#GOD every frame of this show is a work of art

[nabexis]

So like. Did anyone else notice that Jayce doesn't immediately shoot Viktor? He only powers his hammer on AFTER Viktor has opened his eyes. Below is Jayce's reaction to seeing Viktor (his Viktor, from his universe, not the future version of him) for the first time after walking into the dome. For the first time in months. That's like. A look of wonder. Almost reverence.

Assuming the Jinx/Rictus/Vander fight is cut to real-time after Jayce has gone into the dome, he's staring at Viktor for like. 5 minutes.

My interpretation here, of Jayce's expression just before Viktor finally opens his eyes to see Jayce in the room with him, he's committing Viktor to memory, before he has to kill him.

Edit: I almost missed it but like. HE IS SMILING For like 2 frames it's an outright smile. He leans in towards him, too. I cannot handle this.

[cimicherrychanga]

btw u guys have to promise to not be mad at me for becoming ur turtle mutual. please

[ittybittyfanblog]

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 10

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, family issues, generational trauma, self-growth, personal issues (and dealing with it), hurt and comfort, hmmmm…. let’s leave it at that for now :) A/N: Final chapter, guys! Thanks so much for reading <3

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10 - Epilogue

“Oh, what the hell—since when do you cook?”

“Bitch,” you laugh, nudging past them, the ceramic pot still steaming in your hands. “Do you want the risotto or not?”

The scent of garlic and pecorino permeates the air as you stand in front of the small foyer of the duplex where your friend—questionable, at the moment—lives. Your most recent culinary masterpiece, deemed safe (enough) for public consumption, rests between your hands in silent offering to the skeptic figure who’s barring you from crossing the threshold. 

It’s still warm, and you’re not one to brag, but you think you’ve outdone yourself with this one. Not that it matters—everybody’s a fucking critic these days.

“Risotto?” Khol parrots in disbelief. “You don’t show up in forever, suddenly you’re all cuoca straordinario or some shit. Get out of here with your Mario ass–”

“Don’t mind them,” Anna interjects from behind your biggest hater, all cheer as she plucks the pot from your hands. “This smells amazing, actually. Come in!”

With that, she vanishes inside, leaving you and Khol alone in the doorway. You give them a knowing look.

“Oh wow,” you remark, all mock surprise. “You live together now?”

Khol rolls their eyes, already tired of you. “You missed the biggest arc of the last five months, but yeah.”

You step inside, and right away, something feels… different. It could partly be due to how much time has passed since you last visited, and it’s clearly still their place—the brooding industrial-emo aesthetic remains intact, still suspiciously close to resembling the lair of an angsty comic book antihero on acid—but it’s been overtaken by bits of boho-chic scattered all over the space.

Where there was once nothing but charcoal, vinyl, and concrete, there are now textures. Colorful woven throws drape artfully over the arm of the leather Eames sofa they won off a Craigslist bid. Tasseled pillows have multiplied across every seat surface like some kind of fabric-based contagion, while pothos vines dangle lazily from macramé hangers, stretching towards the moody Edison bulbs like they’re trying to escape the existential crisis of living here.

And then there’s the rug. Oh god, the rug. 

A comically massive tufted ‘Flower Power’ rug sprawls across the center of the room, a swirling explosion of pinks and oranges—a final, cutesy fuck you to the apartment’s formerly depressing atmosphere before Khol’s new roommate staged her cheerful coup.

It should’ve been a hilarious sight, like a chaotic school art project where every kid picked a different medium to color and refused to compromise. But somehow… it works? 

Against all odds, the goth cryptid and the hippie gremlin have found domestic equilibrium.

“Love what you did with the place, Anna,” you call out, toeing off your shoes at the door. “It doesn’t look like a twelve-year-old’s fantasy bedroom anymore.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Khol laughs, shaking their head. “As if you’re one to talk. Last time I visited, you still had that stupid-ass sofa. Is it still there?”

You sniff haughtily. “Excuse you, but that’s a custom piece. You wouldn’t get it.”

"Alright, you two," Anna says, leaning against the archway between the living room and kitchen, one hip propped against the frame. "Both of you have terrible taste in decor. Now, I have a fabulous Prosecco to pair with the risotto." She tilts her head, shooting her partner a pointed look. "Khol, darling, be a dear and grab the crystal from the cupboard?"

"Whipped," you sing as Khol, predictably, does exactly as told. They don’t even bother with a comeback, just flashes you a lazy middle finger over their shoulder as they disappear from view.

You grin, shaking your head. The moment stretches into something easy, comfortable. It’s nice—being here, bantering like no time has passed. You let yourself sink into it, tugging off your beanie as you cross the room.

The creaky couch welcomes you like an old friend, and you flop down unceremoniously, stretching your legs out, rubbing your feet against the oversized monstrosity of a rug that is... honestly, pretty fucking comfortable, actually.

Anna follows suit, settling beside you with far more grace, tucking one foot under the other.

She watches you for a moment, expression warm but slightly inquisitive. “We haven’t seen you in a while.” 

You exhale, tipping your head back, staring up at the beams on the ceiling. "Yeah, sorry. Been a little out of it these past… couple of months, I guess."

Anna makes a quiet noise, something between understanding and acknowledgment. "You’re doing okay now?"

The easy answer sits on your tongue—yeah, of course. An automatic response, a reflex built from habit. Another front to put up, another lie to slip behind.

But you’ve been working on this. So instead, you take a breath and say,

"Not… really." 

The words feel foreign, heavy, but oddly freeing as they leave your mouth.

Your gaze flickers to the side table—framed photos of Khol and Anna, smiling, sunlit. You don’t linger.

“I mean, better now compared to, maybe, a few weeks ago. I’m getting there.”

Anna’s brows lift slightly—not in surprise at the sentiment itself, but at the fact that you admitted it out loud. There’s something thoughtful in her expression, something softer around the edges. “Good. That’s good.”

You can tell she means it. Maybe even more than you expected.

"Yeah."

There’s a brief lull. You catch yourself tugging at the edge of your cardigan—a nervous habit you never quite broke. The warmth of the apartment is settling in you quite comfortably, but there’s something about sitting still under Anna’s gentle scrutiny that makes you restless.

From the kitchen, there’s the unmistakable clink of glass, followed by a muffled, “shit.”

Anna exhales, long-suffering. “I don’t know why I even bother buying nice things.”

“‘Oy,” Khol’s voice carries from the other room, “get in here and help. We have, like, seven things to carry.”

You take that as your cue, trailing after Anna into the kitchen. Between the three of you, it’s quick work—bowls of warm, brothy risotto in hand, glasses of white wine balanced carefully between fingers.

By the time you step back into the living room, Khol is already dropping onto the blue accent chair near the window with all the dramatics of someone who’s worked far too hard for far too little.

You settle into your usual spot, Anna beside you. You don’t touch your food. Your appetite’s still in remission, though it’s been steadily improving lately.

Khol notices. “Now, why the hell aren’t you eating?” They shoot you a side-eye like you’ve personally offended them. “I knew it. You put something in this, didn’t you?”

“Jesus, Khol,” Anna sighs, exasperated, already two spoonfuls in. “Your diet was literally gas station burritos and eight-pack Coors before I moved in. You’ll live.”

She pauses, though, casting you a look. “Don’t get me wrong—this is really good.”

“Ha,” you retort as Khol prods suspiciously at a floating mushroom. You glare. “Are you fucking kidding me—”

“Alright, alright.” With an exaggerated sigh, Khol finally takes a bite. They chew once, twice—eyes narrowed in concentration, acting like some hard-ass seasoned judge from Top Chef. You can practically see them digging for something snarky to say—until, begrudgingly, they nod.

“Shit. This is actually pretty good. Who are you?”

You preen at the praise.

For a while, there’s nothing but the quiet clinking of spoons against ceramic, the occasional satisfied hum. It’s… nice. Comfortable in a way you haven’t felt in what feels like forever.

You’ve missed this.

Missed being here. Missed being with people.

Somewhere between the second glass of wine and the last few bites of risotto, Khol angles their head toward you, their curiosity piqued. “How come you’re free today? You on leave or something?”

You swirl the drink in your hand, watching the light catch on the amber surface before answering. “Oh, I quit my job.”

There’s a beat of silence. You don’t know what reaction you were expecting, but Khol just blinks at you. "Huh. Finally."

Anna looks mildly more concerned. "You quit?"

You nod, stretching your legs out beneath the coffee table. “Yeah. The OT was getting ridiculous, and they had me working night shifts again. That was kind of the last straw for me.”

Khol grunts in agreement. “Good fucking riddance. That job was killing you.” They pause for a beat, turning serious, contemplative. “You’re not hung up about it, are you? You’ve been bitching about that job for ages.”

You exhale through your nose, staring at the rim of your glass. “Yeah, no. I’m glad I left.” The words come easily, and they’re mostly true. But still—there’s something about suddenly having all this space, this aimless in-between, that makes you antsy. 

A thought strikes you, and you glance up. “Hey, you know if Marion's still looking for someone to work part-time at the bistro?”

Khol raises an eyebrow. "You looking to apply? It’s minimum wage, just telling you in advance."

"That’s fine," you assure them. "I just need something on the side. I’m doing freelance work right now, I just want something to fill in the gaps."

Anna perks up at that. "I think that’s a great idea. I can hit up Marion later, but I’m pretty sure they’re still looking."

Khol stares at you, and for once, they don’t have a quip lined up. No sharp-edged humor, no quick banter—just a quiet look of something almost foreign on their face. Pride. Maybe even relief. You’ve worried them. The realization jars you like a pebble dropped into a clear pond, sending ripples through the stillness of your self-imposed isolation. You hadn’t meant to, not really. It wasn’t like you deliberately wanted to disappear... But you did, didn’t you? You let the days blur into weeks, then months, telling yourself naively that no one would notice if you just—vanished for a while. Five months, to be exact.

You press your lips together, clearing your throat against the tightness creeping in. “Thanks,” you say, quiet but sincere. “Really.”

Khol snorts, and the moment shatters. “You can show your thanks by knocking ten percent off the cocktails when we visit.”

You roll your eyes, feigning exasperation. “Get me the job first, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Anna grins, raising her glass. “Now, that’s the spirit.”

––––

You get the job.

You stand in front of the fogged-up mirror, dragging your palm across the wet glass. The reflection that stares back is warped, smudged—half-formed, half-there—but unequivocally yours. 

A month ago, you wouldn’t have been able to say that with certainty. Back then, the figure in the mirror had been more ghost than person—distant, spectral. Fractured. Someone you watched from the outside, not as a host of the flesh you inhabit. 

Now, though, the pieces are starting to slot back into place. Some are still missing, and others don’t quite fit as they once did. You doubt it will ever return to how it was… But slowly, a familiar shape is coming back into focus. More than the shadow of a woman, but you.  Time moves like water carving through rock—gradual, barely perceptible, but steady. Inevitable.

The shifts are diminutive. A morning where you wake up feeling less crushed by the weight of grief in your chest. An afternoon where you suddenly break into laughter, and you realize it’s the first time you’ve heard it in weeks. A quiet night where you go to bed without feeling like you’re stuck frozen in an endless loop of wishing, waiting for the impossible.

You’re here, alive. Present. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, you’re doing more than just holding on.

(You think he’d be proud of you.)

And the thought doesn’t leave you aching the way it used to.

––––

“You think I can handle taking care of another living thing? Like a plant?” You ask Maru, glancing at him lounging by the window, right where a sliver of afternoon sunlight spills across the floor. “I mean, I raised you well enough, I think. But you’re pretty self-sufficient anyway.” Maru looks unimpressed. His tail flicks once—dismissive, uninterested—before he returns to grooming himself, utterly indifferent to both your question and your sudden enthusiasm for gardening. ��Well, if your dad can grow plants in that dungeon he calls a base, I’m sure I can manage,” you mutter unconvincingly. “How hard can it be?” 

–

By the middle of the second week into your little project, you begrudgingly admit that your tiny repotted begonia isn’t exactly thriving. You don’t want to be a pessimist, but the (browning) margins seem to curl inward—more than they should, if the reference pics on that “Indoor Succulents” blog you’re subscribed to are anything to go by. 

You eye it dubiously, trying to stay gung-ho about the whole thing, forcing yourself to look up care tips again. It’s just a plant. Not rocket science. So you do the research, gather more supplies, and give it another shot. You reposition it closer to where the sun lands—earning a disgruntled hiss from the sunbathing feline—and sprinkle a careful amount of water just beneath the leaves, closer to the root. Then you lean back, waiting, tapping your foot impatiently like it’s supposed to just... fix itself.

–

The next few days pass with you watching it more than you’d care to admit—checking, hoping, second-guessing yourself. 

You narrow your eyes at the leaves, more russet than Inca Flame red, still hanging limp like a sad testament to your lack of skill. 

But you keep at it, because you’re nothing if not stubborn.

–

A single flower has bloomed.

You stand there, spray bottle in hand, caught in quiet awe at the metallic pink sprout peeking through the foliage. It’s small, delicate, barely more than a bud, but unmistakably there—nestled among heart-shaped leaves that, for the first time in weeks, look alive. Brighter. 

A faint smile tugs at your lips. It’s not groundbreaking, not by a long shot. But it’s something.

The fragile blossom clings onto dear life, stubbornly seeking the sun rays, inching toward the warmth it needs to grow—larger, stronger.

You can’t wait to bear witness to it. 

––––

You’re not entirely sure how you ended up in this situation; all you could recall past the sweat blurring your vision is the memory of being in front of the reception desk, pen in hand, scrawling your name onto the sign-up sheet for beginner boxing lessons. 

It’s not… something you planned on doing, really. You’d been showing up for the past week, trying to convince yourself that fitness was something you could get into. Something you could stick with. But this one’s more of an impulse decision, fueled by a mix of post-workout endorphins and the misplaced confidence that sometimes follows after an extra few—unpremeditated!—minutes on the elliptical. 

It all started with a casual glance at a flyer taped to the wall beside the water dispenser.

GET TOUGHER, FASTER, STRONGER! SIGN UP NOW!

The cheesy tagline stared you down as you were in the middle of refilling your teal green AquaFlask. And for some dumb reason—sheer curiosity, definitely not because it reminded you of a certain someone—you thought: Why not?

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you’d marched straight up to the nearest staff at the counter, credit card in hand, and asked to sign up. Now, as you stare at the buff woman currently goading you to hit harder, reality sets in and you feel a little lightheaded. Even slightly delirious.

“Up, up–” your trainer urges, somehow not even remotely out of breath, despite being thirty grueling minutes into the session. Meanwhile, you’re standing there, red-faced and sweating like a fucking pig. “Keep your arms up at all times, alright?”

You pant, nodding weakly, fixing your posture. She gives you an approving nod in return.

It’s part of the whole self-improvement thing, anyway. Pushing yourself. Fitness, jazz, and all that. You’ve never had much inclination for sports or anything remotely physically taxing, as far as you can recall.

…Or maybe that decision was made for you the moment you tried out for volleyball in high school and took a spike straight to the face. A memory so humiliating, that your brain did you a favor and buried it deep in the recesses of your mind. 

But things are different now! You’re trying new things. You’ve done wall climbing, aerobics, even pulled a hamstring attempting HIIT Tae Bo. And if getting punched in the face is the next step in this… wellness journey, then, well, so be it. You’ll take it with a brave face and, hopefully, minimal bruising to both body and ego.

You slog through two sets of combos and thirty jab-straight-hook-uppercuts, punching like your life depends on it. You’re wheezing like an asthmatic child, and you’re about one bad punch away from toppling over.

Then, mercifully—

“Okay, that’s enough for today.”

Oh, thank god.

“You did good,” she tacks on, flashing you an encouraging smile, like you didn’t just spend the last half hour flailing at the focus mitts with all the grace of a wrecking ball.

You stare at her, unconvinced. Did I? Because from where you’re standing—wobbling, really—you’re pretty sure you looked closer to an overstimulated toddler throwing hands with gravity, but sure. It must’ve been in the fine print, to segue in a little positive reinforcement. Probably to keep people from bolting after the first session. 

Not that you’re planning to. No, of course not. You’re just... reevaluating some things. Like your life choices. And your capacity to lift your arms tomorrow. As you trudge your way out of the yoga-studio-turned-boxing-area, still gulping for air and very aware of the soreness settling into your limbs, someone calls out.

“Hey! Wait up!”

You turn your head, blinking in confusion. A guy—mid to late twenties, give or take—jogs up to you, looking offensively too fresh compared to how you feel. “Oh, hi. Sorry, do you mean me?”

He laughs as he slows to a stop, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “Yeah, you. I saw you training with Coach. Just wanted to say—you’re improving.”

You blink. Wait, what?

A wave of mortification rolls through you. Shit, you didn’t know you had an audience. “Uh—thanks, I guess?”

You shift your weight awkwardly, clutching your boxing gloves tightly against your chest.

His grin turns sheepish, as though he realizes how that might’ve come off. “Fuck, sorry. That came out weird, didn’t it? I swear, I wasn't, like, watching the whole thing or anything.” He makes a vague gesture to his left. “The studio’s right in my line of sight when I did my TRX reps. Hard not to notice.”

You force a smile. “Ah, yeah. Figures.” 

“I’m Byron, by the way,” he offers, sticking out a hand.

Now that you get a proper look at him, you notice he’s got this kind of… geeky charm going for him. Curly hair, sleepy brown eyes behind round, rimless glasses, and shy boy-next-door vibes—except for the fact that he’s jacked.

(Honestly? Work.)

You give him your name, still smiling awkwardly. You’re about to wave goodbye and turn away when— “So, what are you doing later?”

Um.

You hesitate. “I’m, uh… heading straight home after this?” Your voice comes out a little more uncertain than you intended, mostly because you’re not really sure why he’s still talking to you.

“Yeah, ‘course,” he replies quickly, glancing down like he’s suddenly nervous. “I just… thought I’d ask if you’d wanna grab coffee sometime?”

Oh.

It takes a moment for the question to fully register. The first thought that pops in your head is: Wait, how does he know I’m a barista?

… The second thought is one of pure disbelief. Holy shit, did I just get asked out? At the gym? By the Temu version of Peter Parker?

Your face burns hotter than it did mid-workout, caught completely off guard.

“I—woah, um.” You stumble over your words, eyes quickly darting away from him. “Sorry, I already have… a boyfriend. If—if that’s what you’re leading up to.”

You say it like a question. He picks up on it.

“You don’t sound too convinced,” he comments with a light chuckle, shaking his head. “If you’re not interested, you can just say that, you know.”

A prickle of irritation flares up, followed by something sharper—something that stings. You push it down. “No, he’s just… not around.” “Ah.” He clicks his tongue sympathetically. “Long distance?” “…Yeah.” You have no idea.

He shrugs, undeterred. “Alright, no pressure. We could always just hang out as friends, if you want.”

I… don’t think I do. “Um, maybe?” you answer instead, forcing out a laugh.

“Oh, come on,” he says, his grin widening. “You can even introduce me to your boyfriend,” he emphasizes the word out, “when he gets back. Does he work out? We could all hit the gym together.”

