#is the only line in the song that is semi about their relationship | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

leclsrc · 1 year

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see it through ✴︎ cl16

genre: friends to lovers, fake dating au, fluff!, humor, slight angst, slow burn-ish, yearning

word count: 9k

“It’s a proposition for the fans.” She smiles. “It’s a fake relationship.” Or: you go from social media manager to girlfriend in under a day. Keeping up appearances for Charles’ family isn’t easy, until it is – and until they’re not really appearances anymore.

notes... internet translated italian ahaha

auds here... this fic is quite long! i hope you all like it. title from this bee gees song which reappears in the fic later. few music references here so if you like to listen to music, just look for the titles, they’re famous!

You’d gotten the phone call on a Saturday morning.

Barely morning, you realized when you were digging for your phone in the sheets, half-asleep—it’d been five minutes past noon. You’d swiped, pressed the phone to your ear, and waited for the other end to speak, eyes shut.

“Good morning,” a vague voice had said on the other said, distinctly American. “This is Jenna Griffin, newly appointed PR specialist for Ferrari. Your boss told me you were free for lunch on Monday, so can I pencil you in for a one-thirty meeting?”

You click your tongue. “Um, yeah.”

“Wonderful. Monday, one-thirty. Apologies for the weekend call, it’s for Mr. Leclerc.” The line buzzes dead after, and you flop backwards onto your bed, confused out of your mind.

Your job for Ferrari was simple—create social media content, do the occasional damage control, have a pre-interview discussion with journalists, and generally stay out of everyone’s hair. It’s not a high-maintenance job, but it pays well, and you get to travel; plus, you’re young, and you figure this is just a stepping stone for a more legitimate post. Your point is, you’ve never gotten into trouble before, and are only at meetings to take minutes or get assignments.

Which is why a Monday lunch meeting—on your vacation, nonetheless—seems so out of the ordinary. And arranged by a PR agent from Ferrari? Last you’d heard, cars were objects and didn’t need publicity. The whole affair gives off a vibe of semi-mystery, almost, like you’re in the MI6 and taking lucrative calls in alleyways.

You feel through your bag for your hotel key card, wallet, and phone, and finding them all there, you leave and make your way to the restaurant. You’re not too nervous; you’ve had to have your own sit-down talks with higher-ups and even Charles or Carlos before, but none of the “you’re fired” variety.

The restaurant isn’t far from where you’re staying, so you shove sunnies on and trek there, managing to make it inside unscathed.

Table 17, the text reads, and you’re quickly ushered into a private section of the place. It’s empty, save for a couple and a far-off table seating one guy, whose back is to you. You realize it’s Charles when you squint your eyes harder. The waitress doesn’t give you much of a choice and seats you across him, promising to return with noontime champagne.

You slide your sunglasses onto your hair and look up. “Hi,” you say politely.

“Hey,” Charles says back casually. He wears a Richard Mille and a few other bracelets, a linen blue polo, and jeans.

“New PR thing?”

Charles smiles, shrugging. “Man, I’ve no idea. Wake up on Saturday and I’m due for a meeting. Is this for social media?”

Huh, so he doesn’t know either. “I don’t know. It was a super random call for me, too.”

He shrugs. “Both clueless.”

“Right. So, to be clear, we’re waiting for—”

“I am so sorry I’m late,” a woman says sheepishly, her heels clicking along the tiled floor. She definitely looks the part for a PR officer: pantsuit, heels, a blond bob, ridiculously expensive handbag, eccentric sunglasses. “Scusami, really.” Her Italian apology has an American twang.

“All okay,” says Charles with a small smile. “We were barely waiting, no?”

You nod, offering a tight-lipped smile of your own. “Yeah, don’t worry about it.”

She slides into the seat beside him and waves a waiter over, ordering in quickfire English; clearly, she’s been here before. Absently, you wonder if her previous affairs in this restaurant were also to have clandestine meetings. Your reverie doesn’t last long, though, because immediately Jenna’s starting her agenda. “So, are introductions in order?”

“I, um,” you say, “I’d say so, yes.”

“Alright, spectacular. I’m Jenna Griffin, just moved to Monte Carlo after living and working in SoCal. I’ve been appointed as a PR manager for Charles here, but don’t worry. You’re in good hands. I’ve handled three Kardashians, two NBA players, two One Direction members, and a lot of nepo babies.”

“Wow,” you say, nodding.

“Cool.” Charles says, clearly impressed.

Jenna’s gaze flits between the two of you, both smiling at each other. “Right,” she says. “Let’s get down to business.” She clears her throat and pulls out her phone from her handbag, scrolling for a few moments. While the silence settles, you steal another glance at Charles, and hide a chuckle when you find his eyes already glancing back at you.

“Aren’t we waiting for Carlos?” He asks, taking a sip of water.

His PR agent looks up briefly, then answers. “Actually, it’s just you two today.”

You nod slowly, burrowing even further into the confusion you’d been feeling since Saturday. It wasn’t like you were expecting Carlos, per se, but a meeting with just you and him—now, that’s a bit strange.

“So, I know this is all very confusing. But it’s happening for a reason,” says Jenna. “Charles—and I really only feel qualified to say this because I’ve done my research—has been on a streak of…erm, well, lady-related scandals lately.”

“Oh, God,” Charles groans across you, and you chew your lip. You’ve seen the headlines, but you’re still clueless as to how this concerns you.

“As a PR agent, I think it won’t do good for his public image to be seen as somebody who sleeps around.”

“It was two headlines,” Charles cuts in with a laugh. “And they were both fake. Please don’t misunderstand.”

Jenna clicks her tongue. “Yeah, the public definitely has some thoughts.” She turns to her phone and reads off of it. “‘Charles is a playboy and not a driver’, ‘Leclerc is too busy pulling girls’… times ten thousand. So, yeah, it’s a bit of a smear.”

“Right, okay. Listen, I’m not sure I understand,” you say with a stuffy laugh. “What has all this got to do with me?”

“Everything,” she answers with a smile. You raise a brow. “Well, you see, we PR managers always have a network. We keep tabs on who’s who, and who needs what. As a new manager, I need to implement some of my strategies around here. Go digging, you know? Find something good. And when I found your pretty little face in the background of many of Charles’ paddock photos, I realized you could help create something newsworthy.”

“Are you talking about a PR stunt?” You ask, your frown deepening.

“Well—virtually, essentially, yes.” She opens her mouth to explain but is interrupted by the serving of champagne and appetizers. “Okay. Don’t think this is a haphazard decision. Naturally, we had to find out if this would even be a good idea…”

“Which it’s not,” you say, taking a swig of champagne.

She nods. “The thing is, your bosses and I really did go over several scenarios, and this one seems the most likely to keep your fans engaged. This way, the appearances won’t look so staged.”

“—Jenna,” Charles says, clearly having detected your hesitance, “I don’t think she’s interested.”

“It’s fine,” you say, but you still sound off-put. It’s not fine, not really. “I don’t see how this is going to help Charles, though. I’d think the idea of him being committed to somebody would just further alienate his fangirls.”

Jenna chuckles. “While that is, to some extent, true, the number of fans who would go gaga over the two of you far, far outweighs the opposing population. This is a special case. A girl next door social media manager with a social media presence—and a wildly popular, totally charming Formula One driver? I mean, talk about Harry and Meghan! Everybody loves love. And, might I add, Charles’ male fans might actually like seeing you two together.”

You sigh, a quick huff of frustrated air. “So, what is this then?”

“It’s a proposition for the fans.” She smiles. “It’s a fake relationship.”

You reach for champagne, but find you’ve totally drained your glass. The room falls into muted silence, and you can’t bring yourself to look at Charles. You didn’t expect this on a Monday afternoon. You thought maybe it was a job termination. Or a leaked text message. Somehow, this is the strangest of all possibilities.

“So, good?” She chirps. “I’ll send you the primer.”

You both stare at each other. “We’re not actually going to. Right?”

“Right. We are not dating.”

—

“We’re dating!” You chirp, practicing your appearances in front of Carlos and Lando, who had visited the former.

“You two look like two people dating pretending to be friends,” Lando observes.

You grumble. Many of your shots had been staged pap photos outside his apartment, or fans happening to catch you two together; no official statement had been released, according to Jenna’s “masterplan.” For the most part, it was a good dynamic of putting up a façade for the public and settling back into a platonic relationship within minutes.

Nothing really goes wrong at first—and then Charles ruins it.

It happens after a Ferrari event in spring. You’re in Monza again, weather humid when you re-shoot the fifth TikTok for the day with Carlos. There are celebrities to and fro, even more journalists and a shitload of fans crowding the perimeter of the area. You’ve successfully pulled off the fake dating stunt, keeping a lowkey profile and doing your job.

There’s a green room for the drivers and close managers to wait and rest, where you stow yourself away to avoid the crowds. You review the reels and stories for the day, and cap it off with a “goodbye, Tifosi!” post with Carlos that’s enough to quell the many notifications.

Granted, many of the said notifications are of the speculative nature. Some are wondering if it’s you posting or if a new hire was underway to make room for the new couple. You ignore them anyway and take a seat on the couch across Carlos, sighing with exhaustion.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” He teases.

“Ha-ha,” you say, unimpressed. You gesture to the TV behind him, showing a live feed of Charles’ last interview of the day with Natalie Pinkham. Once this is over, you’re free for the week: free of social media manager and fake girlfriend responsibilities. The thought alone makes you well up with relief.

You and Carlos both watch intently as Charles answers several event-related questions that, to your horror, simmer into personal ones. Natalie sounds excited when she goes, “Any plans for the week with a special someone?”

Charles has no thought behind his eyes, a muted wave of panic coming over him as he fumbles for a response. “My family’s staying up in Tuscany, in a farmhouse we own, stay in for spring and summer. We are actually visiting them for the week.”

We are actually visiting them for the week. Your look of pure, unadulterated shock doesn’t go unnoticed by Carlos, who’s quick to snap pictures of you on his phone. What the hell is Charles talking about? Tuscany? No, family?

“I take it you didn’t know about this,” Carlos says with a laugh.

“You think?!” You holler, still appalled. Charles has a lot of gall to spin this without your permission, or Jenna’s for that matter. You know she’ll love it, though; it’s really, mainly, you who has a problem with it. Anxious, you get up and watch the broadcast end; not a minute later, Charles enters and offers a can of sparkling water to you.

“Thirsty?” He asks casually.

“Very,” you pipe, taking a gulp.

“You’re welcome,” he says teasingly.

“Oh, thanks! I think I’ve been busy thinking about the fact that I’m meeting your family!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He yells, trying to match your agitated volume. “I didn’t know you were watchi—I was nervous! I didn’t know what to say anymore! And—you kno—well—and Natalie kept asking a ton of questions!”

Your face of disbelief matches his of sheepish apology, facing each other frozen. Across you, Carlos lets out an incredulous laugh, mumbles something about wanting popcorn. You honestly can’t blame him. Had you been an outsider, you would’ve relished in Charles’ slip-up, too. Instead, you’re the one who’s apparently going to Tuscany on Friday to meet the extended Leclerc clan.

“It’s fine. It’s gonna be”—you attempt to find an appropriate adjective—“bearable. At least we don’t need to keep up appearances there.”

You’re met with disagreeable silence. When Charles doesn’t chime in with an agreement, you turn slowly back to him. “No.”

“It’s only for a week—”

“No!”

“A week!”

You’re both standing up, pacing around the other frantically. Pretending to suddenly be bumped up from social media manager to Charles’ girlfriend was a daunting enough proposition. Getting hate mail and death threats was enough incentive to let you want to leave. Timing exits and entrances was difficult. And now, pretending to be together in front of his family? His family.

“Why can’t you just tell them we’re not actually dating?!”

“It’s just—it’s complicated having to explain why.” You remember his assortment of man-whore scandals and realization sinks into you. You sit on the arm of the couch, deflated and contemplative. Despite your own knowledge of the scandals being totally baseless and false, you understand it’s difficult to explain the lengths of tabloids and online rumors to older family members.

You might have to grin and bear it.

“Fine.” You digress. He cheers silently. “One week. Once our quickie breakup is finalized, you’re telling them it ended well. I don’t want to be in anybody’s bad graces.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”

Tuscany won’t be so bad, you think. What’s the worst that could happen?

—

Charles’ extended family greets you at their farmhouse when you arrive heaving two pieces of luggage. It’s populated by two aunts, three uncles, and two younger cousins, and their hospitality is contagious. They all somehow remind you of Charles, their faces, their laughs, their easy attitudes.

His aunts, Mia and Giulia, are the first to pull you in for a hug and inspect your face. Good eyebrows! Good lips! Healthy attractive child for you both!

You have to pry yourself off of them with giggles and smiles and pretend the kid comment was never uttered for your own sake. They’re kind, ushering you inside and serving dinner immediately, inquiring about the drive and if it was bad, if Charles had spotted any dead sheep or cattle on the way (none.)

His cousins are both little boys, eleven and six, shy and with thick accents. Charles’ smile is huge when he speaks to them in Italian, eyes comical and animated. His three uncles all eat fairly quietly, talking about politics, or racing, only when they feel like it.

They ask many questions, and tell so many stories, over limoncello and rigatoni that leave you stuffed after two platefuls. You didn’t think you’d be satisfied so soon after the drive, but you’re grateful for it. His uncle Giorgio leads the tour of the house, his voice slow and constantly sliding into Italian, but Charles is quick to supply a translation into your ear. Lit by terrace lights, you get a night view of the house, surrounded by the hills, the lemon trees, and a swimming pool in the back. Further back, there are two horses for riding, and bicycles for easier transportation.

A vineyard borders the other side of the hill, owned by a different family. You can’t digest the beauty of this place, even without the sun to provide a better view. You’re back inside, being shown the rest of the wide dining room and kitchen that lead out onto a balcony-terrace area, and then clambering the stairs to be shown your room—a beautiful one on the second floor that overlooks the hills.

“This is so beautiful,” you say honestly. “Thank you so much. And Charles will be staying…?”

“In my childhood bedroom!” He quips excitedly, already halfway out the door to review his living situation.

Giulia and Mia share a look and then the former goes, “Wait, Charles!”

He slows to a halt and turns, awaiting their words. “Ay. Bambino, because you have been in Monaco so long these days, and we have gotten a lot of stuff, your childhood bedroom is now more of a… storage room.”

“A storage room?!” He sounds scandalized.

“Bambino, mi dispiace,” she continues. “But—let’s not be conservative! You two have been dating now for a year, correct? Surely, you’ve slept in one bed.”

Your face grows warm. “Um, actu—”

“Shh,” Mia says kindly. “No need to make excuses. Charles, stay with your girlfriend. And we will wake you both for breakfast. Ciao!”

You barely voice your assent, managing to wedge in a thank you! before the door closes and leaves you and Charles alone.

In a room without a single couch. The only non-bed “resting” space is a single chair, and as much as you want to, you don’t want Charles to break his spine trying to sleep on it. The situation is clear. You need to configure the bed.

“We cannot sleep on the same bed.”

“I’ll take the floor.”

“No! I mean—ugh. I don’t want to risk you pulling a muscle. Also, more importantly, if any of your family walks in and sees you sleeping on the floor, they’re going to think we’re freaks.”

“The bed is big enough for us both,” he says, gesticulating. You narrow your eyes. If you’re going to be avoiding physical contact, it definitely isn’t. It’s like the gods had decided to bless the room with a bed perfect for two people snuggling.

You place your hands on your hips, analyzing the best way to tackle the situation. You won’t lie, you’d thought about the possibility of sharing a room—but a bed was completely different. You’d expected a couch, a loveseat of some kind, both of which are woefully missing. Thinking fast, you take the three decorative, cylindrical pillows and place them vertically on the centre of the bed.

You step back. “Okay. That’s our boundary.”

Each side is a bit small, but it’s the price to pay, you think, taking a long look at your handiwork. Beside you, Charles snorts. “That is not going to work.”

“I’ll bet you it will,” you say matter-of-factly, retreating to the bathroom to get ready for bed. When you emerge, Charles is fast asleep, half his body on your side of the boundary. You have to pour water on his face to shoo him away, and that’s when you’re positive your creation will work.

You place yourself gingerly on your side of the border, remaining perfectly still as you drift off to sleep. You wake up the next day on Charles’ chest, pushing him away before admitting you’d been in that position in the first place.

You slide him five euros over breakfast.

—

Charles is a good driver, skier, and biker—you can attest to this from being by his side, reviewing pictures and videos of him for a living.

But there’s one thing he absolutely sucks at, and it’s teaching. You thought you’d never have to attest to this, but here you are, with scraped knees and a smudge of soil on the hem of your shorts, on your sixth attempt to learn how to ride a bike.

It’d been his idea, like many of the odd things you’d gotten yourself into. “Let me make up for dragging you along,” he’d said, and then proceeded to commit attempted murder every time he sent you away on the bicycle. Five tries did you no good; Charles’ directions contradicted each other and came much too fast, causing you to crash into the grass or skid yourself to a halt, your sneakers coated in a light layer of dust.

“Why are we still trying?” You ask woefully, examining the scratches on your calf. And to think you would’ve gotten to go truffle hunting with his uncle had Charles not swept you away to bike.

“It is an important life skill. Just—don’t look at the ground. Okay. Andiamo!” He sends you off again, watches as you twist and careen into a bush. Again. Your groan of pain matches the ooof he lets out, jogging to help you up. You turn away from the ground and toward his face. His laughing face.

“Ow. What?” You ask, raising a brow. You flex your fingers, waiting for him to pull you upwards.

“You smashed into a bush and a berry’s all over your cheek.” He says, still laughing when he helps you up. You hold the tip of your pinky to your face, press down, and sure enough, when you inspect it again, it’s stained a dark berry color.

“Is this toxic?!” You ask, agitated.

“Che? Toxic? No, no. It’s a juniper berry.” He reaches over and swipes his thumb across your face, sending you into a frozen state. Your hands remain at your sides while he focuses on wiping the rest of the fruit off of your cheek, showing you his stained finger afterwards with a proud smile. “All gone.”

You turn and pick up the bicycle. “One more for good luck,” you say, shaking off the nerves and gut churning feeling deep in your stomach. You situate yourself atop the bike, trying to remember and re-remember all the tips Charles had given you.

“Don’t look down, just breathe, keep your eyes trained straight. If you crash, on the grass always. Better than this path.”

“Got it,” you say breathlessly, determined. You take off, eyes trained on the landscape in front of you, leaving the house behind and gliding quickly downhill. It takes you a beat to realize, however, that you’re not falling. You’re doing it—properly. You turn to voice your pride, but that’s what gets you caught in your thoughts.

Charles is cheering behind you, but once he detects you’re stumbling, he runs the few metres over. Still, he can’t catch you fast enough; you do manage to turn right and land on the grass. In his own rush, Charles trips on the horizontal bike, and lands right beside you, atop your arm.

Eventually you’re both doubled over laughing, your fingers finding purchase on the blunt grass. You both only quiet down when you hear his aunt’s car, old and rickety, grow louder. You look up to find Giulia peeking out of the driver’s window, her face as amused as it is confused.

Beside her, Mia yells. “Buon lavoro, Charles!”

“What’d she say?” You ask, still half-laughing.

“Good job,” he replies, entertained. “She said good job.”

—

Charles takes Giorgio’s Vespa and rides you both to town two days later, even with the offer of a car. He claims the motor ride is the best way to experience Tuscany at its finest. Nothing about the two-seater bike on the pebbly road feels fine, though, and you’re seriously contemplating broken ribs when he makes a sharp turn. It’s only a ten, fifteen-minute ride, but the downhill slope makes it seem faster—and more dangerous.

Your grip on his waist had gone from loose and hesitant to tight and anxious, your voice a mantra of possible death in his ear. He can’t help but laugh, revving harder and chiming in with a biting remark of his own.

“You know who this is named after?” He shouts over the wind whipping both of you.

“Mmm?” You ask.

“Apollonia, from the Godfather.”

“Oh, Christ. The girl who died?”

