18+ only. NO MINORS. 28 y/o. They/Them/Theirs pronouns. Please no feminine terminology for me (i.e. ma'am, lady, girlie,ect.) Too many fandoms to count. Proud lizard parent.
F1 Racer!Robert "Bob" Floyd x Social Media!Reader x F1 Mechanic!Rhett Abbott.
MDI 18+ : nothing NSFW here but my blog is 18+.
This brain rot is has been violently encouraged by @sebsxphia and I can't be more thankful. I'm working on a blurp but it's slow going due to silly fingers. Please note that I have a casual understanding of F1 so if there are inaccuracies, that's 100% on me. I'm playing fast and loose with this. I have no experience with professional SM stuff so you can come for me over that too. All spelling and grammar issues are mine. My tenses are absolutely fucked. Enjoy. xo
Read more brain rot below:
Bob has been racing since he was a small tike. Go karts, dirt bikes, ect. As quiet as he is, he's a secret adrenaline junkie. He doesn't take too many crazy risks but he really likes the thrill. He's secretively competitive too and will kick your ass at Mario Kart every time without fail. He's worked his way up from the bottom to be in F1. I think he would drive for Red Bull because he would still be interested in planes and flying. He would do test piloting for them or a trainer for the test pilots since he's our favorite WSO. He's a fantastic teacher in more ways than one. ;) I think he would have served in the military at some point too, but idk what that timeline would look like. He would absolutely blow your secret relationship cover by kissing you after winning a championship. He can't help himself.
Rhett Abbott is our rough, rowdy, and grumpy mechanic on Bobby's team. I feel like someone went to one of his rodeos, talked to him afterwards about cars and said "I want this grumpy cat on our team." Rhett showed them the cars he's worked on, classic and newer. He has a passion with fiddling with things and making them run smoother. When he was offered an internship he was super nervous about leaving his teeny tiny town. He had never flown, hell he hadn't even seen the other side of the country. But he packed his bags, did his internship and never turned back. Rhett would test the durability of the car by bending you over it. (who cares that Bobby's car is worth millions of dollars).
Reader/You "Sunny" works for the same team the boys are on. This is pretty much a self insert bc I want to make silly videos with our favorites AND get paid. I've also seen the social media that red bull has done and I absolutely want to see the boys race swamp buggies and silly stuff like that. I know that Rhett would have to be Bobby's partner to do that which he could be (....hello another idea). Anyway I want them all to slowly fall in love and have fans be like "do you see what I'm seeing??" I want Sunny post thirst traps of the boys onto social media. (we all know they're out there). I want them to also have private thirst traps too. Sunny would give the fans what they want lol. Silly questions, hot edits, and much more. You absolutely wear merch with Bob's name on it. I want to make and sell the merch haha.
In conclusion: I'm in my F1 brain rot era (blame my partner) and I want my fictional boys to also be in F1. Drive fast, eat as- I mean drive fast eat grass :)
Don't repost my stuff or translate it or feed it into AI or I'll feed you to my bearded dragon.
here is a super helpful website for this kinda thing!
the first result isn’t always the one you’re looking for but when you press enter it’ll give you a ton of words related to your query that’ll probably have what you’re wanting, or something better
the idea of shane specifically being allergic to the peel of mangoes so being able to eat them if they're peeled and rinsed first and the dual funny ("baby, can you do that thing i like when you get home?" and it's just. peeling a mango.) and feels (ilya being the conduit of another way shane receives pleasure) of it
the idea of it specifically signalling "i want filthy, rough, world-shattering kink sex" makes me fucking CACKLE imagining one of them helping someone else move or paint a nursery or something and someone's like, "hey man, looks like you have a text" "can you read it to me, please?" because they have their hands full, and the person goes, "uuuh? looks like it's just a picture of a mango on-" and they don't get to finish because they're already 🏃♂️GOTTA GO SEE YOU LATER🏃♂️
the idea of ilya handfeeding shane slices of mango and shane then licking the juice from ilya's hand and the intersection of two pleasures he only receives from ilya and ilya's satisfaction in facilitating shane's pleasure in a way no one else has or can
shane having a reaction after because the person wasn't careful enough about rinsing off the mango and the knife after peeling it and ilya is just 😌 mhm 😌 that's right😌 no one else can give it to you as good as me 😌
no but the contrast of them doing like. a HEAVY session. and it's good and it's hot and it's sexy but also really rough and wild and for SURE needing aftercare at the end.
and then the softness and tenderness of laying together in their bed while ilya feeds shane little bites of mango with kisses in between. a very sweet wind-down of ilya getting to be gentle after taking extensive care in preparing The Sex Mango in exactly the right way and shane getting to just relax and be a little spoiled with a special treat that takes effort to make it safe for him. them both existing in this warm little bubble of absolute trust with each other.
swinging back to funny: thinking about ilya wanting to have some nice filthy kink sex one day so swinging by the grocery store on his way home to obtain A Sex Mango per the established rituals and then?? there are none??? so second store? and STILL?? no mangoes?? what the fuck?? THIRD STORE?? and there's mangoes but they're bruised or hard as a rock?? ilya cannot offer these subpar options. this is The Sex Mango!!! this is sacred!!!
meanwhile shane who was also in the mood and got some flirty texts that had him looking forward to being ravished as soon as ilya got in the door is just ?? hello??? are you coming home at some point??? ilya it's been like an hour and a half?? did you get in a car accident??
Plot | The great shark struggles with modern dating --- a bar so low he keeps tripping on it.
Tags | no smut, mentioned skin to skin intimacy, virgin!reader (for the plot!), yapper!reader, celibate!reader but not fully, waiting for marriage reader, bad experience with dating (not with park), cursing, traditional roles, age gap (15 years), endearments (babydoll, sweetheart, sweetie, baby),
[Inspired by this drabble <3]
Brendon Park is a good man.
He calls his mother every week. Sends his father the good whiskey every year on his birthday. And does good on his job no matter how much he hates the … socializing aspect of it.
A good son, a good surgeon, and a respectable member of society.
“When are you gonna give me some grandbabies, huh?”
Just … a little delayed in certain aspects of his life.
It wasn’t on purpose.
