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tacobacoyeet · 2 days ago

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not the time | a.d., p.z.

a/n: few things to say. first of all, i got way too into writing this and i don't know if i like it or not yet, but we'll see. secondly, i gave up after i was done and decided not to proofread. oops! if you're like me and you like to listen to music while you read, i suggest loyalty by kendrick lamar ft. rihanna. yes, i'm linking it. finally, not related, but please send me requests or asks or whatever! just fill my inbox with literally anything!

warnings: SMUT 18+, cheating, cursing, everyone is messy, i'm still not entirely sure if this fully makes sense, not proofread!

It was just the four of you. You, Art, Patrick, and Tashi.

Not in some perfect, effortless way. Just the four of you… together. Training, sharing meals in the Stanford Athletics Dining Hall, fucking around, orbiting around each other in ways that weren’t always easy to define.

You were with Art, Tashi was with Patrick. That was just the way it was. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t complicated.

Patrick had always been technically better than Art. He had the trophies to prove it: from the little stuff back at the Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy to the Junior US Open win. He had the natural talent, the aggression, the game that always just looked effortless. But Art? Art was the workhorse. He stayed longer on the courts, pushed himself harder, chased an invisible finish line, constantly. That’s why he, unlike Patrick, had chosen to play college tennis before going pro. He was convinced he needed to be better, not that he was too good to have his name attached to a university.

Tashi? She was the untouchable one. The best of all of you, of everyone, really. She was destined for something bigger, something far beyond your little group and Stanford and all of the stupid, tangled emotions that none of you had the words for yet.

And then there was you. Stuck somewhere in the middle of it all.

You and Art had just happened. No grand declarations, no dramatic tension. You were together because it just made sense. You understood each other. The way you both trained like you had something to prove. The way you both felt like you had to fight for space in a world that didn’t quite want to give it to you.

Patrick and Tashi were different. They were volatile, all sharp edges and unspoken resentments. Their constant, tiny arguments were what made them who they were—small, stupid things that started over footwork critiques and ended with Patrick trying to sigh, suck it up, and apologize while Tashi kicked him out of her dorm. But they understood each other in a way that made sense, too. She was the only one who truly made him feel challenged. He was the only one who ever gave her the chance to get angry.

It should have been simple.

But sometimes, Art looked at Tashi in a way that made your chest tighten. Sometimes, when he spoke to her, his voice softened in a way it didn’t with you. And Patrick… he never said anything, but you could always feel the way he looked at you, like he was trying to burn you into his memory just so he could pretend he had you.

You ignored it. Until you couldn’t, anymore.

---

“And now… your 2002, 2005, and 2006 NCAA Women’s Tennis Champions. Give it up for STANDFORD TENNIS!”

You and the rest of the team step onto the court, several of you waving to the crowd, smiling. Tashi doesn’t. It wasn’t abnormal for her to do that, but what was a little off was the way her eyes scanned the crowd for Patrick, gaze steely as she noticed the empty seat next to Art. Your boyfriend, Art, who was too busy frowning at his phone to look down and blow a kiss at you like he normally did at your matches. That’s when the feeling of impending doom started to fester in your gut. But you ignored it. Like you always did.

Not much later, you’re watching from the bench as Tashi absolutely demolishes Sally What’s-Her-Face from Pepperdine. She’s making it look easy, like she’s barely even thinking about it. But you know her better than that. She’s not thinking about it at all.

You can almost sense it before it happens—the way she doesn’t catch the barest hint of spin on the other girl’s ball until the last second, the way she tries to overcorrect mid-swing, the sickening snap that seems to echo around the court as she falls to the ground, clutching her knee and crying in a way that is entirely foreign for someone as stone-cold as Tashi Duncan.

You can feel the bile rising in your throat, the nausea in your stomach again. But before you can rush to confront your friend, your boyfriend is on the court, resting her head in his lap. You would’ve laughed at how stupid he looked hurdling over the net if your head wasn’t spinning so much. Where the hell is Patrick? You clench your fists, forcing yourself to breathe.

Now is not the time.

---

Later that night, you’re standing in the corner of the sports therapy room. You may as well have not been, though. Tashi had Art. He sat by her side like an obedient little chihuahua, convinced he was being a guard dog when he really just looked fucking desperate. But you didn’t say anything. You just watched him. The way his jaw was clenched, his eyes trained on the ground like he had a million things to say to her but no clue how to say them.

After a while, Patrick appears in the doorway. You watch Tashi’s face harden as she sees him open his mouth to speak.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Out. Out. O—”

“Tashi, Tashi listen! Please! ”

“OUT!” You would’ve been taken aback by the anger in her voice if Art didn’t open his mouth next.

“Patrick, get the fuck out!”

You’re dumbfounded for a moment as you look at Art, in disbelief that he was even capable of portraying anger to that level. It wasn’t just anger—it was something else. Something cold and dangerous in Art’s voice that you had never heard before. Patrick looks around the room, eyes wide. And then he swallows, jaw tight, before he turns and walks away.

You, ever the pacifist, always the one to smooth things over, couldn’t stop yourself from following him. Patrick might have been a lot of things— arrogant, reckless, a complete pain in the ass— but you had never seen him like that before. So… defeated.

He was already halfway down the hall when you caught up.

"Patrick."

He didn’t stop.

"Patrick, slow down—"

"Don’t." His voice was low, rough.

You reach for his arm. He jerks away.

"I don’t need the fucking pity, okay?" He turned to you then, eyes flashing. "I already got my ass handed to me in there, I don’t need you coming out here to make me feel worse."

"I’m not trying to make you feel worse," you said softly.

"Then what the fuck do you want?"

"I just—" You hesitate. You didn’t even know what you wanted. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

Patrick let out a sharp, humorless laugh.

"Yeah? That’s fucking rich, coming from you."

Your stomach twisted. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Patrick exhaled harshly, dragging a hand through his hair. Then, after a long, charged pause—

"Forget it."

But you didn’t want to forget it.

"No. Say it."

Patrick’s jaw clenches. He takes a step closer, the air between you charged, suffocating.

“You never even noticed, did you?” he hisses.

You inhaled sharply, throat tight. Of course you fucking noticed.

"Patrick—"

"No, fuck it." He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. "I’m supposed to be with Tashi, you’re supposed to be with Art, but it was never really like that, was it?"

The words settled between you, heavy and true.

Because you had felt it. That unspoken pull, the lingering stares, the what-ifs that neither of you had ever dared to touch. But now was not the time.

“Patrick, you can’t just—”

“No.”

And then suddenly, you weren’t thinking at all. It was instinct, impulse, desperation. One second, you were standing there, breath shallow, and the next—

You were kissing him.

Or maybe he was kissing you.

You didn’t know who moved first. All you knew was the way his hands grabbed at you, like he was starving, like he had been waiting for this for a lifetime. The way his lips crushed against yours, deep and desperate, stealing every thought from your mind and every breath from your lungs. It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t careful. He wasn’t careful. And after that? The idea of going back was nothing but a childish fantasy.

---

12 years later, that moment is what’s replaying in your mind as you stare out the window, watching the clouds unleash a torrential downpour that might be the only natural phenomenon that could replicate the turmoil in your brain. The rain slams against the hotel window, drowning out the distant hum of the city. The room is too small, too dimly lit, but you don’t mind. You’ve stayed in worse.

Patrick is sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched over, elbows on his knees. His hair is damp from the shower, his skin still flushed from running drills to prepare for the first round of the challenger. He hasn’t looked at you since he walked in.

You exhale, rubbing a hand over your face. You’re so fucking tired.

"Are you just gonna sit there all night?" you ask, trying to keep your voice even.

Nothing.

You swallow hard. Try again.

"Patrick."

"What?" His voice is clipped, irritated.

"Talk to me."

"About what?" He finally lifts his head, his eyes shadowed. "About how you’re the only reason we can afford this fucking room?"

The words cut, sharp and deliberate.

You stare at him, the exhaustion settling into your bones.

"I have never—"

"You don’t have to say it," he mutters, shaking his head. "I see it every time you sign another contract. Every time you win a match. Every time you pay for something I should be paying for."

Your stomach tightens. His failures are eating him alive, and instead of facing them, he’s turned them into a weapon—aimed at you.

"I have never once thrown that in your face," you say, voice trembling.

"Yeah?" Patrick’s laugh is hollow. "Then why do I feel like you’re the only reason I have a roof over my head?"

You freeze. The room suddenly feels too small, the air too thick. It’s not like this is the first argument. It may as well have been the thousandth. It starts with something small. It always does. A forgotten errand, a passive-aggressive comment, a new pack of cigarettes. Suddenly, you feel exhausted. Sick of sitting down, apologizing, letting it happen.

"Maybe because you won’t let me be anything but the enemy," you whisper.

Patrick blinks, caught off guard, but you don’t wait for his response.

You turn sharply, grab your jacket, and storm toward the door.

"Where the hell are you going?" he calls after you.

You don’t answer. You just go.

---

The rain is relentless, soaking you through your clothes, chilling you to the bone. You don’t know where you’re going—only that you can’t be there anymore. The lighted sign of the Best Western you had bought a room in flickers behind you as you walk further away. You’re not sure how long you’re walking, but soon enough, there are more cars, more buildings, more streetlights. After a while, the metallic gold of the Ritz-Carlton sign catches your eye, the white light from behind the glass doors illuminating a figure standing beneath the awning.

You can’t help but groan internally at your luck as your eyes lock with those unmistakable, piercing baby blues. Art fucking Donaldson. He’s leaning against a pillar, cigarette between his fingers, the ember burning bright in the pitch-black night. It’s a habit that Tashi always used to chastise Patrick for. You can’t help but wonder when Art picked it up. If that’s the only thing he’s been doing behind Tashi’s back.

You stop in your tracks, your chest rising and falling far too fast. He exhales, smoke clouding his face for a moment as he watches you. And then—

“Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Your stomach twists. You weren’t expecting to see him at a shitty little challenger like this one. He was supposed to be a big star. A ‘Game Changer’. He was supposed to be way past playing matches like this one, New Rochelle in the middle of Dumbfuck, Nowhere. Phil’s Tire-Town, or something. It’s not like Patrick was good enough for anything better, but Art sure as hell was. Or at least, he was supposed to be.

“Where’s Tashi?” you ask, voice barely a whisper.

Art closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling as he rubs a hand over his jaw. “Not here.”

That’s all he says. But it’s enough.

Your heart is beating far faster than it should be. Your hands are shaking. You’re not sure if it’s from the cold, the walk, or him.

“I hate you,” you hiss. But he sees through you instantly.

“Then tell me you don’t still think about me.”

You can’t. He knows you can’t. His eyes bore into you. Normally, you’d shrink under his gaze. He’s seeing far deeper into you than you want him to. But maybe the flare in confidence from your argument with Patrick is what’s supporting you. Maybe it’s the ringing in your ears, the pain behind Art’s eyes, or the burning of your skin despite the fierce cold. You’re not sure. But it doesn’t matter.

There’s a beat.

And then suddenly, you’re on him.

Or maybe he’s on you. You don’t know who moves first, only that one second you’re standing there, fists clenched, and the next you’re colliding—his hands in your hair, yours fisting his hoodie, mouths crashing together like neither of you can breathe without this.

It’s not soft. It’s not careful. It’s twelve fucking years of resentment and longing and need colliding all at once.

Art groans against your mouth, pressing you back against the cool brick of the pillar, hands gripping your waist like he’s trying to prove something. You arch into him, gasping when his lips move to your jaw, then your throat, teeth scraping against your pulse.

"You gonna regret this in the morning?" he mutters, voice rough.

"Shut up," you breathe, dragging him back up to your lips.

He doesn’t argue.

His hands are everywhere—palming your hips, sliding under your soaked shirt, fingers tracing the dip of your spine. Yours slip under his hoodie, pushing it up, needing to feel him, needing to remind yourself that this is real.

You don’t stop.

Not when you sneak your way up to his hotel room, avoiding the other patrons. Not when you're in the elevator and he's sucking hickeys into your neck that you'll have to hide from Patrick. Not when he lifts you, dropping you onto the mattress, not when he crawls over you, pressing you into the sheets, not when his hands slide between your thighs, gripping, teasing, pulling a whimper from your throat.

Not even when he pauses, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard like he’s trying to convince himself this is a mistake.

"Tell me to stop," he rasps.

You don’t.

You won’t.

Instead, you drag him down, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, whispering his name like a prayer. It takes barely a moment for both of you to bare yourselves to each other, clothes tossed around the room without a second thought. Art doesn't waste time. He wasted the last 12 years. He wasn't going to waste another minute.

Nothing about this is gentle. He’s biting his way across your collarbone, up the column of your throat, behind your ear. Your fingers are tangled in his silky, golden locks, tugging at them in tandem with the rhythm of the soft gasps and moans he’s drawing from you. His hair is short, now. For a split second, you mourn the messy mop of curls that graced his head 12 years ago, but your thoughts are quickly drawn away when he’s grabbing your jaw, forcing you to make eye contact with him.

“Last chance,” he pants. “Tell me to stop now, and we leave like this never happened.”

You glare at him, gripping his hair a little tighter. “Is that what you want? To spend the rest of your life trying to forget about me? About Patrick? Trying to forget how you decided the puppy crush you had on Tashi was more important than your best fucking friend?”

His face hardens at your whispered remarks, each word pushing the knife deeper into his chest. But he wasn’t that stupid. Not anymore. “No,” he frowns. “Fuck, no. I’m never letting you go again.”

You don’t believe him, but you nod anyway. “Okay, then.”

You aren’t sure what you were expecting him to feel like after 12 years. He used to be soft, always drawing a line before he ever got too rough with you. But being a lapdog for this long had resulted in far too many pent-up emotions, and you were on the receiving end of them.

It almost gave you whiplash, the contrast of his actions. He fucked into you with an animalistic pace, hand squeezing your throat just enough, but his lips were by your ear, face nestled against your neck as he whispered praises and sweet nothings in your ear.

“You’re perfect. You always were. Should’ve been mine.”

It’s hard for you to focus on his words because you’re too focused on how his free hand has made its way down to your core, the pads of his middle and ring finger rubbing your clit with so much speed that you’re convinced he’s on drugs. Maybe he was hiding that from Tashi too.

You’re so lost in the sensations that you almost miss it. Almost. You wish you had.

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

It makes your eyes fly open. The last thing you wanted to feel right now was guilt, and you knew that if he was feeling it, then it was only a matter of time before he projected enough for it to infect you too.

“Absolutely not,” you growl. “Shut your stupid mouth and keep fucking me.”

