#THAT EXPLAIN WHY HE WAS WITH AN SUIT THOUGH

[vanillaxbambi]

+*#behind the camera — ch. 2 || lee heeseung

+*pairing: childhood crush-> idol!heeseung x make-up artist!femreader

+* wc: 6k

+*contains: phone sex(? more like a very suggestive and dominant!heeseung talking hot and bothered while reader is a flustered mess), praise, degradation if you squint, and guided orgasm. mature language. mdni.

synopsis: forget the NDA, heeseung's reaching out. blatantly, flirting and offering more than just simple fan-service. your childhood crush isnt just calling you to catch up. he's international enhypen all star idol, lee heeseung— ready to show you, famous youtube mua, that he's no longer the little 13 year old boy you rejected on a field trip.

m i k a 🌷: when i tell u how much this man suits this scenario, i might explode. in my mind, i will always see him dating a fan irl. like bsfr, i need to see him with someone famous or an engene.

🎀taglist: No pressure to you beautiful flowers to read at all! I love youuuu🌷💝 @heegyukeluv @fatherwound @str8ykids @twancingyunhao @nctrenjunie @allygator-98 @jay-scenarios @hansungie01 @jadedxfemme @sagegreenhairclip @lveegsoi @srhnyx @simj4ke @jiyeons-closet @hxonieverse

couldnt tag :( @ninistranaut

chapter 1 << chapter 2 >> chapter 3 soon...

chapter 2.

your phone blares loudly with the facetime ringer you’ve specifically set for him. although you've preemptively prepared yourself by setting a very distinctive ringtone for his contact… it still makes you want to jump out of your skin.

you realize that he isn’t allowed to date and this is probably the only form of communication with the opposite sex that he is allowed to have.

no one in the company was going to ever know that you have heeseung’s private number. especially when he’s entrusted you to keeping this a secret.

on top of violating the NDA, by having his personal number, you were genuinely bargaining more consequences than your careers could handle.

The ringing jars you back into the moment, with your finger accepting the call. Immediately you can recognize that he’s in a single recording room. The one that he is usually seen talking to engene on Weverse.

His eyes dart around the screen, seemingly adjusting something before landing his full attention on you. “Hi, y/n.”

It’s nearly as jarring as the first time you heard his voice in your studio. His voice sounded even better coming through the speakers of your phone.

“Wow.” You start with a smile. “I feel like I just won a fancall.”

“Yeah?” Oh. God. “What should oppa do for you?”

Your face twists as you cringe. “I will never ever call you that. We’re literally the same age.”

”I’m a few months older than you. That counts.” He begins to lean forward and adjust the lighting on his desk.

“No, actually though,” You catch your thought before you forget to ask him later. “Do you actually like doing fancalls?” You fiddle with the corner of your phone’s case. ”You seem to flirt with every single fan that you interact with.”

“I have to.” He sets the phone up in a very familiar position to how he does his Weverse lives. “I’m engene’s boyfriend. I play to everyone’s fantasies and little requests.”

“Oh.” You’re not sure why but that doesn’t quite sit well with you. “Is that why you were so blatantly flirting with me after I told you that I was a fan?”

“Hmm,” He actually considers before answering. “Yes, and no.”

”It can’t be both.”

“Well, It’s more of a force of habit. Occupational.” He explains the first part. “But I can’t lie when I say that I wanted to mess with you in case you recognized me at all.”

”Anyone would recognize you.” You also prop your phone up against something. “I didn’t think that you recognized me at all.”

”A man never forgets a woman who rejected him.” Heeseung’s voice drops into a slightly serious tone. “Do you not like eye contact?”

This again.

You realize the whole time that you haven’t once looked directly at your phone. Mainly just around the room and at your hands.

”I think it’s cute how shy you get around me when around others you're so confident and charming.” He points out while seemingly typing on his pc.

Music begins to play; he finally sits back after finding the right song for the background.

“Be honest,” he says suddenly. “You’re used to being flirted with.”

“I’m not–”

“I saw the episode of Wooyoung from Ateez complimenting your eyes while you were applying his foundation.” Heeseung levels his eyes with what seems to be your line of sight. Searching for your reaction. “You seemed to like it.”

“It’s not that I liked it… I was being engaging and polite.” You fixate on your finger tips and what they could be touching to keep yourself distracted. “Lets not forget that you’re a professional boyfriend, and you’re just an occupational flirt. I deal with men like you regularly.”

“Oh, Yeah? You still answered a facetime call from a man like me anyway.” Heeseung crosses his arms, clearly amused.

If he was just going to make you feel like your head was going to explode, you thought it would probably be smart to cut the conversation short. “Why did you facetime me, heeseung?”

“I missed you. It’s been a whole week since I last saw you.” Heeseung pulls out a samsung phone from his pocket. “We’re viral, you know?”

“I saw.” You smile, warmth spreading over your cheeks. “Apparently engenes are shipping us with each other. The edits on tiktok are pretty good. Speaking of flirting, I was hoping that my team cut out a few parts. Like you mentioning our past…” Until now, you haven’t sat and read through the comment section of your video together. The very reason being that you wished you could entirely ignore all the negative feedback and death threats sent by sasaengs.

“Yeah, but now they know what I look like when I’m showing interest in someone.” Heeseung lifts a knowing brow. “Feeds a lot of fantasies.”

”Oh trust. They have plenty of those videos way before you and I interacted.”

“You keep up with my content like that, y/n?” His brow flicks up in amusement.

“Oh please, I’m a k-beauty makeup artist. Anyone who's keeping up with kpop is bound to get all of your trends and viral videos in their feed.”

Heeseung just grins, not even pretending to deny it. “Regret rejecting me now that I’m famous?”

You scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself. I almost declined.”

“Almost,” he echoes, that same smug glint flickering in his eyes. “But you didn’t.”

There’s a pause. The kind of silence that isn’t awkward—just heavy. Familiar. You can hear him exhale, the faint shift of his hoodie when he leans back in the studio chair. His mic must still be on, because the low hum of audio equipment buzzes faintly beneath the slow r&b song playing in the background.

“I didn’t tell you this when we saw each other last,” Heeseung clears his throat a bit before continuing. “but while you were touching my face with your soft little hands, I was trying so hard not to keep staring at your lips. You’ve got such pretty shaped ones…”

You make a sound between a laugh and a groan, pressing your face into your hands. “Heeseung.”

“What? I’m just saying.” You can hear the smile in his voice, and it sends heat straight to your ears. “You were concentrating so hard enough to start pouting. It was cute.”

“I was working.”

“I could see that And I was trying to behave.”

You finally glance at the screen. He’s watching you again—of course he is. Arms crossed, mouth tilted just slightly at the corner, like he’s waiting to see what expression you’ll make next.

“That’s funny, because it felt like the opposite,” you say, sitting up straighter. “You turned my makeup video into your own version of a dating show.”

His brow lifts, tongue slightly poking his cheek with a faint smile. “You didn’t seem to mind.”

You pause. You really, really shouldn’t engage. But the pull is magnetic, and you’re tired of pretending you’re not curious too.

“I didn’t mind,” you admit quietly. “I just didn’t know how to respond.”

Heeseung tilts his head at that. “Why not?”

“Because…” You trail off, fingers toying with the hem of your sweatshirt. “You’re not supposed to talk to me like that. Not on camera. Not when we have a hundred people waiting for either of us to mess up.”

His smile fades just slightly—not gone, just thinner. “But we’re not on camera now.”

Your chest tightens a little at that. He’s right. This isn’t staged. There are no lights, no cameras, no mics hidden in lapels. Just your phone screen and the boy you once lied to because the truth would’ve hurt too much to carry with you across the ocean.

“I didn’t think we’d ever talk again after I left Korea,” you say, surprising even yourself with the softness in your voice.

Heeseung leans forward now, elbows resting on the desk in front of him. “I thought about messaging you for years,” he says simply. “But I figured if you wanted to talk, you would’ve at least messaged me through kakao.”

“I did remember you,” you say instantly. Then, quieter: “I just wasn’t sure you’d remember me.”

He lets that hang in the air.

It stretches between you—ten years of what-ifs, buried under makeup brushes, video thumbnails, and late-night music recordings. you want to say something else to not make it sound as pathetic as it came out but you cant.

“You think I would forget my first one sided crush?”

That’s the thing. It was far from that.

“It wasn’t.”

“What wasn’t?”

“Your crush.” You clarify, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “I didn’t reject you because you weren’t my type.”

Heeseung blinks before a slow smile spreads across his face. “I figured. You left not too long after the trip.” His teeth catch his bottom lip as if to contain his thoughts.

“I still remember everything.” Heeseung says. “You were the first person who didn’t care that i was just … really good at things. You know, before enhypen. There was a time that I didn’t have enough money for the vending machine outside of the practice rooms and you ended up handing me some change while walking by with your friends.” Heeseung chuckles to himself as if he replayed it in his mind. “You were so sweet to everyone.”

You swallow, the words catching somewhere in your chest. There’s a pinch in your throat that feels suspiciously like nostalgia trying to become something else.

He continues, but gentler this time. “I didn’t call to freak you out. I just… wanted to see you without everyone else around.”

“This feels a bit too… vulnerable.” You confess.

“I know,” he murmurs. “ I like it.”

The silence returns.

But this time, it doesn’t feel so heavy.

Just a little too comfortable. A little too warm for something that’s supposed to be professional.

“I should go,” you say, but you don’t move to end the call.

“I know,” he echoes again, eyes still on you. “But you won’t.”

Your thumb hovers over the red end button for a second too long. And then finally, you say:

“Goodnight, Heeseung.”

He tilts his head like he’s memorizing how you look—like he wants to pause this exact moment and tuck it somewhere safe. “Goodnight, y/n.”

The call ends.

And your apartment is suddenly too quiet.

Your fingers still curl around the phone like he’s still on the other end.

And that stupid ringtone?

You don’t even consider changing it.

a week slips through like sand. you arent sure why but whenever olive or rose begin to mention the new shift your career will be taking from this point forward… you hate to think that the time you’ll spend with heeseung will be temporary.

the sting doesn’t exactly register with you as much when the work and planning begins to pile up and you have to force yourself to compartmentalize your emotions away from this job.

Hybe sends you more information about the tour dates, concept meetings, and more non-disclosure contracts that legally bind you to shutting the fuck up about anything that will ever happen between you and any of the enhypen members.

it’s been a week since your forbidden facetime with international idol lee heeseung. most of your interactions are limited to brushing shoulders in the busy halls during promotions, 3 second long eye contact in the office floor, and brief greetings when leaving from signing a few final disclosures.

today was different.

heeseung manages to catch your eye in the cafeteria before mouthing, “I’ll call you.”

you hate to hold him to his word but the butterflies in your stomach can’t tell a difference.

lee heeseung wanted to call you.

you nod with a blank look on your face. something stuck between surprise and panic. this, makes him chuckle— biting his stupid lip again as he scans you up and down before leaving the cafeteria.

your thighs instinctively press together from the rush of anticipation that flushes through your body.

god, he hasn’t done anything. fucking get it together.

that night you’re trying hard not to stare at the time.

6pm. nothing.

7pm. silence.

8pm… a promotional advertisement from olive young and a message from Olive asking if you were free this weekend to get drinks.

you figured you needed a distraction. so you call Olive to bide time.

it’s not long until you’re laughing and getting unready with her. she’s cracking jokes about what might happen on the tour and what the other make up artists will say while she’s gone.

frankly, olive is the only person in the world who would understand what you’re going through and exactly what you’re risking if you keep allowing this boundary line to fade into the background with heeseung.

olive was never one to care about rules and regulations anyway. “You only have one life, girl.” olive squirts micellular water onto a cotton round. “If you’re out here getting cozy with a childhood friend; who just happens to be Enhypen’s Lee Heeseung, that’s your business.”

her nonchalant seriousness makes you laugh as you apply toner to your clean, bare face. “it’s a bit embarrassing liv,” You sigh, patting the toner onto your cheeks. “my fucking pussy clenched just from him looking me up and down today.”

“Your what?!” olive’s mouth hangs open.

”I’m deadass.”

“He did what?!?!” she starts giggling. “i love this man for you.”

“oh stop, he’s probably just flirting with me because he feeds off of the attention.”

“Oh shut up, bitch. You keep giving it to him too.” She deadpans.

“I can’t ever live around you, can i?”

olive pouts at the screen with a little kiss. “not when you’re acting like you don’t want to have this man fuck you against—“

your phone rings.

his contact name pops up.

FaceTime Video Lee Heeseung...

“oh shit. that’s him isn’t it?” you can hear the smile in olives voice as you stare at the incoming call.

“fuck!” you panic, taking a look at yourself in the mirror. you’ve taken off your make up, your skincare routine is almost done, and you’ve got on this ridiculously huge Sanrio character headband to keep your hair from getting wet. “I look busted right now!”

“I’m hanging up now, girl! good luck! love you!” Olive squeals before hanging up.

The call ends and you’re scrambling to get out of your restroom.

it’s still ringing.

you take a glance at yourself in your wall mirror in your room.

shit.

you’re in your bra, head band still on top of your head, you looked bare. stripped down. not a touch of make up on your face.

the ringing stops.

then your phone pings.

Lee Heeseung you always shower this late or are you actually sleeping?

Lee Heeseung got home from practice. call me back if you’re up, y/n.

you throw on a large tee, gripping your phone as you go back and forth on actually hitting the facetime icon.

Lee Heeseung you looked so fucking good today by the way.

you hit the icon right as the message banner shows on your screen.

oh my god.

heeseung’s face appears on your screen and he looks as if he just freshly showered. hair slightly wet, face clean, yet his eyes seem tired.

“there she is.” Heeseung’s voice fills your ears with the huskiness of his busy day. “you look cute.”

you see yourself on the screen. you look out of sorts. caught off guard and entirely not in your element.

“you just take off your make-up, y/n?”

you were still wearing your sanrio headband.

he chuckles lowly and from what you can make out, he seems to be sat at a desk. if you weren’t still flustered from his text, you would immediately start going on about how he really needs to get actual furniture and decorate like someone actually lives in his room.

all that comes out is: “yeah.”

“you okay?” heeseung is mildly amused but you can’t help but notice that his eyes blink slow and heavy.

“just didn’t expect you to call so late.” you slip the headband from your head and ruffle your hair a bit. ”you look tired.”

“i said i would call.” he ruffles his hair as well. “i’m usually pretty tired after long practice days— insomnia still keeps me up most of the time though, no matter how exhausted i am.”

“you didn’t have to call me.” you feel your heart tug a little. the same way that it did the first time when he fell asleep in your make up chair. “you need to relax and rest if you want any sleep tonight.”

”i’m relaxing just fine being on the phone with you, y/n.” heeseung leans back in his computer chair. face glowing from his monitor screen and what’s playing on it. “i missed you since our last conversation.”

“woah,” you lift a brow. “i would stop right there, heeseung, you sound like you’re using your professional boyfriend skills on me.”

“if thats what you want me to be for you sweetheart, then i can be whatever you want.”

the nickname drops like a bomb and you hate that your face feels warmer by the rising second of him staring at you as if he didn’t just rock your world.

“heeseung…”

“what? you answered the phone looking so cute with your sanrio headband on, huge shirt, bare face, and don't expect me to say something about it?”

“you just can’t stop, can you?” you try to deflect, knowing that you’re looking a mess.

“i like seeing how flustered you get.”

you feel like a simple minded fangirl.

the shy, talented but popular boy he once was is long gone. replaced with this suave, confident and flirtatious man. the difference jarred you. you wanted to be the type who bounces back from cute little flirty jabs but coming from him was a different level.

you get the fantasy.

why fans purchase hundreds of albums to get the opportunity to have a mere 2 minute long phone call.

and yet, here he was offering his time to you for free.

his eyes blink slower and his smile doesn’t necessarily meet his eyes.

the butterflies in your stomach stop once you realize that you don’t actually want this version of him.

this was something he always does. something he has to do.

flirting with engenes and appealing to every request. never actually being himself and constantly bending to the will of the fans.

”hey so…” you find yourself starting to say something that you might regret. but the greater the risk the bigger reward. “you really don’t have to do that with me, heeseung.”

he pauses and you can see that he adjusts in his seat. “am i making you uncomfortable?”

“no, its actually very flattering and sweet,” you admit. “but you’re off the clock. you don’t need to give me fan service.”

heeseung’s brows shoot up before a slow smile spreads to his face, this time it meets his eyes. “its more natural for me to talk to fans like this.”

“im not just a fan." you frown.

heeseungs eyes soften and he leans back into his chair. "i know...you're right." he bites his lip slowly before taking a sharp breath. "sorry im tired and im just doing what i've practiced. occupationa—"

"occupational habit." you complete. musing his sentence with a sense of understanding. " I get it."

"how should we talk to each other then y/n?"

"like im not looking for an interaction. like im just a friend who enjoys your company and not your fame." you suggest.

heeseung tilts his head and nods. "i'd like that actually."

"have you ever wanted to just exist and not have to charm anyone?"

"sometimes, yeah." heeseung presses his pink lips into a flatline.

"you dont need to play idol." you turn off your main light and adjust your lamp on your desk. "we're old classmates. it must be nice for you to be normal."

"alright," you visibly see his entire body relaxing and he no longer holds the tension that he did when you called back. "its lame. the first real interaction i have with my old crush is me trying to give her fan service vice." he humors.

"technically, our third ."

"i was also giving you fan service the last time as well, soo not very impressive on my part." he chuckles, moving to type on his computer.

two more clicks and soft music plays.

"im not gonna complain, like i said; its flattering and sweet." You bring your legs up into the chair to get more comfortable. "what do you do to wind down after a long day?"

"you want the real answer or the broadcast answer?"

your eyes widen. "depends..." your mouth slowly running dry. "do you go for a run? long shower? game?"

the corner of his lips twitch. "sure. those answers work."

his tone of voice shifts to something suggestive. playful. deep.

this was taking a turn. fast.

“oh.” you nod slowly, a bit awkwardly before he bursts out laughing.

“god, you’re so fucking cute.” heeseungs eyes crease and this is instantly your favorite expression on his face. “i just scroll on my phone and game, y/n. I’m a very simple man.”

with your cheeks warm and hands fidgeting, you manage a calm expression. “same here. just more scrolling than gaming.”

a silence creeps in and you try to think of something to ask, say, or even occupy yourself with. heeseung’s undivided attention sort of makes you uneasy and his habit of searching for direct eye contact isnt exactly grounding.

he breaks the silence first. “It’s getting late, y/n… i don’t want to keep you up.”

“you’re not, i dont have to be at the company until 8am.”

“my show time is 7.”

you looks over at the digital clock on your night stand. “oh shit, you need to be in bed right now. its almost midnight.”

“insomnia, remember?” he brushes a loose lock of hair from his brow. “couldnt fall asleep even if I wanted to.”

“well, i would feel better if you laid in bed at least.”

“Already trying to see me in the sheets, y/n? damn, i didn’t know you were so forward.” he jokes before his monitor light flickers with a pink light. “I kind of don’t want to yet. i hate being told what to do.”

you realize he’s finally teasing you the way he used to with his friends back in the day. “don’t blame me then when you’re exhausted and tired while i work on your face tomorrow.”

“you’re already working with us so soon before the tour?” he smoothly changes the topic.

“yeah, sort of need to immerse myself and understand all of your faces before i assign people to all the members.”

“you assigned to me?” his smug little expression flashes on his features.

“you wish.” you smirk.

heeseung looks you up and down through the screen, the same way he did in the cafeteria. “why don’t we both lay in bed, hmm?”

“like right now?”

“yeah, cmon.” Heeseung grabs his phone, shuts off his pc, and takes you to prop his phone on the night stand. “get in bed.”

he was calling the shots now?

“oh. i still need to finish my skincare…” your eyes dart around your room.

“let me watch.”

why did that sound so hot?

“go on. i’ll wait.”

you’re moving on his word. fuck, you hated that you folded so fast. just one simple change in tone is already enough to subtly show him that you liked taking orders.

“Mmh.” he quietly hums in approval as he watches you set him down somewhere on your sink. “you listen well.”

you turn away as you grab a bottle of your serum and facial mist. hoping that you could hide your reaction. “this your way of being petty after being told what to do all day?”

“no,” he calmly responds. holding his phone with one hand now and the other propped behind his head as he lays down to watch you. “just finally able to be me.”

“and what’s being you like?”

“in charge.”

oh. fuck.

he doesn’t wait for you to be speechless about it and turns his head. “take your time, y/n. i’m right here.”

after 5 excruciating minutes of you rushing through the final steps of your routine. you shut off the bathroom light and pad over to your bedroom.

“you know,” heeseungs eyes blink slowly. “i’m actually starting to get a little sleepy… something about watching you get ready for bed is so cozy.”

“you said something similar when you fell asleep in my chair.” you point out as you shuffle into your sheets.

heeseung lazily smiles before his eyes dart down. “i’ve never done that before… i was actually a little embarrassed about it.”

“i just figured you were tired.”

“I was… just your fingers were so gentle and soft… fuck, sorry.” now a strange expression reaches his eyes when you finally lay down in bed.

“about?”

“its getting late, i should hang up.” heeseung sounds uncomfortable.

oh.

“you.. okay?” you bring the comforter up higher on your torso.

he offers you a pained smile before nodding. “i’m good… just—“ he reconsiders before sighing. “i’m so fucking turned on.”

oh.

“uh—“

“your bare face, your flushed cheeks, then you climbing into bed—god, you’re killing me. it’s pathetic how deprived i am…”

“do you not have like… women for that?”

heeseung looks at you like you just said the most ridiculous thing. “with what time? dispatch follows me everywhere. my fans are insanely para-socially attached to me that even the mention of me next to another woman makes them send death threats. you think i’d be able to talk with a woman freely knowing that they’d have to go through that?”

he has a point. but also, “you’re talking with me…”

he opens his mouth before closing it again.

“what’s the difference between any other woman and me?” you ask curiously before biting on the inside of your cheek.

“our past.” heeseung blinks a few times. “and the way the public majority is actually enjoying our relationship.”

“oh? i didn’t know we had a relationship.” for some reason this conversation isn’t turning out the way you intended it to.

“well, its the closest one i have to an actual girlfriend.” heeseung makes another valid point. “what else would you call this then,y/n? you could’ve left me on read.”

“being on facetime with you doesn’t mean we’re dating.”

“no, it doesn’t,” heeseung nods contemplatively. “but it must mean something that you listened to me, finished your night routine, then got in bed with me like a good girl..”

your phone gets blurry for a second and you realize that your eye is twitching.

“you were so obedient for me, i thought maybe you were starting to enjoy me being myself.” his voice melts around your ears like spiced honey. “or should i go back to fan service heeseung and do as you say?”

“heeseung.” you try to grab hold of reality. a dream. you must be drifting off to sleep.

“yeah, baby?” fuck, he was still talking. “tell me to stop…i promise i will, if you just say the word.”

you should behave.

you should tell him no.

you should say the word and have him do the behaved, well-mannered thing.

but fuck, you weren’t going to lie to yourself and say that you aren’t just as fucking heated from the way he’s sweet talking to you.

your silence tells him everything.

“you warm, sweetheart?”

“so fucking warm….”

“yeah?” he shifts in the sheets and you can hear him bring the phone closer, the low light enough to show you the angular curves in his face. “we should fix that…”

“mhm…” you bite your lip, already getting a sense where this was going.

“aww, you look so cute all bothered because of me…” he chuckles. “just from the sound of my voice?”

“heeseung.” you gasp his name purely from the stimulation of his voice but your legs start rubbing together helplessly.

your slick slowly coating the fabric of your underwear.

“oh, fuck.” he groans. “... Needy little thing.”

your face burns but you’re passed the point of caring. the room is getting spiny… your thoughts are merely wisps of echos of his voice.

”you’re getting awfully quiet… is this too much? should i stop here?”

“no!”

heeseung’s low chuckle reverbs through your speakers. “so pathetic for me… my little makeup artist can’t lay still while she listens to my voice?”

you make a sound. something between a whimper and a whine. you hand slipping down your naval and underneath the waistband of your underwear.

when you touch the wetness leaking from you, the gasp that leaves your lips causes heeseung's brow to flick up. "oh? are you touching yourself, y/n?"

you flush, fingers slipping out and gripping your loose t-shirt.

"answer me," heeseungs voice asserts calmly. "are you touching yourself to my voice?"

you hate how breathless you sound when you reply. "yes..."

”keep going, sweetheart.”

"what?"

"i said, keep going." heeseung sits up against his bed frame. biting his lip attentively and watching your facial expressions. "i'll keep talking, you enjoy yourself."

"but, you're tired—"

"this shit turns me on, no way im leaving you hanging, y/n." heeseung breathing finally sounds labored. "now, touch your pussy for me."

youve abandoned all restraint. " do you want to see?"

"no." his reply surprises you. "i want to watch your pretty face fall apart. you take care of that needy pussy for me. i want to watch your eyes roll back when you cum."

oh. my. god.

you set up the phone where he can have full view of your torso. just enough to show him your arms reaching down to slide down your panties.

"thats it, baby... get comfortable for me."

this is when it begins. his words start leading your hands. with every flow and rise in his voice as he watches your face contort and scrunch from pleasure.

"god, you dont know how long ive been watching your youtube channel, y/n. you're so fucking beautiful... i saw one of the members watching it one day... i immediately recognized you. isnt it fate that we met again 10 years later? 10 years after you broke my 13 year old heart on that stupid field trip? " heeseung groans when you start rolling into your hand. "now look at you. fucking touching your leaking pussy to my voice. letting the boy you rejected edge you into your orgasm. fuck— i can hear how wet you are from here, baby..."

his breathing is jagged and from your peripheral vision you can see how hooded his eyes have gotten from watching you crumble.

"thats it, sweetheart. bring yourself to the edge... you look so fucking good with your eyes rolled back like that into that pretty head of yours... cmon, make a fucking mess... be my messy little cam girl, baby... give me something to get addicted to..."

you whimper loudly. gasping for air as your orgasm tips right on the edge of your tummy.