“Hey, she was beautiful! My uncle loved the movies so much, his Vespa had to be named after her.” You lean onto his back for purchase, still unused to the speed at which he zips through the countryside. Eventually, after a few turns, the terrain turns from rough to smoother, and he parks at the busy-looking town square, populated by locals and tourists alike, but not with the traffic of more popular cities. Alleyways lead to smaller corner stores and cafés; a chapel overlooks the area, and a market populates the centre.

“What would you name your bike, if you had to?” You ask as a follow-up, removing your helmet and shaking your hair out. You pull at your dress to straighten it out.

“Well…” He takes both your helmets and stores them in the bike, leading the way toward the bustle. “My uncles, and my father—they always say we name our most precious things after beautiful women. Apollonia. My other uncle, Leo, he named his sailboat after his mother, Bianca. Even my dad would name few objects after my mother. It’s a way of honoring them, you know?”

You nod, stopping at a produce stall and examining a bunch of tomatoes. “I think that’s sweet.”

“Yes, so I guess… well, I don’t know, really. My mother’s name, maybe?”

“She’s got a beautiful one,” you comment offhandedly.

“Yeah. Or, if we go by appearances, I suppose your name.”

You ignore the flush of nerves that well up in you and turn back to face him, confused and amused. “My name? Why’s that?”

“I mean,” he coughs, crossing his arms and smiling, “people think we are together, so if I get a bike, and they ask for her name, I must say yours, no?”

“Only if you want to,” you chirp back, amused. What had possessed him to suddenly bring you into the discussion? Neither of you are pretending for all these strangers. Here in town, you’re friends again, browsing the market, walking around stalls, eating free samples of pesto and cheese.

“I do want to,” he says. It’s a joke, you’re sure. Half-sure. It’s a joke.

The town square’s noise begins to die when the sun sets. City-dwellers leave to take trips back to main hubs of Italy, and with no nightlife in the area, many in the square are families or couples sitting down for dinner. The ride back, while short, might be dangerous in the dark; you tug on Charles’ sleeve to relay your thoughts.

“Don’t worry,” he says dismissively. “I’ve biked here past midnight.”

“What were you even doing in town at midnight, hmm?” You tease lightly, following him around. There’s not much to do except eat at this point, judging by the way you’d both exhausted the stalls in the afternoon. He rolls his eyes, mumbling excuses.

“You womanizer,” you whisper in an exaggerated scandalous tone. You poke his bicep. “Bedding the locals.”

“I was not, ay!” He defends. You’ve noticed his accent is so much thicker here, where he has to speak Italian all the time, except with you. It sounds nice. “I would come to smoke weed.”

That’s even funnier, you think, throwing your head back to laugh. Thoughts of teenaged Charles, tinged pink and tan from summer, on a momentary break from a junior racing career, biking fast back and forth—for a joint no less—are both funny and endearing. “That is so cute, Charles. Drug virgin.”

“Don’t speak of those when we’re in front of the house of the Lord,” he says sarcastically, gesturing to where your cyclical walking had landed you: back in front of the town’s chapel. There’s a pot of holy water by the front doors and a rack of candles for lighting and offering. Besides that, there’s a coin drop box being manned by a priest.

In silent agreement, you walk in sync to the candles, lighting one each and whispering brief intentions. You’re not religious, you’ve never been; a church seemed foreign to you, always. But you figure there’s no harm in a candle and an offer to the big guy, if he’s there.

There’s a mural painted by the doors, which you observe silently while Charles goes to drop donations into the box. You catch bits of their conversation. Good evening. Are you a tourist. No, we live up the hill, visiting for spring, yes.

The rest you don’t catch, turning to Charles and watching him talk, animated as he is solemn. The priest smiles at you politely, turns to Charles, goes, “Siete qui insieme?” You rack your brain for the Italian you’d picked up recently but can’t match it to anything.

Charles nods. “Qui per cenare, ed esplorare.” Esplorare, explore? You fail again, but continue listening anyway, occupying your eyes with the mural.

“È la tua ragazza?” The priest asks with a soft chuckle.

“Oh, sì, sì.” Charles looks very sure of himself when he says so.

The priest nods once. “Se ti sposi, allora dovrebbe essere qui, no?”

Charles turns slowly, looks at you, then smiles. “Okay,” he says, still looking at you. “Farò in modo che accada.” Then they’re exchanging quick Italian goodbyes and he’s walking back to you, guiding you to a nearby restaurant for dinner.

“What was that about?” You ask, the curiosity getting the best of you. You don’t remember what they said, so you can’t plug it into Google Translate; your last hope is getting Charles to translate it for you. You figure it’s no problem. He’s always translated for you during your stay here so far, word-for-word recounts that have you feeling fluent in the language after decoding them. Whether it be a family anecdote or a market transaction, the language has never become an issue for you.

You walk beside him, awaiting the translation that never comes. Instead, he smiles, shakes his head, and says, “That was nothing.”

—

Your first, last, and only close call happens during a wine and poker night with Charles’ uncles and aunts. You’d spent the morning semi-cuddling (to beat the early a.m. cold, you both insisted), and then a majority of the afternoon in the nearby vineyard volunteering to help pick grapes, and they’d offered to let you wind down for the night inside.

It starts off well enough—you and Giorgio best the first two rounds, much to everyone else’s chagrin, and you rest on the sofa, reading Giulia’s cookbook with a glass of wine. At quarter to midnight, Charles’ six-year-old cousin, Marco, comes inside and slots himself beside Charles, eyes sleepy.

“Cugino,” he says. Cousin. His voice is squeaky and childish.

“Yes, Marco?” Charles asks, preoccupied with his cards.

“Put me to sleep,” he says in accented English.

“Later. You should wait.”

“Can she do it?” A chubby hand rises and points toward you. You offer a small wink, sipping wine.

“Only if she wants to,” Charles says, turning to face you. You chuckle.

“I’d be happy to, Marco.” You smile.

“Cugino.” Marco tugs on Charles’ sleeve to regain his attention. “What’s her favorite color?”

Oh, shit. Neither of you had really thought this would come up, so you hope Charles can fake it well. While you know everything about him, he knows not much about you, especially little niche facts like this one. Charles clears his throat and goes, “Blue.”

“Favorite song?”

“Uh. Marco, aspettare. OK?”

“Why should he wait?” Giorgio asks, gruff. “Your aunts and I are curious, too.”

Charles meets your eyes, and you try to signal for him to lie, which he ends up doing. “It’s Take a Chance on Me. ABBA, zio.”

You do know that song, but it’s definitely not your favorite. You close the cookbook and get up, pacing onto the seat beside Marco and leaning against it, smiling and nodding. Beside Giorgio, Mia asks sweetly, “Do you have any tattoos, dear?”

Just you, or are Italian aunts ridiculously straightforward? You open your mouth at the same time Charles does, and that’s what leads to your downfall. Yes, one, you say. No, none, Charles says at the same time. You both look at each other, eyes wide.

His uncle grunts. “Bambino, do you know nothing of this lovely girl?”

“You misunderstand,” Charles says. “I thought she wouldn’t want to share that yet, zio. I tried to cover for her, but, er—she seems okay with sharing it.”

It’s a flimsy excuse but it seems to work, and the poker game resumes without any more questions about you.

Still, you grow nervous, frustrated a bit, and, once you spot Marco asleep, you take him into your arms and mumble a polite goodnight, carrying him upstairs. The call was just too close. Why did Charles feel the need to interject like that? Had you been caught in such a lie, you’d need to reveal everything.

Something else tugs at your chest, but you refuse to admit it incites an unhappy feeling out of you. Charles’ lack of knowledge about you did nothing but remind you that in the end, he did know nothing about you, and this was just contractual and obligatory and for the press-turned-for the family. You pat Marco’s forehead, sighing. You shouldn’t be so upset, but you are.

You know a lot about Charles, but it’s a cold fact that he can’t say the same about you; at least, not to the extent that you know him. The doors and staircase creak, signifying the game’s end and everyone’s retreat to bed; you await Charles’ entrance, which comes after you hear him opening your room, finding it empty, and then—

“Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say, hushed. You get up and walk past him, crossing the corridor and opening the door halfway into your room.

He says, then: “You really never tell me anything about yourself.”

You freeze, turn, suddenly frustrated all over again. Suddenly sad. “Yeah. You really know nothing about me.” It’s exaggerated, so it cuts deeper.

He’s upset, you realize. “Do I have to beg for these sorts of basic facts? I wa—I…” He pauses. “I want to know you more. I’ve always wanted to.”

“You didn’t even think to—to ask me the most basic questions before we got here.” You’re aware he didn’t owe you this, but your irritance doesn’t quell. “My favorite song, my favorite movie, color, anything. I could name all that on your behalf.”

“Every time I ask, you deflect. You never told me, either,” he says defiantly.

You scoff and ponder for a minute before shaking your head and clambering down the steps. You need some fresh air, having gotten mad so quickly. You know it makes no sense—he never needed to ask about you. Prior to last week, you worked with him. Still, everything’s changed now, and it feels hurtful knowing he can’t name these things about you.

You take a seat on the terrace chair, pretend not to notice when he sits beside you, separated by a table.

You hug your arms closer to yourself, sigh. “It’s, a koi fish on my hipbone. Hurt like a bitch.”

He looks at you, curious. You continue.

“My high school superlative was ‘most likely to be elected president’—embarrassing, I know. I won the local spelling bee. Thrice in a row. I love the color green, and the movie Fantastic Mr. Fox.”

You pretend you’re not feeling anxious from the sudden sharing, clearing your throat and keeping your gaze trained on the landscape of houses and hills around you.

“I love crosswords to a worrying degree, I’m a dog person but have never owned one, and my favorite song is Don’t Go Breaking My Heart. I kill it on karaoke.” Finally, your eyes slide slowly over to look at Charles. He’s already looking at you, smile soft on his flushed, pink face.

“I didn’t think of you as much of a singer,” he says, eyes crinkling from the size of his smile.

Huffing and stifling a laugh, you cross your arms defiantly over your torso. Your lips melt into a pout, and you flip him off in an attempt to stave him off. He just laughs harder, gulping the rest of his wine with ease.

“To be fair, I think I dance better,” you respond proudly. “It’s still bad, but it’s better. Better than you, anyway.”

“Is that a challenge?” He asks, mouth half-open, still caught in a laugh. “Wow. Okay, d’accord. It’s on.”

“It is most certainly not a challenge, Charles!” You object frustratedly.

“Challenge accepted!”

Against your vocal protests, he gets up from his chair and reenters the house, exiting with his phone in one hand and the rest of the wine in the other. He browses his selection of songs, humming until he seems satisfied with one of them. He pours you both a glass of preparatory red, a grin lighting up his face.

You burrow into the chair, unrelenting when he stretches out a hand to invite you to dance. You only end up giving in when you’ve successfully finished your wine, getting up and straightening out the wrinkles in your dress.

Your hand is still loosely clutched around his when he plays the Bee Gees song he’d queued up, and then both of you start dancing.

It’s a bit fast-paced, but you catch up well, letting yourself move fluidly to the song. All the while, your hand remains looped around his, like an anchor, a saving point. You shut your eyes to immerse yourself in the song, a smile on your face. When you crack them open, you watch Charles dance goofily, with moves you’d be totally embarrassed by otherwise. This time, you’re strangely endeared.

Where you expected yourself—the both of you, really—to be stiff and awkward, you’re both loose and easygoing, chuckling and laughing as the song progresses. Your dress swishes by your knees softly when you move, letting go of his hand momentarily. It flexes with the feeling of his absence. Charles dances like he has no care in the world, with movements that would rival a fifty-year-old’s. You find that you don’t have a care in the world either, watching him with a stupid grin on your features.

Your heart swells and seizes, and you swallow, not wanting to realize why yet. He reaches for your hand again, seeks it in the evening light. You give it to him easily, cut his search short. You’re what he looks for.

He lifts your linked hands right as the song starts its ending, and you realize you’re supposed to twirl around them. With a laugh, you follow, letting your arms stretch out when you’re done. He pulls you back, with strength that sends you barreling into his chest. “Dude,” you mumble, giggling. “Charles, you ruined my flow.”

You both part, but barely; your hands are still clasped, your distance barely increased. You stare up at him when the next song clicks on.

It’s slower this time, a song you recognize from films and novels. You remember this specific rendition from two years ago in Silverstone, when Charles had shared over a meeting that he’d been busy teaching himself the piano—specifically, The Way You Look Tonight.

The song continues, your hands still together, your eyes boring into his. The moon makes his light eyes a different shade, all green and soft edges rivaling the intensity of his stare. “Come on,” he says. “Why stop, no?”

He raises your hands, guides his vacant one to wrap around your waist. It’s warm there, secure, belonging. With all the hesitance in the world, you wrap a hand around his upper arm. Your gaze is unbreaking.

“Thank you,” he says, steering you both into a slow, easy rhythm. The nerves melt away slowly when you continue to sway. You cock a head to the side in a silent request for elaboration.

“For sharing.”

“Oh. It was only right,” you reply. “Considering you know nothing niche about me.”

“Tell me…” He starts, but the words tangle in his throat, lodge themselves there in a fit of nerves. He breathes, breaks the gaze. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind… if you told me more.”

A brief shine of surprise passes through your eyes, and you nod. “Alright.”

“Alright.” He smiles.

“Do you think, ” you say, swallowing the sorrow, “we’ll need to keep doing this when the week is ov—?”

“Let’s not dwell on that,” he says quickly. He sounds—sad, almost, at the thought of this being fake. In the days spent here, picking grapes, drinking wine, going on bike rides and practicing Italian, it was easy to let the lines blur. Perhaps he’d forgotten.

You realize, when he leans forward and slots his chin atop your head: you’d forgotten, too.

—

Despite the tension, the next day goes fairly normal, and Charles takes you to town on Apollonia late at night. The Tuscan air is crisp and clean when he parks by a pub, loud not with techno music or hip-hop, but Italians singing. Inside, it’s not so crowded, populated by regulars, few tourists, and several older people.

Charles orders himself a beer, and a cocktail for you after you request something sweet. The bartender gives you an extra one on the house, and you and Charles seat yourself in front, watching people sing on the stage.

“Vi piace cantare?” Someone asks, and Charles quickly supplies: he’s asking if we like to sing.

You wave your palm back and forth. So-so, you signal. Charles, of course, ever the social butterfly, slides into a natural conversation with him, about Italy, pubs, beer, and singing. The guy introduces himself as Antonio, owner of said pub and a man who is apparently more than happy to clear the queue of singers for you two.

“Wait, seriously?” You ask. Antonio nods, clapping Charles on the back. You’d have thought they’d been friends for years or something.

You immediately turn down the request, but Charles scrambles onstage, having downed two bottles of beer. You’re overcome with horror as you watch him walk across the small stage to the side of it to request a song, encouraging whoops from the crowd.

“Ohhhhh. Oh, no. This is not a good idea,” you say, gulping. “Plus, I’ve had a lot to drink. Your aperol spritzes have so much alcohol in them.”

Beside you, Antonio laughs. “Non si preoccupi—do not worry. He seems to be a confident guy. You’re in good hands.”

“Am I? He didn’t even ask if I wanted to sing. I don’t even know what to sing.” You watch him whisper a song to the guy in charge of the pub’s ancient karaoke system, half-sure that the song archive stops after 1990. The stage creaks when Charles reaches for another mic and then stretches his arm out to offer it to you.

You muster your best angry face, but he just laughs. “Come on. You will like it.”

Gulping the rest of your cocktail, you accept the mic, and then his hand, strong in yours as he helps you climb onstage. The crowd of locals and few tourists cheer for the both of you, and you don’t do much to hide your stage fright; even the buzz of alcohol can’t help you. You hope (and know, deep down) that Charles will.

“Buona sera a tutti,” Charles says, met with more raucous cheering. “Io e il mio amico cateremo per te stasera.” He bows, and you follow a bit stiffly, not knowing what he’s saying.

“Amico?” Someone jeers from the audience. “O fidanzata?!”

Charles laughs, and you know he’s truly entertained because his eyes crinkle the way they do. You fiddle with your dress, your hair, anything to channel the nerves. He waves the crowd off with a shush motion and then turns, gestures for the song to start. He catches your eye, anxious, quells your nerves by taking your hand and squeezing it. Don’t worry, he mouths. I’m here.

You identify the song before two seconds of it even play, and the realization is breathtaking: your favorite. You shut your eyes and let a huge smile come onto your face, laughing. You almost can’t believe him for this.

He starts off the song, taking your hand and leading you into a dance. Don’t go breaking my heart.

You twirl around him, exaggerating your movements and smiling. I couldn’t if I tried.

Somehow, you find dexterity, flow in the movements, the words. Maybe because you love the song so much. Charles matches your enthusiasm, singing loudly and exaggerating his accent to incite laughs from the onlookers. When he speeds up, so do you, allowing both of you to join in an upbeat rhythm that leaves you panting.

Ooh-hoo, nobody knows it, you both sing, laughing and shimmying toward each other. You both point and laugh, joining hands again when the chorus ends to sing your lines all over again. Charles always leads you well, alert as he is excited, letting you melt into him, adapt to the dance. You feel like you’re floating.

Don’t go breaking my heart, he sings.

I won’t go breaking your heart, you sing back, ducking underneath your hands, laughing.

The tension, warmth, spark between you grow as the song begins to close, your words breathless, faces flushed with alcohol and semi-exhaustion. Even if your face seems to show it, though, you find you’re not tired at all, smiling as your heart beats faster. You pull away, dancing to the last bits of the song, having let go of all your worries, nerves. Why were you ever nervous? You always trusted him.

The song fades to an end when you pull together, faces as close as they’d ever been. You’re both breathing heavy with the intensity of your dance, smiling. You shut your eyes, laugh, with the ecstasy of this moment. From the crowd, the bartender yells: “Ora bacia! Kiss!”

Both you and Charles turn to the crowd, who quickly cheer him on, and laugh. But they’re not kidding, you realize—they’re all yelling kiss in unison, intermittent whoops and cheers joining the chant. It’s like a rural Italian version of an MLB kiss cam.

You turn back to Charles, who’s looking at you already. His eyes dart to your lips. You’d never done it before—appearances never went that far—but the crowd is unrelenting, and you nod back when he cocks his head to the side in silent question. Like always, you’re nervous. And again, like always, he helps you through it.

Warmth blossoms through your chest when he leans in and presses your lips together.

That would’ve been enough to satisfy the crowd, you think, but neither of you pull away. Sparks ignite your stomach, your hands looping around his neck, his around your waist. You kiss him back effortlessly, like you’d done this a million times before. You feel him smile against your own smile, laugh when you laugh.

The kiss is nothing if not dizzying, the perfect kind, the kind of the fairytale variety. His lips are soft, a bit chapped, against yours; when your tongues meet, they taste like aperol spritz and beer. Your hands tighten around his neck, like you need him still against you, when you both pull away for air. The crowd cheers.

You barely even hear them, staring into his eyes.

—

The night becomes cloudy, raining softly over the hills when everybody’s done singing; Charles boards Apollonia and like always, you wrap your hands around him, leaning against his back. You’re a bit tipsy, but above all, you’re utterly conflicted with how everything’s seemed to turn in on itself within the last few days.

The rain only grows as Charles revs harder, and the Vespa skids to a screeching, horrible stop. Thankfully, you’re not far from the farmhouse, so you don’t walk much; still, both of you are drenched, Charles’ arms stained with motor oil that drips off with the force of the rain. He stows away the bike, turns back to you. You’re looking at him expectantly.

“What is this?” You demand, raising your voice.

“Rain,” he replies blankly.

“This.” You wag a finger in between you both. “We kissed in Antonio’s pub, Charles. And we might—we might tell ourselves it was because of the crowd’s pressure, but we know. We both know that kiss was for nobody but us.”

He wipes a hand over his face. “What do you want it to be?”

“I don’t know,” you say honestly, sighing. Your hair is dripping with rain. “I really don’t.”

“I’ll tell you what I want,” he says. And he pauses, like he always does when he’s unsure, nervous, bumbling, and then blurts it out. “You—I want you. I was a fool to realize it late. But years of being with you, around you… I should’ve known earlier, I—”

“Charles,” you cut in, not expecting the sudden rawness. “No, no.”

