#all I really have to actually do is clean it up

[sjyuns]

NONSTOP — SIM JAEYUN

loser nerd!jake x fem!reader established relationship in which your virgin geek of a boyfriend has sex for the first time and you can't keep up with his extremely high sex drive mikaela's based on out of my league jake and his need to explore the atoms of your body. | collection MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

this work contains: virgin!jake but he doesn't act like a virgin, p in v, creampie, munch!jake, oral sex (f receiving), jake is a nerd w a monster cock, dirty talk (just blabbering), boob fixation, nipple play, jake wants to research about your pussy smth like that...

loser nerd!jake who loses his virginity to you and becomes obsessed with the feeling of you wrapped around him

jake has no reason to be this excited or maybe he does, because you're below him well, naked — like naked, naked. Curves visible for him to touch, skin bare for him to feel. Not to mention you tits are out, like actual tits, real tits not the virtual kind of game boobs jake has seen online on sketchy ads.

jake is already in ecstasy the moment he lines himself at your entrance, bulbous tip merely pushing into the opening of your pussy. And you're tight, really tight to the point jake is shocked, groaning in pleasure as he asks, "babe why are you so tight? I mean it feels really good— don't get me wrong but your pussy is sucking me, like a vacuum cleaner."

"jakey," you moan, his cock only half-inserted yet you already feel full, "don't metaphorically link sex to cleaning tools, please."

"sorry baby," he pauses, letting out a soft moan, hands gripping the flesh of your hips as he juts his hips forward instinctively, causing your fingers to curl onto his sheets, "just excited, you know how I am. It's great that you're my girlfriend and you're so hot and that your pussy feels like heaven. Remember how I told you that I thought I'd be a virgin till I was fourty—"

jake's hips thrust forward forward as if it's natural, not like it's his first time having his dick enter the fourth dimension. And when he's truly fully inside you, you let out an euphoric moan, whispering his name under your breath like a ritual.

"fuck baby you feel so good, I didn't know sex would feel so good," jake blabbers, a habit of his when he's entranced, tip of his cock hitting your cervix in rhythmic beats and you can feel him twitch inside of you every time you call his name out. "You know I always had a thing for your tits but now that I've felt what your pussy feels like, I think it's a really close second."

"jakey I'm gonna cum," you wail, back arching as your boyfriend quickens his own pace, chasing his own pleasure, "can we not talk about your boob fixation right now."

"why, they're so pretty," he whines, hands reaching out to kneed the round mound of flesh on your chest, fingers playfully flicking over your nipples as he watches you squirm intently, taking mental notes in his head of your different reactions.

you're overwhelmed with pleasure, and you let out one last whimper of your boyfriend's name before you come undone, slick white cum coating jake's cock as he too releases in you.

jake just stays inside you, still too hyper fixated on your boobs, fingers circling it like he would a game controller, lips darting out in thirst. Would you let him? He hoped you would— "baby can I suck your tits? like put my mouth on it, you know like tongue and all."

your breathing is heavy, and you don't understand how your boyfriend, who deems that it's his first time having sex has such high stamina and drive.

jake continues toying with your nipples, as if your consent was asked just for the sake of asking, and he was going to do it regardless. "I know what sucking is," you hum, hands reaching out to sink your fingers into his messy mop of hair.

taking it as a sign of consent, jake grins goofily, head leaning into your chest as he buries your face between your boobs — he's smiling like a kid in a candy store, tongue darting out to line the rims of your right nipple with saliva, the other nipple given the attention of his fingers as he pinches it.

you whine, thinking that your boyfriend might just be a sex god in disguise of a loser and you'd just hit the jackpot, your fingers curling around the strands of his hair.

he takes your boob in his mouth, sensation making your nipples perk up in need of more and jake hums lazily, the vibrations of his throat making you shiver. and you can feel jake's cock twitch in you, as his hips grind over you like a dog in heat.

"i'm so happy you have tits, they're so perfect like two stress balls, the kinds you'd play with when you're trying to solve a science Olympiad question and you're stuck. They should really start selling boob balls, maybe I should be a founding father of that business, sounds amazing." jake's mouth leaves your boob with a loud, resounding pop, strings of saliva sloppily dangling over his chin and lips as he pitched his idea to you. "i'm already getting hard at the thought, and my mind feels so calm and clear, like i could solve a hundred physics questions right now."

"jakey," you groan, and you don't understand how you're finding this hot.

"don't lie to me and say that you hate that idea, you're throbbing, like pulsating and you're really wet," he states, like he isn't right in the middle of the most mind-blowing sex you've ever had.

"maybe it's because you're still inside me and you're sucking my boobs," you propose to him as he shakes his head in denial, moving his head over to your left nipple, tongue flicking it with one small movement that causes you to let out a soft squeal.

"no, definitely the boob ball thing," he says, fingers moulding it's flesh as his tongue swirled around it.

jake takes his time to work you up, tongue flicking, swirling, and sucking as you slowly reach a new high, hips jutting up into his in need for a new release. and jake is no different, hard at the mere fact that he's in between your tits as he takes his cock out of you only to slam it in again, unapologetically.

this time he pulls out when he's ready to cum, cock covered in milky semen you can barely see the raging red tip as he releases over your stomach, streaks painting your sweat-glossed skin in swatches.

and you're tired, eyelids dropping down yet your boyfriend seemingly never down on energy as he watches the way your gaping hole throbs, slick dripping out of it and he can't help his curiosity as he kneels down between the plush flesh of your thighs, strong arms wrapped around each side as he takes a long lick.

you flinch, and jake does it again, a content gleam in his eyes as he perks up to look at your expression of shock and satisfaction. "you taste really good baby, i was just curious about how you taste but i could literally eat you out right now."

you sigh, resigning to your fate. your boyfriend's curiosity always landing you in unimaginable situations, "but i'm tired," you murmur but jake doesn't stop as you feel the warmth of his tongue dance against your inner thighs.

"you don't have to do anything, baby," jake consoles you, thumb rubbing over your sensitive clit as you let out a lewd sound, "just lie there and take it as a research thing."

"you're researching about..." you drone on, tiredness evident in your voice. jake had just made you cum twice and it seemed like he's made it his ultimate mission to bring you to your utmost limit.

"your pussy," jake states as if it was the most normal thing to do. you'd always knew that jake had a curious mind, and that was one of the things you loved about him, but you didn't know it'd lead to intense rounds of sex with no rest.

jake's tongue probes your gaping hole, a shy touch before he presses the base of his tongue into you, fingers moving to massage your clit. it's tame at first until it's not. jake's tongue doing magic as your juices leak, leading to a loud, lewd slurp as traces of you drip down jake's chin and onto his bedding.

jake's pussy drunk on you and he feels his dick get hard again, a low moan escaping his lips as he continues like it's his calling, fingers occasionally pinching your clit as his tongue drive in and out.

he hears your whine as you come undone again, a new accomplishment for you as he sloppily cleans you up before moving up to place chaste kisses over your body.

"I'm actually going to break up with you," you sigh, eyes barely open and jake gives you an innocent chuckle, his lips glazed with remnants of you, "how are you so horny if it's your first time, i can't believe it."

jake shrugs, moving over to pull you into his bare chest, fingers twirling your hair as you lean into his warmth, limbs tangled and breathing heavy. "it's called having a really hot girlfriend," he states.

in fact, jake feels as if he could continue for hours more. not to mention he's still hard from eating you out, his bulge pressing between your thighs as he laughs guiltily.

"jake," you sigh, knowing what your boyfriend wants to say.

"i won't ask," he says, only for his voice to break the serene silence moments later, "one more round?"

© SJYUNS

[woollypoison]

Pearl Necklaces

IVE wonyoung x reader (but also all of IVE is in this so...) a/n: I've had this idea of starting a fic with a terrible blowjob for a really long time already. I woke up really horny with tons of free time on my hands and with the puzzle pieces clicking in my head. Thank you, wisdom teeth removal surgery. Anyways, I KNOW I promised full focus on itzy miniseries next AND YOU'LL GET IT!!! I'm working really hard on it, just accept this little out of control dribble as a free gift. Shout out to @valentinedrifter and @kwilquib for the beta read, much love amigos <3333 Word count: 2.2k

This is, by far, the worst blowjob you’ve ever had.

Wait, does this even count as a blowjob? Wonyoung’s just sitting there, knees on the floor, legs spread apart. Her tongue’s out, sure, and the tip of it is touching the underside of your cockhead. The eye contact is making it work, and the way she’s jackhammering her own cunt is a sight to behold, but can you really call it a blowjob if the only thing rubbing your cock is your own hand?

Isn’t this more like an assisted hand job?

“Can you hurry the fuck up? I have to be out—on fucking stage—in 10 minutes in front of a crowd full of horny college students,” Wonyoung barks at you, retracting her tongue, causing you to whimper for losing the only source of contact you still had. “And you know I orgasm a lot faster with a load on my face.”

“I’m sorry Wony, but this is my fourth time already today. I’m not some endless fountain of sperm,” you say. “It would go a lot faster if you helped out some more.”

“What the fuck do you mean, fourth time today?! You should be saving up for me, you dog!”

“It’s not my fault,” is the weakest form of an excuse you could come up with. You’re IVE’s manager. It’s all your fault. “First was this morning… You know how ridiculous Gauel’s been lately.”

And of course she knows. Gaeul’s been playing the part of a bratty sleeping beauty.

“I can’t believe that bitch is still saying she refuses to wake up unless you cum on her face,” she spits back, and it really does sound ridiculous when she says it out loud.

“What about the other two?”

“Well,” you start, but you already know you’re going to get chewed out. “I was having trouble getting everything ready to wake Gaeul up—”

“Just like you are now, right.”

“Right. And I accidentally left the door open, and when Yujin saw me struggling, she came to help out.”

Wonyoung rolls her eyes with a sharp flick, finally sticks her tongue out again but still too far to touch, and twitches her eyebrows to let you know to continue.

“She helped jerk me off onto Gaeul’s face. Said it was her responsibility as a leader as well.”

“That still makes just one load blown, right?” Wonyoung intervenes.

“Yeah, I’m getting there,” you continue, seeing the way her eyes refuse to let you know she’s really enjoying your retelling of the defiling of her members, but doing a terrible job at keeping it hidden.

“After I came on Gaeul, Yujin dragged me out towards her room. Said she was expecting a ‘give and take’ for her help.”

“What kind of ‘give and take’?”

You sigh. She pretends to want to chastise you, but with the way her hand is pounding into her sloppy cunt beneath you and how she’s dripping on the floor, it’s obvious to see. She’s just getting off on this. “I ate her out until she came and then she jerked me off onto her face. Load two.”

“That slut,” Wonyoung murmurs with a smirk. “What about the last one?”

“Okay, I admit, this one might be my fault,” you meekly let out. Wonyoung raises one eyebrow, like she can’t wait to find out what kind of dumb shit you did. “I was helping Rei and Liz clean up the breakfast table, and they were talking about what kind of snack they could still have.”

“Okay?”

“So I jokingly said I had a delicious snack tucked away in my pants for them.”

Wonyoung looks at you like you’re an actual idiot. Look. You might be. “You’re serious?” she asks, almost in disbelief.

“I didn’t expect them to jump me like that. It only took a couple of seconds before they had my dick sandwiched in between their lips,” you explain, getting lost in the thought of how great they felt.

“You’re a pervert,” she snidely remarks.

“God they looked good, licking my seed off of each other’s faces. IVE really is the best…”

Your reminiscing and your pace get interrupted as the door behind you opens, and Leeseo pops her face in with a loud message. “Wonyoung-unnie, it’s 5 minutes till showtime,” she cheers gleefully before opening her eyes, and taking in the sight. You, towering over Wonyoung with your cock out, her on her knees with her mouth open.

“Get the fuck out, can’t you see we’re busy? I’ll be right there,” Wonyoung snaps at Leeseo.

Leeseo just holds her hand in front of her mouth in mock surprise. She giggles a small melody to your ears, before taking her leave, but not without a final remark. “Okay, but don’t forget I finally get manager tonight. Don’t wear him out too hard for my first time, please!”

Wonyoung rolls her eyes again, and looks towards you as you slowly start pumping your cock again. “So, where were we? You were telling me about how you already came three times today, and making excuses for why I’m still waiting for my share.”

“It’s a lot faster if you help, Wonyoung…”

She gasps in shock, looking at you like you’re not only an idiot, but actually insane now. “There’s no fucking way I’m touching your filthy cock. Not after everywhere it’s been today.”

“I don’t think I can finish in time if it’s by myself,” you plead, and it’s not even a lie. If anything, you’re more scared of how upset Wonyoung will be if she has to go on stage without relieving her usual tension.

“Ugh, fine! But only if you ditch Leeseo tonight for me,” she argues back, and it’s a grin that tells you everything. You have no real choice when it comes to Wonyoung’s tantrums.

“What? I can’t! She’s been looking forward to this for months,” you try to argue nevertheless.

She negotiates a better deal back, the desperation of having to go out on stage any moment getting to her. “No condom this time. So what will it be? Paint our maknae’s face, or get me to touch your dick and fill my insides up as much as you want?”

“Deal, but I’m not letting you off the hook for that,” you reply in an instant, so eager your cock twitches at the mere thought of it. The glint in her eye says enough, her two hands balling into little fists as she shakes them, heralding her victory.

She forms a circle with her left thumb and index finger, wrapping it around the base of your cock and presses tightly against you. Her other hand is still occupied with her own needs. Her mouth opens up, hot breath heralding your end. You wish it took more, but the moment she plants a kiss on your cock, you burst.

It’s a full-body, shuddering embarrassment of an orgasm, the kind that makes your knees buckle and your face hot with shameful delight. Wonyoung doesn’t break eye contact—not once.

Your cum splashes out in a blinding, white arc, catching Wonyoung square on the tongue, painting her lips, her nose, even a bit on her lashes. Wonyoung squeals at the sheer volume, and then, with a balletic flick of her wrist, jerks you out for the last spurt, milking every drop onto her own eager face. She scoops up a glob with her pinky, pops it in her mouth like it’s frosting, and lets out a theatrical moan.

“God, you’re such a fucking mess,” she says, but she drags her hand down to her slit and starts furiously rubbing, as if her own orgasm is right there, like a red button she can’t stop slamming. You’re still dizzy, your vision swimming, when she shoves her face against your softening cock and lets out a high, tight whine. She cums like a disaster: messy and loud, bucking her hips so hard she nearly topples backwards, her legs kicking out and slamming the top of her head against your thigh, making you nearly collapse on top of her. She’s painted and panting, mouth slack, chest flushed scarlet. You’ve never seen her look so proud, so utterly victorious. “I’m going to look so hot on stage,” she says, but she’s smiling now, the kind of mischievous, post-orgasmic smile that could start wars. Then, she wipes the semen off her cheek with her thumb. “Is this look too much for university boys?” She chuckles, then licks her thumb with a showy little curl of her tongue in front of you, eyes locked on yours, as if daring you to disagree. You manage a shaky breath, still not recovered, and watch her collect herself with the efficiency of an idol who’s both a world-class diva and a world-class pervert.

She’s in full glam: lashes thick enough to sweep the floor, cheeks rouged to cartoonish perfection, and now this decadent pearl necklace of your making as her accessory.

“You can’t go out there like that,” you manage, voice hoarse and a little too loud.

Wonyoung’s standing, one foot in her heel, blouse still wide open, neck and chin and cheek freckled with the evidence. She stares at herself in the mirror, cocks her head, and lifts her phone. 

Snap. Snap. Snap. 

She’s taking selfies, for fuck’s sake. Her tongue pokes out, cute and obscene above her ruined makeup. “Why not?” she purrs, not even pretending to button up. “It’s a good look. Besides, the fans would fucking die.”

The front-facing camera captures the whole tableau: your deflated cock wilting against her cheek, the ropes of cum criss-crossing her face, and her absolute, shameless delight at the mess. And just like that, you’re incriminated.

“I’ll die if you get in trouble for this,” you hiss, glancing at the door as if Leeseo might be waiting with a live feed. “Please, just clean up.”

She’s not even listening. “Oh, don’t be a prude, manager. I’m doing this for you,” She winks, then switches to video mode, recording a quick little snippet of her slurping a glob of cum off her own chin, then blowing a kiss to the camera. “If you’re a good boy, maybe I’ll let you watch it later.”

You’re about to protest, but then she’s shoving the phone in your hands, angling her face for you to get the best shot. “Take one for me. I want to remember how you love me the most.”

You do as you’re told, because you always do, and she’s right: this is her at her best, her most dangerous. The flash goes off, and she shivers at the sound. “God, you’re lucky,” she purrs and you know it.

“Here, let me—” you start, reaching for the tissues on the table.

But Wonyoung’s already got her own solution. “No, no, no. If you really want me cleaned up, you have to do it.” She tilts her chin up, eyes fluttering closed. “With your tongue. Or I’ll tell everyone in the company you’re a chronic masturbator who can’t keep his hands off his own dick around us.”

She grabs your chin and pulls you into a kiss, her tongue pushing past your lips, and you can taste yourself, bitter and astringent, and her, sweet and sharp. She bites your lip, hard enough to sting, then breaks away and wipes the rest off with a practiced hand. “You’re such a pushover,” she says, patting your cheek with the now-ruined tissue.

You just watch as she stands, legs shaky as she fixes her hair, retwists her ponytail, and tugs her miniskirt down over her thighs, still glistening from her own mess. She checks herself in the mirror, then gives you a once-over, eyes lingering on your still-exposed, still-leaking cock.

She’s devilish, a forbidden fruit, the kind of ice cold beauty typically reserved for fairy tales. “Now, here’s your job,” she says, wagging her finger at you. “Go to the green room, watch my performance, and edge yourself until I get back. I want you leaking for me all night, so when I get back, you can fill me up for real. If you cum before I’m done, I’ll make you eat it off Yujin’s shoes.”

You sputter, “What?”

She grins, all dimples and devilry. “You heard me. And don’t even think about cheating. I’ll know.”

She blows you a kiss and flounces out, heels clacking, leaving you dazed and semi-hard in the aftermath.

You could’ve been a manager in any group, for any label in Seoul, but fate delivered you into the hands of the most terminally horny, irrepressible, and power-mad girl group in the country. You can’t even process it. You just sit there, cock in hand, trying to figure out how your life turned into a kpop bukkake sitcom. You ponder briefly if this is a privilege or a curse, and then, as your thumb scrolls aimlessly through the photo log on her phone (she left it behind by “accident”), you realize you don’t even care anymore.

The latest shot is still her, tongue out, glazing herself like a goddamn donut, winking at you through the digital shrapnel of your own undoing. Your cock jumps, traitorously.

Whatever Wonyoung wants, she gets.

[starboye]

pornst★r

it's not that simon hated you were making only fans, he wasn't even jealous because he knew although those guys jerked off to you he was the one who was getting to fuck you every night, something they could never relate to

but he would always watch from the sidelines, the way the silicone dick plunged in and out of your hole had him spreading his legs wider in the chair and palming himself, he just hated seeing you moaning around some worthless piece of shit like that

so one night after you finished filming and were cleaning yourself up he asked you "what if i helped y'film" he leaned against the door frame of the bathroom "like camera work" you questioned "no like actually in the video" he retorted "i mean if you want, you could even keep the mask on if you want to" you reassure him

and in the next video your fans were pleasantly surprised to see some burly man with a mask joining you in your video "today we have a lovely new guest joining me, his name is ghost" you introduce him with a smirk on your face at how his dick jumps just from you introducing him

in no time your straddling simons lap and lifting his mask up just to his nose to kiss him which turns more hot and heavy as the seconds pass "fuck me" you whisper into his mouth pushing him onto the bed, continuing kissing while he prepped your hole, his thick fingers pumping in and out of you

"just like that ghost, just like that" you drawl out arching your back to show the viewers a better look at your ass getting stretched open, simon wouldn't admit it but he was really getting turned on by how you moaned his army name it had his dick standing tall and hard ready to slip inside you

you leaned back up and spit in your hand to lube up his cock, slowly slipping it inside you while simon looked up at you, mouth parted open watching you take charge before you slipped your fingers into his open mouth, his tongue licking them up and down as you bounced up and down on him

"mhm, you like that" you asked and all simon could do was subconsciously nod his head yes at the breathtaking sight in front of him, his hands made their way to grab your ass, helping you ride him faster while he still ran his tongue along your fingers, he couldn't even control his hips from fucking upwards into you at this point

light moans and whimpering mixed with skin slapping filled the room in no time "m'gonna cum" simon muttered "oh yeah" you tease now rocking your hips on him instead of hopping on his cock "mhmm" he mewls, eyes flickering back behind the mask "then fill me up" you say and simons hips are slamming into your ass to fuck you full

his dick twitching as he spurts his load in your hole, doing a few more lazy thrusts to make sure its all in there, his head falling back on the bed with heavy breaths "fuck your load feels so good" you pull your fingers out of his mouth before pulling simons now soft cock out of you to show the camera how his load drips out of you

"how did i do" simon weakly asks smiling up at you "you did good" you kiss him a little before getting up to turn off the camera.

xoxo, starboye💋

(might have to do this pairing again because i feel theirs more to the story, like this was the beginning of it all thats why simon was not as dom if you get what i mean idk i just liked this idea)

taglist: @mailmango @boypied @ghostking4m @gayaristocrat @addictedtomalepits @staarb0y @crispysoup318 @its-ares @gargoylesworld09 @znerac @r0mcom-8ngel

[luveline]

Ur emergency medicine doctor!reader x Hotch blurb changed my life.. can i request either a hurt/comfort part 2 where their busy schedules kinda get too much and all reader needs is hotch but he can’t be there Or…… or… one where someone from the team ends up at reader’s emergency department (nothing too serious) and she treats them? Thank you thank you!!!!!

thank you for requesting ❤︎

“Spencer Reid, what did you do?” you ask, pulling aside the curtain with a whack. 

