#I also felt like I was finally starting to fall into a comfortable pattern of drawing him here haha - still no studies but getting happier

[literatureloverx]

N A K A H A R A C H U U Y A

Guns and Roses

“Out of all the others… you were the honest man…

…He loved guns and roses, guns and roses…”

Chuuya x fem!reader

NSFW content, mdni, suggestive themes, dom!Chuuya, sub!reader, swearing (I don’t usually include swearing—it’s outside my comfort zone—but since Chuuya canonically swears and someone encouraged me to step out of my comfort zone, I felt it was fitting to include it here).

Chuuya is utterly obsessed with his darling because, let’s be honest, no one can convince me he wouldn’t be. I hope this feels realistic! Also, some parts are more descriptive than usual for my writing, but I did some research to write it properly, so… I hope you appreciate it, lmao.

Consider this my Christmas present to you. 🧡

The sleek hum of the engine gradually fades as Chuuya pulls into the underground garage, his hand lingering on the wheel longer than necessary.

He lets the car idle for a moment, as if savoring the final seconds of silence before facing you. The yearning to see you forces a shaky breath from his lips. His gloved fingers tighten instinctively, the soft creak of leather breaking the stillness. The ache in his chest deepens, a gnawing emptiness that only you can soothe.

He parks the car, his fingers brushing against the bouquet of deep red roses on the passenger seat—perfect, elegant, a silent confession of emotions too intense to be spoken aloud. With a sigh, he tugs off his gloves with his teeth, runs a hand through his hair, and steps out. Each stride toward the elevator feels heavier than the last, drawing him closer to you—the only thing that truly matters.

When the elevator doors slide open, Chuuya crosses the penthouse lobby with single-minded determination. His heart begins to race as he steps into the kitchen, finding you there, moving with the grace that makes everything in the world feel right.

He is home.

He places the roses gently on the table. After that, without hesitation, he closes the distance, his body drawn to yours, as if the very air between you calls out to him. When you turn to meet his gaze, the breath catches in his throat. And then, he's reaching for you—his arms enveloping you, pulling you close. His face buries in your hair, inhaling the sweet scent of you like a lifeline, grounding him in a way nothing else could.

"I’m back, doll,” Chuuya murmurs, his voice low and thick with the familiar ache of desire.

You pull away just enough to look up at him, but the concern in your eyes stops him in his tracks, an invisible weight settling between you.

"Chuuya..." you whisper, throwing your arms around him, burying your face in his neck.

His hand tangles gently in your hair, memorising the feel of it, before sliding to the small of your back. His heart pounds beneath your touch, a frantic beat that matches the ache in his chest.

You recognise the roses placed on the table, right behind Chuuya.

“Roses?”

“These are for you,” his voice quieter now, almost uncertain.

“They’re beautiful,” you murmured, looking up at him with a softness that made his chest ache.

“Thank you.”

“Figured I owed you something,” he said, his fingers gently tracing a pattern on your back. “I’ve been gone too long.”

Your lips, warm and soft, press against the pulse in his neck, sending a shiver through him. You linger there, your kiss gentle yet full of intent, and the weight of the world falls away, replaced only by the heat of your touch.

Oh, how you’ve missed him.

“You think flowers will make up for it?” you teased gently, though there was no bite to your words. You take his jacket, your eyes never leaving his. He gulps. You really can’t behave.

“No,” he admitted, “But it’s a start.”

You glance at the stove, ensuring it’s turned off. Nice. Perfect for what is about to come—you wouldn’t want to serve your love an overcooked meal, right?

“Where were you, my love?” you murmur against his skin, your voice a low whisper, laced with need.

His breath stutters, the sharpness of your words striking deep. A smirk tugs at his lips, but his eyes—those eyes—betray the depth of something more. He leans closer, voice rough with desire.

"Here and there. You know how it is. But I always come back to you, don't I?"

"You do..." you reply, but there's a smirk tugging at your lips, and the audacity in your tone doesn't go unnoticed.

Chuuya quirks a brow, a soft, knowing smirk playing on his lips. He pulls you closer, his thumb brushing lazy circles on your side. He's playing along, keeping his tone dangerously patient.

"What's wrong now, doll? Got something to say?"

You meet his gaze, shrugging with a nonchalant air that only fuels the tension. "I feel uneasy whenever you're away..." you admit, though your lips brushing his neck again feel more like a power move than an act of comfort. "But you already know that."

His grip tightens on your waist, not to control but to ground you, though there's a flicker of annoyance at your little game. "I know, doll. But I'm careful. Always. I'll come back to you, in one piece."

You scoff, leaning back just enough to shoot him a pointed look. "I don't care how many pieces. As long as you're alive and with me."

The words hit him hard, but instead of melting under their weight, he lets out a low, shaky laugh, his hands sliding possessively to your hips and pulling you flush against him. There's a raw intensity in the movement that leaves the air charged.

"You're a piece of work, you know that?" His voice is thick with amusement and something darker. "What did I do to deserve you?"

You tilt your head, fingers teasing the hem of his breeches, your grin downright smug. "Probably something terrible. Lucky for you, l've got low standards."

His gaze drops to your hands, his pulse quickening at your boldness, and when his eyes snap back to yours, they're dark, dangerous, and hungry. "Keep it up, doll," he murmurs, voice low and gravelly. "See what happens."

You trail your fingers up his chest, your lips curling into a wicked smile. “What happens if I don’t keep it up? You’d miss me too much, wouldn’t you?”

His laugh is low and almost predatory as he pulls you even closer. “You make it sound like you can’t live without me, doll.”

Your lips curl into a teasing smile, a glint of challenge in your eyes. "You misunderstand," you whisper, leaning in closer. "I depend on your existence.”

His lips curl into a smirk as he steps closer, the space between you evapora-ting. His breath brushes against your ear, warm and deliberate.

"Depend on me, huh? Does that mean I'm all you think about, darling?"

The metallic clink of his gun as he sets it down on the table punctuates his words, a subtle reminder of the control he so effortlessly wields. His eyes remain locked on yours, unyielding, daring you to say more. You hold his gaze, a playful defiance dancing in your eyes.

"Yes?"

The single word hangs in the air, laced with a challenge that only stokes the fire simmering beneath his composed exterior. His grip on your waist tightens, his fingers pressing into you as though grounding himself. His lips part, and his voice drops, carrying a low, dangerous edge.

"You're playing with fire, Princess. You know exactly what you're doing to me, don't you?"

You lean in, brushing your lips against his in a featherlight touch, your taunting reply barely above a whisper. "I do, my love. And I think you like it."

A quiet growl escapes his throat, his jaw tightening as he struggles to keep his composure. His hands slide up your sides, firm and commanding, each movement deliberate, as if daring you to test his limits further. The air between you is charged, every second stretching longer than the last.

When you smirk, so confident, so teasing, it shatters his resolve. He groans, low and guttural, as the tension finally snaps.

With one swift motion, he lifts you over his shoulder, your playful laugh melting into a startled gasp. The sharp smack of his hand against your backside echoes through the room, drawing a shocked cry from your lips.

"Behave," he growls, his voice thick with authority, dripping with unspoken promises.

"Y-yes, sir.." you manage, your breath hitching as he strides purposefully toward the bedroom.

The door slams shut behind him, the sound a declaration. He lowers you onto the bed with deliberate care, his darkened gaze tracing over you like a touch. The air shifts, heavy with intent, as his fingers move to unfasten the leather choker around his neck, each motion slow and purposeful.

"Wrists," he commands, his voice rough yet controlled, the single word sending a shiver down your spine.

Your pulse races as you offer them to him without hesitation, his thumb brushing over your skin, the gentleness in stark contrast to the storm brewing in his eyes. He leans closer, his lips ghosting over your ear, his voice a low, intimate rasp.

"Good girl.”

Your lips meet softly, a slow, lingering kiss that deepens as his hand cradles your face, drawing you closer. The world around you fades, leaving only the warmth of your breath mingling, the taste of longing and quiet affection.

Every touch, every movement, speaks of the unspoken desire between the two of you, tender yet consuming.

Chuuya pulls away, his lips leaving yours reluctantly, his breath shallow as his eyes flicker between hunger and something…darker, irresistible even. He studies you as though trying to imprint every inch of you in his mind, the way you look beneath his touch, the rise and fall of your chest. The heat between you both is undeniable, crackling in the air as if each breath could set everything ablaze.

He stands, towering over you, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that sends a shiver through your spine.

His hands move slowly, deliberately, as he tugs at his waistband, each motion calculated yet charged with a simmering energy that makes the air thick with anticipation. The restraint he's holding onto is evident, but it feels like a colled spring, poised to snap at any moment.

"Want me, Princess?" His voice is low, slow, and purposeful-heavy with need, dripping with authority. "Say it. Say you want me."

Your pulse spikes, the commanding tone of his voice vibrating through you.

His gaze doesn't waver, leaving no room for hesitation, and though part of you wants to resist, the other part is completely lost in him. His words, his presence-everything about him commands you, pulling you in like gravity.

"I want you, Chuuya," you breathe, the words leaving your mouth before you can stop them. It feels almost like a confession, as if saying it aloud shatters whatever barrier you had left. "I want all of you..."

Chuuya's lips curl into a smirk, satisfaction glinting in his eyes as he steps closer, his presence overwhelming. His hands grip the edge of the bed, leaning down to hover just above you. The heat of his stare makes your breath catch in your throat, his intensity bearing down on you like a physical weight.

"You're so fucking perfect for me," he murmurs, his voice husky with desire, a subtle rasp in his words that makes your pulse quicken. His hands trail down your sides with slow, possessive touches that ignite every nerve in your body. "I can't wait to see how well you take me... you will, won't you, doll?"

A shiver runs down your spine, the rawness of his words leaving you trembling. You nod, almost impatient, the urgency building in your chest. You reach for him, hands tugging at the hem of his shirt, desperate to feel the heat of his skin against yours. Chuuya doesn't hesitate—his shirt is off in an instant, and his hands are back on you, tracing your body with a hunger that makes your head spin.

His lips crash onto yours again, urgent, demanding, as if he's starved for you.

His hands slip beneath your clothes, the searing heat of his touch making you ache for more. You arch into him instinctively, pulled closer by his unrelenting force.

The world outside ceases to exist.

There's only the two of you, the tension, the need that pulses between you, thick and undeniable.

His fingers graze the lace of your underwear, sending a shudder through your body as he teases, barely brushing against you-just enough to drive you wild with longing.

"You feel that, Princess?" he growls, his lips brushing against yours, his voice low and rough."You're already so fucking wet for me."

A soft moan escapes you, your hands gripping his shoulders as your breath catches in your throat. You need him, you need more.

"Chuuya... please."

He chuckles, dark and seductive, his lips brushing your ear. "Patience, sweetheart," he whispers, his hands sliding down to free you from your pants completely, his eyes never leaving yours. "I'll give you what you want, but you have to earn it."

A frustrated groan escapes you, but the thrill of his words sends a rush through your chest. The way he speaks, so sure of himself, makes the anticipation unbearable.

"How?" you ask, your voice shaky with both desire and defiance.

His smirk deepens, and he leans down to nip at your neck, his teeth grazing your sensitive skin in a way that makes you tremble. "You need me to spell it out for you, pretty?"

Your heart races, a mix of longing and impatience building in your chest. Your hands move to his pants, undoing the buttons quickly, the urgency of the moment pulsing through you as you push them down, revealing the hard muscles of his body. His breath hitches slightly, and a feral grin spreads across his face, satisfaction mixing with raw desire.

"You really do want me, don't you?" he murmurs, his voice thick with lust. "You're making it harder for me to resist you."

Your trembling body responds to his gaze, the tension between you so thick it feels almost suffocating. "I’ve never wanted anything more in my life, Chuuya," you admit, your voice unsteady but unwavering.

He rolls his eyes, chuckling cockily. "That's what you always say. Every single damn time."

The room feels heavy with the tension now, unbearable and all-consuming. Chuuya's lips crash back onto yours, urgent, demanding. His hands pull your legs around him, pressing his body fully against yours, the heat between you suffocating yet intoxicating.

His hands roam your body, caressing and exploring, each movement dragging you deeper into the desire that's consuming both of you. It's almost maddening, the way he moves, knowing exactly how to push every single button. But just as you think you might shatter, his voice cuts through the haze, his breath hot against your ear.

Your pulse quickens as he positions himself above you, his gaze locking with yours. His fingers trail along your thigh, deliberately slow, each touch igniting a spark that spreads through every nerve in your body. His gaze never leaves yours, dark and piercing, as his touch lingers with a teasing lightness, like he knows exactly how to make you come undone.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice low and rough, a mix of awe and desire.

"So desperate for me, doll. You don't even realise how much l've missed you like this."

The weight of his words crashes over you, leaving you breathless. Your hands find their way to his shoulders, fingers curling into his skin, grounding yourself in the intensity of the moment. But he doesn't let you settle. He leans in, pressing his lips to your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, sending jolts of pleasure down your spine.

"Chuuya," you breathe, his name escaping your lips like a prayer.

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating against your skin, before his voice turns commanding once more. "Say it again," he growls. "Let me hear you say my name like that."

You shiver, the sheer demand in his tone making your resolve falter. "Chuuya," you whisper again, softer this time, but no less desperate.

His response is immediate. His hands slide under the waistband of your underwear, tugging them down in a fluid motion. His movements are precise, almost painfully slow, but full of hunger, every touch making your body ache for more. His lips find yours once again, the kiss searing, possessive, all-consuming.

The heat radiating between you is unbearable now. Every touch, every movement draws you further into him, until all you can feel is his presence, his hands, his lips. He presses closer, his body melding with yours as his hands roam, exploring every curve, every inch of skin, mapping you out as if you're the only thing that matters.

"I've missed this," he whispers against your lips, his voice rough with emotion.

Your breath hitches at the weight of his words, the yearning in them making your heart race. "I've missed you too, Chuuya," you murmur, the confession spilling from your lips without hesita-tion. "I've missed you so much."

His lips twitch into a smirk, but there's something deeper in his gaze now— longing mingled with a hunger that matches your own. "Good," he says, his hands gripping your hips firmly as he pulls you closer.

The world outside fades into nothing-ness, leaving only the overwhelming heat between you, the sensation of him, and the way he makes you feel as though you're the center of his universe. In this moment, you are.

Nothing else exists but him, his touch, his whispered words, and the overwhelming desire that consumes you both.

Every movement, every sound, is electric, each second stretching into eternity as he takes his time with you, savoring every reaction, every shiver that runs through your body. He's careful yet relentless, knowing exactly how to draw out the deepest parts of you, the parts you didn't even know existed.

"Chuuya," you gasp again, your voice trembling as his forehead presses to yours, his breath mingling with yours in the space between.

"I've got you," he murmurs, softer now, but still intense, his gaze never leaving yours. "Let me take care of you, baby."

And as he moves, each touch and each word ignites something deeper within you. You realize that you're utterly and completely his, in a way that words could never fully convey.

The air is thick with anticipation, the promise of what's to come hanging between you, until his grip tightens once more. You gasp as the pressure around your limbs intensifies, the choker around your wrists-more than a restraint-tightens, pulling you deeper into his control. You can't move. Can't struggle. And yet, you don't want to.

"Fuck, baby... look at you," his voice slices through the haze, his eyes devouring you. The choker snaps, yanking your arms above your head with a sharp tug, pinning you to the bed beneath you. The straps dig into your skin, the pressure creating a delicious, raw sensation that leaves you breathless.

"Does it hurt?" he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk, more taunt than genuine concern.

You shake your head, lips parting slightly as the pressure that holds you now moves lower, pulling your body closer. Your back arches into the window, your right leg dangling helplessly, the rest of you suspended in his unyielding grasp.

The air grows thick in your chest, as if the very space around you is closing in with the weight of his gaze. His fingers twitch, drifting toward your legs as though they've come alive with their own intent. Slowly, agonizingly, they hover just above your skin, the tension humming within your skin.

You can feel the heat of his stare, cataloging every reaction, every involuntary tremor of your body. "Every damn inch of you gets me harder than you can imagine," he growls, his hands finally landing on your thigh, ripping the fabric of your clothes effortlessly, fingers pressing down to trace your folds through your underwear before sliding up and down your inner thighs, worshiping every inch of you. "And yet... here you are, hiding from me. You said you missed me, didn't you, doll?"

Your breathing quickens, shallow, desperate, and you hate the way you tremble beneath him-not out of fear, not exactly, but from something deeper, more compromising.

His fingers find the hem of your shirt, lifting it off with maddening ease, leaving your skin exposed to the cool air.

"Wanna know what's so damn unique about your body, doll?" His palm slides over your lace bra, fingers curling possessively as he squeezes softly.

You gasp sharply, feeling his hot mouth against your skin, trailing open kisses down your collarbone, sharp teeth nipping before his tongue soothes the sting.

You can't move, can't think—only feel him, feel his possessive grip on you tightening as he groans low in his chest.

"Your soft skin drives me wild..."

"Ch-Chuuya, stop teasing, please." You whimper with a trembling breath as you arch into him, desperate for more.

More of his touch, more of his kisses, as if each fleeting moment only leaves you craving the next. He growls low in his throat-that sound that makes your heart race, pumping blood faster as he deftly undoes the buttons of his vest and dress shirt. Your hands ache to roam, to trace the hard lines of his body, to feel the muscles beneath your palms that have haunted your dreams during your time apart. Honestly, you can't deny it—not even for a second —how much you've missed him, how every inch of him feels like a need too urgent to ignore.

"Let me use every piece of you until you see what I see." Chuuya rasps, unbuttoning his belt urgently. He couldn't stop the way his length twitched the second it was freed from his uniform slacks. He moves closer, already palming it.

You swallow down the lump in your throat, instinctively parting your lips, thinking he'd claim your mouth, but he has other plans.

Chuuya leans down to kiss you, his mouth hot and eager, pressing against yours as his tongue slips inside, swirling with yours in a slow, deep rhythm.

He sucks harder than usual, his movements growing more deliberate as he aligns himself perfectly with the right spot. It feels like a fever dream-you can hardly remember how quickly he shifted positions, wrapping your legs around his slim waist and securing them with his ability. Then, you catch it - his gaze, half-lidded and full of that tenderness he only gives before pushing into you. It's not just lust; it's something deeper, something full of love and adoration, like he's already lost in you.

His jaw slackens as he sinks into you, the feel of your tight walls around him undoing him completely.

"Ah... Chuuya~...mmh~" Your desperate gasps are swallowed by his mouth, the kiss messy and urgent, his tongue and lips eager to claim you.

You feel his pace pick up, a shift from his usual slow, tender rhythm-he's insatiable tonight. His thick length fills you, and even though you've done this countless times, it always takes a moment to adjust to him, the stretch never quite losing its intensity.

He breaks the kiss, teeth gently grazing your collarbone, your breasts, your shoulders, leaving a trail of bruises that will bloom into shades of violet, soft grey, and deep green.

"Oh, fuck...~ you see what you do to me?

Look at you-perfect." He can hardly form a coherent thought, consumed entirely by the sensation of you. His words are rough, slipping out in a haze of desire. Every inch of you drives him wild, and as his mind fogs, all he can focus on is the way you make him feel - like he's drowning in pleasure. He was going to say something... but the weight of you, the way your body moves under his, has him reduced to nothing but soft, desperate moans.

A few beads of pre-cum roll down his shaft, making your soft skin slick, and the feeling of it only fuels his urgency.

His gravity manipulation keeps your wrists above your head, pinning you in place while his other hand grips your thighs tightly. The other traces over your body, making your breath catch. You arch against him, desperate for more.

"I'm so lost in you, baby," he groans, his words low and ragged as he pulls you even closer. The words are barely more than a whisper against your skin, but they sink deep inside you, fueling the fire in your chest. "You want me to show you just how much I adore you? Make love to you like you're mine?"

His voice shakes with the raw emotion he's trying to control. You feel every inch of him as he drives into you, deeper with each thrust. "Because you are... every part of you..." His breath is quick, labored, and his pace intensifies, pushing you to the edge.

You gasp in response, the intensity of his words, combined with his body's movements, filling you with an overwhelming sense of connection. "Yes, please... don't stop, Chuuya... I need you... more, please..." you whisper desperately. His body responds with a ferocity that matches your need, yet there's a tenderness in the way he holds you, in the way he moves. He's not just taking you; he's worshiping you, as though each thrust is a promise of devotion.

The bed shakes with each powerful thrust, the sound of your moans and the movement of your bodies filling the room. He's completely consumed by you, but even in the frenzy of it all, you can feel the tenderness in his touch, the quiet reverence with which he cherishes each moment. "You missed me, didn't you? This... it's driving me crazy.." he mutters, his voice strained with love and lust alike.

The room fills with breathless moans and the sound of skin on skin, a sweet, rhythmic symphony of desire and love. Everything outside the moment slips away as your bodies move together in perfect harmony.

He presses his forehead to yours, the weight of his breath matching the intensity of his feelings. You both breathe heavily, trying to steady yourselves, yet everything feels too overwhelming to hold back. He softly brushes his lips over yours, each kiss lingering like he's savoring every second.

When you murmur "I love you, Chuuya," your voice is tender, full of the raw emotion you've been holding back, and he smiles at you, his eyes softening as he traces his fingers over your cheek.