“You’ve got to realize,” he says desperately. “I do. I constantly think of you, feel for you, look for you, look at you. I’ve known you for so long, I always end up liking you all over again. Everything comes back to you. Seeing you here, a place I love—seeing you love it here—listening to you sing, dancing with you—don’t you—haven’t you gotten it yet—?”

You stare at him.

You’re faraway, on the clouds, dry from the rain, when he says it. I love you.

—

The morning after is quiet, muted. You drown in your own overbearing thoughts.

“Got a lot on your mind?” You emerge from them quick, eyes darting over to Charles’ two aunts leaning by the doorframe of the dining room. You offer a polite smile, hoping it hides the conflict in the recesses of your mind.

“A bit,” you reply.

“Come join us,” Mia offers. “We will pick lemons outside. For lunch.”

You take a basket from the entryway and follow them through the front door and onto the yard, matching their slow pace, relishing in the morning sun that hasn’t yet grown too hot.

Tuscany is beautiful. Despite your best efforts, you’d grown to love it here over the course of the week. The hilly terrain, the fruit, the constant goat sightings, the bike rides to town where you clutch Charles’ shirt out of fear you might fall off.

They seem to spot good lemons within milliseconds, balding the branches in minutes. Perhaps because of your own cloudy thoughts, or maybe their breakneck speed, you fail to catch up, and they notice.

Mia again brings you out of your thoughts, guiding you three to the next tree. “Are you upset, bambina? Is Charles being a pest?”

“Oh, God, no,” you say with a laugh. “We—he’s a great tour guide. I never explored Italy before, and it’s beautiful here. He bikes me to town, because I can’t, uh, ride, unfortunately. He transacts for me, because my Italian is hopeless. He buys wine and cheese and lets me pet sheep when we bike past them on the hills.”

“Bambini innamorati.” Mia sighs fondly. “What is it you like about Charles?”

You hum, thinking. There are lots of things you like about Charles, but surely his family share the same sentiments. What’s unique? What about him is just yours? “His humor, I suppose,” you say. “He finds the fun in everything, even in competition, in boredom. Everywhere else, his good traits—everyone knows them. A stellar driver, charming, kind. Good-looking. But his humor, I think… I think he reserves his weirdest jokes, his best laughs, for the best people in his life. I’m just glad I’m there.”

Giulia is the next to speak, slow and encouraging, prompting you with a question you’d once dreaded but now feel excitement to hear: “Tell me again, how you and Charles met?”

It’s a rehearsed story, with bits of lies that you and Charles had to insert to make it appear more romantic and less coworker-esque. But you’d only told the short version before. To some journalists, to his cousin. You figure you’ll lie less and tell a more unabridged version. “Oh, okay,” you say, nervous and collecting your thoughts.

“I work with Charles. I was spending time with him a lot, so naturally, we became somewhat friends. Not very close, but comfortable enough. I had to take pictures and videos for him and his teammate, so we really were together a lot. I suppose that’s how we met. How we became… something more, is a totally different story. I think the best thing about it was that neither of us were looking for it.”

You breathe, pausing. “It simply happened—despite both of us not expecting, not needing a relationship, it happened anyway. Almost funny, how young people like myself look for the moment of love at first sight. The staggering moment of eye contact and realizing you’ve met your soulmate. But—it wasn’t like that for me. It happened slowly, like I had to dissect what I felt. Like my heart had always known, so I had to catch up with myself and realize I…”

You pause. You really aren’t lying. “…I’m in love with him.”

Giulia and Mia exchange a knowing look over the branches.

—

“So, are you dating?” Natalie asks. It’s the first race of the season, and everyone’s excited—but this interview moves slowly, Charles dictating the flow of it himself. He smiles.

“Yes, we are.”

“Well, there’d been rumors a few months ago that this was a PR stunt, calculated by your new officer, Jenna Griffin. So, tell me again, are you dating? For real?”

Charles seeks you in the crowd of the meet-and-greet fans, finds you in the front row. You roll your eyes when he smiles fondly at you. A Tuscany trip and several months later, he thinks, has changed everything.

For the better. “For real.”

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc imagine #f1 x reader

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number1mingyustan · 6 months

Text

Keep On ✹ ☾

toxicboyfriend!mingyu x fem!reader

Warnings: kissing, cursing, explicit smut, alcohol consumption, established relationship, mentions of cheating, oral (f.), multiple orgasms, car sex, rough sex, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, toxic relationships, smoking, crying

Summary: Every time I come crawling on my knees, you're there and you just keep on taking me back

Word Count: 2.9k

_______________________________________________

song: keep on– kehlani

“This shit’s exhausting, Gyu,” You sigh, taking a long drag of the cigarette wedged between your pointer and middle finger.

You exhale, watching the smoke blow from your lips and into the crisp night air. Your cheeks are stained with tears, uncomfortably drying against the cool night air.

Mingyu hates it when you smoke. Always says something about how it’s bad for you and advises you against it. You don’t do it often though, only when you’re stressed or upset.

Right now your back is pressed against the side of Mingyu’s silver BMW. You sniffle, taking another drag and blowing out the smoke.

Mingyu stands next to you, leaned against the car with his head tilted back. He stares up at the stars illuminating the night sky instead of staring at you. He runs a hand through his hair, letting out an exhausted sigh.

“I don’t know what you want me to do Y/n,” He crosses his arms. “I already apologized.”

You let out a scoff and inhale from the cigarette once again.

___

About twenty minutes ago, things were going fine between the two of you. You were sitting in the passenger seat of the car and Mingyu was driving. The two of you were at a party earlier in the night and decided to go home.

You’d been drinking a bit, not enough to be extremely drunk, but enough for Mingyu to decide it was time to go home. You were driving with the windows down and decided to connect to the car AUX.

When you went to unplug Mingyu’s phone you saw a text message from a new number and everything fell apart.

hey it’s yena from the party :)) wanted to make sure i got the right number lol

You didn’t hesitate to confront him about it while he was driving. You asked him who she was and why she was texting him. He got defensive immediately, questioning you and why you were on his phone in the first place.

You didn’t back down, continuing to pester him and grow upset about the text message. You grew more frustrated with his unwillingness to be honest with you and completely lost your calm.

Next thing you knew, you were screaming at him with tears in your eyes while he was trying to calm you down. His attempts weren’t effective and having you scream at him was quite distracting on the road.

Instead of driving straight home, he made a detour to the parking lot next to the trail nearby. It was dark out and no one was around.

He parked the car in a rush, barely making it in between the painted white lines. You were still screaming at him and sobbing frantically.

You climbed out of the car, leaning against it and lighting your cigarette. He was quick to follow after, joining you on the side of the car, where you stand now.

___

“Your apologies don’t mean shit,” You blow out the smoke.

He turns his head in your direction. You look away, refusing to meet his eyes. He sighs and cracks his knuckles.

“I’m not trying to hurt you baby, you know that.”

“I don’t actually.” You’re quick to respond.

“You do. C’mon, you know that I love you.”

“If you loved me, you wouldn’t have cheated.” You sniffle.

“I didn’t cheat.” He says firmly.

“Gyu-“

“I didn’t kiss her, I didn’t fuck her, I never laid a finger on her. She and I talked for a few minutes and she wanted my number. I didn’t cheat on you. I may have fucked up, but I’m not a cheater and you know that.”

“You still gave her your number! You didn’t think to tell her you had a girlfriend or tell her no! Regardless of who initiated it, you didn’t turn her down. You fucking entertained the flirting and I wouldn’t be surprised if you flirted back. Chances are pretty high that you did considering the way you came back and immediately dragged me off.” You scoff. “Shitty excuse saying I was too drunk when the problem was you. You obviously just didn’t want me to find out. You always do this shit, Gyu.” You inhale from the cigarette once again and blow out.

“You know I’d never cheat on you Y/n. I don’t take those accusations lightly. You know that I love you and I’d never do that shit to you. I cant help it if some girl approaches me, I stay loyal to you.”

Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time you’ve dealt with a situation like this with Mingyu.

You’re Mingyu’s first real relationship. Before you it had been meaningless flings and very short term commitments for him.

You and Mingyu started very casual, but grew into a serious relationship over time. Something about you was different and he found himself wanting commitment. He hated the idea of you being with another guy and your relationship blossomed.

But with a guy like Mingyu, it’s only natural to catch the attention of other women. He’s tall and attractive and knows all the right things to say and do. He knows his way into a woman’s heart, and into her bed.

It’s not uncommon for women to flirt with him when you go out, but the way he responds to it is what bothers you.

He can’t seem to fully let go of his old habits.

When you started dating, you made it clear to him what you wanted and what your commitment to one another would entail. He agreed, assuring you that you were what he wanted an all he wanted.

But three years later you still find yourself having to come back to this conversation.

However, the fact still remains. Despite this being a reoccurring issue, he’s never allowed things to get physical with another woman, at least to your knowledge.

He simply likes to flirt because he enjoys the attention. He’s always loved the attention, but you’ve always hated it.

“You’re not loyal to me though. You go around flirting with other bitches and don’t listen to a word I say. It’s been three years and I still can’t get actual commitment from you.”

“Baby you know we’re locked in.” He defends.

“I don’t know that, actually . And I cant keep having this conversation with you. It’s been three fucking years and I don’t know how many more times or more ways I can tell you this shit. I’m exhausted.”

“So what? You wanna break up because some girl flirted with me at a party?”

“Fuck’s sake,” You drop the rest of your cigarette on the dirt and step on it to put it out. “You know it’s not that simple. I’ve said it a thousand times, I’m not doing it again.”

You turn around, reaching for the passenger side of the handle. “Take me home.”

You pull at it, letting out a frustrated sigh and you notice he’s locked the car. He comes up behind you, playing his hands ever so lightly on your waist. “Don’t be mad at me, you know how much I hate it when you’re upset with me.”

“I hate it when you do shit that upsets me.”

He licks his lips softly, leaning in closer to you. He presses his chest against your back and wraps his arms around your waist.

“I’m sorry, I really am. I’m gonna do better for you baby, promise. I love you.”

You hate that he’s telling you everything you want to hear. You hate that there’s so much sincerity in his voice and you already feel yourself giving in. You hate that you let this stuff slide with him and give in easily. You hate that he makes you so weak.

It’s quite sad really, especially knowing that if things were the other way around it would be completely different. Mingyu has always been possessive over you and gotten jealous easily.

You’ve never entertained other guys the way he did, and you had no problem rejecting them. But it still pissed Mingyu off. Seeing a guy approach you or stare at you a little too hard had his blood boiling.

It didn’t matter if you rejected them, Mingyu still had a sour taste in his mouth at the mere though of you with another guy.

For now, you’ll blame letting your guard down on the alcohol. You know you’d do it sober, but it’s not a fact you have an easy time accepting, at least in the moment.

He turns you around so you’re facing him and your back is pressed against the car again. He pushes a strand of hair behind your ear and kisses your forehead.

“I don’t like hurting you… I’m sorry. You’re the only one for me, my girl. Don’t need anyone else, I’m gonna be better for you.” He kisses your cheek. “You’re all I want.”

“You’re lying,” You sniffle, turning away from him. “You’re just saying that. You don’t really mean it, you don’t love me.”

He cups your cheek, turning your head and forcing you to face him. Your eyes meet and and he stares down at you with soft eyes. A small smile appears on his face.

He knows you’re giving in.

“Baby… would I be here apologizing to you and eating your pussy if I didn’t love you? You know I mean it.”

“You’re not eating my pussy.”

“Not yet I’m not.”

He flashes you that million dollar smile and you feel yourself fold completely. Your face feels hot despite the cool night air filling the atmosphere.

You feel pathetic for letting him win so easily again. But you can’t help it, not when it comes to Mingyu.

He needs no invitation to lean down and kiss you. When he does, you’re kissing him back immediately with no protest.

His hands move from your waist to your inner thighs, traveling up the skirt you have on. He leans in closer, pressing his body firmly against yours

He plays with the hem of your panties before pulling them off and dropping to his knees in front of you. He looks up at you with lust clouding his eyes.

“Let me make it up to you?” He licks his lips.

Your brain is telling you no, but you’re already nodding your head the moment he asks the question.

It’s all the invitation he needs before he’s dipping his head under your skirt and forcing your legs open. He holds you up, supporting your shaky thighs.

He licks a teasingly long stripe along your folds before diving in.

He sucks on your clit, moaning softly as your arousal begins to coat his tongue. You get wet for him so easily, it fuels his ego and desire for you.

He buries himself in your cunt, determined to get you off and make you forgive him. You’re pulling at his hair beneath your skirt and crying out his name.

“So good Gyu,” You moan breathlessly.

He eats you out so sloppily. There’s a mixture of his saliva and your arousal dripping down his chin, and the lewd sounds slipping from his lips are pornographic in nature. The cry that slips out of your lips when Mingyu bites down on your thigh hard enough to leave a mark is anything but appropriate, especially when he presses his lips back to your pussy and laughs in the middle of going down on you.

His warm tongue is bringing you closer and closer to the edge with each passing second.

Your hands are tangled in his hair messily, pulling and grabbing at his waves desperately. You’re grinding against him, pushing your hips into his face every time his tongue glides across your clit.

You pull at his hair particularly hard, eliciting a groan from him that sends vibrations coursing through your body. It’s just enough to have you cumming on his tongue.

He laps your cunt greedily, allowing you to ride out your orgasm on his face as he cleans you up with his mouth.

He doesn’t let up until you’re pulling him by the hair and forcing him off of you. He takes the hint, finally removing himself from your cunt and looking up at you.

His face is soaked and there’s a hazy, lustful look clouding his eyes as he stares up at you. “You forgive me yet?” he asks.

You ignore him, pulling him up to his feet and holding him against your body. “Fuck me, please.”

You can feel the way his cock twitches with excitement. It’s already hard and straining against the material of his jeans. He’s relieved to hear you want this just as bad as him.

He reaches into his back pocket for the car keys to unlock it. He yanks the door open and pushes you inside. He climbs on top of your body, wedging himself between your open legs.

The car door slams shut and his lips are back on yours in no time. Your hands on him, roaming his body until you’re undoing his jeans and helping him take them off.

He places your legs onto his shoulders and slides his length into you. He fills you up perfectly, stretching your tight hole open with ease. Your warmth envelopes him, arousal coating every inch of his cock and filling the car with lewd squelching noises with each thrust.

He finds his pace quickly, pounding into you roughly the way he knows you like it. The tip of his cock brushes deep inside of you every time he bottoms out, leaving you crying out with his every movement. You can feel the weight of the car shifting beneath you every time he fucks his cock into you.

He lets out a deep groan with each thrust when he slams into you. Your arms are wrapped around his neck with your hands tangled in his hair, bringing his body in closer to you.

"Shit," You cry.

He's literally got you folded in half and fucks himself deep inside of you. There are tears welling in your eyes due to the intensity of it all.

"You take me so good baby, every time," he coos. "This cunt was fucking made for me. All mine."

You can only manage a nod in agreement.

Your breathing is growing heavier and the car windows are starting to fog up. You're squeezing him so tight, it'd be hard for him to move if you weren't so wet.

He wipes away your tears, lightly shushing you as he draws his lips closer to your ear. "You hear that baby?"

"H-huh?" You choke out.

"Hear how wet you are for me? How good I fuck you. Was fucking made for you baby," he whispers into your ear. "I'd never give this up. You're perfect for me."

His hand sneakily slips between your thighs, thumb circling your clit in small circles. It has you mewling and whimpering upon contact and you're cumming only moments later.

It's one of the most intense orgasms your body has experienced. Your legs are shaking and you're gripping his hair for dear life as you cum around him. He fucks you through it sloppily.

The sheer feeling of your walls tightening and throbbing around him is already sending him close to the edge. He lets out a long groan and drops his head into the crook of your neck as he cums.

You feel his cock twitching inside of you as he pumps you full of his cum. His eyes are screwed shut and his hips stutter as he thrusts into you sloppily.

His hips finally come to a half and he's breathing heavily onto your skin. It takes him a minute to fully come down from his own orgasm, but he sits up and slides out of you slowly.

You suddenly feel cold and empty as the loss of contact.

"You feeling okay?" He asks breathlessly.

You nod, propping yourself up onto your elbows before searching the car for your clothes to redress yourself. The two of you situate yourselves in silence. There's a faint tension lingering in the air, but the post-nut clarity hasn't hit hard enough for either of you to actually address it.

Once you're both dressed again, you relocate back to the driver and passenger seats. "Ready to go back home?"

"Yeah," You say quietly.

He starts the car back up and turns to look at you. He leans over, extending his arm to fix your hair with delicate fingers. He pats your head softly, mumbling a soft "there."

He then grabs the Aux cord and plugs your phone in. He extends his arm once again, holding your phone out to you.

There's a bitter taste on your tongue when he does so. You fight the urge to say something in the moment. But he smiles at you and leans in, placing a soft kiss on your lips.

It heals you the way a bandaid would. The sweetness of his lips is like a stamp replacing the bitterness that was on your tongue only moments ago.

It's not permanent, and you know it's only a matter of time before the bitterness returns. But you know he'll simply kiss it better and you'll just keep on going back.

_______________________________________________

#seventeen smut #seventeen #seventeen fanfic #mingyu smut #seventeen drabbles #seventeen angst #seventeen mingyu #kim mingyu #mingyu drabbles #mingyu svt #svt mingyu #kim mingyu smut #mingyu fanfic #mingyu #kpop

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capricornlevi · 7 months

Text

on the edge of a blunt knife

mid-shibuuya incident, nanami decides he needs some serious stress relief

(wc 2.9k, 18+ mdni. cw rough (but v consensual) sex, semi public sex, cursed energy as sexual tension lol, no gendered pronouns but reader has a vagina)

Nanami: Need you to come here.

Nanami: {location shared}

Nanami: As soon as possible.

You blink down at your phone once, twice, three times, still unsure whether or not you actually understand the texts that are displayed clearly on the screen.

His directions are straightforward – blunt, even. It’s not that you don’t understand what’s being asked of you.

It’s just that you don’t understand why he would send texts like those; completely out of the blue, you can’t even guess the context. You haven’t heard from him for three days now.

For the past year or so, your relationship with Nanami Kento has been casual – in the most extreme sense of the word. A few hook-ups at his place, even more at your own, twice in a hotel he was staying in for ‘business’. You’ve met for coffee, shared some meals, never so much as toeing the line of anything more committed.

Sure, you know certain things about him, have garnered some understanding of his personality, but there’s so much you don’t know. More than you’d care to admit.

You’ve never actually asked him what he does for a living, for one thing.

You’ve caught glimpses of enough blood-soaked shirts to hazard a guess that it’s something sketchy, which does make it easier to avoid asking questions.

Still, he’s not your boyfriend. You don’t care what he does as long as you don’t get dragged into it. It actually helps things, you think, this barrier between the two of you, keeping either one from getting too attached.

But these unprompted texts, this uncharacteristic urgency … it all makes you deeply uneasy. As you reread them for the fifth time, your gut twists with a sense of foreboding.

... and perhaps the tiniest hint of anticipation.

Still wanting to cover your bases before diving into the unknown, you type up a quick response.

You: Is it safe?

You don’t have to wait long before your phone buzzes in your hand.

Nanami: For you, yes.

The location pin he dropped you is based in a metro tunnel just outside of Shibuya.

It��s dark out, you’re not familiar with the area, the October air is bitterly cold. There are a thousand reasons for you to stay home and wait until Nanami just comes over to yours as he usually does.

The other side of the argument has far fewer points in its favour.

But against all logic you slip on a jacket, shoving your phone into your pocket as your apartment door slams shut behind you.

___

The journey is unusually quick. Glancing at every side street as you pass them by, you see they’re all virtually abandoned, with no traffic to hold you up at the street crossings.

You shrug it off; it has no connection to your meeting with Nanami, so why waste time worrying about it?

However, your concern only deepens when you arrive at the metro station. On a night like tonight it should be bustling, packed with crowds of partygoers and drunken salarymen singing the wrong lyrics to pop songs, but as you slowly descend the concrete steps, you soon realise that there’s not a single soul waiting by the platform.

