cafe, dropping a few extra dollars in the tip jar on his way out for the extra time spent. 

Navigating the busy streets is always difficult- he pulls his wings as close to his body as he physically can, but people still manage to bump into them. He brushes off the dirty looks, more of the same, and keeps on heading in the direction of his favorite park. 

He loves the city, despite the space troubles.

It’s the atmosphere that he craves. He knows most alphas and omegas prefer to stay in small towns, where they can thrive with plenty of space to spread their wings, quite literally, with far fewer stares, but George wouldn’t give up his shitty apartment for anything. 

He smells the park before he sees it- the scent of nature overtaking the grimier undertones of the city, grass and dirt and decaying leaves far more pleasant. As an alpha, George can detect far more scents than the average person. It had overwhelmed him when he’d first presented, his wings and new, enhanced senses appearing out of nowhere a month or so after his sixteenth birthday. But he’d adapted- learned to shut out the scents, to keep his wings tucked up against him, even if his back muscles would be cramping something awful by the end of every day.

The park is his respite, his most frequently visited part of the city. It’s busy, but not in the same way the city is. 

As soon as he steps onto one of the paved paths running through the grass, he lets his shoulders relax, his wings flaring out to a more comfortable position. 

He’d hated them at first- scaly, dark things that ensured he’d never be able to enter a room without turning heads. He’d envied omegas for their beautiful feathers, far more pleasing to look at than his. 

Now, as he spreads them wide, stretching every muscle until they ache, he can admire the subtle blue sheen over black and grey scales, the way the light catches on them. He feels powerful, impressive. And very tempted to grab a shiny bit of metal that catches his eye.

He wasn’t prepared for the instincts when he first presented. Everyone warned him about the stares, the pressure to find another person like him to settle down with. But they never mentioned the damn urges to pick up every shiny bit of trash that sat on a street corner, or the way he could never resist a piece of jewelry if it caught his eye. 

Which was probably why the winged man earlier had drawn his attention- George was sure that he must be getting approached by alphas left and right, his wings drawing them in like magpies. 

George shakes his head, trying to clear it of the man. He’d long since given up on meeting an omega, let alone dating one. He’d given up on most romantic pursuits in general, really, a nagging anxiety that might just be pursuing him as an oddity rather than out of true attraction plaguing him.

He flaps his wings once, twice. Not powerful enough to get him off the ground- that’s something he certainly can’t do in the city- air space laws keeping his feet firmly planted on the ground. But it does feel good to exert the limbs a bit, so he moves them as he walks between grand old trees, keeping a close eye out for anyone, not keen on getting shouted at for wacking them.

He probably doesn’t make the most elegant sight, walking the paths of the park alone while flapping his wings around like an idiot, but George couldn’t care less. 

When his wings start to burn, unexercised muscles reaching their limit, George turns on his heel and heads back the way he’d came- or, he tries to. He stumbles when he runs square into someone, wings flailing out to balance himself. 

“Woah!” a male voice says, and hands land on George’s shoulders, steadying him. “Sorry, I don’t- I didn’t realize how close I was. I was so in my head,” he laughs awkwardly.

George blinks up at him, and his face looks- familiar. Golden hair halos his face, the sun directly above them, and George wants to grab hold of him and fly away. 

“Uh,” George says, eloquent. “Hi.”

The man blinks at him. “Hi?”

“Do I know you?” 

“You’d probably remember if you did,” the man says, releasing George and taking a step back. George, absurdly, misses the contact in the moment before he sees the reason for the distance. “Most people remember me by these.” And behind the man stretch golden, feathery wings. 

George’s mouth falls open. “You’re- I saw you earlier.”

“Oh?” he says, tilting his head in a way that makes George’s stomach flutter. “I didn’t see you.” His eyes dart to George’s side, where his wings are still spread. George blushes, tucking them back in. He doesn’t miss the way the man’s face falls, his own wings mirroring George’s.

“Ah- yeah,” George bites his lip, embarrassed. “I saw you uh- through a window.”

The man nods, then smiles. “Crazy coincidence we met then, huh?”

“Well,” George says, ignoring the way his heart flutters at the flirty tilt to the man’s mouth. “If I was expecting to meet an omega anywhere, it probably would be at a park. Open space and all that.”

“Oh, come on. Let me be a romantic,” he offers a hand to George. “I’m Dream.”

“George,” he says, taking the offered hand. “And I can be plenty romantic.”

“I’d like to see that,” Dream says with a squeeze of his hand.

Someone runs past them on the path, decked out fully in all the gear of someone obsessed with the exercise, their eyes locked on Dream and George the entire time. 

George rolls his eyes, dropping Dream’s hand. “I’m sure you would,” he teases, even as butterflies fill his stomach.

He’s not entirely sure what’s happening- Dream is still looking at him, and his gaze is so intense it makes George a little nervous. But there’s a flame burning in his chest, that urge to grab the man under the shoulders and carry him off still present. 

“You want to like, get lunch or something?” George asks, biting his tongue. “Not- well, not if you’re busy obviously. Or if you don’t want to. Or if you feel pressured because of the like-”

“Yes,” Dream says, cutting him off with a laugh. “I’d love to get lunch. I was a little worried you’d ask to get coffee. I don’t think I could stomach talking to you if you wanted to get coffee.”

George makes a face. “Does it smell bad to you, too? I can’t stand it.”

Dream nods, his eyes lighting up as he launches into a rant about coffee that George listens to diligently. His mind wanders a bit when the wind picks up, pushing Dream’s scent toward him- and he certainly smells nothing like coffee. His scent is trees and grass, fresh and new and relaxing, and George takes a deep breath in. Dream pauses, raising an eyebrow at him, and George flushes. 

Before he can say anything, a stilted apology on the tip of his tongue, Dream waves a hand. “No, don’t worry, I get it. You smell good too,” he smiles, sharp teeth appearing between his parted lips, and George returns it easily. 