His lips curl into a playful grin, eyes shining with affection. "Say it again, baby," he whispers, his voice low and full of yearning. "I need to hear it."

You smile back at him, your heart full, and as you whisper "I love you," your words are like a promise between the two of you. A soft laugh escapes him, and he pulls you closer, holding you like you're the most precious thing in the world.

Neither of you notices that the hours have passed by, the world outside forgotten.

[sysig]

Laptop, now available for 500 pet-tickets (Patreon)

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCxDP fic Idea: A little bit of Home

One day, out of the blue, J'onn J'onzz asks if he could celebrate a Martian holiday. He hadn't before, seeing as the pain of losing his people and his home was too fresh, but he missed the holidays of Mars. He felt that if he didn't try to bring back some of his celebrations, then they, too, would be lost to death.

His teammates were happy to celebrate with him; they were touched by his sharing this part of his culture. J'onn explained that all they had to do was bring a childhood food item to feast on. He explains that on Mars, recipes were passed down for generations, and having the ancestral food of friends and family was the second most crucial part of his holiday.

They are then left stunned when he admits that the feast is traditionally held that same night, but he had been too nervous to mention it beforehand. He allows them to change their minds, but no one dares to.

Heroes pour out of the Watch Tower, racing home to begin cooking, and the Martian is told that as soon as they have something, they will return in time for the meal.

No one mentions the tears gathering on the smiling Martian's face. Nor do they say that his humanoid form falls away to his proper form, a rare occasion to witness.

J'onn then starts decorating the Watch Tower as the Justice League members work on what they will each bring.

He places a lot of shimmering rocks in patterns on the ground. They weave and curl through the hallways as members are careful with no stepping on them. He then has Batman help him find different minerals that change the color of sand used in gorgeous art portraits of each member. (The man was more than capable of sending him information while helping Alfred bake cookies)

It took a bit of flying around the world, but he was able to return to the tower a few hours later with all-natural colored sand. (Thank goodness for the teleportation technology Bruce installed)

By then, a few heroes had returned, each carrying a food or drink container.

Those he forms in the cafeteria where the feast will be held. A crowd of heroes stands around, oohing and ahhing, as J'onn uses his telekinesis to move the sands and create all of them simultaneously, putting on a show.

He is singing hauntingly beautiful songs while hanging colorful drapes around the walls in the last few hours leading up to the feast. No one could understand the words, but everyone agreed that J'onn had an incredible voice.

Clark, arriving with three Kent apple pies, smiles. "He sang that at my house on Christmas Day."

J'onn informed everyone that the event would be formal wear- and everyone showed up dressed to the nines. Heroes who still hid their secret identity- like Batman- had arrived in their costumes, but they had added bowties or some other little accessories to make it formal.

Seeing Nightwing fix the tophat on Batman's head while Red Hood was dressed in a lovely suit, forgoing his usual helmet for a red half mask, was..... enlightening.

A few drinks were served while people walked around admiring the sand painting that J'onn had made. He depicted not only the heroes but also multiple parts of the world, then a section of their best missions, and finally, paintings of good memories they had all shared.

It was like a walkable photoalbum.

Spirits were high as members enjoyed themselves, smiling at the memories and chatting with friends in the few peaceful times of their crazy lives. No one could hold in the gasp when J'onn finished getting ready and arrived at the party. He had painted himself in different shades of blue, beaming in pride at the praise for his cultural markings.

He asked everyone to sit, standing to pray in his native tongue. A few heroes bowed their heads, and others merely sat comfortably, waiting for the Martian to finish.

He picked up his cup, raising it high in the air with his hand

"Friends," J'onn started, voicing, choked up with emotion. "I thank you all for joining me today. It means the world to me that you come here to celebrate the King's Feast. May Phantom watch over you all and freeze all your enemies!"

His cup floats out of his hand, turning to the side so the water can fall out and take the shape of a strange D. J'onn bowes his head, crossing his arms and muttering more prayers.

John Constantine, who had been attempting to sneak bites from the steak and kidney he brought, drops his fork. He stares in absolute shock at the flouting water symbol above the martian before Zatanna slaps him on the shoulder. "Don't be rude!"

He points one shaking finger at the Martian, turning to her with a pale face. "The Martians worship King Phantom!?"

She blinks. "Who's that?"

John moves his jaw, but no words leave his mouth as J'onn finishes his last prayer. He then holds up a plate proudly, explaining what it is and why he chose it to share. He encourages every hero to do the same, so voices fill the air one by one as they present their offering and the memory attached to it.

No one pays much mind to the blond British man desperately drawing wards on the ground using his green-colored chalk. When asked what her husband was doing, Zatanna shrugs helplessly.

Likewise, no one notices some of the plates mysteriously lose some of their contents. The food appears on Earth in the room of a very excited Halfa, who feeds on the foods and the emotions weaved into the meals.

J'onn later claims that this Great One Day felt like King Phantom was slightly closer than usual.

[aft3rhrs]

— close ღ

pairing: jungkook x reader

genre: forbidden romance, step!siblings au

warnings: yandere, mentions of violence (not towards the reader), pseudo incest, manipulation, corruption, mentions of somnophilia, praise, degradation, cockwarming, breast play, dirty talk, dom!jk but he's needy, (he's also a pervert), humping, creampie

It started out as an unconscious gesture; searching for your warmth. Hugs that lingered and limbs tangled together under the sheets on stormy nights. A primal yearning, seeping into his consciousness slowly; until sharing a bed became a normal occurance, no need for rain or thunder. Until exploring your skin under the cotton of your t-shirt no longer served to comfort you; but rather to feed the starving fire in his bones, prickling your skin with its heat. He always needed more.

It was so hard to think clearly through the fuzziness in your head, his own warmth filling you up; and the innocence lacing his lewd actions. A pretty, silken ribbon coiled around a snake.

"I love you," he'd whisper, "I want to be close to you. Is that so wrong?"

The words, so heavy, sank all the way into your skull, their weight slowly crushing your common sense; and all that was left were the raw, unfiltered instincts creeping beneath. In a way, Jungkook was right, wasn't he? And it wasn't like anyone would ever know...

You ended up disappearing deeper into that thought the more daring his touches became, the longer his hands lingered so intimately on skin that so clearly longed for them.

"I missed you so much... Couldn't wait to come home."

The whisper turned into a sigh, his hand brushing over your abdomen. A soft moan was muffled into your neck when his hips pushed forward, the drooling, swollen tip of his cock prodding against your slick entrance. He filled you up inch by inch, throbbing as you clenched around him, so fucking tight a dull bang sounded through the room before he was even halfway in. He paid no mind to his head hitting the headboard, hissing and squeezing your hip with an inked hand, eyes shut and stomach twisting hotly.

Unfortunately — or fortunately, at this point, who knew — hearing the gentle quiver in each breath Jungkook took for some reason only made you clench harder.

"Ahh—" a weak, breathy, little groan that made his voice break. "F-fuck.. Please stop, baby..."

You pressed your face into the pillow, trying to stifle the whimper pushing past your throat. His hands lowered down to your thigh, holding you open with ease so he could slide in deeper, make you take it all before his hips finally touched yours.

You've spent many nights spooning like this, eyelids heavy and fingers intertwined. At first, Jungkook obediently kept his touches limited to caressing your thighs and tummy, decorating them with mindless patterns.

Until that, too, was not enough.

Every night he buried himself inside you, he found it harder and harder not to cross the line — and you found it harder not to fall apart. "You feel so good," didn't suffice anymore; neither did the gentle, appreciative way he felt your body. He needed more. And who could blame Jungkook with the way your cunt gripped his cock, dripping wet and heavenly warm, like it was made for him.

"So perfect."

His palm roamed your thigh, getting dangerously close to the curve of your ass.

"So perfect for me," he whispered softly. "Must feel so empty in the mornings, huh? Pussy so pretty gaping after I leave— ah."

It would have looked even prettier with his cum spilling out of it, but the thought turned to dust the moment he felt you react to his words, the pulsing around his thick girth drawing a groan out of him. The corner of his lips twitched upwards lazily, his eyes falling shut.

You felt like you couldn't breathe.

Being inside you was meant to serve a purpose; to comfort and relax. You never thought Jungkook actually looked at you, let alone while you were unconscious, and the admission made the room around you spin in hazy circles.

"Filthy," he murmured, his fingers finding rest on your ass and squeezing.

You gasped, squeezing him right back, and Jungkook wasn't sure how much longer he could stay still, the heat blazing through him too consuming.

"Shh, shh, shh, baby," he tried to soothe, one hand reaching to envelop your own. "Doing so good. Such a good girl."

Nuzzling your neck, he helped your heartbeat slow down a little, his embrace solid; leading you straight back towards the safety zone.

"Wanna watch a movie?"

While grateful for the offered distraction, you shook your head, wishing for nothing more than to finally fall asleep. For a moment, it was silent, and it almost seemed like Jungkook had the same idea.

Then, his lips inched towards your ear and you felt him twitch inside you.

"Wanna make one?" He breathed.

Your eyes shot open, stomach turning. Jungkook felt you tense up in his arms, and for some reason it turned him on to see you struggle, thrown from your safety zone into the deep water.

"What if my cute, little sister got stuck under the couch? Or t-the table—ohh fuck—"

He couldn't quite finish the sentence, his dick beating as hard as his heart as your walls constricted.

"Jungkook!" you tried, though your voice barely rose above a choked whisper.

He hummed in response, brushing his nose along the nape of your neck.

"You started it."

How?

You didn't get a chance to ask. His hand sneaked under your shirt again, shamelessly sliding up to cup your breast. Tingles crept up your spine, making it arch beautifully, and Jungkook groaned at the slight movement.

"I mean, how filthy are you, baby? You find out I lift the sheets every morning to look at your little cunt while you're sleeping, and you clench around me like a bitch in heat."

He couldn't deny the ache shooting through his stiff cock as he taunted you in a whisper, goosebumps flooding his skin. Not once in his life has he ever spoken to you like this before; maybe that was one of the reasons for the bubbling heat unfurling in his stomach. Maybe that was the reason for the way your thighs quivered as well.

"I felt you then, too," he groaned, rolling your nipple in between the tips of his fingers. "Is that what you want? To get stuck under a couch and fucked by your brother?"

The next roll turned into a pinch. Arousal made you burn from head to toe, and for a reason you couldn't fathom the shame worked like gasoline, making the fire spread quicker. You were struggling to breathe again, too hot under the sheets.

"I'm starting to see a pattern here... You like being treated like some mindless toy? You wanna be a little doll for me?"

You were meant to stop him, say his name, but it came out as a pathetic moan, and you felt your eyes water. It was a mix of mortification and the intense need pulsing in between your thighs, the kind you've never felt before, the kind you knew you shouldn't feel at all when it came to your stepbrother.

As if reading your mind, Jungkook slowly began to pull back; dragging every thick inch of his cock through your walls slowly, until only the tip remained inside.

The moment he parted from you completely, you instantly felt his absence. There was no better time to say something than now, when your ability to form sentences wasn't completely blurred by lust.

"Jungkook," you tried again in a whisper, swallowing, "please, stop using that word when you're—" a gasp cut you off when he flipped you onto your back, leaning his muscular arms on either side of your head.

Even in the darkness of your bedroom, it was impossible not to notice how fucked out he looked, smirking down at you.

"What word?" He murmured, unceremoniously lifting your shirt.

Your heart jumped, hand flying down to try to cover your chest, but he caught your wrist and slammed it against the pillow.

"What word?" He repeated. As if he needed to ask. As if he didn't feel you squirm every time he used it. "Sister?"

While you were trying to process the situation, heart beating out of your chest, he lowered his head and wrapped his mouth around a hardened nipple, sucking. A veiny hand reached to fondle the other breast and you moaned softly, eyelids fluttering. Jungkook grunted in response, dark gaze flickering up to your face. It was a sinful sight, the feeling even more so, his tongue so hot and wet as it flicked against the bud. But your hesitation must have shown, because after a moment he pulled away and caressed your face instead.

"Don't act so innocent, baby. You think I don't notice how you don't even need to touch yourself to let me inside? Just seeing my cock gets your panties wet. Besides," he leaned in closer, staring into widening eyes. "That's what you are, aren't you?"

There was a look in his eyes you haven't seen before; something possessive that prompted you to nod and agree, despite the nervousness buzzing through you.

Jungkook purred, rubbing his nose against yours.

"Then be a good little sister," he whispered, "and spread your legs for me."

A tremble went through your spine, and you found yourself doing just as he asked. It earned you a tender kiss on the cheek, then another. He loved you so much. Was is it so wrong that he loved you? No, and he would continue to assure you that there was nothing wrong with you loving him either.

Biting down on his lip, he grabbed his hard cock and gave it a pump, then two, shuddering when it touched the warmth of your cunt.

He felt his abdomen tense, keeping eye contact as he began pushing himself into the welcoming softness of the tight hole. He's never kissed you before, but his lips were practically on yours, brushing your mouth and releasing hot, short puffs of air. Swallowing harshly when he bottomed out, he felt the moan that escaped you, felt your hole twitching around him, greedy and so much wetter than when the night began.

"G-god," he forced out, fighting back a groan. He buried his face in the crook of your shoulder.

"I love you so fucking much, y-yeah. I'm so fucking hard. Always m-make me so fucking—ah—hard. So pretty."

He was so drunk on you, his words were beginning to slur. Warmth tingled through your chest in crashing waves. His hand went back to kneading your breasts, any traces of gentleness gone and replaced by need. He lifted himself up to look, fascinated by the way your body reacted when he twisted and abused your nipple. He could have came just from this, from the view under him and the feeling of your perfect pussy. And fuck, he wanted to come so bad.

"Fuck," he finally groaned, barely conscious of the little grinding movement his hips began to make. You were getting lost in the pleasure, your hips lifting subtly to aid his in gaining friction.

Immediately, mindlessly, his grinding became faster, his cock rubbing against your walls so well and reaching so deep you knew you were going to come; and he wasn't even fucking you properly.

"Ohh fuck, baby— need you so much, please."

You heard him sniffle, the mattress squeaking beneath you.

"Please let me come. I need to come."

"Jungkook," you breathed, "I, I—" your stomach tightened, the tension in it so close to bursting.

Was this wrong? It didn't feel wrong; Jungkook always said that it's okay to have a special bond, that it's okay to feel good, it's your business. And you knew you weren't connected by blood, but you were still connected by family ties.

"A-are you still on the pill?" He asked brokenly, his voice hoarse.

"Yeah, I— am, oh—"

With a low groan, he humped you faster, making your legs stiffen around him.

"Can I come inside? Need to come inside. Need to fill this sopping fucking cunt."

You whined, hiding your face in his neck, a tiny part of you still aware that your parents were home, asleep. At this point though, it didn't really matter anymore. You wanted to feel him come so badly; you wanted to feel him fall apart with you.

"Yes, please," you whispered breathlessly, your fingers digging into his broad shoulders. "Come inside me."

The moan he let out was obscene, but you didn't get a chance to beg any more; your vision became blurry and you couldn't hold back any longer if you tried. His hand slapped over your mouth just in time to muffle the scream that broke through, his teeth biting harshly into your shoulder to dull his the desperate sounds of his own orgasm. His hips stilled, dick twitching and shooting rope after rope of cum until his mind went numb.

You've never felt this sated before; so full and complete, lost in the bliss. It took a while for Jungkook to gather up the strength to lift himself up, but you didn't mind at all, his weight on you adding to the comfort and the butterflies still swarming around your tummy. What caught your attention was the silky lips touching your own; a chaste, loving kiss, the first one he dared to give you, making your heart pound.

"I'm all yours. Are you mine?"

Not that he needed to ask; of course you were his. He'd sever someone's arm before letting them even think of putting a finger on you. But he did need to hear you say it. He needed you to know that you belonged to him only, that no one else was allowed to do the things he did to you. And you sighed, so sweetly, whispering your answer straight into his mouth.

"Only yours."

Eyes hooded, Jungkook stared at your beautiful face, peace taking over your features. You were already falling asleep, and he could barely keep his eyes open, even though arousal still stirred in groin. He came so much it drained most of his strength, but he'd be able to sneak into your bed again. And this time, you'd let him give it to you properly, you'd beg for it like you begged for his cum. You'd let him fuck you again and again until you were so dumbed out on orgasms and love, you'd barely question waking up in a new apartment he rented for you to share.

Your parents wouldn't question it either; they'd have no reason to. Wasn't it just heartwarming for siblings to be close?

[drunkenkissesatdusk]

MADE FOR LOVIN' YOU BABY

pairings — max verstappen x reader

warnings — nothing but fluff, pretty much just domestic love yk, kinda like the Jason Todd one i wrote

summary — Max wasn't actually a mean guy outside of the grid, he was actually a very loving guy that you had fallen for.

notes — writing f1 stuff will this thrive like my batfam stuff (also this is on my computer so it might be different) (and i’m also kinda writing on my phone?? idk) and it’s crazy short whoops

━━━━━━━ YOU WERE GLAD that Max was finally on his break. You could finally see him for a while, and he wasn't as busy with his media presence and all that. He was all yours until the season started back up again.

You could feel the stubble Max had yet to trim against your shoulder, and you tiredly turned to him, groaning before a smile landed across your face. Despite how early it was, Max's face was able to easily make up for that.

"Morning, Max." You scooted closer to him, kissing him softly. When you pulled away, you smiled happily at him. He smiled back, kissing you before you laid on his chest, feeling his heartbeat against your cheek.

You both stayed like that for another hour, before you got up and went to the kitchen while he delt with the few things he had to for the day. Eventually, he found you downstairs.

You had made a healthy enough breakfast, plating it up for the two of you to eat outside on your balcony. You two sat together on a small couch in a mess of tangled limbs. You remained there, even well after you both finished breakfast.

It was a comfortably quiet time, one the two of you had found yourselves accustomed to ever since he had begun his break from racing.

you had both found the time you spent together, tucked away in your home, had been spectacular thus far. you were now well adjusted to always having Max by you now.

“wish you could stay home like this forever.” you muttered tiredly into his chest, smiling when one of your cats hopped up to where they two of you laid together.

running your hand along the cats fur, you could feel Max looking at you. with a little effort, you finally met his eyes, which were filled with nothing but love and happiness.

“everyone on the grid is so wrong about you being a bad guy. you’re such a softie.” you teased, smiling and poking his side. he smiled wider, throwing his head back and laughing.

“you’re the only one who sees me this way, obviously everyone else thinks i’m a bad guy.” Max rolled his eyes.

“liar. not Charles. he’s probably more in love with you than me.” you joked, dropping your head back down onto his chest, listening to the steady beats of his heart.

it was calm all around. there weren’t any loud cars driving through, you could hear the birds around you two as the sky began to light up, the afternoon at a steady approach.

it just felt like morning. you two had on sweaters, blocking out the morning cold. eventually it would warm up a little more, but wouldn’t get unbearably warm like the summer would.

“i wish i could stay here forever, y’know. right here, on this couch, until we grow old and gray.” you began drawing patterns on his rising and falling chest. you felt it move with laughter, which made you laugh.

“go back inside and play Mario Kart?” Max grinned. you sat up, a determined look crossing your face as you nodded excitedly. you had bought the old Nintendo 64 console and multitude of fun games in Miami during the Miami Grand Prix. you and Max were obsessed.

round after round, insult after insult, it ended with the two of you laughing together in a mess of limbs on the floor.

all Max was made for was love, his insults never had any angry backing, his apologies were instantaneous after any argument, and his priorities in your relationship was very well set.

he did his best for you, and you returned the same bouts of love.

masterlist — reminder that asks / requests are open!!

[incognit0slut]

Pretty when you sleep

As newlyweds, Spencer couldn’t keep his hands off of you. Even when you were asleep.

warnings: (MINORS DNI!) fem reader, consensual somnophilia, unprotected sex, very minimum plot yet very heavy smut. words: around 2k

a/n: In another episode of me getting inspired by a clip that I turned into a gif and wrote something out of it🥴 if you want to read my other attempts at writing a blurb based on gifs, find the hashtag #gifwriting on my page. Also, I can't believe this is my first fic of him as a husband.

YOU WERE TOO PRETTY TO RESIST. You just looked so goddamn tempting while laying on your stomach like that. It didn’t help when the strap of your nightgown fell from your shoulder, uncovering the swell of your breast.

You were so breathtakingly beautiful. So soft. So irresistible.

Spencer always made sure he had your consent every time he touched you. He grew to understand what you liked and didn't like when it came to sex, and sure, maybe thinking of brushing his fingers along your skin while you were unconscious wasn't the best idea. But he couldn't help it. You were just too inviting to resist, so he placed a hand on your hip.

You stirred at the sudden contact he initiated and unconsciously readjust into a more comfortable position, your toes curling before relaxing once more. When you finally stopped squirming around, he reached out again, letting his rough fingers travel up your exposed leg. He started at your knee before going further up between the apex of your plush thighs, where that sweet little cunt of yours was waiting for him.

You were still asleep, even as he started to carefully stroke you, dragging a single knuckle up and down against your thin panties and suppressed a groan as he felt the heat radiating from underneath the material. Your breathing pattern began to change as he continued with his teasing. By the time he circled your clit and added the slightest amount of pressure on it, you started to pant and push your ass higher into the air in response.

He smiled. You wanted this.

