#<- he's not really all that involved but hes still There

[buckysouvenir]

bucky’s new uniform got you feeling all types of way. warning: 18+ content! ps.: (thunderbolts* spoilers… kind of. idk marvel spoiled everything already)

The low hum of the coffee machine and the scent of strong roast filled the apartment, but neither of those things held your attention.

Bucky Barnes—your boyfriend, your weakness, your absolute problem—was standing in the hallway, zipping up the sleek new suit that hugged every inch of him like a secret weapon.

You’d seen him in a lot of things: bloodied fatigues, loose cotton shirts, towels (God bless towels). But this?

This New Avengers suit?

It was practically rude.

“You’re doing it again,” Bucky called over his shoulder without looking. “That thing where you stare like I’m the last slice of cake.”

You didn’t even try to deny it this time.

“Cake doesn’t make my thighs clench,” you muttered, not quite quietly enough.

That got his attention.

Bucky turned, his vibranium arm glinting faintly in the morning light, and smirked. “Clench, huh?”

You sipped your coffee, legs curled under you on the couch. You were in one of his shirts—big, soft, still smelling like him—and not much else.

“You look good,” you said, voice calm even though your heart was picking up pace. “Like… absurdly good. That suit should come with a warning label.”

He chuckled, walking toward you with lazy confidence. “You think the New Avengers want a guy who’s late on his first day?”

You leaned back slightly, resting your coffee on the table as he stopped in front of you.

“I think,” you said, tugging on the front of his suit, “they’d understand if you had to deal with… an emergency at home.”

“Oh?” Bucky raised an eyebrow, but his voice had dropped a note lower. “What kind of emergency are we talking about, doll?”

You grinned, fingers sliding down his chest, tracing the grooves of his suit. “The kind that involves a very, very turned-on girlfriend… who woke up extra needy today and really wants to make out with her super-soldier boyfriend before he goes off to play hero.”

His breath hitched, subtle but noticeable. “Make out, huh?”

You were already pulling him down by the collar before he could tease you further.

The kiss started deep—hot, urgent, greedy. The kind that made your toes curl and your mind go blank. He tasted like peppermint and coffee and the kind of safety that still managed to get your heart racing.

His gloved hands found your waist, gripping tight even through the thick fabric of his suit, and you arched into him with a soft moan.

“I just finished getting dressed,” he murmured against your lips.

“You can get dressed again,” you whispered, already fumbling with the belt at his waist.

“Babe…” he warned, half-hearted at best.

“You’ve got ten minutes,” you smirked, slipping a hand between his armor and the waistband of his pants. “Use them wisely.”

His lips crashed back into yours.

In a blur, he had you laid out on the couch, his armored body hovering over yours like he was afraid to crush you—but desperate to be close. You could feel the heat of him through his suit, the tension in every controlled movement. It was sexy. Too sexy.

He kissed down your jaw, across your throat, mouthing at the sensitive skin just beneath your ear as your fingers tangled in his hair.

“You really like the suit that much?” he murmured against your skin, voice gravelly with want.

“I like you in anything,” you gasped. “But this? This is some next-level roleplay fantasy come to life.”

He laughed softly, his lips brushing your collarbone. “Remind me to wear it next time we’re actually alone for more than five minutes.”

You arched your back, pressing your body against his. “You’ve got five left.”

He groaned, rocking against you, clearly debating whether to keep his pants on or risk it.

You didn’t give him a chance to decide.

Your hand slid down, confidently, tugging at the waistband of his suit pants with enough urgency that it left no room for doubt.

“Y/N…” he rasped, bracing a hand on the arm of the couch beside your head, his body taut with restraint. “You really want to do this right now?”

You looked up at him, pupils blown wide, heat blooming low in your stomach.

“I need you,” you said simply. “Like this. In the suit. Right now.”

That was all it took.

With a muffled curse, he pulled back just enough to shove his pants down, his cock already hard and leaking at the tip. You reached for him, wrapping your fingers around him in a slow, practiced stroke that made him curse again, louder this time.

“Shit—doll, you’re gonna kill me.”

“I’ll make it quick,” you teased, pulling him back down for a kiss, deep and hot, while you hooked your legs around his waist and guided him right where you wanted.

“Wait—” he muttered, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye, breath ragged. “Are you—?”

You nodded, voice thick with need. “I’m good. I want you. Please, Bucky.”

He groaned again, and then he was pressing forward, sliding into you in one smooth, perfect thrust that knocked the breath from your lungs.

“Oh my God—” you gasped, arching under him.

He filled you so completely it was dizzying, and for a moment, neither of you moved—just breathing, tangled, shaking with restraint.

Then he started to move.

Slow at first, deep and steady, each thrust sending sparks shooting through your veins. The cool metal of his vibranium hand gripped your thigh tightly while his flesh hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back so he could mouth at your throat.

You raked your nails down the back of his suit, helpless to stay quiet as your hips rocked up to meet his.

“Faster,” you whispered, breath hot against his ear. “Don’t hold back, Buck. I can take it.”

Something in him snapped at that.

He growled low in his throat and obeyed—his pace increasing, his thrusts rougher now, deeper, desperate. The couch creaked under the rhythm of your bodies, and the sound of skin against skin, broken only by breathy gasps and whispered curses, filled the room.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he muttered, forehead pressed to yours, sweat beading at his temple. “So warm. So perfect.”

You tightened around him at the praise, a high whimper escaping your lips as your body started to tremble.

“Bucky— I’m close—”

“I got you, baby,” he whispered, angling his hips just right, hitting that spot that made you cry out.

Your orgasm crashed over you with a blinding intensity, your back arching, nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure tore through you in waves. You clenched around him so tightly he nearly lost control right then.

“Fuck—gonna come—” he choked out, slamming into you once, twice more before he buried himself deep and spilled inside you with a groan that sounded like your name.

He collapsed against you, panting, both of you sweaty and shaking and completely wrecked.

For a long moment, you just lay there—tangled, trembling, hearts racing.

Eventually, he shifted enough to look down at you, brushing your damp hair back with the softest touch.

“Well,” he murmured with a grin, “guess I’m really gonna be late now.”

You laughed breathlessly, cupping his face. “Totally worth it.”

He kissed you again, slow this time, tender.

Then he glanced at the clock and winced. “They are never gonna let me live this down.”

“Tell them your girlfriend has needs,” you said with a smirk.

He stood reluctantly, tugging his pants back up, adjusting his suit—and shooting you a look that was part exasperated, part adoring, and entirely his.

“You’re insatiable,” he muttered.

You winked. “Only for you, Sergeant.”

[tossawary]

The more I think about it, the more the fall of Tianlang-Jun (pre-Binghe) stands out as an outrageous event in the PIDW/SVSSS world. Several great sects, some of the most powerful entities in the human world (that we know about), manage to cooperate long enough to ambush and DEFEAT the (absentee) ruler of the demon world, a famously OP heavenly demon.

The political ripples from this event this would be incredible. The demon world has to be losing their MINDS. Did anyone know the humans could do that? Are we going to let them get away with doing that?!?! Are they going to do it again?! Which demon VIP is going to be next?!?!? Should we try to ally and attack them first?! Who's getting all of Tianlang-Jun's stuff?! He doesn't have an heir! (Unless you count that weird snake creature. Most people do not count the weird snake creature, which has disappeared anyway.) Maybe I personally should get his stuff???

And the state of the human cultivation world has to be similarly unstable. What now? What next? Are they going into the demon realm to do this again? Did they get any treasure out of it? Can they use this as leverage? Are the clearly powerful and clever great sects going to remain allied? Is one of the great sects going to make some kind of bid for power, more territory or authority, out of this? Cang Qiong is getting new peak lords very soon! Even over a decade later, everyone must still be dealing with lingering reactionary ripples from the shocking defeat of a heavenly demon emperor.

And all of this is just... not really on Shen Yuan's radar as a very real, very scary event that everyone in PIDW-world is still recovering from... and as the later plot of SVSSS shows us, is not at all actually finished. Tianlang-Jun is just a name in Luo Binghe's secret backstory!

I also enjoy thinking about how Shang Qinghua reacted to it, because he may have been like, "Oh, damn, I guess the plot is happening soon! Main character incoming in a little more than ten years! Cool!" while I maintain the headcanon that Mobei-Jun must have been FREAKING THE FUCK OUT. Hi??? Hello??? His cowardly human servant's sect was directly involved in the underhanded ambush and apparent murder of a heavenly demon emperor who became too tangled with humans???

Airplane Bro as soon as he realizes that he's going to have to personally warn Mobei-Jun about what is not just "backstory" but actually going to be a major political event: "Oh, FUCK."

[ssa-dado]

Backshots... Back Pain, Sorry

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: SMUTTY smut kind of smut. Fluff if you're a freak. Summary: It starts with a back massage, ends with your face in a pillow and Hotch scolding you mid-thrust for arching your back incorrectly. You’d argue, but it’s hard to speak when he’s fixing your posture with his [REDACTED] Warnings: MDNI (established... whatever this is, oral [f!receiving, brief mentions of m!receiving], unprotected p-in-v bc we live on the edge [♫ of glory ♫]), age gap, casual oopsie choking, accidental-but-not-really voyeurism, Hotch is pussy-whipped af but somehow still is a patronizing piece of shit, mentions of Jack (sorry Jack) Word Count: 6.6k Dado's Corner: Phi attempting the “Don’t write Hotch like a pathetic bottom after humiliating him in 30 Seconds” challenge: lasted a strong 30.5 seconds. Proofreading brought to u by Dr. Bin @hotchology PhD

masterlist

The first thought you had when you saw how big Aaron’s hands were was not, (un)surprisingly, that they’d be perfect for back massages.

That was probably your second thought.

Because your first was… well, that those thick fingers looked suspiciously well-suited for another kind of activity involving a lot more curling and a lot more work from his middle and ring finger.

Still.

Now – naked (just the top half, because he insisted. Something about how deep tissue massage works better on bare skin and some other pseudoscientific bullshit you’re trying very hard not to sexualize)- lying face down and completely at his mercy, you have to admit:

He’s freakishly good at the massage thing too.

Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.

Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same “Yes, that’s the spot, sweetheart - like that?” murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.

At least this time, it’s his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not… well. Other places.

You don’t know how he does it.

It’s awful. It’s amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear you’ve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.

(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)

But instead, you just hum.

And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes you’ve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:

“Can you keep doing this forever?”

Also because - small detail, minor point - he’s pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.

And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.

And- yeah. He sort of… rocks against you.

Not on purpose.

(Probably?)

(…Definitely.)

Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth… which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.

Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)

Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.

(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)

(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)

Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.

It’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.

Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-

…Anyway. You’re getting ideas. (Again, sorry, framed Jack.)

“Not to be paternalistic,” he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But you’ll allow it. You’ll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason it’s insanely hot when he talks like this.)

“-but you shouldn’t have a back like this at your age.”

“Well, thankfully I’ve got your magic hands to fix it, don’t I?” You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because you’re an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.

It doesn’t.

What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like he’s aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you “can’t just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,” yada yada-

“I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,” yada yada-

“I just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but I’d like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.” yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didn’t know we were doing that now) yada yada-

“Sweetheart”.

All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice he’s perfected.

The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it weren’t currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.

(You would roll your eyes, but you’ve just been told that’s a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)

“Breathe through it,” he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.

Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself – repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.

(You are. You’re calculating. You’re the problem.)

“Yeah, that’s a good one. Keep doing this,” he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldn’t say. You’ve lost all grip on spatial awareness.

All you know is there’s a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.

Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-

“You’re really tight here.” Sir (GN). Be serious. “You should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.”

And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides it’s going to take what it can get.

If a proper orgasm isn’t on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.

It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.

So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:

“Could you go lower?”

“Lower?” he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.

Now you’re face-to-face with him.

Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.

Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesn’t give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your – probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:

Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)

Still, since profiling is such a complex job –

(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still can’t figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)

so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-

So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.

(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama set’s currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)

(You can’t turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, he’ll scold you. But you know it’s there.)

(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)

And apparently, he does.

Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:

“Again?!”

Ah. Yes. Again.

Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless “I missed you,” right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.

So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:

Close. The. Curtains.

(You keep forgetting there’s an entire wing of Aaron’s apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic… oh- hi, Linda from 154.)

But it’s fine. It’s fine.

You fixed it.

You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.

Just the essentials.

Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed man’s lap.

You’re pretty sure that doesn’t count as public indecency. (It’s basically PG-12. Glee’s airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that show’s somehow still going. So really, you’re fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)

…You also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.

You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)

Those people didn’t see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.

Didn’t see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.

Didn’t see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered “Jesus Christ” he left when your hips started rolling.

They didn’t see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldn’t decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.

Didn’t hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.

And they definitely didn’t hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: “Been thinking about this the whole damn flight.”

Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.

“I missed you,” you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But it’s also starting to feel like the reason you’re so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)

“That’s what you said in the shower,” he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) “And on the bathroom sink.” Ah. Yes. You’d offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”

He basically looks at you like you’re the most beloved disaster he’s ever encountered.

Fond - yes.

Amused - definetely.

Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.

Veeeery humbling experience.

And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.

“You’re adorable,” he pities you. “Now please could you turn back over?”

Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. You’re halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.

Then the other. (Symmetry. He’s disgusting.)

You brace for his hands on your back, but it’s his mouth instead.

Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like he’s trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.

You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.

Could be excitement. Could be the fact that he’s been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because you’re head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)

Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor top’s been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.

One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)

Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.

Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).

It’s… a moment.

You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isn’t just the way he’s staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;

It’s the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.

And still, he manages to outdo himself.

Because Aaron Hotchner’s greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick he’s somehow just casually lugging around - it’s his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.

“You’re soaked…” he murmurs. “You already fucked me and you’re still soaked.”

(There’s just something in Aaron saying that you fucked him…Call it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)

“Shit, say it again.” You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.

You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties “Smug little thing… Let’s see how long it lasts.”

Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit – catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.

He doesn’t bother teasing – just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.

Mouth open. Tongue flat.

You start cursing everything.

Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasn’t moved aside.

Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue – turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.

Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you – mouth hot and hungry – and yanks your hips closer like he can’t fucking help himself.

Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until there’s nowhere for you to go – nowhere for you to run – nothing you can do but take it.

He’s drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.

Then again. And again.

Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.

Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately he’s taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.

(Thank God.)

“Fuck, Aaron-” you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.

You were so fucking wrong.

His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.

It’s the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.

“You taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,” he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.

He fucks you with it.

Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just… goes feral. A combination you’re 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet it’s somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.

You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like it’s oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.

The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-

“Aaron- Aaron, please-”

Not your best work. Not ideal.

You should specify - to Mr. Old Man™ - that after please, there was going to be don’t stop.

But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.

(It’s cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)

You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.

(Maybe because he’s strong. Maybe because you’re fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you don’t resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)

He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.

And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.

The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throat…

…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.

Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now he’s realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, joke’s on him, it already is).

(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. That’d be ideal. Five stars.)

So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.

That first stretch.

That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like he’s carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. “I couldn’t resist.” And another kiss, “I need to fuck you properly so you don’t wake me up begging for it again.”

(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, you’re definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)

You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know he’s furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Man™ composure.

“Mmm, sweetheart,” he groans, dragging in deeper until he’s finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like that…”

He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because it’s lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.

And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but it’s textbook deflection.

(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)

“Aaron-” you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, you’re full. Like - can’t think, can’t breathe, forgot-Aaron’s-home-wifi-password kind of full.

(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)

(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)

(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. That’s the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)

(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. It’s the one with the weird numbers… Jack’s birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)

(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)

(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but you’re way too biased.)

“Oh fuck-” Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heat’s finally overtaken every vertebrae you’ve got.

Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.

He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. “Yes, honey? You like that? Is that what you’re trying to say? Or-.” A sharper thrust. “Do you need me to go harder already?”

Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.

White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.

(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists it’s historical. Yes, it’s probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you it’s a collector’s piece, you’re still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)

“Do you feel it?” he asks.

You know what he means. Doesn’t even need to say it.

Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-

“Well- it’s- fuck yes, right th- it’s kind of impossible not to, isn’t it?”

Wrong answer, apparently.

Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.

(Or maybe he’s just decided he won’t be satisfied until you’re properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)

“Lift your hips,” he instructs.

“What-”

“Just do it.”

You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.

(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)

He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty… part of you hopes he doesn’t bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex… but then again, you’re talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.

“There. Better angle for your back,” he mutters.

“Are you fucking kidding me… oh fuck- my back?” You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.

He’s drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.

Somehow, you’re still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That he’s that deep. That much.

You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.

A nice, shiny, brassy “Deepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012” kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows he’s that good.

So good that as he angles himself even better (you didn’t even know that was possible), you don’t even hear the bedframe anymore.