When he was young, he was so deadset on becoming a surgeon that everything else became an afterthought. He maintained relationships here and there (he wasn’t a saint) but by the time he was an attending none of his girlfriends managed to keep up with his relentless schedule, demanding workload, and emotionally reserved nature.
Truly, he doesn't blame them. He wasn't exactly carving out the time for them either --- too focused on being the best and too single-minded in his career to put any relationship as a priority.
Long story short – good surgeon, bad boyfriend.
And then he woke up and he was 40 years old with a very pissed off mother.
When he reluctantly asked his friends about it, the warnings were immediate and repetitive.
Dating in the modern century is different now. The women are different. Difficult.
Too demanding. Too clingy. Too much.
By the time Yolanda sidelined him quietly with a proposition, he was already dreading the worst and preparing himself to disappoint his mother for the first time in his life.
You were a welcome (gorgeous) surprise.
Yolanda’s friend of a friend of a friend that she set him up with. Something about a ‘sweetie-pie that could just soften you up, big guy’.
What she failed to mention was the noticeable difference in years between the two of you.
He was never one to go for someone young just to compensate for a void in his life or make himself feel better about getting older. Even though he saw the appeal, it was never a requirement. If you had asked him before the date, he would’ve thought dating someone younger was more trouble than it was worth.
But watching you beam as he waits for you by the door of the café he had reserved a table for today’s date, holding a fresh pink bouquet of flowers just because Yolanda mentioned that it was your favorite, he couldn’t help but wonder if he was too confident with that assumption.
“Flowers on the first date? You’re winning me over already.”
He couldn’t help but frown in confusion, remembering a coworker's quip about not coming on too strong. Already feeling an unfamiliar feeling of minuscule panic creeping up his throat. “Is it too much?”
Your eyes widened, head shaking, “No! No, they're beautiful. It’s just – men don’t really – it’s less of a thing now.”
He hums, deciding that that was stupid. Especially when he saw just how beautiful the flowers looked when you held them --- like they belonged in your arms. He opens the door for you. “That’s a shame.”
You laugh, head back and so carefree. It warms something in his belly. “Yes. Yes, it is.”
The two of you continued a casual conversation as you lined up for your orders, an official introduction of sorts. Thankfully, it wasn’t as awkward as he dreaded, your cheerful disposition perfectly counteracted his restrained one.
He couldn’t help but notice you intimately checking out the pastries bar but not ordering any when you got to the counter. Thankfully, he was quick enough to take note of those that caught your eyes for longer than half a second, ordering it along with his drink and swiping his card for both of your orders.
As he pulled back a chair, he noticed the few seconds of shock on your face before you sat. A small touch on his bicep and a bashful ‘thank you’ had him concluding that this was also no longer ‘a thing’ in this generation.
If he were honest, he'd admit he was dreading this. It's been a while since his last proper date. He wasn't sure if he could muster up enough topics to keep the conversation going or accidentally say something rude or stupid that would turn this date into a humiliation ritual.
But you were pleasant company and a surprisingly great conversationalist. Picking up where he was prone to awkward silences. You carried the conversation with an ease that he admired. To his surprise, the conversation shifted from one topic to another, and by the end of the night, you somehow even managed to get him actually interested in the New York sports team you were dedicated to. A sport he had never given a thought to his entire life.
“You live in Pittsburgh.”
“So?” you giggle at his obvious accusation.
“Now, that’s just treason.”
That got an adorably loud laugh out of you that embarrassingly puffs out his chest – he knew he wasn’t exactly the funny type so to have you genuinely throwing your head back at his banter felt good.
Three drinks, 6 pastries, and too much caffeine later, he realized it had already turned dark outside and your friend (probably Yolanda wanting all the details) was already texting you incessantly about dinner.
“So, how much do I owe you?”
He looks down at you in confusion as he helps you put your jacket on.
“For what?”
A respectful palm gently leads you by the curve of your back and into his car, which was parked just a few feet from the café.
“Lunch.”
He shuts the door, still confused even as he pulls out of the curb.
“I asked you out, it’s on me.”
“Technically, you didn’t ask me out. We were set up.”
He rolls his eyes at that, huffing out a laugh. Cheeky brat.
“I’m the man. I pay for dinner.”
“That’s very old-fashioned of you, Brendon.”
“Well, I am 15 years your senior, baby." It doesn’t escape him how you press your legs together at that statement. Interesting. “I get to be old-fashioned, don’t you think?”
You turn your body fully toward him, blessing him with a shy, sweet smile.
“Old-fashioned enough to not to kiss on the first date?”
He takes a deep breath, pressing on the gas.
“Old-fashioned enough to ask first."
‘Busy morning and tied up in surgery this afternoon. I’ve got about 30 minutes for a call at 11:30 if you're free?’
‘Sounds perfect. Can’t wait <3”
“👍”
“What’s this?”
You flip the thick piece of paper back and forth as if the words were written in hieroglyphics.
He watches you register what he had just done.
“Tickets. For the Knicks game this weekend.”
You stare at him as if he just popped out a second head so he sighs and continues. “You said you loved them on our first date.”
“Brendon.”
“It’s the Eastern Conference Finals.”
“Brendon.”
“What?”
“It’s in New York.”
He cocks his head at another pair of tickets sitting on his coffee table.
“Those are our plane tickets.”
“You bought plane tickets?!”
“Can’t exactly walk there, sweetheart.”
“You bought Knicks tickets, plane tickets, and planned an entire trip without telling me?”
“Well, such is the nature of a surprise.”
You actually let out a snort of laughter before jumping into his lap on the couch pressing kisses and ‘thank you’s’ on whatever skin you could reach. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You haven’t even heard of the restaurant reservation yet.”
Or the fact that he somehow tracked down a friend of a friend of a friend who is somehow dating someone working game day operations just to make sure the kiss cam landed on the two of you during half-time.
And they said he wasn’t a romantic.
It took Park 3 months in your relationship to realize … you have never truly slept over his place.
When you mentioned on your second date that you were a virgin and that you planned to wait until marriage, he was – for the sake of honesty – taken aback.
Not that there was anything wrong with it and you had bashfully admitted that you were willing to do some 'other stuff' as long as you didn’t go 'all the way'. Something about a vow with the women in your family that the only man who should be able to touch you is the one who is willing to commit.
