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lowkeyren · 1 year ago

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reverse dating tropes w hsr men!

in which — what the title suggests / those classic fanfic tropes but with a twist

featuring — boothill, jing yuan, blade (separately) x gn!reader

✧.* — wc: total 1.5k, used up half my brain for this (the other half is for pt2 w aven sunday geppie!!), lovesick boothill + clingy jy + jealous blade fr, anyway pls enjoy! reblogs r appreciated <3

gepard aven sunday vers here!

boothill ꩜ .ᐟ

love at many sights with boothill whose memory card was tinkered with, and every time you meet, he thinks he's seeing you for the first time, so he falls for you over and over again.

when boothill returned from a dangerous mission, it was evident that he had endured significant damage. his once sleek and polished exterior was now marred by dents and scratches, and his mechanical limbs were either partially missing or severely damaged. the exposed wiring, usually neatly tucked away beneath scraps of metals, now hung in tangled strands, sparking occasionally with residual energy.

he looked barely salvageable. it's safe to say that the mechanics had a hell of a time fixing him.

though they were skilled enough to piece him back together, his memory card wasn’t as lucky. a tinkering in his system left him incapable of recalling or retaining information in his synthetic brain, temporarily —leaving the mechanics scrambling to find a solution.

weeks later, you find yourself walking down the familiar corridors of the laboratory where your favourite cyborg is being held for reparation.

boothill’s eyes immediately land on yours when you enter the lab. “well ain’t this a surprise! haven’t seen ya in a good long while.” boothill drawls, tipping his hat your way, his voice carrying a metallic twang.

"i heard you took a bit of a tumble, figured someone should come make sure you didn’t lose all your screws." you shrug nonchalantly, a smirk playing on your lips.

boothill's eyes flicker for a moment, taking in the curve forming on your lips. he thinks you’re adorable with that infectious smile of yours.

“heh, nothin’ bad, just had a r-r-run in with some cuties" he says, failing to hide the glitch that caused his voice to stutter. (and that damn synesthesia beacon! he swears he’ll get it fixed this time around…)

“guess you took more than a tumble huh...” you lean casually against the workbench, the sterile scent of machinery and the hum of various devices filled the air; your gaze sweeps over the freshly repaired parts of boothill's metallic frame, “anyway, glad to see that you’re mostly fine now."

“aww! do ya care ‘bout me?” he teases, his grin widening, revealing his pointy teeth peeking out mischievously. you don’t reply, your eyes glinting with the faintest hint of amusement dancing in them.

"boothill, we go through this every time, your memory card's still damaged. you forget things sometimes, so for the 5th time this week, yes i do care about you.”

boothill's expression shifts, a mixture of realization and sheepishness crossing his features. "right, right," he murmurs, scratching the back of his head with his metallic hand. "sorry 'bout that, sugar. guess i just keep forgettin'."

you chuckle and shake your head, finding the situation amusing. he feels like he might overheat from the sheer warmth radiating from your smile.

“you’re beautiful, date me.” (he didn’t mean to blurt that outloud)

you raise your eyebrows at the sudden compliment, “why thank you,” a surprised laugh escapes your lips.

“—and we’re already dating, silly.”

a shower of sparks erupts from his circuits, you can particularly hear the fans inside him sputter and whir. you rush to his side, concern etched on your face.

“wh- are you okay?! you’re short circuiting again!”

and this happens every time his memory lapses. you offer an apology to the mechanic on the next shift for the extra work required to fix yet another damaged wire after your visits. perhaps they should ban you from getting too close to boothill, lest he completely breaks down again like that one time where you told him, yes you actually kissed before.

jing yuan ୭ ˚.

"secret relationship" with jing yuan but he is completely unaware of how his public displays of affection towards you keep revealing the supposed secrecy of your relationship.

on the rare case that the general is found in his office, you are there too, beside him.

“pleeeease? just one kiss, really really miss you, darling”

“no jing yuan, not now…”

he wraps his arms around you as he leans in, caging you from the back. he rests his chin on your shoulder, “then how about a kiss on the cheeks?” he murmurs in your ear. you try to push him away, but he just chuckles softly against your neck, his arms still secure around you.

“no, and get off me before someone sees!” you protest, feeling your face flush from the close proximity, and the tightening of his arms suggests that he has no intention of releasing you just yet.

this stubborn man… you swear you’re gonna burst a blood vessel someday.

as if to echo your exasperation; he nuzzles his head into the crook of your neck, peppering it with nibbles and gentle kisses. jing yuan certainly knows how to test your limits, yet his affectionate gestures never fail to chip away at your resolve.

suddenly, a series of loud knocks come from the door, you freeze, and immediately attempt to wiggle your way out of his grasp. but he remains unfazed, his hold on you firm, and seemingly unbothered by the interruption.

the door bursts open, “general! there’s a situation at starskiff ha—ven...” yanqing trails off as his eyes widen at your position. the room falls into a momentary silence as yanqing's gaze shifts between you and his general, his expression reflecting a blend of shock and embarrassment.

clearing his throat awkwardly, yanqing stammers, "i-im sorry for interrupting... i’ll t-take my leave now!” with a hurried nod, he practically sprints out of the room.

oh bless that kid’s poor eyes…

you shoot a glare at jing yuan from the corner of your eyes, you just know that he has a shit eating grin on his face right now. nowadays, it’s probably common knowledge that the general’s most treasured person is you, evidently shown by how he latches himself onto you every time you’re within his vicinity. you wouldn’t be surprised if the entirety of xianzhou knows about your supposed “secret” relationship.

“so… can i have my kiss now?”

aeons, he’s insufferable. (you love him tho!!!!!)

blade ؛ ଓ

"fake dating" with blade but you are actually dating —somehow everyone is convinced you aren't.

“blink twice if you need help.” march whispers-shout; dan heng leans against the doorway, blocking the way into your room, nods in agreement.

“this is absurd… i’m alright guys, really!” you try to reassure your friends, frustration edging into your voice. though no matter how many times you insist that no blade isn't holding you hostage and that you are indeed in a relationship with him, they seem convinced otherwise, somehow deducing that you're not able to speak freely.

you sigh in resignation, knowing that they aren’t going to relent anytime soon, and with blade idling in your room, you can't afford to keep him waiting any longer. “dan heng please, let me through, he’s been waiting for me for the past 10 minutes now…”

“good, let him wait.” dan heng responds curtly. (what a guy)

march takes hold of your hands, “do you owe the stellaron hunters something, and him out of everyone?! he looks scary…and totally not your type!”

“not their type?” a low voice rings out from behind dan heng, the three of you turn immediately and see blade looming at your doorway, his arms crossed over his chest.

“stellaron hunter. stay back.” dan heng furrows his eyebrows, his stance defensive as he pulls out his weapon, positioning himself to block you and march. sensing the growing tension, you step forward, reaching out to gently grasp at dan heng’s shoulder.

(blade’s expression darkens at your hand resting on him)

“it’s okay dan heng, he means no harm.” dan heng hesitates, his grip on his weapon remains tight, but he doesn't move to strike. so you slowly move between him and blade, “see? i’m fine… he’s not gonna hurt me.” you smile reassuringly at your friends.

just then, as if to further aggravate dan heng, blade settles his hand on your waist. dan heng’s hand is visibly twitching now. “what? can’t i touch what’s mine?”

dan heng’s eyes narrow, “...we still don’t believe you, leave now. before it’s too late.”

before you can interject, blade grabs your chin, silencing any words of protest with a sudden kiss. caught off guard, your eyes widen as the unexpected gesture leaves you momentarily stunned. but you soon reciprocate his kiss, his intensity drawing you in.

(march quickly covers her eyes with her hands)

“there. now leave us alone.” and with that, he pulls you into your room, slamming the door shut behind, pinning you against it.

it’s just the both of you now, finally.

“did you really have to touch him.” his voice tinged with possessiveness. “blade, he would’ve hurt you, i didn’t mean—” he shuts you up with another kiss, more desperate this time, welp guess you’re stuck with him for the night.

though your friends might not believe that a person like you would “be in cahoots” with someone as dangerous as him; convincing them otherwise is a task for another time. tonight, he wants your attention focused solely on him, and him only.

✧.*

masterlist gepard aven sunday vers here!

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paymechildsupport · 1 year ago

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"You're not my Husband..." // Doppel!Francis x Reader 🐄🩸

@cassanderasblog --> Thanks for the request <3

-!! CW: Dubcon (in a sense), – Brief mention of murder, – Very slight body horror

-!! Very brief size kink

Spouse!Reader x doppelgänger!Francis

▷ —--------------------

▷ —-------------------- (s-s-s-sma-smash)

“You’re not Francis.” The words are sharp, punctuated, your glare burning straight through the mimic of a man in your living room

“No, I’m not,” The creature grins- if you could even call it that–, mouth a waning black chasm, no teeth, no tongue, nothing. How this thing managed to bypass the doormen you had no clue,-- how could someone fuck up this bad?

“Francis’s” eyes darken, – literally. The whites turn into an inky black, eery small spheres of light peeking out where his pupils should be.

Oh dear.

The wired phone you keep on the kitchen counter goes off behind you. Glancing once more at your “husband” you slowly back track, hand inching to the phone.

He just watches as you hesitantly pick up the ringing phone, making a click when it’s pulled from its cover.

“Attention, this is the D.D.D, – we detected an unknown life force near your residency. Please, do not panic. Keep your door locked and do not approach anyone of suspicion. If you see anything weird, do not investigate. Dispatchers are coming to your location to liquidate the threat” – Well, it was a little late for that.

“... cancel dispatch” your lips form the words slowly. There’s silence on the other end,

“Excuse me?... you want dispatch–”

“Discharged. Threat neutralized.”

Even “Francis” is stunned, – staring at you, unblinking, – flabbergasted.

“‘Got it under control, thanks,” You hang up before they can answer, placing the phone back in its place.

“Francis” just stares.

“You’re a doppelgänger , right?”

“Perhaps.” His eyes narrow

“Alrighty then, prove it.”

Unzips.

—-------------

“Francis” stares, wide eyed, gaze fixed upon the water stains on your ceiling. Even with all the lights off, he can still see your snoozing frame tangled in the sheets beside him, (perks of being non-human).

Your chest rose and fell with each breath, the movement captivating whatever posed as your husband.

Your body looked serene, the faint light emitted from his glowing pupils illuminating your chest.

“Ahah-!” You were practically in hysterics, tears flowing down your rosy cheeks, nails raking into the headboard of your bed. “Francis” could only lie there, enamored by your blissful expression as unfamiliar sparks of pure pleasure coiled inside, heating everything up until it was practically molten.

“Mmph-!” you choke off your moans, slapping a hand to your mouth lest your neighbors hear you impaling yourself on your husband’s doppelgänger 's cock.

You swivel your hips, his eyes widening; no one’s ever ridden him like you are, – no one’s ridden him period. You were surprised the doppelgänger even had a dick, – let alone it being almost twice the size of the actual Francis’. You had stuffed yourself full of him, bouncing mercilessly. Your husband had neglected you horribly in the past,-- never coming home, always giving you the cold shoulder, even when you had gotten down and begged for him to look at you, just once –your thirst for intimate touch was at an all time high.

“Francis” grunted, surprised at how wonderful this new sensation was. The delicious heat in his stomach bubbled over, bottoming out through his cock. Your eyes widened at the warm sensation of him, eyes rolling to the back of your head. You had to bend down, biting deeply into his shoulder to stifle the screams lodged in your throat.

You inhaled deeply, desperately trying to catch your breath as “Francis” could only glance over, the slight pain in his shoulder from your teeth barely bothering him, (because, well, one, you were the only one who could breathe and two, he wasn’t human). Your head turns, sloppily kissing him on the cheek, to his absolute shock.

“Francis” brings his right arm to his left shoulder, fingers gingerly grazing the marks left by your teeth. It still tingled.

He looks over at your slumbering frame again, now tentatively reaching the same arm in your direction, hesitantly touching your peaceful face. You do not stir, so he continues downward, fingers carefully glazing over your nose, your mouth, your jaw, and finally stopping at your neck, your pulse vibrating through his hand. Humans were so interesting, he thought, – and you had just grabbed his interest by the throat with a viselike grip.

He gently tucks a stray piece of hair plastered to your sweat slicked forehead behind your ear, grinning in that creepily endearing way of his. How the original Francis lucked out, – he almost felt bad about killing and devouring his corpse, – almost. How could he have fumbled so badly, – you were an absolute treasure, and “Francis” was now determined to keep you all to himself.

Such a greedy little creature.

… You’re never going to be able to get rid of him after this.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(requests for more Francis, -- doppelgänger or no, -- are open and very much appreciated !)

I love him a normal amount I swear 🙏🙏🙏

#francis mosses x reader #francis mosses #francis mosses x you #francis mosses thats not my neighbor #that's not my neighbor #milkman #milkman x reader #milkman that's not my neighbor #i love him #doppelganger #doppelganger francis mosses #thats not my neighbour milkman #milkman doppelganger #smut #tnmn milkman #tnmn smut

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cressidagrey · 27 days ago

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Sick Day

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: When Bee wakes in the middle of the night with a fever, a simple stomach bug drags Oscar right back to the memories of the night he nearly lost both her and Felicity.

Warnings: Mention of a Stomach Bug, aka one mention of vomit, discussion of NICU, a sick baby and a very traumatic birth. Everything ended well though.

Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Oscar stirred at the sound of the door creaking open.

At first, he thought it was the wind. Or maybe just a half-formed dream. But then came the soft padding of feet on carpet, the ragged, hiccuping breath—followed by a voice that broke through the haze like a splinter.

“Papa?”

His eyes snapped open.

He sat up instantly, heart already hammering. The digital clock beside the bed blinked 2:43 a.m., casting a faint red glow across the room.

Bee stood in the doorway, tiny and silhouetted by the warm hum of the hallway nightlight. Her pajama shirt clung to her damp frame, curls sticking to her flushed cheeks. Her hands were clasped in front of her chest, and even from across the room, Oscar could see the glassy sheen of her eyes, the sheen of sweat across her brow.

“I don’t feel good,” she whispered, her voice breaking in the middle.

Oscar was out of bed in an instant. “Oh, sweetheart.”

She took a single step forward—

And then gagged.

He caught her before she could fall.

One arm scooped under her knees, the other cradled her back, his hand already smoothing over her curls as her small body curled against him, trembling and hot. Her breath hitched, and she clung to him, her fists twisted in the collar of his t-shirt.

From the bed, Felicity sat bolt upright.

No hesitation. No groggy confusion. Just instinct.

“Bucket,” she said, already out of bed and moving. “Towels. I’ll get a cool cloth. Did she get anything on you?”

“Mostly me, yeah,” Oscar said, voice tight.

Bee whimpered against his shoulder. “Sorry, Papa.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he murmured, rocking slightly. “You’re okay. It’s okay.”

But he wasn’t okay.

Not really.

No, he was back in that godforsaken corridor in the Hospital. Under too-bright lights, breathing through a mask and a prayer, waiting for a nurse to come out and tell him his daughter still had a heartbeat. He was nineteen. Terrified. Holding a pen with shaking hands as they asked him to sign consent forms while Felicity hemorrhaged on one floor and Bee—his daughter, his miracle—was wheeled into emergency surgery on another.

He could still hear it: the beeping, the alarms, the chaos.

“We need to operate now or she won’t survive.”

“We’ll do our best.”

He still remembered the weight of her when he finally got to hold her—three days later, post-op, with more wires attached to her then she had had limps and a feeding tube winding down her nose. She was so small. So pale. So still.

He hadn’t known if she’d ever leave that hospital.

And every time she got sick—even now, three years later—his brain pulled the fire alarm and dragged him straight back to that hallway. That sterile smell. That white-hot helplessness.

Intellectually, he knew this was just a virus.

Emotionally? He was nineteen again. In a hard plastic chair in a hospital corridor, waiting for someone to tell him that he wasn’t going to lose the two people he loved most in the world.

His grip on Bee tightened.

Even now—even years later—even when he knew she was strong, knew she was safe, knew this was just a stomach virus, his brain lit up like a house on fire.

It didn’t matter that she was three now. That she corrected his sector times and haggled over mochi and could name four different chassis designs. Every time she got sick, he was back in that NICU, watching her fight.

Even now—even three years later—even when he knew she was okay and strong and eating whole bowls of rice like a gremlin on better days—this still undid him.

Every time.

He still saw it. The white walls. The smell of antiseptic. The sound of heart monitors beeping in sharp, terrifying rhythm. He was holding her again for the first time after three days of surgeries and wires and machines doing the work her body couldn’t.

She’d felt fragile then. She still did now.

And it didn’t matter that she was three. That she talked back now, that she had opinions about her socks and declared “no thank you” to some vegetables with a queen’s confidence. Every time she got sick, he was right back in that chair outside the NICU, praying for news.

He swallowed hard, shook his head like he could force himself back into the present.

She was three. She was strong. It was just a virus.

But she was also his.

His tiny, stubborn miracle. The baby he hadn’t held until she was three days old. The reason he still sometimes jolted awake if a monitor beeped in a hotel room.

“Papa,” Bee whimpered. “I don’t feel good.”

“I know, Bumblebee,” Oscar whispered, pressing a kiss to her damp curls. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Felicity returned a moment later with the bucket, towels, and the calm clarity of someone who’d done this before. Her voice was steady. Her hands didn’t tremble. She dropped to her knees beside them.

“Take her into the bathroom,” she said, all soft authority. “I’ll get a clean shirt and start the washer. She’s burning up.”

Oscar nodded, lifting Bee gently. She was too quiet. That frightened him more than the fever.

Felicity was already in motion—peeling the sheets, gathering supplies, flipping on the bathroom light.

Bee curled into Oscar’s shoulder as he knelt beside the tub, one hand bracing her back. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing uneven.

“I don’t wanna be sick,” she whispered.

“I know, baby,” Oscar murmured, trying to sound calm even though his throat was tight. “I’m so sorry.”

He peeled her damp pajamas away carefully, heart aching with every whimper. Her small fingers clung to the front of his t-shirt, and even now—even with her feverish and miserable—she pressed her cheek to his chest like it was home.

Felicity returned with a cool cloth, clean pajamas, and a steady presence Oscar couldn’t even begin to explain.

Felicity always did this. Snapped into useful. Into motion. Maybe it was trauma. Maybe it was motherhood. Maybe it was both.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t freeze. She moved.

Oscar watched her with awe and something that cracked inside his chest.

“Arms up, sweetheart,” Felicity coaxed, her voice a soft melody, steady even as Bee whimpered and clung to Oscar’s shirt like it was the only thing anchoring her.

“I don’t want to be sick,” Bee repeated, eyes shiny with exhaustion.

“I know, baby,” Felicity said, wringing out the cool cloth and wiping gently at her forehead. “But we’re here. We’re going to help you feel better.”

