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deepspacenova · 20 days ago

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figured you out

1900 words. pining. possessive behaviour. sexual tension. obsession. light stalking.

{Dedicated to @mythblossoms and @spiderlilypetals aka the enablers of my mental instability}

Note: this entire thing is me basically calling out @rose-tinted-kalopsia, @unluckywisher, and @starmocha for setting off a Caleb-sized inferno in my brain and keeping the fire going for weeks now. All of you on my feed combined with the lyrics of this song are entirely to blame so here’s me getting Caleb out of my system (liar) xoxo

The barrier between focus and obsession was glass-thin and shaped like a trigger. One decision, one small flick of a finger away from shattering.

Obsession was an itch, fleeting, temporary. But focus? Focus was ambition, determination, winning.

That’s why Caleb had always been a creature of restraint, the very picture of self-control. As a boy, when he set his sights on something, he never burned with want. Wanting was purposeless.

Instead he would set his focus on whatever it was — sweets, trinkets, secrets, toys — until he found a way to make it his. Until he carefully maneuvered the object of his desires right into his little grasp.

Caleb didn’t wish, he didn’t desire.

He conquered.

Only this time, his focus wasn’t on a conquest. It wasn’t on a mission, or a lab data report, or a secret he could use to his advantage. It wasn’t power or strategy or survival.

It was you.

From the very beginning, you’d been the object of his focus. Your affection, your thoughts, your wit, your emotions. Everything that made you tick, he’d picked up and studied like the rarest gem.

And now? Now your fingerprints were sewn permanently into his heart, holding together the thing that beat in his chest. Now, he was light years apart from the boy he’d been, and yet you still gripped it tightly, your hand too small to keep that shriveled and charred, bloody mess together.

But the taste of your laughter, the sound of your skin, the feeling of your scent? Every moment of disorientation you created within him only served to reinforce his lifelong focus on you.

Military training, tests, experimentation chambers, nothing upended the center of his gravity like you.

From the dim hallway, Caleb watched you. His gaze — deep purple with motes of gold, an iris bloom washed in sunset — mapped the coordinates of your smile, measured the radar of your thumping pulse, calculated the precise trajectory of your movements as you fluttered around the small group of Hunters you were meeting with at the Association for a late night UNICORNS debrief.

You’d never understood entirely how you affected him. No one did, he’d made sure of it. Not your mutual friends growing up, not the woman who’d raised you, not the laughing fool you were talking to right now. Not even your Hunter partner across the table from you.

Caleb knew you better. Treated you better. He always had.

It’s because none of them actually took the time to see you, not really. Not like he did. And no matter how far apart you two got, that would never change.

You were an enigma to them, a cluster of ridges and buttons in a cockpit, unfulfilled in an amateur's grasp. Dormant without expert handling and care.

But Caleb had long ago solved you — your wants, your vulnerabilities, your secrets, your fears, your weaknesses. He'd seen you bared before him and had figured you out. Down to the very core in your heart.

Even within the darkest depths of the universe, with no sense or feeling, he would know exactly where to trail each of his fingers. How much pressure to apply to every delicate divot. The precise combination and rhythm to elicit a response.

The way he could guide you, command you, the way he could make you take flight for him? It would be… explosive.

The melody of your sudden laughter extinguished the heat that had started to lick its way down his body as he watched you give them the version of yourself they expected. Amiable, innocent, polished.

As your meeting came to an end and you and your colleagues stood to leave, the shadows shifted around Caleb as he pushed off from the wall he’d been leaning against. Pulling the DAA clearance card that had kept the door behind him open, he took a step into the corridor that would lead to his quiet exit.

Only he knew where your smile dented into your cheek. Only he knew the cadence of your breaths when you spoke. Only he knew what you looked like when your guard was truly down. When you sighed, cried, hurt, and slept. Only he was worthy of seeing it.

Only Caleb had forged himself into a man worthy of loving you.

The night was thick with fog when he watched you step out of the Hunter’s Association, your shadow dancing across the concrete under the warm glow of the street lamps.

As you parted ways with your colleagues, Caleb studied the elegant line of your throat, the way it expanded and contracted around the hum of your voice.

He knew the exact shape of it by memory, — all those times you'd looked up at him to smile at him, to talk to him, to argue with him — the softness of the delicate skin there, the way it would feel under his palm, under his mouth. Fluttering, warm, alive.

He wasn’t supposed to be here, not away from Skyhaven, not in a darkened alleyway by your workplace where the lamp light barely even reached.

But as the sound of your footsteps ticked over the hum of the city, as each of your movements brought you closer to the corner of the building, to him, the oxygen funneling into his brain seemed to thin, and the rational part of his mind, his focus, took a backseat.

The sight of you walking toward him was so right, so inevitable that Caleb barely even realized how far out of the shadows he was leaning, how quickly he’d snapped himself back into your orbit.

He, the metal, you, the magnet.

The fist of his right arm clenched as he forced himself to stay in place, to stop leaning toward you on the off chance the sweetness of your skin would enter his nose. The connection between you was so physical, pulled so taut, that he almost couldn’t believe you'd never sought to close the distance, that you’d ever accepted his death so easily.

That had always been your biggest mistake, though. Thinking that he’d ever allow something as trivial as mortality to sever what bound you to him.

He shouldn’t reach for you. He knew that. And yet, as you closed the distance, he stepped closer. Just enough to feel your presence pull against him.

His evol stirred, faint but insistent, brushing against the edges of your space like a ribbon. The pull of you was so familiar, so tangible, he could feel every cell, all the matter that made up your beautiful existence.

Suddenly, without his permission, his hand shot out, gently enveloping your wrist as you passed.

You spun around, your instincts awakened, and in one fluid motion the barrel of your gun was aimed at his chest. He almost chuckled at the sight, but the intensity on your face kept him quiet.

Your eyes widened, shock and incredulity clicking into place when they finally registered Caleb’s presence. “You…” the sentence withers in your throat.

“Hello, pip,” he said softly, raising a brow at the gun. “Still using that move?”

Your eyes flicked across the contours of his face like a laser, his hair, his cheeks, his eyes, his jaw, no detail escaping your notice before you stuttered, “C-Caleb? Bu— You’re supposed to be…”

He felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth as the letters of his name curled around your tongue for the first time in what felt like an eternity. “I still might if you don’t put that away,” he said mildly.

Your grip on the weapon tightened reflexively, but it didn’t lower. Interesting.

Moving with military-like precision, too quickly for you to counteract it, Caleb’s hand shot out, hitting the gun and dislodging it from your grasp.

You froze, hooking your gaze into his as he tested the weight of it in his hand, the barrel pointing at your chest for one second, two seconds, three... before he aimed it at the ground.

“Tsk, tsk. So careless.” The soft click of the safety flicking on pierced the air between them. “Someone could’ve gotten hurt, pipsqueak.”

“How did you… how are you…?” there’s a faint tremor in your tone and your eyes turn glassy.

“Shh,” Caleb stepped closer, close enough to feel your shaky exhale against his throat like a wave of summer air, close enough to reach around you to place your gun back in the holster on your hip. Close enough that his forehead brushed yours. “I missed you too.”

For half a second, he saw your guard slip, your face caught between disbelief and longing.

And then, like feeling an engine ignite, he knew exactly which of your buttons he’d just flicked. Before the anger even had a chance to crackle across your irises. Before your palms came up to his chest and shoved at it. “I went to your funeral.”

“My funeral, hm?” His body had barely swayed, but his amused, love-drunk smile never wavered when he decided to press another button. “Did you cry for me, then?”

Caleb’s evol flared, and he had your hands lowered — eyelashes fluttering in surprise, back and palms pinned to the building behind you — before you’d even finished the thought of shoving him again.

With your hands out of the way, as you struggled against the bindings of his evol, Caleb finally took the chance to cup your face in his hands, cradling it like it was the very nucleus of his life force.

“Hey. Hey,” he soothed, re-familiarizing himself with the contour of your jaw beneath his fingers. “I’d never leave you in a world without me, pip, you know me better than that.”

“I thought I did,” you gritted out, the confusion and betrayal in your voice slowing your movements. "Now, I'm not so sure."

He took advantage of your hesitation, brushing the bow of his upper lip against the bump of your lower one.

“You do, though,” he reassured. “Just like I know you. Better than anyone ever could.” Caleb reached out, his knuckles grazing your cheek. “Your anger, your love” His hand went to the steel-chain tag that hung around his neck. “Wants. Needs.” His nose traced the bridge of yours and he reveled in another one of your shaky breaths. “Outside…” His voice roughened, “Inside.”

Just as you quit struggling, just as your confusion fissured and your body turned languid against his, just as you gave in, Caleb released you, taking a step back to enjoy the sight of you trying to find your footing.

“Now you’ll never doubt that I’ll always find you.” His mouth curved into the charismatic smile he was known to flash at his general when he gestured toward the street. “It’s late, pipsqueak. Get yourself home.”

Your chest heaved with what were no doubt a dozen of your favorite insults, but you didn’t voice any of them. Instead, you clenched your jaw, straightened your shoulders, and bit out, “I’m going to— I can’t believe— No, I can’t do this right now. This isn’t over, Caleb.”

You turned sharply on your heel, your footsteps echoing in the silence as you walked away, steps stiff and uneven. And Caleb watched as the shadows swallowed your figure and you disappeared from view.

He’d wait, he decided. he could play the long game. He already spent all these months away from you, what were a few more if it helped you realize the raw, unfiltered truth — that he belonged to you.

And that was the moment the glass barrier shattered, a pulled trigger that splintered his focus into shards of obsession.

#caleb has derailed the past five days of my life #but yes im totally normal about him why do you ask #lads Caleb #l&ds caleb #lnds caleb #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x reader #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace fanfiction #lnds fanfics #love and deepspace #my writing #nova writing

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madaqueue · 9 days ago

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FALL FROM GRACE

do not desire her beauty in your heart, and do not let her capture you with her eyelashes. put to death that which is earthly inside you.

pairing: priest!sunday x succubus!f!reader

themes/content: dubcon (char!receiving - he says "stop" and it's basically ignored, and there's some heavy coercion/corruption stuff going on here), somno depending on how you look at it (succubi technically visit people in their dreams, so he's asleep ? sorta?), lots of religious guilt around sex, heavy catholic religious imagery (literally straight up bible verses). smut. handjobs, fingering/masturbation, p in v. i wanted to explore the rigidity and internalized shame sunday feels so uh . here's this ! (wk: 3.6k)

a/n: me when he's burdened and tormented (also i had to put my religious trauma somewhere ! hope it's yummy) :3333

The first night is always the most fun.

They never wake, not on this visit; the mind is a simple thing to trick, eager to make excuses for the gentle touches trailing over one’s torso, down their chest. A dream, they call it, a ready and waiting path to forgiveness.

The second night is usually the same - feather-light hands, breathy kisses - but you find Sunday to be a near-impossibly light sleeper when he begins to stir beneath you. Pinned under thighs that straddle his waist, his eyelashes flutter, nearly roused; his lips part, almost a sigh. It’s an uncanny thing to be so beautiful and so unaware; you wonder if he’s grateful for this gift. With a quick peck, you send him back into the waiting arms of slumber.

The third night you visit him, his eyes open slowly, still clouded by dreams. It’s rather obviously unexpected to be found in this position, with a stranger resting over him, smiling, trapped beneath their weight.

“Who are you?” he breathes, barely above a whisper. There’s no fear behind his gaze, only shimmering curiosity.

“Who do you think I am?”

Your fingers trail lower, tracing circles into his abdomen. It’s a fitting pattern for what you’ve seen of him: controlled, precise, predictable. No hard edges or uncertainty, just smooth and calm. Something about a vow, you think, has made him like this. Poverty. Chastity. Obedience. A promise to a power too self-righteous for your taste.

His eyebrows furrow as he attempts to focus upon you, vision still blurry. The most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, curves casting shadows under the fading starlight, black lace and soft skin. Then, there’s a flash of horns, a flicker of your tail, the markings below your abdomen pulsing through the dark. He swallows. “What are you?”

Ruby lips spread into a grin, one that veers sinister - he’s such a cute little thing, a chocolate covered strawberry, all sweet and flesh and blood. “An angel.”

The silk pillowcase rustles as he shakes his head, too innocent, too naive to do anything but be truthful. “No, you’re not.”

“No,” you lean forward, feeling his pulse thrum below your palm. “I’m not.” You kiss his cheek, and whisper a goodnight.

The fourth night, he’s more awake, but less verbal. Instead, sun-bright eyes follow your movements, the crackling fingerprints that travel his skin. He lets you touch him, lets you trace out the muscles lying below the surface, feel the nerves and arteries that quicken under your touch. Drowsy little whines leave his throat, barely a sound, as you work. Up wrists, over shoulders, to collarbones, counting ribs and diving into his hips, along his thighs, and back again. It’s a beautiful routine, just light enough to keep him half-slumbering.

From there, it’s mostly the same - you touch and trace and tease him, and he watches, silent and mostly unconscious. A week passes, maybe two. The time doesn’t matter, not to you, not really. What matters is the way his skin sparks beneath your fingertips, the way his eyelashes flutter under the moon’s silken glow.

You aren’t granted the privilege of visiting him awake, not yet, at least. There’s no way for you to see the way he pours over text, books with cracked spines and dusty pages, to find the source of these…dreams, of the being that visits him and steals him from the respite of sleep. The word succubus is heavy in his mouth, more bitter than communion wine, with no unleavened sanctity coming after to dull the taste.

On the seventeenth night (you think, if your count is right), he wakes in a notably different position, no longer cradled by the mattress upon which he put himself to bed. Under the mottled moonlight, he finds himself sitting upright, the bare skin of his back resting against something much warmer than the wooden headboard.

“Good morning, Sunday,” you purr into his ear from behind.

He murmurs something, slowly turning over his shoulder to face you. For the briefest moment, you think you catch the flicker of a smile.

“Good morning, demon.”

“Oh?” you let out an airy chuckle. “So you’ve figured it out then. Good, I was worried all you priests were nothing more than fools.”

The lightest laugh brushes past his lips, allowing his eyes to rest for a moment. “I’m no fool. Now tell me, why are you here, demon?”

Through a feigned pout, your hands make their way back to his chest. “What, are you sick of me already? You don’t like me, is that it?”

“I have no particular feelings towards you.” He’s quick to respond, quicker even to remind himself of his place, of his duties, as your palms threaten to burn through his skin. Poverty. Celibacy. Obedience. Important ideals. Good ideals. Holy ones, at that.

Through a hum, you travel lower over his body. It’s a test, really, to see if he’ll stop you, grab your wrists and yank you from behind him and banish you from this place forever. It would take so little: a splash of holy water, or even a simple curse, and he’d be rid of you. Surely he found that little fact in his readings.

And yet, he simply follows your path downward with his gaze (you can’t say you’re truly that surprised - it has become your routine, after all. And Sunday cherishes his routines).

“No feelings for me, you say,” you say, pensively. Lower, and lower, and lower.

Just as his lips open to speak, to throw some calculated retort, your fingertips brush between his legs and the sound twists into something else, something needier, a noise he couldn’t have controlled with all the constitution in heaven.

You gasp at the response, too, awe bubbling inside your cheeks.

“Oh, Sunday,” you breathe. “You poor thing, you must be so pent up.”

“I- mmm.” With a second run of your palm over his hardening length, his eyes dance shut, his entire body shuddering.

