#hinds coffee | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dirtyvulture · 29 days

Text

Envy and Venom - Part 2

Heiress!Natasha Romanoff x CEO!Beefy!Fem!Reader

18+ only, read at your own risk

Summary: You are the notorious playboy who just inherited one of the biggest tech companies in the world. Your first move? Sleeping with the heiress of your rival company.

Word count: 4911

AN: Didn't think I'd write this, but the opportunity was too good to let pass. :)

Click here for Part 1!

DAY 2

“I can’t believe you,” Tony says, watching as you anxiously like a caged animal. “I mean, I can, because Romanoff is smoking hot, but really? On your first day?”

“I didn’t know who she was!” you snap, your stomach churning in knots. You hadn’t been able to eat breakfast, even ignoring the hot black coffee your secretary Wanda had waiting for you like usual when you arrived to the office.

“Literally the daughter of the guy of our biggest rival,” Tony says, clearly only trying to make you feel worse than you already feel.

“I know who he is!” you bark, well familiar with Alexei Shostakov, the enormous, bearded and beer-bellied Russian who had once been on the board of directors at Envy Industries. Alexei was long gone from your dad’s company by the time you entered the scene, and at that point had formed Black Widow Corporation into a juggernaut. Word on the street was that Alexei used “unconventional methods” to stay ahead of competitors and now you wondered if you had fallen right into one of those traps.

“Why was Romanoff even at the party in the first place?” you ask.

“Why do you think?” Tony scoffs. “Daddy probably sent her to mess with you and no offense…but it worked.”

“We don’t know that,” you defend, although your gut is telling you that Tony is right.

“So, what did you tell her?” Tony asks, kicking his chair back to wobble on its hind legs.

“Nothing!” You sigh, your brain scrambling to remember your interaction with Natasha before you took her up to your suite. “Uh, I mean…I mentioned the contract we have with Tesla. But a bunch of other people probably overhead too, and that’s not exactly a secret anymore.”

“Mhmm, sure. Anything else?” Tony prompts.

“No. No, nothing else,” you say with an edge of uncertainty. “There wasn’t really much time for talking, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know you, you horndog.” He waves at you.

For once, you feel immensely guilty about not being able to control your behavior. This wouldn’t be the first time you had to face the consequences of the people you chose to take to bed with you, but none had been this jarring or dangerous. You feel used, even though you truly hadn’t revealed any company secrets to Natasha. Just the thought that she knew who you were, and wasn’t honest with you about herself, made your whole interaction with her feel slimy and fake. While you also knew it was ridiculous to think that you were in love with someone you just met, even you won’t deny there had been some kind of spark between you two, but perhaps it had all been manufactured.

You genuinely want to see Natasha again, hopefully in more honest circumstances, and not just purely for the physical pleasure of it. You knew she was one of the few women on Earth who truly understood your line of work. She didn’t need to pretend (or even study ahead) like some of the partners you had in the past. She was beautiful and smart and managed to turn you into a stuttering, whipped mess in less than ten minutes. No one else had ever been able to do that, and as humbling as it was, it was also hot as hell.

“What am I supposed to do now?” you ask, pulling at the suffocating collar of your shirt.

“First of all, don’t see her ever again,” Tony responds, and it sounds like he’s telling you you’re not allowed to breathe anymore.

“Fuck,” you grumble, because you know he’s right, but it won’t be that easy to just forget about Natasha.

“Seriously, Y/N,” Tony goes on. “You have a whole company to run now. Let the media say what they want, but promise me that you won’t be caught with that woman ever again.”

“Caught, you say?” you tease, knowing that he would always offer you a way out.

“I know you,” he repeats. “Besides, I heard she has a sister.”

You laugh, the tense mood lightening considerably. “Yeah, sure, I’ll put in a good word for you when I see her again.”

“You’re the best.” Tony stands up to give you a high-five.

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

Natasha hums to herself as she opens her laptop. She plugs in her headphones and boots up the application that is connected to the microphone she slipped into your jacket pocket. Over 12 hours of audio have already been recorded. Just out of curiosity, she scrolls to the first hour.

“Look how wet you are. You’ve been waiting for this all night, sweetheart?”

“Shut up and let me fuck you.”

Natasha feels her core light up with desire as she remembers the previous night with you. It had been a long time since she had been fucked so well and you certainly lived up to the hype. When she closes her eyes, she can still remember how your body had felt against hers, the way your muscles flexed in warning when you were about to finish but were waiting for her permission, the intoxicating taste that coated her tongue and had her (quite literally) demanding more and more from you.

“Hey, sestra.” Yelena walks in without knocking, and Natasha’s eyes snap open, tearing off her headphones and closing the audio application.

“What?” she growls, annoyed by the interruption.

Yelena smirks at her. “How was the party last night?”

“Good.”

Yelena doesn’t look convinced. “Did you see that TMZ article?”

“Anyone who relies on that hack as a legitimate source of information is just setting themselves up for disappointment.”

“A picture is worth a thousand words,” Yelena states, walking up to Natasha and showing her her phone.

New CEO of Envy Industries Y/N spotted getting cozy with Black Widow Corp. heiress Natasha Romanoff

Below the headline is a grainy photo of her almost sitting on your lap, both of your heads leaned close together.

“What’s your point?” Natasha asks, pushing Yelena’s phone away from her face.

“Did Dad approve of this?”

“What does his approval have to do with anything?” Natasha snaps. “I’m a grown woman, I can do whatever I want with whoever I want–”

“We’re not stupid, Natasha,” Yelena frowns. “And you aren’t either. You aren’t getting mixed up with just anyone, this is the CEO of Envy Industries–”

Natasha waves her hand. “Just stop, Yelena. I know what I’m doing, okay? And I’m the one who’s going to take over the company when Dad steps down, so I need to make sure that we are on top and stay that way.”

Yelena’s expression softens. “Just be careful, sestra. You don’t know what some of these people are capable of.”

“Like Y/N?” Natasha laughs. “She’s just a big rich idiot. I could steal her entire company right from under her nose and she’d just go fill her bed with Victoria’s Secret models and forget it by the next morning.”

“Please be careful, Nat,” Yelena begs. “Do not forget what happened last time–”

“That was in the past. I know better now,” Natasha dismisses, although the hair on the back of her neck rises at the memory. She had been too cocky, too arrogant, and nearly lost her life as a result. But she was certain that wouldn’t happen with you. She had you eating out of the palm of her hand even before the mind-blowing sex. You’d happily hand her the keys to Envy Industries if she promised you five minutes in bed.

“Don’t worry about me,” Natasha gruffs, turning back to her computer. “Close the door on your way out.”

Yelena doesn’t respond and backtracks. Natasha waits until she hears the click of her door to open the files on her flash drive that contains the data stolen from your systems. None of your files are even password-protected. Maybe your company was even more of a joke than she thought.

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

DAY 14

Tesla backs out of contract with Envy Industries, reportedly in talks with Black Widow Corporation for GPUs

DAY 15

Envy Industries (ENVY) stock drops 15%

Black Widow Corporation (BWC) stock up 10%

DAY 18

Tesla hires Black Widow Corporation to produce hardware for upcoming Model 2

DAY 24

Black Widow Corporation announces AI supercomputer project

DAY 30

Black Widow Corporation (BWC) joins the Magnificent Seven stocks, knocking Envy Industries (ENVY) out

“You need to fix this. Now.”

“I’m trying!” you practically sob, staring at the same headline on your computer that your father is looking at.

Your first 30 days as CEO had been an absolute whirlwind–of defeats. First, an intern at Tesla had called you to tell you the deal was off. And then to hear that they were taking up business with Black Widow Corporation was like a sucker punch to the gut. No one at your company could understand how Black Widow suddenly had the technology you’d been working on for months, but a nagging feeling in the back of your head told you that you were the only person who knew the answer.

But you couldn’t be one-hundred-percent sure. After all, you had spent one night with Natasha Romanoff, most of it in bed with her getting your brains fucked out. But she had left even before you woke up, and there was no way to confirm if she had managed to get her hands on the confidential information that your company was built upon.

Whatever had happened, Envy Industries was on a steady decline ever since you had taken over and it was not a good feeling. The stock prices were tanking and now you had lost your spot amongst the prized “Magnificent Seven”–also known as the seven highest-valued companies in the United States. It was embarrassing, shameful, and upsetting. The board of directors were having daily meetings about your leadership qualities and you were worried they would boot you from the position any day now. Your father still had some influence, despite stepping down, but with the way he was speaking to you now, you weren’t sure he was going to defend you anymore.

“I don’t care how Black Widow Corp got the intel. They have it now and we can’t get it back. You need to raise security protocols and if anyone is caught leaking information, they will be publicly humiliated and sued to kingdom come,” your dad rages through the phone.

“Yes, yes, I agree,” you say.

“You need to focus on recovering from this. What’s done is done. But if you let it get worse, there will be severe consequences. For the company, for its future, and for you.”

“Yes. Yes, Dad,” you gulp.

“Stop fucking around and get your shit together,” he says. “You have a reputation that precedes you and thousands of people are depending on you to see them through this. Envy will come back. Promise me.”

“I promise,” you repeat hollowly, not even convinced of your own words.

“Good girl. We’ll talk later.”

“Okay. Bye, Dad.” You hang up and put your phone face-down on your desk, staring once more at the headline. For the first time, you don’t feel sad, you feel angry. You want to lash out at something–someone. Preferably the person or persons who put you in this predicament. You didn’t deserve this. You hadn’t done anything wrong. But one thing was for certain: you weren’t going to mope around and let them continue to take advantage of you.

There’s a heavy knock on your door.

“Hey, Y/N. Ready for lunch?” It’s Tony.

“Sure. Give me a minute.” You whip your burgundy blazer off the back of your chair with more force than necessary; it gets twisted upside-down and something falls out of the pocket. You squat to pick it up. It’s a black, small, flat circular device that blinks red and there’s tiny little ridges in the center to indicate some kind of microphone.

What the hell is this? you think. You look back at your burgundy jacket. It’s the same one you were wearing the day you were made CEO, the night you met Natasha Romanoff. It wasn’t your most worn jacket, making the occasional appearance if you felt it complimented the rest of your outfit, but spending most of its time hanging in the front of your closet.

A disturbing thought enters your head. This little device couldn’t be what you thought it was, right? But you knew tech better than most people. And you knew that Black Widow Corporation had somehow gotten ahold of confidential information that was causing catastrophic damage to your company.

It takes all of five seconds to formulate a plan.

