#and OLIVER I MISS YOUR FACE

[ladyeroway]

Well Unhallowed got pretty messed up last night!

We failed to talk down our parapsychologists brother who has mutated into a horrific insectile thrope. Combat went bad almost immediately with the first hit the brother got off would have killed the parapsychologist if he didn't use his reroll (we all get one per session and we all used them!) Ezra got in the way of the thrope to protect his friend.

Going to pop the rest under a readmore cause it is long and I want to talk about Ezra finally getting some closure.

Thropes have insane vitality so we spent multiple rounds doing damage for him to only heal and degenerate into a horrible fleshy creature. Blood acid, a leech tentacle and a horrific Krang like face. It was rough.

Unbeknownst to us in the room the Medium who was watching the door was fighting off 3 of the people who had multiple spirits in them. Because of again some terrible rolls she decided to open a rift in the veil to suck the souls into it. But she couldn't close the rift and got sucked in herself. As the rift got bigger...

The Dhampir failed her roll not to get sucked into the rift. The parapsychologist tried to close it whilst the Undertaker and Ezra managed to take down the brother.

We rushed to the veil to help the Para close it. Then the Para failed his roll to get sucked in. Leaving Ezra to try physically close it with the spectral energy of his hands. Which turned into a stalemate with Ezra's wound penalty. It wasn't getting bigger but he was failing to close it.

Until he heard a voice telling him to let go. It would help. He refused until the voice told him he did forgive him but he was angry that he never visited the girls. It was Oliver and Ezra let go of the veil in shock and was sucked in with the Undertaker.

We awoke in the Land of the Dead, somewhat aware we were not dead but our souls were out of our bodies. We got to see the Tower up close, it is enormous and breaking the laws of physics, with non euclidean houses bending at the bottom, stacked on top of each other. Spirits were here doing day to day tasks. We were almost attacked by a spirit of a man we killed in the first session. Until a man came to our aid, scaring them off telling us he was a Lieutenant of the Sepulchre Guard to the Lords of Death. It was Oliver, the first thing he did was hug Ezra before telling him he looked like shit. The laughter came back to Ezra like Oliver had never left.

Oliver told us that he was here to guide us to the First Lord of Death and Ezra struggled to look him in the eye. Oliver was as charming as was in life and the group noted how different Ezra was with him before giving Oliver and Ezra sometime alone.

Ezra told Oliver how much he missed him. Oliver fired back at that he missed him too but he thought he would have done more for Oliver's family. They needed him. Ezra argued that they needed their father and not him and he could barely look Oliver in the eye, let alone his daughters and wife knowing he should have done more to protect Oliver.

This angered Oliver further telling Ezra it was never his fault. The only one that could take blame was Mandolin. It was split moment decisions akin to fate. Ezra should be the last person to take the blame. He lectured Ezra that he did not give his life willingly but he wanted Ezra to actually live. Not this half life he had now.

He told him how he visited often and saw how much he hurt himself. Barely eating, working himself too much, not sleeping and how the nightmares had got out of control because Ezra gives himself no time to rest and no time to heal. He had given himself no time to mourn and he saw how close Ezra was to giving up. He wanted Ezra to reach out to his family. Their family, he had support there if he would just take it.

They finished their conversation with Oliver asking Ezra to promise to live. To find people in his life, and regain some happiness. It was the one thing he desired that would make his death worth it. Ezra was honest and said he had thought he would let go after he dealt with Mandolin but he promised he wouldn't. He would live and keep on living even with the way he was now. He would reach out to Clara and the girls even if it was hard.

Oliver also revealed that his dying energy that had leaked into Ezra left him with no hands in this realm, like Ezra he had gloves on. But underneath them was nothing because they are in Ezra. Ezra told him about his experience about eating the soul of a spirit. Oliver explained that was not from him but the veins on his chest and neck. It was a spiritual backlash that caused him to be a half-lifer when he killed the body Mandolin was in. Apparently it also had this effect of destroying a soul.

They headed back to the group, Ezra feeling distraught but with much needed closure. He cracked a few jokes with Oliver as they traversed the weird geometry of this land before finding themselves at the entrance of the Tower to meet the First Lord of Death.

So yeah! It was a lot. Ezras promise is in earnest, he won't give up. The shame and grief is still there, it might always be there but Oliver certainly gave him a talking to. He needed to hear it. And once he destroys Mandolin he can try and rebuild his life and keep his promise.

[gildedlead]

Duke: …So, is Two-Face like, B’s ex or something?

Steph: I think it’s more of a situationship? They still seem to have some feelings going on there.

Jason: Yeah right, and get accused of cheating on Selina? I think not. They’ve been dating for as long as I can remember.

Dick: That’s…strange, cause I’m pretty sure he and Clark are married. Big Blue gave him a ring and everything.

Damian: A Kryptonite ring. One that Father keeps in a lead lined safe with the rest of the alien’s bane. Besides, everyone knows Mother’s laid her claim to him already. Only a fool would interfere with such a union.

Cass: Talia and Bruce are about as divorced as two people can be.

Tim: No, you guys are all missing the point. If we want Bruce to have a partner, we need to pick the most profitable option for us. [ pulling up a PowerPoint ] Hear. Me. Out.

—-Later, At the Watchtower-—

Oliver: Bats, why are your kids inviting me over for dinner?

[pucksandpower]

Theories of Relativity

Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary: you don’t need TikTok theories to prove that your relationship is a dream come to life, but it doesn’t hurt when your boyfriend passes all of them with flying colors

The Olive Theory

When you love someone, you have to be willing to make sacrifices and compromises for them (even if those sacrifices are something small like pretending to hate olives just so you can give them to your olive-loving partner instead)

You sit across from Charles at the long dinner table, smiling as he animatedly recounts the race from last weekend. His hands wave through the air, punctuating his story as he describes the final lap battle with Max down to the last corner. You’re only half listening though, too distracted by how handsome he looks in his dinner jacket, his tanned skin glowing in the low light of the restaurant.

As Charles pauses to take a sip of wine, you lean in and whisper, “I wasn’t really watching the race, I only had eyes for you.”

Charles chuckles, his nose crinkling adorably. “Oh really? So you missed all the action then?"

You shrug, trailing a finger down his arm. “What can I say, I find you far more interesting than the other cars going around in circles.”

Charles opens his mouth to respond but is interrupted by a mechanic sitting a little way down from you. “Oi Charles, why do you keep picking all the olives out of your salad?"

You look down, noticing the small pile of olives Charles has stacked onto the edge of his plate.

Charles glances at you, a faint blush rising on his cheeks. “Oh, um, I’m not a huge fan of olives.”

The mechanic frowns in confusion. “But I’ve seen you eat olives before. You always get them on your pizza.”

“I, uh ...” Charles stammers, clearly flustered.

Under the table, you squeeze his hand reassuringly. Charles looks at you and you give him a small nod.

“Well, the truth is,” Charles says, turning back to the mechanic. “I actually love olives. But Y/N loves them even more than I do. So I pick them out of my food to give to her.”

You smile softly at Charles, warmed by his thoughtfulness. The mechanic chuckles and shakes his head. “You two are so cute it’s almost gross.”

Charles just grins and pops an olive into your mouth. “Anything for mon amour.”

You crunch the olive happily, then lean in to give Charles a quick kiss on the lips. “People who say chivalry is dead have simply never met you.”

The conversation moves on, flowing from racing to travel and everything in between. Under the table, your fingers stay intertwined with Charles’ the whole time.

After dinner, you all head outside into the cool night air. Charles’ team members head off towards their own cars, calling out goodbyes.

You snuggle into Charles’ side as you walk towards where his Ferrari is parked. “Thank you for the olives,” you say. “But you really don’t have to deprive yourself on my account.”

Charles wraps his arm around you, pulling you close. “I want to though. I like making you happy.”

You stop next to the car, turning to face him. Running a hand down his chest you say, “You know what would really make me happy right now?"

“Hmm?" Charles murmurs, his eyes drifting down to your lips.

You grin mischievously. “A stop for gelato on the way home.”

Charles laughs and opens the car door for you. “Anything for you, mon cœur.”

The Bird Test

If you say something that could be deemed insignificant and your partner responds with genuine curiosity, that’s a really good sign that your relationship will last a long time

The Brazilian sun beats down as you wander hand-in-hand with Charles along the edges of the Interlagos circuit. It’s the day before qualifying, and Charles brought you out to the track in São Paulo to share the grid walk with you.

You stroll slowly, enjoying a rare private moment together during the hectic race weekend. Charles points out details along the track — the tricky off-camber Turn 3, the sharp left-right complex at Turns 5 and 6, the long full throttle blast down the back straight.

You love seeing him so in his element here, his passion for racing evident in his voice and gestures.

As you round Turn 12, heading down the home straight, a flash of bright blue in the trees catches your eye. Gasping in excitement, you grab Charles’ arm and point.

“Look, a hyacinth macaw!”

Charles follows your gaze to the large, vividly colored parrot perched in the branches. “Wow, that’s amazing! I’ve never seen one outside of a zoo.”

You bounce on your toes, thrilled at the sighting. “Aren’t they gorgeous? That bright blue is unreal. Macaws are pretty rare around here, I can’t believe we spotted one!”

Charles smiles at your obvious delight, then turns back to observe the macaw with curiosity. “What do they eat?" He asks. “Fruit, like other parrots?"

“Yes exactly!” You reply eagerly. “Mostly palm nuts and acai berries. And they need a huge range of territory, something like 80 square kilometers.”

As you chat more facts about the brilliant bird, Charles listens attentively, asking more questions and commenting on its beauty. His genuine interest and engagement makes your heart flutter happily.

Eventually the macaw takes flight, its bright wings flashing blue against the trees as it disappears into the forest.

“Incredible,” Charles murmurs, watching it go. “What an amazing thing to see.”

He turns back to you, eyes shining. “Thank you for pointing it out, I never would have spotted it myself. I love seeing you so excited teaching me about something you’re passionate about.”

You step closer, looping your arms around his neck. “And I love that you always listen and want to know more, even if it’s not about racing.”

Charles wraps his arms around your waist, smiling tenderly. “Of course, your passions are my passions now too. I want to know everything that sparks that beautiful light in your eyes.”

The Orange Peel Theory

A partner’s willingness to perform small acts of service is indicative of a healthy relationship

Early morning sun filters into the kitchen as you sip your coffee, still wearing the oversized Ferrari shirt you slept in. Charles stands at the counter across from you, freshly showered and humming to himself as he browses his phone.

Setting your mug down, you grab an orange from the fruit bowl and start to peel it. Or at least you try. The tough rind puts up a stubborn fight, your nails scraping uselessly against it.

“Ugh, I hate peeling oranges,” you grumble after a minute. “Whose idea was it to make the peel so impossible?"

Charles glances up with a sympathetic smile. “Here, let me.”

He takes the orange from your hands and deftly digs his thumb into the top, effortlessly tearing the peel away in one long curl.

You watch in admiration as he strips the rest of the orange until it’s completely naked and ready to eat.

“Voila,” Charles presents it with a flourish. “One perfectly peeled orange for mon ange.”

“My hero,” you grin. You go to take it from him but Charles playfully keeps it out of reach.

“Ah ah, allow me,” he says. Holding your gaze, he gently pulls apart one glistening segment and brings it to your lips.

Happiness bubbles up in you at this sweet, unexpected gesture. You let Charles pop the orange slice into your mouth, savoring the bright citrus burst.

“Delicious,” you murmur. Charles smiles and leans in to kiss you softly, his thumb brushing a drop of juice from your lower lip.

One by one he continues to peel the segments and feed them to you, interspersing each with tender kisses that taste of orange and love.

You close your eyes blissfully, letting the sensual ritual relax you. Charles takes his time, not rushing. He knows this is your favorite part of the morning, stealing these private moments together before the busy day sweeps you both up.

When the last segment is gone, Charles kisses you again, deeper this time. You loop your arms around his neck, melting against him.

“Have I mentioned how much I love you?” you whisper when you finally separate.

Charles nuzzles your nose with his. “You may have said it once or twice. But I never get tired of hearing it.”

You lean into him contentedly. As always, his thoughtfulness and care warms you from the inside out.

Peeling an orange is such a small act but the meaning behind it speaks volumes. Charles knows your quirks and preferences, and cherishes these little opportunities to make your day brighter.

The little things that mean everything.

You’re still musing dreamily about this when Charles tips your chin up. “Where’d you go just now?” He asks with a curious smile.

You shake your head, focusing back on him. “Just thinking about us. And how perfectly you peel my oranges.”

Charles laughs. “Well I’m glad to be of service. I know how you hate getting orange string stuck under your nails.”

He kisses your fingertips one by one. “Can’t have anything marring these beautiful hands.”

You scrunch your nose at him. “Oh yes, I need to keep my hands soft and dainty in case a prince comes along to propose.”

Charles squawks in protest and tackles you against the counter, fingers digging into your sides to tickle you mercilessly. You dissolve into helpless giggles, swatting him away.

“No no, stop! I take it back!” You gasp.

Charles relents, holding you close and nuzzling into your hair. “Too late, you’re stuck with me now,” he murmurs, kissing your temple.

You snuggle into him contentedly. No fantasy prince could ever compete with the reality of Charles.

The Invisible String Theory

An invisible string connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstance (the string may stretch or tangle but it will never break)

The living room is filled with laughter and happy chatter as you and Charles sit surrounded by both your families. Your wedding is only two days away, and his mother suggested gathering everyone together one night for reminiscing and quality time.

Looking through old photo albums is proving to be hilarious and heartwarming. Baby pictures, school plays, family vacations — memories preserved to embroider the story of your lives before fate brought you together.

Charles smiles wistfully as Lorenzo shows an album from their childhood. “I wish my godfather and father could have met you,” he says softly. “They would have loved you so much.”

You take his hand, leaning your head on his shoulder. His lost loved ones are always close to his heart.

Your mother passes an album to you with a smile. “Oh this one is from our trip to France when you were five! So many cute little Y/N photos.”

You roll your eyes but obligingly open the album, Charles peering over your shoulder. You flip through pictures of your younger self building sandcastles on the beach, wearing a hilariously large sun hat, beaming gappily with missing front teeth.

Charles grins down at you. “Adorable. I can’t wait for our kids to-”

He stops abruptly, staring down at the page. You follow his gaze to a photo of your family in Nice, taken in front of the Le Negresco hotel. And there in the background, almost out of frame — four familiar figures walking down the promenade.

A young Charles holds the hand of a teenage boy you immediately recognize as Jules. On Charles’ other side, his father Hervé carries a toddler Arthur.

Your breath catches sharply. The families fall silent around you. Charles’ fingers tremble slightly as they trace over the image.

“Of course we went to Nice often,” he whispers. “I had no idea ...” His voice trails off, thick with emotion.

Arthur cranes his head to see. “Is that us? With Papa and Jules?" He looks between you and Charles with wide eyes.

“Almost twenty years ago,” Lorenzo marvels. “And your paths were already crossing.”

Pascale wipes at her eyes, grasping Charles’ other hand tightly. “It was meant to be. Some invisible string tying you together even then.”

Charles’ fingers tremble as they trace over the image. For one brief, impossible moment, it feels like you’re all together — you, Charles, Jules, Hervé. Preserved in time, intersecting at the crossroads of past and future.

Though you never met in life, somehow you were all bound in that instant, tied by invisible strings of destiny. Strings that would one day guide you and Charles to each other.

It’s only a photo, yet looking at it you feel Jules and Hervé’s presence like a bittersweet embrace. As if across the years, they’re saying we know you. We love you. We’re so happy for you both.

You stare down at it, this captured moment of impossible synchronicity. A glimpse of the thread that wove itself silently through your lives until the day it finally drew you together.

