"It's finee grandmaster varka." your irritating vice captain says through that dodoco communication device he found and took from jean's office. she allowed it beforehand of course, but this doesn't help you with facing an embarrassing punishment.
You move a bit from the place you're in on the floor but lohen sternly looks at you with the phone still in hand. both his legs are up and planted on your back while you stay in an "all fours" position. despite the humiliating position to be in you're at least grateful that captain lohen's office doors are always shut and the other knights wouldn't enter unless it's about something important.
"Yes, yes. No, they're with me. Uh huh.." he drawls into the phone while his foot nudged your back. You tilt your head to look at his expression only to find that smirk plastered on his face.
Damn it! your arms are starting to hurt!
Lohen finally ends the call and leaves the device on standby before he settles further into his lavish cushioned chair, placing both hands behind his head.
"C'mon quit squirming. It hasn't even been an hour yet." he sighs and plays with his silver dagger that rings around the center of his index finger. You could honestly agree that this punishment is not half as bad with how he usually deals with the other knights but the way his boots dig into the bones of your back and the vulnerable position you're in.. is absolute hell.
"C-captain..? Why was this the first thing that you thought of as punishment?" you groan and shake your head in disbelief. The floor beneath you is suddenly so interesting, you didn't want to look at him in the eye right now.
"Cushions don't talk." he counters and you knew he liked seeing you drop your head shamefully.
"No but.. seriously though.." you tried to adjust yourself but the thought of shimmying your butt is mortifying right now.
"I didn't even know the crates were going to fall!" Lohen tuts and nudged you again with his boot, a hand on his cheek as he mulled something over.
"You didn't know? ha.. my dear knight. You were recklessly stacking crate after crate on top of one another. You almost killed a kid." you flinch when he reminded you of your earlier actions and the consequences that could've in fact occured.
"You're lucky Ursula and Koch were there. The consequences that followed would've been.. much harsher for you," he chuckles and poked the tip of his boot on the soft part of your hip.
"You could've put me on horse shit duty instead." you say bluntly. He stops his movements and nudged you a little harder.
"..and put my favorite knight through hours of cleaning in this summer heat?" he gasps in faux disbelief, "this one seems better, right? you even got air conditioning! you're welcome."
"My back is beginning to hurt.." you mutter and the seconds ticked by felt like eternity.
Lohen hums unbothered and flaps a scroll to read down the lines, "That's the point. But... would it feel better if the punishment came with a reward?"
your ears perked at that and he felt the movements of your spine arch a little under his boots, "...Okay. And the catch?"
Lohen laughs, "You can't be serious. You haven't fulfilled an hour yet."
Tick.. tick .. tick..
"How's the breeze down there little knight?"
"Dusty."
"Excellent."
.
.
"It's been an hour and a half ... please I wanna pee."
"Then do it on the floor."
Your eyes widen and immediately tilted your head to stare at him in disbelief, "N-no way!"
Lohen sighs and removes his boots off of your back, stabbing his dagger into the wooden part of the table.
“Ehh, times up anyway. Make sure you turn your report in later, or your punishment will last for a week."
He sees you get up hesitantly and smiles when you blink like a scared animal, “got something to say little knight?”
You shake your head, still aching and embarrassed . “No sir.” But before you could leave he removes the dagger from the table and throws it opposite to where you stand
"Seems like you’re forgetting something, though."
You freeze in place and turned around slow, "w-what do you mean..?"
Lohen’s smile doesn’t waver even as he points to his cheek, "What do you think [name]?"
Your sweaty hands are bunched around your uniform and you walk forward until you approach his desk. with a slow lean you place a soft kiss on his cheek but your vice captain doesn’t like playing by rules so he turns his head to capture his mouth on yours instead.
after a few lazy nips to your bottom lip to seal the kiss while a solid grip stills your chin knowingly to stare straight into your eyes, "your reward for being good."
becoming a knight to save your family from impending poverty because the pay is much better compared to being a street vendor. ending up in the fifth company and meeting your ice-cold vice captain who's actually the captain everywhere but by name.
you're meek and tend to keep to yourself, only biting your tongue before looking away every time another knight gets berated by the vice captain because of their incompetence. you're not much, but you try not to stand in his way, mostly to avoid public humiliation, but also out of genuine respect for him. he has a harsh personality, both in and out of the battlefield, but he keeps the company alive, so...
during a night of celebration, amidst the loud cheers and campfire incessantly crackling, you tentatively sat down next to your vice captain and shyly told him while you stared down your cup of dandelion wine,
"thank you for taking care of us, vice captain."
he had hummed, taking a sip of his own before redirecting his eerie eyes to your figure. what went through his mind at that time? had he thought you to be an easy target to bully? that's the only reasonable memory you have in your mind; without it, his obsession with you from then on would be illogical.
lohen checks up on you often. peeking his head from unsuspecting corners when you're tasked with transporting goods or escorting civilians, whistling in appreciation before telling you good job. you'd smile and thank him in a quiet voice. vice captain lohen, underneath his icy words, is a kind man. that brought you great relief.
since the expedition grandmaster varka is embarking on places miles away from home, you grew to find familiarity and comfort in your vice captain. your few friends are all in mondstadt, and this expedition has been ongoing for over a year now... surely, it's not criminal for you to make a friend.
and he seems to reciprocate your idea of closeness - he brings you alongside during patrols, breaks his loaf of bread in half to share with you, clicks his tongue in annoyance and pulls out his polearm when a knight makes a distasteful joke about your closed-off personality... lohen is your friend.
during another celebratory night, you're startled to find that lohen's line of thinking never aligned with yours, even from the start.
you're in the middle of telling some poorly narrated story about your childhood when vice captain lohen unexpectedly leans over to kiss you, his hand firmly settling over your jaw and locking you in place. you can only widen your eyes in disbelief, voiced refusal muffled by his own mouth. feeble hands strain to push him away, but he's not moved even just a centimeter apart.
he's strong. you've always known this to be contradictory to his build, but right now, he displays it terrifyingly. when he parts from you with a smile, you're lightheaded.
"vice captain, i-" you cough, cringing at the string of saliva he catches using his index finger before licking it off. "i, i don't fancy you that way. i'm sorry, but...."
but you need to go, you intended to say, his sharp smile restrains you from saying it out loud. he didn't kiss you senselessly; there's a motive behind it, you think.
there's a distant entourage of cheers shortly after, you whip your head around only to see drunken and sober knights alike whistling and wolfing at vice captain lohen's 'success' at romance.