It’s quiet, too. Eerily so. All you can hear is the low drip-drip-dripping of rain trickling onto the tile from the grates above, mixed with the occasional screech of the tracks. It’s cold down here, smells of damp and stagnant water, and you can't see Nanami anywhere.

You wait, but no trains appear.

The air is heavy with mist, even underground. You hug your arms to your chest to keep warm.

You’re just about to reach for your phone to text Nanami, demanding to know what the hell is going on and why he’s dragged you into it, but before you can do so, you’re distracted by the sensation of a strong hand on your shoulder.

You nearly choke out a scream when you’re the grip on your shoulder releases, the person pulling you in by the waist instead.

Nanami.

Though you held off on screaming before, you want to shout at him for startling you anyway, for giving you the fright of your life for no good reason.

However, as your mouth opens, you find yourself unable to do so.

For just a moment, you forget about how insane this all is; how he’s dragged you to an abandoned metro platform in the dead of night, with all sorts of other weird, unexplained shit happening just a few feet above your heads. Without a word of explanation as to what he needs from you.

You forget about it all, instead letting yourself get lost in the feeling of being pressed up against his chest.

The only thing to cut through your hazy train of thought is when you see –

“You’re hurt,” you murmur, lifting a hand to ghost your fingers over the scrapes on his face.

“Not very.”

“How did you – what is – what happened?”

“It's a long, long story,” he answers softly, gentle despite the strength of his touch, the protectiveness in how he holds you against him. “Too long to tell in one sitting.”

“Then why did you bring me here?”

Nanami doesn’t answer at first. He takes a hand and tilts your chin so that you have no choice but to meet his eye, to watch as he scans your face, lingering on your lips.

“Remember New Year’s?”

Now it’s your turn to pause, brain processing the hidden meaning buried in his words.

This past New Year’s was the only other time Nanami had visited you in a state like this; exhausted, injured, but bursting with a sort of power and intensity you couldn’t begin to understand.

He put it down to adrenaline, a busy day at work leaving him pent up, but you knew there was something more to it. He crackled with an energy that you had never seen before. Something about him felt electric, a live wire, you could almost feel it against your fingertips as you ran your hands over his muscled chest that night, taking it all in.

He came to you needing relief. It was an unspoken request that you happily answered; perhaps the energy he emanated during that visit was infectious.

After he called to your apartment that night, you didn’t leave your bed for the better part of three days. Relief was all he sought, but it was never enough until he has burnt the last bit of energy from his body. It took time.

Now, he searches your face for signs of recognition, any indication that you know what he’s asking of you.

You know he would respect your answer if you refused, if you got the hell out of this dingy tunnel and ran back to the safety of your apartment. He would never bring it up again.

It would be so easy to refuse, to turn around and take the more sensible option.

But the only issue is that you really, really don’t want to.

“I remember.”

The tiniest crack appears in Nanami’s facade – his jaw tightens, the sharp angles of his features looking almost pained.

“You do?”

Your nod confirms it.

“So you know what I’m asking of you?” he elaborates carefully, grip tightening in the fabric of your jacket.

“Yes. And yes,” you hastily add, sensing his follow-up question. “I want to.”

At that, Nanami lets go of your waist, lifting his hands to fist in your hair as he drags you in for a crushing kiss.

He kisses you so hard it almost hurts but you give as good as you take, dragging your teeth against his bottom lip to the point it could nearly draw blood.

It’s messier than it’s been before, even more so than New Year’s. You gasp into his mouth as he keeps you flush against him with one arm, barely able to take a breath before he slips his tongue against yours, ravenous in the way he’s capturing your mouth with his.

He mumbles something against your lips, utterly incoherent, and you don’t bother asking him to repeat it.

He kisses you, running his hands over your body as though he’s never had the chance to do it before now, mapping every inch of your frame even over your clothes.

Soon you’re being guided away to somewhere more private – a nearby bathroom, just as abandoned as the rest of the platform, a place where he can take what he needs for as long as he needs it.

You watch silently as he leads you there, feeling that energy radiate from his palm to yours.

Inside the bathroom, you see that only one of the lightbulbs is still working; this bathes the room in a warm, dim light, a glow that’s just enough for you to see the transformed expression on Nanami’s face.

Your breath catches.

In almost any other setting, he’s the picture of control. He’s polite, reserved, and keeps his emotions well-guarded from the outside world, never showing his secrets of vulnerabilities to anyone.

But when this sensation overcomes him, his face twists into something unrecognisable. Hungry, primal, something that would send a bolt of fear through you if you hadn’t experienced something like this before; now, you find yourself wanting to spur it on.

Before he loses himself in it, you take the chance to start undressing, your clothes dropping to the floor as your mind starts to swim with thoughts of what will happen next, what you know he is capable of doing with those hands.

His eyes darken until they’re almost black as you bare yourself in front of him.

Back home in the safety of either of your apartments, this would undoubtedly take a lot longer. He’d use his mouth on you until your cries of his name disrupted your neighbours. You’d take him in your hand and stroke slowly, meanly, building him up to the edge until his knuckles turn white and broken swears echo around the room.

That sense of languidity is gone now. It’s urgent, both of you needing this as much as you do oxygen, fearing you’ll die without it, and so you waste no time in bending over the sink and looking up at the mirror to meet his eye in the reflection.

Here you are, in public, where anyone could just walk in off the street and see you bending over for him, completely soaked and utterly shameless – though for some reason, you’re almost certain you’re not going to be interrupted.

Nanami unbuttons his shirt, revealing the pinks and reds of bruises blossoming on his skin. Your brow furrows; somewhere in your pleasure-addled mind you think to ask him about it, press him on the cause of his injuries … on what he’s gotten himself into …

But once his hands reach for his belt, you refocus your attention on gripping the sink’s countertop to prepare yourself.

He won’t hold back. One word from you and he’ll stop, but until that word is said then he will be merciless.

He tosses the belt to the floor and undoes his suit pants, stroking himself slowly.

You look to the mirror; a short nod, you skin already prickling with goosebumps, and you’ve started something you don’t know how to finish.

He takes your ass in his hands and squeezes, spreading you open and running his length up and down, the reflection of him mumbling something to himself as he stares, transfixed at the sight of your folds ready to suck him in without so much as being touched yet.

His throat bobs, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead glistening under the low light; he slips inside with one smooth thrust.

Your spine arches as you take all eight inches of him, thicker than anything you’ve had before, pressing in at such an angle that you worry it will render you a babbling mess before the hour is out.

Already his name is spilling from your lips, voice breaking at the crescendo of each thrust, gasping for air as though he’s somehow hitting your lungs. You feel the fabric of his pants against the backs of your thighs as he fucks you half-clothed, too desperate to feel you wrapped around his cock to even fully undress.

It’s full, it’s a lot, but it doesn’t hurt – it never does. It’s why you think this … thing, this state that takes over him, that it has some sort of transferable nature to it. You need this relief just as badly as he does.

You feel the fingers of Nanami’s right hand fist in your hair, pulling you back to keep your eyes fixed on the mirror. The left stays gripping your waist, pulling your body back against him to meet the snap of his hips.

You let out a breathless giggle which only serves to spur him on further; a tug at your hair prompts a pathetic-sounding mewl of pleasure to take its place, his hold on you as unmovable as it is possessive.

It makes no sense for you to enjoy that feeling so much, to enjoy being his when you can count on one hand the concrete facts you know about this man.

You’re not thinking straight, though, not when you’re being bounced on his cock like this, no coherent thought staying in your brain for longer than three seconds. You gush around him, wet and lewd sounds bouncing off the tiled walls of the bathroom.

The mirror is blurry with condensation from the mist and the once-cool air, but you can still make out the sight of Nanami holding your hair tight in his fist, the veins in his hand prominent as he speeds up his movements.

He pauses only to help you hike your knee up against the counter. Once stable, he’s back inside you again, telling you how good you’re taking him, how you’re the only person he needs for this, leaning down and pulling your hair back up so he can press a kiss to the nape of your neck.

You, on the other hand, are far less talkative. The change in angle is hitting that spot in your core that has you fluttering around him already, short little half-groans catching in your throat and dying before you can even breathe them out.

The feeling of being wanted by him, of being the one who he seeks out to help with this ache, it is something you struggle to put into words.

He’s so powerful, but you are too. It’s how he knows you’re perfect for this – he told you as much last time, when he thought you were too fucked-out to even comprehend what he was saying.

His gaze meets yours again and you marvel at how he maintains such a solid grip in your hair, never slipping even as his rhythm turns more erratic and uncontrolled.

He seems to enjoy having you in his grasp, his lower lip bitten between his teeth as he holds you, adjusting the position when he needs to. His thumb smoothes soothing circles against your skin, a pleasant contrast to the unrelenting sensation of being filled.

This is a side of him only you can see.

It's so good, teetering dangerously close to being so good that you're ruined for anyone else, unable to take anything inside you that isn't Nanami's cock.

You feel yourself burning, that familiar heat starting to coil in your lower stomach, your limbs starting to lose strength as you brace yourself for the waves to wash over.

Nanami keeps you steady, never faltering as he fucks you through it.

You gasp, clenching around him as it bursts within you, spreading like wildfire through every nerve in your body. Your body trembles beneath him and he slows mercifully. He moves slowly, careful not to overstimulate you too soon, waiting for the waves to subside before he fucks into you again, chasing his own pleasure with the closest thing to a clear mind he can hope to have in this situation.

It doesn’t take long for him to follow you over the edge, spilling over the small of your back with a gutteral moan that makes you clench around nothing, only releasing his hold on your hair and waist once the rise and fall of his chest has steadied.

Sweaty and boneless and satisfied, you wait as he cleans you off before turning to him, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

“Did it help?” you ask quietly, knowing he’ll understand.

His lips curl slightly, the divot in his brow having disappeared – the edge has been taken off momentarily. “Yes.”

His pupils are still blown out, though, and his demeanour tells you there’s more to come.

“Is this … is what’s happening outside … is it over?”

He shakes his head once, twice. “No.”

He reaches for his pocket, fishing out a silver keychain which he immediately presses into your palm.

“Go to my place. Go there and stay there, and don’t open the door for anyone but me.”

You take the key, cold against your clammy skin, and look up to him again.

“You’ll come back later?”

“I’ll come back later,” he replies immediately, pressing a chaste kiss against your forehead while running a hand through his own hair. “Just wait there for a bit.”

Though still in the dark, you figure that it just might be worth the wait.

#nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami kento x reader #i am not immune to shibuuya arc nanami #doing backflips on it etc

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semisgroupie · 3 months

Text

ALWAYS YOURS, ALWAYS MINE

toxic ex!semi eita x fem. reader

wc: 4.7 (I don’t know what got into me)

warnings: yandere, stalking, VERY toxic behavior, unprotected sex, creampie, dubcon, manipulation, biting, noncon recording, noncon filming, possessiveness, multiple orgasms (f!receiving), drugging, aphrodisiac use, fingering (f!receiving), semi is very delusional (but so hot), snowballing, cum eating

synopsis: you just need to get it through your head, you’ll never get rid of him

Dating Semi might have been the biggest mistake of your life. You can only say that now because when you first got together, everything seemed perfect.

It really was the perfect relationship by your definition. He paid attention to every single thing you liked, remembered important dates that you told him, showered you with more than enough love and affection. Maybe all of that was what made you blind to what his true nature was. Maybe you were mystified by the idea of dating a famous rock star. He took you to his private studio sessions and let you in on the secret process of making his music. Even dedicated and wrote a few lines in a song that were for you. That was what really reeled you in.

But like a fish caught on a hook, you were roughly yanked to the surface. Forced to face the reality of the situation you were in.

After six months of dating it was like a flip was switched. The sweet and kind man you knew was no longer there. Everything felt cold whenever he was around, like he was a walking snowstorm blowing in your direction. Whenever you planned out dates with him, he somehow always ‘forgot’ or something always came up last minute that pulled him away. His kisses weren’t a frequent occurrence and the pet names he gave you were never used. Whenever you spoke about your day or just wanted to make small conversation, he just brushed it off and seemed completely uninterested in whatever you wanted to talk about. It hurt you but somehow you found the strength to continue to push through it.

You finally reached your last straw on your one year anniversary. You had called the restaurant two months in advance to make a reservation and Semi was aware of your plan. He even gave you the name of the restaurant and was even in the same room as you when you made the call. When the night finally came, you waited in the restaurant alone for an hour and a half. Every call you made to him went straight to voicemail, every text was left unread and you were frustrated and completely embarrassed. After a few more minutes passed, you went back to the apartment you shared with him, then about thirty minutes later, he came home and reeked of alcohol. Seeing him in that state made you extremely furious.

“Baby,” he slurred as he wobbled towards you, “what’s the matter? Why do you look so upset?” He opened his arms to pull you in and you pushed him away, the anger and frustration from everything that has happened in the last few months boiled to the surface. “What do you think? I bet you don’t even know what day it is.” You were met with a confused look on his face. “It’s our fucking anniversary. I was at the restaurant alone for almost two hours, do you know how humiliating that was? And now you’re here, completely drunk. I’m done, I’m done with this, I’m done with the coldness from you, if I’m going to be alone in this relationship then I might as well be single. It’s over.”

Your words quickly sobered him up and as you moved away from him he reached over to grab your wrist. “You can’t leave, I love you, we love each other. Just give me another chance and I’ll make it up to you.” You pulled your hand from his grip and shook your head, “I gave you chance after chance and all you did was fuck up again and again. I can’t keep doing this. I’m going to pack a bag and then later on in the week I’ll pick up the rest of my things. Maybe you can be useful for once and move whatever I leave behind in some bags or boxes.”

He followed you to your shared bedroom and watched you pack your things in shock. He definitely wouldn’t win the award for boyfriend of the year but he didn’t treat you that badly, or so he thought. He tried to convince you to not leave, making more empty promises to try to make you stay but you didn’t bother to listen to any of it. As you shoved whatever else could fit in the duffel bag, he made his way over to you and placed his hand over one of yours. “You’ll change your mind about this. You’ll realize that no one could treat you and love you the way I do. You’ll see it for yourself soon enough.” You looked into his eyes as he spoke and you saw something dark swirling in them. You pulled your hand away from him and adjusted the bag over your shoulder. “Have a good life, Eita.”

It had been three months since you ended things with Semi. The first month was difficult to get through but after a lot of tears and snacks, you were able to push through everything. You blocked his number and blocked him on all social media you had him on and he became a thought of the past. There were still moments where you thought about him and the good moments but you didn’t dwell on those thoughts for too long. It would just sink you back into the abyss you worked so hard to climb out of.

Other things in your life got better. You got a promotion and a raise at work, it gave you more responsibilities but you were thankful that it was able to keep your mind busy. You were able to go out and have some more girls nights with your friends. But most importantly, you started to gain more confidence in yourself and after a lot of convincing from your closest friend, you started to put yourself out there. You recently made a dating profile and spent the first night scrolling through and swiping through the profiles.

You got a lot of creeps and weirdos but then you met someone interesting. After a few days of talking to him, you decided to set up a date for some drinks and dinner. You were looking forward to it but you were also extremely nervous. It was the first date you’ve been on since ending things with Semi.

Only if you knew that he’d make a surprise appearance.

You planned to meet at a local restaurant and you slipped on a dress that hugged your curves and put on some heels. You walked through the front door and made your way over to the hostess. “Hello, I have a reservation for two under the name ‘Tobio Kageyama’.” She looked through the names and nodded, “I’ll lead you to your table now, I have to say, he is very handsome.” You smoothed out your dress and followed behind her, looking around as your heels clicked and clacked along the floor. Your nerves started shooting through the roof as you got closer to the table and saw a mess of ashy blonde hair.

From all the pictures you saw, Tobio had jet black hair. But as you got closer you recognized who it was. You approached the table and the mystery man stood, “you look absolutely beautiful, come sit.” You were in complete shock to see Semi there in Tobio’s place. How the hell could he have known that you were going to be here with another man? He placed a gentle hand on your wrist and helped move you along to the empty seat and helped you sit down. Your mind was racing as he sat back down and the hostess left. “I already ordered some drinks, I got your favorite.”

You grabbed the glass of water that was already placed there and downed its contents. You couldn’t believe he was here. You didn’t even tell any of your friends about this date, it was just between you and Tobio. “You look nervous, my love. What’s wrong? Aren’t you surprised to see me? I would’ve expected at least a smile or something different than just a look of fear.” You shook your head and set the glass down, “how did you find out about my date tonight, Eita? What happened to Tobio?”

Your questions just received laughter in response. You started to grow more irritated by the second. “Eita. Answer my questions.” He combed his fingers through his hair and leaned back against his chair. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you since you walked out on me, my love. I just had to take some extra measures to make sure you’d be safe and I mean come on, who else would do something like this for you? Do you know how much money I had to pay someone to give me access to your phone and all your social media profiles? And do you know how nervous I was when I saw you made a dating profile? You can’t just go out and meet strangers you’ve spoken to online, what if you met some creep?”

You were taken aback by his words and scoffed, “the only creep I’ve seen lately is you. I didn’t walk out on you, I broke up with you. You’re insane.” You put your hands on the table to stand and he quickly moved one hand over the table to grip one of your wrists, you looked at him and saw the darkness swirling in his eyes. “What you’re going to do is sit back down and listen to what I have to say. We don’t want to make a scene in this quiet little restaurant now, right?” You chewed on your bottom lip and sat back down, pulling your wrist from his grip once you were seated. “Then speak.”

He chuckled at your harsh tone and looked over as the waiter brought over your drinks then waved them off. “What’s with the harsh tone? I would understand if I cheated on you, all I did was miss one little anniversary dinner and you want to throw everything away.” He spoke so lightly as if you were the one that was overreacting. You took a sip of your drink and narrowed your eyes at him. “It was more than just the anniversary. We didn’t go on any dates anymore, we didn’t spend time with each other, I couldn’t even talk to you about my day.” He sighed and shook his head, “enough of living in the past. Those were all mistakes I made, what do you want? Want me to get on my knees and beg for forgiveness? I can do that if you’d like.”

You scoffed and shook your head, you couldn’t believe him. How could he become so inconsiderate of your feelings? You stood up again and moved your hand away when he tried to reach for it, “I’m going to the restroom, maybe that’ll give you some time to become less of an ass.” He leaned back against his seat and watched as you turned the corner to where the restrooms were located. He didn’t expect you to be like that, he genuinely thought you would be happy or at least show a different emotion on your face. He pinched the bridge of his nose as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a little baggy, inside were two small pills and he reached in to take one of them out. “I hate that I have to do this to you but at desperate times.” He mumbled to himself and dropped the pill in your drink, he watched it fizz for a few seconds before it settled. Thankfully for him, it settled just in time because you were walking back.

Once you sat down he combed his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry, we got off on the wrong foot,” your expression told him all he needed to know and he continued, “I’m really sorry for how I treated you when we were together. You were the best thing that I had and I fucked it up. I tried to reach out to you for a second chance but you blocked me and that messed with my head. I just want to take this time to try to repair things, what do you say?” He looked into your eyes as you grabbed your drink and brought it to your lips to take a few sips. You set the glass down and shrugged, “fine. I don’t even know why I’m agreeing to this but I’ll give you this one chance. But get this through your head now, this isn’t a date and this doesn’t make me forget about what you put me through. Got it?” He smiled and took a sip of his drink, “yes ma’am.”

Everything was going according to his plan.

As time passed you continued to sip at your drink but the more alcohol that filled your system, the weirder you felt. You couldn’t put your finger on it but it felt like you were put in a heater. But you continued to try to push past it, trying to ignore it as you and Semi spoke. As time passed, the feeling in your body continued to intensify, it came to the point that you could no longer ignore it. To add onto the burning there was also an ache between your thighs that was screaming to be relieved. You shifted in your seat uncomfortably and Semi raised an eyebrow, “is everything okay? You don’t look so well.”