He grimaces at you. “Nothing! I didn’t do anything, I just got shot!” 

You grimace back. “Jesus, honey, I’m sorry. How’s the pain?” 

“Better now they’ve stitched me back together.” 

“Really?” 

“No!” 

You push up your sleeves and take a look at Spencer’s thigh. You’re careful —in his hospital gown, you’re one good pull from seeing his unmentionables. Not that that seems to be a concern as he winces in pain. “Had tylenol?” you ask. 

“Yep.” 

“They did a nice job with the stitches. Came out the back of your leg?” 

“Yep.” 

“Okay. How’s your head?” 

“Hurting.” 

You aren’t a fan of his one word answers, but you aren’t sure what can be done to help him if he’s not gonna have the strong stuff. And you don’t blame him. He has to do what he needs to do, you just wish there was more you could do now to help him along. “Well, at least I didn’t have to do your stitches. Wounds pretty close to your artery, but you know that already…” You swallow. “Uh, how–”

“He’s fine.” 

“Yeah? I did look at the admissions, but you know he– never answers the phone when I need him to,” you say, squeezed. You obviously hate that Spencer’s been shot, but it’s a relief to know Aaron stayed out of the firefight. You’ve pictured him a hundred different ways since you saw it on the news. You know intimately how hurt people can really be. 

You sigh. “Spencer, sorry. Um. Okay, so, you know we don’t always stitch up wounds like this because of the risk of infection, so you’re gonna have to be super careful with this, you have to keep it clean. But any complications at all are ones we can treat, and, you know, you have my number.”

“It must be hard, not seeing each other for so long.” 

You give him a grateful look. “It’s really hard. Harder when I know he’s so close to danger. But I trust his capabilities, just like I trust yours, and I’m gonna give you this packet of wound care and I’m gonna tell you that you can go home tonight only if you promise me you’ve read it before then.”

Aaron arrives a few hours later, and you’re not upset when he gives you a quick, quick kiss and says, “What room is he in, honey?” Absconding as swiftly as he arrived. You finish up some paperwork at your computer behind the reception desk and wait achingly for him to come back out. It takes twenty minutes, but he appears again with one less bag and a look of relief that threatens to floor you. 

“Hello,” he says, less urgent, more doting, stopping with his shoes pressed against yours. 

“Hey, Hotchner.”

“Nineteen days,” he says. 

“Felt like a thousand.” 

“It did, didn’t it?” he asks, bringing a hand to your cheek. It should be rough. You smile at the way he brushes it along your face to hold you under the ear. 

“You okay?”

He nods. You’re not sure he’s telling the truth, it’s a jerking, stiff thing, but he’s not faking when he brings his face down to kiss you. Just once on the lips, then up to your cheekbone, where he rubs his nose so hard it nearly hurts.

“Thank you for looking after Spencer.” 

“I didn’t, actually, that was Deb. Just been keeping him stocked on tylenol and jelly.” 

“When can I look after you?” he asks. “Finishing at midnight?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“I’ll come pick you up.” 

“It’ll be too late,” you lament. Once you get home and he picks you up, that’ll be nearing one in the morning, even if he gets there early for you. 

“No, it’s okay. I’ll come and get you anyway. I need to see you.” 

You drop your face into his collar and breathe. He does more of that nose-rubbing into your skin, stirring your stomach with every pass, worse when his thumb travels from just under your ear to across your throat. If you weren’t in an alcove away from your patients, you’d be steaming with embarrassment. Here, you’re tempted to let your teeth drag against his skin through a kiss he has no business receiving. “Can’t believe you haven’t come to see me for so long. You hate me.” 

“I don’t hate you, honey. I’m sorry. I’m gonna make it up to you.” 

You pull away. He cups the back of your head. “You promise?” 

He hears the neediness in your voice. You don’t wanna be in charge, don’t want to be the one saving people. You both need to go home and lock up in bed like pathetic little worm people, boneless and sweet on each other. 

His smile is loving and bemused at once. “Cross my heart.” 

[tinysunshine]

thoughts on daryl/rick/negan/literally whoever you please checking you for wounds/bites but like they are reallyyyy thorough and handsy and just keep finding excuses to keep on touching you omgmgmg Ok sorry bai

please don’t be sorry because this is so hot <3

i have some icky + sexy headcanons for this, thank you for the idea!

with rick, i’m imagining him super stressed out bc you’re getting on his fucking nerves like - 

maybe a lot of people have just died atp, or there’s hordes of walkers nearby. you’re either constantly putting yourself in danger, or you’re just acting weird because you’re nervous around rick and maybe he heard someone say you had a close call with a walker - and he just can’t handle having to worry about you anymore.

so he’s all rough and pulling at your clothes, asking what your fuckin’ problem is while he pulls your top off and is accusing you of having a bite or a scratch or a wound under your clothes from bein’ stupid. makes fun of you for being shy when he gets you naked <3

he will feel bad about being aggressive when he calms down, but it’s lowkey fun for him to be the bad guy sometimes. obviously. he’ll just tell himself he was looking out for you and for the safety of the entire community - it’s not like he just wanted to finally see your tits after all your teasing (because yes, you’ve definitely been teasing. and okay, he’s lying - because your hot body is all he’s been thinking about. he’s only a man, after all.)

negan doesn’t have to make up a reason to be invasive because he does whatever he wants and you let him (duh). but i also feel like it’s fun for him, since he loves his king of the apocalypse shit so much. he’s definitely making it a game when the door shuts and you’re finally all alone. let’s see it, as if you know what he’s talking about. and then he does that nod and does that crazy, annoyingly confident smirk and you understand what he’s referring to. he wants to play.

i lowkey feel like this has ddlg elements to it. negan just makin’ sure my baby’s okay, touching, prodding, as if there’s any wounds or bites near your private areas. but it’s so hot and humiliating and gross and a little scary, honestly. bonus points for daddy negan when you really do get scared after a close call with a walker, and you’re too nervous to look at your back just incase you got a bite or a wound, so he checks for you. 

just a kiss, honey, told ya’ there was nothing to worry about, all condescending but he’s glad you’re okay and he kissed your back on the spot you were worried about <3

daryl highkey doesn’t give a fuck about anyone else, but he does think you’re pretty sweet. cute. you don’t deserve to die, at least, but he knows you’re up to something. 

something, which is constantly taking your clothes off around him so he can make sure you’re clean. it’s annoying as fuck to him, and even worse, makes him sort of uncomfortable. daryl likes to be alone, but he is only a man. and you’re kinda forceful. taking your clothes off, naked except for a pair of panties so he can inspect you and make sure you’re all safe. could do this yourself, you know, he’ll say and you know you could but you want him to do it. 

you do this so much that he knows you’re faking the being scared shit, and it’s sort of like the boy who cried wolf. the one time you really are scared you’ve been bitten, you go to him and he’s rude as hell. curses at you bc he’s so sick of you bugging him about this because it’s getting harder to deny you. 

please, daryl, you’ll beg. and he’ll get really mad at you for the first time. fuck you want from me, huh? you want me to rip your clothes off or somethin’? don’t think a walker bite is very good foreplay, but then your lip trembles bc you actually are nervous. just scared, you say, and daryl shakes his head.

scared, huh, he’ll say, ashing his cigarette. he looks down at the bulge in his pants and then back up to you to make sure you can see it too <3 you scared of that?

[rafeslvbug]

hockey!rafe showing up to iceskater!readers practices after his own?

awh yes this is definitely something they do - well they share the rink, tbh so he’d mainly just wait around.

she’d probably be annoyed at him because the hockey team messed up the ice, so she’d say her practice wasn’t as good as it could have been.

– “that’s your best practice yet, i think.”

– “stop trying to flatter me, you know you messed up the ice.”

he’d just stand by the edge, would feel the urge to stick his hand out when she’s skating by and cause her to stumble, but doesn’t want to cause an injury at the same time so he just keeps his hands to himself.

cheers for her like it’s an actual show, and sometimes she doesn’t know if it’s more bothersome or endearing.

if he didn’t wait around, and came back halfway through it’s only because he went and got her food for afterwards (she likes to train late nights or early mornings so it’ll be breakfast or dinner.)

if he knew she was going to practice after him, he’d make sure his team cleaned the rink up so nothing was left behind. no spare clothes on the benches at the side, or pucks lying around. everything would be cleaned up, out of her way, and they’d get rid of their smell too.

– “cameron, you makin’ us do all this for your girl?”

– “no..it’s basic manners, idiot.”

if any of his teammates happened to hang around with him, he’d make them keep their mouths shut because he doesn’t want them revealing information he’d rather keep secret.

– “yo rafe you remember when you used to make us scratch the ice on purpose so she’d do bad?” one of his friends would joke as they watch you skate around the rink.

– “shut up.” he’d grit in return.

– “you did what!?” you’d yell, coming to a halt in front of them.

it could even be something he does if she’s been avoiding him after a fight. he’ll walk in when he knows she can’t try and leave- she’d have to unlace her skates and clean up and he’d have too much time to stop her. so it’s perfect, really. quiet too, late at night when no one would interrupt. something about the ice just calms you both.

[bucketgetter535]

No Margin for Error: Chapter Thirteen

CW: NONE WC: 3.9k Notes: This chapter is short because the next one is longgggg. and also next one is the last chapter.... I'm kinda sad? anyway lmk what y'all think Abt this

Las Vegas didn’t know how to shut up. Even at nine in the morning, it was all lights and sounds and manufactured chaos. Helicopters overhead. Music bleeding out of closed rooftop bars. Cameras already stationed in every direction like the whole city had been built for a race week that hadn’t even started.

Paige stood in front of the mirror in the women’s bathroom on the top floor of the paddock building, twisting her hair up with a tie. She liked this bathroom. It was quiet. Private. No one ever really came in here except for the occasional PR assistant or logistics manager, and even then, they were in and out in thirty seconds. No fans. No media. Just space to breathe.

Azzi was leaning against the counter behind her, phone in hand, one foot crossed over the other like she owned the building.

“She’s driving FP1 for Alpine,” Azzi said, eyes still on her phone. “Abbi Pulling. Twenty-two. British. Mostly F1 Academy, a couple tests.”

Paige raised her brows in the mirror. “Oh?”

“Yep. First time an F1 Academy girl gets an official session this season. Media’s already losing it.”

Paige tied off her hair, then turned. “We should talk to her. Just…y’know. Let her know someone’s in her corner.”

Azzi looked up, smiled. “Yeah. I figured you’d say that.”

They didn’t know Abbi personally. Hadn’t crossed paths much. Paige and Azzi had done the traditional route—F3, F2, then straight to F1—before F1 Academy was even a real pipeline. But they paid attention. Especially to the women. Especially the ones still climbing.

Paige hopped up onto the counter beside Azzi, hoodie sleeves shoved up her arms, legs swinging lazily. “I just remember how brutal FP1 felt that first time. Like…everything’s heavier, faster, more eyes watching.”

Azzi nodded. “And less margin for anything. She’s gonna feel that.”

Paige was about to say something else when the bathroom door creaked open.

A girl walked in, paused when she saw them.

Oh.

It was her. Abbi.

Her eyes went wide. Like she hadn’t expected them to be here. She had one AirPod in, a water bottle half-drunk in one hand, and that look of cautious excitement that Paige remembered having once. The quiet panic of knowing you’re about to do something really, really big.

“Sorry,” Abbi said quickly, half backing up. “I can—I’ll come back—”

“No, no,” Azzi said, voice easy. She slid her phone into her back pocket. “You’re good.”

Paige smiled, raising a hand. “You’re Abbi, right?”

“Uh… yeah.”

Paige hopped off the counter. “I’m Paige.” She waited, let it land.

Abbi let out a small, breathless laugh. “Yeah. I know.”

Azzi stepped forward. “We heard you’ve got an Alpine for FP1.”

Abbi nodded, still looking stunned. “I—I do. Yeah.”

“Cool,” Paige said. “That’s a big deal. Congrats.”

“Thanks.” She looked between them, still hesitant, like maybe this was a dream or a prank. “You two are kind of the blueprint, so…”

Azzi leaned against the sink again. “No pressure or anything.”

Abbi laughed again, more naturally this time.

Paige tilted her head. “You nervous?”

“Insanely.”

“Good,” Azzi said. “Means you care.”

Paige crossed her arms. “It’s gonna be weird. The car feels huge at first. Heavier in places you don’t expect. The mirrors are mostly lies, the brakes are stupid sensitive, and the tires don’t trust you until lap five.”

Abbi gave a small, wide-eyed nod.

Azzi added, “Don’t overdrive it. Everyone does. Just hit your marks. Make it boring and clean.”

“You won’t set purple sectors,” Paige said. “And no one expects you to. That’s not what FP1 is for. Keep the car clean and make them want you back.”

“Okay,” Abbi said. Her voice was steadier now. “That’s really good advice, actually.”

Paige smiled. “It’s what we wish someone told us.”

Abbi looked at them again, like she was memorizing the moment. “Thank you.”

Azzi shrugged. “You’re one of us now. Even if you never did F2.”

“Or F3,” Paige added, mockingly scandalized.

Abbi grinned. “I’ll try not to make you look bad.”

Paige winked. “You couldn’t if you tried.”

Azzi pulled a protein bar from her jacket pocket, tossed it to her. “Eat that before you get in the car. Trust me.”

Abbi caught it, nodded, and disappeared back out the door, posture already a little taller than when she’d walked in.

Paige turned to Azzi after a second. “We’re old.”

Azzi smirked. “You’re older.”

“Twenty-three is not that old.”

“Tell that to the nineteen-year-olds in the Red Bull junior program.”

Paige sighed dramatically and bumped her shoulder into Azzi’s. “Let’s go win another race.”

Azzi slung her arm around her shoulders. “Let’s.”

And they walked out together, quiet and smiling, ready for Vegas to get even louder.

–

Paige was already twelve laps into FP1 and barely breaking a sweat.

Vegas wasn’t hard. The circuit was fun, flashy, smooth. She could drive this place with one hand, blindfolded, and maybe even win. There weren’t many turns that punished you, and the long straights just felt like extended opportunities to breathe. Even now, as the car hit nearly 240 mph down the strip, she barely blinked. Vegas was built for the show. The cars, the cameras, the afterparties. And Paige, truthfully, was a fan.

Still, after twelve laps of pace setting and balance checks, boredom was setting in.

She clicked the radio. “Luka,” she said, drawing out the name in a fake whine. “I’m bored.”

Her race engineer’s voice came back, dry and amused. “That’s not in the telemetry.”

Paige grinned behind her visor. “Should be. I’m registering a ninety on the boredom index.”

“Copy. Ninety on boredom, zero on tire grip.”

She chuckled, flicking through her settings. “Yeah, these hards suck, by the way. Remind me why we’re even using them?”

“Because Pirelli said so.”

“Well, Pirelli also said they fixed the deg issue in Spain. And we all saw how that turned out.”

A small laugh came through the line.

She sailed through the long right-hander with one hand resting lightly on the wheel, the other adjusting brake bias. Her eyes flicked to the big screens perched around the circuit. She could just barely make out herself flying past, the red and white Ferrari livery glinting under the city lights like a bullet dipped in glitter.

“Track temps still climbing?” she asked.

“Yeah. Bit over 31 degrees. Air temp’s stable.”

“Copy. So, let’s do everyone a favor and burn through the hard sets now, save the mediums for Sunday. I’m thinking we need two fresh sets for the race minimum. If not, we’re screwed.”

“Noted,” Luka replied. “Strategy will love that.”

Paige smirked. “Tell them I’m in my ‘legacy drive’ era. Gotta look cool on the podium, not drag my ass across the line on bald tires.”

Another small pause. “That’s… not how strategy works.”

Paige laughed again, taking the inside line through turn twelve like it was muscle memory. It kind of was. Vegas was so smooth it practically drove itself.

“I like this track,” she said aloud after a beat. “Like… the lights, the layout. It’s stupid, but in a good way.”

“Stupid is expensive,” Luka quipped.

“And expensive is fun,” Paige said, swinging through the final corner. “You should come to the afterparty.”

“I have a family.”

“I’ll send them a postcard.”

The car ate through the straight without complaint. Her Ferrari was purring. They hadn’t even pushed full deployment yet. Just laps. Clean, light, boring laps.

She settled in for a few more, mind already half in the post-session briefing, half on what shoes she was going to wear to dinner. Azzi had probably already decided hers. She always did. Maybe Paige would just steal a pair and play dumb.

“Time on the board’s still purple,” Luka said in her ear. “You’re good, Paige.”

She smiled again. “Always am.”

And she dove into turn one like the lap wasn’t even happening.

–

The Vegas skyline blinked outside Paige’s hotel window, warm neon pulsing through the sheer curtains like some distant heartbeat. Inside the room, though, it was quiet, save for the low volume of a bad reality show they weren’t really watching.

The sheets were a tangle. Paige lay on her back, one leg slightly bent, hair still a little damp from her post-dinner shower. Azzi was curled into her side, head resting just under her shoulder, one arm slung across Paige’s middle like she was anchoring her there. The whole room smelled faintly of clean skin, strawberries, and hotel soap.

It had been a soft night.

They’d talked a little. About the weekend, about strategy, about how ridiculous FP3 was probably going to be. Ferrari looked unstoppable around Vegas. Every single time they touched the track, they found more time. Even the engineers had relaxed, almost suspiciously so. Paige could feel it, too. The balance was good. The pace was there. She didn’t even hate the tires this week (except for the hards). Everything was flowing.

But right now, none of that mattered.

Azzi had gone quiet, her fingers idly tracing the seams on Paige’s tank top, her breathing slow and even. Paige thought she might be half-asleep.

Then came a soft voice. Quiet, but clear.

“P?”

Paige hummed. “Mhm?”

A pause.

“I love you.”

Paige blinked. She didn’t move right away, didn’t even breathe for a second. Her heart jumped, did something weird in her chest, like a misfire or a short circuit, and for once, she didn’t know what her face looked like. Didn’t know what her body language was doing. She turned her head slowly, eyes finding Azzi’s in the dim room.

Azzi was serious.

Not scared. Not tentative. Just sure.

Paige stared at her for a long second, her brain somehow full and empty at once. She’d said those words before. To people. To girls. She’d meant them in her own ways. But this felt different… like the whole moment had cracked open something inside her she didn’t know she’d kept locked up.

“Oh,” she said, stupidly. Her voice was hoarse.

Azzi didn’t flinch. “It’s okay,” she said, brushing her thumb lightly over Paige’s side. “You don’t have to say it back.”

“No—no, I do. I just—” Paige sat up slightly, shifting so she could look down at her. “I love you too. I really do.”

And it wasn’t just a reflex. It hit her as she said it. A wave, unsteady and honest. Paige didn’t do this kind of thing easily. She could talk to anyone, joke with anyone, flirt her way out of trouble or into the driver’s lounge. But love was a different track. One she hadn’t raced before, not like this.

It wasn’t about comfort or chemistry or even the fact that they shared a bed and a championship fight and half their wardrobes. It was Azzi. The way she held her. The way she knew when to speak and when not to. The way she asked questions Paige didn’t know how to answer, and then stayed anyway.

“I love you,” Paige said again, softer this time.

Azzi smiled, a real one, and tucked her head into the crook of Paige’s neck again like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Paige didn’t speak after that. Didn’t need to. Her arm wrapped tighter around Azzi’s back, her fingers gently stroking along her spine. She closed her eyes, breathing in the moment, letting it settle in her chest.

–

Paige had been lights out from the start.

Clean launch, tight first corner, and she never looked back. It wasn’t just a win. It was a statement. Vegas under the lights, a Red Bull behind her in the early laps, Azzi shadowing her for most of it, but no one could touch her today. Not with how the car felt. Not with how focused she was. Everything clicked.

Azzi had pace too, but a mid-race sensor glitch forced her to adjust her entire power unit strategy. Enough to lose a few tenths a lap, just enough to stay out of DRS range and never quite challenge for the lead. She still came home comfortably in second, clear of third by almost ten seconds. But Paige? Paige was untouchable.

And now Paige was back on top. 363 points, three ahead of Azzi with 360. It was the narrowest margin imaginable, but in a season like this, even that felt massive.

Still, none of it compared to the after party.

Vegas didn’t disappoint. Ferrari had rented out an entire rooftop lounge, red lights, white marble bars, slick glass walls that looked out over the Strip, which glowed like a fever dream below them. Music pulsed through the floor, drinks were already flowing, and the DJ had some remixed version of a song Paige hadn’t heard before playing as they walked in.

Paige remembered to wear something real: white button-up left half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, black slacks hanging just right, rings on both hands, and her chain tucked beneath the collar. Hair slicked and sharp. She didn’t dress up often, but when she did, it had an effect.

Azzi noticed. Azzi always noticed.