“You don’t know I was going to say you smelled good,” George says with a shrug. “Maybe you stink.”

Dream glares at him. “I do not.”

George lets the silence grow between them for a moment before he breaks, laughing at the outrage on Dream’s face. “I guess you smell okay.”

“Liar,” Dream grumbles. 

“Who knows,” George shoots back. “Do you have like, a lunch spot? My old one closed a month ago.”

“Probably because you stink,” Dream says, carrying on before George can respond. “But yeah, I know this one place- sushi, if you like that?” George’s stomach grumbles at the mention of it. “Well, that sounds like a yes to me.”

“Fine. Take me to your sushi spot,” George waves his hand, shaking his wings out one last time as he prepares to head back into the crowded streets. “It better be good.”

[wishitweresummer]

dream and george….. STUCK in their house together….. without power

can u even.. imagine. dream chasing george through the dark house, the wind roaring outside

thwyre laughing,… screamjng and when dream does catch george (bc ofcourse) he starts tickling him

its sloppy and frantic bc neither can see very well, flashlights abandoned early on in the chase, but george is losing it. this big warm mass tormenting him and…,. well its not like he can get away… go any where.. call for help

(then they cuddle the end😊)

AHHHH CUTE

So, George doesn’t even know what Dream is going to do when he catches him, he’s just running cuz he’s chasing and growling at him through the dark.

George is unphased by the storm, but Dream has a tendency to let his thoughts run into overdrive, so George is mostly just happy to indulge the silly behaviour for his friend. At least Dream isn’t still just walking around fretting, counting every battery and candle in the house over and over again.

‘He’s so silly…’, George thinks fondly as he blindly rounds a corner, giggles bubbling out of his mouth.

Then…

“NAH-!!!”, he screechees as Dream grabs him into a hug from behind and digs his fingers into his ribs. “DREEHEEAM!!!”

Dream pins him down in the dark and George feels like he really is caught by a monster. Dream’s playfulness is at full force; he’s pinning him down with his full body weight and growling into his chest…and those sneaky hands found their way up George’s shirt.

“Fuck!! No please…PLEASE!!! GahhahahAHHH!!! Dream! Aaaahaha Dreeeheeam!!! NOOO!!! PfffftahhahahaAHAHAHA—“.

But, Dream just keeps growling and tickling away. Sapnap is in LA, too far to help George now. The power’s long gone out and there’s nothing else to entertain Dream but George’s ticklish screams.

[baby-fever-anon]

Hiii! I am an absolute sucker for sickfics and unfortunately we are in the great dnf sickfic drought so what about a short drabble of George not feeling well and Dream caring for him? :)

Sick Fic

wc: 697

George has been sick for a little over four days now.

When George had gotten sick that Tuesday, it had worried Dream so much that he nearly made himself sick.

George's first wave of sickness had been awful.

He had woken Dream up at nearly four in the morning by jumping out of bed and nearly sprinting to the bathroom.

Dream had gotten up at the sound of his boyfriend gagging and sputtering as he threw up the dinner the two shared hours before.

When Dream had vocalized his concerns George had waved him off, telling him that it was just something he ate and that he would be fine by morning.

George threw up three more times before the clock hit six am.

George got progressively worse of over the next twenty four hours. When Dream finally convinced him to let him check his temperature on Tuesday evening, the thermometer read 103°.

The number, combined with the fact that the only times George was awake and responsive was when he was throwing up, made him panic even worse.

He ended up calling his mom and begging her for help.

Her advice was to for him to do his best to lower George's fever, make sure he ate even if he couldn't keep it down, and keep him hydrated.

Dream did his best to follow her institutions, even when George would attempt to argue with him.

Now it's Saturday evening and George is doing significantly better.

He's awake and talking, for one. He says his throat hurts, his body is achey, and he has a headache. But his temperature is below a hundred degrees and he managed to eat breakfast without immediately throwing up, so Dream is counting it as a win.

The downside, though, of George feeling well enough to hold proper conversation is that he's feeling well enough to be... Bitchy. For lack of a better word.

"Dreeeeaaam." He whines for probably the third time in ten minutes.

Dream scoffs, fondly exasperated. He's sitting on the bed next to George, on top of the covers, with his laptop on his lap as he responds to emails.

"What do you need now?" He questions, not looking up from his laptop.

"I'm hungryyyy!" George groans in response.

"Then go get food."

"I can't." George pouts.

"And why is that?"

George coughs twice, both sounding like the most obvious fake coughs Dream has ever heard in his life. "I'm sick."

Dream rolls his eyes and holds back a laugh at the statement.

"I mean, you're clearly well enough to be a whiny little bitch, " The term is used affectionately. "about it. So I'd say you should be able to walk down the hall to get your own food."

Honestly, Dream was going to get him food the second he opened his mouth. But he just wants an excuse to rile up his boyfriend before he gives him what he wants.

"Wow." George scoffs, over exaggerating his British accent. He stares at Dream in disbelief before throwing himself back against the bed.

"I'm sick. And hungry. And you're really going to just let me starve." George throws an arm over his eyes and sighs dramatically. "It's like you want me to die." He mutters.

Dream can't hold back his laughter anymore.

"Fine. I'll get you your food, you drama queen."

George uncovers his eyes and beams up at him.

"You promise?"

Dream rolls his eyes. "Yes. I promise."

George let's out a soft giggle, mumbling a soft "Yippie" in victory as he wiggles happily underneath his blankets.

Dream leans in for a kiss, waiting until George closes his eyes to reciprocate to redirect and press a kiss to his forehead instead.

When he pulls away George's mouth is dropped open in offense.

"I want a real kiss." He mutters grumpily.

"Well you know how easily I get sick, and I just don't want to risk it since you're just so sick." He responds with a smug grin.

With that Dream stands from the beg and walks out of the room, giggling quietly to himself at the way George demands he comes back and give him a proper kiss.