“Don’t they allow you to touch yourselves here?”

It’s evil, this touch, coursing with sin and dark, dirty blasphemy. He ought to shut his mouth, rip out his vocal cords if that’s what it takes, and wait. Perhaps a blood smear above his lips would protect him, make you pass him over tonight and all nights thereafter.

“N-not in the monastery,” he chokes out. “It’s against the rules.”

He grants you the privilege of grazing his warming skin, before letting out a shaky breath. Thou shalt not covet. Dispel desire.

“You…you should stop.”

“Stop?” The absurdity leaks into your voice. “You’ve given up so much for this silly church, don’t you think? Why give this up, too? Don’t you deserve it?”

A pause, a steadying breath, to quiet your dissatisfaction disguised as rage.

“And besides, look how badly you need this. It feels good, doesn’t it?” An angel, caught in your trap; to think you may not even have to clip his wings. “Don’t you want to feel good, my dear Sunday?”

Eyelashes delve into the creases of his eyelids as he tightens them closed, lips pulled into a gasping frown. Everything in his mind, in the years of his training, of memorizing verses and teachings and sermons and rules and rules and rules, tells him to say no, to force a stop to this nonsense.

“And,” you perk up at his hesitation, “it won’t even be violating your so-called ‘rules’ if I’m the one touching you, right?”

Even through the feather-light touches, Sunday worries he’s losing his mind, like your fist might as well be piercing through his chest and ripping his soul from it, dragging it into hell with you. The thoughts that make it up his spine are too blurry with lust to let the more sluggish Reason through.

“Right.”

Smiling into his neck, you feel his carotid jump under your teeth. “Good, good. So just let me do this, okay?”

So put to death the sinful, earthly things lurking within you. Have nothing to do with sexual immorality, impurity, lust, and evil desires.

He says the words over, and over, and over in his mind.

Do not be greedy, for a greedy person is an idolater, worshiping the things of this world.

He knows better than to make idols.

And yet, all he can do is nod his head.

He doesn’t face you, of course, buried under the shame of it. If the church was any older, he’d worry the brick would collapse in on him at any second, to punish him for the sin he was too weak to avoid committing. Perhaps he should be turned to salt, a fate befitting of his pathetic disobedience.

“Okay.”

It’s immediate, the way he relaxes when you finally reach below his boxers. The heat of your touch melts him, his throat craning as it releases strained whines. He’s heavy in your hand, a weight his so-called gods would surely commend, if they could spare such thoughts. Soft skin, unsoiled, untainted. Utterly holy.

As you stroke him with a tenderness only known to the clouds of salvation, he looks nothing short of angelic, the arch of his spine making space where wings ought to be, the tickle of his hair soft like a crowned halo. And you, wrapped around him like a flame, carry him through the air. Lower, and lower, and lower. To soften the blow when one falls from grace.

It takes so little for him to shake, to shudder and cry and bend, until you worry his shoulders may snap if you weren’t caging his torso against yours. His head falls back, slack-jawed and awe-struck, as he releases into your palm, pumps of white coating your hand.

It’s a beautiful thing, the sounds he makes, the purity of it. White and cream and gold, just as you’d imagine heaven to be.

There’s waves of pleasure, his stomach clenching with each one, pushing him further and further into you, and you swallow him whole, welcoming with open arms.

Slowly, you press your lips to his cheek, scalding hot.

“Goodnight, Sunday.” And he falls into your chest.

It grows increasingly difficult for him to hide the dreams (at least, that’s what he would convince himself they are). It’s been months now, although truthfully, you’ve stopped counting.

Every night, he falls into a troubled, humid sleep. Every morning, he wakes to a mess, still half-hard and panting.

And yet, he’s more relaxed, his shoulders less tense. When he turns to the parish, his neck moves more easily. As a well-educated (well-trained) man, he assumes he hides it well, but his relief is palpable, a taste too thick to anyone who knows him.

“You seem different lately, Sunday,” Father Wood observes casually.

With his back facing him, Sunday conceals the way his spine tightens. “How do you mean, Father?”

Pensively, Father Wood lights the altar’s candles, an honor given only to those most highly ordained, an honor Sunday used to dream of performing (now, of course, his dreams are consumed by other desires).

“Just…different, is all.”

Sunday’s attention falls to the flames before him, to the way they dance nervously despite the still, stagnant air inside the church. Perhaps they know something he doesn’t.

“I’ve been spending more time in the library lately. Perhaps my reading has enlightened me.”

“Perhaps,” Father Wood echoes. With quiet purpose, he lights the final candle. “This church is your home, my boy. You had nothing before you came here. I remember the day we took you in, the day you were saved.”

There’s a pit in his stomach, one that grows and grows and grows; he’d expect it to taste like acid, but all he gets is honey. “I remember it, too.”

Father Wood hums, facing away. “‘If our minds are ruled by our desires, we will die.’” A pause, a flickering flame. “Sunday, I trust you not to forget the oaths you swore.”

A shiver runs up his neck. Poverty. Chastity. Obedience. “Of course not, Father.”

That night, you meet Sunday in bed. Normally it’s little trouble to untuck the sheets, to find the welcoming skin of his thighs, but tonight he seems determined to bury himself within the blankets.

“Sunday,” you say. He fails to respond, but his ears twitch. “Sunday, I know you’re awake.”

One eye slowly cracks open, revealing the sun behind his eyelids. “Go away.”

“Excuse me?” you choke a laugh. “You want me to ‘go away’?”

Closing his eyes, he hums in affirmation.

Within your chest, your heart flutters - he’s so cute when he thinks he’s in control. Perhaps that’s why you chose him (the chase is always the most fun, the tension of it all; you think Eve’s first bite of the apple must have been underwhelming compared to its weight in her palm).

Perhaps your routine will bring him back. Slowly, you trail a finger along his collarbone - before he pulls away. Curling himself onto his side, he tucks his knees to his chest and shuts you out.

This is certainly a novel development. And it certainly will not do.

“Fine then,” you state, leaning back to the corner of the mattress.

In response, his left ear twitches, but he gives no other response. So be it.

Against the wooden footboard, you open your legs, visible if he were only to turn towards you. With well-practiced hands, you easily slide the black lace panties down your knees, letting them fall at your ankles and leaving you bare (it requires few garments to do your work successfully, after all - they’re made for this).

Silently, you spread your ever-wet folds open. With your other hand, you draw circles around your clit, slowly, tauntingly. Delving into your own heat, a sound of relief comes as an exhale, one that finally has Sunday’s gaze peeking from between his eyelashes.

“What are you doing?”

“If you don’t want me to touch you, I guess I’ll just have to touch myself instead,” you say. The words flow easily, thick like milk and honey, something sweet, something to help him sleep.

This time, his eyes remain open.

His mouth does, too.

Silent except for the ragged breaths coming past his lips, he watches you pleasure yourself, the way your fingers curl, knuckles disappearing only to reappear shining. The inky pattern adorning your womb morphs and glows; a spot of saliva catches in the dim light, and he makes no move to wipe it away.

With an arch of your back and a tilt of your head, you beckon him closer - always such an obedient little thing, your Sunday (he was praised for it, once); he slowly rises. The mattress shifts beneath his weight, holding it unsteadily, as he crawls towards you. Unwavering attention held raptly between your thighs.

“Sunday,” you say, to snap him out of the trance that pulls him towards you. He says nothing, a small trail of drool spilling from the corner of his perfectly eager lips. “Sunday.”

His eyes snap up to yours, the sun eclipsed behind the growing shadow of his pupils.

Your palm cradles his jaw, thumb wiping away the glistening desire. “Are you going to behave now?”

A blank stare.

A fragile nod.

“Good.” Your grin splits the earth open with wicked flames, poking between your teeth. He drinks in the heat with a starving throat, ignoring the way it burns (or reveling in it).

A sparkling star shines in his eyes, nearly glowing. You pull the two fingers from your cunt, still warm and sticky and sweet, and hold them before his face.

You don’t even have to tell him to open his mouth - obedience is such a lovely thing.

When your taste lands upon his tongue, he releases a moan like molten gold. His lips close around your fingers and he sucks and licks the essence from them, hungry and gnawing. Your fingertips glide over his molars and he fights the urge to bite, to claim (a well-trained dog is still just a dog, after all).

There’s a half-hearted whine when you remove your skin from his, one that makes your cheeks ache.

“Tell me what you want, my dear Sunday. Anything you want.”

If our minds are ruled by our desires, we will die.

Perhaps dying here tonight, with your taste still lingering in his throat, would be a graceful demise. A martyr of his sacrilege.

Already, he looks ravished, his cheeks dusted red and eyes wild and unfocused. The pretty ones are always the most fun to ruin, to dirty with desecration; they look so beautiful as they fall.

“I want-” there’s a lump in his throat where his servitude lives, where the years of holiness coalesced and stayed. He swallows heavily. “I want to feel good. I want you to make me feel good.”

“Ah,” you breathe. “I suppose I can do that.”

“But-” he catches himself. Rules, and rules, and rules. They clog up his esophagus, his vocal cords straining to get past them.

With a gentle finger, you hush his worries. “Just let me take care of you. Let me make you feel good, okay?”

He exhales, a shaky sound. “Okay.”

It takes little pressure to recline him onto the bed, the sheets already dampening from the sweat collected in the hollows of his back. He lets you undress him, lets you place scalding kisses into his skin, soft and sweet as a fig. Ripe like one, too.

Only two pumps of your fist up his length and he’s already leaking, twitching and aching.

“So eager,” you coo when his hips rut into the air, chasing your touch.

“M-my apologies,” he says weakly.

“Nothing to be sorry for, my sweet Sunday. Pleasure is a thing to be worshiped, don’t you think?”

They’d bury him for this. The other priests would crucify him and leave his body out to rot. He’d deserve it, he wouldn’t even complain, he’d be perfectly obedient until his very last breath.

As your thighs encase his, as you line his tip to your entrance, as you sink down, slowly, slowly, slowly, until you’re flush with him, until you’ve swallowed him whole and nestled him inside of you, his vision goes white and he feels the warm smile of forgiveness.

“Yes.”

From behind, your tail twitches into his peripheral vision. A cruel reminder, a crash and burn. Melted wings and the sea. But then your hips circle, once, twice, and he forgets himself again, he enjoys the fall.

His hands fly to your waist, before they’re swatted away with a click of your tongue and a sparkle in your eyes. “Ah, no touching me, remember? Those are your rules, after all.”

“Right.” Instead, his fists dig into the sheets, knuckles turning white.

With each plunge of your warmth up and down his cock, he’s reborn, fresh and gasping, each breath burning like the first. Crescent moons carve into his palms, and he groans.

“Is this…is this real?”

A chuckle bubbles from your throat. “Do you want it to be?”

He hesitates for a moment, lets your hand rest on his unsteady heart, lets your skin stick to his. Just below it, a knot forms, the strings tightening and tightening and tightening under years of strain.

“Yes.”

You fill his vision, all-consuming, eating the space between you with sharp teeth. When you speak, it’s a low sound, a rumbling purr. It makes his stomach clench. “Good.”

His breaths come in faster, now that he knows it’s real, that the heat creeping up his neck and down his legs is real, that this is happening. That something exists that feels this fucking good.

And then, all at once, the knot unties itself. The moans he releases are holy, more beautiful than a choir with all its ordained voices.

Damp palms grab at your hips, and you let them. With greedy fingers he holds you in place, fucking himself up into you. Tears well in his eyes and in the blurry haze, he thinks he sees heaven. It opens itself before him, warm and beckoning, in the space between your thighs.

“God, fuck,” he exhales, and you grin.

“How blasphemous, Sunday.”

If he hears you, he gives no indication. Curses tumble from his lips, raw edges cutting his lungs.

He chases a high with urgency, with uncoordinated thrusts and a too-tight grip. His dedication is truly a virtue.

It’s only a moment before he stills, eyes widening, jaw falling open to release an angelic cry. Truly beautiful as he falls, as he comes undone. In the space below his arched spine, you swear there’s a momentary flutter of wings.

Eyelashes open and close, as if to prove that this is not, in fact, real. But the heat still encircling him is proof enough. He shivers.

“Fuck,” he whispers, more to himself than anything.

“Oh Sunday,” you hum, fingers tracing ribs that rise and fall unevenly. There’s a twinge of something mixed into the pride, something sadder, something longing. “This certainly has been fun.”

“Fuck,” he says again. Dread settles on his shoulders, heavy, heavier than duty or scriptures or a grave, than a cross. “Will I…?”

“Be excommunicated for this? Probably not,” you smirk.

Weakly, he shakes his head, sweaty strands of hair sticking to the pillowcase below. “Will I see you again?”

The question makes your heart flutter. How cute.

“If you’d like to, my dear.” With a gentle hand, you brush the fringe from his forehead. “Anything you want.”

At that, he relaxes, his shoulders sinking deeper. With heavy eyelids, his blinking slows. “Good.”

How beautiful he looks like this, half-conscious and spent, utterly debauched. Utterly holy.

“But for now, get some rest.” Warm lips press into his cheek, and he leans into them with a hum. “Goodnight, Sunday.”

#q writes #oneshot #sunday #sunday x reader #hsr #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #sunday hsr #sunday honkai star rail #hsr smut #sunday smut #cw dubcon #cw religious imagery #cw religion #<- if i am missing any tags PLEASE do not hesitate to let me know and i will add them!!!!!#cw sacrilege #cw blasphemy

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nightingale-prompts · 16 days ago

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Alfred's Apprentice- DCxDP prompt

Alfred isn't immortal and he can admit he's not getting any younger. It also wouldn't hurt to have someone else to take on the workload since the family isn't going to get smaller.

Instead of finding help, help found him.

"Call me Nightingale. Danny Nightingale." The young man said presenting a black card with perfect white ink calligraphy.

Danny was about Tim's age. He had already graduated early according to records. His record was perfect in all respects. Smart. An intellect comparable to geniuses in respects to science which had more uses in the households then you'd expect. He was very precise when it came to cleaning. Every surface needed to be cleaned regardless of how much use they see. In fact Danny would carry a blacklight and wipe anything with fingerprints. His almost supernatural strength allowed him to move furniture for easier cleaning.

Alfred had suspicions that Danny had a history in crime scene cleaning. He chose not to say anything.

The kid was a damn good cook as well. Though his tea isn't up to Alfred's standards. At least heist his aim is good.

Bruce at least didn't adopt this one and leave Alfred to take care of him.

"Nightingale, did you clean the ceiling?" Alfred asked.

"Yes, sir. Please leave any hard to reach places to me. The chandelier is especially finicky to polish and you have better things to tend to." He said bowing at the waist.

Bruce was still uncomfortable asking Danny for anything and let Alfred instruct him on what he should do. He has suspicions that Danny was being trained to tend to Damian should something happen to him. Alfred would come up with a contingency like that.

The others took to Danny as best as they could. Most treated him like a brother with the exception of Tim and Damian. Tim couldn't really see past them being the same age but Danny was able to understand his babble about theories and help him. Thought Danny was also to wait out Tim's insomnia easily and take him to bed.

Damian had no issue seeing Danny as a servant which was exactly what he wanted. Dick would criticize him about being rude but Danny would assure him that Damian was not being rude, he was just giving Danny a job to do.

It was during an outing with Damian that Danny was put to the test. They were just visiting an art supply store. Danny carried Damian's bags to the car and put them away in the trunk. As he opened the door to let Damian in a group of kidnappers tried to steal the young master.