"aw... you gonna cum so soon? i didnt take you as such a sensitive baby...thats alright, pretty girl. just a little more yeah?" heeseungs smile is heard even while your eyes are rolled back. "fuck, i'd love to stretch you open while holding you down against the bed... your moans are prettier than i imagined."

"heeseung..." you whine—so, so close.

"yeah? you better fucking ask for permission before you cum, y/n."

your core flexes and your thighs begin to shake. youve never reacted this way from barely touching yourself. you need release. bad. "heeseung! please! i- i'm so close! i need to cum! please, may i cum?"

heeseung lets out a low groan before he comes closer to the speaker. "good girl...fucking cum for me. make a fucking mess all over yourself."

you squeal, hips thrusting forward in rapid succession as your orgasm barrels through.

stars flash your vision and a sheet of white blinds you as your eyes roll and twitch.

you're on another planet.

* * *

heeseung is here watching you ascend.

the satisfaction that blooms through his chest and abdomen is immense.

fuck. he gets off on watching you fall apart.

he knows he's already addicted.

he wont be able to get enough of you falling apart to his voice. "good fucking girl."

and like that, your secret relationship begins.

* * *

ch. 1 << ch.2 >> ch.3 coming soon.

m i k a 🌷: AHHHH! LET ME KNOW WHAT YALL THINK! if there's any typos or errors… be kind, i was excited!😵‍💫🤪🌝

let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! i will try to update every 3-5 days! depending on how much work I can get done during the week! leave a comment, like, or reblog for me, love!

All Rights Reserved to mika of vanillaxbambi. Any posts on other platforms are prohibited.

[qxqwillow]

Warnings: Fem!Reader, Black!Reader, PlusSized!Reader, Non-MC!Reader, also cursing i guess?

Reader has a physical description, she's black, curly hair and plus-sized.

Additional Warning, this is a draft that I made in 30 minutes, so it sucks major ass, but I'm trying to improve my writing skills, so here it is I guess🙃

— —

All it took was a glance, a small fleeting glance and you knew you were doomed for all eternity.

But why? As far as you were aware, you hadn’t offended anyone?

…Okay maybe you cursed out your professors a little too much, but they totally deserved it! If they taught their classes properly then you wouldn’t have had the highest grade… with a 52.

But that still didn’t explain your current situation. One second you were at home doom scrolling to avoid the reality of life, the next thing you know you were pulled almost like a vortex in the middle of a meeting with guns drawn. As the two sides look at you in confusion, guns turning towards you as they bark out demands, your eyes meet him.

Perfectly arranged silver hair, crimson red eyes deep as blood, and a beautifully crafted luxurious suit. Fuck, is that Sylus? There's no way you could be looking at him, he's a video game character.

'I must be dreaming... or my edibles were way too strong.' You think to yourself. And yet, he stands before you.

He peers into your eyes with an almost imperceptible expression, but you’ve played Love And Deepspace enough to know— it’s suspicion. A dangerous expression to be on the other end of. As you look to his left however, your eyes meet another person you never thought you'd see in real life.

‘Oh. My. God. There’s no way—‘ you think as you slowly back up. Your MC standing beside Sylus looking at you in confusion. Of course she’d be confused in your dream, you took a painstakingly long time making her look like a better version of you.

She donned beautiful dark skin, large doe eyes, and beautiful full lips. The two of you were… almost identical, save for the fact that you weren’t thin. You were plus-sized, curly hair that shrunk to your shoulders when it dried, thick glasses that showcased just how blind you were without them and freckles adorning your face. Of course, you weren't always self conscious about your looks, you actually loved your appearance and lamented with each survey about how you couldn't make your MC plus-sized or at least a bit bigger like you were.

“Heh, is this your idea of a joke? Bringing a cheap copy to our meeting? Unfortunately your jokes wear thin.”

...Aaaand there goes your confidence. You glare at Sylus, how dare he call you a cheap copy, didn't he have any eyes? How could he be so rude in a dream.

Bang! A gunshot goes off and you yelp, immediately welding your eyes shut as you cover your ears.

You hyperventilate. Okay, so this isn’t a dream, this is way too realistic and you felt the air change when that gunshot went off. But how? How did you end up in the world of the game that took all of your time, life, and money?

As you heard multiple shots being exchanged throughout the room, you dive behind the table, hoping your presence is ignored.

And then— silence fills the room like poison.

You feel a gentle hand on your shoulder and tense up, tears in your eyes as you look up and see MC looking at you confused but still compassionate.

“Hey? Are you okay? We need to get out of here. Can you walk?” She asks with the authority of a Hunter.

You nod getting up shakily before following MC and Sylus. Sylus leads the way out briskly, and even though he’s physically in front of you, you swear you can feel his eyes trailing from behind.

As you arrive at Sylus’ mansion, your movements start to slow. You’re an unknown person who looks pretty damn similar to MC, you have no identity and you appeared in the middle of ‘negotiations’. Fuck. But you can’t go back now, where would you even go to? The N109 Zone is dangerous even for MC, how would you manage to survive?

As you enter, Sylus glances at you and beckons you to sit down. With shaky breath you sit and look at him and MC. Sylus was already attractive in the game, he was your favorite love interest but seeing him in person? Oh— the 3D model couldn’t dare to compare to the real thing. And your MC was so stunning. More picturesque than you could have ever imagined.

But you must have stared at her longer than you anticipated, as suddenly you heard Sylus talk.

“Apologies, but this stray kitten already has a caretaker and they don’t like to share even if it is another woman.” Sylus said with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You—!” MC's face turned red as she scowled at his words.

Geez, if his flirting was a 9/10 in-game, it was a 20/10 in real life. Despite his words sounding possessive, the vibe was very relaxed and carefree.

“Hm.” Sylus chuckled deep from his chest. It was… rumbly. Very attractive. 'Was it because he's a dragon?' You wondered.

You shook your head to focus and spoke up against your better judgement.

“Um. I’m sorry.” You started, ducking your head down when you felt Sylus and MC's gazes.

“I-I don’t even know how I appeared at your meeting. I’m not from here-“

“From the N109 Zone?” MC asked raising an eyebrow.

“No… I’m not from this world.”

They stared at you quietly, looking at each other before looking back at you with a skeptical eye.

You swallowed. Fuck, how do you even begin to explain this? Tell the best rendition of the truth that you can? You’re a horrible liar anyway.

“I…”

You suddenly hear a humorless laugh.

“How funny. Too bad I’m not in the mood for jokes.” You see Sylus playing with his gun, toying with it as you realize he’s preparing to shoot you soon.

Shit.

What could you say to convince him? In a panic you think, if you mention just any random thing you shouldn’t know, he’ll assume you’re a spy. What can you say? What can you do?

“Sylus... you don’t have to shoot her, we can just question her, she doesn’t seem like a threat.” MC tries to plead, wanting to know the origin behind this doppelgänger in front of her.

“I don’t take chances kitten.” As you hear the gun click you blurt out the first thing you can.

“I know about the curse between the Dragon and the condemned Sorceress!”

FUCK. SHIT. DAMN.

Why did you choose to say that out of all the other things you could say? You glance at Sylus, bracing for the gunshot that never comes.

You see a flicker in his eyes, fear? Uncertainty? Whatever it is, it isn’t good, but it might be your only chance.

“I-I can explain everything. As much as I know, please. All I ask is help getting out of here safely.” You plead. Why did you mention the myth?! That was the worst thing you could have ever done, he’ll definitely kill you now.

“Speak.” You hear him say, and judging by his strained tone you’re already treading on thin ice. MC looks in confusion. You know she only knows fragments of her past with Sylus, but you didn't know exactly how much she knew.

To prevent somehow fucking up everything, instead of explaining the myth, you decide to explain why you know information that nobody else knows about.

Sigh.

“I’m from Earth, year 202X. I know about this world because… this is a video game, to me at least. Your pasts are slowly revealed to us as players through 3D scenes referred to as Myth Cards. Which is why I know about the Sorceress. This isn't the only past they explain.” You looked at MC hesitating before speaking.

“They also explain the past for Zayne, Xavier, Rafayel and Caleb.” MC stiffens, clearly overwhelmed by the fact that so much of her life is on display for millions of players. That her suffering and search for answers is merely code in someone’s phone for amusement.

“…Answer me one thing.” She says approaching me. “Why do we look alike?”

“…”

“Well? We aren’t twins, so why?”

“I…” God. This is going to fucking suck.

“In the game, you can… customize the main character…which is... you." You said gesturing to MC. "I wanted her to look as close to me as possible."

"Although they don't allow users to be fat" You mumbled

“Main character? Customize? Is anything about me real?” She scoffs, tears threatening to run down her face. Sylus glares at me, ready to kill me. Shit, I needed to calm her down.

“Wait MC, you never know, I could be the fake one." You babble, pulling shit out of your ass to protect your life.

"I mean, I literally just appeared out of thin air, plus Earth stopped existing long ago for all of you, I’m from your distant past. I should be nothing more than ancient history to you.” You slowly approached her and held her hands.

“You may have been a game character from my perspective, but your suffering, your pain, the love you feel and the answers you’re searching for are all real. You’re no less real than me, I can touch you right? You can cry like me can’t you?” She nods lightly, tears silently running down her face as you comfort her.

You sigh, now that she’s calming down you can focus on the next threat to your life... which is looking at you silently and beckoning you to enter his office-- alone.

....Something in your heart says you'll be living on the precipice of death for a long time.

[evilminji]

See... you'd have to get her ROARING drunk first. Like, "afraid for her liver" drunk. And the only people willing to do THAT? Are usually demons. So like? Lil miss "we take our trauma, put it in the urn with all the OTHER dead friends and family we have, and BURY it. Dead things Stay Dead in this house. ^-^" does... not? Generally? Address her issues.

She WILL puke her guts out, curse the gods, and cry about them though? If you get her drunk. But she, like all Survivors Of The End™ subscribe to the school of "we don't talk about the shit you learn when someone's wasted". Cause they've ALL seen some shit. You mind your business.

But like? Demons? Have a very "that's rough, buddy. Wanna burn things about it?" *pours you another drink* approach to things. Very soothing actually! They could not care less! Reincarnation? Undead? You might be wearing a child's body like a meat suit?

Huh. Neat. Anyway, you want the rest of these wings, or....?

She fuckin loves these guys. No, shizun! She KNOWS they kidnapped her and got her, your technically a child Disciple, like... COMPLETELY sloshed! But she loves these guys! We're friiiiiends now! Ain't that right Demon Lord? *aggressively kicks at his shin with her lil baby foot, from where she's flat out drunk on the floor*

*he barely feels it. Cause it's like a kitten sneezing on him*

Yeah~, oh RIGHTEOUS Cultivator. We're FRIENDS now~ >:D *pointy, pointy bastardous smile. Just a REAL shit eating shark of a grin*

Her Shizun hates him. #HowDareYouBondWithMyBaby. That's HIS JOB! Did you do a EMOTIONAL VENERABLITY!? With his precious, feral, zombie slaughtering cabbage!? YOU WHORE! He'll kill you!!

There can only be ONE Shizun/Father Figure in this relationship! HIM!

Must he make it weird? Yes. Always. None of these fuckers are allowed to be normal. That wouldn't be funny. His Shixiong need to CONSTANTLY need to be smacking their foreheads and going "....perhaps you should rephrase that." "Why? What other meaning could what I said POSSIBLY have?" *considers if they want to sink the next 16 hours into explaining this* *...they do not* "never mind. You're fine."

He's the most brilliant dumbass alive. Social skills of a diseased wet rat. Good at what he does though! VERY good. But why... sweet merciful heavens, WHY? Would ANYONE think it's a good idea to let him DIRECTLY TEACH KIDS? Sect Leader(betrayed)!

(In his defense! He was in closed meditation! The lil fucker already adopted the kid by the time he got out! What was he SUPPOSED to do!? Rip the traumatized child AWAY from her new home, the SECOND it became stable?! He out played me with audacity!!)

But like? She is gonna? Be casually and unthinking be dropping Lore? And you KNOW everyone is gonna *slow, accusatory head turn, to Stare at the Demons* you mother fuckers.

Why? Does the child?? KNOW (deeply fucked up thing)!?

And they're just? >:D not denying SHIT. Cause this is funny! Yeah, MAYBE. They can't recall~! DID they teach Diana that thing? Who's to saaaay~! *mocking snickering*

God... at this point? I feel like? She's gonna stumble upon some "soothing hotspring" or other artifact? Experience the first true moments of actual, genuine Serenity and Calm in at least two decades... and just? Go into fucking shock. Like just DROP. Pass out. Her whole ass body is glued together with vigilance and stress. Bby no...

The healer peak/department is gonna lose its SHIT. She's like one long, slow, qi deviation. And they HATE it. Just GET IN THE HEART SOOTHING POOL! (No! It makes me feel funny!) Yeah! That's called CALM, YOU NEUROTIC LIL SHIT! GET IN!!!

I just had another Xanxia Thought Child!

Everyone~☆! Congratulate my baby on being born!

*clap clap clap* (ﾉ ˃ˋᗜˊ˂ )ﾉ🎉🎉🎉

Cause like? Here we are? Assuming our Reincarnated Children AREN'T living in Interesting Times™ before they die? And that's no fun~! We should be giving that kid anxiety! Some pre-packaged heart demons! Maybe a twitchy murder finger!

A deep, DEEP seated loathing for Demonic Cultivators and, specifically, their undead minions.

You picking up what I'm setting down? ( • ̀ω•́ )✧ yeah~, that's right!

Zombie Apocalypse.

OC got lucky, originally, was out in the middle of nowhere, camping. Yes... lucky. Oh so very, very "lucky". She had supplies. She had shelter. Everything she'd need for the coming days. Oh, and a front row seat... to watch as everything fell apart.

Got to sit, miles and miles away, and listen, over the phone. As her family sobbed and screamed. Terrified and confused. Chaos, wet gurgling and ripping. The crunching of broken things and mindless groaning in familiar voices. Yes... so very lucky.

She didn't have to watch it.

Just listen.

See the news stations fall, one by one, as cities were over run. Watch as news sites stop updating. As infrastructure starts to fail and her connection begins to get spotty. Then, inevitably, as figures start to shuffle along the horizon. Mindless and wandering.

Like everyone else who survives those first terrible days, there is a steep learning curve. One she barely survives. But... she does. And that matters. She makes friends. She watchs them die. Keeps her promise, made again and again, that they won't come back. That she won't let them hurt anyone.

Civilization falls, yes. But it comes back. It always has. She finds her way to a city state. Prays for the day that "the billions" will end. Cause, after all, they say that if they're careful? Eventually the infection WILL die out. They just gotta contain it. Keep looking for a cure.

Hope is a stubborn thing.

But zombie swarms don't care about hope. They hunger. And what is the city, if not a shell waiting to be cracked? Like tides, they come. Slamming against the walls. Again. Again. AGAIN.

One day... one of the fuckers finds some weak point they must have missed. A breach. They start pouring in. Oc is on wall duty. OUTER wall duty. There are rings, because things like this might happen and everyone planned for the worst.

She's part of the team that stays behind.

Trapped between the second wall and the outer wall, trying to drive them back. Seal the gap. Cover fire rains from above. Each step, a hair from nashing teeth and clawing hands. There are so many. So, so many.

Too many, in the end. At least for her.

She's separated from the group.

A death sentence.

So fast...she barely feels being torn apart.

It's strange. The sky was so blue that day. Beautiful, really. Felt out of place for hell on earth. It was the last thing she saw. Endless... so beautiful and endless. She... she had just enough time to realize what was about to happen. To think "ah...", feel this strange... calm, settle deep.

That it would finally all be over. To end like this.

How unfair.

Oh well... at least she get to-

Then she's fucking blinking and there's a GOD DAMN ZOMBIE.

Naturally, she hit it with a wok. She was unaware there WAS a wok near-by. And also? Why is she in a kitchen? Like... an OLD as fuck one? But also not old? Clearly used one. Feels vaugly like the ones people rigged up during the early days... but like... not. And also Chinese. Questions for later!

Wait. No. Why the FUCK is she a ZYGOTE?! *flexs tiny "baby" hands* *is actually like 8* Ah... so she's in hell. Well fuck you too, god. I guess.

There is a scared child scream.

Religious crisis later! Zombie smashing now! She finds one trying to claw into a cabinet. Smart kids! Trapped themselves, but still! Smart. Good to put a barrier between themselves and the zombie. She crushes its skull with the wok. Rescues her... sib..lings? Oooh that's a weird head rush.

Okay, not hell. God just thinks they're fuckin FUNNY. I see how it is.

Well I'm about to be hilarious. (New life motto:Get!)

OC proceeds to Experienced Zombie Fighter her way through several houses. Rescuing who she can. Calls a retreat. Gets everyone to a defensible location. Oh joy, back to the swewers. She did NOT miss this.

Turns out? Town is being attacked by a small Demonic Cultivator sect. They brought zombies.

She's about to bring pain. Who the FUCK weaponizes ZOMBIES. Wanna uses nukes for a fist fight next? You idiot!? You ABSOLUTE BAFOON?! Is setting aside that whole "cultivation sect" thing to freak out over later.

(What? Like her neighbors old web novels? Those Xanxia things that he loves to talk about? Misses like crazy cause no one can find any physical copies of stories like that, here in the west?)

(...could...could find.)

OC starts to fuckin Ambush Predator them. You learn to fight dirty, in the apocalypse. Cause there ARE bastards out there. And not everyone was willing to be a decent fuckin human being. You're "cultivation" or whatever isn't gonna do SHIT, if you're too concussion to use it!

Blow to the head! Slit the throat before they recover.

Move on to the next one.

Kill as many fuckin zombies as you can along the way.

It is AS she's doing this? Somebody just sorta? *Yoink* scruffs. This small, filthy, murderous child? Sassy and immediately tries to stab them? Good reflexs! Taking that knife though. It's clearly cursed. Who gave you that? Did you take that from one of the demonic cultivators? Honestly, next time just use a kitchen knife. You don't know where their knives have been!

Blinking, she stops struggling to actually look at the adult holding her in air jail.

Huh. Bright colors. Doesn't seem to be on Team Zombie. Better check. Oi! How do you feel about Zombies? "Utter abominations. A crime against the dead." Oh, hey~! A reasonable and well adjusted adult! Hi~☆! ( ^-^)/"

Is her complete 180 from vicious, seething, hell child to calm and agreeable young lady mildly off putting? Yes. But, meh. The Cultivator thinks it's kinda cute. He bets she bites. Adorable.

Him and HIS team are here to murder the Demonic Cultivators and purge the Zombies. Wanna come with him? You have a talent for killing things. And, you know, a spiritual root. Mostly the first one. A fine quality! Good for ALL sorts of terrible demonic nasties. I'm assuming your parents are dead?

....wow. You're really bad with kids.

So I've been told! Is that a yes?

Only if oc can either bring her siblings or, should they not have spiritual roots, you help her arrange something equally beneficial. And just like? Rest of his team? Find him calmly debating with this filthy, blood covered child? That he's just? Holding directing out in front of him at eye level by the back of her shirt?

She's just hanging there from his grip. He looks quitely thrilled.

Oh... oh no. Who let him around a child? He traumatizes children! Why IS THAT CHILD COVERED IN BLOOD!? Shixiong what have you DONE!? (Adopted! Presumably! This IS how one obtains children, right?) (NO!!!)

@mayfay @legitimatesatanspawn @babbling-babull @hdgnj @leftnotright @spidori @lolottes

[madamechrissy]

Brooklyn Baby

art in the banner is by @e0308r on X

pairings - dad's best friend! Satoru x F! reader

summary - you've got the opportunity of a lifetime for an audition for Julliard, your dream, but there's just one problem, the hotel in New York has booked your room and has nothing available. Good news, your dad's best friend Satoru Gojo shows up and offers you to stay in his suite since he's in town on business. But there's two big problems - one, you've wanted him since you can remember, and two, he can't stand how fucking pretty you are. He can't want you - and nothing can come from it - imagine what your dad Suguru would do if anything ever happened between you!? So nothing will happen - right?

warnings- MDNI- taboo tropes, age gap (Satoru is 41, reader is 22) reader is Suguru's daughter, forbidden relationships, obsessive Satoru, mutual pining, sexual tension, explicit smut and light angst- this chap - masturbation (Satoru) a fuck ton of tension, reader having a lifelong crush on him, mentions of past relationships, self loathing as they both want each other, drinking and kissing -WC- 8.3k

This will be Four parts! comments/rbs appreciated if you enjoy!

part two>>> (coming soon)

part one

Satoru Gojo has never had his cock twitch from just looking at someone's back, not even your ass - though fuck that was nice - but something about the bare back in the slinky little dress was fucking him mentally. The gentle curve of your spine, a little birth mark along your shoulder blades has him - a man who's in his early forties and very experienced - leaking precum.

The fuck was that?

He clears his mind, blinking a bit then, he's checking into his favorite suite as he does every couple of months for various business events that he has to attend. Running the Gojo corporation is a never ending list of bullshit he's got to do, and events and speeches were just one of the many.

He sighs as he takes in the immaculate bustling lobby, trying to divert his attention from this girl's back and look like some creep when he's literally Satoru Gojo. He brushes his silken white locks back, walking up to the tall counter then with an easy smile, as the three receptionists rush to him, and leave the girl with the pretty spine behind.

"I can wait my turn, no worries ladies." He winks and they all swoon, and when you hear that voice, you know it's him.

"Gojo?" Satoru blinks at the familiar voice, turning to his side to look down at -

Suguru Geto's only daughter.

Fuck.

He swallows just a bit nervous, how does he explain he just leaked pre looking at his best friend's daughter's spine exactly!? About the ways he would have to explain how your instagram photos haunt him at night, and how he can't help but have glimpses of you in your bikini when he cums.

There's a big reason he's avoided Suguru as of late, and that's because he can't handle how beautiful you are - it's like you fucking just do something, and he refuses to accept it or acknowledge it consciously. Now you're smiling up at him, before you come over and hug him tightly around the waist, your breasts pressed against him.

It takes everything not to either shove you off or give in and pick you up and prop you right on this fucking counter. It's some miracle he just pats your back instead - your bare pretty back that he shouldn't touch because it makes it worse.

"Hey sweetheart, what're you doing in town?" He manages to act normal, putting on an easy smile as he sees now your eyes glimmering with tears. "What's wrong?"

"They gave my room away, and I have the audition for Julliard this week! Everything is booked except shit way out of my price range. I don't wanna bug dad about it." He sighs then, remembering Suguru telling him about your opportunity, he'd been so proud every time he watched you play piano.

It's originally why he followed your IG, but whatever happened your junior year of college made you start posting those damn pictures in your bikini or slutty little outfits. He shoves that all back, focusing on your worry, and then eyes one of the receptionists, backing away from you just a bit.

Not like your scent hasn't already filled his senses.

You're important to him, just like Suguru is, and he'll not let his dumb fucking thoughts ruin your opportunities. "Surely there's a room available, I'll pay."

"You can't do that! It's too much." You're a flustered mess, as he flashes that pretty smile of his that makes your tummy clench.

"It's nothing," he pats your head and smiles down at you, and you try to ignore just how fucking good Satoru Gojo looks then. Try to ignore his cologne in your senses, ignore how the man just gets more attractive every fucking year, a little crinkle on the sides of each eye the only lines on his face.

You have been trying to ignore your crush on your dad's best friend for as long as you can remember - fuck they're so close too, and you hoped it was some childhood idolization. But as a twenty two year old woman, it's as bad as fucking day one - worse maybe, when you study the way his hands move as he speaks, long fingers that give you the worst thoughts you wish would go away.

"Nothing at all open but the presidential suite you said?" He asks softly, you're still too close to him, fucking up his senses, as the receptionist frowns, clacking away at her keyboard.

"They just booked the last one online, Mr. Gojo."

"Shit, then..." He eyes you, blue eyes glinting as he takes in your distraught, pretty little face.

He can compose himself, can't he, hasn't he always?

"She'll stay with me, give her a key card," you hug him once more, he's chuckling and pecking a kiss on your head. "You're clingy still, remember you always were."

"Maybe, oh Gojo, thank you! I didn't wanna have to ask dad for money..." You're independent, Satoru loves that about you, Suguru is well to do - not rich like Satoru, but well off. But he's mentioned you never ask for a thing.

"No worries, the room is huge, we won't even be near each other much." He's pressing the button to the elevator soon once you all get checked in, and the silver automatic doors close, leaving you two alone, nothing but the soft sounds of your breaths and stupid elevator music.

And there's just one problem.

Satoru Gojo can't help but picture pressing you against those elevator walls, sinking to his knees and slipping up your slutty black dress, the one where he can so clearly see your breasts rise and fall, a nipple daring to slip out. Can't help but picture fucking you better than surely any of your dumb little college boys could.

He can't think that way.

He hastily tugs off his jacket, laying it over your shoulders as the elevator dings on each floor.

"Thanks, it's a little chilly." You say softly, tugging his jacket close on you, he exhales in a mix of relief and hot desire at how good you look in his armani suit jacket. "You're a life saver, really."

"It's nothing, kid."

"Kid! I'm not a kid." Your pout earns his chuckle, the two of you walk through the halls, decked with cream colored walls and fancy paintings, it's fancier than even you were used to. He presses the card against the hotel door and it opens, and that's when you both realize just how alone you were.

Satoru had been a part of your life for all you can remember, him and your dad would go off on the silliest adventures, and your dad’s other best friend Shoko would watch you at times. You don’t remember your mom that much anymore, she has been gone since you were young, and Satoru and Suguru had always been inseparable, especially since she left.

Satoru had taught you how to swim, Suguru had taught you how to shoot a gun, Satoru taught you how to throw a ball into a hoop, and Suguru taught you how to hit one with a bat. Every time he came to visit during the summers, you’d be so excited, he always had some new gift and an easy smile.

Until you got older.

You remember the first time he brought over one of his girlfriends, she was beautiful, and you’d still been young, hopelessly staring in the mirror at yourself after, wondering if you’d ever be pretty like that. And when he came for your high school graduation with another girl on his arm, when he told you that you looked beautiful and bought you the necklace you still wear today?

You’d been insanely jealous.

