#+ she has no idea how to arrange things in a way that makes sense

[notitlesapply]

Okay I had a lovely and very horny idea late last night, and I figured I would share.

Basic premise is that clones have no sense of body shame (because they grew up where 95% of everyone around them looked the same) and Jedi, for the most part, have no body shame because of the whole "luminous beings we are not this crude matter." I mean sure for both groups there are exceptions, but for the most part Jedi and clones don't care about nudity. They also don't care about being shy about sex. Sex is natural and feels good.

Mandos on the other hand, like to cover up like Victorian maidens and they have matching sensibilities about nekkid time.

(more under the cut for spice 🌶️🌶️🌶️)

Okay, so in this fic, Jango is alive because I wanna scar Jango. I love him so much but I want him to be punished for his crimes 😈

Anyway, basic set up, things are like canon, Jango is the clone template, a bounty hunter, morally dark gray asshole, hater of Jedi yadda yadda, but also at some point he got control of Mandalore again. He's Mand'alor, ruling the sector, and didn't die. Like canon, Mandalore wants nothing to do with the war, but just like in canon keep getting dragged into shit.

BTW Satine is not gone in this AU because I love her. I think she and Jango have a very loveless political marriage for the stability of Mandalore. Satine is head advisor, and in reality she's the one actually getting shit done in Mandalore's government. Do you think Jango gives a shit about infrastructure? About economics, land rights, keeping the peace between clans, or setting and collecting taxes? Does Jango even know how to fund hospitals, schools, and roads? HELL NO! He leaves that to Satine, who's doing the actual work of running the government, but Jango always gets the final say cause he's the absolute ruler and whatnot. Yes Jango and Satine butt heads and sometimes he fucks up her projects, but for the most part, he leaves the bureaucracy to her.

Anyway, back on track. So at some point Mandalore has to make nice with the Republic. They're going to make a treaty. The Republic sends Obi-Wan and the 212th because 1) Obi-Wan is the Negotiator and 2) Obi-Wan can actually speak Mando'a and is familiar with their leaders and culture.

Of course as soon as Jango hears it's Obi-Wan on his way, he cockblocks Satine. He knows they have a history. He's not going to take the chance that Satine will go soft on her old flame. He's going to deal with the Jedi himself.

Meanwhile Satine is laughing at him on the inside because if he thinks he can handle Obi-Wan Kenobi better than her, he's even more of a meathead than she thought.

Anyway, Obi-Wan and the 212th touch down on Mandalore. Jango, being an absolute ass, goes with a power play right off the bat. He issues a single room for Obi-Wan and his soldiers. To be fair, it's a barracks room, so it can fit quite a few of Obi-Wan's entourage, but even though Obi-Wan informs Jango how many people are coming, Jango only provides half the number of beds required. So when Obi-Wan comes down, there's barely enough space for all the men.

Obi-Wan and the men play it cool. They'll just double bunk. No problem. (Cody, of course, volunteers instantly to be Obi-Wan's bed buddy. No one is surprised.)

Jango is a little irritated at how calm they are about the arrangements, so he decides to double down on the assholery. He orders his staff to turn the heat up in the guest barracks.

This was his first mistake.

His second mistake was barging into the room early in the morning with his advisors in an effort to surprise the Republic dogs. The 212th are half asleep. And every. Single. One. Is. NAKED.

The Mandos brains short out. That's a LOT of nekkid men sharing beds or laying on the bare floor. Sure the room is hot, but don't they have the decency to wear light sleep clothes?! (Jokes on them, the Republic doesn't provide pajamas.)

Jango is not about to be beaten though. He's red as a chilli pepper under his helmet, but he's going to power play like a BOSS. He demands to be pointed in the direction of Kenobi. (A sleepy soldier points to the back of the room and promptly passes back out on his brother's sweaty stomach.)

The Mandos march to the back, struggling not to look at all the exposed body parts. (The advisors are horrified to realize they now know what their Mand'alor looks like naked.)

Jango is sure the Jedi at least will be clothed (don't Jedi wear like 10 layers of robes?) but to his horror, Obi-Wan is lounging nude on his bed, working on a data pad. Commander Cody is sprawled out next to him in the bed fast asleep, also nude, and (to Jango horror) sporting morning wood. (The advisors are now crying under their buckets because now they've seen their leader's erect cock, how scandalous!)

"Good morning, Alor, how may I help you?" Obi-Wan asks politely in a quiet voice so as not to disturb Cody's sleep. Jango sputters, his brain rebooting.

"Cover your dicks!" Jango finally growls out. This wakes up Cody, who opens one glaring eye. Cody mutters under his breath before rolling over, pressing his hard on into Obi-Wan's side to cover it, then hitching up a leg to cover Obi-Wan's groin.

"Happy now, Prime?" Cody grumbles. He doesn't wait for an answer before promptly closing his eyes. (The Mandos have blue screened. Mando.exe error)

Obi-Wan looks fondly at Cody before looking back at Jango expectantly. Jango sputters some BS nonsense and keeps staring resolutely at Obi-Wan hair line before making the basic pleasantries to leave. Cody mutters "Finally" before rolling back over, exposing his hard dick again. The head is suspiciously shiny and there's a bit of wetness against Obi-Wan's side. Jango firmly Stops Thinking About It before basically sprinting outta there, his advisors following in his wake. He orders more bedding for the Republic envoy pronto and to lower the AC in the room. Make it chilly.

Now Jango is not one to give up. He's going to one up the Jedi. He does his trick of barging in unannounced, his advisors with him. They're all going to be clothed this time because now it's cold in here.

No such luck.

The 212th have made a giant cuddle pile in the center of the room to keep warm. While yes, a few soldiers are wearing their thermal blacks and wrapping up in blankets, most of them are butt ass naked in a giant pile snuggling for warmth and comfort. And since it's no longer hot, more than a few of them have decided to let off some steam with sexy times. (None of the Mandos wanted to know what Jango's O-face looked like, but apparently they get to know now!)

But to give Jango credit, he's not willing to back down. He asks to be shown to Kenobi. (A clone points him to the far edge of the pile before going back to pound a fellow trooper into the mattress.)

Red faced, Jango and (most) of his advisors march over to the Jedi. (One poor advisor was just like "Nope!" and dipped.) Luckily it looks like Kenobi is one of the ones who kept clothes on. Yes Cody is sprawled on top of him, dozing, but they're both wearing their shirts and a blanket is over them for warmth.

"How may I help you, gentle beings?" Obi-Wan asks politely. He's petting Cody's hair. It's disgustingly domestic and Jango HATES it. (But at least they're not doing anything risque, because Jango thinks he'll die if he ever saw one of his clones fucking a Jedi.)

Jango starts in on his well practiced speech of all the demands Mandalore has for the Republic. He goes on and on, sounding angrier and angrier. He's desperately trying to ignore the wet sloppy sounds behind him and the moans. Another advisor flees. Jango takes note to prepare discriminatory action.

Finally, Cody opens one baleful eye and calmly says, "Shut up."

Cody sits up on Obi-Wan's lap. The blanket falls, revealing that while they had their shirts on, they had kicked off their lowers at some point. Cody apparently was warming Obi-Wan, because the Jedi's prick is firmly wedged in his Commander's ass.

Cody proceeds to rant at Jango about how this is not the time to talk politics and demands. They have a goddamn schedule, remember?! Their meeting is later. The 212th has rest time for at least another 2 hours, this is a private space given to them, and the Mandos being fucking rude for bothering them.

As he continues berating the Mandos, Obi-Wan starts softly moaning underneath him. Cody has decided to lightly bounce on his Jedi's lap because he's a multi-tasker, and he's fucking horny after warming his Jedi for half an hour. Jango and his advisors are staring and dying a little inside. It's like watching a speeder wreck. They can't look away.

Cody wraps up his little rant before turning his attention solely on his panting Jedi.

"You cum when I say you can," Cody orders firmly before riding Obi-Wan in earnest. The Jedi cries out in agreement, his hips bucking. Cody starts groaning out filthy praise, "Oh oh your dick is so perfect! Long and fat and filling me up so good! Good boy..."

Jango books it outta there, his advisors trailing after him.

Later, when they have the official meeting, Jango wants this to be over with pronto. He agrees to everything Obi-Wan says. He just wants the Jedi and the clones gone. He can't look Obi-Wan or Cody in the eyes. Satine is giving Jango the side eye, but also smirking a little. She doesn't know what happened, but whatever Obi-Wan did, it rattled Jango and she's laughing at him for it.

She also offers to let Obi-Wan and the 212th stay longer as her personal guests so Jango can't just throw them out. Jango is horrified to know that these horny degenerates are going to be on his planet longer. Obi-Wan gracefully accepts her offer. Satine suggests that the 212th explore the city. The 212th heads out and more than a few hook up with some locals. Sooooo many Mandos now know what Jango looks like naked. Jango is nicknamed "Mand'alor the Lover" and "Mand'alor the Big Dick". He's dying.

[o-uncle-newt]

I just got a bit more time in my schedule and I'm hoping to get started on a Sayers-and-Jews reading list, if anyone has any suggestions! I just really feel like I've never seen anyone talk about how WEIRD the apparent received wisdom is of "Sayers was in a relationship with a completely secular Jew who tried to convince her to have premarital sex she was religiously uncomfortable with, which NATURALLY made her start writing about Jews, but a totally different kind of basically fetishized ultra-conservative type than Cournos was." There are clearly missing links there- not an obvious or intuitive connection at all- and I have my own ideas of what they are and am so curious if it's already been written about.

[beloveds-embrace]

I think it would be so funny if Duke Price, before he and the other warms up to duchess, finds out that his wife has been secretly getting money via trade and whatnot and being offended. Like, why not come to me, your husband, for money??

And she just straight up tells him that she doesn’t trust or like him or his lovers. After all, who would trust a cheater?? And he just, spirals? Like omg my wife doesn’t like me? My wife thinks I’m a bad person? But I’m not!! I give her money, I don’t make her have sex with me, I even let her pick her own dresses!! How could my wife not like me?? So now he’s trying his best to get Duchess to like him but she’s just, so done. Done with him, done with his affair partners, done with everything. Just let her have fun with her stocks and leave her alone

I genuinely think the moment dukedom 141 senses that Duchess doesn’t care about them, they suddenly want her to care about them, a real “I only like you when you don’t like me” thing

!!! I love this idea sm omggg thank you for this ask anon, I hope you enjoy!

Dukedom au masterlist

The fire crackled in the hearth of the study, casting shadows across the room. John stood behind his desk, his fingers gripping the edge as he stared down at the ledger in front of him. You sat across from him, your posture poised, your expression cool.

“This,” he said, his voice low, “isn’t just improper. It’s disrespectful. You’re my wife, Duchess. If you needed money, all you had to do was come to me.”

You tilted you head, the barest hint of a smile on you lips, though it lacked warmth. “Why would I do that?”

His brows furrowed, confusion flickering in his eyes the longer he stared and listened to you. “Because I’m your husband. It’s my duty to provide for you.”

You replying laughter was sharp, humorless. “Provide? Is that what you call this arrangement? You married me because you needed someone to handle your duchy while you gallivanted with your…” you hesitated, lips pursing as you considered your next word. “…partners. And you expect me to trust you? To come to you with my needs?”

John blinked, taken aback by the venom in your tone- a tone you’ve never aimed at him before. “I’ve done nothing to make you distrust me, Duchess-”

You scoffed. “Haven’t you? You think I don’t notice the whispered conversations, the way I’m barred from certain parts of the house, the way your men watch me like I’m a threat? You think I don’t know that I’m an outsider in what was supposed to be my own home?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but you weren’t finished.

“And it’s not just you,” you say, your voice rising. “Your butler, Kyle, your chef, Johnny, even your precious Duke Riley. They’re all loyal to you, John. Not to me. I don’t even need their loyalty, just some respect. Why would I put my trust in people who clearly see me as nothing more than an inconvenience?”

“They don’t think that.”

Your gaze bore into him, unflinching. He didn’t think you’d ever given him such a cold stare, and he didn’t like it. At all. “Don’t they? Tell me, John, when was the last time any of them looked at me as anything other than someone they have to put up with? When was the last time any of them looked at me as more than just an obligation? When was the last time you did?”

Silence hung heavy in the room, broken only by the distant ticking of the clock and the crackling embers in the hearth.

John’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I’ve treated you with nothing but respect,” he said, his voice tight. “I’ve never forced you to-”

“To share your bed?” You interrupted, your tone icy. “How magnanimous of you. Truly, I’m blessed to have such a kind and generous husband.”

Your sarcasm stung more than he cared to admit.

“I give you freedom,” he argued, grasping at any straws. Your words rang true, but John still found it hard to accept. “You’ve wanted for nothing since our marriage. You have everything you could possibly need.”

“Everything,” you repeated, your tone mocking. “Except trust. Except companionship. Except a reason to believe that any of this-“ you gestured vaguely at the room around them, at the duchy, at your marriage. “- is real.”

Your words hung in the air, cutting deeper than any blade.

Over the next few days, John found himself haunted by you words. You didn’t trust him. You didn’t trust any of them. And, worst of all, you didn’t like him.

At dinners, you were distant, answering questions with clipped politeness but offering very little else, conversations ending curtly. When you weren’t working on your secretive ledgers or taking solitary walks through the estate, you spent your evenings reading in your chambers, the door firmly shut against him and his men.

Kyle noticed the change immediately, of course, something squirming in his chest unhappily. “She’s colder than a January frost,” he sighed one evening, setting a decanter of brandy on John’s desk.

Price sighed right back at him. “Not exactly helping, Kyle.”

“I’m just saying, she’s got every reason to be,” Kyle continued, unbothered by John. “She’s a stranger in her own home. You can’t expect her to warm up to us when none of us have given her a reason to. We’ve mucked up.”

John scowled, downing a glass of brandy in one go. “She’s my wife. She should trust me.”

“Trust isn’t something you’re owed, John,” Kyle said, his voice softer now. “It’s something you earn and you and I both know none of us has given her any reason to earn it.”

Kyle was right, of course. But-

John’s attempts of mending the trust between the two of you were clumsy at best.

He tried joining you during your walks, only to be met with polite indifference.

“Shouldn’t you be with your men, Your Grace?” You asked one time, your tone as sharp as the winter air.

“They’ll manage without me.” he replied, though your pointed look made it clear you truly thought otherwise.

At dinner, he attempted conversations, asking about your day and your interests. You answered with politeness, but your gaze rarely lifted from your plate. Even Johnny’s attempts to brighten the atmosphere with your favorite dishes were met with little more than a murmured “thank you.”

Simon, ever observant, pulled him aside after one particularly stilted dinner where it got so awkward you didn’t finish your meal or had dessert before you left. “You’re trying too hard, John.” he said, his voice low. “You are just stifling her.”

“What am I supposed to do, Simon?” John snapped at last. “She doesn’t trust me. She doesn’t trust any of us.”

Simon’s expression didn’t waver. Ever since he’d learnt of that conversation you’d had with John, what you’d said and thought about them all, Simon has been thinking it over his mind again and again. “…Then stop treating her like a problem to solve. Start treating her like a person. We failed her once, can’t fail her a second time.”

And so, one evening, John found you in the study, the room dimly lit by the glow of a single lamp. You were hunched over a ledger, your brows furrowed in concentration.

“Duchess…” he breathed out. “Do you need help?” The question comes out tentative.

You glanced up, your expression unreadable beyond the tiredness he could see clinging to you. “I’m fine.”

Still, John lingered in the doorway, unsure of his next move. “I wanted to apologize,” he said at last, no longer beating around the bush. He was done.

Your quill stilled, and you looked up at him, your eyes wary.

“For what I said,” John continued anyways, stepping into the room. “And for how I’ve treated you. You were right. About everything.”

At last, your gaze softened, but you didn’t speak, letting him continue.

“I never wanted this to be such a… cold arrangement for you,” he said, voice faltering. “I didn’t realize how much I’d… neglected you. I am truly sorry, Duchess.”

“… what brought about this sudden realization?”

John hesitated, and then he sighed. “I… I want you to trust me. To trust us.”

You laugh was bitter and cutting, just as it had heen on that day. “Trust you? Trust the men who keep me at arm’s length, who whisper behind my back, who make it clear every day that I’m an outsider? Forgive me if I’m not so easily swayed, Your Grace.”

Your words struck him like a blow, but he held his ground. “Then let me prove it to you,” he said, his voice earnest. “Let me earn it, my Duchess.”

You studied him for a long moment before finally speaking. “… We’ll see.”

And for the first time, John felt a good flicker of hope.

[aeniiverse]

CO-PARENTING A CAT

Synopsis — You and Karina broke up three months ago. It was clean, it was adult, it was entirely her idea. But neither of you thought about what it would mean for Miso your shared, overly dramatic, tuna-obsessed cat who now requires joint custody and emotionally complicated drop-offs.

contains — fluff, angst (maybe a sprinkle), exes to lovers, miso is a bit sassy 😭 (I love her), not much warnings lol

WORD COUNT — 2.5k

A/N — Karina just wants to get back together with you and the cat is a perfect excuse 🙏, have this short fic while I start planning out a longer one

You don’t expect to see her when you open the door in your oversized hoodie and one sock missing, but there she is. Karina. Holding Miso in one arm like a prize she’s just won in a claw machine, lips pursed and eyes wide like she wasn’t planning on seeing you either. The cat meows bored, judgmental, as if she’s the one being inconvenienced and Karina finally speaks.

“She was at my door again,” she says, shifting her weight like the three seconds of silence have started to burn. “Scratched it too. I think she hates me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Miso hates everyone. She’s fair like that.”

“She didn’t hate you when we were dating.”

You pause. And that’s the thing about Karina. She’s always been good at slipping the most dangerous sentences into the most harmless moments. Like she’s tossing grenades in with the groceries. You open the door wider, silently letting her in because fighting in the hallway would mean acknowledging to your neighbors that you’re still, sort of, accidentally, in each other’s lives.

Karina walks in like it’s still her place, like she remembers the way the floorboards creak near the fridge and where you keep the emergency Miso treats even though you moved them last month. Miso jumps out of her arms the second she spots the empty food bowl, trotting off like this whole “shared custody” arrangement isn’t ruining your peace.

“You cut your hair,” Karina says, and you swear her voice softens. You resist the urge to touch it, resist the part of you that wants to explain how post-breakup chaos spiraled into a salon visit where you panicked and said “surprise me.”

“You dyed yours,” you shoot back, because this is what the two of you do now, dodge real things with stupid observations. But then you see the way she smiles, just barely, and you hate how much you missed it. How much you still know it by heart.

Karina crouches to pet Miso, who rolls onto her side and purrs like she didn’t just abandon you two hours ago. “I think she’s manipulating us.”

“She’s a cat.”

“She’s your cat.”

You don’t say it, but that’s not true. Not anymore. Miso was a joint decision. She was an “our” cat. Back when you were an “our” instead of a weird arrangement involving Google calendar custody swaps and avoiding the third drawer in the kitchen because it still has Karina’s chopsticks in it. You don’t throw them out. You don’t know why.

“So,” Karina says, standing up and dusting her hands like she just did something heroic. “Should we talk about the scratching or…?”

“She’s probably just mad you don’t feed her the good stuff.”

“I literally bought that overpriced tuna mousse she likes.”

“You mean the one you used to say ‘smelled like ocean trash’?”

“I’ve grown. People grow.”

You snort, and you hate that it feels natural. You hate how she still makes you laugh in that stupid, knee-jerk way. Like your ribcage remembers her before your brain can stop it. She notices of course she notices and that smug, infuriating smile spreads across her face like it never left.

“I can leave,” she offers suddenly, even though she hasn’t moved an inch. “I just didn’t want her to get run over again. You remember last time—”

“I remember you crying harder than she did.”

“She had a cone! She looked like a furry UFO!”

You laugh. Really laugh. And for a second, it feels like you’re back in that strange little bubble you two built together. Where nothing made sense but it didn’t have to, because at least you had each other. But then the silence creeps in again, heavier this time. And you both know what’s missing.

Karina clears her throat. “Anyway. I can… take her back tonight if it’s too much.”

You want to say no. You want to say yes. You want to ask her if she still uses your Netflix profile and if she misses falling asleep next to you and if she meant it when she said it was better this way. But instead you say, “She’s already here. Might as well let her stay.”

And maybe you’re not just talking about the cat.

You’re halfway through a sad microwave dinner and a worse true crime documentary when your phone buzzes with a message from Karina: ”Miso’s acting weird. Like… really weird. Is she supposed to do that thing with her eye??” There’s a photo attached. Miso, mid-yawn. Not dead. Not dying. Just annoyed. You blink at the image for a long moment, then reread the text. Twice. Because it’s either an actual emergency or Karina being dramatic, and you’ve known her long enough to know those two things often look exactly the same.

Still, she said “really weird.” And that’s just enough to push you out the door.

When you show up at Karina’s apartment, you’re out of breath and slightly pissed, mostly because you didn’t have time to put on real pants. She opens the door in her stupid soft cardigan and even stupider wide eyes like she’s genuinely surprised you came. Which is insane. She knows you. She knows the second she says “Miso” and “weird” in the same sentence, you’ll drop everything.

“She stopped blinking for like twenty seconds,” Karina says as you step inside, voice hushed like Miso might hear her and take offense. “That’s not normal, right?”

You walk straight past her to the living room where Miso is perched like a smug little gremlin on the back of the couch. She looks up at you, unimpressed. You reach out a hand, and she immediately headbutts it, purring like an engine. Zero signs of trauma. No eye twitching. Just healthy, spoiled indifference.

“She’s fine,” you say, turning around slowly. “You made me run over here because she blinked weird?”

“I panicked!” Karina throws her arms up. “It was either call you or Google it, and I didn’t want to see something that said she had feline eye cancer or some shit.”

