#help i want to be a master of engineering

[icrytearsofsadness]

💍 Blind Marriage au? Sounds fun!

a more fleshed-out version of this for everyone who commented "where's the rest" and of course for you, lovely anon

Billy Hargrove always knew Neil had it out to get him. Was just waiting for the day, really. The disownment wasn't a surprise. Billy was 19. Billy had been prepared for that. Honesty he was more surprised it hadn't happened sooner. It was fine. Better, even.

But the fucking FAFSA was what was going to get his ass? Seriously?

"Christ," Billy muttered to himself, his clicking on his laptop getting faster with irritation. "What part of 'I'm disowned' don't you get?" And even before the big chop to the last thread of their relationship, Neil wasn't going to help pay for college anyway. No-way, no-how. At least not now, not anymore, not after Neil had found out what Billy's major was. He should have fucking lied and said engineering or something. He'd gotten away with siphoning one whole year of tuition off the asshole, but that well had dried the fuck up. So, like, where was Billy's government funding. Somewhere up this stupid form's ass.

Billy clicked anxiously through the options to prove that his dad wasn't going to pay for uni. Be 26... he was not waiting that long. Master's, nope - he was applying for undergrad, seriously? Orphan, veteran, parent, homeless...

Well, shit. It looked like the easiest box to check on this godforsaken list was to be married.

As of today, are you married?

Which meant he had to get married before he got his offer of financial aid for next year. Which was in... fuck, in August.

"Any chance of a whirlwind summer romance?" Billy snarked to himself, shutting the laptop a bit harder than was necessary. This fucking sucked. But since he wasn't going to start living on the streets and he didn't have nine months to suddenly become a father, this was kind of the only option.

Billy sighed, opening his phone and propping it on his desk. He immediately cringed at his reflection in the camera.

"At least look like someone you'd wanna marry," he mumbled, reaching up to fix his hair a little. Nothing he could do about the dark circles under his eyes, but oh well. He undid a few buttons on his shirt, checked his reflection again. Passable. "This is so fucking stupid."

He clicked record anyway.

"Hi. If you're seeing this and you know me in real life, just... scroll. Yeah. Okay." He sighed. "I'm Billy, and I need to get married in the next two months for Fafsa reasons. I just got disowned and I need to, like... prove it, and the easiest option is getting married unless I want to suddenly become an orphan, so. I'll make a google form or something and if you wanna get married, fill that out. Add a photo or something so I know you're not someone's mom trying to sleep with a teenager, yes, it's happened before, yes, this is necessary. Benefits include claiming financial independence, a pretty decent roommate for life, tax stuff... uh, this, if you're into that sort of thing," he adds, gesturing vaguely to himself with a half-hearted attempt at one of his signature grins. "You gotta be over 18, obviously, and in LA cause that's where my college is. Uh... follow along to see if I get married, I guess."

This was so stupid and embarrassing. No one was going to see this, let alone respond to it. Still. He was kind of out of options, so he uploaded the video anyway.

Steve Harrington had turned into one of those people Robin used to joke about. What was it - bedrotter? Doomscroller? A bit of both, for flavor?

It wasn't his fault, it was just that everyone had up and left. Steve had been here for two full years, just working stupid jobs. The first year had been good. He'd shared every job with his best friend in the whole world, and it had been so beautiful. Until Robin inevitably went off to college to study linguistics - who could have seen that coming. She'd gotten crazy scholarships, her anxious mom was proud, it was good for her to get out of Hawkins. Steve was so happy for her.

But he'd been alone here for a year now and still hadn't really done anything. And his parents had given him a grace year to get his act together, and he still didn't, which meant he got the punishment rich kids only dreamt about in their nightmares: Cut. Off.

Ouch.

Steve was fine, though. He was handling it really well, actually. He had a job (true) and an apartment (barely) and friends (singular) and a life (lie).

And he spent pretty much every free hour just rolling around in bed on his phone, but no one needed to know that.

Honestly his landlord had mostly taken pity on him. Steve was sure even this tiny dump was worth more than he was renting for, and Steve's contract was short as fuck. Even his landlord seemed to think he'd be leaving for college at the end of the summer, and had insisted on a "trial period" of a few months instead of signing him for a year.

Again. fucking. Ouch. Because Steve didn't even graduate high school. He'd gotten his GED so like, he was fine, but. He didn't have SAT scores or a beautiful essay or money. So college wasn't really in the plans.

Which left him mindlessly scrolling instagram like a loser.

Until he got caught on a video of a young man - a beautiful, clearly exhausted, ridiculously charming young man.

The first time around, Steve didn't even process what was being said, too busy staring at his pretty hair and eyes, the tired little grins he flashed the camera that made Steve's heart thump, the erratic gestures with his big hands. The second time around, he managed to actually listen.

I'm Billy, and I need to get married in the next two months.

At first, Steve kind of balked. Listened to the pitch with growing incredulity. This was crazy. This guy was going to get married to whoever fucking offered? Jesus. And Steve couldn't just relocate to LA, all the way across the country, so he was about to save the video for... reasons and then scroll along when he noticed the view count.

Three million people had seen this thing. Somehow, this Billy guy had been graced by the algorithm and he had tens of thousands of comments.

Steve couldn't help himself. He went to the guy's profile. Scrolled through a little, shamelessly checking him out. He posted kind of a lot for just a normal guy, a few times a month. Lots of pictures. God this guy looked good. He seemed to prefer to wear as little as humanly possible, and Steve sure wasn't complaining. Surfing videos... beach volleyball... damn. One kind of sweet photo of Billy with a redhead girl in a headlock. She looked to be about Dustin's age, glaring and shoving at a grinning Billy who seemed to be holding her with very little issue. Siblings, definitely, though they didn't look much alike.

And there at the top, a link to a google form.

Well, fuck, why not. Based on the view count of that video, there was no way Billy was gonna see it, anyway.

[whitrcbbit]

MY PERSONAL TEAM ʚɞ FERRARI REALITIES

hey loves, this is my personal team introduction in both of my ferrari realities. i cannot express how much i love those people and what they helped me go through.

ㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ALESSANDRO RICCI / RACE ENGINEER . . . lello is one of the best race engineers in modern formula 1. brilliant, fifty year old italian understands anastasia's, his driver, needs like no one else on this team. he's with since i started driving in formula leagues.

GIADA LAVIGNE / PR SPECIALIST & ASISTANT . . . giada is such a kind soul who loves to scold me for my sometimas vulgar (in her opinion tho!!!) responses to rude reporters. she's italian and loves her job. giada sometimes acts too strict but that's her way and i wouldn't change her for anyone else. she works for me since i joined formula 1.

SEBASTIAN VETTEL / MANAGER . . . he's with me since i was a kid. in my first ferrari reality seb is also like a father figure to me (honestly same in the second one). always wants the best for me and consults me with every decision he makes. despite his redbull past he was the one who adviced me to leave their junior team and critiques most of this team actions towards me.

FINNICK MCCARTNEY / PERFORMANCE ENGINEER . . . sarcastic and funny, is not afraid to use harsh words on me when needed. i love his british accent (he makes fun of mine lol). keeps up with my bullshit and is not scared when i try to throw a tantrum. honest as hell but caring and often helps me improve my analytic thinking skills.

MAZZY DARCY / PHYSIOTHERAPHIST . . . what can i say, she fixes me when my body gives up. american and the youngest on my team, so we are like gossip besties. i love her gorgeous hair. we both master in haterology and that's why i love sessions with her.

© whitrcbbit 2025. all rights reserved.

🏷️ @avelineshifts @zaharasmultiverse @visualcve @jahshifts @callsigndio

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

[immortalsins]

all the important reasons why i should graduate now with a BEng were wiped away in an instant on once again reading the title 'master of engineering'

[orcelito]

Actually it is SO weird to me to remember that I was an engineering student and that later on I had been pursuing a minor in statistics

I may be a IT & com person in the end, but I do have the foundations of engineering and statistics in my brain too. Wild !

[itsnesss]

𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐜 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 | max verstappen × fem!reader

summary | max, who always claimed to dislike public displays of affection, starts finding subtle excuses to touch you

warnings | fluff, light romance, implied public affection

word count | 1.1 k

🖇 more mv1 🖇 f1 masterlist

Max Verstappen always said that public displays of affection weren’t his thing. He said it with that serious face, almost impassive, that he mastered so well. The one he used in front of cameras, fans, and almost everyone. Except with you.

“It’s not my thing,” he had said once, crossing his arms in a defensive gesture when you saw Checo kiss his wife in the paddock. “I feel uncomfortable, I don’t like the attention. Besides, those things should be done in private.”

You shrugged. It wasn’t something that kept you up at night. You didn’t need him to hold your hand in front of everyone to know that he cared. Or at least that’s what you told yourself every time the days passed and his gestures remained cool. Polite, kind, but contained.

Until it wasn’t.

The transformation was so subtle that you didn’t even notice at first. Or maybe you didn’t want to notice. It all started with small gestures, easy to disguise. A touch on the back when no one was looking. A hand on your leg under the table. An excuse to touch you.

“You’ve got something in your hair,” he said one day, while sitting in the press room after a race.

Before you could ask, his hand was already tangled in your hair, pulling out a supposed misplaced strand. No one said anything. Neither did you.

“See?” he added, smiling as if it were nothing.

You blushed, not because the gesture was too obvious, but because you knew it wasn’t necessary. There was absolutely *nothing* in your hair. Just an excuse.

That was the beginning of the end.

Sometimes, it seemed like he didn’t even realize what he was doing. Like that time in the hotel, after the team dinner, when you got off the elevator and said your feet hurt from walking too much.

“Really?” he asked with a crooked smile.

Before you could nod, he already had his arm around your shoulders. Almost as if it were second nature. Almost as if he always did it.

“Let me walk you to your room.”

You laughed, confused.

“Since when do you do this?”

He shrugged, not letting go of you.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But you knew exactly what you were talking about. Max Verstappen, the guy who preferred to keep his distance, who said he hated unnecessary contact, now seemed to find reasons to touch you all the time. And you, deep down, started to expect it.

The most obvious moment came in Monaco. It was mid-morning, and the atmosphere was the usual: chaotic, full of press, fans, and cameras. You were standing next to him while he talked to his engineer. You listened in silence, not wanting to interrupt.

A gust of wind swept between you, lifting a few papers, and without thinking, Max stretched his arm and pulled you toward him by the waist. He pressed you against him like he was afraid you might fly away.

“Everything okay?” he asked, almost without looking at you, his hand firmly on your side.

You could only nod.

“I’m fine.”

His engineer, thankfully, didn’t react. Neither did anyone else. But you felt the world stop for a second. And the worst part was that he didn’t pull away. He kept you close for the rest of the conversation, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

And then came Silverstone.

The rain had wreaked havoc that weekend, and you were soaked, despite your raincoat. You ran through the downpour to reach his motorhome, seeking refuge. You entered without thinking, without knocking.

Max was sitting on the couch, hair tousled and a tired expression on his face. But when he saw you, he immediately stood up.

“Are you crazy?” he said, taking your hands to help you remove your soaked jacket. “You’re going to get sick.”

“It was just a little rain,” you replied, shivering.

He huffed, took off his dry jacket, and put it over you. Then, without thinking, he hugged you. It wasn’t a quick hug. It was long. Intimate. Warm.

“I don’t like you being like this,” he murmured into your hair.

“Like what?”

“Cold. Wet. Far away.”

That last part made you look up.

“I’m right here.”

“I know,” he whispered, and this time, he looked you in the eyes. “But sometimes I have to remind myself.”

Since that day, everything changed.

He no longer hid it. He no longer made excuses. He no longer said “I don’t like affection in public.” Instead, he’d say things like “you were cold, weren’t you?” while wrapping you in his jacket. Or “let me help you with that,” while taking your hand to cross through the crowd.

The press started to notice. Fans did too. The videos of “casual” moments between you two multiplied. Hands intertwined, shared glances, small stolen smiles.

But the confirmation came in Zandvoort.

Your favorite country. His favorite track. A sea of orange everywhere. Perfect chaos.

You were watching qualifying from the pit wall, biting your nails. He had had problems during practice. He was tense, focused, cold. Or so you thought.

When the session ended, Max had taken pole. And the first thing he did when he got out of the car, even before speaking to the media, was to look for you with his eyes.

And when he found you… he ran toward you.

Without hesitation. Without looking around. Without caring about the cameras. He lifted you in a hug that took your breath away.

“You did it,” you whispered, tears in your eyes.

“You too,” he said, kissing your forehead, your hair, your lips.

And then, in the middle of thousands of people, cameras, and noise, Max Verstappen —the same one who said he was allergic to romance— kissed you as if the world didn’t matter.

And it didn’t.

That night, in the hotel room, while you watched the race replay, he appeared behind you with a tired but honest smile. He lay down next to you on the bed, resting his head on your lap.