Social anxiety is afraid of this man, you think belatedly. Unfortunately for him, you’re the very embodiment of what fears him.

You’re so out of your element that all you can manage is, “He boxes too, actually.”

“Yeah? He any good?” 

That gets an involuntary snort out of you. Unthinkingly, you say, “Could probably beat you up.”

Byron laughs, startled but amused, shaking his head as he raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright—message received.” He flashes you a wide smile. “Well, if you change your mind about the coffee, I’ll be around.” He jerks his chin toward the pack fly by the corner. “There, usually.”

Okay, nerd. Despite yourself, you can’t help but find the whole thing slightly hilarious. Then again, you find humor in the dumbest things. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You offer him a quick, half-hearted wave, trying (and failing) to mask your embarrassment with an exaggerated, too-casual show of nonchalance. It’s so painfully awkward, you can feel yourself internally dying from the cringe of it all.

Without another word, you spin on your heel and start speed-walking away, practically running back to the safety of your personal space.

Smooth.

––––

It’s another relatively easy night at the bistro. You’re on the last two hours of your shift, and you’re carrying a single glass of roseberry mule to serve at table four. As you round the corner, you catch sight of a student, glasses perched low on her nose, completely absorbed in a thick coursebook on Programming Languages. Papers are scattered across the table, and she looks to be utterly engrossed in her readings, unaware of the world around her. 

You don’t want to bother her more than necessary, about to set the drink down on the only clear space—by the iPad propped up on a tablet holder to her right—when something red catches your attention.

A familiar pair of crimson eyes stops you dead in your tracks.

For a moment, you feel like you’re suspended in time. The sharp memory of a similar instance where you’re in her place, and he’s there, keeping you company while he’s polishing a gun burns through your brain, and you don’t–you can’t think—

You stand there, rooted to the spot, wide-eyed and unmoving. Then, the girl’s gaze shifts to you, and a hot flush spreads across her cheeks, betraying her surprise.

With swift fingers, she locks the screen with a quick flick on the power button, pulling you away and breaking you from the echoes of the past.

“Oh, shit,” she giggles, a nervous edge to her voice. “That’s embarrassing.” 

You shake your head, forcing yourself back to the present moment. “No—no, don’t worry about it,” you chuckle weakly, setting the drink down beside her with shaky hands. “Cute guy, honestly.”

That makes her giggle louder, her eyes bright with an almost conspiratorial glint. “Oh my god, you have no idea.”

Fuck—you can’t breathe.

––––

The night hangs thick with stifling heat, accompanied by the steady ticking of the clock as you catch your breath, your broken moans too loud in the heavy silence. The sheets cling to your feverish skin, damp and uncomfortable, as your body moves in a rhythm that feels unnatural now, but still—but always—familiar.

Your chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid breaths as you force the draconic toy deep inside you. The heat, the fire—it licks at your skin, making your whole body yearn for more. To chase more of the feeling, to chase more of the memory of him. 

Errant strands of hair stick to your forehead, your chest flushed and burning, a quiet throb spreading through you with every friction, every desperate movement.

Your body aches, a relentless thrum urging you to push deeper, to find something—anything—to fill the gaping hole inside you, a wound you’ve tried to stitch shut over months, now threatening to tear its way open again, once more ripping from the seams. 

A sharp pressure builds inside you. Your body stretches too far, too much, struggling to take in what it can’t quite handle. It burns in a way that hurts, but you need it. You need to feel more, to fill the emptiness, to grasp at something that feels real.

“Yours, yours–” you tremble, desperate. “Yours. Just yours. Please.”

-

-

-

You lie in the wake of it—pleasure fading into something heavier, regret creeping in like a shadow, waiting as always.

“I miss you,” you whisper in the dark. You always do.

You try to ignore the pull of it, the sharp descent that comes with the high.

You were doing so well.

But it’s fine. You’re fine. 

Everything’s fine.

The words swirl and echo in your mind, until they’re swallowed by sounds that ring hollow. You let the moment wash over you, sinking beneath the weight of the tides, where sorrow and longing blur with the fleeting warmth of what you can’t keep.

Tomorrow will be another day. Another chance to try again.

For now, you let go of your grip on the fragile raft of sanity you’ve built, painstakingly, for months on end.

Tonight, you let yourself drown once more in the somber depths of loneliness and despair, confined within these four walls that feel—once more—like a penitentiary.

––––

The plane begins its slow descent, and through the window, the world comes into view—large swathes of land interrupted by winding roads that seem to follow no rhyme, nor pattern. A river glints faintly beneath the fading sun, while the sky turns a dull blue, a washed-out slate, streaked with the last embers of daylight.

Below, the small city stirs.

Tiny specks of color flicker to life, lanterns strung along the streets like beads on a thread, marking the season, an ending, and the inevitable turning of time. A chill hangs in the air, the wind whipping past you from the half-open window of the taxi, sharp and crisp in a way that you can only find in the province.

Your hometown. 

It all rushes past in a blur of light and shadow, an eclectic mix of old and new—some buildings unchanged, others unfamiliar, as if they’d sprung up in the years you’ve been away. It’s been a while since you last came back, long enough for the roads to feel... foreign, almost. Though muscle memory stirs when the car takes a turn. One you could have easily navigated even with your eyes closed.

Only your sister lives here now, her and her family—a couple of hundred miles far. Far enough to feel like another world, yet close enough for the past to catch up the moment you lay eyes on the old two-story house tucked away on the quaint cul-de-sac of this suburban neighborhood. 

The residential property was left to her, scrawled onto the title in an act of generosity, perhaps. Or maybe as a weight your mother never intended to carry, something meant to anchor her eldest child while she carved a different life for herself elsewhere. Free-spirited as she is, she left with the ease of someone shedding an old coat, slipping into the shoes of another, barely a glance over her shoulder.

But houses remember. And as you step out of the vehicle, your feet meeting the rough asphalt that once belonged to your childhood, you wonder if they remember you too.

"Maru, Maru!" Your five-year-old niece cries the moment she spots the grumpy feline peering through the mesh of his portable prison.

"What—no excitement for me too?" you tease, ruffling her hair. She giggles, scrunching up her nose.

"Auntie, hi! Hi!"

You snort at her enthusiasm, setting the carrier down. The second you pull at the zipper, Maru springs out, landing with a soft thud before stalking off with his usual air of disdain. Your niece shrieks with delight. 

"Ah! Cat!"

"Well, there go the chances of her socializing with her brother," your sister remarks dryly from the doorway, sauntering closer. "Hey, stranger."

"Hey," you greet, hoisting a handful of paper bags. "Where do I dump these?"

She eyes the bags. "Any of those for me?"

"You have three kids, and one of them insisted on a Lego set. Do you know how much those cost?" You shoot her a flat look. "You’re getting socks."

"Wow, stingy." She huffs but takes some of the bags anyway, hitching one onto her hip as she grabs your other hand-carry.

You step inside, and the house greets you with a riot of lights and color. Plastic tinsel and bright string lights drape across every visible surface—along the bannister, around doorways—leaving no space untouched by the festive chaos. A Christmas tree stands proudly in the corner, nearly buried beneath an avalanche of baubles and sentimental ornaments collected over the years.

The room feels swallowed by the exuberance of it all, an almost overwhelming jamboree of holiday cheer.

It’s gaudy, excessive, and completely over-the-top, but beneath it all, the bones of your childhood home remain unchanged—familiar in a way that settles deep in your chest. The Narra wood floors are still scuffed with the marks of time, there’s still the distinct tang of turpentine mixed with waxy resin and citrus you’ve long since associated with home, and the odd decorative masks still line the far wall, their painted expressions frozen in mid-celebration.

Your eyes land on the canvas floater above the mantel—a whimsical cross-stitch of three women flying kites, their stitched dresses rippling in imagined wind. You remember it well, though you never quite understood why your mother had chosen that particular scene to painstakingly sew into existence. Still, it belongs here, another piece of the house's patchwork history.

Your gaze shifts to the couch, where Andrew, your sister's husband, is sprawled out, one arm lazily draped over the backrest, the other holding his phone.

He flicks his gaze up at you, offering a half-hearted wave before turning back to whatever has him so absorbed on the screen. Beside him, your three-year-old nephew is perched on his knees, bouncing with energy as he mirrors Bluey's movements on the TV with exaggerated enthusiasm, his tiny arms flailing in childlike glee.

You sigh inwardly, rolling your eyes. Typical.

“There’s a few more hours before dinner. Want to hang out in the kitchen while I roast the ham?” She asks casually, setting down your bags by the foot of the stairs. “Actually, scratch that—you’re in charge of the punch.”

“You just want a head start on the drinks,” you tease, the banter flowing easily between you. “Hey, where’s the little squirt?”

She points toward the small crib, near the island counter. “She finally stopped crying, thank god. Don’t wake her up, or you’ll be the one in charge of putting her back to sleep.”

The two of you slip into the kitchen, where the air already carries the promise of dinner—cloves and brown sugar blending nicely with the lingering scent of citrus. A tray of ham sits on the counter, prepped and ready, the scored surface glistening under the fluorescent light. 

Your sister pulls a bottle of Luisita Oro Rum and Agimat Gin from the second-to-last cupboard and places them on the counter in front of you.

"Go ham," she quips.

You give her a flat look. "You think you’re funny.”

She shrugs, unfazed, and turns her attention back to where she’d left off before your arrival. 

The two of you fall into a natural rhythm, the kind that comes from years of cooking together. You work your way through cans of Del Monte, the metallic clinks filling the space as you drain the syrup and dump chunks of mixed fruit into the large punch bowl.

Your sister leans against the counter nearby, arms folded, her gaze fixed on the oven door, as if sheer willpower alone could make the meat cook faster.

In the background, the soft drone of the TV drifts in from the living room, punctuated by your nephew’s occasional giggles.

There’s no rush, no need to fill the silence with anything more than the occasional clang of utensils against glass and the low humming of kitchen appliances. The day is winding down to a close, and for now, everything is alright.

“So, Mom called,” she says casually, one arm braced on the counter as she leans in, glancing at you. “Kept calling, actually.”

“Mm.” You reply noncommittally, shaking the last can’s contents into the crystal bowl, watching as the fruit chunks bob lazily in the pool of alcohol.

“She’s worried about you.”

You don’t answer.

“She was. She is.” Her voice shifts, more serious now. She watches you closely, noting your lack of reaction. “You know that, right?”

Your fingers tighten around the can opener, but you pull your gaze away from the bowl. “I know.”

She sighs, resigned, already familiar with this song and dance. Familiar enough to know there’s no winning this one, not tonight. Not anytime soon. “I am too.”

You blink, before looking away. “Oh.”

And maybe she does worry—your mother. But any hope of truly knowing is swallowed by the chasm between you, the one that keeps your conversations at surface level, never breaching the depths beyond. 

Your body, born from hers, perhaps more alike than you realize, might have been brought into this world with the same pains that she’s carried. The pains of separation. The unresolved hurt of being unwillingly removed from your person—her former husband, your father—and that if you and your mother were closer, you could have opened up about your own situation. Perhaps then, you wouldn’t feel like a ship that has lost its ballast, drifting endlessly in the same turbulent seas for the longest time.

But you are your mother’s daughter, and she is her mother’s daughter. There is the truth that the women in your family are not the best communicators, nor do they wear their hearts on their sleeves. So you were born mute and overly sensitive. Pain drips from you, unnoticed, like a purposeless leak in the heart. You’ll carry it with you until you die.

“But you look… okay,” she observes, cocking her head. “Are you okay?”

You swallow. For the same reason you compare your mother to a storm you can't outrun and your sister to an intermittent drizzle, you find it easier to admit, “I haven’t… been okay for a while.” 

Not wanting to bring the mood down, especially on a day like today, you quickly add, “Things are better now, though.”

She huffs out a laugh, shaking her head. “Could be a little more specific there, but I’ll take it.” She gives you an exasperatedly fond look. “You let me know if that changes anytime soon, ‘kay?”

Your lips quirk in the faintest semblance of a smile. “Yeah, okay.”

–

It’s ten minutes before midnight.

You’re leaning against the island counter that separates the kitchen from the living room, nursing a glass of the fruit punch (though it’s mostly gin, with the teensiest amount of fruit), watching your sister’s family at a distance as they eagerly wait for the clock to strike twelve. The blinds of the large living room window have been pulled up, giving an unobstructed view of the sky, ready for the first firework to light up the dark.

For a moment, you feel like an outsider, watching through a lens, as if you’re not quite part of the scene. There’s a strange sense of detachment—voyeuristic, almost—as though you're peering in on a private, intimate moment. 

Your sister cradles the infant in her arms, and that all-too-familiar pang stirs to life—the same one that always does when you look at her.

You can't quite place what you're feeling, exactly. It’s tumultuous, and it’s complex. Andrew’s practically dozing off in his seat, and you see your sister shake her head in mild annoyance. Your nephew, fighting to keep his eyes open, starts to fuss.

Something tightens inside your chest.

“Andrew,” she hisses, startling the man awake. He blinks, disoriented, before spotting their son and the early signs of an explosive tantrum.

He sighs, and pulls the boy closer to him. “Hey, hey, little guy. Look at the sky. In just a couple of minutes, the lights are gonna go boom-boom.”

Your nephew sniffs, his eyes blinking up at him as he processes the words. “Boom-boom?”

“Yeah! Just like the one we watched on TV!”

The kid’s face visibly perks up at that, bad mood quickly forgotten. “Boom-boom!”

You watch as your sister’s gaze softens, and a small smile replaces the earlier frown on her face.

And in that instant, you understand.

You look at your sister and, for a brief moment, all you see is a wretched mirror of yourself. She is all of your fears, all of your failures, and all of what you could’ve been rolled into one. Barely in her mid-thirties, and yet already carrying the weight of a family: three kids, a husband who feels like a faded echo of your father—a man who didn’t quite measure up, who never did, and just as unreliable. 

You feel the suffocating weight of it all, of being tied to a place that’s meant to be a home but feels more like a tomb, marking the passing of dreams unrealized. She’ll grow old here, buried in the same soil you both sprang from, fading into the landscape of this town that swallows its own.

You look at her and you almost feel the repressed pain of missing the last semester of college to give birth, the lament of a missed opportunity that life has stolen from her. 

You feel her pain as if it’s yours. You feel it in the marrow of your bones—her blood flowing through you. “3…” You look at her, and it feels like seeing someone bound, held down by an anchor around her foot, unable to break through the surface of freedom. You look at her and you see dreams once aglow, reduced to cinders. You look at her and see—

She glances up at you.

Oh. “2…” In the fleeting moment where your eyes meet—eyes you two share with your mother—you feel so small.

Just a kid. Shortsighted and unfairly dismissive. Too blind to see your sister’s quiet victories, too selfish to admit you’ve diminished them just so you could feel less alone about your own failures. A child grasping for meaning, unfair in the ways only children can be. “1…” And in the fraction of a second before midnight, it's as if you’ve been doused awake. 

You see her anew—what seemed like monotony is really the bedrock of stability; tenacity in place of routine. An almost single-minded doggedness to make something out of this life. You see the steadfast strength she possesses, the kind that gets her up every morning, to face the world and all its demands without question. With purpose. 

You see resilience. Compassion. Traits that you’ve always lacked, that you’ve long resented, the same traits your mother never learned to embody.

And now you see your niece in her arms, born from this, and you name the indescribable feeling that dwells in you—borne from the pure look of adoration in your sister’s eyes for her youngest daughter—as envy.

You know, with utmost certainty, that she will be okay, because she has your sister as her mother, and she is so, so loved.

As you watch them, something inside you shifts—a deep, aching realization. 

You see… home. Something you've always longed for but never truly found. “Happy new year!” The spell breaks. The two of you startle at the sudden eruption of fireworks, the distant chorus of car horns blaring from the streets outside.

Your niece and nephew jump and shriek, their laughter ringing through the room, celebrating something they barely understand but find joy in anyway. The baby in your sister’s arms lets out a wail at the commotion, and she is soothed instantly with murmurs of soft assurances. Her father struggles upright—then, with no small amount of effort, leans forward to press a kiss to the crown of her head.

The image before you is far from perfect, but it’s theirs.

“Auntie, auntie!” The little rascals cry out in unison, their voices overlapping in excitement. “‘appy n’year!”

A breathless, almost pained laugh escapes you. Still, you smile as you respond with your own, “happy new year!”

You’re tired—tired of running, of measuring yourself against the ghosts of your past. Tired of carrying the weight of a childhood that’s left you with more questions than answers, of making excuses for wounds that should have healed long since. You've spent so much time mourning the growing pains, the irreparable, that you never stopped to see what’s in front of you. 

This moment, this realization, feels like the final missing piece in the fractured puzzle of who you are.

The new year arrives, marked by the crackle of fireworks and the loud cheer from your family.

This time, you won’t hesitate. You’ll choose to embrace the change, both good and bad, with open arms. With the quiet resolve of someone finally ready to move forward.

You lift your gaze just as a brilliant burst of red explodes into the night sky, its iridescent glow bleeding into a softer silver before fading into the dark. 

A warmth settles deep in your chest—bittersweet, but steady. A quiet peace.

Happy new year, my love. . . . . . . .

.

.

.

.

. . .

The air at the threshold of Vagrant’s land is restless. Volatile. A hazy distortion ripples through it, folding and unfolding, like a lost mirage—an area of transition between worlds. Porch collapse, he calls it. 

Sylus has stood here countless times, watching the way this anomalous disturbance twists the very fabric of this reality, how it flickers in and out of form, erratic. Impossible to predict. 

It had taken him longer than he likes to admit to understand the phenomena for what it’s truly worth. Not just an alternate space caused by some spartan energy field. Not just any other protofield. But a thread. A connection. A door. 

A fault line between realities, an entryway that hums with the possibility of you.

Since the moment the idea took hold, he had thought of little else. It has consumed him in every waking moment; his entire being seeming to bend toward a singular purpose—getting to you. He had torn through endless streams of data, followed every unstable pulse of energy, mapped its fluctuations down to the smallest inconsistency.

Nights bled into days, and days bled into weeks, until he can no longer keep track. Not that the passage of time meant much to him at this point. 

He’s worked tirelessly through the stillness, through the storms of uncertainty, through the aching silence left by your absence. Ever since you’ve exchanged your temporary goodbyes. 

He had measured everything he could—the unstable frequency of radio signals streaming through the interstice. He had traced the influx in real time; recording the rate of deterioration, isolating the waveform, and filtering out outside interferences. 

But for all the data he gathered, for all the precision in his calculations, the core of this phenomenon remained just out of reach. His knowledge on the matter is rudimentary at most. He could waste years observing for abnormalities, trying to decipher how its presence has disrupted the very threads of this universe, but the why and how of it all will still elude him. 

Still, theory matters less than function. He doesn’t need to understand the full depth of it. He only needs to harness it.

It’s a gamble.

Contrary to whatever reputation he’s earned for himself, Sylus has never been one to play his cards recklessly. He deals in certainties, in probabilities stacked in his favor, in risks that—while dangerous—are still within his grasp to control. He has never been the type to leap without knowing where he’d land.

But this is different.