You want to be mad. You really do. But she’s doing that thing again wringing her hands in her sleeves, lips pressing into a guilty pout, eyes flickering everywhere but your face. Like she’s trying to look casual and failing spectacularly.

“You could’ve just said you wanted to see me,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.

The silence that follows is loud enough to make Miso flatten her ears.

Karina looks at you. Actually looks. And for a moment, it’s like you’re both back at the beginning, before the breakup, before the calendar swaps and cold distance and pretending you don’t miss each other. Her face softens, jaw unclenching just slightly. “I didn’t think I had the right.”

You sit on the edge of the couch, gently scooping Miso into your lap. “You gave her tuna mousse last week. I think you forfeited your moral high ground then.”

Karina groans and flops onto the other end of the couch like she’s been holding her drama in all day. “Okay, but have you seen her face when she eats it?.”

“She’s a cat.”

“She’s a tiny angel with expensive taste.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue. Miso stretches luxuriously across your legs, clearly enjoying the attention. Karina glances at the two of you, then hugs a pillow to her chest like it might keep her from saying something stupid. It doesn’t.

“I thought I was over this,” she says quietly.

Your heart stutters. “Over what?”

“This. You. Wanting to make up reasons to text you. Sitting around hoping you’ll ask for a sleepover again just so I can pretend it’s not a big deal.”

You freeze. Because you weren’t expecting that. Not from her. the one who ended it. The one who said she needed space, clarity, whatever. You’d nodded, swallowed your hurt, let her go. But now she’s looking at you like none of it made her feel better. Like maybe walking away wasn’t some strong, mature decision but a mistake wrapped in fear.

“Then why’d you end it?” you ask. The question hangs in the air like smoke thin and choking.

Karina doesn’t answer right away. She picks at the edge of the pillow, lips tugging down. “Because I thought you deserved someone who wasn’t scared all the time. Who didn’t freeze every time things got serious. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“You ruined it anyway.”

“I know.”

And that’s the part that stings the most, how calm she is about it. How she says it like she’s been carrying the guilt around every day, tucked inside all the moments where she played it cool and acted like she didn’t miss you. You shift under the weight of Miso and the truth pressing down on your chest.

“I kept your hoodie,” she says suddenly. “The blue one. It still smells like you.”

You blink.

“I didn’t mean to. I just… never gave it back. And now it’s like… this comfort thing? Is that weird? That’s probably weird.”

You stare at her. “Do you sleep in it?”

She shrinks into the pillow. “Sometimes.”

Your laugh is soft, disbelieving. “You fake a cat emergency and sleep in my clothes and you’re wondering if that’s the weird part?”

Karina groans and hides her face. “God, I sound so creepy.”

“No,” you say. “You sound like someone who didn’t want to let go.”

She peeks out, hopeful. “What if I don’t?”

You look down at Miso, who’s blissfully unaware of the emotional mess she’s caused. Then back at Karina, at the flush on her cheeks, the nervous curl of her fingers, the quiet hope in her voice. She doesn’t look like someone who’s moved on. She looks like someone who’s been waiting for a sign.

“You didn’t have to pretend,” you say softly. “You could’ve just said you missed me.”

Karina bites her lip. “I missed you so much it was pathetic.”

You smile. “Good.”

Her eyes widen. “Good?”

“Yeah,” you say, nudging Miso gently to the side as you shift closer. “Because I missed you too.”

There’s a pause, charged and soft at the same time. Then she leans in like gravity’s pulling her there, like she’s done waiting. Her voice drops just above a whisper. “So… does this mean I can stop inventing medical emergencies to see you?”

“No promises,” you tease. “But maybe next time, just say hi like a normal person.”

“Normal’s boring,” she murmurs, and then she kisses you.

It’s tentative at first. Careful. Like she’s afraid you might change your mind. But you don’t. You kiss her back, slow and sure, and when she exhales against your mouth like relief, you realize you’re both still in love. Just slightly less afraid now.

Miso meows loudly between you, possibly out of protest. Possibly because she’s no longer the center of attention.

Karina pulls back, grinning. “I think she’s jealous.”

“She’s just mad she can’t fake another crisis now that the truth’s out.”

You both laugh, leaning into each other, the tension finally breaking.

And maybe it took fake emergencies and tuna mousse and an emotionally manipulative cat to get here, but you’re here. Together. Again.

Sort of.

Almost.

Just enough.

You wake up to the sound of purring and something soft against your cheek. For a brief, disoriented second, you think it’s a dream the one of those warm, sugar-fogged ones where everything is right again and Karina’s still yours. But then you blink, and the ceiling isn’t yours, and the blanket smells like Karina’s detergent, and Miso is fully sprawled across your face like the world’s most possessive weighted blanket. You groan, gently shifting her to the side, and that’s when you feel it. Karina’s arm curled loosely around your waist, her breath steady against the back of your neck, like she never let go at all.

You don’t move. You don’t even breathe for a second. Just lie there, frozen in this strange, tender limbo where maybe you’re not exes, maybe you never were, maybe last night was the first step back to something you weren’t brave enough to fight for before.

Then her voice breaks the quiet, sleepy and rough at the edges. “You drool in your sleep.”

You reach back and smack her arm without turning around. “You kissed me last night.”

“Technically, you kissed me back.”

You finally roll over, careful not to disturb the ball of fur between you. Karina’s hair is a disaster, her eyeliner smudged, one cheek creased from the pillow and she still looks stupidly, unfairly pretty. You hate that it makes your heart do cartwheels. You hate that all it took was one dumb night of honesty and tuna mousse to unravel weeks of distance.

“You really missed me?” you ask, quieter this time. Not teasing. Not testing. Just needing.

Karina nods, eyes meeting yours. “I missed you so much I started naming my plants after you. Even the cactus.”

You stare. “Why the cactus?”

“Because it’s prickly and hard to take care of but it still makes me happy.”

You bury your face in the pillow to muffle the groan. “That’s the worst metaphor I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been emotionally constipated for weeks. Let me live.”

There’s a beat of silence, just long enough to make both of you feel the shift. Like something fragile is settling between you, just out of reach. You lift your head and meet her gaze again, softer now.

“So what does this mean?” you ask. “Was last night a one-time makeout brought to you by guilt and cat anxiety, or…?”

Karina hesitates, then slowly, carefully, reaches for your hand beneath the blanket. Her fingers lace through yours, and her grip is warm. Steady. “It means I want to try again. If you’ll let me. No more running. No more hiding behind Miso.”

You glance down at the cat, who is now asleep with one paw dramatically draped over Karina’s stomach like she’s claiming her.

“She forgives you,” you say.

Karina smiles. “What about you?”

You think about the hoodie she kept, the look on her face when she kissed you, the way she’s holding your hand like she never wants to let go again.

“I think so.”

Karina squeezes your hand. “Good. That means I’ve got time to win you back properly.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Properly? Is that code for elaborate gestures or more fake cat emergencies?”

She grins. “Oh no. I’m done lying. Next time I want to see you, I’m just gonna show up with coffee and a tragic playlist and say, ‘I’m still in love with you, please let me in.’”

You snort. “That sounds terrifying.”

“Yeah, well,” she says, tugging you closer until your forehead brushes hers, “so is losing you again.”

And when you finally lean in, kissing her like you mean it this time no confusion, no fear. Miso lets out the most offended meow imaginable and storms off the bed like she wasn’t the reason you’re here in the first place.

[julymusings]

love in withdrawal

true that love in withdrawal was the weeping of me, that the sound of the saw must be known by the tree.

or; in the aftermath of that night, you're both wracked with regret, wishing it went differently. [3.3k]

jason todd x fem!reader; warnings from pt1 also apply; typical jason-angst (so ptsd, self-image/hatred, family issues, etc) + virgin!jason YOU ALR KNOW THE VIBESSSS😝😝😝👹👹 previous: you're good to me, baby

Jason Todd has tried very hard to be normal. At least, as normal as he can get. After returning to his home city and settling into his role as the Red Hood, crime lord and resident anti-hero of Gotham, he really did try. He went out with his 'coworkers' to have a good time. He spoke to his neighbors, hoping some friendship would stick. He went to a seedy bar with Roy and stuttered through some flirting with the girl who eye-fucked him from across the bar for fifteen minutes. With Roy’s encouragement (read: peer pressure), he followed her out to the alley behind the bar. He kissed her a little, tried to do what he was supposed to; put his hands on her waist, maintaining a respectable distance from too high or too low. But it felt…off, somehow. His heightened senses made the way she trailed one finger up and down the muscles of his arm feel prickly, the scars under his sleeve sensitive and itching at her touch. Her lips were too sticky with gloss, and its saccharine watermelon flavor lingered on his teeth for days. No matter how hard he scrubbed at them.

Roy hadn’t let him live that down for months. His recounting of Jason leaving her in the bar when she invited him home, looking ‘scared shitless and fumbling hard’ was an exaggeration, but maybe not that far off. Looking back, he wasn’t sure what he expected; he could barely look his own family in the eye. How did he think he’d be able to keep it together around a pretty girl? He was quick to give up any hopes of being ‘normal’ after that.

He lived like that for a while; putting all his energy into keeping the city safe, working himself to the bone as the Red Hood so he wouldn’t have time to reflect on who he was as Jason. He fixed things with his family just enough to have a place to go every other weekend to “upgrade his gear.” When he stuck around long enough that it was ‘only convenient’ to stay for dinner, no one commented on it. He’d accepted that this was his life now.

He never meant for things to go this far with you. Honestly. He was just doing his job when he gave you a ride home after you sprained your ankle trying to fight off that mugger. When he had to hold your weight so you could walk up the stairs to your apartment, he was still just doing his job. And when you, still in shock and heart pumping with adrenaline, put your frantic energy into nervous ramblings and fretting over his bruises— making sure you were okay before he left was part of his job. But one visit to your apartment turned into two, and two turned into three, each under the guise of ‘checking on your ankle’ or ‘being on his route’. Somewhere along the line your arrangement came to be: he stopped by with wounds needing to be treated, you treated them, and then he’d leave. And if you wanted to make some small conversation, getting to know each other a little more with every visit, that was harmless. Seeking you out for the smallest injuries that he was fully capable of dealing with himself was harmless. Holding you in his arms while you clutched onto him for dear life and sobbed into his shirt, neglecting his knife wound for far too long in favor of wiping away your tears—

He never meant for things to go this far.

Two days after that night, Jason is still reeling. In hindsight, letting the slice on his arm sit in the open, stale air for as long as it did was not the best idea. Sewing it closed one-handed so as to relieve the burden from your shoulders, taking no care to sterilize the instruments that fell to the floor in his hurry to follow the alarm bells in his head that screamed go! Get out and go! was a horrible idea. Sure, having you kneeled in his lap, pressed against him for the better part of the thirty minutes he spent at your place wasn’t exactly a regret. But was it worth the round of antibiotics and week-long benching ordered by Bruce after he stumbled into the Batcave an hour ago, hastily stitched up by his own hand and running a fever? He can’t decide. Was it worth the consequence of his siblings taking turns covering the patrol route of his city sector during his absence? Definitely not.

Was it worth the sight of you looking up at him, watery-eyed with flushed cheeks and fluttering eyelashes accentuated by the shine of your tears? The feeling of your hand sliding over his chest?

Maybe.

Maybe he could use the time off, as pointed out by a sneering Timothy, considering he was so stupid as to let his wound fester to the point of infection. He’d be too distracted to give the city his full attention, anyway. He needs time to think. To lie down in his old bed, stare at the ceiling, and think about if he’ll ever see you again.

Tim’s comment earns him a smack to the back of the head from Dick, who promptly kicks Tim out of the room.

“How are you feeling?” Dick stands at Jason’s bedside, arms crossed in concern.

“Same as when you asked me five minutes ago.” Jason wheezes. His pit-enhanced immunity makes the infection symptoms much easier than they could have been, but Bruce still insisted on him staying the whole week for observation. With how much he’s grown since he last used it, his childhood room feels much smaller than he remembers.

“Yeah, but…” Dick narrows his eyes at Jason. His gaze flits to his arm, wrapped in fresh bandages with an ice pack pressed over the stitches. “How…are you?”

“The same as…before,” Jason says, mimicking his brother’s cadence.

Dick sighs, thinking over his next move. He walks to the door, closes it, and pulls Jason’s desk chair to the bedside and sits down.

Jason groans. “Do you really have to—”

“Just humor me,” Dick interrupts. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. He takes Jason’s silence as resignation. “Did something happen?”

Jason rolls his eyes. “I got stabbed, Dick.”

“Is that all?” There’s a lilt in Dick’s voice.

“What are you implying?” Jason shoots back, though his hoarse throat negates his attempt to sound intimidating.

“Nothing! I’m not implying anything!” Dick leans back in his chair, holding his palms up in surrender. “I’m just saying. You seem…bothered. By something.”

“Yeah, the stab wound.”

“Okay. Okay, fine.” Dick clears his throat. “If there’s nothing.” He stands, returning the chair to its place. As he’s leaving, though, his hand settled on the doorknob, he hears a rustle of fabric and turns back to Jason. He’s shifting around in his old bed, awkwardly pulling at the comforter and he moves to sit on the edge, staring hard at the red pattern of the blanket while opening and closing his mouth, battling with himself on whether or not he should speak. Dick waits, giving him the time to work it out.

“I think I…” Jason says finally, not looking up from his lap. “I messed up.” He looks very uncomfortable. If opening up wasn’t such a rare occurrence for him, Dick might have found humor in his brother’s embarrassment.

Dick lets go of the doorknob, but doesn’t dare move closer. He knows that Jason’s fight or flight instincts will take hold the second he feels too caged in. “Messed up how?” He asks, keeping his tone even and unemotional.

“With…someone.” Jason forces out the words, cheeks burning as bright as his bedspread. He still refuses to look at Dick, but at the surprised, choked-back sound he makes at the admission, Jason’s face snaps up to his. Dick is disguising his shock as a cough into his fist, but his wide eyes are unmistakable, even behind the curtain of thick hair falling over his eyes.

“That’s…uh…” Dick clears his throat again. Then again. “That’s great, Jason,” he says, at last regaining his composure.

“Is it?” Jason says, squinting at his brother.

“No, I mean—not that you—” Dick sighs, running a hand down his face and deciding to abandon that train of thought altogether. “What happened?”

“I sort of…left. Abruptly.” Jason rubs at the growing stubble on his jaw. “Like— like after…” He trails off, hoping Dick will get the idea.

Dick has to quiet the extremely loud sirens going off in his head when he (albeit incorrectly) has the realization that his baby brother, the one he still sees as four feet tall, swinging his little legs off the kitchen island and covered in cookie crumbs is, in fact, having sex. 

“Is it serious?” He asks through a stiff smile.

Jason, ever oblivious to the silent breakdown his brother is having at the door, is not sure if he’d describe what you two have as serious. He knows you fairly well, knows what you do from the nights you talk about what’s going on at work; what you like from the posters and trinkets you have hung up around your place. And yeah, you talk sometimes. He may not speak that much around you, and it’s usually just frustrated complaints about the other bats, but it’s certainly more than he speaks to most people outside his family. And he sees you more often than he does most people outside his family. And he feels more comfortable with you than—

“Jason,” Dick calls, pulling him from his thoughts. “Is it serious?” He asks again, though there’s a quirk in his brow that suggests he already knows the answer.

“I don’t know,” is what Jason settles on.

“When did this happen?”

“Uh, a few days ago?” Jason says, even though he knows that’s a lie. It was 45 hours and 26 minutes ago, to be precise, but he doesn’t say that. He’s not sure how it would be received.

“You can’t go back? Just try to apologize?”

He wants to see you again, but he can’t. Doing so in the first place only put you in danger, and he was an idiot for ignoring that. If the wrong person had seen the Red Hood making consistent visits to the same window of the same building? His stomach turns at the thought.

Jason can’t imagine you’d be welcoming, either, after the way he left two nights ago. He watched you splash your face with cool water, leaving him with a shaky, watery smile, then listened to you putter around the kitchen with the promise of tea for the both of you. He felt like an asshole, picturing you coming back to the bathroom with his mug in hand, only to be met with an empty room and scattered first aid supplies on the floor. He didn’t even leave through the living room, like he entered, because you were in the kitchen. He climbed out of your bedroom window, like a coward. In his haste, he left those bloodstains he promised he would clean.

“I’m not sure she wants to see me.” Jason says quietly.

Dick answers thoughtfully; “Did she tell you that, or are you just making assumptions?”

Jason sighs. “Shit.”

“But, actually,” Dick winces. “You do have to stay here for the whole week, so…”

Jason lets out a tired groan and drops his face into his palms.

“Maybe call her?” Dick offers. He gathers the conversation is over from the way Jason glares at him, and turns to leave. But when he’s halfway out the door, he turns back. “Hey, Jaybird?”

Jason lifts his chin.

“You’re, uh…using protection, right?”

Jason blinks. It’s now that he realizes what Dick thought he was talking about and it burns him, leaving his skin red-hot.

“Get the fuck out.”

“Look, I’m just trying to—” He cuts himself off with a yelp, leaping out of the doorway to dodge the projectile pillow thrown at his head.

Jason hears a ‘good talk’ from the end of the hall, but is too busy with brand new concerns about his situation with you. If he could call you, he would, but he doesn’t have your number. He could easily find it, but not while he’s confined to this bedroom; he’d need access to his gear at home. And with the entire manor breathing down his neck for the next week, there was no way he’d be able to sneak out. So he’d have to wait an entire week before coming to see you again.

Maybe showing up at your place two days after the ordeal would have you understandably hurt, but nine days? You were going to be pissed. You are pissed.

Not at the Red Hood. You’re mad at yourself for being so stupid as to break down in front of him. It’s no fucking wonder he ran out the first chance he got. You sobbed into his shirt like an idiot for who knows how long. You practically felt him up. You’re an idiot for not thinking that would make him uncomfortable. And now, he’s never coming back, and you can’t even blame him!

There’s a book on your coffee table with a bookmark near the end that’s been staring at you since that night. That night when you, more consumed with confusion than anything else, dumped two mugs of fresh tea in the sink and flopped down on the couch and…waited. For what, you had no idea. The cover art took up your entire field of vision while you lied to yourself, saying you weren’t stealing glances at the window, hoping for a certain body to appear in the frame.

In the days following, the book sat there, practically taunting you until you turned it face-down so the sight of the star-constellated cover would stop making your stomach twist over in nausea. Nausea at the memory of how eager you were to pick it up at the library mere days after he had mentioned it, how you buzzed with excitement, and maybe something deeper, when you came home at night ready to snuggle into the couch with a blanket and your favorite mug to read the next chapter.

I hate you so much, you had murmured into a nasty bruise on the back of his left shoulder one night, though you couldn’t stop the grin that broke through the words.

What did I do? He replied, turning to look at you over his shoulder. 

You never told me that would happen halfway through, you said, forcing a frown when you looked up at him.

He chuckled. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to spoil it for you.

Through the amusement there was a lull in your usual rhythm. He did not need to ask which part of the book you were complaining about. He knows, knows you well enough to understand that you would be angry, reading about a budding, hopeful love that’s marred by the revelation that the boy and the girl will not make it. That their love was doomed from the start because, inevitably, he will have to leave her, and he has known the entire time that he would have to leave. That he loved her with one foot out the door.

You turned him around, ready to focus on the small abrasion at his temple when he asks, forgive me?

Fine, I guess so, you said, standing on your toes to get closer to his head.

That night replayed in your mind too often. The way he moved a ghost of an inch closer to lean into your fingers. The smell that was purely him in the grime and sweat in his hair when you pushed it back from his forehead, hoping he wouldn’t notice the extra second you lingered, fingers threaded into those streaks of white. You always wondered if they would feel different than the rest of his hair. They didn’t. They were just as soft. You wondered if anyone else knew that. You hoped not; no one else needed to know him the way you did.

(No one needed to know that you revisited that night with such frequency, either, in the middle of the night hidden under layers of blankets and darkness with nothing but your hands and imagination. You’d take that to the grave.)

Perhaps, deep down, there was a small part of you that wished he would turn up at your window again, this time armed with reasonings and apologies.

There was an emergency.

My team needed me.

I didn’t want to leave.

But after five days of radio silence, there’s not much you can do except take the hint.

You go about your normal routine, trying your hardest to push him out of your mind. Things at work are steady, your position intact and safe from usurping coworkers. You resign yourself to a fate of friends with questionable compassion, grateful to have any at all, and call up your best friend to smooth things over. She accepts, moving on to squeal about her boyfriend’s friend that she’s been dying to set you up with. You reluctantly agree to a double date somewhere down the line, but start preparing excuses and illnesses in the back of your mind.

Ten days after that night, that book is one week past its due date when you muster up the will to take it back to the Gotham Public Library.

(So maybe you still held out a small flicker of hope. What matters now is that you’re here, ready to return it and blow out that flame.)

There’s one person ahead of you when you fall into line at the front desk. He makes easy conversation with the librarian while she scans his library card; judging by the waves he garners from other passing staff, he must be popular around here.

“Thanks again, you’re the best,” he says, taking the book she hands him.

“Oh, of course,” the librarian gushes, a faint rouge coloring her face. “You let me know how you like that one.”

“I will.”

He turns around, halting suddenly to stop himself from walking into you. You mutter out an apology, ready to move past him, but he stares at you, saying nothing. His large hand tightens its grip on an old and worn book. The ends of jet black strands peek out from under a red beanie and he searches you with wide, teal eyes, mouth agape like he wants to speak. He’s looking at you like he’s been looking for you for ages, and he can’t believe you’re here.

“Hi,” he says, sounding a little breathless.

“Hi.” You clutch your book tighter against your chest, not knowing what to make of this man. It draws his eyes lower and he sees the title.

