#though the setup is a little different

[marlynnofmany]

You guys know about Writing Battle, right? The many-times-a-year writing contest with a short wordcount and a short deadline? Cool prompts, entry fee, big prize money?

It's pretty awesome. I've entered a couple times (honorable mention, woo!) and now I've been invited to be one of the Pro Judges!

The next battle starts this coming Sunday, January 12th (2025) -- since it's nearing Valentine's Day season, the subgenres to choose from will be along romantic lines. The other contests for this year will be different (SFF theme is in April, FYI).

If that sounds like your kind of fun, check it out! I'm looking forward to seeing what everyone comes up with.

[the-physicality]

.

[honeyncherry]

you still want this - joe burrow

summary you’re given permission to sit outside while joe works on his newest alo campaign. good problems? right? wrong.

content 18+, smut, language, barely edited or proofread i had a thought and acted on it

Hot sweat had already started to bead at the nape of your neck, slipping down and collecting in the soft curve between your breasts, but you didn’t bother wiping it away.

The heat didn’t bother you—not really. It wrapped around you like a weighted blanket, heavy and sweet. The kind of warmth that slowed your limbs, your thoughts, your whole body. You could still smell the sunscreen you'd slathered on earlier, warm and coconutty, smooth at the edges where it mingled with the scent of hot grass and faint chlorine wafting from the pool in front of you.

Your towel stuck slightly to the backs of your thighs every time you shifted, but you didn’t care. You had no intention of moving.

Not when the view was this good.

You were reclined on a lounger in the corner of the yard, sunglasses on, book open on your lap—though you hadn’t read a single sentence in at least fifteen minutes. Not since the film crew had shown up with their sleek little cameras and their quiet instructions and Joe had stepped out onto the sun-drenched patio stretched and ready to work.

You were meant to stay out of the way, to give him space while they filmed him doing what he did best. The oversized lounger was just far enough from the setup to not be intrusive, and the thought of staying inside while this was happening outside felt borderline criminal.

The house you were staying at was tucked away up in the hills, the kind of modern-meets-organic space where everything felt curated and soft and breezy, all neutral tones and concrete lines. The backyard was a dream—stone and green and golden light, but none of that was what held your attention.

Joe was.

It still took your breath sometimes—how different he was like this.

You loved him year-round, obviously, but there was something about the offseason that felt… sacred. Like this little pocket of time was yours and his alone. No playbooks. No daily practices. No constant weight of expectations pulling him under.

The NFL season was brutal—not just on him or his body, but on both of you. He carried pressure like a second skin and wore stress like armor. Game days were thrilling, sure, but the adrenaline came with consequences. Sleepless nights. Sore limbs. A kind of hyperfocus that made him unreachable sometimes, even when he was right next to you in bed.

This was different.

This was him. Or maybe, this was him again. Moving at half-speed in the best way. Smiling more easily. Touching you without thinking twice about where he had to be in the morning. It wasn’t just that he had more time—it was that he gave it freely. Like he wanted to.

You’d always known how much football meant to him—that was never in question. It was something you walked into this relationship understanding, something you accepted without resentment. You respected the grind. You loved the way he loved the game.

But in moments like this, tucked away from the world, it hit you how much you meant to him, too.

Not in a performative way. Not in grand declarations or showy gestures. But in the quiet. In the way he reached for your hand when no one was watching. In the way his body softened around you, like it only ever truly rested when it was touching yours. In the way he listened—without distraction, without his mind drifting toward the next game or meeting or flight.

It was in the way he gave you his time—not because he finally had it, but because he wanted to spend it here. With you. Without a clock ticking behind his ribs.

And that was the part that undid you.

Because you’d seen the weight he carried. You’d watched it settle on him week after week—in the tight set of his jaw after a loss, in the stiffness of his shoulders after pushing himself too hard, in the exhaustion he tried to mask after travel days and press conferences and back-to-back meetings. You knew what it cost to be with him. And what it cost him to give you this version of himself.

So watching him now—shirtless, tan, glistening under the California sun—you knew one thing with absolute certainty:

There was nowhere else you’d rather be.

Joe was mid-set, one of the Alo guys crouched nearby, coaching him through each rep as a camera followed his movements in slow, sweeping arcs. You couldn’t hear them, not really, but you could make out the quiet rhythm of instructions, the occasional low grunt from Joe as he powered through his workout.

He was locked in. Focused. The kind of focus you’d seen a hundred times before—intimidating to most, but familiar to you. Intoxicating, even, especially when his body moved like that. He wasn’t putting on a show for the camera. This was just him. 

Your legs shifted slightly against the towel beneath you, a heat curling low in your stomach that happened to be completely unrelated to the sun.

Joe wiped sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt, then tossed it aside, revealing the taut lines of his abdomen and the deep tan he’d built over the past few weeks. The kind of tan that made his chain you got him for Christmas glint against his skin. The kind of tan that begged to be touched.

You watched him through the dark tint of your sunglasses, pretending not to notice how his eyes flicked toward you in between reps. Just once. Long enough for you to catch the barest smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

It sent a pulse through you, blooming heat across your chest and sinking between your thighs. A quiet thrum that made your skin feel tighter, your breath just a little too shallow.

​​You swallowed around nothing, the air thick in your throat. The sunglasses stayed on—your shield, your excuse—but you forced your gaze back down to the page in your lap. Right. Your book. You blinked once, twice, and tried to remember where you’d left off. A sentence midway down caught your attention, and with some effort, you focused.

Eventually, the words began to stick.

The sun pressed hot against your oiled body as you read, and this time you let yourself get pulled in, turning a page, then another. You were on your side now, stretched out with your knees slightly bent and your head propped up on your forearm, letting the heat work its way into your back.

Your sunglasses had slipped a little down your nose, but you didn’t bother fixing them. You barely even blinked. The pages turned slowly, the words sinking into your head like honey—thick and slow and sweet. The world was quiet, muffled words across the lawn barely registering in your ears.

So when you felt the slow drag of fingers up your exposed side, it took a second for your brain to catch up.

The touch was featherlight. Calloused fingertips skimming from the dip of your waist to just under the edge of your bikini top, his knuckles grazing the swell of your ribcage in a way that made your breath catch.

“Getting a little too into that book, huh?” Joe’s voice was raspy, the words brushing just behind your ear, the grin hidden beneath them unmistakable.

You didn’t move right away. Just turned the page like nothing had happened. “Wasn’t expecting to be interrupted.”

His fingers ghosted back down the same path, and this time you felt the smirk more than you heard it. “You sure? ‘Cause you’ve been laid out like that for the last thirty minutes and I’m pretty sure half the crew tripped over themselves trying not to look.”

You arched a brow behind your sunglasses. “But you looked.”

“Baby,” he scoffed softly, fingers curling tighter around your waist, thumb pressing in. “I live here.” And just to make sure you got the message, he squeezed your side, fingers digging into you for half a second longer than necessary before sliding away.

You let out a soft laugh, rolling onto your back and squinting up at him. “How’s the shoot?”

He looked disheveled in the best way—sweaty, flushed, still breathing a little too heavy from whatever set he’d just finished. Everyone else had retreated beneath a patio umbrella nearby, drinking water, checking footage on a monitor. A few more minutes, probably.

“We’ve got a break.” Joe offered you his hand, and when you took it, he pulled you up in one smooth tug. “Come inside.”

You followed him barefoot across the patio, brushing your hands over your hips to shake off some of the towel lint. His eyes dropped as you walked, and you didn’t miss the way his mouth twitched.

“That what you’re calling a swimsuit?” he asked, cracking the door open and holding it for you.

You looked over your shoulder, trying to seem unbothered. “What would you call it?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just let his eyes sweep over the thin, barely-there straps tied at your hips, the narrow curve of fabric that made up the top.

“A suggestion,” he said finally. “Not a swimsuit.”

You rolled your eyes, but the burn beneath your skin had nothing to do with the sun.

Inside, the kitchen wrapped around you like a different world, the hum of the air conditioner a low buzz beneath the silence. The tile was cold beneath your feet, a shock after the sun-baked patio, and when you leaned back against the fridge, the stainless steel sparked a chill through your body.

You didn’t mind it. The contrast made everything sharper. Your skin, still heavy with leftover sunscreen and heat, puckered with goosebumps, the sudden shift in temperature making you ache with awareness. Like the bikini you’d thrown on hours ago had somehow shrunk under the weight of Joe’s eyes.

He moved around the kitchen like he owned it. He popped open the fridge, the suctioned seal breaking louder than expected in the quiet, and pulled out the bowl of fruit you’d cut earlier that morning.

Light from inside cast a soft glow across his chest—its golden tone gone slightly pink at the collarbones, sweat still glistening along the curve of his neck. His arms flexed as he reached to close the door, veins jumping beneath tan skin, the movement so familiar and mindless it made you dizzy.

You caught yourself staring. Hard. But you didn’t look away.

He peeled back the cling wrap from the bowl with lazy precision—like there was no rush, no need to acknowledge how still everything had gotten. Or how your breath caught the second he stepped close enough for you to smell the citrus tang of his sweat mixed with the body wash he’d used that morning.

Joe didn't say anything as he held your gaze when reaching for a slice of peach—soft, ripe, always a little too juicy to be eaten clean, grabbing it and handing it out to you.

Leaning forward slightly, you bit into it, lips brushing against the tips of his fingers. The fruit was cold on your tongue, shockingly sweet, the skin splitting open against your teeth with a wet pop.

Blinking at the taste, you swallowed quick at the sudden stickiness. It was just then when you felt a slick trail of syrupy juice slip from the corner of your mouth.

Your hand lifted on instinct, embarrassed—but Joe was faster. His thumb caught the drop in one smooth, unbothered motion. His eyes never left yours as he brought it to his mouth and sucked the juice clean.

You forgot how to stand. Or speak. Or do anything except feel.

It didn’t matter that he was your boyfriend, that he’d touched you a hundred different ways in a hundred different places—he could still gut you with something like this. Something so effortless, so wrapped in possession and ease and knowing, that it made your whole body hum with the kind of heat that couldn’t be blamed on the weather.

“Messy,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

Then he reached for another piece.

This time he didn’t offer it, just popped it into his own mouth and chewed, without a care.

You were still pressed to the fridge, trying to ignore the sharp thrum between your legs, when he stepped in again—close enough that the bowl met your stomach and his bare chest hovered inches from yours.

Joe’s gaze casually dropped. His free hand reached out, fingers slipping beneath the tie of your bikini bottom, grazing across your skin and tugging just enough to expose the lighter strip hidden beneath.

You watched him watching you. Watched the way his brow twitched slightly, as if even the contrast of your tan amused him.

“You’re getting burnt,” he said, thumb sweeping once across your hip. His touch was light, but it was enough to make your stomach pull tight.

“Probably should’ve reapplied,” you murmured, your voice matching the hush in the room.

“I’ve got you,” he said simply.

His hand slipped away from your hip and you expected him to step back. But instead, he glanced around the kitchen like he was searching for something.

You blinked, still catching up. “What are you doing?”

“Sunscreen,” he said, scanning the counter like it might appear by will alone. “Before your cute little ass turns red.”

You swallowed hard. “I think I left it—uh. Outside. In my tote.”

He didn’t hesitate before setting the bowl on the island and turning. Joe cracked the sliding door and stepped out, you watched him bend over the tote, back flexing and hair falling across his forehead. The shift of his bicep made itself visible when he straightened up with the bottle in hand.

It should’ve been nothing.

Just Joe grabbing your sunscreen. Just a normal moment. But when he paused, thumb flicking open the cap, squeezing lotion into his palm, your mouth went dry.

Because you knew what was coming.

And it was worse—better—than you expected.

He set the bottle back down with quiet care and rubbed the lotion between his hands like he wasn’t being watched. Like your eyes weren’t glued to every movement. He started dragging his palms across his shoulders, over his collarbones, across the slope of his chest. His fingers spread wide as he moved up the column of his throat.

The shine caught in the light. That slippery, glowing sheen of skin. And when his hand dipped to smear the rest across his abdomen, your thighs pressed together without permission.

By the time he stepped back in, bottle loose in his hand, you were already overheating from the inside out.

“Gotta keep us both protected,” he teased, flashing a light grin. Then he paused in front of you, holding up the bottle. “Turn.”

You turned like your body wasn’t yours, like every cell had already decided to give in before your brain caught up.

Your head was angled to the side, catching a glimpse of him behind you. Joe squeezed an equally generous amount of sunscreen into his palm and set the bottle onto the counter, hands already moving to your hips. They slipped across your body with practiced ease, the lotion was cold and his palms were warm, the friction making your whole body twitch. He dragged his hands around, fingers pressing into you with every pass.

And then, he got bolder.

His hands flattened across your lower back, gliding in wide and unhurried strokes that left your skin pebbling in their wake. You felt the first slide of his fingers dip low across your stomach, just barely brushing the top of your bikini bottoms before sweeping back up—over your ribs, beneath your top. This wasn’t just Joe “applying sunscreen.”

It was possessive.

Intimate in a way only Joe could be. Like he wasn’t just touching you, rather he was rediscovering you. Like he’d give every spare second he had to learning you again, and again, and again.

You felt him press in before you even noticed him move. The warm slide of his chest along your back sent a pulse straight through your spine. You let yourself lean into him, weight settling into the space he created for you—solid and sun-warmed, slick from the lotion he’d just rubbed across himself.

Your head dropped back instinctively, temple grazing the sharp line of his jaw as he paused. His hands rested lightly on your hips, thumbs tracing lazy half-circles, just enough to remind you they were there. Just enough to make you ache.

“You’re gonna take too long,” you said, but your voice didn’t sound like yours.

Behind you, Joe exhaled. Not annoyed, just amused. Unbothered, moreso. Like he had no intention of going anywhere.

His hands slid higher with more intent, fingers skimming just beneath the hem of your top. You could feel everything—right down to the muted tension in his arms as they braced around your torso, the slow drag of his fingers under the elastic band, teasing.

You held still, your body wired tight with anticipation. Your breath caught when his hands finally moved—slipping beneath the fabric, tentative at first, like he was testing the way you responded.

He cupped you fully, palms broad, fingers spreading across the curve of your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow, lazy sweeps that made your knees dip, just slightly, under the weight of sensation. His grip tightened—not rough, but certain—his fingers kneading in small, careful circles.

Spare the moments of his hands, he was still. Tuned into every stutter in your breath, every flicker beneath your skin, every sound you hadn’t meant to make.

A soft gasp left your lips before you could catch it, and he responded immediately—hips pressing tighter against your ass, hands shifting higher, his mouth dipping low to the shell of your ear.

“You feel that?” he whispered, voice low and full of heat. “That’s what happens when you let me take my time.”

You nodded, or tried to, but your body was humming static. White noise and heat. His thumbs rolled over your nipples again—slower this time—and your back arched without permission, your head falling further onto his shoulder, lips parting on a sound you barely heard.

You could’ve stayed like that for hours. Let him touch you until your legs gave out. Let the tension pull tighter and tighter until something inside you snapped.

But the knock came first.

A sharp, muted rap against the glass—two quick taps that sliced through the heat easily. You didn’t even process it at first. It felt like something from another life. Another version of you—one who wasn’t standing half-undressed against a fridge with her boyfriend’s hands still wrapped around her chest.

Joe stilled.

You felt it in the way his fingers flexed once before they froze. His breath stayed close to your neck, mouth pressed against your skin, his exhale rough through his nose like it hurt him to stop.

He slid his hands out from under your top with agonizing care, smoothing the fabric back into place as if it hadn’t just been wrapped around his knuckles. His touch lingered a second longer. One last pass of his hands across your ribs.

Then he stepped back.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Your chest rose and fell too fast. Your knees were barely holding you up. You stared at the tile, hands still braced, body still locked in place like the moment might continue if you didn’t let it go.

But it didn’t.

Behind you, the sliding door opened. You heard the shuffle of sneakers, the voice asking if he was ready for the second half of the shoot. And Joe’s response, that calm drawl that gave nothing away. You wondered if the guy could see it. The flush on his skin. The way his breath hadn’t fully settled.

Then the door shut again, and he was gone.

You stood there for another moment, trying to breathe. You adjusted your top—even though he already had. Smoothed your hair—even though it wouldn’t help. You didn’t want to look at your reflection in the microwave door, but you did.

And immediately wished you hadn’t.

Lips parted. Eyes glassy. Cheeks pinker than they’d been outside.

You padded to the sink and filled a glass with cold water, taking slow sips like it might help. It didn’t. How could it when the kitchen still smelled like him? When your body still felt like his hands were on you?

You paused for another breath, the cool of the glass pressed to your lips, pulse echoing in your ears.

Then, finally, you set the glass down and turned toward the back door.

Outside, the sun had shifted, stretching longer shadows across the space. The lounger you’d claimed earlier now sat drenched in light, the towel you’d left behind still rumpled from where Joe had lifted you off of it. You grabbed your book from where it lay, passing by the chair without a second glance.

You opted for one of the chairs tucked beneath the overhang—its seat shaded, arms wide, and angled just far enough from the crew to feel separated.

You sank into the cushions, skin tingling faintly as you laid your head back. The heat of the sun stuck, but it had softened now, muted by the breeze threading through the shade, dulled by the chill from the house that still clung to your skin.

You flipped your book open in your lap with fingers that didn’t feel entirely steady. The words blurred together at first, your eyes slow to catch up.

Joe was across the yard and you could see him if you tilted your head just enough. Someone behind the camera said something, and he grinned—quick and easy—almost enough to knock the air from your lungs all over again.

You looked back down at your book.

Don’t do this again, you warned yourself.

So you read. Or tried to. Let the words carry you. Let the air soothe what was still sparking under your skin. You turned a page. Then another. You shifted your legs, letting one knee hang lazily over the other. The breeze raised goosebumps across your thighs, stirred the ends of your hair from where they clung to your shoulders.

The words slowly began to lose their shape, your gaze tracing lines without comprehension, but you didn’t fight it. The heat still lingered low in your belly, quieter now. Hazy. Your limbs were heavy with the same sensation, thoughts beginning to melt into each other.

Your head tilted to the side. Eyes slipped shut.

Just for a second, just until it was quiet.

Until the chair dipped beside you.

A soft shift, the weight of someone settling down. Then, the subtle scrape of fingers gliding up the outside of your thigh, then in—circling around gently, brushing the tender skin, just enough to lure you awake.

“Hey,” Joe’s voice came. “C’mon, baby. You’ve been out a while.”

You stirred, slow and heavy-limbed, a soft scrunch pulling between your brows as light filtered in behind your lashes. The post-nap haze clung thick around your thoughts, foggy and warm, and the first thing you noticed was the heat—how it had layered over itself like blankets, clinging to your skin, thick and still and everywhere. You were too warm. Flushed and faintly damp under your bikini, heat tucked into every crease of your body.

“Didn’t mean to let you knock out this long,” he murmured, thumb tracing soft strokes just above your knee. “It’s too hot to sleep out here like that.”

Something cool pressed into your hand. You blinked, vision still blurry, and saw him crouched beside your chair, holding a half-empty water bottle slick with condensation.

“Here,” Joe said, offering it to you. “Drink.”

You curled your fingers around it with slow, sleepy coordination, flinching slightly at the contrast���ice-cold plastic against overheated skin. The chill cut clean through the heat, grounding in a way nothing else had yet. You brought it to your lips and drank—slow, careful sips. The water tasted like it had been sitting in a cooler all day. But it helped. Your mouth wasn’t dry anymore. Your head began to clear.

“What time is it?” you asked, voice still scratchy with sleep.

Joe shifted, one arm draped lazily over the chair’s armrest, the other still gliding slow and steady up and down your leg. “Late enough,” he said. “Everyone’s gone. Just us now.”

You sat up a little straighter, still moving like every muscle had to reintroduce itself to gravity. The bottle rolled in your grip as you glanced around. The backyard was empty, steeped in the warm gold of early evening. The cameras were gone. The buzz of voices and movement had faded into silence.

But Joe was still there.

Close enough to see the sweat drying at his collarbones, glinting along the sharp edge of his throat. He was still in those black Alo shorts—the ones that had been riding high on his thighs all day. They clung even closer now, heavy with heat.

“You okay?” he asked, voice lower. His knuckle traced up the inside of your thigh, just a soft pass. Barely there.

You nodded. “Mhm.”

He gave you a look. “You sure?”

You reached for his jaw, brushing your thumb across the edge of his mouth, the curve of that smirk you knew too well. “I was trying to cool off.”

His brows lifted slightly. “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” you murmured, quieter now. “Didn’t work.”

He leaned in just enough for the air to shift between you, that familiar heat rolling off his skin. His eyes dropped—your mouth, your thighs, then back again. Slower this time. Heavier.

“No?” he asked, voice deeper now.

“Nope.” Your fingers drifted down the slope of his throat, ghosting over the tense line of muscle that always gave him away. “Still hot.”

Joe hummed, low in his throat, like he was thinking about being a gentleman and then very consciously choosing not to be.

“Lucky me,” he muttered, his palm tightening slightly over your thigh. “Guess we’ll have to take care of that.”

He rose to his feet in one slow stretch, casting you in shadow. The outline of his body cut sharp against the fading sun, and when he reached down to take your hand, his fingers curled around your wrist with quiet intent.

You let him pull you up without question, the tug of your bikini stretching across your skin where it clung—still faintly damp with sweat.

Neither of you said a word as you stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind you.

He kicked off his shoes, dropped his socks without a thought. His knuckles brushed your hip as he leaned down, the heat of him ever-present, steady.

Joe gave your hand a gentle tug toward the bedroom. You followed—quiet, at the mercy of the way your pulse had started drumming harder with every step.

The space was cool. Calm. The faint scent of eucalyptus from his morning shower still clung to the air. Stone floors stretched out beneath soft lighting. Everything here was light and smooth and quiet.

But it was the shower that always managed to steal your breath.

Framed in matte black trim, encased in glass, it took up nearly the entire far wall. Floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides, frosted just enough for privacy but still drenched in late sunlight. Inside was absurdly spacious. A bench. Multiple showerheads. Built-in shelves. More spa than shower.

Joe let go of your hand just long enough to reach for the glass door. He pushed it open, steam rising faintly from the tiles inside. He must’ve turned it on before you even got in the house, you’d realized. Warm mist already kisses the glass, fogging the corners, drifting into the room like it was luring you forward.

His fingers found you again, the same way they always did. You moved easily under his hands. An instinct that didn’t need to be spoken or asked for.

He slid the strings at your hips loose first, then reached for the knot at your back, the thin fabric fluttering down like it didn’t matter at all.

And in this light, in this heat, in this quiet… it didn’t.

He stepped out of his shorts, kicked them to the side without thought, then reached for the shower door again, pushing it open further. You stepped in first, and the steam hit your chest in a rolling wave—soft and scorching all at once. It stole your breath for a second, made your fingers twitch at your sides. The mist curled up your arms, soaked into you, slid along your collarbones and spine in a way that felt almost sentient. The warmth folded around you so completely, it was hard to tell where the air ended and your body began.

You tilted your face into it. Let it rinse away the dried sweat on your skin, the drowsy fog of your nap, the weight of everything you hadn’t said all day. The world outside the glass felt far away now—just sunlight diffused into gold across the tiles, the muted hum of water hitting stone, the soft scuff of feet behind you.

Joe stepped in a second later.

You didn’t turn, but you felt him immediately. The heat from his body added to the steam, made the air heavier. Denser. His hand brushed your lower back, a pass of fingers over damp skin.

He moved past you slightly, reaching for the knob. His bicep flexed, wet hair sticking to his neck, jaw tight as he leaned into the motion. The spray arced higher with a metallic groan, more forceful now. More direct. Then his hand dropped again, finding your hip like it belonged there.

