#And his hair still looks like he cut it himself

[meo-eiru]

Day 6 of Character Trivia Night!

For tonight we have Micah

Micah is an only child with a mother and a father

He grew up in a small town and his parents were upper-middle class in town standards

They were very religious and paid a lot of attention to always appearing proper. They wouldn't wear the same outfits two days in a row and made sure their clothes were always perfectly ironed

His dad was quite strict with him, not allowing him to play outside and crease his clothes, and made sure he attended church regularly

Micah was never really interested in playing with the other kids so he didn't particularly care about the rules

Even as a child he was aware he was prettier and smarter than most kids around, he was also very apathetic towards others. He didn't particularly care about them but enjoyed when they praised and looked up to him so kept the good boy act

His one joy was growing flowers, because unlike humans flowers are not annoying. If he takes good care of a flower it'll grow up and bloom like planned, it won't betray his plans. Its life is on his hands, if he decides to cut it it'll die, and if he decides to stop watering it it'll shrivel

His parents weren't very into the idea of him taking care of their garden but after seeing he wasn't giving up and that he actually made it look prettier they gave in

He was later on sent to the capital to further his education, joining the cathedral and quickly becoming a high priest

Even away from his parents he continued to live following their teachings. He would wear clean and well ironed clothes, he usually preferred loose fitting ones that didn't show much skin

He also started growing his hair to the possible displeasure of his father, he enjoyed taking care of it and keeping it clean. He naturally had very thick strands but his hair was still very soft

He also quite enjoying coffee, especially with some light sweets accompanying it. Thanks you that he ended up being quite good at brewing coffee and baking low sugar cakes

He was popular with men and women alike thanks to his angelic appearance and polite personality, receiving letters of affection not only from people inside the cathedral but those who simply came to visit it

Soon enough he was more well known than the actual bishop amongst the common people

He didn't really care about ranking up more and taking on the bishop role, he actually enjoyed the fact that he was better liked even as someone of lower status which made the actual bishop quite furious

He was eventually sent to work at a church in a nearby town by the bishop who did not enjoy seeing him around, not that Micah cared. The town was small but clean and well taken care of, he could just live quietly while being adored by those around

He was greeted with many cheers upon his arrival to the church, his fame traveling ahead of him

He greeted everyone and introduced himself, not caring to pay too much attention to the stuff they told him

Around his third day at the church, as he was passing by the inner garden he heard the sounds of giggling

Two nuns in training, seemingly enjoying a conversation between themselves

Micah could hear what they were talking about but somehow it all felt like blank noise, not registering. The weather was nice, he could feel a warm breeze flowing through his hair. The sunlight was just right, making his skin warm and fuzzy but not to the point of making him sweat. He could hear the chirps of birds mixing with their giggles. Everything was so nice, so nice and so clear, and Micah was just standing there. He was just standing there and looking at the nun he seemingly had never noticed before. Was the sky always so blue and full of life?

It wasn't too hard finding more about you as you were on good terms with most people around. He quickly learned that you were a faithful child of god, that your family was quite poor and that you wanted to become a nun in hopes of earning money to help your family

The day he first approached you was an exciting day for you. He's THE Micah after all, anyone would be excited. He was so nice and so easy to talk to, before you knew it you were crying about your struggles and pains as he gently hugged you

You really liked him, he would always listened to your problems so patiently and offer you solutions. With him you felt so seen

At first it started small, Micah bought you the dress you've been eyeing for so long. Then it started getting bigger, he would sometimes directly give you money, telling you to go buy whatever you need

He was like an angel, truly a good person. You thought he must be a savior sent by god to make your pains go away

And so you trusted him, how could you not? He was such a good person, and everyone knew just how good he was. And you continued trusting him when he called you to his chambers late at nights, you trusted him when he locked the door behind you, you trusted him when he was being just a bit too close for your liking

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Micah didn't care about how many weeds he had to cut off to make one flower bloom the way he wants it to bloom. At the end of the day it's the flower he wanted, and his flower has the prettiest petals when he holds it in his hands

[shebrewscoffee]

◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ sukuna ryomen always thought beauty is a lie. his hands were stained with blood, his path lined with ruin; yet here he is, at your bedside, gazing at you, as if you were the only thing that held meaning.

your sleeping form is relaxed, entirely at ease, unaware of his gaze. the moon’s light embraces your form, kissing your every detail features, making you appear even more dreamlike. without thinking, his fingers glide over your cheek, a rare tenderness in his touch. you are so fragile, so warm beneath his palm, and he questions how you came to be his.

as if by instinct, you shift, pressing closer to him in sleep. a soft sigh leaves you, and something in his chest clenches. you trust him; entirely, without doubt. it should be laughable, absurd even, yet it seeps into his bones; an echo of something he dares not name.

your breathing is soft, even, a quiet melody that cuts through the silence. it grounds him, easing the storm that never truly leaves his mind. his hand moves lower, fingers brushing away loose strands of hair, lingering just to confirm that you are here, real, and not some fleeting illusion.

his thumb ghosts over your lips, lingering just long enough to make his chest tighten. a quiet chuckle escapes him. you look so small like this, so completely unaware of the power you hold over him; how your very existence has etched itself into him, deeper than any scar, more permanent than any wound.

do you understand how you’ve changed him .ᐣ how, against all odds, you have become something he cannot bear to lose .ᐣ can you feel it, the way the air shifts around him when you’re near .ᐣ how the chaos within him quiets, if only for you? do you see it; the way you’ve rewritten him, how you’ve settled into his soul like an unshakable truth .ᐣ do you even realize what you do to him .ᐣ how your mere existence has managed to carve a place within him that nothing else ever has?

he watches, unmoving, memorizing every detail; how your lashes rest against your cheeks, how your lips part slightly with each breath. a strange sense of calm settles over him, unfamiliar yet not entirely unwelcome.

he has taken much, conquered more, razed kingdoms without a second thought, yet nothing has ever felt as vital as this. as you. it is madness, weakness, but in this moment, he allows himself to indulge.

let the world burn, crumble, fade into nothingness; so long as you remain by his side, breathing softly in the stillness of the night, he thinks he might just allow it.

“you’re more valuable to me than all else in this wretched world. not for all its riches would i trade you.”

[angelfic]

JASON TODD is constantly in pain.

ever since he came back from the pit, he’s felt like a stranger in his own skin, metaphorically and literally. in a body he was suddenly forced to awake in, the ache in his bones is always there, simmering beneath the surface and pressing into his muscles with every movement.

he never talks about it, but you can see it in the way he rolls his shoulders too often, like he’s trying to work out a knot that won’t go away. you see it in the way his jaw clenches when he’s been sitting for too long in the same position, or how he winces whenever he moves a little too quickly.

at first, you thought it’s was just his mannerisms to be all surly and intense all the time. it isn’t until you catch a flash of pain flickering across his face in the middle of a conversation in which he’s happily talking to you.

after that, it’s all you notice and the only thing you want to do is relieve him of his pain.

tonight is no different, when jason comes home late from patrol and his muscles are stiff and practically seizing. blood stains his knuckles from a particularly nasty run-in with gotham’s lowlifes, but jason doesn’t bother removing his gloves or his boots as he collapses onto the couch with a heavy sigh.

you’re there, as always, waiting for him. you crouch down beside him, reaching out to stroke his hair and he nearly forgets he’s in pain for a split second. the minute he shifts to look at you however, his neck feels like someone’s taken a crowbar to him all over again and he can’t stop his face from twisting into a grimace.

“rough night?” you murmur, chin resting on your arms against the edge of the couch. your voice, soft and warm, cuts through the fog of exhaustion clouding over him.

jason hums in answer, too tired to pretend with you. you hesitate for a moment before standing up and holding out a hand for him to take.

“come on,” you say, tone allowing no room for argument. jason knows better than to protest and he’s already achy, so what’s a couple more steps?

you lead him to the bedroom and he kicks off his boots before entering. you sit him down on the edge of the bed and silently begin to peel off his suit until he’s in nothing but his boxers, as still as a statue depicting a greek god in all his glory. jason knows you better than to assume you’re trying to initiate anything sexual, your expression full of love and care, mixed with almost clinical intentions.

“will you lay on your stomach for me, jay?” you ask, softly. jason would hang the stars in the sky for you if you asked him, but he settles for nodding and climbing onto the bed obediently to lay where you want him.

he feels the bed dipping under your weight as you climb over him to straddle the back of his thighs and he opens his mouth to ask what you’re actually doing. but then your hands are on him and your thumbs are pressing into knots he didn’t even know he had and the question dies on his lips.

jason makes a little sound in his throat as your fingers work on his shoulders, kneading the taught muscles along his spine and neck and drawing out a deep grown from his lips.

despite the years of discomfort, jason begins to melt under your hands embarrassingly fast, huffing out a breath somewhere between a moan and a laugh.

“fuck,” jason mutters, his voice coming out in a low, gravelly rumble and anyone would think you were doing sinful things to him with the noises coming out of him.

“feel good?” you ask, quietly and jason can hear the smile in your voice as your hands continue to relentlessly chase the aching out of his bones.

“yeah,” he practically whimpers, shuddering out a breath as you work on his lower back, one hand continuing to twist as the other reaches up to brush his hair out of his eyes. he didn’t even notice it since he let them flutter shut the second you touched him.

jason feels himself sinking into the mattress, unravelling from within and when he shifts from his position slightly, it isn’t nearly as painful as it was before.

“your hands are fucking magical, angel,” jason breathes out, voice muffled from where his face is pressed into his arms.

you let out a laugh and that, combined with the way the soft pads of your thumbs run against the hard, scarred skin of his back, makes him think he’s died all over again. yet this time, he’s made it to heaven. “nah,” you whisper, leaning down to press a kiss against his spine. “just love you, is all.”

a/n; sorry idk what came over me writing this. the idea came to me in the form of my own aching muscles. i’m not a vigilante i’m just a brown girl deficient in every vitamin under the sun

[ell0ra-br3kk3r-writes]

A Super Soldier's Soft Spot

pairing: post tfatws!bucky barnes x fem!reader

genre: flufff

el's thoughts: first time writing for bucky!! it's probably a lil ooc, but i figured i'll post it anyway. hope yall like it!!

masterlist

James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. Winter Soldier. Ex-Winter Soldier. Avenger. The-One-With-The-Metal-Arm.Uncle Bucky. Babe.

All are names Bucky answers to. Granted, the last one was the latest addition to the list. He met Y/N at a little backyard barbeque at the Willson’s, that Sarah had put together. Sam invited him and he was promptly introduced to Y/N—Sarah’s friend since middle school. Bucky hated to admit that Sam had finally found him a match but he couldn’t deny how quickly he fell for Y/N. 

She was a breath of fresh air in the storm that was his life. Cliche. He knows. 

“Hurry up! We’re going to be late!”

Bucky chuckled, “I’m the one closest to the door, Y/N/N.” He tugged his leather jacket on and grabbed his keys from the key hook by the door. “Plus, you know your family doesn’t start dinner at the time they say they would. We’ll still get there early.”

Y/N hopped on one shoe-clad foot as she slipped the other shoe on, clutching her canvas tote bag in her other hand. “Still.” She stood up straight in front of him with a bright, teasing smile and stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Okay, let’s go, Super Soldier.”

Bucky rolled his eyes playfully and held the door open for her, followed her out, and locked it behind him. If anyone asked him just five years ago if he saw himself going to family dinners once a month he would have laughed in their face. Yet, here he was, helping his girl into his car to drive them to her monthly family dinner. 

Pulling into the large crowded driveway of Y/N’s family home, she reached across the center console and squeezed Bucky’s hand excitedly. Y/N’s older sister had texted her beforehand, letting her know that the kids would be joining them. Since Y/N’s nieces and nephews are in their early to mid-teen years, the kids seem to always have plans of their own on the weekend. The kids had grown incredibly fond of Bucky, already claiming him as their favorite. Y/N had tried to warn and prepare him for how overwhelming her nieces and nephews could be but Bucky surprised her the first time he met her family. 

Bucky didn’t realize how much he missed being in a family setting, having forgotten how his own mother and sister were. 

As soon as Bucky and Y/N stepped out of the car, the front door swung open hazardly. 

“Uncle Bucky!”

Bucky barely had time to register the title before a whirlwind of limbs tackled him. He allowed himself to stumble back playfully, wrapping his metal arm around Y/N’s youngest niece, Ava, who clung to him like a koala. 

“Hey, kid,” he chuckled, ruffling her hair. “Thought you had plans with your friends?”

Ava grinned. “Canceled. I had to be here. You promised to help me with my soccer drills.”

“Ah, right,” Bucky nodded while a smirk tugged at his lips. “You think you’re ready to take me on, huh?”

She crossed her arms, feigning confidence. “I’m faster than you.”

“Sure, kid,” he said, his tone dripping with playful sarcasm as he followed Y/N up the steps.

Inside, the house was alive with chatter, and the smell of something delicious and savory, simmered on the stove. Y/N’s mom greeted them first, pulling Bucky into a hug before she moved to kiss Y/N’s cheek. It had taken him a while to get used to the casual affection Y/N’s family showed him, but now? Now, it didn’t send him into fight mode. Now, he let himself melt into it.

“Bucky. Sweetie, you look too thin.” Y/N’s mom fussed, cupping his face. “Are you eating enough?”

