#School Support In Response To School Shooting

[losangelesnewsfeed]

Nashville School Shooting Leaves Community in Shock

"Community mourns tragic Nashville school shooting on March 28, 2023."

On March 28, 2023, a Nashville school was the site of a tragic shooting that has left the community reeling. The incident, which occurred at a local high school, resulted in the deaths of several students and faculty members, as well as numerous injuries. The entire community is struggling to come to terms with this senseless act of violence, and many are left wondering how such a tragedy could…

[kryptonitejelly]

art donaldson x childhood friend reader who he hasn’t seen in a long time (whose had a crazy glow up) visits him at stanford at the same time as patrick and patrick starts hitting on her (him and tashi are in an open relationship) and art gets jealous.

(maybe she tells patrick she knows he’s in a relationship and he tells her tashi wouldn’t mind and she would probably be down to join idk)

art donaldson x reader // challengers // fluff; happy ending

a/n: i did not hit the prompt on the head 100%, but i’m not mad at it. this ended up turning into a monster i had no control off and ended up being alot longer than i expected (i haven’t done a word count, and did not mean for it to spiral into this but i enjoyed writing this very much). i am an art donaldson defender and this is my way of giving him everything he deserves (i hope you guys can see what i subtly tried to do in places - please leave comments/reblog if you see them, it would mean the world). also i typed this entirely on my phone without proofreading - you’ve been warned.

edit - as a disclaimer, i do not purport to comment on the victim/villain/any dynamic in the challengers universe. this space is purely for delusional thoughts and fiction only (see also)

-

Good luck.

Art shoots the text off to you before taking a swig out of cup of diet coke he has in hand. He leans forward, his forearms on his knees, teeth crunching on ice cubes as lets his gaze sweep across the court in front of him. It is devoid of players but already has the umpire and linesmen ready and waiting.

You’ll buy dinner if I win?

Art doesn’t expect to get a text back, so he checks his phone absently, but his face breaks into a tiny grin as he sees your reply. Most other players would have been hyper focused in the moments before a match but you, in the breezy light hearted way you always were, still had it in you to joke around.

Yes, but if you lose…

Art sends his response, the tiny grin still on his face.

I’ll feed you.

Your reply is fast and it makes art shake his head lightly a quiet chuckle dropping from his lips. He is just about to type another reply but is interrupted by the loud cheers that erupt from around him. Art looks up from his phone to see Anna Davies walk out on court in the same colour red as he had on. He claps politely with the rest of the men’s team who he was sitting amongst in the stands, in a show of support.

Art catches sight of Tashi and Patrick, both perched a few rows down from him with the rest of the women’s team both clapping and hollering in support. He notices the turn of Patrick’s head, no doubt to check in on Art but he doesn’t tilt his head or smile back in acknowledgement as he usually would - he is far too distracted by you.

Art can feel his jaw slacken slightly as you walk on court. He knows what you look like, but you in the flesh - Art thinks you are breathtaking. Your top is in a shade of your college’s colour, paired with a white tennis skirt that shows off a pair of toned, long legs. He catches a glint of metal just above your ankle, and he finds himself squinting in a feeble attempt to make out the look of the ankle bracelet that you have on. Art moves his gaze your face, taking in what he can see from his perch on the stands as you walk out towards your designated bench on the court, bright neon green bottle in hand, your tennis bag slung on a shoulder.

You had been close back home for most of your childhood and more formative teen years, and the both had kept in touch since he left for Stanford and you to your own school of choice, but too infrequently - the occasional text, more frequent reaction or comment on each other’s social media and the small conversations that spiralled from those interactions - like two planets orbiting in the same solar system, but not close enough. Life had overtaken, the excitement of moving your separate ways to a new environment, of college - tennis, academics, people, parties, it had overwhelmed you both, individually and together - made you just about forget that you had each other.

Art is transfixed. You are, lithe, glowing and with a hop in your step - Art finds himself questioning why he had never made more effort to keep you closer since you had both gone on your separate paths. He watches as you settle your bag on the bench, turning your gaze to the stands, eyes narrowing from the glare of the sun as you search the stands, only for your gaze to fix on his. Art sees you smile, lips turning up as you wink directly at him. It makes a series of heads turn to look back at him - your fellow team mates, the small group of supporters from your college who had come along, and the Stanford women’s team plus Patrick, half curious, half puzzled. Art can only raise a hand beside his chest in greeting as he remembers to breathe, letting the air he had been holding in his chest out.

He sees turn away while reaching for your phone which you had wedged in between the band of your tennis skirt and skin. Your fingers flying over the keypad briefly before you toss the phone into your tennis bag, hand fishing out your racket. Art feels his phone buzz in his hand and he looks down at the text that had come through.

Stanford still hasn’t taught you the right way to wear a cap huh.

Your text, a reference to his penchant for securing his cap on backwards, makes Art laugh, out loud, the sudden sound causing his team mates to crane their necks in attempt to look at his phone. Art swats them away as he refocuses his attention back on you, watching as you do a few hops, shifting your body weight from side to side before walking to your position on court, racket in hand. You lose the coin toss, and Anna choose to serve and yet your demeanour is one of ease, something Art can’t help but think is so stark in contrast to Tashi before a match. You aren’t smiling anymore, and yet in an unexplainable fashion, Art can feel you smiling as you bend to ready position, your hands flipping the handle of the racket around, poised to receive. He sees Anna toss the ball, her back arching, hand shooting up, before she connects her serve, and he watches you receive it with ease, your body moving in a smooth motion as you hit it back. Your strokes have their own weight and intention behind them, they are careful, thought out - but what surprises Art is he sees little calculation behind each. Instead, he watches as you let yourself feel each shot, as you let your instinct take control with each step. Art sees himself moving pieces of chess across the court when he watches replays of his game, but with your game, - Art manages to see colour, life, ease. He sees something he hasn’t seen in his tennis since he had last played with you, Art sees fun.

-

The match isn’t long drawn out, you win - effortlessly, just as each of your strokes and movement are. It frustrates Anna, as is evident from the increasing number of unforced errors she makes on her art which leads to her swearing loudly as you easily hit the last heavy, driving it quick and to the opposite corner of the court from where she is positioned. Art finds himself clapping enthusiastically along with the crowd as the umpire calls the game.

-

“You never told me you had such good looking friends,” Art feels an arm sling itself around his neck, pulling him close as he stands outside the court, waiting for you to finish your match debrief with the rest of the team.

“Shouldn’t you be with Tashi?” Art questions as he tugs himself out and under, away from Patrick’s hold. His eyes remain focused on the door of the tennis court, waiting for you to emerge.

“Some strategy meeting,” Patrick offers as explanation, “refocusing or something like that.”

Art starts to say something in response only to be stopped by the view of you walking out from the courts. You both lock eyes, not too similar from how you had with you on the court and him on the stand. Art thinks that your smile is more brilliant up close.

Neither of you say a word, as you walk up to him, hands reaching up to tug his cap off his head only for you to pop it promptly on your own head, the right way around.

“The right way,” you say in greeting, pointing towards his cap which is now sitting on your head, the Stanford red a confusing contrast to your your top, now a loose fitting tshirt in your college colours, as Art chuckles while running a hand through his hair, attempting to shake out any flatness.

“The red looks good on you.”

“Perhaps I should transfer.”

“Didn’t peg you for a traitor,” Art teases which makes you laugh.

“Do I get a hug,” you ask, both of you oblivious to Patrick who is just watching.

“C’mere,” Art says, his words inviting, but just almost slightly shy as he opens his arms to you. You step into his embrace, arms slipping around his body as Art brings his arms around your shoulders, hands bumping into the tennis bag you have on your shoulders. His embrace is familiar, and you let yourself relax into his hold.

“Could I get a hug?” you hear a different male voice chime in and you pull away to look curiously at the brunette who is standing just beside you both.

“Fuck off Patrick,” you hear Art say with no bite, but notice as he steps just that one inch in front of you in an attempt to place himself as some sort of barrier between you and the brunette.

“Patrick Zweig,” the boy says, ignoring Art as he proffers a hand to you which you shake to be polite while introducing yourself.

“Do you go to Stanford as well?” You take in his attire of jeans and a white tee, the lack of red - you would guess not but it didn’t hurt to ask.

“I’m just visiting,” he says, “I’m actually playing on tour.”

“Losing on tour,” Art corrects.

“Your tennis is insane,” Patrick comments, ignoring Art, “when will I see you on tour?”

“I don’t intend on turning pro,” you respond with the flash of a smile.

“Why?” Patrick continues the conversation, now slightly befuddled, “you’re a natural.”

You shrug with a laugh, not answering and simply brushing off his question.

“Why don’t I take you to dinner and you can tell me why.” Patrick’s statement makes Art roll his eyes.

“Aren’t you taking your girlfriend our for dinner?” Art chips to which Patrick simply shrugs not phased in the slightest and answers with a no.

“Thanks, but I already have a dinner to cash in on,” you offer Patrick a smile, before glancing at Art.

“I’m sure Art wo-”

“Nope, fuck off Patrick,” is what Art says again, not even giving the other man a chance to finish his sentence. It makes you laugh, but you follow as Art grabs your hand, tugging you off in a direction away from Patrick.

“It was nice meeting you Patrick,” you call out, turning your head towards him giving him a wave with your free hand, “good luck on the tour!”

You walk for a minute or two more until the tennis courts are out of range before Art stops. He lets go off your hand, but reaches instead to grasp the top of the tennis bag on your shoulder. You raise a brow questioningly only to have him tug again with a slight tilt of his head. You relinquish the bag to him and he hoists it on his shoulder instead.

“What a gentleman,” you joke, but with a smile on your face.

Art does a mock bow with a flourish of his hand which makes you laugh with a shake of your head.

“Your chariot awaits my lady,” he extends a hand to you, waist still tilted in a bow, but his head up and looking at you.

“Lead the way,” you place your hand on top of his again.

“My car is that way,” he says jerking a thumb towards his right as he intertwines his fingers with yours. Its the second time in the day where he’s holding onto your hand but you don’t think too much of it and neither does Art. It feels right, comforting, familiar and like it’s supposed to be - and you go with it.

-

“Sorry about Patrick,” Art says as he fiddles with the paper casing of the straw. You are both sitting in a booth, plates cleared, your drinks left in front of you. Art is leaning back but being across him you can feel his knees knocking into yours. Dinner had gone by way too fast for Art’s liking. There had been both plenty to catch up on, as well as new information to learn and yet - it had felt like no time had passed between you both.

“He’s a bit of an ass isn’t he,” you say as you lean back, a mirror of Art. Your comment elicits a bark of laughter from him.

“Girls don’t usually say that about him.”

“What do they say?”

“Well not say, but they usually fall at his feet or into his bed,”

“No,” it makes you crinkle your nose while you shake your head.

“His girlfriend Tashi,” Art says, fingers still fiddling with the wrapper, “we played tennis for her number, she chose him.” Art said referencing the tennis match between him and Patrick. His sentence is blunt, to the point, and yet manages to be vulnerable at the same time. Art surprises himself as the words slip out from his lips so easily but it feels easy to tell you, safe to let himself be vulnerable, fine to let you view him for who he truly is.

You both sit in silence for a beat or two, the only sound between you both being the rustle of paper in Art’s fingers.

“Well,” you begin, “if she made you play for her number, maybe its for the better you didn’t win.”

Art’s fingers give pause and he looks up at you. His expression is unreadable, but you don’t feel like you’ve said anything wrong - just the obvious.

“I guess you are right,” he says after a few seconds of silence, before raising his head to look at you. There is a small smile on his face that you can’t quite place.

“When have I been wrong Donaldson?” You challenge in jest as you lift a leg under the table to jostle one of his lightly. Art leans forward, managing to capture one of your legs, your calf in the warmth of his palm.

“You really want me to start?” Art questions as you wriggle your leg in attempt to get away but no no avail.

“No.”

“Let’s see, the time we were six and you thought that the way to get strawberry milk was to dump pink food colouring in normal milk.”

“Stop,” you protest, but with a laugh on your lips.

“Or the time we were ten and you were convinced that the park we passed by on the way home from school was haunted and we had to sprint past that stretch of sidewalk for 3 whole months.”

“It was creepy!”

“How could we forget the one time we were thirteen and you thought that the way babies were made wa-”

“Arthur Donaldson,” you protest, managing to wrestle your leg out of his grasp which has grown looser with each anecdote. It allows you to set your foot on the ground, body shooting up to lean across the table, your palm coming to cover Art’s mouth to prevent him from announcing any further recollections from your youth.

You can feel his breath hot against the palm of your hand as his muffled laugher fills the space of your booth.

“Art,” you huff, relinquishing his full name for his nickname again. You move to drop your hand from his face, but Art catches a hold of your wrist. You sit back down, butt hitting the seat again, but with your hand still stretched across the table, wrist still loosely wrapped in one Art Donaldson’s hand. His shoulders are still shaking, now with a silent laughter.

“Art,” you try again.

“I’m sorry, it’s just so funny,” Art exhales, trying to collect himself as best as he can. He doesn’t remember the last time he laughed like this, freely and with such reckless abandon over something so innocent.

“Your dedicated court jester, always here to serve,” you mock with a roll of your eyes.

“You’ve been derelict in your duties,” Art says, now calm, but his eyes still twinkling under a mop of strawberry blonde hair. He keeps his tone light but what he really means to say is that it has been too long. You chuckle, not really having an answer for him.

“It’s been a while,” you finally admit, both your hands now resting on the table between you, you wrist now lying upturned in Art’s open palm. You had always been close

“It has, hasn’t it,” it isn’t really a question. Art has missed you - something he hasn’t realised until today. He had let himself be distracted by the complex, focused toxicity that was tennis, Patrick and Tashi, letting himself get sucked into the whirlpool, that he had forgotten to hold on to the things that grounded him.

“Maybe we should change that.”

“We should change that,” Art corrects you and you can feel the tips of your ears burning, and the skin across your cheek bones tingling for some reason.

-

You aren’t quite sure how ended up here, but one thing had lead to another as you both made your way out of the restaurant and back to Art’s car, and the next thing you knew you were heading back to his dorm to watch reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer for some reason.

“How do you not find her hot?” You ask again for the tenth time as you both focus on the screen of Art’s laptop which is perched half on his thigh and half on yours. You are both sitting on his bed, shoulder to shoulder, both of your heads damp from (separate) showers in Art’s ensuite, and you smelling quite like him from having used his toiletries and borrowing a short and shirt set, both of which which were a baggy fit for you.

“I don’t know, I just don’t.”

“You’re rubbish Donaldson,” you snort, nudging your elbow lightly into his ribs with a simultaneous yawn.

“Tired?” Art asks, as you stifle another yawn.

“Yeah,” you accept, seeing little point in trying to hide it. You had after all, played a match today.

“I should really get back to the hotel,” you mumble, the back of your head leaning against the wall beside Art’s bed, eyes closing.

“You could just stay here,” there is a hint of hesitation in his voice because he isn’t sure if you’ll stay.

“Here?”

“My bed’s a double,” Art shrugs, “it would also be quicker for you to get to the matches tomorrow.” You aren’t playing but Art knows you would be expected to show up as a supporter for the series of matches between your two schools that continued tomorrow.

“Are you sure?” You don’t mind, after all - it’s Art, the boy you had known growing up, shared milkshakes and apple slices with after school, but you wanted to be sure he was truly fine with it.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Art moves to shit his laptop, lifting himself to bend over the edge of the bed to place the laptop on the floor, “you can take the inside.”

He flops down on the outside of the bed that is further from the wall too easily, his right hand going behind his head. Him moving forces you to move in tandem as you flop down on Art’s left, legs scrambling under the covers which Art has somehow managed to worm his way under in the flurry of movement.

Art reaches a hand over, his arm extending over you in the process to hit the light switch that he has beside his bed. It plunges you both into darkness, the only light the faint glow from the street lamps creeping in from below his curtains, and the glow of his digital clock.