It makes sense, in theory. But they never took into consideration that the man who plans to worship the ground you walk on is a stressed-out orthopedic surgeon in a trauma center whose only source of relaxation is in between your thighs.
So, yeah. He was a bit taken aback. And frustrated.
But he respected it.
(He was too far gone for you to let this minor complication stand in his way.)
Sucked it up like a man, met your parents, swore to them that this relationship would end in marriage once you were ready, and now added meditation to his workout routine so he wouldn’t pop a boner every time you lounged around his place in just his shirt.
“What are you doing?”
He asks from the en-suite bathroom’s door, finally ready for bed after a long day of bullshit in the hospital only to find his girlfriend quietly trying to book a taxi from his bed.
“Oh! I figured you’d be too tired to drive me back home so I was just going to book a car.”
He frowns in confusion. Quickly walking to where you were lounging in his bed to grab your phone and cancel it.
“Wha – hey!”
“I think we’re past asking permission to stay over.”
You open your mouth to protest before hesitating, choosing instead to crawl to the edge of the bed so you can sit by where he was standing. The fresh smell of his soap, body wash, and clean skin lights your skin on fire.
“I don’t have my skincare stuff in here,” you weakly protested.
He hummed, hands petting the back of your head.“Let’s go buy it tomorrow after brunch. It’s my day off.”
You beamed, gasping in glee. “Really?”
"Really." He can’t help but chuckle at your delight – so pleased with a couple hundred dollars of products. Seems he wasn’t doing quite a good enough job spoiling you, he plans to change that starting tomorrow. “Anything else I should know before our first official sleepover?”
You rubbed your cheeks into his hands like a cat before shyly nodding.
“I know you’re having a hard time with the … abstinence thing,” you pout your lips up at him, your chin digging firmly on his navel which definitely didn’t help.
He clears his throat, taking a beat to look up at the ceiling and collect himself before letting his hands cup your cheeks, “I’m a grown man, babydoll. I can handle sleeping next to my woman without pouncing on her.”
“I trust you, Bren,” you insist earnestly. “But it doesn’t mean I want to frustrate you any more than I already do.”
“Hey, where is this coming from? I’ll behave,” he pokes the tip of your nose to lighten your mood but you only bit your bottom lip in even more hesitation. “Or is there another reason?”
He wouldn’t want to push you if you were truly uncomfortable.
“The thing is,” you groan, cupping the hands holding your face. “I can only sleep naked.”
If he had to go back to the bathroom for five minutes to listen to the calming meditation exercise his therapist recommended to him, it would be something the two of you agreed to take to the grave.
“Alright, my eyes are closed, babydoll.”
He prepared as best as he could.
Lights are off, sleep mask on.
Now he just needs to not think about his girlfriend sleeping naked beside him for the entire night. His adorable, sweet, angel of a woman who is not wearing a stitch of clothing on her bo –
“Thanks for doing this, baby.”
He sucks in a sharp breath when he feels you press a kiss to his cheeks.
He grips the comforter so tight he swears his nails ripped through it. “Warn a man next time.”
Your giggle disappears under the duvet. He makes it a point to put a pillow between the two of you – for your sake and mostly his.
It’ll be fine. Everything will be –
-- fucked! He is so fucking fucked.
The nudity wasn’t the challenge – difficult, yes but manageable with the proper monk-like focus. What you have failed to disclose was that you slept like a possessed octopus. Something he himself only found out when he felt your entire body weight on top of him at 2:47 in the morning.
Once he felt the swell of your chest on his ribs his entire body instinctively flinched so quickly, he almost developed a cramp.
“S-Sweetheart,” he whispered, trying to see if he could jog you out of your sleep gently to save him from the suffering of having to push you back.
To his horror, you just whined, grabbing even more tightly to his biceps as you dragged your body up the length of his so you could push your face in the juncture of his neck.
The contrast of the warmth of your skin on his, the small puffs of air a siren’s call on his ear, and the plump of your lips grazing his neck as you sleepily mumble mindless nothings was torture to his already frazzled sense of self-control.
He grips his bedsheet tightly, knowing his willpower would snap if his hands ever got ahold of you.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“’luv yu’, Bren.”
He sucks in a breath. What the – did you just say – “Babydoll?”
“So nice to me,” you whimper the words on his neck. “Love you so much.”
That felt like a jagged knife of guilt to his heart.
The shame and responsibility you felt for what he could only believe other lovers saw as a drawback or a burden. It must’ve been a heavy weight to carry for his sweet girl.
He swears you won’t have to carry it anymore as long as he is here.
He holds his breath for 10 seconds and lets it out for 5. He thinks about surgical risks, antibiotics, anesthesia regulation, and proper post-op instruction. Thinks about Gloria on his neck, the pressure to live up to their expectation as the upcoming Chief of Surgery. He thinks about Robinavitch’s jealousy even though the both of them knew the pressure Brendon was in would eventually fling the ER attending from the roof he so often escaped to.
Anything and everything to keep his mind clear and disciplined as he refuses to be another weak man who resents your boundaries.
With a deep breath he finally gathers you in his arms, curling around you until his body threatens to swallow you whole.
Saying instead the words that always seemed to get stuck between his heart and his tongue whenever you looked at him. Reminding himself to repeat it tomorrow before you could say it first.
He’s an old-fashioned man, after all.
“I love you, babydoll.”
'Going to the gym but i'm gonna be busy all day. Text me '911' if it's an emergency and my assistant will track me down.'
'Go it. I'm planning to cook you steak for dinner tonight, can I use your kitchen?'
'DON'T SEND ME MONEY. It's my treat.'
'I know your fingers are hovering Brendon Park. Don't!'
'Fine'
'Fine <3'
'Check your jewelry box. I slipped a spare key to my place there.'
'Okay <3'
'Wait what.'
“Hi, babyyyy,” you jump into his arms as he drops his work bag unceremoniously on the floor.
Your text that said you were going to spend your day off going to the grocery store and preparing him a steak dinner genuinely was the only thing that pushed him through a long day of surgeries and consultations.
He lets you rope him into a kiss, sitting the two of you down on his couch as you continue to map out his face with your mouth.