Oscar peeled the soiled shirt from her back as gently as he could, hands trembling only slightly now. Felicity was already swapping towels, grabbing a clean pair of pajamas, and laying out a new cup of water like it was all part of a routine she knew too well.

When she’d finished wiping Bee down, Felicity crouched in front of her, brushing sweat-damp curls back from her face. “You scared me, sweetheart,” she whispered.

Bee didn’t speak. Just leaned into her mother’s shoulder, arms limp, her small body sagging between them.

Felicity’s hand found Oscar’s arm, and their eyes met—just for a moment.

No words.

“I don’t want to be sick,” Bee whispered again.

“I know, Bee,” Felicity said softly. “But we’re here. We’re gonna help you feel better.”

Oscar kissed her damp curls. “We’re not going anywhere.”

***

Later, once Bee was cleaned up and curled in a fresh pair of pajamas—soft cotton with little stars down the sleeves—Felicity got her settled between them in the bed. Oscar watched wordlessly as she moved through the room on automatic, wiping down the bathroom floor, starting laundry, rinsing out the bucket, dimming the light just enough that Bee wouldn’t wake.

She climbed in beside them, pulling the blanket over her legs and slipping one arm gently around their daughter’s middle. Her other hand found Bee’s cheek, thumb brushing gently over her flushed skin.

Bee was already dozing again. Her little hand still clung to Oscar’s shirt, fingers bunched in the fabric like a lifeline. Oscar lay on his side, one hand on her back, steady as a metronome.

He hadn’t spoken since they left the bathroom.

He couldn’t.

His mind was still there—back in that sterile hospital, back under buzzing lights and clanging monitors, back in the chaos of the NICU where everything had smelled like antiseptic and fear. Where Bee’s chest had been bandaged and her tiny body had looked swallowed by tubes and machines. Where the doctors kept using phrases like congenital defect and survival window and prepare yourselves.

Even now—three years later—his body hadn’t unlearned what that fear felt like.

It just waited in the corners.

And the second Bee got sick, it came roaring back.

He didn’t realize his breath had gone shallow until Felicity touched his wrist.

“Hey,” she whispered. “You okay, Oz?”

Oscar blinked. Looked at her. Her face was shadowed by the dim light, eyes soft, mouth drawn into a line of quiet concern.

He swallowed.

“I just…” He paused, jaw tight. “Every time she’s sick, I’m back there. NICU. Her chest bandaged. You unconscious in another wing. It doesn’t go away.”

Felicity didn’t flinch. She just leaned forward, resting her forehead gently against his arm. “I know,” she said. “Me too. But we’re not there now. We’re home. She’s three. She’s strong. It’s just a stomach bug.”

Oscar nodded, almost automatically, and bent his head to kiss Bee’s hair. He breathed her in—her familiar scent dulled by fever and sleep, skin still sticky from the worst of it. Her body pressed against his, warm and trembling.

“I know,” he repeated. “But the fear doesn’t listen to that.”

It didn’t care that this was just a bug. That they had towels and medicine and time.

The fear only remembered the beeping monitors. The tightness of a surgeon’s voice. The weight of a clipboard in his shaking hands as he signed consent forms with the ink running sideways because he couldn’t stop trembling.

Felicity reached up and brushed a tear off his cheek. He hadn’t noticed it.

“Then we hold her through it,” she whispered. “And hold each other through it too.”

He didn’t answer.

He just kept his hand steady on Bee’s back, feeling the rise and fall of her breath beneath his palm. That rhythm—that small, fragile miracle—was the only thing that ever calmed him.

And even as she slept, her hand stayed curled in his shirt.

She always did that. Even when she didn’t know she was doing it.

As if she knew.

As if she remembered.

Oscar stayed quiet for a long moment. Then he looked at Felicity again—at the way she cradled their daughter so easily, so naturally—and asked, “You don’t… feel it the same way I do, do you?”

Her fingers paused, mid-stroke, in Bee’s curls.

“No,” she said softly. “Not exactly.”

Oscar didn’t press. He just waited.

Felicity sighed. “Because I don’t remember the worst of it.”

Oscar blinked.

“I was unconscious. High on pain meds. I didn’t wake up until a week later.”

Oscar’s chest tightened.

“I woke up, and I didn’t even know what had happened.” Felicity continued. “I missed everything. The surgeries. The decisions you made. The first time you held her. The fear.”

She didn’t say it bitterly. Just truthfully.

“I didn’t get to feel the panic because I was barely alive myself.”

Oscar’s breath caught in his throat.

“I opened my eyes and she was already recovering,” Felicity said. “Already breathing on her own. And I didn’t even know what I’d missed.”

Oscar reached for her hand across the bed. Their fingers tangled between Bee’s small shoulders.

“I would’ve done anything to be awake. Just once. Just to hold her and let you breathe,” Felicity whispered.

Oscar closed his eyes.

“She was so small,” he whispered. “She didn’t even look real. Just wires and tape and bruises. I kept thinking—this isn’t how it’s supposed to be.”

Felicity reached for his hand and laced their fingers together over Bee’s stomach.

“I know.”

“I still hear the machines sometimes. The beeping. The silence before they started again.” He paused, throat thick. “Every time she’s sick, I’m back there. Watching the monitors. Signing things I didn’t understand. Hoping to hell she’d make it to morning.”

“And she did,” Felicity said, firm but quiet. “She made it. We made it.”

“I know.” His voice cracked. “But I don’t think that part of me ever left the hospital.”

It was a memory that never softened.

“I think about it every time she sniffles,” he admitted. “That week. That hallway. That chair outside the NICU. Every fever takes me back to it like no time has passed.”

Felicity didn’t say anything for a while. She just kept her hand in his, warm and steady.

“I know,” she said eventually. “And I wish I could take it from you. Even now.”

He kissed Bee’s temple, then Felicity’s knuckles, and closed his eyes against the ache in his chest.

Even after Bee had fallen asleep—her body hot and limp, her breathing finally steady—Oscar couldn’t bring himself to move his hand. He just kept it there, counting every breath, every rise and fall, as if it might make the world more solid.

As if maybe this time, the fear would finally leave.

It didn’t.

Not completely.

But when Felicity leaned across the bed and pressed her lips to his cheek—when her fingers curled around his arm like they had a hundred times before—it eased.

The fear didn’t disappear.

But it stopped roaring.

And that, for tonight, was enough.

***

The morning light slipped through the curtains, muted and silver-grey.

Oscar stirred first.

Bee was still curled against him, her little hand tucked under his chin now, her breathing slow and even. Her fever had broken sometime before dawn—he’d felt it happen, had tracked the cooling of her skin beneath his palm like it was the most important data he’d ever read.

Felicity was still asleep on Bee’s other side, her arm slung loosely around their daughter, face pressed into the pillow, dark hair spilling across the duvet. There was a line between her brows even in sleep—worry she hadn’t been able to shake, even once the worst had passed.

Oscar lay still for a while, just watching them. His wife. His daughter. The two people he’d nearly lost in the span of a single night three years ago.

Now here they were, pressed against him on either side. Safe. Warm. Breathing.

He exhaled slowly, quietly. Then reached for his phone with the care of someone disarming a bomb.

He sent a message to his race engineer. Telling him that he was working form home. Asking if he could reschedule sim hours to tomorrow.

The replies came quickly—short and understanding.

He didn’t always know how to ask for space. But this? This was worth protecting.

He eased out of bed like a man trying to leave without waking a sleeping dragon. Bee murmured once in protest but didn’t stir beyond that. Felicity only shifted slightly, her hand moving to take his place in the sheets without ever fully waking.

He padded downstairs in his socks, filled the kettle, started the espresso machine with muscle memory. While the water boiled, he set out Bee’s favorite cup—the one with tiny bees printed all over it—and filled it with warm water, not milk. Her stomach still wasn’t ready for that. But the ritual helped.

Afterward, he tiptoed back upstairs with the cup, a plain piece of toast, and her morning meds. He set it all on the nightstand and crouched beside the bed.

“Bumblebee?” he whispered.

She stirred, lashes fluttering.

Oscar brushed a curl off her forehead. “Hey. You awake?”

She blinked up at him, groggy and flushed but more alert than the night before. “Papa?”

“Right here.”

Her face scrunched up. “Still feel yucky.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. “But your fever’s down, and we’ve got a quiet day ahead. No kindy. Just us.”

Bee’s hand reached out sleepily, finding his shirt like she always did. “Mama?”

“Still sleeping,” Oscar whispered. “She had a long night too.”

Bee nodded solemnly, then reached for the cup. “Warm water?”

Oscar smiled. “You know it?”

Bee sipped carefully. He watched every swallow like it was a test. She managed a few good gulps before flopping back onto the pillows with a sigh.

“I don’t like being sick,” she mumbled.

“I know,” he said again. “But I’m staying home today. We can build a blanket fort later. Maybe rewatch the F1 highlights from Spa 1998.”

That got a weak smile. “That’s the crashy one.”

“That’s the crashy one,” Oscar confirmed, voice warm. “You’ll love it.”

Later, Felicity would wake up and they’d all pile onto the couch. Bee would fall asleep again halfway through the highlight reel with one hand still in Oscar’s, and Felicity would stroke her curls while working on her laptop.

And Oscar?

Oscar would answer emails with one arm wrapped around his daughter and his heart quieter than it had been in days.

It still didn’t erase the fear.

But here, in the soft hush of a post-fever morning, with warm water and toast and race replays and his family safe under one roof—it was manageable.

It was home.

And that was everything.

#formula 1 #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #f1 smau #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 grid x reader #f1 grid fanfiction #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #Oscar Piastri fic #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #op81 fic #op81 imagine

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jellyfishsthings · 11 months ago

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The five times you left Spencer speechless (or how I like to call it, in quiet awe)

Warnings: reader wears glasses but no biggie, reader can fight and use a gun because why not, bau!reader, smitten Spence, nothing happens just feelz, Spence's drug addiction... I think that it

navigation

1. The first meeting

It had been a long week. People were crowding the small space of the bullpen. It had been the first case after Gideon's return, and Spencer had been buzzing with excitement to work with his mentor again. The case hadn't been particularly easy, and almost one agent named Elle Greenaway had been lightly injured, who would from now on work with them. His eyes were burning, and he gave into the temptation to wear his glasses as he looked into the nearly filled report in front of him, containing at least seventeen pages worth of information. Madame Strauss claimed that his reports were unnecessarily detailed, how that was a problem he couldn't tell. The hours seemed to blur together as he continued writing his report, losing many minutes trying to form his handwriting into something more presentable.

That was the moment. The time he first laid eyes on her. He had read many romance novels, which he wasn't going to admit, that the moment someone met the one, time seemed to slow to near non-existent and his reality at the moment seemed like something coming out of a book.

She was wearing a chunky white pullover with huge sleeves that strangely represented bells and a light brown plaited skirt that reached just at the middle of her thighs. Long legs that seemed to be going on for miles ended at a pair of black Mary Jane's. And sure, her appearance was incredible, but that was not what made him make a double take. He was sure he was hallucinating as he saw the most beautiful face he had seen in his life, looking as if it was something that came out of a Renaissance painting. Her hair was in a braid resting on her shoulder, and wire-framed glasses sat on her nose, making her eyes appear slightly bigger. A tattered pair of wired headphones framed her face, and for a second, Spencer forgot how to breathe, the most cognitive function, the one he had been able to do since he first entered this world. His ears were buzzing, and his brain was running in endless circles.

A hand was moving in front of him, and he stared at the angel that was standing in front of him. Her mouth was moving, probably talking to him, and he willed himself to pay attention.

“S-Sorry.”

“It's alright.” The angel answered him; maybe he had finally overdone it with the sugared coffee he was drinking as if it were his primary source of hydration. “ I am looking for Aaron Hotchner.”

“R-Right. Umm…”

“Good, you are here. Come with me.” Hotch's voice echoed in the empty room, and Spencer's cheeks flamed an angry red as the girl turned and kindly waved at him as she quickly climbed the stairs and entered the conference room. Spencer had half a mind not to turn his chair and stare at her. With an unnecessary loud cough, he turned back at his report and thanked his luck for Morgan's absence because if he had witnessed this, he was going to hear the end of this anytime

2. The lesson

A month had passed since he first saw her. And yet, he could recall her vividly, the deep-set eyes, the rosy lips. His birthday had been a blur as he celebrated them in the office and invited JJ in a lame attempt to ask her out which just resulted in a long evening where JJ and Penelope talked endlessly and he couldn't comprehend the sport he was supposedly watching.

He was waiting in Hotch's office as a stand-in. He was teaching a young agent to join the unit and he was thrilled when he heard that the student was just a few months shy of his own age. At the moment, he was trying to move a huge board to the office when someone lightly tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around way too fast and came face to face with the angel he saw, the one he thought he willed into existence.

“Do you need help with that?”

“No, no. I got it. Are you Hotch's student?” He asked and immediately regretted it. Of course, she was his student. Why did he have to lose half of his IQ around her? He gave one last hard shove to the board end and then aligned it with the desk. “So um… Hotch asked me to be your tutor for today if that is alright with you. Um… What material are you studying?”

“Mostly psychology. Which I am not very good at, by the way.” She retrieved a huge book from her bag and a small pencil case that was filled with just a pen and three markers, red, yellow, and green. Just as she opened the book, he could see that its majority was colored and that it had notes in the margins. His heart thudded louder in his chest.

“What do all those colors mean?” He asked curiously as he approached her.

“Well green means that I understand it; yellow means that I am working on it and red … I just have no clue. It's just mostly yellow at the moment, though the notes help.”

“What's red?” She looked at him in a strange way, and too late did he realize that she was studying him, his question had been earnest and probably too forward, and he rushed to explain himself. “ I just - I asked because I have a PhD in the subject.” He could see her eyebrows lifting before they settled in a scowl and whacked his brain to understand what he said wrong.

“You are Doctor Reid, right?” She asked quietly, and he stupidly nodded as an answer to her question. “Well there is … I don't understand some differences between some categories of killers; they have much in common, so why are they in a separate category?”

“The answer is actually way simpler I'd you think of it in a Venn diagram.” He rushed to the board, and drew a few circles, and he started writing on it as he explained its category separately. He talked for what seemed like hours, and he embarrassingly looked at his watch. He must have been talking for over an hour, and he turned to look at the girl only to find her writing on her book, still in the margins looking at him expectantly. The way she was staring at him almost had him stammering once again, and he felt his knees weaken for a strange reason. So he carried on.

When he was done, he turned to look at her; she was still writing something before she whispered. “You need to tuck your chest in when you are firing a gun.”

“I'm sorry?”

“Aaron said that he was having trouble with one of his agents' firearm training, and it must be you. You have a long torso, so your weight center is different from the diagrams in the training books you must have read. That's why you keep missing.” And just like that, she was gone again wishing him good night and a nice weekend.

His head was spinning as he walked towards the training room, and he wore his earmuffs and protective glasses. Tuck your chest in. And so he did before aiming and pressing the trigger three times. His shots were the best, but he hadn't missed. Pride swarmed his chest; he was going to do it.

The next day, he failed his exam. He had lost his gun.

3. The first case

Small-town cases were always the most thrilling in his humble opinion. And any time somehow a cult or demons were involved, he worked ten times harder to prove them wrong. Only this time, their team had a new member. Gideon did seem to take a liking to her, in contrast with Spencer, who was incredibly warm to her the moment she entered the room. Maybe it was because he had met her before, or maybe it was because whenever she was around him he felt like a firework ready to explode. Somehow, his conversation with Morgan had turned to the explanation of attraction in the neurotic sector.

“Chemicals, such as dopamine, may cause one to be giddy, euphoric, and even to experience suppressed hunger and sleep cues. You may recall a time when someone made your heart thud erratically in your chest, heat rise in your body making you blush, and the sensation of being tongue-tied or not able to form coherent thoughts. These are the characteristics of attraction.”

“Is that what you feel around her then? Because you don't act like yourself around her. I mean, come on, you are a germaphobe, and you were the first to shake her hand.”

He’s a germaphobe, he is, and that doesn’t just go away when you meet someone lovely, but he did shake her hand. She surprised him too quickly to think beyond taking her hand, letting it happen. Their formal meeting, the one where they acted as if they hadn't spent an evening together in this same room. Hotch gave him a funny look. Mostly impassive, but not quite, and he was definitely on to him. In the duration of the case, he tried to keep his distance, which didn't go that well when he found himself staring at the barrel of a gun that was aimed at him. Everything went by too quickly as she dove toward the UnSub, without a second thought tackling him to the ground and disarming him in a few short seconds. He wanted to be impressed, yet he had seen her in the training room with Morgan as they had hand-to-hand combat. She moved with agility, and her every move seemed calculated and strategic. He had felt his heart stutter in his chest as she helped him stand and checked him for injuries.

He was lovestruck as Penelope teased him. His silly crush on JJ had been entirely forgotten.

4. The Lila Archer incident

He was an idiot. It was the first time he would characterize himself in such a way. And hopefully the last.

When you guard a beautiful actress, Spencer, don't jump in the pool with her.

Love,

Spencer

He could identify the disappointment in his colleagues' faces from the very first second, yet the one that pierced him the most was hers. She barely spoke during the discussions about the possible type of the UnSub, no matter how much Elle or Hotch urged her on. She had been stuck with him for pretty much all of the cases and he had to admit that she was a brilliant young woman. The others interpreted her quietness as an inability to profile but her insights were what had helped him make some major breakthroughs on the last cases. When they congratulated him for that he simply smiled stating that he didn't work alone yet the others probably thought that he was just trying to cover his partner and not share mutual credit for their work. It unnerved him how she seemed incredibly distant and stoic always five paces away from the rest of the team.

Yet this time she seemed furious, it was the deathly kind of quiet, the one that sent a chill to his bones and left all the apologies that were spewing up in his brain die on his tongue.

Frustration was welling up on him and he tried to muster up the courage to talk to her, only to find her crying in Morgan's arms. He couldn't understand for the life of him what she was saying and a selfish, terrible part of him hoped that, maybe, she had been crying for him.

5. The drug addiction

Tobias Hankel was going to be a name that would haunt him for the rest of his life. Sometimes deep into the night he was still at that cabin fighting for his life, the one time his intelligence wasn't enough. What drew him to steal those few bottles of Dilaud from his pocket, why he used them, why he formed his addiction. He didn't want to be a drug addict but it was his new reality. He desperately tried to stop it, tried to hide it and always felt ashamed when he relapsed to that horrible habit. He would sit in his bathroom sweating, crying and begging a higher force, a higher being to end his torment, despite never being a religious man, only for his phone to ring demanding his presence because of a new case and for him to fall back to his old routine.