Of course, you did. The way your body reacted to his touch spoke for itself. You were already getting so wet that your panties were turning damp and sticky with arousal. He continued to massage your clit through the thin cotton, and he watched in awe as your breath hitched in your throat, almost as though you could feel his actions even when you were unconscious.

Spencer kept his eyes trained on your body as he moved to dip your panties down your legs, carefully lifting your body up just enough to slide them down your curves, allowing them to sit around one of your ankles. Then he carefully slipped off his own clothes, trying to keep as quiet as possible, before his palms splayed against your body to move you onto your back.

“So pretty," he mumbled under his breath as he took note of your loose nightgown and the way it had risen up, exposing more of your skin to his prying eyes. He moved over the mattress slowly, making sure you were still fast asleep, and slipped between your now parted legs.

God, how had he become so lucky? Having you reciprocate his feelings was already a surprise when he confessed, but it surpassed his expectations when you agreed to be his girlfriend. Ten months of pure bliss was what he felt throughout your relationship, and when he noticed some of your clutter in his apartment, he wanted to see it every time he came home.

And now, miraculously, you were his wife. The word carried a weight of joy and wonder that he couldn't quite fathom. Every morning waking up to your shared life, and every night falling asleep next to you, felt like a dream too good to be true. 

Granted, you've shared intimate nights so much that he should've gotten used to your body by now. Yet, every touch felt as electrifying and exhilarating as the first time and he found himself still captivated by the warmth of your presence. Even now as he fisted his cock, giving himself a teasing tug as he ran his thumb against the tip, his eyes raking your exposed body.

The way your legs parted for him, showing off your wetness and how already swollen you were even when he was barely touching you. His gaze swept over your exposed breast that slipped out of your nightgown and he brushed a thumb against one of your stiff peaks, feeling the way you trembled beneath him.

The way you shuddered made him jerk his hips against yours erratically, pushing his cock against your mound. Your body reacted to his touch, even in slumber, as your hips arched off the bed. His breath hitched when he rutted his hips forward. The sight of his cock against your abdomen showed him just how deep he would be inside you.

He then eased his hips back to drag the thick, swollen tip through your outer lips. His eyes focused on the way your pussy spread for him, as though inviting him inside. Your arousal coated his swollen head as he focused his attention on your clit, pressing down on it with his cock as he listened to the increased pace of your breathing.

He moved his cock back up as he let the underside split your folds open, resting his girth between them snugly as he let out a low groan at the heat radiating from your core. You were so fucking pretty it was unreal.

“You’re so wet,” he murmured, holding onto the base of his cock as he started to drag the tip through your wetness again, grunting softly as it caught against your tight entrance. “Look at you swallowing me.”

Spencer exercised restraint as he gave soft, subtle thrusts into your aching cunt. His gaze flickered between your face and his cock splitting you apart as he continued pushing himself forward, feeling your body begin to resist his entrance as he tried to change the angle.

"I'm sorry, Angel," he whispered. His chest rumbled with a groan as he felt you clenching around his thickness, causing his eyes to snap up to your face in surprise, thinking that he’d wake you up. But you were still very much asleep. "I can't resist you."

He let out a sigh as he managed to thrust his hips further. He paused for a second to cherish the feeling of his cock being completely buried deep inside you, running his hand over your abdomen as he tried to feel himself inside you, pressing against your pelvis as he throbbed at the sensation.

He held your hips and slowly dragged his thick cock from your cunt, leaving the tip to keep you stretched out before plunging back inside. The restraint he once had now long gone with the way your body hungrily sucked him. His pace increased as he leaned forward, hovering his body over yours with his hands splayed on either side of your head. He sucked in a breath at the way your body adjusted to him, clenching around his cock as he kept rutting his hips.

And then you suddenly stirred. You moved slightly, your chin tilting upward, and your lips parting to release a breath. Your eyes slowly flutter open from your slumber as you feel the warmth of his body, the subtle shift of his weight, and the aching sensation between your thighs.

"What..." Your voice cracked as you turned to see him, only to let out a low groan at him thrusting a bit harder against you.

"Shh, it's just me," he whispered. The haze of your sleep lifted, and your gaze met him at the same time he leaned down, pressing his lips onto yours. 

He captured your lips in a slow, passionate kiss. His tongue swiped over your bottom lip as your hands pressed to his chest, feeling his flushed, hot body against your own. You let him devour you while his hips increased in speed, rolling against yours as whimpers began to spill from your lips. Your thighs instinctively tightened around him, curses spilling beneath a heavy breath as the bliss filled your body.

"Spence..." you whimpered. You were breathless, eyes screwed shut, legs now parting even further to give him better access. Throughout the time you were in a relationship with him, you never imagined being woken up like this, but you weren't complaining. Not when you could feel his cock stretching you so deliciously.

Spencer was often embarrassed when it came to dirty talk, but once he realized how much you relished those whispered, filthy words, it became a personal mission to keep you thoroughly satisfied. Knowing how much you loved hearing those filthy words became a secret thrill for him, which was why when he leaned closer to whisper in your ear, you became a whining mess.

“You're always so tight,” he began, his voice deep and raspy, right in your ear before he nipped at the lobe, sending a gasp spilling for your lips as you reached for him in an overwhelming burst of arousal. “Look at you taking me so well. It's like your pussy is made for me.”

A rush of burning heat filled your body, his words affecting you with heat spreading from between your thighs to reach even your toes and fingertips. He buried himself between your neck while thrusting inside of you with rising desperation, pushing himself further, his body rolling against yours.

“Faster,” you begged him in a breathless whimper, all before your teeth sank into your lip, brow wrinkling, moans filling in your chest. It only took him a second to comply. The thrusts of his hips created a loud smack as drove his cock deeper inside of you. You couldn’t help but cry out, overwhelmed by the pleasure, squeezing yourself so tight around him that he let out a grunt.

“God, you feel amazing,” he groaned in your ear, having the proximately to tell you the dirty, nasty things on his mind. His lips brushed over your neck as he increased his pace. “I love fucking you like this.”

“Please… don’t stop—” You gulped with a brief pause. “Feels so... so good.”

He shook his head against your shoulder.

"I'm not stopping," he continued to whisper in his gruff voice, earning goosebumps on your quivering body. “I love feeling you this close.” He pressed an open kiss on your skin. "I love making you desperate."

“Fuck,” you cried out, body weakening with his every word. The sounds of him pumping into your slick, wet arousal became louder the quicker he thrust into you. “I-I’m getting c-close."

You continued to warble out broken sentences, trying to form any coherent thoughts but all you felt was the searing pleasure that flowed through you. The lewd sounds continued to fill the room as your essence dribbled down your ass and onto the bed, staining the sheets. "I-I'm gonna—"

“Come for me,” he encouraged, lips pressing to your skin between words. “Go on, come on my cock.” The choice words sent a shiver down your spine as the heat bubbled between your thighs. 

“I'm coming,” you cried out, voice straining and struggling to speak from him leaving you so breathless. Your body tensed as the pleasure swelled through your body and his final confession toppled you right over the edge.

“I love this so much,” he groaned between you gasping as the first wave of pleasure surged through you, “I love you.”

You finally let go, toes curling in ecstasy as you arched your back, legs growing further apart. Your head spins from the warmth filling every inch of you as he fucked you through your orgasm. You gasped his name, overwhelmed with the bliss he offered, the emotions that drove you at his words. You wanted to say them back, but you couldn't even think properly as the wave of pleasure washed over you.

He continued to thrust, eyes closed, brow creased, lips parted, huffing and groaning and holding you tighter until he reached his own peak. The moment a heavy exhale left his lips, his hips slowed and his cock twitched, signaling the pleasure filling him as he released inside of you. You moaned at the sensation before he eased himself and collapsed on the bed, bringing you along with him as you settled on top of his body.

The two of you lingered in the aftermath of passion for a few seconds too long—breathless, hot, sweaty, and tired. When you lifted your head to look at him, you noticed the softness in his eyes, your heart fluttering at the sight. 

"Well, good morning to you, Dr. Reid," you teased.

He laughed, his hands absentmindedly stroking your back. There was a warmth in his gaze, filled with affection as you continued to stare at him. "Good morning, Mrs. Reid."

You couldn't help but smile at the endearment as you placed your head on his chest, finding solace in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. With a contented sigh, you let his warmth envelop you, singking further into the arms of your husband.

a/n: If you have a specific clip you want me to be inspired by, come and drop me a message. But please be specific so I would know which scene you're talking about.

[remlionheart]

Anonymous asked:

PLZZZZ i beg you smoking sesh w megumi

♡‧₊˚ ask and you shall receive ✩࿐࿔ it's been a while since i've done a meg drabble and out of all of the different drugs we've explored on this page, this just made me realize that i've never written about weed lol so thank u for the suggestion this was really fun to write <333 home from college au. heavy we-shouldn't-be-doing-this trope. aged up characters. fem!reader x ((the peoples’ husband)), *⟡toxic!megumi*⟡ 3.2k words. porn with a plot. angst. degradation and praise. stoned sex. lemme know whatcha think, luv u ‎‎♡‧₊˚

❀ MDNI ❀

keep me h i g h ₊⊹

now playing: wet dreams ☾₊˚

⊹₊ ⋆✿

It'd been four months since the last time you'd seen Megumi.

Between college and the city lines that separated you, the two of you had cut almost every tie that once kept you connected. It was strange to think about sometimes - how quickly you'd gone from being the person he spent almost every weekend with to being nothing more than a fly on the wall of his social media, occasionally liking his posts but never getting anything back in return.

You tried to remind yourself that it shouldn't have been a surprise. Your relationship with him had never been easy. All throughout high-school you'd fallen into the same pattern of push and pull with him, his feelings everchanging and impossible to keep up with.

He'd kiss you in private and ignore you in public. Tell you that you were just friends and sneak through your window on the nights he didn't want to be alone. Run his hand along your back until you had fallen asleep and leave without so much as a "goodbye".

As painful as it was, a part of you had almost been relieved when things finally ended. No more pushing, no more pulling - just you and the new town you'd moved to. You and the new friends you'd made. You and your new fresh start. You still wanted the best for him despite everything, but you also wanted the best for yourself too. And deep down, you knew that didn't involve drunken hook-ups and empty words.

You hummed as you stepped out of the shower, the smell of coconut shampoo and lavender body wash dancing around you. It was unexpectedly comforting to be back home, even if it was only for a few days. Your roommates had tried to talk you out of coming back to Tokyo for fall break, but you knew you couldn't do that to your parents. You were certain there would be another time for going out and Halloween house parties.

Your room was still exactly the same as you'd left it - a mess of purple blankets on your bed and off white string-lights decorating the walls. Clothes that you'd left behind still hanging in your closet along with a stack of old journals. Tarot cards and candles and framed pictures of you and your friends sitting atop your dresser. It was nice to know that it still felt like your safe haven despite months of not seeing it.

You continued humming the same song that you'd started in the shower as you slipped on a baby-blue tank top, pairing it with your favorite silk pajama shorts. You lit a couple of candles and cracked the window open, letting crisp October air swirl through your room before turning off the overhead light and crawling into bed.

A cozy sense of nostalgia crept over you as you nestled into your bed and pulled out your phone.

Just like when you lived here, you were the only one still up after a movie had put both of your parents to sleep. You were mid-scroll, debating on what Youtube rabbit hole you wanted to go down for the night when a text popped up that immediately put you in an upright position again.

⋆｡˚ ☁️˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

⋆｡˚ ☁️ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

You called him as soon as his last text came through, but he sent you straight to voicemail. "fushiguro," you texted frantically, "seriously", "you can't do this".

You were out of bed and on your feet before you even knew what you were doing, rushing to lock your door as you quickly realized that there was no such thing as reasoning with him.

Your life had changed in an assortment of ways since you'd left and judging by the way he texted you, he had to know that too. The last picture you posted before coming back was of you and a boy that you'd been seeing for the last month. It was mostly casual, neither one of you quite ready to put a label on what you were doing, but it still made your stomach flutter thinking about seeing Megumi when you were actively sleeping with someone else.

You dialed his number again, only to immediately hang up. Your heart suddenly lodged in your throat when you noticed that you could hear the call ringing from both inside and outside of your room.

You watched his slender fingers loop under the base of your already cracked window, stealthily pushing it up like he'd done so many times before. A sea of memories flooded over you as he pulled himself up, swiftly swooping both of his legs into your room before projecting the rest of his body forward and landing perfectly in place, hardly make a sound.

The low glow of your string-lights grazed his face, the prettiest shade of blue meeting your stare while the two of you took a moment to study the person in front of you.

"Your parents really need to invest in a better security system."

You hated the laugh that escaped you. The slight smirk that pulled at the corner of his mouth. The way your blood still danced in your veins at just the sight of him.

So much had changed in the last four months and yet, here you both were.

"Surely you didn't come all the way over here just to critique our home safety." You whispered.

"Seems like someone should." He countered, following behind you as you took a seat on the side of the bed.

He fished a joint and a lighter out of the front pocket of his jacket before tossing it onto the floor, leaving him in a black v-neck that accentuated his arms. He'd always been toned, but it was obvious that he'd been training a lot harder since you left - his shoulders and chest noticeably more defined than the last time you'd seen him. You'd never say it aloud given their relationship, but the older he got the more and more he seemed to resemble his dad.

"Bring your fan over here." He said, breaking your train of thought.

You nodded, staying light on your feet as you brought it over and aimed it at the window before reaching into the back of your dresser to grab an ashtray that you'd had stashed away since sophomore year. It was like no time had passed at all as you took a seat next to him again, setting the ashtray on your nightstand while he twirled the joint between his fingers.

You weren't sure why, but there was something about the way he brought it to his lips and flicked his lighter that created a dull ache at your center. Everything about him was so pretty and so nonchalant, effortlessly detached and infuriatingly nice to look at.

"Does your new boyfriend smoke?"

Your eyes instantly snapped to his, watching a plume of smoke trail felicitously from his mouth as he looked back at you. "Doesn't really look like the type who would." He added with a slight raise of his brow.

You didn't like anything about the question - from that fact that he had the audacity to ask it to his lethargic tone to the emphasis on the word "new", as if he was trying to imply that you'd been dating someone before you left.

You clicked your tongue to your cheek, letting out a huff as you snatched the joint from his lips. "You're insufferable." You repeated, drawing in a deep inhale.

The truth was, the boy you'd been seeing didn't smoke pot and you hadn't either since you'd started college, but there was no way you were admitting that to him. You took another hit, keeping your attention fixated on the window as your fan circulated the smoke out and pushed it into the night sky.

"I'll take that as a no." He whispered, his leg lightly nudging yours as he leaned over and plucked the joint from your fingers this time.

"Why are you here?" You finally asked, a sharp edge growing in your voice. "You were the one that quit talking to me, you know that right? You didn't even bother saying goodbye and then you just show up unannounced like nothing happened and ask me about my life and who I'm seeing and..." The weed was starting to hit you, your body suddenly heavy and your mind dizzy with a confusing mix of intoxication and irritation. "I just... Why? I mean, what's the point of any of this?"

A rare somber expression took over, softening his usual concrete features as he ran a hand over the back of his neck.

“Honestly, I don't know..." His gaze was glossy, his mind equally as hazy as yours. "I didn't know what to say when you left so I didn't say anything. It seemed easier that way, for both of us."

"But it wasn't –"

"I know." His demeanor was unexpectedly gentle despite how firm his tone was. "I'm sorry."

The room felt like it was spinning, his apology making something inside you ache. It was the first time in the three years you'd known him that he'd ever said it. That he'd ever actually admitted or acknowledged to hurting your feelings and even if the bar was in literal hell, it still felt good to hear those words finally leave his mouth.

"What else?" You pressed.

He took a moment to look you over, his eyes tentatively roaming along your face. “I missed you." He said honestly.

You'd never met anyone besides him who was capable of sounding so sincere and so indifferent at the same time.

"Missed your stupid laugh. Missed the way you'd always call me when you were drunk." He leaned in closer, his hand carefully taking the joint from yours as he set it on the ashtray and rested his palm on the back of your neck.

"Missed being in your room like this..." His voice dropped down to a low whisper, fanning lecherously across your skin. “Missed the feeling of you wrapped around me…”

“Megumi… we can’t…”

But you still let him close the already small gap between you anyway, his lips ghosting yours as you breathed him in. The familiar scent of false promises and expensive cologne flooding your senses.

"I know you.” He said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You wouldn’t have texted me back if you didn’t want to.”

"I –" His words were going straight to your center, the dull ache from earlier blossoming into an unignorable throb as his hand gradually trailed up your thigh. "I didn't –"

"Wouldn’t have posted that you were back in town if you didn’t want me to know…" His fingers were toying with the fabric of your shorts, methodically pushing them to the side. "Wouldn’t have left your window open if you wanted to be alone…”

Your ability to hold yourself together was threatening to buckle at any moment between the feeling of his grip tangling into your hair and his lips continuing to tortuously graze yours.

“And you definitely wouldn’t be this fucking wet if you really didn’t want me here…”

Your heart was slamming into your chest so hard you were almost afraid he'd hear it.

He kept his eyes locked with yours, watching the last bit of composure you had vanish entirely as he slipped past the thin barrier of your underwear and gained access to your weakest point.

Your movements betrayed your sentiment, a helpless whimper escaping you while your hips gravitated up towards his hand, practically begging for more.

"Look at you," he breathed, his middle finger drawing soft, heavenly circles between your thighs. "All that time without seeing each other and you still fall apart for me so easily. Why is that?"

Another heady little noise entered into the small space between you as you fought to keep your moans from getting any louder. You hadn't been this high in months. Your insides felt like they were on fire as he dipped down, just barely prodding at your entrance. But the more you tried to get from him, the more he pulled away. Unwilling to comply with your body's demands until you answered his question.

"Tell me." It was venom mixed with honey. Torment mixed with pleasure. He had you right where he wanted you - desperate and pining. Forced to give him what he wanted in exchange for what you needed. "Let me hear you fucking say it."

You grabbed onto the collar of his shirt, doing everything you could not to whine when the tip of his finger gently slid into you and then stopped without warning - gracing you with just enough to finally bring you to your breaking point.

"I wanted to see you." you said breathlessly, your pupils widening as you felt him push slightly deeper.

"What else?" He taunted, using your words against you.

"I wanted you – here." You yelped, your voice splitting as he sank in further.

You were delirious, ready to actually plead if that's what it took to get him to cave. "I want – fuck, Megumi, please just –"

He was half-way in, teetering on the verge of letting you have it as long as you could get the next sentence out.

"Say it."

"I want you inside me." It poured out so fast, it was barely even coherent. "I want you inside of m...e – so fu–cking bad, please."

Your chest pressed against his in an urgent daze, pulling him closer while his lips met yours - neither one of you able to withstand the tension for a second longer. His movements matched your fervency as he added another finger, finally letting your walls swallow him.

He deepened the kiss, trying his best to keep you quiet while your hips rocked rhythmically against him.

"So pretty and pitiful" he whispered, lightly nipping at your collarbone. "You're already almost there. You sure you can handle me being inside you?"

You nodded hopelessly back at him.

"I can... take – it." You struggled, feeling him smirk into your neck as his thumb brushed against your clit, drawing out even poutier noises from you. "Promise."

"Prove it."

His tongue swirled lavishly into the softness of your clavicle, leaving little bruises in the shape of his mouth while his fingers continued to plunge innnn and out of you at the same heavenly pace.

"There you go." He breathed, promptly returning his lips back to yours as he felt your thighs begin to shake. "Just like that, don't fucking stop."

You hated how well he knew you. Hated how easily he was able make you clench and spasm around him. You were soaking his hand, burying your face into his shoulder to stop yourself from waking up the entire house.

"Oh, my fucking... god, Megumi –" Your nails dug into his back, your body nearly vibrating with pleasure as you grinded against him.

“It's okay, I've got you." He whispered, letting you cling onto him as you rode out the waves of your orgasm. You'd always been submissive, but he wasn't sure that he'd ever seen you quite this needy before.

He slowly pulled out of you, guiding you down to the bed before standing up to grab the joint out of the ashtray, lighting it one last time.

He leaned down, locking eyes with you while gently cupping your face. His lips just barely touching yours so that you were forced to share the same breath, allowing you to inhale the smoke he exhaled as he helped you out of your shorts.

"Such a good girl."

Your back arched, immediately wanting him back where he was as he got to his feet and set the spliff on your nightstand. You watched him intently, your core throbbing while he began to unbutton his pants. You were blissfully high, your mind swirling with sleepy infatuation and pent-up lust.

He almost seeming amused, noticing how entranced you were as his stripped out of his boxers. Tauntingly stroking himself while he used his free hand to push your both of your thighs onto the mattress so that you were on your back facing him with your legs folded to the side. You couldn’t help but smile as he rubbed his tip between your folds, letting out a low groan as he wetted himself with your slick.

“Fuck, I forgot how good you feel.”

Your hand tangled into the sheets, your body reeling from the way his tip was already stretching you.

"You gotta stay quiet for me." He reminded you, trying to heed his own advice as he slid in slightly further. “Pretty sure your dad will actually kill me if he catches me here again."

"So you want me to scream?" You smirked, but your sarcasm was quickly stolen from you.

He cocked an eyebrow at you before leaning back down, his voice becoming salacious static against your ear. "Don't make threats you can't keep."

Your breath hitched in your throat, your cunt pulsating as he put a hand over your mouth and thrusted into you.