“I–”

“He eats more than enough, Mom.” Y/N cut him off with a laugh. “Don’t let the super soldier metabolism fool you.”

Before Bucky could defend himself, Y/N’s two oldest nephews appeared, grinning as they exchanged knowing looks.

“You bringing the metal arm for football, or are you scared you’ll embarrass yourself?” Tyler, the eldest, challenged with a smirk.

Bucky raised a brow. “Kid, I fought aliens. You really think I’m scared of a game of backyard football?”

“Prove it then.”

Y/N sighed, shaking her head as Bucky let himself be dragged out to the backyard by the boys. “You’d think they’d stop testing him by now.”

Her older sister, Marie, smirked, handing Y/N a drink. “Please. They love him. He’s the first guy you’ve brought home who actually keeps up with them.”

Y/N smiled, watching Bucky as he jogged across the backyard, already intercepting a pass with an ease that left her nephews gaping. He looked so… happy. Like he belonged.

Like family.

Marie nudged her side. “He’s the one, huh?”

Y/N glanced at her sister before looking back at Bucky, who had just scooped up Ava onto his shoulders as she cheered. 

“Yeah,” she murmured, heart swelling at the thought of Bucky being a part of her family permanently. “Yeah, I think he is.”

[revelboo]

I was wondering if you would ever write for a bayverse mech? If so, could we maybe please get a bayverse Mirage fic? I love how goofy and unserious he is

Sure! He’s on my list, anyway

Valentine’s Oneshot-Mirage

ROtB Mirage x Reader

• “Oh, sweetspark. Baby, look at you,” he says, transforming and standing as you come down the stairs into the garage. Because this? He’s never seen you dressed up like this, that midnight blue material shimmering with your movements. “That for me?” Please, let it be for him. Maybe you’re finally coming around, because he’s been flirting. Trying to get your attention and you just laugh. Think he’s joking.

• “No, it’s not for you. That new guy at work asked me out.” And his grin falters, servos flexing and then tapping against his thigh. Why does he look like a kicked puppy all of a sudden? Uncertain, you toy with your hem. He flirts all the time, but that’s just him. Shameless teasing his style. It’s not like he was serious. Right?

• Primus, why does that hurt so much? The idea of you smiling for someone else. Would you let that guy hold your hand? Kiss you? Do more? How well do you know this person? Not better than you know him, so why? “You like this guy?” Wants to ask you to change. Maybe those baggy jeans you like and an oversized t-shirt. Something that doesn’t scream frag me. “I mean, of course you do. Never mind.” Running a hand over his helm, he paces. Just say it. Say anything to keep you from going out that door dressed like that to meet someone else. Just ripping his spark out with those soft hands.

• “He’s nice,” you say, watching him pace. And you’ve never seen him so agitated before. Wait, is he jealous? Hear his muttered ‘of course, he is.’ And he is jealous. Freezing as all of his shameless flirting shifts. All those little compliments, the way he’s constantly reaching to touch you, run a servo through your hair, against your back or arm. Biting your bottom lip you watch him press his servos against his helm venting loudly. “But, there is this other guy. He’s great.” Your best friend.

• There’s even more competition? Rocking to a stop, he stares down at you. “Yeah? You like him, too?” Doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t want to know. But can’t stop himself. You can love whoever you want, he’s still going to watch over you. Protect you even as it kills him inside. “Guess he makes you happy?”

• Heart racing, you fist your hem. If you’re wrong about this he’s probably going to laugh at you. “He’s my best friend. I mean he’s always cutting up, flirting, so I didn’t realize he was serious.” Shoulders lifting in a shrug, he stares at you, his hand slowly falling. Not saying anything. “He always has my back and I just, I’m sorry I didn’t realize, but I like him, too.”

• Him. Primus, you’re talking about him. Finally seeing him. “Yeah? Babe, this guy, he’d wait for you. Wait forever if he needed to. Because you’re worth it.” Going to his knees when you take an uncertain step his way and lay a little hand in his much bigger palm when he offers it. Trusting yourself to him. Other hand cupping you, he’s afraid to move as you reach up an arm and he slowly bends to let you curl it around his neck. Hugging him. “This guy loves you.”

[writeriguess]

Can you write a katsuki x female reader where he's jealous because he realises Kiri has a crush on you. Reader doesn't know about katsuki's feelings.

Burning Red

Katsuki wasn’t the type to get jealous. At least, that’s what he told himself. He was confident, strong, the best in everything he did—so why the hell would he care about something as stupid as feelings?

But then there was you.

You, with that infuriatingly bright smile, your dumb jokes that weren’t even that funny but still made his lips twitch, the way you always stood next to him during training even though he pretended not to care. You’d been in his life long enough that he got used to having you around, used to the way his heart stuttered in his chest whenever you ruffled his hair and called him "Bakugou" in that casual, teasing way.

What he wasn’t used to was Kirishima looking at you like that.

At first, he ignored it. Convinced himself he was imagining things. Kirishima was just friendly, that’s all. He treated everyone with that same kind of warmth. But then Katsuki noticed the way Kirishima’s eyes softened around you. How he always made sure you had a seat next to him during lunch, how he conveniently showed up whenever you needed help with your hero studies, and how his hand hovered near yours like he was just waiting for the right moment to grab it.

That’s when it hit him. Like a sucker punch straight to the gut.

Kirishima had a crush on you.

And that realization sent Katsuki spiraling into something he refused to name.

—

The breaking point came on a normal Friday after training. You and Kirishima were sitting on the common room couch, laughing over something on your phone. Katsuki was in the kitchen, pretending to get water but really just watching the two of you from the corner of his eye.

Kirishima was way too close.

His arm was slung over the back of the couch, his knee barely an inch from yours. Katsuki watched the way Kirishima grinned at you, how you nudged him with your elbow, playfully rolling your eyes. And then—you laughed. That real, unguarded laugh, the one that made your whole face light up.

Something ugly twisted in Katsuki’s chest.

Before he even realized what he was doing, he was moving. Striding across the room with sharp, purposeful steps.

“Oi, shitty hair,” he snapped.

Kirishima blinked up at him. “Huh?”

Katsuki crossed his arms, standing right in front of the couch like an immovable wall. “Aren’t you late for training?”

Kirishima tilted his head. “No? We just finished—”

“You sure?” Katsuki cut him off, his voice low, almost a growl.

There was a pause. Kirishima glanced at him, then at you, and then back at Katsuki. A flicker of understanding passed over his expression.

“Oh. Uh—yeah, I should go. Forgot about something,” Kirishima said, scratching the back of his head as he stood up. He shot you a small smile before heading toward the dorms.

You watched him go, then turned to Katsuki with narrowed eyes. “Okay, what the hell was that?”

“What was what?” He refused to meet your gaze, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“You just chased Kirishima away like some territorial guard dog,” you huffed, crossing your arms. “You jealous or something?”

The words were meant as a joke, lighthearted and teasing, but Katsuki froze.

For a split second, he was completely still. No sharp retort, no scoff or insult. Just… silent.

Your breath caught.

Then, before you could process it, he scoffed—too harsh, too forced. “Tch. As if.”

But you saw it. The way his jaw clenched. The way his fingers twitched at his sides. The way the tips of his ears were turning red.

You had no idea what to do with that.

[quartzteph]

HAPPY 10TH ANNIVERSARY TGS!!!!!

I've had this design for a recombined Jekyll rolling around in my head for months now, so I finally took the time to draw him. For the sake of clarity I'll refer to him as Re!Jekyll (short for Recombined Jekyll) (also the prefix "re-" feels kinda fitting for him, since he is whole once again). I have many ideas/headcanons for him, but I'll put all that under the cut :)

As for the drawing itself, I tried to mimic the look of the comic for the most part. (Note: Many of the colors used here were colorpicked from the comic to ensure accuracy.) I wanted him to look less like a 50/50 mix of Jekyll and Hyde and more like a Hyde-ish Jekyll, so I opted to give him the same face and hairstyle as Jekyll, but with some Hyde-like qualities. Aside from the obvious blonde streak, his hair is fluffier, messier, and a bit longer. The hair tuft/sideburn things in front of his ears are based on a mix of the hair tufts that hang in front of Hyde’s ears and university Jekyll’s sideburns. While he mostly wears red, he likes to include a touch of green, as seen here in his cravat. Also he gets the dark eye circles, as a treat. (I just really like Hyde's dark eye circles and don't have enough self-restraint to not give them to Re!Jekyll.)

Bonus doodles cause i love my freak son:

Various headcanon ramblings about him (plus drawing process) under the cut:

When he's trying to look more respectable, he uses his now-longer bangs to hide his green eye. At first, he also attempts to make his hair look neater, but this is a near impossible task that he eventually gives up on. (He is doomed to live out the fuzzy-headed mad scientist stereotype.)

When people question his sudden change in appearance, he claims his blonde streak and green eye are the result of a chemical formula splashing him in the face (á la Two-Face). Yeah this sounds a little far-fetched, but he is charming enough to get away with it. (Besides, he knows way more about alchemy than they do, who are they to question it?)

This sudden merging of identities is initially super disorienting. It takes him a while to get used to it. (In the first few days, he keeps referring to himself with "we". He eventually breaks this habit tho.)

Has a bit of an identity crisis. (I'm specifically envisioning a scene of him staring at his wardrobe, mostly full of reds and greens, and getting stuck because he doesn't know what color to wear.)

Jekyll and Hyde were so used to having someone constantly there, listening to them and yapping in their ears (or in their heads, rather). Now, for Re!Jekyll, life feels so quiet. It's peaceful, but also a little lonely.

Has a bad habit of talking to himself aloud. When he's alone, he sometimes has whole conversations or debates with himself.

Struggles more with the mundane parts of his job due to having Hyde's impulsiveness and wanderlust. He occasionally has to take little breaks from all the paperwork when he becomes too restless.

He's still goopy. Moments of extreme emotion (stress, anger, excitement, etc.) can trigger the green goop. (Think that one scene in Ch. 14 when the priestess startles Hyde, causing goop to spew from his face.) I like to imagine the guilt of everything he's done hitting him and causing him to have a "that one scene in Howl's Moving Castle" moment.

In rare moments of severe inner turmoil or repression, he may even go into convulsions in addition to the goop, as if his body is trying to transform. (Feel free to disregard this one if you wish, this is 100% just me being super self-indulgent cause I love angst.)

Despite his many newfound struggles, he’s actually very happy! He now knows that Lanyon loves and accepts every part of him, and this helps him to better love and accept himself.

And now drawing process images! Shoutout to that one Re!Jekyll who is way too excited about something:

[insidekatmind]

Confort~Axel Kovačević

Wearning: angst and pure sweet

Request: Yes!

The sound of punches echoes through the empty gym, accompanied only by Axel’s heavy breathing. You’re hidden behind the slightly ajar door, your heart clenched in a vice as you watch the scene unfold.

Sensei Wolf is putting him to the test, but you know there’s something more behind it. His blows are not just training,they’re punishment. Axel grits his teeth, takes the punches, the kicks, without uttering a sound. He tries to stay on his feet, to show he can handle it. But you see his suffering, the effort that’s shaking his body.

"Again," Wolf’s voice is harsh, emotionless. Axel struggles to rise again, fists clenched, his body trembling with exhaustion. But when another hit sends him crashing to the ground, Sensei Wolf finally stops. "Weakness." That’s the only word he leaves him with, before turning and walking out of the gym.

You stay silent, waiting until you’re sure Wolf has left before you move. Then you step into the gym, your steps light on the mat.

Axel is still there, kneeling, his hands on his thighs, his breath broken. It breaks your heart to see him like this. You approach quietly, kneeling next to him, and gently place a hand on his back.

He flinches slightly at your touch, then recognizes it’s you and lowers his head. "You should go," he says, his voice rough, broken from the strain.

You shake your head and hold him a little tighter. "I’m not going anywhere."

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then, slowly, he lets out a trembling breath and leans a little against you, as if for just a second, he allows himself to give in. And you’re there, ready to hold him up.

Axel stays still for a moment, his body tense, as if he’s afraid to let go. Then, slowly, you feel his weight lean slightly against you. A small gesture, but one that means everything to him.

You hold him without saying a word, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. His breathing is still irregular, his chest rising and falling heavily. You bring your hand to his face, gently brushing over a small cut on his cheek. He closes his eyes for a second, as if your touch is the only thing that can give him any relief in that moment.

"You don’t have to carry all of this alone," you whisper softly.

Axel lets out a deep breath but doesn’t respond immediately. You wonder what he’s thinking, if he’s trying to find the right words or if he simply doesn’t want to admit how much pain he’s in.

After a moment, he shakes his head slightly. "I have to be stronger."

His voice is rough, but you can hear the pain behind his words. Your heart tightens. You look him in the eyes, those eyes that are usually full of determination but now are dull, tired.

"You’re already strong," you say gently, caressing his cheek. "You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Not to him."

Axel lowers his gaze, his hands still clenched into fists on his knees. Then, all of a sudden, something inside him breaks. You feel it in the way his breath trembles, the way his shoulders sag slightly.

And then it happens. He turns toward you slowly, and without saying a word, buries his face against your shoulder. You hold him tightly, your fingers gripping the fabric of his gi as you feel him tremble slightly in your arms.

Axel Kovačević, the guy who never gives up, who never shows weakness, is now here with you, letting go for the first time. And you’re there for him, not saying anything, not moving, just holding him tight.