"you finally went for it, vice cap!"
you feel your feet getting cold. they've always known lohen's feelings. will they be against your rejection of the vice captain's feelings? were you the odd one?
facing forward, you're dismayed to see the mirthful glint within his abyssal eyes. he's teasing you, using the finger he licked to wipe off the tears threatening to spill forth from your waterline,
Lohen with cuteness aggression would probably be scary ngl (or hot if you're into that)
CW/TW for allusions+mentions of violence toward reader
Supposed to be yan Lohen but he's pretty yandere coded anyway
˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡ Squishes your cheeks really hard. Doesn't matter if they're chubby or not, Lohen is using both hands and grabbing them like stress balls. Tugging the flesh to the point it's painful, which is further pronounced by the way he digs his fingers into your skin and you quite literally feel his nails leaving marks through the gloves.
˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡ Lohen would pinch your nose a lot as well, forcefully closing up your nostrils as he uses the grip as leverage to rock your head back and forth 'playfully'. And just for fun, he'd clamp his other hand over your mouth, cutting off your ability to breathe. Your struggles only make him want to suffocate you more.
˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡ Adding onto the squishing cheeks bit, Lohen likes to squeeze a lot. No part of your body is safe, but his torso is his favourite. He likes to come up behind you, pulling you flush against him while his arms wrap around you. Specifically the area over your ribcage as he squeezes, delighting in the way your bones creak and threaten to give under his strength.
˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡ Sometimes you're just too cute and he can't help but ruffle your hair. But what starts as simple vigorous strokes is quick to turn into flat out wrenching as he seizes the strands impossibly close to your scalp as he yanks your head side to side while giggling about how adorable you are for letting him have his way (you're not, he's just doing this regardless of your protests).
˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡ The vice captain very clearly thrives on the fight you attempt to put up whenever he does these things. He tends to leave your arms unrestrained for the sole reason of seeing you try to push back against his so-called affection, even if you always fail. He thinks it makes you even more adorable.
˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡ Lohen doesn't hide it, your cuteness makes him violent. Maybe you were giggling at a joke or something equally mundane and the next thing know he's pressing up to you, the flat side of his blade dragging up and down your side. The tremor in his arm speaks of barely restrained desire to plunge it into your skin because you're just too fucking cute.
˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡ Doesn't hesitate to bite either. He could go for your neck, it's a classic location but Lohen prefers to bite where it hurts. Which mostly ends up in him targeting your face and tummy area (flat or not it's getting bitten) and maybe thighs too. And just to be cheeky he'll probably sink his teeth into your ass as well. It's unpredictable and he never holds back either, sometimes you swear he wants to tear a chunk out of you (he does).
You should write reader and Finn being touchy at the golden globes or something like that 🫦
“be good.” finn warns you before the door of the cab swings open and he climbs out. his hand reaches back for you and he helps you out.
you smile graciously at the cameras, your hand still clutching finn’s as you try to see through the endless flashes of cameras.
he pulls you up the stairs, stopping every so often to pose and you mirror him before grabbing his arm and dragging him into the event hall.
you’re seated at your table, smiling and clapping when people win, greeting fellow actors and actresses and posing when asked. you’re also downing drinks like they’re water.
“you look soo good in that dress.” finn whispers, oblivious to the cameras right in his face filming you both. “your tits look fucking huge.”
he’s pulling you into his side and your lips press against his jawline softly. “can’t wait to sit on your cock later.” his fingers dig into the fat of your hips and you giggle into his ear, arm wrapping around his middle.
you’re practically on his lap when an interviewer comes over to speak to you both. your pupils are blown and theres faint lipstick marks on finns collar for the world to see.
“and you two talk a lot about the brother-sister type relationship you share. is that still true?” he asks and you giggle.
“mhm, he’s like the best big brother ever.” you nod, arms wrapping around his neck and cuddling him to you and finn laughs. “he takes such good care of me!” finn couldn’t tell if you were playing up for the camera or yourself. he knew how hot it made you to say things like that.
“something like that.” he mumbles out, smirk evident as he admires how you wrap around him even in front of the cameras.
and that night tiktok and twitter is just crazy at all the lip reading videos of the two of you teasing and talking dirty to each other whilst finn cannot keep his hands off you. some fans are denying it, saying it MUST be something else whereas others have found a clip of you asking him to take you to the bathroom and fuck you.
liked by finnwolfhard,user and 3,589 others
ynupdates finn and yn leaving the Golden Globes through the back door last night!
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user1 why are they always all over each other?
user2 was this before or after she said he was like a brother to her.
| user3 after..
user4 they’re so weird i love them
user5 are they dating or just brother and sister relationship?
mike wheeler laid flat on his back, staring up at your ceiling like it held all the answers in the world. one arm was tucked behind his head, the other wrapped loosely around you, his thumb absentmindedly brushing against your sleeve. the room was quiet, just the soft hum of nothing and the occasional creak of the house settling
you were curled into him, your head resting against his shoulder, both of you just… there. comfortable. safe
“what are you thinking about?” you murmured, not even lifting your head
“nothing,” he said quickly, then after a second, “everything.”
you let out a quiet laugh at that
after a moment, you shifted, sitting up and stretching. “i’m gonna go to the toilet, i’ll be back.”
he nodded, watching you walk out, the door clicking softly behind you
for a second, he stayed still. then he exhaled, glancing around your room
it felt… so you
his eyes landed on your bedside table first little frames scattered across it. photos of your friends, some blurry, some mid-laugh. one of you and your friends piled together, grinning like idiots. and then one of you and him
he sat up a little, reaching over and picking it up. it was nothing special, just the two of you standing too close, both pretending not to notice. but he stared at it longer than he meant to
his gaze drifted
your desk. your shelves. little things he’d never really paid attention to before
and then..
your drawers
he hesitated
he knew he shouldn’t
he slid open the top drawer slowly, like it might betray him. random stuff. notebooks, pens, bits and pieces
second drawer
more personal. clothes, folded kinda messy
and then..
he opened another
and froze
panties..
a whole drawer full of them
some lace, some plain and some with even little bows..
he picked one up, tracing the bow softly, just looking at it made his jeans grow tighter, glancing toward the door like you might magically appear.
and then..
footsteps
his heart dropped
“shit—”
he shoved the panties into his back pocket, way too quickly, nearly slamming the drawer shut but catching himself just in time, closing it softly instead
he rushed back to the bed, sitting down like he’d been there the whole time, trying to look normal.
the door opened.