Charles meets your eyes, his own shimmering with tears. Without words, you know he feels it too. The impossible link stretching back through time. Proof you were always meant to find each other.

He pulls you close, kissing the top of your head. “I believe that with all my heart, we’ve always been connected somehow.”

“Soulmates,” you whisper.

You cling to him, overwhelmed with certainty. Through accidents of time and geography, missteps and milestones, your story was always guiding you here.

Meant for each other. Destined, even then.

[sukirichi]

WHEN I SEE YOU AGAIN | G. SATORU x READER

You’ve been pretending not to see ghosts your whole life in order to blend in perfectly, but you can’t ignore the cute ghost with a bright smile standing in front of your door.

cw. ghost! gojo. fem! reader. minimal fluff. graphic depictions of murder. angst. hurt no comfort. mentions of grief. mentions of being under the influence (alcohol and drugs.) characters with depression. unedited.

notes. wrote a lil something for gojo since it’s been a while since i wrote any jjk fics and i missed it :( also should i open requests again? i miss writing one shots lol

wc. 7k

You met him on the first night of winter.

Eager to get home after a long and tiring day at work, you blow hot air on your freezing palms to keep them warm before stuffing it deep in your coat pockets. The walk home was less than fifteen minutes, and you’ve always refused to buy a car because you enjoyed the journey and wanted to familiarize yourself more with the city. You previously lived in the outskirts, but after a phone call from the main department telling you you were promoted and had to transfer in the city, you found yourself packing up on the weekend and renting a cheap apartment.

Located in the middle of everything – convenience stores, medical facilities, popular bars, and a quaint looking flower shop with a cute florist – you thought your apartment was perfect. It was a little shabby, you had to admit. The plumbing didn’t work well and electricity got cut off at random times in the night that resulted in a headache because you couldn’t send that damn email, but the landlord offered an extremely cheap rent that you couldn’t refuse. Plus, it was only a few minutes walk from your office and your neighbors were peaceful.

Well, most of them anyway.

Your neighbors consisted of mostly old couples who were so silent and desolate that you often forgot they existed, your eyes widening whenever you saw an unfamiliar old lady walking and asking you how your day was before realizing, Oh, she’s Mrs. Oliver, I completely forgot. Save for the married couple who were always throwing pots and pans at each other because darn Ronald couldn’t put the toilet seat back down, your place was placid. The landlord was ecstatic when you saw her poster and inquired for a unit, muttering something about not getting enough tenants to keep the place going because of ‘a traumatic issue.’

You’d really rather not ask what it was.

Besides, you’ve never been curious enough of what the world has to offer, simply because you see things – or rather fragments of people – that you’d rather not see. Ever since you started seeing ghosts at a young age of four, people avoided you like the plague, calling you a ‘freak’ and whatnot. Your family soon moved away to a much smaller place in the city because they couldn’t handle seeing their child who often talked to ghosts and sat in corners alone while laughing by herself be criticized by others. They didn’t believe you, of course, often calling it a ‘lonely child’s imagination.’ They sent you to multiple therapists who always assured you that they would listen to whatever problems you were having to cause you to be this way.

Unfortunately for them, there wasn’t anything wrong with you. You weren’t lonely at all. You saw a dozen ghosts every day who were always ecstatic at finding out you could see them, and they were more than willing to interact. As a child, you always thought ghosts were more interesting than actual people because they had an unlimited amount of time to converse with you, and they have had so many experiences to share with you. 

When you grew older, however, you started to see yourself in other’s eyes, realization dawning on you that on social norms, you are, indeed, a freak.

Determined to fit in more and also sick of being faced with countless counselors who strongly believed you had a traumatic experience when your whole life has been nothing but bland and plain, you started ignoring them. It wasn’t easy at first, though. These ghosts have always kept you company while everyone gave you the side eye without knowing who you really were, and you admit you felt lonely in the beginning and a little guilty when they were convinced you couldn’t see them anymore.

You participated more in school activities and even joined a photography club in high school (you had to quit a month later because ghosts kept appearing on your photos, and you had to burn them in order not to freak anyone out) and with each baby step you took, you started to fit in more. The proud look your parents had on their faces when you had finally become ‘normal’ and even got an award for being an exemplary student was enough to keep you going on this journey, and you ignored the lonely spirits so hard that you eventually started seeing less and less of them.

Until now.

Standing in front of your door was a young man, his back awkwardly bent and long, beautiful fingers fiddling awkwardly with one another. He stood barefoot yet wore a comfy looking blue university hoodie and grey sweatpants, and his silver hair seemed shiny and healthy enough to  not consider him a homeless man who was lost and simply wandering. Tipping your head to the side, you rack your brain to remember if you had any neighbours like him. 

His head snaps in your direction. 

He is definitely not your neighbour. You would have remembered such a cute looking guy.

He had unnaturally ethereal futures, prominent cheekbones becoming more pronounced when you meet his eyes, and you blink to gain control over your body when you realize you’ve been staring too long than what would be considered acceptable. You don’t even deny you’ve been checking him out, although you do ignore the almost puppy-like way his eyes lit up at the sight of you, causing your heart to jump a little. Just a little. You also liked how his hair complimented perfectly with his pale skin – he seemed like an exact embodiment of winter. 

You walk forward, spinning your keys at the end of your pointer finger. Smiling at him politely, you paused in your tracks. He’d been blocking your door. “Hello, is there something I can help you with?”

No matter how cute he was, you wouldn’t hesitate to break his nose if he was a criminal.

His pretty hands come up to his face to cover his mouth falling open, and you take a step back when he does a little jump and starts laughing. “You can see me?”

“Uhm, yes,” you answer. “You’re blocking my door, so yeah, I can very much see you.”

As if realizing just now he stood in the way of you and your comfortable bed, who was calling out to you by now, he mutters a quick apology under his breath before stepping aside, a goofy grin remaining on his face and his childish behavior makes you scoff in amusement. He was still watching you even after you’ve unlocked your door, and you sigh at him. “Is there any reason you’re still standing outside my apartment, or should I call the police?”

Instead of looking worried like you expected him to, his smile only gets bigger. “Actually, I live here, well… I used to.”

You stare at him blankly with a slack expression on your face, watching as his features turn sheepish. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. Looking down on his bare feet, you mumble a curse under your breath when you realize he’s hovering. 

“Not again,” you say to yourself before placing a palm against your forehead. It’s been years since you last saw a ghost, why did you have to see them now out of all times? A new branch is opening up and your superiors have given you the project of making sure the launch goes well, and you didn’t really want a ghost bothering you with your biggest task of all time. You worked hard for this promotion, you didn’t want to take one step forward and two steps back. Glaring at the undeniably attractive ghost who still hovered in your doorway, you decided he wasn’t your problem. 

“Well, goodnight.”

You slam the door on him and trudge towards your bedroom, ignoring his “Wait!” as you unwrap the red scarf around your neck and plop on your bed almost lazily, moaning when your stiff muscles finally relax. The bed was so soft and warm because you’d left the heater on accidentally, and you’re about to be sent to dreamland when a voice beside you speaks up.

“You should take off your makeup before going to bed.”

Opening your eyes and coming face-to-face with the ghost who was resting his chin in both of his hands and laying on your bed, you grab a pillow and throw it at him, and he grins when the object goes past him completely. “Get out of my house, stop bothering me!”

“Technically, darling, this is still my house,” he tells you and starts sitting up before crossing his legs. “The unit was still named after me before you came.”

“Then why wasn’t I informed about that?”

“I was murdered here four years ago,” he deadpans, soft voice flitting into a murmur as he plays with his fingers again, refusing to look at you. “That’s why I never left. Judging from what you said earlier, you can see ghosts, and you know exactly why we’re still here.”

Swallowing a lump in your throat, you stumble over your words. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know and–”

“It’s quite alright,” he shrugs. 

Silence soon joins the two of you; the ghost playing with the ends of your blanket with a far-off look in his face while you study his features, and something tugs at your heart. The reason why ghosts remain here instead of passing on like they were supposed to was because it meant someone was still holding on to them and absolutely refused to let go, or if they had unfinished business that needed to be resolved before they could go in peace. You’ve met ghosts like him who were murdered, and all of them remained with a seething rage and insatiable need for revenge, unable to accept that there wasn’t much they could do in their state. 

As for the one sitting in your ghost, a small smile tugs at the end of his pink lips as he takes in your bedroom, amusement dancing in his eyes at the amount of stuffed animals you had and some framed photos of you as a child. 

“You decorate much better than me, and you’re a lot more organized, too. This place was such a mess back when I was still alive.”

There was an unmissable hint of sadness behind his voice, and you can’t help but ask his name. “I’m Satoru,” he grins, “and for the record, I’ve always been here, just floating through time and space, but not the afterworld yet. For some reason, ever since you arrived, I just appeared back where I left off.”

You nod and take in his words, noticing how he clears his throat and sends a sheepish look your way. “If it’s not too much of a bother, can I ask for your help?”

“What is it?”

He stands up and heads toward your desk, although you supposed it was his since the furniture had already been here before you came. You didn’t think too much about it back then and only felt grateful that you had one less piece of furniture to buy, especially since it was empty. Apparently not, because Satoru keeps digging around through your files with his tongue peeking out his lips, and you vaguely recall that ghosts are able to touch things after feeding off of energy from living beings.

Letting out an ‘aha!’ when his hand finally lands on what he’s looking for, he tenderly places a photo on your outstretched palm with a shy smile. Inside the photo was a beautiful man, probably in his mid twenties, his hair up in a messy bun as he grinned at the camera. Beside him, Satoru’s eyes are closed with his head thrown back in laughter, relishing the feeling of that warm sunny day, and you unconsciously frown at it.

“His name’s Suguru,” he began, his eyes turning glossy at the sight of the polaroid. “He was my best friend before I died.”

Pursing your lips and feeling the tension thicken the room, you ask him, “Why are you telling me this?”

“He’s the reason why I can’t go,” he admits, shoulders dropping while his eyes remain trained on her. “He blames himself for everything and refuses to accept that I’m gone, that’s why I’m still here.”

You remain silent and take a deep breath, your head pounding at the situation. It was a beautiful first night of winter, the perfect weather for you to do your work from home while nestling a cup of hot cocoa in your hands, yet it seems your plans changed and you have to help this ghost out. A part of you wants to reach out and embrace him in a hug, but you know you’ll only end up stumbling on your own feet and clearly, Satoru wants to move on to the next chapter of his journey.

“Can you please tell him I’m okay now?”

When he looks at you like that, shoulders hanging low and an almost shy smile decorating his innocent features, it’s hard to say no.

“I will.”

Through the past few weeks since you’ve met Satoru, your life seemed to light up like a Christmas tree without you noticing. He was a funny guy and often pulled pranks on you, like slamming the cabinets open and closed or leaving your window open in the middle of the night, laughing when you shout at him as your teeth chatter and you slam your windows shut. 

“I could have died from the cold, you idiot!”

He keeps laughing as if he didn’t nearly kill you with hypothermia, “Well, if you die, I guess we’ll be together then,” and even has the audacity to wiggle his eyebrows. You scowl at him and pull your jacket closer to your body, asking what he wants from you because he never goes this far to demand for your attention unless he wants something from you.

“What do you want this time?”

“I wanted to finish that series we were watching the other day,” he pouts rather childishly, “You always tell me not to watch it without you.”

On a particular weekend where you felt like your brains were about to explode from exhaustion due to your work piling up, you refused to wake up until noon, and you felt thankful Satoru knew how tired you were and let you have your much needed rest. When you woke up, a bowl of cereal was already waiting for you in your kitchen island, meaning the reason you felt tired even after that long slumber was because he fed off your energy to give you food.

Feeling thankful for the simple, sweet action, you munched on it happily. It wasn’t anything special and the corn flakes had gone too crusty for your liking, but Satoru’s happiness at you appreciating what he prepared was worth it. After breakfast, you dumped the bowl into the sink and planned to wash it later, opting to flick through Netflix for a good show. Satoru had excitedly pointed at one title that he said he’s always wanted to watch, and the two of you became hooked on it soon enough. Lunch and dinner were both forgotten as you two sat beside each other, your leg against his. Although you couldn’t exactly feel him, his presence was warm.

You and Satoru had been so immersed in the show and unexpected turn of events that time flew by and it was already half past three. He was the first to notice and he jumped from his seat, his hands waving worriedly in a comical manner. “I’m so sorry I made you skip your meals! Aren’t you hungry, you should have some pizza delivered or something.”

Glancing at the clock, you hummed when you realized it was indeed late. You weren’t feeling hungry since you were mostly abeyant, and nothing was open to deliver food around this time anyway. “It’s okay,” you shrug, “I’m not really hungry, and that show is addicting. Oh, and don’t watch it without me! I know you always go ahead when I’m not home!”

Satoru huffs and plops down next to you dramatically, rolling his eyes and taunting you. “Then don’t go to work, Little Miss Manager.”

You poke your finger with his forehead but it only passes through and he laughs, “I need money to survive, idiot.”

“Whatever,” he dismisses and points to your bedroom. “You’ve still got to edit your final draft, so you have to wake up early. Go to bed, don’t worry about the dish, I’ll handle it.”

“Liar, you’ll only feed from my energy so you can play video games!”

“Hey, you can’t blame me!” He counters back as he proceeds to your sink and pumps out soap to the sponge, “You were the one who bought me that console!”

“Only because you kept whining to me how much you wanted it,” you retorted before yawning, and his eyes softened at the sight of you. He rarely gets to see you dressed so comfortably in a loose shirt, cardigan and pajama pants since you were such a busy woman whose fashion sense monotonously consisted of pearl white button-up blouses and knee-length pencil skirts. Prudish and preppy, he thought, but it suits you just fine.  

“You should sleep now,” he reminds you with a nod of his head back to your bedroom, and you obey, simply because your eyes were sore and tired from binge watching. You’re in the process of cocooning yourself under the covers when he calls out in a sing-song voice, “Thank you for the console, by the way. I knew you couldn’t resist me.”

“Shut up!” You scream, and his rambunctious laugh was the last thing you heard before your body wholeheartedly welcomed sleep. 

You’ve been thinking about that day ever since, the moment replaying over and over again in your head, successfully distracting you from focusing on your work. Even your co-workers have noticed that you’re lusterlacking lately, but how could you focus on anything else when you had a charming yet lonely ghost who was waiting for you at home?

For days on end, you can only think about the cheerful and carefree sound of his laugh as if he had so much happiness in his lithe body that he couldn’t contain. Your heart always got tugged in its heartstrings whenever you had trouble falling asleep and he sat beside you in your bed, singing you lullabies and caressing your cheek. You started to feel him now – the gush of air in your skin meant he was pressing onto you, and the more you got attached to him, the more you got confused with your feelings.

He never told you how he was murdered and you never asked, figuring it would be too sensitive for him, and your hands balled into fists each time you remembered he was dead. Satoru is such a precious person who only has too much love to give, and it was completely unfair and outrageous that his life was taken away from him in a single flash. You’ve done your research at work, and only a few articles came up regarding his death. The case remains a mystery and still unsolved until it was completely closed due to lack of leads or suspects, but the police force highly suspected someone had broken in and committed homicide without theft, since not a single belonging of him got touched. They concluded that the murderer was drunk and lost, because he was a well-loved person in their campus, and they couldn’t find anyone who could possibly harbor abhorrence for the sweet boy.

But most of all, a part of you wants him to stay. He frequently asks you if you’ve talked to Suguru, and you always denied it, making up an excuse about how he was hard to find because he graduated years ago. ‘He’s hard to find,’ you would tell him one day, and ‘He doesn’t have social media,’ the next. Even though he told you he majored in Forensics, you couldn’t find anyone in the city. 

It’s a half lie. You never found Suguru, because you never looked for him in the first place.

