#I wanted to but my brain wasn’t letting me

[chimivx]

“…i want you, bless my soul…”

Four months.

You met him on your first day in your first class, your professor the agitated type, the kind that gave you piles of homework with every lesson. He sat beside you, slipping into his chair right before the syllabus slid onto the table in front of you.

Dark hair cut short in the back lived a little more free in the front, on the top, growing into a messier, curlier mop as the weeks drew by, on and on. Tall, broad, and most definitely strong as hell, he was gorgeous. There simply wasn’t any other word for it, he walked into class every week with his golden skin aglow no matter where the sun lived in the sky. You’d be lying if you said your stomach didn’t twist in knots watching his wide eyes scan the room, standing there near the doorway in a white t-shirt and dark blue denim jeans clasped to his waist with a leather belt.

What in the fucking Calvin Klein ad just walked in here?

Don’t sit next to me, don’t sit next to me, please don’t-

He wore Dior Sauvage, just enough of it to charm your eyes in his direction, the two of your glances meeting for only a few seconds, yet long enough to know that this was going to be a long semester.

After that first week, that first class, he showed up on time, sometimes even earlier than you, and sure enough he’d be in that seat and he’d offer you the tiniest smile while he pushed in his chair to let you pass behind him.

Did he own any clothes that fit?

It felt like every week he’d have on a new shirt that clung to him like seran wrap, every little chiseled sculpted by Michaelangelo notch in his body, his chest, completely and utterly visible. As if he didn’t know it, more than enough time in class he’d spend with his hands behind his head, his biceps tightening in his sleeves, bulging beneath the fabric that you waited to see rip.

Too often you’d have to tear your eyes away, too lost in wonder as to what kind of marvel sat beside you. Six foot something, perfectly built, not only did his appearance alone catch you off guard, but his ability to be so gentle. A smiley, sappy giant full of tooth rotting sweetness. Each raise of his hand, how he toyed with his pen between his firm fingers, the way he’d listen to other people speak — his eyebrows pulling up in the center, his eyes widening with wonder. He’d keep to his space, never once invading yours. Respectful, he knew to say hello, goodbye, would ask you quiet questions, like what page number you were on, and he’d give you thanks into oblivion.

It wasn’t until a month or so had passed that you realized it. One morning you stood in front of the mirror for too long, put a little too much effort into your makeup, into your hair. Spritzing a bottle of perfume to your wrist that you saved for special occasions, when the glass tapped back onto the shelf and you dabbed your wrists together, you gasped.

Damn.

Swapping the lacey sweater for something more casual, you know, for class, you pulled half of your hair up and back, letting some of it hang forward, praying to anyone who’d help that it didn’t look like you woke up before your alarm to get ready for a class you half cared about.

He noticed.

He sat down, walking in a few minutes after you, and his eyes lingered in your direction. Not that you could tell, nor were you paying attention, you were sitting backward in your chair with your nose in your phone. It wasn’t his fault he wasn’t good at being nonchalant like you’d been for nearly two months now.

Besides, it didn’t work. He didn’t say a word the entire class, only his hello and his goodbye.

It didn’t upset you. That’s what you told yourself, the lies you fed your brain to pretend to feel better. It didn’t upset you, he was a boy in a class you didn’t see anywhere else on campus. He probably had a girlfriend. Look at him, listen to him, he definitely has a girlfriend.

By the next class you were back to the usual, the snoozed my alarm twice before getting up in a rush, a hoodie and baggy jeans. Hair thrown up, makeup minimal, you accepted your fate.

You weren’t expecting him to be in the room first, you’ve narrowed down his time frame of entry, typically within ten minutes of the lecture starting depending on when you’d arrive. He was five minutes too early. Giving him the tightest smile, you shimmied behind his chair and mimicked his greeting, shoving yourself into your seat, not prepared for fifteen minutes of silence with him beside you.

Nose in phone, nose in phone.

It was all you could do to keep from gawking, for some reason he was fresher than normal. Black t-shirt, denim jacket on the back of his chair, silver jewelry hanging off of him. He wore a different cologne, one you couldn’t pick out, but god it was delicious you wanted to lick it straight off his neck. He definitely sprayed it to his wrists too, typical, you could lick it off of him there too, why not. Maybe even his chest. No- anything beneath that shirt that should be squeezing the air out of his lungs was lethal, how was every muscle visible? How could he walk around like that, he had to know that-

“Did you do the homework?”

Great.

You didn’t dress yourself up to keep the giddy high school level crush on the DL, but the way you jumped at his words and your cheeks warmed definitely helped. And, yes, you were staring.

“I, uh, yeah, I did.”

If he noticed anything, he didn’t show it.

“Mind if I see it to make sure I got it right? You’re better at this than I am.”

Juvenile, all of it, from the way he checked his answers to the way he slid your notebook back over to you with a shake of his head. Nothing else was shared, the class had begun and he focused on your irritating professor who assigned similar homework for the third week in a row.

Holding onto the way he spoke to you, the soft tone, the warmth in his eyes, the subtle graveliness he forced but then got rid of when he answered questions aloud, you truly felt seventeen years old all over again.

He asked you a question.

He talked to you.

Did he spend more time on how he looked for you?

No, it’s for his girlfriend. The one he definitely has.

The girlfriend that he-

“Whatever perfume you had on last week… I liked it.”

He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t wait around for you to say anything. He scooped his books into his arms, and he walked out of the classroom, leaving you in absolute shambles. Nerves lived within you for a week, so many nights spent lying awake thinking about him, what he said to you, what you were going to do. If you wear the perfume again you’re setting yourself up for exposure, you may as well just tell him you have a crush on him to his face. But, then again, if you didn’t wear it, you’d lose his interest. He wouldn’t think you had an interest in him, and what if he told you that because he does have an interest in you?

Oh god.

What if he knows?

You wore the perfume. One spritz of it over your heart before you left your room, enough that he’d just be able to tell if he paid as much attention as he suddenly seemed to be.

Early again, beating you to a class you tried to get to even earlier today, you did not miss the small smile that pulled at his lips as you slipped behind his chair. It was the only thing shared all class, a smile somewhere in between lessons when he caught your eye. He had that same cologne on, the one from last week, the one that had you envisioning what it’d be like to have your tongue dragging all over his body, it was hard to not look at him.

Oh, he definitely knew.

And so it began.

For another month, perfume and cologne alike, worn every class, you started to share more than smiles. He’d lean your way for questions and answers, would ask about the homework, the assignments, sometimes when he didn’t even need it, asking for an answer he already had scribbled on his paper. Fighting the nerves, the way your belly filled with butterflies and did cartwheels within you, you started to share more than just classroom talk. While you worked you chatted, you learned where he was from, where he came from, where you came from and why you both were here.

He was funny.

Funny in the way he didn’t know he was funny, oftentimes asking you what he did to make you laugh like that. You’d cover your mouth and pray the giggles away, unable to tell him how adorable he really was.

He filled every shoe you profiled him with. Kind, sweet, funny, gentle giant.

Chiseled chest his cologne, the one you loved, radiated from.

But you didn’t figure that out until the following month.

Month four.

Four months was all it took, and he was yours.

Class whispers turned into coffee dates. Coffee dates turned into homework dates, which turned into dinner dates.

By the end of the third you were wrapped in his sheets, wrapped in him, cologne on your tongue and lips pressed to his, whispering confessions of how long you liked each other but both felt too nervous to say anything. Reveling in pride, that you weren’t as obvious as you thought yourself to be, his sparkling grin overtook his face and he whispered two words that cradled your heart.

“I knew.”

[solxamber]

stay w me in this one, kiss cam w the first years 🙂‍↕

Kiss Cam with: The First Years

a/n; anon you brain is so big!! i got so happy??? when i saw this?? i kinda blacked out for a while and ended up writing it

Ace Trappola

The arena was packed, the air buzzing with energy as the Magift team dominated the field. You were sandwiched between Deuce and Ace, the latter chugging a soda while obnoxiously yelling at the players.

“Ace, they can’t hear you,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as he yelled, “PASS THE DISC, YOU IDIOT!”

“I don’t care! They need to know how bad they’re screwing up!” Ace shot back, waving his drink wildly.

Deuce leaned over, clearly mortified. “Can you not embarrass us in front of the whole school?”

Ace just smirked. “What? Embarrassed to be seen with your cooler, more handsome best friend?”

You snorted. “Handsome? In your dreams, Trappola.”

Ace turned to you, feigning offense. “Oh, so I’m not handsome? Guess I’ll have to let the kiss cam settle this one.”

“What does that even mean?” you asked, rolling your eyes.

As if the universe decided to spite you, the lights dimmed, and a giant heart frame appeared on the jumbotron.

You froze. “No. No way.”

Ace leaned forward, his grin turning devious. “Oh yes.”

Deuce, ever the supportive friend, burst into laughter, slapping his knee. “This is the best day of my life.”

Meanwhile, you wanted the ground to swallow you whole. “This has to be a mistake.”

The announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers. “Come on, lovebirds! Don’t be shy! Show us some NRC spirit!”

“I’m going to die,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands.

“Not without giving the people what they want,” Ace teased, turning to you with an exaggerated smirk. “Come on, for school pride.”

You glared at him, your cheeks burning. “Ace Trappola, I will—”

Before you could finish, Ace leaned in, his smirk fading into something more genuine. “Hey,” he said softly, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “Relax. It’s just a little kiss, right?”

Your breath hitched. The crowd was chanting louder now, and your heart was racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the embarrassment.

“Just a little kiss,” you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper.

And then it happened.

When his lips met yours, the crowd erupted into cheers, whistles, and applause. Time seemed to stop as the noise around you faded into a distant hum.

His lips were warm and surprisingly gentle, and the faint taste of soda lingered as he pulled back, his face flushed but grinning like an idiot.

“Well,” he said, his voice slightly breathless, “that wasn’t so bad, huh?”

You blinked at him, your brain short-circuiting. “You… You just kissed me!”

“You kissed me back,” he shot back, his grin widening.

Deuce, still laughing like a lunatic, clapped Ace on the back. “Congratulations, Trappola. You finally grew a pair.”

Ace turned to the jumbotron, where your kiss was being replayed in slow motion. “Man, we look good together,” he said smugly, throwing an arm around your shoulder.

You shoved him, your face burning hotter than the sun. “Don’t push your luck.”

The rest of the game passed in a blur. Ace was insufferably smug, Deuce wouldn’t stop teasing you, and your heart refused to calm down.

As the crowd filed out of the arena, Ace caught your hand, stopping you just outside the gates.

“Hey,” he said, his usual grin replaced with something softer. “So, uh… about earlier.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What about it?”

“I wasn’t kidding, you know,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “I like you. Like, a lot. And this is not just because of the kiss cam thing.”

You stared at him, your heart skipping a beat. “Ace…”

“I mean, no pressure or anything!” he added quickly, his face turning red. “But, you know, if you did want to be more than friends, I wouldn’t mind…”

You smiled, stepping closer and leaning up to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “You’re such an idiot.”

His jaw dropped. “Wait—does that mean…?”

“It means yes, Ace,” you said, laughing. “But you better not let this go to your head.”

Ace grinned, grabbing your hand. “Too late.”

Spoiler: Ace tells everyone at school, and now half the campus thinks the kiss cam was staged. You’re stuck with him, but honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Deuce Spade

The stadium buzzed with excitement, the crowd alive with cheers as NRC's Magift team scored another point. You sat beside Deuce, who was yelling encouragement so earnestly you swore the players might actually hear him through sheer determination.

“Come on! You’ve got this! Pass it—yes!” he shouted, punching the air.

You couldn’t help but smile. Deuce’s enthusiasm was contagious, even if he had accidentally knocked over your popcorn in his excitement earlier.

“You’re going to lose your voice,” you teased, nudging his arm.

“I’ll be fine,” he replied with a grin. “This is important!”

What wasn’t important, however, was the dreaded kiss cam that appeared on the giant screen moments later.

The heart-shaped frame zoomed in on various couples, each one receiving cheers as they nervously or enthusiastically complied. You laughed, thinking nothing of it—until your own face appeared on the screen.

You froze. “Oh no.”

Deuce, oblivious, kept clapping until the heart frame zoomed out to reveal him beside you. His face turned crimson so fast you worried he might combust.

“W-What?!” he stammered, pointing at the screen as if denying its existence might make it disappear.

The crowd erupted in laughter and cheers, the announcer’s voice booming. “Come on, lovebirds! Let’s see some NRC spirit!”

“Deuce, say something,” you hissed, your face burning.

“I—uh—I—” he stuttered, looking everywhere but at you. “They—uh—made a mistake! Right?!”

The announcer wasn’t letting up. “Looks like someone’s shy! Don’t leave us hanging!”

Deuce looked at you helplessly, his face a mix of panic and mortification. “I-I’m so sorry about this!”

You sighed, your own heart racing. “It’s fine, Deuce. Just a quick kiss, and they’ll move on.”

He nearly choked. “A kiss?!”

“It’s not a marriage proposal!” you shot back, trying to keep your cool despite your own nerves.

He nodded frantically, visibly psyching himself up. “O-Okay! Let’s do this!”

Deuce leaned in slowly, his eyes shut so tightly you thought he might be praying for divine intervention. His lips brushed your cheek in the softest, most hesitant kiss imaginable before he pulled back like he’d just touched a live wire.

The crowd cheered wildly, but Deuce wasn’t done. In his panic, he’d miscalculated the kiss angle, and his forehead accidentally bumped yours as he pulled away.

“Oh no! Are you okay?” he asked, horrified.

You couldn’t help but laugh, your nervousness melting away at his sheer awkwardness. “I’m fine, Deuce.”

“Are you sure?” he asked again, his hands hovering like he wanted to check for injuries.

You smiled and, feeling bold, leaned forward to kiss his cheek in return. The crowd’s cheers doubled, and Deuce looked at you like you’d just announced he’d won the lottery.

“Um,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible. “That was… uh… nice.”

You laughed. “It’s just a kiss, Deuce.”

“Y-Yeah,” he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just a kiss.”

Deuce spent the rest of the game sneaking glances at you, his face perpetually red. By the time the match ended, you were sure he’d worn a hole in the ground with all his nervous foot-tapping.

As the two of you walked back to the dorms, he finally cleared his throat.

“Hey,” he began, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “I… I really like you.”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden confession. “Deuce—”

“I mean it!” he said quickly, his words tumbling out like he’d been holding them back for ages. “I’ve liked you for a while, but I didn’t know how to tell you, and the kiss cam just kind of—”

You cut him off with a quick kiss to his lips, effectively silencing his rambling.

“Does that answer your question?” you asked, smiling at his stunned expression.

Deuce nodded, his face practically glowing. “Y-Yeah. Yeah, it does.”

Spoiler: Ace finds out and teases Deuce relentlessly, but Deuce doesn’t care. He’s too busy walking you to class and holding your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Jack Howl

The stadium was alive with energy, the roar of the crowd reverberating through the stands as NRC's Magift team dominated the field. You sat beside Jack, who had insisted you attend because "It's good to support our school." Truthfully, you didn’t mind—watching the game with Jack was its own kind of fun.

He sat rigidly in his seat, tail swishing lightly as his sharp eyes tracked every play on the field. You chuckled at how serious he looked.

"Jack, relax. It's just a game," you teased.

"It's not just a game," he replied, his ears flicking. "This is about teamwork, discipline, and—"

He stopped mid-sentence when the crowd erupted in cheers. You both looked up to the big screen, only to see a giant pink heart frame around… you and Jack.

Cue Panic.

“Wait, what?!” you exclaimed, your face instantly heating up.

Jack’s ears flattened against his head as his eyes widened in sheer panic. “Oh no.”

The announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers. “Looks like we’ve got a shy couple! Let’s hear it for them, folks!”

The crowd cheered louder, and you groaned. “Oh, come on…”

Jack was frozen in place, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world. His tail puffed up slightly as he asked, “They’ll move on, right? They’ll pick someone else?”

You glanced at the screen, seeing your own mortified expression reflected back at you. “Not unless we do something.”

Jack’s face turned impossibly red. “You mean…?”

“Yes, Jack,” you said, trying to suppress your own embarrassment. “A kiss. Just a small one! It’s no big deal.”

Jack looked at you like you’d just asked him to leap off a cliff. “I can’t! What if it’s weird? Or awkward? Or—”

“Jack,” you interrupted, placing a hand on his arm. “It’s just a game. Let’s get it over with.”

His ears twitched nervously as he nodded. “Okay. But, uh… where?”

“Where?” you repeated, confused.

“I mean, do I… your cheek? Your forehead? I—I don’t want to—”

“Jack!” you laughed, despite your own nerves. “Cheek is fine.”

He nodded again, his tail wagging nervously behind him as he leaned in. Just as his lips barely brushed your cheek, the crowd erupted in cheers—only for Jack to try to jerk back so fast that his forehead bumped yours.

“Ow!” you yelped, rubbing your head.

“Are you okay?!” he asked, panicking.

“I’m fine,” you said, trying not to laugh at his flustered expression. “But you might’ve just knocked me into next week.”

The announcer’s voice interrupted. “Let’s hear it for our lovebirds! What a show!”

You both sank further into your seats, faces burning. Jack mumbled an apology, looking like he wanted to crawl under the stadium.

“You know,” you said, trying to lighten the mood. “You could’ve just kissed me properly.”

Jack froze, his eyes snapping to yours. “What?”

“Yeah,” you teased, grinning. “You’re already on the big screen. Might as well make it count.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, his ears flicking nervously. Then, to your surprise, he leaned in again—this time more confidently—and pressed a quick, warm kiss to your lips.