[pennotfound]

dnf size difference PLEASEEEEEE

Starting with my first writing prompt ask - 570 words of domestic, slightly suggestive DNF fluff

Enjoy!

Ever since that fateful day when he met Dream online, long before they met in person and shared a hug that sparked the beginning of something amazing, George had been keenly aware of one thing. Something that Dream reminded him of often, with just one little word.

Petite.

The first time, George took offense to the playful jab. After all, Sapnap was shorter than he was and Dream didn't call him petite. And the thing was, George wasn't even that short. Back home in England he’d been considered average in height. And Mum considered him tall - the only person other than Dad who could reach things on the top shelf of the cupboard.

It wasn't his fault that his best friend turned out to be a freaking giant.

After that first day in Florida though, George quickly learned the positives of Dream being so much taller – so much bigger – than he was.

The first: his hands.

George already knew that Dream had big hands - the special keybinds he used in Minecraft were proof of that and something George teased him about from time to time. But George never realized how those hands would feel on his waist, manhandling him to walk past in the kitchen or tackling him in the living room for a tickle fight. If he thought about it too much his cheeks would flush red, and maybe he had on a few occasions. 

The second: his hugs.

Pick-me-up hugs to be specific. Whether silly or sweet, there was something about Dream lifting him a few inches off the ground that made a pleasant warmth spread from the center of George's chest. Something about being held so close, so safe made George seek out those hugs on a regular basis. And of course Dream was happy to oblige. He'd said as much the day George arrived.

“George?” Dream mumbled into his hair as George leaned into Dream's chest. “I hope you realize that you're going to get a lot of these hugs. Like several a day, at least.”

And George wouldn't have it any other way.

Well… maybe one other way.

The cuddled up in Dream's bed naked sort of way.

The being as close to each other as humanly possible sort of way.

And then the laying pressed up against Dream's side, safe and warm, idly tracing shapes on his chest sort of way.

Dritties, George thought with a chuckle as he spread his fingers over the center of Dream's chest, over the gently slowing thump of Dream's heart.

“Hey,” Dream sighed, then reached to take George's free hand in his own. Slowly he pressed their palms together above his chest, then spread the fingers apart.

The familiar warmth returned to George's chest as he looked at their hands, at the way Dream's dwarfed his own and always would. And just like he always did, George shifted his fingers over to slot them between Dream's.

“Hey,” George looked up and pulled their joined hands towards his lips to kiss them. Dream did the same, just before turning onto his side and tucking their joined hands between them, between two hearts that had been beating in sync for years.

“Love you,” Dream kissed his lips, soft and slow, before sighing into sleep. 

“Love you too, idiot.” George accepted the kiss and returned it the best he could as his own eyelids grew heavier.

And really, being petite wasn't so bad.

After all, it got him this.

[livingproofoftbd]

Write dnf cooking together perhaps

thank you dougie 😞 have some drabble

-

Despite what some people seem to think, the three of them eat home cooked meals nearly every day. Sure, sometimes they go out to eat or order in, but that’s not a super common occurrence. They prefer making their own burgers than ordering them, but when George starts demanding things like dumpling, that’s when they order in.

“Dream,” George whines. Dream’s pillow hits him in the face.

“George!” Dream exclaims, flinching in his seat. He flips his headphones off, eyes narrowed. “What?”

George frowns. “I’ve called your name, like, three times.“

“Oh, sorry,“ Dream says, pushing away from his computer. “What do you need?”

“I’m hungry,” George complains.

Dream gives him a look. “And you had to distract me from this?” he asks. “I’m almost done.”

“Which means you have time to make me food,“ George says as he pushes himself off the bed. “C’mon.“

Dream, of course, follows easily. He doesn’t even turn off his computer, simply walks out of the room as George does. Like always.

“We need stuff,” George says, rooting through their cupboards.

“We have plenty of stuff,” Dream argues. “What so you want to make that we don’t have ingredients for?” He peers over George’s shoulder into the cupboards filled with spice.

“Sushi,“ George says plainly. “I saw a tiktok, it doesn’t look that hard.”

Dream looked at him in slight disbelief. “George, you realize you need prepared fish for that, right?” he asks. “That’s not something either of us knows how to do.”

“You realize we don’t need to add fish, right?” George retaliates, closing the cupboards.

“Idiot,” Dream says, smiling. “You hate vegan sushi, you tried it once and spat it out.”

George slaps Dream in the arm. “Shut up,” he grumbles, pushing past him. “I found a store that sells prepared fish specifically for sushi, so I’ll send you the address.”

Dream turns, frowning. “Um, who said I’m going?”

“I did,“ George says, finding Dream’s car keys. “You wouldn’t deny me sushi, would you?” He pouts as he steps close enough to press the keys in Dream’s awaiting palm.

“I could just order sushi,” Dream says, but he’s already walking towards the garage.

“I thought you loved me,” George says sadly.

Dream glares at him. “Idiot,” he says warmly.

He ends up getting George to come along, and they spend over an hour finding the ingredients and other snacks George likes. Dream buys him apples and apple juice and some chips he likes—“crisps, Dream.” They get some for Sapnap too, so he doesn’t bitch about it and try to steal George’s snacks.

“So how do we even make sushi?” Dream asks.

“Let me find the video,” George says, pulling out his phone. “Give me a sec.”

Dream unloads the bags as George searches for the video, pulling out sushi rice and prepared fish and seaweed sheets and other various ingredients they bought. George makes a small triumphant noise as Dream is putting away the apple juice.

“Look look look.” George shows Dream the video. It looks easy enough, but Dream figures the quality won’t be nearly as good as the sushi made professionally. Still, they started making it. George decided he would do the easiest part and make the rice, and Dream didn’t argue. Because he never does.

They lay the seaweed flat on a fancy sushi roller, put down cooled rice, and place strips of fish down. Their first attempt at rolling it is laughable, and their second isn’t much better.