He listens. He thrusts his hips harder, faster, breathy moans of your name falling off of his lips with the ragged beauty of a waterfall. He moves his hand off your throat and into your hair, tugging with enough force to rip a cry from you. You’re so close, way faster than you wanted to be. But he won’t have it.

“Art,” you whimper. “Art, please, I’m so close, I—”

“No, baby, hold on. Just a little longer, please. You deserve it.”

He wanted to prolong your pleasure, give you the well-built orgasm you deserved. It was the least he could do, after all. If you wouldn’t let him apologize with his words, then he would make it apparent with his actions. Besides, he wasn’t sure if this would be the last time he’d ever have you beneath him. He had to make it count. And he did.

Soon enough, he’s fucking you through your orgasm, a hand covering your mouth to muffle your cries. God, he’d do anything to hear those noises every night, in his own bed at home, loud enough to make you go hoarse. But that would have to wait. For tonight, he’d take you just as you are. The fact that you were there, that you were really there was more than enough for him. He’d worry about the bits and pieces of it all at another time.

A few hours later, you sneak back into your hotel room. Patrick is dead asleep, his snores filling the small room. You don’t bother to cover Art’s hickeys. Patrick could use the reminder that you could do better. If he wanted to assume everything you did for him was from a place of pity and arrogance, then so be it. There was no reason for you to put effort into trying to pacify him anymore.

---

A couple of days later, the sun shines brightly down on the court of the Phil’s Tire Town Challenger. You make your way into the stands, heading for your usual front and center seat—and that’s when you see her. Honestly, you should’ve expected it. Tashi was Art’s coach, after all. Of course she’d sit in the spot with the best vantage point of the action.

She turns her head, her chocolate eyes locking with yours. That’s when you catch a glimpse of the small reddish-purple splotches just peeking out from the pristine white collar of her button-down dress. You can’t help the way the corners of your mouth curve up into the barest hint of a smirk. She glances down for a split second, clearly noticing the not-yet-faded mark that lingers on your collarbone, not entirely hidden by your clothes. Her eyes shoot back up to yours, a matching expression of mutual agreement on her features as you take the seat next to her.

Neither of you say anything. For now, both of you return your eyes to the court as Art and Patrick get announced, walking onto the court. They both look up at the stands. Patrick’s the first to acknowledge you and Tashi sitting next to each other. A Cheshire cat grin crawls its way onto his face, and he turns his head back to look at Art, who meets his gaze with a simple upward twitch of his lips.

Tashi’s fingers brush your hand as she grips the armrest. Your eyes meet again, both of your gazes charged with a little bit of electricity and a whole lot of sex. There’s a statement hanging in the air between you: ‘Yeah, I fucked your husband.’ There’s nothing particularly malicious about it— far from it, honestly. It’s more like an opening to a contract. A trade agreement. But, you’ll hash out the details later.

Now was not the time.

#a writes #i can't lie i definitely poured my soul into this one #challengers 2024 #challengers fic #challengers movie #challengers x reader #art donaldson smut #art donaldson #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson fluff #patrick zweig #patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig fluff #patrick zweig smut #patrick zweig fic #tashi duncan #tashi duncan x reader #art donaldson fic #Spotify

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aleskie · 2 days ago

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THE WAY I LOVED YOU | Charles Leclerc x Reader

SUMMARY: You will never love anyone the way you love Charles Leclerc.

Warnings: None. Just a lil angsty Author's Note: This fic was originally written and published for another athlete/character, but I don't write for them anymore! But I thought it was too good to stay hidden forever so I changed some details to make it suit this setting more! I hope you like it!

“You hate him,” Charles says, his voice low but certain.

He’s talking about your boyfriend, Levi, who you’ve been with for a little over a year now. The one you brought back home with you. He gets along with everyone swimmingly. He finds things in common with your mom—they’ve apparently been texting for a few months now about embroidery—and he effortlessly talks business and stocks with your dad. He plays with your nieces and nephews, throwing himself into their games without a hint of self-consciousness.

Even when your ex-boyfriend’s family showed up to dinner, he handled it with grace—no jealousy, no drama.

He’s perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

So why are you hiding on the back porch with said ex-boyfriend?

“I don’t hate him,” you say, eyes shifting away to the night sky. “He’s good to me. He’s…” Your voice falters, just enough for him to catch it. “He’s it for me.”

Charles scoffs, his tone tinged with frustration. “I was it for you. He’s just nice.”

You and Charles were childhood sweethearts with a love story set against the charm of the Monaco riviera. It was the type of romance people dreamed about—two kids growing up together, sharing dreams, making promises, finding warmth and love in each other amidst a world of fast cars and even faster summers.

In these types of stories, they stay together forever. They get married, have kids—they build a life together and spend their golden years watching their grandchildren play by the sea.

You wanted that with him. A fairytale story with a fairytale ending: the home, the family, a life wrapped in shared memories. You thought you had it.

But reality has a way of ripping those dreams apart before you even realize they’re gone.

“What do you even want from me?” Your voice is laced with exasperation. “We both know you don’t want to be here.”

Charles shrugs, not even looking at you, his nonchalance only making your heart ache more.

“Let’s not forget the facts, Charlie.” The nickname feels bitter on your tongue, the affection you once felt now tangled in hurt. “You ended it. You left me.” You can feel the tears starting to well up, but you force them back. You refuse to let him see you break again. “You might always be ‘it’ for me, but you don’t get to blame me for trying to rebuild my life after you.”

Charles broke your heart. Plain and simple.

You would’ve preferred a slow death for your relationship, something you could have seen coming, prepared for. Instead, it was a quick burial. He’d made it into Formula One and suddenly, you weren’t worth fighting for anymore.

One day, his arms were wrapped around you, his voice soft as he whispered sweet nothings—feeding you dreams of a future, of leaving the country and traveling all over the world together. The next day, he was gone. Packed up his things and took your heart with him.

He didn’t even say goodbye.

So when he shows up out of the blue, all chocolate eyes and chiseled face and that same boyish smile, it feels like a cruel joke. Like the universe is testing just how much you can take. You tell yourself you won’t fall for it—for him—not again. But then he looks at you, and for a second, it’s like no time has passed at all. The years melt away, and you’re back on that same street where everything began.

“Run away with me,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like you don’t have a life now. Like you aren’t a part of a community, of something—anything. Like you’re his again.

You hate how he can say it so easily, like no time has passed.

You hate how a part of you wants to run with him

The silence stretches, broken only by the sound of birds and the wind chimes that hang near the door—the same ones you made when you were sixteen, back when you were together. You make a mental note to take them down.

“I hate you,” you say, your voice threatening to break at a moment’s notice, “I hate you. I hate that you think I can just leave everything behind for you. I hate that you think I don’t have a life without you. I hate you.” A pause. “I hate you.” It’s resigned, almost a whisper.

“Mon ange,” he murmurs, his voice so soft, so familiar. It’s the Charles you remember, the one who knew how to make your heart ache in all the right ways. “You don’t hate me.”

A bitter laugh escapes you. “That’s the worst part. I can’t.” You feel a tear slip down your cheek and quickly wipe it away. “We weren’t good for each other,” you continue, your voice trembling. “God knows we fought all the time. Never agreed on a single thing.”

You chuckle, the sound hollow. “You broke me. And I still love you. I wish I knew why.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, his eyes searching yours. “Do you think we would’ve made it if I’d given us a real shot?”

Your breath hitches as you consider the question. “I don’t know,” you whisper, the words barely audible. “You never let us try.”

It takes a beat before you stand, wiping away any lingering tears. There was no more room for what-ifs. You were adults now. You couldn’t afford to dream anymore.

When you re-enter the house, Levi’s smile greets you instantly. His arm wraps around your waist, and he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. You try to focus on him, on the warmth of his touch, but all you can feel is the numbness creeping in.

You catch the looks from Charles’s brothers, the ones that seem to see straight through your carefully placed smile. You shove down the guilt—the guilt of letting him occupy your thoughts when your perfect boyfriend is standing right beside you

You ignore the echoes of youth flashing through your mind as you spot Charles re-enter the party.

You ignore the memories of you and him slow dancing in your bedroom and driving around the city and kissing in the rain. You ignore the memories of the fights, short-lived and fiery and passionate, always ending with a tender kiss and a promise to do better. You ignore the memories of matching bracelets and midnight runs to the store and sneaking into each other’s bedrooms after curfew.

You ignore everything. You keep smiling, keep playing your part, though deep down you know he can tell it’s all an act.

The evening winds down, and soon Levi is guiding you to the car, saying his goodbyes to your family and friends. You follow along, playing the part of the dutiful girlfriend, hand firmly locked in his hand.

Once inside, Levi turns to you, his gaze soft and warm. “Did I tell you how beautiful you looked tonight?” he asks, smiling at you like you’re the center of his universe.

You offer him a soft smile in return, though it still doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You think that maybe this is what he thinks your real smile looks like. You take his hand in yours, pressing a gentle kiss to his knuckles.

“You’re perfect,” you whisper.

You know you’re lying. But that’s okay. In the end, you’re the only one who’s hurting. You can smile through the lies, through the ache that lingers, through the painful truth that you could never love anyone the way you loved Charles Leclerc.

#charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc #cl16 #f1 fanfiction #f1 imagine #formula one #f1 x reader #✩ allie's writing ✩

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insidekatmind · 13 hours ago

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Secret~ Choi Do-Il

Request: yes!

The Wonryong Group headquarters is a cold and austere place. Gray concrete walls and dark glass stand imposingly, hiding secrets and dangerous ambitions behind them. You walk confidently along the corridors, trying to keep your face impassive as you were taught. You are a recruit, but also something more. Your training has been rigorous and ruthless, but you have always shown a strength that few possess.

Next to you, Choi Do-il maintains his usual calm and calculating attitude. His eyes observe everything carefully, his mind always one step ahead of the others. He is one of the group's leading elements, respected and feared by many.

What no one knows is that, beyond being colleagues, you are something more. A secret relationship that you have carefully cultivated, protected by the shadows and by your own cunning. No one suspects that behind your cold and professional exchanges there are deeper glances and stolen touches at the most unexpected moments.

"Are you ready for today's training?" Do-il asks, his voice as emotionless as ever.

"Always ready," you reply with a small smile, which he catches even though his eyes betray nothing.

You find yourself in the training room, a huge, bare room, furnished only with tools and combat weapons. For an entire hour you train relentlessly, quick and precise strikes, fluid and lethal moves. Neither of you hold back, it's a constant test of your limits and your endurance.

When training ends, you are alone. The other members have already left or are busy elsewhere. Heavy breathing fills the silent room as you stop, both sweaty and tired, but with the adrenaline still alive in your veins.

"You've improved," he comments, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

"I have to keep up with you, don't I?" you respond by taking a few steps closer, your eyes shining with an intensity that only he can unleash.

Without another word, he closes the distance between you. His hands grip your hips with a firmness that is never violent, but decisive. His mouth finds yours and all the control you show in front of others dissolves in that private moment.

The kisses are quick and greedy, as if every stolen second is precious. His fingers tangle in your hair as his body presses against yours, pushing you towards the cold wall.

"We don't have much time," he murmurs, but his tone betrays his desire to ignore that reality.

"I know," you reply breathlessly, but your gaze promises him that every moment together is worth the risk.

Maybe it's crazy. Maybe it's dangerous. But in that world of deception and power struggles, he's the only thing that can make you feel alive.

Do-il kisses you again and you cling to him.

His lips move hungrily against yours, igniting a fire within you that threatens to consume all rational thought. Your hands roam his muscular chest, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. He presses you harder against the wall, his hips grinding against yours in a slow, deliberate rhythm that makes your breath hitch.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" he murmurs against your lips, his voice low and husky. "How badly I want to take you right here, right now?"

His words send a shiver down your spine, and you arch into him, craving more of his touch. But just as quickly as it began, the moment is interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching.

Doil pulls away abruptly, his expression instantly switching back to one of cold indifference. He straightens his shirt and runs a hand through his hair, composing himself with practiced ease.

"Remember,"he says quietly, his eyes flicking to the door, "we can't let anyone suspect anything. Not until I've secured my position."

He takes a step back, putting some distance between you. "I'll see you later. Don't forget our meeting with the investors tonight."

With that, he turns and walks away, leaving you alone in the training room, your heart racing and your lips swollen from his kisses. You take a deep breath, trying to calm yourself and regain your composure. You know he's right you can't afford to let anyone find out about your relationship. Not yet.

As you leave the room, you can't help but think about the danger and excitement of your secret affair. It's a thrill unlike anything you've ever experienced, and you know that you would do anything to protect it.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of meetings and training sessions. But as the evening approaches, your thoughts keep drifting back to Doil and the investors' meeting. You know that he'll be on his best behavior, charming and ruthless in equal measure.

#choi do il #little women #wi ha joon x reader #wi ha joon #wi ha jun #sweet story #secret love #actor x reader #reader x various #reader x character #reader x canon #character x y/n #character x oc #character x character #character x you #character x reader #character imagines

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plasticflowersinahistorycemetery · 2 days ago

Text

exhibitionism

part IV

Pairing: SugarDaddy!Ben x Fem!Reader

Summary: You're settling into something you don’t fully understand, but it feels too good to question—too intoxicating to resist. Ben’s world is bleeding into yours, shaping it, owning it. He gives, and you take, but you’re starting to realise that nothing he gives is without cost. Doesn't matter how much that drink was anyway.

Warnings: 18+!, Ben once again being his own warning, age gap, language, misogyny, drug consumption, smut (kissing, biting, marking, slapping, dirty talk, clitoral stimulation, overstim, forced orgasms, fingering, handjob, cunnilingus/oral, p in v, cum on face, throttling, rough sex, semi-public sex, somnophilia, sexsomnia, dub-con), mind games, manipulation, degradation, power imbalance, I may have missed some. (There's a bunch in this one, agh!)

Word Count: 6,697

A/N: Besties, when I tell you this took everything from me... I mean it wholeheartedly. Burnout has officially hit, and my brain feels like goddamn mush right now. I'm not even sure I proofread this properly smh. I'm not sure I'll get time to fully write the next instalment tomorrow because I've got a super busy workday, tons of appointments, but I will probably get partway started on it. Lil appearance from more of The Boys in this one, only brief mentions, but I like integrating them into this AU. Like a lil easter egg, teheh. <3 And the foreshadowing from Butcher at the end was the part I got most excited about, honestly. Cryptic motherfucker, always. The fic ain't called "exhibitionism" for nothing. 👀 You know the drill: if all the warnings listed above aren't evident yet, they will be. And please let me know what y'alls thoughts are. I am so grateful to each and every one of you for reading the utter sewage my brain creates. Signing off, until the next one. All the love.