You try to explain it away as being eighteen, you were still a baby then, and the crush had been raging. So badly you found yourself comparing every boy you dated to the man Satoru was, and every single one fell hopelessly short. You both get settled, taking in the opulent surroundings, it’s surely big enough he’s right, there’s an entire other room, a kitchen, spacious furniture and beds.

Satoru sets down the luggage, as he eyes you in his suit, and you start taking some of your things out. It’s quiet, the sense of unease filling the two of you as you both busy yourselves, little friendly smiles are the only passages between you as you two live in your own minds.

“You can take a shower first,” he offers softly a bit later, slipping that tie down just a bit to loosen it, and then rolling up his sleeves, revealing those muscled forearms, light blue veins wrapping up them from his wrists. Your mouth goes dry as you look at them, while he slips off his silver rolex, smiling at you a bit. “Do you want me to hog all the hot water instead?”

“Huh? Oh…” you blink a bit, it’s not like you’ve never been with anyone, never seen a man naked, but Satoru’s forearms were taking you the fuck out.

He is effortless with his little movements, he must do this almost every day, freeing himself from the confines of his perfect facade, the buttoned up business man who you’ve never seen in the same suit twice. You’re sure he wears them again, it’s just you haven’t seen him enough to have ever caught it, the only thing you’ve noticed is he wears the same cufflinks.

The ones you saved to buy him when you were in high school, storing up all your extra funds where you worked as a waitress to purchase them for his birthday. You eye them now as you still hold the jacket close, fingers brushing along the bright blue sapphire of one of them. You’d walked by a jeweler in the mall with your friends and thought they matched just one shade of his eyes.

“You still wear these?” You ask softly, his attention goes to your little fingers brushing over the gem carefully, and he nods a bit. “Why? Aren’t they kind of not up to your… standard?”

“They’re my favorite, and they weren’t cheap either,” he walks up then, touching the other one, his nearness fucking your senses. “I remember you buying them, I think it was my thirty-sixth birthday. I was having some existential crisis and they really cheered me up.”

“You, a crisis? No way,” he hums a bit, gently tugging the cuff links out now, one by one, setting them next to his Rolex on a little black glass tray he’d brought along with him, the lights catch them and make them glimmer prismatically. “You were young though, still are.”

“Yeah no, I’ll be forty one in December, yuck.” You laugh with him, shaking your head then.

“That is not ‘yuck’ or old, you and dad are super young. Dad was always like the youngest at any parent event, shit usually the only dad altogether. I remember him going to Moms and Muffins.”

“Yes, you put bows in his hair, he showed me.” You both laugh then, Satoru stands against the dresser, his mind racing then.

He can’t want you like this, and it has to stop, the way he keeps thinking of having you naked and his jacket splayed under you, if you could stop looking at him like that!? Your lips parted, your pretty eyes lidded, making him tortured by the thoughts of fucking you so good they roll back, so good you drool. He’s clenching his hands into fists at the thought, almost twenty years between you.

Maybe if he keeps saying the number, it’ll fucking matter, the fact that he’s never even been with a girl ten years younger, Satoru just wasn’t a man to do that. He enjoyed intellect, experience, someone who got his references and shitty jokes - but the problem was you did check all those boxes. You’ve been kicking his ass at chess since he could remember, you laughed at all his dumb jokes.

You were a brilliant girl with your life ahead of you, you’re right, he’s not ‘old’ but he just is ‘older’ than you. Having already had a divorce and two broken engagements, he also was tired of trying, he’d settled on some regular girls for sex and focused on business fully now. Something a young Satoru who hated his parents and the Gojo name altogether would gasp at.

“You’re not old, you look my age you know.” You break his thoughts up, he chuckles a bit at that, before sucking in a breath, when you walk closer, slipping his jacket off to hand it to him.

“Yeah, genetics and Korean skincare products.” You giggle, as he keeps his eyes affixed on your face, not the strap that’s fallen down the gentle slope of your shoulder, he takes the jacket instead, your fingers brushing against each other for the briefest moment.

“Well, they work, I don’t think you’ve ever changed. I hope I look super hot when I’m your age.”

“You will, you already are beautiful…” He trails off, your eyes meet then, as he realizes what he said, and the tone he said it. He smiles to break the tension. “Thank god you don’t look like your dad.”

“Oh whatever! He’s pretty, you know.”

“Psh, okay.” He rolls his blue eyes, and you both laugh then.

“Thank you, that’s nice of you Satoru.” When you say his first name it’s like testing it, you’ve always called him Gojo, aside from when you made him birthday cards, and you’d write Satoru on them.

“Not being nice, you know you’re a gorgeous girl.” He’s clearing his throat now, looking away as he hangs his jacket up, next to the other suits he’d brought, smoothing it out.

“It’s kinda nice to hear from the Satoru Gojo.”

“Uh huh, flattery will get you everywhere.” He pats your head then, ruffling up your hair, you blow a thick strand off your brow. “You go take a shower.”

“Yeah, thank you again.” You smile and head into the bathroom, finally leaving Satoru to exhale in relief after he glimpses your back again, like pure torture, he’s curious just how the fuck he’ll handle a week alone with you.

Hopefully a room would open up or something by then.

The sounds of hot water pounding on the tiles below fills the room now, mixed with some light singing echoing from the bathroom, he can’t help but smile a bit at how pretty your voice is. If anyone should get into Julliard, it’s surely you, talented and just a natural at everything, the sound fills the room and ignites something in him he’d rather not think of.

Comfy, homey, it’s how you make him feel, and maybe that’s worse than wanting to bend you over the bed, worse than wanting to lift you and slip you against that shower wall. Much, much scarier than the thoughts of filling you up with so much cum your tummy is full of him, watching his fucking cock bulge that tummy as he’d make sure your cunt was ruined for anyone.

No, homey and comfy were worse by far, they were things he absolutely never thought before, even during his marriage - and what a disaster that was. Women all wanted him for his looks, his money, what he could do for them, but no one really knew him deep down, just the facade he’s tired of putting on.

Picturing you naked in the shower is his fucking downfall, picturing your pretty body with water dripping down it, his cock is hard by the mental images, he scowls down at it. He’s just in his slacks now, putting up his dress shirt, luckily this suite always had good hot water and pressure, it’s why it was one of his favorites, and he could surely use a shower.

Jerk off in there to act normal.

He’s like some pathetic teenager around you rather than a grown man, and it irritates him to no end. He hears your singing stop after a bit, as he is typing some notes for tomorrow’s presentation on his laptop, slipping on his glasses to see the screen just a little better, when he sees you from the corner of his eye, wrapped in a soft terry cloth towel.

He almost whimpers at the sight, clenching his teeth together to focus on the screen as you walk out. “Okay I feel a million times better.”

He looks up then, and it’s his downfall, as he has to see the way the towel is tied right at your breasts, pushed up and glistening, skin dewy and flushed from the shower, making him want to kiss every inch. “I bet, the plane ride was a long one.”

“It was, for sure, and then to get a ride to the hotel was hard, I’m not used to a city this big,” you’re adorable with your little pout, your own gaze taking in his bare chest then, like a caress. “I failed my drivers test again by the way.”

“Again? Shit,” he’s snorting in laughter, even as you cross your arms and glare just a bit, you play along with the motions, but your gaze can’t rip itself away from his chiseled body. “Do I gotta teach you?”

“Do you drive anywhere, Gojo?”

“Hush.” You giggle at his own glare, he looks too fucking hot in those glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, his body shifting a bit to face you now.

It’s not like you haven’t seen him shirtless constantly, Satoru had helped you swim after all, and Gojo and your dad were always taking you to the beach. You’d always known how perfect he was, sculpted within an inch of his life, lean defined muscles that begged for your fingertips to brush across them, lines and shadows cast as the bathroom light filters into the now dim room.

You wish you felt bad about how badly you want him, but you only feel bad it can never happen, feel bad he couldn’t have been your first, like you’d dreamed over and over, until you knew it couldn’t happen. It wasn’t like Gojo ever saw you that way, the times you think he looked at you as more than a ‘kid’ you feel it was just your imagination.

You feel this man could fuck, you just feel it.

But no, stuck with losers who couldn’t care less if you cum - in fact, the last guy you fucked asked if you did after not touching you more than a minute and cumming pathetically quick in a condom. You’d smiled and said ‘of course’, making him grin and kiss you all happy, and that’s about the time you just gave up on ever liking sex either, too far in your fucking delusions.

It wasn’t a healthy desire, or okay, but usually with Gojo not seeing you much, and you having moved out of your dad’s, it was better. It was just elusive memories and fantasies that you could lose sight of, you could focus on school and your music, focus on your dream — but part of you wanted him in the front row.

“You’re gonna catch a cold if you don’t dry your hair,” he teases, standing then, you watch how his muscles flex as he moves, with ease, his long legs making strides so close to you now, when he touches your damp strands with a sigh. “Wasn’t there a blow dryer in there?”

“There is, but I needed to grab some clothes first- ah!” Your towel threatens to fall then, you gasp, but Satoru’s got it bunched together in a fist quicker than you can blink, bringing you right against him.

The only sounds in that moment are your breaths, and your heart pounding in your ears, when your eyes lock together, and you see the way they dilate, almost black in that moment. Your own hand comes over his balled fist, when he leans down, and for some insane fucking moment you picture it - a kiss from him, from Satoru Gojo, his glossy lips and how they’d feel.

Something you wrote about in endless diaries, it can never happen, it would never happen, he’s making sure you’re not naked if anything, you have to remember it, have to hold back. You smile nervously then, hoping the shower will explain away the flush of your cheeks in front of him, as you take the towel from his hold, holding it together now.

“Thanks, I’m so sorry…”

“No, it’s fine,” his voice is darker, huskier than you’ve ever heard it, making your thighs press together, still slick from the water, in need. “I’ll go take one now.”

“Yes,” he stomps away quickly, leaving you to catch your breath, looking in the mirror over the dresser at how badly his nearness affected you. Your own eyes are so dilated you can’t see your iris anymore.

Soon, Satoru’s leaning against the tile wall, stroking his cock in the hot shower, his eyes fluttering shut in a mix of self loathing and need. He has had you pop up in his mind the past couple years, when he’s hitting a girl from the back with your hair color, when he’s fucking one in a spoon position, and her tits are about your size, he’s shoved them all away though.

He’s never jerked off to you specifically, but there’s no denying it, he’s jerking his thick, veiny cock to his best friend’s daughter in the other room. He feels filthy, as filthy as the sick thoughts he has, of making sure he fucked you so good you’d never even look at one of your stupid college boys again. Showing you what cumming really is, because he’s sure no one has done it right.

You’d be so pretty full of him, leaking his cum for him to shove it back inside your cunt, fuck he’d stock up on plan bs if he could do it every night, if he could watch it pour from your perfect pussy. He hasn’t even seen it, but he just knows it’s as beautiful as the rest of you is, god even your thighs in that towel had him leaking more pre, so hard it hurts.

His tip, usually a blushing pink, is now a mean red with how badly it’s been stuck in this fucking state, he hisses a bit as he runs his fingers along it. He’s picturing it all, that towel falling at your feet, and him slipping his hands across that dewy skin, sucking on that delicate neck he’d like his hand around. It’s pathetic, really, he is better than this surely, but he can’t not touch it.

He’s jerking it faster, fisting his long, curved cock, when the fucking door opens, and he tenses, glaring into the shower curtain that thankfully covered him. “I forgot my phone in here, sorry Gojo.”

“Ah, no, it’s f-fine…” he’s sick, he’s sure of it, jerking it even while you’re in there, in fact knowing you’re there has him feeling closer to cumming, hoping you don’t notice the sounds of his fist on his cock.

“Is there still hot water?” You tease, swiping a little bit of the condensation left on your phone with a towel, already wearing your little shorts and a crop top.

“Yeah, plenty, you didn’t hog too much.”

“See!”

“You left strands of your hair on the wall though.”

“Shit, it fell out!” He laughs softly, as if he’s not still stroking it, and you sigh a little bit then. “All right, I’ll leave you to it.”

Why do you fucking think of offering to jump right back in there? Why do you hesitate, wondering just how perfect he looks under that spray? You shut the door gently with a click that echoes, resting your back against it and shutting your eyes, sighing.

You’re already so stressed about the Julliard audition, the last thing you need is this pounding in your head, an impossible fantasy.

When you’re snuggled up in the main bed out in the entryway, Satoru comes out with a towel slung on his hips to grab his clothes, you can’t help but eye the white happy trail, the little v cuts on either side of his hips begging for your tongue on them. You tug your blanket up a little bit, avoiding the sight of the tenting in his towel, and how badly you’re curious about it.

“Feel better?” You tease, he smiles and nods a bit, grabbing his boxers then, hesitating as he realizes he didn’t bring shit else to sleep in.

“Much better.” He’s gone back to the bathroom, you’re exhaling and leaned back, head on the plush leather headboard, fingers tapping in the rhythm you’ll practice tomorrow, focusing.

He finds you like that when he’s back out, sitting down on one of the chairs to tap back at his keyboard once more, and your lips are pursed, fingers tapping along the red silk comforters. You’re beautiful like that, lost in your own world, surely composing some masterpiece only you can hear, a beauty that tugs at his chest.

It’d be one thing if you were just hot, but to be truly beautiful seemed one of life's meanest jokes to him.

Your phone rings, your eyes open and you catch sight of him. “Shit, you saw me like that?”

“Don’t worry, it’s fine, ya gonna get that?” You look at your phone on the nightstand, tugging off the covers just to make him hard again.

Do you wear clothes!? Or just scraps?

“It’s dad!” You’re giggling, picking up the phone, legs dangling high off the floor as he tries not to imagine slipping his fingers across them. “Hey dad!”

“Hey sweetie, you didn’t check in with me, how’s my girl?” Your dads voice instantly makes you miss him, you two are as close as you can be, and you wish he could be here, but he’s out of the country stuck right now because of some stupid customs issue with a pet he and his new girlfriend bought.

She was actually cool as fuck, but you don’t know if your dad really will ever get over mom, though you’d love to see him happy.

“Wishing you were here,” you say, hearing him sigh over the phone.

“I know, shit, I think we should be able to fly out in the next couple days but I’ll miss the audition for sure.”

“Ugh! I’m okay though, actually… Satoru is here.”

“Satoru? Shit, put me on speaker,” you bounce up then, making your tits jiggle as you hop down, Satoru almost chokes when you run up and stand right next to him, popping on the speaker. “He’s here!”

“Satoru, what’re you doing there?” Suguru’s voice is friendly, relieved even. Thank god he can’t sense the dumb fucking thoughts in his head.

“I was actually staying here for business, when the hotel booked her room, so I offered her to just stay in the suite with me.”

“He saved me!”

“Psh.” He’s chuckling as you smile, leaning across his table a bit, tank top slipping off your fucking shoulder, as if the straps were mocking him.

He sure couldn’t stare at your tits while he talks to your dad!?

“Thank you, Satoru, I feel so much better that you’re there with her,” he almost laughs at that, because he sure the fuck wouldn’t want himself around, with what’s brewing in his mind. “I worried about her alone in the city.”

“Dad, I'm a big girl now, you know.” You’re pouting too fucking cute, Satoru can’t drag his mind off your plush lips for a moment as Suguru speaks.

“You’re still my little girl, anyway I am glad it worked out. By the time I even get back you’ll be in Julliard!”

“You have too much faith in me,” your voice is quiet now, and Satoru puts his hand over yours, smiling at you, earning your little smile back.

“She’ll kill it.”

“Exactly, see we both believe in you.” You tear up a bit, sniffling now, it’s been months since you saw either of them.

“I miss you so much.”

“Aw, me too baby, I’ll be home soon okay?” You sniffle as Satoru caresses the back of your hand. “Take good care of her for me, Satoru.”

“I will.” You hang up the phone then, the exhaustion of the flight and your self doubt creeping in, Satoru tugs you close then, hugging you gently as you’re between his thighs, and your arms wrap his neck.

“Hey, hey, you’ll do great. He’ll be back soon,” you’re taking several breaths, burying your face against his neck as the tears fall, and his big hand splays the small of your back, so warm and soothing. “It’s okay.”

“I missed you too.” You say it softly, like a secret, making Satoru pause, his hand still gently running up and down your back.

“Missed me, why?” You just shake your head, hugging him tighter, as his blood rushes to places he wishes it fucking wouldn’t. “Miss me teasing you?”

“Maybe I do,” you pull back, and Satoru swipes your tears, streaking down your pretty cheeks. “You haven’t visited in a long time.”

“Yeah, I know…” He can’t admit why, he eyes your tears still falling, your glassy eyes, it’s too intimate then, too close, your lips a breath away. “I guess work got the best of me, and my nasty break up.”

“She was a bitch.” He snorts in laughter then, swiping more tears as you stand there between his long legs, like you belong there. “I didn’t like her.”

“You didn’t, huh? She was pretty bitchy, it took a lot for me to get her out of the house. I think I considered an exterminator.” You both laugh then, before he realizes he’s still cupping your face. “Why didn’t you like her? She played nice pretty well to others.”

“She wasn’t in love with you enough,” he pauses at your observation, tilting his head, the lights catch the lavender hue on his hair that falls over his brow, still a little damp, the scent of shampoo filling your nostrils. “She didn’t look at you enough, notice you enough. So I decided I didn’t like her.”

“I see, you’re pretty observant huh?” You shrug a shoulder, hand on his wrist now, your thumb brushing over the veins that dance along it. “She wasn’t in love with me, more the idea of being a Gojo I suppose.”

“Well I’m glad she’s gone. I haven’t liked any of your girlfriends.” He laughs now, but you’re dead serious.

“None of them? Now that’s silly, some of them weren’t that bad.”

“Hmm, nope they all sucked.” He’s laughing harder, his hands finally falling, but one of them remains in yours, he looks down at it then, at how small your hand is compared to his. “You deserve someone that really loves you.”

“Yeah, well, I think I give up.”

“What now?”

“Yeah, I’m ancient.”

“Shut up!” You shove at him, he’s chuckling more but you’re very serious. “Stop saying that. I won’t be old at forty.”

“No, you won’t be able to drive then either.”

“Excuse me!?” He’s grinning as you smack playfully, until you smile and sniffle a bit. “You’re such a jerk!”

“Thought I deserve all this love, what now?” His hands found their way to your hips, as he leans forward, before he can think about it, and you suck in your breath, your heart hammering as he pulls back, realizing how natural it felt.

“You do, but you also deserve a few smacks.” You stop his hands before they leave your waist, and he stares right at them, before the gaze drifts to your nipples, glaringly apparent in your top. “Satoru…”

“You should get some sleep,” he barely manages to speak, standing then, towering over you. Your head falls back when he brushes a strand back behind your ear, leaning over to press a friendly kiss on your head, the one that you’d die if it slipped lower. “I’ll have a car ready to bring you in the morning, okay?”

“You’re the best, Satoru, thank you.”

You keep saying it - Satoru - like you’re testing it on your tongue, and it’s never ending hell to hear it, but he plasters on a smile, patting your head like he always does and walking into the room off to the side. Thankful for the privacy and distance, he shuts the heavy cream door and rests his head against it.

He can barely handle looking at you, inhaling your scent, feeling your skin against him, but you saying he deserved love fucked him up completely. He swallows that down, grabbing a water out of the little fridge in there, swallowing it in needy gulps, before finally laying in the bed, forcing himself to fall asleep.

*****

“Good morning, sweets,” Satoru’s bright and cheery as he comes inside the room with two bags full of donuts, muffins and treats, along with two cups of coffee in a carrier. He’s already fully dressed in his suit, looking like a million bucks, so pretty with his smile as bright light filters in the floor to ceiling windows. “You need to eat.”

“Oh, thank you so much.” You yawn and stand, stretching just a bit, when he sees your tit is precariously close to falling out. He flushes and averts his eyes, when you bounce over to him. “You’re so sweet!”

“It’s nothing, all included. You need something in your system so you don’t get shaky,” his thoughtfulness chokes you up for a moment, you just stare at him with a muffin hovering in your hand. “Want a different flavor? I can go grab more.”

“No, no it’s… you remember me getting shaky?”

“Yeah, you were shaking insane at that pool party last year because you were silly and didn’t eat, knowing we were out in the sun all day.” He taps your nose, as you giggle and peel the wrapper. “Bad girl.”

Jesus fuck, does he not know what that does!?

You stare at him, he’s smirking just a bit like maybe he does fucking know, but then he gets to sipping on his sweet coffee, sighing as it hits his tastebuds. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“I remember a lot of shit I guess,” he shrugs a broad shoulder, taking a donut and starting to devour the sweets, you can’t help but smile as you nibble on your muffin, and he’s sucking on his thumb to lap up icing. “What is it, brat?”

“Brat!? Hey now,” he’s licking his other finger, your body responds almost violently at the sight, picturing the most obscene fucking things. Like him licking you off him instead. You hastily look away, blushing, god is that all you do around this man now? “No, just how you keep that body perfect and eat more than Goku.”

“No one eats more than Goku,” you giggle again at that, as he laughs softly, now tearing into a chocolate chip muffin. “Genetics and working out I guess.”

“You have won the gene pool, this will go to my hips.”

“Nice hips,” he trails off then, clearing his throat, and your tummy clenches as his eyes dart across your body. “I mean to say… you can eat a muffin, you look great, okay?”

“Thank you, Satoru.” You smile and do just that, taking another bite, as the tension in the suite grows with every fucking breath, until you can’t breathe, not with how he looked at you just now.

It has to be your fantasy brain again, he was probably being nice, he’s always been supportive and sweet, someone you could come to. It’s you who is the problem, who can’t stop thinking of fucking your dad’s best friend, something he would never forgive either of you for. Something that will never happen.

You have a huge opportunity, you have to focus.

“Tell me you brought something like… not as… revealing for this? Or do I need to buy you an outfit?” You laugh a bit then, and his thin brows lower. “I’m serious.”

“Are you saying I dress slutty!?”

“What!? No… just very revealing.”

“Maybe you are old.”

“What now!?” You’re biting your lip to stop laughing as he stands up, and you find your back pressed against the table, his arms on either side of you. “Do I look old to you?”

“No, you’re the one that says it silly! You’re old fashioned.” You shove at his chest and he smirks a bit.

“I am not old fashioned, but you do have something professional, yes? I don’t mind taking you shopping.”

The visions flash then, shopping with Satoru, on his fucking arm, god it’s too much, you look down a bit nervously, at his neck, the tie just a bit askew. You fix it carefully, watching his adam’s apple bob up and down. “I have something professional, I’ll put it on and show you.”

He eases back and you come out a few minutes later, a pretty white dress shirt and a cute little bow tie, along with a black little skirt and suspenders, you look fucking adorable. He can’t help but melt a bit as he sees you do a little twirl, black tights and pretty black heels finishing it off.

“Now that’s perfect, you look…” Beautiful, fucking beautiful. “You look like you’re going to nail this.”

“Yay! Thank you!” You kiss his cheek and smile against it, on your tiptoes, a hand over his jacket, burning his skin. “I’m so nervous.”

“Don’t be, you’re going to do amazing. Are you ready to get going? I have to leave a little early for this meeting and the traffic is terrible here.”

“I’m ready!”

Satoru’s in the back with you on his phone, talking to this person and then that person, negotiating a multi million dollar deal while you’re tapping your fingers, an ear bud in with the three songs on rotation that you’ll be performing. You keep tapping them, shutting your eyes, lips murmuring the notes silently. You don’t realize your thigh is shaking until his huge hand covers it.

“You’re a nervous wreck,” his fingers press gently right above your knee, you’re taking several breaths, eyes locking with his as the car stalls through the heavy traffic, slowing to a crawl. “How much are you gonna jiggle it?”

“A lot,” he’s rolling his eyes now, hand falling off, and you instantly miss its warmth, its presence. “I’m gonna fail it.”

“Don’t go in with that attitude, stop that.” He frowns at you, eyes hiding behind those dark shades, just a hint of blue shimmering as they slip down his straight nose a bit. “You’ll do great.”

“Right…”

You wish Satoru was right.

You’re so nervous, so stuck on your insane desires and thoughts, that you keep missing keys you would never. You’re such a fucking mess, every time you hit a sharp key the sickness sinks in deeper, until you’re fucking it all up. You try to save face, the judges are shocked considering all the references on your lists, all the videos that have gone viral of you.

You can’t perform for shit today, and you’re shaking and sobbing by the end of it, heart sinking as you realize what has happened. Instead of waiting for Satoru, you’re walking blocks until you find the nearest bar, and drinking until you’re a mess, all while you picture the disappointment.

All your life living for this dream, for what. What was any of it for?

A few guys are hitting on you as you sit alone at the bar, you let them buy you drinks, but you don’t speak to them, hardly notice as one of them whispers something in your ear and hands you his info, as another touches your back. You barely remember texting Satoru where you are later on, when he was heading to get you from his meeting.

He’s furious when he does walk into the bar, it’s filled with college people probably partying for the summer, he walks through hoards of them when he sees you, two men on either side of you as you down a shot. You’re not smiling or enjoying yourself, he feels the upset from across the bar, your shoulders slumped when one of them dares to touch your back.

He loses any control he’s had, losing it all for the frustration you’ve just put him through, an enigmatic - ‘i’m getting drunk’ and nothing the fuck else at five pm. He’s stomping right over, clearing his throat and getting the two men’s attention, both trying to shoot their shot at a girl who shouldn’t give them the time of fucking day.

He says your name, and you turn to him, skin flushed and eyes glassy, clearly drunk as fuck. He just hopes you had the good sense to only take drinks from the bartender rather than these creeps, as he snatches you right off the barstool, and you almost lose your balance.

“Who’s this, baby?” One asks, Satoru narrows his eyes at the fuck boy.

“It’s Satoru,” you’re hiccuping then, swaying even though you’re not even moving, about to fall if he doesn’t catch you. “Satoru Gojo.”

“Come have another, we can hit a party,” the other says, and you just bury your face against Satoru’s chest, as he carefully holds you.

“She’s going home.” Satoru’s words ring through your drunk ass brain, he lays a tip for you on the table, snatching up your bag and wrapping an arm around your waist, leading you out into the cool night air.