(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering “sorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleep” while trying not to make it creak - you’re gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)

You’re gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible… justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.

“Sweetheart, you’re collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.”

You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spine’s gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.

Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me correct your posture and fuck you… engage here.”

(Which is ironic. Because right now? He’s doing both flawlessly.)

“Trying,” you pant.

“Oh, I can see you’re trying,” he mutters, and somehow it’s affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.

He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.

Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isn’t even a word anymore.

“Poor thing,” he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. “Clenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You can’t even hold yourself up, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”

“Why do you have to be such an asshole? Can’t you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?”

He kisses your shoulder. “Because for some reason,” he murmurs, lazy and devastating, “we both know why this turns you on more.”

It’s because you watch too much porn when he’s away. That’s what it is. That’s the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."

Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.

But you never find it. You never find him.

And you’re too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because he’s probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you don’t want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (…Though, the idea is… not bad.)

So instead, you settle. Again.

You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.

And still, it doesn’t work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just don’t do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jack’s football game. (Sorry, Jack.)

He’s just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like he’s about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.

That’s the reason.

(...Or maybe it’s just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoir’s going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)

(Yeah… it’s definitely because you watch way too much porn.)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that you’re pretty sure started as his name. “Oh…” Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. “So this is what you want?”

“Hnngh…” you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, you’re smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) “Yes. Yes. Just- just stay there.”

“Here where?”

“Shut up.”

Another slap.

Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)

“No, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, I’m gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.”

You whimper into the pillow. Your clit’s caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you don’t know if you’re closer because of the way he’s choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.

“Could you – fuck – could you just talk more?” (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)

He hums behind you. “Oh, now you want feedback?” Then he leans down, and suddenly you’re wearing him – coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.

“You want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?” he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.

You’re not really in the conditions to answer.

Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-

“God, look at you,” he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. “Making a mess all over my cock. You’re dripping. Absolutely soaking me.”

And oh… you feel it.

The soaked patch you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he still hasn’t taken off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.

(You’re naked. He’s half-dressed. Fully dressed, actually…)

Oh, you feel it.

The wet, sticky sound of your cunt swallowing him with every thrust. The soaked spot you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didn’t even bother taking of hitting you over and over again while you’re naked.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”

His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.

And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.

The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-

It almost slips out.

That thing.

The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.

“F-fuck, Aaron-”

“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat

You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.

Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.

He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.

His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.

Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.

"You're okay,"

"Got you,"

"So good, baby..."

Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.

Your chest hurts.

Because he means it.

He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.

“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”

He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.

You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”

You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.

“Please don’t call anyone.”

These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.

But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?

The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.

You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.

You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.

Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.

“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”

Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.

Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.

“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”

He shakes his head - fond. Touched.

Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.

He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he’s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.

You watch in awe.

Reverence.

…Horniness.

So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.

“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.

Occasionally hums.

If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.

Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.

He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.

Which is immediately suspicious.

You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.

Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.

Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.

Not even the question. He’s already answered it.

He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.

Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)

(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)

And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.

He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.

“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”

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[lnracer]

I have a requesttttt lately I’ve been thinking about Lando and I kinda think it would be so fun if he was with someone totally opposite to him SO my vision is:

Badass girlboss Reader (I personally imagine an Elle Woods-esque corporate trial lawyer or something) and Lando have been sneaking around but out in public they look like just friends and they’re kind of dating around but they end up getting jealous bc Reader thinks Lando wants the influencer/models he’s surrounded by and Lando thinks Reader wants a serious academic type. How it ends is up to you — maybe they work it out or maybe they just belong in different worlds :’)

Pairing: Lando Norris x Corporate Lawyer! Female Reader.

Warnings: Mild miscommunication, mild angst with a (very) happy ending and jealousy (mutual, a little petty).

Word Count: 3.601k.

a/n: Ahh, I just loved your vision so much! It was really easy to write and play with this dynamic (I don't think I've ever had so much creativity to write something so fast, but I ended up staying up all night writing this because I was genuinely so entertained 😅) but anyway, thank you for the request and I hope it meets your vision in the best way possible and that you like it! ☺️🧡

By day, she was the powerhouse trial attorney — the kind who walked into courtrooms in heels that could kill and left with verdicts that made headlines. The fashion magazines loved her almost as much as Forbes did. She was the youngest partner in her firm, a Harvard Law alumni with a Chanel addiction and a sharp tongue. Men underestimated her. Judges respected her. And juries? They adored her.

By night — well, lately, her nights often involved sneaking out of an apartment in Monaco, wearing one of Lando’s hoodies over her silk blouse.

Lando knew what the world thought. That they were “just friends.” That maybe she was his lawyer or his PR advisor or some business connection. The paddock shots of her standing beside him, sunglasses on, whispering something that made him smirk? Oh, the fan theories were relentless.

But behind closed doors? Their situationship was toeing the line of something real. No labels. No pressure. But a lot of stolen glances, late-night phone calls, and moments that felt too intimate for friends.

The problem? She was the type to keep her heart padlocked. Lando was used to people chasing him — but she didn’t chase. She leaned against his car in the McLaren garage and made fun of his post-race hair. She kissed him like he was hers, then told him she had court in the morning and disappeared in a plane.

Still, she wore his hoodie in her post-run selfies. And he kept saving seats for her in the paddock.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

They met at a charity gala in London — her firm was sponsoring, McLaren was donating, and neither of them wanted to be there. She was bored out of her mind, cornered by a finance bro pitching her crypto nonsense, when Lando swooped in like a cheeky, curly-haired lifeline.

“Sorry, mate,” Lando had said, slipping an arm around her waist with perfect ease. “I promised her the next dance.”

She had raised an eyebrow, amused and intrigued. He was only a year older than her, maybe a little cocky, but charming in that boyish, slightly-messy way. She didn’t dance, of course. Not at galas. But she let him lead her away anyway.

“You don’t look like a lawyer,” he’d said under his breath once they were out of earshot.

“And you don’t look like someone who reads contracts,” she fired back, her smile sharp.

That was the start of it. Flirty texts turned into late-night calls. Then came dinners in quiet places where no one recognized them. Then weekends in cities where she happened to be trying a case, and he happened to have a break in the calendar.

There was no official talk. No defining the relationship. But every time she passed through the paddock, Lando’s eyes would find her like muscle memory. And every time he showed up at her apartment with coffee after a red-eye flight, she didn’t send him home.

They didn’t owe each other explanations. Not when she was knee-deep in legal warfare Monday through Friday. Not when he was crossing continents chasing trophies. But there was something magnetic about them. Something they didn’t touch too closely for fear of setting off fireworks they couldn’t control.

He brought chaos into her perfectly curated life. She brought calm into his whirlwind. They weren’t each other’s type, and yet — they were exactly what the other kept coming back for.

Addictive in the best way. Dangerous if it ever tipped too far.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

It had been a week since the last time they’d spent time together. She was in New York for a deposition, Lando was in Italy for the race. Their texts had been sparse — just the typical “miss you” and “good luck” messages, but nothing too personal. It was their thing, keeping things light when the world was heavy.

But tonight, something felt off. She had just wrapped up a ten-hour workday and was about to dive into a pile of case files when she got a text from him:

Lan:

Can we talk?

She frowned at the screen. It wasn’t unusual for him to reach out like this, but there was a seriousness in the tone that made her stomach churn.

She stared at her phone for a few moments before typing back:

Y/N:

Of course, what’s up?

Seconds later, the phone buzzed again, this time with a FaceTime request. She hesitated, then answered, putting on the usual mask — cool, composed, business-like.

Lando’s face filled the screen, but it wasn’t the warm, mischievous grin she was used to. His brow was furrowed, eyes heavy, like he hadn’t slept well in days. She sat up straighter, her lawyer instincts kicking in, trying to gauge the situation.

“Hey,” she greeted, her voice carefully neutral.

“Hey,” he said, his voice tight. “I’ve been thinking.”

Her heart rate spiked. Thinking wasn’t good. When Lando thought, things got complicated. And she didn’t need anything complicated.

“About what?” she asked, her tone even but laced with caution.

“About us.”

There it was. The words she had known were coming, but hearing them still felt like a slap.

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms in front of her, the walls going up instinctively. “What about us?” she asked, her eyes narrowing, though she tried to keep the edge out of her voice.

Lando sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. “You know this whole thing… whatever it is… it’s killing me, Y/N.”

Her jaw clenched. “What are you talking about? You knew what this was when we started. No labels. No promises. Just… us. And if you didn’t like that, you should’ve said something earlier.”

“That’s the thing,” he snapped, frustration creeping into his voice. “I never wanted it like this. I thought maybe… maybe we could actually figure it out. But you’re so damn cold. You keep me at arm's length, and it’s like I’m not even real to you when we’re not together.”

Her breath caught. She was used to the cold, used to compartmentalizing her emotions, but this wasn’t a courtroom. It was Lando. And as much as she hated admitting it, it stung.

“I’m not cold,” she said, her voice tight, but the walls were beginning to crack. “I just… I don’t do messy. I have a career to focus on. And you have the entire world chasing after you. I’m not the type to play these games.”

“Games?” Lando repeated, his eyes flashing with frustration. “This isn’t a game, Y/N. I don’t get it. One second, it’s like I mean something to you. The next, I’m just some guy who’s filling space until the next big thing comes along.”

Her chest tightened. “You think I’m stringing you along?” She could feel the heat rising in her face. This wasn’t just an argument. It felt like it was unearthing something deeper — something they hadn’t dared to look at yet.

“I don’t know what I think anymore,” Lando shot back, leaning closer to the screen, his expression hard. “I’m asking you to be honest with me for once. What the hell is this? Because I’m not just gonna sit here pretending like it’s nothing while you keep everything locked up.”

Her pulse raced, the words threatening to spill out before she could stop them. “You think I’m the one who’s afraid of this? Of us? Lando, I don’t have time for games. You want someone who’s all in, someone who will follow you around and pretend that this is normal? It’s not. And I’m not some girl who’s gonna throw my life away for—”

“For what?” Lando interrupted, his voice sharp, cutting through her words. “For someone who you don't even give a damn? For someone who you treat like a casual fling when everyone’s watching?”

She froze, the hurt in his words hitting her harder than she expected. “That’s not fair,” she whispered. “You don’t get to do that. You know what my life is like. You don’t get to judge me for how I handle things. I’ve worked too damn hard to get where I am, and I won’t throw that away for anything or anyone.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched long between them, heavy and tense. Finally, Lando broke the quiet, his voice softer but laced with frustration.

“You don’t have to throw it all away. I just… I just want to know if I matter, Y/N. If I mean anything to you.”

Her throat tightened, the words suddenly stuck. “You do,” she said, barely above a whisper. “But it’s not that simple.”

“Then make it simple,” Lando pleaded, his eyes searching hers through the screen. “Stop hiding from me.”

She stared at him, her heart racing, the emotional walls crumbling faster than she could rebuild them. “I can’t promise you what you want,” she said finally, her voice shaking just a little. “But I’m not walking away. Just… just give me time.”

Lando sighed deeply, his expression softening. “Time. Yeah. Okay. But I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending I’m fine with this.”

She didn’t have an answer for that. Not yet.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

The next couple of weeks after their argument were… strange. Awkward. Almost like both of them had hit a wall they didn’t know how to scale.

She kept herself busy. Ridiculously busy. Court cases, meetings, contracts — anything to keep her mind off the tension that still clung to her thoughts. She buried herself in work, refusing to admit to herself that something about Lando was starting to haunt her, even if she wasn’t ready to admit that out loud.

Lando, on the other hand, was everywhere. In the paddock. At fashion shows. With influencers, models, and people who seemed to have everything in the world but didn’t seem to be doing anything. They laughed, they posed for the cameras, they made it look easy.

It drove her insane.

She wasn’t supposed to care. She wasn’t supposed to get jealous over him. But when she saw a photo of Lando and a famous Instagram model sharing a laugh at a recent charity event, it felt like a punch to the gut.

It wasn’t that she was jealous. No, of course not. She wasn’t like that. But… they were so perfect for each other. Gorgeous, carefree, and living in a world where appearances were everything. The kind of world she didn’t belong to.

So, she did what she did best: she pretended it didn’t bother her.

She posted a few pictures from her latest trial, looking fierce in a tailored suit, with her caption reflecting the confidence she wanted to project: “Court’s in session. Winning isn't a choice. It's a guarantee.”

Her phone buzzed almost immediately with messages — friends, colleagues, even a few family members. But the one that made her stop was from Lando.

Lan:

Looking good in court. You know, you should wear a suit more often…

She stared at the message, blinking as the words sat in front of her. Was it a compliment? Or was it just a casual comment, like he always sent? Either way, she couldn’t ignore the gnawing feeling in her gut that told her he was distracted by something — or someone — else.

So, she ignored his text. Just for a few hours. Maybe she was being petty. But she couldn’t help it.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

Meanwhile, Lando had his own demons. He’d been thinking about the conversation they had, replaying it over and over in his head. Make it simple. She’d said that to him. But the more he thought about it, the more complicated it seemed.

He'd been surrounded by people, sure, but all these models, influencers, and socialites? They didn’t fill the space she left behind. They never could.

Still, seeing her posts — those posts — with all her academic accomplishments, her sleek, polished persona… it made him second-guess everything. He knew she was fierce. She was a force. But sometimes, he wondered if he was the right match for her. Was he really what she wanted? Or was she just pretending, keeping him at arm's length like she had from the start?

He'd seen how she interacted with the serious academics — those suave lawyers, those well-dressed business types she surrounded herself with at galas. People who played the game of life like it was a chess match, making calculated moves every step of the way. People who probably looked better on paper than he did. Lando couldn’t help but think, Does she need someone like that? Someone more… professional? More grounded?

The thought twisted at his insides.

A couple of days later, his answer came when he saw her with one of those very types at an event — a tall, dark-haired man in a crisp suit. He was talking to her, laughing at something she said, clearly enjoying her company.

Of course she likes someone like him, Lando thought bitterly, as he watched from across the room. The man was everything Lando was not — serious, calculated, and mature. He didn’t need to be the center of attention, and he certainly didn’t have to make himself a spectacle for people to notice him.

Lando’s grip tightened around the flute of champagne in his hand. He turned away, trying to shake off the unease bubbling in his chest. But the feeling stuck with him. All night.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

The next day, he texted her again, his message half-accusatory, half-playful:

Lan:

So, who’s the guy? Looks like a lawyer from here. Thought you were into people who could keep up with your… complicated life.

She read the message and snorted. Was he really going to throw that at her? The jealousy card? Really?

She quickly typed back, biting her lip.

Y/N:

He’s just a colleague. Someone from work. You know, not everyone revolves around F1 or the latest influencer trends.

The words stung even as she typed them. She hated that she was putting walls up, but she was so tired of constantly second-guessing herself.

Lan:

Right. And I suppose I’m the one who’s into those trends?

Y/N:

I mean, you’ve been hanging around them enough.

There. She said it. She was being petty, but jealousy was eating at her.

Lando’s response came quickly, almost instantly.

Lan:

Yeah, because that’s exactly what I want, more Instagram followers and pretty girls with no substance.

Her eyes narrowed at the text. She read it twice, the sharp edge in his words cutting deeper than she expected.

Y/N:

Then why do you keep surrounding yourself with them?

His response came even faster this time.

Lan:

I don’t know, Y/N. Maybe because I’m tired of wondering if you even want to be with me or if you’d rather be with someone who looks like he has it all together.

She froze, her heart dropping.

The tension between them had reached its peak. It was a tangled mess of insecurities, unspoken fears, and silent accusations. They both thought the other wanted something they weren’t ready to give. They were both fighting to keep a part of themselves that the other couldn’t touch.

But maybe… just maybe, it was time to tear down the walls and face it.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

Monza had been a whirlwind for Lando — racing, media events, and the pressure that always seemed to come with the spotlight. But that wasn’t what weighed on his mind. No, it was her.

He had tried to act like he was fine, ignoring the nagging feeling in his gut, but deep down, he knew things were slipping. Every moment without her felt like they were growing further apart, despite how hard they tried to convince themselves otherwise. The jealousy, the silence — it was building up, and he couldn’t take it anymore.

So, without a second thought, he packed his bags and boarded a plane. Destination: New York. The city that never sleeps, or so they said. But for him, it was the city where he would finally have it out with her.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

Lando stood outside her apartment building, his heart racing. He wasn’t sure how he got there, just that something in him had snapped. The confusion, the doubt — it was all consuming. The thought that they could end like this, with all the words left unsaid, made him angry. Angry at himself. Angry at the situation. And angry at her for shutting him out, even if she didn’t realize it.

He hit the buzzer.

A moment later, her voice crackled through the speaker. "Yes?"

He didn't even give it a second thought. "It's me. Lando. Open the door."