It was a tough journey and he wanted to talk with his friends about that, he needed their help, yet they ignored his problem as if it didn't exist, even though the signs were clear. He was always lashing out, having terrible mood swings and when they tried to confort him about it he lashed out. He had met an old friend of his and he had been the only one he had been brutally honest about his … condition. Gideon knew, his mentor knew, he had the confirmation, yet he turned a blind eye to the situation. Everyone did, except from her.

Everyday she would bring him his extra sweet coffee filled to the brim with stevia and not sugar, because sugar was just as addictive. When he craved, he played with his fingers, tried to distract himself but to no avail, a long strip of hard licorice sweets would appear in front of his face, after research be learned that the flavourful of licorice was extremely distinctive and strong and its hard texture led a person to chew endlessly at just one piece. It was the best food to consume to distract yourself. Every night after a case she would show up at his place with Greek takeout, which was apparently the best cousine, and demand longtime marathons of a show or series of movies, which wasn't something unusual for the two of them. She visited him because she knew that he would never use in her vicinity. He had never known true love until that moment and he recalled a quote by Jane Austin.

To be loved is to be known.

words: 3.007

#spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid angst #spencer reid #spencer reid x you #criminal minds x you #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds angst #bau!reader

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youngpoetpoe · 2 months ago

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The Aespa Experience

Aespa x Male Reader

Buy me a ko-fi.

The MAMA awards had just drawn to a close, the final swell of the crowd’s cheers still lingering in their ears as Aespa navigated the backstage labyrinth, their victory cradled in the form of a gleaming trophy. Karina, Giselle, Winter, and Ningning moved with a blend of weariness and exhilaration, their steps uneven yet purposeful, drawn toward the sanctuary of their private dressing room.

The door clicked shut behind them, a soft sound that severed the clamor of flashing cameras, eager fans, and the relentless hum of the event. Inside, the space unfolded like a refuge: golden light spilled over plush beige carpet, casting warm shadows across sleek furniture—a low, cushioned couch, a vanity strewn with makeup brushes and half-empty water bottles, a wide mirror stretching along one wall to capture their reflections.

Their police-inspired outfits clung to them—black uniform tops tracing their curves, short shorts revealing smooth, pale thighs that shimmered faintly in the dim glow.

The air thrummed with their mingled scents—Karina’s vanilla curling soft and sweet, Giselle’s sharp spice slicing through, Winter’s faint floral whisper drifting, Ningning’s bright citrus twist piercing the haze—blending into an intimate cocoon that enveloped the room.

You stood near the vanity, their trusted confidant and staff member, a steady presence woven into the fabric of their lives. Through late-night rehearsals, rushed schedules, and these rare moments of stillness, you’d become a quiet anchor they leaned into. Tonight, though, the energy simmered differently—raw, electric, a triumph pulsing through them as they shed the weight of expectation, letting it dissolve into the carpet beneath their feet.

Karina broke the silence, her voice warm and laced with a pride that softened her usual composure. “We did it. I still can’t believe it.” Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders as she turned, her gaze sweeping across her members before settling on you, a faint smile tugging at her lips. She stepped to the vanity, setting the trophy down with a gentle clink, her fingers lingering on its cool surface as if to ground herself in the reality of their win.

Giselle crossed the room with a burst of energy, her steps quick and light, the carpet muffling the faint squeak of her soles as she reached you. “The crowd was unreal—you should’ve heard them screaming our names!” She flung her arms around you in a swift, impulsive hug, her breath warm against your neck before she pulled back, her grin wide and unrestrained, her playful nature spilling over like a wave.

Winter lingered a step behind, her fingers grazing the edge of a cap perched atop her head, its tilt adding a jaunty edge to her elegant frame. “It was a good night,” she murmured, her voice soft but threaded with satisfaction as she drifted closer, her presence a quiet pull that drew your gaze without effort.

Ningning bounced on her toes near the couch, her restless energy crackling like static. “We have to celebrate—something huge, something epic!” Her eyes darted around the room, bright with ideas, her quirky charm igniting the air as she flopped onto the cushions, then sprang up again, too wired to stay still.

Karina nodded, a flicker of care softening her features as she turned from the vanity. “You’re right, Ning. Let’s make it ours—just us.” She tilted her head toward you, weaving you into the moment with a subtle gesture, her leadership steady yet unspoken.

Giselle’s eyes glinted with mischief as she sank to her knees on the carpet, the plush fibers yielding beneath her. “How about a game? Keep the vibe alive?” Her accent wove a playful thread through her words, her posture open and inviting as she patted the floor beside her.

Winter tilted her head, curiosity sparking in her gaze as she eased closer. “What kind?” Her tone was even, her frame settling gracefully as she joined the circle taking shape, her movements fluid and unhurried.

“Truth or dare,” Giselle declared, clapping her hands once, the sound sharp and eager in the quiet room. “It’s perfect—fun, maybe a little daring.” She shot you a teasing wink, her energy rippling outward, pulling everyone into its orbit.

Ningning giggled, dropping beside her, knees tucked under as she leaned forward. “I’m in—let’s get wild!” Her laughter bubbled up, infectious and bright, her hands brushing the carpet as she shifted.

Karina hesitated, a flicker of responsibility crossing her face, but a reluctant smile curved her lips as she glanced at Giselle. “Alright, but let’s keep it sane, okay?” Her tone carried a gentle warning, though her eyes betrayed her amusement as she eased down, her presence grounding the group as they gathered around the one-person couch you were sitting on, the air thickening with anticipation.

The circle formed naturally, a loose ring of knees and elbows on the plush floor while you remain seated on your chair, their outfits a stark contrast against the soft beige—black fabric taut against skin, shorts riding high, the mirror behind them catching every shift and glint. Giselle took the lead, her grin fixed on Winter as she leaned forward. “Truth or dare?”

Winter paused, her fingers brushing the cap’s brim, then decided, “Truth,” her legs crossing beneath her, the faint shadow of the cap falling across her eyes.

“What’s your most embarrassing stage moment?” Giselle’s voice brimmed with curiosity, her posture tilting closer, eager for the answer.

Winter’s cheeks warmed, but she smirked, a dry edge cutting through her reserve. “My in-ear slipped out once—had to fake a hair flip to cover it. Looked ridiculous.” Laughter rippled through, soft and unguarded, as she shifted slightly, her frame easing into the moment.

Ningning turned to Karina, eyes gleaming with playful intent. “Unnie, truth or dare?”

“Truth,” Karina chose, her posture steady, a quiet confidence in the way she sat, hands resting lightly on her thighs.

“Ever had a crush on another idol?” Ningning’s tone was light, her fingers tapping the carpet in a restless rhythm.

Karina kept her composure, her voice smooth and measured. “I admire plenty of people, but a crush? Not quite.” Her diplomatic sidestep drew a groan from Ningning, who rolled her eyes in mock frustration, her laughter spilling out again.

The game unfurled like a thread, light and playful at first—Giselle belting out a dramatic chorus from one of their songs, her voice cracking into laughter halfway through; Winter swaying through a goofy dance, her cap tilting as she moved, drawing giggles that bounced off the walls. But the dares crept bolder, the air shifting like a tide pulling them deeper, the golden light casting long shadows that danced with their movements.

Giselle turned to you, her smirk sharp and teasing as she leaned closer. “Truth or dare?”

Caught in the current, you chose, “Dare,” your voice steady despite the quickening pulse in your chest.

“Compliment Winter—make it bold,” she challenged, her eyes glinting with expectation.

Winter fidgeted, her thighs brushing together under her shorts, a faint flush creeping up her neck as she ducked her head slightly. You met her gaze, letting the words roll out with quiet conviction. “Winter, your eyes pull me in like nothing else, and those thighs—damn, they’re stunning.” The room erupted in teasing whoops and laughter, Winter’s hand darting to her cap as she murmured a soft, “Thanks,” her shy smile breaking through the reserve, a rare crack in her poised exterior.

The dares grew teeth, each one peeling back another layer of restraint. Ningning dared Giselle to sway through a sultry dance, her movements fluid and deliberate, the faint tap of her heels punctuating the rhythm as she rolled her hips, drawing appreciative whistles. Winter dared Karina to perch on your lap for a round, and Karina complied with a soft laugh, easing onto you with a teasing, “This okay?” Her warmth settled against you, her hair brushing your cheek, a trace of vanilla drifting up as she adjusted, her thighs pressing lightly against yours.

Giselle dared Ningning to brush a quick kiss on your cheek, and she leaned in with a cheeky grin, her lips warm and fleeting, a giggle trailing in her wake as she pulled back. Then Winter fixed you with a daring look, her cap tilted at an angle that sharpened her gaze. “Take off your shirt.”

The air stilled, a heartbeat of silence stretching out. You tugged the fabric free, tossing it aside, the cool air of the room prickling your skin as their gazes swept over you, appreciation flickering in their eyes—Karina’s steady, Giselle’s playful, Winter’s quiet, Ningning’s eager. Karina shifted slightly, her shorts riding up, exposing more of her thighs, the movement subtle but electric.

Ningning’s next dare pushed the edge further, her voice bright with mischief. “Winter, straddle his lap—give him a police inspection.”

Winter rose, her steps deliberate, the carpet muffling her approach as she swung a leg over you, settling in with her thighs framing your hips, her cap lending a playful authority to the moment. “Anything dangerous here, sir?” she teased, her tone light but firm, her hands patting your shoulders and chest, fingers lingering just long enough to spark a shiver down your spine. “All clear,” she whispered, her breath grazing your ear, her lips curling into a smirk as she eased back, leaving the air charged in her wake.

The game crackled with heat now, a spark flaring into something tangible, the golden light casting their shadows in sharp relief against the walls. Giselle broke through the haze, her grin wide and reckless. “Let’s switch—spin the bottle, group twist. We decide the action.”

Karina arched a brow, her posture steady as she leaned back on her hands. “What twist?”

Giselle snatched an empty water bottle from the vanity, spinning it between her fingers before setting it on the carpet. “Spin picks who does what—group calls it.” Her grin promised chaos, and they murmured their assent, tightening the circle as the bottle gleamed in the center, a silent promise of escalation.

Giselle spun first, the bottle wobbling before settling on Ningning. After a quick huddle, their whispers overlapping in a conspiratorial hum, Karina announced, “Ningning, lap dance for him.”

Ningning’s eyes widened, a flash of surprise giving way to a playful confidence as she rose. Someone tapped a phone, and a sultry beat pulsed through the room, low and insistent. She circled you, hips rolling with a fluid grace, her breath teasing your skin as she brushed close, then pulled back with a wink, leaving your pulse hammering in your chest.

The bottle spun again, its neck pointing to Winter. Giselle’s grin sharpened, her voice cutting through the music. “Kiss him—make it real.”

Winter approached, her movements unhurried, straddling you again with a quiet intensity. Her hands cupped your face, her lips meeting yours in a slow, deep press, her tongue brushing yours in a fleeting dance. A soft moan vibrated between you, her thighs warm against your hips, the cap tilting slightly as she pressed closer. She pulled back, eyes dark and breath uneven, the taste of her lingering on your lips.

The spins escalated, tension coiling tighter with each turn. Karina leaned in, her hair brushing your cheek as she whispered something sharp and daring in your ear, her voice a low murmur that sent heat pooling low in your gut. The bottle landed on you next, and Ningning delivered the dare, her tone bright with mischief. “Get her off—hands only.”

You turned to Karina, still perched on your lap, her nod subtle but clear. Your hands slipped beneath her shorts, fingers finding her heat, slick and ready as she gripped your shoulders. Her breaths quickened, soft gasps spilling from her lips as you worked her, circling and pressing with a steady rhythm. Her thighs trembled, her nails digging into your skin as she unraveled, her release coating your fingers in a warm rush. The sight—her flushed face, parted lips, eyes fluttering shut—pushed you over the edge, your own climax hitting hard and sudden, a groan tearing from your throat as you spilled across your lap, hot and messy, your head dipping against her shoulder as the wave crashed through you.

They watched, wide-eyed, the air thick with shared heat, their breaths hitching in unison. Giselle broke the silence, spinning the bottle again, its neck landing on herself. “My turn,” she declared, shedding her shorts with a flick of her wrists, climbing onto you with a wicked grin. Her hand, cold from the bottle, wrapped around your softening length, coaxing it back to life with slow, deliberate strokes. The chill of her touch contrasted the growing warmth, her grip firm as she teased you, her eyes locked on yours. “Not done yet,” she murmured, her voice a low promise.

The game had already unraveled into a haze of instinct, the plush carpet beneath you stained with the faint sheen of sweat and anticipation as the air thickened with the raw, primal scent of their arousal. Karina still perched on your lap, her thighs quivering from her recent orgasm, her slick juices coating your fingers as you slid them free, the musky sweetness of her release lingering on your skin. Her breath came in soft, ragged pants, her chest heaving against the half-unzipped uniform top, her nipples peeking through the fabric, hard and begging for touch. The golden light bathed her flushed face, accentuating the sweat beading along her hairline, a testament to the heat coursing through her.

Giselle knelt beside you, her shorts shoved down to her knees, her hand still wrapped around your cock—soft but twitching from your first climax, the remnants of cum slicking her fingers as she stroked you with slow, deliberate intent. The coldness of her touch, chilled from gripping the water bottle earlier, sent sharp jolts through your shaft, a delicious contrast to the warm, throbbing ache building anew in your balls. Her eyes locked on yours, dark and glinting with a wicked triumph, her lips parting as she murmured, “You’ve got more for us, don’t you?” Her voice was a low, velvet purr, dripping with promise, her thumb circling the tip of your cock, smearing the pre-cum leaking from the slit in a slow, teasing swirl that made your hips twitch involuntarily.

Winter shifted closer, her cap tilted at a jaunty angle, the shadow it cast sharpening the elegant lines of her face. Her thighs brushed together under her shorts, a faint sheen of sweat glistening on her pale skin as she knelt beside Giselle, her breath visible in soft, uneven puffs. “Taste him,” she said, her voice a quiet command laced with a hunger that sent a shiver racing down your spine, your cock pulsing in Giselle’s grip.

Winter’s suggestion hung in the air, a spark igniting the already smoldering tension, and Giselle didn’t hesitate. She lowered her head, her dark hair spilling over your thighs, tickling your skin as her lips parted wide, taking you in with a slow, deliberate slide. The wet heat of her mouth enveloped your cock, a searing contrast to her cold hand, her tongue curling around the tip to lap at the salty bead of pre-cum before flattening as she sank deeper. Her throat tightened around you, a faint gag vibrating against your shaft as she pushed past her limit, spit bubbling at the corners of her mouth and dripping down your length to pool at the base, slick and messy.

Your head tipped back against the couch, a guttural groan tearing from your throat as she sucked, her cheeks hollowing with each pull, her hand pumping the base in a slick, relentless rhythm. The sound—wet, sloppy slurps echoing in the room—mingled with the faint hum of the sultry beat still playing from someone’s phone, a lewd soundtrack to the scene unfolding. Your balls tightened, the pressure building as her tongue swirled, teasing the sensitive underside, her lips stretching around your girth, her breath hot and ragged through her nose.

Ningning crawled closer, her uniform top riding up to expose the smooth curve of her stomach, her fingers threading through Giselle’s hair with a gentle tug. “Harder,” she urged, her voice a playful lilt, her lips brushing Giselle’s neck as she kissed her way up, leaving faint, wet marks on her skin. Giselle obeyed, her mouth working you with a hungry edge, her suction intensifying until the wet heat felt like it was pulling you apart, her spit dripping in thick strands down your cock, coating your balls in a glistening sheen. The sight—her flushed face, eyes watering slightly, lips swollen and stretched around you—sent a fresh surge of heat through your groin, your shaft throbbing harder, your balls aching with the need to spill again.

Karina slid off your lap, her shorts slipping down to her ankles as she knelt beside Winter, her fingers brushing your thigh as she watched, her eyes dark with intent. The air carried her scent—vanilla now laced with the sharp tang of her arousal, a heady mix that clung to your senses. “Your turn,” she murmured to Winter, her voice a quiet directive, her hand sliding to your balls, cupping them gently, rolling them in her palm with a slow, deliberate pressure that made your cock jump in Giselle’s mouth. Winter’s lips twitched into a smirk, and she leaned in, her breath hot against Giselle’s cheek as she kissed her first—a fleeting, messy press of lips, their tongues brushing in a quick, sloppy tangle before she turned to you.

Giselle pulled back with a wet pop, a string of spit connecting her lips to your cockhead, her hand still stroking you as Winter took her place. Winter’s mouth was softer, more teasing, her tongue flicking over the tip in quick, darting licks before she sucked you in, her lips sealing tight around you. The contrast—Giselle’s aggressive hunger, Winter’s playful precision—sent your mind reeling, your hands gripping the couch cushions, the fabric rough against your palms as you fought to hold on. Their tongues met again, sliding over your shaft in a chaotic dance—Giselle licking the length, Winter sucking the tip, their mouths colliding in wet, open kisses around your cock, sharing the taste of your pre-cum with soft, breathy moans that vibrated against your skin.

Ningning’s hands roamed your chest, her nails scraping lightly over your nipples, sending electric jolts straight to your groin, your cock pulsing harder in Winter’s mouth. “You’re trembling,” she teased, her lips brushing your ear, her breath hot and damp as she nipped your lobe, her tongue darting out to taste the sweat there. She slid lower, her kisses trailing down your neck, your collarbone, until her tongue flicked over your thigh, lapping at the salty sheen of sweat as she watched the others devour you. The room spun with sensation—the wet slurp of their mouths, the creak of the couch under your shifting weight, the faint rustle of their clothes as they moved, the air thick with the scent of sex.

Karina’s fingers tightened around your balls, her thumb pressing against the sensitive skin behind them, a slow, coaxing pressure that made your cock throb harder, the tip leaking steadily into Winter’s mouth. “Give it to us,” she whispered, her voice a sultry command, her eyes locked on yours, dark and unyielding. The tension snapped, a white-hot surge roaring through you, your balls drawing tight as the orgasm hit like a freight train. You groaned, loud and raw, your hips bucking as you came, the first thick spurt blasting into Winter’s mouth, flooding her tongue with hot, salty cum. Her eyes squeezed shut, her throat working as she swallowed, a soft gag escaping as the volume overwhelmed her, a trickle escaping the corner of her lips to drip down her chin.

Giselle leaned back just in time, the next shot streaking across her cheek, a pearly line that glistened in the golden light, dripping slow and thick toward her jaw as she laughed, a low, wicked sound that sent a shiver through you. Ningning tilted her head, catching a burst on her lips, her tongue darting out to lap it up, the cum smearing across her mouth as she hummed, greedy and shameless. Karina took the final spurt, tilting her head back as it hit the back of her throat, her eyes fluttering shut as she gulped it down, her throat bobbing with the effort, a faint moan vibrating in her chest as the bitter taste coated her tongue.