You shook your head and took a big gulp of your water in hopes it’ll cool you off but it didn’t help. He got up and pressed his hand against your shoulder, leaning in by your ear. “Are you okay? I think we should leave.” His breath by your ear made you feel even hotter and you nodded. “Let’s go.” He helped you up and held you close to him as he laid some cash on the table then started to lead you out. “You’re in no shape to drive, I’ll drive you back.” You just nodded along as he walked, your mind could only focus on one thing and that was how good his body felt against yours.

He led you to his car and helped you into the passenger's seat and then got in the driver's seat before he started the car and started driving. You rested against the seat and couldn’t help but start to press your thighs together to try to relieve the ache that was building by the second. You were more focused on the pain that was starting to develop and you didn’t realize that he was watching you. Watching how you writhed and whimpered as you pathetically tried to relieve yourself. At the red light he turned his full attention to you and placed a hand on your knee. “You know, I can help you if you’d like. You look like you’re in so much pain, I just want to help.”

Every nerve in your body tried to scream at you, tried to get you to realize that he was the one to put you in your current predicament but lust clouded everything. You spread your legs and looked at him with such a pitiful look, “please Eita. It hurts so much.” He moved his hand up your thigh and pressed two fingers against your panty-clad pussy. You arched your back and started to grind against his fingers, it felt good but it wasn’t enough, you needed more. “Needy girl, let me move your panties to the side at least.” He laughed and hooked a finger under the soaked fabric before moving it to the side. You whined as the cold air hit your wet folds and you opened your mouth to complain about his slow movements but the complaints died in your throat as he pushed two slender fingers inside of you. The pads of his fingers were slightly calloused from his years of playing the guitar but they felt perfect against your sensitive bits. He pumped them with ease and the slick sounds of your pussy filled the car, your chest rose and fell with each heavy breath and a light sheen of sweat coated your forehead. He scissored his fingers and curled them up slightly to press against your g spot, the motion alone made your toes curl in your shoes and a sultry moan of his name left your lips. You felt wrapped in the warm embrace of bliss and you were completely caught up in it, you didn’t even realize the car had stopped until he pulled his fingers out of you.

“W-Why did you stop?” A pout was on your face and it looked like you were on the verge of tears as you turned to face him. You watched as he brought his fingers to his mouth to clean them off, watching how he moved his tongue along his slick digits before wrapping his lips around them. Watching how he groaned as your juices fell along his taste buds like the sweetest ambrosia before he pulled his fingers out of his mouth. “We’re here. You don’t expect me to fuck you in the car right? Your a classy woman and classy women don’t get fucked in the backseat like cheap whores. Now, let's go.” His tone was light but his words hit like daggers into your stomach, at this point you would’ve let him fuck you right on the filthy sidewalk if he wanted to. He got out of the car and you fixed yourself as best as you could before he opened the door and helped you out. Your legs trembled slightly as you walked through the lobby of your building to the elevator. You were practically shaking with need and he didn’t even mention a word to you. He pulled you into the elevator once the doors opened and pinned you against the wall before pressing the button to your floor.

Your mind was so clouded with lust, you didn’t even pay mind to how he knew what floor you lived on.

As the doors shut he leaned in close and kissed you roughly, his teeth and tongue mangled and fought with yours and his hands groped your body bruisingly. You moaned wantonly against his lips and moved your hands up to lightly tug on his hair. You wanted more, you needed more from him. But the elevator doors opened. He pulled away from you with an agitated huff and gripped your hand to pull you along with him. The throbbing between your legs was unbearable at this point. You felt your juices run down your thighs and you tried your best not to whine or whimper as he led you to your door. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the key and quickly unlocked the door.

If you were in the right state of mind then you would’ve asked how he got a spare key to your apartment. Then he would’ve had to come up with a lie and try not to tell you that he had been keeping an eye on you since the breakup and was able to bribe your landlord into giving him an extra set of keys to your apartment. And he would have to conceal the details of the amount of times he entered your apartment while you were asleep or while you were at work. He would also have to hide the lie of how he was able to sneak in some cameras into places you never checked and how he watched you while you thought you were alone. Oftentimes with his hand wrapped around his cock and a pair of your panties pressed to his nose. But the aphrodisiac was working perfectly, if he had known it was that strong then he would’ve only slipped half into your drink (at least that would be the lie he’d tell himself to make himself feel better).

He pulled you inside with him and kicked the door shut before pinning you against it to go back to ravaging you. He bit and sucked along your lips and then moved down to your jaw and neck, nipping and sucking at the skin while you moaned and whined. His hands moved along your body, gripping whatever he could latch onto before he pulled away. “Fuck, look at you. Did you plan on doing this with Tobio? Hm? Is that why you wore such a slutty dress? Look at those fucking nipples, you didn’t even wear a bra and those soaked panties are so skimpy. I bet you wanted to get fucked by him tonight, but that’s too fucking bad, there’s only one person that gets to fuck you and that person, is me. No one gets to see you, let alone touch you like this, got it? You’re mine and mine alone. I’ll fucking kill anyone that tries to get in our way.” He spoke purely out of possessiveness and jealousy, to think that you got all dressed up for a man that wasn’t him made his blood boil. How dare you think that you could go out and date another man?

He bent down slightly and hooked his hands behind your knees before lifting you up, his cock was throbbing in his pants and he could feel the heat from your pussy pressed up against him. He walked to your bedroom in quick strides and dropped you onto your bed. He spread your legs and ripped your panties off of you and practically ripped your dress off in a hurried rush. He quickly shed his clothes and pressed his cock against your soaked pussy. “I should just deny you the pleasure from my cock. Since you think you could get fucked as good by anyone else, you don’t deserve it. But since I can see where you were so misguided, I’ll give it to you. Maybe once and for all, I’ll put it in your head that no one could make you feel like I do, no one could fuck you like I can, and most importantly, no one could love you like I do.”

He placed his hands on your inner thighs to keep your legs spread and shoved his cock into you in one fluid motion. A loud cry of his name left your lips as you trembled underneath him, your first orgasm ripping through your body as he started thrusting. But not even an orgasm could lessen the effects of the aphrodisiac, it just intensified every feeling. Your back arched off the bed as he jackhammered into you, his heavy balls slapped against the curve of your ass and the tip of his cock hit your g spot perfectly each time he bottomed out. Strands of ash blonde hair stuck to his sweaty forehead and he took his kiss swollen bottom lip between his teeth as his eyes moved along your body, capturing how your tits bounced with each movement and how your eyes grew emptier by the second. And wait, was that drool spilling from the corner of your mouth? Fuck, you were really fucked out for him.

Then the next idea struck him.

He looked over and grabbed your phone that fell on the bed with one hand and opened the camera. He pressed the record button for the video and brought the phone close to your face. “Okay my love, why don’t you do something for me? Go on and say, ‘hi Tobio’ for me.” You blinked dumbly at his command but followed, “hi Tobio.” Your words were slurred as you spoke and your empty eyes met Semi’s for the next command. “Now go on and tell Tobio what’s happening to you.” He moved the camera even closer to your face as you started to speak, “‘m getting fucked and it feels so good. Never felt this good before, I don’t want it to stop.” Your words almost made Semi cum right then and there, you sounded so sweet and so fucked out. He couldn’t wait to send the video to that idiot. “Good girl, such a good girl for me. Now, one more thing, tell him who’s fucking you this good and tell him who’s gonna fill this needy little cunt.”

His thrusts picked up in pace and you were on the verge of a second orgasm. “Eita! Eita is fucking me this good! A-and Eita is going to fill my pussy with hot, sticky cum over and over again! Only Eita!” Your words blinded him and he slammed his hips into yours as he reached his orgasm, as the thick white ropes started to fill you, your second orgasm was triggered. This time it was more intense, tears spilled from the corner of your eyes and your juices gushed out of you, coating Semi’s abs in your essence. He groaned as he continued to fill you then started to move the camera down your sweat covered body until he reached your pussy. He used his other hand to spread your pussy as he pulled out then moved the camera closer to your leaking hole, getting the perfect money shot of his cum leaking out of your spent hole. “And that is something you’ll never get to experience for yourself, consider yourself lucky and if you ever contact my girl again, I’ll rip your eyes out of your fucking skull. Now say bye bye to Tobio, my love.” He brought the camera back up to your face and you brought a hand up to wave, “bye bye Tobio.” Your voice was weak as was the rest of your body and Semi stopped the video, then unlocked your phone and sent it to the man you were supposed to be with tonight. Once it went through he deleted all the messages, blocked the contact and deleted the video. It's not like he needed to send it to himself, the camera that was on your nightstand had caught everything and it would be saved into a private folder on his laptop. Plus you really needed to change the passcode to your phone, if it had gotten into the wrong hands then they would have access to all your personal details.

He set your phone down and leaned down to kiss down your body, kissing in between your breasts and continued to move south until he was at your pussy. “Oh poor baby, this little pussy is swollen, was I too rough? Want me to kiss it better?” He cooed at you and you just nodded along, letting out a meek “mhm” before he pressed open mouth kisses to your cunt. “I’m so sorry, I won’t be so rough on her ever again, I promise.” He continued to kiss along your cunt before he stuck his tongue out and started to lick at your entrance, collecting his cum that had been leaking out. He licked and sucked for a few moments before moving back up your body. He gripped your face and pressed his thumb and fingers against your cheeks to open your mouth then he spit his cum inside. “Swallow for me, since you can’t keep it inside your pussy, I might as well give you some to eat.” You swallowed then opened your mouth for him to show that you had swallowed it, he smiled and kissed you, softer this time than before then laid down beside you.

“My sweet girl. I love you so much, you could never understand.” He pulled you close and you rested your head on his chest, the exhaustion of everything finally wearing on your body. Your eyes were heavy and half lidded. You just wanted to sleep. “You love me too, right? Say it, I want you to say that you love me.” At this point, you were so tired, you could agree to anything. “I love you Eita. I love you.” You mumbled your words before you closed your eyes completely but that was enough to fuel his delusions further. “I know you do, you were just misguided. But don’t worry, I won’t let you slip from my fingers ever again. And if you manage to do so, I’ll just reappear from the shadows, maybe I’ll slip a second aphrodisiac into your drink. That would be fun.”

You would have to face the consequences of your decisions in the morning but maybe Semi was right, maybe it was true. Maybe no one could love you as much as he did. Or maybe there was someone out there that could, you wouldn’t get to experience it. He had an invisible chain tethered to your ankle and you were stuck with him for the rest of your life.

taglist: @punkgibsons @suyacho @tojjist @hitobaby @satmitsuplanet @litepowee @enchantedforest-network

#hq smut #haikyuu smut #semi smut #semi eita smut #hq semi smut #haikyuu semi smut #tw:yandere #tw:noncon elements #tw:dubcon #tw:stalking #tw:manipulation #tw:unprotected sex #tw:creampie

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thecoleopterawithana · 6 months

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Even though John is under-powered in this period we still see what made him so magnetic to Paul and to others around him. There is a scene early in Part Two that I find riveting. It takes place a couple of days after George has left. The status of everything - the project, the band - remains uncertain, but they are ploughing on for now. John, Yoko, Ringo, Paul and some of the crew are sitting in a semi-circle. Paul looks pensive. Ringo looks tired. John is speaking only in deadpan comic riffs, to which Paul responds now and again. Peter Sellers comes in and sits down, looks ill-at-ease, and leaves having barely said a word, unable to penetrate the Beatle bubble. At some point they’re joined by Lindsay-Hogg, and the conversation dribbles on. John mentions that he had to leave an interview that morning in order to throw up (he and Yoko had taken heroin the night before). Paul, looking into space rather than addressing anyone in particular, attempts to turn the conversation towards what they’re meant to be doing:

Paul: See, what we need is a serious program of work. Not an endless rambling among the canyons of your mind.

John: Take me on that trip upon that golden ship of shores… We’re all together, boy.

Paul: To wander aimlessly is very unswinging. Unhip.

John: And when I touch you, I feel happy inside. I can’t hide, I can’t hide. [pause] Ask me why, I’ll say I love you.

Paul: What we need is a schedule.

John: A garden schedule.

I mean first of all, who is writing this incredible dialogue? Samuel Beckett?

Let’s break it down a little. The first thing to note is that John and Paul are talking to each other without talking to each other. This is partly because they’re aware of the cameras and also because they’re just not sure how to communicate with each other at the moment. John’s contributions are oblique, gnomic, riddling, comprised only of songs and jokes, like the Fool in King Lear. Take me on that trip upon that golden ship of shores sounds like a Lennonised version of a line from Dylan’s Tambourine Man (“take me on a trip upon your magic swirling ship”). “We’re altogether, boy”? I have no idea. Does Paul? I think John expects Paul to understand him because he has such faith in what they used to call their “heightened awareness”, a dreamlike, automatic connection to each other’s minds. But right now, Paul is not much in the mood for it. His speech is more direct, though he too adopts a quasi-poetic mode (“canyons of your mind” is borrowed from a song by the Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band) and he can’t bring himself to make eye contact. “To wander aimlessly is very unswinging,” he says (another great line, I will pin it above my writing desk). Then John does something amazing: he starts talking in Beatle, dropping in lyrics from the early years of the band, I Want To Hold Your Hand and Ask Me Why. (To appreciate John’s response to Paul’s mention of a schedule, American readers may need reminding that English people pronounce it “shed - dule”.)

What’s going on throughout this exchange? Maybe Lennon is just filling dead air, or playing to the gallery, but I think he is (also) attempting to communicate to Paul in their shared code - something like he loves him, he loves The Beatles, they’re still in this together. Of course, we can’t know. I can’t hide, John says, hiding behind his wordplay.

— Ian Leslie, "The Banality of Genius: Notes on Peter Jackson's Get Back" (January 26, 2022).

[I was curious to read more of Ian Leslie's approach to the Beatles in general and Lennon-McCartney in particular, since he's currently writing a book about John and Paul's relationship: “John and Paul: A Love Story in Songs". He's also the author of that New York Times opinion piece that came out today.]

#The Beatles #John Lennon #Paul McCartney #Get Back sessions #the person i actually picked as my partner #johnny #macca #I Want to Hold Your Hand #Tell Me Why #But I could never speak my mind #As we share in each other's minds #quote #my stuff #That Paul and John business

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jubileemon · 2 months

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Hazbin Hotel: Poison Song

The song became controversial due to the visuals that accompany it were seem as portraying the topic of sexual abuse in an insensitive and some sort of sick fetish, but not from Angel Dust's perspective. Let me explain:

Valentino's Obsession and Control

Valentino's behavior towards Angel extends beyond professional boundaries, crossing into personal and sexual territory. His obsession with Angel Dust is evident in his relentless pursuit and control over him, which includes forcing himself upon Angel Dust and engaging in non-consensual acts. The series does not shy away from depicting the grim reality of such abusive relationships, challenging the audience to confront the severity of these issues.

Angel's inability to break free from Valentino's grip is symbolized by a contract that legally binds him to his abuser. The series hints at the possibility of escape, suggesting that the contract's dissolution could be the key to the sinner's liberation. However, the power to terminate this contract lies with Valentino, leaving Angel in a state of limbo and dependence.

Coping Mechanism and Self-Destruction

Angel was bound by a contract to Valentino, faces a harrowing existence under his dominion. Valentino, who is both Angel Dust's employer in the adult film industry and his abuser, employs gaslighting tactics to keep Angel Dust in line. The series showcases the psychological impact of such abuse, with Angel Dust being subjected to poor mistreatment and threats that leave him feeling trapped and hopeless.

Angel Dust's coping strategy involves substance abuse and self-sabotage, hoping to become so broken that Valentino will lose interest in him. This tragic approach to dealing with trauma is a reflection of the harsh reality faced by many abuse victims, who sometimes resort to self-harm in an effort to become unappealing to their abusers.

It is worth noting that Valentino is the one who should be freaking out in this scene, not Angel Dust, because actually managing to piss off Lucifer's daughter is like a mouse finally poking a lazy cat into action. But Charlie's demeanor is so unthreatening that even when she is clearly going to break Valentino like a twig for his behavior, Valentino isn't threatened and Angel actually stops Charlie from attacking him, seeing her as the one in danger. This is noted to be a favorite tactic of real-life abusers, in which they psychologically bind their victims so badly that they themselves will refuse help from people who would've saved them with little effort.

Angel's meltdown when Husk rejects him one too many times is both this and even more sadder, reminding us that Valentino's abuse has all but fully convinced Angel that his only worth is sex. As well as after Husk called him fake right before the meltdown, his eyes glow magenta and he gets up in Husk’s face.

The Music

The 'Poison' music video serves as a metaphorical exploration of Angel Dust's entrapment and addiction to the toxic relationship with Valentino. Visual elements such as pink smoke-like chains represent Valentino's control, while the ambiguous nature of their sexual encounters raises questions about consent. The video culminates in a scene that encapsulates the fear and distress Angel Dust experiences, highlighting the cyclical nature of abuse.

At one point in the song Angel straight up says that he can only blame himself instead of pinning any of it on "the poisoner" for all the abuse he's being put through. A harrowing reminder of how too many a victim feels like they've brought their suffering upon themselves or, worse, believe they deserve it.

Throughout the sequence, Angel is trying to maintain his "mask" of super-confidence and semi-aggressive sexuality on camera... but the mask keeps slipping. His face flashes from resigned, to frightened, to just plain tired, before he has to fake enthusiasm again. Worse, Valentino appears to be deliberately throwing Angel off his stride whenever he successfully gets into character: for example, when during the dance sequence between Angel and Valentino, Angel's doing a good job of appearing graceful and seductive...until Valentino literally yanks Angel's soul-contract chain to bring him crashing to the ground, a move that clearly startles Angel.

During the final dance sequence, the Angel we see "happily" dancing on stage is contrasted with his "real" self shown on screens surrounding him, going through the agonizing abuse that Valentino subjects him to. When Valentino arrives and drags Angel off to be raped again, it's flipped on its head — now the Angel on stage is fearful and upset while his screen counterpart "happily" continues the dance. "I disassociate, disappear" indeed...

#hazbin hotel #hazbin analysis #vivziepop #angel dust #character analysis #song #song analysis #hazbin hotel poison #valentino #hazbin hotel valentino #valdust #hazbin angel dust #angel dust hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel angel dust #abuse #toxic relationship #huskerdust #poison hazbin hotel

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kitten4sannie · 1 year

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4 - ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ꜱᴇx/ꜰᴇᴍɪɴɪᴢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ -

ᴡᴏᴏʏᴏᴜɴɢ

ʀᴇᴄᴏʀᴅ ᴛʜɪꜱ

pairing: wooyoung x producer! reader (fem)

summary: you were expecting to have a normal recording session with wooyoung, but he had other plans.

genre: idol! au, smut

w.c: 1.4k

warnings: sub! wooyoung, dom! reader, degradation, name calling, pet names, use of a butt plug, feminization, dirty talk, exhibitionism, semi public activities, mutual masterbation

a/n: yeah, i'm actually writing this from beyond the grave...this one was just too much for me 🤒

FFF Masterlist

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Hearing the door of the recording booth open and close, you looked up from the large monitors in front of you, watching Wooyoung put his headphones on. Once you took account of the remaining members sitting in the waiting room, you put your headphones back over both ears, giving him a wave. “Hey, Woo. Are you ready to go?”

"I’m always ready, Y/N.” He gave you a weirdly suggestive smile, his eyelids lowering slightly. You could’ve sworn he batted his eyelashes at you too, but you could just be seeing things after a long day in the studio.

“Good, good…” You looked down at the monitor again, clicking a few things until the track began, waiting for Wooyoung to sing his first line, which he eventually did, sounding close to perfect. “Alright, that was perfect. Here comes the next.”

Wooyoung bit his lip at your praise, reaching into his pants pocket to press something. He immediately gripped the music stand in front of him, his teeth digging further into his skin. When the instrumental continued, he sang the lyrics, but his voice came out too breathy.

“That was…too seductive for a song about governmental control.” You stopped the track, making Wooyoung look at you with mild surprise, his hand reaching back into his pocket. “Can you do it again, but less…like that?”