He has never needed to, before. Never had a reason to throw himself into the unknown with no assurance of survival, no way to predict the outcome.

He had no reason to—until you.

Now, it matters less whether or not the odds of his survival are abysmal, that he has no precedent to follow. That your world might reject him entirely. None of it matters. Because if the choice is between staying and never reaching you, or plunging into the great, endless unknown—

He’ll take the leap, every time. Without hesitation. 

He’ll leave this world behind, step beyond the edges of everything that has ever defined him, and venture into lands unseen, uncharted. Unknown. He doesn’t know what awaits him on the other side. If he’ll make it there in one piece. If he will make it there at all.

Sylus has never really questioned why he’s the anomaly in this world. The curiosities of his existence are yours to ponder. After all, he finds that he doesn’t care much of the answer as much as he cares about being with you.

Because wherever you are—that is home. 

He takes a step forward, and the universe dissolves into a blinding light.

-

-

-

Sylus wakes to the sensation of weight.

Something presses on him heavily, sinking into his limbs like gravity itself is wrapping around him for the first time.

The ground beneath him is unfamiliar, uneven—tangible in a way he’s never felt before. His fingertips press into the damp earth, leaving the faintest imprint, yielding beneath his touch. The scent of soil rises around him; a rich, bitter brown. 

This world does not recognize him, yet it cradles him like its own all the same.

Above, the sky erupts.

Fireworks split open the night, streaks of color exploding and dissipating in an instant—too fleeting to hold, too bright to ignore. A flashbang of incandescent reds and fluorescent greens, followed by bursts of crackling gold and shimmering silver scatter into tiny pinpricks before fading into the darkness.

The air is heavier here, denser in a way that feels almost… alien. It clings to the contours of his new form, seeps into his lungs with every breath. 

And oh, how it burns. Not in pain, but in its sheer presence. It rushes into him not as mere oxygen but as something real. Something palpable. He’s lost in the sensation. 

He exhales. Then winces. 

Immediately, he feels it—the weakness. The brittleness of this new body. Gone is the invulnerability he once wielded so effortlessly, the certainty that nothing could touch him unless he allowed it. 

That certainty is gone now, stripped away the moment he crossed the threshold.

He is flesh and bone. Finite. Mortal.

A lesser man might have feared it.

But in the middle of this empty field, miles away from civilization, Sylus can only laugh. 

He tips his head back, reeling from the sheer impossibility of it all, eyes tracing the brilliant display above—as if committing it to memory, a coronation of sorts. Of existence. Of arrival. Of a life finally his own.

Reborn. And for the first time in his existence, he is alive.

––––

It’s summer—the summer that marks two years since he left. 

Two years. It’s enough time to feel the weight of it, but not enough to make the events feel like something that happened a lifetime ago. 

The seasons cycle once more, as they always do, pushing time forward with a steady, indifferent rhythm. And with that change comes a familiar pang—a bittersweet ache, neither grief nor regret, just the weight of knowing that nothing stays the same. Mono no aware. 

You’re closer to thirty now, and the thought doesn’t terrify you as much as it did before. Your hair’s in a pixie cut—short and sleek, although the edges are a little ragged from the half-assed trimming you gave it a few days ago. 

It would have made you feel stupid, once upon a time, for trying out something drastic for a new look. Instead, you just take it for what it is—one more thing you did because you wanted to. Like the rest of the choices you’ve made over the past two years. It’s yours. Uneven, impulsive, maybe a little questionable. But yours.

It’s liberating. Even if it makes your head look like a pencil. 

The voice—the one that picks at your face, your body, your thoughts, everything down to the last imperfection—never really shuts up. It’s quieter now, easier to ignore, but it still lurks in the background, waiting for an opening, a moment of weakness. Maybe it always will. Maybe that’s just the price of being human.

But you don’t fight it anymore. You don’t let it drag you down to a breaking point. You carry yourself differently now, you'd say. No pep in your step just yet, but you don’t feel the need to drag your heels either. Literally and figuratively. 

The change has come in waves—sometimes gentle, sometimes harsh—but it’s there, marking you, marking the passage of time. Just like the earth, just like the seasons, you’ve shifted and grown. And perhaps that’s enough.

The sky is ablaze now, a deepening canvas of pinks and purples as the sun sinks lazily to the west. The fiery orange light spills through the large windows, bleeding into every corner of the room, and the world outside seems to slow, caught in the hour before dusk.

You’re behind the counter, wiping down plates with the kind of ease that comes from repetition, the motion so ingrained in you that it barely registers anymore. It’s all routine—the rhythm of it, the quiet hum of the bistro, the clinking of porcelain. The air is thick with the sticky smell of warm pastries, and it’s the sort of evening that feels almost liminal. A moment suspended in time.

You hear the soft tinkling of the door chimes, signaling the arrival of another customer. 

It’s a soft, unassuming sound, barely noticeable against the evening lull. You swipe your hands across your apron, turning on instinct, your mouth already forming the usual greeting. 

“Hi, welcome to—”

The words die in your throat.

It’s a slow unfolding—almost a gradual realization that stretches across the seconds like the last rays of sun dipping beneath the horizon. He stands in the doorway, a figure outlined in gold, and his presence fills the space between you, no barrier that separates, and it feels... impossible. Unimaginable. Inevitable. 

His height is the first thing you notice. He’s taller than you expected, and you know he’ll tower over you, even at a distance. His hair is dark now, the color of midnight, almost—not the silver you once traced with your fingers in your mind. The cut is still similar to what you’ve always known it to be, though a little more unkempt, as if he’s lived in this body long enough for it to take on its own wear.

Then his eyes. The red is gone—no longer the shade of crimson that used to see right through you, those sanguine pools you once loved. In its place, a stormy grey, deep and impossibly expressive, pulling you in like an undertow. The color is striking, alien in its own way, yet there’s a warmth buried beneath it—and the familiarity of it tugs at you.

Even with the changes, even though you’ve never met the person standing in front of you, you’ll know him anywhere. 

There’s a shift in the room, a subtle, yet unmistakable change in the air. It’s as if the whole bistro has drawn in a breath—and you with it. Time stretches thin, each passing second expanding into what feels like an eternity.

Your eyes lock—and for a moment, nothing else exists. 

It’s as if the world has shifted off its axis. Or, perhaps more accurately, it’s as though a piece that’s always been missing has finally snapped into place.

Something settles in you, something foreign and indescribably familiar at the same time.

Sylus smiles.

“Hello, my love. Have I kept you waiting?”

It feels like home. 

____

��Now I found myself this kind of love, I can't believe it I'll never leave it behind I thought I'd never get to feel another fucking feeling But I feel— This love, this love, this love Oh, I feel it.”

End A/N: So this is done! Wow! I'm kind of proud of myself for writing something this long in the span of, idk, three months? Basically, the entire duration of my "vacation" back home. Now with another term and a busier schedule coming up, I really wanted to finish this series before life catches up to me. *sobs* Anyway, I'm so, so happy about the reception of this fic, and you've all been so sweet :') Again, thank you for reading! I'll see you in the spin-off, or whatever shit I put out next haha <3 Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @shroomiethefrogwhisperer @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy @touya-apologist @gladiolus-mamacitia @btszn @wrimaira

[citrusipop]

image captured by hand . cho hyun-ju

hyun-ju catches you glancing at her and back to that little book of yours, curiosity feeds her as she wonders what is inside.

a.n . i am so sorry if it's been awhile since i've written something, writer's block and the fact college season is back is driving me nuts. i hope you enjoy this short little(longish) story!

It was a lazy afternoon in Hyun-Ju’s shared apartment. Her head rested against the warm windowpane as she gazed at the endless blue sky, her thoughts drifting. The gentle breeze carried the sound of children’s laughter below, blending with the melody of seashell chimes swaying nearby.

Across from her, you sat with your sketchbook balanced on your knees, pencil scratching against paper. Your hand moved with quiet determination, stealing glances at your girlfriend as sunlight framed her peaceful beauty. Each glance inspired you to capture her essence, pouring it into your work.

Noticing your looks, Hyun-Ju tilted her head, a curious smile tugging at her lips. “What’re you doing, hun?” she playfully teased, her eyes studying you. Hidden behind the sketchbook, you hummed distractedly, too focused to notice her pout.

“Y/nnnnn,” she whined, leaning in close until her face was near yours.

“Loveeee,” you mimicked her tone, quickly snapping your sketchbook shut. The thought of her seeing your sketches filled you with nervousness—what if she thought it was weird?

Her eyes flicked to the sketchbook. “What’re you drawing?” she asked, her voice warm with curiosity.

“Just… something. Nothing too detailed,” you replied, heart racing as you tried to keep your secret.

Hyun-Ju’s almond-shaped eyes sparkled with interest. “Can I see? I’m sure it’s amazing,” she said warmly.

Her compliment melted your hesitation. You weren’t confident in your art, being self-taught and wary of criticism, but hearing encouragement from someone you loved made you reconsider.

“I don’t know, you might not like it,” you trailed off, your eyes avoiding hers.

“Please love, I want to see…You never show me what’s in that little book of yours.” She pleaded, giving you those irresistible puppy eyes of hers.

God, that adorable look of hers made you want to give in, but those nagging insecurities held you back, hijacking any chance of Hyun-Ju seeing your sketchbook. Your mind turned into a courtroom, arguments flying back and forth as you debated with yourself. Yet, when you glanced at her again, the genuine curiosity in her eyes was impossible to ignore. She truly cared about what you were creating.

And so, you gave in.

With a sigh, you hesitantly handed her the light orange book. As her hands brushed yours, taking the sketchbook, it felt like you’d handed over a piece of your soul. The weight of it left your hands, but the anxiety remained. You quickly averted your gaze as she opened it, your heart pounding in your chest.

You prayed she wouldn’t say anything mean, regretting your decision almost immediately. The silence was unbearable, every second stretching endlessly. Your mind spiraled, conjuring the worst scenarios. What if she hated it? What if she thought your art was ugly? Doubts clashed in your head, each one louder than the last, waging a war you couldn’t escape.

All your worries drifted away when she say, “Love, you never told me you can draw this….it’s amazing!” Hyun-ju’s eyes gleamed with stars as she flipped through more of your artworks. “How are you so talented? Your sketches are so well detailed and clean!” Her eyes gleamed with astonishment. She was utterly speechless, no words could form as she was so enthralled by the beauty of the images you drew. You. Her girlfriend, an amazing artist. In her mind such talent is worth sharing.

“How could you hide this talent of yours?”

“I just don’t see the point of showing it to others….”

Hearing your words, Hyun-Ju rolled her eyes playfully and pinched your cheek lightly. “It’s worth showing it to me,” she insisted, emphasizing the “me” with a teasing smile as she continued flipping through the pages.

Her fingers paused on a bookmarked page, and her eyes widened when she saw it—a drawing of herself. A bright smile spread across her face as she admired the intricate details. You had captured her perfectly, from the curve of her smile to the sparkle in her eyes. Most of the sketches showed her smiling, and she couldn’t help but feel warmth bloom in her chest.

Laying her head on your crossed leg, she lifted the sketchbook to show you the drawing, her expression filled with pride and affection.

You felt your heart swell and your confidence grow from her praise. Never in your life had anyone shown such genuine love for your work, and it filled you with a newfound motivation to keep drawing. Smiling softly, you ran your fingers through her hair as she pointed out more sketches, her voice laced with admiration.

Looking up at you, Hyun-Ju smirked mischievously. “You should draw Jeong-Hyeok and give it to me,” she teased, pointing at a blank page with a playful finger.

“No,” you replied firmly, shaking your head.

“But love, please? You have the power to draw anything,” she pleaded, her tone both sweet and dramatic, making you roll your eyes and chuckle at her antics.

[frarxvr]

The Internet Never Forgets – A Charles Leclerc

Charles should have known better.

He had spent years in the spotlight, years learning how to keep things private, years mastering the art of saying everything and nothing at the same time.

But apparently, he wasn’t as good at it as he thought.

Because the internet? The internet never forgets.

The Soft Launch That Wasn’t So Soft

It started innocently enough—a summer getaway with his closest friends. No sponsors, no media obligations, just a few days of relaxation before the chaos of the next Grand Prix.

Charles had planned it well. He knew how fast rumors could start, so he made sure there were no obvious clues. No couple pictures, no secret hand-holding in the background, nothing suspicious.

But his friends? They didn’t get the memo.

The first picture that set things off was from Andrea’s Instagram story. A casual group dinner. Charles was laughing, a glass of wine in hand. But right next to him, slightly out of focus, was a girl.

Always next to him.

Then Joris posted a story from the yacht. Another group shot. Charles in swim trunks, laughing at something—and the same girl was next to him again.

Fans noticed immediately.

"Who is this girl always next to Charles???"

"Wait… is this a soft launch???"

"I love how all his friends are posting, but no one is tagging her. They know what they’re doing."

Within hours, Twitter and TikTok were in full detective mode. People started piecing together details—matching outfits, analyzing reflections, even zooming in on sunglasses to see if her face was visible.

And then someone remembered.

"WAIT. I swear I’ve seen her before???"

Charles had posted a Monaco vlog last year. Just a normal behind-the-scenes video—his morning gym routine, grabbing coffee, a day at the Ferrari garage, then a boat day with friends.

No big deal.

Except… she was in it.

Not just in the background, not just a random guest—she was talking to Charlotte.

"GUYS. SHE WAS IN HIS MONACO VLOG LAST YEAR."

"Not us thinking she’s new when she’s been around THIS WHOLE TIME."

Clips resurfaced. Slow-motion zoom-ins. Frame-by-frame analysis.

Someone even found an old Instagram story from Charlotte, a blurry picture of a group at a restaurant—where Y/N was right next to Charles.

The internet went feral.

"How did we MISS THIS???"

"She was literally there all along."

"Not the world discovering a relationship through detective work."

Charles was lying on the yacht, scrolling through his phone, when he saw the chaos unfold. His group chat with his team was full of links. His notifications were insane.

He groaned, rubbing his face. "Merde."

Y/N, lounging beside him, looked up from her book. "What now?"

He passed her the phone. "We’ve been caught."

She took one glance and burst out laughing. "Oh my god, they really found the Monaco video?"

He groaned again. "They found everything."

Y/N smirked, scrolling through the TikToks. "Honestly? I respect it."

Charles shook his head. "I thought we were being careful."

She raised an eyebrow, turning to him with a knowing look. "Babe, you literally make this easy for them."

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

She flipped the phone to show him all the pictures from their friends’ stories. "Every time there’s a group picture, you make sure I’m next to you. Every. Single. Time."

Charles let out a dramatic sigh. "So what? I like having you near me."

Y/N rolled her eyes playfully. "And that’s exactly why they figured it out."

He smirked, leaning in closer. "Well, maybe I wanted them to know."

She gasped, swatting his arm. "Charles!"

He just laughed, pulling her against him. "Let them talk, mon amour. The secret’s out now."

.

[eringobragh420]

➔ Pairing — Damian Priest ♡ f!Reader ➔ Summary — Damian’s fiancée receives a head injury during a match resulting in amnesia. (Part 4/5) 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 ➔ Word Count — 3.5k ➔ Warnings — NSFW. Fingering (f receiving) ➔ Notes — Spanish translations at the end of the story provided by Google Translate. ➔ Taglist — If you’d like to be added, please click here!  ➔ Support — Buy me a coffee! ☕ ➔ MASTERLIST

DAY FOUR — CHRISTMAS EVE

A string of headaches kept you confined to your bedroom most of the day and into the evening on Christmas Eve. Your head had been sore from the fall itself off and on since leaving the hospital, but this was the first day you’d experienced throbbing pain encompassing your entire brain. You and Damian had been invited to an annual holiday party thrown by friends and colleagues, an event, you were told, you’d attended every year since the very first invitation, but Damian turned them down. They’d understood, multiple messages coming through wishing you a swift and successful recovery, and you’d asked Damian to thank them, whoever they were. You’d then rolled over, pressing your back to his side, using his bicep as a pillow, falling asleep quickly with a mouth open and ready to drool.

You awoke sometime later, reaching to the opposite side of the bed, Damian’s side, because you didn’t feel his warmth against you anymore—it was empty and cold. Opening your eyes, there was a soft lamp lit in the corner of the room, the television softly playing yet another Christmas movie. Decorations were scattered throughout the room, but nothing compared to the living room, and you took your time to sit up in bed. Your head, for the first time today, was essentially pain free. You felt a throb here and there, but they were tolerable.

What wasn’t tolerable was the fact that your memories were still avoiding you like the plague. You and Damian both thought you were making progress when you recognized Archie, but it hadn’t gone much further since. You’d spent yesterday going through your closet, touching your clothes, even putting some of them on, and doing the same to your shoe collection, which was quite extensive. When that didn’t work, you wandered throughout the house, passing your fingers over various surfaces, stopping to stare at photos or works of art. Nothing.

Rubbing your eyes, you considered the stress from the day before as the culprit for the headaches today. The turning of the bathroom doorknob stole your attention, and when you looked, those tired eyes of yours were instantly awake and alert, vision as sharp as it had ever been. Steam billowed out first, followed by a Puerto Rican god who looked like he was stepping straight out of an 80s music video. Again, his hair was soaked, curly and down, a few strands framing his handsome face, but he was shirtless, every muscle on display accentuated by tiny rivers slithering down each chiseled dip and valley. And as your eyes continued southward, you were rather disappointed to find a towel slung loosely around his trim hips, low enough to show off his drool-worthy Adonis belt and tight enough to leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. Your thighs rubbed together like you were a fucking cricket, your pussy instantly responding to the surprising friction, and you wrapped your arms around yourself before you brought your breasts into the equation.

So much attention you were giving to Damian below his neck that you had no idea he’d been watching you the entire time you’d been watching him. And when your eyes met after what was probably an inappropriate amount of time of staring, you thought you should feel embarrassed and ashamed, that you should have looked away and melted into a puddle of self-pity. But you never took your gaze off him, your respirations increasing as your arousal did the same.

“See something you like?” Damian rumbled playfully. Oh, you really, really saw a lot of things you liked, and you gasped when he bent an elbow and flexed a bicep.

Swallowing, you replied with a surprisingly steady voice, “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” he chuckled. “Damn, that hurts, gatita.”

You shrugged. “Stupid questions deserve stupid answers.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed and he regarded you for a moment. You’re coming back to me, he thought. Slowly, but you’re coming back to me. “Well, I’m happy to stand here as long as you need,” he boasted.

Leering at your fiancé, the words came tumbling out of your mouth before you had the chance to think about them. “Well, since you’re just gonna stand there and look like … that … why don’t you tell me … about our sex life?” You expected embarrassment or a raging blush from one or both of you, but neither occurred.

Damian’s brows rose, smirk playing at his plump lips. He strutted toward you, your eyes exploring every inch of his body, curiously unashamed to be doing so in such a blatant manner. “I already told you sex is about 90% of our relationship,” he started. “It’s really … difficult for us to keep our hands off each other.” He was nearing the bed, and you were moving to your knees without noticing. “And we’ll do it anywhere,” he went on. “The beach, backstage at a show, fancy restaurant—” Oh, boy, did you want to hear that story, but you weren’t about to stop this one. “I am … madly, desperately, in love with you, and I can’t help but wanna show you every second of every day.” He was close enough you could feel his heat and smell the freshness of the shower, and you could even reach out and trace those Vs disappearing into his towel if you really wanted to. “And I really can’t help it that my love language is fucking.”