Azzi also remembered to dress up. Blood-red mini dress that matched the Ferrari branding better than anything in the paddock, silver heels, and hair down in perfect curls. Every time she turned her head, Paige forgot how to stand still. It was that serious.

They made the rounds—pictures, handshakes, congratulations, a few quick interviews with press. But once the formalities were over and the champagne had been popped and Paige had danced with at least four of their mechanics, she found her way back to Azzi, who was laughing at something Luka said near the edge of the pool.

“You’re so fucking hot tonight,” Paige said, voice low enough for Azzi’s ears only.

Azzi blinked at her, slow, amused. “You’re just realizing that now?”

“No, I’m just brave enough to say it now.”

Azzi kissed her in full view of whoever was watching. Just a quick, not-so-innocent thing that landed perfectly on Paige’s smirk. Luka pretended to be horrified and excused himself with a dramatic spin. Azzi leaned into Paige’s side afterward, hand resting gently at the waistline of those black pants that hung too low anyway.

“Back in the lead,” Azzi murmured. “How’s it feel?”

Paige looked out over the skyline, then down at her drink. “Honestly? I kinda forgot for a second.”

Azzi arched a brow.

“’Cause I’m standing here with you, and that’s better than any trophy.”

Azzi groaned. “That’s the cheesiest shit I’ve ever heard.”

“True though,” Paige said. “Look at you. You’d forget about trophies too.”

They danced later. Slow, despite the beat. Azzi was tipsy but glowing. Paige, more relaxed than she’d been in weeks, spun her once just to show off, then pulled her back in. The Strip lit them from behind like a giant movie set, and for the first time in a long time, Paige felt like she wasn’t just performing. She was just… here. With Azzi. Breathing. Living.

At one point, Azzi whispered something into her ear—something soft, maybe a promise, maybe a tease—and Paige laughed so hard she almost dropped her drink. Her arm never left Azzi’s waist the whole night. Not even once.

They slipped out of the party around 2 a.m., tipsy and grinning, heels in hand, tie undone. Neither of them said a word about the championship standings. That could wait. The world could wait.

–

Qatar was a different kind of pressure. Dry heat clung to everything. Suits, visors, rubber, lungs, and despite the championship being down to a three-point margin, neither Paige nor Azzi felt particularly fast.

The Ferrari felt stiff here. Heavy in corners. Quick on the straights, sure, but not responsive in the windier sectors, and tire degradation hit hard and early in the session. They both said it in different words over the radio, “slidey” from Paige, “lazy on throttle” from Azzi, but they knew what it meant: this wasn’t going to be an easy weekend.

Then came FP2.

Azzi had been pushing, running a medium-tire long stint, trying to simulate race conditions with a heavier fuel load. She was riding the edge of grip through Turn 7 when the rear snapped. It was a slow-motion spin—not violent, not dangerous by racing standards—but it sent a jolt through Paige’s whole chest when she saw it happen on the monitors. The car slid sideways through the runoff, flicked a cloud of sand and gravel into the sky, and hit the barrier.

Paige stood up in the Ferrari garage before the engineers even said anything. Not out of panic, just instinct. Azzi’s voice came through the radio a second later, calm but winded: “I’m okay. Lost the rear, sorry. That one’s on me.”

She passed the concussion check. Of course she did. Helmet hadn’t hit anything hard, her data was stable, no sudden g-forces or system failures. But that didn’t mean Paige relaxed. Not really.

Later that night, the lights in their hotel room stayed off.

Not dimmed. Off.

The blackout curtains were pulled shut, and the A/C hummed soft white noise into the air. Paige sat cross-legged on the bed, her back against the headboard, one arm wrapped around Azzi’s shoulders and the other draped loosely across her stomach. Azzi’s head was in her lap. She’d showered after getting back, left her hair damp and messy, her skin warm beneath the thin blanket.

“You still dizzy?” Paige murmured into the dark.

“No,” Azzi whispered. “Promise.”

Paige’s fingers kept moving through her curls anyway.

“I don’t like when you spin,” she added, voice almost too quiet to hear.

Azzi huffed out a tired laugh. “I don’t like when I spin either. Really inconvenient.”

“Don’t joke.”

“Sorry.”

Paige’s hand paused. “It’s not that I didn’t think you were okay. It’s just… You didn’t sound like you. Right after.”

Azzi didn’t respond right away. She shifted, just a little, nuzzling into Paige’s thigh like it was the most natural thing in the world. When she spoke again, her voice was softer.

“I scared myself.”

That made Paige close her eyes. “Yeah.”

“I had it, and then I didn’t. Like, I swear I had it through the first part of the corner. And then it just—” She snapped her fingers faintly. “Gone.”

“I know.” Paige reached for her hand and squeezed it. “It’s okay to say it was scary.”

“It was.”

They sat in silence after that. The kind only hotel rooms in faraway places offer. Quiet, but never completely still. Paige listened to Azzi’s breathing. She counted seconds between it, noted how deep it got. She felt Azzi’s pulse slow where their wrists overlapped. She brushed a thumb over the back of her hand, not for any reason except that she could.

“You’ll tell me if you feel weird again?” Paige asked finally.

“I will.”

“Even if it’s small?”

“Yeah.”

“I mean it. I’d pull you from the car myself.”

Azzi turned her head a little, looking up at Paige through the dark. “You’d fight the entire Ferrari pit wall to protect me?”

Paige smiled faintly. “I’d win.”

“You wouldn’t. But it’s sweet.”

“You’re my person,” Paige said, and her voice cracked just a little. “I don’t care about qualifying or race strategy or whatever else if you’re not okay.”

Azzi let out a long breath and shifted again, wrapping her arms around Paige’s waist from where she lay in her lap.

“You’re getting soft on me,” she teased, but her voice was warm. Grateful.

“Nuh uh. You’re just imagining it,” Paige whispered, resting her cheek on Azzi’s forehead.

The two of them stayed like that. Tangled up, breathing slow, the day sinking into silence around them. Outside, the heat of Qatar pressed against the windows, and the championship chase loomed large as ever.

But in that room, under those sheets, none of that mattered.

Just this. Just them. And the dark.

–

There was a phrase Luka used sometimes—usually when everything was going to hell—where he’d lean into the radio and say, “Chaos breeds opportunity.”

And if Qatar was anything, it was chaos.

The race start was already weird. Staggered tire strategies, sudden gusts of desert wind throwing dust across corners, and everyone brake-checking everyone like it was go-karts instead of Formula One. Paige had launched fine, clean, actually, but the car didn’t feel right in the early laps. Rear grip was fragile. Tire temps were dancing above the sweet spot. Azzi, somehow, had the same issues but managed to hold track position better.

By Lap 14, everything was overheating, engines, brakes, even the radio comms. Paige was getting constant static from Luka. Azzi’s updates from Mateo sounded clipped and sharp, like he was multitasking three disasters at once.

The weirdest part? Nothing catastrophic ever happened.

There were no crashes. No retirements. No red flags. Just an endless stream of almost incidents. Cars losing traction in the heat. Midfielders lunging into corners like it was a sprint. Warnings for track limits, warnings for unsafe releases, warnings for team radio behavior. It felt like they were all one step from the whole thing imploding.

And then, out of nowhere… pace.

Not for everyone. Just them. Just Ferrari.

It hit sometime around Lap 40. Suddenly, Azzi’s lap delta dropped four tenths. Paige followed two corners later. Tire life looked strong. Temperatures leveled. And like someone had thrown a switch, both red cars started carving up the field like it was Monza.

Azzi passed the Alpine. Paige cleared the McLaren.

Azzi took second with a DRS move that made every onboard replay.

Paige slotted behind her like a knife through butter.

Neither of them could reach the race leader—a Mercedes was already too far up the road—but Ferrari finished second and third. A result that, three laps earlier, had seemed impossible.

Azzi crossed the line first, fists pumping in the cockpit, voice giddy as it crackled into Mateo’s ear.

Paige came in less than two seconds later. “Tell her that was hot,” she joked into the radio as the checkered flag waved. Luka snorted in her ear and promised to pass it along.

There was no podium fanfare this time. Just exhaustion and relief and the knowledge that, somehow, they’d pulled it off again. Ferrari had made it through the fire.

But when Paige stepped into the back of the Ferrari garage to cool down, she found Azzi already staring at the championship whiteboard. Someone had updated it quickly, too quickly, and the numbers were written in thick black marker.

T1: Paige Bueckers – 378 pts

T1: Azzi Fudd – 378 pts

Paige blinked. Then blinked again.

Azzi didn’t look at her, just kept her eyes on the board and said, without turning, “Tied. Going into Abu Dhabi.”

Paige opened her mouth to say something. Nothing came out.

Azzi finally looked back over her shoulder. “Winner takes all.”

There was a beat of silence between them. Not tense. Not scared.

Just real.

“Yeah,” Paige said eventually. “Guess it does.”

They stared at each other for a moment across the floor of the garage, sweat still drying on their foreheads, hearts slowing back down to human levels. There was no gloating. No teasing.

Just mutual respect. And something deeper Paige couldn’t quite name.

Azzi crossed the space first. She bumped Paige lightly with her elbow as she passed. “Don’t forget to hydrate.”

Paige rolled her eyes, smirked. “Don’t forget to brake before Turn One.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And just like that, it was on.

Abu Dhabi loomed on the horizon—sunlit, perfect, merciless.

One more race.

One final Sunday.

[wakebymoonsleepbysun]

My TV (Working Title) (Tenna x Reader) Chapter 1

I knooooooooooowwwwwwwwww I really shouldn't start another fanfic but uhhhhhhhhhhhhh.....ummmmmmmmm......teebeeman cute TwT

I do plan on continuing this but we'll see what LIFE has planned for ME. Secret of the Mimic comes out Friday and I'm sure that'll launch at least 2 new fics for me because I have no impulse control, and I plan on ArtFight in July sooooo don't be surprised if this isn't updated til August. (It'll be on ao3 once it is tho)

Word count: ~4600

Your task: Find a TV. An old one. CRT, ideally. The bigger, the bulkier, the better. Doesn’t need to work, just needs to be big.

Big enough to explode dramatically when hit with a sledgehammer.

You can’t say you fully understand the vision of your friend Jodie’s short film, but she’s paying you to edit it…which means you have a vested interest in helping her film it, which means an interest in helping her get ready to film it… even if she’s not directly paying you for that part of the process. If a day of running around checking thrift stores and pawn shops meant your payday might come a bit sooner, then so be it. You’re technically not strapped for cash just yet, but contract work isn’t exactly steady--one slow month could have you running up a balance on your card that’ll take the rest of the year to pay off.

At least Jodie’s paying for your gas and will pay you back for the TV, so all you’re losing is time…though you hope Jodie will still stick to the agreement when she sees just how many stores you had to hit up.

You can’t remember if this is the fifth stop on your “tour” or the sixth, but you must look tired, for the cashier, a middle-aged woman with her greying hair in a messy bun, winces visibly when you ask about a CRT TV.

“Sorry, hun. Nobody’s donated a working CRT in…probably a decade.”

Yet you perk up, catching something in her wording. “Working? It doesn’t have to work. Just has to be a big, boxy old TV.”

She hums sympathetically. “Well we don’t tend to keep--” She stops suddenly, her face lighting up as she snaps her fingers. “Oh! You know what, I think there is one out back! Or at least there was last night…I assume it’s still there?”

“Can I take a look?”

She nods. “Yeah, I’ll show you,” she says. She grabs her keys from beside the register, walking you through the store and out the back employee entrance to a small alleyway.

The dumpster behind the store is overflowing with donations that had been deemed in too poor of shape to sell, all in various combinations of torn, stained, dirty, and broken. You see a sofa that’s so torn to shreds that most people couldn’t be paid to take it…and yet someone had donated it expecting it to be sold.

“Someone came by with a truckload yesterday. Emptying out an abandoned storage unit, I think,” she says. “Some of it was sellable, this wasn’t,” she explains, nudging the TV with her boot. “Is it about what you’re lookin’ for?”

“Oh yeah, this looks great!” you say, crouching down to look at the TV. It’s pretty dirty--covered in so much dust some of it has actually become caked on. The antennae are folded in, at least mostly--one antenna has a bit of tape on it that prevents it from being fully tucked in. The power cord is so frayed that you think plugging it in might be a fire hazard. But the TV can be cleaned up and made to at least look like it’s in good shape even if it doesn’t actually work.

“Exactly what I need,” you add, picking at a clump of dirt with your nail. You rest a hand atop the TV, leaning on it briefly as you pull yourself to your feet. “How much?”

She laughs. “It’s not sellable. So I can’t ‘sell’ it. But if you wanna bring your car around you can load it up.”

“Free? Really?” you say, surprised.

She shrugs, waving a hand. “The paperwork isn’t worth what I’d end up charging for it.”

“Heh…well, thanks!” you say. Maybe if you tell Jodie the TV ended up being free, she won’t balk at the gas bill so much.

One cordial handshake later, the TV is officially yours. You bring your car around and load up the TV into the trunk and finally head home. When you arrive in your apartment’s parking lot, the sky is tinged yellow from the pending sunset and the shadows stretch long across the pavement.

Getting the clunky CRT into your apartment is a hell of a task. Park close to the door, carry the TV to the elevator, then push it down the long hall to your apartment. It’s too heavy to lift for more than a few seconds at the time, and even the brief walk to the elevator has you setting it down a couple times to rest for a couple seconds before continuing. 

But, you’re able to get it up to your third floor apartment at last, and you shove it into a corner of your mostly empty room.

The apartment itself is a two bedroom, though really you probably should have just gone for the one bedroom. You use the second bedroom as an office, and the living room had, at one point, been intended as a place to host guests, but you’ve ended up doing far less of that than you’d anticipated. You’ve even moved your flatscreen into the office, leaving behind an empty TV stand and a living room even less equipped to hosting anyone.

Once the TV’s in place--next to an empty TV stand that definitely isn’t strong enough to hold an old CRT--you glance down at yourself, wincing at the dust and dirt from the TV that’s now all over your T-shirt.

You debate with yourself a moment before deciding to just clean up the old thing a bit. Moving it is difficult enough without also getting streaks of dirt all over your clothes every time you lift it. Besides, Jodie will probably want it somewhat clean for the shot she’s planning.

You grab the kit you usually use for cleaning up your computer--some compressed air, alcohol wipes, and a handful of Q-tips. Probably a bit more thorough than you need for an old TV that doesn’t even work and is going to be destroyed soon anyway….but you figure if you’re going to do it, you may as well do it right.

You’re surprised at how much dust and dirt come away with the wipes, given how much has already come off onto your shirt, but that only solidifies your decision to give it a thorough cleaning. You at least have the sense to cover your nose and mouth with your shirt before getting to work with the compressed air, though once you see the size of the dust cloud that rises from the TV’s vents you wonder if you should have dug around in your closet to see if you still have any N95 masks left.

You use a damp Q-tip to clean around the dials and the edges of the screen. By the time you’re done, the TV looks…well, not new, but at least like it’s been kept in a house and taken care of for the past few decades.

As you’re putting away your cleaning supplies, you wince when you notice how dark it’s gotten outside. There’s still a hint of sun on the horizon, but it won’t be there much longer.

You quickly gather up the trash from your kitchen and head downstairs to the dumpster. You’ve already put off taking out the trash for about two days longer than you should have. You hate taking it out at night, especially since building maintenance has been pretty slow to replace some of the bulbs in the parking lot’s lights. But, you manage to toss the bags away just as the sun slips below the treeline.

Finally, after a day of driving from store to store, hauling a huge TV, then cleaning said TV, you can relax for the night.

Or so you think.

You lock the door behind yourself and step into the living room, where you immediately notice that something is amiss.

Something is very amiss.

Comedically amiss, even.

Where the CRT had once sat, now sits a man. An impossibly tall man with a TV--with the perplexing addition of a cartoonishly long nose--as his head. He’s too tall to even stand up in your apartment--instead he’s seated on the floor, his knees tucked against his chest. 

“There you are!” he cries happily in a staticy, showman-y voice. He crawls towards you with a big grin on his face. “My new favoritest Lightner! Thank you ever so much for taking me home and fixing me up and--” He cuts himself off, canting his head. “What’s the matter?” he asks.

Your back is pressed against the wall, your eyes wide and your shoulders tense. Your hands are held up, your fingers curled like claws as your body instinctively prepares to defend itself from the massive creature shuffling towards you.

And he asks “what’s the matter?” as if you’re reacting strangely to a giant TV-headed man in your apartment!

Before you can recover your wits enough to answer, he frowns, tilting his head in the opposite direction.

“Wait…you’re not a Lightner!” he says, his antennae straightening in surprise.

He lowers his head, leaning forward until his nose is nearly poking you in the chest. You close your eyes, covering your face with your hands. You’d probably fall to the floor in a heap if doing so wouldn’t mean colliding with his nose on the way down.

“Hmm…but you’re certainly no Darkner…” he says, his gloved hand rubbing his “chin” in thought. He shifts his gaze to your face and he flinches when he sees how frightened you are.

“O-Oh! ‘Scuse me! Shouldn’t sit too close to the screen! Especially in the dark!” he laughs apologetically as he shuffles backwards, still on his hands and knees. His antennae are almost bumping against the low ceiling of your apartment as it is.

Your knees give out and you slide down the wall, your trembling hands still covering your face.

This can’t be real. It just can’t. What the hell kind of hallucinogens had you inhaled when cleaning that old TV? You’ve clearly lost your damn mind!

The TV man pulls back even further when he sees your distress. “A-Ah!” he says, nervous beads of sweat appearing in the staticy white image that makes up his “face”. “I-I suppose this is…shocking! Me being…like this…outside the Dark World!”

Don’t indulge the delusion. Wait for it to pass. Whatever you inhaled will wear off. Surely you just need to wait it out? You’ll recover or sober up or…whatever…and it’ll all go back to normal!

But you can’t help yourself.

“I-I…have no idea what you’re talking about!” you admit, cringing internally at how meek and timid your voice sounds.

“Aha, right! Proper introductions are in order!” He clears his throat, then raises one hand to his face to push in his nose, flattening his face. The screen goes dark for a half second before loud, triumphant music begins to play, accompanied by some kind of low-resolution video. 

“It is now time…for our feature presentation!! (Feacher…!!) Coming straight from YOUR house…coming straight from your house!! COMING! He’s the 1!! COMING!! The KING of ONLY!! He’s groovy! And NEVER glooby! You can’t get this from an egg!! The sensation of your screen! The show that makes you SCREAM!! Say it with him folks!!

Mr. (Ant) Tenna’s T~V~TIIIIMMMMME~!!!”

Once it’s done, the screen returns to the white static that is his “face”, his nose reappearing with a cartoony “pop!”.

The whole sequence does little to ease your confusion…though the fear is at least fading. You lower your hands, adjusting your position so you’re sitting with your back against the wall rather than cowering against it.

“Um…”

“And who do we have the honor of speaking with tonight?” he asks, a microphone appearing in his hand, which he holds out to you.

“E-Erm…” you squeak awkwardly.

“Hmmmm?” he hums in an almost playful tone as he holds the mic just a bit closer. The cartoony smile on his screen is huge but…there’s also a gentleness there. As if he’s trying to coax you out of your shell.

Finally, you manage to speak your name, albeit a bit haltingly.

His grin widens. “I shoulda guessed! A perfect name for a perfect sorta-Lightner!” he crows.

You laugh weakly, your cheeks warming at the bit of flattery despite the situation. “A-And…you said you’re…um, Mr. Ant Tenna?”

He nods. “Tenna to my friends, my friend!” The slight head tilt and the cartoony “pling!” noise that accompanies it suggest he would be winking if he had eyes.

Again it’s hard not to smile at the quip…and the fact that, intentional or not, he’d answered your question before you’d even had a chance to ask it. “A-Alright…Tenna…” you say, slowly starting to relax. You’re not entirely convinced this is real, but…it seems to be at least…not dangerous? “M-Mind…explaining…what’s going on?” you ask tentatively.

Tenna laughs. “Well, it’s quite simple!” he says, holding up one finger and waving it slightly, poised like a man about to explain a complicated topic in three or less easily digestible sentences. “You see--” He freezes suddenly, his mouth fixed in his usual big grin.

Your brows drift slightly upwards.

“...I simply don’t know!” he says, his grin turning mildly apologetic as a laugh track echoes around you.

Your shoulders slump. Maybe this is just a dream…one you’re not creative enough to fill in fully. Still… “Wh-What were you saying before? Something about…Lightners? Darkners? And…a-a…Dark World?”

“Ah! Right!” he says. “I can get you up to speed on that, no problem! Y’see, there’s the Dark World and the Light World, Darkners and Lightners.” He places a hand on his chest. “I’m a Darkner, and you…well, seem to be mostly a Lightner.”

You shake your head. “Um, I’m a human, actually…” you say hesitantly.

Tenna nods patiently, unsurprised by your comment. “Which is a type of Lightner!” he says. It’s almost as if he’d anticipated such a response.

“I…see…” you say uncertainly. “But I’ve never…heard of that. Or Darkners, or the Dark World…”

Another nod. “Most Lightners haven’t! And, since they don’t know about the Dark World or Darkners, they have no reason to think of their world as the Light World nor themselves as Lightners! To them, it’s just the world! And they’re just--” He pauses, his smile looking a bit more like a wince before his bright grin returns. “--NERS!” he declares proudly.