“i’m back—”
you stopped mid-sentence, narrowing your eyes slightly.
“…what are you doing?”
“nothing,” he said way too fast.
you tilted your head. “you look weird.”
“i don’t look weird.”
“you do.”
“i don’t— i just—” he stood up abruptly, rubbing the back of his neck. “i should probably go home.”
you blinked. “what? you literally just got here.”
“yeah, i know, i just— i forgot i have a ton on homework to do..”
you stared at him now, fully suspicious. “mike.”
“yeah?”
“…why are you acting like this?”
“like what?”
“…mike.”
he avoided your eyes completely.
“…i have to go.”
and before you could say anything else, he was already heading for the door, way too fast to be normal.
you stood there, arms crossed, watching him leave.
“…he’s so weird,” you muttered to yourself.
mike rushed through the door of his house, and upstairs to his room, closing it behind him, not even locking it, he was so hard, so pathetic.
he grabbed the panties out of his jean pocket and set down on his bed. he unbuckled his belt in a swift motion and pulled down his jeans along with his boxers.
his hard erecting cock sprang out, it was so painful, he let out a small whine and grabbed your panties and covered around his hard cock. he then begin with fast strokes, letting out little groans every second.
being the pathetic pervy boy he is, came in four minutes, cum dripping from his tip, down to his hand. he was a moaning mess, whispering your name under his breath.
after a while he stood there looking down at himself and at your panties draped around his cock covered his cum.
I hold this headcanon so close to my heart of Mike being nervous about where to cum for the first time and when you tell him inside your pussy his whine breaks the sound barrier
﹙ 🏁 ﹚ 𝒻em ! reader 🏎️ f1 , racer ! mike ◟ 🏆 oneshot , tooth rotting fluff. set in modern day, short fic ◜ᴗ◝ car racing. monaco enemies. 𝒲ARNINGS: this one contains the context of f1 and the racing world, i don’t really watch f1 anymore so trust the process. f1!mike came to me in a dream so, enjoy! ／ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓.
𝒴OU swear the universe has a sick sense of humor. out of all the people in the world… he had to be here.
mike wheeler stands across the paddock garage looking unfairly good in his racing suit, dark curls a little messy from pulling his helmet off earlier. cameras love him. sponsors love him. the crowd chanting his name definitely loves him.
you? you tolerate him at best.
actually… no. you can’t stand him.
he catches you staring and smirks like he’s already won something.
you roll your eyes and cross your arms. “don’t you have a race to focus on?”
he walks over, helmet tucked under his arm. there’s this stupid confidence in his stride, like the whole world moves for him.
“wow,” he says, tilting his head. “no good luck?”
“you’ll survive without it.”
“that’s cold.”
“so is monaco water. you don’t see me complaining.”
he laughs softly, and it annoys you more that it sounds genuine. “you’re still coming to watch though.”
“i like racing,” you shrug. “not you.”
“sure,” he says. “keep telling yourself that.”
you scoff, “don’t start.”
“i’m just saying…” he steps closer, lowering his voice, “you agreed to my deal.”
you groan. “i said maybe.”
“you said if i win, you’ll go on one date with me.”
“a pity date.”
“a date.”
“one date,” you emphasize.
he grins. “good thing i plan on winning.”
you look him up and down. “bold words for someone who spun out in qualifying yesterday.”
“strategic mistake.”
“embarrassing mistake.”
“motivation,” he corrects. “big difference.”
you shake your head, fighting a smile. “you are unbelievable.”
“and yet,” he says softly, leaning just a little closer, “you’re still here.”
your heart does something annoyingly dramatic. you hate that he notices.
“don’t you have a pre-race briefing?” you ask.
“yeah.” he hesitates. for once, he looks… nervous. “hey. if i win—”
“if,” you interrupt.
“when i win,” he corrects, “don’t disappear. stay.”
you blink. “why?”
“because i’m gonna look for you first.”
your breath catches for a second, but you quickly recover. “focus on the race, wheeler.”
his lips curve. “see you at the finish line.”
𝒯HE race is chaos.
engines screaming. tires shrieking against tight corners. the monaco streets blur into a rush of color and speed, yachts glittering in the harbor as cars fly past like missiles.
you try not to care. you really try.
but every time the screen flashes his onboard camera, your stomach twists.
final lap, he’s in second.
“come on…” you whisper before you can stop yourself.
a risky overtake. a gap that barely exists. the crowd gasps as he dives inside the corner—and somehow, impossibly—he takes the lead.
the checkered flag waves. the crowd erupts.
and mike wheeler wins monaco.
you stare at the screen, heart pounding. “no way…”
the broadcast shows him climbing out of the car, ripping off his helmet, shouting in pure adrenaline.
then—he starts running. not toward his team. not toward the cameras. toward you.
you barely have time to react before he crashes into you, arms wrapping tight around your shoulders as he lifts you off the ground.
“i did it!” he laughs breathlessly. “did you see that?!”
you’re stunned, gripping his racing suit. “you’re insane!”
“but i won!”
he sets you down but doesn’t let go. his forehead nearly bumps yours, eyes bright and searching.
“so,” he says, still catching his breath, “about that date.”
you try to act unimpressed. you really do. but he looks so hopeful it hurts. “…one date,” you say.
his grin spreads slowly. “one perfect date.”
“don’t push it.”
“friday night?”
“mike—”
“i’ll pick you up at seven.”
you shake your head, laughing despite yourself. “you’re unbelievable.”