“You know?” he murmured. “Sometimes I feel like I’m not good at this. Not like other drivers. I’m not tender, or romantic, or…”

“You don’t have to be like anyone else,” you interrupted. “I like you as you are. Even when you make silly excuses to hug me.”

Max laughed softly.

“Excuses? Me? Never.”

“And the ‘you’ve got something in your hair’?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You had something,” he replied, kissing your hand. “Something I needed to touch.”

You looked at him in silence. He returned your gaze, softer than ever.

“I’m learning,” he confessed. “Not to be romantic. To be brave. With you.”

And in that moment, you knew it didn’t matter how “allergic” he claimed to be to romance.

Because with you, Max Verstappen was learning to love in his own way.

And that was more than enough.

[fuck-customers]

(half rant half story)

I'm a physicist. I work for a company that helps develop car parts. Essentially, car companies come to us with ideas on what they want from a part or material, and we make/test the idea or help them make/test it. Usually this means talking to other scientists and engineers and experts and it's all fine. Sometimes this means talking to businesspeople and board execs and I hate them

A bit ago when AI was really taking off in the zeitgeist I went to a meeting to talk about some tweaks Car Company A wanted to make to their hydraulics- specifically the master cylinder, but it doesn't super matter. I thought I'd be talking to their engineers - it ends up being just me, their head supervisor (who was not a scientist/engineer) and one of their executives from a different area (also not a scientist/engineer). I'm the only one in the room who actually knows how a car works, and also the lowest-level employee, and also aware that these people will give feedback to my boss based on how I 'represent the company ' whilst I'm here.

I start to explain my way through how I can make some of the changes they want - trying to do so in a way they'll understand - when Head Supervisor cuts me off and starts talking about AI. I'm like "oh well AI is often integrated into the software for a car but we're talking hardware right now, so that's not something we really ca-"

"Can you add artificial intelligence to the hydraulics?"

"..sorry, what was that?"

"Can you add AI to the hydraulics system?"

can i fucking what mate "Sir, I'm sorry, I'm a little confused - what do you mean by adding AI to the hydraulics?"

"I just thought this stuff could run smoother if you added AI to it. Most things do"

The part of the car that moves when you push the acceleration pedal is metal and liquid my dude what are you talking about "You want me to .add AI...to the pistons? To the master cylinder?"

"Yeah exactly, if you add AI to the bit that makes the pistons work, it should work better, right?"

IT'S METAL PIPES it's metal pipes it's metal pipes "Sir, there isn't any software in that part of the car"

"I know, but it's artificial intelligence, I'm sure there's a way to add it"

im exploding you with my mind you cannot seriously be asking me to add AI to a section of car that has as much fucking code attached to it as a SOCK what do you MEAN. The most complicated part of this thing is a SPRING you can't be serious

He was seriously asking. I've met my fair share of idiots but I was sure he wasn't genuinely seriously asking that I add AI directly to a piston system, but he was. And not even in the like "oh if we implement a way for AI to control that part" kind of way, he just vaguely thought that AI would "make it better" WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEANNNNN I HAD TO SPEND 20 MINUTES OF MY HARD EARNED LIFE EXPLAINING THAT NEITHER I NOR ANYONE ELSE CAN ADD AI TO A GOD DAMNED FUCKING PISTON. "CAN YOU ADD AI TO THE HYDRAULICS" NO BUT EVEN WITHOUT IT THAT METAL PIPE IS MORE INTELLIGENT THAN YOU

Posted by admin Rodney.

[samah-2]

"A mother's dream from Gaza: Can my children have a better Future?"

I'm Samah, a mother of three children, living in Gaza, where war and destruction have become part of daily life. But despite everything, despite all the pain that surrounds us, I still dream, I still believe that my children deserve a better future. Just like any other child in the world.

When I look into my children's eyes, I see questions I cannot answer: "When will this end? When will we live in safety? When will we go to school without fear?" I smile at them, trying to hide my fear, but inside, I die a little every day, watching their childhood slip away.

I have always dreamed that my children would grow up in a safe environment, where they could go to school without fearing the sound of airplanes, where they could play without the sky being filled with smoke. I want them to learn, to become doctors, engineers, and teachers—to have the future they deserve, not one filled with constant fear of whether this night will be their last.

But in Gaza, dreams feel like a luxury. We don’t think about the future; we think about how to survive today. That is why I have decided to seek a way out, to a place where I can give my children a dignified life, where they can sleep without waking up to the sound of bombs, where they can simply be children.

But this is not easy. Traveling is expensive, the process is complicated, and all I have is faith that there are kind hearts willing to help. That is why I am asking for your support—not for myself, but for my children. Any contribution, no matter how small, could be the difference between them having a future or remaining trapped in this nightmare.

If you can help, please donate here

I am not asking for a miracle—just a chance for my children to have a future.

Vetted by @bilal-salah0

@tamamita @anneemay @sumikatt @khanger @timetravellingkitty

@loverboy-ish @imjustheretotrytohelp @palms-upturned@westaysilly @bilal-salah0

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@theinconvenientlifestyle @officialspec2 @transmutationisms @northgazaupdates2 @an-elegant-void

@theinconvenientlifestyle @officialspec2 @transmutationisms @northgazaupdates2 @an-elegant-void

@neptunerings @newsfrom-theworld @turian sylvianritual @brokenbackmountain

@ot3 @mangocheesecakes @good-old-gossip @schoolhater @dragon-master-kai

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@sawasawako @jehadism @lonniemachin @halalgirlmeg @commissions4aid-international

@vampiricvenus @girlinafairytale @dirhwangdaseul @chilewithcarnage @punkitt-is-here

[bloomzone]

2025 : #1 be disciplined

[ the 2025 glow up serie ? Click here !]

Motivation feels amazing, doesn’t it? It’s like a spark—a burst of energy that pushes you forward. But what happens when the spark fades? That’s where discipline steps in. It’s the routine you build, the habits you cultivate, and the consistency you stick to even on days you don’t feel like it.

So, instead of waiting to feel ready, discipline says, ‘Let’s go, regardless.’ It’s the engine that turns dreams into reality.

"Ask urself right now: What’s one thing I can commit to daily in 2025? Write it down. Small steps lead to giant leaps."

1.Building Your Disciplined

How do u stay disciplined? Start with these three small steps:

✒️.Growth is not supposed to feel good. You’re going to hate it. You’ll feel like quitting more times than you can count. That’s normal. Growth is built in the moments where you want to give up but don’t.

1. Create Clear Goals: Be specific. Instead of saying, ‘I’ll study more,’ say, ‘I’ll study history for 30 minutes every evening.’ BUY A SMALL NOTEBOOK AND WRITE ALL UR GOALS WITH SMALLER ONE TO BE MORE PRODUCTIVE

2. Track Progress: Whether it’s journaling or using an app, tracking helps you stay accountable.

3.Master Your Mindset: Stop waiting to "feel motivated." Understand that motivation is fleeting, but discipline is reliable. Every time your brain tells you to quit, remind yourself: your emotions don’t run the show—your goals do.

2.Excuses Are Lies

Excuses are lies you’ve sold yourself to stay comfortable. 'I’m too tired.' Lie. 'I don’t have time.' Lie. 'I’m just not motivated.' Biggest lie of all.

Here’s the truth: You’re scared. Scared of failure, scared of discomfort, scared of how much effort it takes to change. But let me tell you something: Fear is temporary. Regret is forever. Which one do you want to live with?

No more excuses. You don’t need more time. You need more discipline. You don’t need motivation. You need action. Stop talking about what you want and start doing the work to get it. Right now.

3.look at yourself in the mirror

Look yourself in the mirror tonight and ask: Am I proud of the choices I made today? If the answer is no, fix it tomorrow. And if the answer is still no, fix it the next day. Don’t let yourself off the hook.

2025 isn’t your year unless you make it your year. Stop expecting change to happen to you. You are the change. Get out of your head, get off the couch, and get to work. The only thing standing between you and the life you want is your own laziness. Crush it.

4.Action Plan for a Disciplined Life

Stop acting like you’re doing enough when you know you’re not. If you want that dream college, that perfect GPA, or that career you keep fantasizing about, you need to stop wasting time and follow a real plan. Get up the second your alarm goes off—no snooze, no excuses. Tackle the hardest, most uncomfortable task first thing in the morning because procrastination is for quitters. Create a non-negotiable schedule and stick to it like your life depends on it, because it does. Eliminate every distraction: delete the apps, unfollow the nonsense, and stop treating your phone like your best friend. Hold yourself accountable—write down your progress every day. If you didn’t do anything to move forward, face the fact that you’re the problem. Plan your next day before you sleep, so you wake up ready to win, not wander. And for the love of everything you want in life, stop choosing comfort over progress. Your excuses won’t get you that GPA, that acceptance letter, or that dream job—but discipline will.

breaking this into chunks

1. Kill the Snooze Button: Get out of bed the moment your alarm goes off. No "just 5 more minutes." Those 5 minutes are the difference between starting strong and losing the day.

2. Start With the Hard Stuff: Tackle your most challenging task first thing in the day. Procrastination is your enemy—eat the frog and move on.

3. Create a Non-Negotiable Schedule: Block out specific times for studying, working out, or any critical task. Treat these blocks like appointments with your future self—don’t cancel.

4. Cut Out Time-Wasters: Delete apps you waste time on. Unfollow distractions. If you spend hours scrolling or binge-watching, you’re digging your own grave.

5. Build Accountability: Tell someone your goals and have them call you out when you slack. Better yet, make it public—you’ll hate embarrassing yourself in front of others.

6. Track Progress Daily: Write down everything you’ve done that day to move closer to your goals. If you haven’t done anything, face the hard truth: you’re slacking.

7. Plan Tomorrow Tonight: Before you go to bed, write out your next day’s schedule. If you wake up without a plan, you’ve already lost.

8. Say No to Comfort: Skip the cozy excuses. If it’s not pushing you closer to your goals, it’s holding you back.

Discipline is the foundation of every success story. It’s not about luck, talent, or fleeting motivation—it’s about showing up, doing the hard work, and making the right choices every single day. If you want to achieve your dreams, you need to stop waiting for the perfect moment and start building habits that get you closer to your goals. Cut the excuses, own your failures, and take control of your life. The road to greatness isn’t easy, but every sacrifice, every uncomfortable moment, and every disciplined action will take you one step closer to the future you deserve. You either make it happen, or you watch someone else do it. The choice is yours. The clock is not waiting for u !

@bloomzone ✒️

[mangooes]

Your Cat is Heavy Ma'am!

(Name) was exhausted. Her heels had been kicked off halfway through the hallway, her jacket slung somewhere across the kitchen island, and her only plan for the evening was to faceplant into bed. But the moment she stepped into their shared bedroom—

“OH MY GOD!”

A wild caracal was lounging on the middle of their bed. Elegant, huge, with tufted ears and slitted golden eyes locked directly on her like she owed it a snack. Or her soul.

And before she could bolt or scream again—it lunged.

"AUGH—!"

She hit the carpet with a dramatic thump, limbs flailing in pure chaos, only to find the caracal landing squarely on her, tail swishing and purring like a damn engine. It rubbed its head along her cheek, licked her chin, and stretched languidly on top of her, completely knocking the breath out of her.

From the corner, Mephisto cawed in what could only be described as robotic bird laughter.

“Mephisto! Not helping!” She shrieked, swatting at the air as the smug avian continued flapping with mockery. “You’re supposed to protect me, not broadcast this like a soap opera!”

The caracal, unbothered, licked her nose.

She groaned dramatically, hands flopping to her sides. “Okay. Fine. I guess I have a cat now. A huge, kissing, clingy cat. Sylus is gonna freak when he finds fur in the sheets...”

At the sound of Sylus's name, the caracal tensed. Fur rose. Ears flattened.

She blinked. “...Huh. That’s weird. What, don’t like him?”

But the tension passed quickly, and she just shrugged. “Whatever, big guy. You’re sweet. And super heavy. Like—what do they feed you, bricks?”

Still, she scooped him up with effort, staggering toward the hallway like a warrior bearing the weight of an 18-pound demon kitten. “We’re gonna cuddle. And then I’m gonna show you off to Sysy—he’ll get all jealous, it’ll be funny.”

She’d barely made it past the front hallway when the front door slammed open.

Luke and Kieran burst in, panting like they’d just outrun a dragon stampede, Kieran holding a glowing vial like it was the Holy Grail.

“MISSUS!!” they both shouted in unison.

She stared at them, caracal still slung in her arms. “...Why are you both sweating like marathon runners? And what—”

She pointed to the vial. “What is that? Where’s Sylus?! Did he—”

The cat sniffed the vial, and then—

LICK.

And then… P O O F.

She suddenly found herself pinned under something a lot heavier than a caracal.

A man. A bare-chested, the smell of his signature colgone, very familiar, very muscled man.