There was a pause. He could almost hear her hesitation through the intercom. Then the lock clicked, and the door swung open.

She stood there in front of him, looking stunned, her hair disheveled from a long day of meetings and calls. But despite the exhaustion, the moment their eyes met, everything else seemed to disappear. The anger, the confusion, the jealousy — it all melted away in that instant. But she didn’t move. She didn’t speak.

Lando stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “We need to talk,” he said, his voice tight with emotion.

She crossed her arms, not backing down. “I didn’t think you’d show up.”

“You didn’t think I would?” Lando’s voice cracked, and the rawness of it hit her like a punch to the chest. “I’ve been standing on the edge of this whole damn mess for weeks. Watching you pull away, acting like I don’t even exist. And then I see you with some guy at that gala, acting like I’m nothing but a distraction. So yeah, I came here to figure this out once and for all.”

Her face flushed, but she refused to back down. “You think I want to be with you, Lando? You think I’m the one pulling away? I saw you with all those models and influencers. You think I can’t see what’s right in front of me? You want someone who fits your world — someone who doesn’t have a career that takes up all her time, someone who doesn’t get tangled up in complicated lawsuits and corporate contracts.”

Lando shook his head, walking toward her, his frustration mounting. “No! That’s not it at all! I don’t want someone like that. I want you.” He stepped closer, his voice rising. “But you keep acting like I’m not good enough for you. Like you don’t want someone who’s just... here. You want someone serious, someone who can sit in boardrooms and talk numbers and contracts all day. I’m just some guy who drives cars.”

“Lando…” She started, but he cut her off, his words tumbling out faster now.

“You don’t get it, do you? I’m in this world, yes, but I don’t care about that crap. I care about you. I care about us. But every time I try to get close, you push me away, like you’re afraid I’ll screw it all up. And you’re right, I’ve been surrounded by people who don’t care about anything. But you— you’re different. You’re smart. You’re ambitious. You’re real. And that scares me, okay? It scares me because I’ve never had someone like you before. And I don’t want to lose you because I’m too scared not being enough.”

She stood there, silent for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in. Her gaze softened, the tension in her shoulders releasing as she let out a long breath.

“I’m scared too,” she admitted quietly, almost in a whisper. “Scared that I’m not the kind of person you need. I’ve seen how you are around those people— how easy it is for you to just... slip into that world. And I thought, maybe, that’s what you wanted. Someone who can play that game better than I ever could.”

Lando shook his head vehemently. “No. No. I don’t need that. I need you. You’re the one who makes me want to get out of bed every morning, who pushes me to be better. Not some model or influencer with a perfect smile and a million followers. I need someone who knows who they are and isn’t afraid of what the world thinks. And that’s you. I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

Her lips parted as if she was about to argue, but something in his eyes stopped her. She took a step forward, looking up at him.

“Lando... I don’t know how to make this easier. But I can’t keep pretending that everything’s okay when it’s not. I’ve been so wrapped up in what I think you want, and I forgot what I need. I want us. I just need to figure out how to stop being so damn scared.”

Lando reached for her hand, his voice softer now. “Then let’s figure it out together. No more pretending. No more games. Just us.”

She smiled, the weight lifting off her shoulders. She finally closed the space between them, letting her arms wrap around him.

“I’ve never been good at this,” she murmured, her face buried in his chest. “But I want to try.”

Lando squeezed her tighter. “Me too. I’ll do whatever it takes, even if it means figuring out how to play the long game with you.”

They stood there for a long time, just holding each other. The silence between them felt different now — like they were both finally on the same page, after all the chaos.

And as the city buzzed around them, they finally understood: sometimes, the best relationships weren’t the ones you planned out. They were the messy, complicated ones you couldn’t live without.

[cinnamorollcrybaby]

CINNA MY BELOVED IVE BEEN SAVING THIS REQ JUST FOR U IM SO HAPPY THEYRE OPEN (im so happy ur back btw i was checking ur blog religiously every day)

choso thinking he hates reader when in reality it’s just cuteness aggression but he doesn’t understand because he’s new to being a human

begging on my KNEES 🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️

Cuteness Aggression (Choso’s Ver.)

Tags: Choso x fem!Reader, fluff, very slightly suggestive, mdni anyway, not proofread, is this considered enemies to lovers?

An: this idea is so stinking adorable. i get cuteness aggression so bad, so i definitely relate here lol

you get the feeling that choso doesn’t like you very much.

it’s the way his dark eyes narrow at you with a fervent glare. it’s the way his body tenses whenever you’re too close to him. it’s the way that he’ll make sure to never be alone in a room with you.

you’ve tried everything you know to make him feel at ease while he talks to you, but nothing works. he’s quiet, reserved, and honestly, a little peeved when it comes to talking to you.

you don’t get it. the rest of jujutsu tech seems to accept your presence. sure, you weren’t in japan when the shibuya incident went down, so maybe he just saw you as some outsider who couldn’t grasp the horrors that everyone went through together.

deciding that there’s not much you can do to change choso’s perception of you, you give up. you stop seeking him out. you quit trying to make some sort of friendship happen between you.

that only pisses him off ten times worse.

choso has never experienced feelings like these ever in his lifetime. it’s always been clean cut and dry for him: he either liked someone or he didn’t. there were no grey areas when he was just a curse.

yuji itadori was the one who introduced him to all these… complex emotions. he was still learning day by day what living like a human entailed.

he thought he had it all down… until he met you. now, he felt like a complete contradiction.

your voice was so soft and sweet. it made his heart flutter uncontrollably, which he hated. he wanted to cover your mouth with his palm to shut you up.

your skin looked so smooth and supple. he constantly found himself wondering what it’d feel like if he bit down into it. he wanted to hear what kind of noises you’d make. would you whine from discomfort or moan quietly?

he was physically bigger than you, not that you ever seemed to care. you were constantly there… pestering him. he just wanted to wrap you up in his arms and squeeze you as tightly at he could.

maybe he could but you in some sort of headlock and just hold you there. would you bite him to get away? shit… there it is again.

he growled beneath his breath as his pants feel tight again. he just doesn’t understand. why would his body react this way when he clearly hates you??

he hates the way you make him feel, like he’s unsteady on a tightrope. he hates the way he looks forward to seeing you. he hates how he feels so violent while you’re around, but he doesn’t really wanna hurt you…

it’s all so terrible perplexing. he wants to feel you so close to him that your atoms begin to merge with his.

choso doesn’t fully understand what’s happening to him. that was until your head slowly rested on his shoulder during a debriefing meeting.

it had been a long, grueling mission for everyone involved. he knew you were exhausted, and your cute self decided to take a nap right there on his shoulder.

that’s when things started to click for him as he felt suddenly protective over you. he didn’t want to hurt you. he wanted you for himself.

“oh no, y/n’s asleep. we should wake her, right?” one of the kyoto jujutsu tech students said. he had never bothered to learn her name.

a hand reached towards you, and choso didn’t think twice before he slapped it away. “leave her alone,” he grunted, narrowing his eyes at everyone who was looking at you two. “she’s tired. she needs her rest.”

honestly, everyone was stunned by the fact that choso had spoke up at all, but they were especially surprised that he seemed to be completely content with you sleeping on his shoulder.

his eyes flickered down to your face, making sure you were still sleeping soundly on him. he felt the fluttering sensation in his chest, and his stomach churned. he hated this feeling, but he found himself not wanting this moment to end.

Taglist: @theuniversesnepobaby @airandyeah

[kxsagi]

Hi! I am a HUGE fan of your Blue Lock works! You write these menaces so well! 😂

May I request one with whatever bllk guys you like where the reader is a baker & takes them to one of those adorable cake picnics that’s going around on tiktok? (I just really want to go one! They’re so cute!!! 🥰)

“𝐢’𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐦𝐫𝐬. ‘𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐮𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬”

a/n: THANK YOUUU I LOVE THESE MENACES WITH A PASSION AND I LOVE THIS REQUEST!!!

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, kaiser michael, shidou ryusei, ness alexis, bachira meguru, yukimiya kenyu

isagi yoichi

this man is ecstatic when you tell him you’re planning a cake picnic. he doesn’t fully get the tik tok trend part, but if it involves you, cake, and a picnic blanket, he’s in. 

he insists on carrying everything. "i’m strong. i got this." (he forgets the forks 💀) 

you bake a round vanilla strawberry shortcake shaped like a soccer ball, and he legit gasps. “did you make this just for me?” he’s so soft. 

he tries to take a bite without waiting for you to take photos and you SWAT him with a napkin. “i-it looked so good i forgot!” 

he ends up with frosting on his cheek and gives you puppy eyes until you kiss it off. 

“we should do this after every game,” he says with a mouthful of cake, “win or lose.” 

spoiler: you start a post-match picnic tradition. 

itoshi rin

doesn’t say anything when you suggest the picnic. just blinks. “what is a cake picnic.” 

you explain it’s for fun and for ✨aesthetic ✨ and you’ll bake all his favorite things. that wins him over. 

acts like he doesn’t care, but shows up in the color-coordinated outfit you picked for him. 

“this blanket is too pink.” “shut up and sit.” “... fine.” 

you make a green tea roll cake shaped like a cat and rin stares at it in silence before quietly muttering, “cute.” 

you: “the cake?” 

rin, blushing: “... you.” 

lets you feed him a bite like you’re royalty, then pretends he doesn’t like the frosting on his nose. secretly loves it. 

stays longer than planned just to lay next to you in the sun. 

itoshi sae

he totally thinks it’s ridiculous at first. "so we sit on grass and eat cake shaped like frogs?" 

but when you say you're baking it all yourself, he gets serious. “i’ll be there.” 

he brings fancy sparkling juice to pair with your desserts like it’s a wine tasting. 

you made a little tiered picnic cake with pastel flowers and “you’re my favorite” written in icing. 

sae looks at it and just says: “i better be.” 

he gets weirdly competitive about feeding you cake and making sure he gives you the perfect bite. 

rests his head on your lap when you’re both full, pretending to nap while actually watching you take selfies. 

“you’re gonna post the one with me in it, right?” (he’s obsessed and refuses to admit it.) 

nagi seishiro

he groans when you wake him up with "we're going on a cake picnic!" 

but once he sees how cute you look carrying the cake box, he follows you like a sleepy puppy. 

you made a mochi matcha cake with white chocolate drizzle and little hearts. he literally says, “this looks like effort. you love me that much?” 

lays on the blanket and lets you feed him bites while he scrolls on tik tok, until he finds a video of a cake picnic and goes “wait. we’re trendy?” 

when you try to take pictures, he pulls you into his lap so he doesn’t have to sit up. 

“you taste better than the cake.” smooth and lazy. 

falls asleep mid-picnic with a piece of cake still in his hand. you cover him with your spare sweater and kiss his forehead. 

mikage reo

he’s the one who suggests it. he saw it on tik tok and immediately thought “oh this is couple content. but also a great date idea, of course.” 

literally buys you matching picnic outfits. 

offers to hire a professional photographer. you say no. he takes 300 pictures on his phone anyway. 

he brings a parasol, glass plates, fresh flowers, and a bluetooth speaker that plays jazz. he’s so extra and you love it. 

he nearly tears up when he sees the cake you made – pink velvet with raspberry cream and sugar pearls. “you baked this? for me??” 

his favorite part is when you smear a little frosting on his lips and kiss it off for a selfie. 

“best day ever. no notes. 10/10. we’re doing this weekly.” 

kaiser michael

“you’re taking me to a what?” 

still shows up with a single rose and says “for my chef queen.” 

you made a lemon cake in the shape of a crown with blue icing roses and he clutches his heart. “you do get me.” 

pretends to be unimpressed but takes SO many videos of you setting up the picnic. 

makes you sit on his lap the whole time. feeds you cake and licks the icing off your fingers just to fluster you. 

“say ahh, liebling.” he’s so smug about it. 

drops a cherry in your drink and says, “make a wish.” then winks like it’s a romcom. 

gets real pouty when you try to clean up. “what do you mean it’s over? we didn’t even kiss under the sun yet.” 

shidou ryusei

“you’re telling me there’s a trend where people go outside and just eat cake? why didn’t you ask me sooner?” 

he helps you carry things and drops the whipped cream. “oops. guess we’re gonna have to get messy.” 

you made a red velvet cake with little wings and devil horns for him and he thinks it’s the funniest, hottest thing ever. 

eats it with his hands. full goblin mode. you're like “there were forks.” he goes “but this is primal.” 

somehow ends up shirtless? like how did we get here. 

puts cake on your nose just to lean in and lick it off. “mmm. sweet.” 

makes it his goal to make you laugh so hard your stomach hurts. “best date ever, baby. 10/10. you’re mine forever now.” 

ness alexis

SO EXCITED but also extremely nervous because he wants to look perfect for the occasion. 

shows up dressed like a pinterest board and brings a delicate lace parasol “to protect our complexions.” 

your cake? a pastel pink angel-themed sponge with white chocolate wings. he gasps. 

“you really made this for me? you angel!” 

flusters himself so badly he has to sip juice and fan himself with a napkin. 

insists on cutting the cake evenly. spends 10 minutes trying to get the slices exactly symmetrical before you take the knife from him. 

takes 400 photos and chooses one to post with the caption: my heaven on earth 💙🪽

when a bee comes near, he throws himself in front of you like a bodyguard. 

“i’ll defend your baking with my life!!” 

bachira meguru

he insists on helping you set up – carries the blanket in his teeth like a golden retriever and sprints to find “the perfect spot” under a tree. 

your cake theme is “silly little monster.” it has tiny legs, jellybean eyes, and sour gummy arms and he’s like “LOOK, IT’S US.” 

lets the frosting get on his face on purpose. dead serious when he goes, “this is part of the experience. cake goes on you, not just in you.” 

brings bubbles, sparkly stickers, and googly eyes to decorate your forks. no you are not escaping the chaos. 

starts doing cartwheels halfway through because “cake gives me energy!!” 

ends the picnic by lying on your stomach and asking, “can we do this every week until we’re old and wrinkly?” 

the answer is yes. obviously yes. 

yukimiya kenyu

says yes instantly. “cake, sun, and you? sounds like a dream.” 

dresses immaculately. white linen shirt, ironed black pants, sunglasses he takes off dramatically every five minutes. 

shows up with a bouquet and lays the blanket out like he’s proposing. “only the best for my favorite patissière.” 

you made a black forest cake with gold leaf and edible glitter. he bites into it and goes, “darling, this is art.” 

definitely has a small mirror to check if he has crumbs on his face (he does. you wipe it off for him and he kisses your palm). 

pulls out a vintage film camera and takes dreamy pics of you surrounded by cakes and sunlight. 

“you make everything look like a magazine shoot.” 

when a leaf lands in your drink, he goes “ah. nature adds her blessing.” 

you end the picnic with a slow dance on the grass, soft music playing, the sun setting behind you. he twirls you once and murmurs, “you taste sweeter than any dessert.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[hetrosjistin]

Okay but, this is one of the reasons I really like chronicling systems that give you timeline creation functions like world anvil.

So the timeline is divided into Mortal and Divine Eras, specifically broken down by the oldest elven kingdom's calendar between when priests or mages held power in their government. That's our Year 0.

Me and my partner (who can pipe in if they want on this!) came up with a 11,000 year history. It runs from -6000 to 5122. The LONGEST Each of those colors on the side? That's an entire age as remembered by the -current- governments by and large. The longest age? The third one from the top? Age of Grains is what it's called, literally just... figuring out large scale agriculture.

The fun thing about using these? You can actually just, lay out how long certain important characters live. One of the characters in our setting?

600 year old elven grandpa.

He MET what is effectively Orc Jesus when Orc Jesus was still just a podunk adventurer in our setting. I only realized this was POSSIBLE when I worked out how old Elf Grandpa was in the story we were writing, and then laid down what year he must have been born in, and then lined it up with the major historical events, and BAM, cool story moment made for writing.

HAVE ancient characters. Have characters that are centuries or millenia old, but DRILL into that!

Lay out your major characters birthdates on your timeline, draw through all the things they have lived through. Which ones have they sat down with? What have they fucking SEEN and DONE and been PART OF! What does a civilization with such LONG LIVED people in it LOOK LIKE? How do they DEAL with the inevitable need to hand off things? How long do they put things off?

Elves in the setting I've been talking about? You're not considered really 'getting to be an adult' by them until you're about 60, and the idea of having kids before you're 100? WOW. WOOOOOW MOVING WAY TOO FAST THERE! Even having a family before you turn 200 is seen as a bit early by Elves in this world. Elves don't have children often and often will entirely raise one child before having another. A lot of elves might not have kids until they're 3 or 400 years old at all. Retirement age is about 600 and then you're expected to go off and settle down and explore whatever you want too, to leave the matters of running the world to the next generations, give advice, don't get involved unless you have too.