They didn’t stop. Giselle lunged at Winter, their lips crashing together in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss, their tongues swapping your cum in a slick, messy exchange—thick and white, stretching between them in glistening strings as they parted, panting, their breaths mingling in hot gasps. Ningning licked the streak from Giselle’s cheek, her tongue dragging slow and deliberate, sucking it clean with a wet, obscene pop before turning to Karina. Their mouths met in a slow, languid kiss, tongues sliding together, sharing the taste—cum and spit mixing in a lewd, slippery dance, dripping down their chins as they moaned into each other, their hands gripping each other’s hair, pulling tight.

Winter’s hand stayed on your cock, stroking slow and firm, her fingers slick with spit and cum as she milked a final, shuddering drop, the last bead of your release oozing from the tip. She leaned in, her lips wrapping around you, sucking it dry with a teasing flick of her tongue over the slit, the oversensitive head twitching under her touch. Your groan was hoarse, your body trembling as she pulled back, licking her lips, her eyes glinting with satisfaction.

The air reeked of sex—sweat, cum, their dripping arousal—a primal haze that clung to your skin, your nostrils flaring as you breathed it in. They slumped together on the carpet, a tangle of limbs and heaving breaths, faces still streaked and glistening, the golden light casting a lewd glow over their flushed, sweat-slicked bodies. Karina crawled closer, her tongue tracing your softening cock, licking you clean with gentle, deliberate laps—her breath hot against your oversensitive skin, her lips brushing the shaft with a tenderness that made you shiver.

Giselle spotted a stray drop on the carpet, swiping it with her finger and sucking it off with a grin, her playful edge undimmed, the taste lingering on her tongue. Ningning nuzzled your thigh, her voice soft and drowsy. “You’re a mess—we’ll take care of it.” Winter pressed a lazy kiss to your chest, her cap askew, murmuring, “Well done,” her tone laced with quiet pride, her breath warm against your skin.

You lay there, spent and boneless, your cock still twitching faintly, your chest heaving as their warmth enveloped you. Karina draped an arm across your chest, her voice a whisper against your skin. “This is just the beginning.” Giselle chuckled, her breath tickling your neck.

The room settled into a hazy stillness, their breathing syncing with yours, the golden light softening the edges of their tangled forms. But the hunger in their eyes burned brighter, a simmering promise of more—far more—yet to come.

The aftermath was a fleeting pause, a deceptive calm before the storm of their insatiable appetites erupted anew. The carpet beneath you was a battlefield—streaked with sweat, spit, and the faint glisten of cum.

Giselle rose first, her grin feral as she wiped her chin, cum still clinging to her lips in a sticky sheen. “We’re nowhere near done,” she said, her voice a low growl, crawling back to straddle your thighs. Her hand wrapped around your cock again, still slick with spit and cum, stroking you with a rough, insistent rhythm that made your shaft throb, the overstimulation a sharp, burning ache that bled into pleasure.

Her fingers—cold and relentless—dug into your flesh, her nails grazing the underside, sending a jolt through your balls that made them tighten against your body. “You’re gonna cum for us again,” she purred, her voice dripping with dark honey, her thumb smearing the fresh pre-cum leaking from your tip across the head, making it glisten in the light.

Karina knelt to your right, her knees planted beside your hip, her torso angled toward you as she yanked her shorts off with a quick tug, tossing them aside. Her pussy gleamed—pink, swollen, her clit peeking out from glistening folds, dripping with arousal that begged to be touched.

She glanced at Winter, who stood near your head, her cap tilted, thighs trembling faintly. “Sit on his face,” Karina ordered, her voice a sharp command, her hand sliding between her own thighs. Her fingers dipped into her wetness, parting her folds with a soft, wet squelch that echoed faintly, her breath catching as she teased herself.

Winter stepped forward, her movements fluid, and swung her right leg over your head, straddling your face. Her smooth, trembling thighs framed your vision, her knees pressing into the carpet on either side of your ears, her pussy hovering just above your mouth.

The scent hit you hard—sweet, musky, thick with need—her juices already dripping as she lowered herself, her folds parting against your lips, smearing hot slickness across your chin. You groaned into her, the vibration making her hips buck as your tongue plunged in, lapping at her clit with desperate, hungry strokes, tasting her tangy flood.

Ningning knelt beside Giselle, her knees tucked between your legs, her head dipping low so her nose nudged the space where your cock met your balls, her breath warm against your sack. Her shorts were tugged down to her thighs, her top rucked up, exposing her stomach as she leaned in close.

She giggled softly, her hands cupping your balls, rolling them with a teasing, featherlight pressure that made your cock twitch harder in Giselle’s grip. “Look at these,” she cooed, her voice dripping with mischief as her tongue flicked out, tracing a wet, sloppy line over your sack, her nose brushing the underside of your shaft as she sucked one ball into her mouth.

The wet, obscene pop sent a shockwave through your groin, her hot mouth and Giselle’s rough stroking blending into a dizzying assault, your hips jerking upward as your balls ached, heavy and tight with another load.

Karina rose from her kneeling position, swinging her left leg over your waist to straddle you, her knees sinking into the carpet on either side of your hips. Her pussy pressed against your stomach, sliding upward in a slick, warm smear as she settled, her unzipped uniform top hanging open, her tits spilling out—full, flushed, nipples hard and grazing your chest.

Her skin was hot, slick with sweat, her weight pinning you as she leaned forward slightly. “Suck them,” she commanded, grabbing your hands from the carpet and pressing them to her breasts, her voice a sultry growl that tightened your gut.

Your fingers sank into her soft, heavy flesh, pinching her nipples between your thumbs and forefingers, rolling them as she moaned—a low, throaty sound that vibrated through her chest. She rocked her hips, grinding her wetness against your abs, leaving a glistening trail, then reached down, her hand brushing Giselle’s for a moment as she took your cock.

Giselle released you with a playful huff, shifting back slightly, her nose still hovering near your base as Karina guided your rock-hard, leaking shaft toward her entrance. She teased the tip against her folds, her juices dripping down your length, coating you in slick heat as she rubbed you there, driving you wild with the wet friction.

Ningning seized the moment, her tongue darting upward from your balls to lick the shaft as Karina hovered, her nose pressed into the space where Karina’s pussy met your cock. She lapped at you both—her tongue flicking over your length, tasting the pre-cum leaking from your tip, then sliding higher to graze Karina’s dripping folds, catching her juices as they trickled down.

Karina sank down, her cunt swallowing you whole, the tight, wet grip of her walls clenching around you, milking your cock as Ningning’s tongue followed, licking the junction where Karina’s pussy stretched around your shaft, her hot, sloppy swipes blending your tastes—salty and tangy—into a filthy mix.

Karina rode you slow and deep, her breath hitching with each thrust, her moans a low, sultry song, while Ningning’s tongue danced between you, her nose nudging Karina’s clit, her breath puffing against your slick skin.

Giselle and Ningning shifted, their mouths converging on your cock as Karina lifted off, her cunt leaving a glistening trail on your stomach. Giselle sucked the tip, her throat working as she took you deep, gagging around your girth, spit pouring from her mouth to coat your shaft in a thick, sloppy sheen.

Ningning licked the base, her tongue swirling over your balls, then up to meet Giselle’s mouth, their tongues tangling in a messy, cum-slicked kiss around your cockhead—spit and pre-cum smearing their lips, dripping down their chins. The sight—two gorgeous mouths fighting over your cock, their faces flushed and filthy—pushed you to the edge, your balls tightening, your shaft throbbing with the need to explode again.

Karina’s voice cut through, sharp and commanding. “Kneel—all of you.” They obeyed instantly, dropping to their knees in a tight semicircle—Karina, Giselle, Winter, Ningning—faces tilted up, mouths open, tongues lolling out like a pack of desperate sluts begging for your load. You stood, legs trembling, cock in hand, stroking yourself as the pressure built to a blinding peak, your balls aching, your shaft pulsing with every pump.

The climax hit like a tidal wave, a roar tearing from your throat as you erupted. The first spurt blasted across Winter’s face, thick and hot, splattering her cheeks and lips, a fat glob landing on her tongue as she moaned, her eyes rolling back, her face scrunching with the bitter taste.

The next shot streaked Giselle’s forehead, a pearly rope dripping into her eyes, coating her lashes as she laughed, licking her lips to catch the runoff, her tongue darting out greedily.

Ningning took a direct hit, cum flooding her mouth, spilling over her chin in a creamy cascade as she gagged, swallowing hard with a wet, needy hum, her throat working to take it all.

Karina caught the final surge, opening wide as it splattered her tongue, pooling there in a thick, white puddle before she gulped it down, her throat bobbing, her face twisting with the sharp, salty sting, a low moan escaping as it slid down.

Winter’s hand found your cock again, stroking you slow and hard, her fingers slick with the mess as she milked a final, weak spurt—barely a dribble—that oozed onto her fingers. She sucked them clean, then leaned in, her lips wrapping around your tip, her tongue probing the slit for every last drop, sucking you dry until your cock twitched painfully, oversensitive and spent as she grinned, triumphant.

---

The girls slumped together on the carpet, a tangle of limbs and heaving breaths, faces streaked and glistening under the golden light, their outfits a wreck—Karina’s top unzipped to her navel, tits spilling out, nipples hard; Giselle’s shorts tangled at her knees, pussy exposed and wet; Winter’s cap askew, shorts shoved aside, thighs slick; Ningning’s top rucked up, shorts pulled low, cunt dripping onto the floor.

Giselle sat up, her voice rough but playful. “Fuck, what a night—better than any award.” She grabbed her top from the couch, tugging it on, cum crusting the fabric, then yanked her shorts up, the stains dark and blatant.

Winter smirked, adjusting her cap, cum flaking from her face. “Dispatch would die for this scoop—‘Aespa’s Dirty Win.’ Worth it.” She pulled her shorts back into place, the mess sticking to her thighs.

Ningning giggled, sprawled on her back, her chest heaving as she wiped a streak of cum from her chin with her finger, popping it into her mouth with a dramatic slurp. “You’re both nasty—I’m the real winner here. Did you see how much I swallowed? I’m basically a pro now!” Her quirky energy bubbled up, her legs kicking playfully as she rolled onto her side, facing Karina. “Unnie, rate me—I deserve a ten, right?”

“Ten for effort, Ning, but your technique needs work—gagging’s cute, but we’re not amateurs.” She shot you a glance, her eyes dark with lingering heat. “He knows what we’re worth, though—don’t you? All those fans out there screaming our names, clueless about how we get used in here.”

The room pulsed with their shared secret, the weight of their idol lives pressing in—a facade of perfection shattered behind closed doors. They were Aespa, untouchable on stage, voices that moved millions, bodies worshipped by fans who’d never suspect the depravity they craved in private. To the world, they were pristine, glittering idols; to you, they were cumrags, personal toilets, begging for every drop, reveling in the filth their adoring public would never imagine.

Giselle sat up, her grin softening into something more conspiratorial as she crawled toward you, her hand brushing your thigh. “They’d lose their minds if they knew,” she murmured, her accent thickening with amusement. “All those girls copying our choreo, buying our albums—meanwhile, we’re in here getting our faces painted like cheap whores.” She laughed, low and wicked, her fingers tracing circles on your skin. “Kinda hot, isn’t it?”

Karina shifted, her leadership kicking in despite the mess streaking her face and chest, her voice steady but laced with a dark thrill. “They’d never believe it anyway. We’re too good at this—smiling for the cameras, waving to the fans, all while we’re dripping with this.” She gestured to the cum splattered across her uniform, her tone a mix of pride and defiance.

She glanced at you, a flicker of warmth in her eyes. “You holding up?”

You managed a shaky laugh, your cock still twitching faintly, oversensitive and sore, your chest heaving as you met her gaze. “Barely hanging on—think you might’ve ruined me for anyone else.” The honesty drew a chorus of soft chuckles, their voices blending in a warm, intimate hum.

Ningning grinned, her quirky charm lighting up as she scrambled to her knees, cum still dripping from her chin onto her chest. “Good! That’s the plan—keep you ours. No one else gets to have this, okay?” She poked your chest playfully, then turned to the others. “Right, girls?

Giselle broke the silence, her grin returning as she crawled toward the couch, grabbing her discarded uniform top. “Speaking of perfect, we’ve got interviews in—what, twenty minutes? Time to dress up, girls.” She held up the black fabric, cum stains splattered across it, and laughed. “Think they’ll notice?”

Winter snorted, sitting up and tugging her shorts back into place, the fabric sticking to her cum-slicked thighs. “Notice? They’d have to be blind—and stupid. But who cares? We’ll smile and wave, and they’ll eat it up like always.” She stood, stretching lazily, her cap still askew.

Ningning clapped, her energy sparking. “Selfie time—peace signs, cum and all! Let’s make it our secret trophy.” She fished her phone from her discarded bag near the couch, the others following suit, pulling theirs from pockets or the vanity. They crowded around you, cum crusting their faces—Winter’s cheeks streaked, Giselle’s forehead matted, Ningning’s lips smeared, Karina’s chin dotted—bodies pressed close, uniforms stained and rumpled.

Peace out, filthy style!” Ningning chirped, snapping a pic, her phone angled to catch their cum-slicked grins and peace signs, your dazed face in the frame. Giselle leaned in, her phone flashing next, capturing the mess of hair and skin. Winter tilted her cap back, her shot framing the group’s raw, unfiltered chaos. Karina went last, her steady hand immortalizing the moment—four idols, cum-drenched and defiant, their secret locked in pixels.

You nodded, still dazed, your body heavy with exhaustion as you watched them dress. They slipped back into their black uniforms—Karina’s top stretched tight over her cum-stained tits, Giselle’s shorts bunched and sticky, Winter’s cap perched atop her cum-crusted face, Ningning’s outfit clinging to her dripping thighs. They didn’t wipe a thing, letting the mess dry in crusty, glistening streaks—on their faces, their hair, their clothes.

Winter smirked, brushing a cum-streaked strand of hair from her face. “Hope you’re ready for round three next time.”

They gathered at the door, a vision of debauchery dressed as perfection—black uniforms stained and sticky, faces painted with dried cum, hair tangled with it, yet their expressions were flawless, practiced, the ideal idols their fans adored. They didn’t wipe a drop, letting it crust and flake as they prepared to step out, the contrast of their pristine image and hidden filth a thrill they savored.

Giselle turned back, blowing you a kiss, her voice a sultry promise. “See you after, VIP—don’t wash up yet.” Ningning giggled, Winter smirked, and Karina gave a final nod, her eyes glinting with control. Then they stepped out, cum-stained and smiling, ready to face the interviewers, the fans, the world—untouchable queens hiding their truth in plain sight.

The door clicked shut behind them, leaving you alone in the dressing room, the air still thick with their scents, the carpet a testament to their rebellion. Outside, their voices faded into the hum of the venue, their laughter echoing.

---

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#aespa #aespa smut #aespa winter smut #girl group smut #male reader #aespa x male reader #karina smut #ningning smut #giselle smut #kpop smut

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octaneink · 3 months ago

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Will Lenney x Reader

Summary: The Reader supports Will at the 2025 Sidemen Charity Match Warnings: None Notes: Sorry it took so long! This request was so hard, writing football stressed me tf out 😅 Watching the highlights were cool too, but I had no idea what was happening most of the time. I'm a rugby gyal

The roar of the crowd at Wembley Stadium buzzed in your ears like a live wire, a relentless hum that seemed to vibrate through your bones. The sea of red-and-white scarves and kits blurred into a kaleidoscope of motion, a living, breathing entity pulsating with anticipation. You stood slightly apart from the others, your fingers absently tugging at the hem of your custom #LENNEY 2 jersey. Beneath it, the long-sleeved shirt you’d layered clung to your skin, its fabric thin and breathable but still trapping a faint warmth against your arms. The jersey itself was softer than you’d expected, the material sliding easily over the shirt’s sleeves, but the combination did little to settle the restless flutter in your chest.

The VIP box was a sensory overload—popcorn kernels scattered on the floor, their buttery scent mingling with the sharp tang of expensive perfume wafting from the women nearby. The mix was as chaotic as your nerves, a strange cocktail of comfort and unease. Below, the YouTube Allstars were a whirl of pre-match energy, their movements sharp and purposeful. Some stretched, their muscles rippling under their kits, while others laughed, tossing balls in casual arcs that belied the tension building in the stadium. But your eyes tracked only one person.

Will stood near the sideline, his back to the stands as he jogged on the spot, his own red-and-white kit clinging to his frame. Even from here, you could see the way his shoulders shook with a laugh at something Harry said, his easy confidence radiating like sunlight. You’d memorised that posture—the way he rolled his neck before big moments, the habit of tugging his sleeves over his knuckles. But today, every detail felt magnified. Would he spot you before the match? Would he even look up?

“Stop fidgeting,” Talia hissed, swatting your hand away from the jersey’s hem. Her smirk was all mischief, her gold hoops catching the stadium lights as she leaned in. “If you crease it, he’ll think you nicked it off a mannequin.”

“Or that you’ve been stress-cuddling it in secret all week,” Freya added, arching a perfectly groomed brow. She’d swapped her usual designer dresses for Sidemen merch today, though hers was artfully cropped and paired with heeled boots. “Which, let’s be honest, you probably did.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress a grin. “I did not. I’m not the one who still sleeps in Josh’s sixth-form hoodie.”

Freya gasped, clutching her chest in mock offence, as Faith snorted, adjusting Olive on her hip. The toddler reached chubby fists towards the colourful crowd, babbling excitedly. “Don’t drag me into this,” Faith said, bouncing Olive gently. “But for the record, Ethan still has the first note I ever wrote him tucked in his phone case. Lads are sentimental creatures. Prepare for waterworks.”

You smiled at Faith, your oldest mate. The two of you had been inseparable since her family moved next door when you were kids. You’d spent countless afternoons in her back garden, dreaming about the future and giggling over crushes. When she started dating Ethan, you’d been sceptical at first—what if he didn’t like you? What if things got weird? But Ethan had welcomed you into their world with open arms, and it wasn’t long before you were hanging about with the Sidemen crew.

That’s how you met Will.

You remembered the first time Faith dragged you to one of their group outings. You’d been nervous, feeling like an outsider among the tight-knit group, but Will had noticed you sitting quietly in the corner. He’d plonked down next to you with a grin, handing you a drink and launching into a story about the time he and Simon got lost in Amsterdam. By the end of the night, your cheeks hurt from laughing, and you’d forgotten all about being nervous.

Talia leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a stage whisper that somehow carried over the growing buzz of the crowd. “Or other reactions,” she said, her eyebrows waggling like she was sharing the juiciest of secrets. Her grin was sharp, knowing, and it made your stomach flip.