It was likely a crime of opportunity as they saw a rich boy and his butler out and about.

As the group tried to drive of with Damian in tow all the ties on their van blew out as Danny had already thrown down caltrops under the ties.

Gracefully and with the dignity expected of a bulter he pried the rough hands off of Damian, breaking every finger as he went.

"Please refrain from such brutish actions. I'd usually be unwilling to let this go but you must be very desperate to commit a crime so blatantly as to steal a child. I'm in a rush to get the young master home for dinner. So remain here, the police will be here in a few moments."

With that Danny escorted Damian into the car and drove them home.

#dc x dp #dpxdc #dc x dp prompt #danny fenton #danny phantom #dp x dc prompt #batman #tim drake #dick grayson #alfred pennyworth #bruce wayne #damian wayne

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23victoria · 2 months ago

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gingerbread cookies!

pairings: 𝓯1 𝓰𝓻𝓲𝓭 𝔁 𝓯𝓮𝓶!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

word count: 3.8𝓴

synopsis: 𝓶𝓪𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓰𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓻𝓫𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓬𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓲𝓮𝓼 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓱𝓾𝓼𝓫𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓴𝓲𝓭𝓼

authors note: 𝓭𝓪𝔂 1 𝓸𝓯 𝓬𝓱𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓶𝓪𝓼 𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓽𝓼! 𝓱𝓸𝓹𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓮𝓷𝓳𝓸𝔂! 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓼, 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓼, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓪𝓼𝓴𝓼 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓪𝓹𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓲𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓭!!

𝔀𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝓽𝓸 𝓫𝓮 𝓪𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓶𝔂 𝓽𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽?! CLICK HERE!

F1 MASTERLIST F1 CHRISTMAS MASTERLIST

Lewis

The kitchen is already buzzing with excitement. Lia’s tiny voice fills the room as she sits on the counter, clapping her flour-covered hands while her big brother Leo drags a chair to the counter so he can reach the mixing bowl. Lewis stands next to you, grinning from ear to ear, his apron slightly already dusted with flour. You’re armed with a rolling pin and a smile, ready to face the inevitable chaos of baking gingerbread cookies for the first time as a family.

“Alright, team,” Lewis says, clapping his hands together. “Let’s make some gingerbread magic happen.”

“Cookies, Daddy!” Lia cheers, throwing her arms in the air. The sudden movement sends a puff of flour into the air, and both you and Lewis cough, laughing as the powder settles.

“Cookies, yes, princess,” he says, scooping her up and planting a kiss on her flour-speckled cheek. She giggles and squirms, and he sets her back down on the counter. “But first, we have to mix the dough. Leo, you ready to be my sous-chef?”

Leo’s chest puffs up with pride. “Yes, Dad! I’m ready.”

You hand him the wooden spoon, and he gets to work mixing the dry ingredients. You and Lewis guide him, taking turns measuring out the cinnamon, ginger, and cloves while Lia alternates between sneaking handfuls of flour and trying to “help” by stirring.

“Lia, no eating the flour,” you say gently, pulling her flour-covered fingers out of her mouth. “It doesn’t taste good yet.”

She pouts dramatically, her big brown eyes shining with mischief. “But I’m hungry, Mommy!”

“You’ll get cookies soon,” Lewis assures her, ruffling her curly hair. “But first, we have to make the dough.”

The dough comes together quickly, though not without a few mishaps. Lia accidentally dumps too much sugar into the bowl, prompting a quick rescue mission from you and Leo. Lewis adds a bit too much molasses, which makes the dough stickier than it should be. But the laughter and teamwork make up for any imperfections.

When it’s time to roll out the dough, you dust the counter with flour and hand Lia a miniature rolling pin. She takes her job very seriously, rolling the dough with all her might, even if it’s uneven and full of tiny fingerprints.

“Look, Mommy! I’m a chef!” she announces proudly.

“You’re the best chef,” you reply, leaning down to kiss her forehead.

Meanwhile, Leo focuses intently on cutting out shapes with the cookie cutters. He’s careful and precise, his tongue poking out in concentration as he presses a star-shaped cutter into the dough.

“Good job, buddy,” Lewis says, giving him a fist bump. “That’s a perfect star.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Leo says, beaming.

Of course, it’s not long before things start to spiral into delightful chaos. Lia, bored with rolling dough, begins decorating her face with flour, creating what she calls a “gingerbread mask.” Leo accidentally knocks over the bowl of sprinkles, sending colorful candies skittering across the floor. And Lewis, in his attempt to “help,” manages to get icing on his nose and eyebrows.

“You’re supposed to decorate the cookies, not yourself,” you tease, laughing as you wipe a smear of icing off his cheek.

“I’m just setting the vibe,” he quips, leaning in to kiss you. Before his lips can meet yours, Lia interrupts with a loud, “Ewwww, Mommy and Daddy are kissing!”

You and Lewis laugh, pulling apart but not before he winks at you. “We’ll finish that later,” he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear.

Finally, the cookies are ready to go into the oven. You let Leo and Lia take turns placing the tray in with Lewis supervising closely.

As the cookies bake, the smell of ginger and cinnamon fills the kitchen, making everyone’s mouth water. You’re wiping down the counter when Lia tugs on your sleeve.

“Mommy, can we make hot chocolate?” she asks sweetly, her flour-covered face tilted up at you.

“Of course we can,” you say, lifting her off the counter and setting her on the floor. “Let’s get the mugs.”

By the time the cookies are ready, the four of you are sitting at the table, sipping hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows. The cookies, though slightly misshapen, are delicious, and Leo takes great pride in pointing out which ones he decorated.

“This one’s mine,” he says, holding up a star-shaped cookie covered in lopsided icing. “And that one’s Lia’s.”

“It’s so pretty,” Lia says, clapping her hands. “Just like me!”

Lewis bursts out laughing. “You’re not wrong, princess.”

As the evening winds down, you survey the mess in the kitchen: flour on the counters, sprinkles on the floor, and sticky fingerprints everywhere. But the sound of your children’s laughter and the sight of their frosting-smeared faces make it all worth it.

“We’re definitely doing this again next year,” Lewis says, wrapping an arm around your waist.

“Absolutely,” you agree, leaning into him.

The kids, now on a sugar high, start a game of tag around the table, their giggles echoing through the house.

Charles

The twins are perched on either side of the kitchen island, their little hands eager to dive into the pile of cookie cutters and bowls of colorful icing. Jules, ever the perfectionist, carefully lines up the cutters, his brow furrowed in concentration. Alessandro, on the other hand, is already elbow-deep in the flour, a mischievous grin on his face.

"Papa, is it like this?" Jules asks, holding up a perfectly shaped gingerbread man. Charles leans over, his green eyes sparkling with pride. "C'est parfait, Jules! You’re a natural."

You’re busy rolling out another sheet of dough when Alessandro lets out a frustrated huff. "Mine broke!" he exclaims, holding up a decapitated gingerbread man. Tears threaten to spill as he glares at the dough.

Before you or Charles can intervene, Jules slides his own gingerbread man over to his twin. "Here, Ale. You can have mine. I’ll make another one," he says softly, his tone filled with understanding.

The gesture melts your heart. Charles places a hand on your back, his expression a mix of pride and tenderness as he watches his sons. "They’re good boys," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple.

Alessandro sniffs, accepting the cookie with a shy smile. "Thanks, Jules. You’re the best brother."

The rest of the baking session goes smoothly, with Alessandro taking his time to mimic Jules’ careful technique. The boys work together to decorate their cookies, laughing as they sneak tastes of icing and sprinkles. Charles manages to snap a few candid photos, capturing the flour-streaked faces and genuine smiles that light up the room.

When the cookies are finally done, the twins proudly present their creations to you and Charles. "Look, Mama! Papa!" they say in unison, holding up their plates of colorful gingerbread men.

"Magnificent!" Charles declares, pulling the boys into a bear hug. "You two are master bakers."

You smile, wrapping your arms around your little family, your heart has never felt fuller.

Carlos

The kitchen is a whirlwind of chaos and laughter as your three little ones dive into the gingerbread-making process. Ruby, your five-year-old, takes charge immediately, carefully measuring out ingredients with her tongue poking out in concentration. Marco, who is four, is more interested in sneaking tastes of the dough, while Roman, your three-year-old, is determined to use every single cookie cutter at once.

"Mama, can I do the sprinkles now?" Ruby asks, holding up a shaker of red and green sprinkles. Before you can answer, Marco bumps into her, causing the shaker to topple over and coat the counter in a glittering mess.

"Marco!" Ruby scolds, her lower lip trembling as she surveys the ruined sprinkles.

"Sorry!" Marco says quickly, his big brown eyes wide with guilt. Roman, sensing the tension, toddles over to Ruby and wraps his little arms around her waist. "Don’t be sad, Ruby. We help," he says, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Marco nods earnestly, grabbing a dishcloth. "I’ll clean it up, Ruby!"

You exchange a look with Carlos, who is watching the scene unfold with a soft smile. "Our little team," he murmurs, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

With Ruby’s spirits lifted, the three kids work together to fix the mess. Marco carefully wipes up the spilled sprinkles while Roman hands Ruby a new shaker. "Here, Ruby. You do it better," he says, his tiny voice full of sincerity.

Carlos crouches down to help Ruby and Marco roll out the dough again, his hands guiding theirs as they press the cutters into the soft surface. Roman, meanwhile, has discovered the joy of throwing flour into the air, creating a fine white mist that settles over everyone.

"Roman!" Carlos exclaims, laughing as he tries to stop the little boy. But Roman is too quick, and soon even Carlos’ dark hair is dusted with flour.

By the time the cookies are finally baked and decorated, the kitchen looks like a tornado has passed through. But as you sit on the floor with Carlos and the kids, nibbling on warm gingerbread and sharing stories, the mess feels like a small price to pay for such a perfect family moment.

Max

The kitchen feels extra cozy as little Mia, your three-year-old daughter, toddles up to the counter on her step stool. She clutches a rolling pin almost as big as her, her tiny tongue peeking out in concentration.

"Dada, I’m making a big cookie!" Mia announces, pressing down on the dough with all her strength. Max chuckles, standing beside her. "A big cookie for a big girl, right?"

You’re sifting flour when Mia suddenly sneezes. A puff of flour rises into the air, landing on her nose and cheeks. Her eyes go wide in surprise before she bursts into a fit of giggles.

"Dada! I’m white!" she exclaims, pointing to her face. Max grins and taps her nose with his finger, adding another smudge of flour. "Now you look like a snowman!"

"Mama, I’m a snowman!" Mia declares, holding out her arms for you to see. You laugh, wiping your hands on a towel before leaning in to kiss her floury cheek. "The cutest snowman I’ve ever seen."

As Mia works on her giant cookie, Max decides to get creative. He scoops a bit of icing and dabs it on your nose, earning a playful glare from you. "Max!"

"What? It’s Christmas spirit!" he says innocently, though his mischievous grin gives him away.

Before long, the kitchen turns into a playful battlefield. Mia joins in, flinging tiny handfuls of flour at both you and Max. Her giggles echo through the room as Max lifts her up, spinning her around to evade your “retaliation” with a handful of sprinkles.

When the cookies are finally in the oven, the three of you are covered head to toe in flour, sprinkles, and icing. Mia sits on Max’s lap at the kitchen table, munching on a leftover piece of dough. "Dada, can we eat the cookies now?" she asks, her blue eyes sparkling with excitement.

"Soon, angel," Max says, brushing a strand of flour-dusted hair out of her face. "First, they have to bake."

As you all wait, you take a moment to snap a photo of your messy but happy little family. The kitchen might need serious cleaning, but the memories made within its walls are priceless. Once the cookies are out of the oven, cooled, and decorated with Mia’s enthusiastic smears of icing and an overload of sprinkles, she proudly holds up her "big cookie."

"Look, Mama! Dada! My cookie is so pretty!" she beams, her little chest puffed out with pride.

"It’s the best cookie I’ve ever seen," Max says earnestly, leaning down to kiss her cheek. You nod in agreement, wrapping an arm around both of them.

"Absolutely. This one’s going in the family hall of fame," you tease, already planning to snap another picture. The three of you sit down to enjoy the sweet treats together, your hearts full despite the flour-coated chaos surrounding you.

Lando

The kitchen is a whirlwind of flour, sugar, and laughter as you and Lando attempt to make gingerbread cookies with your four-year-old daughter, Celeste. Standing on her little stool by the counter, she’s already covered in flour from head to toe, her tiny hands eagerly grabbing at the cookie cutters. Lando leans close to her, his face alight with a mixture of amusement and pure adoration.

“Alright, baby,” Lando says, handing her a star-shaped cutter. “Press it down nice and hard, just like this.” He demonstrates with a gingerbread man cutter, and Celeste mimics him with all the determination of a toddler on a mission.

“I did it!” she announces proudly, holding up her slightly lopsided star. Her big green eyes shine as she turns to you for approval.

“That’s perfect, baby girl,” you say, brushing a bit of flour off her nose. “You’re a natural baker.”

Celeste beams, and Lando’s grin widens as he grabs another piece of dough. “She takes after me,” he teases, earning an eye roll from you. “What can I say? Talent runs in the family.”

“Oh, does it?” you reply, arching a brow as you sprinkle a little flour onto his cheek. Lando gasps dramatically, grabbing a handful of flour and tossing it into the air like confetti. Celeste squeals with laughter, clapping her hands and sending a puff of flour everywhere.

“Lando!” you scold, though you’re laughing too.

“What? She started it,” he says, pointing at Celeste, who giggles even harder.

When the cookies are finally in the oven, the three of you sit at the table with bowls of icing and sprinkles. Lando takes one look at the little tray of cookies and shakes his head. “I think these might be the most... abstract gingerbread cookies ever made.”

Celeste holds up a cookie she’s decorated with three blobs of icing and a pile of red sprinkles. “It’s a snowman!” she says proudly.

Lando’s face softens, and he nods. “The best snowman I’ve ever seen,” he says, leaning over to kiss her flour-dusted cheek.

You watch as Celeste happily eats her cookie, her tiny teeth nibbling away at the edges. Lando’s eyes never leave her, his expression so full of love it makes your heart ache. “She’s perfect,” he murmurs, reaching over to tuck a stray curl behind her ear.

As Celeste finishes her cookie, Lando scoops her up into his arms, spinning her around until she’s giggling uncontrollably. He plants kisses all over her face, making her squeal and squirm. “Daddy, stop! It tickles!”

“Never!” Lando declares, holding her close and laughing along with her.

By the end of the evening, the kitchen is a complete mess, but you wouldn’t trade the chaos for anything. With Celeste snuggled up between you and Lando on the couch, her tiny hand clutching a gingerbread star, you feel like the luckiest family in the world.

Oscar

The kitchen is calm but buzzing with a quiet excitement as your twins, four-year-old Odessa and Ocean, stand on their step stools by the counter. Odessa’s brows are furrowed in deep concentration as she carefully presses a gingerbread man cutter into the rolled-out dough. Ocean, on the other hand, is humming a Christmas tune, sprinkling flour on her side of the counter with as much flair as possible.

"Mommy, look! Mine has arms this time!" Odessa says proudly, holding up her perfectly shaped cookie. You smile and nod, brushing a bit of flour from her cheek.

"Great job, honeybun! You’re getting really good at this."

Oscar, standing nearby with a mixing bowl in hand, chuckles softly. "'s precision is unmatched," he says, ruffling Odessa’s dark brown curls before turning to Ocean. "And Ocean, are you making snow angels or cookies?"