You gently stroke his hair, letting the silence speak for both of you. "It’s going to be okay," you whisper softly. "I’m here."

And for the first time since he entered that gym, since he started fighting to prove something, Axel closes his eyes and lets himself find a moment of peace. In your arms.

You gently caress his hair, holding him tightly in your embrace. He stays like that, his face half buried in your shoulder, his body pressed against yours. You feel his breath, still heavy but slowly calming as he begins to let his guard down.

It feels like an eternity before he finally stirs, slowly pulling away just enough to lift his face and look at you.

Axel’s eyes are filled with a mix of exhaustion and vulnerability that makes your heart clenches in your chest. He’s never looked at you like this before.

“Baby,” you murmur softly, caressing his cheeks. Axel’s eyes widen a bit at the sound of your voice, as if this small moment of affection has caught him off guard. He’s not used to being called that, not used to someone caring for him like this.

But he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he leans slightly into your touch, his eyes closing for just a second. The exhaustion is clear on his face now that he’s not trying to hide it. “I’m fine,” he whispers, stubbornly.

“Don’t lie to me, darling,” you say lovingly. His eyes widen slightly at the way you called him, your soothing tone and the affectionate nickname making everything within him tremble.

He opens his mouth to reply, but hesitates. There’s a thousand and one things he wants to say, but he’s not used to speaking them. So instead he just closes his eyes again, resting his forehead gently against yours.

"I’m not lying,” he mutters, but there’s no conviction in his voice. He knows you can see through his words.

You gently cup his face and give him a quick kiss on the lips. “Liar,” you whisper close to his lips. The feel of your hands on his face, your lips so close to his, send a shiver down his spine. He’s torn between the need to draw you closer and the habit of pushing you away.

Axel tries to respond, to deny again, but the word gets stuck in his throat as he feels the warmth of your lips against his. Instead, he lets out a heavy sigh, his breath trembling with all the emotions he’s trying to keep under control.You see the struggle in his eyes, the conflict between desire and fear. And yet, despite everything, his body leans closer to yours, his head tilting slightly as if desperately seeking your touch.

He’s fighting a battle he doesn’t know how to win. A battle against himself, against the part of him that says vulnerability is weakness, that letting someone in means losing control.

But as you hold him, kiss him gently, you can feel the walls he’s built around himself slowly falter.

Axel’s arms slowly wrap around you, his fingers gripping lightly at your back as he struggles to control the wave of emotions that are drowning him. He’s drowning in the sensations, the touch of your lips, the feel of your body against his, the scent of your skin.

He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze searching, vulnerable. And you catch a glimpse of the pain and loneliness he’s been hiding all along, the burden of his battles and responsibilities. It’s all there, laid bare in the depths of his gaze.Your heart clenches in your chest at the sight. You wish you could take away all of his pain, all of the shadows that linger in his eyes, but you know that’s not possible. What you can do, though, is be here for him. Hold him tight, make him feel that he’s not in this alone, that he doesn’t have to shoulder everything on his own.And so you do just that, one of your hands gently stroking his hair, the other tracing small circles over the fabric of his gi, right over his heart.

Axel leans into your touch, his body relaxing ever so slightly. The tension in his shoulders eases a bit, and you can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm.

The gym is silent around you, the sounds of the outside world shut out. It’s as if time has stopped, just for a moment, and it’s only the two of you, wrapped up in each other.

Axel closes his eyes, his head tilted slightly backward as he lets your touch soothe him, allowing himself to be vulnerable for just a little while longer.You continue to caress his hair, his skin, tracing your fingers softly over his cheeks, his jawline, the lines and planes of his face. He’s letting you in, a gesture of trust that he rarely allows.

His breathing has slowed down now and he looks less tense, the furrows on his brow having relaxed. You can see the exhaustion in his features, the result of everything he’s been through. He’s weary, but at the same time, there’s a trace of peace in his eyes.You lean closer to him, and one by one, gently kiss his forehead, his cheeks, the corners of his eyes, the tip of his nose, his chin. As you move slowly, you feel the warmth of his skin under your lips, and you can see the slight quiver in his shoulders as he reacts to your touch. As your kisses move lower, toward his neck, he lets out another sigh, a sound that’s somewhere between a moan and a surrender.

“Relax darling, I'm here baby, I got you” you whisper softly. Your words, spoken softly against his skin, seem to break what’s left of his resistance. With a low, ragged groan, he buries his head against your shoulder, his hands clutching tightly to the fabric of your clothes.

Axel’s body is shaking ever so slightly, and you can feel the tension he’s been holding in start to eke out under your touch. He’s letting go, he’s letting you hold him, hold all of him, warts and all.

“Cry darling, it’s good for you” You whispered softly. Axel’s body stiffens slightly at your words, a sharp intake of breath betraying his surprise at the fact that you’re actually suggesting he should cries in front of you. For so long, he’s been hiding his vulnerability behind masks of indifference and stoicism. But with your words, it’s as if you’ve removed those masks, forced him to face what lay beneath.

“I don’t-” he begins, his voice strained, but it dies in his throat.He wants to deny the need, to shut down the flood of emotions that threatens to overwhelm him, to just keep pushing through like he always does. But beneath it all, there is exhaustion, there is loneliness, and there is a desperate need for something he can’t name.

His body sags a little more against you as a shudder runs through him, and then another, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He’s trying to hold it back, but the dam is starting to crack.And suddenly, it all comes crashing down. The tears, the silent sobs, the years of pent-up frustration and pain. All of it is breaking through the walls he’s tried to build around himself.

Axel clings to you like a lifeline, his body trembling violently with each gasp. He’s crying against your shoulder, muffling sounds of pain, anger, and despair. The tough exterior, the unflinching fighter you’re used to seeing, is shattered in this moment.

You gently caress his back as you say sweet words to him. "I don't care what sensei wolf says, you are my champion and you will remain so." You murmur softly. Your words are gentle, like a soothing balm on his wounded soul. Axel's grip on you tightens, as if he's afraid you might leave him. His face is still buried against your shoulder, his tears soaking through the fabric of your shirt. But he's listening, his body trembling with each word you speak.

"I-" his voice is broken, rough from the crying. "I'm not a champion."

“Yes you are,” you whispered. Your words are firm, certain. There's no room for argument, for self-doubt. And yet Axel shakes his head, a stubborn remnant of his usual defiance.

"You don't understand," he mutters against your shoulder. "I've made too many mistakes. I let everyone down."

"Love, you are human and humans make mistakes, you have not disappointed anyone" You say softly, taking his face gently. "I am always proud of you". Your words sink into him, filling the empty places in his heart. Your hands on his face, holding him gently, ground him in this moment of vulnerability.

Axel lifts his gaze to meet yours, his eyes red and puffy from tears but filled with a new clarity and a small glimmer of hope.

"You... you are proud of me?" he asks quietly, his voice still wavering with emotion.

“Yes love,” you whispered, gently wiping away his tears. Axel's eyes flutter shut as your touch is feather-light on his skin. The simple gesture of wiping away his tears feels like a balm on a deep wound.

He takes a shuddering breath, his body leaning into your touch. "I... I don't deserve you," he whispers hoarsely, a mixture of pain and adoration in his gaze.

“Hey, don’t even say that as a joke,” you muttered with a mix of sweetness and sternness. A small, crooked smile tugs at the corner of Axel's lips as he opens his eyes to look at you. Your stern tone is tinged with sweetness, and it cuts through the heavy atmosphere like a ray of sunlight.

"It's the truth," he says, his voice still rough from crying. "I'm not worth-" The rest of his sentence is smothered as you gently cup his face, your fingers tracing over his cheeks.

“No love, you deserve me” You whispered caressing his cheeks. His breath hitches at your touch, at the warmth of your fingers against his skin. The simple words, spoken so tenderly, soothe something deep within him.

He leans into your hand, his eyes closing again as he allows himself, just for this moment, to believe in the possibility that he really might deserve you.

"But... but I'm not a good person,” he protests weakly, his words lacking conviction.You put a finger on his lips to silence him. “You’re a very good person,” you said softly as you looked up at him.

A flash of surprise flickers in his eyes at the silencing of words, but it's quickly replaced by a tender understanding. Your gaze is filled with unyielding determination and affection, leaving no room for argument.

His breath hitches again, his body still shaking slightly from the aftermath of his tears. It's as if the weight of your words is slowly chipping away at his insecurities, making them disappear into the air.

"You... you're just saying that," he whispers, his voice filled with a mix of doubt and hope.“I’m your girlfriend and I know my boyfriend better than anyone else,” you say lovingly. Your words bring a small smile to Axel's lips, though it trembles slightly at the edges. The sound of your voice, the certainty in your tone, is like a soothing balm to the raw, tender places on his soul.

He takes a deep, ragged breath, his fingers clutching the material of your clothes just a little tighter. "You... you really do know me best," he mumbles, his gaze fixed on yours.You nod and cover his face with kisses.

Your kisses are soft, light, but they leave trails of fire on his skin. Axel's body responds to your touch, his grip on you loosening a bit as he melts under your affection.

He lets out a small, ragged sigh, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. It's as if each kiss is a healing touch, slowly mending the broken parts of him, one by one.

His fingers brush gently against your waist, a silent expression of love and surrender.As you move your kisses to his neck, he leans into you a little more, offering himself up to your touch.

His body presses against yours, his form still trembling slightly from the emotional turmoil of moments before. He's clinging to you, seeking solace and grounding in your presence.

"I don't deserve you," he murmurs, his voice quiet but filled with a desperate honesty. "But I'm so damn glad I've got you."Your kisses move lower, across his shoulders, his collarbone, each one leaving a trail of heat on his skin. He lets out a soft gasp, his hand on your waist tightening again as if he's trying to anchor himself in this moment.

His entire body is trembling now, his muscles tight beneath your touch. He's losing himself in the sensations, in the heady feeling of being loved and wanted despite his flaws."Don't ever leave me," he whispers hoarsely, his words choked with emotion.His fingers clutch at your clothes, his grasp desperate now, as if he's afraid you might slip away any second. He's vulnerable, open, baring his soul to you in a way he's never dared before.

“I'll never do that darling,” you whisper softly, kissing his forehead. Your words wash over him like a soothing balm, easing the fears and insecurities that have long plagued him. The touch of your lips against his forehead sends a shiver down his spine, a silent affirmation of your love and loyalty.His grip on you relaxes a bit, but his eyes remain fixed on your face, his gaze filled with a mix of adoration and desperation. "Promise me," he whispers, his voice raw with emotion.

“I promise, my love,” you say softly. Your promise, spoken quietly but with all the conviction in the world, settles something deep within him. Axel's shoulders relax, his body sagging a little as a wave of relief and gratitude washes over him.

He buries his face against your shoulder once more, his breath coming out in ragged gasps. The words "my love" echo in his mind, sinking into his heart and taking root.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," he murmurs, his voice muffled by the fabric of your clothes.

“And you'll never find out,” you say softly, stroking his back. Your words are a promise, a reassurance that he clings to tightly. The gentle rhythm of your touch on his back grounds him, pulls him back from the edge of his own self-doubt and despair.

He takes another deep breath, trying to steady himself, to rein in the emotions that threaten to overwhelm him again. "I... I'm so lucky to have you," he whispers, his voice shaky but filled with sincerity.

"I don't know what I did to deserve you," he continues, his tone tinged with disbelief and gratitude.

Your touch, gentle and soothing, is like a life raft, keeping him afloat in a sea of his own insecurities and fears. His hands cling to you, his fingers curling into the fabric of your clothes, as if he's afraid you might disappear if he lets go for even a moment.

But your presence anchors him, keeps him grounded in this moment. He takes another deep, shuddering breath, lifting his gaze to meet yours again.

The words "I love you" are on the tip of his tongue, but they get stuck in his throat, caught in the tangle of emotions that threaten to overwhelm him. He wants to say it, needs to say it, but somehow, he can't seem to force the words out.But the way he looks at you, the intensity in his eyes, the way he clings to you - all of it speaks volumes. You can see the love there, plain as day, even though he can't quite say the words out loud yet.He swallows hard, trying to push down the lump in his throat, the tangled knot of words and emotions that threaten to choke him. And then he finally speaks, his voice shaky but filled with a raw honesty.

"I... I don't know how to say it," he whispers, his gaze locked on yours. "But I... I love you. So damn much."

You smiled sweetly. "Me too, love." You said softly. Your words are like music to his ears, a sweet, melodic affirmation of the love he feels for you. He clings to you tighter, his body pressed closely against yours, as if he wants to fuse himself with you, to become one.

His fingers trace a pattern on your back, a silent expression of longing and devotion. "You... you mean everything to me," he murmurs, his voice filled with a mixture of tenderness and awe.

You smiled and held him tighter and promised yourself that you would protect him more than yourself.

[anticipatedexhale]

Could you do a drabble of Arcane x rockstar reader? Classic prompt that's been overused 😞

I believe this prompt will never get old darling I absolutely love this idea!!

I'm a Rockstar~~!

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧୨୧

♡ ◞ includes: caitlyn, sevika, jayce, jinx, mel, viktor, vi,

☆ ◞ summary: them absolutely being smitten by their Rockstar partner

△ ◞ warnings: gn! reader, the tension is crazy , suggestive like really, I must say Viktors and sevikas parts made me feel smth..