“Hi,” he says again. Then; “I— I was wondering. About that book.” He nods toward it. “I’m, uh, thinking about reading it. What did you think?”

“Oh,” you exhale. “I actually never finished it. Sorry.”

“Oh,” he echoes. His face falls, but only for a moment, before returning to a neutral expression. “Okay, sorry.”

He brushes past, leaving you addled in his wake, but also next in line. The librarian flashes you a glare when the book is scanned in as one week late. Sheepishly, you pay the fine and watch as it gets rolled away on a re-shelf cart, the last of your connections to the Red Hood rolling along with it.

It would be another two months before you saw him again.

remember after the last part when i said "ignore how his open would is just sitting there marinating"? well i figured out how to amend that👍 idk why i feel like this is so short i tried to write more but yk how it is the story goes the way it wants to i am but the messenger. i've been experiencing mad writer's block this past couple of weeks please pray for me🙏🙏🙏

listen to the inspo song!!!

[p0orbaby]

Dancing in the Dark

summary: a tactics coach and a vice captain walk into a bar… have a not so secret relationship

warnings: mentions of sex but nothing graphic

a/n: i asked for requests and someone sent me this gem

word count: 3.1k

-

Leah texts you at exactly 12:02 a.m., a time she insists is “late enough to avoid suspicion but early enough that we’re not knackered in the morning.” The precision of it is very Leah—practical, calculated, with just the faintest whisper of rebellion. It’s always the same text—Room 308—as if she’s writing it for a stranger who might need the address for their sat nav. She never adds punctuation. You think that’s intentional, a way of keeping it casual, devoid of any intimacy that could be misconstrued.

You’ve stopped bothering to reply. It’s not that you don’t want to see her—want isn’t the word for what you feel when you see her name flash on your screen, but it’s close enough. It’s that typing on my way feels excessive when the answer’s already obvious. She knows you’ll come. You know she knows. And there’s something about that silent agreement that feels like the only part of this whole arrangement that makes sense.

The desk lamp casts a faint yellow glow across the room as you pack up. Your laptop goes into the bag first, followed by the notepad you’ve been using to scribble ideas for tomorrow’s strategy meeting. You pause to carefully align its corner with the edge of the desk—a habit you’ve had since you were a child, though you’re not sure if it’s a quirk of personality or a learned behaviour from years of Catholic school and its draconian rules about neatness.

Your hoodie is next, slung over the back of the chair like it’s been waiting for this exact moment. It’s an old one from university, the logo cracked and peeling, the sleeves stretched from too many washes. It smells faintly of your laundry detergent—a scent marketed as “ocean breeze,” though you’ve always thought it smells more like cheap fabric softener and an overactive imagination. Nothing about it suggests the ocean, or even a breeze. It’s more akin to the air freshener in a Southend-on-Sea rental cottage, the kind with faded floral curtains and a broken kettle. You wonder, briefly, if Leah would find this thought amusing. Probably. She has a way of laughing at things that don’t seem funny until she does.

The hotel corridor is silent, save for the distant hum of a vending machine and the occasional creak of overused floorboards. You walk quickly, your trainers barely making a sound on the patterned carpet—a gaudy, swirling design in shades of burgundy and gold that seems to scream corporate retreat. You keep your eyes trained forward, as if avoiding eye contact with the carpet will somehow render you invisible to anyone who might happen to step out of their room.

You’ve mapped out every staff member’s room, memorised the most efficient route, and calculated the probability of running into someone based on their known habits. Karen from PR always goes to bed early, probably still jet-lagged from the US tour. The physio, Jamie, is a night owl, but he’s more likely to be glued to Netflix than wandering the halls. Leah finds this level of detail ridiculous.

“You’re acting like MI5 is going to raid the place,” she’d said once, sprawled on her bed in a tangle of limbs and laughter. Her hair was still damp from the shower, a faint halo of gold catching the light as she turned her head to look at you. “You’re allowed to have fun, you know”

She’d been peeling off your shirt as she said it, her fingers tracing lazy circles on your shoulder, her eyes glittering with amusement. You wanted to argue, to tell her that fun is precisely what you’re having, in the only way you know how to have it: meticulously planned, risk-assessed, and executed with the precision of a military operation. But then her hands had moved lower, and the argument had dissolved into something else entirely. Something much harder to put into words.

-

Room 308. You knock twice—firm, precise knocks that betray none of the absurd nervousness bubbling under the surface. The kind that makes your palms clammy and your chest feel like it’s trying to audition for a drum solo. The knocks are part of a ritual now, as familiar as tying your boots before a match or double-checking the pitch markings. Three sharp raps, never four, because three would seem impatient, and two would feel too casual, as though you’re dropping by to borrow sugar or ask for her Netflix password.

The door opens almost instantly, as if she’s been standing on the other side, waiting for you. Leah’s dressed in one of those oversized T-shirts she always wears off the pitch, the kind that blur the line between effortless and lazy. This one is black, or it might have been once, but it’s faded now, the fabric soft and worn thin at the seams. The logo across the chest is barely legible—AC__ME—as though it’s been through the wash one too many times. You can’t tell if it’s a nod to Arsenal, a subtle homage to Wile E. Coyote’s endless misfortunes, or one of those niche designer brands that only appear on people with a six-figure salary and a curated Instagram aesthetic. It’s probably the latter. Leah strikes you as the kind of person who’d know what Vetements is and pretend she doesn’t care about it while secretly owning three pieces.

“Hey,” she says, stepping aside to let you in. Her voice has this easy warmth to it, like she’s just woken up from the kind of nap that makes you forget what year it is. There’s a hint of amusement in her tone, the faint lilt of someone who’s just thought of something funny but isn’t planning to share it with the group. You’ve always liked that about her—how she can hold a joke in her mouth like a secret, like it’s something she doesn’t owe to anyone else.

“Hi,” you reply, because what else is there to say? Hello feels too formal, like you’ve shown up for a job interview, and anything else—anything softer, more intimate—feels dangerous. Like stepping too close to the edge of a cliff just to see how far you can lean before gravity kicks in.

Her room is a mirror image of yours, down to the garish burgundy carpet and beige curtains that don’t quite close properly. It’s a symphony of stereotypical hotel design, where the furniture all looks like it’s been bolted down as a precaution against theft. But there’s something different about hers, something distinctly Leah. It smells faintly of her perfume, a citrusy Chanel scent you’d once looked for in John Lewis out of curiosity. You’d sprayed it onto one of those paper tester strips, only to feel your lungs contract at the price tag. It smells like sunshine and sharp edges, and now it’s permanently tangled up in your memory of her.

The bed is unmade, the covers thrown haphazardly across the mattress like they’ve been caught mid-escape. One pillow teeters on the edge, a casualty of her apparent inability to sleep neatly. There’s a half-empty bottle of water on the nightstand, its label peeling from condensation. A pair of socks—crew-length, white with a small Nike tick—lie abandoned on the floor near the foot of the bed, one inside out. The room is messy in a way that surprises you. Leah, who is precise and meticulous on the pitch, leaves her personal space in a state of mild chaos. And for some reason, it makes you smile. It’s humanising, like finding out that superheroes still get toothpaste on their shirts.

You step inside, careful not to trip over her trainers—Adidas Sambas in a muted beige tone, scuffed at the edges but somehow still immaculate in their coolness. The door clicks shut behind you, the sound punctuating the silence like a full stop. You turn to face her, and she’s leaning against the dresser now, her hands resting in the pockets of her shorts. She’s watching you, her eyes half-lidded and impossibly blue, the kind of blue that makes you think of open skies and lost afternoons.

“What?” you ask, because the weight of her gaze always makes you self-conscious, like you’ve walked into a room wearing mismatched socks.

“Nothing,” she says, her mouth curving into a smirk. “You just look…” She pauses, letting the sentence hang in the air like an unfinished melody.

“What?” you repeat, a little sharper this time, though you’re smiling too.

“Like you’re trying not to smile,” she finishes, pushing off the dresser and moving closer.

And maybe you are. Maybe you’re trying not to give away how much you like this—the quiet intimacy of it, the way she looks at you like you’re the only person in the world who knows what this feels like. Maybe you’re trying not to admit how much you want to reach out and touch her, to close the space between you with a single step. But you don’t. Not yet.

-

The sex is unhurried, languid. Leah moves with the same precision she does on the pitch, her hands mapping the curve of your waist, the line of your jaw, like she’s planning her next move three steps in advance. It’s the same deliberation you’ve seen in her during matches—the way she reads the game like it’s written in a language only she understands. But this isn’t a match. There are no spectators, no whistles, no rules, just her and you and the slow, deliberate way she’s undoing you, piece by piece.

Her kisses are deep, focused. They land with intent, the kind that makes you forget your own name, let alone the fragile, tenuous boundaries of this arrangement. Her mouth lingers on yours, then moves to your neck, her lips brushing just beneath your ear. She doesn’t bite, not yet, but you can feel her teeth graze your skin, an unspoken promise that leaves you gasping, your fingers curling into the rough fabric of the hotel sheets.

Her fingertips press into your skin—not hard enough to hurt but just firm enough to leave the ghost of her touch behind, as though she’s marking her territory. They trace the length of your back, down your spine, to your hips. Her thumbs skim over the waistband of your joggers before she tugs them down with a kind of casual confidence that feels maddeningly unfair. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She always does.

“You’re so quiet,” she murmurs, her voice low, teasing. She presses a kiss to your collarbone, her hands slipping beneath your shirt to push it up, her palms warm against your ribs. “That’s not like you”

“I’m—” You try to respond, but her mouth finds a particularly sensitive spot on your neck, and the words catch in your throat.

“Exactly,” she says, her voice smug as she moves lower, her lips trailing down your chest, your stomach, her pace agonisingly slow. She hooks her fingers under the waistband of your underwear, and you lift your hips instinctively, barely registering the soft laugh she lets out, the sound dark and smooth like melted chocolate.

There’s no rush. Leah’s always like this—methodical, unhurried. She knows how to take her time, how to keep you teetering on the edge until your body feels like it’s no longer your own. She kisses her way back up, pausing to nip at your jaw, your shoulder, the place where your pulse beats just beneath your skin. Her hand slips between your thighs, her touch deliberate, controlled. And you’re gone.

It’s like a tidal wave, slow to build but devastating when it crashes over you. You’re not sure when you start begging—if it even counts as begging, the broken sounds spilling from your lips without your consent—but Leah doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, she seems pleased, her smirk pressing against the hollow of your throat as she mutters something you’re too far gone to catch.

At some point, she presses her forehead to yours, her breath coming in short, uneven bursts. She murmurs something—low, unintelligible, a slurred mix of swear words and your name. Or maybe it’s not your name. Maybe it’s a prayer. Maybe it’s both. You don’t ask her to repeat it. You’re too busy trying to remember how to breathe, your hands clutching at her back, pulling her closer like you can merge into her, like you can stop time if you just hold on tightly enough.

By the time you collapse onto the mattress, tangled in the hotel’s suspiciously rough sheets, you’re vaguely aware of how loud you’ve been. The walls are thin. The kind of thing where you can hear your neighbour’s TV murmuring away or the occasional flush of a toilet. It’s almost comedic, really, the way you’d tried so hard to avoid being seen earlier, only to make it painfully obvious now. You half expect a knock on the door, some irate teammate demanding silence.

Leah doesn’t seem to care. Of course she doesn’t. She lies beside you, her face flushed, her hair falling loose from the ponytail she’d barely tried to secure. She’s smirking, the way she always does after these nights, like she’s just scored the winning goal and nobody else on the team noticed. Her arm brushes against yours as she stretches out, her skin warm and damp, her breathing slow and even.

-

The next morning, you arrive at breakfast twenty minutes late, a record even for you. You’ve spent the better part of that time in front of the mirror, tilting your head at impossible angles to assess the carnage Leah left on your neck. Hickeys, in various stages of bruise-like blossoming, dot your skin like a battlefield casualty report. You try concealer—two layers, then three—but it only makes you look like you’ve dipped your neck in cake batter. After an extensive wardrobe evaluation, you settle on a jumper with a collar just high enough to obscure the worst of it, but not so high that it screams I’ve made several poor life choices and am now concealing the evidence.

You enter the dining area cautiously, your eyes scanning for witnesses like you’re in the opening sequence of Casino Royale. The room is loud with the sound of clinking cutlery, chairs scraping against linoleum, and conversations overlapping in a way that is both chaotic and oddly comforting. You spot Katie McCabe first, standing by the buffet with a bowl of cereal that is more milk than anything resembling a solid. Her spoon hovers mid-air as she glances at you, then swivels her head in Leah’s direction, who is seated at a corner table, scrolling through her phone like she has never made a suspicious noise in her life.

Katie’s eyes narrow, and her mouth stretches into a grin so wicked it should be trademarked. She sets her cereal down and makes a beeline for you, walking with the kind of determination that belongs exclusively to people with too much time on their hands and absolutely no regard for personal boundaries.

“Well, well,” she says, stepping closer. Her eyes dart to your neck, then back up to your face. “Someone had a busy night.”

You freeze. Instinctively, your hand twitches toward the collar of your jumper, but you stop yourself. Guilty behaviour. Act normal. Be cool. You shrug in what you hope is a convincing display of nonchalance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Katie tilts her head, her grin widening. “Oh, don’t play dumb,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward your neck. “What’s that, then? Tactical bruising? Working on a new game plan?”

“I slipped in the shower,” you deadpan. It’s a lie so bad it physically hurts to say, but the alternative is giving Katie McCabe ammunition, and you’d rather die than give her the satisfaction.

She snorts. “Jesus, you’ve got to at least try with these excuses”

You glare at her, but it’s useless. Katie is like a shark in open water—she can smell blood, and she’s circling. She follows you to the table, sliding into the chair next to yours without so much as an invitation. Her cereal sloshes precariously in her bowl, milk dripping onto the edge of the table. She doesn’t notice. Or doesn’t care.

Leah, of course, is completely unbothered. She’s leaned back in her chair, scrolling through her phone like she’s reading the football section of The Guardian and not actively trying to avoid eye contact with you. Her hair is still slightly damp from her morning shower, and she’s wearing a hoodie that looks suspiciously like yours. Katie clocks the hoodie immediately and raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. Not yet.

“Just to clarify,” Katie says, her voice loud enough to carry to the next table, “are we calling this a team-building exercise or…?”

Leah doesn’t even flinch. Without looking up from her phone, she says, “Mind your business, McCabe”

Katie lets out a delighted laugh, stealing a slice of toast from your plate like she’s earned it. “Oh, it is my business,” she says, buttering the toast with an enthusiasm that borders on offensive. “You lot kept me up all night. Thought someone was being murdered in the next room. Turns out it was just—”

“Katie,” you interrupt, your voice sharp enough to cut through her sentence. Your face is burning, your ears hot enough to fry an egg on.

Katie leans back in her chair, utterly unrepentant. “Relax,” she says, taking a bite of the toast she stole. “Your secret’s safe with me. For now”

She winks at you, a gesture so insufferable you consider lobbing a teaspoon at her head. Instead, you glance at Leah, whose lips are twitching at the edges, betraying the smirk she’s desperately trying to suppress.

You shoot her a glare that you hope translates to I will kill you later, but she only raises an eyebrow, as if to say go ahead, make my day.

Katie’s still watching you, her grin as infuriating as ever. “You’re lucky it was me who heard you,” she says, her tone dripping with mock sincerity. “Imagine if it had been Beth. She’d have the whole squad doing impressions by now”

Leah finally looks up from her phone, her expression cool, but there’s a dangerous glint in her eye. “You done?”

Katie holds up her hands in mock surrender, her grin never faltering. “I’m just saying. Maybe next time, try keeping it down. Or don’t. Makes for great entertainment”

You slump in your chair, burying your face in your hands. You can feel Leah’s gaze on you, and when you finally peek through your fingers, she’s smiling. Not smirking, not teasing, but actually smiling, like this is the most fun she’s had in weeks.

You make a mental note to kill her later. Or maybe kiss her. You haven’t decided yet.

[alchemistc]

Donato spots it first - Tommy's been fidgeting with the just-too-short sleeves of his shirt for the past ten minutes, fingers curling into the ends of the arms, thumb sliding along the hem like maybe he could make them long enough to fully cover his wrists just by thinking really hard about it. It's stretched tight across his shoulders, the neck hole feels too high, biting into his skin, and Tommy is absolutely certain it's been hemmed in at the fucking waist, because he can barely keep the damn thing tucked into his pants.

(The cost of having those fucking magnificent gazelle legs is apparently torso space.)

"You shrink your shirt in the wash again, Kinard?"

Tommy's been begging their vendor to switch to a jersey blend for years because 100% cotton undershirts are a goddamn bitch and a half to maintain.

Tommy thinks about ignoring the question entirely. They've been razzing him for weeks about the way every single smile line in his face has been putting in overtime lately.

And then she gets a closer look at it. The merch is usually the same cross-department, but every once in a while some probie will get stuck with the task of ordering a few extras to have as backups around the station and they'll go a little too hard on customization. Like, for example, the one he'd picked off the top of his clean laundry basket without looking in his rush out the door this morning.

Lucy's eyes narrow. She reaches forward, pinches the 118 emblem blazing across the breadth of his shoulder, takes in the color and sturdiness of a shirt he definitely can't play off as being old enough to have been from his own time at the One Eighteen.

Donato grimaces so mockingly Tommy nearly warns her that her face'll get stuck like that. "Christ, Kinard, how fucking domestic are you two?"

(Three days off together after a week of getting by with random texts, their schedules nearly opposite, and when Evan had stared at his overnight bag on day two and realized he didn't have any spare undershirts he'd pouted up a storm about the fact that if he had to go back to his place it didn't make a lick of sense to turn right back around to Tommy's, so Tommy had just thrown Evan's dirty undershirt in with the rest of his own laundry. And then prompted Evan to throw all his other stuff in the wash too. Halfway across the city, Evan is definitely rolling too-long sleeves over his palm with the tips of his fingers and Tommy does not have time to think about how much he likes the idea of that )

"He doesn't even know my how I take my coffee," Tommy snipes, like that avoids the question, and across the locker room Johnson slams his locker shut with a snort.

"Because you've been using his increasingly more desperate attempts to figure it out as some weird intricate mating ritual for three months now."

"It's about --."

"--the journey, not the destination," they both interrupt, eyes rolling, and Tommy doesn't bother to try to hide the grin in his face.

"He just wants to get it right so bad."

Donato's face is unimpressed. "Ugh. Can you please stop being so smitten right in front of me? I'm gonna throw up."

Tommy leans in for the kill. "Your wife ever buy you flowers, Johnson? Because I've been trying to decide how much thought went into the arrangement he brought me on Saturday, and I figure -." He dodges the palm Johnson extends towards his face with a bark of bright laughter.

---

Evan 2:15 PM

Boyfriend privileges are a SCAM

Evan 2:15 PM

Why is YOUR NAME on the back of this shirt? There's no way that's standard

Evan 2:16 PM

Chimney's being homophobic

Evan 2:19 PM

Nvm Gerrard saw it and now I'm just sad he didn't actually have a heart attack about it

[waywardangel-wilds]

Peeta is always open to drawing or painting anything for Katniss and she's frequently taken him up on it. It's usually not that difficult for him, he loves the chance to paint, to refine his skills. Katniss loves having not only a reminder of certain memories but also a physical representation of Peeta's enduring and almost quiet love for her. And it's easy. Natural. That is until Katniss looks at Peeta one day and asks, "Would you do a self-portrait for me?"

That's hard for him. The sketches are never quite right, the colors are off. Katniss doesn't ever nitpick at his paintings, and she isn't being unkind or anything, but she always looks at the drafts with an uncertain expression only to say, "Somethings not right, Peeta."

Peeta gets frustrated. Why can't he just do this painting? He asks Katniss what is off about the sketches, and it's always a thousand little things. His eyes aren't that severe. He's supposed to have freckles there. His mouth is softer in real life. His hair doesn't curl like that. His expression is off. He can never seem to get it right. What is it about this painting?

They're lying on the couch one day when Katniss says, "Maybe you just can't see yourself the way I do."

That makes him curious. How does she see him? They start trying to figure that out. He says that she should describe his face to him as if he were a plant for the book, and maybe they could arrive somewhere accurate.

Katniss finds it a little funny, even odd, he's himself. He has to be more familiar with his own face than she is, but she humors him. They sit down in his studio together and begin.

It becomes an exercise in getting to know her, somehow, on a level that he hadn't explored before. She spends a long time talking about the shape of his eyes, the fan of his eyelashes, and the color of his irises. Her cheeks stain with embarrassment, and his heart knocks against his ribs, trying to escape, maybe even trying to reach out to her.

She has something to say about details he'd never even thought of before. The angle of his chin, the exact colour of his hair. She has descriptions that don't make much sense to him too. His smile is like spring and his scars are like marigolds. When given time, Katniss ends up arranging a whole bouquet of wildflowers with her descriptions.

He loves her. He already knew that. Heck, people on the other side of the country already knew that, but he'd had no idea, somehow, he still had no idea the depth of Katniss's devotion. It's beautiful and seemingly never-ending and it fills his own heart with joy.

They create the portrait together, after many hours spent alone. It's a painting of his own face, yet, it holds a deep intimacy and he can't seem to look at it without smiling and blushing like a fool. He doesn't think of it as his, even if it's a painting of himself, the painting is wholly Katniss's. He presents it to her when he's finished and Katniss smiles warmly, looking down at it with such affection. She hangs it in the hall, near the bench where she keeps her arrows so she can look at it when she leaves every morning and when she comes back home. That part of the house is very private, he doesn't even really go there that often, so it feels special. To know that Katniss wanted to bring him there with her, in her own way.