You know it’s selfish of you to be this way, because you know Satoru wants to move on. He doesn’t say anything about it and keeps laughing instead, but sometimes when he thinks you’re too immersed in your work to notice him, you look at him. Being around you only reminds him of what he no longer has, and one look at him has you knowing he was someone who loved life. Satoru loved to travel with his friends, and he still had so many dreams left unfulfilled that made him feel empty yet desperate to be in the afterworld.

However, it is hard for you to let him go. 

No matter how much you try to fit in, deep inside, you know you will always be too different from the rest. You still struggled with socializing and didn’t have a single friend yet a hundred acquaintances, and you never realized how lonely you were until he came. His smile lit up the whole room and his laugh was melodious, and you don’t think you’ve ever met anyone who cared so much for you. He liked to play games and pull pranks on you quite often, but underneath all that lies a kind heart.

Satoru knows exactly when his jokes go too far and apologizes right away, promising not to do something to upset you again and always doing something entirely new to cheer you up. On nights where you’re feeling absolutely drained or you carried home your anger at your co-workers, you go to sleep without taking off your makeup. When you wake, there’s used wipes in the bin, the hovering boy in your apartment proud of his work. Sometimes you forget to cover yourself in blankets too, plopping on top of the sheets almost lifelessly. It’s in those times that he shows how much he cares for you, and you soon wake up feeling warm surrounded by heavy blankets and freshly cooked breakfast.

As much as you didn’t want to admit it, you were falling for him. It made interacting with him difficult, because you knew you had to let him go, yet you couldn’t.

He watches you carefully and gauges your reaction, waiting to see if you’ll finish the series with him or not. It’s a Wednesday night, or more accurately an early morning on Thursday and the launch happens in less than a week. Logically, it is much better to go back to sleep and refuse, but he is rocking his weight on his heels back and forth, and you realize perhaps he has been lonely since his death too.

“Fine,” you agree, and now he’s bouncing excitedly next to you on your couch as he keeps pressing buttons in your remote.

“You’re the best, you know that?” 

You only hum in response, and Satoru soon becomes lost in the show. Your eyes aren’t focused on the screen – on him rather. Placed on top of your fist lies your cheek as you study his side profile, trying to memorize the slope of his nose and the snow-white hair that keeps falling onto his eyes that makes him flip it to the side every now and then to watch the show. His right leg keeps bouncing up and down, a habit he had when he was anxiously anticipating something, and then stopping before his left leg went bouncing instead, meaning he didn’t like the situation.

Tearing your eyes away from him, you smile sadly when you realize his favorite character had been betrayed. “Did you see that? That freaking woman, he only loved her and she snitched him out like that?!”

Shrugging one shoulder and feeling your eyes become droopy, you reply, “Well, he’s a grave robber, Satoru, he was only nice to her because he liked her. She had every right to mislead him.”

“I don’t understand, but okay,” he relents and leans back, eyes closing before he intertwines his hands behind his neck and murmurs, “I hated the ending.”

“Not everyone gets happy endings,” you add grimly, watching the muscles underneath his hoodie flex at your comment. The two of you remain silent for a few minutes, and plucking up the courage, you breathe in sharply before slowly lowering yourself until your head is on his shoulder. 

You keep yourself still in order not to fall, and your eyes remain fixated on his hand, silently yearning to be able to touch him. If he was alive, would his skin be as warm as his presence? His hand flexes and trails from his lap until it’s beside yours, and you hear him swallow audibly before locking your fingers with his.

A tear falls down your face. You could feel him. 

Satoru hums a familiar tune, and you chuckle happily when you recognize it’s the song he always sings to you to make you sleep, his fingers rubbing soothing circles on your knuckles.

His other hand tilts your chin upwards until you’re looking directly at his eyes. You hold in your breath, his lips only a centimeter away from yours. If you lean forward, you could kiss him… but you don’t. 

“Why are you crying?”

Because I don’t want you to go.

“Nothing,” you lie and offer a forced smile which he notices, but doesn’t comment about it. “I just feel happy.”

He nods slowly before leaning forward, and he gets so close that you can faintly see his freckles that dot across his cheeks lovingly, and your eyes flutter shut when his lips press against yours. Satoru sighs as if he’s been waiting too long to do that, and he is pushing against you so softly, so tenderly, that it almost fits the same atmosphere your heart creates. He is soft in everything he does, from his innocent features and smile that puts the stars to shame, to how he holds you and caresses you. His hand trails from your neck to pull you closer, and you moan when his tongue peeks out and playfully coaxes yours out to play. Tears are streaming down your face when you kiss him back slowly, tongues moving in sync as they danced harmoniously instead of battling each other for dominance. Caressing your face that fits perfectly in his hand, he brushes away your tears with the pad of his thumbs. 

A moment passes before you two are breathing heavily with your foreheads pressed against each other, and the silence is broken when he speaks, his voice coming out raspy and out of breath. 

“Suguru… has been struggling long before I died.”

“What?”

“My best friend… he got into a rough patch. Had troubles with his parents, went down the wrong path, and met dangerous people. I’d heard rumors he was going around skipping class and talking to people I’ve never seen before, but I chose to ignore it. Suguru would’ve told me everything once he was ready. And I was stupid, you know? I saw it. I saw how he stopped smiling, how he’d lost weight. How his eyes no longer looked happy,” Satoru’s hands trembled, the blue of his eyes hauntingly dark. “One night, I overheard him talking to someone on the phone. I’ve never heard him that angry, and I got worried. I wanted to stop him from whatever he’ll end up doing so I invited him over but… Next thing I know, he came over here, drunk and high, and stabbed me until I bled to death.”

You gasp and shudder as you imagine the scene, Satoru lying on his bed as he waited anxiously for his friend. You see him smiling at Suguru excitedly because he’d actually come, but fear replaces it when his friend succumbs to the madness. The image of Satoru drowning in his own pool of blood made you clench your jaw.

“There had to be evidence left.”

Satoru smiles sadly as if to tell you it doesn’t bother him anymore, but you can’t shake it off. How can a man be so blinded in his own misery that he could take his own best friend’s life? “He was a forensics major; he knew how to cover up his crime.”

A pregnant pause fills the room as you furrow your brows, the sound of the cold wind tapping against your windows as you rack your head to make a decision. Now that you knew the truth, you had to tell the police about it, but how would they believe you if there was no evidence found? And if the case was cleared, and Suguru had finally moved on, that means...

“You can ask me to stay.”

“What?” You breathe out, looking at his eyes with sadness pooling in them. He’s smiling, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You pull away from him completely until he’s at an arm’s length away. He doesn’t look hurt by your action but he sighs, reaching out for you and pausing with his hand mid-air when you raise a palm to stop him.

He must’ve known you’re in love with him. Just as he also knows that once he leaves, you’ll be hurt, and he doesn’t want you to feel that.

You shake your head and stand up harshly. The tears now uncontrollable as you slam your bedroom door to his face. You’re slightly thankful he doesn’t come after you and leaves you alone instead. You needed time. Time to think, time to put his needs over yours - time to forget him. Rummaging through the documents on your desk, you keep looking for it until the polaroid is clutched between your fingers, and you silently place it in your handbag.

Tomorrow, you would set things straight.

Suguru Geto was a hard man to find. He’d fled from the spotlight as one of the  best students of his university after Satoru Gojo’s death. The image of his best friend, who was always in high spirits and laughed without a care in the world, covered in his own blood was a sight that scarred him for the rest of her life. 

But there was one more person who hadn’t moved on from that night.

Ieri Shoko, the woman who ran first at the hospital when Satoru’s parents were away for a business trip. She didn’t want to believe it at first. Satoru had always seemed so full of life, so in love with what the world had to offer. He’d been so young – it just couldn’t be. They had to be lying, right?

But when she finally saw her friend’s bloodied corpse on that cold hospital bed, she’d fallen apart.

She went to sleep crying to herself every night, regretting and blaming everything on herself. Her instinct told her it was Suguru who had done this to him. She barged into his dorm room, screaming and flailing, punching the taller man and effectively breaking his nose as she dragged him down by the collar. Suguru was already questioned by the police after Satoru’s murder, but his alibi of being in a bar was factual, and they had proven his innocence after checking surveillance cameras. He was only gone for a few minutes before he appeared on the dance floor all over again, and they believed him when he said he only disappeared to go to the restroom.

Presumably to wash the blood off his hands.

Shoko didn’t believe it. “Tell me you didn’t kill him, tell me!”

Suguru growls, frustrated at her for even accusing him of doing such a horrendous thing, and he feigns his innocence as he pries her hands away from his collar. “I didn’t do it, Ieri, I was at a bar!”

“Bullshit!” She screams, slamming a vase onto the floor and dropping down to the floor as sobs wrecked through her body. “I smelled your perfume the moment I walked in. I know it was you…”

His eyes widened, but he remained silent because she had always been smart and too observant for her own good. He shrugs his collar back into place and goes back to his bedroom, but not before darkly muttering, “I didn’t do it, I didn’t kill him…”

Four years later, and you’re sitting in front of Officer Kento, an intimidating man with empty eyes staring at you hardly, his face devoid of any emotion. He’d been the same officer who worked on Satoru’s case before it was closed. “And why should I believe you? Ghosts don’t exist.”

You snap your head up from your lap to him and scowl, “I just want to help you here, Officer.  You need to re-open this case.”

He abruptly stands up and slams his palm harshly against the desk, his eyes filled with rage as he stares down at you. “You don’t think I haven’t tried before?!”

“Well then, try harder!” You fumed, standing up. “If you don’t resolve this case, he’s going to remain here forever, lost and nowhere to go. Do you really want him to suffer even after his death?”

“How am I supposed to believe everything you say is true?”

Plucking out their polaroid from your bag and shoving it to his chest, you watch as he crumbles piece by piece. He holds the photo tentatively before cradling it to his chest, and what you presumed was a cold-hearted man was actually just a lost person.

“I don’t know why you closed that case, but it isn’t over. He’s still here, and he needs our help.”

You turn away from him to give him peace and wrap your fingers around the doorknob, “Suguru Geto is out there walking freely. You can still make a difference, Sir. It’s not too late.”

Happiness was a concept you believed to be fleeting.

One moment, you are giggling with the ghosts who tell you funny stories and whisper mischievously in your ear the correct answers in your pre-school days, and the next moment you are pressing a hand against your car windows, watching as the only people you considered friends are witnessing you leave without a goodbye.

That feeling comes back again and again, from little moments such as eating lunch with your high school friends and making empty promises to keep in touch after graduation, giggling when a cute boy comes by and asks for your number. But like any other moment in your life where you feel happy, that feeling dissipates as fast as it came.

The bell attached to the door chimes to signal a customer, and the cute florist you met on the first day you moved to this city, Choso, looks up from the pot he’s currently watering. Bowing politely, he sends a pleased smile upon the sight of you.

You tuck a stray hair behind your ear and return the smile back, his musky perfume blending in well with the sweet aroma of flowers as he stops in front of you. “Hi, I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

“I’m sorry,” you apologize sheepishly, “Our latest branch just opened downtown, so I was a bit busy with that.”

“Oh, you work for that bookshop everyone’s been talking about non-stop?” You nod and laugh at his question, proud of yourself that the new opening had been successful. The state campus was only three bus rides away, and with the extensive amount of books your bookstore offered, along with its affordable prices, everyone’s been talking about it. “I’m proud of you, it was a success,” he commends, rubbing his dirties hands on his apron before opening the door for you. What can I get you?”

Personally, you thought Choso was a bit too rugged to be working in a floral shop. He always seemed to carry himself in such an awkward manner and had an authoritative yet welcoming aura to him, his shy smiles the highlights of your day. “I want to give it to my friend. Today’s their special day.”

“I see,” Choso’s eyes are already scanning the plethora of flowers he has in his shop, his brows pinching together in thought. “Can you tell me a little bit about them? It’d help to make their bouquet more personal.”

A smile makes its way to your face. “They’re… bright, carefree, innocent, and pure. They almost seem like an angel, if you ask me. I was also thinking about something that represents young love, and… new beginnings?”

You have absolutely no idea what you’re saying. The words coming out of your mouth are beyond your control. You’re sure you’re making a fool out of yourself, but Choso nods understandingly, frows burrowed before he snaps his fingers and turns to you. “White roses describe all of those, but if you want, I can whip up more flowers for you.”

He makes a move to get his scissors and starts listing off flowers with the same meanings, but you run up to him and not so accidentally wrap your hands around his to get him to stop. His eyes widen at your close proximity. You clear your throat and take a step backward, fighting the urge to smile when his cheeks are dusted a fine pink. “White roses itself are fine, thank you.”

He gulps and heads towards the back door, coming out later with a bouquet of white roses. You reach for your wallet before his arm wraps around your wris, his smile wobbly and hesitant. “It’s on the house. You can pay me back with a cup of coffee next time.”

Eyebrows rising at his smoothness, you gratefully accept the flowers and cradle it near to your chest. “A cup of coffee it is.”

Choso chuckles shyly and ducks his head, and you leave the shop with a wave of your hand before walking further and further. Your surroundings shift from the high-rise building and busy streets to a hill covered in trees sprawled out everywhere, flowers blooming and withering at every corner. Sitting down on the soil with your legs crossed, you place the bouquet in front of his headstone, his framed polaroid with Suguru standing in front of you. 

It’s been exactly seven days since you last saw Satoru.

After countless sleepless nights of phone calls from Officer Kento, he’d finally cracked the case with your help. Suguru Geto was found. He’d confessed to all his crimes, his handsome face weary yet relieved. It seemed he’d never once forgotten about that night when he betrayed his friend, and just before he was ushered behind bars, he turned to you. You wished you felt anger towards him for what he did, but there was only sadness. Only regret in his eyes. He looked so tired, so hopeless.

“Thank you,” he said softly, “Thank you for finding me.”

A nod was all you could give. Suguru felt so familiar, yet so strange. You’ve heard tons of stories about him from Satoru, all about their happiest moments together. He’d been his closest friend, the one he shared so many dreams with, and the one who knew him the most. Maybe he knew Satoru wouldn’t fight back once his demons consumed him. Maybe when Suguru was holding his friend’s bloodied hand in the night, he knew – Satoru was never mad at him. He only wanted to save his friend. Maybe he knew Satoru wasn’t completely dead yet, not when he lived in everyone’s heart, and most especially yours.

That night when you returned home, the apartment felt colder than ever. Normally, it would mean a ghost lingered. But there was no longer the sound of Satoru’s humming, and the dishes were left half-washed in your sink. And for the first time in your life, you hated your eyes and how it gave you the ability to see the traces he left behind. 

Because you wished you had enough time to say goodbye. You wish you had told him everything, but the thought of being another tether to the living realm weighed down on you. You couldn’t do that to him. He had to go. For Satoru to truly move into the next life, you had to close your heart and forget him. Just as Suguru’s forgiven himself, and just as Shoko’s accepted her friend’s death - you too had to say goodbye. 

Tears clouded your vision.

The white remnants of his soul sparkled in your apartment. For the last time, you watched as the blue of his hoodie finally disappeared, his hands scrubbing your dishes away fading into nothingness. The plate drops and breaks. Satoru stood, his legs vanishing bit by bit as he saw the running water through his hands. He’d wanted to return your apartment to the way it was before he’d met you, but he knew – his time was running out. He didn’t have energy left to turn everything off.

The water floods your apartment. The new series he’d dearly loved still plays on the TV. 

But he was here – hugged by the earth and decorated with flowers, smiling at you from far away even when you could no longer see him. Placing the bouquet of white roses down at his grave, you smiled at the photo they’d taken months before he died. He still looked just as beautiful – all wide smiles, kind eyes, and soft hands.

To you, he was still alive in your heart.