Longevity is such a fun thing to play with in any setting.

Play with it.

Have fun with it.

Drill into the ideas of longevity and how it'd impact things, and what cool things your characters could have taken part in, how society would look! Have fun!

pro-tip: don't ever use the sentence "thousands of years" in your worldbuilding unless you really know what a thousand years is like

[ceruark]

✦ ≡ that's that me espresso

[mydei, phainon, & sunday x fem! reader. modern au.] wc: 3.0k cw: slightly suggestive, nothing explicit. a/n: might do a part 2... lmk who you want to see a/n 2: this is my first time writing mydei and phainon i hope it's okay...

MYDEI - and i got this one boy, and he won't stop calling

Seele raises a brow at you as your phone vibrates for the umpteenth time. "Shouldn't you get that?"

You should; your recent hookup-turned-situationship has been awfully persistent about seeing you again, and you've been ignoring his texts all night. You shrug at her. "Probably."

Beside you, March snickers. "It's nothing to worry about. I don't think ignoring this boytoy will get him off your back."

Firefly makes a sound of surprise, and you roll your eyes as March eyes you. "Don't call him that, March."

The pink-haired girl scoffs. "Isn't that what he is?" After a moment of silence, her jaw drops. "No way. Did he get promoted to something more?" She gasps, pressing a hand to her chest as if to clutch at pearls that aren't there. "Do you have a b-word?"

"It's not like that," you respond, turning when you catch movement in your periphery. Bronya walks toward the four of you with a receipt in her hands, being ever the sweetheart and paying for your meals. You smile as you catch her eye. "Thanks, Bronya."

Bronya smiles back at you before moving to stand beside her girlfriend (who is still staring at you skeptically). Firefly trails after the pair as they leave through the restaurant's double glass doors, and you lag behind all of them, weighed down by a huffy March who clings to your arm and demands answers.

Your fond irritation drops off and gives way to shock when you spot a familiar motorcycle parked across the lot. You stop in your tracks, watching dumbfoundedly as the owner of the bike takes off his helmet and shakes his head side-to-side, turning his long dirty blonde locks into a mess. He hangs his helmet on the edge of one of the handles and turns toward the restaurant doors, his amber eyes scanning your friends before locking onto you.

When his eyes meet yours, he raises an eyebrow, as if chastising you for ignoring his messages. He crosses his arms across his chest and takes slow, leisure strides across the lot toward you.

March pulls at your arm sharply. You side-eye her just enough to see her jaw hanging open as she eyes the man approaching you. "That's your man?"

"I told you it's not like that," you hiss at her before freeing yourself from her grasp. You turn just in time to see him stop in front of you. He tilts his head to the side expectantly, and you clear your throat.

"I don't remember telling you where I would be tonight, Mydei," you state matter-of-factly.

He shrugs nonchalantly. "Phainon."

Damn it. You and your childhood friend have a tendency to get involved in each other's love lives where you really had no business being. You would have to get him back for this.

You smile a little too sweetly at him. "And you decided to show up?"

His gaze sweeps over you before sliding over to your friends standing behind you. "I wanted to see who you were with."

You force a laugh, a poor attempt to distract yourself from the way you flush red. "Why? You jealous?"

Mydei meets your eyes, and your heart skips a beat at the intensity of his gaze. He steps closer to you, lifting one hand in the air and letting it linger mere centimeters away from your hip. "Let me take you home."

You're caught off guard. Sure, you knew what you had with Mydei had turned into something a little more than just hooking up, but you weren't expecting this— had he really shown up out of jealousy? Did he think you were ignoring him because you were seeing someone else?

You look at Seele, whose apartment you were planning to head back to after dinner. "Do you still want me to—"

"Nope. Have fun," Seele interrupts, trying to leave the situation as fast as possible. She gives you a curt wave before turning her back to you, heading toward her car. "We'll see you tomorrow."

Bronya and Firefly trail after Seele awkwardly. March flashes you two thumbs-up and an ear-splitting smile before bouncing off after them.

You turn back to Mydei and sigh playfully. "You scared off my friends."

He hums in response, moving to stand beside you and wrapping an arm around your waist. "They've had your attention all day. They'll be fine."

"Someone sounds a little irritated." You lean your head against his arm and peer up at him, grinning. "Surely me not answering you didn't bother you that much?"

Mydei frowns down at you, before taking your chin between his hands. He leans down and presses his lips to yours in a surprisingly tender kiss, one so unlike the countless others you two have exchanged. Your heart leaps again at the unexpected affection.

You're a bit breathless when he breaks the kiss. "Don't play coy with me."

He looks away from you and across the lot, releasing his hold on your waist to take your hand in his. Dazed, you allow him to guide you toward his motorcycle.

Maybe it is like that.

And there's no doubt that your phone's newfound incessant buzzing is March rubbing it in your face.

PHAINON - oh he looks so cute wrapped ‘round my finger

You’re holed up in the library with Aglaea, putting together a slide deck for a group project due later that week, when you feel something firm press against your back. As you look up, an arm snakes itself around you to place your favorite drink from the boba shop near campus in front of you.

Smiling radiantly, you tilt your head back to meet Phainon’s adoring gaze.

“Hey, Phai,” you greet in the sweet, airy voice you reserve just for him.

He grins down at you, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your hair. “Hey, beautiful,” he says back.

Phainon isn’t the type of guy you’d usually go after like this; sure, he’s a bit of a jock, but unlike the other athletes you’ve been with, he’s actually incredibly sweet, charming, and attentive. He’s walking boyfriend material, and your roommate Jelena had warned you that you better not break this one’s heart or else you’d probably have a bounty placed on your head, and hers, by extension.

Luckily for both of you, you have no intentions of leading Phainon on or dumping him— not that you want him knowing that just yet. You do intend to make things official soon; your little situationship with him has been going on much longer than they usually do for you, by virtue of the fact that he’s actually everything you’re looking for in a guy that you would want to get serious with. The cold and distant facade you usually take up with your flings was quickly melted away by, well, everything about him, from his affection and eagerness to please to his consideration and puppy-like love. You can’t deny that Phainon had quickly managed to worm his way into your heart, but for the sake of your pride, you decide to drag things out just a little longer.

Besides, with the way he continues to shower you with gifts and act like a boyfriend even without the title, he clearly has no plans of leaving you, either.

You’re not a stranger to attention, but you do find that it’s far more meaningful and preferable when it’s Phainon’s eyes on you.

You take a sip of the drink, and hum in approval. “My favorite,” you say, pleased. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did.” Cheekily, he tilts his head to the side as he asks, “Do I get a reward?”

You hum in consideration, before leaning up to give him a peck on the lips— brief, as to not make Aglaea uncomfortable. 

He pouts, adorably, when you pull away. “Is that it?”

“Depends,” you say with a shrug. “Will I see you tonight?”

Phainon grins, and it’s like staring into the sun itself. There seems to be a satisfaction about him, but his cheery demeanor distracts you enough that you don’t linger on it too much. “Sure you will,” he answers easily, “I can take you out after practice. Seven okay?”

“Seven’s perfect.” You lean your head against his chest, winking. “See you then.”

He winks back at you and gently presses his thumb to your lips before leaving. With his back now turned to you, you allow your carefully crafted smile to break out into a stupid grin as a feeling of giddiness washes over you. You’re biting back a few giggles when a voice cuts through your daze.

“You probably think you’ve got him caught, don’t you? Right where you want him.”

Aglaea’s words bring you down from your fleeting feeling of lightness and back to reality as something lurches in your stomach. You do have Phainon exactly where you want him— it’s obvious, what with all the gifts and the way he follows you around like a lost puppy.

You look at her with a raised brow. “What?”

Your confusion must show on your face because Aglaea gives a soft laugh and shakes her head. “Phainon is one of the most intelligent and talented people on this campus. You should give him more credit and maybe reassess the nature of your relationship and where exactly you stand with him.”

She gathers her things and packs them into her bag, bidding you farewell with a promise to make sure that Cifera does her part of the project, but you’re too caught up on the implications of her previous statement to pay it any mind.

You’re obviously the one pulling the strings and calling the shots here… right?

SUNDAY - one touch and i brand-newed it for ya

"So are we gonna talk about it?"

Your fingers stab furiously at your keyboard, each click of the keys louder than necessary. "There's nothing to talk about," you mutter, pointedly ignoring the way your coworkers lean in conspiratorially. You don't know why they're doing it. There's nothing to be secretive about.

Stelle leans back in her chair, pointing a stick of Pocky in your direction. "You've either gotta be dumb or dense as hell to not see the way he's wrapped around your finger."

"Dumb, dense..." Caelus smirks and sing-songs, "or in denial."

"I don't know why you'd deny it." March puts her head in her hands and pouts. "I mean, if you get with him, you can totally quit your day job and have it made for you! You could be living every girl's dream!"

 "That only happens in dramas, March." You wait a moment, before adding, "Besides, he's not into me."

"Yes he is!" March exclaims, exasperated. "I don't know what you did, but he's been, like, obsessed with you since the end of year formal!"

You try (and fail) to stifle a blush as the memory of that night comes rushing back to you. As one of the biggest companies in the nation, Astral Express's finest were invited to attend Halovian Corporation's annual end of year formal.  It was supposed to go off without a hitch. You planned to stick by Dan Heng the whole night, the two of you taking on a vow of sobriety as to not make asses of yourselves or the company in front of The Family.

But then Dan Heng got whisked away by some old colleagues, and March got her hands on you and steered you toward the open bar, and then—

And then the next thing you knew, you were perched on a windowsill in one of the long hallways leading into the ballroom. Very tipsy and borderline drunk, you chatted with whoever crossed your path, your giddiness making you rather pleasant company.

You'd been humming a tune to yourself when two figures staggered into the hallway. The shorter of the two huffed and moved toward the wall, untangling the other's limbs from his shoulders as he left him propped up against the wall.

The flashy blonde man looked around, before locking eyes with you. He gave you a charming smile before asking, "Do you mind keeping an eye on my colleague here for a moment?"

You shrugged at him. "Sure. I'm not going anywhere."

"Thanks. You're the best, friend." He turned to his companion, making very direct eye contact with him and sternly saying, "I'm gonna go find your sister. Stay here. Don't leave this hallway."

The other mumbled something incoherent, drawing your attention to him. You turned your head, and your eyes bulged out of your head when your gaze fell on none other than Halovian's esteemed CEO.

You sputtered nonsense for a moment before clapping a hand over your mouth, remembering yourself— and your present company.

The blonde's laughter echoed down the hallway as he walked away.

The first few minutes had been awkward to say the least. Seeing the Sunday Oak so disheveled and drunken was enough to shock you back into near-sobriety, and so you sat there, openly gawking at him as his gaze wandered the hallway, studying the intricate wallpaper and embellishments.

Eventually, his gaze landed on you. You stiffened as he gave you a once-over, his head tilting to the side as he considered you.

“I should apologize for my present state,” he said, impressively not slurring his words. “This is no way to behave in front of a lady as pretty as you.”

You felt yourself flush bright red at his words. You laughed loudly to cover up your nerves. “Oh, it’s fine, I’m also far too drunk to be in front of someone of your caliber.”

He frowned a bit at your words. To your disbelief, he pouted, and then threw his head to the side, balancing it against the wall. “My caliber?” He huffs, almost sounding sassy. 

“Well, you are the CEO of the largest company in Penacony,” you responded.

“Yes,” he spat dryly, “it seems that is all I am to people.”

You clammed up at his sudden shift in demeanor. You’d clearly struck a nerve, and it’d probably be best to just keep to yourself until the blonde man returned. 

That’s what you’d intended to do— until you noticed Sunday struggling to keep himself upright against the wall.

“Ah—” You hurried to your feet and rushed to his side to brace his side just as he was about to topple over. “Come here, sit, sit.” You gently eased him down onto the ledge you’d just been sitting on then took a seat beside him.

He hiccuped, and you’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t find it endearing. “Thank you, he murmured. You noticed him eyeing where your hand was still holding his bicep.

Flustering again, you released his arm and folded your hands in your lap. “So, um, Mr. Oak—”

“Sunday,” he interrupted. “Sunday is fine.”

“Right! Sunday,” you amended. “How has your night been so far?”

Whether it was because of your friendliness and warmth, or because his inhibitions were already so low, or because you were both drunk, you couldn’t say, but for whatever reason Sunday cracked under the question and said, “Positively awful. I had to break things off with my… partner.”

You blinked rapidly. “Oh.” You blinked some more. “Oh, I wasn’t aware you, uh, had one.”

“It was a mere month of my time wasted,” he muttered. “They were only after my position and inheritance.”

“Oh,” you said, dejected this time. “I’m really sorry to hear that. I’m sure you’d be delightful to date. You seem sweet.” When he stared at you in question, you elaborated, “I work with Stelle and Dan Heng, they’ve both talked about how much you dote on your sister. I’m sure someone so caring would make an amazing partner. It’s unfortunate that people only see you for your title and money. Anybody would be lucky to have you.”

Sunday looked at you again at those words, that same considering gleam in his eyes. 

Then, suddenly, he’d asked, “Can I kiss you?”

Your back went ramrod straight. “Huh?”

“Sorry, I—” Now he was blinking fast, looking anywhere but your face. “I’m not sure what came over me. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“It’s not offensive,” you blurted out, eager to smooth things over. “I meant it, anybody would be lucky to have you, even me!”

Well. A little too eager, it seemed. Sunday blushed even more at that, but leaned closer to you. He stopped a bit away from your face, as if waiting for permission.

In a normal state of mind, you probably wouldn’t deny Sunday Oak a kiss. In a drunken state, you definitely weren’t denying Sunday Oak a kiss.

You gently pressed your lips to his, laying a hand on top of his as you met him halfway. 

And that’s how Robin Oak found you drunkenly making out with her brother in a hallway at the winter formal, her gasp snapping you both out of whatever had possessed you two.

You slump into your chair, muttering, “Nothing happened at the formal, March.”

“Bullshit,” Stelle declares, jutting a finger in your direction. “Robin won’t tell me what happened, but she gets all giggly when I bring you up.”

Before you can fire off another denial, Welt pokes his head into the meeting room you’ve all been monopolizing, rapping his knuckles against the door to announce his arrival.

“I have something for you,” he says as he walks over to you. You watch as he sets down a neatly packaged lunch from the restaurant Astral employees frequent a lot. To your horror, there’s a note attached to it, scrawled in immaculate handwriting that you’ve only ever seen at the end of important company documents. 

Stelle lunges forward and snatches it off the container before you can stop her. You throw yourself across the table at her, but she leans back too fast, already skimming the note. She bursts into shocked laughter before turning the note back to you, yelling, “Sunday wants to know if he can see you again!”

Both of Welt’s eyebrows shoot up at that. Dan Heng sighs heavily as March and Caelus both start yelling at you, the latter in a mocking manner while the former badgers you for answers with more vigor than ever before.

Clearly, this was not a drunken decision you’d be able to just sleep off.

[occamstfs]

Frat Founding

Wanting a simple group on campus for Indian students on campus, Kiran goes to Chad who has other plans for the academic and university at large. In short order Kiran becomes the first link in that chain and soon neither he nor his friends will be able to resist the allure of horny, dumb Greek Life

The corruption of Kiran into a Desi frat bro he would hate to be! Found too many refs so I tossed on some briefer TFs of his friends at the end. Hope you enjoy! -Occam

He was treating it like meeting an advisor, or a professor. Countless times over the last few years Kiran had gone out of his way to ask for advice on personal projects or visited office hours just to gain further insights. The CS Honors student was always looking for ways to get ahead academically.

Never has one of these meetings involved a person quite like Chad Becker however. The President of the University’s Greek Council was only known to Kiran by reputation. Kiran’s never been much of a people person, part of this whole proposal to the frat president. He wants to make a space for other Indian and South East Asians on campus to have something of a Spirit Org on campus, and given the funding provided by the council to fledgling orgs, he figured it was at least worth a shot.

Worst Chad can say was no, right?

Kiran feels the weight of Chad's stare as he awaits an answer after his opening spiel. There are a few beats before the president speaks up, giving Kiran more than enough time to go over a good number of scenarios where he’s promptly laughed out of the room. Instead though, the intimidating ideal of a frat bro smiles and responds. 

Despite the performatively laid back tone, it’s clear that there are cold calculations behind the man’s words, “For sure lil bro. Trust, there’s no one who wants to see Greek Life be more, hm, multicultural yeah? I absolutely hear you.” Listening intently, Kiran struggles to find any sincerity in the Cali bro’s tone as he waits for the ‘but’ that must be incoming.

It doesn’t. Still staring at him with eyes as sharp as a shark’s despite their icy blue irises, Chad continues, “I’m sure you know frat life gets a bad rap regarding biases and having a group like yours on campus would help everyone see that there’s a place for them in Greek Life. So Kiran, bro, correct me if I’m wrong, but you’d be president of the frat starting out yeah?”

