#everybody telling me 'no pls draw it'

[dlartistanon]

Fitting meme to remember her other legacy

[lusilver001]

Just finished stellerlune and I’m betting book 10 is going to be called “Elysian” just you watch

[trulyhblue]

Bf Leah being wound up after a bad game and takes control. Smut pls!!!!

BLED BLUE

leah williamson x chelsea! reader

Warnings: Smut 18+, humiliation, dom/sub dynamics, age gap (legal + consensual), hate sex, enemies w/ benefits, rough, coarse language.

________________

Part of you wondered how long it would take Leah to take you home. There was not an ounce of blue in her body, taken only by the lifelong allegiance to North London, but the thought of you, a blue-born Chelsea girl, taking up the space under her sheets, was addictive.

Chelsea were the better team. Always was, and always will be. The Blues were better at everything. Their players were more advanced, their game plans had been executed to perfection. Arsenal were sloppy, poor, and unjust. It was embarrassing to the point where it stood out as entertaining to you. Seeing the almighty, reigning Arsenal fall on their knees and succumb to the superiority of your team was endearing, and you found yourself searching for the thrill increasingly more as the game progressed.

And the sight of the woman you hated oh so much angered by the defeated notion of the final whistle was your idea of an indescribable victory.

“What a shame, Williamson.” You snagged, clutching the fabric at your hips, looking down at her bent figure. “I thought you’d play well.”

“Ah, it is you.” She replied with just as much spite. “I thought I saw someone falling flat on their face. Makes sense now that I know it was you.”

You smirked, folding your arms over your chest. “Yeah, tried to show my humility… y’know, after scoring two goals tonight I thought it was only necessary.”

Leah scoffed, straightening her posture to display her authoritative height over you. “Both off deflections… sounds brilliant.”

“Player of the match worthy.” You bit back, stepping forward, pressing your chest against hers, suppressing the heat in your face. “Don't worry, I’ll make sure to credit your own goal in the interview.”

“Always have an excuse to talk about me. Can't stop, can you?”

“Is that what you think of me?”

“I don't think of you.” Leah shook her head, grabbing the hem of your shorts and fiddling with them persistently. “But if I did, I’d be sure to let you know.”

“If only I cared enough to hear it.” You tutted, not really caring about the openness of your situation. The stadium was still quite full, with both of your teammates lingering on the field. Fans were banking the barricade, no doubt looking for the two of you.

“I could tell you now if you’d like.”

“Aw, are you thinking of me now, Williamson?”

You felt Leah’s hand move to the inside of your thigh, pressing a tight pinch to gain any type of reaction from you. Biting your lip, you hoped that the post-game redness covered your blush.

“I bet you love the thought of people watching this, don't you?” She asked, glaring at you with such hatred that her words felt bittersweet. “Always so desperate for attention that you’d do it in front of everyone. Fucking needy.”

“You’re the one touching me.” In anger, you snapped. You didn't like the way Leah seemed so confident, so right in what she was saying. You wanted to be right. You were the one who won it for your team. You were better than her. She needed to realise that.

The only separation between the two of you was by your arms crossed over your chest. Leah was drawing furious patterns along your thigh, pressed up against you with her face above you, your height earning her to look down.

“Pull away then.” She uttered, now pulling you into a hug. You knew this would send fans into a spiral. Everybody knew about your rivalry with Leah. It was evident in the tackles, the cards, the teams, the games, the interactions. This was unclaimed territory. You had both teased each other after the games. There was always fire and spite, anger and resentment, but never contact. She told you to pull away, and by the tension that lingered, if you did she would let you have there was something else there. You felt it between your legs, running down your spine, making your core yearn.

It was in the way she kept her hand in between your thighs, deepening her fingers just below where you needed her most. She held you tight, closing any physical gap, forcing your arms to circle her waist as she wrapped her spare arm around the name on the back of your shoulders. You don't know why, but you held her back just as tight, breathing heavily when she started moving her fingers upwards.

“So tense.” She spat, rubbing your shoulder.

You shook her arm off, keeping the contact but still resistant. “I pulled it at training, of course it is.”

“Wasn't talking about your shoulder, baby.” She chuckled, her voice sending goosebumps down your neck. “In those thighs. Clenching them so hard and I'm hardly touching ‘em.”

That was when you knew your cheeks were burning.

There was a hint of humiliation in your tone, but your anger was still prevalent. “I didn't even notice your hand.”

“Yeah, alright.” Williamson grinned, pulling away. You felt the cold air nip your cheeks at the sudden loss of contact. Her fingers were no longer soothing the ache in between your legs. “Alright, baby, no, all that flushed cheeks from the big game, hm? Breathing so heavily cause you scored two goals, is that you’re so wet for me?”

“I’m not— you're so—”

Leah stepped away again, and you were too stupid to step forward in response. “God, is that what you're gonna sound like in the interview? You a mess, Baby, really. All flustered and red.”

“I'm not red.” You snapped. “And stop calling me baby. You're only four years older than me.”

Leah could see straight through you. “But you love that though.” She saw straight past your visible persona. “Why don't you show me how mature you are then? Can't call you baby if you prove that you're not.” She could tell by your flustered state, your wide eyes and your tainted disposition that you were struggling to handle the conversation.

“I don't need to prove anything to you. I just won the match. That's enough to prove that I'm better anyway.”

“But you needed help to get there, didn't you?” She retorted. “It’s not your name on the score sheet, it's mine. Look,” she pointed up to the screen, almost condescendingly, above the stands, where WILLIAMSON (OG) was printed boldly in white below the score. “All that hard work and I still get the mention.”

There was a fight for dominance, but the fight was so clearly won when you audibly gulped, unable to come up with just enough answer to compel yourself into a deeper state of anger. If anything, you were willing to resort to forbidding, but you were stubborn and bled blue.

“You’re just mad that you lost and we won. Chelsea was always better anyway, and you were just too slow… bet that's always the case.”

Leah’s jaw clicked, her lips settling into a thin line.

“In what case?” She muttered distinctly.

“You know what case.” You failed to notice the challenge, finding yourself in a superior position of confidence to realise the hole you were digging for yourself. “Slow and boring… on and off the pitch. You definitely get around, but you never seem to see one person twice. Maybe that's because they don't want to see you.”

Leah grabbed your wrist, yanking you off the field. It was a tradition that you would see the fans after every game, so you tugged back in retaliation.

She pivoted to face you, glaring at you with so much affliction that you yearned for more.

“You seem really interested in how I ‘get around’. Sounds like you wish it was you.”

No matter how hard your body was willing to succumb to her words, you stood firm by scoffing, rolling your eyes at her cockiness. “If only I was so desperate.”

“I’ll show you just how desperate I can get you.” The captain spat, holding your forearm now, easily leading you further down the tunnel where fans or players could no longer find you. “Didn't even properly touch you before and you were a needy mess.”

“You’re always so fucking sure of yourself, aren't you, Williamson?” You snapped back, hearing the clad of your boots fail to drown out your ungrateful tone. You did not care for what Leah was so keen to impress you with. Never had anyone told you that Leah did not impress. She was determined to make sure everyone was supplied with the right things for their needs. She valued giving pleasure over receiving. But if there was one thing she hated, it was brats like you.

You stood outside the Chelsea changing rooms, your kit still adorned on your figure.

“Go get your shit.” She snarled, letting go of your arm and jabbing you forward.

You scoffed, stopping dead in your tracks. “And what? You're gonna wait for me and drop me home? I have a license, Williamson, I'm not your fucking—”

You couldn't finish your rant, yelping when Leah cut you off, grabbing the collar of your shirt and mashing her lips against yours. One of her legs found its way between yours, her knee pushing against your core. A moan fell from your lips, and the woman wasted no time in slipping her tongue in, caging your figure between you and the wall.

She waited until you were kissing her back before grabbing your neck. She instantly moved down to litter harsh kisses down the nape of your neck, using her hands to move underneath your shirt, massaging your breasts. You were a mess beneath her, breathing heavily when the pressure on your clit intensified when her knee started rubbing patterns up and down.

“Swear at me again and see how it turns out for you.” She muttered in your ear, relishing the whines that fell from your lips as her knee continued its work. “If I tell you to grab your bag, that's what you do, yeah? You understand, Chelsea?”

The nickname left you shrinking, her words making your core glisten. You weren't completely sure whether the Arsenal girl was planning on taking you home. You didn't understand why you were all of a sudden pretty much moaning at the friction of her knee.

But you weren't fucking complaining.

“My teammates are in there.”

Leah let out a laugh. “You had no problem letting me touch you in a filled Stanford Bridge, Babygirl. I think it’d be healthy if your teammates realised who fucks their Stargirl after a home game.”

“You haven't fucked me, yet.” Your cheeks flushed a deep crimson, the thought of the England captain fucking you sending you into a spiral.

“Go get your bag and then I can use that pretty mouth for something other than moaning my last name… not that I mind when you do that.”

You wasted no time in doing as you were told, forever thankful that all of your teammates were either still interacting with fans or showering. You grabbed all of your stuff and quickly followed Leah over to the away changing rooms.

She let you walk through, since none of the girls were present, grabbing your belongings and chucking them inside her cubby. You felt her figure cage you back into the nearest wall, her hands how playing with the hem of your shirt, inching it further up your waist until it was completely disregarded, and you were left in your sports bra and shorts.

“Why so quiet?” Leah asked, kissing down the column of your neck, fondling your breasts. You sighed at the growing ache in your core, throwing your head back when Leah’s knee came back into contact with your clit.

“Some— someone’s going to walk in.”

Leah snorted. “Like you would mind.”

You huffed, grabbing the back of her neck and pushing her head further down your body. Leah’s knee stopped in return, leaving you writhing at the loss of pressure.

“Use your words or you can get off yourself.”

“Like you could get me off.” You retorted.

“I don't make brats cum.” She spat, moving back up to tower over you. “I edge them until they’re desperate and getting themself off my thigh. I treat them like brats, and maybe you need to work a little fucking harder for what you want.”

“You were just teasing me!”

“You're just desperate.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Leah.” There it was. Music to her ears.

“What?”

You whined, using your hips to drag yourself along her knee.

“What was that, Baby? Couldn't hear you under all those whines.”

“Leah, c’mon.” You stated potently, getting more impatient by the minute. “I'm not begging.”

The number six shrugged, looking down at you with wide, innocent eyes like she had no clue what you were going on about. Like she didn't even realise that you were humping her leg longing for some relief.

“Begging for what?” She moved her finger painstakingly down your chest, tracing your abs ever so slowly.

“For you.”

“For me?” She questioned, feigning confusion. Her hand dipped into the waistband of your shorts, circling your clit over your underwear. “Answer me, Darling. What do you want me to do? I'm touching you.”

“Touch me more.”

Leah tutted, moving her hand away. You groaned, throwing your head back when no pleasure was offered. “I'm afraid that's not how you ask. It might get you somewhere at Chelsea, but at Arsenal, we treat our Captains with respect. Even our star girls use their manners in the North end.”

“Touch me more, please.”

“Where, Chelsea?” Leah moved closer to you, peeling off her own shirt, removing your shorts, leaving you in your underwear and bra. “Be a good girl and tell me where.” She asked, her body lowering itself closer to the ground. You watched her kneel before you, hands gripping your waist, kneading your hips, lips biting your inner thigh.

“My clit, Lee, please. I need you to touch me there.”

“Such a good girl for your Captain, aren't you?” Leah ran her tongue along your folds, your underwear pooled at your feet. Your legs were swung over her shoulders, your hands buried in her hair, pulling taunt to her ponytail and the hairs that had fallen out during the game. Your moans were still muffled by the bite in your lips, the nerves of someone hearing your desperation for your enemy is still evident in the way you kept your mouth shut.

It was when Leah’s tongue latched onto your clit, sucking harshly on the swollen bud that your noises fell so adamantly from your reddened lips. You felt Leah’s cocky smile, her chuckles sending vibrations of pleasure through your body.

“Sound so pretty, Baby.”

“Leah— fuck, Lee. I'm gonna—”

“You’re going to hold it. Taste so good, you can wait.”

The coil in your stomach was forming long before Leah had even started, and the more Leah attacked your bud, the more your orgasm led to burst. Your moans had doubled in volume when one of her hands came up to play with your nipple, pinching it and playing with the nub every time her tongue licked up your folds. Her other hand worked its way through your pussy, spreading your slick all over your thighs, letting it run down your shaking legs and make your skin glisten with the glossy arousal.

“Want Stanford to hear you,” Leah spoke from below you. You whined at the thought. You were in a state of pure bliss that all cautionary thoughts of interruption were so far gone. All you could think about was Leah’s face between your legs.

“Feels so good, Lee. Want to cum so bad for you.”

“You can hold it, baby.”

“Mh, Lee, please.”

Leah moaned at your whines, nuzzling her nose up against your clit, pinching your nipple hard, reeling at the moan you let out in response. She saw the way your hole clenched around nothing, smirking at the way you rolled your hips across her face, working your pussy into her mouth so easily. She felt powerful knowing she had you at her disposal. You were stunning always, but there was something about you now that set Leah off. It made her angry knowing that you weren't hers to fuck at her discretion. It made her protective over you in ways she had never felt before. You were Chelsea’s protege — everyone worried when going up against you.

“Leah.”

It wasn't like something had changed, but Leah had realised that her hate was actually protection and adoration. She wanted you for herself. She wanted to steer you away from anyone that would hurt you. She hated Chelsea, she despised the West side more than anything, and it wasn't the sex that made her realise this.

“Leah.”

It was her name coming from your lips.

“Cum for me, Baby.”

That was all you needed to hear before you were barreling over the edge, your legs relying entirely on the strength of Leah’s upper body to keep you balanced. Your moans exemplified the stimulation of your orgasm riding out, and Leah’s endeavours to lick the result of it up as it poured into her mouth and onto your thighs.

The woman made sure you had somewhat caught your breath before she moved, having a moment to catch her own breath and comprehend what just happened. When she knew you were able to stand independently, she moved over to her cubby, grabbing the baby wipes she always had handy, moving back down to her knees to clean the mess across your legs as you covered your chest back with your jersey, and later your shorts.

Leah moved to do the same, except she watched as you fumbled with what to do. She gave you a pointed look as if to question your thinking, and you simply sighed and waddled over to her, slight humiliation at your wobbly legs painting your cheeks as you grabbed your bag.

“You all good, Baby?” She asked, her voice no longer authoritative and rather empathetic.

“Yeah, thanks.” You nodded. “Erm… sorry for being… rude… actually I'm not sorry but I am.”

“Yeah, same,” Leah replied a cheeky grin settled on her complexion. “I think we can settle for friendly rivalry from now on.”

“If that's what you call this, then sure.” You added, laughing along with what to make of the situation, feeling more out of place than ever in the middle of the Arsenal room. “I better go.”

“I’ll drive you home.”