Ocean giggles, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "Both!" she declares, throwing a puff of flour into the air. It lands on her hair, turning her into a mini snow queen.

Oscar shakes his head, amused, and places the bowl down to help. "Alright, let’s focus on the cookies before we lose the rest of the flour," he says, guiding Ocean’s tiny hands to press a star cutter into the dough.

"Daddy, do you like stars or trees better?" Ocean asks, glancing up at him.

Oscar pretends to think for a moment. "Hmm, I think I like stars better because they remind me of you and Odessa—my two brightest stars."

Odessa rolls her eyes in good-natured embarrassment. "Papa, that’s so cheesy."

You laugh, nudging Odessa gently. "Sometimes cheesy is good, honey."

As the cookies bake in the oven, the four of you sit at the table, readying bowls of icing and sprinkles for decorating. Odessa picks up a piping bag, her little hands steady as she carefully outlines her gingerbread man’s shirt. Ocean, meanwhile, goes for an avant-garde approach, covering her cookie with every color of icing she can reach.

"Ocean, your gingerbread man looks like a rainbow exploded on him," Odessa comments, tilting her head as she examines her work.

"It’s called art," Ocean replies with a dramatic flip of her flour-dusted hair.

Oscar hides a grin behind his hand, leaning over to whisper to you. "She’s got your sass."

You laugh softly, watching your little ones pour their hearts into their creations. When the cookies are finally finished, Odessa presents her gingerbread man with a proud grin. "Look, Daddy, it’s you!"

Oscar inspects the cookie’s neat icing tie and buttoned shirt, his eyes crinkling with delight. "Wow, Odessa. You’ve made me look very handsome."

"And this one’s Mommy!" Ocean chimes in, holding up a colorful cookie that’s practically drowning in sprinkles.

You gasp playfully. "Ocean, I’ve never looked better."

The evening ends with all four of you sitting on the couch, enjoying your gingerbread creations and a Christmas movie playing softly in the background. Odessa leans against Oscar’s side, and Ocean cuddles in your lap, both happily munching on their cookies. As the glow of the Christmas tree lights flickers across the room, you catch Oscar’s eye. He smiles at you, the warmth in his gaze saying everything words can’t.

The kitchen may be clean now, the flour swept away and the cookie cutters put back in their drawers, but the memory of this perfect family moment will linger long after the last crumb is gone.

Sebastian

The kitchen is lively with chatter as Sebastian stands at the counter, helping your children, Tommy, Jamie, and Ambria, shape gingerbread cookies. Jamie, determined to make the perfect reindeer, furrows his brows in concentration while Ambria giggles, sprinkling flour onto the table—and accidentally onto Sebastian’s hair.

"Ambria," Sebastian says in mock seriousness, brushing flour off his curls, "are you trying to turn me into a snowman?"

Ambria bursts into laughter. "You’d make the best snowman, Papa!" she declares, tossing another puff of flour into the air. Jamie snickers, but his focus remains on his dough.

"Alright, alright," you interject, smiling as you place a tray of freshly shaped cookies onto the counter. "Let’s save some flour for the actual baking, shall we?"

Sebastian grins at you, his green eyes sparkling. "They’re creative, what can I say?"

The oven hums as the first batch of cookies bakes, filling the air with the warm, spiced scent of gingerbread. Jamie and Ambria lean against the counter, eagerly watching the timer count down.

"Papa," Jamie says, glancing up at Sebastian, "why do we always make gingerbread cookies at Christmas?"

Sebastian kneels to Jamie’s level, his hands resting on his son’s flour-dusted shoulders. "Because it’s a tradition," he explains gently. "It’s something we do together as a family, so that every Christmas, we can remember these moments."

Ambria tilts her head thoughtfully. "Like a memory we can eat?"

Sebastian chuckles, pulling her into a hug. "Exactly, my little philosopher."

When the cookies are done, the decorating begins. Ambria meticulously decorates each cookie with colorful icing and sprinkles, while Jamie opts for a simpler approach, carefully outlining each one. Sebastian joins in, creating a gingerbread version of each family member.

"This one’s Mama," he says, holding up a cookie with icing hair that matches yours. "Beautiful, just like the real thing."

You laugh, shaking your head. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Seb."

Later, as the cookies cool, the four of you sit around the Christmas tree with mugs of hot chocolate, the lights casting a soft glow around the room. Ambria snuggles into Sebastian’s side, her head resting on his shoulder, while Jamie leans against your arm, holding a gingerbread cookie shaped like a snowman.

"These are the best cookies we’ve ever made," Ambria declares, her voice sleepy but content.

Sebastian smiles, pressing a kiss to her hair. "That’s because we made them together," he says softly, his gaze meeting yours.

In that moment, surrounded by warmth, laughter, and the scent of gingerbread, you realize that these simple traditions, messy, flour-filled, and full of love, are what make the holidays truly magical.

Jenson

Your home is filled with the chaos and warmth only a family of seven can create. The kitchen is a whirlwind of activity as your five children—eleven-year-old Orion, nine-year-old Brandon, eight-year-old Killian, four-year-old Isabella, and one-year-old Luna—all take their positions around the counter. Jenson stands at the center, his sleeves rolled up and a mischievous grin on his face, ready to lead the troops.

“Alright, everyone,” Jenson announces, clapping his hands. “We’re making gingerbread cookies. Team Button, are you ready?”

“Yes!” Orion and Brandon shout, already reaching for the flour and rolling pins. Killian grabs a handful of cookie cutters, examining them with the precision of a race engineer. Isabella bounces on her stool, her excitement contagious as she claps her flour-dusted hands. Luna, perched safely in her highchair, babbles happily, smacking her little fists against the tray.

You laugh, standing back for a moment to watch the organized chaos unfold. “This is either going to be amazing or a complete disaster,” you say, crossing your arms as you lean against the counter.

Jenson winks at you. “It’ll be both,” he replies confidently.

Orion, the eldest and self-appointed leader of the kids, takes charge of measuring the ingredients. “Dad, do we really need this much cinnamon?” he asks, holding up the spice jar.

Jenson pretends to think deeply. “Hmm, cinnamon makes everything better, so maybe add just a little more.”

Brandon nudges Orion with a smirk. “He just wants an excuse to eat more cookies.”

Killian, meanwhile, has commandeered the cookie cutters and is lining them up in a perfect row. “We need a reindeer, a star, and a Christmas tree,” he declares. “And maybe a race car, if we can make one.”

“A race car?” Jenson grins, his eyes lighting up. “That’s my boy.”

Isabella, not to be outdone, grabs a rolling pin and starts flattening the dough with all her might. “I’m making the biggest cookie ever!” she announces, her tiny hands working with determination. You step in to help guide her efforts, laughing as she sticks her tongue out in concentration.

As the dough begins to take shape, Luna decides she’s had enough of just watching. She smacks her tray again, this time sending a puff of flour into the air.

“Luna wants to help too,” you say, lifting her out of the highchair and handing her a soft piece of dough to squish in her tiny fists. She giggles, smearing it across her cheeks like war paint.

“She’s starting her own cookie war,” Jenson jokes, snapping a picture on his phone.

Once the cookies are cut and placed on baking sheets, the decorating begins. Orion and Brandon focus on intricate designs, their competitive streaks coming out as they try to outdo each other. Killian, ever the perfectionist, takes his time with each cookie, ensuring every sprinkle is in its rightful place. Isabella opts for a more abstract approach, piling on as much icing and candy as possible. Luna, of course, eats more sprinkles than she applies, her little face sticky with sugar.

“Look at this one,” Jenson says, holding up a gingerbread man with a green icing bow tie. “This is Uncle Lewis. What do you think?”

The kids burst into laughter. “He needs sunglasses!” Orion suggests, grabbing black icing to add the finishing touch.

When the cookies are finally done and cooling on the racks, the kitchen looks like a snowstorm of flour and sugar has hit it. Jenson surveys the mess with a chuckle. “Well, we might need a pit crew to clean this up.”

“I’ll help, Dad,” Brandon volunteers, grabbing a dishcloth.

“Me too!” Killian chimes in, his perfectionist tendencies extending to tidying up.

As the cleaning begins, you notice Isabella carefully placing her cookies on a plate. “These are for Santa,” she explains, her voice serious. “He needs the best ones.”

“And these are for us,” Orion says, holding up a tray. “Because we’re the best cookie makers in the world.”

Jenson wraps an arm around you, pulling you close as you watch your children’s teamwork and laughter. “We did good, didn’t we?” he murmurs.

You nod, leaning into him. “Yeah, we really did.”

That night, after the kids are tucked into bed, you and Jenson sit by the Christmas tree, sharing a plate of gingerbread cookies and a quiet moment together. The chaos of the day lingers in the best way, filling your heart with warmth and love.

“Same time next year?” Jenson asks, a playful glint in his eye.

You laugh, resting your head on his shoulder. “Definitely.”

𝓽𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽! ❥☽ @ham1lton @ietss @animeandf1lover @nelly187 @heartsfromtaeyong @bloodyymaryyy @nor-4 @zacian117 @mel164 @uhhvictoria @hadidsworld @zabwlky1999 @sya-skies @lillysbigwilly @avengers-assemble123456 @santanasaintmendes @km-23mr @hookhausenschips @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @ronpho @minekarina @aeongism @Formula1-motogpfa @slagclarens @aleexvqa @f1updates4you @booksandflowrs @chaostudee @winkev1 @strawblueberrys @blakesbearblog @cel-b @perfumejamal @aykxz98 @pandora-08 @teti-menchon0604 @bxtosa @fadingcloudballoon-blog @whatevenisthisxxxxx @anamiad00msday @luula @jimcarreyfann42 @oliviah-25 @bbwzrld @goldenroutledge @unkownmystery_22 @sophienorris18-blog @flowerpetalk @paucubarsisimp @its-elias-world @magixpracticality @poppyflower-22 @pear-1206

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kissesz · 1 day ago

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p0orbaby · 3 months ago

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It’s Called Free Fall

summary: therapy makes you realise a lot of things

warnings: none

a/n: there’s not actually any alexia in this, but she is mentioned

word count: 2.7k

part 1

The therapist’s office feels like it’s been curated for someone far more refined than you—someone who actually takes their therapy seriously, rather than as an ironic lifestyle choice. The walls are a pale, flat grey that veers perilously close to lifeless, and there’s this overwhelming sense of emptiness, like everything here exists for display rather than use. The chairs, two narrow-backed leather things angled just slightly towards each other, appear less like furniture and more like sculptures. You imagine some recent graduate from a New York art school positioned them just so, meticulously arranging each one to make sure it induced the precise mix of discomfort and luxury.

The table between you and Dr. Vargas is another matter entirely—a sleek slab of polished mahogany, thick enough that you could lean your entire weight on it without even a squeak of protest. Its surface is bare except for a single leather-bound notebook, a fountain pen and a ceramic dish, all aligned to a degree that feels almost militaristic. There’s not a single loose thread in the rug, not a fingerprint on the glass of the one window facing out onto a garden view that’s suspiciously verdant for the middle of winter.

Even the fern, perched in the corner like it’s waiting for its close-up, seems too green, too lush. It’s ridiculous, but it’s all part of the aesthetic, this carefully curated minimalism, the kind of cultivated restraint that says, “We don’t need embellishments. We’re here for the truth.” You’re here, supposedly, for honesty and revelation. But to you, it all feels a bit too staged, like a hotel that boasts a “homely charm” but is actually cold and sterile beneath the surface. You suspect Dr. Vargas might even mist the plant herself in some sacred ritual of maintenance, a sort of last-minute grounding exercise to fill the silence between clients.

You settle back in the chair, draping one leg over the other, and make a mental note to mention it next time you’re in some magazine interview. “Austere,” you’d say, “but in a chic way. I once caught my therapist hand-polishing the leaves of a houseplant.” You let yourself savour the image for a moment, glancing at the fern, which seems to return your gaze with silent judgement.

Dr. Vargas has her pen poised in that infuriatingly neutral way, a half-smile that somehow manages to be both welcoming and utterly unreadable. She’s mastered this look; the expression that says, I’m here for you while also suggesting she’s already a step ahead, already written your entire profile out in her head, neatly categorised into sub-headings like “Avoidant Tendencies” and “Control Issues.”

You begin with a sigh, throwing a glance at the ceiling in mock contemplation. “I’ve been thinking about another place. A chalet, maybe. Something in the mountains this time.” You pause, letting the idea sit, feigning like it’s just occurred to you. “Somewhere remote, where people can’t just… get to me”

You’re fully aware that she sees right through it. This isn’t her first rodeo; you’re sure she’s dealt with hundreds like you before, masters of diversion who fill sessions with banalities rather than facing anything real. But Dr. Vargas, in all her maddening professionalism, gives nothing away. She just tilts her head, the soft scratch of her pen against her notebook barely there as she writes something down.

“A place to escape,” she offers back to you in that maddeningly placid tone.

“Yes. Escape,” you echo, knowing full well the word holds no weight here. Escape from what, exactly? You let your leg bounce a little, as if the rhythm might lend some gravity to your words. “And there’s this new project I’m in talks with—A24, actually. They want me to do something… serious. A proper rebrand. Gritty. Artistic.” You drawl out “artistic” with the faintest of smirks, like you’re amused at the thought of it all. A lifetime of playing these games, and you’re practically a pro by now.

Dr. Vargas’s face betrays not a flicker of interest or amusement. She simply nods, that little encouraging tilt of her head again, like she’s waiting for you to get to the real point, the heart of the matter. But you’re not giving in so easily.

“It could be big, you know,” you continue, lifting your chin a fraction. “And I’ve got Alexia, of course.” The name slips out, deliberately nonchalant, though you feel its weight instantly, like it’s left a mark on the air between you.

Dr. Vargas raises her eyebrows, ever so slightly. “Alexia,” she repeats, not quite a question, not quite a statement. Just… acknowledgment, and yet it still feels as if she’s plucked something out of you without you realising. You don’t like it, the way she turns your own words against you.

“Yeah,” you say, shrugging. “She’s… brilliant. On the field, off it. You know, she’s—” You trail off, allowing a smirk to play on your lips. “Not bad to look at, either”

She gives no reaction, doesn’t even break eye contact. You imagine her poker face would rival that of any seasoned card shark. But it’s her silence that presses at you, coaxing out more than you intend to reveal. It’s a trick she’s used before, and yet here you are, willingly falling into it.

“Honestly,” you continue, almost laughing as if sharing some private joke, “you should see her after a match. There’s this… intensity, this rawness. Shirt off, sweat-drenched, eyes still blazing from the game. It’s… invigorating.” You roll the word around like a fine wine, savouring it as you go. “It’s like the universe threw me a bone, just when I was getting bored”

Dr. Vargas finally moves, a slight shift of her head, her mouth curving up in a near-smile. “And yet, you’re here”

Her words drop between you like a carefully placed stone. You scoff, rolling your eyes, but there’s something in her expression—an almost imperceptible softness that somehow feels like an accusation. “Therapy’s a hobby,” you shrug, leaning back, as if the very idea of anything deeper is laughable. “I’m always in therapy, Doc. News flash”

“Yes,” she agrees smoothly, not missing a beat, “but you don’t usually bring her up”

“Come on,” you counter, with a smirk that’s designed to look careless, “I bring her up all the time”

“Not like this”

Her voice is calm, almost gentle, but her gaze sharpens, pinning you in place. You feel a spike of irritation, or maybe it’s something else. You cast a look towards the fern, now faintly silhouetted by the afternoon sun, its shadow long and narrow across the wall, an unasked-for third party in this strange little dance. The absurdity of the whole scene hits you, but before you can fully detach, she’s speaking again.