Neither of you spoke.

His other hand came up, skimming your side, pausing just beneath the curve of your breast like he was deciding something. His chest just barely brushed your back, then his mouth was at your neck.

Not kissing. Not quite. Just breathing you in.

You closed your eyes. Because it was too much.

Because it wasn’t enough.

The slide of his lips down to your shoulder made you shiver. Not from cold—but because he still hadn’t said anything. And when Joe was quiet like this, it meant he was thinking. About you. About this. About everything he hadn’t said yet. Everything he wanted to say—to do.

His hand moved again. Lower this time. Across your stomach, then between your thighs.

Your body went numb under his touch, thighs parting slightly without thought, your back pressing just a bit harder into his chest. Your breath caught as his fingers brushed over the softest part of you, sliding through slick that had nothing to do with the water.

You felt him stiffen behind you—just barely. The way his hips shifted. The way his fingers paused like he needed a second. Like he needed to breathe.

“Jesus,” he muttered, more exhale than word. “You’re already—”

“I know,” you whispered, barely audible above the water.

And it was true. You’d been like this. Since the kitchen. Since that goddamn bottle of sunscreen. Since the lazy scrape of his teeth against your neck and the way he’d handled you like he was daring you to say stop—knowing you wouldn’t.

He groaned again—low and tight—like he was trying to get a handle on himself. But his fingers were already sliding back between your legs. Slower now. Deeper. Not teasing. Just exploring. Mapping. And when he finally pushed two thick fingers into you, your knees nearly buckled. You caught yourself against the tile with a wet slap, breath knocking out of you in one shocked exhale.

“Yeah,” Joe said behind you, voice gone hoarse. “That’s it.”

His other hand came up to brace your stomach, holding you steady as he moved. Every thrust of his fingers was slow, dragging—edging more than taking.

But it felt like taking.

Like he was pulling sounds from your throat you hadn’t meant to make. Like he was sinking deeper than he should’ve been able to. Like your body couldn’t decide whether to press forward or pull him in even further.

You gasped when his thumb found your clit, when he circled it once with just enough pressure to short-circuit your legs. Joe grunted at the reaction—cock pressed hot and heavy against your lower back now, no longer subtle. No longer hiding anything.

“Keep your hands on the wall,” he said, clicking his tongue softly. “Wanna watch you take it.”

You swallowed hard, jaw slack, too far gone to care how desperate you sounded when you whimpered in response. And he knew it. You could feel the grin in his voice when he said, “That’s my girl.”

Then he started moving faster.

His fingers fucked into you harder now, deeper. His palm dragged tight over your clit with every thrust, a wet, obscene rhythm building beneath the roar of the water. You couldn’t stay quiet. Couldn’t think. Could barely hold yourself upright as your forehead dropped to your forearm, your thighs shaking under the pressure of everything he was giving you—without letting you fall.

“You’ve been like this all fucking day,” he muttered, panting now. “Could see it.”

“Joe—”

“You think I don’t know the difference between you reading and pretending to read?” he rasped. “You were squirming in that chair like you wanted me to come over and wreck you.”

“I did,” you gasped.

He groaned, twisting his fingers just right and pulling another moan from you. “I wanted you to wreck me.” His hand stilled. Just for a second. Then he pulled back.

You gasped at the loss, instinctively pushing into the space where he’d been. But Joe just bent slightly, lips at your shoulder, voice rough and wrecked.

“Then turn around,” he said. “And let me.”

You turned.

Not because he told you to. Because you needed to.

Because you wanted to see him. See how badly he needed it. See what it did to him—holding back, just barely, for you.

And when you did—when you faced him—your breath caught like it slammed into a wall.

It wasn’t that he was flushed or panting. He wasn’t wild.

But he was barely holding it together.

Joe’s jaw was clenched, brows drawn tight. The muscles in his arms flexed like he was fighting instinct—every inch of him coiled and tense, caught between control and surrender. His eyes dropped the second you turned—dragging down the lines of your throat, your chest, your stomach, to the place between your thighs where his hand had just been.

And then they snapped back to yours.

Dark. Burning.

Full of want.

Full of you.

He didn’t say anything as he took a step closer.

You backed up without meaning to—your back catching the cool tile, water hitting your side now as Joe crowded into your space. His hands landed on either side of your face, caging you in like He stared at you like you were something he never wanted to forget.

“You’re so pretty like this.”

Your chest caved with the way your heart slammed into your ribs. The sound of his voice made your thighs clench, just trying to survive the weight of it. Joe leaned in slowly, brushing his mouth along your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your lips—like he couldn’t decide where to start.

“Skin all hot and wet… mouth already open for me,” he murmured. “You’re barely breathing.”

“I’m trying,” you whispered, dizzy.

He smiled. Just barely. Like it pleased him. Like he liked knowing he’d pulled you this far under.

And then—finally—he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft.

It was desperate.

Deep and wet and full, like he needed to taste every part of you he hadn’t already touched. His tongue slid into your mouth with purpose, his hands dropping to your waist and dragging you forward so fast you gasped against his lips. Your fingers clutched at his shoulders, trying to ground yourself—but he gave you nothing. No space. Just pressed you back into the tile, his body flush to yours now, cock heavy against your stomach, the drag of him so real it made you whimper.

“You feel that?” he asked, breaking the kiss just long enough to grind his hips against yours. “That’s what you did.”

You nodded, dazed.

But he shook his head. One hand came up to wrap around the base of your throat—not squeezing, just holding, enough to grab your attention.

“No,” he said, breath hot against your mouth. “Say it.”

“I did that,” you whispered.

“Damn right, you did.” Without warning, without effort—he lifted you. Strong hands under your thighs, fingers digging in. Your back hit the tile again with a soft thud, your legs wrapping around his hips like instinct. Like this was where you were meant to be.

Your breath punched out of you in one shocked moan as his cock slid against your center—thick and hot and right there.

“Fuck—Joey—”

“I’ve got you,” he gritted out, adjusting his grip, voice low and strained. “You want me to stop, you tell me now.”

Your answer was immediate. “Don’t you dare stop.”

His eyes flashed, a primal hunger flickering behind them as he huffed out a breathless laugh.

With one deep, punishing thrust—he pushed into you all the way.

You gasped. It was too much. It was perfect.

Your head fell back against the tile, jaw going slack, your legs tightening around him as he filled you to the hilt—thick and hot and alive inside you, like he belonged there.

Like he always had.

Joe swore under his breath, forehead falling to your shoulder, both arms locking around you like he couldn’t stand to let you go.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he rasped. “Jesus, baby…”

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Just clenched around him as your nails dug into his back, trying to breathe, trying not to fall apart from just the feel of him inside you.

And then he started to move. Slow at first. Deep. Controlled. Like he was trying to feel every part of you. Like he wanted to make sure you felt every part of him.

You moaned—loud, open, shameless—and that was all it took for him to snap.

His pace picked up, rougher now, rhythm locking into yours like it had always lived there. Your back slid against the slick tile with every thrust, water pounding overhead, your breath turning high and frantic as he fucked you harder, each crack of his hips knocking sound out of you.

“You take it so fucking well,” Joe growled, lips dragging hot along your throat, teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you gasp. “Layin’ out there all day like it was nothing.”

You whimpered, spine bowing beneath the sound of his voice, beneath the way he pushed deeper now, rougher and relentless.

“Lookin’ so pretty, all quiet and smug in your little bikini,” he panted. “You knew I was watching.”

Your head dropped back, a whine breaking loose as his thrusts went harder, steadier.

“You love this,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “Actin’ like you’ve got control ‘til I get my hands on you. Then you just—fall apart.”

He laughed then—quiet, sharp, almost cruel. A sound that would’ve made you flinch if it had come from anyone else.

But from Joe, it wrecked you.

Your fingers clawed into his hair, dragging him down as your mouth found his again—messy and wild and aching.

“Joe—I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Yeah?” he gritted, arm locking tighter around your waist. “Then give it to me, baby. Come for me. Let me feel it.”

And when you did, when your body seized around him, trembling, nails scoring his back as your orgasm surged through you—it nearly knocked you out. Vision blurred. Chest locked. The air ripped from your lungs like it belonged to him.

He held you together as you shattered, kept thrusting, kept whispering something low and dirty into your ear. Words you couldn’t even catch because your brain was gone and your body wasn’t yours anymore.

“God, that’s it… fuck, you feel so good like this,” he groaned, pace faltering. “So good for me.”

“God, that’s it… fuck, you feel so good like this,” he groaned, his pace faltering. “So good for me.”

He came seconds later, thick and deep, a guttural sound ripped from his throat as his hips jerked one last time and he stilled, arms tight around you, his breath hitting your shoulder in heavy waves.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

The water kept falling, louder than your breath—but not by much. Steam clung to every surface, fogging the glass, curling around Joe’s shoulders, catching in the wet strands of his hair where they hung over his forehead.

His arms were still wrapped around you. His body still pressed close, like he didn’t trust his legs to hold him up unless yours were locked around his hips. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, breath stuttering across your skin in warm, open bursts.

You could feel the pulse of him still buried deep. The twitch of muscle. The echo of aftershock against your thigh.

Your fingers were in his hair, but they’d softened now—no more clawing, no more clutching. Just a lazy drag along the nape of his neck as your heart slowed enough for you to feel it again.

He didn’t say anything.

Not right away.

Just stayed there, holding you as if he liked how you felt all quiet and pliant in his arms. One hand slid up your spine slowly while the other stayed locked around your waist, thumb pressing idly into the curve of your ribs.

When he finally spoke, it was quiet. Barely a breath:

“You okay?”

You nodded into his shoulder. Your voice didn’t work yet. Not in a real way. But your body did—you curled your fingers a little tighter at the base of his skull, pressed your nose into the spot behind his ear.

“Yeah,” you managed. “I’m good.”

Joe pulled back just enough to look at you.

His hair was plastered to his forehead, drops of water catching on his lashes, his mouth red and parted and a little too smug for someone who had just devastated you. But behind all that was the softness he couldn’t hide—even when he tried. Even when he wore it under all that cocky, quiet dominance.

His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. “You sure?” he asked again, gentler this time.

You nodded, a breathless smile tugging at your lips. “I mean… I can’t feel my legs. So take that as you will.”

That made him grin—broad and gorgeous and a little too pleased with himself.

“Guess I’ll take that as a win,” he said, then leaned in to kiss you again. Softer this time. Less about desire and more about grounding. 

He eased out of you slowly, and you winced—half from the ache, half from the cold as he stepped back just far enough to let the water hit your chest again. Your feet hit the floor a beat later, but your legs wobbled, and Joe was there instantly—one hand steady at your waist like he’d expected it.

“Okay,” he murmured, chuckling under his breath. “Yeah, you’re not walking anywhere.”

“You’re proud of yourself, huh?” you muttered, eyelids heavy.

Joe dipped his head to kiss your collarbone. Then your shoulder. Lips lingering there with a smile. “Little bit.”

You huffed out a soft laugh, letting your forehead fall to his. Letting the heat between you settle into something quieter. The water kept running, but neither of you moved. Not for a while.

Hands holding each other.

Skin flushed.

Hearts still skipping.

The kind of aftermath that didn’t ask for words.

[harrysfolklore]

can you write something about lando and p since the new video is so cute

OBSESSED WITH THE LANDO AND P CONTENT !!! also i posted a different version of this on patreon if case you want to check it outttt

You're standing in the paddock with Kelly, who's resting her hand on her growing baby bump, while P rummages through her little backpack frantically.

"Careful sweetie, don't mess up all your things," Kelly says softly, but P is too focused on her mission.

"Found them!" P exclaims triumphantly, pulling out a sheet of sparkly racing car stickers. She's been saving them specifically for today, the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, refusing to use them despite having them for weeks.

"When can we see Lando? Is he in his garage? Can we go now?" P asks for what feels like the hundredth time this morning. Max exchanges an amused look with Kelly, who's trying to hide her smile.

"Patience, little one," Max tells her, but P is already at your side, tugging at your hand.

"Please? Can we go see him now? The stickers will bring him extra luck!" Her big eyes look up at you pleadingly, and you can't help but melt at her enthusiasm.

Kelly chuckles, "I think we better go before she explodes from excitement."

When you finally reach the McLaren garage, P spots Lando immediately and runs toward him, "Lando! Lando!"

You see your boyfriend turn around, in his race suit with the top half tied around his waist, his face breaking into that bright smile you love so much. P skids to a stop right in front of him, suddenly shy.

"I… I brought you something," she says, holding out the stickers with both hands. "For luck."

Lando crouches down to her level, looking at the stickers with exaggerated amazement. "These are incredible! Are you sure you want to give them to me?"

P nods enthusiastically. "They're special racing stickers. If you have them, you'll go super fast!"

"Well, thank you very much," Lando says seriously. "This is the best gift ever."

Without warning, P launches herself at him for a hug, wrapping her little arms around his waist. Lando hugs her back, careful not to crush the stickers.

You walk over to join them, but as you try to get in on the hug, P immediately protests, "Nooo! This is my Lando hug! You get him all the time!"

Everyone bursts out laughing, including Kelly who waddles over with Max. "P, sweetheart, sharing is caring," she reminds her daughter gently.

Penelope shakes her head firmly against Lando's waist. "My hug first. She can have him later."

"I see how it is," you tease. "I've got competition from a five-year-old."

Max can't stop grinning. "Better watch out, she's quite the charmer."

Penelope finally releases Lando but stays close to him as she excitedly tells him about how she's going to watch the race with her mom and how she drew a picture of his car in school.

"Promise you'll win?" P asks Lando seriously.

"I'll try my very best, just for you," he responds, carefully placing the stickers in his pocket. "These will definitely help."

Eventually, Kelly announces it's time for P's snack break, and after extracting a promise from Lando that he'll wave to her on the podium, Penelope reluctantly leaves with her parents.

As soon as they're gone, Lando wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close. "Finally got my turn for a hug," he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours.

You loop your arms around his neck, smiling. "I don't know, those were some pretty serious heart eyes she was giving you. Should I be worried?"

Lando laughs, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. "Definitely not. Though I have to admit, the stickers might be the sweetest gift I've ever gotten."

"Sweeter than when I got you that gaming setup for your birthday?" you tease, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Hmm, tough competition," he grins, leaning in for another kiss. This one lasts longer, soft and sweet, until you hear wolf whistles from the McLaren mechanics nearby.

Lando pulls back slightly, rolling his eyes but smiling. "I should probably get back to work."

"Probably," you agree, but neither of you moves. "Good luck out there today. P's not the only one who wants to see you win."

"Well, with lucky stickers AND my girlfriend's support, how can I lose?" he says with a wink, giving you one last quick kiss before reluctantly stepping back.

[kedreeva]

Silly question but how would you rate different gamebird chicks on a scale of "no brain cells, head empty" to "wait! I think I just saw a thought happen?!"?

You've mentioned before that turkey poults have the survival instinct of a chicken nugget, and I've raised coturnix chicks before which are like...death seeking missiles. Are other gamebird chicks as dumb? Are any recognisably better suited to not immediately kamikaze-ing into the nearest water fountain/single square millimetre of loose tape/one cold spot they can find in the brooder?

Peafowl chicks rate the highest. I know I talk a lot of shit about them, but outside of not eating unless shown the food (which IS a valid survival behavior, for avoiding toxic things in their native environment), they're not prone to doing anything actively stupid. They have great eye sight, they tend to look before they leap (and can fly if they do get into trouble). They have a sense of time ("bedtime" is a concept they have! Every hand raised baby I've ever had has had a strict idea of when they think it's time to go to bed and will scream at me until I agree). They will return themselves to the heat when it's time, I've never had one fail to do this or start screaming because they're on the cold side of the brooder and don't know how to move 1 foot to the left to get warm. I've never had one drown in the water dish even though they get a bowl or are raised outside with a pond/big water bowl. They can coexist with just about any other bird, which is great because their only flaw is they need to be shown food for the first few weeks, and adding something like a chicken will cause the chicken to show them where to eat. And because peafowl are large, all the other babies will follow them around for everything else. For creatures who grew up in an environment where very little (predator wise) can kill them, they're surprisingly adapted to not dying in really stupid ways in captivity. They ARE fragile in other ways (pick up parasites easily), but that's not a matter of stupidity.

Coturnix are so far the worst, and I am including Turkeys in this metric. Turkeys are at least hardy in a brooder setup, even if they are very stupid outside with mom. Coturnix on the other hand have to have a tiny lip to their water dish so they don't get into it and drown or chill (and they still do their level best to get into it, even with the tiny lip where they can barely reach the water, I sometimes check on them and find one Mystery Sopping Wet.... how..... and why...... and also HOW). I have watched one grab a drink of water, throw its head back to swallow, choke, and die immediately. There is NOTHING you can do for them if they fail at drinking water, by the way. If you pick them up too soon after they drink, or any other time, there's a non-zero chance that they immediately panic-vomit any water in their system, choke on it, and suffocate/die instantly so you have to be careful about handling them while they're doing their very best to make that as difficult as possible (and this lovely trait persists into adulthood). They cannot have access to anything they can get caught in/under, I have to put barriers in their cage and not give them a cold spot in the brooder until they're a few days old because they will CHARGE to it and sit there until they die screaming about how cold they are while 1 foot away from the heat. They still throw themselves at this barrier because they can see through a 1mm gap to either side that cold death awaits them with open arms and they desire it so badly. It's why they always look like this:

If you have them standing on your hand they WILL just walk off - nay, run full tilt off - without regard for if there is anything below them to fall ONTO, and they are fully capable of beaning themselves so hard upon impact that they die. I had to find a stuffie that was very light and a stuffie that was very heavy, because a medium weight is just light enough for them to shove themselves into the shavings beneath it and suffocate because they can't get out again, and they will also actively seek to do this. They have to have a solid-sided brooder because if they can stick their head through a gap a) they can probably get out of it if it's just a little bigger than their head and b) they will get stuck in it and break their necks if it's just a little too small.

The vast majority, 99% of them, are extremely easy to raise, and doing a minimal amount of guardianship in their brooder will protect them from themselves, but they do have a deep and abiding desire to be dead, I think, and there will be some you cannot save from themselves. No other game birds/fowl I've raised are like this- not peafowl, not turkeys, not pheasants, not chickens, not bobwhite quail, not even guinea keets... the closest would be button quail and even they are not death-seeking missiles until they're a bit older.

[ghelullu]

Okay I survived this ritual surprisingly and wrote down a few thoughts, in a mostly chronological order and I probably forgot 90848 things

Tldr: Absolutely fabulous 20/10 he sounds amazing and he looked so happy the whole time

Spoilers under the break(also for length of rambling) :)

octogonal (with the usual nose in the middle) stage setup, they can walk around the while thing now (a bit similar to the cardi days setup but no elevation in the back)

No new ghouls except for the one new ghoulette, also none of the "more ghouls" that were spoken of in that one interview

Peacefield sounds cool!!!

Lachryma live is 🤌🏽🤌🏽🤌🏽he did the high notes himself!

Spirit! Pinnacle!! So much meliora on the setlist!

Papa talked very little sadly, but when he did it was fun! No accent, too!

He said he's new and asked us to be nice to him since it's his first time; then wanted us to treat him rough instead after someone said no

Almost ran the mic stand over during ftpttp

Entertainer!Phantom!! He was phenomenal the whole night tbh, incredible guitar player

Papa in full robes sitting in the back of the stage being lifted by some thingy while singing Majesty (hands free mic!)

TFIAL made the audience go crazy, changed the lyrics to 2034

Cirice without wings

DATHOML! Much better live than I expected honestly

I think he has a screen now at the front of the stage where he can read lyrics? Not sure though, but from my seat it looked a bit like it, good for him

Still managed to miss some and now we know his "fuck, wrong lyrics" face

FACE! SO MANY SMILES AND FACES HE MAKES!!

No really, he looked SO happy seeing everyone vibe and sing 20/10

Big robes only made an appearance for majesty, other than that It was a black leather jacket with batwing seams on the bottom, the silver jacket (it has a sparkly grucifix on the back), the cassock (BEDAZZLED SPINE AND RIBS AND HIP BONE AND TAIL????) and a pink jacket for squammer

"Whoo!" - Papa V

Appeared from below the stage via trap door to deliver a cowbell to Swiss lmao, umbra rocked - but the mix was bad, you could barely hear his singing, sadly

He sounds amazing without the mask

Especially the new songs are sung rather raspy, incredibly hot. Older songs sound more copia/terzo, but I assume that will change as usual, transitions are never immediate with him

In general he's very copia, but moves different than him, less focused and dancer-y, more.... Theatrical, joyful idk the right word?

In general less horny than copia, fewer action in mummy dust(jumped kneeling on the stairs though), no fingering in ritual, no serpent deceive, etc, but some thrusting in dance macabre etc hehe

The way he ran to change into the cassock for year zero rip, man was in a HURRY

The explosion at the end of year zero shattered the stained glass backdrop and then he performed he is in front of the splintered glass, beautifully done, especially as it reassembled into a religious image again

Generally lots of cool effects for the backdrop during majesty too and then afterwards BECAUSE

for rats the whole backdrop exploded, the church architecture deflated! and it was performed in front of a wasteland, super cool

Frater money!

Really his facial expressions the whole time help

lipstick was GONE

I can't read my notes anymore lmao

He said he's only there to show up and shake ass and that's what he did

MONSTRANCE CLOCK - HE DID THIS FOR MEEEE

Encore was the usual (Good!!!) and there were so many people left after monstrance clock lmao???

Inrpobably forgot a ton but holy moly that was so much and so cool and he sounds SO GOOD I CAN'T SAY IT ENOUGH, he looked extremely happy and comfortable, it was nice to see, audience was great and engaged, the whole new setup is very cool (and expensive looking damn)

10/10

[ceramini]

loser! jake BUT readers all of a sudden nice to him and jake is confused (and turned on ofc) maybe special occasion or smthn.surprise ne queen !!

⁺𝅄 𓊆 ❀ 𓊇 just so u guys know.. this will be my last jake fic/drabble before I retire him :(( i write for all of the members and I didn’t think people would request or even like my loser!jake stuff this much, so he WILL make a retrurn on my blog, I just want to share my work for other enha members as well <33 pls understand

pair loser!jake x hot!reader ͡ ͘◡ ꫶᳝᳜᳝᳜᳝᳜৯ tags reverse cowgirl, cockwarming ✿ scene jake forgot their third anniversary, again. He’s bracing for punishment, but instead, you’re suddenly super nice to him. Like, really nice. Confused, flustered, and lowkey turned on, Jake starts to wonder: is this mercy… or a horrible horrible setup? ────── library ⊹ ࣪ click to join taglist

like + reblog appreciated <3

Jake wakes up to the smell of bacon.

Which is weird, because he’s the one who usually forgets the pan and sets off the smoke alarm, and you usually sleep in on Sundays like it’s a constitutional right.

He blinks, dazed and warm and puffy-eyed, as your voice floats into the bedroom.

“Jakey,” you call softly. “Wake up baby. I made you breakfast.”

Jake sits up slowly. His hair’s a mess. His eyes are crusty. He’s half-hard under the blanket because of a dream he already forgot, and his first thought is:

Are you possessed?

“Baby?” you peek your head in, grinning.

Jake squints. “Wait. Did I die?”

You giggle. “No, dummy.”

“Did you die?”

“No.”

“Then why are you—” he looks down at the tray you’re carrying, eyes wide, “—bringing me pancakes?”

You sit beside him on the bed and brush a kiss to his cheek. “Because I love you.”

Jake flinches like you slapped him.

“You do?” he says, eyes watery.

You roll your eyes fondly. “Obviously.”