Your gaze rose to meet his, and the fire in his eyes was enough to set you ablaze. “What’s your favorite way to fuck me?” you whispered, not even considering your words before speaking.

Damian’s brows rose and he chuckled under his breath. “Uh … I love it when you ride me. I love looking at your pretty face when you use me to make yourself cum.”

You bit your lip. “What’s my favorite?” you whispered.

Your fiancé took one step closer, and the bed shook when his legs came in contact with it. Your fingers itched to touch him—trace every single plane, ridge, and valley of his body, scratch your nails along his skin—while your lips screamed to kiss his tattoos and your mouth salivated thinking about licking every inch of him. Fuck, you wanted him bad, and yes, you’d always found him attractive, but you hadn’t wanted to wrap yourself around him as much as you did this instant.

Damian had no earthly idea what was happening—he was only here for it. He knew you still didn’t know him, but the physical attraction was very clearly still in play. He was semi-hard already, doing nothing to hide it, but he had no intention of acting on it. He felt like he would be taking advantage of you in some way. However, on the other hand, he decided, you were a grown woman, capable of making your own decisions. Your memories had been effected by the head injury, your personality only mildly, but nothing else. So he was prepared to let you drive this evening, and if it led to something intimate, he would do everything in his fucking power to make sure you remembered every moment for the rest of your life.

“You love it when I bend you over,” he rumbled, leaning down to just graze the stubble of his beard along your cheek, his words ghosting across your ear, sending a shiver down your spine—a shiver so violent, you gasped. “So I can spank your ass.” Your eyes rolled back before closing, your tongue passing over your lips. “And I can grab a handful of that hair and just …”

You pulled back—the second scraping of his beard on your skin opening the dam in your pussy—though not very far. Your noses touched, and Damian’s hand came up, thumb caressing your cheek bone. He was dying to kiss you, absolutely suffocating, but he refused to put pressure on you. Whatever was happening was happening at your pace and direction.

“Just …?” you breathed, eyes boring into his. You didn’t care if he finished his story anymore or not, you simply needed his lips on yours, but you weren’t sure you could make the first move.

Damian smirked. “—watch that back arch,” he went on, “listen to you beg for it … faster … harder …”

“Christ, Damian, just kiss me,” you sighed, sounding a little more frenzied than you would have liked, but it did the job.

His perfect lips collided with yours a little uncomfortably, but the hunger was too overwhelming. His strong arms wrapped around you as yours snaked around his neck. He tasted like toothpaste and a flavor indescribable—all you knew was you needed more, more, more. He teased your swollen lips with the tip of his tongue, and you instantly granted him entrance into your mouth. More of that zest, and his tongue was even more talented than you’d anticipated, simply exploring every corner of your mouth. At one point, your lips detached, but your tongues continued to flick against one another, and you sighed, hands sliding down his firm chest. You wanted him. You wanted him so bad, but should you really fall into bed with someone you technically didn’t know? Yes, you had a history, but you didn’t remember it, save for Archie and the muscle memory that correlated to Damian’s birthday.

Fucking hell, did you overthink this much before the head injury? Just go with it, you told yourself. You wanted him, he clearly wanted you, and there was nothing wrong with either fact.

As if reading your mind—or maybe he could feel the shift in the atmosphere—he severed the electrifying connection of your lips and tongues, pressing your faces together as you both caught your breath. “We can stop,” he panted, hot, minty breath rushing over your skin. “I don’t wanna—” 

“Don’t stop,” you breathed, all but clawing at his chest. “Please don’t stop.” 

What kind of fiancé would Damian be if he didn’t obey his future wife, he mused. The kissing continued as he delicately laid you back on the bed, the towel around his waist still somehow maintaining its position. He made a split-second decision to not try to fit between your legs—what if you closed them? Or worse, what if it killed the mood entirely and you never felt comfortable with him this way again? Instead, he laid his big body next to yours, so talented and capable as to get you into a cozy position without once breaking the kiss or even accidentally pulling your hair.

You didn’t remember ever kissing him before, but there was also a feeling of nostalgia—maybe your brain didn’t remember, but your body did. You and Damian were in sync as far as where and when your hands touched the other, or where your kisses landed, or how easily it was to find one another’s spots. You had no idea it was there, but your lips latched onto the junction at Damian’s neck and shoulder, and the man threw his head back and roared like a goddamn lion. You giggled, grabbing a handful of his wet hair so you could bring his mouth back to yours, and suddenly it was as if you had unleashed an animal inside him. He pulled you closer to him, on your side, and his hand grabbed your ass, squeezing, before it slid south to your thigh, which he then yanked over his hip.

Yes, you wanted this. Well, you had wanted this. Without warning, things had gotten out of hand. You’d begged him not to stop, that was true, but you’d been referring to the kissing, and, considering your current position, you probably should have made that a bit clearer. You worried he would be upset, possibly even angry, but you weren’t ready. Not for this.

“Wait,” you breathed, pressing a hand to his chest, severing the kiss at the same time. So many scenarios played in your mind within seconds—one where he didn’t stop, one where he stopped and was pissed off, one where he stopped and got embarrassed, one where he stopped and—

He looked at you, transparently shocked, and he held up a hand. You wondered briefly if raising his hand was some sort of defense mechanism or something he did because he thought it calmed you down? He took a few breaths as you carefully removed your leg from his hip, backing up only a little so he didn’t think you feared him because you truly didn’t, but you needed to put some distance between your body and his impressive erection tenting the towel.

“I’m so sorry,” he finally exhaled.

“No,” you said, “it’s me.”

“I thought—”

“I know. That’s my fault. I didn’t mean to—” 

“I would never—” 

“Okay, stop!” you interrupted maybe a little more aggressively than you had anticipated, and you weren’t trying to just stop him from talking. “I wanted this, Damian.” You cradled one side of his face, his eyes downcast, looking everywhere but at you. “I do want this. I just … I don’t know if I’m ready for …”

Damian nodded, still not meeting your gaze. He’d gotten carried away, he knew that as soon as he’d grabbed your leg. He hadn’t been able to control himself, which was no excuse—what kind of person did that make him? What kind of a man? What kind of a fiancé? You and he had taken so many steps forward—how many would this incident cost you? 

“I wanna keep kissing you,” you continued breathlessly, and this finally brought his eyes to yours. “I mean … I kinda feel like I wanna kiss you forever. And it doesn’t make sense to me. Well, it does, but it doesn’t. I’m sorry, I’m probably just babbling. I—I just … I want you, Damian.” His petrified irises instantly softened and he raised his hand to cover yours on his face. “But—”

“Listen,” Damian gently, thankfully, interfered in your chaotic ramblings. Your mouth clamped closed. “I understand. We both kinda …” You stared at him, hanging on every word, fully prepared to dissect each one. “But … and I’m just putting this out there. Feel free to say no or slap me or send me to the couch or all of the above.” He smirked, though your heart tingled a bit at the preface. “If you want to, there are … plenty of other ways for me to … make you feel good.” His rich tone, that smoke on velvet timbre, was one hundred percent successful in relaxing your body to its very core. He scooted a bit closer, moving much like molasses, which you assumed was him giving you every opportunity to push him away. Your head tilted, though, as you became enchanted by Damian’s chocolate eyes, his nose grazing your cheek, and there was that sensation of sedation again. 

“I could use one of your toys on you,” he suggested. Your eyes fluttered as you played that particular image in your mind. “Or I could use my fingers …” You noticed his hands weren’t even on you at this point—just the tip of his nose still kissing your cheek, which you nuzzled back against him. “I could use my mouth …”

“Your fingers,” you decided without thinking. He pulled away to meet your eyes. “I can’t stop kissing you, but I want—”

His mouth claimed yours, putting you and your incoherency out of its misery, and he lowered you back to the mattress. You found that perfect harmony again so easily, lips moving in unison, tongues trading dominance, and he swallowed your groan as his hand snuck under your shirt, splaying across your belly. His skin was so hot and rough, a stark contrast from the smooth, cool rings on his fingers. He left his hand there a moment, and you assumed he was testing the waters. You tugged at his bottom lip with your teeth, granting the unasked question, and his hand finally started moving south.

“If you want me to stop,” Damian mumbled against your lips.

“I know,” you whispered, tugging his mouth back to yours.

His hand continued on, fingers slipping under the waistband of your panties, and you were suddenly so incredibly thankful you’d shaved recently. Damian’s middle finger slid down and between your folds, slipping around your clit, and your back arched every bit of three feet off the bed. More or less. Damian sighed, the sound laced with relief, as his fingers continued making slow circles around the bundle of nerves that had you coming utterly unglued.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” Damian mumbled into your mouth. “I was worried you wouldn’t …” He trailed off.

You clutched his jaw, pushing him away just enough to look him dead in the eye. “Me too,” you whispered, “but clearly—” You glanced down at his length, which was still poking impressively against the towel. You had an urge to just lift the towel and confirm what you already knew to be true—that he was huge, and you’d probably made the right decision avoiding letting him inside you—but you didn’t. “—we were both worried about nothing.”

He kissed you again, stealing a moan and a sigh, giving one in return when you rolled her hips against his fingers. That long, thick middle finger of his skidded further down your clit until your pussy all but absorbed it. Your jaw dropped, a feminine whine escaping your lips, and you had one arm around Damian’s neck and the other hand was cupping his face, holding him as closely to you as was physically possible. He chuckled wickedly as he curled his finger, effortlessly finding another spot, sending your back arching again. You couldn’t remember the last time he’d done this for you—you couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done it for you, including yourself—but you knew deep down, somewhere, that Damian did it the best. He was attentive, talented, with many tricks up his sleeve with regard to finger movement and placement as well the fine art of kissing. He had only one goal: to make you cum as hard as he ever had before, and if he continued the way he was, that would happen sooner rather than later.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, the irony of those two words not lost on you. “Please.”

“I got you, sweet girl,” Damian promised, simply petting and teasing that spot within you like he’d been there before, many, many times. He kissed your lips before moving to your cheek, earlobe, and neck. “Te tengo.” You didn’t know what he meant, but you wanted to hear him say it for the rest of your life, and your hips seemed to agree as they undulated, rolling in ways you didn’t even know you were capable of. 

“I’m gonna cum,” you gasped suddenly. Surely you’d never reached orgasm this quickly before, but there it was, building deep within your belly, tightening your lower back as your hips accelerated. “Please, Damian, I’m gonna cum …” 

“Yes,” Damian sighed, burying his face in your neck just in case he started blubbering like a fool right before he made you cum. You knew his name, yes, he’d heard you say it since the injury, but nothing compared to the breathlessness with which you moaned it during such an intimate moment. 

“Fuck,” you squeaked, your fiancé’s thumb flicking at your clit, and with each flick you repeated the obscenity. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”

And just before you did, you lifted Damian’s face to yours so you could secure his lips, and therefore secure the impending mind-blowing orgasm. You couldn’t recall the last time you’d cum, but you’d bet your life savings—wait, did you even have savings?—that this was the ultimate orgasm. The best you’d ever had. The wettest you’d ever been.

Speaking of wet … Damian delicately removed his fingers from your pussy, the squelching of your juices the loudest sound in the entire universe, just before the sound of the waistband of your panties smacking against your skin. Your lips separated with an equally lewd noise and you watched with blown pupils as he lifted his soaked hand to his mouth, his own black eyes meeting yours. “Do you mind?” he growled.

You licked your lips, blinking. “Only if you share.”

Damian tilted his head before shaking it, smirking, and he tapped the drenched tip of his middle finger along your lower lip. You sucked the digit into your mouth, tasting him, tasting you, tasting the flavor that was both of you, twisting your tongue in every direction to make sure you didn’t leave a drop behind. Once you had the finger completely clean of your delicious—if you did say so yourself—essence, he pulled his thumb into his mouth, the one that had been massaging your aching clit, and his cheeks hollowed. You’d never seen anything sexier (that you could remember) than Damian Priest, your fiancé, sucking your cum off his own thumb.

“So sweet,” he mumbled, your lips coming together in something soft, something needy, something electric, and something goddamn addicting.

જ⁀➴°⋆ Gatita — Kitten જ⁀➴°⋆ Te tengo — I've got you

[pinklotushere]

Five times someone was flustered by nightwing, and the one time it was by dick grayson

That is not to say dick doesn't charm people,he absolutely does, I just think nightwing is very different from dick if you know what I mean, he's got a certain charm that makes me want to rip my heart out and offer it to him

1

The café was dimly lit, its neon “Open Late” sign buzzing softly in the quiet Blüdhaven night. A handful of customers sipped their drinks in peace until the door slammed open, and a masked mugger stormed in, waving a gun.

“Everyone down! Empty the register!” he barked, his voice jittery.

The young barista froze, fumbling with the cash drawer as the customers cowered behind tables. Her hands shook so badly that coins clattered to the floor.

“Move faster!” the mugger yelled, slamming his hand on the counter.

“Maybe try saying ‘please,’” a voice quipped from above.

The mugger spun around just in time to see Nightwing drop from the rafters, landing with feline grace.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“its a cafe,” he said, twirling his escrima sticks. “And you’re ruining coffee night, pal.”

The mugger lunged, but Nightwing dodged easily, knocking the gun out of his hand with a sharp crack. A quick sweep of the leg sent the man sprawling, and within seconds, he was zip-tied to a chair.

The barista stared, wide-eyed, as Nightwing approached her. “You okay?”

“Y-yeah,” she stammered, brushing a curl from her face. “Thanks, Hot—uh, Nightwing. Sorry, I didn’t mean—"

“Hotwing, huh?” He raised an eyebrow, fighting back a grin. “That’s a new one.”

Her face turned scarlet. “Oh my god, I didn’t mean to say that out loud!”

“Relax,” he said, chuckling as he adjusted his escrima stick on his back and took a peek at her nametag. “Emily, right? You’re good under pressure. Just maybe work on the nicknames.”

She managed a laugh as he turned toward the door. “Thanks again!”

“Anytime,” he called back, disappearing into the night.

2

The apartment building glowed orange against the midnight sky, flames devouring the upper floors. Sirens blared as firefighters scrambled to douse the inferno, but a group was trapped on the fifth floor, coughing and struggling to find an escape.

“Hang tight!” a voice called through the smoke.

The firefighters looked up to see Nightwing emerging from a shattered window, his silhouette framed by the flickering firelight.

“Everyone still breathing?” he asked, scanning the room.

“Yeah, but we’re trapped!” one of the firefighters said. “Ceiling came down behind us!”

“Not a problem.” Nightwing fired his grappling hook, securing it to a stable beam. “Let’s get you out of here.”

As he helped the first firefighter across the rope line, the man stammered, “Holy crap, you’re really Nightwing! I—uh—I’m a huge fan!”

“Appreciate it,” Nightwing said, steadying him. “Now focus on not looking down, okay?”

Once they were all safely outside, the fanboy firefighter turned to his team, still buzzing with excitement.

“Did you see him? He’s even cooler in person!”

The others burst into laughter, and Nightwing, perched on a nearby ledge, called down, “You’re making me blush.” He gave a two-fingered salute before disappearing into the shadows.

3

The moonlight filtered through the trees of Blüdhaven Park, casting long, eerie shadows. Nightwing had just subdued a thief when he noticed someone sitting on a bench nearby, illuminated by the soft glow of a portable lamp.

The young woman was sketching furiously, glancing up at him every few seconds. When she realized he’d spotted her, she froze, her pencil hovering mid-air.

“Nice night for art,” Nightwing said, strolling over.

“Uh… yeah,” she stammered, clutching her sketchpad like a shield.

“What are you working on?”

She hesitated, then flipped the pad around to show him. The drawing captured him mid-leap, his escrima sticks glowing, his movements frozen in perfect, exaggerated detail.

“Wow,” he said, genuinely impressed. “That’s incredible.”

“You think so?” she asked, her cheeks reddening. “I thought I might’ve overdone it…”

He tilted his head, studying the sketch. “Maybe a bit on the muscles, but hey, I’m not complaining.”

She laughed nervously. “Artistic choice?”

“Exactly.” He smiled. “You’ve got talent. Keep at it."

“Thanks,” she said softly.

As he turned to leave, she called out, “Wait! Can I give this to you?”

“Sure,” he said, accepting the sketch. “But only if you sign it. Gotta keep it authentic.”

Her face lit up as she scribbled her name at the bottom. He gave her a wink before vanishing into the night.

4

The clinic was quiet, its fluorescent lights flickering against the darkened windows. Nightwing leaned against the counter, holding a hand over the shallow cut on his arm.

“Can I help—oh!” the nurse gasped, nearly dropping her clipboard when she saw him.

“Sorry,” he said with a sheepish grin. “Didn’t mean to scare you.

“You’re Nightwing!” she blurted, then immediately cringed. “I mean, obviously you’re Nightwing. Sorry! Uh, what do you need?”

“Just a quick patch-up,” he said, lifting his arm. “Nothing too serious.”

She nodded, her hands trembling as she grabbed the supplies. “Sit here, please.”

He perched on the exam table, watching as she cleaned the wound. Her hands steady as she worked.

“You sure I’m not making you nervous?” he teased.

“What? No!” she said quickly, then winced. “Okay, maybe a little. It’s not every night you stitch up a superhero.”

“Fair point,” he said with a grin.

As she tightened the last stitch, he winced.

“Oh no! Did I hurt you?” she asked, looking horrified.

“Not at all,” he said quickly. “You’re doing great.”

She finished and handed him a lollipop from a nearby jar. “For being brave.”

He laughed, tucking it into his belt. “Thanks, doc. I'll eat it with pride.”

5

The night sky over Blüdhaven was clear for once, the stars twinkling above a rooftop wedding. Strings of fairy lights bathed the intimate gathering in a soft glow, and the bride and groom had just started their first dance when chaos erupted.

Three armed men burst onto the rooftop, shouting orders.

“Hands in the air! Phones and wallets, now!” one of them barked, his gun waving wildly.

Guests gasped, clutching each other in fear. The bride clung to her groom, her veil fluttering in the breeze as she whispered, “What do we do?”

Before anyone could answer, a grappling hook hissed through the air.

“Sorry to crash your party,” Nightwing said as he swung in, landing right between the thugs and the wedding party. “But I’m not a fan of uninvited guests.”

The first thug lunged, but Nightwing dodged with ease, disarming him in a heartbeat. The second went for his gun, only to get an escrima stick to the wrist. By the time the third thug turned to run, Nightwing had already tripped him with a spin-kick.

The bride and groom stared, wide-eyed, as Nightwing zip-tied the men and turned back to the guests.

“Everyone okay?” he asked, brushing off his gloves.

The bride stepped forward, her dress shimmering in the light, face slightly flushed “We are, thanks to you. You saved our wedding!”

“Glad I could help,” Nightwing said, his grin warm. He glanced at the decorations. “Nice setup, by the way. Love the string lights.”

