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cyberm4n · 2 months

Note

You've now filled my head with nothing but Alastor and Lucifer brainrot. Any other sharing thoughts you have for them? (I cannot stop thinking about them, I quite literally thought about them sharing me during my entire 8hr retail shift yesterday)

alastor and lucifer sharing you pt 3!

pt1, pt2

this was highly requested, thank you all for the love <3 im tagging anyone who asked/was fine with it last time but now you can fill out this taglist form to ensure you're tagged for future posts!

tags: @lu-ferri12 @my-anime-garden @princessdreamss @polytheatrix @reaper-of-light-12 @ambi-squirrelly @hazelfoureyes @meggletoomanyfandoms @afernandez21

cw: angst ig?? idk reader is upset cause they keep fighting, general relationship issues for a moment, smut, reader gets eaten out, there's some light praise and condescension i think, alastor has a master kink, alastor discovers he LOVES eating pussy, there's like a weird sexual tension between alastor and lucifer for the majority of this if you squint, the ending is VERY suggestive

other: not 100% happy with formatting on this but i wrote majority of it on a 6 hour flight so like. you win some you lose some. not proofread that well, i kind of ramble at times too but it's fine. 2.1k word count and half of it is formatted in a headcanon cuase, again, lazy 6 hour writing. i also don't use the bolding and coloring that much cause it'd be a lot of work.

left the ending a little open, will probably do a poll tomorrow on if people want me to take this that direction.

■ okay so sex aside i would think outwardly everyone knows you're in a relationship with lucifer at the very least

■ but it's kept lowkey with the other part of the relationship

■ which both are fine with btw

■ lucifer loves pda so he's happy, alastor isn't a fan so it's whatever

■ the public part works out because alastor would genuinely be worried about someone trying to use you to get to him

■ it's bad enough that it's known the king of hell has a new partner, but nobody knowing that if they fuck with you they're fucking with the king of hell AND the radio demon is a silent advantage

■ if anyone knows, it's charlie. but only to the extent of like the fact it's a hinge relationship, everything else she doesn't know and honestly doesn't need to know

■ she's just happy her dad seems happy and is getting along better with alastor

■ i think alastor is the kind to really start caring during the relationship vs. lucifer caring about you deeply before

■ so occasionally alastor will pull you aside, or if no one is watching will just press a quick kiss on your forehead.

■ meanwhile lucifer is always making it known he's in love with you

■ arm around your shoulder, holding your hand, everything

■ again, alastor doesn't really mind unless lucifer decides to be an ass abt it

■ look they still compete with each other sometimes they can't help it

■ then it becomes a game of how much the other can get away with before you either get upset or it's too telling

■ that's the other thing is like, the competing gets really fucking annoying to you

■ we saw them in hells greatest dad it wasn't a want to be a better dad it's just wanting to out do the other

■ and when it transfers to your relationship it gets agitating fast

moving on

■ relationship side alastor isn't as involved with that

■ but if either of them did something that upset you or like there was a lovers quarrel between you and either side it's a big deal to them

■ especially if you're only upset with one half of the hinge

■ cause like, sure, they could compete with each other and purposefully drive you apart

■ but tbh.. both of them lowkey like this arrangement much more than they thought they would

■ so they end up talking to each other about it and figuring out what to do

■ same if you're upset with both

■ not that you're upset often it's just that when you are it's usually cause they crossed a line in their little competition

■ and they hate making their girl feel like a prize to be won :(

■ whatever their solution is, they do it together.

■ show you they can get along, that they both care about you enough

■ you're in your room, a bit of a blow up happened earlier after they got into one of their arguments

■ it's not that you genuinely think theyre using you to get to the other but sometimes with the way they act it's easy to doubt

■ anyways, they both come in, it's late

■ i cry when im frustrated/upset and i think it's a pretty normal reaction, so let's just say you're crying a little

■ they're both immediately at your side, apologizing profusely

■ you've never cried like this before

■ it scares them. alot.

■ for once there's absolutely no competition, the only worry is making you feel better.

■ both sitting next to you on the couch, lucifer murmuring how much he loves you, and how he knows how much alastor cares for you

■ i hate the whole "alastor doesn't understand emotions" thing because he does. he has to, he knows how to read people well.

■ it's just he hasn't ever comforted someone

■ he doesn't know what to do when someone he cares about is upset

■ so he's glad lucifer is here, as alastor just sits at your side nodding along and gently rubbing your back

■ alastor only tunes back in when lucifer offers to give some space for the night, and a little murmur from you agrees but asks they both come to bed that night

■ given its usually only lucifer who actually sleeps in the same bed as you alastor is surprised

■ but lucifer is beckoning him out for some space.

"cmon, we'll be back in an hour yeah?" he chimes from the door, and with a squeeze of your shoulder alastor is out of the door, but he opts to walk along with lucifer. "we gotta do better" lucifer sighs as he walks, not looking over at alastor. he's not accusing alastor, he seems equally disappointed in both of them.

"for her?" alastor adds, and lucifer gives a hum of agreement. "this while ordeal has been quite... stressful as of late, no?" alastor adds, "to our own faults, yes" lucifer murmurs, giving a sigh. alastor nods, and the two men walk in silence for some time, ending up in the parlor, husk far since gone to bed. "want anything?" lucifer pulls alastor back to reality once again, he's standing behind the bar while alastor had been staring off, his mind running with thoughtd of god knows what.

"whiskey, my friend?" alastor suggests, and giving it a considerate thought lucifer pours two glasses. the silence falls over them again, just the sound of the clink of their glasses on the counter.

"so tell me, how do you do it when you pleasure her?" alastor breaks the silence, lucifers eyes dart up to him. thinking for a moment before replying "i don't really think tonight is the time for that—" lucifer says, but in a gentle tone.

"no no, in the morning." alastor says, staring down at his glass. "you two indulge often in the morning, correct?" alastor says, now his eyes uncomfortably on lucifer. Watching as the other man almost pales a little, swallowing thickly.

lucifer immediately falters, giving a sigh. "look it's not— i‐ that's not her fault–" lucifer immediately starts, assuming this is a confrontation. his eyebrows raise as alastor shakes his head. "oh please, if i had problem with it i would have done something" he says, a static crackle echoing through the room. "no, i want to know how you do it when you... when it's just about her. how can i do the same?" alastor asks, and this is even more surprising to lucifer than this whole fucking idea in the first place.

■ so lucifer of course explains some stuff to him, of course it's hard because unless he's done it before it's hard to articulate some of his "moves"

■ i mean lucifer can hardly resist going down on you everytime, he's definitely experienced but it's hard to transfer that knowledge at times

■ but he's impressed alastor even asked

■ so when they return to your room, they're a lot more calmer with each other than before.

■ that night changed a lot between them tbh

■ it's slightly awkward for both of them when everyone gets settled in the bed

■ you're on your back, lucifer on your right side and alastor on the left.

■ they're both holding you to the best of their abilities

■ lucifer gives alastors hand a squeeze before shuffling it to have a better grasp on your waist

■ you all peacefully sleep through the night, not shifting much but it's pretty comfortable

■ is the morning you're mostly cuddled into alastor, which is entirely lucifers doing

■ when you're all awake though alastor gets arguably nervous

■ but you being you, you slump over onto alastors chest, murmuring some affection to him

■ lucifer gives a nod, it's time.

■ he'd honestly probably move to get out of bed, assuming some privacy is wanted

■ but he feels a shadow wrap around his forearm, it's a light pressure

■ alastor shakes his head, mouthing a small "please"

after lucifer processes for a moment what exactly is about to go down, he's okay with that. he settles back in, his eyes on the two of you as alastor tilts your chin up, pressing a kiss to your lips. "my dear, would you mind if i tried something a little different with you?" alastor chimes, and you blink your eyes open again, still a bit sleepy as you give a nod.

he gently maneuvers you on the bed so you're laying on your back, his hands pawing at your sleep shorts and pulling them to your ankles. lucifer watches, honestly a little mezmerized by the whole ordeal. he feels proud in an odd sort of way. “I think our little doe deserves a treat, would you like that?” alastor murmurs as he spreads your thighs open. You take a shaky breath before murmuring some form of agreement, maybe even a little plea.

without further prodigy, alastors finally leans down his tongue swiping down your folds, hands grasping your hips to pull you to his face. your hands go to hold lucifers, but he shakes his head tutting at you. “ah ah, that’s not very polite princess” he chides softly, guiding your hands to alastors hair.

and alastor makes good use of the tips and information lucifer gave him, his tongue plunging into your sweet little hole as his nose bumps your clit. his eyes wander up, making eye contact with you as he eats you out so wonderfully. you tug at his hair and he practically growls in pleasure, opting to change tactics and focus his mouth on your clit while his fingers slide inside you, gently curling into your sweet spot.

and lucifer watches it all, absolutely mesmerized. he doesnt know what it is about watching this but theres something about knowing alastor is doing exactly as told to in this scenario that makes lucifer feel warm. he lets alastor steal the show, doing only minimal work. maybe hes softly cooing praises or gently reminding you to show your appreciation to the one making you feel this good.

as you get close, evident by the murmur that falls past your lips, alastors eyes snap to lucifers for a moment, and he takes a moment to think before understanding. usually when youre close alastor is all over you, telling you to be such a good girl and cum, just slight praises and coaxing. given the fact hes face deep in your sweetness he cant really do that, so that job is up to lucifer now.

“isn’t alastor doing such a good job duckling? you want to make sure he knows how good hes treating you, dont you?” lucifer coos, scooting in behind you on the bed so you stop trying to writhe away. “I think he’d be so disappointed if you didnt cum for him, you think you can do that, hm? you wanna cum all over your masters tongue?” lucifer says directly in your ear, and alastor feels a bit of a warmth in his stomach by being referred to as “master”

when you give a weak moan in response lucifer sighs, shaking his head. “be a good girl now, you can do it little doe” he says which is what sends you toppling over the edge, your hips rutting up into alastors mouth, whiny moans coming from you as alastor desperately licks up your sweet release. this whole thing was quite enjoyable for alstor, but hearing lucifer call you “little doe” his petname for you made him smugly satisfied.

after some aftercare which mostly just involved more cuddling, alastor feels satiated enough to shift to leave, before getting a look from lucifer. he reluctantly stays, feeling as you come to lay at his side once more. lucifer seems to take note of something, giving alastor a nod down, he glances down, seeing the obvious tent in his pants. alastor looks back up, slightly annoyed. a like “yeah, no shit dumbass” kind of look is exchanged.

alastor looks back down at you, pressing a kiss to your forehead as you sigh happily. but alastor tenses as he feels a hand on his knee, shooting a glare to lucifer as he traces his hand up a little. the two meet as and alastor takes a shaky breath as lucifer leans in just a little, breathing out the next few words with a calmness alastor admires:

“just keep cuddling her”

#lucifer smut #alastor smut #hazbin hotel #lucifer morningstar x reader #alastor #hazbin hotel lucifer #hazbin hotel smut #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x reader #lucifer morningstar #radioapple #alastor the radio demon #alastor x lucifer #smut #hazbin alastor #hazbin lucifer

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jiminrings · 3 months

Text

fail-safe

pairing: yoongi x reader

wordcount: 8k

glimpse: growing up, your brother's best friend always berated you for not having a passion in life outside of loving him from afar. when yoongi leaves everything he's ever known for everything he's ever wanted, trying to move on from him becomes your biggest aspiration.

alternatively, yoongi left when you needed him the most, and comes back home at a time when you love him the least.

[ part one, intermission, part two, intermission 02, finale ]

[ a Lot of angst, eventual fluff, brother's best friend AND single dad au, So Much Yearning, unrequited love (initial), jealousy, self-deprecation, a lot of talk abt passion in an empty n hurtful way that most impassioned youngest children feel (it's a specific feeling idk!!!), eventual redemption in the next parts ]

notes: finally got to writing a new series!!! i'm beyond excited for this + this whole new concept and flow i haven't touched on before <3 i hope u love fail-safe as much as i do :-)

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!! | series masterlist

Yoongi buys atleast one scratch ticket a week.

The accessibility of buying one is top-notch considering that all he has to do is cross the street, shoot one look to the cashier, and he can either already go hunch in the corner of the road or in the comfort of his room. The moment his coin takes its first dig and he realizes that he’s won yet again, he’s satisfied enough not to buy another ticket.

He doesn’t want to risk losing the win he’s just gained, the odds of him throwing out money besting his chances in adding to his earnings. He thinks everyone’s a little greedy one way or another, but it’s the righteous part of him that thinks he’s different.

You do think that he is for all the right reasons, your vision only tunneling for him alone. He’s this fixed older figure in your life and you can’t figure out how to shrug him off — he’s this generous leech that sucks all of the rationality from your mind but returns it to you twofold, whether in the form of him saying something unintentionally endearing that it makes your chest hurt, or through him having to lightly smack the back of your head.