The crowd lost it, cheering so loudly you could barely hear yourself think.

When Jack pulled back, his face was crimson, but there was a small, shy smile on his lips. “There. Was… was that okay?”

You smiled back, your heart racing. “More than okay.”

Jack spent the rest of the game sitting a little closer to you, his tail wagging uncontrollably. As you left the stadium, he finally cleared his throat.

“So… does this mean we’re—uh… dating?” he asked awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck.

You laughed, grabbing his hand. “What do you think?”

Jack’s tail wagged even harder. “I think I’m really lucky.”

Spoiler: Ace, Deuce and Epel find out later and tease Jack mercilessly, but he doesn’t care. He’s too busy walking you to class with his hand in yours.

Epel Felmier

The game was electric, with the crowd roaring as NRC held a narrow lead over RSA. You sat near the bench, cheering loudly for one player in particular. Epel was a blur of determination on the field, his every move brimming with adrenaline and a grit that made your heart race just watching him.

During halftime, the players jogged off the field to hydrate and strategize. Epel wiped the sweat from his brow and spotted you by the bench. You held up an electrolyte drink with a proud smile.

“Here, you earned it!” you said, handing him the bottle.

He accepted it with a quick grin, gulping it down like a man dying of thirst. “Thanks. Didja see that shot I made earlier?”

“I did!” you replied enthusiastically. “You’re playing amazing out there!”

Your encouragement had him standing a little taller, his eyes shining with a mix of pride and affection. “Well, I ain’t done yet. Gotta show those RSA guys what we’re made of.”

But before he could head back to the huddle, the crowd’s noise shifted. You both turned toward the massive screen above the field, where a familiar heart-shaped frame surrounded… the two of you.

Epel froze for a fraction of a second, his flushed face turning an even deeper shade of red. You stared at the screen in surprise, feeling heat rise to your cheeks.

“Is that… the kiss cam?” you muttered.

Epel glanced back at his team’s huddle, where his teammates were laughing and giving him exaggerated thumbs-ups. The crowd began chanting, egging him on.

In that moment, with the adrenaline from the game still coursing through his veins and the giddy rush of your praise in his chest, Epel made a snap decision.

Without a word, he leaned in and kissed you—hard, fast, and with enough confidence to leave you absolutely stunned.

The crowd erupted into cheers and whistles as Epel pulled back, his violet eyes sparkling mischievously. “Thanks for the drink,” he said casually, as if he hadn’t just turned your world upside down.

Then, with one last grin, he jogged back to his team, leaving you standing there, breathless and staring after him.

The rest of the game was a blur. Epel was on fire, scoring two more goals and securing the win for NRC. The crowd was ecstatic, the team celebrating wildly, but your mind was stuck on that kiss.

When the post-game frenzy finally settled, Epel approached you by the bleachers. He was still sweaty and flushed, but his usual nervousness was nowhere to be seen. The adrenaline from the game still seemed to fuel him as he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Hey,” he started, his accent thick and his voice a little raspy. “About that kiss earlier…”

You raised an eyebrow, your heart pounding. “What about it?”

Epel took a deep breath, his violet eyes locking onto yours. “I ain’t just kissin’ people for fun, ya know? I… I like you. A lot. And I’ve been wantin’ to say somethin’ for ages, but I didn’t know how. Guess the kiss cam kinda forced my hand.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his honesty. “So what are you saying, Epel?”

“I’m sayin’... would ya go out with me?” he asked, his cheeks turning red again.

You pretended to think for a moment, but the truth was, you already knew your answer. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Epel’s face lit up, his grin wide and genuine. “Really?!”

“Really,” you said, laughing.

He fist-pumped the air triumphantly before quickly trying to play it cool. “Well, uh, that’s great. I’ll, uh, plan somethin’ nice, alright?”

“Looking forward to it,” you replied, your smile as wide as his.

The kiss cam video was all over campus the next day, much to Epel’s embarrassment and your amusement. Still, neither of you could deny how it sparked something wonderful between you.

And yet, every time someone teased him about it, Epel would just grin and shrug. “What can I say? I go for what I want.”

Sebek Zigvolt

The Magift stadium was loud and lively, the crowd cheering wildly as NRC battled RSA in a fierce match. You sat next to Sebek, who was practically vibrating with excitement. Not for the game, mind you, but for the honor of cheering for his young master.

“Do you see that?!” Sebek shouted, practically jumping out of his seat. “The precision! The sheer grace! Lord Malleus is unmatched on the field!”

You smiled, resting your chin on your hand. “Yeah, Sebek, I see it. You’ve mentioned it about... ten times now.”

“Only ten?!” He gasped, scandalized. “I must rectify this immediately—”

Before he could continue his speech, the crowd erupted into cheers. Confused, you looked up at the massive screen, only to freeze.

There, framed in a gigantic pink heart, were you and Sebek.

“What… what is this madness?!” Sebek’s voice boomed over the crowd noise, his face quickly turning beet red.

“It’s the kiss cam,” you explained, already feeling the heat creeping up your neck.

Sebek blinked at you, utterly baffled. “Kiss cam? What nonsense is this?!”

The announcer chimed in cheerfully. “Looks like we’ve got a lively one, folks! Give the crowd what they want!”

The audience clapped and whistled, clearly entertained by Sebek’s outburst. Meanwhile, you wished you could melt into the ground.

“Sebek, we’re on the big screen,” you hissed, trying to keep your voice low. “Just a quick kiss, and they’ll move on!”

Sebek recoiled as if you’d suggested dueling Malleus. “What?! A kiss? In public? In front of—of all these people?”

“Yes!” you snapped. “It’s not that big of a deal!”

“But—! But—!” Sebek sputtered, his hands flailing in an uncharacteristically awkward display. “I cannot—this is—HOW DARE THEY IMPOSE SUCH A THING?"

The crowd was relentless, chanting louder as Sebek grew more flustered.

“Sebek,” you sighed, leaning closer to him. “If you don’t just do it, they’ll keep us up there forever.”

His eyes widened, darting between you and the screen. “I—fine! But only to end this nonsense!”

Sebek sat up stiffly, his face as red as his dorm uniform. Slowly, he leaned toward you… only to stop halfway, completely frozen.

“Sebek,” you whispered, trying not to laugh at his deer-in-headlights expression. “You’re overthinking it. Just a little peck.”

He shut his eyes tightly, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “For the honor of the young master.” Then, with the precision of someone about to execute a high-level spell, he leaned in and pressed the briefest kiss imaginable to your cheek.

The crowd erupted into cheers, but Sebek immediately pulled back, clutching his chest like he’d just fought a dragon.

“Well, that was…” You paused, trying to find the right word. “Anticlimactic.”

Sebek glared at you, still blushing furiously. “What more do you want?! I have upheld this ridiculous tradition to the best of my ability!”

You smirked, leaning closer. “Oh, come on. You’re supposed to kiss me on the lips.”

“WHAT?!” Sebek practically shouted, earning another wave of laughter from the crowd.

“Fine, I’ll do it,” you teased, leaning in just a bit more.

Sebek’s brain seemed to short-circuit for a moment, but before you could follow through on your teasing threat, he surprised you by leaning in and kissing you properly.

It was quick and clumsy but sincere, and when he pulled back, the people sitting around you erupted into wild cheers.

Sebek, meanwhile, looked like he was about to faint. “There. Are you satisfied now?!”

You laughed, touching your lips. “Actually, yeah. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

For the rest of the game, Sebek sat ramrod straight, refusing to look at you.

When the match ended and you both walked back to campus, he finally broke the silence. “That… that was purely for practical purposes!”

You grinned. “Sure, Sebek. Whatever you say.”

He glanced at you, his blush returning in full force. “It—it meant nothing!”

But the way his hand brushed against yours—and stayed there—told a very different story.

Masterlist

[sinofwriting]

Insane Person - Max Verstappen (I ❤️ MILFS verse)

Words: 667 Summary: Max wants to be sure he can give Pan kids. (Part of the I ❤️ MILFS verse) Note(s): Takes place during the original I ❤️ MILFS fic, before Max finds out Pan’s age. Max is insane btw, this has been a blurb idea since I wrote the original fic and finally it has been written so enjoy, lol.

Masterlist | Support Me! | I ❤️ MILFS verse

“I’d love to give Logan a sibling or two.”

The words so soft had made his heart speed up as soon as he heard them and now thinking about them, letting them play on repeat.

It’s early in their relationship, though they haven’t yet talked about it yet, no matter how much Max is dying to do so. But Max wants to be the one that she gives Logan siblings with.

Which is why he’s sitting in front of his computer and looking at medical studies.

A lot of it is going over his head. The most schooling he sat through was the first four or five years of it. He can grasp engineering, anything to do with cars and their data, but medical terminology goes over his head.

He powers through, he doesn’t know Pan’s exact age, his mother would smack him over the head if he even thought to ask her age, but she’s got to to be mid to late thirties if not early forties considering Logan is twenty.

The studies say she’d be fine getting pregnant, shouldn’t have trouble conceiving, and his cheeks burn at the word, at the image it puts in his mind. They haven’t quite got their, but they’ve gotten close. They throw out the term geriatric pregnancy which makes him flinch because forty wasn’t old, at least not if you weren’t a driver and to see it be called something like that felt harsh, rude. Another one calls it advanced maternal age which really isn’t any better, but it’s just relieving to see that’s still possible. And then a study mentions that if people are having trouble conceiving that not only does the person birthing need to get checked, but both do and a new panic takes over his brain.

What if when it came time to try, he was the problem? It would really be his luck. Things had been going very well for the past few years, it would be his luck that he couldn’t give the woman he loves more kids.

And Logan wanted siblings, the panic grows as he remembers Logan chiming in that he’d love some siblings. Oh god, what if he failed in giving Logan siblings? He wanted the younger driver to like him, to really like him.

His fingers act quickly, wanting to know how he can know if he can have kids and the results make him blink because it couldn’t be that easy.

He just had to provide a sample in a cup?

Max’s brain struggles to compute that after just reading everything that women have to go through to get their fertility checked.

His hand goes to his phone, he rarely if ever called his doctor, but this was important.

He goes through the motions of confirming he is who he is, wondering how weird it must be for other people to do this for him before he finally gets asked why for the purpose of the appointment.

“I want to check to see if I can have kids.”

“Okay, are you and your partner having trouble conceiving?”

His cheeks burn, “We aren’t trying yet. I just want to make sure that it’s possible on my end.”

“Okay, it’s a simple procedure at our clinic and we could see you in the next three days if that works for you at any time we are open.”

“That’s perfect.”

“Alright, we’ll see you in a few days, Mr. Verstappen.”

He gets the results back five days after his appointment, an email sitting in his inbox, and he forces himself to take a deep breath before finally opening it.

There are words he doesn’t know, ones he doesn’t really want to think about, but there at the end, a note from his doctor that says everything looks great, and he shouldn’t have troubles getting someone pregnant and his fist goes in the air, a quiet but excited yes leaving him.

He could give Logan siblings and Pan more kids, thank fuck.

[capquinn]

need more dad quinn thoughts but during first time pregnancy🥺 like him being so worried all the time about everything and so so doting

AHHHH so in my head Quinn would absolutely try to be the chill, laid-back partner during your pregnancy because he knows how overwhelming everyone else can be. Your mother is calling daily to ask about doctor appointments. Your sister messaging you regularly asking how you’re feeling; whether you’re experiencing the same obscure symptom she had during her pregnancy. Your best friend’s sending articles and unsolicited advice. Even strangers in the grocery store feel the need to comment. So, Quinn makes it his mission to be your calm in the storm. So that his worry isn’t loud or stifling; but quiet, patient, woven into the background of everything he does.

He wouldn’t hover or make a big deal out of things. He’d just be there, always. Like, when you’re trying to wrangle the groceries into the car, and he casually steps in, saying, “I got it,” without even waiting for you to argue. Or when he notices you’re drinking less water than usual and wordlessly places a cold glass next to you on the couch. He’s not overbearing. He just … knows you.

But there’d be these little moments where his worry would peek through. Like the time you mentioned an ache in your back, something you brushed off as normal, but Quinn was already reaching for his phone. He tried to play it cool, but you caught the way his brows knit together as he scrolled through page after page, reading worst-case scenarios with increasing intensity.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” he said eventually, his voice even but his grip on the phone betraying the nervous energy bubbling underneath.

And yet, for the next twenty minutes, his eyes kept flicking to you, watching the way you shifted in your seat, clearly working himself into a quiet panic. It wasn’t until the logical part of his brain kicked in — the part that remembered your doctor’s reassurances, the prenatal books he’d pored over, the countless articles bookmarked on his phone — that he finally relaxed, his shoulders dropping as he set the phone aside. Even then, though, his hand found your knee, his thumb brushing absent circles as if to reassure himself you were perfectly fine.

And then there’s that night.

It’s late, so late, and you’re exhausted — but no matter how tired you are, sleep just won’t come. The baby is kicking, and not those sweet, fluttery movements from earlier in the pregnancy. These are full-on jolts, sharp enough to make you gasp, and every time you drift off, another kick pulls you right back. You’re tossing and turning under the covers, trying to find a position that might offer some relief, but it’s no use.

You’re on your side now, staring at the clock, when you feel Quinn stir beside you. His hand reaches out instinctively, brushing over your hip as he murmurs, half-asleep, “you okay?”

You hesitate for a second, not wanting to bother him, but another kick answers for you, and you let out a frustrated sigh. “I can’t sleep. She won’t stop kicking.”

His eyes open fully then, soft and a little concerned but still carrying that quiet calm that’s just so him.

“You want me to grab you something? Water? A snack?” His voice is low, warm, like he’s trying not to disturb the stillness of the night.

You shake your head, and he shifts closer, his breath warm against the quiet of the room.

“C’mere,” he murmurs softly, his voice low and steady.

He rests his head on your pillow, his nose brushing your shoulder as he presses a kiss there, warm and lingering. His arm slips under the covers, his hand finding your belly with the kind of ease that comes from months of instinct. The touch is gentle, his palm warm against your skin. He doesn’t say much — he knows words won’t stop the kicks — but he starts rubbing slow, soothing circles over your bump, his thumb brushing just below your ribs.

When another sharp kick jolts you, Quinn presses another kiss to your shoulder, his hand still moving in those slow, steady circles, like he could soothe the baby through sheer determination.

“Felt that one,” he mumbles, his lips brushing your skin, voice thick with sleep, almost slurring, but tinged with amusement, because of course your baby’s already got a personality, already making themselves known.

The kicks don’t stop right away but there’s something about him being there, about the quiet steadiness of his touch and the warmth of his hand, that makes it easier to deal with. Like somehow, he’s shouldering some of it just by being there. Your shoulders start to relax, the frustration you’ve been carrying all night melting into something softer. Something sweeter. It’s still not comfortable, but you’re not doing it alone, and that makes it bearable.

After a while, the baby settles, the kicks becoming gentler, more sporadic, and Quinn doesn’t move, doesn’t even consider rolling over, not even when your eyes grow heavy and you start to drift.

In the morning, he doesn’t mention it. He’s still Quinn, easy and unassuming, asking if you want pancakes like he wasn’t up half the night with you. But you catch the way his hand lingers a little longer on your bump when he kisses you goodbye, the way his smile softens when you tell him you finally got some sleep. It’s all there, in the quiet, subtle way he loves — steady and unwavering, just like him.

[onlinedolly]

cw: drug use, misogynistic undertones (brief mention of gender roles), degradation, p in v, p in mouth, dubcon (if u squint maybe?), mentions of piss, mean awful leon, i think that’s it? lmk if i miss any ok thank u

an: for my angel 🕊️ annonie who rq more corrupt cop leon!!!! i don’t put tws in tags so please read the list above carefully. if any of those things are too much for you please feel free to bypass this okay thanks so much. also i did not proof read this cuz im terrible sorry ):

corrupt cop!leon is a mean man. a star in the raccoon city PD, an officer who’d spent years building up nothing but a positive reputation, but behind closed doors he was anything but kind. you were his pretty little girlfriend, over a decade his junior and a former rookie at the same place he worked.

corrupt cop!leon who drank the minute he got home until he went to bed, expecting dinner and clean home when he arrived. so pleased to see his pretty little doll and dressed up for him over a hot stove. he got too drunk, like usual, and that’s when he’d become violent and crude.

“why don’t you come over here, little one?”

corrupt cop!leon would say, patting his legs with an almost empty whiskey glass to his side. and like the pretty, sweet thing you are, there you’d go prancing over to place yourself on his lap. smothering him with kisses, asking about his day, complimenting him on what a good cop he was (not that he needed the ego boost). and he’d sigh, tap your pretty cheek to get you to open your mouth big and wide before slipping whatever pills he’d stolen from the evidence locker a few hours prior. it really wasn’t as bad as it seemed, leon would think to himself, he was just helping, right. the pills made you happy, pliable, sweet and made that little brain of yours dumb.

and oh boy, did corrupt cop!leon love when you were hazy and high and oh so fucking stupid.

“ain’t got a thought up there, do ya?”

corrupt cop!leon who’d roughly knock on your head as if someone would answer. and you just smile all bright at him, like you do so often, and tell him the only thing up there is thoughts of him. you were perfect, a small, sweet thing who let him do whatever he wanted to you. and he ate it up.

corrupt cop!leon who was drunker now, meaner, and after supper is when he’d start to push you around. climbing onto his lap to only be shoved into the cold hardwood as he mumbled how ‘fucking hot he was’. pressing down on your tummy with a full bladder until you pissed yourself, getting so angry at you for using the restroom on the living room floor. and still, you looked at him with hearts and stars in your eyes.

corrupt cop!leon who had you so trained all he had to do was pull his cock out and there you were, on your knees in a second.