“I’ll see you around, Satoru.”

[honeykaes]

futile cure

mara-struck!jing yuan x reader II 4.5k

warning: smut, 18+ content, minors do not interact, afab!reader with no pronouns, heavy angst, multiple major character deaths, can be read as yandere, monsterfucking, handjob, blowjob, deep throating, creampie, rough sex, info might be wrong because i haven’t completed 2.4 story quest yet, unedited

synopsis: with jing yuan’s blessing, you left the xianzhou’s luofu to join the astral express crew and follow the trailblaze. one hundred years later, the newly appointed general, yanqing reached out to you in desperation. Your former boyfriend is now mara-stricken

The air around the Express was lively as folks chimed with champagne, laughter, and music. Another world was saved, and another Stellaron crisis was averted. 

You sat at a table with two others who had been on the Express for the longest time, Dan Heng, the incarnation of the once-feared Dan Feng, and the living Stellaron himself, Caelus.

The three of you were focused on the 3 young crew members that recently joined, bickering and teasing one another in the corner of the train car. The corner’s of Dan Heng’s lips curved up, admiring the young group. His olive eyes drifted down to his cup, swishing the liquid side to side in thought.

“Y’know they’re bickering the same way you and March used to,” Dan Heng murmured. Caelus chuckled, leaning his elbow against the table. He rested his hand against his cheek in amusement.

“Kinda weird, we're the old ones now. Does that make me Mr. Yang and you Miss Himeko?” Caelus joked. You rolled your eyes at his response.

“Yeah, you wish. You still act as goofy and immature as ever, Caelus,” you retorted. Dan Heng sighed, looking off at the group of young travelers again.

“...I miss them. Miss Himeko, Mr. Yang, March…” he trailed off. The three of you remained silent as music played out, along with whatever the other group was talking about. Seeing them so happy after completing their second mission brought nostalgia. It seemed just yesterday that you all were in their positions.

Your gaze softened, looking at Pom Pom reprimanding them for being too loud. 

”I do too. Sometimes I wish all lifeforms had the same lifespan.” you murmured, looking at your own reflection in your drink. Caelus' face momentarily lit up, as an idea popped into the eccentric's head.

“Y'know what. Why don’t we go back to one of the worlds we used to like old times! Penacony! Jarilo-IV! Oh! Even your hometowns in Xianzhou Alliance’s Luofu!” Caelus suggested. Your heart churned hearing him say the Luofu. It had been decades since the crisis there where you had left to join the Astral Express, leaving your former boyfriend behind with his blessing.

You could still remember his soft gaze and sad smile, holding his hand with your own:

“The heart of a gentleman cares not about his own selfish desires, but of all that it encompasses from his breadth of heart.”

You hadn’t seen Jing Yuan in ages. You had heard he had retired and his apprentice—now grown—took the mantle of his position but you were too busy saving a world to attend the ceremony.

”...Personally, I prefer not to. However, (Y/n), I think it might be beneficial for you. Catch up on your old friends and see him again might do you some good. Although we are trailblazers, some of us with homes can get homesick. These opportunities are rare,” Dan Heng suggested.

Caelus quickly grabbed his drink, shooting it back and slamming it back down to the table. 

”Exactly! So, are we in agreement to go to the Luofu?” Caelus murmured, nudging you. You opened your mouth to retort to the drunken human stellaron but your phone buzzed in your back pocket. Your elbow nudged his stomach as he groaned before you lifted your phone up to see the message.

Your eyes widened, lips parted seeing the message on your phone. It was from Yanqing. You hadn’t spoken to him in years.

As the general, he rarely reached out to you. Even prior to his promotion, you could tell he held some animosity towards you for choosing the path of the Trailblaze and leaving his master, Jing Yuan. 

You couldn’t blame the child, just bore his unapproving gaze with a sad smile.

”Please come to the Luofu when you can. It’s important and I need your help. Only you can help him.”

Your heart sank as your grip on your device tightened. Out of all scenarios, there was one you could think of that Yanqing would bite his pride and reach out to you. But part of you didn’t want to believe it. It would make it real.

”What are you so focused on all of a sudden?” Caelus murmured, looking over your shoulder before getting quiet. You pulled your phone back and placed it on the table. Caelus peered at you with sympathetic eyes as Dan Heng’s narrowed in confusion.

“(Y/n)?” he asked, confused about your sudden somber and worried expression. You get up from your seat, the joy of the celebration completely gone leaving nothing but fear, longing, regret, and worry.

”Pom Pom,” you called out. The group of young travelers looked at you, noticing the change of your tone.  The small conductor turned to you, leaning his head to the side in confusion.

“Yes, Mx (Y/n)?”

“Please set a course to head to the Xianzhou's Luofu.”

Docking at the Luofu ship you could feel your heart beating a mile per minute. You felt light-hearted, stomach churning from the amount of anxiety bubbling throughout your body. Yanqing would only reach out to you for something serious.

Had something happened to him? He seemed fine when you last visited, but that was decades ago…

”Jing Yuan…” you muttered, looking down on the ground. Dan Heng had convinced the group to stay on the Express for the time being. The boys you had known for so long knew you wanted to handle this alone. You’d have to thank him later.

Disembarking alone onto the ship, you could barely focus on the hustle and bustle of the square. Your pace was fast, gaze scanning and looking for someone familiar.

You finally focused on the tall young man with arms. His hair was long and tight in a low ponytail. When he opened his eyes, the familiar amber greeted you back. Your eyes softened as you approached him.

“Yanqing! you grew up. Oh! Wait, I guess I should call you General Yanqing now,” you chuckled awkwardly. Yanqing forced a smile, his brow furrowed from stress. You could see the bags under his eyes, from countless restless nights. Whatever this was, it was truly getting to the newly appointed general. 

“Yanqing, what’s wrong…” you asked. The Cloud Knights adjacent to him looked to the General as he sighed.

”Let’s speak in my office, away from noisy ears and gazes,” he replied. You were caught off guard, by how deep his voice was. He had changed so much that the young apprentice who used to always come to you about stories of Jing Yuan.

As the two of you reached his office, you noticed a woman sitting on his desk. Your eyes narrowed trying to pinpoint where you recognized her, before a small smile appeared on your face.

”Yunli? Is that you?” you asked. Her eyes lit up as she gave you a polite smile..

 “(Y/n), it’s nice to see you. I hope this blockhead hasn’t been too rude to you,” she replied. Yanqing grunted at her response.

”Not the time, Yunli!: he barked. She rolled her eyes, unamused at the blond.

”I don’t care!” she seethed. “The idiot is still prideful but I was hoping he, at least, bit his pride and contacted you.”

She strummed her hand along the wooden desk in irritation. You could see a silver band on her finger. Once again, it seems you missed a lot in your time Trailblazing. You turned to look at Yanqing once more.

“Yanqing, what’s going on?” you asked again. Yanqing massaged his brow, lips parting as he tried to find the right words.

”Master, he…” he struggled. “You know about Jingliu, his master, right?” 

Your eyebrow furrowed. You could recall his somber face as he told you stories about her. She was an accomplished warrior who was a part of the High Cloud Quintet. Dan Feng's sin led him to his next incarnation, Baiheng died, a newly immortal Yingxing became the barely quelled mara-stricken Stelleron Hunter Blade, and Jingliu got mara-struck as well and went mad…

Leaving Jing Yuan by himself. 

But it was not as though you could judge, you ended up leaving him too.

”Yes…”

”...Jing Yuan is mara-struck.”

Time seemed to pause as those words continued to ring out. Mara-struck? Mara-struck? Haha no. He couldn’t…could he really? This is what you feared when you got that message from Yanqing.

”What do you mean by that,” you whispered, struggling to process the information. Yanqing looked at Yunli and sighed.

“When Jing Yuan retired, it was because the mara was getting to him and affecting his cognitive abilities,” he responded. “To not cause panic with the public, I and a few others said he had retired before I was promoted as the new General.”

You balled your fists, nails digging into the flesh of your palms.

”...He had been suffering for that long and you didn’t tell me Yanqing!” you out. Yanqing tightened his jaw, Adam's Apple bobbing as he tried quelling his dry throat in shame.

“You were so busy going off and traveling! I didn’t think you cared or had the time to care!” he shouted back.

”You should have told me! I would have come back to the Luofu for him!” you barked back. Yanqing’s nostrils flared as he took a step forward.

”Yet you still left the Luofu despite Master!” he shouted back. The two of you stared each other down. Your chests were heaving, ready to yell, shout, and bicker; whatever insult and claims that came next but neither one retorted. Soon, the anger in both of your eyes subsided back into pain and shame. Both of your gazes shifted away.

”...Where is he” you whispered, eyes fluttering to stop any tears threatening to drip down.

”.Held in a secure solitary confinement. The knights I have patrolling that area have said he has been getting more aggressive. We don’t think we have much time before he tries to escape,” Yanqing admitted.

It was beginning to get harder to bat away the tears as you shook your head at the new information. You always thought you would greet Jing Yuan with that lazy smile of his again. Not…a monster, an abomination of Yaoshi’s. 

”.What do you want me to do then?” you asked. Yanqing paused as Yunli sighed and got up from her seat, walking next to him. 

”Those soldiers have heard him call your name at night. For some reason, your name has a soothing effect on him. Makes him…almost normal again. As normal as you can get being mara-struck, I guess,” Yunli revealed.

Her hands weaved with Yanqing who struggled to come up with words. Yunli clicked her tongue gazing at him before turning back to you.

”.Yanqing, thought it was best for you to come. As a last effort to try to quell the mara within him. If this doesn’t work, he will be forced to subdue his master to protect the Luofu and Xianzhou Alliance,” she murmured. Yanqing's eyes closed at Yunli’s blunt words. 

You looked down on the ground. 

Jing Yuan. Jing Yuan who always pulled you back in bed, lazily cuddling with you whenever it was time for you two to get up. Jing Yuan who would tease you with Tanghulu, stealing the last fruit without you realizing it. Jing Yuan who got you to hand the sparrows that seemingly always loved to land on him. 

Jing Yuan whose lips dragged across your ear, whispering how much he admired you.

Jing Yuan who was the first person to tell you they loved you.

“Mx (Y/n)?” Yunli called out. You snapped out of your thoughts, quickly wiping away the tears that managed to spill out.

“Yes! Sorry, Yunli. Continue…. “ you replied. Although Yunli’s mouth opened to respond the next words were not heard but Yanqing

”Will you go and see him, please…” Yanqing begged in a broken whisper. You took a deep breath, closing your eyes.

”Yes, but with stipulations…”

Out of the places of the Luofu, you had explored and aventured, this was the first place you had never gone.

The secret unit had over five levels of security clearance and four levels underground. There was specialized personal guarding the only entry point. You and Yanqing walked in silence until you finally reached the final floor, where there was a single cell.

In the corner, Jing Yuan curled himself into a ball on the bed. His hair was wild and unkempt, but pieces of glowing ginkgo leaves seemed to be growing from it.

Yaoshi’s curse was claiming another.

Yanqing looked at you, eyes worried.

”Are you sure about this…” he murmured. You try to give him an encouraging smile to subside his fears.

”I’m positive…” you murmured.

Yanqing silently nodded as he opened the door to the former general’s cell. Jing Yuan didn’t move or react. You walked into the cell before the door was shut behind you.

”12 hrs. Remember, no one is allowed in here until then. Okay?” you called out behind the iron bars. Yanqing hesitated but nodded.

“Knights, clear out this level and guard the one before it,” Yanqing yelled out. 

“Yes, General!” they all shouted in unison. The Cloud Knights in the area stood rigid and saluted before making their way up the stairs with him, leaving you and Jing Yuan alone.

You turned to him as he slowly uncurled himself, laying on his bed. His head had leaned against the concrete wall, a collar on his neck, wrist, and ankles. 

You had heard in some cases, Luofu technology for high-risk prisoners would include these mechanics to induce an electrical shock but knowing Jing Yuan and his extreme power, it probably didn’t work on him.

His eyes finally met yours, narrowed and calculative—not the lazily warm way he used to. The biggest shock was how red they were, like freshly spilled blood than the warm golden light of the sun they used to be.

“You, why do you seem familiar? Who are you,” he grunted. You forced yourself to smile, gaze softening.

“Jing Yuan. It’s me. I know it’s been awhile. My hair might’ve changed a bit, but it’s me…” you whispered. You reached your hand and placed it on his cheek. As he recoiled back about to plant a counter attack on you, you could see him pause. He cautiously leaned back into your touch, eyes gazing up in your searching.

”...(Y/n)? You stayed. You didn’t leave after all!” he murmured. You could feel your heart shattered, as he grinned, wrapping his arms around you. His head leaned into the nape of your neck. 

”I’m so happy you decided to stay after all. I didn’t want to be selfish and prevent your dream from seeing other worlds in an attempt to find a solution to Yaoshi’s curse…” he whispered, hugging you tighter. “But I wanted nothing more for you to just be by my side…”

He leaned away, eyes now an orange hue, mind, and body fighting against the mara in his system. He leaned away, grabbing your waist. His once usual lazy grin on his pale face.

”Marry me…”

”Jing Yuan...”

”Marry me…please. I’ll find you the best ring I can tomorrow, so forgive me for being so forward. I want to spend these centuries with you, and you being here in front of my eyes proves we are meant to be with each other,” he murmured.

You couldn’t stop yourself from breaking down in tears hearing his confession. You had left wanting to find a cure, to fight against an Aeon, to see Jing Yuan happy that no one else in Xianzhou would have to fear being mara-struck, but you found yourself here.

The one person you feared most getting it, without anything to show for your travels. How did you think you could compete against an Aeon? Perhaps this was Yaoshi’s personal punishment to you.

Jing Yuan sighed, getting up. His chapped lips kissed the salty stream of tears from your cheeks.

”Shhh, qīnàide. Why are you crying, my love? This should be a happy moment,” he cooed. You shook your head, lips quivering as you hiccuped and struggled to stammer words out.

”Jing Yuan, I love you too. Of course, I would marry you but…”

”No but’s. You said yes…” he teased. You placed your hands on his cheeks, pleading with him. You pressed your forehead against his, hoping your touch would ground him.

“Jing Yuan, I did end up leaving. I still haven’t found a cure for mara…for you, for everyone suffering on the Xianzhou. It’s been over 100 years since I left and joined the Astral Express.”

”I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here,” Your blurry vision looked up to see Jing Yuan. His eyes were red again, but they gazed softly against yours. He brought his hand down, gently caressing your soft hair.

”I know. I’m sorry for being confused at first. I’m sorry you’re seeing me in this state, but I still meant what I said,” Jing Yuan sighed as he brought your crying form on his chest, lying beneath the uncomfortably small bed.

”...I’m not going to be able to stop this, am I?” you asked the now fluid Jing Yuan. He flashed a somber smile. 

“...No.”

��Yanqing…”

“I know…”

You paused not knowing what to say.

“...I do have a favor to ask you though. However long we have to be together…” he murmured 

“Marry me. Be mine for an hour, a day, anything. I’m just happy to have you in my arms once more.” he murmured. Lifting his hand to wipe more tears. His nails were sharpened and black.

”...Anything for you, Jing Yuan.”

His lips reached over and kissed you. Hand gliding up your sides as if to remember the feel of your skin beneath his touch. His large palms found a way beneath your shirt, guiding the fabric over your head and onto the ground. 

He grabbed a handful of your chest. Lips moving away from your lips and trailing on your jaw and neck. You could feel his teeth were sharper than before, the tip of his canines grazing the sensitive subtle areas of your neck.

Jing Yuan easily ripped through his thin shirt, revealing areas where the mara could be physically seen, botches of his skin beginning to blacken and glow in golden hue.