You flip onto your right side, eyes closed, missing the turn of Art’s head as he observes yours features, closed eyes, lashes, nose, lips, finding his gaze lingering a moment too long on your lips.

“Stop staring Art.”

“Am not.”

“I can feel it,” you respond, lips curving into a smirk. It was a habit he had developed from the sleepovers you both had either in his living room or yours when you were both younger. You would close your eyes, just about to doze off, only to hear the faint shifting of a head against a pillow while Art turned to stare at you, his blue-brown eyes boring into you.

“Am not.”

“Go to sleep Art.”

-

“So I guess I’ll see you around,” You are standing just a distance off the side of the bus which is supposed to take you back to campus. The matches for the day had ended, with your school having won by one match.

“Yeah,” Art replies, drawing out his words as he takes you in, he finds himself think that he had very much preferred you in his clothes despite them being oversized and not as well fitted as your own. You had managed to change into a fresh set of school colours before the matches started earlier that morning, having pleaded with your angel of a roommate to help you lug your overnight bag, which you hadn’t even had the chance to unpack the night before, over to the courts before the matches had begun. She had taken one look at you in Art’s tshirt, shorts with his hoodie thrown over, and had given you the widest smirk known to man despite your insistence that nothing had happened.

“I think you are scheduled to come play next month,” you refer to the Stanford men’s team, “I’ll see you then?”

“Or I could see you next week?” Art says almost shyly as he raises a hand to rub the back of his head. Art was a walking oxymoron, easily grabbing your hand, asking you to sleep in his bed, and yet somewhat bashful in the moments in between, “the drive over is an hour, max.”

“I would like that,” your response earns you a mega watt smile, his eyes twinkling at you. You both hear voices calling Art away from the bus, one male, one female - but Art ignores them both.

-

“Yeah and I told her-” your sentence is cut off by a nudge to your shoulder.

“Stanford” you friend explains with slightly too much glee in her voice. She had seen the smile on your face after returning from your away game last weekend, and the way you had been constantly glued to your phone, grin on your face, laughter peppering your days, the name Art Donaldson a constant fixture in your notifications.

Your head swivels up and to your left to spot Art leaning against his black jeep, hands crossed loosely across his chest. He smiles when he sees you, and your face mimics his expression.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” you friend calls out as she pushes you in Art’s direction. You pull a face at her while rolling your eyes, but letting your legs carry you towards Art.

“Are you stalking me Donaldson?” You ask in jest. Art had texted you half an hour earlier, asking which part of campus your last class of the Friday was in and where he should pick you up from.

“Hundred percent,” he says as he opens his arms; you step into his embrace for a brief hug, before he turns to open the car door for you. You unload your bag from your arm, dropping it onto the floor of the passenger’s seat before climbing in. You move to close the door, but Art is in between you and the door, reaching over to click your seatbelt into place.

“Ready?” He asks, and you nod, gazing into bright blue-brown eyes.

-

“Positivism,” Art says simply at your question of what theory of jurisprudence he found himself most inclined towards. You think for a moment, the side of your face propped up with a hand, elbow on the counter of the bar you both are seated at, your body turned towards Art who is likewise, facing you.

“Positivism,” you roll the words around your tongue, “I guess it tracks,” you shrug, before raising a brow slightly, “but how does an engineering undergraduate so much about jurisprudence?”

“I read.”

“On jurisprudence?” You frown nose wrinkling as you reach your hand out to place the back of it against Art’s forehead as if to check if he had a fever, “are you alright?”

“You mean you don’t read engineering daily in between sets?” Art questions you with mock horror as he reaches up to tug your hand down from his forehead. Your hand ends up, yet again, in Art’s, which is resting on his knee.

“Why engineering, and not something with a lighter course load?” The underlying question is clear - Art had every intent of going the pro track post-Stanford, and it wasn’t that he would be making full use of his degree anyway.

“I don’t want the only skill I have to be hitting a ball with a racket,” he shrugs, “it feels good to know I can do something else.”

You hum in bother understanding and agreement as you feel Art’s thumb begin to stroke the back of your hand. It distracts you, his calloused thumb sliding across your skin.

“In another life I’m sure you would have made a darn good engineer Art Donaldson.”

Your words make Art laugh, something he found himself doing a lot with you.

-

“So, this is me,” you point towards the dormitory buildings up in front and Art slows his car to a stop, pulling the gear into park. He kills the engine before hopping out of his seat. Your hand is on the handle of the door, ready to open it for yourself but Art is faster, his hand on the outside lever, pulling the door open for you.

Art offers you a hand as you hop out of the jeep before he shuts the door behind you.

“I had fun tonight,” you find yourself saying, suddenly feeling slightly shy for reasons you cannot fathom.

“Me too,” is what Art says in response, his hands stuck on the pockets of his jeans, heels rocking in a back and forth motion. You see his gaze on you, locking with yours before flickering to your lips. It makes you bite down one on side of your lip, an action which causes Art to gulp, making the Adam’s apple on his throat bob.

“We should do-”

“Can I kiss you?” Art blurts out his question in a burst and you can see his face flush slightly as he asks, a surprising and yet apt contrast to the Art who had no qualms about holding your hand in his. You feel your heart quickening, and with the silence between you both - you almost feel as if you can hear each beat.

“Yes,” you breathe out, a small nod accompanying your response. You see Art’s gaze flicker to your lips again, but you would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about this.

Art takes a step forward, pulling his hands out of his pockets. You feel him cupping your face gently, and you tilt your head towards him. Your eyes flutter close and your lips meet.

Art’s lips are softer than you imagined. You feel his hands move, slipping down the sides of your body, circling your waist and pulling you closer. You drop your bag off your shoulder onto the floor as your hands move up, one to cradle the side of his face, and the other reaching behind, fingers weaving into soft curls as you tug him closer towards you. First kisses with someone new had always been awkward for you - teeth, lips, noses, as you each try to figure out the grooves and crannies of each other, but with Art - there was no such thing. It felt as if you both had learnt each other long ago, each in and out, the curve of his neck, and the the planes of your body.

You break the kiss first, pulling away, eyes still closed, feeling as if the breath had been knocked out of you in the best way. Your forehead pressed against Art’s, body held firmly against his.

“I hope you aren’t going to send me packing after that.” Your eyes flutter open at his words.

“You packed an overnight bag didn’t you?”

“I might have,” Art pulls you even closer, his arms wound tight around you.

“Presumptuous much?” You run a hand through the front of his hair, pushing his fringe back.

“Just good at reading the room.”

-

12 years later

The skin across your knuckles are visibly tight, your hands clenched into fists, the only sign of the nerves that have taken over and riddled your body. Your eyes are shielded by dark oversized glasses, but your pupils are darting left and right as the final point of the match plays before you. The stadium is silent, save for the pop of the ball and the grunts from the two players on court. You hear an exceptionally loud grunt, the whizzing of a racket whipping through the air, and then you hear it before it hits you - the roar of the crowd, the thundering claps, and you feel your body freeze as even the announcer goes wild.

“Art Donaldson, ladies and gentleman, our new US Open champion.”

You remain glued to your seat despite the commotion around you - family, Art’s team, cheering, jumping, excited hugs being passed around. Your eyes watch as Art runs towards the center of the net, hand raised as he waves to the crowd around. He shakes his opponents hand, before waving to each section of the stadium in thanks of their support and there he is, jogging towards you. His hair is dripping with sweat, plastered to his head, shirt clinging to his body. He extends a hand to you even before he reaches the sideline and your body reacts from habit, standing, your hand extending back towards him. A warm hand, the back of it still slick from sweat grasps yours, tugging you forward lightly.

“Hi,” is all he says as Art’s lips meet yours. Art enjoys the tennis, but he doesn’t need it - doesn’t need the tennis, the fame, the money, or the trophies - all he needs is you.

You hear the crowd go wild at the display of affection, the announcer’s voice booming over the sound system with something about Art Donaldson and his wife, but it all fades - the commotion, the sound, the people, the tennis, because all you see is Art.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

[senascoop]

Who do you think gives off major girl dad vibes and who gives off boy dad vibes in enhypen hyung line? 🫣

( GIRL DAD VIBES )

i) JAY — he practically screams “girl dad” with how gentlemanly he is and def seems like the type who would spoil his daughter while also being super protective. Jay would absolutely love twirling his daughter around the living room to teach her how to dance. He’d make sure she felt like a princess every day, whether it’s a random Tuesday or her birthday. While he’d be incredibly protective (probably the type to intimidate her first crush just a little), he’d also have a soft spot. One puppy-eyed look, and he’d cave into whatever she wants. He’d encourage her to be confident, smart, and kind. You can imagine him saying things like, “Always stay true to yourself, no matter what,” or “You’re capable of anything you set your mind to.” He’d be hands-on when it comes to crafting school projects or making her dream playhouse, all while secretly enjoying it more than her.

ii). SUNGHOON — No particular reason but his sweet, slightly shy demeanor gives off “girl dad.” He'd probably dote on his daughter. Sunghoon would be the kind of dad who’s quietly protective. He’d always keep an eye on her but wouldn’t be overbearing. If she had a problem, he’d step in subtly and guide her through it. While he might seem reserved, Sunghoon would secretly practice braiding her hair, doing her nails, or even learning makeup basics so he could bond with her. Imagine him proudly showing her a perfect fishtail braid or helping her pick nail polish colors! Sunghoon would treasure all her milestones. He’d secretly keep a box of her drawings, first letters, or little gifts she made him, reminiscing over them when she grew older. At school events, he might be the quiet dad in the back but would burst with pride when she’s on stage or playing sports. He’d clap the loudest and tell everyone, “That’s my daughter!”

( BOY DAD VIBES )

iii) HEESEUNG — Heeseung gives off really strong major “fun and chill” boy dad vibes. He'd bond over video games and sports, being an ideal responsible role model in the child's life. Heeseung would not only be a dad but be more like a buddy. He'd always be down to play video games, shoot hoops, or build Legos; he would make sure that his son knows that he is his biggest fan and the best friend. Whether it's basketball, soccer, or whatever, Heeseung would be the dad who always practiced with his son out in the yard. He'd be cheering him on at every game and even coaching the team if needed. Heeseung would be the right balance between being laid back and having boundaries. His son would know there's always room for fun but also the importance of respect and discipline. Music is such a big part of Heeseung's life, so you can bet there'd be karaoke nights where they'd sing their hearts out. His son would probably inherit Heeseung's love for music and maybe even some of his talent.

iV) JAKE — he seems like he would make a close friend with his son. They would spend weekends watching sports, playing video games, or going out into the wild for some hike or fishing. He would want his son to feel as though they are a team in everything. He would drop nuggets of wisdom like, “It is okay to fail, but never stop trying,” to make sure that his son feels encouraged about whatever happened. He would always say “I love you” and make sure that his son feels supported emotionally. Jake would be the dad who's always ready to listen, whether it is about his son's day at school or his dreams and worries. He would be that laid-back parent but not one to shy away from teaching his child how to live life and its various implications, like cooking, keeping money in order, and how to tackle problems with the right attitude.

[peachsukii]

₊✩‧₊ ⎯  plus ultra-rare following an interview flop, dynamight & yourself are out and about at the local mall when you're stopped by a young girl and her mother.

content // a little follow up to this. pro hero fame, paparazzi's talk about infidelity rumors (they're not true just mentioned cause you know how it goes), reader is a support tech, bakugo & reader are married, bakugo being sweet to kids, thoughts of having kids vaguely, more paparazzi nonsense, fluff.

wc // 1.7k

『 k.bakugo masterlist | caramel & champagne series 』

It was the first day the two of you have had off since the interview "incident" weeks ago - that's what Bakugo's agent called it, anyways. The press didn't make any negative remarks against the two of you specifically, but they started a horde of nasty rumors anytime Bakugo was on patrol with a pro hero of the opposite sex. Headlines about "Dynamight searching for a New Wife?" started circulating, so much so that the agency started handing out cease and desist letters to the tabloids like candy. It wasn't to hide any sort of truth, it was simply not true to start with. You're successfully able to make it to the mall without catching any attention from the swarms of media assholes at the entrances, waiting to create some fake scenario and generate false pretenses.

"God, these jackasses are everywhere," Bakugo grumbled while you crossed the threshold of the mall and into the food court. "They warned us in school about this shit, but fuck, s'annoyin' as hell."

"I know," you console, thumb rubbing over the back of his hand in your hold. "It won't be like this forever."

He sighs, keeping his head down as the two of you approach the department store you planned to shop at. While you're heading inside, a small child and her mother pass by you, the daughter spinning on her heel and doing a doubletake with sparkles in her eyes.

"Momma! I think that's Dynamight!" she squeals, barely above a whisper, but enough for you to hear her excitement. Her mother kneels down and pats her on the crown of her head.

"I think you're right! But we should leave them be, sweetie. I promise to take you to his next signing."

She pouts and fiddles with her fingers. “But they’re always sold out!”

She’s a little louder this time, now catching Bakugo’s attention. When he makes eye contact with her, the little girl escapes from her mother's side and skips over to him - she's barely taller than his waist, maybe six or seven years old.

"Dynamight!" she whispers, waving frantically with both hands and looking up at him. "I know you’re in secret right now, but I wanted to say hi!”

She turns to you and smiles, dimples adorably accenting her cheeks. “You’re very pretty, Miss Support lady! I saw you on TV!”

Bakugo’s heart swells when you squeeze his hand tighter in response to her kindness before letting go. Something about this little girl’s genuine joy makes him want to melt into a puddle. Usually, kids were annoying in his eyes and parents never knew how to wrangle them around heroes - not this little one, though. She had way more respect than most adults did whenever they’d spot him on his day off, begging for an autograph or photo.

“Heya squirt,” Bakugo greets while kneeling to her level. Her mother has scampered over in the meantime, profusely apologizing for her daughter’s outburst.

“It’s alright! She’s very sweet and he’s more than happy to talk to her,” you assure, standing with the mom to watch their interaction.

“Thanks for sayin’ hi. What’s your name?” He asks as he pulls down his face mask, tucking it under his chin and lifting the brim of his baseball hat.

“Mirai! But my friends call me Miri.”

“Nice’ta meet you, Miri. I’ve got somethin’ for ya if you give me a sec.”

Bakugo shoots a glance in your direction, nodding to your bag. “Peaches, got any cards with you?”

You waltz over to him and dig out a stack of Dynamight branded trading cards in protective sleeves from your purse, handing them over with the a permanent marker. Bakugo takes them and fans the selection out in front of Mirai.

“Pick whatever one y’want and I’ll sign it for ya. How’s that sound?”

Mirai gasps, stars twinkling in her eyes as her fingers wiggle in anticipation over the cards. “I like them all! You pick one for me, please!”

That little shimmer in her eyes reminded you of a smaller Bakugo, specifically a picture that Mitsuki had of him and Midoriya in her living room, the two of them holding up their All Might cards from when they were kids. Her expression was identical to his back then - priceless.

“This one’s a favorite of mine,” you chime in, pointing to the card on the far right. “That’s the Plus Ultra-Rare edition, too. Super cool!”

Bakugo hands you the others and keeps the one card, pulling it out of its protective sleeve and popping off the cap of the permanent marker with his teeth. He signs the card, “Miri, go beyond!” accompanied with his hero signature. He waves the card back and forth to dry the ink before returning it to the sleeve.

“There ya go,” Bakugo says, handing her the signed card. “Keep it safe, yeah?”

Mirai gingerly takes it from him, holding it close to her chest with a toothy grin. “I promise, Dynamight!”

Before he can protest, Mirai rushes into him and latches onto his neck, her small frame clinging to Bakugo in an attempt to give him a hug. Her mom stammers out more apologies, but he stops her with a raise of his hand, mouthing “S’okay” over Mirai’s shoulder.

“Thank you for keeping me and Momma safe,” Mirai mutters sweetly, tiny hands grabbing at the back of Bakugo’s shirt. “You’re the bestest hero in the world!”