You slip the audio recorder back into your pocket and put your jacket on.

Two could play at this game.

“Hey, Tony. Where are we going for lunch?” you call out, trying to keep your voice flat and clear.

“The steakhouse!” But his voice is muffled through the door.

“The steakhouse? The one on 6th Avenue, right?” you ask.

“Unless you suddenly have a new favorite that’s not on 6th,” he grumbles.

“Nope, that’s fine. Let me go check on something in the lab and I’ll be ready.”

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

“What’s wrong with you? Did they get your order wrong?” Tony asks as you poke at the slab of beef on your plate.

“I’m just not really hungry,” you say. “You know, since our whole company is falling apart and everything.”

“Well, it’s still standing the last time I checked.” You appreciate how straightforward Tony is. Granted, he isn’t under the same kind of pressure as you, but you need someone who can be this cool under pressure in your life. “And I know you can’t be productive on an empty stomach. Should we order those crab legs you like?”

“No more food please,” you mumble, pushing your plate away from you. “I need to use the bathroom.”

“Hurry back. Or I’ll order the whole appetizer menu!”

“Okay, whatever.” But you smile as you walk away from the table to the back. You look at your reflection in the gold gilded mirror, noticing the clear stress lines in your forehead, the darkness under your eyes, the way your cheeks are more hollowed in because you aren’t eating your usual 4,000 calories a day.

You rinse your hands in the sink and pat water on your face. You hear the door open behind you and your heart starts pounding faster. Had your plan worked?

“What’s wrong, honey?” Her voice snaps you to attention, velvety and seductive just like how you remember hearing it the first time. You turn to see Natasha Romanoff leaned against the wall, wearing a white blouse ready to burst at its buttons along with black slacks and towering heels. Her hair loosely bounces on her shoulders and her exposed wrists and neck are adorned with more jewelry than you can count.

“You,” you growl, striding over to her in three big steps and glaring down at her. “Are we adding stalker charges to your growing list of crimes now?”

“What are you talking about?” Natasha tilts her head to the side dumbly. “I’m here for lunch, just like you. A coincidence isn’t a crime–”

You pull the little audio device out of your pocket. Natasha’s eyes widen for a second before she quickly turns her expression into one of defiance, but she’s already given away her familiarity. “So this is how you’ve been stealing all of our ideas, huh?” you ask.

“You have no proof that came from me,” she objects.

“I guess not.” You toss the device to the floor and stomp on it so hard with your Gucci loafers that it crumbles with an audible crunch. “And now we’ll never know. But now you’ll have to leave alone for a little bit, right? You have to give us some time to come up with more ideas for you to steal–”

“It’s nothing personal,” Natasha insists. “Business is business, isn’t it?”

“Well, once you put my reputation at risk–” You move one step closer until your chests almost bump. “–My future at risk–” You lower your head until you’re practically breathing on her face. Natasha doesn’t shy away. In fact, you think you see a glint of triumph in her green eyes. “–It becomes very, very personal.”

The tension between you is so thick it’s suffocating. You refuse to break eye contact with Natasha, but you’re not even sure what your next move should be. You know that you should hate this woman, should be calling for her head and outing her to the media for the literal crimes she’s committed, but you also want her. She hadn’t left your mind since the day you met her and knowing that she had been spying on you this whole time was both infuriating and a little arousing.

Natasha suddenly grabs onto the front of your shirt, yanking you closer to her until your lips crash together. You hate that the contact makes you feel relief, and you wonder if part of your recent frustration can be attributed to the fact that all this time you were secretly yearning for the same woman who was responsible for ruining your life.

“Things between us are very, very personal,” Natasha whispers, her hands slipping under your shirt to scratch across your abdomen. The coldness of her skin makes you want to cringe away, but her fingers hook onto your belt to keep you from going too far.

“Did you get jealous listening to all the girls I was fucking?” you ask.

“No,” Natasha says, but her cheeks redden and you know she’s lying. “But none of them could make you moan the way I do.”

“I wished they were you,” you admit, panting against her forehead as she undoes your belt. “Which is a fucked up thing to say given what you’ve been doing to my company.”

“I’m very good at what I do, baby,” Natasha says, pressing another hot kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“I’ll make your life hell if you don’t stop fucking with my company,” you growl, but your threat is significantly undermined by the whimper you let out when her fingers trace down the V-line of your hips to your center.

“Would you rather I fuck you over your company?” she asks.

“Shit,” you gasp, unable to focus on her question when two fingers slip into you. You’re embarrassingly soaked for her, but you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t had wet dreams of letting Natasha Romanoff fuck you ever since your first encounter. You fall back against the wall, panting as she pistons her fingers in and out of you. “Someone might walk in,” you warn, suddenly reminded about the forbiddenness of this relationship.

“I locked the door,” Natasha says, using her free hand to tug down the collar of your shirt so she can lick and kiss the skin of your neck. You bite on your lip to muffle your moan, your hands going to hold her hips roughly, pulling her closer to you. Her fingers curl and her thumb presses hard into your clit. You feel yourself clench tightly around her and your knees are ready to buckle. “For the record, I did miss you too.”

“What took you so long?” You have no idea how you’re able to hold a conversation with Natasha Romanoff while she fucks you, but here you are. Your hands wander towards her ass, cupping her solidly and almost lifting her off the floor.

“I had to wait,” she answers simply, her thumb flicking against your clit and your stomach burns with the stimulation. The slick noises of her fingers sliding into you is downright filthy and you rock your hips forward to urge her to move faster.

“What did you…have to wait…for?” you pant. “Your stocks to…overtake…mine?”

“Sure, baby,” Natasha says, nibbling at your collarbone and marking you with a dark hickey. You still have enough consciousness to notice the way she dodges your question. “You want to cum for me?” she asks, pistoning her hand faster.

“Yes, yes, please,” you beg, already on the verge of finishing. You adjust the angle of your hips so she can reach deeper, her fingers brushing past the sensitive ridges that make you see stars with every touch.

“Wait until I say,” she demands and you whine at her dominance. But you’re in no position to negotiate, so you keep your back pressed against the wall, desperately fighting the tidal wave of arousal threatening to crash down.

“Nat,” you say, your fingers digging hard into her ass, “Please let me–”

“Wait,” she repeats, sounding both annoyed and aroused. She pumps into you harder and faster, until you’re quivering and don’t think you can physically hold back anymore–

“Babe–”

“Cum for me.”

You feel like your body is tearing apart as you explode over her hand, arching your back off the wall, pressing your heaving chest into Natasha’s, heart pounding like you’ve just sprinted through a marathon. Natasha’s thrusts slow as you ride out your orgasm, and as you slump against the wall, she pulls her fingers out and, sticking them into her mouth to suck off your juices. You watch her hungrily, still dizzy from the rush of endorphins.

“My turn,” you say, hooking your arms under her thighs and her arms loop around your neck. You pick her up effortlessly and shuffle with her into the handicapped stall. This time, Natasha’s back is pinned to the wall as you crash your lips into hers, reigniting the heat between your legs. But you’ve already got your release and you are more than eager to return the favor.

You pull down her pants and panties, mouth watering at the sight of her glistening center. You crouch down to pick her up again, this time letting her thighs rest on your shoulders so when you stand up, her pussy is perfectly in line with your mouth. Natasha’s hands tangle tightly in your hair as she draws your head towards her center, her calves locking across the back of your neck.

Without needing any more prompting, you pull forward to taste her. Her moans are music to your ears as you lap at her dripping heat, your tongue pressing deeper in search of more. All you can smell is her, all you can taste is her, and all you can think about is her. Natasha is sinful heaven to you and for a few seconds, you let yourself completely forget about how she’s ruining your life.

Suddenly, you hear a knock on the door.

“Hello? Why is this locked?” someone’s voice on the other side says.

You reach up with your right hand and cover Natasha’s mouth. She bites into the side of your hand and you hiss at the pain.

“Go get one of the staff.”

“You better finish soon,” you hum, nipping at the insides of her thighs while she squirms on your shoulders. “Or the whole world is going to hear me eating you out in here.”

“They should,” Natasha pants, gripping almost painfully at the back of your head, trying to force you back between her legs. “They need to know that you’re all mine, baby.”

You want to tell her that you don’t belong to anyone, and certainly not her of all people, but the protests die in your throat as she squeezes her thighs around your head. You truly are some kind of servant to Natasha Romanoff. Your tongue runs up and down her slit, poking at her throbbing clit as she bucks forward against your face.

“Fuck, take me already,” she whines.

“So impatient,” you tease.

“Less talking, more fucking,” she demands.

“Same to you.” You shove your fingers into her mouth to quiet her, and she sucks on them in a way that you try to mirror against her pussy. Wrapping your lips around her clit and thrusting your tongue into her until she’s a puddle in your arms.

“...I don’t know why the door is locked. Let me speak to the manager to get the key.”

Natasha’s whimpers are muted so you have to gauge her reaction by the rest of her body. The way she grips onto your hair like it’s some kind of lifeline. Her walls milk your tongue desperately, slick spilling onto your chin. You don’t think you’ll ever be able to get enough of this woman.

The door clicks open just as Natasha finally comes undone. Your fingers muffle her moans as you quickly lick her clean, wishing you had time to bring her to a second orgasm, but the heels on the floor indicate the two of you are no longer alone. You slowly lower Natasha to the floor, suddenly feeling the burn in your shoulders as you finally relieve yourself of her weight.

“Call me next time you want to fuck someone,” Natasha pulls you in for one final kiss and slips something into your pocket. It’s her business card.

“We’ll see,” you say, still not exactly sure of this arrangement, but not having the time to hang around and discuss. You leave the stall first, washing off at the sink and slinking out.

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

Natasha waits until you’ve left the bathroom to adjust herself in the mirror. She reapplies another layer of lipstick, smoothing down her blouse and tucking it back into her pants. She struts out of the restaurant, her body tingling in the aftermath of her sexcapade in the bathroom with you.

She steps into the alley adjacent to the restaurant and stands by the overflowing dumpster. She takes your wallet out of her pocket, unfolding it and laughing at the photo on your driver’s license. It was almost disappointing how easy you were. You weren’t cut out to lead a powerful company like Envy Industries. While you might have had the intellect, you clearly could not handle confrontation and even the idea of failure.

Natasha almost feels bad for you, but not bad enough to stop.

She empties the cash from your wallet, the several crisp hundred dollar bills fluttering to the ground. Maybe they’ll make some lucky homeless person’s day. Natasha pockets your heavy metal credit cards, despite having no intention but to use them as paperweights for her office. Then she finds what she’s really after: the solid black card that’s your apartment key.