“You’re talking about her differently. More… openly.” There’s no edge to her tone, no overt judgment, yet it feels like she’s peeled back a layer, glimpsed a part of you you hadn’t meant to reveal.

In the moments that follow, you stub out your cigarette on the pristine ceramic dish Vargas keeps on the table, the one she’s claimed is “not for smoking” but never actually moved after that one session. You’ve taken it as tacit permission, though you know damn well it irritates her—just another way to test the boundaries in a room that prides itself on having none. That’s half the point of these sessions: see how far you can stretch them. How much she’ll let you say, or not say. And you’ve mastered the art of saying absolutely nothing, all while filling the space with empty words.

Dr. Vargas doesn’t speak, doesn’t press, which is almost worse than if she did. There’s just the persistent softness in her eyes, the quiet implication that she understands more than you’d prefer. You remember Alexia’s eyes looking at you like that once, right after you’d tried to make some grand point about the nature of relationships—one of those pseudo-philosophical tangents you like to go on. She’d just looked at you, with a kind of bemused patience that felt a little too genuine, a little too close to knowing you.

You roll your shoulders, shake off the memory. But it clings.

“Alright,” you say, letting the smoke spill out as you form the words. “Maybe I don’t do ‘love’ like everyone else. I’m not here for a candlelit dinner and a mortgage. I’m not,” you add with a quick laugh, “one of those people who turn into some sap over a nice couple’s holiday in Santorini”

Dr. Vargas gives a small nod, an acknowledgement rather than agreement, her expression neutral but open, giving you room to continue.

“But, yes. Fine.” You take another drag, a deliberate pause. “Maybe I… care about her. I care about her. She’s different, alright?”

“Different how?” she asks gently, with an infuriatingly patient tone.

You groan, shifting in your seat. “Come on, don’t make me quantify it. That’s your thing, not mine.” You know you’re stalling, using your usual deflections, but there’s an itch underneath it, a part of you that feels raw just acknowledging that Alexia is, in fact, ‘different.’

You can feel her eyes on you, waiting for you to take the bait you’ve laid out for yourself.

“Fine, you want specifics?” you sigh, feigning annoyance, though you know you’re the one who’s led the conversation here. “She… laughs at my worst jokes. Like, really laughs. Not in a polite way, but genuinely, like she thinks I’m the funniest person alive, even when I’m barely trying. It’s stupid, really, but it gets me”

“And how does that make you feel?” Vargas leans forward, like she’s zeroing in on something significant.

You chuckle, low and dismissive, waving the question off with your cigarette. “How do you think it makes me feel? It’s… fine. Nice. A bit strange, maybe. I’m not used to being seen like that.” You pause, the weight of that admission lingering in the air between you.

She doesn’t react, doesn’t push; she just lets the moment settle, knowing there’s more.

You sigh, smoke curling up around you, as your mind goes back to other little things—the way she has this weird ritual of picking all the green M&Ms out of the bag and tossing them to you, claiming they’re “bad luck.” How she insists on reading the morning news out loud, in that silly, exaggerated announcer voice, just to make you laugh while you pretend to read emails. Or how she makes you tea at exactly the right temperature, handing you the mug with a grin like she’s just given you a priceless gift. These are things that, on the surface, should be forgettable, the kind of mundane moments that fade. But they don’t, do they? Not with her.

Dr. Vargas’s voice interrupts your reverie, soft but insistent. “You’re smiling”

You realise she’s right; you’re smiling without even meaning to, and it’s a small, stupid smile, the kind that feels too open. You try to erase it, but it’s too late. The vulnerability’s already there, a quiet confession written across your face.

You roll your eyes, more at yourself than at her. “Alright, so what? So she’s… alright, she’s fun. She’s got that energy, you know, that lightness. It’s kind of… refreshing”

The words slip out unbidden, and you feel a pang of something resembling regret. Refreshing. A word that implies something else by omission—that most of your life, most people you’ve known, have been exhausting. The irony isn’t lost on you: someone so completely different from your own brand of detached sarcasm, from your carefully cultivated ennui, has managed to slip under the radar and wedge herself into your carefully controlled life.

Dr. Vargas watches, her silence pressing you forward.

“Look, I don’t think about it too much,” you say, trying to inject a casual note into your tone. “I don’t need to psychoanalyse every smile, every inside joke. I’m not here to have my relationship broken down into neat little psych terms”

“Maybe you should think about it,” Vargas says gently. “Maybe that’s why you’re here”

You scoff, but there’s a softness in the sound, a hint of resignation. Because she’s right, isn’t she? You came here because, as much as you don’t want to admit it, this thing with Alexia has started to matter, in a way that’s both terrifying and strangely compelling. You’ve always prided yourself on staying a step removed, on being a spectator in your own life, observing rather than fully engaging. But with her, you’re finding it harder to keep that distance.

“Fine,” you mutter, leaning back, letting your head rest against the chair, staring up at the ceiling as though the answers might be written there. “Maybe she’s… special”

The words feel strange in your mouth, too vulnerable, too open. You don’t say “special” often, especially not in this context. But there it is, a reluctant admission.

“I mean, it’s not like I’m in love with her,” you continue, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “She’s great—don’t get me wrong. She’s amazing in bed. I can’t remember the last time someone made me cum so much. And she’s got this thing about her, you know? Like this fire, this intensity. It’s like when she looks at me, she’s looking right through me. And yeah, I guess that’s… intoxicating. But that’s all it is. Right?”

Dr. Vargas nods, a small, subtle gesture. “Why does that scare you?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you watch the smoke dancing away from your cigarette, dissipating into the air, leaving nothing behind but a faint, lingering scent. You think about what it is you’re so afraid of—because there’s something there, something you can’t quite name, a sense that if you let this thing with Alexia continue, it might change you in ways you’re not ready for.

“Because I don’t do… attachment,” you say finally, the words coming out sharper than intended. “I’ve built a life that doesn’t depend on anyone else. And she’s… she’s a complication”

You can feel Vargas watching you, sensing the weight of what you’re not saying, the unspoken truth that this isn’t just about Alexia, that it’s about something deeper, a fear of vulnerability, of losing control. She doesn’t push, though; she just waits, letting the silence do the work for her.

After a long pause, you take a breath, letting your gaze drift to the fern by the window, its leaves glossy and perfect, so meticulously maintained it almost looks fake. You wonder if it’s ever felt the strain of trying to keep everything together, to present a flawless exterior while something more fragile lurks beneath the surface.

“You know,” you say, almost to yourself, “it’s funny. For the longest time, I thought love was just a distraction, a temporary fix for people who couldn’t handle being alone.” You take another drag from your cigarette, exhaling slowly. “But with her, it’s… it’s different. It’s like she makes everything brighter, sharper, like she’s tuned into some frequency I didn’t know existed”

Dr. Vargas doesn’t respond, just nods, letting you continue.

“And the worst part?” You chuckle, a self-deprecating sound. “The worst part is that she’s getting to me. She’s in my head, even when she’s not there. I find myself thinking about her in the middle of the day, wondering what she’s up to, if she’s thinking about me too”

There’s a fragility in the admission, a crack in the armour you’ve built around yourself. And it terrifies you, this sense of letting someone in, of letting them get close enough to matter.

You stub out your cigarette, watching the last curl of smoke dissipate into the air. It feels like a metaphor for something, though you’re not sure what.

Dr. Vargas gives you a small, knowing smile. “Maybe falling in love isn’t as bad as you think it will be,” she says gently.

You shrug, trying to play it off, but there’s a part of you that knows she’s right. Because for all your detachment, all your carefully cultivated distance, there’s something about Alexia that feels like home, like she’s a part of you you didn’t realise was missing.

“Maybe,” you say, the words soft, barely audible.

Love. The word lingers like an uninvited guest. You try to dismiss it, try to laugh it off, but it keeps creeping back in.

#alexia putellas #alexia putellas x reader #fcb femeni #fcb femeni x reader #espwnt #espwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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bbdeongi · 2 months ago

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SWEET REVENGE

☆PAIRING: Seonghwa x San

☆GENRE: smut

☆WARNINGS: member x member, handjob, anal, praise

☆SUMMARY: Seonghwa had ate sans cake.. san decided to get back at him by teasing him with his legos.. then something else.

☆A/N: idea from this video

It was currently 9 p.m. Seonghwa sat at his desk, completely immersed in the world of tiny plastic bricks. The medieval castle he was building sprawled out before him—a work in progress, its foundation laid out in careful precision. Neatly organized piles of LEGO bricks were scattered across the desk, each piece sorted by size and color, a testament to Seonghwa’s perfectionism. His hands moved deftly, clicking pieces into place, his brow furrowed in concentration.

The only sounds in the room were the faint clicks of lego pieces locking together and the soft hum of the desk lamp. It was peaceful—exactly how Seonghwa liked it. Building lego sets was his sanctuary, his escape from the chaos of the world. Everything felt right when he was in this zone.

But, as Seonghwa would soon learn, peace was temporary when San was around.

The creak of the door broke the silence, followed by a familiar voice. "Hyung, what are you up to?"

Seonghwa didn’t bother looking up. He already knew who it was. Only one person entered his bedroom this casually, especially at this hour. "What does it look like?" he replied, his tone flat as he adjusted the tiny drawbridge on his castle.

"Legos again?" San stepped fully into the room, his curious gaze sweeping over the desk. "Of course. I don’t know why I even asked."

"What do you want?" Seonghwa asked, still not looking up.

San smirked, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. "I just came to check on you. Didn’t realize you’d be on a romantic date with your little building blocks.”

Seonghwa sighed, finally glancing up. "If you’re just here to be annoying, you can leave. I’m busy."

That only made San grin wider. "Busy? You mean playing with small little toys?” He chuckled a bit seeing seonghwas angry face.

"They’re not toys. They’re models," Seonghwa corrected, his tone sharp as he returned to his work.

"Sure," San replied, dragging out the word. He walked closer to the desk, his eyes scanning the organized chaos. His gaze landed on a tiny pile of lego weapons—swords, shields, and lances—all neatly lined up. "So, are these for your little knights? Planning a battle or something?” He tried to make a sword sound but failed. Seonghwa gave him a side eye.

"Don’t touch those," Seonghwa said quickly, sensing where this was going. His voice had a warning edge, but San ignored it, as always.

San reached out and picked up one of the swords, holding it up to the light. "Wow, hyung, look at the detail on this thing. Truly a masterpiece." He twirled it between his fingers, clearly enjoying how annoyed Seonghwa was getting.

"San, I’m serious. Put it down."

"But it’s so cool," San said, his tone mockingly innocent. Then, with a devilish grin, he brought the sword to his lips, pretending to bite down on it. "What if I—?"

"San!" Seonghwa shouted, his voice rising in panic.”I swear to god!”

San backed away a few steps, still grinning. "Relax, hyung. It’s just a piece of plastic."

"That’s not the point!" Seonghwa snapped, standing up now. "Those are part of the set! They’re clean and organized, and I don’t need you putting your gross fingerprints all over them!"

San laughed, holding the sword up like he was examining it. "Wow, you really are protective over these little guys, huh?"

“Go bother Mingi or Wooyoung! Stop it!” Seonghwa said.

“Nah, they’re no fun.. plus Mingis with Yunho and Wooyoungs with his family.” San replied.. but he took the sword and hovered it over his mouth, still smirking. He loved pissing Seonghwa off

"San," Seonghwa warned, his tone low. "Don’t you dare."

But San, ever the instigator, grinned wider and placed the tiny sword between his teeth, holding it there like he was a pirate. He even struck a pose, tilting his head dramatically.

“San!” Seonghwa yelled, rushing toward him. “Take that out of your mouth right now!”

San didn’t move. Instead, he widened his grin, his teeth clenching the plastic sword like it was a prize.

“AH! San-ah, are you insane?! You could choke!” Seonghwa screeched, waving his hands in the air.

Finally, San pulled the sword out of his mouth and doubled over with laughter. “Revenge, hwa!” he declared between fits of laughter.

“Revenge?” Seonghwa blinked, completely flustered. “For what?”

San straightened, still grinning. “For my cake. You remember the one you ate a few weeks ago?”

Seonghwa froze, the memory slowly coming back to him. Oh shit.. San didn’t forget.. “That? You’re still upset about that? It was weeks ago, Sannie..”

“Exactly,” The younger said smugly. “I’ve been waiting for the perfect moment. And this…” He gestured to the tiny sword. “…was too good to pass up.”

Seonghwa grabbed a tissue from his desk and began furiously wiping the sword. “You’re ridiculous. Do you even know how unsanitary that was? What if there was dust? Or germs? Or—”

“Germs?” San cut him off, laughing. “Hwa, it’s plastic. I’m fine. You’re being dramatic.”

“I am not being dramatic! You could’ve—ugh, you’re impossible!” Seonghwa groaned, throwing the tissue into the trash and glaring at San.

San flopped onto Seonghwa’s bed, spreading out like he owned the place. “You should’ve seen your face, hyung. You looked like I just set your legos on fire.”

“Because you basically did!” Seonghwa shot back.

San scoffed, his smile never wenr away. “Really? I didn’t know my mouth was a lighter.”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes at him. He was not having it at all.

San laughed again, his body shaking with amusement. “You’re too easy to mess with.”

“And you’re the most annoying person I know,” Seonghwa muttered, crossing his arms.

San propped himself up on one elbow, smirking. “Admit it, hyung. You’d be bored without me.”

Seonghwa huffed, turning back to his desk. “Get off my bed. You’re messing up my sheets.”

“Make me.”

Seonghwa turned around, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t tempt me.”

San smirked, patting the bed beside him. “Come on, hyung. You know you can’t move me.”

That was the last straw. Seonghwa marched over to the bed, determined to shove San off. “Yah, move!”

San didn’t budge. Instead, he grabbed Seonghwa’s wrist and, with one swift motion, flipped their positions. Seonghwa yelped as he landed on the bed, San now hovering over him with a victorious grin.

“See? No match,” San teased, his voice low and playful.

Seonghwa glared up at him, his cheeks flushing. “Get off me.”

“Say please,” San replied, leaning closer.

“San, I swear—”

“Say it.”

“Fine! Please.”

San chuckled and let him go, sitting back on the bed with a smug expression. Seonghwa scrambled to his feet, brushing himself off. “You’re insufferable,” he muttered.

“And yet, here I am, still your favorite,” San said, grinning.

“You’re delusional,” Seonghwa shot back, turning toward his desk. But when he reached for his chair, he realized it was empty.

Or so he thought.

“San!” Seonghwa yelled, spinning around to find San lounging in his desk chair, spinning lazily.

“Comfy,” San said, crossing his arms behind his head.

“Get out of my chair!”

“Hmmm.. im good actually. Its pretty comfy.”

Seonghwa stormed over, grabbing the armrests to pull the chair away from the desk. But San was heavy, and the chair barely moved.

San grinned, clearly enjoying Seonghwa’s struggle. “Hyung, are you even trying?”

“Get. Up!” Seonghwa grunted, using all his strength.

San didn’t move. Instead, he reached out, grabbed Seonghwa’s wrist, and pulled him down into his lap.

