Please Please Please Do A Carlos (fem Receiving) Anal In Celebration For When He Won Singapore

hellishjoel fic masterlist

notifications blog*denotes adult themes - 18+

12 Days of Pedro

kylee's follower celebration masterlist

joel miller

series

➢cinnamon girl* | (dbf/neighbor!joel) You and your parents rent a lakeside cabin, Joel and Sarah Miller are your neighbors. You’re all grown up, and you’ll do anything to prove to Joel you’re a woman now.  ➢psycho* | (brat tamer!joel) You're Joel's little psycho girlfriend, and sometimes you take things just a little too far.

➢cherry thrill* | (tattoo artist daddy dom!joel miller x virgin sub f!reader) Trust and devotion. Ink meets innocence. Your tattoo artist, Joel Miller, shows you what it really means to give up control. Reeling from the loss of your job, you’re running out of options, until a passing comment from Joel and a video camera give you just the right idea.

➢delicate | co-authored with @thetriumphantpanda Sarah decides, with a year until she leaves home for good, that it's time for her dad to start dating again. Joel doesn't understand the fuss, he's more than happy with how life is for him right now, but decides if it's for Sarah, he'll give it a go. After wading through the dating apps, he comes across someone new, someone who might just be able to be the company he's needed all along. ➢one shots / requests

frankie morales

series ➢table for two* | (linecook!frankie x waitress f!reader) Tommy’s Diner is where dreams go to die and burnouts clock-in for work. Waitressing would be boring without the flirtatious distractions of line cook Frankie Morales.

mike schmidt

➢every rose has its thorns* Mike really likes your white panties with the pretty rose on the front.

Chasing Starlight: Chapter 19

Pairing: Poly!Feysand x female!Reader

Summary: After Nyx’s birth, Feyre is seeking to ease her way back into her duties as High Lady and balance her time at the gallery with being a new mother. To ease her mind, she and Rhys have decided to hire a new nanny, who turns out to be far more than either of them had bargained for.

When I wake again, it’s with a steady roaring in my ears and a mind-numbing ache just behind my eyes.

I want to cry, but my stomach immediately rebels against the idea with a wave of nausea so severe I have to clench my teeth against it. I roll onto my side, curling as tightly as I can into a ball to wait for it to pass. A soft, cool hand presses against my forehead, the side of my face, and some of the nausea eases a little, just enough for me to ease my eyes open.

All I can see is the clear, cool blue of Feyre’s eyes. I drag my next breath in through my teeth in an attempt to stifle the ragged sob that tears itself from my throat anyway. The tears leaking down my cheeks are too hot and pitiful in a way that might make me resent them, if only I weren’t so exhausted. I feel like I took a tumble down the side of a mountain, from the way every muscle in my body burns.

“Oh, my dove,” she whispers, running her thumb over my cheek the way she might soothe Nyx after a bad night. “You’ll feel better soon.”

“Hurts,” I whimper, closing my burning eyes once more. Two brief, timid knocks at the bedroom door draw a deep, guttural snarl from my mate I’ve not heard before, and I reach for that unclaimed mating bond on instinct. It feels so thin and fragile, like it might rip if I tug too hard, but I don’t have the time to be gentle with it. I feel her cool, quick hands slipping beneath me, lifting my body like I weigh no more than the bird that’s become my namesake. I sag against her, shuddering with relief at the feeling of her skin on mine.

The contact doesn’t eliminate the pain, but it does help alleviate the ache in my chest. I bury my nose in her neck and inhale her lilac and pear scent, letting it sink in like a balm. She wasn’t here when I woke the first time, neither was Rhys, but I hadn’t truly been able to think of them then, to let myself worry. Not when the instinct to check on the babe was driving me so much harder. But now?

“Where’s Rhys?” I croak, trying to lift my head. It feels like there’s fire coursing through my veins instead of blood, and everything is so heavy. It hurts to move, to breathe.

“He’ll be home soon, love.”

“And you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, everyone else is fine.” There are two more knocks at the door, louder this time before the door swings open, and a sudden burst of raw power shakes the foundation of the house on the heels of Feyre’s furious snarl. The scent of her raw magic is overwhelming, a tempest of icy shadows and seawater and starlight that sets jagged claws into something deep within my mind and pulls, as if to rip it from me. I scream, and I don’t know if it’s from the shock of it or the pain that rolls through my mind like a protective barrier, but it comes with an agony I have not known before.

The roar in my ears swells, its pitch sharpening as my vision bleeds to white, and the last thing I feel is the lip of a cold, glass bottle being shoved between my lips before everything is blissfully blank once more.

I’m lost in that wine-dark sea again, but this time there is no starlight to keep me company. There is only the cold and the darkness threatening to devour me. I twist between the waves, looking everywhere for a source of light, a thread to follow home but there’s nothing. Nothing. I don’t know how I’m supposed to exist in this endless expanse of nothing.

Perhaps this is simply a battle I’m not meant to win.

I allow the current to take me, to pull me down deeper until I come to rest on something soft that folds up around me like a cocoon. Whispers of safe flow around me in a voice so similar to my mother’s that I almost look around for her. Safe, safe, safe. She’d always been trying to protect me, hadn’t she? When I was little, she’d warn me not to run too far or climb too high. In most of my memories, she’s always hovering on the periphery, watching with pursed lips and shaking hands.

I hadn’t understood her fear then, not even when I began work as a nanny did I understand it. Now I think I might.

“You always do once you have babes of your own,” my mother’s voice says, echoing through the darkness around me like a siren’s call. “They show you how vulnerable you are, how fragile life can be. It’s easy to know fear once you are a mother.”

“I am not a mother,” I reply, fighting the rising tide of bitterness I have always refused to allow to overtake me. Images of Nyx come to me in waves, memories of his gummy smile and vibrant twilight blue eyes, but I bat them away with a lump in my throat. It’s true, I don’t believe I would love him more if I’d given birth to him, but I’m not his mother. “I never will be.”

“How definitive that word is,” the voice muses. “Never. It leaves no room for chance or miracles, there’s no possibility in the face of never. Isn’t that lonely, love?”

“Lonely?” The laugh breaks from me before I can swallow it: a cold, hollow thing, a reflection of a wound I’ve nursed in silence for many years. “I am alone, I have been alone for so long that I don’t know how to be anything else. I found my mates, my mates, most High Fae don’t ever dream of meeting their own and I have two that I don’t know how to love.”

“You know how to love, little fox. Your heart has always been much too large to be contained, you spill a little of it everywhere you go-”

“That may have been true once,” I acknowledge, curling in on myself, “then my family burned around me, and someone told me to run so I did. I ran as fast and as far as I could get, and I swore I’d never lose anyone else. And I haven’t. You can’t lose people you don’t love, and I haven’t truly loved anyone until-”

Until now. The darkness bearing my mother’s voice is mercifully silent, leaving me there in the dark and the cold to think and to grieve. I had a family once, I had a father and brothers- no, that had been a lie, hadn’t it? I’d had a mother, though, a mother who had sacrificed everything she had to hide me. If I think about her long enough, I can remember the sense of illness and exhaustion that clung to her like so much sludge, weighing her down in spite of her spirit and her work ethic. It had chased her to her grave, hadn’t it? I’d never questioned the sickness as a child, she’d been a healer, I thought…but the image of her staring at me from Eris’s side burns so clearly before me, of him feeding me the potion that would bind my magic for centuries. How much of her own magic that must have taken, to create a spell- no, a curse that would render me nearly useless for the entirety of my life.

Powerless, docile, a threat to no one.

Who could I possibly have been such a threat to that I needed to be hidden away? With only a trickle of healing magic…a trickle I have not touched in a very long time. Magic poisoning had been one of the first lessons we learned as novice healers; our magic is as intrinsic to us as the blood flowing through our veins, we are taught never to neglect it for a reason. Is this…is this my fault, did I do this? I hold up my hand and try to summon it, to draw even the slightest bead of magic, but all that rushes forward is a burning ache that is quickly smothered by the cold, merciful darkness.

A darkness so unlike the one I’ve been stranded in, one that glimmers with hints of starlight. It floods into the space, too expansive to be contained. Whatever had wrapped itself around me flakes away on a cool, pine-kissed breeze, and the stars burst to life in its absence.

“There you are.” This voice is dark and rich, so lovely I want to weep, and it’s close. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Rhys?” I ask, rising onto my knees as I search for him in the starlight. “Are you here? I can’t see you.”

Please don’t let this be all there is of him, please don’t let this be a cruel trick of my memory, please I…I don’t want to be left alone anymore. I’m tired of the endless darkness and searching. I want to live, I want to be happy, I…I don’t want to die here, cold and alone. I want to live.

“I’m right here,” the voice whispers in my ear, and it comes with strong arms that pull me flush against a warm, familiar body until I’m surrounded by the scents of citrus and lilac and something like an orchard in the rain. “You’re not alone, darling, we’d never leave you alone. We’re right here, you’re safe.”

“Am I? I feel so sick, Rhys, I don’t understand what’s happening to me.”

“We’re figuring it out, dove, I promise. Mor retrieved a healer from Dawn, one of Thesan’s best, and she's working with Madja on a cure. None of us have seen magic poisoning that behaves like this before, it’s hard to treat.”

“What do you mean?”

“Typically, you would want to drain the excess magic off in some way, your body should want to release it. But with yours, there’s a sort of substance coating it, like an oil. Every time there’s an attempt to drain off your magic, it surges forward and creates a barrier-”

“Just as my mother intended,” I muse, running my fingertips along the arm wrapped around my shoulders. Instead of soft skin, I’m surprised to feel smooth scales and downy feathers, something more akin to a beast than the male I’ve been sharing a bed with. But he’s warm and he smells the same, so I suppose the presentation doesn’t matter much.

“What do you mean?” He asks slowly, carefully, like perhaps he might be afraid of where this answer will lead us. Maybe I should be as well. “Dove?”

I deliberate for a moment, weighing the words carefully in my mind, then the back of a cold talon trails down the side of my face and that’s all it takes for me to tell him everything. From falling stars to the dark cabin hidden away in the forests of Autumn, it sounds like little more than a fever dream, but I know what I saw; I even told him about the ball of light that led me there and the vial I drank from that tasted like the heart of a storm. Rhys listens to my story in complete silence, and once it’s done we watch the stars dance around us the way we had that night in the tub. I wish we could do this every night, and when I say as much he simply holds me tighter.

“We can,” he says quietly. “We can, every night, once we get out of here-”

“Can’t we stay?” I ask, resting my heavy head against his arm. “It’s so peaceful here.”

“No, darling, we can’t. No one else can get here, not even Feyre. This place is very deep within your mind, it’s not safe for you to have other people here.”

“But you’re here.”

“I’ve been doing this for a long time, you know. Almost as long as I’ve been alive. The mind has a myriad of ways it can present: some are fortresses, others are more akin to open fields with rabbit warrens to hide their secrets. None of them are impossible to navigate if you know what to look for and where to apply pressure. You’ve been swimming through an ocean into dark chasms designed to swallow you up, little dove, but that’s not what your mind chose to show me.”

“What does it look like to you?”

“Our home, filled with books and portraits of your memories. Everywhere I looked had little traces of you: the faintest whiff of your scent like you just left the room, or a blanket on the couch that was still warm. All good signs that you were still there, if I could figure out where to look. But the further I walked, the colder it got, and it felt like I was walking into rooms you hadn’t touched in years. There were cobwebs and dust covering the books, and all of the portraits were so faded I could barely make sense of them. I thought to go back and start at the beginning, then I heard your voice on the other side of a door I hadn’t noticed, tucked away behind some stairs. Did you have a door like that growing up?”