“Got it.” He gave you an ‘ok’ sign and faced the mic again, this time grabbing the music stand with both hands, his fingertips clenching around it. Once you started the track again, he opened his mouth to sing, but a moan came out instead. It wasn’t just a regular moan, either. It was downright pornographic.

Your index finger smashed down on your mouse, killing the track once again, your jaw wide open at the point. “W-Woo, are you good in there?”

“Really good…” He might as well have moaned that directly into your ear. "Can't you see how hard I am?"

You eyed the tent in his jeans, feeling your body react to the sight of it, suddenly wishing there wasn’t a thick slab of glass separating the two of you. And three people you had a casual business relationship with hanging out in the room next to you. The kind of relationship you should’ve still had with Wooyoung. You knew it was wrong, yet you were still here, giving into him time and time again.

“Let’s keep going, then,” you said so casually it threw Wooyoung off his game for a second, giving him a small smile as he looked at you, his lips forming an ‘o’. “Go on. Let me hear that pretty voice of yours.”

Wooyoung pressed the button another time and tossed his head back, ignoring the empty track playing in his ear, gasping, “Oh my god, Y/N…it feels so fucking good…”

“Does it?”

“Uh-huh…” He nodded his head, pouting slightly out of habit. “But only because you’re watching me…”

You gulped audibly, closing your eyes for a second to ground yourself, knowing there was no going back after this. "Show me what toy you’re using, Woo," you instructed in a low voice, gazing at Wooyoung with slightly hooded eyes.

“Yeah? You want to see it, Y/N?” He bit the tip of his finger, slowly backing up into the wall behind him, knowing he was hidden from any wandering eyes. “You want to see what’s got me this hard?” he added, his voice lowering as well, gripping the sides of his cock through his increasingly tight pants.

“Mmm-hmm.” Trying not to let your dominant energy slip away from you, knowing that Wooyoung preferred you that way, you leaned your head against the palm of your hand, looking at him with a face of indifference. “Now, bend over and show me what’s turning you into a dumb little slut.”

Wooyoung’s eyes dilated in real time, his body immediately flipping around to face the wall, bending over just enough for you to see his jeans conforming to his body, letting you get a clear view of his perfectly round ass. “Should I take these off?” he asked sweetly, glancing at you through his peripheral, his fingers hooking into the side of his jeans and sliding them down just enough for you to catch sight of the lacy black panties that clung to his hips.

“Jesus…” you mumbled underneath your breath, leaning back in your seat and unbuttoning your jeans. “Take them off and spread your legs for me.”

Wooyoung’s tongue dragged across his upper teeth, delighted with how flustered you looked, choosing to push his jeans down so incredibly slow that your cunt ached with each passing second. “Take a good look, okay?” he giggled, sliding them past his ass and bending over a bit further, then moving his panties to the side to show you the small heart-shaped tip of the plug he had inside him.

Sighing, you spread your thighs apart and slipped a hand past your own panties, your fingers brushing over your clit. "Pull it out..."

Wooyoung rested one hand against the wall, reaching back with his other hand to pull the vibrating plug out, unable to keep himself from moaning at the sensation, his hole puckering around nothing but air. "Now what, Y/N?"

Squeezing and rubbing your clit, you cleared your throat to prevent yourself from making any obvious sounds of pleasure, commanding weakly, "Fuck yourself with your fingers."

He tugged at his bottom lip with his teeth, exhaling air out of his nose, looking at you so intensely, you were afraid that he already knew that you were playing with yourself. "Keep your eyes on me..." He sucked on his fingers and spit on them for good measure, then slipped them inside himself with ease, immediately shoving them in and out to his liking.

Feeling like you could barely catch your breath, you slid your own digits into your cunt up to your knuckles, your wetness making it a lot easier to finger-fuck yourself to your heart's content. "Fuck, jerk yourself off too, Woo..."

Wooyoung flipped his body back towards you, pressing his back into the wall, still fingering himself, but using his free hand to collect the pre-cum dribbling down his cock, tugging on it like he would when he was alone. "You're playing with yourself too, aren't you?" He giggled when you nodded your head. "Am I making you wet, Y/N?"

"Yes, very..." you exhaled, your hand starting to move more rapidly below you now that you didn't feel the need to hide it. "Faster, Woo..."

Wooyoung sped up the pace, stroking his cock as fast as he possibly could, curling his fingers inside his hole to rub his prostate. He started to let out more whiny-sounding moans and mewls, allowing you to hear them clearly from how small the room was, neither of you noticing that the instrumental track routinely repeated inside your headphones.

"Be a good little slut and cum for me, okay?" You used your other hand to slip underneath your sweater to squeeze and pull at one of your tits, rubbing your clit so quickly your hand was beginning to cramp up. "Come on, Woo...Do it for me..."

"Watch me, Y/N..." he answered shakily, letting go of his cock for a second to lift the bottom of his shirt up to his mouth to bite it, gripping his length a second later to bring himself to his peak.

The visual of Wooyoung's petite upper body, along with everything else he was presenting shamelessly to you, was too much for you to handle. "Fuck...!" you suddenly cried, your voice breaking, almost appearing as needy as your coworker did, as your arousal began to spill out of you. "Fuck, Woo, please...Cum for me...Let me see you..."

"I'm cumming for you, Y/N...I'm cumming..." he moaned into his t-shirt, keeping his clouded eyes focused on yours, suddenly letting out a muffled whine, spurts of cum landing across his abdomen and chest.

Breathing heavily, you pulled your hand out of your jeans and hit the button on your mouse, stopping the track. "Do you...want to run that back and should we keep it as it is?"

Wooyoung spit his shirt out of his mouth, holding it up with his hand instead, using his other one to push a few strands of dyed hair behind his pierced ear. He gave you the same lewd smile from earlier, this time winking at you, instead of batting his pretty eyelashes.

"Keep it."

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Apply for the taglist here ⇢ ♡

FFF: @hwalysm @scuzmunkie @creativechaoticloner @dilucpegg3r @yeosxxx @gemjimin @wonwowzers

#ateez #ateez smut #wooyoung #ateez wooyoung #wooyoung smut #wooyoung x reader #ateez x reader #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez x y/n #ateez x you #wooyoung x you #kpop smut #ateez fanfiction #ateez oneshot #ateez hard hours #wooyoung x y/n #february filth fest

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cherryheartssblog · 3 months

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DON’T BLAME ME

Summary: based on Taylor Swift’s Don’t Blame Me. Y/N L/N has always struggled with relationships. She thought she found her Prince Charming with each guy she dated. Each one ended up in disaster until Negan Smith came along.

Warnings: 18+, smut, Taylor Swift song (maybe a warning to some folks), the song uses the imagery of using drugs, fluff, aftercare! Dom! Negan, description of rough sex, age gap (the reader is in the late 20s and Negan is in later 40s), reader has a heavy dating history!, mentions of cheating, reader! is a high school teacher!, cursing!, semi! public sex ( they have sex at the school), slight sir kink, unprotected sex, reader does not a have fully description (does wear glasses and skirts), daddy kink!, quickie sex!, and not fully edited!

A/N: Boarder is by me🥰, it’s not perfect but I have been playing with them on Picsart. I found the reputation snake on google! It’s a pretty short one shot and mainly just straight smut, not too much of a story.

Don't blame me, love made me crazy

If it doesn't, you ain't doin' it right

Lord, save me, my drug is my baby

I'll be usin' for the rest of my life

Y/N always felt that she would eventually find the right person for her. She understood it might take some time, but she didn't know how long it would take. Y/N had been in many relationships with various men, some lasting for a few years while others lasted only a few months or weeks. Y/N felt embarrassed about some of her past relationships and sometimes cringed at the memories of those she had been with.

I've been breakin' hearts a long time, and

Toyin' with them older guys

Just playthings for me to use

Y/N's life took a dramatic turn after graduating from college. She discovered that her boyfriend had been cheating on her with one of her closest friends, shattering her heart into a million pieces. Determined to start afresh, she moved away from her old town to start a new life. She landed a teaching job at a local high school, where she met some amazing friends who made her life vibrant and exciting. With her new-found positivity and zest for life, Y/N is now living the life of her dreams!

Something happened for the first time, in

The darkest little paradise

Shakin, pacin', I just need you

Y/N's heart skipped a beat when she met Negan Smith, the charming PE teacher who had every female teacher vying for his attention. Despite the distractions, Y/N was drawn to him, and fate brought them together at a Halloween Party in the local gym. As they escorted the event, they found themselves sharing more than just a punch bowl, and their connection was electric.

Y/N knew her class would tease her, and they continued later on until the Winter Formal Dance. Negsn finally asked her to go for a drink after both chaperoning the dance. That night was memorable, not just catching kids doing it in the parking lot but doing it in the parking lot with Negan herself.

Negan made her feel more alive, giving her something she’d never felt. The way he pounded her in the backseat of his truck outside the school after everyone had left after getting them a drink at a local bar in town. Y/N had never been cared for like that, especially the first time with someone. He treated her like a queen and touched her in all the right places.

For you, I would cross the line

I would waste my time

I would lose my mind

They say, "She's gone too far this time"

Y/N and Negan finally officially started dating after the New Year and Valentine's Day was approaching. It was their first one together. Y/N was never a big fan of the holiday, but Negsn wanted to make it memorable for her. Sadly the day fell on a school day, and the school was filled with horny teenagers. Y/N and Negan were just horny teenagers themselves if you looked closely. The way they shared glances in the hallway during breaks. They would be eating each other alive.

Y/N wanted Negan took take her into his office, throw her over his desk, and fuck her until it broke underneath her. She would do anything for this man; he was her true love, and Y/N knew it as well as Negan did.

2:57PM

Finally, the kids left the building, most lingering, waiting on rides or meeting with other teachers. Y/N was grading a few tests from a few days ago; she’d been entirely behind. She was distracted, and Y/N knew exactly what the distraction was, too.

Don't blame me, love made me crazy

If it doesn't, you ain't doin' it right

Lord, save me, my drug is my baby

I'll be usin' for the rest of my life

Y/N's heart was racing as she frantically flipped through the answer key, trying to find the correct answers. The room was messy, with papers and tests scattered over her desk. Suddenly, there was a faint knock on the door. Her heart skipped a beat as she looked up and saw Negan, the handsome coach from her last class, standing in the doorway. He was still dressed in gym clothes, his muscles bulging under his shirt. With a sly smile, he scanned over her, and she felt herself getting lost in his piercing gaze.

He looked hot in anything..

Her lips pierced, tapping her pencil against her desk. “What do you need, Mr. Smith?” Y/N played innocently; she’d been teasing all day. She wore Negan’s favorite outfit, that skirt that hugged her curves. She dressed with that white button top tucked in, letting her ass be out. It was so tempting for Negsn to go up and slap it all day. Negan could have grabbed her at any moment, thrown her in any classroom, and made her cock drunk on a teacher's desk.

Negan was utterly smitten with this woman and there was nothing he wouldn't do for her. She was his ultimate dream girl, and he couldn't resist the urge to see her. As he shut the door behind him, the blind on her window quickly came down. The younger woman's heart raced as she watched Negan slowly make his way towards her, causing her to tense up with anticipation.

Y/N felt butterflies in her stomach as Negan approached her. "What the hell are you thinking?" he asked, his eyes growing darker. Y/N stood up from her rolling chair and touched his chest to stop him. "Not here, Negan," she said. "Even if you want to, I have a lot of tests to grade."

Negan chuckled. It was a darker laugh. His hand grabbed hers that rested on his chest. Y/N tried to pull away, but he gripped her hand from leaving his side. “Negan, baby,” Y/N breathed out; she knew she was getting turned on, “We don’t need to do this.”

Negan bit his lip in desire, pushing her to the wall behind her. It was with force that Negan’s hands wrapped around her throat, his lips crashing into hers. “You know you want to, baby.” Negan’s voice could have made her legs tremble. His hands went to her legs, raising her tighter skirt. Y/N’s eyes moved to the door; luckily, the windows in her classroom blinds were closed. Negsn had the skirt resting on her upper hips, her panties out to see.

My name is whatever you decide

And I'm just gonna call you mine

I'm insane, but I'm your baby (your baby)

Negan had his forehead resting against hers, and his eyes could not move away from hers. “Fuck me, sir,” Y/N giggled, pointing over to her desk, “throw me over my desk and fuck me.” Negan grabbed her, wrapping her around him. She squealed, and Negan cut her off by pulling her into another kiss. His lips moved with hers perfectly, slamming the papers she had been grading onto the ground. He laid her down on the wooden desk, wrapping her legs around him.

He pulled down her skirt, throwing his shorts to the side. Y/N tried to keep quiet, but Negsn and her could not get caught. “You gonna be quiet for daddy?” Negan whispered in her ear, unbuttoning her too slowly. With each pop, Y/N's nails dug more deeply into the side of her desk. She knew it would leave indents.

“Yes, Daddy, we need to be quick,” Y/N muttered. Negan got her bent over on her desk. Y/N had her ass up as Negan fucked her from behind. Pushing her face into the desk, Y/N had her hand covering her moans. Negan kept his groans quiet, sweat forming on top of his forehead.

Negan’s chest rested on her bare back, whispering in her ear. “You’re mine, y’know, sweetheart,” Negan was driving her crazy, her pussy clenched around his cock, “You’re making me crazy.” Negan’s thrust was getting sloppier, Y/N’s eyes closed. His words were growing butterflies in his stomach. It felt so overstimulating. She barely was taking everything when Negan started playing with her clit.

“I’m yours.” Y/N moaned out, which made Negan smile ear to ear.

And baby, for you, I would fall from grace

Just to touch your face

If you walk away

I'd beg you on my knees to stay

Negan felt himself growing closer, his hands digging deeper into Y/N's sides. The way her ass was bouncing on his cock, drew his attention, feeling himself seconds away from coming inside her perfect pussy. Everything about her was for him, made just for him. “I’m about to come inside you, doll.” Negan felt himself come inside of her, continuing his thrust slower. He was trying to catch his breath, and he knew Y/N was close. He knew her body like the back of his hand.

I get so high, oh

Every time you're, every time you're lovin' me

You're lovin' me

Trip of my life, oh

Every time you're, every time you're touchin' me

You're touchin' me

“Come around my cock, baby,” Negan commanded her, and right after his sentence, he could feel Y/N break underneath him. He covered her mouth, feeling the vibrations of her moans against his palm. “That’s right, that’s my girl.” Negan praised her, kissing her neck gently.

Y/N couldn't resist the thrill of being with Negan. With every move he made, her heart raced faster and faster. He was the adventure she had been waiting for, the man of her dreams who made her feel alive. Y/N had been searching for someone like him for ages - someone who would treat her like royalty, shower her with affection, and make her feel like the most important person in the world. With Negan, she finally found what she had been looking for.

“I’d do anything for you, Negan.” Y/N slipped her skirt back on, standing on her tiptoes, her lips meeting his. “Yeah, it seems, sweetheart,” Negan laughed, getting his clothes back on, “We just fucked in your classroom.” Y/N snickered at his comment, pulling her hair from her buttoned white shirt. “Love made me a little crazy.” Y/N teased; Negan playfully grabbed her, causing her to laugh, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Now let me take you on that special Valentine's date, crazy girl.”

Don't blame me, love made me crazy

If it doesn't, you ain't doin' it right (doin' it right, no)

Lord, save me, my drug is my baby

I'll be usin' for the rest of my life

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petersasteria · 5 months

Text

because i liked a boy - T.C.

Pairing: T.C. x SabrinaCarpenter!Reader Words: 1,224 Warning/s: curse words, kylie jenner being mean

You knew you weren’t at fault. You knew that no one was. You also knew that this whole situation was blown way out of proportion. According to the media, you and Timothée started your relationship while he was in a relationship with Kylie Jenner. That was not the case and all three of you knew that. Since the devil works hard, Kylie Jenner’s team works harder. They seemed to add fuel to the fire by pushing the narrative that maybe you did “seduce” Timothée to get in the way of their relationship. Because she’s so powerful, everyone turned against you. Her fans commented nasty things on your Instagram, sent you death threats, and harassed you when they saw you in public.

The funny thing about this whole ordeal was that when this whole narrative began, you and Timothée had already called it quits. It was baffling to say the least, but in true fashion, you chose not to say anything. Instead, you hid in isolation for a year and wrote a few songs about the whole thing. It saddened you that not even Timothée defended you against Kylie’s false claims. He just watched and let it happen. You reached out to Kylie’s team about it, but they never responded. You were never one to create drama, but when everything simmered down, you released a music video for your new song, “because i liked a boy”.

Meanwhile, Timothée was scrolling on YouTube to watch something. It was his day off and he was happy just lounging around. As he scrolled, he saw your newest video. He looked around to see if he was alone before clicking the video. Immediately, he was in awe. The melody and the visuals were appealing. The video opened with you lying down on a trampoline. He watched intently as you sang.

I said I wanted thin mints

And you said you knew a guy

You showed up with a boom box

And stars in your eyes

He smiled to himself as he remembered the first time he’s been to your place. It didn’t take a genius to know that the song was for him. He knew from the first line. Listening to the first four lines made him excited to listen to the rest of the song.

Who knew cuddling on trampolines

Could be so reckless?

We bonded over Black Eyed Peas

And complicated exes

It was true. You and him have always talked about your exes. Mainly because they seem to be all the same in terms of personality. He was glad to finally meet someone who sees on the same page as him.

Fell so deeply into it

It was all so innocent

In the video, you sat up, grabbed the newspaper next to you, and opened it. The front page revealed the words: “Y/N, THE WRECKER OF RELATIONSHIPS”. In the next frame, you were walking down the red carpet and everyone was pushing you away, ostracizing you in the industry.

Now I’m a home-wrecker

I’m a slut

I got death threats filling up

Semi trucks

Tell me who I am

Guess I don’t have a choice

All because I liked

Timothée was surprised at the choice of words you used. He genuinely felt bad for everything that you’ve been through. You didn’t deserve any of it. He hated his management team for advising him not to say anything because it could ruin his reputation.

I’m the hot topic on your tongue

In the next scene, you got a Kylie Jenner look alike to portray what she does on Instagram live and then she holds up a picture of you, gags, and rips it apart.

I’m a rebound gettin’ round

Stealing from the young

Tell me who I am

Guess I don’t have a choice

All because I liked a boy

In the video, you were back at your house while holding your heels. A man was waiting for you and you had an argument about something.

I’m not catastrophizing

Everything’s derailing

You let go of your shoes and hugged the man from behind, but he pushed you off and walked away. You cried and sat on the stairs. Timothée’s heart broke seeing you like that.

Was only tryna hold you close

While your heart was failing

It’s not internet illusion

Just two kids going through it

You said I’m too late to be your first love

But I’ll always be your favorite

That part was true. He did tell you that. He was surprised you included it in your song. He still meant what he said. You were, and still are, his favorite. It just didn’t work out in the end.

Now I’m a home-wrecker

I’m a slut

I got death threats filling up

Semi trucks

Tell me who I am

Guess I don’t have a choice

All because I liked

I’m the hot topic on your tongue

I’m a rebound gettin’ round

Stealing from the young

Tell me who I am

Guess I don’t have a choice

All because I liked a boy

Fell so deeply into it

It was all so innocent

Dating boys with exes

No, I wouldn’t recommend it

He proceeded to watch your video intently, not knowing what was about to come next. He watched as the man left with his belongings, leaving you crying. In the next scene you were in the dining area, holding up the newspaper from the first scene. You put it down and sang.

I’m a home-wrecker

I’m a slut

I got death threats filling up

Semi trucks

Tell me who I am

Guess I don’t have a choice

All because I liked a boy

Just then pictures of you and Timothée popped up, making him smile a bit. He missed you. There was no denying that you two were a good match; a great match. His smile disappeared when all your pictures were replaced with real headlines regarding the situation, calling you nasty names. The camera slowly zoomed in on your face to show your real emotions.

And all of this for what?