Seonghwa froze, his back pressed against San’s chest, his mind racing.

San’s arms wrapped around his waist, holding him in place. “Guess this is your seat now,” San teased, his breath warm against Seonghwa’s ear.

“San…” Seonghwa said weakly, his voice trailing off.

“What?” San’s tone was light, but there was a hint of something deeper beneath the teasing.

“You’re… impossible,” Seonghwa muttered, his cheeks burning.

“And yet, you’re not moving,” San replied, his voice softer now.

The room grew quiet, the tension between them thickening. Seonghwa’s heart raced as he felt San’s warmth against him, the teasing atmosphere shifting into something neither of them wanted to name.

Seonghwa swallowed hard, trying to ignore the fluttering in his chest. “I swear!”

“Hmm?”

“You’re the worst,” Seonghwa whispered, his voice barely audible.

San chuckled softly, tightening his hold slightly. “But you still let me stay, hyung.”

Seonghwa didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. The warmth of San’s arms around him, the quiet hum of the room, and the unspoken words between them were enough.

For the first time, Seonghwa wasn’t thinking about his castle, his LEGOs, or the chaos San had caused. All he could focus on was the boy holding him and the undeniable pull between them.

The room was still, save for the faint hum of Seonghwa’s desk lamp. San’s arms remained loosely wrapped around Seonghwa’s waist as if daring him to move. Seonghwa sat stiffly in his lap, his back pressed against San’s chest. His heart was still racing, though he stubbornly tried to ignore it.

“Hyung,” San said softly, his tone shifting to something lower, more intimate. “You’re really tense.”

“I’m fine,” Seonghwa replied curtly, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on his half-built castle on the desk.

“No, you’re not.” San chuckled, his breath brushing against Seonghwa’s ear.

Seonghwa shifted slightly, but San’s arms tightened just enough to hold him in place without making it seem intentional.

“I said I’m fine,” Seonghwa muttered, his voice quieter this time.

San smirked, tilting his head so that his chin rested lightly on Seonghwa’s shoulder. “You’ve been working on that castle all night, haven’t you?”

“It’s relaxing,” Seonghwa said quickly, though his rigid posture betrayed him.

“Is it?” San teased, his lips curving into a smile. “Because you seem pretty stressed to me.”

Seonghwa huffed, trying to ignore the heat creeping up his neck. “Why do you always have to make things difficult?”

“It’s my job,” San replied easily, his voice light. “But seriously, Hwa, you’re wound so tight. You need to loosen up.”

“I’ll ‘loosen up’ when you let me go and get out of my chair,” Seonghwa shot back, his tone sharper now.

San laughed softly, the sound low and rich. “Oh, I don’t think that’s the kind of ‘loosening up�� you need.”

Seonghwa froze, his breath catching in his throat. He could feel the warmth of San’s chest against his back, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

“Stop messing around” Seonghwa said finally, though his voice lacked its usual conviction.

San hummed thoughtfully, one of his hands drifting upward to rest lightly on Seonghwa’s forearm. “Who says I’m messing around?”

Seonghwa turned his head slightly, just enough to catch the edge of San’s smirk in his peripheral vision. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” San replied innocently, though his tone was anything but. “Just trying to help my member relax.”

“I don’t need your help,” Seonghwa snapped, though the slight tremor in his voice betrayed him.

San chuckled again, his hand brushing up and down Seonghwa’s arm in a featherlight motion. “You’re so stubborn, you know that?”

Seonghwa tried to pull away, but San’s other arm tightened around his waist, holding him firmly in place. “San—”

“You know you’re terrible at hiding your feelings, right?” San interrupted, his voice dropping slightly.

Seonghwa stiffened, his hands clenching into fists. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do,” San murmured, his lips dangerously close to Seonghwa’s ear now.

The tension in the room was almost unbearable. Seonghwa could feel the heat radiating off San’s body, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the gentle but deliberate way his fingers grazed his arm.

“San,” Seonghwa said again, his voice softer this time, almost pleading.

“Hmm?”

“Let me go.”

San leaned closer, his breath warm against the side of Seonghwa’s neck. “Are you sure you want that?”

Seonghwa didn’t answer. His mind was a whirlwind of confusion, his body betraying him as his muscles refused to move.

San’s hand slid down to Seonghwa’s wrist, his touch gentle but firm. He tilted his head slightly, letting his lips brush against the edge of Seonghwa’s jaw—so faint it was almost imperceptible.

Seonghwa shivered, his resolve crumbling. “stop.”

San pulled back slightly, just enough to meet Seonghwa’s eyes. His gaze was intense, a mix of mischief and something deeper, something that made Seonghwa’s stomach flip.

“You don’t really want me to stop, do you?” San asked, his voice low and teasing.

Seonghwa’s breath hitched. He didn’t know how to respond, his mind too clouded by the weight of San’s words and the closeness between them.

The silence stretched on, heavy and charged. San’s hand lingered on Seonghwa’s waist, his fingers brushing against the fabric of his shirt.

Finally, Seonghwa broke the silence, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re impossible.”

San grinned, his confidence unwavering. “And yet, you’re still here.”

Seonghwa let out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping slightly as the tension in his body began to fade. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, but one thing was clear: San had completely disarmed him.

San chuckled softly, his arms loosening their hold as he leaned back slightly, giving Seonghwa just enough space to breathe. “You’re cute when you’re flustered, hyung.”

“Shut up,” Seonghwa muttered, his face burning.

San’s grin only widened as he leaned back further, letting Seonghwa stand up. But before Seonghwa could take a step away, San grabbed his wrist, pulling him back slightly.

“Hey,” San said softly, his tone uncharacteristically serious.

Seonghwa turned to face him, his heart pounding. “What?”

“You know I’m just messing with you, right?” San’s gaze softened, his smirk replaced by something gentler.

Seonghwa hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

San smiled, his grip on Seonghwa’s wrist loosening. “Good. But seriously, hwa, you need to take a break sometimes. You can’t keep carrying all that stress around.”

Seonghwa glanced at his desk, the half-built castle suddenly feeling less important. “Maybe you’re right.”

San’s smile widened. “Of course I’m right. I’m always right.”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Too late,” San replied, winking.

For the first time that night, Seonghwa felt a sense of calm that had nothing to do with his legos. And though he’d never admit it out loud, he knew it was because of the younger boy.

San's fingers tugged at the waistband of Seonghwa's sweatpants, loosening the drawstring with ease. His gaze remained locked on Seonghwa’s face, a teasing smirk playing on his lips.

“What- what are you?!—” Seonghwa stammered, his hands shooting down to stop him.

But San was faster, his movements fluid and confident as he slipped the fabric down in one smooth motion. The sweatpants pooled at Seonghwa's ankles, leaving him completely bare beneath them. He wasnt wearing anything boxers.. ge cock stood up tall and against his stomach.

San froze for a moment, his eyes flicking down, taking in the sight before him. His lips twitched, fighting back a grin. “Oh… well, this is a surprise,” he said, his voice dropping slightly. “So worked up too?”

“I- wa-” Seonghwa’s face turned scarlet, his hands moving instinctively to cover himself. “What are you doing?!”

The black haired boy leaned back in the chair, his grin widening. “Nothing yet,” he teased, his tone light but undeniably suggestive.

“Give them back!” Seonghwa demanded, his voice higher than usual as he reached down to grab the discarded sweatpants.

San caught his wrist mid-motion, his grip firm but gentle. “Not so fast, hyung,” he said smoothly. “If I have to be comfortable, so do you.”

Before Seonghwa could argue, San shifted, lifting him effortlessly off his lap. Seonghwa gasped, clutching at San’s shoulders to steady himself.

“San!”

“Hold on,” San said, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he stood, keeping one arm around Seonghwa’s waist to support him.

In one quick motion, San slipped out of his own sweatpants, leaving them in a heap on the floor before sinking back into the chair. He spread his legs slightly, the picture of confidence as he looked up at Seonghwa.

“Okay, now come here,” San said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Seonghwa hesitated, his face still burning. “You’re insane,” he muttered, though he didn’t resist as San pulled him back onto his lap.

San adjusted him with ease, his hands firm on Seonghwa’s waist as he settled him back into place. The sudden skin-to-skin contact made Seonghwa freeze, his breath catching in his throat.

“See?” San said softly, leaning in so his lips brushed against Seonghwa’s ear. “Isn’t this better?”

Seonghwa’s heart pounded, his mind racing as San’s hands slid up his sides, his touch light yet deliberate. “San… this is—”

“Relax,” San interrupted, his voice low and soothing. “You’re overthinking again.”

“I’m not—” Seonghwa started, but San silenced him with a soft chuckle, his arms wrapping around him fully.

“You’re so cute when you’re flustered,” San murmured, his lips dangerously close to Seonghwa’s jaw now.

Seonghwa turned his head slightly, his breath hitching as San’s gaze met his. The smirk was still there, but his eyes held something deeper, something that made Seonghwa’s stomach flip.

“Hmm?”

“This is ridiculous,” Seonghwa muttered, though his voice was quieter now, lacking its usual conviction.

San tilted his head, his lips brushing against Seonghwa’s temple. “You don’t seem to hate it.”

Seonghwa’s breath hitched, his body betraying him as he leaned slightly into San’s touch. He wanted to argue, to push him away, but the warmth of San’s arms and the steady rise and fall of his chest made it impossible to move.

“Just admit it,” San murmured, his voice soft but insistent. “You like it when I take care of you.”

Seonghwa’s cheeks burned, his hands clutching at San’s shoulders. “You’re so fucking annoying!”

“And you’re adorable,” San countered, his grin returning as he pressed his forehead lightly against Seonghwa’s.

The room was quiet except for the sound of their breathing, the tension between them palpable. For the first time that night, Seonghwa didn’t feel the need to argue.

He felt sans cock rest against his back.. you sat like this for a few moments.. san lifted seonghwa up a bit. “H- hey what-”

san shushed him. He held seonghwas hips as he licked one of his fingers and shoved it in the older boys ass earning a loud groan from him. “Shh… I got you..” san said.. what the hell was happening.. before seonghwa could speak, San brought him back down and slowly made him sink on his cock.

“SAN!- i- shit-” seonghwa screeched out at the stretch.. San placed a hand over his mouth, shushing him again. “You can take it.. good boy.”

Once the platinum haired boy was fully on sans cock, tears were filled up in his eyes. San was so big… he gave seonghwa a few minutes to adjust.

“There you go.. wasnt so hard? Hm? Your ass was made for me, bunny..” Seonghwa couldnt help but whine. He never knew this would happen.

“sannie- fuck..”

“such a pretty long cock, yea?” San said as he grabbed the base of the tallers cock.. it was rather long then thick. Seonghwa moaned and bit his lip as san jerked him off.

“im gonna move baby, kay?” Seonghwa nodded.. san helped guide hwas hips on him. As seonghwa rode him he let out insufferable moan.. san was pumping his cock at the same time .

The room was filled with moans and pants, the kind that made the air feel heavier, more significant. The soft creak of the chair beneath them and their unsteady breaths were the only sounds as Seonghwa shifted in San’s lap, his back pressed firmly against San’s chest as san was thrusting up into seonghwa.

San’s hands rested securely on Seonghwa’s hips, guiding him with a steady rhythm and the other still around his cock. His voice, low and warm, spilled into the quiet room. “That’s it, Hwa,” he murmured, his tone laced with a gentle admiration that sent shivers down Seonghwa’s spine.

Seonghwa’s hands gripped the arms of the chair for support, his head falling back against San’s shoulder. He bit his lip, trying to keep himself composed, but the way San’s hands moved—firm yet patient—made it impossible to hold back every soft sound.

“You’re doing so well,” San whispered, his lips brushing against Seonghwa’s ear. The warmth of his breath and the gentle rasp of his voice made Seonghwa’s chest tighten. “So perfect, bunny”

Seonghwa’s face flushed at the praise, his heart pounding in his chest. He wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of such open admiration, especially not from San, whose usual teasing was a world away from this sincerity.

“Sannie-ah~” Seonghwa breathed, his voice barely audible.

“Hmm?” San hummed in response, his arms wrapping around Seonghwa’s waist to pull him even closer

Seonghwa turned his head slightly, his cheek brushing against San’s as he tried to find the words. “You’re... you’re too much.”

San chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through Seonghwa’s back. “I could say the same about you,” he murmured. His hands tightened their grip on Seonghwa’s waist, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind him who was in control. “But I mean it, Hwa. You’re incredible. Look at you, taking my dick with ne jacking you off..”

The sincerity in San’s voice made Seonghwa’s heart ache in the best way. He didn’t know what to say, so he let himself lean back further, letting the warmth of San’s chest and the steadiness of his hands ground him.

San’s lips brushed against the side of Seonghwa’s neck, pressing soft, lingering kisses there as his hands moved in time with their rhythm. “You feel so good,” he whispered, the words barely audible but enough to make Seonghwa’s breath hitch.

Seonghwa closed his eyes, letting himself get lost in the moment. San’s words, his touch, the way he held him like he was something precious—it was overwhelming in the best way.

“San…” he murmured again, his voice breaking slightly.

“I’ve got you,” San replied softly, his lips curving into a smile against Seonghwa’s skin. “Just let me take care of you, Hwa.”

San thrusted more into seonghwa, guiding his hips so he was bouncing, watching his cock disappear into the others ass.. “fuck, just like that.. Would Hongjoong be jealous I fucked you? Huh?”

He continued to jerk him off, seonghwas whines filled the room.. “shh, be quiet. We dont want Mingi to hear, right?”

“y- you said he was gone” - “I lied” - “i- i hate you-”

The rhythm between them grew more intense, each movement pulling Seonghwa deeper into the overwhelming sensations that coursed through his body. His breaths came in quick, uneven pants, each one accompanied by soft, unrestrained sounds that filled the quiet room.

“San,” Seonghwa gasped, his voice trembling as tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He wasn’t sure if it was from the intensity of the moment, the overwhelming closeness, or the way San’s hands guided him with such care—it was all too much in the best way.

San’s grip on Seonghwa tightened slightly, one hand still at his waist while the other explored, adding to the fire that had built between them. His lips pressed against Seonghwa’s neck, kissing the flushed skin softly before murmuring, “You’re amazing, Hwa. Taking my cock like a good boy.”

Seonghwa’s head fell back against San’s shoulder, his lips parted as quiet whimpers escaped him. The tears threatened to spill over now, the sheer intimacy of the moment leaving him raw and vulnerable.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” San whispered, his voice low and full of awe as his hands worked to keep Seonghwa grounded. “You like it when i touch your dick like this? Hm?” He said as he teased the tip. Seonghwas dick twitched painfully. San rubbed the tip with his palm.

“I can’t,” Seonghwa choked out, his voice breaking as the tears finally spilled over. His hands trembled as they clutched at San’s thighs, desperate for something to hold on to.

“Yes, you can,” San murmured, his lips brushing against Seonghwa’s ear. “You’re doing so well, bunny.. so fucking good..”

Seonghwa’s breath hitched again, his chest heaving as the quiet sobs mixed with the soft, breathy sounds that escaped him. The intensity of it all—San’s touch, his words, the way he held him so securely—left Seonghwa completely undone.

San’s hand on his chest moved upward, gently cupping Seonghwa’s face as his thumb brushed away a stray tear. “You’re so beautiful, even like this,” San said softly, his voice filled with affection.