You give a weak laugh, sensing that last bit was a joke. “Right…So then…what’s a Darkner?”

“Residents of the Dark World! The place where light doesn’t reach. Darker than dark, where imagination takes hold and is made real!”

“Imagination…?”

“Imagination made REAL!” he says pointedly, emphasizing the last word. Blue flashing text appears on his screen spelling out the word “REAL!” in bold letters.

“And…I’m now imagining a TV as…a giant TV-headed man?” you ask skeptically.

Tenna’s expression falters and his antennae seem to drop. “...A-A TV?” You can barely process the remark before his bright grin reappears. “I-I mean! Yes! Er, no! Not…you’re not imagining anything! This is how I am in the Dark World! I’m quite real!”

You frown, glancing around despite knowing full well you’re in your apartment. “But we’re not in the Dark World…are we?”

He mimics your thoughtful frown, finally adjusting himself to sit crosslegged, propping his elbow on his knee and resting the bottom of his TV-head on his palm. He has to hunch over to an almost comedic degree to keep his antennae from hitting the ceiling. “No, definitely not! But I’m not so sure it’s the Light World, either…”

“Why not?” you ask.

“Well, aside from all this,” he says, gesturing at himself with both hands, “It just…doesn’t feel like the Light World…” The showmanship fades from his tone, his voice becoming quiet, almost somber.

“How so?” you ask curiously.

Tenna laughs awkwardly. “I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you! It’s just a feeling.”

“What’s the Light World like?” you ask, getting to your feet and taking a step towards him.

“Almost exactly like this one,” he says thoughtfully. “In fact…I’m…not even sure how long I’ve been in this world…I was thrown away at some point,” he says with a frown, his shoulders tensing. “Then I…” His frown deepens. “I…I don’t know what happened next. I don’t…even remember how I ended up in that storage unit…” His tone makes it sound like it’s just as much a revelation to him as it is to you. His frown grows more melancholy and his antennae droop.

You open your mouth to speak, then close it again. What could you possibly say? What do you say to a living TV that seems to be lamenting being thrown away?

Before you can summon an answer to that question, Tenna’s mood turns on a dime and he brightens. His antennae perk back up and he leans forward towards you. “But I’m sure glad I did!” He touches his index fingers together shyly, red circles appearing on his screen as he glances away with a bashful smile. “If it meant being found by a nice Light--er, human who’d clean me up and take care of me!”

The awkward, almost pained laugh you let out barely sounds like a laugh to you, but Tenna doesn’t seem to notice. Dream or no, you really don’t want to tell him the true reason you’d been on the hunt for a CRT.

“Now! I’ll bet you’re excited to watch all your favorite shows on your brand new TV!” he says in a playfully smug tone. “So, why don’t you whip up some popcorn and I’ll find us something good!” he says. His face begins flickering as if flipping through channels…though all the channels are the same white static.

“I don’t have any--” you start in a faint protest. You pause, frowning up at him in confusion. “Can we even watch TV on you when your cord’s broken?”

“Oh sure! Don’t need electricity in this form, I run on good ol’ Tenna-Watts!” he says cheerfully. His smile fades a bit as he continues flipping through channels. “Although…I can’t seem to find a signal…”

“You’re an analogue TV, aren’t you? They uh…kinda moved to digital like…ten years ago?” you say hesitantly.

Tenna pauses, staring at you. His screen goes blank, which causes his nose to disappear as well. His head slumps forward and he turns away, his antennae drooping. “O-Oh. S-So I. I can’t…I can’t really…I wouldn’t be…very useful…as a TV…would I?”

He’s so dejected that he actually seems a bit smaller as he slumps forward miserably, but you quickly rush over to him.

“H-Hey, don’t say that!” you say quickly, the words spilling out of your mouth before you really think about what you’re saying. “We could buy an adapter--”

His gaze snaps to you so abruptly you have to duck to avoid being beamed by his nose as it reappears. He grins brightly, red circles appearing on his cheeks as he leans forward. “An adapter? You’d buy an adapter? For me?” he asks giddily, cupping his screen in his hands.

You falter a moment. Despite your phrasing, you’d meant the remark as a hypothetical, not a plan…certainly not a promise. You’re still not completely sure this is even real…maybe it is a dream and whatever promises you make actually don’t matter. But…even if it’s not…how expensive can an adapter be?

If Tenna thinks anything of your slight pause--or even notices it--he gives no indication, continuing to beam down at you eagerly.

“Uhm, s-sure…Yeah, I can do that…”

“Oh thank you!” he cries eagerly, clapping his hands while the sound of applause plays. “And in the meantime, if you want to hook up a VCR or DVD player or game console…?”

You stare at him a moment before letting out an awkward laugh.

Tenna’s antennae twitch in confusion. “Oh? Did you have something else in mind?”

You shake your head, smiling weakly up at him. “Not…as such, but…you’re…a…a giant TV-man from another world…a-and this is all so…impossible…”

He scoffs playfully, waving a hand. “Can’t be that impossible if it’s happening!”

You sputter a moment, trying to come up with a counterpoint, but none presents itself. “I…suppose you’re right,” you admit. “But…still…just sitting down to watch TV after all that seems…so mundane…”

“Takes a bit of mundanity to wind down the day, doesn’t it?” he says. “Besides, why go to all that trouble of cleaning me up if you don’t wanna watch TV?” he adds in a smug, cheeky tone.

You manage to stop yourself from flinching too visibly at that question, but you’re sure a brief look of nausea still passed over your face. 

“I--I s-suppose…”

“Then it’s settled!” he declares with a clap of his hands. “You go pick out your games or movies or whatever you want and I’ll do the rest!”

“Heh…” you chuckle thinly. “S-Sure, Tenna…” You consider a moment…as tempting as it is to dig out your old SNES and see if the rumors of old games looking better on CRTs is true, you don’t think your brain can handle anything resembling thinking and strategy right now. Certainly not anything involving reflexes either. So perhaps best to stick with a movie. You glance up at him. “What kind of movies are you into?”

“A--!” He stops, his mouth open in surprise and subtle pink blush lines appearing on his cheeks. “M-Me?” He lets out a hearty laugh, waving his hand and shaking his head. “Oh, silly! I’m the TV!”

You pause, regarding him thoughtfully. You…suppose it’s not that weird that he’d truly have no opinion--or that his opinion would be that you should pick the movie--but he’s clearly flattered that you’d asked.

So for tonight, you’ll oblige and make the pick yourself. Tomorrow--

--Would he even be here tomorrow? Suddenly you find yourself hoping he will be.

“...Right,” you say, trying not to seem too deflated as you give him a bracing smile.

You sidestep around him, crouching in front of your empty TV stand and opening one of the drawers. You pull out your PS3 and its wires, setting them atop the TV stand. Your newer consoles are in the office with your TV, but you doubt Tenna has an HDMI port. So, older console it is, even if you’re just using it as a DVD player.

Tenna scoops up the console and its wires and you glance over at him, watching as he plugs the wires into the back of his head and holds the PS3 in his hands. 

As for the movie, you grab a couple DVDs of lighthearted cartoons. You close the drawer and get to your feet, and are surprised to see the PS3 already powered on, the menu screen displayed on Tenna’s (once again noseless) face.

“Wh--How’s it on? It’s not plugged in…?” you ask.

“Tenna-Watts!” he chirps proudly.

“Right…” you say again, a bemused smile on your face. You put one of the movies in, then take a seat on the couch, lazily tossing a fuzzy throw blanket over your legs.

Once the disc is in, Tenna sets the PS3 on the floor beside him, then tucks his knees to his chest. He wraps his arms around his legs and rests his screen on his knees…more or less acting as his own TV stand, albeit a very tall one.

You find yourself watching him more than the movie, barely paying attention to the plot as you try to process everything he’s said. You suppose “another world” is as plausible an explanation for a twenty-foot tall TV man as any. An old TV turning into a guy is already so far beyond the realm of possibility…how can you say anything except “Sure, why not?” to whatever explanations are given?

“Can you…actually see the movie?” you ask eventually.

He doesn’t move, keeping his screen angled towards you, but you see the lines of his mouth appear over the movie as he speaks. “No, but I feel it.”

“Feel it?” you repeat. “What…what does it feel like?” you ask, intrigued.

He pauses the movie, though his face doesn’t fully reappear. “Hmmm…interesting question! I suppose…it feels like colors. Sounds. Music…it feels like a story!”

You stare at him a moment before giving a soft chuckle. What sort of answer had you expected? “Well…a-as long as you’re not sitting there bored, I guess…”

“Bored? Not at all!” He frowns slightly. “Are you? We can put in something else--you don’t have to finish it for my sake!”

“Oh, no, I’m fine!” you reassure him quickly. “I just…wanted to make sure you were doing alright…”

His antennae perk slightly in surprise and the pink circles that appear on his cheeks stand out starkly against the paused movie. “Oho, you! Of course I’m just peachy! I’m a brand new TV all cleaned and polished and set up for movie night! I couldn’t be better!” he says in a chipper tone.

Your cheeks warm at his enthusiasm and his smile is infectious. “Heh…well, that’s…good…” you say, awkwardness making you feel a bit shy.

Tenna’s grin widens before disappearing, and he resumes the movie, sensing the conversation is over.

Before the movie’s over, you adjust yourself to be laying on the couch, your head resting on the pillowed armrest. Tenna’s height actually makes the position more comfortable--you don’t have to lay on your side or with your head turned ninety degrees to see the TV. You can lay on your back with your head angled only slightly towards him.

As the credits roll, you almost tell Tenna you’re too tired for a second movie, but he switches out the DVD before you can even think about sitting up. So you stay put, letting your eyelids get heavy as the second movie plays.

Maybe hauling the CRT up the stairs and then having your sense of reality severely questioned has taken more out of you than you’d realized. Or maybe it’s just time for the dream to end. Either way, you find yourself drifting off far more readily than you’d thought you ever could under such unusual circumstances…it’s not even a third of the way through the second movie when your eyes fall shut.

*

Tenna can immediately tell when you’ve fallen asleep. Lightners dozing off in front of the TV is a very familiar sight to him, after all. Still, he waits for the movie to play out and for the credits to roll before turning off the PS3. He unplugs the cords from the back of his head and quietly tucks the PS3 and the DVDs back into the drawer on the TV stand.

He leans forward, shuffling towards you slightly, careful not to bump the coffee table. He picks up the blanket from the floor and carefully spreads it over you as you sleep. You stir slightly, snuggling into the blanket and it’s all he can do not to let out a delighted little squeak.

Blankets knocked askew had always been a sad sight for him. He likes doing what he can to give anyone who falls asleep in front of him a good night’s rest, though those abilities had been highly limited until now. In the Light World, he could only dim his screen slightly and lower the volume just a touch. Sometimes if he really focused he could switch off the screen and let the Lightners think they’d done it themselves at some point in the night.

But the simple act of adjusting some blankets? Absolutely out of the question.

What a wonderful world this must be to let him finally do that small gesture for his dear Lightner! Well, almost Lightner. Basically a Lightner. A Lightner to him.

Tenna smiles softly, leaning back against the wall and watching you sleep. He’s loved all the Lightners who’ve had him, but…there’s something different about you. About this world.

He thinks…He thinks he’ll like it here!

[fairyysoup]

all i want is you

(repost)

pairing(s): adrian chase | vigilante x fem!reader

summary: The raw amber goo that the butterflies eat looks really good, doesn't it? Vigilante sure thinks so.

cw: explicit, smut, dubcon elements, sex pollen, the aliens made them do it, goff the voyeur, exhibitionism, voyeurism, manipulated by a bug, vigilante eats everything he sees, reader would jump off a bridge if everyone else did, dirty talk, couch sex, rough sex, and then gentle sex, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, glove kink, mild praise kink, pain kink, biting, scratching, masochist adrian, soft!dom adrian, adrian busting it way too quickly, face reveal, marvel references because, canon divergence- I have no idea what timeline this is

a/n: goff watched all that. f in the chat

ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

A warm breeze sighs through the trees as you stare up at Peacemaker’s, uh, house? It’s a mobile home, at least, but it’s painted in such a gaudy stars and stripes way that it makes your toes curl just looking at it. Stepping up to the place, you have to weave around multiple little garden ornaments that are weather-beaten and moss covered to various degrees.

You couldn’t get ahold of Peacemaker, but you still have to retrieve the dossier on Senator Goff from him before he can get into any more trouble with it. Knowing him, the guy probably smoked a joint and is laying passed out on his bed right now. You don’t really care, as long as you can get back to Project Butterfly HQ without a fuss.

You rap on the door twice, turning to look over your shoulder at the kids across the cul-de-sac riding their bikes. You don’t hear anything behind the door, and it occurs to you that maybe he isn’t home, and you briefly chide yourself for not checking the tracking in his head to find out where he actually is. But then, a second later, you hear a shuffling and then the bright red door pops open to reveal… not Peacemaker.

“Vigilante?” 

You squint up at the red visor on the masked man in front of you, just barely able to pick out two eyes staring back at you. Admittedly, you only know Vigilante superficially at best; you couldn’t tell anyone his name, and even less what he looks like under the mask (just that he has a nice ass). You’ve barely even had a full conversation with him thus far, even though you’ve often caught yourself checking him out from across the room. He strikes you as a little too unhinged to be approachable, and he tends to linger around Peacemaker more than anyone else. 

“Yeah, that’s my name. Don’t wear it out.” His voice is way too bubbly and chipper for that sarcastic of a statement, but you don’t think he really absorbs how snotty the line is supposed to be. His head dips as he pointedly looks you up and down, and then his head snaps up in the direction of the kids across the way. “Oh, fuck- come in, quick.”

“I take it you’re not really supposed to be here. Where’s Chris?” you grumble as you step into the messy house. It’s apparent that someone has been trying to clean it, but whoever it is hasn’t gotten very far. 

Almost as if he reads your mind, Vigilante picks up a trash bag and sweeps his arm along a line of empty potato chip bags and water bottles on the kitchen counter, knocking them all into the bag. “Well, uh. ‘Supposed to’ is kind of a choice of words. Peacemaker had to go do some shit at his dad’s house, but didn't say when he’d be back. It seemed like a while, though, he told me to stick around and watch Eagly and Goff.” 

You stop dead, staring at his broad-shouldered form over the kitchen counter. “Goff?”

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself, and then sort of turns on his heels to shoot a look over his shoulder at you. “Uh… Goff? What Goff? I don’t know a Goff-” You fix him with a dead eyed stare that makes him falter, his hands fisting in the plastic bag in his hands. You could swear he looks almost meek when he blurts, “We sort of kept Goff sorry.”

“Motherfucker, I will bury you- what do you mean, ‘you guys kept Goff?’” 

“W-well,” he tilts his head back toward the ceiling, his posture so rail-straight that you know he’s completely tense. “I didn’t, it was Peacemaker. I just kinda helped him wrestle it into the jar-”

“Jar? What the fuck is going on, man?” 

You can see him blink at you in stunned silence from under the visor. Then he sighs and, tossing the trash bag onto the floor, reaches under the kitchen counter and pulls out a pickle jar with a perforated lid.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, inching closer to squint at the thing in the jar. It looks like a cross between a moth and a mosquito, overly large for a normal insect and bright turquoise. It blinks at you with glassy black eyes. “That’s Goff?”

“Well, it’s… it’s the thing that came out of the dude’s head when Peacemaker blew his brains out.” Vigilante shrugs, tilting his head as he stares down at the jar. “I dunno, I think it’s kinda cute in a weird praying mantis type of way. Y’know, I used to keep mantises as a kid, whenever I found them. I thought they were cool as hell. Did you know they’ll eat anything smaller than them? And the females sometimes eat the males after sex. I mean, talk about a way to go, right?”

You glance up at him during his impromptu National Geographic lecture. “Aren’t praying mantises protected? I don’t think you’re supposed to keep them.”

“Hey, Peacemaker has a bald eagle. I don’t see you raising an issue about that.”

You shrug as you draw back from the jar. “I dunno, I feel like you’ve killed people for less.”

“I have, but Eagly loves Peacemaker. Who am I to fuck with the natural order of things? The little guy would be heartbroken.”

“No, I meant- ah, forget it.” You blow a harsh breath out as you straighten your spine. “Have you seen the file Chris has on Goff? I’m only here for that.”

“Bedroom, maybe.” As you trod past him toward the back of the house, he goes back to clearing piles of trash off the counters. A small smile quirks your lips; Vigilante is playing housekeeper while watching Peacemaker’s menagerie. The concept is… well, not really surprising, but just odd. You wouldn’t have imagined it happening, except that now that you see it taking place it makes sense.

“Where’s Eagly?” you call as you walk the length of the hallway and still don’t find the bird anywhere in sight.

“Went for a fly, I dunno. The skylight’s open, so he’ll be back. Hopefully.”

The bedroom isn’t much better than the kitchen, with piles of clothes and empty bottles of every description covering the floor. Thankfully, and as the rest of the team had feared, Peacemaker isn’t very concerned with hiding sensitive documents. The classified file on Senator Goff has been tossed freely onto the bedside table, some of the contents poking out of the corner of it. You sigh and scoop it up, leafing through it briefly to ensure that everything is there before making your way back to the kitchen.

As soon as he hears you coming, Vigilante is right back to talking. “Hey, have you ever seen anything like this? It’s fucking… what’s the word… effervescent?”

You turn your head to find Vigilante dipping two gloved fingers into a mason jar filled with the amber goo that had been found at the Goff residence. The food that the butterflies presumably live off of glistens on his fingertips, vaguely sparkling in the light. You freeze in place as he curiously rubs his fingers together, pulling them apart to have the viscous liquid cling together and create a web across them. In the silence, it makes a soft, wet sound against the textured pads of his gloves. 

“Iridescent,” you correct, watching. There’s absolutely no reason why that should look as suggestive as it does, but you find yourself swallowing past an inexplicable dryness in your throat all the same. “Why are you playing with it?”

“I’m not… I mean, I’m just curious.” He shakes his hand roughly, but the goo remains stuck to it. “Y’know, there’s a fine line between scientific research and just dicking around, and the line is writing shit down. Go grab a pen.”

“You are not a scientist,” you object, but you hand him a pen from the cabinet behind you, anyways. 

“Don’t be presumptuous, you don’t know shit about me. I could be a biochemist for all you know…” Instead of writing anything down with the pen, he dips the end of it into the jar and swirls it around before pulling it out, covered with the amber fluid and pulling a long string of it out of the jar. “I gotta be honest, it looks like honey. I want to eat it.”

“That is so inadvisable, I don’t even know where to begin.” You shake your head. “If you were a biochemist I promise you would not be talking about eating the suspicious alien substance you stole after killing said aliens.”

“But you gotta admit, it looks fucking delicious,” he continues, gathering all the goo from the pen onto his fingers again. You tear your eyes away just before he starts playing with it again, and stare down at your shoes as he says, “We should totally try it together.”

“We should not.”

“Hey, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“UM, let me think. Hives. Anaphylaxis. Sepsis. Organ failure. Probable death.”

“Damn, you really know how to turn a guy on, huh?” Vigilante gives a crazed little giggle that makes your heart do a flip in your chest. “Anyways, I know you’re probably thinking about it, too.”

“Why’s that?” you ask challengingly. 

“Because you haven’t left yet.” He shrugs, and even though you can’t see behind his mask, you can almost guarantee he’s smiling at you. “Unless you’re staying for me, in which case I’d be like, sweet! We should totally go out for drinks. But like, I can’t take off the mask, so… that might not work out so well-”

“Maybe I’m sticking around because you’re talking about eating that, and I won’t be held accountable if I knowingly leave you and you die. If I have to rush you to the hospital, I will.” 

“Aw, that’s so nice. I think there’s a romcom that starts that way. Or maybe it was a horror movie? I don’t remember.” He pauses for a moment like he’s thinking. “Oh, hey! I know! We can ask Goff if it’s safe.”

“Goff can’t speak.”

“You have like zero imagination, you know that? Watch this.” Vigilante leans down to look directly into the jar. “Hey, Goff. One tap is yes, two is no. If we eat the honey stuff you eat, will it kill us?”

“This is so stupi-”

Tap tap.

Your face falls, and you blink down at the alien in the jar. “Did it just…?”

“Hey Goff, if we eat it will it make us sick?”

Tap tap.

“Works for me,” Vigilante says in that same chipper manner, and moves to scoop a glob of the stuff into his fingers.

“Hey, wait,” you snap, reaching forward to catch his wrist. “How do you know that thing is even trustworthy?”

“I dunno. He has honest eyes.”

“What, the creepily sentient insectoid ones? Yeah. Super trustworthy.” You roll your eyes. “Plus, didn’t it try to kill you before?”

Vigilante stares at you- or, you think he does. With the mask blocking out all his facial features, talking to him is kind of like trying to uphold a conversation with a mannequin at the GAP. 

“You’re sounding kinda prejudiced towards aliens right now.”

“Dude!”

“What? He can’t help it if his eyes are insectoid. He’s a butterfly.” He shrugs again, and this time he tilts his head to the side, reminiscent of a confused puppy. “Besides, what would be the advantage of killing us? He’s literally trapped in a jar and we’re the only ones who can get him out. Also, I’ve never been able to stay away from sparkly gold things. Like, I remember I had this one shiny gold book about Egypt as a kid-”

“The Egyptology book?”