He bites his cheek in response, trying his damndest not to let this child make him cry in public. That phrase has been uttered to him thousands of times, and no matter what, it still makes his heart skip a beat. He’s barely holding it together as he pats her back tenderly, closing his eyes to focus on swallowing the emotions flowing through him.

You’re staring at Bakugo with hearts in your pupils, swooning over how patient he’s being with this little girl. A sensation you've never felt before invades your lower abdomen - nerves? No, it was a foreign yearning, a burning desire to....you tuck that feeling away to unpack at another time.

"Okay honey, we should get going now," Mirai's mother insists, tapping her daughter on the shoulder to have her let go of Bakugo. "We've taken up more than enough of their time."

"Don't worry about it," Bakugo comments, standing back to normal height and patting Mirai on the head. "See ya later, Miri."

Mirai does a little dance to herself before grabbing her mother's hand, turning to whisper-yell, "Bye Dynamight!"

The two of them leave you be, walking back out into the main concourse of the mall. You turn to Bakugo and elbow him in the side with a smirk on your face.

"What's got you so smiley?" you tease. "You look like you're ready to cry, too."

"Shut the fuck up," he sniffs, re-adjusting his mask and baseball hat. "She was a cute kid, s'all it is."

"The cutest. Let's grab what we needed and head home."

You two carry on with your shopping trip, surprisingly uninterrupted. Things seems to be quiet...that is, until you're ready to leave and forget about the media mobs at the main entrance. The second you two step outside, you're swarmed with flashing lights and overwhelmed with various shouting men.

"Dynamight! Is it true you're looking for a new wife after the interview last week?"

"Are you two on a break?"

"Do you think having a pro hero as a husband is detrimental to your relationship?"

These fuckers are ruthless, and quiet frankly, stupid as hell - the two of you are literally holding hands as they ask their absurd questions.

Bakugo shakes his head before letting go of your hand and removing his face mask. The glare in his eyes hints that he's about to have an explosive reaction, but color yourself surprised when his voice comes out velvety smooth and genuine.

"Listen up, m'gonna say this once and then you're gonna leave us the hell alone," he speaks, looking each cameraman in the eye before continuing. "This is the only damn woman I want in my life and nothin' will change that. She's the only one I've got eyes for, no one else. Got it?"

A few of the paparazzi pause their insistent squawking and put their cameras down, nodding in agreement to his words.

"Great. You can all fuck off now an' find someone else to harass."

You don't know what comes over you, knowing full well what the consequences will be, but you find yourself reaching for Bakugo's jaw and pull him in for a hearty kiss. He lets out a surprised grunt before tugging you closer by the waist, catching on to what you're planning and letting you take the lead.

"Quick, get the shot!" you hear the crowd yell repetitively. Bakugo responds by flipping off the cameras, continuing your kiss for a couple more seconds before parting.

The next morning, both of your phones are full of notifications from various sources - deja vu, huh? You've got e-mails asking you two to make appearances on TV networks while Bakugo's agent and publicist are scolding him for being unprofessional in public, but in the same breath, praising him for turning the opinion of the public in his favor.

"Holy shit," you mumble, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. "Kats, look at this."

Bakugo peeks over your shoulder from his side of the bed, laying his head on yours while you scroll through the articles multiple people have sent to you overnight.

"Dynamight & his Wife are stronger than ever!," "Fans Overjoyed to know Dynamight & his Wife are sticking it out," and "Dynamight remains off market."

"What's that one?" he asks, reaching over you to click the article titled, "Precious Moments with Fans - Dynamight Edition." The page loads an article detailing the encounter with Mirai from afar, a few pictures of Bakugo holding out the trading cards and giving her a hug.

"When the fuck did they even take that?!" he laughs, sighing as he flopped back over to his side of the bed.

"I think it's cute. Think I should print it out and frame it for the living room?"

"Don't you fuckin' dare."

You roll over to face him, pinching his cheek.

"Yeah, the picture of you flipping off the camera is more fitting."

tags // @slayfics @maddietries @starieq @liluvtojineteyam @jays-adventure3 @simp-plague @queenpiranhadon

[anastasiareyreed]

“ordinary russians are not guilty of anything and shouldn't be held responsible for the actions of their authorities”

meanwhile:

ordinary russians voluntarily join the russian army to kill Ukrainians and Syrians

ordinary russians organize safari hunting and killing Ukrainian civilians with drones

ordinary russians torture and execute Ukrainian and Syrian civilians and soldiers, filming it on camera

ordinary russians come to the destroyed occupied territories and arrange "fancy and mysterious" photoshoots like it's some kind of disneyland

ordinary russians go abroad to willingly glorify russia at pro-russian rallies

ordinary russians persecute and kill Ukrainians abroad

ordinary russians export stolen Ukrainian clothes, household appliances and cars to russia

ordinary russians buy all these stuff knowing perfectly well and seeing from the labels that these things were stolen from the houses and shops of murdered Ukrainians

ordinary russians donate to support the russian army

ordinary russians make shells and drones at factories in three shifts

ordinary russians sew equipment

ordinary russian activists weave camouflage nets, make trench candles and collect donations for the russian army

ordinary russian truck drivers bring all this to the frontlines

ordinary russians make software for missiles

ordinary russian tourists go on vacation to the russian-occupied Crimea

ordinary russians sell and buy apartments in occupied territories whose residents were killed

ordinary russians write happy comments after shelling Ukrainian homes markets hospitals and schools

ordinary russian doctors go to the frontlines to save russian soldiers

ordinary russians work in prisons and torture prisoners of war with starvation

ordinary russian teachers in the occupied territories reeducate Ukrainian children

ordinary russian social workers kidnap and take Ukrainian children to russia

ordinary russian miners extract coal for steel smelting

ordinary russian metallurgists work three shifts at blast furnaces to melt steel

ordinary russian celebrities shoot pro-russian films, write pro-russian songs and call to join the russian army

ordinary russians organize mass protests in russia against the closing of McDonald's, but not against the war

ordinary russian children draw pictures of russian soldiers brutally killing Ukrainians

ordinary russian artists in russia and abroad create pro-russian art glorifying russia and the russian army

ordinary russians create videogames that promote russian brutality and the army

ordinary russian teachers teach children to hate other nations

ordinary russian trainers prepare children for warfare and murder

ordinary russians ignore russian crimes on the territory of Ukraine and Syria as they ignored crimes on the territory of Georgia. because they believe it has nothing to do with them and it shouldn't affect their comfortable lifestyle.

should i go on?

Putin is not the cause of russian brutality, terrorism and bloodthirstiness. Putin is a consequence.

before Putin, there were other presidents, other tsars and other authorities in russia. only one thing has not changed — russian imperialism and chauvinism.

don't be silent and please continue to support Ukraine! don't let your politicians betray Ukraine, Ukraine needs help to defeat russia!

[thebigbiwolf]

Spittle - Part 2/2 (Astarion/F!Reader)

Summary: The chocolate seems innocent enough - if you look past the Infernal writing on the wrapper, and with so few pleasures in the wilderness, you all but jump at the chance to sneak yourself a small treat.

Unbeknownst to you, the bar is infused with succubus spittle. Just one square is rumored to contain enough potency to send a mortal into the throes of ecstasy.

This is what happens when you eat half the bar.

Fic Tags: Sex Pollen (kinda), aphrodisiacs, a bit of dom!Astarion, unprotected piv, overstimulation, he talks you through it (iykyk),

Fic Warnings: Explicit Smut (18+ MDNI), Language, No use of Y/N, magical influence

Read Part 1: Here

Read on AO3: Here

Word Count: 4k

A/N: Wow. I'll try to make this brief. First of all, I just want to say thank you all so much for your continued support. I know this took me forever to write, but I've been going through a lot of emotional turmoil with school and some health issues with my animals. Your patience means so much to me, and I can only hope this lives up to everyone's expectations! This is my first time writing smut, and ngl I feel a bit like Icarus, so let me know if y'all liked it. Last, but not least, thanks again to my bestie/beta @imaginarydromedary for holding my hand through the shame.

Astarion sits quietly beside the fire, absently picking the dirt from beneath his manicured nails. The night had unfolded like countless others before it: boring, mundane. Uneventful.

Perhaps he should retire early. The Realm According to Bumpo sits patiently atop the desk in his tent, and if he heads to bed now, he could potentially finish a chapter before his watch begins.

He stands, patting the dust off his trousers, just as Shadowheart emerges from your tent. He initially doesn’t pay her any mind - fails to notice the concern etched across her face. 

“Astarion.” 

He snaps to attention, recognizing the fear in her voice.

Astarion’s stomach sinks when their eyes meet. Shadowheart isn’t normally one to succumb to panic, but she looks as though she’s just stumbled out of a wolf’s den.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. She - I’ve never seen…” Shadowheart pauses, taking a steadying breath. “She’s feverish. She was fine only hours ago. I heard a cry from her tent and feared something was amiss. When I found her, she…” The cleric hesitates, eyes contemplative - as if weighing exactly how much she wants to reveal. 

“Out with it, damn it!”

“Is there any chance she’s been poisoned? You two stayed behind, back in the village. Did she come into contact with anything that might have pierced her skin?”

“Poisoned? No, she -” Astarion retraces the events, turning over your brief conversations in his head before landing on the only noteworthy detail he can think of.

He taps a finger on his chin, a thoughtful smile creasing his face. “Unless, of course, the Infernal chocolates didn’t agree with her.”

“I’m sorry, the what?” 

“The chocolate she found at the apothecary. I assumed she hid it away so she could enjoy her little treat, unbothered. There was Infernal text on the wrapper.”

She stares at him with wide eyes, jaw slack with disbelief. “And you didn’t think to mention this earlier?”

Astarion shrugs, unfazed.

“Where’s Wyll?”

He rolls his eyes. “How should I know? I’m not his keeper.”

“Astarion!” 

“Oh, come on. That chocolate must have been at least a decade old. Are you certain this isn’t just some sort of stomach bug?”

The cleric shoves past him, groaning in exasperation. She shoots him a glare and mutters, “I’m certain,” before jogging in the direction of Wyll’s tent. 

“Infused with succubus spittle. Just one bite will have you and that special someone rolling around for hours. Consume responsibly." 

Astarion giggles boyishly. “An aphrodisiac? How fun.”

Wyll squints as he silently reads the next bit to himself, fingers tracing the text. He turns to Shadowheart, jaw tightening, "How much of this did you say she ingested?"

"I only found half the bar."

Wyll’s expression grows more serious. "This says the recommended serving size is one square… How many squares were left?"

“Oh, gods…” she breathes, "Six."

The three exchange silent, worried glances.

“Could she die from this?” Shadowheart asks, her voice trembling with uncertainty.

Wyll’s lips press into a thin line. In truth, he doesn’t know the answer. He could ask Mizora for guidance, but the devil’s been awfully silent after his recent failures. He isn’t sure she'd be willing to answer him, let alone grant any favors. Still, it may be worth a call.

Just as Wyll’s about to suggest it, Astarion heaves a deep, dramatic sigh, throwing his hands up in defeat.

“Alright, I know what we’re all thinking. I’ll take care of this.”

The other two regard each other, thoroughly confused.

“Look," Astarion explains, I may not be well-versed in magic, or magical remedies, for that matter, but now that we know what’s causing this… I think it’s obvious what needs to be done.”

“You’re joking.” Shadowheart laughs, incredulously.  

“No,” he continues, “We can’t just sit here and hope for the best. We need to act quickly, and let's just say, this fits into my... skill set.”

“So, you’re going to, what? Have sex with her? You think she’ll be capable of saying anything but yes, given the state she’s in?”

Astarion shoots her a glare. The mere thought that he’d ever so much as suggest doing something like that - bedding you when you’re too weak to reject him - the very idea of it makes him sick. 

He isn’t that evil. 

“Watch your tongue,” he spits at her, “before I do us all the favor of removing it.”

“Hang on, you two,” Wyll interjects, “Astarion, I think you might have a point. You would know better than anyone whether she’s in a right enough state of mind to… consent to this. You’re closest to her. She trusts you.” 

He turns to Shadowheart, “It’s worth a try.”

Astarion notices two things as he pulls back the flap of your tent.

The first is that it is unseasonably warm. Scorching hot, like summer. A stark contrast from the welcoming cool of the early spring night behind him. 

And second, that the air in the tent is heavy - heady with the scent of sweat and something else he can’t quite identify. It's clouding his senses, making his head swim. The taste of it settles on his tongue, like salt on the rim of an otherwise very sweet drink.

The moonlight at his back casts a dark shadow over your sleeping form. Astarion hesitates for a moment, taking in the sight of you, vulnerable and oblivious to his presence, feeling too much like a wolf looming over a snared rabbit.

You twitch, grimacing in pain. 

He frowns. This wasn’t the way he wanted to go about seducing you. His plan was much more sophisticated: a carafe of wine, a few honeyed words leading to a night of passion, your endless thanks, all culminating in some well-earned release and his assured protection.

A mutual exchange.

But, this?

He’s roused from his thoughts by another grunt, escaping from between your clenched teeth.

Whatever you’re going through, it looks like hell.

Ugh. You know what? Fine. Maybe this isn’t the way he envisioned it, but when has life ever blessed him with a perfect scenario? He’ll offer his… services, and respect whatever answer you give him. If you refuse him now, he can always try again later. Under less perilous circumstances, provided you survive the night.

And if not, well, he's never been one to play the hero, but at least he tried. 

He steps further inside, closing the entrance behind him. The moment he seals the tent shut, there is a palpable shift. The space feels infinitely heavier, laden with unnatural energy, reminiscent of anticipation, but just slightly… off.

He breathes, trying to focus on anything but that intoxicating scent. The haze of it is maddening.

The elf sits on his knees beside you, hands resting in his lap. 

He clears his throat, hoping the sound would be enough to wake you.

There’s no response. 

He whispers your name.

Nothing.

No choice, then.

He drums a finger against your bare arm.

The cleric was right. Your skin is so hot, it borders on scalding.

Finally, you begin to stir.

-

Again. It happened again. 

As soon as you closed your eyes to rest, you saw him - That thing that wore his skin. You felt his hands and mouth as he ravaged you until you fell apart beneath him, above him, wrapped around him, like he was everywhere all at once. 

He was demanding as he took pleasure from you. Ravenous. Mocking your cries, your begging.

The hours stretched into what felt like lifetimes, and you’d nearly given up hope, resigning yourself to the idea that this was your new, endless reality. 

Until suddenly, you hear a voice that pulls you from the dark recesses of your subconscious-- the very voice being used to torture you

Your name, uttered quietly by Astarion. Just Astarion. No second, more sinister layer beneath it.

Your eyelids flutter, then widen as a chilling realization washes over you. 

He’s touching you. The pads of his fingers are both a balm and an irritant, soothing and igniting the flames licking at the corners of your mind.

“You look like you’ve seen better days.” He teases. 

You recoil from his touch, sitting upwards and crawling back away from him. 

He can’t be here. He, of all people, can’t be here.

And yet, something within you is screeching in delight.

'That’s him, isn’t it? The object of your desires? How fun!’

You swallow. Hard. 

“Astarion, I -” 

He holds up a hand, silencing you. “I’m aware.”

“Shadowheart informed us of your… predicament,” he continues, “I can’t help but feel partly responsible, seeing as I was there when you found the chocolate -”

“The chocolate? Is that - wait, what?” 

Shit. Your head is pounding. 

You press your palms against your eyes and groan. 

“I’ll spare you the details, but that chocolate was laced with succubus spittle - a highly potent aphrodisiac - and you, my dear, have consumed enough to bring an entire brothel to its knees.”

Your eyes snap open, meeting his own. There isn’t an ounce of humor in his tone. No sign of his usual mischief.

Gods, he’s being fucking serious.

“Now, as amusing as this might be if it were anyone else, I’d prefer it if our party’s leader made it out of this alive, and that leaves us with a choice."

You gaze at him silently, waiting as the candlelight paints his sharp features in warm hues of amber and honey. 

'He’s quite handsome. I see why you like him.’