He returned your smirk. Watching your pupils double in size as he nipped at your neck, muffling your moans with his palm.

"It's not easy for me either." He whispered - one hand still on your mouth, the other reaching for your center. "Being this deep in you and not being able to hear you say my name."

Your knuckles were almost white from how hard you were gripping the bed, your mind and body both completely overwhelmed by fucked-out euphoria.

"To have you wrapped this nice and tight around my cock without getting to hear all the cute little noises you make for me." He slammed into you, his rhythm blissfully unforgiving.

"You think that's what I want?"

You shook your head, his hand catching more carnal whimpers that were trying so hard to spill out of you as your hips bucked up against his.

The feeling of him playing with your clit while having you folded like this was almost too much to handle. You were lost - floating somewhere above cloud 9 with his thrusts only ascending you higher.

"What do you think I want to hear, baby? Hm?" His tone was condescendingly sweet. Mocking in a way that made your heart stutter and your walls contract. "Tell me."

He loosened his grasp on you, nearly bottoming out as his name echoed uncontrollably across the room. "Megumi ~” You whined again, completely forgetting your surroundings. "Megumi, fuck, you're gonna make me –"

Your climax laced through his fingers as his hand swiftly flew back over your mouth. His arms keeping you locked in place while your body writhed beneath his.

“There it is”, He praised, his tip kissing your cervix at just the right angle. “There’s my fucking – girl.” His head lolled back, his release following right behind yours.

He buried his head into your shoulder this time, letting out the most gorgeous, guttural sounds you'd ever heard as he filled you - not stopping until he could see his cum dripping out of you.

He pulled out carefully, taking a moment to admire his work while a mixture of fluids leaked onto your comforter.

“Hey," he said, running a hand through his hair before looking back at you. "Do me a favor when you get back."

You were still catching your breath, dizzy from overstimulation as you met his gaze. "What do you need?” You panted.

"Tell your new boyfriend I said 'thanks'."

You narrowed your eyes at him, watching a stupid smirk cut across his face while he slid his pants back on. “If he would've known how to fuck you right, I might not have gotten the chance to see you."

"You're insufferable."

"So I’ve been told."

⋆｡˚ ☁️ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

[burgerrat]

Ok so @king-crawler technically I finished your 2 hour Turbo documentary yesterday at 3 AM BUT regardless I have recentlt watched it and I have a LOT I'd like to say, clarify details or lil things you might have missed or could be interpreted differently when you look at them another way :3

With that last bit I am diving head first into the flashback scene since it's heavily referencing that.

First and foremost, keep in mind that it is being narrated from Felix's point of view- remember that he was in his game doing his job when the accident happened, it was while every person ever was inside their respective game being busy being used as avatars; also referencing back what you said on Felix- he's not exactly the most understanding of others' situations, he stays well within his comfort zone. Keep that in mind.

When Roadblasters is plugged in the flashback, you can see the two players using TurboTime immediately abandon the game to check out the new one, and the screen Turbo's pixelated image apoears on is completely dark, don't you think that is very reminiscent of a Game Over screen? 🙃 meaning, the two players abandoned Turbo in the middle of a race, likely causing him to crash and lose.

Remember King Candy's shock, and sudden change in behaviour as soon as he sees Vanellope sprinting past him? What follows is a volatile fit of rage and violence when things don't go his way, this sudden change of trajectory. Wouldn't you reckon this moment could mirror how Turbo felt in the flashback? He's being used as an avatar, and suddenly he loses control as he gets ditched and gets his race put to a halt. That initial shock of "what is going on. This wasn't supposed to happen!"

Following that, while I don't doubt he got jealous, he SPRINTED into Roadblasters the moment he lost... but not to try to take it over- to take petty revenge instead, interrupting the players' race and causing them to crash just like they did to him, preventing him from winning in his game. Picture it as a "if I can't have this, then you won't have it either" type mentality towards Roadblasters.

Going back to Felix and why his ignorance/remaining within his bubble could have possibility caused him to misread Turbo's intentions. Felix also is one to make assumptions in the beginning of the movie, like how for example when trying to calm the Nicelanders when Ralph goes missing: "Ralph probably fell asleep in Tapper's bathroom again!" Or some such. It makes sense he would make assumptions about Turbo as well, ESPECIALLY if he knew him personally and how self-obsessed he is. Doesn't take a genius to realize this guy does not like to lose.

Secondly, the final boss scene. King Candybug in general really. I disagree with your idea that Turbo has always been this hungry for power he'd want to take over the entire arcade. We both know that if that happened, if every game was infested by Cy-bugs, Litwak would be forced to close down his business because all of the games would be unplayable. His 'attention' wouldn't last very long if every game gets unplugged, his thought process to take over the arcade is purely manic and deranged for someone like him who has been well-known to be a master manipulator, able to keep a stable facade for over a decade without wanting to take over other racing games? That 'taking over the arcade' sounds very unlike him. It sounds more like... a cy-bug's programming. A cy-bug's programming that has gained enough conciousness to start plotting and planning. Because it now has the intelligence of a person, fused with him, learned what he knows.

Speaking of which, remember the cybug that ate King Candy?

Look at it's candy-pattern. Haven't we seen that somewhere before...?

Oh right! Right here, when the cybug eats some pepperming roots.

The same cybug that ended up there after falling into the taffy lake... after being ejected from a shuttle.

The same cybug that Ralph brought with himself.

What was the very first thing that King Candybug said to ralph when they see eachother again for the showdown?

"Because of you, Ralph, I'm now the most powerful virus in the arcade!"

I don't think, during this one moment at least, that this was Turbo speaking.

[writingforstraykids]

Letters Of Love - Jisung🖤

Pairing: Jisung x gn!Reader (poly!skz)

Word Count: 896

Summary: Your next message is for Jisung, about a day where all he needed was some rest in your lap.

Warnings/Tags: fluff, comfort

do not repost, translate, or plagiarize my works in any way here or on other platforms. ©️writingforstraykids 2024 -

Chan | Minho | Changbin | Hyunjin | Felix | Seungmin | Jeongin

Your gaze lands on a photo that makes your heart ache in the softest way possible. It’s a picture of Jisung, curled up on your lap, his face completely relaxed in sleep, his body almost melting into yours as if seeking comfort. His cheek is smushed adorably against your thigh, one hand curled loosely over your knee, the other hidden beneath his head like a makeshift pillow. The angle of the photo captures just the side of your face, a gentle smile on your lips as you gaze down at him. His hair falls messily across his forehead, still slightly damp with sweat, and there’s a faint pink tinge to his cheeks, as if he’s finally let go of the tension he’d been carrying all day.

The living room around you is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the lamp beside the sofa. The evening light outside filters through the curtains, casting a golden sheen over everything. You can almost hear the soft rhythm of his breathing, the way it had been so shallow and uneven at first before it slowly evened out, settling into a steady, comforting beat. In the picture, his expression is completely peaceful—no trace of the exhaustion and strain that had marked his features just a few hours earlier.

That day had started off as a whirlwind for him. He’d had to attend several social events—all of which required him to be “on” for hours, smiling and interacting with people. It wasn’t until he came home, his shoulders tense and his smile strained, that you realized just how overwhelmed he really was.

You’d noticed it the moment he walked through the door, his gaze dropping almost instantly as if even making eye contact felt too much. You hadn’t said a word, just opened your arms, and he’d melted into you, his face buried in your shoulder as he released a long, shuddering sigh. Without a second thought, you’d guided him to the sofa, coaxing him to lie down with his head in your lap. It took a while for him to settle, to stop fidgeting as if he couldn’t let go of the day’s weight. But you ran your fingers softly through his hair, whispering soothing words, letting him know it was okay to rest. That he didn’t have to keep up the act with you.

Gradually, he’d relaxed, the tension bleeding away from his body until his breathing slowed, his eyes fluttering closed. It wasn’t long before he was fast asleep, the worry lines on his forehead smoothing out, leaving him looking so young and vulnerable. You’d stayed like that for a long time, your fingers tracing gentle patterns along his scalp, marveling at how someone who shines so brightly on stage could look so fragile, so in need of shelter.

You smile softly as you attach the photo, already imagining the way Jisung’s cheeks will flush when he sees it. Fingers poised over the keyboard, you let your thoughts pour out, the love and admiration you feel for him filling each word.

---

Message to Hannie🐿️🩷:

Hannie,

I found this picture of you from the other night, when you fell asleep in my lap after that crazy long day. I know how hard it is for you to be around people for so long, even when you put on that brave smile. You always push yourself so much, and I just… I want you to know that it’s okay to rest. You don’t have to be the beloved ace all the time.

Seeing you like this, finally relaxed and at peace, made me realize something. I love every side of you—the bright, energetic Sungie who lights up every room, but also the quiet, overwhelmed Sungie who needs to just hide away for a little while. I love that you trust me enough to show me both. You don’t always have to be strong, you know? I want to be the place where you can let it all go and just… breathe.

Thank you for letting me be that for you. For choosing to lean on me, even when you’re too tired to say a word. You mean more to me than you’ll ever know, and I hope you never feel like you have to carry it all alone.

Happy anniversary, my little quokka. Here’s to more naps, more quiet moments, and more nights when you don’t have to be anything but yourself.

Love you forever,

One of your safe places

---

You read over the message again, feeling the words settle deep in your heart. You know Jisung will probably get flustered when he reads it, that he might grumble something about how he didn’t want you to see him so drained, but you also know that he’ll treasure it. Because that’s who he is—someone who loves fiercely, who feels deeply, and who sometimes just needs to be reminded that he’s loved for everything he is, even on the days when he feels like he’s not enough.

You hit send and lean back, closing your eyes as you remember the way he looked in your lap, so small and tired, but so beautifully at peace. Because even though he always says he doesn’t want to be a burden, he’s never been one to you. He never could be. He’s your dear Hannie - bright, beautiful, and perfect just as he is.

Chan | Minho | Changbin | Hyunjin | Felix | Seungmin | Jeongin

MASTERLISTS | PROMPT LIST | GUIDELINES

Taglist (Please let me know if you want to be added to or removed from the taglist):

@zehina @jinnie-ret @atinyniki @galaxycatdrawz @silverstarburst @aaa-sia @lilmisssona @kthstrawberryshortcake @channieaddict @soullostinspaceandtime @rebecca-johnson-28 @lixie-phoria @kibs-and-bits @xxstrayland @ihrtlix @pheonixfire777 @mellhwang @palindrome969 @theo4eve @harshaaaaa @rylea08 @heeyboooo @manuosorioh @gisaerlleri @andassortedkpop @lailac13 @bbokari711 @kazuuuuru @rssamj @wolfyychan @stellasays45 @chrizzztopherbang @ionlyeverwantedtobeyourequal @silentreadersthings @myforevermelody143 @sapphirewaves @minh0scat @dis-trict9

[atiny-moon]

Warmup 002 - Wooyoung

18+ FANFIC. MINORS DNI.

Genre: Smut, Drabble

Pairing: Wooyoung x fem!reader

Tags: Boyfriend Wooyoung, cockwarming, small hongjoong feature

Word Count: 1.4K

Send in ur asks & maybe I’ll use ur req for a warmup!

18+ FANFIC. MINORS DNI.

You were sitting in the living room of Wooyoung’s shared apartment, on Wooyoung’s lap with his dick buried deep inside you and your lips locked in a lazy embrace. His hands were lost under your top while your own hands were lost in the mess of his black hair. The kisses, if you could call them that, were long slow presses of your lips against his - your tongues tracing across one another’s occasionally with a few bites sprinkled in for variety. Either he would catch your bottom lip in his teeth and tug or you would do the same to him. There was not a single desire to rush the intimacy of the moment, even if this wasn’t your intention this afternoon.

The idea was to watch a movie and cuddle. The miscalculation was on your part. You assumed Wooyoung was capable of sitting next to you and not lay his hands on you. It started out innocently enough! First he grabbed your legs and draped them over his lap, content for the moment to feel the warmth of your legs resting on him. His fingers drummed a happy little pattern on your thigh as he watched the movie. All was well. For approximately 4 minutes.

Wooyoung snaked one arm around your waist and slipped it underneath his hoodie (the red tie-dye Balenciaga hoodie from his most recent comeback; it was his favorite and ergo your favorite) and let his hand rest on the warmth of your waist. His fingers tracing idle shapes along the curvature of your body. It tickled at first but then grew to feel comforting and you melted into Wooyoung’s side.

But still he wasn’t happy with this, he wanted more. And soon Wooyoung was pulling you into his lap. You put up an act of struggling, trying to wrestle free from his grasp only so you could feel how tightly Wooyoung held onto you in protest. Even though it wasn’t his intention, being this close to you meant that he had to kiss you, he just had to. Before you two knew it, you were a tangled mess of limbs and lips. Your arms draped over his shoulder and were somehow also inside his shirt; his arms were wrapped tightly around your waist, his hands grabbing and squeezing any part of you he could reach. And your lips. Your lips were unable to separate - lost in the drunken bliss of the feel of his lips on yours.

At some point there was an intention to have sex, hence Wooyoung’s dick inside you, but neither of you could deny yourselves the pleasure of these kisses. Time did not exist while you two were locked in this embrace.

Every now and then, just as a tease, you clenched your walls tightly around Wooyoung’s cock just so you could feel him sigh into your kiss. In response he pushed his hips into yours, so his member would bury itself even deeper within you. He lavished in the way your body responded - watching the way your back arched and the way your breathing hitched in your throat. But eventually he would get lost in the sweet curves of your face and inevitably fall into the caress of your kiss.

One of Wooyoung’s hands slid out from under the hoodie so it could cup the side of your face - his thumb tracing light lines along the line of your jaw. The kiss deepened. You sighed into his body, melting into the warmth of his touch on your face. Wooyoung pulled away to admire your face through half-open eyes. You watched as he took in every one of your features - the slope of your nose, the curve of brow, the swell of your lips. Finally his eyes fell to the way his hand was buried in your hair. “I like the way your hair looks in my hands,” Wooyoung breathed onto your lips.

Your eyes fluttered close as you felt his hand tug on your hair. You couldn’t control the small moan that tumbled out of your lips and onto his. The way you sound is enough for Wooyoung to bury his hand deep in the mess of your hair and embrace you in another kiss. It was different this time. The way he breathed you in as he pressed his lips into you. The way his lips forced yours to open so his tongue could taste yours. All the while his hand in your hair was tugging at the root in just the right way. You felt your hips move into his.

Wooyoung pushed his hips back into you and pushed his dick further into you. You wanted to pull away from the kiss to moan but Wooyoung’s grip on your hair kept you firmly in place. His other hand that was on your waist found its way to your neck, his fingers coming to rest at the base of your neck as a promise. The way Wooyoung touched you was like wildfire - every caress sent your body aflame.

He pulled away, but only barely, just enough so he could watch your face and the way you react to his touches. He wrapped his fingers around your throat and squeezed. Gently. He continued to rock his hips into your body and you could feel your body react. You could feel the warmth in-between your thighs starting to form, the thoughts slipping out of your mind, and the fuzzy edges of pleasure starting to overwhelm your body.

Your kisses were growing sloppier, unable to keep up with the way Wooyoung was making your body feel. But it didn't seem that Wooyoung minded. If anything, his kisses devolved to match yours. A sloppy mess of tongue and lips tasting each other. With you two lost in the kiss you could feel yourself growing closer to an orgasm.

The door starts to unlock.

The two of you stop kissing immediately. Wooyoung drops his hands from your face and neck, resting them on your thighs. You bury your face deep in the crook of his neck and try to catch your breath. By the time the door unlocks, it simply looks as if you two are cuddling on the couch.. If only mildly inappropriately.

Wooyoung does his best to wipe his face and adjust himself - you feel his cock twitch deep within you and you struggle not to let out a moan. You were so close to an orgasm, any mild stimulation set you off. He squeezes your thighs in an attempt to stabilize you but it does nothing but excite you more. With your face so close to Wooyoung’s neck, you couldn’t help but start kissing at the area where his neck and shoulder meet. You felt Wooyoung lean into the kiss and you could have sworn you heard him close his eyes.

The small moment of bliss was quickly disrupted with a loud shout. It seemed whoever was home had finally finished opening the door.

“Ugh! Gross! I do not want to come home and see you two making out, mannn! Take it to your room my guy,” Hongjoong yelled.

Wooyoung laughed sheepishly and nodded. But it seemed that Wooyoung wasn’t moving fast enough for Hongjoong’s liking because Hongjoong simply stood there with his arms folded over his chest and stared at Wooyoung. “Like, now.” Hongjoong demanded.

Wooyoung stared up at his captain. He was trying to figure out how to word this without sounding crass or even offending anyone. But the way Hongjoong was standing in the entryway, staring at the both of you like some disappointed parent, a surge of defiance washed over Wooyoung. “Alright, but you’re gonna see my dick.”

Hongjoong was visibly confused but was not backing down either. Did he just start tapping his foot?

The silence stretched between the three of you and with a roll of his eyes, Wooyoung tapped your thigh. You took a deep breath and carefully removed yourself from Wooyoung. You snuck a glance over at Hongjoong and suppressed a giggle as you watched Hongjoong’s face fall. Because there Wooyoung was, sitting on the couch with his dick out. Wooyoung shook his head as if to say, ‘I told you so’ before standing up and half-tucking his dick into his sweatpants and half covering it with his shirt.

Hongjoong’s jaw was still on the floor as Wooyoung wrapped his arms around you and started leading you to his bedroom. It wasn’t until you two were inside Wooyoung’s bedroom that you heard Hongjoong yelling out a string of curses.

[nebuladreamerrr]

Kylian Mbappé imagine where he’s so nervous to meet your family. Especially nervous for your parents. Your family isn’t really a football family they’re more into basketball. They’re not that impressed by him.

Oooo and maybe when you get to meet his family,

And his mom tells him to the side that she has a real good feeling about you

I hope you enjoy it 💗💗

Lakers fan | Kylian Mbappé x Fem Reader

Summary: Despite being a confident man, Kylian can't help but feel insecure and nervous about meeting your family. But will everything turn out okay?

Warnings: English is not my first language

Kylian couldn't stop mentally going over all the plans he had been mapping out for months. When you mentioned that you wanted to spend your vacation in the United States so that your family could finally meet him, his mind started working overtime. He couldn't stop thinking about everything he needed to remember: not to mix up French with English, not to forget the gifts for your family (soccer jerseys for your younger brothers, flowers for your mother, and a bottle of wine for your father), and to make sure not to address your father too informally. All of this seemed like a simple plan, but the fact that everything was in English made Kylian very nervous.

From the moment you met him, you didn't hesitate to tell him that his English was very good and that he should be proud of mastering a language that wasn't his mother tongue. Still, a few lessons with you were enough to turn him into a professional in the language.

But this wasn't what made the French footballer nervous. It seemed unbelievable that before a match against the best players in the world, he had the strength and courage not to doubt his abilities. There's no denying that the young Frenchman is one of the best players in the world, but even the biggest stars tend to get nervous and review the matches of the stars they are going to face. However, Kylian wasn't like that. He could play in a big stadium with millions of fans chanting his name, and in his mind, it was as if he were playing a match with his childhood friends.

Without a doubt, that's what made you fall in love with Kylian: that ability to make even the most exclusive and extravagant events seem like a simple gathering in the park after school. Kylian always showed you that side of himself whenever he could, whether it was when you entered a clothing store and he mentioned how he used to have a shirt with the same pattern when he was little, when you ate at different restaurants and he always compared them to the ones in his hometown (which obviously always won), or even when he had a very important meeting with his representatives and afterward told you, "Phew, I almost fell asleep. For a moment, I was transported back to when my school principal gave talks that were supposed to last ten minutes and ended up lasting 100 hours."

But having to navigate in another language and meet your parents and entire family made him extremely nervous. Especially since he discovered that they weren't big soccer fans; in fact, they rarely watched soccer matches. Instead, it was rare for the TV not to be showing an NBA game. Kylian was a basketball fan too, but with so many matches, training sessions, and competitions, he couldn't watch all the basketball games he wanted or keep up with the big stars and promising future talents.

Kylian wasn't just worried about his own nerves; he was also focused on making sure you felt comfortable and happy. Although the United States was your home country, you hadn't been back in a long time. Since moving to Paris and more recently to Spain, your sense of home had spread across these three places. He knew you'd be thrilled to reunite with your family and make plans with all your friends, but he also understood it would be strange to return to a home that had changed since you last saw it. That's why Kylian planned every detail of the trip to the United States meticulously.

Kylian worked hard to learn a few phrases in English that might impress your parents and practiced how to behave in social situations that might be different from those in France, like not greeting your parents with the typical three kisses. He knew this visit was important to you, and he was determined to do everything possible to make it a success.

Additionally, Kylian had organized a special surprise for you. He had reserved a dinner at an elegant restaurant atop a skyscraper, with stunning views of the city. This was the perfect place for you to reconnect with all your childhood friends—those you had shared moments with since kindergarten, those you had spent so much time training with through cheerleading routines, and, most importantly, those you had shared countless laughs with. He wanted your family to see how much you meant to him and how much he valued every moment with you. He also thought it was a great opportunity for them to understand that he didn't want you to isolate yourself from your friends.

Furthermore, he had prepared a speech with the help of your best friend to express his feelings and gratitude for welcoming him into your home. This would demonstrate his commitment and dedication to both you and your family, making it clear that he had made a genuine effort to integrate into your life and roots.