“Dream, this is so ugly,“ George complains. “How do we even cut it?“

Dream is giggling too hard to respond as he tries to place the terribly rolled sushi on a plate to cut it. “This is gonna be so bad,” he says, high pitched through his laughter. “George, what-“

He suddenly doubles over laughing, leaning on the edge of the counter. Georg starts laughing with him, leaning over to try and cut it. “Dream!” he shrieks. “It’s falling apart! Help!”

Dream stands up to see a very failed attempt at cutting it. The part that George cut off looks diseased and the whole thing is falling apart. “George!” he exclaims. “What the hell?”

They manage to salvage it enough to cut it, and they cheers with their hands clutching the sushi carefully. “Good luck,” George says, and Dream giggles before he eats it. And, surprisingly, it tastes great.

“Look at us go,” Dream says, smiling.

“I’m having another,” George decides. “This is insane, Dream.”

They make some for Sapnap before eating the rest, and then George just starts eating the rice and fish straight from the pot. Dream shakes his head fondly as he walks upstairs to deliver Sapnap his dinner.

[extrasteps]

Chapters: 11/? Fandom: Video Blogging RPF Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF) Characters: Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF) Additional Tags: Shibari, Miscommunication, not so unrequited longing, Angst, and FOR WHAT, more tags added as we go, will be explicit as heck, CONSENT IS HOT GUYS, Dirty Talk, Anal Fingering, fleshlight, Bottom GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Restraints, is being into sweaty guys a kink idk, probably right Summary:

George is willing to do anything for Dream, even apparently getting tied up?

[snowdreamr]

love you like oxygen

2.8k words | Rated G | oneshot

Varying forms of Dream, George, and the domesticity and intimacy that are so characteristic of their relationship.

Tags: Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Non-sexual Intimacy, No Plot/Plotless, Slice of Life, Switched POV

Extract:

“I missed you,” Dream whispers, eyes prickling with hot tears threatening to roll down his cheeks. He tries to blink them away, but it only gives them more power. “Hate being away from you.”

George looks up. “You’re never away from me.” He cups Dream’s face and squeezes it dearly, rubbing their noses together. “You’re always with me.”

(twitter)

[honelle56]

One of them loses their mind when the other one is hurt and yet still charges recklessly into a fight.

We are back with drabbles! Who cheered!

“George, the titan!” Dream screams but it’s already too late. Before George can even turn around, the titan has already grabbed him and thrown him towards the hill. He can hear George hit the ground with a sickening crack.

Immediately, Dream takes off towards him, subconsciously hearing explosions in the background. The titan roars in anger. But Dream is focussed on the pile of limbs laying a few hundred meters from him.

Before he can reach him, George is already on his feet again, limping towards the titan. His right arm is hanging uselessly from his side, blood trickling down the side of his face.

“George!” Dream calls out but he is not listening to him, pulling out his sword and attacking the titan’s right foot. It doesn’t look as smooth as his usual fighting, his hits lacking their usual strength with only one hand gripping the sword.

“You fucking idiot," Dream mutters under his breath. “No self-preservation whatsoever.”

He pulls out his bow and starts shooting the titan from afar, hoping to distract him from the human trying to dodge his stomping. “I am shooting him!” he calls out as a warning. The last thing he wants is to accidentally injure George further.

George doesn’t acknowledge him, instead going for another strike while the titan is busy looking for Dream. The titan howls, swatting at George who throws himself to the ground, narrowly dodging the blow.

With the titan focussed on George again, Dream runs closer, pulling out his axe. He pulls George up and shoves him behind himself, swing the axe as hard as he can towards the foot trying to stomp them. He hears George hitting the ground behind him, groaning at the impact, but he doesn’t have time to turn around. All his thoughts are focussed on “Must. Protect. George.”

The titan let’s out a pained breath as the axe buries its way into his heel. Dream knows they are too weak to fully kill him, but for now getting him to retreat would be enough.

When the titan stumbles on his feet, Dream charges a final time, swinging his axe towards the titan’s ankle. The force must have been enough, as the foot is severed from the rest of the body, dissolving immediately.

The titan roars in pain and anger, trying its best to not lose its balance. He tries to swat Dream one final time, before hopping away on its remaining foot.

Dream can hear the echo of the footstep slowly disappearing in the distance, but his thoughts are with George. He turns around and sees him sitting on the ground, his back propped up on a boulder.

Dream makes his way towards him, already pulling out medical supplies from his small backpack.

“You idiot,” George groans once Dream kneels besides him. “You could have gotten yourself killed!”

Dream splutters, confused by George’s anger. “I could’ve been killed? Dude, have you looked at yourself?"

"Don’t call me Dude,” George mutters. “It’s weird to call your boyfriend Dude.”

Dream presses an apologetical kiss to his shoulder and starts examining George’s wounds. His right shoulder is dislocated, and he sprained his ankle but otherwise he is more or less unharmed. Dream lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and grabs George’s right arm.

“This is gonna hurt," he warns, giving George just enough time to hide his face in Dream’s neck before he adjusts his arm. George manages to keep himself from screaming but Dream fells him tensing up from the pain. He carefully hugs him close, soothingly rubbing his back. “There, it’s all fixed now," he whispers. “You’re gonna be fine.”

After a minute, George slowly pulls back to let Dream bandage his foot and put on the sling for his arm. “Thanks," he mutters, his expression unusually hard.

“What?” Dream asks. “Are you still mad I went after you when you could barely stand on your own two feet?”

George glares at him. “I am mad that you got into unnecessary danger just to save me. You cannot get killed, Dream. It would mean the end of the world as we know it, if the titan wins. And we both know that only happens when you die. I don’t matter.”

Dream lets his gaze drop to his lap, understanding now where George is coming from. “George," he sighs, cupping his face. “You have to understand that I do not care about anything but you. Nothing else matters to me. What does a perfect world help me if you are dead? You are all I need, darling.”