Yoongi’s your older brother’s best friend and there’s a novelty tag that comes with him, one that can’t be topped by any material possession to your name. He’s there for you, not in the exact way you want him to be, but nonetheless there. He’s special and unattainable at the same time, the finiteness of his love barely extending to you.

He’s there when you want him to burn the latest songs onto a CD you’ve spent all your allowance in, and he’s there when you get annoyed that he sneaked some of his own recommendations in there. You’re there when you later admit that his suggestions aren’t half-bad, and you also happen to be there when he grins at the praise.

He’s there when Namjoon won’t cough up the last slice of his cutlet, not because he’ll actually give you his, but because he’ll help your brother guard his plate. You’d only have to mope for a solid of three seconds before the two of them give up both of their last slices, and you’re there when Yoongi insists for you to try the sauce in the spirit of going out of your routine.

You don’t need Yoongi every single time but in the event that you do, he hangs back. He contemplates and hesitates and doesn’t give in to every single whim that you have, but he’ll be there. He lingers like the last holiday ornament you don’t want to remove until it’s February, his presence being oddly similar to your favorite festivities.

Yoongi’s the equivalent of a holiday you look forward to with each passing month and day; he comes around to and for you in instances, but never even in your most sincere wishes.

“I buy one scratch ticket a week — three if I’m really feeling lucky. When my palms itch, that’s when I know that I really need to buy them.”

He’s calm and collected even when you’re scrunching your nose up at him in combined worry and disbelief, humming mindlessly as you collect your thoughts. He randomly told you about his lottery routine and you’re still trying to wrap your head around how he blows his money off just easily. Yoongi has the mind to put scrap cardboard under you because sitting on the hot concrete with your uniform on can’t possible be a good idea, but you try to play off your fluster into stubbornness.

He’s just playing with his two ever-present coins (lucky charms as he calls them)— one that’s shiny and minted in the present year, the other being the oldest coin he’s ever had that happens to be older than he is — while you mutter about.

“I don’t know, Yoongs. That might be a gambling problem,” you squint, your side comment being heard clearly as day. “Might be the symptoms for hand, foot, and mouth disease too.”

“What— I do not have a gambling problem! My skin’s perfectly fine too, thanks,” he defends, the light shove he gives you doing nothing to tone down your teasing.

“That’s what people with gambling problems say.”

“Give me that-…” he mutters, trying to wrestle you for the sundae he bought you using the money he won from his scratch ticket just awhile ago. You don’t give in easily, even if your laughs that come straight from your chest suggest otherwise. “You don’t get it. It’s just this nice, fun little thing I can look forward to every week. I always buy the cheapest version anyway so when I lose, it’s not a big deal.”

You relent (like you always do when it comes to Yoongi) in understanding, waving him off after regaining your breath. “Nah. I get it. We all have to do things so we wouldn’t lose our shit,” you trail, racking your head to find the right words.“Yours is buying scratch tickets, and mine is-…”

“Yours is what?” Yoongi raises an eyebrow, lips quirked in eagerness to know where you’re going with this. He can’t pinpoint a single thing he can attach to you and neither can you, your actual interests merely reflecting those of the people whom you love.

You love cross-stitching because your mom loves doing it, the tolerance you have for accidentally being pricked by the needle growing over time.

You enjoy playing badminton because Namjoon’s obsessed with the sport, no matter how ratty your rackets and shuttlecocks have become, and no matter how much he pushes you to ring the doorbell to your neighbor’s when he’s sent it flying to their backyard.

You’re probably an imposter yet you don’t feel like it. You don’t feel bad that your life most probably and will only revolve around your mom and Namjoon (maybe even Yoongi); you don’t feel dissatisfied that your life’s mundane.

You go where your love goes.

“Mine is watching you buy scratch tickets,” you shrug easily as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, making him laugh heartily. You’ve probably done something right because he hauls you up to your feet immediately.

“Get up. I’m buying you your first ticket,” he nudges you, grabbing you by the arm in excitement.

“But I’m not even legal!” you half-heartedly argue, internally excited that you’re finally getting to try your hand at the lottery because you’ve spent a few hundred minutes of your life tuned to the channel to pass the time, awaiting the results for something you haven’t even betted for.

“Right. Like I haven’t seen you trying to squeeze out a drop of beer from our empty cans whenever Namjoon and I drink.”

“Rude,” you roll your eyes playfully, gathering your things from the ground.

“It’s okay. I’ll give you your first sip of beer too if you want,” Yoongi offers sincerely; easily as if you’ve just asked him about the weather.

He’s here to buy you your first scratch ticket, and he’s still here to offer giving you your first sip of liquor in the future.

Your family friend for a cashier vehemently ignores the fact that you’re still underage to participate in the lottery, and instead only chuckles to herself in amusement. She’s an aunt that knows when to step in and not to, and she knows you won’t be harmed by a mere bet. In fact, she knows you won’t be harmed by anything with Yoongi in tow.

“I already used up all my change,” your frown in realization, holding the ticket in your hands in despair despite having scoured your wallet repeatedly.

“Rub it against the pavement. That’s what I do,” Yoongi lies fluidly, a scoff being caught in his throat when you actually attempt to do it. “I was only kidding, Y/N. Jeez,” he groans, pulling out his wallet. “Ugh. Here. You can have one of my lucky coins.”

It’s the old one, tarnished beyond relief that you can barely recognize what it’s actual value is supposed to be.

“Ew. I’m giving it back. It looks prehistoric,” you narrow your eyes, knowing that you don’t even have to put your fingers nears your nose to know that it’s already left a faint stench on them.

Yoongi rolls his eyes, a habit he can’t tell he’s formed himself or got from you. “If you use your brain for one second, you’d realize that it’s actually worth more because it’s older. Collectors would go crazy for that in the future.”

“That sounds like a hoarding problem.”

He’s just had about enough of your whining so he attempts to trade in the old coin for his lucky new one, but you stop him at the last minute with a meek smile.

“Kidding. Thank you. I’ll keep it safe, Yoongi. I promise,” you rush out before he changes his mind, scratching your ticket in silence.

He waits for you because you’re scratching so politely and neatly, a stark opposite to his experienced skill of scratching the paint off in ten strokes or less.

Your face is too close to the ticket that Yoongi can’t tell what’s happening, making him part your hair like a curtain to peek.

“Did you win?”

“Nope.”

“Let me throw that out for you.”

“No!” you squeak, keeping the ticket close to your chest. It’s a bummer that your first time is a loss, but it didn’t mean that you wanted to forget the sentiment behind it. “I-I mean no, I’ll keep it. It’s memorable now that I think about it.”

“Alright,” he shrugs carelessly, a smile breaking out in retaliation. “Hoarder.”

“Gambler,” you spit, tucking the ticket into your pencil case. “Next week again?”

Yoongi agrees, wrapping his head around the fact that he doesn’t have to be alone in his little routine every Friday.

“Sure.”

( ♡ )

You don’t mind getting hand-me-downs.

As a matter of fact, you love receiving them. The wear and tear of the things that came before you is only proof that it’s been loved enough to be passed on to you.

You adore your mother’s dainty vintage watch that she wore throughout college, the hardware and sentiment behind it being pretty enough that you don’t mind constantly getting the battery replaced. You like Namjoon’s shirts that he’s outgrown, even through the numerous phases he’s had wherein only denim and tie-dye filled his closet.

You don’t mind the history behind the numerous things you have in your home, unbothered that you’re probably the only house in the block with the oldest possible rice cooker. The chips in the staircase aren’t covered up with marker ink and neither are the loose stitches in the couch quilt snipped off. It’s home to your mother and Namjoon — if it’s good enough for them, then it’s already the best for you.

Even on top of everything, you don’t mind your family almost always getting you shirts and shoes that have an allowance in them. Your mom would go to Seoul and pick out the exact pair of sneakers you wanted that are atleast three sizes bigger than your actual feet, and you’d barely bat an eye.

You don’t mind the coziness of things that are brought to you, because even if they weren’t offered, you’d seek them yourself.

So when Yoongi mentioned that he’s decluttering his room and needed someone (read: you) to vacuum it up for him, you jump at the chance. You take a grocery bag with you, wear the nearest pair of slippers within your vicinity, and book it to his house as soon as he finished talking.

“Go crazy, kid. Almost everything in that pile is garbage so you can take anything.”

“I feel like I should be more offended than how I feel right now,” you hum, furrowing your eyebrows at the pile in front of you. It’s a mound of Yoongi, or atleast everything he’s ever wanted up until he decided to do a general cleaning of his bedroom.

Yoongi chuckles, going through his pile of clean laundry for him to fold on the side while you scavenge for his things. “It’s either I have you take them or I get ripped off at the thrift store, then I see somebody’s uncle wearing my shirt as an added insult.”

You huff, rummaging through his heap of belongings while conveniently trying to ignore that you may look like somebody’s uncle the moment you wear his clothes. Everything is him; every distressed cap, every unfinished embroidered shirt, and every item of old significance with his initials branded on it.

The thick gray hoodie you’ve been eyeing (along with its owner) for the better part of the last few years surfaces into your field of vision, your gasp audible enough to make him jolt because he thought you’d gotten hurt.

“No way, this too? But this is your favorite,” you half-complain and half-rejoice, turning the hoodie inside-out eagerly in the fear that there’s a catch to it belonging in the pile.

“Eh. I know it looked good on me but I don’t think it’s my favorite. Besides, I’ve bulked up! Wanna feel?” Yoongi grins, his segue eerily similar to your brother’s at every given chance. A neighbor from down the block recently opened a small-time gym, and the both of them have not been able to shut their mouths about it since. From their gossiping alone, Yoongi and Namjoon have generated enough advertising already.

“You and Namjoon really have to stop asking random people to feel your biceps.”

There’s random knick-knacks throughout the clump in the middle of his bed, some being too good and actually useful that you snag them. Yoongi lets you do what you want anyways (most of the time), not having to turn his head to berate you on what you’re only allowed to grab from his stuff.

You’re not greedy — you already have his hoodie and that should be enough on its own. But there’s that handkerchief with his initials embroidered on it, then that Rubik’s cube he swore his relative got for him from New York, and even the little butterfly knife he got from a souvenir shop when his family when to the beach.

There were those and there is this, looking up at you in all of its glory.

“Yoongi.”

“What now?” he sighs at your dramatic gasp, looking up from his folded laundry to see what you were going on about. It takes a second for him to fully realize why exactly were you so pumped.

“Are you serious? Your helmet?” you squeal, already hugging the shiny red mass close to you. “Does this mean you’re passing your motorcycle to me?!”

“Are you crazy? Fuck no,” Yoongi rolls his eyes, snatching his helmet back from you. He doesn’t miss the bratty frown that fills up your entire face; he’s not exactly the biggest fan whenever you were upset or angry; maybe even both. “Obviously I forgot I even put my helmet there when I made that pile.”

You whine, stomping your feet in exasperation. You would dramatically plop down on his bed if only it wasn’t full of his shit. “Come on! You told me you were teaching me as soon as you finish teaching Joon.”

“Teaching you how to ride my scooter is not the same as giving you it. Why would I just hand you what I bought with my hard-earned money?” Yoongi scrunches his nose, tone sharper than what he intended.

“But you still haven’t taught me,” you murmur to placate yourself and dissuade yourself from the delusion that Yoongi would even exert such an effort for you because of course — why would he do that for you?

You have an inkling that you’re being irrational for all the wrong reasons, perhaps even projecting your need to be looked after… by him.

Yoongi notices your mood that turned sour quickly, the silence between you becoming loaded. He didn’t mean to be that blunt. “I don’t think you’re even old enough to have your driving permit,” he adds in consolation, voice considerably softer.

You snicker lowly, still looking at your feet with your arms crossed. “But I’m old enough to backpack whenever you need me to carry shit that can’t fit in your carrier.”

He immediately groans at your comeback, his furrowed eyebrows mirroring yours. “You’re so stubborn.”

“You’re a hypocrite,” you retort, knowing for a fact he’s known how to drive even before he was eligible for permits and licenses and whatnot.

Yoongi takes one, two seconds to himself to regain his composure, clearing his head in the process. You’re still not looking at him and you’re pouting and you don’t even notice the latter, making him crack a small smile.

“I will teach you next week.”

“Oh my-…”

He cuts you off, raising his hand in emphasis. “Provided that you listen to everything I say and wear full gear at all times. You clearly don’t have a job yet-…”

“Ouch.”

“And I don’t have the extra money to buy full gear for myself, so what you’ll do is bundle up with your padded coat and the thickest jeans you have,” Yoongi enunciates every word, eyes keenly on you. They’re too wide and alert, you actually feel like listening to him.

“You go on rides wearing your pajamas.”

“Just say ‘thank you, Yoongi’.”