On the day of departure, while waiting at the airport, Kylian took your hand and looked at you with a calm smile. "Everything will be fine," he confidently assured you. "We've planned everything, and most importantly, we're in this together." His words gave you the reassurance you needed. Together, you boarded the plane towards a new adventure, confident that whatever happened, you would face it with love and mutual support.

The arrival in the United States was emotional. Your best friends welcomed you with hugs and tears of joy, and Kylian introduced himself with the kindness and respect that always characterized him. The first few hours flew by with laughter, memories, and the joy of being together. However, you quickly headed to the hotel you had reserved for your stay to recharge for that special evening.

You had slight suspicions when Kylian warned you to dress elegantly that night because you were going to dinner at a city venue. You thought he might have something up his sleeve, but you quickly dismissed the idea because these spontaneous dates were normal in your relationship. Often, these getaways were the best way to relieve Kylian from stress.

Upon arriving at the restaurant, the waiters guided you to a reserved area. Your suspicions grew when you saw this area was covered by a curtain. Upon opening it, a loud "Surprise!" rang out, and you were greeted with a multitude of hugs and questions about how your recent years had been. Meanwhile, Kylian quickly adapted, chatting with some of your friends he had met that morning or conversing with their partners.

The dinner at the skyscraper was a resounding success. Your friends were surprised to see Kylian, and he quickly won their affection with his warmth and simplicity. The speech he prepared was emotional and sincere, eliciting applause and tears from everyone present. In his words, you could clearly see how much he loved you. He thanked you for following "this crazy head" and for never doubting him, even in his wildest plans. He promised to always make you the happiest person in the world, to take care of you, to be your unconditional support, and above all, to plan your future together with both of your interests in mind.

Kylian felt much more at ease knowing that your friends had accepted him. However, the great challenge of being accepted by your family still lay ahead. He had tried his usual routine to calm his nerves: a cold shower in the morning, a light breakfast, and an intense gym session. But it didn't seem to work today. So, when you informed him that you were going to take a shower to start getting ready, Kylian didn't hesitate to call his mother.

She had always been there for him, not only as a professional and great agent capable of negotiating with major clubs but also emotionally. She was the person who had been by his side during his first breakup, and luckily, she had already had the opportunity to meet you.

"Hello, mom," Kylian said softly as he sat on the hotel bed. "I need some advice… Today is the day I'll meet y/n's family, and I can't help feeling nervous."

His mother, with her usual wisdom and affection, reminded him that being himself was the most important thing. "They will love you for who you are, Kylian. You have shown yourself to be an incredible person, and take the opportunity for them not to be your fans but to fall in love with the real Kylian and not the superstar. Besides, y/n loves you deeply. Trust in that."

His mother's words gave Kylian the reassurance he needed, knowing that everything she said was true. Ten months ago, Fayza had the chance to meet you at a gala organized by Mbappé's association. She was completely captivated seeing you interact so naturally with young children, showing your genuine interest in ensuring everyone was happy and enjoying the day. When you finally made sure all the children were content and had received a small bag with the association's logo, including coloring books, crayons, and a soccer ball, you approached Fayza, apologizing for not being able to do so sooner. So when a child clamored for your attention again, Fayza discreetly approached Kylian to make sure to tell him that she knew you were the love of his life.

After hanging up, Kylian felt more prepared for the meeting. At the end of the day, it wasn't just about impressing your family but showing them how much you meant to him.

When you arrived at your parent's house, your mother opened the door with a big smile, politely greeting Kylian and enveloping you in a warm hug, welcoming you both into your childhood home with her natural charm. Entering the living room, you spotted your siblings with your father. After the initial greetings, you all managed to sit in different parts of the room before Kylian handed out the gifts he had brought, carefully considering your family's preferences.

It's true that your younger siblings weren't big fans of soccer and hadn't heard of Kylian before, but they knew he was a great athlete. Above all, they had seen in recent videos his dedication to the sport and the good values he promoted on the field, so they didn't hesitate to excitedly rush to put on their jerseys while shyly hugging Kylian.

Your mother was delighted with the flowers he had given her and asked about the florist where he had gotten them before quickly running to get a vase and put the flowers in water. But your father was different.

He had always been like this: very affectionate but also very overprotective and, above all, a joker. He had always taken every opportunity to scare the boys you brought home.

"A bottle of wine, Kylian, huh? Interesting. I hope this isn't an indirect way of wishing me to kick the bucket soon, young man. And I also hope this isn't in your regular drinks, because if it is, I'll doubt your sporting abilities."

Nervously, Kylian began to stammer, "Monsieur, I mean, sorry, sir, it wasn't my intention, I…"

"Dad, stop making him nervous and behave yourself. We have a cellar at home, I don't know who you're trying to impress," you replied annoyed, giving Kylian a reassuring look.

The tension had already set in, and even though you tried to calm Kylian by gently caressing his hand, you understood that this wasn't entirely calming him. With each passing minute, his discomfort became more evident.

A few minutes later, your father insisted again with another uncomfortable question: "So, Kylian, tell us, what makes soccer the best sport in the world for you?"

"Uh, well, there are many good sports and I appreciate several of them, but soccer has always been the sport I've practiced. I just enjoy it like a little kid when I play with my teammates. I really enjoy playing a team sport," nervously replied Kylian.

"Well, I value your opinion, but let me question what you've said. I'm not sure if you've considered that soccer is a sport where many people win titles, but only one player from the team stands out. That doesn't happen in basketball. Everyone must stand out, whether as a team, training hard individually, and respecting the coach's decisions. The latter you've had a hard time with in the last year, haven't you, Kylian?"

Kylian didn't know where to put himself. He didn't expect his girlfriend's family to criticize his sporting actions. He agreed that many times he hadn't had the best reactions, but he was working on that. "Yes, sir, I know it's something I need to work on and…"

"Dad, stop it. It's the last time I tell you," you responded firmly, with a challenging look.

"But if we're just having a conversation, right, Kylian?" your father said.

"Yes, yes, calm down, honey," Kylian replied, trying to smooth over the situation.

Taking advantage of the uncomfortable pause, your mother entered the room with a tray of refreshments and some snacks, trying to ease the tension. "Let's relax a bit, okay? We're here to have a good time and get to know each other better," she said with a smile.

Grateful for the change of subject, Kylian dove into conversation about some childhood memories and funny anecdotes from his career. Your younger siblings, fascinated, started asking him lighter questions about his training sessions and encounters with other famous athletes.

The evening continued with ups and downs, but gradually everyone relaxed. Kylian took the opportunity to show his more human and approachable side, which slowly won over your father's sympathy.

The tension continued to build in the room when your father, with a cunning smile, asked, "And tell me, Kylian, are you a fan of any basketball team?"

"Yes, sir, I'm a big fan of the Lakers," Kylian replied with a tentative smile.

"I can't believe it, the most wretched team of the season. Do you really support a team like that? If you consider yourself a great player, which I'm still not convinced of, you should support a great team like the Celtics," your father replied, not hiding his disdain.

Kylian had lost all the energy he had. He felt mentally exhausted and didn't know what to say anymore. He lowered his head, ashamed, feeling like he had failed to impress your father.

"That's enough, we've had enough. Kylian, let's go," you said, getting up quickly. Kylian was astonished, not expecting you to take his side and confront your father.

"No, honey, it's okay," Kylian tried to calm you, though he clearly appreciated your support.

At the end of the night, when the atmosphere had calmed down, your father approached Kylian with a softer expression. "You know, soccer may not be my favorite sport, but I see how hard you work and how much you mean to my daughter. I just want you to know that you have a family here that will support you, as long as you make her happy."

Kylian touched and shook your father's hand firmly. "Thank you, sir. I promise to do everything I can to take care of her and make her happy."

When you finally retired to the hotel, Kylian looked at you with a mixture of relief and happiness. "It's been a tough day, but I think we passed the test."

You smiled, feeling a weight lifted off your shoulders. "Yes, we did. Together, as always."

That night, as you prepared to sleep, Kylian was reflective. "You know, I always knew meeting your family would be a challenge, but I didn't expect it to be so intense."

"My father has always been protective, but over time he'll see how amazing you are," you replied, gently caressing his face.

"I hope so. I want them to know how much I love you and how much you mean to me," said Kylian, with renewed determination.

[mockerycrow]

Lil late but imagine the cod men comforting you after a horrible closing shift (mines tomorrow)

They just pull you into a hug and give you a lil smooch on the forehead. They most likely already made you some dinner and if you dont wanna eat. Thats fine they'll put the plate away for later. They'd just spoil you for the rest of the night and help you fall asleep

Tomorrow (Gaz x GN!Reader)

gaz masterlist - crow’s mega masterlist

Summary: You had an awful closing shift as well as a streak of bad luck all day. You come home to your boyfriend.

A/N: I decided to do gaz for this,,, and i made it an entire fic because i love him so much <3 and this surprisingly isn’t self indulgent, i get real fuckin’ mad after bad shifts lol

[WARNINGS: Angst/comfort, mentions of harassment, minor violence, panic attacks/hyperventilation, dissociation, implied unsafe driving.]

Your chest felt too tight and your clothes were sticking slickly to your skin due to being drenched in whatever drink a customer had thrown at your head. Your temple throbs from the impact of the glass cup, and there’s small cuts littering all over your face—which they sting when your face curls in pain. You know driving home in this state was a horrible idea, but all you wanted was to get out of there and hide. You’re sitting in your driveway, your car still running—although in park—and you’re gripping your steering wheel so harshly your knuckles are turning lighter than your hands. You gasp desperately for a good gulp of fresh air, but fuck, you can’t breathe—all you can focus on is the sensation of the glass colliding with your face, the way you slipped not once, not twice, but three times, the way you were late to work, and how you got screamed at by a different customer for not getting their items in time, even though it was rush hour—

You sob before harshly sucking in air, and then you end up coughing as you inhaled not only air, but also spit. The overwhelming feelings that had built up are finally crashing down, and the waves won’t stop crashing. Your throat is silently begging you to stop inhaling so harshly, and but your lungs are louder with their demands as it feels like more and more pressure is being put on your ribs and chest—There’s a tapping on your driver side window and you hiccup, turning your head and through your tears, you make out the vague silhouette of your boyfriend, Kyle. He points downwards and your brain gets the message, your shaky fingers reaching out and pressing down on the unlock button. Without a moment of hesitation, Kyle pulls on the car handle, swinging open the car door. He steps closer to you, not yet touching you. “Hey- hey hey hey, love.. Take a breath for me, hm?” His soft and comforting voice filters through your muffled ears, and he’s safe, he’s safe—your hand comes shooting out and you grab onto his shirt, feeling the material. You sob again as you feel his warm arms wrap around your body, not caring about how your clothing is damp from work.

Your head spins as his hand gently comes up and cups the back of your head with such gentleness that you can’t help but feel as if he was sent from some prayer you made earlier in the week in the back room of your workplace. “Take a big breath for me, darling. It’s alright,” He repeats softly, his chest vibrating with every word. You hiccup and inhale sharply—it hurt your throat, but it’s a start. You don’t know if your heart or his that’s pounding in your ears, but you try to focus on it, anyway. Kyle hums softly as he strokes your head again, murmuring soft praises when you get a good, full, deep inhale in. “Mhm, just like that.. Do it again, yeah?” He encourages, his fingernails scratching up and down your damp shirt against your back—if goosebumps weren’t already raised from being cold, they would raise from his touch. Your lungs burn, but no longer screaming for air, just for some normal breathing patterns. Your sobs slowly slow down to sniffles and quiet wails, and your head is still light and floaty—it’s typical after what just happened. Your limbs feels exponentially heavier than before and you don’t notice Kyle pulling away or him cupping your face gently until you hear his voice quietly calling out for you.

Your eyes flutter open and it takes a moment for them to land and focus on Kyle; you notice he’s crouching down a bit to be on the same level as you. “Hey, you.” He murmurs, his thumb stroking across your cheekbone lovingly. “You with me, now?” You sniffle and shudder for a second before nodding—but you felt so tired. Kyle grabs one of your hands and his other hand supports your elbow. “Let’s get you inside and cleaned up, hm?” He hums, and you allow him to guide you out of your seat—he must’ve undone your seatbelt at one point. Or did you drive home without one on? You didn’t care to think about it anymore, not when you watch Kyle collect your belongings and your keys from the car, and watch him lock and arm the thing.

You blink for a moment—and you find yourself inside, stripped down to your underwear. You panic for just a moment, but then you blink, looking around and you spot Kyle rummaging around for some comfortable pajamas. You swallow some spit in an attempt to wet your throat. “Kyle?” You croak quietly, and his head whips around to look at you. “What is it?” He asks ever so gently, as if he’s ready to fetch whatever you would need. You take a moment to put the words together as your brain doesn’t want to cooperate, and you raise your hands to shakily wipe your face off. “Hug?” You whisper, your voice nearly giving out half way through your sentence. Kyle hums for a moment before plucking out a comfortable pair of pajama pants. “Just one moment, love, gotta get you some fresh clothes, hm?” He responds, only glancing away for a moment to see a shirt, and he takes it out of the door. He closes the drawers with the side of his body before he approaches you, and he puts the shirt on the bed whilst he still has the pants in his grip. Your eyes never leave him in some form—like he’ll disappear if you look away. “Got you some pants, sweetheart. Let’s get y’dressed.”

Your body feels numb—not in the “it feels so heavy and I can’t move it” numb, but you watch as Kyle’s fingers grasp yours arms and raise them so he can pull the shirt down onto you, but you don’t feel him touch you at all. And yet, you don’t seem to panic at this fact, either. Kyle keeps looking at you with a worried yet loving look as he helps you shuffle into some dry clothes. He kisses your forehead and you blink at him for a moment, processing what he was doing. You notice his lips moving, but you don’t hear a thing he said. “Pardon?” You whisper, your eyes scanning his face—from the way the corner of his lip twitches downwards when you ask him to repeat himself, to the way his forehead wrinkles when he furrows his eyebrows. You want to tell him to stop worrying so much, but it feels like it would take so much effort to do so. “I said I made dinner before you came home, are you in the mood to eat?”

You sit there for a moment and blankly process it—food? Food would probably do you some good, but you know it’ll only taste like nothing right now and feel like rubber, so you shake your head. Despite the cringing feeling of you opening your jaw to speak, you do so anyway. “Just..” You swallow some spit to continue speaking. “Don’t ask me what happened right now.” You pause for a moment before making eye contact. “Hold me?” Kyle’s heart breaks in his chest, his stomach tightening for a moment. Without a moments hesitation, he’s kicking off his shoes and untying his sweatpants—he tends to sleep in only a shirt and a pair of boxers, maybe just his underwear if it’s hot or he wants to feel you completely. He doesn’t say yes or no, but you already know his answer by the way he’s undressing. You feel your eyes burn as they fill with hot and salty tears; without hesitation, your beautiful boyfriend always knows what you need—it’s such a weird power he has, even when he’s away on base, if you’re feeling off? Your phone is ringing with a call from him. You always ask how, and he always replies, “I just know, sweetheart.” Kyle and you lay down on the bed, on top of the sheets. Your arms wrap around each other—so intertwined, just the way he likes it. Your hand comes up and you brush your finger against his cheek and he smiles bashfully at you, pressing a soft kiss against your forehead; and you know he’s got you. He always does.

“It’ll be a better day tomorrow.”

[joekeeryswife]

Dad!mason feeling kicking for the first time or dad!mason who helps reader with symptoms of pregnancy (nausea/back pain/etc)

baby bump - m.m

a/n: dad!mason makes my heart melt. short but sweet, i combined the two, hope this is okay! enjoy reading 🩰

also i have no mason requests so please send some through!! 🫶🏼

you and Mason were sat on the sofa together watching some random tv program which you weren’t paying attention too, you had been feeling nauseous recently and you just wanted to be snuggled up with Mason now more than ever.

being seven months pregnant didn’t help, you felt like a whale sitting next to Mason. this seventh month had been really hard. you’d been nauseous, had awful back pain and your baby had decided to start kicking your insides constantly which was very uncomfortable.

funny thing was the baby only kicked when Mason was away from you. Mason had never felt her little kicks ever and he was annoyed that she would only kick when he was either at football or he had gone out with his mates. he tried to spend as much time at home as possible so he could be with you incase anything happened.

you were resting your head on his chest, eyes closed as you tried to rid the feeling of sickness. he had you bundled up in a blanket and his arms around you. his hand was resting on your stomach which was now protruding through the blanket. he loved it, it showed that your baby was grown which meant he was closer to meeting his little girl.

“how you feeling sweet girl?” he ran a hand through your hair, massaging your scalp softly as he tried to soothe the migraine you had. “i’m okay mase” his hand moved back to your belly rubbing small patterns all over it.

“do you want me to get you anything? some water with ice? food? anything at all” you just shook your head “no thanks baby, i just want to be next to you. please don’t get up” your eyes were still closed meaning you were practically sleep talking to him right now but he didn’t care, he wanted you to be okay.

“i won’t leave you honey, im not going anywhere” he kissed your forehead again. he had been so excited when you told him you were pregnant but now he couldn’t help feeling bad because you felt sick all the time. he just wanted to take the pain away from you and give it to himself so you would be okay.

you were on the brink of sleep, milliseconds away from falling into dream land when Mason shouted out making you jolt awake. “oh baby i’m sorry” you looked up at him confused as to why he just shouted out. “i forgot you were sleeping i’m sorry honey”

“why did you shout?” you croaked your eyes squinting as you adjusted to the lights. he kissed your forehead and smiled at you brightly. “the baby kicked, i felt her kick finally” your heart melted, he had never looked so excited. “aww mase, she kicked for you” he pulled you back into him, his hand never leaving your belly incase your daughter kicked for him again.

“if she kicks again i promise i wont shout, ill let you sleep honey i was just in shock” he kissed your forehead a few times as you got comfortable again so you could sleep. “it’s alright mase” you hugged him closer and closed your eyes, Masons hand rubbing circles on your belly.

[caxde]

Any Steve hurt/comfort

I hope you like it anon! thanks for the request! x

-

Steve harrington x roomate!reader hurt/comfort ~1.5k anxeity attack tw!

It shouldn’t have happened, not really. 

You were in your room, laying on your bed. There was nothing wrong. Everything was fine. 

Maybe that was the problem. 

Everything is fine, and nothing is great. Or good. Just fine. Suddenly the ceiling seemed to get closer to your body, but you knew you  weren’t moving, it is not possible to get closer, i can not float, you tried to tell yourself. 

It doesn’t seem to work. 

It also doesn’t help that you can feel your heart beating harder, and faster and louder deep inside your chest. 

A loud drum hidden somewhere inside you that is making you go mad, you need to turn it off, but you don’t really know how to. 

And the pressure starts. 

The place your lungs occupy is getting tighter, smaller, heavier. 

Breath. Please. Breath. 

It doesn’t work. 

Your body starts to curl up, your hands buried in your hair, a repetitive pattern, something to occupy your hands. You needed something, a distraction. 

You knew Steve was sleeping. You’d said goodnight to him half an hour ago, when he closed his bedroom door. You knew that if you started crying, or weeping he’d hear you, the walls of your apartment were thin, and you didn’t want him to find out like that. 

Truth be told, you didn’t want him to know at all. 

But at the same time, there was this little voice, a broken whimper that begged you to ask for help. 

Maybe that was what finally broke you. Maybe your body couldn’t take the restriction it had on itself anymore. Maybe you just couldn’t take it anymore. 

For whatever reason, you find that your body has found itself against the wall.

 And that the sound of the impact was enough to get his attention.

 And if not, the broken whisper of his name was. 

Truth be told, he did hesitate for a moment. 

He heard the thump and thought that something might have fallen out of your decorated walls, but as soon as he heard the way your voice sounded, he didn’t waste a second. 

His body crossed the threshold of your door before he was even conscient of it. 

He kneeled on your floor, where your bed met the floor, and looked up at you. He wasn’t sure what to do next, what to say. He stayed there, waiting for you to look up, your head looking down at your bedsheets. 

“Hey.” He whispered, afraid that his voice would startle you. 

“Sorry.” You muttered, your voice hoarse and raspy. 

“Don’t” He begged. His hand touched your leg, a soft gesture that made your head shift, concentrating on it, and the way he just layed it there, a pattern that he started to draw. 

“It’s fine.” You didn’t even try to mask your lie, not even a little bit. Then again, how could you when tears were coming out, a slow river of them. 

“It’s not.” He shook his head, the way his hair moved hypnotizing you for a second. Your hand found his, your fingers anxiously playing with his. 

“I don’t…” You were struggling to stop crying. Your face felt hot in contrast to the cold tears that travelled down your cheeks, your vision blurred, Steve appearing as a far away object. Even when you felt him right there. It felt for a moment -however brief- that you were dying, and you weren’t totally sure what had caused it, maybe it was from having your emotions bottled up for so long, focusing on curse work, and essays and cleaning so you wouldn’t think about it, I’ll deal with it later had become a new mantra for the last weeks. Now seemed to finally be later, and having Steve in the same room as you only made them come out rushing faster, like an angry flood leaving you a crumpled mess on your bed. “I’m sorry. Just go.” You begged, feeling sorry for yourself, and what was worse, that he had to see you like that. So fragile. So weak. So vulnerable. 