Without further ado: EXHIBITIONISM

Power is not taken. It is given.

A glance across the bar. A drink set down without a word. A hand at the small of your back, guiding you somewhere you don’t belong.

It starts small—a single indulgence, a breathless yes.

Then, suddenly, you are on display. Draped over his lap, diamonds at your throat, whiskey on your lips. A possession. A prize. A thing to be seen.

Because men like him do not love. They own.

Morning crept in slow and golden, stretching lazy fingers of light through the blinds, spilling across the tangled sheets and the expanse of your bare skin.

The air smelled like him—cologne and sweat and sin—clinging to your body, to the silk of his pillows, sinking deep into your bones. You stirred, muscles aching in ways that made your stomach clench with something warm and satisfied, stretching like a cat before finally rolling out of bed.

The penthouse was quiet, except for the distant hum of the city far below. Your steps were soft against the cool marble as you padded into the kitchen, rubbing the last remnants of sleep from your eyes. That’s when you saw it—

A small note on the counter, scrawled in what you assumed was Butcher’s blunt handwriting, sitting beside a Plan B.

Ben’s smirk was already curling at the corner of his mouth when you turned to find him leaning against the counter, watching you with that lazy, knowing amusement. He pushed off with an easy roll of his shoulders, stepping into your space, patting your ass before grabbing a glass from the cupboard.

“Go on then,” he murmured, filling the glass with water and pressing it into your hands. “Take it.”

You scowled at him, but you swallowed the pill anyway, washing it down under his watchful gaze. He looked too damn pleased with himself, grinning as he pressed a slow kiss to your temple before ushering you towards the shower.

The water was steaming by the time you both stepped in, the morning unfurling in quiet touches, hands gliding over slick skin, fingers threading through hair, the press of lips at the nape of your neck. It was unhurried, indulgent, all the urgency of the night before tempered into something softer, something that felt dangerously close to domestic.

By the time you were dressed, Ben had already decided breakfast was happening at some ridiculous rooftop restaurant, the kind that overlooked the city, all glass and steel and expensive finishes. He ordered coffee and something hearty, sipping slow while you picked at fruit and yogurt, the conversation easy, teasing, laced with the occasional knowing glance that had heat curling in your stomach.

After breakfast, you met up with Butcher, who wasted no time pulling up photos of apartments closer to Ben’s building.

“This one,” Ben said, barely glancing at the others before nodding at the one with the small, covered balcony. The space was perfect—something about the idea of you sitting out in the rain, curled up with a book, had him making the decision in seconds.

Then it was back to his penthouse, back to tangled sheets and tangled limbs, the hours slipping by in a haze of heat and slick skin, moans swallowed by deep, open-mouthed kisses. He left you completely spent, fucked out and boneless, only pausing his grumbling long enough to drive you back to your apartment. The whole ride was a steady stream of muttered complaints about your neighbourhood, about how it was a goddamn miracle you hadn’t been mugged yet, about how he was getting you the fuck out of there.

“Class schedule.”

You blinked at him, still dazed, before rattling it off. He grunted, nodding. “I’ll send some people over when you get back tomorrow to start packin’ your shit.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he wasn’t done.

“You need any more textbooks?”

That did it. Your face softened, eyes going wide and warm, something fluttering in your chest that you couldn’t quite suppress.

Ben saw it. And he smirked. “Christ, look at you,” he drawled, laughing, shaking his head. “You didn’t make that face when I bought you a whole fuckin’ wardrobe, but mention some books and you’re about ready to cream yourself.”

You huffed, shoving at his chest, but he caught your wrist, yanking you in for one last kiss, deep and slow, like he was trying to swallow you whole.

The next morning, you fell into a rhythm. You sent him a picture of two outfits, and he picked the jeans and the blouse.

Monday was lectures, the familiar comfort of academia wrapping around you like a second skin. Literature, language, the hum of the NYU campus filling your lungs like fresh air. You read in a café, met up with Hughie from Language, and Frenchie and Kimiko from Lit for lunch, an easy camaraderie settling between you before you all went your separate ways.

When you got home, a team was already waiting, efficiently packing up your apartment, boxing up memories, folding your life into neat stacks ready to be moved.

Tuesday followed the same rhythm, though the day was punctuated with texts from Ben. Filthy. Teasing. Full of smug impatience.

Bet that professor of yours wouldn’t be able to finish his lecture if he knew what you let me do to you.

And—

You gotten yourself all wet thinking about me yet, baby?

By noon, he demanded nudes, and you had to send them from a bathroom stall between classes, biting your lip as you hit send, warmth flooding through you at the immediate, possessive response.

Wednesday, everything was packed and ready. Ben showed up in the morning to meet your landlord, wrapping up the lease without a second glance, barely disguising his disgust at the place. His presence filled the almost-empty apartment, making it seem even smaller, even less yours.

Thursday, you moved.

The new apartment was waiting, the transition seamless, orchestrated by Ben’s efficient, silent influence. And standing there, at the front door, you realised something—you weren’t just moving apartments. You were moving into something entirely new.

And that was fucking daunting.

You hesitated in the doorway, heart thudding against your ribs, fingers curling into your palms. The apartment was perfect—too perfect. Light poured in through the massive windows, catching on soft pastels and warm wood, the carefully curated balance of elegance and comfort. It felt like you in a way that your old apartment never had.

And that was the part that terrified you.

Your breath came slow and uneven as you stepped inside, eyes scanning over the furniture, your furniture—only better.

Your little cream love seat and vintage armchair were there, the pastel pillows and soft throws draped just as you liked them—but there was a new sofa too. Big. Plush.

But the new dining table caught your attention—matching chairs, sleek but cozy, nothing like the old mismatched ones you’d made do with.

And then there was the bookshelf. Massive. Elegant. Full. Every book of yours finally had a home, instead of being stacked in chaotic, unstable towers on the floor.

“Jesus,” you breathed, barely above a whisper, stepping deeper inside.

Behind you, Ben leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, smug as all fuck, watching you take it in.

“Not bad, huh?”

You turned to glare at him, but it didn’t hold any heat. He knew what he’d done. Knew exactly how overwhelming this was for you. His lips curled, just barely, and he straightened, moving inside with slow, predatory steps, following your path through the space like a shadow.

The kitchen was next—a fucking upgrade. Marble counters, brass fixtures, farmhouse sink, all sleek and way too fucking nice for someone like you. Your fingers drifted along the counter’s cool surface, trying to ground yourself, but Ben’s heat was already at your back, pressing in close.

He exhaled against your ear. “Y’gonna stare at ‘em all day or let me fuck you against ‘em?”

You sucked in a sharp breath, shaking your head, moving away before you let yourself melt. The bathroom was next, and it sealed your fate.

A clawfoot tub. Deep, luxurious, like something out of a fucking dream.

Your stomach twisted. You turned to face him, voice uneven. “Ben, I—”

But he was already grinning, leaning against the doorframe like he was enjoying the hell out of this.

“Keep goin’, sweetheart,” he drawled, gesturing lazily. “Ain’t even seen the best part yet.”

Your jaw clenched, but your feet carried you forward anyway. The bedroom felt like stepping into a dreamscape. The silk bedding, pastel and delicate, the new wardrobe and dresser already stocked with your things. He’d kept your lightwood bed, but everything else was elevated, just enough to make it clear that this was different.

Your throat felt tight. Too much. Too fucking much.

The last thing left was the balcony.

And the second you stepped outside, you broke.

The hanging chair, the plants, the fairy lights, the small bistro table—all of it settled into you like a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. The soft scent of flowers mixed with the distant city air, the quiet promise of solitude. The moment you took it in, really took it in, you whipped around and smashed your lips to his.

Ben caught you instantly, groaning into your mouth, gripping you like he’d been waiting for you to crack. Your fingers dug into his shirt, his arms cinched tight around your waist, his heat overwhelming every last thought in your head.

When you finally broke away, your breath was ragged. “I can’t—” You swallowed, chest heaving. “I can’t let you pay for this. How much even is this place?”

Ben just fucking laughed.

One hand gripped your jaw, tilting your face up so you had to look at him, so smug you wanted to slap him and fuck him at the same time.

“Doesn’t fuckin’ matter,” he murmured, kissing along your jaw, nipping at your neck. “Chump change, sweetheart.”

You gasped as his teeth scraped your pulse, your hands clutching at his biceps as he backed you into the railing, pressing you firmly against the cool metal.

“Now,” he continued, voice a low, dangerous purr, “Let’s go christen every fuckin’ room.”

You barely had time to breathe before he was hauling you inside, dragging you straight to the living room, lips crashing into yours, devouring you like he was starving. Your back hit the love seat, his hands everywhere, pulling at your clothes. Tugging. Gripping. Taking.

Then it was the kitchen. He shoved you up against the marble counters, hands groping under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto the cool stone. His mouth was hot and demanding, moving down your throat, his hands already slipping under your clothes, pushing them aside.

He kissed you in the bathroom, bent you over the sink, his breath ragged against your ear as he whispered, “Gonna wreck you against every fuckin’ surface in this place, doll.”

Then it was the bedroom, your back hitting silk sheets, his weight pressing you deep into the mattress, hips grinding down, lips bruising against yours, murmuring filthy things about ruining these nice new sheets with you.

By the time he dragged you back out to the balcony, sweat-slick and completely spent, your head was spinning. The apartment smelled like heat and sex and him.

Ben was grinning, tucking his face into your neck, voice still wrecked from hours of claiming you.

“There,” he murmured, pressing one last possessive kiss to your throat. “Now it smells like home.”

The night air was crisp against your sweat-slick skin, the city stretching out below in endless neon veins, blinking and alive, thrumming beneath your feet like a pulse.

The scent of him clung to you—smoke and sweat, sex and heat—woven into your very being. You stood on the balcony, caught in the quiet aftermath, his body flush against yours, heat radiating from every point of contact between you.

Ben exhaled hard, fingers flexing on your waist before he reached for his pack of cigarettes, sliding one between his teeth before offering you the pack. He didn’t say anything, just held it out like it was expected, like it was second nature to include you in his vices now.

You hesitated for a second, then plucked one free. He smirked around the cigarette between his lips, flicking his lighter open with one smooth movement. The flame caught in his eyes, sharp and knowing, and he let it burn just long enough to make you wait before lighting yours too.

The first drag filled your lungs, burning hot, the nicotine grounding you in the moment. You exhaled slow, watching the smoke curl into the night air before swallowing hard.

“This is… a lot.” Your voice came quieter than you meant it to. “I feel bad letting you pay for all this.”

Ben scoffed, shaking his head as he leaned back against the railing, one arm still looped around your waist, keeping you close.

“Already told you, sweetheart,” he muttered around his cigarette, voice rough and amused. “It’s chump change.”

You frowned, taking another slow drag before exhaling through your nose. “It’s just… it’s a bit daunting, you know?” You glanced up at him, then back out at the skyline. “I only met you six nights ago, and now I live in a whole new place.”

Ben said nothing, just watched you with that unreadable expression, eyes dark and steady, cigarette smouldering between his fingers.

You sighed, your free hand curling against his chest, absently tracing the fabric of his shirt. “I guess I’m just worried it won’t work out, and then I’ll be out on my ass with no safety net.” You huffed a humourless laugh, shaking your head.

“I don’t wanna have to crawl back to my parents and tell them they were right.” Your jaw tensed, voice sharpening. “Not that I fucking would.”

Ben cut you off before you could spiral further.

“You’re never gonna be out on your ass again.”

The way he said it—flat. Firm. Absolute—made something in your stomach twist.

You turned your head, brows drawing together. “Ben?”

He exhaled smoke, slow and steady, his free hand dragging over your hip, slipping beneath your shirt to spread wide against your bare skin. He wasn’t looking at you, not at first, just watching the city lights like he was making a decision in real-time. Then, finally, he turned his head, gaze locking onto yours with a certainty that sent a shiver down your spine.

“You haven’t even known me a week,” you murmured, searching his face. “How do you know you’re not gonna find some prettier, better girl and wanna turf me out?”

The look he gave you—sharp, incredulous, disgusted like you’d said something offensive—had your stomach flipping.

“There ain’t a fuckin’ prettier girl,” he said, making a face, like the very suggestion was absurd. “And there sure as fuck ain’t a better one.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

He shifted, cigarette dangling from his lips as his hand on your waist tightened, his voice dipping into something low, possessive, dangerous.

“You’re fuckin’ everything I’ve been lookin' for.” His fingers flexed, grip unrelenting, pulling you closer. “Smart, funny, fuckin’ gorgeous.” His lips curled around the words, dragging them out like he wanted to carve them into your skin.

“You fuck like a whore and take everythin' I give you—” His breath ghosted hot against your jaw as he leaned in. “—and still look up at me like you want more.”

Your pulse roared.

Ben smirked, watching the way your body reacted to his words, the way your thighs pressed together just slightly, how your fingers tightened around your cigarette.

He inhaled deeply, exhaled slow, smoke swirling around both of you before he nudged your chin up with two fingers, gaze dark and unreadable.

“Finish your smoke,” he murmured, voice dropping into something lower, lazier, filthy with certainty. “Look at the pretty lights. And stop that girly little brain of yours from worryin' too much.”

You let out a breath—half a laugh, half surrender, shaking your head.

“You’re a dick,” you muttered, but the words held no real bite.

He grinned, smug and knowing. “And you're a fuckin' pussy.”

You rolled your eyes, but leaned into him, letting your body mould against his, warmth seeping between you as the city sparkled below. The lights blinked in the distance, twinkling like something out of a dream, like something unreal, but his hand on your waist was solid, his breath against your temple real, grounding you in the moment.

You took another slow drag from your cigarette, exhaling against his throat, lips parting—

And fuck it.

You turned your head, caught his jaw, kissed him slow and deep, your hand curling into the collar of his shirt.

Ben groaned into your mouth, fingers digging into your waist, claiming, gripping, owning.

You let yourself melt into it, into him, into the feeling of standing there, high above the city, wrapped up in the most dangerous man you’d ever met.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—you’d landed exactly where you were supposed to be.

The night settled around you, thick and quiet, the kind of quiet that came with expensive insulation and the weight of being somewhere that finally felt safe. The apartment smelled like fresh sheets, lingering traces of sex, and the faint burn of nicotine from earlier. You were still reeling, still trying to make sense of it all—the space, the luxury, him—but Ben wasn’t giving you the time to overthink it.

You were curled up on the new couch, legs tucked beneath you, one of your pastel throws draped over your lap. Ben had his arm slung across the back of the sofa, casual, lazy, like he owned the place. Like he owned you.