“Stay for cake?” the groom asked, half-joking, his face suspiciously warm.

Nightwing chuckled. “Tempting, but I’m on the clock. Congrats, though!”

As he turned to leave, the bride called after him, “Wait! At least let us take a photo! You’re part of our night now."

He hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Alright, but just one.”

The guests quickly gathered, and someone snapped the shot: the bride and groom in the centre, with Nightwing standing behind them, his arms crossed, and a playful smirk on his face.

“Thanks again,” the bride said as Nightwing stepped back.

“Anytime,” he replied, disappearing into the shadows.

+1

The mall was bustling with weekend shoppers, the hum of conversation, and the jingling of a carousel filling the air. Dick was taking a rare day off, dressed casually in jeans and a leather jacket, sipping a coffee as he strolled through the crowd.

A small voice caught his attention.

“mama? Mama?”

Dick turned to see a little girl standing near a fountain, clutching a stuffed bunny to her chest, her wide eyes brimming with tears. She couldn’t have been older than five.

“Hey there,” he said gently, crouching to her level. “You lost?”

She nodded, sniffling. “I can’t find my mommy.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll find her,” Dick said with a reassuring smile. “What’s your name?”

“Lila,” she whispered.

“Hi, Lila. I’m Dick.” He held out his hand, and she took it hesitantly. “Now, let’s go find your mom. Do you remember what she was wearing?”

“A pink sweater,” Lila said, clutching his hand tightly as they weaved through the crowd.

It didn’t take long before Dick spotted a frantic-looking woman near the food court, scanning the area with wide eyes.

“Lila!” the woman called, relief flooding her face as she spotted them. She rushed over, dropping to her knees to hug her daughter tightly. “Oh my goodness, I was so worried!”

“Mama!” Lila cried, wrapping her arms around her mother.

The woman looked up at Dick, her cheeks flushed. “Thank you so much! I don’t know what I would’ve done if—” She cut of, suddenly realizing who he was.

“You’re… Dick Grayson?” she asked, her eyes widening.

Dick laughed, scratching the back of his neck. “That’s me. I’m just glad I could help.”

The woman’s face turned an even deeper shade of red. “I… uh… Wow, okay. Thank you. Really. You’re—uh—taller in person.”

He raised an eyebrow, his grin turning slightly playful. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She laughed nervously, still flustered. “I didn’t mean to—sorry! I’m a little overwhelmed."

“No need to apologize,” he said warmly. “I’m just glad Lila’s safe.”

“Thank you again,” she said, glancing between him and her daughter. “You’re a real hero.”

Dick gave a small wave to Lila, who beamed up at him. “You’re welcome. Stay close to your mom, okay?”

“I will!” Lila said, hugging her bunny tightly.

As Dick walked away, the woman muttered under her breath, “Of course he’s ridiculously nice, too.” She shook her head, still blushing, as she scooped up her daughter and headed home.

[vhyunjinverse]

BABY DADDY .ᐟ

f!reader x toji fushiguro (18+)

summary : “Fuck you Toji!” “Fuck me..? FUCK YOU.” God you hated him so much.

warnings : toji calls reader a bitch and finds out, slapping, reader cries, sex while pregnant, slight angst, a cute little fic

“..It should be “Thank you, Toji. Oh i just love you so much.”

He looks at your angry face, scar rising as he couldn’t hold back the cocky smirk. His eyes trail down to your little round belly, four months swollen. “Thank you? Thank you? I’m fuckin pregnant dumbass!”

“Nothing wrong with ya carryin my seed. You can take a break from work for 9 months. Calm the fuck down.” He grumbles, grabbing a cigarette from his pocket. “Calm down? I can’t just take months off- I model dumbass.”

“And you modeled for me one day and look what happened, I knocked you up.” Not to mention the engagement ring you wore. You’ve been together for almost three years he’s head over heels for you. “Calm the hell down.” He’s reaching over to pat you on your head. “Gonna give ‘Gumi the crazies.”

“No- you don’t understand. I don’t wanna become a housewife-“

“I wanna still be the model I was- no—you don’t get it Toji you’re a man— baby. We have this chat once a month.” He quotes you almost perfectly. Smoke leaving his lips. “Quit yr’ bitchin-“ SLAP !the sound loud ringing in your ears, hand colliding with his face faster than you’ve ever moved before.

“Fuck you Toji!”

“Fuck me..? FUCK YOU.” God you hated him so much. Your eyes watered, but you were a strong little thing. That’s what Toji liked about you..one of many things. Like how when you first met he was just a guy in the crowd watching you strut down the aisle, smirk on his face as he sketched in a notepad. An artist he wanted to be..you learned that after getting to know him. Your eyes glance over to the notepad page, framed on your wall but showing signs of age.

You also thought of what he actually was..the son of your boss. He didn’t have much money when you met, looks could always fool you..so sweet you were. That didn’t bother you much though. It wasn’t his fault his father blocked his success. His art, your love. You watch as Toji puts out the cigarette, cursing to himself as he started to walk away from you.

“Wh- don’t walk away from me we’re not done.” You follow him. He sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Yes we are.”

“No we’re not-“

“I’m not gonna keep doing this every month. We had time to..we decided to keep the baby and now you’re complaining about the damn kid!” He turns to you, blue eyes staring sadly at your brown ones. Instinctively reaching down to graze your cheek. “I know you don’t like it mama..” he murmurs. You sniffle softly, leaning into the touch you fell in love with. Your eyes close as he felt closer. His lips grazing over your chin and neck. Toji’s hands wrapped around your body.

He held you both. “It’s your fault.” you sob into his embrace. He couldn’t hold back the small smile littering his lips. “Takes two ta tango?” he wipes your eyes, kissing the tears away. “Mhm..” you found yourself sniffling. He rubbed over your swollen belly. “Gumi be nice to mama alright? Stressin’ her out.” He whispers to the baby.

“M’sorry..” He whispers again, his strong hands guiding you into his body. “How could I be so bad? Getting such a perfect little thing knocked up..filled up with my baby. How could I have done such a thing..” He coos.

He leans up to kiss your lips, thumb swiping at the fallen tears. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, y’know?” Toji stands up straight, bringing your body into his. He rubbed your back while you cried softly into his chest, how you wrapped your arms around the love of your life…he was everything. He knew you meant no harm, he also knew to watch his mouth but still failed. “You’re going to be perfect- we’re gonna be a perfect lil family okay?”

“Cmere mama..” He had you trapped. You loved him too fucking much to let go.

“Be gentle.” You had huffed. “Damnit I am- shut up.” He had huffed back, playful smile on his lips while the thick head of his cock slipping between your folds. Toji held back while you were pregnant- he had no choice- being the rough guy that he was. It’s how you go here in the first place, hell. The scar on his lips danced as he moaned softly, bottoming out. He didn’t go in all the way, though. His tongue lapped at your growing breast. Nipples being flicked by his tongue, hips still.

“Missed this..” you close your eyes, breathing softly while he started to move. His hands were on either side of your head, tightly fisted the sheets. You could tell he was doing his best not to pound you. “Mm..” Your head relaxes on the big pillow beneath your head. Toji’s face tucks into your neck, cock slipping out past your ring. He was a mess. The cum that leaked should be a crime. You’d tease him about it later. He slips back in just as easily, biting down gently on your neck. “Gonna take care of you, alright?” He mumbles.

“Yeah yeah.”

[becertainlust]

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who is whispered about with the kind of reverence usually reserved for legends—think Galliano meets Alexander McQueen, but darker, smoother, and infinitely more elusive.

He didn’t go to fashion school. He didn’t intern under anyone. He emerged out of nowhere—an underground gem of a debut show held in an abandoned cathedral in Florence. Ten looks. Ten models. Candlelit. Every piece hand-stitched, laced with real silver thread and monograms only visible under moonlight. People thought it was a myth until Vogue Italia dropped an exclusive feature titled:

“The Lingerie Saint Has Arrived.”

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who is more than a designer — he is an artist of intimacy, a storyteller through silk, lace, and silhouette. With every piece he creates, Suguru weaves emotion into fabric, tailoring not just to bodies, but to souls. He believes that beauty speaks many languages — and his mission is to make women feel beautiful in all of them.

From Tokyo to Paris, Lagos to São Paulo, his creations have turned runways into temples of self-love. Each design is a love letter to femininity — powerful, soft, wild, sacred. His talent quickly caught the attention of the world, landing him on magazine covers, international talk shows, and fashion panels. But despite his meteoric rise, it’s his humility and warmth that continue to captivate everyone he meets.

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who is so deep in the art medium pulling ethereal designs that catches many off guard and cause him to rise above the rest and whose inbox is flooded with an offers to take the creative directors seat by various fashion brands. He has a right to become picky but in the end decides to establish his own name.

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who attends events after event, never growing tired of meeting new faces and hearing fresh ideas and conversing with new people. Quite the extrovert in the midst of his interests. God forbid he's actually excited 'You're really a conversative person Mr. Suguru' the interviewer giggled and he would have the prettiest smile that the viewers would gush much about across the media #suguru'ssmile trending for an entire month.

Lingeremaker! Suguru who when he sees you—you, gliding effortlessly through the chaos of the room, framed by golden light—who stops dead in his sentence brows knitting in frustration, hushing up the white haired model, that never seems to learn the word silence at crucial times Gojo screws his face up as Suguru claims he can't see you properly as he yapped on. 'who is that'

With a raised brow he pushes his hand away from his line of vision, 'Marketing agent, one of the best in the fashion world' he would whip his head back to Gojo in disbelief 'not a model?' Gojo would scoff throwing his hand around the male 'what you like what you see, I can set you up"

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who rejected Gojo's help, downplaying his interest in you on the spot. But he should have known better than leave his personal sketches and scribbles around his studio unguarded mentally punching himself for not storing latest works higher and further from his lanky ass.

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who later that night, long after the champagne glasses clinked and cameras dimmed, he’d find himself at his sketch table again, candles flickering, Gold thread unraveling beside him. Your silhouette haunts him. Not in a ghostly way—but in the kind of way muses do.

Pages fill. The collection changes. The theme shifts from “Divinity” to “She Who Walks Like Daybreak.”

When asked on a French morning show what inspired the shift, Suguru simply says: “I saw someone who reminded me that beauty doesn't beg to be seen—it just arrives, and the world rearranges around it.”

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who receives a message for Gojo late at night as he is sorting his pallet for the collection, 'i told you I got your back' which Suguru responds with a question mark before concluding that he was weird for the gazillion time shaking his head then turned his attention back to his computer screen, the soft light lit hitting his face.

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who the next morning would be woken up by his blaring door bell throughout the condo and when he switches on his camera and see's your face his eyes, done pops out of his head. 'what the fuck'

thinking of making this a fully fleshed fanfic series with smut on both ao3 and here.

[bloodchapell]

loved to meet you — senku i.

brief summary: thinking about model!reader x senku

what to expect: suggestive content, all lowercase

your sword's note: little drable for my senku brainrot 🫶🏻, yk the drill, more on my mistresslist

before petrification you were a really famous model, despite being a shy nerd your beauty surpassed every other model's and you were a favorite for many designers and brands.

"where did you get discovered?" the reporter asks you in the interview.

"it was actually a convention." you answer laughing. "i was not cosplaying or anything."

after life is resumed in the stone age, you start modeling yuzuriha's clothes, she is so excited to have you model her clothes that she approaches you, only to be met with an unrealistically, serving, lethal face card. she is dazzled and walks away shyly without even speaking. you turn around to your coworker to wiggle excitedly at having met one of the members of the kingdom of science.

"rumor goes that despite being a total babe, you are a pro-gamer." minami asks.

"yeah." you shift around. "i am a pretty looking loser."

"well tell us, you are one of the most famous models of the world yet you haven't publicly dated anyone. is there a secret lover?" the blonde asks with a smile.

"not really." you push the frame of your glasses up your nose and smile at the camera.

"what about a celebriry crush?"

"a celebrity crush?" you think for a second, "senku ishigami, i would love to meet him."

somewhere else, the entire room breaks into laughter. initially yuzuriha had turned on the tv to watch the interview minami was doing with you, telling taiju how she had met you but chickened out and didn't talk to you because you had such a striking beauty that she was intimidated. ryusui walked into the room and immediately pointed out that you took the victory of the championship of a videogame against him before petrification. looked like you were a total loser blessed by the gods. they kept watching the interview and when minami asked about your love life and you replied, everyone broke into laughter.

"senku has always been popular!" taiju exclaimed remembering their high school days.

the scientists is not baffled. he won't lie and say you aren't a goddess, but it's not like he cares, he has real important stuff to take care of rather than paying attention to this kinds of stuff.

next fashion week, yuzuriha invites senku to her show. by that point you already got the courage of talking to her and she was fascinated to come to learn that despite having such a striking beauty you were a kind and smart person. you instantly became close and you would praise the other one for her work.

"she is my muse!" yuzuriha jumps around grabbing taiju's hands.

nonetheless you open her show. the most beautiful piece she has ever made, delicately put like an art piece for you to showcase it. she is sitting front row with her taiju, senku and nikki, excited talking about her concept for the collection, they listen with attention until the show starts. you walk out with a rythm so precise that it's hypnotic. at the end of the walk you kneel down by yuzuriha and ask for her hand, which you kiss. it was already planned (though poor yuzuriha didn't know and almost died of excitement), and it went flawless until you got distracted by the sight beside her. your eyes met with the crimson of senku's and it took every fiber in your body to not lose it. you then stood up and walked back, waiting backstage to change since you were also closing the show (that is how much yuzu loved you).

at the end of the show, you walk out with yuzuriha as they do in fashion shows, the designer and her muse.

"you did amazing!" she jumps excited once the show is over. "i was not expecting the hand kiss."

"we all had it planned." you wink at her putting your glasses back on, only to go back to your usual shy demeanor when you remember what happened. "i actually made eye contact with him, it was really difficult to pretend nothing happened."

"you are really professional." she pats your back.

after the event, there is a private celebration, some of the models and crew members that are close with yuzuriha and her friends of course.

"ha! we meet again." ryusui clicks his fingers.

"hello." you wave shyly, your 10/10 body adorned by a dress made by yours truly yuzuriha.

you chat for a little with ryusui, some of the members of the kingdom of science pry in the conversation with an eyebrow raised (ginro get out) but surprisingly your takk with ryusui is strictly about videogames. it could have gone forever and none of you would have minded but yuzuriha grabbed your hand and took you with her.

"you will finally meet taiju!" with a smile yuzuriha says, you smile too, having heard wonders of taiju, "and you will meet senku too."

your smile slowly fades away into a disgraceful grin of nervousness and even though you try to free yourself from yuzuriha's gentle but firm grasp, it is too late.

"she is prettier in person right?" yuzuriha pats your back knowing exactly what she is doing.

taiju nods agreeing and senku simply huffs. your eyes meet his again and you dissolve back into your middle school self, an embarrassed girl fidgeting with her rings.

you sit with them and talk with yuzuriha and taiju, ignoring senku or otherwise your brain might shortcut. after a while, yuzuriha says she and taiju forgot something and even though taiju denies forgetting anything, she takes him and leaves.

oh how you love yuzuriha, but she was crazy for that. you sit quietly while senku looks at you.

"so you can announce something like that on tv but in person you are a shy mess." he affirms folding his arms.

"as a public figure i must be professional." you say pushing your glasses up the bridge of your nose.

"doesn't feel like you are loving to meet me."

you finally lift your gaze to meet his. in that point what else is a girl to do but to explode, having THE senku ishigami face to face, with his little damn mischievous grin on his lips and his eyes scanning you.

your heart beats fast in your chest. you don't find anything else to play with to have your hands busy.

"i admire you a lot..." you start but he cuts you off.

"i don't care about these formalities, let's go straight to the point." his hands on the table and a serious face, "i heard you beat the 2017 version."

you immediately know what he is talking about, your whole demeanor changes. he was referring to a video game that was notoriously complicated and very few could complete. by that point you kinda forgot what was happening (meeting your crush) and simply let yourself go on about the game. he listened attentively and groaned annoyed at himself when you revealed the methods you used to finish the game that seemed obvious now but he didn't realize before.

later on, when the party is at its peak, yuzuriha seems to realize you are nowhere to be found. she looks for you and gives up when she doesn't find you, retouching her makeup in the bathroom.

in one of the stalls, senku holds your waist with one of his hands while the other one covers your mouth very gently. you look at each other with a mix of fear and excitement and once you both hear the door close, his hand on your mouth leaves and you both let out a chuckle.

...

after the talk and a few drinks that francois kept delivering to you both, you went outside for a second to catch some air, a little overwhelmed by the loud music. when you were walking back in, wearing some insane heels i may add, you tripped and senku happened to stop you from falling. you stayed for a good while in his arms before for some reason (clearly the alcohol) you unanimously reached for each other and kissed. his hands were still on your waist that he held on as he pushed his lips on yours, knowing faintly that he probably shouldn't be doing this. when you separated to breath again, he took in the image of a disheveled angel that was blushing insanely with her little glasses tilted and her lips glossy and that alone drove him to kiss you again. it took you some time to digest what was happening but once you did you gently held onto his neck and corresponded the kiss back, caging his bottom lip with yours as he matched the action with your top lip, his hands firmly grabbing onto your waist. for a second you opened your eyes and found him looking at you, you both laughed.

in some way or another you found yourselves in the woman's bathroom, you sitting on the sink and him taking your heels off. he left them on the floor, for a second just looking at you and admiring your allure. it came to him for a second the fact that he was drunk and acting irrationally, but he found himself tangled in your arms again, holding your neck with one hand and resting his other hand on the sink. slowly as the kiss deepened and your legs started to pull him closer to you, and your head tilted to the side to let his tongue play with yours, his other hand ran to your back, pulling you closer between the edge of the sink but having his body preventing you from falling. when you stopped the kiss to breath again, you could see his daring eyes dance over your face analyzing your features with detail, only to lean in and whisper sweet nothings to your lips before going back to kiss you hungrily. his lips had already started trailing their way to your neck when you both heard yuzuriha's steps so he picked you up, went into the closest stall and closed the door, making you stand on his shoes and holding you so you wouldn't fall.

once she left and you shared a little laugh, you tried to kiss him again but he put his hand in between. "we are drunk, if i am going to do this i will do it right."

that made you smile. you didn't get what he meant until the next day when you woke up besides yuzuriha in her apartment.

"what happened?" you rub your eyes disoriented.

"you got wasted." the brunette says rolling around.

you yawn and go to the kitchen for a cup of water, checking your phone to see the time. a message in your mailbox steals your attention though and you are left to squirm excited.

tell me when a date sounds fine. loved to meet you.

[cece693]

mano mažylė (Father! Hannibal Lecter)

Felt like writing something angsty and then combined with my obsession of the Hannibal tv show, I questioned what it would be like for a child to be raised by Hannibal. A tiny snot covered child who is scared of the dark but as they grow up realize their father is a cannibalistic serial killer....or maybe not?