Chad is clearly sizing him up as he says this, like a prize steer to go to show or a weed to be pulled so something superior may be planted. Kiran doesn’t notice as he bristles at realizing there’s been a misunderstanding, “Oh! Sorry Mr. Becker, I think- I, sorry- I wasn’t really thinking about a frat so much as uhm? In my mind I was imagining something more along the lines of a support organization for-”

He’s cut off without a word as Chad sucks on his teeth. Kiran swears he feels the temperature drop in the room, nerves. It’s just nerves. Forcing himself with all he’s got to look at the man sitting opposite him, somehow above him, Kiran almost shivers as he sees him only stare more intently, almost glaring. His perfect wide smile only gleams brighter as he continues to look into and through the meeker student like a predator. 

For a moment his surfer-vocal fry fades away, “I see I see, so you want to use our funds for your little hackathons and holi formals but keep us at arms length yeah?” His eyes narrow and his lips twitch slightly, but then he takes a deep breath and resets. That cold tone moving like the ebb of the tide as he reminds Kiran who holds the power here, “Let’s start over. Would you like a drink Kiran?” 

Seeing Chad wander over to a minifridge hiding in the corner and grab a beer, Kiran prepares to turn the offer down. But then the president stands over him, one meaty hand on his shoulder while the other offers him an opened bottle dripping with condensation, “Please, Kiran. I insist.” 

Before he even has an inclination to respond, the bottle already rests in his shaky hand. Only then does he notice the creeping thirst. Suddenly, his mouth and throat are so dry he wonders if he’d even be able to even speak. 

Chad’s smile is too emotionless to be read as cruel and calculating, though there’s sure to be no affection in his words as he seeks to compel Kiran, “Go on, Prez to be, take a sip.”

He’s never been much of a drinker, let alone a beer guy. But as he’s commanded, like a dutiful soldier he has no choice but to obey. As soon as the first sip graces his tongue, the bookish student’s senses are dulled.

In the back of his mind he hears the echo of a memory he doesn’t remember living. Voices shout, ‘Chug, chug, chug!’ Kiran’s eyes go blank as he can’t help but obey. Each heaving gulp is deeper and more labored than the one that comes before. Kiran’s vision swims slightly as he watches Chad’s unreadable expression tinge with contentment.

Patting his guest on the back and laughing, Chad makes his way over to grab a couple more beers, “Hah! Easy now bro, this is a meeting now after all! Didn’t think you were that much of a party animal Kiran.” Popping open two more bottles, he sets one in front of Kiran and watches as the smaller man slowly shakes his head.

He isn’t a party animal, he detests crowds and drunken fraternity bros. Opening his mouth to deny Chad’s asinine assessment, his stomach grumbles. One of his hands goes to put pressure on it and physically  feels it rumble. Still woozy from one drink, the lightweight suddenly begins to feel bloated.

Mouth still agog, his hand quickly flies to his face as he struggles to stop himself from burping. Clamping his lips shut just in time, each second pushing down the urge, each second refusing to let loose, it only grows more intense. He feels pressure rising in his stomach as his jaw burns from the effort of staying decent. 

Beyond simple pressure, Kiran realizes that it’s not just internal, he feels his thin stomach pushing into his hand. In between clutching fingers begins to grow a layer of fat he simply would never eat enough to maintain. This distracts him enough for everything to give. Eyes watering, Kiran turns to look at the Frat president, as soon as he sees the smug look on Chad’s once guarded face, he loses control.

Buurrp- It lasts more than a few seconds. The soothing relief of giving in is firmly repressed by the embarrassment that fills his chest. Deep enough that Kiran can scarcely notice though, some part of him thinks it’s funny. Nothing wrong with burping bro, chill out- And while the thought is buried for now, it only continues to grow. 

“Nice one brah!” Chad reaches out his drink to cheers with the new beer bottle in front of Kiran, lacking willpower to do anything but obey, so he does. Cold bottle in his hand once more he can’t ignore how right it feels in his hand. Clink- Seeing Chad take a swig he once more mimics his, er the president.

Still bloated, Kiran notices another strange sensation begin to rise. Just below where he clutched his stomach earlier, an itch begins to rise. With a frown, his free hand goes to do what one does and scratch it, clumsily continuing to drink his free beer as he does so.

Each pass of his fingers only makes it worse, spreads the burning itch further. Figuring he’s already embarrassed himself enough in front of Chad, he shoves his hand under his shirt. Gasping in shock, he realizes that his lower stomach is covered in a treasure trail growing wider by the second. 

Feeling the strands pushing out into his sweaty fingers he can’t help but steal a look. Waiting for Chad to inspect papers in front of him Kiran quickly yanks up his shirt and bites his tongue to prevent from gasping again as he sees, on top of clearly having more weight, that his stomach that has always been gratefully hairless has been overrun with body hair. 

Too dense and thick to even be dubbed a treasure trail, Kiran struggles to remember how he let it get this bad. Eyes drifting lower, Kiran finds another new problem. Slightly peeking out above his waistband and creating a definite bulge above his cock, his pubes have grown even more rampant than his belly hair. Seeing this and taking another swig of his beer, Kiran burps once more before doing the unimaginable.

He shoves his hands in his pants and scratches at his pubes. Almost moaning from delight he bites his lip as his fingers are immediately tangled in the thick new jungle. Creaking under his squirming form, reminding him that he has somehow put on more than a few pounds, Kiran absolutely forgets where he is as his hand drifts lower to cup his balls. His less-than-graceful fingers find them unmistakably heavier than they’ve ever been, almost filling his small hand. 

Never truly distracted, at this point Chad sees fit it’s time to break Kiran from his reverie, lest he go too far too fast. Clearing his throat he calls Kiran back to his right mind, more or less. The slightly heftier student’s hand tears from his pants and forcefully bumps into the underside of Chad’s desk, producing a deep grunt of pain. 

Now realizing that he was cupping his balls during the most important meeting of the semester, Kiran tries to hide that from the man who sees right through him. Though, without him being aware of it the very same hand races to his nose wherein he takes a deep sniff of the ball sweat soaked fingers. Watching his eyes roll back from the odor, Chad has to stop from bursting out laughing.

Going on something of a victory lap, Chad sees fit to taunt the changing man, “Yo bro, you just adjust your dick didja?” Hand still under his nose, Kiran stammers quickly denying the idea, there’s no way he did that? He’d not do so in private, how could he? And yet, even as he forces his hand back to his papers, the whiff of his sweaty dick remains, “No! Of course not- I mean-”

Smirking, Chad interrupts, “No, no, don’t worry ‘bout it bro. Guys like us don’t gotta worry about stuff like that. You get an itch, it’s the most human thing in the world to scratch it.” Kiran slowly shakes his head, guys like us. He’s not like Chad, he’ll never be like Chad

Seeing the man meagrely fighting back Chad stuffs his hand down his pants and performatively scratches an itch that wasn’t even there, dropping a stray pube on the table. The whole time, Kiran’s eyes never left the man’s hands, staring at the bulge in his pants shifting to the single curly strand that now sits between them. Ready to move on and content that the man’s changes are accelerating, Chad directs his attention back to himself.

“Got something on your cheek there bruh?” There’s the sound of Kiran sucking spit back into his mouth, not even aware that he had apparently been drooling. Quickly taking another swig, emptying his second beer, Kiran’s free hand flies to his face. Still slightly sticky from sweat, his fingers find something so shocking that he almost spits up the amber beer still in his mouth. 

Swallowing the beer and tossing the bottle onto the table he scratches at his face fervently, beyond shocked that without his notice his paltry stubble has exploded to cover his face. No it’s not even stubble, as his suddenly less than pristine fingernails trail across his once hairless cheeks, peach fuzz thickens and spreads further across his face.

In no time at all a mustache pushes out of his upper lip and his jawline is coated with a thick beard. His mind tries to tell him this is normal, he’s got a hairy stomach and bushy pubes, surely he’s had this beard forever. Feeling bloated once more, his shirt begins to strain his chest as two meaty pecs begin to rise above his meatier stomach. 

Focus returns to his eyes, he knows something is horribly wrong. Thicker brows furrowing at Chad he grunts out, finding his voice crackling deeper and slightly tinged with the vocal fry that infects every word out of Chad’s mouth, “What are you grh- doing to me you- urgh Asshole!” The president feigns concern and tilts his head ignoring the question that may well be Kiran’s last show of strength. Chad then simply pushes his half drunk beer closer to Kiran.

Eyes flickering between the man returning to the minifridge and the stale bottle set before him like bait, Kiran’s willpower begins to wane once more. Before the frat bro even makes it across the room, the sound of Kiran’s shirt straining against his heavier arms as he reaches for the drink fills the air. Chad grabs three more and returns to the desk.

When the mousy student entered the room Chad wondered if he’d even be able to sustain the transformation. Sitting here now, watching him drink that backwash laden swill without question, seeing nipples poking through the shirt beginning to tear, it’s clear that no dweeb out there will be able to resist his siren call. Kiran burps loudly, stopping just short of guffawing he tugs at his increasingly uncomfortable shirt. 

Time to finish the dance, “So, Kiran, you were saying you wanted an Indian frat on campus right?” The top button bursts off his button up as he dumbly produces a plodding, “uuuuhhh?” His mind alights with his shifting memories. The fluorescent lights from studying overnight in a library suddenly strobing, changing colors as bookshelves press inward and deep base begins to pump from speakers pushing out from behind tables now littered with red solo cups and spilled cans. 

Automatically drinking from the new bottle sat in front of him, Kiran sloppily wipes the beer spilling onto his beard with his hairier arm. Struggling a bit as his muscular biceps now compete with his heavy pecs for space. His vision swims, rapidly switching between the blowout party and the meeting with Chad. Competing with blaring speakers and crowd uproar that only he can hear, Kiran shouts in his new bullish voice, “Well uhhh, bro kinda just wanted a place for guys like me to hang y’know? Place for all the lil Desi guys on campus yuh?”

“Shirt’s lookin a little tight there bruh, you sure you’re just a ‘lil guy’ anymore?” Turning to take in his thick form, Kiran certainly can’t disagree. Chest hair encroaching on his neck, thighs thicker than his waist used to be. The chair creaks once more, threatening to totally give way under the still growing man. Yeah he’s no twerp, him and his bros are always at the gym.

In fact, Kiran doesn’t remember the last time he was even in a lecture. Attending office hours is absolutely out of the questions, the only interactions he’s had with professors and T.A’s were arm wringing for class credit. Clear as day he remembers meeting with a dude he would’ve sworn he was close with for intro to python, but as he plays it through he remembers burping in the man’s face and throwing a sweaty, heavy arm around him. 

God that nerd was so uncomfortable. His expression turns to a sneer as he sits in front of Chad, and the president knows his work is just about done. Kiran paws at his crotch as he recalls dominating that man, some weak academic who thought himself a superior. Biting his lip, his bulge makes itself more than clear in his tight dress pants as the fabric rapidly e into the same sweats he wears every day, stained as they may be. 

When pre suddenly begins to leave a stain that makes it clear the Desi frat bro is free balling, Chad knows Kiran is far past the point of no return. “Bro, do you ever not think with your cock?” Tearing off whatever remains of his shirt and fondling his bulky pecs Kiran shrugs, “Dunno bro, you ever think about somethin’ other than my cock either?” There’s a charge in the air as the two men stare at each other with something dark in their expressions before both break out into uproarious laughter.

Then, addressing it like it’s something they had discussed a number of times, Kiran takes the floor, “So, big bro, council good if I start recruiting for my new chapter?” Chad raises his glass and takes a long swig, with a content sigh he acquiesces, “Course brobro, we know you more than got what it takes. Been wanting to diversify frat row’s portfolio for a while, you know that.”

Scratching his exposed stomach as he stands, his fingers treading dangerously close to inching under his waistband once more, Kiran nods without a thought, “Yuhhhh!” Finishing another drink he belches yet again and finally there is no shred of decency left to fight back “Burrrrp, Huhuh!” Tossing the bottle onto the ground apathetic whether it breaks or not, the newly dubbed frat president stretches.

Flexing to himself as he stands there, feeling the strength and weight of his new form, Kiran feels his blood rush to his thicker cock as he realizes what a specimen he is. Chad similarly imagines how easy it’ll be for him to finally take over the rest of the school. No one’ll be shit talking Greek life anymore once men like Kiran are bumbling across campus. No need for little brownnosing losers in lectures when everyone finally remembers what it’s all about. 

Eager to get a move on, and sure that if Kiran stays any longer both will have to write off the day for obvious reasons, he prods the man, “You were saying you were gonna go play your old friends a visit right? Go get your first members?” Kiran nods, that darker look returning and temporarily displacing his lust for himself and Chad. Rolling his shoulders he imagines his study group, doesn’t even remember how he knows them or why.

Grabbing a beer for the road, he nods at Chad and heads out the door. The incongruence at those dweebs even knowing his name begins to prickle at his mind, he needs to fix it. His frat must grow and so must they. Losers have spent too long playing MtG and Dota 2, he’s gotta remind them what men should be. That drinking, fucking, and partying are more important than their shitty assignments. 

Wandering around campus he flexes his bicep and delights in his heady musk. Soon every beta male around will be just like him, just as Chad planned. He can’t wait until Chad runs this school. Approaching his old apartment he hears a few shrill men arguing about some lines of code inside. Cracking his neck and pawing at the growing bulge in his sweats, he’s never been more excited for anything. Time for the first inductions into the school’s newest fraternity.

In no time at all, his four best friends are all converted into perfect specimens for Kiran’s frat. Forewarned by his musk creeping in as he stands at the door, as soon as he barges in all four are instantly overwhelmed by his muscular, masculine visage. Under his touch their thin forms bulge. On the couch, Amir’s body immediately thickens into one that never shies away from his keg stand. His nose twitches as a powerful mustache pushes out of his upper lip as he becomes Kiran’s right hand.

Boyfriends Dev and Mo follow shortly after, their suddenly sculpted muscles bulging larger as if they were in competition with each other. Mo’s back cracks as he finally stands taller than his boyfriend, his potable goatee thickening into a beard that would put a lumberjack to shame. Dev’s twinkish face reshapes into something more masculine and handsome despite remaining smooth. While Kiran continues his work, focusing on the other two, the boyfriend’s waste no time rushing to their suddenly messier room.

Finally, quite Ajit who had been doing his best to not give in breaks. Hands that had been gripping the edge of the table trying to avoid the gaze of the man who cannot be Kiran, white knuckles cramp and burst larger as forearms and biceps surge larger in quick succession. His racing anxious breaths allow his chest to rapidly expand. Pecs quickly tatter his shirt as criss crossing veins decorate arms thicker than his legs once were. 

Under the table his legs push larger and his bulge demands his attention. Lips suddenly surrounded by a thick beard, biting his lip he quickly snaps a picture of himself before following in the path of his five best friends as his hands quickly find his newly massive cock. The air of their apartment swiftly smells more of sex than one can imagine. Each man a perfect test case for Chad’s grand plans, perfect frat bros whose dicks will lead their frat to expand. Kiran and Amir hosting parties that no Desi man could resist, no one’s eyes will be able to avoid Dev and Mo as they’re all over each other at the gym, and Ajit’s new online presence and perfect form will send tendrils of change well beyond their university. One unreached community handled, Chad continues his grand plan of ensuring that Greek Life is the only group left standing.

[tttabii]

— 심재윤 DEDICATION FOR YOU

JAKE SIM X READER

note: where he has his own instagram. fan!reader x idol! jake. word count : 2363.

YOU WEREN'T NEW TO FANSIGNS.  Living a short subway ride away from the venue made it simpler, but this time somehow felt... different. Maybe it was the white dress you got, simple, flowy, not revealing but just revealing enough to feel a little self-conscious.

Maybe it was the seven hand-made hoodies in your tote bag, customized for each Enhypen member based on every subtle detail you'd picked up over the years. Or, more likely, it was because you were going to see Jake. Again. Your day one bias.

As the line shuffled, your heart raced. And finally, it was your turn.

You took a step and walked up to Jake's table. You gave him the most genuine smile you could muster with how shaky your nerves were at this point. He quickly scanned you—respectfully, but still noticeably—and glanced over you again, his expression softening the second time. 

"Hi," he said in that low, friendly voice. "What's your name?"

"Y/n," you replied as you did a small bow. "I... have been a fan since debut. You've been my bias since day one."  

Jake's eyes lit up. "Really?" he asked, and you nodded shyly, placing your favorite album in front of him. "This means a lot. Thank you."

As he twisted the cap off the marker, you swallowed a little courage. "Um... Can you sign somewhere else instead?"

He titled his head to one side, looking confused. "Where?"