And maybe he did. You just hadn’t figured it out yet.

His eyes tracked over you, slow, assessing, fingers idly rubbing at his knee. “What time you in class tomorrow?”

You blinked, pulling your thoughts back to the present. “Uh… first lecture’s at eight.”

Ben’s mouth curled, something smug and knowing glinting in his eyes. “Good. I’m stayin’ the night.”

You tilted your head at him, curious. “You are?”

“Yeah.” He stretched, then smirked, shrugging like it was already decided. “Don’t gotta be up ‘til five. Sleepin’ in, really.”

You exhaled a laugh, shaking your head. “That’s sleeping in?”

“For me, yeah.” He flicked his eyes back over to you, watching you shift in your seat, processing what it meant. That he was staying here. With you. Like this was his bed, his space, his routine to alter.

You pursed your lips, rolling the thought over in your head. “What do you do, exactly?”

Ben’s smirk twitched into something a little sharper, a little less amused. “Not important.”

It didn't really catch you off guard, he'd said the same thing when you'd asked before, but you were curious so you pressed. “It is important.”

That made him pause. His head tilted, eyes narrowing just slightly, like he was trying to decide if he should be irritated by that answer. “Oh yeah?”

You swallowed, curling your fingers into the blanket. “You said part of this… deal between us is that I look after you.” You shifted, looking at him pointedly. “That means I should know what you do. So I can help you unwind if you’re stressed. So you can talk to me about things.”

That made him laugh.

Low, throaty, dark amusement curling through his chest, rolling out like it tasted fucking sweet. His head tipped back against the couch, one hand dragging over his jaw as he exhaled.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, shaking his head before glancing back at you, all teeth and smirking condescension. “You really are a sweet little thing, huh?”

Your jaw tensed, but you waited.

Ben shifted, stretching out a little more, taking his time. Making you wait for it.

“S’nothin' exciting,” he finally said, dragging the words out slow, like they weren’t worth rushing over. “Just run the family business.”

You frowned. “What’s your family’s business?”

He huffed a short, amused breath, then looked at you, dead serious. “I own America’s fuckin’ backbone.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

That earned you a smug, lazy grin.

Ben leaned in, voice dipping into that classic-asshole-dirty-talk tone, the kind that made heat settle low in your stomach, even when you wanted to roll your eyes.

“Steel, baby,” he muttered, voice rich, thick with that heavy arrogance. “My company builds the cities you fuckin’ live in. Highways, bridges, skyscrapers—if it stands in this country, odds are, it’s got my fuckin’ name on it.”

You stared at him, lips parting slightly. “You… run a steel company?”

Ben just smirked, watching you.

“Own it.” He let the words hang for a second, savouring the weight of them before adding, “Some of the biggest manufacturers in the country? They bend over and kiss my fuckin’ boots for a contract.”

Your stomach flipped.

Of course. Of fucking course. The power, the arrogance, the complete refusal to accept no for an answer? It all made sense.

“So,” you started, voice light, playful. “You’re a glorified construction worker?”

Ben let out a short, sharp laugh, eyes flashing with something predatory as he leaned in, bringing his mouth right against your ear.

“You keep runnin’ that smart little mouth,” he murmured, breath hot against your skin, “and I’ll show you exactly how hard I work, doll.”

A full-body shudder rolled through you.

Ben grinned, sitting back, completely unbothered, watching your reaction like it delighted him.

Your lips twitched, shaking your head as you let out a breath, looking away before you did something stupid like climb into his lap and beg him to prove it.

This man was going to fucking ruin you.

The first yawn slipped out before you could catch it, your body betraying you in the warm lull of the evening. You tried to stifle it behind your hand, blinking sluggishly, but Ben saw. Of course, he saw.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched you with that lazy, predatory gaze, like he was waiting, tracking every little sign of fatigue settling in your limbs. Then, with no warning, he scooped you up like you weighed absolutely nothing, one strong arm locking under your thighs, the other bracing around your back.

A small yelp caught in your throat as your arms flew around his neck. “Ben—”

“C’mon,” he muttered, already striding toward the bedroom, completely unfazed. “Almost bedtime.”

You exhaled a laugh, already half-melting into him, the warmth of his body lulling you further into exhaustion. “You’re such a caveman.”

Ben huffed, the sound thick with amusement, but then his grip tightened slightly, and he dipped his head, voice dropping into that gravelly, smug rasp right against your ear.

“Yeah? Well, I need to get my beard wet first.”

Your breath hitched, heat flashing through your spine like a whip-crack.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You were sleepy, blushing, but that didn’t stop your thighs from pressing together, from your fingers clenching a little tighter in the fabric of his shirt. Because it didn’t matter how disgusting his mouth was—how filthy, how utterly depraved—you loved words. And he knew that.

The bastard smirked when he felt you squirm, his grip flexing possessively around your thigh, squeezing just enough to remind you who you belonged to.

You didn’t argue.

Didn’t protest when he dropped you onto the bed, didn’t say a word when he grabbed the waistband of your bottoms and peeled them off with zero ceremony, like they were a fucking obstacle. The heat in your face only deepened as he dragged you to the edge of the mattress, pulling your hips up so your ass was barely on the bed, your legs draped over his shoulders.

Then he sank to his knees.

And he got to work.

The first long, sloppy, groaning lap of his tongue had your back arching off the mattress. The second had your fingers clawing at the sheets, a sharp gasp escaping your lips. He was so fucking messy, open-mouthed and hungry, tongue and lips and teeth everywhere, greedy and filthy like he was eating the meal he’d been craving all damn day.

“Fuckin’ love this pussy,” he rasped against you, spit-slick and wrecked, his hands gripping your thighs so tight it ached. “So soft, so fuckin’ sweet—goddamn, baby, you’re just drippin’ for me.”

A shudder ripped through you, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. Your thighs twitched around his head, but he only growled, fingers digging in harder, keeping you wide open, keeping you at his mercy.

“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he groaned, tongue dipping deep, the sound almost desperate, like he was losing his mind over it. “Could bury my face in this tight little cunt forever.”

Your hands scrambled for purchase, clenching in the sheets, in his hair, anywhere, because the way he was devouring you—

It was too much.

The obscene, wet, sucking sounds of his mouth, the deep vibrations of his groans, the sheer heat of his breath against your slick skin—it had your brain short-circuiting, had your stomach tightening, the pleasure cresting too fast, too sharp.

“Ben,” you gasped, barely coherent. “I—I—”

His eyes flicked up, dangerous, knowing.

“Oh, I know,” he muttered, all smug condescension, his fingers pressing harder into your thighs. “I know what’s about to happen, baby.”

You didn’t, though.

Not until it started building, something different, something new, something that had you gasping, panicking, thighs trying to snap shut.

“B-Ben, wait—”

Slap.

His palm cracked against your inner thigh, just enough to sting, just enough to make you jolt, pleasure cutting through the panic sharp and hot.

“Shut up.” He growled it against you, voice rough with pure fucking authority, and your body obeyed before your mind did, immediately unraveling under him. “Let it happen.”

Your breath hitched, vision whiting out as something broke inside you.

And then—

It happened.

A choked sob tore from your throat as your body gave out, as pleasure ripped through you so violently your hips jolted against his face, liquid heat gushing out of you, soaking his mouth, his beard, the sheets beneath you.

Ben groaned like a man unhinged, his fingers tightening bruises into your skin, holding you still as he licked you through it, fucked you through it, savouring every fucking drop.

“Fuck yeah, baby,” he rasped, completely ruined, his voice breaking into something wild. “That’s it—fuckin’ drench me—Jesus Christ, you’re so fuckin’ hot.”

You were shaking, whimpering, still trying to come down, still trying to understand what just happened.

Ben laughed, breathless and smug, so fucking pleased with himself. His hands finally eased, smoothing over your trembling thighs, gripping them possessively, reverently.

“Didn’t know you could do that, huh?” He muttered, voice hoarse, utterly wrecked.

You whimpered, shaking your head, mortified, trying to cover your face—

He didn’t fucking let you.

His fingers wrapped around your wrists, pinning them to the bed, his mouth dragging wet, open kisses along your thighs, up your stomach, up your ribs, crawling up your body like he wasn’t done with you yet.

“You are so fuckin’ perfect,” he muttered, voice thick with filth and praise, his weight pressing you into the mattress. “Gonna make you do that every goddamn night, baby—fuckin’ soaking for me.”

You whimpered, still trembling, still floating, but he just grinned, so goddamn smug, his teeth skimming your jaw.

“Now, go to sleep,” he murmured, nipping at your ear. “You’ve got an early class tomorrow, sweetheart.”

Ben’s hands were steady, careful, as he helped you scoot back properly onto the bed, smoothing his palms over your trembling thighs, gripping where he could, soaking up the aftermath of what he’d just done to you. You barely had the energy to move, limbs heavy and useless, your breath still uneven, skin flushed and oversensitive.

He didn’t seem to mind. Loved it, actually.

Smirking, he sat back on his heels, watching as you climbed under the sheets, dragging them up around you, tucking yourself into the soft, pastel silk like you were burrowing into a cocoon of warmth and safety.

Then, with a huffed breath, Ben stood up and pulled his shirt over his head. A soaked mess.

“Christ on a cross,” he muttered, holding it up in the dim light. “Look at this shit.”

You immediately tried to hide, face burning as you turned toward the pillow, but he caught it—the small, mortified shift of your body, the way you curled inward like you could disappear. And he didn’t fucking like it.

“Hey,” he tutted, sharp and chiding, tossing the damp shirt over the back of your dressing table chair. “Don’t do that.”

You swallowed, exhaling against the sheets, still embarrassed but wrecked, still completely in his grip. He watched you for a second longer, then huffed, shaking his head before shoving his boxers down and climbing into bed beside you.

The mattress dipped, warmth swallowing you whole as he wrapped himself around you, pulling you flush against his chest, strong arms locking you in place like you were fucking going anywhere. His hold was tight, heavy, possessive in a way that made your stomach flutter, even in your exhausted state.

“Excited for tomorrow night,” he murmured against your temple, his voice a low, satisfied rumble. “Gonna pick you up from here when you’re back from class.”

You made a soft, content noise, already half-melting, pressing closer, sinking deeper into the warmth of him.

Then—

Ben shifted, brow furrowing as he felt something under him, something small and soft, and he reached down, pulling it free.

Eugene.

Your stuffed bear, held dangling by one arm in his grasp, Ben staring at it like it personally offended him.

He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Eugene, you gotta get the fuck outta here.”

You snorted, laughter bubbling up before you could help it, giddy and wrecked and so goddamn endeared that you physically ached.

Ben just looked at you, then at Eugene, then back at you, dangling the bear slightly, like he was silently asking well?

Still giggling, you took the bear from him, hugging it against your chest, but you also nuzzled further into Ben, burying yourself beneath his arm, tangling your legs with his.

Ben sighed, a deep, satisfied breath, before pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the top of your head.

“Night, baby.”

His voice was low, heavy with something you weren’t ready to pick apart yet, something deep and final and absolute.

You mumbled something sleepy back, warm and safe and tucked into him, and for the first time in a long, long time—

You fell asleep feeling like you belonged somewhere.

When you woke again, it was slow. The kind of thick, heavy sleep that left your limbs boneless, warm, unwilling to move. But the first thing you became aware of was him.

Ben was grumbling into your hair, voice rough with sleep, chest broad and solid at your back, his arm heavy where it draped over your waist. Every breath he took vibrated through you, low and gravelly, lazy but full of complaint.

“Don’t wanna fuckin’ get up,” he muttered, his lips grazing your bare shoulder, breath hot against your skin. His hips pressed forward, and that was when you felt it—

Hard. Thick. Heavy. Pressed up against your ass, all heat and weight, his body surrounding you completely.

“Should just stay here all day,” he continued, voice low, almost slurred, still caught between sleep and wakefulness. His fingers flexed against your stomach, gripping, pulling you tighter against him. “Bury my cock in you and keep it there ‘til I gotta fuckin’ leave.”

A whimper caught in your throat, your thighs pressing together as you twitched in his hold. His breath hitched—then, his grip locked down.

His hand clamped onto your hip, pinning you to the bed, holding you still.

“If you don’t stop wigglin’ like that,” he murmured, voice dangerous, threatening, slow, “I really am gonna stay here and fuck you.”

Heat rushed to your face, your breath shuddering against the pillow as your body went still in his hold.

Ben huffed out a long, suffering groan, like he was physically forcing himself to be good, dragging himself out of bed with a grumble.

You stirred, stretching, before blinking up at him sleepily and shoving the sheets back to climb out of bed yourself.

Ben turned to look at you, brows furrowing, fully perplexed. “The fuck are you doin’?”

You blinked at him. “Getting up.”

His scowl deepened. “No, you’re not. Go back to sleep.”

You tilted your head, watching as he ran a hand down his face, already irritated by the concept of morning.

“But... you need to eat before you go.”

Ben froze.

His hand paused on his jaw. Something dark and hot flickered in his gaze, his breath leaving him in a sharp exhale. Then, he grinned. Slow. Lazy. Dangerous.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he muttered, running his tongue along his bottom lip, shaking his head as his eyes dragged over you. “You really are a dream girl, huh?”

Heat licked up your spine, but you held your ground, arms crossing loosely over your chest. “Ben.”

He groaned—but the good kind. The kind that sounded wrecked, that made your thighs clench together.

“Y’know how fuckin’ hot that is?” He exhaled through his nose, stepping closer, gaze dark, possessive. “Sweet little thing, tellin’ me I gotta eat before I go.” His fingers brushed over your hip, teasing, almost reverent. “Fuck me, baby, I could take you up on that right now.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, voice dropping low and thick. “But for now, I need you back in bed.”

Before you could argue, he grabbed you, pushing you back down, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. His hand wrapped around your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheeks, pinning your face to look up at him as he climbed over you, his lips dragging slow and deliberate over yours.

He kissed you hard, sucking at your bottom lip, teeth scraping, his free hand gripping your throat, then your jaw, then your hip. Every touch was bruising, deliberate, a brand of possession that felt like it was sealing something deep into your bones.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, panting slightly, his thumb tracing your bottom lip, swollen from his teeth.

“Need you rested up for later,” he murmured, eyes flicking over your face, drinking you in. “We’re goin’ out.”

Your breath stuttered, heart thudding against your ribs.

Then—he pulled away. You whined, grabby-hands reaching for him, desperate and frustrated.

Ben laughed. Smug, mocking, pleased as fuck.

