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burningdevotion · 2 days ago

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dbf!Joel who cant get enough of your taste and feel / headcanons

a/n: I literally only made this side blog to get this out of my system, so consider this me dropping off a present (smut) at the doorstep of your house (the Joel Miller fandom) before I walk away again lol, hope you like these!!

warnings: nswf, big age gap (reader in her early 20s, Joel in his 50s) it’s mostly filth but kinda romantic too because he’s just drunk on his girl’s juice and who can blame him for being an obsessive lover?

౨ৎ didnt wanna put it in the title but basically: he’s obsessed with your pussy. your cunt. whatever you prefer to call it. he is spell-bound and driven mad by it. every little thing about it.

but let me give you get a bit of backstory first:

౨ৎ your affair started during the last week of your first summer back home from college. you’d known him for years, since he lived right down the street and was your dad’s dearest friend, but only once you werent in high school anymore did you really start caring for him, talking to him like a fellow adult, joining your dad and him for a drink out in the garden every now and then, and soon enough you realized: oh. fuck. he’s hot. really fuckking hot. how did I not realize this before.

౨ৎ he had similar feelings. before you were off age, he’d never even considered your physique in any intense way, he was not the type of guy to leer at teenage girls, especailly not when they were his friends precious girl, but after you’d spent an entire year at college and came back seeming all grown up and confident in your own adult life far away from home, more mature and independent, something switched and he allowed himself to really take a good look at you when you were around, and then all of a sudden realized it: she is perfect. a goddamn dream. oh, I am fucked. I want my best friend’s daughter. desperately. lord help me.

౨ৎ for the entire summer the tension kept rising - you both felt it more each time you saw each other, even when you just passed each other on the street, that chemistry, that pull towards each other, the intrigue, the primal sense of need that no amount of repression could get rid of, like two animals who were destined mates circling each other while trying not to pounce. but it was helpless. a few nights before you had to fly back to your college town, you went over to his place and a harmless "I’m gonna miss you." turned into frantic, sloppy, needy kissing, making out, dry-humping and two hours of the most passionate mindblowing sex you couldve ever imagined, all that pent up need finally bursting out, first on the couch, then in bed, him worshipping your body in every possible way, kissing and grabbing and tasting you all over, making you come over and over without even worrying about his own orgasms, his cock leaking from the second he got the first taste of you, that divine first drop of the juice hed consider his life source from that point on.

౨ৎ from that first night, it blew your mind just how much he loved to taste you. he didnt just eat you out until your legs shook (which he did. merciselly so.) before even thinking of fucking you, he did it again and again during and after sex, whenever you switched positions he took a moment to lap up everything that had leaked out of you while being pounded by him, easing your pretty, swollen, raw lips with slow strokes of his tongue, playing with your clit, rubbing you, marvelling at the delicious sight of your pussy all glistening and pulsating, before putting his cock back inside, always making sure that you were turned on and ready, that he wouldnt hurt you no matter how hard he went - still, he didnt just do it to prep you, he always did it for his own pleasure, always, greedy as hell the way he´d hold you in place with your legs spread apart, making you wait and whimper from the emptiness until hed continue fucking you, cooing at you "shh, lemme get a taste baby, just a lil taste of that sweetness, gonna fill you up again, dont you worry"

౨ৎ from that point on, you ached for each other badly when you were away at college and then reuinted in the most heated, intense way whenever you came back home - for thanksgiving, christmas, spring break, etc. - it always went the same way, you could always tell that he’d been starving so bad for your taste that he nearly came in his pants whenever he started eating you out the first day you were back home, back in his bed. he always ruined you. fully. in the best possible way. he ate you out so eagerly and for so long that you thought you might black out from pleasure.. whimpering and shaking and sweating, drenching the sheets in more ways than one, while you were flat on your back, while you were on your hands and knees and he could eat it from the back, while you were riding his face and soaked his mouth and nose - he was always beyond relieved to finally have you back, the second he ripped your jeans and panties down he always moaned things like "you’ve no idea how much I missed this sweet lil pussy of yours, no fuckin idea, girl, lay back and let me taste you"

౨ৎ whenever he has your legs pressed up and gets ready to slip his length into you, he shamelessly stares down and feels his mouth water and his veins bludging when he watches his cock be swallowed up by your folds, its a sight that drives him fucking wild, that beautiful pussy of yours that he adores so much, always taking him in so easily and perfectly, taking it all without any resistence (because youre always eager, never hestiant or uncomfortable, not with him) - he will stare as he starts building up a ryhthm and struggle to tear his eyes away but your pretty face does the trick: the second you start moaning loudly from his deep strokes, he will look up to you, caressing your face, praising and reassuring you "good girl, taking me so fuckin well.. that feel good babygirl? yeah? like that?"

౨ৎ you told him from the beginning that you were on birth control and tracked your period so he could fuck you raw - especially when you werent ovulating - but he refused, too paranoid about even the slightest chance of getting you pregnant, but. it was only a matter of time. one time, in the middle of it, when you were already three orgasms in and a soaking needy mess, he couldn’t take it anymore and took the condom off before he begged you "come here baby, sit on my lap, ride it nice n slow, make a pretty mess, wanna feel it all” wayyy too eager, throbbing so hard he almost passed out when you took him in and he could feel every last drop of your juices coating the sensitive skin of his length, nearly losing his mind when you told him to come inside you a few minutes later, moaning like he was dying when he filled you with his cum for the first time and felt you squeeze him and drain him (he was a goner after that, couldnt go back to fucking with a condom, even when he knew it was unwise, the feel of you around him was just too fucking good)

౨ৎ other men might be turned off by the idea of eating their girl out right after a cream pie, but not him. he does not let his own taste deter him, not at all, so sometimes when youre done having sex and youre laying there all shaky and flushed and raw from it all, whimpering because you’re still riled up, he will ease you by playing with your clit a bit, helping your worn out body enjoy the aftershocks, whispering "look at you, gorgeous girl... real sensitive right now, hm? need a bit more, need some help there?" before he leans down and licks up the mess he made of you, your juices and his mixed together, eating you out more gently than before and giving you a final orgasm before he really lets you come down and holds you in his arms (takes every last chance to get his mouth on you)

౨ৎ whenever you leave to go back to your house afterwards, he tries to put off his shower for as long as possible because he wants his hands to keep smelling like you... he will sit there and zone out while he has his fingers pressed up against his nose, taking a few deeeep breaths in, savoring the lingering scent of your juices, maybe even licking his fingers to get a hint of a taste before he eventually has to take his nightly shower and mourns the loss of that reminder of your love-making </3

౨ৎ sometimes late at night when your dad is already asleep or busy watching tv/reading, you take the chance to get a quickie in before bed - you’ll sneak out through the back door and come over to Joel already in your pajamas, sleepy and needy, horny and in the mood for something sensual, not a full on hookup, but just a bit of touching, and he always oblidges, no matter if its 10pm or already 1am, he will let you sit on his lap or next to him on the couch and play with your pussy as you relax and sigh, moaning to you about how much he loves to feel you like that, his big fingers so gentle with it, so skilled, the tension of the day leaving you immediately

౨ৎ he will make you suck his fingers and then rub your clit nice and slow, dipping his fingertips between your folds and dragging them up and down to gather every last drop, filthy with it as you squirm and mewl, comfortable as youre pressed up against his side, one of his arms steading you as he tells you how fuckin good you feel, to spread your legs nice n wide for him, easing one, two, or sometimes three fingers into you, switching between the fingering and jerking off motions until youre drenched and quivering and come hard enough to be breathless from it - youll give him a few heartfelt kisses and touches before you sneak back into your room, all tingly and heavy from pleasure, put to sleep very fast by his actions (you feel safe doing it, coming over just for that when you’re not gonna stay for long, because he never demands anything in return and enjoys it just as much as you, he can jerk himself off after you’re gone, he just loves to see you on his doorstep looking all sweet and desperate and to know he’ll get to have a taste/feel for a few minutes, its become a ritual that he asks "need help with somethin, darlin?" knowing damn well what he needs to do to "help" you)

౨ৎ in general, he always makes sure you know that any touch or taste of you is enough to satisfy him, getting head from you in return or being allowed to fuck you senseless is just the cherry on top, he would die a happy man if all he ever got to do was eat you out and finger you <3

౨ৎ before he eats you out, he will press his face between your legs, his nose right up against the fabric, and stay like that for a few seconds to get an immediate heavy hit of your scent, the dampness of your panties enough to drive him wild before even getting a proper taste

౨ৎ one time he pointed at your panties that were crumpled on the floor next to his bed and said "I´m keeping those by the way. need a reminder of that sweet juice of yours until youre back here" so you joked and said he could keep them for good if he gave you money to buy a new pair, but he actually did it and told you to buy a color or fabric he hadnt seen you in before, to surprise him next time

౨ৎ hed never be weird about you using toys or masturbating frequently, even while youre back home and are having sex regularly with him, he wants you to feel as good as possible, all the time, so if you enjoy jerking off a certain way and he maybe even gets a front row seat to it as well sometimes? hes in heaven. you playing with your pussy for him to see, thats a night to his liking, doesnt even need to lead to sex, it usually does of course, but hed be glad to just let you go to town on your own and be an eager witness and supporter, stroking your back, caressing your hips and thighs, kissing you all over as you get yourself off <3

౨ৎ he loves to rub his tip over your wetness before he inches himself in. its never a long ordeal because he doesnt like to tease you to a point where it feels cruel but it just feels so fucking divine to him, having his throbbing tip gather up all that thick velvety wetness, also loveees when youre on top and just slide your folds over his dick before taking it inside, nearly loses his mind whenever you do it like that, grinding yourself over his shaft before you relieve him from the tension and sit down on him, he curses under his breath and shuts his eyes and groans like noboys business...

౨ৎ he gets so hard from giving you head that it almost hurts at times... so he might just pull his dick out and jerk himself off when it gets too intense, humping his own palm as he finishes you off with his mouth, pathetic as hell but so fucking hot the way he groans and cums right after you ride your orgasm out against his tongue

౨ৎ sometimes when hes over at your place to see your dad and you happen to be there, it takes all of his willpower not to drag you into the bathroom to touch or tongue-fuck you especially! when youre sitting there all pretty in your summer clothes with your thighs exposed, or your midriff/lower belly showing, not sitting like a lady but with your legs far apart and relaxed, in a way that would allow him to get on his knees and have his way right then and there... poor man struggles to string together a proper sentence when youre in the room like that, sweating through his shirt in a way that makes your dad refill his drink, you only grinning to yourself and torturing him for a moment longer before you say bye and head out of the day, already imagining what hes gonna do later on

౨ৎ to put it plainly: Joel always always always wants a taste. no matter where or when, the moment your affair started, he knew he’d never be able to get enough of it, and he is glad to live in that constant state of desire after years of being numb in that regard, you woke him up again and at his age it felt like a miracle to experience the kind of sex and passion he could have only dreamed of when he was younger

౨ৎ he sometimes almost fucks up and moans "fuck baby I love you so much" or something similar when he’s deep inside of you because it all just feels too good, the feverish rush of your sacred intimacy will push those words to the tip of his tongue, he always swallows them a second before its too late or kisses you to stop himself from blurting it all out

౨ৎ you can feel it though, that he loves you. deeply so. that youre not just a hookup for him, the same way he isnt just that to you, you can feel it whenever youre in the throes of passion with him: that even though you two are a secret and wont ever be more than that, Joel will always cherish you and care for you and be right there to please you if your future boyfriend/husband ever decides to neglect his duty of getting on his knees and worshipping his woman the way she deserves ;)

౨ৎ he’s already going to hell for sleeping with his best friends daughter, so he’d have no problem giving her exactly what she needs one more time, or a few more times.. if she ever decided to come back to him down the line, not his fault that tasting an angel like that might make him a corrupted soul - he’d take having your soft sighs in his hear, your warm lips on his face, your sweet honey coating his mouth and fingers, over having a clean conscience, any. damn. day.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfic #tlou fanfic #joel miller smut #the last of us fanfiction

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cod-thoughts · 3 months ago

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Spent and sweating with a look on your face

Word count: 3.6k

Relationships: NikPrice, PriceNik

Tags: Erectile Dysfunction, blow jobs, fingering, hand jobs, established relationship, smut

Part of a project that has a tiny explanation here. Keep reading under the cut!!

AN: Happy valentines day @on-a-lucky-tide!! I hope you're having a fun evening!! I wrote smut for you look how brave wow (/j) You literally got me writing fics again with NikPrice back when i would lurk on your blog and here we are many many fics later. genuinely thank you, the community you have fostered here is so kind and genuine, full of support. Its really made coming back to writing fics 100x times easier so thank you for that <333 Sending you many many hugs mate <3

The flat was warm when Price stepped inside, shaking off the last of the evening chill. The low hum of the television filled the space, some old war film playing in the background, but the real sight that caught his eye was Nik—stretched out on the couch, legs lazily spread, book in one hand, the other draped over his stomach, bare from the waist up.

Price let the door swing shut behind him, exhaling slow as he took in the sight. Nik must’ve showered earlier—his hair was still a little damp, curling at the ends, and his skin carried the faint scent of something clean and familiar. He looked entirely at ease, utterly unbothered, a stark contrast to the long day Price had just waded through.

Nik barely glanced up, shifting only enough to tip his chin toward him. “You’re home.”

“Mm.” Price rolled his shoulders, slipping off his jacket, boots clunking softly as he toed them off. He walked over and leaned down, pressing a slow kiss to the top of Nik’s head, breathing him in. “Missed you.”

Nik huffed, amused, but didn’t protest when Price pressed another kiss, this time at his temple. “You always miss me.”

Price hummed in agreement, letting his fingers drift across Nik’s chest, over warm skin and old scars. “Yeah, well. Hard not to.”

Nik still didn’t put the book down, but the hand on his stomach shifted slightly, thumb grazing along Price’s wrist in a lazy, absentminded touch. That small, unconscious bit of affection had Price’s chest going warm, a deep, settled thing curling under his ribs. He kissed his way down, cheek brushing against Nik’s jaw, lips grazing the corner of his mouth.

That earned him a glance, sharp but not unwelcoming. “You are in a mood,” Nik observed, though there was no complaint in it, only quiet amusement.

Price grinned, pressing his weight forward, nudging Nik until there was nowhere for him to go but down, until the book slipped from his grip entirely and onto the floor. “Yeah, maybe.”

Nik exhaled a laugh, letting Price crowd into his space, the shift in weight naturally pulling him to sit up straighter. His hands found Price’s waist instinctively, steadying him as Price settled right into his lap, slotting against him easily. The kisses deepened, slow but sure, Price’s fingers threading through Nik’s hair as he tilted his head up, coaxing, unhurried.

Nik let out a low sound, soft and indulgent, his hands resting warm against Price’s back. But there was something else, something in the way he wasn’t quite leaning in the way he usually did. Price could feel it before he could name it—the slight hesitation, the way Nik responded but never took the lead, the small, nearly imperceptible pause between kisses.

It took him another breath to realise.

Nik wasn’t quite in the mood.

Not in the way Price was.

Price eased up just a fraction, pulling back enough to meet Nik’s gaze properly, studying him. Nik looked back at him, a small flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, something Price recognised but hadn’t quite placed yet.

That was when he understood.

Price let his hands slow, still resting against Nik’s jaw, thumbs brushing lightly over his cheekbones. He could feel the tension beneath them, just barely there—like a string pulled too tight, not quite snapping, but not entirely at ease either.

He pressed one more kiss to Nik’s mouth, softer this time, less intent behind it. Then another, trailing the last of his affection along Nik’s jaw before murmuring against his skin, “You alright?”

Nik exhaled, hands tightening slightly where they rested on Price’s back. His mouth pressed into something wry, something just shy of apologetic. “Yeah,” he said, and Price could tell it was mostly the truth—but not entirely.

Price tilted his head, studying him. “Don’t look it.”

Nik huffed out a short laugh, but there was no real humour in it. He shifted a little beneath him, hands rubbing slow, absentminded circles into Price’s lower back. “Just—” He exhaled again, shaking his head slightly. “My body is not responding how I want it to. My apologies Mishka,”

He didn’t move away. Didn’t roll off Nik’s lap or pull back as if this changed anything, because it didn’t. Not in any way that mattered. Instead, he smoothed his hands down Nik’s shoulders, feeling the tension beneath them, and leaned in just a little, forehead brushing against Nik’s.

“That alright?” he murmured, voice low but steady, nothing teasing in it, just a quiet offer to let Nik set the pace, to let him take a breath.

Nik’s hands gripped his waist, grounding. He let his eyes close briefly before opening them again, meeting Price’s gaze with something grateful in them, even if he wouldn’t say it out loud. “Yes,” he admitted. “I-uh–,”

“I know.” Price interrupted.

Nik sighed again, this time more at ease, hands rubbing warm against Price’s back. “Sorry, lyubov.”

Price scoffed, leaning in to press another kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Don’t be stupid,” he muttered against his lips. “Not something to be sorry about.”

Nik didn’t answer right away, but some of the tension melted out of him, his arms curling around Price’s back, holding him there as if to prove to himself that this was still alright. And it was. Of course, it was.

Price let him sit with it, let the moment settle between them like the steady rhythm of their breathing, warm and unhurried.

Eventually, Price smirked slightly, nosing at Nik’s temple. “Still think you look good like this, though.”

Nik let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Of course you do.”

Price grinned, kissing him again—because, really, that was the truth of it. “Can you tell me when to stop? I wanna try somethin’, yeah love?”

“Always.” Nik breathed against Price’s lips.

Price hummed, letting his fingers drift along Nik’s jaw, the rasp of stubble familiar under his touch. He tilted Nik’s head up slightly, capturing his lips again—slow, unhurried, not pushing, just feeling.

Nik sighed against him, the tension in his shoulders loosening further as Price traced lazy circles over his skin, letting the warmth between them settle into something comfortable. The moment didn’t need fixing, didn’t need salvaging. It was already good—just the two of them, close like this, the low hum of the television still playing in the background.

Price shifted slightly in Nik’s lap, hands smoothing down his sides, the fabric of his shirt bunching under Nik’s grip. His touch was steady, grounding, and Price could feel him relaxing under it, the way Nik’s breathing evened out, the slow drag of his fingers against his back.

“Still alright?” Price murmured, lips brushing against the shell of Nik’s ear.

Nik exhaled, a hint of a smile in his voice. “You do not need to keep asking.”

Price chuckled, trailing his mouth along the line of Nik’s throat, pressing another kiss there, then another. He felt the faint shudder that ran through Nik’s body, the way his grip on Price’s waist tightened just a little.

“Let me take care of you, then,” Price murmured, voice lower now, something softer laced beneath the words.

Nik’s breath hitched—just slightly—but his hands never wavered where they held him. “Mishka…” he murmured, and Price could feel the weight behind it, the quiet trust.

He kissed him again, deeper this time, fingers curling into Nik’s hair, coaxing, guiding, letting the warmth between them start to build again, slow and careful.

He felt Nik’s large paws untuck the hem of his shirt and start hiking it up, reluctantly pulling away from Nik’s addicting warmth to get his shirt off and chucked at the floor. Nik didn’t waste any time and went right for Price’s belt, opening it and unbuttoning his trousers.

The rough calluses on Nik’s palms scraped against his skin in a familiar way as Nik ran his hands all over the newly exposed skin. Nik brought his hand back up to Price’s chest, squeezing and groping at any skin available before finding his way to Price’s nipples, his hips jerking with every pinch and flick.

“Always so sensitive for me,” He groaned against Price’s lips.

“Mmm, just you, Nik. Let me–Ah!” Price was interrupted by Nik wrapping his lips around a nipple and sucking with just the right amount of pressure. His grip in Nik’s hair tightened and he dragged him back up, connecting their foreheads together. “Let me get you out of these, please.” He heaved out, gesturing at Nik’s soft sweatpants.

Price slid off of Nik’s lap and let him readjust against the couch as he knelt in between those gorgeous thick thighs.

“John, as beautiful as you are on your knees I really do not see why you are down there,” Price huffed a laugh at that, clearly Nik has no idea what’s in store for him this evening.

“Just sit back, let me take care of you, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Nik responded, still unsure what exactly his lover had in mind but they always found a way to have fun, he had to trust Price with this part of him too.

“Okay,” Price started to tug down Nik’s sweatpants and underwear in one go, pausing to let Nik raise his hips and trailing his hands all the way from his thighs to his calves, slowly and deliberately taking them off. Once they pooled around Nik’s ankles Price tugged them off gently and nudged them aside. He took a second to just admire his partner, laid out like this, naked and so trusting it was intoxicating.

Now that his sweatpants were off, Price could touch freely without the abstraction of fabric in his way, and he did just that. Running his hands along skin and feeling every inch of skin as his hands went higher up he could feel the hair thinning on Nik’s inner thighs before getting coarse again closer to his cock. Price just repeated this motion a couple of times, he couldn’t help himself. No matter how many times he’d done this, been on his knees for Nik, memorised every inch of his skin, it would never be enough for his greedy hands.

“You ever put the lube away from a couple days ago? Or should I go fishing in our couch?”

“Ah, you may have to use your skills and find it, Captain.” At Nik’s sheepish reply, Price dug his hand in between the cushions until he grasped the bottle and pulled it out. Setting it beside his knee for later he brought his hands back to Nik’s thighs.

Wrapping his hands around them, Price yanked Nik forward, eliciting a surprised yelp from the man above him. He shuffled forward a little and looked up at Nik as he opened his mouth and dragged the tip of his tongue from Nik’s inner thigh, up his sac and all the way to the tip of his soft cock.

“John, fuck, you have to know, you look, absolutely sinful but…it may not work,”

Price pulled back slightly, “I’m not trying to get you hard, Nik. I just want to make you feel good, let me do that. Please.”

Nik nodded at that, deciding to get out of his head and let Price do what he wants. What he wants is rarely ever deserving of a complaint from Nik, why should that change now?

Price could see Nik’s whole body slowly unwind as he relaxed into the couch, tilting his head back and slowing down his breathing. Price smirked up at Nik through his lashes,clearly pleased, it sent a shiver down the Russians spine.

Price just continued running his hands over as much of Nik’s body as he could reach even as he tilted his head towards Nik’s balls, mouthing at the skin there, inhaling his intoxicating scent that somehow always lingered even after a shower. Price felt his own cock twitch just at the smell of his partner, nuzzling further into the crease where Nik’s cock and his thigh met. Licking and tasting that area, sucking a teasing mark into the thin skin there before moving upwards.

Nik was still soft but that didn’t deter Price, he just wrapped his lips around the soft length of his partner and sucked the head into his mouth. He groaned at the taste of Nik in his mouth, making sure to pull back and then sink further down, getting Nik’s cock wet to avoid any discomfort as he continued to bob his head.

Price suddenly took Nik all the way down his throat, swallowing around the tip of his cock and burying his nose into the thick, dark patch of hair at the base of Nik’s cock. Inhaling deeply, relaxing his throat, Price reached blindly by his knee for the bottle of lube he had left there earlier. Sucking gently around Nik’s cock to keep him distracted and to keep those soft sounds coming from above him flowing, Price uncapped their lube, squeezed a small amount of it into his hand and rubbed his fingers together to spread it around.

He lowered his shoulders and rounded his back enough to get Niks legs over his shoulders, Price straightened, bringing Nik's legs up with him slightly startling the other but Price just kept up the soft, slow bobbing of his head.

He wrapped his dry hand around Nik's thigh gently kneading at the muscle and fat there, the fingers covered in lube pressed against Nik's perineum, probing softly at the skin there.

"Mm, feels good, John," Was heard above him as a hand gripped the hairs on the top of Price's head, trying to speed up the slow, lazy pace Price had set. Price wanted to keep this gentle and soft for Nik but the sound of him, the feel of him, the smell of him made that quite the challenge.

Instead of speeding up however, he decided to move his finger further along to nudge gently against Nik's opening. Spreading the warmed up lube around before slowly inching the tip of his finger in. Nik gasped above him at the feeling, spreading his legs further and melting into the couch. The movement forced Price further onto Nik's cock, choking him slightly, Price groaned at the feeling before pulling off to get some air in his lungs.

He took the opportunity to bite around Nik's thighs, to suck some light marks into the thin skin of his inner thigh. Price moved back to Nik's balls, licking at them as he pushed his finger further inside of Nik.

Price started thrusting his finger in and out and Nik, slowly and gently fucking him, working him up to the second relatively quickly. He nudged the second one in next to the first, gently pushing in, feeling the walls around his fingers tighten then relax around him.

Price trailed his tongue across Nik's cock to get it back in his mouth, feeling it twitch and leak under his tongue was intoxicating, knowing his partner was enjoying this even if he wasn't hard was heady. Or maybe that was just what being in between Nik's thighs does to him.

His fingers pushed in then pulled out gently, easing in so carefully until they were fully inside Nik. Now, Price could actually start fucking Nik. He started thrusting his fingers in faster and moving them around inside Nik until a particular spot had Nik moaning out his name, brokenly stuttering around some praise for Price.

He kept going, massaging that spot, bobbing his head and swallowing around Nik's soft cock. The man above him groaning and moaning in a mix of Russian and English. Price's name, his rank, anything to let him know he needed to keep going.

Price himself wasn't faring any better, his own neglected cock twitching with every pull of his hair, every groaned out piece of praise. His focus fully on the man under him, on making him feel as good as possible. Price's hips kept stuttering and jerking, the friction from his trousers digging into him, a mix of pleasure/pain that felt achingly good.