“…SYLUS?!” she shrieked.

Sylus, now very much human again, groaned in bliss, nuzzling into her neck like a sleepy cat, voice rich and husky. “Mmm… I like this better. Your skin’s much softer than the sheets.”

She was frozen for all of two seconds. Then she exploded.

“WHA—YOU—YOU WERE THE CAT?! YOU WERE LICKING MY FACE—GET OFF ME, YOU NAKED MENACE!”

Sylus smirked, not moving an inch. “I told you I missed you.”

“YOU TERRORIZED ME! YOU JUMPED ON ME! YOU PURRED LIKE A DAMN ENGINE!”

“You called me sweet,” he murmured smugly, kissing the edge of her jaw. “You said you wanted to cuddle—who am I to deny you that?”

She turned cherry red, smacking his shoulder. “Get off me, put some clothes on!”

Luke and Kieran, watching the chaos unfold from the doorway, turned away with synchronized salutes, dying of laughter.

“Respectfully lookin’ away, boss!”

“Don’t forget to tell us if you wanna go full tiger next time, we’ll prep the litter box!”

(Name) howled, trying to squirm out from under him. “SYLUS! THEY SAW EVERYTHING!”

He grinned devilishly, arms tightening around her waist. “Good. Let them see who I belong to... Master.”

“You’re unbelievable, wait what MASTER—”

“And adorable,” he purred, nipping her earlobe. “And all yours.”

She groaned dramatically, ruffling his hair messy. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“Mmm,” he rumbled, finally scooping her up bridal style, completely ignoring her flailing. “Lucky you didn’t adopt another cat. That would've gotten messy.”

“You were jealous of yourself,” She pointed out flatly, arms crossing as he carried her to the bedroom.

“I was jealous of a version of me that got more cuddles than this one, yes.”

She sighed again. “You’re impossible.”

He chuckled, nuzzling into her hair. “After all, a cat can't stray away from it's master for too long no?”

This was inspired by the cat event last year, PLEASE BRING IT BACK I LOVE CAT SYLUS AKSJDNASKJDNAKA I NEED THE CLOTHES RAGHHHHHHH also could you tell that i rlly love cats, anyways sylus is a caracal cat its canon guys i love him

[clockwayswrites]

Like a damn bird of paradise Part 40

masterpost (pls no editing or concrit, I'm full of steroids)

“Well, you’re not my drafting paper,” Danny said with a little smile as he learned against the door frame of his apartment. The collar of his well worn sweater slipped down his shoulder, making him look wonderfully relaxed.

Bruce cleared his throat and help up the takeout bag. “Just a lunch offer, I’m afraid.”

“Lucky for you I’m starving, both for food and company,” Danny said. He stepped back and let Bruce enter. “I didn’t realize how much I would miss being in my office. There are dozens of little interactions I have every day that I don’t get while I’m locked away here like Rapunzel in her tower.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t think you have the hair for Rapunzel,” Bruce pointed out as he made his way to the table to set down the food.

Danny laughed and ran a hand through his hair, messing up the locks. “No? Not here to be my prince in well tailored armor then?”

Bruce stepped forward to straight them back out. His hand drifted down to Danny’s cheek and he ran his thumb across the faint scattering of freckles. “If it’s a rescue you want, you only have to say the word. Or even just a vacation. My kids are always trying to get me to take one. I could ensure complete discretion somewhere private.”

“I just got home a few days ago,” Danny pointed out.

“That’s not a no,” Bruce replied.

“It’s not a no,” Danny said with a small, amused smile. He leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to Bruce’s lips and then too quickly pulled away. “What did you bring for lunch?”

“There’s an good Algerian place near enough to work, I stopped there on the way,” Bruce said as he made himself break apart and move over to the bag of food. “I got a selection of things.”

“Oh, I’ve never had Algerian before, I don’t think, that sounds great,” Danny said. He went to his kitchen, which was small but felt bigger due to the open layout. “What would you like to drink? I’ve got ice tea, ginger ale, and milk. I’ve also teas and coffee I could make up quick enough.”

“Ice tea is fine if it’s not too sweet, otherwise a ginger ale,” Bruce answered as he methodically set out the take out containers.

“I’m not southern enough for sweet tea,” Danny said with a soft chuckle.

“Where are you from originally?” Bruce asked. He had gamely resisted looking Danny up. He was trying to do this the right way. Besides, anything concerning Lucius would have found before even starting to consider introducing Danny to the Bats as an engineer.

“Ohio. I was in Chicago for undergrad, SoCal for grad, and MIT for my doctorate, and Austin for my first job, so I’ve made the rounds,” Danny said. He set two glasses of tea down on the table, followed by two plates, some napkins, and silverware.

“And now Gotham, of all places,” Bruce said as he pulled out a chair for Danny.

Danny gave another soft laugh, but took the offered chair and let Bruce push it in for him. “Not of all places, WE was always my end game. Well, my end game as soon as I got myself back on track. High school was rough with the accident and it took me awhile to get things back together. I had to start at a community college.”

“Hardly anything wrong with that,” Bruce assured Danny. “You’ve gotten far further with your education than I ever did.”

“Do you ever regret it?” Danny asked as he poked curiously at one of the dishes.

“Sometimes,” Bruce said honestly. “But I think being a doctor would have been horrible for my mental health. I’ve never been good at accepting that I can save everyone. I still can’t, but at least leading WE I can help a lot more people at once, even if that is hugely thanks to the efforts of everyone else.”

“The mastermind rather than the master,” Danny said with a little nod, as if he really got it. He chewed on a potato, humming happily at the flavor, before he said. “That’s actually why WE was my end game. You’ve set up a really good environment there with diversity and pay equality and living wages. Also, if I could get high enough, which I have, I knew I’d be able to work on independent projects. It gives me a chance to do some real good too.”

“Your water filters are going to save lives,” Bruce agreed. “I’m not sure if Lucius has spoken to you about it, but we’re looking to make sure that every household in Gotham that wants one can get one. Not only will they be vital if a Rogue gets something in the water supply again, but until the reform of the water system is finished it will help the lower income areas that still have old pipe systems.”

“Really?” Danny asked, scoop of couscous forgotten halfway to his plate.

“Really. I’ve already started laying the seeds with the board. If nothing else, I’ll have them with how much good PR it will bring in for us.”

“You are a fiend,” Danny said with a little shake of his head. “A very benevolent fiend, but a fiend.”

“I just know how to work a board,” Bruce said, perhaps just a little smugly. “I might as well use growing up rich to do some good.”

“I think you’re just good at working people, that’s your mastery,” Danny said.

Bruce laughed, he couldn’t help it. “My children would strongly refute that. The more I care for someone, the worse I am at it. Things with logic or helping others, that’s easy for me to rally behind. Making sure that a loved one understands that the what and the why I’m doing something is because I care for them? Miserable. I’ve always struggled with showing those deeper connections, maybe because it’s always been so easy to act in public.”

Danny reached over and squeezed Bruce’s hand. “For what it’s worth, the fact that you’ve learned that and are trying to fix it? That means so much. I’m sure it does to your family too.”

“I hope so. I nearly lost some of them when I was younger and stupider, and I could never stand to again. Losing Jason for a time… he ran off because we had a fight. I was trying to protect him, make sure he didn’t make mistakes he would regret forever… I didn’t explain myself at the time and if I had…” Bruce shook his head and put on a smile. “Ah, I’m sorry, I’m making things dark. The important bit of this is that we will see your filters through out Gotham, I promise.”

Danny surprised Bruce by leaning in and giving him a soft peck on the cheek. “I don’t mind your shadows, Bruce. I’m well aware that we all have them.”

Bruce cleared his throat and squeezed Danny’s hand. His smile dropped into something smaller, but all the more real. “Thank you.”

Danny squeezed his hand back. “Now, tell me about these vacation options you’re concocting? As Lucius will tell you, it’s been too long since I’ve taken one that wasn’t for health or to see family.”

“Ah, a man after my own heart then,” Bruce said as he mentally ran through options for them. “To start with, sand or no sand?”

“With feathers? I’d be cleaning the sand out of my wings for hours,” Danny said. It was good to hear him mention his wings with more ease.

“Come now, half a hour tops, I’d gladly helped.”

“Why Mr. Wayne, I’m starting to suspect that you are fond of my wings.”

Bruce just shrugged. “When did I ever say that I wasn’t? They’re a lovely part of a lovely man.”

“Ancients,” Danny near whispered and hid his flushed face in his hands. “Okay, okay, I’m officially out flirted. Eat. Eat and convince me of this vacation.”

“If that’s what you want,” Bruce said, unable to help be proud of the reaction from Danny. He had to wonder if they did go on vacation, just how much he could make Danny blush like that.

He expected quite a bit.

[pitlanepeach]

The Long Way Home I Chapter Two

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Eek, are we soft for them already?

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

Maths was a unique kind of enemy.

Harper stared at the page, where a tangle of numbers mocked her in perfect, immovable silence. Quadratic equations. Graphs that looked like abstract art. Somewhere in her notes, her own handwriting had turned against her.

Jane was no help. "Look, I'd love to assist, but I operate strictly in the humanities. You want me to write an essay on why algebra is a metaphor for emotional repression? I got you. Solve for x? That's between x and God."

Harper sighed, banging her forehead on the desk.

Which is exactly how Oscar found her after his endurance run, still in his hoodie, hair damp and cheeks pink from the cold.

"You okay?" He asked.

"No," she mumbled into the table. "I'm dying. Death by numbers."

He peered over her shoulder. "Those are easy."

She raised her head and narrowed her eyes. "You would say that." She glared at him.

Oscar laughed and slid into the seat beside her. "Alright. Come on. I'll show you."

At first, it was just him. Patient, steady, explaining with short, clipped phrases and pencil taps. She wasn't sure if it was his teaching style or just the fact that he wasn't condescending that made it slowly start to make sense.

But by the next evening, word had gotten out.

Somehow.

The dorm common room turned into a weirdly specific academic support group. Oscar's roommate Sam pulled up a chair. Then Cal (Oscar’s engineer) FaceTimed in "for moral support"; and then casually mentioned that he has a masters degree in quantum physics.

Then two boys from Oscar's algebra class wandered over with snacks and just so happened to linger.

By the third night, someone had drawn up a "Harper's Maths Survival Schedule" and taped it to the common room door.

It read:

Monday: Oscar Tuesday: Sam Wednesday: Oscar Thursday: Alfie Friday: Matt

Harper laughed so hard when she saw it, she nearly cried.

And weirdly, somehow — it helped.

Not just the maths—but everything. The pressure. The loneliness. The constant feeling that she was a visitor in someone else's life. Here, she wasn't her mother's daughter, or the less-than-perfect student, or a problem to be fixed.

She was just Harper. And they liked her enough to stick around and actually put effort into helping her get better at maths.

One night, after everyone else had trickled off, Oscar hung around a little longer. She was almost too tired to think, her head tipped back on the sofa, eventually lolling over to rest on his shoulder.

"I don't know how you did it," she murmured.

"Did what?"

"Managed to turn maths practice into something I look forward to."

He laughed lightly. "You just needed to stop being so hard on yourself about it."

She looked over at him, eyes half-lidded. "Thanks, Osc."

He paused for a second too long. "Yeah. You're welcome."

She didn't respond. Just blinked at him, soft and warm.

And when he kissed her, it wasn't shocking.

It just felt... right.

—

Oscar wasn't supposed to be here.

Technically, he could be permanently expelled from the school. Lose his scholarship.

Not that he seemed particularly worried about that as he ducked beneath the low dorm window Harper had jimmied open earlier that week with a pen and a high level of angry rebellion.

"You're late," Jane said from where she sat cross-legged on her bed, dabbing highlighter onto her cheekbones. "Harper said you'd be five minutes."

"I had to wait for your prefect to leave," Oscar replied, swinging a leg inside. "She was sniffing around like a bloodhound."

"You're lucky you're cute," Jane muttered, not looking up.

Oscar took in the room; two mismatched duvets, makeup scattered across the long desk, fairy lights tangled above a heart shaped mirror. The air smelled like vanilla body lotion and expensive shampoo and some kind of spice he couldn't place. Cinnamon, maybe.

Harper was perched on the windowsill, brushing her hair into a ponytail with one hand, holding a lip balm in the other. She was wearing a navy jumper over leggings, ankle tucked under her thigh like she hadn't even noticed he'd arrived—even though the pink high in her cheeks suggested otherwise.

"I feel like I've entered another dimension," Oscar said, warily eyeing an eyelash curler. "What is that?"

Jane brandished it like a weapon. "Beauty, my darling. Don't question the process."

"You're both unwell," he muttered, but he was smiling.

Harper rolled her eyes at him, but had to purse her lips to hide her smile. "You're the one who insisted on coming over."