Steve knew that what was worrying you at that moment was the fact that he had caught you falling apart, and he knew you didn’t like it when people saw you like this. Vulnerable. 

“I’m not going anywhere, honey.” 

Finally, your eyes met his. 

And the softness of them, and his touch, made you reconnect with your body. Slowly. Like a feather falling. Steve knew that there wasn’t a lot he could do besides staying there. Waiting for you to open up, wanting you to do so, but knowing that if he forced you to do so, it would only get worse. So he waited. As your breathing became more regular, and your chest wasn’t heaving up and down as fast. 

His head was still looking up at you, the concern was apparent, but so was the unconditional love he seemed to have for you. 

“D’you want me to come up?” He asked. He didn’t waste any time, as soon as he saw you nodding his body was on your mattress, and his arms opened. 

Your body fell onto his, and he wrapped you up in the softest warmest hug you had ever experienced, or at least, the one that you had been needing for a long time. 

You stayed like that for some time. Your ear pressed to his chest, hearing the way his heart beated, and his relaxed breathing, it let your body follow him. Finally relaxing, melting on the spot in some sort of way. His hands played with your hair, as he hummed a song you didn’t quite recognise. Though he had heard you sing it countless times. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

“I’m just really tired…” He knew that wasn’t the end of your sentence, so he gave you space for you to organise your thoughts. Your breathing was now calm, but your voice was still a whisper. “ I just… I’m always chasing. And for once, I just… I want someone who cares, no matter what. Someone who will always be by my side, someone that can be patient with me, someone that won’t find me annoying when I’m crying, or lashing out, or stressed, or… Fuck. I just want something that’ll love me, as much as I love them.” 

Steve smiled. And left a kiss on your forehead, leaving his lips to rest there for a second longer. 

He waited for you to look up at him, as you knew you would. Even if your eyes were redder, and your cheeks were flushed after crying, Steve still thought you were the prettiest girl he had even seen. 

“I…” He hid his nervousness with a chuckle, and a stupid grin that made your heart skip a beat, even if you tried for it to not do it. “If you wanted to, I could try to be that someone.” 

“Steve?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Don’t make fun of me.” You begged, not really knowing how to manage what he was trying to tell you. Not really knowing if you could believe him right now. “If you’re just saying that to make me feel better, please don’t.” It wasn’t harsh, not really. He knew that it was a horrible moment for a stupid love confession, but he couldn’t keep acting as though he didn’t absolutely love you. As if he wouldn’t do anything you’d ask him to. 

“I’m not.” He reassured you, his arms still tightly wrapped you. His fingers had been stroking you, a soft, sweet caress that let you know that he wasn’t lying. “I’ve had the stupidest crush on you for so long.” He admits with a laugh. His smile grows deeper once he sees the way your eyes shine with hope and recognition. “I knew it’s weird to tell you this after you cried, but… You are one of the most lovable people I know. And you do deserve all those things.” He nodded along his words, his voice was also a whisper now, the intimate moment growing fonder in both of your hearts. “We can talk about it tomorrow if it’s too much now.” 

You nodded. And stayed as close as you were. Your eyes looking fondly at him, hope apparent on both of your faces. 

“Will you stay?” 

“Anything for you, honey.” 

He left one last kiss on your forehead, and you returned the gesture, a soft kiss on his cheek. 

He had to be careful, if he didn’t control himself he could never stop kissing you. 

He laid on your mattress, his body touching the wall, his arms opened for you, waiting for you to make yourself comfortable. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was, your head on his chest. His arms wrapped around you, as your body wrapped around him. Your leg hugging his body. You kissed his chest. Thank you, it said. 

He kissed your hand before intertwining your fingers. You’re welcome, he responded. 

-

if you enjoyed it please leave a comment or reblog. i promise it makes a huge difference <3

requests! are open

[soubeomies]

꒰୨୧◞ ₊˚ 𝓤𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗒 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 . . .

⤷ 𝓟𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 ﹕ sungho x fem!reader

⤷ 𝓦𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 ﹕ mentions of reader getting drunk n drinking

⤷ 𝓖𝖾𝗇𝗋𝖾 ﹕ angst, fluff

⤷ 𝓦𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝓒𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍 ﹕ 1559

⤷ 𝓐𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋’𝗌 𝓝𝗈𝗍𝖾 ﹕ why am i so obsessed with writing alcoholic user

⤷ 𝓢𝗒𝗇𝗈𝗉𝗌𝗂𝗌 ﹕ under the cold rainy night of the day your boyfriend dumped you, a hand helped you up and sheltered you from the rain.

being dumped by the same person you thought you’d spend the rest of your life with was not the plot twist you thought the day had in store for you.

you didn’t even see it coming, all your head was hung up on was why he even dumped you. what had you done wrong? maybe if you were prettier, smarter.. or maybe something else? were you not making him happy enough?

you can’t help but wonder if it was your fault. was it your fault that the love of your life finally decided to let go? the thought hangs in the tense air as you downed another shot of alcohol.

you swear you’ve lost track of the amount of alcohol you’ve consumed tonight, the bartender had even started to get worried for you. “maam, that’s like your twelfth shot of the night.. you’re not planning on driving home right?” the bartender asks.

you shook your head no, “i’m taking a cab. don’t worry.” you dismissed the bartenders question, sliding the cup over back to the bartender as you signaled for him to fill the cup yet again.

ㅤ♡ྀི ₊

hours pass, you’re completely wasted. you pay for your drinks before leaving the bar with a heavy heart. with a heart that ached for taesan’s presence to hold you and tell you that it’s okay. a heart that can only hope that taesan just changes his mind and takes you back into his arms.

you step into the cold night, the air hitting your bare skin as you breathe heavily. tears pooling in your eyes, you walk on the sidewalk. you were sobbing like your life depended on it. well, atleast it felt like your life depended on it.

your legs feel weak as you fall onto your knees. your face buried in your hands as you sobbed and let your tears soak the sleeves of your sweater. the same sweater taesan gifted you on your birthday. you’ll never forget how warm he made you feel, you’ll never forget how much you loved him.

ㅤ♡ྀི ₊

lost in your own tears and cruel thoughts, you didn’t even realize that raindrops had started to fall in a slow and rhythmic pattern. leaving dark patches that spread slowly on the concrete floor along with soaking your sweater.

you felt too weak to even get up and get a cab, all you wanted to do was to cry even if that meant crying on the side of the road.

at this point, you were absolutely soaked, shivering under the rain as it soaks your clothes and your hair. you thought you’d just get soaked in the rain and your emotions till the sun comes up, but you were wrong.

in the midst of your thoughts, you feel a presence hover over you as rain stopped soaking your figure. you look up to see an umbrella, held by a tall shadow. you thought you were imagining things, hell, even part of you hoped it was taesan.

but it wasn’t. “miss, are you okay?” the man asks as he holds the umbrella over your head, letting the rain soak his broad shoulders. you looked up at him and took a good look at his pretty face. his hair framing his face perfectly, his face practically glowing, his shoulders oh-so-broad.

you can’t help yourself up as not only did you feel weak, but you also felt as if your thoughts weighed you down. the man offered his hand to help you up, you held his hand reluctantly before he assisted you to get back up on your feet.

his hands were the hands that helped you up when thoughts weighed you down.

“i’m.. fine.” you say, your low tone portraying the gloominess in your heart. the man smiles a little at the sight, “you’re drunk aren’t you?” he asks as he examines your blushed face. he eventually gets you a cab that brought you back to the comfort of your own home.

ㅤ♡ྀི ₊

days go by after this incident, your heart still feels heavy from the recent breakup. but your mind constantly traveled back to the pretty face that helped you while you were at your lowest. damn it, you should’ve got his number.

you mumble to yourself, taking a sip of your iced coffee as you continued to type into your computer. you were tucked into the corner of the cafe as you typed away onto your computer before you feel a soft tap on your shoulder.

you turn your head, your eyes still glued onto your laptop as you slowly avert your gaze to the hand that tapped your shoulder.. or should you say the hand that helped you up?

“we meet again” he says with a small smile while holding a drink in his hands. his eyes linger over to the empty seat in front of you, “anyone sitting here?” he asks you while you stare at him blankly.

“o—oh! no no, you— you can sit there..” you say nervously, letting out a chuckle to hopefully break the awkwardness. ”it’s you isn’t it?” he asks you, “i didn’t get your name”

“y/n.. my name is y/n.” you say softly. whilst his eyes were fixated on you, a smile appeared on his face. “y/n.. that’s a pretty name. suits you.” you smile at him before asking him the same question. “what about you? what’s your name?”

“sungho.” he replies almost immediately as if he has been waiting for you to ask that question forever. little did you know, he found you to be the most alluring girl he has seen in his whole life.

exchanging numbers, you wave goodbye to him as you exited the cafe. your heart throbbing at the newfound feeling of friendship.. or something more?

ㅤ♡ྀི ₊

putting on a cute outfit as you grabbed a perfume bottle and spritzed it lightly over your soft skin, the fresh fragrance lingering in the air as you turned away to put the bottle back onto your shelf.

you take one last final look at yourself in the mirror before opening your phone to see that sungho has texted you.

sungho [ 18:04 ]

i’m infront alreadyy

but take your time

i’ll wait :)

you [ 18:07 ]

omg sorry to keep u waiting!

i’m omw out now!!

sungho [ 18:07 ]

dw abt it

can’t wait to see u <3

you quickly rushed out of your room and approached your door as you practically yanked the door open to see sungho waiting at your doorstep. “oh hey there y/n..” was the lame greeting he came up with all while nervously looking at you. damn it! you were so beautiful..

you looked at him and gave him a big hug, engulfing him in your embrace. you never thought that a guy who held up an umbrella over you when you were drunk and heartbroken would ask you out to have dinner with him.

you can’t lie, your heart jumped a little at the sight of his appearance. he was in a white collared shirt that perfectly encapsulates the broadness of his shoulders that made you wanna giggle like a little girl.

ㅤ♡ྀི ₊

the date went amazing, the both of you talked non-stop. absolutely no hint of awkwardness was present when the both of you talked and chatted the night away. amongst all the similarities and interests you have, you swear you felt your heart skip a beat whenever he spoke.

were you falling for someone else already? you thought you’d never move on from taesan.

you sat in the passenger seat as sungho drove you back to your home, the car fell quiet as you slowly closed your eyes and dozed off into a slumber. sungho says something before realizing you weren’t replying. instinctively, he turns over to you to see you sound asleep.

he reaches out his hand to tuck a stray hair strand behind your ear while he smiles at your adorable sleepy expression.

arriving at your home, he gently taps you to wake you up. you flutter your eyelids open as your eyes meet with his, gently towering over you. he smiled with a hint of pure admiration. “you’re awake. you tired?” he asks softly. you nodded gently as a reply, “mhm, thank you though for today. i had alot of fun.” you say as you look at him.

he wasn’t looking into your eyes anymore at this point, all he was focused on was your pink plump lips. you realized this as your cheeks turned a pink hue, he was inching closer to your face as you nodded gently. seeing you nod, he didn’t waste anymore time before he pressed his lips against yours.

he leaned over from the driver's seat all the way to the passengers seat, cupping your face in his hands. soon enough, the both of you let go. you look at eachother while the both of you smiled at one another knowingly. letting out a small giggle, he looks at you lovingly.

ㅤ♡ྀི ₊

months go by after your first kiss with sungho, now the both of you were a couple already. the both of you shared laughs and stories, you would also occasionally talk about the first time you met each other.

under the cold rainy night, he was the hands who helped you up when you needed it most.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ networks : @kstrucknet @k-nets

© soubeomies 2024 all rights reserved ♡ do not copy/repost my works.

[jisokai]

You always thought the circus was where you yearned to be. At least, until it finally let you in—and introduced you to Hanta Sero.

[circus AU where seamstress!reader and acrobat!sero realize that their lives have been running parallel for a long time, and it’s up to you to weave them together]

part 2: veiled by the daytime sky.

sero hanta x reader ch 2/6 | 11.4k words | masterlist | ao3 cw: slight spoilers for the war arc/fights if you squint notes: ch songs are birds of a feather by billie eilish, saltwater room by owl city

you watch the circus performance of a lifetime.

✰.

"It's all so familiar yet I know I've never been here before. I feel so at home."

-Sophie, from Howl's Moving Castle

You wake up in your own home.

Despite the excitement and thrill of the night, the buzzing through your body came to a halt when your dance with the stranger ended. You tried, gave a valiant effort to continue, but your heart felt heavy. You were missing something—a partner. In an attempt to sooth your melodrama, you purchased another round of taiyaki, hoping to suffocate your delusions with the fluff of pastry and dense red bean paste. When that failed, all you felt was the pull to be home, comfortable in your bed. You heeded Chiara’s offer and took the metro home, ignoring that you’d have to get your garment bag and box in the future regardless. Then you took the train back, showered your fastest shower, and laid in bed curled around your precious book, fingers threading through the pages. It felt more real, somehow, after running into that man.

You turn over in your bed, squinting at the morning light crawling through the room. You blink a couple times, trying to smear your vision to clarity as you notice the grey of the sky. When your focus sharpens, you catch light tufts of snow gently falling.

It’s enough to have you leaping out of bed, hopping and stumbling as you untangle the giant comforter from your legs. When you free yourself you run across the room, planting your hands on the windowsill and pressing your face against the glass. Joy blooms in your chest, watching puffy whiteness cling to the pavement and grass.

You think today will be incredible.

It’s also a working day, you decide, to spend your morning on the start of your next order: another opera gown. You make your breakfast unhurried before slipping on a coat and into the garage. The door to the driveway opens with its usual squeaky greeting, and you step outside with a smile. Your hands raise, outstretched to the sky to catch the softly falling snow. You tilt your head upwards, scrunching your nose when a bundle of flakes lands on the tip.

It takes a while for you to start working, first pulling out sketches from the meeting with your client. You spread them across your work table, shoving unnecessary ones aside, some of them falling to the ground. Next you scan them for the measurements you jotted down, outlined with a bright yellow square. Notes for colors and textures are scribbled underneath, with a crude sketch of lace swirls. You rummage through your rolls and scraps and samples, looking for fabrics that match best. You take a picture of three similar options, asking your client for her preference. You set an alarm before switching off your phone and pulling out the dress pattern, to start on the bust.

You work steadily, taking your time to cut and pin swathes of sapphire blue. Next you sew, listening to the comforting hum of the bouncing needle, your hands gliding smoothly beside it. These movements are technical, practiced, running on muscle memory. You are another type of sewing machine, one that measures and cuts and hems, one that will later embroider and meticulously weave details into the fabric—but you are still another machine, in the end.

It’s easier to work on autopilot somedays, like today, when you’re still trying to grasp that your last project came to an end. You have different fabric in your hands—no longer fiery red and blood-maroon. You’re cradling a different story, a new client, a new destination. But you work as per usual, going through the same motions, the same patterns, the same focused, uninterrupted state of concentration.

The air is chilly, biting against your hands and seeping through your jacket. But you leave the garage door open, soaking in the light diffused through clouds, the crispness of winter flavoring your work. Stray flurries breeze into the room, greeting you for a moment before they unravel into small puddles on the concrete.

A soft smile sits on your face as your mind wanders. You love winter, the coldness initially foreign and villainous when you arrived in Italy. You’re used to the tropics of Costa Rica—hot, humid air and black sand beaches, crystal blue water with the warmth of a hug. You hated these wet winters and the dry heat of Milan summers, how they deepen your ache to go home. But you’ve come to love the new layers of your seasons, the arrival of one always blooming excitement for the next. 

But your hands go numb, and you have to close the door.

The alarm sounds, pulling you from the depths of your focus. The last piece of fabric slides through the needle before you lift your foot from the pedal, to halt the machine. You swipe your thumb to end the alarm before briefly scrolling through your notifications. Your client responded with her preference: a thin and lacy fabric, the one you’re almost out of. You make a note to pick up another bolt today.

You don’t bother with cleanup, leaving scraps of fabric and papers and spools of thread across the surface of your table. Instead you stand and stretch out your arms, rolling your shoulders beneath the heaviness of your coat. There’s an ache in your neck from hunching, worsened by the stiffness from the cold.

Dressing today is a rare challenge. Normally it’s a sequence of intuitive decisions, hardly a thought entering your mind when you toss on garments. But today is special; today is the first showing of Gōyoku—the first production by Hoshi no Sākasu that you get to see, and with your first costume in a circus production ever. You didn’t expect to feel this indecisive, with uncertain hands carding through your closet and drawers, nothing catching your eye. You pout at your lack of inspiration.

A flicker of feathers catches your eye, glimmering like a wave from the back of the closet. You pull the hangers aside to reach for it, frowning in confusion. When you manage to pull it from the rack and hold it in the light, you laugh. It’s a long piece, the fluff and volume of a black feathered boa. The thought that crosses your mind feels impulsive, sabotaging even, but you’re already giggling at the thought of wrapping yourself in it. Your mind races with possibility: a flapper dress, blazers with giant shoulders, giant sunglasses. They’re re-entering the fashion scene, appearing on the streets with skin-tight dresses, but you want something more casual.

You settle on creamy linens, white with the faintest touch of warmth. They sit heavy on your skin, thick enough that you consider going coatless. Knowing you’ll be cold, you snatch a matching coat to settle on top. After looping your star garment around your neck, black feathers stark against smooth fabric, you turn to the mirror and laugh. Chiara would groan if she saw you, but you work in costume before fashion. Looking ridiculous is part of your job.

You take your time entering the city, leaving early to stop by a bakery and fulfill your craving for panzerotti—the call of fried pockets of mozzarella and tomato—buying some extras and a few different tramezzini to share. Kendou sends you a pin when you let her know that you’re close, leading you to one of the trailers behind the auditorium tent. You walk giddily, smiling at the sparse snowflakes still feathering down.

The piazza is quiet when you walk through through the main entrance, the sides now blocked from the night festivities. There are few people: stray observers and occasional staff members. The guard by the security clearance lets you through with ease. Another guard notices you straying towards a secondary fence, tracking the pin with a frown, and helps you navigate to the trailer once you offer your ID card.

You are led to a white rectangular trailer, one of three in a line. You check the pin once again before walking to the one in the center. Unsure if you should step in without warning, you knock hesitantly on the door.

Only a few seconds pass before the door swings open. You blink in surprise when you’re greeted by the man you met last night, now dressed down from his festival costume. His hair is ruffled, bangs scattered sloppily across his forehead, and his stubble is gone. You swallow as you take him in, the softness on his face, along the edge of his jaw, as wears a matching surprise. He’s flustered, but there’s a shine in his eyes as he watches you. What is he thinking, to look at you like this—like you mean something? He has an air of mystery that tugs at your heart, a yearning to ask endless questions about him, to know who he is. It’s paired with an ease that convinces you he would answer; he would tell you all you wanted to know.

You fight through your smile to speak. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

He opens his mouth to respond, and you’re eager to hear it, but Kendo’s face appears behind the man’s shoulder. “Hey! You found us! Come in, come in.”

Mystery man steps aside to let you pass, just close enough that you brush his shoulder. Your mind flashes to the night before, his hand on your waist and then entangled in your own, spinning you while your wings flapped over your shoulders. You try to blink away the thought, but it persists. 

You catch Momo sitting by the vanity, waving with a cheeky smile. You frown at her expression.

Kendou speaks again, gesturing to the man. “This is Sero, by the way. One of the performers.”

You nod, then smile towards him as you introduce yourself. He grins brightly, not a trace of uncertainty in his eyes. It’s a stark contrast from moments ago. Another mystery. 

“Nice to meet you properly,” he says.

“Sero was just about to get ready,” Momo says. Her eyebrows are raised into her bangs, glancing towards Kendou with a look you can’t read. 

You hear Sero’s voice hitch, like he’s about to say something, before he sighs. “Yeah, I was on my way out.” He looks at you regretfully. “It was nice to catch you.”

You nod, offering one of the small sandwiches from the bakery before he leaves the trailer. He takes one without looking—prosciutto, with tomato and olives and Swiss cheese—before gently closing the door. When you turn to Momo in anticipation, ready to help her into her dress for the show, you’re met with a mischievous grin. You frown again.

“What?”

Her lips twitch. “Nothing.”

You look at her expectantly, unamused, but she doesn’t budge. Kendou smiles, making you equally skeptical of her, before speaking. “We have a bird to dress! Aoyama will be here any minute with the skirt, and then we’ll get to work with your supervision.”

You nod, understanding that you’re meant to be the supporting role for the other costume artists, for them to figure out the kinks of the dress by the time they’re on the road. It’s bittersweet, to spend a few more days with your creation before it sets off without you.

A man appears shortly, noisily strutting through the door of the trailer. His outfit is entirely reflective, the iridescent shine of a CD, and you assume he must be Aoyama. You grin at the sight. Kendou is quick with the introductions. “This is Aoyama, the other costume manager. Aoyama, this is the costume artist—”

You shake hands as you finish her introduction. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He winks while responding. “As it should be! I love your boa.”

You suppress a laugh. “And I love your outfit.”

“Heat transfer vinyl,” he sings, pressing a hand to his chest. “Do feel free to ask where you can purchase it for yourself.”

You laugh, telling him to give you the details later. 