“dirty thing, this is all your good for, hm? taking cock and fuckin annoyin me’”

corrupt cop!leon would slur out drunkenly, as you kitten lick the top of his cock. leon would let you tease him for only a few moments before he’d grab the back of your head, hand in your hair, pushing you roughly down the length of his cock. you sputter and cough in a feeble failed attempt to tell him to pull back, but it’s to avail (it’s usually not).

“bet you like that, don’t cha? choking around an older guys cock, whore.”

corrupt cop!leon’s cock which is so big you’re terrified it’ll break your jaw, and especially at the rough and fast pace he’s fucking himself. you can’t breathe and tears spring to the corners of your eyes as you desperately try to gasp for air. but leon’s never been one to give up, no. your tongue is swirling around his cock and your hands are cupped around his balls like you’ve been trained to do, despite the lack of air.

“ain’t you something? fucking perfect.”

corrupt cop!leon would growl out between moans. and right before he cums does he let you breathe, pulling you roughly off of him by your hair. you gasp for air, big gulps that can’t seem to come soon enough as you wipe the tears and snot away from your face. before leon even has to instruct you you’re sinking down on his cock, no panties under that pretty little dress he picked out for you this morning.

corrupt cop!leon who thinks you’re going just too fucking slow. so he takes matters into his own hands, grabbing your hips roughly and slamming you down on his cock and you cry out. leon loved to hear your pained little whimpers, especially when they were still paired with that oh so loving, hazy look you give him.

“next time speed up and i won’t have to hurt ya, so bad y’know? stupid little baby, need me to do fucking everything.”

“s-sorry, sir,” you sputter out, “need you to everything your rig-“ a scream rips through your body as he lifts you up and slams you back down on his cock, you lean forward gripping the back of the couch for some kind of support as he begins a brutal pace, pistoning himself inside your tight cunt.

“fuckers at the force think i’m so good, don’t they baby? it’s cuz im the best, ain’t i? go on say it, your old mans the best cop there ever was, hm?”

you want to speak, relay compliments on him like you’ve done a thousand times before. but you’re just so full and so so overwhelmed. you’re sobbing from the needy feeling as leon fucks into you, enough to give you a tinge of pleasure but never enough to hit that soft spongy spot inside of you.

and leon wasn’t an idiot, he was actually very smart thank-you-very-fucking-much, he knew exactly what he was doing. knew your body enough to fuck you until you’re begging for him to hit right where you need him too.

corrupt cop!leon is a mean fucking man, who loves fucking you like one.

“can’t answer me? what? am i a terrible cop? a bad guy? is that what you think of me?” he eggs on, venom laced in his words.

“n-no!” you cry, his grip on your hips so tight it makes you gasp, “leon’s a good man, good cop, good — ah — everything.”

leon’s fucking you brutally at this point, the exact words he needs to hear from his baby has him reeling, and finally he slams you down against his thighs, his cock hitting you so deep it’s borderline pain as he finally grazes that spongy little spot with his tip. it sends you over the moon, leaning back to rest your hands on his thighs as your hips involuntarily roll against him, hitting your g spot over and over again until your eyes are rolling in the back of your head.

“god what a slut you are, fucking yourself on my cock, now who told your pretty self you could do that?”

it’s like whiplash the way he picks your smaller frame up, spinning you both around and slamming you into the couch. your legs are spread in the air and he’s fucking you so roughly the couch rocks against the wall.

and corrupt cop!leon is a mean man, but he’s not cruel, so he takes one of his hands and rubs fast circles on your clit until your spasming around him, your orgasm crashing over you like a large tidal wave.

and he’s close too, he can feel it, so he picks up the pace, fucking you hard and ruthlessly as he mumbles pet names into your ear.

“god baby” “fuck, angel.” “cunt made just for me, hm, cupcake?”

finally he cums with a growl that’s almost animalistic, gripping your hip harshly as he unloads his seed inside of you. he’s sweating and panting and you’re looking at him with stars in your glossed over eyes, he takes a few moments to soften inside of you before pulling out.

“you should really clean yourself up, huh? look downright filthy with cum leakin’ out of you like that.”

he says before sauntering away, sure to grab his whiskey glass he’d left of the table.

corrupt cop!leon was a mean man and he was everything to you.

[umemiyan]

𝙄𝙉 𝘽𝙀𝘼𝙐𝙏𝙄𝙁𝙐𝙇 𝘿𝙍𝙀𝘼𝙈𝙎.

𝗬𝗨𝗨𝗧𝗔 𝗢𝗞𝗞𝗢𝗧𝗦𝗨 𝗫 𝗔𝗙𝗔𝗕!𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥. ⌇ 18+ only, mdni / incest / noncon somnophilia (char. receiving) / so like… kinda dom!reader if you wanna look at it like that, but it’s not really a hard dynamic in this / unprotected piv / some codependent vibes / reader has a vagina but there are no other physical or gendered descriptors / 3.2k words

notes: this was supposed to be for kinktober with the prompts incest + somnophilia, and i'm a whole month late but here we are!!! once again i have managed to have no chill and have overdone it a bit so it took me forever. but enjoy! thank you to everyone who originally voted in my kinktober polls <3 (moon dividers by cafekitsune)

He never sleeps as well as when he’s with you, and that has never been less than fact.

The dark circles under his eyes had settled in after years of strife and the both of you growing “too old” to sleep side by side, at least according to your family. It wasn’t healthy, they said. You needed to learn to respectively mature on your own, they said.

Yuuta tried. He did. Although he had been steered away from his one shining beacon of light in a world full of darkness, what sort of brother would he be if he held you back from growing into the best version of yourself? To be selfish and indulge in his childish wants and needs was a frequent guilty desire of his, but he ultimately forced himself to refrain as much as he could manage.

He never slept well after that; not unless he could find an excuse to sneak into your bed, or you sneak into his. You were a sedative every time, lulling him to sleep with the warmth of your breath and body, familiar closeness stripping the worries of the world away so that he could rest. Nothing else ever worked so perfectly, even now that you both have grown.

That’s why, after the conclusion of a family gathering, sneaking into each other’s presence was a no-brainer.

Yuuta had joined you in the guest bedroom of your childhood home to decompress after his inability to do so alone. The both of you had taken on many responsibilities throughout the day, and while he certainly enjoyed spending time with the family, a restful night alone with you was what he craved the most by the end of it. Thankfully, having felt the same way, you didn’t hesitate to raise the covers and let him slide under until you both chit-chatted yourselves to sleep.

Now, Yuuta’s arms keep you close with their gentle grip around your waist, having at some point pulled you into him until the tips of your noses are mere inches apart. You’ve fluttered out of sleep for a moment to see him resting peacefully with all the grace of an angel, wearing his slumber so effortlessly as though it never dares to evade him.

But it does, because the darkened skin beneath his eyes has made its home there for longer than you can recall, telling all who will listen that he is tormented by the absence of something. Whether it be proper brain chemistry, the responsibility to maintain a schedule, or simple peace of mind, no one knows as he never divulges, but Yuuta is haunted by lack, and not even your keen sense of sibling intuition can sniff out just what it is that he needs. Or so you believe, at least.

Although he receives the brunt of it, you can feel it too—the ache. It settles deep within every crevice to remind you of its presence whenever you dare to forget, no matter how often you seem to shove it away with success. It always rattles your bones until Yuuta smiles in your direction like the sun revealing itself from a place behind the clouds, and you are reminded of fulfillment. 

Oh, how he is your sunshine; your magnificent ray of light. It warms the cavity of your chest even as you lie here in the darkness.

Fingertips trace over the matching darkness beneath his eyes and down the slope of his nose to the outline of his pink, parted lips. He doesn’t even stir, too weighed upon by the thick blanket of sleep to pay any mind. You are delirious with awe, stricken by the heavenly beauty of the one who quells the ache. Does he know you love him so? Is he aware of the radiant beauty that compels you to draw closer like a moth to the flame?

Will he know if you lean forward to press an indulgent kiss upon his lips?

It’s a gentle peck that makes his brow twitch with unconscious curiosity. Were you privy to his dreams, you’d see that you’ve entered them, breathing life into his senses with every careful touch until his skin grows hot.

You fear you’ve woken him once his hips stir, but sleep pervades even as Yuuta’s breath seems to tickle your skin with more frequency, every quickened beat of his heart causing the more shallow rising of his lungs. You dare to press your lips to his once more, desperate for the satisfaction of his reaction, and you aren’t disappointed—Yuuta’s embrace tightens around you, breath hitching discreetly like a startled angel’s, and it’s when his hips roll forward again that the hardness pressing against your lower half becomes evident.

He dreams of your gentle kisses, of your breath gracing his skin, and he returns the favor in his mind now that he knows you’ll allow it. It will be a source of shame once he awakens, but dreams of this caliber are few and far between, something to be cherished in the moment without guilt or hesitation. As if he even has a choice.

Carefully, you hike your leg up over his hip to press yourself closer to the part of him that strains against fabric. You want to feel intertwined, strange as it might be; you want to infiltrate his mind like he does yours, sense his want and need, try and be privy to things that cannot possibly be known. But it’s so easy to be close like this, as though it were always meant to be, or always had been.

He’s warm between your hips. Real. The antidote to a deepseated loneliness and need to be with another, even if only in superficial touch. But will you settle for that?

No. You are greedy.

Yuuta, still captured in a dream, is somewhat easy to maneuver onto his back with a few gentle pushes, his body desperate to mold to yours until you are perfectly perched atop him. He slots between your thighs like he was made to be there, and you can almost feel his warm cock twitch through his pajamas beneath the new weight of your hips. The adjacent scenario in his mind grows increasingly realistic while you grow hungrier for every facet of his reaction.

Does he dream of you? Does he long for the sensation of your bodies finding harmony with one another like you do? You can’t say you haven’t imagined it yourself prior, mind drifting to the taboo when presented with his matured figure, though it still holds the same heat of familiarity from when you would curl up next to each other in your youth. It’s the ultimate combination of love and desecration that satisfies this abhorrent hunger you’ve found yourself plagued by, and even if it causes everything around you to come tumbling down, you can’t find it within yourself to care.

Yuuta’s breath hitches once more, brow furrowing as you rock yourself down against him with care. You know he deserves an undisturbed rest, even if the one he dreams of isn’t you, so you daren’t wake him now of all times. You’ll aid in his unconscious need while also indulging in your own.

You grind your hips a number of times, but the results are consequently underwhelming. The softness with which you must do it to avoid waking him is to blame, your lust being inhibited to prevent you from moving against him with the entirety of your animalistic need. 

Yuuta, however, grunts with pleasure at the friction while you selfishly yearn for more, so after diligently working the waistband of his pants to sit a few inches lower on his hips, you pull your panties to the side and press your wet cunt directly upon the bulge in his briefs.

You shiver at the contact, resisting the urge to moan out loud into the quiet air as Yuuta’s cock rubs against you through the thinnest of layers. He’s leaky and throbbing below your clit as it drags once, twice, three times over him in an establishing rhythm, fabric growing wetter with each pass you make and his gentle moans escaping with greater frequency. You bite down on the collar of your shirt to refrain from mimicking his vocalization, but upon another scan with your eyes, you recall that there are other things you could be doing with your mouth.

Yuuta’s throat is exposed as his head lolls off to the side on the pillow, and you lean down to busy yourself with reverent kisses upon the sensitive skin. Your hips stutter in their movement now that you have succumb to the distraction of sucking on his neck, but Yuuta doesn’t seem to mind—in fact, he mewls and whines so decadently in his sleep that you are compelled to make the regrettable decision of sucking until there is a mark that reveals itself once you remove your lips.

And oh, does he look gorgeous adorning it.

You pull back to admire his needy image, but Yuuta wriggles and presses his hips up unto yours, apparently dissatisfied with your absence and seeking something more, only to make you dizzy with arousal and irrational need. He doesn’t realize what he’s doing to you, but it’s guiding you down yet another path of no return. Your beautiful angel is sending you straight to the pits of hell, and he isn’t even fully aware.

(If you could know of his dreams, you’d see that he feels quite similarly about you.)

The wet mess of Yuuta’s briefs are pulled down until his aching cock can spring out and dribble a string of precum onto his lower belly. There, a trail of dark hair paints the milky skin with masculinity, and you admire the sight for a good moment before sliding your finger over his wet tip until the muscles in his stomach twitch with delight.

Yuuta is so responsive and so malleable, easy to take in his sleep now that he feels safe enough to fall into a slumber as delectable as this. You are almost stricken finally with guilt for taking advantage of such a level of trust, but even in his unconscious state, it feels as though Yuuta is pleading for you to take him back as your most cherished thing, the one you are closest with and know more of than anyone or anything else. You feel a certain beckoning towards making up for all the years you were forced to maintain an artificial distance, to pretend as though you didn’t ache for the only person who knew you so deeply and so truly.

Stifling the hunger only made it worse in the end, because now Yuuta’s cock weeps when you stroke it and slide it between your wet folds, signaling to you that this is somehow the right decision. Perhaps it’s a matter of delusion rather than truth, but sinking down onto him fills you with nothing but pure, unfettered gratification.

You don’t hesitate to make him bottom out inside you, eager to be overwhelmed by him in every way, even if it forces a whimper to spill from your lips in the process. Yuuta responds in kind as the snug fit allows a cascade of warmth to wash over him, blissfully unaware that he is now closer to you than he ever has been, and that he cries out in his sleep over it. It’s diabolical, really, but your dear brother wears pleasure so beautifully on his face that you can’t help but fall deeper into your pit of depravity.

A wet noise makes itself known amongst heavy breaths when you raise yourself up and drop back down on his length. It’s an act so indiscreet that you can only accomplish it twice more before Yuuta’s moans shift into noises with more presence, brows furrowed, body shuffling, and eyes cracking open to be met with the sight of your hips flush against his, cock constricted by the same blinding heat he felt seconds before waking up.

Eyes growing wide, his heart leaps out of his chest with a sudden surge of panic. “What are you—hah—d-doing—?1”

Yuuta is cut off by the palm of your hand slamming over his mouth to dampen the noise, his sounds of pleasure and surprise reaching a volume that makes you wary in a house in which you are not alone.

“Shh, Yuuta, shh…” you warn in a whisper, allowing him a second to process the danger of letting his voice raise too high, all while keeping your hips moving steadily against his. 

Gradually, the panicked breathing through his nose settles to something more manageable, and Yuuta’s eyes roll into the back of his skull with a muffled grunt. “Does it feel good?” you ask, and he nods his answer, having further transitioned from alarm to living out the sinking, heavenly feeling of being coupled with you in his dream. 

The morality of it all claws painfully at the back of his skull, but Yuuta is too inundated with the physical and spiritual need that has consumed you both to pay anything else much attention. He conforms to your will because it aligns so well with his own.

“Can you be quiet?”

He nods again, seeking a firm grip against your hips as you hesitantly remove your hand from his mouth. Yuuta swallows down a breath and refrains from speaking despite all the thoughts that race through his head, and you are pleased to see how receptive he is to this unthinkable act. 

It could certainly be a fawn response from a peacekeeper such as himself, but you know he is capable of putting his foot down once a certain line has been crossed. He could throw you off him in an instant if he truly felt so deeply wronged by your actions, yet he chooses to stay nestled between your thighs and buried deep in your cunt after you take him over and over, because he wants this.

Doesn’t he?

The look in his teary eyes says he does, and so do the ragged breaths, the quivering lip between his teeth to bite back a moan, the way you swear he almost aids in guiding you up and down his length…

Yuuta, for the moment, looks to be as enthralled as you are by this disastrous development, and that reaffirming image alone will accompany you every day until you have at least one foot in the grave.

He is porcelain and pristine, framed by pillows and moonlight and looking a touch too fragile as though he might break with the next slam of your hips, but you know him to be hardy after all that has tried to chip away at him throughout his short life. Yuuta’s strength in love and spirit is as strong as the pale fingers that dig into your flesh, and he has decided amidst it all to be yours for this moment; a blessing bestowed upon you that could make the gratitude utterly burst forth from your chest.

You want to spill your glee upon his lips, have him know that you are thankful for his gratuity even if this is the first and only time he will give it, so you lean down to steal him for another kiss that he returns tenfold. Yuuta’s lips are more alive in his waking state and more than happy to drink in your taste between shaking breaths, the intimacy of having your tongue slide along his lower lip twisting the tightness in his gut to where it could rupture at any moment.

There’s a muffled whimper as he chases your hips, instincts unveiled but not more so than the part of him that has yearned for this for far longer than he can even recall. Now that it has been offered to him on a silver platter, he will devour and cherish it for the feast that it is, even if he doesn’t last long enough to savor every morsel to the extent he would like.

“I want you to cum,” you breathe, leading him ever closer towards that dangerous edge as if you know what sullies his mind. To hear those words in your voice, even if in a whisper, are like the gates of an abominable heaven opening up for him. “Please.”

Yuuta is incapable of denying you for even less. A plea of such magnitude rattles his bones and nearly strips him of all free-will, commanding his body to succumb to its base desires and seek fulfillment through finishing inside you. He relinquishes control and is punched by the pleasure that follows, hiding his face against your throat and fighting to keep his moan suppressed to an acceptable volume.

His warmth takes over you from the inside in spurts, twitching out of him at your deepest point as you settle against his base and further soak the dark curls around it with your arousal. You let him ride the high until he is empty and panting, and only then do you rise up and place a finger against your clit, circling it with a grind of your hips to enhance the pleasure that had been building in your core.