Natasha discards your wallet into the dumpster and walks out to the street to be picked up by her driver.

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

You return to the table, smoothing back your hair and pulling at the newly-formed wrinkles in your shirt. You barely remember to button your shirt back up to your throat to hide the collar of hickeys Natasha left to remember her by.

“You were in there a while,” Tony comments. “You need some Pepto?”

“No, I’m fine.” You sit down, staring at your cold steak while you think. “Can we go now? I have some stuff I need to do.”

“Sure, sure.” Tony calls for the waitress and the check. You slip your phone out to view the location of the tracking device you (literally) implanted into Natasha.

It was a tiny, tiny device, probably about the size of a grain of rice. You could barely feel its weight when you have it balanced on the tip of your finger.

“This GPS will provide an accurate location down to a meter,” Dr. Pym explains. “Designed and manufactured right here at Envy Industries, so you can rest assured this is the highest quality product you’ll find on the market.”

“Don’t mention this to my dad, will you?” you request, placing the little tracker back in its foam-padded case.

“Of course,” Dr. Pym says. “I answer to you and only you now.”

“Good.”

You weren’t a hundred-percent sure how successful you’d be, but you had tried your best to hold the GPS on your fingertip before sticking your fingers in Natasha’s mouth. Her natural reaction would be to suck and swallow, and you were hoping that the rice-sized GPS would easily find its way down her esophagus into her.

There was no way she would know about it (or even be able to taste it) in the heat of the moment, and after a few days, it would pass through and the evidence wouldn’t be in her system anymore. You didn’t need more than a few days to track her location and habits.

With a sigh of relief, you see the red dot on the map indicating that she’s still waiting by the street side of the restaurant, probably for her driver. You can’t help but chuckle to yourself, wondering what Natasha would say when she realizes you’re willing to play just as dirty as her.

The waitress boxes up your steak and hands it to you in a paper bag. You and Tony leave through the back entrance to the cramped parking lot and you wait until you’ve climbed into his Aston Martin to say, “Are you still in touch with that…uh…Buck guy?”

Tony is quiet for a moment. “Oh, you mean Bucky? Yeah, I see him from time to time. Why?”

You’ve never made a request like this before in your life, and you know the moment you do, it’s going to change everything. You take a deep breath, fighting the anxiety in your chest.

“I need him to get me a gun.”

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

AN: It's getting very hot in here. :) To be continued? 👀

Please like, reblog, and comment! Follow for more content. 🥰

#natasha romanoff #black widow #natasha romanoff smut #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x reader

526 notes · View notes

shotmrmiller · 5 months

Text

Needs must

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

WC: 2.1K

TW: prostitution, explicit fingering, and smut-ish.

ive got 4 other ideas for this goddamn escort au and one of em is MY BOY JOHNNY. oof i cant wait. im mad it took me this long to do this. I wrote this listening to rich sex by nicki minaj.

You had needs. No matter how magical, a toy can only do so much for you. You wanted the praise of another human being—the warm touch of their hands around your waist, your neck. God, you needed to get laid. But after the disaster that was your last relationship, how nasty it ended, you couldn’t even ring your ex-girlfriend up for a booty call.

Sucking your teeth, you look at your phone. Noon. Well, maybe one of your friends you’re about to meet up with for a weekly Saturday brunch knew someone who would be interested in a no-strings-attached situationship.

—

Flipping the card in your hands, you chewed on your bottom lip in deliberation and looked down at the business card— the color of bone with raised black lettering. Ghost, it read, with his number on the back. How you ended up with this in your hand made you almost regret having reprobates for friends. An escort. That’s what they had shamelessly suggested. You had almost choked on your eggs benedict when one of them pulled out a contact card from their wallet and placed it by your mimosa. I mean, really. Preparing to argue about their lack of sense, they brought up a great point. It was either this, someone who was there for what you needed whenever you needed it, or your toys which were in a pathetic state from constant use. Your ex called it quits because you simply couldn't find the time to maintain a proper relationship— your demanding job took up most of it. You couldn’t believe you were about to do this.

Ghost. What a name. But you suppose it didn’t matter what his name was, only that he could do his job, and with the way your friend gushed over him— he’d leave you walking side to side. You needed this. You worked too hard for too many hours to not spend your money on some self-care.

Fuck it. Maybe he will be just a one-time thing, you thought, and sent his number a text.

—

Closing the door of your car, you briskly walk towards the small cafe Ghost had sent the address to; A cute little quaint coffee shop. Coming to a stop, you straighten your office skirt and run a hand through your hair before opening the door. Breathing in the coffee aroma, you look around for who you’re looking for, spotting him sitting in the back. The click of your heels echoes inside the cafe, catching the attention of your awaiting companion. He looks up and rises to stand, and it takes you aback. It was like witnessing a grizzly standing on its hind legs. Jesus.

He was tall, so tall, and broad. Wearing a black beanie and covering the lower half of his face with a mask, he extends his arm out to shake your hand, and you internally scream at how shapely his arm alone looks over his long-sleeved shirt.

“I’m Ghost. It’s a pleasure, love.”

Choking back a moan at his accent, you put your hand in his and say, “No, I’m sure it’ll be all mine.” You can see his dark eyes crinkle at your quip.

“If we get through this smoothly, the next time we meet I’ll make sure of it.”

As you let out a playful laugh, Ghost reaches for the back of your chair, pulling it out with a chivalrous gesture. “And a gentleman? You definitely know how to sell yourself.”

“No, love. This is just a common courtesy. I don’t need t’tell you that I’m good,” and in one smooth motion, he extracts a sleek, forest green matte folder from the leather business bag lying at his feet.

“I need this filled out, just the usual— hard and soft limits. Safewords, nicknames, allergies, and so on.” You pick up the folder and open it, skimming over the contents of the front page.

“This really is your job.” You flick your eyes from the folder to him and he’s already looking at you, watchful and steady.

“O’ course it is. I take my clients, and future clients, seriously. I enjoy wha’ I do but it will never be at the cost of another. I will not make you uncomfortable in any way, nor risk your health. I aim to please you, not the other way around. And I cannot do tha’ if I don’t know tha’ you’re allergic to latex or completely against something I might do.”

He gives a slight cough, and you divert your attention from the paper and meet his gaze. “What’s a pretty thing like you seeking out someone who offers these types of services?” and a lighthearted chuckle escapes you.

“The same reason the one who gave me your card did— just looking for a good time, no commitment.”

He raises his eyebrows at that but makes no further comment. Smart man. Glancing at your wrist, you check the time. “Right,” and lean forward to get up when Ghost shoots up from his chair to pull out yours. “I’ll have your folder ready for you by the weekend,” and turn your head to face him.

“Is that when you’ll want this, then?” and you give a casual shrug.

“If you happen to be available.” He reaches out and gently grabs your hand to pull you in for a tight embrace. Softly, he whispers in your ear, “I’ll be seeing you then, love.”

You leave with a silly little grin on your face.

—

The weekend comes and you’re a puddle of nerves. You can’t remember the last time someone made you this anxious. The knock on your door startles you out of your inner ramblings. It’s time. Taking in a deep, calming breath, you open it.

Ghost calmly walks in, and starts taking off his mask, and then leather jacket.

“I’ve one absolute limit I forgot to mention,” he says in a firm tone. “I do not kiss. It is not a negotiation.”

Well, you couldn’t give a damn if he didn’t. Nonchalantly, you shrug and say, “And mine is that we always use a condom.” With a nod and a chuckle, he eagerly grabs the folder from your table and starts flipping through its pages.

“A’right, love. Go get on the bed f’me.” The smirk he gives you is positively wicked. “I saw tha’ you have like to be told wha’ to do.” He jerks his chin towards your room. “And take everything off.” With nervous excitement, you run off, haphazardly tossing your clothes on the floor.

—

Eyes covered with a blindfold, all you hear is your shaky breathing and his footsteps on your plush rug. Your nerves feel exposed, raw. As you lie on the bed, you suddenly feel a firm grip on the flesh of your thighs, causing your skin to break out in goosebumps. The room's cool air contrasts with the warm heat radiating from his touch, pulling a hiss from your lips as he pulls you toward the edge of the bed.

“Atta girl, love. Open your legs f’me, lemme see that pretty pussy.” The lack of eyesight helps you to focus on his touch alone, making you fearless, and your legs drop open without hesitation as you lie on your back.

“Look at tha’. Aren’t you just a dream? Hm?” he puts his hands on your knees, keeping your thighs open, wet cunt exposed. “And you waxed, too. Hope tha’ wasn’t f’me.” You feel a fingertip slide from your hood, down to your clit and hole, spreading your juices around the labia and back up. Your nerves are on fire, your pussy clenching around nothing, forcing juices to drip down to your arsehole.

“A’right, pretty. Touch yourself. Shove your tiny little fingers into your,” he pauses to suck the skin of your inner thigh, “cunt and show me how to make you feel good.” He then moves his mouth closer to where you need it most, and bites. Are you defying me? Did you suddenly become deaf as well, once I blindfolded you?” and you aggressively shake your head.

“No! No, sir. I hear you, loud and clear.” With a tight squeeze to your thighs, he says, “Then do as I say.” Moaning, you slowly bring your hand down, starting from your chest. Your palms rub against your pebbled nipples, down to your soft stomach, until your fingertips meet your swollen nub, then move in soft, tight circles, mewling at the feeling. The groan that reaches your ears is so lewd, you could come from that alone.

“Tha’s it, baby. You’re doing so well. Look at how wet you are, fuck, show me just how you like it.” And you do. A vulgar noise comes from your hole once you stuff yourself with one finger, slowly stretching, before adding another. It’s something, but not enough, not what you want. Not thick enough, long enough, and that thought makes you whimper in disappointment.

“Aw, are your fingers not satisfying? I’ll help you, sweet, only because you look so delicious spread out f’me like this. So vulnerable, bare.” His breath fans over your cunt, over your clit, and it sends a jolt up your spine— but he doesn’t move, doesn’t touch. It feels like you’ve been waiting for hours until he finally, finally, pushes a thick finger into you, and curls it, rubbing against the right spot, over and over, and then pushes in a second, threatening to tip you over the peak. The feeling is intense —your walls clench around him firmly in your rising pleasure.