“I don’t remember,” I croak. My voice is harder to summon than it had been before. “There’s a lot of my life I don’t remember, Rhys, and I don’t even know if forgetting is a choice I made anymore.”

The stars are beginning to wink out one by one, taking whatever warmth they brought with them as they go. It feels like a warning.

“I don’t know, love, we can try to find out. You have to come with me, though. We need to leave.”

“I’m too tired. Just go, I’ll come later-”

“If you stay here, you will die. This place is the deepest part of your mind, but it isn’t safe for you to stay for long, and it sounds like you’ve spent quite a bit of time here already.” His words are gentle, but the urgency in them feels like a shock to something vital within me, and I lift my head from his arm. It feels too heavy to hold up, but I fight the urge to lay it back down. “Let me take you back with me, love, let me take you home. Feyre and Nyx are there, they miss you. Don’t you want to see them?”

“I do,” I mumble, and he lifts me into his arms like it’s as easy as breathing. Perhaps for him it is, I don’t know, but when he carries me through the door he’d described, I feel the weight of my body crashing into me again. The pain is absolutely unbearable. I don’t know when I begin screaming, but it tells me that I’m still alive. Another bottle is poised at my lips and I suck the contents down willingly, hoping it will put an end to the fire coursing through my veins.

The burning goes on and on until the potion works through my bloodstream, cooling everything it touches like a minty kiss. The moment my tight, aching muscles relax and I can take a true breath, I become aware of the cool rag against my brow, delicately dabbing away the sweat with the care one might give a precious crystal vase. Lilac and pear carried on a night breeze, those are the scents that flood my senses. My mates, both of them, are here with me. I’m not alone.

You will not be alone, sweetheart. Feyre’s voice wraps around my mind like a blanket of thin silk, and I hum, gingerly shifting onto my side, making sure I’m comfortably settled before I allow my eyes to flutter open. There’s no light beyond the open windows, another day gone. How many days have I missed? The sheets beneath me are cool and clean, and the linen nightgown is new. The air filtering into the room is cold and refreshing, tinged with the first brush of winter’s chill. “Hi, baby.”

“Hi,” I mumble, focusing first on the pale, tattooed hand smoothing my hair back.

“How are you feeling?”

“Mmhh,” I groan, shaking my head. “Not…not great, but better.”

“Better is good,” Feyre says weakly and I follow the line of her arm to gaze up at her lovely, angular face. Her pursed lips are pale and bitten, the slope of her shoulders seem to bear the weight of the world on them. I wriggle and flail until she realizes what I’m doing and helps me to sit up, reclined against a pile of pillows. Even this small shift feels like it was a great effort, but I think I’ve slept enough. I run my hand along Feyre’s arm until it rests on the curve of her neck. I can feel her pulse beneath my fingers, strong and steady.

“What did the healer say?”

“Don’t worry about it now.” Her words are gentle, intended to ease my anxiety, but I shake my head slowly. I need to know. “We sent word to Helion, he’s coming in a few days to see if he can help Rhys break the spell binding your magic, from there…from there, we can see how much of the internal damage is permanent. For now, you will rest and drink the potions the healers bring.”

“I don’t think it’s going to work,” I murmur as my hand falls back to my lap. “You may want to reach out to Eris, he was there when it happened.”

“Eris?” she asks slowly, her nose wrinkling as she turns the information over in her mind. “I didn’t think he was capable of magic like that.”

“He’s not, my mother was. I don’t know the nature of their relationship, not really, but I saw…I don’t know what I saw. I’d like the opportunity to ask him about it, though. He should have some of the answers we’ll need and, more than that, there are things I think I…I think I need to know.” What their relationship was, what they saw in me as a newborn that was so dangerous it needed to be hidden so thoroughly, who my…who my father truly is. I think of the male who raised me, the brothers who had not truly been my brothers, and my heart aches at the elaborate lie they’d all agreed to tell.

I need to know why.

“Will you tell me about it when you’re ready?” Feyre’s fingers trail down the side of my face and I look back to her, nodding slowly. Vague wisps of memories of the night this mess began floated through my mind, and I think of the cold, terrible fog that had flooded over the house and pressed against the glass like it was searching for a way in.

“Feyre?”

“Yes, love?”

“That fog…” I stop speaking when her face darkens and reach for her hand instead.

“It was terrible, dove, but Rhysand and Azriel have the matter in hand. It took us a while to pinpoint the source, but the protective shield around the city activated to keep it contained, so there weren’t…issues beyond the city walls. It was an old magic that hasn’t been seen since the disappearance of the Dusk Court being wielded by someone it was never meant to come to. Admittedly, I don’t know much about it, Rhys has been overseeing the interrogation while I’ve been here with you. We’ll discuss it later, love. We’re all safe now.”

“I suppose that’s all that matters,” I tell her with a shrug. Honestly, I’m happy to leave ruling the territory to those who are far more suited to it. When I open my mouth to inquire about our missing mate, the handle on the bedroom door turns with a click and we both turn to see him slipping through it. It’s a relief to see Rhys dressed comfortably in loose linen pants and an open wool cardigan, broadcasting his intentions to spend the night in. It’s the sight of the babe curled in the crook of his arm, pressed snugly against his father’s chest that eases something deep within me, a knot of anxiety I hadn’t really been conscious of.

The three people I love most are safe.

Feyre moves to sit with her side flush against mine, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. I lean into her side- sag into it, really. I’m already so tired. Rhys settles on the edge of the bed beside us, his knees brushing against Feyre’s as he leans in to wordlessly place Nyx in my arms. There’s something unsettled in his expression I’ll ask about later, but the babe sniffling against my collarbone steals my attention. His fluffy, dark hair smells freshly washed, like the soap Mor always picks up for him during her shopping trips, and I can’t help but nuzzle my nose into it. Feyre’s free hand slips beneath his little wings to rub his back in slow, soothing circles, and Rhys rests his hands on our legs, giving us all a moment to connect.

To breathe each other in.

“I love you,” I murmur against the crown of Nyx’s head between featherlight kisses. I lift my burning eyes to look at his parents, my mates, and take a deep breath before I continue. “All three of you. I love you, I…I’m sorry I haven’t really said it before, not the way I’ve wanted to, but I do. I love you and I want you and this…and I’m so sorry-”

Rhysand leans in to kiss me then: slow and chaste and full of promise. The moment he pulls back, Feyre ducks down to take a kiss of her own, one that leaves me floating and more than a little breathless as she nuzzles her nose against my cheek. No words flow between us, but there's no doubt in my mind that the moment I'm well enough to do so, we'll be consummating this mating bond. I don't ever want to let them go.

Poly Pairings

Key: ♤angst ♡fluff ◇hurt/comfort ♧spicy ☆smut ○crack

Lestappen

Stop Thirsting♡ Mr. Blue Sky ♤♡ Baby Daddy☆ Attitude☆ Sad Boy Hours♤ Joint Coping♤◇ Hidden In Plain Sight♤♡ One for me and One for you◇ Ma Belle♡ Don't leave us♤◇

Landoscar

Sharing Is Caring ☆ Still have you♤ Ride ☆ Wish come true◇ Possesive☆ The responsible one♡○ Hold Me♡◇ Viva Las Vegas♡♧ Breathe For Me♤◇ Breaking point♤ Flowers in your throat♤◇ So Powerful, So Vulnerable◇○ Medication Mishap♡

Maxiel

Caught in a Lie☆

Carlando

Mentor Them☆○ The Wolf, the Bunny, and the Muppet☆

Charlos

Collapse◇

Dando

My love, my life, and my nerodivergent partners in crime♡○ Saftey In Your Arms◇

Loscar

Celebratory Kissing☆

Max and Oscar

Not your fault♤◇

Norlestappen

What you Deserve♤♡◇ Rest♡◇ Music Notes♤◇ Unrequited Understanding♤

2019 Rookies

Anfractuosity♤

Max, Lando, and Daniel

Cutting Tensions☆

Oscar, Logan, and Liam

Fair Play♡○ Panicking! In Your Arms♡◇ A Little Lost♡◇

Every Step of the Way◇

Just A Bite - Carlos Sainz Jr

Summary: Carlos, the foodie who knows no limit to what he'll try with food, and his girlfriend, who only knows limits to what she'll try with food, strike a deal that she has to try at least one bite of new things when he can promise her that they taste good.

Picky eater!reader (especially with tomatoes - shout out to anyone who hates tomatoes)

No part 2 requests please

Carlos comes from a family of foodies and he always imagined he'd go on to have a family of his own who are foodies. Then he fell hard for y/n who almost looks at any new food with genuine fear.

One key thing is she does have a sweet tooth so it's not always so hard to convince her to eat something sweet though if she's not certain about it then it's written all over her face. It is in those moments where she's completely untrusting of whatever food he's trying to get her to try that are fairly entertaining.

Today he decided to go easy on her since a few days ago his family had a meal and the poor woman was trying a lot of things while trying to dodge tomatoes, which in a Spanish family is near impossible. Her one line that is not to be crossed for the one bite rule is that she doesn't have to try anything with tomato unless she decides otherwise (which is never).

To her credit, she did end up liking a few things after he held her to the one bite rule.

"Pancakes?" Carlos offers making y/n perk up brightly.

If there's one thing that Carlos can make to get a smile out of y/n it's pancakes and he prides himself so much on that.

"Please?" Y/n nods looking fairly excited since it's not that often that Carlos makes the pancakes and she always likes to sit and watch him make them.

Y/n smiles climbing on the island counter and recording some moments, mainly for her own memories but she always likes to share her boyfriend's culinary skills since Carlos is a pretty good cook. The same can't be said for a lot of the drivers but he certainly does have that life skill.

"What toppings?" Carlos asks making her smile. "Strawberries?"

"I'll do them." Y/n states jumping down and getting the strawberries from the fridge.

She washes them before standing next to Carlos and beginning to chop them up.

Eventually the pancakes are cooked and piled up with toppings of strawberries, syrup and y/n talks Carlos into letting her add some whipped cream.

"Perfect bite, strawberry, syrup, cream and pancake." Carlos grins as he raises some pancake to her mouth for her. "Good?"

"The best." Y/n confirms before she giggles and leans over kissing him lightly.

-

Going out to eat at competitions is the norm and it means Carlos gets to challenge y/n with a lot of "just one bite"s which he loves even if she looks like she'd happily hit him with a plate.

"You're so pretty." Carlos laughs as y/n pulls a grimace in expression tasting a dip for the tortilla chips and proving that she is not a fan.

"Shut up." Y/n giggles since she doesn't actually think it's that serious.

"Not good?" Carlos asks making her shake her head before he nods. "I'll have it. You can have the humous."

"Thank you." Y/n grins leaning over and kissing him.

"It's only the starter. I'll get you to try more." Carlos smiles making her look at him for a moment.

Y/n hums since his mission is absolutely continuing and it's only just the beginning for it.

"You know I think forcing you to take a bite of a food that you know you're going to hate is my favourite part of our relationship." Carlos comments making her raise her eyebrows in question, a light smirk on her lips as she tilts her head a little. "One of my favourite parts-top 3."

"Oh top 3? What's the other 2?" Y/n asks earning a smile from Spaniard.