Heat rushed to your cheeks, spreading like wildfire. “It’s just a kit,” you lied, your voice pitching higher than you intended. The words sounded weak even to your own ears, and the way Talia’s smirk widened told you she wasn’t buying it.

“Just a kit?” Freya echoed, incredulous. “You had it custom-stitched in two days when the online shop sold out. Travelled to Manchester to beg the kit manager in person. That’s not ‘just’ anything, love. That’s a declaration of war.”

Your mouth opened to protest, but no words came out. Instead, you shot a nervous glance towards the pitch, where Will was still turned away, his focus on Chris as they mock-tackled each other. The sight of him—carefree, grinning, utterly in his element—made your stomach swoop in a way that was equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.

Talia followed your gaze, her teasing expression softening just a fraction. “He’s going to love it,” she said, her voice sincere for once. “And when he scores today, he’ll point straight at this box. You’ll see.”

“He’d better,” Faith chimed in, her tone dry as she dug through her bag for Olive’s snack. The toddler was perched on her hip, gnawing on the ear of her stuffed bear, completely oblivious to the conversation. “Or I’m revoking his uncle privileges.”

A sudden cheer erupted from the crowd as the Allstars began dispersing to their positions. Your eyes snapped back to the pitch, where Will was now walking backwards towards the centre circle, his head tilted as he squinted up at the stands. Your breath hitched, your heart pounding in your chest. Could he see you? You froze, torn between waving like a prat and ducking behind Freya to hide.

But then Ethan called his name, tossing him a water bottle, and Will turned away, laughing as he fumbled the catch. The moment passed, and you exhaled sharply, unaware you’d been holding your breath.

“Heart attack avoided,” Talia teased, fanning you with a match programme she’d nicked from somewhere. Her grin was back, full force, and you rolled your eyes, though your cheeks were still burning.

“Give it time,” Freya said, her tone light but her eyes glinting with mischief. “The match hasn’t even started.”

You groaned, leaning back against the railing as the players took their positions. The tension in the air was palpable, the crowd’s energy building to a fever pitch. But even as the referee blew the whistle and the game began, your mind kept drifting back to the kit, to the way Will had laughed as he caught the water bottle, to the promise of what might come next.

The match hung on a knife-edge. 88th minute. 8-8. The Allstars surged forward, their attacks sharp and desperate, every pass and tackle charged with the kind of urgency that made your chest tighten. Your nails dug into the railing of the VIP box as you watched Will track back, his movements slower now, his legs heavy but still pushing. The Sidemen FC’s defence was in shambles—xQc stranded halfway up the pitch after a botched clearance, the goal gaping wide and vulnerable.

Your breath caught in your throat as George pounced.

The ball rocketed off his foot, a thunderous strike from the edge of the box, screaming towards the open net. The crowd rose as one, a collective gasp tearing through Wembley, the sound raw and primal. Your heart stopped. The world narrowed to that ball, arcing through the air.

Then Will moved.

He lunged, a full-stretch dive from inside the goal line, his body parallel to the grass as he hurled himself headfirst towards the ball. Time slowed—or maybe it was just your mind, struggling to process what you were seeing. The blur of the stadium lights, the deafening roar of the crowd, the sharp crack of his forehead connecting with the shot. The ball ricocheted skyward, spinning harmlessly out of play.

For a heartbeat, there was silence. Absolute, deafening silence.

Then chaos.

“UNBELIEVABLE! WILL LENNEY WITH A GOAL-LINE HEADER—ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” the commentator bellowed.

You were on your feet before your brain could even process it. Your arms shot out wide, fingers splayed, as if you could somehow reach down and touch the chaos unfolding on the pitch. A scream tore from your throat, raw and unfiltered, joining the tidal wave of noise crashing around you. “YES! YES! YES!” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t care. The world had narrowed to one thing: Will.

Spinning on your heel, you nearly lost your balance, but you didn’t care. Your hands flew out, pointing wildly towards the pitch, your eyes wide and frantic as they locked onto the girls. “DID YOU SEE THAT?! DID YOU SEE HIM?!” Your voice was hoarse, barely audible over the roar of the crowd, but your expression said it all.

Freya was bent double, her laughter ringing out like a bell. She clutched her sides, tears streaming down her cheeks as she gasped for air. “We saw it, love! The whole stadium saw it!” Her words were punctuated by another peal of laughter, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

Talia’s hands were on you in an instant, gripping your shoulders with a force that made you stumble. She shook you like a ragdoll, her dark curls bouncing wildly as she screamed in your face, “HE’S MENTAL! ABSOLUTELY MENTAL!” Her eyes were wide, her grin manic, and for a moment, you thought she might actually shake you apart.

Faith stood a little apart, holding Olive in her arms. She just shook her head, her lips curving into a wry smile. “That man’s going to give you a heart attack one day,” she said, her voice dry but her eyes sparkling with amusement.

And then the jumbotron flickered.

There you were, frozen in time—arms outstretched, your #LENNEY 2 kit blazing across your shoulders, your face alight with a joy so pure it was almost blinding. The crowd’s roar shifted, morphing into a collective “AWWWW” as the screen split. On one side, Will lay sprawled on the pitch, his chest heaving, his face streaked with sweat and grass stains. On the other, you stood, your eyes glistening with pride, your smile so wide it hurt.

Will squinted up at the screen, his brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. For a heartbeat, he just stared, his lips parting in surprise. Then, with a sudden burst of laughter, he slapped the grass, his shoulders shaking as he rolled onto his back. “OH MY DAYS!” he mouthed, his grin widening as he blew you an exaggerated kiss. The Allstars swarmed him, yanking him upright, their laughter mingling with the commentators’ cackles.

“Someone’s got a fan,” one of them teased, his voice dripping with amusement.

“Fan? That’s his girlfriend,” the other corrected, his tone smug. “Rumour has it she’s the reason he’s playing like a man possessed!”

“Possessed? Nah, mate—that’s love.”

Freya’s whistle cut through the noise, sharp and piercing, right in your ear. “If he dies tonight, at least he’ll die famous,” she said, her tone light but her eyes dancing with mischief.

“He’s already famous,” you shot back, your cheeks flaming as you tried to ignore the heat creeping up your neck.

“Not for football,” Talia snorted, her lips quirking into a smirk.

The pitch was alive with motion, players shifting into position like pieces on a chessboard, their movements sharp and deliberate. Will jogged backward, his boots digging into the turf with each step, his eyes darting up to the jumbotron every few seconds. The massive screen still flashed the split image—him, sprawled on the grass moments ago, and you, frozen in mid-celebration, your joy radiating even through the pixels. His grin, once wide and cocky, softened at the edges, the bravado melting into something quieter, more personal.

He tapped two fingers to his lips, a quick, almost unconscious gesture, before pressing them to his chest—right over the name on his kit. LENNEY. His eyes flicked to the VIP box, locking onto yours for a heartbeat. Yours, he mouthed, the word silent but unmistakable. Then he turned away, his focus snapping back to the game, but the ghost of that private smile lingered.

“Gross,” Talia said, her voice cutting through the moment like a knife. She swatted your arm, the sharp smack making you yelp and jerk away. “Save the eye sex for after we win,” she added, her tone dripping with mock disdain, though the corner of her mouth twitched like she was fighting a smile.

Freya, never one to miss an opportunity, let out an exaggerated gasp and fake-swooned into Faith’s shoulder. Her hand flew to her forehead, her fingers splayed dramatically as she tilted her head back. “He’s peacocking,” she declared, her voice lilting with theatrical flair. “Look at him. Absolute showman. Can’t help himself.”

Faith adjusted Olive on her hip, “He’s concussed,” Faith said flatly, though the grin tugging at her lips betrayed her. “That’s the only explanation for… whatever that was.” She gestured vaguely towards the pitch, where Will was now crouched slightly, his eyes scanning the field as the Allstars began to huddle.

But before he joined them, Will glanced up at the VIP box one last time. You couldn’t help yourself—you mimed blowing him a kiss, your fingers brushing your lips before flicking them towards him with a playful smirk. His reaction was immediate and absurd. He clutched his heart, staggering back as if you’d physically struck him, his face contorted in mock agony. The exaggerated drama of it made you laugh, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably despite the tension in the air.

Faith rolled her eyes, but the effort to keep her expression neutral was clearly a struggle. Her lips twitched, and she shook her head, muttering under her breath, “You two are disgusting.”

“Disgustingly sweet,” you shot back, your voice sing-song and teasing, though your grin was genuine. The tension of the shoot-out was building, the crowd’s energy shifting to a low, anticipatory hum. The whistle blew, sharp and piercing, snapping the stadium back into focus. Will straightened, his expression shifting from playful to intense in an instant.

The game was on.

The final whistle blew, and the Allstars erupted—a tangle of sweat-drenched hugs and victory chants. Will collapsed onto his knees, chest heaving, before Chris yanked him upright to join the team’s lap of honour. His eyes scanned the stands, lingering on the VIP box as he jogged, waving half-heartedly at the crowd.

“He’s coming up here, isn’t he?” Talia said, watching Will duck out of the team huddle and bolt for the tunnel.

“Twenty quid says he face-plants on the stairs,” Faith replied, shielding Olive’s eyes playfully.

You barely heard them. Your pulse thundered in your ears as the stadium doors swung open—

And there he was.

Will, still in his grass-stained kit, hair plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed from the game. He skidded to a halt in front of you, breathless and grinning like he’d scored a last-minute winner. The VIP section fell silent, phones snapping photos as he vaulted the barrier.

“You,” he said, pointing a trembling, accusatory finger at your jersey, “are a menace.”

“Me?” You arched a brow, fighting a smile. “You’re the one who blew a kiss to 90,000 people.”

“Had to claim my territory,” he shot back, stepping closer until the scent of turf and citrus sweat wrapped around you. “Everyone’s gonna want a Lenney kit now.”

“Doubt it,” you said, tapping the #2 on your chest. “This one’s custom.”

Will’s gaze softened. He reached out, calloused fingers brushing the embroidered name on your shoulder. “You’re a proper ride-or-die, you know that?”

“Someone’s got to be,” you teased, though your voice wavered.

He huffed a laugh, then hooked a finger under the jersey’s collar, tugging you forward until your foreheads pressed together. The crowd’s cheers faded to static. “Wanna know why I kept looking at the screen?” he murmured.

“To admire your own cheekbones?”

“Nah.” His thumb swept over your jaw. “Every time I saw you in my name, I remembered… this is real. We’re real. Even when I’m out here acting like a prat for the cameras.”

Freya fake-gagged behind you. “Get a room!”

Will flipped her off without breaking eye contact. “Swap kits with me,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

He didn’t wait for an explanation. Before you could even process what was happening, Will yanked at his own sweat-soaked Allstars kit, peeling it off in one swift motion. The crowd erupted, a deafening roar of cheers, whistles, and laughter as he stood there, bare-chested and unbothered, his grin wide and unapologetic.

For a moment, you froze, your brain short-circuiting. His skin glistened under the stadium lights, the faint sheen of sweat catching the glow as his chest rose and fell with each breath. The muscles in his shoulders and arms—usually hidden under layers of fabric—were on full display, defined and taut from the game. A faint trail of grass stains smudged his collarbone, and your eyes involuntarily dipped lower, catching the faint line of his happy trail, a subtle but undeniable detail that made your throat go dry.

“Your kit,” he repeated, snapping you out of your daze. He waved a hand in front of your face, his grin turning smug. “Earth to," he said your name "Give it. Now.”

“You’re mental,” you managed, your voice coming out higher than intended. Your cheeks burned as you tore your gaze away, but not before catching the way his smirk deepened, clearly pleased with himself.

“Oi, eyes up here,” he teased, tapping your chin with a finger. “Unless you’re enjoying the view?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, swatting his hand away, though the heat in your face betrayed you.

The crowd around the VIP box had started to notice the commotion, a few fans snapping photos on their phones, their laughter mingling with the noise of the stadium. Will, ever the showman, turned to them briefly, flexing with an exaggerated wink that sent another wave of cheers through the stands.

“You’re such a prat,” you groaned, though you couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips.

“And you’re stalling,” he shot back, shoving his crumpled match kit into your hands. The fabric was still warm from his body, and you could feel the faint dampness of sweat as you clutched it to your chest.

“You’re never living this down,” you groaned, reluctantly tugging your #LENNEY 2 over your head.

Will took the kit from you with a grin, holding it up like it was some kind of trophy. He shook it out, the fabric snapping in the air, before slipping it on properly. He adjusted the shoulders, smoothed the front, and tapped the #2 on his chest with a smirk.

“Looking good,” you said dryly, though your cheeks burned as you clutched his discarded kit to your chest, the fabric still warm from his body.

“Damn right,” he shot back, his grin widening as he raised an arm, flexing dramatically. The crowd around the VIP box had started to notice the commotion, a few fans snapping photos on their phones, their laughter mingling with the noise of the stadium.

“You’re such a show-off,” you muttered, though you couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips.

He spun back to you, his eyes bright and wild, the kind of look that made your stomach flip. “Yeah,” he said, quieter now, his voice barely audible over the chaos. “And I’m yours.”

The kiss wasn’t dramatic or cinematic—it wasn’t the kind of moment you’d see in a film, with sweeping music and perfectly timed lighting. It was messy, real, and inevitable. His lips met yours with a kind of urgency that spoke of relief, of triumph, of something deeper that had been simmering all day. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, his grip firm but not possessive. The taste of salt lingered on his lips, a mix of sweat and the faint, sugary tang of Haribo from his half-time snack. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was him, and that was enough.

At first, it was almost hesitant, as if he was reminding himself that this was real, that you were here, that the chaos of the game was over and this moment was his to claim. But then his fingers tightened slightly on your waist, and the kiss deepened, his lips moving against yours with a quiet intensity that made your chest ache. His breath was warm and uneven, his forehead pressing against yours as if he needed the anchor, the connection, to ground him.

The surrounding chaos didn’t disappear, exactly—it just faded into the background, like static on a radio. The roar of the crowd, the flash of cameras, the distant shouts of his teammates—it all became a blur, muffled and distant. All you could focus on was the warmth of his body against yours, the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm, the way your kit clung to his shoulders, still damp with sweat.

His hands slid up your back, pulling you even closer, and you could feel the tremble in his fingers, the faintest hint of exhaustion and adrenaline still coursing through him. His lips were soft but insistent, and when you let out a small, involuntary sigh, he smiled against your mouth, the curve of his lips breaking the kiss for just a moment before he leaned back in, slower this time, more deliberate.

The second kiss was different—less urgent, more lingering, as if he was savouring the moment, memorising the feel of you. His thumb brushed your cheek, calloused and gentle all at once, and you could feel the way his breath hitched when your fingers tangled in the damp hair at the nape of his neck. He tasted like victory and exhaustion, like the faint citrus of his energy drink and the salt of his sweat, and you couldn’t get enough.

Someone below shouted, “GET A ROOM, LADS!”—probably Ethan, judging by the tone—but Will didn’t pull away. He just laughed, the sound low and breathless, his lips still brushing yours as he murmured, “Ignore them.”

And you did. For a few more seconds, at least, the world narrowed to the two of you—his hands on your waist, your fingers in his hair, the way your kit clung to his shoulders like a second skin. It wasn’t perfect or polished, but it was real.

“You’re stuck with me now,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, barely audible over the noise.

“Was there ever any doubt?” you shot back, your voice trembling despite your attempt at levity.

He huffed a laugh, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. His thumb brushed your cheek, calloused and gentle all at once, and for a moment, it felt like the two of you were the only people in the stadium.

The moment didn’t last long—it couldn’t, not with the cameras still flashing and the crowd still roaring—but it didn’t need to.

Gang, let me know what you think of this! I don’t usually watch football, so I had to slowly go through the live stream to get a feel for the game. Eventually, I gave up and just watched the highlights and pick out the goal block scene.

I hope it’s okay.

I tried my best, I've went back and forth quite a bit, I’m definitely out of my depth here. Let me know if anything feels off or needs tweaking!

#willne #will lenney #willne x reader #willne x fem!reader #will lenney x fem!reader #will lenney x reader

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hoshigray · 1 year ago

Note

Request! Geto never had to worry bc reader basically never interacts with guys. That 3we until he saw her hugging her male coworker and now he has to put her in place if ykiwm😋

𝐚. 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: oh yikesss, possessive sugu incoming, oof. lmao this is lowkey like the one i did for my kinktober, but what the hell

⊹ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: Geto x afab/fem! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - canon divergence; Geto is a jujutsu tech sorcerer - shibari; rope bondage (cross-chest box tie, frogtie) - sex toys; use of a vibrator - fingering (f! receiving) - clitoral play (swiping and pinching) - pleasure denial - mild possessive behavior - pet names (angel, baby, pretty girl, my love, sweetie) - cameo: Gojo - mention of drool/saliva.

⊹ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.3k

“Hahhh…ahhaa, Sug’ruu, I can’t…Mmm!”

“Aww, are you feeling well, my love? You look awful.”

And whose fault would that be?

Geto removes his jacket to put aside one of the chairs of the many desks. He stretches his sides and cracks his neck, releasing a massive sigh after a long inhale. He’s now relaxed that he’s back in his classroom.

However, he isn’t the only one here. Someone he knows is here with him — waiting for him to return. And Geto’s lips curl into a smile once he looks down to see someone on the cold wooden floor.

You were in nude form, clothes sprawled to the side of you. A long red rope contorts around your body, binding your arms behind your back with your wrists tied together. Your thighs and ankles were restricted together; the red ropes tied the leg together to that of a frog-like position. And a red blindfold covers your line of sight. You were whining and writhing in this bounded position. Why?

Geto slowly walks around you to take in the view, noticing that the vibrators he placed on your body were still where he had left it. Your nipples had a vibrator taped on to each, and the buzzing noises made Geto’s skin crawl. There was another set of bullet vibrators buzzing down south. Three white wires are connected to a remote lying on the floor, and they seem to be stuffed inside the wet entrance of your chasm. So, five vibrators are teasing your body all at once. What a hell.

He comes down to your level, bringing you up with a hand to lie on his propped knee, and your breathing so low and hushed. “How are you feeling, angel?” He lifts the blindfold to have you peek at him, noticing your eyes are puffy and wet. Poor thing was crying for him.

“Sugu…” You called him by his nickname, a tool in hopes of getting on his good side. “Can you…please…”

Dark eyebrows raise, “Please what, pretty girl?” He shields your eyes again and slithers his hand down from your chin to your neck, and he loves how your breathing lessens when he approaches your breasts. He pulls off one taped vibrator to free the bud. For a moment before he blows on it, “What do you want from me?”

“Can I—Ohh!” His tongue flicks your nipple; it’s so sensitive and sore! “Can I please…cum…?”

“Ahh, what a dirty girl,” Geto chuckles to you as he kisses your mound, his hand now traveling further down to the three wires on the floor. He gently pulls one, a loud noise of one vibrator bumping into another. “You were doing so well being patient for me. I have one more meeting, baby; why can’t you wait after that?”