“Oh, g-god, Ghost pleasepleaseplease,” squealing as you fuck yourself on his hand, and when your hypersensitive nerves pick up on the sensation of his scorching mouth on your clit, with a pulsating suction, your muscles tighten and tremble, to the point of pain, until Ghost gives one hard suck, forcibly pushing you off the edge. The wail you let out is ear-splitting— as ecstasy slams into your body, like waves crashing at shore. Your thighs squeeze Ghost’s head irrationally tight, but he doesn’t care, just groaning into your core, lapping up your juices like a dehydrated man who’s found an oasis. Your body stings— prickles from the vicious high you’re riding—chest heaving with sobs from the sheer force of it, fingernails digging into Ghost’s scalp, yanking on his hair. As your soul melts back into your body, you absentmindedly thank all the bloody gods for having friends who really do look out for you.

Whimpering pathetically, your limbs go limp, loose, heavy. Ghost easily picks your body up and moves you toward the center of the bed, vertically, the blindfold still robbing you of your vision.

With a grunt of effort, his hand firmly settles by your ribcage, sinking into the softness of the bed, and then he slips a folded pillow beneath your hipbones, expertly arching your spine into a delicious angle. His hand firmly connects with your rear, not just once but twice, feeling the exquisite sting of it. The room falls into silence, only to be interrupted by the clinking sound of his belt buckle. Your body tenses as you hear the unmistakable sound of plastic being torn open, and then you feel his thick and warm shaft teasing your entrance. A moan escapes your lips as he penetrates you, his movements slow and sensual, until his hipbones press against your backside. Taking his time, he slowly pulls back his length, dragging it against your slick walls, before pushing forward again, covering your body with his own. His right hand is flat on the bed by your right shoulder, while his left curls around your neck, gently forcing your head to tilt back onto him. The tip of his head grinds against the entrance of your womb.

He moans softly into your ear, before quietly purring, “Let’s see how many more orgasms I can wring out of you, pet.” The tightening of his makeshift necklace around your throat is your first and last warning of what is to come.

—

He pulled four. Four gut-wrenching, shattering orgasms before finding his own release. He left you a drooling, sloppy, sweaty mess on your bed, completely languid and relaxed. Somewhere, you faintly hear your phone ping with a notification. Hissing as you get up, you limp to your living room, and see it on the sofa. Unlocking it, you see that it’s Ghost, sending you his Cash App information. Holding in a chickle, you send him his money and wait for his confirmation.

It was a real pleasure, doll. Let me know when you need me again.

Cackling to yourself, you place your phone back on the table.

Bastard.

He knows you’ll definitely be seeing him again.

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #cod mw2 #cod #cod mwii #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley #ghost simon riley #simon ghost x reader

659 notes · View notes

liv2post · 5 months

Text

Late Night Zoomies

Word Count: 500 Summary: Animagus!Reader get the zoomies while Severus is grading.

Read here or on ao3

The quill in Severus’s hand had been scratching away at potion papers now for the past couple of hours, a recent delay in his schedule costing him what could’ve been a relaxing evening. His gaze was fixed on a line when he heard the sounds of something scraping stone and a blur of orange run by his peripheral. The writing tool ceased, his eyes flicking up to the couch where he swore he saw the shape disappear behind. No sounds, no movement. He returned his attention down to the paper.

The shape entered his sights once again, retreating back to the bedroom. He turned his gaze up again, this time looking at the clock on the wall. Ah. 1AM. He cast a quick protective spell on his legs before turning his eyes towards the bedroom.

You came sprinting out of his room again in your animagus form, an orange cat. This time you had opted to use the coffee table as a platform to leap onto the couch, your claws gripping into the upholstery as if prey as your gaze darted around the ceiling like you were seeing ghosts. He should’ve known the second he heard the scratching of your claws against the stone. You were having what you had told him were called “zoomies.” They usually struck around or past midnight. Even in sleep you’d awake restless and go to the living room to shift into your animagus form to burn off energy before returning to the potion master’s side in bed. One too many drive-by swipes at his legs were enough to make the professor cast a spell on himself when they occurred.

“Are you having fun tearing up my couch?” he drawled teasingly.

You snapped your blown out eyes to him, raising from your pounced position so that you were crab-walking along the top of the couch, your back arched like a croissant, ears splayed back and tail poofed up and flailing around wildly as you angled your head downwards while your pupils made direct eye contact with him; like he was a mere mortal who dared to challenge you.

While you were very smart as a human, he suspected you lacked a few brain cells when in such a form. Out of nowhere, as if someone snuck up behind you and scared you, you jumped a foot or so in the air, limbs flailing about as you fell down the front of the couch onto cushions, the stimulation riling you up more and prompting you to attack the corner of the rug and batter it with your hind legs.

After a good five minutes of chewing on it, you suddenly stopped and shifted back into your human form, cheeks blushed with embarrassment as you got up from the floor and made your way back to the bedroom.

“Shut up,” you huffed, having caught the amused expression on his face. The potion master simply chuckled to himself under his breath and returned to the papers at hand.

______________________________________________________________

This is my first time posting work on Tumblr. Check out my other works on ao3 here.

#severus snape x reader #snape x reader #severus x y/n #animagus!reader #severus snape #snape fandom #Severus Snape fanfiction #pro severus snape

463 notes · View notes

fourmoony · 6 months

Note

Hey! Requesting a Remus fluff where he spots reader in the library and is completely infatuated by her. James and Sirius persuades him to go up to her and eventually builds up the courage :3

hi lovely, thank you so much for requesting! hope you enjoy :) this one realllly got away from me, but I love it sm!!! he's baby your honour...

2.3k remus x fem!reader fluff language

masterlist

Sirius has his feet kicked up on the desk, his chair balancing on its hind legs and if Remus wasn't so distracted he'd probably tell him off, make up some lie about a kid he knew when he went to primary that fell and smashed his head open, caused a scene, traumatised a teacher and a classroom full of seven year olds, the paramedics ended up coming in to do a talk on classroom safety... something like that. Sirius probably wouldn't listen anyway, but at least he'd know he tried.

But he's distracted.

For once, it's not because of James' heavy handed typing as he abuses his poor laptop's keyboard, writing and erasing, writing and erasing. And it's also not because of the obnoxious groan Sirius lets out every few minutes just to make sure Remus and James know he's still there, waiting for them to be done so they can wrap up another week of uni with a few pints at the local pub.

No, today he's fully distracted by something else.

You.

It's not fair, actually. He thinks your beauty is actually hurting him, doing something funny to his heart. Can a person's beauty physically cause heart failure? Chest pains? Maybe an anxiety attack over the existential crisis he's facing knowing he'll never be able to have you? Remus doesn't know, but he thinks James would - he's the one doing his PhD, after all. Not that Remus would ever admit to finding you so breathtakingly beautiful it's causing physical pain. No, Sirius and James would never let him live that down.

So instead, he pretends to read his textbook on astro-physics, everything he's supposed to be revising going straight over his head, while stealing glances at you two tables over. You're in your own world, furiously typing into your laptop, stopping every now and then to take a sip of the comically large coffee beside you. It's midterm season, your large coffee is warranted in Remus' humble opinion. Not that you're even aware he's in solidarity of it. James would probably have some boring medical fact about coffee stunting growth and hormones or some load of bollocks similar, but he doesn't care.

Every now and then, you'll pout at your laptop screen, tilting your head to the side like whatever is on your screen has personally offended you. It makes Remus' heart slam against his rib cage in a totally annoying, embarrassing way he wishes he could make soft. He's not a creep. Really, he's not. He knows you. Somewhat. You've met a couple times when you've been chatting to Marlene - who shares a Comms class with you - either in the library or at the pub on the occasional Friday you make an appearance with your friends. It's not like he's having these weird feelings about a stranger. Well. A complete stranger. But there's just something so startling about how kissable your lips are, so soft looking and pink, and adorable in the way your head tilts like that of a confused puppy.

Your attention leaves the screen in front of you in an instant as if you can feel Remus' pining from ten feet away, eyes scanning your surroundings, and when your eyes meet his, Remus chokes on thin air. Thin fucking air. He's so shocked you've caught him, so shocked you're actually a real person he can make eye contact with and not a figment of his imagination, that he chokes, eyes widening, and looks back down to the text book in front of him. He resigns to the awful feeling of humiliation creeping up his neck, accepts the fate of his crimson red cheeks.

"Subtle." Sirius comments, a sickening smirk that Remus just knows means he's been caught graces the former Black Heir's lips and he'd rather like to kick the two back legs out from under best friend's chair now, thanks.

Even though he knows he's been caught, Remus schools his features, because he's actually very capable of that when it comes to his friends, and returns to his book, flipping the page with what he hopes is nonchalance and shrugs, "Dunno what you're on about."

Sirius scoffs obnoxiously, just like Remus knew he would, and returns his chair back to four legs with haste, arms planted on the table in front of him and a look on his face that reads 'I hate to break it to you, but you're the most obvious bloke on the planet'. "Mate, just go over and put us all out of our misery. It's painful."

"It is, mate." James mumbles agreeably, still very much engrossed in the battering of his keyboard. It's a wonder he hasn't broken the thing, Remus thinks.

Remus rolls his eyes. If only it were that simple. How could anything be that simple when you're so infuriatingly beautiful Remus doesn't think he could get two words in to a conversation with you without making a royal twat of himself.

"You make it sound so simple, Pads, truly." Remus drawls sarcastically, eyes still downcast on the book in front of him.

He hasn't read and actually processed a single sentence since he caught sight of you on arrival. He's well and truly fucked.

Sirius scrubs his hands up and down his face like Remus' hesitance is physically paining him, "C'mon, Moony. They didn't call you the Casanova of Gryffindor House for nothing, mate."

It's Remus' turn to scoff, now. He was hardly a Casanova. Just a nice bloke who girls happened to be attracted to. But that was a private boarding school where girls had no access to the outside world apart from the odd weekend at the school's nearest village. You live in a world with people disposable at your fingertips. Coffee shop baristas, classmates, the people on the commute to your classes, there's an endless opportunity for you to meet someone of interest. And how is Remus supposed to compete with that?

"Not happening. I'll suffer in silence, thanks." Remus tells Sirius, a tight lipped smile about his face that he hopes Sirius will read as the end of the conversation.

Clearly, Sirius is no better at social cues now than when Remus first met him, because his friend rolls his eyes and returns to leaning back on his chair, legs once again kicked up onto the desk, muddy boots falling on a piece of paper Remus knows he'll probably have to rewrite, now. "All I'm saying is what do you have to lose? You ask her out she says no, you go back to staring at her like a right creep from two desks over, or," He makes a flourishing movement with his hands, ever the one for dramatics, "She says yes, you bang, fall in love, get married, have kids, etcetera, etcetera."