“Jesus Christ, look at you,” he grinned, shaking his head as he watched you desperately reaching for him. “Clingy little thing.”

Your face burned, but you didn’t stop, fingers snagging at his wrist, pulling him back down just enough to suck another kiss out of him.

Ben groaned, deep and approving, teeth scraping your lip before he finally broke away, thumb swiping along your jaw one last time.

“You’re cute when you get needy, y’know that?” He murmured, mocking, but still praising, still smug as fuck.

You huffed, pouting.

He smirked, straightening, already moving toward his clothes. “Go back to sleep, doll. I’ll be back for you soon.”

The sound of your phone alarm ripped you from sleep, shattering the lingering warmth of your dreams. You groaned, scowling as you fumbled to shut it off, blinking bleary-eyed at the soft glow of morning filtering through your window.

Then it hit you.

This wasn’t your old apartment.

You sat up slowly, heart skipping as you glanced around, reality settling in. New walls, new furniture, new life. The silk sheets pooled around your lap, and for a moment, it felt surreal—like you were still dreaming, like this wasn’t really yours.

It didn’t feel real. Didn’t feel earned. It felt borrowed, temporary, fraudulent.

You shook yourself out of it, exhaling slow before slipping out of bed, padding across the floor to your wardrobe. Focus. Get ready. Move.

You pulled out two outfits, snapping a photo of both before sending them to Ben. His response came fast.

That one. Good fuckin’ girl.

Your stomach flipped, heat creeping up your neck as you bit your lip, shaking your head before sending him another—this time, of you wearing it.

With that, you grabbed your bag and headed out.

The day passed in a blur.

Lectures, notes, the steady rhythm of campus life pulling you into its familiar current. By the time lunch rolled around, you were settling into the café with one of your friends—the same girl from last Friday, the one who had tried to get you to leave before Ben decided otherwise.

She barely let you sit down before she was grinning, eyes alight with curiosity.

“So,” she started, leaning in, “how was last weekend?”

You hesitated for a beat, then gave a small, knowing smile. “It was good.”

Her eyes widened, and she let out an excited noise, smacking your arm lightly. “Good?” She echoed. “Babe, he was fucking gorgeous.”

You laughed, shaking your head, sipping your drink. “Yeah, I know.”

“Are you seeing him again?”

You glanced up, watching her reaction carefully, then nodded. “Tonight.”

Another excited squeal, another wave of gushing, but it didn’t bother you. It was nice, in a way—to talk about him in this context, instead of just feeling him consume you whole.

By the time you finished lunch, she had pep-talked you into oblivion, and you headed back home, your steps a little lighter, a little more confident.

When you arrived, the car was already there. Butcher was waiting, leaning against the door, arms crossed.

You slowed, raising a brow, and he tilted his head in acknowledgment.

“Just gotta take my bags and stuff up,” you told him.

He waved a hand, gruff and dismissive, barely looking up. “Go on, love. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

You smirked, shaking your head before heading inside, quickly changing into something better suited for the night ahead.

By the time you came back down, Butcher was already in the driver’s seat, waiting. You climbed into the car, settling into the back, watching the city blur past as he pulled away. The silence stretched just long enough before you finally spoke.

“How are you?”

Butcher snorted. “Like you give a fuck.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I do give a fuck.”

He glanced at you in the rearview, lips twitching in something almost amused. “Yeah, well. Ain’t dead yet, so I s’pose I’m alright.”

You huffed a laugh, fingers drumming absently against your thigh before you glanced at him again. “What exactly is your job?”

That earned you a raised brow.

“My job?” He echoed, tilting his head slightly.

You nodded, watching as he rolled the thought around in his head before giving a gruff, nonchalant shrug.

“Eh,” he muttered. “’M kinda like Ben’s assistant.”

Your brow furrowed. “Assistant?”

Butcher smirked, shaking his head. “Well, that’s the posh way of sayin’ it.”

You snorted, amused and intrigued, watching him as the car weaved through the city, each answer leading to more questions, each detail peeling back another layer.

You shifted in your seat, watching the cityscape blur past in a wash of headlights and neon. The weight of the day sat low in your limbs, the lingering haze of routine blending into something less familiar, less structured.

The car was silent except for the quiet hum of the engine and the occasional clink of Butcher’s rings against the steering wheel as he shifted his grip. His gaze stayed forward, focused, but you could feel his presence as easily as if he were staring straight at you.

You cleared your throat. “Hey—thank you.”

Butcher didn’t react right away, just quirked a brow, flicking his eyes toward the rearview mirror for a split second before looking back at the road. “For what?”

You shrugged, resting your temple against the window. “First of all, for picking me up from the apartment.”

He snorted, shaking his head like it was the bare fucking minimum.

“And,” you added after a pause, something clicking in your head, “for finding the apartment.”

At that, Butcher let out a low, amused exhale. His mouth pulled into something almost smug, but he didn’t say anything, just kept driving.

You huffed a small laugh, shaking your head. “Ben chose it, but you found it.”

“Yeah, well.” He shifted slightly in his seat, rolling his shoulders. “Gotta make sure you’ve got a roof over your head, don’t I?”

There was something unspoken in that. Something heavy, something you weren’t ready to unpack yet. You let it sit for a moment, your fingers drumming absently against your knee, before swallowing and speaking again.

“And… for the Plan B last weekend.”

That made Butcher snort. Loud. Like he genuinely found that funny.

You immediately regretted saying it. Heat flashed up your neck, and you turned toward the window, cursing yourself internally.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, shaking his head. “He said you were a shy one. You really are, ain't ya?”

You grumbled something under your breath, shifting in your seat. “I just—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Butcher cut in, still amused, still shaking his head. He let the moment breathe for a second before glancing at you again. “You’re gonna have to work on that, y’know.”

That caught you off guard.

Your brows furrowed, head tipping slightly. “On what?”

Butcher sighed like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He waved a hand, his rings catching in the dim light. “The whole bloody embarrassed about everythin' bit.”

Your frown deepened, stomach flipping in something that wasn’t quite discomfort, wasn’t quite intrigue. “Why?”

He let out a gruff, knowing chuckle, shaking his head. “If you plan on keepin’ Ben, love, you’re gonna be flaunted about. You’ll be fuckin' exhausted if you’re constantly blushin’ over every little thing.”

You stiffened slightly, fingers tightening on your knee. “What do you mean?”

Butcher didn’t answer right away. Instead, he just exhaled through his nose, something deeply amused and vaguely pitying flickering across his face before he waved another hand.

“Nothing,” he muttered, voice low, dismissive, but still loaded as fuck. “Just sayin’—best get used to eyes bein’ on you.”

Your stomach twisted. You didn’t quite know why. Didn’t quite know what he was really saying.

Not yet.

@mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah. @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @kayleighwinchester @lyarr24 @imtheworst123 @podiumackles @spxideyver @tinas111 @ohgodimgoungtodie @cevansbaby-dove <3

#pfiahc writes #my writing #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy #soldier boy fanfiction #soldier boy smut #soldier boy x you #the boys #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy au #soldier boy fic #the boys fanfiction #the boys fanfic #the boys au #the boys smut #the boys x you #the boys x female reader #the boys x reader

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sublimati0ns · 1 day ago

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daily koss #24: sometimes you guys are gonna have to put up with me posting the most random ass goofy AUs…

@dallacuna mentioned offhandedly that if Knock Out was in Little Shop of Horrors he’d be the dentist and the conversation spiralled…

Lacuna and I agreed none of the TFP characters suited Audrey, so I ended up using Windblade cuz I’ve been reading the IDW ‘05 run and (wack orientalism ass design aside) I really like her and her dynamic with Starscream so far :( Not me shipping yet another rarepair

Starscream was originally Smokescreen’s evil plant but Knock Out rizzed him up so he switched sides 🤦

KO is able to do this because Smokescreen’s attempt to avenge Windblade’s mistreatment doesn’t go to script and he ends up just dragging an unconscious Knock Out back to the flower shop, grappling with whether or not he should kill him after all, but Knock Out wakes up and ends up encountering Starscream

He was like ‘you know having to feed you live prey will end up eating at his conscience and he’ll end up betraying you right 😏’ and SS was like ‘oh and you won’t?’ and KO was like ‘please—I’m in this mess because I’m a sadist, I’m afraid; the only qualm I have with murder is how much work it is to hide a body [HINT HINT]’ their stupid ass you scratch my paint I scratch yours canon event 😭 so SS was like ‘Sorry, Smokescreen, but I’m afraid it seems our little partnership has come to an end [EVIL EMOJI]’

But maybe KO does not get to let SS cannibalise him maybe Smokescreen escapes… My baby boy…

KOSS short-sighted idiot moment immediately follows this scenario because they’re both like wait where are we going to keep Starscream. We can’t just leave him in the flower shop it’s going to be weird for Knock Out to rock up all the time. But they can’t just move him cuz he’s a 20ft plant

SS just expected KO to have a plan for this for some reason and he gets mad and KO is like ‘well YOU’RE the higher alien lifeform here I thought you’d have a spaceship???’ and SS is like ‘????? ⬅️ A PLANT WITH ROOTS IN THE GROUND’

They somehow work things out and then Knock Out becomes a serial killer for fun and business. Truly wretched…

It’s KOSS though so they need to have relationship drama; when KO realises the take over the world and kill all humans plan is for serious he gets mad like what about HIM??? HE lives there??? HELLO??? He thought they were going to publicise Starscream as a cool freak of nature and become famous??? And SS (idiot) is like Sorry you felt that way; I suppose I could always kill you last 🤷 And then KO starts trying to kill him

SS is pissed off but also feels bad for some reason… So crazy why does he feel hurt by this :((( It makes no sense :((( So even though he’s like ‘*scoff* No matter—he’s just some human; he played his role and now he’s in my way’ he can’t bring himself to kill KO 🤦 Very predictable

They end up making up though. Roll end credits of their domestic serial killer life /hit

Breakdown is Knock Out’s hygienist/secretary but unlike the original dentist he treats BD well! BD usually stays in his own lane but sometimes gets called in to help with the murder nonsense

I have not figured out the rest of the cast but might if I percolate this silly AU more ahahaha

#lacedraws #koss #maccadam #tfp starscream #tfp knockout #tfp smokescreen #idw windblade #humanformers

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goldfades · 2 days ago

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Heyyy!!!!! I loveeee your Luka series, I literally didn’t know this man before you!! I was wondering if you can write a long fic about the crash out couple getting into a fight!! A lot of angst and then a happy ending.. thank youu!!

ouuu you know i cant resist a good angst-to-fluff!!! i hope you enjoy. also so glad to have put you on this sexy man<3

It had been brewing for days.

Little things—missed calls, clipped tones, the kind of silence that wasn’t comfortable, wasn’t easy. The kind that filled the room like static, like something waiting to explode.

You weren’t even sure when it started, not exactly. Maybe it was last week, when Luka was late to dinner. Or maybe it was the other night, when you had a game, and he was supposed to be there, supposed to be courtside like always, but he never showed. He said he was tired, that it had been a long week, but all you could hear was I didn’t feel like coming.

You tried to brush it off at first, to tell yourself it didn’t matter. You weren’t needy. You didn’t need Luka at every game. You were used to doing things alone, used to holding your own.

But this was different.

Because Luka was your person. Luka was the one who showed up, no matter what, no matter how tired he was, no matter where he had to be the next morning. Luka was the one who screamed the loudest when you hit a three, the one who talked so much to the refs that you got fined by association. Luka was the one who gave a fuck, even when the rest of the world didn’t.

And lately, it felt like he was slipping.

He was always somewhere else—on his phone, in his head, anywhere but here. He’d come home late, eyes heavy, voice distracted, answering in hmms and yeahs that barely felt real. And when you called him on it, he brushed it off.

"Nothing’s wrong, mačka. I’m just tired."

But that wasn’t enough. Not this time.

So, yeah, maybe that’s where it started. Maybe it was all those little moments, stacking on top of each other like bricks, until the weight of it all became too much.

It starts small.

It always does.

You’re standing in the kitchen, barefoot, arms crossed over your chest, watching Luka move around like he’s trying to avoid looking at you. His shoulders are tense, the set of his jaw rigid, and you can already tell—he’s not in the mood for this.

But neither are you.

The air between you is thick, charged with something unspoken, something sharp.

You should let it go. You should turn around, leave the room, pretend like everything’s fine. That’s what you would’ve done in the past, when you were still figuring each other out, when you weren’t sure how much Luka could take before he shut down completely.

But it’s different now.

Because this isn’t just a bad mood. This isn’t just exhaustion or frustration over a game. This has been building for weeks, creeping into every conversation, every silence, until you can’t ignore it anymore.

Until you don’t want to ignore it anymore.

"Luka." Your voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it, something frayed at the seams.

He exhales, slow and heavy, before finally looking up. "What?"

You narrow your eyes at him. "What? That’s all you’ve got?"

He leans against the counter, rubbing a hand down his face like this conversation is already exhausting him. Like he’s already decided how it’s going to go.

"You wanna fight, huh?" His voice is low, almost amused, but there’s no real humor in it. "That why you’ve been looking at me like that all night?"

You scoff, shaking your head. "Looking at you like that? Luka, I’ve barely seen you all week. You come home late, you barely talk to me, and when you do, it’s like—" You cut yourself off, dragging a hand through your hair. "It’s like I’m pulling teeth just to get a full sentence out of you."

Luka huffs a breath, pushing off the counter. "I’ve been busy. You know that."

"Oh, busy—right," you say, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Too busy to text me back? Too busy to show up to my game? Or what, too busy to give a shit?"

The second the words leave your mouth, you feel them land. Luka flinches—not much, just a flicker of something in his eyes—but it’s enough. Enough to make your chest tighten, to make you wonder if you’ve gone too far.

But you don’t take it back.

Because fuck that.

You’ve been biting your tongue for too long, letting it slide every time he brushed you off, every time he made you feel like an afterthought.

Luka shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. "That’s not fair."

"Isn’t it?" You fold your arms tighter, nails digging into your skin. "Because that’s how it feels, Luka."

He exhales sharply, frustration flashing across his face. "I don’t know what you want me to say."

You step closer, forcing him to look at you. "I want you to say something. I want you to tell me what the hell is going on with you, because I feel like I’m talking to a ghost."

Luka looks away, jaw clenching. "It’s not like that."

"Then what is it like?"

There’s a beat of silence, thick and heavy. You can hear your own heartbeat in your ears, feel the way your body is coiled tight, ready to snap.

Luka exhales again, but this time, it’s different. Not exasperated. Not dismissive. Just—tired.

"You don’t get it," he mutters.

Your stomach twists. "Then make me get it."