Seonghwa let out another quiet sob, turning his head slightly to press his cheek against San’s palm. “Sannie…” he whispered, his voice breaking as he clung to the moment, his heart pounding in his chest.

“I’m here,” San replied, his tone unwavering as he held Seonghwa close. “I’ll always be here, Hwa.”

Seonghwa was pretty sure mingi could hear them. He couldn’t control his moans. Sans balls clapped against the older boys ass.

Seonghwa’s breath came in desperate, shaky gasps as his fingers clutched at San’s thighs, his body trembling under the weight of it all. His head fell back against San’s shoulder, and a soft whine escaped him.

“S-Sannie,” he stammered, his voice barely a whisper, laced with urgency. “I’m so close—”

San’s hold on him tightened, his movements deliberate and steady, grounding Seonghwa as he guided him toward the edge. “Me too,” San murmured, his voice low and breathy, full of emotion. He pressed his lips to Seonghwa’s ear, his words soft but commanding. “It’s okay, Hwa. Let it out. I’ve got you.”

Seonghwa whimpered, his back arching slightly as the tension built to an almost unbearable level. “San—” he cried out, his voice breaking as his body shuddered.

“Just a little more,” San whispered, his tone both soothing and encouraging. His own breaths were uneven now, and his grip on Seonghwa’s hips grew firmer as he matched Seonghwa’s intensity. “You’re so perfect like this, Hyung.. let go baby.. cum”

The words sent a jolt through Seonghwa, and he couldn’t hold back any longer. A desperate cry tore from his lips as his body gave in, trembling in San’s arms as waves of sensation washed over him. His white ropes shot out, some landing on his chest while some just went everywhere. San found it so hot.

He came inside seonghwa, the older could feel his hole getting filled and couldn’t help but whine as more of his cum spilled out of his tip. San let go of his cock letting the rest of his sticky fluid land anywhere

“That’s it,” San murmured, his voice filled with pride and affection as he pressed a kiss to Seonghwa’s temple. His own movements stilled moments later, a deep, satisfied sigh escaping him as he held Seonghwa tightly, their hearts racing in unison.

Seonghwa slumped against San, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to catch his breath. His hands, once gripping San’s thighs for dear life, now rested limply in his lap.

San chuckled softly, his hands running soothingly along Seonghwa’s sides. “You did amazing, Seonghwa..” he whispered, his voice filled with warmth.

Seonghwa let out a quiet, breathy laugh, his cheeks still flushed. “T- thank you, Sannie,” he replied weakly, his voice tinged with affection and exhaustion.

San’s arms tightened around him, pulling him even closer. “I told you I’d take care of you,” he said softly, his lips brushing against Seonghwa’s temple again. “You did great”

“c- can we clean up?” Seonghwa tilts his head, still panting as he asked the muscular boy. “Mhm.. ill clean you up, dont worry.. ill give you the best aftercare ever, hyung.” He replied. Seonghwa nodded..

“i- im sorry I ate your cake..” - “dont worry about it.. its okay” - “O- okay..”

“Plus I got my,”

“sweet revenge”

#ateez smut #ateez san #ateez seonghwa #seonghwa smut #san smut #park seonghwa #seonghwa x reader #choi san #member x member #kpop #kpop smut #smut #Seonghwa x San

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unboundprompts · 1 year ago

Note

Idk if you’ve done this yet but ways to describe a dark/scary motel/house? Something straight out of a paranormal horror story to be precise.

Thank you!! 🫶🏼

I love love love horror. If you ever want more horror prompts please let me know :)

Descriptions of Haunted Locations

-> feel free to edit and adjust pronouns as you see fit.

The doors of the motel were identical, nothing differentiating them besides the rusted numbers. They were dirty, as if they had never been cleaned, and the paint had been chipped off over time. Some of the doors looked like they were covered in claw marks-- fingernails digging into the old paint in chilling, desperate lines.

The house was old. It looked like it hadn't been cared for in decades. The grass in the yard was up to her knees and ivy leaves grew on the exteriors of the house and rooted in the gutters. The windows were boarded up, making it look abandoned. The only way to glimpse the inside of the house was through the attic window.

The entry way was filled with dust. It lingered in the air and on every surface. He glanced up at the antique chandelier hanging high overhead, seeing the dirt and grime that dirtied the glass crystals. He tried the light switch, flicking it up and down but to no avail. When he turned on his phone's flashlight, and shone it through the dusty air, a shadow passed in front of him, darting through the entry way and up the stairs.

The motel room was small, the bed made with a comforter that looked like it came from their great-grandmother's house. It was a dirty floral pattern, with yellow pillows that were probably once white. The carpet was stained. Either with blood or dark red wine, they weren't sure. And the window that looked out onto the walkway was covered in fingerprints.

Taxidermy. The lobby of the motel was filled with horrible dead animals mounted to walls and displayed in the corners. She was near certain that their eyes would move. As she checked in, the taxidermy squirrel that sat on the desk stared at her with it's teeth bared.

If you like what I do and want to support me, please consider buying me a coffee! I also offer editing services and other writing advice on my Ko-fi! Become a member to receive exclusive content, early access, and prioritized writing prompt requests.

#writing prompts #dialogue prompt #creative writing #writeblr #prompt list #story prompt #horror prompts #setting prompts #supernatural prompts #paranormal prompts

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sky-kiss · 1 year ago

Note

Imagine Raphael giving you to Haarlep to cycle between edging and overstim for a day + aftercare. The next day Raphael puts you in suspension bondage and occasionally walks up while he is reading to play with your still raw and over sensitive clit/cock.

Plucking, stroking, teasing until your voice breaks. Then he walks away, licking his fingers.

A/N: I MEAN. HERE’S THE THING. Nothing I write is going to be able to touch that. But I will try. Hopefully you like it. Hiding sin under gif.

Raph x Haarlep x Reader (GN): HAHA I'M IN DANGER

___

He gives you to Haarlep to "rest."

Of course, he smiles as he says it, eyes glittering specks of hellfire. He waves you away with a small smile and a pat on the ass. Raphael's good little toy, obedient and deserving a touch of kindness after hours at the devil's mercy. Every muscle in your body aches in the most delicious way, fingerprints emblazoned across your hips, shallow abrasions across your belly. Your throat is a ruin of kiss-sucked bruises. Precisely how he likes you, his pretty canvas.

But you're tired. You need the rest. Haarlep coos to you, hands feathering over your hair. They touch and tease, massaging out the aching muscles in your lower back. The incubus always promises you the sweetest things, a whisper of affection as they settle between your thighs.

It's "rest" only in the loosest sense of the word. You whine, hands clenching in the sheets. Sometimes, it's their mouth on you. It's an irresistible game, building you to a dizzying high only to pull back and leaving you wanting and cold. Up and up until you're left raw, a live wire sparking in the overheated air. You beg them to let you come.

Haarlep always agrees. But a devil's acquiescence is rarely without cost. They stuff you full of cock, riding you until you're too hoarse to scream. They order you to come for them, laughing, bright, loud, and cruel. A hand fists in your hair, turning your face into the mattress.

"Oh, my love, you asked for this, no?" He leans over you, licking up your spine. "Begged to come. Called me cruel! Wicked Haarlep!" You whimper. His right-hand snakes around your throat, squeezing and pulling you back against his chest. The incubus nips the shell of your ear, dragging the lobe between his teeth. "Scream for me, won't you? You can still do that much."

You try. They make sure you try. But Haarlep is an industrious creature capable of making their own entertainment. After they've come, they flip you onto your back, moving you like their little doll. It's back to teeth and tongue, licking his mess clean, stroking you. It's too much. Pleasure and heat, spiraling until you think you'll black out.

And the sweetest thing is that whenever you awaken, Haarlep is there, still toying with your body—building and breaking, building and breaking, over and over.

One of them must hang you. You don't remember, blissed out, boneless. Raphael loves to display you like this: hanging near his desk, an art piece to observe at his leisure. The chains chafe a little, but you know that irritation will be dealt with after. For now, you enjoy the reprieve. There are no hands on you for the first time in what feels like days.

"Did you enjoy your reprieve, mouse?" Raphael smiles at you, almost gentle, almost fond. There are so many possibilities, and your brain is too addled to parse any of them. He leans back in his seat, hands folded over his belly. "Haarlep lamented your performance. Uninspired, they called it." The cambion chuckles at this, humming. "But the results."

He holds his arms out wide, smirking. Yes, the results- your ruination. Your head sags forward, chin resting on your chest. Raphael crosses the room, hooking a finger under your chin. The devil groans, kissing you deeply. His tongue presses past the seam of your lips, tasting you, dancing but not demanding.

A contrast to the way he touches you. He doesn't build you to an orgasm; he wrenches it from your exhausted body, the touch stinging against your overstimulated flesh. You whimper into his mouth, twisting to take more, to get closer, to relieve the pressure in your wrists. He tuts. Raphael kisses your nose, your chin, your mouth.

"Now, now, you know the game, mouse. Be very good, and we'll let you down early. For now…relax. Simple…be yourself."

He pats your stomach and returns to his reading, brings his fingers to his mouth and licks them clean.

#bg3 raphael #haarlep #raphael x reader #haarlep x reader #raphael x tav #asks #bg3 smut #That's the last one for the day #will do the other prompts tomorrow #thank you all

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ccazimi · 4 days ago

Text

Prologue

cw: angst, blood, murder, mc dies, possible dubcon, wounding, mentions of religion/slightly religious themes (more so to do with "purity"), heian era au, decapitation, corruption, mentions of sex/sexual activities, sadism, manipulation, toxic relationship, mdni

wc: 2.6k

a/n: so this is the quick prologue i wrote up a bit of time ago to help me flesh out an idea for a story that revolves around reader reincarnating in a modern au with a connection to sukuna, sort of as a vessel, maybe more like a haunting... this is written in third person but the actual fic would be written from second person pov, like a typical reader insert

A renowned clan, revered for their spiritual bonds and sacred techniques, which stood as protectors against the hordes of cursed spirits that ravaged the land, shielding its people from their relentless destruction.

Their shrine's connection to one of the most powerful sorcerer clans, made it central to a complex web of regional politics, only heightening the family's prestige.

From peasants to royalty, pilgrims journeyed to the shrine they had safeguarded for centuries, seeking purification from cursed afflictions or blessings for protection against malevolent entities and misfortune.

What a joke, Sukuna thought it all was.

Humans and the way they worshipped these pathetic non-existent gods, when he existed.

So just to prove a point, he stormed the lands they owned in a five day long slaughtering spree, leaving a trail of mutilated corpses and the stench of blood in his wake.

Sanctity would not save them, neither could any other sorcerer thrown his way.

And when he learned that the clan had two daughters, things got even better. He offered them a deal, that in exchange for one of the young women from their bloodline he would leave their territories and their people alone.

They agreed, offering up the oldest girl only a few days after she had turned twenty-two.

Every deity does not care for humanity— in the age of gods, sacrifices and offerings were made as frequently to keep them at bay as they were to draw them near.

This was precisely what the clan was hoping to achieve when they gave her to him.

Her family adorned her in the finest silks, whispering assurances that it was a great honor to be chosen—that her sacrifice would not be in vain, that the afterlife would reward her in ways this world never could.

She was bathed in fragrant waters, purified of earthly taint, silken hair bound with a vivid mizuhiki, delicate feet slipped into black lacquered geta sandals.

Such meticulous preparation just to propitiate the King of Curses with an offering that everyone silently understood would be ruined, ravaged, by the demon.

From the moment his gaze fell upon her—her figure draped in a flowing white kosode and crimson hakama, timid eyes lowered yet unable to resist flickering toward his aberrant form, betraying a smoldering curiosity—he knew he wanted to sink his claws into her, to stain her delicate skin with bloodied fingerprints.

And so, he did.

She hid herself at first beneath the mask of chastity, the one she'd been taught to wear her entire life. A mask that buried whatever deep and ugly desires she was told to suffocate, locked away behind the illusion of purity. She bound herself to the chains of who she was expected to be, suffocating under the weight of devotion to a self imposed upon her.

Yet beneath that pristine facade, a fissure began to form— something ugly and raw, desperate to break free, yet so minute it was likely unnoticed even by her.

But he saw it—saw her vulnerability—and turned it into a game, slowly chipping away at her walls with the kind of ruthless patience that made her heart ache and her body tremble.

She was stubborn, desperately clinging onto that mask like it would save her, so he made her flesh worship him when she refused to.

Because try as she might, she couldn’t stop the arousal from dripping so sinfully between her thighs when he touched her like that for the first time, two large fingers eventually piercing through her untouched sex.

Sukuna found it humorous in a way, how she was calling out to her false gods the first time he took her in the garden, cool damp grass and fresh earth rubbing against her bare back while he took her virginity under the pale moon. Hot tears splashed from her eyes, a warm stream of liquids running down her thighs and ass- whether it was spit, her fluids, his precum, or her blood, she did not know.

Neither did she care as soon the cries of her old gods were replaced by the name of her new one- Sukuna.

She had never known herself, her identity smothered beneath the weight of duty and family expectations her whole life. But this impious hunger he had awakened in her—it was the first thing in her existence that felt real.

To her, he was freedom, the door she had never seen, the escape from the miserable, hollow life she had been shackled to, a life that now seemed empty and meaningless.

Only he could understand the true depth of her perversion, perhaps even illuminate it as he drew it from her, delicate as spider's silk—tacky, glistening, tangled in the dark corners of her soul. With every touch, every pull, he wove her twisted desires into something new, something unrecognizable.

He became everything to her in this way, her salvation, her deliverance, pulled from the very grace he offered with his ruthless touch.

To him, she was nothing.

Just another toy to be discarded, another pawn in Sukuna’s game. He had suspected from the beginning that this little act of deference from such a powerful clan of sorcerers was nothing more than a calculated move, a ploy to manipulate and control. And she was just the latest piece to be used, nothing more than a fleeting distraction in his endless pursuit of power.

The amount of times he took her all over the estate were just a means to an end he told himself, that whenever he found his head between her thighs it was so she’d spill what he needed to know after hours of dragging her to the edge and pulling her back right before she could fall, till her muddled and fucked out mind was easily manipulated.

“You conjure up gods because you’re too afraid to judge yourself,” he told her as he pried open her lips and dipped fingers coated in her essence against her wet tongue, “Taste the filth you’re really made of…”

He could have torn her skin off in pieces, plucked the eyeballs from her skull to make her feed on them, but where was the fun in that?

It was far much more enjoyable seeing the war in her mind as she reluctantly sampled the bitter saltiness that wept from between her legs, ending up licking his fingers clean with an almost desperate fervor.

How over and over she tried so pathetically to fight years’ worth of unholy repressed desires, how she failed and the guilt that would storm her after each night she fell further into his grasp, reciting sutras and bathing in waters in a desperate attempt to cleanse herself each time he defiled her body.

He made her forget any allegiance she still had to them, and it didn’t take much.

Born without a cursed technique, with a hollow, shifting disposition that never quite fit anywhere, the family’s power was never meant for her. It would’ve gone to her younger sister anyway—bright, charismatic, the perfect heir, trained as a sorcerer, molded for their cause.

She confessed to Sukuna once, her mind still hazy from their encounter, her body heavy with post-coital bliss. She said it like a revelation, like a curse she was finally free to speak- that she had always known she was a mistake. The weight of her family’s duty had never claimed her, never made her feel tethered to their blood or their expectations.

She never truly felt it, not once.