Your hands gently glide down his large pectorals and abdomen, resting at the waist of his loose pants. Your hand darted beneath his pants, feeling his heavy cock beginning to rise from your touch.

Jing Yuan’s whole body shuttered before letting a grunt out. You tightly gripped his length, pulling it in a rhythmic motion as his breaths got heavier and heavier. Precum budded at his tip, as his cock quivered from your jerks.

You shimmied his pants down, as his cock slapped against his abdomen. You leaned down, poking your tongue out to lick the slit of its head. Jing Yuan grunted, eyebrows furrowed. His nails buried in the thin mattress of the bed, desperately trying to control himself.

Kissing his tip, you opened your mouth engulfing his length to your mouth. Salty yet sweet precum was already leaking down to your tongue. His grip was getting tighter, as an almost unhuman growl came from him.

“F-Fuck, darling!” Jing Yuan choked out with his head hung back to the wall. He desperately tried to quell his desires, wanting nothing more than to pull your head all the way down till he felt the back of your warm, wet throat. 

You bobbled your head up and down, fingers drifting down your pants. Noticing this, Jing Yuan easily ripped the fabric—exposing your slit, drooling and waiting for him. As your tongue hit a prominent vein at the back of his cock, his body became more rigid— gingko beginning to glow more. 

His large fingers swiped a finger between your folds and let it nudge against your throbbing clit with every stroke. Feeling your slick dripping down your inner thighs and his finger, he pushed past your puffy folds and slid it inside your dripping pussy. You bit your lip, barely muffling a moan feeling him pump. His eyes lapped up every shiver and moan from your lips. Memories of the times he had claimed you coming back to him. 

He could feel your cunt fluttered down on his fingers drilling inside of you. 

He wanted more. 

He wanted to make up for these hundreds of years of not being beside you.

“...(Y/n)!!” Jing Yuan grunted. He let his desires finally get to him as his hand went down to your head, pushing you deeper against his cock surprising you, as you slightly choked. His hips slightly bucked, as you grabbed onto his thighs nostrils flaring to try and breathe.

His hips jolted as ropes of thick cum shot to the back of your throat. You tried swallowing, but it felt like a never-ending stream. Eventually, you lifted your head coughing as his essence streamed down your lips. His pace continued to be brutal, letting his thumb rub tight circles against your clit as your thighs squeezed together.

“That’s how I remember you. Come now, let me be reminded of that cute expression of yours,” he cooed. Your body shivered as your back arched, finally reaching your high with his name echoed from your lips. Jing Yuan smiled, sliding out of your pulsating cunt.

Jing Yuan repositions themselves, hovering on top of his still-hardened cock. It was still twitching as the veins wrapped around it throbbed in excitement.

Cock teased against your slit, nudging the top against your needy clit repeatedly as it burned in stimulation. 

Catching your breath and looking down, you noticed his cock was unusual. In the darkness, you couldn’t tell much difference but observing it now, you could. You recalled him being long, and thick, with a few moles decorated near the base. It had a gradient now, his pale skin turning into an obsidian hue. His veins were golden, with every pulsate the light would brighten and dim. 

“I finally get to have you again…” he whispered out almost in ecstasy, moving on top of you.

The head of his cock pressed into your entrance back and forth. Your body jolted as he slowly entered inside of you. You sucked a breath in, feeling him stretch you out wider and wider as he plunged deeper. 

Jing Yuan hummed,  letting his fingers swirl against your clit once more trying to distract you from the dull pain. A moan escaped your lips as he eventually bottomed out, tip hitting against your cervix.

Not even giving you time to get used to him, Jing Yuan began thrusting hard inside of you. Your hands gripped the sheets tightly, fingers digging into the cheap sheets. The bed squeaked and moaned, wood hitting against the concrete wall with the rapid pace he had set.

His lips connected with your neck, sucking and nibbling the skin. His canines, poke you every so often. A groan escaped Jing Yuan’s lips, addicted to the feeling of having your cunt squeeze him, trying to milk every drop from him. His balls smacked against your ass as your legs wrapped around his waist. 

Lost in the pleasure, Jing Yuan let one of his hands go from your hips, noting the crescent moons from his sharp nails already developing there before grabbing onto your chin. He was drinking up your expressions. The way your lips curled and shouted his name. The light sheen of sweat on your skin. The smell of your perfume mixed with sex in the air.

He drank up one hundred years' worth like a man starving.

“I love you…I love you…I love you...I love you…” he grunted. His groans were becoming more and more unnatural and inhumane, as you desperately clung onto him.  

Your velvety walls squeezed tight feeling the ridges of his cock rub against that mouth-watering spot inside of you. Your legs wrapped around his waist in a futile attempt for him to get even deeper. 

His cock twitched inside of you as he propelled his cock inside of you faster. With his continued ministrations on your clit, it wasn’t long until you reached your second climax wrapping your arms around him.

He snapped his eyes shut, hips flattering letting ropes of his thick cum shoot inside of it. He slowly thrust, pushing it deeper, trying to nurse his body down from his high. A trail of his essence managed to leak out, and travel to your inner thighs despite his cock still plugged inside of you.

You caught your breath as Jing Yuan’s gaze shifted to the side, seemingly colder before meeting yours once more and warming up again. You brushed your hand against his white hair clinging to his forehead.

“...Will you be leaving again soon? I’m sure you can’t stay in my cell forever. 12 hours right?” he asked, placing his palms on top of yours that were on his cheeks. You could feel his cock still pulsating inside of you, his lazily bucking into you every so often.

“...Yes, but then in 24 hours I’ll see you again. I’m staying, this time. I promise. I’m going to make you better and make up for all that time,” you murmured, wrapping your arms around him. Jing Yuan merely stared at the wall, crimson mara-struck eyes narrowing before turning to you and smiling.

“As long as you remain in the Luofu, by my side, I will be happy…” he replied.

The world seemed almost grey, your mind as foggy as a cloud. You don’t know how long you have been crying for. You just knew your eyes were puffy and stung from how much you had. 

A few days after you saw him, Jing Yuan went to the point of no return. Many soldiers were lost in the chaos of it all. 

Despite your visits, and him acting…mostly normal with you. Whenever you would leave, you’d hear reports the next day on how aggressive he had gotten. It only took three days for him to try to escape.

Reports read that he was set on leaving with you, no matter what it took. Yelling how he had to make it to the Express to see you. Or how you were waiting for him in your old shared apartment together. How you had promised you would come back to him. 

Seeing you in the flesh and leaving again and again, even for short periods, left Jing Yuan’s mara-struck form desperate to get you back again and feel “normal”. His sanity finally had gone, leaving nothing but the mara to control your once beloved boyfriend.

Yanqing gave the last blow last night in a hard fought battle.

There wouldn’t be any more visits and the hope of finding a cure. He is gone, for good now.

Yunli had given you a key to his old place, insisting to get anything before the Cloud Knights removed everything.

Yet you found yourself curled into his old apartment and bed gazing at the unsent letters hidden in his desk drawer. Stacks of them for years. You could hear his voice telling you about his day, what he was working on, how Yanqing was improving, how he missed Jingliu

…How he missed you.

How he wished he actually proposed.

How he wished he started a family with you.

But most of all, how he wished to see you happy.

“It’s okay though. As much longing in my heart I have, I feel pride knowing you are saving other words and looking to help the Xianshou people. Whenever I look to the stars, I think of you. I love you. I wish I could see your smile right now.”

[pin-k-ink]

CORRECTION ⋆✦⋆ ushijima wakatoshi

synopsis ➸ after a fight that was entirely your fault, you’d do anything to make it up to your husband. and by anything, you really mean anything.

tags ➸ dom!toshi, size kink duh, belly bulge, cockwarming, dirty talking, degradation, punishment sex, unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, manhandling, spanking, slight asphyxiation, rough sex

wc ➸ 3.6k

The living room settled in tense silence, only the faint ticking of the wall clock filling the stillness between you and Ushijima. He sat rigidly on the couch, back ramrod straight as his piercing gaze stayed locked onto the volleyball match playing across the TV.

You lingered by the entryway for a long moment, worrying your lower lip as you studied the stern lines of your husband's profile. Even in his obvious frustration, you couldn't tear your eyes away from that strong jaw peppered with the faintest hint of stubble—a delicious reminder of how he felt like rugged velvet under your touch.

With a shaky inhale, you finally summoned the nerve to approach the couch. Ushijima didn't so much as twitch a muscle as you settled onto the cushion beside him—cognizant of the careful distance you left between your bodies out of instinct now. More than once before, you'd gravitated into his personal space during an argument only for the overwhelming pull of his presence to leave you utterly distracted and undone far too soon.

"'Toshi..." you began hesitantly, craving the familiar cadence of his name on your tongue despite the circumstances. "Can we talk about this? Please?"

Your plaintive murmur seemed to drift across that weighted chasm without any effect. Ushijima's jaw clenched almost imperceptibly, but beyond that razor-sharp movement he remained utterly motionless. You recognized the subtle tells immediately—those micro gestures so easily missed by anyone not intimately attuned to each infinitesimal shift in his demeanor.

Despite his frustration, he was pointedly restraining himself from any potential overreactions in the moment. Years of sharpening that single-minded discipline coiled like taut cords beneath his olive complexion as Ushijima listened in silence. His strength of will always hit you with renewed reverence in these tense moments between you both.

"I shouldn't have said those awful things earlier," you pressed on, hating the tremor in your voice but pressing forward regardless. "You were just trying to help and I...I lashed out in the worst possible way when you were only looking out for me like always."

You fell silent again as Ushijima worked his sharp jawline, clearly processing your paltry apology behind that unshakable mask of restraint. You studied the minute details greedily—the burnished gold flecks gleaming in his irises, the faintest hollow of his cheeks carving into sharp relief whenever his jaw tensed in irritation. The familiar pull of adoration despite your self-recrimination threatened to steal your breath entirely.

Because no matter how he punished you with frigid indifference or terse retorts, Ushijima remained the single most beautiful man you'd ever feasted your eyes upon in your entire life. A sublime vision of rugged, masculine strength burning with unshakable passion tucked beneath that stoic exterior that few ever got to taste the true depths of so intimately.

Heart pounding against your ribcage, you finally indulged your impulses in the face of his frustrated silence. You scooted closer, allowing your palm to drift over the thick cable of muscle joining his throat and collarbone in a whisper of contact.

Ushijima drew a sharp inhale through his flared nostrils, but he didn't cease you. So you traced your fingertips further down over his pec, feeling the coarse fabric stretched taut over his sinuous chest. You swallowed hard at the heat and hardness radiating off him—achingly familiar textures you recognized better than your own skin.

"I'm sorry..." you rasped out once more, barely restraining a whimper as you slid your palm across his abdomen next.

You watched Ushijima's knuckles whiten around the remote gripped tightly in one large fist, his jaw ticking with the minute clenches and releases indicating his struggle for control. Lower still, you drifted over the rigid corrugation of his stomach, fingertips dipping beneath the hem to find the sublime ridges of his Adonis belt finally. Shameless in your worship, you followed the carved trail lower to palm the distinct swell of his cock already tenting the front of his sweatpants openly.

Ushijima let slip a low groan then, eyes fluttering shut briefly as you boldly kneaded the rigid length through the thin material. You licked your lips reflexively, mouth flooding with saliva at the sheer masculine musk wafting off that sensitive area you'd mapped and savored so many times before.

"Please, 'Toshi..." you demanded with a raw tremor of need roughening your voice now. "Let me make this up to you properly..."

Olive-toned lids sliced back open to pin you beneath the full weight of that blazing glare. You held his scorching scrutiny steadily as Ushijima seemed to silently weigh his next calculated move in the wake of your unashamed seduction attempts.

Then his large palm anchored itself against your nape forcefully, dragging you forward until your parted lips ghosted his own in dizzying proximity. You whimpered openly at the molten brand of his touch and piercing focus honed solely on you entirely.

"You've been very naughty indeed, wife," he rumbled out with a dark, rasping undercurrent that made your belly swoop with visceral heat. "Purposefully testing my restraint like a spoiled brat desperate for a thorough... correction, aren't you?"

You shivered bodily at the wicked promise laced through his gravelly benediction, aching to shift closer and chase more of that delicious friction and searing drag of his calloused palms over your sensitized nerves. Somehow though, you managed a jerky nod instead—surrendering over without further protest to Ushijima's unholy thrall and the intimate torments sure to follow.

In one graceful, unhurried movement, he tugged you fully into the cradle of his lap. Those large palms anchored your hips flush against him as his hooded stare drank in the sight of you spread so wantonly across his solid bulk.

"I'm not finished punishing you yet, little minx," Ushijima promised through barely parted lips, calluses raking over your lower back possessively. "But I suppose indulging you some sweet relief along the way couldn't hurt...as long as you take all of it, of course."

He didn't wait for an answer, large palm wrapping around your nape once more to tug you into a brutal kiss that stole your breath entirely. Ushijima devoured your every whimper and whine hungrily, the slick slide of his tongue tangling against your own enough to make you melt further into the furnace of his embrace.

It felt like an eternity before he finally eased off the drugging assault of his lips and teeth and tongue. Your mind whirled with a pleasant haze as you swayed dazedly, struggling to regain your equilibrium in the wake of Ushijima's devastating attentions.

"Take off your panties," he ordered in a husky baritone, those callused hands falling away from your body. "Only your panties."

You trembled faintly, fingers trembling as they obeyed the directive immediately. You lifted up onto your knees just enough to slip your underwear off beneath the hem of your— his shirt, thighs slick and sticky with your arousal as you settled back into his lap.

Ushijima's nostrils flared with his shallow, ragged breaths as his hungry gaze raked over the obscene display. One large palm slid over your inner thigh, nudging your legs open wider for his viewing pleasure. You shuddered visibly as he traced his thumb down the slick seam of your cunt, his touch so infuriatingly gentle and slow.

"You're always so wet and ready for me, my love..." he rumbled out, gaze darkening further at the way your arousal smeared his thumb with a shiny coat. "It's almost a shame I have to be so cruel, but you deserve nothing less, don't you agree?"

You shuddered again, thighs trembling with the strain of remaining upright as he continued to tease and torment you so cruelly. "Y-yes, 'Toshi," you managed to reply hoarsely, fingers twisting into the thin cotton covering his chest. "Please..."

He gave no indication of acknowledgement, continuing his leisurely torture of tracing over every inch of your slick folds save where you craved him most. You bucked your hips up, searching for the relief that eluded you, only to earn a firm slap on the ass for your trouble.

"Patience," he reminded you in a clipped tone, not bothering to slow the torment even as he disciplined you. You whimpered but forced yourself to be still, fingers digging into the hard planes of his pecs as he toyed with you so cruelly.

It felt like forever until he finally brushed against your swollen clit. You shuddered visibly, eyes rolling back with a guttural groan at the sensation.

"I know what you want, love..." Ushijima rasped, dragging his thumb in firm, tight circles against the bundle of nerves. "I know what this greedy cunt craves, but you've been so disobedient and naughty. It'd be unfair of me to give you the relief you so desperately need, wouldn't it?"

"I'll behave, 'Toshi, I swear," you gasped out, hips rocking against his touch despite yourself. "Please, please..."

The rough pads of his fingertips circled your entrance, teasing you with the slightest breach but never enough to penetrate. You let out a frustrated sob, tears blurring your vision with the intensity of your need.

"Oh, you're definitely going to behave..." he agreed, the subtle edge of a threat lacing his husky baritone. "And you'll learn to appreciate my punishments properly, too."

Before you could process his cryptic statement, the blunt head of his cock nudged your slick folds. You sucked in a sharp breath as the chubby tip dragged up and down, coating himself in your essence with each agonizing pass.

Your husband wasn’t a small man by any stretch of the imagination—and his girth and length had been daunting even on your wedding night. You'd been nervous, yes, but he'd been a patient and attentive lover that made sure to leave no part of you unsatisfied.