"Yeah, and now I regret it," Oscar said, perching awkwardly on the edge of Harper's bed. He knew it was hers because her pillowcase was monogrammed with a cursive H. "What are you doing?"

"Makeup," Jane said, blending concealer with terrifying precision. "You should try it."

Harper handed him a compact mirror with a sly smile. "Want some mascara, Osc?"

Oscar caught his own reflection and made a face. "No. I'll stay ugly, thanks."

Harper rolled her eyes at him and nudged him. He noticed that she'd painted her fingernails a glittery pink. He liked them.

Jane tossed an empty crisp packet across the room and it landed somewhere close to the bin.

Harper held up two near-identical shades of what was apparently lip gloss and demanded that Oscar choose.

Oscar chose the darker pink and Harper beamed at him.

Eventually, Jane pulled her riding boots on and announced, "Right. I'm going to grab some water bottles. Don't kiss until I get back — I want to watch."

Oscar opened his mouth to say something — anything, but she was already gone.

And then it was just the two of them, the room suddenly quieter, more tense. Harper turned toward him, one knee bent on the chair, her face lightly painted with makeup, her cheeks flushed from the laughter.

She looked at him, eyes half-lidded. "Thanks for coming, Osc. I missed you this weekend."

He stared for a second too long. "Yeah. Yeah, of course. I wanted to come. I missed you too."

She didn't look away, and suddenly he couldn't hold himself back anymore.

He pushed off of the bed and walked over to her, leaned down and cupped her face in his hand and kissed her. Long and soft and perfectly minty — from his gum or her lipgloss, he wasn't sure. Maybe both.

Teamwork.

When they pulled apart, she exhaled shakily."Okay," she said, so softly it barely existed. "That was nice."

Oscar looked at her for a long moment, his thumb brushing a smudge of mascara off her cheekbone.

Then Jane banged back through the door with a flourish, freezing mid-step at their closeness.

"Oh my God, did you—? You did, didn't you. I missed it again!"

—

Half term at Harper's house felt like walking around in someone else's skin.

Every day was a new performance: a crisp outfit, polite laughter, perfectly timed nods in rooms filled with too-white teeth and names she was supposed to remember. The dining tables were long and silent, the smiles were sharp, and the wine flowed never-ending.

Her mother paraded her through charity galas and luncheons like she was a debutante being rebranded.

"Stand up straighter, Harper."

"Don't speak unless you're spoken to."

"Do not mention anything to do with your schooling. God forbid they ask about your grades."

So Harper swallowed herself down, tucked her sarcasm into her clutch bag, and became exactly the daughter her mother wanted. For six days.

By the seventh, she'd become brittle.

When the train pulled back into the station near school, Harper had barely spoken a word for almost five hours. The Uber to the gates was quiet. Her mother didn't even look up from her phone when she said goodbye.

And then the building appeared—stone and ivy, wind in the trees, the faint smell of grass and cafeteria food.

Home, almost.

She hadn't texted Oscar. So she just walked straight to the common room, her bag still digging into her shoulder, hair pulled into a too-tight twist, like a fingerprint that her mother had left on her.

He was there, leaning against the radiator with his headphones half on, scrolling through something on his phone. He looked up once and blinked like he wasn't sure she was real.

"Hey—"

She dropped her bag before he could finish. Crossed the space in three quick steps.

And then she was in his arms, burying her face into the curve of his neck.

No words. No warning.

Oscar caught her without hesitation, his arms sliding around her, his hands settling at her back like they'd been waiting. He held her tightly.

For a long time, they didn't say anything.

Just her fingers fisting in the back of his hoodie. His chin tucked gently over her hair. The low hum of the radiator and the quiet outside, and the way she was shaking, not crying, not quite, but trembling with the pressure of having to be somebody else for too long.

Eventually, he whispered, "Was it that bad?"

She nodded into his chest.

"I missed you," he said.

She didn't answer; just held on tighter.

It was the first time she'd ever let herself lean on somebody like this. Not perform, not pretend—just be held. And she didn't care who saw or what anyone thought.

Oscar had quietly become her anchor. Her soft place.

And maybe that was terrifying.

She was only fourteen, Oscar fifteen — but God, his arms felt like safety. And warmth. And something else that she couldn't bear to even consider yet.

—

Harper's fifteenth birthday wasn't eventful.

She didn't tell anyone. Not because she didn't want them to know—but because birthdays in her world had always come with strings. Lavish luncheons, social climbing events, gifts that felt like bribes.

She just wanted this one to pass through quietly. Like a train through a tunnel.

Jane, of course, knew anyway. She left a pastry and a glittery crown on Harper's bed with a note that said, "You are legally required to feel loved today. I don't make the rules." The crown had little fake gems and kept slipping off Harper's head, but she wore it anyway during breakfast.

Oscar wasn't there.

He was in Italy. Or Belgium. Somewhere with a name that tasted foreign and exciting. Somewhere chasing corners at 120 miles per hour while she spent the morning trying to translate her messy English notes into a coherent essay.

Her and Oscar still weren't... official.

No labels, no silly promises.

Just soft looks and secret smiles, warm palms pressed together in the dark of the common room. Kisses that stretched time. Late-night texts that made her stomach twist in ways she still didn't know how to name.

But still. It was her birthday.

She didn't expect anything.

Which is why, when Jane dragged her back to their room after dinner, she nearly tripped over the package sitting on her desk.

There was no name on it. Just a strip of tape across the top, and the faint smell of engine oil clinging to the paper.

She tore it open slowly, heartbeat ticking louder with each pull.

Inside: a hoodie. Worn-in, navy blue. She recognised it immediately—it was Oscar's. The one he always wore over his racing suit, with his initials inked inside the collar. It smelled like him. Like soap and sun and sweat.

And tucked inside the folded fabric, a card.

H — Happy birthday. Sorry I'm not there. Don't let Jane make you wear the crown all day. Put this on instead. I'll be back before the end of the week. Save a birthday kiss for me. Osc x

She stared at the messy, awful, hardly eligible handwriting for a long time.

Then she pulled the hoodie on and let it swallow her whole.

Later, when they'd crawled back into the common room to watch a movie and everyone was pretending not to watch her phone light up every three minutes, Jane nudged her.

"You know he's basically your boyfriend, right?"

Harper rolled her eyes. "He's not, though."

Jane shrugged. "Oh, puh-lease. You're always wearing his clothes. You look at him like he's the moon and you're the stars. You guys kiss all the damn time — like you've got nowhere else to be."

"I don't need a label." Harper said.

"No," Jane said, smiling. "But you'll have one soon. I'd put money on it."

As if on cue, Harper's phone buzzed.

A photo. Oscar, in his race suit, grinning with helmet hair and grease on his cheek, holding up a little cupcake with a candle in it.

Wish you were here. Celebrating for you anyway. Happy Birthday, sunshine.

Harper didn't reply right away. Just closed her eyes, let the warmth bloom under her ribs, and whispered, mostly to herself, "I wish I was there too."

—

The night was cool and quiet in the early spring, the kind of night where the world seemed to be holding its breath for a warm day.

Harper waited near the edge of the astro turf, shadows stretching long under the floodlights that were turned off but still gave the field a faint glow from the nearby streetlamps.

Her hoodie was too big, but it felt like a shield—and it smelled like Oscar.

She heard footsteps before she saw him, and when he appeared, the grin he gave her was full of all the things words hadn't managed to say.

"Hey," he said, voice low.

"Hey," she replied, stepping closer.

They settled on the edge of the turf, legs stretched out, the grass synthetic but soft beneath them.

For a while, they just sat. Quiet but close. Hands finding each other like magnets.

Then Oscar broke the silence. "So... uh, us," he started, voice hesitant but steady.

Harper turned her head toward him, watching the way his eyes caught the light, shadows flickering like secrets.

"I don't want to mess this up," he said, his lips curled awkwardly. "But I really like you, Harper. Like... so much."

She took a breath. "I like you too," she whispered. "More than friends."

He grinned, that slow, real smile that made everything else fall away. "So—you want to be my girlfriend?"

She stared at him, her stomach warm and twirling, her lips twitching into a fond, sweet smile. "Yeah, Osc. Yeah. I want to be your girlfriend."

—

The track in Essex was wet. Not just damp — soaked. The kind of cold, miserable damp that clung to your bones and turned the air misty around the edges.

Harper stood at the edge of the paddock with Mark, a steaming takeaway cup with hot chocolate cupped between her hands, the sleeves of Oscar's team hoodie pulled down over her wrists. Her boots were already muddy. Her nose was red. She didn't care one single bit.

Because out there — helmet on, eyes narrow, engine growling beneath him — was Oscar. Fast, fluid, terrifyingly good.

Mark watched silently, arms folded, one eye on the stopwatch. "Final lap," he murmured.

Harper didn't answer. She couldn't. Her heart was in her throat.

Then he crossed the finish line — just ahead, by a fraction of a second.

A cheer broke out across the team tent, someone throwing their arms in the air. Mechanics pounded backs. One of the younger juniors swore loudly in delight.

Oscar skidded into the pit lane and yanked off his helmet. His hair was plastered to his forehead. His face was flushed, wild-eyed, grinning.

Harper barely waited. She ducked under the barrier and ran straight into his arms.

He caught her mid-stride, lifting her clean off the ground with a muddy laugh.

"You did it," she breathed, half-laughing, half-crying.

He held her tighter, nose brushing her temple. "I did it."

Their kiss was messy and cold and perfect.

A few feet away, Mark shook his head with a smile and muttered, "Teenagers."

Later, after the podium and the trophy photos and the engine checks and the interviews he barely paid attention to, Oscar found her again — sitting on a folding chair, wet hair pulled into a messy ponytail, her boots still caked in track dirt.

He dropped down in front of her, ignoring the mud. His hands slid around her knees.

"You cold?" He asked.

"A bit."

He peeled off his jacket and tugged it over her without thinking.

She let her hands drift to his collar. "You really are the best boyfriend ever, aren't you?"

He shrugged. His cheeks flushed a little. "I try my best."

They sat like that in the growing dusk, a boy covered in sweat and rubber and a girl who didn't belong in this world — but somehow fit in it perfectly anyway.

They still hadn't said the words.

But everyone around them already knew.

They could see it.

"Bloody young love, eh?" One of the mechanics said to Mark, giving him a friendly grin.

Mark stared at his protege and the girl he was wrapped around. "Yeah. Young love. A hell of a thing."

—

The Monday morning after Oscar's karting championship win was business as usual — at least for everyone else.

The cafeteria stank of burnt toast and unripened bananas. Someone's rugby kit had been left to rot in the corridor again. Teachers were barking about mock exams and how important breakfast was for concentration.

Rain pattered against the high windows.

The whispers had started the moment they walked in — not mean, just curious. A mix of respect and amusement. He's the karting kid who actually did it. And she was the girl who'd been there.

They didn't hold hands in front of everyone, they were both too awkward for that, but they walked close. His bag brushed hers. Their shoulders kept touching. She caught him glancing at her more than once, and she blushed every damn time.

They sat at their usual table; Jane joined them, already mid-rant about the biology quiz, and Oscar slid into the seat beside Harper like it was instinct. A few of his mates clapped him on the back, one of them tossing out, "Bloody hell, Piastri. Gonna forget us little people soon?"

Oscar grinned but didn't rise to it. His hand brushed Harper's knee under the table.

After breakfast, Harper slipped away early. Sometimes, the morning noise was too much. She wandered toward the astro, the damp still clinging to the edges of the pitch, her trainers leaving faint impressions on the stone pathway.

A minute later, she heard footsteps behind her.

"You always going to run off without me?" Oscar's voice, soft, teasing.

She turned and squinted at him. "I wasn't running," she said.

He stepped closer, hands in his pockets. "You okay, babe?"

Babe.

Babe. Babe. Babe.

"No," she said. "Yes. No. I don't know. I just needed to breathe."

He stepped up beside her, both of them facing the empty turf.

"You think my mum's going to be pissed when she finds out?" She asked after a minute.

He glanced sideways at her. "About you going to the race?"

"No. Yes. But I meant more about us."

Oscar was quiet for a moment. "Yeah. She probably will."

She looked at him; saw the mud-streaked, medal-wearing, boy-who-won-the-thing him. The one who kissed her under floodlights and held her on her worst days. The one she'd never trade for any high-brow, suit-wearing finance guy in any universe.

"You really aren't going anywhere, are you?" She whispered. "

He shook his head. "Not unless you're coming with me."

She stepped into his chest and sniffled a little, then looked up and lifted onto her tiptoes to let him kiss her.

—

It started as a joke.

One day in maths, Harper made a face so violently pained at the sight of a clock diagram on a worksheet that Jane nearly fell off her chair laughing.

That evening, Oscar mentioned it to the guys — just casually, in that offhand way that somehow made them all very invested in Harper's educational redemption arc.

By the weekend, there was a printed-out worksheet titled "MISSION: TEACH HARPER TO READ A CLOCK" taped to the common room wall.