Summary: How would things turn out if Hannibal raised a child on his own? Not that good.

tags: Hannibal is a father, he's a flawed person, mistakes are made, running away, Abigail is still hated by me so she'll be an antagonist, maybe a part 2 is on it's way

The world believed you were God’s favorite, born into privilege as the only child of Dr. Hannibal Lecter. But you knew better. You loathed him. Loathed the man who shared half your DNA while the other half remained a shadow, an enigma lost to time.

It hadn’t always been this way. As a child, you adored him. You wanted his approval, his praise, his love—simple things every child should receive without question. But Hannibal Lecter had never been a good father. Not in the way that mattered.

He excelled at maintaining appearances. Your clothes were immaculate, your education rigorous, your home a work of art. Yet, for all his brilliance and sophistication, Hannibal seemed incapable of the simplest acts of fatherly affection. He never hugged you, not once in your memory. He never showed kindness that didn’t come with calculated precision, and he certainly never sought to enjoy the small, fleeting moments between a father and child.

The small drawings you'd create for him—depictions of the two of you together, your childish hand scrawling smiles and hearts—would be shoved into his desk drawer without a second glance, never hung on the walls or displayed on the fridge like other parents might. When you cried after a particularly bad nightmare, he would send you back to your room with a simple wave of his hand, his attention already elsewhere. No comfort, no embrace, no whispered assurances that it was only a dream.

Nothing you did ever produced an ounce of affection from him. But his place in Baltimore's social circle? That was another matter entirely. He prioritized his social image over the bond you craved. Dinners with influential guests, exquisite banquets, and whispered conversations about art and philosophy filled the house while he'd dismissed you to your room. The door would shut with a firm finality, his deep voice ringing with calm authority: “Go upstairs.”

Even as a child, you felt the sting of that rejection. The lavish dinners he painstakingly prepared were not for you. The carefully cultivated relationships he cherished were more valuable to him than the one he should have been building with you. You were an accessory in his meticulously curated life, a piece of his narrative rather than a person to be loved.

The resentment you buried for years began to boil over when Hannibal brought Abigail Hobbs into your home. For reasons you couldn’t understand, he treated her differently. He gave her his time, his attention—things you had long since stopped hoping for. Hannibal had even invited her into his sacred space—the kitchen. You watched from the doorway, unseen but seething, as he guided her hands on a knife, showing her how to properly julienne vegetables, his voice soft and patient. It was a thing you had only observed from afar, never experienced.

And then came the final blow—the moment that shattered the thin thread holding your heart together. You watched as Hannibal embraced Abigail, his arms wrapping securely around her small frame. One hand cradled the back of her head, his touch tender and protective, as if she were the most fragile thing in the world.

Where was this Hannibal when you needed him? Where had this version of him been when you were the child longing for his love?

You couldn’t stay. Not in that house. Not with the reminder of what he was capable of giving but had chosen not to give to you. So, you ran. You left without looking back, vowing to never forgive him for the years of cold detachment, for the love he had withheld, for the way he made you feel like an afterthought in your own life.

For Hannibal, destruction was all he knew. It was an art, a purpose, a calling. But the day he first gazed upon you—his child, swaddled in soft blankets, your tiny hand grasping his shirt—something unfamiliar stirred within him. Adoration. Pride. Perhaps even love, though he would never admit it, not even to himself.

He had never envisioned himself as a father. For all his meticulous planning, the idea of parenthood had been an abstraction, an unthinkable detour from the life he had carefully constructed. Yet, when the mother of his child informed him of your existence, a quiet certainty settled over him: you were his.

He killed her shortly after. It was nothing personal—just necessity. Hannibal Lecter did not share. He would not allow anyone else to claim you, to influence you, to take you from him. You were his blood, his creation, and that meant you belonged to him entirely.

Still, Hannibal recognized his own darkness. He knew the shadows that lingered in his mind, the hunger that defined him, were no place for an innocent child. For all his pride, a part of him hoped you would never become like him. He wanted to preserve your purity, your light, even if it meant keeping a careful distance. So, when he saw you gaining independence—first as an inquisitive toddler, then as a fiercely determined child—he began to step back. Slowly, deliberately.

He ensured you were safe and had everything you needed to prosper. The finest tutors, the best schools, the most luxurious comforts. Yet, he withheld what you truly craved: love, warmth, and connection. He refused to give you what might make you look deeper, what might tempt you to uncover the cracks in his mask. He feared that if you saw the real him, you would recoil in terror. And Hannibal, for all his control and detachment, could not bear the thought of you fearing him.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t fond of you. Quite the opposite. Hannibal cherished you in his own way, quietly and from a distance. All the small drawings you made for him as a child—brightly colored stick figures of the two of you, accompanied by phrases like “Me and Daddy!” or “Best Dad in the World!”—he carefully kept. He never displayed them, of course. That would have disrupted the pristine aesthetic of his home. Instead, he tucked them into a leather folder, hidden away in his bedroom.

When you were away at school, he would pull them out. Alone in the quiet of his space, he would trace the lines of your messy handwriting, pausing over the parts where you had clearly erased and rewritten to make it perfect. Those small, clumsy marks filled him with something unnameable—an ache that he would not call regret but might have been close to longing.

It was those words—Best Dad in the World—that kept him firm in his decision. He would not let the innocence in you fade. He would shield you from the world’s horrors and, more importantly, from his own.

But then he brought Abigail Hobbs into their house, and everything crumbled.

Hannibal had known it would stir some jealousy. Abigail was, after all, an interloper in your space, stealing his attention. He imagined it would be a passing irritation, something that could be soothed with time. What he failed to anticipate was how deeply her presence would cut. Abigail was not like you. She wasn’t innocent. Her father’s sins had already tainted her, and that darkness—the one she carried so naturally—was something Hannibal understood, even appreciated.

He allowed himself to envision a future: Abigail as your sister, a young woman who could carry the weight of his world without breaking. He imagined the two of you sitting together at his table, becoming a family that would include his dearest Will Graham. It was a beautiful picture, one he painted with great care in his mind. But Hannibal, so enraptured by this fantasy, failed to detect the resentment growing within you.

Your heart, already heavy with years of neglect, bloomed with fresh anger and hatred. Abigail had taken what little space you had in his world and filled it with her presence, her pain, her dark reflections of the fatherly affection you had longed for.

The breaking point came one evening when dinner was ready, and you failed to appear. Hannibal ascended the stairs, his movements deliberate but heavy with irritation. He thought to find you sulking in your room, perhaps brooding over a perceived slight. But when he opened the door, the truth struck him like a blade.

The dresser drawers were open, several items missing. The window was slightly ajar, letting in a cool breeze that made the curtains flutter softly. Your phone rested on the bedside table, an unspoken declaration that you did not want to be found.

And then he saw it—the note scrawled across your mirror in bold, angry letters.

I hate you.

The black marker lines were thick and uneven, etched with trembling, furious hands. For a moment, Hannibal stood frozen, the words searing into him like fire. It wasn’t just the note. It was the empty space, the absence of your presence, the finality of the choice you had made.

He stepped further into the room, his eyes scanning the remnants of you. The room still smelled faintly of your presence, but it was hollow now, like a shell. A part of him wanted to reach out and erase the words, to undo the weight they carried, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood there, the perfect stillness of his body betraying the storm within.

Hannibal Lecter rarely felt regret. But as he gazed at the angry scrawl on the mirror, the open window, and the phone you had so carefully left behind, he felt something dangerously close to it.

He had wanted to protect you. To shield you. To preserve the light he saw in you. But instead, he had driven you away. And now, the silence of the house felt unbearable. For all his careful planning, for all his control, Hannibal Lecter had made a mistake and there was no correcting it.

[slvtforasht0n]

Jealousy, jealousy

title inspired by Olivia Rodrigo’s track on Sour

.✦ || Boyfriend!Ash x Reader

.✦ || This is your first time being a stagehand at your boyfriend and his band’s show. Even though you couldn’t watch him perform, a particular interaction between him and a female fan piqued your interest. You couldn’t help but look, ought to see what’s happening. Instead, jealousy gets the better of you once you see what’s really going on, your mood permanently shifted. At least, that’s what it felt like.

A/N: first half is highly based on that one interaction that happened in the 5SOS diaries. forever jealous of that girl lol. anyway, i hope you like what i’ve brought out for you for my first post ever. kinda always wanted a tumblr account to post every idea or blurb i get, but ya girl can be very very lazy sometimes.

inspired to write smut ever since i had wattpad. saying this loud and proud. loved duplicity, stall and malignant so there’s that random fact (turn it up for all the other harries/directioners reading this)

i don’t write that much so i’m still trying to improve wherever i need to. ps. english isn’t my first language, so if you do spot grammer/vocab mistakes, it’s not on me sista, still learning:3 sooo i guess i’ll just finish it off by saying this; sit back, relax and enjoy :^)

CONTENT WARNING: fluff & smut, praise kink, oral (m!receiving), spitting, sliiiight dirty talking

WORD COUNT: 5,2k

────୨ৎ────

As much as you hate your boyfriend in this moment— he wriggled his way to here. His hands all over your frame, reaching to every spot he can find, almost as if his hands have a mind of their own.

His kisses grow more impatient, needy and full of want. Drawing gentle circles against the small strip of bare skin on your back, making you both break the kiss apart with a small gasp.

You weren’t sure of your emotions. Did you want to continue and make him have his way with you? Or did you want to push him away and strangle the living hell out of him?

A faint whimper escapes your lips in between the kiss, his hand traveling down to the heat between your clothed legs. That feeling alone begs to differ. As much as you don’t want to admit to it. You still have that small abhor, but also intense jealousy from what happened prior to all of this.

He breaks the kiss apart, his eyes finding yours. The hazelly green forest almost dispersed into his black pupils, blown out and primed. Fuck… you think to yourself. He looks so provocatively striking, like an erotic sex-god, which is enough to drive you wild— both in a good and a bad way.

“Let me make it up to you, amore mio.” He prompts, his hands finding your waist again to pull you in closer, showing you how induced he is, the want and need inside of him written all over his face.

—

This day has been…chaotic, booked, a haywire of physical and mental exertion that drove you into madness. Almost. You only had a 20 minute break before going back to work, crew following along, five different people guffing into your earpiece that just rubs you the wrong way. Being irritated isn’t even slightly nearing to what you’re actually feeling.

Finally, you walked inside the venue, a moment of calm before the storm. Happy you can let your guard down for another minute or two. You take a deep breath, moving scenery and props along with two other crew members, joining in after your one true moment of silence.

Being a stagehand at a show of your own boyfriend is uncommon, just something you’re not really used to. You’re not sure if you’re able to keep your cool seeing Ashton on stage, beating those drums expertisely, face etched into pure concentration. You always found it to be a work of art, to see your boyfriend practicing at home or somewhere that isn’t on a stage.

But hey, you bite the bullet once it’s showtime, having to face away from the stage, meanwhile he’ll be there to steal the show.

The crew had cued that the band arrived several moments later, and as much as you want to run away to find him, you’re still stuck planning, discussing and arranging tonight’s act.

Hours have passed on and exhaustion seemed to get the better of you. The small gig now filled with a couple of thousands of fangirls, boys, moms, dads, you name it. Two thousand to be exact. You’re not sure if it makes you intrigued, or uncomfortable. Either way, you find yourself lucky you’re not in that crammed crowd.

Playing more intimate, smaller shows was out of the ordinary for the band, something they wouldn’t have done a year ago or two.

The show has started not long after, and your back is facing the stage, eyes on all of these screaming fangirls for their idols in front of them, hands in the air, phones recording, but mainly their loud screams that’s luckily muffled by your in-ears. All you could do is focus on the beat of the drums, imagining his every movement of prowess, how trickles of sweat is already forming on his forehead.

You don’t have it in you not to look, so you do. Just the smallest of sneak-peak. Though, his eyes immediately found yours, like all of his focus was on the back of your head this whole time. Your heart starts to pound faster against your chest, turning your head back to the crowd ahead. Just keep your cool… keep your cool— You have to remind yourself every minute. Or rather every second.

You’re glued to the spot, making sure everyone’s safe and sound. However, there’s a small interaction going on between a fan and… Ashton. His voice being heard through the microphone gives you some sort of solace, your focal point on every pronunciation and syllable on the words that falls from his lips.

This particular interaction is focused on the fan’s cardboard sign, stipulating that it’s her twenty first birthday and now legal to drink, suggesting Ashton a shot. They expeditiously agree and brought the stunned girl up stage. Your eyes followed hers, turning around to look at the stage ahead. You didn’t have the heart in you to dismiss this and act like nothing’s going on.

Ashton’s change of demeanour, presence next to this fan, and just the overall vibes he’s got going on throws you right off the wall. It’s like he’s throwing her a curveball of coy behaviour, something that doesn’t sit right with you. It’s either that or you’re overthinking it. But then again, you might not be, especially having your eyes glued on him right now, watching him unfold into someone he’s not.

You hate it. You hated every second of it, watching the scene ahead. She gets to be the one giving your sweaty boyfriend a hug, a prolonged hug. Sharing a shot, looking into his eyes- him looking into her eyes. It’s like hot steams are blowing out of your ears by how much you hate seeing this with your own eyes. If it were possible, you’d throw Ashton’s drum kit right to his head out of spite and anger. You can’t believe him.

You’re definitely not overthinking, since you’ve picked up on him being ‘the man of the show’. Trying to seem more charming and appealing, in all the wrong ways. You know he loves getting this type of attention, boosts his ego in the wrong way and you’d love to just kick him right in the nuts.

Once the show’s over, you’re finally in your own privacy, changing your uniform to your day to day outerwear. A knock is heard on the door, catching you out of your hazy thoughts, while also feeling jealous and incensed. You open the door and you’re immediately knocked down with a feather.

“What are you doing here?” you utter, laced in a grim tone, not expecting to see his cheery face. Ashton stands in front of you, eyebrows raised by your surprising outburst.

“Checking in on my girlfriend. What else would I be doing?” He responds nonchalantly, entering the small room without needing to ask for permission. Of course he wouldn’t.

He runs a hand through his damp curls, looking around the room before looking back to you. It’s like he struggles to read you and why you’re not responding to him, why you’re facing away from him. “Hey…” He starts off, walking up to you and placing his hands on your waist, making you turn around to face him.

You push his hands off your body almost immediately, his eyes on stalks. “Baby, what’s wrong?” he counters, his eyes searching yours.

The more he acts this oblivious, the more you want to give into the idea of kicking him in the nuts and walking out of this room. You decide to just tell him before he’s going for the the well known question ‘are you on your period?’.

“The fuck was that up stage?” you angrily mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.

He seems confused, which is one more reason to be angry at him. How can he be so painfully heedless? You desperately need to just knock some sense into that thick skull of his.

“What?” he raises his arms in an ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ motion.

“Oh, so now you’ve got memory loss? Great.” you roll your eyes, facing the other way instead of him. Again. How can a human being manage to piss you off this much? It’s inane.

“Amore… tell me.” He waits for you to say something, anything at all, but all you do is stand there and glare, causing him to take a step closer to you. “Was it the girl who I did a shot with?”

Bingo.

You can’t help but roll your eyes again, as if it wasn’t that obvious why you’d be mad at him about that in the first place.

“Oh come on… Nothing happened, alright? Just did her a favour and probably made her whole night.”

“Yeah, right.” You bite back immediately, not buying any of the bullshit he’s spitting. You can’t even look him in the eyes. You’re deranged in anger, but also so confused and hurt. He’d never gone this close to a girl before in all the months you’ve been dating, so he surely needs to understand why you’re acting the way you are.

“Why are you making a big deal out of this?” he murmurs, managing to boil your blood to the point you could burn anything you touch into ashes.

“Are you kidding me, Ash?” you poss in vexation, glaring through his soul. Words can’t express how tense you’re getting and how much you want to wipe that foolish smirk off his face.

“Babe, you can’t be serious, can you?” He sneers, his eyes giving you a once over. You only let out a frustrated sigh, turning your back to him a third time.

You don’t know what he deserves more, a sucker punch right to his jaw or the infamous silent treatment. Maybe both could give him a well-earned reality check.

“Are you seriously mad about some measly fucking interaction? Really, Y/N?” he huffs, seeming more annoyed than amused this time. Which makes you, on the other hand, infuriated by even more rage.

The way he acts so unbothered is insufferable. You turn on your heel, facing him, an angry etched expression on your face he certainly can’t dismiss now. “You were flirting with her, you ass! Right in front of me!” You bark back, sick of his apathetic state. Just utterly sick of him.

“I wasn’t, Y/N! Why would you even think that?” he retorts, his obliviousness turning into annoyance, his arms now crossed over his chest as well.

You don’t respond, only letting out a spiteful scoff, shaking your head in disbelief.

“I really don’t see what’s wrong here. You have no reason to be mad at me. None.” he mutters, which is just the cherry on the cake, isn’t it? You let out another angry huff before turning on your heel and leaving him in the room, despite it being yours.

However, you’re not as quick as you thought you were as he catches your wrist, wrapping his hand around it and pulling you closer to him.

“Don’t run away from me, baby. None of that bullshit. Talk it out with me, curse me out, just don’t ever shut me out, okay?” he calmly explains, his eyes trained on yours with his eyebrows creased together in concentration on you. Only you. You take a deep breath, flicking your eyes in between his.

“Why were you flirting with that girl?” you ask after a long pause, your eyes focusing on that one curl that fell on his forehead.

“I wasn’t.” He responds, and it just made you feel even more obscured from this ridiculous situation that brought tension between you two.

You’re starting to think you might be overdoing it. Might be a bit of the jealous kind and just making this ought to paint you to be dramatic.

“Is that all you have to say?” you mask getting offended by his short, incoherent reply, just by answering repulsively back.

“What more can I say then? You’re making a mountain out of a molehill here.” He crosses his arms again, and it just messes with your head on what type of emotions and feelings are coursing through him. What his thought process is, ‘cause he’s doing everything he can to dismiss the issue. Dismissing your feelings that are as valid as can be. At least that’s what you wanna think.

“Never mind.” You pull away from his grip, sitting down at the nearest couch. You’re done trying to argue to a wall, because that’s the position you feel like you’re in, feeling trapped in a loophole if he continues to act this clueless.

He looks over at you, no remorse whatsoever, and that somehow rises more anger out of you, though you make sure you keep your poker-face. There’s no point anymore if he won’t try to understand you.

“Are ya really just gonna sit there and stare?” he asks. But after a long pause, he just knows there’s not going to be a reply.

“Silent treatment won’t solve anything, love.” he adds, looking at you across the room, his eyebrows furrowed as he runs his hand through his hair again.

“Y/N…Just quit it already, will ya?” he grows more annoyed and impatient by your attitude. However, nothing will make you utter out a word again. Not when he at least attempts to apologise.

“Fuck’s sake, Y/N… I don’t have time for this. I’m sorry, alright? I wasn’t flirting with the girl- would never do that.”

You think to yourself you might have overexaggerated on wanting an attempted apology, cause it just pisses you off even more.

“Talk to me…” he prompts, taking a few steps closer to you.

You don’t respond, and he takes it as some sort of indication to stride closer. He takes your hands in his, pulling you up to your feet and cupping your jaw, making sure you look him in the eyes. “Please?”