But this? This was an entirely different level of fullness as Ushijima slowly impaled you inch by agonizing inch, stretching you around the thick length until you swore he'd split you in two. You'd barely adjusted to the overwhelming sensations when he gripped your hip with a punishing hold, pulling you down fully to seat him to the hilt inside of you.

"Now sit still," he ordered gruffly, emerald eyes flashing with dark intent as he reached for the remote control abandoned beside him. "I've got a game to finish and you're going to help me enjoy it."

"Wh-what do you—"

The question died on your tongue as he resumed the program, his other hand splayed possessively over the curve of your hip to keep you from moving. He gave no further explanation, gaze flickering back to the TV as he leaned back into the couch cushions once more.

You stared at him incredulously, mouth hanging open as he proceeded to ignore your presence entirely. Your eyes widened with disbelief when you realized the full extent of his plan—the wicked, horrible, cruel plan he'd concocted to punish you.

"No," you groaned, shaking your head vigorously. "No, please, 'Toshi! This isn't fair!"

His grip only tightened on your hip, the pressure enough to bruise in the most delicious way possible. "Fairness isn't an issue when it comes to punishments, love," he replied mildly, as if he wasn't balls-deep inside you and refusing to move. "Now, behave. Otherwise you won’t get my cock for the rest of the week."

You let out another miserable sound at the threat, the sheer idea of him leaving you unsatisfied and craving his touch for an entire week enough to make you go insane. Tears blurred your vision as he continued to watch the game with utter nonchalance, acting as if his cock wasn't sheathed in the tight grip of your cunt.

You were so painfully full and yet, you wanted more. Craved that delicious friction that only came from Ushijima using your body in whatever ways pleased him most. The urge to rock and grind against him overwhelmed your senses, but his grip held you steady.

You looked down to where his cock pierced into you so deeply, your eyes widening at the slight bulge of his girth visible through your lower abdomen. You whimpered, the sight of it turning you on beyond belief. You clenched and squeezed around his hard length, reveling in the way his nostrils flared and his jaw tensed slightly.

At least he wasn't entirely unaffected.

A wicked idea suddenly sparked, lighting your insides with a fresh wave of fire. You leaned back, bracing yourself with a hand against his knees until the outline of his cock jutted more prominently through the soft skin. You swallowed hard, taking a steadying breath before you pressed down on the bulge with your other palm.

Ushijima let slip a guttural sound then, the noise low and dangerous and so fucking sexy you had to bite your lip to stifle a whimper. But the damage was already done, your hips giving an aborted roll on instinct before he stilled you.

"Behave," he warned you in a raspy undertone, those piercing eyes honing in on the subtle outline of his cock visible beneath your lower belly. He let out another groan, his fingers digging into the meat of your hip hard enough to leave new marks.

You couldn't help yourself—not when you knew how much it affected him, too. You repeated the motion, rolling your hips forward with a gentle press. Ushijima's eyes fluttered shut, his breathing growing ragged and shallow.

You did it again and again, each time pressing down with more and more pressure until the game became little more than white noise to your ears. All that mattered was watching Ushijima's self-control slowly slip as you worked his cock deeper inside you with every deliberate thrust.

His fingers fell away from your hip, and you didn't waste the opportunity. Your pace was slow and steady, grinding him into your slick walls with a filthy grind of your hips. His head lolled back, the veins in his throat protruding starkly as he finally succumbed to the pleasure of your body.

You continued riding him torturously slow, working every last inch of his impressive girth inside you until his cock kissed the opening to your cervix. Your clit dragged along the coarse hair of his pelvis on each downward thrust, and soon your own breathing became ragged with the intensity of your pleasure.

You were so close—so fucking close, your toes curling and core tightening with each delicious glide of his cock against your spasming walls. Just a few more strokes and you'd have the release you so desperately craved...

Only then Ushijima's strong arm locked around your waist, tugging you back into his chest and pinning you there with his iron-clad grip. You cried out, the denial making your skin burn and pulse thrum wildly.

"Did I tell you to move?" he demanded in a ragged voice, teeth nipping the shell of your ear sharply.

"Please, 'Toshi," you sobbed out, nails biting into his forearm as you squirmed in his hold. "I'll be good, I promise. Just fuck me, please!"

His free hand slid over your inner thigh, spreading them apart and leaving your aching pussy exposed and dripping. The rough pad of his thumb found your clit, drawing torturous circles against the bundle of nerves as he nipped and bit at your neck.

"That’s too bad," he replied in a husky rasp, the dark edge to his voice making your belly swoop. "Because I'm not done with my game yet. If you move one more time without permission, I'll pull out and finish in my fist instead. Do you understand, love?"

You whined and whimpered but managed to jerk your head into a nod. "Yes, yes, please..."

"Good girl," he rumbled, giving your clit a final flick before he resumed his hold on your hip.

You forced yourself to remain still and silent, not daring to move an inch lest he make good on his threat. Tears slipped down your cheeks at the agony of waiting and watching Ushijima continue to ignore you in favor of the game.

His fingers flexed against your hip, a subtle tremor in the muscle and tendons that betrayed his struggle for control. He was holding back, you realized, not willing to give in just yet. You clenched around him deliberately, reveling in the way he twitched and hardened even further.

The sudden roar of the crowd from the TV was enough to startle you both, and Ushijima let slip a guttural growl as you tightened reflexively. Your heart pounded wildly, and you could feel the sweat slicking his chest beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

"Fuck it," he swore under his breath, finally reaching for the remote and switching off the TV with a flick of his thumb.

In the next instant, Ushijima's large palms wrapped around your hips. He lifted you up, pulling out and flipping you around so you were bent over the arm of the couch. One large palm pressed between your shoulder blades, pushing you into the cushions. The other grabbed your hip, anchoring your lower half up so your ass jutted out lewdly.

He nudged your thighs wider with a knee, and then he was sliding back into you. You moaned at the fullness, the delicious stretch of your walls around his thick girth. You fisted the couch cushions, burying your face into the plush fabric as he finally began pounding into you with a ruthless pace.

His grip was bruising, but you welcomed the ache, reveling in the sweet mix of pain and pleasure that only he could bring. His other hand slid over the slope of your ass, and you shivered as he caressed the tender flesh before a sharp smack rang through the air.

"Greedy, insatiable whore," Ushijima growled, palming the abused skin as you gasped and rocked back into him. "Making me break my own rules. Now I'll have to discipline you some more, won't I?"

"Yes," you cried out, his name falling from your lips like a benediction as his hips pistoned into you with a punishing rhythm. "Yes, yes, punish me, 'Toshi! Please!"

He gave your ass a harsher slap, the sting making you yelp and writhe beneath his weight. You could feel him throbbing and twitching inside you, his own orgasm fast approaching.

"Is this what you wanted, little minx?" Ushijima demanded in a husky tone, his hand sliding from your ass to curl over your throat. He pulled you upright, forcing your back to arch and breasts to thrust out as his fingers flexed. His other hand smoothed over your lower belly, thumb tracing the slight bulge of his cock spearing into you.

"Y-yes," you gasped out, head falling back onto his shoulder as he pounded into you with brutal precision. You reached up and twisted a hand into his hair, gripping him tightly as he nipped and sucked at the juncture of your shoulder.

"I can feel myself in you, love," he rasped, his hips slapping against yours in a wet, filthy slide. "Can you feel how deep I am? How your cunt's swallowing me whole?"

"Yes, yes, yes," you sobbed out, eyes rolling back and lashes fluttering. The hand on your stomach found your clit, the rough pads of his fingertips stroking and circling the sensitive bud in a dizzying tempo. "So deep, 'Toshi, so full!"

"Cum for me, sweetheart," he ordered in a husky baritone, his hips losing their steady rhythm. You could feel his cock twitching and throbbing inside you, and the knowledge that he was about to lose control set off a fresh wave of arousal. "Now."

Your body obeyed before you could even process his demand, every muscle and tendon in your body going taut with a force so intense it was nearly painful. You clenched and spasmed around him, hot, fragrant liquid gushing and squirting around his cock as you came harder than ever before.

"F-fuck," Ushijima groaned, his cock throbbing and twitching inside of you as you came undone. He buried his face into your neck, hips stilling as his release spilled deep inside you. He kept pumping his hips, the warm flood of his cum clinging to your walls and filling you so completely.

He held you upright as you both came down from your highs, his breath hot and ragged against your throat. His hand slid over the soft skin of your belly, the other still gently massaging your clit to prolong your orgasm.

It took a moment for you to regain your senses, blinking dazedly as he carefully lowered you onto the couch. You shuddered as he pulled out, a hot rush of his release seeping from your swollen cunt. You winced, the sensation almost painful as you slumped bonelessly into the cushions.

Ushijima knelt before you, olive-hued eyes roving over your thoroughly ravished form as if to assess his work. A faint flush stained his high cheekbones, his dark hair disheveled from your greedy hands and damp with perspiration. He leaned forward, large palm sliding up your inner thigh as he pressed a kiss to the tender flesh of your sex.

You shuddered at the tender gesture, fingers twisting into his hair once more. "Did I... Am I forgiven yet?" you managed to rasp out, wincing slightly at the hoarseness of your voice.

His lips curled into a slight smirk, gaze flashing up at you knowingly. "Not yet," he rumbled, his fingertips stroking lightly over the soft petals of your cunt. "I don't think you've learned your lesson properly just yet. Now, why don't we go upstairs, hmm? I have a few ideas of what I can do to you next..."

[monzabee]

prison for life - mv1

masterlist ||

Summary: The one where if anybody hurts you, Max is going to prison for life.

Pairing: max verstappen x pregnant!reader 

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: fluff, pregnancy, mentions of throwing up, cursing, kinda angsty in some places, jos verstappen

Author’s Note: hi, hey, hello!! i’ve been in such a max mood recently that is actually shocking to me, but i just needed some fluffy anything after working on smutty pieces for weeks. i got this idea in my dream and honestly i think it turned out better than i could’ve imagined!! feedback is always appreciated, and my requests are currently open if you want to check that out, i hope you guys enjoy! good morning, noon or night wherever you are, xoxobee

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms. 

If you would have to choose a word to describe Max, it would be ‘overprotective’, because that’s what he is. It’s not a bad thing, per say. He isn’t overbearing or controlling at all, but he is simply overprotective. And if you thought he was overprotective when the two of you were dating or when you first got married, you have to admit that you were not, at all, prepared for his protectiveness when you told him that you were pregnant. Apart from his initial meltdown over becoming a dad, or rather becoming like his own father, Max has been pretty chill about the whole thing – with the exception being your safety, of course. The underlying problem isn’t the fact that you’re some sort of daredevil because you’re not, the problem is the fact that Max believes that everything is out to get you. 

The olives you wanted to eat for breakfast? Choking hazard.  

The candles you bought for the living room (to be purely decorative, but still)? Fire hazard.  

The pool lounger Victoria thought would be a cute addition to the pool? Drowning hazard.  

The seatbelt in his car that is surprisingly tight? Could be all three, according to Max, given the right (or wrong) circumstances.  

So, yeah, maybe he wasn’t that scared of becoming a dad, but he was surely scared of you being in danger. That’s why you agreed to stay back for the most races this year – you knew he didn’t need to worry about you or your baby’s safety on top of the stress he had to deal with during the usual racing weekend. That was until you realised how much you would miss your boyfriend after almost a month of not seeing him due to a triple header. And so, you did the thing any person with a common sense would do – flying out to see him without telling him beforehand, because what’s the fun in that?  

The sheer look of shock on his face might be the funniest thing you’ve ever seen when you meet him in his driver’s room, but of course Max doesn’t share the same sentiment as you. Because all he chooses to focus is the fact that you were on a plane – a 0.23% risk out of very 7.7 million flights each year, but still. He spends at least half an hour, just checking you over and assuring himself that you and the baby are fine; at some point he decides that you need to go to the nearest hospital to get an ultrasound just to make sure the baby is okay, but you tell him to fuck off and calm his tits down in the kindest way possible. And that’s how the two of you end up on the small couch in his driver’s room, with his arms around you as you lay between his legs, his hands splayed on the swell of your stomach as he caresses the skin through the fabric of your dress. His voice is low as he tells you about his day, mostly media duties since it is only Thursday, and how he thinks putting a cat tree in the nursery is a bad idea (that was your idea initially, but you can see how having two rumbunctious cats hang out in the nursery could cause problems). 

“I also thought about something else,” he mumbles, suddenly busying himself with the flower pattern of your dress instead of looking at you.  

You raise your brows slightly, motioning him to continue, but let out a huff when he doesn’t do so right away. “Come on,” you whine softly, “tell me what it is Maxie.”  

“I don’t want him to get into karting.” His words are soft, mumbled, and most definitely final. You know how Max can be when he puts his mind into it, and this particular topic has been a discussion in your household ever since the two of you found out that you were having a boy. “I don’t want him to go through what I went through.” 

Letting out a soft exhale, you motion Max to six next to you on the couch. “He won’t,” you assure him, voice soft as you give pleading looks at him, “you’re not your father, Max.” He gives you a look that basically begs for you to not dwell on the topic, but you continue despite the look he gives you, “And what if he wants to get into karting? Are you going to tell him no?” 

Max tries his best to ignore the knowing look you give him, knowing very well that he won’t be able to ever say ‘no’ to his son, who already has him wrapped around his finger. “I might do that, you never know.” He grumbles, hiding his face in your hair – though the soft giggles coming from you manages to put a soft smile on his face. “You’re supposed to agree with me, you know, we have to be a united front.”   

“We’ll discuss it when the baby comes, until then, I’ll be the voice of reason.” You emphasise, poking him at his bicep to convey your point. “You feel better now?” 

“Kinda,” he murmurs, leaving small kisses onto the exposed skin of your shoulder as he keeps on murmuring against your skin, “I would feel better if I knew you stayed in bed all day, relaxing.” 

With that, you choke a loud laugh, and motion him to stand up as you try to do it yourself – though, of course, he has to help with the baby bump being in the way of you doing any sort of physical activity. “You’re funny, let’s go get me ice cream.”  

The only response you get back is a confused look from your husband, his head tilted to the side as he eyes you warily. “What does that have to do with anything?” 

“Um, excuse me?” You raise an eyebrow, “Your son,” pointing to your stomach, you emphasise your words, “is craving ice cream right now.”  

Max’s eyes soften instantly, and a smile creeps across his face. He nods, taking your hand gently as he helps you up. “Well, if my son wants ice cream, then ice cream he shall have.” 

You giggle as you both make your way out of the driver’s room, Max's hand never leaving yours. The paddock is bustling with activity, but for a moment, it feels like it's just the two of you, cocooned in your little world. As you approach the nearest concession stand, Max’s protective instincts kick in once again. “Is this ice cream stand safe? How long have they been here? Do they have the proper health certifications?” 

You roll your eyes playfully. “Max, it’s ice cream, not a five-course meal. I’m sure it’s fine.” He sighs but nods, deciding to trust your judgment. After all, you did manage to fly all the way here without incident and somehow alerting him. You both get a generous serving of your favourite flavours, and as you sit down to enjoy your treat, you feel a sense of normalcy and contentment wash over you. 

Max watches you with a tender expression, his eyes filled with a mixture of love and worry. “I know I can be overprotective,” he says softly, reaching out to brush a stray hair from your face, “but it’s only because I love you so much.” 

You smile, leaning into his touch. “I know, Max. And I love you too. But sometimes, you need to trust that everything will be okay. We’ll figure things out together, just like we always do.” 

He nods, his gaze shifting to your belly. “You’re right. I guess I need to talk to my mom.”  

“Why?” You ask, tilting your head to the side in curiosity.  