The air of the room shifts, everyone settling into business as Aoyama sets down the hoopskirt and Kendou pulls the dress from the closet. The trailer is surprisingly large despite being a room on wheels, offering a wide breadth for Momo to step into the frame and have the other two fuss over her. They check with you on its placement before gathering the dress. Your fingers itch to join theirs, to fix the stray bends of fabric or straighten how it lays against Momo’s skin, but the hands of the costume crew trace over those spots eventually. 

When the headpiece is set in place and you get to see Momo in full costume—her hair falling in loose, long curls, eyelids powdered the same blush as her lips, an elegant jewel strung around her neck—you swallow. Seeing your finished pieces, dressed on the figures they were made for, will always clench at your stomach. It brings a rush of euphoria over you, followed by a sweeping emptiness.

You do a onceover to look for anything out of place or concerning, but they’ve laid it perfectly. Your chest both lightens and pangs. The dress will be in good hands.

“If we’re settled I think it’s time we take our star to the main room, yes?” Aoyama asks.

You nod slowly, pressing down the ache. 

Kendou smiles softly. “It’ll be okay.”

“I know, I know. I have attachment issues.”

She laughs and slaps at your shoulder. “I would too. Now go busy yourself until the show starts.”

You help them pin the fabric at the back of Momo’s dress before exiting together. You stop at the back entrance of the tent to say a temporary goodbye, handing over the remaining triangle sandwiches. The crew members slip carefully through the canvas, holding the thick material back to avoid brushing against Momo. You avert your eyes, only catching a glimpse of feathered costumes drifting in the background.

The next half hour is a struggle, time passing slowly in your giddiness. You stand in the cold for the first few minutes, remembering how snow fell softly from the sky just hours prior. The sticky remainders flatten under your shoes with a soft crunch. Your mind drifts to the grueling months leading up to now, iterating the dress and the push and pull between what you, Momo, and Kendou all envisioned. The sky is still hazy, a bright white mist covering the blue buried above. You imagine a plane beyond the fog, Momo and Kendou sitting together by the window, waiting in anticipation to see your mockup in action. 

You smile wistfully. It already feels so long ago, that flood of excitement and the fear of not finishing in time—hours stretching on with you hunched over the gown. It was a painful sort of urgency: the need to be finished, all the while your hands only ever moved at the same steady pace. And now you suddenly have the next step to focus on—the show for tonight, or the next gown you need to sew. Where does the time go? Is it buried in the folds of your projects, sewn into the fabric like a quilt? Are you giving your own life away when you pass on the garments—holding all those moments in their fluid spaces?

Sometimes you wonder how you got here, always moving and moving, never taking the time to look back, to reflect and connect all the pieces of your journey to who you are today. Sometimes you feel like you never made a decision, that these events unfolded on their own, little seeds that blew in the forceful wind of life, hiding in the crevices until you finally turned to look at them: sprouted and standing firm in the ground.

Too firm, too rooted, to move.

Tired of your sentiments and the creeping chill, you decide to enter the shelter of the stage tent. The main entrance is littered with people checking in, clumps that thin into long lines. A metal guardrail separates you from the ticketing to enter the tent, so you approach one of the security members to ask for help. When you show him your ticket and ID card, he leads you to another entrance, skipping the line entirely. 

You reach the edge of the interior where the concessions are prepared, sandwiching the stairs to the seating. The crowd thickens as showtime approaches, the lines for food and drink quickly elongating. You’re prepared to skirt around and go directly to your seat, not tempted by the wafting scent of buttery popcorn and the sweetness of pretzels, but your eyes land on that fluffy fish-shaped bread from the night prior, and your feet take you to the line before you mentally make a decision. Luckily it moves quickly and you soon purchase two taiyaki, placed gently in a crinkly paper bag. You hold it gently, the heat spreading through your hands. 

The seat number on your ticket indicates that you’re in the section closest to the front, but in one of the furthest rows. It’s the seat you requested, centered to get the ideal view and close to the stage, but slightly elevated for the best angle to view the performers. You walk unhurriedly to your spot, taking a booklet offered by the attendant in the aisle. Once seated, you run a finger over the glossy paper—the striking art of a fiery phoenix—then press your thumb against the edge of the cover to open the first page. You scan your eyes over the introduction, three separate paragraphs for the original Japanese, followed by an English and Italian translation.

Gōyoku—meaning ‘Fierce Wings’—is the action-packed story of the impossible creatures of the sky. For just one moment, in the wake of their greatest desperation, these winged beasts are able to be glorious, fiery gods. Follow the journey of a guardian hawk as it battles fearsome foes, inspires his apprentices, and eventually burns out in his diligence to protect the new generation.

You smile with anticipation. The next page contains a list of names and roles: the director, producers, and stage crew displayed in neat rows, with details written in a small font beneath the individual names. You catch Aizawa’s, the romaji bringing a grimace to your face when you once again remember your first encounter. You flip the page, eyes recognizing a list of acts, and then immediately skip to the one after. The back has a list of acknowledgements and gratitudes, to donors and inspirations for the show. You blink when you see your own name on the bottom, with a small paragraph describing your work and why you were chosen for the production. It pulls a tight smile across your face.

You close the booklet and eat one of the taiyaki.

At four on the dot, the lights dim. Most people are in their seats, some stragglers still filtering in. Your eyes trace the room, packed full with spectators. Nearly every seat is filled, a mix of ages, singles and couples and families. Your eyes widen when you catch sight of the little girl from last night, the same pinched face of her Hyottoko mask. You’re tempted to wave, to see if you can catch her attention, but she’s up in a row towards the side of the stage. There’s no reason for her eyes to swoop in your direction. 

But they do, to your surprise. First in glee, excitement, and then in surprise. You look at her confusedly, slightly tilting your head. Her parents are watching you too, with the same expressions. Other people in their seats look your way. Your heart starts races, wondering what about you has grabbed their attention—

A pair of hands cover your eyes from behind, jolting you in your seat. They’re paired with a deep giggle, almost dark and maniacal. You grin in embarrassment.

Crowd work. You’ve seen the cartoonish forms of circus clowns engage with the audience before, oftentimes its own act in the show, but you’ve never been subjected to it yourself. Your heart races from the attention, anxious at being part of the spectacle. Part of you  Suddenly the hands trail downwards, to your large boa, and pull it away, bringing a waft of cool air to your neck and shoulders. You blink in surprise, head turning to follow it.

You see a blond man nearly skipping down the aisle, your boa swinging in his hand. He’s dressed in a tight black suit, tipped at the wrists with tufts of feathers. The fabric of his clothes are sewn with analog watch faces, set at a variety of times. His face is obscured by a bird mask, only revealing a wide, cheeky grin. He makes a show out of floating your boa around him, posing as if he’s unsure what it is, before wrapping it around his own neck, letting out a fit of ridiculous laughter and then skipping through the seating. 

You wonder if he was informed that you were in the audience, if this was planned. 

Your grin spreads easily across your face, watching as he turns back with a wink before bothering other audience members. He stops by the girl, where she sits in the front row of the next section, and makes a show of looking curiously at her mask. He reaches for it and she giggles, holding it against herself in defense. The suited bird cocks his head, then pouts before sighing and strutting away dramatically in defeat.

Commotion from the other end of the room turns your head, to another figure working the crowd. This one is a bubbly woman, with a costume of bursting pink feathers and purple, shimmery patterned cloth. She wears a giant smile as she hops along the seat, looking curiously at the audience members. When her mask turns so you can see the face, you are struck by the illusion of darkness beneath her eyes, completely blacked out. A pair of sharp but narrow horns sprout from the edges, giving her an alien quality. Like her show partner, she giggles happily as she skips along.

The pair charades their way to the front, keeping the eyes of the audience focused. When they meet each other on the stage, they communicate with overexaggerated gestures and gibberish noises. The blond one does a twirl, raising his hands to bring attention to your boa with a wide smirk. The pink one gasps and reaches for it, only for the blond to huff and jump away. You watch with amusement—and apprehension, hoping your scarf will survive the show.

The sound effects of the characters start to blur into a song as they move around the stage. A light melody settles in, synchronized with their steps skirting back and forth. Just as they dart into the center, a loud bang resounds from the speakers. The characters pause, dramatically turning around the stage in defensive stances. The girl looks up and points, hopping in excitement. Her partner tilts his head, offering a polite clap with a shrug.

You follow her finger, watching as a hoop slowly lowers from the ceiling. It spins slowly, cradling a man. He’s almost lounging, lazily lying with his back on the bottom, neck cradled to the side. One leg dangles while the other is bent into the frame, foot toeing against the edge. You are close enough to see his face, the confident smile that pulls at his lips. His eyes are closed, outlined with red markings. His clothing matches his hair, golden and ruffled, white feathers accenting his wrists and ankles. He wears a transparent golden mask, open to let his expression shine through. 

The music continues gently as the hoop lowers. The bird characters on the stage cheerfully try copying his pose from their standing positions, the blond shaking his head at the woman as he lifts one of her arms higher. Your eyes travel back to the lyra, to the man’s face, his eyes peeling open. He slowly sits up, trailing his arms around the perimeter of the hoop. His face morphs into curiosity as he takes in the crowd, then the birds beneath him. A sharp grin spreads across his face while he leans forward to watch them closely.

In a flash the hoop falls—you think more than his body length—and it pulls a sharp inhale into your chest from surprise and fear. The performer leans back with the movement, as if he’s going to plummet to the ground, but he catches himself with the underside of his knees. The two below shriek in fright, before scattering across the stage in opposite directions, disappearing into the back. As this new character—you assume the hawk in the booklet summary—comes to the end of his fall, he stretches his arms, reaching to catch the scattered jesters. Bright red wings sprout from his back, feathers swaying with the jolt of the fall. They’re giant, especially to have been so well concealed.

The hawk draws out the lowering of the hoop, removing one leg to fall into a split, holding his ankle by his head for the sake of showing off. Then he releases it to snake back up the hoop. His arms follow, pulling him back into the frame. He tangles himself through the edge, making a show of his flexibility, before sitting in the center. He grabs the frame below him before rolling forwards, swinging as he dangles in the air from his hands. The wings burst open once again, fiery red flaming behind his figure. The lyra is lowered enough that his feet barely skim the ground. He swims his legs through the air as if walking until he can touch the floor securely.

And then he runs.

You’ve seen aerial object acts before, always an impressive series of poses and fluid movements entangled in the air. But the speed of this act is unheard of. The performer's body swings and swipes through the air like a knife, so sharp you think you can hear the whoosh as he moves. His wings continue to open and close at the perfect times, unfolding when he holds a specific pose, lengthening in tune with his routine and the quickening music. Even when he is curled into the lyra, they compliment the positions of his body. You realize they work through a mechanism attached to his arms, opening opposite to his elbows. You watch captivated as he gracefully slides across the wheel despite his speed, all the while it glides in a circle or twirls along the rope anchoring it to the ceiling. Your stomach drops with his precarious balancing and the surprise drops, always catching himself in the nick of time.

As he slows and the act winds to an end, he pulls himself back to the center of the hoop. He nestles into another lounging position, mirroring his entrance. The lyra rises and the music lulls, signaling the end of the act. Scattered claps sound around you, snapping you from your daze. You join the applause as it rolls through the audience. It was a stunning opening, setting the stage for what’s to come.

In the midst of the clapping, the music unexpectedly fills with faster, darker sounds. As deep bass thrums through the room, three figures wrapped in black silks unravel from the ceiling. They fall in sharp, jagged movements, rocking as they tumble through the air.

They slow as they finish their descent to the floor, and then to eventually rest on the ground. The silks lift into the ceiling, leaving the performers behind. They lay still for a couple moments before twitching, muscles and joints moving in rapid and jagged jolts. Slowly they rise to stand, legs and arms angled to appear twisted. You take in their costumes, tight tan fabric purposefully wrinkled along their bodies, with small, uneven lines of feathers—one figure’s pink, one green, and the last yellow. Their masks are small on their faces, disheveled and anxious. You think you recognize two of them, the small women from the day you dropped off your dress, the ones you saw last night in the festival. 

You watch curiously as they begin to struggle towards one another. They remind you of baby birds, naked and frail. Your eyes widen at the thought, putting together that they have fallen from the sky.

Their act is one of contortion, bodies twisting and bending in impossible shapes. They mold into one another, arms and legs tangling in a rolling knot. The show of flexibility is broken with a series of theatrical performances, futile attempts to fly or crawl over each other. It’s as haunting as it is awe-inspiring, striking you with distress and pity. It’s an incredible use of the act. The story is clear with these characters, their desperation for safety, for freedom. You feel sorry, yearning to offer help.

As their bodies slow in a display of exhaustion, they pile in the center of the stage. You see them breathe together, expanding steadily as one entity before compressing again. The moment is tender, intimate. Drawn out unlike usual performances. You know this is the end of the act, that you should applaud, but you don’t want to break the softness. The others in the audience seem to feel the same.

A fourth figure appears, sliding from the side of the stage and in the back. He’s tall and lean, toned stature showing through the tight fabric of his costume. It’s similarly wrinkled as the contortionists, but with a mix of purple and beige fabric. Faux scorched skin, you realize, as if stapled to itself. His costume is the least orderly, with black and red and white feathers clumped in his hair, indistinguishable.

In one of his hands is a staff, with a wheel of spokes standing from both ends. He twirls it slowly, tauntingly, as he starts to circle the bodies in the center. The lights dim as he stalks them, turned so his chest and head face his prey. The music plays eerie, sharp notes that clash with one another. Then it halts.

In an instant a flame bursts across the stage, tracing the circle of the man in purple. Your brain whirrs in attempt to understand how the act unfolded: all you can think is that his staff may have been leaking fuel along his path, unnoticed in the darkening stage. It doesn’t explain how the fire came to be, or how the staff lit itself.

The fire spinning is an act of intensity, a gut-wrenching scene of the larger figure taunting the small. He plays the role of a villain with ease, convincing even when you know it’s only for show. His body is one with his staff, rolling and twisting the length over his limbs. It runs along his shoulders and neck, twirls over his chest and through his legs, hooked over the top of his foot to be thrown back into the air. The two points of light dart throughout the stage, illuminating his face and chest and limbs for less than seconds at a time.

After one particularly fast and complex combination—topped with a downwards yank of the prop, releasing long swirls of flame into the air—you see another figure enter the stage. He has a smaller frame but a  similar intensity, as though stalking towards the predator. As he nears towards the light, you realize it’s Todoroki, his split-dyed hair unmistakable. His costume is deep blue with a high collar, the exact sort of fit you imagined when you first saw him. You grin.

He suddenly thrusts himself towards the remaining streaks of fire on the ground, pressing his hand against the flame. You watch in shock, expecting him to pull away in pain, but instead the heat is smothered in an instant. The bundle of contortionists spill across the floor, writhing to the side of the stage. They continue their struggle to freedom, their jagged movements persistent as they escape to the edge of your vision.

Todoroki finishes the rest of the flames while the taller man chases him with the staff. They leap and dodge one another, a choreographed fight that involves many close calls. Your heart leaps as you watch the edge of the staff swipe close to Todoroki’s face, illuminating his sharp but delicate features. He is unmasked, the deep red of his scar visible to the crowd.

A billow of fire erupts from his mouth, shooting past the spokes of the staff and into the air. It casts a torrent of orange glow across him and his opponent, flooding himself and the burned creature in a beautiful, warm light. It shines bright enough to see the details of the stage and audience for one brief moment. You realize Todoroki was holding the fuel in his mouth throughout the entirety of the fight thus far. Impossible. 

The fight continues, Todoroki and his opponent dancing with fire. It’s mostly a series of choreographed strikes and dodges, almost a game or dance as they circle one another: the staff one weapon and Todoroki’s breath the other. The flames on the end of the prop begin to wither as their movements speed, nearing the end of their performance. Todoroki closes it out with one final exhale, blowing blinding clouds of heat in an arc towards the audience. You blink back in surprise, warm air brushing against your face.

They stand in the center, bodies tense and shuddering with deep inhales. Their exhaustion plays into the reality of the fight, ragged breaths and hunched shoulders visible from afar. You think they look pained, that their struggle is beyond the performance.

The next act transitions easily, the fire show morphing into a chase with new characters—in full bird-shaped headpieces and wing-like cloaks—eventually through the air on a series of springboards soaring, twisting, flipping, and jumping propelled by each other’s landings. Two characters in particular catch your eye, with deep green and red costumes. You’re reminded of Midoriya, and think the height and frame of the green bird could align.

Your eyes widen when a giant net rolls across the stage behind the heavy duty seesaws. The fire artists slam down on the boards in sync, the new bird figures soaring. When they rise just enough to clear the net, it’s swiftly rolled underneath them to catch their landing. The springboards are then pushed out of the stage, marking an end to Todoroki’s performance.

The people at the base of the net—women in leotards, different shades of purple, paired with skirts full of feathers—lock the wheels before climbing the ladders up the side, joining the previous characters onto raised platforms. The two men untie the threads around their necks, slipping the capes from their arms and followed by the headpieces—now left only in lean pants. After setting them on the back of the platform and walking towards the edges at the center, you confirm that one of them is in fact Midoriya. The other has hair that matches his red costume.

The trapeze act should be impossible, especially with Midoriya and the redhead having just completed an entirely separate act. But it’s flawless, impeccable, unthinkable. The following acts are executed with seamless transitions that lead through a cohesive plot—a juggling act with a man who moves as if he has six arms, and a dual cyr act with men of a drastic height difference, the smaller one gliding easily and with incredible balance, and the taller spinning across the stage at incredible speeds.

At the end of their act, when the two roll out of sight, the lights and sound dim to darkness. A roar of applause passes through the crowd, this being the first real quiet gap between acts. There are cheers and hollers and whistling for several moments, an extended display of love. When the noise finally begins to fade away, a spotlight glows in the center of the stage, slowly illuminating a figure in red. You take a deep breath to ease the constriction in your chest.

It’s Momo.

In the excitement of watching, you momentarily forgot that she was performing, that you made her costume, that you’re a part of this show too.

She’s beautiful, standing tall with an air of elegance—a poise that commands the room. Behind her is a pair of feathered musicians: a purple-haired woman and an older blond man, with an electric violin and cello respectively. They draw a slow melody through the room, crisp notes floating through the speakers. Momo steps to the front of the room smoothly and carefully as if floating, the edge of her dress brushing right above the ground to cover her feet. You hold your breath as your eyes track the details of the costume, every ruffle of fabric and bounce of feather. 

The costume looks perfect on stage, not a ruffle out of place. You realize it’s the first time you’re seeing her wear it from a distance, to appreciate the hug of her waist and the curves of her figure. The darkness of the fabric is regal against her skin and her confidence. The sheerness of the chiffon brings out her grace, with a sparkle that brightens her edges, the glow of an aura. The orange swathes that trail behind her are like glowing footprints, the markings of a deity—the evidence that she walked across our earth.

Momo’s performance is beautiful, starting as a series of long, drawn out words in well-enunciated Italian. They’re sorrowful, a series of questions that ask where her friends have gone, if they’re safe. If they’ll come home.

The music increases in sound and intensity as she continues, words moving quickly through verbal images of where they could be, what they might be facing. Her voice is rich and smooth as it traces through forests and fields, of predators and monsters. Each note slides beautifully into the next, weaving between heavily grounded and delicately airy. She’s a master with her instrument, the strings of her vocal chords under her total command.

The song finishes with a plea for help. She moves her arms in fluid motions as she reaches towards the crowd, hands twisting and fingers curving as they move towards the sky. You exhale with melancholy at her display of emotion, the pain that strikes the beauty of her obscured face. Her movements become angry and desperate, sharp and jagged when she snaps her head and adds a rasp to her voice, a complete turn from smoothness of her original voice. When the build up to her longest note begins, you hold your breath in anticipation for her to spin.

The dark fabric of the dress skirt, with its layers of maroon, lifts to expose its white underbelly. A flock of matching white doves escape through the gaps, circling counterclockwise with her movement—pulling gasps from yourself and other audience members. She twirls for several rotations, the orange trails of chiffon spiraling beneath her as the birds disperse and rise until they disappear into the ceiling. As soon as the final bird is out of sight, she collapses on herself. Your stomach clenches in worry. She cradles herself against the ground as her note ends, the music following and coming to a lull.

A giant smile overtakes your face, tears brimming the edges of your eyes in joy. You did it, you hear through your mind, unsure if the words are for yourself or Momo. They asked and you delivered.

The crowd applauds once again when the lights dim. You wipe your eyes, months of work and stress feeling so incredibly worth it now that you’ve seen the final piece: a multitude of masterpieces and crafts that will be displayed again and again. Yours. Momo’s. The costume, the vocals, the music, the magic.

Your heart can be at ease.

The lights don't dim entirely, the faint outline of the musicians and Momo still visible. However, four more figures appear, dark silhouettes. They stand closer towards the audience, in front of the spotlight’s reach.

The act that follows is one of whimsical illusion—likely serving as an interlude. Two of the new characters walk into the light, revealing themselves to be the pink woman and the time-covered man from the beginning. They skip sprightly along the platform, followed by the two other characters that you realize are meant to symbolize their shadows. The shadow-characters carry large sheets that billow in their grasp. The blond’s shadow lifts their sheet over the violinist, smoothing her form in the draping fabric. Then they tug the top, enough to rustle the sheet, until it suddenly crumples to the ground—flattening as if there was no one there to begin with. The shadowy figures clap with joy, while the original clowns react with harsh gasps and frightened faces. 