“You can ride this out alone,” Astarion explains, “Shadowheart will return with her best salves and more potions for the fever. We’ll hope this passes quickly, but Wyll’s translation suggests the amount you consumed could leave you in this state for up to a week.”

Your stomach churns. You’re going to be sick.

“And the alternative?” you manage to ask.

His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining with your own. Your skin prickles at the contact.

“The alternative is that you let me help you through this. Consider it a repayment, of sorts, for gifting me your blood. I’m somewhat of an expert on… well,” he lets out a humorless laugh, “let’s just say, I’m the best chance you’ve got.”

Maybe it's the blood roaring in your ears, or maybe you’re still dreaming, but it sounds like Astarion is offering to… fuck you?

“I’m sorry, what?”

He groans, visibly frustrated. “Sex, my dear. If the magic is compelling you to have it, I think we should listen.”

‘Handsome and smart.’ 

You hiss, “Would you please shut up?”

Astarion squints. “What was that?”

“Nothing, sorry.” You clear your throat. “Listen, I - I get what you’re trying to do. I appreciate it, really, but -” 

Pain lances through your abdomen, a sharp, icy shard that interrupts your words. You clutch at your side, releasing Astarion’s hand before falling helplessly on your back, twisting in agony.

He inches closer, voice tinged with urgency. “We’re running out of time. If you want my help, it's best to ask now, because as much as I love the idea of you begging for me to bed you, I won’t be comfortable doing this unless you agree to this while you’ve still got your wits about you.” 

Tears sting the corners of your eyes, blurring your vision at the edges. He’s right. You don’t think you can endure this alone, and as much as you fucking hate to admit it, the damned succubus magic - that thing - is right.  

You do desire him. You’ve wanted him since the moment you met beside the nautiloid. Now here he is, offering to alleviate your suffering.  

There’s just one part of his offer that you can’t quite come to terms with.

“I didn’t let you drink from me because I was hoping you’d repay me.” Your voice warbles, wet and stressed, “I can’t have sex with you if it’ll just be part of some ridiculous transaction. Not with anyone, and certainly not with you.” 

His expression softens as your words sink in. It’s a confession, of sorts. The kind he’s wholly unfamiliar with. It stuns him almost to the point of speechlessness.  

“My apologies. Believe me, it was more of an excuse than anything. I didn’t mean to suggest…” He lets his words trail off, shaking his head. You two can revisit this conversation later, when time isn’t of the essence. “It doesn’t matter. I want to do this. Let me help you.” 

The sincerity in his voice sends a shiver up your spine.

It’s clear he means this.

He means every word. 

You nod. “Okay.”

Astarion clears his throat, rolling the tension off his shoulders. 

“Good. Now that we’ve got that taken care of,” he says as he throws one of his legs over your waist, straddling you, “Why don’t you lie back and let me take care of this, hm?” 

His posture is relaxed. Confident. He regards you with hooded eyes and the faintest hint of a smirk. It’s quite the sight, one you’d enjoy significantly more if your body wasn’t busy screaming for his attention. 

His deft hands make quick work of the laces of your shirt, and with every string that loosens, your composure unravels further. You squirm, unable to resist the heat that teases your skin and the growing itch beneath it. 

As if Astarion can sense your rising panic, he places a cool palm against your burning cheek, his touch both gentle and practiced as he rubs smooth circles at the dip of your temple. 

“Relax, dear,” he whispers, both a request and a command. The gentle lilt in his voice masks the underlying authority, but your body obeys all the same, tension releasing from your muscles. “I’ve got you.”

Astarion quickly rids you of the offending fabric, chest and stomach now bared to him. His eyes scan over your form with focused intensity, lips pinched between his teeth, like an artist deciding what to make of their blank canvas.

“Normally, I’d take my time with this,” he admits, “but given the circumstances…” He swiftly undoes the buttons of your trousers before yanking them off along with your smallclothes. One single, fluid motion. 

He can’t hide the mild shock that follows when he sees the state of you - dripping wet, red and pulsing with need. 

He dips the tip of his finger between your folds. It glides over velvet skin, coating the digit in warm, wet slick. A strangled, pitiful noise escapes from your throat.

For a moment, Astarion’s calculated expression falters, surprised by the rate at which your body opens itself up to him. A glint of hunger lurks beneath the surface.

“This may be easier than I thought.” He says with a smirk, more to himself than to you. 

He presses two digits in, slow and intentional. There’s no resistance; A knife through warm butter. You’re dripping down his knuckles, gripping around him like a vice. He slides all the way in until the heel of his palm meets your clit. 

“Breathe.” 

Not even realizing you’d been holding your breath, you release it with a shutter.

“Very good.” He punctuates his words with the slow drag of his fingers. Long, languid movements. He’s taking his sweet time with you, pulling scandalous little cries from your lips. It’s like he’s toying with you - seeing how long you can hold out before breaking. 

It doesn’t take much time at all.

“Astarion -”

“Yes?”

“Please.”

“Please, what? What do you need, darling?” His eyes are fixed on your own, grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. A cat playing with a cornered mouse.

“More. Anything.” 

He hums in approval, then wets the pad of his thumb on his tongue before drawing circles exactly where you need. Heat coils at the base of your spine, forming a ball of tension that threatens to snap. 

The sheer intensity of it is enough to scare you, caught between the urge to chase the sensation or flee from it. “Astarion, I -” 

He ignores your warning as if he hadn’t heard it, plunging his fingers into your heat and curling them - expertly caressing a spot that threatens to shatter you. Your hands fly out, gripping the fabric of his shirt, the sheets beneath you, anything in a desperate attempt to ground yourself.

“Go on, love. Let it out. I’ve got you.” 

Your body seizes as your orgasm tears through you, igniting every one of your oversensitive nerves. Back arching off the bedroll, several strangled sounds - almost pained - rip from your throat. The pleasure threatens to tear you apart, but the thick fog of lust occupying your mind begins to subside, offering the slightest bit of clarity as you twitch beneath him. 

Astarion grabs you by the jaw, tilting your head this way and that, admiring his handiwork. He's quite pleased with himself, with the mess he's made of you - jaw slack and brows pinched. He coaxes out the aftershocks, watching you squeeze around his fingers.

"There,” he gives you a playful pat on the cheek, "You're looking better already." 

"You're - agh - enjoying this too much."

"I never said I wasn't going to enjoy it." 

A beat of silence passes between the two of you as he allows you to catch your breath. For a moment, you think the coast is clear - that maybe, this was as far as things had to go. This was what the magic was compelling you to do, or at the very least - it was close enough. You fulfilled its wishes. Surely.

But then he pulls out of you, and the second you feel the vacuum of emptiness where his fingers once were, that voice in your head is screeching like some sort of petulant child. It pouts, waggling its non-existent finger in your direction. The demanding bitch. 

Part of you, instinctually, realizes that this is just the beginning - that you’re simply at the edge of the shore watching the tides recede while a devastating wave builds somewhere in the distance. 

“What is it? Does it still hurt?” Astarion asks, breaking the silence, and you realize that no, it doesn’t. Not like before, at least. 

You shake your head.

“Good. I’d wager that means this is working.” He smiles triumphantly, working the laces of his own clothes, and ridding himself of the final layers between you, revealing an intricate network of muscle beneath. For a man who’d supposedly been starved for the last two centuries, he certainly doesn’t look the part.

Astarion nudges your legs apart with his thigh, then settles between your knees, dragging the head of his cock between your folds. He hums in approval, admiring the sight as he coats himself in your slick. It practically drools out of you.

There’s no resistance when he dips himself into your entrance. 

His eyes scan over your face, searching for any discomfort, but all he finds is need. 

So, he presses in further. 

“Shit, you -” 

He hisses, sucking in a sharp breath as he bottoms out, then takes a moment, eyes pinched shut, collecting himself. 

He slides out, just an inch or so, before plunging back in, buried as deeply as he can reach. It’s so damn easy, the sinfully wet mess you’ve left all over his cock allowing him to glide in and out, tilting his hips with each thrust.

The stretch of him is perfect, like you were made for this - made to take him. His length rubbing and dragging against your walls acts like a balm, relaxing your body as you swallow and grip him in scorching heat. 

He grabs one of your thighs, pressing it into your chest - the new angle allowing him to sink even deeper into your core.

It isn’t long before you’re begging him for more, digging your heels into the curve of his back.

Astarion starts pounding into you - a new, brutal pace spurred on by your encouragement and the wet, filthy slap of his skin against yours. The sounds reverberate off the canvas of your tent, blending with your choked sobs. You just know your companions are going to have something to say about this in the morning, but you honestly can’t bring yourself to care. 

The only thing that matters now is the man above you - his nails digging into the flesh of your ass, whispering how good you feel. How well you’re taking him, “Like you were made for this - for me.” His grunts are like music to your ears, drowning out all other thoughts as his chest vibrates against your own.

It’s all too much. 

Your orgasm sneaks up on you before you have a chance to warn him, but he feels the way you flutter around his cock and acts on instinct - snaking his fingers between your bodies and rubbing your clit in quick circles. 

You throw your head back with a cry, shaking beneath him, and grip him like a vice as you come. The force of it slams into you, hot and devastating, tightening every muscle within its wake. You wind your limbs tightly around the hard planes of Astarion’s body as he rolls his hips into you, slow and deep. 

You can feel him twitching inside you, his rhythm suddenly stuttering with each thrust. Something tells you he’d come now, if you’d allow him.

But where?

'Where else?'

The very idea of him not spilling every drop he has inside of you disturbs you nearly to the point of panic, and with that, you finally understand what this damned succubus has been demanding of you this entire time.

“Astarion, please. I need you.” 

“Where?” he asks, voice muffled, panting hot and open-mouthed against the swell of your shoulder.

“Inside,” you beg, “Please. Please -  It’s alright.” 

He shudders, surging up into you one last time with a strangled grunt. Holding onto your hips, he pulses within you, the warmth of his release filling you to the brim, until a thick white ring of come forms at the base of his length. You can’t help but clench around him, moving to match his previous pace and trying desperately to wring as much out of him as you can, until it begins to seep out onto the sheets beneath you.

It isn’t until he stills inside of you that you release your hold on him. The two of you take a minute to collect yourselves, waiting for your heart to settle and listening to Astarion’s ragged breaths. 

He lifts his weight off of you with a grunt, settling back on his knees. 

“That was - agh,” he shivers as he pulls out of you. You don’t even want to look at the mess.

“I’m going to have to burn these sheets, aren’t I?” you ask, sitting up on your shoulders.

He throws his head back with a genuine, hearty laugh, and cards his fingers through his dampened hair. 

This is the most relaxed you think you’ve ever seen him - not a scowl line in sight. He rolls his shoulders, and sighs at the subsequent pop before turning his focus back on you.

“I’ll have you know,” Astarion muses, “I’ve done this more times than I can count— but this, my dear,” he chuckles, “This was one for the books.”

“So, was sleeping with me everything you could have possibly imagined?” It’s an obvious joke, given your tone. An offer to squash any chance of this happening again, should he wish to. An exit. 

He hums playfully. “Well, next time I think I’d prefer the subtle influence of wine over a mind-altering aphrodisiac, if it's all the same to you.”

There’s a beat of silence. 

Did he just offer to do this again? Well, not exactly, but -

“And how are you feeling?” Astarion asks. 

Better, is the honest answer. Slightly confused and deeply embarrassed, but better. 

The apologies you’ll have to make after the night’s over seem endless, both to him and to Shadowheart for all the trouble you caused. Not to mention the others, who’ve probably had the sound of your squealing burned into their memories forever. The idea of it is daunting.

“Because if you’re still reeling from any nasty, lingering effects,” he continues, “I’m sure I could be… persuaded to help again.”

Oh.

Hm.

“Well, now that you mention it…”

-

Tag List (sorry if I missed anyone! I only added you if you explicitly asked to be tagged): @daedriclys @captain039 @sushiumex @sugasweettea @marauders-moon @starlightelegy @ablxssm @the-lake-is-calling

[f1fnatic]

BUT I THOUGHT SHE WAS UNFAITHFUL? ⤿ d. ricciardo 3

→ ( in which. . . ) you star in a movie as the lead actress. in said movie, you date your co-star. the fans of your boyfriend don't like the idea, so they spread rumors in response to you and your co-stars friendship. but, little do they know, it's not you they should be worried about.

→ ( fanfic genre. . . ) social media au

→ ( face claim. . . ) sydney sweeney

→ ( pairing. . . ) daniel ricciardo x actress!reader

→ ( content warnings/disclaimers. . . ) rumors of cheating, eventual cheating, cyber bullying, language, toxic fans

→ ( author's note. . . ) this was sitting in my drafts for so very long and i just finished it in class, i am so happy i am able to post something after such a long hiatus. I hope you enjoy! see end for more

─ INSTAGRAM ↴

y/nnnn

liked by glenpowell, danielricciardo, alexademie, lewishamilton and 3,126,731 others

tagged: glenpowell, sonypictures, and anyonebutyoumovie

happy to announce that anyone but you in theaters NOW! go watch it >:)

view 865,729 comments

y/nlover ugh cannot wait to watch!

alexademie pretty pretty girl

y/nnnn all you lexie :(

danielricciardo so unbelievably proud of you roo ❤️

y/nnnn thank you badger ☹️

glenpowell such an honor to work with you!

y/nnnn i can say the same!

y/nhater don't you think that her and glen are too close to be co-stars?

y/nhater2 i'm thinking the same thing there's no way she didn't cheat

y/nfan wtf are u talking ab? y/n would NOT do that to danny they are happy together

lewishamilton free tickets 👀

landonorris 👀

maxverstappen1 👀

charles_leclerc 👀

y/nnnn sonypictures what do you think?

sonypictures I'm sure we can work something out.

danielricciardo

liked by y/nnnn, glenpowell, landonorris, scottyjames31, and 3,421,874 others

tagged: y/nnnn

words cannot express how proud i am of you, my love. you have poured so much blood, sweat, and tears into this movie. i know it has been hard, especially the long shoot hours, the frantic facetimes in between scenes can vouch for that and so can the texts. i will definitely miss the on-set pictures/updates.

i love you so much y/n. i don't know how i could be any prouder. p.s. i better get a private showing if you know what i mean 😉

view 831,341 comments

landonorris gross there are children on this app

hunterschafer cutie pies

zendaya is that blond single?

danielricciardo not atm no get in line

y/nnnn danny be nice.

danielricciardo sry love 🫡

y/nfan LMAO

georgerussell63 get a room 🤮

drlover she is such a slut

alexademie actual goals

y/nnnn awe danny i love you too

y/nnnn definitely NOT crying right now!!!

lewishamilton she is lying she facetimed me SOBBING

y/nnn i called you in CONFIDENCE. CONFIDENCE LEWIS.

y/nnnn you are the sweetest, most supportive person i have ever met. i could not have gotten through this without you ❤

danielricciardo there is no one else i rather support ❤

y/ndanny they are meant for each other

y/nhater what a fucking whore

y/ndanny2 the best couple

─ TWITTER ↴

─ IMESSAGE ↴

─ TWITTER ↴

imessage ↴

—————————————————————

Unknown Contact i stole ur mans 😜

—————————————————————

lexieee 😚 i am so so sorry my love, he didnt deserve you ❤️

—————————————————————

Lando Norris He treated you like shit anyways

—————————————————————

alrighty, finished! thank you so much for reading, so sorry for the radio silence, ive been super unmotivated and consumed with school 💔 anyways, requests and feedback are welcome! make sure to leave a comment and kudos as well (only if you want :P)

[e-nonsense]

hello girly! can i request for roses in lace if it isn't hassle for you dear!

a scenario where we end up turning the tables on him, just to get him flustered and embarrassed maybe with some suggestive jokes, freaky invitations since he keeps telepathically talking to them so thats her way of getting back at him and she just enjoys how he fumbles

hes so gorgeous i swear, got me going feral for him fr!! anyways feel free to ignore this if it doesnt interest you, have a lovely day <3

MENTALLY VULGUR

pairing. charles xavier x fem!reader

warning. smut, oral (69, m&f), post cuba (he’s in the chair), charles being a cutie

a/n. i love love that picture of james, he looks so cute. did i write my longest smut fic for a character ppl dont read? yes

it started innocently, little flashes of the two of you cuddling in bed together, you completely thrown over him, then he started speaking in your mind. little teasing remarks that he’d act innocently about later.

you’d decided to turn it against him.