“Well, she promised me she’d look after you but you’re here, so I think we need to have a talk about not keeping secrets from each other.” He mumbles, dragging a hand down his face. 

You laugh, nudging him playfully. “Oh, Maxie, who do you think helped me with my bags at the airport? Your mom is unsurprisingly a strong woman.” 

He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “I should’ve known better than to think you’d stay put for a whole month.” He sighs, but there’s a smile playing on his lips. “Alright, but next time, at least let me know you’re planning something. My heart can only take so much.” 

Max feels a lot better after tricking you with ice-cream into at least staying put withing the Red Bull hospitality for the day as he gets through his media duties. Max feels a lot better after tricking you with ice cream into at least staying put within the Red Bull hospitality for the day as he gets through his media duties. He periodically checks in, making sure you're comfortable and well-fed. Each time he sneaks a glance your way, you catch him with a knowing smile and a roll of your eyes, and he returns it with a wink. He knows that there is absolutely no reason for him to be checking on you as much as he does, because you’ll be fine in the cool hospitality suite with enough water to keep you hydrated for years, but he can’t help but worry about anything and everything going wrong. And his worries prove to be true when he sees the one person who he definitely doesn’t want around you.  

“What are you doing here?” He asks the approaching figure, “I thought you were not going to be coming to this race but the next one.”  

“Given the drop in your performance in the last few races I thought I should be here for... support.” His dad supplies, eyes finding you behind his son’s back on one of the couches in the hospitality, “And I can see the reason for why you’ve been distracted lately, what is she doing here?”  

Max scoffs, crossing his arms on his chest protectively, “She’s my wife, she is more than welcome to be here.” 

“She’s also a distraction, Max,” his father points out, “you’re going to lose your focus if you keep–” 

Since Max is faster than his father where it matters the most, he cuts him off before he can say anything further. “Leave, I don’t want you here.” 

Max’s father looks taken aback, his eyes widening momentarily before they narrow into a scowl. “Excuse me?” he says, his voice low and dangerous. 

“You heard me,” Max replies firmly, his stance unwavering. “I don’t want you here if you’re going to criticize my wife and stress me out, or worse, stress her out.” 

“You’re being irrational,” his father argues, taking a step closer. “I’m just trying to help you stay focused.” Seeing that his son is not going to back down anytime soon, he points a threatening finger towards him. “I’ll be back on race day, but you better be ready to put in a winning performance,” his father finishes, his voice laced with finality. He turns on his heel and walks away, leaving a tense silence in his wake. 

Max sighs deeply, running a hand through his hair as he watches his father disappear into the crowd. Looking back at you over his shoulder, talking to some interns from the social media team, he can’t help but feel the dread of you having to face his father – which gives him another reason to somehow stop the two of you from running into each other during the weekend.  

On Friday, Max’s luck decides to do him a favour as you tell him that you’re not feeling well enough to go to the track with him for the qualifying, and though it is true that he wants you to be with him, he also realises that this will give him one less thing to worry about. He knows how stressful it can be for you to navigate the bustling paddock and deal with the crowds, especially with the added pressure of possibly encountering his father. 

“You rest up, okay?” he says, his voice full of concern. “I'll be back as soon as I can. If you need anything, just call me.” 

You nod, giving him a reassuring smile. “I will, Max. Good luck today. We'll be cheering you on from here.” 

Max leans down to kiss your forehead gently as he mumbles into your skin, “I love you.”  

“I love you too,” you reply, your voice soft and comforting, “be careful out there, okay?” 

Max has one goal throughout qualifying, and to his team principal’s dismay, it is not being on pole. His one and only goal is to get the session done with as quickly as possible and get back to you as soon as he can. After the session ends, he barely waits for the car to come to a stop before jumping out and heading straight for the hospitality suite. His team notices his urgency but knows better than to question it once he tells them he’ll pay whatever fine the FIA will give him for missing his interviews. 

Bursting through the door, Max finds you resting comfortably on the couch, a cup of tea in your hands. The sight of you immediately calms his racing heart. “Hey,” he says softly, walking over to sit beside you. “How are you feeling?” 

You smile up at him, still in his team gear and the hat he almost never takes off, the warmth in your eyes easing his worries. “Better, now that you're here. How did it go?” 

“Starting on pole,” he replies, mostly in a mumble, taking your hand in his. “But all I could think about was getting back to both of you.” 

You squeeze his hand, your expression tender. “I'm proud of you, Max. You did great.” 

He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. “Thanks. Let's just relax for the rest of the day, hm? I want to hold you to make sure you’re not getting out of this bed until tomorrow.” 

“You know, I would be happier about this proposal if it was until different circumstances,” you sigh, earning a laugh from him as he pulls you towards his chest, being careful not to spill your tea, of course. Why? Because it is a safety hazard, of course. 

As you settle back into the bed together, Max feels a sense of relief wash over him. The stress of the day melts away in your presence, and he realizes how much he needs these quiet moments with you to forget all about the outside world and focus his energy on what actually matters instead. 

The next day, feeling much better, you prepare to join Max at the track for the race. He’s still concerned but reassured by your determination to support him. As you arrive at the paddock together, Max is more attentive than ever, keeping an eye out for his father in hopes of trying to prevent the two of you running into each other. Navigating through the bustling paddock, Max keeps a protective arm around your waist, and a hand on your bump whenever the two of you stand somewhere talking to someone, guiding you through the throngs of people. His eyes constantly scan the crowd, his jaw set in a determined line. The other drivers and team members greet you warmly, and you return their smiles, feeling the anticipation that surrounds you. 

“Max, relax a bit,” you whisper, squeezing his hand as you notice the tension in his posture. 

He glances down at you, his expression softening slightly. “I just want to make sure everything’s okay.” 

“I know,” you reply, reaching up to stroke his cheek, “but we’re here to enjoy the race and support you. Try to focus on that.” 

He nods, taking a deep breath as both of you make your way to the Red Bull hospitality area. The team welcomes you with open arms, and you settle into a comfortable spot where you can watch the preparations for the race. He asks one of the interns to keep an eye on you, which he thought he was being sly whilst doing it, but you of course catch him in the corner of your eye. That’s when you realise the man walking towards him, your eyes meeting in nothing short of disdain for each other.  

You stiffen slightly, your hand tightening around Max’s hand as he turns just in time to see his father approaching, his protective instincts kicking into high gear as he lets go of your hand and decides to wrap his arm around you protectively instead. 

“Max,” Jos says, his tone neutral but carrying an underlying condescension. “We need to talk before your race begins, walk with me.” 

Max's grip tightens around you for a moment before he reluctantly loosens his hold. “What is it, Dad?” he asks, his voice steady but tinged with irritation. 

Jos's eyes flicker to you before focusing back on Max. “I wanted to discuss strategy, but I can see this isn't a good time.” 

Max's jaw clenches, his protective instincts on high alert. “If it's important, we can talk here. I’m not leaving her side.”  

Jos sighs, clearly frustrated. “Fine, if that's how you want it.” 

Max’s arm remains firmly around you as his father steps closer. “Make it quick,” Max insists, his tone leaving no room for argument. If other people were to see your eyes moving from one Verstappen to the other, they’d probably think you are watching a tennis match, though the situation in front of you is certainly more tense than that. 

Jos glances at you once more before addressing Max. “I just wanted to remind you to stay focused. Pole position is a great start, but you need to keep your head in the race.” 

Max's eyes narrow, and he lets out a scoff, “I know how to do my job, no need for reminder. Anything else?” 

Jos shakes his head, his expression a mix of disappointment and resignation. “Just don’t let distractions cost you the win.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Max hisses, taking a step towards his father as he gently pushes you behind himself. You have to put a hand against his chest to slow him down, though that doesn’t prove to be a sufficient prevention method. “I already told you; she is my wife, and he is not going anywhere so you better get that into that damaged brain of yours.” 

“Max,” you try to plead with him, “please, not before your race.”  

He gives you a look over his shoulder for a short moment before turning back towards his father. His jaw is set as he looks at the man in front of him. “I’ll only tell you this one more time. When she’s here with me, you don’t show up. If you do show up, you don’t come near her, you don’t talk to her, you don’t even look at her.” Another step taken towards his father has you tightening your hold on him, but he still manages to convey his message. “Try something like this again, and you won’t be in my life anymore let alone my son’s.” 

Jos's lips press into a thin line, his eyes darting to you briefly before settling back on Max. “Fine,” he repeats, his tone colder. “Just remember what’s at stake every time you get behind the wheel.” 

Max stands his ground, his eyes locked onto his father's, unwavering. “I know exactly what's at stake, and I don't need you reminding me. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have a race to focus on.” 

Max stands his ground, his eyes locked onto his father's, unwavering. “I know exactly what's at stake, and I don't need you reminding me. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have a race to focus on.”

It’s not the first time Max has stood up to his father, not by any means. But you can tell that this time affects him in a different way. The weight of the words exchanged and the implications for their future relationship linger in the air. You can feel the tension radiating from Max as he watches his father walk away, and it takes a moment for him to relax his posture and turn back to you. “Please tell me something that will calm me down so I don’t somehow do something that would put me to jail.”

“Okay,” you singsong, quickly positioning yourself in front of him so that you can fix him with a strict look on your face. “You are not doing something that will put you into prison, period.”

“I’m going to need a very good reason because all I want to do right now is follow him to his car and punch him.” Unfortunately for you, the way his jaw is set is a telling sign that, no, Max would actually do something like this given the circumstances.

“There is no sim racing in prison.” You try to provide, giving him a weak smile.  

Max's lips twitch into a small, reluctant smile at your words, the tension in his jaw easing slightly. “No sim racing in prison, huh? Do you honestly think that would keep me from doing something stupid?” 

“I panicked!” You exclaim, hitting him on his chest lightly as he laughs at you silently. “How are you supposed to help me raise our son,” you point to your stomach to emphasise your point, “if you’re in prison, huh?”

Max's smile grows wider, the tension in his posture finally starting to melt away. “Okay, okay, you’ve got a point,” he says, placing his hands on your shoulders and looking into your eyes. “I need to be here for both of you. But it’s so damn hard to ignore him.” 

You reach up and cup his face in your hands, your eyes soft and filled with understanding. “I know, but you’re stronger than him. And you have more important things to focus on. Like winning this race and getting me more ice cream on our way back to the hotel.” 

He takes a deep breath, nodding slowly as he lets out a soft chuckle. “You’re right. I can’t let him get to me. Not today.” 

“Exactly,” you say, giving him a reassuring smile, “I usually am.” 

Max laughs, the sound lightening the mood even more. “Yes, you usually are,” he agrees, pulling you closer for a brief kiss. “Thank you for always knowing how to calm me down.” 

“That’s what I’m here for,” you say, resting your forehead against his. “Now, go out there and show everyone what you can do. We’ll celebrate with ice cream afterward.” 

“Deal,” he replies, his eyes twinkling with affection and determination. With one last squeeze, he lets you go and turns towards his team, his focus now fully on the race ahead. “But I feel like I need to let you know that I would definitely go to prison for life for you.” 

You laugh, shaking your head. “Don’t you have a race to win, Verstappen?” 

He grins, giving you one last kiss before heading off to prepare for the race, giving you a grin over his shoulder as he starts to move away, “So, I’ll get the rest of that kiss after the race, then?” 

“Yeah, Max,” you let out a breathy laugh, your eyes not leaving his for a moment, “after the race!” 

[juletheghoul]

The General

a/n: So, the Roman got me. It was to be expected, honestly lol. I am well aware we know practically nothing about this character but I couldn't help myself. I wrote reader as a slave here, if you aren't into that - no worries. This is un beta-ed, any mistakes are my own. Shout out to @foli-vora for letting me flood her with my thoughts and ideas and for helping me flesh it out🩷 Hopefully you enjoy!

Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, piv sex, some dirty talk, creampie, alcohol, master / slave dynamic (power imbalance) one creepy dude making a pass, Marcus calls reader Girl, reader calls Marcus Dominus, let me know if I missed any!

Pairing: Marcus Acaciusx F!Reader

word count: 1.6k

reblogs are appreciated

Series masterlist Masterlist next chapter; the baths

He comes through the tent flap late into the night, covered in blood, grime, and rage, and yet - you are there to greet him. The gods have seen it fit to bestow him with another day of victory, another day of life and with that life, comes his expectations of you.

You rush to pour the water you’ve kept hot at his fire into the basin he uses to wash, eyes scanning quickly for the clean linens he uses to cleanse himself of the gore of battle, and making yourself scarce once the basin is full.

He says nothing, but he has no need to. 

You watch from your place at the edge of his vision, every nerve and receptor in your body honed to anticipate his needs. 

His armor needs to be cleaned before first light, thank the Gods I didn’t fall asleep. I will need to mend the tear in his tunic as well–

His hand shot out, face up towards you, interrupting your mental tally of his state but your body responds quicker than your mind and you’re there in an instant, placing the clean linen into his dampened hand. Still, he says nothing. 

You move towards his table while he finishes, shuffling his maps and well laid battle plans with great care in order to set out the olives and cheese he likes, the crusty bread and the dark wine he prefers. 

“General.” The gruff voice at the tent flap scares you half to death, but you don’t cry out. You’re too well-trained for that. A few of his soldiers stand at the threshold. “We wish to share a cup, a toast to your victory.” They are eager, the red glint of blood still fresh in their eyes. 

He grunts in response, but gestures to his table before giving you a pointed look. You rush to fetch more cups, setting them down at the extra places at his table. They are all seated by the time you finish pouring for them, and with another glance from Marcus–your general–you move to fetch more food from his stores. 

They’re raucous, the heat of the battle still coursing through their veins. Where Marcus is focused on calming the blood, they are eager to stoke the fire. They are either oblivious to his dark mood, or unbothered by it. 

“More wine!” One of them cries out, despite the way the General’s jaw clenches. You hurry to comply, pouring into the younger man's cup without spilling. “You are lucky General Acacius, a pretty, young, thing like this waiting to warm your bed of a night,” he leers up at you, his gaze slipping across your body like eels in a bowl, “would you share your wealth, I wonder.” His other hand slides up the back of your thigh causing you to gasp, his touch wholly unwelcome. 

“If you would like to keep your hands, I suggest you keep them to yourself.” His voice cuts through the air, “Come girl, take my cup away. I have no taste for wine just now.” You move away from the unwanted touch and towards Marcus, avoiding his eyes to complete the task at hand. “Go now, all of you. I will see you in the morning.” He moves from his place at the table, and if the others are unwilling to comply, they make no mention of it. The table is clear by the time he comes back, absent unwanted company. 

He says nothing while removing his armor, but you rush to his side to assist anyway, carefully putting the pieces aside to clean. 

The mood shifts, and his gaze now bores into you, and your heart races to feel it. Where the other man's eyes made your skin crawl, Marcus’ eyes feel like a caress. You feel them on the slit in your tunic, where your thigh is exposed. You feel them on your chest when you turn towards him to help take his chest plate off. 

Goose flesh spreads like a stain across your skin, and your cunt weeps for him, betraying any thoughts that you might not want what he quite obviously wants to give you. The proof of it tenting his tunic when the leather Pteruges are removed.

Those brutal hands, the ones that’d been covered in blood and grime not an hour past, now grab onto your hips, the grip hard enough to bruise. The thin linen shift does nothing to insulate you from his heat, does nothing to dull the press of his want against your belly. Any doubts swimming in your mind about crossing this line with him–again–are silenced when the linen is all but ripped off, leaving you almost shivering in his arms. 

The arousal is something fierce, an entity all in its own and it responds to his brusque movements with a perverse glee. It sets your nerves alight, drips down onto your thighs as he herds you towards his bed mat. His intensity infects you, it strengthens your grip, you’d swear it sharpened your nails by the way you rip at the very tunic you’re going to have to mend.