"No appropriate for restaurant conversation, y/n. You need to learn to behave." Carlos scolds playfully while she shrugs and smiles innocently at him.

Y/n ends up liking 4 out of 5 dishes, tomatoes striking again which Carlos couldn't bribe her into trying. So he ate most of it and then wasn't handed a few pieces of gum after the meal because she won't even kiss him if there's a chance of tomato flavour exchange.

Carlos does end up also getting a to-go box with a few of the desserts for them to snack on later, though we says it's for both of them, he really just gets them for y/n. But she wouldn't allow get any dessert if he didn't pretend that it was for both of them.

-

Catering for the team is another hurdle that always has to be tackled but generally the team is pretty accommodating and they do always check if y/n is going to be there to make sure they make y/n something special or catch her and ask if she has any requests.

In fact Carlos thinks they care more about what she wants to eat than either himself or Charles.

"Per te, bellissima." The catering chef states placing a place of carbonara down in front of the young woman.

"Grazie." Y/n smiles before leaning in when the woman touches her chin to kiss her cheek.

"Mangiare. Mangiare."

"How do you manage to charm more people with no effort than anyone else?" Carlos jokes while y/n grins brightly at him picking up her fork and spoon and beginning to eat as he shuffles closers while she takes a bite. "Can I have some?"

"You told me no more fatty food for the weekend." Y/n teases before she twirls her fork then holding some pasta to his mouth for him.

Safe to say food is their bonding point, whether it's because loving it, hating it or sharing it. Carlos is a foodie and y/n is picky but they find the perfect balance in that.

"I need to start asking them to make bigger portions so I can steal more than just a bite."

"You can have more." Y/n smiles offering another bite but he shakes his head since he doesn't actually want to steal that much of her food.

"No. No. You eat. I've got my meal plan for the day." Carlos states shaking his head lightly, instead just wanting to sit with her while she eats and he has the free time. He isn't eating his meal till later, but he spotted her and decided to sit down with her. "Gracias, mi amor."

"Te amo." Y/n mumbles with a smile.

"Yo también te amo." Carlos smiles leaning over and kissing her cheek.

more than friends + lando norris x part six

In which your best friend wants to help you so you get more sexual experience, but he discovers quickly that he never wants to share you and your new sexual experience with others.

masterlist - playlist

warnings: smut with a plot or a plot with smut? :) minors dni! i never proofread so probably grammar or spelling errors

requested: yes, based on: something with a driver sister that’s still a virgin & lando (her bestfriend) suggests to teach her things (ofc pretending for it to bot mean anything), while he’s actually in love with her

part one / part two / part three / part four / part five

The dinner is going on and on. Normally you like the dinners with the McLaren team, but tonight you can’t seem to focus on everything that’s happening around you. Lando isn’t seated close to you, causing you to consistently stare at him. Oscar however is sitting next to you. He’s nice and polite, but also a bit too shy to have a fun conversation with right now. You couldn’t stop yourself, you have had a couple more drinks then you would normally take. You try to talk it right for yourself, but all your excuses are made because of Lando. Instead of doing the smart thing and to order a water or a soda, you order another cocktail when the waiter asks you for your drink order. Oops? 

You notice how Oscar is sending you a confused look when the waiter walks away. He seems even more confused when he notices how empty your glass is compared to his - the both of you ordered at the same time and your drink was stronger. You hope Oscar doesn’t speak up about it, but you’re quick to let go of that hope when Oscar starts to talk. 

“Everything allright?” Oscar asks you. 

You show him a simple nod as a reply. 

“Do I need to switch places with Lando?” Oscar asks you with a small smile, “I understand if I’m a bit boring tonight, but I’m exhausted from the race.”

“Oh no!” You quickly reply, “I just can’t focus on anything tonight, it haves nothing to do with you. Sorry if you thought so.”

“Maybe that’s because you’re drinking a bit much for someone who wants to focus?” Oscar jokes.

You let out a soft laugh. “You’re right,” you agree, “I don’t even know why I’m doing that.”

“Normally you don’t drink this much,” Oscar adds. 

“I know,” you agree again, Oscar knows you better then you thought, “I’m just in the mood I guess.”

“Nothing is wrong?” Oscar asks you. 

“Why would anything be wrong?” You ask back.

“Maybe something is causing you to drink this much?”

“Oh no,” you quickly say, “I’m fine.”

Oscar takes a look at you. “Did something happen between you and Lando?” He asks you eventually, “You keep staring at him.”

Fuck are you that obvious? Before you can answer anything, you see Lando coming closer to the two of you. He takes place in the seat next to you, apparently someone left the chair empty for a bit. Lando presses a kiss against your cheek. You almost jump up when he does so. Since when are you doing this in public? 

“Hi babygirl,” Lando softly says. 

He isn’t soft enough. Oscar almost jumps out of his chair to start asking questions. “Are you two finally dating?” Oscar is quick to ask, “I knew there was something between you two!” He adds enthusiastically. Fuck, how are you supposed to react to questions like this? 

“We’re not dating,” Lando tells Oscar. 

“In a relationship? Even better,” Oscar reacts.

“Still friends,” you eventually say to Oscar. 

The words pain you. You can’t shake off the feeling of wanting to be in a relationship with Lando. Would it be such a weird idea? Oscar apparently thinks it’s pretty normal. By the way he talked about it, it even seemed like he was waiting for it. 

“Oh fuck sorry,” Oscar mutters a bit ashamed, “I just thought so because Lando kissed your cheek and called you babygirl.” 

“It’s the alcohol,” Lando quickly says to excuse his moves.

+++

When you’re finally in the club, you’re quick to find the dance floor. You’re dancing with a couple team members from McLaren. Lando is standing on the sidelines, he’s too busy watching you. Oscar is standing next to him. Lando doesn’t pay attention to the words of his teammate. All of his focus is on you. 

He’s completely focused on you and the dress you’re wearing. It’s unfair how good you look tonight. It causes him to want you on top of him, or under him, or to spread your legs for him so he can pull out another orgasm from you. Now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t care in which position you are. Lando wants you close to him right now so everyone can see that the beautiful girl on the dance floor belongs to him. Only you don’t. Fuck. Why don’t you belong to him? He really needs to change that soon.

“There’s really nothing going on between you and Y/N?” Oscar asks him. 

“No,” Lando quickly states.

“So you won’t mind if my friend asks her on a date?” Oscar continues to ask.

Lando almost drops his drink onto the floor when Oscar asks him that god awful question. His head is filling up with questions. Which friend from Oscar wants to date you? Would you date that friend? He sighs. 

“Who?” He eventually asks Oscar.

“Logan,” Oscar answers him.

Logan? Does Logan even know you? Do you even know him? Lando starts to wonder if he ever saw the two of you talk. Would you say yes if Logan asked you onto a date? Fuck. Why didn’t he thought about this before? Of course there’s someone around who wants to date you. Shit. Shit. Shit. Why is this happening?

“Do they even know each other?” Lando sneers. He can’t help himself. 

“Kinda, they talked a couple races ago when Logan DNF’ed. She really helped him back then.”

“Fuck,” Lando mutters, he can’t hold it back anymore. 

Oscar laughs. “That says enough,” he tells Lando. 

“No,” Lando quickly mutters, “I mean if he wants to he should, you know.”

Oscar lets out a sigh, “Lando just be honest, you like her so you don’t want anyone else to date her. Why aren’t you telling her?” 

Lando doesn’t answer that question. He watches how you dance and take a sip from your drink. When he watches the people around you, it doesn’t surprise him that a lot of guys seem to be looking at you. Then he is quick to realize that Logan isn’t his problem, there will always be someone who wants to date you. The problem stays that you aren’t his. How is he ever going to fix this mess? What if you meet someone else? Someone who can offer you everything you want. What if he loses the bond between you two when you start to date someone else? He can’t stand by the sideline while watching you have a relationship with another guy. He really needs to fix this.

It doesn’t surprise Lando when he sees Logan coming closer to you. Apparently he is here as well. It’s normal after a race that a lot of the drivers are clubbing, so this shouldn’t surprise him. But still, it stings. It stings even more when he sees you talking to Logan full enthusiasm, when Logan takes you into a hug Lando watches away. He can’t see this. 

“You’re an idiot,” Oscar sighs.

“I know,” Lando mutters, “and you don’t even know the worst parts.”

“What are those?” Oscar asks curiously.

Lando knows that it’s a secret what’s happening between you two, but he also knows that Oscar will keep it that way. Right now he needs some advise from someone. Oscar can probably give him some. He’s in a good relationship, right? The alcohol makes him no longer question it, before he realizes it he is confessing to Oscar.

“The short version is that we’re fucking,” Lando confesses, “or not fucking, but doing a lot of other sexual things. Probably having sex soon.”

This time it’s Oscar who almost drops his drink. He lets out a laugh. “And you’re still doubting if she likes you?” He asks Lando. “Fuck man, you’re stupid. Why would she do those things with you if she isn’t interested into you?”

“Because she wants sexual experience,” Lando explains.

“But why with you? She could find anyone else.”

“I offered,” Lando confesses.

“Still the same question Lando, she chose to do so with you.”

Lando doesn’t reply anymore. He watches Logan and you again. The two of you are dancing. Lando can’t watch it, but he can’t take his eyes off you. Logan is looking like he wants to be as close to you as he can manage. Fuck, this should be him. Why isn’t Lando dancing with you right now? He sighs. Without saying anything to Oscar he walks up to Logan and you. Oscar lets out a chuckle when he sees Lando walking towards you. He doesn’t tell Lando that he already told Logan that it was a dumb idea to ask you for a date since you’re way too close with Lando. Oscar realizes it that this can be the push Lando needs. And who’s he to not give his teammate that much needed push?

“Can we go back to the hotel?” Lando asks you when he’s standing in front of you.

He notices that Logan takes a small step away from you, giving you a bit more space. You are quick to look worried at him.

“Back to the hotel?” You ask Lando a bit confused.

“Yeah, I’m not feeling well,” he tells you. 

“What’s the matter?” You’re quick to ask him.

“Just a bit too much alcohol,” Lando lies. He doesn’t confess that he isn’t feeling well because he keeps noticing all the attention you get from boys. You send him another worried look and get closer to him. 

“Let’s get back to the hotel then,” you tell him.

“I’m sorry if I’m ruining your night,” Lando says apologetic. He almost feels ashamed for himself, but he can’t help his actions right now. He needs you for his self. He wants nothing more then to lay in bed with you right now and to cuddle up against you. 

“Oh it’s fine,” you quickly say. 

Then suddenly Logan starts to meddle in the conversation. He sounds a bit unsure when he talks. “I uh, I can also bring you back to the hotel?” He suggests, “If you want to stay longer of course.”

“Oh that’s really sweet of you Logan,” you say.

Lando feels himself getting frustrated. Who does Logan think he is by suggesting this? He doesn’t think about his next actions. He just acts. 

“We share the hotel room and I have only one pass,” Lando sneers, “So you can’t.”

You look confused at Lando. Why is he acting like this? Doesn’t he see that Logan is trying to help? Since when can Lando be this rude? 

“Oh I didn’t know,” Logan quickly says, “I just wanted to help.”

“That’s unnecessary,” Lando quickly states. You quickly take a step closer to Logan. You don’t realize that you’re standing in front of Lando while doing so. Lando does realize that. 