You’re sobbing when he gets to the sidewalk, concerning him to no fucking end, the sun is setting as he guides you gently into the back of the sleek black car, isntantly grabbing a bottle of water from the cooler installed. He twists it open and tilts your chin up gently.

“Drink some water, yeah?” You shake your head, and he scowls. “I said drink some fucking water.”

“Okay, dad.”

“I’m not your fucking dad,” his voice is clipped and harsh then, your eyes try to focus on his angry, handsome face, he swirls just a bit as you let him put the water to your lips. “Drink.”

You do as he says, swallowing greedily then, body craving anything other than the endless shots you’ve just fed it - nothing but a muffin this morning in your body to soak it up. He sighs as he eyes you, unreadable in his gaze, slipping a thumb over your chin as a little bit falls along your chin, before snapping the cap back on.

“Celebrating like this is dangerous, you could have been taken advantage of by those douche bags.”

“Celebrating!” You’re laughing then, until you’re crying, a whole fucking mess as he watches you, swallowing the tightness in his throat. Celebrating, what a joke that was, he looks at you in concern, brows lowering now, the sky is dimming outside, darkening the seat as you try to breathe, try to focus.

“Will you just tell me what’s wrong, what’s going on?” He asks quietly, you sigh then, looking at him, as he gently cups your face.

“I fucking failed, Satoru.”

“What now!?”

“I fucked up, I ruined it.” You’re sobbing again, he holds you against him, as your hands ball his jacket into your fists, tears soaking the expensive material, he exhales and shakes his head. “I did, I did all of this to just fuck it up, dad’s gonna be so d-dissapointed… and you are…”

“Fuck this, I’ll go demand a redo.”

“You can’t!” You pull back and look up at him, the alcohol warming your body, spreading as he’s right near you. “Satoru they will never.”

“The fuck they won’t, you’ve never seen me negotiate shit, have you?” He raises a brow, you swipe at your tears, lip trembling.

“You can’t just fix it for me.”

“I can give you another chance, okay? I’ll meet with them tomorrow, you’ll find I can be very convincing, yeah?” You sigh then, nodding as he brushes back some of your hair. “You’re a mess, ya know?”

“I know.” He frowns contemplatively, as you lean closer, he can taste the liquor on your breath, as your eyes dart to his lips, and the tension coils in your tummy. “You think you can really talk to them?”

“Of course I can, but you better be ready this time. I’ll come watch you, would that help?” You nod then, so quickly it makes you just a little dizzy. “All right then, just let me work my magic.”

You love him.

Fuck you almost say it, the alcohol threatening to loosen your tongue, but you swallow instead, a hand on his chest, and his own eyes lower, snowy lashes casting shadows over those baby blues, the proximity making you both heat up in that moment. He pulls back just a bit, realizing how precarious the moment is, he needs to comfort you, not fucking kiss you, or worse.

Especially drunk off your ass.

“You need more water-” You’ve pressed your lips on his before he can finish his sentence, too far gone to hold back, to stop the motion, pulling back just a bit to look up at him.

He says nothing, eyes wide, and you would apologize if you cared enough to, if you felt bad enough about it, but in that moment it’s all you want, to kiss him, even if it’s only once. You lean back a bit, you want to form the apology you don’t mean on your lips, form it into words, as it’s so silent in the back of that car, all you can hear is your blood rushing in your ears.

“Sorry,” he scoffs then, eyes narrowing, hand slipping into the nape of your neck, tugging your hair just enough to make your head fall back.

“You’re not sorry, are you?” You smile, you can’t help it, you’re too drunk to lie to him.

“Kind of sorry,” he tightens his hand, tugging at the delicate strands of hair, you’re whining out, the sound fucking him completely. “Satoru…”

“You’re forgetting this, okay?” You nod then, understanding him, when he slams his lips on yours, the release so fucking good he can’t stand it, drinking in your cries as your arms wrap his neck.

He’s lost then, letting himself have one moment, where he devours your mouth with his practiced tongue, where his other hand slips up your thigh, up your hip, to your ribcage, brushing right under your breasts. You’re clinging to him, closer and closer, until you’re straddling him, even as he shoves at your hips, you roll them, whining out when you feel him.

“Fuck, you’re a brat…” he’s huffing, biting back a moan as he feels your heat, soaking wet even against your tights, pressing you down for just a moment to torture himself, kissing you deeper, hungrier. It’s messy and desperate, you’re kissing him sloppy, saliva dripping, as you roll your hips against him.

“Please…” He wants to give you it, fuck he wants you to have all of him, but he yanks you off him, holding you up by your hips, kissing you one more time.

“No more, you’re drunk and… this is a terrible fucking idea.” He sits you right next to him, you’re dizzy and breathless. “Forget that happened.”

“Right, sure Satoru.” You glare at him, he glares right back, leaning over and hating himself, he wanted to rip your fucking tights at the crotch, slip his fingers inside your wet cunt, stretch you out on him.

Shit that can never, ever happen.

“You’re upset and drunk, and I’m fucking stupid.”

“You’re not-”

“Drink.” He orders, and you do just that, he’s back to being caring and distant, as you ache for him, more and more as the water sobers you up just a bit.

He’s helping you up into bed later, he puts your hair up off your neck carefully in a pony tail, he makes you eat food that he orders. The alcohol has lost its effects mostly as you lay in bed, and he’s typing over on his laptop, the glasses looking unfairly handsome on his face as you study him.

“Will you really help me get another chance?” You ask softly, his eyes catch you across the room.

“Of course I will, but it’ll be up to you to show them what you can do, show them how good you are. Okay?” You nod then, snuggling against the pillow, eyes drifting shut, neither of you mention the kiss, neither of you breathe a word even close to insinuating it happened.

“Thank you, Satoru. Good night.” You murmur, he sighs, nodding then.

“Good night.” His clicking of the keys drifts you off to sleep, the vivid images behind your eyes of him overtaking your mind, wondering if it was all some fucking drunk fever dream.

But it wasn’t.

When later he closes the laptop and brushes your hair back, studying you for a moment, he tries to make a promise to himself - that it will never happen again, he’ll never let his control slip like that. Even if all he can think of now is slipping into bed next to you and holding you against him, he shoves it all down, going back to his room, and staring at the ceiling.

What had he been thinking?

He can’t feel this way.

He shuts his eyes, failing to sleep as he knows you’re in the next room, while you dream the filthiest things about your dad’s best friend.

Kofi link if you wanna buy me a glass of wine 🍷

tags- @valentinegab3 @vinnababy @sakisworld @satorupied @lolliibunny @coralbae @lnette04 @delightfulstay @zephyairies @flowerymenendez @yomama2089 @chocoyanchan @hargun-s @ic-slxt @lovelytwixx @lily-bisque @sirencholia @etosh0e @yesdere @luciferlikesducks @frankoceanfan9911 @sukunaslilsocks @dientesdefresa @maah-sama @amesenseii @lem-hhn @keiiate @ttrinity @monster-effer @coffinboy666 @neliislost @thequeenofcurses @inzanekillian @gojoswaterbottle @melotter @buckturd @artbligh @msniks @shibataimu @macchianikato @neohoestechnology @levislug @trsh-kitty @satsattoru @erisfayred @gh0stgirl333 @silverfangmarks @smashlyn89 @hwngez

[pedgito]

𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒 | Harry Castillo x reader

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summary | Five years of being his assistant and five years of failed attempts at finding love with your help, but maybe the obvious answer has been there the entire time. Alternatively, you fucked your boss? Uh-oh.

author's note | harry...randy...who knows. i'll change it if needed but given the name tag, this is what i'm sticking with for now. skip the lecture about not writing until the movie is out, this isn't hurting anyone so don't bother me about it, xo. the horny demons always win. i listened to this song i repeat while i wrote, felt fitting.

content warning | 18+ MDNI, power imbalance (boss/assistant), work wife/work husband type beat, mentions of failed dating, being superficial, mentions of sugar daddy things, expensive gifts, reader is a godly assistant with a will stronger than mine, he smokes, they drink, sex while inebriated, he's down so bad, also oral!, tense morning after, open-ended

word count — 4.5k

You knew him better than anyone.

From his breakfast order down to his specific choice of underwear, like you weren’t making the weekly purchases and filling up his rarely used fridge in the apartment that was way out your price range, arranging his schedule down to the minute, booking his flights, packing his bag.

Really, Harry should just marry you.

…it was more of a joke, but you’ve teased him about it once or twice.

He called you his work wife anyways, but in reality, you were just his assistant.

He did trust you with his life, though.

More importantly, his love life.

“Kim flaked,” he tells you over coffee, perched at his kitchen island as you typed away on your laptop, looking up briefly with eyes that begged for him to explain, he does and makes a show about, mimicking a more feminine voice as he relays the message she gave him, “same song and dance—you’re great and fun but I can’t do anything serious right now,”

“Were you nice?” you ask curiously.

Harry rolls his eyes at that, like it was a stupid question to ask. But, eventually he nods.

“Did you ask questions?” you continue, fingers folding over the screen of your laptop to close it.

“Plenty, she works in finance, loves the color blue, wants to travel,” he could go on and on, throwing his hands up in defeat before they slump to his side, “maybe I should try out a real matchmaker—not that you’re bad at it—”

“You think I’m bad at it,” you smile knowingly, “don’t you?”

“No,” you’re unconvinced, “besides—you’re my assistant, I never meant for that type of responsibility to fall on you, you know?”

“I’m doing both of us a favor,” you remind him, “I think…it just takes time.”

And fortunately, all you had was time.

It felt pointless for Harry to spend a chunk of cash to have someone pair him up with the supposed love of his life, though you knew that money wasn’t a problem, you felt a weird responsibility to protect him, unsure how quickly someone would take advantage of his kindness.

“There’s a gala,” you tell him offhandedly, “next week. I already cleared your schedule for it. I think…maybe you should just peruse this time.”

“Peruse?” he chuckles, eyes creasing in amusement, his crow’s feet deepening with the emotion, “You’re a control freak, you sure about that?”

“That’s just mean,” you retort, “you’re paying me anyways—if you didn’t like it you’d fire me.”

He knew you were right, sipping quietly at his coffee in response.

He was frustrating, predictable, and painfully superficial. 

Every date was an exercise in appearances—perfectly tailored suits, dinner at the most exclusive places, charm turned up to eleven. And yet, none of it ever stuck. He was overcompensating and you weren’t sure why.

He was a good guy, down to his core, and in the five years you had worked with him there was never a moment you thought he didn’t deserve love, he was perfect. Too perfect.

That was the problem.

“You know, you’re like prime age to be a sugar daddy,” you tease him, knowing how he felt about the topic, “there’s plenty of apps that I can—”

“You’re relentless,” he grumbles, “if you ever did that, I’m firing you on the spot.”

“You wouldn’t,” it was a gentle challenge, smirk flashing across your face as he returned it with fondness, “without me you would crash and burn, Mr. Castillo.”

And he knows it.

–

The gala is a bust.

So, as a bandaid to his wounded ego, you order takeout and keep him company in his big, lavish apartment—it wasn’t the first time, it wouldn’t be the last.

You knew what the issue was, but there was a sinking feeling in your stomach that told you he wouldn’t receive the information well.

It was after every failed date, every expensive dinner.

They saw him at the surface, the charming man with an easy, warm smile.

You saw the man who kicked his shoes off and stripped himself of his suit jacket the second he walked through the door, who couldn’t resist a late-night binge of his newest streaming obsession, someone who insisted on stirring his coffee counterclockwise because it made it taste better, a man would text you pictures of squirrels in the park that he would feed on his way home.

It wasn’t that you were pining over him. You just knew him better than anyone.

“Why are you so dead set on marriage?” you ask him over dinner, turned toward him on the couch as he reaches for the remote to pause the show on screen.

He’s had this conversation before, but he’s never asked you any questions on the matter.

“What’s your opinion on it?” he’s avoiding, clearly, but you’ll bite.

“I don’t date, I’m not interested, signing a piece of paper isn’t going to signify my feelings toward someone if it came down to that,” you admit, “I’m not cynical, marriage is fine, but this stuff takes time,”

“Well, I’m not getting any younger,” Harry gripes, arms reaching over the back of the couch as he mirrors your position.

“Oh, please,” you scoff, “you’re forty-nine.”

“Almost fifty,” he corrects, “I’m ancient.”

“O-kay,” you sigh, “do you want honesty?”

“I’d hope you were being honest with me all the time.”

“No,” you laugh softly, “like…brutal fucking honesty?”

He’s silent, but attentive. 

“You keep choosing women who treat you like they’re next getaway vacation and you fall for it every time,” his forehead creases at the words, looking hurt by your words, “I see your bank payments every month, the activity—”

“It’s not like money is an issue,” he defends, causing you to sigh dramatically and fall back against the arm of the couch in faux distress.

“This is impossible,” you groan, staring up at the ceiling before you feel his hand circle around your wrist, tugging gently,

“Okay, I’m listening,” Harry says softly, pulling you upright, “I’m sorry—I am.”

“You want it to work so bad,” you tell him, “I see it—every time you approach someone you put on that smile and it works, but you’re giving so much and yeah, maybe some of them like that, but I’m sure a few would just enjoy a nice dinner here, or something simple. I think you forget to realize that someone can just be interested in you, for you, not for what you are or have,”

It’s profound, the way his face softens at your words, his touch still lingering around your wrist.

You’ve never even considered or entertained the idea that you might find Harry attractive or even attainable—for one, you had signed a contract that agreed to a professional work relationship, as a benefit for both of you, not that he ever had any intention to begin with.

You’ve been with him for so long, it feels, a fresh and young mind to help keep him active and busy, constantly refreshing ideas and helping him not feel like he was stuck, and you were damn good at taking care of him when he’s often tended to neglect himself.

The only thing you know is that he’s never looked at you like that.

Like you could see straight through him, all his flaws on display.

But, that was because you knew all of them.

You knew everything about him, even the worse bits.

His bad habits, his self-inflicting ones, everything that he refused to bring to the surface.

Harry’s fingers still lingered around your wrist, the weight of your words sinking in. 

But then, just like he always did, he broke the tension with a huff of laughter and frowns as he brushed you off.

“You just think I’m a sucker, don’t you?”

You shook your head with a faint smile, returning your arm to your lap.

“No—I think you like to see the good in people. So much good that you’re willing to ignore red flags.”

“Jeez,” he chuckled, clutching his stomach like you had physically wounded him, “that hurt.”

You shrugged and reached for the remote to resume the picture on screen, “You’ll survive.”

–

It was your day off—Sunday, the one day.

“Have you seen my cufflinks laying around?” he asked over the video call, “Shit—my tie, too. I can’t find it anywhere. I thought you said you laid it out for me.”

“No, I said I had it hung up and for you to lay it out before you showered,” you correct him, laying tiredly on your couch as you watched him search around frantically, hair damp and his bare shoulders on display, only catching the briefest glimpses of the towel around his waist as he turned the camera around, “Waitwait—go back!”

“There’s no fucking way you saw it,” Harry argues, “I’ve been looking for the last ten minutes—”

“In the pocket of your suit, the tie is there,” you tell him, “and given that you probably tossed the suit on the bed like you always do, the cufflinks are probably somewhere hiding under the blanket,”

He tosses you against the mattress, your screen succumbing to darkness as you wait, some shifting of the sheets before you hear him make a sound before he appears again, cufflinks pinched between his fingers and a look of defeat on his face.

“What would you do without me?” you ask with a cocky grin, finger hovering over the end call button as he shakes his head.

“What was this for again?” Harry asks curiously, laying you down upright as you caught a glimpse of his bare chest as he shrugged the crisp, white button down over his shoulders.

“It’s a charity auction, your favorite,” you chirp, “and you’re flying solo, so—don’t do anything stupid or…crass,”

“If I paid you double a day of work would you go?” Harry asks after a long pause, glancing down at the screen, “Triple?”

“Triple?!” you gawk, “see—you’re insane, this is what I’m talking about,”

He chuckles despite your response, “You’re good at keeping the sharks away,”

There were particular hawking businessmen who made it their mission to hunt Harry down at events and keep him occupied, eager to do business, whatever it may be—you were the unspoken master of redirection, as much as he refused to admit it.

“Can we grab dinner on the way?” 

“Burgers?” Harry asks, perking up slightly.

It was a constant go-to for you and him.

You nod through the screen, “Don’t even bother with the tie either, I’ll do it.”

–

“I can’t believe you roped me into this on my day off,” you whisper at his side, earning a half-smirk from him.

The charity auction was as lavish as you’d expected.

Crystal chandeliers, gold accents, and far too much champagne and hors d'oeuvres. 

Harry’s hand found the small of your back the moment you arrived, steering you through a sea of designer gowns and tuxedos, feeling uncomfortable in the tight dress and stilettos that you only wore on rare occasions, biting at your heels.

“You’ll survive,” he grins, grabbing you both a glass of champagne and pressing it into your waiting fingers, “I’m gonna…peruse, alright?”

“Don’t say it—that just makes you sound like a creep,” your face scrunches up in disgust as you sip at the alcohol, “just go—go, I’ll…handle everything else.”

The evening passed in a blur of small talk and polite smiles, but somewhere between the endless speeches and bidding wars, you found yourself on the balcony, the cool night air a welcome relief in the stuffy ballroom.

You smell him before you see him, the thick and rich scent of his cologne so familiar you swear you could find him on that alone, turning over your shoulder to see him closing the door quietly, cigarette pack tucked in his palm as he approached with a neutral expression.

“You okay?” you ask, leaning against the railing of the balcony.

Harry sighed, rubbing the back of his neck and then plucking a single cigarette from the box, “Honestly? I’m just tired of it.”

“The auctions? Charity?” you inquire, a small smile tugging at your face.

“All of it.” He looked at you, his gaze lingering as he lit the tobacco, “The events, the dates, searching for—I don’t even fucking know at this point,”

“The offer stands…” you say jokingly, though he knows exactly where this is heading.

“If I wanted a sugar baby I’d find one.”

Your eyes roam over his figure as he puffs at the cigarette, pulling a deep laugh from his chest before you’re pushing him away playfully.

“Let’s go,” he tells you with a deep sigh, stubbing out the end of the cigarette and tucking it away for later, tossing his arm over your shoulder as he readied to guide you through the crowd, always protective in spaces like this, another thing that was special to him.

–

The ride home is quiet, like it always is, both of you sitting in the backseat with the partition up, watching as he looked through his phone with a scowl, occasional typing and sending a message.

Eventually, he looks at you.

“Thank you,” He says with a soft tone, “I know this isn’t your favorite thing to do.”

You tilted your head into the headrest and smiled, crossing one thigh over the other as you worked at your heels to remove them, “Oh, it wasn’t that bad—the free alcohol is always a plus.”

He chuckled at that, silently helping you remove your shoes with a soft squeeze to your foot.

That was normal—but, it forces you to pause.

His natural instinct to help, to touch, to comfort you.

Your brow furrows at the gesture before you shake it away, blaming it on the buzz of alcohol in your system, watching as he continues the gesture with the other foot.

“Having you there makes it bearable, is all,” he explains, looking up at you briefly as he undid the tie around your ankle, “you…calm me, I guess.”

You swallowed. Hard.

The warmth of his words lingering in your chest, in his touch against your ankle, “You’d do the same for me.”

And he would—if you ever needed anything, anything, Harry was there.

“Yeah,” he agreed quietly, “without question.”

The sincerity caught you off guard. 

You turned to study him, the familiar slope of his nose, the line of his jaw. There was something about the way he looked tonight—tired, maybe, but softer. 

And he keeps looking at you, checking.

The car moved smoothly through the dimly lit streets, the city blurring past in streaks of gold and blues and reds. The hum of the engine was steady, the faint sound of music barely audible from the front, through the glass, the back lit up dimly by the trim of lights on the roof and door.

Harry leaned back, one hand moved against the seat, his other hand dragging slowly over his thigh—restless. 

Instinctually, without thinking, you reached for his hand.

It wasn’t purposeful. Just a simple act of absentmindedness.

You’ve done it a hundred times before. 

Tugged at his sleeves to fix his cufflinks, brushed lint from his lapel or pants, adjusted the collar of his shirts. Constantly fixed his hair, touching him wasn’t new.

His skin was warm. Not hot, not cold.

You felt the slight twitch of his hand, like he was debating whether to move. Instead, his fingers shifted, just a fraction, enough that the edge of his thumbnail brushed over the inside of your wrist.

The contact was thoughtless, nothing.

But, in the same moment, it felt like everything.

The way his eyes watched the movement, roamed your body like they had before but with a different implication, his eyes half-lidded and relaxed, wondering how much alcohol he had consumed himself—this wasn’t friendly.

And it definitely wasn’t professional.

Harry’s gaze was on you now, your face, as you couldn’t tear your eyes away from his hand.

Then his thumb moved. 

Up. 

Barely. 

A soft drag along your pulse.

It was half a decade of avoidance, defeat in his heart and mind, and fear in your own.

Broken, by the car rolling to a stop outside of Harry’s apartment building.

“We’re here, Mr. Castillo,” the voice of the driver came from the front, a nod of acknowledgement as his hand slipped from yours.

“Oh, hold on,” you were scooting aside to let him out, readied for the next stop as he cocks his head toward the building, “I’ve got something for you—I’ll drive you home, don’t worry,”

“Harry,” you stress, looking down at his hand that waves you toward him, extending out for you to grab, insistently as his fingers wiggle in wait.

Turns out, he wasn’t totally lying.

That something was accompanied by a seven thousand dollar bottle of Leroz Aux Brulees—you knew that because you had purchased it during his trip to France, the supposed city of love.

“I’m going to murder you,” you tell him as he places the bottle on the counter and keeps the closed case of mystery at his side, “hide your body, flee country—I hate surprises, you know that.”

“I think you’ll like this one,” he grins, popping the cork on the bottle and pouring two hefty glasses, eyeing the deep red as it glugged into the glass.

“You know, if you wanted company you could have just asked,” you tell him, “I get it, you’re lonely,”

He knows you’re only teasing but it stings nonetheless, both of you taking a long and heavy sip as his fingers swirl over the velvet casing before he’s pushing it over quickly, tapping it with his fingers, “Open it,” he encourages, eyeing you over the rim.

You place your glass down and pry it open slowly, carefully, like you were deconstructing a bomb, but as the piece inside comes into view you find yourself at a loss for words or thoughts.

Your eyes are wide, staring up at him with parted lips that tingled from the lingering alcohol, knowing you should have cut yourself off at one glass of champagne and refused to come inside, that you should have just went home and enjoyed what little bit of the day you had left to yourself.

Now, you were looking back at a necklace so delicate you were afraid to stare at it too long, embedded with a cluster of diamonds and nearly two years of your rent if you were doing the math correctly in your mind.

Always about the numbers, Harry constantly teased.

“I saw how you looked at it the other day,” he admits, “and I owe you a hell of a lot more, but it…I’m trying to say thank you for…being you,”

“I’m not taking that,” you refuse with a laugh of disbelief, sliding back over to him gently, downing the rest of your wine in one go to forget how fast your heart was beating in your chest.

“You are,” Harry insists, “consider it a bonus—Christmas is in a couple months, too.”

“You know…this is exactly that kind of stuff a sugar da—”

Harry makes a noise, shaking his head.

You bite your lip in thought, ignoring his subtle annoyance at your comment.

It was fucking beautiful, really.

You sigh, using one finger to turn the case back toward you, examining it closely.

Quietly, Harry presses his glass into the counter and rounds the edge toward you, his chest at your shoulder as he reaches for the jewelry, working carefully at the clasp before he’s motioning for you to relax your shoulders.

It wasn’t the stillness of the moment, but his touch, again.

He’s methodical in the way he touches you, dragging his hand around your neck as he fits the necklace into place, his fingertips pressing against the column of your throat in a way that tickles slightly, shifting uncomfortably until you hear the faint click and he breathes behind you, hands resting at your shoulders.

You’re not sure why he hasn’t moved, but you find yourself turning to speak.

“I’m just going to call an uber,” you tell him, “probably shouldn’t drive since we’ve both been drinking,”

“Yeah,” he agrees, but it sounds hollow, his eyes not following you as you move.

You hop from the chair and bend down to grab your shoes, but his hand is curling around your bicep and pulling you up and he’s staring again, the charge of his touch sending a jolt through your body as freeze,

“Come here,” he beckons, too natural.

And you listen.

He’s soft, every part of him. Skin, clothes, hair, lips.

He’s kissing you gently, like you might break, but you can tell he wants more.

Needs more.

“Are you going to regret this tomorrow?” you find yourself asking as he parts from you, licking at his lips as you both take a breath, letting the moment settle.

He shakes his head, “Are you?”

“Maybe,” you answer honestly, “maybe…not—fuck, I don’t know,”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” he promises, but you knew that was a lie.

Still, you nod in understanding.

–

He’s so tender with his touch, slipping you out of the dress in the dim light of his room.

Even softer as he guides you to your back and spreads himself on his belly between your legs, fingers interlocked with his at your hips as he buries his nose between your folds, his tongue splitting your cunt open in a sharp gasp that has you throwing your head back. His lips traced a slow, deliberate path down your body, igniting sparks along every inch of your skin. 

He kissed along the curve of your thighs, teasing, tasting, until the tension was unbearable and with each flick of his tongue, each gentle suck, it pulled you deeper into a haze of heady desire. 

This was reckless, dangerous, but neither of you found the moment to pause and think.

You wonder if things had been building to this for a while—if it was always supposed to happen this way or if he was acting off of greed; lust and companionship, even if just for a night.

You know you can ask him to stop at any point and he would, but even as his tongue brings you to your first orgasm of the night and he’s guiding you to your stomach, reaching blindly into his bedside table for a foil wrapping the crinkles loudly in the silence, you want this.

It was embarrassing how badly you wanted this.

He fucks you slow, too. 

It was torturous, his chest flat against your back as he palms his cock and feeds it into you.

You don’t talk, neither does he.

But, his low moans and stuttering breaths speak for him.

If you could see him, you’d know how furrowed his brow would be, a hand sliding over the curve of your ass until he can reach your thigh, beckoning for you to raise it without speaking.

You oblige, the angle of his thrusts changing on a dime.