He leans against you, still confused but clinging like a koala.

Jake is an affectionate idiot, he clings without realizing, kisses without thinking, forgets his keys in your purse because “you’re the safe place.” But today, something about you is different.

You’re not just being kind, you’re being intentional.

You kiss him before he leaves the house.

You help him find his shoes even though they’re right where he always leaves them.

You pack his lunch. Write a little note.

And when he comes home after hanging with Sunghoon, there’s candles on the table.

Candles.

Jake stops in the doorway, staring.

“…Are we summoning something?”

You turn, wearing that adorable outfit, the one he kept staring at the day you tried it on in the store, too stunned to speak, until you went “should I not get it?” and he panic-yelled “NO GET IT GET IT.”

You wore it.

For him.

Jake gulps.

“Did I do something right?” he asks. “Or did I do something wrong and this is the part before you kill me?”

You walk over and wrap your arms around his waist, laying your cheek against his chest. “You did everything right.”

Jake stands frozen. His whole body is stiff, except for one very obvious part.

You notice.

Of course you do.

You giggle. “You’re so easy.”

Jake whines. “You’re being so nice to me. It’s turning me on. That feels unethical.”

Dinner is perfect.

You give him his favorite part of the steak.

You laugh at every one of his terrible jokes.

You even rub his knee under the table like you want him.

Jake’s not used to being the pretty one in the relationship. You’re hot. So hot. It makes no sense to anyone that you date a guy who once cried during an animal shelter ad and accidentally set his microwave on fire trying to make instant ramen.

And yet.

You treat him like he’s the prize.

Jake wants to cry.

And then…

You give him a gift.

Wrapped. Bow and all.

Jake tears it open, confused, and finds:

A framed photo of you two, from your beach trip where Jake got sunburned and you made fun of his farmer’s tan.

A pressed flower from the first bouquet he gave you. He thought you threw it out.

A tiny hand-written book titled: “101 Reasons Why I’m Glad You’re Mine”

Jake blinks down at the cover.

“I—I don’t—” he stammers.

And then, finally, his eyes flick to the calendar on the wall.

The date glows like a punch to the gut.

Anniversary. Three years.

Jake forgot.

You didn’t.

“Jake,” you say softly, sitting beside him on the bed. “You okay?”

He looks like you kicked his puppy.

“I’m the worst boyfriend ever.”

“No you’re not.”

“I am. You did all this. And I didn’t even get you, like— like a card. Or a rock I found outside. Or a dumb doodle or a weird TikTok link or, anything.”

You rest your hand on his.

Jake’s bottom lip wobbles. He sniffles.

“It’s okay,” you say gently. “You always forget dates. I kind of expected it.”

That only makes it worse.

“You knew I’d forget?” he says, heartbroken.

You give a small, sad smile. “It’s not about remembering. It’s about trying.”

Jake stares at you.

And then, without a word, he kneels.

He presses kisses to your thigh. Your knee. Your hip.

Your stomach.

“Let me make it up to you,” he murmurs. “Please.”

He worships you.

That’s the only word for it.

Jake moves with reverence. He kisses you like he’s trying to apologize with his mouth, long, wet kisses that leave you gasping.

When you slide his shirt off, he fumbles a little with yours.

“Can I see you?” he whispers. “Please?”

You nod.

Jake groans the second your top’s off. His hands are greedy, trembling, desperate. But still gentle.

He takes his time.

So much time.

“Turn around?” you ask softly, cheeks warm. “I wanna ride you. That way.”

Jake’s brain short-circuits.

“Reverse— um what is it— um?”

“Reverse cowgirl?.”

Jake whines, already tugging his pants off. “I don’t even know if my heart can take that.”

You straddle him, slow and teasing.

And when you sink down, his hands fly to your hips.

Then hesitate.

Then slowly, tentatively, cup your ass.

“Can I?” he whispers, voice wrecked.

You nod.

Jake lets out the dirtiest moan you’ve ever heard.

“Your ass is insane,” he babbles. “I’m—fuck—I’m gonna die. This is my punishment. You’re punishing me.”

He doesn’t even thrust.

He just holds you there, buried inside, cock so deep and warm that it feels like you’re melting together.

“P—please,” he breathes. “You’re so warm— n’so pretty. Like a goddess. Like an avenging angel with the softest—oh my god—you clenched.”

You giggle.

“I’m sorry,” he moans. “I know I forgot. I know I don’t deserve this. But I love you. I love you so much I feel it in my spine.”

You lean back slightly, rocking your hips once.

Jake chokes.

“I’ll never forget again,” he gasps. “Swear to god. I’ll tattoo it. I’ll set calendar alerts. I’ll carve it into my desk.”

You bounce once.

Jake screams.

You’re both laughing by the time he flips you over and kisses you breathless, trying to say everything with his hands and his mouth and his body that he forgot to say with words.

And after, when he’s soft inside you, buried to the hilt, and you’re both tangled and warm and sticky, Jake whispers:

“Next year I’m doing the most. Be ready.”

You hum, nuzzling into his chest. “Can’t wait.”

🪷 ─── @gxwesn @gyarumindd @somuchdard @ssanhwatto (join the taglist guys..)

[hellobykittys]

𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ✦ 𝐋𝐍⁴

SUMMARY: Your boyfriend just returned from a Triple Header, and after weeks apart, all you wanted was some attention and affection. But he, on the other hand, seemed more interested in his online games than spending time with you. NOTES: English is not my first language, so there might be some writing mistakes. I apologize for that, and feel free to point out any improvements. PAIRING: Lando Norris x Reader! Girlfriend. WARNING: cockwarming and explicit scenes. WC: 0.9k

MASTERLIST | THE (IM)PERFECT PLAN SERIE

It had been weeks since you and Lando had a decent moment together. Between the chaos of a Triple Header and endless traveling, he was finally back home after more than three weeks away. You'd spent days envisioning this reunion: a cozy couch, a romantic movie, maybe a few glasses of wine, and, hopefully, something… more intimate.

But, of course, Lando had other plans—plans that involved a computer, headphones, and loud laughter with Max during a gaming livestream. He was sunk into his gaming chair, fully absorbed, while you were sprawled out on the living room couch, pretending to care about some random TV show.

Not that you wanted to be that girlfriend who complained about her boyfriend’s hobbies. You knew gaming was Lando’s way of unwinding, something he genuinely enjoyed. But… would it kill him to give you a little attention after you’d spent weeks counting down the days until he got back? You had spent a few hours together earlier in the day, but apparently, for him, that was more than enough. For you? Not even close.

Taking a deep breath, you decided it was time to do something about it.

You got up from the couch and walked into the kitchen. Opening the fridge to grab a can of soda, you could still hear Lando and Max’s laughter echoing through the house. They were debating something about “that camper guy in the middle of the map”—whatever that meant. You rolled your eyes with a small smile. Men.

Back in the living room, you stopped at the doorway to Lando’s gaming setup.

“Babe?” you called out sweetly, hoping that would be enough to get his attention.

Nothing. He raised a hand in a “one-minute” gesture without even glancing away from the screen.

Okay. So he wasn’t going to make this easy.

You climbed onto Lando’s lap, sitting face-to-face with him, wrapping your arms loosely around his waist. It was the perfect position—not just to be close but also to stir up a little mischief.

“Lando, I missed you…” you murmured, drawing out the words as you shifted ever so slightly on his lap. The movement seemed innocent enough, but both of you knew it wasn’t.

He took one hand off the keyboard and placed it firmly on your waist, halting your motions.

“I missed you too, love,” he replied, trying to keep his focus on the screen. “But please, stay still, alright?”

“Okay!” you chirped with mock obedience, which he clearly picked up on but chose to ignore.

You managed to behave… for about three minutes. Then, you started shifting again, sliding gently against him, testing his patience.

“Y/N…” His tone was firm, though you caught the trace of amusement at the end. “If you don’t stop, I’m going to move you.”

“But I just want to spend time with you, please!” you pouted playfully, resting your head on his shoulder and inhaling his familiar, comforting scent.

Lando sighed deeply, as if gathering every ounce of his self-control.

“Then behave,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, though still laced with warning.

Of course, you ignored him. You leaned in closer, leaving a trail of kisses down his neck while continuing your teasing movements, this time more deliberately.

“Y/N…” he started, but his voice sounded different now—lower, drawn out, almost like a groan. “What are you trying to do?”

You smiled against his skin, thrilled by how easily you could make him unravel.

“Nothing… I’m just enjoying my boyfriend, who I missed so much,” you replied with a playful edge, feigning innocence while keeping up your game.

Lando shut his eyes briefly, clearly trying not to lose control.

“You’re impossible, you know that?” he said, finally abandoning the keyboard and turning all his attention to you.

His hands slid to your waist, and in one swift move, he lifted your skirt and pushed your underwear to the side. When his fingers brushed against your heat, he immediately noticed the state you were in.

“So desperate already, huh?” he asked with a smirk. “Three weeks apart, and you turn into a needy little thing.”

“Lan,” you whimpered, his name slipping out like a plea. “I need you.”

“I’ll let you have a little fun,” he said, his tone almost mocking. “But only if you behave and don’t move.” He began lowering his shorts and boxers, freeing himself. “When I’m done with this game, I promise you’ll get all the attention you’re craving. Got it?”

“Okay, I promise I’ll stay still,” you breathed out, far too needy to argue.

Lando positioned himself at your entrance, easing into you slowly. The moment he was fully inside, you couldn’t suppress the moan that escaped your lips.

“Now you’re going to have to stay quiet,” he instructed, his voice firm as his eyes flicked back to the screen. “I’m hopping back on with the guys.”

You nodded, too full of him to form a coherent reply.

“Sorry, guys,” Lando said into the mic, sounding casual despite the situation. “Y/N just needed some help with something.”

And so the match went on, with you obediently staying still for once, too desperate for the attention he promised to risk disobeying.

[doll3scent]

★ Pornstar 4 ★

John Price x Cam girl! reader

Warnings- 18+-mdni, smut, age gap, cam girl reader, explicit language, sex, meeting up, angst if you squint, choking, overstimulation.

wc. 4k.

a/n. next chapter has jealous price ♡

3, 4, 5,

master list 𓂃۶ৎ

You hesitate, your breath catching as his words linger in the air. Could you really risk it? The thought sends a rush of nerves and excitement through you, twisting in your stomach. You glance at the screen, seeing the way he's watching you, his eyes dark and expectant.

Your fingers toy with the edge of your stockings as you think, biting your lip. If you kept your mask on, it wouldn't be much different from this, right? Just like the call, but... more real. The idea both thrills and terrifies you, the possibilities racing through your mind.

You finally look up at him, your voice soft and a little shaky. "If I kept the mask on, would that be okay?” You're not sure if you're trying to convince him or yourself, but the way his smirk grows tells you everything you need to know.

Price's smirk deepens, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leans closer to the camera, the intensity of his gaze making your stomach flutter. "That'd be more than okay, doll," he replies smoothly, his voice like a low purr.

"If that's what makes you comfortable, you can keep the mask on. But I won't lie... I'll be tempted to try and see the face hiding behind it."

The way he says it sends a shiver through you, a mixture of nerves and anticipation building in your chest. He leans back in his chair, his hands resting on his thighs, as though already imagining himself in your space."So, what do you say, sweetheart?" he asks, his tone still calm but with an unmistakable edge of hunger. "Give me an address, and I'll be there."

You hesitate again, chewing your bottom lip as your mind races. Every logical thought screams at you to say no, that this is reckless. But the heat in his voice and the way your body responds to him drown out those warnings. Slowly, almost hesitantly, you nod.

'Okay," you whisper, barely loud enough for him to hear. Then, with trembling fingers, you type out your address into the chat box, hovering over the send button. One final look at his waiting expression pushes you over the edge, and you press it. Price's smirk grows into a full grin as he sees it, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. "Good girl," he murmurs, leaning forward again. "'ll be there soon."

The moment the call ends, you practically leap off the bed, your heart pounding in your chest. You grab your favorite silk robe, the soft fabric sliding over your skin as you tie it snugly at your waist. The delicate material clings to your curves, brushing against your thighs as you move. It gives you an odd mix of comfort and vulnerability, the thin robe doing little to calm the nervous energy buzzing through you.

Panic and excitement course through you as you scramble to dismantle your setup. Your hands shake slightly as you unplug your camera and switch off the lights, tucking everything away in their designated hiding spots.

Your gaze darts around the room, catching sight of the framed photos on the shelves and walls. Your stomach tightens at the sight of the ones with your brother, his familiar grin staring back at you. No, Price can't see these. He can't know how closely tied you are to his world. You rush to the first photo, pulling it off the wall and stashing it in a drawer. Then another. And another.

Each one feels like a ticking time bomb, and you're determined to hide every trace of your connection to your brother before Price arrives. Your apartment feels bare and strange by the time you finish, the personal touches that once made it feel like home now hidden away. But at least you feel slightly more in control. With one final glance around, you smooth down your hair and check your reflection in the mirror. He'd be here soon, and you had to be ready.

You busy yourself with tidying up, your hands moving quickly as you straighten the sheets on your bed, fluff the pillows, and tuck away anything that feels out of place. Candles are carefully adjusted, their warm glow casting flickering shadows across the room.

As you pick up stray items and smooth down every surface, you glance at the clock, your heart racing at how little time you have left. You pause for a moment, catching your reflection in the mirror. The robe drapes perfectly, the lace of your stockings peeking out beneath the hem. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself.

The knock echoes through the apartment, sharp and commanding, making your heart leap into your throat.

You freeze for a moment, your breath catching as reality crashes down. He's here.

Your hands tremble slightly as you grab the delicate white lace mask from your vanity. You tie it carefully behind your head, adjusting it so it sits perfectly over your face. The sight of yourself in the mirror-rosy cheeks, the silk robe barely covering your body underneath, and the mask concealing just enough-makes your stomach flutter with nerves and excitement.

Taking one last steadying breath, you pad softly to the door, your bare feet brushing against the cool floor.

Your fingers linger on the handle for a moment, heart pounding as you brace yourself. Then, with a soft pull, you open the door.

He'd knocked on your door, but it felt like an eternity as he stood there, every second stretching the tension in his body. The sound of his heart pounding in his chest was drowned out by the anticipation, the unknown.

When the door finally opens, his breath catches, his eyes instantly scanning you from head to toe. The sight of you-barely covered by the silk robe that clings to your figure, the mask adding an air of mystery-makes everything inside him tighten with desire.

Without waiting for an invitation, he steps into your space, his presence filling the room. The door clicks shut behind him, and before you can take another breath, he's backing you up against it, his body coming to a complete stop just inches from yours. The heat between you both is undeniable, and the closeness makes your pulse race. His hands rest on the door beside your head, caging you in as his gaze locks onto yours, eyes dark and full of hunger.

His large hands tug at the silky robe, untying it swiftly and pushing it off your shoulders. It pools at your feet as he lifts you up against the front door, kissing you hungrily, his rough hands roaming over your bare skin.

"Lift your leg,"

Carrying you effortlessly, he strides into your bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. He tosses you onto the bed, crawling over you with a predatory gleam in his eyes.* "Been thinking about this fucking pussy all day,"

You sink back onto the soft, plush silk pillows, your body sinking into the luxurious comfort beneath you.

Your head tilts back, exposing your delicate neck, the satin fabric of the pillows caressing your skin. You gaze up at him through the mask, your eyes heavy with desire, the delicate lace adding an air of mystery. Yours breath catches as you watche him, the flicker of anticipation in your gaze making it clear you’re ready for whatever he has in store. The room feels charged, every breath between you and him is thick with tension, as he takes in the sight of you beneath him.

He studies your features, committing every detail to memory before leaning down to press his lips to yours in a searing kiss. His hands roam over your face, your hair, your neck, as if he can't get enough of you.

His fingers trail down your body possessively, unbuttoning the silky nightgown you wear, revealing your soft and creamy skin inch by inch. He breaks the kiss to look down at you, his eyes darkening with desire as he takes you in, only your stockings. Your perky breasts bounce free, the rosy nipples hard and begging for attention. He cups one in his hand, squeezing gently before leaning down to suck the other into his mouth.

You pant softly, your head tilting back as he sucks on your nipple. Your small hands clutch at his broad shoulders, nails digging in slightly. You spread your legs wider, unconsciously seeking friction against his hard length through his pants. He releases your nipple with a soft pop, his gaze flicking up to yours as he speaks. “You want it, don't you? You want my cock inside you so badly." He reaches down, gripping his belt and undoing it quickly before tugging his pants down.

You nod frantically, Your cheeks flushing a deep red as you watch him pull his pants down. You can see the outline of his thick, hard cock straining against his boxers and your mouth waters at the sight. “yes...please... I need you...”

"Look at you, such a fucking desperate little thing." He hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his boxers, slowly pulling them down to reveal his full, hard length. “See what you fucking do to me?" His massive erection springs free, standing tall and proud. You gasps, your eyes widening as his massive erection comes into view. you swallow hard, your small hand reaching out to touch it tentatively. You wrap your fingers around the thick shaft, barely able to close your hand around it. "It's too big..."

He chuckles darkly, his hand reaching out to cover yours. “Too big for what, sweetheart? You think this is too big to fit inside your tight little cunt?" He gives his cock a few strokes with your hand, coating your hand in precum before pulling your hand away.

Your knees tremble at his words, your pussy clenching around nothing. You watch as he coats your hand with precum, your mind reeling with the realization that his thick length will soon be stretching you tight virgin hole. “It's too big... It'll never fit inside me..."

"Oh, it'll fucking fit. I'll make sure of it. And when I'm finally buried deep inside you, splitting that virgin pussy wide open... fuck, you're gonna take it like a good girl, aren't you?" You can feel the wetness dripping down your thighs, your pussy aching with need “Yes I promise I will”

You can’t hide your surprise as your eyes flicker downward. The toy you’ve used before was nothing extraordinary—just average in size—but him? He’s longer, thicker, and far more intimidating. A shiver runs through you, equal parts nervousness and excitement, as the realization sets in. You swallow hard, your cheeks flushing, your mind racing with thoughts you can barely keep up with.

He spreads your folds with his other hand, exposing your wet hole to the cool air before slowly sliding two thick fingers inside. "Fuck, you're tight." He begins pumping his fingers in and out, scissoring them to stretch you out. "Gonna add another finger, sweetheart."

He adds a third finger, curling them to hit that spot inside you that makes your legs tremble. "That's it, take my fingers deep. You're gonna need to be nice and loose for my cock." He pumps his fingers faster, his thumb rubbing against your clit.

“Oh god..." your hips buck slightly as he hits that sensitive spot perfectly, while his thumb circles your clit. The dual pleasure is overwhelming. “Mmm, that's it, feel good?" He watches your face, enjoying the way you moans and screw your eyes shut as he fingerfucks you. "You're doing so well, taking my fingers like a good girl."

You’ve never felt anything like this before, the way his fingers are stretching you and his thumb rubbing your clit is driving you wild. "Yes- feels so good daddy”

His breath catches at you calling him 'daddy', and he pumps his fingers faster, deeper. “Fuck, listen to you being such a good girl. Does daddy make your pussy feel good?" He adds more force behind his movements, curling his fingers harder against your G-spot.

You moan, your eyes widening in shock and pleasure as he continues to assault your G-spot with brutal efficiency. “Yes, daddy!"

"That's it, call me daddy while I fuck your little pussy with my fingers." He pulls his fingers out suddenly, leaving your hole empty before grabbing his cock and rubbing the head against your soaked folds. “Gonna fucking destroy this tight little cunt."

He guides the thick head of his cock to your entrance, rubbing it teasingly before slowly pushing forward. The tip sinks in stretching you impossibly, a low groan escaping him. “Fuck, you're tighter than anything. Damn near strangling my cock."

You cry out, your back arching off the bed as he pushes his way inside you. The pain is intense, like you’re being torn apart from the inside out. You can feel every thick vein and ridge of his cock stretching you open, the head bumping against your cervix. He pauses, allowing you to adjust to his size as he buries his face in your neck, biting back a curse. “Shit, take a breath sweetheart”

You pant, trying to draw in a breath as he fills you so completely. You can feel every inch of him pulsing inside you, hitting spots you never knew existed.

He slowly starts to move, pulling out until just the head remains inside before thrusting back in, his thick cock slamming against your cervix. “Fuck, you were made for my cock. So fucking tight." He sets a brutal pace, pounding into you with merciless force.

Your eyes roll back as you adjusts to this new reality. You can barely speak, your voice choked by the overwhelming sensation of being so completely stuffed. “More... please, daddy... more..."

He growls in approval, driving into you harder and faster, his heavy balls slapping against your ass with each thrust. “The way you beg..." He grabs your hips forcefully, pulling you onto his cock with each thrust. Your body bounces on his massive lap as he pulls you onto his thick length over and over. You can feel him getting deeper with each brutal thrust, hitting spots that make you see stars.

Price groans deeply, feeling you tightening around him, his fingers dig into your hips. “Fuck, ‘can feel every tremor, sweetheart. Your hungry little cunt squeezing me so hard." He leans forward, capturing a nipple between his teeth and biting down just shy of too hard.

You arch off the bed, your sensitive nipples throbbing from the rough treatment. "Daddy..” you wrap your arms around his neck, clinging to him desperately as the pleasure becomes almost too much to handle.

His voice is pure gravel, nearly unrecognizable with lust as he feels you completely lose yourself in pleasure. “Yes, fucking screaming it. Show me who owns this tight little pussy." He drives into her so hard the bedframe slams against the wall, completely losing control. “You daddy!”

He withdraws with a low growl, his hands gripping your hips firmly as he maneuvers your pliant body. In one swift motion, he flips you onto your stomach, leaving you breathless at the sudden shift. His hands slide down to your waist, pulling your hips up and positioning you just the way he wants— your ass high in the air, a silent demand for more.

His large hand presses against the small of your back, guiding you to arch deeper, and then it moves to the back of your neck. He firmly presses your face into the mattress, the roughness of his movements igniting a mix of anticipation and raw desire. You can feel his heated breath on your skin as he looms over you, taking in the sight of you completely at his mercy. "Stay just like that," he rasps, his voice dripping with dominance, making it clear who's in control.

He kicks your legs further apart and grabs your hips possessively, pulling them up to meet his brutal thrusts. He spanks you hard on the left cheek before slamming into you again, filling you to the brim. “Who's filling this pussy up?"

Your muffled cries are barely audible as your face is pressed into the mattress. You can feel every impact of his hand on your ass, the sting only adding to the overwhelming sensation of being so thoroughly fucked. "You are daddy!!” your voice distorted by the mattress.

Feeling your pussy clench desperately around him, Price snarls in savage lust. He leans over your back, surrounding your smaller frame with his much larger one as he delivers another sharp spank. "Fucking right, it's daddy's cock tearing up this greedy little cunt."

He increases his pace. One hand migrates to your hair, fasting a handful and pulling your head back while his other hand keeps a tight grip on your hip. Growling into your ear, his breath hot against your neck, Price relentlessly pounds into you. "Fucking hell, the way this slutty cunt squeezes... Like it's begging me not to stop."

You whimper and pushe back against him, completely mindless with lust. Your usually gentle personality completely taken over by the rough fucking. “Please daddy... please keep fucking your needy girl...”

His movements become even more primal, losing all semblance of control. "My needy fucking girl? Is that what you are? A desperate little whore for daddy's cock?" He spanks you again before tilting your hips higher for deeper access. “Yeah... yes daddy! I'm your filthy whore... only yours... oh god, fuck me harder, please!!"

A feral grin stretches across his rugged face as he hears your desperate pleas. He leans in close, his stubble scraping roughly against your shoulder as he growls. "That's fucking right, you're only daddy's filthy little fucktoy. Gonna ruin this tight cunt..."