Sirius' smile is triumphant, like he truly believes he's some sort of genius and Remus can't help the way his lips tick up in amusement. Maybe he has a point, but anxiety still claws at Remus' chest.

"He's got a point, mate," James has pushed his laptop away from himself, his circular glasses balancing haphazardly on his forehead as he rubs tiredly at his face, "Even if he didn't, I'm still begging you to go over there just to get him," he jabs a finger at Sirius, who preens proudly, "to shut up so I can get this paper finished."

Remus sighs, mulls it over in his head, an endless list of outcomes, variables, it's what his scientist mind is programmed to think like. But he gives Sirius a look, finds his best friend staring at him earnestly, and he realises that Sirius doesn't actually see it as a big joke. He truly thinks Remus should do it.

"Fine." Remus bites, taking a breath and pushing himself out of his seat.

Sirius pumps his fists in the air so violently his chair wobbles, but Remus doesn't look back. If he does, he might turn around and give up, go back to staring from afar. God, maybe he is a creep.

You're so engrossed in whatever you're working on, you don't realise Remus hovering at the seat across from you. When you do, you jump a little, and Remus opens his mouth to apologise, but you're already speaking, a wide smile gracing your lips, features completely taken over by the kindness in your eyes - you recognise him, "Remus, right? You're friends with Marls."

Remus nods, swallows the thickness in his throat. He doesn't trust himself to talk, just yet, so he's grateful when you nod your head to the seat across from you, welcoming him to sit. You half close the lid of your laptop, offering him your full attention and wait patiently for him to talk.

"How are your midterms going, by the way?" You ask when Remus finds himself unable to start a conversation.

You don't seem put off by his apparent silence, more than happy to carry the conversation if he needs. He's grateful, because your direct question has given him a reason to speak, a boundary of the things he can say. He's not worried about shouting just how beautiful he finds you for the entire campus library to hear when he has a strict criteria of answers he can give. Well. He's less worried. It's still not impossible.

"Uh, alright, thanks. You're taking Art History, right? Hows that going?" He hopes he's not misheard Marlene's brief introduction, and he knows he hasn't when you preen at his remembrance.

You nod enthusiastically, hair bouncing over your shoulders with the movement, "Yeah! It's currently kicking my arse, but I'll pull through. I imagine it's not as hard as," you pause, brows furrowing for half a second before Remus sees a lightbulb go off behind your eyes, your smile returning, along with the smooth plane of your forehead, crease gone, "Astro-physics, right?"

Remus tries not to think about the way his entire stomach knots up and threatens to give out over the fact you know what his degree is. There's every chance Marlene has told you, like she told him your degree, but he can't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, you'd asked about him. Instead, he smiles dutifully, even though he can feel his somewhat calm and collected exterior melting away, "Yeah, astro-physics. But I imagine they're equally challenging in different ways."

You seem to like that answer, following along and nodding amicably to show you're listening, "I suppose you're right. Although, I think you could explain it to me like a five year old, and I'd still be lost."

Remus laughs. Not at you, but at the perplexed expression on your face as you imagine such a scenario. You shake your head out, giving him your full attention again. You're so lovely. So sweet and nice and Remus feels like he might actually have a shot, if your kindness and patience so far is anything to go on.

"If it makes you feel any better, I couldn't tell you squat about the Mona Lisa." Remus shrugs.

It's your turn to laugh, your head tilting back ever so slightly as it rocks through you. The sound is like music to Remus' ears. He decides then and there he'll do anything, forever, to get you to make that sound again. He commits it to memory, allows it to warm his chest, potential heart attack be damned.

"You're cute, Remus Lupin." You're amused as you say it, eyes shining with a kind of fondness Remus allows to steal his breath.

He thinks maybe you don't mean to say it, at first, but when your gaze holds his, confident and teasing Remus knows. He just. He knows. You're into him, too. Maybe not as deep as he's into you, but the interest is there and that's all Remus cares about.

"A few of us are going to the pub in a few for some drinks, Marlene will be there. Did you maybe want to join us?" Remus asks, an uncomfortable heat in his cheeks even though he knows you're likely to say yes.

He chuckles when you pretend to think it over, pout twisting into an amused grin when you go to speak, "Sure, Remus. I'd love to."

Remus feels like he's won some sort of gold medal, maybe the lottery. He's not sure. But what he does know is that his blood is thrumming through his veins in a way it never has before with pure elation. You're grinning ear to ear, already beginning to pack up your things. He waits patiently while you do, following your lead in standing up. You round the table, closer to him, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

"Remus?" You ask, stepping into his space and he can smell your perfume, your shampoo, so sweet he thinks he's going to pass out.

"Yeah?" He asks.

"I only have one condition."

He arches an eyebrow, urges you to go on.

"Next time, it's just us two. A proper date." You smile sweetly, completely unaware of the affect your sultry voice has on Remus' already weak knees.

His breath catches in his throat as you look up at him, your tiny hand encircling his wrist oh so carefully.

"Yeah?" His voice is gravelly, lips threatening to turn up in a wicked grin, "I'm sure we can make that happen."

Just like that, you step out of Remus' space, hand dropping his wrist and your teasing smile falling back into your soft, kind grin, "Great. I'm all yours for the rest of the night, Remus."

Remus almost groans as he leads you back over to Sirius and James, who are grinning like cheshire cats as they pack up their belongings to follow suit with you and Remus. He's met his match, he thinks. You're well and truly going to be the end of him.

Not that he cares in the slightest.

#marauders #remus lupin #remus lupin fic #remus lupin fluff #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin oneshot #marauders fic #marauders one shot #marauders fluff #sirius black #james potter #lily evans #love #fluff #regulus black #peter pettigrew #fourmoonys asks

673 notes · View notes

rebirthgarments · 17 days

Text

Baby Hind was born on May 9, 2024, her parents Sanad and Malak were married last July and have been in displacement. They need money for formula, diapers and survival. My comrades Brenda and Ashley started her GFM 2 weeks ago and they have only gotten $200 USD so far, which is hardly enough to buy a little formula (it might actually not be enough, because as we learned from Seraj it costs $67 USD for a cup of water as of today).

bit.ly/hindsbabyshower

Please send some support their way, especially because it was just Mother’s Day in the US yesterday! They are just starting out with 4 day old baby Hind and need all the support you can send!

Comment your childhood comfort toy below and share to your networks!

Image Description: Text reads “Buy Baby Hind Formula bit.ly/hindsbabyshower “ over a line drawing graphic in blue and cream with a flower border and flowers and sparkles next to a photo of Hind in a pink and white matching set with a cartoon coffee cup and donut on the top. She is wearing a hat with a pattern of bowler hats and mustaches and is furrowing her brow. She has a sweet, squishy baby face.on the bottom right is a white and pink QR code leading to Sanad and Malak’s Goh Fuhnd Me.

#free gaza #gaza genocide #gaza #babies #baby #newborn #birth announcement #baby shower #palestine #baby formula #baby food #hind

156 notes · View notes

vidavalor · 2 months

Text

Tip Top, Thank You. Ticketyboo!

Did you all know that "tip top" is MLE slang for a blowjob?

Now that I have your attention lol, some etymological meta on The Ineffables' rather tip top use of slang and wordplay and just what it means to offer to say "thank you" in Ineffable Husbands Speak under the cut. It's absolutely ticketyboo...

When we humans who speak English refer to oral sex performed on a penis, the most common slang we use for this today is to call it "giving a blowjob." Linguistically-speaking, this term is actually relatively new and how it came to be is a truly muddled bit of etymological history. As recently as the early 1950s, the American military was innocently referring to their war planes in different publications as "blow jobs"-- meaning that the planes were well-equipped to carry out destruction. This-- and other instances like this at the time-- shows that the meaning of "blowjob" as slang for oral sex performed on someone with a penis either had not yet really evolved at all or had not yet penetrated the mainstream enough for any of the people involved in these articles (journalists, editors, four-star generals lol...) to suggest that, perhaps, a different term be used to describe these planes.

Whether or not the slang term "blowjob" is actually derived from the military... as soldiers appropriating the language of war to turn it into the language of sex has been happening since the beginning of time... or whether it arose in a different way, is still unknown. The earliest documentation of something like "blowjob" comes from sex workers in the 1930s who referred to what we call giving a blowjob as "blowing someone off." This is obviously funny now from a language evolution perspective, considering that when we use that phrase today, what we mean is that we dodged an interaction with someone, as in "I was supposed to grab coffee with my friend yesterday but I was tired so I blew him off." If you said that sentence to a Mrs. Sandwich in 1935, she'd have several follow up questions...

Further complicating the history of the term is that since the origin of "blowjob" as a term is murky, no one has ever really been very clear on which kind of "blow" is being addressed in it or if it refers to multiple kinds at once. Is it a "blowjob" because of aspects of the act of it or is it a "blowjob" because the end result is, as the military influence might suggest, that the recipient "blows", meaning comes apart/ejaculates? Either way, it's the most common way you refer to this type of oral sex in English but, as we know, different groups of people have additional slang to refer to it as well. Crowley and Aziraphale are shown in S1 to have picked up the MLE slang term for it of tip top.

MLE stands for Multicultural London English and it is what is known as a sociolect. A sociolect is a dialect that's built more out of being a part of a certain social class or group. MLE is also a multiethnolect, which means that it is a dialect derived from the influence of people of different ethnicities and backgrounds. It is the language spoken by a diverse group of working-class people, most of them younger, who live and/or work in London, and has mostly emerged since the 1980s. One of its slang words is the use of tip top to mean a blowjob. It is sometimes shortened just to top, if context in the sentence allows for the meaning to be understood as a blowjob and to not be confused with other sexual meanings around the word "top."

Tip top is an example of different dialects crossing and interweaving. MLE uses "side ting", for example, to describe sleeping with someone other than one's partner which, just like its American counterpart of "side piece", is derived from the British English phrase "bit on the side", which we also hear Nina and Crowley use in S2. In S1, Aziraphale used ticketyboo, which is Victorian-era slang that is also thought to be an example of different dialects crossing. Theories on its etymology involve a Hindi saying, a British one, and a bit of French intermixing. It is an example of Crowley and Aziraphale's interest in the ongoing evolution of language and how they weave that into their wordplay. We'll come back to ticketyboo later on. Tip top and saying thank you are up first...