[anakinstwinklebunny]

SUGARDADDY!ANAKIN HEADCANONS

TW: at some point it contains extremely filthy sexual content, so if you're sensitive to that or don't feel comfortable with it, please do not read it for your own safety and comfort. Daddy kink, breast play, praise kink, reader is younger than anakin but she's also off the age! (which means i won't give her specific age, but she's definitely NOT a minor). Lightly relationship with benefits (at first)

Author's note: and he happened to be the rich CEO 🤭

Sugardaddy!Anakin who is at the restaurant for a high-stakes business meeting with some important clients. He’s there to close a deal, his mind fully focused on the negotiations, but the moment he spots you, his attention falters. You’re the one serving his table, and despite the chaos of the busy restaurant, he can’t take his eyes off you. Your charm, your smile, the way you carry yourself—it’s all incredibly enticing to him. He’s captivated by the way you interact with customers, maintaining grace under pressure. After the meeting, Anakin leaves an exorbitant tip, much larger than necessary. Along with it, there’s a business card with just his name and number, a subtle but unmistakable invitation for you to contact him.

Sugardaddy!Anakin who, after you muster the courage to text him, he invites you out for coffee, a subtle test to see if you’re interested. He’s direct but not pushy when he suggests an arrangement—offering financial support in exchange for your company. At first it surprises you, since it's uncommon for you to gain interest from older men..but, he was polite, very polite (you couldn't help but compare him to guys your age). Seemed like a true gentleman with specific needs you were suggested to fullfil

Sugardaddy!Anakin who makes it clear that he’s not interested in just a transactional relationship. He wants to spoil you, yes, but he also craves your genuine presence, your wit, and your warmth.

Sugardaddy!Anakin who made you sign NDA before any further actions. And after that, the first few dates involved extravagant dinners at the most exclusive restaurants, shopping trips where he insists you pick out anything you like, and even trips to luxurious resorts. He loves seeing you adorned in the finest things that his wealth can buy.

Sugardaddy!Anakin who, despite his powerful position, Anakin values privacy and keeps your relationship under wraps. He’s protective of you, not wanting the media or his corporate world to interfere.

Sugardaddy!Anakin who often sends his private driver to pick you up, whether it’s for a date or just to bring you to his penthouse after a long day. He makes sure you’re always comfortable and safe.

Sugardaddy!Anakin who has a soft spot for you that his colleagues would be shocked to see. He’s attentive to your needs, whether it’s something simple like remembering your favorite coffee order or something more intimate, like understanding when you need space or affection.

Sugardaddy!Anakin who is fiercely protective

Sugardaddy!Anakin who takes a genuine interest in your ambitions and goals. Whether you’re in school, pursuing a career, or exploring new hobbies, he’s there to support you—financially and emotionally. He offers advice, mentorship, and even opportunities within his vast business empire.

What starts as a sugar daddy arrangement quickly grows into something deeper. Anakin finds himself genuinely falling for you. The way you challenge him, care for him, and bring a sense of normalcy to his chaotic life makes you more than just a 'sugar baby'

Sugardaddy!Anakin who, the stoic CEO, surprises himself with how open he becomes with you. He shares his fears, his past, and his hopes for the future. You’re the only one who gets to see the man behind the powerful exterior.

Sugardaddy!Anakin who doesn't mind age gap although, when you're sometimes showing him something he has no idea what it is (like social media and stuff). So he's kind of a boomer..just a tiny bit..

Sugardaddy!Anakin who takes you on spontaneous trips to the most exotic destinations. Private jets, luxury yachts, and five-star hotels are the norm. He loves the idea of you experiencing the best life has to offer, especially when you’re together

Sugardaddy!Anakin who often works late into the night, but he makes time to talk to you before bed (sometimes it'd be a call but sometimes it'd be a small talk face-to-face);

He sighed as the door clicked shut behind him, the exhaustion of the day slipping through him as he loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. Despite the fatigue, the thought of coming home to you brought a sense of peace. “How’s my favorite girl doing?” he asked softly, tilting your chin up after walking into the living room.

“I’m alright… just dying to get some sleep,” you murmured with soft voice.

A smile tugged at his lips as he took you in—curled up on the couch, wearing one of his oversized shirts that nearly swallowed you whole. The sight was enough to erase any lingering stress. “Poor girl,” he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Sorry I’m so late.”

“S’okay…” your eyes heavy with sleep.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he murmured, his arms slipping around your waist to lift you effortlessly. With your legs wrapped around his waist, your face snuggled to his shoulder z he couldn’t help but notice how precious and absolutely beautiful you looked, wrapped in his shirt, with no make-up on. It was a simple moment yet with you in his arms, nothing else mattered.

Sugardaddy!Anakin who is attentive and loves to make you feel special in every way. He’s dominant yet caring (so it makes him a soft dom), always ensuring your needs are met. So the intimacy between you two is intense;

you'd had sex almost daily over the last two months but you, nor him, would never initiated it in half-public before. It wasn't something you'd do, you were more of a private person however...the slight possibility that the driver could glance in the mirror and see you sent a strange thrill cursing down your stomach..

Well, you live once..

It wasn't your first time giving Anakin a blowjob, yet, you still couldn't fully get used to how big he was. How thick and long.

With your watery eyes, you whimpered, tasting the salty sweetness of him before swirling your tongue around his head. Slowly, softly at first, as if checking the territory, them you did it with more confidence, falling into the rhythm of just sucking, licking and bobbing till you were soaked

It shouldn't turn you on like it did. But yet, the feeling of his member filling your mouth, his large hand sank in your hair, his soft groans and whimpers made you twist yourself in pleasure.

Your eyes watery, your underwear wet, your nipples hard and this sensitive skin that burned with never ending fire for this man made you completely forgot how you got here, where you are or even where you're supposed to go

"That's right baby..take every inch like a good girl.." the words slipped through his lightly opened mouth in a moan

He grips your ass cheeks tightly, spreading them apart to get a better angle as he thrusts into you from behind. "Look at this ass, baby...so fucking perfect... gonna fucking own this ass..." He growls, his hands moving to slap your right cheek hard.

You were a mess; holding for dear life to the kitchen counter with nothing but moans leaving your mouth. Not even your eyes could stay open anymore, as they rolled or closed automatically in the feeling

He hisses through his teeth as he feels your squishy walls clench around him, gripping him tightly "That's it, baby...take it all...You're being such a good girl..." h his hands moved to grip your hips tightly as he continues to thrust with more intensity, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh filling the kitchen.

Sugardaddy!Anakin who loves having you ride him;

His fingers dug into your hips, encouraging you to set a faster pace as his own hips lifted to meet yours, the two of you falling into a rhythm. "just like that, baby...you look so good on top of me"

"yeah?" You whimper out, feeling like going crazy with his member deep inside you

His hands slide up your waist to your breasts, cupping them gently as he praises you. "Definitely..riding me like a real cowgirl.."

your mouth opened to let a moan escape your lips and, to feel more, you sped up a little bit

He grins wickedly up at you, his hips bucking upwards to meet yours while he toys with your peaks "You like that, baby? Like daddy playing with your pretty little toys?"

"love it" your mouth lightly opened in pleasure

"Good girl...gosh..could stay buried inside of you forever." Anakin lets out a groan, his eyes rolling back as the feeling of you sinking down onto him once more and it suddenly gets too much to bear. "Fuck, baby...you feel so good...such an eager girl to please me..keep that pace, baby...want to watch you fall apart on top of me"

Sugardaddy!Anakin who loves when you visit him at the office, especially after hours when most of his employees went home

Sugardaddy!Anakin who even if makes love to you a bit roughly sometimes, he can for sure be very gentle;

He slowly enters you, his touch gentle as he cups your face tenderly. "gonna go nice and slow, alright?" He whispers softly, his hips moving in a gentle rhythm. "if you wanna stop just say the word.."

"okay" you whimper

He enters you inch by inch, his touch gentle as he kisses you passionately. "You're so tight, baby...feels so good..." his pace slow and gentle. He leans down and kisses you slowly as if you were a ceramic doll he was scared to break "my beautiful girl.. doing so good for me"

your warmth enveloped his senses and it only made him more crazy for you. You just seemed so perfect to him. Even your flaws were something he deeply cherished, found captivating, irresistible

"you okay, baby?" He whispers softly, his voice laced with autonomical concern. "wanna go slower?"

"yes, please" you whisper-moan

He slows down even more, his movements almost imperceptible as he carefully makes love to you. "there we go...so slow and gentle...just for you, baby..." He leans down to kiss your neck softly, his breath warm against your skin. "love you so much, you know? Gosh, could do anything for you.. you have me wrapped around your finger.."

Sugardaddy!Anakin who has a particular obsession with lingerie. He frequently buys you the most luxurious pieces—silk, lace, and satin—in colors he knows you look stunning in. Seeing you dressed up in something he chose just for you ignites a fire in him, and he loves taking his time to remove each piece, savoring the reveal of your body

Sugardaddy!Anakin who has a possessive streak, and it shows in how he wants to leave marks on you—not just hickeys, but subtle reminders that you belong to him. He’ll trace his fingers over the marks later, a satisfied smirk on his face as he sees the evidence of your passion..but stil..;

He was laying on his side with his arm wrapped securely around your waist, holding you close as if you might slip away in the night. You were slowly drifting off to sleep, in comparison to anakin, whose sleep eluded him. He lay there quietly, his eyes tracing the familiar curves of your body in the darkness, as if rediscovering them for the first time.

His gaze lingered on the spots where his touches had left their mark. Faint hickeys dotted your upper thighs and hips, and a few more adorned your neck and collarbone. He couldn’t help but admire the evidence of his desire for you, the way he’d claimed your body as his own. The possessive satisfaction he felt was undeniable, yet there was also a tender need to ensure that his passion hadn’t caused you any pain.

"Does it hurt?" he whispered, his voice barely audible in the quiet room.

"No... I'm fine," you murmured half-asleep

"You sure?" His fingers brushed over one of the darker marks, tracing gentle circles on the sensitive skin of your hip.

"Mhm... it's nothing serious"

He hummed in acknowledgment, though the worry still lingered. He couldn't shake the need to make sure you were truly okay. His hand slowly moved up to gently push your hair aside, exposing the smooth skin of your neck and shoulder. Leaning in, he nuzzled his face into the curve of your neck, his lips brushing against the tender spot he had marked earlier. "Sorry," he whispered, his voice a mix of apology and affection

"It's okay, really" you whispered back, your hand finding its way into his messy curls. Your fingers gently stroking through them as if to soothe both him and yourself.

He pressed another soft kiss to your skin, letting his lips linger against it. The warmth of your body, the steady rise and fall of your chest, and the feel of your hand in his hair finally began to ease his mind. Holding you close, he let the lingering guilt fade, quickly replacing it by the comforting knowledge that you were safe and okay

Sugardaddy!Anakin who enjoys the thrill of teasing you in public settings, knowing you have to keep your composure. A subtle hand on your thigh under the dinner table, his fingers tracing dangerously close to your inner thigh, or whispering in your ear about what he plans to do to you later, all heighten the anticipation for when you’re finally alone.

Sugardaddy!Anakin who, over time, begins to consider a more permanent relationship with you. He starts dropping hints about you moving in, or even starting a family someday.

Sugardaddy!Anakin who's definitely into some roleplay (but mostly you surprise him with them)

Sugardaddy!Anakin who is open to exploring new things in the bedroom, and he enjoys introducing toys into your sex life. Whether it’s a silk blindfold, a vibrator, or even some light bondage, he knows exactly how to push your boundaries while making you feel safe and loved.

Sugardaddy!Anakin who, despite his dominant and sometimes intense nature, Anakin is always attentive to your needs afterward. He makes sure you’re comfortable, bringing you water, wrapping you in soft blankets, and holding you close. His fingers gently stroke your hair as he whispers sweet words, grounding you after an intense session.

Sugardaddy!Anakin who's more of a type of guy to send you flowers when he's out for business trip or etc

Sugardaddy!Anakin who has a habit of giving you jewelry that symbolizes his ownership. A necklace with his initials, a bracelet that matches his watch

Sugardaddy!Anakin who loves playing with your breasts;

"Dirty little thing, aren't you? You just love when daddy plays with your big tits, hmm?" his fingers pinching and rolling your nipples

"Mhm.." you lightly wriggled on his lap, feeling the well known hardness poking between your legs

"And you're mine, aren't you, love? This beautiful girl wouldn't leave me, now would you angel?"

Sugardaddy!Anakin who had an actual conversation with you about taking things more seriously, if you even wanted. And soon later he proposed to you

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @erosmutt @haydensprettyprincess @mistress-amidala @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @literally-izzy @anisluvrgirl @fuckmyskywalker @slutforfinnickodair

(if you want to be removed or added then don't be shy and let me know 💋)

[awxcoffeexno]

the patient - part 1

toxic!loganhowlett x reader

like real people do

series masterlist | fic masterlist | part 2 >>

summary: logan's in love w jean, ur in love w logan, and he comes to your bed every night that he cannot spend in hers.

content: more angst, the awxcoffeexno special. terribly, terribly toxic relationship between reader and logan. they both need copious amounts of therapy. this one-shot takes place in the x-mansion where reader is a student of the professor and logan is... well, logan. reader also has powers, you'll learn of them as you go.

warnings: all mentions of jean are actually referring to the phoenix who is extremely mentally unstable, logan mandhandles the reader quite a bit but never hurts her, the relationship portrayed is horribly toxic.

word count: 1.3k

a/n: wowowow im so happy the world is FINALLY sharing in my obsession with logan, he's such a cutie patootie. this fic isn't my best but it's an idea I've had for soooo long that i just had to have a crack at it.

you can sense him coming 3 minutes before he's made the decision to seek you out.

you sit up straight at your desk, eyes flicking down to the research paper you've been working on with the professor. you decide to get the last paragraph in, fingers scrambling across the keyboard to finish your thoughts before logan makes you forget everything.

and then he's at your door, throwing it open without knocking.

"good." he grunts. "you're here."

stepping inside, he locks the door and turns to you. and fuck, you hate this. you hate when he's like this, you hate everything about this arrangement.

well, almost everything. how could you possibly hate the way he walks over to you and leans down, brows set in a deep frown, pulling you up by your jaw? how could you possibly hate the desperation, the need, in his eyes as he he flutters them shut, pressing his lips to yours? how could you possibly hate the smell of wood and tobacco and... logan... as he slips his hand off your jaw to painfully wrap around your throat?

but when you slip into his mind, quiet as a cat, making sure not to give your presence away, his thoughts are swirling mostly with one person. and it's decidedly not you.

"no," you gasp into his warm mouth. "no, logan."

he grunts in protest, moving his mouth from yours to your neck.

"logan, please..." you try again, pushing your hands between you both. you reach for his cheek but grabs your hand in a vice grip and yanks away from you. he will not let you touch his cheek, he will not let you use your powers on him.

"what?!" he snaps. "what do you want."

he hardly even notices his own actions as he uses the same hand to also ensnare your other wrist, squeezing tight to let you know not to even attempt wriggling free.

you swallow thickly and look into his glowering eyes. "you know i don't like it when you... when it isn't about me. when it's about... her. i can't stand it. it feels... wro–"

and his free hand is wrapped around your jaw. you've done it again. you read his mind without his permission after years of him telling you off about it, years of him telling you to "back the fuck off, bub."

but you can't help it. you do it all the time. he lets jean do it. why should you not be allowed? why are you always lesser to him than she will ever be?! especially when she hurts him so much he has to come to you to lick his wounds clean?

jean's... broken. you're perfectly fit. jean's hardly ever there to give him what he needs, you're always by his side, before he even knows he'll need you. it's just how your powers work, and you don't hear him complaining about using the future for his advantage. and yet all he does is think about her. even when he's here to fuck you.

"logan, how about you let me go and go back to carrot top?" you say, evening your voice out in that way you do when you know you can talk people into things with your hand on their cheek. but your hands are both trapped in his crushing grip and there's no way he's going to let you move them.

he's glaring at you. gauging you. and you slip into his thoughts again – yup, he's dreaming of ways to kill you. you snort. well, at least you're on his mind now.

"get the fuck out of my head." he growls and lets you go roughly, shoving you back. you stumble back but hold your ground. he would never actually push you hard enough to hurt.

that's the easiest part about loving logan. feeling safe even when it hurts.

you take a deep breath and restart, voice still even.

"logan?"

you watch his shoulders sag in defeat as he leans against the window sill and sighs.

"logan, i... i just..."

he looks back at you, eyes sluggish. tired. "you just what?"

"i don't like being your... stress ball." you sit down on the bed, massaging your temple because you cannot read his thoughts anymore. he's spending a significant amount of his energy blocking you out.

"don't hear you complainin' when i'm balls deep in you most nights."

you cringe at the crudeness and rub your face. he stands up a little straighter at your reaction, having realised over the years that all your anxious tics reside in your face. the way you rub it, the way you harshly massage your temples, the way you chew on your lip and pull the little baby hairs out of your hairline. and now you're all that is on his mind.

he carefully pads over and crouches down in front of you. eyes softer, way gentler. his hands slip around your wrists again and tighten but this time his grip is friendly, comforting. he's trying to ground you.

"me on your mind, sweetheart?" he says, voice heartbreakingly soft. you simply nod so he continues, "mmm... i hurt you today?"

a lot, you want to say. all you ever want is her. your jean. the jean you'd do anything for even when she's trying to drag the animal out of you and turn you into a beast, logan.

"a little." you settle.

he shifts both your wrists into his left hand and slips his right palm onto your cheek. "how can i make it better?"

you swallow thickly. you have to choose your words wisely. none of your powers would be useful right now, so you lean in and kiss him first.

"i'm scared." you sniffle. "scared of losing you to her completely. you love her, lo. so much you let her chop your mind up into little pieces and put it back together every single day."

his eyes fall in a rare moment of vulnerability so you don't let go of your momentum.

"she's hurting you so much," you whisper, aching to reach out for his cheek and take it all away. "i cannot keep fixing the wounds that she creates."

his eyes snap up to you at that. "well, if you don't want this–"

"no! that's not what i'm saying, james! fuck, i want you! i need you. but it's all i've become to you," you whine with a pathetic sob. "a way to fall asleep at night. a means to an end. a solace from all the pain."

"when you know that that's what this is... that you can take my pain away..." he looks at you, his dark eyes accusatory.

and fuck, what the fuck are you supposed to say to that? what kind of doctor turns a patient away? a patient so desperate for care?

so you close your eyes and let the ache wash over you. several minutes pass in silence and he starts to get up.

"you're right," you finally mumble.

when you open your eyes he's still looking at you.

"i'm sorry. i don't know why i did what i did. of course i want to help."

he's immediately scooping you up and lying you down. logan's easy like that. he never asks too many questions.

he kisses you, softer than he ever has before and starts working his way down your chin and neck and... how does it always end like this for you? with you giving in and him having his way with you. with you under him, tears in your eyes because you do not want him to stop but it hurts so badly to be his second. his second priority, his second thought, his second need.

will you ever be able to deny him?

"open your mouth, sugar." he coos, slipping two fingers past your chewed up lips to let you wet them.

your eyes roll back into your head as you suck on his digits, body reacting in tandem with his.

no, there is no way you would ever deny him anything.

"logan?" you whisper when his pulls the fingers out.

"hmm?"

"i love you."

"i know."

--

i have once again risen from dead. i hope you liked this xxxxxxxxxxx ily

love, d <3

--

part 2 >>

[crazybiscuit]

Uptown Girl

Pairing: Remus Lupin x Reader Summary: You, an out of touch rich pureblood, recently moved to England for yet another engagement prospect. Unfortunately, things don't go to plan as you somehow find yourself constantly running into a werewolf, who has developed a valid reason to dislike you. Warnings: This is going to be a long fic and the reader will be a bit of a bitch at first. The story will definitely contain violence, excessive use of alcohol, smut and mentions of death. This chapter doesn't have any graphic content though. On side note, this is set in 1983 and sadly, Lily (my wife... 😔) and James are dead. So Sirius is in Azkaban and Peter is "dead". Word Count:  2287 Credits: @saradika-graphics thank you for the divider! A/N: Let's pretend I didn't mean to post this yesterday... London was an actual nightmare to map out in my brain and I'm fully aware the title doesn't make total sense considering uptown and downtown is a mostly American concept but I figured it fit the context of the story. So for our sake, Remus will live in East London, closer to the Thames, and you, my dear Readers will live in West London, more North of the city. On a side note, fuck JKR and her disgusting beliefs. Also, to anyone struggling, whether it be personal life or political climate, I hope you're doing alright. Writing is my current escapism and I hope I can help someone else in the process. On another note, chapter 2 should be posted on the 28th!

 

“When is that damned exterminator going to get here?” your father’s gruff voice was muffled by his handkerchief he held to his nose as he walked into the parlour.

“We should’ve just called the ministry,” the woman sat next to you snapped, her head sticking out of the window taking advantage of the fresh air, “No one would’ve ever cared about our little problem. But no, you had the brilliant idea to hire some random man you found in a pub.”

You brushed your damp hair, trying your best to ignore the foul stench emitting from beneath the floor, “There’s nothing small about our problem, so I’d much rather keep this discreet myself.”

You should’ve known better than to oppose your poor, dear mother, as she grasped her chest as if he couldn’t breathe, “Discreet! I don’t care how discreet we are dealing with this! This man will fail to help us, screw up and we will have to call the ministry anyways. Hell! He’s probably a fraud and planning to rob us. Do you have any idea how much worse that will be! People will think we are fouls who can’t maintain our estate.”

You didn’t bother hiding the way you rolled your eyes as you glanced back out to the cloudy sky, which caused mother to rant about disrespect to the old man, now sitting in his recliner.