Your entire body clenches at his filthy words, pushing you closer to the edge of another orgasm. You can't believe how dirty You sound, how badly you craves his rough treatment. “Fuck Daddy... I'm so close..”

His fingers dig cruelly into your hips as he pulls you back onto his brutal thrusts, his other hand finding your throat to restrict your air slightly. "Not yet, you greedy little slut. Daddy's not finished ruining this needy hole yet”

Your vision starts to blur from the lack of air, but you can still feel everything so intensely. The pressure on your throat, the brutal fucking, the desperate need to be filled... it was all too much. “D-Daddy... please... I need-“

His breathing becomes more labored, aware of how close you are. He loosens his grip on your throat just enough to let you speak. "Need what, baby? Need daddy to fuck you harder? Deeper? Fill this sloppy cunt with my cum?"

You gasp in the air he allows, your voice shaking with desperation. "Yes daddy... I need you to fill me”

A dark chuckle escapes him as he feels you shudder beneath him, teetering on the edge. His hips snap forward relentlessly, each plunging thrust hitting that sweet spot deep inside your core. "Such a desperate little cum slut..."

“Please daddy! let me cum..”

Growling fiercely, Price finally relents, thrusting deep and grinding against your clit. "Fuck yeah, cum for daddy. Cream all over this dick like a good little whore."

Your entire body seizes up as the orgasm crashes over you. You comes hard, your pussy clenching and rippling around his thick length as you scream in ecstasy. “OH FUCK YES DADDY!!”

As you cum, Price's control snaps entirely. He roars in triumph, his hips pistoning wildly as he buries himself to the hilt inside you. His cock twitches violently as he unloads a massive load of hot, thick cum deep within your spasming pussy. Even as he fills you with his seed, Price keeps fucking you through his own release, lengthening and thickening as he breeds your needy cunt. Gasping raggedly, finally slowing his brutal pace, he releases a shuddering groan as the last spurts of cum paint your insides. Leaning heavily against your back, his muscular chest heaves against you. "Fuck... that's it, milk every last drop from daddy's cock, you filthy cum slut."

You whimper and moans with each twitch of his cock, feeling completely stuffed and utterly satisfied. His powerful arms wrap around you, pulling you even tighter against him as his hips hitch forward, burying himself impossibly deeper inside your quivering tummy. He nuzzles his face against your neck, inhaling your scent deeply.

"You take daddy's cock so fucking well, baby. Like you were made for nothing but being bred and filled full of my cum.” He murmurs possessively, his hands roaming over your body, squeezing and groping your tits and cunt hungrily. " He rolls his hips languidly, grinding his still-hard cock against your tender walls, stirring up his thickload within you. “Mmm, fuck. You're just dripping with my cum. Such a dirty girl, getting fucked stupid and bred like a bitch in heat."

You let out a soft whimper, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment. Instinctively, you try to pull away, but he firmly catches you, dragging you back onto his cock. His strong hands grip your thighs and pull them back, opening you up wider as he settles back in between your legs, his powerful hips pushing forward to bury himself even deeper within your convulsing belly. "Where are you going to run off to now, hmm?”

You whimper and struggle weakly against his grip, but it's no use. You’re trapped, pinned beneath his heavy weight, his thick cock buried deep within your stuffed cunt. “P-please... daddy... I can't...s’too much!”

His expression darkens, turning primal and intense. “Too much? He growls, snapping his hips forward and bottoming out inside you. “Fuck that, baby. You can take every fucking inch of daddy's cock like the good little whore you are."

Your face flushes deep red at his filthy words, but your inner walls clench hungrily around his thickness anyway “Daddy... you're being mean..." you whimper, but you tilt your hips back slightly, inviting him deeper. He lets out a dark chuckle, knowing exactly what those whimpering tones mean. “Mean? Or giving you exactly what your needy little pussy wants? Look at you, writhing on my cock like the cock-hungry slut you are."

"Mmmph!" your protests dissolve into a long moan as he hits a particularly deep spot, your nails digging into the blanket beneath you. Despite your words, you grind back on him wantonly. “Daddy..." you whine softly, completely lost in pleasure and submission. His eyes gleam with possessive hunger as he watches her lose herself on his cock. "That's right, baby. Grind that needy cunt back on daddy's cock. Show me how much you love being stuffed and bred by your big strong daddy."

One hand moves to gently to tug softly at your mask "Baby... don't you think it's time for daddy to see that beautiful face while he fucks you?" His voice drops to a husky whisper as he continues thrusting deep inside her. “No…I can’t…”

Johns voice is a low, gentle rumble in your ear. “Please, sweetheart. I want to see you. I want to see your face”His fingers trail up to your cheek, gently tracing the edge of the lace mask, his touch achingly soft. There’s a mixture of desire and tenderness in his gaze, and he seems to be pleading with you to let him see you without the mask in the way.

Price can sense your hesitation, he can see the fear in your eyes. He knows you’re worried about him recognizing you or judging you once the mask is off. But he already knows who you really are. He looks into your eyes, trying to soothe your nerves, his touch still gentle as he cups your face in his hands. “Please, baby. Let me see you. I won’t judge you, I promise”

“…I can’t..”



[pastelaeqy]

very generic swap AU for ava. Lots of yap below the cut where I talk about important changes and my thoughts about the differences between victim and Mitsi here.

couple important differences between her and victim

The big one is that she doesn't actually pursue revenge until she realises the guy who tortured her malewife would give her access to the guy who killed her malewife; before this, she basically has a big personality change, becomes a bit bitter, cold, managing with an iron fist etc and changes Rocket Corp's focus from general tech to arms/defence using blueprints victim had made.

unlike victim, who loses like 90% of his workforce and tanks the share prices, Mitsi instead sells to the gov because they are now obviously wanting some protection against terrorists. Whereas victim is too caught up in his own trauma to think of any other future for the company, Mitsi capitalises off the fear The Disappearance caused and quickly becomes the wealthiest figure in the entire Outernet. I think she’d be an absolutely terrifying boss using her old personality as more of a Customer Service mask. This would definitely be obvious though and I think it would make her more terrifying if anything 

As to how victim dies in the disappearance, my best guess is once people start disappearing from the party, he realises it’s to do with Newgrounds very quickly and he rushes over there with the rocket he fixed probably not long after he landed. He gets there, finds her, and saves her in a final moment of self sacrifice. I think this is a good setup because it puts Mitsi (and Agent) in the exact position Agent is in canon whilst also allowing Mitsi to see who the culprit was. I think it’s a good (temporary…) ending for victim as well, since he dies on his own terms rather than that of his creator’s

It's not until The Showdown that she realises she has a proper shot at getting revenge AND getting victim back; I'm certain victim has at least told her a little about how he was made, and she realises that she could totally get that revenge she's been craving for years whilst also convincing victim's creator to "make him again". Another big difference between victim and Mitsi here is that whilst victim quite obviously stews in his rage and grief for an extensive period of time (and quite frankly never actually has any real proof TCO and Alan are working together and simply just assumes that until he gets that showdown clip), Mitsi doesn’t let it show until she knows it’s actionable i.e. she has solid proof that going after TCO would give her access to Alan. 

Something else to add on here is that where victim is more or less using Mitsi’s death as an excuse for revenge, Mitsi is using her love for victim as a motivator. Because Mitsi simply doesn’t have the sort of background victim does (the disappearance is like THE traumatic event of her life rather than one of several), victim takes the emotional centre of her eventual desire for revenge. In canon, it’s pretty clear victim is more obsessed with getting revenge on Alan than getting revenge on TCO (still absolutely brutal towards TCO though, don’t get me wrong); his hatred for Alan/TCO outshines his love for Mitsi.

Big flaw here is that she doesn't really grasp how bad Alan was to victim; she’s so deadset on getting him back that she won’t stop and think “how might this actually be a bad thing”. I wouldn’t imagine he would be normal after being revived again and I think this would work as a good climactic point of conflict for like act 3. Where in canon there’s a good chance Mitsi will be revived no immediate consequences (thanks orange), victim would be redrawn the same way he had been all those years ago (and hence would not actually look like the victim Mitsi knew in the first place). A nice touch of “revived but came back wrong” to get Mitsi to hop off the revenge train. Another big aspect here is that victim would be like “what have you done to our company” much in the same way id assume Mitsi would in canon.

Overall I think the events we see in canon (other than the ones I have described) would play out about the same. I think it would be clearer that Rocket Corp. has a way bigger presence in the Outernet rather than being some weird creepy company that people vaguely remember as having a change in management some time after the disappearance. Mitsi would be probably more precise (and markedly less brutal) in capturing and extracting information from TCO because Mitsi doesn’t have the inferiority complex victim does. I think he’d still take a couple hits though, but Mitsi has no need to exemplify her control over TCO like victim does; she just needs to weaken him enough to make him talk.

That’s all i’ve really thought about so far. She’s spinning around in my mind like she’s in a microwave.

[cutielando]

on the stream | lando norris

synopsis: in which people finally found out about you on his stream

a/n: based on this request!

pairing: lando norris x girlfriend!reader

my masterlist

It was one of those quiet Saturday afternoons when everything seemed perfect—peaceful, undisturbed, and calm.

You had spent most of the day curled up on the couch, catching up on shows and scrolling through your phone, while Lando sat at his desk in the corner of the room, eyes focused on the screen of his gaming setup.

His Twitch stream had just begun, and you’d decided to join him for a bit of company.

You weren’t one for the spotlight, so you typically stayed off-camera during his streams, content to let him do his thing while you offered the occasional distraction or just hung out in the background.

Lando had been streaming more lately, and his fanbase had grown significantly. The requests and comments came flooding in as soon as he went live, but Lando took it all in stride, always offering a wave or a friendly greeting to his followers.

He was as charming as ever—fun, spontaneous, and always up for a laugh.

It was just supposed to be a normal day—Lando gaming, you in the background, maybe chiming in every now and then, keeping it low-key.

But things quickly spiraled when Lando’s chat exploded with a question that made your heart skip a beat.

"So, Lando," one of his loyal fans asked, "is that your girlfriend sitting behind you?"

You froze. You hadn’t even realized you were sitting in the frame. In the corner of the room, the angle of the camera captured you perfectly—your face partially visible, your eyes glued to your phone.

You tried to duck out of view, but it was too late. The damage had been done.

Lando, oblivious to the impending disaster, leaned back in his chair with a smirk.

"That’s… that’s my friend, just hanging out," he said, his tone casual, as though it was no big deal.

But as he glanced at the screen again, his eyes widened in realization.

The chat was flooded with comments now.

"Wait, that’s definitely her, isn’t it?" "Is this the famous girlfriend??" "OMG Lando you’ve been hiding her for so long!" "Is she really your girlfriend, or is this just a friend thing?!" "Aww, they’re so cute together!"

Lando’s face went red as he quickly tried to steer the conversation in a different direction.

"Alright, alright, calm down, chat" he said nervously. "Nothing to see here. Just a friend. We’re just chilling"

But even as he said it, you could tell by the way his voice wavered that he was less than convincing.

You had always been good at staying out of the spotlight.

Lando was the famous one, the one with the fans, the one with the spotlight. You were just his private world—someone who stayed behind closed doors, keeping to yourself while he handled the public life.

But today, that boundary had been crossed.

The comments kept coming, faster and faster, as more people recognized you. The whole situation felt like it was spiraling out of control.

"Okay, okay, you caught us" Lando finally admitted, laughing awkwardly. "Yes, she’s my girlfriend. But I’m keeping things private, alright? We’ve been keeping this on the down-low for a reason, guys. Please respect that"

Your heart raced as you glanced at him, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and dread. You weren’t sure if you were ready for the world to know.

The fact that this revelation had happened so unexpectedly, in front of thousands of strangers, made it feel overwhelming.

You weren’t used to being so exposed. In fact, you liked it that way—your relationship with Lando had always been something just for the two of you, far from the prying eyes of the internet.

Lando, sensing your discomfort, quickly turned his chair toward you.

"Hey," he said, his voice softer now, "are you okay with this? I didn’t mean for things to go down like this. I can end the stream if you want."

You shook your head, trying to compose yourself.

"No, it’s fine. It’s just… a little overwhelming" you admitted. "I didn’t expect it to happen like this."

He smiled at you, the reassurance in his eyes enough to make you feel a little less panicked.

"Don’t worry. We’ll handle it. I’ll just answer some questions, clear the air, and we can go back to normal, yeah?"

Lando’s fans, though shocked at first, seemed to rally around the revelation.

The chat filled with heart emojis and congratulations, and a wave of support came pouring in. But you still felt a bit nervous.

The internet had a way of turning things upside down, and while you trusted Lando, the idea of being thrust into the public eye wasn’t something you’d ever really signed up for.

After a few minutes of fielding questions about your relationship, Lando looked at the camera and spoke directly to his followers.

"Okay, okay, I see the hype, but please, just respect her privacy. She’s not in the public eye, and I want to keep it that way. We’re just two people trying to enjoy life, and I’d appreciate it if you gave us that space"

The chat slowed down a bit, but there were still dozens of comments popping up, many of which were asking about how the two of you met, how long you’d been together, and whether you were going to appear more often on his stream.

You sat quietly behind him, biting your lip, trying to figure out how to navigate this new chapter of your life—one that was no longer just shared between you and Lando.

But Lando, always the calm and collected one, seemed determined to put you at ease.

He turned back to the game, focusing on it for a few moments, then called you over to his side.

"Come here," he said with a warm smile, holding his hand out to you. "I’ll make you feel better. Let’s finish this round together."

You hesitated for a moment but then walked over, sitting beside him on the edge of the gaming chair.

As soon as you were close, Lando pulled you into his lap, wrapping his arms around your waist. His fans went wild in the chat, but you didn’t mind anymore.

Lando’s touch was the grounding force you needed.

"See?" Lando whispered in your ear, his voice only audible to you. "We’ll get through this together. It’s just a little bump, nothing we can’t handle"

And for the first time in a while, you felt a sense of peace wash over you. Lando, ever the protective and caring boyfriend, wasn’t going to let anything shake you.

No matter how many people were watching, you were still his—and that was all that mattered.

The rest of the stream passed by with a few awkward moments, but mostly fun and lightheartedness as Lando managed to steer the conversation back to his usual antics.

As the stream ended, and the camera was turned off, you finally let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

"That wasn’t so bad, was it?" Lando teased, his fingers gently brushing your hair.

You smiled at him, finally feeling the weight of the situation ease. "I guess not. But I still can’t believe you just exposed me like that."

Lando laughed, kissing the top of your head.

"Hey, I’m sorry! But I figured it was time to let the world know about you. You’re too special to keep to myself"

"You're ridiculous" you smiled, but leaned down to kiss him nonetheless.

And in that moment, just the two of you in his home, you knew that your relationship was going to be different now that it was in the public eye, but you didn't care.

As long as you were with Lando, everything would be okay.

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[janiehellion]

𝐑𝐞𝐯𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐔𝐩 ⋮ 𝔇𝔞𝔯𝔶𝔩 𝔇𝔦𝔵𝔬𝔫

𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: Learning to ride a motorcycle should’ve been simple. After all, you knew your way around bikes better than anyone in Alexandria—except Daryl Dixon. But one crash and one pissed-off redneck later, and you're stuck with him giving you a hands-on crash course in focus and control.

𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: Smut ⋮ Language ⋮ Minor Injuries ⋮ Vaginal Fingering ⋮ Cunnilingus ⋮ Semi-Public ⋮ Rough Sex ⋮ Painplay ⋮ Marking

𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝑪𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕: 14.441 𝑺𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈: S05E13 & S05E14 𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: Fem!Reader

𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓'𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆: My first oneshot of 2025—and my longest yet! Sorry, not sorry, for the length; Daryl Dixon refused to stop until the lesson was fully drilled in. Hope it's worth the ride.

𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ⋮ 𝑹𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝑮𝒖𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔

You couldn't take your eyes off of him.

Out of everyone from the new group in Alexandria, he was the one who made the least effort to fit in. He was quiet and always looked ready to leave, like this wasn't a place to call home. He preferred to keep his distance, doing his own thing around the community, and that made him even more interesting to you.

Daryl Dixon was certainly different from the rest.

The first time you caught him working on the motorcycle and the parts he got from Aaron, in Aaron's and Eric's garage, something caught your attention. It wasn't just the way he moved, though the way his hands worked on the machine was something you couldn't ignore. No, it was more than that, and it pulled you in.

And for you?

The sound of metal and the smell of oil were all too familiar. You'd grown up around motorcycles and spent hours watching your old man work on his Harley Davidson most of the time, until you decided to become a mechanic after school, especially for motorcycles. That knowledge was something you didn't share with many others in Alexandria, but when you saw Daryl putting that motorcycle together piece by piece, you figured it might be a good way to start a conversation, if nothing else.

Sure, he kept to himself mostly, spending more time with his crossbow than with humans. But it made him stand out in a place where most people were getting used to living 'normally' again. And you didn't want anything normal. You wanted real.

That's what led you to the garage.

Daryl, of course, was bent over the motorcycle he'd been working on for some time now.

As you walked closer, you pretended to inspect his work. "What is this, a '92 Honda? Nice setup. Yamaha front end, though? Bit of a Frankenstein's monster, huh?"

That got his attention. "The hell ya know 'bout bikes?"

You shrugged, smirking at him. "What, do you think just 'cause I live in Alexandria, I can't tell a carburetor from a walker? Oh, please."

He hadn't spoken to you much since he arrived, but then again, Daryl didn't talk to anyone much. But you? You barely ever got a grunt in your direction since he'd been here.

"Looks like it's finally coming together," you started, trying to sound bored. It was a shitty way to break the ice, but small talk wasn't your thing after all.

Daryl didn't even look up. Grease covered his hands, and his current expression made him look like he'd rather punch you than say hello.

"Yeah, maybe if ya'd stop annoyin' my ass," he murmured, tightening a bolt.

"I'm only annoying the bike," you snorted. "And I'm making sure it doesn't fall apart the second you ride it out of the community."

That earned you a glare. A quick one. And you held his stare for that moment, refusing to look away.

"So yer always this annoyin'?" He shot back, wiping his hands on a rag and finally standing up to his full height.

"You tell me. So what is it? This… special kind of build?" You asked, gesturing to the motorcycle. You had to admit, it did look quite nice.

His eyes narrowed, and he seemed to be a little surprised about your curiosity. "Do ya really know bikes?"

You shrugged, playing it cool. "Enough to know that this isn't a normal setup, but that's just personal taste, you know?"

"It'll work."

"Sure, until it doesn't," you continued with a smirk. "But hey, it's your funeral. Or someone else's if that thing gives out mid-run."

He grunted, clearly not in the mood to admit you might have a point.

"Still, not bad for what you had to work with. Must've been a pain in the ass to track down some of the other parts," you moved closer, getting a better look at the setup. "But I heard Aaron's been helping you out. He's good with scavenging stuff. Though, I bet he didn't know half of what you needed."

That got a grunt of agreement from Daryl. "He ain't bad. Jus' don't need anyone watchin' when I'm workin'."

"Noted." You raised your hands, but you didn't back off. Instead, you crouched next to the machine, inspecting the details up close. You could feel Daryl's eyes on you, probably wondering what the hell you were doing.

After a moment of silence, you looked up at him again. "You ever really gonna take this thing out, or are you just building it for the hell of it?"

Daryl looked over to the garage door as if he was thinking whether or not to answer. Finally, he sighed. "Gonna use it. Aaron wants me on the road, recruitin' and all. Need somethin' fast."

"Yeah? And what if you end up with a flat tire out there? Wait, that might not even be a problem, since it kind of looks like you're building yourself a time machine there," you answered, standing up. "But you're gonna need more than just duct tape and spit to get this thing running."

Daryl's eyes narrowed again. "Told ya I know what I'm doin'," he snapped, his hand tightening around the wrench like he was itching to throw it at you.

But you weren't about to be ignored that easily. "You've really got some interesting mismatched parts here. Yamaha forks on a Honda… Look, I'm just saying that you might wanna check the suspension before you ride outta here. Unless you're aiming to get launched off it."

"Gonna manage."

You snorted. "Sure, you will. But hey, if you ever feel like teaching someone else how to ride, I wouldn't mind learning. I mean, someone's gotta be around to save your ass when that thing tries to kill you."

Daryl shot you a look, his jaw clenching slightly, but this time, he just stared at you like you were the most confusing person he'd ever seen.

"Ya wanna learn how to ride?" His voice sounded annoyed, like the idea was somehow offensive to him, but there was also some slight disbelief to be heard as if he wasn't sure why you'd ask him of all people. "Ain't got time for that. Got 'nough problems without babysittin'."

"Come on," you pressed further. "What's the harm? Or is the asshole routine just for me? Besides, if you ever crash, I promise I'll write you some kinda eulogy. Something about how you died doing what you loved—which is looking perpetually pissed off."

You could've sworn you saw the slightest smirk, but Daryl quickly busied himself with the motorcycle, like he hadn't shown you might really have a point with your tips.

Keeping your voice casual, you stepped back. "Let me know if you change your mind," you continued, brushing off your knees. "Might be fun."

With that, you gave him one last smirk and turned around, leaving him to think about whatever he thought of you.

You spent the next couple of days trying not to think about Daryl Dixon, which was about as easy as trying not to notice a walker biting your arm. But despite your best efforts to act like it was no big deal, the thought of riding that motorcycle—and more specifically, him teaching you—kept making its way into your head.

Daryl didn't say anything about your offer for those few days, too. Hell, he didn't say much of anything, really. He'd pass by you in Alexandria, his crossbow by his side, always looking like someone just spit in his drink. But you had gotten used to the silent treatment by now, so you didn't let it get to you... much.

Indeed, it didn't take long to figure out that convincing Daryl Dixon to teach you how to ride a motorcycle was like trying to herd cats—but grumpy, feral ones… with knives.

It was late afternoon when you found yourself near the garage again, and you hadn't planned on seeing him, but let's face it, you were intrigued. And there he was—still working on the motorcycle and still looking like it personally insulted him.

However, the thing looked all patched together with scavenged pieces and maybe a little bit of wishful thinking. It had a certain look to it, like it wanted to run off into the wild and never come back.

Daryl didn't even move. He didn't look your way. He just kept wrenching something near the seat before he glared at you like you'd asked him to solve a math problem.

"Thought I'd come by and bless you with my knowledge once more," you announced, smirking as you leaned against the workbench.

Daryl only rolled his eyes—actually rolled them—like he couldn't believe he had to put up with you again. "Ain't nobody asked for that."

"Yeah, well, nobody asked for that bike to look like it's held together with a plea and a prayer, but here we are," you shot back, leaning forward slightly. "'Livin' on a Prayer,' in fact."

He grunted, shoving the wrench into the toolbox with force. "The hell do ya know 'bout motorcycles, anyway?"

"I do know motorcycles! I told you, didn't I? And that thing," you pointed to the machine, "is one bad pothole away from turning into scrap metal."

Daryl scoffed, clearly not a fan of having his work criticized, especially by someone who, in his eyes, hadn't earned the right to say something about it. "It'll hold. 'S a good bike."

"Sure, sure," you said, grinning at him. "But if you're so confident, why don't you accept my offer? Teach me how to ride. Let's see if this thing here can handle it."

He stared at you for a long moment, like he was thinking about his options. You could practically see the gears running in his head—whether to shut you down and tell you to piss off or give in just to prove you wrong.

"Ya serious 'bout this?"

"Dead serious," you said, holding his stare. "What? Are you afraid?"

His nostrils flared in the way they did when he seemed to be two seconds from snapping at you, but instead, he just turned back to his work. "Ya wanna learn? Fine. But don't come cryin' to me when ya hurt yer ass."