Tip top is originally a British English-rooted expression meaning someone is feeling excellent or that something is in excellent shape. It refers to the tip of the top-- the highest of peaks. There is then a fun sense of humor to it being adopted from its endearing but potentially kind of stuffy British use ("How are you, my good man?"/"I am tip top, old chap! Right as rain!" lol) to becoming slang for oral sex in a dialect used by predominantly non-white, younger Londoners, many of whom emigrated to England or who come from immigrant families, particularly from countries that either still are part of or were formerly part of The British Empire. There's a top shelf, droll trolling of the colonizing British Empire happening there in the language evolution and it's also a good example of how when different cultures overlap, so too do their languages.

Crowley and Aziraphale always have to choose words that are able to remain hidden beneath the surface layer of their conversation. One of their wordplay kinks that we've observed are words that have multiple different meanings, as we looked at in other metas. Their favorites are ones with hilariously contradictory meanings that they can use to create sentences that have one meaning on the surface with one interpretation of the definitions used of the words and another entirely if the other meanings of those same words are used. They get off a bit on using common words in Ineffable Husbands Speak when speaking to others-- particularly angels and demons-- who have no idea what they're talking about because they only understand one level of meaning of the words being used and assume the context implying that one level of meaning is correct. Examples of these types of scenes: the Aziraphale one in Heaven that I'll mention again below, Aziraphale in Hell in 1.06 and then telling Crowley "I asked them for a rubber duck" to make him laugh afterwards, Crowley's "can I get a wahoo?" and what he says to Gabriel before getting into the fire in 1.06 having a different meaning in Ineffable Husbands Speak, as well as almost everything Crowley said to Muriel in the second half of S2 (the handcuff innuendo; "extremely alcoholic breakfast at The Ritz", etc..)

We've seen that some of their favorite words like this are wily (meaning sly, tricky, crafty on one level but also alluring, magically attractive, sexy on another), smitten (to be attacked by an angel with the righteous fury of God but also to be struck down with love and infatuation), and thwart (to oppose and stop but also to cross from one side to the other.)

Aziraphale called Crowley a "wily adversary" to the angels in Heaven and could barely keep a straight face because when he and Crowley say "wily" to one another, they mean it as "sexy." (As in, "he was a wily old serpent and I was technically on apple tree duty.") Crowley used "thwart" multiple times in the same scene in 1.01 as an euphemism for "fucking", as in:

(I also love that, out of all the different names the thing has, Crowley and Aziraphale call it "The Divine Plan" while flirting in this scene, since divine means "of God" or "like God" but it also is used just to mean "delightful" or "delicious," as in "the wedding was lovely-- we had a divine time!" or "mmm, gah, this cake is divine..."

Additionally, another meaning of thwart is that it's the term for the seat in a rowboat that someone would sit on to row a boat and, like we looked at in the Fish meta, Crowley and Aziraphale have their whole we-got-oysters-the-first-night-we-slept-together-so-now-everything-related-to-fish-and-the-sea-is-a-sexual-euphemism-or-metaphor thing happening. Wahoo to that sushi but anyway we're talking about blowjobs, so... *redirects self*...)

As we were talking about at the start of this meta, calling oral sex on a penis a "blowjob" is a relatively new thing but different euphemisms for it have existed forever. By the above measure for words used in Ineffable Husbands Speak, though, tip top is a tip top choice for a blowjob euphemism, old chaps, as there is just a lot of word nerdy wordplay potential there. One of the reasons why Crowley and Aziraphale use it is also one of the reasons why it has likely evolved to mean a blowjob in MLE in the first place and that is because of the innuendo inherent in a phrase involving "tip", as in the sensitive tip of the penis, which is especially humorous when added into the fact that "tip top" means "excellent." You're just hitting the tippity top when you get a tip top, no? Just reaching the highest of those climatic peaks...

The first time we hear Aziraphale use tip top is in the paintball scene at Tadfield Manor in S1. Crowley and Aziraphale are hit with the paint, Crowley shapeshifts into a roaring snake and causes a guy to pass out and his already high levels of horniness increases until he's doing the lip bite and the cute nose scrunch that screams 'do me':

Meanwhile, Aziraphale sounds all innocent (it's faux-innocent, as it often is lol) and is going on about the paint on his coat and he says that he's "kept this coat in tip top condition for over 200 years" and starts to pout.

Crowley and Aziraphale are supernatural humanoid beings with feathers and Crowley is also a snake. They have a seemingly never-ending list of comparisons to other creatures of Earth happening and some of it trips over into their innuendo. A coat, on one level, is the coat that Aziraphale is wearing in the scene that was splattered in blue paint but... it's also a word used to describe the fur or hair of an animal.

Aziraphale has kept his coat-- the beige outer layer of his clothes-- in tip top condition-- so, in well-maintained, excellent condition-- for more than the last 200 years. Euphemistically-speaking, though... Aziraphale is referring to the apparently historically well-groomed state of his hair-- specifically, his pubic hair-- which he's always got lookin' fine and zhushed for visitors. Aziraphale keeps his coat in tip top condition because loves him the highest peaks of the tippity tops does the angel...

(Sidenote but Aziraphale has massive pubic hair thing happening, as this is not the only scene he's referred to it euphemistically. In S2, as we looked at in the meta about his dirty French, he used "plume" in its "feathered" sense to euphemistically refer to missing quality time with Lady Crowley's natural garden box.)

Is now a good time to mention Mr. Fell and the blowjob's formal name of fellatio? Fellation and fellatio are rooted in the Latin verb fellare, which means "to suck", though "to fellate" and "fellatio" became words relating to oral sex only as relatively recently as during the 1800s. The Latin verb, though, has existed basically for forever and considering Aziraphale's kind of cheeky use of Fell as his surname in reference to how while he might not have fallen to Hell in the angel/demon sense of it, he's "fallen" into "sin" of the Adam-and-Eve, food-and-sex sense of the term, one of the reasons behind choosing Fell as his surname then could be tied to the verb fellare and his penchant for giving and receiving oral sex. (And how do we know that it wasn't, say, Crowley in the 1800s who got the ball rolling on using that Latin verb to refer to a blowjob? lol) At minimum, it's too funny for Crowley and Aziraphale to have never made a joke about it at some point. Back to the paintball scene...

Crowley knows what tip top means in this scene and it's clearly already existed in Ineffable Husbands Speak for some time. His mending of Aziraphale's coat is then in an exaggerated manner involving some (magically unnecessary) blowing, visually referencing the tip top/blowjob wordplay that Aziraphale was doing to suggest that they get up to that activity soon:

But tip top is far from the only blowjob-related term in this scene...

While this scene takes place in the 2019 present of S1, recall that I mentioned above that MLE is not that old as sociolects go. It's definitely old enough and close enough to Crowley and Aziraphale for them to know it-- and the above illustrates them using it-- but what about before MLE emerged to give them the tip top slang option? What did Crowley and Aziraphale call a blowjob in their language before the 1980s/1990s?

The paintball scene then sees them show us another euphemism for it that other scenes in the series show us that they've been using for at least a few hundred years. Let's talk about the etymology of 'thank' and what they mean when they offer to say 'thank you.'

The word thank is etymologically tied to the same root words as both thought and think... which are, of course, things you do with your head. They are all rooted in the Latin tongere. The word tongue is rooted to both tongere and the Latin lingua, for languages. As a result, the words tongue, think, and thank are all linked together in their histories and, as an added bonus, are also tied to words related to languages and wordplay, which makes it all a little extra funny from hidden language/innuendo standpoint.

The other common euphemism for giving a blowjob is to refer to it as "giving head." You think with your head and use your tongue to speak but... you also use your tongue when you've got your head in your partner's lap... You bow your head to pray, which is referred to as to 'give thanks' to God... and you bow your head to make your partner feel tip top...

Oh, hello, Blasphemy Kink, Our Old Friend... 😇

In the paintball scene, Aziraphale smiles dirtily and says "oh, thank you" after Crowley mends his coat, and gives Crowley that look that says that he wants to give him a proper thank you for his help. Mrs. Sandwich in S2 picks up on the seamstress/clothing innuendo theme when she's going on suggestively about her girls' ability and willingness to mend a gentlemen's shirt, nodding back to Crowley's hollowed-cheeked bit of magical seamstressing in S1.

If you look at Crowley in the above Aziraphale-saying-thank-you gif, you'll notice from the movement of his head, that Crowley replied-- with a humorous tone-- the standard response to someone verbally saying "thank you" which is, of course: "You're welcome."

"You're welcome" is every bit as funny and dirty as "thank you" in this context...

First, there's that "welcome" is homophonic for both "will come" and "we'll come." Aziraphale says he wants to give thanks and Crowley replies with the assured, well, outcomes of that outpouring of gratitude. 😂 But there's also the amazing history of "welcome"...

"Welcome" is derived from combining two words in Old English: the prefix wil-, which means "desire, pleasure" and the word cuman, which means "come." Together, they also formed the word in Old English that is the origin of "welcome"-- 'wilcuma'-- which meant (I kid you not) "a person whose coming is pleasing."

Aziraphale is always very welcome, as far as Crowley is concerned lol.

The spelling evolved into "welcome" over time, thought to be influenced by the Old Norse velkominn (which is from where the modern German "welcome" of "willkommen" is derived.) Mixed in the evolution of "welcome" is also the Old French "bien venu" (which has evolved into its modern form of "bienvenue"). "Bien" in French means "good" and "venu" is of the French verb venir, which means "to come."

Obviously, the original meaning of wilcuma/welcome is in reference to hospitality of a less sexual nature. If you go to a holiday party at your aunt's house in the modern era, your aunt still might say "oh, we're so happy you could come!" and she's not referring to your ability to achieve orgasm when she says that but your ability to be able to clear your schedule and travel to her house for a party. The "come" in that sense is the same "come" in welcome/wilcuma, in that it refers to an arrival at a usually planned destination. It's from this same sense of travel, though, that language has evolved to refer to having had an orgasm as having "come." The language around orgasm contains a sense of the experience of it being a journey and a climax being a sense of arrival at the end of that journey.

It's that aspect of use of "to come" in language history and evolution that Crowley and Aziraphale are using as innuendo where it overlaps with even some of the most common things we say all the time-- "thank you" and "you're welcome." They are also on a road trip in the paintball scene when they break out the innuendo around giving thanks, so the travel-related wordplay has another layer to it. They actually have a lot of innuendo around travel and forms of transportation and where those overlap in language related to sex that we could look at it in another meta that I'll probably inevitably end up calling 'Travel Sweets'... 😉

This is why, with the exception of the "thank you"/"you're welcome"s in the paintball scene-- when they're both already giving each other fuck me eyes all over the place-- the scenes in which we see either of them saying the words "thank you" to one another are, so far, always posed as questions regarding whether or not they should 'say thank you' in that moment instead of just saying the words 'thank you' aloud, which adds to the idea of 'thank you' being euphemistic. The scenes show them asking if thanks should be said instead of just saying it because when they ask if they should 'say thank you', they are really asking if the other wants a blowjob.