“may i add that you look stunning in that dress”

“you should see me without it then.”

you held back the giggle when you saw him pause, you could hear his brain go blank at your innuendo before he cleared his throat, shooting you a flustered smile before pretending to have not heard anything and he went back to grading papers.

you realised since then he’d had a tendency to stay out of your head, well he wasn’t speaking in it anymore but you’d still get the little flashes of his fantasy’s with you.

“you’re a little psychic perv, Charles.” you whispered low into his ear, you’d been pushing his wheelchair along the pathway outside, taking him for his usual rounds around his land, he liked getting out of the school everyday, especially if you were the one he’d be spending that time with.

“i have no idea what you’re talking about.”

you hum softly in response, “take a look inside my head, sweetheart. you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

he can’t help his curiosity sometimes so he does, he takes a little peek inside your thoughts, his lips parting in surprise at the image at the front of your mind.

him under you, very much naked.

“oh my..” he mutters, blue eyes widening comically. he looked cute as he turned his head to look at you, before turning away just as fast, flustered.

“what’s wrong, Charles?” you practically purr, amusement dripping from your voice. “you started it.”

you hear him grumble, a whining edge to his voice. “stop teasing.”

“make me,” you reply, lifting his hand up, your chin on his shoulder as you lean down, you place two of his fingers against your temples. “c’mon, sweetheart. if you want me to stop so badly, make me.”

instead of listening he uses his mutation to make you take him back to the manor, straight to his bedroom. it’d be a struggle if you weren’t telekinetic, he smiled as you pressed several kisses against his cheek, returning the favour when you sat yourself on his lap.

he sat up, leaning back against the headboard of his bed for support, one of his hands on your hip and the other on the back of your neck, pulling you in for a kiss.

your kiss was consuming, like he was trying to possess you, to physically bind you to him so he could kiss you like this forever. his gasp made your stomach flutter, you feel his half hard on pressing against you.

he’d clearly liked the image you put in his head earlier.

your fingers tugged his jacket off, tugging his shirt off over his head, his body shivering at the cold air hitting his pale skin.

his fingers tugged at your shirt, helping you pull it off. his eyes immediately dropping to your chest, unclipping your bra and tossing it to the side.

“you’re beautiful.”

he didn’t waste a second before grabbing them, eyes darkened with desire, his fingers pinching your nipple as your hands went to his pants, undoing his zipper and button and dragging it down his legs along his his boxers.

he flushed as he sat naked in front you, hands sagging to his sides now that your boobs were out of reach, you’d heard his grumble of complaint about that.

you didn’t wait much longer before you stripped down yourself, tossing your remaining clothes into the pile with his.

charles’ eyes lit up, an idea in his head before he flashed it into your mind. no verbal communication needed, he wanted to taste you.

you helped him lie down on his back properly, before adjusting yourself on top of him. stomach to stomach, pussy hovering over his face, and his crotch in front of yours.

he dragged your hips down, so you were no longer hovering over him, your core meeting his mouth, his tongue darting out to taste you.

your hand pumped his half hard cock, spitting on it to lubricate and you felt his groan vibrating against you. your lips parted as you took the head into your mouth, swirling your tongue around him.

he could’ve sworn he could cum right then.

but he wasn’t ready to be outdone by your skilled tongue and hands. so he moved a hand up towards your pussy, his tongue flicking against your clit teasingly as his index finger prodded your hole.

dipping in when you least expected it to draw louder moans out of you when he sucked on your clit. your hips squirmed against his face, rolling against him.

he heard a gag but felt the warmth of your mouth completely enveloping him.

he fingered you as his head fell back, his middle and index fingers moving in and out of you quickly. charles had come to learn how to use his fingers more skilfully every since he’d lost the use of his legs.

not on other women of course, women no longer looked at him because of his disability. he’d learnt it for you, because you were the only woman who looked his way nowadays, not that he minded.

“charles—”

he could tell his ‘training’ had worked when you came all over his face with your cut off warning.

he licked his fingers clean off your essence before pulling your mouth off his cock. you whined in protest, met his his soft tsk in return.

“later, i wanna feel you now. don’t deny me this, sweetheart.”

your pout didn’t go away but you complied, lifting yourself up away from his face. he frowned slightly.

“i’m sorry, but i’m not going to be much use now.”

he could feel the doubt settling in his heart, what if you just realised he couldn’t give you what you want? what you need? charles wasn’t a self sufficient man anymore, he needed to be taken care of.

“that’s okay,” your answer came before he could fully believe in his doubts. you pressed a gentler kiss against his lips. “let me take care of you, charles.” you whispered softly to him, he could’ve cried right then.

but it would’ve ruined the mood, he’ll open up about that later, he thought. you’d listen, he knew you would.

he nodded. watching you line yourself up with him, charles was a good length. a satisfying length, with the perfect thickness to stretch you out and not hurt you at the same time.

you both moaned in sync as you lowered yourself onto him, sinking onto his cock until he filled you up to the hilt.

his hands moved to your thighs when you started bouncing on his cock, he adored the way you looked like this. on top of him, so pretty with the way your face contorted out of pleasure.

“you look so pretty.”

he called out to you, his hands running down your body, one of his fingers rubbing your clit in circular motions.

“that’s it sweetheart. you’re doing so well.”

charles guessed that if he couldn’t fuck you like you deserved then he’d help however he could, touching you and words.

and god did he love the way you reacted to his words. he watched you bounce on his cock, this angle did you wonders.

you looked like a goddess, the warm lighting from his lamps shining against your sweaty skin and eyes dazed yet so concentrated.

his fingers sped up their motions on your clit, running faster until your hips stuttered and you tightened around him as you came.

maybe this would work. maybe you’d love him despite everything, love him the way he does you.

the stars pale in comparison to your beauty, but he’d tell you that another time. a sweeter time when you weren’t so exhausted.

maybe when he buys you that ring if the day comes. then he’d tell you how much he adores you, for now he’ll settle for the teasing and the way you lay atop him thighs burning under his gentle touch.

for now he’ll hold you.

© e-nonsense. do no copy/steal/translate. do it and I’ll bite your toes off

[nmakii]

SO DIM THAT SPOTLIGHT…

for, M— maisie, or maybe even miya osamu; my twin, my superstar, and my biggest blessing.

inarizaki doesn’t need memories, nor do they need to rely on their team manager; everything that matters happens in the court anyways. but, the week you’ve disappeared from practice— they can’t help but find themselves missing you.

fem!reader, atsumu kinda clingy, writeen on 0 hours of sleep, sum1 MIGHT be ooc… AESPA FANS RISE

inarizaki doesn’t need their team manager. they’re very adamant on their independence, especially atsumu. sure, it’s nice to be coddled after a long day of volleyball, but it’s merely a bonus! they don’t rely on you, definitely…

“where’s s/o?” atsumu frowns, looking across the gym for you. “coach said she had a family emergency…” kita says, a hint of worry in his voice. osamu tilted his head in worry. “family emergency? is something wrong?”

kita sighs. “coach didn’t give any further details.” to this, atsumu whined. “whaat?! is she okay?!” he yelled out, going on a path that goes nowhere. “he just said he didn’t get any further details…” suna deadpans.

“well, we shouldn’t dwell on it right now. next week is the inarizaki winter festival… we’ve been instructed to create a promotional video with our most flashy moves as to get more people to support us during nationals.” kita explains.

atsumu rolls his eyes, hearing what a ridiculous idea it was. “setting up a video… we already have a crowd full of fans… we should be practicing…” he mumbles, not that anyone in particular cares to comment on.

“right… well, i think we should shoot atsumu’s shots first since he’s is the most popular after all” kita says, preparing the camera while ginjima had set up the tripod. “just… do a strong spike serve, okay?” he instructs as atsumu bounces the ball, preparing for his shot.

atsumu takes a deep breath, preparing for his shot; the look on his face so serious, you’d think he was in an official match. he throws the ball into the air…

before miserably missing the shot.

the silence in the gym so thick, you could cut it with a knife. until osamu broke the tension with roaring laughter. “hah! what happened to being so perfect all the time?!” osamu points at him, laughing like a middle school bully. “shut your trap! i was just thinking ‘bout somethin’!” atsumu yells back, angrily marching to retrieve his ball. “thinkin’ ‘bout what?! about how ‘ya can’t even serve properly cause your dear s/o is gone?!” osamu scoffs, not particularly set on admitting how much he’ll miss your presence this week. still, he doesn’t have much time to think about that before atsumu steers straight into osamu’s path. “you..!” atsumu huffs, grabbing osamu by his shirt collar and wrestling him.

omimi runs in between the two of them, trying to break the fight as suna records the two, turning to kita. “maybe this’ll make good promotional content, everyone loves to see these two fight...” and in response, kita can only sigh at suna’s nonchalant attitude, pressing a palm to both of the boys’ chests. “fighting won’t do anything. stop it, please.” he says, unknowingly placing a somewhat hostile tone in his words, scaring the twins into backing off of each other.

despite whatever complaints the team had, the week passed by fairly quickly and soon enough, it was the inarizaki winter festival. there were snack carts, game booths, and of course, on one of the main screens, starred the boy’s volleyball team promotional video. and, exactly as kita said, it persuaded many girls to come support the team by the time nationals starts.

as the miyas inattentively chatted with the girls carrying fans with their names on it, both their eyes roamed the festival for an excuse to leave— when the stage announced a name they were all too familiar with.

“when is s/o returning? it’s already been a week, and she hasn’t returned, much less answer any of our calls…” kita asks, clearly worried for your wellbeing. coach kurosu can’t help but let out a slight smile, waving off the boy’s concerns. “she’s fine. in fact…” he trails off, turning to the stage.

confused, kita furrows his brow, and follows his gaze as to what he could mean.

“and, without further ado..! s/o from class 3-4, performing a solo cover of supernova by aespa!”

even from how scattered they were across the fair, they all froze, looking for each other as if to silently ask ‘is this real..?’. the lights slowly flashed onto you, as you sang the lyrics in what they could only think would be recognizable korean. hell, even if it was absolute nonsense, you’d still sound amazing.

your distinct and sharp dance moves were complimented by the cropped black tee and the baggy jeans you wore, making you look absolutely graceful as you danced. even the very fact that you were able to wear those kinds of clothes in the middle of december was commendable enough.

sparklers popped from the edges of the stage, as if you were at your very own solo concert, the lights dimmed to from white, to purple, to blue, as confetti streamed down. and when it came to an end, the audience roared in cheer.

you waved to everyone and bowed respectfully before running off the stage. the entire team was more than shocked to see that, ‘family emergency’, as if! almost every single one of then dropped what they had been previously doing and ran to the back of the stage, ready to praise you.

“s/o, that was incredible!” atsumu yelled, giving you a big hug before yelling at you. “why’dya leave us for a week?!” he huffed. “ahaha… practice, of course! coach had to cover for me…” you giggled, shivering a bit from how cold the snow was. “you… don’t wear revealing clothes in winter, you’ll catch a cold…” osamu sighed, wrapping his tracksuit around you.

kita went over to you, observing your condition. “i’m glad you’re well, s/o. i was starting to get worried when you wouldn’t answer our calls. your performance was amazing.” he smiled. aran agreed, greeting you with a soft slap on your back. “you did great! the way you did this..! and then suddenly you..!” he fumbles, imitating your dance moves.

it seems he’s exhilarated just by watching you perform…

and finally, suna makes it over to the backstage, giving you a thumbs up and a smile. “you did great. i only recorded halfway…” he says disappointedly, looking over the clip he took. “pfft, that’s okay, suna…” you shrug. “i’m really glad to be back with you guys, though” you smile contentedly.

aran glared at you as if you dishonored his family, “what are you even talking about?! with moves like that, you shouldn’t be stuck being a volleyball team manager; you’ve gotta become an idol! in front of millions!” he encourages you, before atsumu argues back. “haah?! like hell! she’s gotta stay here with us!”

“it’s her life, she should have control over what she does in life.” kita says, in an attempt to mediate. sadly, his attempt falls on deaf ears as the two argue like a married couple bickering on their child’s future.

you laugh, missing the chaos in your life. “hahah… i don’t think i’m gonna perform again anytime soon… it was terrifying, not to mention— so much effort. for now, i guess i’m stuck here with you guys…”

that wouldn’t be a problem though. not when it’s you.

inarizaki doesn’t need the memories. cherishing the present is much better anyways. but, maybe it is pretty nice to have a team manager. especially when they’re as talented as you.

[obx-pogue4life]

The Right Path For Us

Summary: Rafe just wants to be able to feel his girl without anything between them and that need turns into a conversation which leads y/n and Rafe to realize they just might finally be ready to start a family together

Warnings: Fluffy smut. Slight breeding kink, begging, swearing, kissing, slight dirty talk, mentions of sex, pregnancy and marriage

"Please baby? Let me feel all of you without a condom,"  my boyfriend Rafe begged. "I need to feel you against my cock. Don't you want to feel me without that barrier in between us? Don't you want to feel my hot cum shoot into you, painting your insides with my seed?

"What I want Rafe, is to not get pregnant by my idiot boyfriend who thinks it's ok to just unload in me freestyle because he wants to feel all of me," I say to him sternly. I'm gonna stick with no.

"Awww come on y/n, what's the worst thing that could happen? You get pregnant? So fucking what! Who cares if I knock you up! You don't want that? Please...I know you. You'd love it if I put a baby in that belly of yours. You'd love carrying around a little Cameron and have everyone know that you belong to me.

I start to blush and Rafe gives me that shit eating grin of his, knowing that what he said is right on the money. "I fucking knew it," he brags.

"OK fine, but just because you technically may not be wrong does not mean I am ready- actually scratch that, that WE are ready for a baby Rafe.

"Pffffftttt," he says looking directly at me. He takes my hand and laces our fingers and leads us to the couch. I follow him but am a little surprised at his sudden silence. We both sit down, him still holding my hand and sit a minute in silence. "Do you know how much I love you, y/n?," he quietly asks, turning to face me.

I mimic his turn on the couch and notice how serious he is. "Of course I do Rafe. I love you just as much, with all my heart," you answer him, grabbing for his other hand. I put it directly over my heart and place my hand over his. "Forever," I say softly. Rafe's face lights up immediately and he moves our hands from my chest to his, repeating the word that means so much to him.

"Forever," he says to me. "I would love nothing more than to start a family with you y/n."

"I'm barely 20 years old," I say desperately trying to come up with reasons to tell this gorgeous man in front of me as to why we should not have a baby right now.

"Well that's a shit reason," he says chuckling. "Just because we're young doesn't mean we aren't ready. We are plenty mature and have plenty of money. NEXT," he says confidently.

"Well...we aren't married, we aren't even engag-," he cut you off with a wave of his hand.

"That is 100% your own doing y/n and you know it. If I had my way, we would have been married a long time ago.

"If you had your way, we would have been married in high school and we might not have made it here because you know perfectly well that it would have been really hard to make an actual marriage work when we still have to worry about getting to homeroom on time and submitting book reports," I say as calmly as I can muster.

We have had this talk many times over the past several years of dating and we both agreed to hold off until I was finished with college and Rafe played a bigger part in his dad's company. I know that him just being a Cameron alone would support us well beyond our means, that is always a big part of our arguments, but it's very important to me to know that we can make it on our own and support ourselves by having real jobs and skills to fall back on just incase we ever needed them. I also wanted to make damn well sure that Rafe knows I loved him despite his money, not because of it and this was a clear way for me to prove that to him; not that he ever questioned it but I never want to give him a reason to. With a family like the Cameron's, there comes a lot of underlying responsibility and a lot of obligations and I never felt ready for all of that, no matter how much I loved Rafe. Well...until now, that is.