Suddenly Nik's moaning got more frantic. "Mishka, please, please—ah—keep going, just like that. Fuck! I—,"

Price could feel Nik's cock twitching inside his mouth, his hole fluttering around his fingers before tightening, stopping Price's shallow thrusts, forcing him to just keep moving his fingers inside of him, stroking that spot inside that had Nik so incoherent.

"I think I can—yes, yes, yeah, fuck, John!" Nik gasped above him, warning Price if he wanted to pull off. He was tugging at Price's soft locks trying to push him away, then pushing him lower.

Price swallowed around Nik and kept that same motion on his prostate until he felt Nik's cock twitch one final time and then his mouth was flooded with the taste of his partner. He really wasn't sure if Nik would even come when he got down on the floor but the reward of having made Nik come while he was soft was almost enough to push himself over the edge. Moaning around the length in his mouth, he kept his ministrations going, not stopping the movement of his mouth or his fingers, prolonging Nik's orgasm as long as he possibly could.

He kept going even as Nik started twitching above him, groaning from overstimulation.

Nik slurred above him, "John, fuck, enough, please."

Price took pity on him, pulling back, making a show of licking his lips even as he brought his mouth back to Nik's thighs. Sucking even more marks into his skin as he pulled his fingers out, making sure not to touch his prostate anymore. Nik hissed above him at the feeling.

Price finally actually pulled away, not before pressing a couple kisses across Nik's legs, lowering them gently from around his shoulders.

"So?"

"So?" He chuckled, "So, my love, you have completely melted my brain. Surely you can see that?" Nik slurred out, he sounded a little drunk even. But then, he looked down and saw Price.

Price who had tears collecting on his lashline, Price who's hair was sticking up in about a million ways. Price who's lips were red and swollen, spit slick chin shining in the dim light of their living room. His hard cock leaking into his pants leaving nothing to the imagination about how worked up he was. Really, it was his eyes that did Nik in, they looked so far away, that piercing blue gaze clouded with lust.

Nik sprung into action. He dragged Price back up, manhandling him into his lap, eliciting a yelp from Price. He tugged the waistband of his pants down, freeing his cock.

"Mmmph! You don't have to, love" Price said against Nik's lips, hand grabbing his wrist to stop him. "I just wanted to make you feel good."

"You did, solnyshko, so good, really. Now, can I please touch you?"

"Alright. Yeah, go ahead," He sighed out.

Nik took that as his go-ahead to wrap his hand around Price's cock again, not taking the time to tease him at all just started moving his hand. He let Price fuck into his fist as he pleased, the lewd, wet sounds that were a result of pleasuring Nik echoed in the room.

"Won't last long. Didn't realise how worked up I was,"

"Let go whenever you want, John."

"God, you're so good at that. Know exactly what I need." Nik pulled him into a searing kiss for that one. Tasting himself on Price's tongue was always his favourite part of this, knowing exactly what they tasted like together.

Nik rubbed a hand up over his back, into his hair, dragging it back to his chest to flick at a nipple. He kept his hand moving over Price's cock, not slowing down for a moment, matching Price's thrusts until the man above him started shivering and panting into his mouth more than kissing him.

"Yeah, just like that Nik, almost there, love," Breathlessly moaning and panting as he neared the edge. What sent him over was actually pulling away a little and looking into Nik's eyes. All he saw was pure love and adoration there, it was too much for him, he finally let go and came.

His entire body was shaking and twitching as he came, moaning Nik's name, panting as he slowly came back down to earth and looked down. He groaned at the sight—Nik’s hand and ring slick with his spend, his grip still loose and warm against him.

Nik exhaled a quiet chuckle, tilting his head back against the couch, eyes half-lidded with something soft, something undeniably fond. “Mmm, shower?” he asked, voice still thick with warmth.

“You may have to carry me there.”

Price huffed a laugh, reaching up to brush damp strands of hair back from Nik’s forehead, thumb grazing the side of his face. “I think I can manage.”

Nik’s fingers flexed slightly against his waist, grounding, and Price leaned in again, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth before murmuring, “I love you, Nik. All of you, yeah?”

Nik let out a breath, eyes closing for a moment before flicking back open, steady and full of something deep and settled. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I love you too, Mishka.”

Price kissed him again—soft and lingering, not leading anywhere this time, just there, just them. Nik sighed against him, content, before shifting beneath him, making a quiet sound of protest as Price finally pulled away.

“We should go get cleaned up,” Nik murmured, stretching his arms with a lazy groan. “Then you can tell me all about that meeting, mm?”

Price rolled his eyes but couldn’t quite hide his grin. “Over dinner?”

“Of course,” Nik hummed, squeezing his side as he made to stand. “Come. You promised to carry me.”

Price let out a grumble, but when Nik’s weight leaned into him, trusting and warm, he found he didn’t mind in the slightest.

#cod #john price #cod nikolai #call of duty #nikprice #captain john price #jack you're a joy #also your gym progress over the years has been insane hello what???#you look great mate <33 #happy valentines day and thanks again i literally wouldnt be doing any of this without your encouragement #title is from thinking of you - a perfect circle #q writes

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drchucktingle · 3 months ago

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BIG thing i get teased about over the years (in playful ways, it is fine buckaroos, but a light tease none the less) is the DIRECTNESS of my titles. many who stumble upon my books will immediately comment 'the title is so long it just says what happens'. here are some of my thoughts on that...

as with a lot of things in the tingleverse, my unusual artistic choices end up being a sort of TROJAN HORSE, called unserious and mocked by many, but hopefully over the years revealing something to buckaroos who are not tied to the separation of ‘low brow’ or ‘high brow’ art

i feel understood by most, but for some who JUST NOW encounter the tingleverse there is an automatic apprehension, from outright to subliminal. things like scoffing ’im not going to try and find meaning in a chuck tingle book’ (real quote) or 'skeptical of the horror, ive seen his OTHER books'

i have written a LOT about how much of this, whether buds know it or not, is not just about the dinosaurs and the living objects. it is about a culture that is built to see queerness and neurodivergence and (drumroll) SEXUALITY as fundamentally unworthy of ‘real’ artistic merit. this trot runs deep

theres SOMETHING ELSE i dont talk on much however, which is directness of my writing style, both in titles and on page. why i do it is this: AS AN ARTIST it is never my intention to impress you. my books are not the 'ME show' theyre the 'US show’ so i simply want my sentences to express what happens

i wont dance circles around you, leading you through the story saying LOOK AT ME LOOK HOW GOOD I AM IM SO COOL. i want to walk BESIDE you. of course, writing to impress is also great and valid art too, just not MY preference. this is ARTISTIC choice, but i want to talk for a moment on politics of it

i tend to see buckaroos holding a sort of STRICT interpretation of what makes ‘good’ art. it is a training that has been pounded into their heads declaring ‘real art cannot just come out and say what it means.' a good example would be if someone was being critical by just saying 'its heavy handed'

the thing is, there is a huge difference between saying ‘it was blunt.’ and ‘it was TOO BLUNT for what it was trying to accomplish.’ TIME AND TIME AGAIN however, you will see folks simply deciding ‘this art just said what it meant on the surface’ and leaving it there, as if that is INHERENTLY WRONG.

and the question i am forced to ask myself is ‘WHY is this wrong?’ in the vast, infinite pantheon of WHAT ART CAN BE why are we so obsessed with hiding ourselves? obscuring our thoughts? removing our politics? there is certainly a time for subtly, but it seems there is NEVER a time for being blunt

some say this is because arts more DIFFICULT to craft when it is subliminal, but folks do not REACT that way. art that is both direct AND subliminal and layered will STILL get torn down for leaving things on the surface, even when technically speaking it is probably most impressive to juggle both

there is plenty for you to research on this regarding the CIA secretly funding abstract expressionist art during the cold war. it is still HOTLY DEBATED, but i will mention it here for anyone reading my thread who is interested in a deep dive. HERE, however, i will talk about it on a personal level

i think that culturally we are CONSTANTLY told to not take up space, especially in marginalized groups. there is decades and decades of programming telling us ‘you can express yourself, but in a CIVILIZED WAY, not too loud, not too direct. CERTAINLY not too political.' i flatly reject this

of all the places to do what you want and say what you want to say, ART IS THE PERFECT ARENA. your writing, your songs, your music can absolutely be as subtle as you want, but especially during times like this, dont let anyone tell you that youre too dang loud. lets trot buckaroos.

and since i spent all morning writing this is am going to leave a link for my new book LUCK DAY, which is LOUD AS HECK. now is a time to make art, and it is also a time to support the artists you love. give a preorder if you can. LOVE IS REAL

#buckaroo lifestyle #chuck tingle #tingleverse #art theory

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piastriprincess · 17 days ago

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caught up in circles ⸻ oscar piastri x reader .

featuring oscar piastri , time loop , f1 med staff!reader , strangers to lovers , slow burn . tw one crash , z*k br*wn and chr*stian h*rner mentions lol word count 9.9k author’s note this one is for my piastri princesses ! aka it’s all about oscar and entirely self - indulgent but i hope you all like it too ! inspired by palm springs - one of my favorite movies which for some reason made me think of osc the last time i was watching it <3 this is lowkey long as hell but in my opinion it’s worth it . as always let me know what you think , and my inbox is open for requests ! i’m hoping to have an event up in the next couple of days too . love you all MWAH ! title is from time after time by cyndi lauper .

Oscar always wakes up before his alarm goes off.

He doesn’t bother checking the date anymore. Sunday, May 25, 2025 — the 82nd annual Monaco Grand Prix. It’s sunny outside, a cloudless blue sky stretching endlessly over the glittering harbor. It seems like the perfect day for racing, though it will grow overcast around the 32nd lap and rain will cover the Fairmont Hairpin by lap 41. Lance Stroll always hits the turn going too fast on his inters and skids into the barriers. Oscar knows everything about the day, down to his bones. After all, today will be the 57th time he’s lived it.

By now, his morning routine doesn’t run on instinct so much as muscle memory. He brushes his teeth, calls his mum and tells her he loves her, listens to her tell him you’ve got this, Osc (which is entirely ironic to him now, because he affirmatively does not “got this.” In fact, he thinks this might be the first time he’s ever done anything 56 times without improving at it even an ounce). He shaves, not because he needs to, but because he knows his stubble will start itching by the time he gets to the media pen. He puts on the team kit that’s always neatly folded on his chair when he wakes, even when he leaves it crumpled on his bedroom floor the night before. At least reliving the same day over and over means he never has to do his laundry.

Here’s what he knows so far (a list, meticulously kept in one of his McLaren notebooks). He’s tentatively titled it Oscar Piastri’s Guide to the Time Loop.

Number one: the loop resets every day when he falls asleep.

It doesn’t matter if he makes it past midnight; doesn’t matter if he drinks an absurd and frankly dangerous amount of Red Bulls and drives from Monaco to Woking in one caffeine-crazed night; doesn’t matter if he flies home to Australia after the race, pinching himself to stay awake for the entire twenty-hour flight. The second his eyes close, he wakes up back in Monte Carlo, the sunlight streaming through his curtains.

Number two: he can alter the day.

There are some things that are always the same, of course. The team polo on his chair. The rain on the hairpin. The offhand crack Lando makes about him having no social life — a joke that was funny the first time, but gets increasingly cruel every time it repeats. But things can change, too. He can walk a different way through the paddock. He can have different conversations, though nobody remembers them when the day resets. He can drive the race differently, drive it better. Although, even in 55 races (his gearbox crapped out before the start of the race on Day 16), he hasn’t won yet.

Number three: he can’t die.

Can’t even get injured, really. He’d gotten a couple bruises and scrapes that seemed to heal overnight, but he’d actually confirmed the theory just a couple loops ago. He made a desperate push to pass Charles on the Nouvelle Chicane, and the back end of the car just… slid out from underneath him. There was a moment, brief and terrifying and calm all at once, that he thought that might be it. The only way out. Then he slammed into the barrier, and the carbon fiber crumpled like paper around him. It’s all bits and pieces, what he can remember after that — fire licking up the back wing, the frantic radio messages in his ears, the flashing lights of the safety car, the med staff swarming the track. Someone he’d never seen before pulling him out of the car, speaking to him in a slightly panicked voice. Blinking up at their face through the haze of pain before he lost consciousness. When he opened his eyes again, he was back in his bed on Sunday morning, not a scratch on him.

The analytical conclusion Oscar has come to, after 56 days of testing, note-taking, and driving in circles both literal and existential, is that he’s trapped. Inexplicably, inescapably trapped in a day that never really changes, and he can’t for the life of him figure his way out.

When he gets to the paddock on Day 57, everything is the same. He takes pictures with a few fans as he walks in, jogs slightly to catch up with Lando up ahead, who throws an arm around him like it’s second nature and claps him on the back. They qualified P2-P3, a solid result for the team. (In the first grand prix, on what Oscar’s now calling Day 1, Lando surprised him, pipping him to second place after an absolutely vicious overtake at the first corner. Oscar hasn’t let him pull that move again for 56 days.)

Today, he just chats idly to Lando as they walk about the upcoming race, about team strategy, about the stupid TikTok that marketing is forcing them to do later in the day. Then they round the corner towards the team hub, and Oscar nearly trips over thin air, because someone is standing there.

No one is supposed to be standing there. Oscar’s learned to control variables, gotten used to experimenting and predicting what’s coming next, because nothing ever changes until he changes it. And never, not once in the fifty-six Sundays that came before this one, has a stranger been standing in front of his driver’s room, spinning their lanyard around their fingers with their eyes fixed on him like they’ve been waiting for him.

“Hey, Piastri,” the stranger says, voice tight but polite in the way that his own gets when he’s trying not to freak out in public. He walks closer, and panic slices cleanly through him. Because you’re not a stranger. He knows your voice, your face. You’re the person who pulled him out of the car after the crash. The last thing he saw before the loop reset.

“Can I ask you a weird question?” you continue, voice pitching higher, teetering on the razor’s edge of fear.

He thinks he might forget how to breathe. “Shoot.”

“You crashed two days ago,” you say, and his pulse spikes under his skin. “Pretty spectacularly, actually. I pulled you out of the car, but you were already going under. I was—I was sure you were dead.” You pause, running a hand through your hair. “Cried about it twice. It was, like, the worst day at work ever. And now…” You trail off, like you’re afraid to say it, like you think Oscar is going to laugh and call you ridiculous. “I think I’m going insane, or else I’m having the worst recorded case of deja vu in human history, because this is the third day in a row I’ve woken up on Monaco race day, and no one remembers anything that happened the day before.”

“That’s not a question,” Oscar says, dumbly, heart hammering beneath his ribs.

You look up at him, eyes wide like he holds the keys to the universe. “Yeah. My question is: what the hell did you do to me? And how do I make it stop?”

For once, Oscar’s got no answer. Just a cold, creeping realization settling into his chest.

Number four: He can pull people into the loop?

DAY 58

Oscar’s rational. He’s reasonable. He doesn’t believe in magical thinking: he believes in statistics, logic, in systems that can be measured and tested and solved. Oscar works hard for what he achieves. He doesn’t ever let himself hope, doesn’t think there’s a need for it when you have skill and diligence on your side.

But when he wakes up the next morning before his alarm, staring up at the ceiling like he has every day for the past 58 days, he really hopes you’ll be at the paddock.

Which, statistically speaking, is not likely. The rest of your conversation yesterday had… not gone well, to say the least. He’d tried to ease you into it quietly, carefully, like a doctor delivering bad news to a patient. He’d pulled the small McLaren notebook from his back pocket, frayed at the corners now, dog-eared from overuse. He’d held it out to you, as if it might bridge the gap. “Here. I started this on Day 3. It explains everything.”

You hadn’t taken it. You’d just stared at him like he’d sprouted three heads.

“It’s not just you,” Oscar had said, as gently as he could. “It’s the same Sunday for me, too. This is the 57th time I’ve lived it.”

You’d let out a laugh, shaky and high-pitched. “That’s—that’s not possible. You’re joking.”

“I assure you, I’m very much not,” he’d said dryly. “The first time I ever saw you was Day 55, after the crash. And this morning, you’re here. That’s never happened before.”

You’d blinked, color draining from your cheeks, fingers tightening around your badge like you were about to bolt. “So you think it’s my fault?”

“No,” he’d assured you, instantly. “No. I don’t know why it’s happening. We’re just both… stuck. That’s all.”

“You sound like you’ve made peace with that,” you’d said, crossing your arms over your fireproof scrubs, and something in Oscar’s chest had ached at the way your voice trembled around the words.

“Not made peace with it,” he’d shrugged, pasting on a smile that didn’t quite fit on his face. “Just ran out of ideas.” Just haven’t won yet. Haven’t proven myself yet.

“This can’t be happening,” you’d muttered, knuckles going white where you clutched at your medical badge. “This isn’t real. I’m dreaming. Or we’re both concussed, or something.”

“I get it. I freaked out at first too,” Oscar had replied.

“No, you don’t get it!” you’d snapped, eyes all wildfire. “We’re trapped in time, and you’re acting like it’s another day at the office?”

He’d had to bite back his smile. “Well, it sort of is another day at the office. For both of us.”

“I’m going to fix this,” you’d said, ignoring him. “I’m going to get myself out of this.”

“I’ve tried everything. Tested everything,” Oscar had started to explain, but his voice died in his throat when you looked at him. Really looked — bottom lip stuck out slightly, color high in your cheeks, gaze shaky but defiant. The sight of you made his brain go still.

“No way can you test your way out of this. You might have started this, but I’m going to finish it,” you’d said, and stormed off without waiting for another word.

So. The chances don’t seem great that he’ll see you today. But when he gets to the paddock, he still walks past the medical centre to see if he can catch a glimpse of you, scans every face, just in case — the team members, the med staff, the engineers, every person in the paddock holding a camera or a clipboard or a latte. He even searches the grandstands, is almost late for the driver’s parade. He’s halfway through making up some stupid excuse to Lando before he realizes it doesn’t matter, he won’t remember it anyway.

You’re not here.

It’s to be expected, really. Oscar tried to break out of the loop by force when he first figured it out, too — stayed up for a full 24 hours after the race, drove as far as he could out of Monaco, wrote down every little detail he could remember about Day 1 and tweaked it as much as he possibly could over the next few days. None of it works, but you don’t know that yet. He gets it. It’s fine.

Except there’s something about your absence that makes his chest ache.

The lack of you unsettles him in a way he’s not used to. It’s an odd reaction, Oscar can admit to himself. He doesn’t actually know you. But he’d gotten used to being the only one stuck, found a way to exist in the repetition. Until yesterday, for the first time in nearly two months, when the world suddenly cracked open just enough to let someone else in, to remind Oscar what it was like to be seen. And now, just as suddenly, you’re gone again, and the loneliness feels so much worse than it did before.

He races like shit, somehow gets passed by drivers who have no business overtaking him on a circuit that makes it nearly impossible to drop places. Not that any of it matters.

Not without the only other person who might remember it.

DAY 60

“Osc, where are you going?” Lando asks when he turns right toward the team hub and Oscar starts walking to the left. They’re leaving the morning strategy briefing, which has quickly become Oscar’s least favorite unskippable part of the day (and he’s tried — the team always tracks him down, explaining that it’s crucial he attends. He doesn’t know how to tell them strategy is somewhat pointless when you’ve done the actual race every single day for two months.)

“Med centre,” he answers without thinking. It’s become part of his routine over the past few days. Brush teeth, call mum, shave, drive to the paddock, look for you. But of course, no one else knows that.

“Med centre? Oscar? Are you okay?” Zak’s voice rises about an octave, behind them, and Oscar has to resist the urge to roll his eyes.

“He’s fine, he’s just aura farming,” Lando giggles, and Oscar’s mouth twists into a grin instead. In a day that loops over and over again, he has to find moments that aren’t completely monotonous. He’s taken to setting up jokes for Lando, letting him hit the punchline. Oscar always laughs, even though he knows exactly what his teammate is going to say half the time. Seeing the pleased smile on Lando’s face is good enough for him to keep doing it.

“Thinks if he walks around the paddock locked in, it’ll add to the whole vibe,” Lando continues, egged on by the grin on Oscar’s face. “Mate, you know the only reason people think you’re mysterious is because you never actually go anywhere.”

The smile fades. Well. It’s nice to know that even when Oscar’s acting weirder than normal, the joke about how he’s the most boring guy in Monaco sticks around.

“Whatever, man. See you later, yeah?” Oscar mutters, hopefully sounding good-natured enough as he goes. He’s got more important shit to do anyway — namely, tracking you down.

He walks by the med centre exactly six times, nearly trips over himself when he sees someone swinging their paddock pass around their fingers. But it’s still not you. He’s starting to worry you’re not coming back. Or maybe, he thinks as he walks dejectedly back across the paddock, you figured out how to get out. And now he’s stuck and alone. By the time he opens the door to his driver’s room, shutting it behind him and leaving himself in the darkness, the surroundings are the perfect fit for his blackened mood.

“So, that didn’t work,” you say from somewhere inside, and Oscar nearly jumps out of his own skin.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, flipping the lights on to see you sitting cross-legged on the small bed he uses for mid-practice naps, eating Tim Tams. The absolute audacity you have to invade his space, sit on his bed, eat his snacks — he should be annoyed. But for some reason, the sight of you makes just relief spread through his body. “You came back,” he says breathlessly, immediately regretting how stupidly eager the words sound coming out of his mouth.

“I’m back,” you confirm, grinning up at him unfazed as you pop another biscuit in your mouth. “And I think I owe you an apology for how I spoke to you last time. I may have overreacted a little.”

“S’alright,” he says affably. “I did the same thing at the beginning.”

“You drove a moped off the cliff at Pointe-Saint-Martin to see if you could hit the water hard enough to shake yourself out of the loop?” you ask.

Oscar just stares. “You did that?”

“Kind of a mix of Groundhog Day and Palm Springs,” you shrug. “Thought if it worked for them, it might work for me, but I just ended up half-flooding a boat and seriously pissing off a fisherman.”

“Probably needed to drive faster then,” he replies. You roll your eyes in response, but you’re smiling. He can’t quite tell how to read you. It leaves him feeling off-kilter, like when the car snaps around a corner in a way he’s not expecting.

“Clearly taking lessons from time-travel movies didn’t work. But you’re still stuck here too, and I don’t think either of us can do this alone. Time to compare notes, Piastri.” You waggle your fingers in the space between you. “Hand over the book.”

He pulls the notebook out of his pocket automatically, passes it to you. Watches quietly from the doorway as your eyes scan over the pages. He doesn’t mean to stare, he really doesn’t. But your hair keeps falling in your face, and you keep tucking it behind your ear impatiently, and something about the sight makes Oscar’s heart stutter in his chest a little bit.

You look up suddenly, and Oscar goes pink to the tips of his ears, shaking his head slightly as if to clear the thought from his brain. “You weren’t kidding,” you say. “This is extensive. Borderline obsessive.”

“Borderline?” he deadpans, and you laugh. It’s a light sound, almost musical. Oscar can’t remember the last time he made someone laugh without planning for it in advance.

“Okay, completely obsessive,” you agree cheerfully. “But also kind of impressive.” He doesn’t quite know what to say to that; he settles for sitting carefully next to you on the bed as you flip through a few more pages. “You really think winning is the way out?”

Oscar shrugs. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. The only goal I haven’t managed yet. Once I get it perfect, it’ll have to end.”

You grin. “That’s such a driver answer.”

“I do happen to be a driver,” he replies dryly, and you bump your shoulder against his.

“Yeah, but not everything’s about the checkered flag, Piastri,” you say, handing the notebook back to him. He clutches it in his lap, hands curling around it like a lifeline. “What if it’s about… changing? Growing? Something that matters more than racing, at least.”

Nothing matters more than racing, Oscar wants to say. But you’re looking at him like you’re trying to figure him out, running over what you know of him in your mind like he’s a puzzle you’re desperate to solve, and he wants to say something that will make you realize you’ve been looking at the pieces all wrong. To unbalance you the way you do to him.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” you say, leaning forward, elbows on your knees, and Oscar realizes he’s been silent far too long. “You keep trying to win the race, and I’ll help however I can. But only if you agree to try things my way too. Half careful, half chaos. Deal?”

Oscar hesitates, and you raise your eyebrows like you’re daring him to say no. “Okay,” he says, pretending it’s a reluctant confession. “Deal.”

You grin, and Oscar has the distinct feeling he’s lost ground that he didn’t know was up for grabs until you extend your hand out to meet his. “Shake on it.”

When he takes your hand, your fingers are warm against his, and something shifts in the air. Nothing big. Probably no one else would feel it.

If Oscar believed in things like that, he’d almost say the loop was taking notice.

DAY 63

Oscar walks away as quickly as he can. Behind him, Lewis Hamilton is yelling, because someone has dyed Roscoe a shocking papaya orange. Non-toxic, pet-safe, temporary fur dye, of course — the bulldog will be completely back to normal in a few days, no worse for the wear.

Not that Oscar has anything to do with it.

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he picks up his pace, and he pulls it out to see a notification from you: well done agent 081. come to the pit wall to receive your reward :)

The two of you text, now. You’d scrawled your number on a fresh page of his notebook in a glitter gel pen before you left his driver’s room the other day. The messy cursive, the careless heart drawn next to it, stood out against Oscar’s cramped, boyish handwriting. “So we can talk strategy,” you’d said, easy as pie. “Scientific purposes only, of course.”

He’d traced his fingers over the numbers later, at home after the race (P4, nothing to write home about. His lines were perfect, but his front right tyre got stuck on the car during his pit stop, and it all unraveled from there). Spent a little bit too long trying to think of something to say, ended up just sending Hi, this is Oscar Piastri.