“It’s really sweet of you Logan,” you say again, “but I’ll get back with Lando. Enjoy the rest of your night.” To give your words a bit more power you give Logan a quick hug. When Lando sees it he almost loses his mind. He doesn’t even say goodbye to Logan - or anyone else, and is quick to drag you with him towards the exit of the club. 

When he is standing in the cool night air, he starts to feel ashamed for his actions. He barely dares to look at you right now. Fuck, what are you thinking about him now? You are probably really annoyed with him at this moment. And he gets it. 

“What’s wrong with you Lando? Logan only tried to help,” you say annoyed.

Lando doesn’t reply at first. He can only let out a small scoff. Of course you’re siding with Logan right now. 

“You acted really rude,” you add annoyed.

“Of course, side with Logan,” he sighs annoyed, “give me even a bigger headache right now.”

You let out a sigh. “You’re acting crazy,” you tell Lando frustrated. 

Lando doesn’t reply anymore. He knows that you’re right, but he doesn’t want to tell you that right now. Unsure he grabs your hand, he interlaces his fingers into yours. He smiles when he notices that you’re not pulling away from him, but repeat his movement and give his hand a soft squeeze. 

After a short taxi ride, Lando and you are quick to find your way into the hotel bed. You have changed into a shirt from Lando and are laying next to him in the bed. Lando pulls you closer to himself. He wants nothing more then to hold you right now. He needs to know that you’re still his. Maybe not officially, but it feels like it right now. You’re quick to press your body against Lando as a response to his movements. 

“You should apologize to Logan,” you softly state after a bit of comfortable silence, “He only tried to help.”

“He tried to get in to your pants,” Lando scoffs annoyed. He is quick to feel frustrated once again, why are you starting about Logan? Do you even realize why he wanted to bring you back to the hotel? Do you even know that Logan wants more from you? 

“Lan,” you sigh annoyed, “now you’re just exaggerating.”

“I’m not,” Lando quickly replies.

You move yourself a bit away from Lando. You sit up into the bed so you can look at Lando. 

“You are,” you tell him while sending him an angry glance, “not everyone who’s nice to me is trying to get into my pants.”

“But he was!” Lando exclaims with a raised voice.

“Why?” You ask annoyed.

“Because Oscar told me he wants to date you,” Lando confesses. 

“So? That doesn’t mean he’s trying to get into my pants.”

“Y/N,” Lando sighs, “He is. Believe me on this one.”

“Even if he is, why do you care?” You ask. You can’t help yourself from questioning it. Why does it seem like Lando cares this much about Logan wanting to date you and maybe wanting to have sex with you? It gives you hope that Lando maybe slightly returns your feelings. Could that be possible? It seems like a plausible reason. 

“I uh,” Lando stutters a bit, he doesn’t know what to say. “I uh, I just want to be your first with someone who cares about you,” he eventually says. That is a good reason right? 

“Are you afraid that you won’t be my first anymore?” You ask confused. 

Lando doesn’t know what to say at first. He realizes that you’re more then right. He wants to be your first. 

“Maybe,” he eventually confesses. 

“Don’t,” you tell him. 

“Don’t?”

“You’ll still be my first,” you tell him, “I trust you and want it to be with you. But..”

“But?” Lando asks.

“But you still need to apologize to Logan, otherwise I’ll find someone else,” you joke.

“Fucking hell,” Lando mutters. Annoyed he grabs his phone from his nightstand. While searching for Logan his contact, he also pulls you closer to him. You lay down onto his chest, watching on his phone screen with him. You see Lando searching for Logan his contact on his phone, when he finds it he’s quick to type a message.

Lando: Hey Logan, sorry for my behavior tonight. I understand now that it was a bit rude, you were only trying to be nice. Sorry again.

You smile when Lando hits send. After that he quickly puts his phone away again. All of his attention is on you again. He doesn’t have to do anything else to get your attention. You’re quick to move closer to him and press your lips onto his. The kiss was meant innocent, but Lando is quick to turn it into a make out session. 

Lando grabs your ass. Softly he squeezes it a couple times.

“Maybe you can also apologize to me?” You ask him playfully. 

“And how would you like me to do that babygirl?” Lando asks you. 

“Hmm,” you say, “I think I need a bit more experience with getting orgasms.”

Lando shows you a grin. He is quick to find his way into your string with his fingers. Slowly he draws circles onto your clitoris. You’re quick to let out a moan. Lando moves himself in the bed, he throws the blankets onto the ground while doing so. Before you know it he’s pressing kisses against your private parts through your string. 

“Don’t tease,” you mutter.

Lando decides to give you what you want this time. He’s quick to pull of your string. He lowers his body to gain access to your pussy with his mouth. Again he presses soft kisses against it. You reward his movements with another soft moan. Something that makes Lando groan from eagerness. Then he thinks about something else to do. He removes his mouth from your pussy and replaces it with his fingers.

“Ever heard of the sixty-nine position?” He asks you. You show him a small nod. “Interested?” Lando asks further. 

“Yes,” you state.

Lando removes his fingers from your pussy. He lays down onto the bed next to you. 

“Get your cute butt to my face,” he orders you. 

“Won’t I suffocate you?” You ask confused. 

“No babygirl,” Lando replies, “and otherwise I’ll die from a happy death.”

You laugh and do what he asks. Slowly you move yourself onto Lando. He isn’t as patience as you, Lando grabs your hips and drags you on top of him. In the mean time you pull down Lando his shorts. His boner is quick to break free from it, it slaps against his stomach. You caress it with your fingers. You trace the thick vein laying on top of it, before lowering your face towards it. You try to remember what Lando told you the first time. Slowly you lick around it to make it a bit wet. 

“Fuck babygirl,” Lando grunts. 

After saying those words he presses his mouth into your pussy. He slowly licks onto your clit. In the mean time he let his hands find your breasts. He kneads them. You focus yourself on his dick. Carefully you take it inside of your mouth. You let your head bob on it. While blowing him you try to suck as much as you can manage. The part that doesn’t fit in your mouth is quickly into your hand. 

Lando increases his pace and is licking you fast. You let out a loud moan, Lando feels the vibrations from it around you dick. It makes him more eager to cause moans to fall from your lips.

It doesn’t take you long before you feel waves of pleasure over your body. You try to focus as much on Lando his dick as you can manage, but you notice that you’re becoming more sloppy. Lando also lets out a soft moan. You increase your pace. Lando his dick is pulsing and throbbing inside of your mouth. It makes you more eager to increase your pace even more. 

Lando puts on of his fingers inside of your pussy. That’s all you needed. When he fingers you, he already feels your pussy clenching around his finger. He wonders how it’s going to feel around his cock. He wants nothing more then to find out how that feels. 

Then you let yourself go. Lando is quick to follow your movements. You notice the salty taste from his cum in your mouth. Slowly you make a few other strokes on his dick while you suck him empty. Lando removes his mouth from your pussy, a few seconds later your remove your mouth from his dick as well. 

“Fucking hell baby,” Lando groans. 

You show him a small innocent smile while moving yourself off him. Lando is quick to grab your body and move you closely next to him. You let your head lay down onto his chest. 

“Don’t use that innocent look on me,” Lando tells you, “because I now know for sure you’re not that innocent.”

You show him a small shy smile. It causes Lando to say even more.

“I can’t wait to find out how your pussy feels around my cock.”

“I’m ready for that,” you tell Lando shyly, “Maybe we can do that next time?”

“That sounds like a good plan.”

Then Lando realizes that he has never thought about what happened after that. When he takes your virginity, will that mean this thing between you two is also done? He realizes that he needs to think about that - and maybe ask you about it. But for now he focuses his attention onto you again. He presses a soft kiss against your forehead. 

taglist: @booksandplushies @dinodumbass @formula1mount @words-are-cheap @allywthsr @inejghafawifesblog @chonkybonky @formulas-bitch @harrysdimple05 @vildetry06 @wherethefuckisthething @nonameishere @lauralarsen@meadhbhcavanagh @obliviatevamps @shy4turcs @fix5idiots @nightlockcornucopia @marialovesf1 @kapsylia @im-an-overthinker @jule239 @lanando4 @lauralarsen @leclercdream @agentadhd @rewmuslupin @allsouls-emma @iamshiningeuw @teenagedreams-cl@kiskso @loxbbg @vellicora @thomaslefteyebrow @avg-golden-retriever @amorydsmt @killjoynotes@barelytolerabled @starmanv @changetyre @kami10471633 @2bormaybenot @httpmrklee @buendiabebeta @aliceespector @ryiamarie @mickslover @sop-hie092

doctor au

The Allergist (series) @and-im-okay-with-it

Anne, Harry’s four year old daughter, has allergies and thankfully, Y/N is the perfect allergist for her...and Harry.

Emergency Clinic Part 2 @harryswanderlust

where harry’s the doctor at the emergency clinic

Dentist!Harry @hsogolden

Harry’s Y/N’s dental assistant.

Tethered @atlafan

pediatrician!h and some violence

The Doctor Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 @drowninherperfume

A series in which Y/N is a doctor, and Harry just misses his wife.

Doctor Styles @itssierrastyles

Dr. Harry sparks an interest in you, a nurse at the hospital.

E.R. @alexandragramz

where Harry is an ER Doctor and a patient comes in with a broken bone

Paging Dr. Styles @fandomwritingsgalore

Reader’s friend has a hurt ankle, but Dr. Harry Styles can fix anything.

Dr. Styles Part 2 @ohsweetkiwi

Dr Harry Styles was an elite cardio thoracic surgeon and the best in the field, he was also the hottest doctor in the hospital and you were the surgical intern who happened to have a huge crush your boss. 

Drs Styles @talesofstyles

paediatric heart surgeon harry, husband harry and dad harry.

Y/N is stressed and sick and Harry is her nurse @jawllines

gynecologist

Doctor’s Orders Part 2 @havin-a-wee

Y/N has her first appointment with her new gynecologist, Dr. Styles.

Harry is a Gynecologist, and Y/N is his young intern @haaarry

therapist

Baby Steps @enthusiasticharry

you’re harry’s sons therapist, and he isn't the only one you end up helping.

Relief @carolinasgirl

After you have been struggling to orgasm for a while your friend recommends a sex therapist to you. When you finally work up the courage to set up an appointment, not expecting to have the best sex of your life.

Your Beating Heart @havethetimeofyourstyles

in which harry’s your soulmate and you don’t quite know that yet.

chiropractor

Realignment @mysweetestcreature

Y/n has back pains and Harry is her chiropractor.

Adjustments @harryforvogue

in which Y/N is a chiropractor and Harry has an awful back.

Adjustments Part 2 @alexandragramz

she starts to date her chiropractor, but he’s hiding something

𝖍𝖙𝖙𝖕𝖘𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖓𝖊'𝖘 1𝖐 𝖘𝖕𝖊𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖑

welcome to the table of contents for my one-thousand followers special !

i'm baffled at the amount of love and support from all of you; in under the two-months i've been writing on this blog, i've managed to have good enough writing to convince you guys to save my blog. i started writing f1 ff's with the sole purpose to provide more black!reader based content, and i never imagined that i'd have a thousand eyes reading my delusional scenarios lol. thank you, truly, from the bottom of my heart :)

as promised, the special event is a continuation of the first upload of my f1 kinktober series. those of you who were desperate for a part-two of the corruption kink with charles leclerc / max verstappen / black!reader--here it is, in abundance. a five-part series (including the f1-ktober upload). merry christmas, loves xxx

if you would like to be added to this series' taglist, send me an ask or leave a reply.

all episodes uploaded at 12 PM EST on their release date.

posts tagged as # httpss :// 1k special.

all works can be found in my table of contents (m.list).

𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐬

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: max and charles don’t mind receiving a five-second penalty for slipping past your boundaries. seeing a black and white flag doesn’t scare them in the slightest; not when you're performing so well under their guidance. 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: charles leclerc / max verstappen x fem!black!reader 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲: multi-chaptered series.

view playlist? ↴

pilot: corruption kink w/ charles leclerc and max verstappen

innocent and virgin !reader has never touched herself before. she knows how to, in theory, but whenever she tries, she chickens out. her tried and true way of receiving pleasure is failing her. she thinks that maybe it's time to allow her relationship with her two respectful and experienced boyfriends, to reach the next step. and she'll find that they're very willing to teach her a few things.

episode two: 𝗿𝗲𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗮𝘃𝗼𝗿 | handjobs | 12/9/23

slightly less innocent, virgin!reader has had her view of pleasure shifted. her libido has increased to insane levels after she finally allowed her boyfriends to fix her…dry spell. charles and max have no issues with helping her ride out her newfound sexual appetite, and figure that she may be ready to take the next step. or, more accurately, take the next hand.

soundtrack - gun • doja cat

episode three: 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗰𝘂𝗿𝘃𝗲 | fingering | 12/11/23

tainted, virgin!reader is growing tired of grinding against her boyfriends. she’s never touched herself before—no toys, no fingers, no fondling—the friction from a pillow used to be enough. but, maybe having something inside of her isn’t as terrifying as she believed. charles’ pretty pianist fingers don’t look too scary, and they way he raves about how talented max’s daunting thicker fingers are; well, she could be convinced to see what all the fuss is about.

soundtrack - pressure • ari lennox

episode four: 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗼𝗻𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗮𝗹 𝗴𝗿𝗼𝘄𝘁𝗵 | oral sex | 12/15/23

soiled, virgin!reader is well aware of her boyfriends’ desire to eat her alive, sorry, to eat her out. from the way they can’t resist drinking her wetness off their (or her own) fingers, to the way they can’t stop running their mouths about getting their mouths on you: they’ve made how desperate they are, very clear. for some reason, she can’t get past her mental block to allow them to feast between her legs, or to taste what’s between theirs. max figures she just needs a demonstration to quell her fears; charles is a more than willing participant.

soundtrack - super freaky girl • nicki minaj

finale: 𝘂𝗻𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝘀𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗶𝗼𝗿 | vaginal sex | 12/17/23

tonight, innocent and virgin!reader will be defiled, deflowered, tarnished—whichever word you prefer. from the moment she told them she was ready to lose her virginity, they’ve been carefully planning out a special night, for her. and shockingly, there’s not an ounce of fear, anxiety, or doubt in her mind—max and charles have gained her complete trust. they haven’t given her a single reason to believe that they wouldn’t treat her right. she couldn’t have asked for better men to take her virginity—if this is corruption, she’s delighted to experience it.

soundtrack - wet dreamz • j.cole

current taglist: @saintslewis @cherry2stems @lorarri @inloveallthetime @mindless-rock @biancathecool@barnestatic @my-ylenia @katekipshidze @darleneslane @lovingaphroditesworld @smoothopz @vetteltea @dreamingofautopia @jayswifee @megatrilss1885 @nanamilkbread @sophia12345678 @benstormy @userlandonorris@xxniallxxsworld @starfusionsworld@hangmandruigandmav @spicybagel14 @ggaslyp1 @idontgotopartiesanymore @woozarts @yourlilitha @smartstupyd @itsmiamalfoy @ineedafictionalman @everythingabby101 @valent1na-ferrari @vetteltea @dark-night-sky-99 @svinzlec @angelfreckless

© httpsserene2023

PLEASE can we get more HOAF ?? Maybe their wedding with absolutely adorable Milo and Olivia OR their wedding night 👀👀👀 ~nurse-sainz

as two of you know, I've been seriously thinking about the hoaf second series. It has a title, but, because I don't want to start ANOTHER series until I finish a current one, it's something I'm going to be working on behind the scenes

1.7K

Warnings: Pregnancy, pregnancy hormones

Series Masterlist

Feel free to buy me a coffee ☕☕

She'd never expected to be pregnant on her wedding day. It was nobody's dream, to be round and swollen while stuffed into a pretty white dress that you just know would look so much better if you weren't pregnant, on your feet all day, unable to partake in any of the drinking.

Her bachelorette party wasn't all that. But she didn't want it to be. The only people she would have invited were the other wags, girls she didn't know all that well. No, her bachelorette party was her and Olivia getting their hair and nails done.

They ended the day getting dinner, just the two of them. They sat there, sharing a too big pizza while Olivia went over her details plans of the wedding.

It was the best bachelorette party ever.

Daniel had two bachelor parties. One that was organised by Max and Lando to be the wildest night of his life, with almost all of the grid accompanying them. And one where he could invite Milo.

The party with Milo was mini golf. Carlos was happy to carry Milo around on his shoulders, teach him all that he knew. The boys had all agreed to let Milo win, but he didn't have to know that. After the golf they had dinner and drinks.

One thing about Milo was he couldn't keep his mouth shut about the baby. Maybe Daniel should have reminded him that Baby Ricciardo was a secret, but he didn't expect Milo to just blurt it out, either.

But none of the drivers were surprised. They couldn't be surprised about baby Ricciardo, not when the couple hadn't exactly been good at hiding it. Daniel's hand on her stomach, the little list of baby names they'd all seen on his phone.

The party without Milo, when Milo was at home with Olivia and his momma, it really was a party. Loud music, drinks, dancing, it had everything. But, the moment Daniel got more than three drinks in his system, he was talking about her.

Arm over Max's shoulder as he slurred out his name and how much he loved her. "I want to have another girl," he said to Max, but it was barely audible. "A little girl that looks just like her."

When she had her first dress fitting, there wasn't a bump. Or, at least, the bump did little to change her frame. Her dream dress fit like a glove and Daniel's mother was crying.

It was naïve to think that the dress would still fit by the time the wedding rolled around. Her bump had gotten exponentially bigger, to the point where she couldn't hit it anymore. Now that the drivers knew, it was only time that the rest of the world knew.

They didn't announce it in any way. No, Daniel's Instagram usually had a picture of her in his photo dumps and this was no exception. Just, this time, her bump was visible in the picture.

If the world of F1 was losing its collective shit, neither of them noticed. The Ricciardo family was wrapped up in their own little bubble, just the way they liked it.

A week before the wedding, her dream dress wasn't fitting. Why the fuck wasn't it fitting? Well, she knew why. It was stupid to think anything would fit over her bump.

"I hate this baby," she said through tears as she rubbed her bump. No, she didn't hate baby Ricciardo, not in the slightest. Actually, she loved baby Ricciardo more than anything. But still, she couldn't help but wish she wasn't pregnant.

The dress she wore on her wedding day wasn't her dream dress. She couldn't wear those cute white heels she wanted to wear, couldn't even see her feet.

As she stared at herself in the mirror, just an hour away from being walked down the aisle, an hour away from marrying the love of her life, she was ready to cry. She held it back, though, couldn't afford to ruin her makeup. "What're we gonna do with you?" She whispered as she cradled her bump.

"Momma?"

She looked at Milo in the mirror before she turned towards him. "C'mere, baby," she said and held her hands out towards him. Fuck, how was he almost seven?

As her son wrapped his arms around her, she wanted time to stop. Just stop, let her live in this moment forever. He was growing up so damn fast, he was going to be a big brother soon. "You look beautiful, momma," he said.

This time, she couldn't help the tears. Stupid pregnancy hormones. "Thank you, Miley," she said through a shaky breath as she stood up and grabbed a tissue. Gently she dabbed at her eyes, trying to save her makeup.

She smoothed her dress over her bump and took Milo's hand. "Let's go become Ricciardos."

Daniel had never been this nervous before. Not in his first race back after McLaren had let him go. He was sweating in his suit as Max stood with him. All of their guests were seated, but the most important people were missing.

The door opened and Olivia and one of her friends, one that had been over a few times, walked in. They tossed the petals out of the little white basket as she walked in behind her.

Daniel knew her relationship with her family was... strenuous, at best. That was why they weren't at the wedding. With her father not there to walk her down the aisle, Milo held her hand.

Daniel's breath caught in his throat. He knew she wasn't in her dream dress, not the dress that matched Olivia's, but she still looked amazing. Holy fuck, it was enough to bring tears to her eyes. But that wasn't what actually did it.

Milo was the one walking her down the aisle. Milo in his little suit that near matched Daniels. He stood tall and proud, head held high as he walked his mother towards his step father. 

The kids sat together through the ceremony. Milo couldn’t stop himself from fiddling with the little pieces of petals as his mother got married. They were incredibly well behaved throughout, with Olivia’s grandparents, and Milo’s grandparents now, too, keeping them company. 

This close, Daniel could see the faults in her makeup. He didn’t care about the faults, she looked gorgeous with or without it. But still, Daniel could see the smudges under her eyes as he slipped the ring onto her finger. 

Mrs Ricciardo. She was Mrs Ricciardo now. 

Daniel didn’t say anything about the evidence of her tears as he kissed her. And, once he had his mouth on her, he never wanted to stop kissing her. He couldn’t dip her, like he wanted to, but his hand cradled her bump, cradled baby Ricciardo. His baby. She was his wife and she was carrying his baby. 

This was the best day of his life. 

Their family and friends were cheering as he walked her out of the church and into the car. Even then, even in the car, he couldn’t keep his lips on her. But he had to make sure she was okay, that took precedent. Even knowing that, Daniel couldn’t pull his lips away from her own. So the words were mumbled against her lips. “Were you crying?”

He tried to sound concerned, by her lips against his had his voice coming out as more of a desperate whine. 

But, as soon as he said it, she pulled away. “I’m fine, Danny,” she said and went to rub at her eyes, rub away the evidence of her tears.

Daniel caught her wrists. “You look beautiful,” he whispered and kissed her again. “My wife looks beautiful.”

The way she looked up at him, fuck, he could have kept her in that car forever. “Say it again.”

“My wife.”

When they arrived at the reception venue, their friends and family were there, waiting. As soon as they climbed out of the car, Milo and Olivia were pulling away from their grandparents, racing towards them. Daniel couldn’t help but pick Olivia up and place her on his hip as Milo held his mothers leg.

“Are we a family now?” Olivia asked, her voice coming out almost like a demand. 

But nobody could blame her. She’d been waiting for this moment for a year and a half. 

Daniel rolled his eyes, but he was grinning. “We always were a family, Badger.”

There was no part of her wedding that the new Mrs Ricciardo didn’t enjoy. She wasn’t in her dream dress, but, now she had that ring on her finger, now she was married to the love of her life, she didn’t much care. 

She danced, but she didn’t dance the night away, like she had dreamed. She couldn’t help but be emotional as she sat with Daniel’s parents, her mother and father in law, watching the guests at her wedding. They were dancing more than she was, at her own wedding. 

Holding her bump, speaking softly to baby Ricciardo, she watched as her husband and her children danced. Daniel’s grin was so wide as the three of them were the centre of attention on the dance floor. That was the man she loved. That was the man she married. 

“Your daddy, your siblings and I can’t wait to meet you,” she whispered to baby Ricciardo as her mother and father in law watched on, hearts melting. “You’ve got the best daddy going.”