"I still think we would have been fine but that was then y/n," he presses. "What about now?"

"Are you actually being serious right now," you say slowly, thinking.

"Serious as a heart attack baby," he states coolly.

"Please baby? You know I will always take care of you and you know how much I love you. It's only a matter of time before you're a Cameron anyway," he smirks at you, leaning in for a kiss. I sigh into his mouth, knowing he's right and struggle to come up with any real reasons why not to at least try to start a family. It probably wouldn't happen right away anyway and I know how much having his own family means to him. I also know he will always make good on his promise to take care of me and to love me. So maybe now could be the right time?

"So I'm not saying yes but-," THERE'S A BUT!, he interrupts.

"Oh my gosh, eager much," I tease him, poking him in the ribs and smiling. "I'm not saying yes but if I were to agree to this, I want to hear you tell me that this just isn't just about sex. I need to hear you without you trying to put the moves on me that you really want this as much as you say you do Rafe because so so help me god, if you're lying to me just to get me to let you fuck me without a condom-," BABY he interrupts again.

"You know me better than that. I would never trick you like that! What kind of a jerky bastard do you think I am?!," he feigns in mock rage.

"I know that," you sigh apologetic. "This is just a huge step for us and I just really need to make sure we both want this for the same reasons."

"We?," he questions, raising an eyebrow and smirking.

"Yes, we," I say to him, smiling back happily.

"You know how badly I want you and to start a family together," he says taking his arms and draping them around my neck. I might have started out like a little bit of a jerk earlier but it's just because I love you so much and my need for you clouds my mind sometimes. And I know that sounds like a line but you know in your heart that I mean every word of it. The pleasure we'd feel would just be an added bonus y/n," he smirks at me.

"Is that so?" I say egging him on.

"Oh baby," he says raspily, his eyes filling with lust. "You have no idea how good it's gonna be."

I feel myself gulp as my eyes widen from his confidently naughty confession. My breathing gets a bit faster and Rafe immediately notices my body stiffen in front of him.

"What are you thinking, y/n," he asks me, resting his head against my forehead.

"That I want you," I immediately say and then blush. I can feel Rafe's eyelashes fluttering against my face and the way his breath begins to pick up. He presses his lips to mine in a sweet kiss and I can feel the smile on his face. After a minute he pulls away to look at me.

"What else do you want?," he asks me, his tone desperate to hear my words of affirmation.

"I really want to start a family with you," I tell him earnestly. I always have. I just wasn't sure we were ready for it until...," I look at him as the realization washes over me. "Well... until this exact moment. It just feels so right. The more I hear you talk about it, the more it just makes such perfect sense."

Before I could barely finish my thought his lips were on mine in a fevered panic, needy and wanting, as if he hadn't kissed me in ages. Between breaths he paused only to say how much he loves me and how happy I make him, confirming to me that this was absolutely the right path for us. As he lay me down on the couch, his body is pressed flush against mine as he puts my hands over my head and clutches my wrists. I sigh in complete content as he kisses my neck and I let my eyes close allowing that familiar feeling to start bubbling up inside me.

"Raaaaffeee," I moan out, letting him know how good he's making me feel.

"I know baby," he says in between biting and sucking on my delicate skin. He moves to my mouth and gives me a long, sweet kiss. His tongue melds with mine so perfectly, it makes me wonderfully dizzy and all I can think about is how in love I am with him. When he stops kissing me and pulls away it takes me a second to come back to earth. I open my eyes and find him smiling, staring at me and his necklace dangling right in front of my nose. I playfully grab the chain gently and he leans in and kisses me sweetly on the nose.

"What?," I say giggling. He's still looking at me with that goofy grin on his face and he once again makes me blush.

"Now," he says with a twinkle in his eye. "I just have to get you to agree to marry me."

[waynes-multiverse]

Can I put in the request for Ben to “support the fine arts?” 🤣

A/N: Hahaha you may! Hope you have fun with this! Based on this drabble and this little ask 😝

Pairing: Soldier Boy x F!Reader

Warnings: +18/NSFW, smut (oral m), degrading, dirty talk, weird jealousy on both side, SB being a manipulative asshole

Word Count: 2.5k

Main Masterlist || Dirty Drabbles Masterlist

He Comes In Colors

The chatter in the classroom quiets down as your teacher, Mrs. Fournier, enters. You and your friends finish your sentences in hush and take your seats in front of your respective easels, not wanting to upset the strict, older lady again.

But instead of her usual cantankerous and bitter features, she sports an unusually bright smile and pinkly flushed cheeks today, still giggling like a schoolgirl over a crush and looking in the direction of the hallway as she walks to her desk.

Bashfully, she clears her throat and fights to regain her composure. “Class, we have a change of plans. I know we were supposed to devote our attention to the intricacies of nature today, but an opportunity presented itself we simply cannot pass up on. We have a very special guest this beautiful afternoon, who so graciously volunteered to be our model for this class.”

Your chest tightens slightly at her words, encumbered with a dark forewarning that settles in your gut. And as you catch a flicker of an all too familiar sage green kimono by the door, the bad omen in your belly only grows.

He wouldn’t dare, you think. Would he?

But you don’t have to answer your own question. Deep down you already know.

Of course, he would.

“Ladies and gentlemen, meet our model for today – the one and only Soldier Boy,” Mrs. Fournier introduces, and you watch with parted lips as your stupid boyfriend strides into the classroom with an even stupider grin.

Mrs. Fournier claps with vivid adoration, expecting the class to follow her lead, but you can’t bring yourself to give him more than an annoyed slow clap. You shoot him a glare, and the smirk directed at you tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing. He aims to get on your nerves. He wants you to be mad.

Now, you’re sure you’ve done something in the last couple of days to upset him, and this is his way to enact his revenge instead of talking to you like an emotionally intelligent human being. Because Ben’s a fucking petty child, and this is how he deals with his feelings.

Ben offers his most charming red-carpet smile. “Pleasure to be here and support the fine arts, Mrs.–”

“Fournier,” your teacher provides all too helpfully.

“Ah, like fornicate. I can remember that,” Ben quips with a flirtatious smirk, while you suppress the sudden urge to stab him with the sharp end of your paintbrush.

You half expect the French woman to be appalled by the dirty joke. But to your big surprise, your over-sixty teacher only giggles in response like a high school freshman when the quarterback winks at her in the hallway.

“It is such an honor to have you here in my classroom, Soldier Boy,” Mrs. Fournier raves with a blush haunting her cheeks. “You have been my favorite superhero ever since I was a little girl.”

“Oh, so only ten years, huh?” Ben flirts shamelessly, all the while sending you little glances that let you know that this is your punishment.

Do you have a clue yet what you did? Nope! And you suppose you will never find out. You just have to get through this.

“Well, let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”

Soldier Boy devilishly rubs his palms together as he struts into the middle of the room, and with one flawless swing, he drops the robe and stands before you (and your classmates) in all his god-given glory. And boy, did God give – not only with two hands but probably with six or seven.

Mrs. Fournier gasps unabashedly with a palm on her weak heart and goddamn drool in your mouth, causing your frown only to deepen.

“Marvelous! Simply marvelous,” she rhapsodizes and is close to fainting. Of course, your boyfriend enjoys all this attention greatly. “It’s like staring at the statue of David!”

“Oh, please…” you mutter with a miffed scoff and roll your eyes back, but that only earns you a scolding glare from your teacher. You know then that showing your displeasure with the situation will only secure you a failing grade.

Ben then props his foot up on a little stool right in front of you, his cock hanging heavy and long between his muscular bow legs. And no, it’s not inflated to its full size but still as impressive and formidable as a lion king during a safari.

His gaze only sweeps across you before it lingers on your friend Alexander. There’s a cocky and yet threatening glint in your boyfriend’s eyes as he assesses the male next to you.

“Remarkable, isn’t it?” Soldier Boy prompts daringly. Only your boyfriend could talk about his dick like that and not even feel an ounce of shame. “Don’t worry, squirt. I’m sure yours is just fine,” he adds, but you know he doesn’t mean it.

And then, suddenly, it dawns on you – why he has decided to infiltrate your art class.

Two nights ago, you went out with Alexander and a few other friends from class for drinks and didn’t invite Ben. Mostly because Ben is obnoxious when he meets new people and is a little too “old-school values” for your hipster friends. It would take ages alone to even explain all their different sexualities and pronouns to your last-century boyfriend. You just wanted one night for yourself, and you knew now that hurt his feelings.

You even felt a tiny bit bad and guilty but by far not enough to accept this current shit show he was delivering.

“Oh my, I don’t want to be too forward but may I–” Your teacher doesn’t finish her sentence, but her reaching hand is suggestion enough.

Soldier Boy chuckles amusedly. “Oh, you may,” he says but smirks at you as you gape at him in utter indignation. “What kind of hero would I be, if I said no? After all, this body belongs to every American citizen.”

And as Mrs. Fournier’s greedy palm stretches for your boyfriend’s perky buttcheek, something inside you snaps. You jump up from your seat, all wild and fuming, before you realize everyone is staring at you with wide eyes and confused brows. No one knows you’re dating him, so your upset seems completely unwarranted to everyone else in the room. Only Ben’s lips rise triumphantly.

“Be-… Soldier Boy,” you correct yourself and clear your throat, forcing a tight-lipped smile on your face. “A word, please?”

“Y/N, we’re in the middle of a class. Show our guest some respect,” your teacher demands chidingly.

But Ben soothes her anger with another charming smile. “Oh, absolutely no problem, beautiful,” he says and causes Mrs. Fournier to blush once more. “Y/N here is clearly an adoring fan, and I always have time for my fans.”

“Yes, I’m a huge fan. I’ve never met a real celebrity before. My grandma will be so thrilled when I tell her all about it,” you lie as dryly as possible. Honestly, you’re so pissed you can’t get yourself to act remotely convincing.

“We’ll be right back,” Ben excuses with a tight smile.

He quickly throws his robe back on and grabs your upper arm, ushering you outside. You want to stop in the hallway, but he drags you further and shoves you into a supply closet, closing the door a little too roughly.

“You know the rules: no fucking drama in public. It’s not good for my image,” he reminds you sternly, and you try not to scoff.

“How dare you say that after waltzing into my goddamn class? Ben, my education is serious. You don’t mess with that,” you point out angrily and fold your arms over your tits. “I don’t have time for your petty revenge.”

“Yeah, you never have fucking time,” he huffs scornfully.

“Is this because I didn’t invite you for drinks with my friends?” You cock an eyebrow, shooting him a knowing look.

“No, this is because you went out with that fucking empty nutsack in there,” he bites and points an angry finger at you. “And by the way, you’d be fucking lucky to show me off. I’m a fucking catch! Have you seen how those bitches fawned over me in there?”

“Who? Mrs. Fournier? That old hag hasn’t seen any action since the French Revolution. She’d fawn over a fucking trash bag,” you retort and watch Ben purse his lips dejectedly. You smirk a little at your win.

But you don’t want to antagonize him more. You can tell that you hurt his fragile ego with your rejection, and while he fucking annoys you and drives you incredibly mad sometimes, you’re still deeply in love with the idiot in front of you. He does have his sweet moments every once in a while. He comes in many colors, a whole palette of different shades.

“Look, uhm, I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. I didn’t mean to, okay? I don’t want you to be jealous. You have no reason to be, alright? I love you, asshole,” you tell him with a small smile.

“Fine, maybe I was a little jealous,” he admits after a beat. “But not of that scrawny twinkie in there.”

“Alright, maybe I was a little jealous, too,” you remark to make him feel better. “But not of that old French whore in there.” Ben snorts at that, chuckling. “So, do you forgive me and get the fuck outta my class now?”

Ben muses slyly and then grins. “I don’t think that apology was good enough.” Your brow draws into a deep frown at his words. Whatever has gotten into his mind now can’t be good. “They do say an apology is only worthy if it’s said on someone’s knees.”

You glare at him, your hands balling into furious fists by your side. “You gotta be kidding me…” you mutter and hiss through your teeth, “Ben, I’m not fucking blowing you in the supply closet of my school!”

Ben only shrugs carelessly. “Alright, guess I’ll have to ask Mrs. French Whore and see if she takes me up on my offer.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” you grit.

“Oh, we both know I would, but I do prefer your beautiful and warm mouth, doll,” Ben smirks, letting each word roll off his tongue as his thumb pad reaches out and seductively traces your pink lips.

Instinctively, you suck his thumb into your mouth and massage it with your tongue, only widening his brash smile. As your eyes flicker down, you notice his rock-hard cock push through the fabric of the kimono and salute you. Your legs grow wobbly at the sight, your knees giving in with the urge to bend.

“Down,” he mouths, and you oblige without another protest, sinking to your knees in front of him.

You part your lips and stick your tongue out, ready to welcome his swollen tip. He fists his length and jerks his palm up and down a few times. He likes it to be as big as possible. He loves to see you struggle as you desperately try to fit all of him inside your tiny mouth.

His free hand lifts your chin, forces your eyes to find his as he guides his cock to your waiting mouth. He plops it on your tongue, heavy and thick, and lets it rest there for a second, gauging your reaction with a knowing smirk. You seal your lips around his weeping tip without question, your tongue swirling around it and dipping into the slit. You lick the salty precum with moans of pleasure, your hums sending vibrations up and down his length as your head begins to bob.

With each swallow you get closer to his pelvic bone, but Ben’s impatient and fists his hand into your hair. He roughly tugs and pulls you all the way down till your nose disappears in the little tuft of hair and tears stream down your cheeks as you cough for air.

“Yeah, that’s it, baby girl. Choke on my cock, you little slut,” he growls. His hips rock and find a rhythm as he thrusts inside you, hitting the back of your throat each time. “Fuck, that’ll teach you a lesson, won’t it? Who do you fucking belong to?”

He pulls you off his spit-drenched cock for the sole reason of replying. You look up at him as he expectantly meets your gaze with an arched eyebrow.

“You, daddy,” you reply on command.

He smirks in satisfaction and praises you, “There’s my good girl.” He tightens his grip on your hair and pushes back inside you. “Gonna send you back in with my cum all over you. Show those little pricks they can’t fucking touch what’s mine.”

As his hips gain speed, you hollow your cheeks and suck harder, feeling him swell on your tongue. Your jaw begins to ache, barely fitting his girth while his massive length drills relentlessly into your throat. Drool dribbles out from the sides of your mouth and mixes with your tears. Your mascara is nonexistent at this point and smeared all over your face.

And you know damn well, as soon as you walk back into class, everyone will know what you did.

“Such a good little whore for me,” Ben groans and pistons deeper once more, squeezing his eyes shut. You know it’s his telltale sign that he's close. “You’re such a fucking mess. Shit, gonna blow…”

He grunts as his hips stutter and his cock throbs in your mouth. He shoots hot ropes of cum down your throat, pulling out in the midst to paint your face with the rest. God knows he would never miss an opportunity to mark you. And when he’s done with his piece of sublime artwork, he smirks down at you, all self-satisfied and proud.

But then a bit of sweetness returns as he holds out his hands and helps you back on your feet. He gently tucks and brushes your hair back into place before snatching a roll of paper towels from the rack of art supplies behind you. He thoroughly cleans your face, removing any evidence of his deed, and kisses your hairline like you’re his most prized possession when he’s finished.

“There, all done, doll.” Ben’s smile makes you blush as he cups your cheeks. “No one will be the fucking wiser.”

As the two of you saunter back inside, no one seems to suspect anything. You get back to your original seat, while Ben invents some silly excuse to get out of his naked commitment.

But then Alexander tilts his head at you with a furrowed brow and narrowed eyes, his finger pointing at his own cheek. “Y/N, uhm, I think you have something there. Oh, uhm, is that…”

He doesn’t finish as your eyes widen and your cheeks redden in embarrassment. Your shocked gaze darts to your boyfriend as he lingers by the door. With one last cunning smirk, he winks at you and heads out.