Yuuta watches in awe despite the sensitivity that spurs from your walls squeezing around his used cock, but he has never been more thrilled to be utilized. It doesn’t take long for you to come crashing down to join him in the orgasmic bliss that has you collapsing against his chest with a series of bone-chilling shivers, the satisfaction greater and more incomprehensible than you could’ve imagined.

The two of you are a heap of heavy breaths and quivering muscles, staring into each other’s eyes as the reality of the situation attempts to set in. As much as it should feel repulsive and regrettable, your actions nothing less than reprehensible, your greatest fear is the selfish one of hearing Yuuta say he doesn’t love you anymore. It would be most understandable after what you’ve done, but it frightens you nonetheless.

He struggles to catch his breath and confirm that this wasn’t just a figment of his dastardly imagination. “What—”

Yuuta doesn’t get the chance to stammer out a question before you cut him off with a kiss—a kiss that is so deep and desperate it screams your despair over it possibly being the final one.

You pull back and curl into his neck with murmured remorse. “I’m sorry, Yuuta. I’m sorry.”

His heart flutters with overwhelm but is ultimately on the brink of accepting that something within finally feels actualized. Will he be damned for submitting to it? Is it an insult to his being to so willingly yield after being explicitly taken without permission? Or was it necessary for him in order to reach this point all along?

Yuuta holds no animosity in his heart regardless of whether or not it is warranted. All he carries is a deep sense of love and appreciation.

Wrapping his arms around you in a tight embrace, he fully savors your closeness at last.

“Don’t be,” he says.

He’s just glad it isn’t a dream anymore.

[ham1lton]

X MARKS THE SPOT!

pairings: retired f1 drivers x retired f1 legend!yn.

faceclaim: jessica alba.

summary: being the first-ever female f1 world champion was hard enough. writing a tell-all about it, including all the details of your beef with that former driver? let’s just say the track wasn’t the only place things got heated.

warnings: mentions of misogyny. like a lot. so if that is something that makes you uncomfortable, please don’t read!! your comfort comes first <3

author’s note: ignore timeline issues!! this was all inspired by that one anon who said something about yn writing a tell-all. this was written in like three hours. if you liked this, maybe send me an ask? :D

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

liked by vogue, jimmyfallon and 2,837,018 others

yourinstagram: it was so fun talking to jimmyfallon about writing my newest memoir ‘lucky girl syndrome’! i talked about getting the call that i was being signed, getting name dropped in a kdot song (thank you for making me cool to my nephews!) and the legacy i want to leave behind. check it out!!!

view all 298,727 comments

user1: MOTHERRR

user2: omg i’ve already pre-ordered my copy!!

-> user3: i’ve reserved it at my local library 🫡

user4: i hope she spills all the tea. i wanna know exactly who the misogynist motherfuckers are.

user5: she’s the goat female driver idc!! first female championship winner!!

-> user9: during her time in mclaren, jenson was carrying her. but yeah let’s talk about that one rigged championship 😂

user6: she still looks so hot. my first celeb crush.

-> user7: i had pictures of her all over my wall. i think my mom still has them up 😓

user8: worst driver of all time. only there because she looked good in the race suit.

-> user11: if she wasn’t hot, no one would care about her driving.

user10: this was always going to happen when you allowed women into f1. ruined the sport. she was nothing but a distraction on the grid.

-> user12: she was incredible. she clawed her way to a championship when everyone doubted her. she proved that women can do anything. the only distraction are people like you.

user13: please please please tell me she says that her and jenson were a thing. i always used to ship them so bad. the photoshoot for british vogue was imprinted on my thirteen year old brain.

-> user14: ANOTHER JENSONYN SHIPPER!!! baitclaren was my fav mclaren era. y’all can have your twinkclaren!!

-> user15: remember when jenson shut down a misogynistic reporter who tried to imply that yn wasn’t a good driver?? that was his girl frfr!!

user16: i’m so proud of u yn. you’ve been through so much and i’m excited to support you.

*liked by yourinstagram.*

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

“SHE’S NOT THAT FAST — SHE JUST GETS LUCKY SOMETIMES. THAT’S ALL IT IS. RIGHT CAR — RIGHT TIME. LUCKY GIRL SYNDROME.” — a senior mclaren engineer.

dedicated to everyone who ever rooted for me. thank you.

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

EXCERPT FROM LUCKY GIRL SYNDROME.

by yn yln.

when i signed with mclaren in 2013, i thought i was living my dream.

i was the only female driver on the grid, paired with jenson button—a world champion, a household name, and, to some, a certified heartthrob. they already loved calling him “promiscuous” in the press, and suddenly there i was: the pretty young woman who happened to drive fast. to them, we weren’t drivers—we were a brand. two good-looking people in shiny cars. and that label stuck.

from the start, i wasn’t taken seriously. i’d show up to meetings and realize they’d given me the wrong time—jenson would already be there, halfway through strategising with the team. he always looked uncomfortable when i walked in late, knowing i wasn’t told the same things he was.

“you’re here now,” he’d say, smiling politely, trying to ease the tension. i liked him. he wasn’t the problem. he was respectful, and if anyone made an offhand comment about me, he’d interject with a joke to cut through the awkwardness. but even his kindness couldn’t fix what was fundamentally wrong.

my first podium was a moment i’d worked my entire life for. it was a race where i drove faster than jenson, faster than most of the grid. but the photo they posted of me on the team’s social media wasn’t of me crossing the finish line, or holding my trophy.

it was me in the garage, leaning over the car, my race suit unzipped halfway down. the caption didn’t even mention the podium. it was just… my body. i couldn’t stomach looking through the comments.

i’ll never forget calling my dad that night. he was furious. he asked me why i didn’t make a fuss. why i didn’t storm into the team’s office and demand better treatment. but what he didn’t understand was that it wasn’t that simple. you’re the only woman in a room full of men, and they’re already waiting for you to slip up. waiting for you to show too much emotion, to prove them right when they think women are too “dramatic” to handle the job.

so i kept my head down. i smiled at the cameras, laughed at the jokes, and drove my ass off every weekend. and every time i was faster than jenson, every time i outqualified him or finished ahead, they’d say, “she got lucky.” when he beat me, they’d say, “see? this is why she doesn’t belong here.” it was a game i couldn’t win.

being the first woman on the grid wasn’t just about being fast. it was about being everything they didn’t expect me to be: calm, collected, agreeable. i couldn’t afford to push back because i knew they’d use it against me. so i swallowed it all, every little slight, every dismissive comment, every missed opportunity. i thought if i just kept my head down and drove, eventually, i’d earn their respect.

but now, looking back, i realize… they were never going to respect me. not really. not as a driver. they respected what i did for their brand, for their image. they respected how well i played the part. but as a person, as an athlete? i was just another pretty face to them. nothing more. and that’s what hurt the most.

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

r/books

Discussion Thread:

“Lucky Girl Syndrome” by YN YLN: Thoughts, Reactions, and the Drama It’s Stirred Up.

──────────────────────

u/checkeredpast: just finished lucky girl syndrome, and WOW. she did not hold back. calling out mclaren for the way they treated her, the “wrong meeting times” sabotage, and the completely inappropriate podium photo… i can’t believe this stuff actually happened.

u/fastlaneandfurious: the part where she talks about the team using her as a “walking brand strategy” instead of a driver broke my heart. like, they wanted her to be the face of the team but refused to actually treat her like a serious athlete.

u/f1fanfiction: let’s talk about the fact that she outsold literally every sports memoir in history. 2 million copies sold in the first week. yn doesn’t just break records on the track, apparently.

u/nosteeringallowed: her calling out the media for labeling her as “lucky” after she beat half the grid is ICONIC. “they didn’t call my male teammates lucky—they called them skilled.” like, yes queen, drag them.

u/ynsthegoat: what got me was the chapter about the infamous team dinner where they wouldn’t even let her speak during strategy talk. then she went out and out-qualified jenson the next day.

u/overqualifiedandundervalued: “they said i was lucky, but luck doesn’t drive faster laps or win races. luck didn’t make me the first woman to win a championship—it was skill, it was hard work, and it was me.” CHILLS. absolute chills.

u/gridgossip: is no one going to talk about the tea she spilled on that one driver? the “polite but condescending” comments she got from him while he constantly undermined her. we KNOW it’s about seb.

u/wheresthefinishline: @ u/gridgossip no no no, it’s def about fernando. she’s been shady about him for years, and the way she described the “overly competitive teammate who couldn’t handle being outpaced by a woman” fits him perfectly.

u/holygrailpodium: the inappropriate photo after her first podium makes me so mad every time. she’s standing there in tears, holding the trophy, and they choose to post a picture of her leaning over the car with her suit half-open?? disgusting.

u/gaslitandgridlocked: her dad being her biggest defender was such a beautiful part of the book, though. “why do you stay quiet when you’re the fastest in the room?” hit me right in the heart.

u/podiumqueen: not me crying over how she kept driving through all of this, knowing they didn’t want her there. like, the strength it must’ve taken to win races when her own team wasn’t even rooting for her.

u/championshipenergy: the way she calls out how different her career would’ve been if she were a man was SO POWERFUL. “they didn’t need me to be fast, they needed me to be pretty. they got both, and they still weren’t satisfied.”

u/mimosasontherace: i can’t stop thinking about the last chapter where she talks about winning her first championship and how no one in her team even hugged her when the cameras switched off. like, they couldn’t even fake happiness for her.

u/driversanddivas: this book isn’t just a memoir; it’s a reckoning. yn exposed everyone who doubted her and proved that no matter what they threw at her, she came out on top. lucky girl syndrome my ass—she EARNED that title.

u/lightsoutandread: imagine being on the grid right now, knowing you were one of the people she called out. the absolute awkwardness.

u/trophiesandtrauma: if you’re on the fence about reading this, DO IT. it’s not just about racing—it’s about breaking barriers, sexism, and resilience. honestly, it deserves all the success it’s getting.

u/checkeredpast: she’s already announced a limited series deal with a streaming platform. you KNOW it’s going to be messy when they dramatize the “wrong meeting times” scene.

u/bookishracer: “lucky girl syndrome” is officially my book of the year. yn didn’t just tell her story; she made sure no one could ever erase it again.

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

liked by f1stan, ynstan and 1,837,928 others.

ham1ltonshaderoom: f1 legend and now best selling author, yn yln, took to harper’s bazaar to discuss writing and her career. however, her memoir went viral for more than its record breaking sales. yln mentioned that there was a certain driver that would be her biggest fan in public and then undermine her in public. it has been dubbed ‘x marks the spot’, with the hashtag gaining major traction on social media. what do you think ham1ltons? and who do you think the supposed driver could be?

──────────────────────

‘there was one driver who always seemed to go out of his way to remind me i didn’t belong. he wasn’t on my team, but his presence always lingered—sharp, dismissive, condescending. let’s call him x. in interviews, he’d say all the right things, calling me a “trailblazer” and claiming he respected what i brought to the sport. but in the paddock, it was another story. during press conferences, he’d interrupt me, throwing in some smug joke that made everyone laugh but left me feeling small. once, during a rain delay, he walked past my garage and casually remarked to my engineer, loud enough for me to hear, “well, at least she’ll look good sliding off the track.” and when i won my first race, beating him in the process, he didn’t say a word. no handshake, no congratulations—just a quick glance and he was gone. i’ll never know why he went out of his way to belittle me, but in the end, i didn’t care. that win wasn’t for him. it was for me.’

──────────────────────

view all 23,727 comments

user1: it’s definitely fernando. they’ve never liked each other, and he’s always been salty when anyone’s faster than him.

-> user2: nah, it can’t be fernando. he’s competitive, but he’s never outright disrespectful. i’m thinking nico.

-> user1: girl that’s the point 😭 x was never openly disrespectful.

user3: okay but what about lewis? we KNOW their relationship wasn’t always great. remember how tense they were in interviews back then?

-> user4: no way it’s lewis. he’s literally said she’s one of the most talented drivers he’s raced against.

-> user5: lewis can say nice things now, but what if he wasn’t like that back then? she didn’t say the guy stayed disrespectful. she also said x was nice in public, who knew what he was saying in private.

user6: everyone’s ignoring seb, but she’s shaded him before. what if it’s him?

-> user7: yn has ALWAYS defended seb. if anything, he was one of the few drivers who actually supported her. it’s not him.

user8: it has to be fernando. the whole paragraph is giving fernando energy, and you know it.

-> user9: nah, i still think it’s nico. remember when he threw shade at her in a press conference after she outqualified him?

user10: you’re all wrong. it’s michael. she’s talked about how intimidating he was to race against, and she never got along with him.

-> user11: yn literally called michael one of her idols. she’d never write about him like that.

user12: y’all are missing the obvious answer—kimi. he’s the only one who would say something that blunt and not care about the fallout.

-> user13: kimi didn’t even talk to her half the time lol. i can’t see him caring enough to belittle her.

user14: okay, what if it’s no one we’re expecting? maybe it’s some random mid-grid guy like grosjean or massa.

-> user15: yn wouldn’t waste a whole chapter on someone irrelevant. it has to be one of the big names. my money’s on fernando or nico.

-> user1: fernando for sure. yn’s always been lowkey bitter about him, and this just proves it.

-> user2: it’s not fernando!! why can’t you just accept that some drivers are cocky without it being him??

-> user3: okay but if it’s not fernando, who else would it be?? the smug comments SCREAM his vibe.

user5: we’re all arguing, but yn’s probably laughing at us right now. she KNEW we’d be doing this.

user16: yn ‘attention whore’ yln.

user17: at least we know it wasn’t my king jb 😻

user18: idk who tf yn is but this tea is so juicy 😭

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

[setting: thanksgiving dinner, complete chaos. plates of food are half-eaten, wine glasses are full, and cousin jess is recording everything on tiktok. the family is deep into an argument about “x marks the spot,” using jess’s infamous powerpoint as reference.]

uncle bob: jess, i still don’t get why you made a whole powerpoint about this.

cousin jess: because the people need to know, uncle bob. yn’s memoir is the drama of the decade, and you’re welcome for organizing all the evidence.

aunt carol: honestly, it’s that fernando. slide four proves it. all the press conferences where he interrupted her? it’s right there.

aunt fiona: fernando wasn’t that bad. he even congratulated her in, like, 2017. i think it’s nico. slide eight, jess literally wrote “petty king energy” under his name.

uncle hamish: it’s not nico. you’re all overthinking this. i say it’s jenson. didn’t he once call her “intense” in an interview?

cousin matt: jenson literally defended her against the media every other week, hamish. you clearly didn’t listen to slide six.

grandpa: i still don’t understand why this yn person didn’t just punch the guy.

grandma: because she has class, unlike this family. pass the stuffing.

aunt bobbi: wait, what about lewis? slide ten said they were “friendly but complicated.” maybe he was fake-nice to her.

uncle craig: fake-nice? lewis was the only one who liked her, bobbi. slide nine has like five examples of him hyping her up in interviews.

cousin jess: uncle craig, you’re wrong. he was supportive, but there’s that one time he ignored her after she beat him in qualifying. it’s suspicious.

aunt carol: you think it’s suspicious? no way. lewis isn’t smug enough to be x.

uncle hamish: oh please, you’re all just picking names because they sound dramatic. if anything, it was sebastian.

aunt fiona: seb? absolutely not. slide seven shows he called her “one of the best drivers on the grid” multiple times.

uncle bob: that’s suspicious. who compliments people that much unless they’re guilty?

grandma: compliments aren’t guilt, bob. stop eating the cranberry sauce straight from the bowl and get a grip.

aunt carol: you’re all wrong. slide four, people! fernando cutting her off mid-sentence! the man’s guilty as sin.

grandpa: why does anyone care about this? it’s all rich people in fancy cars. sounds like nonsense.

cousin matt: rich people drama is the best kind of drama, grandpa.

aunt bobbi: jess, why is kimi’s slide just a picture of him smoking with “#needthat” written under it?

cousin jess: because kimi’s innocent. everyone knows he doesn’t care about anything but being my dream man.

uncle craig: so why isn’t yn on the slide about drivers who were universally liked?

cousin jess: because she wasn’t universally liked, uncle craig. she was fast, hot, and female in a male-dominated sport. they were all salty.

uncle bob: well, now they’re all posting about how much they respect her.

grandma: of course they are. it’s called covering their asses.

uncle hamish: if i were yn, i’d name names. all this mystery is just fueling conspiracy theories.

grandpa: or she could just leave it alone so we don’t have to argue about it at thanksgiving. what the hell even is f1? is that nascar?

uncle craig: formula 1, dad. jesus, keep up.

grandma (snapping): if someone doesn’t pass me the cranberry sauce right now, i’m gonna be the next x.

[jess pans the camera to her grandma glaring at the table, muttering under her breath as the family keeps arguing.]

cousin jess (whispering into her phone): y’all, my family is losing it over x marks the spot. happy thanksgiving.

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

liked by landopriv, ynupdates and 4,738,918 others.

ham1ltonshaderoom: an update on the ‘x marks the spot’ speculation. it started over who exactly is x, from f1 legend yn yln’s memoir and it is causing a stir. with former/current drivers taking to social media and journalists to prove their innocence. kimi räikkönen, when asked, said ‘yn deserved every win she got. people talked too much, but she let her driving do all the talking. always respected that about her.’ mick schumacher released a statement via instagram, with a montage of photos of him and his dad with the first female championship winner: ‘my dad always believed yn was one of the most talented drivers he’d ever seen. he admired her strength, her skill, and her ability to prove everyone wrong, time and time again. he spoke so highly of her and what she brought to the sport, and i know he’d be so proud to see her telling her story.’ when sebastian vettel made a rare appearance to the grid, he confirmed that he had bought a copy and thought that he was proud to watch yn ‘make history’.

now the sudden flurry of support is making fans of the sport wonder just who is genuine and who is covering his ass? what do you think ham1ltons?

view all 2,983 comments

user1: the way literally everyone is tripping over themselves to prove it’s not them is SO funny. one of you is lying, and we will figure it out.