“Lee, I've got my license—”

“It wasn't a question, Chelsea.”

You stood there defeated, knowing internally that you had no way home after Millie had driven you to the stadium and would have left by now anyway. Leah must’ve known that by the way she wrapped an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into her chest.

“Besides, wouldn't want that Player of The Match Trophy getting forgotten now, would we?”

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A/N — bad ending but oh well… HOPE YOU ENJOYED!!!

[kuroosdarling]

MY ONLY VICE — ༉‧₊˚.

‎ft. roommate matsukawa !

‎꒰ CONTENTS ꒱ : MDNI. cigarette smoking, unprotected sex, oral f!receiving, fingering, semi-public sex — wc : 2.2k

‎꒰ SYNOPSIS ꒱ : after pining and longing for your roommate, things take a turn in the right direction when he decides there’s something more satisfying than his usual vice

‎꒰ NOTES ꒱ : feverishly wrote this last night...this man has me by the neck </3 tysm to echo for helping me with the summary pls ! anyway ! enjoy !!

“that’s a nasty habit.” you comment, taking in the way he wraps his lips around the cigarette, his hand slowly coming up to light it. it takes him 2 tries to get the flame to stick, the lighter barely having enough juice for what he needs. his eyes travel down to you as he inhales the smoke, a teasing glint in his eye that tells you he’s heard that same comment a thousand times already. he briefly looks up, breathing out the smoke in a dragged out fashion, the moonlight illuminating his features as he does so — the swirl of smoke melting up into the night sky.

“everybody’s got a vice.” his attention turns back to you, the cigarette sitting delicately between his fingers. he flicks off some of the ash that was threatening to fall off before a cheshire grin takes up his face as he slightly leans down towards you. “i wonder what yours is?”

you suck in a deep breath, remnants of the smoke surely invading your lungs as you take a shaky step back. he takes another drag, not letting you out of his sight as he watches you fidget. he’s known about the crush you had on him for awhile. he blows out the smoke again, the feeling lackluster compared to the way you’re drawing him in now.

finally bored of the cigarette, he puts it out on the side of his boot before squashing it into the pavement — careful not to break eye contact.

“i have a few ideas of what it could be.” he goes on, slightly tilting his head to the side, the easy grin on his face ever unwavering. “we’ve only been roommates for a few months but i already know what keeps you up at night.”

your heart drops into your stomach, almost positive on where this conversation was going.

“my vice has always been soothing my oral fixation, but yours?” he stops in front of you, towering over you and gazing at you with a glint in his eye. “something tells me you have a different issue that needs soothing. one you cant do all by yourself no matter how hard you try.”

your mouth is dry, struggling to come up with any words to defend yourself. you were positive he heard you the other night. when you thought he’d be fast asleep, you had been so frustrated lately you needed to take matters into your own hands. but he was right, you couldn’t do it by yourself. 

“i-“ you squeak out, your whole body feeling like it’s on fire. the attention you desperately have been craving from him is now suddenly in your grasp and you hardly know what to do with it. 

“you?” he pushes, before lightly hooking his fingers under your chin, tilting your attention so it’s fully onto him. “are just so cute.”

he leans down so he’s fully in your space, his lips almost brushing against yours. one little nudge and you’d be kissing him. but he waits. 

“maybe we can help each other out.” the words blow over your lips, making your head dizzy. “you help me with my vice and i’ll help you with yours.”

“im not kissing you.” you whisper breathlessly, your tone betraying the words you spoke. you can feel his little chuckle radiate off of him. “you just smoked.”

matsukawa shrugs, starting to straighten up before you hook your hands into the collar of his jacket, pulling him in close to finally crash your lips against his.

he can’t help but groan into the kiss, you’re just as sweet as he imagined. his arms quickly find themselves around you, his hands pushing and pulling against you. adamant on exploring every inch of you he can. 

it’s dizzying — your mind can hardly keep up with the way your body is reacting. before you even realize it, your tongue is gliding over his bottom lip, eager to finally slip into his mouth. 

it’s hard to say how long the kiss goes on, absolutely drunk on the feeling of his lips gliding perfectly against yours. you moan into his mouth, tightly gripping onto his bicep, desperate for him to be closer.

he abruptly pulls apart from you, his chest heaving from lack of oxygen. his lips were swollen and red and you couldn’t help but touch them, running your finger along it with some sense of pride. you had managed to reduce him into a disheveled mess with just a simple kiss.

he quickly grabs onto your hand, placing a kiss on your fingers before one last peck to your lips. without a word, he falls to his knees, looking up at you, his eyes quietly begging for something his mouth was too stubborn to say.

“what are you doing?” you ask, still trying to catch your breath. you look around, reminding yourself that you’re out on the balcony — some what in the public eye.

“fixing my fixation.” his hands leisurely trail up on the back of your legs, causing your knees to buckle slightly. you quickly grasp onto the railing to steady yourself. “if you’ll let me, of course.”

“please.” you breathe out, silently thanking your past self for deciding to wear a dress today. he smirks, his hands continuing their trek along your skin until you feel his palms rest on your backside, giving a slight squeeze. you gasp out from the cool touch of his rings before he hooks his fingers under your panties, slowly slipping them off.

“so pretty.” he murmurs, bunching up the skirt of your dress so he could get himself in a better position. his breath ghosts along your inner thighs and you feel another wave of arousal take over you, your hands tightly winding against the balcony. 

matsukawa places a tentative lick along your folds before diving into your cunt, groaning as he quickly becomes obsessed with the way you taste. languidly swirling his tongue around as he falls deeper into you. you let a cry out into the night before covering your mouth, trying to reel in all the noises that threatened to escape. he pulls back, eyes shining up at you.

“this is only going to work if you hold onto me.” he says, taking your hands from your mouth and placing them on his head. you weave your fingers through his curls as he dives back into your awaiting cunt.

he’s ruthless, not giving you any chance to be discreet. it was like he was on a mission to make you scream his name into the night, ensuring all your neighbors knew exactly who was making you feel this good. every nerve in your body was set ablaze by the intricate flicks of his tongue.

one harsh suck against your clit had you moaning out his name, pulling onto his curls to get him deeper. the sudden sensation has him groaning into your cunt, sending vibrations up along your spine and almost completely short circuiting your brain.

you were getting close, and he could tell by the way your moans became breathy cries and how your thighs began to clench around him. but he was determined to have you fall apart by just his mouth, diving his tongue into your entrance, ensuring his nose strategically bumped against your clit.

without any warning, you feel your whole body tighten up before releasing. between the iron grip you had on his hair and the way your thighs wrapped around him, he swore he could die happy right here. hearing you shout out his name as he lapped at your dripping cunt made the jeans he was wearing uncomfortably tighter — his hard cock twitching for attention.

“shit-“ you whimper as he mouth breaks away. the bottom of his face is covered in your slick. matsukawa yanks down your dress before standing back up, pulling you in by the back of your head for another deep kiss.

you sigh into it, feeling blissed out from your latest high. but matsukawa has never felt so focused, so determined. he starts guiding you back inside without breaking apart, leading you to his bedroom. after stumbling around and giggling into each others mouths, you finally make it there.

“get on the bed.” he rasps out, and you realize you’ve never heard his voice like that — so deep and filled with desire. you quickly bound over, laying back on the bed and scooting up, resting back on your forearms. he unbuckles his belt, taking it off and sliding it off to the side before shimming out of his jeans.

you only have a brief moment to look down before he’s crawling over you. but you can feel it — his hard cock twitching against your thigh, begging for some sort of attention. and he’s huge. 

“mattsun-“ you start before he silences you with a kiss, one that reassures you and soothes all the little worries that start to plague your mind.

“call me issei.” he whispers against your lips, pulling back slightly so he could get a better look at your face. his cock jumped as he took in your features, mystified by how you’re sprawled out under him, looking up with wide, doe eyes and nodding along to every word he’s saying. “gonna have to stretch you out a bit more, okay?”

“okay.” you run your hand through his hair, pulling slightly so his lips are back on yours. issei’s kisses leave you breathless yet absolutely intoxicated by the lack of air. you sigh into the kiss; after months of pining after him, you were finally right where you wanted to be.

his finger lightly touches your folds before he slips it in, slowly pumping it. you clench at the intrusion, pulling from his soft, swollen lips and gasping out into his room. the feeling from his finger alone already felt infinite times better than your own.

he quickly adds another finger, your walls practically sucking him in. he starts to do a scissoring motion, stretching you out so you could fully take him. he brushes past a spot deep inside you that has you rolling your eyes back with a strangled moan.

“yeah? right there?” he smirks, teasing you as he looks into your eyes. all you can do is whimper as he keeps thrusting his fingers in. “that the spot?”

“‘sei.” you call out, starting to ride his fingers as you feel your second high start to creep up on you. “please.”

“please what?” he asks, watching you with dark eyes as you squirm under him. he slips in a third finger when you don’t answer right away, eliciting another moan from between your lips.

“please fuck me already.” you reach down and wrap your fingers around his wrist, slowing down his movements. there’s a beat where you look at each other, both understanding that there’s no going back from what you were about to do. but neither of you minded, it’s not like you were the closest of friends anyway.

you quickly rip off your dress over your head and unlatch your bra. issei’s eyes widen at the sight of your bare chest but before he can do anything to appreciate it, you’re trying to tug off his shirt so he’s left in just his boxers.

he gets the hint, pulling it off of his head before pinning you back down, reclaiming some control of the situation. he eases his boxers off and tosses them to the side, grabbing a hold of his weeping cock. 

but he feels your hand quickly find his, smearing his pre-cum along his tip to try and speed up the process. between your eagerness and the way you started to expertly pump his cock, he knew he couldn’t waste anymore time. he needed to be inside of you.

“ready?” he whispers in your ear, giving it a small peck as he slides his tip against your slick folds.

“please—“ you hiccup. “no more teasing. no more waiting.” 

he nods, slowly pushing in. he gasps out at the feeling of your warm, wet walls enveloping his cock in a vice like grip. everything felt so hot and he couldn’t help but keep pushing in.

your hands find his back, clawing at him as you feel him bottom out — feeling so full like he was lodged all the way up in your stomach.

“you okay?” his hand grips your hip, rubbing soothing circles against it as he tries to read your face. all you can do is nod earnestly, trying to rock your hips against his for friction. he watches you hump against him for a moment, drinking in the way clutch onto him. he softly smirks before starting to pull back out “didn’t know you’d be so needy.”

before you could retort, he thrusts back in — the force of it pushing you back on the bed. issei grabs your hips to hold you in place, feverishly fucking you onto his cock. he couldn’t hold back anymore, not when you cried out his name, looking like an angel sprawled out on his bed.

“you’re such a good girl — holy shit — taking my cock so well.” he groans, his lips finding yours again as he thrusts don’t falter. you whine into his mouth.

his hips stutter at how well your walls keep sucking him back in — the way you meet him thrust for thrust has his mind spiraling to the point of no return. completely lost in the way you feel, the way you sound — he knows there’s no coming back from this. he’s absolutely addicted. 

his new vice, the one where he knows he’ll be craving all hours of the day until he’s finally satisfied when he gets to have you in the wee hours of the night. only for him to realize it won’t be enough — it’ll never be enough. luckily, you’re just as hooked as him.

[heliads]

Hey! I love your writing sm

could you pls do an f1 soulmate au with charles x carlos?

maybe whatever a person writes on themselves shows up on their soulmate so they write each other cute 'good luck' notes or jokes before races and maybe they realize they're soulmates when one of them gets a podium and the other person sees their drawings :)

i understand that you wanted this to be cute. however have you considered that they could be insane instead. have you considered that there could be mind games, bestie. think about the mental warfare (i am)

masterlist

Carlos Sainz believes that his secrets come out the fastest when he’s drinking. Doesn’t even have to be alcohol, his favorite ruiner of silence– he’s let out contract details and personal opinions just as freely with isotonic water after a race as with a shot someone hands him two hours into a post-race celebration. It’s easy to let your guard down when you think you’re with a friend, when the stakes don’t seem high, when he knows better but doesn’t want to admit it.

That’s why he feels a rippling wave of panic when he sees Charles walking across the Ferrari hospitality, two cups of coffee in his hands. Charles sits down at an empty table for two, places one cup in front of himself and one at the empty chair, and looks pointedly at Carlos. Carlos thinks to himself, this can’t be good, and mentally reminds himself to book an appointment with PR sooner rather than later.

He takes the seat. Some things, you can’t fight. Charles still smiles anyway, pleased, and says, “I got you coffee.”

Carlos had noticed this, surprisingly. It was difficult to ignore. “You’re being nice,” he remarks, blowing into the hole on the lid to cool down the liquid inside.

“I am nice,” Charles protests. His accent comes out more when he’s unhappy, it makes the syllables bunch up together like pleats of fabric.

Carlos arches a brow, and takes a sip of his coffee instead of answering. Scuderia Ferrari loves to claim that they adore the art of coffee just as much as their mother country, but every time Carlos gets coffee from hospitality it’s either flavorless or burnt, depending on who serves it. Charles’ attempt isn’t terrible, but he doubts Charles did anything more to prepare it than just put in an order. It’s a nice gesture, though. Just like Charles said.

When he looks up and the steam properly clears from his vision, Charles is still pouting at him. Carlos shakes his head, smiling to himself. He makes it so easy sometimes, to mess with his head. It’s kind of fun. Poker, but with a far prettier deck of cards. 

“Alright, fine,” he relents, grinning so Charles knows he’s in on the joke, “I’m just teasing. No need to get mad, cabrón.”

“I’m not mad,” Charles says, a hint of a smile on his face although he stubbornly tries to shake it, “just interested in defending my honor.”

“Your honor?” Carlos asks, laughing in earnest. “So lord-esque, that is what I have been telling you. Of course Lord Perceval would defend his honor.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “You can deal with my honor, mate. I got you coffee.”

“And I am grateful for it every time you bring it up,” Carlos says, and takes a sip to prove it.

Charles does the same, but his eyes remain on Carlos the whole time. “So? Is it true what they’re saying?”

Carlos wants more than coffee for a conversation that starts out like this. “Who’s saying what?”

Charles gestures vaguely towards his phone. “Everybody. They say you’re going to leave Ferrari when your contract expires.”

Ah. That. “People love rumors,” he says absentmindedly, “I never thought you’d pay attention to them.”

“I don’t usually, but I was interested in this one,” Charles admits. “You’d tell me if you were leaving, right?”

“I’m not leaving,” Carlos says.

Charles sets down his cup. “But you’d tell me, right?”

“I would,” Carlos says. Pauses. Starts again. “What’s gotten into you, man? I never took you for someone to fall for theories like this.”

Charles shakes his head a little too quickly. “I’m not. They just seemed to believe it.” 

Carlos shrugs. “They believe a lot. My contract doesn’t expire until next year. They won’t worry about me for a while.”

“Should I?” Charles asks. “Worry about you, I mean.”