“Missed you so much,” you mutter in between kisses. He smiles at your earnest confession. “Say you missed me too.”
You press a finger on his chest, and he glances down at it as if unconvinced. You squawk in offense and try to get off his lap but not before getting caught in his arms and flipped into the couch.
“You’re all I ever thought about all day, sweetheart.”
You hum, running your hand on his hair. “That’s a dangerous habit, doctor.”
“Don’t worry. I’m a professional.”
With one last deep kiss he lets you out of his arms and back into the kitchen. He prepares to stand up and set the table but you pressed a hand into his chest with an explicit instruction to go shower and relax.
“It’ll be ready when you’re out.”
By the time he was done, you were already getting the wine out of the chiller. “Oh, by the way, some important-looking envelope from your bank arrived.”
You point a finger at the side table by the door. He opens it, his eyes moving carefully with each line.
“Babydoll?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you give me your landlord’s bank details?”
A pause, he turns back to see you staring at him in bewilderment.
“Uh, what for?”
He drops the letter on the coffee table before walking towards you. “I need it to set up an auto-pay in my account.”
You blink up at him as he casually presses a kiss on your lips before sitting at his seat beside yours.
“Are you … moving?” You ask even though you had to admit how incredulous it was. Why would he switch his immaculate penthouse to your subpar building? Is he buying the building then?
“No, for your apartment, honey,” he continues patiently, taking your hand.
Your eyes widened, finally getting what he is implying. “What?! Why – you don’t have to do that! I-I know I complain a lot but I’m fine really!”
He presses a kiss on the back of your hand. “I know, sweetie. But I’m planning on moving you with me by the end of the year, and I want that transition to be as smooth as possible for you.”
Your mouth opens and closes in shock as he drops two bombs on you at once.
“Are … are you asking me to move in with you?”
He slices a piece of his steak before feeding it to you.
“By the end of the year,” he reiterates casually. “At least that’s the deadline I gave my realtor.”
You audibly swallow the barely chewed steak, pushing it down with large gulps of wine.
“I … I don’t want to make it seem like I-I’m a gold digger or something.”
His face hardens at that. “Don’t say that.”
“I’m serious. People talk.”
“Let them talk,” the reprimand was there but it was gentle. “I know why you’re here.”
That softens you.
“Because I’m funny and a good lay.”
You almost snorted your wine into your nose and he finally smiles hearing you laugh. He raises an eyebrow as if to say ‘see?’.
“Brendon –”
“Hey,” he takes your hand, pulling you closer and letting the chair screech in protest. “You’re allowed to like the things I do for you. I work hard, I make good money. And I’d rather spend it making you happy than letting it sit there in the bank.”
He holds your hesitant eyes, only letting a victorious smile appear on his face when you let out a resigned sigh.
You stand up and he automatically pushes his chair back so you can sit in his lap.
“Okay. Thank you. I love you and I will move in with you by the end of the year even though you technically didn't ask.”
“You’re welcome,” he whispers on your lips. “Also, that was your new credit card in the envelope.”
Plot | The great shark struggles with modern dating --- a bar so low he keeps tripping on it.
Tags | no smut, mentioned skin to skin intimacy, virgin!reader (for the plot!), yapper!reader, celibate!reader but not fully, waiting for marriage reader, bad experience with dating (not with park), cursing, traditional roles, age gap (15 years), endearments (babydoll, sweetheart, sweetie, baby),
[Inspired by this drabble <3]
Brendon Park is a good man.
He calls his mother every week. Sends his father the good whiskey every year on his birthday. And does good on his job no matter how much he hates the … socializing aspect of it.
A good son, a good surgeon, and a respectable member of society.
“When are you gonna give me some grandbabies, huh?”
Just … a little delayed in certain aspects of his life.
It wasn’t on purpose.
When he was young, he was so deadset on becoming a surgeon that everything else became an afterthought. He maintained relationships here and there (he wasn’t a saint) but by the time he was an attending none of his girlfriends managed to keep up with his relentless schedule, demanding workload, and emotionally reserved nature.
Truly, he doesn't blame them. He wasn't exactly carving out the time for them either --- too focused on being the best and too single-minded in his career to put any relationship as a priority.
Long story short – good surgeon, bad boyfriend.
And then he woke up and he was 40 years old with a very pissed off mother.
When he reluctantly asked his friends about it, the warnings were immediate and repetitive.
Dating in the modern century is different now. The women are different. Difficult.
Too demanding. Too clingy. Too much.
By the time Yolanda sidelined him quietly with a proposition, he was already dreading the worst and preparing himself to disappoint his mother for the first time in his life.
You were a welcome (gorgeous) surprise.
Yolanda’s friend of a friend of a friend that she set him up with. Something about a ‘sweetie-pie that could just soften you up, big guy’.
What she failed to mention was the noticeable difference in years between the two of you.
He was never one to go for someone young just to compensate for a void in his life or make himself feel better about getting older. Even though he saw the appeal, it was never a requirement. If you had asked him before the date, he would’ve thought dating someone younger was more trouble than it was worth.
But watching you beam as he waits for you by the door of the café he had reserved a table for today’s date, holding a fresh pink bouquet of flowers just because Yolanda mentioned that it was your favorite, he couldn’t help but wonder if he was too confident with that assumption.
“Flowers on the first date? You’re winning me over already.”
He couldn’t help but frown in confusion, remembering a coworker's quip about not coming on too strong. Already feeling an unfamiliar feeling of minuscule panic creeping up his throat. “Is it too much?”
Your eyes widened, head shaking, “No! No, they're beautiful. It’s just – men don’t really – it’s less of a thing now.”
He hums, deciding that that was stupid. Especially when he saw just how beautiful the flowers looked when you held them --- like they belonged in your arms. He opens the door for you. “That’s a shame.”
You laugh, head back and so carefree. It warms something in his belly. “Yes. Yes, it is.”
The two of you continued a casual conversation as you lined up for your orders, an official introduction of sorts. Thankfully, it wasn’t as awkward as he dreaded, your cheerful disposition perfectly counteracted his restrained one.
He couldn’t help but notice you intimately checking out the pastries bar but not ordering any when you got to the counter. Thankfully, he was quick enough to take note of those that caught your eyes for longer than half a second, ordering it along with his drink and swiping his card for both of your orders.