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and something in his eyes makes your breath catch. It’s not just anger, not just frustration—it’s something deeper. Something that looks an awful lot like doubt.

"You think I don’t care?" His voice is quiet now, but there’s an edge underneath, something sharp. "You really think that?"

You hold your ground. "You’re the one making me feel like that."

Luka scoffs, shaking his head. "You have no idea what it’s like."

"What what’s like?"

"This." He gestures vaguely, his hands moving like he’s trying to grab the right words out of the air. "Playing like I do, being expected to be—" He stops, exhales sharply. "To be everything all the time."

You blink, momentarily thrown off. "Luka, I—"

"You think I don’t show up for you?" His voice rises slightly now, something defensive creeping in. "I always show up for you. Every game, every moment. But do you have any idea what it feels like to be stretched so thin you don’t even feel like a person anymore?"

Your breath catches. "Luka—"

"You get to be pissed at me. You get to yell and fight and say whatever the fuck you want." His voice is raw now, cracking at the edges. "But I don’t get that. Not on the court, not with the team, not with—" He stops, running a hand down his face. "Not with you."

Silence.

Your pulse is hammering. You don’t know what to say.

Because—he’s not wrong.

You do expect him to be there. You do expect him to show up, to fight for you, to be the Luka you’ve always known—loud, passionate, present. But you never stopped to think about what it costs him.

And maybe that’s the real problem.

Maybe you’ve both been keeping score, tallying up moments of disappointment, waiting for the other person to slip first.

You inhale, slow and careful. "Luka—"

But he’s already shaking his head, stepping back like he’s retreating, like this whole conversation is too much. "I don’t wanna fight anymore." His voice is quieter now, tired. "Not with you."

Your chest tightens. "Then talk to me."

Luka sighs, running a hand through his hair. He looks at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then, finally, he exhales, slow and heavy.

"I don’t know if I can."

And just like that, the ground shifts beneath you.

Because those words? Those words feel a hell of a lot like giving up.

A couple of hours pass.

Luka showers first, steam curling out of the bathroom when he steps into the bedroom with damp hair and a clean t-shirt. He moves through the space quietly, the usual ease of his presence feeling heavier, more careful. He eats in silence, sitting at the counter while you finish up your post-game workout in the home gym. He doesn’t say anything when you pass through the kitchen for a water bottle, and you don’t push him, either.

You know Luka.

You know how he gets when things weigh on him—how he folds into himself, lets things sit heavy on his shoulders before he’s ready to let them out. He doesn’t like to be pushed, doesn’t like to be dragged into a conversation before he’s settled his own thoughts.

So you let him be.

You take your time finishing up, putting your body through the motions, not thinking too hard about the argument still hanging between you. By the time you shower and step into the bedroom, towel-drying your hair, Luka is already sitting on the bed, phone in his hands, but you can tell—he’s not really looking at it.

You pretend not to notice.

Instead, you move to the bathroom, tying your hair back before you start your skincare routine. The mirror is slightly fogged from the heat of your shower, and as you smooth moisturizer over your face, you feel the weight of Luka’s eyes on you.

He hates when you’re mad at him.

You’ve learned that over the years—how he can brush off criticism from fans, the media, even his coaches sometimes, but when it’s you? When he feels like he’s let you down? It sticks with him.

Still, you don’t rush him.

You move through your routine like normal, giving him the space to figure out where to start. It’s only when you cap your moisturizer and reach for your lip balm that he finally exhales, the mattress dipping slightly as he leans forward.

"I hate this."

His voice is quiet, a little rough.

You glance at him in the mirror. "Hate what?"

"This." He gestures vaguely, looking up at you with something raw in his eyes. "Fighting with you. Feeling like this."

Your heart tightens a little, but you keep your face neutral, fingers pausing over the curve of your lip.

"You think I like it?"

Luka shakes his head immediately. "No. I know you don’t."

You cap your lip balm and turn to face him fully, leaning against the sink. "Then what are we doing, Luka?"

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "I don’t know." A pause. "I just—I hate when I can’t make you happy."

You exhale slowly, taking him in—the way his shoulders are slightly hunched, the way his knee bounces just a little, like he’s working off nervous energy.

"You do make me happy," you say, voice softer now. "Luka, you make me so happy."

His brows pull together slightly, like he wants to believe you, but there’s something holding him back.

"But?" he says.

You sigh, stepping forward until you’re in front of him. "But I need you to be happy, too."

His gaze flickers up to yours, something vulnerable in it.

"You've been shutting me out," you continue, keeping your voice steady. "I know you’re stressed, I know it’s a lot, but when you don’t talk to me, I feel like I’m the only one fighting for this."

Luka’s throat works as he swallows. He looks down for a moment, fingers tracing the seam of his shorts. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter.

"I don’t mean to shut you out."

You nod, waiting.

He exhales, eyes flicking to yours again. "I just—I get in my head, you know? And I feel like if I start talking about it, it’s just gonna sound like I’m complaining. And I don’t wanna do that. I don’t wanna bring all that shit home to you."

Your heart squeezes at the honesty in his voice.

"Luka," you say softly, reaching for his hands. He lets you take them, your fingers threading together easily, naturally. "I want you to bring it home to me. That’s what this is. That’s what we are."

His fingers tighten around yours slightly. "I know. I just—sometimes I feel like I gotta be everything for everyone. And when I can’t, when I feel like I’m falling short, it’s—" He exhales sharply. "It’s easier to shut down than admit I can’t do it all."

You nod, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles. "I get that. I really do. But, baby—you don’t have to do it all. Not alone."

Luka exhales again, this time a little shakier. He squeezes your hands, and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter.

"I really am sorry."

You feel it in your chest, the way he means it.

"I know," you say.

He looks at you for a moment, searching, like he’s trying to find reassurance that this—you—are still solid beneath him.

Then, finally, he tugs you forward, arms wrapping around your waist as he buries his face against your stomach. You exhale as your hands slip into his hair, nails scraping gently against his scalp.

His voice is muffled against you. "Are we okay?"

You sigh, threading your fingers through his damp hair. "Yeah, Luka. We’re okay."

He tightens his hold around you, and for the first time in weeks, you feel him fully there.

Luka stays like that for a while, his arms wrapped around your waist, his face pressed against you like he’s anchoring himself. You run your fingers through his hair, feeling the weight of everything he’s been carrying slowly start to lift. His breathing evens out, and when he finally looks up at you, there’s something softer in his eyes, something open.

"You sure we’re okay?" he murmurs, like he just needs to hear it again.

You cup his face, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone. "Yeah, baby. We’re okay."

His hands slide up your back, pulling you fully onto his lap like he needs you close. You settle against him easily, arms draped around his shoulders. It feels like the tension from earlier has finally melted away, leaving only the two of you, just you and Luka, in the quiet of your bedroom.

"I really hate when we fight," he admits, voice low.

"I know." You sigh, resting your forehead against his. "But we’re always gonna be okay, Luka. You know that, right?"

He nods, exhaling. "I know. I just—" His hands tighten around your waist. "I don’t ever wanna let you down."

"You don’t."

His lips twitch slightly, like he wants to believe you but still needs convincing.

"Even when I act like an ass?" he asks, tilting his head.

You snort. "Even then."

Luka huffs out a small laugh, his grip around you tightening as he buries his face against your shoulder. "I don’t deserve you."

"That’s true," you tease, running your fingers through his hair again. "But I’m keeping you anyway."

He grins against your skin, pressing a lazy kiss to your collarbone before leaning back to look at you fully. His hands skim down your sides, his thumbs rubbing slow, absentminded circles against your skin.

"I love you," he says, quiet but firm. Like a promise.

You smile, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. "I love you too."

His arms wrap around you fully, pulling you into a deeper embrace. You can feel the shift in him—the weight he’d been carrying has lifted, his body no longer heavy with stress. He holds you like he knows this, knows that at the end of everything, it’s always going to be you and him, no matter what.

"You wanna sleep?" you murmur, pressing a kiss to his temple.

Luka groans dramatically, flopping back onto the bed and taking you with him. "Not yet."

You laugh as he tightens his grip around you, rolling you both onto your sides. "You’re like a giant teddy bear."

"A very handsome teddy bear," he corrects, smirking.

You roll your eyes but don’t pull away, instead nestling closer against him, your fingers tracing light patterns along his arm. The exhaustion from the day finally starts to settle into your body, but there’s a peace in it now, in the warmth of his hold, in the steadiness of you and him.

"Love you," he murmurs again, his voice already laced with sleep.

"Love you more," you whisper, pressing one last kiss to his jaw before finally letting yourself drift off.

And just like that, the fight from earlier feels like nothing but a distant memory—just another storm weathered together, another testament to the fact that no matter what, you and Luka always find your way back to each other.

#luka doncic #luka doncic x reader #luka dončić #luka dončić x reader #nba x reader

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sixeyesonathiel · 2 days ago

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a guide to ditching the world’s most persistent nerd!

CH02 – the psychology of making gojo satoru fold

pairing - nerd!gojo x baddie!reader

summary : gojo satoru has been the bane of your existence since kindergarten. you invited him to play during recess? he chose studying instead. you tried to give him chocolates? he rejected them for the sake of your dental health. you called him boring and never looked back.

years later, you’re a party girl with daddy issues, and he's the smartest, richest, greenest green flag at your elite university. when you're paired up for a project worth 60% of your final grade, you think you can slack off—except gojo keeps finding you at every exclusive club, dragging you back to work like the menace he is.

you flirt to distract him, he humors you. you push, he pulls. you seduce, he tucks your hair behind your ear and looks at you like you're the most precious thing in the world.

oh no.

tags -> modern au, university au, tooth rooting fluff with a side of light angst, unresolved romantic tension, suggestive themes, gojo satoru is a green flag menace, reader has issues, power struggles but gojo is unaware he's in one, forced proximity via group project, reader tries to ditch gojo satoru and fails spectacularly, pining disguised as irritation, rich kids and their rich kid problems, the art of denial, humor (i hope), eventual happy ending

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chapter summary : step two in ditching the world’s most persistent nerd: don't let him drag you out of a party. don't let him make you do actual work. and absolutely do not, under any circumstances, fall asleep.

the elevator ride up is quiet, save for the soft hum of the city outside and the distant mechanical whir of the lift ascending. your head still feels light from the alcohol, but your steps remain steady, heels clicking against the pristine marble floor when the doors finally slide open. the moment you step inside his condominium, you’re hit with the undeniable scent of wealth—sleek furniture, dim lighting, and a view so expansive it looks unreal. figures. you slip his knitted jacket off and toss it onto the nearest chair, stretching lazily, the hem of your dress riding up just enough to tease. “not bad,” you remark, eyeing the extravagant space. then, with a smirk, “where do you keep the bodies?”

satoru doesn’t even blink, already unbothered as he loosens his collar and drags a hand through his snow-white hair. “depends,” he muses, voice smooth. “you planning to add to the collection?” his eyes flicker over to you—assessing, knowing—but he doesn’t entertain the game, simply gesturing toward his study before walking toward the kitchen. annoying. you roll your eyes, but your gaze lingers on the door he motioned to, curiosity piqued. you strut past him, hips swaying just slightly, the party dress hugging your figure, knowing full well how much skin you’re showing. but he doesn’t bite. doesn’t even look twice. even more annoying.

the second he’s out of sight, you do what any respectable person would do: snoop. the study is almost too neat, shelves lined with thick business books, economic journals, and textbooks with titles long enough to put you to sleep. you run a finger along the pristine desk, noting how not even a speck of dust dares to settle here. no secret safes, no love letters, no hidden scandals—just papers, numbers, and more numbers. you grab a random notebook, flipping through. first page: a financial breakdown of some high-end luxury brand. second page: risk assessment models. third page: an obnoxiously perfect forecast analysis, complete with color-coded graphs. of course.

you throw your head back with a groan, dramatically collapsing into his chair. "even his handwriting is perfect,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your face. the numbers blur together, boredom setting in fast, but before you can dig any deeper, footsteps approach. by the time satoru returns, electrolyte drink in hand, you’re already leaning against the desk, flipping through one of his books with all the enthusiasm of a dying flower. you don’t bother looking up. “so this is what you do in your free time?” you deadpan, voice flat. “thrilling.”

he quirks a brow, setting the bottle down beside you. “what, expecting something more exciting?” his voice carries amusement, as if he already knows your answer. you wave a lazy hand, flipping another page. “i dunno. secret stocks, offshore accounts, blackmail files—something shady.” satoru snorts, shaking his head. “do i look like a criminal mastermind to you?” his tone is teasing, but there’s something in the way he leans against the desk, casual yet calculating, that makes you tilt your head. you examine him—his ridiculous glasses, his perfectly pressed shirt, the smug way he watches you. “honestly?” you hum, “kinda.”

he makes a thoughtful sound, like he’s considering it. “if i were, you’d be the first person i’d test my tactics on.” the statement is lighthearted, but something in his tone makes your skin prickle. your eyes narrow. “that sounds like a threat.” he grins, slow and easy, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “then you better behave.”

you don’t glorify him with a response. instead, you watch as he moves to the large table in the center of the room, pulling out his notes and flipping through them with practiced ease. the overhead lights cast a soft glow over the sleek wood, papers neatly stacked, his laptop booting up with an efficient ding. he drops a second laptop in front of you, then slides his notes across the table without so much as a glance your way. “you type, i analyze.” it’s not a request—it’s an order. you cross your arms, unimpressed, but tilt your head anyway, lips curving into a pout. “you don’t want me to think?”

satoru barely gives you a glance, adjusting his glasses with a single flick of his fingers. “i don’t want you to delete all my hard work out of spite.” his voice is flat, but there’s the smallest twitch at the corner of his lips, like he’s expecting you to argue. you click your tongue, feigning deep offense as you place a hand over your heart. “i’d never.” but the second your fingers graze the keyboard, you realize something far more tragic—you actually hate this. your eyes skim the numbers, the figures, the graphs, and already, your patience begins to thin. numbers are boring. so boring.

your fingers slow, trailing lazily over the keys, and then you sigh, pushing your chair back just enough to stretch. “you know, satoru,” you purr, letting your voice dip just enough to be interesting, “i focus better with some positive reinforcement.” your arms press together as you lean forward, showing just the right amount of skin, a slow, practiced motion. your lips curve at the edges, testing, teasing. his response? a hum, low and absentminded, as he continues scanning his notes. “you want a sticker?” he muses. “gold star?”