-> user20: exactly!! the fact that EVERYONE is suddenly posting/talking feels so suspicious lmao. someone’s definitely guilty, and they’re trying to throw us off the scent.

user2: kimi’s response is so him. short, straight, and unbothered. it’s definitely not him.

-> user22: we’re all analysing this, but kimi’s out here just vibing like always. love that man.

user3: mick’s statement is beautiful and wholesome as always, but also low-key throwing shade at the others?? like, ‘my dad always supported her’ is giving ‘can’t say the same for you lot.’

-> user21: honestly, mick’s post is the only one that feels 100% genuine. his dad was always so supportive of yn.

user4: seb really said ‘i bought the book’ and dipped. man didn’t even deny anything outright. sus??

-> user5: nah, seb’s always been a yn fanboy. remember when he called her ‘the most talented driver on the grid’? it’s not him.

user6: the lewis and nico posts are giving major ‘damage control’ energy. both of them trying WAY too hard to sound supportive.

-> user7: facts. lewis called her a ‘champion’ like we wouldn’t notice how cold things were between them back in the day.

-> user17: tbh, i don’t think it’s lewis. yn has said before that he was always encouraging her, and they’ve stayed friendly.

user8: fernando’s post feels so rehearsed. like, when has he ever gushed over yn like that before??

user9: low-key think it’s nico. man was so salty about literally everything back then, and the ‘petty king’ vibes match the memoir perfectly.

-> user10: yesss, especially the part where she said he didn’t congratulate her after her first win. sounds EXACTLY like something nico would do.

user11: not enough people are talking about jenson. just because he was her teammate doesn’t mean he’s innocent. the whole ‘answer my texts’ thing was cute, but he’s a smooth talker.

-> user12: nah, yn always spoke highly of jenson. he had her back when mclaren was treating her like a sex toy. i’m ruling him out.

user13: so we’re all just ignoring that fernando spent YEARS shading her in press conferences? india ‘13 is permanently engraved in my brain.

-> user18: can’t lie, if it’s fernando, i’ll be disappointed but not surprised. his 2013 energy was… a lot.

user14: honestly, they’re all acting sketchy. the sudden love bomb of support is too much. one of you is x and we will find out.

user15: plot twist: what if x isn’t even one of the obvious names? imagine it’s someone random like felipe massa lmao.

-> user16: watch it not even be one of the main suspects and we’ve been dragging the wrong guy this whole time 💀

user18: it’s giving ‘we need to get ahead of the narrative’ vibes, and i’m here for the chaos.

-> user19: everyone’s pr team is in OVERDRIVE rn lmfaoooo

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

— all works taglist: @luvsforme @yelenasloverrrrr @donttouchthegnote @chelle1306 @bloodyymaryy @km-23mr @stinkyjax @f1kenzzz @ctrlyomomma @aliciaablueprint @theblueblub @namgification @tallrock35 @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @ariellovelynn @shhhchriss @lifeless-firefly @xylinasdiary @evie-119 @itseightbeats @landososcar @yongi-lee @velentine @m1892 @blushmimi @evans-dejong @nixisracing @lethalvenus @sainzluvrr @santanasaintmendes @idontknowlmaoo @sainzluvrr @tetetoni @ssprayberrythings @heavy-vettel @tashisgf @daniskywalkersolo @c-losur3 @lestappenslover @linoscrly (see yourself tagged when you don’t wanna be? or you want to be and don’t see yourself? send me an ask!)

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

[buckiverse]

☆--- summary: you went out to a club, and it took an unexpected turn when you spotted athlete!sylus, the man you can't seem to avoid. Is it a coincidence, or is he just everywhere you go?

☆--- a/n: athlete!sylus is taking over my brain...

You shouldn’t be going out tonight, but you couldn’t say no when Tara invited you. It was the first time in forever that someone had pulled you away from your constant grind of training, case studies, and class. The local club near campus was always buzzing on a Friday night, and here you were, questioning why you had agreed to come instead of staying in to catch up on everything you had to do.

"I know it’s not really your thing, but try to have fun with me!" Tara shouted over the music, her excitement infectious.

You managed a smile. "Girl, of course! Let’s have fun."

The club was exactly what you expected—dark, slightly dingy, with bright strobing lights that made the sticky floors and faint smell of spilled drinks a little more bearable. People crowded around more than they danced, but it was still early, barely midnight.

Tara led the way to the bar, effortlessly weaving through the group of people. She ordered something colorful and sweet, and you opted for a shot to shake off the weird, anxious feeling you couldn’t pinpoint.

Maybe it was the week catching up to you—training, school, and the guy who had somehow taken up space in your mind.

Sylus.

You hadn’t even spoken to him beyond that moment—a quick, half-snarky exchange in the law building after you accidentally collided with him. But you couldn’t help how your eyes searched for him every time you walked in as if you might spot him again.

So, when you saw him across the room, leaning against a table with his usual calm, unbothered air, you nearly choked.

He stood out even here. It wasn’t just his height, though that was hard to miss. It was how he seemed completely at ease as if this crowded, chaotic club was just another room he’d decided to occupy for a while. Two men, maybe twins, surrounded him if their matching outfits were anything to go by.

"Okay, I’m heading to the dance floor! Join me when you’re done!" Tara’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts. She winked before disappearing into the sea of people, leaving you alone with your thoughts—and the view of Sylus.

You told yourself to look away, to mind your own business, but it was like some magnetic pull kept your gaze on him. What was he even doing here? He didn’t strike you as the guy who hit up clubs on the weekend.

Or maybe you didn’t know him at all.

The shot must’ve hit you harder than expected because, before you realized it, you were walking toward him. It wasn’t a decision you made—it was instinct or maybe a lapse in judgment.

By the time you reached him, Sylus had already noticed you. His sharp red eyes flicked to yours, a hint of recognition sparking in his expression.

"Hey," you said, your voice raised to be heard over the music, though your nerves threatened to betray you.

His smirk was instant, crooked, and a little too knowing. "Didn’t think I’d see you here," he said, his tone teasing.

You folded your arms, suddenly feeling defensive. "Why’s that?"

"Thought you’d be too busy watching where you’re going," he joked, the grin spreading just enough to make you want to wipe it off his face—and maybe laugh at the same time.

Your jaw dropped. "You’re seriously still on about that?"

He shrugged, leaning casually against the table. "It was a memorable first impression."

"Well, I don’t even know your name," you shot back, trying to regain some ground.

He tilted his head, clearly amused. "Sylus," he said smoothly. "But I was starting to think you’d never ask."

You rolled your eyes, trying not to let his charm get under your skin. "Y/N," you replied, crossing your arms. "So, what’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?"

Sylus chuckled, his gaze flicking briefly to the two men beside him. "Apparently, letting my teammates drag me out for ‘team bonding.’ Not sure this is what they meant."

His words caught you off guard, and you laughed before you could stop yourself. Standing there with him, bantering like this, was easier than you thought it’d be.

"Well," you said, your confidence returning, "don’t let me stop you from bonding."

He didn’t look away, his smirk softening into something almost unreadable. "Maybe I won’t."

The crowd seemed to blur around you for a moment, and you swore his eyes lingered on you just a second too long.

[atimesfeeler]

I can’t figure out how to get to this part in my fic “Rotten Ones” but I’ve been sitting on this wip forever *throws it at you*

(Old Logan in Wade’s universe is dead btw)

“So whats your fucking deal, huh? What’s your problem?”

“Nothing. I don’t have a problem,” Scott said coldly.

Logan snorted. “Yeah right. Look if you want me off your fucking property take it up with Chuck, alright?”

Scott took a slow steady breath. “The school is for all mutants.”

Logan made a grumbling laugh into his drink and took a swig. The large gulp swooped through his stomach and up to his brain, an instant but brief buzz. It made him tipsy enough to yank the bottle away and squint at Scott.

“You hate him or something?”

Scott bristled, “Who?”

“Your Logan,” he clarified, “Did you hate ‘im?”

“Did you hate your Scott?” he fired back, and Logan couldn’t help but tip his head back and laugh. A deep laugh that shook his stomach and made him feel even worse. It was funny, and it hurt like nothing else.

“Hate him? Sure,” Logan said with a smile and watery eyes, “but god, did I love him.”

Scott looked taken aback, and it was the first real emotion Logan saw on his face since he met this version of Scott. The worst part was that Logan knew him, and while this wasn’t his Scott, he was close enough that Logan could probably figure him out. Logan loved his Scott. Of course he knew him.

Scott was standoffish and an asshole and had the biggest stick up his ass out of anyone that Logan knew. It was a combination of a traumatic childhood paired with the innate awkwardness that Scott carried and the fact that he wasn’t allowed to be a human being for a little while. He told Logan his whole past once, drunk out of his mind and slumped against Logan on the couch. It was during his grief over Jean, and Logan had asked what made her so fucking special. She was special, no doubt, and Logan had picked up on it as soon as he met her, but Scott clung to her like an anchor- like he was a sailor lost at sea and she was his buoy, his fucking savior. He couldn’t let her go, and he couldn’t let Logan in, and Logan wanted to know why. So Scott told him. Misfortune, abuse, alienation, pressure. Jean helped him out of the dark place Scott had been in, like a candle in a cave and Logan couldn’t fault him for holding onto her like he was scared of the dark. Scott was scarred and broken, and Logan foolishly thought he could help out Scott back together, like Jean did. But Logan didn’t fix things. He broke them.

So of course he knew that Scott was just like this, and Logan hated that he understood and that this Scott didn’t know. Didn’t know that he knew. That he cared. That he understood.

Scott was silent for a moment and then he said, quietly, “Then why did you leave?”

It was said curiously this time, and it clicked to Logan that this was the reason Scott didn’t like him. Scott thought he left and abandoned his X-Men for another world, and he was right, in a way. Duty and responsibility were ingrained into Scott’s personality. If nothing else, he was there for his X-Men, for Charles, for Jean. He always had a bone to pick with Logan over leaving the mansion periodically when the responsibilities were too much, and Scott’s heart eyes for Jean were too loud. Scott always got on Logan for leaving when they might need him, and he was right in the end.

Logan took a shuttering inhale. Part of him knew he didn’t have to tell Scott. A voice that sounded like Wade, a little bit. But Logan was nothing if not self-sabotaging and a larger part of him wanted to hear, deserved to hear it. He’d imagined and dreamt of Scott’s reaction for a decade at least, and it haunted him- not knowing. He found Scott dead. The last thing he heard Scott say was over the phone in a voice recording. “Come on, Logan. Just come back. I know I… I know we have our differences but… we need you. The X-Men need you. Just come home, please.”

“He’s gone,” Logan croaked, and it never got easier saying it. “They’re gone. All of them. Couldn’t save them.”

Scott didn’t say anything, and Logan couldn’t tear his eyes away from the rim of his bottle.

“I wanted-” Logan's voice cracked. “I didn’t want to tell you, you know.”

He glanced up and saw red reflected back at him and quickly looked away.

“Didn’t want to see that look you’d give me,” Logan admitted and chuckled, though it wasn’t funny. He swallowed. “But I deserve it. I deserve it.”

Logan took a large swig of his bottle, almost emptying it. Scott was silent and that was almost worse. In all his horrible fantasies, Scott yelled and reprimanded. He blamed and cried and they argued just like how they fought when Jean came back, but worse. Logan always made him meaner, in his mind. He didn’t know why. In reality, Scott was maybe not nice, but he was kind. Compassionate. Always the bigger person. Better than Logan despite all his baggage. Not more likable, not by a long shot, but more of a hero than Logan would ever be.

“I didn’t, by the way,” Scott said, breaking the heavy silence.

Logan looked up with a frown, confused.

“I didn’t hate you,” Scott clarified, “Him, I mean. We were…”

Scott looked away, and Logan clung to his murmured words like a dying man, blinking through the drunken state so he could remember what Scott was going to say.

“I didn’t love him like you loved each other,” Scott settled on and his brow furrowed. “I don’t think he loved me like that either. But I did love him. He was… he was my best friend.”

Logan didn’t know what to say.

“I can’t say for sure, but your Scott… he probably loved you too,” Scott said simply, and Logan sucked in a sharp breath. “And I don’t think he blamed you either.”

Tears welled in Logan’s eyes, and he grunted, shoving his palm hard into his eye socket. A shaky sob-like breath escaped his lips against his will. The last thing Logan wanted to do was cry in front of a Scott that didn’t know him like his Scott did and didn’t know what Logan had done.

Wordlessly, Logan shook his head, shoulders tensed from holding back emotion. Logan hadn’t cried over the attack in years. He had buried the pain and become numb to it after awhile, but coming here, seeing the X-Men alive and different- it was too much. He had held it together for Wade and Laura and the missions, but of course it all came crashing down when he talked to the one person who didn’t give a shit about him. God. He missed his Scott. Even if his Scott wouldn’t be as kind as this one, he missed him. Wasn’t that fucked up?

Logan must have said it outloud, a mangled sentence choked around a sob, “I miss him.”

Because a warm hand landed on his shoulder, and Scott murmured, “I miss him too.”

It was all the more painful knowing that Scott missed a different version of him, comforting Logan missing a different version of him. Wade was right. This multiverse stuff was all bullshit.

“Isn’t that fucked up?” Scott echoed, and he let out a huff of a laugh, but it wasn’t amused.

“I’m sorry I-” Logan exhaled shakily, trying to calm himself. “I’m sorry I’m here.”

Logan glanced up at Scott, probably looking pathetic with red-rimmed watery eyes and a crumpled expression. He saw a crease in Scott’s brow, and despite how different this Scott was, Logan once was fluent in all Scott’s micro expressions. He looked nervous, a little unsure, a little sad. Sympathetic maybe. It would have been better if Logan found anger there and resentment, but he didn’t.

“Don’t be,” Scott said, “Don’t be. Look, I’m sorry I was an asshole. I didn’t know if you were like him or if you were going to be worse.”

“Worse,” Logan laughed wetly. “Definitely worse.”

“Good.” Scott cracked a smile. “I’d hate you if you were better.”

Logan huffed a weak laugh through his nose at that.

Scott squeezed his shoulder once and said, “Take it easy, Logan,” and quietly left the kitchen.

Logan was glad for the solitude even if the ache of missing his dead lover grew. But there was this sort of… peace that settled over him. Maybe his Scott really wouldn’t blame Logan if he could speak to him. Maybe his Scott really did love Logan once. The things that kept him up at night were answered, and while it wasn’t by his Scott, it helped. Logan didn’t want it to help. He wanted it to feel worse, but he exhaled a large breath through his mouth and felt his tears subside and felt better despite it. Logan set down his almost empty bottle on the kitchen island and didn’t pick it back up again.

Logan calmed himself by taking large gulps of air through his nose and out through his mouth. He was alone but on every inhale he could smell the children and the teachers. Warmth. Life. He caught a whiff of blood- Wade’s signature scent- and realized he didn’t want to sit alone anymore. He wanted to go to bed. He wanted Wade to chat his ear off and distract him from his thoughts better than any bottle ever had.

Logan pushed himself to stand and dumped the rest of the bottle down the sink and tossed it in the trash. He ambled up to his room with dragging steps and cracked the door open.

Wade was lying on the bed on his stomach, tapping away on his phone. Playing some brightly colored game.

“Hey! You’re back-“ Wade stopped when he saw Logan’s face. “What happened?”

There was so much concern, so much care behind Wade’s voice that the tears Logan fought so hard to get rid of swelled back. He ducked his head to hide himself and sat heavily on the edge of the bed. Wade was there in a second, sitting on his knees behind Logan and putting an arm on his shoulder.

Logan hid his face in his hands as he spoke. “Talked to Scott.”

“Oh,” Wade said, knowing and… something else. Disappointed, maybe.

“It… it wasn’t easy,” Logan said.

“What did he say?” Wade asked, and Logan could tell by his tone that he was trying never hard not to jump out of the room and hunt Scott down. The thought almost made him smile.

Logan shrugged, failing to find the right words.

“You gotta give me something, honey, do I need to steal his tooth brush and stick it in questionable places, or do I need to get my gun?”

Logan huffed and chanced a look at Wade, seeing his innocent look that spoke volumes of violence.

“Neither. It… helped. What he said,” Logan admitted, “I guess I wanted him to, I don’t know, yell at me. Blame me for shit. But he didn’t.”

“Oh,” Wade relaxed slightly. “That’s good, then. So he was nice?”

“As nice as Scott can be, yeah,” Logan said.

Wade frowned. His hand left Logan’s shoulder.

“Do you…” Wade started in a small voice, “Are you two-“

“No,” Logan cut him off with a scoff, “With this Scott? No. And I wouldn’t. He’s different, and he’s got Jean.”

“That didn’t stop you before,” Wade hummed and Logan could take offense, but he was too tired, and he could tell Wade didn’t mean to push his buttons. It was said gently, proddingly.

“No,” Logan conceded, “But he didn’t love his Logan like that. Not like in my universe. My Scott is long gone. I… I’ve accepted that.”

Wade didn’t say anything, and Logan tacked on. “And I’m not putting myself through that love triangle shit again.”

Wade laughed softly, “You don’t like to share?”

“No,” Logan growled. It was fun at the time, and Logan told himself that it was what he wanted. Both of them. And maybe if they loved him the same amount they loved each other, Logan could have been happy. But they loved each other in the light, and they loved Logan in the dark. He was their vice, their third, their fun, their fights. But he wasn’t their partner. Logan always went and loved people who used him and even if they loved him: Scott, Jean, Kayla- they used him too.