“Yeah, that one! You had it?”

“Yeah, I had it. It was fucking awesome.” You stare down at his hand, his two fingers extended toward you, covered in sticky gold syrup. “Fucking… fine. I don’t like it, but I won’t stop you if you insist on shoving random things in your mouth.”

“It’s not a random thing, Goff said it’s fine.” He says it with such conviction, but he still hesitates when you let go of his wrist. There’s a pause, and then, “You sure you don’t want to lick it off my fingers?”

Your face heats up, and you clench your jaw as you look away. Is it bad that you’re almost tempted to? “Nice try. You’re on your own, buddy.” 

Vigilante sighs and leans back, looking down at his fingers. “So… how am I gonna…? Can you, like, turn around or something?”

“Why do I need to turn around?”

“This mask doesn’t have a mouth hole, dude.”

“It’s elastic, right? Just pull it up a little bit, don’t be shy. It’s like a strip tease.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “That’s… the weirdest way you could have put that. Are you trying to Spider-Man kiss me right now?”

You squint at him. “Am I what?”

“You know. In the Spider-Man movie with Tobey Mc-whatshisface and Kirsten Dunst, when she pulls down his mask so she can kiss him upside down?”

“I’m not trying to Spider-Man kiss you, man. Now just do it if you’re gonna do it so I can figure out whether or not I need to call an EMT.”

“Okay! Geez!” He hooks his thumb under the bottom edge of his mask, yanking it sharply outwards to tent the fabric around his jaw. You only catch a glimpse of his throat before he shoves his fingers under the fabric and, presumably, into his mouth. 

He makes a startled noise in the back of his throat, and it sends you into immediate panic mode. 

“Oh, fuck, is it okay?” He mutely shakes his head. “Is it bad? Gasoline? Motor oil? Sewage? Can you fucking breathe? Dude, talk to me!”

He pulls his fingers slowly out from under the mask, and they still glisten with a certain amount of the syrup on them. “No, it’s… it’s way better than okay, it’s like… like milk and honey? With apricots? It’s like the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life-”

You snatch his hand and lift it to your mouth so that you can wrap your lips around his fingers. He stills, his mask snapping back into place over his jaw as he lowers his hand to brace himself on the counter. You can feel his eyes trained on you, but you’re not really paying attention to him anymore. 

You’re focusing on the absolute burst of flavor on your tongue. You know what he means by never having tasted anything like it. It’s composed of the most incongruent, fantastic flavors melded together, but somehow they work; chocolate and orange, kiwi, strawberry. You do taste the creamy bit of milk and honey on the back of your tongue, but it’s like each flavor changes from taste bud to taste bud. Like, somehow, your brain doesn’t know exactly how to process what it’s tasting.

You succeed in cleaning off his gloves, until the Willy Wonka bullshit dissolves into the flavor of leather and gunmetal. And Vigilante lets you- granted, he’s standing rigid and staring at you, probably like you’re just as insane as he is, but he doesn’t try to pull his hand away from you. You might imagine it, but you think his forefinger twitches against your tongue like he means to shove them further into your mouth, but he doesn’t. 

He lets you pull his fingers from your mouth, and his grip on your hand lingers for half a second. Quietly, he begins, “Do you want to…?” 

“Get a spoon?”

“Yeah, that’s… that’s what I was gonna say.”

“What’s your biggest fear?”

Vigilante passes you the jar as he snaps the edge of his mask back against his neck. “This is the strangest conversation I’ve ever had on a first date.”

You feel like your blood is boiling beneath your skin, but you’re trying your best not to show it. Your eyes track every little glimpse of his skin you can get like you’re ravenous for it- every time he pulls the mask away from his jaw to stick the spoon under it, your eyes are on his throat. You swear you caught sight of his jaw at one point, and you nearly fell out of your seat over it.

You run a shaking hand over the back of your neck, finding it a little bit damp with perspiration. You’re not hot, you’re just way too worked up. It doesn’t help that you’ve always had a thing for guys in gloves and masks. God, you sound like you’re begging to be mugged.

If you were being mugged, Vigilante could save you. And then fuck you up against the wa-

“This is not a date, man, I’m just trying to talk about something other than Meet the Robinsons with you.” 

“It’s a cinematic masterpiece!”

“So you keep saying.” You sink back against the arm of the couch, propping your feet into Vigilante’s lap as he turns to face you. “How many dates have you been on if this is the weirdest it’s gotten?”

“I’ve been on, like, two actual legitimate dates,” he sighs with his face pointed towards the ceiling. “And they didn’t really end well. One girl didn’t have any idea where she wanted to go so I took her to an ice cream shop, and she failed to mention she was lactose intolerant so she puked on my shoes. And then the other person I was really into, but they took me to a rave and then disappeared in the crowd and ghosted me. So that’s why I don’t date.” 

“Cool. So, what’s your biggest fear?”

“Man, you’re really not gonna let this go, are you? I was just being honest with my feelings, a little sympathy would be super nice.”

“Sorry. Poor baby, I would never eat ice cream and then puke on your shoes. I’m built different.” You give him a noncommittal hum as you pop a spoonful of the alien honey into your mouth. You stifle an obnoxious moan that threatens to bubble up out of your throat, despite the fact that you’ve been passing the jar back and forth with him for nearly thirty minutes now. Every time it hits your tongue it’s entirely different, gliding sweet and almost hot down your throat like whisky. “Now tell me your fear and I’ll tell you mine.”

He bends his knee, sort of spreading his legs to accommodate yours as he leans back against the armrest across from you. You notice that he tends to lounge like a king from a medieval painting, and it’s absurd how everything between your legs draws up tight and aching at the sight of it. “Uhhhhh… radiation poisoning.”

“Are you fucking serious? That’s it?”

“What? Do you know how many times I’ve had literal nightmares about all that shit that happened in Central City with S.T.A.R. Labs? It’s scary.” He shifts, and his leg bounces up against yours, knocking your legs apart in the process. It takes everything in you not to snap your legs shut as he continues, “Anyways, I can’t imagine a big fucking explosion rocking the city and then suddenly waking up with, like, X-Ray vision. Having to see everyone’s boners and skeletons and shit? No way… well, actually, I don’t think I’d mind the boners as much. But I don’t like skeletons. And then if it doesn’t give you mad superpowers, it just melts your skin off. Sounds bonkers.”

A smile curls your lips. “What if the radiation gave you super sex magnet powers? Would you still be scared of it then?”

He shakes his head. “Why… why would it make give me super sex magnet powers? What basis does that have? You think I fuck like a maniac or something?” A pause. “I mean… not. Not saying that I don’t fuck like a maniac, I mean, I get tons of, uhhh. Pussy. And dick. But like, would that even affect my superpower? Theoretically?”

Your face grows hot at his rambling, and you bluster for a moment looking for a reply. “I don’t know, maybe? Why would it give you X-Ray vision?”

“Because I have… because the visor…” he gives you a perturbed sigh. “Doesn’t matter. You promised you’d tell me your fear.”

“Mm. Rejection.” The metal spoon clinks against the glass rim of the jar as you hand it back to him.

“Who the fuck would reject you?” He even has the decency to sound genuinely confused, bless him. 

You scoff. “Plenty of people, believe it or not. Turns out that if it happens enough, you can develop a fear of it.” 

“That makes no sense,” he begins, and you open your mouth to start waxing on about the psychology of traumatic reactions, but he cuts you off before you can get a word in. “You’re gorgeous, like I swear I can’t stop staring at you no matter what I do. And you’re smart, and funny, and you stopped what you were doing to make sure I wasn’t going to die if I ate this stuff, even though you don’t even really know me, which is probably more than even Peacemaker would do and he’s my best friend.” His voice drops in volume as he concludes, “You’re just… good. You’re so good. And I like that about you.”

“You’re good too, you know.” Your eyelashes flutter as you take him in, staring down at the jar as he swirls the spoon around, seemingly lost in thought. “And I can’t stop staring at you, either.”

The leg that he has braced with his foot flat on the floor bounces twice, and then stops when he realizes he’s bouncing your leg as well. Then it bounces again, and then stops. Christ, is he having a panic attack?

Are you, would be the better question. Your heart might just jump out of your chest and into his lap for how hard it’s beating against your ribcage. Your hands are starting to shake, and you clamp a hand against the back of the couch to try to steady it. It also acts as leverage for you to press yourself back into your seat, because the need stirring around in your core like a cement mixer has you wanting to crawl forward and grind on his lap. 

Which, you know, might be a bad idea, considering. 

You need to calm down. Think of something other than him, and how good it would feel to have him bouncing his leg between your thighs. 

No, fuck. Concentrate. Cool off.

A wave of heat rushes down your arms and up the back of your neck, and you jump to start unzipping your jacket. 

“Huuhhh oh my god? Wh- what are you…?” Vigilante rears back against the armrest like he’s rankled just by the sight of your arms. 

“It’s just fucking blazing in here. Aren’t you hot?” You say to save face as you tug your jacket out from behind you and toss it to the ground. 

“Oh… oh, yeah.” He thrusts the jar at you without having really touched it, and moves to shirk off the straps of his machete holster, and then the chest plate of his armor. It’s nearly half-performance, half-genuine struggle as he removes an obscene amount of weapons from compartments you hadn’t even noticed before, one shoulder pad and then two, and then, finally, he unlatches the thing across his chest.

You realize then how fucking easy he has it, keeping his face hidden from view. You’re staring, and it’s so painfully obvious that you are when your mouth drops open just a bit as his black undershirt is revealed, skin-tight and nearly pasted to his body with sweat. 

You actually draw your legs back, knees toward your chest as he tosses the chest plate down on top of your jacket, and then starts undoing his arm plates. He fumbles with buckles and hooks, looking quite consumed by the act in itself.

“You need help?” You ask, your voice coming out smaller than you’d like it to. 

“Nah, I got it. I do this all the time.” One plate hits the floor, and then two. And then the motherfucker rolls his sleeves up, and you can feel your cunt pulse between your thighs as your eyes trace up the line of his forearms. 

Holy fuck.

You sit completely still across from each other, surrounded by a tension so palpable that you could cut a knife with it. You shift your hips once on accident, and then a second time on purpose, grinding hard down into the couch cushion and trying to stave off the aching need boiling in your gut and running hot through your veins at the sight of him.

Then, Vigilante reaches behind him and pulls a purple velvet pillow out of the corner by his hip, and places it directly over his crotch in the most non-subtle way he possibly can. You don’t think he’s looking at you, his head is tilted a little too far down, but he kind of clutches the pillow like a teddy bear against his navel as he resumes bouncing his leg.

“Dude, are you okay?”

“Huh?” He snaps his head up towards you, and then sucks in a sharp hiss through his teeth like it’s causing him physical pain to look at you. “Yeah… no, yeah I’m totally. Totally fine. One hundred percent. Nothing going on, nope.”

Tap tap. 

“Goff! Shut the fuck up!”

A short little chuckle falls from your lips as you turn to look at the jar on the kitchen counter. The butterfly wiggles back on its haunches, watching the two of you like it’s getting ready for a show about to commence.

You blink twice, and then slowly turn your head to Vigilante, who is somehow clutching the pillow tighter against him with his gloved hands, and feel a twinge of white hot need surge up your spine and along the curve of your shoulders. And you look down at the jar of amber goo, glistening so tantalizingly against the glass and on the spoon as you raise it. And you look back at the creepy little alien that’s watching it all happen. 

The smile disintegrates from your face as quickly as it formed. “Goff… you said this stuff wouldn’t make us sick. Does it still have side effects?”

Tap.

“Goff, you son of a bitch.” So, that’s what this is. It’s not just your inexplicable desire for him. It’s the raw amber fluid that’s making your mouth flood with saliva each time you glimpse his bare skin. God, you’re so fucking turned on by him already that it’s not even funny, and seeing his arms flex as he shifts his hips and tries to hide the fact that he’s being affected the same way isn’t helping you to calm down. 

“I think-” he pants behind his mask, audibly out of breath as he sinks further back against the arm rest, “I think Goff is a f-fucking… pervert. Shouldn’t have trusted him. You were right.”

His head tilts back against the armrest, chest heaving as he softly whimpers up toward the ceiling. A thin strip of his throat is revealed in this position, drawing your eye as his hips threaten to lurch forward, and he shoves the pillow even harder against his crotch. He’s nearly fucking up into it at this point, and a jittery sound just this side of a laugh comes barreling out of your throat before you can stop it.

“Hey, no, it’s… you’re fine,” you breathe, spellbound as you watch him struggle to keep still. Maybe you could use a pillow of your own to grind on. It would probably help to keep the fucking heartbeat that’s kicked up between your legs at bay. You swallow back the rush of saliva in your mouth and continue, “It’s fine, I’m… I’m in the same boat as you. We’ll get through it together.”

“Together?” Vigilante’s voice cracks, and his head lifts just enough that you know he’s looking at you. God, what you wouldn’t give to be able to see his face right now, and read all the need in his voice written on his expression. The mask just barely moves with the flexing of his jaw, and his hands shake as they dig a death grip into the pillow between his legs.

“Yeah, I’m- I mean- fuck!” The glass slips in your sweaty palms. As you struggle to keep a grip on the jar in your hands, the spoon catches on the front of your tank top and slips out of the glass, smacking fully against the fabric over your cleavage and leaving a glob of fluid to slide gooey and thick in a line down your front. It drips, seeping into the fabric and leaving a wet trail against your skin.

You jump into immediate action, throwing your legs over the edge of the couch and placing the jar on the coffee table. Vigilante tosses his pillow aside just as you stand, straightening your top so that you don’t smear the mess any more than necessary across your front. 

It was a good time for an intermission, anyways. Maybe if you get enough air being across the room from him, you can calm yourself down enough to not throw yourself at him the first chance you get. Maybe he can stretch out and get a little bit of rest, instead of nearly back-bending over the arm of the couch like he wants to get away from you. 

You mutter a string of curses incoherently under your breath, and then, “God, fucking… of course. Do you want some water, while I’m up?” 

Vigilante doesn’t answer. For how chatty he is, he’s particularly good at surprise attacks, like he’s secretly a goddamn ambush predator. He doesn’t even make a noise when he moves, silent as a fucking spider, so you almost yelp when you feel his hands on your hips. His fingertips dig into your skin for half a second, and then he pulls, bringing you down between his spread legs. 

You stare directly forward at the window on the wall across from you, swallowing thickly. Here, with your back against his chest and his head so close to yours that they nearly touch, you can hear his labored breathing and how it nearly rattles in his lungs with his effort to keep it steady. You can feel the hard length of his cock against your tailbone when his arm snakes around your waist to press you harder against him, like he’s just replaced his beloved pillow with you. And when he holds you just a bit tighter, his small whimper resounds in your ear and makes your skin prickle.

You aren’t prepared for how shaky and thin his voice is in your ear when he says, “All I want is you, now.”

Your teeth catch on your lower lip, biting down harder than necessary. It takes everything in you not to squirm back against the press of his erection, to hear him whimper in your ear again. Your hand wraps around his forearm across your waist like a vise, everything below it wound up unbearably tight and aching, begging to be satiated. His skin is hot against your hand, nearly burning to the touch, and you can’t imagine how stifling it must feel to be under that mask now. 

Your face contorts in desperation, fingers crooking forward and nails digging into his skin enough that he draws a sharp breath in. “I’m- I w-w-ant…”

Your breath catches loudly in your throat, your words hiccupping when his other hand comes up to your chest and, using one gloved finger, he collects the sticky trail of golden syrup, pausing just at the hem of your tank top to wipe it all off of the fabric. And then he lifts his hand, and brings his finger to your mouth.

“We don’t want to waste it,” he says quietly.

You suck on your teeth for half a second. It’s obnoxious how wet you are, how you can feel your arousal saturating your underwear and probably beginning to leak through the thin barrier of your leggings. You’re already fit to burst, sitting between his legs and pretending it’s not exactly where you want to be, alien-induced lust or no. But then you make the executive decision to open your mouth and wrap your lips around his finger, and he fully fucking moans in your ear. 

Holy shit. You jam your hips back against his crotch without even trying to hold back. So much for the art of seduction.

A sharp breath hisses through his teeth behind the mask. His hand tightens down on your waist, his forearm squeezing you harder against his chest as he rocks his hips forward so slowly . You know that you’re not doing yourself any favors, but you can’t help it. This time he does press his finger further into your mouth, curling down and physically stroking your tongue as you suck the criminal aphrodisiac off of it. 

“You want to… want to handle it together? Yeah?” He whispers, slowly dragging his finger out of your mouth and leaving you panting. “Want me to- to help? God, I won’t do it if you don’t ask-”

You don’t know exactly what he means by ‘help.’ It could be that he’s saying he’ll push you face-first into the couch and fuck you senseless, right here. You’ve seen how unforgiving he can be to people, and he could probably wring you out and leave you wallowing afterwards. To be honest, you don’t really mind if that’s what he has planned. Your judgment is just clouded enough that you’d let him do anything he wanted with your body, as long as he screws this overwhelming need out of your system.

“Yeah, I’m- please.” You hear his breathing stop, and you reach back to place a hand on the side of his head, feeling the contour of his cheek through the slippery fabric of his mask. “Please, I… I want you to.” 

“Yeah?” His voice is soft. Vulnerable. He clears his throat, and then his gloved hand is dragging down your chest, fingers fumbling along the band of your leggings and wedging under them. “Yeah, okay. Fuck, okay.” 

Once you realize what he’s doing, you know that it’s going to turn you on to no end that the leather of his gloves is so cold and impersonal, making his fingers bulkier and unyielding. To add to that, little ridges are moulded into the pads of them, you presume, to help with grip. What they’re really helping with right now is making you lose all sense of focus, when his finger dips through your slick cunt and drags long and so painfully slow over your swollen clit.

The moan you make is obscene in its volume and has nearly the same intonation as humming a high pitched and long mhmm. Your nails dig in and scratch up his forearm hard enough to leave four long claw marks, raising welts on his pale skin, to which he groans into your ear and presses his finger down just a bit harder for you. 

“Fuck. Shit’s got you so wet. Feels good, doesn’t it?” He breathes. You swear you can nearly feel the heat of his breath on your neck as it punches through the fabric of his mask. “Yeah, I bet it does. I bet it tastes even better.”

“You can… you can taste-” you cut yourself off with a whine when drags the length of his gloved finger over your clit again, and your back nearly arches away from his chest. His arm crushes you back against him, keeping you from moving away even an inch.

You feel him shake his head. “Not yet, I wanna help you first. Let me?”

You give him a wordless whine in response, but you think he gets the message. His finger dips down and curves along the slope of your pussy to find your entrance, the leather of his glove slick enough with your wetness to provide only the kind of resistance that makes you crave more. Your head drops back onto his shoulder when he slides in and curls upwards, finding the pad of muscle that lights up with nerves when he presses it. 

“Oh, fuck fuck fuck,” you groan when he starts moving in a slow, smooth back-and-forth that makes your legs jerk and spasm alongside his. Your hips rock onto his hand to mirror that motion, but all you succeed in doing is grinding back against his erection even more, and his free hand presses down against your stomach to get you to stop. 

“Please, I- I know you want more but if you keep doing that I’m gonna come so soon and I don’t want to do that before I’m inside you and I don’t want to be inside you until I kiss you,” he blathers, keeping up the repetitive movement of his finger into your cunt that has your body writhing against him. His mask presses hot and damp along your shoulder, and you realize that it’s his lips you feel tracing your skin through the fabric. You feel them move as he mutters, “I want to kiss you so bad.”

“Then kiss me.” You gasp, your cunt tightening down around his finger. God, it’s so thick with the leather, and you feel like grinding down on it despite his warning. “Kiss me, you fuuuu-cking idiot, don’t wait. I want to kiss you, too. Why are you waiting?”

“The mask, I can’t.” 

You impatiently scratch your fingers along his neckline, searching for that bottom edge that he’s been fucking around with for the last hour. Your hips involuntarily rock down against his hand again, and he jams his palm up against your clit to give you a bit more of the friction that you seek. 

He gives you a weak sound in the back of his throat when you hook your finger under the edge of his mask and pull, yanking it up to just past the edge of his nose. You hear it when he gasps, uninhibited by fabric, and it’s so fresh and clear, arguably hotter. 

He curls his finger sharply, making you jolt against his hand and grab onto his neck for stability, his face bared for your hand. His skin is smooth, his jaw sharp and defined against your palm. “Shit, you’re so- so hot. So fucking-”

“J-just…” A gasp. “Shut up. I’m trying to Spider-Man kiss you.” 

You pull at his cheek, turning your head to awkwardly kiss him over your shoulder. His nose bumps yours, his breath hitting your mouth in a heavy, nervous rush. Then he tilts his head just slightly and he’s on you, lips parted and tongue brushing yours. 

Oh god, the heat of it could burn you alive if you let it. 

He pulls his finger slowly out of you, and you whine into his open mouth with the loss of contact. He shushes you, quick to smother your mouth once again, and his fingertip turns to rubbing gentle circles around your clit. 

You make a series of desperate noises, pawing at his face and trying to draw him further into your mouth. Your body shudders against him, hips pushing downward onto his finger like that will make him touch you more. 

He pulls back just enough that his nose brushes yours, and you crane your neck to try to find his lips again. His breath hits your mouth, and it tastes nearly as sweet and seductive as the alien syrup was. 