“You haven’t done anything yet,” you trail off, head tilting in confusion.

You’ve had a million conversations like this with Yoongi before but of different fonts; worn, familiar, and warm.

“Thank you, Yoongi,” he mouths, nodding at you to do the same. He won’t stop until you utter them back to him, and you know you won’t go home either without giving him your gratitude as you always do.

“Thank you, Yoongi,” you relent, the grin that breaks through your lips being infectious enough that he laughs lowly to himself.

He exhales all the worries he has and could possibly ever have seeing you ride the motorcycle (or for you yearning to do everything that he does), grasping at whatever sanity he has left from looking after you.

“You can have the helmet.”

( ♡ )

Yoongi knows the ins and outs of your home.

He’s been at your house too much to the point that your mom already gave him a spare key and nobody batted an eye about it. He has his own designated slippers at the entryway too, something you would only use in a hurry if you needed to sign off on a package.

Yoongi, for some reason unfathomable (not really; you can tell exactly why because your mom is an extremely warm and inviting person), also has the power of dibs on the food in your fridge. He’d put strips of masking tape with his name on food that’s neither brought in nor made for him in the first place.

It should be off-putting — the way that for too many yet too little reason, Yoongi has become a prominent figure in your life even if you didn’t ask him to. You should be peeved that you have to set up four plates more often that you set up only three; you should be annoyed at some point that when you wake up at random times through the night, you’re not totally alone to begin with.

You shouldbe angry at Yoongi to a degree because he’s in your life and you don’t get to have a say on how he stays in it. The only problem is that you’re not, and probably never will.

“Can’t sleep?” you mutter as you look up from your strikingly clear paper, seeing Yoongi strut across the floor with a casualness that only real occupants of the house should supposedly possess. He has his brows furrowed at you as if he didn’t expect to see you in your living room, scratching his head in wonder.

“Why are you up?”

“Stressed,” you sigh, giving up altogether in attempting to make yourself look busy. Yoongi drives by your fridge to get himself a can of beer, finally seating himself beside you on the floor.

“Stressed about what? I’m sure it’s not about studying,” he snorts, unsurprised at your paper and the clear lack of motivation behind it. You only roll your eyes at him and he has half a mind to not remind you to not do it so much, the frown in your face reminding him that you really were frustrated.

It is you to throw the occasional tantrum, but he remembers that it was only when you were young; when Namjoon would whisper gibberish to his ear and purposely not whisper to yours just so he could tease you, or when nobody would believe that you taught yourself how to ride a bike with no training wheels. You didn’t know how to do the latter at all, but what had made you throw a tantrum was that nobody believed you.

You notice Yoongi’s digs, of course. You notice each one of his more than unsubtle nods to your intelligence and whatnot, the shots at your intellect not flying over your head like he expected them to. You admit that you’ve never been that scholastic; you weren’t born a genius and you don’t try exactly hard either.

Yoongi’s only joking but you can’t help but to think that he’s pertaining to something deeper, his constant digs at your lack of a passion making you sluggish.

“We have to write this essay,” you answer simply, your tone straightforward and unwilling for banter but Yoongi bites anyway.

“But essays are the easiest,” he trails, looking at you the whole time as he takes a sip of his beer.

You exhale heavily because no matter what, he just can’t seem to get it. Yoongi knows where you’re coming from but he doesn’t know where you’re headed. As a matter of fact, you don’t know where you’re headed either. “We have to write an essay about where we see ourselves ten years from now.”

“But that’s still easy.”

“If it’s so easy, then go write it for me,” you snicker, leaning back with a huff. He constantly undermines you and although you own up to your striking mundaneness from time to time, it didn’t mean that you liked being looked down on. Yoongi’s too used to you being yourself, he gets taken aback when you grow sick of your own.

He gathers all his willpower, far from being sleepy unlike you who would’ve been lulled to sleep if only you weren’t dead-set on arguing with him. “You know what? I actually will,” he claps, handing you his beer. “Go hold this for me.”

Yoongi grips your pen for dear life like you hold his beer, his hand warm as he works from sheer determination alone (he’s not competing with anyone except for whatever expectation you have for him and your paper), while yours was cold just holding his drink.

You’ve been so quiet that he actually gets curious, turning his head to check to see if you’ve dozed off when actually, it’s just you eyeing the can.

“No one’s watching,” Yoongi breaks you out of your thoughts, carelessly shrugging. He cares and he’s far too concerned for you, but he figures that nothing would hurt you so long as he can grasp you. “It’s okay. You can have your first sip.”

You blink owlishly at him and when he jokes about taking it back, you take your first swig of beer in a panic. Yoongi only shakes his head in amusement, pausing his writing just to see the look on your face.

“One more?” he asks right after he sees you wince, the unbearable sweetness yet bitter, stinging aftertaste of the beer making you shudder.

You have the urge to wash off the taste with ice cold water (you’ll even drink from the tap because you’re so desperate), but you resist it just so you wouldn’t look like a weakling in front of him. You wave him off with a bitterness, upset that beer doesn’t taste like what you’ve always imagined it to be. “Just write my essay for me,” you mull over the taste in your tongue, in deep thought while you stare at Yoongi’s back ahead of you. “Do all beers taste that way?”

“Eh. Most of them do. You develop a taste for it later on,” he answers, taking the can back from you before drinking it himself. He looks too dedicated in writing your essay, only goading the curiosity in you to peek over his shoulder.

He knows you, both in heart and memory, because he shields your own paper from you when he sees your shadow hovering above him.

“Yoongi?”

“Hm.”

“I told you why I’m up. Why are you up?”

He’s silent entirely, the only indication that he heard your question being his hand pausing abruptly. Yoongi doesn’t answer, and you don’t ask again. “Don’t worry about it.”

You take his answer to heart, dozing off on the couch before you know it. You don’t remember a blanket being placed on you, nor can you remember preparing your backpack for school the next day.

Your paper’s neatly tucked into your portfolio bearing handwriting that’s clearly not yours, but with a sentiment that’s similar nonetheless. You read through everything quickly before even stepping towards your teacher, the tips of your fingers just as cold as Yoongi’s beer last night.

You’ve committed the paper into your memory, even until the last part with an excerpt you can’t forget despite having passed the paper already. You don’t know what to feel because it’s Yoongi who’s speaking for you, detailing that ten years from now, you will still be your mother’s daughter and your brother’s sister.

He wrote your essay either for you or in behalf of you, and you can’t tell which one is better.

Yoongi, who knows the ins and outs of your home and the peaks and troughs of your heart, writes in clear handwriting — Ten years from now, I will still be Yoongi’s rock.

( ♡ )

Surprisingly, Yoongi hasn’t been around that much lately.

Even Namjoon (who you consider as his Siamese twin) is clueless to why his friend hasn’t been hanging out with him lately to do either everything or nothing, confused because they’re enrolled to the same classes all the way to the same part-time jobs, yet Yoongi’s been mostly unavailable.

When Yoongi is, however, he doesn’t speak at all about his previous absences. He comes as if he’s never disappeared a few times before that, his evasion to talk about his presence being apparent even if you’ve asked him directly.

You’re getting used to his new routine of hanging out with you only when the both of you are free, no longer moving mountains for both of your schedules to line up. He’s more present this month than he was at the last, the criteria for it being how many times you bump into him in your own home.

Despite all odds and evens though, Yoongi can’t get used to your silence. He knows you hold grudges longer than your brother, and the last time that he checked, he knows you’ve already let go of your annoyance for him suddenly being unavailable without any explanation.

It’s late, only the two of you are awake in the living room, there’s ten scratch tickets on the table for you to share, and he’s even gotten you your own glass to which he’ll put a controlled amount (a grand total of two long sips) of his own beer in. You’re not stressing about an essay this time, but the unconscious pout on your face is still the same.

“You’re awfully quiet.”

The frown on your face only goes deeper at being found out, the scratch of your lucky coin being the only clear thing that Yoongi hears.

“My best friends want to have this slumber party,” you sigh, more upset about what you’ve just uttered than you are happy about the cash prize you’ve just won.

Yoongi takes what you say at face-value, groaning at his third straight loss for the night. “That’s great. Wear cute pajamas, snap a couple of polaroids, don’t be the first to fall asleep and last to wake up, and just keep a pocket knife with you when you’re going out by yourself.”

The awe (and slight concern) over what he said should roll in any time now.

You should be comforted at Yoongi’s words because they’re supposed to ease the swirl of your stomach, even if what he just said is a repackaged version of what your family said before. You should let go of your worries because Yoongi, of all people, says that it’s supposed to be great.

Instead, you feel neither of what you think Yoongi wants you to.

“Was it something I said?” he mumbles after some time, turning his nose up at you as he tries to retrace his words. “I have an extra pocket knife you can borrow if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“We’re gonna be talking about boys, Yoongi,” you screw your eyes shut, sighing into the palms of your hands with a heaviness. “We’re gonna talk about crushes and experiences and all that.”

He shudders at that, his reaction mirroring Namjoon’s when you tried opening up to him. You get your brother’s reaction to a degree, of course, because you feel as if you’d be disgusted too if the roles were reversed. You want to talk about it with your mom too, but at the end of the day, she’s your parent and you just can’t talk about anything and everything with her.

Yoongi’s your next plausible option.

“Do you want some ice cream right now? You know what, I’ll buy you-…” Yoongi tries to evade the topic altogether, his attempt of escaping feeble as you drag him down by his hoodie.

“I haven’t had my first kiss yet.”

“Heh.”

Yoongi shrugs at that, regaining his words when you deadpan at him. “So? What about it?”

You starfish on the floor at that out of frustration, the whine you’ve been bottling up coming out in the open because as usual, Yoongi doesn’t get it. “I-I’m probably the only one in my grade who hasn’t kissed someone yet! I can’t just lie carelessly because obviously, they’ll ask around.”

“So?” Yoongi chuckles, his breeze towards your state shocking you. “What’s it to them if you haven’t had your first kiss?”

“You don’t get it,” you grit through your teeth, crossing your arms so hard that it feels hard to inhale.

“I’m pretty sure I do,” he sing-songs, drinking the last of his beer. When you’re not looking though, he plans to either drink or chuck the remainder of your share because he doesn’t want you to develop a taste for it.

The anger you have for Yoongi bubbles up once again, the itch in your throat unbearable. You’re presented with the age gap between you once more, along with the raging emptiness in you that Yoongi’s reached so far and you’ve reached so little.

“You don’t get it because you’ve had all of these experiences when you were younger than my age right now,” you snap, although you don’t look at him when you do. If you do look at him though, you’ll only be reminded of how a face like his could have everything in this world — even a first kiss you’ve never had.

“Yeah, and so?” he knits his brows, growing defensive. You weren’t lying at all, but he still feels a little offended at the dig. He’s not not proud of it, but with the way you say it, it’s like you want him to burn in shame,

“Stop saying so,” you angrily mumble in frustration, a little breathless because you still don’t ease up on crossing your arms.

Yoongi straightens his posture, staring you down with his jaw set. He’s stern as he is, nostrils flaring in irritation. “No, Y/N. I’m genuinely asking — so what? What’s it to you if I had my first kiss at a younger age? What about it if everyone else in your grade has kissed someone and you haven’t? It’s not the end of the world.”

“I-I don’t know! It’s just unfair!” you let up, yielding to both the facts that Yoongi’s right with it not being the end of the world, and that you’re still entitled to feeling upset.

“Instead of spending time obsessing over your first kiss, maybe I don’t know, try being productive? You’re heading to college soon and you haven’t even thought of a career,” Yoongi goes off on you, making you roll your eyes automatically. There he goes again with the great big push of trying to push you into your supposed passions in life. “Someone else’s luck doesn’t mean it’s already your misfortune.”

“But it is.”

You say it so definitively, you almost convince him. You have your principles and so does Yoongi, but not everyone else. You have your principles yet you don’t have the luck. You’re not getting anywhere in life just like Yoongi or anyone else who was remotely born into wealth, no matter how quiet or obvious.

You can’t pursue something that interests you in the slightest without thinking what would come out of it. You can’t think of a degree and a course you’ll stick with, enough to do for the rest of your life because the only other option is to fail completely if you don’t. You have no plan and no passion and you don’t know if you’ll ever amount to anything to anyone at all.

By all means, you don’t agree with Yoongi this time. Someone else’s luck is your misfortune, in the same way that his first kiss doesn’t mean that it’s yours.

The sidetrack to your argument is a closed case already, judging by your downcast gaze. “I just have to put myself out there, that’s all. My first kiss doesn’t even have to mean anything. I just want to have it,” you admit, shoulders relaxing.

“Don’t,” Yoongi groans, the opposite of you as his whole body tenses.

He thinks that you don’t get him at all.

“What do you meandon’t?”