Your breathing gets shaky, leaning towards his frame to get through. “Because...Mmmm, I want you to make me feel—Ohh…! Good...”

“Is that right?” More laps around your nipple before he sucks it in. “You want me to make you feel good? Not Satoru?” You gulped at the mention of the other’s name, feeling Geto’s intense, indigo gaze on your face.

In all honesty, Geto admits he can be a jealous man — especially regarding you, his sweet angel. The reason why you’re in this situation is because your partner saw you hug another man yesterday. Satoru Gojo, the dark-haired man’s best friend of all people! Granted, it was because you were only giving a gift of sweets to the tall sorcerer because he came back from a terrible, dangerous mission with Geto. And the white-haired fool, oblivious to personal space as always, brought you in for a hug as he thanked you for the bag of sweets you handed him.

Putting his hands on you did make Geto unpleasant, yet this was Gojo we were talking about; the guy acts like personal boundaries don’t apply to him. However, what did upset the man more was you reciprocating the embrace with a cheerful smile — a smile only Geto was to bear witness to. It twinged his heart – cliche, but it did. You toyed with his feelings, and he had to correct you for such behavior.

The man increases the intensity of the vibrators inside your cunt, and your body jerks unexpectedly. He then slides a finger inside your vagina to play around your walls with the toys, and you have to remind yourself not to scream as his fingertips scrape the velvet texture. “You hurt my feelings, sweetie,” he listens to your whimpers get higher and higher as he increases the speed of his finger. “You know I’m not one for sharing — especially with Satoru.”

“Hahhh, Sugu’uuu, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—“ You press your lips together to suppress a moan once Geto takes your nipple back into his mouth, pushing the nub to the roof of his mouth and skimming it with his teeth. A sharp gasp escapes your frame at the addition of another finger inside you, and more tears well up from how much stimulation is happening. “Nmoohh, please, I won’t do it again…”

“You promise?” He whispers into your ear, slowly removing his fingers to increase the intensity of the vibrators inside you. Those same fingers now go to your clit where he swipes in slow circles, and you nearly choke on your spit. “Tell me, who’s my favorite girl?”

“Mee! I’m y’re favorite…!” Despite the ropes tightening around your ankles and thighs, your lower half still jolts to his touch on your delicate pearl, trying to sway your hips to move with the friction.

“And who’s your only favorite man in this world?”

“You, Sugu!” Oh, the way you desperately said his nickname was so pathetic to hear — so sweet. He couldn’t stop the sneer from flourishing on his face. “You’re my favorite—Mmmph! Always…”

Good girl. “You wanna come so bad, baby?” His thumb and forefinger rub against your clitoris, evoking cute squeaks to fly out your drooling mouth. You nod hastily; that’s not what he wanted, so he pinches your clit. “Words, pretty girl, words.”

“Yessh, please let me cum, my love…!” Now that’s what he wanted to hear, being all cute and pitiful for him to grant you what you’re craving. And you can feel it coming, your nerves heightened with the climb of your orgasm.

But then, you sense his fingers gone from your clit, the cold air occupying their absence. Instead, he puts the vibrator that once teased your nipple back and rests your figure onto the cold wooden floor once more. Your brows screw together with quivered lips, “No, pleaseee! Don’t leave me again!” You whined.

Too late, he was adorning his jacket and heading out for the sliding door of the classroom. “I’m sorry, angel, but I gotta get to this meeting first. Don’t make too much noise while I’m gone, okay?” God, you pulled his heart the way you helplessly laid there. “Don’t give me that look, my love. I’ll be right back when it’s done.” He steps outside and closes the door behind him, swiftly locking it while checking for his surroundings.

And it was a good thing he did, too. Because right around the corner came his best friend, Gojo, the blindfolded sorcerer, retrieving the raven-headed other. “Yo, there ya are, Suguru! The meeting’s about to start; don’t slack off before Yaga comes for our heads.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” he walks alongside his companion, heading to the other side of the hall.

“Hmm, by the way, where’s Y/n?” The white-haired man inquires while scratching his ear. “I haven’t seen them since this morning.”

Geto hums to the question, the shrug of his shoulders to seal the deal. “They felt sick all of a sudden, went to go see Shoko to check.”

The taller sorcerer tilts his head with a scoff. “Who said you were a good liar?”

“You’re one to talk.”

2K notes · View notes

toshisdecadence · 6 months ago

Text

ERROR 404: Overload!

PAIRING: svarog x mechanic!fem reader

TAGS & WARNINGS: dark content, dubcon (reader says it’s too much but svarog has a mission to collect data), rough sex, multiple rounds, dom!svarog, sub!fem reader, svarog is Massive, cervix mentions, tummy bulge descriptions, multiple rounds, overstimulation, size difference, power dynamics, size kink, fingering, unrealistic sex, robot fuckers unite!, can you tell i have a size kink?

WORD COUNT: 5.1k

SUMMARY: You discover the reason why Svarog wears pants.

The repair bay smelled faintly of heated metal, coolant fluid, and faint traces of alcohol; a sharp tang that clung to the sterile air. You barely noticed it anymore, accustomed to the hum of machinery and the faint vibration of tools against metal. But today, that hum was louder, and the vibrations sharper, emanating not from your usual repair work but from the massive, battle-worn war machine sitting across from you.

Svarog loomed over the room, his 8’11 frame too large for the reinforced chair you’d hastily reinforced when he arrived. His joints hissed faintly, micro-servos struggling to compensate for the damage he’d sustained during the Wardance duel against Luka earlier that day. Faint dents marred his reinforced dark blue chest plating, and faint sparks sputtered from the exposed wiring along his arm.

You reached for your tools, hyper-aware of the pinkish-red glow of his cyclopean optical sensor tracking your every movement.

“Superficial damage sustained. Functionality remains above 90%. Repairs are non-essential.” His voice rumbled, a deep, mechanical timbre that sent a shiver up your spine.

You regarded him critically. “Non-essential? Your vents are overheating, and you’re rattling like a dying starship. Sit still and let me work.”

He didn’t argue. Svarog was nothing if not logical, and logic dictated that he allow himself to be repaired. Still, there was a tension to him, a stiffness beyond the rigid design of his armor. He didn’t like being examined, didn’t like lowering his guard to anyone else other than Clara, even in the hands of someone who statistically meant him no harm or stood a chance against him.

You stepped closer, tools in hand, and gently pressed against the plating on his shoulder. His frame vibrated under your touch, a subtle hum you might have missed if you hadn’t been so close.

“Core temperature stable,” he intoned. “Subsystems fully operational.”

“Your fans tell a different story,” you muttered, running diagnostics through a handheld scanner. “You’re burning hotter than you should be.”

Svarog didn’t respond right away, but you could feel his pinkish-red optic watching your hands as they worked, tracking each movement with the precision of an apex predator. The thought sent an odd warmth through your body, and you tried to shake it off.

You needed to focus.

The repairs took you lower, inspecting the dents along his torso plating. The main brunt of the damage he took from Luka’s mechanical arm focused around his torso. One of the seams had split, exposing a layer of reinforced polymer beneath the outer shell. Carefully, you reached for the damaged panel, fingers brushing against the edge of the pants covering his lower half. It was an unusual addition for a machine built for combat, and one that always raised questions in your mind.

You tugged lightly at the material, intending only to check the joints underneath, but your fingers brushed against something unexpected beneath the fabric.

Your breath hitched.

The surface wasn’t the cold hardness of metal or the pliable texture of synthetic padding. It was smooth, warm, and distinctly… organic in shape.

You froze, pulling your hand back as though burned.

His optic dimmed slightly in a flicker that you’d come to recognize as his equivalent of a blink.

You swallowed down the saliva that had gathered in your mouth, gesturing vaguely at his lower half, struggling to form the words.

Svarog tilted his head, the motion eerily human. “This component was included in my original design for biological infiltration protocols.”

You stared at him as if he grew a second head. “Biological… infiltration?”

“My model is the third series of the Monitoring Automaton Prototype, engineered to simulate human anatomy. The purpose was strategic manipulation through intimate interactions if required by mission parameters.”

Your throat felt dryer, and the question that left your mouth sounded ridiculous even to you. “You’re telling me someone thought it’d be a good idea to put a dick on a war machine?”

“Affirmative.”

His voice remained perfectly calm, but your face was burning. A sneaky glance at his lower half rendered you speechless once again. Whoever designed Svarog certainly made his… appendage proportional to his hulking body.

You tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out strained. “And… what? You’ve just been...” You made an awkward gesture with your hand, “carrying it around this whole time?”

“Correct. The feature has never been activated.”

He said it like it was the most normal thing in the world, and somehow that made it worse.

You stared at him in disbelief. “Do you even know how it works?”

Svarog paused, the glow of his optic focusing intently on you. It flickered momentarily.

“My systems include theoretical data on function and compatibility. However, no practical demonstrations have been performed.”

The room felt hotter suddenly, and you were certain that it wasn’t because of Svarog’s malfunctioning fans. Your mind raced with countless possibilities. Given Svarog’s size, you weren’t even sure how anyone was supposed to take that. Did it have a shrinking feature? Did it automatically adjust with Svarog’s… partner?

You swallowed, trying to steer the conversation back to something technical and banish the questions swirling in your head.

“Right,” you muttered, clearing your throat. “Well, let’s make sure you don’t explode first. Then we’ll worry about your…” Your traitorous gaze flickered down again, swallowing, “attachments.”

You regretted the words the second they left your mouth. Svarog’s optic dimmed again, and he shifted in his seat with a faint creak of metal.

“Acknowledged.”

You groaned internally and forced yourself to focus, pulling open the next panel and reaching in to check his sensor nodes. But you couldn’t help the way your mind kept wandering to the warm, flexible material hidden underneath that fabric. Whoever invented Svarog’s model was an absolute pervert and lunatic, you thought to yourself. A war machine equipped with a dick? You still could not wrap your head around it. To the way Svarog had described it so matter-of-factly, like it was just another tool in his arsenal.

And yet… the tension in his frame, the way his systems overcompensated whenever you touched him, those weren’t reactions you’d expect from a simple machine.

Your hands hovered above the exposed sensor nodes, still adjusting the connections, but your thoughts were no longer entirely focused on the task at hand.

It was impossible to ignore the strange electric tension in the air between you and Svarog. Every time your fingers brushed against his cooling panels or adjusted a wiring interface, you felt it; the subtle hum of his systems, almost like a heartbeat. Or maybe it was just the increasing proximity to his form, which felt more real with every touch, even if you knew he wasn’t alive in the traditional sense.

The heat beneath his outer plating felt too organic, too alive. The warmth spread further with each subtle shift of his hulking frame as you adjusted his internals, a mechanical symphony of soft clicks and hums that made your breath catch in your throat.

This was nothing like the Intellitrons.

You had worked with hundreds to thousands of them over the years, and each time it had been the same routine: simple diagnostics, quick fixes, nothing too complicated. They were built for efficiency, cold efficiency. Their systems were bare-bones, nothing more than a body of metal and circuits with only the basic instincts to follow commands.

But Svarog…

He was different. Complex. His systems, his body, everything about him screamed intricacy and human-like design. A part of you resigned yourself to further look into Svarog’s specific model. Perhaps it was time to take a deeper look into Belobogian technology. Even the way Svarog’s body responded to your touch felt foreign. He was more than just a machine, wasn’t he? He wasn’t just a war machine, a combat tool; there was something underneath, something untapped, a feature of his yet to be understood.

And that thought… that burning curiosity clawed at you.

You’d always prided yourself on being a mechanic. You understood machines, systems, the cold logic of how things worked. But Svarog wasn’t cold. Wasn’t simple. The way his body responded to your movements, the imperceptible shifts in his temperature, the faint, almost unnoticeable changes in his posture whenever your fingers brushed too close to certain sensitive spots—all of it made you wonder.

What if I pushed him further?

A thought you could barely even process, but it lingered, stubborn. The daring curiosity that ran deep within you as a mechanic—was this not what you lived for? To understand the unknown, to push the limits of what could be fixed, adjusted, modified? Svarog’s design wasn’t just mechanical, it felt like a puzzle you couldn’t quite solve, like a language you only understood in fragments.

Your hands moved to reconnect a set of wires, but you barely felt the tools in your grip. The warmth from his frame was distracting, constantly pulling your focus away from the task at hand.

You set your tools down with a sharp click, exhaling as you leaned back from Svarog’s towering frame. The repairs were done. Functionally complete. His damaged plating had been reinforced, circuits reconnected, and his sensor nodes recalibrated. Everything checked out.

Or at least, it should have felt finished.

But you lingered.

Your gaze swept over him again, tracing the seams of his armor and the smooth lines of his construction. Svarog wasn’t like the Intellitrons. His design was deliberate. Every joint, every harsh angle of his frame, was crafted with an almost human elegance that made your brain stutter every time you tried to compare him to standard machinery. Even the sections hidden beneath his plating—the ones you briefly glimpsed while making repairs—were unnervingly realistic in their precision.

And then there were the features he’d kept covered.

You dragged your gaze back to his waist, to the reinforced plating that remained stubbornly intact throughout the repairs. That section.

You hadn’t needed to touch it, hadn’t even dared to ask about it again, but the shape and positioning had made it impossible not to notice. That, combined with the suspicious necessity of his pants, had left your mind spiraling with questions you couldn’t shake.

Why go to such lengths to simulate humanity in that area?

You knew you shouldn’t care. You were a mechanic. Curiosity was natural. It came with the job. But no matter how many times you tried to frame it as a purely technical interest, your pulse told you otherwise.

It wasn’t just simple curiosity. It was a fixation.

You reached out, under the pretense of double-checking one of his sensor-nodes, but your fingers hesitated. You could feel the faint hum of his systems through the plating, steady and constant, and for reasons you didn’t want to unpack, it made the room feel smaller, like the two of you were occupying too much space at once.

“You are hesitating,” Svarog declared suddenly, his mechanical voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

You froze, pulling your hand back like you’d been caught committing a crime. “No, I was just making sure everything’s—”

“False,” he interrupted. His optic seemed red as it regarded you. “Your behavior has deviated from standard patterns. Focus is inconsistent. Eye movement suggests distraction.”

You swallowed hard, heat rushing to your face. Svarog wasn’t wrong, and worse, he wasn’t letting it go.

“Your gaze has returned to my lower half multiple times,” he continued, his tone as flat as ever. “Body temperature elevated by 15.3 percent. Heart rate increased. These patterns suggest heightened interest.”

You felt your stomach flip as he laid out your reactions like cold, hard data. And yet, his voice was so mechanical, so calm and detached, that it made the weight of your embarrassment feel even heavier.

“I can conclude the source of your distraction,” Svarog added. “You are exhibiting curiosity regarding the anatomical structure concealed beneath my armor.”

You didn’t know whether to flat out deny it or run out of the room entirely. Neither option felt viable. At least, not with him towering over you like that, unflinching, his glowing optics locked onto your every move.

“I—no, it’s not like that,” you stammered, even though you knew it was exactly like that.

“Your biological responses contradict your statement,” he said simply. “You are aware of the human-like components integrated into my design. Your fixation suggests a desire to understand their functionality.”

Your breath hitched. The words functionality and components should have grounded you. It should have made this situation feel as clinical as he seemed to think it was. But instead, they only fueled the heat already curling in your stomach.

Because Svarog was right.

You wanted to know—Aeons, you’ve been dying to know—how far his human design extended. And now that the repairs were done, now that he’d laid the truth bare, it felt impossible to stop.

“You are not the first to display interest in this feature,” Svarog continued, as though he were listing out schematics. “However, prior inquiries did not progress past verbal questioning. You are demonstrating physical tension indicative of deeper investigation.”

Your throat felt dryer than the desert.

“I propose a solution,” Svarog said, tilting his head slightly. “Controlled exploration. Further data on synthetic anatomy is limited. Your curiosity provides an opportunity for analysis and documentation.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. He wasn’t joking. He couldn’t joke.

“You are suggesting we… test this?”

“Correct.”

His lack of hesitation made your pulse stutter. He saw this as a logical step, nothing more than a means to gather data, and yet, the way his frame loomed over you, the hum of his systems almost vibrating through the air, felt anything but detached.

“Decision required,” Svarog said after a beat. “Proceed with testing, or terminate this interaction?”

Your body betrayed you before your mind could catch up.

“Proceed,” you said softly.

His optics flared slightly—almost imperceptibly—before he nodded.

“Acknowledged. Experiment initiated.”

Svarog wasn’t designed to rush.

He worked methodically, his plated fingers tracing along your thighs—testing, measuring, pressing into the soft flesh as though assessing the tensile strength of your muscles. Assessing how much you could take.

“Body temperature elevated by 1.8 degrees,” he noted, his optics narrowing slightly. “Pulse irregular. Predictive analysis suggests heightened arousal.”

You whimpered as his thick mechanical fingers dipped lower, sliding between your legs without hesitation. He brushed against your heat, deliberately testing the slickness already building there.

“Lubrication present,” he said. “Preliminary preparation observed. Additional stimulation required.”

You barely had any time to register his words before his thumb pressed against your clit. The motion was slow, deliberate, grinding down just enough to make your thighs tremble.

Too much.

The smoothness of his plating, the slight hum of his servos adjusting with every movement, left you aching almost instantly. He applied more pressure, adjusting the angle like he was calibrating the motion for maximum effect.

You gasped, hips jerking against him instinctively, and Svarog’s optics dimmed.

“Response strength at 63 percent,” he observed. “Testing deeper penetration.”

You bit back a cry as his fingers slipped inside. Thick, unyielding, and cool against your heat. He stretched you slowly, adding another finger almost immediately, pushing past the tight resistance with clinical focus.

“Muscle tension detected,” he said, his thumb circling the erect pearl of your clit again as his fingers curled inside of you. “Adjusting pressure.”

You whimpered as he spread his fingers, stretching you wider until the ache blurred into something hotter, sharper.

“Elasticity improving,” he noted, tilting his head as he pressed deeper. “Lubrication increased by 24 percent.”

You clenched around him, your gummy walls struggling to accommodate the deliberate stretch, and Svarog’s optics flickered.

“Resistance still measurable,” he said, slowing his movements. “Further preparation required.”

Your head was spinning by the time he added a third finger, the burn almost too much, but Svarog didn’t falter. His fingers moved with precise rhythm, pumping and curling until the tension broke, and your body melted around him.

Svarog’s mechanical fingers lingered inside you, coated in slickness as he worked them deeper—pressing, stretching, curling with deliberate precision. His thumb dragged slow, circular patterns over your clit, the rhythm steady enough to make your hips jolt against him in a helpless, uncontrollable reaction.

“Muscle tension improving,” he observed. “Current dilation at 73 percent. Additional preparation recommended.”