The fall wind was a welcome guest as you began to carefully style your hair, turning your attention to your faint reflection in the window. The bundimun infestation might have stalled the redecorating efforts of this old dirty hole of townhouse, but it was certainly not going to stop you from looking your best.

“It’s lucky Josephine is still in France. I'm beginning to doubt any amount of magic can revive this place.”

“Enough complaining,” your father cut in, as he cast another scouring charm in an attempt to lessen the smell, “We all know this isn't ideal, but you should be grateful we even found this estate for you.”

You felt slightly annoyed as you finished your hair, frowning at him through the glass reflection. Your hand dropped dejectedly as you glanced back with a sigh. He was right, despite every one of your arrangements falling through due to the war, your parents had still managed to find you a respectable match, “I know, I know… I'm sorry. This is all just frustrating.”

Your parents shared a look but remained silent. However, this didn’t last long as your mother suddenly stood up, “I feel like I might faint.” 

Your father let out an exasperated sigh at her theatrics.

“I am sorry, dear, but I cannot do this anymore. You'll have to deal with the exterminator yourself, I'm going out for lunch with Y/N–”

Before your father could protest in annoyance, you interrupted, “Actually, I still need to finish my makeup, so you can go with Papa.”

They put very little effort into arguing and quickly vanished from the house. The silence would've been appreciated if it weren’t for the disturbing smell surrounding you and you found yourself tilting your head back as you leaned against the window sill. Even upside down, the townhouses that lined the street bored you, and you decided to stare at the sea of grey clouds slowly drifting across the sky instead.

You figured, much to your annoyance, that it would likely rain again today. Your attention snapped to the street when you heard the crunching of the colourful leaves beneath someone’s shoes. You flipped over to get a proper look of the man coming up the street and your interest peaked. He stood out against the pristine houses, his dark clothes seemingly worn from years of wear on his tall, though lanky figure, and he seemed handsome enough even from the second floor.

You quickly grabbed your wand and summoned your silk robe, slipping it over your nightgown. He must’ve been the man your father hired, and with that thought, you grabbed your perfume bottle to apply some.

By the time the doorbell rang, you had grabbed your lipstick and you carefully applied it as you looked at yourself in the mirror against the wall. The bell rang a second time and you sighed, quickly wiping off the colour that was out of place. You smoothen out your silk robe before heading to the front door, opening it and finding yourself faced with a man’s hand frozen midair, ready to knock.

“Oh, sorry,” your eyes snapped up to the face that spoke and you met the man’s slightly startled hazel eyes. He was taller than you expected when you saw him outside and his light brown hair was messy but still made him look rather charming. He seemed a few years older, likely in his mid or late 20s. But what truly caught your eyes were the scars scattered across his face, neck, hands. Any bit of skin you could see was littered with scars, “Hi, you hired pest control..?”

His deep voice snapped you out of your daze and you noted the faint Welsh accent as you stepped aside, opening the door wider for him, “Right… come in.”

The man took notice of your outfit and nonchalant demeanor, but remained professional as he followed you in. His expression remained steady despite the familiar pungent smell filling the house. He awkwardly adjusted his bag on his shoulder. Your father hadn’t told him the exact issue, only promising to pay him nicely, and Remus hadn’t exactly allowed himself the privilege of worrying about the oddity of the situation. However, you did notice his stance relaxed as he recognized the infestation he was handling, “Bundimuns?”

“Unfortunately, that is correct,” you sighed, looking back as you opened the door to the area where the test was the most prominent. You noted his slight hesitancy to walk in as he observed the half-decorated house, “Our house warming party is in a few days and we need this issue to be solved quickly so we can finish the renovations.”

“Right…,” Remus tried his best to hide his expression of confusion and disbelief as he stared at the loud decor scattered around the room, “This seems like it would’ve been easier to report to the ministry.”

“Probably,” you agreed, making your way to the open balcony, “We’ll take our chances though. I’d rather only have one person know about this than deal with official records of the infestation.”

That confused the poor man, who had set his old messenger bag down on one of the uncovered powder blue sofas, but he wasn’t about to push for more answers. Rich, purebloods were always preoccupied with reputation, he knew that very well.

You leaned against the cold, metal railing as you watched him digging through his bag for his notebook, “How long will this take you?”

His gaze met yours for a split second before going back to flipping through the yellowed pages, “It’ll take two or three hours. This is a pretty serious infestation and this building is a lot bigger than it seemed outside…” 

It was clear he had questions but it didn’t seem like he was going to ask. You figured you’d explain the situation to prevent any rumours to spread (though you doubted his words would actually reach any important ears), “This house was built before the ban on extension charms for houses. We have ministry approval to keep it that way.”

Remus smiled a little apologetically, finding the page he was looking for, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound accusatory. It really isn’t any of my business, so I wasn’t going to ask.”

His passiveness was mildly surprising but you brushed it off. It was nice not having to worry about him talking and clearly he needed the money, so you figured he'd stay quiet. You finally moved and sat at the table on the balcony as he began to read the most effective spells to get rid of the secretions and creatures.

It was fairly cold outside but you figured you should keep an eye on him. To entertain yourself for the next few hours, you figured you should write to your sister and friends back in France. You flicked your hawthorne wand, summoning your quill, paper and other supplies wordlessly.

The two of you worked on your separate tasks quietly, barely interacting for over an hour. You had lost interest in watching him as he cleaned the house out of the green menaces, using spells you had never heard off, and only headed back inside due to the charming British weather. Rain was always such a nuisance.

You carried your stack of letters with you as you walked back into the house. The smell, though still lingering, had mostly vanished from the house, which was a relief, “I'm going to be upstairs. I trust you won’t steal anything. Though I doubt he’d even be able to identify the actual valuable objects.”

The last part was mumbled under your breath but with the context, it was easy for the brunette to infer it was likely an insult. Remus watched you disappear to the third floor, “What?”

“Feel free to ask the house elves for help. They’re in the basement. They’ve been trying their best to deal with the acid,” with that, you shut your bedroom door, completely missing the man’s expression of disbelief and mild offense.

Another hour passed and Remus had done everything in his power to avoid you as he finished up the rest of the house. This would’ve worked wonders if he didn’t have to worry about getting rid of the last few bundimuns in the house, which conveniently were hidden behind the double doors leading to your room.

He sighed. He was never skilled in divination but something in his gut was telling that you were trouble, but he needed the money and he wasn’t about to half-ass his job because of some spoiled brat. So he knocked.

You opened the door and he immediately took note of your outfit change. You were no longer in your silk robe and pajamas, instead dressed in a simple but classy turtleneck and skirt, “I need to charm this room then I’m done…”

You hummed, letting him in as you walked back to your four poster bed, tying the stack of at least 15 letters together so that your owl could carry it. This gave Remus at least a few minutes of peace as he finished up, but it seemed you sensed he was about done as you spoke up, “You know, I know a potion maker in Saint-Brieuc, who is very skilled at Scar-Diminishing Serums.” 

“I beg your pardon?” his Welsh accent seemed deeper now that you’d upset him. The unprompted comment caught the man off guard and he scoffed, unable to believe anyone could be this insensitive.

“I’ve used them a few times and they work wonders. Great way to boost confidence and better your appearance,” you paused, sensing he was upset, much to your confusion, “Don’t get me wrong, you’re fairly handsome, but I think it would definitely hel–”

He suddenly got up after casting one last spell, “I’m done.”

His voice, though composed, made it obvious he was pissed. You hesitated slightly, trying to figure out what you did as you followed him down to the first floor, “No need to be so upset, I was just trying to give you advice.”

He interrupts, surprisingly calm for someone getting insulted every other line, “Well, I kindly reject it, thank you.”

He stopped in front of the front door, almost considering leaving without payment, not wanting anything from you. Before you could protest, he opened the door and your mother let out a yelp, not expecting to see the stranger.

“Oh! Remy, was it?” your father smiled, glad to see the exterminator.

“Remus.”

It finally occurred to you that you had never even introduced yourself or asked for his name.

“Right, right! You must’ve finished! Y/N, did you pay him yet? I left the galleons on the table in the office,” he kept rambling, walking past Remus and you to get the money. Your mother smiled nervously, looking at the man, who she had already predetermined as creepy and untrustworthy, and tried her best to maintain a polite demeanor.

Unfortunately for her, she did a terrible job and her expression visibly relaxed when your father came back to save her from the conversation, “Here’s the 10 Galleons we originally agreed upon, and I figured you could get an extra 5 for–”

“Actually the 10 will suffice,” Remus forced a smile. He wasn’t stupid. It was clear you and your family were hoping to buy his favor to avoid any bad mouthing, and he wasn’t going to do that. Hell, he didn’t even want to talk about you to anyone (not that he really had anyone left), but it was a matter of principle.

You parents were stumped. They had rarely, if ever, met someone so quick to deny their money, “Sir, we insist–”

Remus had stepped out, taking the 10 Galleons, cutting off your mother with a thigh smile, “Honestly, I’m good.”

Your father, in a desperate attempt to get some sort of upperhand spoke words that made your  jaw drop, “Well then, please consider joining us for our solstice party on the 21st.”

Your mother’s expression mirrored yours and you knew they would argue about this later. Remus’s eyes met yours and something awoke in him, a slight sense of amusement he hadn’t felt since Hogwarts. He looked back at your father, adjusting his old bag on his shoulder, and smiled slightly, “I’ll think about it.”

[celandeline]

Not Your Boyfriend, Baby

Farleigh X Reader, SMUT - tw for cheating, reader both cheats and is cheated on

part two

Being Felix’s girlfriend comes with a set of rules. 

Always stand to his right, so that he can hand you whatever he’s holding without having to think about it. Let him pull you into his lap whenever he wants, even if you’d really rather just sit next to him - always sit next to him. Laugh at the jokes he makes, even if they aren’t funny. Help him with his coursework when he asks, pretend that you need help with things that you know he’s good at so he doesn’t feel stupid. Pretend that he can make you cum. Pretend you don’t know he’s cheating on you.

Being Felix’s girlfriend comes with a set of rules - but the perks are worth it. 

The necklace he got you for your birthday costs more than your first car, and if you ever sell it, will easily cover rent for at least a year. Designer clothes have a habit of appearing in your dorm room unannounced, always in your size - just because Felix likes when you look good next to him. No clubs are too exclusive to get into, there’s always a booth in the back of the pub reserved for you, people bend over backwards just for the chance of being in Felix’s vicinity - so naturally they’ll do anything for you. 

You’re using him as much as he’s using you - it’s mutually beneficial. You get to live within his innermost circle, he gets to have someone to bring home to his parents so they don’t start looking into arranged marriages after graduation. You have no intentions of actually marrying him, god no - you’ve heard him talk about how many kids he wants, there’s no way in hell you’re pushing out six - but you’ll take what you can get. Felix is a comfortable rung on the social ladder you’re trying to climb. 

“Right, love?” 

Felix’s voice drags you out of your thoughts and back into reality - the warm lighting of the pub casts everyone around your table in a warm golden glow. You’re pressed against Felix’s right side - always his right side - his arm perched on the back of the booth around your shoulders, casually possessive. It’s a little funny how possessive he is, considering how often he cheats on you. On his other side, Annabel nurses a pint, her overlined eyes locked on Felix, utterly enraptured. 

Across the table, India looks at him with the same hunger, even though her head rests on Farleigh’s shoulder. Farleigh looks how you feel - utterly bored, his eyes wandering the room as he idly smokes a cigarette. He’s always been prettier than Felix. More interesting too. If you weren’t trying to climb the social ladder high enough to marry rich and not have to work a day in your life, he’d be who you’re pressed against instead of Felix. There’s something about him that’s always given you the sense that he sees right through you, but it’s exciting. You know he knows why you’re here next to Felix, with a diamond he bought you around your neck. But Felix has no idea - he thinks you’re in love with him. 

It’s laughable, how in his own head he is. 

Still, you feed into the delusion, that practiced sugary-sweet smile playing at your lips as you look up at him. “Mhm.” You hum, picking up your pint and sipping at it. 

Felix grins wide, and turns back to Annabel. “See?”

Annabel rolls her eyes, leaning around Felix to pin a look at you. “You weren’t even paying attention.”

The animosity that every other girl within a fifty mile radius directs at you is the one drawback of being Felix’s main piece. Your smile turns a little sharper. “Yeah.” You admit easily, setting your pint back down. “But I know Felix enough to know that he was probably right.”

Across the table, Farleigh snorts. 

Your eyes slide over to him, and he meets your glance. Ever so slightly, he tilts his head, a dry smile playing at his lips - a silent, really?

You tilt your head in the same direction, mocking - yes, really.

Felix turns back to Annabel. “I’m always right, Anna - best get used to it.”

She rolls her eyes again, but this time it’s playful - flirty, even. You can already see how the rest of tonight is going to play out - Felix will make some excuse about drinking too much or not feeling well or whatever else his idiotic brain can come up with, and disappear back to his dorm room to fuck her. Tomorrow, of course, you’ll act like you’re none the wiser. In two weeks time, when the guilt starts to get at him, a new pair of heels or a Dior skirt will find its way into your closet. 

Simply the way of things. 

Pulling away from Felix’s hold, you make to get up. He glances at you, concerned, but you only smile, and kiss him on the cheek so that you can slide out of the booth. “Gotta use the loo.”

You brush your hands down your skirt as you stand up, and start towards the back of the pub, where the bathrooms are, tossing a look over your shoulder back at the table. You catch Farleigh’s eye, and hold it for a moment. His lips curl upward around his cigarette. With Felix likely going home with Annabel, your schedule for the night just opened up…

Maybe tonight’s the night you do something - someone - just for yourself. Set your plans for the future aside for once, and just have fun. After all, you’re confident Felix will be none the wiser - you know exactly what not to do after watching him fumble around with any and every other girl that’s caught his eye. 

You disappear into the bathroom, Farleigh’s gaze still on you. 

The noise from the pub is quieter here, just a dull hum seeping in through the walls. You lock the door behind you, and inspect yourself in the mirror. You smudge the dark eyeshadow around your eyes a little more, and fluff up your hair so that it doesn’t sit so lifelessly against your head. Your sex appeal back in place, you splash some water on your hands and pat them against your skirt before you leave, stepping back out into the pub. 

As expected, Farleigh is waiting for you, leaning against the wall next to the bathroom door, finishing off his cigarette. A quick glance back at the table lets you know that you were right - Annabel and Felix are gone. India’s moved onto Jack now, laughing a little too loud at something he says. 

“Felix said he wasn’t feeling well, all of a sudden.” Farleigh drawls, bringing your attention back to him. “Annabel’s walking him home.” There’s a touch of humor in his voice that you appreciate - he knows just as well as you do what they’re off to do.

“Shame.” You say, not bothering to try and sound actually sad at all. It wouldn’t fool Farleigh anyway. “Got tired of India?” You snatch the last of his cigarette from his fingers, finishing it off in one drag and dropping the butt to the floor, stamping it out with my boot. 

Farleigh watches you, his eyes half-lidded. “Is there such a thing as not being tired of India?”

“She’s not all bad.” You say. 

He tilts his head, that wry smile coming back to his face. “She’s not trying to fuck you.”

You can’t help but grin at that. “Touche.” You wouldn’t know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of India’s flirting - but if Farleigh’s boredom is anything to judge by, she must not be very good at it. 

Silence falls between us, and you let yourself look at him, eyes tracing down the lines of his neck until you reach the hollow at the base, and then back up to his lips.

“So.” Farleigh says. 

You meet his eyes again. “So.”

He grins, foxlike and charming. “You wanna get out of here?”

The walk back to campus is short, but it feels longer with how much you talk about with Farleigh - school and America and family and money and Felix and a million other, less important, things. It’s the most intellectually stimulating conversation you’ve had in a long time, and the most you’ve genuinely laughed in a while too. It’s everything you’ve been missing with Felix - and it makes the war between your want for fortune and fame in the future and your want for genuine connection rage all the more. 

It comes to an end all too quickly for your liking, as you reach the steps to your dorm. 

You slow to a stop, and Farleigh stops as well, looking down at you, hands tucked casually into his pockets. “Does it ever bother you?” He asks.

“What?” You reply. 

“That he cheats on you.” Farleigh clarifies. 

It’s a complicated question to answer, so instead you turn it around on him instead. “Does it ever bother you that he’s fucked India?”

Farleigh rolls his eyes. “That’s-”

“He does it to literally everyone.” You press on. “I stopped caring a while ago.”

Something contemplative washes over his face, and he just looks at you for a moment, eyes searching yours for something. His next question is quieter. “Who would you pick, if you weren’t stuck with him?”

Now it’s your turn to roll your eyes. “I’m not stuck with him.”

Farleigh looks at you, obviously amused. “I can see you trying not to roll your eyes every time he opens his mouth.”

You shrug. “The pros outweigh the cons.”

“So cynical.” He taunts, stepping closer. “You still haven’t answered the question.”

“I think it’s fairly obvious who I would pick if I wasn’t with Felix.” You say, letting him back you up the steps until your back is against the door. You look up at him, and meet his eyes. 

He grins. “Yeah, but I want you to say it.”

“It’s you.” You say, voice barely above a whisper. “Like it would be anyone else-”

He cuts you off by pressing his lips to yours, a moan leaving him as you deepen the kiss without waiting, slipping your tongue into his mouth. He tastes like cigarettes and vodka and it’s made all the more delicious by the little noises that keep working up his throat, elicited when you grab him by the belt and pull him closer so that you’re chest to chest. He groans when you sink your teeth into his bottom lip and pull away, tugging him with you by the mouth. When you release him, he still follows after you anyway, chasing you for more. 

Fingers still dancing on his belt, you smile. “Come up to my dorm with me?”

“Yes, fuck, please.” He already sounds debauched, and it sends a spike of heat straight down to your core. Felix would never deign himself to beg. 

You push open the door to the dorm building, and start up the stairs, Farleigh trailing only a half step behind you. You fumble with your keys once you reach the door to your room, and Farleigh latches onto the back of your neck, trailing kisses across the sensitive skin that send a shiver up your spine.

Once you get the door open, you drag him inside and kick it back shut, locking it behind you. 

Farleigh’s back on you in an instant, mouthing under your jaw. You wind a hand into his curls, pulling his head back from your neck. “Don’t leave any marks or Felix-”

He rolls his eyes, and cuts you off. “Duh.”

Without any more preamble he dives back into your neck, kissing along the length of it until he makes his way back up to your lips. You meet him in a kiss greedily, pushing off the door behind you and walking him back towards your bed. He hits the bedframe and breaks the kiss to sit on the edge. With a grin, you’re climbing into his lap and gently pushing him down until his backs flat against the mattress. 

He’s so pretty like this - curls splayed out across your duvet cover, hands gripping onto your hips like you’ll float away if he lets go. You run a hand under his shirt, rucking it up so that you can see the way his stomach flexes when you touch him. Slowly, you dip your head down to lick a trail up his abdomen, never breaking eye contact. 

He tips his head back with a shaky groan. “Oh, fuck.”

You grin, shifting forward so that you can nose under his jaw, lips ghosting across the shell of his ear. “What about you? Will India get mad if I-”

“Don’t fucking care, I want you to do it anyway.” He says, a little breathless. He’s so responsive - every little groan and whine shoots heat straight to your core. If sex with Felix was like this, maybe you wouldn’t have to pretend to be in love with him. 

You sink your teeth into his neck just below his ear and he keens, his hips knocking up into yours. His fingers dig into your hips, bunching the fabric of your skirt into his fists like he’s holding on for dear life. You take the opportunity to start the slow roll of your hips as you work a chain of hickeys across his neck, scattering them artfully around his collarbone. 

Deft fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, pushing it up your spine until you get the message and pull it off yourself, flinging it somewhere in your room. Farleigh wiggles out of his own shirt underneath you, pushing the offending garment off the edge of the bed. Freed of your shirt, you reach behind you to unclasp your bra as well, tossing it in the same direction. 

Farleigh’s eyes fall to your tits immediately, and you swear you can see his pupils dilate. “I see why Felix keeps you around-”

“Shut the fuck up.” You say with a smile. Even when you have him in your bed, he’s the same old Farleigh. It’s a breath of fresh air after having to pretend you like when Felix calls himself ‘daddy’. 

Your skirt is next, and then the tights you’d had on underneath it as Farleigh works on his trousers, kicking them off the end of the bed. Only your underwear left, you resume grinding against him, watching as his eyes flutter shut for a moment as he uses his grip on your hips to work you over him harder. 

“How do you want me?” You ask, leaning down to press more kisses along the length of his neck. 

You expect him to respond - to tell you to turn over on all fours or ride him reverse cowgirl - but he only sighs in the back of his throat. “Whatever you like, baby.” 

You press your lips to his in another greedy kiss, licking into his mouth and swallowing up the moans that slip past his lips. He’s not making it easy to think about going back to Felix after this. Felix, who calls himself ‘daddy’ and manhandles you around however he likes and hasn’t made you cum a single time. You can feel your wetness starting to seep into the fabric of your underwear from how malleable Farleigh is underneath you - how he looks at you like he’d gladly do anything you ask him to. 

You slip your fingers beneath the waistband of his boxers and shuck them down his legs. Your own underwear are next, and then you’re grinding on him again, spreading your wetness up and down his length. 

Farleigh’s grip tightens, and he tips his head back again. You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he moans. “Mm.” He picks his head back up enough so that he can look at you. “I was going to ask if you wanted me to go down on you but - mm - I don’t think you need it- oh fuck!”

Rising up on your knees, you line him up and slide down him in one drop of your hips, lodging him inside of you. He’s longer than Felix is, but skinnier too so the stretch doesn’t sting as much. God, it’s like he was made for you, with how easily he reaches right where you need him to without even trying. You start to bounce, planting your hands on his chest for leverage and tossing your head back, losing yourself in the feeling. 