Yes, your boyfriend surely comes in many colors – and most of them are dark.

And yes, you bet your ass Ben was crushing hard on Mrs. Fournier 😂 Hope you enjoyed this!

PUT YOUR DIRTY THOUGHTS HERE

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[liyaauhr]

Logan & Ashlyn HEADCANONS

— They're both pretty big dog people: Ashlyn loves cats and dogs equally while Logan mainly likes dogs (he prefers how dogs are more affectionate). Because of this, they've both started to volunteer at a local animal shelter together and it's sort of become their thing (the rest of the group drops by sometimes but not nearly as much as these two). Both of them bond over a mutual preference for choosing dogs over humans any day, Ashlyn likes how calm the atmosphere of the shelter is and finds Logan to be good company when she just wants to enjoy the quiet company.

— Logan always brings Ashlyn custom flowers for her dance recitals: After hanging out, the group learns of these events and makes an effort to get involved and show support for each other's hobbies, for most of them it's their first time having genuine connections so naturally, no one likes to skip out on Ashlyn's recitals. Emma and Mike have started coming around often to the plant shop to buy flowers whenever Ashlyn has an important event. Seeing how often the Banners brought flowers for Ashlyn, Logan thought it'd be a great idea to show support by making a separate bouquet on behalf of the group. I imagine he'd have pretty good knowledge of flowers and their meanings so he'd always make a handmade bouquet for every event. So now Ashlyn often gets greeted with two bouquets after her shows: one from her parents, one from her friends. She always keeps them for as long as she can and texts Logan for advice on keeping them from wilting.

— Ashlyn always tries to be attentive to Logan: It's more out of instinct as the group leader, Ashlyn will always feel responsible for looking out for her friends and so unconsciously tries to be a better friend by trying to be observant to notice shifts in behaviours. Interestingly, this happened a lot with Logan early on in the group's friendship. He'd often linger behind the group or sometimes opt out of conversations in favour of staying quiet, valuing the opinions of others over his own. Whenever this happened, Ashlyn would always try to involve Logan by asking for his opinion or corner off with him to initiate a private conversation about Logan's own interests, urging him to speak more.

— Yapper + listener duo

— Aside from Logan I think that Ashlyn is the 2nd best with a gun (I know Taylor is shown to be good and implied to be the second best but logic tells me otherwise): Because of this they often go to shooting ranges together and always compete with each other in shooting arcade games.

— Ashlyn helps out at the flower shop and gets mistaken for being an employee by customers: She's known as the 'grumpy lady with braids,' eventually, she just gets given a nametag from James and Mary to try and help her out but to her dismay, the nickname just stuck. Even worse, Logan accidentally mentioned it in front of the group and now they use it to tease her.

— Ashlyn, Logan, and Taylor are known to be the strategists: While Ashlyn mainly plans the objectives for the night, Taylor and Logan like to chip in and offer their own opinions to keep things running smoothly.

— People think they’re related at school: Due to sharing a few similar features (and the fact that someone once saw Logan getting out of the car with Ashlyn & the Banners) most people assumed Ashlyn and Logan were cousins. Some people had even started theorising that they were secret siblings because no-one had seen Logan’s parents before. Both of them know about these rumours but Ashlyn doesn’t care enough to clarify.

[girlactionfigure]

Human Rights and Human Wrongs

URI KURLIANCHIK

“It’s impossible for words to describe what is necessary to those who do not know what horror means… Horror has a face, and you must make a friend of horror. Horror and moral terror are your friends. If they are not then they are enemies to be feared. They are truly enemies.”

— Apocalypses Now

There has been a lot of talk about the "dehumanization of the Palestinians," so let's talk about this for a minute.

First of all, what does it mean? In plain English, it means Jews no longer have pity for Arabs who get hurt in the war they started to eradicate the Jewish people in the Middle East. This is mostly true. Even the eyes of the most gentle Israelis light up when they see a rocket hitting a Hezbollah launcher in South Lebanon or a building block used by the butchers of Hamas demolished in Beit Lahia.

It wasn't like that until recently. How did we come to this?

When I was a boy, Israel was a leftist country. We had huge peace rallies, the Oslo accords, all our war movies were of the insipid "shooting and crying" genre. We even had a subject called "peace" in school! People like me were viewed as crazy marginals (except back then, I also supported the two state solution, all civilized people did). To even suggest that not all societies wanted peace was seen as vulgar and uncouth. Nice people cried for the innocent dead on both sides. We could forgive the Arabs for killing our children but not for making us kill theirs. Etc… etc…

This euphoria of peace born out of the Oslo Accords was followed by decades of barbarism from the Arabs that eroded the pity reserves of the Jewish people. 

Yes, pity is a resource, and it's finite.

This wasn't the result of slanted reporting or anti-Arab propaganda. The media was firmly left-leaning and went out of its way to defend the Arabs after each new atrocity that was difficult to imagine was done by humans, and the widespread celebrations that followed. More and more, people asked themselves, “where is this peace partner? What kind of a society are we expected to live side by side with?”

Jews were torn to pieces with bare hands, baby skulls were smashed with rocks, little girls were butchered in their beds, children were massacred in schools, in discotheques, on buses. People were mutilated, castrated, crippled; not as collateral damage but meticulously, with sadistic precision, by an enemy that seemed to always prefer to go after defenseless civilians, that seemed to revel in atrocity.

And each time, the Jack the Rippers responsible for these horrors were celebrated as heroes by the Arab street and their progressive allies. No one stood up and said, "guys, there are laws even in war." No, when it came to hurting us, it was always, "by any means necessary." The laws were there to prevent us from protecting ourselves, never to protect us, and “resistance” often seemed like nothing more than an excuse to indulge in sadism.

Time after time, year after year, decade after decade; the Arabs produced images of horror that even the most progressive Israeli peacenik couldn't spin into anything other than what it was: the portrait of a savage society.

The change didn't occur at once. 

People first started voicing opinions that were outside the Overton window, only to be shut down in polite society. Then polite society started shrugging because it ran out of arguments.

Then October 7 came, the ultimate atrocity exhibition, the ultimate barbarity, recorded in vivid details and spread so ubiquitously there was no chance anyone missed it. Shocked and hurt, the Jews who still had pity learned that the Arabs and their progressive allies had no pity or even empathy for them.

"You made it up! You did it to yourself! It was only military targets!" and other forms of sadistic gaslighting were hurled smugly at a grieving nation. "Where are the 40 beheaded babies, haha? With or without baking powder, har har?"

The message was simple: "No matter what happens to you, you deserve no pity. Your very existence is a crime."

For many, this was the final straw. 

This was the moment their last shred of compassion for the enemy evaporated and their hearts became hard. Hearts of survival. Hearts of war. This is what the pseudointellectual farts mean when they talk about, “the dehumanization of the Palestinians.” The enemy finally managed to push Israeli society into not caring about the enemy. It took 40 years of hard word but we’re finally there.

Will this pity ever return, or have we finally transformed into a new kind of nation? I don't know.

What I do know is that when you treat someone without pity for decades, don't expect them to be compassionate towards you forever. 

Commit enough inhumanities and you'll be dehumanized.

[229zmi]

THE ONLY MAN EVER

PAIRING: Iwaizumi Hajime/Reader

CONTENT: reader and iwaizumi are locked in a storage closet

WORD COUNT: 1.7k

“Help. Someone, please help us. Ah, poor me, I’m stuck with— ack!”

You don’t know whose jacket it is for sure, but judging by its odour and the fact that a certain someone on the team keeps complaining about his missing jacket over the past couple of days, it must be Yahaba’s jacket that suddenly falls over your head, spurring tears in your eyes and an automatic urge to gag. Yanking it away from you, you shoot Iwaizumi a hurt look. “That was evil.”

“Are you even taking this seriously?” he asks in a nearly accusatory tone. It’s difficult to make out his face in the darkness of the storage closet, but you can assume he’s glaring at you. “It’s after school hours, hardly anyone walks down this hallway. We could be stuck here for hours before anyone notices we’re gone.”

When Coach Irihata asked for someone to move some equipment from the gym to the storage closet, Iwaizumi had volunteered first like the charitable person he was, and you were adamant on making it a two-person job — in which Iwaizumi would do all the lifting and your presence by itself would bless him with very much-needed moral support along the way.

However, the door had slid shut and locked when neither of you were paying attention, which brings you to now.

Stuck.

“Boo-hoo,” is all you feel like saying in response to his distress, your only source of entertainment now that you’re in this situation. “Why don’t you try breaking down the door or something, Mr. Hulk. Show off those big guns.”

For your own added amusement, you waggle your eyebrows at his indistinct silhouette and motion to your own biceps, pretending to flex them as if you’re a bodybuilder.

“I’m so glad I can’t see right now, whatever it is that you’re doing.” Iwaizumi sighs, running a hand down his face and along his jawline upon hearing your giggles. “Do you have your phone on you? I left mine in the clubroom, but we could call someone to get us.”

Sheepishly, you reply, “I left mine in the gym.”

There’s a silence that lasts for a whole minute as he processes your words.

“Great. Now we really are trapped.”

“Aw, it’s not so bad. You’re with me.”

“That’s exactly what makes this so horrible.” You hear some shuffling, then a hissed expletive as you feel a pair of shoes stumble over yours. The cracking noise that arises from him swivelling his head in your approximate direction, presumably toward the ground, is enough to pull another fit of giggles out of you as he chastises your shadow, “You’re actually laying down? This storage closet is already cramped as it is.”

“If we’re gonna be stuck here for hours like you say, I’m going to take a nap,” you explain your reasoning like it should be obvious.

You pat around the floor for a moment until your fingers graze something cold and metallic, wrapping around the object and shaking it. A clattering noise rings throughout the quiet ambience of the storage closet. This is a shelf, you conclude, imagining your voice to be like that of those narrators in wildlife documentaries. Covered in a thick layer of dust particles and cobwebs; a safe haven for all species of spiders.

“Shit, what’re you doing now?” Iwaizumi sounds as though he might break down from the stress. Inwardly, he prays to the universe for the door to open as soon as possible. “Stop that, I won’t be able to call 119 if something falls on your head and you get hurt.”

“Such a worrywart.”

“I’m being logical. Unlike someone else here.”

“Okay… worrywart.” As funny as you’ve been finding all of this, you decide to finally sit up straight, even going the extra mile to announce to him that you are doing so for his sake, though there’s no need to now that both of your eyes have adjusted to the darkness. One of your hands slaps against the floor, like you’re trying to beckon over a dog or a toddler, not that he’s either of those. “Come sit down next to me.”

“No thanks.”

“C’mon, pleeeeease. There’s some empty space over here. I already checked.”

“You just want to use me as a buffer from the spiders.”

“Well, duh.”

“Lucky me,” he grumbles.

“So are you sitting here or not?”

“What do you think, loser?”

He takes a couple tentative steps towards you, careful not to step on any part of you as he plops down on the ground beside you. The kind gesture is done with just the smallest amount of spite— with several elbow jabs at each other as he tells you to move over an inch. Nevertheless, after the two of you reach a stalemate (though in your opinion, you’re the one that emerged as the victor since he backed out first), you are more than content, even going as far as declaring him your knight in shining armour.

You can’t see the blush blooming on his cheeks after you say that, but you can certainly see him trying to hide it by hovering a hand over the lower half of his face.

“Don’t call me that,” he says.

“How about my guard-dog?”

Iwaizumi pokes your side, and you squirm away, laughing.

“Be serious.”

“Whatever. I’m taking a nap.“

After your laughter dies down, you nestle up to his side, sort of slanting your body so that more of your weight is on him rather than on the hard floor. The process is easier said and done, given how little room there is, but once you deem your position comfortable enough for sleeping, you rest your head against his shoulder, and it’s surprising how you do all this without any complaints from him. In fact, it isn’t until you shut your eyes that he finally speaks his truth.

“Hey,” you feel him press a warm hand against your forehead before moving it to pinch the bridge of your nose, effectively making your eyelids flutter open so you can make sure your hand doesn’t miss him when you swat at his irked face, “when the hell did I ever agree to this?”

“You didn’t need to. Isn’t it in the job description of a good friend?”

“To what? Be your pillow?” His voice rises with incredulity. “Not as far as I’m concerned.”

“Fine then. Iwaizumi Hajime, the only man ever,” you announce, “do you take me to be your lawfully wedded whatever, to live together in marriage and blah blah blah—“

“What?”

“—to make sure the critters crawl all over you instead of me at any cost, for better or for worse, in strength and in weakness, in wakefulness and in—“

“Don’t say it like that!” His hand comes up flicks your forehead before immediately brushing over the area with his thumb to sooth the pain. There’s a slight stutter in that first word that does not go unnoticed by either of you, yet you don’t point it out. He hopes you can’t hear how fast his heart is beating in your proximity to him.

He glances down at you, your head still on his shoulder. The corners of your mouth lift to reveal a shit-eating grin, and he scowls.

“I hate you.”

“Nuh-uh.” You wag your finger at him as if you’re an evil villain in a kids’ cartoon. “You love me.”

The silence that hangs after your words instead of a snarky denial is so abrupt and unexpected, you wonder if an object from one of the shelves just hit his head and knocked him out or something. However, he’s still clearly conscious when you peer up at him to check, staring at nothing in particular with his tongue poking at the inside of his cheek: a telltale sign of him thinking.

“You alive?”

“Yeah. Just— go to sleep,” he says at last. “I’ll watch out for any bugs, rats, whatever, just please stop talking.”

“Finally!” You smile, turning your head to the side to press a chaste kiss against his upper arm as a small thanks. “Good luck, and may the door also hit you in the head when we get found.”

Frowning, Iwaizumi can’t see how that’ll work when you’re the one closer to the door. Nonetheless, he doesn’t mull over it for too long or bother complaining about it, letting you fall into a peaceful slumber and possibly the best nap you’ve ever taken.

Oikawa expects a lot of things when he opens the storage closet.

He expects a couple spiders to fall on top of him (for which, in that instance, he’s prepared himself by holding a textbook over his head). He expects a rat to run out and dance around his feet (for which he’s also prepared himself with vocal warm-ups a few minutes earlier, in case he needs to scream). He even expects a shelf to suddenly collapse, a broom to fall onto him, an inflatable stick figure with Ushijima’s face to pop out at him — anything but the cliché scene that lies in front of him right now, both answering the question that has been brewing inside of him ever since he realised his two friends were gone and also raising some new ones in its wake.

Slowly, he lowers his arms, his chin at a lower position than usual as he stares, flabbergasted at the sight of you hugging Iwaizumi’s shoulder like it’s a teddy bear and Iwaizumi, who to his credit is still fully awake, making violent gestures with his free hand for Oikawa to keep his mouth shut.

Oikawa gets it, despite there being no words exchanged. To wake you up means that bad things will come his way, most likely multiple volleyballs thrown at his head and a lengthy lecture. However, there’s no way he’ll pass up an opportunity to make fun of his best friend later, when the circumstances are much safer and you are awake to keep a leash on your guard-dog. (He snickers to himself at the controversial yet fitting nickname.)

He shoves his textbook under his arm, then starts fumbling through his pockets for something. Iwaizumi realises too late what Oikawa is about to do, mouthing the word don’t just as he hears a click from the brunet’s phone.

Oh fuck, he thinks. Not only does Oikawa have a picture of you nuzzling your face against Iwaizumi’s arm but now he probably has a picture of Iwaizumi looking stupid as hell with his mouth open mid-word.

As Iwaizumi shoots invisible daggers at him with his eyes, Oikawa makes the wise decision to cancel out the other not-so-wise one; he shuts the door and books it down the hallway.