Your argument’s long-over (atleast you thought it was) but Yoongi’s getting more agitated by the minute, the disbelief on his face throwing you off. “Don’t do things just because you feel like you have to! Are you even hearing yourself right now?”

“I don’t want to be left behind, Yoongi! That’s all I’m trying to get at,” you raise your hands in surrender, shrugging thoughtlessly — it makes him want yell into a paper bag in exasperation. “I don’t want to be picked last. I don’t want to not be wanted.”

Yoongi exhales, screwing his eyes shut. It stays silent like that for a little while; him calming himself down, and you scratching your tickets. The calm doesn’t stay for long because you open your mouth carelessly, again.

“Can you be my first kiss?”

“Are you insane?”

“Ugh.”

You go back to your fourth scratch ticket, pouting in disappointment. You’re unfazed about the win that’s probably the largest sum you’ve had ever since you started doing the lottery.

You’re upset and you’re sick in the stomach but you stay silent like you never asked Yoongi to be your first kiss; it’s like you haven’t indirectly admitted to him that you love him enough, more than so, to want him to be your first.

You’re about to scratch the final ticket when Yoongi juts his hand out, fingers barely brushing yours to stop you.

“On second thought, don’t scratch that. Just keep it.”

“Because you want to turn me into a hoarder too?” you snicker, heeding his suggestion regardless.

“Because I’m not going to be right about everything,” Yoongi mumbles, looking at you with a solemnness you can’t decipher.

You try until the solemnness turns into pity.

“Still don’t want to be my first kiss?”

Yoongi softly laughs to your face, smiling as he lets you down — whether easily or harshly, you can’t tell.

“You already know what I’m going to say.”

( ♡ )

You’d like to think that you’re not kept in the dark about most things.

You already know that although your mom hasn’t had any relationships since your dad left, she still has plenty of suitors. Some of them are the reason why you have random food deliveries in the middle of the dinner that she’s already cooked, some have sucked up to her by getting you and Namjoon gifts.

You know about Namjoon’s growing love for football, even with the lessons he takes in secret because he didn’t want to trouble your mom for the money. It’s why he does his part-time job and why you’re looking for one anyways. You don’t want nor need much, so you almost always give him the remainder of your allowance by the end of each week.

Yoongi, on the other hand, you don’t know much about. You know that he’s an only child with a doting mom who works overseas and a rich but emotionally unavailable dad at home, and that’s about it. His home life is synonymous with yours, considering that your four walls have become an extension of his.

Maybe you’ve become too lenient on him — either that, or he’s become too disrespectful. It’s at times like these where your house is not his home, sickeningly so that you don’t want it to be yours either.

Yoongi is a sight to behold as he makes out with a half-naked girl on your bed, in your room. Your room has never been the neatest but with everything going on, it feels that it’s become the dirtiest that it’s ever been. Your house slippers are on the floor even if you always leave them by the entryway, and your sheets are a mess despite being one of the only things you try to keep folded in the room.

You’re angry, too much to the point that the words get caught in your throat. They catch onto bile and venom and everything at once, the strain in your voice heard when you yell.

“What the fuck?!”

Yoongi and the girl, whom you figure out to be Hyewon that he’s shared his first kiss with, jolt in unison. Hyewon’s scared shitless while Yoongi’s annoyed to death, the grunt he lets out pricking your ears further. “Sorry, sorry. She’s my best friend’s sister. She’s so annoying,” he drags you out of your room before he even gives you the entitlement to storm out of there in a fit of rage, seeing red the longer that he seems upset at you.

“What the fuck was that, Yoongi?” you grit through your teeth, the moment of you seeing red turn into white because you’re so frustrated that you could actually cry. Your chest’s heavy, not only out of rage, but out of everything that’s built up in the course of years.

“Can you keep it down?” Yoongi seethes, pursing his lips. “What, would you rather see us do it in the living room?”

“In the — what? Who do you think you are? This isn’t even your house, why are you bringing these girls here?” you point an accusing finger at him yet he doesn’t back away, his annoyance for you only growing tenfold.

He’s in the wrong no matter which way you look at it yet he doesn’t realize it, the epiphany that Yoongi genuinely thinks he’s in the right for doing this to you making your skin burn in fire.

“This is literally the first time I’ve ever done this! I can’t bring her back to my place, my dad has guests over!”

“So your smartest idea is to fuck someone in my bed?”

“Oh, you’re welcome. It’s the most action your four walls have ever seen,” he spits sarcastically, eyes narrowing at you. It takes little effort for him to dig up what you came to him for in worry and it terrifies you. The facet of Yoongi who had sternly told you that it was okay to be left behind if it means getting what you deserve, resembling nothing like him at the moment.

“I can’t believe you!” you whisper as you tremble, the tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. “I told you that in confidence.”

“In confidence? It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that you’re not exactly a catch, Y/N.”

You clench your jaw so hard that it hurts, you ball your fists so tightly that it stings.

You leave your home without saying another word.

Namjoon’s panicked.

He came home a little later than usual because he had maximized the life out of his soccer lessons, only getting the signal to leave when the lights were turned off. He was only slightly worried at the first place because he was supposed to cook dinner for the both of you, but he placated himself by realizing that you’re not the baby that he still thinks you are — you could cook dinner for yourself if you were hungry already.

He thinks nothing of it. In fact, he just makes a quick stop at the convenience store so the both of you could indulge in a liter of ice cream without your mom urging to leave some for another night. You could think of a recipe from scratch (and it almost always works out at the end), so Namjoon walked in fully thinking he’ll get to sniff whatever concoction you have.

Except, he walks into a completely dark house, and that’s when he panics.

He can’t find your slippers by the entryway and you’re not in your room either. You’re not at the other convenience store hunched over taking your chances on scratch tickets, and you’re not out on the street either going people-watching.

The panic rises in him the more that Namjoon grasps this is the first time that this has ever happened and he doesn’t know why. He’s always made an effort to be absorbed into both your personal and academic affairs, and as far as he knows, you’re neither in a sleepover nor on a field trip somewhere.

Namjoon thinks it’s his fault someway somehow, and the guilt can’t fully dissipate from him until he sees you.

“Hey, Yoongi,” he breathlessly gasps the moment his friend answers, the latter being surprised because he thought it was you who was calling him after what happened awhile ago.

It’s his fault and he’s realized that hours too late, and the selfish part of him thinks that it’s you calling at ten in the evening begging for forgiveness.

“What’s up, man? It’s late,” he wonders out loud, thinking for a second if they were too much of the Siamese twins that you tease them to be because he can’t think of a rational reason why Namjoon would call him at this time of night.

Namjoon raggedly exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, sorry about that. I’m just wondering if you’ve seen Y/N by any chance?”

Yoongi’s heart drops so loudly that Namjoon thought for second that his friend had hung up on him, his urgency being shared the moment that he asked.

“What? Y/N isn’t home?” Yoongi asks in disbelief, immediately being filled with anxiety and disbelief. Just awhile ago, the two of you were arguing outside of your room. He did hear you leave, but he had fully expected for you to be back hours ago. He’s wracked with guilt all over, the drop in his chest amplified by the pit in his stomach.

“She’s not. Practice ran late and I-I know she’s responsible so I didn’t hurry home,” Namjoon recalls, being more and more frazzled by the second. “She left her phone here, and mom isn’t here either because she’s visiting my grandparents, a-and I don’t want to call her because I know she’ll be worried, a-and-…”

Yoongi interrupts him, the tremble in his fingers only enabling him to dig his nails into his palm deeper. “I’m coming over. Let’s look for her together.”

It barely takes a minute for the both of them to come together, not even exchanging any pleasantries with each other before Yoongi steps on the gas.

Namjoon’s filled with guilt, the type that only a sibling could carry as a burden. He thinks he was too selfish — too accustomed to pulling your own weight that it must have given you the impression that you had no other choice but to. Whatever it was that made you leave out of the blue, Namjoon thinks he could’ve done more. He should’ve came home and made you dinner as promised, for starters. He’s guilty over the fact that he’s the only close familial male figure in your life and he let this happen, as he makes Yoongi put his headlights on high-beam, scanning for anyone that looks remotely like you.

Yoongi, on the other hand, is filled with a guilt he can’t even begin to explain. It corrodes him from the inside-out in realization that he’s to blame for your sudden disappearance, the fact that Namjoon comes to him first to help find you not helping at all. If only your brother knew what he had done to you, he’s positive that he’ll be on the receiving end of a punch — what gets him more is that Yoongi wouldn’t blame him at all.

They see you in the bus stop two cities away, dressed in the same clothes you ran out with.

Namjoon’s relieved beyond compare while Yoongi’s fuming, his hands tucked inside his jacket to prevent himself from squeezing you into an embrace; neither of you deserve it.

There’s an underlying anger within Namjoon, one that lies behind the back of his throat as he checks you over for any injuries. The two of you walk ahead to Yoongi’s car while he himself trails behind, his heart significantly calmer than it was the past hour, yet nowhere near normal.

“Wanna tell me what you did?” your brother hums, trying to exhale the worry that’s embedded into him with each squeeze he gives around your shoulders.

“Went to the convenience store, bumped into my friends, then we took this impromptu roadtrip to go to the night market, then we all had our first actual shot of liquor and not just beer, my friend who owns the car turned out to be a lightweight, and now everyone just has to commute home,” you narrate in recollection, squeezing Namjoon back to try and ground him.

“Okay,” he answers simply, nodding. “Wanna tell me what happened before you did all those things?”

The breathless chuckle that leaves you is empty, void of any amusement at all. You smile nonetheless, unable to placate both yourself and Namjoon. “Nope.”

You arrive in silence to Yoongi’s car, the words unsaid between the three of you generating more tension than your brief disappearance itself.

Yoongi opens the front door for you, but you settle for sitting in the backseat.

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leclsrc · 10 months

Text

decent incentives ✴︎ cl16, mv1

genre: this is. Smut, porn W plot, threesome, driver reader

word count: 6.9k

Max can’t even feel his feet on the hardwood floors because you’re on your bed, spread out, wearing one of Charles’ sweaters, two fingers at the apex of your thighs. Or: You’ve been a brat, and only two people know how to mellow you out. title from this

auds here… hi hi hi! scanned my reqs last week, found a max/charles threesome one, and wrote this out in half a day after a friend showed me the challengers trailer (i love tennis and it drove me to write abt a sport that was not, in fact, tennis) also i truly cannot explain the phenomenon behind me finding smut/these kinds of works easier to suss out these days (long form fic i talked abt in the last drabble is not this one fyi) but it’s just ???? like i don’t… i’ve no clue. i hope u enjoy this anyway!!!! love auds :)

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... penetrative sex, double penetration, sexual tension, masturbation (f), teasing, praise central, reader is a MASSIVE brat, size kink, dirty talk, i don’t want to say brat taming but kinda kinda

Your first time in Max Verstappen’s hotel room happened after a tiring night of media and press, where you spent hours together smoking to calm yourselves down. You’d almost been caught by a manager, stepping on your sticks as soon as the back door swung open and your names were called out to do another interview. This was with ESPN, if you remember right. There’d been a muddled chaos of journalism in the venue, all the jumbled mess of the same questions. As young as you both are, do you feel intimidated by success?

It didn’t—and still doesn’t—help, you suppose, that both you and Max had stared, tight-lipped and deflated brows, and stated, with finality: no.

The afternoon stretched into an entire night, and by the time the clock ticked nine and everything had formally wrapped up, Max mustered up the courage and a half it took to invite you to his hotel room for a cig and half a Cuervo divided into three shots each. The conversation had progressed as he drove, the continuation of an otherwise unorthodox friendship between a Red Bull and Mercedes driver—a fact you’d both acknowledged but opted to ignore.

Drivers are friends all the time, you figure—you’re close with few drivers—but none of them are Max. You had made the lousy small talk, commented on how different the pre- and post-race processes have become since your entrance in 2018, which, back then, had seemed like forever ago. “It would seem like forever to a world champion,” he’d said, and his voice is all teasing and raspy and scruffed up. You had laughed, a scoffy little noise, and told him to shut up.

He obeyed, for two seconds, then added, “Do you mind if we meet someone there?”

The hotel room was what you might expect a high-level athlete to be bestowed with, wide and huge but not as wide and not as huge as yours a few streets over. There’d been a thing of cologne left uncapped on the table by the door, Adidas shoes on the floor next to Nikes, and then a low table housing a still smoking joint that left the entire living room smelling like grass.

Somehow, Max had managed to turn a neutral, sterile hotel room into a boy’s room. The scent of weed mixed with Tom Ford cologne. The rap music blending into the open balcony’s traffic noise. The socks on the floor, two pairs, both white. It’s a strenuous effort, you’d thought—and you were beginning to think this wasn’t the work of Max alone. “We have a guest,” he’d hollered when he managed to fiddle with the key card properly enough to leave the door alone.