As he pulled back a chair, he noticed the few seconds of shock on your face before you sat. A small touch on his bicep and a bashful ‘thank you’ had him concluding that this was also no longer ‘a thing’ in this generation.
If he were honest, he'd admit he was dreading this. It's been a while since his last proper date. He wasn't sure if he could muster up enough topics to keep the conversation going or accidentally say something rude or stupid that would turn this date into a humiliation ritual.
But you were pleasant company and a surprisingly great conversationalist. Picking up where he was prone to awkward silences. You carried the conversation with an ease that he admired. To his surprise, the conversation shifted from one topic to another, and by the end of the night, you somehow even managed to get him actually interested in the New York sports team you were dedicated to. A sport he had never given a thought to his entire life.
“You live in Pittsburgh.”
“So?” you giggle at his obvious accusation.
“Now, that’s just treason.”
That got an adorably loud laugh out of you that embarrassingly puffs out his chest – he knew he wasn’t exactly the funny type so to have you genuinely throwing your head back at his banter felt good.
Three drinks, 6 pastries, and too much caffeine later, he realized it had already turned dark outside and your friend (probably Yolanda wanting all the details) was already texting you incessantly about dinner.
“So, how much do I owe you?”
He looks down at you in confusion as he helps you put your jacket on.
“For what?”
A respectful palm gently leads you by the curve of your back and into his car, which was parked just a few feet from the café.
“Lunch.”
He shuts the door, still confused even as he pulls out of the curb.
“I asked you out, it’s on me.”
“Technically, you didn’t ask me out. We were set up.”
He rolls his eyes at that, huffing out a laugh. Cheeky brat.
“I’m the man. I pay for dinner.”
“That’s very old-fashioned of you, Brendon.”
“Well, I am 15 years your senior, baby." It doesn’t escape him how you press your legs together at that statement. Interesting. “I get to be old-fashioned, don’t you think?”
You turn your body fully toward him, blessing him with a shy, sweet smile.
“Old-fashioned enough to not to kiss on the first date?”
He takes a deep breath, pressing on the gas.
“Old-fashioned enough to ask first."
‘Busy morning and tied up in surgery this afternoon. I’ve got about 30 minutes for a call at 11:30 if you're free?’
‘Sounds perfect. Can’t wait <3”
“👍”
“What’s this?”
You flip the thick piece of paper back and forth as if the words were written in hieroglyphics.
He watches you register what he had just done.
“Tickets. For the Knicks game this weekend.”
You stare at him as if he just popped out a second head so he sighs and continues. “You said you loved them on our first date.”
“Brendon.”
“It’s the Eastern Conference Finals.”
“Brendon.”
“What?”
“It’s in New York.”
He cocks his head at another pair of tickets sitting on his coffee table.
“Those are our plane tickets.”
“You bought plane tickets?!”
“Can’t exactly walk there, sweetheart.”
“You bought Knicks tickets, plane tickets, and planned an entire trip without telling me?”
“Well, such is the nature of a surprise.”
You actually let out a snort of laughter before jumping into his lap on the couch pressing kisses and ‘thank you’s’ on whatever skin you could reach. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You haven’t even heard of the restaurant reservation yet.”
Or the fact that he somehow tracked down a friend of a friend of a friend who is somehow dating someone working game day operations just to make sure the kiss cam landed on the two of you during half-time.
And they said he wasn’t a romantic.
It took Park 3 months in your relationship to realize … you have never truly slept over his place.
When you mentioned on your second date that you were a virgin and that you planned to wait until marriage, he was – for the sake of honesty – taken aback.
Not that there was anything wrong with it and you had bashfully admitted that you were willing to do some 'other stuff' as long as you didn’t go 'all the way'. Something about a vow with the women in your family that the only man who should be able to touch you is the one who is willing to commit.
It makes sense, in theory. But they never took into consideration that the man who plans to worship the ground you walk on is a stressed-out orthopedic surgeon in a trauma center whose only source of relaxation is in between your thighs.
So, yeah. He was a bit taken aback. And frustrated.
But he respected it.
(He was too far gone for you to let this minor complication stand in his way.)
Sucked it up like a man, met your parents, swore to them that this relationship would end in marriage once you were ready, and now added meditation to his workout routine so he wouldn’t pop a boner every time you lounged around his place in just his shirt.
“What are you doing?”
He asks from the en-suite bathroom’s door, finally ready for bed after a long day of bullshit in the hospital only to find his girlfriend quietly trying to book a taxi from his bed.
“Oh! I figured you’d be too tired to drive me back home so I was just going to book a car.”
He frowns in confusion. Quickly walking to where you were lounging in his bed to grab your phone and cancel it.
“Wha – hey!”
“I think we’re past asking permission to stay over.”
You open your mouth to protest before hesitating, choosing instead to crawl to the edge of the bed so you can sit by where he was standing. The fresh smell of his soap, body wash, and clean skin lights your skin on fire.
“I don’t have my skincare stuff in here,” you weakly protested.
He hummed, hands petting the back of your head.“Let’s go buy it tomorrow after brunch. It’s my day off.”
You beamed, gasping in glee. “Really?”
"Really." He can’t help but chuckle at your delight – so pleased with a couple hundred dollars of products. Seems he wasn’t doing quite a good enough job spoiling you, he plans to change that starting tomorrow. “Anything else I should know before our first official sleepover?”
You rubbed your cheeks into his hands like a cat before shyly nodding.
“I know you’re having a hard time with the … abstinence thing,” you pout your lips up at him, your chin digging firmly on his navel which definitely didn’t help.
He clears his throat, taking a beat to look up at the ceiling and collect himself before letting his hands cup your cheeks, “I’m a grown man, babydoll. I can handle sleeping next to my woman without pouncing on her.”
“I trust you, Bren,” you insist earnestly. “But it doesn’t mean I want to frustrate you any more than I already do.”
“Hey, where is this coming from? I’ll behave,” he pokes the tip of your nose to lighten your mood but you only bit your bottom lip in even more hesitation. “Or is there another reason?”
He wouldn’t want to push you if you were truly uncomfortable.
“The thing is,” you groan, cupping the hands holding your face. “I can only sleep naked.”