George just stares at him, his expression slowly softening and his body slumping forwards in Dream’s hold. Dream presses a kiss to his forehead and pulls him close. Internally, he swears to himself to keep George save, come what may. He has his moon in his arms, and that is all that matters.

[samrieimg]

This very late Monday drabble is from a later chapter of "Play Like You Mean it"

...

TW: Graphic descriptions of violence/some descriptions of nudity/abundance of pred/prey

...

He stooped next to George, his movements filled with the grace, yet laziness of a victorious old dog after it got the downed fowl. George acted his part of dead fowl. Dream trailed a hand down his face, his fingers tracing his jaw.

 “I think that’s enough for today, don’t you? You don’t do this is as much as I do. You’re getting all worn down." George bristled, but he only blinked slow, focusing on his breath rising and falling in his chest. "But you know, I love how hard you try. You want to own me so bad,” Dream trilled. “But you’re still too soft. You got so close, but you won’t kill me. You won’t cross the line.”

Dream cradled George's head against his shoulder as he scooped him up. Dream’s hoodie is soaked in blood, enough it smears on George's cheek. He can feel Dream limping, a jolt in every step as he carries George like a prized catch back inside. 

“Let’s get cleaned up, George.”

Cleaned up? George wanted nothing more. 

By his own hand. In his own bathroom.

George missed his bathroom. He missed the perpetual mildew on tiles too high for him to bother with scrubbing as hard. He missed the water stain on the wall near his shower. He missed his own soap, he hadn't thought the half-empty travel-size wash he'd used over a year ago and mildly disliked would feel so foreign, nor worse when nothing he saw or smelt in Dream's bathroom was like his own.

The little slice of agency a smell could give someone completely absent. 

Dream set George against the tub in the bathroom. He sat him up, making sure he was able to support himself before he dropped his hands.

George watched numbly as Dream tugged his bloody hoodie off and his shirt leaving his chest bare. The weak knife slash George had managed across his bicep was only skin deep at best but Dream traced it with his pinky. A small, awful little smile before he tended to it. George averted his eyes and Dream tutted.

"George, look."

George stared through his hair and eyelashes at him. 

 “I want you to see what you’ve done," Dream said, he rinsed his wound under water, letting the sink turn pink with watered blood..

“Why? So I can feel guilty?”

“Because I want you to be proud, George,” Dream corrected.  George shuddered. If he had pride, it’d dried up after that. 

Dream examined the knife wound, stretching the skin around it.  “I think it’ll scar. Both of these will.” He gestured to the burn.  It's a nasty thing for a stove top burn, the skin on his wrist is bubbling, and got uglier under the cool water, blisters bubbling up. Dream hardly winced, a testament to his pain tolerance. “You’re not much of a dog person, are you George? You're  more of a cat person.” 

George didn't answer him. His eyes lingered on Dream's injuries, willing them to be worse. He imagined the knife wound had been to the chest or the burn to the face. If he could break Dream…

Dream flashed that eerie private smile and began to strip off the rest of his clothes. He didn't bother with modesty and George averted his eyes to avoid staring at his flaccid cock. He'd already seen it before, but he wasn't in the mood. His eyes landed on Dream’s calves and with a small horror he saw skin gouged out around his ankles, like he'd been chained at some point. The more his eyes swept up the more scars he could find. A bite mark of a dog or something on his upper calf, flesh healed long ago, but badly. Dream wiped himself down with a rag, his hand lingering a minute too long on his cock to be accidental. 

“I can’t be your cat, George," Dream trilled, and he reached for George's face and tilted his jaw up. "But you—you could be mine. I like cats.” 

George stared into the green eyes. They reminded him of the woods, murky, familiar yet eerie. An uncanny horror lurking within. He shivered. Most people looked defenseless when naked, not Dream. George could see every hand that'd attempted to kill him, break him, and failed.

“I’m not your cat," George said.

“Not yet," Dream released his jaw and tossed the dirty rag on the sink. "Then again, what cat thinks it belongs to people, let alone belongs to a dog. Patches doesn’t think like that,” Dream hummed. He wrapped his arm slowly, firm gauze aroun. "No stitches. You'll appreciate I let this scar. You'll like looking at it," Dream said.

George swallowed. Rotten. He was rotten but he did hope it scarred.

“You are a cat. You certainly love knocking things over.”

George laughed, but fruitlessly he tried to muffle the sound, closing his mouth with a snap. Dream smiled, fond. 

“You know, you’re not half bad.” Dream said. “You’re such an oddity. For a cat person, coding does make sense. I checked if your little life story was true. I doubted. I used your fingerprint when you were passed out. You really are just what you said you are." Dream laughed a little.   "I’ve been wanting to learn to code." But—well, Sapnap and I keep busy.”

“If we were having this conversation before you tried to kill me…I'm sure I'd be more enthralled,” George muttered. He leaned back against the bathtub where he’d been set, onto his aching arms secured tightly behind him. “What now?”

“Well, we’re going to bed. And Sapnap will be here in the morning." Dream hummed in thought. “And then if this is all you have, you’ll die.”

“What more can I fight with. I tried.” George muttered, leaning his head back against the sill of the tub. “I admit it. I can’t fight like you. I can’t escape you. I tried. Can you just kill me in my sleep or now—get it over with? I’m tired.”

“…I could,” Dream says. “I wouldn’t even if I wanted to, I'm a loyal dog. But you’re forgetting, George.” Dream squat down, lowering himself to George. “Are you willing to own me?”

“I tried that too,” George said, but he narrowed his eyes,  his fatigue ebbing away. “But if you’re saying what I think you’re saying, you’ll convince Sapnap not to kill me.”

 Dream tutted. He stood back up. 

“No,” Dream said. He rubbed salve on his burn. “Not a chance. Sapnap’s thick in the head. No. If you want to survive, George, you’re going to have to convince me.” 

He finished his lazy wound care and squat over George, straddling his legs. “I don’t want to kill you yet, but the thing is, Sapnap’s my owner. If you want me to disobey him, you’re going to have give me a strong reason to obey you.”