Farleigh whines, a high pitched breathy thing that sounds like it’s been forced out of him as you start to move. Gently, you pry his hands away from your hips and pin them down over his head, just because he lets you do it. It’s a rush - that he’ll let you do whatever you want and take it happily - and it goes to your head. He strains against your grip but you don’t let up, working yourself up and down his cock just to watch his eyes roll up into his head. 

“What- ahh, what are you doing?” Farleigh chokes out, straining against your grip again. 

“Whatever I want.” You croon, whispering against his lips. 

He snags you in a kiss, sweeping his tongue into your mouth hungrily as he plants his feet on the mattress, thrusting so that his hips meet yours on every downstroke. A sharp gasp forces its way out of your throat as the coil in your stomach starts to tighten, and you can’t help but smile at him. It’s almost a novelty, the way he works with you instead of against you like Felix often does. 

He grins back up at you, and tilts his chin upward to kiss you again. Breathy, he says, “Felix is an idiot.”

You choke on a moan as a particularly hard thrust jolts through you. “Why’s that?”

“He doesn’t know what he has.” Farleigh says. “I’ve fucked India and - fuck - Annabel and they’ve got nothing on you.”

You laugh and moan at the same time. “You don’t have to - mm - be nice just so I’ll let you cum in me.”

“I can be nice.” He breathes. 

You ghost your lips over his neck. “You’re never nice.”

“I can be nice.” He insists, turning his head so that you can litter kisses along the length of his neck. You trail upwards until you reach the lobe of his ear, biting gently at the skin. “To you.”

“Careful.” You say. “Better stop now or I might think you’re in love with me or something-”

Farleigh tenses up beneath you, as a long groan escapes from his lips as he throws his head back. He thrusts three more times before he stills, slumping back down to the mattress, panting hard. His eyes flutter open, blown wide as he looks up at you. 

You can feel a smirk playing on your lips. “Did you just cum?”

He has the decency to look a little ashamed. “Maybe.”

You laugh, and kiss him. “Well, what are we supposed to do now?”

“I’m good.” He insists, working his wrists free of your hold. “I can still- here, just-”

He pulls you to his chest and rolls on the mattress so that you’re underneath him now, and resumes fucking into you, tucking his head into the crook of your neck. The change in position makes the feeling all the more potent, and a moan slips out from your lips. 

Winding your arms around his shoulders, you rake your nails up his back, and feel him shiver against you. “Farleigh…”

“Don’t fucking do that.” He laughs. “I’ll cum again.”

You toss your head back against the pillow as he speeds up his thrusts, obviously trying to get you to cum before he’s too spent to keep going. You let your eyes flutter shut and enjoy the feeling of him against you, the tickle of his curls against your neck, the breathy moans that slip from his lips into your ear, the feeling of his teeth against your neck as he sucks a hickey into your skin-

“Farleigh-” You start, only to cut yourself off as the coil finally snaps and pleasure shoots through you. “Oh fuck-”

He groans, and shoves his face deeper into your neck as his thrusts slow to a stop. He slumps again, flopping on top of you with a long sigh.

When you come back to your senses, you tug on his hair until he grumbles. “You are such a dick.” You say. “I said no marks.”

“Sorry.” He mumbles into your skin. 

“No you’re fucking not.” You retort. 

He lifts his head out of your neck, that foxlike grin on his face again. “No I’m not.”

“What am I supposed to do now?” You ask. 

He pulls out, and flops back down on the bed next to you, nosing back into the crook of your neck as he slings an arm over your chest. “Makeup. Wear your hair down.” He shrugs. “It’s Felix - he’ll probably think he did it.”

You rest your chin on the top of his head, the aftershocks of pleasure running through you. “‘M never having sex with you again.”

Farleigh snorts. “Yeah, okay.”

You smile into his hair, because he’s right. Of course he’s right. There’s no way in hell this isn’t going to become a regular occurrence. 

[prodbyton]

🎀cw. smut +18 mdni, dom!eunseok, situationship!eunseok, sub!reader, fem!reader, yn making eunseok jealous on purpose, yn is a little tipsy, degradation (barely), rough sex, protected sex (yay), other idols mentioned for plot hehe. not edited so if theres any errors look away :3

⭐️ wc. 3.5k (OOPS)

🎧 in the closet michael jackson

“eunseok, what are you doing here?” you almost walked past him, doing a double take once you recognized the tall male resting on the wall of the crowded club.

“i could ask you the same thing,” he looks at you up and down, grinning slightly when you shifted under his gaze.

“im here with my friends”

“mhm, and where are they now?” he questions you when he realizes that no one he’s seen you around before was accompanying you through your stroll around the establishment, and knowing you were probably drunk he didn’t want a stranger to be the one to get your attention.

“wony left with her boyfriend, and ryujin is talking to some girl over there” you pout, moving closer to the boy and placing your hand on his shoulder, he looks down at your face then to where your hand rests, trying to get a good idea of your sobriety before he chooses how he’ll continue the conversation.

“feeling left out?” he raises a brow and you nod, hand going to his chest, playing with the lining of the leather jacket that covered his body that you were craving to see. “why don’t you go find some guys to hit on?”

“thats what i’m doing right now, isn’t it?” you look up at him, catching his eyes before he fights back a chuckle. you bite the inside of your lip, watching him react the way you like. getting him nervous was a skill only you had, no matter how he tried to fight it, he felt a shiver run through his body whenever you touched him.

“you’re drunk, y/n. lemme take you home?” he grabs your hand that drags from his chest to his shoulder soothingly. at least that’s what he tells himself, trying to ignore your attempts in seducing him.

“im not drunk, just horny” oh. he’s not surprised by your bluntness but its good to know you want him this bad in your sober state.

“i should get you home then. wait for me here while i bring my car around, pretty”

it was honestly perfect that eunseok was at the club at the same time as you, you planned on texting him when you were ready to leave. if you were lucky (like now,) you hoped he would take you back to your place or his and fuck you like he always did if you were in your right mind. sometimes you two wouldn’t even make it there and would just fuck in his car, you were too captivating for the boy and when you leave the house in your revealing outfits, how could he resist you? after all you called him of all people, and that fills his chest with pride.

after a night of drinking and dancing with other men, you would always call eunseok to take you home. the thought of you grinding on other men and possibly doing more with them while you weren’t under his supervision makes his skin crawl but he won’t admit it, you two aren’t together and its not his place. you just want a good fuck, and eunseok will always be there to give it to you.

once he’s out of your line of vision you try to find ryujin, going to let her know that you’re leaving and that you’re safe.

“your little boyfriend coming to get you again?” she gives you that look she always has when eunseok is the topic of conversation. there was more to your little arrangement with him that she was able to sense, even if you two deny it. the way he would spend the night with you after you two had sex, the way he would buy you food and anything else if you asked, the way he’s always conveniently free every friday night to come pick you up from whatever party or club you were at, he was always there. you two were friends with benefits, so he’s just being a good friend. a friend that fucks you absolutely stupid. a friend that looks at you with hearts in his eyes.

“he’s not my boyfriend, and he was already here, which saved me a desperate text” you roll your eyes and do a little shoulder dance, giving her a hint on what tonight’s activities will be.

“mhm, have fun babes”

you finally walk out of the doors, the brisk air of the night hitting your sweaty skin makes you shiver as you find eunseoks car. he leans on the door of the passengers seat, staring at everyone leaving the club and looking for you. he watches the way you walk to his car, studying your frame and focusing on the way your legs look in that dress. he also takes note of the way your face contorts in discomfort from your heels, making sure to remember to carry you up to your apartment once you two get there.

“you’ve officially hit #1 on my roster, for being such a gentleman” you joke as you stand in front of him, and he raises a brow.

“who was #1 before? and what was my ranking?”

“definitely in my top 10,” you pretend to think, getting eunseok riled up called for a great fucking once you got home. “and i’d say #1 was probably… sunwoo”

“baby, we both know sunwoo couldn’t possibly fuck you nearly as well as i do. and who do you call whenever you’re horny after a party?” he grabs your chin with his hand to keep your eyes on him, and you press your thighs together at his assertiveness. you almost have to hold back a whimper, he’s just so hot. “thought so. now get in the car, it’s cold”

the car ride was comfortable. eunseok let you have aux per usual, and he smiled to himself at the way you sang along to every song. he parks his car next to yours — a spot you reserved just for him, a spot you told him was just a regular guest space so it wouldn’t go to his head. so he wouldn’t get attached — and he runs to the passengers side of the car to open your door, and once you’re out of the car he’s picking you up. you yelp at the action but you’re thankful, your heels were staring to burn from the time you spent standing in your heels.

eunseok knows your apartment inside and out, in the darkness he’s able to navigate the two of you to your bedroom and place you delicately on your bed. you sit on the edge and lean on the palms of your hands while the boy turns on your bedside lamp, keeping the room at a comfortable brightness to keep you in the mood.

“look so pretty tonight baby, who were you trying to impress?” he lifts your leg to take off your shoes, caressing the skin of your calf as he slides them off your feet.

“sunwoo” theres a playful glint in your voice and eunseok stills. he gives you a look, one you know means that you pushed one of his buttons. you like that look, cuz it means he’s gonna fuck you into the mattress if you keep pressing it.

“wrong answer. wanna try again?” he smiles, giving you a chance to take back your (unfunny) joke.

“wanna fuck me?” you push your chest up into the air, and eunseok tsks at your behavior. you were so desperate for him, going as far as getting him jealous and irritated just so he can fuck you.

“keep acting like a brat and see where that gets you” he raises his brow as a warning, and you think now you’ll drop your little bratty act and be a good girl for him, but why not push his buttons one more time?

“gets me far with sun-” you can barely get his name out when eunseok his pushing your thighs open and leaving a sharp slap on the skin of your inner thigh, causing you to yelp. he keeps his hand there as he brings his body down so his lips are by your ear and you shiver, his thigh just an inch away from your core. you want to shift your body so you can make contact, but eunseoks fingers are digging into your thigh to hold you down.

“don’t know why you like pissing me off, just wanna get fucked like a slut, huh?” his words go through your ear and straight to your clit, and you have to once again stop yourself from whimpering.

“want it so bad, seok”

he hums, finally deciding to give you what you want. his lips attach to your neck, leaving hungry open mouthed kisses across the skin while his hand grips your thigh tighter. his other hand is traveling up your waist up your your chest. he gropes your tits, and you sigh at the feeling of his fingers making contact with your nipple. he doesn’t say anything to you, just groping your body.

taking his mouth off of your neck, he removes both hands off your body and you whine at the loss. he takes in your already fucked out state, smiling to himself at how easy it was to get you worked up. he pushes your body down onto the bed, not too rough but hard enough for your weak body to fall easily. thats before he grabs your waist hard, flipping you onto your stomach.

“ass up, baby” he taps your thigh, and you quickly find your balance to sit on your knees, keeping your face in the pillows how he likes. he mutters a good girl while he lets his hand lay on the swell of your ass, bringing it down the arch in your back before bringing it back up. he repeats the action, this time letting his fingers catch the fabric of the tight dress you wore, bringing it down so it bunches up at your stomach. he groans at the pretty lace panties you wore under your dress, wet patch prominent on them as you wiggle your ass in the air as a hint you want him to touch you.

“you made a mess in your panties” he coos at you as his fingers slowly hook onto the hem of the garment, pulling it down and seeing the string of your arousal that clung to you. you whine, pushing your face deeper into the pillow in embarrassment. eunseok really was the only one who could make you like this — completely soaked through your panties and have you so submissive despite your fiery personality. your pride and common sense left your body when it came to him. you didn’t care how stupid you looked begging for attention from a man who wasn’t even your boyfriend, you didn’t care how your friends would tell you to leave him alone if you two weren’t going to make it official, you couldn’t care when he was always there for you regardless of your arrangement, you couldn’t care when he makes you feel this good even when he’s barely touching you.

he brings his thumb to your core, gathering the slick thats dripping out of you before pushing it inside of you and you gasp, body jolting at the contact. he takes his thumb out of you and drags it down to your clit, pressing on the nub forcing a moan out of you. his finger circles your clit a few times and you can feel yourself getting wetter, and your body feels hot.

you grind against his finger, and he presses harder. “just fuck me already”

“gotta stretch you out first pretty girl,”

“dont care, want- need you now” eunseok groans at your eagerness. he knows how much you struggle to take him fully if he doesn’t prep you first, but with you pissing him off all night maybe you can struggle a bit.

he steps off the bed to get himself undressed, nearly tripping as he steps out of his pants. he grabs his wallet out of his jean pocket and pulls out a condom, tearing the packet open with his teeth and sliding the condom on. he hisses, he hasn’t touched his cock at all this whole night, too focused on how jealous he was and helping get you off.

getting back on the bed, he pumps himself a few times before placing his hand on your ass, lining up his cock with your hole. he presses in slightly, tip prodding at your entrance but not enough for you to feel him.

“seok-”

“show me how bad you want it” grabbing a fistful of your ass, he lets go to bring his hand back down harshly on the skin. you cry out, body jerking forward before eunseok is holding you in place.

you move your arms into a better position, moving your head from off the pillow so you could look behind you. you rest on your elbows, bringing one arm behind you so you could reach eunseok. the tip of his cock was so close to pushing inside of you, and when you push back onto him it almost gets fully swallowed by your wet heat. without his support its hard for you to get him inside of you fully and you whine, pushing back harder onto him in an attempt to get him inside of you.

he wants to laugh and tell you how pathetic you look trying to fuck yourself on him, dick not even inside you and you’re moaning. he wants to tease you and tell you that this is why he preps you. wordlessly, he pushes his tip inside of you fully. the both of you let out sounds of pleasure as your cunt takes him in.

it takes you a minute to relax around him, letting him push all the way inside of you. you feel so full, the pain from the stretch subsiding and you crave more. you move forward, letting him slide out of you almost completely until just the tip is inside of you before you press your ass to him, squeezing around his cock as he bottoms out again. your body trembles under his hold, the way he stays still with his hands on your ass, and he grips the flesh tighter each time you move.

he lets you get yourself off on his cock, giving you words of encouragement to keep going and slapping your ass each time your pace faltered. you felt like you were on cloud nine, but it still wasn’t enough. you couldn’t get him deep enough, and you weren’t moving fast enough for your own and his liking.

“fuck me, eunseok”

that's all he needed to move one of his arms to push your lower body back into the mattress, grabbing both your arms to put them behind your back and snap his hips forward. he fucks you with purpose, your body is weak under him as he builds a fast pace. you can feel the way his dick stretches you out with each pull, and you can’t help the way you clench around him each time his hips kiss the skin of your ass.

“pussy so tight for me, just for me right?” he lets his jealousy peek through, moaning and leaning over you to press his cock deeper inside of you. your eyes roll to the back of your head at the sensation, you open your mouth to moan but nothing comes out.

“yes, just for you- all for you” your voice is slightly muffled by the pillow, but eunseok can hear you and he’s satisfied with your answer. he thrusts harder, and you can feel the pressure of your orgasm building up in your stomach. “close, so close”

he could feel it, he knows once you can barely keep your eyes open and you cant let out any sounds that you’re going to cum soon, like you’re holding your breath anticipating the orgasm he’ll be forcing out of you.

except he’s not fucking you anymore. he’s pulled out of you and let your body fall limp against the mattress, body trembling and the shock of being deprived of sweet realease finally comes over you. your tense muscles stop you from sitting up and grabbing at him, all you can do is turn your body around so you’re on your back, weak no’s and please leave your mouth as eunseok watches you.

denying you an orgasm was evil, he knew it. but you deserved it tonight. and honestly, he was going to cum soon as well and needed a breather. he can never last long when he fucks you from behind, and fucking you in that dress — that goddamn dress you wore tonight, he swears he would’ve taken you in front of everyone in that club.

once he feels like he’s tortured you enough, he spreads your legs open, inching closer to you and lifting one of your legs over his shoulder. he holds onto the flesh of your thigh tight, and he uses his other hand to guide his cock back into your hole. it’s quick, and you almost scream with how deep he feels in this position.

he’s so pretty, focused on where your bodies connect as he finds the pace that makes you react the best. you stare at his face, the way it contorts in pleasure as he tries to get you to your peak. then you look at the way the muscles on his stomach contract, how you see his toned stomach glisten in the dim light of your room each time he pushed back into you.

“this pretty pussy is all for me right?” his free hand moves to your clit and you moan loudly as his fingers rub tight circles around the swollen bud. your throat was dry as you tried to get a word out.

“y-yours, seok-” you had a hand in the sheets, fingers turning white as the other goes to the back of eunseoks neck. you hold him close to your face, body bending almost uncomfortably but you felt too good to care.

“you like when i fuck you like this?” his words were warm against your lips, eyes locked in on yours as he talked to you. you were so close you could almost taste it.

“love it, love your cock, love it so mu-mngh” you were cut off by a rough kiss to your lips, his tongue swirling in your mouth once before he pulled away, face still close to yours as he looked in your eyes.

“i love you”

shit. fuck.

you didn't have enough time to process the words that left his lips before you were cumming, moaning right in eunseoks face and he pressed his lips to yours again. you tried your best to kiss back but your vision was going blurry and you were fading in and out of consciousness. he lifts his body up so he can fuck you faster, fingers still on your clit as your pussy spasmed around him. his orgasm hit him not too long after, hips stilling while he filled the condom up with his cum.

he took his fingers off you, pulling out of you and letting your body rest for a moment before he has to clean you up. he sits there, realizing that he just told you he loves you mid fuck. he doesn’t know what he should do — nothing he could say could help his case. what if you don't feel the same way? what if you did but he says the wrong thing? he doesn’t want to fuck this up. he’d rather have you like this than to not have you at all.

you were asleep now, eunseok wiped his face with his hands before getting up. he rid himself of the condom he wore and got a towel to clean you up with, shushing you softly when you whimper at the sensitivity. he put his boxers back on before walking out of your room, making way to your kitchen to get you some water. he sits you up and makes you drink it, telling you that you were so good for him and that you need your rest.

once you both were cleaned up, eunseok gets into bed with you and spoons you under the covers. before you let your fatigue take over, you let your brain recover the words said before you blanked out.

“did you mean it?” your voice was soft, a part of you hoped the boy was still awake, so he could tell you what he meant. but another part of you wished he was still asleep, you didn’t want to bear the emotions of being rejected right before you went to sleep. not while he was still here, in bed with you.

“of course i meant it. now go to sleep, pretty girl. we’ll talk in the morning”

a/n: when i tell yall this was supposed to be at most 1.5k but i got carried away… eunseok makes me crazy. i hope you guys enjoyed it <33

[alexa-yukiyu]

This idea is living in my mind rent free and won't leave me alone!

So Roger pirates (also young shanks and buggy) x puppet!child!f!reader.

Can you do some lyrics from the song "Puppet boy?"

Reader is from a circus, a dangerous one. The Ringmaster has a power where he can control people like puppets and most of the performers are adults who don't get in the way but the ringmaster prefers reader and controls the most in stunts and performances and very dangerous ones, even for adults, like flying trapeze in a very high hight with no support and other crazy things. The audience members don't sense anything only seeing the reader as talented. They don't see reader controlled as the puppet strings are invisible to them. Roger pirates was visiting an Island, saw that s huge event at a circus and decided to go. They see reader who has clown makeup on their face and a circus outfits preforming with adults in VERY dangerous acts. The circus decide to take a quick break to set up for the new act and the ringmaster wants a talk with reader. Reader has to do every dangerous stunt on her own with no help to gain more money for the circus.

Roger pirates save her from the circus and set the performers free. You can add how they save her and how'd they know that she was being controlled. I want an very actiony,angsty thing, if it's alright.

Thank you

The apprentices apprentice (Roger pirates x child!reader)

Ps mad and throwing a tantrum cause tumblr just deleted my draft. ANYWAY GUYS FINALLY I FINISHED IT, there are some parts im still hesitant about but other than that I think I like this one. I’m not good with action so let me know what you think; also tell me why it wasen’t until now that I saw the end of the request like it din’t register on my brain until now so HERES YOUR ACTION ANGSTY PIECE, TOTALLY HAS ACTION AND ANGST BECAUSE YOU ASKED FOR IT AND NOT BY ACCIDENT 😀Another also! I was writing this at work so at first I was just looking at the lyrics and I was like ‘okay this must have a really melancholic sound’ tell me why the somg is so upbeat 😂

Execution scene…

Chp1, Chp2

This piece has one line that hints to having at least medium length hair, if this does not fit you you can always imagine it is a wig as I made sure it wasen’t explicit that it was their hair or you can also take it as their hijab being arranged rather than hair

Dividers by @/firefly-graphics and @/drinkthesky

Reader here is replaced by Dokucha which stands for Reader in japanese for my ease lf writing and the enjoyment of oc readers

The man behind the child let out a hum as he looked at the mirror and tried different hairstyles on them.

“Perhaps we should do a half-up-down style; what do you think, dear?

“…”

“Aww, come on, don’t tell me you are still throwing a tantrum?” He teased looking down at them

“Well, dear, if you weren’t so stubborn, I wouldn’t have to hurt you the way I do; it is quite simple,” he carelessly added as he continued working on their hair, eventually turning them around to begin working on their make-up.

“Oh, how I wish you didn’t make me have to punish you; now look, your skin is all stained. That’s alright, nothing some makeup can’t cover, right?” he spoke as he forcefully pulled their chin up and began to apply powder on their face paying extra attention to the dark bruises that litter their face

“You will do today’s show without any nets or supports,” he informed them.

“W-What?”

“Don’t move.” He sneered as his words caused the small child to flinch back

“Don’t act so surprised, dear; the audience paid a lot to watch you, so it’s only fair to have something at stake.”