Jayce Talis.

Jayce had never been the type to feel starstruck. He was the golden boy of Piltover, a man who walked into any room and commanded attention without even trying.

And yet, here he was, sitting front row at your concert, absolutely wrecked by the sight of you on stage.

The lights flashed behind you, turning your silhouette into something almost otherworldly. Your voice—strong, sultry, powerful—cut through the air like a drug, and Jayce swore he could feel every word vibrate through his chest.

You weren’t just performing. You were owning the stage, strutting across it with a confidence that made his blood run hot. Your fingers danced along the microphone stand, your outfit hugging every inch of you just right, your movements sharp and fluid all at once. The way you tilted your head, the teasing way your lips curled into a smirk every time you met his gaze—it was all too much.

Jayce sat there, legs spread, arms resting on his thighs, pretending to be composed when, in reality, he was anything but. His fingers twitched against his knee, gripping the fabric of his pants as his jaw clenched.

You knew exactly what you were doing to him.

And you loved it.

Your gaze flickered to him mid-song, and instead of looking away, you leaned into the mic, voice dropping lower, sultrier. “This one goes out to a very special someone tonight…”

Jayce swallowed hard.

His fingers twitched again, his body instinctively shifting in his seat. Fuck.

It wasn’t fair. He was used to being the one people looked at like this. The one who had admirers swooning over him, not the other way around. But you? You had him wrapped around your damn finger, and you knew it.

The concert ended in a blur. He barely registered the cheers, the way the entire crowd was completely enamored with you. The only thing on his mind was you—how fast he could get backstage, how soon he could have you all to himself.

When he finally pushed through the crowd, security recognizing him instantly and letting him through, he found you in your dressing room, still glowing with post-show energy.

“You,” Jayce started, voice thick, heated, as he leaned against the doorframe. “You enjoy torturing me, don’t you?”

You turned, feigning innocence. “Me? Torture you?” You took a step closer, tilting your head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jayce.”

His hands were on you before you could say another word, fingers curling around your waist as he pulled you close. His breath was warm against your skin, his lips brushing against your jaw before he murmured, “You know exactly what you do to me.”

Your grin was devastating, a slow, lazy thing that sent a shiver down his spine. “Maybe I do,” you mused, fingers tracing up his chest. “And maybe I like seeing you like this.”

Jayce let out a low, almost pathetic groan, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “You’re gonna kill me one day, you know that?”

You laughed, hands threading through his hair. “But what a way to go, huh?”

And yeah. Jayce couldn’t even argue with that.

------------------------------------------------

Mel Medarda

Mel Medarda was not the type to lose her composure.

She had spent her entire life mastering the art of control—her words, her expressions, even the subtle tilt of her head that could make men beg for her attention. She played the political game better than anyone, moving through high society like a queen among pawns.

But then she met you.

And you—the reckless, magnetic, wildly talented rockstar who seemed to command the attention of an entire city without even trying—had the audacity to be hers.

Tonight, she sat in a private VIP booth, legs crossed, wine glass in hand, watching as you performed under the blazing stage lights. The world saw you as untouchable, a star burning too brightly to hold. But Mel? She saw the way your gaze kept flickering to her. How, even with thousands of people screaming your name, you sang for her.

The song slowed, the bass humming low through the speakers as you stepped toward the mic, voice dropping into something sultry, teasing.

“This next one,” you said, letting the words roll lazily off your tongue, “is dedicated to someone very special in the audience tonight.”

Mel raised a brow, lips curving into a knowing smirk as you lifted your hand and pointed directly at her.

A murmur ran through the crowd, people turning to try and spot who had caught your attention. Some guessed, some whispered, but Mel? She simply sipped her wine and held your gaze, unfazed.

You lived for the way her expression never wavered—cool, controlled, elegant. Unshaken. But you also knew better.

You knew how to crack that perfect, composed shell of hers.

So you turned away from the mic, running a hand through your hair, letting the sweat from the performance cling to your skin in a way you knew would drive her insane. Then, as the guitar hummed in the background, you let your fingers drag down your chest, slow and teasing, as if tracing where her hands would be if she weren’t across the room.

Mel exhaled through her nose, slow and measured, shifting in her seat.

Oh, she was seething.

Not in anger—no, Mel Medarda didn’t get angry over things like this. But she did get possessive.

She let you play your little game. Let you soak in the crowd’s adoration, let you tease and smirk and act like the stage belonged to you (which, to be fair, it did). But the second the show ended?

She was waiting for you.

You barely made it three steps backstage before her hand caught your wrist, tugging you aside into the privacy of an empty dressing room. The door clicked shut behind you, the hum of the concert still ringing in your ears as you turned, grinning.

“Enjoy the show?” you asked, feigning innocence.

Mel tilted her head, gaze sharp as she stepped closer. “You enjoy making a spectacle of yourself, don’t you?”

Your grin widened. “Only for you.”

She studied you for a moment, eyes trailing over the way your chest still heaved from the adrenaline, the way your hair was slightly damp from the stage lights. Then, without a word, she reached up and dragged her thumb across your lower lip, slow and deliberate.

A shiver ran down your spine.

“You drive me to madness,” she murmured, her voice impossibly smooth, like velvet and steel wrapped into one. "And you know it."

The air between you thickened, the tension sharp enough to cut. You swallowed, throat suddenly dry, but you refused to back down. “Maybe I do.”

Her fingers traced lower, featherlight, trailing over your pulse, her touch both gentle and possessive. “And what should I do with you now?”

The question sent a delicious shiver down your spine, but before you could answer, her lips brushed against yours—not quite a kiss, just a ghost of contact, enough to send heat pooling low in your stomach.

Then she pulled away.

“Come home with me,” she murmured, voice softer now, quieter. “I’d rather have your voice just for myself tonight.”

Your breath hitched.

You could handle teasing, the playful power struggles, the tension, but this? This was something deeper.

This was Mel Medarda wanting you—not just to chase, not just to possess, but to be with you.

And for the first time tonight, you were the one caught off guard.

------------------------------------------------

Viktor.

Viktor wasn’t one for loud crowds.

He wasn’t the type to thrive in the flashing lights, the deafening cheers, or the overwhelming press of bodies all moving as one. He spent his days buried in blueprints and research, lost in the quiet hum of his own thoughts.

But for you?

He would endure the storm.

Because even though concerts weren’t his scene, you were.

So now, he found himself standing at the edge of the stage, tucked away from the madness of the crowd, cane resting against his leg as he watched you move under the lights.

And damn—you were breathtaking.

Not just because of how you looked up there, all fire and confidence, a force commanding the attention of an entire stadium. But because this—this—was your element. The way your body moved with the music, the way your voice carried through the speakers, raw and unfiltered, sent something sharp curling in his chest.

Viktor had spent his life chasing brilliance, seeking genius in numbers and theories. But tonight, you were the most brilliant thing he’d ever seen.

The song shifted into something slower, the guitars easing into a sultry rhythm, and you turned just slightly—just enough that your eyes found him through the haze of stage lights.

Viktor barely had time to react before you did something utterly, devastatingly reckless.

You jumped down.

Right off the damn stage.

The crowd roared, and Viktor’s heart nearly stopped as security scrambled, but you just laughed, weaving through the fans like you belonged among them. The sea of people parted for you, hands reaching, voices calling, but you weren’t stopping for them.

You were walking straight to him.

Viktor’s grip on his cane tightened. His brain short-circuited as you strode through the VIP section with that effortless, infuriating confidence—grinning, sweat still clinging to your skin from the stage lights, a live wire of energy.

Then you were there, standing in front of him, so close he could see every rapid rise and fall of your chest.

“Thought you weren’t coming,” you murmured, voice teasing, but your eyes—your eyes were something else.

Viktor swallowed thickly, forcing himself to breathe. “Somehow, I think you would’ve found me anyway.”

Your grin widened. “Of course I would.”

And before he could get another word in, before he could even process what was happening, you grabbed the front of his vest and kissed him.

The crowd screamed.

The music surged.

And Viktor? Viktor forgot how to think.

Your lips were warm, demanding, still buzzing with the adrenaline of the performance. He knew he should pull away, should say something, do something, but all he could do was brace himself against his cane and fall into you.

You broke away just enough to whisper, “You look good in the spotlight.”

Viktor let out something between a laugh and a groan, shaking his head as heat curled at the tips of his ears. “I think you might be trying to kill me.”

You pressed another kiss to the corner of his mouth, softer this time. “Not yet.”

Then, just as quickly as you came, you stepped back, flashing him one last wicked grin before turning and jogging right back onto the damn stage.

Viktor exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, his mind struggling to catch up.

The scientist in him despised the lack of logic in how you made him feel.

But the man in him?

He was completely, utterly ruined for you.

------------------------------------------------

Caitlyn kiramman

Caitlyn had been raised in a world of refinement—strict etiquette, hushed conversations over expensive wine, and appearances that had to be meticulously maintained.

Which is why she had no idea what the hell she was doing here.

The room throbbed with bass, the crowd a sea of energy, bodies pressed together as the lights cast dazzling colors across the venue. The air smelled like sweat, spilled drinks, and electricity.

And yet, despite the overwhelming chaos of it all, Caitlyn couldn’t focus on anything but you.

You, standing on that stage, confidence oozing from every motion, every note you sang, every teasing smirk you shot toward the audience.

You weren’t just performing—you were owning the damn room.

Caitlyn knew she was staring, but she didn’t care.

She had been raised to maintain her composure, to keep her emotions in check. But watching you up there, commanding thousands of people’s attention, only to flick your gaze right at her between verses? It did something dangerous to her.

She should have been used to it by now. You flirted with everyone—the audience, the cameras, your bandmates. It was just part of your stage persona.

But damn it, when you locked eyes with her and winked before hitting the next note, Caitlyn felt her heart stutter.

She needed a drink.

---

The concert ended in a blur of flashing lights and roaring applause, but Caitlyn didn’t move from her spot near the back.

She waited.

Security was already guiding you off the stage, fans still chanting your name as you disappeared behind the curtains.

A moment later, her earpiece crackled.

"Your VIP pass still gets you back here, Kiramman."

She rolled her eyes at the teasing lilt in your voice but didn’t hesitate to slip past the barriers, her polished boots clicking against the concrete floor as she strode toward your dressing room.

She found you exactly how she expected—leaning against the vanity, still glowing from the performance, towel draped over your shoulders, hair damp with sweat.

And grinning at her.

“You should really sit further up next time,” you mused, tilting your head as she stepped inside. “I could barely see you from back there.”

Caitlyn scoffed, crossing her arms. “I was trying not to be a distraction.”

Your smirk widened. “Oh, love, you think you’re the distraction?”

She arched a brow. “Considering you nearly tripped over a speaker when you saw me in the audience last time?”

You let out a groan, dragging a hand down your face. “That was one time—”

“—And the crew hasn’t let you live it down since.”

You narrowed your eyes at her, but the corners of your lips twitched. “Okay, detective. You win this round.”

She took a step closer, tilting her head. “There are rounds now?”

“Always.” You leaned in, lowering your voice. “And I fully intend to even the score.”

Caitlyn felt her pulse quicken, but she kept her expression unreadable. “And how do you plan to do that?”

Without missing a beat, you reached for the towel on your shoulders and, with an utterly shameless grin, tossed it at her.

Caitlyn let out a startled noise as the damp fabric smacked against her, the heat from your skin still clinging to it.

You laughed—really laughed, the sound warm and utterly carefree—before stepping closer, plucking the towel from her hands before she could react. “Don’t look so scandalized, officer. I thought you’d be used to a little sweat.”

Caitlyn narrowed her eyes, but her lips betrayed her, curving into something dangerously close to a smirk. “Oh, I don’t mind a little sweat.”

Your eyebrows lifted in interest, but before you could throw out another flirty remark, she turned the tables on you.

She reached forward, grabbing the front of your shirt, and yanked you in.

Your breath hitched as she leaned in, voice dropping to a murmur against your ear.

“You’re still a bit breathless,” she noted, feigning concern. “Hope I wasn’t too much of a distraction.”

You swallowed hard. “You’re always a distraction.”

Her smirk widened. “Good.”

Then, before you could regain control of the situation, she pressed a kiss to the edge of your jaw—just enough to leave you completely off balance—before stepping back with an infuriating amount of poise.

You blinked. “You little shit—”

“See you at the next show,” she said smoothly, already walking toward the door.

And just as she reached for the handle, she threw one last glance over her shoulder, smirking.

“Score: Kiramman—one.”

Then she was gone, leaving you standing in the middle of the dressing room, utterly wrecked.

“...Oh, it is so on.”

------------------------------------------------

Vi.

Vi wasn’t exactly used to this kind of scene.

Sure, she’d been to her fair share of rowdy clubs and underground fights—places where the air buzzed with adrenaline and the energy made your bones vibrate.

But this?

This was a whole different kind of chaos.

She stood at the very edge of the packed venue, arms crossed, boots planted firmly on the ground as she watched you command the stage like you were born for it.

And damn—maybe you were.

Vi wasn’t the type to get all poetic, but shit, you were a sight.

Sweat clung to your skin under the flashing lights, your voice carried through the speakers with that raw edge that made people feel something. Every movement, every glance, every grin sent the crowd into a frenzy.

And the way you owned it?

It made her chest tighten in the best and worst ways.