“yeah,” he says softly, squeezing your hands. “but i’m your unbelievable race winner.”
your cheeks warm. “…this doesn’t mean i like you.”
he smirks. “keep telling yourself that.”
and annoyingly…you’re already looking forward to friday.
yo anon it’s my birthday so i feel it’s only fair that y’all be the ones to give me dirty mike thoughts so… 🤷♀️
i’m kidding (kind of) but uhhhh oh oh OH thinking about sloppy/lazy mutual masturbation w/ mike where he’s sitting on his knees in between your spread legs as you’re laying on your back. he’s stroking his cock and you’re rubbing your clit and feeling it grow more and more swollen beneath your fingers.
you notice he’s whimpering more and more and he’s shifting and getting more restless. you don’t know if he’s hurting or feeling good and all he says is “spread your pussy for me, please” in a low, breathy, desperate voice. and you’re not given any more time to think before a steady stream of piss exits from his cock and aims right for your pussy. it hits you right on your clit and you gasp and oh my god it feels so fucking good. it’s so dirty and it’s hitting you in the right spot and mike is moaning so good under his breath and you gladly take it all. “why’d you do that?” you ask, but your voice carries zero disgust, zero indication that you’re displeased. you’re feeling quite the opposite. and mike responds “i just had to go and you were right in front of me”
𝒜𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒⠀𝆹𝅥 guess who’s making another series !!! yes, me !! i am so excited for this one. hopefully i wont delete this one lol <3 i hope you guys enjoy reading this !! happy oscars day :))
◌♥︎̼̻ ͟ ͟ ͟ ͟ ㅤׂ SERIES MLIST & NEXT 𓋭⠀ MAIN MASTERLIST.
𝒯HE air in toronto feels sharper than boston’s. colder. heavier. like it’s daring you to breathe it in.
you stand at the boards of the practice rink inside scotiabank arena, gloves tucked beneath your arms, blades freshly sharpened. banners hang high above the ice — world champions, canadian legends, names that have been etched into this country’s history.
you refuse to look at them too long.
“stop scowling at the rafters,” camille mutters beside you.
your best friend has her arms folded over the railing, chin resting on her sleeve. she flew in with you three days ago for the world figure skating championships — the biggest stage before the olympics. she’s been your shadow since you were eight and tripped over your own laces during your first regional competition.
“i’m not scowling,” you say.
“you are. it’s very dramatic. very tortured prodigy.”
you roll your eyes and push off the boards.
the ice welcomes you instantly. smooth. obedient. yours.
your blades carve careful arcs as you warm up, muscle memory taking over. triple lutz. landing steady. triple flip. clean. you don’t smile, but you feel the control settle into your bones.
from the sidelines, your head coach, viktor, calls out, “focus on the exit edge! and shoulders down!”
you adjust immediately. because that’s what you do. you adjust. you perfect. you win.
when you finally skate back to the boards, breath fogging in front of you, camille hands you your water bottle like a trophy.
“you’re going to eat them alive,” she says. “especially the canadians. imagine the headlines. american nepo baby takes gold on canadian ice.”
you grimace. “don’t call me that.”
“you are that.”
your jaw tightens.
your mother’s name is everywhere here. in interviews. in commentary clips they replay before your performances. three-time olympic gold medalist. america’s ice princess. the woman who made figure skating look effortless.
you’ve spent your whole life trying to make sure no one thinks you are.
“anyway,” camille continues, completely unbothered, “speaking of canadians.”
you narrow your eyes. “what.”
she grins. and that’s never good. “the toronto guardians are playing tonight.”
you blink. “okay?”
“okay?” she repeats, scandalized. “okay? they’re first in the division. and their rookie is insane.”
you start unlacing your skates. “i don’t care about hockey.”
“you should.”
“i really shouldn’t.”
camille leans closer, lowering her voice dramatically. “michael wheeler.”
there it is. that name.
you pause. only for a second. but she notices.
“oh, you’ve heard of him,” she sings.
you look back down at your laces. “everyone has.”
that much is true. your trainers talk about him like he’s some kind of infectious disease.
stay away from the canadians. especially the hockey players. especially michael wheeler.
“nothing but trouble,” viktor had muttered when his face appeared on a sports panel beside yours. “he is flashy. media circus. distraction.”
you had nodded.
because distractions cost medals.
camille is already pulling out her phone. “eighteen goals this season. twenty-seven assists. he’s nineteen and already playing like he owns the league.”
“good for him.”
“and apparently,” she adds casually, “he’s adorable.”
you snort. “don’t,” you warn.
“what? i’m just saying. canada’s golden boy. the fans are obsessed. they’re already talking about him for the olympic roster.”
that makes you glance up.
olympics. four years of training distilled into minutes.
“he’s not even on the senior national team yet,” you say.
“not officially,” she shrugs. “but he will be.”
you pull your guards over your blades and stand. “we’re not going.”
camille gasps like you’ve insulted her entire bloodline. “we are in toronto. staying across the street from their arena. and you want to sit in this hotel room and rewatch old performances?”
“yes.”
“you are unbearable.”
“i’m focused.”
“you’re scared,” she counters.
you freeze. “of what?”
“of enjoying something that isn’t skating.”
that hits closer than you’d like. you grab your jacket. “i’m not scared of a hockey game.”
“prove it,” she says sweetly.
𝒯HE arena that night is louder than any skating crowd you’ve ever heard.
figure skating audiences clap politely. they hold their breath during jumps. they cry quietly.
this is different. this is thunder.
you sit beside camille in a borrowed guardians hoodie she forced you into, arms crossed, trying not to look impressed as the team skates out to a roar that rattles your ribs.
“number nineteen!” the announcer booms. the crowd explodes. “michael wheeler!”
you don’t mean to look. you really don’t. but you do.
he skates out with easy confidence, dark hair curling slightly beneath his helmet, stick tapping against the ice. he looks younger up close. sharper. faster.
the jumbotron flashes his stats.
rookie season. points leader. fan favorite.
he laughs at something a teammate says, and the expression is bright. effortless.
you hate that.
“there he is,” camille whispers. “your mortal enemy.”
“he’s not my anything.”
“usa versus canada,” she teases. “ice princess versus hockey prince.”
“stop talking.”
the puck drops. you try not to care.
but you understand ice. you understand edges and balance and speed. and michael wheeler moves like someone who was born on it.
he’s quick. precise. aggressive in a way that’s almost beautiful.
midway through the second period, he steals the puck near center ice.
your body leans forward before you can stop it.
he weaves past one defender. then another. it’s almost like watching choreography.
“he’s going to—” camille starts.
he shoots. the red light flashes. the arena detonates.
you swallow.
because for a split second, when he skates past the glass in celebration, helmet tilted back slightly, you could swear his eyes flick toward your section.
impossible.
he doesn’t know you’re here. he doesn’t know you exist beyond headlines and comparisons.
still.
your pulse is louder than it should be.
“you’re impressed,” camille says knowingly.
“i’m observing.”
“you’re impressed.”
you don’t answer. because maybe you are.
and that feels dangerous.
after the game, as the crowd spills into the streets, your phone buzzes.
a notification.