You reached your arm out a little. "Here."

Jake blinked. "Wait—your arm?"

You nodded. "I want to get it tattooed," you confessed, feeling your cheeks turn hot. "It means a lot to me."

Jake froze, surprised—eyes wide with astonishment, and then softened to something between admiration and awe. "That's... wow. That's real commitment," he said softly. Jake carefully made his way to your arm, always moving at a careful speed. "You're really going to tattoo this?"

"I am," you whispered.Suddenly, there was a blast of wind that rushed through the venue. Hair flew everywhere and stuck to your lip gloss. You cringed, trying to tidy up, embarrassed to look like a mess in front of him.

Jake chuckled a little. "Hey, hey—here." Jake reached for your hair and pushed it behind your ear, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His eyes were focused and kind. You felt like you couldn't breathe for a moment. Somewhere in the crowd your friend tried took a picture with shaking hands. Other fans nearby gasped quietly, a few squeals erupting.

You were flustered beyond compare, but Jake? He was composed. Calm even. As if this moment involved the two of you."There's," he said, smiling, "Much better."

Your time was almost up. You handed him the bag with the hoodies."I made these... for all of you. Custom. I paid attention to your styles."

Jake looked at the bag, then back at you, you could tell he was quite stunned. "You made them?"

You nodded. "Hope you like them."

"Y/n," he said, repeating your name softly like he didn't want to forget. "You're amazing."

You left the table on a cloud, the signed arm, the warmth of his fingers just barely grazing your hair, and how he said your name, played over in your mind like a favourite episode of a drama.

That evening, the fan photos began popping up.Your interaction was everywhere.

That same night, you sat on your bed in a cross-legged position, focused on your phone, and suddenly you saw a notification for Weverse Live. You didn't even have time to blink before you opened the app.

Jake was live. Wearing your hoodie.The same one you stitched yourself and designed to have (incidentally) his name just barely stitched in like a real hoodie would have it. The cozy, oversized, shade of a navy blue you picked just for him, knowing he once said dark blue was soothing.

And now, it was on him. On live. You could not stop smiling.You recorded the whole thing on screen record, took too many screenshots and even posted your favorite one on your small account on Instagram.

@yn__archive 🧵: i made the hoodie for all the members and they wore it 😭😭 im crying real tears  #enhypen #jakesim #fanmade

Within the hour you were flooded with comments.

"GIRL YOU WON IN LIFE"

"how does it feel to be God's favorite??"

"He literally looks like a boyfriend wearing his girl's hoodie"

"Petition for Jake to @ you himself"

"Drop the tutorial PLS"

You grinned, but had no idea that far away, Jake—the Jake—was also scrolling through Instagram.

On his personal account.

He had been curious ever since you gave him and the others the hoodie you made. 

And then he found it.

Your account.

He tapped your username, and there you were: a fan account curated to perfection, packed with little edits, photos, café visits, outfit shots, and the day you were all at the fansign. He swiped through a few, smiling to himself about how warm and sincere your big love for Enhypen seemed. Then he froze.

There it was, a photo from when you went to the café for his birthday last year. You were standing in front of a giant Jake banner, holding his photocard next to your face, smiling.

Your fitted off-shoulder top showed a little bit of cleavage, your skirt was pleated and barely hit mid-thigh, and you sat with your legs crossed elegantly.

You looked so pretty. So confident. So playful. Jake felt frozen. "Woah..." he said to himself.

He couldn't tell what he was drawn to first—your face, your outfit, or the way you held his photocard like it was the most precious thing. He double-tapped without thinking. Once he realized what he'd just done, he panicked—unliked. Then he hesitated and did something impulsive.

He shared your post from earlier. The one of him wearing your hoodie.

@jake.sim [Shared post from @yn__archive] "Thank you. This is so amazing. We loved them 🧵💙" 

Fans went wild.

You stared at your screen in shock. Jake had just shared your post. Your DMs flooded. Your notifications blew up. Your follower count doubled in minutes.

Some fans were excited, others playful:

"Girl he knows you exist now."

"If you don't marry him, I will."

"He SCROLLED through your page. He saw everything."

Including that birthday café post.

And yet... he still shared your post.

You swallowed hard, heart racing.

Somewhere across the city, Jake sat back in his chair, still on your profile. Yeah. He remembered your name now. And he definitely wasn't forgetting your face.

Times goes by fast, and somehow concert season was already upon us again. ENHYPEN's new Dark Blood era had you feral—the songs, the choreography, the visuals—and Jake's new blonde hair? Absolutely lethal.

So naturally, you dyed your own hair too. Soft blonde, not too bold but enough to be noticed.

Maybe it was dramatic. Maybe it wasn't.

But you didn't care. You were finally seeing them again.

Front row. VIP. With your best friend. And you were going to look hot. You went all out: black mesh sleeves, leather mini skirt, silver accessories, a little glitter by your eyes.

Your tattoo—the one with Jakes's signature—was peeking out of your sleeve on purpose. Your heart was beating out of your chest as the lights dimmed and screams rang out.

They were on. You basically lost your voice in the first 10 minutes. But then it happened. He saw you. Jake zoomed in on you like a 2-for-1 special the second he spotted the blonde. His eyes went wide for a split second, his mouth twitching at the corners like he was trying not to smile too big.  

Your fingers had already started to shake as you reached for your phone, even before you forming a heart with your fingers. Jake jogged over—while still singing—his mic still hot as he sang, quickly forming his hand into the other half of the heart with you. His hand brushed against yours as he held it for a second, and your heart just stopped when he lingered a second longer than necessary.

Then, in the most unbelievable moment in the world, he reached for your phone with one hand, and softly held your fingers with his other, and took two selfies.

One with a cute wink. One with a cute smirk. One with a cute peace sign. One cute smiling face where he smiled right into your soul. He handed it back to you with the most soft expression on his face, like he recognized you.

Like he knew who you were. Then he gently squeezed your fingers before continuing down the stage and interacting with other fans.

You were breathless, phone clutched to your chest as if it was a holy relic. Your ears were definitely pink.

Burning, actually. Jake saw.

Jake totally noticed.

Especially the peek of black ink curving around your upper arm—his signature. The one you got tattooed after the fansign.

He stuttered for just a second. Tripped slightly in his step. Luckily, he masked it by falling right into the next beat of choreography like a pro.

But his ears were red too now.

He was still thinking about you as the song ended. And he kept looking back throughout his performance, he was doing his best to not stare at you. That night, you posted one of the selfies on your fan account, with just three words:

 @yn__archive "He saw me." [photo: Jake and you, fingers making a heart, matching blonde hair, glowing under the stage lights]

Your comment section went off.

"NOOOO THIS IS A FANFIC IRL"

"THE HAIR MATCHING?? THE TATTOOS?? THE EYE CONTACT???"

"HE'S DOWN BAD MA'AM."

"I know he looked back. I saw it. We all saw it."

And back stage, Jake was still there. Still trying to breathe. Still replaying that second.

And when he was going through his tagged posts later... 

He smiled when he saw your post. Hearted it from his private account. Saved the selfie too. He wasn't going to let you be a fan anymore. 

The concert felt like a fever dream, not just because Jake had held your hand mid-song, or that he took selfies on your phone, but also because it wasn't just you who saw all of that.

By the time you and your best friend got outside of the venue, Twitter, TikTok, and fan accounts were already blowing up.

Someone had captured video footage of you squealing and bouncing with excitement talking to your friend after Jake's interaction with you.

You were gushing like an actual middle-schooler, "Did you see him? He smiled at me! I swear, he smiled at me like he knew me!"

You were laughing until your friend was fanning and waving you down like you were overheating.

What you had not anticipated too was the way the camera slowly panned, right to Jake on stage. Looking directly at you. The expression on his face was unreadable, jaw tight.

His eyes? Tracking every detail of you, from your dyed hair, to the fit of your outfit, and, yeah, the way your top sat too perfectly on you. He lingered for a moment before quickly turning away, but maybe a little too quick... like he just got caught.  

The fans were ruthless.

"Is no one gonna talk about the way Jake was LITERALLY checking her out while she was fangirling over HIM???"

"I SAW WHERE HIS EYES WENT. JAKE. BE SERIOUS."

"That boy is fighting for his life."

"I understand  you Jake, I would fold if I had a girl like that as my fan." 

You watched the video about seventeen times before throwing your phone down and burying your face in your pillow.

Wow. It was embarrassing. But the cute kind, where your stomach twists and your cheeks ache from smiling.

You shared a casual story with a few blurry concert photos and the caption: "Still can't believe all of this happened. Thank you for the best night of my life 🤍".

You didn't expect anything else. You thought it was over.

But it wasn't. About 3 am your phone lit up. A DM request. From an account with no posts, no profile picture... but one follower. Someone pretty familiar.

The username was vague, like a random sequence of letters, but as soon as you opened it you knew.

🐶: Is it ok if I message you here? I can't follow you because of... well, obvious reasons, haha. But I just- I couldn't stop thinking about what happened earlier.

Your heart skipped a beat. There was no profile picture. No real name. But you knew it was him. The way he typed. The emoji. The timing. Your fingers were slightly shaky when you replied. 

you: I mean, you did kind of steal my phone. I think that makes us friends now 😌

🐶: true. I don't do that for everyone, you know.

🐶: also, your hair. You really matched me?? That was insane. I thought I was imagining you for a sec.

You bit your lip. He noticed that? Of course he did.

you: of course I did. Blonde Jake? How could I not?

🐶: And that tattoo. Is it real?

Your fingers paused above the screen before you typed:

you: yeah. It's permanent. like my obsession with you.

🐶: wow.

🐶: can I tell you a secret?

You blinked. Fingers hovered.

you: only if you promise not to ruin my entire existence with it.

There was a pause. Then the next message came in.

🐶: you're the prettiest fan I've ever seen. Like, ever."

You stared at the screen for a full minute, heart threatening to beat out of your chest.

This was happening. Jake Sim just called you pretty. Jake Sim who couldn't follow you but still found a way to reach you. Jake Sim who stared too long. Who tripped over choreography after seeing your tattoo. Who looked at you like you weren't just a face in the crowd anymore.

And you weren't dreaming.

[greenandhazy]

a few years ago my grandmother was downsizing and I found a bunch of her father's papers no one had ever gone through. it included flipbook porn, six pages of smut written on a typewriter about a soldier having sex with a farmer's daughter, waitress, and sex worker, and a very graphic poem about all the ways American soldiers were looking forward to mutilating Hitler's corpse. it involved two nooses intended for different body parts.

also I wrote up a whole thing about my frustration with people conflating the 1940s and the 1950s-era conservative backlash to the 1940s, but it was rambling and leaving too many bits out so just. Coming Out Under Fire: The History of Gay Men and Women in World War II is one of my favorite books ever and The Life and Times of Rosie the Riveter is an exceptional documentary, and both are really good at introducing new ways to look at this era.

more relevant to the original image... I've done a fair amount of primary source research related to this topic, and one collection that always stands out was the papers of Hazel Hitson Weidman, who served in the WAVES during World War II. my absolute favorite document was a letter from her ex-boyfriend, a pilot who had just gotten engaged to another woman but was really, REALLY bitter about Hazel still. he called her a "a stubborn little kid who didn’t have the nerve to give up any thing for the guy she loved" because (iirc) she had insisted that she wanted to go to college after the war instead of immediately getting married. she had written commentary on many of her papers before she donated them, and I vividly remember her only note on that one, written in green ink, which read "He always said I was too dignified." after the war, she got her B.S., M.A., and PhD in social anthropology, married someone else, and had a long career in public health and academia.

Goddddd I hate this crap. It looks so normal but if you look at it for more than 5 seconds it’s such a clear cut example of the subtle nudge towards tradwife “return to tradition” ass crap

Like

Why the 1940’s? Was that a more romantic and pure time somehow? Soldiers exist TODAY, so why that period? Was there something about that time that made relationships between men and women better somehow?

And why the obviously retro fashion? The finger waves, the red lipstick, the white lacy dress- What makes THIS SPECIFIC image so special? The time period? The relative modesty? The feminine appeal?

“to remind him what he’s fighting for”. You mean like a reward, an object, or a trophy? Á WHAT, the white picket fence and 1.5 kids, instead of a WHO? A dream of a perpetuated social ideal, a symbol?

Like GOD, it’s all so subtle that it’s soooo easy to believe that calling it out is an overreaction but all together it’s such a “women are better when they’re conservative objects / men should desire traditional femininity / the past was a purer time / reject modernity embrace tradition” message

Like literally tradfem tradwife dogwhistles everywhere it’s ridiculous

Like BRUH I hate to break it to you but pop-pop was giving his best friend a handy behind the barn in 1935 and gam-gam was mailing him nudes, people have ALWAYS been people and roleplaying a farmsteading settler family and having bad missionary sex with your submissive tradwife girlfriend isn’t going to make high quality furry porn and taxes and high fructose corn syrup and whatever else you think is wrong with moderns society stop existing, FUCK

[justsomerandomfanfic]

Irresistible Attraction - Anakin Skywalker X Female Reader

Title: Irresistible Attraction

Anakin Skywalker X Female Reader

Additional Characters: Obi-Wan Kenobi and Yoda (Mentioned)

Requested By: Anon

WC: 1,279

Warnings: Set during when Anakin's a Knight, teasing, banter, flirting, italics, Star Wars canon violence (brief), Jedi Reader, very mini angst, and fluff

The air was thick with heat and the static whine of nearby droids. Anakin Skywalker dangled from his restraints, arms burning, feet barely brushing the floor as a single bead of sweat traced a slow path down his temple. 

“This is your fault,” Obi-Wan said mildly beside him, his voice frustratingly calm for someone tied up and unarmed.

Anakin huffed, “How is this my fault?”

“You charged straight into the ambush.”

“You said split-up, I thought that meant-”

“I meant strategically, not dramatically.” Obi-Wan sighed tiredly, “Really, Anakin, must every mission end in a hostage situation?”

The younger Jedi twisted stubbornly against his binds, glancing around at the dozen or so droids posted around the room like statues, blasters ready.

Anakin wasn’t expecting this. It was supposed to be a simple mission, as Master Yoda had said. Wouldn’t even take more than a day or so to do, but then this happened. Of course, “simple” rarely meant what it was supposed to - not when Anakin Skywalker was involved.

He sighed through gritted teeth, flexing his wrists against the restraints. The metal bit into his soft skin. “You’re awfully calm for someone who just got captured.”

Obi-Wan tilted his head, unbothered, “Panicking rarely solved anything, Anakin. Besides… Patience is a Jedi’s ally.”

Anakin groaned, sagging against his restraints. “Yeah, yeah. Patience, serenity, all that Jedi wisdom.”

Obi-Wan offered a small, infuriating smile. “Exactly.”

Anakin frowned, turning his head to look at his Master as much as he could, his eyes narrowing suspiciously, “You know something I don’t, Master?”

That familiar, maddening smile tugged at Obi-Wan’s lips, “Let’s just say… I have faith.”

‘In what?’ Anakin was about to ask, until the metal door in front of them clanged open with a violent hiss, smoke curling from its edges. Sparks rained down like stars as the silhouette of a long figure stepped into the room. The droids immediately pivoted towards the figure, blasters raised. But the figure didn’t move. They stood there, mysterious, ominous, cloaked in robes of dark grey and black that almost seemed to absorb the light around them. The hood of their cloak was pulled low, hiding most of their face in shadow. Anakin glanced at Obi-Wan, eyes narrowed in confusion. Obi-Wan’s calm demeanor was as unwavering as ever, but there was something different in his expression. Was that… Anticipation? Before Anakin could even voice his thoughts, the figure ignited their lightsaber.

The blade hummed to life with an eerie, calming hiss of blue. The sound filled the room, and then, without warning, the figure moved. In a flash, they were a blur of speed, their cloak fluttering behind them as they dashed toward the first droid. The droid fired, but the blaster bolt never reached its target. With a swift flick of their wrist, they deflected the shot effortlessly, sending it spiraling back into the droid’s chest. Sparks erupted, and the droid collapsed with a mechanical screech.

Before the others could react, they were already moving - their lightsaber spinning in a tight, rapid circle in front of them, deflecting a volley of blaster bolts with ease. One hand shot out, and a blast of the Force slammed three droids into the wall, crushing them like tin cans. They leapt forward, flipping mid-air, landing in a crouch as their blade swept in a clean arc, slicing through metal. And within seconds, the floor was littered with the smoking remains of droids. Limbs scattered, circuits sparking, and metal still hissing from the fierce heat of their blade; Anakin watched, hanging from his restraints, in a state of awe.

With a calm exhale, you sheathed your lightsaber, before clipping it smoothly to your hip. You turned on your heel, facing the twoo Jedi still dangling from their restraints. Jutting your hip out, hands settling on your waist, you raised a brow beneath your hood. 