“I can’t believe you’re real sometimes,” he admits like he’s confessing a sin.

“Please,” you plead—please stop talking, please keep going, please fuck me.

You couldn’t decide.

You feel him nod where his forehead is pressed between your shoulder blades as his fist curls into the sheet beside your head.

“Another, gimme another,” he pleads, the fingers on his other hand curling under your neck to life your chin, not expecting to meet his eyes as he leans over you.

The expression on his face so raw it makes you flutter around him, his lips parting in a deep, guttural groan, “I know you can,” he nods hurriedly.

And damn, does the praise work.

Your whimper breaks him, breathing out shakily as you locked eyes when he comes, slow and forceful thrusts until you’re nothing but an exhausted pile of tangled limbs.

“Greedy girl,” he comments through the haze, a weak giggle bubbling from your chest.

He pulls out slowly, a low grunt as he does so.

You’re not sure when you fall asleep, but you wake to a startling amount of weight over your stomach, an arm splayed possessively, the faint outline of a ring as you drag your hand over the limb.

It’s only as your eyes pry open that reality hits you, stumbling out of bed quickly.

No…nononono, where the fuck were your clothes? Jesus.

You stumble around half awake, searching for the silk dress on the floor, feeling accomplished when you find it and hastily redressing yourself as Harry stirs in bed, encouraging you to hurry, to slip out before he can say anything.

Your shoes are already on and you’re reaching for the doorknob when the voice comes, the weight of the necklace that still remained on your neck, two empty glasses of wine on the counter, a night of hasty choices and urgency laid out like a crime scene as his voice rings out from behind you, pleading.

“Don’t—don’t go,” Harry begs, “You don’t have to go,”

So much of this was wrong—it complicated everything.

Your life, your job, your relationship with him.

He can see you slipping, fingers inching toward the knob as he approaches you in a hurry, barefoot and shirtless, the kind of scene you shouldn’t be comforted with, like this was all normal to the both of you.

You’ve seen him like this a thousand times, but not when he’s looking at you so vulnerable, heart tore open and stapled to his chest, beating against your own as his hands splayed out over your cheeks.

“I don’t regret it,” he assures you again, “so please—stay, okay?”

“What changed?” you ask, voice trembling, “Five years, Harry. Five.”

“I’ve been running in circles this entire time,” he admits, “you know it—I know it.”

You had been there the entire time, learning every part of him without judgement, cataloging his flaws and skills, learning how he ticked and what motivated him. You had never quite settled on the ideal person to fit in his life as his partner, it surely wasn’t you.

It couldn’t be you.

“Please, don’t go,” Harry echoed once more.

The sick, cruel joke of it all was that this was your job. 

You had nowhere to go. If it was any other morning, you would just be arriving, leaving his breakfast in the kitchen and starting your day.

You nod solemnly, “Of course, Mr. Castillo.”

It was painstaking, forcing the mask back on.

But, you couldn’t deal with this now.

Or ever, even.

Harry looks at you with a confused sadness, thumbs rubbing at your cheekbones before his hands fall to his side.

You’d figure this out, you always did.

[hearthandhallows]

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “No, I think that makes perfect sense.” When the other asked him why he felt that way, Jinhwan looked down, shrugging. He wasn’t quite ready to get into that. “I’m not sure I’m able to put it into words. I will think about it, though.” It would be easier to explain in Korean–and he knew that Winter could understand, but still. “Oh, it’s alright. I think it would be hard to stay peaceful at all times. I know that I certainly couldn’t, but…” he shrugged again, the fabric of the suit crinkling. 

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Jinhwan blinked in surprise at the hug but didn’t pull away. He let himself lean into it, careful not to squash any lingering bees. The contact was brief, but grounding–like something solid and good in a world that often felt full of edges. When Winter pulled back, Jinhwan smiled, his eyes shining with something soft and full of gratitude. 

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Thank you,” he said, voice quiet but full of meaning. “For listening. For the stillness. For sharing all this with me.” He gestured vaguely to the space around them–the hives, the trees, the sunlight filtering through the leaves like it had always meant to land on them both. He hesitated a beat before adding, “And I’d love a jar of honey, if it’s really okay.”

As he listened to Jinhwan, Winter felt an ache deep in his chest; this wasn't something he had realized he could empathize with until the other put it into words. "I think I understand what you mean," Winter replied quietly. "I can be surrounded by people and feel completely alone. It's like...something sets me apart. It's not really anyone's fault, but it's like those differences keep us separate." Sighing, Winter looked up at the clouds, saying, "That probably doesn't make any sense. But I think I understand." Wasn't that how Winter always felt? He had friends, people he cared for a lot and cared for him as well in turn. But Winter wasn't like them. Because of his memory issues, he felt like he lived in a whole different world sometimes, something no one could ever really understand without experiencing the same thing. "Do you know why you feel that way?" Winter asked. Maybe he - like Winter himself - knew what the source of his otherness was.

"I like that when you bring the flowers, you'll be bringing plants instead of a bouquet," Winter said. "That way they can continue to grow and flourish." Around him the bees buzzed a bit louder, and Winter smiled, adding, "The bees like it too." He sat up as he continued talking with Jinhwan, scoffing slightly at the other man's words. "I'm not always this peaceful, trust me," he countered. "Sometimes my head feels so full of chaos, so much so that it gives me a headache, makes me feel dizzy. But it's easier out here. I really did mean it when I said you could come here if you ever needed some tranquility. I don't know what it is about being out here with the bees..." Winter trailed off, trying to articulate the way it felt, but he thought Jinhwan understood.

They couldn't stay out here forever though. Winter nodded, saying, "Okay Jinhwan," and he stood as well. The bees hovered around him briefly before returning to their hives, as if they knew Winter would be heading back inside. Before he did that though, he hugged Jinhwan, the brim of the beekeeper's hood bumping into his forehead before he repositioned slightly. "Thanks for coming," Winter said, smiling when he pulled back. "I had a nice time. Can I give you a jar of honey to take with you? I've got so much in my pantry."

[phantom-dc]

Bruce sighed.

He never thought he would die like this. When he started out as Batman he was certain he would meet his end fighting the criminal underworld of Gotham. When he got older and life got stranger, he believed he would die fighting off a threat like Joker or Deathstroke, maybe even Darkseid. Being used as a human sacrifice to the King of the Infinite Realms was not on that list, let alone being a willing sacrifice.

Unfortunately, it had been necessary. An asteroid was on collision course with Earth. The asteroid had a colony of sapient alien life on it, so destroying it was not an option. As the League grew desperate, Constantine revealed a similar incident had happened a few years ago. The King of the Infinite Realms had, along with his subjects, turned the Earth intangible and both the Earth and the Asteroid had survived. Constantine isn’t sure why or how, but there are signs an extremely powerful ghost had merged realities and in the process erased the memories of this event from the entire population of Earth! The only reason Constantine knows about it is because a Demon with time-based powers told him during one of their poker games. Summoning this King was risky, as they had no idea what the King would want in return, but this entity seemed like their best bet. Now Bruce thinks they had been wrong.

Superman pulled Bruce out of his thoughts:

“Bruce, are you sure you want to go through with this? If we work together, we might be able to-”

Bruce cut him off:

“No, Clark. You heard Constantine. If we do not hold up our end of the deal, the Ghost King could simply make his ally, this “Clockwork”, reverse time to before the planet was saved. The Earth and the asteroid will still be destroyed, killing everyone on both. This is the only way.”

Clark looked dejected. He knew his friend was right. The King had turned the entire Earth intangible with one hand! He knew the League couldn’t defeat this foe, not without help. Any being that could help them would demand even more bloodshed in exchange, though. One human life in exchange of saving the entire planet had been a steal, according to the Justice League Dark. Clark looked at Bruce:

“Are you going to put on your cowl? This will be the only chance you have to tell the other Leaguers who you are.”

Bruce looked at his cowl. He had taken of his suit, so that his family had something to bury. But to reveal his identity to anyone other than Clark....

“I will keep it on. Even if I die here, I cannot risk anyone finding out my identity and using it to get to my family. I hope the League understands.”

Bruce is pulled into a hug. As Clark holds him as close as he can without breaking bones Bruce cannot help being filled with regret. He wanted more time with his family and, dare he say, friends. This was not how things were supposed to go. Clark pulls away and seems to want to say something:

“Bruce, I just want you to know, I-”

“WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON, B?”

Suddenly Nightwing enters the room, along with the entire Bat-family. Even Alfred and Oracle, donning masks, are there. They looked confused and scared, which made sense. They had all been summoned to the Watchtower, and when they had seen non-field members there as well they knew something was very wrong. Robin stepped forward, demanding an explanation:

“Father, what is happening? Why did you ask for us here? Explain yourself this instant!”

Red Robin looked ready to fight, staff in hand and in a low stance:

Where is the danger? Who is the enemy? Do you have intel for us? ARE YOU BEING MIND CONTROLLED?

Spoiler yanked at Red Robin’s cowl, pulling him out of his paranoid spiral:

“Easy, Captain Paranoid! Let him speak!”

Red Hood was clearly agitated. It was never a good sign if he was asked to the Watchtower:

“The fuck is going on, old man? Are you dying or something? That’s my stick, not yours!”

Bruce steeled his nerves. This was not going to be an easy conversation. How does one tell their family they are going to die and there is nothing to be done about it? Things had been going well for them, too. Dick and he hadn’t fought as often anymore, Jason had not called him names when he patrolled Crime ally last week, Tim hadn’t done anything that could be considered villainous (that he knew of) and Damian had not stabbed any goons for a month. Truly things had been good. Bruce knew this would mess it all up. He feared Jason would start killing again, or Damian would take out his grief on the criminals or Tim would… Well he had no idea. Last time Bruce disappeared Tim blew up so many LoA bases (he still wasn’t sure whether there had been people inside or not), so it was anyone’s gue-

“Sir, could you please elaborate on why we are here? I’m assuming it has something to do with the reason for this dreadful cold, and perhaps your lack of a shirt?”

Bruce sighed. Alfred always knew how to get through to him. With a heavy heart he told them everything. He would sacrifice himself for the survival of both planets. There was nothing to be done about that, and he asked them to please accept his decision. Naturally everyone was outraged. Amidst the chaos, Orphan asked a question:

“Why you?”

Bruce explained that, according to Constantine, the King had asked for a single sacrifice in return: “To feast on a non-magic, non-meta mortal human that will not resist being consumed.” It had pointed specifically at Batman, making sure they all knew which one it wanted. There had been no time to negotiate the prize, so he had accepted. After that it had left immediately for Earth, turning it intangible so the asteroid flew through harmlessly and fulfilling its end of the deal. Orphan seemed to think for a bit, before speaking up again:

“We’ll miss you.”

She hugged Batman. The others, realizing there was nothing they could do, at least not before facing the King, joined in as well. Bruce told them how proud he was of everyone. That they were strong and brilliant, and to please protect each other and Gotham in his stead. He thanked Alfred and Oracle for their help over the years and to please continue to support the others with the same strength they used to help him. After a moment they were interrupted by a knock on the door.

Wonder Woman had entered the room. With a saddened expression, and a dented doorhandle that showed her tension, she had come to collect her friend.:

“Batman. It’s time.”

Bruce nodded at her. Thanking her, he tried to leave with her, but was stopped by Alfred. After a quick hug, Alfed offered Bruce a cookie from the plate he had brought along:

“Every man deserves a final meal. I’m sorry this was all I have to offer.”

Taking a grateful bite, Bruce allowed himself to indulge in the taste of home.

“Thank you, Alfred. This means more to me then you realize.”

Steeling himself once more, Batman and the others followed Wonder Woman to the main room. It was the largest room in the Watchtower, several stories high with observation platforms, security screens showing cities all over the planet and a teleportation platform. As they approached the room, Batman was surprised by the cold that radiated form the entrance. Opening the door the source of all the cold and grief became visible to the group. Signal had to shield his eyes:

“What the hell!?!”

There it was, the High Ghost King of the Infinite Realms. A giant being, which had been so large they had to move to the observation platform to speak with it. Even then it towered over the heroes. It’s skin impossibly dark, with constellations spotting its tail & torso. The stars converging on its lower arms, making it look like it was wearing glowing white gloves, the same as a strange symbol on his chest that seemed important. The stars on its neck blending seamlessly with its hair, yet leaving its head completely dark aside from a few little spots on its face. The only facial feature they could make out where 2 Lazarus green eyes, focused on the new arrivals. On its hand, a ring with a skull on it that had freaked out the Lanterns. On its head a dark crown covered in patches of frost, and its own Aurora Borealis spreading from it. The room had already been partially covered in frost simply from the King’s aura. Power emanated from it, which had caused several members that had been dead and revived before to kneel on reflex, which was frightening even if they managed to get up on their own again.

Martian Manhunter had tried to peek in the Kings mind, hoping to find a way to convince the King to spare Batman, but he had been unsuccessful. As soon as he tried his knees buckled, and he had been pushed out. Ever since the Ghost King had radiated frustration. Now, as Batman entered wearing only his cowl and some spare pants, that frustration seemed to spike dangerously. Was the King upset he had been left to wait for his offer?

"What the fuck is this? I didn’t ask for a striptease, especially from some old Frootloop!”

“Constantine, what’s wrong? What is it saying?”

Batman was worried. He had not expected more anger from the being when presented with the offering. Looking at Constantine, he saw the magician frantically looking through the pages of his books, desperately looking for a translation.

“Hang on, mate. I’m doing my best here! Ehrm… no, that’s not right… Something about mating? Maybe he likes you, Bats. He also said something about “the absence of clothing” so…

Suddenly he is cut off by a strange sound coming from the Ghost King. It makes a strange motion with its body and its giant maw opens, as more of those sounds escape. It reminds Robin of Alfred the Cat when he has a hairball. However, there is more sound in the Watchtower now. The Red Hood is clutching his stomach as he is doubling down in laughter.

“HAHAHAHA!!! WHAT? HOW THE FUCK DID YOU TRANSLATE THAT BADLY? HOLY SHIT!”

The Ghost King stops making the noises, and it’s eyes snap to Red Hood. It moves it’s head closer to him, casually passing it through the barrier Constantine had put up. Constantine’s swears in surprise, but the King seems not to care as it “speaks” to Red Hood:

"Oh, thank the Acients! Someone who understands Ghost Speak! Can you PLEASE help me and translate for us? This trench coat guy is terrible, and somehow twists everything I say in the worst way!"

Red Hood relaxed, looking up at the Ghost King’s giant head.:

“Sure man, no problem. I’m pretty sure he is using like 3 different dictionaries to get this far. I saw him first translate Ghost to Pixie, Pixie to Gnome and Gnome to Demon before telling us in English! So, what’s up?”

Batman was stunned. The Ghost King actually face palmed. What the heck was going on?

"Of course he is. That explains why it sounds like he is putting this through Google Translate 4 times! These guys summoned me to save the Earth, which, totally cool. Happy to help! But a summons makes it official, which means I need to get an offering. I can’t leave without it or I face a mountain of paperwork from some stupid bureaucratic eyeballs for not following proper procedure. But I can always ask something simple and get it over with. No biggie, right? WRONG.”

Red Hood actually grabs a chair to sit on. Not even in a somewhat respectful way, he is sitting on it backwards, casually leaning on it.

“Oh, boy. How badly did they fuck up? Gotta be big since Batman over there is ready to be eaten?”

The King glares at Constantine, who puts up his bravest “time to out-bollock a Eldritch Demon” face. The King is not impressed:

"Man, I asked, and I quote: “I’d like to eat a regular human meal that doesn’t fight back, like that guy would eat!” I wanted it to be clear I didn’t want blood, or corpses or virgins or any of the other horrible things stupid cults try to give me! I just wanted a burger or something! But then Mr. triple dictionary over there somehow turns that into: ‘’I wish to feast on a non-magic, non-meta mortal human that will not resist being consumed, and it must be that one.” I’ll admit I was pointing at one of the non-supers, but that didn’t mean I wanted to eat him! I just wanted to make sure it was normal food, something that doesn’t fight back!”

Red Hood looked confused, asking if the King’s food usually fights back. The King rolls it’s eyes:

"In life, I lived with mad scientist parents who treated lab safety as a suggestion at best and a chore for teens at worst. Put enough samples in the fridge and you get a whole new type of Thanksgiving trauma. Dang, I’m getting even more hungry. I’d love some turkey right now. Could you get them to bring me some food? That way I can have my sacrifice and leave…”

Red Hood stands up. He asks if the King can wait a few more minutes, claiming that after all that frustration he deserved something better. Getting a nod from the Ghost King, the Red Hood suddenly shouted over the platform railing towards the waiting Leaguers:

“FLASH! Get your squad up here, and bring pen & paper! I got a job for y’all!”

Zooming up every member of the Flash family gets a list of things to get and a warning not to tell the Bats what’s on it, or Red Hood will shoot them in the knees. Looking at the lists, they quickly caught on what was going on and promised they wouldn’t tell. This was way too funny! Red Hood does a fake bow to the King, clearly amusing himself.

“Don’t worry, your Hungry-ness! Your sacrifice is being prepared! Anything else we can assist you with?”

The Ghost King seems to tilt its head in amusement. Whatever Hood was doing, it was working, which honestly was the only reason nobody had tackled him to the floor.

"Actually, if you could get that Frootloop to put on a shirt that would be great. He is shivering and honestly, I’m worried he’s going to poke someone’s eye out with a nipple. Why is he shirtless anyway? Please tell me he wasn’t actually trying to seduce me or something, he’s old enough to be my dad! Gross!”

This caused Red Hood to again double over in laughter. Everyone was confused, what could possibly be so funny in this situation? Constantine had frantically tried translating during their conversation, but it had gone too fast for him. He gave up when the King mentioned eyeballs and seduction, accepting he wouldn’t get anywhere like this. Batman however couldn’t resist his need to know everything anymore.

“Hood, report! How are you communicating with the entity?”

Red Hood turns to Batman, walks past him and towards Alfred, grabbing one of the cookies he had brought with him. As he walks back and hands it to the Ghost King, he starts to explain:

“Honestly, not sure. It feels instinctive, like a second mother-tongue. Pretty sure it’s some sort of “dead-guy-language” you learn when you die. Speaking off: Turns out Constantine is a VERY unreliable translator. Spooky here is actually pretty chill! He used you as an example to make sure we knew what he wanted, not to demand you as a sacrifice. He is in fact pretty ticked that you guys tried to feed B to him. Speaking of: Batman? Put a shirt on, for fucks sake. You look like you’re going to freeze your tits off.”

This earned a round of giggles from Green Lantern & Green Arrow. Now that the tension had left the room, other Leaguers also smiled in relief. Besides, it’s always fun to see Batman being the butt of a joke. Sure enough, Batman let out a frustrated sound, that got the rest of the Bats to join in on the fun. They understood that their dad in fact felt rather silly right now, which meant that they had more to gossip about soon. Constantine now was wondering what Hood was up to:

“Mate, I did my best! Sorry for not being fluent in every language in existence. What the hell did you send the Flash to get? The bloke is a scientist and denies magic when it’s right in front of ‘im! What could they possibly get that I couldn’t-”

At that moment, the Flashes zoom out of the Zeta tubes and zoom across the observation deck. After a few moments of red and yellow blurs, the deck is covered with tables filled front to back with food! Picking up a receipt that fell to the floor, Batman realizes this is take-out from all over the world. Seeing a puddle of Lazarus water grow on the floor, he looks up. The Ghost King is actually drooling! Red Hood steps aside and gestures to the feast:

“Welp! There is your sacrifice! One. And I also quote: “regular human meal that doesn’t fight back, like “that guy” would eat!” Well, more of a feast then a meal, but I’m sure a big guy like you can finish it, and you can always take home the rest I guess. Bon Appetit!”

Opening his giant maw, the Ghost King digs in. Well, as much as he can. He actually looks kind of silly eating everything with a tiny fork. Still, judging from the purring sound emanating through the Watchtower it’s to the Kings liking.

"DUDE, THIS IS SO GOOD? I need to know these restaurants! You want a bite for helping me out? You saved me SOOO much annoying paperwork, I was about to bail!”

Picking up a plate of karaage, Red Hood took of his helmet revealing a second mask underneath and dug in as well:

“Don’t mind if I do, this smells fantastic! Oh shit, you should try this stuff, it’s great!”

Red Hood being allowed to partake in the offering so casually caused Constantine to do a double take. He realizes he seriously misjudged this entity. Still, that didn’t explain the horrific stories about him. He would need to do some digging into that, maybe with Hood as a translator. For now he takes a swig of his drink. The world was saved, no one died or lost their Soul and he didn’t make any new enemies he thinks. Plus, Batman felt like an idiot, and that always made the Brit smile.

All in all a good day!

[thebubblesareevil]

Danny plays superman

Danny is in metropolis for school and Superman is off planet or in another dimension with the justice league

Danny is sleep deprived and studying for exams so when some super villain asshole interrupts his daily routine he puts them down swiftly only to flee the scene thinking he’ll be found out.

Instead, as he gets to his dorm ready to flee the city one of his dorm mates stops him to show him a funny post about superman stopping a giant robot on laundry day.

What he sees is a blurry, indistinct photo of him destroying the robot.

Danny decided he can work with this.

He was tired of villains fucking around with his day just because superman was out of town for a bit and gets one of the ghosts to help him make a perfect replica of the suit.

He’s bulked up over the years and learned to control his transformation so now all he has to do is transform everything but his hair and eyes and just refuse interviews for a bit

Easy peasy!….until he meets his, we’ll Superman’s, clone.

Superboy confronts the counterfeit kryptonian about him slacking on his duties only to immediately realize this isn’t Superman.

This dudes chill though so Conner decides to just go with it

He doesn’t mind being Danny’s second clone

Lex is confounded by Superman’s sudden immunity to kryptonite

When Superman gets back no one says shit. Why would they? It’s been a completely normal month in metropolis. Though with less property damage.

Conner already explained things to Lois so she doesn’t say anything. She wants to see how long they can keep it up.

2 years pass before clark finds out.

The rest of the league figured it out at various points during the first year

Clark will never live this down

[ccupcakqs]

— don’t start it, but i’ll finish it ౨ৎ✧˚

warnings: one punch thrown, mentions of someone insulting oscar, light arguing pairing: oscar piastri x impulsive female reader a/n: “she’s a menace but she’s my menace” energy, request!

you don’t even hear all of it at first. it’s late, you’re in the hospitality tent grabbing a bottle of water after the race, your head still buzzing with nerves and adrenaline. oscar’s doing press somewhere a few paddocks over, and you were planning to find him as soon as the media cleared out.

but then you hear his name.

and the way they say it makes your stomach twist.

“piastri’s such a damn robot, man. no balls. never makes a move unless someone tells him to.”

the second guy laughs. “he's the world’s most well-behaved number two. they should just paint ‘doormat’ on the back of his suit.”

a third voice—more smug than the rest—leans in. “he’s got the personality of an instruction manual. perfect for mclaren, right? all smiles, zero fight.”

you stop walking.

your water bottle crunches slightly in your hand.

then comes the worst one.

“you think his girlfriend’s with him for the fame? can’t be for the personality.”

there’s laughter. loud, careless, ugly.

you don’t even remember moving.

just your voice—sharp, clear, cutting through their little circle like a blade.

“what the fuck did you just say?”

they all turn.

you don’t flinch.

you step right into their space, eyes locked on the last one who spoke.

“say it again,” you snap. “say it to my face.”

he hesitates, hands raised like he’s trying to play it off.

“hey, relax. it was a joke.”

“not funny,” you say. “try again.”

“look, we were just talking. he’s not even here.”

“doesn’t matter,” you say, teeth gritted. “you don’t get to talk about him like that. not when you wouldn’t last five minutes doing what he does. you sit behind a screen and run your mouth like it’s brave. it’s not. it’s pathetic.”

the guy scoffs. “what, you’re gonna hit me now?”

you don’t answer.

you just let your fist connect with his face.

clean. sharp. direct.

the sound is sickeningly satisfying. his nose cracks and he stumbles back, swearing as blood spills down over his lip. one of his friends catches him. the others back off fast, eyes wide.

you toss the half-empty water bottle on the ground.

“think next time before you talk shit about people better than you.”

and then security shows up.

fifteen minutes later, oscar finds you sitting on the edge of a low wall near the paddock entrance, a small bag of ice in your lap even though your hand’s fine. you’re quiet now. a little flushed. slightly sheepish.

he stops in front of you, arms crossed.

you look up at him and wince. “hi.”

he stares at you.

you smile.

“they said horrible things,” you explain. “i couldn’t just let it go.”

he blinks. “so you punched a guy.”

“i was defending your honor.”

“you broke his nose.”

“he called you a doormat and insulted me.”

he sighs, rubbing a hand down his face, trying very hard not to smile. “you can’t just hit people.”

“you can, actually,” you say. “there are consequences, but the action is entirely possible.”

he laughs under his breath and crouches down in front of you. “you’re insane.”

“i know.”

“and what if he hit you back?”

“then i’d have hit him again.”

he grabs your wrist gently, inspecting your knuckles like he’s still half in disbelief. they’re a little red, but not swollen.

“you’re lucky you didn’t hurt yourself.”

you grin. “i train.”

“you box like once a week.”

“still counts.”

he shakes his head, but there’s a strange expression creeping onto his face—equal parts exasperated and… something else.

“you shouldn���t be doing that,” he says, soft now. “not for me.”

you lean in. “why not? i love you. you matter to me. i don’t care if they were just being loud and stupid. they don’t get to treat you like you’re nothing.”

he swallows.

his fingers flex slightly on your wrist.

“oscar?” you ask, brows lifting. “you good?”

he clears his throat, very pointedly not looking at your mouth. “yeah. just—yeah.”

you tilt your head. “are you—are you turned on right now?”

his ears go pink immediately. “no.”

“oscar.”

“okay. maybe a little.”

you burst out laughing.

he groans and buries his face in your shoulder. “don’t make it weird.”

“me? you’re the one with a weird protector kink.”

“i do not have a kink—”

“babe.”

“fine. i have a slight appreciation for how hot you looked when you went full unhinged.”

you hum. “you should’ve seen their faces. i didn’t even swear at first. i just stood there like i was about to ruin everything.”