You’d responded immediately: i figured lol. u dont need to be so formal oscar!!!

Then another, before he could overthink again: meet me tomorrow at medtent before the race. time for chaosssss >:)

When you said chaos, you meant it. That first day, you’d convinced him to hang signs reading CAUTION: VENOMOUS SNAKES all over the Red Bull garage. (“It’s a metaphor, Oscar,” you’d insisted. He had to admit, seeing Christian Horner scream into his phone until he turned purple was kind of worth it.) The next day, it was reprogramming the Alpine coffee machine so it only dispensed hot water. Oscar had told you it was stupid, but watching Pierre get increasingly frustrated, his accent getting thicker and thicker as he tried to explain the problem to any mechanic who would listen, he’d laughed so hard he’d doubled over, tears pricking mercilessly at his eyes.

You’d leaned against him, wheezing like you couldn’t catch your breath from how hard you were giggling, and that was the moment, Oscar thinks. The moment he knew you were friends.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s made a friend.

When he gets to the McLaren pit wall, you’re sitting on the base of it, head tipped back, soaking in the Monaco sun. You place a hand on your brow, squinting slightly like you’re trying to make him out, and then you wave him over.

“So. Now that we’ve done my idea, what’s your plan today?” you say, pulling two sandwiches wrapped in Ferrari-red napkins out of your bag and tossing the larger one to him. You’ve started sneaking into the different hospitality suites before lunch, figuring out which garage has the best to offer and forcing Oscar to rank them with you. “It’s caprese, by the way,” you add as he catches it. “Scuderia knows what’s up.”

“It’s gonna be a clean start. Pit stop at lap 39 to switch to wets. Overtake Leclerc late,” he repeats automatically as he unwraps the sandwich, taking a bite. It’s good — fresh mozzarella, a perfectly ripe slice of tomato. Miles better than the chicken salad bites McLaren insists on.

You hum around a mouthful of your own. “You tried that already,” you point out as you swallow. “Like, four times now.”

“Five,” he corrects, and you shake your head fondly. Something about the gesture makes his breath catch in his chest. “But, uh, I’ll tweak the timing a bit. Try an overtake in the tunnel, or something.”

“You know it’s okay if you don’t figure it out right away, right?” you say, taking a sip from your water bottle.

Oscar sighs, running a hand through his hair. “That’s the problem. We have all the time in the world.”

You scoot closer to him, knee settling against his. “Well then… play the long game. Maybe don’t drive yourself crazy over the race before you even start, okay?” Oscar huffs a laugh under his breath. But he doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t pull away from you, either.

“Well, well, what’s this?” someone drawls very poshly from above. Oscar looks up, and there’s George Russell towering over them both. He’s wearing that stupid Mercedes cooling jacket, a deeply self-satisfied smirk on his face. Oscar knows George thinks he looks sick in the jacket. Oscar thinks he looks like an oversized alien. “Don’t tell me you’re making friends with the med staff, now.”

You smile sweetly up at George, despite the fact that he’s essentially just referred to you as the help. “Russell, right? Nice to meet you. What time does the mothership leave?”

Oscar snorts, nearly choking on his water.

George, to his credit, doesn’t miss a beat. “Toto usually beams me up around midnight,” he replies, deadpan.

You laugh at that, bright and unguarded, and something twists uncomfortably in Oscar’s chest. It’s not jealousy. He’s not jealous. It’s just that he’s supposed to be the one who makes you laugh. Not George Russell, with his perfect hair and dimples and ridiculously plummy accent.

George notices Oscar’s scowl, and the smile on his face stretches even wider, if that’s possible. “Not friends, then,” he sings teasingly. Oscar goes red up to his ears, staring into the middle distance and taking another aggressive bite of his sandwich. “See you at the driver’s parade, Piastri.”

As George saunters off, you turn your head to watch him go. “He’s kind of funny,” you muse. “In a weird, wax-figure-come-to-life sort of way.”

“Debatable,” Oscar mutters.

“Relax, Osc,” you grin, leaning back on your elbows and letting the sun stream down on your face. You nudge your knee against his, and he feels it everywhere. “You’re still my favorite.”

The pit stop goes off without a hitch, but even with the perfect weather strategy he can’t seem to get past Charles in the back half of the race. He’s P2, again. After the race, you text him a YouTube compilation of all of Charles’ angsty radio messages from seasons past set to sad violin music.

Somehow, the loss doesn’t sting as bad as it usually does.

DAY 71

Someone is pounding at his door when Oscar’s eyes open. It’s so different that for a minute he thinks he broke out of the loop, somehow. But when he checks his phone, it’s still May 25, just about an hour and a half earlier than normal. He drags himself out of bed to the door, pulls it open, and there you are standing on the other side, sunglasses pushed to holding a white paper bag filled with pastries and two cups of coffee. You’re not dressed in your usual race gear, switching it for a filmy black sleeveless top and denim cutoff shorts that expose miles of your bare skin.

Oscar is suddenly, painfully aware that he’s only wearing boxers. You seem to be realizing that fact, too, if the way your eyes drag torturously down his bare chest is anything to go by.

“Hey,” he croaks, cheeks flushed as he takes you in. “What are you doing here?”

You clear your throat, looking back up at him. Your eyes meet, and for a moment the air sparks between you, electric. Then you just smile mysteriously before you push your way inside, handing him one of the coffee cups as you go. “New pre-race hypothesis. Get dressed and come with me.”

Ten minutes later, Oscar’s sitting in the passenger seat of your tiny, beat-up car, watching the sun rise through the windshield. You’re an unexpectedly cautious driver, too slow around the corners, hands planted firmly at 10 and 2, eyes fixed on the road. It’s nice to know that even after weeks of spending May 25 together, you can still surprise him. (Even if his hands are itching to take the wheel from you, see just how hard he can push the Mini Cooper down these famous streets).

You pull to a stop near the harbor, the car’s brakes squealing at the effort. Oscar makes a mental note that when you both get out of the loop, he needs to take you to a mechanic. Or maybe a dealership.

“C’mon,” you say, getting out of the car and walking towards the dock. You’re moving in that sort of effortless way you do when you have a really ridiculous idea, the kind of way that makes Oscar follow you against his better judgment because he just wants to see what you’ll do next. He’s jogging slightly to catch up, sipping at his coffee, when you slow ahead of him, touching your pockets like you’re looking for something.

“Hold this for me?” you ask as he catches up to you, passing him your cup. At the moment he takes it with his free hand, almost reflexively, you pluck his phone out of his hoodie pocket and toss it over the railing.

“What the fuck,” Oscar says flatly, watching it land with a soft plop! in the azure water.

You toss your own phone in after his. Oscar grabs the railing, watches the twin black mirrors swirl around each other, sinking deep into the harbor. “So I might’ve lied a little,” you say sheepishly. “This isn’t a pre-race hypothesis. This is an instead-of-race hypothesis.”

“You’re not serious,” he says, and you just grin, wild and unapologetic.

“Oscar Piastri’s first-ever DNS,” you sing, turning and walking down the dock towards a frankly massive boat, waving off the dockhand like you own the fucking thing and starting to untie the knots holding it to the dock. “You coming or not?”

Unleash The Lion, the stern reads in script as big as his head.

You’re going to commandeer Max Verstappen’s fucking yacht.

“Max will kill us, you know,” he says as you step onto the back of the boat, pulling yourself up to the deck.

“Max won’t remember this tomorrow,” you reply over your shoulder as you rifle through the boat’s glove compartment.

“He could,” Oscar protests, mostly just to argue, because he likes the way your eyes flash when he challenges you. “Who knows? This could be the day the loop resets. Then I’ll get fired, and we’ll both go to jail.”

You grin down at him, wicked light gleaming in your gaze as you dangle the keys over the side of the boat. “Monaco prison is probably pretty nice. D’you think they’ll let us be cell mates?”

He sighs, looking up at you. The morning light kisses off your cheekbones, your skin glowing golden and sun-warmed. How is he meant to say no to you, looking at him like that? “I hate how persuasive you are,” he grumbles halfheartedly, taking your hand and climbing up the back until he lands ungracefully on the deck.

“No, you don’t,” you reply cheerfully, turning the key in the ignition. The yacht roars to life, and you pilot it out of the harbor with confidence that feels somewhat unearned, given you’ve basically stolen the thing.

That’s the problem, Oscar thinks. He really, really doesn’t.

An hour or so later, you’ve lowered the anchor, far enough out that no one will catch you for the day. Monaco is a distant speck behind you, though if Oscar squints he swears he can still see the paddock. You’ve pulled him to the bow of the boat, laying next to each other on deck chairs with a pilfered bottle of champagne between you. Your sunglasses are sliding down your nose, the boat rocking gently in the waves. It might be the bubbles talking, might be the fact that his edges have been softened by sun and champagne and you, but Oscar can’t remember a better day in a long time.

“Not bad for our first grand theft yacht,” you say, and Oscar laughs in spite of himself. “Although next time, we should probably bring sunscreen.” You look over at him with such fondness that it makes his heart squeeze in his chest, and touch your finger to the tip of his nose, gently. “You’re gonna be scorched.”

He’s warm, but it’s definitely not from the sun. “I’ll be fine,” he says, aiming for a light tone. You touched his nose, and he’s melting down like a complete weirdo. Get it together, Piastri, he tells himself. You’re a Formula One driver, for god’s sake.

You don’t seem to notice. You just hum, unconvinced, then go quiet for a beat. Too quiet. The kind of quiet Oscar’s learned to recognize as very dangerous when it’s coming from you.

“I’m bored,” you say, finally. “New plan.”

Oscar sits up so fast he nearly knocks over the champagne bottle. “This isn’t enough for today?”

You just smile mischievously at him. “Wanna go for a swim?”

“We don’t have bathing suits,” he says, dumbly. But you’re already peeling your shirt over your head, stripping to your underwear, and racing barefoot on the hot wood, your laugh trailing in the air like the kind of song he wants to learn every word to.

Oscar’s brain short-circuits somewhere around seeing your bare shoulders. He has to stare at the sky and think about Zak Brown for a minute before he can strip off his joggers and follow you.

When he climbs the ladder to the top, you’re already at the edge, toes curled over the lip of the roof, the sea breeze teasing at the ends of your hair. You look over your shoulder at him, eyes dancing, and then you leap.

It’s not graceful by any means, but you look glorious — arms thrown wide, a yell of pure exhilaration tearing out of your lungs as you plunge feet-first into the sparkling ocean below. Oscar scrambles to the side, watching for you to come up. For a second, there’s silence. Then, you resurface with a whoop that seems to echo to the horizon, and you’re smiling so wide it makes his chest ache.

“Come on!” you yell, treading water fifty feet beneath him. “Don’t make me swim all the way back to push you off.”

“You’re insane,” he calls back, but there’s no heat in it. Just that strange, subtle warmth still blooming in his chest. He steps to the edge, glances over his shoulder once at Monaco sparkling like a jewel on the coastline, at the tiny smudge that might be the paddock, that might be his real life.

And then he jumps.

For one perfect moment, he’s airborne — weightless, untethered. Free. The wind rushes by him, salt air biting at his sunburnt skin, and then the sea swallows him whole. The water is cool, soothing around him, and when he surfaces, gasping for air, you’re already swimming towards him with a smile on your face.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” you say breathlessly.

“More to me than meets the eye, I guess,” he replies, steadying his eyes on you, and your cheeks flush under his gaze.

The rest of the day passes in a haze of warmth and motion. The two of you let your skin dry in the sun, pass another bottle of champagne back and forth until there’s nothing left, talk about everything and nothing. He tells you about his first karting race, how he was older than all the other kids when he started and cried because he still didn’t think he was ready. You tell him about a trip you took to Japan when you were younger, how you took pictures of the temples on your digital camera and still dream of the scent of the cherry blossoms in the air.

Later, as the sun starts to sink over the horizon, blue bleeding into soft pinks and golds, you sit together on the bow, your legs dangling over the edge, shoulders touching. Oscar’s tongue feels looser than usual, whether it’s the champagne or whether it’s you to blame, so he doesn’t think, just asks the question that’s been playing on his mind all day. “Why do you think you’re in the loop?”

You turn to look at him, like it’s the last thing you expected him to say. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I have to win the race,” he says, and you roll your eyes fondly. “But — what do you have to do? Why are you here?”

You’re quiet for a moment. “I suppose there’s something I have to learn, too.”

“Like what?” Oscar asks, pressing his shoulder against yours.

You sigh, staring out at the horizon. You don’t look at him when you speak. Oscar wonders if you won’t, or you can’t. “I’ve always been good at a lot of things,” you say. “But I never committed to anything. I just kept bouncing from place to place, from project to project. Now, I love working here, but it just feels like I figured it out too late, and now I’m stuck. To get a permanent job with the team, I’d have to go to med school, and…” you pause, teeth sinking into your lip. “What if I try and fail? What if I’m average?”

Oscar opens his mouth to respond, but no words come. Instead, he watches the way the fading light reflects in your eyes, golden catching on the edge of something tender and raw. He wants to tell you you’re not average, you’re brilliant. That the past few weeks with you in the loop has been the most alive he’s felt in months, maybe ever.

But he doesn’t.

“Today is the first time I’ve ever done anything like this,” he says, the words falling ungracefully off his tongue. “Taken a risk like this. Everything in my life has been planned out. I made it to Formula One off of being consistent, composed, controlled. I’m perfect because everyone expects it. But — racing used to be fun. I used to love it.”

You tilt your head toward him slightly, enough that he can see the pout of your bottom lip. “You don’t love it anymore?” you ask softly, like he’s a scared animal you’re trying not to spook.

Oscar shrugs, chest tightening. “Feels like I’ve been trying to win for so long that I forgot why I wanted to in the first place.”

“Maybe that’s what the loop’s for,” you say, leaning back on the cushions. “Not to win. To find the joy again.”

There’s a long pause where neither of you speak. The silence feels suspended, like the whole world is holding its breath along with you both. Oscar lies back next to you, his heart thudding a little too hard in his chest for such a quiet moment.

You both lay there for a while as the stars slowly reveal themselves one by one, scattered like glitter across the indigo sky. You start pointing out constellations, making up ridiculous stories that make him laugh lowly, helplessly. He’s lying close enough to you that your arms are pressed together, breath syncing in the quiet.

When he turns to look at you, you’re already looking at him, eyes half-lidded, and you’re so beautiful in the moonlight that it almost makes him lean in to kiss you. But something holds him back. Fear, maybe, or uncertainty — not knowing if you feel it too, or if it’s the champagne, or the loop, living another borrowed day that doesn’t quite feel like his own.

He looks back at the sky. You sigh next to him, shifting closer so that your head rests on his shoulder, and his heart stutters in his chest.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches the pale moon reflect off the waves until he drifts off into the blackness.

When he opens his eyes next, he’s in his apartment, sunlight streaming through his curtains. Oscar swears under his breath, picks up the phone that should be sitting at the bottom of the harbor. Sunday, May 25. Just like always.

He flops back onto his bed, pressing a pillow over his face. His skin is still sticky from the salt water. It’s not even the fact that he didn’t break the loop that hurts today.

It’s waking up without you.

DAY 80

Oscar’s nervous, which is completely irrational. He’s lived this day eighty times now. Done press completely hungover, slipped past Charles Leclerc on his home track, crashed full-speed into a barrier and nearly died. But none of that made his palms sweat the way they’re sweating now.

You’re in his apartment. You’re having dinner in his apartment.

The race had gone fairly spectacularly for him, all things considered. He’d made a few mistakes, taken the chicane a little too wide, and still Charles barely beat him. Oscar’s about to figure it out, the perfect race so close he can almost taste it.

You, on the other hand, had quite the busy day. Stroll’s crash started it, but in lap 60 there’d been a major pileup at the back of the race — one of the rookies hitting the brakes just a little too late, slamming into another driver. By the time he found you after the race, you looked exhausted, muttered something about how you wished this particular loop was over already, couldn’t fathom the idea of driving home, cooking dinner for yourself, going to sleep alone.

Oscar invited you over before he could think too hard about it.

He drove you back to his place, cooked dinner while you showered — some pasta dish his mum had taught him ages ago, surely worried that he’d try to survive in Monaco solely off of frozen dinners and takeout. He’s dug up some candles from a dusty box in the closet, uncorked a bottle of wine he thinks Charles gave him for Secret Santa last year, and is just putting the plates on the table when you emerge from his room, fresh-faced and hair damp. You’re wearing one of his McLaren hoodies and a pair of bike shorts, and for a moment Oscar forgets how to form sentences.

“Smells amazing,” you say, sitting on the floor across from him. “Thanks.”

You chat idly for a while, but Oscar can’t shake the feeling that the air between you feels different tonight. It’s in the way your laugh sticks in his brain longer than usual, the way he can feel his gaze searching your face like he’s trying to memorize it. It’s almost simmering, like there’s some invisible boundary you’re about to break through. Things have been different since the day on Max’s boat — the glances between the two of you weightier, the touches softer, gentler. But there’s something about tonight that feels inevitable, like the weeks of being together are all pinpointing into a logical, tidy conclusion.

“You’ve barely touched your pasta,” you point out, nudging your knee against his under the table.

Oscar just shrugs, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Not hungry.” He is actually, the feeling turning to a pleasant ache in his stomach. If he’s honest with himself, he’s just too busy looking at you to bother with the food.

You raise your eyebrow, slurping up a noodle. It leaves a small smudge of sauce on the edge of your mouth. “You okay?”

“Hold on,” he says, leaning over the table. “You’ve got —”

You flush, hand flying to your cheek, but Oscar’s already there, leaning over the table and brushing his thumb against your lip carefully. You blink up at him, breath catching slightly, and then, unmistakably, your eyes flick to his lips. The moment stretches, fragile and loaded like the night Oscar stargazed with you, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to make the same mistake twice.

And then — because he’s been thinking about it for hours, days, weeks — he kisses you.

Your lips are soft, warm against his, and you taste like vanilla lip balm and red wine. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, and you let out the tiniest sigh against his mouth before kissing him back. It’s slow, soft at first, then deeper, like the buildup of all the days circling each other has finally burned down to this single point of gravity, rooting you both to the spot. Your hand tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck, like you’re trying to pull him closer to you.

It’s perfect. And then you break away, foreheads pressed together, and Oscar opens his mouth.

“Well, that’s a new variable,” he breathes, dazed, and you flinch away from him like you’ve been slapped.

“Oscar,” you say, voice sharp, and for someone with world-class reflexes and awareness he’s definitely caught the shift in your tone too late. “You just kissed me, and your first thought was fucking data?”

“No, I —” he stops, runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to reset his brain. “That’s not what I meant.”

You breathe out disbelievingly, the sound shaky as it leaves your lungs. “Yes, it was,” you say flatly, standing up, and Oscar scrambles to his feet after you.

“No,” he pleads, but you’re already heading towards his bedroom, throwing your things back in your bag. “I just thought, if the loop’s trigger is emotional…”

“Don’t,” you spit, words like venom. “Don’t reduce this to numbers and logic. Don’t treat it like it’s another page in your stupid fucking notebook.”

He opens his mouth to try to fix things, but nothing comes out. Even from across the room, he can see the tears slipping down your cheek, and he knows the damage is already done.

“I thought it was real,” you whisper. “I thought we were real. And the first time you actually let yourself feel something, you turn around and treat it like evidence to be catalogued.”

“It was real,” he blurts desperately, and you scoff. “Please,” he begs. “I’m trying, I’m just — I don’t know how to do this. It’s — it’s never mattered like this.”

Your lips press together, jaw tight, and Oscar can still taste the red wine against his mouth. “Well, maybe don’t kiss me again until you figure it out.”

You don’t wait for him to reply. You turn on your heel, slamming the door behind you and storming down the hall like you’re leading an army of one to battle against his stupid, broken heart.

Oscar doesn’t know how long he stands there staring at the door, the silence ringing in his ears, before he blows out the candles. He leaves the dishes on the table, crawls into his bed and stares at the ceiling. The notebook sits on his dresser, taunting him, but he doesn’t reach for it.

Nothing about this day is worth remembering anymore.

DAY 81

Oscar doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up to sunlight through the curtains and silence and the distinct feeling that his chest has been scraped hollow.

He’s never felt more stupid in his life. He had you, in his apartment, lips pressed to his, the thing he’s been dreaming about doing for weeks, and he completely fucking bottled it.

But if there’s anything to learn from being in a time loop, it’s that he’s got a chance to fix things. To learn from his own mistakes, and do something better. He sits up in bed, watching the boats in the harbor for a long moment. Then he gets up, gets dressed. Leaves the notebook sitting on his dresser, untouched. And goes to find you.

Except, clearly, you don’t want to be found. He searches the entire paddock, but you’re like a ghost. Your station at the med centre is empty, half-cleared out like you came to work before deciding seeing Oscar would hurt too much. You’re not in his driver’s room, stealing his snacks, or by the pit wall watching the team principals flit around with a scary kind of efficiency. He even tries going to the med centre HR to ask for your address, but the woman behind the desk is very particular about her employees’ privacy, won’t give him your contact information no matter how many times he drops that he’s a driver, just hands him a pamphlet about respecting workplace boundaries.

The day wears on, sun arcing high in the sky, and Oscar has to accept he’s not going to see you before the race. Maybe he’ll crash on the first lap, he thinks. Knock himself unconscious, reset the loop. He doesn’t care what it takes. He just has to find you.

Like a vision, or some sort of twisted prophecy, he turns the corner to the garage, and you’re standing there. Always standing where you’re not supposed to be, he thinks for a moment, mind racing wildly. The thought feels hysterical in his head. You’re wearing your fireproof scrubs, eyes red-rimmed, arms crossed over your chest, and you look like fate. Or his future. He’s not sure which. Oscar doesn’t waste another second before he runs to you.

“It was real,” he blurts, before you can open your mouth to speak. “I think it’s been real for me since the minute you pulled me out of that car. I’m shit at feelings, and I’m sorry, because I’m about to be even worse at—” he gestures between the two of you, the confession he’s word-vomiting into the space between you. “—this, but... I’ve spent my whole life being cool, calm, collected, trying to perfect things, trying to keep everything under control, but I can’t control love, and you fucking — you turn me in circles, and I don’t want to live another day, of the loop or anything else, without you around.”

You just stare at him, and he runs a hand over his face. Out of all the ways he’d been thinking up to profess his love while he was looking for you, this had to be one of his worst. Did he even say it? He thinks back, unsure.

“I love you,” he adds, sighing. “In case that wasn’t clear. I’m really fucking in love with you.”

“You’re an idiot,” you say to him in response, voice trembling.

“I know,” he says, helplessly. “But I’m yours. If you’ll have me.”

You shake your head, but there’s a ghost of a smile on your face. “Of course I’ll have you,” you say, eyes bright with tears. “I’m really fucking in love with you too.”

Oscar files the sound of your voice saying those words somewhere deep in his chest. Closes the distance between you and smashes his lips to yours. It’s not sweet, not soft — it’s raw, wanting, hot with need. You squeak against his mouth, your hands flying up to cup his face, and when your tongue slides against his, his knees actually buckle.

You’re both giggling when you come up for air, dazed and giddy. “Wow,” you say, fingers resting against your lips, like you can’t believe it’s real. “Glad I came back in time for that.”

“Yeah,” Oscar breathes. “What took you so long?”

You look up at him, a ghost of a smile on your lips. “Well, I wasn’t gonna show up because I was still pissed at you,” you crack, and he laughs. “But then I decided I couldn’t let you drive alone. And I was late,” you say slowly, “because I just applied to med school.”

His heart skips a beat in his chest. “You did what?”

“You were right,” you say simply. “I’m not stuck. And maybe I’ll fail spectacularly, but I’ll never know if I don’t try.”

“I’m so proud of you,” Oscar says, and you just smile. Someone from inside the garage is calling for him. He’s running out of time.

“It’ll be a colossal waste of time if we don’t break out, though,” you huff out a laugh. “So now it’s on you.” You pause for a moment, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“You got this,” you say, and for once Oscar believes it. “Go have fun out there.”

Ten minutes later, he sits P2 on the grid, heart beating hard in his chest. For the past 80 days, he’s been in this exact same position, obsessing over the perfect line, how to time the pit stop, where he can shave a tenth of a second off his time.

Today, when the lights go out, Oscar’s thinking about you.

He lets Lando pass him on the first lap again, for the first time in eighty days. Drives like a maniac to pass him back three laps later, waving to him as he goes. It’s a risky move; Tom is half-screaming, half-laughing at him through the radio, and Oscar’s cheeks hurt from smiling underneath his helmet. He nearly takes it on two wheels around the Tabac corner, back skidding out from underneath him. The car is responsive as he pushes to the limit; the drive feels messy, imperfect, alive. He’s never had so much fun in a Formula One car.

When the last lap starts, he’s leading the race. The sun’s starting to come back out again, the rain drying on the track. Oscar’s cruising.

By the time he gets to the hairpin, Charles Leclerc is in his mirrors.

It’s an all-out battle to the finish, red car and orange dueling side by side. Oscar presses his foot to the pedal as hard as he can, thinks if this race is the one that breaks the loop, it’ll probably go down in history as the most exciting Monaco GP of all time.

They get to the Nouvelle Chicane, and Charles slices around it with the elegance of a ballerina, the power of a heavyweight fighter. Oscar’s in his dust before he even knows what’s happened.

He finishes behind the Ferrari by a half second, and he’s never been so happy to lose.