“Well,” You said dryly, “Don’t you two look tied up at the moment.”

Obi-Wan chuckled, the corners of his mouth lifting as he gestured towards the restraints with a tilt of his chin. “Mind giving us a hand?”

Without so much as lifting a finger, the cuffs snapped open with a metallic click, and both Jedi dropped to the floor, landing on their feet. Anakin watched you, immediately rubbing at his sore wrists. 

You stepped forward, your cloak swaying behind you, “Obi-Wan, still getting yourself into trouble, I see.”

Obi-Wan smiled warmly, clasping your shoulder, “For the record, it wasn’t my fault this time.”

You raised an eyebrow, scoffing, “That’s be a first.”

Then, you turned toward the younger Jedi, finally pulling down your hood, and revealing your face for the first time. Sharp eyes, calm confidence, and a faint smirk tugging at your lips.

“So,” You began, eyes giving him a once over before meeting his blue eyes, “You must be Obi-Wan’s used-to-be Padawan.”

He swallowed, posture straightening slightly, “Uh… Yeah. That’s me.”

Your smirk deepened. “You’re taller than I expected. And... I gotta say, you’re kind of cute. For a Jedi.” You paused, your eyes lingering on him with an amused glint. “Reckless too, I hear. You get that from Obi-Wan.”

He blinked, a slow grin forming upon his lips at your words, “You’ve heard of me?”

“Oh,” You said, tilting your head, “Everyone’s heard of you, Anakin Skywalker.” You teased, amusement in your gaze.

“Funny… I’ve never heard of you before.”

You chuckled, stepping closer, “That’s because I’m better at staying off the radar.” Then, with a quick nod, you introduced yourself, “Name’s Y/N. Jedi Shadow. Your ride out of here.”

Before he could respond, you spun on your heel with a swish of your cloak and robes, already striding toward the exit. Anakin felt it before he could stop it, his smile growing as his gaze followed you. There was something about the way you moved, the way you fought, the way you spoke.

Obi-Wan nudged him in the side, hard enough to snap him out of it, “Careful, Anakin.”

Anakin blinked and looked over, trying to play it cool and nonchalant. “What?”

Obi-Wan gave him that calm, all-knowing look, “She’s impressive, yes. But if anything were to happen… Remember where your loyalties lie. The Order has never been fond of attachments.”

Anakin rolled his eyes, a sigh escaping his lips as he nodded, “Yeah, yeah. I get it. No attachments, Master.”

Then, suddenly, you popped around the corner of the shattered doorway, one brow raised and a playful smirk on your lips before you tossed Anakin and Obi-Wan their stolen lightsabers. “Well? You two coming, or are you planning to redecorate this lovely prison cell?”

Fixing his lightsaber to his hip, Anakin didn’t hesitate, already moving. His boots echoed against the floor as he quickly caught up with you, that crooked grin breaking into something wider, brighter. He didn’t say anything, but the way his eyes lingered on you said more than words ever could.

You caught his gaze, lips curving as you walked beside him. “Careful, Skywalker,” You spoke up, “Stare any longer and I’ll start to think you like me.”

Anakin’s smirk deepened, his eyes still fixed on you. “Maybe I do,” He said smoothly, voice low. “Is that going to be a problem?”

You glanced at Obi-Wan, who gave you a knowing look, but you shrugged it off, rolling your eyes before turning back to Anakin. You hummed thoughtfully, “Hmm... No, I don’t think it’ll be a problem at all.”