Such as, in 1793:

Aziraphale was legit going to blow Crowley right there but Crowley was looking to get the fuck out of the rapey torture cell first. I'm sure he was amenable to the angel giving thanks after some crepes, though... and 174 years later, in 1967:

This one is particularly interesting from an euphemistic standpoint because Aziraphale had just given Crowley Holy Water, which is a bit akin to Beez's fly in S2, in that it's something his body is capable of making. It's his holiness as an angel that allows him to bless water and turn it from water into Holy Water which is, ironically, a substance that could kill Crowley, who has otherwise been drinking Aziraphale's holy water for quite some time by 1967 and who then replies to Aziraphale giving him actual Holy Water with the suggestion that he bow his head and pray a little over his communion font of a partner.

The other bit of this is that, even though they're alone in this instance, they're speaking on multiple layers as if they are not, which they do not always do when they're alone but which we have seen that they've evolved into feeling more comfortable doing sometimes when it comes to more intense conversations. (2.06 is a great example of just how much more comfortable they are speaking in their own language because of how they both try to run to it within a minute of trying to abandon it. A conversation that starts out trying to be more plain-spoken has Crowley invoking nightingales code by the end of it.)

Crowley really is asking Aziraphale if he should say thank you in 1967-- if he should say the words-- as well as the euphemistic layer to what he's saying here because he's surprised and moved and he doesn't know what to say. The choice to phrase it like that, though, and to also include the euphemistic meaning of saying thank you, is also intentional. They keep it up throughout the whole conversation-- "I'll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go" and Aziraphale's "go for a picnic" and "dine at The Ritz" are as literal as they are euphemistic, as everything else in their language is.

There is one other scene where tip top returns, though, and it is during this moment here:

Crowley and Aziraphale have driven back from Tadfield. From conversation had in previous scenes on the way, Crowley might have been planning on staying at the bookshop for awhile when they got back and Aziraphale wanted that. But then, as he's getting out of The Bentley, Aziraphale spotted that Anathema had left Agnes Nutter's book in the backseat and then had his whole moment of trying to rush into the bookshop alone to read the book without telling Crowley what was going on. Crowley asked if he was alright and Aziraphale replied:

"Perfectly, yes. Uh, tip top. Absolutely tickety-boo! Mind how you go!"

Aziraphale is anxious to get inside and be alone with the book but his words, if stressed, are structured to try to sound reassuring to Crowley that, even if he seems outwardly anxious, he's not upset with Crowley himself over anything, even if he's basically telling him to go home when, most nights, the assumption would be that he could stay a bit. He's tossing bits of wordplay at Crowley while running for the door. Perfectly/Perfect is from the Latin perfectus, which is combined of per-, meaning "through; completely" and facere, meaning "do." Perfect, as a result, can mean "done completely" in etymologically-based innuendo. If Aziraphale is then also referencing tip top here again and adding in perfectly, the suggestion seems to be that they pulled over to say thank you on the way home from Tadfield. Aziraphale is using it as an excuse to not invite Crowley in for more by trying to say he's completely done as a result and needs to be alone and nothing to see here, Crowley, nothing unusual, not at all acting weird and out of the ordinary! Aziraphale is absolutely ticketyboo...

Ticketyboo is Victorian-era slang and, despite Aziraphale wearing clothes from the 1800s constantly, we don't actually hear him use a lot of slang from the Victorian era or the rest of the 1800s still in modern times, which is a bit surprising. (And also disappointing as Victorian slang is amazing.) Aziraphale is actually a lot more current with his language than he is with any other aspect of his life, which is pretty interesting from a characterization standpoint... but which also makes his use of ticketyboo more interesting, though, as a result.

Ticketyboo means "everything is great." Its etymology is a little uncertain but it is thought to be a mashup of the Hindi phrase "thik hai" and the British English saying "that's the ticket," with the two phrases crossing back and forth between dialects of British officers stationed in India and both the people in India with whom they interacted and people originally from India who emigrated to London and interacted with British people there.

"Thik hai" means "it's alright" while "that's the ticket" has a pair of positive meanings. It can reflect the good feeling when something that is morally right, just and good has either happened or been suggested, as in: "Jury selection has finally fucking begun in one of the 1400 Donald Trump criminal trials-- that's the ticket!" It also can be used as an expression of pleasure, as in: "Jury selection has finally--" (just kidding though I would also count that as pleasurable lol)... as in: you take a sip of coffee first thing in the morning after a difficult night sleeping and sigh "oh, that's the ticket"... or your partner gets that knot out from under your shoulder blade-- "ahh, that's the ticket..." It's something that feels right and good.

But there's one other part of ticketyboo to consider, and that's the 'boo' part. The etymology of this bit, in particular, is muddled but what is interesting here is that while the word became ticketyboo-- all one word-- it is thought to actually have originally been spoken as two words: "tickety, boo." The 'thik hai/that's the ticket' part refers to the 'tickety' part of the word... so, what about the 'boo' part?

The general idea to date is that 'boo' evolved from 'bo' and that 'bo' is mixed into it because of homophonic overlap with the French word from which it is thought to have evolved-- 'beau.' The reason why this is thought to be part of the history of ticketyboo is that MLE has some overlap with AAVE (African-American Vernacular English) in the United States and, since roughly sometime in the 1980s, "boo" has been a gender-neutral term of endearment for someone's partner that originated in AAVE, exists in MLE, and has since spilled over into mainstream American slang.

'Beau' means "handsome" in French and it is, as you probably know, also an old-fashioned term for a boyfriend or a male admirer. It referred to a suitor who was romantically pursuing a woman-- bringing her flowers (and chocolates, when she opened a bookshop in particular lol), picking her up in his car and taking her on dates... courting her, as it used to be called. You might have a boyfriend but your great or great-great grandmother would have had a beau.

It's from this term that the more modern "boo" has arisen. Someone's boo in our modern times is their romantic partner of any gender and not necessarily someone with whom you are still in a courtship stage but can also refer to a spouse or a partner with whom you are in a committed relationship.

As a result, the reason why Aziraphale might be using ticketyboo in 2019 when he has stopped most of the rest of the great Victorian slang he undoubtedly misses is not necessarily because he's randomly using fusty old language because he's stuck in the past. It could actually be because he is using old slang that Crowley also remembers in a modern way in their wordplay in the present, referencing where it overlaps with the more current slang with which it shares an origin.

Aziraphale is not so much just saying "ticketyboo" as much he's also saying its origins of "tickety, boo" and referencing boo/beau to both refer to Crowley as handsome and as his boyfriend/partner within the full history of the one word of "boo" that he says.

Aziraphale's response to Crowley asking if he's alright then becomes akin to basically this, from a wordplay standpoint:

Yes, perfectly! Just worn out from the day, am in tip top shape from that tip top though haha! Not at all looking cagey and nervous nope nothing to fret about everything is absolutely fine, not to worry, my weirdness right now is not about you! You're just the lovely ticket as you always are. Good night now, my handsome boo. Do be safe getting home.

Crowley was understandably, though, thoroughly confused by this because Aziraphale dropped ticketyboo while acting weird and not letting him come inside for a nightcap and at least a little canoodle but Aziraphale's weirdness was worth it for listening to Crowley sound out the term-- "TiCKeTyboo?"-- while trying to math out what had gotten into his angel. I think he called me his handsome boyfriend while having a nervous breakdown. Weird, but also probably in character...

On a darker note? Look at how much the ticketyboo scene is a more light-hearted version of the end of 2.06, in a way. Aziraphale sees the book that can stop the end of the world but he doesn't tell Crowley about it-- just as how Aziraphale learned of The Second Coming from "The Metatron" but instead of crossing the street to tell Crowley who, again, was standing beside The Bentley, Aziraphale keeps the information to himself and goes inside, shutting the door, leaving Crowley standing in the street for a moment before he gets in the car and drives off. Just an observation, not sure yet exactly how it would all fit together, but we'll see in S3...

I want to go back to talking about "giving thanks" for a moment because we have to look at one, other scene that's very relevant to this and it's this one:

In 1.01, we are reintroduced to Aziraphale after the scene on the wall in Eden and the time jump of thousands of years. The very first thing we ever see him do is thank his friend for preparing the sushi he was planning on enjoying with the delayed-by-Hell Crowley. We see Aziraphale bow his head over the food and say "arigato"-- Japanese for "thank you"-- before starting his meal. Ojigi-- the tradition of bowing out of a sign of respect in polite society in Japan-- is a sign of reverence and, in situations like the one in which Aziraphale bows, is an expression of gratitude. Here's Aziraphale showing a devout sense of reverence to the skills of the human chef who prepared for him a meal he's going to enjoy with a pleasure that overlaps with sexual pleasure and that is his form of prayer before the meal. He and Crowley worship more at the altar of humanity and in ways that tie closer to an Eastern sense of spirituality than in devotion to those of a monotheistic God.

Pagans of The Good Times, as a certain Irish God with a song on Crowley's official playlist calls it. Hungry work...

Because, in addition to the general sense of a definition of prayer being "to give thanks to God," there is also Grace, the traditional prayer said at the start of a meal to thank God for the blessings of the food on the table. Crowley and Aziraphale's hidden language when it comes to sex is entirely structured around food as a result of the apple, the ox ribs and, eventually, the oysters. Alcohol, bread, fish...they've got a real water-to-wine, loaves-and-fishes, and fuck- Leviticus-sideways thing going on lol... so it is deliciously dirty and very funny that they developed euphemisms for giving each other a blowjob that are related to saying grace by bowing their heads in prayer and giving thanks.

For the food they they about to eat in S3, may The Voice of Frances McDormand make them truly grateful. Amen.