“Shit, I-I didn’t think this was how it would happen,” he sighs, his lips just brushing yours as your hips seek friction in his hand. 

A long, wordless whine leaves your mouth, and then you wheeze, “You thought about it?”

“All the time. When I see you. When I try to go to sleep. When I jerk off.” His hips grind against the curve of your ass, his soft grunt meeting yours in the air. “I wanted… wanted to- wanted you to see my- ah, fuck it.”

His free hand comes up, and you just barely see him rear back and slip his hand under the edge of the mask, giving it a swift yank. It makes a quiet thunk on the ground with the rest of his discarded armor, but you’re too strung out to pay much attention. 

Your hand plunges back into a mess of curly brown hair as he stretches forward to kiss you again. Your eyes meet a flash of green, and your cunt throbs forebodingly against his fingers.

“You h-have-” you suck in a shaky breath, nearly struggling to take in air properly. Exhale… exhale inhale? Inhale?? Ex...exhale… “Green eyes. I love- love-”

You come with a strangled noise, painfully clenching down on nothing as he kisses you, continuing to stroke your clit even though your legs jolt and your heels push and kick against the couch cushion like you’re trying to get away. His free hand presses against your chest, keeping you flush against him- you catch him squeezing at your breast through your thin tank top, but you can’t fault him for it. He’s been so patient, so attentive. More than you’ve been. 

“That’s good,” he whispers against your mouth. “Pretty. You’re so pretty.”

You’re out of breath, panting heavily towards his face. “You… you.” You’re not able to form a more coherent sentence just yet, so you sort of pat the side of his head and hope he understands. 

He slows his fingers gradually to a full stop, letting it rest dormant against your throbbing clit. His forehead pressed to yours, he lets you take a few cleansing breaths before he says, “Can we…?”

He leaves that open-ended, but you guess that you’re both just taking your cues from the context at this point. You smack your hand down over his and pull it away from your chest so that you can move forward. He whines. 

“I’m just trying to take off my clothes,” you tell him plainly, lifting your tank top up over your head. “You could do the same, y’know.”

“You could help.” His hand touches the middle of your back- his bare hand, now.

You freeze, tank top hitting the floor. He took off the gloves. His skin is on yours. Your brain short circuits, a small shiver running up your spine. 

You take your sweet time turning around, your hips twisting with the movement. You sling a leg over his, your toe just barely brushing the carpet as you try to maneuver the odd position you’re in. You almost feel like you’re trying not to look directly at his face, like it’s improper to get anything other than an indirect glimpse of brown hair, green eyes, sharp jaw, pale skin. 

Your eyes land on his thigh first, tactical pants stretched taut across hard muscle. Then they shift to his bulge- which honestly looks like something painful, at this point, straining ungodly hard against the front of his trousers. You trail your eyes up his torso, over the black shirt that made you nearly lose your mental faculties. You hesitate when you reach the neckline of it, but finally, your curiosity wins over.

You find his face, and you don’t know why you hesitated. You want to stare at his face for the rest of time. 

He watches you with a shy, almost nervous expression. His lips are pressed tight into a thin line, his jaw twitching as he clenches and unclenches his jaw. His hair is flattened over his head in matted curls, a bit damp with sweat and hanging across his brow. He blinks, and long eyelashes catch the light.

You take a few swift breaths, steeling yourself to look directly into those round, green eyes. “You know, it’s really fucking criminal that you hide your face, Vigilante.”

“Adrian.”

“What?”

“My name is Adrian,” he admits softly. His eyes fall to where your legs are thrown over his thigh. “Also I wear glasses and you’re kind of sitting on them right now.”

“Oh.” 

You awkwardly shuffle back, bracing yourself on your knees between his legs as he reaches down to open a pocket on his thigh and pulls out a pair of aviator glasses. He puts them on, pushing them up to the bridge of his nose before he looks back at you. Or, he makes direct eye contact with your tits.

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” You roll your eyes, sitting back on your feet.

“What? You have a really nice rack. I mean, I’ve been able to look at your face this whole time and you’re gorgeous.” He reaches out like he means to grope your chest, but pulls back at the last second. “Like, all of you. Perfect.”

You hum, leaning forward to straddle his legs and push your chest into his outstretched hands. His breath hiccups in his throat, his eyes finding your face when you cradle his cheeks in your hands and tilt his head up toward yours. “I’m gonna get you naked now, Adrian.”

He nods eagerly, his hands squeezing your breasts almost instinctively. “Okay. Okay, yeah, good idea.”

You kiss him once, and then your hands yank his shirt up over his head without any flourishing. He scrambles to catch his glasses before they fall, fumbling to get them back on his face. You reach down to undo his belt, but then you stop, and cast a glance back at his somewhat complicated-looking boots and padding.

“Dude, could your armor be any harder to get off?” you grumble as you scooch back to lift his boot into your lap.

“That’s kind of the fucking point,” he says as he pulls his other leg up to start undoing the other. “I mean, can you imagine if I was fighting someone and my boot just fell off? That’s a safety hazard. Also, this is a nice bonding experience for us.”

“Oh, is it?” You yank the boot after loosening the laces, and it’s still not coming off.

“Yeah, I mean, you’re getting to see how my armor works. I’m getting to have you undress me. Careful, there’s a-”

“OW!”

“-knife in there, sorry.”

You huff a sigh as you pull a long dagger out of the ankle of his boot and toss it down onto the coffee table, then lifting your hand and sucking at the cut on your thumb. “This is like trying to get you out of deep sea diving gear. Look, I just want you to fuck my brains out before I do it myself.” You lose your patience and drop your hands from his boot. “Or I could just sit on your face. You want me to sit on your face?”

He groans as he roughly tugs his boot off, then starts working on the one in your lap. “Christ- You want me to cream my pants? I will, I’m so fucking hard right now. I already almost did when I had my finger in your pussy. Don’t talk to me about it- don’t.”  

He throws his second boot so hard that it plops down on the other side of the coffee table. You swallow hard, your pulse pounding in your ears. You scoot back further on the couch, crushing your back up against the arm again to muscle your way out of your leggings. Your legs bump his as he lifts his hips to slide out of his own, and with a graceless snap of elastic, you fling your leggings back against the window behind you. Your bare legs plop down over his, leaving you naked and spread-eagled across from him. 

He gets his pants down- fucking finally- kicking them off roughly and discarding them with the rest. You glance at his cock; hard, impressively long, swollen and looking like it desperately needs attention. He surges forward, clambering over you and pushing you back to lay against the couch cushions.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,” he babbles as he strokes a shaky hand up your thigh, “You’re so hot and I’ve wanted to do this for so long but you’re so soft and I don’t know if I can be gentle right now-”

“So don’t.” You’re just as breathless as he is as his hand finds your face and his thumb traces your bottom lip with a touch of innocence. You part your lips and suck on the end of it, finding his eyes wide and dilated as you pull back. “You think you’re the only one who’s been wanting this? Don’t be nice. If you’re nice, then I won’t be.”

He gulps. “But I don’t want to actually hurt you.”

“Adrian, just wreck my shit. Do it.”

He slips into you in one fluid motion, the stretch your body makes to fit him nearly overwhelming despite how wet you are from your first orgasm. He groans fantastically loud into your shoulder, and just stops. Stops moving, stops breathing, maybe even stops thinking as you shudder and wrap your legs around his hips. 

“Adrian-”

“Don’t.”

Your hands find his hair, soft and pliable between your fingers. “Are you going to come already, baby?” 

“Don’t- don’t call me that- I don’t want to-” He gasps, his muscles tensing up as he struggles to hold still. He breathes out with a sharp blast of air against your skin. “You’re so perfect you feel so good oh my god oh my god-”

Your face burns. You draw a hand up his spine, fingers dancing along his smooth skin. You didn’t imagine he would be the one unable to hold on. “If you need to, you can. It doesn’t matter, I’m not finished with you yet.”

“I’m not- not usually like this,” he admits in a high, weak voice. His hips instinctively grind into yours, and he reaches the end of you and presses up against something absolutely devastating that has you moaning up toward the ceiling. “It’s the fucking- ah- iridescent… butterfly shit. Fuck butterflies.”

“It’s fucking fffffff-” your eyes nearly roll back in your skull when he fully pulls out and slams back in, jolting you up toward the headrest. The couch creaks, a warm breeze sweeps in through the open skylight, somewhere across the room the voyeuristic alien titters in the confines of its jar, but you don’t care. You feel stifled, like you’re drowning. It’s even harder to breathe when he’s giving something between a sob and a whimper into your shoulder, the rim of his glasses digging into your skin. “It’s fi- huuh. Fine. Oh god.”

You told him not to be nice, so, he’s not. You don’t think he’s being particularly mean, but he’s jackhammering into you so hard that you’re seeing stars at the end of every hard thrust. Your nails scratch down his back, likely leaving more welts like they did to his arm. All at once, your muscles clamp down around him, and he shouts into your shoulder. His hips snap into yours one final time, and his entire body shakes against you. He pauses for a drawn out moment, hovering over you, and then you feel him squeeze your thigh twice.

You take a steadying breath, hardly able to think past the ache in your core, halfway to orgasm and just sitting idle on that plateau. “Did you just…?”

“Yeah.”

“Was it enough?”

“Absolutely fucking not.” He pulls back to look at you, and confusion is written all over his expression, along with something that looks close to concern. “I’m still… still…?”

He’s still hard. You can feel it, pulsing within you, hard and thick like you’re still just getting started.

“What the fuck is in that stuff?” He casts his eyes gravely toward the jar on the table, like he has a bone to pick with it.

“I’m gonna take a guess and say something not from Earth.” You reach up to tilt his face back toward you. His eyelashes flutter, and he sucks in a ragged breath when you whisper, “Keep going, baby.”

He draws out slowly this time, and eases carefully back in like he wants to treat you gently now. His eyes stay fixed to yours, his nose nearly brushing against your own as he rocks his hips, moving in small circles that make your toes curl and your hips buck up toward his impatiently.

“Don’t go slow,” you whine, arching your back when he moves smoothly into you, all the way to the end and back, “Why are you… don’t be gentle, I-” 

“No, I read somewhere that most of sex is mental, like it’s the teasing that turns you on the most,” he says clinically, continuing to move within you. A short puff of air meets your lips, and then he adds, “Plus, if you asked me not to be nice wouldn’t it make sense that I do the opposite of that? It’s like a double negative.”

“Adrian, shut up. Please, shut up.” You thump your hand down on his shoulder blade, trying to buck your hips up into his again and ultimately failing.

“No, because it’s hot when you lose your patience with me like that.” Your eyes flutter shut, mouth falling open, and his face is close enough to yours that the lenses of his glasses fog up. He reaches up a shaking hand to tug them off, and they clatter to the floor with the rest of his clothes. “It’s also cute when you try to hurt me. I get stabbed regularly. Turns me on when you do it, though. You should try to stab me sometime, it would be fun.”

He speeds up for just a second, just enough that you moan and grab onto him, but ultimately slows back down to that languid pace that keeps pleasure winding up tight in your core. 

“I h-hate you,” you stutter out, weaving your fingers through his hair just to yank on it. He hisses through his teeth, and after another sharp tug you feel his hand grab yours and pin it against the armrest above your head. “I hate you.”

“Really? But you’re so wet for me right now,” he mutters with that chipper, happy note to his voice that’s just shy of infuriating. “Mm, and tight. God, I love your pussy.”

Your free hand grips his shoulder so hard that you know you leave crescent moon shaped dents in his skin. He lets out a groan, a soft sound vibrating from the back of his throat, and you just barely process it before he kisses you, giving you one hard thrust to make you squeak against his lips. 

He bites down on your lip as he pulls back. You feel his hand skimming your hip, your stomach, reaching down between your bodies. “You think if I rub your clit again I’ll make you come quicker? I think you’ll last ten seconds.”

You snap your eyes open and hiss a warning, “Adrian…”

“Hm. I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Adri-”

His thumb touches your clit, and a loud moan punches out of your lungs, your head rolling back and legs spasming on either side of his hips. It feels so fucking good, too good, and you can barely comprehend him releasing your arm above your head and bringing it down to hook around the back of his neck. 

You come with another loud cry of his name. It pours over you in waves, burning brighter than the sun and making your body jolt up against his. Your hands scramble for a hold on him anywhere they can get, one finding the curve of his lower back and giving it a weak push, urging him deeper into your spasming cunt.

He fucks into you harder, making you sob into the open air as the pleasure turns raw and sharp, a cutting edge on a cathartic kind of pain. And then he heaves a heavy breath, and his teeth sink into your shoulder as he groans and stills his hips, a flood of warmth leaving you full and wetness leaking from you onto the cushion below. 

His teeth leave your shoulder once he stops moaning, a warm cloud of breath making the sore skin there tingle. He kisses the marks he left, and then he fully slumps down on top of you, his sweaty skin sticking to yours.

You lay still, your hand still pressed into the dip of his lower back. You take a sharp breath through your nose. He smells so… distinct. Like fennel and pinewood and maybe a little bit of sea salt. Vigilante. 

You just fucked Vigilante. 

You blink up toward the ceiling. You just fucked Vigilante… on Peacemaker’s couch. 

Again, he seems to read your mind. His voice cracks in your ear when he whimpers, “Peacemaker’s gonna fucking kill me.”

“Us. He’ll have to go through me first.” You playfully squeeze his ass, and he shivers as he pulls back to look at you with an obvious fucked-out haze in his eyes. It makes you smile, and you twist one of his tousled curls around your fingertip. You give him a taste of one of his own crazed giggles. “No super sex magnet powers, huh?”

He blushes. After all that, you still manage to make him blush, as he gingerly pulls out of you and braces himself on his elbows in order to kiss you on the nose. There’s something so cute about it that you grin, another giggle threatening to spill out as he rests his chin on your chest, staring up at your face through his lashes. 

“Can I take you on a date?” He blurts out, his words still a little shaky. “Like, a real date. Without Goff’s weird food fucking us up. You like pizza? I know this really neat pizza place that has a bunch of old arcade games, we could go… I’ll give you all my quarters.”

“Yeah.” You sigh, pulling him up by the neck to give him a swift kiss. “I won’t even puke on your shoes.”

[colorsunlikeanythingseen]

.... Made me think of the Silt Verses.

HAYWARD: Rough doesn’t really cover it. It’s a very specific sensation, when your marriage is failing.

I mean, there’s mingled terror and shame and all the rest of it. But also anticipation. fervent, maddening anticipation.

At long last, this thing between the two of us gets to be resolved. Something we set into motion actually gets to end, and we can come out on the other side as something else. Maybe shrunken and saddened. Perhaps something made anew.

It’s like you’re tangled up in barbed wire: draw closer, it’ll be agony.

Pull away, you don’t know what pieces of yourself you’ll leave behind. But you have to pull away, or this person, this gravitational orbit, is going to destroy you.

CARPENTER: (Engaging with the conversation despite herself) There’s an alternative. You could destroy them.

HAYWARD: I mean, yes, but that would cause harm, and when you’re beginning a new life alone, the last thing you want to do is cause any harm. You can’t be reborn with that in your heart.

No escape is truly clean, but at least once you’ve fled you don’t have to look at the mess.

CARPENTER: I don’t think you have any choice in the matter.

When someone’s been that close to you, when you’ve been known so well and you’ve been loved so closely, when every wrinkle of you has picked out and exposed to another’s sight…they can’t be allowed to continue on.

It’d be like losing your faith, but letting the lie of it keep standing.

-Silt Verses. Season one, episode five.

None of the toxic people in Apollos life are like “oh that persons bad for you and hurts you find a way to leave” It’s always “they have blood on their hands and they revel in it they are licking the blood off their hands they will destroy you just as they destroyed the others around them and the only way to leave will leave a mark the same way staying would”

[bewitched-hours]

If your fine with it, I’d like to ask for a smut between Elliot (from foresaken) x reader where the reader is his wife/spouse and the plot being that their parents were joking around and making a bet when they’ll have children or something along that line and Elliot and reader just decide to you know. The boombayah. This doesn’t need to include kinks if you’re uncomfy with those! And please, if you feel even slightly uncomfortable, then feel free to not do this!

(afab would be welcome if you’d like ofc)

Ooo, first smut req! I'll be happy throwing my nun role away- /silly /j

Reader is getting She/They so both labels can apply-

You loved life. Even your love life-

You were married to a wonderful man, your families treat each other like they've known them forever, what more could you ask for?

Well... It wasn't exactly what you asked for when you came to the family reunion with Elliot. You two still had moments where you acted like teenagers in love which often had some family members suspect one or both of you were still a virgin.

Of course, that wasn't the case at all. You were just careful to not start an accidental pregnancy. You never really thought about being ready for a child...

"Soo~ When can I expect to be a grampa?" Your dad suddenly joked, almost making you spit out your soda in surprise.

It made the table giggle and explode in jokes about you and Elliot being awesome parent material with your little cousins as witnesses.

You were a little embarrassed and tried to see if Elliot was okay but he looked just about every shade of red at this point.

Now, you weren't saying you'd mind it. You caught yourself fantasizing more than once about raising a child with Elliot since you two could handle your younger cousins so well.

Nonetheless, you quickly tried to change the subject for your poor husband's sake, opting to leave the embarrassment at the table by the time you were all cleaning up and saying goodbyes.

"[Reader], can we talk about something?" Elliot was quick to touch on the subject once everyone was gone and you were both in bed.

Knowing what was coming, you just nodded and listened.

"I know your family joked about it often but how would you feel if we were actually raising a child..?" His voice sounded almost embarrassed to even ask. As if you'd give him anything but love.

"I think you'd be a great father... And our child would have a great life..." You began peppering his face with kisses, even straddling his lap as the only light in the room came from the TV.

"Then... Do you wan-" You quickly shut him up through a kiss and a chuckle. "I'd love to raise a child with you, sweetheart..."

You could see him practically melt at your words. You were lucky you usually didn't sleep in pyjamas which meant less to throw off yourselves.

You found yourself giggling as Elliot would gently mark up your neck, whispering nothing but praise inbetween while he was gently taking off your bra and panties.

He had seen your body so many times now but still insisted on complimenting how beautiful you were. It just made you all the more excited for him.

Before you knew it, you had him whimpering beneath you, his dick lubed up and without a condom for the first time while gently grabbing at your thighs. You were teasing him, enjoying how desperate he felt until you finally allowed him inside.

The relief on his face was quick to turn into a soft smile as you began moving up and down with a gentle pace. With your body almost begging for him at this point and his begging for you in return.

But gradually, you began picking it up and moving a bit rougher, listening to your poor husband whining and begging not to stop.

But you always loved pushing his buttons, even in bed. And by the stars, his whimpering as you slowed down again was heavenly.

you tried to repeat this a couple times, each time receiving a more desperate and fed up response than the last with Elliot commenting how cruel you were in that joking tone of his.

You were intentionally pushing him to the edge and then some. And he couldn't help but give in.

"Fuck- you wanted this..." He groaned, easily pushing you to the side and ending up on top as he continued to gently hold you with one hand but hold himself up with the other.

He was just a little rougher than you were, sending waves of pleasure through you as he continued whining about you being so cruel but irresistible.

And to his credit, you could be cruel to him when you were pushing limits. He learned that you loved both his soft and rougher sides and the teasing is just your way of seeing what it took to break him. Like a little fun game the two of you liked to play.

But he never went rough with words. He hated the thought of degrading you so even when you were so cruel, he found the opportunity to praise you.

"f-fuck- You're taking me so well- Like the beauty you are-" You could tell he was close and his praise always made you shudder in pleasure.

And surprisingly, you both came at the same time. You were quick to pull him down and kiss him deeply while your bodies twitched in muffled cries of release. You both waited for a few seconds after to just stare at each other and chuckle, praising one another as you wrapped your legs more firmly around him.

"What if it doesn't work..?" You heard him quietly ask. Wether it was directed at you or himself was debatable.

Regardless, you'd just have to answer that for him. "Then we should probably go a little more just to be sure~"

All he could do was laugh softly before turning you both around again to have you riding him again. "Maybe you should lead this round then and I could be the one teasing you~" His smug tone made a shiver run down your spine. It was luckily a pleasured one.

Man, this would be a long and tiring night for you both...

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

[king-lena]

i just wrote a whole post on how david and roger’s perception of each other ultimately led to their downfall and it started off as like a paragraph of surface level observations and somehow morphed into an essay length analysis that i can’t possibly justify posting 😭 i did kind of cook tho ngl i’m proud of her

[ghostedgwen]

heyy miko!! how are u? hope you're doing well <3 so, i got this one idea that i think that'd be incredible in your writing!

James x Slytherin!Reader - she hates him, but he’s been obsessed with her since they first met. he makes a deal: if Gryffindor wins the next match against Slytherin, she has to go on a date with him. gryffindor wins (obviously), and he asks her out in the most embarrassing, James Potter way: performing for her on the pitch in front of the whole school. i had Did I Mention scene from descendants in mind lol.

did I mention | j.potter

note : Hello, anon! I've been well, thanks for asking! Thank you so much for trusting me with this request! I really enjoyed this one, I was laughing as I wrote it. Also, I decided to use the lyrics from the actual song instead of cooking up my own cringey verse hope that's ok

warning : embarrassing if you look too deeply into it, enemies to lovers ? maybe, james is a very endearing idiot, house rivalry, banter, Gryffindor reckless behavior x Slytherin "wtf are u doing" dynamic

You lose a bet with James Potter, and he decides to marvel in your defeat with a song performance at the Quidditch Pitch to officially ask you out on a date.