When everything went down

We’d already broken up

Please tell me who I am

Guess I don’t have a choice

All because I liked a boy

Timothée teared up and sniffed. You didn’t deserve any of that. He read the comments and all of it was positive; people immediately switched to your side after being cruel the previous year. You didn’t release that song as an intention to hurt or shade anybody. You just wanted people to know your side of the story seeing as Kylie and her team loved to fabricate the shit out of everything. You wanted people to hear it from you through song. Needless to say, you didn’t disappoint.

A few weeks later, you were invited to perform at an awards show. You were walking down the red carpet, taking pictures, and avoiding interviews like the plague when you saw him. You both looked at each other in shock. He smiled at you and gave him a curt nod. You didn’t speak to him after that. Your chapter with him already closed and both of you knew that it was done and over with. You looked away, but he stared at you longer. After a while, he smiled to himself, looked away, and went on with his night.

#timothee chalamet #timothee chalamet x reader #timothee chalamet fanfic #timothee chalamet fic

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rendevok · 7 months

Note

Do you have headcanons for nrmt in 7yg? Like how would they communicate right after disbarment and during it?

7yg nrmt headcanons you say?

You have no idea the can of worms you just cracked open. 7yg is pretty much my favorite phase for them, and my hcs for that era feel endless. I’ll try to reel it in, but i’m extremely not normal about this topic.

Pertaining to whether or not they’re even talking: at the start of it, I definitely envision the scenario as Edgeworth being abroad for his legal studies, and Phoenix not really having the time, energy, or interest to make a call to deliver the news. Phoenix has to somehow secure meals for himself and a young girl, so telling people is probably low on his list of priorities. Still, I’m sure visits from friends would trickle in. He wouldn’t be opposed to seeing friends at first, but with each subsequent response to the news of his disbarment, he’d dread the inevitable (Edgeworth). I don’t think he would avoid Edgeworth entirely; he’d accept phone calls and maybe entertain a vague life update, partly to maintain a sense of normalcy for himself, but mostly because he wants to avoid whatever the hell Edgeworth would have to say about it all. However, he can only skirt around the truth for so long, and Edgeworth isn’t completely out of touch with social cues from a close friend like Phoenix to not realize he’s withholding something. Edgeworth being himself and this being about Phoenix… I don’t think he’d be in the dark for much longer after that.

After Edgeworth pays him his own in-person visit, things are tense between them. Phoenix is jaded, and Edgeworth is determined to uncover the truth (as well as help Phoenix in any way possible). They’d be at odds, and that tension would be drawn out until Phoenix himself starts to get a whiff of the foul play at hand. Only then would he begin to re-open that line of trust between him and Edgeworth again, and begin accepting Edgeworth’s offers to help. I don’t think Phoenix would handle years of knowing someone was out to get him very well without knowing he had someone he could trust.

I also like to imagine them (privately) leading a deeper investigation into the ever-evolving mystery surrounding Phoenix’s disbarment together, so in terms of literal choice of communication, they’d restrict sensitive conversations to being in-person only—a great excuse to visit Edgeworth many times overseas. :^))) Still, it’s a long form game and they couldn’t afford to do that all the time, so they settle for an annual visit at least (gay gay homosexual gay). Aside from that, it’s likely many long catch-up phone calls and godawful amounts of yearning for them, because they somehow manage to not act on their feelings despite outwardly looking like a couple to everyone around them.

TL;DR: at first they suck at communicating because of the circumstances and a semi-friendly disagreement on what to do about things, but in time their goals align and they figure out how to communicate homosexually (complex song and dance which results in not getting any*), and work together from a distance.

I hope this made some sense because tbqh I had to stop myself from just straight up attempting to write out the development of their relationship over the course of seven fucking years. They are corroding the hinges on my brain. ♡

#*….unless..?#I believe in pining 7yg nrmts despite basically being a family rights #i have a file dedicated to 7yg hcs and i live in fear of how large it will get someday #if i could write a fic? it would be about the 7yg #not even necessarily about nrmts tho they would be there obviously #asks #anonymous #i just realized i should probably tag these so uhhhh #hcs #7yg #narumitsu #aa

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froggibus · 3 months

Note

Hi! How’s going? I hope good, and if not, things will get better soon!

I wanted to request a NSFW Lucio scenario, BUT IDK WHAT 😭😭😭 Maybe a dom-reader? Lucio reacting to a moo-lingerie (or just lingerie)? A classic loving vanilla scenario in the bedroom? Camping sex? The reader gets horny after seeing Lucio's tanned skin coming out of the shower after a long day on the beach? Sneaky sex after/before a show?

Idk if any of these ideas are inspiring to you, I hope so 🥺 (I'm Lucio starved help)

Two for the Show — Lucio Correia dos Santos

Pairing: Lucio x fem! reader (reader uses fem pronouns + has a pussy)

Genre: smut/NSFW

Word Count: 1.9k

Summary: your boyfriend always needs a little extra love after a show—and you’re more than happy to give it to him

CW: established relationship, porn with plot, semi public sex, oral (m! receiving), incredibly filthy messy head, riding, doggy, praise, kinda manhandling? multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, choking, hair pulling, neck biting & kissing, creampie, cockwarming if u squint

for the most dedicated Lucio fan out there 🫶🏻 I started writing this a while ago but I finished like the last 1200 words tonight. I hope you like it!! I know it isn’t quite what you asked for BUT I did actually proofread it (rare)

Lucio flips his head back, damp hair whipping the back of his neck. He’s hopping up and down, hands flicking switches on his board so fast he can hardly keep track. Sweat beads down his bare chest, smearing the green paint that runs over his abs, over his shoulders, into his pants.

The concert is so loud his eardrums throb. No matter how many times he performs he never gets used to the noise—he never gets used to the rush. The faces in the crowd in front of him blend into the next, smiles and tongues making them look like a pulsing, scarlet blur.

The adrenaline is an addiction, and even after he says it’s the ‘last song’ (for the third time, no doubt), he finds he can’t quite let go. The flashing lights disappear and the smoke fades away, but his heart still pounds in his chest.

“Thank you, Rio!” He shouts, his voice drowned out by the blood rushing in his ears.

He grabs his water bottle from under his table and flashes the crowd a grin before slinking away backstage. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, a failed attempt to calm the vibrant pulse in his chest.

You’re waiting for him backstage, starry eyes falling over his form. “Hey superstar,” you beam.

His hands are reaching out before he’s even close enough to feel you. He crosses the room to you, and then he’s falling into you. His hands trail down your cheeks, down your sides, falling featherlight over your hips.

“How was the show—mmm”

His lips are on yours, cutting off whatever you were about to say. His kiss is full of need as he pulls you closer to his chest so you can feel the roaring of his heart. The grip on your waist tightens, desperate fingers clutching at your skin so hard it burns.

He can’t help it—you soothe that part of him that still aches from the pumping adrenaline. When his heart is thrashing and his cock is swollen, you’re the only remedy. His hands slide down to your ass, cupping the fat and squeezing til you squeal into his mouth.

“Easy there,” you say between heavy breaths. “There’s still a big crowd out there. ”

Lucio looks at you, a wanton smirk on his face. His pupils have almost completely blown with lust and his cheeks burn a deep red. His body shakes with every desperate breath.

He mumbles a quick, “I don’t care,” and then his lips are on yours again.

You’re stumbling around, your arms squeezing his shoulders for support as he walks you towards the couch backstage. The leather hits the back of your legs and suddenly the two of you are tumbling to the floor. You collide partly with the sofa, and partly with the soft rug that lines the floor beneath it.

“Lucio—” you gasp at the impact but the DJ is unphased.

His teeth dig into your bottom lip, scraping along the sensitive skin. A gasp forces your mouth open and then his tongue is running along the backs of your teeth. You whine into his mouth, rocking your hips against the air.

And then he’s pulling away from you.

You tilt your head in confusion, forcing your lungs to expand with each breath. He props himself up on the couch in front of you, hands making quick work of the studded belt around his waist, and then his pants are pooling around his ankles.

You crawl forward, bracing yourself on your knees between his. The green paint goes all the way down to his thighs, smeared across his groin from his sweat and your touch.

He raises an eyebrow at you, “well?”

You bite your lip. Your hands move on their own, running up the length of his cock through his boxers before sliding your fingers inside the waistband. He shivers from your touch and bucks his hips forward.

You’re slow to tug down his underwear, looking up at him through your lashes just to see him staring at you with an intensity you’ve rarely seen before. His cock springs free and it's already dripping in precum, the shaft glistening with his desperation.

You brace your hands against his skin—one on his hard abs and the other on his quivering thigh—and lick all the way up his length. His hands are quick to grab your head, tugging you forward with those thinly strewn muscles you always forget about until they’re bulging in the after light of a concert.

Just the sight of him gripping your head, arms flexing and eyes glazed over, is enough to have you rutting against your leg.

You take him into your mouth, the sweet salt of his pre flooding your tastebuds. It only drives you to take more of him in, forcing your head down even after he brushes up against the back of your mouth. He’s sweaty and salty and his skin is so hot—it’s almost overwhelming.

He pushes your head down, nearly bottoming out inside of your throat. “Fuck—could live in this pretty mouth,” he groans.

You flick your teary eyes up to look at him, silently pleading with him to release your head and let you get some air. Part of you hopes he lets go but another part doesn’t. The feeling of choking on his cock is intoxicating and sends heat straight to your core.

The back of your leg starts to feel wet from how you’re rubbing against it, your panties drenched with your own slick. Finally, Lucio lets go and you pull away with a gasp.

He gives you a minute to catch your breath, rubbing the head of his cock all around your mouth. He smears your drool and spit and his precum all across your face and it’s so fucking dirty, but you just look so cute when you get all messy like this—he can’t help it.

He rubs his thumb over your swollen bottom lip. “Y’have paint all over your face, baby.”

You mirror his action, smearing the pre and paint across the back of your hand. It’s almost laughable when your skin comes back stained green.

“So pretty.” His hands roam your face, down your neck, to your chest. “Let’s get those clothes off you, hm?”

And then you’re nodding your head, rising to your feet on shaking legs in front of him. He leans back on the couch, folding his hands behind his head. His eyes are glazed over as they watch you reach for the hem of your shirt.

You’re quick to tug your shirt over your head but you pull your pants down painstakingly slow. Lucio gives his cock a tight fisted stroke, watching you bend over in front of him to show your underwear clad pussy. You’re wearing green underwear today—no doubt for him—and it has him aching to be in your cunt.

As soon as your panties hit the floor, he’s pulling you into his lap. You gasp at the feeling of his warm fingers on your hips, guiding you down to sit on his cock. You groan in unison, a desperate mewl ripping from your throat.

He keeps a vice grip on your hips, holding you snug against his thighs and keeping his cock buried inside you. He sets his jaw on your shoulder, hot gasps of air brushing on the cusp of your ear.

“You’re so wet just from blowing me,” he gasps out, “s-so tight.”

You whine through your bitten lip, your eyes squeezed shut. Rocking your hips, you try to break free from his grip, try to bounce on his cock—try to do anything. But he’s content to hold you down, using you as his own personal cockwarmer.

Finally, you break. “L-lucio, please!”

“Please, what?”

“Please let me move!”

He plants a rough kiss to your neck, teeth grazing the skin as he pulls away, and finally releases your hips. Immediately you begin to bounce up and down his length, cunt making loud, wet noises as he bottoms out repeatedly.

He uses his strength to help you ride him, nails digging into the bottoms of your thighs so hard you swear he’ll draw blood. Your whines and his grunts fill the room backstage—loud enough for any passersby to hear, but you’re too far gone to care.

It’s already hot backstage, the air thick from the Brazilian heat—but it’s tenfold now that you’re pressed against him with his cock throbbing inside of you. Sweat pools in every place your bodies collide but it only makes it easier to move against him.

The drag of his cock against your aching walls is addicting, and your craving for the heat of his body against yours is insatiable. You have your hands pressed against his knees while you bounce on his cock, using them for momentum to drive him deeper and deeper into your core with each movement.

His tip rams into your sweet spot every time, his heartbeat is wild against your back and his skin is so hot you swear you’ll both burn up. You clench your hands around his knees, his skin filling the spaces under your nails. Your legs start to tremble, your tummy flutters, and then you’re exploding.

You cum wildly, back arching into his chest. He holds you through your orgasm, still rutting into you restlessly, chasing his own high.

You’re almost limp when you’re done cumming, so tired in his arms you can hardly move. Your pussy aches for more—but your thighs and arms tremble so furiously that there’s no way you could hold yourself up.

Lucio is one step ahead of you, though. He cradles your body, slipping his cock out of your gushing hole just long enough to lay you on your stomach. The cold leather of the couch soothes the fire on your skin, but your pussy still throbs in anticipation.

“Shh,” he soothes you, cock slipping easily through your folds. “‘M gonna make you feel so good, princess.”

Your strength is recovering, albeit slowly. But it’s just enough for you to push yourself onto your knees, resting your cheek against the couch.

He grips your hips and uses them to propel himself forward. The slam of his hips on the backs of your thighs is hard enough to bruise. His desperation, his need to cum, only grows with every thrust, the movements getting sloppier with each passing second.

He reaches forward and grabs your hair, tugging you away from the couch. His other hand is snug around the base of your throat, just barely applying pressure. You’re whimpering in his arms, shaking—your pussy flutters and clenches on his cock with every thrust.

You’re getting close and though you open your mouth to warn him, the only thing that leaves is a strangled moan. He attaches his lips to the side of your neck again, alternating between gnawing at the sensitive skin and mumbling soft praises.

“F—fuck!” He slams his cock deep inside of you, his hand around your throat tightening enough to cut off your circulation.

You barely feel the hot streams of cum gush inside of you before your own orgasm is falling over you. You shake in Lucio’s arms, your head lulling back onto his shoulder.

He holds you through it, finally letting go of your aching neck. “That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, stroking your head, “cum for me.”

It’s nearly two minutes before the aftershocks of your orgasm start to fade. Lucio’s heart hammers in his chest behind you, his heavy breathing filling your ears.

You let yourself collapse into him. He catches you in his strong arms, positioning both of you to lay against the couch.

“Fuck,” he laughs, rubbing at the paint covered bruises forming on your body. “You should come to my shows more often.”

(if you enjoy content like this, interactions go a long way! comments, likes & rbs are always greatly appreciated ^-^ !!)

masterlist | overwatch masterlist

#overwatch 2 #overwatch #ow2 #overwatch x reader #overwatch x you #ow #overwatch fic #xreader #overwatch headcanons #x you #lucio x you #lucio x reader #lucio ow #lucio correia dos santos #lucio overwatch #lucio

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chiskz · 6 months

Text

[ ▶️ ] Stray Kids [INTRO "樂-STAR"]

↬ 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

Chichi is wearing a very loose pale pink sweater, Timberland boots of the same color and wide denim pants. Her hair is tied in a very small ponytail. She is sitting on a high stool set up in a training room, which is semi-dark.

❝ We are back with a new album and new energy. I think both we and STAY have been waiting for something like this.❞

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

❝ As you can see, I am in our training room, the place where it is easiest to find me at any time of the day as well as night.❞

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

❝ This year has really brought us a lot of good things, mainly a lot of new opportunities to grow and show again that we have our own style. I feel that we are maturing as artists, more and more with each new song. It's a great feeling to be able to blossom at any time of the year. ❞

↬ 𝐋𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐋𝐀

❝ Ah, choreography? ❞

Chichi laughs briefly, sitting down a little more comfortably.

❝ This song was supposed to be as a b-side for 5-STAR album, so I had heard it much earlier. So I had a good part of the choreography laid already in my head, so putting it together into a coherent whole went quite smoothly, so we had a lot of time to learn and practice it. I'm proud of it. ❞

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

❝ Referring to rock-star, I also included the headbanging associated with that concept, but in our style, somewhat reminiscent of the head movement from God's Menu. ❞

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Lee Know: ❝ The moves are really big too. [...] "They're giving it their all", that's how the final chorus feels like. Everytime I listen to a song I can picture the choreography in my head and how I want to feel. When I listened to this song and then Chichi showed us the choreography I was like... Wow. She really did bring out the song's full potential. ❞

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

❝ This time there were many dancers with us. I wondered how I would lead them, but both they and my Kids and JYP ent. put all their trust in me. I couldn't let them down. In college, large groups of dancers were my specialty, but to be honest, I was still scared. It was really a big responsibility. Fortunately, we understood each other very well and the cooperation went smoothly. ❞

↬ 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐗

❝ "Embracing all my scars and imperfections, turn the tide. All my cons are my pros now." I love this song. I think that even at this stage of life, where I'm already an adult, I can say that I still struggle with complexes. This song is a good way to deal with them, it's about turning something we think is our weakness into a strength, because we are really the only ones who can give it to ourselves. We are our ally, the only one we are sure will stay with us forever. That is why it is so important to build a healthy relationship with yourself.❞

↬ 𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐄

❝ Ah, Cover Me! ❞

Chichi laughs and wraps her arms around herself.

❝ At the very sound of the title I got shivers... A wonderful song. It has a huge, huge value for me. It is quite a milestone for me as a vocalist, because Hyunjin proposed me as the voice for the second high note, next to Seungmin. It was a great honor for me, and it filled my heart with pride that I was really developing, that someone else saw it too. That I didn't make this up... I was really moved. ❞

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Chichi sits on the couch with a piece of paper while Seungmin leaves the booth after recording his part. She stands up nervously and looks at Chan, then laughs nervously.

"It's me now!"

She goes inside, puts on her headphones and puts down the piece of paper. Chan gives her final instructions, after which Chi proceeds to sing her high note.

Chan stops the recording and corrects her cap.

"And I think we're good here too."

Chichi pulls off her headphones and blinks several times.

"Really?"

"It was great."

Confirmed Seungmin standing behind Chan sitting in the chair. The leader turned on the already joined lines of Seungmin and Chichi to show them how it went.

"I really got shivers..."

↬ 𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

❝ With each new album, each new song or choreography, we try to raise the bar even higher. Some will say that we are greedy... Maybe this is indeed the case, but I have the impression that we have always wanted more, because we know that we are capable of more. We just need to create the right conditions for ourselves, create more space to completely spread our wings, which are constantly growing and need more and more of it. I think this is good, because we are always grateful for everything, we want to achieve more, but in return we try to give twice as much. Some people call it the journey to the top, but I think there is no top, because you never reach your full potential. It's the journey that is most valuable in all of this. ❞

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

♡𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @amyysfics , @smh-anon , @neohyxn , @stealanity , @alixnsuperstxr , @juliawritingblog , @rizzshimura , @elizalabs3

#stray kids 9th member #kpop addition #kpop added member #kpop oc #stray kids oc #idol oc #stray kids female oc #stray kids added member #stray kids addition #idol!oc #fake kpop idol #idol!addition

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bubski-mcboo · 8 months

Text

Why "No Nightingales?" It's a safe word!

@destructokitty34 this is for you - thank you for the inspiration.

So I was reading an article which I'll link here when it becomes relevant. This post is semi-related to the "Crowley put something in Aziraphale's mouth" theory, which I didn't subscribe to until a new, related theory hit me like a sodding truck.

Strap in my ineffable nutters, this is going to be a pretty long and wild ride.

It's their song, duh.

Well, yes.

It is heavily implied, though not outright stated, that the song A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square by Vera Lynn is Aziraphale and Crowley's "song" - i.e. a song that couples sometimes choose to represent their relationship.

At the end of season one, it was playing at the Ritz, and attention was drawn to it by God. It was not acknowledged by anyone in character unless you count the pianist actually playing it.

The end of season two is the only time we hear it referenced again.

We are led to believe that this was Crowley's way of ending it with Aziraphale, albeit with one last final attempt to get him to change his mind.

HOWEVER

Crowley has known Aziraphale for a long time. He knows Azzie's idiosyncracies, he knows when he's "going too fast" for Azzie, and has learned over the years how to gently and carefully nudge Azzie out of his comfort zone, such as introducing him to food for the first time, "the arrangement," and the holy water, to name a few off the top of my head.

Do we really believe that Crowley would make such a colossal mistake?

I concede it's possible that Crowley wasn't thinking clearly at that moment.

But here is what I think...

"No Nightingales" Is A Safe Word!

So, hear me out. Some of you may have already clunked the pieces of the puzzle together and already agree with me, and some of you might think I need to sit the f down. Both are valid, but let me say my piece anyway.