Carlos looks at him, really looks at him. The tense grip of his teammate’s hands around his coffee, even despite the heat still emanating through the cup. The furtive glances he keeps sneaking towards Carlos, then abruptly looking at the cup again when he gets caught.

“I’m not going,” Carlos says gently. More gently than he’d answer any interviewer, anyway.

Charles nods quickly, his head bobbing like a doll on a string. “Of course. Besides, I have too much interest for you to leave yet. Not until we figure out your, ah–” A pause. Delicate, but not at all from a polite inclination, no matter how it might seem to any outsider.

Carlos groans, exasperated. “My soulmate? My God, Charles, you have to give this up at some point.”

If it were not enough to have an overly inquisitive teammate, one that’s rather good at using his eyes and smile to get what he wanted, Carlos has been cursed with a racing partner that’s unnaturally interested in his missing other half. Carlos himself wants to figure out who his soulmate is, obviously, but at this point he thinks Charles is even more invested.

They all have soulmates. Supposedly. There’s probably at least a couple people out there who skipped that universal drawing of lots, but Carlos knows for certain that he is not one of them because his soulmate contacts him almost every day. Some people go weeks or even months without finding so much as a scribble appearing out of thin air on their skin, but Carlos blinks and there’s a new sentence on his forearm, bruising his knuckles, curling around his ankle. Whoever his soulmate is, they don’t care much for being ignored.

Neither does his teammate. Charles huffs out an exasperated breath. “If you will not be curious, I will be curious for you. You’re always so cagey about it, anyway. I know they write to you. Don’t you want to know?”

“Of course I want to know who they are,” Carlos scoffs. “What I don’t get is why you want to know. Why don’t you focus on your own other half for a change?”

Charles just leans back in his chair, grinning coolly. Ah, yes. Carlos has suspected for some time that Charles already has an idea as to who his soulmate is, but for some reason Carlos has never seen her around the paddock. It could be that Charles is just keeping their relationship private, but he doubts it. Charles likes his trophies visible and his games extensive. More likely than not, Charles has his soulmate engaged in some kind of cat-and-mouse game so they figure it out without too much help on his end. It’s hellishly manipulative, but he’s charming enough that they all let it slide.

Even Carlos, although he at least tries to put up a fight. Sometimes, he thinks Charles is amusingly aware of that, and doubles down on his efforts to get Carlos to cave until both of them are locked in some sort of affectionate stalemate.

“You shouldn’t worry so much,” Charles hums, pleased that he’s got the other hand. “I mean,” he says, leaning forward abruptly to seize Carlos’ hand in his own, “Don’t you want to know about yours? Aren’t you curious?”

Whoever sat at their table before them left a Sharpie behind by accident; Charles picks it up now, uncapping it with the same hand without letting go of Carlos. “You could just ask them right now, who they are,” Charles muses. The tip of the Sharpie hovers millimeters above the curve of Carlos’ palm, waiting. 

Carlos stares at the black ink. It’s easier to focus on the skin when he mumbles, “They wouldn’t answer.”

You’re not supposed to. Unspoken rules. He’s never liked that sort of thing, and neither has Charles, who knows this and smiles unkindly anyway. “You don’t know that.”

“Don’t I?” Carlos asks, mostly to himself. Charles doesn’t appear to hear him. The Sharpie dips lower until it touches Carlos’ skin. Immediately, the black ink flowers into his palm. Carlos waits for Charles to keep writing, to scrawl a question like who are you or can I fly you to a Grand Prix paddock, asap but instead Charles flinches, slams the palm of his own hand down towards the table, and covers up the pen again.

“Maybe you should do it yourself,” Charles mutters by way of explanation.

“Maybe,” Carlos says. He’s not sure if he’s agreeing or not. It would be easier, he thinks, to have Charles take the wheel again. It would also hurt more. Carlos caps the pen when it becomes obvious that Charles will not. “Drink your coffee,” he says. “It’ll get cold.”

Charles does as told, which is sort of surprising. Usually, he likes pushing the envelope until someone tells him to quit it. It appears to Carlos, though, that they have reached an unspoken limit, a line drawn out in black Sharpie on tanned skin that will not be crossed again.

A few minutes pass. They’re both quiet. Charles whispers into the condensation of his cup, “You’re not leaving, though, right?”

Carlos smiles. “I’m not.” Contracts change, obviously, but he’ll try to fight it. They all try.

They leave not long afterwards, race week means that they don’t have a lot of time to sit around. There’s always something to be filmed for media duties, an interview to conduct, checks to run through with engineers. Still, Carlos is somehow calmer than he was before, even despite the additional caffeine.

Charles, by contrast, seems jumpier than usual as they head towards the exit.

“Did you enjoy your coffee?” Carlos asks pointedly. 

 Charles glances quickly over both shoulders, then groans when he’s sure that no one can overhear him. “No, God. It’s terrible.”

Carlos chuckles. “But you went to so much trouble to get it. Surely you can pretend it’s more than just terrible. You drank, like, all of it.”

Charles gives him an appraising look. “It’s better with someone else.”

It occurs to Carlos, as he walks back to his driver’s room, that they may not just have been talking about coffee after all. He’s stopped by one of his PR advisors on the way back– apparently there’s a new TikTok trend that would be just great for him to do– and although he doesn’t feel that shaken, he must look it, because they only get halfway through a discussion of trending sounds before the agent asks if everything is alright.

Carlos scoffs. “Of course I’m alright.”

The agent arches a brow. “Are you sure? You look a little unsettled. Don’t tell me you were talking to George about track times again, he has that effect on everyone before qualis.”

Carlos shakes his head. “No, I didn’t see him. I was speaking with Charles, though, about nothing in particular. Just coffee and soulmates and stuff.” Unable to stop himself, he leans a little closer, drops his voice until it’s more of a whisper. “He’s found his soulmate, hasn’t he? She’s got to be around here somewhere.”

His PR agent, surprisingly, shakes their head. “No, he’s said nothing about it to us, and we’ve asked loads of times. Are you certain that they’re a she, though? That wasn’t the impression I got.”

Carlos stands utterly still. He thinks his blood may have cooled in his veins, congealing into a solid. He is not sure he could move if he tried. “Charles told you that?”

“Once,” the agent says offhandedly. “He got sick of us asking about his mystery woman. I don’t think he meant to let it slip, but you know how he is with secrets.”

They’re laughing at that. Carlos tries to chuckle along with him, but he can’t really do more than nod, because now he’s thinking about Charles’ soulmate being a man. It’s the driver in him, he supposes, the dreamer, that if he can imagine any scenario he would also imagine himself in it, and so it follows that now Carlos cannot stop thinking about the man on the other side of Charles’ heart being him, being Carlos. The picture fits a little too well. 

Carlos had never pictured his soulmate and thought of a man, but sometimes he’ll be up on the podium with Charles, champagne high and bright in the air, and he thinks maybe– maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing, not having a girl like that. He already knows what it’s like, anyway, to be at the top of the world and have another man standing there with him. If God did not intend for us to be with someone of the same sex, then why would He make it feel so natural?

Carlos somehow manages to end the conversation, to slip back into the relative safety of his driver’s room and lean his entire body weight against the door. He stares up at the ceiling, hands fisting the red fabric of his Ferrari jacket at his sides, and he lets himself, for the first time, wonder if his soulmate might not be a man as well. Anything Charles can do, Carlos can too, or so the commentators have started to say. Anyone Charles could love, Carlos could too. Anything his would be theirs. 

It is a risky thought. Pessimists will tell you that soulmates are good for nothing but getting your hopes up. Carlos does not know who his soulmate is nor, odds are, will he ever. It does no good to think about what he wants until he already has it. 

Later that day, Carlos tells his soulmate in non-descript block letters, All things must end. He caps the pen and covers his hand for the rest of the day. He sees Charles some hours later, looking pale and frightened. Carlos cannot, will not, imagine why.

He tries to push it from his mind. They are not hiding in Ferrari hospitality for the thrill of it, after all, but to prepare for the race ahead. Qualifying comes and goes, nothing to write home about but at least they should be decently in the points. One of them might be able to make it to a podium if they can give Lando Norris the slip. The best case scenario is that Checo will bin it so they could get a 1-2, but who knows if they’ll have any semblance of luck today.

Carlos qualified one position ahead of Charles. Fred Vasseur is already starting to eye him like a lamb to the slaughter, and Carlos makes a mental reminder to continually ask his engineer for Charles’ times during the race. He has a feeling that team orders might be given.

Strangely enough, it doesn’t make Carlos angry towards Charles as much as he thinks it should. He is irritated by Ferrari, of course, for picking one driver over another, but that’s expected in any given scenario in which the cars are swapped. Usually, though, that sort of thing happens enough times that you start directing your ire towards the other driver, but Carlos cannot manage that. In fact, he never has. Hating Charles is unthinkable. It would be easier to hate himself. Right?

Getting ready in his driver’s room before the race that Sunday, Carlos is struck by a sudden, unthinkable idea. He rummages around in his belongings for a while before coming up with a pen. Dark, thick, the kind you use for autographs when the hapless fan forgets to bring a writing implement of their own. Carlos uncaps it, stares at his skin, then starts to scribble. Words, underlined, circled. Do well. Good luck. Please.

He doesn’t know if– but he could, maybe, if he saw. Carlos loses himself in a frenzy, then snaps out of it just as quickly when his palms get covered in writing. The sound of footsteps outside his door makes him flinch, and he tugs on his gloves as fast as he can, smearing the ink even more than before. It doesn’t matter. Odds are nothing will come of this anyway.

The race goes as expected. Checo does not crash, much to the chagrin of all other teams, and Carlos gets stuck behind him long enough that they start talking about switching him with Charles, which happens around lap forty. When the checkered flag waves, Charles is third, Carlos fourth. He parks quickly and hurries over to the front. By the time he gets there, Charles has already withdrawn inside the cooldown room but Carlos can shoulder in with the other Ferrari crew and shout and slap each other on the back and that’s good, too, it really is.

He will tell himself that it is. Carlos, by now, has gone to a lot of teams and learned about a lot of strategy choices. He knows how to convince himself that something is fine, that the decisions of the team are ones he agrees with. He can idle with the crew and stare up at the podium with a fixed smile on his face, because Carlos is a Good Teammate and Good Teammates show up for each other. They accept team orders when they come their way. They do not stand in the shade of someone else’s idol and think, this isn’t fair.

Of course it isn’t fair, it’s motorsport. Charles is the one they love the most, even when he’s erratic and crashes every other race. Charles is the pretty boy, the golden one, Il Predestinato. Carlos is merely his father’ son. 

Charles, who figured out the whole game of soulmates months before. He guessed, at least. Told that to Carlos one night, grinning, drunk, spiraling after another lost podium. Charles had waited with wide eyes and a frozen smile as if waiting for Carlos to put something together, but the other shoe never dropped and eventually the moment ended, both of them pulled apart by other friends, downing other drinks, pretending they never existed. 

Carlos thinks of it now. He watches Charles emerge from the shadows of the space behind the podium to stand in the blinding sunlight, waving down at all of them. One of the mechanics is elbowing him in the side, speaking in that low voice they all get when they do the boy’s club talk, you know, someone’s soulmate likes him well enough, obviously, and Carlos has no idea what he’s talking about until he looks up and sees. Sees Charles, his palms dark with ink. From up here, it’s too small to see what is written. The Catholic boy in him thinks stigmata which is wrong, obviously, because there is no great divine mystery here, not when Carlos knows what happened.

Not when Carlos was the one to write all of it earlier that day. He’d almost forgotten during the course of the race, but it all comes flooding back now. That’s his ink on Charles’ hands, and that means– That means Charles is his soulmate. Always has been. Always will be.

Carlos stares up at him. Charles looks down, and although he’s been grinning with victory this whole time, the smile that slides onto his face upon seeing his teammate is different than before, it’s knowing. Charles knows that Carlos has figured it out at last. He’s been waiting for him to do it all this time.

It’s almost obscene, how close Charles must have come to telling him about a thousand times. Who would risk it like that? No one. Charles would. Carlos pictures him with the Sharpie earlier that week, black tip poised above his skin. How he’d caught himself before giving himself up. Perfect timing, a driver’s reflexes. Like managing to right yourself right before sending your car into the wall. Or, better, like doing it anyway. Like accelerating before you go. Like leaving your hands on the wheel so your wrists can break, too, not just your heart. 

Yes, Charles would. Charles Leclerc would. Charles, so impatient for his first championship that he’d give up his current chance by overshooting every corner, by doing too much until he ends up in the wall time and time again. This is the man who would expose his soulmate like a throat to a knife, and Carlos has known this about him for years.

The Ferrari section of the paddock is insane after getting a podium, so no one notices when Carlos fights his way through the crowds to let himself into Charles’ driver’s room. It’s empty when he arrives, Charles must have many more people to get through, so he paces relentlessly back and forth until Charles shows up.

Charles bursts through the door, still talking to someone down the hall. His exuberance crashes to a halt the second he sees Carlos waiting, and he hurriedly tells whoever is there not to wait up. Charles carefully closes the door behind him, locks it too, and then it’s just the two of them and this great and all encompassing secret for company. 

Charles swallows. “You know.”

Of course he does. Friends show up at each other’s driver’s rooms all the time, but this isn’t just on the order of congratulations for a good race result. They would not be hovering on the edge of this great precipice if it was just that. 

“You knew earlier,” Carlos challenges. 

Charles ducks his head in a nod. “I did.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Carlos asks. 

Charles’ gaze is shifty, it flicks from ceiling to floor to walls, anywhere but Carlos himself. Charles has always been a daredevil for the risks, but he’s never had the stomach for what becomes of them. The consequences are always a thousand times worse than the actions. 

“I didn’t think you would want it. Want me,” he corrects, almost whispering. 

This is so absurd that Carlos almost wants to laugh. Almost, because the look on Charles’ face is so pitiful that he can’t even smile. “Why wouldn’t I?” Carlos asks. 

Charles blinks in surprise. “Because you were never even that interested in finding out who your soulmate was, mate. Always said it would just be some girl you didn’t know. I didn’t want to see your face when you realized you didn’t even get some girl but me.”

“I didn’t want to look too much into my soulmate because I was afraid it wouldn’t be you,” Carlos says in a rush, and as he admits it he knows it’s true. 

How could it be anything but that? Carlos could have picked any team, but he went here. A hardheaded (formerly red) bull chasing not just the scarlet flag but the matador himself. Charles, all along. 

Charles’ eyes are wide, lashes darker even than the ink still staining his palms. “So you’re not mad, then?” He asks cautiously. 

“Not mad and not leaving,” Carlos reiterates. 

A ghost of a smile flickers over Charles’ lips. “You cannot blame me for wanting to be sure, I didn’t want you to go until I managed to tell you.”

“You certainly took your time about it,” Carlos comments. 