He pulls into parc ferme, rips off his helmet, searches the crowd wildly. The paddock is bustling. It takes him a minute to spot you running towards him, your scrubs unzipped to your waist, smiling and crying all at once.

This time, Oscar doesn’t wait. He jumps off the car, reaches you in three strides, and kisses you like he’ll never get the chance again. It’s all adrenaline and aching sweetness, teeth knocking, the taste of tears on both your lips like you’re both tumbling toward something you can’t name.

You break away first, pressing your forehead against his, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. “You were amazing,” you say, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry you lost.”

“I don’t care,” Oscar laughs wetly, because it’s true, and because eighty Sundays ago he would have died before he said something like that. “That was the best drive I’ve ever had.”

“You found the joy,” you say, a giggle bubbling out of you.

The sound nearly coaxes a laugh out of him too, but he shakes his head instead, smiling at you softly. “I found that a long time ago. Standing outside my driver’s room spinning their med badge like a weapon.”

You make a noise at that, somewhere in between a sigh and a sob, and he pulls you into his chest, holding you like you’re the first-place trophy. “I love you, you know,” he says into your hair, and he can hear you mumbling the exact same thing into his race suit.

You walk back to Oscar’s apartment together, a silent agreement that he’ll skip the post-race interviews, just this once. You sit on the balcony he never uses, watch the sunset over the harbor. He doesn’t let go of your hand for a single moment, like he needs to feel your touch under his fingertips to remind himself he’s still here.

“D’you think we did it?” you mumble later when you’ve both found your way to his bed, voice slurring around the edges from exhaustion. “Broke the loop, I mean.”

“Dunno,” Oscar says, his fingers brushing through your hair slowly. “I’ve thought we did, before, and obviously we hadn’t.”

“Me too,” you say, but there’s something hanging in the air between you. An unspoken confession, like you’re both afraid to jinx it. This time feels different.

You yawn gently, burrow tighter into his side, and his heart feels like it might crack open in his chest. “M’getting pretty tired,” you say. “So I think whatever the answer is, we’ll know pretty soon.”

There’s silence, for a moment. What do you say when your entire universe hangs in the balance?

“If this was the last day, if we really figured it out,” Oscar says finally, breath catching in his throat as he stares at the ceiling, “I really liked spending forever with you.”

DAY 82 DAY 1

Oscar wakes up to the beep of his alarm and the sound of rain on his roof.

You’re there, too. Curled against his body, still asleep. Oscar watches the steady rise and fall of your chest, listens to the soft sounds of your breathing. You smell like that jasmine perfume you started wearing around Day 68 and you’re snuggled in one of his old McLaren hoodies and you’re so real that he thinks he might die of happiness.

It is Monday, May 26, 2025, and Oscar Piastri is so in love with you that he’s stooped to watching you sleep like a total weirdo and using ridiculous hyperbole to describe his feelings instead of waking you up to tell you the news. He nudges you gently, and you stir.

“Osc?” you mumble disbelievingly as your eyes flutter open, like you’re not sure if you’re still dreaming or not.

“We did it,” he whispers back to you, and the smile on his face is starting to hurt his cheeks. “We’re out.”

You don’t even respond — well, with words, anyway. You just drag his face to yours, kiss him like you’re making up for 81 days of lost time. You still taste like vanilla, and your mouth, your tongue work against his in a way that makes it hard to think of anything else.

“We’re out,” you repeat as you pull away from each other. You’re looking at him like he hung the stars in the sky, and Oscar can’t resist kissing you again. Small pecks this time, scattered from your lips to your cheekbones, each one like a drop of water for a man dying of thirst. He thinks absentmindedly that kissing you might be his new favorite thing.

“God, I can’t believe this is real,” you giggle as his lips brush down your collarbones, and Oscar laughs, because he was just thinking the same thing about you.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your skin, and you sigh it back sweetly, your pulse thrumming beneath his lips.

Forever isn’t an easy concept to swallow for a man who’s just been stuck in a time loop. But Oscar thinks if you’re by his side, he could definitely get used to it.

#f1 #f1 x reader #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri fluff #f1 imagine #oscar piastri #f1 driver x reader #f1 driver x you #oscar piastri x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #❀ my work .

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yandere-daydreams · 1 year ago

Text

Title: Ferine.

Pairing: Yandere!Toji x Reader (JJK).

Word Count: 4.1k.

TW: Hybrid AU, Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Slight Manipulation, Rough Sex, Oral Sex, Knotting, Mentions of Blood + Violence, Slight Breeding, and Biting.

Toji was, by far, the largest hybrid you’d ever taken care of.

Which, technically speaking, wasn’t that big of an accomplishment. This was barely your third month at the research facility, and you could count the number of hybrids you’d encountered before being hired here on a single hand. Still, even compared to the other wolves you currently looked after, Toji was beyond impressive. His long, pointed ears and stocky build set him well above six-foot, and even if he’d lacked height, he would’ve been able to make up for it with the planes of sculpted muscle circled around his biceps and thighs, laid over his chest and back. Top it all off with a set of claws each longer than your pointer finger and sharp enough to pierce reinforced steel, and he was practically fit for exhibit. Not that Toji could ever actually be a show dog, no – he’d tear the judges apart before they’d so much as heard his name. He was sweet, but he had a temper. You had to be careful not to set him off.

His fangs were impressive, too – perfectly in-tact despite years of less-than-adequate care, only a touch duller than a real wolf’s. You were careful not to let your hand stray from where it cupped his cheek as you looked for signs of damage or rot only to, of course, come up empty. The longer you spent with him, the more convinced you were that nothing could actually hurt Toji, even if the faded scar stitched into the corner of his mouth suggested otherwise.

“All done,” you started, letting go of his cheek. Immediately, Toji’s jaw snapped shut with enough strength to take off a finger, had you given him the chance. “Perfect as always, Toji. I think you might be my best patient.”

A cocky smile found its way to his lips, and you could hear his tail beating lazily against the dirt floor of his enclosure. The facility was committed to replicating the natural environments of their more exotic hybrids as closely as possible, even if Toji claimed he’d trade it all for a punching bag, or better yet, something ‘real’ to dig his teeth into, whatever that meant. “Do I get a treat, doc?”

It was asked playfully, but still, you hummed by way of confirmation, pulling your duffle bag into your lap and fishing Toji’s well-earned rewards – a generic chocolate bar and a can of some painfully acidic, sickeningly sweet brand of soda your hybrid patients couldn’t seem to get enough of. It was a meager prize, but it was as much as you were able to spare considering how strict his caretakers were when it came to his diet. You’d probably save yourself a few dirty looks if you didn’t give him anything at all, but it didn’t feel right to leave him empty-handed.

He accepted your humble offering greedily. While the chocolate bar was stowed away for later consumption, the can was pierced with a clawed thumb and emptied in one long, unpleasantly audible swig. You’d only started to push yourself to your feet when Tojj finished, letting the now empty can fall to the ground before turning his attention back to you. “It hurts my feelings, knowing you’re just gonna run off and put your hands on another animal.” His ear pressed flat against his scalp, as if he was trying (and failing) to feign disappointment. “If I didn’t know better, I’d start to think you didn’t really care about all the time we’ve spent together.”

“You’re not exactly in desperate need of medical attention,” you chided, throwing your bag over your shoulder. “And I’m on a schedule. Not all of us can sit around, grooming ourselves all day.”

That earned a breathy laugh, a coy lilt to his smile. “Well, if you wanted to take a shot at it, I wouldn’t—”

“Save it. I get enough of that with the cats.” Just thinking about it made you grimace. It was one thing to think that Toji might bite you. Knowing Satoru and Suguru – the bonded leopard and panther pair who shared a check-up date with Toji – would insist on licking any exposed skin raw before letting you do your job was a much more tangible reality. “I’ll see you in a couple of days. You’ll be good until then, right?”

“I’m gonna gut those fucking strays.” His answer was blunt, immediate, but he cracked as soon you shot him a purse-lipped frown. “Kidding, kidding. I’ll just rough ‘em up a little – make ‘em regret putting their paws on you, y’know?”

You couldn’t help but soften. Toji was rough around the edges, but he wasn’t a bad dog. He just had a protective streak and that, paired with his brash personality and tendency to bite before he barked, was enough for most people to write him off.

You really did have a long, long list of other appointments you had to get to before the end of the day, but against your better judgement, you paused as you passed him, reaching down to rake your fingers through sleek black hair. He was stoic, especially for a hybrid, but even his cool, dark eyes and wry smile couldn’t hide the way his tail moved just a little faster at the feeling of your nails raking over his scalp, his ears immediately perking up. It only took a second for him to bat your hand away, but you only laughed as you started towards the staff exit, waving to Toji over your shoulder.

Maybe, for his next check-up, you’d see if you could sneak in something special.

“Your mutt’s been unruly, lately.”

You glanced up from your clipboard, turning your full attention to Nanami and quickly finding that he hadn’t paid you the same courtesy. He was one of the senior researchers and, so far, the only one you could stand to be around for any longer than a few minutes. Since the higher-ups expected you to fill out your reports with one hand while you took a four-hundred-pound tiger’s temperature with the other, you tended to camp out in Nanami’s office when you had paperwork to file. “Toji?” Nanami nodded, and you rolled your eyes. “I’m just the vet, Kento. If his handlers aren’t doing their—”

“The problem isn’t his handlers, it’s him.”

His voice was flat, his tone icy. You laid your clipboard over your lap, crossing your arms over your chest. “He’s an animal. It’d be more out of character if he didn’t lash out occasionally.”

Nanami opened his mouth, but closed it just as quickly. After a lengthy pause, he leaned back in his seat, bringing a hand to his temples and massaging absentmindedly. “Do you know why he hasn’t been released back into the wild, yet?”

Obviously. Working with hybrids – let alone exotic hybrids – was dangerous, and your debriefing had drilled the face, name, and background of every animal in the facility into your memory. “He was born in captivity. He’s too acclimated to human society to adjust to the wilderness.”

Nanami pressed his lips into a thin line – an expression you’d learned to read as ‘you’re right, but I’m not going to say that’. Still, a degree of satisfaction accompanied his silent confirmation. “He was found in a dog fighting ring – or, what was left of one, at least. It took three rounds of sedation and two broken muzzles before our recovery team was able to get him under control.”

A knot formed at the base of your throat. Fuck chocolate, Toji deserved a blanket and as many hugs as he would let you give him. “That’s terrible, Kento. Were the organizers arrested?”

“The organizers—” Nanami straightened. “—were found mauled and stuffed into a kennel. Their bodies were so thoroughly mutilated, we had to rely on blood samples to identify them.”

“Wolves aren’t known for attacking unprovoked. It could’ve been another—”

“One of his handlers is currently hospitalized,” Nanami went on, as if you hadn’t cut in. “And two have already turned in their resignations – a resounding fear for their welfare in the workplace, supposedly.”

Your eyes fell to the floor, and that knot in your throat tightened until only the barest whisper could find its way out. “He’s not a bad dog,” you muttered, nearly under your breath. “He just— He loses his temper, sometimes. He doesn’t mean to hurt anymore.”

“He’s never tried to hurt you?”

You didn’t have to think before shaking your head. “Never.”

That, of all things, seemed to catch Nanami’s attention. For the first time, his eyes flickered briefly to you before falling back to his desk, his paperwork. “Good,” he said, marking down something on a piece of scrap paper in front of him. If he felt the need to elaborate, he clearly didn’t deem it worth the effort.

Later that day, you were informed that you were being transferred to the reptile wing indefinitely. If you’d been there for a few more months, if you’d had a little more experience to throw around, if you’d had a little more authority, you might’ve protested, but it was all you could do to nod and set to memorizing your new schedule.

It took exactly three weeks for you to see Toji again.

One of his handlers – a woman in her early twenties sporting a pressed scowl and a gauze-padded bandage on her cheek – met you at the facility’s gates and flatly told you that Toji was injured. You’d never been in the facilities (much less with a hybrid) after sundown, and in the simulated wilderness of his enclosure, it was easy to forget that you were never more than twenty feet away from a security camera, that there was only one apex predator you had to be afraid of. After checking your usual meeting spot (clear spot near the center of his enclosure – neutral territory, safe territory) and finding it vacant, you reluctantly stumbled your way to his den, dragging your feet despite the urgency of the situation. Toji wouldn’t deliberately attack you, but any animal could react if provoked. You didn’t want to set him off. More importantly, you didn’t want to prove Nanami right.

You’d never ventured far enough to see his den, but you knew what to expect. A square shell of cement occupied the deepest corner of Toji’s enclosure, bracketed off by a metal door tucked inside of a deep entryway meant to give the illusion of privacy. You approached it slowly, stepping underneath the shadowed overhang with no small amount of caution, but you didn’t get the chance to knock before a hand manifested on your shoulder and shoved you against the cold steel.

Claws bit into to the dip of your shoulder, then your wrist, too, as he caught your hand and shoved it into the small of your back. You felt hot air on the nape of your neck, heard heavy panting laced with the barest trace of a throaty growl, and it took everything you had not to panic, not to struggle, not to give him a reason to dig his teeth into your neck and tear. Toji wasn’t a bad dog, but he was still a dog. He’d still bite, if given an excuse.

“Toji,” you started, slowly, taking care to soften each harsh syllable of his name. “I’m here to help you.”

He didn’t respond, his hold only tightening. His check pressed into your back, and there was a short, airy noise – sniffing, as little as you wanted to put a name to it. “Toji,” you repeated, with more urgency. “I heard you were hurt. Will you let me help you?”

A second passed in silence, then another. Finally, he pulled away from you, releasing your wrist first, then your shoulder. He remained where he was – a little too close, a little too looming – as you shuffled to face him, forcing yourself not to consciously acknowledge that you were in a very big cage with a very poorly behaved animal. His handlers hadn’t mentioned why they’d needed you, but you didn’t have to wonder for very long. Even in the pitch dark, you could see the dark blood covering his jaw, washed over his throat and chest. It was on his hands, too, coating the white bone of his claws, and matted into his dark hair. Your waning self-control faltered then shattered altogether, your hands shooting to his head, his face, searching for bruising or swelling or broken bones, but surprisingly, all your worry earned was an airy laugh. “It’s not mine, doc.” He laid a hand over yours. “I’m doin’ just fine. Even better, now that you’re here.”

But he wasn’t. Twin sets of puncture marks were littered across his throat, his face, his arms. Something had taken a chunk out of his left bicep, and five matching scratch marks had been etched deep into the skin of his chest. The wounds looked feline, but you couldn’t bring yourself to linger on the implications. “You’re hurt,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. Your hands fell to his shoulders, pushing him downward gently. “I— I’ve got bandages, and sutures—” You let your bag fall from your shoulder to your elbow, already reaching for the zipper. “Find somewhere to sit. We should get you cleaned up before something worse sets in.”

Panic was quickly overshadowing your better judgement, but Toji didn’t move, didn’t look away from you. He was still wearing that coy, sardonic grin – almost teasing, given your anxiety. “I already told you, I’m just fine.” His smile widened, until his pointed fangs caught in the dim light. “I didn’t think you’d actually come. They said I could ask for whatever I wanted, but—” He paused, sucked in a sharp breath. “I didn’t think you’d actually come.”

“Toji, you’re not making any sense. You need help.” Again, you pushed gently on his shoulders, and again, he didn’t seem to notice. This time, though, he shifted, leaned toward you, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You scowled, shoving a little less gently on his chest, but Toji didn’t move. “Toji, please, just let me help—”

“You’re gonna be the death of me, princess.” You felt his hands on your waist, then your ass. His chest was slotted against yours, and his tongue ran unabashedly over the curve of your neck once, then twice before he went on. “Keep sayin’ my name like that, and I won’t be able to control myself.”

Something pressed into your thigh – hot and hard and, like the rest of Toji, fucking huge. Your heart fell into your stomach, the air flooding out of your lungs and leaving you dazed, breathless.

Fuck. Fuck.

You should’ve stuck with the fucking reptiles.

Toji was panting audibly, again; his tongue lapping over your neck, your cheek. You were still cursing yourself for ever applying for this shitty job in the first place when Toji fell to his knees, forcing your thighs onto his shoulders as his claws caught on the fabric of your pants, decimating the thin material in an instant. His teeth tore away your panties just as quickly, leaving you exposed, splayed out on a silver platter in front of him. You reacted reflectively – knotting your fingers in his hair and doing your best to pry him away from you, but your strength was nothing compared to his and in the end, all you earned was a throaty groan, a tight squeeze to your ass before he buried his face in your cunt. His teeth grazed against the tender insides of your thighs, his claws biting into your now-unprotected skin, but the feeling of his tongue laving over the length of your slit replaced every other sensation with pure heat.

Predictably, he was near animalistic – his thick tongue fucking into you as the bridge of his nose ground shamelessly into your clit. From a distance, it would’ve been hard to tell if he was trying to eat you out or eat you alive; every noise he made feral and wet, punctuated with rough growls and little, uncharacteristic whines. It would’ve been impossible not to feel anything, but still, you couldn’t help but hate yourself when it started to feel good. His tongue was thick and textured, long enough to fill your pussy and flexible enough to curl inside of you, abusing the walls of your cunt without mercy. It was difficult to tell how much of the gloss staining his chin and the inside of your thighs was his drool and how much of it was your arousal, but even if your mind was disgusted by every slick noise and sharp flick of his tongue, there was nothing your body could do to block out the sudden pang of heat in your core, to fight the way your legs ached to clench around his head and pull the source of your revulsion that much closer.

“To—Toji, no, st—” you tried to say, like you were scolding a normal dog, like any part of you still thought he was listening. A cracked moan cut you off prematurely, and even if it hadn’t, Toji’s only response was a bruising squeeze to your ass, a low moan just loud enough to reverberate against your sensitive clit. Blinding white flashed across your vision, and before you could stop, before you could bring yourself back from that edge, you were coming undone on his tongue, your hips bucking against his face as he nursed you through your mind-numbing climax. Rather than pull away, he forced his tongue that much deeper into your pussy – taking advantage of your hypersensitivity to drag another unwilling orgasm out of you, then another, until the dried blood smeared across his lips was tacky and dripping onto your skin. He only pulled away when your little, pained sounds began to die into half-choked pleas and your limited strength failed, leaning you limp and boneless on top of him, and even then, he took the time to drag his tongue over your slit, to lap up what would’ve been wasted slick. You would’ve given anything for him to just leave you like that – messy and covered in your own arousal, but unfortunately, Toji had never been a bad dog.

His gaze flitted up to meet yours. “Sorry, princess,” he muttered, when he saw the misery knitted into your expression. The broad grin he wore was anything but apologetic, though. “Might’ve gotten carried away after all. Can’t help it – you always come to me, smellin’ like other men, and nobody ever lets me do anything about it.” He nuzzled into the inside of your thigh, nipping at the tender flesh with just enough force to break the skin. There was a tight pinch, of bright spark of pain, but Toji tended to the minimal wound lovingly, running his tongue over the thin stream of blood. “Gonna have you nice n’ scented by the end of the night.” A sharp whimper slipped past your grit teeth as the points of his fangs grazed over your skin, and Toji sighed. “Gonna have you nice n’ bred, too, if you keep making those sounds.”

Bred. Bred. Bred. You turned the offensive word over in your mind, unable to grasp what it possibly could’ve meant, as Toji carefully lowered you onto the ground – never so much as toying with the idea of fucking you into anything other than the cold, raw earth. It wasn’t until his clawed hand fell to the hard, pulsing cock standing stiffly between his legs that you were able to fully process what he’d said, what he was threatening to do to you. Your thoughts went blank, your years of veterinary school and countless hours of animal-handling training and common sense all dissolving into total nonexistence in an instant. It didn’t matter that he was taller than you, stronger than you – you were already throwing your full weight against him, scratching at his chest with your blunt nails, doing everything in your so incredibly limited power just to get away from him. Your latest wave of resistance wasn’t enough to overwhelm him, but it earned a frustrated rumble at the base of his throat, a downward quirk to his cocky smile. Your nails caught one of the puncture marks on his cheek and, reflexively, he straightened his back, brought his hand to his face, left just enough space between your body and his for you to roll onto your chest and scramble desperately towards freedom. You’d barely gotten your knees underneath you when his hand lashed out, catching you by the collar and forcing your cheek into the soil. His chest pressed into your back, his legs caging yours in on either side, and worst of all, his cock throbbed against your ass – somehow, impossibly, harder than it’d been a few seconds ago. You might’ve jotted it down as an impressive display of canine resilience, if you hadn’t felt so desolated.

“Shoulda figured you wouldn’t make this easy on yourself.” His voice was rougher than it had been, but no less self-satisfied. That made sense. Wolves were endurance predators. He would’ve come into this expecting there to be a struggle. “I thought you’d be more of a mate than a bitch, but—” He paused, his mouth settling against the nape of your neck. “—either’s fine by me.”

You clenched your eyes shut. “Please, Toji, don’t do—”

But, it was already too late. He rutted your ass once, then twice, before his tip caught on the entrance to your abused pussy and he was inside of you, fully sheathed without a trace of resistance.

Toji was big, even for a hybrid. He was a hunter, tried and true, all muscle and agility and pure, unfaltering strength. Even with his generous (albeit, unwelcomed) prep, it was all you could do to convince yourself that his cock wouldn’t tear you apart. He was thick enough to press against every soft and sensitive spot inside of you, long enough to leave a tight knot of pressure sitting in the pit of your stomach, and when he started to move, pulling out slowly before slamming back in, the force alone was enough to scatter little black spots in the corner of your vision and leave you hazy, light-headed. The way he was fucking into you didn’t help anything, either. Keening whines slipped out of some deep, feral pocket of his chest as he took advantage of your vulnerable cunt, alternating between grinding into you with a desperate sort of clinginess and trying to bully his way that much deeper with bruising, brutal thrusts. One arm wrapped around your midriff, dragging you even close to him, while a groping hand found the delicate buttons of your top and tore, ridding you of what was left of your protection against him. He kneaded half-consciously at your chest as he fucked into you; his own pleasure suddenly his only priority.

His selfishness should’ve been a welcome change, but you were too far gone, your body too eager to find a silver lining to his rough affection. Your hands clawed mindlessly at the ground as he pumped into you, the heat of his body against yours clouding your senses and making the feeling of cock stretching you open, his dull head pounding against your cervix all the more unbearable. You doubted he’d be able to talk, even if he’d had anything left to say, but he was still vocal enough. Raspy groans and harsh grunts rung distantly in your ears, his calloused hands groping mercilessly at your chest, your stomach, your waist. Finally, his thumb found its way to your neglected clit, and with less than a full second of stimulation, you were buckling into yourself, clamping down around his cock with a fractured whimper. As humiliated as you were, Toji wasn’t far behind. With something between a moan and a howl, he was cumming inside of you – predictably making no attempt to pull out. Something hot and vile flooded into you, but it was hard to focus on that when you could feel something hard and bloated and wrong press into your entrance. Toji’s breath hitched as he forced his knot into your tight cunt, and whatever hope you had for coming out of this unscathed curled up and died inside of you.

You could feel him slacken on top of you. You almost thought he would collapse like that, leave you locked to him and trapped under his weight, but instead, he nuzzled against the crook of your neck, his fangs ghosting over your throat before sinking into the soft flesh just underneath your jugular. He stayed like that, his knot splitting open your pussy and his teeth buried in your neck, until you lost any hope of him ever pulling away.

Exhausted, you shut your eyes, sinking into yourself. You’d been right, in a way. Toji wasn’t a bad dog.

He was just a terrible terrible man.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere x you #yandere oneshot #yandere jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk imagines #yandere jjk #toji x reader #yandere toji #fushiguro toji x reader #yandere fushiguro toji #hybrid au

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cosmicalily · 3 months ago

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12:21am with kim seungmin - a @cosmicalily timestamp

"i just wanna touch you babe but i can't take my clothes off, guess it’s kinda funny, if i think too long, i’ll cry about it. i just wanna fuck you babe but i can't take my clothes off, guess i’ll keep on dancing around it, 'round it, ooh!” - ‘clothes off’ by aleksiah

author’s note: this little drabble is pretty personal to me, something i haven't explored on tumblr before. i have a lot of anxiety around sexual intimacy, which i feel like isn't discussed that much in mainstream media. when the song 'clothes off' by aleksiah was released, i literally cried. i'd never found a song that just summed up all my feelings so perfectly. wanting it but not. feeling guilty. feeling needy. i hope you understand what i'm trying to convey, i love you all xx

warnings: insecurities (around sex and sexual intimacy)

You didn’t quite know how you’d ended up making out with your best friend, Seungmin.

Maybe it had been the cup of tea he’d made you, humming softly to himself as he boiled the water, adding exactly a spoonful and a half of honey, just the way he knew you liked it.

Maybe it had been the fact that just yesterday, he’d silently restocked the second drawer in your vanity where you kept your stash of period products that he’d noticed were running low.

Maybe it had been the lyrics that you’d found when you were vacuuming the house, stashed under his bed with your name written in the title.

But you knew it wasn’t a singular event. You’d fallen for him ages ago.

The tea was now cold, sitting to the side of the coffee table, half drunken. You didn’t really feel the need to drink it anymore, not when you could spend hours, hours that you’d longed for since forever, kissing the plump lips that had whispered so many sweet secrets into your ears mere minutes ago.

“I love you.”

“You’re perfect.”

“Do you know how much I’ve wanted this?”

“You’re the prettiest girl, you know that, yeah?”

“Wait,” you blurted, pulling your face away from Seungmin’s, out of breath. “I don’t . . . I don’t think I can. I don’t think I want to.”