And, as Daniel put Olivia down after spinning her around, he looked over to his wife. She smiled at him, a smile he’d never forget. As Olivia went to dance with Lando and Max took Milo to get something to drink, Daniel walked over to her. 

“Hi, baby,” he said as his hand met her bump. And then he looked up at his wife, meeting her eyes. “Hi, Mrs Ricciardo.”

“Hi, Mr Ricciardo.”

He kissed her, and she never wanted to let him go.

If you enjoyed this, please feel free to buy me a coffee

Taglist (CLOSED): @biancathecool

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Tired/Sick reader fics

I have noticed a lot of people have a liking towards sleepy/tired!reader and sick!reader fics specifically. I get messages asking for links to them all the time. So I figure I'll put them all in one spot for you guys and that way they're all in one place to find easily :D

Lando Norris

Drunk Girls Do Cry - not sick but hungover, Lando takes care of her

Rest. Sleep. Hydrate. Repeat. - sick!reader

Can I Get a Kiss? - fluff with some sleepy reader at the end

Taking Care Of You - anaemic!reader

Naps > Everything Else - sleepy!reader

It Was Your Stupid Idea - injured!reader

Ew You're Gross - sick!reader

Sleeping Habits - sleepy!reader

I'll Crawl Home To Her - sick!reader

Where You Lay Your Head - sleepy!reader

Panic Stations - morning sickness with pregnant!reader

Charles Leclerc

Any Time Of Day - sleepy!reader

Dangerous Conditions - driver!reader unwell after Qatar race

Max Verstappen

Rescue & Recovery (mouse series) - sick!reader

Sleep Calls (mouse series) - jet-lagged!reader

Oscar Piastri

Little Snores - sleepy!reader

Lewis Hamilton

44 Winks - sleepy!reader

F1 Grid

Races Shouldn't End Like That - driver!reader after Qatar race

—the seasons of love

or: the enemies to lovers situationship fic charles leclerc x female reader summ. winter, the first time. the start of the year, the start of it all. minors dni, nsfw warnings under the cut. 7k words part two

18+ because: brat taming, fingering, oral (f receiving), name calling, spit, unprotected sex, overstimulation, booty call!, masturbation (f receiving), voyeurism, mad sass, fucking porn without plot basically.

There’s nothing special about the club scene in Monte Carlo. If you’ve been to a club in any major city, anywhere in the world, you’ve been to a club in Monaco. It’s all neon lights and kaleidoscope colors and poorly lit dance floors and mid-tier DJs who think they’re the next coming of Jesus. 

Tonight is no exception. The air is thick and heavy with the scent of floral perfume and alcohol, the entire room shaking with the pulsating beat of the bass, reverberating off every single corner and shaking the liquor in your glass. Bodies move—yours included—half in sync with the music, half in step with their drunken stupor. Perched in the safety of Charles’s section, away from the swaying forms of laughter and shouting and screaming, your entire body thumps alone to the beat from the DJ booth a couple meters away. 

Across the section, Charles sits stoic on a couch, taking up a seat and a half and frozen like some magnetic force. His eyes are stuck on you in a way that pulls goosebumps from your skin, makes you irrational angry at him. You’re feeling particularly bratty today, egged on by the tequila and his visible annoyance. 

You’re on your way to interject into his pity party when your sister catches your arm, pulls you by your bicep to dance with her. Her palms are sweaty and cold and you hope that it’s the condensation from her cold glass that’s got her all clammy. The two of you have always been quite a sight after a few drinks. You get your tolerance from your mother, are both disastrous lightweights, feel the need to give any and everyone around you a show. 

The two of you twirl to the music with little effort, laughing like you’re seven and the hazard littered floor under your feet is the old brown carpet from the family room you grew up hosting dance parties in. It’s all hair and giggles and hands in the air like you just don’t care. Everytime your glance catches his, he’s staring back, nursing his drink and half participating in a conversation with your brother-in-law and Jo. 

“What’s his fucking problem?” you ask, leaning over to shout into your sister’s ear.

“He can’t dance,” she slurs. You snort. He can dance.

You whistle, loud and commanding and cat-call-ish even though he’s already watching you. “Charles! Get out here and dance, you fucking buzzkill!”

Your sister joins in on the fun, playfully swaying her hips to the music, tossing out an imaginary fishing line to her husband and reeling him over, calling along teasingly to Charles. “Yeah, show us what you’ve got, Il Predestinato!”

Charles rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. “I don’t dance,” he calls back with a soft chuckle. He tries to play it cool, like always, but everyone in the room knows you’re pushing his buttons. You always are. The reason he keeps you around is the same reason you stay around; your families’ relationship predates any animosity between the two of you. That, and the friend group was founded before you loathed each other and it would be too much work to try and split it up now. You’d probably never see Joris again. 

You dance closer to him, putting on a dramatic show and a poor fight against the urge to continue challenging him. “Come on,” you tug on his arm, just out your bottom lip into a pretty little pout. “Live a little.”

He’s never been able to turn down one of your challenges, however thinly veiled they might be. It’s his own personal sore spot, the one that you poke and prod as often as you can. Competition has always been the foundation of your mutual annoyance, it’s not going to suddenly change after some eighteen years of consistency. Finally, he relents, lets you think you’re pulling him to his feet, dragging him to dance with you and your sister. 

His moves are stiff and awkward, almost hard to watch. You laugh, because he’s wound up so fucking tight in two weeks you’d have a diamond. “See!?” your sister laughs, the contagion of it spreading to even the brunt of the joke. “I told you!” she continues, slinking her arm around her husband’s neck sloppily. His arm grips her side to hold her steady. It makes you feel sick. 

A smirk tugs on his lips, and for a brief moment, there’s a hint of something more in his eyes. Not annoyance or frustration. Something seven, something innocent and childish. It’s fleeting, and you take a deep breath because the music feels quieter now. You down what’s left of  your cocktail to clear your head, to calm the sudden flutter of nerves. 

The more he drinks and the longer he’s forced to dance, the lighter and more magnetic he becomes. “You know, Charles, I never thought I’d see the day,” you tease. He’s been in a near constant state of pity-party for weeks now, ever since his dumb ass got dumped by another girl wildly out of his league. 

He rolls his eyes, but his tone is as amused as it is drunk. “Don’t get too excited. It’s the liquor,” he retorts, a piss poor attempt at downplaying how much fun he’s having. He wouldn’t dare to give you the satisfaction. You lean in closer, brush your body against his, fueled by the noise and the alcohol. 

“The liquor doing the touching, too?” you ask. 

He’s always been a touchy drunk. Since before you and your friends were allowed to drink, he’s been hands-on. And maybe it’s because this is the first time he’s grabbing your hips, the first time his broad hand is flat over your stomach, but you’d never noticed him as this touchy with his girlfriends or his girls that appear when he’s around. Whatever it is, the more he drinks, the more comfortable he is with his hands on you, and the less you find the nerve to care. 

It doesn’t matter how many times he does it, though. Every touch burns your skin. It’s a sick little game you two play. Sick and twisted and so, so unlike the two of you. 

Watch yourself—he warns, hand on the small of your back. You play with fire. Well established and well documented, though; you never back down either. No, the thrill of annoying him is enough to dive head-first, to push his buttons until they stick. “Am I?” you ask, as innocently as the tequila can muster, taking hold of his wrist and moving it so his arm is wrapped around your midsection, fighting to settle in the space between your waistband and shirt hem. 

You respond to every one of his careful touches, ever lingering finger on your arm and your waist and your back. When you close your eyes, you imagine the nonsense patterns he draws on your skin like it’s on canvas in a museum, hung front and center just for you. Your inhibitions are slipping too, and you let yourself trail wandering fingertips over his body, too.

This isn’t the Charles you’re used to, the one you go head-to-head with every fifteen minutes. This is something entirely new, so far into uncharted territory you’re not even sure which way is north. There’s something particularly intriguing about the nerves bouncing around your gut. 

Everything fades away into the dark and crowded club. You don’t know if your sister and brother-in-law are still standing there, if any of your friends are. All you know if the electric charge of this, of every teasing remark and touch that draws you closer, forces you to test the waters of the newfound layer of tension. 

Everything is building, it feels like, to some grand crescendo of emotion and desire. Before there’s room to explore it, though, to dive deeper into the unspoken shift, the moment is interrupted by the return of the friends you didn’t notice leaving. 

The night drags on, the lines between annoyance and attraction blurring into some chaotic muddle of intoxication. Nothing is clear, nothing except the sobering and unignorable pull. It lingers in the air above you, in the space between like a secret just begging to be unraveled. 

You’ve got another drink now, because you can only think of one decision that would be worse than more tequila. In due time, you’re worried you’re a lost cause when it comes to that choice as well. His eyes stay on you, even from a distance, and you revel in the glory of his attention. Embolden by it all, you continue fucking with him. “Having fun yet, Charles?” you ask, knowing smile, voice dripping in subtle suggestion. 

He raises a brow, the corners of his lips quirking up. You don’t think you’ve ever spent much time looking at them, the soft shade of pink and the softer skin. “I suppose I can tolerate it,” he replies with teasing eyes. He’s irritated by your laugh, by your proximity, by your lips brushing against his ear when you whisper; you’re not the only one here trying to have fun. His jaw tightens but he doesn’t take your bait. Instead, he pulls you closer, sways in rhythm with you and replies, “I’m here to enjoy myself, not entertain you.”

He sends your brattiness running full-tilt. Forces you to carefully consider every movement, every ounce of playfulness that you allow to seep into your demeanor and the proactive sway of your hips. You grin at him every chance you get, sly and calculated, daring him to resist.  

You lean in close, brush against his ear and can blame it on practicality, on the bass and the music and the DJ if anyone were to question your actions. You rest a hand on his chest. “I know you love my attention.”

His breath hitches at your audacity, heart racing so quick you can feel it in your palm. He pulls you closer, dangerously close to your lips and says, “you talk too much. Maybe it’s time someone shuts you up.”

You scoff, low and teasing. “I’d like to see you try.”

[18 minutes later]

You step into the well-lit lobby less than a pace behind him. Your hands are interlocked, have been for every block of the darkened streets—since he grabbed yours and pulled you out of the club. “Admit it,” you giggle. “You love having me push your buttons.”

He remains stoic, jaw set as he pushes the button on the elevator. The tension is at a boiling point. You’re either about to kill each other, to be on the news for some grand double murder, or something so, so much worse is going to unfold. 

He leads you to the apartment without a word, but as soon as the door closes behind him, all is lost. Your head is bumping into the drywall before you even realize what’s happening, his lips harsh against yours, the pent up frustration and desire snapping like a dried twig. 

It’s fierce and passionate and while you never, not for a single moment in your life, imagined what he would taste like, you somehow knew it would be like this, cool and fresh and drunk. He licks into your mouth, messy and intense, teeth clacking and both of you fighting for some nonexistent upper hand. 

Fireworks are going off outside. They shake the windows with explosive gravitas as you’re blindly led by his backwards steps down the hallway. You realize that in an entire lifetime of knowing each other, this is the first time you’ve been in his place. It’s not what you expected, from what you can gather—all clutter and red cars and a boy who never had to drop his dream. “They’re going to look for us,” you say between sloppy, open mouthed kisses. 

He mumbles against your skin, strong hands on either side of your jaw. “Let them look.”

You walk through a doorway, into a bedroom clad with clutter and blue sheets. He would have blue sheets. There’s another firework, loud and booming, it makes you jump. You check your watch over his shoulder, pretend your hand doesn’t shake. “It’s almost midnight.”