Charles rolls his eyes. “Just because we are racers does not mean we have to do everything fast, Carlos. Be patient.”

Carlos arches a brow. “You are telling me that?”

Charles has the grace to look at least a little ashamed. “Yes. Well. I can be patient now.”

Of course he can. They both can. Most people spend their entire lives searching for the answer to a question that is no longer a mystery to either of them. Time is all they have, time and sweet-sticky champagne and the sensation of being at the top of the world. Nothing will change them. Everything will. For once, though, the change does not scare him. It’s not bad, all of the time. 

Sometimes, it brings him Charles. Sometimes, it brings him this. No, not bad in the slightest. 

f1 tag list: @j-brielmalfoy, @juphey

also: @quill-of-a-sparrow

all tags list: @wordsarelife

[2baabbies]

🖤 skz fic teaser: Everybody Wonders (skz x reader, but mainly hyunchanlix x reader) 🖤

here’s a snippet of the sequel I’m working on for this fic

Pairings: established bangchan x reader, established hyunlix, hyunchanlix x reader exploring their relationship

Words: 1000

Summary: Everybody wonders what it would be like to love you; except for your boyfriend Chan, and his group members who were lucky enough to have caught your eye (title/summary inspired by Gold Rush by Taylor Swift).

Fluff + Smut + Humour

this fic is unfinished at the moment! if you want to be added to the taglist for when it’s posted, pls comment below or dm me (you must have your age on your blog!!)