You hate him. You hate him so much you’re becoming a tough nut to crack, and he’s fully aware of that. He knows how stubborn and jealous you can get over the smallest things. Still, you don’t know where his mind is.

He pulls you in for a kiss, connecting his lips with yours, catching you by surprise. His hands are trailing down your body and reposing on your waist, pulling you closer than before.

If this is how he ventures his way out to say sorry to you, when you can’t take it as a simple word, you’re not…entirely against it.

You stare profoundly into his eyes after he breaks the kiss, his eyes searching yours—But your feelings are very conflicting. You so want to give in, but you’re still mad. And you still hate him. Well, you’re trying to make yourself hate him.

It feels like it’s been ages since you’ve uttered out a word, but that’s none of your concern as you pull him in for another heated kiss, your hand finding its way through his tousled hair, earning a soft groan on his end. His tongue slips out and swipes at your bottom lip, asking for permission to enter your mouth as you oblige immediately.

He has you fully wrapped around your finger. You can’t even be mad at him anymore, even if it’s play pretend.

His hands are on your waist, but it didn’t take long before one hand slips between your legs, making you instantly weak in the knees.

“Let me make it up to you, amore mio.” replays in your mind over and over when you brought him in for another desperate kiss, pouring out all of your feelings and love for him. The way he said it, the desperation in his voice and his dilated eyes— you can never say no to that. You need him.

You’re a hot mess, letting out huffs of pleasure as he continues to palm you through your jeans, like an attempt to hear you, even if it’s not through articulated words.

He pulls away from your lips, traveling his heated series of kisses down to your pulse-point, eliciting another hot whimper out of you. You’re dazed and all you want is more. More of him. Just more.

He hoists you up, your legs immediately clinging around his hips as he leads you towards the small couch, laying you down and hovering his body over yours.

He’s such a sight for sore eyes, carrying the grace of dawn and the mystery of dusk. Your eyes wandering over every feature of his face, just taking him in. He bites back a smile, his eyes lingering on your chest, then back to your eyes. “Want me to make you feel good, yeah?” his voice is ragged with desire, low and husky that has such a toll on you.

He goes back in for a fervent kiss before you could even respond, pouring out all of his love for you that makes you forget the anger you once had a thousand times more. Your hands wander over his shoulders, all the way down to his hips, pulling him in closer, trapping him in between your thighs and wrapping your legs around his waist.

He lets out a low grunt in between the kiss, his hips grinding against your heat, drawing out another small sound out of you. His hands that has a mind of its own fondling your breasts through the thin material of your shirt, like he couldn’t get enough of you and he physically needs more. You want more of him too, totally entranced by him, the heat of desire pooling in between your legs with an intensified want to have him in ways that’s unrefined. He moves towards the crook of your neck again, marking you up as his.

You’re already impatient as is, your uncoordinated fingers fumbling with his belt, like you can’t stand seeing him in clothes for another wasted second. He lets you, still immersed in marking your neck up, making sure there are angry marks left behind.

Once you’ve found the zipper of his tight jeans, you tug the material down, his hands coming in rescue and helping himself out of his jeans. In an instant, he pulls at the hem of your shirt, dragging the material over your head and throwing it somewhere in the room. Your eyes have wandered off to the door behind him and suddenly you’re too aware that someone could walk in easily.

“Babe… this room has no lock.” you mention, evoking a small smirk on his face. “Don’t you think it’s more fun that way? No one’s gonna come in.” He teases, eyes shamelessly staring at your bra, like he’s trying to smog up the power to disappear things with his mind.

“But-“ he’s quick to pipe you down by a kiss on the lips. “No ‘but’s’, you’re safe with me, amore.”

You pull him back in, sick of prolonging this any longer and seriously needing a good fuck if he’s gonna make it worth the while. If this is his way to at least attempt to apologise, then he better makes it good. Not that he has ever disappointed you in that division.

He hovers over you again, faces inches from yours, his hand snaking under your back to unclasp your bra in what feels like a nanosecond. He pulls the material off your body like it’s some sort of pest- like he’s been wanting it off since the moment he had laid eyes on you. He nips and sucks at your skin, hands exploring every inch of you. He licks a stripe right above your boobs, staring up at you with a well-known grin, eager to have his way with you.

He swipes his tongue over your sensitive nipple, lapping you up and then latching you in between his lips, paying great attention to you with his mouth, suckling and nibbling on your flesh. His other hand wanders to your untended breast, his fingers playing with the other nipple. You let out a soft whimper, already captivated by his fervent skills, your fingers threading through his soft curls.

Your eyes catches his, a sultry grin appearing on his face that has you overdriven with more arousal, more desire for him.

He moves to your other nipple, giving it the same, equal attention, drawing even more sounds and pants out of you.

All you really want is for him to hurry up. Your mind can’t get off of that damned door that has no lock on it, and he’s about to undress you intimately, which has made you apprehensive. He quickly catches on by your stiff demeanour and he lowers himself down, licking a long strip down your bare stomach- trying to make you forget about the door.

You lull your head back, your breath ragged and uneven as you tug at his golden strands tighter than before, earning a low grunt from him. He sure knows how to make you forget about stuff in an instant.

He has his hands on each side of your hips, trailing them towards the button of your black jeans. He works his way to get you out of your clothes, fast and determined, pulling the fabric down your thighs as you help him kick off the material.

“So gorgeous f’me, amore.” he grunts, quickly discarding his shirt off of him, accentuating his perfect, sweaty body to you, the sculputred abs and delicious pecs staring right at you as we speak. You sit up straight on the couch with only the flimsy laced underwear you’re wearing covering three percent of your body at most.

His eyes widen the moment you drop down to your knees in front of him, head-level with the black boxer briefs clung tightly on him. It highlights the swell of his tent that’s covered by the thin material of his Calvin Kleins. Your doe-eyed expression seems to get the better of him, already biting his bottom lip from your sight.

You waste no time, hooking your fingers under the material of his boxers, sliding them down ‘till they drop to his feet. He’s quick when it comes to stepping out of them, eager for you.

You’ve seen him like this before, plenty of times even, but right now— it’s like his arousal is as painful as it seems. His tip an angry shade of pink, pre-cum glazing down to his shaft. His breathing is laboured, his eyes concentrated on you, like he’s trying to moderate himself, keeping everything under control before he snaps.

You wrap your hand around his cock, the smallest of touch already making him hiss in pleasure. With deep shared eye contact, you start to pump him slowly, collecting the pre-cum that’s spilling out of him, whirling it over his tip, eliciting another desperate whimper from his agape lips. His eyebrows are creased, the purity in his eyes completely gone- reciprocated into something more coarse and obscene.

“Baby.. open your mouth.” he demands in a breathier tone, and you instantly oblige. With that, he cups your jaw with both of his large hands, his eyes intensely staring at yours. You don’t know what to expect, but he stars to hover over you, his face significantly closer to yours. He gives you that snarky smirk you know all too well, and then makes sure to lift your jaw a little up higher as he spits into your mouth without caution. Your eyes widen a little, his spit landing right on your tongue.

“Now swallow f’me, amore.” he orders, and you do exactly as he says.

Jesus…even in times like these— he still tastes divine.

His one hand threads through your hair, his other leaving the underside of your chin. “Show me what you’ve got…be my good girl.” he growls, standing up straight. You’re completely gone off guard by this small interaction between you and him, but you quickly shake it off, your trembly hand going back to where it was before.

You lick a strip up over his shaft, swirling your tongue on his tip that has him already writhing for more. You finally take him in your mouth, wrapping your lips sweetly around him and taking him inch by inch, a swall groan leaving his lips in exchange.

You set up a space, sucking him as you wrap your hand around the part that doesn’t fit in your mouth, his hand threading in your hair expeditiously. Low grunts and groans escapes his mouth, totally entranced by your ministrations as he couldn’t help but thrust forward, meeting your pace and rhythm all. He hits the back of your throat at every thrust, tears already brimming in your eyes that eventually seeps down to your cheeks. You couldn’t help but suck him with more precision, eyes deeply concentrated on his breathtaking face.

The desperation and anguish is written all over him, like he couldn’t bear this and needs you in ways where it’s humanly impossible to describe. Sweat already trickles over his forehead, eyes pleading for you, in a way that makes you believe his pupils are contorted into spelling your name- his want like a screeching howl that blares through your eardrums.

In a quick motion, he pulls out of you and you take your time to catch your breath, heaving them out like you’ve ran a marathon, quickly wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. He pulls you to your feet, hands on your hips and instantly pushing you backwards on the couch as your back hits the cushions, laying flat on the surface. Hovering over you, he delicately scans his eyes over your whole frame, taking in every detail from your tousled hair to your almost naked self. He traps himself in between your spread out legs, his length making contact with your lower abdomen, causing a shiver to run down your spine.

His arms are on each side of you, a few strands of his curls hanging over his forehead. “Need to fuck you, baby. Need you right now.” He murmurs, his voice hoarse and his tone laced in pure lust.

You bite your bottom lip as he positions you, hands firmly grasping your hips in desperation. “Please…” You utter out, the only thing your lips can form as a sole word, while your mind is going a million miles an hour with how much you have to say.

The warmth of his palms are soon replaced by the cool air hitting your hips, his hands sliding down to your thighs as his fingers prudently play with the lace of your underwear. “So beautiful…” He murmurs in almost a whisper. “I only have eyes for you, you know that right?” He adds, his eyes searching yours.

You nod, examining him. “I know...” you reply in a soft mumble and his lips quirk up in a lopsided smile.

You glance down his body, and the sight alone has you as weak as water. He pumps himself a few times, eyes still trained on yours. He pulls at the laced material of your panties, prodding his length right under the fabric as he teasingly begins to rub himself against you. You let out a stifled moan, eyebrows creased upwards in simple pleasure. He’s fervent with you, fastening his pace ever so slightly that drives you insane. “So wet f’me, yeah?” he grunts, leaning down to capture your lips in a passionate kiss.

Your soft moans are muffled in between the kiss as his hand that rested on your hip is now gripping your thigh, quickly hooking it over his shoulder. He positions himself at your entrance, gliding himself inside you fervently with your panties now pushed aside. A soft gasp escapes your throat, head already lulled back by how full he’s making you feel once he’s fully inside. After making sure you adjust to him, he begins to set up a slow pace, hovering over your body even closer as this new profound feeling intensifies, hitting you in all the right places.

“So fucking pretty for me, baby… Let me hear you, yeah? Moan f’me…” he praises, and all you could do in response to that is grow louder- despite still being in a semi-public setting. There’s a small chance someone could walk in, or even hear you through the door, but your mind is elsewhere. It’s on him, totally engulfed in pleasure he gives you.

“Taking me so well…” He pants, heaving out breaths as his thrusts start to become rougher, dragging out more moans out of you. “So good for me, aren’t you? Gonna fill you up so well...” He continues, his hands trailing over every inch of your body, fingers lightly pinching at your nipples, eliciting another whimpery moan from your lips.

He continues to thrust into you deliciously, hooking your other leg over his other shoulder, this newfound angle hitting your sweet spot delightfully over and over again. Moans spill out of you in an overwhelming sensation, that’s probably music to his ears by the way he’s thoroughly captivated by you.

His own moans fall from his lips once your hips buck up to match his rhythm of his thrusts. “I’m so close...” you heave out, eyes rolling to the back of your head. He takes this as a sign to fuck you harder. Rougher. Like he wants to break you in half.

He adds his thumb to your sensitive clit, drawing out louder moans, that has no way of becoming less when it’s only pitching up higher in decibels. “You’re so fucking hot, baby…So perfect.” he praises you, totally wrapped up in utter pleasure, the slapping sounds of skin on skin echoing through the room.

“Please…” you plead in a high whimper, not really sure why, but you’re completely overdriven in ecstasy, his thumb on your sensitivity never leaving you which adds to more pleasure, egging you on.

“Yeah, amore mio? Gonna give it to me, aren’t you? Show me… Show me how good I make you feel.” he groans completely out of breath, his chest glistening with his own sweat. He leans down, folding you in half like a damned pretzel, hitting you even deeper than before. He nips on the skin at the crook of your neck, humming against you.

“Making me feel so good…” he murmurs against your skin, his thrusts piercing more moans out of you, knowing how much you enjoy his rough side.

The bubbling feeling inside your lower abdomen intensifies by the minute, exhibiting that you’re nearing the finish line. He knows by your desperate pants and graphic sounds as he strives to get you to the pinnacle point of pleasure, picking up on his thrusts, fucking you harder against the cushions with fervor.

Your brain starts to feel like scrambled eggs, moving from left to right in a stirring pan as his lips finds yours in a sweet quick kiss, pulling away to look at you. His hands grip your waist as tight as ever, definitely leaving a mark behind. His whimpers like a melody you can never get sick of, no matter how many times you’re willing to repeat the same tune.

A few more thrusts in and you hear the familiar ringing in your ears as you near the edge completely, your climax washing over you like a tidal wave. You scream out his name in the process, clenching sweetly around him as he follows right behind you and finishes, trails of curse words falling from his lips in heavy grunts—filling you with his cum.

He unhooks your legs from his shoulders, pulling out of you with a small gasp. He crashes down next to you, heaving out hefty breaths. He wraps an arm around your shoulder, keeping you close to his glistening body. “See? You’re safe with me, just like I told you.” he breathes, letting out a soft chuckle.

You turn your face to look at him, a genuine smile formed on your lips, despite being completely out of breath. “Mmmh, never said you were wrong.”

He chuckles in response, planting a sweet kiss to your temple. “You felt incredible baby, definitely needed this after the show.”

You smile, all the anger and jealousy from before completely wiped off of you. “I always do.” you counter with a smug grin, giving him a bit of a tease.

“A win-win situation for me, eh?” He eyes you, eyebrows raised with a cheeky smile. You laugh, shaking your head. “Definitely.” You agree, a small giggle followed after.

“So… I take it that you’re not mad at me anymore?” He asks, his voice laced in a sincere tone.

You had almost forgotten about how immensely infuriated you were before this happened. “I forgive you.” you murmur, glancing at him.

“I mean it when I told you I only have eyes for you.” he utters, pulling you even closer than before, pecking the top of your head.

This was definitely a way to end the night, after a very small gig took place and how the man of your dreams next to you can have you riled up in anger as well as desire in the span of two seconds. You’re not complaining about it at all. You wouldn’t have him any other way— even if it means all the ups and downs that comes with it.

————

[aclockworkreader]

all my arcane thoughts because i’m feeling entirely normal about this show:

the storytelling!! the foreshadowing!! the parallels!! the pure artistry!! arcane is a masterpiece!!

it has everything: trauma, found family, the corruption of power, complex sibling dynamics, queer relationships (sapphic rep!!), more trauma, social and political commentary, beautiful animation, and even more trauma!! it reminds me so much of so many of my favorite animated shows (avatar: the last airbender, she-ra, fullmetal alchemist: brotherhood) all mixed into one.

the animation was actually something that originally kept me from watching the show because i’m not a big fan of most 3d animation. but my GOD was it beautiful!!! the way they were able to mix art styles and switch between 3d and 2d worked so well! it was incredibly creative and artistic and i’ve never seen anything like it. the fight sequences were STUNNING and easily some of the best moments in the show. every frame was truly a work of art, i’m obsessed.

from the characters to the plot, every element of this show is so well written, it’s restored my faith in modern tv writing.

would absolutely recommend if you’re prepared to have your heart torn from your chest 💔

spoilers below with all my in depth thoughts

okay please bear with me, my brain is all over the place:

- JINX!! MY PRECIOUS JINX!! YOU DESERVED SO MUCH MORE!!! 😭😭 oh i knew it was coming and yet i still cried so much!!! she’s easily my favorite character. i support her in all her rights and wrongs (of which there are none actually, she had every right to do everything she did). all that’s keeping me sane is knowing she’s alive and well in another timeline 🥲 with ekko 🥲 dancing freely and engineering to her hearts content

- i also loved vi so so much. the prideful eldest sibling overwhelmed by the responsibility she feels to her family….yeah that hit hard. these sisters, doomed by the narrative, have DESTROYED me. all the parallels of their relationship throughout the show, down to vi grabbing jinx before she falls in the first vs last episode!! it’s all too much, i’ll never recover 😭

- my biggest complaint is that we didn’t get to explore vi’s grief after losing jinx. i know they jumped forward in time, so it seemed like she just kinda moved on and we didn’t get to see the aftermath of arguably the most traumatic thing she’s ever experienced?? watching her sister die and her father die (again) would have changed her forever so it felt a bit rushed to just….gloss over that.

- and i’m so sorry to the caitlyn stans but…..she’s not my favorite 😬 i don’t even dislike vi/cait as a ship, i just feel like caitlyn as a character is the least developed out of everyone on the show. and also her dictator arc was…something. i feel like we moved on from it so quickly that we didn’t have time to fully explore and address everything there.

- my other favorite character (second only to jinx) is ekko!! a true hero!! every fight scene he’s in is my favorite fight scene—he’s just SO GOOD 🤍 and what he does for jinx??? yeah, that was pure love

- the jinx/vi/isha/vander dynamic was easily my favorite part of the whole show. them as a family hurt me and healed me and UGH i cried so much 😭 isha and jinx too my GOD their whole relationship was so beautiful and jinx getting to be the older sister she never had 😭 i’m still crying over it!

- and sevika???? LOVE her. imagine being that right all the time….she has to be a capricorn.

- also mel!! she took some time to grow on me but i especially loved her arc in season 2! her as a mage is iconic and i wish we could have seen her use her magic more!

- oh and silco?? the most unexpected favorite. i didn’t expect to side with him so often, but that’s what makes him such a great villain. and the tears i shed when he told jinx “i never would have given you to them. not for anything”??? oh i SOBBED

- while i did love the jayce/viktor relationship by the end, i just find jayce to be so….boring, i’m sorry!! maybe upon rewatch i’ll feel more attached to him but (especially compared to nearly every other character) he’s so uninteresting. but the show needed some normie representation, so i’ll let him be.