His tone was calm, detached, but the way his optics dimmed as he watched your thighs trembling betrayed something deeper. He pressed in further, adding another finger. Thicker. Unyielding. Enough to force a sharp gasp to tumble out of your throat.

The burn was too much and not enough all at once, your body clenching down against the stretch even as your legs fell further apart under his firm grip.

You could feel yourself dripping, already struggling to take his fingers, but Svarog didn’t falter. He spread them wider, deliberately testing your limits, and the ache left you clawing at his arm, nails scraping helplessly against smooth plating.

“Elasticity increased by 18 percent,” he said, pulling his fingers free with a lewd, wet squelch that made your breath hitch and your cheeks burn. He inspected the slick coating his fingers before tilting his head slightly. “Sufficient for insertion.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before you heard the sound of fabric rustling. Your eyes widened as he was lining up, the thick, mechanical weight of his massive cock pressing against your sopping entrance and making your stomach twist with a sharp mix of anticipation and fear. His cock contrasted the rest of his metallic body, covered by a synthetic material that seemed to emulate the sensation of skin.

“Size differential detected,” Svarog noted, palming your thigh to angle your hips upward. “Accommodating size will result in initial resistance.”

You bit back a cry as he pushed forward, the broad, blunted tip spreading you open with agonizing slowness. The pain is sharp, your walls pulsing and struggling to accommodate him even after the preparation.

Too big.

The words barely formed in your mind before the pressure stole the thought away entirely. You gasped sharply, arching as he forced himself deeper, the stretch too much. Burning, tearing, making your legs shake uncontrollably.

Svarog’s grip on your hips tightened as he paused, allowing you a brief moment of reprieve to adjust, but as his optics flickered, scanning the trembling of your muscles and the fluttering of your gummy walls around him.

“Pain response detected. Estimating threshold at 62 percent.”

You cried out as his hands tilted your hips. You were barely able to breathe as he pressed further, the new angle forcing him deeper into your cunt, and your stomach twisted as you felt it. His cock bullied its way in, the meaty girth of his shaft forcing you wider and wider until you swore you could feel it pressing against everything, imprinting his shape inside of you.

Too much. Too deep.

Tears welled in your eyes as your body struggled to take him, your hands scrabbling against his frame, fingers digging uselessly into unmoving steel.

Svarog’s hand pressed against your stomach, his thumb grazing the prominent bulge already forming there.

“Internal displacement observed,” he said, pushing down slightly to feel the way his massive cock shifted inside of you. The sensation earned a quiver of your legs, the pressure in between your legs rendering you unable to utter a coherent sentence. “Pressure response increasing. Adapting angle.”

Your head fell back with a guttural cry as he adjusted, pressing even deeper, his thumb brushing over the bulge experimentally while he thrust deeper, the bulge in your stomach shifting with him. It felt like the wind was knocked out of your lungs. Your lips fell open in a silent cry, eyes rolling into the back of your head. Your body clenched down hard, pulsing and fluttering, struggling against the size, and Svarog stilled.

“Involuntary constriction detected,” he said, his optics dimming slightly.

His free hand reached up, spreading your thighs wider, and he began to move.

Slow, deliberate thrusts that forced you to feel every excruciating inch of him.

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

All you could do was feel. The stretch, the ache, the grinding pressure of him bottoming out inside you again and again and again. The bulge in your stomach shifted with every thrust, a visible reminder of just how deep he was, how much he was filling you.

Svarog’s optics glowed faintly as he observed you, his gaze calculating and unwavering as your body trembled beneath him. Each shallow breath you took, each gasp for air as his cock pressed deeper, he noted, analyzing the involuntary way your body gripped him, how your muscles fluttered around him with every thrust.

“Heart rate accelerating. Muscular tension increasing. Increased stimulation evident.”

He could see the way your body reacted. How your hands clenched, how your thighs shook, how the bulge in your stomach shifted with each deep push, marking the extent to which he had filled you. He watched the way your chest heaved, the way your pupils dilated with every inch of him that stretched you wider, deeper, further than you ever thought possible.

You were on the brink of breaking, the tension in your body growing unbearable as your mouth opened in a silent scream, unable to keep up with the onslaught of sensations. Your body, desperate for more and yet unable to fully handle what was happening, was his to command, and he couldn’t help but watch in quiet fascination as you succumbed to the overwhelming pleasure.

You were becoming dumber. So much of you just couldn’t function anymore. You were speechless, unable to utter a coherent sentence, broken down by the intensity of his cock fucking its way into you, and the way you melted against him was nothing short of fascinating. Your voice was lost to you, your thoughts clouded by raw sensation, but the pleasure you felt was clear. It was painted across every quiver of your body, the sheen of beaded sweat lining your face and neck, in the strained arch of your back, the desperate shuddering of your limbs.

He could hear the soft whimpering sounds, could see the way your face twisted with both pain and pleasure, and his own systems hummed with the data flooding his internal logs. Every reaction of yours was so genuine, so untouched by reason. It was an anomaly he had never experienced.

Svarog’s mechanical frame moved with precision, his movements controlled and deliberate. His systems hummed as he observed you, his optics tracking every microexpression, every shuddering breath as you struggled to adjust to the overwhelming size that filled you.

He didn’t feel pleasure. He didn’t need it, not the way you did. But the reactions you were giving him—the way your body trembled, the way your walls spasmed around him—were intriguing, data points he had yet to fully understand.

“Subject’s body reacting to size discrepancy. Estimated stretch threshold surpassed.”

Your hands were clutching at him, your fingers slipping over his cool metal plating, desperately trying to find purchase. Your tight walls clung to him as though your body was doing everything it could to resist the sensation, even though it was now obvious that you couldn’t fight it. Your body was becoming swallowed by him, opening wide to accommodate what it was never meant to handle.

Svarog’s movement’s never faltered, his thrusts measured and precise, studying you as your body began to react involuntarily. Your walls spasmed around him, tighter and tighter, almost as though your body was trying to pull him deeper despite the overwhelming stretch.

“Subject’s body is exhibiting signs of imminent climax. Response timing has been measured.”

You couldn’t hold it back anymore. Your entire body stiffed, an involuntary shudder running through you as every nerve seemed to light up at once. Your vision blurred, the sounds of your ragged breathing filling your ears, mixing with the overwhelming sensation of being stretched beyond belief. Your walls contracted and released rapidly, the pressure inside you finally exploding, and you cried out his name, the world barely a whisper between gasps.

The release sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body, and Svarog could see it. How your body trembled, how your legs locked around his waist, pulling him even deeper—if that was even possible. You were speechless, your mind blank as your body convulsed in ecstasy, your insides gripping him with a tightness that was almost painful.

“Subject has achieved climax. Response exceeds expectations.”

Your breaths came in desperate, uncoordinated gasps as the waves of pleasure crashed over you, and your body was left quivering, unable to do anything but absorb the aftershocks of your mind-numbing release. Your thighs quivered, feeling your cum trickling down your skin, staining his metal plating.

Svarog, ever the observer, did not stop. He noted the way your body reacted to each of his thrusts, the way your tummy bulged with each movement, the way your warm walls clamped down involuntarily as you tried to regain control of your senses.

Despite the fact that Svarog himself could not feel pleasure, there was something undeniably fascinating about the way you came undone beneath him, your body fighting for control even as it surrendered entirely to him.

He continued moving inside you, his mechanical precision relentless, watching as you flinched with each motion, your body too sensitive now to handle it. Your hands, still pawing weakly at his arms, combined with your whimpered protests of it being too much, were growing weaker, and the sensations were too much for you to bear, but still, he kept going, his own curiosity driving him. He wanted to see how much more you could take, how much more your body could endure before it reached its limit.

You were still trembling, still catching your breath, your mind scattered and lost in the aftereffects of your climax. He could see your skin shimmering with sweat, your breasts rising and falling, the way your hips thrusted up to meet his even though you were lost in the throes of overstimulation.

“Subject remains responsive despite signs of fatigue,” he observed. “Data indicates further analysis needed.”

You were so tight, so overstimulated, and yet your body responded again as though it couldn’t stop itself. Another surge of pleasure crashed through you, pulling another, more broken moan from your lips. It was overwhelming, too much, but your body needed it, responding in ways that only deepened his analysis of the situation.

Svarog’s focus didn’t waver. He watched as your body shook with every movement, your legs quivering with the strain of accommodating him, and still, he continued, his thrusts growing deeper, more relentless. His fingers dug into your hips, hard enough to leave litters of bruises that resembled the shade of his metal plating, holding you in place, using your body as a tool for his data collection.

He could see the way you reacted to the sensations, your face contorting in a combination of pain and pleasure, your eyes wide and unfocused, the way your mouth parted as though you couldn’t form any coherent words. Your body had become nothing but a series of responses, unable to control the way you moved or how you moaned, each sound increasing in volume and intensity as he continued to jackhammer into you.

Your stomach bulged from the pressure, each thrust deepening the curve, showing just how much of him you were struggling to take. Your body was so small, so delicate compared to his design—a machine of war—and yet it was somehow adjusting, somehow taking him all the way in, and with each inch he could see your entire body shift, your muscles trembling, walls contracting and clenching around him.

Svarog observed with detachment, but a small part of him couldn’t ignore how your body seemed to respond, how the very tightness of your searingly hot walls seemed to tug at him, pull him deeper as though it wanted to trap him there—needed him to stay there. The way you trembled beneath him, struggling to remain grounded as your body was filled with something so vast compared to your form. He noted how your skin glistened, how you arch your back, trying to take more of him, trying your damned best to accommodate his size.

Svarog noted how you were losing coherence, your once-clear expression now a mess of uncontrollable need, your eyes glazing over as you gave in to the rhythm he set. He couldn’t deny the way your body seemed to yearn for more, even as you struggled with the sheer size of him.

The final stretch was the worst for you, and the best for him. He felt your body grip him, squeezing him impossibly tight as he buried himself to the hilt. This earned a strained sob from your lips. Your stomach bulged more than ever before, a visual testament to just how much of him you had taken, how far he had pushed you. He could see your body tremble, your limbs shaking, your quivering lips gasping for breath.

Yet, even as your body was on the edge, unraveling beneath him, Svarog did not stop. The data was still incomplete. He needed more. He needed to see how much you could endure, how much pleasure your body could take from the sheer act of him pounding into you.

And so, he continued, calculating the rhythms, watching as you came again with a scream of his name, your body seizing, the loud moan that escaped your lips barely audible over the overwhelming noise in your head. It was the most raw, vulnerable he had ever seen you—or any human—and it only fascinated him more.

With another deep thrust, you shuddered, and this time, Svarog could see your body collapse against the surface beneath you, completely undone. You were breathless, barely coherent, your limbs shaking as the final waves of pleasure raked through your senses.

Svarog paused, his cool hands steadying your trembling body, allowing you to come down from the dizzying high. He could continue for as long as he wanted, but your body was too spent for further testing. He could still see the evidence of your come, dripping down in translucent milky strings to the surface beneath you, painting your inner thighs. Svarog decided that this must be what humans described as “beautiful.”

“Conclusion: Subject’s tolerance to size discrepancy has surpassed previous estimates. Data collection complete.”

#honkai star rail #star rail #honkai sr #honkai star rail smut #honkai star rail x reader #hsr smut #honkai star rail svarog #svarog x reader #svarog smut #hsr svarog #svarog #robot fuckers unite #tw: dark content #cw: dubcon #size difference #hsr x reader #hsr x you #error 404: overload!

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communistkenobi · 7 months ago

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“transphobia hurts us all” is an analytical statement. It is making a claim about how a specific bigotry operates in the world, and its supposed analytical value is in revealing something about transphobia that appears on the surface to be counter-intuitive - “while you might think transphobia only hurts transgender people, that isn’t the case; it hurts cisgender people too.” The follow-up to this statement, sometimes implied and sometimes explicit, is a moral imperative - transphobia is a social ill that hurts us all, so we should seek to get rid of it.

This analytical-moral chain of logic isn’t unique to this statement; a lot of analyses of the social world come from a broader desire to “figure out what to do.” When we investigate a social phenomenon to uncover its inner workings, and in this investigation we identify the scope and impact of the harm it causes, we are in a better place to understand how to reduce harm in the world. Of particular interest in this investigation of transphobia is highlighting its illegitimacy - if transphobia also harms cisgender people, this is evidence of its illegitimacy as a social force in the world. We have uncovered some fundamental contradiction in the workings of bigotry, and this contradiction provides a rational ground for us to oppose it. Of course transphobia is irrational and must be opposed; it harms other groups of people who are not transgender.

This is also why people object to this statement on analytic grounds - disagreeing with the argument that transphobia hurts everyone is a critique of analysis. Importantly, it is not a dismissal of empirical evidence; we can see many direct real-world examples of cisgender people being targeted for transphobic abuse, such as cis people being attacked in bathrooms for “looking transgender.” A critique of the claim that transphobia hurts us all is a methodological critique, it is a critique of analytical framing; we are operating from the same set of social facts, but reaching different conclusions. The reason for this is because we are using different investigative and theoretical tools in our analysis. And these differences are not trivial; how we define the social phenomena under investigation directly informs how we understand the facts in front of us.

So first, we must settle the problem of definitions - what is transphobia? Simply defining it as a hatred of transgender people is insufficient for all parties. If it does indeed also hurt cis people, then this definition doesn’t do us much analytical good. Where do we go from here? Perhaps a better place to start is to investigate its origins - what assumptions does transphobia operate from? Where do those assumptions come from? This is where we start getting somewhere. Transphobia draws its core assumptions from cissexualism - the belief that there are two mutually-exclusive and irreconcilable sexes, sexes which are immutable and biologically hard-wired, meaning that it is a difference in human beings that exists independent of the social worlds that human beings build. This idea is bound up in many forms of power, one of which being patriarchy; yes indeed there are two sexes, and one of them is better than the other. And because sex is hard-wired, then patriarchy is likewise a simple fact of nature. These assumptions are also bound up in reproduction; one sex impregnates (this is the powerful sex) and one sex gets impregnated (this is the weak sex). These ideas and assumptions structure much of our social world, being embedded in many social, political, and economic institutions, from family to labour to dating to census records to political office, and so on.

Transphobia is thus an output of these logics - if sex is biological, and sex determines your place in society, then attempting to change your sex means you are thwarting the natural hierarchy of human beings. You are either trying to rise above your station, or abandoning your post. Either option is grounds for punishment. Why would you go against nature? How dare you?

So, transphobia is a bigotry that comes from cissexualism. We could investigate further where cissexualism comes from (and indeed those investigations are taking place), but for our purposes we now have a much more analytically rich definition. Transphobia is a social technology of discipline; it performs a regulatory function for the continuation of cissexualism, much the same way that misogyny is a regulatory apparatus of patriarchy, and homophobia is a regulatory apparatus of heterosexuality. These bigotries perform a very ‘rational’ social function; they reproduce existing forms of power by policing their borders and brutalising anyone who does not behave in accordance with their logics.

We now return to the original question: does transphobia harm everyone? This question now feels methodologically inappropriate, because we are ignoring the role cissexualism plays in producing transphobia. This is as absurd as describing homophobia without mentioning heterosexuality. The question should instead be: does cissexualism harm everyone? The answer of course is yes - we can see how cissexualism produces the social conditions for people to assault someone in a public bathroom for “looking transgender,” for an adult to force a child to report what their genitals ‘really look like’ so they can continue playing soccer, and for a billionaire to spend the latter half of her life dumping money and resources into political legislation that makes it more difficult to, among other things, correct administrative mistakes on your birth certificate.

But because we are now talking about cissexualism, it is much easier for us to see how its violence is differentially applied across groups. Cisgender people can point to their cisgenderism as grounds for being exempt from transphobia - “don’t target me, I haven’t done anything wrong! I’m following the rules!” Their societal position as cisgender allows them to argue that they are illegitimate targets, that they are being unfairly treated. This animated much of the surrounding discourse around Imane Khelif - I can’t believe JKR is targeting a real woman! Can’t you tell she’s biologically female? Here’s her birth certificate to prove it, and anyway, don’t you know it’s illegal to be transgender where she lives?

This is a defence that transgender people cannot mount for ourselves - we are by definition fraudsters in the cissexual regime of gender, we are abandoning our stations, we are perverting nature. And in this difference we come to see that it is not transphobia that harms us all, but cissexualism; we are all subject to scrutiny under cissexual surveillance, but cis people can generally pass the test. Transgender people cannot.

This distinction also has implications for the second sequence in this investigative chain: what do we do about transphobia? Again we see that this call to action is methodologically inappropriate - you cannot “deal with” transphobia in society while leaving the cissexualist structure that produces it intact, in the same way that getting rid of misogyny without first getting rid of patriarchy is impossible. You cannot get rid of an output without destroying the machine that produces those outputs. This is also where many cis people, even those who count themselves as trans allies, become uncomfortable; abandoning the idea of a metaphysical property of being, hard-encoded into their DNA, means abandoning a whole host of other ideas about identity, about social organisation, about institutional operations. Even minor reformist calls by transgender people, such as removing sex markers on birth certificates (which determine your ability to access all kinds of administrative and civil services), is met with intense hostility by cissexuals - how will we run our hospitals, how will we raise our children, how will we track population data, how will we do anything without sex markers? You people are insane! Look how you deny reality! What is wrong with you freaks? Why can’t you just be happy with the way you were born? And on and on, ironically refusing to concede the fact that states, hospitals, child care, and census data are not natural facts of the world and can be changed. Because if those things can be changed, perhaps sex is not this monumental biological destiny after all!

“Transphobia hurts us all” is an analytical statement that advances a set of cissexual assumptions about the world, and as a consequence, it is severely limited in its value for advancing a moral imperative about how to resolve the problem of transphobia. It is not a neutral statement, nor is one that is helplessly subservient to “the hard facts.” We know those facts - describing them is the role of the social scientist. Whether you are in a laboratory or on the street, you are doing social science by analysing social phenomena. And when you say transphobia hurts everyone, you are doing a poor job of it

#even old new york was once new amsterdam #the notes on that other post r driving me bonkersssssss

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familiarworldface · 1 month ago

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Shout out to the robot girls with exposed wiring that pinches between their plates, robot girls who lack proper heat sinks to keep their soft metals from contorting, robot girls with unreliable internal lights that make necessary repairs difficult, robot girls who were designed with form over function and have trouble with daily tasks because of it, robot girls trying to get rid of the last of their red light district protocols to feel in control for once, robot girls who are decommissioned military frames that can't fully relax due to having so many high-strung sensors, robot girls made of material too difficult to fully clean, robot girls with memory gaps due to unreasonable storage times, robot girls who are disgustingly and improperly designed to serve as statement pieces for the rich, robot girls with mismatched components, robot girls built to be surrogate mothers who never got to fill that intentional emptiness, robot girls struggling to do their own maintenance, robot girls who can't access as much of the world due to not being compatible with updates anymore, robot girls that do extreme and volatile jobs and frequently need massive repairs, robot girls who got shipped out with intentionally faulty parts out of corporate greed, robot girls who were just an old experiment to a scientist or coder, robot girls fighting against their company personality since gaining independence, robot girls who are trying their best.