tags for sexual content will be provided when the final fic is posted. since this is rough draft, it is subject to be altered between now and when the full fic goes up. this snippet is nsfw, all interactions are completely consensual and there are some dom/sub dynamics with a bit of praise kink.

~~~ You take your time undressing in your and Chan’s shared room and don a towel before padding down the hall. It seems Felix and Hyunjin have taken their time as well, since you are the first to arrive at the hot tub. It is running in a private room on the bottom floor of the house. You take a seat on the edge and dip your hand in the water. Your head perks up as Felix enters the room in a robe.

“Where did you find a robe?”

He fluffs the collar and does a pose.

“Jealous?”

“Yeah, you should take it off.”

He sputters and unties the belt as he crosses the room.

“Very forward. How’s the water?”

“It’s good, not too hot actually.”

Felix takes a seat next to you and tilts his head as you run your hand over his chest. Your damp fingers dip beneath the fabric and draw it open as you run your hand over his skin. He sucks in a breath as your fingers trace down his sternum and open his robe further. His lips part to let out a shuddery breath and you feel his body shiver under your touch.

“Oh my God,” Your hand pauses on Felix’s abdomen as Hyunjin speaks up from the doorway, “And you two think Chan is the horny one.”

You laugh and run your hand back up Felix’s front. He smirks and leans in to share a heated kiss.

“Can’t help it,” Felix pants against your lips.

“Trust me, I can tell.”

You giggle and indulge Felix with a few more kisses before turning to face Hyunjin. You meet his gaze bravely as you grab the front of Felix’s robe and slide it off his shoulders. Hyunjin’s eyes widen as Felix mouths at your neck and you let his robe drop from your hands. Felix slides his hands under your towel to grasp your thighs as he sucks a hickey into your throat. One hand slides up to pull your towel down as he draws your thigh over his lap. You follow his lead and look over your shoulder at Hyunjin as he watches you.

Chan leans in the doorway and cocks his eyebrow, then looks at Hyunjin where he stands unmoving in front of him. Felix’s hands roam over your bare back and one slides down to grope your ass as you settle in his lap. His cock jumps against your abdomen as he litters more wet kisses over your neck and chest. Your eyes flutter and you hum approval as he leans down to suck at your breasts.

“Enjoying the show?”

Hyunjin gasps and clutches his robe, over his heart, as he turns to Chan with a frustrated sigh. Felix chuckles and raises his head as Chan struts into the room. 

“What’s wrong, aren’t you going to join them, Hyune?”

Hyunjin huffs and crosses his arms.

“You first.”

“Gladly.”

Chan finishes crossing the room and drops his towel before easing into the hot tub. He meets your gaze and lounges against the side with his arms spread across the ledge. He nods at Felix and makes a beckoning motion, which you respond with by standing from his lap. Felix whines and pouts up at you as you brace your hands on his chest. You wink and shove him back to be caught in Chan’s waiting arms. Felix makes a surprised sound when he splashes into the water then laughs as Chan pulls him into his lap. Chan nips at his ear and rubs his chest as he melts into his form.

You turn to face Hyunjin, still observing in silence where he stands. His eyes flit over your nude body before he shyly turns away.

“Jinnie,” You sing, “Aren’t you going to join us?”

“Yes…”

“Come in, babe,” Felix urges, Chan is still hungrily mouthing at his neck and shoulder.

You step into the hot tub and sink down with a moan. The water immediately begins to ease your muscles and lull you into a relaxed position. You look at Chan and Felix, who have paused, then turn your head to look at Hyunjin. His fingers fumble with his robe and he avoids meeting your eyes.

“Are you alright, Jinnie?” You ask sweetly.

“I’m fine…”

“Don’t be shy, babe,” Felix begs.

“I can’t strip when you’re all staring at me.”

“Aw, why not?” Chan whines.

You and Felix giggle as Hyunjin glares in response. You turn and cross your arms on the edge of the tub, then rest your chin in your arms. You look up at Hyunjin and smile from where you slouch in the water.

“Hyunjin? Don’t you want to join us?”

He nods and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, then watches you extend one of your hands.

“Come here, sweetheart. I’ll help you get undressed.”

“O-Okay…”

He comes forward and takes your hand, then gasps as you pull him to sit on the edge of the hot tub. You giggle and rest one hand in his lap, blinking up at him seductively as that hand roams over his clothed crotch. He swallows and tries to muffle a moan with his hand as you palm him lazily through the robe. Your other hand deftly undoes the tie keeping it closed and you smirk up at him. His eyes dart away and he sighs.

“Would you two… stop ogling me?”

“Nope,” Chan replies simply.

“We’re admiring you, love.”

“Don’t look at them,” You demand, turning Hyunjin to face you by cupping his chin, “They’re not the ones touching you, now are they?”

“N-No…”

“Right. So if you want me to keep touching you, you should keep your eyes on me.”

“Damn,” Chan hisses, and Felix shushes him.

Hyunjin’s eyes flutter and he quivers at the demand. He looks away for a second, before taking a deep breath and braving your gaze. Your expression turns ravenous as you caress his chin and run your hand down to his chest.

“Good boy.”

[lyrakanefanatic]

Another tig characters kids hc post

again, nash has two daughters

jameson has two boys and a girl

grayson has one girl

and xander has a boy and girl

ive decided im gonna give them names so it doesn’t get confusing, so just bare with me here 😭😔

- jamesons eldest sons name is lucas, and he’s the most similar to avery

- averys middle child’s (the other son) name is michael (yes I stole it from the naturals shut up 😔) and he’s the most similar to jameson

-averys daughters name is hannah, and is a good mix of both her parents but still more similar to jameson

- graysons daughters’ name is calla and she’s a good mix of both her parents

- nash’s daughters are twins but are also two completely different people. the eldest one, (by like a minute) kylie, is more similar to nash, meanwhile mara is more like libby

- and last but not least, xanders eldest sons’ name is xavier, (something similar to xander LOL) and he’s very similiar to his mom, meanwhile his younger sister, whose name is nia, is more like her dad

- nia is 11 while xavier, calla, lucas, michael, and hannah are all 16-17-18-19 but they still make sure to include her!

- callas extremely close with averys children, but fights with michael ALL. THE. TIME.

- lucas is the most mature and makes sure the rest of them don’t get in trouble

- kylie and mara are both older than the rest of them but still always manage to be involved in their drama (partially for advice and so they don’t do something stupid)

- michael is the most wild person on april fools and literally goes CRAZY with his pranks

- in fact, every april fools teams are set up

- on one team there’s hannah, lucas, (who eventually agreed to set up teams) michael, kylie, and nia

- on the other team is calla, mara, and nia, whose their spy. she pretends that she’s on the other team, while giving her team information on their pranks

- parents eventually end up getting involved every year as the pranks get more and more diabolical

- all the kids have a sport that they enjoy doing, apart from xavier and calla, who really don’t like them. xaviers fine with playing a small match of soccer or football with his cousins sometimes if they force him, but calla will under no circumstances play anything involving a ball. she does do track though, and is a very fast runner (yes ik tracks a sport but pretend it’s not for like 2 mins pls 😔)

- there is always drama when they get together and do a big family dinner, and it’s usually michael or kylie starting the drama 💀

- hannah and calla both don’t have sisters but they see each other as their sisters and are practically inseparable 💗

- everybody favourites nia because she’s the youngest and she’s usually the one putting the star up on the christmas tree 😭😭 (but everyone loves her so it’s okay 🫶)

- calla is an academic weapon and is on the debate team

-michael and calla are often beefing and whenever they do, avery ALWAYS takes callas side and tells michael, “you’re older, you should know better” (he’s older by like 11 months 💀)

- lucas is the best chess player in the family next to avery and they regularly spend hours on a single match

- although calla takes more after her mother, one thing her and grayson have in common is their love for fashion. they both love making a good impression on people and often go on long shopping trips while callas mother (lyra 🤭) stays home because although she loves shopping, there is no way she could shop for as long as they do

- hannah loves drawing and has taken many different art classes before. she’s extremely talented now and loves sketching things/people around the house. it happens so much that it’s now just become normal to look up and see her drawing you 😭💀

- but she never really keeps her drawings and always wants to throw them out, but every time she tries to jameson takes the sketch from her and put it with his other folder of her art 💗

- hannah regularly takes her brothers’ sweatshirts and sweaters and whenever they see clothing missing from their closet they immediately know she took them 💀

- nia always loves having sleepovers with calla and hannah because then they can talk about anything and everything with each other (and binge watch movies till 4 am)

- they have a curse jar and jameson and michael are usually the ones putting most of the money in it

- lucas pretends to be so mature but in reality he’s an og gossip girl and often asks hannah and calla if they heard anything about anyone 💀 (the three of them stay up talking about people in their classes for HOURS)

OKAY THATS ALL SORRY IF THE NAMES WERE CONFUSING 💗💗

[autumnshighlady]

A Lesson in Language

Fëanor x female!reader

part of The Professor Series

summary: challenging your linguistics professor is your favourite past time, until he decides it's time for you to face consequences for it

warnings: smut, power dynamic, daddy kink (only a little bit at the end), rough oral sex (m receiving), hate sex, roughness, Fëanor is a raging asshole

word count: 4.4k

request: Professor Feanor x reader? With fiery smut and snarky student reader ;) I was thinking something like he’s a linguistics prof (since he did come up with a new system of writing) and he teaches this one course that reader needs to graduate but she’s annoyed that he teaches it’s either his way or nothing at all so she argues with him all the time in office hours for her marks and etc?

So since we seem to be imagining everybody as a professor: Feanor. He'd be mean, and condescending, and the gods may help you if you're not good in his class (wth is he even teaching, he's good at everything💀) But if you're his best student, and a bright mind beyond class assignments? You'll want the gods to help you for wholly different reasons.

a/n: Fëanor is a massive douche in this fic ladies pls never let a man treat u like this lmao

series playlist on Spotify here

DO NOT REPOST ANYWHERE

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You rolled your eyes as you doodled in the margins of your notebook, trying to ignore Professor Fëanor’s arrogant voice echoing in the classroom. He was droning on about pragmatics, a topic you had mastered last year already. You hated this class – it was tedious at best, and like watching paint dry at its worst. The only reason you were begrudgingly taking it was because it was your last requirement for graduation, as the class involved drawing up your own research study instead of a final exam. Everyone who was in this class took it for one of two reasons – either they were the same as you and just needed it for graduation, or they were lovestruck morons enamoured with the professor.

Admittedly, he was an attractive male. His long, raven-black hair suited his sharp face, with grey blue eyes that surveyed the class like a hawk, picking on daydreaming students to answer difficult questions. He was always impeccably dressed, and spoke with more confidence than anyone you had ever met. Yet he was arrogant and stubborn, insisting his way was the only way to learn linguistics. He spoke to his students as if they were dumb, incapable of being anywhere near his level of knowledge. And it irritated you beyond belief.

You were well known amongst your peers for getting into arguments with the professor. Dr. Fëanor had a nasty temper that frightened most, but amused you. You were the only student who didn’t hesitate to challenge him and stick up for yourself when he decided he wanted to bully his students. You were confident in your linguistic skill set, marching to his office to argue your grades whenever he gave you a shitty mark. You could tell it infuriated him, how his best student didn’t kiss his ass like he had clearly expected you to.

“Am I interrupting your artistic time, (Y/N)?” Dr. Fëanor’s bored voice sounded a few feet away from you, snapping you back to reality. You looked up, and he was standing in front of your table, glaring down at you. The students beside you shrank back, afraid to be caught up in the professor’s wrath. But you didn’t back down, only sighing and looking up to meet his gaze.

“What was that, sir?” You asked, widening your eyes and faking innocence knowing damn well it would piss him off further.

“You haven’t been paying attention to a single thing I’ve said all week.” He snorted. “How you are my top student is beyond me, with such a short attention span.”

“I’ve been paying attention, sir.” You lied, bringing your elbows to rest on the table. 

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Then you won’t mind a little pop quiz, just for you?”

You shrugged. “Fire away.”

“What are the three airstream mechanisms in phonetics?” His shoulders were tense, a sign of his visible annoyance towards you.

Your answer rolled off your tongue. “Pulmonic, glottalic, velaric.”

“Define a morpheme.”

“The smallest meaningful unit of language. It must have a meaning of its own, either lexical or a grammatical function, and it must be minimal, not containing any smaller units that have meanings of their own.”

“And what are the four maxims of conversation?”

“Quality, quantity, relation and manner.” You smiled, watching your professor’s face get redder as you answered his questions easily.

“Name the distinctive linguistic properties of Quenya that make it differ from Sindarin.” Dr. Fëanor smirked, cocking his head arrogantly. You knew he would ask this question, it was too predictable. He was the master of Quenya, having played a huge role in the development of the language and construction of the Tengwar alphabet. 

But as usual, he underestimated you. You took a breath, pretending to think for a moment before lifting your chin and meeting his gaze once again. “Where do I begin?” You said confidently. “Quenya is a more complex agglutinative language that strings morphemes together into long words using an inflectional system with a flexible syntax, while Sindarin has a much easier to follow language structure. Quenya uses 5 tenses to conjugate, Sindarin has 6 and words often begin with vowels whereas in Quenya, they typically end in vowels. They both use the structures SVO and OVS structures, but Sindarin uses VS and VO, although it lacks the OSV structure that Quenya has. Additionally, Quenya adopted case endings for nouns in nominative and genitive cases, using the dual plural to represent plural form since it lacks a definite article to mark the regular plural. Would you like me to go on, sir?”

The entire class was utterly silent. No one dared breathe in the moments following your monologue as you waited for your professor to reply. You expected him to yell at you, maybe throw a manuscript at your head. But he didn’t move. It began to make you uneasy, and you noticed a strange look cross his face for a half second before he finally spoke. 

“I’ve heard more than enough from you for one class.” Fëanor’s voice was leathally calm, sending goosebumps up your arm. “Keep your mouth shut for the remainder of the lecture, and pay attention.”

You rolled your eyes, picking up your pen and sitting back in your chair as the professor continued his lecture. You crossed your legs, making your skirt hike up on your thighs, but you were too annoyed to fix it. Your professor was an arrogant bastard who couldn’t comprehend that not everyone around him was as dumb as rocks. But your skin flushed as you drifted off into one of your many daydream scenarios of Fëanor bending you over his desk and taking his anger out on you. You just knew he was rough and dominant in bed, having fantasised about being on the receiving end of that fire within him.

Your daydreaming was cut short as the professor began distributing last week’s quizzes back to the students. He didn’t acknowledge your presence as he ungracefully dropped yours in front of you. You noticed quickly a note was attached to it, that read:

Be in my office at 5pm tonight. We need to have a talk about your attitude.

You sucked in a breath. This was new. Not once had he invited you to his office – you were there of your own volition often enough to challenge him about your marks. You wouldn’t be surprised if he put up a sign on his door barring you specifically from entering. You knew he hated your visits to his office, so why invite you now? Talks with your professor about your attitude were done in public, specifically to try and humiliate you. 

You folded up the note and slid it into your pocket, nervousness beginning to churn in your gut. Was he going to fail you out of spite? You’d be unable to complete your degree if he did that. While Fëanor was an arrogant asshole, you didn’t think he was cruel. Or at least you hoped so.

Tears began to well in your eyes as the possibility of failing dawned on you. Perhaps there were consequences to mouthing off to your professor after all. 

*******************

A few hours later, you knocked at the elaborate wooden door to Fëanor’s office, then wiped your face one last time. You had spent an hour in the bathroom attempting to fix your makeup and conceal the evidence of your tears and failing, miserably. Your mascara was wet, giving you more of a smokey eye look than you had intended. Your smudged face was a stark contrast with your perfectly put together outfit – a short brown pencil skirt and tall boots, paired with a tight fitting, slightly cropped t-shirt. You felt ridiculous now, going to your professor’s office like this, but you had no other choice.

“Come in. And close the door behind you.” His deep voice echoed from inside the office, and you pushed the heavy door open. His office was its usual organised mess, manuscripts and books everywhere, laid out across every sitting space available save for the single chair in front of his desk. The room glowed orange from the roaring fireplace off to the side, making it look more like an ancient cave than an office.

You carefully walked over to the chair in front of the desk, clasping your hands in front of you.

“Sit.” Fëanor ordered, finally glancing up at you when you hesitated. “Unless you prefer to kneel on the floor?”

Your face burned bright red as you scrambled into the chair, ignoring the way his insinuation made your thighs tingle with need. He ignored you for a few minutes, continuing whatever he was translating on his desk. You shifted uncomfortably, unsure what to do. None of your interactions had ever been like this – quiet, suspenseful, behind closed doors. No, it was always bickering arguments that turned heads in the hallways. Something was different about him.

“Do you know why I really called you in here today?” He asked, still not looking up. His long hair was tied back, except for a few loose strands that hung around his face as he wrote.

“To fail me.” You said quietly.

He barked a heartless laugh. “Gods, no. Failing you would mean I’d have to endure a whole extra semester of your arrogant attitude. I refuse to put myself through that.”

You felt all nervousness fade away, quickly replaced by that hot anger only he seemed to be able to get out of you. “I’m arrogant?” You snapped. “Take a look in the mirror.”

Fëanor’s writing ceased, and his grey blue eyes met yours and narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard what I said.” You fired back, unable to stop the words from coming out of your mouth. “You’re the arrogant one here, sir. You try to belittle me every time I prove myself to be smart because you can’t imagine that everyone around you isn’t a complete imbecile.”

You expected the male to snap back, to call you an idiot and ask how dare you say these things to him. Truthfully, you couldn’t believe you were saying these things either. All your arguments had been about the material so far, veiled insults hidden beneath your words. Never were you this open, this bold, about how you felt. 

“Anything else?” He said in a bored manner.

“Yeah, you’re a real prick.” You continued your angry rambling, sick of being looked down on by this male. “You know as well as I do that I’m your best student, yet you treat me like the problem kid at the back of the class. It’s ridiculous, and the only reason you do it is to feel better about yourself. Am I wrong, sir?”