“B-But what if I fall?” They cried, slapping his hands away as they jumped off the chair

“Enough.” He growled making, putting his hand out and wiggling his finger in a ‘come here motion’ a dark grin growing on his face as they were pulled towards him as he did

“You seem to be really defiant lately. Do you want the strings to come back? Perhaps I was too benevolent in giving you free will,” he sneered

“Well? Do you?!” He boomed

“No!” She cried

“Good. Next time, I won’t be as nice,” he said, walking out of the room and glancing back at the crying child on the floor.

“Enough with the tears. Your makeup will get damaged. Get ready for the show; you will be out in a few minutes.”

They sighed, looking at themselves in the mirror, trying to calm the erratic beating of their hearts at the stunts they were forced to do minutes before. Eventually, a few sniffles escaped them, sniffles turning into small hiccups and small hiccups turning into a cascade of tears as the events of the day began to catch up to them.

“Wait, Buggy, you idiot!”

It wasn’t until the sound of something crashing behind them that they were pulled out of their spiral and stared at the two boys standing there.

“Me?! You were the one that shoved me!” A voice cried

“Did not”

“Ye-

“Who are you?” The child asked, staring wide-eyed at the couple of teens bickering in front of them

“Sorry to barge in, we just were looking around,” the redhead answered, turning his attention from his friend to them.

“You can’t be ere!” they hissed.

“I know, I know, this is backstage, but we wanted to see what it was like. Buggy here was really impressed by your act, so we wanted to take a peak.”

“I was not!” the red-nose boy protested, shooting up.

“No! No! You can’t be ere!” Dokucha cried, jumping down from the chair

“Hey, Hey, it’s okay. We were just leaving,” Shanks assures them with an easy smile on his face despite having been caught.

“N-

“Dokucha!” A voice angrily boomed

“Ah!” the child looked at the sound of the voice with a terrified look on their and back to the two boys, quickly running towards them and pulling them to a nearby closet, ignoring the confused protests of the two.

“H-Hey!”

“Shhh!” they called, closing the door just in time for the ringmaster to storm in

“Wha- Agh!” they cried as the man sent them flying back with a punch to their face. A livid expression on their face as they did

The child looked up at the man, holding their cheek in pain as they did; despite this not being a to them, it did not make this treatment any easier on the child.

“R-Ringmaster?” they questioned

“You useless brat!” he growled, kicking them back and watching as the child crashed against the masts of the tent at his actions.

“I’m soy! I’m sory. I can make it better, please!”

“You think I didn’t notice?! What have I told you about hesitating when making your jumps, you worthless piece of shit!”

Tears started to fall from Dokucha’s eyes as they slowly picked themselves up, looking up at the monster in front of them.

“P-Please, I wasn’t h-

“Shut up,” He roared.

“It’s obvious I was too lenient on you in giving you some kind of free will; it’s time you remember your place,” he muttered, a dark look growing on his face as he snapped his fingers. He grinned, satisfied at the child’s cries as they were pulled into the air, strings slowly enveloping their bodies.

Ignoring the cries and pleas of the child, he tightened his hand into a fist, watching as the strings seemed to follow their lead as they painfully tightened against the child until they began digging into their skin.

It was their cries that prevented the ringmaster from hearing the scuffle that seemed to occur behind him as this went on. As a livid Shanks started struggling against Buggy, who held the teen back from storming into the scene

“Buggy, we have to do something,” he growled, struggling against his friend’s holds.

“I know, idiot! But look, the guy is a devil-fruit user, a strong one!” Buggy hissed with terrified tears pooling in his eyes at the terrifying scene they had found themselves in

“He’s going to kill them!”

“And us if we run in there!” Buggy shot back

“So what we just watch as he kills they bleed to death?!” he hissed, breaking free from his friend’s hold and turning towards him.

“N-No! I sent a hand to fetch the captain; we have to wait until they get here!”

“They don’t have that kind of time, Buggy!”

“Just wait, you moron!”

Before Shanks could throw another retort toward his crewmate, loud bangs and screams rang outside of the tent, something that the ringmaster also took notice of. As he let out a few curses as he gave one last look at the child and made his way out of the tent to investigate the commotion.

“They’re here!” Buggy exclaimed with a relieved smile

Not a second later, the two pushed their way out of the closet and ran towards the child, who by now had fallen unconscious, no doubt due to the amount of blood that slowly trickled from their body and down the strings that held them up in a morbid resemblance to a fly trapped in a spider’s web.

Pulling out his throwing knives, Buggy made quick work of the strings, watching as the child fell into Shanks’s awaiting hands as he ran next to the redhead to check on the child.

“H-Hey, are they d-dead?” he questioned, looking down at the child.

“H-Hey! Wake up! Hey!” Shanks cried, trying to shake awake the lifeless body of the child

“Now then, what have you lads gotten yourselves into?” A voice cut into as they walked into the tent, interrupting the teens fretting over the child

“Captain!” Buggy cried, looking at the man at the door of the tent

“Captain! Please! Help!” Shanks begged, looking up at his captain, terrified as he hugged Dokucha’s body closer to them

Roger stared at his apprentices agape, quickly taking in the scene in front of him as he hurried towards them.

“Crocus! Get in here!” he hollered.

It had been a week since those events took place; since then, Crocus had managed to save the child but was unsuccessful in pulling them out of the unconscious state they had been placed in. According to the Doctor, it was likely they had fallen into a comma as a response their body had to the stress undergone due to the torturous treatment at the hands of the ringmaster.

After they had been stabilized, the crew had another problem on their hands; their interference in the circus had caught the attention of the marines, and as such, they needed to set sail. The original plan was to leave the child under the care of the now-freed performers and set off; this, however, did not go as planned. Much to the crew’s surprise, the two apprentices had begged their captain to bring Dokucha along rather than leave them behind at the circus.

Some crew members objected to this idea, concerned with the child’s well-being if they were to be brought upon the ship. Unlike when the two current apprentices were taken in, the crew now sailed more dangerous waters with perilous missions, enemies, and much higher notoriety than a decade prior.

Roger, ever having a soft spot for children, agreed to the teen’s requests under the promise that they had to take part in the caring for the child, something the two had agreed to in an instant. It was clear to the crew that the apprentices had developed a bond with the small child, perhaps reminded of their own origins when they were brought aboard the Oro Jackson; regardless, in the past week, they had made true to their promise as the two were often found hanging on the sick bay watching for any new updates on the state of Dokucha. Despite being out of their element when they first woke up terrified and in tears against all odds, the teen had managed to assure the child, promising to remain by their side.

It had taken a few more weeks for the child to adjust to their new life and leave behind the fear that came with their old life. Still, with time, they had slowly reverted to a gleeful three-year-old once again, ready to join Shanks and Buggy in any mischievous adventures the two went on.

“Who’s that?” Dokucha questioned from their position on Buggy’s lap as both him Shanks sat with them on the Deck of the ship as they scanned over a piece of Newspaper

“They are a bunch of nobodies!” Buggy sneered, watching as the Whitebeard pirates had once again taken over the headline of the newspaper

Dokucha looked up at the paper once again, a grin on their face as they took the picture of the pirates in

“They look prety cool!”

“That’s what they want you to think, Dokucha! They may look cool, but they are nothing compared to us.” Buggy Boasted

“Yes! Cause Roer pirates r e best,” they cheered.

"Dhahahaha good Job Dokucha!" Shanks grinned as he stood up, throwing the child in the air and causing them to let out gleeful squeals at the action.

“Still, what a bummer, those guys are getting all the glory,” he stated as he put Dokucha on his hip and continued to Scan the newspaper, only for it to be snatched from his hands.

“A samurai, huh?” their captain laughed.

“I would love to meet him!” he exclaimed

“Capi!” Dokucha cheered, extending their arms towards the man, laughing as he complied with their silent request and grabbed them from Shanks

“Hey there, champ!” he exclaimed, lifting them up in the air.

“How are you feeling today? What are you up to with the lads?”

“I’m good! Shans-nii and Buggy-nii are showing me the whybear pirates.” They grinned.

“Whitebeard,” Shanks Scoffed out with a snicker.

“Whiebeard!” they parroted

“Wahahahaha! I’m glad you’re in good spirits today!” he called, putting them down and watching as they ran their way back to Buggy, hugging their leg happily and letting out a giggle as the clown picked them up and placed them on his hip as he made silly faces to the child.

“Where are we heading now, Captain?” Shanks questioned

“We’re on the way to a nearby summer Island. I have received reports of the Whitebeard crew being spotted close. It will be the perfect chance to meet this Samurai fellow!”

“We’re going to meet the Wildboars?!” Dokucha called excitedly

Shanks sighed, giving up on correcting them and pulling on the cheek of the child.

“Dokucha, you have to stay next to us, okay? I don’t trust those guys!”

“Oey! Shans-nii!” they whined, slapping his hand away with a frown, promptly being replaced by a smile.

“But it’s okay cause Capi and bothers are gonna be there!” they cheered.

"Wahahaha! That's right Dokucha! Just stay near us and everything will be fine!"

“Yes Capi!”

Okay yes that last part highkey dosen’t fit the whole action pace of the story and much less the narration that followed after but listen I could not in good conscience not add wholesomeness! I couldn’t, just lil Dokucha hanging from shank’s hip or cuddle in his lap as he read or Buggy’s faces to make them laugh 🥹 and omg the capi, im so smart yall 🤭

Taglist:

@Imaginarydreams

@amethystviolin

@h0n3y-l3m0n05

@hannahbarberra162

[moonkissedmagic]

lavender & honey (chapter 1)

pairings: agatha x reader, wanda x reader

synopsis: as you begin to finally open yourself back up to the possibility of love, the ghost of your past makes her return.

a/n: been reading about my ladies so much, i decided to finally just write for them :)

i love writing, but this isn’t necessarily my thing, so please be kind! as of right now, i have like half a plan for this, so if anyone has any ideas at any point, please let me know! enjoy!

p.s. we love yearning and drama over here! i am dramatic! i use dramatic language! be warned!

word count: 5.1k

— — — — — —

Morning comes softly in your little corner of town.

It seeps in slowly through the tall front windows of Lavender & Honey, casting golden light across the polished wood floors and the leafy silhouettes of potted ferns still heavy with dew. Outside, the street yawns to life with the occasional rattle of a bicycle or the whisper of a neighbor’s dog walk. But inside the shop, it’s a quiet that hums—alive with the scent of soil, morning-brewed tea, and a hint of cinnamon.

You open every day at seven. Not because the foot traffic demands it, but because there’s a peace in the early hours—when you can talk to the plants without anyone thinking you’re strange, and when the world hasn’t yet tried to ask too much of you.

The bell over the door gives a lazy chime as you unlock it and prop it open, letting the cool morning breeze sweep in. You set about your ritual: watering the succulents by the window, trimming browning petals from yesterday’s bouquets, checking the cooler full of pre-made arrangements. There’s a rhythm to it. One you’ve built safely around your work.

The day unravels as most days do—soft, comfortable, long. While you’re successful enough to keep the shop open without worry, you’re by no means a bustling business. Your plants keep you from going crazy, but don’t always ease the looming sense of loneliness.

Just before closing, the bell rings again and you look at the newcomers—a couple, young and in their early twenties. There’s a lightness about them, a softness in the way they walk shoulder to shoulder. They step inside carefully, eyes wide and delighted, whispering to each other in awe at the fresh arrangements. The bride-to-be clasps her hands in front of her, cheeks glowing with quiet excitement as she points to the peonies. Her fiancé lingers beside her, clearly smitten, nodding along like the flowers themselves are meant to impress him. You offer a gentle smile and ask if they need any help. They gush—sweet and unreserved—about their engagement, the bride half-laughing as she confesses she just couldn’t wait to start planning.

You keep smiling, offering compliments and congratulations with the ease of long practice, but something tugs inside of you. A familiar sting, quiet but persistent. It doesn’t hurt the way it once did, but the ache is still there—dulled now, like an old wound that flares up when the season changes. Still, you mean every word you offer them. Wistful envy is an emotion you’ve become quite familiar with, having learned to live beside it, rather than resenting it.

You lock up, motions echoing those from the morning, only now they’re slower, heavier with exhaustion that’s settled into your limbs like fog.

A long shower and your favorite takeout are sounding better by the second, but that plan goes out the window as soon as your phone buzzes on the counter.

Jen: Don’t even TRY to get out of coming tonight, Y/N!!

Jen: Your ass better be there by 10 or I’m blasting pictures from when you drank a whole fucking bottle of tequila

You huff out a laugh at how well she knows you, rolling your eyes as you immediately respond.

You: low blow, kale. low blow.

You: but i agree that was not my finest moment

Sighing, you convince yourself it would be nice to see everyone, even if you would rather be in your pajamas on the couch.

You: ugh fine! i’ll be there

Jen: Wear something sexy!!!! You know who is coming ;)

You: goodbye jennifer

You brush her off, but can’t deny the light blush that dusts your cheeks. You can’t help but picture her. Your current... Crush? Obsession? Something quieter and far more dangerous than you’re ready to name? Nothing has happened yet—you’re not entirely sure it will, considering you and your crippling fear of trust and commitment—but god, you want it to. You shake off the heated thoughts that begin to root themselves in your brain, finishing up and heading home to get ready.

The hot shower is grounding, steam curling around you like a cocoon, washing away the residue of the day. You lose yourself in the familiar ritual—curling your hair, drawing on eyeliner with a practiced flick, humming along to your favorite songs. Choosing your outfit takes longer than you'd like to admit, clothes tossed carelessly across your carpet like fallen leaves. Eventually, you land on a black lace top that clings in all the right places, sheer and hinting at the matching bra beneath it. It’s paired with a skirt short enough to feel daring, but long enough to still feel like you. Sexy, but not trying too hard. Jen would approve.

The lingering scent of your perfume and sound of your heels follow you out the door, nerves settling low in your stomach. You’re not exactly a club girl, and it’s been ages since you last went out. Still, you square your shoulders and take a deep breath, attempting to prepare yourself for the night ahead. You text Jen that you’re on the way, receiving an enthusiastic reply with way too many exclamation points.

You've barely stepped out of your car when you hear it. Warm and melodic and far too intoxicating.

“Y/N!”

Your breath catches. Of course. Of course she’d be waiting outside like some kind of beautiful surprise the universe left just for you. She stands there, radiant as ever in the glow of the club's neon sign, all flushed cheeks and tender eyes that make your knees feel weak.

Your smile is a bit tense, but nonetheless genuine as you respond, “Wanda! How are you?”

The Sokovian beams and it feels like your chest expands to make room for the way she looks at you. She drinks you in with those eyes, slow and deliberate, like she’s cataloging every inch of you for later. And when she finally speaks—

“Better now that you’re here, dorogoy.”

Your cheeks blaze. She always does this—calls you names, soft and accent laced. Makes your stomach twist in too many directions. Gives you a feeling you thought was reserved for only one person.

“You’re sweet,” you softly remark.

“Not as sweet as you, I’m sure,” she smirks back.

You chuckle and clear your throat in hopes of breaking the rapidly growing tension, not exactly sure how to respond.

This is too much, too fast you think. Realistically you know it’s not—it’s barely anything and you’ve known Wanda for months now—if anything it’s been too little, too slow. But there’s no buffer, no anyone around, and you feel exposed. You think you really like her and you don’t want to fuck it up. It’s been a while since you’ve been with anyone, let alone interested in anyone, and you feel severely out of practice.

Before you can spiral further, Wanda nods toward the club’s entrance where music pulses through the brick walls in time with your rapidly growing headache. “Ready to brave the storm?”

You smile gratefully, still a bit shy, and fall into step beside her. Her hand finds the small of your back, fingers steady and reassuring. It feels nice, you think—the combination of her warm skin and cool rings sends shivers down your spine. You keep your composure, refusing to implode from one simple touch.

Once you step inside, the world seemingly transforms. Everything is alive—the floor vibrates beneath every beat, lights strobe in sync with the music, bodies move like waves in the dark. The scent of cologne, sweat, and something sweet hangs in the air, overwhelming your senses.

Wanda’s hand remains firm against your lower back—if anything, she draws you closer as the crowd presses in, her fingers digging slightly into your hip to tether you to her. The gesture is subtle but grounding, and you lean into it instinctively.

You scan the room for any glimpse of your friends, hoping to find them sooner rather than later. Before you’re forced to look too hard, Wanda’s hand slides from your back to your elbow, down to your fingers. She links them with her own, wordlessly tugging you along. You bite your lip and take a deep breath, letting yourself be led—the comfort of her touch melting away whatever nerves still clung to your spine.

She cuts a path through the crowd with easy confidence, ducking past clusters of dancers and half drunk patrons until you reach a table tucked away in the back right corner of the club. You find Nat, Maria, Lilia, and of course, at the center of it all, Jen. The second she spots the two of you she’s smirking at the rest of the group, giving you a look you don’t have the energy to analyze.

“Well, look who finally showed up,” she announces, voice rising above the music.

You roll your eyes at her theatrics, lips twitching into a grin despite yourself. There’s always been something infectious about Jen’s energy—brash and bright and impossible to ignore.

Wanda squeezes your hand gently, her smile lazy as she steadily remarks, “My fault. I held her up in the parking lot.”

You groan internally. You can already see where this is going.

Jen’s eyes light up like a Christmas tree. She leans forward, practically vibrating with delight. “Oh, I’m sure you did,” she says, the innuendo barely veiled.

Wanda lets out a soft, playful sigh. “Grow up, Jen.”

“Yeah. Grow up, Jen.” You piggyback off the Sokovian, further leaning into her touch. You start to relax, feeling more comfortable as she takes the lead.

The beauty guru raises her eyebrows, amused by your obedient echo. Wanda’s gaze dips toward you, eyes twinkling with approval as she rubs a teasing thumb along the sliver of exposed skin between your skirt and top.

Already a little tipsy and with eyes full of mischief and fondness, Jen reaches out, pulling you into a warm, slightly sweaty hug that smells of vodka and expensive perfume.

“By the way, you look hot. Like, ‘step-on-me’ hot. You’re welcome.”

You laugh, shaking your head, though you don’t deny the compliment. The rest of the group is scattered around the table, drinks already flowing, bodies swaying subtly to the beat. Everyone’s happy to see you, and the energy is easy—effortless in a way that only true friendships are. There’s no pressure, no need to perform. Just warm, familiar faces and the low thrum of alcohol softening the edges of the world.

You say your hellos to the rest of the group, slipping into the circle of chairs with Wanda never too far from your side. The night hums along with easy laughter and clinking glasses—a couple of rounds come and go, conversation flowing smoother with each sip. You're more relaxed than you expected to be—maybe it's the drinks, maybe it's the way Wanda keeps drifting just close enough to brush against your arm. At some point, your third (maybe fourth?) glass is empty, and before you can register the lull, Wanda glances over and offers to get you a refill.

She leans in, her breath warm against your ear, “What do you want, dorogoy?”

The way she says it—low, intimate, affectionate—makes your stomach flutter. You turn toward her, lips twitching into a playful smile.

“Surprise me?” you murmur, a little bolder now.

You hadn’t meant for it to sound suggestive—but the second it leaves your lips, you know it did. Wanda’s eyes darken immediately, her attention narrowing in on the place where you’d bitten your lip just a moment ago.

“Gladly, detka,” she purrs, voice smooth and languid like dripping honey. “You just sit there and look pretty, okay?”

It’s not a question. You nod without even realizing it, absentmindedly staring after her.

Someone clears their throat. Loudly. You blink and glance up, suddenly aware that every single pair of eyes at the table is trained on you. Some are smug, some are affectionate, but all are supportive. You duck your head in response, feeling embarrassed for seemingly getting caught.

Jen, unsurprisingly, is the first to speak. “Wow. You are down bad.”

Nat snorts beside her, “Can’t blame you though. Maximoff might be in even worse shape than you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you try to deny.

They all look at you incredulously, not bothering to entertain the lie with any sort of acknowledgment. Before Jen can open her mouth with another taunt, you beat her to it.

“Okay, but how is everyone? It feels like it’s been forever since I’ve seen you guys.”

She wants to push, but your genuineness is unmistakable and they know that while it's a diversion, you are truly curious about how they’ve been.

Jen rolls her eyes but softens, telling you about work and her frustratingly perfect relationship with a European male model. You nod along, chiming in and asking questions at all the right times.

Maria slips away to help Wanda at the bar, and Nat joins the conversation, launching into an animated rant about her gym and the unrelenting cloud of testosterone that hangs around the place. Lilia remains mostly quiet, content to observe, her eyes speaking louder than words.

Soon, Wanda and Maria return with overflowing cups, handing them out and matching them to their rightful owners. The Sokovian takes her place next to you, close but comfortable.

She slides a vibrantly colored drink towards you, “For you, printsessa.”

You roll your eyes at the nickname, but gratefully accept the cup, “What is it?”

Her lips curl around her glass, “You said to surprise you, detka. It’s a surprise.”

She tips her head toward you, her eyes practically daring you to try it. You oblige, taking a generous sip under her unrelenting gaze. The drink is fruity, with just enough bite to make it interesting. As soon as you’re done, her eyes are on your lips.

“How is it?” Her eyes flick up to yours, smug but heated.

“Sweet,” you tease back.

She leans in, lips a breath from yours. “Not as sweet as you, I’m sure,” she repeats from earlier.

You feel a small flicker of courage as everything around you seems to fade away. You ignore all of your doubts and latch on as tight as you can.

“Why don’t you find out?” Now it’s you watching her, gaze drawn to the curve of her smile.

Wanda doesn’t waste a second. Her mouth claims yours like she’s been waiting forever, her lips soft but sure. When her tongue traces along the seam of your mouth to get a better taste, you open without thinking, letting her in. You try to muffle the whimper that escapes your throat, but she hears it—feels it—and you know from the way her smirk presses against your skin that she loves it.