“I don’t want to get in between their shit again. Butt in their life. I just want to live mine.”

And it shocked him a little to hear himself say that. Logan hadn’t wanted to live his life in a long time. For a while, he didn’t even want to live.

“Oh thank god,” Wade exasperated, “I didn’t know how to break the news to you that second time is really not the charm.”

Logan snorted. “Asshole.”

Wade laughed softly and silence fell between them. It was that weighted kind; the one where Logan knew Wade was rearing up to say something.

“Can I hug you?”

Logan lifted his head from his hands and looked at him. There was this hopeful expression on his face, and he started rambling before Logan could answer.

“You just look like you could use a hug. And I could too. If I’m being honest. Who wouldn’t need a hug from that amazing sack of pillows? God, you could suffocate me in them and I’d thank you, really-“

Logan just leaned towards him, bumping his head against Wade's shoulder. Before he could decide if he regretted it or not, Wade melted into him. Immediately Wade pulled Logan closer, turning him so that he could wrap his arms around Logan’s neck, and Logan found himself pressing his face into Wade’s warm shoulder. His arms gradually came up to his waist and gripped the back of his shirt. Wade let out a shuddering sigh and that’s all it took for the water to leak out of his eyes. Logan smudged his silent tears against Wade’s soft cotton shirt and sniffled.

“There you go, big guy,” Wade murmured and while it might have sounded condescending to Logan once, now it just sounded soft. “Let it all out. Papa Wade’s gotcha.”

[only-lonely-star]

can you do dallas winston x soc reader where she invites him over to her house and it’s super pink and girly and he wants to look at every little thing! love you’re work btw!

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ Pretty in Pink . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Warnings - Pure fluff. Established relationship between a soc!fem!reader and Dallas Winston.

Summary - If it were up to him, he would never leave your room ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

Author’s Note - Thank you so much for this request!!! I’m truly so happy to hear you love my writings, it means the world to me 🫶🏼. I sort of took ‘house’ and turned it into bedroom, so I hope this is still okay skhfhsjjs 😭. I had a lot of fun with this one, I hope you all enjoy it as much as I do!! 🩷🩷

Word Count - 1.1k.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Applying a thin layer of tinted gloss, you puckered up and smiled upon the reflection in your vanity mirror. The white, wooden piece blended with the rest of your room perfectly as it leaned against the floral wallpaper adorned in patterns of pink peonies. Pink - you were certain there wasn’t a color as perfect as the pastel hue that flooded your room. As a finishing touch, you doused the sides of your neck in a fancy perfume, one that cost a fortune. The bottle was, of course, a baby-pink heart with a white ribbon tied around it. You felt ready to take on the world.

Leaned against the windowsill of your bedroom, your eyes longed to catch a glimpse of that rusted, old Thunderbird that Dallas typically took you around the city in. You could hear it a mile away, the noisy vroom of the vehicle, and the screeching shrill of its breaks. The stars cast a beam of light against the pavement to your driveway, ensuring he’d find his way there eventually.

Although you loved him to death, this boy had never spent a second in this house past your doorway. Tonight was different - he wasn’t dropping off flowers, knocking on your door to shower you in drunken kisses, or even luring you into his car to sneak out for the night. He was staying over. In your bed. Staying in your girly bedroom. Just at first glance, it was clear Dallas was no softie. He didn’t care for frilly pink bows or dainty jewelry, he was as masculine as they came. A hint of nervousness formed at the pit of your stomach as your brain worked double-time to map out every negative outcome possible. Maybe he wouldn’t like it, it would be too overwhelming - the possibilities were endless.

Just as these thoughts began to overwhelm you, the repetitive ring of your doorbell brought you back to reality. He was here. You raced for the front door without a second thought, leaping down the staircase, taking two steps at a time. Once you had reached the door, you flung it open with excitement, only to wrap your arms around his figure. He wore a cocky grin, a classic expression he often used in moments like these. You felt the jerk of his body as he stifled a laugh. “I saw you yesterday,” he commented wittily, slowly running a hand up and down your back.

You stood on the tip of your toes, planting a kiss on his cheek. Without waiting a second longer, you snatched the boy inside with a simple yank to his arm. “Come on, get out the cold, Dal,” you teased.

Dallas glanced down at his boots, giving them a quick stomp or two before taking a look around. “So this is your little mansion, huh?”

“Mansion,” you scoffed in reply. “This ain’t even the best part! Come on upstairs with me, I’ll show you my room.” You ran a hand up and down his sleeve as a signal for him to follow your lead.

Dallas let out a low whistle, slowly making his way up the staircase. His eyes darted in every which way, gliding his hand the entire way up the wooden railing of the staircase. “Shoot - I’d sure like to live in someplace like this.”

“Yeah? Well, you’re living in my room tonight,” you responded cheekily, biting back a smile. As you reached the final step, you guided him down the hallway which led to a number of bedrooms, each decorated in their own unique way. Dallas poked his head in each one, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion as to which was yours. “Dal, it’s this one.”

He whipped his head around, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Continuing to follow your lead, he carefully took in the new environment. Pink, flowers, ribbons, lace, hearts, dolls - it all hit Dallas like a tidal wave. His dull eyes were now filled with excitement at the sight of it all. “Jesus Christ,” he scoffed, “l think you might like the color pink.”

Letting out a burst of laughter, you ushered him inside. “Who would’ve thought, right?”

Dallas’s attention was immediately drawn to the white jewelry box with flowers painted along the side. He curiously stepped closer. He traced his finger along the woodwork, whistling lowly, “This a dollhouse or something? Looks like it would be for a-.” His attention diverted quickly, just before you could correct him. Dallas smiled in fascination as he caught sight of a small ballerina placed on a shelf near the closet doors. He inspected its fine details, running his fingers along the figure.

Before his interest was sparked again, you decided some commentary was needed. “That’s actually a music box, if you look at the bottom there’s a little knob.”

Dallas had his fingers twisting relentlessly around the knob before you even finished that sentence. He set it back down on the shelf, watching the little dancer spin around as the steel comb inside produced a delightful sound. “No fuckin’ way…” his voice trailed off in awe.

“You like that?” you chuckled, standing beside him to observe the figurine. It felt strangely comforting seeing Dallas with such youthful wonder in his eyes.

“That’s so cool, man, I want one,” he shifted his gaze from the music box back to you with a genuine smile.

“I have to show you this doll, I’ve had it since I was…five? I don’t know,” you spoke excitedly, dragging him towards your bed.

Kneeling beside the bed frame, you reached underneath it to retrieve a box. This box was worn out, each crease and wrinkle in the cardboard, a sign that it was well-loved over the years. Out came a porcelain doll, dressed in a white, ruffled dress with a lacey bodice that was colored in a soft shade of pink. Her hair was blonde and curled to perfection, a small bow added to accessorize her faux hair. Dallas stood over you, his thumbs in his jeans pockets. “She’s gorgeous, I bet that thing is worth more than my life.”

You gently stroked the back of her hair, admiring the delicate fabric of the miniature dress. “Hell- who knows?” You began to pack the doll up once more, hearing the shuffling of Dallas’s feet along your carpet. You paid no mind to this at first, assuming he was checking out more of your belongings. It was only then, that you stood up to find Dallas cozied up in your bed underneath a heap of fluffy pink and white blankets, holding a teddy bear against his arm. He had thrown on a satin sleeping mask adorned with small red hearts. Dallas had truly made himself at home, despite standing out more than any unique decoration in your room. He had a field day in your dollhouse of a room.

“How do I look?” he asked playfully, adding a hint of sass to his voice.

In adoration of a softer side you’d never seen before, you pounced onto him as you let out a giggle, wrapping yourselves in the plush blanket. “You look so pretty in pink.”

THANK YOU ALL FOR READING!! I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS ONE!!! 💋

- Sophia 🫶🏼

[sturnswrites]

terms and conditions - pt.2

matt sturniolo x fem!reader

⤳ you move in with the triplets after losing your apartment prompting a "roommate agreement". after having a tricky relationship with matt, some of the rules begin to blur.

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The first few days of moving in were... an adjustment. Sharing a house with three brothers was like stepping into a live sitcom, complete with chaotic energy, random outbursts, and an alarming amount of inside jokes I didn’t understand yet.

“Y/N! You left your shoes by the door again!” Nick shouted from the living room.

You poked my head out from your room. “And?”

“And I almost broke my neck tripping over them! You trying to kill me?”

Chris’s laughter echoed from the kitchen. “Yeah, Y/N, if you want to take Nick out, at least make it look like an accident.”

You rolled your eyes and grumbled something about dramatics, heading downstairs to retrieve the offending sneakers. Nick was sprawled on the couch, singing some ridiculous pop song at the top of his lungs.

“Is it always like this?” you asked, pointing toward him.

Matt, who was quietly scrolling on his phone in the armchair, glanced up. “Worse, sometimes.” His voice was flat, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Chris leaned over from the kitchen. “This is actually him on a calm day.”

- 

One evening, after a particularly long day, you trudged into the kitchen in search of a snack. The house was quiet for once, which was rare.

“Hey, Matt, do we have any—” you stopped mid-sentence, your brain stuttering to a halt.

Matt stood by the counter, shirtless, a glass of water in hand. The dim light from above highlighted the definition of his shoulders and the lean muscles of his torso. His hair was messy, looking like he had just woken up from a nap, and there was a quiet confidence about him that made the room feel smaller.

He turned, brow furrowed. “What?”

“Nothing. I—uh, I was just—” you gestured vaguely at the pantry, suddenly hyper-aware of how small the kitchen felt.

“Looking for something?” he asked, his tone casual, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes as if he knew exactly why you were flustered.

“Yeah. A snack. But it’s fine. I’ll... I’ll just grab it later.” you turned to leave, but your sock caught on the edge of the rug, and you stumbled.

Matt’s hand shot out, steadying you with a firm grip on your arm.

The brief contact sent a jolt through you, and when you looked up, his face was closer than you expected. His light eyes held yours for a beat too long, and your breath hitched.

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice low.

The air between you two shifted, heavy with something unspoken.

Before either of you could say a word, Chris’s voice rang out from the living room. “Matt! Are you still hogging the kitchen?”

Matt let go of your arm, clearing his throat. “Get some sleep, Y/N.”

“Yeah. Sure,” you mumbled, practically running out of the room.

Later that night, long after the others had gone to bed, you found yourself lying in your room, staring at the ceiling. The house was quiet, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the floorboards as someone shifted in their sleep.

You weren’t tired. Not really.

Your mind kept drifting back to earlier in the kitchen—the way Matt had looked at you, his brow furrowed in that way that made him seem more serious than he actually was. Or how the light had cast a faint glow over his skin, every muscle in his torso so defined it could’ve been sculpted.

You groaned, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. Get a grip, Y/N.

It wasn’t just how he looked, though. It was the way he had steadied you, his grip firm yet gentle, like he wasn’t quite sure whether to let go. And then there was the tone of his voice, low and calm, like he had some kind of unintentional pull over the air around him.

You turned onto your side, burying your face in the pillow. It was nothing. Just an awkward moment between roommates.

Except... it wasn’t nothing, was it?

You’d known Matt for a while now, long enough to recognize that he didn’t let people in easily. He kept most of the world at arm’s length, guarded and cool. But in that moment, when his hand lingered on your arm, it felt different. Like he was letting you in, just for a second.

It was ridiculous to overthink it. You’d agreed—sworn—to keep things platonic. And yet, you couldn’t help but wonder if he had felt it too, that unspoken charge in the air between you two.

You let out a frustrated sigh and rolled onto your back again. “You’re being ridiculous,” you whispered to yourself.

Still, sleep didn’t come easily. And when it finally did, it was filled with flashes of dark eyes, quiet smirks, and the ghost of a touch that lingered far too long.

-

The next day, while you were out shopping with Alyssa, Matt and Chris were hanging out in the living room, Nick upstairs editing.

“So...” Chris started, his tone dripping with amusement.

Matt didn’t look up from his phone. “What?”

“Y/N,” Chris said, dragging out the name.

Matt’s head snapped up. “What about her?”

Chris grinned, leaning back on the couch. “Oh, nothing. Just... there’s some tension there, don’t you think?”

“There’s no tension,” Matt said flatly, but his shoulders were stiff.

“Right,” Chris said, nodding exaggeratedly. “Totally normal for you to go all stoic every time she’s around.”

“Chris,” Matt warned.

“Relax, dude. I’m just saying,” Chris continued, his grin widening. “You’re usually Mr. Cool and Collected, but with her? It’s like you don’t know where to put your hands.”

Matt glared at him. “Drop it.”

“Fine, fine,” Chris said, holding up his hands in surrender. But the glint in his eyes said he wasn’t done stirring the pot.

-

The first time all four of you ended up in the living room late at night, it wasn’t planned. You had gone down to the kitchen for a glass of water, only to find Nick already sprawled across the couch with his laptop balanced on his knees. He was wearing headphones and mouthing the words to a song you couldn’t hear, completely lost in whatever he was editing.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Nick startled slightly, yanking off his headphones. “Oh, hey! Nah, just finishing this edit. It’s way quieter at night, you know?”

“Yeah, I get that,” you replied, smiling as you grabbed your glass.

You hadn’t planned on staying, but before you knew it, Chris came up from downstairs, wrapped in a blanket like a burrito. He plopped onto the couch next to Nick, his hair a mess.

“What’s this, an impromptu sibling meeting without me?” he joked, yawning loudly.

“More like an insomniacs’ club,” you said, sitting on the floor next to the coffee table.

Minutes later, Matt emerged from his room, looking far more composed than the rest of you despite the late hour. His eyes scanned the room briefly before he wordlessly sat in the armchair, his quiet presence rounding out the group.

It started simple—Nick rambling about the video he was editing, asking for input that none of you were awake enough to give. Chris chimed in with random anecdotes from his day, weaving exaggerated stories that had us all cracking up, despite how absurd they were.

And then there was Matt, who sat quietly for most of it, his smirks and soft chuckles a steady undercurrent to the lively conversation. He only jumped in when he had something particularly clever or sarcastic to say, and when he did, it always left Nick groaning, Chris clutching his stomach with laughter, and you shaking your head, trying not to laugh but failing miserably.

At one point, the conversation shifted to childhood memories, and the brothers began trading stories about growing up together.

“Matt used to eat dirt when he was, like, five,” Chris said, grinning devilishly.

“I did not eat dirt,” Matt shot back, rolling his eyes but unable to hide his faint smile.

“You absolutely did,” Nick chimed in. “You said it was ‘flavorful.’”

You burst out laughing, and Matt groaned, leaning back in the chair. “This is why I don’t talk during these things.”

“Oh, come on, you love us,” Chris teased, throwing a pillow at Matt, who caught it effortlessly.

The mood was light, easy, and for the first time since moving in, you felt like you were really starting to fit into their dynamic.

At one point, Nick started playing music from his laptop, singing along dramatically to every word. Chris joined in, his voice completely off-key, and soon enough, we were all belting out the chorus to some early 2000s pop song, the kind of music that only sounds good when you’re singing it at the top of your lungs with friends.

Matt, to your surprise, even sang a little, though it was more of a quiet hum under his breath. It was rare to see him this relaxed, and it caught you off guard how much you liked it.

By the time the night wound down, you all were all half-asleep. Chris had completely passed out on the couch, Nick was still typing something on his laptop but moving slower than before, and Matt remained in the armchair, his gaze flicking between you as if making sure you were all okay before calling it a night.

You caught his eye for a brief moment, and he gave you the faintest smile, one that felt softer, more genuine than the others he’d given throughout the night.

“Goodnight,” you murmured, standing and stretching.

“Goodnight,” he replied, his voice low and steady.

As you climbed the stairs to your room, you felt a strange sense of belonging settle over you. This house, chaotic and unpredictable as it was, was starting to feel like home.

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[the-100-days-of-junkan]

Day 58

Hey remember when randomly a couple days ago in the event I mentioned that one of these days makes me irrationally angry??? Yeah this is the one. 

So context for this one is that in the danganronpa section of a server I’m in someone asked a question around the lines of-

“Who is your favorite character for a Mastermind AU?”

Nowadays if you asked me, I’m very fond of the Mastermind AU I drew for Toko and Komaru during Tokomaru Week this year, and it’d probably be my answer nowadays.

However if you asked Jem from several months ago, who was brainrotted to absolute hell over these two to the point that she could barely form an opinion on other characters (don’t worry I fixed that issue in my brain, kinda), you know damn well her instant response was Mikan.

At first it was kind of a non-serious filler answer because I didn’t have anyone else who piqued my interest for that at the time. Arguably at first I wasn’t even interested in Mastermind Mikan initially. And then my brain saw I was apathetic to it and was like “Hold my drink” before it spiraled into an AU, which I of course would then use for Day 58 at the time. 

I drew up a character design and some basic details in a total rush, and then drew a really basic but cute enough image of the two alongside various headcanons for this version of the relationship. I actually intended to draw a bonus image of the two on their own just because I felt like I was kinda scamming ya’ll if I didn’t. However I have like, none of the time for that on my hands right now, I’m JUST starting to learn Web Design at the time of writing this. If people like this enough I might try and actually draw some proper art of this AU again though.

As for why this day makes me angry, uhhhh yeah no it’s completely irrational. I have no justification in the slightest I just know that every time i scroll past this  one while looking through the folder of Junkan art for the project I just get annoyed.

I’m actually really happy with the Mastermind Mikan design, might be a biiiit overdesigned? But let’s be real if we’ve learned anything over the course of whatever the hell you’d call this project, it’d be that I am nothing if not a woman of pure excess, especially within the small realm of this ship. 