“you did ruin everything.”

“i did it for you.”

he kisses you then—hard and a little breathless—like he’s trying to make up for how flustered he is by just giving in.

when he pulls back, he tucks your hair behind your ear and mutters, “next time, just threaten them. no punches unless absolutely necessary.”

you grin. “so violence is on the table?”

he sighs.

“you’re lucky i’m in love with you.”

© ccupcakqs. all work written by me. DO NOT PLAGIARISE!

[tacitusauxilium]

The moment those words left his mouth, Fuuka quickly stopped bouncing and stared wide-eyed at Yusuke. Her cheeks were maroon, close to matching the color of the bathing suit she was wearing and too stunned to speak. He couldn’t be flirting with her. Not HER of all people.

And then she carefully shot a quick glance to his crotch, making sure there wasn’t anything down there trying to pop out, and then she brought her eyes up quickly. She couldn’t look. Even though Fuuka could be flirtatious and cute, the idea of going past those acts were beyond her comfort zone.

A hand shot up to her forehead, trying to cover some of her forehead and eye, and had to look away from Yusuke. “I-I mean, it’s a good habit right? We all don’t stay the same height!” She laughed sheepishly, trying to keep her cool. Fuuka could hear him leaving the comfort of the dressing room and she stared at him. And for some reason, Fuuka reached out to Yusuke and grabbed his jacket gently to stop him.

Her lips parted as she felt her heart pounding in her ears. Fuuka couldn’t figure out why she reached for Yusuke.

He’s just a friend. He saved me from Shido’s people. And yet… I shouldn’t…

Fuuka gulped. She had to explain why she reached out for him. But nothing came to her as fast as Yusuke was going to leave. “…you… won’t be long?” She murmured, chickening out on what she was going to ask him.

Well, he wasn't wrong about the confidence part. The confidence in her was starting to appear in high school but it slowly began to hide itself once she graduated and was a bit alone in the real world. Thinking about the death of Minato, realizing that death could come after any of them just made Fuuka keep to herself and not wanting to show her confidence anymore. She always thought what was the point and then she met Yusuke and pushed those thoughts aside.

She blushed and felt his hands on her shoulders and let him rotate her slowly. "I-I could have done that, Yusuke." Fuuka pointed out, feeling his eyes on her and unsure if they were hungry eyes or observing eyes. This was a weird feeling while wearing a bathing suit like this. "I want to make sure I don't feel like I'm getting a wedgie, Yusuke." Fuuka grabbed the top of the bathing suit covering her butt and held them out and released the sides to hit her hips.

"Wait. I need to make sure my breasts stay inside the top. Wouldn't want a wave or a delinquent trying to pull my top down." She giggled, winking at him, as she, on purpose, bounced in front of him and closed her eyes. Fuuka knew if two can play this game, she was going to get her money's worth. She opened her eyes and tilted her head. "Huh--for how skimpy it is, it's actually holding my breasts in really well. I maybe actually buy this..."

[makeitworse]

IN MY RESTLESS DREAMS

you’re reminiscent of her— too much for him to just let you go.

contains: dark themes. f!reader x inho. pregnancy (reader replaces junhee). age gap (reader 20, inho late 40s). obsession. freudian bc it’s by me. taboo relationship. light smut. 18+

the instant his eyes fell to your stomach, in-ho’s vision blared with red.

such a young girl— you appeared barely more than just a child yourself. even beneath the baggy tracksuit there was a visible bump of your belly. that tiny sign of life, it changes everything.

who the fuck let you in?

thoughts sunk talons into his brain— jagged and furious. his fingers twitched at his sides, tempted to grab the closest guard’s radio and have you pulled from the island.

if in-ho had of known, he would’ve had the recruiter’s head mounted on his office wall. that sadistic fuck— approaching a young expecting mother.

it defiled the principles behind the games.

in-ho glanced at the fellow men of the team hovering over you— the two marines: gi-hun’s friend and his ponytailed lackey. they were here to pay off debts caused by their own stupid, selfish choices. that wasn’t you. it couldn’t be.

his chest tightens, a fragmented memory of his late wife wafting through his mind. how she was determined to go through the surgery knowing she was pregnant. just as you were here, putting you and your baby’s life on the line, aware of the risks.

it left a rotten taste on his tongue. you weren’t trash— not like the other players. you were just a young (albeit naive) girl who presumably joined the games to support her child.

it was admirable, taking up the promise for money from a dodgy man in a suit for the good of your baby. he respected your courage— but he can’t feel anything other than dread for this next game. how were you meant to fair in the pentathlon with such a hindrance?

in-ho watched you talk amongst the team. they were curious, prying about the details of why you were here in such a state.

you remained nonchalant. you’re speaking about your pregnancy like it barely inconvenienced you— you just happen to be more hungry and less nimble than the other players.

you reminded him of his wife’s spirit. hell, even your features and your demeanour distantly resembled her. you could be her twin.

“you’re very brave, coming here.” in-ho’s voice cut through the others.

you give him a small smile, which he returns thoughtlessly.

the announcement of time up rings out through the room, and each team of five is directed to sit in rows.

player 388 was practically hanging off of you. there was a feeling simmering under in-ho’s skin— jealousy wasn’t quite the name for it. he just knew you should be talking to him in place of the boy. you hadn’t smiled at him like you did for in-ho.

of course, 388 made a (pathetic) attempt to sit next to you. in-ho lightly pushed him with his hand, stepping in front.

“you don’t mind if i sit here, do you?”

388 looked like a deer in headlights. in-ho had tried to keep his voice even, but there was a palpable shift in his energy. something dark. something unlike the player 001 they’ve come to know.

wordlessly, he steps aside with a meek nod. in-ho steals the spot next to you as all the players sit and listen to the instructions.

as the games are being explained, in in-ho’s peripheral he catches 388 craning his head to stare at you past him. as if in-ho’s not even there.

he claimed the seat next to you for a reason. in-ho glances at 388 with a still, yet intense, gaze— though he can’t contain how his lip twitches.

388 crumbles under the weight of in-ho’s stare, quietly leaning back in his spot.

that’s what i thought.

the first teams are called to the tracks. as their ankles are being shackled, in-ho turns to you, leaning in closer than he should. he angles his back to shield you from 388’s prying eyes.

“what was your name?” he keeps his voice low.

your brow quirks as you reveal your name. you pronounce it like it’s a question.

in-ho chuckles at that, trying out the sound of your name on his tongue. despite yourself, you smile with him.

“aren’t you a little young to talk to strange men in the subway?”

“old enough, since i’m talking to another one.” his expression, the faux warmth, drops ever so slightly. you just snicker at his reaction. “i’m twenty.”

in-ho exhales, recollecting himself. a pregnant twenty year old, condemned to this island and these games under his watch. he curses under his breath.

“what?”

“ah, it’s just..” his gaze falls to your stomach again. instinctively, you place a comforting hand over it.

“i can take care of myself.” you assert.

he nods, his mouth curving into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “i have no doubt.”

the crack of a gunshot to signal the game beginning makes both of your heads turn— as does in-ho’s stomach.

you’ll have to participate in this state. you’re carrying your baby with you.

rumination swirls in in-ho’s mind as he stares at you, watching the players in the pentathlon.

since taking up the mantle of frontman, in-ho had locked his grief in a box and kept them out of reach on the top shelf of his brain. and now here you were, embodying the soul of his late wife— knocking the box off the shelf and spilling its contents all over the floor.

you’ve got that same stubborn glint in your eyes, that same curve of your belly with life blooming inside. it wasn’t a mere coincidence that you approached in-ho and his group. and perhaps neither was the recruiter inviting you to the games.

this was fate. a second chance. in-ho would save what he couldn’t back then. you’d be the wife and child he’d succeed in protecting.

he’ll make sure of it.

“how far along are you?” in-ho murmurs.

you turn your attention to him, away from the game. the time was almost up for the players. he didn’t want you to witness the incoming bloodshed.

“seven months soon.” you whisper back.

in-ho reaches for you, and when you don’t budge, he rubs your arm reassuringly. you trade smiles. to you it’s an act of warmth. but in embracing in-ho’s touch, you’ve just let him mark you as his. you’ll come to understand that.

he needs to make certain of it. so, though he shouldn’t pry, he asks: “and the father?”

your smile fades. you shake your head, and your eyes falter to the ground, searching for comfort away from his. in-ho squeezes your shoulder— and he notices the slightest flinch from you.

“it’s okay.” you meet his gaze again, and he musters the kindest smile he can manage. he can’t recall the last time it could come to him naturally. “you’ve got me now.”

at that, your eyes light up. a glimmer of hope.

staring back into his, he can’t imagine there’d be little more than void for you to find.

you jolt at the sound of rapid gunfire. time had run out for the contestants. as if on instinct, you’re curling into in-ho’s chest, and he’s leaning forward to catch you in an embrace.

you shudder against him as he holds you through the noise of the slaughter. in-ho places a hand on your scalp, shushing you as he gently strokes your hair.

he dismisses the heads turning in your direction, particularly of the pony-tailed boy sitting next to him.

let it be known that you’re his. of course, you just hadn’t been told yet. but you’ll learn.

you weren’t scum. you weren’t a leech with bottomless greed. not like the others, those that the games were designed to cull. you didn’t belong here.

but now, you belonged to him. you were redemption. and he would redeem his shortcomings of his past with you— by any means necessary.

and this time around, he wouldn’t simply love you. he wouldn’t just hope for the best. hope is what got people killed.

no, he’d own it. control it. lock it down so tight no one can take it from him. you.

you push yourself from him, keeping your gaze from meeting his. he caught how your eyes were glossy.

“we’ll get you out of here.” he says, and he means it. “i’ll make sure of it.”

and he can. you may hate him for what he’ll have to do to keep his word. but you’ll be safe.

in-ho offers his open palm to you. and, like a silent agreement to his promise, you take it.

you will live. your baby will live.

our baby.

your team scraped by with a win. no thanks to in-ho, who’d been intentionally flunking his turn at spinning top.

he would’ve watched the others be shot dead with a grin, particularly 388— who he could’ve sworn was fucking holding your hand during the pentathlon.

you didn’t need his help. you didn’t need anyone that wasn’t in-ho.

after the game’s conclusion, the players sat around in groups, conversing while waiting for the next vote.

your team learned each other’s names. you softly repeated his once he stated it: young-il. it’s sweet, and it’ll be even sweeter when he hears his real name from your lips.

you go to stand, excusing yourself to the bathroom. before 388 (or dae-ho, as he’s learned) can get a word out, in-ho’s already offering to walk you there.

“thank you,” you mumble, in-ho at your side as you cross the room of bunks. the other players stares weighed heavy. “the bathroom guard makes me so uncomfortable. sometimes i’d rather have just wet the bed.”

in-ho chuckles from his chest. “really? well, i could tell him off.”

you scoff. you laugh it off together— as if he’s not serious.

he’d order them to put their gun to their head and pull the trigger if that’s what you so wished. anything for the mother of his kid.

in-ho waited in the corridor for you, giving you a reassuring smile as you disappeared into the ladies bathroom. he turned his gaze to the guard, hardening his face.

the guard returned an almost imperceptible nod. the message was clear.

in-ho’s head tilts at the sound of an approaching voice. as they get closer around wall, he recognises it as player 124: the one he ruffed up in front of everyone, alongside that purple-haired loudmouth.

“haven’t you seen how she walks? that old bastard must be having fun with her—”

in-ho’s stare was cold as they encountered him, stopping in their tracks.

player 124 exposes himself by stumbling over his words, grabbing at his dyed-haired friend’s sleeve for support.

in-ho moves to come off leaning the wall, and then 124 cracks.

“i’m sorry, sir. it was just a joke.” he takes a measly step back. “i’m sorry for speaking about your daughter like that.”

230 nods along, albeit his mind was clearly in a different place.

they’re idiot junkies who’ll probably kill each other in the special games. in-ho just needs to keep an eye on you until then, if they try anything. in that case he’ll kill them with his own hands.

your face appears on the other side of the ladies door as it swings open. in-ho turns his stare away from the men standing in front of him, and they usher into the male bathroom.

“did they want a round 2?” you quip.

in-ho shakes his head. he gives a low chuckle, but there’s no humour in it.

the tide of the vote had turned to the O’s once again. as gi-hun placed the last, fruitless vote— in-ho glanced at you, watching as you placed a hand over your stomach. this time wasn’t in comfort, but dread. you had to go through another game while carrying a child. his child.

in-ho stayed by your side. you even let him place a comforting hand on your knee, and his thumb drew soft circles over the fabric of your pants.

he’ll make it up to you for having to endure this under his watch. soon, you’ll be elsewhere— some place safer and sunnier. the three of you.

as there’s calls for lights out, in-ho takes his chance. he gets your attention by saying your name softly.

“would you be comfortable sharing my bed? i’d sleep easier, knowing you’re safe.”

your mouth parts slightly as you listened. it was forward, but he harboured no ill intent. you could tell that much. the corner of your lip curved with a smirk.

“i’m not too young to share a strange man’s bed?”

in-ho’s face twitches. he bites his tongue until he tastes copper.

clearly, you already have.

he composes himself with a smile. it wasn’t your fault. and with in-ho, you won’t feel hurt like that again.

the bed was barely wide enough for one person, let alone two. the thin mattress wasn’t any more comfortable than stone.

it wasn’t enough for you. nothing in this place is. but in-ho reminds himself that he’ll make it all up to you— in the meantime, it was enough to sleep under the same covers as him. breathe the same air.

in the dark, he watched your silhouette. your hair spilling over the pillow, the curve of your hip under the sheet. the rise and fall of your belly with each breath.

you shifted in your spot, letting out a soft exhale as you rolled over to face in-ho. the glow of the ceiling piggy bank illuminated your face. your eyes flutter open, brows crinkling when you notice he’s already looking at you.

“you’re still awake.” you whisper.

he didn’t answer. just nodded, eyes trained on your mouth. your lips were red raw, bitten from anxiety. he wanted to soothe them. he wanted to do a lot of things.

you scooted closer. “i don’t think i can sleep.”

what little distance there was between your bodies before, was now nonexistent. your arms, cradled against your chest, pressed against in-ho’s shirt. your knee bumped his. and your face— you were a mere breath away.

before he can think it, in-ho’s hand reaches for your waist. warm. possessive.

“you’re safe now,” he tells you quietly. “nothing will touch you while i’m here.”

your hand finds his chest, resting lightly over his shirt. “even if it’s you?”

in-ho’s mouth twitches. thoughtlessly, his fingers dig further into your waist. “i don’t count.”

you answer wordlessly, tilting your chin up to align with his face. your fingers curl at his chest, and your lips part ever so slightly. tentative— inviting.

then his mouth is on yours.

it was soft at first. just a question, not a demand. but when you pressed your body against him, something snapped.

the level-headed young-il act slipped off. in-ho kissed you like a crazed man. like he’d been starving, and you’re his only saving grace.

you mewl into his mouth, and he slides his hand under your shirt in kind— warm against your stomach, palm ghosting the swell of your belly before drifting upward.

he swallowed your breath, teasing his tongue against yours. he grinded his hips once— slow, hard.

you met it with impatience. clutching the fabric of his shirt, pressing yourself against his arousal with a soft whimper into his mouth. in-ho responded with a groan.

you repeat the action, kissing him needily as you rock against him— before in-ho pulls back, breathing hoarsely.

“no, not yet.”

you stare at him, left wanting. in-ho kisses your temple.

“another night.” he promises, dragging the pad of his thumb across your lower lip. you try to close your lips around it, but he retracts his hand with a hiss. “so impatient.”

in-ho pulls you against his chest, arms embracing you. you don’t fight it.

“sleep now. i’ve got you.”

even if you’d rather die playing these games, your fate belongs to him now.

and once this show was over— when the last body hit the floor and the last mask was hung up, he’ll quietly take you to his quarters. somewhere he can make certain you’re safe, somewhere no one knew your name but him.

you might hate him for it. maybe you’ll scream and cry and thrash about. but he was the father that stayed, protected you and your child.

and that makes you his— whether you like it or not.

note: this idea hasn’t left me alone so here it is expanded. also, it’d be wrong not to credit @murderofravens for inspiring me to even write for inho. go check her work out! (while writing this, i also learned of a s3 theory that junhee will give birth during the games and then inho steals her baby so.. there’s that.)

tags: @lightinbug @sherrayyyyy @ferrarifinnick @namsgyu @riddlerloveb0t @loveesiren @ttturnitup @avsarchivez

[justevelynnnn]

Don’t fight it

Pairing: Viltrumite!fem reader x Mark Grayson

Summary: You’re a secret viltramite on earth. After Nolan abandoned his post and couldn’t complete his one mission you stepped in, trying to convince Mark, but you couldn’t convince him to join the right side so now you two have to fight. But what happens when you fight your boyfriend and the adrenaline rush leads to something other than fighting?

Warnings: Smut 🔞, Fighting, swearing, reader is a female, reader gets her nose broke

A/N: I wrote and edited this in a day😭 I just had the idea pop in my head and I just had to get it out.

“Mark.”

“NO.” Your boyfriend runs a hand through his hair. “God…literally fuck you.”

It was a hot day. You stood there with your arms crossed, starting to sweat through your tank top now. The heat was making this even more irritating. It had been about a week since Nolan left and it was right before his fake funeral. You decided to confront Mark outside his house…maybe try to convince him yourself to join the cause. Nolan clearly was a failure at that, oh well, but now it was your turn.

“Mark, stop that. You know I love you. You love me. This is for a good cause!”

“Shut the fuck up, seriously. First, my dad….now YOU?”

He steps towards you so you step back a bit. You don’t want to fight him. You’ve known him for years. He’s never yelled at you, got aggressive…anything. You’re not too shocked by the reaction though..sure, the timing could’ve been better, but now has to be the time. Nolan is a dirty fucking traitor who ran away because he KNEW you were coming for him for not doing what he was supposed to. And if not you then the others.

It was his idea after all. To get Mark to fall in love with you and slowly convince him to help take over the planet. His words to be exact actually was he got distracted with Debbie, had a child and became attached…and obviously so; but you ended up falling in love with Mark too. Not part of the plan. It was embarrassing to admit really but it is what it is. You cared for him, but god, why couldn’t he just open his stupid eyes? The Viltrumites just want to help. It’s the humans fault if they get killed trying to resist. Right?

“Listen to me… We just want to help. Surely, Nolan explained that to you, right?” You say reaching a hand out but Mark promptly slaps it away.

“So, WHAT?! You guys just want to kill people.” He spat, face reddening and his chest rising and falling quickly.

“No one wants to kill anyone. But..”

“BUT NOTHING.”

“Mark-” you’re cut off from him shoving you harshly. So harsh that you stumble back a bit.

You instinctively get into a fighting stance, but no…no you don’t want to fight him. Anything, but that please…

“What? What? Huh?! You’re gonna beat me to a pulp too?! Push me through a moving subway too!?”

“Please, stop Mark. Please, I don’t want to do this.”

Another harsh shove. It’d be one thing if you were a regular human girl, but you assumed him knowing what you are now changed things. He started to float in the air. No suit, just the clothes he showed up in. A white tee and gray sweat shorts.

You stare into his eyes almost pleading, slightly confused by what he’s not understanding. If he cared so much about these….people, then why not allow the Viltrumites to step in and help this race get stronger?

You only arrived here from Viltrum about 10 years ago. You didn’t age much since then but you still appeared middle school aged. After you were found and adopted by some random couple you were soon enrolled into Mark’s middle school. That’s how you met him and eventually how your “parents” met Nolan and Debbie.

You could tell instantly this was Omni man. He’d been here for years so they sent you to see what was up. Mark was almost a splitting image of him and you immediately put two and two together even at your young age. Saying he was embarrassed was probably an understatement when you revealed yourself to him one day when you were “13”.

Nothing was the same since that day.

Nothing.

You genuinely did not want to hurt Mark, but the way his fists were balled up and his teeth were gritted,….

“Mark-”, you started once again.

“Shut. Up.” His scarred lip curled into an intense frown now. This was it. It was too late to convince him to stop. He continued with, “I’m not going to let ANYONE conquer my planet. I don’t care about viltrumite anything! I don’t care if you guys are trying to “help”.”

You didn’t respond. What could you say? It was clear he wasn’t going to be convinced anytime soon. You sighed and balled your own fists.

“I guess every couple fights at least once, huh?” You sighed. It was really more to yourself, but you almost forgot Mark had just as good ears as you.

Immediately, “What!? You think this is funny?!”

You didn’t get to respond as he soon launched towards you, landing a punch to your gut. You struggle and gasped as it was unexpected. It wasn’t enough to leave a mark or anything. You knew that. It wasn’t Mark’s style to kill, especially when it came to anyone he cared about.

But, did he really just do that? Oh, Mark…

And so it begins. You spring into the air pulling him by the shirt. You were unexpectedly more angry than you thought. If only you could get him to actually fucking listen for once. And something about him saying this was his planet….ugh. He doesn’t understand how weak and useless these people are to space.

You flung him to the ground once you were high enough. He had fiercely thrashed and clawed against you while in the air, tearing your shirt a bit in the process but never striking you again. He still cared. Maybe he didn’t want to fight either.

He landed with a loud thud with a huge puff of air immediately followed.

“We don’t have to do this.” You yelled once more. “Don’t fight this…”

No response. You couldn’t see him through the smoke that came from the landing as it hadn’t cleared completely yet but you knew he wasn’t dead.

Then, a yell as he again rose from the smoke and attacked you once more. He’s throwing punches you can easily dodge, grunting and yelling like he’s giving it all when you know he’s not. He’s weak but not…this weak.

You block his punches, dodge, land a couple of your own… you were a skilled fighter of course, but Mark despite hardly training was just as good.

The air was thick with fury and rage as you guys are just spinning and fighting in the air now. One punch landed you right in the face with a sick cracking noise from your nose following soon after. Ouch.

He broke your nose…

He actually broke your nose.

You both briefly stop for a moment. A hand instinctively raising to your nose to see blood leaking and covering your hand. Your eyes flicker to Mark as you see him hesitate. He doesn’t move, but behind that still an angry expression was a hint of concern. You smiled through the pain which only forced the confusion to show more. You push him back to the ground once more once you realized he was caught off guard enough.

You landed next to him in the street as he sprung up once more and you two started fighting and wrestling once more. You knocked him over a couple of more times, getting swift jabs in on his sides, but he keep getting up just as quick. Blood from your nose splattered everywhere landing on the ground, on yourself and Mark as you keep throwing punches and even some kicks. You tackled him and pushed him through his living room window (thank god Debbie wasn’t home to see this) and you landed with him in his lap, your hands pressed on his chest.

“You ready to listen?” You panted. Blood still dripping from your nose on his chest. You ignored the pain catching your breath hoping he’d stop. He’s pretty bruised up now, wasn’t this enough?

He didn’t respond but he just stared into your eyes catching his own breath. You almost started to admire how he looked underneath you until he quickly started to push you off of him, succeeding and quickly reeling his hand back. You blocked it just in time standing and started throwing your own punches his way repeatedly.

You two knocked into furniture violently. He backed into the cabinets causing Debbie’s glasses to fall and loudly shatter behind, and around him with some shards flying and slicing you. You tripped over a potted plant at one point trying to dodge a punch and once you landed on the ground he was immediately straddling you now.

You’d push him off if he wasn’t so pretty and literally your boyfriend who you weren’t supposed to fucking love in the first place. His hair stuck to his face as it was covered and dripping with sweat, a black eye was slowly forming which you felt a bit guilty for and his lip was now cut again. He panted once more as his hands wrapped around your throat, not tight enough to choke you but…enough. Enough to turn that adrenaline into something else.

A moment passed again. The universe must be saying something for you both to end up in this position over and over. And Mark must be saying something because you see him getting hard through his shorts. You guessed his adrenaline was going somewhere else too.

And, Jesus, did he look hot all sweaty and angry above you like this. Your sweet silly Mark, now suddenly the complete opposite.

You struggled a bit, almost still wanting to fight until he muttered darkly, “What? It’s like you said, don’t fight it…”

You watched as the anger in his eyes slowly turned into lust. Dangerous lust. Watching as he bit his lip, and muscles flexing as he tightened his grip ever so slightly. You let a moan slip and it was over.

He leaned down immediately to kiss you. His lips were still soft just like before but now with that irony taste of blood. Something about him was just so addicting. The way he growled as you reached to grope him through his pants, the way his grip tightened more so now you did struggle to breathe… the way his tongue fought yours violently like he was trying to eat you. Like he wanted to taste your final breath.

When he let go you gasped for air. You weren’t weak so no time soon when you were going to signal him to let go but a part of you also enjoyed the thrill. He only let go to fling off his shirt and yank his pants down his thighs. You almost froze eyeing his physique especially glistening like this with his sweat.

“Take your fucking clothes off.” He says harshly staring you down while simultaneously stroking himself. His tone and behavior slightly caught you off guard as you froze, and he snapped you out of it quickly by grabbing your face with one hand fiercely and barking, “Now.”

You start pulling your tank off your head as he pulled your shorts off, soon following your panties.

“Why does your underwater have the fucking viltrumite symbol on it?” He snickered eying the damp fabric. He proceeded to wave it in your face but all you could see was his muscles flexing in his arms, veins popping. Adrenaline was still rushing through your own body, but you could tell the same was for Mark.

“Some of us actually appreciate our heritage.” You spit back smirking. You wished deep down you wore something more attractive though.

“All of you are so weird.” He said spitting directly on your cunt. You flinched and fought back a moan as he promptly started to slowly finger you right after.

“You can barely fight, what makes you think you can fuck?” You try to say it with confidence, still slightly passed at him but more at yourself for allowwimg this to happen. Instead it comes out airy, filled with need because he’s fingering you with two fingers now with his thumb pressing your clit.

“Says the virgin.” He laughed dryly.

Now you’re more pissed. You told him that as a secret. Who does he think he is?

“What makes you thin-”, you start but you’re cut off by him roughly kissing you once more, and at some point he bites your lip, drawing blood. He licks it before you do.