No one had answered, or surfaced from the hallway leading to the bedroom and bathroom, so you followed Max into the bar area. Bottles of booze in varying states of empty, lemon slices and salt now cold—“Do you not call housekeeping?” You’d asked, amusement concealing curiosity as you accepted a poured-out shot. He said they do—they—and sometimes hotel staff are just a bunch of pricks. He asked more questions. How it felt to win at twenty-one, how it felt to be driving, to be the youngest winner, the first female driver.

Ask me something I don’t hear fucking journalists say all the time, you’d replied back, half-jokingly. The August air nipped at your cheeks, chilling your warm face. He’d laughed, and explained that he re-asked the questions in case you have a more honest answer to give him. The most honesty you could offer is that you’d grown to hate your reputation because it precedes your skill. It’d been silent for a bit then, just the scent of the unclaimed weed. Then Max went, We have a new friend.

You turned to see who he was talking to. Charles was at the doorway, eyes on you already, raising a hand to say a silent hello. “H…” He trailed off. “Hey.”

He was shirtless, Calvins tight on his legs, his free hand scratching absently at his abs. Behind you, you had faintly picked up on Max introducing you and Charles rolled his eyes before replying, clipped, I know who she is, wiseass. He’d taken the weed and almost left, but you spoke next.

“Want to come sit?”

He paused, turned, and blinked. “I’m alright,” he rejected. “We have a meeting tomorrow, don’t forget.”

Then he was back in the bedroom area, leaving behind him a trail of grassy smoke. He was clearly rugged and fresh from sleep, the delicious sleep athletes have all grown familiar with: post-race, overcome with a terrible exhaustion. You’d only ever exchanged a few words with either of these two, and the fact that you were alone with them sent a warm, drawling thrill up your spine.

You were two and a half shots in when Charles reappeared, sans weed. “Any left for me?”

—

If you grouped the grid into years, you would be with Max and Charles—on the younger end, still at the ripe years of your careers. You entered first, though, then Max, thenCharles, which meant you were connected to, and friends with, relatively different people on the paddock. But the 2020 season and your many close calls with Max began the media and manager tirade of constantly lumping you and Max into the same interviews, press conferences, and media days, to maybe somehow elicit a bit of drama out (a tireless and unrelenting effort).

That’s how the rumors started. The rumor that permeates you most is one that asks about you, Max, and Charles. Some say you dated one then the other (a homie hopper, they’d branded you in 2021), others say they dated each other and you butted in. All of them were woefully untrue, in the same way all had some ring of truth to them.

And you suppose that’s what hotwired the beginning of your nights spent at Max’s hotel room, where Charles would nearly always be camped out, then eventually vice versa (Charles’ room, Max camping out; your room, solo, housing them for one night), drinking and/or smoking and/or playing some form of cards. And you suppose again that it was all this that radiated into everything else, all your wins and successes and bad days and near crashes, that just caused the entire universe to topple over, into itself, and creep up onto the three of you in Bahrain that year.

But that year is three years ago, and if you try to detail every last divot of it, you’re going to wind up rubbing a migraine out of your head. And you’re not interested in developing a headache—not when you’re celebrating the fifth race of the 2023 season.

It’s your fourth win this season. It’s all anybody ever talks about, how you had gone and secured a third championship for yourself last year, and how you’re gunning for four, the greatest the sport has seen in years. It’s all anyone can repeat and echo—you’re a fucking legend!—and you know from experience that praise does more than the most dangerous cocktail of drugs to get you high.

The afterparty is full and obnoxiously loud, dark and smoky and low-visibility. You’re wearing a flimsy dress and running a hand through your hair while you nurse a drink, feeling drunk on compliments and confused with certain absences. You can feel the bass through the tiled floor, heels clicking on it as you search, search, and come up short. Neither Max nor Charles have sent you a text, a play they always perform to break a routine you’ve become familiar with. You frown. Hey, somebody says next to you, you’re better than anyone else on the grid right now! You thank them, thinking to yourself—where the fuck is anyone else on the grid anyway? The relevant people, at least?

Half an hour later, you’ve ditched the party and are pounding with your fists at Max’s hotel room door in an effort to get them to open it quicker, after your knuckles didn’t seem to do the work well enough. You half—no, mostly—expect Charles to be the one who pulls it open. He’s more prudent. He gives in easier. He’s nicer and he can spare a thought for the other people on this floor (but the price of this room means there barely are).

“What.” His voice is gritty.

“You told me you would come tonight.” Your voice is steady—you’d chosen not to drink much, and what little you consumed wore off on the ride here. Even with your heels on and even in sleepiness, you notice his presence towers over yours. “You both said.”

“We were tired.”

You scoff and gently push past him into the room, where evidence of their existence rags the furniture. “Every hotel room you ever stay in is turned into a fucking frat house.” Beer bottles, cigs, gifts from fans stored with precarious care but peeking out from suitcases.

“We were sleeping. I am sleepy,” he says behind you, unamused by your sudden appearance. He shuts the door and stands still, looking as disappointed as he can. It’s unlike him. You’re buying time to find out what the problem is.

“Okay, I’ll go,” you say, relenting, running a few fingers over the mess of clothes strewn atop the armrest of the couch. “My driver’s downstairs, anyway. I wanted you there tonight, though.” You look up, meet his eyes. Tired and green and fed up. “Both of you. We could’ve celebrated.”

He pulls his lips tight and stands straighter. “I know, I know.” He softens a little. “I’m sorry, okay? Desolé. Just… tired.” You know he’s tired because his team is shit, and you know it has nothing to do with you, but you’re so wrapped up with everything that your irritance fails to quell.

“Where’s Max?” You ask roughly instead, thumbing at the strap of your minidress. He gestures to the bedroom. You’re quiet but stormy when you walk in, finding him, messy hair and tired eyes notwithstanding, fully awake, unlike what his roomie has been telling you since you arrived; you scoff out loud again. Des-fucking-picable. You sit yourself on the couch, crossing your legs petulantly.

They both stare. They’re mad, it occurs to you, which is weird because they had you in between them on that same bed less than forty-eight hours ago. You’d come thrice and begged for more, but they laughed and said you all needed sleep to get up for race prep. Race prep. Race prep.

“Okay, then.” You throw two hands up in a semi-shrug. “Let’s have it. What’s the matter? No use lying.”

They both look irritated. “Nothing,” Max says.

“Fuck nothing.” You trail a hand over the hem of your dress. “You’re pissed with me, but I didn’t do shit.” You try to rerack the race, but you hadn’t so much as collided with them in the slightest, apart from overtaking them a few times, but they weren’t man children to whine over that. You’d shared the podium with Charles, for Chrissake.

“You’re right. You just went and…” Charles blows a raspberry and makes an explosion gesture, opening his clenched fist. “Shat on us in your post-race interview.”

And there it is.

You huff out a laugh, momentarily losing control over speech, and it’s caught in between itself and a sigh, a breathy noise that makes waves in the quiet room. Okay, you think. I get it. Your eyes flit in-between the two men across you, your shoulders straight and eyebrows raised, posing a challenge. “What, are you jealous?”

They’re silent. And you know silence always means—

Your eyes relax, smug and a little teasing as you elaborate. “Because you know I’m better than both of you?”

—Yes.

Their silence is redeeming and rewarding and permissive and it speaks volumes louder than if they’d actually admitted to it. You stare back at them, eyes narrowed, amused, coy. You’d been joking around in your Sky Sports interview. Sure, you’re a bit of a tease, especially on the high of a win. But they should know that by now.

You know it annoys them more to leave the door wide open as you leave, than to slam it closed.

—

“Will you draw me a tattoo?!”

“I’d love to, but you are going to regret it,” Charles laughs, signing his name off with a heart on the frenzied fan’s outstretched cap. The busy, busy practice day had now worn into night, though nothing seems to be taking his mind off the fact that you’ve been giving him and Max the cold shoulder since last week. And he knows it’s stupid, he knows he and Max were being irrational and pissy—him especially—but now he just finds himself needing to apologize before anything becomes worse.

But his priority is getting to your hotel, which now seems like the journey of his lifetime. His bodyguard is a bulldozer and grips his elbow to traverse them through the sea of people who cheer him on, go Charles have faith in Ferrari and yeah, that’s been getting more and more difficult as the races pass without much good progress. There are flashes all around, noise and laughing and whoops and gifts he tries to receive, but he just—he needs to get to your hotel. Preoccupied, he remembers where he’d seen Max last, just seconds before leaving the paddock for the evening.

You spend a lot of time with a certain pair Ferrari and Mercedes drivers, says the interviewer in Dutch. Charles squints at the subtitles and waits for Max’s reaction.

He’s in the passenger seat, being driven around for a change, and maybe he’s a pessimist and he misses you and Max, or maybe the city he’s in is just. Dreary, so he opts to stare at his phone like every other person. The clip’s been posted by a fan on Twitter, and the caption is something jokey—something about a dream threesome. He can’t help but laugh as he watches. We are close, us three, Max says, nodding. In fact I will be meeting them later.

The media’s always speculated, rumors born out of a few close calls outside clubs where you’re tipsy and giggly and getting into one car. The fans, funny as ever, also make some fun of it—posting pictures of you three captioned with something like polyamory is real or her and the guys she told you not to worry about, but God if any of them knew the real picture, the whole three years of it, all the sex and hickeys and rumors.

He scrolls a bit more. There are a few photos of you leaving the paddock, hand poised atop your face to shield it from the paps. You get loads more of them wherever you are, loads morecompared to anybody else on the grid. You always attract the media, the press. He finds a picture with your face in it, smiling at your result during FP2. Fuck. You’re pretty, hair damp with sweat, lips stretched into a proud grin, suited hand raising a thumbs up.

“Where to?” The driver beside him asks suddenly.

—

“Fairmont,” Max says to his assistant as he pulls out of parking. “I’m hanging up, doei.” He presses the red button and sighs, shutting his eyes and driving the steady, increasingly familiar routes of the city. He’d called you this morning but you didn’t pick up. Last night he’d slept restlessly, which was no different from the nights before, anyway.

He gets to the valet parking of your hotel when purple is just settling into blackness in the sky, the beginnings of a civil discussion at the tip of his tongue as he exits the elevator and finds your room, opening it and finding it unlocked already. Charles must have done the brunt of it, or maybe you’d gotten an assistant of an assistant to pass an extra keycard to him. You always plan around them, thinking ahead. Both on and off track.

Like the hotel rooms he and Charles share or camp out at, your existence is terribly visible. Unlike them, though, it manifests differently.

It smells like your perfume, the pink bottle he’d found you spritzing on once, and everything is neat and tidy and gorgeous. A vase of white peonies on the low table, lipstick on the table by the mirror, even the pack of cigarettes you barely smoke is pretty and unassuming on the sofa. The only thing amiss—a pair of men’s shoes, those ones with stars on them that you bought Charles on a spur-of-the-moment shopping trip. He toes off his own beside them, eyes the alignment, and fixes it lest you scold them for it later.

Anyway. It smells like you. That’s the only thing he cares about right now. It hits him like a tidal wave, after being ignored the whole week and then some. Your perfume, your favorite linen spray—that black and white glass bottle you carry around like a rosary—your favorite lip balm, even. He swears he smells the vanilla, can recall the taste of it from kissing you ditzy.

It’s beginning to rain—it had been drizzling already, en route here—and the noise pelts the windows, an accompaniment to his footsteps down the hall. He’s familiar with the layout of a penthouse suite, but still he tries out the WC door, and then the closet with the ironing board, before finally he figures the bedroom should be at the end of the hall.

He’s reciting it. I’m sorry. Would you stop being a brat? No. No, just say you’re sorry and then he’s standing at the ajar door of your bedroom, pushing it open, and he can’t feel anything. The words have evaporated. So have his warm little sentimental feelings, and so the annoyance he’d come busting in with.

Max can’t even feel his feet on the hardwood floors because you’re on your bed, spread out, wearing one of Charles’ sweaters, two fingers at the apex of your thighs.

He opens his mouth but nothing leaves. His eyes find Charles, standing by the door, propped against the desk, arms crossed and fingers digging into his biceps. Max looks at you again. You have a pretty flush high on your cheeks, a slight sheen of sweat on your exposed collar. He blinks and realizes you’ve been talking.

“I said, you can sit the fuck down.” There’s a couch to his left.

He pulls himself together and stays beside Charles. “I’m good here, thanks.”

You eye the two of them. They look like stupid twins in the same way they look like Republican husbands. You roll your eyes and allow it; anyway, you’re not in the mood to order either of them around too much.

Charles has been watching you for a while now, watched you fake moans and exaggerate whines, feigning pleasure over two of your fingers. It’s almost laughable—he’d allowed a smile, in fact, because he knows better. Once, he’d pulled your hair so hard you teared up, nodding, hand at his wrist, whimpering more, harder, do it. Another time, he and Max had gotten you all riled up and edged for half an hour, so riled that all you could mutter out were please and their names when they finally stuffed you full. You’re evidently playing your games again. You love to play around with them. It’s almost—you could almost call it a hobby.