“Okay.” Your knees bump into his and he sits on the edge of the bed.

You laugh, climb onto his lap, your arms strewn around his shoulders, broad and strong and you laugh again–this time into his mouth. What the fuck is going on. Seriously, what the fuck is this? “Happy New Year.”

He sighs, pulls his mouth from yours long enough to roll his eyes, to speak annoyedly into the hot air between your lips. “Yeah, whatever. Happy New Year.”

“Charles,” you mutter, hand on his chest. You think he’s going to regret this more than you will. People have always told you he’s the best kind of person. You’re not held in the same regard, and you know it. Some people are made to regret and others are made to be the regret. 

“Jesus Christ,” he laughs, but it’s curt and passive. Annoyed, as always, even when he palms at your ass, traces his hands along the bottom of your hiked up dress and pulls you down against him with a bruising grip. “Shut the fuck up.” You tug at the hem of his shirt, pull it off over his head in a swift movement. 

“You’re doing a piss-poor job at making me.”

He moves you like you’re a fucking doll, like it’s lightwork, tossing you down against the mattress and swapping your positions in a swift movement. The strength and agility of it makes your head spin. He’s not supposed to make your head spin, he’s supposed to make it ache. 

But no, no. You do ache for him. All of you aches for him, for his calloused hands and the roughness of his jeans against your thighs and the soft contrast of his lips against everything else. It’s embarrassing. You can’t believe he’s got you like this, hands pinned above your head while he buries his tongue in your mouth, grinds his hips against yours. The coarse denim is almost painful on your sensitive skin, but the growing bulge pulling the fabric tight is more intoxicating than any cocktail. 

“You’re such a fucking brat,” he says, bites a bruise against the skin just above your clavicle. “Spoiled little shit.”

He sinks to his knees, big blue or green or whatever fucking color his eyes are today watching you intently, boring into you with blown, hungry pupils.  His fingers trail along your underwear, pulling the thin, lacey fabric to the side, and then removes them all together. He gloats when he runs his thumb through your folds. “So fucking wet.”

“It’s not for you,” you goad. 

“Oh?” He nods slowly, spreading your slick with the steady digit, watching you carefully for reaction. “For who then?”

Your eyes flutter shut when the pad of his thumb presses against your clit, circles it slowly, teases you. He’s unfocused, his mind lapsing and giving you a much needed in, a clear shot to piss him off. “Your teammate.”

“Fuck off.” You first. 

“You’re right, Charles,” you speak slowly, careful to control your breathing, to hide every tell you might have. “Someone should shut me up. Do you know anyone?” Without warning, he thrusts two fingers inside you, curls them like someone had given him a diagram of your body. You gasp at the suddenness of it all. Yeah, he mutters, utterly delighted with himself. Yeah, I think I know someone.

You roll your eyes, push his head down, down, mouth onto your core. There, in the midst of licking a long stripe through your cunt, he fucking laughs, shakes his head with a subtlety you’d never perceive if it wasn’t for the tip of his nose bumping your clit when he does it. At least he can follow basic fucking instructions. 

His dick must hurt pretty damn bad, all hard and swollen in his pants, because he’s unbuttoning his jeans and freeing himself from the constraints of the fabric while lapping at you, the other hand still fucking into you with steady pace and hazy curl. You can’t see it, view obstructed by the mattress and limbs and hair, but you can tell by the way his shoulders move that he’s trying to get himself off at the same time he works on you. 

You’re not going to make his job that easy. You require all of his attention, pure and undivided and hopefully just as infuriated as you are. You reach down to the apex of your legs, pull his head up by his chin. “Just fuck me, already, you prick.”

He rises to his feet, shakes his head, “you’re a needy little thing,” he remarks. Needy? You haven’t fucking seen needy. 

He guides the head of his cock through your folds, spreading slick and spit and smacking himself against your cunt. 

Your lips purse into a sharp line. “Don’t tease me.”

“Why not?” He taunts, “you’ve been teasing for hours.”

“It’s different,” you grumble. 

“How?” You could strangle him, him and all his questions. What’s a person have to do to get fucked properly around here? You already sacrified your morals by pulling tight against the navy blue sheets.  A woman can only make so many sacrifices. 

You groan, heavy and exasperated. He’s such a pest. “It just–oh, fuck you–” without warning, he plunges into you, buries himself in your cunt until he bottoms out, skin on skin and the sore sting of him stretching you. Your fingers bruise into his arms, nails scraping over his shoulder blades with a gasp. He gives you no time to adjust to him, rutting into you with deep, measured thrusts. What was that, he prodes. Somehow, you find the poise to stabilize yourself, to reply smugly. “it just is.”

His objective isn’t your pleasure, no. That would be his prerogative, a side privilege, a requirement in his quest to get you to close your mouth and stop pestering for once. Making you come is just another box to check. 

You don’t fuck someone if you’re not going to finish, though. Sleeping with Charles might be a lapse in judgment, but being someone’s play toy, letting him reap without sowing, that’s a complete disregard of your dignity

Your fingers find your clit, circle it in just the right sequence, combining with the curve of his cock to push you closer, closer, closer to the edge of the fucking world. Your entire body burns, everywhere, all over, all at once you sweat. Tell me–he insists, voice short and breathy. Tell me when you’re going to come. “I thought you were trying to shut me up?”

“Just, fuck, just tell me.” He palms over your breasts, still covered by your bra and the fabric of your dress, however thin. “So many fucking clothes,” he grumbled, stalling inside you, hands slipping under your back, between you at the mattress to pull you off the bed. You hastily pull the dress over your head, toss it somewhere onto the clothing cluttered floor. Better? You ask. “Better,” he nods, bites your bottom lip roughly, licking against your teeth. One of the hands that explore the skin of your back make quick work of the clasp on your bra, dropping the straps from your shoulders and your back is against the sheets again, his hands groping at you, pinching your nipple between his middle and ring finger, working over it until you’re humming profanities and huffing into his mouth. 

Hate and desire is such a fine, blurry line. Anyone who tells you differently is a liar. 

“M’gonna,” you choke on your words. “I’m–shit–I’m coming.”

“Yeah,” He picks up his pace, maintains a steady, toe-curling rhythm. “Come for me,” his voice heavy and growled. “Come on my dick.”

You do. You come for him, hard and long, wrapping a leg around his hip in a failed attempt to still him, to just be full of him and nothing more. He’s stronger, though, and fucks you through the whole thing, faster, harder, big hands braced on your hips for leverage. You explore the idea that a person really could be fucked in half, forced right open. 

“Good try,” you sputter, shaky and broken words leaving your lips before you’ve found a gravity that isn’t him. You lean up to kiss him, wrap your hand around the back of his neck and pull him to meet you halfway. Your fingers tickle the short hair at the nape of his neck, raise goosebumps to his skin. “Maybe next time,” you hum into his open mouth. 

He spits a long string of saliva into your mouth when you move to close the gap. You laugh around it, down it in a single gulp and lick your lips, sticking out your tongue to showcase your empty mouth, big innocent doe-eyes watching his reaction, his eye roll and devilish smirk.

“Like I said–” you start, but he’s flipping you over, tossing you around like a ragdoll.  You giggle, high on the teasing and the taunting and then he’s fucking your face into the mattress. He’s got your hair gathered up into a ratty ponytail, uses it like a handle, forcing your back into an arch, your ass to perk up into the air. 

God, he’s so fucking deep, turning you into a mess of bruises and sweat stricken skin. Your hips bounce back against him, angle in any imaginable way in an attempt to feel him deeper, to feel him in your stomach and your chest and your head. To feel him everywhere that counts. 

“Putain, taking me so good, baby” he groans, lets the praise and the pet name slipping past his lips in a moment that goes unnoticed by neither of you. He smacks your ass with a firm hand, trying to mask his words after they’ve already been spoken. Your eyes roll back into your head and you come again, without warning. You decide before you get to think about it that it was the stinging imprint of his hand that pushed you tumbling over the edge. Whatever the real reason, you’re up two-nothing, or, depending how you look at it, he’s the one winning. 

That’s all any of this is, one big game. A power struggle. You’re always fighting to win, and this is not different. If there’s a way to lose at a game where everyone is supposed to win, one of you is going to fucking find it and force it on the other. 

You’re the one doing the flipping, now. The pushing and the shoving so he’s on his back. You straddle him and he gives you this look like he’s fully pussy-drunk, sick and euphoric and floating somewhere far from here. You’re so winning at this. “Jesus Christ,” you poke, “wipe your fucking drool.”

His entire face contorts when you sink down onto him. Everytime you think you’ve reached a limit, he finds a way to hit a spot impossibly deeper than the last. His hips lift up off the bed to meet you halfway, rutting into pleasure spots you didn’t even know you had, hand moving to your cunt, thumbing lazily at your clit, leaving you fuzzy and drunk in a mess of mumbled moans above him. 

When you come for the third time, messy and sweaty, nothing that leaves your lips is distinguishable, a mess of French and English and curses and nonsensical mewls. “Fuck you,” he moans, breath shaky when he pulls himself out of you. Your body clenches around air, aches for him to return. 

He does, after he moves you back into the position it all started in. “So close,” he tells you, sinking slowly into you, his sigh hot and alcoholic on your shoulder. His pace is slow, then fast, then slow again. He’s as rapid as his breath is irregular. You better pull out–you groan, every muscle in your body strung out and exhausted and you’re coming again. It’s blinding white behind your closed lids, ears ringing and muscles flexing involuntarily. He’s wrecked you, finally, left you a mumbling mess. 

He pulls out almost in sync with your orgasm, jerks himself no more than twice between your legs before he’s coating your stomach in hot stripes of cum, loud, guttural moans leaving his lips in a way that looks and sounds practically pained. “Christ,” he heaves, watches on as your fingers dance through his orgasm, spreading it over your skin and coating your fingers. You don’t break eye contact when you stick two of them into your mouth, swirl your tongue around them tauntingly, sucking them clean and pulling them from your mouth with a pop. You hold the clean hand up for him to see, palm facing him. When you turn it, you pull down all but your middle finger, flip him off cockily. 

He swats you hand away, “Never fucking again,” he tells you. 

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me,” you scoff. “I never want to see the inside of this apartment again.”

“Why are you here, then?” He remarks, turning the corner into what you assume is the bathroom, tossing a towel to you from across the room. You clean yourself up before anything dries, before coming up with a quick rebuttal. 

You don’t come up with one, mind as tired as the rest of you. This game has been exhausting. “We’re never talking about this,” you say, pulling your dress over your head, stuffing your bra into your handbag because you aren’t sure you have the strength to clasp it closed. “Ever.”

“No shit,” he says, tosses your underwear in the general direction of you. 

You bend over to pick them up, step into them with the snap of the elastic. “Promise me.” You have no idea where your shoes are, but he’s already ushering you out of the room, herding you down the long hall with wide, swooping waves of his arms. 

“I promise.”

“Pinky,” you say, spot your shoes haphazardly stepped out of in the entryway. You don’t have any memory of them ever being on.

“Absolutely not.”

“Charles,” you lean against the wall to slip your heels on, hook up at him with a sober glare. He closes his eyes like you won’t be able to see them roll behind his lids, pinches the bridge of his nose and squints before dropping a heavy breath, holding out a pinky to you. You interlock it with yours. “Thank you.”