He muttered a “shut up” as he kissed down your neck quickly and impatiently. At some point he stopped fingering you, and you almost whined at the loss. He pulled away to lick his soaked fingers clean with his tongue, moaning as he stared into your soul. You almost take this chance to his him again, which you actually do, but he stops you and swiftly flipped you over so you’re on all fours now.

A calloused hand pushes your face down before you try to get up, and another hand pressed down on your back forcing your arch a bit more.

“Don’t fight it.~” He says almost mockingly. You groan feeling him as he lined his tip against your entrance.

“Stop….saying that. If you’d just listen for once-”

“Nope.” He says that as he pushed his full length into you. The stretch forced a long lengthy moan out of you. It hurt so good.

Mark wasted no time moving either, groaning himself as he thrusted slowly. It was almost like he was savoring how your walls felt around him. It took you a minute to get used to his size, especially being inexperienced.

“Fuckk.”, He groaned deeply.

His hands grip each side of your hips as he steadied himself. Sweat dripped onto your back side now as he hovered above you. You felt your ass ripple each time his hips met it and his hands tighten as you playfully squeezed him. Hearing his breath hitch each time gave you a thrill once more.

Until he started pounding you harder and deliberately aiming for your sweet spot. You didn’t think he’d find it so fucking quick but oh he did. It wasn’t long before you were seeing stars. At this point you’d knew you wouldn’t last long at all in this position.

Then, Mark flipped you over once more, pushing your thighs by your head and forcing you into a mating press. Strangely, you felt very exposed suddenly as he stared at you like you were a piece of meat. You reached to attack him once more until he harshly grabbed your wrist, brows furrowed and a growl escaping his throat once more before he started fucking you again.

“I’m not gonna stop until you say you won’t take over Earth.” He spat slightly whimpering.

“Guess we’re gonna—fuck—be here awhile, h-huh?” You smiled up at him.

He didn’t respond. He just fucked you harder now. Angrier. One hand was around your throat with another on your hip holding you in place. It was almost like he had done this before.

This lasted awhile. Only the slick, sloppy sounds of skin meeting and desperate noises filled the damaged living room. You were lucky you two ended up on a rug of all places. Your thighs were slick and covered his lower half with juices. Blood still ran a bit from your nose down your face, your bitten lip now swollen.

At some point he was fucking you so good your hands reached around his back and just scratched. He whined but kept going, and going, and going. It was almost like he was pissed. His hand tightened again so you could barely breathe and you were getting closer.

And him rubbing your swollen clit wasn’t helping. Your mind was spiraling and your limbs felt like putty. He leaned by your ear, messy damp hair falling on your shoulders as he kept muttering sick, lewd things into your ear about how he was going to fill you up until you beg him to stop. How soon you two have your own viltrumite child. How you felt so damn good around him, so tight and warm….

All of it simply sent you over the edge as you shook violently. You never felt this much pleasure in your life. Never. You almost couldn’t see with how good this orgasm was. You sounded like a broken record as you came around him, scratching his back once more. He kissed you again, damn near eating all your moans and whines.

You didn’t come down from your high for 5 minutes and all the while Mark still fucked you.

“Ready to join my side?” He said simply, thrusting slowly chasing his own orgasm. You were getting overstimulated and kept quivering...but viltrumites do not back down from missions so easily so…

“Never.”

“Okay, suit yourself.” He chuckled as he picked up the pace once more. He proceeded to pick up your discarded underwear and shove it in your mouth to “keep you quiet”.

Deep down you knew there was truly no convincing him. And deeper down you didn’t care.

[lifeofaninstigator]

Ed grinned. "It's changed somewhat. I like other things too, but I really love things that breath fire." He had a nice collection of them building over the years from his travels. Someday he'd have a place of his own to put them in instead of storage. "This is for my own personal collection." He didn't elaborate on that. Ed could tell by the expression on Roy's face that he didn't like the dragon statue as much as he did. It didn't surprise Ed one bit. Roy was a fancier type of person than he was. Always dressing nice and looking dapper.

Roy wore that look well, and Ed was sure it suited his position and goals. Presentation mattered when one was trying to climb the ranks of the military. He was glad he didn't have to worry about that sort of thing. He'd much rather go with his gut and be himself, though there were parts of himself he didn't often share with others. He wondered what Roy would think of the person he had become if Roy knew him fully. Ed couldn't quite explain why Roy's opinion mattered as much as it did to him, but it did.

His eyes followed what Roy was looking at. "Those look nice." Ed liked learning about what Roy enjoyed in art. It was like piecing together a puzzle, and he was eager to learn more. "So you like abstract art. I bet that would like great in your living room. Nice way to start a conversation if you have company." He waited until Roy purchased the item and for the lady to wrap it up. Once they were set with their own packages he followed Roy out of the booth and back onto the walkway. He enjoyed listening to the sound of people having fun around them. He wondered if Roy would be interested in riding some rides later on.

"Darts sounds like fun. It's been a while since I've played them. Not since the last time I've visited Amestris." One thing he had learned visiting different countries is that each had its own set of fun and different kinds of games to play. Not too many other countries had the game of darts. "Maybe one of us can beat the odds and win something good. Besides, darts is pretty straight forward. It's hard to see how a game like that can be rigged."

As they walked, Ed perked up a bit at Roy's question. "Nah, I have a storage unit in Resembool. I'll tuck it away there for now. Someday when I come back for good, I plan to get a house with a nice study in it and put my collection there." He wanted to make a spot for himself in his own home that was entirely his own, away from other people. Something to call his own without judgement. His eyes caught a booth that had darts in it. "Let's try this one," he said, walking over to the booth. "You wanna give it a go this time?"

Roy watched quietly as Ed approached the crying girl, wondering what he had in mind. When he knelt down beside her to offer the bear, however, a soft smile tugged at the corner of Roy's lips. He hadn't pegged Ed as the type to be good with kids, but it was surprisingly heartwarming. Some part of him could imagine telling Hughes about it just to see his best friend smiling over the picture it painted.

Though he didn't say anything about it as they walked on, he tucked it away in the back of his mind. There was just something about seeing a gentler side of Ed that he didn't want to forget. He just watched Ed admiring the statues, Roy's dark eyes scanning over the selection as well, but occasionally drifting back toward the other man. Though he stayed by Ed's side as they wandered through, he took note some of the more abstract pieces with swirling limbs and branches, a myriad of color among more traditional stonework.

But Ed had his full attention again when he asked him about the dragon. From even a passing glance, its gaudy colors and fierce pose just screamed "Ed." Roy held back a sigh, but he did raise an eyebrow at the description of it being nice. It was well sculpted, but "nice" certainly wasn't the world he would have chosen for it. "I see your taste hasn't changed at all over the years." He shook his head slowly. He honestly wasn't surprised that this was what caught Ed's eye.

He glanced back toward the abstract statues, gesturing for Ed to follow him for a better look. "That's not bad," he mused, pointing to a dark brown mass of swirls centering around a green stem. He considered for a moment then turned to the one beside it, what looked vaguely like a glassy waterfall seeming to come from nowhere but with a few sharper edges. "Something like that would look good in the living room." Most of his decor was various shades of blue and grey, so the color scheme would fit in easily. "Alright, I'll buy that one." He called over the woman at the booth to pay for the latter one and accepted it carefully.

Turning back to Ed, he adjusted the package in his arms and nodded toward the main path. "I think I saw a darts game a little further on if you want to give that a try with me. Maybe at least one of us will be able to win a meal ticket there. Unlikely," he admitted, "but it could be fun to try." As they started walking, he glanced down at the bundle in Ed's arms. "So is that going to be your travel companion for a while?" He doubted Ed would actually take the statue wherever he went, but it was a bit amusing to think of him taking it everywhere with him.

[bet-on-me-13]

Danny is the Tibetan Monk

So! When Bruce was travelling the world, finding masters to teach him how to fight and investigate, he came across a strange building in Tibet.

He had followed rumors of an ancient Monk who lived atop a mountain just on the edge of a Village, who had learned how to conquer Death itself, and stole its secrets for himself. Hoping to find a new Teacher, Bruce climbed the mountain and found the home of that Monk.

What he found was strange though...

The building seemed much more modern than he had been expecting, built with metal and drywall rather than ancient bricks or stones as he had assumed. There was also a strange machine on the top of the building, and if he didn't know any better he would have said it almost looked like a spaceship.

Hesitantly, he knocked on the wooden door and waited.

The man who answered looked nothing like he had expected, but so far nothing had met his expectations so he wasn't really surprised at that point. He looked relatively young, in his late 20's or early 30's, and was wearing a simple T-shirt and jeans. He had short black hair, blue eyes, and pale skin that didn't exactly match the tone of the other people living in the area. In fact he looked as if he could have been an American, rather than Tibetan.

Bruce introduced himself, explained why he was there, and managed to convince the Monk that he deserved his training.

It was unorthodox, certainly very different from the training he had recieved in the League of Assasins, but the Monk said that he was well suited for this style of training.

Under the monk he learned a variety of techniques. The ability to shield his mind from Telepaths, how to Astral Project, how to completely hide his presence from others, even from those with enhanced senses, and so much more.

By the time he was finished training with the Monk, he was confident that he could finally achieve his goal of saving Gotham from itself. He bid the monk farewell, and returned to his home ready to begin the legend of the Batman.

Meanwhile Danny had just sent his most recent student off after a few months of training.

He had to do this every once in a while. There were hundreds of Liminal and Ecto-Contaminated people out there in the world who didn't know how to manage their abilities. They didn't know how to innately seperate from their physical bodies so they could more easily feed on natural Ectoplasm, or how to shield their minds from the volatile stray emotions of the people around them thay may influence their thoughts.

It was dangerous for people with that level of Ecto-Contamination to live without knowing how to keep themselves healthy. So every once in a while, Danny would find a way to contact them and to teach them all they needed to know to stay healthy.

The "Centuries Old Monk" routine was an old favorite of his for this purpose. He would intentionally spread rumors where he knew they would hear, add in some incentive like "conquering death" to make sure they would follow those rumors, and than meet them and take them under his wing.

A few of his other favorite routines were the "Circus Act who knows more than he should", "Mechanic with great advice", and sometimes even just "Life Coach" for the more conventional cases.

And if he heard Bruce's story and decided to teach him how to use a few extra useful Ghostly Abilities, like hiding your presence or merging with Shadows, then who could really judge him? The kid had taken up a huge burden, he needed all the help he could get.

Besides, its not the first time he's ever done that.

...

Years later, Bruce met Dick and found out that he also knows how to Astral Project and Guard his Mind. He couldn't merge with the shadows or hide his presence nearly as well, but he could apparently slow how fast he fell and bend in ways even bruce couldn't.

Apparently he was taught how to do so from an old member of Haley's circus, who told him that they were meditation techniques to get "in the zone" for his trapeze acts.

Then he met Jason, who could also Astral Project and Guard his mind, and he could also heal faster than normal people and read other people's emotions. He learned from a Mechanic who used to live on his street, who told him it was just some street skills that would let him avoid the people who would hurt him or give him trouble.

Then Tim came in, also with Astral Projection and a Telepath-Proof mind, and he could apparently last for weeks on end with no food or even water, and could hide his presence from even Batman. He was taught by a butler his parents had briefly hired while away from home, though Tim's parents didn't know what he was talking about when he brought it up to them later. He was told it was just a way of "keeping his spirits up" when he was alone.

Stephanie had also been taught by an old Mechanic on her street. Same as all the other she could leave her body behind and guard her mind, but she could also read emotions and convince people to do what she said. The mechanic never gave a reason for why he was teaching her, but did say that it would help her gauge the people in her life easier. He left barely a week before Steph realized her dad was the Cluemaster.

Damien was, suprisingly, trained by the same Master that Bruce had been taught by. Talia had sent him up the mounting saying that his Father had learned from the man on the mountain, and he would as well. He was taught the same as all the others, though instead of merging with Shadows like his Father he was taught how to converse with Animals.

Cass had been taught by a man while she was running from her Father. He never said why, only that it would help her live a better life. She had the "normal" abilities of Astral Projection and Guarding her Mind, but she could also Merge with Shadows and Perfectly Read other people's emotions beyond their body language.

Duke was taught by a man who had also taught other members of "We Are Robin" during the cataclysm. He said it would help them survive their attempts at heroism, though he gave Duke extra training for some reason. He had taught Duke even more than he had taught the other Bats, alongside the now typical Astral Projection and Guarding his Mind, Duke could also talk to the Dead, See into the Past, and even Phase through Walls. With enough effort he could even Fly.

A few of his abilities were attributed to his Metahuman Powers, but he claimed that they were never that powerful before that man came along.

He also said that the man "Glowed" in a strange way. He was the only one who could see it among the members of We Are Robin, even the others he had taught.

Bruce had long since decided he needed to pay his old Master a visit.

[nereidprinc3ss]

do you believe me now?

in which fem!reader is insecure around spencer until she finally asks him to take matters into his own hands (literally)

series masterlist

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: inexperienced reader, fingering, softdom!spencer my sweet sweet beloved angel, sub reader, praise, you know he talks you through it, brief mention of drinking wine, i think that's it a/n: i hope u guys like this ! slightly different dynamic than my other stuff maybe but let me know what u think!! i love feedback and i love YOU!!!

“You’re so pretty.”

It’s the first thing Spencer has said since you two landed on his couch, exhausted from one of Rossi’s extravagant soirées. It was your first of many, if Spencer’s entire team is to be believed. More nights featuring Italian food and wine you could never afford don’t sound half bad—but for now you’re drained. You barely had the energy to kick off your heels and topple into Spencer’s lap five minutes ago. The silk dress still pools over his knees and your hair still falls in curls around your face. He brushes one aside as he continues. 

“I mean—you always look beautiful. But I’ve never seen you all done up. You’re obscenely gorgeous.”

You groan awkwardly, burying your face in Spencer’s collar as your face heats. Taking compliments has never been your strong suit, especially from someone who you perceive to be so out of your league. The relationship you have with Spencer is relatively new, and sometimes you worry delicate; like one slip-up revealing the real you and he’ll go running. So far, though, he seems hellbent on proving you wrong. 

His hand finds the bare skin of your arm, passing up and down gently. “Why don’t you believe me?”

“…I do.”

It’s unconvincing. Spencer scoffs. 

“No, you don’t. You never believe me when I compliment you.”

The cadence of his voice is light enough, but it’s evident that there’s some genuine frustration there, lurking just under the surface. 

Your head lolls over his shoulder and he angles his neck to look down at you. Hair falls over his eyes, and you’d fix it if he didn’t look so damn perfect. Everything about him looks intentional, like he was designed by someone who took great pride in their work. Not at all like you—a collage of features and spare parts you guess whatever force created you had lying around. Nothing about you feels on purpose. But that’s a hard thing to explain.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s impolite. It just feels disingenuous to accept compliments like that.”

Goosebumps arise on your arm where he touches you.

“You being polite isn’t what I’m concerned about. I just wish I could make you understand that I mean it when I compliment you. You’d know if I didn’t. I’m a terrible liar.”

That earns a giggle from you. Your boyfriend smiles, sparkling eyes darting over your face like he’s trying to bottle the sound, the memory—and you realize he probably is. What a terrifying thought. You look away, abashed once more. 

“I’m a woman, Spencer. I’m not allowed to like myself. That’s the whole thing with Eve and the snake and the apple and whatever. Eternal inescapable shame.”

“Are you trying to justify your self-loathing by making it biblical? You know I’m the last person that would work on, right? Both as an agnostic-leaning-athiest and someone who thinks you’re beautiful and wonderful.”

Another groan claws its way from your throat as you slide down in embarrassment. 

“You’re killing me here, Spencer.”

“What can I do to do to make you believe me?” he murmurs, carefully brushing tangles from your hair as you now rest practically prone across his lap. The ceiling light stretches behind him, haloing him in a soft glowing crown and making everything a bit more hazy and tolerable. 

“It’s not your fight.” It’s meant to be playfully dramatic, but it hangs from your lips with a painful amount of earnestness. 

“If it’s yours, it’s mine. That’s kind of the whole point of a relationship, right? Being a team?”

His fingers are nimble and warm between yours as you interlace them, steepling and bumping them together as you speak. 

“Well, if you know so much, why are you asking me? It sounds like you know exactly what to do to make me magically love myself.”

A dangerous twitch plays at the corner of his lips as he gazes sleepily down at you. 

“Oh, I have a few ideas. But I’m asking what you’d be comfortable with.”

“Whoa!” you blurt, giggling self-consciously, covering your face with your (and inadvertently one of his) hands. “Where did that come from?”

He smiles at your response to his mildly suggestive comment. “I lose my filter when I'm tired. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” 

You sigh gustily, dragging his hand down to fall over your collarbones. His fingers twitch over the delicate skin, like he’d graze it if your hand wasn’t weighing his down. 

“No, no, you didn’t make me uncomfortable, you just… surprised me. I’m really bad at talking about this kind of thing.”

“Sex?”

You yelp, slinging your arm over your face and hiding in the crook of your elbow. “AH! Don’t say it!” 

He laughs again, a little less reserved this time. 

“What? You can’t even listen to me say the word?”

“No! Too scary!”

Eventually you peek out from under your arm to find Spencer still watching you. The humor has faded from his eyes and been replaced by a kind of serene calm. He brushes a lock of hair from your shoulder. 

“Come here,” he says—a request more than a demand. With some wriggling and a bit of help, you manage to reorient yourself into a sitting position across his lap once more. His touch is warm even through the fabric of your dress when he kisses you, hand sliding over your waist before moving to trace your jaw and ending up on the back of your neck, urging you closer ever so slightly. You kiss him back without hesitation or restraint, as you delight in doing when he gives you the opportunity. What you may lack in experience and refinement, you make up for with affection and enthusiasm. He pulls away after a minute, much to your dismay, and brushes his thumb over your lips. For the first time, you think you see a hint of worry in his eyes. Guilt claws at your heart when he quietly asks, “you’re not scared of me, are you?”

“No!” You assure quickly, looping your arms around his neck. “No, it’s not you. You’re perfect and I’m sure you really mean all of the nice things you say. But I just… sometimes I worry I’ll scare you away once you realize I’m not as pretty or… good as you thought.”

“That’s impossible.”

Once more you let your head fall onto his shoulder. “You don’t know that.” 

His hand begins running up and down your back, soothing your sympathetic nervous system in a way that all the deep breaths in the world never could. 

“I know that I really, really like you. And there’s not one part of you that I don’t find genuinely beautiful. I can’t imagine not feeling that way about you.” Your eyes flutter shut and you hum against him—a non-answer, but he doesn’t push it. Minutes go by quietly, ticking later into the night as he continues mindlessly rubbing your back and watching you breathe. “Do you want me to take you home?” He finally asks after a long while. Again, you don’t respond. He smiles. “I know you’re awake.”

The corner of your lip twitches as you attempt to suppress a grin. Spencer sighs. 

“I guess if you’re already asleep you’ll just have to stay here. But it would be convenient if you’d sleepwalk to my bed so that I don’t have to carry you.”

When you begin stirring and sitting up (one eye cracked to navigate) he laughs, hands on your waist. “Would you look at that. Who knew she would be so suggestible in non-REM?” You snort as you push yourself to a standing position using Spencer’s shoulders to support yourself, and ruining the whole act. He smiles up at you like you’re something divine and lets his hands trail over your hips. 

“I sleep with my eyes open.”

“Do you often have coherent conversations in your sleep, too?”

You shrug. “I’m full of surprises.”

“I’m sure you are,” he agrees, finally standing himself. “I’m assuming you don’t want to sleep in your dress?”

“I have shorts on underneath I can wear, but a shirt would be helpful.”

“Then we’ll get you a shirt.”

———————————————

Ten minutes later you’re in Spencer’s bathroom, wearing your shorts and one of his sweatshirts (you cannot imagine Spencer in a hoodie), and wiping black sludge from your eyes with makeup remover he claims was left by a friend after a particularly festive Halloween party. Hopefully he’s telling the truth—you can think of more dubious potential origins of the eye-makeup remover in his bathroom. No toothbrush—you use your finger and a generous amount of toothpaste until the red wine stains fade. 

Spencer is fixing the pillows when you exit the bathroom. You hold up your hands which are completely obscured and then some by the thick fabric of his sweatshirt. 

“Fits like a dream,” you say. A smile tugs at his lips as he finishes his task, before raising his eyes to you. The smile promptly fades and it’s like the sun disappearing behind an oppressive gray cloud. In an instant your stomach curdles and you feel like crawling out of your skin. 

“…what?” you mumble, absolutely terrified that the thing he’d said was impossible just minutes ago has already happened. Without makeup, without a fancy dress, you’re just you, and maybe that’s not good enough.

“Uh…” He blinks, as if he’s buffering for a moment, before snapping back into action, and notably looking away from you. “It’s—it’s nothing. Do you, um—here, I tried to make it—“

“Stop. Just tell me what that was. You got all weird.”

Another pause—he looks back up at you reluctantly with a sigh. 

“I did not get all weird.”

“Yes, you did. You’re still being weird. It’s freaking me out.”

He’s utterly unreadable, which drives you fucking insane, when he eventually says, “come here.” This time, you think with a chill as you shuffle on your knees across the bed to sit in front of him, it really sounds like a demand. Spencer grabs your face in his hands, studying you intently. “I know you think I’ve finally decided you’re hideously deformed, but it’s actually just the opposite. I’m trying to figure out how to keep things polite for you.”

Realization dawns on you and the swarm of new butterflies in your stomach. The usual molten gold of his irises has been encroached upon, masked by blown pupils. Your face gets hot and your voice caves when you speak. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” he agrees quietly. “Do you believe me now?”

And to his credit, you really do. The hot skin, the vibrating cells in every fiber of your being, the racing heart—your body knows he means it. Part of you, the more confident, more desirous part, drags you closer to him, ghosts your lips over his. He chuckles. 

“Now you’re getting brave?”

“Am I not allowed to kiss you?” you whisper, draping your arms over his shoulders. 

“You’re allowed to do whatever you want.”

The words make you shiver—the lowered, gravelly tone of his voice you’ve never heard before snaps your resolve and you lean into him, connecting your lips with a deep urgency. Spencer inhales sharply, hands wandering to your waist and bearing down firmly as you press against him. When you lean back, he follows you, insists without saying a word that you don’t stop kissing him. It sends a thrill down your spine and between your legs, which both gives you pause and eggs you on. In the end, after a very brief internal struggle, curiosity and desire win. You drop to the bed and drag him down with you—he, your willing follower, blindly searches for purchase on the plush comforter. Now he’s on top of you, legs slotted together so that his thigh is temptingly close to your core. Too shy to actually do what you want to do, you clamp your thighs around his and tilt your hips, desperate for friction. He exhales heavily, slowly pulling his lips from yours like it’s the last thing he wants to do. Fingers dig into the flesh of your hip, not enough to ache but enough to draw your attention to your movements. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, firmly, but not like you’re in trouble—it’s a probing question. He’s trying to figure out if you’re aware of the way you’re nearly riding his leg. 

“I don’t know,” you admit breathlessly. 

“You just told me you couldn’t even listen to me say the word sex,” Spencer reminds you. “You said it was too scary.”

A frustrated whine seems to catch him by surprise, and he laughs. 

“That was a long time ago. I’ve matured since then.”

“Is that what happened?” he teases. 

“Honestly, I’m just really turned on right now, please—" you cut yourself off, crashing your lips into his once more. And he almost relents. 

Almost. 

“Slow down.”

He ceases kissing you for a second time and you’re starting to really get annoyed. 

“What?” you groan. “I thought you wanted this.”

His thumbs brush over the apples of your cheeks, demanding your attention. 

“I want you. In every sense of the word. If you make a bad choice tonight and it means you don’t like me anymore tomorrow, that is the opposite of what I want. I’m not saying no. I’m just asking you to think about it for a second.”

You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and attempting to steady your mind and see beyond the thick fog of lust. What you find is a (mildly surprising) complete lack of fear. You’re not scared, like you thought you’d be; you feel utterly safe underneath him, with his hands on you and his heartbeat against your chest. This is a kind of intimacy you want to have with him. 

Your eyes open to reveal his, close enough you can see the tiny flecks of green. And so much warmth. Everything about him is warm. 

“This is what I want,” you assert. “I promise.”

His gaze flits between yours for a moment, pulling the truth from your soul like he might be able to find an imperfection there. But you mean it—and he seems satisfied. He trusts you, like you trust him. 

“Okay.”

A sigh of relief never quite finds completion before he’s kissing you again. Immediately the fire is stoked once more, the heat between your legs getting warmer when he experimentally pushes his thigh against you. You breathe into the kiss, pressing down on him and surrendering to the unconscious rhythm of your hips. He lets that go on for a minute or two until you’re so distracted that you can’t kiss him back. 

Unexpectedly he pulls away, disentangling himself from your legs. You stammer in frustration until his fingers hook under the soft material of your shorts. “Hips up.”

Wordlessly you comply, succumbing to his gentle words and touch. He bows to kiss you as he slides the fabric down unhurriedly. Once the shorts are gone, he sits up, and carefully lifts one of your legs over his lap, gaze unabashedly glued between them. 

“Eyes up here,” you try to joke, but it’s steeped in self-consciousness and your heart is pounding. He manages, stroking the inside of your knee with a thumb as he leans down again. 

“But you’re so pretty,” he murmurs, before he’s kissing you again. “Just like I knew you would be.”

You whimper when his hand skates over your stomach, lower, and lower, and—

“Tell me one more time, sweetheart.”

Your plead is just as hungry and yearning. “Please, Spencer?”

It works for him. 

When his knuckles brush over your clit, you forget to breathe. When they barely skim your entrance, collecting arousal to drag back upward, your brain malfunctions. It is not enough, maddeningly so, but when he finds a careful, introductory rhythm, it’s immediately bordering on too much, too good. 

Your stomach tenses and you are surprised by your own sighs and hesitant gasps as you try to adjust to the feeling of someone else’s hand between your legs. 

“Does that feel good?” he murmurs against your lips. 

“Mhm,” you chirp. Slow but insistent circles elicit a cry that gets caught in your throat, melting into a hum. Your eyes are closed, but you can hear the smile in Spencer’s voice. 