Seungmin looked at you worriedly, moving his hands from your waist and sitting up straight. “Did I do something?”

“No, it’s not you. I just . . .”

“It’s okay.”

He reached out for your hand, and you reluctantly gave it to him. He didn’t say anything for a bit, just rubbed soft circles into the back of your palm. Your breathing slowed. So did your heart rate.

“I don’t want you for sex,” he said eventually, staring out the window. The curtains were closed, but the moonlight melted through a little, casting a soft glow across his face. He was like the moon. Permanent and dependable and always there to watch over you.

Especially at night, when your thoughts became too much.

“Of course, if you wanted to have it, I wouldn’t be opposed,” he continued, turning to look at you. His hand shifted to gently brush a tear from your cheek. “But I want you because I want you. And if that means kissing and falling asleep, that’s what I want.”

“You’re not bored?” you mumbled, not quite meeting his eye.

“I could never be.”

taglist: @hyunjiiza @velvetmoonlght @s3ungm1nxxl0ve @btch8008s @heartsbyani @ellemir2404 @bellarellasstuff @starsinagreenskyxx @ashtxrie @pigeonseatmayo @modesttiger @woozarts @zelinkcrossing @urlocalmultigroupfan @shuuporanglinos @lezleeferguson-120 @r1nstaaa - dm, comment or send an ask to be added :)

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bbywriter · 2 months ago

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between us | c. sturniolo

masterlist

summary: you and chris go meet matt's newborn baby

pairing: christopher sturniolo x fem!reader

warnings: none just fluff<33

notes: i really need to be studying but i just haaad to write this first

word count: 1k

—

The hospital room is still. A steady rhythm beeps quietly from one of the machines, interrupted only by the hushed conversations between Matt and his girlfriend. The morning sunrise filters gently through the curtains. It outlines the couple sitting on the bed with golden rays, completely wrapping them in their new little world.

Exhaustion is heavy in Matt’s features, but it’s soothed by something peaceful and soft. His girlfriend leans against him, her eyes half-lidded with a tired but content smile on her lips. And in his arms, held with the utmost care, is a tiny bundle wrapped snugly in a blanket, barely stirring except for the occasional sleepy wiggle.

Chris hasn’t taken his eyes off the baby since you walked in.

He’s been up all night, eagerly waiting since Matt texted at the early hours of 2am that ‘we’re in labour!!!!!’ to get the okay to come visit. But now that you’re actually here, he’s gone completely still beside you. Hands fidgeting at his sides, his earlier excitement is now replaced by quiet admiration.

Matt glances up, sending his brother a knowing grin. “You wanna hold her?”

The question pulls Chris from his thoughts and he hesitates, his gaze flickering to you for some sort of reassurance. You place a hand on the small of his back and nod, offering an encouraging smile. “Yeah, baby, go hold her.”

He looks back at his brother and lets out a shaky exhale before stepping forward. He carefully stretches out his arms, his usual confidence softened by a new uncertainty as Matt gently transfers her into his hold. For a second, Chris stands completely frozen, holding his breath. He’s afraid to move too fast or do something wrong.

But then as the baby lets out the softest little sigh and nestles further into his chest, his heart becomes hers.

“She’s so small,” Chris whispers. His voice is barely audible as he glances at his brother, and with a smile, Matt gives him a reassuring nod. Chris shifts naturally, adjusting his hold, his fingers tracing light, absentminded circles over the baby’s back. You can see the way his throat bobs and his lips part as if he wants to say something else, but no words come out. His eyes glaze over just slightly, and when he lets out a breathy laugh, your chest tightens.

You’ve never seen him like this before.

He's always been loving—caring in ways that go unnoticed, selfless and gentle towards everyone around him. But the pure adoration in his eyes as he stares at his niece is entirely different. It’s deeper and more profound and it stirs a warm feeling in your chest. You don’t think you’ve ever loved him more than in this moment.

Matt slings an arm around Chris’s shoulders, pulling him in as they watch the baby together. For a moment, neither of them speaks, just taking in the surreal moment.

Chris shakes his head. “I can’t believe you’re a dad.” His voice is full of disbelief, still trying to process his brother’s new title.

Matt chuckles, his gaze never leaving his daughter. “I know, dude, it’s insane.”

Just then, like she knows they’re talking about her, the baby stirs in her swaddle, her tiny fingers twitching as she shifts against the blanket. She cranes her neck ever so slightly before letting out a slow, sleepy yawn, her little mouth opening wide, her nose scrunching just a bit. The sight is almost too precious, and their reaction is immediate. An identical “aww” slips from their lips in perfect unison.

Chris leans in slightly, studying her sweet features. “You literally do that too with your nose when you yawn.” He smiles at the realization.

“Isn’t it so cute?” Matt replies genuinely, his voice laced with pride and awe at his baby’s simple existence.

But Chris doesn’t hesitate. “Only when she does it.”

Matt scoffs, shaking his head with a smile. He doesn’t argue, but giggles softly instead. Chris is already grinning as well when his own laughter bubbles up. And just like that, the’ve fallen into the fit of giggles that’s been second nature to them since they were also babies.

You watch them closely, and suddenly, your own eyes fill with tears. Their triplet bond has always been something you’ve deeply admired. And now, with this tiny new life between them, you can see it’s only growing impossibly stronger.

“___, do you wanna hold her?” Matt’s girlfriend asks, her voice gentle, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

All eyes shift to you, and when Chris’s gaze meets yours, a soft smile spreads across his face. His eyes flicker with understanding as he notices the tears welling up in yours. You let out a quiet laugh, feeling a little embarrassed by the surge of your emotions, and quickly wipe at your eyes. You nod with a smile, and he gently places the baby into your hold.

The moment her weight settles into your arms, cradled gently between you and Chris, it feels as though you two have also slipped into your own little world.

Without a word, he steps behind you and gently rests his chin on your shoulder, his arm snaking around your waist. His body presses against yours, warm and solid, the closeness both grounding and instinctive, like he needs to be close—to share this moment with you.

You glance up at him, expecting to find him still focused on the baby. But his eyes are on you instead, so full of quiet devotion, full of love, and it pulls the air straight from your lungs.

In the softest voice, just loud enough for you to hear, he whispers, “I can’t wait ‘til we have our own.”

Your heart stutters, unsure if you heard him right. You turn toward him, searching his face, but he’s already looking at you like he means it with every fiber of his being. The words urge a new wave of tears to fill your eyes, and for a second, you forget to breathe.

A slow smile tugs at your lips. You glance back down at the baby in your arms, swaying slightly like it’s second nature. “Me neither.”

Chris tightens his hold around your waist, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple, his breath warm against your skin. And although in this moment you don’t know exactly what the future holds, it’s clear and without doubt that when the time comes, Chris is going to be the best dad.

—

a/n: thank you always for reading<3 ily guys<3 so much<3

#bbywriter ✍️#christopher sturniolo #chris sturniolo #chris sturniolo fluff #chris sturniolo x reader #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #sturniolo

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fckmebarnes · 3 months ago

Text

give it to me

alpha!bucky barnes x omega!reader

18+ smut! minors DNI! p in v, cunninglings (r) bucky humps the couch in desperate need. slight scenting. light choking. daddy title. cockwarming. claiming. multiple orgasm (r). breeding kink.

hii! look at these two . bucky & bellflower <3 i hope you guys liked this! this is Not Proof read & also not sure about word count but it’s long and filthy! (think this is my first fr fr fic) asks are always open for these two! enjoy!!!

he had an exceptionally long fucking day at work, not anything he really wanted to share — it was stupid. he just needed to let off steam, take his frustrations out on something.

and that something just so happened to be you.

after a long day of work, walking into the house to see you there, on the couch snuggled up with a good book and a blanket covering your frame — he felt all the stresses of the day start to roll off his shoulders and right back out the door.

living together without being mated as alpha and omega was hard, but it wasn’t impossible, everyday bucky was so thankful and grateful you agreed to move in with him, knowing that he would be able to keep better track of you.

“buck!” you exclaimed, sitting up and seeing your alpha shrug off his jacket, before hanging it up on the rack right next to the front door. he smiled at his name falling from your lips, toeing off his boots before making his way over to you.

your arms were outstretched for him, his scent invading your mind as he gets closer. you could tell he was grumpy with the way that little line in his brown increased. you frowned as soon as he got toe with the couch before collapsing into your arms, wrapping your arms around his neck

he nuzzles his nose into your neck, inhaling your perfect scent of vanilla, lavender, smoke wood and a hint of weed. he smiles against your skin, rubbing his face gently back and forth, making you giggle from the sensation of his stubble. “i missed you, bellflower.”

your cheeks heat at the nickname as you hear it, feeling him let out a long exhale. “what’s wrong?” you ask softly, one hand coming to his hand and running your fingers through the thick, curly locks while your other hand rubs soothing circles on his back

he grumbles, making you chuckle softly. you knew he moods could go sour. he job as a lawyer was rough, always dealing with shitty clients who thought they were so much better than him, even though he was the one to represent them

he shakes his head into your neck, his hands coming to run up and down the sides of your body slowly over the blanket. “just stupid shit at work.” he confesses against your skin, nipping at it softly with his teeth.

“wanna talk about it?” he doesn’t respond, only continues to lightly nip the sensitive spot on your neck, the one that was still unmarked and unclaimed by your alpha on top of you. he shakes his head, pressing further into you if that was somehow possible.

“no, just need a distraction.” you let out a sigh, nodding even if he couldn’t see you. as he lays there, you really take note of his scent.

yes, he’s frustrated so that explained the underlying sour smell coming from him. he smelled more of cow time oranges, bergamot, cinnamon and his signature scent of musk that you fell in love with the first moment you met him.

he didn’t need to know all that though.

“what can i do to help you?” you asked softly, running your hand still through his hair. his head looks up a little at you, as he takes his right hand from your hip, taking the hand in your hair and bringing it to his mouth. he kisses your knuckles gently before down your arm, dropping it gently on the couch and trailing kisses over your collarbones.

“just let me have you, my way. please?” his voice is low against you, stubble dragging on your skin leaving soft red lines in its wake. you felt yourself shiver as you nod, letting him sit up and discarding the blanket that was covering you, to reveal your body to him.

“my beautiful bellflower.” he murmurs lowly, his eyes drinkin in the sight of you. you weren’t wearing much — just a pair of his boxers and his sleep shirt. but it was still enough to make his cock stir and throb in his own boxers. he licks his lips, eyes traveling down your chest, stopping to soak in your hard, pebbles nipples rubbing softly against his t-shirt

he parts your legs, kneeling into the couch facing you as he wraps your legs around his waist. you were both so lucky you owned a big L shaped couch, just so he could do cunninglings to you like this.

your chest heaves softly as you watch his movements, his hands slipping under your shirt and cupping your breasts in his hands — the differentiating temperature of cold and hot fingers pinching your pert nipples making you moan softly.

he smiles to himself, loving how with just the softest touch like this, he can have you singing the loveliest of songs just for him.

it makes him desire you more.

his cock throbbing in his boxers, reminding him that he still needed to feel your cunt wrapped around his knot. he needed to feel the squeeze of your pussy keeping him inside you, being able to feel all of him.

not yet, he decides. needing to taste your sweet pussy before he can give his cock a feel of you.

as he kisses down your body, he shuffles his own down the length of the couch, his cock snug against the plush pillows and feeling it throb at the sensitivity and pressure. his face comes center to your clothed core, a small little wet spot shown at the center of your boxers

“oh? eager, are we?” his eyes look hungrily at you before flickering back to your clothed cunt, resting in his elbows as he pulls your boxers down and you help him shimming out of them

you gasp as the cool air hits your wet cunt, a dark smile on his lips as his eyes never leave your pussy. “this all for me, bellflower?” he doesn’t even need to lean in to smell your arousal, the way it comes off of your skin and body as your hole clenches around absolutely nothing.

“buck..” you let out a soft whine, your head hitting one of the pillows as you look down at him, book now discarded to the side. the soft glow of the lamp on the side table made bucky’s face illuminate.

it was so sickening really, how someone as ethereal and handsome as him could look. added with being in between your legs.

this was your alpha?

you let out a bated breath as he licks a small kitten lick around your clit, closing his eyes, he buries his nose into your bush and inhales your musky scent, eliciting a deep groan from him.

“fuck, baby…you smell so good.” he buries hide nose a bit deeper into your bush, before those bright blue eyes open and look right up at you. “let’s see if you taste just as sweet, lil omega.”

his tongue licked a fat stripe up from your weeping hole right to your clit, a moan leaving bucky’s lips as he your slick explodes on his taste buds. the tip of his tongue swirled around your swollen clit, your hands finding purchase in his brown locks as he wraps his lips gently around your clit, sucking on it.

“oh…fuck, yes…” you feel him grin against your cunt, the stubble of his beard rubbing deliciously on the soft skin of the inside of your thighs. his lips stay sucking your clit for a second, his hands gripping your thighs to keep them spread

he lets go of your clit with a wet, salacious ‘pop’, licking his lips clean from your arousal. “oh, little omega. you taste even better than i imagined…” you let out a soft breath as he dives back into your cunt, his tongue going to your weeping hole.

“oh…!”’you tug his hair in surprise, feeling his tongue work its way around your folds, your entrance that’s clenching around nothing, and that swollen puffy clit if you’re he loves scraping his teeth gently against — before sucking on it.

his metal hand legs go of your thigh, his pointer finger coming over to your entrance and teasing around it, slick running down his finger. “tell me what you need, baby.” you whimper under him, breathing quickening in anticipation.

your nerves were set ablaze with each gentle touch of his. you could barely take in everything around you, the stimuli almost overwhelming. all you wanted was to feel him fill you up, make you his.

“you, please i-“ you let out a soft groan as he dips his pointer finger inside your hole, eyes never leaving your gaze — watching every flicker facial expression of yours. drinking you in.

“please, what? this what you need, baby? my fingers? or do you need something more?” you let out a soft whine as you bit your lip, nodding. you weren’t sure which you were nodding to, your body on edge with needing his touch as you stared up at the ceiling, your body begging.

“please daddy,” you breathed out in a soft moan, bucking your hips as you felt a second finger slip easily in, the cool metal making your cunt flutter from the stark contrast in temperature. “need you to fuck me, however you want…” your eyes flickered back down to his, those stormy blue eyes making your stomach flip.

his cock throbbed as you looked at him with desire and need, the ache feeling worse as he ruts his hips into the pillows. “good girl, baby. using your words for daddy.” his praise sends a shiver down your spine, a whimper escaping your throat.

“shh,” he groans softly as his hips move slowly against the pillows. you catch it, your cunt fluttering at the sight of bucky rutting into the couch like it was your pussy. he groaned softly, your eyes meeting his again.

“you like watching me like this, baby? your alpha all needy and fucked out for you and i havent even taken out my cock.” you moan at his dirty words, his fingers thrusting into you at a slow and agonizing pace, scissoring and curling to stretch you out perfectly for him

it’s not like you needed too much scissoring of his fingers, your cunt was so soaked it made his metal hand shine in the dim light. your hips bucked with his thrusts, whines and whimpers escaping your lips as you felt your stomach tightening, your orgasm approaching and fast

“there’s a good girl, you gonna cum on daddy’s fingers baby?” you nod, whimper as your hips buck into his thrusts, the palm of his hand pushing against your clit.

“fuck, yes… ‘m gonna cum, please…” you let out a moan, his eyes darkening further as you beg him for your release. as much as he loves holding it back for you, denying you of that orgasm — he needed nothing more to feel his cock in your cunt and swallowing his knot

“cum for me, doll. show me how good daddy makes you feel.” you moaned, cunt tightening as you gushed around his hand, hands lazily leaving his hair as you gripped the couch cushion next to you. your body was on fire, each nerve ending singing with pleasure as he fucks tou through your orgasm.

your hips jolt as you feel his mouth back on you, his fingers still fucking your cunt slowly as he cleans up a little, moaning how good you taste on his tongue. he slips his metal fingers out of your pussy, sitting up enough to lean over your frame, and push his two cum covered metal fingers past your lips and into your mouth

a moan slips past your lips as you taste yourself on your tongue, his metal fingers warm from fucking your wet pussy. you swirl your tongue around the digits, cleaning them as best you could. but truthfully, bucky did not give a shit how clean they would get

he couldn’t stop imagining that it was his cock instead of his fingers in your mouth while rutting his hips into the couch. your tongue swirling the tip of his swollen tip cleaning the mess off. how he’d drive your throat deeper onto him, your nose brushing against his thick knot.

“fuck. i need you.” he growls deeply, taking his fingers from your lips and cunt and pushing himself to sit up, before he discards his own pants and shirt himself.

his dog tags clink against his bare chest, a light dusting of chest hair. he was handsome, those big, broad and beefy shoulders taking up some of the low lighting, making him bigger.

your cunt throbbed at the sight of him and him alone.

his cock sprang free as he threw off his boxers, his knot heavy and swollen at the base. you licked your lips, your cunt gushing even harder at the sight of needing to be knotted by your alpha.

“you want it baby?” you nod, and coherent thoughts out the window as you now thought with just your pussy. he chuckles, coming to climb over your frame. his metal hand resting on the arm rest to steady himself while his right hand comes to grip his cock, rubbing the tip around your soaked folds.

“beg for it.” it’s a simple command, one you’d usually find yourself obeying the second it leaves his lips. but you weren’t thinking , you didn’t have a single thought in that head of yours and he knew that.

you looked fucked out as it was. drunk on his fingers, his scent, his taste. everything about him made your brain fuzzy and you couldn’t help but buck your hips up , widening your legs for his fran to fit into you again. just like where he should be.

“please…” you thought that would be enough for him, but it never was. not with bucky.

he chuckles, swirling the tip of his dick around your swollen clit teasingly. he moans at the slight touch, his cock throbbing in his hands and his knot dying to be in your cunt.

“you can do better than that.” he states, and it’s true, you can. you let out a soft whine as the tip of his cock slides down your cunt to your weeping hole, slick running down onto the couch and covering your thighs. it should be embarrassing, how much you needed your alpha in that moment but then again — nothing else mattered except how much you needed him in that moment

“please daddy, please need your knot…!” you both moan as he sinks into you at your plea, string of curses leaving his lips as he closes his eyes and dips his head back

your cunt feels like heaven for his cock — warm and velvety walls sucking him in slowly. the base of his knot presses snug against your cunt and you whine, wishing he could fit all of it, could he?

“there’s a good little omega,” he praises, his flesh hand coming to caresses your cheeks, a thumb slowly wiping your bottom lip before he pulls you. you whine at the loss, and he can only smirk before he pushes back in.

picking up a pace, you head the slap of skin on skin making you moan, feeling his cock throb inside of you. his flesh hand comes to wrap lightly around your throat, your tits bouncing under his shirt with each thrust of his hips.

“there you go, look at ya,” he looks down to where your bodies connect and he lets out a low gutteral moan at the sight. his cock was soaked, his knot getting wet from your slick. he was in heaven. “taking daddy’s dick so fuckin’ good like i thought.” he groans again as you squeeze around him in response, his hips picking up a heavier pace

“fuck…alpha…” you moan, eyes rolling to the back of your head as the tip of his cock just barely hits that sweet spot that you need him to hit

“yeah baby? you like that? like feeling your alpha’s cock so deep in your cunt like this?” you moan and nod in response, your hands grinding their way around the arm that has the hand around your neck lightly — digging your nails into his skin. your hands trailed up his arms to around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him

he pulled a pillow from behind him to push gently under your hips to give him a better angle, and you moaned aloud, his cock pushing deeper into you. he grinned at your response before he he gladly fell into you, his nose judging your mark.

“mine.” he frowned before licking the mark under neck, the one where you’ve still laid yet unclaimed by him. “all mine.” your hands frenzied over his back side, clawing at his skin with your nails making sure to leave marks. you need him, needed to know that he was yours.

your nose found the same little mark under his ear, nudging against it to scent him as yours. you felt your chest bloom with a purr, his cock pushing hard and deep into your cunt. your legs wrapped tightly around his hips as he moaned into your neck, licking the scent of you off your skin.

“yours…claim me, i’m yours…” your head was dizzy with all things him. you almost felt like there wasn’t a time where he didn’t exist, where you were only on a one thought train of just bucky.

you licked the mark under his ear and he groaned into you, his cock throbbing inside of you as he slowed his thrusts, before pushing a little harder, his knot slipping past you

you let out a moan, nails digging deep into his skin as you licked his mark, nudging and scenting it and needing him. his body vibrated from the pure coming from your chest, taking his flesh hand and trailing it up and under your shirt to grasp your breast, rolling your nipple in between his thumb and forefinger.

“‘m close, fuck please…” you moan against his neck, teeth lightly grazing the spot where you needed to take him most. his body was in tune with yours, thrusts quickening as his knot slipped past with a satisfying feeling, a deep moan elicited from both of your chests

“give it to me. c’mon, show me how bad you want it.” your eyes dilated out, blown with lust and desire and the need to claim him. he fingered with your nipple, pushing your chest into him as his knot popped in and out of your wet pussy with a squlech

you were a moaning mess under him, his teeth nipping at the sensitive skin where your mark was, before biting down on your spot the same time as you, a moan pushing past your lips the same as him. you felt your cunt squeeze and pulse around his cock and his knot, feeling his breathing heavier as you cum.

he scents you more with his nose against your neck, creating a deep bruise on the skin before moving away with a pop, after you’re satisfied with the same mark on his skin.

“fuck baby,” he leans up a bit before pulling his hand from your breast to rest on your hip, pushing into you at a sloppy pace. his hair sticks to his forehead, eyes blown out with lust as he reaches his high and you can feel him throb inside of you. “‘m so close,”

“give it to me, my alpha.” the moan that dripped from your lips was sinful, his cock throbbing harshly inside your cunt as he grips both your hips and fucks into you at a relentless pace.

“gonna give you me cum, yeah? this tight cunt fitting your alpha’s fat knot so fuckin’ good,” a string of curses leave his lips as his thumb finds your swollen clit rubbing it harshly. your body jerks in reaction making you moan in response. “gonna give you my load, fill you up and make you round with my pups.”

that draws a loan moan from you and his smirks, a dark look over his face. “yeah baby you like that idea huh? your alpha fuckin’ his cum so deep in you-“ he leans down, and grips your chin tightly with his flesh hand, making you look at him while he fucks into you, playing with your clit so easily. “making sure it sticks.” he lets out a groan as you squeeze his cock, his knot buried deep inside of you as you cum with him

you grip his shoulders, pulling him close as he fucks his cum deep inside of your cunt, taking his hand from your clit and releasing your jaw, his hips coming to a slow and lazy thrust. you whine softly, his cock slipping so easily in and out of you.

“my good omega. all fuckin’ mine.” he murmurs into your neck, nuzzling his nose against the sore mark on your skin, making you whimper and clench his cock in response. he stirs a little, pushing his cock as deep as it can go, he knot swelling down. “gotta make sure it sticks.” you nod sleepily in response, letting him turn the two of you over so he’s holding you against his chest, eyes closing, and his cock snug into your cunt.

“my beautiful, bellflower.” he murmurs against your forehead, making sure to wrap the blanket over the two of you. “i’ll always take care of you. i’ll always love you. you’re mine forever.”

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mindmelter · 2 months ago

Text

Turn A Bully Into A Drone

The moment Ethan stepped into the empty locker room, he knew his plan had worked. The shower was running and there he was—Jace, his high school tormentor, standing under the water, his white dress shirt completely drenched and clinging to his muscular body while wearing black speedos. His chiseled abs and big, perky pecs were fully visible through the soaked fabric, and his face... Blank. Emotionless. Obedient.

Ethan's hands reached out and unbuttoned Jace's shirt, revealing his big pecs.

Ethan’s heart raced as he took in the sight. It had all led up to this. The months of planning, the late nights spent perfecting the nanorobots, the careful engineering to ensure they would only activate upon contact with Jace’s skin. He had spent years enduring Jace’s cruel pranks, his cocky smirks, and the way he strutted around the school like he owned it. Jace was feared by everyone, and this granted him the title of the leader of the most arrogant group of jocks.

But now he was standing motionless, allowing the nerd he used to bully to enjoy the sight of his muscular body.

It had been easy for Ethan. Despite being a troublemaker, Jace was the golden boy of the swim team and would spend hours in the pool every day. All Ethan had to do was introduce the microscopic machines into the water supply and let them do their work. The moment Jace dove in, the nanorobots detected their target and swarmed toward him, slipping through his pores, traveling through his bloodstream, and finally settling in his brain. They rewrote his brain cells, stripped away his arrogance, his free will, and molded him into exactly what Ethan wanted.—His personal drone.

And the proof was right there. A small tattoo of a triangle behind Jace’s ear—a mark left by the nanorobots once their work was complete. Ethan had spotted it this morning when Jace took a swim, when he stepped out of the pool, his usual swagger was gone, his movements just a little too stiffy, his eyes just a little too empty.

Ethan watched as the swimmers all went to the locker room, and went home after getting dressed. Jace was the only one who stayed behind.

And now, here he was, standing under the shower, waiting for Ethan just like the nanorobots were programmed to do.

Ethan stepped forward and reached out, slowly pressing his palm against Jace’s broad, wet chest, feeling the firm warmth beneath the wet skin. Jace had always been built, his swimmer’s body honed to perfection. He would have never allowed a guy like Ethan to touch him, but now there was no resistance, no cocky smirk, no taunting insult. Just stillness.

Ethan let his fingers roam lower, finding one of Jace’s nipples. He gave it a testing pinch, rolling it between his fingers. Jace shuddered. A small, involuntary gasp slipped from his lips, but he didn’t move away.