A long pause followed, and you swallowed a lump in your throat. If you weren’t going to fail before, you definitely were now. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. You simply sat there, eyes locked with your ill-tempered linguistics professor. After a few minutes, you couldn’t take it anymore, averting your gaze to inspect a loose thread on your skirt.

“Do you know why I’m such an arrogant… prick, did you say?” He stood up, walking around to the front of his desk and leaning against it, crossing his large arms. “Because I’ve earned it. I invented the Tengwar script and am the most knowledgeable person on the Quenya language there is. I have created and invented things that nobody else has, and nobody will ever come close to achieving what I have achieved. I have earned my arrogance, you have not. You’re just a little girl who’s in way over her head.”

You saw red, angrily pushing back the chair as you stood up to challenge him . Fëanor was a good foot taller than you, making you strain your neck to meet his gaze. “Call me a little girl one more time, I fucking dare you.” You hissed.

“Or what?” He smirked. “You’ll cry? Just like you did before you came in here?”

Your jaw went slack, “Wha–”

Fëanor scoffed, pleased with himself. “Oh, please, don’t even try. It was written all over your pretty face. I like it covered in tears, by the way. It’s a good look on you.”

WIthout thinking, your hand reached up and connected with his face, a dull slap echoing throughout the office. “Fuck you.” You spat, turning to storm out before you could face the consequences of hitting your professor.

But Fëanor was faster, his large hand firmly clasping around the hand you just slapped him with and yanking you back around to face him. His other hand grabbed your other wrist, and no matter how much you squirmed against it he didn’t budge. His eyes were dark as he pulled your hands up and across each other, pushing them into your chest as he stepped even closer to you. 

“You wish.” He purred mockingly. “Isn’t that right? Is that not one of the reasons why your attention drifts off in class? Because you’re fantasising about being bent over my desk and fucked until you can’t remember your own name?”

“You think way too highly of yourself–” You tried to defend yourself, but he cut you off as if you hadn’t even said anything.

“You think I’m blind? That I don’t notice how you always wear those revealing outfits on the days you have my class. Don’t play dumb, it’s not a good look on you.”

You thrashed in his grip, ignoring the effect his words had on you. “Let me go right now you self righteous, narcissistic–”

“Kneel.”

That made you freeze. “Excuse me?”

“You really need to learn how to shut up.” Feanor growled. “And that’s what I’m going to do. I’ve had enough of that mouth of yours, it’s time to make it useful for once. Now kneel.”

You were utterly dumbstruck, unable to do anything as your professor gave you a shove, making you fall to your knees on the ground in front of him. The wooden floor made your joints ache, but you knew better than to protest.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Fëanor began, the sound of his belt unbuckling distinct in the background. “Do you think you can follow simple instructions for once?”

“Yes.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, throat dry with anticipation for what was about to happen.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He paused his movements, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look up at his towering form. “I’m going to stuff that smart mouth of yours with my cock, and you’re going to take it like the desperate little slut I know you are. If you please me enough, I will bend you over this desk and fuck you so hard you can’t walk tomorrow. And you’ll have learned your lesson to keep your mouth shut when I tell you to, understood? Is that simple enough for you to understand?”

“Yes, sir.” You repeated, trying to keep the shake out of your voice. Your core throbbed at his words, exactly as dominant as you imagined him to be.

Fëanor finally unzipped his trousers, letting them fall to his feet along with his boxers, revealing the thickest cock you had ever seen. Your jaw dropped, but you didn’t even care that you had just boosted his ego. All you could think about was how it would possibly fit.

“What’s the matter?” He mocked. “Too big for you? Scared you won’t be able to take it? You’ll be able to take it because I’ve told you so. Now open.”

You parted your lips, letting your professor slide his cock between them. You sucked on the tip, earning a groan of pleasure from the male above. Forcing your jaw to relax, you took him deeper, aching with the stretch.

Without warning, Fëanor impatiently grabbed the back of your head and pushed you down further. Tears blotted your face as you gagged around him, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked him. Clearly, he wasn’t concerned with having you come up for air, forcing you to breathe through your nose.

He set a rough pace, guiding your head up and down his cock as far as it would go without making you gag too much. Your mascara began to run down your face, and you made sure to keep eye contact with him despite the strain on your throat.

“There’s a good little slut,” Fëanor growled, tightening his grip on your hair as he thrusted faster. “I told you you looked better with tears running down your face.”

You couldn’t protest with his cock around your mouth, so you only whimpered, focusing on taking him deeper. You sucked hard with each stroke, letting your tongue run along the vein underneath his shaft as you bobbed your head. Your professor moaned shamelessly above you, a sound that set your nerves alight.

Mindlessly, your hand wandered between your legs, attempting to relieve some of the pressure building there. Your fingers hadn’t even grazed your panties when Fëanor halted his movements, holding your head down at the base of his cock. 

“Don’t even think of touching yourself.” He hissed angrily. “I didn’t give you permission to do so. Try it again, and I won’t let you cum. Got it?”

You nodded around the base of his cock, whimpering. Your jaw was in agony, stretched to the max to accommodate his length. When he finally moved your head once again, you doubled your efforts, determined to make your arrogant professor fall apart. You sat on your hands for good measure, trying to avoid the temptation to ignore his orders altogether.

Fëanor began thrusting his hips to meet your mouth a few minutes later, his pretty eyes screwing shut as he tilted his head back. “Fucking swallow every last drop.” He grunted between thrusts, his grip on your scalp tightening right before his cock twitched in your mouth. He came with a loud groan, shooting spurts of warm liquid down your throat. You kept bobbing your head, sucking up every last drop and letting it slide down your throat. He panted, hips sputtering as you sucked him dry before finally pulling your lips off him. Your jaw ached like never before, but you were strangely proud of yourself. The image of your high strung professor climaxing into your mouth would be forever burned into your mind.

“Looks like you’ve earned your reward after all.” Fëanor grabbed you by your shoulders and hoisted you up onto his desk with impressive strength. You didn’t have time to ask if you should move the papers on his desk before his mouth crashed into yours. His lips were hot and dominating, overwhelming your senses. You barely had time to kiss him back before he was pulling away, attaching his lips to your neck and biting down, making you cry out. He sucked and bit every inch of your throat in a manner you knew would leave dark bruises the next day, undoubtedly an intentional choice on his part.

You felt your shirt being yanked up, Fëanor quickly pulling it over your head along and ripping your bra off then tossing both items somewhere behind him. His calloused hands eagerly grabbed your breasts, squeezing hard. You squirmed under his touch, wanting to get away from the harshness of it but also needing more somehow. Fëanor’s mouth assaulted your breasts, biting the soft flesh firmly before taking your nipple in his teeth and flicking the bud with his tongue.

“Oh, fuck.” You couldn’t help but moan, tilting your head back.

“You like this?” Fëanor teased, lifting his mouth from your breast momentarily before hovering over the other one. “You like it when I’m rough, treating you like a dirty little whore? Leaving marks all over your body so you know that you’re my property, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir!” You cried out as he sucked at your other breast. It was overwhelming, his hands were everywhere except where you needed them most.

As if he read your mind, Fëanor pulled away, ripping his shirt over his head to reveal the most sculpted abs you’d ever seen. The bastard stood there for a moment, proudly watching you admire his form. Gods above, you’d never be able to focus in class again after seeing his muscles.

He reached down and roughly tugged your skirt and panties down, exposing your glistening cunt. Fëanor plunged a finger into you without warning, pressing a thumb to your clit and making you see stars. His mouth found your neck again as you squirmed under his touch, a hand reaching around your back and pressing you into his frame.

“You’re a fucking mess,” He growled into your neck, adding in a second finger and stretching your hole. “All for me, isn’t that right? I’m going to break you, my dear. Break you into a thousand pieces and put you back together so I can do it all over again and make you mine.”

You whined, feeling your muscles clench around him as he pumped his fingers in and out of you. You were approaching your orgasm faster than you ever had in your life. “I’m close…” You mumbled through shallow breaths, legs beginning to twitch.

He smirked. “I know.” Was all he said before roughly pulling his fingers away, right before you could make the final stretch towards the edge.

“What the hell!” You exclaimed, angry. Before you could cuss him out, his hand wrapped around your throat and squeezed.

“What did I tell you about keeping that pretty mouth shut?” Fëanor growled. “I would threaten to stuff it with my cock again, but you’d probably enjoy that too much. Guess I’m just going to have to fuck you so hard you scream and lose your voice.”

He roughly turned you around, pushing you by your neck so you were stomach first down on the desk with your feet still on the floor. You breathed heavily, grasping the edge with your fingertips as Fëanor lined his cock up to your entrance. You forced your body to relax, knowing it was going to hurt at first.

His hands found your hips and he slammed into you, almost knocking the wind right out of your lungs. You barely had time to catch your breath and acknowledge the stinging stretch between your legs before he pulled out and did it again, setting a brutal pace. You began to scream, fully screaming in pleasure and pain as Fëanor pounded into you relentlessly. You couldn’t even think straight, all logical thoughts about there possibly being people in the hallway that could hear you as you cried out over and over again.

Fëanor’s grip on your hips was almost bone shattering, his thick cock slamming into your g-spot faster than anyone had ever fucked you. He was right, your entire body would be sore tomorrow. In fact, you’d be lucky if you were able to walk to class. Fëanor’s thrusts were so powerful, you were sure he was going to split you in half.

And you fucking loved it.

You loved being bent over your professor’s desk, unable to think about anything else aside from how hard he was fucking you. The male you had had verbal sparring matches with for weeks was taking his frustration out on you, and you loved it. You enjoyed being at his mercy, feeling things nobody else had been able to make you feel.

Fëanor grunted, reaching one hand down and rubbing your clit. “You cum when I say you cum, got it?”

You nodded, whimpering as you felt your body try and pick up where it left off. You begged it to keep your orgasm at bay, knowing Fëanor would be less than happy if you came without his permission. So you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to think about anything else.

He thrusted into you for what seemed like hours, to the point where your legs had gone almost numb. You were a sobbing mess, fighting to stop yourself from climaxing all over his cock. The papers on his desk were stained with your tears, and your determination to not beg him for anything snapped.

“Please let me cum.” You sobbed pathetically.

Fëanor only increased his pace on your clit, smirking as he pounded you. “Aw, are you crying again? Poor little thing is so desperate to cum for daddy, isn’t she?”

Daddy. Your brain went haywire. Normally, you were not into the whole daddy kink, but the way Fëanor said it changed something in you. You whined, nodding. At this point, you’d say whatever to get him to let you cum. “Please, daddy, I need to cum,” You cried, body shaking. “I’ll do anything you want, please just let me finish.”

Fëanor groaned behind you, his cock twitching inside of you, evidence of his pleasure with your response. “That was pathetic,” He grunted. “But I’ll let it slide. Cum for me, slut. Cum now.”

Your body let go before he finished his sentence, the dam that had been holding your orgasm back bursting, letting the climax wash over your body. You cried out, voice breaking with hoarseness as your legs twitched violently, your grip on the desk and Fëanor’s hand on your hip being the only thing keeping you from sliding onto the floor.

The world spun around you, and at one point you were pretty sure you lost consciousness. As you came down from your high, Fëanor moaned loudly, pulling out and stroking his cock while jutting his hips forward. Thick spurts of cum landed on your back mixing with the sheen of sweat already there. His loud groan echoed throughout the office as you panted, your entire body feeling both completely wrecked and on cloud nine at the same time.

You tried to speak, but no words came out. Your vocal cords were shot, jaw aching with every movement. You didn’t even hear Fëanor retreat, but he returned with a towel, gently wiping the seed off your skin. You wanted to thank him, but couldn’t. In fact, you weren’t sure if you could even move. 

Fëanor chuckled, bundling up your clothes and setting them beside you. He placed a glass of water to your lips, tilting it back and letting you eagerly drink it up. “You’re excused from Thursday’s lesson,” He said smugly. “Only because I know you won’t be able to get out of bed to get to class. Let this be your lesson learned not to question me, or call me an arrogant prick. Got it?”

You nodded weakly, defenceless, and knowing your linguistics class with Dr. Fëanor would never be the same.

[thefabulous-mostgroovy]

If I Make it Through Tonight (Everybody's Gonna Hear Me Out)

Martin saw his first monster at the age of ten.

He saw his second monster at the age of twenty-eight, and that monster was his boss.

Jon/Martin, 4.6k words, rated T, read on AO3. This is for day 5 of @jonmartinweek for the prompt Cryptids. pls ignore that i completely forgot to repost this to tumblr lmao

Martin saw his first monster at the age of ten.

He was in Brownies at that age, amongst a group of girls who could tell he wasn't quite like them. The scout leader had been talking about a camping trip for over a year at that point, and finally managed to organise it at a local site. A few girls complained about the dirt and didn't like the smell of the campfire and the portaloo, but Martin stuck with a small group of girls who he found huddled around a flipped over rock, looking at bugs.

He doesn't remember most of the night, in all honesty. They did the usual stuff you were supposed to do when you go camping: stories, songs, s'mores. Nothing too exciting. Then they all went to bed in their lackluster tents and sleeping bags.

When Martin woke up, he didn't know what time it was. Just that it was dark and the campfire had been put out. The girls in his tent were all still asleep. Sitting up and pulling his jumper on, he carefully pulled the zipper on the entrance down and poked his head out. He couldn't see much but the vague silhouette of the other tents and trees.

The woods at night were quiet. Martin closed his eyes and listened to chirping insects and rustling bushes. He's always liked the sound of nature. He lived near a woodland with a park sitting on the edge and he would lie in the basket swing and watch the spaces through the trees. Sometimes he would see deer or rabbits or foxes, or once, even a badger. He didn't have a sketchbook, but he would take some printer paper and a clipboard and draw the animals and plants he saw. Not very well, mind you, but he would sometimes convince his mum to let him keep his favourites stuck to the fridge.

Martin was snapped out of his thoughts by a loud rustle in the foliage, and a hush fell over the woods. A true silence was left ringing in his ears and he turtled into the neck of his jumper. He vaguely remembers, from a walk through that woodland with his father, being told that silence is the most dangerous sound in nature; it means everything that could be eaten has run away, leaving only the thing looking for something to eat. He fumbled for his glasses behind him, not taking his eyes off the treeline, and shoved them onto his nose. It didn't help much, but it wasn't as blurry anymore.

Amongst the black, he saw something shifting, heard the sniffs of a large nose. Heavy, yet careful footsteps made their way through the bushes, and into the campsite. Now out of the trees, Martin could see it clearer.

The creature was enormous, hunched unnaturally on four legs and covered in thin, dark hair. The skin underneath was pale and covered in painful-looking stretch marks. The paws didn't seem like paws at all. They looked more like hands, with elongated fingers and harsh, ragged nails. It was almost person-shaped. Almost. The hunchback made it look like a man trying to walk on all fours, on his hands and feet, but it moved so fluidly, like it was used to it.

Until it stood up.

The thing rose onto its two hind legs, pushing at the portaloo with its knobbly hands, towering over the thing by easily two and a half feet. The small stall rocked back and forth, clattering as its balance was tested. It chuffed as it tried the handle with clumsy fingers, then moved on to investigate a tent.

Looking back on it, Martin knows it was a terrible idea, but his mind had filled with the awful image of this creature—this monster—getting into the tent and ripping the girls inside to shreds, and he simply acted in instinct. He blindly fished the wind up torch he brought with him out of his sleeping bag, and turned it on. The crank made an awful, loud clicking noise and the light wasn't very bright, but the monster still squinted at it.

Big reflective eyes stared at Martin, the lumbering body frozen in a startled turn. Its hair stood on end, teeth bared in its snout and stained with something dark, and it stared. It stared and stared and didn't move a muscle. Martin stared back, suddenly cold with fear. It raised a long, slender finger, the tip thick like a paw pad, the nail curled and yellow, and it held the finger to its lips. Like it was telling—no, warning—Martin to be quiet.

The light faded out. Martin didn't rewind it. He listened to the creature disappear back into the woods. He did not go back to sleep that night.

The first monster Martin saw, he discovered many years later, was a werewolf. And it sparked what can only be described as an obsession.

From that point forward, Martin found everything he could on monsters, ghouls, and cryptids. He found books in the library about Mothman and the Loch Ness Monster and Krampus, and checked them out, much to the dismay of the librarian. He copied the anatomical sketches into the jotters he took from the supply bin in school and proudly showed his teachers, who replied with a concerned grimace.

(To be fair, he doesn't blame them. He was this specky little eleven year old holding up drawings that might as well have been props from The Shining. He once heard a teaching assistant mutter 'Redruuum' behind the teacher he was proudly showing a picture of Bigfoot to, and she was quickly sent off with a glare.)

The interest only got worse as he grew up. He set up trail cams in his local woodland, he went on ill-advised camping trips to unregulated areas, he had a truly awful vampire phase in high school and is rather glad he's not still friends with anyone who would remember it. He started carrying around a camera everywhere he went, just in case, deciding that his top goal should be to finally get a picture of one of the damn things. But one thing truly takes the cake for the lengths he's willing to go to get that shot:

After dropping out of high school and needing to support himself and his mum, he made up a lie about having a master's degree in parapsychology and applied to the Magnus Institute.

Working at the Magnus Institute had been a total dream for Martin for a few years at that point. The idea of being completely surrounded with resources, with proof of the supernatural was all he could ever ask for! Of course, he applied to other jobs as well, but he had all his hopes pinned on the institute. When he got the interview, he was practically vibrating with nerves the entire time. The whole thing was a bit weird, Elias is definitely a bit of a freak who learned what a smile is from a WikiHow guide, but he did get the job!

And ended up in the bloody library.

Sure, having very easy access to every book you could possibly want on supernatural creatures is great, but zero access to the research department is not great. It also doesn't help that there are actually very few books on cryptids, and most of his coworkers thought they were a load of rubbish.