There are a few constants in your life: the Slytherin common room always smells faintly of old parchment and ambition. The Black Lake is most beautiful just before dawn. And James Potter is insufferable.

You’d like to think you’re immune to Gryffindor nonsense. You don’t rise to their provocations, don’t flinch at their theatrics, don’t care for their sweeping speeches about bravery and justice and all that rot. You’re clever enough to win a duel with logic and cool-headed strategy, not brute force or reckless wand waving.

And yet, James bloody Potter never seems to get the hint.

He spots you from across the corridor like a Snitch mid-game - target locked - and you swear his hair ruffles itself in anticipation. One blink and he’s there, sliding up beside you with all the subtlety of a howler.

“Morning, gorgeous,” he says, as if it’s normal. As if he didn’t nearly trip over a third-year trying to reach you.

You don’t stop walking, your voice levelled as you speak without looking at him. “Potter.”

“You dream of me last night?”

“Only if it was a nightmare.”

“Oof. She’s got teeth.”

“She’s got standards.”

It goes like this every day. He flashes a grin like it’s weaponized, and you swat it away like a fly. You’re not sure when it started - second year, maybe, when he tried to show off in Charms and accidentally levitated your entire desk into the ceiling. Or third year, when you finally snapped and hexed his eyebrows clean off after one too many loud declarations of love.

He was smitten ever since. The idiot.

You're not impressed. Gryffindor’s golden boy, adored by half the school, Quidditch captain, grades that aren't as bad as you'd hoped - he's got everything handed to him and still acts like the castle is his personal playground. You're not interested in golden retrievers. You like sharp minds and sharper wit. Potter is all chaos and confidence, never still long enough to think.

Unfortunately, he’s made it his life’s mission to orbit yours.

“You’d look fantastic in red, by the way,” he calls out as you disappear into Potions. “I mean, green’s nice, but red would really bring out the scowl.”

You don’t dignify it with a response.

In Slytherin, you’re a known quantity. Smart, strategic, and poised. You walk the line between aloof and approachable so perfectly it’s practically studied. You’re respected because you’ve never needed to demand it. You don’t court attention, and that’s exactly why people look.

That includes James Potter, unfortunately.

And now, with the Gryffindor vs. Slytherin Quidditch match looming, the rivalry has reached a fever pitch. The pitch is practically buzzing with tension. You have nothing to do with it, no position on the team, no behind-the-scenes strategy, but house pride runs in your blood, and the Slytherin common room’s been buzzing for weeks.

You’re outside the Great Hall the morning of the match, a book in hand and a scowl ready for whoever dares interrupt, when the scent of grass and ego drifts toward you.

Potter.

“Thought I’d find you here,” he says, jogging up with his broom over his shoulder, hair a mess that you’re almost convinced he cultivates with spellwork. “Don’t tell me you’re hiding.”

“I don’t need to hide when my house is going to wipe the pitch with yours,” you reply dryly, not looking up. “Shouldn’t you be stretching or something?”

“I stretch before bed. Want to watch sometime?”

“Do you hear yourself?”

“Only the best bits.”

He grins like he’s already won, and you have to force yourself not to sigh. The castle is already buzzing with match-day energy. You’d planned to watch the game in the stands with your Slytherin scarf wrapped around you on top of a green jumper.

But today, something makes you pause.

“Let’s make it interesting,” you say, snapping your book closed.

His eyes spark. “Oh?”

“If Slytherin wins,” you say, voice cool, crisp, practiced, “you stop talking to me. Forever. No winks in the corridor. No howlers disguised as singing Valentines. Nothing.”

He places a hand dramatically over his heart. “You’d really deprive the world of this banter?”

“World? No. Me? Gladly.”

He narrows his eyes, smirks. “Alright then. If Gryffindor wins…”

You cross your arms. “Let me guess. I have to wear a Gryffindor scarf for a week.”

“Tempting,” he says. “But no. If we win - you go on a date with me.”

You blink. “You’re joking.”

“Dead serious.”

You study him for a moment. There’s that sparkle in his eyes that you recognize from every reckless stunt he’s ever pulled - a challenge. He lives for this. And for some twisted reason, you find yourself holding out your hand.

“If we win,” you repeat, “you stop talking to me.”

“If we win,” he counters, taking your hand, “you give me a shot.”

The handshake is electric. The corridor, quiet a moment before, erupts with students who apparently had been listening in from both ends.

“Oh my god,” someone squeals.

“You’re mad,” someone else gasps.

“Finally,” mutters another.

You barely hear them. You’re locked on Potter’s grin, and the smug tilt of his brow. He thinks he’s got this in the bag.

You think he’s going to eat dirt.

The match is chaos. That was the only way you could describe it in all honesty, majority of it was red and green blurs zooming across the pitch.

With the chaos of green and red ensuing under the bright and clear sky, the crowd screams itself hoarse. You’re seated in the Slytherin stands with your arms crossed and your heart in your throat. You’re not invested in the tactics, but house pride simmers hot in your chest.

James Potter is impossible to ignore. He flies like he was born in the air, reckless and brilliant and infuriatingly good.

Slytherin’s Seeker almost catches the Snitch - twice. But Gryffindor’s Keeper pulls off a save that should’ve been impossible, and suddenly, they’re up by ten, then thirty.

Your hands are clenched. You don’t care, not really, and yet -

Potter executes a loop-the-loop feint so absurd it draws gasps from the stands, drawing Slytherin’s Beaters out of position, and Gryffindor’s Seeker snatches the Snitch right from under their nose.

Final score: Gryffindor wins by sixty.

The stadium erupts.

You sit back, winded, heart thudding.

He won.

Shit.

The Quidditch match ended in an explosion of red and gold. Gryffindor had won.

Naturally, the entire school was buzzing.

It had been a close game - fierce, fast, and even brutal. Even you had felt a tiny sliver of adrenaline watching it, arms crossed and brows lifted from your usual corner of the Slytherin stands. But now, with the game over, you had one very specific goal in mind: disappear before James Potter finds you.

Because a deal was a deal.

And Potter would never let you forget a deal.

You slipped away before the final whistle stopped echoing, weaving through crowds of shouting Gryffindors and grumbling Slytherins, down the back steps of the stands, heart thudding like you’d just run laps around the pitch. If you were lucky, he’d be too busy being celebrated to come looking for you. If you were lucky, he’d gloat about the match and forget the bet.

If you were really lucky, he’d get struck by a stray Bludger still on the loose.

You didn’t get far.

Halfway across the pitch, the grass beneath your boots still dewy and soft, you heard it.

A sudden, magically-enhanced echo of a microphone crackling to life.

You stopped walking.

Oh no.

“Oh, ladies and gentlemen,” James Potter’s voice rang out, smug and all too familiar, “I hope you haven’t left just yet.”

A groan escaped you. You turned slowly, already seeing the crowd of students stalling at the gates, everyone turning back toward the pitch.

There he was. Front and centre on the grass, under the setting sun, in his wrinkled Gryffindor jersey, broom tossed aside. He held a charmed microphone in one hand and wore that smile - the one that always preceded something catastrophic.

How he even got a microphone is beyond you - and why you knew what it is was besides the point.

Sirius stood behind him, looking like a backup for some performance being cooked up. You started walking faster.

James cleared his throat. “Now, I know we’re all reeling from that win - thank you, thank you - but before you head off to celebrate, I have one teeny, tiny thing to take care of.”

You were nearly at the exit.

“Oi! _____!”

The crowd parted like the sea, and suddenly every head was turning your way. Every face. Every expression lit with delighted horror and secondhand embarrassment. You stopped dead on your tracks, like a snake caught in headlights.

James grinned wider. “This one’s for you.”

And then - music.

Fucking music was the last thing you expected to cue in the moment he flashed a grin so wide it could’ve ripped his cheeks.

You didn’t know who had enchanted what, or where the band had come from, but suddenly James Potter was launching into a full, ridiculous, very real musical number.

“♪ I met this girl who rocked my world ♪”

You blinked.

“♪ Like it's never been rocked ♪”

He spun. He spun. Sirius groaned and joined in on backup vocals.

“♪ And now I'm living just for her ♪”

Someone behind you gasped. A fourth-year clutched her heart. The Hufflepuff girls were screaming.

You pressed your fingers against your mouth, determined not to laugh. Not to give him the satisfaction - despite yourself, you were struggling not to contort your face to laugh.

“♪ And I won't ever stop ♪”

(“I beg Merlin every day that you will,” you muttered under your breath.)

“♪ I never thought that it could happen to a guy like me. ♪”

He was closing in now, slowly making his way towards you as he sang those embarrassing lyrics. How Potter keeps his pride intact after this is beyond you, how you keep yours is also beyond you.

“♪ But now look at what you've done ♪”

You scoffed in offence at that, his lyrics implied you did something to him which you did not. You were not at fault for whatever is going on with him, you shot him a look through the field while he remains undeterred.

“♪ You got me, down on my knee ♪”

He winked at you through the chaos. You tried - Merlin, you tried - not to break. But your mouth twitched. Just barely. Your lips parted.

James saw it.

He let out a delighted yell and dropped to his knees on the pitch. The music slowed to a dramatic ballad tempo.

He extended a hand to you.

“_____,” he said, theatrically breathless. “So. What do you say? A deal’s a deal.”

Your cheeks burned from the sheer shame and your ears rang from the silence of everyone's anticipation, the crowd watched in a collection of bathed breaths.

The entire school was watching. You could say no. You could hex him. You wanted to hex him. You should hex him.

Instead, you stepped forward slowly, arms crossed, letting him sweat a little more.

“I didn’t realize you had a death wish,” you said dryly. “This is next-level idiocy, even for you.”

He grinned up at you. “I thought it was quite inspired.”

“You got down on your knees.”

“Uh huh.”

You sighed. And finally - finally - let a small laugh escape. You couldn’t keep it in any more, the whole thing was absurd, like some fever dream (or rather, a nightmare) you could only cook up during quiet nights.

His eyes lit up like the sun coming through stained-glass.

The crowd roared.

You looked down at him, this golden-retriever idiot of a boy, who had just serenaded you in front of hundreds of people like it was the most natural thing in the world. And you took his hand.

“Fine,” you said, letting him pull you gently toward him. “One date.”

He beamed like he’d just caught the Snitch.

“One date,” you repeated. “And if you ever sing in public again, I will hex you.”

“No promises.”

Sirius whooped, you could already hear the teasing from your house mates over the whole affair. You had lost a bet and got a very public performance at that. The entire pitch was screaming like they’d just witnessed a marriage proposal.

James bowed with an absurd flourish and kissed your hand like some chivalrous knight. You rolled your eyes but didn’t bother stopping him, you knew how to admit defeat. Albeit how embarrassing this one was.

“Don’t make me regret this.”

“Never,” he said with a grin. “But just in case - next song’s already written.”

You didn’t punch him. But it was a very near thing.

end. masterlist

[soluversworld]

BACKSTAGE SECRET ! - KIER X G.N READER

This game is called backstage Infatuation! This game is so underrated. So, I will doing some one-shots, because I love the characters!!

Genre: Fluff

Summary: — Backstage, you lost your bracelet, Kethan gifted you! Don't worry, There's someone to help you!

( Reader is a g.n!)

Content Warning : Yandere themes

Did not proof read/Rushed.

You were there.

Wrapped in a too-thin coat, media pass clutched between chilled fingers, lens cap off and camera ready. The cold bit at your ankles, but you barely noticed. Not when tonight mattered so much. Not when it was LUXE’s comeback debut—and Kier’s first solo single release.

The press line was chaos: journalists elbowing for position, flashes flaring like lightning, muttered complaints fogging in the air. Everyone wanted to be the first to capture them all.

You weren’t supposed to be in this area. Technically, your badge said “general coverage.” But you’d arrived before sunrise, staked out the best possible angle, and refused to budge. If anyone asked, you were supposed to be here. This was going to be one of the biggest shows of the year… right?

You flipped through the concert pamphlet for the hundredth time, fingertips numb but careful not to crease the page.

Oriel: dignified, dazzling. Min: cool, collected. Kier…

Your eyes paused on him. His picture was radiant. Almost too perfect. Hair falling in sleek strands over sharp cheekbones. A slight smirk—arrogant, maybe—but only if you didn’t know better.

You did know better. You’d seen him before that—offstage. With no stylists, no cameras. Just Kier, buying two caramel lattes and an absurdly bitter iced americano like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You hadn’t forgotten. Actually, you'd brought a caramel latte today, too. Warm, still tucked in your coat pocket, for yourself!

Were you friends?

He did tell you to think like that.

But could a fan and an idol really be… anything real? Like friends?

He’s up there. Ethereal. Shining. Beautiful. You’re… you.

You smiled to yourself anyway, lips chapped from the wind. Sam was going to freak when you told her about this. Minji had been kind enough to let you off early from work—a miracle.

"I wonder what his single will be like?" you murmured, heart fluttering. "I can’t wait."

And just as the excitement bubbled in your chest, your stomach made a dramatic protest.

You groaned softly. “Seriously? Now?” You doubled slightly. “God… I knew I shouldn’t have let Kethan talk me into that second round of dumplings…”

You bolted for the restroom the second you found an opening—half-jogging past camera rigs and stacks of cables, muttering half-apologies to the tech crew and other reporters. Your stomach churned like a traitor. Of all the times…

You got your business done in record time, hands barely dry as you burst back into the hallway, still holding onto your press pass like it might anchor you to this timeline.

But as you rounded the corner—slam.

You collided with someone. Full force. Something clattered. You went down like a folding chair.

"Aiiyo—!" the woman beneath you yelped. A mop bucket sloshed, something wet hit your shoe, and you realized with dawning horror you had flattened the poor cleaning lady.

"Oh my god—I’m so sorry—!"

You scrambled up, brushing off your pants with shaky hands, cheeks burning.

She blinked at you from the floor, visibly unharmed, just startled. “You okay?”

“I—uh—yeah. Yeah. Totally fine,” you managed, voice tight with embarrassment.

She gave a breathy chuckle, waved you off, and walked away muttering something about “young people with ants in their pants.” You nodded dumbly, offered another apology to her retreating back, and turned to fix your jacket.

That’s when your stomach dropped again—but for a different reason this time.

Your wrist felt bare.

You looked down.

The bracelet. The bracelet.

“Shit.”

Your eyes widened. Not the bracelet you’d been wearing casually for months, not some accessory. No—the one Kethan gave you yesterday. The one he dramatically claime

You had laughed. It had fit weirdly well. You hadn’t taken it off since.

You scanned the floor in panic. Nothing.

You crouched low, heart hammering, crawling slightly as you peered beneath the mop cart, near the baseboards, under your own boots. Nothing. Not even a shimmer.

“No, no, no…” you whispered, biting your lip. You retraced your steps toward the hallway where you’d sprinted earlier, eyes darting to the corners, past spilled mop water and the distant sound of the opening act starting. No time. If you waited any longer, the concert would start and you’d lose your spot in the media pit.

But the bracelet—damn it,

"I got this for you. During I was-."

Fuck you! Y/n!

Luckily, the backstage area was quite small, and you found the janitor's closet in no time. Lost things had to be kept here, right? That was your best bet.

You reached for the doorknob. Locked.

You sighed, stepping back and scanning the hallway again. No janitor. No bracelet. You weren’t giving up just yet.

You started checking corners, crouching behind crates of lighting equipment, peeking under utility carts. You thought it would be a five-minute detour.

But half an hour passed, and you were still no closer.

Your anxiety was scraping at your throat, panic starting to edge in, when—

Knock knock.

A voice from outside. Male. Calm. Curious.

"Anyone in there?"

Your brain malfunctioned.

"Nope!"

You absolute idiot.

"I mean—WAIT—"

Too late.

The door burst open.

And someone stepped in.

"K-Kier?!"

Kier immediately held a finger to his lips. "Shush. Keep it down."

You blinked. Twice. "What are you doing here? Shouldn’t the concert be starting soon?"

He looked over his shoulder, then back at you, hair slightly mussed, eyes brighter than you’d ever seen them.

"I’m just... hiding," he muttered. "My assistant won’t shut up. I know he’s doing his job, but the nagging is driving me insane."

You stared at him. This was weird. Kier—The Moon Prince—just slipped backstage to... hide?

Something was off. He was talking fast. Fidgeting.

"Kier, are you okay?"

He paused. Looked away. Then back again with a gentle smile.

"Can I ask you a favor?"

"Yes?"

He hummed a soft tune. Low, delicate, threading through the silence between you. You didn’t recognize it, but it made your shoulders relax a little.

"Is that part of your single album?" you asked. "It’s good. Really good."

He smiled, a little lopsided. "You think so? I feel a bit better, then. I just hoped you’d really like it."

You tilted your head. "By 'you', you mean your fans?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Last time I checked, you said you were a fan too."

Then he stuck his tongue out at you.

You blinked. Blushed. "Oh—shit. Sorry."

He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. The tension in your chest melted just a bit.

Kier glanced around the cramped closet space with a skeptical eye. “So... what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be out there with the others, cheering like a proper fan?”

You laughed, a little too loud. Nervous. “I, uh... lost something. A bracelet. It was a gift.”

At that, the teasing edge in his voice dulled. “Important?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Kethan gave it to me yesterday. It’s dumb, but—”

“Not dumb,” Kier cut in, his gaze surprisingly sharp. “It matters to you. So it matters.”

Before you could even thank him, he clapped his hands once with mock drama. “Alright then. Operation Rescue Sparkly Thing is a go.”

You blinked. “That’s seriously the name we’re going with?”

He glanced at you sideways with a grin. “Don’t sass your rescuer.”

He crouched down and began scanning the dim floor under a metal shelf, muttering under his breath, “...if I were a bracelet, where would I hide? Maybe under some lost dignity…”

You crouched beside him. The space was cramped, filled with wires, old props, and dust, the air sharp with disinfectant.

“Thanks, Kier. You really don’t have to—”

“I want to.” His voice was soft this time, no teasing. Just truth. It made something squeeze warm and tight in your chest.

You both kept searching in silence, eyes scanning every shadow. At one point, Kier pointed toward the tablet you’d dropped earlier.

“You checked under that?”

You waved it off. “I did. I swear, it’s not there—”

“Humor me.”

You sighed and moved to lift the tablet. You both leaned in at the same time, reaching—and didn’t notice how close you’d gotten until—

Thump.

Your shoulders bumped, then your hands, and then—Kier’s balance tilted forward. In the most embarrassing, slow-motion moment imaginable, he fell.

Right on top of you.

You landed flat on your back with a soft “oof,” the air rushing out of your lungs. Kier didn’t hit you hard, but his weight was unmistakable, his body flush against yours.

His face was hidden in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

You froze.

“I—I’m so sorry!” you blurted, trying to sit up, but his hand pressed gently against your side.

“Wait.”

That was all he said. Just wait.

So... you did.

For a heartbeat, maybe two, maybe more, he stayed there. His breath slow. His voice low, nearly a whisper.

“You smell nice,” he mumbled, the words barely making sense. “Like... caramel.”

You didn’t catch the flicker in his eyes as he slowly pushed himself up. You didn’t see the sudden heat, the way his pupils had dilated, that half-mad glint he tried to blink away too late...

You only saw the soft smile he wore when he looked down at you.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah. You?”

“Peachy.” He stood and held out a hand. You took it.

Still no sign of the bracelet.

You both went back to searching.

Kier crouched beside you, trailing his fingers lazily over the floor, but you were the one truly focused—moving crates, lifting wires, mumbling to yourself. “Ugh, it must’ve fallen when I tripped on that mop. God, I’m such a klutz…”

He hummed. Low. Noncommittal.

“...It’s just—Kethan gave it to me, you know? My best friend since forever... He came back a few weeks ago, He gave it to me...." You laughed.

Kier froze.

You didn’t notice. Still talking. Still smiling.

“We used to build little cardboard forts after school, pretend we were superheroes.. Said he’d be ‘Magma Boy’ and melt anyone who messed with me.”

You didn’t see it—how Kier’s shoulders tensed. How his gaze dropped, no longer scanning the floor,with such intensity it might’ve burned a hole clean through.

Kethan.

He hadn’t said a word yet, and that wasn’t like him.

“Kier?” you asked, still grinning. “You okay?”

“Mm.” His voice came tight, but practiced. Still smooth. Still sweet. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

He stood. A slow, precise movement.

You blinked up at him. “You sure?”

He smiled down at you. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“That bracelet,” he said softly. “It really means that much to you?”

“Of course,” you said without hesitation. “It’s from Kethan.”

Kier tilted his head, like a curious cat. His hands were in his coat pockets now. One foot slightly forward. Blocking your exit.

You didn’t notice.

Not yet.

"That nickname," he echoed, voice low. Too low. “Magma Boy.”

You chuckled. “Yeah. Dumb, right?”

“Hilarious.” The smile widened. “So… are you close?”

You blinked. “What, with Kethan? Yeah, of course. He’s my—” You were still searching..

Kier took a slow, deliberate step forward.

“He’s your what?”

“...My friend,” you said, laughing nervously. “My best friend.”

Kier nodded. Just once.

“Right.”

His voice was smooth now. Velvet over a blade. Carefully controlled. He didn’t want to scare you.