SPORTSNET: michael wheeler on tonight’s win — “we defend our ice. always.”
you stare at the quote. defend our ice. your competition is in two days. on canadian ice.
“don’t even think about it,” you murmur to yourself.
“think about what?” camille asks.
“nothing.”
but as you walk back toward the hotel, the roar of the crowd still echoing in your ears, you can’t shake the feeling that something shifted tonight.
like the universe nudged you both onto the same sheet of ice.
cheerleader reader making her loser boyfriend mike massage her feet after practice and he’s such a perv so of course he loves it.
he’s bragging to his friends like “her toenails are fucking glittery-and her feet are so fucking soft.” he’s practically moaning explaining it and dustin’s looking at him like he said something totally out of order.
“are you getting off on rubbing her feet?” lucas asks out right and will sniggers.
“what? no? what the hell? leave me alone!” he jumps up from his seat at the lunch table and practically sprints out of there.
𝒷lasphemy is a sin mike wheeler commits daily, yet when he encounters the town’s angel, even mocking god feels like the closest thing to hell.
ㅤ𝓐llie ’s notes / before you proceed … blasphemous themes. concept fic. reader is referred to as angel. mike is an atheist. suggestive content. aged up au. set in the 1900s
𝒷lasphemy is a sin michael wheeler commits without thinking, yet, he can’t stop thinking about the town’s angel. she smells of waxed candles and spring rain, her silver cross glinting faintly in the dim light of the chapel, brushing against her throat in a way that makes his chest ache and his pulse spike.
sunday mornings are torture — he sits beside her on the cold wooden pews, pretending to read the hymnal, stealing glances at the curve of her lips as she murmurs prayers he refuses to understand.
“you really trust all that?” he whispers later, leaning too close on the church steps, cigarette smoke curling around her like incense. she doesn’t answer, only nods her head, eyes blinking, letting the faint sun catch the curve of her jaw, and mike swears he hears heaven shiver.
confessionals are worse. he’s supposed to confess sins he’s already committed, but now he’s whispering about temptations he hasn’t yet dared, imagining her hands brushing his arm as she leans forward, his lips latched onto the skin beneath her cross pendant.
he knows he should stop. she’s an angel; he’s a storm — but if loving her is a sin, he’s already burning.
evenings are the cruelest. she walks home past the flickering gas lamps, and michael lingers in the shadows, heart thrumming, thinking about the prayers he’ll never say out loud — and the touch he’ll never admit he craves. there’s a rhythm to their proximity, a dangerous dance of faith and fire, and michael realizes he might not need god to know what salvation feels like, if it’s wrapped in her gaze.
and somewhere between the smoke, the sermons, and the quiet clang of the church bell, michael wheeler discovers a new kind of reverence — for sin, for her, for the way temptation tastes like heaven and hell all at once.
𝒢𓍢 original work by alielles. likes n reblogs are greatly appreciated.
heed the warnings my fellow readers: asphyxiation!!!!, reader is called the b word, no aftercare,, mike is actually a little creepy in this i have like 5 versions of this little drabble that got scrapped cuz it bordered joe goldberg territory, heavy heavy dubcon- not nc, but def dubious, biting, hair pulling, italics = memory
a/n: excerpt from consumed by david cronenberg, dividers by chrissiren && thank you to my lovely dovely s/o for helping me out
"The bear loved the deer," Mike begins, reading from an excerpt he'd stumbled on a library stroll, "It was obvious."
Mike Wheeler was anything but self-exposing.
He knew who he wanted to be in front of others, who he needed to be. His voice, brimmed with kindness, and him, nothing but the bone-deep affection that beats through his heart, body and soul. All for his friends, family, you.
You never knew him as anything else. So it takes you aback one night.
Your body folded over the end of his bed, his taller frame hugging yours, taking you, plugging you from all sides with each languid thrust.
"You went on a date," He husks out, curious yet knowing. He only ever asks questions he already has an answer to.
"No..." You lie, mouth agape, fingers slipping onto the linen beneath you as he smooths a heavy, warm palm down your back, fixing you onto your stomach while his knees rest on either side of you.
An angle that props you against him, stretches you wide around him with every tug, massaging you. Leaving you quivering around him, crude squelches spilling into your ears.
"Keeping secrets, are we?" He speaks to you like you're his lover, the whore mother of his first born, with light breaths that creep against your nape, littering around prickled skin.
"No, Mike." You try to fight it, him; his confidence. He's not wrong, never wrong, but he doesn't need to know.
He's a Saturday night, not your boyfriend.
You lift your head, wanting to meet his eyes, but he's quick to sink his fingers into your hair, skillfully shoving your head forward, like he's done this before. Strength that forces you back into the sheets, molars grazing uncomfortably against the side of your cheek that's smushed firm against the mattress.
That knocks the wind out of you because he holds you down, back-to-chest, skintight. It keeps you trapped beneath his weight, reminding you that he's a man with strength above yours.
His hand presses into the base of your skull, slowly curling into a fist that furls inwards, until your hair coils tight around his whitening knuckles.
And there's a dull ache kissing the back your head within seconds. Throbbing, foreboding, telling you to stay put as his free hand sneaks around your neck.
Your lungs burn as you inhale, suffocated by his presence. As if you swallowed hot coal, but it's soft and warm and oddly comforting in ways it shouldn't be because he's opposite of who he is-- of who you've ever known him as.
He's not doing it to hurt you, he tells you. Not at all. This is your fault, you see. This is what you're making him do.
Because if you had just been honest, had just told him the truth before he got a chance to find out, you wouldn't be here now, would you?
"Are you proud of yourself?" He rasps.
And even when he's not facing you, when you can't see what he's thinking, you can still hear the frigidity in his voice, laying bare his emotions.
He's disappointed in you.
A pang of guilt pools your stomach, engulfs your anxious bones. A guilt so demanding the corner of your eyes fill with tears, stinging with every blink you didn't take.
"Have I ever been anything short of disrespectful to you?" His angst looms over you, voice hushed while his fingers flimsily wrap around your neck, draped over you like jewelry.
"Hm?" He presses for an answer, lips grazing your ear lobe, lightly tugging.
A cry gets caught in your throat when his wrist flexes and pain shoots down your scalp.