It escalated quickly.

Now, every Tuesday evening, the boys' dorm turned into a chaotic, loving, entirely misguided tutoring group.

Like an off-brand of the maths tutoring program they'd thrown together for her — but with more interest.

There was Oscar, naturally, trying to be the patient one. Then Alfie, who thought yelling was teaching. Ethan, who brought snacks. And Matt, who had made a papier-mâché clock face out of a pizza box. With arrows.

Harper sat in the middle of them like a hostage.

"I'm telling you," she said, pointing wildly at the pizza box. "That one's ten. I swear. It's a ten."

Oscar, sitting cross-legged beside her, gently rotated the cardboard. "Harper, the big hand is on the two. That means it's ten past the hour. Not ten o'clock."

"Okay but how am I meant to know which hand is the minute hand? They're both just... hands."

Alfie groaned. "The minute hand is the longer one! Like, always! What do you mean 'just hands'?"

"They're not labelled!" She cried. "If someone handed you two spoons and said one was for soup and one was for jazz, would you know the difference?"

Everyone stopped.

Matt blinked. "Why would I have a jazz spoon?"

Oscar covered his mouth and tried not to laugh.

Ethan passed Harper a cookie. "Here."

She took it. "I'm just saying — numbers on a clock move. They're not meant to move." She grumbled and gave herself a frustrated forehead tap. "God, I'm so stupid."

Oscar leaned his shoulder gently against hers. "No you're not. You know that you're not, Harper. You know you're brilliant at a million other things."

She glanced at him suspiciously. "Like what?"

"You have perfect spatial memory. You memorised my whole kart setup after watching one session. You've mastered a million different coding languages already. You're good with people. You know how to read a room faster than anyone I've ever met. And," he added, deadpan, "you've successfully confused four teenage boys into thinking teaching time is a fun group activity."

She laughed then, warm and tired. "Well. Can't say I'm not a good influence, can the?"

"You're just a bit of a lost cause when it comes to clocks," Alfie muttered, re-taping the pizza clock for the fifth time.

But Harper didn't care about clocks. Not really.

Because she was surrounded. Because they kept showing up — Oscar with his soft corrections, Alfie with his shouting, Jane peeking in with popcorn halfway through every session. They all knew. About the dyscalculia, about the clocks, about her brain doing loop-de-loops over simple sums.

And none of them ever made her feel stupid for it.

Just... loved.

Even if she still couldn't tell the difference between three-forty-five and quarter past the hour (because what the hell did that even mean?).

—

It happened on the following Wednesday.

Halfway through the day, Harper was pulled from class. A quiet word from a teaching assistant, a murmured excuse. No one offered a reason why.

She thought it might be something small. Maybe Jane had accidentally set off the fire alarm again.

But then she stepped into the front office — and saw her mother sitting there, spine straight, legs crossed, lips pursed in thin, unimpressed silence.

Harper's stomach dropped.

"Come," her mother said, standing. "We'll talk in the car."

⸻

The car was parked on the far side of the lot, a sleek black town car that looked like it belonged outside a private gallery in Mayfair. Not a school car park.

Harper slid in, cold air brushing her ankles, heart thudding in her chest like it already knew what was coming.

Her mother didn't speak until the door shut.

"A karting race?" Her voice was like glass. "Karting, Harper?"

Harper blinked. "How do you—?"

"I got a call," she said, cutting her off. "From someone on the board. They saw photos. You, standing in the dirt with oil on your jeans. Smiling like you'd won the lottery. Holding hands with some, boy, in a racing suit. Do you understand how humiliating that was for me?"

"It's not—"

Her mother turned, eyes sharp and glittering. "Do you have any idea how much I've done to protect your name? Your future? And you're throwing it away for... boys who drive go-karts and call it a sport?"

Harper's hands curled in her lap. "He's not just a boy," she said quietly. "And it is a sport."

"Oh," her mother sneered, "is he your boyfriend now? Do you want to bring him to your cousin's wedding in Vienna next month? Shall we seat him between a baroness and a venture capitalist and see how long he lasts before talking about gear ratios?"

Harper flinched. "Stop."

But she didn't.

"You are not one of them, Harper. You are not some muddy little pitlane girlfriend who throws her life away for some boy with too much money and a ridiculous dream. I will not let you become a story people whisper about."

"I'm happy," Harper said, voice rising. "For once in my life, I'm actually—"

"Enough." Her mother's voice was like a slap. "We're withdrawing you at the end of term. I've already spoken to Madame Viard. There's a place for you at Lausanne International. You leave for Switzerland in January."

The silence after was suffocating.

Harper sat frozen, winded, as if someone had punched all the air out of her.

Her mother adjusted a glove, calm again. "You'll thank me someday."

But Harper wasn't listening anymore.

Her mother's jaw was clenched so tightly that a vein twitched in her temple.

"Fine," Harper said, voice low but steady.

The word dropped like a weight in the space between them.

Her mother blinked, surprised by the ease of her surrender.

But then Harper looked up — and there was fire behind her eyes. Her voice was calm, controlled, but every word burned.

"But you should know," she said, leaning forward just slightly, "that when Oscar's driving in Formula One — not if, when — and he's one of the most successful athletes in the world, I won't look back. I won't give you an inch. I'll let you sit in your wrongness and stew in it forever."

Her mother went bright red. "Do you think you're making this better for yourself?"

Harper laughed — a bitter, tired sound. "No. I know I'm making it worse. I'm very aware of how this works, Mum. I step out of line, and you slam the gates shut. But what else can I do?"

She paused, chest heaving slightly now.

"You don't listen to me. You never have. You just tell me what my life is going to be. What I wear. Who I talk to. Where I study. Who I sit next to at dinner parties like I'm some sort of accessory you place on a chair next to a financier's son. You talk through me like I'm not a human being. Like I don't have wants and desires and dreams of my own."

"Harper—"

"No. You don't get to talk now."

She didn't raise her voice — didn't need to. Every word sliced clean and deliberate.

"The worst part? The part that actually makes me want to scream? Is that I know Dad would be so happy I found someone like Oscar. That I found someone who likes me in the quietest, most awkward, most real way."

Her breath hitched — not from tears, but from the pressure of keeping them in.

"He's so bad at it. At being romantic. He blushes when I look at him for too long. He stammers when he's nervous. He opens doors and fixes my hair without saying a word. He doesn't like PDA. He frowns when he's concentrating and forgets to drink water and spends more time worrying about everyone else's lap times than his own."

She looked her mother dead in the eye.

"And yeah — he races karts. But he moved all the way here from Australia on his own at fourteen. He trains his body every single day for hours on end. He's braver than anyone I've ever met. Can you name one of your friends' sons who would've had the guts to do that? Or who would sit with me for an hour to explain how to read an analogue clock without laughing at me? Or who lets me cry without asking questions because he knows I hate explaining myself?"

Silence crackled in the car.

Her mother's lips parted — but nothing came out.

So Harper filled the space.

"You raised me to care more about perception than truth. To be polished. Obedient. Photogenic. And I'm done."

She reached for the door handle, voice like steel. "You want to send me to Switzerland? Fine. But you'll have to drag me there. Kicking and screaming."

She opened the door, letting in the sharp slap of cold air, and turned back one last time.

"Because I've finally found something that's mine. And I'm not giving it up for you. Not this time."

Then she stepped out of the car and walked back to class.

NEXT CHAPTER

[dangerousstrawberryshark]

Not Mr. Winchester

🚗Pairing(s)🚗🠞 Dad’s Best Friend Dean Winchester x male reader ⚠️CW⚠️🠞 gay, gay-sex, daddy kink, dirty talkinh, degradation, manhandling, spanking, biting, size difference, size kink, belly bulge, cum inflation, breeding, blowjob, face-fucking, caught sex, Dean has a big dick (of course), top Dean Winchester, bottom male reader, age difference, age-gap, possessive, and possessive behavior. (Dean is 48, and you’re 27.) Dean lusts over you, and you do the same. 🔞Rating🔞🠞 Explicit 🚗Requested🚗🠞 Yes

🖊️Word count🖊️🠞 3.5k 

🚗Summary🚗🠞 Dean retires from his hunting career and decides to visit his old best friend. He found that you existed, the son of his best friend. Despite the apparent age difference and you being his friend’s son, Dean felt attracted to you and wanted you.

Read before continuing: IF YOU ARE YOUNGER THAN 18 OR ANY OF THE WARNINGS MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE, DO NOT CONTINUE READING!

The Chevy Impala rumbled down a familiar street that Dean used to come down often. Being home after traveling the whole country with his brother and angel, solving cases and killing supernatural creatures, felt surreal. Dean enjoyed his hunting career, but it was time to lay down his arsenal. He deserved this break. 

There was one other place Dean wanted to be besides his home: his old best friend’s place, your dad’s home. 

He and Dean go way back, encouraged by their families to hang out since they were friends in their youth. They’d been friends until contact was lost when the Winchester followed his father’s footsteps, becoming a hunter and subsequently traveling the country for years and killing various creatures. 

After retiring, Dean found his old friend through social media and set a date to meet again and catch up. They grabbed a few beers, laughed about the old days, and talked about their current lives. He couldn’t tell your father about his hunting career unless he wanted to be seen as a lunatic. No, he just lied about being a mechanic.

His baby came to a halt in front of a house, and Dean turned off the engine, taking the keys and slamming the door shut. He walked closer to the modest porch with a mat on the floor. He knocked on the door with the side of his hand, waiting to see a familiar face, but he didn’t expect to see someone else. 

You were enjoying your summer vacation after a grueling year of college; getting your master’s degree was a pain. You were sitting around in your father’s home, doing nothing in particular, until a loud knocking disrupted your daydreaming. “Go answer it!” your father yelled from another room, busy with his own work. 

Grumbling under your breath, you got up from the couch and answered the door. You thought it was one of those Jehovah's Witnesses coming to preach, but you were mistaken for an older man. He was rugged, with clear-shaven stubble, a perfect jawline, dazzling green eyes, and short hair with streaks of grey in it. The man had a broad and solid body, and you could see the outline of his toned abs through his shirt. 

You realized you were staring for too long and spoke. There was a noticeable blush as you were ogling an older man, but who wouldn’t? “Who are you?”

“Who are you?” Dean replied, his voice deep and husky as he spoke to you. He looked confused, as if he were expecting someone else.

“Y/n? I live here,” you replied. You couldn’t help but lust over… everything about this man! His voice made your cock twitch in your pants, and you assumed he’s probably a freak in bed. You would bet everything that he was packing heat in those restrictive garments would probably be heavy and warm in your grasp. Dean spoke again, snapping you out of your daze. 

“Nah, that's the wrong answer. The man who lives here should be older… and taller, not short and young.” Dean said until it clicked in his head: This has to be his friend’s son! It had been twenty or so years since they had been in contact. You must have taken your mother’s genes over your father's.

You were about to respond before your father butted into the conservation, wondering what the commotion was. “Son of a bitch… Dean Winchester.” Your father said, huffing out a disbelieving laugh. “Miss me?” Dean laughed as the two older men embraced each other and chatted. You stood on the sidelines, watching the interaction and bashing yourself for lusting over your father’s best friend.

“Y/n, this is Dean; Dean, this is my son, Y/n,” your father said as he introduced his old best friend and son to each other. There was an awkward moment before you two shook hands, Dean’s large hand enveloping yours in his grasp.

“Pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasures is all mine, little fucker.”

xxx

You saw Dean virtually every day, but you weren’t complaining. Getting to see that hunk of a man every day was a dream come true, especially when he lifted his shirt to show his happy trail leading to your happy meal. 

You observed from afar every time Dean came over, laughing and drinking with your father, talking about life and everything that happened. You could feel yourself falling more in love with Dean, loving everything about him.

Despite the tense first meeting, he was actually kind once you saw through the sarcasm and bravado exterior. He sometimes teased you over little things or whatever your loudmouthed father told him. Even then, you could see the lust in Dean’s eyes. He wasn’t acting on those desires, mainly because you’re the son of his best friend. 

You would take it upon yourself to tease and poke at Dean. You would get touchy with him, accidentally touching his bulge, commenting on how strong he is, and sometimes grinding your ass against him whenever your dad wasn’t looking. Dean wouldn’t push you away, though, sometimes grabbing your hips and thrusting his bulge, making you feel the monster in his pants. 

He would mumble something under his breath before he regained consciousness and left, hiding his bulge and going to the nearest bathroom. You could only grin, watching the older man retreat to the bathroom with an aching erection, knowing he was jerking off to relieve himself. 

Dean was having an internal crisis. He enjoyed catching up with your father, but he couldn’t handle you being a minx. He was used to men and women throwing themselves at him and being touchy, but you were different, mainly because you were the son of his friend and younger. To him, it was forbidden, but that made him want you more. 