Night after night, she shed the remnants of who she once believed herself to be, as Sukuna remade her in his image, carving out forgotten parts of herself—the parts untouched by any divine notion, the parts that had always been godless.

With each layer peeled away, a festering resentment toward her family grew, seeping deeper, feeding into the revelations of what she truly felt for them. The hollow sense of obligation she once harbored toward the clan that had cast her aside twisted into something much more visceral, more damning. Chains that had once bound her were rusted, broken, as her truth began to claw its way to the surface.

Unaware, the girl unwittingly drew closer to her own demise with every secret she surrendered about her family and the allied clans. Each confession, each discarded fragment of knowledge, was another step toward the inevitable, until there was nothing left to spill.

Of course she had suspected, at some point, that Sukuna was using her—at least partially—for the information she held. But the truth of it never fully sank in, drowned out by her desperate, naive hope that—however small, however twisted—that maybe, just maybe, there was some kind of meaning to the bond they’d forged. Even if it was merely a byproduct of his schemes, it had felt like something that could be real.

What a stupidly naive notion.

Soon there was nothing left to extract, no more purpose for her- she had outlived her usefulness. And so, one night, as the cold weight of finality settled in, he made the decision that it would be her last night.

He fucks her more mercilessly than he usually did, the two of them cumming who knows how many times.

As usual she's melted by the time he's drained, her fucked out mind yearning and aching for even the smallest shred of his affection afterward, like a starving runt clawing for the faintest drop of its mother's milk, trembling in its need.

"Could you please...lay with me, my Lord?" She askes softly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

For once instead of denying the simple request immediately, he pauses to take a good look at her, at the sweat covering her bruised and marked flesh in a thin sheen, the tendrils of her hair sticking to her head, flushed cheeks and unfocused but satisfied eyes, his semen dripping obscenely from her bloated womb, mixing with her arousal in a small puddle on the silken sheets of his futon.

"Fine." He replies, voice low with an unreadable gaze.

Her eyes widen in surprise, a flicker of hope sparking within her. He had agreed, at last.

She's too pleased to overthink it, too eager to bask in the rare moment of his attention. She shifts on the futon, making space for him, a breathless anticipation building as he moves to settle beside her.

He crawls in beside her, the warmth of his body dwarfing her small frame, and she instinctively curls into him, seeking comfort from a man who has never even kissed her, truly kissed her.

"Thank you, Lord Sukuna," she sighs, body melting under the sensation of his calloused fingertips gliding over her delicate skin, grazing through the softness of her hair.

The poor thing has no idea how close she is to her end- he might as well indulge her in these last few moments of her meaningless life, in the fleeting tenderness she allows herself to believe in.

"Do you love me?" he hums, his voice oddly contemplative.

Her heart stutters, once again caught off-guard by the question.

She turns on her back to face him, gazing up at his face as stern and stoic as always, so impossibly beautiful in its coldness. "Of course I do. More than anything, my Lord…"

"You swear?"

"Yes."

She lifts a trembling hand, delicate fingers shyly brushing over the dark markings that adorn his face, tracing them with reverence. He doesn't stop her, only fueling the false hope she clings to.

For a moment there's this most strange sensation, like his heart tightening in his chest and before he can comprehend whatever the feeling is, he raises two fingers.

"How pathetic." He mutters sharply as he flicks his wrist.

Her piercing shriek cut across the silent night as two large slices formed across her abdomen, through the fragile illusion she'd built.

“Silly girl.”

Another cut, another scream.

For a moment, she's disoriented, lost in the searing pain, voice choked with confusion and terror, sobbing "What are you doing?" as she writhes in agony.

But whatever fleeting emotion had gripped him, whatever hint of hesitation, is gone in an instant, burned away by the familiar, twisted hunger within him. The urge to break her, to hear her cries echo in his ears, consumes him entirely. Each scream is fuel to the fire of his sadism, and he savors the sound.

They're quite similar to how she sounded when he would fuck the life out of her, he thinks.

Sukuna laughs, lazily swiping his fingers now so that cuts mar her skin while she begs for him to stop.

"What, did you think that if we -if you- played pretend long enough, your inane fantasy would somehow turn real?" He leans in, to brush her cheek in a mocking gesture imitating that of a lover. "You swore you loved me. Do you still love me?"

She spasms, a frantic, feeble attempt at movement, but her body betrays her. She wills her legs to respond, to flinch, to do anything—but there’s nothing.

No sensation, no control. Just the sickening realization that she’s trapped in her own failing flesh.

Sukuna brings his face close, lips brushing against hers, warm breath feathering against her parted mouth that so desperately struggles for oxygen right now. "If I kissed you now, would you still pretend that I could have been anything more than this?"

He sees it in her eyes then, the realization that he never actually cared, that he was the monster he was known to be right till the bitter, inevitable end.

What had she expected? Mercy? Love? How pathetic.

“Where are your gods now?” He pulls away to admire the sight before him.

The dark, dripping lines that scar her naked body thrills him, cocks hardening at how damaged she looks, at how she uses her last breaths pleading him over and over to stop with such sincerity as if that would truly stop him.

“A shrine maiden taking her last breaths with my seed leaking out of her…What a sight.” He sneers, wiping the hair away from her face and relishing in the way it seems like her heart is breaking in her eyes, the weight of her decisions finally catching up to her in the end. She's given up on begging for mercy, or maybe she simply can't anymore.

Her skin is paling, sweat collecting in beads and rolling off as she bleeds out.

And yet- something is wrong.

Instead of dimming, her eyes sharpen, dark pupils locking onto him with unnerving clarity.

Even her ragged, uneven breaths begin to steady, as if she’s forcing herself to hold on, to say something, to be something in her final moments.

Sukuna doesn’t like it.

The fun is over.

Her lips part—too late. The invisible blade carves through flesh, tendon, and bone in a single merciless stroke, the sharp crack of severed sinew ringing through the air before her head falls clean off.

Few things ever truly unsettle Sukuna.

But this—this was something else.

Her severed head fell onto the sheets with a dull, wet thud, rolling to its side to face him, yet her colorless lips still moved. No breath should remain, no voice should linger—and yet, from the gaping wound of her throat, a sound slithered forth, jagged and unnatural, something no longer human.

Then came the cursed energy.

Thick, suffocating waves poured from the exposed column of her neck, unfurling into the air like a black storm, coiling and twisting before sinking into his skin. He felt it burn as it permeated him, felt the weight of something far more binding than words.

A promise.

A curse.

A fate he had not foreseen.

Through bloodstained lips, her final whisper echoed, disjointed, but with such absoluteness that it was like the future was cemented with the utterance.

“I will find you again, Ryomen Sukuna.”

questions, comments, thoughts are welcome! i might polish this up some more later and decide if it's worth working on the full fic

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ghxstmxchine · 11 months ago

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fem-aligned pls dni!!

✧.* Hobie loves makeup

He wears it whenever he wants, onstage and off, just loving how the thick layer of eyeliner looks around his heterochromic eyes and soft sheen of lipstick on his lips, shimmering under the lowlights and making them look all the more enticing

His fingers are constantly smudged with his eyeshadow as he packs it around his eye with careful precision despite never using brushes, leaving little fingerprints on your wrists and hips as he pulls you close, drawling sweetly to you "ain't ya gonna call me pretty, luv?", a dark smirk on his lips, the same dark shade as the ripest cherry

Eyeliner is his favorite, whether it's a rough ring drawn around his eye or the sharpest wing he could manage, accompanied by mascara on his heavy lashes. He likes how it makes him look, even more how it runs down his face, dark and messy streaks streaming down his cheeks as he kneels in front of you, cock stretching his pretty little mouth open

Those fingers stained with makeup digging into your thighs and hipbone, leaving behind faded dark marks as he holds on, tugging your hips forward to slide your cock deeper into his tight throat, gagging lightly as more tears spill over, dragging lines of mascara down his face

He loves the way his lipstick stains your skin, rubbing off as a messy ring around your cock as he bobs his head on your length, practically choking himself on you to slide your cock past the messy benchmark he'd made for himself. He digs his nimble fingers into your plush ass, your cock sliding further down his throat till he's kissing your pelvis, smearing black lipstick on your skin as his throat flutters around your cock And when your orgasm is quickly approaching he pulls off, thick strings of saliva connecting between his shiny lips and your cock covered in his spit, fist frantically stroking you to drive you over the edge. You cum on his face, milky white drops smearing alongside his makeup stained cheeks and Hobie reaches up, swiping a finger through your mess and smudging black lipstick down his chin before smiling up at you and sliding the cum coated finger in his mouth

He looks even prettier like this

#atsv x reader #across the spiderverse #atsv #hobie brown #hobie brown x reader #spiderpunk #spiderpunk x reader #hobie brown x male reader

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idontknowreallywhy · 7 months ago

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Following in his footsteps

a.k.a. How to Infuriate Your Engineer

Finished this idea off on the commute so apologies for typos, clumsy wording and for inconsistencies in the sounds Brains stutters on…

It’s a bit of a mystery as to why Scott, the first born, was named after the 4th of the Mercury Seven whose flight and piloting decisions were somewhat controversial and left him in conflict with flight control (sound familiar?). Anyway I find myself intrigued by that particular 1960’s flyboy, particularly as to one thing he did 1/3 of the way through his trip with his fuel running low…

✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️

“S-SCOTT C-C-CARPENTER TRACY!!!”

John later confirmed that this was indeed the first time in Tracy history that Brains ever been apoplectic enough to middle name any of them. His ire was usually quiet and dry, with occasional sarcasm. Every so often some non-vital but comfort-providing item might be removed from a Thunderbird for “essential maintenance”… the cushioning of One’s pilot seat, the power supply to Two’s coffee machine…

But generally, after more than a decade living with the Tracys, their long-suffering engineer had cultivated the talent of providing emotionally restrained feedback. Albeit there was good reason MAX was unable to mimic the phrases that were muttered over mangled landing gear, flooded engines, overstrained thrusters and the like.

This Wednesday morning, however, something had clearly pushed him over the edge.

“What did you doooo?” Alan hissed in alarm and was immediately shushed by a heavily frowning Virgil, whose fingers appeared unable to release the unfortunately tense chord he’d just leaned into. John’s hologram popped up looking serious. Even Gordon looked incredibly uncomfortable.

From the guilt-ridden look on Scott’s face, he could think of least three reasons his neck might be on the block this morning.

A tightly wound ball of fury approached the seating area and the speed with which International Rescue’s commander leapt from the couch betrayed his initial instinct to bolt from the room and never stop running. However, decades of experience of facing the music from many and varied sources meant his feet remained firmly rooted to the floor, while the rest of his body sought the security of parade rest.

Brains stood in front of him vibrating with rage. The ends of MAX’s arms were positioned at an approximation of where the robot’s hips might be. The room held its breath. Virgil’s foot remained wedged against the sustain pedal. The melodramatic chord continued reverberating around the lounge.

The engineer suddenly raised a hand and everyone flinched. Had their friend finally resorted to violence?

Scott closed his eyes and awaited whatever engineering justice was deemed merited for… whatever it was he had done.

But the shorter man’s movement as he reached up to Scott’s face was slow, deliberate and with a slight frown of concentration he stuck a 75mm square of blue duct tape precisely in the middle of Scott’s forehead.

Virgil jaw dropped and his foot finally slipped off the pedal. The dampers clunked back into place, allowing an ominous silence to reign for a few moments.

The colour coded rolls of multi-purpose tape included within each baldric was one of Brains’ affectionate little thematic touches but also acted as a crude fingerprint… blue tape could only ever have been used by one person.

The Commander’s eyebrows twitched almost audibly as he tried to puzzle out the strange sensation but his eyes remained screwed shut.

When Brains spoke it was barely more than a whisper and the brothers in the room found themselves leaning in. The brother in space appeared to have located a bucket of popcorn.

“D-do you h-happen, to know how l-long I have spent p-perfecting One’s fuel reserve s-system, S-Scott?”

Scott swallowed, hard, and opened his eyes again.

“Quite a long time?”

“Yes.”

“Ahh, did I ever thank you? I should have, I’m very sorry - thank you for that and for all your work, Brains. It really is appreciated.”

“Is it?”

“Of course!”

“Hmmm.”

Scott opened his mouth again but, accepting that his attempt to divert the conversation had failed, clearly thought better of digging any deeper until the nature of the situation became more clearly defined.

Brains’ hand lifted for a second time, another square of blue tape delicately held between thumb and forefinger. This was placed with some care on the very tip of Scott’s nose.

Alan snorted. Gordon punched him in the arm and was elbowed back. Virgil glared them into silence then nearly lost control himself at the sight of his elder brother going cross eyed in an attempt to establish what on earth he was being decorated with.

Brains spun on his heel to face the rest and they all leaned back hurriedly, feigning casual interest. Nobody wanted to appear to be aware of, to be accidentally associated with whatever crime it was Scott had committed.

“Th-thunderbird One uses t-two fuels but h-has th-th-three fuel tanks. As you all know, th-the balance of fuel t-to achieve m-maximum speed is p-precisely c-calculated and th-the system that g-governs it is h-highly sophisticated.”

Everyone nodded except Scott who was trying and failing to pretend he was unbothered by the additions to his face. His nose twitched compulsively.

“D-due to certain t-tendencies of her p-rimary p-p-pilot, One h-has a reserve t-tank. Th-that blend of fuel w-will not achieve the h-highest speeds b-but will ensure she is able t-to return h-home if a SENSIBLE…” the word was ground out as if it was painful “…speed is m-maintained.”

Brains paused. Every eye in the room shifted to Scott. Max bleeped, judgementally. Brains continued, his voice deadly calm and deeply terrifying for it.

“T-to ensure One’s p-pilot d-does not m-miss the fuel status w-warnings amongst th-the p-p-plethora of information on the h-holographic display I installed th-three LED bulbs t-to m-make it QU-QUITE CLEAR w-when l-levels w-were running low and w-when speed n-needed t-to be m-m-m-moderated in order t-to avoid d-damage t-to her supply p-p-p-p-pipeline a-a-a-and e-en-en-engines!”

Brains’ veneer of calm was cracking and Scott, who had clearly solved the mystery, appeared to be chewing through the inside of his face. Brains spun back to face the object of his wrath. MAX’s mechanical eyes narrowed.

“W-warning l-lights are only effective w-when th-they are v-visible!”

Scott gulped and fell back on the only defence he had left - he gave his old friend a dimpled half-grin and a doomed attempt at mitigation:

“They were a little… distracting?”

“D-distracting.”

The full stop was potent and echoed around them. Brains appeared on the edge of an eruption the like of which Tracy Island had never seen, even when the volcano was active. But he mastered himself and produced a final square of tape which he held in front of Scott’s face for a moment before slapping it down on to the top of his head, rubbing it slightly to ensnare as much perfectly styled hair as possible before storming from the room.

MAX remained just long enough to shake a medium-weight hydro-spanner with extreme prejudice before flouncing impressively and trundling after his master.

Alan and Gordon clung to each other, faces contorted with silent mirth. Virgil caught John’s eye then cleared his throat and appeared about to speak before being forestalled by his Commander’s raised palm.

Lacking a little of his usual gravitas due to the tape fluttering gently in the huffed breath from his nose, Scott still poured every ounce of authority he had left into an order of three short syllables:

“Not. A. Word.”

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #scott tracy #brains (thunderbirds)#idontknowreallywhy fanfic #commute fic #thunderfluff #flyboy is in trouble again #Scott carpenter

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