“I’m not going to stop just ‘cause you’re both here.” Your hand moves, two fingers fucking into yourself, pink lace pushed aside. Your cunt is so pretty, they’re both thinking. “Did you think I would?” When silence greets you, you decide to address them directly. “Max. Did you?”

His voice is thin and tight when he responds, “Yeah, actually—so we could suss this out, at least.”

Your laugh is patronizing. “I prefer it this way. And you know what?”

Max stares. Charles has already been told this, several minutes ago when he found you in the exact same position. It’s not any easier for him to hear it again, chaste and sweet out of your lips. You can’t touch me.

See, they would’ve been content without touching you, if they sit and think about it. Max didn’t walk in here thinking he’d even be kissing you, and he knows Charles thinks the same thing. Maybe touch you—innocently, that kind of way. Sure, they’d been pent up, heady with arousal, but that came second to talking things out. But now you’ve told them they can’t touch, and that’s worsened them to their limit. Charles imagines touching you, the same touch he gives when it’s post-race and he gets you alone, to himself, nobody else’s, quick fucks in a dim closet, whispering some dirty shit in your ear and getting you like putty in his hands.

Max thinks of nearly the same thing. Imagines running his hand over your hair, gentle but firm, the same way he does when he knocks at your hotel room after hours and gets you from high-strung and bratty to begging for more. You notice their eyes, darkened; you realize their minds have wandered. So, they watch hopelessly as the smirk spreads prettily across your flushed face, and they remember the events of a week prior, when childishly, they’d acted out, and think, for a second, that maybe they deserve this.

You all know what it’s like to keep them from touching you.

It was both easier and worse then, in 2020 when everything started—when everything was brand new and thrilling and exciting. Easier, because they were satisfied as soon as they got you to come, maybe kiss them both, and they were content with slow exploration. Worse, because you were all insatiable. It felt like none of you could go minutes without some form of touch, during, in-between, after practice, quali, fuck—it was worse, much worse.

As you all grew older and got accustomed to the drivel of racing, you all got better. It didn’t get much easier.

Charles recalls how insatiable he was—and thinks, with amusement almost, that if he was insatiable then, he’s worse now. Now he knows where, how, for how long to touch you to get you wide-eyed and warm in the face even in the most serious of moments. Max, too. He knows how you taste, bend, tease. They love touching you. Just skin to skin. And you’ve gone and put a great big X mark over that.

“So,” Max says, voice flat, the way it is when he’s unamused with a reporter, “we’re in a time out.”

“You can call it that,” you giggle, and it segues into a huffy whimper when you angle your hand just right. “You were acting childish, anyway.”

Charles sighs, long and deep. “We—fuck.” His eyes can’t unglue themselves from your fingers. He knows he could make you feel so much better, fuck real moans out of you until you’re crying. “We were being childish, oui, and it was—we were just tense. I was unhappy with strategy. I could’ve been P2 but they pitted me at the worst time, putain. I took it out on you, and I’m… I was… I was worn out, and you called us childish in your interview.”

Ever the minx, you only smile. You’d been joking, you clarified that a day later; it was crass, spurred on by team radios of the two of them complaining in the latter half of the race. “It was a joke, Charles.”

“I know, baby, I know.” His lip curls and he breathes steadily, controlling himself. “It was unprompted though. You weren’t even asked about us. And yeah, a joke—but it felt shitty, love. I don’t mind it—we don’t mind it, but—” He needs to think about the phrasing, think about his intentions.

Your eyes are on fire, clearly still angry, but steadily softening.

“But in moderation,” comes Max’s raspy voice. “You’re running your mouth a lot in the media.”

“You’re one to—ah—talk,” you huff back, a futile argument.

“You need to understand that—that when you’re giddy, or angry, you can’t keep turning to interviews to express all that out. You need to sit with it. Just because we’re not…” your boyfriends, Max almost says, “…yours, doesn’t mean you can shit on us then expect us to be okay with it a few hours later. It’s a thing you do. A game you play. And it’s nice, it was nice then, but it’s annoying now, and it’s almost, like, do you even want this to keep going? To work—?”

You recoil. “You seriously think I don’t want th—”

Charles cuts in. “Well, when you play at us like this, yeah. Put in the work. If you’re high off a win, or mad for some other reason, just let it happen. Don’t fucking.” He exhales. “Call us names, then show up at our hotel acting like an angel.”

They’ve always looked out for you like this, known when to scold you or put you in your place for doing too much or not doing enough. They’ve never let personal things cross too much with business, which is a blessing of an ability when you’re three people having regular sex while balancing a ludicrous athletic career. It’s all sussed down to stupid ‘I care for you’ stuff that, frankly, they’re both too horny and angry to get into the grit of right now.

They don’t realize how quiet the room has grown until you eke out a noise, a thoughtful sound of agreement. You’ve pulled your fingers out, both hands playing with a loose thread on the hem of the sweater, rolling it into a ball. Your hair falls in waves. There’s a crease in it from the ponytail you wear when driving.

Your expression is still murderous, but much softer now; you cough, “I—I get what you’re saying. And I know I play… I have these games, or—but, honestly, I could say the same to you both.” You stutter through your totally shit explanation.

“How do you… mean,” deadpans Max.

“I mean, when I’m acting out, you two just take it.” Having them at your mercy like that is satisfying in its own right, but pragmatically, it’s unhealthy. “You don’t ever tell me off. Even now. I need you to tell me… to fucking,” you’re warm and spluttery now. “Fuck's sake, okay? I know I can be annoying. I know I say stupid shit when I don’t finish and I’m way less diplomatic than Mr. Il Predestinato,” you breathe. “But you two just let me be annoying!”

“Then don’t be annoying,” Charles says, diplomatic as ever—his voice rises, though, nearly matching yours.

“Not like that!” You huff, folding your legs and sitting straighter, and they catch a glimpse of your pink panties again. “When I’m out of line, you”—you point to them—“need to correct me.” They’re nearly blindsided by your request to… be told what to do, which is so different from how sex usually works. From how this whole dynamic usually works.

But Max remembers your manager, and Toto, and your teammate Lewis even, and your engineers, who have all, at one point or another, had to talk you down and tell you to calm down and correct your behavior. So he says, “People do that all the time, but it only works for a second.”

“Because th—” You suck in a lungful of air. “They’re not you two, you daft fuckers!” You’re at the centre of the bed now, sweater drooped over your folded thighs, eyes matching the rain outside. “Every time, I need to be talked down, and you never. Do it. So do it. Fucking—do it. I have to tell you everything.”

“You don’t—-”

“Oh, I do.” You say, folding your arms over your chest.

“This is despicable,” Max says. “We need to sort this out properly.”

“So what? This isn’t”—you raise violent air quotes—“putting in the work?”

They glance at each other for a minute. They feel you thinking you’re winning, thinking they’ll grovel and say okay we’ll do that next time, can we fuck you? Like all the other semi-resolved fights before. You’re sitting straight, eyebrows raised, defiant. But for them to do that—you just said it wasn’t what you needed.

And they’d have to be caught dead before not giving you what you need. If you want to be bossed around a bit, then they’ll do it.

“Sit down,” Charles goes. Unmoving.

“What.” You’re deadpanning, eyes narrowed.

“Sit the fuck down,” he repeats. You open your mouth, but he’s quicker. “Don’t make me say it again.”

You pout, leaning against the headboard and unfolding your legs. He rounds the room, sits at the foot of the bed. It’s a big bed, so even if he’s on it, he still needs to reach over a bit to be able to touch you. The distance is good, though, keeps them in control. Max sits opposite him, both of them on either side of you, and they’re so close, so scrutinizing, so handsome.

“Put your fingers in your mouth,” he says. You take a second, spreading your knees and obeying. You find a way, though, to make their little challenge all your own—you make a show of it, peeking your tongue out and licking your bottom lip all shiny before hollowing your cheeks. You stare at them the whole time and you don’t blink. It’s hotter than it has any right to be. “Suck on them.” You continue doing it, lips slightly curled.

“You’re a brat.” You try to conceal the whimper that leaves you but it fails pathetically. Charles presses on. “A spoiled brat.”

He’s the nicer of the two. Your whole threesome situation had began three years ago, and in almost every tryst since then, he’s been nice. In fact, if any of them were to ever ‘tell you off’ like you so desperately wanted, apparently, it would have definitely been Max. He’s firm, yeah, but he’s sweet. And he’d hate to boss you around too much, even if it’s something he wants. So he thinks, and he pretends he’s back to quali day of last week. It was a slow morning because of weather problems, so everyone was in a mood, and you were absolutely no exception. You come off as quiet to the public and to some of the grid, but to your friends, you’re anything but.

In an effort to lift the mood, you’d been mouthing off the entire day to your close circle of driver friends, in particular retelling the story of how you had teased Charles post-DNF in Saudi, and even gotten Lando to laugh about it at the time. What a season starter, you said when you were recounting it. You left out a detail: that night in Saudi, he’d fucked you and refused to let you cum, soaking your pillow with tears and goading a sobbed apology out of you.

Watching you joke about it again, even if it was a fucking joke and even if it was because you were mad at him and Max—got him all red hot, pissed off. Seething.

“Do you remember last race weekend when you joked about my DNF in Saudi?”

Cheeks hollowed, you nod.

“Fucking brat. That whole day. Ignoring me, ignoring Max. Didn’t listen to our apologies. Just noise all day.”

Your brows knit defiantly.

“I’m serious. You weren’t being funny. Just a brat. And if you were bored or pissed, you could’ve said so instead of making me look stupid.” You nod.

He glimpses at Max; the latter speaks next. “Open yourself up.”

You spread your legs out farther and sneak your spit-slick fingers down, pushing the flimsy material aside to rub at your cunt, two fingers sliding right back in. You breathe out shakily and wait for them to talk again. You’re still fussy, high-strung, not totally calm and mellowed down yet.

“When Charles and I aren’t here to fuck you into behaving, who’s going to make sure you’re acting proper?”

“Carlos,” you grit out in between thrusts.

They seethe. “Again,” Charles says, unamused.

“Nat,” you name your manager. “Lewis, or something. Fuck. Lando? I don’t—”

You asked to be told what to do, but you never said, they suppose, that it would be an easy job. “Guess again.”

“Toto.” You look delighted at that last one, knowing the implication. They’ve always been a bit jealous there. You thrive off disobedience, getting your two favorite boys all angry and flushed red with it. You open your mouth to try smartassing your way out of their orders, but Max beats you to it. “If you guess wrong, you’re not cumming. We’ll fuck you tonight, but no cumming.”

You whimper out loud, sinking your fingers farther in, adding a third.

“Don’t add another. Answer Max,” Charles says.

“Fuck,” you seethe, slipping the third out on your next thrust. “Me. I’m supposed to keep myself in check. When I’m mad. When I’m giddy and fuck—yeah. Me. It’s me.”

“Good girl,” he rasps out. “Good girl. You have to practice. How does it feel?”

I know, you mouth, eyes fluttering. You scissor the two fingers you’re thrusting in and out, wet with slick. “Feels good.”

“Not your fingers, love,” Max says. “How’s it feel hearing what we just told you?”

“Good, better,” you say in-between breaths. “I’ll practice. I like it. You’re not… letting me push you around. You’re—you can punish—fuck. Me.”

“Yeah? How, then?”

“Fuck me,” you repeat breathlessly. “Both of you.”

“Add another,” Charles orders, and you nod, quick and pliant, fucking yourself open. They’re both so hard, cocks heavy and uncomfortable in their jeans. You can see the thick shapes of them through the denim, and you thrust harder, a futile attempt to replicate how it feels when they’re fucking you.

“You remember how it feels, having both of us in you?” Max sounds amused.

“Yes,” you moan. Your pathetic imitation of moans and gasps earlier pales in comparison to this, voice dry and thick with pleasure and raw desperation. “Yes, pl—fuck, yes.”

“Why aren’t you feeling it now?” They need to hear you verbalize the reason why, admit it one last time before they give you what you want. You whine, rutting your hips up against your hand, catching your clit on the heel of your palm.

“Because I was being a brat, and I—you were being childish, but I didn’t want to talk things through either—and I’m always taking out my emotions on you guys, and I’m sorry, okay, would you just fuck me already?”

They’re on you immediately, all words and whispers, fingers at your chin turning you both ways to slot kisses on your mouth. Your free hand palms over Max’s bulge; he’s the one to your right. It’s hard and thick and heavy and you need it, need them. Charles’ hand takes over yours, thrusting deep and you’re whimpering into his sweet mouth.

“Feel my cock?” Max asks, “Could make you feel real nice, baby.”

“I know,” you sigh, breathless. “I want it.”