“You like that? You arrogant prick,” Ethan murmured, squeezing his pecs harder. “From now on, these are mine. You understand?”

Jace’s lips parted. “Yes… Master. These pecs are yours.” His voice was distant, dreamy, like a zombie.

The triangle mark on his neck glowed with blue light for a few seconds, indicating that a new command had been installed in Jace's brain.

Ethan grinned. “You’re gonna be my obedient toy now, Jace. No more bullying, no more acting like you’re better than me. From now on, you’re gonna crave my touch.” His hands moved with purpose, pinching both of Jace’s nipples and twisting. Hard. Jace let out a strangled moan, his legs trembling. Ethan felt a rush of power, of pure satisfaction. This was what he deserved.

Before, Jace would have punched Ethan just for looking at his pecs. Now, all Jace could think about was how those slabs of muscles on his chest weren't his anymore, but now belonged to Ethan.

“My touch makes you so horny,” Ethan cooed, rubbing slow circles around Jace’s hardened buds. “Your pecs are so sensitive now. So sensitive that from now on, you can only cum when I play with them.”

The triangle mark glowed again, Jace gasped, his entire body quivering under the shower’s stream. “Please…”

Ethan smirked. “Please what?”

"Please make me cum, Master!" Jace let out a desperate whimper, but Ethan wasn’t feeling generous. He pinched harder, twisting cruelly, and Jace let out a deep, shuddering moan. His whole body tensed, and his cock thobbed inside his tight speedos—then he came, his face contorted in helpless pleasure.

Ethan chuckled, stepping back to admire his work. Jace stood there, panting, his dick printed in his speedos, still leaking cum. The triangle mark behind his ear was a permanent reminder of who he belonged to now.

“You're such a pervert, Jace. Now kneel and suck me off. Play with your nipples as you do it.” Ethan ordered.

The triangle was glowing again, Jace’s blank eyes slowly focused on him, and for the first time in his life, there was no arrogance, no cruelty—just need. Desperation.

And from that day on, Jace changed. He stopped shoving Ethan in the hallways, stopped laughing at him with his friends. Instead, he was always walking beside Ethan, his eyes pleading, wanting him to play with his pecs all the time. And Ethan would whenever he wanted.

Ethan would use Jace's pecs to jerk off, suck, or simply to torture the once-arrogant jock. One time, Ethan used a waterproof marker to write 'Owned by Ethan' on Jace's chest just before his turn in a swimming competition. It became the school's only talk for a whole week. It was all anyone at school talked about for a whole week.

Ethan even made Jace kneel in front of him in the hallway and beg him to play with his "tits" right in front of his jock friends... let's say he wasn't their leader anymore after that day, but Jace couldn't care less, all he cared about was Ethan using his pecs for his pleasure.

______________________

Seven years had passed since high school, and Ethan had long since moved on from his past with Jace. The nanorobots, however, had not. They remained nestled deep in Jace’s brain, an unseen force that still bound him to the programming Ethan had left behind. Ethan wasn’t cruel—he had allowed Jace to live his life normally. He could date, he could have sex, he could go about his days as if nothing had changed. But there was one thing he could never escape: he could only orgasm when playing with his pecs and thinking of Ethan.

It had been a failsafe. A final act of control that ensured, no matter where life took Jace, he would always belong to Ethan in some way.

Ethan had thrived since high school. College had been a playground for him—his intelligence, his experiments, and his confidence had expanded. In just a few months of college, the hottest jocks also displayed a triangle mark on their necks. Ethan had built an empire of control. A harem of jock drones, each under his influence in one way or another, devoted to him in mind and body. Ethan was living his fantasy.

And then, one afternoon at the beach, he saw him.

Jace was out in the ocean, carving through the waves on a surfboard with practiced ease. He had become a surfing instructor, and the years had only made him more impressive—He wore a tight surfing fit: a tight-sleeved compression shirt unzipped just enough to reveal a teasing glimpse of his pecs and compression pants that clung to every sculpted muscle, outlining the power he carried between his legs. Ethan smirked. Jace was still as hot as he was in High School.

Ethan watched from the shore as Jace finished his lesson and walked up the beach, shaking out his wet hair. When their eyes met, recognition dawned in Jace’s face, followed by a wide, genuine grin.

“Ethan! Damn, it’s been forever, man!”

Jace’s voice was warm and genuine. He gave Ethan a tight hug, burying his face between his pecs... whether intentional or not, Ethan wasn't complaining.

If Ethan didn’t know better, he would’ve thought the years had erased the past. But he knew. He knew because Jace’s eyes lingered on him just a second too long, because the way Jace's pecs flexed with his face buried between them, told Ethan that deep down, the nanorobots were still just as strong in his brain as seven years go.

“Jace,” Ethan greeted, pulling his face away from Jace's pecs, pretending at camaraderie. “You look good.”

Jace laughed, wiping sweat from his brow. “Thanks. You too, though. You look... different.”

Ethan smirked. “Yeah, life’s been good to me.”

They caught up for a bit. Jace seemed completely normal. He had a job now, a life, a routine. In High School, Ethan always thought Jace would end up in a gang or having a shitty life, but thanks to the work the nanorobots did to his brain, Jace had a second chance in life... even if he was a mindless drone now.

But Ethan knew better, as normal Jace looked now, he was just a ticking time bomb waiting for the right command. And then, casually, as if he were simply making an observation, Ethan said.

“Activate Standby Mode.”

Jace stopped mid-sentence and the mark on his neck glowed. His muscles stiffened, and then—nothing. His arms hung loosely at his sides, his chest rising and falling in slow breaths. His face, once animated with conversation, went blank. Emotionless. His eyes stared ahead, unfocused, waiting.

Ethan took a step forward, tilting his head as he observed his former bully, now reduced to a mere puppet again, after seven years. He ran a finger along Jace’s chest, watching for any sign of resistance. There was none.

He reached for Jace's bulge and gave it a slight squeeze. “I missed playing with you, Jace,” Ethan murmured. Jace remained still, completely at his mercy. Ethan’s smirk widened. After all these years, Jace was still his. "You see Jace... I turned into a drone almost every hot jock at my school, yet, none of them had such perfect pecs like you."

And now, it was time to remind him of that fact. "Follow me."

Ethan led Jace away from the beach, guiding him toward the rocky outcrop where Ethan would have the privacy he needed. Jace followed obediently, moving without hesitation, his gaze vacant. He was still deep in standby mode, awaiting only Ethan’s next command.

When they reached the secluded area behind some rocks, Ethan pushed Jace down against the stone, positioning him just as he wanted. Ethan unzipped the tight, long-sleeved compression shirt, peeling it open to fully reveal Jace’s sculpted pecs that he missed so much, then he pulled down Jace's compression pants, revealing his tight black speedos.

The sight made Ethan hard—Jace’s blank face, his perfect, meaty chest and the massive bulge in his speedos... Suddenly, all the memories of the fun he had with Jace in high school started to flood back.

Ethan climbed onto Jace’s lap, his legs straddling the thick thighs beneath him. He gently pressed his palms against Jace’s pecs, kneading the firm flesh before lowering his mouth to one of the stiff nipples. He licked at it first, tasting the salt on Jace’s skin before closing his lips around the nub, sucking hungrily.

Jace remained motionless, his breath deep and steady. Ethan soon felt the twitch beneath him, the involuntary jerk of Jace’s cock pressing harder against his ass through the tight speedos. Smirking, Ethan bit down on Jace’s nipple, twisting the other between his fingers as he felt the cock beneath him throb in response.

“I see my command is still holding strong,” Ethan murmured against Jace’s chest before moving to the other nipple, sucking, biting, and flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. Each movement sent an electric pulse down to Jace’s cock, making it strain harder against its confines.

Ethan reached down, tugging down the waistband of Jace’s speedos. His thick, heavy cock sprang free, standing rigid and leaking.

Jace was too big—9 Inches hard. Ethan would need lube to take him fully. That's when Ethan remembered about a special command he would often use during High School. Would that still work? He asked himself. There was only one way to find out.

"Activate lube production mode," Ethan said. He waited a few seconds, a wicked grin formed on his face when he started to see a transparent sticky liquid oozing out of Jace's nipples.

During High School, Ethan would often pull Jace to a secluded room and fuck himself on Jace's big cock. To make it easier, Ethan gave the nanorobots a trigger word to produce a cum-enhanced lube that would be produced by Jace's pecs.

Ethan had completely forgotten about this trick until now, and he began to wonder what else he might be forgetting...

Ethan gave Jace's pecs a squeeze, making the transparent slippery liquid ooze faster. He then put some on his hand and coated Jace's dick with the natural lube.

Ethan’s own arousal was unbearable now, his own cock aching as he positioned his ass over Jace’s slippery shaft. With one slow movement, he sank down onto it, letting Jace's cock stretch him open.

A moan tore from Ethan’s lips as he adjusted, his hands bracing against Jace’s chest. The thick cock inside him pulsed, but Jace’s face remained blank, obediently waiting for direction. That only made Ethan hotter. He rocked his hips, setting a slow, deep rhythm, his fingers never leaving Jace’s pecs, smearing the slippery lube all over his chest making it glisten. Each time Ethan twisted or pinched a nipple, the cock inside him throbbed, reacting as if the sensations were directly wired together... Ethan knew they were.

Ethan rode him harder, his moans turning into gasps. He ground his hips, his fingers working Jace’s pecs mercilessly, alternating between soft caresses and sharp twists that made Jace’s cock throb uncontrollably inside him.

Ethan was close. His own cock twitched between them, untouched but fully ready to explode. He bit down on Jace’s left nipple and moaned as his orgasm hit him like a shockwave. His cum spilled in thick ropes over Jace’s chest, painting those perfect pecs in his release.

As his orgasm ceased, he grinned wickedly as Jace’s body jerked beneath him, his cock throbbing before spilling deep inside Ethan, his load pumping out in response to Ethan's command written into his very being.

Ethan sat there for a moment, still impaled on Jace’s cock, watching the way the cum dripped down his pecs and mindless face. He dragged his fingers through it and inserted one finger inside Jace's mouth with satisfaction.

“I'm never letting you go again,” Ethan whispered, pressing a final kiss to Jace’s agape mouth.

______________________

Ethan made his way to his personal gym, a massive space inside his mansion filled with state-of-the-art equipment and his favorite drone.

The moment he stepped inside, his eyes fell on Jace, standing frozen with his eyes open in the middle of the gym. Every night, before heading to bed, Ethan would shut down the nanorobots inside Jace, leaving him stuck like statue all night.

Ethan approached with a smirk, trailing his fingers along Jace’s broad back before stepping in front of him and gripping the bottom of his tight gym shirt and lifting it, revealing Jace's thick, heavy slabs of muscle that Ethan had grown obsessed with. His pecs, round and full, just waiting for inspection.

“Good morning, Jace,” Ethan said. His hands roamed over the meaty curves, squeezing them, testing their softness. The warmth of Jace’s body and the scent of sweat were pure addiction to Ethan. He leaned in, tracing his tongue around the stiff nub of Jace’s nipple before pulling it into his mouth, sucking greedily. Jace remained in sleep mode, his face blank, his body completely still except for the rhythmic rise and fall of his breath.

Ethan gave the soft flesh a few gentle bites, just enough to leave teeth marks for a few days. He then flicked his tongue over the sensitive bud, his fingers teasing and twisting the other, eliciting a soft, involuntary grunt from Jace. The connection was undeniable—every pinch, every squeeze sent a pulse straight to Jace’s cock, hardening him instantly. Ethan smirked against his pec—Jace's body still responded to the command even when his brain was turned off.

“They're getting bigger, you're doing a good job at working out your pecs,” he praised, dragging his teeth lightly against Jace’s nipples before switching to the other side, giving it equal worship. Jace’s body responded even without conscious thought, his muscles twitching under Ethan’s control. This was his pec drone now—his to touch, to taste, to use. And Ethan had no intention of ever letting him go again.

"Turn off sleeping mode. Activate loving boyfriend mode."

The triangle mark on Jace's neck started glowing.

#mind control #brainwash #brainwashing #male puppet

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societyfolklore · 1 month ago

Text

Not Ready Yet

Title: Not Ready Yet Pairing: Steve Roger x Female Reader

Summary: Steve Rogers has been nothing but the perfect gentleman- sweet, attentive, patient. He’s made you feel special from the moment you met, like something rare and cherished. So when he finally invites you over for dinner after two months of slow-burning romance, you think you know what’s coming. You don’t…

Word Count: 6.1K

Warnings: / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Dom!Steve, Vaginal Fisting, Gentleman-to-Deviant Vibe (Soft Dom-to-Darker Shift), Size Kink & Super Soldier Strength, Manipulation (Soft-Edged, Coaxing Control), Dubious Consent, Pleasure-Drunk, Praise Kink, Your Naive but Steve is Calculated, Internal Conflict (Bliss-to-Dread Arc), Overstimulation, Pain & Stretching (Mixed with Pleasure), Aftercare Used to Maintain Power, alcohol Mention (Wine During Dinner)

A/N: my entry for @avengers-assemble-bingo for April Kinky Bingo... this one was something else.. Square: A2- Fisting Card Number: KB003

You had never felt so cherished in your life.

Steve Rogers was everything they said he was, and more. Gallant. Polite. A little shy, even. The kind of man who bought fresh flowers from the Saturday market just because he thought of you when he passed them. Who walked you home every time you went out together. Who kissed you on the cheek that first night, even when you'd leaned in hopeful, wanting, to meet his lips.

It had taken three dates for him to finally kiss you properly. But when he had? You'd felt it in your bones. Like your body had been waiting for it, your skin leaning in before your mind could even catch up. That first real kiss had been soft, reverent, almost hesitant and yet it lingered in your memory like something carved into marble.

You’d been seeing him for a little over two months now. Slow and steady. Holding hands, forehead kisses, flirty looks. And then tonight- tonight, he invited you to his place for dinner.

The idea that something might happen tonight left a flutter of nerves dancing in your belly. You weren’t sure what to expect, but everything about Steve made you feel safe. Respected. Treasured. If anyone was going to be your first in this new relationship, you were glad it would be him.

When you arrived, he greeted you at the door with a soft smile and a warm kiss. The table was already set. The apartment smelled amazing- garlic, herbs, something comforting and homey wafting in from the kitchen. The lighting was low, the music quiet and jazzy in the background. You felt wrapped in a cocoon of calm.

He’d made grilled salmon, roasted vegetables, and some kind of lemony couscous that was surprisingly addictive. Not too heavy. Just right. He poured you wine, told stories that made you laugh, reached across the table to touch your hand or tuck your hair behind your ear. Every move was effortless. Intimate.

By the time the plates were cleared and you were curled up beside him on the couch, your chest was warm with wine and quiet wanting. Every part of the evening had been like something out of a dream- his arm curled around your shoulders, your cheek resting on his chest, the subtle way his fingers traced lazy circles on your arm. The soft jazz playing from his record player gave the moment a haze of golden nostalgia. You felt drunk- but not from the wine. From him. From the weight of his presence and the way it wrapped around you like something you could sink into and never climb back out of.

The kisses started sweet- just lips brushing lips. Then longer, deeper. The kind of kisses that made your heart race and your thighs clench. His hand slid to your hip, your thigh, the small of your back, always steady, always sure. His body was so much bigger than yours, all heat and strength and solidity, and yet he touched you like he thought you might break. Like he was holding something rare and delicate.

You expected him to guide you gently to the bedroom, maybe with a soft smile and an outstretched hand. Maybe he’d whisper something tender, lace your fingers together, and lead you into the next chapter of this perfect, storybook evening.

But when he picked you up? When he rose from the couch with you in his arms like you weighed nothing, like he’d been waiting for the moment to show you just how strong he really was?

Your heart all but stopped.

You clutched at his shoulders, eyes wide, breath caught in your throat. His body was everything you imagined and more- solid, warm, impossibly strong. Your fingers curled instinctively over the thick muscle of his shoulders, feeling the effortless strength in the way he held you. His chest was broad and firm beneath your cheek, rising and falling in a steady rhythm, like nothing in the world could shake him.

But he didn’t falter. Didn’t tease. His movements were purposeful, sure- like your body was meant to be in his arms, like it belonged there. He held you with the same reverence he gave you when he looked at you across candlelit tables and brought you fresh flowers- only now there was heat threaded through it. A quiet intensity.

You could feel the flex of his biceps with every shift of his arms, the stability in his grasp as his large hands supported you with perfect ease. The sheer size of him around you made you feel small, delicate- utterly encompassed. His warmth bled into you, wrapping around your spine, your ribs, your heart.

As he carried you through the apartment, you found yourself clutching tighter, unsure if you were afraid of falling or simply overwhelmed by the feeling of being so completely handled. The hallway lights cast a golden glow over his profile, and the sound of your own heartbeat filled your ears.

He carried you like you were something fragile. Like something he owned. Like something he was finally claiming.

"You okay?" he murmured, glancing down at you as he pushed open the bedroom door, voice low and warm against your skin, and something in his tone made your spine tingle.

You nodded, heart fluttering like a bird in a cage. "Yeah."

His smile was small but warm, but there was a flicker in his eyes- like a spark catching light. "Good. Been wanting this for a long time."

The bed was already turned down. Soft lighting spilled in from the hallway as he set you gently atop the sheets and knelt between your legs. His big hands slid up your thighs, slow and reverent. Then he leaned over you, covering your mouth with his again, coaxing another kiss that deepened into something hot and breath-stealing. You sighed into it, fingers tangling in the front of his shirt.

He didn’t rush. Every kiss was deliberate. His mouth moved over yours, then to your jaw, then your neck, trailing heat and want everywhere it touched. You arched into him without thinking, thighs parting as his body hovered above you.

His hands explored slowly, like he had all the time in the world. Over your shoulders, your arms, your breasts- pausing there, cupping them with reverence and a barely-there squeeze that made your nipples tighten under your bra. You gasped into his mouth, and he smiled against your lips like he’d been waiting for that sound.

With slow, practiced ease, he began to undress you. You let him. Let him peel your clothes away like unwrapping something precious. And when your shaking fingers reached up to unbutton his shirt, he didn’t stop you. He watched, eyes dark and fixed on your face, as you tugged each button loose one by one, revealing more golden skin and hard muscle than your starry mind could handle.

You ran your palms over his chest, tracing every ridge and curve. He let you explore, let you marvel, even leaned into your touch like it thrilled him just as much.

By the time he had you down to nothing, he didn’t go straight for where you ached. Instead, he kissed along your ribs, your belly, your hips. He inhaled softly at your inner thigh, fingers trailing just shy of where you needed them.

"You’re already getting there," he murmured, voice like velvet and heat. "Want you soaked for me before I even touch you there. Wanna feel you melt around my fingers."

Then he kissed you again, and when he pulled back, there was something new in his eyes.

Intent.

His voice stayed low, almost reverent, like this moment meant as much to him as it did to you. He slicked his fingers slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving your face. You could feel the weight of his attention, how focused he was. Not just on your body, but on your reactions. Watching the rise and fall of your chest, the way your thighs parted, the flush creeping across your skin.

"Been thinking about this," he admitted softly. "About how you'd feel... how warm you'd be."

He smiled, just the barest hint of it, like he was already savoring the moment before it began. "Finally get to feel you, sweetheart."

Your breath hitched.

Oh.

You swallowed. Nodded. Your thighs shifted, welcoming.

Steve slicked his fingers slowly, watching you the whole time.

"We’ll take this nice and slow…" he said, settling between your knees. "We’ve got all night."

Then his fingers found you- slow at first, not pushing in, just toying with your entrance. The pad of his finger circled there, teasing, tracing the slick heat of you while he watched your face for every flicker of response. Your body fluttered around him, clenching reflexively at the mere suggestion of penetration. He murmured something low and pleased under his breath as your hole twitched, pulsing at the gentle pressure. He could feel how badly your body wanted to be filled, even if he was taking his time giving it to you.

The first one slid in easy, and you gasped at the sudden intrusion. Warm. Thick. He moved it gently, curling just enough to make your hips twitch. His thumb rested against your mound, still and grounding, until it started to move.

A slow, deliberate brush over your clit. Featherlight at first. A single circle that made your breath hitch. Another, firmer, that drew a moan from your throat before you could stop it.

"There she is," Steve looked at you smiling, like he’d just discovered a secret. "You’re already so soft for me."

He didn’t rush.

His finger stroked in and out while his thumb teased gentle circles, the rhythm enough to make your legs tremble. Then he started to curve that finger upward on every slow stroke, dragging it along the top wall until it hit something inside you that made your whole body jolt.

Your moan spilled out loud and helpless, your hands flying to your own skin- gripping your thighs, sliding up your belly, unsure where to hold onto the heat that bloomed between your legs. Every time he curled his finger into that soft, spongy cluster of nerves, your walls fluttered around him, tighter, wetter, like your body was trying to pull him in deeper.

He did it again. And again. Unhurried. Precise.

"That's it," Steve murmured, voice like silk and sin. "Feel that, sweetheart? Right there."

You nodded, eyes glassy, already halfway gone.

The second finger came after a minute of slow strokes, coaxing your body open. You felt it- every new inch. Wider. Fuller. The stretch just enough to make your toes curl.

His thumb never left your clit.

With two fingers buried inside you, he started to move them- not in and out, but apart. A slow, gentle scissoring motion that made your breath stutter and your hips lift instinctively. The stretch deepened, and you could feel every subtle shift of pressure, every widening sweep as he worked you open from the inside out.

"Still doing okay?"

You nodded, biting your lip. "Yeah. Just… big."

It was more than just the stretch- it was him. His fingers felt impossibly full inside you, so much more than your own ever had. The way they moved, the way they filled and stroked, finding every sensitive inch like they were made for your body- it was overwhelming. Your fingers could never curl quite like that, never press up against that perfect spot with such patience, such purpose.

He dragged them back over your sweet spot again, slow and unrelenting, and your thighs twitched helplessly.

He smiled. Kissed the inside of your thigh.

"That’s just two, honey. You’re doing so good. Opening up so pretty for me."

You barely heard him over the sound of your own moan.

Steve shifted slightly, and you felt the gentle nudge of a third finger teasing at your entrance, slick and warm and heavy with promise. Your breath caught. He hadn’t pushed in yet- just let it sit there, letting you feel the potential of it.

"Steve," you gasped, one hand grabbing at the sheets, the other curling at your side. "I- I’m good. Two is… so good."

And it was. It felt incredible. Like he was everywhere already, like your body could barely keep up with the stretch of just his two thick fingers dragging over your sweet spot again and again, stroking deep in ways you’d never reached on your own. You didn’t need more- your brain was already fogging, your thighs trembling. You felt full. So close to ruined.

Steve didn’t argue. Not right away. He just hummed, like he understood.

When you looked up at him, your breath caught for a whole new reason. His brows were slightly pinched, lips parted like he might say something but wasn’t sure how. There was something in his face- not heat, not hunger, but concern. A flicker of worry. The sharp, clear blue of his eyes had darkened "I know, sweetheart. I know it’s a lot. But I need to make sure you’re ready for me. Really ready. Gotta stretch you to fit me." he murmured, reaching for a bottle of lube on the nightstand. "Can’t have you breaking when I finally have you."

His fingers didn’t push all at once. First, he went back to stroking over that spot inside you, slow and deliberate, keeping your head spinning and your legs loose. Every drag of his fingers over that aching bundle of nerves sent another wave through you, your breath catching, your thoughts scattering. You tried to focus- on his voice, on his eyes- but it was impossible when every nerve ending was lighting up with sensation.

As he began to work the third finger in, the pressure built fast. Your mouth dropped open, a broken moan escaping as the stretch deepened- more than you thought you could take, more than you thought you wanted, but so achingly full it made your toes curl. His fingers were slow, steady, coaxing you open inch by inch, and the third felt like so much. It wasn't just the width- it was the way he pushed up, dragging over that tender, swollen cluster of nerves inside you like he knew exactly where it was. And he did. Again. And again.

"You're taking me so well," Steve murmured, his voice rasping low as he leaned over you. "Feels good, doesn’t it? I know it does. Can feel you clenching, baby... greedy little thing."

You barely registered the soft crack of a lid opening. You were too far gone to notice the subtle shift as he poured a little more slick over you, letting it drip down over his fingers, your entrance, mixing with the wetness already flooding you. It made everything easier. Smoother. Filthier.

He hummed, thumb circling again as he worked those three thick fingers in deeper. "So slick for me now. You needed this, didn’t you? Been so patient."

He leaned in close, breath warm against your ear. "You're so tight around me, baby. So small. Look at you- trying to take all this. You're doing so good."

His voice was soft, almost coaxing, but there was a weight behind it, a possessive edge that made your core flutter even harder. "I know it’s a stretch. I know it’s a lot. But I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’m just looking after you."

He twisted his fingers again, rubbing up into that spot that had you arching, crying out. "Gotta open you up right. Make sure you’re ready. You trust me, don’t you? Let me take care of you."

You felt yourself build- your breath catching, hips twitching, thighs quivering like another orgasm was already crawling its way toward you. Not a full one, not yet- but something small and devastating, the kind that made you want to cry.

"Don’t hold back," he whispered, voice thick with pride and hunger. "I want to feel every part of it. Every flutter. Every little break."

And just as you started to fall into it, Steve spread his fingers apart in a slow, deliberate fan. The stretch lit your nerves like a firework, and your voice cracked into a sob.

"There you go." he breathed. "God, just look at you..."

Then he brought them back together, pressing deeper, making you take it. All of it.