you roll your eyes, shifting in your seat, letting the movement be slow, deliberate. the silky strap of your dress slips down the curve of your shoulder, barely-there fabric gliding against your skin, baring just enough to invite a second glance. the dim lighting of the room does you favors—casting warm shadows against your collarbone, catching the glint of your earrings as you tilt your head, exposing the delicate line of your throat. your lashes lower, gaze lidded, lips parting just slightly as you murmur, voice dipped in something softer, something sweeter. “maybe something more… personal?” it’s a challenge, subtle but clear, one that lingers in the air between you, waiting to be acknowledged.

and satoru, for the first time tonight, actually looks.

not a passing glance, not an absentminded flicker of his gaze—he looks. lifts his head, eyes tracing the lines of you, assessing, lingering just long enough for your skin to prickle under the weight of it. there’s no shift, no subtle hitch in his breath, no betraying sign of discomfort. instead, there’s only scrutiny, razor-sharp and deeply amused, like he’s already five steps ahead of you. his lips twitch at the edges, an almost-smirk, his head tilting just slightly. “oh, so this is your strategy.”

you lean in, slow, predatory, the air between you thinning, charged with something unspoken. your smile is practiced, effortless, dipping into something dangerously close to a smirk. “is it working?” your voice is silk and smoke, laced with honey, designed to pull—to draw him in, to tip the scales in your favor. your fingers toy with the hem of your dress absentmindedly, your posture relaxed, calculated. and for just a moment—a fleeting second—you swear you see something shift behind his eyes, something thoughtful, something unreadable—

but then, effortlessly, like it’s nothing, he reaches out.

his fingers are light, the briefest brush of warmth against your skin as he catches the fallen strap between two fingers, lifting it with infuriating ease. he doesn’t let it linger, doesn’t let the moment stretch—just sets it back into place with the casual indifference of someone fixing a crooked picture frame. your breath catches despite yourself, but he’s already leaning back, settling into his chair with all the ease in the world.

you blink.

he smirks. relaxed, arrogant, unbothered, as if the entire thing had been boring, as if you hadn’t been trying to test him, as if he hadn’t just won without breaking a sweat. “try actually doing your job.”

you huff, shifting in your seat, fingers stilling on the keyboard just long enough to glare at him. “you’re the worst kind of man,” you mutter, just loud enough for him to hear, just pointed enough to make sure he knows you mean it. but despite your grumbling, you actually start typing, the steady rhythm of keystrokes filling the space between you. every few minutes, you let out a dramatic sigh, just to remind him of your suffering, stretching your arms above your head like some long-suffering martyr. satoru doesn’t react, at least not visibly, but his eyes flicker to you on occasion, tracking the shift in your posture. the slow slump of your shoulders, the way your blinks drag longer than they should, the increasing frequency of your typos.

he says nothing at first, just watches, turning another page in his notes. but when your fingers finally still, hovering uselessly over the keyboard, he exhales, tapping his knuckles against the table to get your attention. “you can take a nap if you want.” his voice is casual, almost dismissive, like he’s not actually offering you a kindness. immediate whiplash. you snap upright, scoffing, eyes sharp despite the heavy weight of exhaustion settling behind them. “oh, now you’re concerned?” you bite, arms crossing over your chest. “this wouldn’t even be happening if you hadn’t dragged me here like some kind of corporate kidnapper.”

satoru, ever unbothered, merely turns another page. “right. so sleep.”

you narrow your eyes, stubborn. “i can do this.”

he hums, noncommittal, but doesn’t argue. he doesn’t have to. you last exactly ten more minutes before your head drops onto the table, your head barely missing the laptop, the weight of exhaustion finally pulling you under. satoru exhales, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he stares at you, completely knocked out, mouth slightly parted, cheek smushed against the table. he doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just looks, and then, inevitably, enters problem-solving mode.

probability analysis: optimal course of action for relocating a girl who hates your guts.

satoru sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he looks at you—sprawled over the table like a dead battery, completely motionless except for the slow rise and fall of your shoulders. honestly, he should just leave you here. it would be the logical thing to do. but then he notices the slight shiver in your exposed skin, the way your fingers twitch minutely in your sleep, and—ugh. now he has to do something about it.

but what’s the most efficient course of action?

option 1: leaving you here

probability of you catching a cold due to exposure to air conditioning (21°C)? 38.7%. not immediately life-threatening, but given your already questionable eating and sleeping habits as per his own observation, it wouldn’t take much to push your immune system over the edge.

probability of you waking up with a stiff neck and blaming him for it? 97.2%. unacceptable.

probability of you waking up at all within the next few hours? 11.5%. this is dangerous. you sleep too deeply. concerning.

additional factor: you’re drooling. on his notes.

verdict: completely out of the question.

option 2: waking you up

probability of you responding like a rational human being? 0.0000001%. nearly nonexistent.

probability of grumbling, whining, or attempting physical violence? 94.6%.

probability of you launching a verbal attack about how this is somehow his fault? 88.3%.

probability of you remembering any of this in the morning and making it a dramatic ordeal? 101%. impressive.

additional factor: the potential of you waking up, seeing him, and immediately assuming the worst? concerningly high.

verdict: more trouble than it’s worth.

option 3: moving you to the couch

effort required: minimal (6-7 seconds).

probability of successfully transporting you without waking you up? 60%.

probability of you waking up and accusing him of god knows what? 35.8%.

probability of you flipping out upon finding yourself on the couch? 85.2%.

additional factor: couch is leather. you would whine about it being cold. and knowing you, you’d twist yourself into a pretzel in your sleep and fall off.

verdict: not worth the headache.

option 4: carrying you to the guest room

effort required: practically none. you weigh nothing. ridiculous, really. concerning.

estimated time of execution: 10-12 seconds.

probability of you waking up mid-transport: 22.4%.

probability of you immediately falling back asleep if woken up: 73.9%.

probability of you waking up in the guest room, realizing what happened, and dramatically accusing him of being unable to resist your charm? 91.5%. but at least he could deny everything with hard evidence.

additional factor: easier to tuck you in here than risk you rolling off the couch.

verdict: most optimal choice.

option 5: covering you with a blanket and leaving you here

effort required: none.

probability of you waking up cold and making it his problem? 75%.

probability of you stealing his jacket and getting makeup all over it? 89.6%.

probability of this leading to a future argument? 100%.

additional factor: you have a habit of curling into yourself when cold. if he leaves you here, you’d probably wake up in the fetal position, limbs stiff, and find a way to blame him for it.

verdict: not happening.

final calculation: the weighted decision matrix indicates the optimal course of action is… carrying you to the guest room.

execution begins.

satoru sighs, shaking his head as he moves closer to you. “why am i like this?” he mutters, already knowing the answer. bending down, he hooks an arm under your knees and the other around your back, lifting you with zero difficulty. you barely weigh more than the blankets he’s about to tuck you into. he knew your eating habits were terrible, but this is absurd.

as long as you stay asleep, this will go smoothly.

…your arm immediately flops around his neck.

his entire body tenses, lips pressing into a thin line as your fingers curl weakly into his shirt. the warmth of your breath against his collarbone is deeply alarming.

“tch. recalculating.”

too late. mission must continue.

with the efficiency of a man who has spent way too much time overanalyzing a simple task, he makes his way to the guest room. carefully—so carefully—he lowers you onto the bed, tucking the blanket around you with precise, measured movements. then, stepping back, he exhales in satisfaction.

problem solved.

morning comes. you wake up warm. comfortable. rested. suspiciously well-rested. the sheets beneath you are soft, undeniably high-quality, the kind that probably costs more than your entire monthly expenses. the air smells faintly of something expensive—clean linen, hints of cologne, a lingering trace of him. your body sinks into the mattress just right, and that’s when your brain finally catches up.

your eyes snap open. the ceiling above you is unfamiliar—modern, sleek, and definitely not your bedroom. realization creeps in like a slow-moving storm, your lips curling before you can stop yourself. oh? oh??? ohhhhhhhh. your gaze flickers to the mirror across the room, catching the reflection of a disheveled but well-rested woman wrapped in high-thread-count blankets.

slowly, dramatically, you sit up, clutching the fabric to your chest. “oh, he couldn’t resist me after all,” you murmur, eyes twinkling with mischief. because really, why else would you be in a bed? satoru—stoic, impossible, insufferable satoru—must have finally caved. your five-year-old self, the one who was once slighted by a certain white-haired menace and his damned carrot, would be avenged. an evil little giggle bubbles up, uncontainable, utterly victorious.

“...the hell are you doing?”

your head snaps toward the voice, and there he is. satoru, standing by the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in blatant suspicion. his hair is still slightly messy from sleep, glasses missing, and yet he still has the audacity to look so effortlessly put together. his stare is unreadable, the perfect mix of exasperation and amusement, like he already knows you’re about to say something stupid. you spin toward him, heart lurching, but your face remains composed, schooled into an easy, practiced smirk.

he tilts his head slightly. “...you good?”

clearing your throat, you smooth down the sheets with an air of nonchalance, fingers gliding over the fabric as if you belong here—because, obviously, you do. with a slow, practiced ease, you lean back against the headboard, stretching just enough to let the blankets pool around your waist, the picture of careless indulgence. then, resting your chin in your palm, you let your lips curl, eyes lidded with amusement as you fix satoru with a look that speaks volumes. “so…” you drawl, voice honeyed and teasing, “...was i good?” the weight of the words hangs between you, deliberate, pointed. calculated mischief flickers in your gaze, waiting for the inevitable crack in his composure.

satoru squints, utterly unamused. he blinks once. then twice. his mouth parts slightly before closing again, as if your words are too absurd to immediately process. “huh?” his brows pinch together, confusion clear, but not in a flustered way—more in the what is she talking about now kind of way, which is not nearly as satisfying as you’d hoped.

undeterred, you gesture lazily at the bed, raising a slow, deliberate eyebrow. “you know,” you murmur, voice dipping into something almost sultry. “last night?”

he stares at you for an extra beat, expression unreadable, his silence stretching just long enough for anticipation to coil in your stomach. then, finally, in the most deadpan tone imaginable, he states: “you passed out on my table.”

your smirk falters.

satoru, the insufferable bastard, doesn’t stop there. if anything, his lips twitch with the barest hint of smugness as he continues, “i had to carry you here because you drooled on my notes.”

absolute. silence.

your entire body locks up, spine going rigid as heat floods your face, mortification creeping up your neck like a noose tightening with every second that passes. no. no, no. this—this cannot be your reality. in no version of this universe, real or theoretical, does he get to have the upper hand in your moment of triumph. not when you had so carefully set the scene, not when you were so close to making him flustered, not when—oh god, did he say drool?

panic surges, tangled with outrage, and before you can stop yourself—

you launch a pillow directly at his stupid head.

#gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk x reader #gojo x female reader #cross posted on ao3 #nerd gojo #gojo fluff #nerdjo #reader insert

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rotagnus · 10 hours ago

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changes coming with the full moon ---<3

hi bbies! i hope all of you have been doing well. here's a pac detailing some changes that may come to you; things you can/should do, and things that'll happen regardless.

as always, if you don't feel a connection to the reading, disregard it--don't force yourself to feel anything. i will be blunt.

pile 1.

hello darling! you'll probably end/begin a new cycle. this has to do with growth--it can be as simple as mastering a new language you've been learning, or healing traumatic wounds that have been scarring your body for ages. you'll feel like a new person after this reading--some of you may have had trouble with your feminine energy in the past, and this moon will help you step foot into it. it's a time to accept new energies and new scenarios and face them with strength, which i know you have. you've had some difficult moments in your life, and i believe you are courageous--use that power. you have to let go of feeling responsible for everyone in your life. for a select few; no, you are not your mother's mother. no, you don't have to walk on eggshells and coordinate your family as if they're completely immobile. some of them are grown adults. they can do all that themselves. take care of yourself. it's a give and take with the universe; it'll give you things when you stop feeling obligated to be the martyr all the time. i see the changes so far are a new cycle and letting go of the weight on your shoulders...if any of you are starting a business/new opportunity you've been scared to do, it'll go well. three is an important number. right now, traveling may do you some good; that's another change, getting more comfortable with change itself.

pile 2.

hi baby! mind telling me why you and pile 1 have been sacrificing everything? is it because it makes you feel like your guilt is a little bit less heavy on your shoulders? c'mon now. a change that'll come is you'll realize that the power very much does lie in your hands. you're the type of person to speak things into existence; beauty, moments, you get it. your intuition is on point, and you'll begin to change your life. a lot of you may have dealt with financial problems as a child, and this cycle may have led its way into your adult life, and now you'll be examining it, your spending patterns. i see that your family/love life may be getting better. you seek love over lust, and you may not have had a particularly good relationship with several aspects in your life...but now you've grown. you've changed. someone can offer you a poisoned fruit and you'd say no in a heartbeat, no matter how beautiful it looks. emotionally, you'll be at peace. some of you may be experiencing a slow-burn love story, some will be meeting completely new people, and some will be developing an existing relationship. once again, friendships; i pulled 3 of cups; you guys will be forging a lot of connections during this time. it'll make you reflect on what qualities you have, and what qualities you value. this full moon will bring you luck; it'll bring you some ease for your anxiety, and a specific message for some of you; you can be loved.

pile 3.

hey baby! you guys have been making DECISIONSSS lately. they'll come to fruition, soon. a lot of you have had changes with your faith, philosophy, and generally how you view the world. it's been a difficult journey, as a lot of you don't necessarily know positive change in those ultra-specific aspects of your life. it's hard to take a leap of faith and just trust that God/the universe will catch you. here i am, and i'm telling you it'll be fine. good things will be coming, different to each and every one of you depending on what part of your life you've been working on. a change is that a lot of you will develop self-love, and confidence. which is great, as i hear that you are a bit insecure even though you're gorgeous. it may be that you have features that don't fit the beauty standard; i assure you that you are more beautiful than a thousand stars. a lot of you will realize you have fake friends who have a lot of jealousy towards you, and you'll get them out of your life. you know exactly who i'm talking about. immature, odd side-comments, back-handed compliments...if this doesn't apply to you, don't overthink it! but if it does...anyways. a lot of you will change your physical attributes. maybe you'll be eating healthier, or exercising, or even yoga! you're moving away from the dead things in your past. i applaud you, pile 3.

#love reading #pick a card #pick a pile #tarot reading #pick a picture #pac reading #tarotblr #rotagnus #divine guidance #intuitive reading #intuitive readings

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globalnewscollective · 3 days ago

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The War on Diversity: How the U.S. Government is Encouraging Attacks on Schools and Workplaces

Imagine a government portal where people can anonymously report schools and workplaces for promoting diversity. It sounds dystopian, but it’s now reality. The Trump administration has launched a public complaint system aimed at dismantling Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) initiatives in schools and workplaces. (Source: Reuters)

What’s Happening?