Here's how I came up with this theory.

The Clues

The theme of a couple having a song is smacked squarely in our faces with the Gabriel-Beelzebub reveal.

Sometimes a couple's song marks a particularly strong and important memory.

Sometimes a couple's song is one they happen to love, and it maybe reminds them of each other, but they never say it out loud, because they don't need to. They just know, because they never say what they're thinking, that this is "their song"

But also, sometimes a song... "Contains information in a tuneful way."

Okay, I know Crowley didn't sing it. It's the "contains information" part that I'm latching on to. I didn't think much of that line, other than it being a "mhm, yeah that's true" kind of moment.

Until now, obviously.

Aziraphale's Reaction

Look, look, look!

Aziraphale senses something is wrong, in a different way from before. He is on full Alert.

Look at Aziraphale's reaction. Sure, you could interpret that as,

"Oh shit, he's serious,"

but nah, see...

Here is the dialogue along with what I think the subtext is, based on Azzie's reaction: Crowley: "Exactly. No Nightingales." Crowley: "You/we are in danger." Aziraphale glares at Crowley. (taken from the audio description) Aziraphale senses something is wrong, in a different way from before. He is on full Alert. Crowley: "You idiot. We could have been... Us." Crowley: "Everything I do and say now isn't really me. It's going to hurt us both. I'm sorry. Aziraphale turns away and starts to cry. (AD) Aziraphale: "Pointing out and blaming our imminent and permanent separation solely on me is the worst thing you could do. Crowley kisses Aziraphale. Aziraphale: "I stand corrected."

Note that the emotional stakes of this kiss had it been as a means to transfer something, are not undermined due to this theory, which is crucial for a theory to stand in my opinion.

Aziraphale looks at Crowley with disappointment (also taken from the audio description) Aziraphale: "I HATE that you have corrupted our first kiss like this. I'm about to say something significant, perhaps, 'I can't believe you did that, or maybe even 'I love you,' but you've just told me we're in danger, so I have to be tactful. How do I say something loving and scathing at the same time? Oh, I know..." Aziraphale: "I forgive you." Crowley: "Don't bother." (no subtext here. He meant what he said).

It fits well with other meta

See here for @actual-changeling's post about how the kiss may have been with tongue, which in turn supports the "Crowley put something in Aziraphale's mouth," theory.

I am still sort of on the fence about this one, but it does seem far more likely in my mind now that I have this "safe word theory" living rent-free in my head.

To Conclude

My theory is that "No Nightingales" was a safe word, and this might support the "Crowley put something in Aziraphale's mouth" theory.

I will update this post later as this was sort of a messy, raw brain dump. I know I have more to say about this, especially relating to the beats leading up to this nightingale moment and what came after. There's also other meta swimming in my head which might be compatible, but I may have to think about separating those posts out.

But right now, it's 4.46am as of writing this and I need to go to bed.

#no nightingales #good omens #good omens meta #good omens analysis #good omens speculation #good omens 2 #ineffable husbands #good omens spoilers #good omens 2 spoilers #inneffable nutters #inneffable husbands #ineffable spouses #ineffable divorce #nightingale safe word theory #Crowley put something in Aziraphale's mouth theory #no nightingales as a warning

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dcbbw · 21 days

Text

Catch and Release

I’m back, Tumblr! Unsure if anyone even realized I was gone, but I have missed sharing stories with you guys. I am slowly easing my way back into writing on a somewhat semi-regular basis; currently working on a couple of items on my WIP Wishlist, and Stormholt.

First up is a story that is my “hold my beer” response to a recent conversation I had with @ao719 about how Liam would never be a cold-hearted asshole EVER, even in the face of betrayal. This is a rewrite of the Drake and candles scene during the Homecoming Ball, sans assassins.

This is a one-shot, but already toying with an alternate version ….

THANK YOU to all who read this over in parts and pieces! The key smashes and follow-up questions reminded me why I love writing, and sharing on this hellsite.

To those who will read this, THANK YOU! Your likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated more than you realize.

Please excuse any and all typos, grammatical errors, and missing/extraneous words. MS Editor rates this piece as 99% error free.

Song Inspo: Fine Line, Harry Styles

Pairings: Liam x Riley, Drake x Riley

Rating: M for Mature for a smallish, unripe lemon

Word Count: 3,213

I can’t breathe.

My arms are stiff by my sides, hands tightly clenched into fists. The pain in my heart aches and pulses with every breath I draw. The rage that boils my blood also tightens my throat. Images flicker through my brain, snapshots of the scene I walked in on. Even as my mind reels from the betrayal and my heart falls into a million pieces that shred me from the inside out, I still try to justify and deny.

My eyes are fixed on my fiancée who still sits on the edge of her bed; her eyes are trained on her slip-covered lap. I notice the fingers of one of her hands comb through her hair; the other hand lays limply against silk sheets.

Her skin is golden in the candlelight, her hitched sobs mixing with the crackle and hiss of the wax torches’ flames. For reasons known only to Drake and Riley, there are dozens of lit candles covering nearly every available surface. No lamplight, no overhead lighting.

Just candles.

She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and the only woman I’ve ever hated.

No. I don’t hate her, not really. But in this very moment, I see why crimes of passion are committed.

Drake. Naked. Kissing her neck before their lips lock in a heated kiss.

Riley. Clad in only a slip. One of her hands stroking his member as she slides to her knees.

“Liam,” she says softly in a quavering voice.

I shake my head slowly. “No, Riley. Whatever you have to say right now, I don’t want to hear it.”

She swings her leg; it’s a nervous habit she has. One of the swings increases into a stretch and I wonder if it’s deliberate. Her leg is long and tanned; my eyes take in a luscious thigh leading into a toned calf that flows into a shapely ankle. Her perfectly manicured toes point downward as she arches her foot.

Her limb is suspended for a moment too long before it falls.

The moment it takes for my cock to stiffen and butterflies to take up residence in my stomach.

She turns her face towards me; I see her lipstick smeared across her mouth, shiny streaks on her cheeks, and regret in her eyes.

Regret. Not remorse.

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way.” Her voice is thick with tears.

Our relationship has been littered with apologies … always from me … beginning with our first meeting. If I could, I would laugh at the irony that the one apology I find myself repeating stemmed from accusations of the American suitor being unfaithful to the future King.

The rumors weren’t so unfounded after all.

This is her first admission of guilt and/or wrongdoing our entire time together.

She has no choice.

I attempt a deep inhale, but my chest is too tight.

The wedding is in one week.

“Yes, Liam yes!!! A THOUSAND TIMES, yes!”

Tonight is the Homecoming Ball; a celebration of many things, including our engagement.

I caught her … them … the woman I love madly, truly, deeply and the man I trust more than anything in the world … preparing to indulge in an act I consider so sacred, I have never dared to ask her to perform it while we are merely engaged.

I manage to choke out a single question. “Why?”

Her shoulders slump as her head falls forward, causing her hair to cover her profile. “It hasn’t been going on long; it started on the Engagement Tour. I told him in Vegas that what we had would have to end.”

I watched her leave the stag-and-doe party arm-in-arm with Drake Walker. My best friend, with whom Riley wanted to have a fling. She swore it was a one-time affair; she was so much in love with me, but she wished to satisfy her curiosity.

I attempted to leave first, but I was not only one of the honorees, I was also King.

Per traditional protocol, the King is the last to leave.

So I remained behind, drinking copious amounts of American liquor, making small talk in a loud voice so as to be heard over noisy music, and dancing with women I had previously rejected.

All while Riley spent the night with another man.

“But it hasn’t,” I interrupt harshly, abruptly.

Her gaze lands briefly upon me, an irritated scowl marring her features. “I don’t love him,” she says simply, as if that excused everything.

I turn away from her; as disgusted as I am, I still find Riley Brooks distractingly desirable. I say that as if we’ve been treading this road of infidelity and discovery for years and years. Except it’s only been months since we first met, and if I hadn’t come looking for her this evening, I still would be none the wiser.

She was in my arms, kissing me deeply as we waltzed our way around the ballroom barely an hour ago.

We beamed brightly at each other and the crowd as the gathering toasted us with champagne and strawberries.

I smoked a celebratory cigar with Drake.

An hour ago, I was the luckiest man in the world. I was happy.

Now ... I’m heartbroken.

I stumble my way towards a wingback chair, pausing to shrug out of my dinner jacket and drape it across the back of it. I sit heavily, legs spread slightly apart; I push off my shoes and undo my tie while maintaining eye contact with my fiancée.

“I’m highly upset with you, Riley. This … this has hurt me. Deeply.”

“I know,” she whispers as the back of her hand swipes at errant tears. “Other than promising that this will never happen again, what can I do to make it up to you?”

The pad of my forefinger taps my chin thoughtfully as my eyes scan the room. I see the flames flicker and dance in silhouette against the walls. One of Drake’s shoes lies on its side near her night table.

When I cleared my throat to announce my presence, his eyes had gone wide as his face paled. Drake gathered his clothing, trying vainly to make eye contact with Riley; however, she was suddenly fascinated with the pattern decorating the carpet.

I could practically hear his unspoken question to her: What does this mean for us?

In less than a minute, my “best friend” was half-dressed and ran out, not speaking one word to either me or Riley.

“I’m not sure. You know I harbor trust issues about being open, honest … vulnerable, with women. No one’s ever wanted Liam for Liam; I have always been merely a conduit to bigger and better.”

And apparently, best friends.

“Liam, I love YOU. Not your moniker, not your wealth. Tonight … with Drake … was a moment of weakness! YOU are my bigger and better!

I arch an eyebrow. “Whatever the excuse, your love for me doesn’t diminish the lust you have for him.”

She has the decency to look ashamed.

“Please, Liam! It won’t happen again, I swear it! You mean too much to me! Just tell me how to make this up to you!”

Her pleas are urgent, not fervent. Insincere, almost.

I find the lack of apology perturbing.

It is obvious she has no idea the jeopardy she has put me, and our relationship in. Very few at Court are in favor of our impending nuptials due to the simple fact that a union with a foreign commoner yields nothing for the Crown. A marriage with Riley does not increase Cordonia’s landholdings; it does not give the country seats at tables where we are already overlooked; I, and by extension Cordonia, gain absolutely nothing from this.

Riley is the only winner here.

And I don’t care.

The last thing my country is worried about is its fiscal health. Our prosperity is guaranteed for the next 80 generations without investments and development. All I wanted from Riley was her love and loyalty; with that, I would be able to scale mountains and slay dragons. But even the bare minimum I require is too much for her to give.

But I’m in love with her. Even now, I can’t not be with her in some fashion. I need to know that she is still mine, even if only in the basest of ways.

I unfasten my belt buckle and undo my pant button; my cock is uncomfortably hard. I crook my finger, beckoning her to me, wondering how many times the woman I have put first, the woman who influences my thoughts, actions, my very decisions has given me sloppy seconds.

An expression fleetingly crosses Riley’s face; I am uncertain if it’s hope or smugness. After a moment’s hesitation, her walk of shame towards me is contrite, yet confident. Like a child who knows they’ve done wrong but realizes a way of escaping punishment.

I tug my zipper down before slipping my hand inside to release my raging erection. The head of my cock is purplish in the muted lighting and pre-cum leaks from the tip. My hips arch upwards as I begin to pull my pants and underwear down. My eyes glance up to see Riley standing expectantly before me.

It reminds me of our first meeting in that bar in Brooklyn.

“A little help would be nice,” I quip with a small smile that doesn’t feel quite right.

She kneels before me, pulling and tugging at my trousers and silk boxers. My eyes are trained on the rounded tops of her cleavage as my hand slowly slides along my member. Once Riley’s task is finished, she looks up at me with repentant eyes.

“Do you forgive me, Liam?” Her voice is hesitant, her tone tentative.

I lean forward, the back of my fingertips caressing the curve of her cheek. “I’m in love with you, Riley. There’s nothing to forgive,” I assure her in a soft whisper.

She leans into my palm. “I love you so much. I’ll never lie to you, or hurt you ever again,” she promises.

I aim my cock towards her plump lips, still smeared from her earlier kiss with Drake. Small halos of smoke wreath her hair.

“Would you … could you … perform oral on me?” My voice is shy, hesitant. Even in the face of her obvious infidelity, I am uncomfortable asking her this.

Her eyes fill with relief that forgiveness would come so easily, and wariness at the request. “You’ve never asked for that before.”

I lock eyes with her before quietly replying, “We’re betrothed.”

She nods in understanding. If that act is good enough for her lover, it’s certainly good enough for the man who will make her Queen.

Riley places her palms flat against the top of my thighs; her head dips and I feel the tip of her tongue lightly lick my balls. It tickles, but no mirth escapes my lips. Without thought my hand drifts to the top of her head, fingers combing through her soft hair.

The flat of her tongue licks wetly up the underside of my cock while she cups a hand to fondle my balls. I stare down at her cleavage, the rounded tops of her breasts teasing me as they rise and fall in time with her breathing and ministrations.

My head falls back against the chair’s headrest when her mouth opens wide enough to engulf half of my cock. When she has a tad over half of me in her mouth, she hollows her cheeks and snakes her tongue around my erection while stroking its base.

Memories and images flash in my mind as my hand tightens its grip on her hair.

Kismet.

The Masquerade Ball

Hedge Maze

Cronuts

Forgotten Falls

Deep pants escape my lips as I simultaneously lift my head and slide down further into the chair; my hips arch upwards. Riley’s head bobs as she sucks me. A thin line of drool ekes from a corner of her mouth. My cock eases deeper down her throat, and my hand pulls and pushes at her head to get to take all of me.

I close my eyes as her warm mouth tightens around me.

Coronation Night

Fydelia

Barn Raising

Italy

Her gagging breaks my reverie and hardens my cock even more. I sit up, my palms pressed against either side of her skull as I begin fucking her mouth. Her eyes are closed; bliss or boredom, I don’t know. Her lashes are dark against her skin.

“Look at me,” I order in a voice that isn’t mine.

Obediently her eyes open; her jaw and chin are wet with spittle and pre-cum. She continues to suck me, emitting low moans over my member. My strokes get faster, longer, rougher. My balls are heavy, and I feel a tightening in my muscles before the last image flashes before me.

The scene I walked in on.

With a harsh yank, I pull her even further down onto my cock as I push myself down her esophagus as far as I can. A primal yell rips from my throat as an intense orgasm comes over me. My body shudders and convulses as ropes of white cream pulse out of me.

As my seed fills my fiancée’s mouth and spills down her throat, I forcefully tug her hair so she is looking up at me; her eyes are questioning.

It takes me a moment to compose myself and catch my breath. I watch Riley swallow all that I have given her.

“The engagement is off. Our relationship is over. I am finished, do you understand me?” My voice is gravelly, tone firm. “You shall retain your title of Duchess, and ownership of Duchy Valtoria, but you will never be my Queen.”

Fright and fear fill her eyes. The heels of her hands press deeper into my flesh as she attempts to pull away from my cock, but I don’t relinquish my hold.

“A press release will go out tomorrow afternoon, after security and housekeeping move you and your belongings to the South Wing. I think you will appreciate being closer to Drake Walker.”

I release Riley’s hair, and she falls back on her haunches.

“WHAT are you talking about??” she demands angrily.

I stand and begin collecting my clothing; I step into my boxers, glancing over at her.

“I trust you fully comprehend what I just stated. I believe I communicated openly and honestly what our next steps are. Already, I have offered you more than you or Drake have ever given me.”

I glance at her left hand; the engagement ring glints in the light. “I would like my ring back, please.”

I am tucking my shirt into my pants when I see her rise from the floor and come at me, fists flailing. Her pummels upon my arm and shoulder are no surprise.

“YOU BASTARD! YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!” she rasps as her fists beat on my shirt. “YOU JUST SAID THERE IS NOTHING TO FORGIVE!”

I do not defend myself against the attack; I merely sidestep and continue dressing.

“And there isn’t. I will once again assume the guilt and blame for your lack of transparency and communication. But this is the last time. We’re over.”

I reach for my jacket from the back of the chair and begin to pull it on. Riley’s face is twisted in rage and hurt; her eyes are narrowed into slits.

I look her over impassively and hold my hand out, palm up. “The ring, Lady Riley.”

“FUCK YOU,” she shrieks. “This is ALLLL your fault, and you KNOW IT! If you had never picked Madeleine …”

“I picked her because neither you nor your lover felt the need to tell me what happened in Applewood, something I have never been offered an assurance or reason for. I made a decision for your safety and protection with absolutely no context. I have apologized and explained this to you over and over and over again.”

Riley blanches before playing her last card. “My BEST protection would’ve been with you, under your care!”

“My engagement to Madeleine was the most viable protection. With all eyes on me and my fiancée, it took the target off you, and freed up our friend circle to freely pursue Tariq with the aid of my HEAD GUARD!”

I cut my eyes at her. “Presumably you were too busy justifying spending all of your time with another to even consider that I was the doing the very best I could in a situation that I was blindly thrust into.”

I jostle my hand impatiently. “The ring,” I remind her.

Her mouth hangs open slightly, her eyes baffled as she slowly pulls off the engagement ring. Her fingers hover above my palm before dropping the jewelry into it.

“Liam, why are you doing this to me? To us?” she asks brokenly.

I am slipping the ring into my jacket pocket; I pause to look up at her in puzzlement.

“Me? You did this, Riley. You have been holding onto one incident our entire relationship while committing multiple transgressions against my love for you. You accepted my proposal. You betrayed my trust when it was unnecessary. I’ve been the one saying sorry, being tormented by guilt, feeling less than for not being there to protect and defend you. And the whole while, you were with Drake.”

“I was single when I was with Drake!” she hollers.

“Were you single after accepting my proposal? Were you single tonight when you were getting on your knees for him?” I challenge in a cold voice.

Riley looks around helplessly before offering more feeble excuses. “I was tipsy! He caught me in a moment of weakness! I SWEAR to you, it’ll never happen again!”

I am at the door, my hand on the doorknob, twisting it.

“Liam, you still love me! I never stopped loving you. We can work through this!” Her words are rushed, laced with desperation.

But they strike a nerve, sparking hope.

My head drops and my eyes close; my feelings and her words tumble in my brain. I breathe out a deep sigh and turn to look at her.

“You want me to forgive you, yet you have never forgiven me.”

The door is slightly ajar and light from the hall spills into the doorway; chatter and merriment from the party can be heard. It muffles the last break of my heart. But I do not leave immediately. Instead, my hand falls from the knob, and I deliberately make my way back to her.

The merest of fractions separates us. My eyes take in her tousled hair, ruined makeup, her curves and swells making an hourglass of the slip.

I pull her in for an embrace, which she eagerly responds to. Her body fits perfectly against mine as it always has. Familiar scents assail my nostrils: strawberry shampoo, coconut rose lotion, jasmine and vanilla perfume.

I wonder if I’m making a mistake.

“Riley, I am in love with you but it’s apparent that even with all my wealth and resources, it isn’t enough for you. I’m not enough for you. We both deserve to be people who will find us ... sufficient, not supplemental.”

She is silent as tears fill her eyes again; I brush them away from her lashes and cheekbones before I place a gentle, lingering kiss on her forehead.

Her lack of reassurances and promises tells me I’m not.

“Thank you for giving me the Drake Walker treatment,” I say politely as my eyes burn from smoke and unshed tears.

And I let her go.

Her hand reaches for me, but she lets it fall as she watches me exit the room, closing the door quietly behind me.

Tagging: @jared2612 @marietrinmimi @indiacater @kingliam2019 @bebepac @liamxs-world @mom2000aggie @liamrhysstalker2020 @twinkleallnight @umccall71 @superharriet @busywoman @beezm@gabesmommie1130 @tessa-liam @gardeningourmet @mainstreetreader @angelasscribbles @emkay512 @princessleac1 @charlotteg234 @alj4890 @lovingchoices14 @lady-calypso @choicesficwriterscreations @queenjilian

#dcbbw writes #trr au fanfic #liam x riley #drake x riley #writer on tumblr #it's been 84 years

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