If he had to go back to the bathroom for five minutes to listen to the calming meditation exercise his therapist recommended to him, it would be something the two of you agreed to take to the grave.
“Alright, my eyes are closed, babydoll.”
He prepared as best as he could.
Lights are off, sleep mask on.
Now he just needs to not think about his girlfriend sleeping naked beside him for the entire night. His adorable, sweet, angel of a woman who is not wearing a stitch of clothing on her bo –
“Thanks for doing this, baby.”
He sucks in a sharp breath when he feels you press a kiss to his cheeks.
He grips the comforter so tight he swears his nails ripped through it. “Warn a man next time.”
Your giggle disappears under the duvet. He makes it a point to put a pillow between the two of you – for your sake and mostly his.
It’ll be fine. Everything will be –
-- fucked! He is so fucking fucked.
The nudity wasn’t the challenge – difficult, yes but manageable with the proper monk-like focus. What you have failed to disclose was that you slept like a possessed octopus. Something he himself only found out when he felt your entire body weight on top of him at 2:47 in the morning.
Once he felt the swell of your chest on his ribs his entire body instinctively flinched so quickly, he almost developed a cramp.
“S-Sweetheart,” he whispered, trying to see if he could jog you out of your sleep gently to save him from the suffering of having to push you back.
To his horror, you just whined, grabbing even more tightly to his biceps as you dragged your body up the length of his so you could push your face in the juncture of his neck.
The contrast of the warmth of your skin on his, the small puffs of air a siren’s call on his ear, and the plump of your lips grazing his neck as you sleepily mumble mindless nothings was torture to his already frazzled sense of self-control.
He grips his bedsheet tightly, knowing his willpower would snap if his hands ever got ahold of you.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“’luv yu’, Bren.”
He sucks in a breath. What the – did you just say – “Babydoll?”
“So nice to me,” you whimper the words on his neck. “Love you so much.”
That felt like a jagged knife of guilt to his heart.
The shame and responsibility you felt for what he could only believe other lovers saw as a drawback or a burden. It must’ve been a heavy weight to carry for his sweet girl.
He swears you won’t have to carry it anymore as long as he is here.
He holds his breath for 10 seconds and lets it out for 5. He thinks about surgical risks, antibiotics, anesthesia regulation, and proper post-op instruction. Thinks about Gloria on his neck, the pressure to live up to their expectation as the upcoming Chief of Surgery. He thinks about Robinavitch’s jealousy even though the both of them knew the pressure Brendon was in would eventually fling the ER attending from the roof he so often escaped to.
Anything and everything to keep his mind clear and disciplined as he refuses to be another weak man who resents your boundaries.
With a deep breath he finally gathers you in his arms, curling around you until his body threatens to swallow you whole.
Saying instead the words that always seemed to get stuck between his heart and his tongue whenever you looked at him. Reminding himself to repeat it tomorrow before you could say it first.
He’s an old-fashioned man, after all.
“I love you, babydoll.”
'Going to the gym but i'm gonna be busy all day. Text me '911' if it's an emergency and my assistant will track me down.'
'Go it. I'm planning to cook you steak for dinner tonight, can I use your kitchen?'
'DON'T SEND ME MONEY. It's my treat.'
'I know your fingers are hovering Brendon Park. Don't!'
'Fine'
'Fine <3'
'Check your jewelry box. I slipped a spare key to my place there.'
'Okay <3'
'Wait what.'
“Hi, babyyyy,” you jump into his arms as he drops his work bag unceremoniously on the floor.
Your text that said you were going to spend your day off going to the grocery store and preparing him a steak dinner genuinely was the only thing that pushed him through a long day of surgeries and consultations.
He lets you rope him into a kiss, sitting the two of you down on his couch as you continue to map out his face with your mouth.
“Missed you so much,” you mutter in between kisses. He smiles at your earnest confession. “Say you missed me too.”
You press a finger on his chest, and he glances down at it as if unconvinced. You squawk in offense and try to get off his lap but not before getting caught in his arms and flipped into the couch.
“You’re all I ever thought about all day, sweetheart.”
You hum, running your hand on his hair. “That’s a dangerous habit, doctor.”
“Don’t worry. I’m a professional.”
With one last deep kiss he lets you out of his arms and back into the kitchen. He prepares to stand up and set the table but you pressed a hand into his chest with an explicit instruction to go shower and relax.
“It’ll be ready when you’re out.”
By the time he was done, you were already getting the wine out of the chiller. “Oh, by the way, some important-looking envelope from your bank arrived.”
You point a finger at the side table by the door. He opens it, his eyes moving carefully with each line.
“Babydoll?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you give me your landlord’s bank details?”
A pause, he turns back to see you staring at him in bewilderment.
“Uh, what for?”
He drops the letter on the coffee table before walking towards you. “I need it to set up an auto-pay in my account.”
You blink up at him as he casually presses a kiss on your lips before sitting at his seat beside yours.
“Are you … moving?” You ask even though you had to admit how incredulous it was. Why would he switch his immaculate penthouse to your subpar building? Is he buying the building then?
“No, for your apartment, honey,” he continues patiently, taking your hand.
Your eyes widened, finally getting what he is implying. “What?! Why – you don’t have to do that! I-I know I complain a lot but I’m fine really!”
He presses a kiss on the back of your hand. “I know, sweetie. But I’m planning on moving you with me by the end of the year, and I want that transition to be as smooth as possible for you.”
Your mouth opens and closes in shock as he drops two bombs on you at once.
“Are … are you asking me to move in with you?”
He slices a piece of his steak before feeding it to you.
“By the end of the year,” he reiterates casually. “At least that’s the deadline I gave my realtor.”
You audibly swallow the barely chewed steak, pushing it down with large gulps of wine.
“I … I don’t want to make it seem like I-I’m a gold digger or something.”
His face hardens at that. “Don’t say that.”
“I’m serious. People talk.”
“Let them talk,” the reprimand was there but it was gentle. “I know why you’re here.”
That softens you.
“Because I’m funny and a good lay.”
You almost snorted your wine into your nose and he finally smiles hearing you laugh. He raises an eyebrow as if to say ‘see?’.