It was slow. Careful. But when the knuckle passed, your breath caught in your throat. Your hips shifted, thighs trembling. The stretch was so intense, so deep, and yet the pleasure lingered like a haze across your skin. You felt dazed- drunk on it. Drunk on him. Each drag of his fingers inside you made your body sing, your breath come shallow, your thoughts slip further from your grasp.

His free hand moved then, sliding down your thigh with the same maddening patience. Gentle. Soothing. But it wasn’t just comfort- it was control. His palm gripped your leg, grounding and commanding, keeping you spread just the way he wanted.

"C’mon, just one more," Steve said softly, almost coaxing. "Make sure you’re gonna be safe. Want you to enjoy it when I take you, yeah?"

You whimpered. Nodded. What else could you do? He had you unraveling with just his hands- and you trusted him to ruin you completely.

"Yeah, one more," Steve whispered. "Just my pinky. It's my smallest finger. You'll feel so good."

You didn’t even get a chance to think. His hand shifted smoothly, his fingers forming into a cone. The moment he pressed forward, your back arched off the bed, a soft gasp breaking free from your lips. It was instinctive- offering him a better angle as your body yielded.

The pressure flared white-hot as he pushed, all four fingers breaching you past the second knuckle. You panted hard, the stretch intense and dizzying, like you could feel every ridge of every finger working you open from the inside.

His fingers twisted gently, stretching you wider than you’d ever been. But your body wasn’t quite ready to take the final push- not yet. You felt the resistance, the way your muscles fluttered and clung around his knuckles, not letting him all the way in. It was too much. Too deep.

Steve didn’t force it. He didn’t even pause. His hand moved from your thigh to your clit again, rubbing in slow, purposeful circles- soft at first, then firmer, matching your panting breaths. You whimpered, hips twitching under the renewed stimulation. Your arousal was building again, thick and hot, the ache inside you sharpened by the way he was working you open.

Then he moved. Bent low, fingers still buried in you, and took your nipple into his mouth. He suckled gently at first, letting his tongue flick over the tight peak, then deeper, wetter, his mouth hot and hungry as his fingers never stopped moving. You cried out, arching into him, overwhelmed by sensation.

The wine buzzed low in your blood, making everything feel hazy and soft around the edges- but your body was humming. On fire. Your skin tingled under his lips, your core clenched around his hand, and still he coaxed you further.

"There we go," he murmured around your breast. "That’s it, baby. Let me in. Let me feel all of you."

And slowly, as he kissed and played and rubbed every tender part of you, your body gave. The tension melted just enough to let him press that final set of knuckles in, your walls stretching wide to accommodate him.

"Let me in, honey," he whispered. The sensation was blinding. You moaned, raw and high, as your body finally let him sink in all the way- his knuckles pressing flush at your entrance. Your eyes rolled back at the overwhelming stretch, your mouth falling open as a wrecked sound tore from your throat. You could feel every inch of him inside you, the fullness deep and dizzying, stretching your limits and then some.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he rotated the hand buried inside you- turning so his palm was facing up. You felt everything shift, the pressure rearranging into something unbearable and glorious. He sat back slightly on his heels to watch, eyes dark, jaw tight, chest rising and falling in controlled, hungry breaths.

"God, baby," he muttered, dragging his thumb gently over your skin, just below your navel. "You're so wet. Can feel you dripping all around me."

He pushed in further, and you could feel it- the weight of him, the slow slide of his hand breaching you deeper, his fingers curling slightly as he explored every inch. Your body clenched around him, a helpless, reflexive squeeze that made his breath catch. His other hand pressed to your belly, firm and possessive. Then he pressed down, just enough for you to feel the pressure echo through your core- and then, with a slow, wicked smile, he wiggled his fingers inside you.

The sensation made your whole body jerk. Your breath hitched sharply as you felt the movement from both directions- inside and out.

"Can feel you now from both sides," he murmured, eyes locked on your face as your body trembled. The idea of it- of being so thoroughly filled that his hand was something you could feel through your own skin- was almost too much. It nearly made you come right there.

His fourth finger shifted, spreading wider. You gasped as your skin and muscles moved with him, stretched for him, obeyed the rhythm of his hand without resistance. Every flutter, every tiny ripple of sensation, rolled through you like waves you couldn't stop riding. He just smiled, calm and hungry, soaking in the sight of you coming undone under the weight of his touch.

You couldn’t answer. You were dumb with it. Flushed, panting, wine-fogged and pleasure-drunk. You stared up at the ceiling, glassy-eyed, mind floating somewhere between surrender and bliss as he watched you come undone around him, completely open and filled. His hand pulled back slightly, easing out just enough that you could breathe- but it only made the absence sharper, made your body clench harder in protest. He shifted his hand just so, tucking his thumb in tight beside the rest.

Then you heard it- the soft click of the lube bottle again. He didn’t rush, didn’t ask. He just poured more slick over your pussy, letting it drip down over his hand, easing everything. The sensation of the cool gel against your overheated skin made you shiver, and when his hand slid back in- slow, sure, claiming- it went easier. Smoother. Wetter.

Then his other hand was sliding down between your legs.

You barely had time to react before his fingers were back on your clit, rubbing in slow, steady circles designed to undo you all over again. You whimpered, breath stuttering, thighs twitching. It was too much and not enough all at once.

And somewhere through the haze, a thought tried to rise to the surface- Wasn’t this just supposed to be about getting you ready to take him? It wasn’t a protest, not really. Just a wobbly breath and a slurred, "Steve… do you really… need to go this far?"

You felt his body still, just for a beat. Then you felt it- the subtle pressure of his thumb beginning to press inward, joining the rest.

"Shh, baby," he cooed, the sweetness of his voice wrapping around you like silk and chains. "You’re doing so good for me. Just a little more. This is all for you, remember? So I don’t hurt you later. You trust me, don’t you?"

His thumb kept pushing, slow but firm, as his fingers curled again and rubbed your clit in soft, hypnotic circles. "Almost there. That’s it, sweetheart. Let me take care of everything.. Just need to relax, breathe for me.." he voice soothing but firm, like he was easing you through something important. "Just need you a little wetter. A little softer.

"You’re almost there anyway," he murmured. "Just a little further. You’re my best girl, right? You can give me this…"

His hand slid up to your chest again, thumb flicking your nipple before he bent low to mouth at it- suckling slow and deep while his hand remained buried inside you, the stretch lingering. You felt yourself melting beneath him, your blood hot from the wine, your brain cotton-soft and floaty.

Then he started to press deeper. You felt it- every inch, every widening push- as he slowly worked his hand further inside you. His fingers brushed your cervix, just a whisper of contact that made your hips buck and your breath stall. He dragged against your walls, firm and careful, stretching and spreading you with the thickest part of his hand, inch by inch. The pressure bloomed everywhere.

Your breathing turned ragged. Stilled. Each inhale caught at the back of your throat, a desperate little gasp as your body tried to reconcile the impossible fullness with the endless heat. It was too much.

Steve could hear it- your pulse pounding, your heartbeat racing beneath his hand. He paused, just enough to press his palm flat against your belly again, soothing and steady. "Shh, baby," he murmured, rubbing your clit with slow, coaxing circles. "You're doing so good for me. I’ve got you."

He twisted his hand slowly, working the angle, easing in more- his thumb still tucked tight. The shift made you cry out, thighs trembling, back arching. Your body writhed beneath him, sweat beginning to gather at your temples and between your breasts.

"That’s it, sweetheart," Steve murmured, voice warm and firm, grounded in command. "You’re doing so good. Just breathe through it for me, okay? In… and out. With me now."

He slowed the movement of his hand, letting the pressure at your entrance stay constant, steady. You felt every twitch of muscle, every strained stretch as his hand shifted inside you. It stung- but the pleasure was right there underneath it, riding the edge of each breath.

“Deep breath in,” he said again, his other hand sliding along your thigh, keeping you grounded. “Exhale. That’s it. Keep going. I can feel you trying to take me.”

You whimpered, voice breaking on the inhale, but you obeyed- moaning on the exhale as he gently pulled his fingers apart again, spreading you around the bulk of his hand. It burned. It thrilled.

Your muscles fluttered, tight and frantic around the stretch, and Steve’s thumb pressed soft circles to your clit as his hand slowly rotated again inside you.

"You're so close, baby. I can feel it. Just let go. Let me in."

He watched you- every shift in your expression, every tremble in your breath- with rapt attention, like the sight of your body trying to take him was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

And Steve just watched- entranced and hungry. His gaze swept over you like he couldn’t decide where to focus. Your face, flushed and lost. Your chest, heaving. Your pussy, stretched impossibly wide around his hand. "Steve?"

He looked like a man utterly ruined by the sight of you taking him.

"Just a little more- yeah, like that. Deep breath in… and exhale."

Then came the push.

Thicker. Deeper.

Your body relented to his invasion.

Your feet kicked and slid over the bed, legs tensing and heels dragging against the sheets as your body scrambled for somewhere to put the sensation. It was involuntary- your muscles seizing, shifting, trying to escape and welcome the stretch all at once.

A whine bubbled up from your throat, high and thin, and Steve shushed you gently.

"I know, sweetheart. It’s intense, isn’t it?" he murmured, eyes locked on yours, steady as stone. "But you’re doing so good. Almost there. Just keep breathing."

The resistance gave way, your walls opening around him- wide and slick- as Steve pressed his whole hand inside you, slow and reverent, like he was slipping into something sacred. It felt like you swallowed him, your body stretching to take every inch. The thickest part of his hand pushed past your entrance, and you felt it all- knuckles, knotted pressure, heat blooming through your spine.

A guttural noise ripped from your throat, unbidden, broken. You were panting now, sweat clinging to your skin, your vision swimming.

And Steve? He stilled. Just held there, buried to the wrist, drinking it in like a man watching sunrise break over battlefield ruins.

He looked down at you with a quiet intensity, breath shallow, lips parted, like he was drinking in the sight of you stretched around him. Not just awe- something deeper. Hungrier. His eyes flicked over your face, your trembling body, like he was trying to memorize the moment before it slipped away. There was no need for words- his expression said everything. You were his. Entirely.

The way you clenched around him said it all.

"So full you can’t even breathe, huh?" Steve murmured, the hunger in his voice barely restrained. "Thought it hurt? But then I touched you and you just- " he chuckled darkly, "clenched down like you need it."

Your body twitched again, whimpering as his fingers rolled over your clit in tight, maddening circles. You were so stretched, so overwhelmed- and he loved it.

"Wish I had a mirror," he whispered, dragging his lips across your temple. "Wish you could see what you look like taking me like this."

Slowly, he began to curl his fingers, forming a fist inside you inch by inch. Your eyes rolled back in your head, your mouth falling open in a soundless gasp. Your head slammed back against the bed, back bowing high from the mattress. You’d never- never- been this full.

Steve twisted his wrist, gently at first, then deeper. You could feel every ridge of every knuckle moving inside you.

"Look at you. My perfect girl. So fucking deep… and still stretching for more."

He guided your hand down, easing it toward his wrist where you could feel the impossible stretch for yourself- your imagination catching up with reality, picturing just how deep he truly was. The thought alone made your walls flutter. You couldn’t even close your fingers around it his wrist..

"Oh, you like it, don’t you?" he murmured, voice dark and pleased.

It did something to you, knowing where he ended and you began- feeling exactly where your body had engulfed him, where he filled you to the brim. That connection, raw and surreal, made your head spin. The way you touched him let you feel the impossible, and it only made you clench harder. His fist seated deep inside you. Your fingers barely curled around it, trembling with the effort, the contact making the moment even more surreal.

"That’s all of me inside you. You’re mine now. Captain America’s little hand puppet, huh?"

Then, in a cruel little twist of sweetness, he took the hand you'd just had on his wrist and gently moved it down, guiding it up to your clit. His own hand covered yours for a moment, pressing your trembling fingers into motion. "Rub for me now, honey. Just like that. Let me see how needy you are."

Your fingers shook as they obeyed, drawing shaky little circles as he reached for the lube again- cool slick dripping over your skin as he coated his wrist. You could feel the tension build, feel his hand shift again inside you, pushing deeper- then easing back, the catch of his knuckles tugging against your entrance before he slid back in slow.

"Now, put your other hand on your tummy, baby," Steve instructed, your shaking hand going to where he'd pressed before.. "Feel that? That bulge right there- that’s me. That’s my fist, moving under your skin."

Your moan broke into pieces as the sensation took over everything. Your mind was unraveling, thoughts slipping through your fingers like sand. You were too full to think, too stretched to breathe. Every time you clenched down- every flutter, every squeeze- his hand was forced deeper, and it made the pressure sharper, more unbearable.

"Who knew you'd be such a good girl," Steve rasped, voice thick with pride and hunger. "So greedy for your Captain..."

He leaned closer, voice low and rough at your ear. "You have no idea how good you are, sweetheart. No one’s ever done this for me. They all cry and beg- but not you. You want this. Want me to ruin you. Stretch you out so all you fit is me."

You couldn’t even form words anymore. Just soft, broken sounds that spilled from your lips as your body writhed under him, nerves singing, muscles fluttering.

He started moving his hand- slowly pulling his fist out, then pressing it back in again, inch by inch. Deeper this time. His wrist following with every push until the blunt base of it met your slick entrance, stretching you wider, reshaping you around the sheer size of him.

You felt him press into your cervix, nudging it upward with every inward roll of his fist. It should’ve hurt- but it didn’t. It was all pressure. Endless, rolling pressure that sent your vision spinning.

"Going to stretch you out like this," Steve growled softly, voice thick and reverent. "Then you’re gonna take my cock, yeah? That’s a good girl… you’re so close, aren’t you? You just wanna cum all over my fucking fist, don’t you?"

You moaned, broken and desperate, your whole body arching into him. Every time you clenched down on his hand, it drove him deeper- your body trying to keep him, to take him, to never let him go.

Then he started to move faster- just a little. Using the strength in his arm to pump his fist in slow, firm strokes. The drag was heavy, relentless, the catch of his knuckles tugging at your entrance only to be followed by the obscene stretch of him sinking in again.

“That's it, baby,” Steve growled, watching you like you were the most precious, filthy thing he’d ever seen. “Just come for me. Just come and I’ll take it out…”

Your fingers obeyed on instinct, moving in tighter, desperate circles over your clit- just the way he’d shown you. Each pass sent a shock of pleasure through your body, your thighs twitching, your vision hazing at the edges. It was too much. It was everything. The pressure built like a storm in your gut- hot, unbearable, perfect.

And Steve kept moving. Pushing deeper. Pulling out. Letting the weight of his hand crash into your core until your hips jerked with every thrust. The squelch of lube, the slap of his palm against your overstretched entrance- it was obscene. Messy. Perfect.

You couldn’t even make sounds anymore. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out- just choked gasps and strangled breaths. The only sound in the room was Steve’s panting, his breath growing ragged with every tight clench of your body around his fist. He growled softly, low in his throat, watching you unravel beneath him.

Your body was shaking. It was too much. Too deep. Too intense. You tried to speak, to cry, but your voice was gone. You couldn’t do it-

And then you did.

You broke.

Your body snapped taut, back arching off the bed as you bucked and thrashed, thighs locking around his arm, cunt fluttering in desperate, helpless spasms around his fist.

Steve’s free hand came down hard across your belly, pinning you in place as you rode it out. "That’s it, baby," he whispered, eyes wide and reverent, watching every second of your collapse. "Take it. Take all of it. Fuck, look at you… squeezing me so tight. You were made for this."

You came in silence, eyes rolled back, mouth open on a wordless scream, your muscles seizing around him like your body never wanted to let go. Your body shook with aftershocks, thighs quivering, breath hitched in your throat as your arms flopped helplessly to the bed. You were light-headed, dizzy, your vision pulsing with black at the edges. Your muscles gave out.

You went limp.

Your limbs fell heavy against the sheets, chest rising in short, shallow bursts. The room spun softly around you, dim and warm, your body floating in the aftermath of something that had pulled you apart and left you scattered. Every inch of you pulsed with aftershocks, too spent to flinch, too full to even think.

Only then did Steve start to move again. Slowly, carefully, he began to ease his hand from your body- inch by inch, his fist sliding free from your ruined, fluttering walls. The sensation made you whimper, twitch, overstimulated and boneless. Your eyes fluttered half-shut, dazed and cloudy, as you watched him lift his hand.

It glistened with your slick. Wet. Shining. Marked by everything he'd just pulled from you.

He brought it to his mouth.

And licked.

One long, slow drag of his tongue over the curve of his knuckles. He didn’t look away from you. He watched you while he did it- watched your broken expression and blissed-out face as he tasted your release from his skin like he was savoring the finest dessert.

"So good for me," he purred, voice low, soothing as his clean hand gently moved yours away from your core. You flinched from the touch, but he only pressed his palm there- warm, grounding, firm.

"You’re gaping now, honey," he murmured, almost like he was cooing it. "Your abused little hole’s all twitchy, trying to remember how to close. That’s okay. You did so good."

He reached for the nightstand, offered you a glass of water, his voice still tender. "Sip, baby. Just sip for me."

You blinked slowly, dazed. You didn’t even realize when he moved again- just felt the shift in air as he settled between your legs, gaze dropping low.

"Oh god," he breathed. "You’re so open..."

He ran a single finger around your entrance, the slick noise obscene and wet as your hole fluttered around nothing. You whimpered.

"Want you to try and squeeze closed," he whispered.

You didn’t know why. But you did.

Your body tried. Weakly. Muscles trembling as you worked to draw yourself back together. He pushed his finger back in and you winced trying to hold it.

"There you go," he praised softly. "Nothing permanent."

You barely had time to process the relief before he stood up from the bed.

Your dazed eyes followed him in slow, horror-tinged disbelief- watching as his hands moved to the button of his pants. This was supposed to be over. Your body was still twitching, your insides aching, stretched to their limit. But the way he looked at you- so calm, so sure- made something sharp twist in your chest. He hadn't lied.

As he stared down at the stretch of your slowly closing cunt, something dark flickered behind his eyes- satisfaction, maybe. Anticipation.

Then his gaze met yours.

"Told you," he murmured, unzipping slowly. "This was just to get you ready. We’re not done."

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urcoolgf · 2 months ago

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WHAT DO THEY MAKE DREAMS FOR?

pairing. bsf¡rafe && reader

content. suggestive/sexual content && thoughts. language. mentions of drugs.

summary. no summary, just randomly wrote this based off ‘blurred lines’ by robin thicke… i know the song is lowkey insane, but it’s literally just based off that one part (title)

you were irresistible.

you had always been, but right now—rafe’s jeans were tighter than yours…

‘best friends’ was a term rafe never quite agreed with when it came to you. he was glad the island knew you were his—in some way, but it wasn’t enough. not for him.

especially right now, when your jeans fit perfectly, hugging your curves with a level of precision rafe didn’t even know existed.

you didn’t even know what you were doing, and somehow that turned rafe on ten times more. every time you bent over to look at something on the shelf, squatted down to grab it, even just walking in front of him was damaging to his mental state right now.

he couldn’t even think—you were straight out of a dream… a wet dream, and rafe was drowning.

the image of you peeling your too-tight jeans off your hips, your pretty lace thong revealing itself to him. a wet patch already present on the fabric, and he was practically drooling.

he pictured himself; legs spread, leaning back against the couch, admiring the view—the fucking phenomenal view.

his jeans tightened, resembling what was going on in real life.

you finally walk up to him, placing yourself on his lap and he swears he’s having an out-of-body experience. you give him the same high as the cocaine he’s fantasized about snorting off your tits.

his head is spinning, and your hips are moving in hypnotic circles over his rough jeans, making him strain impossibly more against the harsh material.

you take his hand into your grasp, licking his fingers before moving his hand in between your thighs. an evil smirk tugs at your lips—like you know you’re torturing him.

“do it, ray. know you want to,” you whispered in his ear, still grinding slightly against his erection.

“know you wanna claim me… go ‘head, baby. ‘m yours,” you licked up his neck, sending shivers down his spine. his eyes rolled back at the sensation, at the idea of having you like this.

“mine?,” he was breathless, could barely get the words out. he loved you like this, but he missed your jeans… he grabbed your ass, kneading the fat in his hands to make up for it. you nodded, your big doe eyes driving him crazy in a way he couldn’t even explain.

“ev’ryone on the island’s gonna know you’re mine,” he said possessively, his eyes darkening with something dangerous—like you would regret giving him that ‘okay’.

“fuck, babe you’re perfect,” he admired your whole body, taking in every inch as if you would vanish in moments.

“hellooo?,” you waved your hand in front of rafe’s face , trying to bring him back to reality.

“hm?,” he absentmindedly replied, slowly drawing himself out of the stream of dirty thoughts running through his mind.

“i said do you like this?,” you held up some skimpy shirt that rafe would die before allowing anyone besides himself to see you in.

“it’s nice,” he responded, silently cursing you for interrupting his thoughts.

—

after you returned from the mall, rafe wanted to get high—of course.

“should you really be doin’ that?,” you giggled, you knew he didn’t care how ‘unhealthy’ and ‘awful’ it was. he craved it almost as much as he craved you.

“should be snorting it off your tits, princess,” he laughed, sarcasm barely noticeable—because he really wasn’t being sarcastic.

“go for it, ray,” you grinned, lifting your shirt up. he was met with the sight of your perfect tits, pushed up by your bra. he swore he could’ve fainted and came in the same second. luckily, he had just a little self control.

“slap me real quick,” he said. you thought he was joking, but the way he looked at you told you he was 100% serious. you brought up your manicured hand, giving a semi-gentle slap to his face, enough to make his head move, but not enough to leave a mark. you tried to stifle the laugh that bubbled in your throat.

this time it wasn’t in his mind—‘best friends’ you say.

“fuckin’ hell… come ‘ere, princess. gonna have fun with you.”

an: sorry i’ve been MIA, i’m having writers block fr… this was just a quick blurb i don’t even really like—will try to get more stuff out soon.ᐟ

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vampsol · 1 month ago

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WORST BEHAVIOR | 양정원

⟢ PAIRING: yang jungwon & fem!reader ⟢ WORD COUNT: 2K ⟢ GENRE: smut ⟢ TAGS: established relationship, actor!jungwon, a bit pwp, pet names (pet, love, sweetheart, etc), dom & sub elements (dom!reader & sub!jungwon), sensory play, multiple positions (cowgirl, reverse cowgirl), ass play, unprotected sex ⟢ SYNOPSIS: Jungwon's perfect in front of the camera—a film darling in the eyes of the fans who love him and the team that calls him their "shining star." But sometimes it's too much; sometimes he needs you to be chaotic so he can handle his own chaos, especially in the bedroom. -ˋˏ✄┈┈ AUTHOR'S NOTE: Requested by anon and inspired by the song by kwn. This is also my first fic for Wonnie which I did not expect to write so quickly but I love him and this so much. Also bless up @ghstzzn for letting me carry the torch of this idea lol ilysm. It's not proofread this time, but I think it's good grammar-wise! Let me know if there's any mistakes, though!

He wants this. He wants it all, you tell yourself as you tug the knot of the silky red blindfold tighter until it's snug. You wipe the bead of sweat from his forehead, his body already taut in anticipation of what you plan to do.

"Do you remember your safe word, pet?" you ask. One of your fingers trails down his cheekbone, an acrylic nail dragging lightly across his soft skin, and he shudders from the contact. You unfurl your entire palm for him to rest his cheek inside of, and it melts you like warm honey, similar to the color of his newly dyed hair.

"Artemis," Jungwon whispers. He gasps when you move your hand lower, nestling the palm against his racing heart.

The first date you ever went on, Jungwon called you the goddess's name like it was the greatest title in the world to hold. "She's not a sufferer of fools, right? I know we've just met, but you give me that same impression." Maybe it was the bottle of wine you shared that night, but you couldn't forget how smoothly the compliment slid down into your soul. It's apt to use it now, you think.

He looks like pure sin laid out on your shared bed. His skin is well tanned, muscles toned, strands still slicked back from his earlier photo-shoot. The only thing out of place for him is how swollen and painfully hard his cock is, his tip red and leaking already. You've barely touched him, only a few writhes of your hips being enough to make him crumble before things have even started. But it's more than enough. It's everything, how well you take care of him.

He walked into the apartment with a dejected pout on his face and his fists balled tightly at his sides. You thought the muscles of his face had to be sore from the tight set of his jaw as well. You stopped cooking then to run to him, arms immediately circling his middle.

"Another press junket in Los Angeles." he grumbles into the crown of your head. "They just told me before I left. You'd think they'd give me a break after this damn premiere."

"Didn't they say no more engagements after March?" You furrow your brows in confusion, suddenly angry for your boyfriend, but definitely not to the same magnitude as him.

"Yeah. But that was before they got some famous starlet to interview me for Actors on Actors and landed an entire spread in GQ." He pinches the bridge of his nose to stop the impending bang across his temple, one of his anxiety-induced tension headaches on the horizon.

You squeeze him tighter to fight the negativity in his voice, hoping your touch will settle him and ease his irritation. His blazer rubs against your cheek, the fabric cool despite the wearer's blazing ire.

Film production is stressful; Jungwon's never discounted the level of effort you put into your own career. However, it's no match for the expectations placed upon him as a media starlet or the stress that accompanies the success he's garnered. He's not ungrateful, though; he knows the acclaim will not last forever, and he needs to work hard now to make up for when calls stop coming.

You want to shelter him from every piece that rattles him to alarming degrees, tuck him into your pocket so he can forget it all and coast instead of crash.