It distracts from his fingers leaving your skin, trekking up your throat to your jaw. Pushing into your mouth with a force unknown to you, hooking themselves onto your cheek like he's caught bait, viciously pressed into your pulpy warmth.
Shows you how easy it is for him to spread you open.
"Hhg..." it's guttural, the noise you make. Nothing but spittle and your flailing, wet tongue, but human nonetheless.
"Huh? What was that?" His knuckles press further into the wet flesh, claiming their rightful heir to your gaping mouth, "What'd you say?"
You're beyond humiliated.
"Use your words," His tone is kind, condescending. And he feels it more than he sees it, your twitching lips, tugging at his fingers to let you go, but he keeps your mouth pried open a second longer. Lets his stretch linger, your drool coating his fingers, burning into the corner of your lips before he finally lets go.
You can't speak.
You don't want to.
You don't know how to.
He swallows you into his warmth and you're putty in his mean hands, lulling you into a familiar submission.
But he's so intense. It's overpowering, overwhelming.
He's hiding himself into the curve of your neck, lets out his own heaved gasps. Buries his wet cock with deep strokes, and he doesn't stop until your velvet walls are bearing down on him.
Until he's sure he's made a memory of himself inside of you.
Until your consciousness thaws everything that made you a functioning human, blurring your personhood.
"You think I don't know," his nose rubs on you, and suddenly he's inhaling. A motion that feels drawn out, so slow and selfish, so deep you can hear the way it fills his lungs, expanding, invading a piece of you and making it his.
"Not everyone's like you," weighty fingers tap at your temple, like if he knocks it'd ring empty, hollow. "Some of us know how to use this," the pads of his fingers rub at your temple, calling out your carelessness, punishing your privacy.
"It ripped the deer's throat out," He read, staring at you, "and then licked the dying deer with the most passionate affection."
And his teeth bare against your skin, steadily dragging across the sensitive arch of your shoulder blade, jagged canines pressed against the soft tissue, finding home as they sink into you.
"Hff," His heavy cock slugs into your heat, easing inside of you, the dense musk of sex filling whatever air you had left to breathe.
You ache and he pulls his mouth back, a tense quiver in the pit of your stomach that matches the pace of your pleasured, struggled gasps. Your arousal betraying every moral bone in your body, smearing onto him, claiming its stake on him.
"Please," you're panting, you can't tell if you're asking him or yourself but your skin is hot, your body instinctively moving away from his grip but he doesn't let you.
Only buries you into his pillows, pretends not to hear your hoarse wails the same way you pretend to hate it, snuffs out your breaths into the hot air of his bunched covers.
You feel lightheaded. Your skin prickles, burns as he ignores you. Burns as you ignore you.
This is when he should be pulling out, when he peppers kisses on supple skin and showers you with tender praises.
His lips nudge against the shell of your ear. His thrusts slowing until they drag in and out of you with a calculated pace, and then he comes to a stop. Then he's sinking his cock in so deep you're stuffed full, makes your chest heave.
Your moans turning into disfigured breaths, taking gulps of air as he stretches you so unfairly that it sets you ablaze. "Filthy bitch," he sneers, and your legs squeeze shut but all that does is keep his leaking cock warm and snug in your dripping sex.
His moans crowding your ear while he empties a load in you, inflates against fluttery walls.
pairing: step-brother mike wheeler x coddled afab reader
heed the warnings, this is no joke: stepcest!, mike is aged up, he's readers stepbrother since childhood so they refer to each other as siblings, no penetrative sex, he's a real sick perv so this isnt a light psychological read, plz dont read if you are sensitive to these topics.. mike is joe goldberg levels of odd
a/n: this ones kinda long, im trying to push my limits here! its sorta slow(?), its not a slow burn but it's fairly detailed so things dont happen quickly. im trying to figure out my prose. if people likey it enough i may finish with smut x3
preview: Ignorance is bliss. Ignorance is always bliss, you convince yourself. A mantra you've recited day-in and day-out since then, like a prayer that's set to salvage scared bodies from further terrors.
The first time you see it you act on pure instinct.
Noisy steps raining hell on aged basement stairs, acting as a siren, telling everyone 'I'm here' before they can even see you.
"Pervert." You're crying when you reach the bottom. Your lips moving on their own accord, fighting off your self-restraint with ease, "I know what yo-you're hiding you disgusting, filthy, pervert."
"I saw everything." You confronted the crowded room, hot tears rolling down your cheeks, your eyes frantically scanning for Mike, who was already staring at you. But he wasn't the only one.
They were all staring at you. Dustin, Lucas, Will.
Their faces twist with confusion and concern, and a layer of disgust they couldn't even pretend to hide. Or maybe they didn't want to, would rather you see it written on their face, the turmoil your presence brought. It's unwanted.
And Mike, who stood from his seat and laughed perfunctorily, the corner of his eyes crinkling as they met everyone rounded at the table.
Probably his way of diffusing tension, you can't tell. You can barely breathe.
"Let's get you some water." He walked towards you, smooth and unconcerned strides. And he placed his palm atop your back to guide you upstairs, "Go ahead and continue without me, guys." He reassured his group before disappearing with you.
The kitchen is where he saw your grief, your jagged breaths; your desperation.
The part of you that sought comfort in someone you're so sure you should be running from. It's a tether, but that didn't stop you from sobbing your heart out, only pushed the confessions to pour from your trembling mouth.
And he's not denying it.
He didn't outright say 'no', if not, talked circles around your accusations. Telling you not to believe everything you see, like you're being fooled by media.
"You're being ridiculous, do you hear yourself? I stole from you? I keep a collection of you?" He's telling you more than he's asking you anything, and he said it with genuine disbelief, bewilderment clouding his expression.
"I mean, what is this? Where is this coming from? I'm your brother." He scoffed, reminding you of his place in your life, like that means anything.
You know men who do worse for less, real brothers who hurt their real sisters.
Girls who are turned into statistics, who are horror stories for the Hawkin's news, who showed up on in your mothers warnings after your father remarried. And one of those warnings, the first person you look at for reassurance, the only person you believed wouldn't be depraved enough, existed quietly with you.
"I know what I saw." You defend yourself, even if weakly.
"What'd you see?" There's a vague urgency in his voice, but it's subtle enough to brush off.
He'd pin it on some bullshit concern if need be.
"Ph-photos of me in bed," your speech faltered, uneven in its inflection, your throat clicking as you swallowed dryly, "al-almost naked."