Not yet.

But inside, the thoughts spiraled.

HE tries to take you.

From him.

Even before he had you.

And still—still—you kept smiling about someone else.

He could melt people, huh?

How cute.

Kier leaned down, brushing invisible dust from your sleeve with gentle fingers. His eyes met yours—warm, blue beautiful.

And yet—

"Don’t worry," he murmured. "I’ll help you find it. I’m very good at finding things…”

His fingers lingered.

His voice dropped an octave.

“…and keeping them.”

You dusted off your knees, still crouching as you scanned the floor, and glanced through the cracked door toward the faint thrum of the crowd outside.

“Sheesh,” you muttered. “The fans are really out there in full force tonight.”

Kier shifted beside you, standing straighter as he peeked through the door too. “I’m honestly surprised this many showed up,” he murmured. “It’s windy as hell out there. Felt like my ears were gonna freeze off earlier.”

You smiled. “Well, that’s fans for you. fans especially. Rain, snow, war—they’ll still show up.”

He chuckled, soft. “I guess that’s what 'fan' means, huh? Fanatic.”

“Yeah,” you said, pulling your coat tighter. “But it doesn’t always have to mean crazy. Just… passionate.”

Kier’s expression shifted—just slightly. “I’m happy to be on stage again,” he said, voice lower now, slower.

You nodded, but caught the flicker in his eyes.

“…But?” you prompted.

“…But I hate those."

You blinked.

He didn’t elaborate immediately, so you tilted your head. “Did something happen?”

Kier’s gaze drifted toward the far wall, as if he were looking into a memory instead of the dim backstage space.

“During our first interview as LUXE,” he said slowly, “we were in this tiny studio. Three chairs. One little lamp above us. We were just rookies. I looked up, and something felt off.”

You stayed quiet, listening.

“The bulb in the lamp was tinted weird. When I looked closer, I realized it wasn’t just a bulb. There was a lens in it. A camera. Hidden. Filming us.”

You straightened a little. “I heard about that—”

“My members were answering questions, laughing, totally unaware. So I pretended to take selfies. Tilted my phone just right. Took a few shots of the lamp.”

Kier’s jaw tightened.

“That’s when Aurora Rising Records stepped in. Replaced the entire staff team. Turned out one of the production staff was actually a fan. In disguise. Pretending to work there, just to spy on us.”

You stared at him.

“That’s… awful.”

He looked back at you then.

And smiled.

But there was something quieter about it. Not fake. Just… weathered.

“I hate crazy fans,” he repeated. “But it’s not just that. The way they want to own you. Break pieces off of you. Call it love.”

You didn’t know what to say.

Until he looked at you again—and that smile shifted. Softened.

“…But you,” he said.

Your stomach fluttered. “Me?”

“You never screamed at me,” he said plainly. “Never shoved a phone in my face. Never begged me for anything.”

You flushed, mouth opening—closing.

“Every time I saw you,” he continued, “you were just… quiet. Present. Kind.”

He reached out, brushing a loose thread off your sleeve. His fingers were gentle.

“You treated me like a person,” he said. “Even though you’re a fan… you’re a real one. A gen one. The kind people forget exist.”

You blinked. “Kier, I…”

Your voice caught.

He smiled again—this time, soft and warm. Like moonlight instead of stage lights.

“Thank you,” he said. “For that.”

You looked down at the dusty floor, eyes beginning to sting.

You didn’t get it.

Why did things like this always happen?

It was just a bracelet—but it wasn’t just a bracelet. Kethan gave it to you.Who always remembered things when no one else did. He’d given it to you yesterday-

Now it was gone. Your chest hurt just thinking about it.

“…Hey.”

You looked up.

Kier was watching you, the playfulness gone now—replaced with something quieter. Something… concerned.

“I’ll let my staff know,” he said gently. “We’ll find it. I promise.”

You stared at him. The stage was probably about to start any minute. He shouldn’t even be back here.

“But the show—”

“There’s still a few minutes.” He tilted his head. “Let me help, alright? I’ll get them on it.”

Your throat closed up a little. You hated being seen like this. Teary-eyed. Small.

You didn’t know what else to do—so you reached into your coat and pulled out the warm paper cup you'd forgotten you were even holding.

The caramel latte. The one you'd bought for yourself. The one you almost wanted to give him… just in case you saw him.

You shoved it toward him with both hands.

He blinked, surprised. “...What’s this?”

You kept your face straight. “You helped me. I wanted to thank you.”

He just stared at the cup.

“There’s nothing mixed in it,” you added flatly. “Just.."

He burst out laughing—eyes crinkling, face flushing a soft pink. He took it from you, his fingers brushing yours briefly.

“...It’s my favorite drink,” he said quietly, smiling like you’d handed him something sacred.

You blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You remembered that?”

“No,” you admitted. “But I’ll remember it now.”

He looked at you—really looked at you—and then took a long sip from the latte.

When he lowered the cup, something about him seemed looser. Warmer.

“Thanks,” he said, voice smooth. “I feel a lot better now.”

Seeing him smile, made you smile too..

Kier stared at you for a moment, then without warning, pulled you into a hug.

It wasn’t brief, either.

His arms circled around your shoulders with warmth and a kind of desperate gentleness, like you were something he was afraid to let go of. You stiffened for a second—caught off guard—but quickly melted into it.

“I feel better too,” you whispered into his chest.

You felt him exhale against the crown of your head, a little softer this time.

When you finally pulled away, you smiled, still a little dazed. “Thank you, Kier. Seriously.”

He only nodded, eyes unreadable. That soft smile back on his lips.

You stepped away, turning to leave before you could overthink it. The hallway echoed with your retreating steps.

Idols are human too, you thought. Not just distant, glowing stars on stage. They get tired. They get frustrated. They hide in janitor closets and complain about assistants. They drink lattes and help search for lost bracelets and… they hug.

From now on, you promised yourself, you'd treat idols better.

Not like gods. Not like dolls.

Like people.

Like him.

You disappeared around the corner.

Meanwhile, back in the cramped space of the janitor’s closet, Kier exhaled slowly.

His shoulders dropped.

Then his fingers reached into the pocket of his oversized jacket.

There it was. The bracelet.

That thing.

His expression warped—dark, twisted, flat with disdain. That cursed trinket—tacky, mismatched, with a fraying cord and an ugly little bead in the shape of a cartoon skull.

He gave you this?

His jaw clenched. His lips curled into something cruel.

He remembered how you looked while talking about Kethan—laughing softly, eyes gleaming with memory. It burned. It burned.

You were his muse. His light. His obsession. Not Kethan’s. Not anyone’s. You had no idea what you did to him—how deep you'd sunk into him. Into his skin, his veins, his voice.

Ugly. Cheap. It doesn’t suit you.

It burned him just to imagine it on your wrist. Something from him. Some other boy. Some fool who thought he could mark you with a trinket.

He could get something way more expensive or pretty....

Still staring at the bracelet, Kier crouched. Placed it on the floor like a delicate relic.

Then stood.

And drove his boot down hard.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

He hated it.

The crunch of cheap beads and snapped cord echoed like tiny bones.

He smiled, expression pitch-black and wild under the soft closet light.

“Mine,” he muttered, voice venom-laced silk.

You’re my muse. My only one. You have no choice.

I will claim you.

The broken shards glittered at his feet.

And Kier—Kier smiled again. Beautiful. Chilling.

The stage lights began to rise.

Time to put on a show. For the fans. For the world. But mostly… For you.

[trippinsorrows]

stuck

authors note: if you've read the hot mess express, you'll understand this. you really, sadly, do need to read said hot mess in order to understand. it's backstory that, hopefully, sheds a tad bit more light on solana's situation.

limited tags. hopefully, we can keep these few shorts contained with just a select few folks, so ya'll don't start making them requests for this to actually become a thing. 😭

words: 1.5k

warnings: angst

“You remember my cousin Bron?”

An unexpected question that pulls us from the silence that settled between us. The only sounds present in the kitchen being the splash of dishes into the water and the clatter that stems from me placing the wet but clean plates in the drying rack.

I have to think about it for a second. “He’s big, right?” And orange. I’ve never seen a white man other than that man with such a….bold tan.

One glance at Cody leaning against the counter beside the dishwasher, cold beer in one hand, eyes on me. “Yeah. Was at the wedding.”

I wonder if he knows I try my best not to think about said wedding. “What about him?”

Cody waits until taking another sip before responding. “Apparently, his wife has been cheating on him.”

I’ve never been so thankful to have my hands submerged in the sink of soapy water, because if not, he would have seen the way they stilled at his answer. It takes a lot for me to maintain my composure. The only thing keeping me sane and still the swell of my belly, the feel of the babies moving inside, as if they also heard him. 

As if they also know. 

“Oh?” I grab the sponge to continue scrubbing the dishes used in the dinner I prepared for us tonight. It’s been his recommendation. Dinner once a week, alternating houses, to prepare. Prepare for us finally living together.

I wish I could feel less depressed about that. 

He nods. “Yup.”

I don’t know what possesses me to ask. Maybe because it feels like a normal, natural follow-up question to such a statement, but still, something about it leaves a bitter aftertaste. “Are they getting a divorce?”

But, it’s when Cody chuckles, almost comically that I turn my head to look at him. “Of course not.”

The smallest hint of a frown on my face, as I ask, “but….she cheated on him.” Why wouldn’t they divorce? The unspoken tail end of my statement. A statement that suddenly feels like it has ulterior motives, like there’s something else being sought out.

Insight. 

I’m looking for his insight. 

His eyes settle on me, and I take a second to take him in. Cody isn’t an ugly man. Hardly. Striking blue eyes, sharp, angular features, a nice build. He’s an objectively handsome man, albeit with….interesting tattoos. 

But, he’s not him. 

No one could ever be him.

“We don’t do that in my family.” 

Thankfully, Cody’s reply snatches me from memories of the man I saw just earlier today. He’d come to see me at the hospital, snuck and brought me lunch. The feel of his big hand on my stomach, questions about the pregnancy and how I’ve been feeling as we ate in the backseat of the SUV. The almost domestic nature of it all before we ended up arguing. He left, upset with me and vice versa. Not like it’s the first time, nor will it be the last time. But, up until that point, it was nice. 

However, there’s nothing nice—or sensible—about Cody’s answer. 

“Why?” Again, it feels like a normal question. The conversation now something that has my full, undivided attention. “I mean….people get divorced. It—it happens all the time.”

“Not us.” I wish I could tell if he’s still referring to his family. Or something else. “It’s….it’s not a good look.”

“And staying with someone who cheated is?” Ironic words coming from the poster girl for infidelity herself, but there’s something illogical about what he’s saying. Something I can’t understand. Or, maybe I just don’t want to.

Still, he remains staunch rooted and planted in his take.“They have children. It’s better to work things out than to break up the family.”

I turn to him, hands now pulled from the water, as I use the towel on the counter beside the sink to dry them. “But, sometimes that does more harm than—”

“Solana.” The firmest use of my name I think I’ve ever heard from him. It makes my shoulders drop. “That’s just how it is, alright?” It doesn’t feel like he’s looking for understanding. Just acceptance. Even if forced. 

And once again, I’m not sure what possesses me to ask, why I would even rock the boat and dance so close to fire, but it escapes before I can reel it back in. “So, if it was us, and infidelity was an issue….we just….stay married? No matter what?”

I don’t know what answer I’m looking for. What answer I want to hear, or even what I need to hear, I just know his response isn’t on the list of possible responses that I’d mentally formulated. “It’s different for us.” 

The shovel continues to dig. “How?”

“Our marriage is a contractual agreement. The fulfillment of a debt. Divorce isn’t an option, because there’s no undoing the contract.” 

Contract. A piece of paper. A single, binding legal agreement that’s left me in a situation not of my doing but of someone no longer with us. My father, bless his soul, in trying to save our family from being homeless, from losing everything he worked so hard to build, made a deal with the devil. Thought promising his daughter to Dusty’s son—the man who stands only inches away from me— gaze assessing and watchful, would save us. And, in some ways, it did. It saved my family but damned me. A debt I didn’t even acquire but am being forced to pay.

A debt I’ve considered from time to time over the past years actually repaying. If there exists some chance to pay off the debt my father accrued in his constant borrowing from the Nightmare Factory. If the deal can be undone. Thousands. I know it was in the hundreds of thousands at the time, and time, inflation, maybe even interest, would raise that initial number, but with the salary I’m set to make once I’m done with school, it feels doable. Even if I don’t live the life one might expect someone with a Dr. behind their name to live. Even if fancy, expensive restaurants are traded for simple, budget friendly meals. Designer clothes with names so foreign, I don’t even know how to pronounce them, replaced with fast fashion outfits that serve the purpose under my white coat. A decent apartment in an okay part of town versus the condo I live in now, courtesy of the man I call my legal husband. Major sacrifices to some, a path to freedom for me. 

Freedom to choose. To actually choose who I want to be with. Whose wedding ring I want to don. Who I wish to spend the rest of my life with. 

And kind as Cody can be, that’s not him.

If only the alternative wasn’t him. 

But, the fact of the matter is that this conversation leads me to believe that for all of my wondering, and maybe even hoping, over the years, there still and will always remain the fact that no amount of monetary substitution can undo what’s already been done. Can null and void an agreement made by two parties no longer among this earth.

And one of those parties is no longer here because of the man you wish to leave your husband for. 

The dread that settles within me deepens the frown on my face, something I’m unable to hide. Just like the most devastating question and realization I’ve encountered in some time.

Perhaps ever.

So, I’m stuck? Forever?

Unspoken words fully felt. 

“Even though….even though it was technically not for me?” I don’t say her name. Not even just because of this situation. It’s too painful, hurts too deep to invoke the name of the person I’ll never be able to see or speak to again. The person whose place I was forced to take, and sometimes, when I think about it, I wonder if…if her ending would be preferred over this. Freedom in the eternal versus bondage in the living. 

His eyes are leveled, briefly darting to my belly, his free hand reaching to plant over my stomach. I wish I didn’t want to back away. “Yes.” 

I don’t say anything after that. Not immediately. It’s not until he removes his hand, and I resume washing the dishes that I ask another question. One that stems from putting it all together, what was said, what wasn’t said, and what could be extracted. 

“If they were to divorce….he’d keep the kids from her….wouldn’t he?”

He never gives me an answer. 

And that’s all the answer that I need.

Stuck. 

[feelfreetopleasemexo]

Spilling the (truth) tea.

Reader gets truth serum spilt on them and accidentally confesses her true feelings.

Ochaco found you wondering the halls babbling to yourself after initially leaving the UA dorms to find Hatsume. You wanted to upgrade your hero costume one last time before graduation, but, Hatsume being Hatsume, she accidentally spilled a mysterious liquid on you whilst she was trudging through her 'babies' to find you the last piece of armour she'd put away.

You were talking to yourself, completely dazed and walking around in circles, the conversation you were having with yourself suddenly became a bit heated and you started shouting at the wall. Ochaco ran over and placed her hand on your shoulder, causing your eyes to fixate on her, and then open your mouth.

"Ochaco Uraraka, the sweetest little bundle of joy, if I were gay she'd be the one I would marry. Her smile lights up the room and every single time anyone is upset, they fly to her like a magnet. Purest heart, will make an excellent support hero. 9/10 best friend, would definitely make love to."

Her eyes widened at your confession, she had no idea why you suddenly just started complimenting her, but by the glossy look in your eyes she knew something was wrong.

"Oh, um, thanks y/n! But er, everything okay? Did Hatsume do something to you or...."

And as if on que, Hatsume poked her head out of the doorway, laughing and cleaning her steampunk glasses.

"Yeah so, kinda got a bit crazy in there. Spilled some of my truth serum stuff on her and now...well yeah, she won't stop confessing her true feelings for people she looks at. It'll wear off in a couple of hours but...."

"Mei Hatsume, annoying but pure. If she learnt to shut up for a single second and take a breath, she might make a really good best friend. Easily surpasses everyone else on the other courses, and if she toned down a bit she'd easily reach top ranks in the hero rankings, especially the public opinion rankings. 7/10. Would bang"

Both of the girls looked at eachother stunned, Hatsume let out a disgustingly loud laugh, throwing her head back and smiled at Ochaco.

"Yeah, id get her back to her dorm if I were you. Here, take this too! Yano, just in case she bumps into all might or aizawa and accidentally confesses her undying love for them or something...." She chucked a blindfold to Ochaco, laughing as she disappeared back into the room.

On the walk back to the dorms, you were silent. Ochaco tried to make small conversation with you, tried to ask questions about what happened, if that's how you actually really felt about her and if you needed her to do anything for you. You didn't reply, your mouth tightly closed as she lead you to the entrance of the UA dorms building.

When you both entered, you accidently bumped into Kirishima, who was walking past with his head buried in a comic. Bumping into him caused your blindfold to slip slightly, catching a glimpse of the cute shark boy.

"Eijiro Kirishima, the physical embodiment of happiness. Whenever I get cornered my mind instantly searches for him to protect me. Impeccable quirk, and even more impressive social skills. 8/10 perfect husband material. Would definitely make love to."

His eyes widened as he dropped his comic, mouth slack at your completely outlandish confession. His eyes flicked to Ochaco who frantically scrambled to grab your blindfold, forcing it back onto your eyes causing you to close your mouth tightly again and grab onto her arm for stability.

"Um, what? Wha, what was all that? Why did y/n say she'd ma..make love to me? Im so confused."

Ochaco explained what had happened, and explained that after a few hours it would wear off so she was taking you back to your dorm so you couldn't embarrass yourself further. Just as she was explaining the affects of the serum to Kiri, katsuki flicked his eyes from over his phone to you three. He jumped up, stomping over to Kiri and ochaco, smirk snuggly slapped across his face.

"My turn. I wanna know what this extra really thinks about me." Before they could protest, he ripped the blindfold off your eyes, face merely an inch away from yours.

"Katsuki Bakugo, hot but an asshole, if he shut up and learned to take a compliment he'd be the perfect boyfriend for anyone. Terrifyingly impressive quirk, he knows he's the best and he rightfully should. Would make the world's most devastating villain. 8/10, would let fuck the shit out of me. More than once." 

His smirk grew wider as his eyes darkened, clearly more than impressed with your statement. He threw his head back and laughed, pride filling his body as he crossed his arms across his chest.

"Dirty bitch. I knew she had the hots for me. Glad she can see why I'm the best though, all you other extras just need to catch up. "

Suddenly, the common room started to fill with curious heads, cautiously trying to figure out why katsuki was even more loud than usual. After hearing your confession about him, more and more of your classmates let their curiosity take over them as they crowded around you.

"Everyone's getting the harsh truth today, wether they like it or not. WHOS NEXT?!"

Everyone scrambled into a line, desperate for some form of validation from your confessions about them, only to find that deku was forced to the front of the queue.

"Izuku Midoriya, ...there's too much. A cry baby, bitch boy, best friend potential, probably an impeccable lover. Kind. Honest. All mights secret love child probably? Fearless, sweet, loyal. He's like if a baby rabbit got hit with the world's strongest quirk, kicked your ass then sweetly hopped away afterwards like nothing happened. 9/10, he'd be too terrified to touch you, but if he did then he'd make the sweetest soul tie whilst inside of you."

His eyes watered, confusion and adoration filling his face, he wanted to reply, wanted to thank you but quickly got shoved aside by denki.

"MY TURN MY TURN! Let's see what this crazy spark plug thinks about me and how cool and chill I am."

Ochaco tried to reach over and cover your eyes but it was too late.

"Denki kaminari, truly believe he's my soul mate. Sweetest, kindest person I've ever met and definitely doesn't deserve to be the butt of every joke. I want to fuck the shit out of him, suffocate him with my thighs because you just know he eats it like an olympic sport. Want him to break me in every single way possible, electrocuting me until I can't feel my legs then keep destroying me further. Almost as perverted as I am. Think about him every single night as I touch myself. 11/10, want to be his girlfriend, wife, soul mate...."

Suddenly the room was filled with stunned silence, as aizawa kicked the front door shut behind himself, forcing everyone, including yourself, to look right at him.

"Shōta Aizawa, should be the number one hero because of his impressive skills and insatiable combat knowledge. See him as a father. Kind, considerate, thinks his standoffish initial approach keeps him distanced from everyone, but only makes everyone want to discover why he is this way. Perfect husband and father material. 10/10 wish he would adopt me."

His eyes remained half-lidded as he stared at you, turning his quirk on to see if it would help you. It didn't. He rolled his eyes and looked at ochaco who was clinging to your arm.

"Take her to her dorm, I think she's had more than enough of embarrassing herself for one day. " The rest of the class whined in protest as they hadn't had their chance at getting your brutally honest option of them, only for him to snap his eyes and widen them at everyone. They all closed their mouths and looked down, apologising.

Ochaco helped walk you to your dorm, got you into bed and sat on the edge as she played with your hair, helping you drift off to sleep.

"Well, I guess that's one way to tell denki you like him. I don't think you'll ever be living it down though, sorry y/n. I'll tell aizawa everything once you're settled, don't worry." Her laugh echoed through your room, quiet but understanding. She was right, you never lived it down, but it did mean that Denki knew you fancied him, and did mean that you had a letter pushed through the bottom of your door later that night.

'meet me in the kitchen at 2am. Let's see how sturdy that kitchen counter really is ;) D x'