A new federal portal allows individuals to file complaints against institutions that support DEI programs.

The goal? To target and eliminate initiatives that promote racial and gender equity in education and employment.

Conservative lawmakers and activists claim DEI programs are discriminatory against white Americans, while civil rights groups argue that this is a direct attack on efforts to level the playing field.

How Does This Affect You?

Schools and Universities Under Threat – Programs aimed at supporting marginalized students could face defunding or cancellation. Scholarships, mentorships, and inclusive curricula are at risk.

Workplace Diversity Efforts in Danger – Companies could scale back diversity hiring practices, making it harder for women and minorities to break into competitive fields.

Chilling Effect on Free Speech – Schools and businesses may avoid discussions on race and gender for fear of being reported, limiting education and open dialogue.

Increased Discrimination – Without DEI policies, hiring, promotions, and educational opportunities could revert to favoring privileged groups, widening social and economic disparities.

What’s at Stake?

Diversity initiatives exist to correct historical injustices and ensure equal opportunities. The systematic targeting of DEI efforts is not about fairness—it’s about reinforcing existing power structures.

The idea that white Americans are being discriminated against because of DEI is a false narrative used to justify dismantling progress. Without these initiatives, students from marginalized backgrounds lose resources, workplaces become less inclusive, and society moves backward instead of forward.

The Bigger Picture

This move is part of a broader rollback of civil rights protections. Combined with attacks on affirmative action, restrictions on discussing race in classrooms, and censorship of inclusive educational materials, the U.S. is heading toward an era where diversity is actively suppressed rather than encouraged.

If this campaign succeeds, the effects will be felt for generations. Without intervention, marginalized groups will find it harder to access education, secure jobs, and have their voices heard.

What Can You Do?

Raise Awareness – Share the facts about why DEI is important and debunk misinformation.

Support Organizations Fighting for Equality – Civil rights groups need public backing now more than ever.

Pressure Lawmakers – Call on representatives to protect DEI initiatives and resist attacks on diversity.

Encourage Inclusive Policies in Workplaces and Schools – Employers and educators should continue DEI efforts despite government pushback.

America has long claimed to be a land of opportunity, but that opportunity is now under siege. Without DEI, the doors that have only just begun to open for women, minorities, and marginalized communities may slam shut once again. The question is: Will we let that happen?

Source:

https://www.reuters.com/world/us/us-launches-end-dei-portal-public-complaints-about-diversity-schools-2025-02-28/

#education #us education #school #university #donald trump #trump administration #president trump #trump #trump is a threat to democracy #america

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whatmakespaperwithoutitspen · 2 days ago

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PROLOGUE 1 PART 4

AN INTERACTIVE TWISTED WONDERLAND X GN!READER FANFICTION.

You are [name] [last name]. A powerful villain stripped of their powers and sent to another world called Twisted Wonderland as a way of rehabilitation after attempting to end their world.

What is your fate? After all, everything solely relies on what actions you take as long as you trekk towards your happy ending, if it’ll even be happy in the first place.

“This is embarrassing! I don’t want to be a mercat!”

You can’t help but laugh wickedly as you doll up Grim. As you told Azul, you had put an aqua-colored mermaid tail on him, with matching aqua shells on his chest, decorated with pearls tracing the outline of the garment, and hanging onto Grim with see-through straps, “But you look so cute, Grimmy! You’re going to make Monstro Lounge some big bucks.” You rub your hands together, already tasting the madol flying down from the sky. Not like you’re getting anything out of it, but you’ve got some cards up your sleeve.

“It’s missing something though,” You walk circles around Grim, looking at every angle to see what’s bugging you, “Ah!” You rummage through the props box and place a leaf crown on Grim’s head, “It’ll do.”

Somebody knocks on the door, “Come in,” You say. Azul enters the room, closing the door behind him, “Hard at work, I see? Is this the final look for our mascot?” You shrug, “This is what I first designed with all the props I got from one of your dorm members.”

“You borrowed this? I assumed you bought these.” Azul said, looking inside the box.

“I didn’t borrow it, exactly. I think they gave it to me.” Azul gave you a suspicious look, “They just gave it to you?” You nodded. In reality, all you had to do was throw around Azul’s name and you got them to do whatever you want, but Azul didn’t need to know that, “Your dorm members are just very generous. If you’re not satisfied with the look, then what’s up? I think I can scrounge something up based on what you want.”

“It looks too kiddish for me,” Azul said, “I doubt our customers, comprised of students from sixteen to eighteen years old, would find some appeal in this,”

“I don’t see the appeal either,” Grim starts to take off the costume, but struggles with reaching the strings on his back. You watch him fail miserably for a few seconds before tilting your head towards Azul, “What do you suggest?”

“Maybe make him less cutesy,” Azul takes out a rectangular object from his pocket and drags his finger across it, “Look here, this is what most of our classmates usually take interest in. You can take inspiration from whatever is trending and… wha–?” Azul jolted when you darted towards him, peering at the shining object in his hand, “What is that thing?”

“Wh.. you mean this?” Azul raised his phone, and you nod, “My phone? You don’t know what a phone is?”

“No,” You frown, leaning down to take a closer look at it, “Is it a magical artifact here? How does it tell what a category of people like with just a few movements of your finger? Is it telepathic?” Azul places a hand over the bottom half of his face, his body slightly turned away from you. Then he started to tremble, “What? What!? What did I say?”

“Pff,”

“You’re laughing!” You find yourself raising your voice incredulously, “Why are you laughing? What the hell’s so funny, huh? Spit it out, four eyes!”

“Who exactly are you [name]?” Azul snickered. You find yourself staring daggers into his eyes before scoffing, “None of your damn business,” Azul huffed, “Well, as your boss, I can’t have you be ignorant to the most powerful weapon at our disposal—the internet. Now, sit down and I’ll teach you how to use a phone. Oh, and practice your most pitiful expression, maybe you can guilt Crowley into getting you a phone.”

“Bet.”

“You! How do I get out of this?!” Grim continued to struggle, falling off the table with a yowl as he tried to wiggle out the fake mermaid tail you had put him in.

“A student?” Crowley scratched his head, “Unfortunately, I have yet to decide if you can count as a student here,” You argued against him, “Why not?! I was admitted here by the magic mirror—”

“Dark Mirror,” Crowley corrected you, “Dark magic mirror, whatever, I should qualify as a student. Even without memories or magic, I still need a place to stay, things to do around here! I’ll study hard, I’ll take extra classes, anything man!” Crowley sighed, leaning forward to place his hands on top of his desk, “That’s the problem. You’re way too behind. According to your little to no knowledge of magic, you need to learn the most basic of magic. Preschool level magic, its use and history, and etcetera.”

“That can’t be true!”

“But it is, [name],” Crowley reasoned, “This is a prestigious school. We can’t have a student here who doesn’t even know the origins and definitions of each magic article. You’ll struggle, you’ll fall behind. That’s why, you need to find yourself a tutor.”

“A tutor, okay,” You nodded slowly, “One of the staff members?”

“They’re all very busy people,” Crowley answered, “They already have full schedules in their hand, and they’ll riot if I slide you into their messes,” You tapped your finger against his desk, “Why don’t you teach me?” That made Crowley tense as he coughed into his fist.

“I, I also have a busy schedule,” Lying piece of crap. “After all, I’m still trying to find out your origins!”

“Then who can I get as a tutor? Are you going to hire one from the outside?”

Crowley smiled, “You may ask your fellow students. I recommend asking one of our Housewardens.” If looks could kill, Crowley would be obliterated on the spot, “The students would be even more busy! You crazy, man!? They need to study, manage their dorms, some of them even manage other things like a whole damn restaurant, they don’t have time to teach someone else what two plus two is in magimathematics!”

“Well then, you don’t have to be a student,” Crowley replied, “You can just be a resident here until we find out where exactly you come from. I can even phone the authorities—”

“No, no,” You stop him, relenting hesitantly, “Fine, I’ll find a tutor on my own,”

Crowley clapped his hands together, “Excellent!” He slides you a palm-sized notebook with a unicorn stuck on the cover and a sparkly pink pen with a pink puff and crown ornament on the tip. You feel like you want to kill this man and mount his head on your wall. “What is all this?”

“In there, I’ve written all the Housewardens names, dorms, academic excellence and whatnot. I also want you to use that as your notes during your tutoring sessions. I’d like to take a look at them after every session to see your progress.” You throw the obnoxiously sparkly pen across the room, hitting a picture frame. It wobbled but didn't fall. “I demand a different pen.”

“You are no fun,” Crowley sighed theatrically as he fished out a normal black pen from his pen holder. You quickly added, “Oh and, it has caught my attention that I don’t have a phone…”

You pace your room back and forth. It’s a little bit in the afternoon now, and Grim is out being bullied by Floyd and Jade, so you can have some peace and quiet. You decided to prioritize the next design concept for the mascot since Azul wanted it A-S-A-P, like the unsympathetic bastard he is. You can just find a tutor tomorrow.

All these ‘trends’ online were full of shit, in your most respectable opinion. They mostly consist of people your age doing the stupidest things that are either illegal, lethal, or downright idiotic that you want to step away from the horrid screen and look at the sun for the rest of your life and maybe, it’ll burn your eyes and kill you. How is no one reporting any of this? How does one find enjoyment in these things?

So you decided to steer clear of that and instead focus on another major part of the ‘trending page’, as Azul called it. Now this, you’re familiar with. Back in your Homeworld, various fairy tales and legends are famous around the kids while gossip and rumors for the older. But here, it seems the older also like fairy tales and legends, they all seem very interested in these things called ‘manga’, ‘anime’, and ‘cartoon’.

According to Azul, people indulge fictional works like these as a hobby. And that they also like playing these things called ‘videogames’. He also said none of them need any magic to function, which shocked you. It seems the difference in the definition and use of magic here isn’t the only thing you need to keep up with. You decided to write these reminders in bullet form on a sticky note. You take the bedsheet off the mirror to stick the note on—“There you are,”

“You’re still here!?” You screeched at the Goddess in the mirror, “When are you going to take the hint, woman?” You reach for the bedsheet again.

“Do you want your Forte back?”

You pause. Then, you grab the mirror, "I don't need anything from you," You spat. Dawn pressed her hands against the surface, "Please listen! Please..." You let out a mocking huff that resembled a laugh, "Is a God really begging me? Pathetic. You're pathetic. You and your band of wannabe heroes are pathetic. They wouldn't have won if you hadn't been on their side, they're taking all the credit, can't you see?"

"You don’t have the right to speak to my children that way,” Dawn said, less angered and more hurt. What a soft heart she has. “Your children are self-centered pricks who rather die and be remembered than live and own up to their actions.”

“And that proves you are still one of mine,”

What did she say? “The hell did you say?!” Your fist collides with the glass, cracking the mirror. However, it does not completely shatter, proving that you truly have lost your strength.

“I hate you,” You hissed, “I hate you so much,”

“[nickname]—” You quickly place the bedsheet over the mirror, “No one can ever call me that again, ever,” I’ll make sure of that.

A frantic knock can be heard at the door, snapping you out of it before you can spiral. You quickly consoled yourself, then spoke, "Who is it?"

“It's Azul," You hear outside the door, "What's with all the noise? Are you and Grim fighting perchance?"

“Yeah, we are! Grim is just so annoying.” You laugh it off, hoping it’ll convince Azul. But you can hear his smugness from outside, “Oh? But I suddenly recalled that Grim is playing with the twins. How could you be fighting?”

“Urgh!” You throw the door open, “Why did you even ask?”

“To see if you’d lie to me,” Azul feigns a heartbroken expression, “What a shame that you would, I know we haven’t known each other long but, my feelings…”

“Shut the hell up, you’re so weird,” You let him inside.

“The true reason I came here is to check up on your progress,” said Azul. You replied, “Ha? It’s barely been a day, I didn’t finish it yet,”

“You had a whole twenty four hours and yet you still haven’t finished?” Azul said, flabberghasted. You let out a sound of disbelief, “I was asleep for some of those hours, I ate, I rested, I had to sweet talk Crowley into giving me a phone, and get a tutor—“

“A tutor?” Azul asked. You leaned against the wall and watched the water flow in the empty fish tank, “Yeah. Being magicless and an amnesiac is holding me back from being a student here. And I don’t want to just hang around campus while not being a student, that’s so weird. It just gives me an icky feeling.”

“So, Crowley is making you look for a tutor?” Azul sat on your bed, also looking at the empty fish tank, “Precisely,” You answered, “Not only that, he told me to look for another student that would tutor me, since I don’t have any contact with the outside..”

“And who are you asking to be your tutor?”

You look up in thought, “Well after looking through the notes Crowley gave me of the Housewardens, I decided to ask Riddle Rosehearts from Heartslabyul—“

“What?!” Azul’s outburst startled you, making you jolt and turn to him, “What? What’s with the racket?!” Azul looked at you like you had just betrayed him, the drama queen, “Why Riddle?”

“Because Savanaclaw’s Housewarden sounds troublesome, Scarabia’s sounds too laidback, Pomefiore’s sounds too stuffy, don’t even ask about Ignihyde, and Diasomnia—“

“Did you forget I’m also a Housewarden?” Azul said. You stare at him, “No…? I know you’re a Housewarden, I’m not stupid.” Azul stood up, “Then why wasn’t I the first person you thought of? Do you think I’m not academically competent or what?”

“Chill out, dude,” You roll your eyes, “Why the heck would I ask you to be my tutor?”

Azul choked on his saliva, “Wh-?! How— you- you—?!”

“I already owe you too much,” You said, “I would rather die than be more indebted to you than I already am, boss,” Though, another reason is that Azul might not fit you in his schedule. Getting rejected by Azul sounds absolutely humiliating.

Azul continued to stare at you, so much so its starting to creep you out. His gaze looked calculating, coaxing, like he’s trying to read you. He looks so stupid. You thought, unable to school your expression.

“Why are you laughing?!” Azul reacts indignantly.

“Aww, Azul has a soft spot for me now? I can’t believe I have that much charm!” You taunted him, watching with amusement as Azul looked like he was about to pop a vein, sputtering. You decided to be merciful and cut in, “Fine, fine, I’ll have you as my tutor,”

“Now you’re making it sound like I coerced you..”

“Didn’t you?” You cock a brow. Yeah, you have a new pasttime now. Seeing that laughable expression on the bossman’s face. You can’t wait to see more of it.

Unbeknownst to you, Azul has plans. Big plans.

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A/N: Spoiler alert, Azul does NAWT like us. Bro is praying for our downfall. xo

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