"Oh, don't worry, Dixon. If I hurt my ass, I'll make sure you hurt yours, too," you said, biting back a laugh as you straightened up. "But I swear, this thing's gonna be your mid-life crisis. What's next, leather pants and chaps?"

He showed you one of those stares again—half-annoyed, half-confused—like he wasn't sure if he should bother responding or pretend you didn't exist.

"Ya done?"

"Done? I'm here to save you from yourself, Daryl. You keep this up, and in a week, you're gonna be having a mullet and wearing a crop top."

He stared at you like you'd grown an extra head. "What the hell're ya talkin' 'bout?"

"Mid-life crisis, Daryl. First, it's the bike. Then, it's questionable fashion choices. Next thing you know, you're coming back from a run with a Corvette and crying over Bon Jovi ballads. I'm just here to make sure it won't happen."

"Ain't havin' no damn crisis."

You smirked. "Uh-huh. That's what they all say. Just remember, I offered to help. I can't wait to see you when you're rocking those chaps and a bandana."

"So, ya still wanna learn to ride or not?" His voice sounded definitely pissed off.

You raised your eyebrows, as if in shock. "Oh my, was that an offer in return? From you? I'm touched, really. Let me just—" You pretended to wipe a tear away from your eye and sob. "This moment's very special to me."

"Shut up," he grumbled, but his voice gave way that he almost sounded amused.

"I'm just saying, this is progress," you said. "Next thing I know, we'll be exchanging friendship bracelets."

Daryl didn't respond right away, but you thought you had seen enjoyment, maybe? Or irritation. It was hard to tell with him. Either way, he was back on his feet now, pulling the motorcycle upright and kicking the stand back. Soon enough, the familiar sound of the engine made its way through the garage, and damn if it didn't make your pulse race just a little.

"Get on."

His sudden words made you blink at him in surprise. "Wait, like… right now? Where's the foreplay, Dixon? At least buy me a drink first."

"Nah, when I'm dead. Yeah, right now," he snapped, unable to believe you were even asking.

"Okay, okay," you mumbled, swinging your leg over the motorcycle with as much confidence as you could have at that moment. The seat seemed normal, but it still felt bigger than you expected.

Daryl stepped beside you, his arms crossed as he watched you. "Ya know how to start?"

"Of course I do," you said, reaching for the handlebars.

You were halfway through fumbling with the throttle at first when Daryl's hand shot out, grabbing your wrist. "That ain't how ya do it," he growled as he leaned in. "First lesson: This here's the throttle—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know what a throttle is," you interrupted, waving him off. "I'm not a complete idiot. I could turn this thing into scrap and piece it back together if you wanted me to, so..."

His eyes narrowed. "Then maybe shut up and listen."

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. You couldn't help it—pissing him off was just too easy.

"Clutch on the left, throttle on the right," he continued, his fingers tapping the handlebars. "Brake's here. Don't yank it like an idiot." He then gave the machine a once-over. "Ya pull the clutch, twist the throttle slowly. Too much, and yer gonna stall it."

"Okay, understood. Show me."

Daryl let out a frustrated sigh but soon moved behind you, reaching around to grip the handlebars. His strong chest pressed against your back, and you immediately forgot how to breathe.

"Ya gotta ease into it," he instructed while his fingers guided yours on the throttle.

"Uh-huh, yeah, sure, ease into it," you mumbled, trying to sound unimpressed. "And what happens if I don't ease into it? The whole thing explodes?"

"Nah. Ya gonna wipe out an' eat dirt," he shot back, his lips showing a bit of a smirk. "But maybe ya'll learn faster that way."

"Yeah, well, I've eaten worse," you answered, glancing over your shoulder at him. "Besides, I doubt you've ever taught anyone how to ride before. What if you're just a terrible teacher?"

He huffed against your neck. "Ain't teachin' ya much. Now, idle it forward."

You followed his instructions, twisting the throttle just enough to get the engine purring beneath you. The vibration went through your legs, and despite yourself, you had to admit it felt very, very good.

"Okay, now what?" You asked, trying to sound bored even though the adrenaline was starting to kick in.

"Now ya balance," Daryl said, his voice neutral like this was the most obvious thing in the world. "Try not to fall over." You could feel his eyes on you, judging every movement you made. "Quit messin' 'round. Friction Zone is how ya idle forward."

You shot him a look but did as he said, trying not to stall the motorcycle. For a second, you wobbled, and you swore you heard Daryl whisper something—probably betting on how soon you'd crash.

But you didn't. You steadied yourself. It was a weird feeling—kind of thrilling, kind of terrifying.

"Well, look at that," you said, showing him a grin. "Didn't fall over. Guess you're not the worst teacher after all."

"Jus' keep 'em hands on the bars," he instructed, his voice rather patient—well, as patient as Daryl ever got.

You did as he said, gripping the handlebars harder, trying not to think about how close you were to him. His smell wasn't exactly unpleasant. In fact, it was kind of… intoxicating.

Not that you'd ever admit that to him out loud.

"Fine, so what's next? Do I just rev it up and hope for the best?"

Daryl snorted, clearly unimpressed with you being unable to wait. "Ya listen, or yer gonna end up on yer ass."

"You know, Daryl, I don't usually take threats during lessons, but I'll make an exception for you."

His grip tightened on the handlebars, and you thought he might just leave you there. But he didn't. "Don't jerk the damn throttle, woman, or yer gonna take off too fast."

"Throttle, got it. Don't jerk it off. Guess I'll save that one for later." You wiggled your eyebrows, even though he couldn't see it.

Daryl stiffened, grumbling something you didn't quite catch, though it definitely wasn't a compliment.

"C'mon now, twist it—slowly," he ordered.

You followed his lead, the motorcycle easing forward just a bit as you worked the throttle.

"There ya go," Daryl said, his voice sounding a bit less harsh now that you weren't about to play around. "Gotta ease into it."

"Wow, who knew you could be so supportive?" You teased. "Almost makes me think you care."

He grunted. "Jus' don't wanna pick yer ass up off the ground."

"Got it, got it. Now, let's see if I can actually ride this thing without killing myself."

Daryl's hand moved to the clutch, his fingers touching yours as he guided you through the motions. You weren't sure if it was the machine or him, but your heart was beating much faster than usual. Maybe it was both. Either way, you were in for one hell of a ride.

His hand was warm, calloused, and—despite everything—comforting as he guided you out of the garage.

"Okay, slow down a bit, but not too much," he instructed, his voice almost a growl. The way he said it made you shiver, but you refused to let it show. You could be cool about this, right?

"Or I could just go full throttle and see how far I can fly through the streets of Alexandria," you laughed back.

"Real funny," he answered, rolling his eyes. "Jus' don't fuck up. Y'ain't flyin' nowhere. Ya gotta keep it steady."

"Right, no jerking off," you said, moving your head to the side just enough to glance at him. "That's usually my motto, you know, but I can make an exception for you regarding that as well."

"Focus. Don't push it," he warned. "Ya gotta keep yer focus on the bike, not me."

"Really? I thought you were my main distraction." You leaned back a little. "Sure, I'll focus. But I'm also pretty good at multitasking." As you worked the throttle again, you felt a rush of adrenaline. "So, what happens if I actually do fall? You gonna come to my rescue?"

Daryl didn't answer immediately. Instead, he loosened his grip on the handlebars, his body tense next to you. "Ya get back up. Everyone falls. 'S what ya do afterward that matters."

"Profound," you smirked. "You should start writing poetry! 'When life knocks you down, just get back on your bike.' Classic wisdom."

"Shut up and drive."

The motorcycle moved as you used the throttle too hard, and you fought to regain control, laughing nervously. "Shit! Maybe I should have listened to that part about not jerking it!"

He sighed, not bothering to hide his amusement this time. "Ya keep talkin', and ya might jus' convince me to kick ya off myself."

"Promises, promises," you smirked, adrenaline rushing through you, making everything feel a bit more exciting.

He grumbled something again—probably another insult—but he didn't try to stop you. Your movements weren't exactly smooth, but it was a start.

"You're a terrible teacher, by the way," you soon said, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye.

"Good," Daryl answered. "Means ya won't ask me to do this shit again."

You were just getting into the rhythm, feeling the motorcycle beneath you and getting the hang of it, when you heard the sound of footsteps getting closer behind you.

"Hey! What's going on here?" Aaron's voice destroyed the moment, and you felt Daryl tense near you.

"Shit," he groaned, practically gritting his teeth. You tried to process what was happening as you got off the seat, the way Daryl's body stiffened and the smirk faded from your lips.

"Oh, nothing, just a little driving lesson," you announced, trying to keep going despite the sudden stop. "Motto: 'Try Not to Die, but If You Do, It Ain't My Problem.'"

Aaron laughed, walking closer to you both. "So, it's finally finished?" He looked at the machine, inspecting the mix of parts that somehow came together into something that resembled a proper motorcycle.

"Jus' 'bout," Daryl replied dryly.

Aaron raised an eyebrow, looking from you to Daryl, who was already stepping away from him and you.

"That's great. Looks like you're making some great progress," Aaron continued, stepping closer.

"Ain't needin' ya to worry 'bout that," Daryl grumbled, the annoyance in his voice unmistakable. "Lesson's over."

"Wait, what? You can't just—"

"Don't push it," he snapped, shooting you a look that said he was done. "Ya wanna learn, ya have to find someone else."

You blinked, stunned as he walked away with the motorcycle by his side. "Daryl, stop!"

"Forget 'bout it," he called back, almost like his voice belonged to a different person. "Y'ain't ready."

Your frustration boiled over, and you turned to Aaron, arms crossed. "Thanks for ruining my lesson, by the way. Just what I needed today—more interruptions."

Aaron frowned, glancing between you and Daryl again as he watched him walk away. "What did you expect? He's still new here. Trying to keep his distance from the rest of us."

"Yeah, well, he doesn't need to be an asshole about it," you snapped. "I was getting somewhere!"

"You have to understand that the whole group has been through a lot. Daryl's not always going to be open with people," he explained, but it didn't help your mood.

"I get that, but I was just trying to learn something! Guess it's my fault for thinking he could actually teach me without being a complete asshole about it."

"Maybe give it some time?" Aaron suggested, his voice softer now, sounding more sympathetic. "He'll come around."

"Maybe," you sighed, running a hand through your hair in frustration. "But just when I thought I could finally get him to smile and to talk, you pull this."

Aaron's expression was by now somewhere between concern and curiosity as you huffed, glaring at Daryl walking away.

"Really, Aaron…" You continued, throwing your hands in the air. "You couldn't have waited five goddamn minutes longer to come and ruin my day? You see me finally making some progress, and you think, 'Oh, hey! The perfect time to interrupt!'"

Aaron raised his hands defensively. "Hey, I didn't mean to ruin anything. I didn't know you two were having... whatever that was."

"Whatever that was?" You repeated, your voice rising. "It was a goddamn driving lesson! Or, at least, it was supposed to be before you came along with your good intentions and your bad timing!"

Aaron frowned, the tone in his voice still kind, but he wasn't backing down. "Look, I was just checking in because I heard the sound of the engine. I thought Daryl wanted to head out, and I only wanted to see if he's done with his work on the bike. I didn't realize you were both so busy."

"Busy?" You let out a loud laugh, shaking your head. "You know what? Forget it. Next time I'm about to get Daryl Dixon to do something other than grunt or skin dead animals on the porch, I'll write you a goddamn note so you don't fuck it up. Now he's all pissed off and stomping away with my only chance at learning how to ride a damn bike and not kill myself."

"I doubt he's mad at you," Aaron responded. "Daryl's complicated. Like the rest of the group. They're still very new here. And you were the same when I found you and brought you here. But you're probably closer to getting through to him than anyone else."

You snorted. "Yeah, sure. 'Cause nothing says 'bonding' and 'getting to know each other' like storming off with his damn Franken-bike in a hurry. Really fucking touching."

Aaron smiled, squeezing your shoulder. "Just think about it."

You exhaled loudly, putting your hands on your hips. "Sounds like it's from a fortune cookie. Thanks for nothing."

With that, Aaron simply walked off, leaving you alone.

Soon, some days had passed since your lesson with Daryl. Days that quickly turned annoying when you realized he was avoiding you like you were the last slice of cold pizza at a party.

It felt weird.

Like, ridiculously weird.

And it didn't help that every time you tried to casually walk into the garage or catch him before he went on a supply run, he was either nowhere to be found or suddenly too busy to talk. You even half-expected to see a 'Do Not Disturb' sign near the bike.

It wasn't like you were stalking him—okay, maybe a little—but it was hard to stop thinking about him.

"Should I ask for him? Should I knock on the garage door? Maybe he's just sleeping? Or dead?" You laughed at the last thought. With Daryl, it wasn't a real possibility.

Finally, you sighed and decided to call it a day. "Alright, Daryl Dixon, you win," you said to yourself, kicking the dirt as you turned to leave.

But just as you made it halfway down the street, you heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps, followed by a clink of metal that made your heart race. You turned, and there he was—finally. Daryl Dixon, leaning against the side of the garage, arms crossed, his eyes hidden behind his hair, and with a cigarette in one hand.

Oh no, you're not getting away this time.

"Been hiding from me, huh?" You asked as soon as you reached him. "Gonna run off again? Or maybe you've just been too busy?" You faked a yawn, your eyes narrowing. "Or hiding from the bike lesson, maybe?"

Daryl simply scoffed, the only sign of life you got out of him as you stood a few inches from him. His eyes looked down, clearly not thrilled to see you standing there, but you didn't give a damn.

You put your hands on your hips, pretending to inspect him like he was the most boring human in Alexandria. "Hey… You did promise, you know? I didn't just imagine that part now, did I?"

"Dunno what yer talkin' 'bout."

You raised an eyebrow, your smile growing wider. "Oh? Sure feels like it. Guess you finally realized you're not as good of a teacher as you think."

Daryl sighed, sounding not only frustrated but... pissed off? Maybe both?

"Don't need to explain shit to ya," he grumbled in return.

You grinned, shrugging. "Well, if you're busy doing... whatever it is you do when you're not being an asshole, I guess I'll just go back to trying to learn from someone else." You turned to leave, but not without looking back over your shoulder again. "Don't worry. I won't ask you to teach me again."

That got him. He pushed himself off the garage, taking a few steps closer.

"You promised, Daryl. Or is that just another thing you like to say and not follow through with? You were gonna teach me. Not that I care; I'm sure I'll learn from someone else... unless you finally stop being an ass," you taunted, still looking over your shoulder at him.

Daryl's hand shot out before you could get too far, catching your arm in a grip that could've cracked a tree in half if he wanted it to. He was definitely pissed.

With a growl, he yanked you back toward him. "Fine. I'll teach ya. But not here. Not in Alexandria." He released your arm. "Meet me by the gates. Tomorrow, at dawn."

Without waiting for a response, Daryl walked back inside, leaving you standing there with a grin.

The next morning, you woke up early, a little earlier than you'd planned, but that was the least of your problems. There was a knot in your stomach that you couldn't get rid of, not even with a few stretches or by putting on your clothes.

This wasn't just another run. It wasn't just another 'do this or die trying' kinda deal. No, this was different. And for some reason, you were extremely nervous. What was he gonna do? What was he thinking?

You threw on your jacket, tied your boots like they were the last thing you'd ever do, and then... you hesitated.

What the hell was wrong with you?

With a deep breath, you forced yourself out the door and towards the gates of Alexandria. When you finally made it, you saw him. There he was—Daryl Dixon, standing there like he was waiting for the bus, except minus the whole 'bus' part. The motorcycle was leaned up against the walls, and he was staring straight ahead as if you were the last person he wanted to see right now.

"Well, damn. You did show up. Thought maybe you'd hide behind that attitude of yours for another day," you said, taking your time to walk up to him, not quite giving a damn whether he was ready for you or not.

But Daryl didn't even acknowledge you. He just flicked his cigarette away and gave you a look that could probably kill.

He then grunted, clearly not amused. "Ain't here to talk."

You looked at him, smirking a little. "Oh, I thought we were here to talk. 'Cause last time I checked, you were too busy to teach me anything useful. Guess you did promise, isn't that right?" You continued and raised an eyebrow. "So... what's the deal, huh? You just gonna stand there, or are we gonna start this driving lesson?"

He was still giving you that dead-eyed stare like you just asked him to swallow down rusty nails. The way Daryl was looking at you, all calm but irritated at the same time—it made everything weirder. But now, you had no choice. You had to get on that machine if you wanted to learn.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped closer to him after he took the motorcycle and got onto it himself. "Get on."

You hesitated before swinging your leg over it as well, the movement too awkward to be smooth. There was no denying it—there was a whole lot of you that wasn't exactly eager to be pressed up against him.

You bit your lip but tried to keep your cool. "Alright, I'm on."

Daryl didn't answer. He just started the engine, his hands gripping the handlebars, and that was when you had to settle into place—right behind him. You were close now—way too close—and that knot in your stomach was only tightening itself. You couldn't help it. You had to steady yourself, right? And as much as you hated to admit it, you found yourself sliding your hands down, almost instinctively. But... it wasn't enough.

And it wasn't fair. Nothing about this was fair. The way he was so broad, strong, and so very close made it impossible to think straight. Your palms were sweating, and it wasn't because you were nervous about falling off. It was him. Just him. And God, it was infuriating, letting your thoughts run wild.

Why does he have to smell so good? Why can't he just be an asshole and not… this?

Your hands moved. Lower.

You didn't mean to, but... there you were. Your fingers grabbed his hips, right there in front of you and so, so very close. He was warm, so warm, and you couldn't not notice it, even if you tried. But you weren't even trying.

Oh, no. Don't. Don't do it. Not now...

But your hands stayed right there. Resting on his hips. You couldn't help it.

God, he feels good. Warm. Strong. Hell, if I slide even lower, maybe I can make him feel me, too. What if I just—

You quickly cut your thoughts off, but the temptation was there. It was stupid. It's Daryl, you reminded yourself, though it didn't make the racing of your heart in your chest any less intense.

"Quit it. Jus' hold on," he suddenly said, still keeping his focus on the road in front of you.

You snapped out of it, blinking as though you were just pulled back from the edge of a cliff.

"Me?" You shot back, trying to sound as neutral as possible, hoping he didn't feel the way your heart was pounding. "You're the one acting like you've got a stick up your ass. Don't act like I'm the problem here."

Daryl didn't respond—again. His hands tightened on the handlebars, and you felt him move slightly on the motorcycle. You wondered if he could feel the way you were still pressed against him, too. If he noticed, he didn't give any sign, but hell, you weren't sure whether that was calming you down or just making everything worse.

Your hands were still grabbing his hips. Still low. Still in the danger zone. And every second you stayed on that seat that close behind him, the more you realized just how close you were to crossing a line you couldn't uncross, too.

Just stop touching him like that. For God's sake, control yourself...

But it was too late, wasn't it? Your hands were already doing what they wanted, sliding ever so slightly as Daryl revved the engine beneath you. And as the machine roared further and you felt the vibration between your legs, you couldn't deny it—you were holding on tight...

And shit, you hated yourself for it, but you couldn't think straight.

Your hands—those traitorous, slightly trembling hands—started to move further without you even trying. At first, you could feel the hardness of his muscles under his shirt. You didn't mean to, but your fingers couldn't resist anymore.

What the hell is wrong with me?

You kept telling yourself you weren't like this, but the warmth of his body in front of you, the vibrations of the motorcycle—the whole situation—it was clearly messing with your head.

And then your fingers touched the waistband of his pants. Your mind started spiraling.

Fuck, stop it.

But your hands were moving still, just a little further, and before you could catch yourself, you were dangerously close to slipping one whole hand past the button of his pants.

Why does this feel so fucking good? So right? No! This is so wrong!

You knew you shouldn't be doing this. You were driving yourself crazy just being this close to him. You should pull away and act like nothing happened. But the thought of him—of the way he looked, the way he smelled—it was too much.

Should I really keep going? You wondered, heart racing. What if I just slide my hand inside and just feel him?

The idea was so sudden it made your stomach growl, but you couldn't stop imagining it. The way he'd react—if he'd stop the motorcycle and throw you off, or if he'd just let you have your way.

But your hand froze at the button of his pants, resting there, barely touching it. You hated how much you wanted to go further, how much you needed to.

Pull back. Move your hand away. Stop thinking about how strong he is.

The way his muscles moved under your fingers, how he wasn't even saying one thing to stop you. Did he want this? Did he feel it too? You hated how much you wanted to find out.

But Daryl kept driving, focusing on the surroundings and possible dangers as you left Alexandria.

Why isn't he stopping me?

He was tense, but that was it. No words, no warnings. And that drove you wild.

Maybe he wants this as much as I do.

Your mind was on fire now, and you wanted him so badly, it felt like your whole body was about to explode. And the weirdest part? You weren't sure you even cared anymore if this was wrong.

If you don't stop me, I swear I'll—

You didn't finish that thought, and as soon as Daryl pulled off the road and into a clearing surrounded by trees, the motorcycle came to a stop.

"This'll do," he said, getting off it and motioning for you to follow.

You stumbled off, your legs still shaky from holding yourself together.

Right now, you wanted to hate him. To scream at him. But the truth was, you were more pissed at yourself. You were supposed to be learning how to ride a motorcycle, not imagining what it would feel like to be all over him and…

No. Stop it. Get your shit together.

"Alright, what's next?" You asked, doing your best to sound casual even as your heart was still racing. "You gonna teach me how not to eat dirt or just let me ride it?"

Daryl glared at you, one eyebrow raised like you were the one making this complicated. "Jus' pay attention."

You snorted, shaking your head. "Sure, 'cause that's been working out for me so far." You crossed your arms, a little too aware of how your body felt like it was overheating.

Stop thinking about him, stop thinking about him...

He was already gesturing to the motorcycle again, explaining the controls all over. "Clutch, brake, throttle—all that stuff."

You nodded, doing your best to stay focused despite how goddamn awkward you felt.

Focus; you can do this.

You glanced at him and caught the way his hands moved around near you, the way his fingers got hold of the throttle like he was born to do this.

"Ya won't wreck it if ya listen."

You scoffed, trying to hide your nerves. "Yeah… 'if,' but okay."

Daryl took a step closer, the space between you suddenly feeling way too small. "Stop makin' jokes, and start payin' some real attention."

You could feel how he stared you down, even without looking into his eyes, and before you could stop yourself, you were blushing—hard.

Shit, shit, shit.

He then smirked, only a little, and you wanted to punch him for it. Or kiss him. You weren't sure. Either way, you tugged at the collar of your shirt like it was too tight, but there was no escaping it.

Daryl was watching you, though his smirk was already gone again. "Jus' sit down on it. Let's see if ya can at least do that alone while out here, without fallin' over."

You had to swallow hard.

Just get on, just get on, and don't think about him.

Your mind was screaming at you to stop acting like you wanted to crawl all over him, but your body was betraying you.

And Daryl for sure wasn't even trying to make it easier, and all you could do was grit your teeth and pray you didn't lose it.

The first time you tried to balance the motorcycle, you almost tipped it over, but Daryl quickly got a hold of it—and you—before you really ate dirt.

"Goddamn it," he groaned, yanking you upright and keeping the motorcycle steady. "Yer fightin' the damn thing instead o' drivin' it. Quit makin' it harder for yerself."

You shot him a glare but didn't respond, figuring it was easier to just get the lesson over with. This time, he stepped in behind you, hands landing on your waist like he was holding onto a ticking time bomb. His grip tightened just enough to make you aware of his presence, but you weren't going to let him throw you off balance.

"Ease up on the damn clutch," he grumbled. "Slowly. Ya ain't in a damn hurry."