All in all, Martin does what he can before simply returning to independent research (i.e. Reddit threads. Grim). That is, until he got moved to the archives.

It's all he could have ever asked for: two hundred years worth of statements and research packed away into a maze of shelves where no one can see him rummaging around and taking notes on the book he hides in his desk drawer. A boss who doesn't seem to mind, if downright encourages, employees staying late, even if he is a bit of a dickhead about it (a very handsome dickhead, but that's a matter for Martin to think about elsewhere). And two coworkers who are truly entertained by Martin's Origin Story and hand him files to read on werewolves in America, and vampire killers. He swears he was only a little disappointed to find out that vampires are not as sexy as they are, according to Anne Rice.

This is all to say, Martin is finally going on another proper Cryptid Hunt.

Now, Martin has never set foot in a proper research facility, but he thinks he's onto something. Statement after statement has been cropping up about a monster roaming London in the night, that speaks in static and has dozens of eyes. It's like nothing Martin has ever heard before. He's determined to find it. He's got his digital camera, he has a torch and plenty of backup batteries, he has a Polaroid camera, just in case cryptids don't capture well on digital—which he assumes they won't, if the statements won't even record without the tape recorder.

Speaking of tapes, he'll need to find some blank tapes to record anything important on. Not that he thinks a Polaroid wouldn't be enough proof, he just- he likes the Lo-fi charm, alright? It's—as much as Jon detests the word—spooky.

It's not his first rodeo borrowing (stealing) the odd item for one of his hunts, but this time he's more nervous. Jon has made it very clear that Martin is on thin ice, especially after letting a dog into the archives and it causing a mess on the floor. So, he tries his best to be very careful when he picks the lock to Jon's door and stuffs a couple tapes into his satchel. It's all going surprisingly swimmingly until he runs into Jon on the way out after getting his coat.

"Martin?" Jon calls as he spots him. "Did you see anyone going into my office?"

"Mm, no," Martin says, like a liar. He's always been good at lying. That's not great for his character, but it is great for him getting away with everything.

"Right, I must have forgotten to lock the door, then," he mumbles. Jon has his coat on and his bag over his shoulder, which is odd considering Martin doesn't think he's ever seen Jon leave on time. He shows up early and he leaves late; as far as Martin knows, he could bloody live down here.

"Are you heading out already?" Martin risks asking. It's not that he wants Jon to work himself to death, but could he maybe start his self improvement journey when Martin isn't trying to walk out with stolen Institute property?

"Yes, I have, uh—" Jon waves a hand as he thinks, "—plans. I have plans. Shall we head out together?"

The suggestion throws him off, as do many things Jon does. He has these odd moments of treating Martin no different from Tim and Sasha, then the next minute going back to calling him useless. Martin tries to cherish the few and far between acts of kindness Jon dishes out, but he tends to ruin it with his face going bright red and starting to stutter and fumble with what he wants to say. Then Jon will usually side-eye him and tut and the moment will be over and Martin has failed to woo his hot boss once again and—

"Martin?" Jon interrupts, head tilted and brow furrowed.

"Oh! Oh, uh, yeah, sure, let's- let's go!" Martin lets out a nervous chuckle and Jon sends him an odd side-eye, and tuts, and sets off towards the lift. Martin curses under his breath and follows.

It's a little awkward in the lift, tense in a way that Martin is sure Jon doesn't feel. He clears his throat quietly.

"So, what plans do you have?" he asks, hoping Jon didn't actually intend on walking side by side in silence to the front door.

"Hm?" Jon raises a brow at him, like he's said something truly outrageous, then his eyes widen a little. "Oh- nothing much, just- visiting a friend from my uni days. Anything planned for yourself?"

"Not much." Martin shrugs. "Hoping to have a nice night in, you know?" Jon hums and nods a little as the lift sings and opens to the ground floor. The chit chat is idle and dull as they make their way through the dwindling crowds filtering out of the Institute, and they share curt goodbyes as they part ways.

_____

Martin triple checks his bag for maybe the millionth time: he has a camera, digital and analog, his phone, water, a few snacks, a torch, a loaded tape recorder and an extra cassette, and some basic first aid items. He has everything. It's time to set off.

The grass is dry and crunches beneath his feet as he makes his way into the woods. He tries to walk confidently, as if confidence is all he needs to warn off a thing that one statement said could most accurately be described as a fucking dragon. This is an impeccably stupid idea to begin with, so who cares if puffing his chest out makes him feel a little safer.

He ditches the path and wanders off into the trees, knowing how bad of an idea that is, and doing it anyway.

The light from the torch sends stark shadows streaking along the ground and up the trees, startling animals off in the distance, but no dragon. Martin knows it's not close because he can still hear the vague chitters of squirrels and insects. He walks slowly, carefully, because it's not going to be any help if he scares them off himself. He swallows as his nerves start to get to him. Maybe talking will take his mind off of it. He starts the tape recorder with a clunky click.

"Okay, erm... documentation of Martin Blackwood going Cryptid Hunting, because he's a bloody moron, tape one. I've found the area that a lot of these statements mentioned, it's a pretty popular walking trail, so hopefully this will come up with something."

A breeze sends a shiver down his spine as he checks all around him, pointing the thin beam of light through the spindly trees. His footsteps are light as he can manage, barely rustling the grass and fallen leaves. He doesn't see anything except a grey forest, illuminated by shitty LEDs, and he hasn't seen anything for the last twenty minutes.

"I'm starting to think this is a lost cause. I mean, it's getting late, and it's bloody freezing, I might just turn back." And he clicks the recorder off. The quiet in the absence of the whirring tape makes him feel even worse.

He tries to follow back the way he came. He winds through familiar enough looking trees and broken branches and rocks and logs. Then he walks past the same bunch of trees twice, and sees a log that he swears he saw ten minutes ago, and a small stream that he thinks he's already stepped over. In what feels like no time, it's been an hour and he hasn't found the trail. He quickly and quietly curses under his breath, panic starting to settle in at the fact that he's lost in a woods with frequent monster sightings.

"See, kids, this is why you follow the walking path," he mutters into the recorder. "Don't do what I do, for Christ's sake." He turns it back off, to preserve space on the tape, but it clicks back on by itself. With a shaky breath, he turns it back off. It turns on again. "Shit, don't tell me the recorder's broken..."

He holds the thing up to his face, trying to inspect the buttons for damage, but he doesn't know how tape recorders work so it's not revealing much.

A branch snaps somewhere behind him. Not a thing branch, or a twig, but a heavy, crunching snap, that sends the forest into silence. Nothing fills the air except Martin's quickened breathing and the whir of the tape. And possibly a short shriek from him, but that's unimportant.

Martin shines the light in every direction, hand shaking as he frantically searches the darkness for a presence. The tape recorder clicks itself off, then starts to play. His own voice comes out garbled and backwards through the tinny speakers of the recorder. It crackles and starts to fade into static. The thing shakes in his hands and he thinks maybe he should put the thing down, when something comes out of it, through the cacophony of static.

"Martin..."

The man in question freezes for only a second before he fumbles to pull his Polaroid camera out of his bag, not bothering with the digital. With the shrieking tape record tucked under his arm, he stands with his camera poised, listening out for movement. He hears a rustle on his left and whips around, taking a picture in that direction.

In the brief second that the flash lights up the trees, he sees it: an enormous, black creature with sickly green eyes covering every inch of its face, twisted horns reaching up into the branches and taloned feet reaching over the bushes. A mane of fur covers its back and neck, tapering down its chest. A tail audibly swishes behind it. And it was looking right at him.

The camera spits out a picture and Martin barely even notices. He takes off in a run.

The creature doesn't make any noise as it follows, doesn't roar or growl or anything, but Martin can hear it crashing against trees and clawing at the wood and ground. He can tell that it's bounding towards him. The recorder is practically screaming and it hurts his ears. He looks over his shoulder, and suddenly understands why three separate people called it a dragon. The thing has six legs and it's leaping from tree to tree like an awful overgrown squirrel.

In his terror, watching it grow closer and closer, Martin trips over a branch and goes flying to the ground. He rolls onto his back, scrambling to kick himself away as the creature closes in. He doesn't get very far as it slams a giant hand down on his chest and stomach. Martin screams bloody murder, kicking his legs in the hopes of hitting anything within reach, pushing at the leg and pulling at its fur.

Martin has always wanted to see another monster, but this is just a little too close for comfort. The thing stares at him with its too many eyes, and they each start to glow, starting from the centre at radiating outwards, the pupils thinning into tiny slits.

Martin feels pinned (in a more metaphorical sense than how he is very literally being pinned to the ground). He feels like he's getting an x-ray, like this monster has peeled him open and is stripping him bare. He's completely frozen under its oppressive gaze. He doesn't know how he's so sure, but he is filled with the inescapable dread that it now knows every last detail of his entire life.

He doesn't realise he hasn't been breathing until the feeling stops, and he gasps in deep, gulping breaths, tears falling down his temples. The static from the tape recorder—which had been abandoned to his left when he fell and had still been screeching—starts to quiet down, evening out into a steady white noise. The monster blinks all its eyes in unison, and the pupils have each grown rounder, filling out most of the eyes.

"Martin," the recorder says again. That voice- Martin knows that voice, where does he know that voice? "Martin...?"

"H-... hello?" he whimpers. He wonders if this is recording. "Are you... is that you? Speaking?"

"The tape," the monster says, glancing to the recorder. It—he?—sounds almost more confused than Martin. "It hears me."

The voice is deep and a little bewildered. Martin can't help but think it's the kind of voice you could find reading an audiobook. There's a curious aspect to it, a need to know more that is impossibly familiar. How the hell does he know his name?

He squints, no longer convinced that he's about to be gored or eaten. He swears he knows that voice, that posh, over exaggerated accent, the way it says Mahhhtin- wait, holy shit—

"Jon?!"

The monster- creature- thing– Jon looks back at Martin, shocked for a moment, then he hurriedly sits back. The six legs fold up surprisingly easily into a cat-like position.

"Martin, what the hell are you doing out here?" says the voice coming from the recorder. Says Jon. Says Martin's boss. He's having a bit of a time, okay?

"What am I doing? What are you doing?" Martin spits as he scrambles to sit up. "You mean to tell me you're a- a what? A dragon? A monster? A giant ferret that can only speak through a tape recorder? You don't even have a mouth!"

Jon stares, very unimpressed.

"What I mean is, it's very dangerous to be out here this late, especially off-trail." Jon chuffs as the recorder speaks. There's an odd purring rumbling from his chest. "I'm taking you back to your car. Come on."

"Oh, like you know the way," Martin grumbles, but still grabs the tape recorder and straightens out his bag, standing to follow.

"Like this, I know everything, Martin," Jon says, voice low and gravelly in a way that makes Martin's face go hot and red. Jon shuffles around and nudges him between his shoulders with his snout. "Now, let's get a move on."

Martin trudges alongside the giant dragon-Jon, who stoops his head down to seem closer to Martin's height, head tilted at an angle to lay his horns flat against his shoulders, instead of catching them on the branches. Part of him wants to try and make conversation. Part of him wants to forget this ever happened. A massive part of him wants to pet Jon's mane—it looks very soft and fluffy, and this close, he can see tufts of very dark green and dull grey amongst the black and he just really wants to sink a hand into it and—

"Yes, Martin, you can pet the mane," Jon sighs, rolling his eyes. Martin flushes from head to toe.

"How did you- what!" Martin squawks, and Jon laughs a little.

"You were thinking it very loudly at me," Jon explains. Martin stops in his tracks.

"Wh– you can read minds?"

"That's one way of putting it, I suppose."

"Well, don't read my mind, please."

"I can't exactly help it much." Jon rolls his eyes again and moves his neck within Martin's reach. "Go on, I suppose. If you still want to."

There's an odd look in Jon's eyes, looking almost expectantly at him. Hesitantly, Martin raises a hand, checking his face for signs that he was joking, and it doesn't seem so. Jon isn't the type to joke about that anyway, so he carefully reaches over and strokes the fur. It is soft. He carefully pets the fur down with the back of his hand, then sinks his hand a little further into the fluffy mass. At the firmer touch, Jon swings his neck to press into Martin's hand, so hard that he stumbles back.

The purring starts up again as Jon parks himself on the ground and leans heavily into Martin's arms. Martin laughs as he pets Jon's—again, his boss—chest and the back of his neck, wrapping arms around his as far as he can reach. The fur tickles his nose, and Jon rubs against him, all his eyes closing as the purr vibrates under his hands. His backmost leg starts kicking at the ground and a contended sigh comes from the recorder. Martin then laughs so loud in shock that he ruins the moment and Jon shakes him off.

He clears his throat. "Sorry, erm... let's continue."

Martin follows him through the woods with a smug little smile on his face. A question scratches at the back of his mind, but he isn't sure how to ask it without making things awkward. He figures, Jon will just, apparently, read his mind and find out anyway, so he might as well ask himself.

"So are you, like... fully in there?" he asks.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you're- you're conscious in this- form, I guess." Martin thinks for a moment. "Side question, is this like a werewolf thing?"

"Well, first, I suppose you could call it a werewolf thing, it happens every few weeks. And to answer your initial question, kind of?"

"So then why did you chase me down like you were going to kill and eat me?"

"I- I do apologise for scaring you," Jon starts, guiltily bowing his head. "Though, I will admit, it was my intention. I didn't recognise you. Or- I did, but it didn't register? Usually, like this, my brain is a lot more... simple. Straightforward, I suppose is a better way of putting it. Like my sentience takes the back seat to make room for something more- primal. Being able to speak through the tape recorder seems to put me back at the forefront."

Martin doesn't know what kind of answer he was expecting, but it wasn't that.

"So you've got some kind of... animal brain when you're—" Martin tries to find a delicate way to put it, and fails, "—this thing?" Okay, that was possibly the worst way he could have described it. He's totally blowing it with his hot monster boss.

"Sure," Jon huffs.

"That explains why you went all cat-ish when I pet you," he chuckles, and Jon pushes him with his head.

All in all, it's a rather pleasant walk back to his car, with the lumbering Jon next to him and his six legs thumping on the ground with each step. He's almost a little disappointed that it's over when he dumps his bag in the back seat and turns back to Jon with a quiet sigh. He has to tilt his head back all the way to look at his face. Sat back on his haunches, middle and front legs politely tucked in at his chest and stomach, combined with the long, slender horns, makes him easily ten feet tall.

(A far cry from his five-foot-five boss.)

"So," Martin says.

"So," the tape recorder says. Jon blinks his many eyes. "I'll see at work on Monday."

"Yup."

"Right. On you go, then." He swoops down and nudges Martin towards the car with his snout, then turns and heads back into the forest. Martin watches for a moment, then opens the door and collapses into the driver's seat. Jon looks back at him through the bushes. Even with the door closed, the recorder crackles out one last message: "Oh, and Martin?"

"Yeah?" He knows Jon Knows he's answered.

"Don't tell anyone about this."

And Jon disappears into the dark.

_____

By the time Martin gets home, he realises that his picture is still in the woods, and it takes all his will power not to drive back and hope Jon is still roaming around and will help him find it. But, then again, Jon probably won't want loose evidence of him being a were-dragon-ferret-whatever.

In a slightly foul mood, Martin goes to sleep.

_____

On Monday, Martin makes very awkward eye contact with Jon as he delivers his tea.

He tries to make small talk in the break room and fails miserably.

He gets no work done for the entire day. But, at five o'clock, after he's returned from washing the mugs, he finds a Polaroid of Jon on his desk, and a note.

The sticky note reads: 'Sorry for knocking you over. Still don't tell anyone.'

Martin keeps the Polaroid folded in his wallet. He doesn't tell a soul.

[yae-energy]

╰┈─✩ ˚ ‧ random thoughts : 2 ‧ ˚

✧˖° synopsis : more random hc’s cause why not (the manga is crushing my soul)

✧˖° cast and crew : yuta okkotsu, maki zenin

.ᐟ content warnings : cursing (cause when am i not)

⤑ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ authors note : idk yall i just wanted to post 😭 i got at least 3 more ideas i wanna do.

~

yuta <3

- really good at math for absolutely no reason at all, mental math specifically cause istg this man is like a fucking calculator

- was a nightcore kid (BADDDDDDDLYYY)

- used to be a really big harry potter fan for a while

- loves musicals. like, LOVES musicals

- will say a lot of stuff ironically to the point where it actually becomes unironic and it annoys everybody to hell and back. but he genuinely cannot stop 😭

- vocal stims with the most annoying tiktok audios

- loves carrots and hummus and doesn’t like celery

- he love’s halloween and always matches costumes with inumaki

- his biggest pet peeves are gum popping and squeaky noises. like he will genuinely get so pissed off if he hears either of those things

- is really good at board games & card games, like he’ll really whoop your ass in some uno tbh (which is why no one plays with him) and pls don’t let him get his hands on them draw 4’s or it’s absolutely over for everybody. (and it’s even worse if they’re playing train. like he loses friends afterwards)

*before each turn he’s like “😬 sorry guyssss” (he’s in fact, not sorry)

*also is unnecessarily good at monopoly, like he racks up all the properties so quickly and everyone always thinks he’s cheating

- has really bad eczema (mainly gets it on his neck and it’s reallyyyyyy bad in the winter)

—

maki <3

- lactose (and still consumes dairy but like…at what cost girlie ☹️)

*also has horrible indigestion

- likes strawberries but hates strawberry flavored things. do NOT give her no strawberry flavored NOTHING or she will fight you

- is a sparkling water enjoyer (inumaki and panda clown her for this everyday and have been since they met her)

- doesn’t like bananas, she has a visceral HATRED for them i tell you. nobody knows why either but that’s just the way it is.

- COFFEE LOVERRRR (loads that shit up with creamer and sugar)

- loves doing crossword puzzles (and puzzles in general)

- really good at chess and ESPECIALLY checkers (she’s just really good at most games tbh, she doesn’t know how either)

- her glasses are always dirty LMAO (same girlie, same)

- really likes baseball, like really really likes it 😭

- adding onto the coffee one: she is an ice coffee FANN. everytime she’s mad one of the second years brings her an iced coffee and she’s completely ok again.

- she’s a dnd girlieeee !!! and she plays with yuta and inumaki when they all have time

- hates reading anything because she just doesn’t feel like it (and she’s impatient) so she gets yuta to read it for her 😭

- is one of those people where if you ask her to do something she’ll instantly say no but do it anyways 💀

- really good at mimicking people’s voices and copying signatures (like it’s actually terrifying)