Because while everyone else in the room was watching you like you were some untouchable star, she knew the version of you that crawled into bed at ridiculous hours, the one who bitched about setlists and late-night rehearsals, the one who stole her shirts and stretched them out just to mess with her.

And yet, every time she saw you up there, looking like you belonged in this chaos, she found herself falling all over again.

Which was why she wasn’t even surprised when you did something completely reckless.

Because, of course, you did.

---

You should have known better.

Vi was already giving you that look from the sidelines—the one that screamed, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Naturally, you did something stupid.

“Let’s make this interesting,” you called into the mic, and the crowd roared as you hopped off the stage without warning, security scrambling to keep up.

Vi groaned, running a hand down her face. You are going to be the death of me.

You waded through the crowd effortlessly, high-fiving fans, grinning as people reached out, soaking in the energy. And then—just to push your luck—you made your way straight toward her.

Vi could feel the heat of a thousand eyes on her the moment you grinned and grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her forward.

“C’mon, Vi,” you purred into the mic, the teasing lilt in your voice making her stomach drop. “You’re not scared of a little fun, are you?”

Vi arched a brow. “Oh, you’re a menace.”

But she let you pull her in anyway.

The band picked up a steady rhythm, and before she could even process what was happening, you slid an arm around her waist and—

Oh.

You were dancing with her.

Not just moving—dancing. Slow, teasing movements, your body pressed against hers, the heat of your skin seeping through the thin material of her shirt. The crowd screamed, people losing their minds as you twirled her once, keeping your grip firm.

Vi could handle fights, she could handle explosions, she could handle damn near anything—

But this?

This was just unfair.

She should be annoyed. She should be cussing you out for pulling this stunt in front of thousands of people.

Instead, she found herself smirking.

“You’re playing with fire, babe,” she murmured, her voice low enough that only you could hear.

You grinned. “Lucky for me, you’re fireproof.”

Oh, you were gonna pay for that.

With a wicked glint in her eye, Vi suddenly flipped the script—yanking you flush against her, dipping you low enough that you gasped into the mic.

The crowd lost their minds.

And then—just because she could—Vi dipped her head and kissed you, deep and slow, right there in front of everyone.

You barely had time to recover before she pulled back with a smirk, letting go just as fast as she’d grabbed you.

“Better get back up there, rockstar,” she teased, stepping back as you blinked up at her, dazed. “You’ve got a show to finish.”

You swallowed hard, eyes flickering between her and the screaming crowd.

“…Holy shit,” you muttered under your breath.

Vi just winked.

------------------------------------------------

Jinx.

"Beautiful, Beautiful Chaos" (Jinx x Rockstar!GN!Reader | Reckless Love, Wild Nights, and Kissing in the Mayhem)

---

Jinx wasn’t the type to sit still.

Not in a fight, not during a job, and definitely not in a crowd of sweaty, screaming people losing their minds over you.

She thrived in chaos, lived for it, breathed it in like air.

And tonight?

Tonight was the kind of chaos she loved.

Neon lights flashed across the stage, strobes flickering as you jumped onto an amp, mic gripped tight in your hand, voice cutting through the thick, electric air of the underground venue. The bass thundered through the floor, shaking the ground beneath her feet.

Jinx wasn’t watching the crowd.

She was watching you.

Because—fuck—you looked so good when you lost yourself in the music. When you screamed into the mic, when your body moved like you didn’t care if the world fell apart around you.

You had that wild look in your eyes.

The same kind of reckless, untamed spark that made her chest tighten and her pulse race.

God, you were so—

“YO, YOU LITTLE SHITS WANNA HAVE SOME FUN?”

Your voice rang out over the speakers, wild and breathless.

The crowd roared.

Jinx grinned.

Oh, she knew that tone. That devious, impulsive tone that meant things were about to get stupid.

And Jinx loved stupid.

She pushed herself up on her toes, trying to get a better view as you suddenly jumped off the damn stage—barreling straight into the crowd, no hesitation, no security, just pure adrenaline-fueled insanity.

"OH, FOR FUCK’S SAKE—"

Jinx shoved her way forward as you disappeared into the chaos, people screaming, hands grabbing for you, the whole place erupting into something unhinged.

A bottle smashed somewhere. Someone tripped over a speaker. A guy with a mohawk straight-up passed out from excitement.

And in the middle of it?

You.

Grinning like a maniac, letting the crowd carry you, singing the last chorus like you didn’t have a single fucking care in the world.

Jinx didn’t even realize she was moving until she was right there in front of you—arms crossed, head tilted, looking so unimpressed despite the fact that she was definitely impressed.

You grinned, still breathless. “What’s wrong, trouble? Didn’t think I’d come to you instead?”

Jinx rolled her eyes. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah?” You leaned in,“You like it.”

Jinx didn’t like it.

Jinx loved it.

But she’d rather die than say it out loud.

So instead, she did what she did best.

She grabbed your face and kissed you stupid.

Right there.

In the middle of the chaos, with neon lights flashing and people screaming and beer spilling onto the floor.

You gasped into her mouth before melting into it, arms sliding around her waist, your body pressing flush against hers like you wanted to burn the moment into your skin.

And Jinx?

Jinx just smirked against your lips.

Because, yeah.

Maybe she did like this.

Maybe she loved it.

And maybe—just maybe—she was never gonna let you go.

------------------------------------------------

Sevika.

The venue was packed, the air thick with anticipation. You had the crowd eating out of the palm of your hand, your voice cutting through the bass, a raw, magnetic presence on stage. The lights flickered in sync with the beat, flashing as your body moved effortlessly with the rhythm, the mic gripped in your hand like you were born to hold it.

And Sevika? Well, she was front and center, standing just off to the side, watching you with an intensity that almost felt suffocating. Her posture was rigid, her arms crossed, her gaze never once leaving you.

Her heavy, leather-clad frame was nearly a stark contrast to your energy—wild, chaotic, and untamed as you commanded the stage. But you knew what she was thinking. Knew that under all that tough exterior, there was a fire. A fire that you had kindled long ago.

And tonight? That fire was burning brighter than ever.

---

The song ended, and the crowd erupted into a roaring applause. You took a breath, your chest heaving with exertion, sweat dripping down your neck. But you weren’t done yet.

With a wicked grin, you grabbed the mic, looking straight at Sevika.

“You think you can keep up, big girl?” you teased, voice dripping with playful arrogance.

Sevika’s lips curled into a smirk, but there was a cold, almost predatory glint in her eyes. “I could do this all day,” she muttered, her voice low, the words meant just for you.

The crowd was still cheering, but all you cared about in that moment was the tension that was crackling between you and Sevika. You’d both been dancing around it for so long—the chemistry, the constant pull, the teasing glances, the silent challenges that never seemed to break. But tonight? Tonight you were done playing games.

You took a few steps toward the edge of the stage, reaching out for her, pulling her closer. The crowd was still lost in the music, the band riffing off to the side, but all that mattered now was her—her and the way she looked at you like she wanted to devour you whole.

Sevika’s large hand gripped your wrist with a firm, almost possessive force, pulling you into her space. She towered over you, but her breath was steady, controlled, as if she was trying to hold back a flood of desire.

“You think you can just waltz in here and—”

Before she could finish, you closed the distance, your lips crashing into hers. The kiss was fierce, hungry—no longer playful, but desperate. Your body pressed against hers, and you could feel the tension in her muscles, the way she resisted just enough to drive you crazy. But you weren’t having it. You needed her. And you weren’t going to stop until you had her.

Sevika’s hand slid down your back, gripping your waist with a force that left your breath stolen. She pulled you closer, her lips moving against yours with urgency, heat building between you both. Her other hand threaded into your hair, tugging you even closer, pulling you deeper into the kiss like she couldn’t get enough.

You gasped when she bit your lip, just enough to make you shiver. “You’re playing with fire,” Sevika growled, her voice raw, breath hot against your skin.

And all you could do was smirk up at her, feeling the thrill of the chase. “I’ve never been afraid of fire,” you whispered back.

Without warning, Sevika spun you around, pushing you against the nearest wall backstage, her body pressing against yours, heat radiating off of her. She leaned in close, her lips brushing your ear as her breath ghosted over your skin. “If you think this is just a game,” she murmured, “you’re wrong.”

Your hands found their way to her chest, tracing the muscles hidden beneath her leather jacket. “Then stop playing and show me,” you dared her, your voice low, taunting.

The air between you crackled with electric tension, both of you pushing, pulling, testing the boundaries until it felt like something was going to break. Sevika’s lips hovered dangerously close to yours, her breathing ragged, as if she was barely holding herself together.

And then she leaned in, capturing your lips again, deeper this time—no more teasing, no more games. It was as if the kiss itself was a release, a breaking point of every silent moment between you, every want you both kept locked away.

When she finally pulled away, she smirked down at you, her voice a dangerous whisper, “This is just the beginning, sweetheart.” Her hands were already trailing down your sides, her lips just inches from yours, leaving you breathless and wanting more.

---

Back on stage, you finished the set with a wicked grin. You knew you’d both be facing the aftermath of that moment soon. But for now, the music carried on, and you knew Sevika was right where she belonged—on the edge of control.

And you? You were done being patient. Tonight, there would be no more running from this intensity.

The chaos had only just begun.

[asiantransformations]

—Prologue—

—Part 1—

The New Owner of JunHao

Mr. Chen stepped out of the hot tub, water cascading down his sculpted form, every ripple of muscle flexing as he moved. His biceps bulged as he ran a hand through his wet hair, smirking as he watched JunHao's eyes dart over his former body—now perfected, refined, made into something far greater than it ever was under its original owner.

Still wet, Mr. Chen slid a pair of shorts on and snapped his fingers, signaling JunHao to follow. The obvious bulge showing an outline left nothing to be imagined. "Come," he commanded, his voice deep, rich with amusement and control. "Let’s get you ready for your new place in my world."

————————————————————————

JunHao’s breath was ragged as he stared at himself in the mirror. The first thing to do was to take a selfie. His new body was good—tall, strong, muscular—but it wasn’t his body. Not his perfect masterpiece. His abs were defined, but not carved to perfection. His biceps bulged, but they didn’t have the effortless dominance his old arms once commanded. His thighs were thick and powerful, but they didn’t exude the same sheer supremacy he had cultivated for years.

He clenched his fists, flexing experimentally, feeling the strength coursing through his new form. It was almost enough. Almost.

Then, Mr. Chen stepped forward.

"Enough staring," Mr. Chen murmured, towering over him in his old body—his real body. The one JunHao had once owned, sculpted, and perfected. "You know your duty."

JunHao swallowed.

He did.

He dropped to his knees.

His hands moved with reverence, fingers gliding over the carved ridges of Mr. Chen’s abs. His abs. Or at least, they used to be. He knew every sensitive spot, every dip and curve that could send shivers down the spine.

Mr. Chen inhaled sharply as JunHao’s palms trailed lower, tracing the obliques that led down to that undeniable power.

"You remember well," Mr. Chen muttered, his voice strained yet smug.

JunHao’s lips curled. "How could I forget?" His new hands, unfamiliar yet eager, caressed the pecs he had once flexed proudly in the mirror. His tongue flicked over a nipple, knowing exactly how sensitive it was.

Mr. Chen let out a low groan, his massive hands gripping JunHao’s shoulders. His new servant wasn’t just worshipping him—he was testing him, proving that no one knew this body better than its original owner.

JunHao smirked against Mr. Chen’s chest. "It’s strange," he mused, his voice thick with something dangerously close to amusement. "Touching my own body like this. Knowing exactly where it’s most sensitive, where it needs attention."

Mr. Chen growled, his fingers digging into Junhao’s shoulders. "My body now," he snapped.

"Of course," JunHao murmured, pressing his lips to the chiseled valley between Mr. Chen’s pecs, savoring the familiarity.

He didn’t stop there.

As his hands moved lower, he felt the body respond—Mr. Chen’s legs tensed, his breath hitched, his control frayed.

JunHao relished it.

He traced his fingers down the deep cut of the Adonis belt, lips trailing lower, heat coiling between them like a storm waiting to break.

And then—

Mr. Chen snapped.

A deep, guttural sound tore from his throat as the floodgates burst open. Even without touching his cock, the pure sensitivity that JunHao made him feel through sensual touch caused him to orgasm already. His grip tightened, muscles flexing in a final, uncontrollable release.

JunHao gasped as warmth spilled over him, his new body drenched in proof of his former form’s absolute dominance. A large, thick white load covered him which had a heavy scent of primal testosterone.

Silence fell between them, heavy and charged.

JunHao looked up, his lips curling as he wiped a stray streak from his cheek.

"Still the ultimate body," he murmured, reminiscing of all his sexual encounters and how every girl was always amazed by how much and potent his load was. JunHao could remember how virile his body matched with his neverending stamina which resulted in fast rejuvenation of insane large loads.

Mr. Chen, still catching his breath, smirked down at him.

"And now, it's mine."

————————————————————————

JunHao gritted his teeth as he lowered himself into another deep squat, his thighs burning, his breath ragged. The barbell trembled on his shoulders, loaded heavier than it should have been, but he needed to push more. He needed more.

Each day, he woke before dawn, forcing his new body through the same relentless punishment his old one had thrived under. He started with heavy compound movements—deep squats, brutal deadlifts, overhead presses—grinding his muscles down to failure. His lungs burned with every set, his heart hammering in his chest. His stamina was nothing like before.