"And where's the proof for that?"
"I..." You paused, blinking as the realization settles, his words ringing in your head.
You didn't have any of it, any of what he asked for, of what you've so confidently accused him of, of what you dragged him out of his dungeon for.
"I don't have it on me." You admit curtly, the tremble in your voice slipping through, your knees threatening to give out from beneath you.
And his gaze softened immediately, responding to your vulnerability with a tenderness only he was capable of. That reeled you into his comforting arms, that held you soft and kissed you warm.
"You know what I think it is?," He's pressed his lips against your temple, sighing, "you're jealous, hm? Jealous I don't spend all my time with you anymore, right?"
You soaked in his words and shook your head. "N-no," you sniffled, crumbling into his embrace and giving in.
"Don't scare yourself into seeing these things," he whispered, "You'll just worry yourself sick."
What had you seen?
And how can you be so sure any of it was yours?
How are you so sure any of it was Mike's?
The second time it happens, you're in his bedroom, helping him look for a book for his new campaign.
You weren't meant to be in there for more than a minute--you knew you needed to be quick because everyone's waiting for you downstairs. Mike, Dustin, Lucas, Will, and tonight, Mike's girlfriend.
Still, it calls your name as you pass by it on your way out.
A piece of notebook paper, crumpled to its smallest form, abandoned in a metal bin, asking to be left alone.
Ignorance is bliss. Ignorance is always bliss, you convince yourself.
A mantra you've recited day-in and day-out since then, like a prayer that's set to salvage scared bodies from further terrors.
But you reach for it anyways, prying open its furled body with curious hands. You make out a few things. Like the fact that it's only a fragment of a longer entry. Handwritten print of your name tacked alongside a mention of items.
Of your items.
Words about your hair after shampoo day, your sleeping body and every way it contorts when you're in a deep sleep, what time of night you're deadweight, a thin swipe of your current lipstick, a comment about the shade of your soft nipples, and the color of your thighs when stretched taut.
Your cycle. Your college schedule. How warm you'd like your coffee those Fall mornings.
There's an uneasy certainty etched into his writing- unequivocal observations that make your skin crawl, telling you to stop while you can, to stop.
Stop.
Stop.
Instead, it set you off. Sent you to his dresser, pulling open his drawers and the rest is blurry. Anxious hands diving wherever they can, groping blindly, begging for something to prove you right, or wrong, or anything to keep you grounded.
But it all comes up blank.
So you tripped into his closet, crawled into every nook and cranny. Tossing back pants and shirts that'd knock against the door behind you, that forced the door into the wall, a resounding thud with every throw, but you didn't care. You couldn't.
Your knees ached, pressed harsh into thin carpet that's certain to give you a burn, trembling fingers rummaging through everything it can find, until they land on a shoebox. On a lid that's thrown off within seconds, that sends reality crashing down you.
The room feels like it's spinning, tossing you every which way, and blood is rushing to your head. Bile sticking to your already dry throat, that just burns and crawls and digs into your chest, makes your heart quake.
Lingerie, undergarments, patterned and printed, socks, all ones you had emotionally grown out of after your last birthday. A few you mentioned wanting to throw out, because you were a different girl now. Because you were grown up and going to college and wanted to feel it, too.
"So weird, I was gonna toss out a bag of clothes but I can't remember where I put it..." You mentioned.
"Huh, that is weird," Mike followed, "but I guess if you were gonna toss them out anyways, doesn't matter where they went, right?"
And you agreed, stupidly.
It's all hitting you at once.
Tubes of spent gloss. The last of your signature roll-ons tucked into their own corner. He built a home out of you. A vault of your past and present, kept you hidden.
Was he going to do that you?
Keep you hidden?
Kept away from everything and everyone, just like everything in this box?
You kept looking, you don't know why, but you couldn't stop, finding yourself in front of a familiar stack.
Dirtied polaroid's bound together by a tan band that snaps open at your distress, pictures slipping from your head, broadcasting inscribed dates and descriptions and photos of you, your body, every angle possible.
And you can feel it crawling up your spine.
That night worming its way out of every dark corner in his room, closing in on you, enshrouding you icily, when your eyes land on the photo.
A photo that was meant to be a fairytale, something you had scared yourself into believing, something you hallucinated because he said so. Because he was spending time with his girlfriend and you were jealous, he said. That's what he said, and he promised. So why is it here? Why is it real and firm in your clammy fingers, why can you see it?
Your heart beats so loud in your ears you don't hear the shoes on carpet, or the weight shifting beneath your reddening knees.
"What are you doing?" His voice is what slams you back to the present.
Your heart skips a beat, a thick silence lingering between you.
"Mike..." You tremble, but you're refusing to look at him, staring into the galleria of your life instead.
He doesn't respond to you, though.
He reaches over to close the box, nudging it back in place, then he steps away, picking up after you. You hear it, the way he calmly folds tousled articles of clothing, placing them onto his bed.
"I saw-" You're cut off as soon as you speak.
"You don't know what you saw." He brushes off your concern, a cold edge to his voice, stripped of the affection he'd always meet you with.
Devoid of any patience he'd previously carried all those times you'd gotten too close.
When you'd run into his room, excited about some band, or some news, or something he'd set aside his day for. And he'd pretend like he wasn't just adding to his trophy of a shoebox, like that one night.
But he wasn't angry, you could tell. He was never angry, not with you, at least. He was indifferent, uninterested in your tears, and for some reason that was worse.
For some reason- some disgusting reason- you wanted him to care, to make it feel better, to pull you into his arms and against his chest while you doze off to some track on his vinyl.
It makes you want to curl into yourself, so you can hide from him, from your feelings.
You thought that maybe if you hid underneath your hands and cowered, you'd be small enough to trigger a shell, one that'd take you in and protect you from his hostility. Replace his job as your brother.
"You can't be doing this t-to pe-people," you mustered up the courage, slurred speech and all, but you said it.
You can feel the warmth of his body radiating onto yours, hugging you, tempting you.
"Doing, what?" He's on his knees, draping himself over your frame as he speaks, his chest pressed into your back. "What am I doing?" He asks with soft lips, dragging them across your skin.
It makes you shudder.
"Normally," the palm of his hand rests on your arm, weighing on you and warming you, comforting you as his thumb rubs in lazy circles, "you shouldn't be making a mess in someone else's room."
His comments churn in your brain.