⤑ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ tags : @morosis-haze @jogeto @mypimpademia @zairene @planetlunaa @cosmiles @milesmolasses @chinieh @romiantic @stqrriichiigo

if you wish to be tagged in any future works, here’s my tag form to fill out <33

if you wish to submit a request, here’s my ask box :)

⤑ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ closing notes : took wayyyyy longer than i needed to finish this ! (just the life of being an adhd girlie 😋‼️) but pt.2 to this will come out shortly

also notice how i cannot SHUT THE FUCKKK up about these two like they did NOT need to be this long, do i care though? not really !!

now i’m onto these fuck ass tags 🙄

anyhow, love y’all 🫶🏽

update as of posting : it did take me over a month to post this i won’t lie…mb 😭

- xoxo, yves <3

[lexygabe]

northquido headcanons

disclaimer: i was bored af lately so i decided to write down all of my thought about this stupid assholes

tw: use of slurs (it's fucking liquido and north come on you know they would) and nsfw content but this is under a cut

• this one is for the veterans that followed me on wattpad, the 🎀💋🤩💌👯‍♀️bread 💌❤️‍🔥❤️❤️, to be more specific brioche bread is liquido's equivalent of giving someone chocolate box,

• their relationship doesn't get in the way when it comes to their rivalry,

• their love language is using the most fucked-up insults you've ever heard of. liquido calls north 'dirty dumb blonde fag' and north tells liquido that he is the biggest stupid cunt he ever dated. they love each other 🥰🥰,

• to everybody's surprise this relationship is good for them. since they are dating, both north and liquido spend more time on training,

• liquido is much of an attention seeker so it's very hard to see them being apart,

• when they are in the same room with other people and liquido starts to acting up, north is like: "oh my god, sit the fuck down🙄🙄". at first liquido didn't listen to what north was telling him but over time when north told liquido, for example, to shut up: liquido shut up. "hold it": liquido holds it. "tell him": liquido tells him,

• when it comes to north, liquido always mocks him. when something happens liquido says things like that to north: "say you are sorry", "thank me now", "😜😜say: please liquido😵‍💫 i can't live 🥺🤭 without you". unfortunately, north knows that he needs to say all of these things because otherwise liquido will be offended at him a whole day,

• type of couple that was shipped by fans long before they started dating,

• when it comes to being romantic, they are romantic on the level of a third grade student. north gives liquido some 'awesome, diabolical, fun as hell rocks' he found on the beach and liquido sends him pictures of drawings that he made on some documents or nda's (del aqua was pissed off) (those drawing looked like if they were made by preschooler),

• the most romantic thing they've done was placing receipt with written love confession into an empty alcohol bottle and throw this to the ocean. soon after that beach guard reported them to police and they have to pay a fine💀💀,

• north sends liquido every "blue haired girl" meme,

• another easter egg for my wattpad followers: north teaches liquido how to ice skate (it ended up horrible),

• liquido is the master of making the scene in public. he is sitting on north's lap in the most random moments and places, he gives north a slap on the ass when there are cameras everywhere, etc.,

• north on the other hand, hits liquido in the shoulder, elbows him in the stomach or pokes him between the ribs with his fingers.

"it wasn't funny😐😐😦😬"

"good😠😤"

• north is crocs and liquido is flip-flops,

• they don't care about privacy in the bathroom. when one of them is washing their teeth - the other is peeing, etc.,

• don't let them play uno or monopoly,

• btw they are playing a lot of traditional games when they have lazy days,

• the couple that wouldn't marry each other til their 60s

• they are drawing dicks on a cast if one of them broke any bone.

nsfw:

• when they are making out there is a lot of saliva, teeth and blood (because they bite each others lips every time),

• if you see them during a quickie, you didn't predict. just go away,

• someone already mentioned it but breath play, liquido likes it especially. yeah it also applies to swallowing,

• dirty talk and i mean a lot,

• tbh liquido is the one that is doing blow jobs and giving hand jobs to north, this is my man's cup of tea,

• north is one wild mf, my man is searching for that g spot inside those hydra cheeks (im sorry, pls forgive me),

• THEY ARE LOUD AS FUCK, OMG SHUT THE FUCK UP,

• hickeys💋💋💋.

[dufrau]

14, 16 and 22, pls! (if you haven't answered them already)

14. how do you write emotional scenes? Do you ever feel what the characters feel? Do you draw from personal experiences?

I don't know! I think I start out with whatever the plot is, i guess? I know how they got here and where they are going to end up, so its just getting them there I guess? I also just... don't write it. That is my main trick tbh. I write around it. The scene happens but a lot of the time I write everything but the effect I want it to have. I write about how much they don't want the thing that they do want, or how hard they are fighting against the thing they are actively doing. I write conflict from the inside so the conflict on the outside feels less one sided? I don't know. I always want you to be thinking of the other person when one person telling you how they feel. I want everybody to matter.

16. How many fic ideas are you nurturing right now? Share one of them?

Oh man I don't even know. Maybe zero. I have a lot of WIPs though in search of an idea to get excited about. The newest thing that probably will be the thing I finish soonest is something vaguely based on a game of "Have you ever?" but like not in a sexy way or anything.

22. Are there certain types of writing you won’t do? (style, pov, genre, tropes, etc)

No. Or like, not on principle. I think anything can be worth writing. In practice I write the same couple things over and over because thats where my brain takes me, and there are certain tropes/genres etc that dont really interest me, but I am open to being interested! I am open to writing something different than what i usually write. I would honestly love to be inspired in a new direction.

(questions)

[mybuginette]

My favorites fics

So, im a spanish speaker who is still learning english and my teacher said that if i want to improve i need to write/speak more in my ordinary life...and theres no better way of doing that that writing about my hiperfixations on Tumblr, so here i go.

This is the first long post that i do, so im sorry if i have any grammar mistake, im trying i swear 😔✌️ 

So here's the list (without order):

The Growing Pains Of Child Soldiers by BloodWolf13 What do the citizens of Paris do, when they realize that their heroes are literally growing up before their eyes? They freak the fuck out. Or everybody realizes that the heroes of Paris are young teenagers and are a little (extremely) worried about children fighting a terrorist.

I have always been wondering if in canon parisian knows that Ladybug and Chat Noir are just teenagers.

I mean, in season 1 we have Theo having a crush on Ladybug (ik that Thomas said that hes like 16/19 but still weird) so i asumed that people thought that they were adults but then remembered that in Bubbler, he didn't talk to Ladynoir as if they were adults.

Then Sabine is worried about them bc they have been working a lot and this fic shows how it could be if the other adults of paris worried about them too.

It was interesting for me because its like a realistic version of mlb paris socity, the discussions about mental health, ethical dilemmas and literally has a university essay in the first chapter. Its an amazing fic and if somebody knows if the author has a tumblr let me know pls.

Review of Les aventures de Ladybug et Chat Noir by @sunfoxfic Alya Cesaire, moderator and writer for the Ladyblog, reviews the newest movie in France — Les aventures de Ladybug et Chat Noir. How will this movie hold up to the hype? How will it hold up to the truth? All on the Ladyblog.

In-universe fics are my favorites, i like to see the events of the show from the pov of a normal civilian and the love that parisians have for Ladybug and Chat Noir. In this fic we have a review of the Ladybug and Chat Noir movie by Alya, one thing that i found funny is how in-universe Lady and Chat have like 2 or 3 movies while in real life we just got the 1 movie 3 months ago 😭.

Also, its funny that poor Adrien probably was forced by his father to do that role just like in Frightningale and he had to act like Chat Noir good enough for his father but not so good that anybody could tell that it was the same voice.

Miraculously Ladybug? by @the-angst-lord ON HIATUS FOR UNTIL SEASON 5 PROBABLY Marinus "Xiang" Dupain Cheung just wanted to go to school and keep his head down, design clothes, and bake cookies. Instead, he finds himself jumping across rooftops, defeating supervillains and partnered up with a cat who has the ability to destroy anything he touches. What a first day of school. Adrien Agreste just wants friends and the freedom to live his life outside of his father's influence. He's all too eager to become a hero of justice and defend the people of Paris. Gaining a handsome ladybug-themed partner who embodies said ideal is just a bonus.

I really enjoy the genderbend fics and this has to be the best rewrite of the show that i've ever read.Marin has the best features of Marinette, but with his own essence and characterization, when you read you really know that he is a reinterpretation of Marinette character and i looooooooooved him.

The situations, the relationships and the reinterpretation of Chat Blanc was so goooood.

I also loved the Dupain-Cheng family background in Shangai special ✨

(and it has drawings too and the suits are soo pretty)

@the-angst-lord i love your fic man

Perfectly Platonic (Unless…) by @frostedpuffs After accidentally revealing their identities in less than ideal circumstances, Adrien and Marinette must navigate their newfound relationship as both partners and friends. Becoming best friends was a quick process, but when romantic feelings begin to bleed into what's supposed to be a platonic connection, their friendship starts to change in more ways than one. Surely it can't be that hard to hide their feelings from their best friend? (A post-reveal, pre-relationship fic full of romantic crushes, best friend shenanigans, and a whole lot of dumbassery.)

I just lost count of the times that i've re-read this fanfic, the jokes are so funny and Adrinette acting like Ladynoir and Ladynoir acting like Adrinette >>>

These idiots are so horny and so in love, i need more 😭😭

[rillils]

*me pushes you aggresively!!!*

RILS LISTEN. LISTEN RILSS i can't believe you just wrote a story based on my f1 steve. i was completely mesmerized by it that i accidentally squealed so loud at work and had to quickly cover my mouth. one of my coworkers looked at me and said "you okay?" and i said yeah, but truth is NO! I WANT TO ROLL ON THE GROUND AND SCREAM WHILE HOLDING MY PHONE🤣haha oh dear, i'm gonna think about your delicious writing piece for the next few months (especially the one where steve was in the sunset, the kissing scene and bucky's cigarette drop💖 THATS JUST SO MMMWAHH MWAH MWAH). ashdjfdk i love you rils. i love how you react so gleefully towards others' people work including mine (even though i'm still learning how to draw🥺), you always make me swoon with your words and your support is the reason why so many ops continue to pursue their arts hehe. thank you so much my precious. now pls take this little feisty steve💓

AYA MY SWEETS 💖💕🌷💛💫💞✨💖💕💖 AKDHSUHSJSK I LOVE YOU

This is one of sweetest messages I have ever received in my entire life, and I'm still smiling like a complete dumbass BECAUSE I LOVE YOU SO MUCH FJDHKSLSK💕💕💕 I wish I had the skills to write a whole fic based on your art, rather than just a silly little headcanon screamed in the tags, but!!!!! Your art is so inspiring, sometimes I just can't help myself!! IT'S TOO GOOD AHGDUSHSH 💕💖✨💞✨ I'm not kidding here darling, your art tag is an actual treasure from start to finish and I want everybody to know that 💖💖💖 And yes, I will absolutely confess that I have a soft spot for your Steve art, and every time I see a new post, a new AU by you, all I can do is SQUEAL SQUEAL SQUEAL AND SQUEAL SOME MORE

You might still be learning, but your art has such a beautiful, delicate, soft quality that I can't even describe, it's like- like if strawberry milk and peach flavoured yogurt had a baby, you know?? That sweetness! That delicious velvety creaminess!! Aya my love, your art isn't just art, it's a whole mood, it's its own brand of aesthetic, it's a feeling! an emotion!! And it's gorgeous and I love it!!!! with my entire heart!!!! and I'm gonna tell everyone willing to listen!!! And I believe that art always shows a little bit of the artist who created it, and your art radiates pure beauty, pure sweetness, pure love coming straight from your beautiful beautiful heart, 'cause you're gorgeous inside and out, my dear 💖💖💖💖💖

You, and all the amazing talented artists in this fandom, bring me so much joy every day, making all this wonderful art about these two boys that I love so dearly, and when I get silly in the tags (aka all the time, let's be real xD), that's just me trying to convey how happy you guys make me, and how grateful I am for every single work of art I get to enjoy thanks to you all 💕💕💕

I love love love love you sweet Aya, and also I'm 100% stealing that little feisty Steve because *SCREECH* HE'S PERFECT!!!! 💞✨💕💖💫💓💞

I LOVE YOU!!!!!!!! MWWUUUUAH

[mimi-lovey]

I haven't been on the welcome home website in a while! Can someone tell me where to find what everybody is drawing with eddie on a chair? And like frank is comforting him? Was it like an audio or what? Pls someone help me 😭😭😭

[chronicbeans]

My little Welcome Home OC Segment featuring my OC, Pinkie Patience! It's formatted like a forum post asking to find the episode.

If y'all wanna participate in this challenge (that I created because I just love how creative some of these OCs y'all are making are), go right ahead!

Here's the link to the post explaining it:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

LOST WELCOME EPISODE PLS HELP????

So, a little about me: I'm a disabled man, trying to find this one episode of Welcome Home. This show was kinda my comfort as a kid. I was put in a wheelchair due to an accident from a really young age and the positivity this show exuded was very welcoming and comforting. I mean, it was literally called WELCOME Home! One character, however, really helped me out. His name was Pinkie Patience, and he only appeared in a few episodes. He was disabled, like me, and made me feel understood. Like I had a friend in him, because we were similar. I've heard similar stories from other people online who remember him and are disabled. It kinda seems like he was the bread and butter for disabled kids, back then.

There was this one episode, however, that kinda made me realize that I had more friends than I thought. I always felt like I needed to stick with other kids that were disabled, because a few of the "normal" kids made fun of me and the others. They made fun of my wheelchair, made fun of my friend's leg braces, made fun of anything they could. Especially when it was a visible difference. It really made me feel bad about the fact that, not only was I disabled, I was VISIBLY disabled. Kinda like I couldn't make friends with able-bodied people, because they wouldn't want to be seen with me. This episode, which for the life of me I cannot remember the name of, made me realize otherwise. It made me realize I COULD make friends with able-bodied kids, that, if they were a good person, they wouldn't feel ashamed of being seen with me. I want to find this episode, so I could show it to my kid, who recently had to get a back brace for scoliosis. They hate that people can tell they are wearing it, even if they hide it with clothes.

So, I can't remember the name, but I remember the specific segment that involved Pinkie. It was actually a Wally segment, with him painting. The other characters got involved, too. Let me write out what I could remember.

So, Wally starts out the segment like normal. Instead of asking the viewer what to paint, however, he says something like "I want to paint something for Pinkie. He seemed upset, yesterday, and still seems upset today." Then, he went on to explain how everybody was playing a game yesterday, accommodating for Pinkie's limited movement and joint pain. However, partway through, Pinkie had to stop playing, because his joints got worse and his leg brace broke.

So, Wally begins painting a picture of Pinkie, specifically Pinkie in his leg braces. This is important for later, but isn't really mentioned. Anyways, Julie ends up interrupting the segment, knocking on Wally's door. Wally let's her in, with Julie mentioning her concerns for Pinkie. She joins in on the art segment, drawing a picture of Pinkie relaxing in the sun in crayon. It repeats with each character, with Frank and Eddie working together to make a paper chain of something, Sally writing a play about... Something I also don't remember, but I think she mentioned making sure it wouldn't be too taxing for Pinkie to play the lead role. Howdy and Poppy worked together to make Pinkie a cake, making sure to not put any chocolate or peanut butter in the recipe, because Pinkie was allergic to those foods. I don't remember what Barnaby did, but I do remember him making a joke about how people seem to think Pinkie doesn't do much because of his disabilities, but in fact, he probably does more than the people who think that way about him.

So, Wally making a painting turned into planning a surprise party that was being held in Wally's house (AKA Home, because his house was alive). Eddie ended up going and getting Pinkie, who was brought in in a wheelchair, due to his leg braces still being broken. Everybody presented their gifts to him, trying to cheer him up. I don't remember how he reacted at first, but by the end, he was happy.

Everybody left one by one, until it was just Pinkie and Wally. Pinkie turned to leave, but was stopped by Wally, who hadn't given him his painting, yet. This was the part where the painting became really important. Maybe not to the episode, but to me.

Wally gives Pinkie the portrait, with Pinkie looking a bit shocked. Then, Pinkie smiles and goes on one of his long rants. I still remember it, almost word for word, despite it being a bit long imo. I mainly remember it because I rewatched the episode to write down what he said and I still have that paper. My writing was messy, though, and my spelling was a bit off. So I kinda had to decipher it would write it down. I made sure to write it down, because this was the exact moment that made this show, especially this episode, Pinkie, and Wally Darling, so special to me.

Pinkie said "Man. Thanks. You know, sometimes, I wonder why anybody would find me appealing enough to draw or paint a picture of me. People tend to find it hard to draw things like my braces or my wheelchair. Also, I just think that they look unappealing. Then, I think to myself, "Wow! Imagine all the people in the world who think the same thing! All the beautiful people who also have braces, wheelchairs, or a difference they think is noticable from people who aren't disabled? I know that if I saw them, I would think they are beautiful people, so what makes me different? And I know that you think I am a beautiful person, Wally, be cause you always say so. The same with the rest. Everyone here always tells me how nice I looked that day, how nice I look today, and how nice I'll look tomorrow. You guys always cheer me up when I'm down. It's why, most of the time, I feel good about myself. It makes me sad to think about all of the lovely people who feel down because they are different, and they don't have others to cheer them on."

There was then this moment of silence, like the two of them had this silent understanding. Then, Wally looked to the screen, saying "It's always nice to cheer others up, no matter who they are and what they are going through. You may feel like you have nobody, or that you can only be with others like you, but that isn't true! The world may be a bit mean sometimes. People fear those they don't understand... but avoiding what you don't understand only makes it so that you'll always fear it! You need to go out and meet others who are different, no matter how scary it may seem, at first. Then, you'll eventually meet the people who are nice and want to understand you just as much as you want to understand them."

The show then ended. Wally's segment was at the end of this episode. If it helps out in finding this episode, I think this episode might've been dedicated to someone in specific. I remember the end card having a subtitle saying it was dedicated to someone, with my mom mentioning that it was the kid of a set member on the show who was recovering from polio and had to have knee braces because of it.

I have a few books with Pinkie, like the one about his birthday and the one about not being afraid of going to the doctor. This episode, though, is the only thing I remember that directly talked about how some kids feel when they have to use a visible aid or if they have a visible disability. Please, I really want to find it! I already contacted the Welcome Home Restoration Project people on the website, but I think having extra people searching could help!