“When's the last time you took us both?” Charles asks, smile wicked. “Little thing like you.”

You grit out a moan, fuzzy and floating, letting them lift you up to straddle—one of them—you open your eyes and see Charles staring up at you, wonder and green eyes. “Got this, love?” You nod, yeah, I’ve got it, you say, little sighs. Both of you. Now.

This space you’re in, where it’s pleasure and fuzz and nothing else, is comparable to the high of winning. And you know you prefer that to sex, at least now, because racing is your life. It’s the slow satisfaction of being the best on the entire grid, despite everything. It’s the cheers, the raised fists when you climb atop your car and bring the crowd to a crescendo. The even louder screams when you pull your helmet and balaclava off and smile, trophy and all, champagne shiny and glowy on your face. All that shit—it’s addictive, and it feels just like this. So similar, in fact, because when you win, you finish on top of Charles and Max, and—

—Max is behind you, jeans tugged just enough for his cock to be pulled free, slick with lube and prodding at your ass—

—it feels just fucking like this.

“Like Max’s cock filling you up?” His cockhead is breaching your tight entrance and you moan out loud.

“I missed it,” you say, muffled by Charles’ free thumb at your lips, swirling it on your tongue. You flip him off for cutting you off and he laughs. “Give it t’me,” you goad, turning slightly. You want it so bad, missed being fed with their cocks. A week is too long. “I need more of it, all of it. In me, fill me up,” you beg, whimpering, desperate.

Max stares at your ass, grabs at the flesh there, at the string of your thong. You suck him in so hungrily, like you’re challenging him to not thrust in fully; you’re canting your hips backward too, and Max has to hike the too-big sweater up to watch the muscles of your back flex to meet his dick.

“So pretty, princess,” Charles says, because with them you really are a princess. Max begins to thrust into you from behind and you’re getting little moans fucked out of you, watching Charles unbuckle his jeans to tug his cock out, thick and pretty and you want—if you could, you would suck on it, let him fuck your throat, but you’re in the business of being filled to the point of blank thoughts right now.

You feel Charles at your cunt then, your slick making the slide easier, and Charles bucks his hips up and you—this is what you needed, to mellow you down, get you all loose and ready for more. “Take it, baby,” Max says, “all of it, all of us.”

“Ah,” you gasp out. “Ah.”

“Come on,” he grits, voice hardening. “You’re ruined. Pretty little girl. Come on.”

“Maxie,” you call out weakly, your fond little nickname for him. You remember Charles whining about how he doesn’t have one, so you save baby for him, had sussed that out on a night where they took turns fucking you. Your hips torn between the two dicks stuffing you, face sweaty and the sweater doesn’t help, gets you hotter; Charles gets the hint, and with effort, pulls it off you. Your skin is shiny underneath, matching bra sticking to your sweaty, sheened out skin.

“Love it,” you say, voice strained. “Split—fuck—me open.” Your holes clench around them and Jesus, they could have you all flushed and pretty and spread out like them, like this, forever. Charles grabs at the flesh of your ass, slaps you once and you’re tightening around them, breath impossibly still, thighs shaking. Max’s hands hold your hips tight, hungrily traveling up, groping at the wire of your bra to press at your tits. You’re pressed against both of them at a delicious angle that gets you dizzy.

“I’m gonna cum, I,” you breathe out, moaning, “I haven’t touched myself since…”

They both moan at that, delirious. Fuck. The thought of you holding it—for them—fuck.

“You’re so perfect, so—fuck—slutty,” Charles says, and you can’t hide the moan fast enough. “Feels good, having us in you, yeah? Getting you all noisy and… fucking—shit. I know how much you needed this, love. I know how much you love it. Us.”

From behind, Max snakes a hand up your abdomen, the column of your throat, and wraps there. You see white from the sensation of it alone.

“Tell me—I can’t—please, I—Charles—Maxie—” You’re increasingly incoherent, slick running down your thighs, twitching vigorously. You try to comprehend everything but you’re losing coherence and they get it, they get it, wiping your tears and sweat and coercing you to cum, yeah, pretty little pussy so fucking wet for us, cum hard, come on, you’ve been so good, baby, the best girl for us.

There’s no way either of them are lasting after that, after watching you fall apart and finish on top of them, stuffed full, stuffed pliant, stuffed fucking docile.

It’s your turn, then, to praise, your favorite boys, always so good for me, thank you for letting me cum, come on, let me taste it—and you’re stained with their release after a few minutes, Max biting on your shoulder, Charles’ thumb indenting your hip.

—

What. A. Podium, ladies and gentlemen! Max Verstappen of Red Bull, from P6 in the last race to a stunning P3 drive—Charles Leclerc, braving the team’s dismal strategy to get P2! What a knockout. Of course the Mercedes legend, gunning for four championships now, had crossed the flag first to claim her fifth P1 of the season.

What a legendary race, absolutely proper podium. They showed us what driving is, real driving.

The season is heating up.

Makes you wonder what happened over the weekend for them to get such good results.

This is F1. I’m sure they keep each other motivated.

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc x reader #max verstappen #max verstappen smut #max verstappen imagines #max verstappen x reader #f1 x reader

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thot-writes · 7 months

Text

[repost bc i messed up] i’ve noticed that despite the fact everyone makes jokes abt astarion being a bottom i’ve yet to see anyone actually write him like one… and like a bat signal in the sky…. i am here to save the day

sub!astarion (aka canon astarion) headcanons for the girlies and the babes (NSFW) (spoiler warning!);

Astarion appears to be a top-leaning switch. not necessarily out of preference, he likely performs sex differently depending on the partner, but more often than not is the one who has to do everything.

being with a dominant like yourself isn’t anything he hasn’t already done a thousand times before, but he must concede that sex with you has always felt somehow different. is it because you’re more skilled in the arts of intimacy than the vast majority of people he’s bedded, or simply because he had the choice in seducing you?

it could very well be both. you are a dominant of great talent, after all.

the first time you sleep together, it quickly becomes apparent what your intentions are and he readily submits to them. you toy with his body, cradle it, worship it while you ravish him. you can sense a performance from him, but that’s nothing you’re not used to— occasionally you’ve been with subs who think the louder they are the better the sex is. you’re accustomed to breaking past that wall.

astarion is no different.

he seems a little too eager, a little too excited by simple touches— you can tell he’s exaggerating. you want his real reactions.

you map every part of his body and take keen notes on parts of genuine arousal, his yelps of surprise, his deep sighs, his involuntary twitching.

it’s a challenge, and you doubt you’ve scratched the surface with him, but you accurately deduce some of his sensitive spots:

the points of his ears, his nipples, his collarbone.

it’s intriguing to you, how his most sensitive places are those that are far from the most obvious ones.

the first time you fuck, he cums with an intensity that he can’t remember having had before.

and all while you were going easy on him.

you sympathetically cringe at the thought of all the god-awful encounters he must’ve had with people before this, if one of your tamest nights was one of his best.

during your sexual encounters, you slowly notice more and more about his genuine enjoyments. but you notice one more thing too, one thing infinitely more important:

he’s unsure if he truly enjoys any of it at all.

he confesses to you his issues with sex, and like the good dom you are you cater to your sub’s— no, your partner’s — needs. it’s months before he’s ready to try again, but your patience is infinite for those you love.

once you resume your sex life, you start off tame again. tamer still than even your first night together, just to test the waters and make sure he’s comfortable.

astarion has learned to trust you in a way he’s never trusted anyone before, and likely won’t ever again. as the intensity begins to ramp up, he finds himself doing things with you that (given his backstory) he should probably balk at.

he lets you collar him, tease him, punish him, and occasionally even degrade him— because he knows it’s you. he knows you. there may not be many places where he’s safe, but by your side is a guarantee.

astarion is very vocal in bed. it starts out as dirty talk, but as he gets closer to cumming he talks less and moans more. whines more. pleads more. by the time he’s about to finish, he hasn’t said a word to you yet he’s told you everything you need to know.

whenever you go too far (which isn’t often), he pulls away a little. he’s not too good at using the safe word yet, but he’s improving. you know enough of his body, his mind, to know when he’s telling you to stop even if he’s not forming the words.

after every sexual encounter you have, without fail, you clean him up and rest with him. you cradle him in your arms and stroke your fingers through his perfect curls. you make sure that he’s okay with what you’ve just done, and reassure him that he can stop this at any time with no judgement.

it’s kind of annoying how nice you are to him, honestly. you’ve just given him a mind-blowing back-breaking orgasm, and you’re still coddling him? just how in the fuck is he supposed to pay you back for everything you do for him? he’s racking up one hells of a debt.

astarion has never had someone like you before, someone who seems to know him even better than he does. he loves that you’re patient and caring, that you’d give up sex entirely if he’d only ask, that he feels safe enough with you to relinquish control while knowing he still very much has it.

a submissive astarion is one that has reconciled — or has at least started the process of reconciling — with his past. one that has developed a trust so deep with his lover that he can feel comfortable with even the most scandalous of acts.

it will take time until he’s ready for the more aggressive side of being dominated, if he’ll ever be ready at all. but a soft dom is one he can very easily get taken from behind.

he knows that even though he submits to you, he’s the one being served.

#SERIOUSLY GANG STOP JOKING ABT BOTTOM ASTARION AND ACTUALLY POST BOTTOM ASTARION!!#PUT SOME RESPECT ON HIS NAME! AND ALL THE OTHER GIRLBOSSES WHO WANT HIS ASS #my posts #reader insert #astarion x tav #gender neutral reader #reader input #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate tav #astarion x reader #astarion x mc #astarion x you #astarion ancunin #minor spoilers #astarion hc #astarion headcanons

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hanniluvi · 10 months

Text

💭 — JAY AS YOUR BOYFRIEND !

thank yew sona for requesting 😊🫶

warnings : mentions of nickname “love”, mentions of kissing

— would take pics of anything (like a trip or smth) and be like “would’ve been better if you were here” LIKE SHUT UPPPPPP .

— literally is your photographer. he would snap pics from you left and right and is SERIOUS about it . “stop moving.” , “wait stay there just a bit i have a the perfect photo”. he just wants to document all the moments where you looked pretty, which is almost everyday <3

— heavy on the gift giving. he gets you something just because. its always his reason for it. hes so sweet shut up

— he would pick up on all the little details about you and what you liked. he found out your fav food? he’d try cooking it for you. he found out abt your fav song? expect it to play in the car as he drives for a date. he’s just!!!!! yes!!!!!!

— he would make you easily flustered without even knowing it. “why are you blushing?” as if he didn’t just do the most sweetest thing ever.

— LIKE brushing away your hair from your face when you speak. so ure like 🧍 and hes like 🤨 cause he does it all the time but he just knows how to make you stop in your tracks, even though he doesn’t know he had that effect on you why is he lying bro STOP.

— he’s always caring for you. like i mean it. he would hold doors of you, open the car door for you to enter first, just helping you with everything 🙁

— adding onto that, you’re his passenger princess. you will not get a hold on the wheel (maybe if you convince him, but he would still be on doubt) when he’s around. if you try driving hes like , ummm what are you doing 🤨? would kick you out of the driver’s seat as fast as possible. to make up for it, he lets you pick the playlist for you both to sing your hearts out on the road.

— would play with your hair any chance he gets to. like he loves brushing his hand through it. would be down to learn how to do your hair so that when you’re tired, he could help you if he needed to :( <3

— he would be so patient and understanding with you. like he is that person who is like just say whatever you can, i’ll form it together in words for you whenever you couldn’t quite express it. sliding down the wall

— tries not to raise his voice at you. would always talk to you in a soft voice normally which makes the others go 🤨 . like the favoritism??? but jay doesn’t care 😊

— random ily’s throughout the day. he just likes reassuring you even though he really doesn’t need to.

— back hugs back hugs back hugs back hugs!!!

— isn’t huge on the teasing bc he’s afraid he would get you upset </3 he would always tease you at the right moments though bc yk he’s joking since he never does it often <3

— when hes jealous, he’d just have his tongue poking in his cheek and pulls you closer to wrap his hand around your waist (without you realizing it). would probably tell you afterwards that he was jealous — leading to you teasing and reassuring him

— holds eye contact with you when you speak. like once you meet his gaze you just stop. and he casually goes “why did you stop? keep going, i wanna hear more.” and when you do he js nods and goes “there you go love” LIKE SHUT THE HELL UP . MAKING ME GIGGLE AT 1 PM .

— seems like a guy where he’d grab your chin to kiss you

— big on kissing each other’s cheek before he or you leaves the house. if he’s leaving, he expects a kiss on the cheek just so he could leave and just look forward to seeing you later. im screaming in my pillow

— a big spoon bc he loves pulling you closer to him as you cuddle / go to sleep. also whispering affirmations into your ear js bc he thinks it helps you sleep better it does

💭 — jay has me going delulu. please help.