Yet, he refused to accept his limits.

Midday brought isolation training—biceps curls, chest flies, endless crunches to carve out the abs he should have had by now. He slammed protein shakes, ate like a beast, and trained until his body screamed. But the exhaustion crept in faster than before. His new body wasn't built for this.

Still, he pushed. He had to surpass his old self.

"I will be better than before."

But no matter how hard he worked, the mirror reflected the same bitter truth. His pecs weren’t swelling the way they used to. His veins weren’t popping. His body wasn’t chiseling itself into dominance like before.

Why?

Why wasn’t he getting better?

————————————————————————

That night, drenched in sweat, body aching from his latest punishing gym session, Junhao found himself where he always did—on his knees, hands roaming across the thick, sculpted muscle of his former body.

Mr. Chen leaned back, arms folded behind his head, smirking as JunHao’s hands traced his solid pecs, down his ridged abs.

"Still at it, huh?" Mr. Chen murmured. "I can feel how hard you've been working."

JunHao swallowed, pressing his lips to the firm chest he once called his own. So perfect. So strong. His fingers trembled as he kneaded the thick muscle, his own body yearning to match this one.

Then Mr. Chen flexed under his touch—his biceps swelling, his abs tightening—and the realization hit JunHao like a freight train.

This wasn’t just a feeling.

Mr. Chen had actually grown stronger.

JunHao pulled back, eyes widening as he stared at the body before him. The pecs were fuller. The veins on the biceps thicker. The deep cuts in the abs sharper.

It wasn’t possible.

His voice shook. “W-what…?”

Mr. Chen grinned, running a hand over his powerful chest. “You’ve been training so hard, JunHao. So damn hard.” He stretched, flexing his arms. “And it’s paying off… for me.”

JunHao froze.

No. No, that couldn’t be right.

“I don’t… I don’t understand,” he whispered.

“Oh, but you do,” Mr. Chen said smoothly, gripping JunHao’s chin and tilting his head up. “Every rep. Every squat. Every drop of sweat you’ve poured into this… it’s been feeding me.”

JunHao’s breath hitched. His stomach twisted.

“You've been making me bigger,” Mr. Chen continued, voice thick with satisfaction. “While you? You’re just burning yourself out.”

JunHao trembled, his heart pounding in disbelief. He wanted to deny it, to push away the truth—but his fingers told him otherwise.

The muscle beneath his touch was denser, thicker, stronger than before.

His own training… his own suffering… had been fueling the very body he once owned.

A deep, guttural laugh rumbled from Mr. Chen’s chest. “Look at you,” he murmured, running a heavy hand through JunHao’s damp hair. “On your knees, worshipping the results of your own hard work. It’s almost poetic.”

JunHao’s hands clenched against Mr. Chen’s thighs. His chest tightened, a deep pit of sadness and frustration clawing at him.

All that work.

All that effort.

And it was all for him.

Before JunHao could react—before he could even process the weight of it—Mr. Chen exhaled sharply, body tensing. His fingers tangled in JunHao’s hair as a deep, loud groan rumbled from his throat.

And then—

Mr. Chen's body spasmed and his hips shot out with power. The strongest he has ever felt so far.

JunHao barely had time to register what was happening before he was drenched. Warm, thick, undeniable. His breath caught in his throat, his entire body frozen as Mr. Chen let out a satisfied sigh above him.

He was covered in the proof of his defeat.

JunHao sat there, trembling, stunned, soaked in the essence of the body he once owned.

Mr. Chen exhaled deeply, flexing once more. "That was a big one," he murmured, looking down at JunHao with a smirk. He dragged his fingers down his abs, spreading the lingering mess across his sculpted stomach. "Guess I had a lot to thank you for."

JunHao's vision blurred, shame, exhaustion, and frustration crashing down on him all at once. His fingers dug into his own thighs, body trembling.

Mr. Chen leaned forward, gripping JunHao’s chin again, forcing him to meet his gaze. His voice was low, victorious.

“You belong to me,” he whispered. “And every time you train, every time you push yourself… I will always be the one who gets stronger.”

JunHao swallowed hard, his throat tight.

"Keep working, JunHao," Mr. Chen murmured. "Keep worshipping. Because no matter how hard you try..."

He smirked. He flexed.

"You'll never be me."

————————————————————————

JunHao kneeled before him, eyes locked onto the body he once called his own. Every inch of Mr. Chen radiated strength—his broad shoulders, his sculpted chest, the ridges of his abs that looked even more defined under the dim lights. His biceps flexed lazily as he ran a hand through his thick hair, a smirk permanently carved into his face.

JunHao swallowed hard.

He’s… perfect.

There was no denying it anymore. No amount of hatred, jealousy, or frustration could change the fact that Mr. Chen was better in his body than he had ever been. The way he carried himself, the effortless confidence, the sheer cockiness in every smirk, every taunt—it wasn’t something Junhao had ever truly embraced before.

But seeing it now?

He was obsessed.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Mr. Chen mused, rolling his shoulders back, making a show of flexing his pecs. “Finally accepting reality?”

JunHao’s lips parted, but no words came out.

Because deep down, he had accepted it.

His body—his former body—deserved to be worshipped.

Mr. Chen leaned forward, gripping JunHao’s chin with rough fingers. “Admit it,” he whispered, tilting Junhao’s face upward. “You love seeing me in your body. You love that I made it better.”

JunHao shivered at the touch, heat pooling low in his stomach. His heart pounded against his ribs, shame mixing with a dangerous thrill.

He did love it.

The way Mr. Chen pushed the limits, never settling, always making it more.

JunHao had spent months training, believing he could surpass his past self, only to realize every drop of sweat, every rep, every moment of exhaustion had only served to make his former body even greater.

It was the ultimate humiliation.

And yet…

He couldn’t stop.

He wanted to see his body grow. He wanted to see just how much stronger, more powerful, more perfect it could become under Mr. Chen’s rule.

“Say it,” Mr. Chen pressed, fingers tightening around his jaw.

JunHao licked his lips. His breath was shallow, his resolve crumbling.

“…You’re better in my body than I ever was,” he whispered.

A slow, arrogant grin spread across Mr. Chen’s face.

“Good boy.”

JunHao didn’t just serve—he devoted himself.

————————————————————————

Morning and night, he followed Mr. Chen’s every move, ensuring his former body was treated like a god. He prepared every meal, calculated every calorie, adjusted every supplement to perfection. He massaged the thick muscles, feeling every fiber of power that pulsed beneath the skin.

And when the nightly rituals came…

He worshipped.

He ran his tongue along the sweat-slick ridges of the abs he once worked for. He traced every vein that bulged across the thick biceps, pressing kisses against them, tasting the salt of his own former perfection.

Most of all, he savored the essence of his past self.

The first time he had swallowed down Mr. Chen’s release, something in him had clicked.

It wasn’t just submission.

It was reverence.

This was his body—his legacy. Every drop that spilled from it was a part of him, a reminder of what he had once been. And instead of feeling disgust, he felt pride.

Because he had built this body.

And now, under Mr. Chen, it was finally being used to its fullest potential.

JunHao moaned softly, licking his lips as he pulled away, the taste still lingering on his tongue. His new body trembled, overwhelmed by the sensations he had long denied himself.

Mr. Chen smirked down at him, wiping a thumb across Junhao’s bottom lip. “You really do love it, don’t you?”

JunHao looked up at him, eyes dark with something dangerous.

“…Yes.”

The more he served, the more Junhao realized—Mr. Chen deserved this body. He piloted his former body better than he could have ever done on his own.

He was arrogant. Cocky. Narcissistic beyond belief.

And that’s exactly what JunHao had lacked before.

He had treated his body like a tool—something to maintain, to refine. But Mr. Chen treated it like a weapon. Like a statement. He flexed with purpose, walked with an unshakable presence, made sure everyone knew exactly how superior he was.

JunHao had been strong. But Mr. Chen was dominant.

He belonged in that body.

And JunHao?

He belonged at his feet.

Not out of shame. Not out of defeat.

But because he wanted to see perfection thrive.

He wanted to be part of the reason his former body became the ultimate form.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Mr. Chen drawled, arms crossed over his broad chest.

JunHao exhaled, fingers trailing down the thick thigh in front of him. He felt the firm muscle twitch beneath his touch, the sheer power beneath the skin intoxicating.

“…I think you were always meant to have this body,” he admitted.

Mr. Chen arched a brow. “Oh?”

JunHao met his gaze, lips parting slightly. “And I think I was always meant to serve it.”

Mr. Chen’s smirk widened. “Now that’s what I like to hear.”

He grabbed JunHao by the hair, pulling him closer.

Mr. Chen ran a hand down his abs, tracing the sharp definition, his smirk widening as he admired himself. “You should see yourself, JunHao,” he said, voice dripping with amusement. “All that hard work… and look where it ended up.” He flexed his arms, letting the veins pop, reveling in the sheer perfection of his form. “Every rep, every drop of sweat—you weren’t training yourself.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “You were training me.”

"Now be a good boy and show me just how much you appreciate your masterpiece.”

And JunHao obeyed.

JunHao’s breath hitched, his hands still resting on Mr. Chen’s thighs, fingers pressing into the firm muscle. He slowly reached for his former cock. Hard and veiny. The slightest touch caused it radiate so much heat and filled the air with a strong manly scent. His mouth went dry.

Mr. Chen stepped closer, towering over him, his presence suffocating. “And now,” he murmured, “you get to enjoy the rewards.” JunHao jerked it a few times causing an immense pleasure to fill up in Mr. Chen.

With that, he clenched his core, his entire body tensing—pecs bouncing, abs rippling, biceps bulging—as the pressure inside him reached its breaking point.

Then—release.

A monumental flood.

JunHao gasped as the first thick rope splattered across his chest, heat sinking into his skin. Then another. And another. It was relentless—like a damn fountain, as if every rep, every flex, every ounce of strength had been stored for this single moment.

Mr. Chen groaned, his head tilting back, utterly engulfed in pleasure. “Fuck… that’s what I call a reward,” he muttered, rolling his neck as he came down from the high. His hands ran over his pumped chest, smearing some of the evidence of his dominance across his skin like war paint.

JunHao?

JunGao was soaked.

His lips were parted, his breath shaky, his entire body trembling beneath the sheer weight of it all.

Mr. Chen leaned down, gripping JunHao’s chin and tilting his face up, forcing him to look at him. “You love it,” he murmured, cockiness dripping from his tone. “You love knowing that your body is still superior. That all you can do is serve it. Worship it. Train it to be even stronger.”

JunHao’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, the truth crashing down on him.

“Go on,” Mr. Chen taunted, stepping back and spreading his arms wide, giving JunHao a full, unobstructed view of his godly physique. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

JunGao shuddered, his fingers tightening against his own thighs, his body weak, exhausted… yet so damn aroused.

“You…” he finally whispered. His voice was hoarse, raw with submission. “… You own me.”

[wendichester]

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ just a little flu,

summary. dean’s got a cold, and he swears he doesn’t need help. but somehow, he still ends up in your arms.

pairing. dean winchester x reader

wordcount. 281

"You’re sick."

"I’m fine."

"Dean." You cross your arms, standing over where he’s sprawled on the motel bed, blanket haphazardly tossed over him. His nose is red, his voice is hoarse, and you’re pretty sure he’s running a fever.

He glares at you from beneath the covers. "It’s just a cold. I don’t need a damn babysitter."

"Right," you deadpan. "That’s why you look like you got your ass kicked by a flu monster."

He groans, turning onto his side, tucking himself further into the blankets. "I’m a grown man. I don’t need soup and tissues and—" He cuts himself off with a sneeze so violent it practically shakes the bed.

You just raise an eyebrow.

Dean grumbles something under his breath, rubbing at his nose, refusing to meet your gaze. You sigh, shaking your head as you sit beside him, reaching out to brush your fingers over his forehead. Too warm.

"You need rest," you murmur. "And fluids. And maybe a hug."

He huffs. "Don’t want a hug."

"You sure?" You drag your nails gently through his hair, and he practically melts, leaning into your touch despite himself.

"...Maybe just a little one."

You smile, shifting to lay beside him, and the second you do, he’s pulling you into his chest, arms locking around you like a furnace. His face buries in the crook of your neck, warm breath fanning over your skin.

"You’re the worst patient," you tease, running your fingers through his hair again.

A low, content sigh rumbles in his chest. "Yeah, yeah," he mutters. Then, after a beat—soft, mumbled, like he doesn’t want you to hear it—"Thanks for takin’ care of me."

Your heart swells.

"Always."

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @taurus0queenie33 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystems ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @funkenniffler ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @lieutenantchaos ⋆ @iluvnewtie ⋆ @dyhsversion ⋆ @lovewolfspirit ⋆ @kayleighwinchester ⋆ @s0urw00lf ⋆ @cursednevermore ⋆ @img14 ⋆ @onelonelybitch ⋆ @americanvenom13 ⋆ @iluvdeanwinchester ⋆ @idk6505 ⋆ @devilslittlehelper ⋆ @cloverleaf20 ⋆ @giggles1026 ⋆ @idontwannabehere7 ⋆ @beakaleak32 ⋆ @ocelotlist51 ⋆ @lelapine ⋆ @pwin098

[scoupsakakitty]

Hi!! Could you please write like woozi x sister of another seventeen member like she is older to her brother so she is his noona but she is the same age of woozi, her brother could be from the maknae line like starts from 1997 to 1999 so yeah I don't if you can understand that lol 😭😭😭😭 maybe they're together since pre debut but their relationship became public just recently something like that hehehe THANK YOU!!!