Anakin grinned, clearly pleased with your response, and as the two of you walked side by side, the tension between you felt almost tangible. Obi-Wan simply sighed, muttering under his breath, “This is going to be interesting…”

~~~

Main Masterlist | Star Wars Masterlist

[lemotmo]

The Buck brain rot is real for some Buckley's

Q. My mistake for believing that as a self proclaimed Buck girlie that scene would have bothered you. It was not okay and you're allowed to say so.

A. That scene was a couples fight. Full stop. It was written. Filmed. Blocked. And acted as a couple having an argument. Neither one of them was the bad guy. But the reality is that Buck does tend to make things about Buck first. Not in a bad way, but in a 'I'm always the one not being chosen in these scenarios' kind of way. Buck isn't doing it out of malice or self service. His default setting is to believe everyone will choose whatever outcome doesn't include him. And that makes it difficult to reason with him occasionally. It was a classic miscommunication argument, which was also kind of the point, and part of what contributed to the overall couple feeling of the fight in general. Buck's first reaction to bad news, or the potential of bad news, is to think how the choices on the table will affect him first. Again, not out of genuine selfishness or cruelty, but he still misses the fact that sometimes there is no fair to all involved choice, but a choice still has to be made. And no one, especially Eddie, is ever going to choose something to intentionally hurt Buck. But in those situations Buck insecurities override everything else for him.

Aside from the fact that the fight was clearly foreshadowing an NDE of some kind for Buck, putting Eddie in the position he wasn't able to be in for Bobby, helping to save Buck. Aside from the foreshadowing element the other really interesting thing was that this time Buck and Eddie were arguing from the side the other one usually occupies. Normally Buck is the one needing to talk about things, and Eddie is the one trying to keep everything shut inside. But this time Eddie is begging Buck to talk to him. He's desperate for them to grieve together and be the support for one another that they usually are, but Buck is denying them that because Buck is refusing to talk at all. Instead he's distracting himself by trying to assess how everyone else is handling their grief. The plotline for Buck and Eddie has been building to this all season long, but especially since the show returned from hiatus. All of their scenes have been building towards this upcoming finale episode. Eddie has been working on himself all season, and has become aware that he has to deal with things and talk about things before they spiral out of control, but he needs something that puts the Buck thing into perspective for him. Buck has been avoiding the Eddie of it all the entire season. He's hidden behind the things that he can fix and help with, subletting the house, talking Eddie through his nerves, but he has avoided examining the Eddie thing in general. Once it was verbally brought to his attention, by both Maddie and Tommy, Buck doubled down on his refusal to think about and acknowledge things. Both men are about to be put into a position that's not going to allow that to continue. Everything this season has been leading to this episode. I have no idea if the outcome will be full Buddie canon or just the clear knowledge thats where we're headed. But either way their moment of reckoning is coming. Buck being trapped with Ravi is literally trapping Buck with everything he's trying to avoid/overcome and putting Eddie in the position of possibly losing Buck is the universe screaming at them to talk. Talk about all the things they have spent years actively avoiding talking about. The fight was the final step leading to that reckoning. But even in the aftermath of that fight Eddie knew exactly what Buck needed. Buck's plotline for that episode was missing family dinner, the Bobby of it all, but it was represented in this episode by the family dinner tradition. Eddie was not aware of that because Buck's not talking to Eddie and Eddie isn't at the fire station to witness the lack of family dinners. Eddie still knew Buck enough to know Buck needed family time. Eddie didn't call the 118. He got Chris and pepa and gave Buck the family dinner he needed. No one knows Buck better than Eddie. No one knows Eddie better than Buck. Like any couple they knew exactly what buttons to push to set the other one off. That's what that scene was about, anon. Any argument desperately trying to make it something else is projecting and that's on you not Buck or Eddie.

Thank you Nonny!

I'm going to let this one speak for itself.

I fully agree that this was a couple's fight. There was no malicious intent to hurt each other. Eddie just 'reacted' and got lost in his grief there for a moment. That is all.

It's time to lay this discourse to rest now and focus on the next episode. 🤗

Heads up! For anyone who is giving me the shifty eyes for reposting Ali's updates instead of reblogging. Read this.

Remember, no hate in comments, reblogs or inboxes. Let's keep it civil and respectful. Thank you.

If you are interested in more of Ali’s posts, you can find all of her posts so far under the tag: anonymous blog I love.

[limarkova]

Experimental Obsession

Part 11

Prev

Everyone was waiting anxiously in Jason's apartment for word on how (Name) was doing. Steph knew the PTSD was going to be bad from the little she learned. But total disassociation over the mere thought of the experiments. It was worse than anything they could have expected, especially since she was so much younger than Steph first thought.

Yes, she had heard stories and had seen (Name) in passing. That didn't change her mental perception of the girl. The stories made her sound older. At passing glance at what she was doing, taking notes and doing science experiments or lectures. Those were older kid activities, not seven- or eight-year-old activities. To think that no one was looking out for at the age. It made Steph feel guilty for not noticing. Why had she been so nervous? Cause she was previously a Robin and a Batgirl.

Shaking her head, Steph forced herself to continue reviewing the files. Well Barbara had decoded and read one of the files, there were dozens. So, they decided to start reviewing them while they waited. She sat reading through boring medical terminology she barely caught on to and horrifying descriptions of violence. (Name) was really just eight to nine going through this.

Steph paused as she began a new file. This one was dated two days before the escape. Her mind flashed back to her interrogation of Matthew Jenkins. If her math was right this would be the test that made Henry Duncan tap out. The one that made her chest look like a deflate balloon. Steph began to read the report when Tim spoke up.

"I have something."

"So, do I. I think." Steph held up her tablet gesturing to it, "You go first Tim. I still have to read through this."

"Okay so it would appear we've all misunderstood (Name)'s meta-abilities." Tim placed his tablet on the coffee table for anyone who wanted to look at it, "She's not a super healer. She produces a chemical in her blood stream that causes the effects of miraculous healing and potentially immortality."

"What? That should be impossible, there's no chemical capable of that. Even the Lazarus Pit has a limit" Damian snapped, setting his tablet aside.

"You're right it's technically not a chemical." Tim shrugged before looking towards the door to Jason's bedroom. (Name) and Jason were in there, as Jason attempted to calm her down. "It's a liquid metal, but it's still in her blood stream."

"You don't mean..." Dick started looking up from his tablet. Tim nodded causing Dick to swear, "Dionesium. What are the chances The Court of Owls is involved."

"It's unclear right now but we may need to explore that angle. Though the Court probably would have used Electrum. She, however, produces pure Dionesium in her bloodstream. Not Electrum." Tim looked down at his tablet again as Bruce picked it up. "At least that's my theory currently. They wrote it down as Concentrated Lazarus Pit Water they had found in a cave system somewhere beneath Gotham."

"I thought I destroyed the lake of Dionesium under Gotham after the Joker Virus incident?" Bruce looked up from the file. He gave Tim a quizzical look.

"Either it wasn't completely destroyed, or there's another one." Tim shrugged again, "Whatever the case they don't know what they found. That or I'm completely off base and were missing a file of how they treated actually Lazarus Pit Water to 'concentrate' it. However, they still got the Chemical they injected her with from a cave in Gotham. We're going to have to find that."

Bruce sighed, rubbing his temple. Steph focused back on her file and began to skim it for details, "On a different note. I found the log for the final experiment they perform before (Name) escape. The one that made Henry Duncan storm off."

"Really? What did they do?" Barbara asked. Throughout this whole ordeal everyone had shared horrifying revelations of what the experiments had done. Drowning, Burning, Shooting, Stabbing, and that was just the tip of the iceberg. Duke even found a file where it shows she no longer displayed any brain activity when hurt. All that to lead up to the final experiment in Steph's hands.

Steph began to read through the file. She paused in confusion reading through the beginning, "Well they started by sedating her and preparing her for surgery?"

"Surgery?" Cass asked looking towards the tablet in Steph's hands.

"Yeah. Apparently, the anesthesia didn't work properly so she was conscious throughout the whole ordeal." Steph continued to read through the file. Every word felt like falling further and further down a ravine with no clue where the end was. She could feel the color draining from her face as pieces started to click into place. Pressing on her chest, deflated balloon, something growing. No not growing, re-growing. Steph's voice was barely above a whisper, "Oh dear god."

She was ten. She was child and they did that to her, all well she was awake. Steph felt like she going to be sick. "Oh, dear god, she was awake through that. Shit she probably remembers it too."

Steph felt like vomiting. That are running into the room with (Name) and Jason to hug the girl.

"Stephanie!" Dick grabbed ahold of her. It shocked her enough to drop the tablet. It slid across the floor landing by the coffee table. "What did they do?"

"We've been looking for our suscepts in the wrong place. They're not Meta Traffickers." Steph looked towards where (Name) was. She was ten and they didn't even know she was in trouble. "They're Organ Traffickers, who just made an endless supply."

Dick let go of Steph. He blinked a few times before glancing at the door. Everyone looked towards the door. The room had gone deathly silent as pieces began to slide into place. It was Bruce who spoke first, "We change plans. Now."

Steph looked towards him to see a dark look she had never seen on Bruce's face before. Soon it was as if dark steel had crossed everyone's face. They would not let (Name) down again.

When you started to come back to reality, you could feel someone holding you and humming. It was a familiar tune; one you remember in blur dreams about the past. A goofy little song about axolotls and penguins. The person singing seemed to remember the lyric more clearly than you. Slowly you began to join in the silly song, holding just the melody without the words.

A blanket had been wrapped around you and someone's arm pressed you against their chest. The humming mixed with the steady beating of their heart acting like a lifeline to the present. There was a shout in the next room that had you jerking up. The person allowed you to move but was soon hushing you back towards their chest. It was so gentle you simply allowed the motion to happen.

"How you feeling, angel?" You looked up to see that you were wrapped in Jason's arms. Blinking up at him, you shook your head before leaning back down to listen to his heartbeat. He took a deep breath. Soon he was slowly stroking your head. You hummed before burying your face in his chest.

This was okay. You could pretend you were safe for right now. Just like the blurred memories of when you were a toddler. Leaning into Jason's arms after your reoccurring nightmare. He had changed physically since them. Taller, buffer, but the comfort factor remained the same. "Do you want me to tell you a story, like old times?"

"I don't remember those times very well." You murmured gripping onto his shirt. "I know you taught me to read."

"Yeah, I did." Jason mumbled. You didn't look up at his face, but you could tell he was sad. There was something haunted in his voice, "Your favorite storybook wasn't even a story. It was a meet the planets picture book."

"Each of the planets had a different voice." The laugh that bubbled out of you was small. A hazy memory of Jason as a teenager with voice cracks reading in different voices danced in your head.

Jason laughed too, "Later when we played you insisted on being a space exploring scientist princess and I was your space pilot knight."

"Why did we stop playing?" The atmosphere shifted but didn't entirely break. Jason shifted the blanket, so you were wrapped up just a little tighter.

Once satisfied he asked one question. "How about a story okay?" You nodded and Jason began.

"Once upon a time in a kingdom not too far away lived a family of brave knights. Each one was skilled trained personally by the King, a skilled knight in his own right. One day a Princess was born and the King assigned one of his closest knights to protect the young girl. This made the two grow very close, acting as brother and sister despite having no blood ties.

When the Princess was two, a threat arose. A Clown Prince threatened the kingdom and more specifically the Knight's mother. The Knight having believed his mother was dead, rushed to her aid, ignoring the King's warnings. He ended up being captured by the Clown Prince. Before the King could rescue him, the Knight was killed.

Yet it the story didn't end there. Two years later a skilled Necromancer and his daughter found the body of the Knight. Together the two raised him from the dead but when he came back, he was no longer a knight. His body no longer felt right, and he quickly discovered he had been made into a monster. The Necromancer had showed him the kingdom. The now reborn Monster had been replaced by someone else as the King's Closest Knight and Princess once adore was left alone with no one. The Monster couldn't tell if she was left alone for asking questions or for not accepting the new knight.

In a fit of rage, the Monster attacked the King and his Knights. The fighting lasted months before finally the Monster's rage subsided. In those battles however the Monster did many horrible things, still the family accepted him. Even with the acceptance the Monster was scared to approach the Princess. If couldn't bring himself to accept the possibility of accidently hurting her. So, he stayed away for years, watching from the shadows as she grew to be a brilliant and kind scholar. When he finally had the courage to explain to her what had happened all those years ago..."

Jason's voice caught in his throat as he tried to finish the story. You had pressed your face against his chest. Softly you whispered, "She disappeared."

"(Name)." Jason took a deep breath. "I know that you probably want revenge or to make sure what happened to you doesn't happen to anyone else."

Your breath caught in your chest when Jason said those words. Fear that he knew what you were planning shot through you. He continued, "But please promise me you won't become a vigilant. I swear I'll get your revenge for you and make sure whatever happen to you doesn't happen again. Just please don't become one of us."

You took a deep breath to calm your nerves. One of your hands was under the blanket where he couldn't see it. You crossed your fingers slowly, "I promise."

The laboratory was quiet. Everyone involved had gone home for the day with the procedures completed. Isabella walked down the faux-hospital halls towards the office where her father worked. With Subject Origin lose somewhere in Gotham, the plan had changed. Subjects Alpha through Hotel were no longer allowed to leave during their recover phase. Just in case Batman got involved, he couldn't follow the subjects to the new location.

She knocked on the door to her father's office before slipping inside. The older man was sitting at his desk scribbling away on his journal. Isabella glared at the book, at least the notes in there were no longer about her. "All surgeries have been completed. We're monitoring the recipients now for any signs of rejection."

Her father hummed. There was long pause in which the only sounds that could be heard was the scratching of her father's pen. Finally, he sent the pen down looked at her, "Isabella what are the two results we are expecting?"

"Either all the recipient's bodies will accept the new organ, or they will all rejected." Isabella looked towards the ground. She intentionally didn't learn any of the kid's names. It made things easier for her; they were letters not children.

"Do you know why those are the two results?"

"No, I don't."

"Because" Her father stood walking towards the framed letter that revoked his medical license. Isabella didn't understand why he framed that of all things. "The experiments changed (Name)'s organs so they longer match any humans. She is a being that is truly unique now."

"Whose (Name)?" Isabella tilted her head to the side.

"Subject Origin, of course. Her name is (Name) Wayne." Isabella tried not to throw up. Wayne. Her mind flashed back to high school, to one of her friends that ended up dropping out to run Wayne Enterprises. It was easier to not know the names of her father's victims, because it made so she didn't know which of her friends was being reflected back to her.

Isabella began to silently pray Tim would never know what her father had done.

Prev

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[strawb-riii]

I think it’s really interesting that we don’t see Adrien crying or grieving the loss of his dad much. We get moments like this, where he shows how heavy all of this has been.

It’s very evident that he had a difficult relationship with his father. It was very transactional. The moments that were good are moments that he is with his mother and his father is more distant.

Having a parent that is overly involved in your life that you want to see the good in suddenly disappear is such a difficult experience. You start to realize more about them when you are removed from the situation, and struggle to process grief in a “normal” way because of that.

I love that this show is taking this approach. Whether that is for the reasons above or merely for the sake of keeping the show lighthearted, I’m still glad we are seeing this difficult approach to grief.

im gonna throw up

[fixated-cookies]

Royal Claim

A visiting dignitary makes the mistake of flirting with you—innocently, unknowingly kissing your hand at the royal banquet. What he doesn’t know is that you belong to the King. And while Dark Cacao Cookie doesn’t correct him in public… he makes sure you understand who you belong to in private. Slowly. Deeply. Again and again.

Pairing: Dark Cacao Cookie x Reader Word Count: ~2,000 Rating: Explicit / 18+ Warnings: Jealousy, possessiveness, rough sex, size kink, marking, mild overstimulation, deep penetration, filthy talk, breeding kink vibes, aftercare

COMMISSION

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

The citadel was alive with warmth tonight, bathed in the golden light of chandeliers and the soft hum of diplomacy. The long hall echoed with the chatter of dignitaries, the clink of goblets, and the polite laughter of guests exchanging pleasantries. It wasn’t often that so many foreign officials were allowed within the Dark Cacao Kingdom’s stone walls, but tonight was an exception.

You stood off to the side, holding a small crystal dish, uncertain of what to do with it now that your conversation partner had wandered off. The rich food, the heavy silks, the strict posture—everything felt just a little overwhelming, though you did your best to smile and stay attentive.

That’s when he approached.

A tall Cookie dressed in crimson formal robes, edged with sun-gold embroidery. A diplomat, if you recalled correctly. He introduced himself with a soft accent and a graceful nod, his words laced with honeyed charm.

“I must confess,” he said, voice low but clear, “I’ve seen many wonders in this land... but none quite like you.”

Your cheeks heated. You laughed softly, politely, unsure if he was joking or simply being kind. “You’re too kind, sir.”

He didn’t retreat. If anything, he stepped closer. “Kindness has nothing to do with it. I simply speak the truth.” His hand reached gently for yours, lifting it with practiced ease. “May I?”

You blinked, confused, but nodded. And before you could really process what was happening, he brought your hand to his lips and pressed the faintest kiss to your knuckles.

It wasn’t lecherous. It was gentle. Formal. Old-fashioned.

Still... your heart skipped.

“I hope you’re being treated well here,” he continued, eyes meeting yours with calm intensity. “If not, I’d be more than honored to keep you company during your stay.”

You didn’t quite know how to answer. A shaky smile formed on your lips.

Up on the throne dais, Dark Cacao Cookie sat silently.

He had not moved in over an hour. Stoic. Quiet. Watching.

Only a few attendants glanced up to notice the slow, deliberate tightening of his gloved fingers around the throne’s armrest. The faint clench of his jaw. The way his gaze never left you.

He said nothing. He made no scene.

But the temperature in the hall felt colder all at once.

The feast began to wind down as the night deepened. Goblets were drained, dignitaries bowed their thanks, and polished shoes clicked against marble floors as guests slowly filtered out.

You were helping a servant clear a tray when a familiar voice interrupted, low and clipped.

“The King has requested your presence in his chambers.”

You blinked. “Me?”

The servant gave a stiff nod.

Your heart fluttered, confused but not alarmed. It wasn’t uncommon for Dark Cacao to call for you, though it usually involved gentle conversation or shared silence over tea. Still, something about the way the servant said it felt... strange.

By the time you reached the king’s private chambers, the vast corridor outside had gone still. The guards posted at the entrance bowed silently and stepped aside, allowing you in.

The doors shut behind you with a soft but final thud.

You stepped in cautiously. The chamber was dim—lit only by the soft flicker of a hearth and a few candles that lined the stone walls. The fire crackled, casting gold along the dark floor.

He was already there.

Standing with his back to you, half in shadow, his great cloak draped over one shoulder. The armor was gone—only the long dark robes remained, unfastened slightly at the throat. One gauntlet still adorned his hand, the other had been set aside on a table nearby.

He didn’t speak right away.

You hesitated in the doorway. “You called for me, your majesty?”

His head turned slightly. Just slightly. Enough to confirm that yes, he had heard you.

And then, after a long pause—

“You let him touch you.”

The words struck like stone. Flat. Emotionless. But his voice was too calm.

You blinked, taken aback. “I—? Oh... the diplomat?” You gave a small nervous laugh. “He was just being polite. I didn’t think anything of it.”

Dark Cacao turned fully now.

His gaze landed on you, and your breath caught. It wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t even angry.

It was still.

Composed.

But the silence behind his eyes made your stomach twist.

“You didn’t stop him.”

You fidgeted, suddenly unsure of your footing. “I didn’t realize I needed to. I’m sorry—was I not supposed to...?”

He crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate, heavy boots echoing softly on the stone. You found yourself stepping back without meaning to. The air between you began to thrum with something tense. Something unsaid.

“You are mine,” he said, voice still low. “Not a prize for others to sample. Not a flower for stray hands to pluck.”

You stared at him, unsure what to say. You weren’t used to hearing him like this.

“I didn’t know it would upset you.”

His eyes narrowed faintly. “That is the only reason you are still standing upright.”

Another step. Closer. The flicker of the fire made his broad silhouette swell, casting a long shadow behind him.

He reached out—not harshly, but firmly—and took your chin between his gloved fingers.

“You didn’t know,” he repeated, voice like stone ground to dust. “Then allow me to show you.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but the grip on your jaw shifted, tilting your head up, his thumb brushing the edge of your bottom lip.

“You will not forget again.”

He released you.

And then began to slowly remove the remaining glove.

He didn’t give you time to speak.

His glove hit the ground with a soft thud, and in the next breath, your back collided with the nearest stone column. A gasp caught in your throat—half shock, half something else entirely—as his hand braced beside your head, shadowing your body with his own.

His voice remained composed. But his touch was not.

Large, calloused fingers slid along your side, down your waist, before curling tight around your hip. You whimpered at the sudden pressure, your head tilting up to meet his burning gaze.

“I will not raise my voice,” he murmured, nose brushing against your temple. “I will not shame you with rage or accusations.”

His knee pressed between your legs, parting them, guiding you back until your spine kissed cold stone.

“But you will remember.”

You could feel the hardness in his pants already, pressed against your thigh—solid, demanding, heavy. And when he leaned in to kiss you, it wasn’t a kiss at all. It was a claim. His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugging it slightly, his tongue slipping past the protest you hadn’t even tried to make.

You moaned against his mouth.

“You let him hold your hand.” His hand slid beneath your shirt—warm, rough, firm. “Tell me, did you imagine what else he might’ve touched?”

“No—no, I didn’t—”

He chuckled, low and humorless.

“I don’t believe you.”

In one swift motion, he lifted you—effortless, strong—and carried you across the room to his massive bed. You didn’t have time to react before he was laying you down, hands already tugging your clothing open, baring your body to the cold air.

Then he paused.

Just looked at you.

His jaw was clenched. His pupils wide. His breathing heavy.

“I am not a man given to possession,” he said, fingers trailing down your chest, over your stomach, until he reached your thighs. “But you are the one thing I will not allow to be touched by another."

The mattress dipped beneath your back, firm and cold from the castle stone. You hadn’t even caught your breath from the walk over when he was already on top of you—kneeling between your legs, shadowed by the firelight. But he wasn’t rushing.

No, that would be too kind.

His hands came to rest on your sides, thumbs pressing lightly against the hem of your shirt. You expected him to tear it. You wouldn’t have blamed him.

Instead, he took his time.

“You wore this tonight,” he said quietly, his tone unreadable, “when you knew others would be looking.”

You blinked. “I—”

His fingers moved, finding the first button. Undoing it. Then the second.

“You chose something soft. Innocent. Easy to touch.” He tugged the fabric open just enough to expose your collarbones. His eyes followed the line of your skin like a predator eyeing something precious—and already his gloved hand slid upward to trace your throat.

“Did you want to be touched?” he asked, not coldly. Just... genuinely. Cruelly. “Did you want someone else’s fingers where mine should be?”

Your breath hitched.

Another button undone.

He opened your shirt fully, baring your chest to the flickering firelight.

The chill of the room made you shiver, but his hands were so warm. One trailed along your ribs, the other pressed flat over your sternum. The weight of it made you squirm.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured.

You shook your head.

“You are.”

His hand slipped downward, stopping at the waistband of your pants. He didn’t move immediately, just rested there, watching you with dark, half-lidded eyes.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered. “If you don’t want this, say it now.”

You didn’t.

Of course you didn’t.

His fingers hooked under the waistband and began to pull. Slow. Deliberate. The scrape of your trousers against your thighs echoed louder than anything else in the room. When they caught around your knees, he helped you kick them off—tossing them aside like they were in the way.

You were half-naked now. Exposed. Breathing hard.

He didn’t touch you right away.

Instead, he leaned down. Kissed the hollow of your throat. Then lower.

And lower.

By the time his mouth wrapped around your nipple, warm and wet and sucking slow, your back arched off the bed. His teeth scraped just enough to make you whimper. His tongue soothed it. Then he did it again on the other side—lazily, like he had all the time in the world to devour you inch by inch.

One of his hands slid between your thighs. Just rested there. Heavy. Teasing.

You squirmed.

He looked up at you, expression unreadable. “Are you getting worked up over this? Or is it still the thought of that man touching you?”

You whimpered his name.

He growled softly—and finally, his fingers pressed against your heat. Rubbing through the fabric, slow and steady. So little friction. So much pressure.

“Dripping already,” he murmured. “And I haven’t even put my mouth on you yet.”

He leaned in closer. His breath ghosted over your inner thigh. His fingers curled under your last piece of clothing.

“Shall I make you beg for it?” he whispered. “Or will you give yourself to me without shame this time?”

Then he kissed the inside of your leg.

Then higher.

And higher still.

Just before his tongue finally met your skin, he glanced up at you again.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he said, low and deep. “And remember this the next time another dares touch what’s mine.”

His mouth was so close you could feel his breath against the thin, damp fabric still clinging to you.

But he didn’t touch you.

Not quite.

His hands settled at your hips, fingers slow as they slid beneath the last barrier between you and him. You squirmed, instinctively trying to close your thighs—but he gave you a single sharp glance, and your body fell still.

He exhaled slowly, reverently.

"These," he said, voice low and scathing, “should’ve never been worn for another’s eyes.”

He pulled.

The fabric stretched at first, clinging pitifully to your skin before giving way. You whimpered at the sensation—the drag of it, the air kissing your wetness, the humiliation of how soaked through they were. He didn’t mock it. But he did pause.

He held the ruined undergarment in his hand, looking down at it like it was some offensive thing—something tainted. His jaw flexed.

Then he tossed them aside.

Now you were bare. Laid out. Thighs parted. Your chest rose and fell in soft, shuddering breaths, and still he said nothing.

His eyes took you in.

Every inch.

Every twitch.

And then he undid his own trousers.

You heard the belt first—the sharp clink of the buckle unfastening. Then the whisper of fabric. Your eyes widened. He didn’t tease. He didn’t ask if you were ready.

He just moved closer, pressing the broad, flushed head of his cock against your entrance.

Thick.

Hot.

Bare.

The moment the tip pushed in, your breath caught like you’d been struck.

"You’ll remember this," he said softly, his voice a low thunder beneath your skin. "The next time someone thinks to kiss your hand. You'll remember how I ruined you for anyone else."

He began to press deeper.

Your body stretched, pulsing tight around him. You whimpered, tried to breathe, tried to relax—but he was so big and so slow, dragging every inch of himself in like a punishment.

His head dipped. His breath was rough against your ear.

“Take it,” he growled, voice shaking, “Take all of me.”

He bottomed out with a sharp, final thrust that knocked the breath from your lungs.

And then he paused.

Buried inside.

Your body trembling, clutching around him like it didn’t know how to hold something so wide, so deep, so utterly unrelenting.

You gasped, a sound high and helpless, and his hand reached up—tangling in your hair, pulling your face toward him.

“Now scream for me,” he said, “and let them all know you belong to their king.”

He was trembling. You could feel it—every inch of him was shaking above you, inside you. His arms, braced at either side of your head, trembled with the effort it took to hold back, to stay composed. But his body was losing the war.

He pulled out slowly, all the way to the tip—your walls clenching down, unwilling to let him go—and slammed back in with a sound so wrecked you barely recognized it came from him.

“Ah—fuh—hhnnh—”

His breath stuttered out of him in bursts. His pace turned uneven. Sloppy. And you were so wet now—each thrust echoed with obscene slick sounds that should’ve humiliated you, but instead made your toes curl.

You moaned, helpless. He gasped. His hips stuttered.

You were unraveling him.

And he knew it.

“C-can’t…” he rasped, barely audible. “Too—tight—fuh—”

His jaw dropped open. No words came, just a sharp cry as he drove himself deep, deeper, his weight grinding you down into the mattress.

His hands were everywhere—clutching your thighs, your waist, your chest. Desperate to hold you. Anchor you. Claim you. His mouth found your shoulder and bit down—not enough to hurt, just to mark—his groan muffled against your skin.

He was panting now. Each breath dragged from somewhere deep, primal. His forehead pressed to yours, sticky with sweat.

You whispered his name.

His hips bucked.

A noise punched out of him, cracked and shuddering.

“Can’t—can’t stop—”

His thrusts turned punishing. Slamming. The sound of his body against yours filled the chamber, thick and fast, wet and hard. The bed rocked beneath you. Your body shook.

Every time you clenched around him, he sobbed—yes, sobbed—tiny gasping sounds that spilled from his mouth like he’d never known pleasure this raw.

You felt his release before he said a word.

The sudden snap of his hips.

The way his cock twitched, buried impossibly deep inside you.

Then—

A sound.

Low.

Shattered.

“Ah—ah—hnnnh—” he cried out, loud and broken and beautiful. His whole body convulsed as he came, his hands digging into your hips, his chest shaking from the force of it.

Warmth spread through you, thick and pulsing, as he poured himself into you. Not once. Not twice.

But over and over.

His moans didn’t stop. He didn’t go silent. He kept groaning—like he couldn’t hold it in, like every second inside you was too much and not enough. His head dropped to your shoulder, teeth biting into the flesh there as he spilled himself inside you like it was his right.

You whispered his name again.

He whimpered.

Actually whimpered.

His arms wrapped around you, crushingly tight, keeping you in place as his cock throbbed one final time.

Then silence.

No—almost.

Because he was still panting. Still shaking. Still moving his hips in slow, tiny thrusts like he wasn’t done.

Like he couldn’t be done.

Your legs trembled. Your fingers dug into his back. You could feel him twitching, hard and warm inside you, even after the climax had passed.

And then—

He spoke.

Barely.

“Don’t… move,” he whispered. “Need to—need to stay in you… just a little longer.”

His voice cracked on the words. Like it hurt to say them. Like he was ashamed.

He kissed your cheek, lips hot and soft.

“Still mine. Still full of me.”

You nodded weakly.

“Say it,” he rasped. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

He groaned again.

And didn’t pull out.

--

ahhh I didn't realize just how many people LOVE dark cacao cookie hehehe