They push on all the right buttons--that was his thing, seeing people for who they were.
What made them weak or strong, what made them tick, what they want or don't want to hear. And him, always knowing when to reach what.
"You know," His words are a serrated knife; threatening to break the seal. "You worried everyone tonight." He punctured.
You forgot. Everyone was still here.
You made a scene, you know that. You gave him no choice.
Mike recalled what he told the group. That you were probably hurt, that this isn't anything new, and that you probably just need your big brother. Telling them you don't know how to be by yourself.
And he didn't say it, he just made you feel it. Expertly chipped away at your confidence.
You've spoiled their night because you needed your big brother to save you, needed him to watch you throw your tantrums, because you don't like it when he's with his girlfriend and without you.
It is your fault yet again. Had you kept to yourself, you would've never seen what you did. You wouldn't have ruined tonight, you would've been downstairs with everyone.
"You shouldn't be doing this to people," his words crept against your earlobe, hardly above a whisper.
You whimpered in response, the only thing you do, and it sounds pathetic. Like you were going to cry.
"I know, I'm being so mean," he crooned, gingerly coating your nape in wet kisses, as he cradled you with gentle hands--an emotional whiplash. But you couldn't help it, he knew you couldn't when you softened under his touch.
"Are you... am I..." You struggled to find the words, your breath picking up, "are you mad at me?"
He pressed another kiss to your temple before standing, "Just disappointed. You should've known better than to do this again, but I forgive you."
He doesn't tell you that he sent everyone home earlier, that he was never pulled away so selfishly, but ignorance is bliss.
Always.
Michael took you to bed that night.
He helped you up off the ground and dusted off your carpet-burned knees, then he walked you to your room, until your legs met the mattress and you were forced into its comfort.
Neither of you bothered with the lights on the way in, the moon illuminated enough bluey hues.
Words aren't exchanged when his fingers hooked onto the belt loop of your bottoms and he tugged them down your thighs, until they pooled around your ankles.
To get you ready for bed, he said at some point, you can't remember when.
When you blinked up, all you saw was Mike, peering into your teary eyes from where he stood. He bent towards you for a moment only, fingers brushing your hair back lovingly.
The heat soothed you and it was so tender you could sob into his hand.
It was demented that you knew how he felt.
That he tore down your privacy, never let you have it, saw you for who you were in every way. Yet deep down, you found yourself feeling self-conscious.
In a way you shouldn't.
In a way schoolgirls feel around their crushes, when she wonders if her hair looked nice, and the thought of looking a fool was agonizing and so she sheepishly pats down her flyaways, all to avoid being seen so imperfectly.
He made you want to pat down your flyaways.
You brought your legs up to rest on the mattress, an attempt to cover yourself but he stopped you, only kissed atop your knee. A wet kiss, the kinds you give to a girlfriend.
Has he? You ask yourself. Has he given these to his girlfriend?
You're not sure when this all began, you're not sure you want to know.
No, you know you don't want to.
You don't want to see what he saw. Or what he felt all those times you'd collapse in his arms after a bad day, a bad date, when he'd watch your eyes puff and swell with sadness. Or what he thought during those evenings your father would upset, when you'd stomp, stomp, stomp back to your room and slam the door.
You bottom lip quivered and he leaned in, snug between your legs, before you could cry. He caught your lips on his and brought you to a quiet.
He let out a sigh of relief that same second, and his hands briskly found themselves on your waist.
It all makes your stomach hurt. None of it takes away from who he is and what he's done.
"Stop," you sobbed into the kiss while melting into it--under him.
You don't know why you want him to stop either.
Is it because of his girlfriend? Or because he's your brother?
But his movements stilled, warm lips nestled above yours, "You want me to stop?" His whisper brushed against you, and you don't respond, only turned your face the other way, his lips on your cheek this time.
Your throat tightened as you swallowed.
"You can't do this to me. I'm..." you paused, wanting to collect your thoughts. "I am not your girlfriend." You whispered with an averted gaze, staring at your dimly lit window.
Not, 'I am family' or 'I am your childhood', but 'I am not your girlfriend.'
"Is that it?" He purred against you, kissed along your cheek to the side of your mouth, where he kept himself pressed, and his hand pushed underneath your chin. "You want to be my girlfriend?" He smiled, you knew because you could feel his lips stretch thin as he spoke.
But he didn't wait for an answer this time.
He used the hand under your chin to turn your face back to his. Then he dove back in without restraint, the kiss eliciting a moan you could tell he was holding back.
He kissed you fervently, like you were meant for him, and him you, and he let you sob under him. He let your hands weakly nudge at his biceps, let you make weak noises.
"Tell me to stop again," he breathed against your lips, "tell me."
He was testing you, what you really wanted, and like clockwork you never knew.
So he made the choice for you and left your swollen lips alone, pulling back and breaking strings of spit with him. Choosing, instead, to stamp your cheeks with wet kisses.
Then along your jaw and down your neck, like he was tasting you or savoring you, the way a devoted man would. And he kissed until he reached your bare navel.
Your mind drifted.
Each memory mingling with your emotions.
Did it start on the night of your sixteenth birthday?
The night he took you down to Benny's because all you talked about was a messy burger with a side of extra soggy fries, topped with the coldest pop, and he watched you eat with all your glory.
Or is that just when it started for you.
Your stomach fluttered in response. You watched through wet lashes as he reached your lower half, where he lightly rubbed his nose into your inner thigh and the ends of his hair tickled your skin.
He bit into the fat of your thighs like the sweetest nectar was promised, with gentle teeth and warmed lips, and he brushed down to your panty-clad mound.
His breath hot above your crotch, and your hand went flying, shoving itself between his mouth and you.
His eyes flicked to look up at you, an eyebrow raised, before he looked back down at your hand. He kissed your knuckles, each one, from thumb to pinky.
He kissed your nails, each one again, then he kissed the pudge of your wrists, nudged at it with his nose. A dog asking, no, fighting for it's treat. And you, the owner, caved by moving your hand.
Michael Wheeler, your childhood, your stepbrother, and what next? Your lover?
a/n #2: hopefully this reaches the right audiences!
i love u loser!reader i love u weird girl!reader i love you hellfire club!reader i love u woc!reader i love you nerdy!reader i love you mean!reader i love you perv!reader
fanfiction is made by weird bitches for weird bitches about weird bitches and i love that <333333