George swallowed and composed himself, tilting his chin up. He looked to the side, considering it. “What doesn’t Sapnap give you? Are you trapped here?”

“Mmm.” Dream sounded thoughtful. “Now there’s an interesting word. ‘Trapped.’ ‘Broken-in’, more like, George.” Dream said. “But what doesn’t Sapnap give me? For one, he’s a little insecure. He wouldn’t want to emasculate himself. Everyone Is willing to call someone their bitch, but…” He gripped George’s jaw and licked his lips, his face inches apart. “You can see how it feels, can’t you? Would you willingly humiliate yourself?”

“Not my kink,” George said. Dream laughed, a musical sound full of delight.

“Hm, maybe it’s mine,” Dream said. “But see, the thing I’d like to see in an owner, is someone who knows we’re both just messed up, rotten little animals. And maybe George, you’re right. I don’t want this structure, these rules. Not anymore. But…Your pretty face isn’t going to convince me, because the one thing Sapnap has miles on you is blood lust and the ability to hunt things. If you can’t escape a hunter then—you’re no cat, George. You’re just a little bunny rabbit.”

Despite his pulse hammering heavily in his ears, George coughed and straightened. 

“I’ll escape him. I won’t need you,” George decides. “But if I did. You’d want me. I wouldn’t have to try. You want me to beg you for help, pretend I’m a bitch? A runt? Not a chance.”

Dream was salivating, his pupils blown. He gripped George's jaw tight. He licked George, trailing his tongue along George’s forehead, over his eye,  down his nose and to his lips. He licked at his mouth and grinned as George flinched, twisting in his grip. “You’re definitely a cat, George. All prickly. You fluff up. You think it’ll protect you. That I’ll see that big fluffy coat and tail and I’ll back down. But you should know, George, it does make me want you—I want to see you beneath me.”

George huffed, but he’s feeling his cock rise, a mixture of fear and the tension reaching his stomach. Dream’s naked body has been pressed against him far too long and he remembered this morning, Dream hot and tight around him. “Because George, I don’t want another Sapnap—I want you to become something more. I want you to be better. You made me realize I’m not happy, and I’m going to make you realize you’re not happy.”

“I was very much happy with my lifestyle before this,” George said but Dream’s mouth pressed against his. A chaste kiss. “Liked it a lot more than this.”

Dream let out a derisive, disbelieving snort. Dream kissed his mouth again, his tongue and teeth catching George's bottom lip. “Don’t worry, George, cats can get broke-in to a new house. It just takes a different hand,” Dream says. “Sapnap never liked cats, but you could fit right in.”

“I would never stay,” George said, huffing out breaths against Dream’s mouth. Dream rubbed his cheek against George's, nudging his jaw with his nose. 

“Well, I didn’t ever say I was the nicest to animals,” Dream murmured. “I never hurt Patches, but she’s a sweetheart. You, George?” Dream hummed. “If I like you too much, I’ll have to do what I do to the mice at the orphanage when I was a kid. I’d break one of their little legs, so they could be my pets. Mine.” 

George felt his blood chill and Dream pulled his head back to take in his expression. "Obedience is useful, George."

"I'd rather you break my leg," George said. 

[nervouswaltz]

just had a fucking BRAINWAVE for a short story i am going to work on to get ahead on writing 4 school so exchange fic might b last post of the summer b4 i go back to school

[baby-fever-anon]

somebody plz send me ideas/requests for just like a short little drabble

[pennotfound]

for the writing prompts, a small moment of dnf wedding? maybe the moment of their first dance or the cake cutting ;3

Going a little non-traditional with this and writing from Drom's POV 🩷

A light breeze blew Claire's carefully styled curls while she sat at the table on the edge of the dance floor, a half-eaten piece of cake before her. It wasn't that she didn't like it. It was delicious - a perfect blend of vanilla and chocolate.

Her boys' favorites.

Correction - her sons' favorites.

She couldn't help the smile that turned up her lips at the thought that George was finally her son-in-law. Clay certainly had taken his sweet time courting that boy, and maybe he'd needed a little bit of help - just a nudge - when it came time to proposing.

But now here they were - her two sons, Clay and George - married and looking happier and more in love than she'd ever seen them. That's all she ever wanted, their happiness. Goodness knows they'd been through more than enough trials to get them here, but every one of them had forged their bond until it was stronger than the titanium bands on their fingers.

"Mom!" Clay waved to her from the center of the dance floor as it began to clear. "Come on, it's our turn."

Claire stood up and slipped her high heeled shoes back on her feet. She'd switch back to her more comfortable flats later, but for now she wanted to be a little bit taller to dance with her son.

From the next table over, George's mum stood as well and made her way over to George for the joint mother-son dance. Claire couldn't help but chuckle under her breath even now at the colors they'd chosen for their dresses - she in a pale green sundress and Helen in a matching blue one.

"Ready?" Clay said as he held out his hand for her to take. Behind him, George did the same to Helen. She nodded, and with a quick gesture from Clay to the DJ they'd hired, the first song began to play.

It really was the perfect song, not just for her and Clay, but for her and George too. And as she spun around the dance floor with each of her sons, she couldn't help but be proud, and thankful, and so full of love for both of them.

"You're not going to cry, are you, Mom?" Clay squeezed her hand once while the lyrics of the song settled around them.

"You've got troubles, I've got 'em too. There isn't anything I wouldn't do for you."

"If I am," she dabbed at the corner of her eye. "Then they're tears of happiness."

"I think I know what you mean," Clay turned them a bit, just as George and his mum drew closer.

With the next beat Claire released Clay's hand, to switch partners and take her turn with George - the boy who not only made Clay so happy, but who she had her own bond with. A bond shared over driving lessons, evening conversations over FaceTime when he needed a mom to talk to and his own mum was asleep.