#ineffable husbands #aziracrow #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #good omens meta #good omens 2 #ineffable husbands speak #etymology

201 notes · View notes

onlymingyus · 2 months

Text

I Hate to Admit

• pairing; lee jihoon x f reader • genre; angst • warnings; alludes to cheating in the past, arguments, tension -- no happy ending • w/c; 770 and some change • i hate to admit - bang chan • don't listen in secret masterlist • a/n; this song is one of my favorite songs. it hits me right in the feels every single time. i was in a sad place when i wrote this, so i am sorry for that. thank you to @onlyhuis for betaing. i also hope you all don't mind a bonus posting 💕

before continuing remember reblogs are incredibly important and please read how to support me here

He took the same path every day, rarely looking up, but your voice caused Jihoon’s heart to clench and his eyes to lift today. You were talking on your phone, a pretty smile on your face. Ending your phone call, you slide the phone back into your pocket only to stop when you find the man looking at you.

He missed you so much. He wanted to tell you that. You instantly put a smile on his face that he couldn’t hide. You made his heart beat faster, and his palms sweat. He felt warm around you as if you were the sun.

“Jihoon…hi.”

Your voice was quiet and timid, but that was to be expected after the fight and his avoiding your calls and texts. He didn’t want to read another text about how sorry you were when he knew it wasn’t real.

“Hey.”

Jihoon clears his throat, lifting his hand to run his fingers through his long hair. He knew he needed to get a haircut, but with everything going on…it had become the least of his worries. His eyes move over your face as he takes a step forward, his hands sliding into his hoodie to hind how nervous he actually was about seeing you now.

“You look…really good, Jihoon. I–did you get any of my calls?”

You watch as the man in front of you nods to answer your question. It made his answer sting that much more. You knew you didn’t deserve him to answer the calls or to even call you back, but it would have made things feel better. Easier?

“I see–”

“You look pretty, Y/N. Uh…”

Jihoon’s words cut you off causing you to furrow your brows. He felt confused and in pain looking at you. He loved you so much and yet just looking at you hurt. He wanted to give you a second chance more than anything, but he had spent his time trying to forget. You watch Jihoon’s mouth start to open only for it to close again.

He wanted to say something more, but you could see him processing it in front of you. In his mind, Jihoon was considering if you’d go out to coffee with him, and talk through everything that had happened. If maybe that could get you and him back to where you had been before it had all gone to shit so quickly. But as soon as the words started to form on his lips, Jihoon pushed them away knowing it was a bad idea. He hated to admit to himself that there was no saving this.

“I hope you have a good day. I should get going. I gotta get to work.”

Jihoon doesn’t wait for you to argue. He can see the hurt in your eyes, the way you want to try to change the past and present. He wanted to change it too, but he had spent too many nights already trying to do that. Walking past you, Jihoon doesn’t look back and you blink the tears from your lashes knowing it was what you deserved.

With his studio door shut behind him firmly, Jihoon lets out his uneven breaths as his own tears threaten his eyes. He hated knowing that he had probably made you cry. That was one thing he had promised you while you were dating that he’d try not to do and yet he had lied. He had lied because you had lied.

Sliding down in his chair, Jihoon blows out a deep breath before closing his eyes trying to push you from his head but instead, he can only remember more. He pictures your hand in his, your body against his, your lips meshing with his own. Fingers clench at the arms of his chair and Jihoon remembers asking you “Why, him? Why, Seokmin?”

He remembers your eyes full of tears as you tried to think of how to lie your way out of it only to break down into apologies because you had been the one to cheat. You had cheated on him with one of his best friends. You had said you loved him and it had been a lie.

Lifting his hand, Jihoon groans in annoyance pushing tears from his cheeks as he mutters to himself that he has to stop this. He had cried over you too many times. Every time a text came to his phone with another apology. Every time you had called him trying to tell him how much you loved him, Jihoon had cried because he loved you.

“I gotta forget her. She's changed, just gotta let go.”

#woozi angst #seventeen angst #svthub #svt angst #jihoon angst #woozi x reader #seventeen x reader #svt x reader

100 notes · View notes

thisismeracing · 11 days

Text

Screw him | MS47 (Patreon Exclusive)

read the full piece here

― Pairing: Mechanic!mick x reader (she/her) ― Warning: +18! mentions of alcohol, food, and cheating; graphic description of sex (fingering, handjob, public sex, and choking); dom!ms47; 5k words. ― Summary: When you move to a different neighborhood and discover your hot neighbor is a mechanic, half of your problems evolving your old car are solved. Your issues with your current boyfriend aren’t though. You too need a fix, and Mick may be the perfect guy for it.

▸ my masterlist | my taglist | patreon guide ▸ support my writing by reblogging, leaving a comment (don’t forget to follow me if you like the piece), or buying me a coffee

preview

The first thing that called your attention to the next-door neighbor the second you stepped out of the car were the chords of Californication – at least it’s good music, you thought. The second thing was the black car parked in the garage with open gates. If you could guess, you would say that some kind of single rocker uncle in his sixties lived there, he probably had a bike too considering the helmets hanging in the garage, he was most likely part of a bike club, drank beer, and wore worn out jeans and a cap.

But your guess turned out to be wrong when you walked back to the car to grab your things from the truck and a blonde guy around his twenties was smoking in front of said garage. He was wearing a black hoodie contrasting with his pale skin, and when your eyes met, you felt your body flutter. He had a pair of deep blue orbs that you could tell from a distance paired with pink lips that turned upward just a tiny bit – enough to indicate that he wasn’t unpleased by your appearance or staring. Giving him a small, polite wave you got back to loading your new house with your old stuff.

If you were to be honest, you didn’t mind Dave that much. The sex was mid at best, he knew how to be rude, and he had a jealousy issue, but he was familiar. Something you got used to. Something that got to you during a hard time in your life, just like Natalie Diaz once said, grief and love are alike, they can blend in a way you can’t tell which is which.

You held him like you held to your grief.

However, you were in a new place. Physically and mentally. That new place included kind people like Mrs. Angelina, Mick, and the twin neighbors – Amina and Aman, a new community.

And, of course, when you called Mick late at night after being unable to reach Dave, he answered on the first ring.

Friday night.

Past eleven.

First ring.

Instant pickup.

You were still trying to digest the whole thing when his voice sounded on the other side of the line. You have been interacting long enough to pinpoint precisely how his voice shifts, to notice the hind of worry in his tone.

“Yn?” He tries again after your silence. “Is everything ok?”

“Y-yeah, hm… Are you busy?” you bit the inside of your cheek wanting the metallic taste to anchor you. Your mind was everywhere but where it needed to be.

You heard shuffling around and his rock music being turned down, “Nah, I’m just working on the missus, as usual.” The missus being his black Benz EVO II. “What happened?”

“Bluey stopped working in the middle of a shortcut I decided to take,” you spilled everything, using the nickname you got for your car when you first got it.

“Oh shoot, you should have let me look at him that first week,” he mumbled, and you heard his keys jingle. “Send me your location, I’m on my way to tow that old bastard.”

“Please, show my Honda some respect,” you joshed and he chuckled.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” you could almost see him rolling his eyes playfully. “Don’t hang up, keep talking to me so I know you’re safe.”

“I’m ok, Mick, it’s just a weird and dark road, but no signs of snakes or frogs so all good.”

“How funny, did you get extra sugar on your coffee today, sweets?”

It was your turn to roll your eyes except you did it to prevent your smile from growing.

“Yup, extra sugar and extra syrup. I got you a venti iced, but if you keep being this sassy I’ll drink it all before you get here.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would, Mick. I totally would.”

He huffed, and you both giggled like a pair of teenagers before a comfortable silence was installed.

Sure enough, five minutes later he was looking inside your Honda’s motor while you held your flashlight beside him. His hands and arms were stained with oil and car grease from working on his car earlier that day.

You took a step back. Your ass found the grill of his black Mercedes, and your eyes lowered to his black Converses, suddenly finding the creases and dirt on the shoes interesting enough, until they stepped between your legs. His sturdy body claimed its space there.

Mike didn’t need to say a word – his cigarette and drink were forgotten beside you, and his free hands found your waist, pushed your body on the hood of the car, and fully stepped between your thighs. His strong waist made you open wide for him. He didn’t need to say a word, yet he did and wanted to hear you say it.

“Will you let me give you an orgasm? Show you what that loser of a boyfriend probably never did.”

There it was his crudeness again, laced with filth. You gulped, staring into his ocean-blue eyes, and after a beat, finally, nodded.

Mike’s pink lips tipped up in a smirk, and he dipped his head so his mouth was close to your ear, “Wanna hear you say it, sweets.”

He wanted you to be part of his dirty game. He wouldn’t do it alone. He wouldn’t take the blame. Or maybe he just rejoiced in knowing there was a part of you as filthy as he was, that craved the illicit with him. His honesty, though unsettling, draped over you like a blanket. It was warm. Maybe too warm. It would most likely burn soon, but you didn’t care. You wanted his body to be draped over yours too. Wanted the gush of air that left his mouth when he whispered against the skin of your neck.

“Please, Mike.”

“You gotta say it.”

“Fuck. Fuck me.”

And everything he did after felt like a fever dream.

────── ⋆🪩 VOICEMAIL: Hi! I hope you guys liked this lil sneak peek! Make sure to like and reblog if you did *mwah* and PLEASE, LET'S INDULGE IN THIS MECHANIC!MICK UNIVERSEEEE, I'M KINDA OBSESSED WITH IT dskgjsdkgdg

If you liked this piece and want early access to new ones and exclusive access to others, subscribe to my patreon!💘 ▸ check my main masterlist | patreon guide and my taglist.

taglist: @sachaa-ff @mickslover @mishaandthebrits @fdl305 @iloveyou3000morgan @crimeshowjunkie @saintslewis @carojasmin2204 @chaoticevilbakugo @wondergirl101ks @smiithys @shhhchriss @f1kota @lunnnix @karmabyfernando @crashingwavesofeuphoria @callsign-scully @dearxcherry @elliegrey2803 @peachiicherries @he6rtshaker @therealcap @mehrmonga @the-depressed-fellow @cixrosie @darleneslane @buckybarnessweetheart @nichmeddar @fastcarsandshit @thearchieves @balekanemohafe @jamie2305 @nzygftoji @leclercsluv @graciewrote @alessioayla @littlesatanicassholebitch @barcelonaloverf1life @noncannonships @is-just-a @love4lando @woozarts @namgification @formulaal @ferrariloverr @heelariously @khaylin27 @bernelflo @fakehappy27 @eugene-emt-roe

#op: patreon preview #mick schumacher #mick schumacher x reader #mick schumacher x you #f1 fandom #f1 x reader #ms47 #millie writes #f1 patreon #f1 imagines #mick schumacher imagine #mick schumacher fanfic #mick schumacher smut #millie writes smut #f1 smut #op: patreon exclusive

94 notes · View notes