The Secret Between Us | idol!Woozi x Reader | angst, fluff

Y/N had always been able to read Woozi like an open book. It was one of the things she loved most about him his honesty, his vulnerability, his openness. But lately, that openness had been replaced with a quiet distance that Y/N couldn’t ignore.

It had been a couple of weeks since their relationship had been made public, and the weight of the spotlight was clearly starting to affect him. She could see it in the way he would retreat into himself, his smile not quite reaching his eyes, the way his usual calm composure seemed slightly off. Tonight, after another long rehearsal, everyone was winding down, but Woozi wasn’t with the group. Y/N noticed he had slipped out of the room, retreating to a quieter corner.

She stood up and walked toward him, her heart beating faster with each step. She didn’t want to invade his space, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

“Woozi?” she called softly as she approached him.

He didn’t look up right away. His eyes were focused on the floor, his fingers tapping nervously against his knee. “I’m fine,” he replied, his voice not quite matching his words.

Y/N frowned, sitting down next to him. “No, you’re not. What’s going on?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. For a moment, it seemed like he was trying to find the right words, but when he spoke, his voice was low and full of hesitation. “It’s all happening too fast, Y/N. The fans, the attention... everything. It feels like there are more eyes on me now than ever before. And it’s just too much. I... I don’t know how to handle it.”

Y/N’s heart dropped. She’d known the public eye was hard on Woozi, but she hadn’t realized how much it was affecting him. “Are you saying... are you saying you want to end things?” Her voice was shaky with panic, her mind racing with the worst possible outcome. “Is that what you mean?”

Woozi’s head snapped up, eyes wide with shock. “What? No!” he exclaimed, looking horrified at the very thought. “How could you think that? I would never—”

Y/N cut him off, her breath coming faster now. “But you’re pulling away from me, and now you’re saying everything’s moving too fast. I don’t know what to think, Woozi. If you’re saying you can’t do this anymore, if you don’t want to be with me—”

“No, no, no,” Woozi interrupted, reaching for her hand, his touch warm but trembling slightly. “I’m not saying that. I could never say that. It’s not about you, it’s about everything else. The public, the media... I just... I don’t want you to be in the spotlight like this. You’re becoming a target, Y/N. And I can’t protect you from it.”

Y/N blinked, still not fully understanding what he meant. “What do you mean? I don’t... I don’t want to be kept in the shadows, Woozi. I want to be with you. I want to be by your side. But if you’re asking me to step back because you’re worried about the attention... I can’t do that.”

“I’m not asking you to step back from me,” Woozi said, his voice softer now. “I just don’t want you to get hurt. I don’t want people to treat you like some... trophy or prize. I can handle the pressure, Y/N, but I can’t bear the thought of something happening to you because of me. You deserve better than to be in the center of all this chaos.”

Y/N took a deep breath, processing what he was saying. “So... you’re not asking for space from me. You’re just asking me to protect myself from the world, to not put myself out there as much?”

“Exactly,” Woozi said, his shoulders sagging in relief as he looked at her. “I don’t want you to have to deal with the kind of pressure I’m facing. It’s not fair to you.”

Y/N sat back, her heart still racing, but her thoughts starting to calm. She understood now. It wasn’t about their relationship or Woozi pulling away from her—it was about his desire to protect her, to shield her from the harshness of their world. It wasn’t an easy request, but it made sense.

“You don’t have to carry this alone, Woozi,” Y/N said softly, her hand still resting in his. “But I get it. I understand why you’re worried. And if this is what it takes to make things easier for both of us, then I’m okay with it. I’ll step back a little. I don’t want you to feel like you have to protect me all the time. We can still be together, but we don’t have to flaunt it for the whole world to see.”

Woozi’s eyes softened, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice filled with gratitude. “You don’t know how much this means to me.”

Y/N leaned in, resting her forehead against his. “I just want you to be happy, Woozi. And I want to be there for you, no matter what.”

They sat in silence for a moment, just holding onto each other, the weight of the conversation slowly lifting as they both processed what had just been said. For the first time in days, Y/N felt like they were on the same page again, like they were truly understanding each other.

The next few days passed in a blur. Woozi and Y/N continued to spend time together, but they kept a low profile, avoiding too much public attention. They made small changes to their routine, intentionally staying away from places where they might be recognized or photographed. It wasn’t about hiding—they weren’t ashamed of their relationship—but it was about reducing the noise, making things a little more private.

Mingyu, of course, had his own opinions about it. He’d noticed the change in Y/N and Woozi’s behavior, and he wasn’t shy about teasing them.

“So, you two are playing the ‘low-key’ card now, huh?” he said one day, leaning against the doorframe of their practice room. “You’re not fooling anyone. You’re still obviously together.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “We’re just... being careful, okay?”

Mingyu raised an eyebrow. “Careful, huh? Well, I guess if you want to keep Woozi safe from all the craziness, that’s your choice.” He paused for a moment, then added with a grin, “But you know, I think it’s a little suspicious that every time we see you two, you’re looking like you just walked out of a romance movie. Like, the way you look at each other... it’s honestly sickening.”

Woozi shot him a glare, though it was softened by the small smile tugging at his lips. “You really need to stop being so dramatic, Mingyu.”

Y/N laughed, feeling a sense of lightness she hadn’t in days. Even though they were still under the public’s watchful eye, they were finding their balance, adjusting to the new reality together. They weren’t hiding; they were just protecting what mattered most to them.

[0omillo0]

HAN x READER

| based on the last minlix ig live. you have no idea how mad i am rn. he had to starve himself for this and he cried while eating… I hope he feels better. I love him.

The apartment was dark, save for the soft glow from the city lights outside. You sat curled up on the couch, the ticking clock echoing in the empty room. It was well past midnight, and Han still wasn’t home.

Lately, his absence was becoming a familiar ache. Ever since the Balenciaga photoshoot preparations began, he had been slipping away—physically and emotionally. Late nights turned into early mornings, his once vibrant laughter now replaced by forced smiles and hollow words. He was distant, guarded, and each time you tried to reach him, it felt like he was slipping further out of your grasp.

When the door finally creaked open, you looked up, heart skipping a beat. Han shuffled in, shoulders slumped, hair disheveled, eyes sunken with exhaustion. His frame looked smaller, his clothes hanging more loosely than before.

You stood, hesitating as he dropped his bag carelessly by the door and walked into the kitchen without a word. Following him, you found him staring blankly at the open refrigerator, eyes unfocused. The cold light washed over his face, highlighting the shadows beneath his eyes, the tension in his jaw.

“Han…” Your voice was soft, laced with worry. “Did you eat today?”

His shoulders stiffened, fingers tightening around the fridge door. “I’m fine.” The words were clipped, emotionless.

You took a cautious step closer. “You’ve been skipping meals. You’re overworking yourself… You need to take care of yourself.”

His head dropped, a bitter laugh slipping past his lips. “You don’t get it.”

“Then help me understand.” You reached out, but he stepped back, eyes blazing as he finally turned to face you.

“You think I don’t want to eat? You think I enjoy starving myself?” His voice was harsh, cracking under the weight of his frustration. “I don’t have a choice! If I mess this up, if I’m not perfect… then what was all this for?” His voice wavered, anger masking the fear underneath.

You opened your mouth to respond, but his words cut through you, sharp and cold.

“Just… stop. Stop trying to fix me. Just leave me alone.” His voice broke at the end, but he quickly turned away, shoulders rigid as he marched to the bedroom and slammed the door.

You stood there, rooted in place, the echo of his words ringing in your ears. Your chest tightened, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. You knew he was hurting, drowning under the weight of expectations, the pressure to be flawless. But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

You sank onto the couch, wrapping your arms around yourself as the tears finally fell, silent and heavy.

You didn’t see him for the rest of the night. When you woke the next morning, his side of the bed was untouched, cold. Your chest ached, worry gnawing at you as the hours dragged on.

It was late afternoon when you finally heard noise coming from the kitchen. You hesitated outside the doorway, heart pounding as muffled sounds reached your ears. Moving closer, the sight before you made your breath catch.

Han was sitting on the kitchen floor, back against the cabinets, surrounded by containers of salad, half-eaten and scattered around him. His hands were trembling, a plastic fork slipping from his fingers as he stared down at the greens in his lap, eyes unfocused, face pale.

He was shaking, his shoulders hunched, body curled in on itself as if trying to disappear.

You stepped into the room, the floor creaking beneath your weight. His head snapped up, panic flashing in his eyes before they filled with shame. He quickly looked away, wiping at his face with the back of his hand.

“Han…” You moved closer, voice gentle. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”

His fingers curled into fists, shoulders trembling. “I… I can’t do this.” His voice was hollow, cracking under the weight of his confession. “I’m so hungry… all the time. But if I eat… if I mess up this diet… then what?” His eyes finally met yours, filled with fear and guilt. “What if I ruin everything? What if I’m not good enough?”

Your heart shattered, his pain cutting through you like a knife. You sank to your knees in front of him, hands reaching out but stopping just short of touching him. “You’re more than enough, Han. You don’t have to do this alone.”

He shook his head violently, his shoulders curling inward. “I don’t know how to stop. I can’t stop… It’s never enough.” His voice wavered, raw and vulnerable. “I just… I just wanted to be perfect. For them… for you.”

Tears filled your eyes as you moved closer, finally wrapping your arms around him. His body tensed, rigid and unyielding, before he collapsed against you, his weight heavy and desperate. “I’m so tired,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I’m so… so tired.”

You held him tighter, his head resting on your shoulder, his body trembling as he let go of the control he had clung to for so long. “You don’t have to be perfect. Not for them… not for me. Just be you, Han. That’s enough.”

His fingers gripped your shirt, a broken sob escaping his lips as he buried his face in your shoulder. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to yell. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You stroked his hair gently, voice steady despite the tears streaming down your face. “I know. I understand… and it’s okay. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

His body sagged against you, his weight heavy as exhaustion took over. “I don’t know how to fix this…” His voice was small, defeated.

You held him closer, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “We’ll figure it out… together. One step at a time.”

For a long time, you stayed there on the cold kitchen floor, wrapped around each other as the world outside continued without you. In that moment, nothing else mattered—just the two of you, holding on, refusing to let go.

You could feel his heartbeat slowly calming, his breathing evening out as he finally let himself rest. You tightened your grip, whispering a promise against his hair, a vow that no matter how dark it got, you would be there, right beside him, helping him find his way back to himself.

@intartaruginha @hannamoon143 @omgsecretsecret @inlovewithstraykids @whoa-jo @madirye062 @vixensss @sseawavee @emilyywhyy @halfwinterhalfuniverse @velvetmoonlght @flourishmoon @hyunjiiza @jisunggy

[thatoneautisticshark]

You asked for... Asks (I don't know how to properly word this) a while back, I have one for you. Idk if you still want it but-

You did oral fixation!Ghost with Price but... Maybe Price is tired one day? Needs a nap, not in the mood, ect, so what does he do? I mean, he's got a pair of rowdy Sargents who are more than willing to help Simon out.

Doesn't matter if you write it or not, just wanted to say I really like your work! <3 u buby grill

This is absolutely a fabulous idea, I adore it. And yes I am adoring getting asks. So I give you technically the next part. Aka Baby boy Simon gets the spoiling he deserves

Simon sat curled up on the couch of his captain, in one of Price's oversized shirts, just resting, not asleep but not fully awake.

Everything was a bit much, all the paperwork and missions, he just needed a relax, to drop the reins and be ordered gently. And preferably have something in his mouth.

Unfortunately Price was just not up for it today, not in the headspace to Dom. Which was annoying but it was what it was. Simon wasn't gonna be a dick and push boundaries.

He was just curled on the couch, while Price was out looking for Gaz. Gaz had accidentally walked in on them twice and knew of their arrangement, and considering some things he had said, they reckoned he'd want to be involved.

Although Simon couldn't imagine the awkward convo that was going down. Because he doubted Price would just say “Hey Garrick, do you want your lieutenant sucking your dick? Cause he is wanting to sub, but I'm not in the mood.” As funny as it would be.

Simon blinked as he received a text, picking up his phone, to look at the message from Price.“Do you want Soap too? Gaz knows he has the hots for you”

He had to re-read it several times before answering. He knew he should say no, not turn the team into even more of a fuck group then it was becoming. But the thought of those hands in his hair, that Scottish voice praising him, had him sending a thumbs up.

It took maybe five minutes for the door to open and the three men to enter. Price at the front, the two sergeants at the back, and Soap paused, staring at Simon, and it took a minute for him to realise it was because soap had never seen his face.

“Bloody ‘ell LT, ye right Bonnie” and Simon immediately knew his face was flushing from the giggle from Gaz as the sergeants sat on the couch.

It took a minute of awkward silence before Gaz broke it. “Soo.. uh the cap said you're needing some stress relief?...And uh.. you have an.. oral fixation right?”

Simon nodded, having forgot how awkward first arrangements and sex discussions were, it having been years and years since anything was awkward with him and Price.