“You’re sensitive, huh?”

“S—sometimes.”

 He hums contemplatively. 

“Sometimes? Can you tell me about that?”

You can’t hardly think around those gentle movements of his hand, let alone speak. He touches you like you’re something delicate. It’s torturous and perfect. But you try to answer anyway, managing to keep the stammering to a minimum. 

“About what?” 

“I want to know what you think about when you touch yourself.” The smooth words in tandem with an incremental increase in pressure earn your first real moan. Timid and unpracticed, but very genuine. 

The answer comes immediately afterward; thoughtlessly and on a shuddering exhalation.

“You.”

“Yeah?” he smiles. “Good answer.”

Your eyes open fractionally to study his expression. You’d felt so much shame every time you’d imagined him in your bed late at night.

“Really?” 

“Really. And now look at you. Letting me do it for you.” As if to remind you, he speeds up the motion of his hand. On instinct you bring your fingers to your lips as you moan through a closed throat, partly to stifle the noise and partly because you don’t know what to do with the hand that’s not gripping the duvet. “Do you only touch here?” His fingers slide down to your slick entrance and your hips buck, mourning the loss of stimulation. “Or do you touch here, too?” 

You shake your head, breathing hard as he teases a finger around the soft place you’ve never really bothered to explore. “Never feels good when I try.”

“We’re gonna make it feel good, okay?”

You nod hesitantly, leaning back into the pillows when he kisses you again. 

His lips are so distracting, so intoxicating you almost forget what he’s doing until he does it. It’s a foreign sensation—not entirely pleasant or unpleasant. For a moment or two your brows furrow as you focus on the feeling, worried that maybe you’re broken just as you thought—until you feel a slight stretch and you realize he’s pushing a second finger into you now. A kiss lands on your cheek when you grab his arm with a choked gasp, and he mutters, “deep breaths,” into your ear. “I know it’s new, honey, just breathe.”

“Fuck,” you whimper as you look down, and you didn’t realize you were going to say it until it’s already passed between your lips. Pressure begins melding with the promise of pleasure, and something about watching his hand move between your legs—the tendons flexing and wrist bending as he eases into what is clearly a perfected motion—arouses you so much you moan at the sight alone. Flipping pages is all you thought that hand was meant for. It’s like a secret revealed as you watch it do something so salacious, and to you. 

A hot spark of pleasure flares deeper in you than you’ve ever felt. It catches and grows faster than you’d of thought—suddenly you can feel everything and it all feels better than you thought possible. Your jaw drops and a surprised huff of air blows a strand of your hair away. 

“Oh my god,” comes your breathy little whisper, unprepared for and intimidated by how good he’s making you feel. Filthy noises come from between your legs and you clench around his fingers. You had no idea you could make those noises. You had no idea you could get so wet. 

“Yeah, there we go.” His voice sounds a little further away now. You manage to tear your eyes away from all the action to his face. Much like you, he’s transfixed by the sight, brow furrowed and pretty lips parted in what could be concentration, or some sort of empathetic pleasure. His face has more color to it than usual and his breaths come heavier—it’s a very pleasant sight. Suddenly his fingers brush against a spot deep within you and your hips cant upward, a mewl pulled from the depths of your throat that has more control over you than you do it. Spencer’s eyes flash back to you, a grin playing at his lips. He does it again, looking right into your eyes, and you whine so pitifully your face flushes. 

“Too much?” he asks. You shake your head firmly, arching your back when he unconsciously slows down. At your response his fingers begin rutting into you again, committing to that spot inside you that makes you see stars. “Of course not. You’re gonna take whatever I give you, huh?”

“Uh-huh,” you nod. You’d do just about anything for him right at this second. Spencer holds an immense amount of power over you in this moment, and potentially in all future moments moving forward. But you trust him with it. 

“You don’t have anything to prove to me. I just want you to feel good. You’ll tell me if it’s too much, right?”

But it’s really not too much. It’s exactly right. Your verbal capacity is acutely limited right now, so you can’t exactly say it, but you lock eyes with him and whine shamelessly, hips twisting against his hand. You think he gets the message. 

Hair falls over his face and he doesn’t fix it, opting instead to alternate his gaze between your cunt and face, cursing to himself lowly. You wouldn’t want him to stop and fix his hair—what you want is this, for him to keep pushing you toward that elusive edge and to keep looking at you like you put all the stars in the sky. 

“Look at you, my pretty girl. I’m so proud of you. I know this isn’t easy. I know you were scared. Thank you for letting me do this, honey.”

It’s the unexpected tenderness of the words, perfectly misplaced in the context of the moment. It’s the devotion, the honesty in his eyes, shining through the haze of lust, which makes your stomach drop and all your muscles tense. A million thoughts jumble in your head, dizzying and thrilling and confusing, but mostly all you can think is Spencer, Spencer, Spencer. Is this how it always is? Your hands tangle in the sheets—and then all the thoughts vanish. Everything is warm and fuzzy and sparkling clean, no worries, no lingering thoughts, no self-awareness at all. It’s nirvana. It’s revelatory. It’s ridiculous that he did this all in under five minutes and you haven’t been able to do it once even with very concerted effort. 

Slowly you float back into your body, breathing hard and watching through half-lidded eyes as Spencer gently pulls his hand away. Without him you feel weirdly empty and cold, like he should have been there all along. But his touch isn’t absent for long—he runs his hand over the bridge between your hips, little finger dipping into the crease of your thigh. 

“That’s never… I’ve never done that before,” you admit, slurring your words only slightly. 

His perfect features contort into a half-frown, half-smile. 

“You’ve never had an orgasm?” You nod. His head tilts. “Really? You didn’t tell me that.”

“When would I have told you?” you laugh, finding his waist with your hand and encouraging him to settle his weight on you. He does, burying his face in your neck and exhaling heavily. 

“Well?” you ask shyly, skating your fingers over his back. “Did I do it right?”

Spencer snorts, but presses a sickeningly sweet kiss to the curve of your neck. 

“Did you like it?”

“Yes,” you admit, voice smaller than you’d have liked. He pushes himself up onto his forearms and kisses you softly. 

“Then we both did it right.”

“But…” you stare up into his warm honey eyes, searching for any bits of hidden truth you can find. He brushes a strand of hair away from your face, utterly unconcerned. “You know what I mean.” 

“I do,” he agrees, “and I’ll say this because I know otherwise you’re going to worry about it forever.” He studies your face reverently for a moment, before parting his lips to speak. The words are slow to come, like he’s trying to figure the sentence out as he goes along. “You… are going to be, problematic, for me.”

Your whisper is almost as small as you feel under his heavy gaze. “What d’you mean?” 

“I mean,” Spencer begins, voice low, “I think I liked that too much. Do you see why that’s troubling?”

The flame you thought had been quenched flickers back to life like a pilot light. Your thighs press together to alleviate a growing ache in a still sensitive area and you answer, “no,” with a small shake of your head. His thumb tenderly traces your jaw, ever-patient despite the fact that you’re obviously playing coy. 

“Because I can’t have you all the time.”

“Yes you can,” you say without hesitation, though your eyes are fluttering. “You can have me whenever you want. Right now.”

He hums, pressing a kiss to your cheek. 

“Not tonight. You’ve had enough. You’re tired.”

“I’m wide awake,” you slur, tangling a hand in his hair even as you lose the battle against your eyelids. 

He sighs good-naturedly, gently wrapping his fingers around your wrist and brushing his lips over the delicate skin. 

“You’re shockingly precocious.”

You hum. 

“You just unleashed the beast. You’re like Doctor Frankenstein.”

He chuckles, sitting up and finding your shorts. You manage to be semi-helpful, lifting your legs at appropriate junctures as he tugs your clothing back on. “And you’re a nerd.”

“I don’t need to take that from you of all people.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Spencer says, and the smile in his voice makes you smile, a quarter asleep as he leans over to turn off the lamp on your side of the bed before tugging the covers over both of you. 

He pulls you close in the dark, releasing a deep sigh as you curl into him. His heartbeat is steady against your ear, his arms warm around you. You can imagine making a home for yourself here. And you don’t know if he’s thinking it, but you hope he is, as you are silently repeating to yourself with every beat of his heart;

I love you

I love you

I love you. 

-

part two

[satellite-evans]

just rain

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: Lando claims his first win of the season in a rain-soaked Melbourne Grand Prix with a gentle reminder of his son.

Word count: 4k+

Warnings: fluff, anxiety

A/N:

picture credits @pucksandpitlanes <3

AHHHHHH LANDO WON IM SO HAPPY FOR HIM!!!! I couldn't watch bc of time zones but when is saw it in the morning I was soooo 🥹🥹🥹

also Alex being higher than the ferraris was NOT on my bingo card lol but im super excited for him too🤎

I overdramatized the race a bit and it is not 100 % accurate 😅

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

The sky was breaking open.

What had been a perfect, cloudless Saturday — where everything had felt possible — was now a roaring mess of water and wind.

The same track that had held his first pole position of the season now looked like a stranger.

Lando stood by his car, helmet tucked under his arm, rain sliding off his race suit in steady streams, like the sky itself was crying for him.

He was trying — really trying — to get his head straight.

But it was hard.

Hard when the weight of every near-miss, every mistake, every podium that wasn’t a win pressed on his shoulders.

Hard when the image of Max in São Paulo, slicing through the rain like it wasn’t even there, looped in his mind, taunting him.

This was supposed to be his day.

Pole was supposed to mean something.

But now, all he could think about was how easily rain could take that away.

What if I mess it up? What if I lose everything? What if-

“Daddy?”

The small voice broke through the storm in his head like sunshine through clouds.

He turned.

There was Noah — rain dripping from the ends of his jacket, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes wide and honest and full of something Lando had lost in the last few hours: belief.

You hovered just behind him, watching quietly, giving them space.

Lando crouched down, resting his arms on his knees to meet Noah at eye level.

“Hey, buddy,” he said softly, though his throat felt tight. "You okay out here in the rain?"

Noah frowned, taking a step closer until he was right up in Lando’s space, hands reaching to tug gently at Lando’s suit.

“I am okay, but why are you not okay, Daddy?” he asked, tilting his head. "Aren’t you gonna win? You said you were gonna win."

Lando let out a breath, a shaky laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"I know, mate. I… I wanna win." His voice cracked at the end.

Noah blinked up at him, unbothered by the rain hitting his face. "Then why are you sad?"

Lando hesitated. What could he even say? Because sometimes winning feels impossible? Because I don’t know if I’m good enough? Because I'm scared?

Instead, he shrugged, offering a small, forced smile.

“It’s raining a lot,” he finally said, as if that explained the weight in his chest.

But Noah just gave him a look — the same look Lando had given you a thousand times when he thought you were worrying too much.

“It’s just rain, Daddy," Noah said matter-of-factly. "We like rain.”

Lando blinked, caught off guard.

"You always chase me in the rain," Noah continued, smiling now, that childhood certainty glowing in his eyes. "You say it makes you run faster. And you always catch me, even if I’m the fastest runner ever."

A soft laugh broke from Lando's lips, something warmer, something real.

"And Mommy always says we’ll get sick but you don’t care," Noah went on, as if this were the most important fact in the world.

"You say, 'It’s just rain, Noah. Rain makes us faster.’”

Lando’s throat tightened.

For a second, he couldn't speak.

Because in that moment, through all the noise and pressure and fear, his son had reminded him of something he’d forgotten:

Who he was.

Not just a driver. Not just a number on a screen.

But Noah’s dad. Your partner. Someone who could be brave when it mattered.

Lando reached out and pulled Noah into a hug, pressing his face into the crook of his tiny shoulder, breathing in the rain and the smell of his son — like grass and soap and home.

"You're right, little man," he whispered, voice thick. "It's just rain."

He pulled back, brushing wet curls from Noah’s face.

"And you think I'm faster than everyone, huh?"

Noah grinned, eyes lighting up. "You’re faster than everyone, Daddy! Even if it's raining forever!"

Lando let out a real laugh this time, warmth blooming in his chest.

He looked up to find you, standing there with your arms wrapped around yourself for warmth, but smiling, tears quietly mixing with the rain on your cheeks.

Their eyes locked for a moment, and you gave him a nod — small, but enough to say we believe in you.

Lando stood, keeping Noah’s little hand in his, squeezing gently.

“Okay, buddy. I’m gonna win that trophy for you.”

“Yay!” Noah beamed. “But you can keep it for your shelf... if you want.”

Lando chuckled, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of Noah’s head.

“No, I think it belongs in your room.”

Noah’s smile widened, his eyes sparkling with pride, as though his father had just promised to conquer the world for him. In that moment, the rain didn’t feel so heavy. The doubts that had plagued Lando’s mind were still there, but the weight of them didn’t seem quite as unbearable with Noah at his side.

And you — your smile, your quiet support — made the world seem possible again.

As they walked toward the pit lane, Lando felt a shift inside of him. The rain wasn’t a burden anymore. It was a challenge. A reminder that no matter how many times life tried to knock him down, he could always get back up. Just like he always did when Noah ran faster than him, laughing, his tiny feet splashing through puddles.

Lando squeezed his son’s hand tighter.

"Let’s show ‘em what we’ve got, buddy."

With a nod from Noah and a final glance at you, Lando felt the familiar rush of determination surge through him.

This wasn’t just about the race anymore.

It was about being the man he promised to be — not just for himself, but for the ones who believed in him.

The Australian Grand Prix was shaping up to be a classic.

As the cars lined up on the grid in Melbourne, the drizzle had kept the track damp, just enough to keep the tire choices uncertain. It wasn’t the heavy rain that everyone had feared, but it was far from perfect racing conditions. Still, Lando sat in P1, his hands firmly gripping the wheel, his focus set on one thing: keeping that lead.

The McLaren car was well-suited to the conditions, and Lando had a good start. The lights went out, and he got off the line clean, his heart racing in sync with the growl of the engine as he took off into Turn 1. He held his ground, blocking Max, who was gunning for the lead, while Oscar — his teammate and the home hero — was hot on his heels in P3.

The track was slick, but Lando’s experience in these tricky conditions helped him build an early gap. His McLaren was light and agile, its handling sharp as he darted through the twists of the Melbourne layout. Verstappen, however, wasn’t far behind. The Red Bull driver was a constant shadow, ready to pounce at the slightest mistake.

By the first pit window, the rain had picked up a bit more, turning the track into a quagmire of uncertainty. Tire choices were a gamble — intermediate tires or full wets? The crew had to decide quickly, and they were calling for intermediates as the rain began to settle. Lando glanced nervously at the sky but held his ground. “Let’s stay out a bit longer,” he told his team, his voice steady but with a hint of doubt. Don’t get greedy, just don’t make a mistake.

Max pitted early, pushing for the full wets as he believed the track was getting too slick for anything else. He rejoined the circuit behind Lando, but it was clear he was closing the gap, his tires cutting through the water more effectively than Lando’s.

Just as the McLaren pit crew started to signal for a pit stop — the conditions changing rapidly — the first Safety Car period was called. A rookie crashed heavily into the barriers, bringing the race to a halt. Lando’s heart raced again as he followed the Safety Car. Was this a blessing or a curse? The rain had intensified even further, and the conditions were treacherous. Oscar, who had been showing great pace, was caught out in the slippery conditions, skidding onto the grass, and although he tried to recover, he struggled to get back on track in time. He was forced to return to the pits, ultimately falling back to P13.

Now it felt like a battle between Lando, Max, and the rest of the pack. But just as they prepared to go racing again, the rain poured down harder, the track quickly becoming a slippery mess. It was a delicate balance for Lando, who was managing the lead with grit and skill but was well aware that Max was waiting to pounce.

The green flag waved again, and the cars shot back out into the mix, Lando still holding off the charging Verstappen.

Lap after lap, Lando danced on the edge of control. Every corner was a fight, every moment a test of his patience and skill. The McLaren’s rear end was constantly sliding out, but Lando somehow kept it in line. He could feel Verstappen breathing down his neck, waiting for him to make a mistake — and then, it came.

The rain intensified in a sudden downpour, and the track became a slick, unpredictable nightmare. The tires couldn’t keep up, and the grip was nonexistent. As Lando tried to brake for Turn 4, his tires locked up, and he was forced to take a detour through the gravel, his heart nearly stopping as he fought to stay on the track. He got back on just in time to gain his way back to P1.

Lando was far from done.

He set his sights forward, telling himself to focus — just focus. The rain was lashing down, but with each lap, Lando found his rhythm again, using the high-speed corners to his advantage, keeping the McLaren planted while others struggled.

A second Safety Car came out as Jack Doohan spun into the gravel, and just as quickly, the race was halted once again. The field bunched up, and Lando’s mind raced. He could feel the pressure of it all — a season opener, a potential win slipping through his fingers as Verstappen loomed behind him.

And then, when it seemed like he was about to lose his edge, Lando had a moment of clarity. He’d thought about Noah — his little boy, his voice in his head, telling him, "You’re faster than everyone, Daddy."

Lando could feel his son’s words ignite a fire inside him. He wasn’t racing to prove anything to anyone else, but to show Noah, to show himself, that no storm, no matter how wild, could stop him.

When the Safety Car came in again, Lando took a deep breath. The track was as slippery as ever, but the fight wasn’t over.

Lando’s heart was hammering. He was in the lead, and with the final few corners in sight, he pushed his car to the edge. The track had dried just enough, but the pressure on him was unbearable. He took a deep breath and crossed the line with the loudest, most cathartic roar of his life.

Lando Norris had done it. He had won.

P1.

He couldn’t believe it.

The rain had made this race a battle of attrition, and as he eased into the cooldown lap, he couldn’t help but smile to himself.

He slowly lifted his hand to the radio and spoke to his team, his voice shaky with emotion.

“Oooph! Little bit of pressure, well done boys. Beautifully handled. Excuted to the second. One second later and we were done so well done everyone. Congrats, amazing way to start the year. Thank you so much. This one was for you, Noah.”

The world exploded in cheers as the McLaren pit crew erupted, their joy a mix of disbelief and ecstasy. But through the noise, Lando only had one thing on his mind: you and Noah.

He couldn’t wait to share this with his little boy and with the love of his life.

Lando brought the car back to the pit lane. He could hear the roar of the crowd, the fans cheering from the stands, even as the noise inside his helmet began to fade. He blinked, trying to keep his focus, but his hands were still shaking slightly from the adrenaline. His chest felt tight, like he was trying to contain all the emotions swirling inside him — relief, pride, and an overwhelming sense of gratitude.

He had done it.

He had won. P1.

As the car coasted into the pit box, the team was already waiting. The McLaren crew flooded around him, clapping and shouting, their faces beaming with joy. But Lando barely registered any of it. His eyes were scanning the crowd, searching for the two faces that meant the most to him — you and Noah.

The cheering around him felt distant, almost muted, as if it wasn’t real. But seeing you, standing by the barriers, your eyes wide with emotion, was like a splash of cold water. The world around him snapped back into focus. He could see Noah next to you, bouncing up and down, his small face lit up with excitement.

Lando’s heart swelled.

He quickly removed his helmet, his wet hair clinging to his forehead, and climbed out of the car. He could feel the weight of his win, but in that moment, it felt lighter. He was overwhelmed by how much this meant to him. It wasn’t just the victory, it was that he had made it — for himself, for you, and for Noah.

Before the team even had a chance to celebrate properly, he was walking toward you.

“Daddy! You did it!” Noah cried out, his voice high-pitched with excitement. Lando's eyes softened, and he dropped to one knee, his arms open wide.

Noah ran straight into his arms, as Lando hugged him tight, holding him close like he had been waiting for this moment for a lifetime. The rain still fell lightly, but it didn’t matter. All the chaos of the race, the uncertainty, the fear — it was gone.

“I did it, buddy,” Lando whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “We did it.”

“You’re the fastest, Daddy!” Noah exclaimed, his small hands grabbing onto Lando’s race suit. “I knew you were!”

Lando chuckled, pulling back just enough to look at his son. “You knew, huh? You were right all along.”

Noah nodded vigorously, his smile as wide as it could go. “You told me you were faster than everyone. And you are!”

Lando’s chest tightened at his words. He had said it to Noah so many times, almost as a promise, a reassurance that no matter what, he could always come out on top. He had made sure to tell Noah that on the tough days, on the days where it felt like nothing was going right, but now it was reality.

And it was because of you and Noah that he had found the strength to keep pushing.

Lando stood up, holding Noah in his arms as he walked toward you. The world seemed to slow as his gaze locked with yours.

You were smiling, but there was something else there — something that said “I knew you could do it”. You were just as emotional as he was. Your eyes glistened with pride, but there was a tenderness in your expression that made him feel like he was home.

“I told you, didn’t I?” Lando’s voice was rough with emotion as he reached out for your hand.

You nodded, your hand fitting perfectly into his. “I never doubted you for a second.”

He leaned in, his eyes soft as he looked at you — the weight of the moment hanging in the air. Without thinking, he pulled you into him, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that was full of emotion. It was gentle at first, a quiet acknowledgment of everything he had been holding inside.

For a moment, time seemed to slow, and Lando could feel the joy and relief in that single kiss. It wasn’t just the victory he was celebrating, but the shared understanding between the two of you — the quiet support, the unwavering belief, the love.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours for a beat longer, as if he didn’t want to let the moment slip away. "I couldn't have done it without you," he whispered, his breath warm against your skin.

Noah squirmed in Lando’s arms, eager to get down and join the celebrations. Lando carefully set him down, and Noah immediately ran off toward the McLaren crew, who were cheering and clapping for the win.

As Noah ran off, Lando turned to you, the full weight of the victory finally sinking in.

“I didn’t think it was going to happen, not with the rain, not with Max so close,” he admitted, his voice quiet. “I almost lost it.”

You smiled softly, brushing a damp strand of hair out of his face. “But you didn’t. You held it together, even when it was tough.”

Lando nodded, his heart full. “I had to. For you, for Noah. I couldn’t let this slip away.”

“You didn’t. And look at you now.” You cupped his face gently, your thumbs brushing over his wet skin. “You’re amazing, Lando.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the quiet moment before the world around him started to roar again. But it didn’t matter. He had done it.

The sound of the crowd cheering filled the air, and Lando turned back to watch his team. His crew was celebrating with Noah in the center, lifting him up in excitement. It wasn’t just his victory, it was theirs too. They had all worked for this moment, and Lando could feel the bond between him and his team, his family, stronger than ever.

As the team ushered him toward the podium for the celebrations, he couldn’t stop smiling. His eyes sought yours one more time, and in that glance, everything was clear. This was just the beginning.

As the excitement of the podium celebrations slowly faded, the atmosphere began to settle. The noise of the crowd dimmed as the McLaren team gathered to wind down, still congratulating Lando for his incredible win. It was time for the world to return to normal — at least for a little while.

The rain had stopped during the post-race celebrations, but the sky had once again darkened, and soon enough, the first raindrops began to fall, soft and steady, like a quiet whisper.

Lando was supposed to be getting ready for the press conferences, and Noah had been escorted back to the team’s area, his energy barely contained after all the excitement. But as the minutes ticked by, you found yourself standing near the pit lane, looking around, trying to spot them — Lando and Noah.

They had been with you just moments ago, but now, there was no sign of either of them. You checked the garage. No luck. You headed toward the pit, but nothing. The sound of the rain grew louder, and you could feel the cool droplets on your skin, the familiar scent of wet pavement filling the air.

As you were about to turn back toward the team area, you heard a familiar laugh.

You looked up. There they were.

Lando and Noah were standing near one of the back entrances to the track, the two of them laughing and completely drenched. Lando’s jacket was already soaked, but he didn’t seem to mind. Noah, in his little race suit, was jumping up and down, splashing in the growing puddles, his face glowing with pure joy.

Lando had both arms raised, pretending to be a goalkeeper as he blocked Noah’s wild attempts to splash him with water. They were in their own little world — no race, no press conferences, no podiums, just the rain and the playful chaos of it all.

And for a moment, it felt like everything had slowed down again, just like it had on the track.

You smiled to yourself, watching them. The rain didn’t bother them; if anything, it seemed to make the moment even more special. You could hear Noah shout over the rain, his voice filled with glee, “Come on, Mommy! It’s just rain! You can do it too!”

Lando caught sight of you, his eyes lighting up with mischief. He shrugged with a grin, as if to say it’s just rain, no big deal.

Noah ran toward you, water splashing with every step. “Mommy, come play!” He giggled, his face streaked with joy and raindrops. “It’s fun! Daddy says it’s just rain!”

Lando was right behind him, shaking his head in mock exasperation but his smile betraying the playfulness in his voice. “Come on, babe, it’s just a bit of water. What’s the worst that could happen?”

You could see the way Noah looked up at you with those wide, hopeful eyes. You couldn’t say no.

With a sigh, you gave in. “Fine, fine.”

You stepped forward, and in a moment of complete surrender, you joined them, letting the rain soak through your clothes as you took a running leap into the nearest puddle with Noah. The splash was enormous, and Noah shrieked with delight, running off to jump in the next puddle.

Lando joined you, laughing, as the three of you danced and played under the darkening sky, the rain falling harder now but somehow feeling like the perfect way to celebrate the day.

For that fleeting moment, there was no world beyond the sound of Noah’s laughter, the rain crashing down, and Lando’s teasing calls as he splashed you and Noah. The storm had come back, but instead of being a nuisance, it was the backdrop to a perfect family moment.

“Look at us,” Lando said between laughs, his hair soaked and his face flushed with happiness. “We’re all drenched and I couldn’t be happier.”

You caught Noah as he tried to leap into a particularly big puddle, lifting him up and holding him close. His wet hair clung to his forehead, but his smile never faded.

“This is the best thing ever!” Noah giggled, kicking his feet playfully.

“You sure know how to make a rainy day perfect, don’t you, bud?” Lando said, holding you close as you both watched your son’s joyful antics.

“Just rain,” you said softly, your gaze meeting Lando’s. The chaos of the day had faded into the background. What mattered now was here — this moment, with Lando and Noah, playing and laughing in the rain.

Lando pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there just a moment longer. “It’s just rain,” he whispered, and for the first time today, you didn’t mind the rain at all.