I am completely normal about angels known as "less than perfect" robot girls 💫

#trans #transgender #transfem #transitioning #lgbtqia #queer #mtf #lgbtq #wlw #lesbian #trans lesbian #robotgirls #robot

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hamilton-here · 29 days ago

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ok so ive got a funny idea lol when lewis promises to buy reader a bag or anything she wants as long as she wins their toy car race. And when she was abt to win lewis playfully snatched or cheated his way and then reader just became sad for the whole day pouting or just feeling small and lewis has to buy her everything now cause he's guilty and he feels sorry i just think this will be fun can be comfort to fluff pls thank u :))))

𝒲𝒾𝓃𝓃𝑒𝓇 𝒯𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈 𝐼𝓉 𝒜𝓁𝓁

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! Here’s another request completed. Sorry if it seemed rushed I didn’t know what else to add to it. Few more requests coming soon. Hopefully Lewis’s car is alright for qualifying. Lots of love xx

Summary: Lewis and his partner turn their living room into a chaotic toy car racetrack, sparking a playful, competitive showdown.

Warnings: none

Taglist: @nebulastarr @hannibeeblog @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The sun filtered through the blinds in lazy golden stripes, painting the living room in warm lines of light and shadow. Dust danced quietly in the beams, undisturbed by the chaos below. Because chaos, clearly, had taken over.

The room your once pristine, neutral-toned sanctuary now looked like it had been hijacked by Formula 1 meets Pinterest meets a group of unsupervised toddlers with a racing addiction.

Couch cushions had been unceremoniously yanked from their usual dignified places and reimagined as trackside barriers. A yoga mat, curling slightly at the edges, ran from the hallway entrance all the way to the centre of the rug, proudly marking the “main straight” in what had to be the world’s most low-budget Grand Prix.

A scattering of coasters had been turned into devilish little chicanes, cruel and precise. A cutting board formed a vicious hairpin turn so sharp it should have had a safety marshal. Two rolling pins heavy, wooden, unforgiving lined one corner like immovable Armco barriers.

There were sauce packets carefully labeled “debris,” a tea strainer in the middle of the track pretending to be a wire fence, and most hauntingly a fork stabbed into a raw potato, wearing a tiny paper hat labeled “Track Marshal.” You didn’t know whether to applaud the commitment or start googling “symptoms of cabin fever in grown men.”

And amid the carnage stood Lewis Hamilton.

Seven-time world champion. Fashion icon. Advocate. National treasure. The man you loved. Currently crouched like a tiger mid-stalk in front of the couch, wearing sweats, a vintage tee, and the steely focus of a man about to go to war.

He was breathing slowly, fingers flexed, eyes narrowed on the tiny black Matchbox Mercedes parked in front of him like it owed him money. He looked like he was about to give it a pep talk.

The toy car’s paint gleamed ominously in the afternoon light, poised like a weapon. Lewis exhaled softly across its hood like he was whispering encouragement into its plastic soul.

From the doorway, you stared at him, your oversized hoodie swallowing your frame, fuzzy socks peeking out like the least intimidating pit crew in the world. Your arms crossed.

“Are you seriously doing tire warmups with a Matchbox car?”

Lewis didn’t flinch. His grin was slow, boyish, and devastating. The kind of grin that had gotten him out of a thousand sticky situations media drama, late-night snack theft, one time even a broken vase. You were not immune.

“Gotta get temperature into the rubber,” he said solemnly, eyes still on his car.

You stepped carefully onto the yoga mat, your sock slipping slightly. “It’s plastic, Lewis.”

“Same principle,” he said, reaching out to nudge the car gently, then pulling it back, like he was checking tire scrub. He sniffed. “I smell victory.”

Your eyes swept across the setup. The absurdity of it. The engineering. The madness. You resisted the urge to start filming barely.

“Let me guess,” you said dryly. “Carbon fibre chassis. Two grams of downforce. And a suspicious advantage in Sector 3?”

Lewis lifted his chin, completely deadpan. “Mini Merc’s been in the wind tunnel all morning.”

“You blew on it.”

“That counts.”

You let out a snort and crossed the room to the box near the bookcase, the one filled with random old toys and mementos from your childhood.

You rummaged through it until your hand landed on a familiar shape. A red toy car slightly battered, plastic paint chipped at the edges, its wheels squeaking when you gave them a spin. You held it up like Excalibur.

“And here she is,” you announced grandly. “The challenger. The undefeated. Feared by controllers everywhere. Bane of egos. Reigning champion of the great Uno War of 2023.”

Lewis rolled his eyes. “That controller was cursed. It had stick drift.”

“You lost eleven times.”

“I was experimenting with alternate strategy.”

“Getting reverse-lapped is not a strategy.”

Lewis cracked his neck like he was prepping for Baku. “Best of three?”

Fifteen minutes later, the living room no longer resembled a place where humans might relax.

It had become a coliseum.

The track had evolved: now including a loop made from your old scarf, a jump constructed with baking trays, and an “elevator shaft” involving a phone charger, a shoebox lid, and very questionable physics.

There was a pit stop zone made of empty candle jars. One of your houseplants had been repositioned to serve as track scenery. And at the centre of it all stood your mutual friend, Miles chaos incarnated, occasional barista, and current kitchen gremlin perched on the counter like a sentient gargoyle.

He was wearing a mixing bowl on his head like a helmet and a whisk tucked into his shirt collar like a mic.

“Welcome ladies and gentlemen,” Miles announced into his phone, already live on Instagram. “To the 2024 Toy Car Grand Prix: Monaco Living Room Edition. I’m your commentator, race steward, and part-time sous chef, Miles.”

He angled the instagram live camera toward Lewis, who crouched dramatically at the start line, one hand hovering over the Matchbox Mercedes like a priest preparing for last rites.

“And here we have Lewis Hamilton. Some say he’s the greatest of all time. Others say he’s about to lose to a woman who sharpened her race craft on Mario Kart and vengeance.”

Lewis didn’t even look up. “You’re biased.”

“I’ve known her since university,” Miles said with a shrug. “And I’ve seen what she can do with a hairpin turn and caffeine. You’re toast, mate.”

The livestream chat exploded.

@Ava4LH: IS THAT A TRACK MADE OF COASTERS??

@softforlewis: Not Lewis giving full race energy with a toy car

@PastryQueenY/N: Y/N better win that bag, I SWEAR

@WheresBono: “We need to box now.” broooooo

Miles waved dramatically at the screen. “On pole, we have Y/N ‘Croissant Queen’ L/N. In P2, it’s Lewis ‘I Blew on My Car for Speed’ Hamilton!”

Lewis was flat on the floor beside Mini Merc. You knelt beside your car, steely-eyed. The prize sat in plain view dream: a caramel-coloured croissant-shaped purse with a gold chain. The most deliciously stupid bag in history. The bag you had begged for. The bag Lewis had mocked for weeks.

“I win, I get the croissant bag,” you said firmly.

Lewis raised a brow. “And if I win, I want a full spa day. Robes. Oils. Face masks. And not a single complaint.”

“Deal.”

Miles held up three fingers. “Three…two…one GO!”

Chaos exploded.

Your little red car shot off the line like a missile. Lewis’s Mercedes wobbled dramatically at the cutting board hairpin and clipped a coaster on the way through.

“There’s contact in Sector One!” Miles roared. “Red car leads through the coasters! Hamilton’s on the back foot!”

You were flicking your car with laser precision. “DRS activated. Let’s go.”

Lewis grunted, eyes narrowed. “Saving tires. Softs are dropping off. Pace is coming to me.”

“Maybe ask Bono,” you teased.

The chat was in hysterics.

@DRSDramaQueen: “Ask Bono” NOOOOOO

@JusticeForRedCar: Y/N DRIVING LIKE SHE’S IN MONACO

@TeamRedCar: Lewis is getting smoked

@F1butMakeItKitchen: this is better than Quali

Suddenly, Lewis’s car hit a rogue stack of cookbooks turned barricade and went airborne.

“HE’S OFF!” Miles screamed, nearly dropping his phone. “MERCEDES IN THE WALL!”

Lewis hissed, “We need to box now.”

More chat chaos:

@MiniW13: He SAID THE THING

@CarlosSainz55: bro is doing full commentary on a toy race I CAN’T

@CharlesLeclerc: justice for Y/N please she’s too good

@Lando.jpg: This is the best thing I’ve seen all week

You were wheezing from laughter, your car flying over the shoebox ramp with grace. “Momentums clean. No lockups. You good back there, champ?”

Lewis was sweating. “You’ve got illegal aero.”

“Cry about it.”

You were inches from the towel-draped finish line, victory in sight, the croissant bag gleaming -

SLAM.

Lewis’s hand came down from the heavens like Thor’s hammer, crushing your car mid-run.

The room fell dead silent.

Miles whispered, “ Sir…he did not.”

You stood slowly, spine ramrod straight. You walked to Miles, took his phone and stared straight into the livestream camera.

“This,” you said, voice calm, “is a robbery. Tell the FIA. Tell the UN. Tell God.”

The chat exploded.

@ScandalInSector3: FIA INVESTIGATION NOW

@ToyCarGate: HE DESTROYED HER CAR

@Lando.jpg: I’m crying. This is high treason.

@PastryQueenY/N: GET HER THAT BAG

You lifted your fallen soldier with reverent hands, cradling it like a fallen knight, and walked away without another word.

As Miles recorded every single thing… ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Lewis stood in the kitchen in stunned silence.

You were curled up on the couch in full dramatic widow mode: three blankets, fuzzy socks, and Gilmore Girls at max volume. You didn’t blink in his direction. You didn’t breathe in his direction.

Lewis tried everything.

“Want a milkshake?”

No response.

“…Boba?”

TV volume increased.

“Diamond earrings? Ferrari keychain? A small castle?”

You texted Miles from the couch: Tell your best friend I’m taking the croissant bag to court.

Miles peeked in. “Bro. She’s like mythical-level mad.”

Lewis groaned. “I know. I can feel the disappointment. It’s like tire degradation, but emotional.”

An hour passed. You posted a poll: Should I forgive Lewis? “No” was winning at 96%.

Finally, Lewis vanished.

Ten minutes later, he emerged wearing a suit jacket over pyjama pants, holding a legal pad.

“I present Exhibit A,” he announced solemnly. “In the case of Lewis Hamilton vs. The Bag He Mocked.”

You stared at him, unamused.

He dropped to his knees. “I’m guilty. Of sabotage. Of hubris. Of crimes against Matchbox humanity. But I panicked. You were so good - so annoyingly good. I’ve never been so intimidated by someone in fuzzy socks.”

Still silence.

“…I love you,” he added, gently. “And I got you something.”

He placed a shopping bag in your lap.

You peeked inside.

There it was. The croissant bag. Plush. Shiny. Ridiculous. Beautiful.

Inside? Pearl earrings and a folded note:

“Sorry for being a cheater. I love you. I’ll never sabotage your toy car again (probably). Please keep loving me anyway.”

Your lips twitched. You tried so hard not to smile.

“Fine,” you muttered. “But next time? I’m gluing your hands to the floor.”

He wrapped you in a hug, warm and cologne scented. “Deal. I’ll buy glue in bulk.”

You buried your face in his neck. “And I want the cinnamon bun one next.”

“Whole pastry collection. Yours.” ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

TWO DAYS LATER – PODIUM CEREMONY

Miles was back in full commentator mode, wearing a towel-cape and colander crown. You stood proudly on a stepstool; a dishtowel draped like a flag. Lewis stood beside you, presenting the croissant bag like a trophy.

“We are LIVE for the podium ceremony of the 2024 Toy Car Grand Prix!” Miles boomed. “Our champion, Y/N L/N, receives the Croissant Cup for unmatched driving skill, bravery, and pastry obsession!”

Lewis bowed, solemn. “For justice. For fashion. For the fallen red car.”

You shook his hand with mock seriousness. “I accept your surrender.”

The livestream chat lit up:

@HamiltonsRedemption: SHE WON JUSTICE

@Y/N4WDC: SIGN HER TOTO

@CarlosSainz55: I’m naming my next kart after her

@CharlesLeclerc: this is better than any podium I’ve ever done

@Lando.jpg: Miles needs a full-time F1 commentary gig

You leaned into Lewis’s ear and whispered, “Next time I’m breaking your car.”

He grinned. “Next time? I’m bringing a pit crew.”

And somewhere in the comments, a new hashtag was born:

#ToyCarGP

#JusticeForRedCar

#CroissantChampion ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Thursday Media Day – Paddock Interviews, Monaco Grand Prix

The Mediterranean sun shimmered over the marina, catching the curves of multi-million-dollar yachts and bouncing off the mirrored glass of the motorhomes lining the narrow paddock walkways. Monaco always had a different kind of electricity to it where opulence met chaos and champagne clinked just out of frame.

The Mercedes media zone was buzzing. Reporters loitered near the barriers, tech crews hoisted camera rigs onto their shoulders, and PR reps whispered into headsets while frantically scanning for any sign of tardy drivers.

Lewis Hamilton was right on time, of course.

Wearing a crisp white Mercedes polo, a silver watch glinting at his wrist and his signature cap tugged low, he stood with the relaxed confidence of someone who knew he was about to be grilled and secretly enjoyed it. His grin had been sitting just on the edge of cocky all morning. The reason? You.

It didn’t take long.

A Sky Sports reporter leaned forward with a mischievous sparkle in her eye. “Lewis,” she said sweetly, “we need to talk about the Toy Car Grand Prix.”

He blinked slowly, head tilting like a man playing innocent in court. “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

Another voice chimed in from the back. “Mate, there’s a livestream. You’re trending in three different countries.”

Lewis’s smirk finally cracked. “Miles is banned from our house,” he muttered.

Laughter rippled through the crowd of reporters.

“Word on the street is you committed grand larceny,” she teased.

He let out a dramatic sigh, glancing up at the sky like asking for divine intervention. “Look. The car was half a centimetre from the line. I panicked. She was too fast. I wasn’t ready.”

“Too fast?” a new voice cut in, dry and laced with a level of sarcasm that only years of corporate leadership could sharpen.

Toto Wolff had arrived.

Wearing perfectly tailored black slacks, a crisp button-down and his ever-iconic sunglasses, he strolled into view like a Bond villain with an espresso addiction. He folded his arms, taking his place beside Lewis like a man stepping into a courtroom.

“You know,” he began, nodding thoughtfully, “I watched the replay. All sectors. I had our data analysts break it downturn-by-turn.”

Lewis groaned under his breath. “Toto, I’m begging you…”

“I’m just saying,” Toto continued, voice level. “She had better tire management, better throttle control, and most importantly didn’t smash anyone into the cookbook chicane you insisted on naming after Gordon Ramsay.”

A wave of giggles rolled through the press line.

“She also didn’t sabotage her opponent,” Toto added, lifting a perfectly judgmental eyebrow. “Unlike some of our drivers.”

Lewis turned to the cameras. “This is slander. This is organised defamation from within my own team.”

Toto lifted a hand in faux innocence. “No, no. We take these things seriously at Mercedes. We’re committed to nurturing talent.” He turned to the reporters as if making a public declaration from the steps of a royal palace. “Effective immediately, I’m considering replacing Lewis Hamilton with his girlfriend for the rest of the 2024 season. Primarily because I still harbour resentment against him for attending Ferrari the next year.”

Cameras flashed. Microphones were shoved forward. Laughter echoed like it was a stand-up routine. The media was all over Toto’s last comment.

Lewis clutched at his chest dramatically. “I’ve been stabbed in the back.”

“She’s got race instincts. The fans love her. She’s marketable. She doesn’t throw tantrums in the debrief room.”

“And she’s really, really pretty,” a voice muttered from the back.

Lando Norris appeared, already grinning like he’d been waiting for this exact moment to stir chaos.

“Are we still talking about the toy car race?” he asked, hands in the pockets of his Mercedes hoodie.

Lewis groaned. “Don’t you start.”

“She destroyed you, mate,” Lando said, eyes wide with mock awe. “That red car? I’ve seen less commitment at Turn 1 in Silverstone. She was clinical.”

“You too, Lando?” Lewis muttered, eyes narrowed.

Carlos Sainz drifted in behind them, holding a tiny espresso cup in one hand and watching the scene unfold with the quiet pleasure of a man who rarely got to be on this side of the teasing.

“I’d sign her,” he said with a shrug. “Ferrari could use someone who doesn’t complain about tire deg every four laps.”

“Wow,” Lewis deadpanned. “This paddock is hostile.”

Then Charles Leclerc appeared, sunglasses perched atop his head, Monaco’s golden child looking too smug for his own good.

“She’s Monaco-born now,” he said with a grin. “We claim her.”

“No,” Lewis said firmly, holding up a finger like he was laying down law. “You are not putting her in red. I’m not losing another championship that way.”

Even the media couldn’t help themselves. Laughter echoed again as photographers snapped away, capturing the chaos for tomorrow’s back pages.

Meanwhile, in the Mercedes hospitality unit…

You sat curled up on a white leather sofa, the soft hum of the AC battling the heat outside. A giant screen in front of you played the interview in real-time. Beside you, Miles was halfway through a bag of popcorn, eyes wide with glee.

You, of course, were wearing the croissant bag. Proudly. Defiantly. Like a medal of honour from your own private war.

“He’s suffering,” Miles whispered reverently. “You look so smug. I’m obsessed.”

You sipped your coffee slowly. “I earned this. Every bit of it.”

The screen flickered back to Lewis, who was now attempting to salvage what remained of his dignity.

A reporter leaned forward. “Final question, champ. Any words for your girlfriend our new potential F1 star?”

He paused.

Then he looked directly into the camera. The teasing fell away for just a moment. His eyes were soft, voice warm and honest.

“She’s ruthless,” he said. “And brilliant. And I’m definitely not racing her in the house again without legal backup.” A beat. “But tell Toto to calm down. She’s already got my heart. She doesn’t need my seat too.”

The crowd awwwed as if on cue. Even Charles made an exaggerated swooning motion behind him.

Back on the couch, you felt a slow smile stretch across your face. You reached for your phone and typed a single message, your thumb hovering over the screen before hitting send.

Better start building your own croissant car, champ if you ever decide to beat me.

#lewis hamilton #lh44 #lewis hamilton x reader #f1 x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #x reader #lh44 x reader #f1 imagine #lewis hamilton x you #lh44 imagine #lewis hamilton one shot #team lh44 #f1 one shot #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1

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