“Brendon –”
“Hey,” he takes your hand, pulling you closer and letting the chair screech in protest. “You’re allowed to like the things I do for you. I work hard, I make good money. And I’d rather spend it making you happy than letting it sit there in the bank.”
He holds your hesitant eyes, only letting a victorious smile appear on his face when you let out a resigned sigh.
You stand up and he automatically pushes his chair back so you can sit in his lap.
“Okay. Thank you. I love you and I will move in with you by the end of the year even though you technically didn't ask.”
“You’re welcome,” he whispers on your lips. “Also, that was your new credit card in the envelope.”
Computers are so scary what if I accidentally hit F12 in a steam game and it takes a screenshot. What if I press shift + F12 while in word and accidentally save my document 😖
If you had to learn what the F keys on your computer do through me reblogging this post, then I'm glad you did. Computer literacy is not a skill that gets taught anymore, and it is absolutely one that needs to be taught in order to be learned. Don't ever feel bad for not knowing something, but ☝️ don't ever stop learning learning about your environment, the tools you use, and especially the people around you
Boston and Montreal are at the same club. They're at different tables, but they were all sat in the VIP section - it's a little more secluded, offers the facsimile of privacy more than anything - and the Boston boys are loud, loud enough to be heard even over the thumping bassline of the music. Loud enough for Shane to hear them from where he's sitting in the corner of his booth, nursing his drink.
"Okay, best lay. Go."
"Sorry fellas, I'm a gentleman - I don't kiss and tell."
"That means you have nothing to tell, Connors?"
"Suck my fat one, Lenny."
"And become your best lay? Pass."
"For me, it was twins. In Vegas."
"Yeah, their names were right and left, surname hand. Gimme a break."
"Ye of little faith!"
"Ey, there's nothing little about me, bud. Just ask my best lay - Laura Steeler."
"What, the chick from the car commercials?"
"Oh yeah."
"No wonder she was your best lay, Petey - she was the only one of the poor girls you picked up who could act."
Raucous, jeering laughter drowns out Peterson's objections. It doesn't drown out Marleau's voice, clear and sly:
"We all know who Rozanov's best lay is."
Like they'd rehearsed it, the Boston Raider's all cry out in lilting sing-song unison: "Montreal Jane!"
Shane stops breathing. His skin goes hot, then cold, prickling, his hair standing on end. There's no way. He must have heard it wrong, there was no way-
"Now why are you limp dick losers talking about my best girl?"
Shane has to shut his eyes. This is not happening, surely. Ilya Rozanov is not swaggering up to the next table, calling Shane his - his -
"Ayyye, Cap. We were just talking about our top fucks."
"Ah, I see. You all had nothing to offer so you had to talk about my conquests, I understand."
Boos briefly follow.
"No but seriously, Cap. Yours has gotta be Jane, right?"
Rozanov hums, slow, indulgent, like he's savouring something. "Mmmh yes. My Jane."
Some catcalls follow, lurid. Shane's pulse is in his throat, thumping thumping thumping. He stares out into the throng of writhing bodies on the dancefloor, unblinking.
"Yeah okay so you love banging this chick, but that still doesn't answer the question: what was your best fuck with her."
Rozanov's laughter is rolling, incredulous. "This I cannot answer - no, no it is true!" He adds when he's met with crows of denial, "My Jane, she is always surprising me. She is crazy for my cock. You would not understand what this is like, for a girl to want your dick so bad she is biting your belt buckle."
It's like getting shoved in the solar plexus, hard. Boston's jeering rises but it doesn't dim the memory - they hadn't seen each other in weeks, and it was coming off of summer besides, and Shane had felt like he was on fire, like he'd die if he didn't get Rozanov's cock inside him now now right fucking now, and in his desperate rush, mouthing his way across denim, over Rozanov's zipper, he'd clipped his teeth against -
"I call bull. No way she's that easy for it."
"Oh, but she is," Rozanov's voice is inescapable, like he's whispering straight into Shane's ear, "I go to eat her out and I can already work three fingers inside - she opened herself up for me in the shower because she needs it so bad."
That's not fair, Shane thinks dizzily over Boston's whooping, that wasn't the same night as the belt thing.
Ilya is still talking, rapturous now:
"- but it does not matter if she does not open herself up before I get there because the way this girl gets wet for me? Oh my god, she is like - like faucet, just dripping, always, making a mess in her little panties -"
And suddenly Shane is standing, uncaring if the movement is obvious through the dim lights of the club. He's weaving, stumbling his way to the bathroom. Jesus, people probably think he's wasted what with the way he's walking, but he doesn't care, he doesn't care about anything apart from getting behind a locked stall door right fucking now.
When the lock clicks shut, Shane is scrambling for his pants. He's so hard he's throbbing, hot to touch. And he's - he's dripping, all down his shaft, down to his fucking balls, making a mess of his -
Panties, Shane hears in Rozanov's indolent drawl, and he puts his fist in his mouth and bites down, hard.
It's enough to muffle his noises, if not the shwick shwick shwick of his hand jacking his cock.
It's enough so that he doesn't miss the door handle of the bathroom turning.
Shane's hand doesn't (can't) stop working, neck arching as it flies over his dick, but he's not worried, not really.
SOOOOO LIKE have you considered: ilya does a campaign with calvin klein and shane spends a more than healthy amount of time scrolling through the debauched comments people are making about him online. when they see each other next ilya thinks he's going to have the sex of his life purely because shane has been tortured by how hot ilya was in the campaign. which he was. but shane never told ilya about the other side of the coin—maybe a little embarrassed by how pissed off he is about it.
so anyway, true to expectation they're having devastatingly hot sex. shane is pressing ilya's wrists into the bed and riding him like a bull at a rodeo. saying stuff about the campaign, as ilya expects. like how shane would get hard every time one of the those ads started playing on tv and would have to excuse himself if other people were in the room. or how if it came on before one of his youtube videos he'd have to take a break to jerk himself off. that kind of thing. it's hot.
but then when they're both getting close shane loses control of his mouth a little and starts saying things like "nobody else gets to have this but me" and "all those people online—hah—saying they want you... saying they would suck you and ride you an—fuck... and—make you come so hard you can't see straight? yeah? only i get to do that. only i get to—hah—only i get to make you come like that."