By the third or fourth try, you were starting to get the hang of it. You made it a few feet without the motorcycle wobbling like it had been possessed. You didn't even stall it this time.

"Look at me!" You grinned over your shoulder at him all triumphant as you stopped at a treeline. "I'm basically a stunt double at this point! Wanna try jumping flaming buses next?"

Daryl shot you that look again. The one that made you want to throw something at him. "Nah, yer bein' an amateur stunt double wantin' to set yerself on fire… 'cause ya can't keep yer hands to yerself."

You ignored him.

You had it now. You totally had it.

But who needed to play it safe when you could push this lesson to the limit and prove yourself?

You twisted the throttle again but felt a sudden rush of speed. "Shit!" You screamed from far away. "Fuck!"

"What the hell are ya doin'?!" Daryl shouted before you were hurtling forward at fast speed, your stomach dropping as it made everything around you blurry in sight. You had no idea how to stop in the heat of the moment without throwing yourself off it, and that realization hit you hard. You were in panic mode now, and trying to steer only made it worse.

"Daryl? A little help here, please!" You screamed, gripping the handlebars as your hands shook.

"Hold on!" Daryl yelled, but his warning was already too late. The front wheel hit something—a big rock? A tree stump? You didn't even see it. All you knew was that the motorcycle lurched like a wild animal wanting to throw you off its back.

For a moment, you were sure you were about to die. But Daryl wasn't about to let that happen. He lunged forward, grabbing you and yanking you off the seat just before it tipped completely and threw you off.

You and Daryl went down, both of you slamming into the ground hard. You landed on top of him—completely on top of him, with your thighs pressed against his hips and your upper body crashing against his chest.

You knew you fucked up, but his expression only made it worse. The slight pain in your body was nothing compared to the humiliation you felt. All you could do was catch your breath and stare at him.

And Daryl was flat-out pissed. His face was full of rage, and he was breathing hard from the crash. He shoved you off him, his hands on your shoulders as he stood up.

"What the hell were ya thinkin'!?" His eyes were practically burning holes through you. "I told ya to slow the hell down and focus! Ya don't listen for shit!"

You didn't want to admit that he was right, that you'd been very reckless. "Well, maybe you should've taught me how to actually ride instead of standing there like a statue and just barking orders!"

Daryl's hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

He wasn't just angry.

He was livid.

You were both breathing fast now, adrenaline still running through your veins. "And maybe I'm just a fast learner, okay?" You continued.

Daryl looked at you like he was about to rip you in half. "Yer not a fast learner; yer a damn idiot! And now I gotta drag yer dumb ass back!"

He grabbed the motorcycle and swung his leg over it with a grunt. "Get the fuck on," he growled in frustration.

You glared at him for a moment, but you weren't about to argue. You had to get home. You had no choice but to follow him.

Throwing your leg over the seat, you settled behind him. You couldn't even look up now. Every time you did, your stomach hurt in a way that made no sense. The anger, the shame—it was all so degrading. You wanted to argue. You really did. But you were too embarrassed, and your body was too sore to keep up any fight.

Daryl started the engine, and the motorcycle roared to life under you. As he sped down the road, you couldn't help but notice how tense his body still was. Every muscle in his back seemed to be stiff. And he didn't say a word anymore. Not a single word as you rode back toward Alexandria in silence.

His hands gripped the handlebars with such force, you swore the motorcycle might crack in half under the pressure if he kept it up.

You were pissed as well. Pissed at yourself for fucking up and pissed at him for making you feel all... this. You hated that you couldn't read him, hated how he could just shut everything out like that, and especially for making you feel something you didn't want to feel.

Once back at Alexandria, the garage door had barely been shut when Daryl's frustration exploded. He was still breathing hard from the ride, and he hadn't pushed you away since you'd now gotten back, but the way he was glaring at you said enough.

He took a step toward you, pushing you back a little. "Crashed my damn bike…"

"I didn't wreck it, Daryl," you argued. "It's fine!"

"Fine?" He repeated. "That's what ya call near splittin' yer skull open?"

"I didn't crash on purpose!" You shot back, the frustration boiling over. "I'm not dumb!"

He let out a mean laugh, his eyes narrowing. "Coulda fooled me, dumbass!"

"You're the one all trembling here, not me!" You crossed your arms, trying to hold onto whatever bit of defiance was left. "It was an accident, Daryl," you continued, glaring right back at him. "It's not like I'm trying to be your damn stunt double!"

He scoffed, not buying your excuse. "Bullshit. Ya were pushin' it, tryin' to prove somethin', weren't ya? Ya coulda gotten yerself killed!"

Maybe he was right; maybe you had been showing off, but why bother with giving him the satisfaction and letting him know that it was the truth?

"What's your problem, Dixon? It isn't like I destroyed the damn thing," you scoffed.

He shot you a glare. "Problem is, ya don't think. Out there, one screw-up ain't jus' a scratch—it's the difference 'tween comin' back or not comin' back at all!"

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, please! Spare me the PSA! It isn't like I don't know how this shit works! We're all one wrong turn away from dead anyway! What's the big deal?"

"The big deal," he growled, "is ya don't get to pull that shit with my bike!"

His finger shot out, pointing toward the side of the motorcycle. "Look at this," he growled. "Ya see that?"

You glanced where he was pointing and shrugged. "What, a couple of scratches? Boo-fucking-hoo! Rub some dirt with your spit on it; it'll be fine!"

"Couple o' scratches?" His voice rose, and he bent down to run a hand along the damaged part. "Ya know how I worked on this, ain't that right? To get it runnin' smooth?"

He crouched, looking at the machine like he was inspecting a wounded animal. "Look."

"What?"

"Look," he snarled once more, pointing his finger at the gas tank.

Reluctantly, you stepped closer, peering over his shoulder. The scratches weren't as bad as you'd expected—some scuffed paint and a tiny dent, hardly catastrophic.

"Oh no," you pretended to be shocked and threw your hands up. "It's ruined! Better put it out of its misery!"

Daryl turned around, staring at you in disbelief and anger. "That funny to ya?"

"A little," you shot back, trying to ignore the way your heart pounded. "Newsflash, Dixon! This is a hunk of metal. It'll survive!"

His jaw clenched, and he stood up so fast you stumbled back. "Ain't the damn point," he snapped, stepping closer.

"Then what is the point?" You demanded in return.

"The point is," he growled, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register, "ya don't listen. Yer always so goddamn dumb, thinkin' ya know better—"

"I do know better!" You interrupted him. "I could rebuild this bike with my eyes closed! Hell, I could build you a new one from… a scratch!"

Daryl's hands dropped to his sides, his breathing fast as he stared at you. His eyes looked down to your arms, and you followed his line of sight, realizing for the first time that you were trembling.

His eyes softened, just for a second. "Ya hurt?"

"No," you lied, crossing your arms to hide the shaking.

Daryl huffed, and his frustration was boiling over again. "Bullshit."

He moved toward you, closing the space between you as he grabbed you by the arm. You flinched but didn't pull away. His grip tightened, pulling you back toward the motorcycle you'd nearly wrecked.

"Get on," he growled, holding you still.

You froze, glaring at him. "Excuse me?"

"Get on the fuckin' bike," he repeated, his eyes narrowing.

You shook your head. "You're out of your damn mind."

But you didn't fight it when he shoved you over to the seat, guiding you like you were weighing nothing at all. You hadn't expected this—his touch and his obvious anger.

But it wasn't just the crash. No. It was the way his eyes looked at you—like he was waiting for you to back down, to beg for mercy even.

"What?" You scoffed. "You're pissed 'cause I fucked up your bike? Is that it? So fucking ridiculous!"

"'S part of it," he answered, and before you could respond, his hand gripped your chin, forcing you to look at him.

And you weren't sure what you expected from him, but you didn't expect the force of his lips on yours.

His kiss was aggressive. It wasn't tender. It wasn't gentle. It was all teeth and tongue and the feel of his stubble against your skin.

You tried to pull back, pushing at his chest. "What the hell—!"

"Shut the fuck up."

You barely had time to react before he was pushing you against the motorcycle, and his hands found their way under your shirt. It was almost too much to bear—the roughness of his touch. It had no place here, not with you two practically being strangers in this world, but somehow it made sense.

And no, you didn't pull away. Not now.

"Daryl—" You cut yourself off when his hand slid down to your waistband, tugging at your pants, a movement that was fast and urgent. Your breath hitched, a gasp escaping your throat.

He didn't respond, not in words anyway, as he lowered himself to his knees in front of you, his hands on your thighs, forcing you to stay still.

He wanted you—had wanted you, maybe for longer than he'd ever care to admit.

You gasped again when he pulled your pants down roughly, his hands moving along your hips before dragging them down your legs. You knew his hands were capable—he could gut a deer in under a minute, rebuild a bike from scratch—but this? This was a whole different level of skill, and you weren't sure whether to be impressed or terrified by how quickly he had you undone.

But you didn't have time to process it before Daryl was standing again, his face dangerously close to yours, eyes burning with a fire that made you blush.

God, his eyes.

They weren't just looking at you—they were staring you down.

Before you could say anything else, he kissed you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding down to your hips and pushing himself closer until there was no space between your bodies.

And then, his fingers slipped beneath your panties, and he slid two of them into you. Without warning.

You cried out at the suddenness of it, at the overwhelming feeling, but you didn't stop him.

"Still think I'm tremblin'?" He asked as he moved them inside you with a pace that made your head spin. You couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.

Sure, he was frustrated—but now it was all coming out, only in a way that you'd never expected. You didn't know what this was—what this would be afterward—but damn if it didn't feel like the only thing that mattered right now.

As his breath turned quicker against your neck, the urgency of his fingers quickened, too. Until he pulled them out of you. The moment he removed his hand, licking his fingers clean, you almost cursed aloud, the emptiness threatening to drive you mad.

He didn't give you time to say anything, didn't even let you think about it, because in the next moment, his hands were yanking your shirt up over your head, and your bra was gone just as fast.

But the way he studied you, every inch of you—like he was savoring the moment as if you were a piece of art he needed to drink in—made everything feel too much. Too much to take. Too much to bear. But also too good to stop.

You couldn't protest, couldn't do anything but let him have his way, and your eyes squeezed shut as you fought to hold it together.

Without a word, Daryl kneeled back down onto the ground again, his hands moving to your thighs, pushing them apart for him.

"Open yer eyes," he ordered, but you didn't. You just couldn't. But you could feel him there, right between your legs, and the anticipation was nearly killing you.

No, you couldn't do anything but obey as his hand was pulling your panties down and his other hand's thumb stroked across your clit, but something else caught his attention. A bruise on your thigh started to slowly form itself from when you'd crashed.

And then, without a word, he leaned forward, his lips pressing hard against the bruise. His teeth bit into the skin, and then he sucked on it with a hunger that had nothing to do with the motorcycle and the crash.

You gasped loudly, eyes opening wide as the sharp sting of his bite was followed by the slow, deep suck of his mouth.

His lips left the bruise for a moment, but it wasn't gone long. His tongue licked over the edges of it, then his teeth, scraping some more, making your legs shiver with lust and a little bit of pain.

As his fingers moved toward and away from your wet pussy, to brush over the scratches on one leg from the crash, you could feel the pressure of his touch as he traced over each one. He didn't care about the discomfort it caused, didn't care about the marks—they were his to play with.

A growl left his throat as he scratched them a little harder, just a little deeper, making you whimper.

You didn't even realize you were staring at him until his blue eyes looked up into yours, a silent claim that went deeper than anything else.

"Ain't lettin' ya look away," he warned as his hands gripped your thighs again, forcing your trembling legs to stay open for him.

And God, they were.

His touch was everything you didn't know you needed as he slipped his fingers back into you—simply all-consuming. His thumb stroked your clit yet again, and you were sure you were going to lose it way too fast.

And the way he kept looking at you—like he was daring you to look away…

But you didn't. Not once.

The pressure was building, that sweet, unbearable pressure, until it felt like you were going to burst into flames.

Indeed, it was pure fire.

"Eyes on me," he growled. "Don't ya look away."

His fingers found their rhythm, slow but deep, making you moan out loud, trying your hardest to keep your eyes open and on him.

"Yeah, 's it," he growled. "Focus."

You nodded wildly, the feeling overtaking everything, your body desperate for more. Every bit of your skin was burning, and you hated how badly you needed this.

"Daryl… I," you gasped, your hands holding on for dear life on the motorcycle seat, trying to stay upright but close to losing the battle with every pump. "I can't—fuck!"

"Can't what? Focus? Ain't nothin' new," he answered, his thumb still on your clit while his fingers were thrusting away. "Can't handle it? Ya jus' gotta focus. Keep yer eyes on me."

You were close, so fucking close already, but he wasn't letting up.

His fingers moved so roughly inside of you, pressing against your G-spot, which soon made you feel certain this was it—this was the moment.

Your legs were shaking hard, your breath coming in quick, desperate moans. "Fuck… fuck…" You whimpered, fingers tightening on the seat behind you.

But then he stopped. Just stopped.

The sudden loss of his fingers was like being thrown into a room full of walkers. You groaned, your hips bucking in a desperate attempt to go after what was just within reach, but he pulled his hand away completely, leaving you trembling and half-crazed.

"What the fuck, Daryl!" You cried out loud as you glared down at him, but Daryl only had the audacity to smirk, licking his fingers off once more like you hadn't been about to shatter into pieces.

"Keep still and shut up," he growled, and before you could scream at him, his head was between your legs.

Your words turned into a choked cry as his tongue moved over your clit, the feeling of his stubble against your inner thighs making you squirm.

It wasn't fair. You were already so close, your body trembling so hard it hurt, but now he was dragging it out, taking his sweet-ass time, licking and sucking like he had all damn day.

"Fuck—fucking hell, Daryl," you hissed, hands grabbing his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan against you. The vibrations shot straight through you, making your thighs clench around his head, but he didn't stop—he didn't even flinch.

"Thought ya were so good at takin' risks," he taunted, his lips brushing against your clit as he spoke.

And with that, he sucked on it so hard you nearly screamed, the feeling of it being just on the edge of pain, but God, it was perfect. You were so damn close again, and this time, you needed it.

If he pulled away now, you swore you'd kill him.

"Please," you whimpered, your hips grinding against his mouth in a way that should've embarrassed you. "Daryl, fuck, don't you dare stop again—"

His grip tightened on your thighs, keeping you exactly where he wanted you as his tongue pushed you further and further until there was nowhere left to go but over the edge.

But it wasn't just his mouth—oh no. His hands were keeping you in place, his fingers pressing into your skin like he was claiming you, and maybe he was. You didn't care. You just wanted more.

"Fuck—Daryl, I'm—" Your voice broke, too far gone to even finish the sentence.

He pulled back just enough to growl, "What? Yer what?" His voice was rough and way too sarcastic for a man who was driving you insane.

"Stop it and finish me!" You snapped, your hands pulling at his hair like it would somehow speed him up.

He laughed—actually laughed—and that sound went straight through you. But before you could cuss him out for being an 'insufferable bastard,' his fingers were back on you, two sliding inside so easily you swore you saw stars.

Your breath hitched, and then he added a third.

"Fuck—holy shit!" You gasped, your thighs trembling as he stretched you wide. The feeling was nearly too much, but it was just right, and when his fingers started pumping in and out, so deep and hard, you couldn't do anything but ride it out.

He looked up at you then, his blue eyes searching for yours. You wanted to look away, to hide from the way he was watching you like he was saving every second of this to memory, but you didn't. He wouldn't let you.

"Eyes on me," he growled. "Don't ya fuckin' look away."

You didn't think you could blush any harder—you didn't think you had the energy left for it—but then his other hand moved, his thumb pressing into the bruise on your thigh, just hard enough to make you wince.

"Shit—Daryl, that hurts!" You hissed at him, but his grip tightened, keeping you still.

"Good," he growled, looking at you. "Should hurt."

His fingers inside your pussy were picking up speed, driving you mad with how good they felt.

"Ya think I'm jus' gonna let ya off easy after crashin' my bike?"

He pressed harder into the bruise, making you whimper from the pain that somehow only made everything hotter.

"Nah. Yer gonna feel this. Remember this."

You hated how much it turned you on—the sting of his thumb on your bruise along with the pumping of his fingers inside you and the way his mouth was so close to your clit again.

"Please—fuck—please," you begged, not even sure what you were asking for anymore. You just needed something—anything—to finally push you over the edge.

"C'mon," he growled against you, not stopping. "C'mon, woman. Fuckin' let go. Let me fuckin' have it."

And that was it. That was all it took.

Everything inside you exploded so intensely you moaned out loud, your whole body arching as the orgasm ripped through you.

"Fuck—fuck, Daryl!"

You tried to keep your legs from giving out, but they were done, trembling so hard you had no choice but to lean fully against the motorcycle once more, trying to hold yourself steady. But Daryl didn't stop. His mouth stayed on you, his tongue again working your clit, dragging out every last bit of your orgasm until you were shaking all over, whimpering and sobbing from the overstimulation.

Only then did he pull his fingers out in a way that made sure you'd feel everything.

But before you could catch your breath, his hands were on you again, gripping your thighs like they belonged to him. Without a word, he hoisted your legs up, wrapping them around his neck. The sudden movement made you yelp, but he didn't care—not one bit.

"What the fuck are you—"

"Shut up," he growled, his voice ragged as he shifted you off the motorcycle and onto his shoulders like you weighed nothing. "Focus."

The cold floor hit your back as he lowered you down, your body shivering against it. He moved near you, his hands gripping your thighs to keep them spread wide as he settled between them again, his face just inches from where you were still dripping for him.

You barely had time to process the new position before his tongue was back on you, licking slow and deep, making you moan aloud through the garage. All you could do was writhe and shake beneath him, your hands searching for anything to grab and hold onto—his hair, his shoulders, the cold floor—trying to keep still as he worked you over.

But then, just when you thought he'd keep going until you couldn't take anymore, he moved, his mouth leaving your pussy as he started to lick and kiss—hot, wet, and sloppy—all over you.

And he didn't move fast. He took his time, crawling up your body like he was deciding which part of you he should tease next. You felt his breath across your skin, so warm yet unsteady, while his hands worked on keeping you exactly where he wanted you—legs spread wide, no room to close yourself off, no room to argue.

His hands? Oh, you knew those hands could kill you if they wanted to, but the way he traced the edges of the scratches on your thigh? Fuck, it was worse. Slow. On purpose. Just enough pressure to remind you it was there. A reminder you didn't need, but apparently, he thought you needed.

The tip of his thumb ran over them once, twice, then pressed down harder. You flinched—it was pure instinct—but his other hand clamped down on your leg, pinning you to the floor. His thumb didn't move, didn't give you a break. If anything, he pressed harder, and you hissed through your teeth. He groaned, low and deep, like your slight discomfort was exactly what he wanted.

Daryl soon leaned down and kissed them. He kissed them like he was apologizing. Then his teeth grazed over the same scratches, and you realized he wasn't sorry for it at all. His tongue followed, licking slowly and wetly over the stinging feeling of them, and your back arched itself off the floor.

By the time he moved up to the bruise on your hips, his fingers found it first, pressing into your flesh like he was testing it, seeing how much it was hurting you. You flinched again, but this time, his response was immediate—a growl coming out of his throat as his fingers dug in deeper.

"Daryl," you started, but your voice cracked, and you knew that he wasn't listening anyway. His mouth replaced his fingers, and the first kiss of his lips made your head snap up.

Not soft, not tender—he sucked on the bruise as if he wanted to drag the pain out of you, to make you feel every sting of it.

He kept going, his mouth kissing up your ribs, licking, biting, sucking, finding every bruise that was forming itself, every scratch, and making sure you knew he'd found them.

"Fuckin' hell…" He whispered as his mouth moved higher, pressing kisses to your chest, in between your tits, before his tongue licked over one nipple.

You gasped as he sucked it into his mouth, one of his hands moving to tease the other, pinching and rolling it between his fingers.

"Daryl, please! Please… just—"

He didn't let up. He crawled higher over you, his body pinning you down, his mouth moving up to your collarbone, where his tongue licked over it next.

By the time he reached your neck, you were a mess, your hands now clawing at his shoulders, desperate for him to give you more, to stop teasing. And he knew it.

But he wasn't done. His teeth found your neck, and he bit down, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to leave a mark, your thighs instantly squeezing around his hips.

"Goddamn," he growled as his mouth finally reached yours. "Look atcha… all wrecked."

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours, rough and hungry, his tongue pushing into your mouth like he needed to taste every part of you.

And fuck, you didn't care.

Daryl left no room for argument—not that you had any strength left to argue.

His hands were everywhere at once, sliding over your thighs, your hips, your waist. You moaned into his mouth as his fingers moved back down between your legs, slipping through the wetness he'd left behind when he dragged his fingers through your wet folds, and his smirk certainly showed that he was satisfied with himself.

He wasn't asking for permission, no, but he wasn't rushing either. And he was now giving you the chance to stop him without saying a word.

When you didn't push him away, he leaned back just enough to look at you. His blue eyes seemed darker now, his pupils all wide, searching for something, waiting.

Your hands slid up his strong back, trembling slightly but steadying themselves as they reached his shoulders. You gave him a small but quick nod as you took a shaky breath.

That was all he needed.

With a growl, Daryl's hands gripped your hips, flipping you over onto your stomach fast but not harshly. Before you could even process it all, he pressed himself down against your ass.

"Don't move," he whispered.

You weren't planning to.

He grabbed your hips again, pulling you back just enough to hold them upward. You felt his cock pressing against your ass, still in his pants but unmistakably hard as he grunted and pushed it against you, his hands only holding on harder.

The deep and loud groan he made? You couldn't help but push back against him.

You barely had time to listen to the sound of his zipper before he was back, his cock sliding between your thighs, teasing, the wetness of your pussy making it too easy for him to glide against you.

Your fingers were clawing at the floor as you tried to push back, but his hands held you in place.

His hips rocked forward, and the tip of his cock pressed into your pussy. You tensed, your breath stopping at the sheer size of it, but he didn't push in—not completely. He was letting you feel every inch of how big he was.

When he did push inside, it was enough to stretch you wide open, and with one slow thrust, he sank into you, filling you up. Still, Daryl didn't move right away. He stayed there, buried to the hilt, as he gave you a moment to adjust and made sure you were okay.

Then, he finally started to move.

Slow at first, his hips pulling back before thrusting forward again, each movement so controlled.

But it didn't take long for him to move faster.

Harder.

Deeper.

And you couldn't do anything but take it as he pinned you down.

"Daryl—" you moaned, but he cut you off with a growl, his arm sliding down around you, pulling your hips higher to give him better access.

"Don't talk," he ordered, trying not to lose himself. "Jus' take it."

And you did. God, you did.

The garage felt almost suffocating now, and all you could smell was the scent of sweat and sex. The only sounds to be heard were your fast-breathing moans of yourself and his feral grunts as Daryl moved behind you. Every thrust was deep, driving you forward just to pull you back again with a growl, his grip on your hips leaving marks you'd wear for days.

Your hands still searched for any kind of hold against the floor, trying to ground yourself as the intensity of it all threatened to break you apart. His cock stretched you in a way that still bordered on too much, each thrust rougher than the last, and yet you couldn't get enough of it—of him.

"Fuck," Daryl grunted, his voice sounding as if the word was being dragged out from deep inside him.

You couldn't respond to him, not with the way he filled you so completely, your body trembling under his control. But he didn't need any words in return from you. His hand slid from your hip, moving along your ass and up your spine, before he put his arm around your shoulders to keep you steady.