She had no intention of taking Helen's place, either. Claire knew and appreciated the relationship George had with her, and through the past several months of wedding planning she'd become friends with Helen as well.

They really were one big family now - two families on opposite sides of the ocean, connected by the extraordinary love that Clay and George shared.

As the song ended and the last notes faded away, Claire led George over to her son while Helen did the same with Clay, and when the two linked hands for their first dance together, two mothers who'd watched their sons grow up made their way back to their tables and cake.

Helen sighed as she took a seat, then glanced at Claire with a smile and a hint of tears in her eyes. Deep brown eyes that she'd given to her son just as Claire gave her green ones to Clay.

"We really did good with them, didn't we?" she said as they began to dance to a softer instrumental version of a familiar song.

"Yeah," Claire nodded. "Yeah, we did."

[httpsserene]

Lando smut driveroom after hia dnf🫠🫠

dnf therapy — 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐝 #1 | #4 | #16 | #44 | #55 | #81 x fem!reader blurbs. requested! explicit sexual content. hurt/comfort. sexual propositions. depressed charles. mercedes f1 team slander. sir kink. face-sitting, vaginal sex, masturbation, voyeurism, blowjobs, cunnilingus, angry sex, shower sex (all light or implied).

synopsis: what goes down in their driver’s room with you after a dnf.

༊࿐ ⊹ ˚. river baby, this one’s for you xxx we all know what inspired this one lmao !!! i will not be doing extended fics for any of these, they are quick drabbles as a little writing exercise for me!

⌕ join taglist | requests & feedback | upcoming chapters | table of contents ↻

𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧, 𝐦𝐚𝐱 #𝟏

You’ve never found Max’s skill for talking endlessly annoying or draining. In fact, you can recall telling him that hearing him eagerly explain about racing or other topics that interest him is attractive, multiple times. However, you’re not sure if you can withstand much more of him rambling through a retelling of every single lap he raced before he had to retire, looking for any possible point where he could’ve done something different to prevent it. 

The two of you are sitting on his small couch, pressed side to side, and you’re offering small nods of agreement and hums of understanding during his pauses between words that echo in the small private room. His helmet was shoved in a random cubby, his balaclava draped on top of it but, he hasn’t made any other progress in taking off his race gear. His gloves are still covering his hands as he fiddles with the straps around his wrists, his race suit and boots still properly secured, the smell of sweat and gasoline–the scent of man alluring to your nose–the heat of his body radiating against your side instigating the warmth that floods your cheeks, and the sound of his lisp curling seductively around his speech prompting less than pure thoughts as your heart flutters and thighs press together.

Max is unaware of the sudden twist in your thoughts as he verbally attempts to calculate just exactly where he could’ve improved his outcome, his voice rumbly with an undertone of displeasure, when you cut him off.

“Let me make it better,” you offer.

The Dutch driver cocks his head at you, his expression confused and humored, “How can you make my DNF better? I do not think you can go back in time and—”

“No, Max,” you interrupt, teeth tugging at your bottom lip gently, “Let me sit on your face.”

Visibly, you see his breath catch and eyes widen. His mouth opens and closes as he tries to formulate a response, tongue flicking out to dampen his lips as he thinks—before his pupils blow large, and he swallows audibly.

“Oh,” Max starts, finally tugging his gloves off and tossing them to the floor, then moving to undo the strap of his race suit, “That would make it better.”

𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬, 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨 #𝟒

He’s pacing the small length of the room angrily, ranting about his retirement loudly enough that you know it’s seeping through the thin walls. You stare at him with a slightly concerned gaze, getting slightly annoyed as his race suit tied low on his hips threatens to smack you in the face every time he turns around. 

You’re well aware that Lando is quick to anger and brood as he freely makes everyone aware of where the blame needs to be placed. But, the dark and unyielding look in his eyes leads you to believe that he’ll be a little too real to the press today and you would hate to have to deal with a simultaneously enraged and ashamed Lando once he realizes what he said. Then, you’ll have to comfort him as he overthinks his words and doom scrolls through Twitter to see what people are saying about him. You would like to sleep tonight, so you can’t have him embarrass himself today. Thankfully, Lando’s a man, a very simple man at his core. 

You stand up from the couch and pull off his hoodie that you stole. Lando continues to rage and pace, not aware of your movement. You undo the buttons of your shirt, shrugging it off to stand in your bra and jeans. Lando doesn’t notice your state of undress until he spins around to find you topless and shimmying your jeans down your hips.

“Um,” Lando stutters, eyes fixed on your tits, “Why are your clothes off?”

“Get over here and fuck your anger out,” you command, “So when you talk to the press, you don’t say the stupid shit you're telling me now.”

Lando mumbles and pouts offended as he scrambles to lose his race suit, “‘s not stupid shit.”

You roll your eyes and reach out to tug him forward strongly, humming as the length of his body knocks against yours, easily stuffing your hand down his fireproofs and kissing on the meat of his neck, “mhm–I’m sure it isn’t.”

𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐜, 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐬 #𝟏𝟔

The room is silent as Charles blankly stares at the wall, you’re not sure if he is aware of your hand comfortingly scratching along his back. He only offered words of exhaustion and depression as he slipped quietly into his room and curled next to you as he dissociated from his retirement.

You’ve tried everything. You cooed soothingly, you complained about the result, and you even loudly expressed how terrible you think the car and Ferrari are and he didn’t say a single word. He simply continued to stare at the wall, his suit and helmet still on, visor down, and expression unreadable. Anxiously, you shifted next to him, not used to experiencing Charles this out of it. And suddenly, the idea came to you. Breaking the silence, you suggested giving him head to relieve his stress. Charles said no. Your brow furrowed perplexed at his denial; he’s never rejected a blowjob before. You took it one step further and offered to let him fuck it out of you (you were previously adamant on the “no sex in the driver’s room” rule because sound carries), and you were sure the Monegasque was about to say yes before he shook his head violently like he was forcibly removing the thought, and mumbled something along the lines of, “I don’t deserve it.” 