[parkjayist]

TFWILY (psh) ONESHOT

sum you're a florist at a small flower shop. while the shop isn't the most popular, you've made connections with many regulars who come by to say hello and buy some flowers. park sunghoon, slightly clumsy, enters the shop and accidentally breaks a vase ... and a friendship blooms from there.

pairing park sunghoon x florist!reader

genre soft love, fluff, strangers2lovers, just two awkward people bonding over their awkwardness

an hope you enjoy it, i'm pretty proud of this one hehe

tagged: @jjongscardigan @nxzz-skz

wc 2.3k

i. TFW i trip in front of a cute florist

in the heart of a lively town, hidden between tall buildings and busy streets, stands a quaint flower shop adorned with colorful plants. you were proud to call this place your own, getting support from family and friends to open a floral shop. although it was difficult to juggle both college and work at the same time, you’ve managed to make some friends at school that helped you run the shop when you weren’t able to. to put it simply – you were content and happy with your current life. you weren’t too lonely, visiting your parents by train every weekend, hanging out with your friends occasionally, and talking to regular customers that came in and out of your shop. you even met your best friend and platonic soulmate, yani, because she happened to stumble across your shop one day. you wouldn’t trade this life for anything else. 

“yeah, it was such a weird–” yani stopped mid sentence and looked at the time on her phone. “oh shoot, it’s almost 2pm! i’m almost late for an event. i’ll see you later (___)!” she waved at you as she rushed out of the shop.

you chuckled at her messy state and how she almost tripped over nothing. you decided to get back to arranging a bouquet for a customer, humming a small tune from one of ella fitzergald’s songs. you were so focused on making sure that the bouquet looked visually appealing that you yelped in shock when you heard a loud crashing sound. 

you quickly looked up to see a tall man with a distraught look on his face. you followed his eyes to the ground where you saw the disaster he caused – a vase from your mom shattered into pieces. 

“oh my …” you rushed over ready to reprimand the man for damaging your property, before you caught a better look at his face. 

“i’m so so sorry,” he frantically apologized, his eyes furrowed with sincere worry. “i’ll clean it up immediately … um, i’ll even pay you for the damage … again, i’m so sorry,” he bent down and started quickly picking up the pieces and before you could even stop him, he cut himself on the sharp glass. he let out a quick hiss before trying to wipe off the blood. 

“sir … stop, just stop,” you pulled him up. “you must be a very clumsy person … first you knock over my vase and now you hurt yourself!” 

the man didn’t even have a chance to respond before you pulled him over to sit down, quickly getting out a small bandaid that had a cute flower on it. 

“miss … the broken pieces are still there,” he quietly said. 

“it’s fine, i will clean it up myself,” you responded, still focused on disinfecting his cut. 

he went silent, watching you gently put the bandaid on. once you were done you looked at him – his face flushed pink at the close distance between your faces. you took note of his beauty marks that complemented his face gracefully. 

“a … alright, i’m done. hopefully you don’t mind the bandaid,” you murmured, rushing to clean the shards (and to hide your strawberry face). 

as you busied yourself sweeping up the broken pieces of the vase, you stole glances at the mysterious man sitting on the chair. despite your initial impression, there was something intriguing about him. perhaps it was the way his eyes shined with sincerity, or the faint hint of a smile that played on his lips as you tended to his small wound. 

“thank you,” he spoke, breaking the awkward silence. 

you smiled and hummed in response. once you finished cleaning up the mess, you turned back to him, noticing he was still sitting there, almost as if he didn't want to leave just yet.

"is there anything else i can help you with?" you asked, tilting your head slightly. “did you come here to buy flowers?”

the man hesitated for a moment before shaking his head, “no, i was just curious because i’ve never seen this shop before … i should probably get going.”

you nodded, understanding. "alright then. take care, and watch your step next time," you teased gently, a playful glint in your eyes.

he chuckled softly, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before he finally stood up. "i'll keep that in mind. thanks again." with that, he made his way out of the shop, leaving you standing there with a faint smile on your lips.

you stood there, letting his lingering cologne fill your veins before you go back to working – your rants to your friends about this encounter will have to wait. 

ii. classroom at noon

as weeks passed, the memory of sunghoon park gradually faded into the background of your bustling life. your days were filled with the usual routines of managing your flower shop, attending classes at university, and spending time with friends and family. yet …  there was always a lingering curiosity about the man who had stumbled into your shop that day.

one afternoon, after a particularly long lecture at university, you found yourself making your way to the library, eager to catch up on some reading and maybe even get started on your next assignment. as you entered the quiet sanctuary of books, you couldn't help but feel a sense of calm wash over you.

finding a cozy corner tucked away from the prying eyes of other students, you settled down with your books, stretching and ready to lose yourself in the world of academics. but just as you were about to immerse yourself in your studies, a familiar & deep voice interrupted your thoughts. 

"excuse me, is this seat taken?"

you looked up to find none other than the man from a few weeks ago standing before you, a small smile playing on his lips. he looked much more put together – his hair was styled and his outfit fit perfectly with his vibe. surprise flickered across your face before it softened into a warm smile of recognition. 

"oh, hi! no, it's not taken. please, have a seat," you replied, gesturing to the empty chair across from you.

he nodded gratefully and took a seat, setting his bag down beside him. "thanks. i hope i'm not intruding in your studies grind.”

"not at all," you assured him, feeling a flutter of excitement in your chest at the unexpected reunion. “i didn’t know you were a university student.” 

not many people do," sunghoon chuckled, flipping through the pages of his notebook. "i like to keep a low profile."

you nodded, understandingly. "fair enough. what are you studying?"

"business management," he replied, closing the book momentarily to meet your gaze. "and you?"

"botany," you answered, a hint of pride in your voice. "i guess you could say it comes in handy for running a flower shop."

sunghoon's eyes lit up with interest. "that sounds fascinating. i'd love to hear more about it sometime."

for a moment, there was a comfortable silence between you as you both immersed yourselves in your respective studies. but as time passed, you found yourselves stealing glances at each other, a silent curiosity lingering in the air.

finally, unable to resist the urge any longer, sunghoon spoke up. "hey, i never properly introduced myself last time. i'm sunghoon park."

you smiled, feeling a warmth spread through you at his cute gesture. "nice to officially meet you, sunghoon. i'm (___).”

the conversation flowed effortlessly between you as you both delved into your studies, occasionally sharing snippets of your lives outside of university. hours passed in the blink of an eye, and before you knew it, the sun had begun to set outside the library windows.

as you gathered your things to leave, sunghoon hesitated for a moment before speaking up. "hey, (your name), i was wondering if you'd like to grab coffee with me sometime? you know, as a thank you for letting me share your table today."

a warmth spread through your chest at his invitation, and you couldn't help but smile. "i'd love to."

"great," sunghoon grinned, relief evident in his eyes. "how about this weekend?"

"that sounds perfect," you agreed, exchanging contact information with him.

with plans in place for your coffee date, you bid each other farewell, anticipation bubbling in your chest at the prospect of spending more time with sunghoon outside of the library.

iii. please just stay with me

the day of your coffee date arrived, and as you walked into the café, your heart fluttered with excitement. you scanned the room until your eyes landed on sunghoon, who was already waiting for you at a table near the window. he looked up and flashed you a bright smile as you approached, and you couldn't help but feel a rush of warmth at the sight of him.

"hey," he greeted you, his smile widening as you took a seat across from him.

"hi," you replied, returning his smile. "thanks for meeting me here."

sunghoon nodded, reaching into his bag and pulling out a bouquet of flowers. your favorite flowers, to be exact. you couldn't hide your surprise as he placed them on the table in front of you.

"how did you...?" you started, trailing off as you looked at him in confusion.

sunghoon chuckled softly, scratching the back of his neck. "well, i noticed there was a vase of these flowers on your desk at the shop, so i figured you liked them. i did a little research," he explained, a hint of bashfulness in his tone. "are you proud of me?"

you felt your cheeks heat up at his words, but you couldn't help but smile. "yes, i'm very proud of you. thank you, sunghoon."

the rest of the coffee date passed in a blur of laughter and easy conversation. after you finished your drinks, sunghoon suggested going for a walk, and you eagerly agreed. as you strolled along the quiet streets, the atmosphere between you was a mix of excitement and nervousness. you both kept stealing glances at each other, your hands occasionally brushing against one another. each accidental touch sent a jolt of electricity through you, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation building in the air.

eventually, sunghoon's hand brushed over yours, and this time, neither of you pulled away. instead, you intertwined your fingers with his, your heart pounding in your chest as you shared a shy smile. awkwardness filled the air, but it was a sweet kind of awkwardness, the kind that came with the excitement of new love. 

"you look radiant today," he began, his voice soft but sincere. "not that you aren't always beautiful, but today... you're truly glowing. like, back when i saw you in that flower shop, it just felt right– you belong there. you have this aura, this… this flower aura."

his sincere words caught you off guard, and you felt a rush of warmth spread through you. "flower aura?" you repeated, unable to hide the amusement in your voice.

"yeah," he continued, his cheeks tinted with a hint of pink. "it's like... you're surrounded by this natural beauty, and it's captivating."

your heart fluttered at his words, and you couldn't help but smile. "well, in that case, you're like a prince charming, sweeping me off my feet with your compliments."

sunghoon's smile widened at your response, his eyes sparkling with affection. "i'm just speaking the truth," he said earnestly. "you really are something special."

and with that, the awkwardness between you dissolved, replaced by a newfound sense of closeness and understanding. you continued your walk, hand in hand – you felt something new blooming in you. 

iv. that feeling when i love you

as you stood behind the counter of your flower shop, lost in the delicate dance of arranging petals and stems, the familiar chime of the door announced the arrival of someone special. you looked up, and your heart skipped a beat as you saw sunghoon walking in, a warm smile lighting up his face, his fangs poking out. excitement bubbled within you, and without hesitation, you set aside your work and hurried over to him, enveloping him in a tight embrace.

"hey pretty," he greeted you, his voice soft with affection as he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead.

a wave of warmth washed over you at his gesture, and you couldn't help but smile up at him, suddenly feeling grateful for his presence.

"hi handsome," you replied, your voice filled with love as you rested your cheek on his chest. 

“baby, i was thinking... would you like to go on a date with me?" he asked, his eyes shining with anticipation. "there's a flower garden event being hosted at the nearby park, and i know how much you love flowers. i thought it would be the perfect way to spend the evening together."

your heartbeat soared at his thoughtful suggestion. "that sounds wonderful," you replied, a smile spreading across your lips. "i'd absolutely love to."

sunghoon's face lit up with pure joy, his eyes glittering with delight. but then, as if realizing the weight of the moment, he suddenly seemed flustered and unsure, his cheeks and ears turning a bright shade of red.

"um, yeah, great!" he stuttered, his voice a bit shaky. "i'll… uh, i'll swing by after you close up shop. can't have my girl seeing me like this."

your heart melted at his adorable nervousness, and you couldn't help but giggle at his sweet attempt to play it cool.

"sure thing," you said, trying to contain your own excitement. "i'll be waiting.”

with that, sunghoon bid you a slightly clumsy goodbye, almost tripping over the steps of the shop. had he not learned his lesson from last time, this would’ve been deja vu. you let out a laugh at his clumsiness, and he looked back at you, his smile a mix of excitement and embarrassment as he hurried out of the shop. 

you watched him go, feeling a surge of affection for the endearing man who had captured your heart simply by breaking a vase. 

masterlist

[musings-of-a-college-dork]

An Odd Request

Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

Word count: roughly 1K

Steve’s wife goes to the gym and makes an odd request when she arrives home. 

Warnings: sorta NSFW (mdni), use of Y/N, terms of endearment (baby).

Author’s note: This is just fluffy Steve and was written directly after I got home from the gym needing this man and a very specific kind of cuddling so…here it is! Short and sweet and very silly. Hope y’all enjoy! 

It was a quiet Saturday morning in the Harrington household. Steve was the only one home, having a few hours on his own as Y/N went to meet her personal trainer. She had been seeing a trainer for a while as she, quote on quote, wanted “to be able to carry all the groceries in a single trip all by myself.” A noble and worthy cause in Steve’s eyes and yet as long as he was around, she’d never have to lift a finger. He was more than content to show off his own strength for her enjoyment…and yet wished to support her in any and all of her goals so off to the gym she had gone. As such, he had the home to himself for a few hours, a chance to get some work done. 

He had spent most of the morning thus far drinking his coffee and sketching up new basketball drills and formations for the middle school team he coached. He finally understood exactly what Hopper had meant all those years ago about “coffee and contemplation” finding more and more that the man’s wisdom was never ending the older he got. We’ve gotta tighten up their current formations, he thought as the TV played some mindless sitcom in the background while he chewed on the end of his pencil. His mind looked over the squiggles on the paper in front of him trying to decide how to fix this. It had been weeks since they had won a game and morale was dropping fast. Jamie has to pass more but Donovan can’t really shoot…maybe if we move Paul to center and then swap Jordan and Cole we could-

The man wasn’t given another moment to think as he heard the front door open and close with a loud slam, the sound of feet padding their way down the entry hallway. 

“Hey, baby!” Steve called as he continued to focus on the squiggles, drawing a few more lines before erasing them with equally as much vigor, “How was the gym?” A loud groan was all he received in reply as his wife dropped her bag to the ground and kicked off her tennis shoes, not even bothering to put them in the basket where she knew they belonged. The same basket she insisted his shoes lived in but rules didn’t apply to her, at least not right now. I’ll tease her about it later. “That good huh?” He called with a low chuckle as he ran a hand through his hair, “Well your protein shake is in the fridge. Should be cold enough since I put it in when you left.” Oddly enough, the man received no response. He waited a moment before he called again, looking up from his work.

“Bab-” And just like that she was in front of him. He jumped and let out a quiet swear as he clutched a hand to his chest. He hadn’t seen her before she had left and found himself taking a sharp inhale as he looked her up and down. She looked so fucking gorgeous in those tight black leggings that fit her just right, a simple white workout top, hugging her every curve, and the expensive black workout jacket he had saved up to get her for Christmas that she never left for the gym without. Not to mention the way her hair looked post-workout and the glow of sweat that radiated off of her. He was about to open his mouth to make some lewd remark he hoped she’d find charming but-

“Hold my tits.” The man blinked once, then again, his mouth open and gaping like a fish. 

“W-what?” 

“I want your hands on my tits,” Y/N repeated, holding his gaze with complete and utter seriousness, “Please.” 

“Like…you want my…”

“Your hands. On my tits. Now.” When the man continued not to move his wife let out a deep sigh and took the pencil from his hand, laying it down next to his sketch as she replaced it with something much better. She led his large palm gently to her breast, letting out a sigh of relief as she encouraged him to give a little squeeze. Again, Steve didn’t even know what to do, never having seen her like this. Sure, she was usually a little more cuddly and blissed out after the gym as the endorphins ran through her body but this was…new. A good kind of new. 

“So I take it you had a good time at the gym?” The man teased breathlessly as he ushered her around the coffee table to sit beside him on the couch. The woman let out a hum in confirmation as she laid down so they were pressed together, her back to his front, and wrapped his arms around her so his hands could live right where she needed them to. Another chuckle came from Steve as he buried his face into her hair finding-

“Did you put on perfume?” 

“After working out,” she whispered as her eyes closed shut in complete and utter satisfaction, being held just the way she needed to be right now, “Didn’t want to come home smelling only like sweat.”

“I don’t mind,” Steve used his nose to brush the hair from the side of her neck, making her giggle as he pressed mindless kisses there, “I smell like sweat all the time and you still love me.” 

“I do,” Y/N titled her head so he could press a kiss to her lips, one she returned eagerly before laying her head back down on the couch, “Fuck, I’m never doing the Stairmaster ever again.” 

“Y/N, baby, if this,” Steve gave her tits a little squeeze to punctuate his thought, “is what happens after you’re on the Stairmaster, by all means, keep doing it. Any excuse to cuddle with my pretty little wife and hold her boobies is more than fine by me.” 

“Don’t call them that,” Y/N scrunched her nose with a chuckle as she pressed her ass more into him to fit them closer together. 

“What?” The man teased giving another squeeze, “Boobies?” 

“STEVE!” The couple dissolved into a communal fit of giggles as they lay there together, all stress and strain completely forgotten as calm domesticity filled their hearts and home.