Eventually the cellist is smothered under the sheet, and then Momo. You suspect it’s a typical trick of the floor, opening at just the right time for them to fall through. You hope your dress is still intact, that it survived the fall.

The illusion takes a darker turn, the shadows now chasing their physical forms. The smaller of the shadows succeeds first, vanishing the pink woman. After she disappears, her shadow jumps and spins in glee. You blink when she faces the front once again and is fully visible. The same happens for the blond who stole your boa—still snug around his neck as he is captured and melted into the floor, to reveal the face of his shadow.

The rest of the act is less predictable, the characters moving between the visible and obscured. There are more warpings of illusion, sleight of hand perfectly executed, but also tricks that you can’t fathom. At one point the man appears to step right through the woman, and later she skips behind the man to vanish entirely, appearing behind him a minute later on a different part of the stage. You watch with wide eyes, watching for any movement of the floor, but it never happens. You wonder what the people behind you see, if it’s a matter of angles.

For their final trick, they lay themselves in the center of the stage, draping the sheets over themselves. The pile sits still for several moments before it stirs—leaps to reveal three entirely different figures. The one who stands is a man with a large headpiece, the black head of a bird that engulfs his own. Emerging next is a woman swathed in white fabric, like a fairytale damsel. Her hair falls like a curtain of ivy along her back and shoulders. The last figure sits up slowly; a man with black hair and a costume of darkness, catching shimmers of light speckled across his suit, splotches of yellow feathers sprouting at his shoulders and elbows. As his head turns you can see his eyes through the mask—

They land on you.

Your breath hitches. It’s Sero, the one you danced with and the one you briefly encountered before the show. Despite the distance, you recognize the intensity of his gaze, one you could almost read as longing. When he looks away you feel a wave of relief, but it’s short lived. He continues to watch you, to come back to you.

Three pairs of thick, silk ribbons rain from the ceiling, and you immediately think back to your first impression of Sero—that he would look breathtaking draped in silken black fabric.

He does.

Despite the act being split between three performers, with moments to spotlight each of their solos, you can’t look away from Sero for more than seconds at a time. You catch enough of the other two to differentiate their styles—the woman’s display of flexibility and intricate wrapping techniques, and the man’s show of speed and intensity, body whipping and whorling through the air. 

They’re beautiful. But Sero, Sero flows along the aerial silk. 

Not a single movement is choppy or without grace, body as fluid as the threads of fabric in his grasp. His solo is one that centers his relationship with his act, how he tangles into its hold, how he can move his limbs in imitation of the unstructured garment—his body an extension of the silk, another curtain draping from the ceiling. He breaks from the cloth to suspend himself in the air, feet stepping as if he were walking through floating platforms. He swims upwards through the ribbons, body liquid and shimmering as he slides back down, rolling through tangles and knots, all the while fluffing up pockets and loops of fabric, billowing like the tail of a fish as it waves through the ocean.

Watching him move is like being hypnotized, like you’re seeing something you shouldn’t, because it doesn’t exist. The world behind him fades, time slows. It’s just you and him, like last night’s dance, his fluid and rolling movements as he guided you along, sending tingles through your chest and torso and arms. You have chills, shivers of warmth. It’s indescribable. Now you’re the one yearning to watch him, hoping he’ll meet your gaze again every time it breaks.

By the end of the act you are entranced, obsessed. Your heart is heavy knowing that his performance is over and you will have to watch someone else.

The rest of the show is still objectively stunning, filled with numbers that go beyond any performance you’ve seen before. Following the aerial silks is a man who walks his way on stage on his hands, then up a series of steps to a handstand board. You watch him perform his own act of contortion: slow and methodical and with extreme displays of balance, holding himself in precarious positions. He doesn’t touch his feet to the floor once, until the next act starts and sends sparks throughout the stage. It’s a show of explosive poi, a ball of sparkling fire tied to each hand at the end of a string, twirling around its equally volatile user. Another battle-like scene plays out.

Afterwards is a balancing act, with a man in a costume with a giant tail—the additional challenge seemingly impossible when he stands on a series of rolling objects that add up to more than his own height. The show ends with the display of two giant puppets: mechanical birds floating in the air, rooted on the back and shoulders of performers ambling around the stage. One appears sizzling with electricity while the other looks jagged and sharp, made from scraps of metal. They are joined by the bird characters from the beginning, your boa still around the neck of the blond man, as they’re led through the audience, leaning over to let the crowd gently touch the faces and wings.

When they climb back onstage the music shifts, signaling the closure of the story and show. Applause begins immediately, the crowd standing as soon as the first performer—the hawk—stands at the front for a bow, blowing kisses. He’s followed by the three contortionists before they step back for Todoroki, continuing as each act has their moment of acknowledgement. When Momo steps forwards you yell her name, jumping carefully between the others next to you to get her attention. She grins and bows, blowing a kiss to you directly. You pretend to catch it.

You yell again when the aerial silk group steps forward. Sero smiles happily before the crowd, bowing shallowly so he stands upright first. His eyes find yours and this time you’re ready for it, widening your grin when he meets your gaze. His hand lifts hesitantly before it twitches in a small wave. He stands for a moment too long, and another performer has to pull him back to the others. You smile stupidly, biting the inside of your cheek.

You linger when the crowd filters up the stairs and towards the exit, the room now brightened and flooded with excited chatter. Kendou told you to meet her after the show, but not where or how. You stay in your seat until the aisles clear, swiping through your phone to see if Kendou sent any updates. Once there’s an open path to the stage, you walk down towards one of the security guards to ask for permission backstage. Your ID and anecdotal evidence are met with skepticism, the guard blinking unimpressed by your efforts. Not wanting to waste your time, you turn to exit with the rest of the audience.

A soft yell of your name pulls you to turn back. You don’t catch the source immediately, but eventually your eyes land on wild green curls peeking from the curtain. You brighten and wave.

He frowns and shoots a hand out, beckoning you to join him. You shake your head and point to the security. The large Italian man sees this and then turns in confusion, bristling when his eyes land on Midoriya gesturing you over. He averts his eyes, facing back towards the front. You frown in confusion, not sure if that means you can pass.

Midoriya continues to wave for you, so you cave. Your first step on the stairs stage is cautious, gauging the reaction of your obstacle. After confirming he won’t interfere, you take them two at a time, scurrying to the curtain to slip through the gap. 

The wardrobe and backstage section of the tent has transformed since your first visit, now lined with floor padding and filled with a multitude of props and structures. It’s much livelier, packed with clusters of people in conversation, cheerfully stretching or lounging. Near the exit is a cage for the doves, their chirping softly floating through the background. You drink in the details of the scene, how people rest with one another. Todoroki and Sero stand in a quiet conversation, Ochako and the blonde girl she performed with are laying together on one of the sofas. Momo is absent, along with Kendou. Aoyama is present, helping the hawk character from the first act remove his wings.

You think they look close, comfortable around one another. You can only imagine the sort of tight-knit relationships that bloom from working on these productions for so long—training day after day on risky props, some of them constantly putting their lives in someone else’s hands.

You register someone speaking to you: Midoriya, having been rambling for some time now. You chide yourself for getting lost in thought.

“—but, what did you think?” he asks. You missed the entire prelude, but you have faith in your enthusiasm to deliver a good response.

“Midoriya, it was amazing,” you say with full honesty. “I think you were right—your show will ruin me for any other circus. The transitions between the acts were incredible, and it brought the storyline together so seamlessly—much more cohesive than any other production I’ve seen before. And, oh my god everyone is so impressive. The acts were so much longer than typical shows, and—you! How can you manage back to back performances?”

The thoughts spill out of you, your excitement uncontainable as you think about the production as a whole, recounting the many ways in which it surpassed your expectations. Midoriya beams as your response. His cheeks flush at your praise, but he collects himself as he explains the two acts and their importance to happen directly after one another. He goes into detail about balancing muscle strain: the springboards are exhausting for the legs, but the trapeze is demanding on his arms. He and his stage partner—Kirishima, you learn—manage to make it work through sheer determination.

“He’s one of few people who could make it work,” he tells you, eyes sparkling.

You’re about to respond, to ask for details on how they fleshed out the act, when a softness flutters past your face to land on your neck and shoulders. You reach for it, gently grasping your feathered boa—long forgotten while listening to Midoriya. You turn, expecting to see the blond man in the suit, but instead find Sero behind you.

He smiles with the same ease and confidence of your first meeting, mouth stretched lazily and eyes relaxed. He must be feeling good now that the first show has passed successfully. You feel warm.

“Sorry we held your boa hostage,” he says. You can see the thief behind him, watching with a curious smirk.

No good response comes to mind, your heart busy thumping when your eyes dart back to his. Your mind flashes with that beautiful silk fabric draping over him, his fluid motions as he himself through it like his body is equally malleable. The effect of his performance—that awe and fluster—still sits in your chest. You’re drawn to him, intrigued to know more.

“You were incredible,” you tell him. His eyes grow, mouth gaping in surprise. “I’ve never seen someone move that way on silks. Is it your main act?”

You don’t expect his shyness. It only appears for a moment, shoulders starting to hunch before he stands straight again and smiles brightly, with confidence.

“Yeah! Since I was a kid. I’ve trained a couple other acts—mostly balances and other aerial props. But aerial silk is the best.”

You nod readily. “Of course, it’s my favorite to watch.” It’s ultimately a dance with fabric, one of your first loves.

“Really?” Midoriya asks. “I didn’t know that.”

You laugh. “Why? Because it’s not in my interviews?”

He laughs nervously, hand coming to scratch the back of his head.

“Verde!” you hear Momo call, grabbing your attention. She comes behind Sero, now changed into a casual shirt and pants.

“Momo!”

She engulfs you in a hug, her body pressing into your side as you wrap your arms over her in return.

“Momo, your singing is beautiful. And the birds were stunning. I can’t believe we did that.”

She smiles, eyes shining while her hand grabs your forearm. “We did.”

Once again, as you did a few days prior, you have a longing to talk with her more, deeper. You want to share what it means to you, what you think it means to her. You want to let yourself blur the edges of her position as the performer and yours as the designer, to think about who you are together. But there are still prying eyes, an audience who won’t understand. You glance at Midoriya, his face full of warmth and joy. Then they drift to Sero, and catch a twinge of surprising melancholy.

The performers happily chat with you, some new ones butting in to introduce themselves. You finally get the name of the blond who took your boa: Monoma, who also laughs at your choice of outfit. You get to meet the third woman in the act with Uraraka and Asui—Toga. Names filter in and out, acrobats and production members stopping by. Catering arrives, a selection of classic dishes from one of the high end ristoranti nearby. The aluminum trays are opened to reveal a pasta dish, its fresh scent of pesto and vegetables familiar.

Some performers rush through their meal and leave, or move to the mirrors to retouch their makeup. For the next show, you realize. There are two every night, with a two hour break before the end of the first and the beginning of the second.

Midoriya and Momo part to retouch their costumes, and Kendou orders you to stay put—that she’ll retrieve you if necessary. You’re left with Sero, somehow rating pasta shapes. 

“Hey,” he suddenly says while you’re still mid-thought—musing whether farfalle or penne would work better for this sauce. You sense a topic change. He looks nervous, chewing his lip before speaking. “Are… Do you—”

He glances to the side and pauses, instead switching to a small smile.

“Hey ‘Roki.”

Your eyes linger on Sero thoughtfully, wondering what he was trying to ask, before greeting Todoroki. 

“I wanted to tell you that we’re about halfway through the book,” he says seriously, like he’s delivering an important message. “We just finished the chapter where Santi is pulled into Marco’s world.”

You beam with delight. He’s at the same part you’ve reached since you started reading it again, after dropping off Momo’s dress. “Oh yeah? What do you think? When I was a kid I would read that part almost every night before bed.”

Todoroki nods. “That chapter is my favorite so far. The imagery is quite vivid, and I found myself getting excited—like the kids.”

You hum in agreement before laughing. “I always had so much energy after reading that I couldn’t sleep. I have a dress inspired by that scene, I’ll have to wear it for the final show.”

“You know the book he’s reading?”

At the sound of Sero’s voice, you turn to him and nod. “It’s my favorite, since I was a kid.”

“Really?” he asks, face suspended in disbelief. “Me too! I’ve never met someone outside of my family who’s heard of it.”

Your eyes grow to match his, the two of you now staring at each other curiously. 

“Me neither,” you answer. You don’t even remember how you acquired it, whether by gift or if it was something that had always lingered in your peripheral until you finally took notice. It’s a mysterious little book, with almost no online presence. 

“Do you speak Spanish?” You ask, recalling Sero’s dancing. 

“Sí. Mi mamá es de Ecuador,” he explains. “A small town on the Northern coast.”

Ecuador. You’ve been before, to the capital for a parade. You smile at the memory. “Sudamerica? I’m from Costa Rica. Also on the coast, almost directly west of San José.”

He grins. “We’re both on the Pacific, then.”

You let your gaze linger on his face, the eager shine in his eyes. You want to ask more, to talk about family and life and culture. You get the sense that he does too.

“I thought you said you only knew a little Spanish?”

You blink in surprise at Todoroki’s voice, face heating at your lie. “I got nervous?”

He squints. “About speaking your native language?”

The disbelief in his voice makes you laugh, recognizing your own absurdity. “Maybe? I don’t speak often these days. It makes me sentimental.”

Sero hums. “Sí, speaking Español can make me miss home. Being in Italy has been strange.”

You agree—the transition was a difficult one for you when you first arrived in Milan. You could estimate most of what people said, but had no idea how to respond. You remember awkwardly stumbling through conversations, dealing with nearly a year of clumsily translating before you could speak with ease.

You continue your chatter about the book, enjoying Todoroki’s observations and thoughts. He’s serious about his reading, even for a children’s story. Sero is too, but he becomes quiet, focused on listening to your discussion.

A call for the performers ends your conversation, leaving you to yourself as they gather to run through the schedule. You hang towards the exit of the tent, curious to see the logistical side of the production. You feel a poke at your arm.

“Are you staying for the festival afterwards?” Kendou asks.

You shake your head. “Only for a little. I need to grab some fabric on my way home, but the shop closes at ten.” 

Kendou pouts. “You should come tomorrow.”

“I will,” you promise. You’re planning to come most nights regardless. “Do you think we could talk? About the… job?”

Her eyes nearly sparkle, like the twinkle of sunlight across ocean waves. “I can’t during the festival, since I’m working every night. Can you come during the show again? Aoyama can cover for me.”

You nod. “Yeah, is one better for me to come than the other?”

“Please—You’re welcome here whenever you want.”

“Don’t say that,” you answer. “Or I will be here everyday. You’ll get sick of me.”

She laughs. “Good. Maybe that means you’ll accept our offer by the time we leave Milan.”

You bite your lip at the comment, forcing your smile away. It’s a conflicting place to be, with your heart beating proudly but aching at the same time.

The show is flawless once again, still breathtaking even after seeing it hours before and only rewatching snippets through the screen backstage. You have the urge to interrogate the performers after their acts, brimming with questions and comments. But you notice their tiredness, always coming back panting, immediately chugging water or laying down. You watch Todoroki slosh a cup of mouthwash before sitting next to you with a bottle of juice.

“Your act is the most insane,” you tell him.

He nods.

You’re later joined by others, including Midoriya and briefly Momo, the chirping of the doves re-entering with the end of her performance. When the aerial silk performance starts, your eyes are once again glued to Sero. He’s still devastatingly beautiful during his number, aweing you with his routine. You don’t think you could ever be tired of the way he moves. You want to talk to him, to talk more about his art and of home, but he disappears when he finishes. You shovel down your disappointment. He’s most likely resting, or has other things to worry about.

When the show ends, there’s hardly a moment to breathe before the cast is changing costumes, from feathered birds into their eclectic festival jesters. You can only stay for another half hour, so you wave goodbye to those still in your vicinity, letting Midoriya know you’ll be back tomorrow in case you don’t see him tonight.

The festival is the same as the previous night, littered with lines of market stalls displaying work by local artists and artisans: Milanese food, traditional textiles, niche jewelry. You walk by Hoshi no Sākasu’s tent, the waffly scent of taiyaki a comfort in the chill of the evening. An array of Hyottoko masks are on display, their cheeks large and noses long, eyes varying from pinched closed to painfully wide. You want to walk slowly, take in the string lights and the classical guitar, but you force yourself to move along. The boutique that sells the lace you need won’t be open tomorrow, and you want to get started on the sleeves of the dress in the morning.

None of the performers make an appearance by the time you finish walking through a line of stalls. You carry along, turning through the next row and passing a table of wine sampling—a mix of sparkling and red. You pause and step back to ask for a sample of the Champagne blend, the little paper cup rough against your fingertips as you take a sip before continuing your stroll. 

By the time your sample is finished and the cup is tossed in the garbage, you’re walking through the last row of markets, nestled furthest from the street and closer to the duomo. It’s quieter on this end, away from the music and the clinking pans. This section hosts mostly artists, you notice while passing a display of watercolor paintings. They’re vibrant and rough, capturing candid moments of people, energetic gestures brushed onto textured paper. The woman in the booth is old, with crinkled eyes and grey hair tucked behind a cloth. She watches you blankly.

“Buonasera,” you say, smiling gently. She grins back, eyes nearly disappearing with the rise of her cheeks.

You continue forward, eyes catching a smear of crimson in your peripheral. You frown, stepping towards the center of the path to get a better look. It’s another market stall, but draped over with a deep red fabric, the folds swaying as people walk by. It sits unassuming in this quiet realm of the fair, with no indication of what sits inside. You figure it’s a closed stall, a vendor who couldn’t make it tonight. But your eyes catch the edge of the flap; it’s lined with green feathers. You look at it skeptically, not trusting yourself to make a logical assessment of what it’s for. The color is so vibrant, that punchy chartreuse that you always use. If you were more delusional you would think that it’s… for you.

You pace forwards, zooming by tables of pottery and sterling silver jewelry to reach the front of the tent. The slit in the fabric feels like it’s calling for you, waving slightly in a chilly breeze. The tips of your fingers brush the feathers, their softness tingling against your fingerprints.

A peek won’t hurt.

You slide the flap back gently, just enough to widen the opening and glance inside.

It’s dark, too dark. There’s only the blackness of the space you can’t see. The faint light trickling in doesn’t reach far, and it sits through the air like particles of dust, dull stars in a night sky. You start to lower your hand, deciding it’s an empty stall after all, when someone in the market bumps into you. You falter, losing balance and stumbling forwards to catch yourself.

The tent illuminates.

You gasp in surprise, the space inside appearing much larger than what the exterior suggested. Warm air coats your body, a surprise since you didn’t feel it spilling out the entrance. The air is thick, almost salty with humidity, and the noise outside completely fades away. It’s just you in a quiet room, with a warm dim light that coats a series of bookshelves. They’re littered with trinkets, unorderly but with the homey energy of clutter. You blink at the sight of a large, unbroken conch shell.

It calls for you, your fingertips delicately pressing against the bumpy surface as you lift carefully. By instinct you hold the opening to your ear, immediately sighing with a smile at the sound of ocean waves. You close your eyes, imagining clear blue water and white bubbles of seafoam, spilling out onto black sand.

Then there’s a series of bird calls, the screeching of scarlet macaws as they soar through the air. Your eyes widen, pressing the shell further against your face and covering your other ear to listen closely. You catch the faint sounds of wind and rustling palm leaves in the distance. It sounds just like home, like the coast. You pull the shell away skeptically, the noise cutting into silence, before pressing it to your ear again. The sensory immersion floods back full force, birds and waves and wind surrounding you.

Your eyes land on a jar on another shelf, half-filled with cacao beans. Reluctantly, you return the conch to its place and lift the jar, glass with a metal lip sealing it tightly. You give it a couple shakes, the soft rattle making you smile—memories of abuela cutting open a long pod, you and your sister greedily eating the sweet, white flesh of the fruit on the outside, spitting the remainder on a sheet for abuela to ferment.

You undo the clasp, glass top clinking against its body. You’re hit strong with the initial scent of vinegar before it fades into the rich aroma of dark chocolate. Again you think of home, one of your tíos helping you grind the beans by hand, twisting the crank for you when you wanted a break.

There are other trinkets, ones you don’t understand but wonder if they have their own story—who would pick them up with a similar fondness you carry now. They’re clustered tightly across the other shelves: a little smiling buddha with a round belly, a toy bird, playing cards, scented candles, candies, a carved wooden frog, rings embedded with jewels, a pocket watch, another jar, this one filled with mandarin oranges. You let your eyes roam around, taking in more trinkets and stories that you don’t understand. You pause at a bundle of shiny silk fabric, black as the sky tonight.

You lift your hand to reach for it, but your phone rings.

Cursing to yourself, you put the jar on the shelf and pull your cell from your pocket. The sound is your alarm, set thirty minutes before the boutique closes. Grimacing, you quickly debate your options: to stay and continue exploring your trinkets, or having to rush to get the fabric you need. Your heart yearns as you set the jar on the shelf. You tell yourself that you’ll come back tomorrow, that the more headway you make on the dress, the more you can play afterwards.

Before you exit, you sweep your eyes through the room once more, promising to the trinkets and yourself that you’ll return. You step outside reluctantly, swarmed by chilly air and the yearning to run your hands along those shelves and stories.