"It's not forever. You'll have the entire summer after this," you swear, although it's not up to you to determine completely. You hear the beat of his heart slow, its pace transitioning from frantic to steady, and you think things might just be right in the world again.

Then Jungwon says he needs you—"Please touch me" to be exact—and you know that for him, his stress is far from gone until he's given exactly what he wants.

Lucky for him, you know the solution to every problem he has—what will pull him back to normalcy—even if your methods to get there are unorthodox.

You grip his cock in your hand, lightly squeezing as you run your hand along the shaft. Jungwon can't fight the subtle raise of his hips to meet your touch, nor can he stop the "fucking finally" that slips from his mouth.

You remove your hand altogether, clicking your tongue. "What did I say before we started, pet?" you ask, the question entirely rhetorical. But you expect an answer, even as Jungwon whines. You stiffen. "Do I need to gag you too?"

"No! N-No, Mistress, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to misbehave." He shakes his head at you to articulate his point, and you swear you can see the tears forming behind the blindfold. Jungwon's cock twitches, his sex aching. It begs for your tender, lewd touch once again, even if Jungwon doesn't say the words out loud.

"Then answer my first question. What did I say before I put the blindfold on?"

Jungwon whimpers, the sound high-pitched and full of cracks. "Stay still until you tell me to."

You take his face in both of your palms, rubbing circles into the apples of his cheeks. "Yes, my love. Now do as I say and you'll be rewarded like the good boy I know you are, okay?"

"Yes, yes, please."

You go back to holding his cock between your fingers, running the pre-cum at his slit down the length of him. Its girth and length are in unbelievable harmony, the muscle snug every time he fits inside of you. You admire it as you twist your wrist, enjoying the sound of its slickness as it fucks your fist.

In so many ways, Jungwon is the puzzle piece you didn't recognize was missing until he came into your life with endless witty banter and his soul's infinite fire. It's what makes him so worthy of adoration, fame and love.

But where he burns, you're there to cool him into a calm state again, the pinnacle of fortitude and composure. The core answer of why you work so well together is in that balance. And you're reminded of why you love him every second he asks you to take over like this, make him succumb to all your whims before you repay him in kind.

It's salacious how easily you sit on his cock, no preparation needed on your end to become accustomed in record time. He fills you so completely; you don't mind how he once again bucks up into you, a throaty groan ripping from his lips from finally being inside of you. He keeps his arms at his sides, but you know he wants to touch. He loves everything about your body, especially the voluptuousness of your breasts and how freely they bounce when you ride him.

"You can touch me now, pet." Jungwon doesn't need to be told twice, immediately running his thumbs over your nipples until they pebble. He kneads them in his hands as you set the pace, slamming down now and then to make him cry out.

The blindfold is both constricting and necessary. Jungwon was initially terrified of it, but he couldn't get enough after you first wrapped it around his head. Now, his sensory perception goes into overdrive every time because of his loss of sight. He loves to see you on top of him and against him, without a doubt, and there have been days where he was already so sensitive he could do without the cloth. But, most of the time, he'd rather soak in the passion like this compared to any other way.

You guide one hand from your chest to down to your clit, and he immediately pinches and pulls like the expert he is. He's well attuned to what works to get you off and what doesn't. If he wants to orgasm, he knows he has to let you do so first.

A mewl crawls out of your throat at the rhythm of his thumb and forefinger against your slick, the digits almost running down to where you're both connected before going back to the hood of your cunt.

"You feel me, Mistress? Is it good? Do you love it?" Jungwon may be stationed in the submissive form often, but it doesn't keep his mouth from running. You adore every sinful word, all his statements and questions that hold a hint of wonder at how good he's making you feel, and vice versa.

"Yes, yes, it's so good—ah, fuck—you know you're such a good boy." You suddenly switch positions, you're riding Jungwon in reverse. Laying your hands across his thighs, you move faster, slam down in lewd slaps to each other's skin, clench around him with more force than before. You feel the traces of your orgasm with every movement, and you'd be a fool to not chase it.

"I can feel how close you are. Your cunt is squeezing me so tight," he moans. He grips an ass cheek in his hand, massaging it while his opposite palm continues touching your clit.

You know the thought on his mind, and even though he can't see, you look over your shoulder with a wolfish grin. "You can do what you want, my love."

Jungwon groans low in his throat, the timbre of it animalistic. He sucks his thumb for a long second before pressing it to your perineum. The digit slowly enters you, and the taste of ecstasy coats your tongue with each centimeter that goes in. It's too much all at once, his fingers in tandem working against your clit and ass while his dick fills you up.

"Come, Mistress, pretty please?" is what does you in. You wail as you shatter into a million discomposed pieces, saying his name the entire time as your body floats. You laugh, your chest heaving up and down, from how incredible all of your synapses firing off at once feel. But it's more than just your orgasm. It's in how much you love the man underneath you, how eager you feel to please him the second you come back to your senses, and how lucky you are to love him.

"Do you want to come now, too, pet?" you ask him, voice ragged but still acceptable to speak with.

Jungwon nods eagerly, his thumb still inside of you while he runs his other fingers along your lower half. "Please, Mistress. It hurts so bad."

"Don't worry," you coo, "you'll get to soon, I promise."

You move your hips once again, using the last drops of your shared strength and spirit to ride him to completion. His hands come up to your bare breasts once again, and you use them as leverage to continue, intertwining his fingers with your own.

"You're too good for me, my love, always so eager to please me. You're my beautiful boy, Wonnie." His pet name on your tongue unravels him. His face contorts as his hips stutter up into you. He covers your insides with his cum, painting your walls white with his seed like it's all he knows how to do. It warms you to the brim, and your body practically glowing in the aftermath.

You move from his lap as he tugs the blindfold free. He may be sweaty, as are you, but it doesn't stop you from burying your face in his sweat-soaked chest.

"I love you so much," he says into your damp hair. "Don't ever say you're not good enough. You're just right in every way." He tucks a finger under your chin to kiss you firm on the lips. You moan into his kiss, tongues intermingling. "You're perfect for me, you know that right?"

You blush, squeezing him tighter against you. "As you are for me."

You fall asleep like that, basking in a love that is so whole, so equal, you don't think anyone else will ever recognize it the same way you both do. It's yours, in all of its unique facets.

@gyubakeries @loserlvrss @frenchkisstheabyss @prkhaven @tinycatharsis @fangel @aaa-sia @yvnempire @addictedtohobi @innocygnet @filmnings @lovetaroandtaemin @xylatox @dawngyu

𝐍𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒 ── .✦ @kstrucknet @k-films @kvanity-main @lapydiaries @violetanet @whipped-kpop-creators @cosyhomenet @sweetvenomnet

#jungwon smut #yang jungwon smut #enhypen smut #enha smut #jungwon x reader #yang jungwon x reader #enha x reader #enhypen x reader #enhypen fics #enhypen fic #jungwoon fic #jungwon fics #yang jungwon fic #yang jungwon fics #enhypen hard thoughts #enha hard hours #[ lexi's works ]#[ lw - enhypen ]

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rumisgf · 1 year ago

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YOUR BEST EATER ! - JJK EDITION

summary: jjk characters i think can eat pussy the best and who i think would not. that’s really it, i’m telling yall who the munches are. enjoy some pussy eating headcanons :D !

warnings: explicit obviously, black!reader, discussing f!receiving oral, use of the title daddy (once), cursing, slight crack, slander but i’m kidding kinda

GOJO SATURO - 10/10

✧ he’s sick in the head.

✧ i hate him truly. he gives good head and he knows it.

✧ he loves making it messy, he wants your arousal all over his face

✧ he wants it on the sheets by the time he’s finished

✧ he also likes making you cum multiple times, so don’t expect mercy

✧ he gets a kick out of watching you squirm and writhe under his touch

✧ and not only is his tongue magical, but he knows all the methods to make you scream for him

✧ he uses fingers and all that

✧ he’s definitely made you squirt from head

✧ the type of head he gives will have you soaked before he even fucks you

✧ yk the song that’s like ‘i’m the type of guy that’s gon eat it ‘fore i put it in?”

✧ yeah, that’s gojo

“one more, princess? hm?”

“yesss- please ‘toru!”

“good girl.. want you to make a mess all over my tongue”

GETO SUGURU - 9/10

✧ he’s a good contender for sure

✧ he’ll act like he doesn’t want to at first but it’s all a facade

✧ he can’t let you know he’s a fiend too early of course

✧ but when he finally does, boy are you surprised

✧ toe curling. jaw dropping.

✧ he’ll have you creaming on his fingers while he sucks on your clit like a madman

✧ it hurts so good and you never want him to stop

✧ and he licks your clit so attentively, he looks at each facial expression you make

✧ he draws perfect circles with his tongue

✧ it’s definitely not his strong suit (but shit that’s saying something)

✧ i’ll give him his flowers though for sure

✧ he gives the type of head that has you aching for him to put his dick inside you already

“taste so fuckin’ good. love this pussy, baby- ‘s all mine.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO - 8/10

✧ he’s one of those guys who swears up and down he doesn’t eat pussy

✧ he does.

✧ first time he went between your thighs, you thought you saw god

✧ whenever your hips lift up and you start squirming from all the pleasure, he presses them back into the mattress

✧ and he edges you while giving you head

✧ he’ll have you screaming then stop just to hear you beg for him to let you cum

✧ he’s still a sadist at the end of the day, he can’t let you have too much fun

✧ either that, or he overstimulated you until there’s literal tears streaming down your cheeks

✧ he loves making you cry from head

✧ if he’s not having you gag on his dick as he throat fucks you, this is his other way to see tears stain your pretty face

✧ whenever you squirt from him giving you head, he feels very satisfied with himself

✧ he can never give head for too long tho because the sight of you dripping pussy right in front of his eyes makes him so hard it hurts

“stay fuckin’ still brat. let me taste this pussy.”

SUKUNA RYOMEN - 2/10

✧ he doesn’t eat pussy.

✧ yeah, sorry.

✧ he’s a literal demon idk what else was expected

✧ in all seriousness, he’s not too fond of giving head

✧ but, he does enjoy fingering you though

✧ his fingers are often plunged into your hole while make out sessions and it’s his go-to for foreplay

✧ he’ll have you on his lap and play with your cunt until you’re crying

✧ and if you have toys, he loves overstimulating you with him

✧ this is often how he punishes you (sometimes he just feels like it, though)

✧ but long story short, this man will NOT be your best eater

“ry- fuck! daddy please- can’t take it!”

“nuh uh, this is what you wanted doll. let me take care of ya.”

NANAMI KENTO - 10/10

✧ if gojo’s not your best eater, nanami’s definitely your best eater

✧ he’s got every tongue and finger combo down packed

✧ he gets down. he do NOT play.

✧ he’s definitely a pleasure dom at heart so he believes you deserve good head from him

✧ and he also doesn’t talk at all while giving you head

✧ it’s almost amazing how focused he gets

✧ his form of communication is looking up at your fucked out face, filling his ego

✧ he likes eating you at after he fucks you

✧ that way he can fuck his cum back into you with his tongue and taste your arousal at the same time

✧ it’s also a way to overstimulate you that he can be slick with

✧ whenever you’re in missionary, he always has your legs bent to your ears so he can pull out and lap at your pussy whenever he wants to

✧ it’s a rush getting fucked into oblivion then getting your soul snatched as he slurps up all your juices

✧ he also enjoys how wet he makes you, so you taste so good when he does

✧ he spits on it. that’s all i have to say.

“k-kento.. so good..”

CHOSO KAMO - 11/10

✧ OHHHH LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING

✧ you thought i wouldn’t put him above gojo and nanami? you’re wrong.

✧ this man is a munch. he’s a fiend. it’s pathetic.

✧ he’ll eat pussy on his knees, matter of fact he loves it

✧ he loves when you trap your legs around like yes please don’t let him breathe he might nut right then and there

✧ he whimpers while eating you out.

✧ he won’t say it, but he likes spelling out words in your clit

✧ he mostly just spells his name

✧ and he loves how you taste, so he can eat you out forever

✧ you have to tap out for him to stop because he really has no self control when it comes to eating you out

✧ and please, sit on his face.

✧ and actually sit on it. this man doesn’t wanna be able to breathe

✧ he’ll leaves fingerprint marked bruises on your ass cheeks from gripping them as he works his tongue from under you

✧ him eating you out always has you squirting before he even fucked you yet

✧ he also enjoys tasting the mix of yours and his cum after he fucks you

✧ choso gives head so good you wanna have his kids

“babyyy- ‘m c-cumming!”

“f-fuck, taste so good baby. need you so bad.”

@ rumisgf

#jjk x black reader #jjk x black y/n #jjk nanami #jjk getou #jjk smut #gojo satoru #gojo x black reader #saturo gojo x reader #choso kamo #choso x reader #choso smut #choso x black!reader #geto x black reader #nanami smut #nanami x black!reader #toji x black reader #toji smut #toji fushiguro #toji fushigro x reader

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chwrrylace · 3 months ago

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─── ❝ OH, MY GOOD LOOKING BOY ❞

SUMMARY ; the morning after with jayce talis

JAYCE TALIS x fem!reader.

CONTENT ; established relationship, fluffy, viktor mentioned (bcs why tf not)

WORD COUNT ; 450

A/N ; im still in denial that this man isnt alive and also that the fact ARCANE is over forever like i believe i deserved more and better😭 (but it was like inevitable lwk so). ANYWAY my title is inspire by Good Looking - Suki Waterhouse

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐄 is warmth.

The kind that settles into your bones, lulling you into that perfect space between wakefulness and dreams. A strong arm drapes over your waist, the weight grounding and familiar, fingers tracing absentminded circles against your bare skin.

Jayce.

You can feel his breath against the back of your neck, steady and deep, the rhythm of sleep still holding him captive. It’s rare to see him so still—no council meetings, no hammer-forging, no Hextech worries clouding his mind. Just him. Just you. Wrapped up in golden morning light and tangled sheets.

A smile tugs at your lips as you shift slightly, stretching. The movement earns a sleepy hum from Jayce before his arm tightens around you, pulling you back into his chest.

"Mm, don't move," he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. "Too early for that."

You chuckle, turning in his arms until you’re face to face. His eyes are still closed, dark lashes resting against sun-kissed skin, his hair tousled from sleep. He looks softer like this—less like the brilliant mind of Piltover, more like the man who whispered sweet nothings to you last night, who kissed you like you were something sacred.

"You’re awake," you tease, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.

"Only because you moved," he grumbles, cracking one eye open to peer at you. "And because you're staring."

"I'm allowed to stare at my handsome genius boyfriend."

He huffs a laugh, eyes finally opening fully. They’re warm, filled with something soft and unspoken. His fingers trail along your spine, sending a pleasant shiver through you.

"Last night was..." He pauses, a slow, lazy grin spreading across his lips. "Incredible."

"Yeah?" You raise a brow. "Good enough to skip work for the day?"

Jayce groans, flopping onto his back. "Tempting. But Viktor would kill me."

You prop yourself up on one elbow, tracing a finger along his bare chest. "He would. But you work too much anyway. One morning won’t hurt."

Jayce catches your hand, bringing it to his lips. "You make a good argument."

"And if that doesn’t convince you," you say, voice dropping into something softer, "I can think of other ways to keep you here a little longer."

His grin turns wicked as he rolls over, pinning you beneath him. "I like the way you think."

The morning stretches on, filled with soft kisses, whispered laughter, and golden light spilling across the bed. For once, the world outside can wait.

#𝜗𝜚 ┈ 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐫𝐨𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 ｡#jayce talis x reader #jayce #jayce talis #jayce arcane #arcane x reader #arcane x female reader #arcane imagine #arcane x you #jayce lol #jayce league of legends #jayce fluff #jayce talis fluff #jayce x reader #jayce x you #jayce x y/n #jayce talis x y/n #jayce talis x you

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hcneymooners · 5 months ago

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⋆ woman of my dreams, don't betray me.

wife!ambessa x wife!reader. men & minors dni.

synopsis: you and ambessa are wives, and your parents have come to visit the two of you. everything will be fine, or would've been if you mother hadn't brought up her desire for grandchildren.

cw: angst, angst with a happy ending, wife!ambessa, wife!reader, age difference, older woman/younger woman, sfw but suggestive content, emotional hurt/comfort, you're a little bit of a crybaby, anxiety attacks, discussions of children and pregnancy.

notes: i hate this so much, but ce la vie hmm? this is a drabble.

“Sweet girl, don't bite your nails. You'll be so upset later.”

“You'll just give me the money to get them done,” you mutter.

Still, your hands lower from your mouth to tremble yet again over the dinner you've painstakingly made.

Ambessa moves behind you, her presence steady and warm against your back. Her hands settle on your shoulders, thumbs working small circles into the knots that have been building there all day. You lean into her touch despite yourself, despite the anxiety that makes you want to vibrate out of your skin.

“Will this occur before or after you protest against me giving you too much?”

A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, and you turn to slide your arms around her neck. You take in the strong line of her jaw, the crooked set of her lips with it’s thin stripe of golden jewlery in the middle. You thumb at it, face flushing slightly as she nips at the tip of your finger.

“My nails have yet to cost five hundred dollars, Bessa.”

“I include the tip.”

“I must be incredibly generous.”

“You are,” she hums, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Besides, you never think of tax.”

“Tax?” You say in disbelief. “What tax would they be adding that costs that much? Honestly, Bessa.”

“You never know,” she says with a slow smile. “They could swindle you very easily. You have such a trusting nature.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you tell her, cupping her face.

"Talk to me," she says, and her voice carries that gentle authority that first drew you to her. You turn away, your attempts at misleading her thwarted. "Is it your mother again?”

You stiffen under her hands. "Among other things." The roast in front of you blurs slightly.

You can picture her expression without turning around - that careful neutrality she wears when she's processing something that angers her. It's the same look she gets in meetings when someone has said something particularly stupid.

"And what did you say to her?"

"Nothing. I deleted it. I’ve never been any good at convincing her to leave me alone." You pull away from her hands to adjust a perfectly arranged plate for the third time. "It's easier than explaining. Than having the same argument over and over about how I'll change my mind, how I just haven't met the right person yet." You pause, throat tight. "As if you're not..."

"As if I'm not what?" There's an edge to her voice now, not angry but intent. When you don't answer, she gently turns you to face her. "Look at me, little dove."

You do, though it hurts. She's beautiful in the warm kitchen light, silver hair gleaming, dark eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that still makes your heart skip even after all this time. You see the question in them and can't bear to answer it.

"The table still needs-"

"The table is perfect. You're being avoidant."

A laugh bubbles up, slightly hysterical. "Isn't that what I do best?"

"No." Her hand cups your cheek. You can smell her: blonde wood, vetiver, pink pepper, dry vanilla. "What you do best is love fiercely and completely. And we agreed that that meant being honest with one another.”

She titls your head up, presses a thumb against your pulse. The action makes you almost confess the words that crowd your throat, threatening to spill out:

I'm terrified you'll realize I can't give you the family you deserve. That one day you'll look at me and see all the things I'm not, all the things I can't be. That you'll regret choosing someone so much younger, so much less certain of their place in the world. That my mother is right and I'm being selfish, denying you something fundamental.

But before you can voice any of it, the doorbell rings. Your whole body goes rigid. Your hands come to your sides and you’re back to shaking, neck burning with sudden stress.

“I’ll get the door,” you say.

Your voice is rasping, as if you’ve swallowed down endless snakes of smoke.

‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓐐𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Dinner is excruciating. Your mother talks about your cousin's new baby, about how wonderful motherhood looks on her, about how she's "simply glowing." You push food around your plate and feel Ambessa's concerned glances, even as she masterfully deflects conversation toward politics, toward her work, toward anything else.

But with each deflection, you can feel her growing more tense beside you - the way she sets her wine glass down with just a fraction more force, how her knife scrapes against the china with military precision.

"But really," your mother says, wine glass tilting dangerously in her hand, "I just don't understand why you two haven't started trying yet. Ambessa, dear, you must want more children? And you're not getting any younger-"

The fork clatters from your hand. "Mother."

You can feel your body pulsing with that sick warmth that comes with the rush of tears. You’re boring a hole through the dining room table with your gaze, eyes growing large and wet. If you were a lamb, you’d be bleating except your mother is the wolf so who will be the one to save you?

Beside you, Ambessa goes perfectly, terrifyingly still. The kind of stillness that precedes a storm, that makes the hair on the back of your neck rise. You can see her hand flat against the table, the metal of her rings catching the light, and you know without looking that her face has taken on that marble-smooth expression that makes junior officers quake in their boots.

"I'm only giving you something to think about, my love. I’ve been you before. You think you have so much time, you know? It’s just—you've always been so good with kids, sweetheart. Remember how you used to babysit for the Hendersons? And Ambessa's children turned out so well-"

"Stop." Your voice comes out strangled. "Please."

Ambessa's hand sneaks under the table to grasp your thigh. The touch is slightly grounding but you can feel the tremor in her fingers - not from fear, but from restraint. You know she wants you to look at her, but then you'll really begin to lose it.

You'll spill over, right into her lap, because she always could unlatch your body in ways you thought were only for other people.

You catch the slight movement of her jaw, the way she swallows whatever cutting remark she wants to make. Because this is your mother, and Ambessa—for all her power, all her authority, because of the love—is letting you handle this your way. But the tension in her body screams of fury, of a woman forced to watch her beloved take wounds she can't deflect.

"I don't see why you're being so sensitive about this. It's a natural progression-"

"Natural?" You're standing now, though you don't remember deciding to. "Natural is me not wanting to vomit every time someone mentions me being pregnant. Natural is not having a panic attack every time you send me another fertility clinic link or baby clothes or-" Your voice breaks. "I can't. I can't do this."

You flee, ignoring your mother's startled "Well!" and your father's awkward attempt to change the subject. You're halfway up the stairs before the tears start properly, and by the time you reach your bedroom, you can barely see. The door locks behind you with a satisfying click.

You stumble to the vanity, clutch blindingly at your hair to yank out the pins. You feel out of control, your hands sliding up your neck and over your face.

A sob slips out despite you clutching your fingers over your mouth, and you press at your stomach until you feel the urge to dispel the mixture of your decayed dinner and acid that sits within it.

The bed. You need to be under the bed. It's childish and ridiculous but it's where you used to hide when things got too much, and right now everything is too much. You curl up in the darkness there, pressed against the wall, and try to remember how to breathe.

Time passes. You hear murmured voices downstairs, the front door opening and closing. Footsteps on the stairs - Ambessa's, you'd know them anywhere.

"Little dove?" A gentle knock. "Let me in?"

"It's unlocked," you manage, voice thick.

The door opens. A pause.

"Are you under the bed?"

"...yeah."

Another pause. Then, to your utter astonishment, you hear grunting and turn to find Ambessa - your tall, dignified, warrior-queen wife - attempting to squeeze herself under the bed frame.

"What are you doing?" you ask, hiccuping between tears and startled laughter.

"Coming to get you," she says, voice strained as she wriggles forward. "Though I'm beginning to think this bed was not built for someone of my size."

"You're going to get stuck."

"Then we'll be stuck together." She finally manages to get next to you, though she has to lie completely flat to fit. "Hello, sweet girl."

A rush of gratitude floods you and you press forward, drawing her into a soft kiss. She deepens it, sliding a large hand underneath your thigh and holding you to her. You part with a soft, slick noise.

“You’re always meeting me where I am, even when you don’t understand,” you tell her. “Literally.”

You gesture weakly at the whole predicament. The absurdity of it - Ambessa Medarda, covered in dust bunnies, cramped under a bed - breaks something in you.

"I have this terrible secret inside me, and it’s that I feel so—so sick when I think about being a mother," you blurt out. The words slide out of you, like maggots from a rotting body. "Not—not your children, I love them, but being one myself. Having them. I can't. I won't. And I know you must want- but I can't, I just can't, please don't leave me.” You begin to sob again. “Please, Bessa. Please don’t leave me. Please. Plea-”

"Shh." She pulls you closer, awkward in the confined space but no less tender for it. You tuck your head into her neck as she soothes you. "Shh, my love. I'm not going anywhere."

"But-"

"I have two children," she says firmly. "Two wonderful, grown children who I love dearly. I have never once thought about having more. What I want - all I want - is you. Happy. Whole. Exactly as you are."

You're crying again, but differently now. "Really?"

"Really." She strokes your hair, rocking you as best she can in the tight space. "Though I would very much like to have this conversation somewhere with fewer dust bunnies."

You laugh wetly into her shirt. "Sorry."

"Don't be. I would crawl under a thousand beds for you. Even into a grave." She kisses your forehead. "But perhaps we could move on top of this one? My back is not what it used to be."

"You’re really not getting any younger," you quip, the onslaught of relief making you giddy.

"Watch it, little dove." But she's smiling - you can hear it in her voice. "Now come out before we really do get stuck."

“What if we stayed here forever,” you whisper, “and you never let me go?”

She releases you, then shimmies out from the crawl space. Gently, she curls a hand around your ankle and pulls you out with a sharp yank. You gasp as you emerge from your hiding space, hair spilling around you and your dress rucked up just enough to display your panties.

Ambessa leans over, drags the dress further up until she can kiss the swell of your breasts. She looks up you, face ever-calculating.

“I will never release you,” she finally says.

It should scare you, the clear promise, but it doesn’t. You lead her hand to your throat, just to hold it there, and smile instead.

#ambessa medarda #ambessa x you #ambessa x y/n #ambessa x reader #ambessa arcane #ambessa league of legends #ambessa the chosen of the wolf #female!reader #fem!reader #arcane fanfic #arcane x you #arcane x reader #wlw #lesbian #sapphic #mine ; 🐎.

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