Whenever he visited, he would have to deal with your advances. He would stand in the kitchen while your father was doing something else, and then you would walk in. You would compliment him and start getting touchy, and he would respond to you, sometimes getting lost in the sauce. 

He would grab onto your hips and grind his bulge against the swell of your ass. He wants you to feel the monster in his pants and show you the effects you have on him. He would mumbled under his breath how he was going to fuck you and keep you as his. His grip tightening as he moans softly from feeling your body responding to his grinding, his monster cock aching and throbbing. 

After a couple of minutes, the forbidden rule kicked in, and Dean retreated to the bathroom. He felt like a hormonal teenager, something he hadn’t experienced since he was … a teenager. He would constantly jerk off to thoughts of you and would pretend you were there with him. Whenever he was home enjoying his retirement he would fuck a pocket pussy for relief but it no longer satisfies him. 

Despite the clear sexual tension, something your father hadn’t suspected yet, Dean grew closer to you. He learned what you’re doing in college, your personal life, and your potential suitors, which made his blood boil. Whenever you weren’t teasing or touching him, you would mention a date or hanging out with other men. 

Dean doesn’t know why he’s experiencing extreme amounts of jealousy. He tries to justify it, but his answers lead him to the same conclusion: he loves you. He thought it was sexual and nothing more. He was going through a crisis, but it didn’t matter anymore. 

Whatever he wants, he’ll get, screw the fact that you’re his best friend’s son. 

xxx

You were both in the kitchen; Dean was leaning against the counter while drinking a bottle of beer, and you were making some food. Your father was in the other room, said he’d be occupied for hours. Perfect opportunity. For days, you’ve noticed Dean’s composure was cracking, and you wanted to give the final blow. 

“Yeah, some guy asked me out. I don’t know if I should, though. He’s kinda hot, slightly older, and physically appealing.” You went on talking about the random guy that doesn’t exist, only to rile him up. It was working, you could feel the older man’s glare burning in the back of your head. Continuing the antics, Dean got more jealous despite the man you’re talking about not existing.

Silence fell over the kitchen before Dean’s footsteps grew closer. Your smirk grew wider as you swayed your hips, then you felt two rough hands grabbing onto your hips, pulling you towards his body. “You think this is some fucking game?” Dean growls as his grip on your hips digs into your flesh. 

“Walking around like a little slut, shaking this ass against me… even in front of your father,” Dean says as he slapped your ass, the sound echoing through the quiet kitchen and living room. “By fucking God— you’re driving me crazy. You wanted me to snap, huh? This is what you wanted?” Your smirk grew wider as you enjoyed the way Dean was reacting. His body was emitting heat as you felt his large, muscular body pressing against yours. 

“Now tell me, boy, you gonna keep playing around, or are you gonna put your mouth and ass to good use?”

…

“Take that fucking dick… yeah… fuck… when did you learn that?” Dean groans as he fucked your mouth, one hand gripping your hair as he thrusts his hips, other hand holding onto the kitchen counter. The wet slobber and gagging sounds left your mouth as you struggled to handle Dean’s big cock. 

It felt heavy in your mouth, the manly musk filled your nostrils as your nose was buried in the man’s pubic pelvis, and his heavy, cum-filled balls slapping against your chin. Your cock was throbbing in your pants as Dean fucked your face. “Good boy…” Dean moans as he feels your hands holding onto his legs, slowly moving up to his ass. 

You slobber all over Dean’s cock, coating the large piece of meat with saliva. Your tongue swirled around the cockhead, pushing into the slit and tasting the precum flooding your mouth. Tears began welling in your eyes as your jaw started to hurt from the rapid thrusts. “You wanted this, boy. I ain’t holding.” Dean growls as he looks down to see you looking up at him with teary eyes. 

Dean’s big cock throbbed and leaked precum from the thought of being able to feel your tight ass; something he’s been wanting to experience. Dean muffled his groans, not wanting to attract unwanted attention from his friend. He feels one of your hands squeezing his ass while the other one fondles his heavy balls. 

“Jesus Christ… better than any woman… so good~” Dean moans as the combined feeling of your tongue and hands fondling his sensitive areas is euphoric. This was everything he wanted; seeing you on your knees, plump lips wrapped around his cock, and his cock being sucked. He gentle pets your hair before gripping in to fuck your mouth faster. 

“Got a load ready for you, boy. Want me cum on this face?” Dean growled as he took out his cock completely and slapped it against your face. You whine from the feeling of Dean’s heavy meat slapping against your face, your saliva smearing on your cheeks, and your right eye. You began whining and begging Dean to continue fucking your mouth, tempting the man by licking his cock with each slap.

You could tell it was a dominance play; Dean asserting his full dominance over your body and mind. 

“Dirty boy, that desperate for cock?” Dean says before grabbing both sides of your head and thrusting his cock into your mouth. His breathing gets heavier as he feels his balls tightening from your blowjob and the adrenaline of being caught. If he were caught, he’ll most likely be kicked out and contact severed, but it would be worth it in Dean’s book. 

Dean stared at the ceiling, his eyes rolling back from the sensation. He was lost in a trance, on cloud nine as he tightened his grip on your head. He was gonna cum, but the sound of the door opening and footsteps quickly approaching snapped Dean out of his daydream as he stopped all movements and stuffed his cock completely inside your mouth. 

You felt Dean slowing down before ramming his whole cock inside your mouth. You were confused and gagged as the long, thick cock filled your mouth to the brim, your nose touching Dean’s trimmed pubic region. You struggled momentarily before relaxing and started breathing through your nose. 

You wondered why Dean stopped; your answer came shortly.

“Dean! Have you seen Y/n? Gotta talk to the little brat and he isn’t answering his phone,” your father said as he stepped closer to the other side of the counter, unaware of his best friend's throatfucking his son.

“Uhh… he’s out with some friends…” Dean says slowly so as not to blow his cover. His hand gripped your head tighter as he slowly thrusts his cock deeper into your wet cavern. He purposely made some noise to mask the gagging and heavy breathing coming from behind the counter. Dean’s composure was eroding as he began cursing your father to leave already. 

“Well, tell him I’m gonna be at a business meeting once he gets back,” your father said before leaving, not questioning Dean’s disheveled look, heavy breathing, and suspicious behavior. His footsteps fade away, the sound of the door opening and closing. 

Dean waited before yanking his big cock out of your mouth, his cock was coated with saliva; a web of slobber connecting the cockhead to your mouth. Your face was completely fucked; flustered from his cock filling your mouth, tears striking down your face, and the undeniable lust in your eyes. 

“Look at you, boy… on the counter,” Dean says as he pulls you up and positions you on the countertop, your legs on his shoulders. Lust consumed Dean’s mind as he couldn’t wait further; he proceeded to rip off your pants and briefs, the fabrics tearing as your ass and little hole were revealed to the hungry man’s eyes.

“Hey, jackass! Those were my favorites!” you complained, but Dean shut you up by getting on his knees and burying his face between your cheeks. You gasped and moaned softly as you felt the man’s tongue lapping and licking strips against your twitching hole. His tongue swirled and licked around the tight ring of muscle, feeling it twitch and trying to grab onto his tongue. 

“Shut up, brat…” Dean growls as he wraps his arms around your legs to prevent them from closing. He started kissing and biting the plump flesh, making sure to leave his mark, plus to show those boys that you’re off limits. Your moans echoed through the quiet house as Dean devoured your ass.

“Oh god~ daddy~” you groaned as your hand moved down to grip Dean’s hair, pushing the man further. The older man groans, but his mind short-circuits after hearing that specific word. He pulled back and stood up. “Say it again.” 

“And what if I don’t?” you grinned and giggled with amusement, wanting to be bratty towards Dean. 

Silence fell over the two of you. Dean blinks before grinning, dark amusement and wolfish. He let out an incredulous laugh before his hand made contact with your ass. You whine from the impact as Dean slapped your ass for a second time, amused by the flesh turning red and jiggling. 

“You’re really funny, huh? You wanna be a little brat?” Dean murmurs, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr as he stroked his big cock. “I think you need a lesson,” Dean growled as he positioned his cock at the entrance of your hole before ramming it in. His big, fat cock splitting your ass open as he pushed deeper until he was hilted with his heavy balls pressing against the bottom of your ass. 

You felt the air being punched out as your ass was filled with Dean’s cock. The empty house was filled with the groans and moans of your coupling. Your eyes rolled back as your virginity was taken, your body trembling from the burning sensation, and your nerves being lit on fire. Dean roars as he grips your hips tightly, his big cock throbbing inside your tight and warm ass as he feels your ass gripping and clenching around his cock.

“You still wanna be a brat, little shit? How about I fuck the hell out of you…” Dean growled as he didn’t hold back and started thrusting. Your moans echoed through the house, the cockhead hitting your prostate directly. The loud sound of skin and balls slapping mixed with your moans and groans was music to Dean. He would pull out, leaving the tip in before ramming his cock to the hilt. 

“D-daddy~ oh god…~ daddy… sosh good~ so big inside…” You began blabbering as your mind was melting down from the intense pressure and pleasure. Your cock throbs against your abdomen, smearing precum on your skin. 

“Yeah? I know it does… pathetic virgins wouldn’t know how to satisfy you.” Dean growled, throwing daggers at the nonexistent men. “Need someone older… fuck… look at that.” Dean’s train of thought was interrupted by the sight of a bulge forming each time he thrusts.

“I-is that…?” you mumbled as you moved your hand down, hands trembling from the brutal thrusts. Your hand settled over the area, marveling over the bulge Dean’s big cock caused. The older man ceased his thrusts, letting you touch the stomach bulge. Your eyes widened as you could feel Dean’s cockhead through your abdomen, squeezing the tip through the layer of skin. 

“That’s my dick, baby. The first and last dick you’ll ever take.” Dean says as he breathes heavily. There was a cocky tone behind his words as his ego was boosted. His hand hovered over yours as he began thrusting again, feeling the bulge form, he let out a bellowing groan. 

Dean feels his cock throbbing, heavy balls tightening as he knew his orgasm was approaching. He wanted to last a little longer, but your babbling and tight ass didn’t help. His teeth dug into your lips as his grip tightened, leaving more marks on your hips as a reminder of this debauchery. 

“Gonna breed this… fucking ass! Nothing but a breeding bitch for me… a warm place to dump my cum…” Dean groans as his thrusts get sloppy. “Stroke your pathetic cock.” Dean growled as he slapped your thighs. You started stroking your neglected cock in sync with the older man’s brutal thrusts, even moving your body in time with him. 

“D-daddy~ daddy~ gonna cum~” you whine as you squeeze your cock, attempting to milk it. Your trembling body responded to the nearing orgasm by clenching around Dean’s cock, pulling it deeper. Dean thrusts a few more times, his hand stroking over the bulge. 

Dean clenches his teeth as he gives one more thrust. Your body goes slack as you come to a shuddering orgasm. Dean roars as jets of cum flooded your hole, he could feel the bulge expanding from the sheer amount of cum being pumped. Its been awhile since Dean last fucked somebody and jerked off; he was pent up. 

You saw white, blissfully satisfied from being filled with Dean’s cum. Your cock throbbed, spurting and painting your chest with cum. Dean could hear your soft whines and cries as you gripped the edges of the counter. Dean leans over you with contentment, panting as he nears your face. 

“So good, baby. So good.” Dean purrs as he kisses your neck and shoulders. Your vision cleared as you basked in the warmth and affections of the older man. You looked down to see a little bump where Dean’s cock is. The sight causes you to tighten around the man’s cock, Dean moaning from the action.

However, the moment was ruined. 

“Dean? Has y/n returned– what the fuck?!?!”

THE END

a/n: Hello, my strawberries! I hope y’all enjoy this fic! I think I low-key ate with this one.  Very special thanks to my proofreader🠞 @sagethegaywitch Taglist🠞 @hiddens-eden @spnfanboy777 @buckyshusband0 @zamfam4272 @raspberryyuuki @maxxioislost @furiousflowercreation @ghostking4m @sluttyhusband @wolf-knights @your-cow-boy @mack-thedork @starboye @boypied @sleep-0-deprived @cronasluvr Join my taglist! Masterlist here! I have a K*-F*, if you wish to support

[talon-the-hawk]

Yandere! Batfam x Neglected Streamer! Reader

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Chapter 1: The family

You thought that the day your father (or rather, your father's butler) came to pick you up from the police station would be the one that turned your life around for the better. Bruce Wayne: the playboy billionaire, the man who had adopted several broken children throughout the course of his life. The man who had won the hearts of several, who had donated an incredible amount of funds towards helping orphans.

How foolish you were to assume he'd be the ideal father.