Okay so hi this is Jem from like, slightly in the future. And when I say slightly I mean like 20 minutes ahead of the previous paragraph. 

So I drew a Monokuma for this AU. Something I didn’t do for my Mastermind Tokomaru AU. I kind of had the idea for a Mikan version of Monokuma in my head for a decent amount of time, partially because I also want to do some art of Mikan and Junko in Shiro/Kurokuma cosplays later (yeah sorry spoilers there is no shiro or kurokuma representation in this project. But worry not, UDG does have representation, muuuuuch later). That made me think about how Shirokuma does kind of have similarities to Mikan (i think, it’s been awhile), which made me realize that monokuma but purple sounded neat. So there’s this now.

I imagine that Junko would still be voicing this version from behind the scenes. Partially because unless it’s literally an Ultimate Voice Actor Mikan AU there’s no way she can do that for a whole killing game. The other reason is I just kind of imagine that Mikan would take a similar role to Tsumugi, being both a member of the killing game and the mastermind, rather than what Junko did where she faked her death and orchestrated from behind the scenes without suspicions. Also yes this would mean that Junko is behind the scenes as normal, just that this time she’s solely focused on managing Monokuma. The Control Room is directly connected to Mikan’s room for easy, non-suspicious access to all the mechanisms. And also so the two of them can cuddle at night, obviously. 

Oh yeah with this Monokuma Redesign I would probably also change Mikan’s hair pin to reflect the same color scheme, even if I do like the way it looks with normal Monokuma colors. I would also probably make a “normal” Mikan design for this version. Just tone back certain parts of it to give the illusion that she isn’t the mastermind. Y’know, for the game that will totally exist based off this au, definitely. 

Honestly I think rambling about it has made me soften up on this one a bit, for now at least. So for real I might try and draw more of this AU regardless of whether people want it or not. That said y’know, if you DO want more of it feel free to say so cause that will in fact give me some mild motivation lol.

Oh I guess last thing. When I first showed the initial Reference image of this Mikan to friends one of them pointed out that I accidentally made her plan into, what is essentially the American Healthcare System. I swear to god that wasn’t intentional but it did make me laugh. 

As always, Reblogs, Comments, and Little Notes in the Tags are appreciated!~ They always make my day!~

[ganggangscenarios]

Bound by desire (Part 1/2)

Part 2

Pairing: Jimin x Reader

Genre: Romance, comedy, dark, angst

Warnings: Dark Magic, mentions of sex

Writer's note: I've been sitting on this one for a while, I hope you enjoy it!

The sharp scent of candle wax lingered in the air as a puff of smoke erupted in your living room, curling like storm clouds in a hurricane. When it finally parted, you were met with the sight of a man—a stunningly handsome man. His hair mirrored the hue of the dissipating smoke, a soft, smoky purple-grey that matched his piercing eyes. Pale skin stood in stark contrast to his obsidian outfit, tailored to perfection, and glittering silver adorned him—a ring for every finger, charms dangling from each ear, catching the faint light.

You did what any rational person would do. You screamed.

“Okay, dramatic.” He raised a dark brow, unimpressed by your outburst.

“Who—what—how did you get here?!” you stammered, pressing yourself against the wall.

“You summoned me.” His voice was smooth, with a touch of exasperation, like this was the most obvious thing in the world.

Your heart dropped. “Summoned? I didn’t summon anyone!”

“Oh, you didn’t?” He folded his arms, tilting his head. “Let me guess. You read some ‘random’ words aloud while lighting a black candle?”

“I was practicing Latin!” you protested, voice trembling. “And the candle wasn’t black; it was called Midnight Mist. I bought it on sale!”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Midnight Mist, black, same difference. And those weren’t just random words; that was an incantation.”

It clicked, and dread flooded you. “Oh, no. The book.” You gestured wildly toward a worn leather-bound volume sitting innocently on your coffee table. “I got it from this tiny shop. I just wanted to practice my Latin, and the salesperson said this book would be perfect!”

“Well, congratulations,” he said, throwing himself onto your couch as though he owned it. “You managed to summon me. An incubus.”

You blinked. “A what?”

He grinned, sharp and wicked. “An incubus. You know, the demon who, according to lore, shows up to fulfill certain... desires.”

You froze, your brain scrambling to keep up. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. You’re here to—what? No. That can’t be right.”

“Don’t take my word for it.” He kicked his boots up onto your coffee table like he hadn’t a care in the world. “Check the book.”

Fumbling, you flipped through the pages until you found the bookmarked spell. Your eyes skimmed over the description, your voice trailing off as you read aloud: “‘An incubus is a demon in male form who lies upon sleeping women to—’ Oh my God.” You snapped the book shut, glaring at him. “Death by sex?!”

He held up his hands, palms out. “Relax. That’s old-school. We’ve updated the playbook.”

“What does that even mean?!”

He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “Consent. It’s mandatory now. No more lurking in shadows or creeping into bedrooms uninvited. Honestly, most of us found the old ways pretty gross.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re telling me demons have... ethics now?”

“Yeah. HR’s been cracking down. Very progressive workplace these days.” He flashed a smug grin. “But don’t worry. I’m not here to kill you. I’m here to fulfill the terms of your little summoning spell. My job is to... help you, shall we say, get lucky.”

The blood drained from your face. “I don’t need help getting... that! And if I did, I wouldn’t want it from a demon!”

“Well,” he said with a casual shrug, “you should’ve thought about that before you summoned me. I can’t leave until I’ve completed my task.”

“What? No! There’s got to be a way to undo this!” You frantically flipped through the book again, looking for a reversal spell.

“Knock yourself out,” he said, lounging comfortably. “But trust me, the only way I’m going anywhere is if I’ve done my job.”

You glared at him, the panic bubbling in your chest. “This is insane.”

“Welcome to demonology, sweetheart.” He smirked, eyes glinting with amusement. “Lesson one: always read the fine print.”

You were pacing the room, still clutching the cursed book like a lifeline, when the demon—no, the incubus—lounging on your couch cleared his throat. “You know, if you keep storming around like that, you’ll wear a hole in your carpet. Or summon something worse. Your choice.”

You whipped around to glare at him. “Worse than you?”

He grinned, pearly white teeth glinting. “Oh, I don’t know. You might find me pretty hard to top.”

You groaned, your hand flying to your forehead. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Believe it, sweetheart.” He gestured to himself lazily, reclining further into your couch cushions. “And while we’re at it, you can call me Jimin.”

“Jimin?” you repeated skeptically, narrowing your eyes. “That’s your name?”

“Surprised?” He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as he tilted his head at you. The faintest smirk played on his lips. “What were you expecting? Something dark and scary? Wratharion? Nycthor?” He made exaggerated gestures, wiggling his fingers like a cartoon villain.

You blinked. “Well, yeah. You’re a demon.”

He laughed, the sound soft yet somehow electric, like it hummed against your skin. “Oh, darling, demons don’t all have names like they crawled out of a horror movie. Some of us have a little... flair.”

“Flair?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow.

He stood then, crossing the room with a feline grace that sent a shiver down your spine. “Of course.” He stopped just close enough to make your breath hitch. “Jimin suits me, don’t you think?” His voice dipped, low and smooth, his smoky eyes locking onto yours.

You swallowed hard, trying not to notice the way his smirk deepened when he saw your reaction. “I think... you’re trying too hard.”

He gasped, clutching his chest dramatically like you’d struck him. “Trying too hard? Me? Darling, I don’t even have to try.”

Rolling your eyes, you took a step back, muttering, “Yeah, sure, whatever, Jimin.”

His grin widened as he followed you, playful but unrelenting. “Oh, come on, admit it. It’s a nice name, isn’t it? Rolls off the tongue.” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Jiiimiiin.”

“Stop that!” you snapped, your face burning as you shoved him back, though he barely budged.

Laughing, he straightened up, hands raised in surrender. “Fine, fine. But if you’re going to shout my name later—”

“I am not shouting your name!” you interrupted, voice climbing an octave.

He only winked at you, completely unbothered. “We’ll see.”

You groaned again, louder this time, and stalked back toward the book. “Is there a spell to make demons less insufferable?”

“If there was, I’d still be exactly the same.” His playful tone followed you like a shadow, filling the room with an infuriating warmth.

You glared at him over your shoulder, ignoring the way his smirk made your pulse race. “I think I liked it better when you didn’t have a name.”

“And I think you like me more than you’re willing to admit.”

“Shut up, Jimin.”

“As you wish.” But the sparkle in his eye told you he had no intention of letting you off that easily.

The next morning, you hurried to work, coffee in one hand and your bag slung over your shoulder. The crisp air did little to calm your nerves. The events of the night before replayed in your head on an endless loop, made worse by the constant chatter of the very unwelcome demon striding casually beside you.

“I’m just saying,” Jimin began, gesturing toward a pigeon on the sidewalk, “summoning me might be the most exciting thing you’ve ever done. Admit it.”

“Exciting isn’t the word I’d use,” you muttered, keeping your voice low, though that didn’t stop the passing woman with a small dog from shooting you a strange look.

“Embarrassing, then?” Jimin smirked. “Endearing? Or maybe—”

“A mistake,” you hissed under your breath, quickening your pace.

He laughed, effortlessly keeping up. “A mistake that you haven’t exactly tried to undo yet. Curious, isn’t it?”

“Undoing it is the first thing on my list when I get home tonight,” you snapped. “I can’t exactly work on banishing you while I’m on my way to work, now can I?”

“Sure you can. You’ve got ten fingers, two hands. What’s stopping you from multitasking?”

“Jimin,” you warned, glancing around. A man walking his bike on the other side of the street frowned in your direction, clearly wondering who you were talking to.

Jimin tilted his head, feigning innocence. “Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart. No one can see me unless I want them to.” He leaned closer, his voice taking on a conspiratorial edge. “You’re just the weirdo talking to herself right now.”

“Wonderful,” you muttered, cheeks burning as another passerby gave you a wary glance.

By the time you reached the office, you were on edge. You darted into the break room, trying to collect yourself before your best friend, Maddie, inevitably cornered you. Jimin, however, didn’t seem interested in giving you a moment of peace.

“This is where you work?” he asked, looking around with mild interest. He wrinkled his nose. “Fluorescent lighting? Beige walls? How... uninspired.”

“Not everyone lives in some shadowy demon dimension, okay?” you shot back, grabbing a mug from the cabinet.

“Touché,” he said, leaning casually against the counter.

“Hey!” Maddie’s voice cut through your morning panic. She popped into the break room, her auburn curls bouncing. “Good morning—” She froze mid-step, her eyes locking on Jimin. “Uh. Hi?”

Your stomach dropped.

“Wait... you can see him?” you asked, voice pitching higher than you’d intended.

“Uh, yeah,” Maddie said, blinking at you. “Why wouldn’t I? He’s standing right there.”

Jimin straightened, looking genuinely surprised for the first time since he’d appeared in your life. “Oh,” he murmured, a grin creeping onto his face. “This is interesting.”

“What’s interesting?” Maddie asked, crossing her arms. “And who exactly is this ridiculously attractive man following you around? Don’t tell me you picked him up at that hole-in-the-wall bar you love. You usually have better taste.”

“He’s not—! I didn’t—!” You sputtered, unsure how to explain without sounding insane.

“Relax,” Jimin interrupted smoothly, flashing Maddie a disarming smile. “I’m Jimin. A... friend of hers.”

“A friend,” Maddie repeated, one eyebrow raised. “Right. And why is your ‘friend’ lurking in the break room at 8 a.m.?”

Jimin ignored her question, stepping closer to study her intently. “You’re Wiccan, aren’t you?”

Maddie blinked, startled. “Uh, yeah. How did you—?”

“That explains it.” Jimin turned to you, his grin positively wicked now. “She’s got a little magic of her own. That’s why she can see me.”

You stared at Maddie like she’d just sprouted a second head. “Wait. Hold on. You’re Wiccan?”

Maddie blinked at you, a little taken aback. “Uh... yeah?”

“Since when?!” you demanded, gesturing wildly between her and Jimin.

“Since... forever?” Maddie said, her tone tinged with confusion. “I mean, it’s not like I’ve been hiding it. You’ve seen my herb jars and crystals. And the moon water? You thought I just liked collecting mason jars for fun?”

“I thought you were into cottagecore!” you exclaimed, still reeling.

Maddie let out a loud laugh, throwing her head back. “Oh my God, no! I mean, okay, yes, it is a vibe, but—seriously? You thought I was just aesthetic?”

“Well, yeah!” you said, your voice rising in disbelief. “You bake pies and make those little flower arrangements all the time! I didn’t think they were spells!”

“They’re not all spells,” Maddie said, still grinning. “Some of them are just, you know, pies. But come on, how did you not pick up on this?”

Jimin was watching the exchange with rapt interest, his lips twitching like he was barely holding back a laugh. “You two are adorable,” he interjected, earning glares from both of you.

You ignored him, your focus still locked on Maddie. “So, you’re telling me that all this time, you’ve been practicing actual magic? Like, real magic? And you never thought to mention it?”

“To be fair,” Maddie said, raising a finger, “you never seemed particularly interested in that stuff. Plus, I didn’t want to overwhelm you. You’re... not exactly the most open-minded when it comes to the supernatural.”

“I summoned a demon last night!” you yelled, waving a hand in Jimin’s direction.

“And you’re handling it about as well as I expected,” Maddie shot back, smirking.

Jimin snorted, finally losing the battle against his amusement. “She’s got you there.”

You threw up your hands. “This is unbelievable. My best friend is secretly a witch, and apparently, I’ve been living in some kind of magical sitcom this whole time!”

“It’s not a secret if you’re just oblivious,” Maddie teased, leaning against the counter. “But I’ve got to admit, summoning a demon is a pretty dramatic way to join the club.”

“I didn’t mean to join the club!” you groaned, burying your face in your hands. “This is a nightmare.”

“Relax,” Jimin said, stepping closer with an easy smile. “If you think this is shocking, wait until you hear about the vampires.”

You shot him a glare so sharp it could cut steel. “Not. Helping.”

“Just saying,” he said, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “Welcome to the magical world, sweetheart. It’s gonna be a fun ride.”

Maddie grinned, clearly enjoying your meltdown. “Oh, I am so getting popcorn for this.”

You groaned again, wishing desperately that you could wake up from whatever surreal dream your life had become.

The club was alive with pounding bass, strobing lights, and a crush of bodies moving in time with the music. You barely remembered how Maddie had talked you into coming here—something about celebrating your “first step into the magical world” and needing to loosen up after a “stressful week.” It was all a blur of insistence and teasing until you’d finally caved.

Now, you were several drinks deep, your head swimming with a pleasant buzz, and Maddie was nowhere in sight. Probably on the dance floor with some guy she’d charmed into buying her a drink.

As for you, you were parked at the bar, swaying slightly to the music and trying to ignore the growing number of men approaching you.

“You’re too gorgeous to be sitting alone,” one of them said, leaning against the bar with what you assumed was meant to be a winning smile.

You blinked at him, unimpressed. “I’m not alone,” you said flatly, waving vaguely behind you to where Jimin had been lurking most of the evening.

The man glanced over your shoulder, saw nothing, and frowned. “Uh, there’s no one there.”

“Exactly,” you muttered, turning back to your drink.

After the third or fourth guy tried his luck and failed, Jimin finally slid onto the barstool next to you, his presence as palpable as the beat vibrating through the club.

“You know,” he said, voice low and velvety in your ear, “for someone so good at rejecting men, you’ve got a real talent for attracting them.”

You rolled your eyes, not bothering to look at him. “And for someone so supposedly powerful, you’ve got a real talent for being annoying.”

He laughed, the sound rich and warm, cutting through the chaos around you. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re going to make me think you’re into me.”

You snorted, sipping your drink. “You wish.”

“Oh, I don’t need to wish.”

Before you could retort, he was on his feet, holding out a hand. “Come dance with me.”

You stared at him, half-laughing. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re drunk, and I’m irresistible,” he said with a wicked grin. “Also, it’ll keep the other guys off your back. Consider it a public service.”

You hesitated, your head swimming from the alcohol, the music, and the way his smoky eyes seemed to pull you in. Finally, you let out a sigh and took his hand. “Fine. One dance.”

He led you to the dance floor, weaving effortlessly through the crowd until you were surrounded by swaying bodies and flashing lights. The second the music enveloped you, Jimin closed the space between you.

At first, you kept your distance, maintaining a polite gap as you moved to the rhythm. But Jimin was relentless. His hands hovered at your waist, his body drawing closer with every beat, until the space between you was almost nonexistent.

The air grew thick, the alcohol dulling your inhibitions as you swayed together. His presence was magnetic, impossible to ignore. His breath ghosted against your ear as he leaned in, his voice a low murmur that sent a shiver down your spine.

“You’re not bad at this,” he teased, his hands brushing your sides ever so lightly.

“Shut up,” you muttered, but your voice lacked the bite you’d intended.

He smirked, his lips dangerously close to yours. “You’re making it awfully hard for me to behave, you know that?”

Your heart raced, your pulse pounding louder than the music. His smoky purple eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to shrink to just the two of you.

“Behaving is optional,” you found yourself saying, your voice barely audible over the music.

His grin widened, his fingers grazing your arm, sending sparks up your skin. “Careful, sweetheart. I might take that as an invitation.”

You didn’t reply, too lost in the way his touch set your senses alight. You didn’t even notice Maddie watching from across the room, a knowing smirk on her face as she sipped her drink.

Days melted into each other like ink bleeding through parchment. Jimin lingered around you like a shadow, ever-present but growing heavier with each passing moment. The easy flirtation that defined his arrival softened, replaced by something quieter, more contemplative.