He pulls his hand from yours, turns the lock on his front door and swings it open, fingers wrapped around the edge, other hand gesturing out into the hallway. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

“With pleasure,” you say, stepping past him and into the well-lit hallway of sprawling marble floors. You stop in front of the elevator, press the button and wait for his inevitable comment. 

“The whole brat-schtick you’ve got going on isn’t as believable when your leg shakes underneath you,” he calls down the hall. You don’t turn your head to face him, just extend your arm in his direction and flip him off. You hear his chuckle as he latches the door shut behind you. 

Everything about today has been dreary–from the near constant mist that falls over the city, to the chilly temperatures, to the poor excuses for men that grace the screen of your dating app. This is not how Fridays in your twenties are meant to be spent, sulking in the dark of your bedroom after a miserable day at work. 

You’re supposed to be out, partying with friends and making drunken decisions that have you waking up in a stranger’s bed after a good night you hardly remember. 

God, you need to get fucked. It’s been months. Two months and ten days–not that you’re counting. Because you’re not. Counting. You aren’t. 

You’re just restless, basking in the loneliness of the night, unable to shake the weight of your thoughts, of two months and ten days ago. Of Charles and how infuriatingly good he’d made you feel. The complexities of your relationship, the shift in the very DNA of what you know, it makes your heart race–a messy muddle of annoyance and desire that yearns to be untangled. 

You give up on the dating apps, know that even if you do match with someone, there’s nothing that can be done to solve your problem tonight. You opt instead to scroll through social media aimlessly, searching for any distraction from the ache in your gut. Your hand unconsciously slips under the hem of your shirt, cups your breast while you scroll and scroll and scroll. It does little to quell your struggles. In fact, the game is over the moment you become conscious of your hand’s placement, the moment you start to massage your breast, to run your fingers over your nipple until it’s hard and perky. 

You switch to the other breast, fingers gently tracing over the skin, sending chills up your arms, pinpointing the ache in your core. Your hand slides down your stomach, dips below the waistband of your shorts, into your underwear. You’re so worked up–pent up, reaching a boiling point. 

Your middle finger glides through your folds, grazes over your clit, teases the slick at your entrance before dipping in, collecting enough to spread it around. Your clit is swollen, needy like the rest of you, and the pad of your fingers do little to relieve the pressure. Your fingers move clockwise, then counter. Vertical and horizontal and every combination of every direction and even though you can’t remember the last time you were this horny, this desperate to come, you can’t. 

You slip in a finger, and then another, try to find the right curl and the right spot–to no avail. Now, you’re thinking about his fingers, about how much bigger his hands are, how his nimble fingers pumped in and out of you with sheet-gripping, whimper-inducing pace. 

Your phone taunts you, his contact behind the locked screen just waiting to be messaged. 

You try to resist. You hate him. He hates you. God, he knows how to fuck you, though; veiny hands and thick cock leaving you a writhing mess. Fuck. Fuck, why can’t your fingers move the way his did?

You cave, reaching over to grab your phone and text him. Hey. What are you up to tonight? It’s a mistake, you know that it is. He’s so damn annoying, there’s nothing about him that doesn’t drive you up a wall. Frustration makes the heart go fonder, you suppose, or maybe the cunt ache harder. 

Within moments, your phone is buzzing against your palm with his reply. Chilling at home. You coming over?

You roll your eyes. No.

Ok.

You bite your bottom lip so hard you think you might accidentally draw blood. It’s phantom, almost, the way you can so perfectly imagine the sting of him stretching you out, the soreness of his bruising kisses, the swollen, wet head of his dick slapping against your clit. Come over.

You couldn’t pay me.

Door’s unlocked.

Give me 20.

You’re in the bedroom when he knocks. Three times, you wonder why he isn’t just walking in. You ignore the banging, let the universe decide for you if he’s meant to turn back and walk his happy ass out of your building. The universe decides he won’t be doing that, though, because he knocks again. Louder this time. 

You pull yourself out of bed, feet creaking on the hardwood floors as you move to pull the door open. “I told you it was unlocked,” you grumble. 

“Eh,” he shrugs, dumb fucking grin on his face. “Wasn’t up for your games.”

You internally debate just how bad you need him here, if it’s worth all the trouble that is him. It’s not, almost certainly it isn’t. You invite him in anyway. 

“So, what’s the deal? Can’t get yourself off, so you call me?” He teases. Your frustrated blush gives you away before a witty comeback can slap the smirk off his face. “Oh my god,” he chuckles. “I was fucking around, but really?”

There’s no point in trying to lie now, not when your face has already betrayed your trust and revealed the truth. “Calm down,” you groused. “The last thing this world needs if your head to get any fucking bigger.”

He continues laughing like this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to him. You want to smack the smile off his face, dimples and all. “The last thing this world needs is for this–” he gestures between the two of you, “–to become a thing.”

You mock his movements, the dumb look on his face. “This is not a thing. It’s just two friends–”

“–We aren’t friends.”

You sigh through gritted teeth. “Two not friends helping each other out.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, chews on the inside of his cheek while his eyes trace your finger, head to toe and back to head again. “You do know how ridiculous you sound, right?”

You breathe out in resignation, heading down the hall towards your room. “Can we just get on with it?”

“No.”

You stop in your tracks, turn on your heels. What the fuck is he here for, then? “No?” You close the gap between the two of you, plant your hands firmly on either side of his jaw and kiss him, all tongue and spit and rough lips. You knock him off balance, falling out of step when he kisses you back with a matching intensity, hands hovering over your hips. He doesn’t rest them there, you can feel the warmth in the space between your skin and his, the force that pulls you together. 

When he does settle his hands, it’s not to deepen the kiss, to swallow any more frustration. It’s to put distance between your mouths. “I want you to–”

You nibble on his earlobe, cut him off with your hushed words. “I don’t give a fuck what you want, I want–”

“Show me how you touch yourself,” he commands, voice failing to waiver to your hushed level, an air of snugness to him.

“Charles,” your voice cracks with his name, a hint of your under the surface insecurity peeking through, putting themselves on display for him. Here! Here! Look at me! 

“Show me, or I’m leaving,” he says, and it’s all throaty and husky. 

(Eleven minutes later)

Legs spread for him, two fingers moving busily against your core, circling your clit, teasing your hole. 

He stares at you like he can see your fucking soul, watches from his spot across the room, leant against the old wooden dresser, arms folded and ankles crossed. You stare back–harder, maybe–like if you win the little contest your cheeks won’t burn so bright, you won’t feel so exposed, so vulnerable, so embarrassed. 

Those feelings fade, they do, with each flick of your wrist. With every glance of his hungry eyes to your fingers, to your cunt, tracing their way up and down your body, you feel calmer and calmer. And when he runs his hand over his mouth, along the stubble of his jaw and off his chin, you’re closer and closer. 

It pulls whimpers, soft and slow and sweet, from your lips. There’s a sick thrill to it, to him seeing her like this, all needy and open and sensitive. It’s empowering, almost. 

He breaks no more than twice, watches every brow quirk, lid flutter, and lip twitch with raw, intimate eyes. He’s less interested in what you do to yourself, the curve of your fingers or the noises they create, than he is in the way you react to the movements. 

“You’re not even fucking watching,” you say, the letter sounds falling to your breath, hitching as your fingers angle just right. 

“Watching what matters.”

“Oh? And, uh–” you huff. “What’s that?”

He laughs, dimples digging deep into his cheeks. You’ve always thought they made his smile so childish, like you can’t take anything seriously when it comes from someone with primary-school dimples and giddy eyes. You don’t struggle to take it seriously, now. “You’re thinking about me.”

Your eyes flutter shut, a soft sigh parting your lips. “Says who?”

He pushes himself off the dresser, saunters over with heavy feet, stopping at the foot of the bed. “What are you thinking about?” He humors. 

Your eyes roll. You’re thinking about a lot of things. Half a dozen, atleast. About your fingers, the way they move against your swollen cunt, sticky with creamy slick, and how his fingers are that much longer than yours. About how loud he walks, how his heavy feet stand at the end of your bed, crossed arms that pull his t-shirt tight across his chest. About the fact that you’re not sure you locked the door behind him because you were so distracted by the way his sweatpants hung from his waist. About how he doesn’t bother to adjust or hide the protruding bulge under the fabric right now. About the curve of his cock, about how pathetic and full it makes you, utterly unable to spend time thinking about anything but how well he stretches you out. About his hair, flat and straight and wholly unstyled, how your hands would mess it up so nicely, tug and twist until he has something smart to say. Beyond frustratingly, he’s right. As you quickly approach a high, breath quickened and movements desperate, all you’re thinking about is him. “Things.”

“Mmhmm,” he hums, ever the rake, unsatisfied with your response. 

You add a third finger, steady pace and a held stare. The muscles in your leg twitch. You’re so fucking close. “What are you thinking about?”

He sways, rocks his weight from his left foot to the right, runs his tongue over his teeth. “Things.”

A coy smile upturns the corner of your lips. “Mmhmm,” you mock. 

He moves around the bed, trails his fingers over your skin; from your ankle, along the bone of your shin, a bruise on your knee. They stall on your thigh, trace small, soft circles on the inside of your leg. “You really want to know?” 

He’s such a tease, keeps moving up, up, up, over your stomach and through the valley of your breast. “I–ah– I,” you stutter through your words, fingers working tirelessly to push you over the edge. Restless, further irritated by his delicate touch, his fingers up to your jaw now, slotting themselves there, you nod. “Yes.” 

He leans over you, your lips inches apart, open and hot breathed. “Too bad,” he whispers into the space between, closing the gap and kissing you with an insatiable kind of fervor. Your fingers still, your other hand reaching to grip the back of his neck, to pull him deeper into the kiss. It’s a kiss that’s half as good as the sex, the breaking of the unbearable tension that’s filled the room while he’s watched, the promise of what’s to come. A lustful implication. His hand leaves your jaw when you pull apart for air, moving over your stilled hand. “Let me?” He asks, and it doesn’t feel like much of a question, the way he’s already slipping his fingers under yours before you can even squeak out an answer. 

There’s something entirely different about his fingers, like the way that you can’t tickle yourself. You can’t predict his moves, every movement of every ridge of his fingerprints is something entirely surprising. “Yeah, fuck, you make, ah, make yourself…” You give up on the sentence, your body failing your mind in its ability to spit out a comeback. Yeah, you wish you could tell him. Yeah, make yourself fucking useful.  

He laughs, slides his long middle finger inside you, pumps it twice and slips in another. You gasp at his sudden movement. “You’re embarrassing yourself, baby.”

Your back arches off the sheets. “Don’t call me that,” you seethe. 

“But,” he curls his fingers against the spot you’ve been trying to reach all night. A moan tumbles from your mouth and he smirks. “It makes my job so easy.”

“Fuck you.”

“I was going to let you come first, but,” he chuckles. He’s so proud of himself it makes you ill. “If you insist.” 

His hand stills, threatens to pull out of you entirely, but you’re covering it with your own, holding him there when you look up, hips instinctively grinding against him. “I’ll kill you. I will.” 

You’re pushing him out of your apartment by the end of night, locking the door behind him. Your leg shakes when you slide down the door onto the floor. This is the last time, it has to be. Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence. Thrice. Thrice would be a pattern. You won’t let it become a pattern. 

You wake up at seven-thirty and your hair is still in knots, your body still aching from him. You find a new bruise every time you look in the mirror. You can’t shake the image of his messy hair, of the feeling of the brown locks between your fingers and the sound he’d make when you’d tug on them. 

It won’t be happening again.