ENHA PERM TAGLIST — @flwoie @ixomiyu @yenavrse @shinsou-rii @bearseulgs @ilovewonyo @yenqa @dimplewonie @bubblytaetae @wtfhyuck @ineedaherosavemeenow @starcubes @starikizs @wonioml @chirokookie @xiaoderrrr @neozon3nha @en-chantedtomeetyou @millksea @enhaz1 @eundiarys @woon2u @ja4hyvn @judeduartewannabe @j-wyoung @thia-aep @vampcharxter @softpia @officiallyjaehyuns @itsactuallylina @hsheart @sweetjaemss @ahnneyong @hanienie @jwnghyuns @kpoplover718 @jiawji @rikizm @haknom @yeokii @wvnkoi @tnyhees @teddywonss @shinunoga-iie-wa

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httpsserene · 5 months

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Heyy, i was wondering if you could do an Toto wolff x reader. I was thinking kitchen sex?? Like Toto getting turned on because he found out that reader was trying to make him his beloved pumpernickel bread for breakfast. I’ve been seeing tiktoks of Toto and his love for pumpernickel bread, and was just wondering if you could write abt it, though it’s TOTALLY ok if you don’t. Sorry if this was a little messy, this is my first time rqsting something. ♥️

𝐭𝐨𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐲 𝐰/𝐭. 𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟𝐟

📖𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: you make toto his favorite bread. he’s going to thank you for this surprise properly. 📖𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴: 18+ only. explicit. implied age gap. kitchen sex. rambling about bread. unprotected sex. vaginal sex. morning sex. reader and toto are married. beta-read. 📖𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 2.2k words 📖𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: toto wolff x fem!black!reader 📖𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲: oneshot. 📖𝘀𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗸: can't take my eyes off of you (i love you baby) • lauryn hill

𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗳𝗮𝗰𝗲: can you tell i did way to much research on the types of pumpernickel bread? no, well, i don’t care 🙂 i WAS NOT familiar with toto wolff and pumpernickel bread so a quick youtube search opened my eyes to it and uh what can i say, this was born. ALSO: i feel like i’ve self-diagnosed myself; i am ashamed to admit that my kink might be somebody making me their wife…because why can’t i go one fic without making the reader be referenced to as a wife (m sorry i crave love). i honestly feel like it could be better, but y’know i hope i did your request justice (sorry it took me so long, ktober beat my ass). anon! i hope you see this, and i hope all the toto wolff lovers enjoy !!!

the yellow dish gloves on your hands protect your brown skin from most of the heat of the scalding tap water. the sound of your hums airily reverberate within the high ceilings of your open-plan kitchen as you clean the expensive dishes you’ve dirtied. you’ve taken off your wedding ring and placed it on top of your phone in the middle of the island to avoid any possibility of it falling down the drain or getting damaged.

you woke up a little after dawn, quickly shutting off your alarm to avoid waking up your husband; it’s the off season for him, you won’t wake him up at insane hours when he’s not needed to work. sneaking out of bed was a battle of its own—there were several close calls as you struggled to slip out of the tight hold of the austrian man. it took seven minutes for you to escape his warm embrace, but you made it through by thinking of the surprise you were going to cook up for Toto—or bake up for him. it’s no secret to anybody that the mercedes team principal loves pumpernickel bread, and that he’s very particular about how he likes it. of course, there’s no way you would be able to make the traditional german pumpernickel bread before he woke up—it takes fourteen hours to cook and it needs to rest for an entire day to allow it to form properly into its crunchy, cookie-like consistency. so, you decided to make the simplified recipe that only takes roughly an hour and a half to bake and prepare, while the original takes its time cooking. your husband will have to be happy with the more loaf-like treat until his preferred bread is ready. you’ve never been more thankful to have two ovens.

everything went well. both breads are prepped and baking away at their respective temperatures, and you’re carefully attempting to clean up the mess you’ve made in the process. you may not have been quiet enough based on the footsteps you hear heading your way. Toto pauses in the doorway and you smile, not needing to turn around to see the baffled expression on his face. you turn the faucet off and grab the cloth resting on the oven handle to dry your hands, “good morning, bär. slept well?” you teased gently with a small smile in Toto’s direction. you take an appraising glance of his form; he’s only wearing this pair of pajama pants covered in the mercedes logo (George gifted him those when the team did secret santa last year; Toto said he’d never wear them), leaving his toned torso exposed for your viewing pleasure, sleep lines from his pillow are still faint along his left cheek, and his hair is ruffled like he’s been running his hands through it. your husband nods half-heartedly, and blinks in confusion as he takes in the sight of you in the kitchen.

you're wearing one of his white button-up shirts—half of the buttons are fastened, the sleeves are rolled up and cuffed right above your elbow. you aren’t wearing a bra based on the way he can see how your nipples are pebbled through the shirt, and he assumes you’re only wearing underwear based on your bare legs. your feet are warmed by a pair of black, fuzzy house slippers, the bottom of the shirt rests along the middle of your thighs, and the collar is shifted to the side exposing your collarbone. your hair is free, allowed to rest however it wants to on this winter morning. he starts, making to finally enter the space of the kitchen and give you a proper morning greeting, but notices a smudge of flour along your jawline. and then he sees the baking utensils gathered in the sink, and a rich aroma starts to permeate the air. it smells slightly like coffee and slightly like dark chocolate—it’s sweet. then, it dawned on Toto, you’re baking pumpernickel bread. for him. his heart flutters; you usually sleep as late into the morning as possible, but today, you woke up at an insane hour just to make him his favorite bread from scratch. you’ve always teased him for how difficult he acts about his breakfast treat yet you sacrificed hours of sleep to please him. Toto’s mushy mindset is broken, as you cock your head at him, wondering why he hasn’t responded to you, and the collar of his your shirt shifts and falls to expose the top of your chest. mmm, yes, he should thank you properly.

you don’t even have time to register toto crossing the space between you, before your lips are interlocked in a passionate kiss. a shocked squeal is muffled against toto’s lips, as his large hands hold your waist steady, and your own hand flies up to hold his head. your other hand rises to tap at his chest frantically, as you begin to run out of air, and toto pulls away with an amused chuckle. dazedly, your hand on his chest pulls back to touch your lips, like you needed further verification that he just kissed you.

Toto smirks, “good morning, schatz.”

you nod unsteadily, “yes—g-good morning.”

your husband laughs louder at your stutter, and tugs you into his chest for a proper hug, rubbing at the nape of your neck with a heavy hand. the two of you stand tangled in the middle of the kitchen, uncaring of how many seconds fly by, and your eyes flutter shut at the relaxing motion of Toto’s massaging hands.

“i’m going to fuck you on the island, now, “ Toto informs you kindly.

you startle, pulling your head back to stare up at him with wide eyes. his gaze is serious, and you can’t help how your cheeks warm under his attention.

“well…” you murmur, “i’m not going to say no.”

from there, it’s all a rushed haze. you go from having two feet firmly planted on the tiled floor to being lifted and placed on the marble island as toto speeds through unbuttoning your collared shirt. you try to shrug it off, but Toto halts your motions firmly telling you to leave it on. you hum absently and pull him into a kiss. Toto moans into your mouth, and the sound has your hips bucking forwarding to grind against the bulge in his pants. his hands reaches for your left hip and assists you in grinding against him, and a sigh of pleasure parts your lips. the austrian eagerly slips his tongue into your mouth, and he tastes a bit of sugar from whatever you snacked on while making his bread. oddly, that causes more of his blood to rush south and he breaks the kiss to lean back and tug your panties off.

you simultaneously pull his pajama pants down, and squirm happily at the fact that he slept without boxers. Toto gently guides you to lie back on the countertop, and coos softly when you shiver from the cold surface; he’ll warm you up soon. he pulls your panties off from where they were dangling around your right ankle and drops them to the floor, kicking them to the side along with his pants. tugging you forward, your ass rests on the edge of the counter and he leans down to press kisses on your throat.

moaning highly, you crane your neck to expose its full length to his mercy. your right hand tangles in his hair to guide him exactly where you want, your left hand holds at his shoulder for support, with your nails digging into the meat of his muscles. Toto pauses, and pulls back to grab your left hand. a broken whine falls from your lips, and you buck your hips upward searching for friction, the slide of his cock along your folds feels delicious. his knees buckle at the sensation, and he forces your hips back down with his free hand, as he pulls your left hand in front of him to look at it.

“where’s your ring, liebling?” Toto asks, warm eyes focused on your bare ring finger. you laugh disbelievingly, amused and surprised at the fact that he managed to feel the absence of your wedding ring, and pull your hand out of his grasp smoothly. you reach behind you and pluck your ring from its spot on top of your phone, and slide it back on your finger. brandishing your ringed-hand in his eyeline, you impatiently try and buck your hips upward to no avail, his one-handed hold on you is unbreakable.

“okay! fuck me—now, please,” you demand desperately.

Toto hushes you, and holds your left hand steady. he stares into your eyes as he presses a kiss on the wedding ring he bestowed you with. your cheeks burn hot, and you roll your eyes as if your heart didn’t liquify at the show of devotion. your husband guides himself to your entrance, and pushes in carefully—thankful he fucked you open last night. you whimper softly, tender and sore, but you nod frantically to encourage Toto to push further in. he groans throatily as he bottoms out, throwing his head back in pleasure, and your moan harmonizes at the feeling of fullness. the stretch burns slightly, but you’re more focused on achieving an orgasm than the space he caves out in your walls.

you squeeze your knees around his waist, and grind up on him to encourage him to move. Toto grabs your left leg, bringing it to rest over his shoulder, while your right leg remains resting on his waist, both fuzzy slippers falling from your feet at the movement. it has him sliding slightly deeper inside you, and a spark of pleasure races up your spine. Toto begins to thrust, setting a quick pace from the get go. he fucked you open eight hours ago and the tightness of your cunt has him considering that he didn’t fuck you well enough. the bruises in the shape of his hands on your hips suggest differently. it’s ridiculous, how lost the two you get in each other’s bodies. your moans are punched out of you with every thrust, his cock dragging against your most pleasurable spot every time he sinks in you. Toto should be embarrassed at how quickly this is ending, but your sounds are too erotic for there to be any other outcome.

he lays his hand on your navel, gently adding pressure over where he’s reaching inside of you, while his thumb circles rapidly over your clit. your back arches sharply as you screech from the unexpected flare of pleasure, raking your nails down his back in thin red lines as you cum at the added stimulation. it’s a multitude of sensations and emotions that had you hurtling over the edge quicker than you thought possible, and Toto has no choice but to follow you into the abyss, unable to hold back his orgasm at the unbearably hot and wet grasp of your cunt. your husband rocks into you through the afterglow, pausing only when you start to whimper in too much, and not feeling good. staring up at toto with a blissed-out smile and half-lidded eyes, you sigh sweetly as he slips out and leans down to kiss you again. the press of his lips is syrupy sweet and you find yourself getting lost under the feeling of him pouring his love and devotion into you—even though you don’t need the reminder—and the timer you’ve set on your phone blares jarringly causing you and toto to jump apart, startled.

“what the fuck,” Toto deadpans as you scramble around to turn off the alarm.

you sigh in relief once the aggravating sound is silenced, and nudge at Toto’s hip with your foot, “well—don’t just stand there! get the bread out before it burns!”

the austrian huffs exaggeratedly, like it’s such a chore, and pulls on the oven mitts to take out the pumpernickel bread adaptation after you direct him to the proper oven, not wanting him to disturb the traditional bread baking. the sight of the known headphone-smashing, hothead mercedes team principal completely naked spare for a pair of oven mitts is amusing, enough that you can’t quiet your snort, uncaring of how Toto glares at you. he places the baking tin on the cooling rack you set to the side, and hums happily at the aroma—even though it’s a far cry from the usual bread he prefers. like the oaf he is, Toto reaches to pull a piece of the fresh pumpernickel to eat, but with lightning quick speed you reach over and slap his hand away before he defiles the bread.

“aht aht! what do you think you're doing? it needs at least forty-five minutes to cool before you can take a slice,” you scold the grown man.

Toto pouts (astounding, honestly), and then he brightens considerably, a sleazy smirk spreading across his lips, “ah? we have time for a second round then, maybe three…” you laugh hysterically, ignoring the way your stomach flips pleasingly at the suggestion, and slide off the counter, buttoning up your collared shirt, and you bend down to pick up the discarded pieces of clothing lying on the floor, “there’s no way you manage to get hard twice in forty-five minutes, old man–” Toto balks at your words–he’s really not old, or at least not that old, “–however, it’s enough time to finish washing the dishes you distracted me from doing.”

taglist: @saintslewi@cherry2stems@lorarri@inloveallthetime@mindless-rock@biancathecool@barnestatic @my-ylenia @katekipshidze @darleneslane @lovingaphroditesworld @smoothopz

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