It wasn’t lost on you, the way his gaze lingered when you laughed or how his voice softened when he said your name. The comfort between you both had grown—sometimes so tangible it felt like you could reach out and hold it. You’d kissed once, on a night when the stars were bold and the air hummed with something neither of you dared name.

But now, there was a distance. A hesitation.

Jimin had pulled away the last time you leaned in, the warmth in his eyes replaced by a flicker of something sharper. Guilt.

“What’s wrong?” you had asked, voice low, almost afraid of the answer.

“Nothing,” he’d said, too quickly, stepping back like touching you would burn.

It had been happening more and more. You didn’t miss the way he flinched when you pressed closer or how he deflected with humor when things grew too intimate. It wasn’t rejection—it was something deeper, something that weighed heavy in the air between you.

But what you couldn’t see was the storm raging inside him.

Jimin sat on the edge of your couch one evening, watching you flip through an old book Maddie had lent you. His fingers toyed with the silver rings he wore, a habit he’d developed to keep from reaching for you. He hated himself for it. For the first time in his existence, he despised what he was—despised the aura that made you gravitate toward him, the pull that was more compulsion than choice.

What if it wasn’t real? What if you didn’t actually want him?

He’d lived 400 years as an incubus, relishing in the easy connections his power afforded him, taking pride in how mortals fell to his charms. But now, the thought of you succumbing to that same enchantment made his stomach churn.

He wanted you to want him, Jimin, not the intoxicating lure of what he was.

For the first time, he felt the cruel irony of his existence. The tether to hell, his powers, his allure—it was all shackles. And for the first time, he wished he could strip it all away and just... be mortal.

But that wasn’t possible, and his superiors were growing impatient.

One evening, just as you’d fallen asleep, the flames of hell itself flickered into your living room, and a voice like crackling fire filled his mind.

“Jimin.”

He sighed, shoulders tensing as he rose from the chair. “I’ll be back,” he murmured, though he knew you couldn’t hear him.

The summons yanked him downward, into the burning depths of the underworld. The oppressive heat pressed against him as he knelt before his superiors.

“You’ve been stalling,” a voice hissed, serpentine and sharp. “Weeks have passed, and you have yet to fulfill your duty.”

Jimin didn’t look up. “I’m handling it,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction.

“Handling it?” Another voice joined, this one low and menacing. “Do not think your actions—or inaction—have gone unnoticed. We have seen your hesitation. Your... attachment.”

“It’s not attachment,” Jimin snapped, though even he didn’t believe it. “I’m—”

“You’re jeopardizing centuries of tradition,” the first voice interrupted. “Your kind exists to fulfill a purpose. To falter is to betray what you are.”

Jimin clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening. “What if I don’t want to be what I am?”

Silence followed, thick and suffocating.

“And what do you wish to be instead?” the second voice asked, mocking. “A mortal? Pathetic. Fragile. Bound to the inevitable rot of time?”

Jimin looked up, defiance sparking in his smoky eyes. “At least they feel without compulsion. At least their love is real.”

The words echoed in the cavernous space, and for a moment, the air itself seemed to hold its breath. Then, the voices broke into a cacophony of mocking laughter.

“Love?” the first voice sneered. “You are a demon, Jimin. You do not love. You manipulate. You seduce. That is your nature.”

“Then maybe I don’t want it to be,” Jimin shot back, his voice rising, trembling with something dangerously close to despair.

The laughter stopped abruptly.

“Fulfil your duty, or we will ensure the girl suffers for your failure,” the second voice growled. “You are bound by your contract. Do not forget that.”

Jimin’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

When he returned to your living room, the weight of his choice was crushing. You were still asleep, curled up on the couch, the faint light of the TV casting soft shadows across your face.

He sank into the chair, watching you.

And for the first time in his long, immortal life, Jimin felt utterly powerless.

[quitesins]

Prince!Shouto x Writer/Artist!Reader

Masterlist

Sfw, Female!Reader, Fantasy Au, random thought that I just wanted out of my head, mind the typos! Dialogue under the cut!

You’re a writer/artist, gaining quick popularity across the kingdom due to the satirical works you put out, particularly the ones where you satirise The King.

Your pieces are doing numbers. Sung in pubs, tacked to every board in town, even shoved into the arms of royal guards who can’t do anything but stand at their post and take it.

And you’re beaming, practically swimming in money and praise. You let a bit of it get to your head, suddenly dismissive of any consequences that come with mocking the royal family. Especially with your foreign pen name, feeling safe signing the end of each work while cozied up in your little house hidden away in the forest… that is until you get a knock on the door and… it’s The Prince.

[Or Shouto, crown prince, can barely hold in his laugh every time his father calls a meeting to discuss the crudely drawn pictures of him being pasted around the city. And god the first time he heard one of your poems? Being read aloud in the formal voice of one of the guards? It wasn’t just Shouto who had to excuse himself from the table, but his mother too, trailing behind him with a soft smile on her face.

He makes sure the guards keep any of the flyers that make their way into the castle, citing it as “evidence,” crucial to the investigations. Really he just takes them to his room, gleefully pinning them up. Even taking comfort in them on particularly cruel training nights.

He’s never been malicious, but when it comes to his father, he can be quite testy. Petulant for good reason. Your drawings of his father, the harsh scribbles accompanied by wretched songs, somehow he feels seen. Like the awful hate in his heart is warm and somewhere appreciated.

Shouto also thinks the way you draw his father as just a massive rectangle with two deeply furrowed brows is really funny.]

“You know…” Shouto speaks, unintentionally solemn. You prepare to be scolded on instinct. “You’ve drawn my hair on the wrong side.”

In his hand he raises the crumpled remains of one of your works. Even with the paper having seen better days, it’s undeniably yours— with it’s infamous juts of ink, harsh lines and messy splashes of colour thrown across the page. In your handwriting, there’s a vulgar poem captioning the drawing. Implying the prince to be a bastard, with a women killing smile and a surprisingly impish attitude.

Your signature printed in bright red ink probably doesn’t help your case either.

“The scar is accurate howe—”

“Give me that.” You snatch the flyer from him, crumpling it into your hand and tightening around it.

Shouto doesn’t protest, seemingly entertained by your sudden shyness. The words of [Pen Name] have been always been so crass, he had never expected you to hold such embarrassment. He doesn’t want you to, but he finds it amusing all the same.

“Look.” You don’t like his smile, it’s too soft, earnest. “If you’re here to execute me just do it!” There’s a wobble in your voice when you speak. Not from genuine fear of death, instead you sound like a sulking child. “I can’t imagine the king would send his son for any other reason..”

“Shouto,” He prompts. “I’d like it if you called me Shouto.” In the blink of an eye, in front of you is another flyer. “See.” He points to the picture of him, his name written in massive letters underneath.

“How many do you have,” You groan, snatching the paper from him again. His little disappointed pout feels like a win, it must have been his last. “Then why are you here?”

Shouto stares as if he doesn’t quite know himself. His eyes glaze over you, your cluttered room and to where you fists have finally softened in their grip. Then, like a spark alights behind his eyes, he smiles, responding with blunt determination.

“To be your friend.”

I wishhh I had the brain power to write full fics coz this au is so fun to think about… maybe if the fantasising gets too big to stay in my head I’ll write drabbles of random nonchronological scenarios, or not!

[weeping-statue]

Hi, can I get a scenario with yandere Chrollo and kidnapped afab reader where Chrollo overheard reader’s secret 18+ thoughts about him

Ofc<3 I hope you enjoy! Request are open!

“I wasn’t supposed to hear that, but I think deep down you wanted me too.”

-Nsfw- minors dni

———————————————————————

Chrollo was a.. simple man.

As long as you were behaving and kind, you could have your bit of freedom.

Meaning, walking around without supervision, sleeping next to him, feeding yourself, and maybe visits to the outdoor garden that he installed just for you.

But when you had your outbursts, he couldn’t just be lenient. No, cause then you’d get more ballsy, there might even be belief you could walk all over him. And as much as he loved you, he couldn’t have that.

There were places and roles you had to abide by. But you’d learn it one way or another, either by trial and error, or by brute force.

He had been denying you the outdoors, his time, and touch, for too long, which ended up making you stir crazy. Of course you knew your captor was an incredibly evil man, that had a lot of things to do. But if he was going to hide you away from the world until you both took your last breath, at least make it enjoyable.

You lay in your shared bed, hand softly rubbing circles on your clit as you thought of him. Oh how you missed him. The times he used to rub your thighs, softly trailing up to the place you desperately needed him.

A part of you started to worry he didn’t want you anymore, that maybe he found a new woman to focus his attention on and this was his subtle way of telling you it’s over.

But the sparks of pleasure from where you were touching began to overwhelm your worry with a new feeling. Gentle whimpers grew louder, the more wet you became. Moaning out his name as a finger plunged into your tight hole. “Chrollo- I need you so badly, please just fuck me, I promise I’ll be good-”

Eyes screwed shut, feeling the pleasure build. You didn’t even notice Chrollo silently listening in through the crack of your door. A hand slowly reaching his pants to palm his growing erection with a hint of shame.

How disgusting does he have to be to do this outside where any of his members could see. Such an act, is an extremely private matter, that nobody should even know about.

But he can’t help it, not when you’re moaning out for him. It just stirs up something inside of Chrollo that makes his brain go numb.

Fingers find their way to his belt, slowly relieving himself of the tight confines of his pants. The dull ache of his drooling member suddenly becomes too much, and his hand gathers up the precum, using it as lube.

His free hand wraps around his mouth in case anything slips from them. Ears focused on your sweet voice to spur him on, as a growing Shlick sound echos from the hallway.

The tip has become a pretty pink, as his palm speeds up. The friction only causing him to make the smallest sounds. It wasn’t enough, he needed you too. Only carefully and haphazardly pulling up his underwear along with his pants did he barge into the room, panting.

“Sorry, for startling you. But- Mhm, I can’t help myself anymore.” He spoke quickly. Walking up to the bed you were lying in, and pulling his shirt off. Not truly caring.

Your heart was beating quickly, mainly cause he scared the fuck out of you, but also because you were getting what you so desperately wanted.

His thighs were in between yours as the slightly wet hands glide up to your knees, leaving gentle kisses to your collarbone.

Mumbling,

“I wasn’t supposed to hear that, but I think deep down you wanted me too. Now let me make it up to you for eavesdropping, my dear.”

———————————————————————

I suck at writing smut or anything 18+

[whumpsoda]

Coming Back To Bite You, Part 4 - Caught in Her Web

Masterlist

cw: hypnosis, vampire whumper, coarse language, emeto

——————

Marshall hummed, a sort of sound of agreement. He didn’t really know what he was agreeing to, possibly the buzz in the back of his mind, but couldn’t reach enough of himself to decipher it. Not that he could really care at the moment, mind swirling in circles along with the fingers on his temples.

He was floating, gently dancing through the wind of his head like a cloud. His limbs were somehow numbed, disconnected from the rest of his body. All Marshall could feel was the flutter of his eyelids and the grunt of his voice, echoing beyond the emptiness.

Someone was speaking, and he recognized it, clawing out for it. The voice was smooth and kind, something he was unable to make sense of. His face scrunched, wriggling his body awake.

The buzzing grew clearer and clearer, and so did his mind with it. “And up, up, up.”

A gasp, sharp, slipped out from his lips, eyes falling wide. “Get-,” Marshall shot up, rushing out from his spot the vampire’s lap, brain dashing back to it’s full power. “Offa’ me!”

She rolled her eyes, as if she had the right to be irritated. “Okay, dear. No need to shout. I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to.” Putting her arms up, she held them in the typical stance to say I won’t hurt you.

“Yeah, sure. Like I’d believe you after-,” the memories slapped him across the face, and he hung his head. A flame lit in his chest, toiling around the lump in his throat. “You-,” fucker.

“You-,”

The word wasn’t coming out. It was hanging there, right in his mouth, on the tip of his tongue, he just couldn’t push it into reality. Brows furrowing, Marshall’s hands twisted over the fabric of the mittens into fists.

“You-!” He shrieked, the end sticking in his throat like a weight, heavy and sticky, unable to push any further. It was as if it was choking him, blocking air from getting around it.

And the vampire wasn’t speaking, her mouth was stuck in a firm smirk, like she was enjoying his confusion. At the same time, he heard her words.

You mustn’t call your betters by such foul names, my dear. I am your sir, and you will treat me as such.

“S- sorry. Sir.” He muttered, sheepishly.

Marshall clamped a hand over his mouth, unbridled shock plastered across his face. He just-

Apologized?

To her?

Shaking, overtaken by fury, he sipped in a quivering breath. Again, stopped by the strength of chains, he was prevented from tearing her face right off with his teeth. All he was really able to manage was a rippling snarl.

He had called her sir, sliding right over his teeth like an instinct. The bile was bubbling, growling up from his tummy.

“It’s alright, dear.” She cooed, swift and nimble motions grazing his cheeks. “Oh, surprised?” She was taunting him. He grit his teeth. “I may have done just a little bit of quality control while you were under. Just enough to keep you from calling me names, and establishing my title.”

“You-,” he spat, voice trembling. “Um, you-!” The words were piling up in his mind, vile curses, but none of it was breaking through her blockade. It just couldn’t.

“As much as you try,” she started, eyes sweet and glittery, catching him in them, “you won’t be able to get around it. I know that must be scary, but you must accept it.”

“I-,” he sputtered, before he hardened. “Let me go! Let me out!” Shrieking, he fought his very best with the restraints, diving at her.

“Goodness, me.” She scoffed, pushing herself to her feet as he slipped around the wooded flooring of her bedroom, growling and squealing demands. “You really aren’t the smartest, are you? I suppose that only makes my job easier, though, so I should be thankful.”

“Anyways, I want to have a little talk, if you would humor me.” She crouched back to a kneel, a safe distance to where he couldn’t reach her, gracefully keeping her skirt in place. “My name is Evangeline, although you may call me sir, and for the time being I will be your vampire owner.”

He scoffed. “Like hell you will.”

“Oh, you will see, dear. Once under enthrallment you’ve already proved to be very polite and willing. I’d be surprised that you were still up for grabs if you weren’t a hunter. But that didn’t last long, did it?”

Five years. Five years, which seemed like a mere blink of the eye for a vampire.

“I want you to be comfortable here, and I can assure you, if you stop fighting me and just accept it, you will be.”

“Go-!” Fuck yourself! Again, nothing came out, throat shriveling up in a second. He roared nonsense at her, wriggling helplessly at the chains.

Evangeline shook her head. “If that’s how you want to be, then I will simply have to change that.” With the clap of her hands, her sired were back to surrounding them. “Ladies, please escort him back to his enclosure. I think we’re done here.” Crouching above him, she gifted him a little, delighted smile, before pressing a finger to his forehead. Fuck. “And, a little something to keep him complacent on the way.”

When Marshall came to, tired eyelids creaking open, he was walking through the tallest, widest hallway he’d ever seen in his life. Gold encrusted candles littered the walls, keeping it lit as he followed behind the vampire’s sireds. One of them, the one in front of the group, held the end of his chain, guiding his body along on autopilot.

His feet, bare and chilly, followed along dutifully beyond his own accord. Every couple steps they tripped over each other, and a yank on his chain was the only thing to bring him back to obedience.

He needed out, and fast. She already had him calling her sir, what could she have him doing in one more session of conditioning?

Marshall didn’t even want to think about it.

He did his very best to imitate being entranced, although a part of him still was, drowsiness pulling at him like gravity. Scanning the walls for anything to aid him in an escape, he lit up.

A door, humongous and made of dark wood stood between Marshall and the outdoors, between him and freedom.

A breath in, a breath out.

A yank on the chains with all of his might took them right out from the vampire’s grip. The closest vampire, looking to him in shock, was clocked to the floor by his two fists and connecting cuffs, allowing him his very own chance at freedom.

He wasn’t exactly the fastest around, but he managed, even with a fucked up knee. That was until he reached the door, and realized no one was so much as chasing after him. His brows furrowed, slowing down as he reached for the door handle.

His legs ceased any and all movement, right then and there.

Marshall could still reach the door handle, going right for it, before his arm stopped as well, unable to move any further.

And his head-

Marshall lurched forward, gagging on an oncoming of burning bile, bitterness washing ip his throat.

“You are already proving to be a real pain in my ass, you know that?” Evangeline called, stepping up behind him.

He had to get out, he had to get out-

But-

Keeling over, grabbing at his belly, Marshall was unable to handle the searing pain splitting his head in two. What was going on? He managed a weak, shaking laugh, loud and sharp, spit flying at her high heeled boots. “Good.”

“Listen to me.” She hissed, gaze glowing with enthrallment, calling him to her gaze and trapping him in it. “You are a pet as much as you are a food source for us, for vampires as a whole. That is what you are made to be, that is what you were put on this Earth to do.”

“I’m not-,” his fight was melting, just as his mind was under her control. “Not… not a… pet…” jaw losing the fight, a dribble of drool peeked out from the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, why don’t you look at that. All of this talk of lives and futures seems to cease once you’re under even just a smidge of enthrallment, doesn’t it? That is because you are merely a lost soul requiring a vampire’s guidance. None of you are fit to live on your own, to make decisions.” She cupped his face, and the thought of biting at her vanished in an instant, in favor of her swirling bliss. “You all fight for the lives you want to keep, that only make you sad and unhappy creatures. That is why I do what I do, dear. To give you the help you need.”

“H… help…?” Innocence scrawled over his features, and he looked to her with a hopeful glint in his eye.

“Yes, my dear.”

Her fingers dipped into the delve of his temple, bringing his eye to a falling flutter. “Need… help…” he mumbled, with the last of his consciousness, before slipping his mind back to sleep.

——————

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