- but viktor though!! yeah he was an incredible character. i called the plot twist of him being the mage who helped jayce pretty early on, so that wasn’t a surprise. but i did not expect him to have a full on jesus arc?? that was wilddd and i feel like i need more watches to fully process it all.

those are most of my thoughts for now. i’m just in awe of how wonderful this show is and surprised by how much i enjoyed it. i definitely need more time and more rewatches to say for certain if it’s an all time favorite, but it’s definitely up there 💙🩷

[multiheadcanons]

OUTFITS I LOVE TO IMAGINE THE MERCS IN

scout: i’m gonna qualify this with i don’t even twinkify scout like that; but the idea of him in those whorish 13-15 inch inseam shorts for men is so delectable to me, shirt optional. i want to see his thighs tense as his feet hit the pavement and he propels himself forward. i want to see every muscle flex and contract as he breaks people’s ankles on the field. i need it so bad. i need more dynamic scout art.

soldier: soldier is so batshit that i just want him in military blues so he feels good about himself and the work he did that nobody asked him to do. but i like thinking of soldier in anything even remotely formal because it's so unlike him to wear. and also because the idea of him wearing something he is notably uncomfortable in and then shit hitting the fan and him tearing it off, becoming more comfortable and in that same breath an actual danger in his immediate surroundings is so... mm. love that goofy american.

pyro: i'll imagine pyro in anything because i haven't actually come to a conclusion on who or what pyro is to me, personally, so my go-to when i'm thinking about pyro outside of the suit and mask is just another full-body suit that covers their face. but the second pyro realizes that not every suit can resist flame they would probably go straight back to their own suit. but i think we could probably all convince pyro to get into one of those inflatable t-rex costumes. for a moment, anyway.

demo: if you see any fanart of demo in a kilt know i've liquified it and injected it directly into my veins. any character in their cultural clothes is so good to me, i just want to gobble it up. but especially tavish. a kilt, a simple turtleneck, one of those droopy fucking hats... demo pleasepleaseplease-- imagining demo in anything is always a tasty mental trip to go on. i just know he makes any and everything look good and artists solidify that every time i browse the demoman tag. especially when they give demo different hairstyles. cornrow demoman... loc demoman... afro demoman... the possibilities are endless. please play with demo's hair.

heavy: put him in a white turtleneck. bright white. pressed. well cared for, but he's owned it for a while. it's loose, it just frames his jaw, makes his head stand out. now put a sweater on top of it. deep, dark, bloody maroon. wool blend. thick. thick enough to keep him warm, just enough to moisten his skin. not quite enough to make him drip sweat, but enough to keep him glistening with the additional layers. enough to get the underlying scent of his sweat when you're close enough. let the collar hug his neck. like he doesn't wear it enough to truly stretch it out, so it still hugs his body. roll. the sleeves. up. to. the elbow. perfect cuffs. not a single wrinkle. tuck it in to a pair of tailored black slacks. freshly pressed. and a set of polished, black leather dress shoes. unscuffed. now put a bow on him so i can unwrap it.

engineer: for a moment i considered if this was a cop out, but i don’t think it is anymore. i want him in the world’s most frayed jeans and a tight fitting t shirt of any color and some god. damn. cowboy boots. i want him covered in dirt and grease and sweat. i want the threads of the denim to be holding on by the lord’s grace and a daily prayer. i want to see his boxers through the ass pockets. goggles optional, player’s choice of head covering.

medic: nothing but a smile. a towel. a blanket, maybe. okay i’ll stop being a freak. it’s so hard for me to really imagine the doctor in anything but his work uniform. from there i am literally just peeling off the layers with a very absent smile plastered on my face. i am gone. my favorite part of the process is when i get to his undershirt, past the button up, and his pants and his boots. like woah… save some hoes for the rest of us, doc… out here showing all that… slut. i want you so bad.

sniper: mick. mick. look at me. look at me, okay? relax. it’s not gonna be a big change. promise. promise promise promise. close your eyes, okay? we’re gonna take the hat off. nonononono mick mick mick mick. buddy. buddy. it’s okay. this is not permanent. and this is the only change, okay? and maybe get your huntsman, it’ll tie the look together. like the doctor, it is hard to imagine snipes in anything but his work uniform, but the only difference is we take the hat away and replace it with a rich, chocolate brown hooded cloak. it could be a full length cloak, a tea length or mid length cloak, that ends by his shirt hem, or like a little shoulder shrug for the summer. he’d probably keep the hood up if it’s a light enough fabric. make him look like a real hunter. embroidered leaves and birds as holes are worn in the fabric. also done in threads of different shades of brown. i’ll let him keep the aviators. i’m feeling nice today.

spy: unlike the rest of his support teammates, i imagine spy in pretty much any and everything! spy is pretty enough that he can easily put on anything and make it look good; but i particularly like to imagine him in, frankly, whatever i have on for the day. i think my favorite outfit i wore that i telepathically projected onto him was a sleeveless turtleneck with some burnt orange slacks and these odd cognac dress shoes i have that have cut outs on the side. i just think he’d eat those shoes up. but i think he’d probably wear that whole outfit better than i did.

[wannaeatramyeon]

Goo Kim x Reader: One Night

G/N. Crazy Stupid Love Emma Stone/Ryan Gosling scene but make it Lookism. Masterlists

"Are you nervous?" Goo murmurs, a smile tugs at his lips when he feels you trembling.

He peers down at you and pauses. His hand, having worked its way under your top and caressing your bare skin - stops.

Tonight, you have aimed for sexy and sensual. It worked well. Fake it until you make it, and you made it when this handsome blonde at the bar invited you back to his apartment for a night of debauchery.

But your mask slips. It's hard to keep it on, y'know. When you are both half naked, about to be even more naked, there's nowhere left to hide.

Your nervousness comes out as a snort, because duh and you think some of your previous sexy and sensual points are deducted.

"Yeah," you respond with an awkward giggle. Then your mouth runs before your single brain cell can.

"- Also, something has been digging into my back all this time," Goo waggles his eyebrows at you suggestively, "No. Definitely not. I think it's a spring or something or I don't know... crumbs? Have you been eating in bed? Either way I think this is the most uncomfortable mattress I've ever laid on. Your silk bed sheets are something else though - who even has silk bed sheets? It's like something from the 80s along with waterbeds but god they feel so fucking great on my legs."

Goo is stunned into silence momentarily before he barks out a laugh.

He rolls off you and onto the left side on the bed, full body wriggling around slightly, experiencing the silk bed sheets for himself and chuckles.

"Sweetheart, you're right. And I've always hated this mattress." He sighs, adding, "I got conned by fucking influencers."

You whip your head towards him and give him a look, "Influencers?! What. Is this those fancy brands that I've been seeing them shill all over my social media-"

Goo turns towards you, a pout on his lips and eyebrows pinched together in a pitiful expression. "Yep. I've hated it since the first night."

"Then why didn't you return it!"

He shrugs and you laugh, your previous nervousness dissipating.

"I always wondered what idiot would fall for those."

"Hey!"

A brief moment of silence then-

"Did you buy these sheets from an infomercial or something?"

"Excuse me!" Goo shuffles, angles himself so he's fully facing you. Head held up by the palm of his hand and resting his elbow on the mattress.

There's mischief, life in his face that wasn't there earlier tonight. "Sue me. I have money to spend, sometimes I can't sleep, and those sales people sell things so well."

You let out another unrefined snort, amused by this guy.

Suddenly finding there's so much personality, a touch of vulnerability revealed in that statement, behind the expensive glasses, his tailored suit and his muscled body.

"Wanna see what other crap I've bought?"

.

.

You both wander around his apartment, which turned out to be a huge fucking penthouse now that he has the light on and is giving you a guided tour, in your underwear. 

Goo, no shame and expanses of skin on show, and you follow closely behind with his silk sheets wrapped loosely around your body.

He gestures at what you assume to be a coffee machine sitting proudly on his kitchen countertop. All sleek and stainless steel with dials and buttons on every surface.

"I can't even use this thing. I've had it for 2 years."

"Look," Goo opens an overhead kitchen cupboard, gesticulating like he's going to perform a magic trick, and dramatically shows you rows and rows of trendy kitchen gadgets, no doubt also purchased during moments of insomnia. Pizza scissors, spiralizer, bread maker, air fryer, pressure cooker.

"Never used."

"This," he points at the far wall, and you squint, barely making out a framed art piece of the ugliest monkey face you have ever seen. But hey, art is subjective, right-

"-is an NFT. I bought that too."

That tips you over the edge.

You cackle and cackle, doubled over and holding onto him for balance.

.

.

There's a dusty segway sitting pitifully in the corner of an unused spare room.

You jump out from round a corner, LED mask on your face and flashing a menacing red - "Boo!"and Goo actually jumps.

A lonely treadmill, placed beneath one of those fancy sit-stand desk catches your eye.  Goo smirks, "Babe, I don't even have a desk job."

Instead of spending all night tangled in his silk bedsheets together, Goo jogs down memory lane of sleepless nights and impulse buys with you by his side.

Your laughter starts to tinge all his memories.

Your good natured ribbing and mocking.

His hyena cackle joins yours, and he wonders when was the last time he was able to laugh with someone. Has he ever spent an entire night talking to someone like this?

"Ask me something personal." He requests, both now lying on his uncomfortable bed. You in his arms, hair tickling his chin.

"What do you want from life?"

"To make money."

"Why?"

"I want to be rich."

"Why?"

"Well, who doesn't want to be rich, sweetheart."

"Yeah but why do you?"

Goo remembers running errands, doing anything to earn some money. Anything for a price. His cousin calling in his services, and he happily beat up some middle schoolers to help him (and who was it again, Tabasco?) out.

He doesn't really know where his thirst for money making has come from. Maybe there's some deep set trauma from his life pre-juvie or some shit he should pay a therapist to decipher but alas.

He tells you this, all this and more. At some point, his head is the one lying on your chest and you absentmindedly stroke through his blonde locks, humming noises of encouragement, listening to his words.

Weird, Goo thinks, when he finally drifts off to sleep with you snoring gently beside him. 

The morning sun already filters through the blinds, and the hustle and bustle of Seoul has started to pick up.

How comfortable this feels. How natural your connection with him is. How this is the spark people dream about, and somehow it has hit him when he wasn’t looking for anything more.

That someone as different to him as you are, that is only ever supposed to be company for a few hours, a night at best, could spell trouble. Raise his hackles, send his alarms blaring.

When he's usually the walking red flag.

Because you’ve got him thinking. A lot. That shrewd brain hidden behind playfulness has been whirring; wondering about what happens if you become a regular fixture.

Maybe you might doom him, in the end. Maybe this will lead to a dead end and nothing more.

But he's curious enough, the spark is shining brightly enough, to see where else you might lead him to too.

[alternate-real-ities]

Hi could you transform me 😆

Hi there! While I've said this multiple times, I want to remind you that I can't transform you per se. However, I can show you what other versions of you might look like in other worlds. My calibrations took a lot longer than usual, but I think it was worth it. I hope you like this glimpse into the multiverse!

Let me first present to you, the version of you that exists in the dimension I like to call Arab World:

In this dimension, you are the epitome of masculine beauty and power, a testament to centuries of careful crossbreeding that has elevated the Arabs to a position of unchallenged superiority. Your genes, pure and potent, have created a physique that is as much a work of art as it is a weapon.

Your face is a masterpiece of sharp, angular features - high cheekbones that could cut glass, a strong jawline softened only by the dark stubble of your beard, and full, sensual lips that beg to be kissed. Your eyes are almond-shaped and dark as the deepest night, framed by thick, sooty lashes that any person would envy. They hold a fire within them, a burning intensity that can both seduce and command.

Your body, a sculpture of lean, hard muscle, is honed by years of riding your prized camel across the endless sands and pushing yourself at the gym. Your broad shoulders taper down to a narrow waist, creating the classic V-shape of a warrior's physique. The lines of your muscles are clearly defined beneath your smooth, tanned skin - the result of your pure Arab bloodline.

Your chest is particularly impressive too, a wide expanse of hard, sculpted pectorals that any man would envy. They are perfectly rounded and firm to the touch, each muscle group clearly separated by deep, chiselled lines. A light dusting of short, dark chest hair accentuates your masculine physique, adding texture to your skin while keeping your torso looking lean and defined.

As you dismount your camel, its fur glistening with sweat from the desert heat, you allow your traditional robe to slip off one shoulder, revealing more of your glorious torso. The fabric clings to your chest, outlining the hard planes and ridges of your pectorals and abdominals. Lower down, a prominent bulge tents the front of your robe, hinting at the impressive size and shape of your manhood - a trait that is celebrated in this realm as a sign of virility and power.

As a wealthy and influential man in this dimension, you reside in a lavish oasis palace complete with lush gardens, ornate fountains, and sprawling courtyards. Your wealth comes from generations of successful trade and investments, allowing you to indulge in your passions - exploration, art, and pleasure.

Around you, those of lesser bloodlines - the former races now reduced to serving the great Arab nation - cannot help but stare in awe and desire. They know their place is beneath you, both literally and figuratively. And as you stride through the opulent halls of your palace, your hips swaying with a natural sensuality, you can feel their eyes on you, worshipping every inch of your god-like form.

In the privacy of your chambers, you indulge in the pleasures of the flesh, taking your pick from the harem of beautiful slaves that exist solely for your gratification. You guide them with a firm hand and a wicked tongue, using them to sate your desires while they tremble and moan beneath you. And as you bring them to the heights of ecstasy again and again, you know that this is what true power feels like - the power to command, to conquer, and to take pleasure from all that surrounds you.

Yet beneath this exterior of luxury and indulgence lies a man of deep faith and strong moral conviction. You are not just an entrepreneur; you are a protector and guardian of your people's faith and traditions. With each step, you carry the weight of responsibility, ensuring that the light of Islam shines brightly in your corner of the multiverse.

Now, for a little detour, here's a reality where you were born as a black man.

In this alternate dimension, you were born as a tall, muscular black man, standing at an impressive 6'7" with a physique that rivals professional athletes. Your skin is a deep, rich ebony that seems to shimmer under the light, and your body is a testament to years of dedicated weightlifting and self-care.

Your face is a vision of rugged, masculine allure. High cheekbones, sculpted by time's touch, frame your features like a work of art. A jawline sharp and defined, it reflects the unyielding confidence hidden within you. But it's your lips that demand attention - full, sensual, and irresistibly plump.

You have a short, curly haircut that accentuates your strong features, and a neatly trimmed beard that frames your face perfectly. Occasionally, you like to switch things up by bleaching your hair platinum blonde, creating a striking contrast with your dark skin. Your style is impeccable - you favour well-tailored suits that hug your muscular frame in all the right places, paired with crisp dress shirts left open at the collar. When you're not working, you can be found lounging in form-fitting jeans and a tight t-shirt that showcases your impressive physique.

As for hobbies, you do have a deep love for photography, particularly capturing the raw beauty of the male form. Your studio is filled with stunning black and white portraits of muscular men in various states of undress. Your photography is all about appreciating the male body, more than just how it looks. When you're taking pictures, your hands often touch and linger on your subjects' skin and muscles in a way that's both artistic and intimate.

Some of your most erotic photos happen during these moments - like a close-up of someone's lips slightly parted as they get lost in sensation, or the glisten of pre-cum on an erect cock barely hidden by hands or fabric. When you're taking these intimate shots, you can feel your own arousal - a throbbing in your loins as you watch the men lost in pleasure. And you sure do put that throbbing up to a good use after your photoshoots. Personality-wise though, you're a charmer - confident, flirtatious, and always ready with a smile or a joke. In intimate moments, you're a generous lover, focused on bringing your partner to peaks of pleasure they've never experienced before.

You're also an avid gym-goer, spending hours at the gym honing your physique and maintaining your body in excellent condition. The sweat dripping from your dark skin as you push through intense workouts, the salty beads rolling down your chiselled abs and sculpted chest, is proof of your hard work. As you towel off after a gruelling session, the scent of clean sweat and musk clings to your skin, a heady aroma of pure masculinity. And you can feel the burn in your muscles, the satisfying ache that comes from pushing yourself to the limit.

OK, one last trip I promise! I liked this world a lot, so maybe you'll like it too.

In this vibrant dimension, you were born as a handsome Latino man, blessed with an exotic mix of features that make heads turn wherever you go. Your skin is a warm, sun-kissed olive tone, and your body is adorned with a light dusting of dark, curly body hair that adds to your rugged, masculine charm.

Standing at a compact 5'7" with a physique sculpted by years of dedicated fitness, you're a sight to behold. Sun-kissed skin stretches taut over rippling muscles, from the broad expanse of your back to the tantalizing V-lines that draw the eye down to the noticeable bulge in your pants. You've got a nice bubbly butt that fills out your pants perfectly, like two ripe peaches ready to be plucked, and your chest has two juicy round pecs that are just begging to be touched.

By day, you're a successful OnlyFans porn star, known for your impressive stamina, versatility, and the way you perform with passion. Your content is always high-quality, showcasing your stunning body in intimate detail as you pleasure yourself or engage with lucky partners. You take pride in providing your subscribers with exactly what they crave, from steamy solo sessions to intense hardcore scenes.

But when the camera stops rolling, you're a man who knows how to enjoy life's simple pleasures. There's nothing you love more than spending lazy days at the beach, soaking up the sun and showing off your incredible physique in tight, skimpy swimwear that leaves little to the imagination. You take pride in keeping your body in peak condition, with regular gym sessions and a strict diet that fuels your active lifestyle.

As you lay out on your towel, you make sure to apply sunscreen generously, rubbing it into every inch of your exposed skin. The scent of coconut and your own musky aroma mingles in the salty sea breeze. You take great care in making sure your tan lines are perfect, wanting to highlight the contrast between your sun-kissed skin and any areas that remain untouched by the sun's rays.

When the sun sets and the nightlife begins, there's no place you'd rather be than at some gay party. The pulsing beats, the flashing lights, the electric energy in the air - it's a playground that brings out your wild side. You love getting dolled up for these events, donning tight, glistening outfits that hug your muscular frame and show off your hard-earned physique.

When the sun sets and the nightlife begins, there's no place you'd rather be than at some gay party. The pulsing beats, the flashing lights, the electric energy in the air - it's a playground that brings out your wild side. You love getting dolled up for these events, donning tight, glistening outfits that hug your muscular frame and show off your hard-earned physique. You make sure to wear outfits that accentuate your best assets - your juicy bubble butt and the fat prominent bulge of your package, leaving little to the imagination as you grind against other men.

At these rave parties, people get really wild and horny. Everyone's dancing close together, touching and grabbing. Hands are all over your body, feeling your muscles, trying to take off your clothes. It's intense. You get really into it, lost in a fog of touching and wild lust. The dark parts of the club become your fun zone. You kneel down, taking out hard cocks from tight pants, sucking them deep into your mouth and throat without holding back. Salty pre-cum covers your tongue as you please these strangers, their moans pushing you to do more.

Soon, you're bent over, presenting your juicy bubble butt to an eager stud. He lines up his thick cock and slams in balls-deep with one hard thrust. You cry out in ecstasy as he starts pounding into you, using your well-fucked hole like a personal cock sleeve.

After he fills you with another load, you turn around and straddle the next man's lap, sinking down on his rigid shaft with ease. Your ass is sloppy and dripping with cum, serving as perfect lube for him to fuck you silly. You ride him hard, your own fat neglected cock bouncing free, leaking pre-cum.

This continues all night - you fucking and getting fucked by a never-ending stream of hung studs, your asshole always slick and ready from the copious amounts of cum pumped inside you. Each new partner slides in effortlessly thanks to the previous loads dripping out of your stretched hole, allowing them to rail you even harder.

By dawn, you're a total mess - face covered in spit and cum, asshole stretched wide and leaking loads of jizz everywhere. Your skin is slick with sweat and the stuff other guys pumped into you. You fucked bunches of dudes and got fucked by just as many, chasing one intense orgasm after another all night long at this wild party place. As you stagger out into the early morning light, you know you'll be back next weekend for more of that crazy fun.

So there you have it - three different realities, each exploring a different way of living. The question is, which one resonated with you the most? Let me know what you think!