"Don't lose focus now," he growled, leaning over you, his chest brushing against your back. His stubble grazed along your shoulder as he pressed his mouth down, his lips rough, almost punishing. He bit down hard, his teeth sinking into your skin just enough to leave another mark.

You cried out, clenching around him involuntarily. "Daryl—"

"Shut up," he said, cutting you off with another bite to your shoulder, this one softer than the last. His teeth were still on the mark he'd made, right before his tongue soothed it, leaving you shivering.

Daryl's pace quickened, each thrust making your overstimulated body shudder.

"Goddamn, look atcha," he grumbled, his voice full of lust. "Really fuckin' wrecked, ain't ya?"

You whimpered in response, your head falling forward and almost hitting the floor, but your body was still being held on tight by his grip.

"Ya like that?"

You nodded.

"C'mon," he growled, his hand tightening around your chest to keep you steady as his thrusts grew erratic. "Stay with me, woman. Focus. Fuckin' focus."

You didn't have a choice. His arm around your chest and his cock buried so deep inside you made it impossible to think about anything else. And the pressure was building again, unavoidable, and you knew he could feel it—the way your pussy clenched around him, desperate to feel him come, too.

And he didn't slow down. He didn't ease the pace or give you any room to breathe. Instead, he buried his face against you again, his lips sucking on your neck, his tongue following to taste the sweat of your skin.

"Shit," he hissed, his voice all muffled against your neck. "Goddamn, ya feel so fuckin' good."

His hips thrust forward, harder and faster, and you could feel him getting close, his movements losing their rhythm as his breathing turned ragged.

"Fuck—fuck," he groaned, his arm moving from your chest to hold your hip again, his hand grabbing you roughly as his thrusts went deeper. "Gonna—fuck, I'm—"

He didn't finish the sentence. With a loud groan that was almost sounding more animal than man, he pulled out, his hand gripping his cock as he came all over your back with force.

You stayed there momentarily, still on the cold floor of the garage, as you tried to piece yourself back together. Your legs felt like jelly, trembling so badly you weren't even sure they'd hold you if you tried to stand up.

Daryl soon moved off behind you, his heavy breathing just as loud and uneven as yours as he leaned against the motorcycle for balance. His cum was feeling all warm across your back, but you didn't have the energy to care—not yet.

Finally, he straightened himself, pulling his pants back up and putting his softening cock away. You heard the sound of his footsteps next to you as he walked around the garage, and for a second, you thought he was going to leave you there, fucked and half-naked in the garage.

But not long after, he was back, something soft and slightly damp rubbing over your skin.

"Hold still," he grunted. "Gotta clean ya up."

You flinched, moving your head to see what he was doing. Daryl had an old, torn rag in one hand, smudged with a little bit of dry oil, but it was enough to do the job. His other hand pressed against your shoulder, holding you still as he wiped away the mess of his cum he'd left behind.

"You could've at least grabbed a clean one," you grumbled, but there wasn't any real annoyance in your voice.

When he was done, he tossed the rag aside. "Yer alright?"

You smirked, despite the ache in your legs. "What, worried I might've cracked under all that control?"

For a moment, he looked like he wanted to argue. Instead, he just grunted before crouching in front of you. His hands found your arms as he helped you up, his strength the only thing keeping you from falling right back to the floor.

"Easy," he mumbled, sliding one arm around your waist to steady you. "Ain't wantin' to pick yer ass up again if ya fall."

"Not my fault," you answered, your legs wobbling as you tried to find your balance. "You're the one who—"

"Don't even start," he cut you off quickly, but definitely with amusement. "Ya got no one to blame but yer damn self."

His arm stayed around you as you took a few shaky steps with him by your side as if you had to learn how to walk again, your knees still threatening to buckle. You hated how he looked at you right now, showing you a smirk as he watched you struggle.

"Shut up," you grumbled, leaning against him more than you wanted to admit.

"Ain't said nothin'," he smirked, but the way his hand tightened on your waist betrayed his satisfaction.

Once you were steady enough to stand on your own, he let go, his hands falling to his sides. As you reached for your clothes, putting them on with clumsy, trembling fingers, Daryl leaned against the motorcycle again, watching you with that same gaze he'd had earlier, his blue eyes tracking every movement of your body.

"So? Ya still reckless?" He suddenly asked, as if to taunt you.

You glared at him as you put on your bra and shirt. "Excuse me?"

"Crashin' my bike," he continued, crossing his arms over his chest. "Then gettin' all riled up when ya can't handle shit."

Feeling your cheeks turn red, the heat was spreading all over your face as you turned to zip up your pants. "Maybe if you weren't such a goddamn caveman, my attention would've—"

"Caveman, huh?" Daryl stepped closer, the space closing between you until you could feel the presence of him behind your back. One hand came up, his fingers brushing lightly over the bruise on your thigh from earlier, the touch rather gentle.

"Caveman kept ya focused now, didn't he?" He continued, his lips all close near your ear. "Got yer attention real good."

You hated how easily your body responded to him even now, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

"Next time," he said, his voice dropping slightly, "ya might think twice 'bout tryin' to show off."

His fingers then pressed into the bruise just enough to make you wince, reminding you of the lesson he'd drilled into you—literally.

"Control," he said, stepping back again. "Might save yer damn ass next time."

You turned to face the motorcycle with a scowl as you adjusted your clothes, looking around for your jacket. "Are you done lecturing me, or should I grab a notepad?"

"Nah. Jus' get yer shit together," he answered. "We're headin' out again tomorrow. Yer ridin' bitch till ya prove ya can handle it."

Laughing at that, your words were coming out faster than your still-wobbly legs could even move. "Riding bitch, huh?" You repeated as you turned to face him. "Next time you're teaching me to drive, I'll be riding something, alright—but it sure as shit won't be the bike."

It was a bold answer, considering your legs still felt like they'd been switched for spaghetti, but you weren't about to let him see you back down.

Daryl's lips twitched, that small smirk coming back as he closed the distance between you in a few quick movements. One hand shot out, gripping your chin and tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

"Keep talkin'," he grumbled, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. "See where it gets ya."

You grinned, biting his thumb just enough to make him hiss. "I think it gets me exactly where I want to be," you responded, voice all daring, even as your pulse kicked up a notch all over. "Don't you think?"

Daryl's silence was answer enough, and for a moment, you thought he might snap again, dragging you into another round right there on the spot. But for now, and for once, you decided to savor and enjoy your little victory. Of course, it didn't last long.

You weren't sure who moved first, but before you knew it, you were pulling him down by his collar, your lips crashing onto his like they had something to prove.

The kiss was all grunts and stubbornness, his teeth biting at your lip as you ran your fingers through his messy hair. You didn't even notice when his hands found your waist, pulling you closer until there wasn't an inch of space between your bodies.

"Y'ain't got any sense o' self-control," he mumbled against your mouth, but he didn't stop kissing you, one hand sliding up to grab the back of your neck.

You broke the kiss just long enough to catch your breath, smirking up at him. "And you've got too much of it," you shot back.

You knew this would've gone on longer—should've gone on longer—but the sound of the side door from the garage to the house opening stopped you both in place like a couple of kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

"Daryl?" Aaron's voice was to be heard, and you felt the blood freeze in your veins. "Are you both back already?"

Daryl let out a growl, his forehead slowly dropping to yours like he was trying to collect himself before turning to look toward the unwanted interruption.

Aaron stood in the doorway, his eyes looking between the two of you, taking in the sheer awkwardness of it all. His eyebrows shot up, and he blinked like he was trying to reset his brain back to factory settings.

"Oh…" Aaron said after a moment, his voice sounding a little bit higher than usual. "I just—uh—saw the garage door was closed from the outside when I came back. Thought you were done with, uh, teaching? I just wanted to get—"

Daryl cleared his throat, stepping back from you but not bothering to hide his irritation. "'M still teachin'."

Aaron's mouth opened like he was about to ask something else, but you jumped in before he could make things even worse. "Yeah, exactly," you said, smiling at him before you looked back at Daryl. "He's teachin' me how to… focus."

The words had barely left your mouth before Daryl shot you a look. Still, he couldn't resist adding, "And 'bout… control."

Aaron stood there, his mouth opening and closing like a fish in urgent need of water. Finally, he managed to let out a quiet, "Still teaching, huh?" His voice was full of disbelief. "About control and focus?"

You crossed your arms, smirking. "Of course! And let me tell you, Daryl's got a real hands-on approach." Daryl gave you a warning look, but you ignored him. "Next time, maybe we'll move on to, I dunno, accelerating!"

"Yeah," Daryl answered flatly, his tone as casual as if Aaron had walked in on him fixing the motorcycle, not having had you taken against it. "Focusin' on the road ahead. Controllin' the bike while… ridin' it."

Aaron arched only one eyebrow this time. "Right," he said, dragging the word out like it was hurting him. "Well, maybe teach her outside of Alexandria next time instead of Eric's and my garage?"

You snorted. "Oh, we can, for sure. But Daryl's really good at teaching me how to focus on what's in front of me," you said sweetly. "It's the control part I keep getting stuck on."

Aaron let out a short, strangled laugh, already backing toward the door. "Yeah, okay! Don't let me interrupt your lesson." His face went red, and he backed up so fast he nearly tripped. "I mean, it sounds, uh... productive. I'll just—yeah." He gestured around awkwardly as he was about to hurry back inside the house.

When he left, you could've sworn he whispered something that sounded suspiciously like, "What the hell is wrong with all these people?" before he closed the door behind him.

The second the door clicked shut, you leaned against the workbench, your eyes moving to the motorcycle that had started this whole situation, after all. It stood there innocently enough, like it hadn't been witness to your absolute lack of keeping control. Stepping forward, you traced your fingers along one of the scratches on its gas tank.

"Looks like Frankenstein's bike's seen some rough handling, thanks to me," you said before your eyes moved back onto Daryl, who was watching you like an animal sizing up its next meal. "Guess it'll get used to bein' ridden hard."

Eyes looking up, you were daring him to take the bait. "Think you'll leave some scratches on me next time?"

His muscles were flexing like he was seconds from pulling you back to him. "Keep talkin', woman, and I jus' might."

You grinned, stepping away from the motorcycle and grabbing your jacket, which was on the floor near the workbench. "Guess I'll just have to wait and see, huh?" You put the jacket on, taking your time on purpose to let him stew in his frustration.

Just as you reached the garage door and opened it, you turned back toward Daryl, who'd started to talk, watching you lean your shoulder against the frame. "Yer walkin' funny, woman."

You stopped, moving your head up with a glare. "If I walk funny, I'm tellin' everyone it's 'cause of the bike." You made sure to add a smirk. "I'm going to say it was a wild ride—not a crash."

As you pushed yourself off the frame and stepped outside onto the streets of Alexandria, your grin was as wide as ever. "Thank you for the thorough lesson, Dixon."

But before the garage could even close behind you, something soft and slightly damp was flying past your head, landing on the ground in front of you.

"Jesus, was that—?" You started to laugh, realizing exactly what he'd thrown after you. "Oh, come on! Did you seriously throw that at me? Gross!"

Daryl leaned against the motorcycle, his smirk not obvious, but it was there. "Missed, didn't I?" He didn't flinch, didn't apologize. "Didn't miss on purpose."

"That's disgusting," you called back and laughed, unable to help yourself. "And I'm not picking that up!"

"Didn't ask ya to," he answered, pushing himself off the machine and taking a few steps closer to the street. "But yer might come back in here 'n pick up somethin' else."

"Not a chance," you snorted, shaking your head while you stumbled a little bit. "Better luck next time. Or… tomorrow."

"Fuckin' reckless…" Daryl growled, but with amusement in his voice as he watched you disappear ever so slowly. But he didn't move, not yet. "Jus' get yer damn ass back here!"

You were already down the street and smirking to yourself as you tried to walk and just waved him off, making it clear that it was all for show as you held up both middle fingers, trying to make it seem like you were stumbling away with your body intact.

And, of course, you were—kind of.

Either way, Daryl knew that next time, the only thing you'd be riding was him, and you'd make sure he would be the one struggling to keep focus and control.

[verstappenverse]

can you do a fic based on the Live event? can it be a charles fic?

Five Minutes Off-Schedule

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary: At the F175 live event there’s no room for distractions. The collision is unplanned, the attraction immediate, and the interruption entirely unwelcome. Five minutes with Ferrari’s golden boy might just be enough to derail your night.

Author's Note: First Charles request hope you enjoy 🫶🏼

1.9k words / Masterlist

You’ve been on your feet for hours. Between checking stage setups, coordinating media schedules, and making sure nothing spontaneously combusts, the F175 live event is running as smoothly as one can hope. Every moving piece of the event relies on your ability to juggle a dozen different tasks at once, and there’s no room for distractions. Not when a single oversight could send the entire schedule into chaos.

Your phone is practically an extension of your hand, vibrating with new emails, last-minute schedule adjustments, and frantic messages from colleagues trying to keep the event from spiralling into disaster. Every few steps someone stops you with a question, a problem, or an urgent request, and you barely have time to breathe, let alone pause and take in the spectacle around you.

Which is probably why you don’t see the heavy-duty equipment case in your path, at least not until you walk straight into it. And because the universe has a twisted sense of humour, it’s spectacularly unsurprising that the one and only Charles Leclerc appears in front of you at the exact moment you do.

Your clipboard clatters to the ground, papers scattering in disarray.

“Shit—” You exhale sharply, steadying yourself with one hand on the case, the other instinctively reaching for your phone before it slips from your grasp. Your heart pounds in irritation, but the moment you lift your gaze, your breath catches in your throat.

A pair of familiar green eyes meet yours.

Strong hands steady you before you can fully wipe out, and suddenly, you’re looking up at a familiar face. Charles stands before you, brows slightly raised, hands lifted in a half-hearted attempt to prevent the collision. His black suit blazer is unbuttoned over a fitted white shirt, the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the sinewy strength in his forearms. His expression wavers between concern and amusement, his lips twitching like he’s holding back a laugh.

"Ah, merde," he mutters, a hint of a smirk curling at the edges of his lips. "That was dramatic. Are you okay?"

Your brain short-circuits for a second. The adrenaline from the near-fall mixes with something undeniably mortifying as you take a quick step back, putting a safe distance between the two of you.

“I—uh, yeah.” You clear your throat, willing the heat creeping up your neck to disappear. “Sorry, I didn’t see—” You gesture vaguely at the offending equipment case, even though it was very much in plain sight, as if that excuses your complete lack of spatial awareness.

“You were walking like you had somewhere to be,” he counters, his tone light, but his eyes assessing.

“Because I do,” you reply, a little too quickly.

He watches you with interest, one hand slipping into his pocket, the other resting casually on his hip. “So serious,” he muses.

You huff out a breath, more focused on straightening the disheveled papers than on the amused man in front of you. “Some of us are working.”

He crouches at the same time as you, and in the process your fingers brush his. The contact is brief but enough to make your stomach do something ridiculous. You snatch the clipboard quickly, standing up before you make more of a fool of yourself.

“Sorry, I don’t have time for whatever this is,” you say firmly.

“'Whatever this is'?” He tilts his head, his smirk deepening. “I think this was just an unfortunate accident.”

You roll your eyes, stepping to the side to move past him. “Great, then let’s not make a habit of it.”

“Tsk,” he clicks his tongue. “So cold. You’re sure you didn’t plan this? Walking straight into me?”

You let out an incredulous laugh. “Oh, absolutely. I rearranged the entire event schedule just so I could trip into you.”

But before you get too far, his voice follows you. “Ah, but now I’m intrigued. Maybe I should be the one rearranging my schedule.”

You don’t bother looking back. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

An hour later you spot him again, leaning against the bar in the hospitality suite sipping something dark in a lowball glass. The dim lighting casts a golden glow over the polished wood, the soft murmur of conversation filling the space. You’ve just finished dealing with a minor crisis when your eyes meet across the room.

He smirks.

You turn away, determined to pretend the moment never happened.

It should end there.

But then he’s suddenly beside you, his presence felt before he even speaks. The faint scent of expensive cologne lingers in the air between you, mingling with the sharp tang of whiskey from his glass. He moves like someone who belongs here, at ease in a way you envy.

“Are you avoiding me?” His voice is smooth, threaded with quiet amusement.

You sigh, tilting your head slightly as you glance at him. “Avoiding implies I was thinking about you.”

That earns a low chuckle, rich and genuine. “You wound me.”

“Unlikely.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t look away. Instead, he tilts his head, studying you with an infuriating sort of patience. “So you’re working here, for the event?”

“Yeah, sort of. More like ‘thrown into the fire and hoping not to get burned.” You shift the clipboard in your grip, forcing yourself to focus. “Making sure everything runs smoothly. Not doing a great job of it apparently.”

“I think you’re doing great,” he says easily, glancing around the room with practiced observation. “Everything looks very…well-organised.”

You let out a dry laugh, rubbing your temple. “You say that because you can’t see the chaos behind the scenes.”

“Ah, but that’s the point, no?” His smile is warm, a little too knowing. “If it looks perfect to the outside world, then you’ve done your job.”

You blink. He’s right, obviously, but you didn’t expect him to say something like that, insightful and understanding.

“Maybe,” you admit. “Or maybe it’s just good PR.”

His lips quirk, like he’s fighting back another smirk. “That bad, really?”

You sigh, shifting the clipboard in your arms. “Let’s just say I’ve spent most of the night convincing your fellow drivers not to wander off five minutes before they’re supposed to be on stage.”

He laughs, the sound low and unrestrained, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Sounds about right.” He leans in slightly, lowering his voice like he’s about to share a secret. “So who’s been the worst?”

You huff a laugh, shaking your head. “I’m legally not allowed to disclose that information.”

“Oh come on.” He nudges your elbow lightly with his own. “Give me a hint. Just a small one.”

You narrow your eyes. “Absolutely not.”

His grin deepens, like he enjoys the challenge. “Fine. I’ll just have to guess.” He taps his chin, feigning deep thought. “Lando?”

You press your lips together, refusing to give anything away.

“Aha,” he says triumphantly. “That’s a yes.”

You groan, rolling your shoulders. “I swear, keeping drivers in one place is like herding—”

“Children?”

You snort, unable to help it. “Your words, not mine.”

Charles grins, pleased with himself, and takes a slow sip from his glass. His gaze remains on you, curiosity flickering behind the teasing. You wonder, briefly, if this is how he always is, charming, easygoing, entirely too confident for his own good.

And, annoyingly, it’s working.

“I suppose I should let you get back to preventing disasters,” he muses after a beat, though he makes no actual move to leave.

“You suppose correctly.”

He hums, setting his empty glass down with an exaggerated sigh. “A shame.”

You arch a brow. “Why?”

“Because I think it'd be much more fun if you took a break.” His voice drops just slightly, a thread of something almost challenging woven through it.

You exhale, shaking your head. “I don’t have time for breaks.”

His smile is slow, deliberate. “Maybe you should make time.”

And then, just as easily as he appeared, he turns and disappears into the crowd, leaving you standing there, pulse annoyingly uneven.

You think that’s the last of it. But Charles seems determined to prove you wrong.

You see him again near the backstage producers area, where he absolutely doesn’t need to be. The space is a flurry of activity, you’re mid-discussion with a sound tech, trying to sort out an audio issue that could derail the entire segment, when you feel a familiar presence.

He walks by, clearly in no rush, hands in his pockets, he catches your eye, smiles, and keeps going, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Then again when you’re near the dressing rooms, balancing a stack of equipment, you sense him before you see him. This time he doesn’t just walk by, he stops, standing directly in your path, one hand outstretched.

“Need help?”

You narrow your eyes, shifting the weight of the equipment in your arms slightly. “Are you even supposed to be here?”

He shrugs, entirely unbothered. “Probably not.”

“Charles.”

“What?”

You exhale, shaking your head. “I don’t have time to babysit you.”

He places a hand over his heart mockingly, eyes twinkling with mischief. “So harsh. And here I was, just trying to be helpful.”

“Shouldn’t you be doing Ferrari things?” you ask, arching a brow.

His lips twitch. “Ferrari things?”

“You know. Smiling for cameras, charming sponsors, pretending you’re not dying for the event to be over.”

He tilts his head, smirk deepening. "Who says I’m pretending?"

You scoff. "So you are over it."

"Not everything." His gaze lingers just a beat too long. "Present company excluded."

That gives you pause. He studies you for a moment, then gestures to your clipboard. “Five minutes. I promise not to steal your precious clipboard.”

You arch a brow. “Bold of you to assume I’d let it out of my sight.”

His laughs. “I figured. But if I have to compete for your attention, I’d at least like a fair shot.”

You hesitate, glancing around at the chaos still unfolding around you but then again, Charles Leclerc is standing in front of you, eyes locked onto yours like he has nowhere else he would rather be.

“…Five minutes,” you relent.

His smile is triumphant. “That’s all I need.” He waits until you set your clipboard down, watching with an amused tilt of his head.

“I have a million things to do,” you counter.

“Then what’s five minutes?” He leans against the wall, entirely at ease.

You cross your arms. “And what exactly do you plan to do in these precious five minutes?”

His grin widens. “Well, I was thinking of just standing here and watching you stress, but that feels a little cruel.”

You huff, unimpressed. “Glad to know you’re self-aware.”

“I try,” he muses. “But I was actually going to ask if you wanted to grab a drink. Or at the very least, breathe.”

You glance around, half-expecting someone to swoop in and drag him away to something important. But no one does. He stands there, patiently waiting, like the answer genuinely matters to him.

“You’re persistent, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.” His expression softens, just slightly. “Look, I know how these events go. Nonstop. Overwhelming. Sometimes you need someone to remind you to take a second for yourself.”

You hesitate, just a beat too long, and Charles seizes the opportunity.

“I’ll even let you complain about my fellow drivers,” he offers. “No names needed. Just a little vent session.”

You press your lips together, fighting a smile. “Tempting.”

“Isn’t it?” He steps a fraction closer, lowering his voice. “So? What’ll it be?”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already reaching for your phone to set it aside. “Fine. Five minutes.”

Charles grins and his eyes sparkle like he’s just won a race.

And as he leads you toward a quieter area of the venue, you can’t help but think that maybe five minutes isn’t such a bad idea.