and ilya is looking at shane like he's descended from fucking heaven to land right on ilya's dick and his groans are getting slightly higher and more frequent which is how shane knows he's about to blow in him, and the thought makes shane so crazy he just keeps going—"fuck, i love having your cum in me, baby. i love—love how thick it feels. get to have you in me even when you pull out. you're making all that cum just for me, aren't you? yeah, baby? gonna keep making all that cum for me forever? just for me and no one else?" and ilya is nodding frantically, planting his feet on the bed so he can thrust his hips up into shane at the same time shane drops down. "oh, fuck," shane says, "fuck. give me my cum, baby. give it to me. put it in me." and ilya shoots so fucking he hard he actually does black out for maybe five whole seconds.
when he comes back to himself shane has one hand pressed to ilya's chest and the other wrapped loosely around the base of his own cock. ilya's entire chest and neck and chin are splattered with shane's release. they're both dazed as all hell. neither of them know what the fuck just happened.
then ilya breaks HARD and so does shane and they laugh all tangled up in each other until their sides are aching. absolutely delirious and thrilled and oh yeah, super duper in love. as always.
BYEEEEEEEEE 🤸♂️🤸♂️🤸♂️💋💋💋
M!!!!!!! WHAT THE FUCK?! THIS IS SO HOT 🔥🔥 I can't believe you wrote this beautiful porn for me in my time of need 🥹 I'm frothing at the mouth over it. Shane riding it, I'm hooked instantly. Shane with the filthy dirty talk, FUCKIN REEL ME IN!!! And ilya being basically non verbal in total shock, i LOVE!! "You're making all that cum just for me, aren't you? ... Give me my cum, baby" ??!!!!@?!! 🥵🤬 wow I have no more words 😵💫🥴🫠
you always knock it out the park babyyy 💘💘 thank you thank you thank you!!
"Published (number of works on ao3) written works spanning (lowest word count) to (highest word count) to a nonprofit international digital archive dedicated to preserving and maintaining society's reactions, impressions, and culture regarding various forms of fictional media."
You can also simplify it to "Creative Writer - Archive (dates) and then put "Wrote for a nonprofit digital archive as a volunteer."
Plus, if you have a lot of hits or kudos on your works, you can say, "I reached (number of hits) people and (number of kudos) of those people signified to the Archive that my work resonated with them."
Because, technically, we are all volunteering our time and donating our writing to AO3's cause of preserving the fandoms and the culture around them. And people do sometimes just call it "Archive". So nothing I just said was a lie.
If you're writing on Ao3, then you have experience writing -- which is the skill you're presenting here. In the long run, you're not doing anything wrong by phrasing your experience in impressive ways.
To expand on Park’s wife talking him into letting her keep chickens. She names their chickens old lady names: Gertrude, Henrietta, Belinda, Agatha…She lets Park name a few but his names can be kinda mean…McNugget, Birdbrain, KFC….she vetos the name KFC…she flips him off at his counteroffer of naming their chicken Kentucky.
He does take her by surprise naming one new baby chick Lemmy…when she questions the lack of a sarcastic mean spirited name he shrugs and remarks “Motörhead is a good band…the chick seems like they’re scrappy…Lemmy had grit.” Her stoic intense surgeon husband is a metal head…
He buys the most expensive bags of chicken feed and a sprinkler so they can cool off during the summer. The first winter they have chickens he buys a heater for the coop after grilling the poor feed store employees over which heater will be the best his money can buy and the most reliable for a coop if a snowstorm hits.
He might sass the chickens and insult them when he pours out their feed but he kind of feels his heart melt just the slightest when he comes home after a brutal day and finds his wife sitting out back with a chicken in her lap reading a book. The chickens like to cuddle she insists and “forces” him to join them. Their feathers do feel kind of nice….
We need to fricking stop with this CinemaSins TVTropes style crap in fandom. Actually, we need to stop that attitude in all creative fields, but I'm talking about fic right now.
I have seen many posts ragging on over-used phrases in fanfic, and yes, I find 'cerulean orbs' deeply strange, but if I ever said anything hateful on the topic I wish I hadn't.
You know why we say 'smirk' a lot in fic? cause its faster than 'gave a tiny smile to one side with their lips closed, a little cocky and provocative' Smirk is an easy way of saying it. It's the correct word. We say it in fic a lot because people smirk a lot in real life. Go people watch, its all over. Also. Bring me a true synonym for smirk, and I'll use that instead, but these ain't it.
If you have a better way of saying 'took off his shoes without untying them, just levered the heel with the toe of the other' that isn't saying 'he toed off his shoes' I'd love to hear it. Cause that phrase is perfect for it.
'Huffed a laugh'? Yeah, they did. Cause I'm not going to spend extra words describing how they 'exhaled through their nose once, amused, but not enough to fully laugh aloud' Its a specific action. You think people don't do that all day? five bucks says its exactly what you do when you see a meme most of the time. You didn't lol. You huffed a laugh.
The idea that something that's been used before is inherently less valuable is ridiculous. Same with the inverse.
If the phrase you want to use is common or widely used, but is the best way to communicate it? Use it. Don't fall for this trap that is currently consuming hollywood. You don't have to have a clever twist just because 'they survived and were happy' is a trope. You don't have to use some insane alternate phrase just because someone thinks fandom uses 'smirk' too much.
And, as always, if someone gives you hell and you don't want to fight them? let me know, cause I volunteer.
ok so, I approached my local library with a proposal to donate a mural as a way to A: build portfolio/gain practical experience and B: give back to a beloved public institution. The director was very enthusiastic about it and i've been working on it since the beginning of March. Come with me as I endeavor to paint what is in all honesty an excessive amount of birds
I wanted the birds to look like they were actually in the space so first thing after doing the draft was to do a lighting study
after that I covered the walls in letters in lieu of a projector/vr headset bc i have neither of those :) Then i take a picture of the section of wall and superimpose the lineart over top of it so I can pencil in the lines
et voila
and that was a whole week on it's own so next comes the paintin' >:)
my chains are broken i am FREE. although i did have a great deal of fun with this, the barring on the wings itself took me like four days and i am READY to move on
this was a week and a half of continuous work so please excuse me for getting a little emotional in the bg 🙏
daddy in the starlight @becks-things - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