“Uhm… yeah.. just like …. Subbing …” He trailed off awkwardly. Rubbing the back off his neck, really wishing he had the mask to cover his flaming face.

Soap looked like he won the lottery, with a big grin. “So you like subbing? Like soft or hard Dom. Also are you a brat or like a soft sub” Well at least Soap knew actual terms that gave Simon some hope.

Price cut in before he could answer “He is very much a soft sub, very sweet. Gentle orders get him going, he likes having things in his mouth and praise.”

Simon flushed again, nodding, but was grateful he didn't have to actually say it himself.

Soap nodded. “Okay, easy done. Gaz, you want his mouth on you?”

The man in question nodded, as Soap moved to sit on the floor, before patting his lap for Simon to sit on.

He could already feel the pleasant buzz of dropping into subspace, the way he wanted to follow the ask without question, dropping and crawling to Soap's lap.

The Scot let his hands wander a minute before settling on the Brits hips. “Jesus I've dreamed o’ this, Ghost.”

Gaz sat on the couch, Simon on soaps' lap between his legs. His dark skin was slightly tinted pink, with his eyes eager.

Meanwhile, Price sat back on his bed, looking over the top of his book, at his boy being spoiled. He could already see the tension leaving Simons body.

Simon let his head be tilted up by Gaz, looking at at him through his lashes. “Oh Jesus. Price wasn't kidding, you are beautiful like this.” He murmured, stroking Simons cheeks. “Yeah, you just need to drop the reins a bit? Be cared for like the sweet boy you are.”

Simon gave a soft hum, almost a moan. He was a sweet boy, and deserved this. All stress, and thoughts of his paperwork slowly drifted away, leaving him settled in soaps' lap, and having Gaz’s thumb gently pushed into his mouth.

He sucked on it, hollowing his cheeks, licking the finger tip, prompting a swear from the man above him. Gaz groaned “Bloody hell, Ghost. Can't wait to get those soft lips around my cock”

The finger in Simon's mouth pulled away, as Gaz fumbled his belt undone. When he whined, Soap slipped on of his own rough fingers in, resting it on the tongue.

“Needy aren't you bon?” he murmered slipping his spare hand under the soft shirt, Ghosting fingers over the nipples peaking in the cold.

Simon moaned around the digit in his mouth, letting his head fall against the thigh of Gaz.

Gaz immediately, gently tugged his head up by the hair. “Your mouth all ready for this cock, baby?” He cooed, stroking himself, spreading the precum around the tip, before placing it on his Lieutenants tongue.

He was clearly being super careful, unsure of Simons ability, and that just wouldn't do. Simon moved forward, his nose burying in the soft curls at the base, as it hit the back of his throat. He heard the punched out breath from below him, and Gaz’s breathy swear as his head flopped against the couch.

But barely noticed, already so deep. His one track mind was simply on the warm weight in his mouth, the girth stretching his lips wonderfully, his gag reflex trying to react to the intrusion as he bobbed his head.

The hand on his hips gripped tighter, and he registered Soaps' hips bucking and grinding against his arse with soft moans. Gaz hands were still tugging his hair wonderfully.

He barely registered his vision getting fuzzy and black at the edges, until Price's voice from his bed rang out “Get him to breathe Gaz. He isn't breathing”

He heard an ever so slightly panicked squeak from the man above before his head was gently pulled back by the hair.

Soaps hands moving from his hips to tap his cheek. “Breathe Bonnie.”He coughed slightly, tears streaming his cheeks from gagging.

When he looked up, he met the worried deep brown eyes of Gaz. “You solid?”

Simon nodded, slightly moaning “Solid. We can keep going.” He dove back down, sucking Gaz's balls, using his hand to jerk the length while letting his throat rest a second.

Soaps hips slowly began moving against his arse again, as Gaz pulled him back down to the cock, nearing completion.

“Such a good fucking boy. You take my dick like you were made for it love.” Simons moan around the dick was the undoing of Gaz. The younger man tried to tug Simon off, because you don't just cum down a man's throat with no warning.

But Simon shook his head as Gaz tensed and came.

He pulled off with a vulgar pop, tilting his head back and kissing Soap, watching the mans face as he drank down Gaz's cum.

The hips against his arse stuttered as Soap rutted to completion, burying his face in Simon's shoulder with a moan.

Simon barely registered being picked up and moved to the bed, cleaned up and tucked in. When he really came too, and he was on Prices chest, Gaz's arm across them, and Soaps head on his thigh, he decided this was the best place to be.

[kxtsukixoxo]

Hi!! I love your work .❤️❤️❤️ could you do izuku midoriya with the prompt “i'm going to make you regret this.”. Maybe the reader has been teasing izuku all day while he’s at his office or something like that.

authors note - i had so much fun writing this!! <3

here’s the valentine’s day event, there’s still prompts available!! ⊹. warnings - nsfw content

izuku groaned as your notification bubble popped up on his phone, once again. he knew exactly what that meant, yet another text or picture teasing him mercilessly, while he worked. 

he briskly searched for the call button underneath your display picture as he huffed on his way to the bathroom, you hadn’t answered yet. izuku’s right hand balanced his frame on the sink behind him, as the other held his phone, impatiently waiting for you to pick up. you finally did, “cut it out babe” he whined as you giggled, “nah uh, this is what you get for leaving me alone, all slick and wet for you, but you’re not here to help me” he could practically hear your pouting, as your words dripped off him like honey running loosely down his body. “fuck.” izuku panted as he threw his head back, “i’m gonna make you regret this baby” he huffed out as he loosened his tie. your giggle could be heard on the other end of the line as you whispered out “i look forward to it zu” 

izuku rushed to his car, after cancelling all his classes for the day, making sure aizawa would see to his class, he plopped into the drivers seat as he ran his hand through his hair. “you’re gonna be the death of me” izuku panted out while he spoke to himself, twisting the keys, igniting the engine. 

you’d js got out of the shower, tightening the string around your bathrobe, when you heard the impatient wrap of someone’s knuckles against your door, figuring it was possibly urgent, you rushed to the door, forgetting about changing into your set of clothes splayed across the bed. 

just a millisecond after you opened the door, izuku’s hands slid around your waist as he buried his face into dip between your neck and shoulder, “you really shouldn’t walk around like that baby” he muttered against your soft skin. you couldn’t tell when he did it, but you somehow ended up pressed against the wall, your legs wrapped around his waist as he explored every nook and corner of your mouth, finally lifting you off and carrying you towards the queen sized bed, the both of you shared. “this is punishment. don’t forget that hm?” izuku murmured as his green tussled hair fell onto your face as he placed a kiss on your lips. 

“Oh, pretty girl," Izuku murmurs, a faux pout curling his lips as he admires the tears rolling down your face. A thumb wipes them away languidly, drawing slow circles over the apple of your cheek while he coos at your little blubbers, your timid sniffles and delicate whimpers. "You're doing amazing, such a good little thing, aren't you?"

The lilt in his voice is sly, sadistic, and his eyes shine with something wicked, barely-contained in the darkened green hues that leer down at you. His words hardly register, a heavy fog crawling through your mind as you come down from yet another high; all you can feel are his lips pressing against your cheeks in gentle pecks, and his tongue flicking over the salty trails while he mumbles against your skin.

"Look at my baby." He brushes his nose against yours in a soft bunny kiss before pulling back. "You sound so cute crying for me like that."

The sobs that were dying down begin bubbling up once more as his hand swirls around your swollen clit. Your legs tremble beneath his touch, burning as they tense in anticipation of the pleasure only Izuku can bring you; your breath hitches in your throat, a hiccuped gasp escaping you when his already-drenched fingers slide back into your quivering hole. You're sensitive to the touch, and he only takes advantage of that, crooking his digits against your silky walls to make you arch into him, panting breathlessly.

"Oh, is this what you want, angel?" he asks, unyielding as he slides a third finger in, and the stretch is excruciating in the most delicious way.

"It's too much, zuku-can't-again-ah, please!"

"'please?' Please what, baby?" he urges, his other hand smoothing down your body to circle your breasts, pinching and tweaking a bud to push your body to its limits. Your nerves are burning like a live wire, precariously sensitive to the slightest touch, just waiting for the right stimulant to push you over the edge and set your body alight. "Want me to stop?"

"No!" you cry, shaking your head as you cling to his fingers, pussy tightening around him as the waves of another high begin rolling in. "No- don't stop, don't- want you to- keep- like that, like that, please."

He hums against your neck, teeth teasing over your pulse with little nibbles. "Like this? Are you close, angel?"

"So, so close-"

"You want to cum for me? Cum all over my fingers again?"

You're nodding your head, barely paying attention to his words. Yeah, yeah, leaves your lips in high-pitched squeals as your nails dig into his skin, the tides of your release rearing back to crash all over you. "Please— please, want to cum, gonna— gonna cum—"

And just as the wave of your climax peaks, it evaporates into thin air. You let out a whiny exclamation at the loss of an orgasm, a pitiful no, please, please— slurring out of you when Izuku pulls his fingers away completely, leaving your greedy, needy hole to clench around nothing, desperately clinging to the receding tides of your high.

Your hand drops to finish yourself off, to catch the waves before they disperse, but Izuku easily twines his fingers with yours, pinning your hand above your head to hold you still. You're humping the air, rutting against his hardness to bring you some relief, but it's too late, it's all gone. You crumble beneath him, melting into a puddle of woe and tears as you look up at him with those pretty, doe eyes, pleading for a semblance of his mercy.

"Aw, poor baby." The mock pity in his voice is overflowing as he ignores the way your bottom lip quivers with the loss of your relief, the way your brows furrow with stunted, childish anger at his action. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he murmurs, but the devilish upturn of his smirk says otherwise, "but I told you before, didn't I?"

Once more, his hand slips down to your dripping sex, rubbing the oversensitive bundle of nerves in slow, firm figure-eights. "This is a punishment" he grunts, dipping his head to lavish his tongue over the sweet spots on your neck before he sinks his teeth into the plush skin and buries his fingers back into your tight, warm cunt. "And I don't think you've learned your lesson just yet."

[stargazedwinchester]

ִ ࣪𖤐◞ ꙳ ๋࣭ ⭑ `fallen, dean winchester

Summary: You help Dean patch himself up, then he admits something to you for the first time. Word Count: 689

In his right mind, Dean never imagined a life with you. He had always dreamt of being able to put his all into someone, to call someone his, to come back to the bunker and have someone anticipating his arrival.

He’s tried before, but for some reason, it never works out. It’s almost like the universe is telling him to give up - that it’s not meant to be. He believes he’s meant to be alone.

Until you came along.

You had always made Dean feel comfortable, like he’s got someone to protect, to come back home to. You’re not dating - but not not seeing each other. Neither of you agreed to keep things on the down low. In fact, the rule kinda set itself.

He’s been through a lot. Dean, the headstrong, independent man, confides in you as if that’s your sole purpose. You don’t mind, though, the act of Dean being vulnerable with you makes your heart full, knowing that he can trust you with things he can’t tell anyone else.

You hear low, sharp sighs coming from the kitchen. You see Dean, hunched over with his sleeve rolled up, attending to his wound. There're multiple tissues scattered all over the counter, with tweezers and bandages sitting beside him.

“What’re you doing?” You say and Dean’s head peers over his shoulder. “This damn thing,” he huffs, “won’t come out.”

“What thing?” You inch closer and clutch his arm gently, inspecting the open wound. “There’s a fragment of the bullet still stuck in there. I can feel it.” You can hear the annoyance behind his voice, Dean’s clearly trying to remain calm. You look up at him; his face is full of concentration and irritation. “Here,” you reach for the tweezers, using a piece of the tissue to dab at the fresh blood trickling down his arm. “You need to stop picking at it. It’s going to get infected. These,” you wave the tweezers in front of his face, “are going away.” You wipe them down before stuffing them in your back pocket. You collect the used tissues and bandages before tossing them in the bin.

Dean watches you as you open the medical drawer, picking out fresh bandages and medical tape. Setting it down next to him, you push his sleeve up so it sits tightly on his shoulder. “I can’t understand why you do these things.”

“What things?” He chuckles, keeping a watchful eye on what you’re doing.

“Picking at your wounds as if you’ll make them heal faster.” You cut a length for the bandage, neatly folding it and pressing it to his injury. He hisses. “Don’t be a baby. You’ve had way worse.” Your gleaming eyes meet his distressed ones. A small smirk appears on his face, his gaze locks upon you. “I guess I have.”

You wrap another length around his arm, securing the folded piece of fabric in place. You gently take Dean’s hand so he can hold the material in place whilst you tear a little medical tape off of the roll. Sticking the tape to the bandage, you take the remaining supplies and put them back in the drawer. Dean stands up and you can feel the proximity between you closing in. You spin around. Dean takes your hand, his rough palm meeting your fingertips, he moves his hands to cup your face, kissing the top of your forehead. “I love you.” He mutters under his breath, breathing into your hair, refusing to budge. It’s almost like your heart stops - did you really just hear that?

“You do?” You question, pulling away from his grasp to lock onto his sheepish demeanour. Dean doesn’t toss the word love around like it means nothing - and you know this - so, him consciously making the effort to tell you this… man, you must be lucky.

“I do.” A grin makes an appearance on his face, and you can’t help but reach up to kiss him. “I love you, too.”

And in one swift movement, he takes you by the hand once again and pulls you in for a real kiss.