You’re both panting when she breaks away, licking her lips and breathing into you, “I was right. You’re even sweeter than I thought.”

That’s about as much of a pause she gives before diving back in, devouring you more intensely than before. Her hands move to your face, rings cool against your cheeks, fingers threading into your hair. You lean into the contact; nearly forgetting where you are, who’s around, or what came before her.

Then—

A loud noise. Sharp, direct. Suddenly, you’re being yanked away.

“What the fuck?” You gasp, spinning to find Jen gripping your arm with a look that immediately sobers you.

You know that look.

“What? What’s wrong?” Your voice wavers.

“Don’t freak out,” Jen says carefully, too carefully.

Nat’s voice cuts through next, low and laced with warning, “Oh hell no.”

Wanda’s hand slips into yours again, grounding you, trying to help even though she’s clearly confused.

“Seriously, what’s going on?” You panic.

Before anyone can explain, you hear a voice you would know anywhere—a voice you could pick out of any crowd.

“Y/N?”

They’re still a distance away, but you can tell they’re moving in your direction.

All the breath leaves your lungs at once and you feel the color drain from your face. “Oh my god.”

Wanda gently tilts your chin towards her, trying to grab your attention. “Hey.”

“Y/N, it’s okay. We’ll just tell her to go away,” Jen offers, though her voice lacks confidence.

Maria scoffs, “Yeah, because she’s a great listener.”

Wanda’s brows are furrowed, Lilia looks like she’s sending up a prayer, Maria’s eyes are practically falling out with how hard she’s rolling them, and Nat’s gripping her glass so tightly it’s a miracle it hasn’t shattered.

As soon as you’re able to open your mouth and attempt to form any kind of response, you’re cut off, and this time, the voice is much closer.

“Y/N. Baby.”

You shudder and somehow find the courage to look up, seeing Agatha Harkness standing not five feet away from you.

And just like that, your entire world tilts.

Time stops—or at least it feels that way. The chaos of the club melts into a distant hum, swallowed by the thunder of your own heartbeat in your ears.

Agatha. She’s just as devastatingly beautiful as ever, maybe even more so now that she’s been carved from absence. Her hair is long, curling in untamed waves that spill over her shoulders like ink. Her eyes—those impossibly blue, soul-splitting eyes—lock onto yours the instant you look over, as if she’s been holding her breath, waiting for this exact moment.

She’s dressed like a dream you’ve tried to forget—tailored pants that hug her hips, a low-cut blouse in midnight silk that reveals just enough to make your mouth dry, and heels that click with too much confidence for someone who should not be here. You meet her eyes for the first time in two years, and it’s as if no time has passed at all.

Surprisingly, Wanda is the first to speak up.

“Baby?” she repeats, her voice firm but questioning, a single eyebrow arching as she throws a glance your way. She doesn’t know who this woman is, but from the tension buzzing through the air like a livewire, she assumes she isn’t welcome.

Agatha’s gaze finally tears itself away from your face, whipping to where Wanda sits beside you. Shifting with something sharp, she sizes her up, jaw tightening with challenge.

“Yes. And you are?” The words are dipped in acid, thrown like daggers made specifically for the Sokovian. There’s no mistaking the bite, the way her tone seems to curl around jealousy and disdain. Agatha might not know who Wanda is, but she sees her. She sees her hand on your knee. Her lipstick on your mouth. Her presence next to you, filling the space that once belonged to Agatha.

To her credit, Wanda doesn’t flinch. She lifts her chin slightly, her expression unreadable except for the coolness in her eyes. It’s as if she’s weighing the woman in front of her—measuring her—and not finding anything particularly impressive.

She opens her mouth to respond, but Agatha cuts her off with an icy smirk.

“Oh no, sweetheart, I don’t actually give a shit.” Her lips curve upward, but her eyes—those eyes—betray the truth. They scream. They’re stormy and desperate and furious that someone else has touched what’s hers.

Her attention immediately returns to you like it never left, taking you in with a passion that steals the breath from your lungs. It’s the same way she used to drink you in—like you were her favorite sin—but now it’s hungrier. More frantic. Her eyes devour you like she’s been starved. She rushes to get her first fix of you in what has been far too long for her liking.

“Agatha,” you exhale, voice careful. You say her name like it’s just a word, like it doesn’t still echo through the hollow parts of you.

“Angel,” she breathes in return, the word breaking apart at the edges. It comes out raw and unguarded, like it has physically hurt her to be away from you all this time.

Even with music blaring, the silence that follows is deafening. It stretches on for too long, too tight, until it’s nearly suffocating. Agatha doesn’t seem to mind. She’s always thrived in tension, lived in chaos. And tonight, she’s in her element—content to stand in the middle of the storm as long as your eyes are on her.

“Can we go somewhere? To talk?” Her voice is quieter now, softer, but still firm. Still that same sultry, low tone that once consumed you so fully you forgot where she ended and you began.

There’s something beneath her request—a fracture, an edge of vulnerability that remains hidden from everyone but you. She stands tall, but you hear the tremble beneath the surface.

Nat’s voice slices through the moment like a blade. “She’s good. You, on the other hand, should definitely go.”

Agatha raises her eyebrow in sharp amusement, barely peeling her eyes away to glance at the redhead with a look teetering between condescension and beguilement.

“Natasha.” She dryly acknowledges, spitting out her name like a punch disguised as a greeting.

Nat’s jaw tics. Her hands are clenched. You’re pretty sure she’s moments away from launching herself across the table.

Jen, trying to salvage some kind of order, steps in with her usual exasperated flair. “Alright, everyone! We’re all adults here. Let’s act like it, yeah?”

“Act like it?” Nat snaps, eyes wide with disbelief. “What, so all of a sudden you’re on her side? What the fuck, Jen?”

“I’ve made it very clear, I’m on nobody’s side,” Jen says, raising her hands like a referee in a ring. “I just want to enjoy the night, so maybe if we just—”

“Fuck no!” Nat shouts, slamming her hand on the table. She rises to her feet, eyes burning and voice taut with anger. “She needs to leave. Now.”

The entire table bristles with energy—everyone tense, everyone watching. Even Wanda’s eyes have sharpened. No one’s speaking, but their body language screams. Lilia watches like she’s already predicted ten ways this could go. Maria sips her drink with steeled silence. The music keeps pulsing behind it all, the rest of the club unaware of the landmine that’s gone off in the back corner.

True to form, Agatha hasn’t moved an inch. She stays rooted to where she is, with her focus laser-locked onto you. She’s composed, but her stillness is a lie. You can feel the heat of her restraint—thick and searing—radiating off of her in waves.

You can feel her. That pull. The gravitational ache that’s always existed between you.

You take a deep breath and slowly stand, knowing this is your situation to sort out. You ignore the flutter of Wanda’s concerned gaze and the way Nat watches you like she’s ready to pull you back if needed. You don’t say a word, you just rise and face her. All of her.

She wastes no time drinking in every new inch of your exposed skin now that nothing is hidden from her view. But the look in her eyes isn’t just hunger—it’s need. Desperate, sharp, unfiltered. It goes beyond desire. It’s as if something buried deep inside her can’t help but call out to you, like her soul knows yours and is reaching through the spaces between you. It’s as if you’ve always belonged to each other and always will.

In her stare lives every memory, every laugh, every regret, every late night, every whispered promise she let slip away. It lives in her eyes and it begs. There’s longing written in every line of her body, and it makes you ache in places you didn’t know were still tender.

On the surface, it’s easy. She doesn’t deserve your time. She shouldn’t get another chance. Whatever excuses she’s spinning in her mind are nothing but smoke and mirrors. You know better.

But deep down, in a place you’ve tried to lock away and forget—you never stopped wanting her. Even when she hurt you. Even when she made you feel like nothing. You still wanted her—still want her. And that’s the most dangerous truth of all.

So when you open your mouth, you decide to keep it simple. You’ll calmly, but firmly, tell her to leave you be, and then you’ll turn around and get on with your night like it never happened. Easy, simple plan. You know she’ll push, try to stir up everything you’ve buried, but you also know that if you don’t break, she’ll have to let it go. You clear your throat, steeling yourself for what’s to come.

“I think that it’s—”

You don’t get the chance to finish.

“Agatha? Where the hell did you go?”

A new voice slices through the tension like a razor. Your stomach plummets. Your blood runs cold.

She turns slightly, just enough to confirm your fear.

Rio Vidal. Agatha’s co-worker—and more importantly, her ex-girlfriend.

Who just so happens to be the one person you can’t stand more than anybody else.

And in that moment, your heart shatters.

Every ounce of strength you’d managed to gather vanishes in an instant. Your breathing picks up. Your throat goes dry. And Agatha—god, Agatha flinches.

To everyone's surprise, you laugh. But it’s not light or airy—it’s broken. Jagged, like something torn loose under too much pressure. It scrapes out of you like it hurts, spilling into the air with a kind of devastation that silences the entire group.

“Oh, this is perfect.”

Agatha reaches for you, voice desperate, raw. “Y/N—”

“No, no! This is good. This makes sense.” Every part of you is trembling, like your body no longer knows how to hold itself together. You’re crumbling in front of everyone, and Agatha’s heart is breaking.

“Baby, no, it’s not what you think-”

“Do not call me that and do not say that to me!” you explode, the words ripped from your chest. “How can you look me in my face and say that to me, Agatha? After everything?”

And then Rio, in all her obliviousness—or maybe arrogance—steps forward.

“Look, sweetheart,” she says, crossing her arms like she’s doing you a favor. “You need to chill out. Take a fucking breath, okay?”

Agatha snaps her head just enough to growl, “Shut the fuck up, Rio.”

The older woman attempts to reach for you again, but your body moves before your mind catches up—pulling away fast, hitting the edge of the table in the process.

Nat immediately grabs onto your shoulder, her grip firm and steadying. She’s close, and for a moment, you find relief in her presence.

All at once, you start to regret every drink you’ve had that night as your stomach churns violently. Your chest rises and falls in uneven breaths as you manage to say, “I—I think I need to go.”

“What? No, don’t let her ruin your night, Y/N.” The Russian's voice is sharp, but you can hear the worry beneath it. Still, you can’t shake the overwhelming urge to escape.

You jerkily lean in, close enough that your words are a soft, urgent murmur against her ear. “No, I really don't feel good, Nat. I think—I think I'm going to be sick.”

Her expression changes instantly—eyes widening in alarm as she sees the color drain from your face. Without a word, she grabs your arm, pulling you into her with an easy strength. The chaos around you fades into the background as she moves, her steps quick and purposeful. She ignores the questions and protests thrown behind you, the buzz of rising voices all drowned out by the sound of your own pounding heart.

“Y/N, wait!” Agatha calls out, her voice strained between panic and guilt.

“Dorogoy, are you alright?” Wanda asks, her tone tight with unanswered concern.

You stumble slightly, but Nat holds you close—her pace unwavering as she leads you through the mass of people, weaving around obstacles like she’s done it a hundred times before. When you catch sight of the bathroom, you groan into her chest, the sight of a line of people making your stomach twist tighter.

The redhead seems to sense your frustration before you even say anything. She steps forward without hesitation, voice ringing out as she yells about some kind of emergency. Her words hit the air like a command, and before anyone can react, she shoulders her way through the group, moving with practiced ease. She doesn’t stop until she’s right in front of the door, slipping in just as someone leaves, locking it behind her with a soft click.

You don’t have time to thank her before you’re doubled over on your knees, emptying the contents of your stomach into the toilet. In the midst of everything, Nat’s hands are there—gentle but unyielding. She pulls your hair back, gathering it in a makeshift ponytail with a practiced touch, holding it away from your face as you heave.

When the worst of it finally passes, your body feels drained, like there’s nothing left. You slump back against the cool bathroom wall, your eyes closing as you try to steady your breathing. The pounding in your head subsides slowly, but you still feel off balance, like you’re drifting outside your body.

After a moment, you peek up at the redhead, finding her staring down at you with a mix of concern and something softer. You take a long, shuddering breath, trying to gather your scattered thoughts.

In the end, all you can seem to come up with is an exasperated, “What the fuck?”

The woman across from you huffs out a bittersweet laugh, but before she can even consider a response, there’s a knock at the door—light, but insistent.

“Y/N? You okay in there?”

It’s Wanda, voice laced with worry—but it's not just the words that have you sitting up straight. It’s the way they buckle, like they’re strained at the edges.

You exchange a glance with Nat, and without speaking, she stands, taking a step toward the door. Just as she reaches for the handle, another voice cuts through—this time, low and dangerous.

"Why don’t you take a step back, sweetheart? Let the grown ups handle this."

It’s Agatha. Because of course it is.

[patolemus]

Sterek fic recs: Fake Dating AU Edition

Because @oldefashioned requested a fake dating rec list, here it is. These are all very funny, as fake dating fics ought to be, so I hope you get a good laugh out of it.

1. Not Your Disney Romance by Wrennefer (Wrenegadeone)

After a long-forgotten agreement of an arranged marriage between Derek and the daughter of another pack's alpha resurfaces, Stiles takes it upon himself to become the most amazing fake fiancé that a clueless, desperate alpha werewolf could wish for.

Notes: Domestic pack, my beloved. Stiles and Derek are precious here, I LOVE THEM!! The visiting pack, not so much, but who cares about them?? It's all pretty lighthearted, all things considered. It's completed.

2. Electricity In the Contact by ladyblahblah

In which Derek has been invited to the Greater Pacific Northwest Alpha Symposium (that's not what it's called, Stiles, stop saying that), and showing up unattached would mean an arranged marriage. When the rest of the pack objects, he agrees to let Stiles come along to pose as his mate. Derek is reasonably sure that he's not going to make it out of this weekend alive.

Notes: Werewolf convention fics are so good! I actually haven't found all that many, considering how common a trope it is, and it's a tragedy because they're always so well done! This one is no exception, and the mini-world building is also great! It's completed.

3. can’t be hateful, gotta be grateful by HalfFizzbin

"Be cool, Dad, we've decided to con Grandma." (Or, the one where the Stilinski men drag Derek to Thanksgiving dinner at Grandma's and she gets the right wrong idea.)

Notes: this one is just *cheff´s kiss* wonderful! It's all pretty domestic and the humor is on point. College student Stiles and the Sheriff are strong armed into spending Thanksgiving with Stiles' grandma, and they find nothing better than to bring Derek with them. Pining and misunderstandings ensue and thus comes the fake dating. It's completed.

4. Gravity’s Got Nothing on You by zosofi

“Three weeks,” Derek says. “Still don’t want to,” Stiles says. “I’ll pay you,” Derek says, and that… that has Stiles interested. Alf’s Antique’s may be a great job, but it’s not a high-paying job, and half of Stiles’s tuition is coming from financial aid, so… “How much,” Stiles asks, “are we talking here? Because I know your family, dude. And it’ll be kind of awkward after.“ “My family thinks you’re some sort of fucking gift to the world,” Derek seethes, like he’s jealous, “they’ll probably be pissed at me when we break it off, so don’t worry about that. Five hundred bucks.” “A thousand,” Stiles says, because screw ethics. Also, the Hale family is loaded. Derek can deal.

Notes: this had such a chokehold on me when I first read it. Absolutely wonderful. Enemies to lovers?? Maybe. Assholes to assholes-in-love, is a better descriptor. There's werewolves, and magic, and it's awesome! It's completed.

5. He’s Not Mine by Sonnee

Derek comes home to find an abandoned werebaby on his front porch and Stiles volunteers to help him out. Surprisingly, that is just the beginning of his problems.

Notes: again, it's all very domestic, like most fake dating fics ought to be. It's a kid fic, Sterek are mates, we have all the love. Not much else I can think to add... it's completed.

6. Real life isn’t a movie (life doesn’t make narrative sense) by dearericbittle (dutchmoxie)

Somehow accidentally insulting a hot guy in a coffee shop leads to pretending to be his boyfriend in front of a house full of werewolves. Stiles Stilinski is living his best life and making the most of his Hallmark movie moment.

Notes: this one had me cracking up because it's so funny! Stiles is living his best life, for real. Derek... suffers. But it's okay, because he gets a boyfriend out of this whole thing! They are disgustingly sweet in that assholish way they have. It's completed.

7. You look like my next mistake by Vendelin

“So, are you dating someone new? Someone who doesn’t mind that you’re frigid?” Kate cocks her head to the side, smiling as though she just asked him about where he bought his shoes. His entire body sighs in defeat as his shoulders grow square. Just as he opens his mouth, someone comes up to stand beside him, snaking an arm around his shoulders. When he glances to his side, expecting to see Isaac, his brain seems to malfunction. Because it isn’t Isaac. It’s Stiles Stilinski, the lacrosse talent of the year, a senior who Derek has seen multiple times from far away, but never ever talked to. In which Derek is a nerd jock, and Stiles is a frat guy, and Derek falls for him even though he knows he shouldn't.

Notes: this one had me HOWLING it's so good!! Frat boy Stiles, my beloved. It's technically not fake dating because it turns into an actual relationship pretty quickly, but it starts as fake dating so I'll take it. Stiles is an absolute sweetheart in this one, I love him! And Derek is shy, and insecure, but he's so great, and everyone gets a happy ending except Kate, which is always a good thing. It's completed.

8. All’s Fair In Orgasms and War by bleepobleep

AVN BREAKING NEWS-- DIAMOND VISTA RIDGE BREAKS HIS CONTRACT WITH HALE HOUSE "We haven't seen much of our favorite rock hard stud from Hale House ever since that indie twink dethroned him as champion in Orgasm Wars, but it's just been confirmed that Diamond will no longer be working for the legendary studio famous for producing some of our favorite werewolf-on-human works. Don't fret, Diamond fans, it looks like he's been spotted cozying up to True Alpha Studios! Apparently he couldn't get enough of that one human and then followed him home. Could it be true love? Keep your eye on this studio-- us at AVN think we're about to get a lot more of Diamond in a very new way!" ~ The one in which (almost) everyone is a porn star, and Derek just wants to curl up with his fluffy blanket and watch the Hallmark channel, but work and falling in love gets in the way.

Notes: okay but is this fake dating? Maaaaaybe. It's kinda complicated. Basically everyone here is a porn star and the pack has this studio where they cater to werewolves and have a whole thing about established relationships, which is where the fake dating comes up. It's surprisingly very fluffy, considering this is a porn au, and Derek is the softest goober in this one. Stiles is completely enamoured. It's completed.

9. Wanted from the You Are series by Asterekmess (Livinginfiction)

With the Hale pack finally settled and safe, it only makes sense that something would happen to screw it all up. To top it all off, Stiles has to pretend to be Derek's mate, or face a pack of angry Alphas. He's doomed.

Notes: Alright so this series is wonderful. The world building done for the Alpha pack is also great, and that's the center of the second part (which has the fake dating). I do recommend reading the first part before jumping on to Wanted because it is a direct continuation. Also, it's an amazing au! It's completed.

10. For Love is Not Ours to Command by weathervaanes

Where Derek's skills at thinking on his feet mean that he and Stiles have to act. For the sake of Stiles' dad, of course, for the sake of the pack. No personal interest interference at all, whatsoever. Right. -0- “Why does my dad say that you and your boyfriend are a bad influence on me?” “What?” “Yeah, what boyfriend? Dude, you are not allowed to not tell me crap like this. You didn't think I'd like be a douchebag or something. Right?” “No, wait, what? I have no boyfriend.” “He says you were with him at the police station.” Stiles blinks. “Uhm. Oh shit.”

Notes: Stiles just wanted to find dirt on Raphael McCall to blackmail him. Somehow, he got himself a whole ass boyfriend. It's complicated. That's it, that's the fic. It's completed.

11. Stiles Stilinski, Boyfriend Extraordinaire by MareLoup

“Beacon County Sheriff's Department, this is deputy Mahealani speaking.” “Oh thank god!” “Stiles?” “I, uh, I need some advice.” “Advice?” “Yeah. So, hypothetically, say you met your boyfriend’s mother and sister for the first time ever. Completely by accident. In the grocery store. And they convinced you to help them make a dinner to surprise aforementioned boyfriend when he got home after work. What would you do?” Danny paused, and then, “Stiles, you don’t have a boyfriend.” “That’s not the point! And I said hypothetically.” “Stiles...what are you doing right now?” *** Stiles never imagined he’d be in Derek’s kitchen cooking a surprise dinner with Derek’s family while they waited for Derek to get home from work. Partly because their visit was a complete surprise. But mostly because Stiles didn’t have a boyfriend. Or even know who Derek was. But he’d already come this far and Papa didn’t raise no quitter!

Notes: this is to date one of my favorite Sterek fics. I laughed so much while reading this, I'm not even joking. The whole thing is a comedy of errors gone right. Stiles somehow finds himself pretending to be Derek's boyfriend, only he has no idea who Derek even is and why his family knows Stiles at all. His inner monologue is one of the funniest I've read, and his slow descent into (good natured) madness is wonderful. It's completed.

12. Love Like An Ache In The Jaw by Anonymous

“So let me get this straight,” The sheriff massages his temples, “You found a magic book, and performed a magic spell that has backfired and magically bound you to Derek Hale, rendering you both in agony if you’re not in the same room.” Derek and Stiles exchange a look. “Um. Yes.” Stiles says sheepishly. “Right. And just to be clear, when we’re talking agony… exactly how agonizing is the agony?” Derek clears his throat. “Sir, I’ve had a pole stabbed through my chest and held there for an hour. This was… similar.” - In which boredom, magic and dumbassery come together to produce a Christmas miracle slash disaster. Oh, and Stiles' grandmother who knows absolutely nothing about the supernatural happens to be in town. Oops.

Notes: another hilarious one. Stiles does Stiles things and ends up magically bound to Derek. No one is amused except Stiles' grandmother, who's having the time of her life, here. It's completed!