When Alfred came to pick you up from the station, you had quietly clung to his coat sleeve as he led you through the crowd of paparazzi who were eager to snap a photo of the bastard child of the famous socialite. Cameras flashed left and right, and you reached a hand up to your face in order to block out the bright lights. Reporters shoved microphones in your face, demanding answers on who your mother was and your relationship with your father. Alfred remained firm with them, acting as a solid wall between you and the strange people that seemed to box you in. He ushered you into the fancy car, making sure to lock the doors immediately after lest the paparazzi try to yank you out. You watched them from behind the tinted windows, a silent curiosity growing within you at how feral they seemed to be for answers.

Your father must be super important for them to act like this, no?

"Master Y/N, please make sure to fasten your seatbelt." Alfred advised as he got into the driver's seat, and you hastily moved to buckle yourself in. You tried your best not to make too much noise as he drove, not wanting to annoy the man in front of you.

Mama always hated it when you were too loud.

"Master Y/N? Are you alright?" Alfred spoke gently, worriedly glancing at you through the rearview mirror.

You gave a small nod, not sure if your voice could support you as you nervously played with your fingers. The car ride continued on in silence, the only noise being the quiet purr of the engine and the faint sound of music from the radio. You looked around the car (limo? Is that what they called the long cars? You remember your mom using the word once or twice when looking at the sleek black cars on the old TV.) in silent awe, noting the expensive leather seats and the small array of snacks in the many doors. You felt the urge to reach for one, to stifle the dull ache of hunger in your stomach, but resisted at the last moment. Your fingers twitched, the urges still in the back of your mind as the car came to a stop. You looked up, eyes going wide at the pure size of the estate in front of you.

"Welcome to Wayne Manor, Master Y/N. I'm sure your father will be eager to meet you."

Alfred couldn't have been more wrong.

As soon as you got into the manor, it was like you were a ghost. The eldest brother (who you later found out was named Dick) gave you a hello and showed you to your room, but immediately left to go do something else. You tried several times to connect with him over the years, however he always seemed to be busy doing something else. "Sorry, baby bird. I've got a date with Kori later, but I can hangout with you later!"

"Sorry, but I've got training! We can totally meet up tomorrow though!"

Eventually you gave up on waiting for "later" to arrive, and decided to leave him alone.

Through old photo albums and stories that Alfred shared you soon learned that you had another older brother, Jason. Apparently he had died shortly before you came to the house, and the reason your father was so withdrawn was because of his mourning. Alfred practically begged you to give your father some leeway; it wasn't that he didn't love you, but he was going through a dark time. That didn't matter to you, and you used to resent Jason for that...coming to the conclusion that his death was the reason for your father's negligence over the years. How were you meant to win your father's affection when he was too busy mourning for the child he already loved?

The resentment only seemed to fester when the newest brother, Tim, was introduced to the family. The excuse of Jason's death covering for your father's absence was no longer valid when Tim was given his full attention 24/7. You watched as the older boy was able to bring your father out of his shell, the two of them bonding quickly with every case they managed to solve. What was it about Tim that made him matter more to your father? He wasn't even related to Bruce. Why was it that your father could hardly spare you a glance, but could spend hours on end holed up in the Batcave with Tim?

Was it you? Was it because of who your mama was? Why would no one tell you how she and your father met? And why would no one tell you what happened to her?

And then he showed up. The ultimate slap in the face: your blood brother, Damian. He was everything you couldn't be. He was a fighter, he was strong, and he was loved. You assumed that once he moved in, you would finally have someone you could bond with. Another blood child of Bruce, someone you could relate to on the struggles of having Bruce Wayne as a dad. You can still remember the first day he came to the mansion. You offered a warm smile, giving a happy greeting and trying to show the small boy around the house. What you weren't expecting were the harsh insults swiftly followed by physical violence. Shouts of "bastard" and "unworthy" followed you to the ground as Damian pulled a blade on you and began slashing. It took Alfred 5 minutes to rip the child off of you, and by that time you had several shallow cuts and a tremble in your limbs. Alfred apologized after he sent Damian off to his room, telling you that "Damian had been through a lot" and "To give him time to warm up to you".

He never did.

As the years carried on things only seemed to get worse. Damian's bullying continued on throughout the years and only increased with time. Dick was busy with his duties as Nightwing, and focused all his time at the manor on Tim and Damian. Tim, the quietest brother, never engaged with you openly. You tried to gain a sense of kinship with him by offering potential help on cases, but every time you went to speak with him he simply gave you a tired look and told you now wasn't a good time. Your father, if you could even call him that, barely even spared you a glance. The conversations you had, which were few and far between, were all shallow. Simple "how's school going" or "Lovely weather outside", all topics which were much too dry for that of a true family. Time passed by, and the idea of your life being changed for the better slowly faded into the background. The hope of having a family was crushed, and you recognized that you simply exchanged one neglectful parent for another.

When you hit 17, you knew something had to change. If you couldn't find a family within your home, you would reach outwards. Being a child of Bruce Wayne came with its perks; The endless cash you were gifted with helped pay for a brand new PC setup along with premium mic and software equipment. Your career started off small, streaming on twitch to no viewers just for the sake of it. But as clips of your streams began to go viral, and the viewers came rolling in, it didn't take long for your audience to grow. You kept yourself faceless, mainly streaming games or wearing masks on the occasional in-person stream. It was best that no one knew who you were, who your father was. You wanted this channel to grow because of your talent and hard work, not because of the last name you were forced to adopt.

By the time you were 18, you had earned enough off of merch sales and sponsorships to purchase a shitty little apartment in a forgotten corner of Gotham that your family didn't know about. You called one of your school friends to help move all of your stuff out, managing the task without alerting any of your siblings or father. The only person you told about your moving was Alfred, with the butler wishing you the best and promising to keep in touch. You gave him a hug before you left, telling him to take care as you got into your friend's pickup truck.

As you drove to your new home, you looked down at your phone. You knew what you needed to do. One by one, you blocked each of their numbers. You moved on with your life, and you weren't truly free from your past unless you took steps to keep that door closed.

This was it. This was your new life, providing entertainment and gaining a sense of community you never had with your 'family'. You were through with the Waynes, through with Batman and his never ending line of sidekicks.

At least, you thought you were.

First chapter done! I promise I'll have more actual dialogue in future chapters, but I'm tryna get the past context outta the way relatively quickly so y'all can enjoy the main part of the story :)

Taglist: @vanessa-boo @jjsmeowthie @cxcilla @itsberrydreemurstuff @trashlanternfish360 @starsswaggy @legolas-the-homeschooled-elf @nickithearticorn @hallahella @lettucel0ver @kittzu @cssammyyarts @ryuushou @welpthisisboring @neverdead2 @mallowryblog @lingxio @the-dumber-scaramouche @oxionsworld @raini-sanchez @jellyedkazoo @alishii @bellethesleepypotato

[ashlovesfood]

Do You Like The Way I Flick My Tongue Or Nah?

Tags: Ovulation, sex deal, hornyyy feelings, teasing, waterpark, aphrodisiacs, revealing clothes, pet names, kissing, sex meme (if ykykyk) pounding, milking, multiple orgasms, pregnancy mention

Position? ôヮô

Alright, maybe this deal shouldn’t have been made, due to the fact you're getting pounded over and over without a break! Wait a minute what.

The date on your calendar read 31, you were ovulating and it felt like hell. Your pussy was leaking discharge so much it was a waterpark in your panties, the increased effect of your boobs was sensitive, and you had a higher libido. Jeez, you felt like a damn succubus trying to find a way to pass the feeling of wanting to be fucked down every single second, when a suggestion came to mind.

This called for a deal between you and Bruce, ‘First one to cum loses’ It was brilliant. Basically, if he came first, Bruce would tell you what you win. On the other hand, if you cum first, Bruce can do whatever he wants to you. You reached down into your purse, grabbing your phone to message Bruce. ‘Hey handsome. Wanna make a deal? Whoever cums first gets to do whatever the other person tells them, and if we both come at the same time we fuck all over again. Are you in baby?’ The text was sent, you could feel an explosion of butterflies erupt in your stomach, and your panties were drenched with discharge so much it felt like you came all over. ‘Oh sweetie, I’m in. Watch out when I come home..’

It took everything in you to not practically run to his workplace and fuck him right there infront of his workers, you were definitely gushing even more from what he said.

Your work was finished around 5:30 P.M. An intense craving nagged you, chocolate covered strawberries at your local bakery. It was a few blocks away from your workplace, so you said your goodbyes and walked down the street. The door opened with a jingle, the employee greeting you with a smile. “Hi! Can I buy a box of your special chocolate covered strawberries please?” The employee nodded their head, engaging in light conversation while they wrapped your box up. It came up to $15.55 for a dozen, and you happily swiped the card that Bruce gave you, his limitless credit card that he insisted you used. “Thank you.” Your hands grabbed the box as you walked out of the place, you wondered why these were so special , they look like regular strawberries? But it didn’t matter, you got your craving!

The sunset was blending in with the sky, Gothams weather being off and on with clouds or clear skies. You drove home in your car, jamming to ‘Someone To Call My Lover’ by Janet Jackson. Bruce’s manor was greeted with your car, parking in the garage and turning off the engine, grabbing the box of strawberries. You placed your keys into the bowl on the table, kicking off your boots near the entrance making yourself at home. As soon as you got into the master bedroom, your clothes were thrown into the laundry hamper and you wore a pink cami with booty shorts, the fabric doing an ok job of covering your ass.

Maybe it would make Bruce cum first…

The TV was playing your favorite show while you ate the chocolate strawberries, a bottle of chocolate syrup on the coffee table to help your cravings. “Mmph.. sooo good!” You were in heaven, the taste of the strawberries in your mouth making you feel so warm and tingly all over, you were on cloud nine. You focused all your attention on the food and show that you didn’t notice Bruce coming home. “Bunny? Bunnyyy .” His voice startled you, your head jolting towards the front entrance seeing him lean against the wall. You were in the middle of eating a strawberry, the chocolate smeared on the corner of your lips. “Brucey!” He chuckled as he saw you fumble to get up, practically running towards him for a hug. His strong forearms encircled the small of your back as you hugged him, your perky tits squished against his front. Bruce could tell the difference in your behavior, you were ovulating. Bruce’s lips connected with yours, the clash of tongue and teeth spurred him on, a semi boner growing.

The aphrodisiacs took a toll on your mind, you were needy for him, grinding against his dick for friction. He broke the kiss to look at your face, a string of saliva between your lips. “Dolly, are you horny f’me?.. So hot and eager for my cock aren’t ya..” You moaned quietly, his words going straight to your pussy. He bounced your legs up, clenching the underside of your thighs while he sucked on your collarbone. Bruce walked towards the couch, placing your soft delicate body on the plush cushions. He looked at you, a deep desire in his eyes sending signals through your mind. Bruce lifted your cami, the fabric making your perky breasts bounce, cute hard nipples that turned him on even more. You were clenching around nothing, the booty shorts you wore were adhesive with the slick between your thighs, what a fucking sight for Bruce.

“Bruce.. Need you so bad, daddy..” He smirked, fondling your boobs with his large hands, rubbing the tips of your nipples sending shivers down your core. Bruce grabbed the chocolate syrup from the table, flipping the cap open to drizzle chocolate on your body. You gasped at the cold sensation, Bruce made your breast covered in the sticky syrup, the air filled with arousal. He licked the substance off your body, his taste buds being blessed with the taste of sweetness. “Nngh..! T-too much B..” You writhed under his body, the weight of him pressing down on your lower making you unable to move. He was a beast unleashed, and you were prey to him, displayed on a platter right in front of him.

Your hands connected with his shoulders, trying to pry him off using your strength making him growl. “You're mine now baby.. Gonna make you cum first and breed you so full .” The whole point was to make Bruce lose, but who cares at this point… You mewled feeling his hands all over your body, his thick fingers sliding down towards your pussy. His fingers slid your booty shorts down, revealing the cute sight of your drenched panties . Bruce was rock hard by now because of you, his dick begging for attention. He dove in face first, nose buried in your panties making you even wetter. “Nooo! Take them off pleaseee!..” Bruce laughed, you were so desperate for his touch that the deal you made was completely erased from your brain, too horny to think. He pulled your panties off in one swift motion, the slick between your thighs glistening under the dim light, his hands pocketing the fabric into his pants for later.

His face connected with your clit, sucking and nibbling at the tiny little bud, making you shudder with pleasure. The wet sounds of your pussy and his tongue seemed to echo around the interior, his mouth trying to work you to an orgasm. A small part in your mind was nagging you to try and not cum, you tried your hardest not to. “Bunny.. not gonna cum so easily, huh?.. Guess I’ll just have to fuck you over and over again. .”

Bruce moved your body everywhere, fucking you on the kitchen counter, to the drawing room, on the dining table. You were two bunnies in heat. No protection, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally. It ended up in the bedroom, your poor body hunched over on the mattress, ass up face down into the pillows.