That is something you will not let slide. Charles doesn’t need to punish himself after he’s already out of the race, but if he won’t allow himself to indulge in you, you’ll strongly encourage him to.

“Okay, Charlie,” you whisper, “If you’re sure.”

He doesn’t zone back in until he hears your whimpers seep into the air, snapping his head to look at you. He finds you with one hand tugging at your nipple and your other hand shoved under your skirt—from the movement, he can guess that you’re two fingers deep. You hear Charles choke audibly and you can’t help but toss your head back and giggle, the laughter turning into a moan of pleasure as your fingers pass over a sensitive spot.

“I-I think–merde,” Charles cuts himself off as he stares at your show, “I think I’ve changed my mind.”

The helmet stays on.

𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐨𝐧, 𝐥𝐞𝐰𝐢𝐬 #𝟒𝟒

You’re unsure if Lewis is even mad about his retirement. The man seems mentally deranged as he laughs gleefully about ending his race early. Understandably, he is complaining about the bottoming of the car and the hell it’s wreaking on his back–so, maybe the joy is justifiable, your man is…older.

The thing is, Lewis switches from rambling about his back pain to complaining about Mercedes and repeating how he can’t wait for a change in scenery at Ferrari. In the Mercedes motorhome. Loudly. You know he’s doing it on purpose based on the vengeful look in his eyes. He recalls almost every single moment the team dismissed his critiques and suggestions, every single moment they didn’t appear at his podiums, every single moment they thought he wouldn’t leave, every single moment they took him for granted. And, Lewis is more than welcome to express his grievances—but you would still like him to leave on good terms as Toto did promise you a custom G-Wagon (not that Lewis can’t get you one himself; you would just hate to see him ruin his connections).

Lewis also can’t help being hot. He sits comfortably splayed out on his couch, a towel tied loosely on his hips from his shower, chest bare as beads of water fall downwards and get caught in the maze of his toned abdomen, his tattoos become art pieces as you appreciate the sight fully. He continues to partake in his amusing one-man conversation as he clasps his chain around his neck—and you break.

“Let me suck your dick,” you blurt out, cheeks flushing, surprised at your own words, “...sir?”

Lewis pauses, raising an eyebrow at you from where you’re leaning on the room door. 

“Well, I don’t know why you’re still standing over there if that’s what you want. Kneel.”

The sound of your knees hitting the floor sings in the air, “Yes, sir.”

𝐩𝐢𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢, 𝐨𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫 #𝟖𝟏

Oscar’s already sequestered himself away in his room before you were able to intercept him on his way. The mechanics are lowly gossiping about how mad he was when he pulled himself out of the car and they watch after you in fear as you make your way to your boyfriend.

Oscar? Mad? He’d never take it out on you, there’s no reason for the mechanics to be worried. Except when you enter the room, the vibes are peculiar. Oscar’s calmly folding his race suit, boots tucked away into their proper place, standing in just his fireproofs—they compliment his body well, extremely well. He turns to look at you and there’s a smile on his face as if he hasn’t retired from a race. He opens his arms for a hug, and you hesitate for a moment before fulfilling his request. His arms wrap around you warmly and he nuzzles his face into your hair, pulling back briefly to press a kiss on your forehead before tightening his embrace. It feels more like he’s comforting you than you’re comforting him. He walks the two of you backward to his couch and pulls you down to sit on his lap. 

Somehow, Oscar brightens more, “Hi, baby,” he grins, hands moving to fiddle with the hem of your shirt.

“Uhh, I’m sorry about your race?” Your tone of voice is unsure.

“Oh,” he laughs dismissively, “It happens sometimes–it was listed in the job description.” His right hand slips underneath your shirt as he speaks, moving calmly to tug the cups of your bra down underneath your chest, squeezing lightly at the plush weight in his hand. 

You’re convinced he’s severely concussed, but it doesn’t stop you from arching towards him, your hips rolling forward unconsciously, “Ummm— ‘s there a-anything I can do to help?”

Oscar’s hand draws out of your shirt and halts the grind of your hips in a flash, he coos at you, “Aw, that’s so sweet of you to offer…let me fuck your tits—please?”

What were you going to do, tell him no?

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐳 𝐣𝐫, 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 #𝟓𝟓

You’re going to slam your head on the corner of the sink and hope it knocks you out. You’ll do it if means the sounds of Carlos’ whining stop. He forcibly pulled you up on the counter of the sink and told you to stay put as he showered so he could talk it out to you.

Naively, you thought the sound of the shower running would muffle his words and you were wrong. On any other day, you would be fine to support him through his complaints but your period is due to start in a couple of days and the irritation and sore muscles are already affecting you. Originally, you were eager to watch Carlos shower—that’s a sight plenty of women and men alike would kill you for. Then, the glass fogged with steam depriving you of something to ogle. And, if there’s one thing a woman is experiencing besides pain, sensitivity, and anger before her period, it’s being horny. You rationalize your thought process as you get undressed; Carlos gets some stress relief and you get to hear moans and grunts of pleasure instead of his huffing, grumbling, and whining. 

You slide the glass door open and closed as you step in the shower, completely bare except for the necklaces, earrings, and anklet with the #55 charm he gifted you randomly, “Carlos, por favor, be quiet.”

The Spanish man’s mouth is agape as he stares at you, frozen in the middle of his motion of scrubbing soap along his arm, “¿Qué?”

You roll your eyes, tugging the soapy cloth out of his hand and setting it on the shower shelf, “There’s better things you could be doing with your mouth.”

Carlos blinks, returning to the present and sinking to his knees in the too-small shower. 

He stares up at you with his big, sweet, lust-drenched, brown eyes, his hair a mess from the spray of the shower, and his voice cracking as he speaks, “Yes, definitely.”

© httpsserene — do not reupload. photos used in header are from pinterest. divider from @cafekitsune.