[tritoch]

the warrior of light as a game-breaking force of violence

there's a moment, relatively early in dawntrail, that establishes succinctly how out of place the warrior of light (as the savior of eorzea and main character of four successive final fantasy game plots) is in what is essentially the story of fresh new final fantasy protagonist wuk lamat. and it sets up quite nicely how the framework of fantasy video game conflict pulls the warrior of light forever towards violence as the expansion goes on.

spoilers through 7.0 follow

consider wuk lamat's kidnapping and rescue. bakool ja ja holds his blade to wuk lamat's throat, taunting you. his lackeys line up against your party in neat little ranks suspiciously reminiscent of a classic final fantasy encounter screen.

and it simply does not matter to the warrior of light. you stride right through their combat setup because you are beyond that by now. the warrior of light has absolutely no respect for the "we are about to do ATB combat" lineup. the camera even jumps the line for you in one continuous rotating shot, crossing the axis of action as though to emphasize through the disruption of visual convention how far outside the game's boundaries you are.

this is how far you are above the problems of dawntrail's first half. you cannot even be bound by the normal rules of cinematography and video game combat. everyone else here lined up for a good old-fashioned scrap and the warrior of light said haha nope actually. i'm going to stroll through here like a god of war astride this tiny battlefield. your henchmen cannot even raise a hand to me. i don't even have to engage in violence directly anymore. my mere presence is enough.

in fact, not only can bakool ja ja's henchmen not raise a hand to you, he's not even worthy of your direct intervention. he kidnaps wuk lamat and steals her keystones and frees valigarmanda and kidnaps hunmu rruk and none of it warrants the warrior of light so much as raising a finger. he's wuk lamat's recurring villain, that's not your problem. you're just here to take in the scenery.

zoraal ja spends his whole life aspiring to be thought of as his father's equal and a worthy successor to the dawnservant as the "resilient son." all it takes for gulool ja ja to acknowledge you as a warrior on his level is like a five minute sparring match. the acknowledgement from gulool ja ja that zoraal ja hungered for his whole life and would eventually go full cyborg supervillain to get via regicide is something the warrior of light receives casually in a throwaway line after their level 93 solo duty on the way to more important plot conversations.

it really seems for a second, in the first half of dawntrail, like you are strong enough and the problems simple enough for this to be a clean and easy adventure. bakool ja ja? power of friendship'd. mamook? successfully reintegrated, no worries about the crimes against humanity. rite of succession? handily won. nothing can stop you. even duty finder queue times have been conquered: you can do all your duties with trusts now.

all of which only makes it better when the second half has sphene ask you and wuk lamat directly: could your strength have been enough to save alexandria? could you have found a different way?

i know some people get very annoyed we don't intervene in the gulool ja ja fight. now personally i think if you see arthur and mordred squaring up it's rude to intervene, but beyond that, it simply wouldn't have mattered. by the time zoraal ja's forces arrived in tuliyollal, alexandria and tural were already on a collision course and doomed to conflict. your hands alone could never have averted this conflict. sphene was always bound to do what she did—and certainly a gulool ja ja without his reason would not be any more inclined to peace than wuk lamat and koana were.

there's a great little moment just before living memory where estinien, champion at reading the room, is like "okay so if thancred and i stay here that frees up you up, aibou, to do what you do best and save the world and have epic fights. woo!!!" and immediately afterwards you basically have to apologize to alisaie because part of the sort of unspoken premise of this whole trip in the first place was that you were, finally, not going to plunge into mortal peril to save the world. you were finally going to take it easy. you were finally done with that. and she has to sort of ruefully be like nah it's fine bro. i was trying to get you to take it easy and not do insane risky world-saving violence. but y'know these things (interdimensional invasions) happen.

by the time you reach the very last trial, all pretense that the warrior of light could have ever been beyond these problems has vanished. you were, very emphatically, not strong enough to hold onto all that was dear without sacrifice. gulool ja ja and otis and cahciua died. yyasulani was irreversibly changed, physically colonized and culturally decimated by another dimension. you systematically shut down each part of living memory, and all its friendly, charming, loving ghosts, with your own hands. with your own clicks.

not even the vaunted strength of the warrior of light is enough to overcome sphene's inexorable logic of conflict. and so, in the end, she plucks you out of the crowd and says, explicitly for reasons of your strength, that you are going to have to do a boss fight now. you are going to have to kill her and you are going to have to do it in a proper 8-on-1 trial, and she forces you to affirmatively state that you understand you're going to kill her.

did you think you were above it all? did you think you could get away from here with your weapon undrawn, with your hands clean? that for you and you alone the logic of conflict comes undone? wrong. wrong. wrong.

your strength cannot redeem you, says sphene. your friends cannot make these sacrifices for you. if you would play the hero then you must play the hero. no half-measures.

back to the duty finder with ye.

[jungwnies]

F1 GRID | Independence Day

୨ৎ : featuring : max verstappen, lewis hamilton, george russell, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by @runnergirl234) : celebrating the fourth of july with your f1 boyfriend <3

୨ৎ : genre : comedic romance & fluff ୨ৎ : tws : fireworks??? idk... ୨ৎ : word count : 3148

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : you guys should know how much of a sucker i am when it comes to introducing someone to a different culture, this was so so so fun to write🥲

ʚ・max verstappen

max didn’t get it.

“so, you just eat a lot and blow things up?” he crossed his arms, eyes narrowing like this was some elaborate prank.

“pretty much,” you said, handing him a beer.

he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “you americans are insane.” but he cracked open the beer anyway.

the backyard was packed. the grill smoked, the table was buried under piles of burgers and hot dogs, and a guy in an eagle tank top was aggressively tong-flipping ribs like his life depended on it. kids sprinted past with sparklers, and someone had already set off a rogue firework that nearly took out a lawn chair.

max surveyed the chaos like he was analyzing a new circuit. someone shoved a hot dog into his hand, and he stared at it like it was an untested setup change.

“no cutlery?”

“no, max. just eat it.”

he sighed but took a bite anyway. chewed. nodded slightly. “not bad. bit plain.”

he grabbed the mustard and squeezed way too hard. a horrifying amount of it slopped onto the bun. he stared at it for a long moment before taking another bite. his expression didn’t change, but you could see the regret.

“this was a mistake.”

when the fireworks started, he barely reacted at first, just tilting his head to watch as red and blue bursts lit up the sky. the next one was louder, the kind that rattled your ribs. he flinched, just a little.

“bit excessive,” he muttered.

someone handed him a sparkler, and he held it like it might explode in his fingers.

“just wave it around,” you said. “it’s fun.”

max verstappen does not “wave things around for fun.” but after a few seconds, he started moving it in small, cautious circles, still frowning in deep concentration. then, like it was a matter of principle, he traced out the number 1 in the air.

of course.

you laughed. he shot you a glare. “say nothing.”

the grand finale kicked in, launching fireworks in rapid, ear-shattering bursts. max, now fully resigned to the chaos, took a long sip of his beer and gave a small nod.

“alright,” he admitted. “i kind of get it.”

another firework exploded so hard it shook the ground. he blinked.

“…still think you’re all insane, though.”

ʚ・lewis hamilton

lewis adjusted his bucket hat, surveying the backyard scene with an amused but slightly wary expression. smoke curled from the grill, country music blared from a bluetooth speaker, and someone was setting up a folding table for what had been described to him as “competitive beer pong.”

“you lot take this holiday seriously, huh?” he mused, sipping on an iced matcha he had brought himself.

“it’s america’s birthday,” you said.

he chuckled. “right. and what’s the game plan? burgers and blowing things up?”

“basically.”

lewis shook his head, grinning. “so, absolute carnage, then.”

he fit in better than he probably expected. within ten minutes, he was deep in conversation about plant-based grilling techniques with someone’s confused but intrigued uncle. he took over the aux at one point, replacing the country anthems with smooth r&b, nodding along as he flipped a veggie burger with the confidence of a seven-time world champion.

when someone handed him a sparkler, he twirled it effortlessly between his fingers, making little figure eights in the air. “alright, i see the appeal,” he admitted, watching the light trail behind his movements.

then came the fireworks.

lewis leaned back in his chair, watching the first one explode across the sky. his sunglasses, which he had no reason to still be wearing at night, reflected the red and blue bursts.

“these are, what… not regulated?” he asked as another one screamed into the sky.

“not really.”

he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “man, if i did this in monaco, they’d fine me and take my yacht.”

still, he looked genuinely impressed. when the grand finale hit, shaking the ground with an almost comical level of intensity, he let out a low whistle.

“alright, america,” he said, tipping his hat slightly. “you do know how to put on a show.”

just as he said it, someone behind him lit an illegal firecracker that shot sideways, barely missing a parked truck. lewis instinctively dodged, years of racing reflexes kicking in.

he stared at the scorched grass for a long moment, then slowly turned back to you.

“yeah, i’m gonna stick to silverstone celebrations.”

ʚ・george russell

george arrived looking like he had just walked out of a country club. polo tucked in, hair perfectly styled, white sneakers that had clearly never touched a patch of grass. he took a slow, deliberate look around the backyard. shirtless guys were shotgunning beers, someone was wrestling with a grill that was clearly too hot, and kids were launching bottle rockets dangerously close to a tree. he exhaled through his nose and adjusted his watch like he was mentally preparing for what was about to unfold.

"alright," he muttered to himself. "let’s see how this goes."

at first, he took the polite approach. he asked well-structured questions about barbecue techniques, nodded attentively as someone explained the art of smoking ribs, and accepted a plate of food he clearly didn’t recognize with a determined sort of curiosity.

then he saw the keg stand.

he narrowed his eyes, watching as a group of guys hoisted someone upside down, beer pouring straight from the keg into his mouth while the crowd chanted encouragement.

"what exactly is happening there?" he asked, arms crossed.

you explained. he blinked. "and people enjoy this?"

before you could answer, someone clapped a hand on his back. a very large, very enthusiastic man in an american flag tank top grinned at him. "you're up next, british boy."

george let out a small, nervous chuckle, glancing at you like he was waiting for an escape. you just grinned. "it’s tradition."

for a moment, it looked like he might back out. then something shifted in his expression. that familiar look of determination. the same way he looked before attempting an impossible overtake. he squared his shoulders, handed you his drink, and nodded once.

"alright. if i’m doing this, i’m doing it properly."

what followed was the most technically flawless keg stand anyone had ever seen. a perfect lift-off, immaculate form, and balance so steady it looked choreographed. when he landed back on the ground, he wiped his mouth, adjusted his polo, and looked around.

"was that acceptable?"

the entire backyard erupted.

by the time the fireworks started, he was fully committed. the polo had been replaced with a ridiculous red, white, and blue hat. he accepted a plate of chili cheese fries without hesitation. he was even chanting “usa! usa!” along with a group of strangers like he had been waiting his whole life for this moment.

as the grand finale filled the sky, he leaned over to you, shaking his head with a laugh. "i have to admit, you lot know how to celebrate."

then someone behind him misfired a roman candle. the fireball shot sideways, missing him by inches. he spun around, hands on his hips, eyes wide.

"right," he said, voice slightly higher than usual. "and that is where i draw the line."

ʚ・carlos sainz

carlos had questions.

"wait, wait, wait," he said, holding up a hand as he surveyed the absolute chaos of the backyard. "so, today, we eat like… ten hamburgers, drink cervezas (beers), and then we throw fireworks at each other?"

"pretty much," you said, handing him a beer.

he exhaled through his nose and shook his head. "los americanos están locos, eh? (you americans are crazy, huh?)"

but he cracked open the beer anyway.

carlos adapted quickly. within ten minutes, he was fully involved in the grilling process, standing next to the guy manning the barbecue with his hands on his hips, nodding like he was strategizing a pit stop. when handed a hot dog, he examined it critically.

"where is the jamón? (ham) no chorizo? (spicy spanish sausage)" he asked, looking personally offended.

"just eat it, carlos."

he sighed dramatically but took a bite. then another. his expression didn't change, but he gave a small nod.

"okay, está bien (it's okay). but if i put aceitunas (olives) on this, it would be better."

then he saw the fireworks table. his eyes narrowed. "who is in charge of this? porque esto looks very unsafe (because this…)."

before you could respond, someone lit a firecracker that immediately fell over and shot straight across the lawn. carlos flinched, ducking like it was a rogue piece of debris from an f1 crash. his head snapped toward you.

"¡ay, madre mía! (oh my god!) this is allowed?"

you shrugged. "kind of."

his hands went to his hips again. he muttered something in spanish that you were pretty sure included words not suitable for broadcast. but by the time the real fireworks show started, carlos had finally given in.

reclining in a lawn chair, beer in hand, he watched the sky light up with red, white, and blue. he exhaled and shook his head with a small smile.

"okay," he admitted. "es un poco loco… pero me gusta. (it’s a little crazy… but i like it.)"

then, just as he said it, another rogue firework went off sideways. this one nearly took out a folding chair. carlos was on his feet in seconds.

"no, no, no! that is not normal! esto es peligroso! (this is dangerous!)"

you couldn't stop laughing as he pointed accusingly at the guy holding the lighter.

"¡hermano, tú no sabes lo que haces! (brother, you don’t know what you’re doing!) give me that thing!"

and just like that, carlos sainz was suddenly in charge of the fireworks, directing the entire show like an engineer over the radio.

ʚ・charles leclerc

charles was trying very hard to be polite.

it was his first fourth of july, and instead of some wild backyard rager, you had brought him to your family cookout, thinking it would be a nice, relaxed introduction to the holiday. that was your first mistake.

he had been handed a plate piled with enough food to feed a small country, your uncle had already declared him an honorary american, and your grandma had called him “such a handsome young man” at least three times. charles was handling it all with his usual charm, smiling and nodding as your family quizzed him about monaco like he was an ambassador rather than a formula 1 driver.

“you ever driven one of them nascars?” your cousin asked, chewing on a rib.

charles hesitated for half a second. “uh… no, not yet.”

“bet you’d be real good at it.”

he smiled. “i hope so.”

your cousin nodded seriously, like he had just made a groundbreaking discovery, then handed charles a sparkler. the wrong end.

charles, being charles, took it without question.

the second the lighter touched the tip, he yelped and dropped it straight onto the grass, shaking out his hand like he had just suffered a catastrophic brake failure.

“oh! merde!” he blinked at his fingers, then looked at you, eyes wide with a mix of betrayal and confusion. “it bit me.”

your cousin cackled. “man, you gotta hold the other end.”

charles gave him the most unimpressed look you had ever seen. “yes, i see that now.”

despite the initial trauma, he tried again, this time holding it the correct way. he watched the sparks flicker and pop, his expression turning thoughtful.

“this is actually nice,” he said, moving it gently through the air. he traced out a shape, pausing, then tried again. “i was trying to do my number, but i think i made a… fish?”

you leaned in. it was, indeed, a fish.

"close enough."

the fireworks started just as he got comfortable, your dad setting them off from the driveway like it was a carefully planned operation. charles leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the sky as red, white, and blue bursts lit up above.

for a moment, he was quiet, just watching. then he exhaled and smiled. “this is really beautiful.”

you were about to agree when another one went off way too close to the ground. charles flinched so hard he nearly spilled his drink, eyes darting toward the launch site.

“is it supposed to do that?”

your dad waved him off. “eh, it’s fine.”

charles did not look convinced. “i don’t think that is fine.”

another firework whistled sideways into a bush. charles shot up out of his chair.

“no, no, no—this is not normal!”

your cousin just laughed. “welcome to america, man.”

ʚ・lando norris

lando had never looked more out of his depth in his entire life.

and that included the time he got stuck on a beach in monaco.

you had brought him to your university’s fourth of july party, thinking it would be a fun, casual experience. that was your second mistake. your first mistake was underestimating how unhinged your friends were.

“okay, so let me get this straight,” lando said, standing in the middle of a backyard that looked like it had already survived three different safety car restarts. “you guys drink an obscene amount of alcohol, eat way too much food, and then you—what? just set things on fire?”

“yeah, pretty much.”

he blinked. “that’s mad.”

and yet, here he was, already double-fisting a beer and a plate of nachos, blending in like he had been here all semester.

the night started off fine. he played beer pong, overthought his technique, lost anyway, and then blamed the table for being “not regulation size.” he had his first ever corn dog, called it “weird but kinda amazing,” and then proceeded to eat three more. he even wore a ridiculous red, white, and blue cowboy hat that one of your friends had aggressively placed on his head.

everything was going smoothly. then someone handed him a roman candle.

“wait, what am i supposed to do with this?” he asked, inspecting the long tube like it was an unfamiliar steering wheel.

“just hold it and point it up,” you said, already realizing this was a mistake.

your friend lit it, and lando immediately panicked.

“oh my god, it’s on fire—IT’S ON FIRE.”

“yes, lando, that’s the point.”

“I DON’T LIKE IT.”

“JUST HOLD IT STILL.”

“I CAN’T.”

the first fireball shot out, straight up into the air. the second one did not.

instead, it veered at a slightly concerning angle, skimming past the roof of the house and nearly taking out a string of decorative lights. lando let out a full-on shriek, dropped the roman candle, and sprinted five steps away like the thing had personally offended him.

the candle, now abandoned, continued shooting rogue fireballs across the yard. your friends scattered. someone dove behind a cooler. one of your more chaotic friends cheered. lando, meanwhile, had his hands on his head, looking like he had just witnessed an absolute strategy disaster.

“oh my god,” he wheezed. “i almost died.”

“you did not almost die.”

“that was the most unsafe thing i’ve ever done, and i race at 200 miles per hour for a living!”

despite the near-death experience, lando stuck around. mostly because someone handed him another beer, and he was too emotionally drained to do anything but drink it. when the actual fireworks started, he stayed a healthy distance away, sipping his drink and shaking his head every time one exploded a little too close to the ground.

by the end of the night, he had recovered enough to join in on the chanting. he even put the cowboy hat back on.

“alright,” he admitted, exhaling. “that was actually kinda fun.”

then someone suggested doing sparklers. lando immediately held up both hands.

“no. absolutely not. i’ve learned my lesson. you lot are psychos.”

ʚ・oscar piastri

oscar piastri was trying his best.

you had invited him to your family’s fourth of july cookout, reassuring him it would be a relaxed evening with good food, nice company, and minimal chaos. that had been a lie.

now he was sitting on the porch, gripping a lemonade like it was a contract extension, watching your uncle aggressively flip burgers on the grill while your little cousins ran barefoot through the yard with sparklers. someone had already spilled an entire bowl of potato salad, your aunt was yelling at your dad about lighter fluid, and a bluetooth speaker was blasting country music at a volume that should have been illegal.

oscar took a slow sip of his drink. “so this is normal?”

you nodded. “completely normal.”

“right,” he said, nodding slightly. “that’s concerning.”

to his credit, he was doing his best to fit in. he helped carry the extra chairs outside, listened to your grandpa tell a very long-winded story about how “kids these days don’t know how to drive,” and politely answered every single person who asked if he knew daniel ricciardo.

he even attempted a game of cornhole. it did not go well.

“mate, you’ve got to actually aim,” your cousin said as oscar’s beanbag completely missed the board.

“i am aiming.”

“then why does it look like you’re throwing a penalty kick?”

oscar’s next toss went even further off course. he turned to you, deadpan. “i don’t like this game.”

the real trouble started when your little cousin, clearly taking advantage of his foreign guest status, decided to hand oscar a firework. not a sparkler. not a small fountain. a full-blown roman candle.

oscar held it with both hands, staring at it like it was an unexploded bomb. “am i being set up?”

“just light it and hold it up,” your cousin said.

oscar frowned. “that sounds fake, but okay.”

he did as he was told, but the second the first fireball shot out, he visibly tensed, gripping the firework like he was on the final lap in monaco. another fireball launched, and he let out a quiet but very real “oh no.”

“it’s fine,” you reassured him.

“it doesn’t feel fine,” he said, carefully adjusting his stance like he was bracing for impact. “how long does this last?”

“maybe ten more shots.”

oscar sighed. “great. love that for me.”

when the roman candle finally fizzled out, he let out the slowest exhale of his life and handed it back like he had just completed a dangerous mission.

“alright,” he said. “i have now contributed to the chaos. that should fulfill my american initiation, yes?”

the night ended with fireworks, which oscar watched from what he clearly deemed the safest possible location—standing just inside the house, one foot over the threshold in case he needed to make a quick exit.

when someone asked if he had fun, he paused for a moment, considering his answer.

“well,” he said, taking another sip of lemonade. “i still have all my fingers. so i’d call that a success.”

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[i-am-a-bad-influence-writes]

P*rn ☆  Introduction

Masterlist Word count: 1 k Sylus x Fem!Reader

Summary: You have been following a spicy content creator by the name of Red Crow for some time now. Nothing could’ve prepared you for what would happen when he moves into the apartment next door.

Warning! This story is meant for mature audiences. It contains sex, swear words, porn, smoking, intimate piercings, mentions of drugs, and other mature themes. Do not engage if you are under 18.

Mature content under the cut. This part is setup. No graphic content yet.

∘₊✧───────────────────────────────────────✧₊∘ 

It's been fucking years! Not by your choice. No, not at all. You just hadn't had the time or the energy, but God do you crave it. It hadn't really bothered you the first year. You had gone on dates regularly, but despite your love for intimacy you need a certain level of connection before you lay down and take it. Sure, you had a few nice connections but no one that managed to turn you on. 

Not like he does. 

Ever since your regular booty call called it off, you started watching some adult content. At first nothing really seemed to call to you. You were flipflopping from category to category as if you were flipping through a magazine, leaving you high and dancing on the edge of full gratification every single time. Sure, you came but it never felt that great. 

Then you found him. 

Tall as a fucking mountain, grey hair, red eyes, sly smile, toned body, strong nose that's ever so slightly crooked. You even remember the little scar under his left eye. But what does it for you, most of all, is his voice. Low and gravely, constantly teasing and commanding. There's something more to it though. When he gets to the edge, it's almost as if he wants someone to take over and it fucking gets you going. Makes your panties go from bone dry to soaking wet in a matter of seconds. 

Worst of all, the man has a TikTok page and a Tumblr page. Neither are all that suggestive. The TikTok has some thirst traps and workout videos, but the Tumblr page is a different story. On there, he reads spicy romance books to his audience. He had tried it before on YouTube but got taken down real fast. Those books, the way his voice picks up and changes with the story. It's truly something magical. You'd almost consider it better content than the videos of him stroking his dick, though you don't mind that those exist at all. 

And today is Friday, which means he's posting a new chapter and there's a possibility of a new video on TikTok. Nothing too riveting but enough to get you going and keep you going for the weekend. You're looking at a long and satisfying weekend with your magic wand. Just one more hour until your shift is done. 

∘₊✧───────────────────────────────────────✧₊∘ 

'Again?!' Sylus’ voice booms through the living room of his apartment. If it were any louder, the walls would shiver. 'I was so fucking careful this time,' he says through gritted teeth. His hand has a strong grasp on his phone, almost snapping the thing in his fit of rage. 

"I don't know what to tell you man. Maybe someone followed you?" Kieran, the ever daft creator that makes spicy content with his friend Luke, tells him in the kindest voice he can must up. He knows just as well as Sylus that the man is impossibly popular. It all happened overnight just a year or two ago when he made a video humping a pillow and groaning praises to a nonexistant partner. Ever since then, he's been making content solo. It's doing much better than his partnered stuff used to.  

It also came with unwanted attention. Sylus lives for the praises and truly feral comments on his socials and spicy content, but this. This goes too far. It's the third time in as many years he's been doxed. If it were a stalked he could go to the police but it seems to be someone different each time. 

Sylus groans and runs a hand through his hair. 'I should move further away this time.' 

"That's the understatement of the century. Just be glad they haven't got your name yet." 

Yet. The word rings in Sylus’ head for a little longer than he would like it to. If those feral women and men got his name, he would never get any peace again. Sure, he was the one that decided to put his face in all those videos and that might've been stupid. It is stupid. Especially for someone who likes his privacy as much as Sylus does. 

"Oh, Luke just said he knows a place for you. He has a friend who owns an apartment ages away from your place. He's been looking for someone to lease it to." 

'I can trust this person?' 

"Yes, for sure. I know this guy too. He's some flamboyant artist that owns too many properties to keep track of who lives where." Sylus sighs, a rumble going through his chest. 

'Fine, get me the contact info.' 

∘₊✧───────────────────────────────────────✧₊∘ 

'You doing anything fun this weekend,' your friend and colleague Tara asks with a sweet smile. You almost spill and tell her, but she's far too pure to understand any of your desires. It'd be better to keep this friendship as wholesome as it is. 

'Nothing much. I don't have any plans for once. I'm probably going to binge that TV show you recommended.' 

'Oooh, tell me what you think about it,' she replies excitedly. At that moment, a car honks, and she looks up. Her lovely boyfriend is waiting for her in the car. 'See you soon,' she says with a quick wave and off she goes. The man even gets out of the car to open the passenger door for her. Such a nice man. He waves to you and you nod back. You know him a little, but he never comes along to any company events or dinners. If you're not mistaken, his name is Kieran. Nice guy. 

You make your way to your car and drive home. Traffic is terrible but uneventful. All you can think about is sitting down on the couch at home and listening to whatever Red Crow has cooked up this time. 

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