“Please Bruceee! I’m not going to cum unless you first!..” He was pounding you into the bed, his main goal of trying to make you cum was hard. Your body was really trying to not cum, from the feeling of his dick and his fingers rubbing your clit? You better win a prize for holding out so long. Bruce was faltering, it was late at night and you guys have been fucking for hours. His dick was ready for this challenge and he would NEVER give up . “C'mon baby? Wanna cum for daddy? I’ll give you the best orgasm ever.”

The relentless pace of his snapping hips against yours was insane, you were cockdrunk from his dick. You were cross eyed, drooling all over the sheets while he fucked you dumb. His fingers rubbed tight circles on your little clit, sending your body head first into pleasure.

“ Mhnooooooo !” You came all over his base, the slick making everything stickier and slippery. Your body was twitching, and Bruce was laughing behind you. “Finally came for daddy, huh? Guess I win bunny. I’m gonna breed you full of my cum and knock you up baby.. Wanna see your pretty little tits swell up with milk, and your belly will be all round and glowing for me ..” Bruce left your pussy for a split second, flipping you onto your back to fold you into a mating press. His thick thighs slapped against yours, the plap plap sound bouncing off the walls.

It smelt like straight up pussy, the air was warm from the two of you. Bruce sped up his pace, his large breeder balls twitching with the need to knock you up . “Gonna cum into this sweet pussy, ‘kay pretty girl?..” He was thrusting into your hole, his length throbbing, his tip repeatedly kissing your cervix. “Oh Bruceyy!!” You came with him, his hot seed buried to the brim in your pussy, the combination of fluids creating a milky white ring around his base. Bruce groaned, he got off your body and laid on the side, snuggling your body into his. “Did so good for me darling. Hope you get pregnant..”

─ -ˋ °. • ⚘ •. ° ˊ- ─ ─ -ˋ °. • ⚘ •. ° ˊ- ─

A/N Guys i posted my intro and i thought it would get more likes help… but hope u guys know what and where my links are ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ

[zeep-xanflorp]

rambles and thoughts on Summer of all Fears - a meta

what really stands out to me about this newest episode is how it portrays how both summer and morty respond to stress.

EPISODE 1 SEASON 8 SPOILERS UNDER CUT

morty goes off the rails. he lashes out in every way he can think of. he becomes violent, vengeful, antisocial. he focuses on clear but short term goals like getting out of jail and fighting a war. when he's not doing these things, he fixates on things like engineering and firefighting, that have very set in stone rules but that are complex enough for him to get lost in. his hobbies are distractions but they are also productive. he opts not to use the productive side of him in times of stress. perhaps this isn't even consciously chosen. it's his instinct to self destruct.

and that's where he and summer differ. when she faces the same challenges, she focuses on mastery. she wants power, perfection, and order. she results to manipulation. she focuses on long term goals. on becoming untouchable to others around her. she becomes president and doesn't just become a master of her reality, but also a master of herself. she becomes fixated on achievement. she's able to do this by working extraordinarily hard, planning things out elaborately, and pulling strings like a puppeteer. it's her instinct to take charge.

both of them, when put in a situation outside of their control, do what they can to reclaim their power. morty is unconventional and chaotic, summer is traditional and lawful. he tries to reclaim power himself, summer tries to reclaim power over the situation.

id be remiss not to mention the feminist reading of this. that in times of stress, women are expected to remain composed and rational or otherwise be labelled emotional. summer has the same societal learning as us. she feels pressured to prove herself to even a fake society. perhaps even to rick and her brother. she takes conventional means to gain power so she not only appears as in control but feels it. although she doesn't place particular value on what she's doing, she knows its a typically respected profession and she can make it suit her.

i think she's smart enough to realise this but i don't think she's able to solve it for herself. interestingly, when she gets out of the matrix, she defaults to her standard self. she rejects wisdom and feedback, and decides to live impulsively.

in the real world when put under stress, morty tries to control the situation. he often goes to rick to get help, someone who he believes can do and fix anything. but summer tries to control herself. their roles switch.

[4rticbolt]

Sleepy Stalls |Master-list|

Trafalgar Law x !GN!Reader, Fluff, Crack, soft!law, unironically sweet, head-cannons, reader is a mechanic here, overprotective!law because secretly he cares too much, stubborn reader, comfort.

The Heart-Pirate Captain with an s/o who struggles with sleep...

•-•-•-•-••-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-••-•-•-•-•

•-•-•-•-••-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-••-•-•-•-•

1st of all, this is insomniac central.

Law cannonly has nightmares, so you could definitely infer he struggles with sleep himself. Most likely kept up by whatever's gearing through his mind.

So he'd be incredibly understanding with you.

Law's the type to put you before himself. So no matter how tired he was he'd always check up on you. Whether you're working in the engine room, eating lunch, or relaxing in your room--he’d quietly seek you out.

Your captain was keen, and he’d been observant of your habits.

The surgeon wouldn't be overly concerned--but he would worry. You're his precious crew-mate and lover, so he's over-protective. Not in an annoying way, but selflessly.

Since Law is a doctor he would have a lot of sleep-aid. From herbal properties to medication—he'd give you anything you needed or asked for. Even if he ends up a hypocrite in the process.

He would act nonchalant and impassive about it, but deep down it’d wear on him.

Law would 100% have chill out time with you in his office if you were tired, or just in general.

In each-other’s presence, the company would drive away any restlessness. Including Law and yourself. So be prepared to snooze off in each other's arms or space.

If you'd cuddled him or sat close, he'd be out like a light. His head would be the first to fall against your shoulder or thigh with a bonk.

You wouldn't expect him to be the clingy type, but if you're there—he'd prefer you much closer.

He would find comfort in your pulse when you’re sleep. (As it wasn't often you were)

Law would tenderly take in your snoozing form, gently crouching beside you to take your pulse. His own worries would ease when your pulse thrummed softly against the pads of his fingers.

When you’re asleep, he’d be the type to quietly watch over you, gently brushing your hair or stick close. His touch would be uncharacteristically soft, and so would his words.

“Just relax, I got you…”

“You look peaceful when you sleep…I wish you did it more often.”

When having bad nights, he wouldn’t push, but he would be there. He’d silently offer to let you rant, or seek comfort. But he would never push. Law just wanted you to know he’d always be there for you. (No matter the burden you believed yourself to be)

Law isn't officially 'cold' or 'uncaring' when comforting people, he's just an awkward dude who isn't the best at it... but he is an amazing listener.

However, if you'd ever been stubborn about your sleep, he'd meet your pettiness with his own. He'd scold and lecture, but it was never meant harmfully.

He was just frustrated he couldn’t help you faster.

Law would never make you feel bad about it, because it's not always your fault. There could be a thousand things wrong, but he wasn't gonna’ let himself be one of them.

He wouldn't bullshit you, and it might come off rather blunt, but he just wanted to get straight to the point. He didn't want you getting hurt, not on his watch, or just in general.

“____-ya, I don't need my star mechanic running on nothing. Nor' do I need you passing out on my sub. If you’re tired, you are tired. You don’t need to push yourself. Not for me or the crew.”

“Look, if something happens in the engine room or navigation—I need you. I need you well so you can perform at your best. I'm not losing you, and I’m not letting you pass out and hurt yourself because of your recklessness.”

“So just take it easy, alright? You're on rest for the day, and that's final, don't make me babysit you. I trust you enough that I don't have to.”

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Despite his harsh words, they were true. But being stubborn was your specialty, and you felt the need to prove yourself. So pushing yourself to clean the valves and filters was your next task—even though he didn’t give you any.

It’d been after a rough night, so you were irritable, and you’d been snappy. Even if you didn’t mean to be, it was just the way it was.

Without sleep, you were weaker and more emotional and you hated it. Your ego hurt, not only by his lecture, but at the fact you couldn’t function as easily as others. So that frustration, that deep welling hate fueled your resolve.

Though it didn’t last.

Law had found you snoozing off and covered with grime in the engine room, sleeping at an awkward angle. Your were cuddled against a pipe, using it as your pillow as your black-stained hands supported your head.

Your cheeks had been smeared with oil, and your messied suit had been covered with it. Tools and disposable bags had been near by, and the room was spotless. Shining against after a long month, he found himself frozen at the sight.

He’d slowly let out a breath, easing up as he kneeled beside you—gently shaking your shoulder. He wasn’t mad, only frustrated.

But that frustration let up as you didn’t stir, only slept exhausted. And that made his chest ache the most.

You didn’t need to prove yourself to him, you had already done that. The moment he saw you, he recognized your skills—and your personality took the cake. You already far surpassed his expectations and he could want nothing more, other than you.

He’d always been grateful, accepting you at whatever you came—your lowest—your highest, he loved you regardless.

Law just wished you wouldn’t push yourself to prove something you didn’t need to.

He would gently pick you up, looking around the room before cradling your face with his hand. He’d crack a soft unbelievable smile, before shaking his head and bringing you to his room.

Law would call you an idiot placing you on his bed, carefully taking off your shoes before tucking you in. He’d wipe a warm cloth across your face, cleaning away the harsh oils before it stained too much.

He’d watch you with tender eyes, brushing hair out of your face before letting you be. He’d rest at his desk, reading, but watching your from afar—waiting for you to stir.

He wouldn’t lecture you like he did before, but he might just reassure you that you didn’t have to do this. And he might just thank you for cleaning the engine room.

In his own Law way of course.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Your captain would always be adamant about your health. No matter your argument or fuss—you were one of his top priorities.

Not ever in a tasking way. But maybe in an awkward loving one.

No matter the difficulty of his or your own, he’d always be patient, and he’d encourage you to go at your own pace.

Because everyone was different, and he was perfectly okay with that.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

With Law’s silent assurance and presence, your atrocious schedule had been eased.

Though it’d still been noticeable. The bags under your eyes pointed you out, and your snoozing tendencies didn’t help. The crew found you asleep in various workspaces many times, and it hadn’t really been a concern.

And as long as they believed you were getting enough sleep, they wouldn’t bother you about it.

Everyone had gotten used to it, but it didn’t mean they let up in the teasing. Light-hearted remarks had been thrown, but you never paid them any mind. If anything your captain listened to them more than you did.

He didn’t participate in it, but he let everyone have their fun. Until Shachi’s rather dark humor had been thrown into play.

You’d been dozing off at the table at lunch, slowly eating but surely getting in the nutrients you needed. You’d been sitting by Ikkaku and Shachi while your captain sat across from you.

“You sure you don’t wanna go lay down ____?” Hakugan asked, handing you over a basket of croutons. “A little nap might help.”

“No, I’m fine.” you muttered, mixing some in with your salad. Your jaw rested in your palm, and you stirred your salad around before taking a bite.

The tables conversation flew over your head and you could only think of what you’d do next after lunch. Train? Sleep? Clean? Be bored and bug your captain? It’d probably end up in the last one, but nothing stopped you from changing it.

“Mm, if you say so,” Ikkaku butted, taking a bite of her sandwich. “You really shouldn’t push yourself, I don’t want to find you asleep on the examination table again.”

Shachi snorted beside you, and you heard laughs echo around.

“Right? Scared the shit of me, I thought you were going in for surgery.” Penguin chuckled.

Law cracked a smile, watching you shake your head. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Oh, it totally was,” Ikkaku teased, nudging your shoulder.

“It could’ve been worse,” Clione muttered, “finding you asleep on the control panel was not on my wish list.”

“Pff—yeah, right next to the throttle? Real smart kid,” Bart commented, plopping down another dish of food.

More laughs followed and you found yourself hiding your expression behind your sandwich, smiling quietly behind it. You took a big bite before Shachi started in.

“Oh, it was worse—remember? She fell asleep mid filter change and it totally blew up on her,” he laughed, gently knocking your head with his fist.

“Ew, don’t remind me.” you winced, making a face.

“Nah, you’re so stubborn about it I might have too.” he said, finishing up his sandwich.

“I’m starting to think someone needs to slip some sleep-aid into your drink.”

“Yeah—that’d get you some well earned rest,” Uni rolled his eyes, side-eyeing Law for a moment, seeing his expression darken.

He coughed in his fist, nudging Bepo.

“Uh, Captain?” The navigator sputtered, blinking idly at him.

Law didn’t respond, only deadpanning at Shachi who hadn’t yet realized his annoyance. It seemed he took the joke literally. Especially when he knew you didn’t like the symptoms of sleep-aid, it only irked him more.

“You go and do that and you’ll find a shit ton of laxatives in your coffee.” he said blandly, threateningly poking his fork.

The table quieted before Shachi coughed on his food, quickly swallowing it. He hit his chest, using you as a shield. Which you were mindlessly unaware of.

“Woah—haha, only joking Cap!" He paled, patting your back. "Right ____? All fun here, I'd never," he continued, nervously laughing.

"Mhmf, only jokes,” you muffled, with a mouthful of food.

Law paused, looking you over before rolling his eyes at your clueless expression. He layed off, but didn’t completely rest his glare. Law does not play around with you, not matter the joke or tease.