You land on your back amongst his linens and he’s quick to follow you there. It takes less than a breath for him to shrug everything off, both of you as nude as the day you were born. 

“Open your legs.” His voice is gruff, and thick with want, the same want that smears fat pearly drops against the skin of your thigh. 

Your nipples harden, drawing both his eye, and his mouth as you hurry to comply. He bites, pulling a gasp from your lips. His tongue quickly soothes it though, this is his pattern, an addictive balance of pain and pleasure. First one breast, then the other gets his attention, but only briefly, his desire burns too brightly. 

You only manage to pull his face up to yours before his cock finally slips into your wet heat, feeding a gasp directly into his mouth when you take his kiss with a force to rival his own. 

The size of him always shocks you into silence. He isn’t the first man to have you this way, your chastity had been gone long before you came into his service; you were glad of it to feel the way he molded you to accept him though. Now, and every time he’s been inside you. 

His stroke is brutal, it’s hard, and rough and all but moves you higher onto his mat. It’s perfect.

Your knees hitch high onto his hips, just as he raises one knee to press against the back of your thigh for purchase and it pays off because he finds the spot that makes you keen. 

He lets out a breathy laugh, relishing the state of you and the euphoria of your climax is far too close to feel any shame. Instead your cunt floods him, the slip of him moving so noisy and vulgar and welcome and blissful it pushes you closer still.

“More, please—“ you moan out the words, the first words you’ve spoken to him since he’d returned from a day of violence and he corrects you even now. 

“More what,” he grunts, anger and ecstasy shining on his visage, “speak correctly, girl.” His voice is clipped, his movements faltering and you know he’s close.

“More please, Dominus.” They’re a whimper, and he responds to them just how you hoped he might. He moves quickly and for a moment you can see how he’s earned his reputation, agile and smooth and within a moment he sits back on his haunches, pulling your hips up to meet his thrusts. 

You don’t know whether to scream, or weep, either way you thank the Gods for putting you in this man’s way. The pleasure is peppered with pain where his fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, and you know you will feel the ache of holding them open tomorrow, but it’s so hard to care when it feels so good.

The precipice looms, the shadow of the climax clouding anything and everything and when you reach down towards where you’re spread wide, it only takes a couple of quick, wet circles at your clit to float away.

He groans, hips stuttering and you know you’ve taken him over the edge with you, you can feel the evidence of it painting your insides. His eyes glaze over as he watches himself fill you to the brim, slack-jaw and drunk on his orgasm and your flesh on display for him. 

“I expect you to remain full of my gift-“ his tone is filthy, lust and victory of a different kind on his features as he grinds himself deeper, “until I take you again.” He hisses the last few words out, pulling his softening cock out to inspect his mess. “Am I understood?”

“Yes Dominus.” The words are sweet as summer fruit on your tongue, eager to please him.

He smiles, but it’s predatory and it makes you clench around nothing, your body betraying your words when you feel his spend dripping out in front of his eyes.

He tsks, pushing it back in with thick fingers.

“You are well aware I don’t tolerate such insolence.” His eyes narrow, but his mood is still playful, removing his fingers from your cunt, only to stick them in your mouth. “Now, get some rest. I expect you up at first light.” He speaks with absolute authority as you suck his fingers clean, and nod.

------

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[rin-may-1103]

The Wrong Robin Au (part two?)

Previous | Master Post | Next

"Alright, kid." Danny sighed as he walked back into the motel. "tell you what, you tell me everything you think you know about me and bats, and I'll be Robin. Deal?"

Tim's eyes widen in surprise, "wait, really?" he asks, dropping the third Oreo he had been trying to balance on Sam's forehead. Sam snored, her nose twitching in agitation for a moment before going back to normal.

Tim leaned back, keeping an eye on her. "do you really mean it? you'll come back and fix him?"

Danny sighed, "I can't promise that I'll be able to fix him, but I can promise to do my best."

Tim nodded his head, "That's all I ask." then the kid stood up, holding his hand out for Danny to shake, "We got a deal, Robin."

Danny smirked, unable to keep a straight face at how cute the kid was being. Reaching out, he shook his hand.

"Right, first things first. Who's Batman, and why do you think so?" Danny asked, making his way over to the table. Tim followed behind him, his face brightening up in excitement.

"Bruce Wayne of course," Tim cheered, plopping down onto the chair across from Danny.

Of course, another rich fruit loop would be Batman. Why not? What's next? Lex Luther was Superman's archnemesis? Oliver Queen cosplayed Katniss Everdeen?

"I thought Dick Grayson, Bruce's ward, was Robin at first. It had made sense, or at least mostly did but I wasn't completely sold on it. I only really thought it was him because Robin was able to do a quadruple backflip, and only Grayson's family was able to do that. but then I saw you! and it makes perfect sense!" Tim smiled excitedly, leaning forward as he continued.

"You were able to do the flip, AND you acted just like Robin did! Dick doesn't act like Robin in public, or ever really. But you do! You did the flip, you make puns! you even bit that one mugger!"

Danny blinked before slowly nodding his head; Well, at least his personality wasn't going to be a problem. "right, makes sense," not. it did not make sense, but who was Danny to crush this kid's hopes. also, how long ago was this? because Danny hadn't done the flip this time... he's definitely bitten a criminal or two over the past two weeks, but the flip? that had to have been back when he first got his powers... he vaguely remembers his parents dragging him around the country on some trip Vlad set up for them.

see, it was totally Vlad's fault.

"and who was the second Robin?" Danny asked, leaning back and crossing his arms.

"Bruce's second kid, Jason Todd," Tim replied, not smiling anymore. "The Joker killed Robin over in Ethiopia. Jason went missing and was declared dead around the same time."

"Right," Danny coughed, glancing away from Tim. "and what else do you know?"

"Well, I know Commissioner Gordon's daughter, Barbara, was batgirl..." Tim trailed off with a wince, obviously not liking the conversation anymore. Danny had to agree, the whole class had been informed about the dangers of Gotham City. Barbara Gordan had been one of the examples they used.

"I know that you're using a fake name!" Tim suddenly added, looking more lively now. Danny blinked before sighing, "Yeah? and why's that?"

"you used your bat training to make a fake identity to throw Bruce off your trail! That way you would have more time to settle in with your new team! and it worked for a while, that is until he caught up to you and your team. it doesn't seem he knows about this identity, so you've been using it ever since Jason's death. because you're mad at him."

"and why am I mad at him?" Danny asked, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. Just what had he gotten himself into?

"because he didn't tell you about Jason's death." Danny glanced back at the kid, watching as he looked away and out the window. "just like he didn't tell Dick..."

had he finally connected the dots? had he finally realized he got the wrong person?

"why would he not tell you two?" Tim asked, turning to look up at Danny. Danny shrugged, turning to look back at the ceiling. "grief makes people do things they never would have before." like becoming a billionaire and spending twenty years scheming on how to murder a single man. or it could make them more obsessed with their work.

Danny knows Greif, he's had to deal with it for years now. It's the only thing he understands about why Batman has changed so much. Greif, especially for someone you love? It changes you, it holds onto your heart and never lets go. It can drive you insane if you let it.

"he was so caught up in his own grief he didn't realize that there were others who needed to grieve with him."

"Oh," Tim replied.

they sat in silence for a moment before Tim spoke up again.

"I know where the Batcave is."

Danny blinked. Right. Batman. Batcave. the bat-themed vigilante had a secret lair and it was a cave. That checked out. At least it wasn't in the basement.

"yeah?" Danny prompted, "And where's that?"

"under the manor," Tim replied, crushing any and all hope Danny had for Bruce Wayne.

It was official. All billionaires were fruitloops. Danny didn't care if they didn't all have secret basements, they were fruitloops.

Next

[milkloafy]

WE FIGHT AND MAKE UP — ALHAITHAM

⋆｡˚ ❀ summary: you and alhaitham get into a heated argument and give each other the cold shoulder. at night, you sleep on the couch and alhaitham comes out to find you. ⋆｡˚ ❀ contents: gn!reader, established relationship, fluff, kaveh cameo ⋆｡˚ ❀ wc: 0.9k+ ⋆｡˚ ❀ a/n: this little drabble has made me fall in love with alhaitham i am currently commissioning some selfship art as we speak i love this man pls enjoy if ur a fellow alhaitham lover :>

It wasn’t often you and Alhaitham truly fought. But the few times you did, it usually started with abnormally raised voices and ended in silent treatment that lasted late into the night.

At a certain point in time, the silent treatment would go on for so long, it became more like a battle of perseverance— Who would cave and speak to the other first?

You were stubborn, you had to admit, but Alhaitham could take it to a whole new level. Even when you tried to extend an olive branch, he would continue to keep to himself and draw out the silence between you.

You huffed as you wrapped a blanket around you. Kaveh had passed by your sorry state bundled up on the couch and wordlessly brought you a spare pillow and blanket. If there was anyone who understood Alhaitham’s stubbornness even more than you, it would have to be his roommate for years and former friend since the Akademiya, Kaveh. 

There was no explanation needed as Kaven patted you on the head before going back into his own room. 

Sighing, you laid down on the couch in the cold living room while Alhaitham was likely warm and cozy, snuggled up in bed without you. 

Dejected, you turned to your side and hugged the pillow Kaven gave. At this point, you were no longer even mad at Alhaitham. Sure, the two of you blew up on each other, but the heat simmered out and you were ready to make up and move on. 

It was too bad Alhaitham wasn’t, you thought to yourself, glaring at the cushion in front of you. 

You tossed and turned into the late of night, unable to get comfortable when your thoughts were focused on your boyfriend you were apparently still fighting with. Just as you were about to give up on sleep for the rest of the night, you heard a door creak open and the sound of footsteps coming from down the hall. 

Thinking it was only Kaveh again, you sat up and signed loudly, hugging your knees to your chest. 

“You’re still out here?”

Your spine straightened when you realized that voice was certainly not Kaveh. It was lower, deeper, much more familiar. Alhaitham.

Letting out an exhale, you shrugged without turning around to face him. “Where else would I go?”

Alhaitham sighed, walking around the sofa and taking a seat next to you, keeping a respectable distance away.

“You could go back to our bed,” he said quietly.

When you didn’t respond, he ran his hand through his hair in frustration.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.”

You peered up at him with a look of reservation on your face.

“I’m sorry for letting you stay out here alone for so long,” he continued in a strained tone. 

You examined him, heart softening when you saw his tired and worn eyes, red skin at the edges. Although he hated showing it, you could easily see how much he was effected by this argument. 

“I’m really sorry. Won’t you come back to our room? I…miss you.”

Your resolve cracked after hearing those words. All you wanted for the past few hours was to make up. Now that he was the one holding up the peace flag, you toyed with the idea of making him grovel to make up for it. But a bigger part of you simply wanted to be in his arms again. 

“I miss you, too, Haith,” you said, moving closer to him. “I’m sorry for being so stubborn.”

Alhaitham gently took your hand into his and gave it a squeeze. “Perhaps we were both a little obstinate. But I love you too much to allow this stalemate to continue on.”

You nodded in agreement, burrowing your head into the crook of his neck. Breathing in deeply, you took in his familiar scent and let it warm your heart. 

“I hate the silent treatment,” you proclaimed, sniffling haughtily. “Let’s never do it again. I’m sorry for being a meanie.”

Alhaitham chuckled before planting a kiss on your forehead. “I was mean, too. I’m sorry for that. And you are forgiven.” He leaned his chin against the top of your head, not applying his full weight. “Now, let’s go to bed?”

“Yes, please.” You stood up slowly beside him. “I’m so tired. I can’t believe we were fighting for this loong over the existence of aliens!” 

He snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. “Our debates can get heated at times. But I enjoy that about us. Always being agreeable is too…mundane.” 

“I second that. But I just still can’t believe you don’t think aliens are real! In a world where gods and dragons exist… Aliens of all things are too farfetched?”

“Y/N,” he said in a warning tone.

You giggled, ruffling the top of his head with an exaggerated pat. “Okay, okay. Tonight, we make peace. I get it.”

“Mhm.” Alhaitham began walking to your room, holding your hand as you followed behind him. “Tonight, we make up. Tomorrow, we prepare our arguments and have a more structured debated.”

“Kaven can moderate the discussion,” you offered.

Alhaitham nodded. “I am agreeable to those terms. For now, please get in bed with me.”

You grinned at his pleas, closing the door behind you as you tackled him into a giant hug. “How about you kiss me first?”

Alhaitham smiled as he obliged, cupping your cheek in his warm hand. “As you wish, my love.”

[saerins]

ᯓ ᝰ CRAZY GOOD .ᐟ — itoshi sae

hold up, netizens. you’re in for a treat this time because guess what? out of all people, it’s time for itoshi sae to hard launch his girlfriend: you.

itoshi sae x female reader. content tags pro-player!sae, established relationship, profanity, kissing, kind of a tease here, he likes showing you off, oliver is the matchmaker. word count 1.5k

ᯓ notes .ᐟ hi guys i finally have some sae content for you all !!! >:) yes i’ve missed him , and no i didn’t abandon him :’) heh i hope all my sae lovers that are still here will like this mwah <3

there are many things that itoshi sae is good at.

soccer skills, one of them. snubbing people, the second. (that’s how he got the reputation of being rude—even if it’s not really true!) and three, not last and not least (but still substantially), it’s causing a buzz.

he caused a buzz the moment he debuted on the soccer field. his first game and he already made a name for himself. people started asking where he’d been his whole life (even if he was introduced to the people very early on), equating him to soccer megastars like cristiano ronaldo.

ever since that day, he’d been caught in the spotlight numerous times. mostly related to soccer, but some due to his personal life. more specifically, the media loves to take a guess on who he’s dating.

yeah, he’s had more than his fair share of dating rumours. if it were up to the media, sae would have had about thirty-four girlfriends by now and he’s only twenty-six this year. (go fish!)

but as many people do, almost everyone who consumes media content about sae is particularly interested in one thing that is shrouded in mystery: his dating life.

because despite all the rumours and whatnot, there’s never been any confirmation of any relationships at all. and no one in his circle has ever coughed anything up, so anything in that regard has been strictly hush-hush.

well, until tonight, when your boyfriend of six months invited you to one of his teammates’ high-profile birthday party.

“what, are you nervous?”

your boyfriend’s ever unbothered tone is still the same as when you first heard it a year ago. somehow you find it funny that one year later you’re living with the same guy you’d first found to be somewhat intolerable.

sighing, you try and zip up the back of your dress, looking into the mirror, making sure you have your best face on. “sae, you have fans that number in the millions, of course i’m nervous,” you comment, watching from the reflection in the mirror as sae saunters over to you, taking his hands out of his pocket.

he smirks at you through the mirror, his body pressed against you as he helps you zip your dress the rest of the way up, his lips right next to your ear. “i’ve never even seen you this nervous in front of me,” he says, poking a little fun at you as he gives you a light kiss on your temple.

a soft chuckle comes from him as you deadpan, obviously in much more distress than he’ll ever know. not that he’ll blame you; he’s used to the fame, you’re not. “relax, they’ll love you.”

“sae, they won’t.”

he shrugs. “yeah, you’re probably right,” he agrees, earning a small slap on the arm—and he’s laughing again, though this time he tilts your chin up and gives you a long, slow kiss. the kind that takes your breath away everytime he does it. “but who cares? i love you.”

and there he goes, saying that as if it’s no big deal. making your heart beat so quickly it’s not funny. and before you know it, he’s whisking you away into the lobby where a personal towncar is ready and waiting, with the chauffeur and everything.

“geez, oliver sure loves to go over the top, huh?”

sae gives a sharp exhale at your comment. “hey, that’s your friend right there.”

you roll your eyes, getting in first and sticking your tongue out at him. “and you should be thanking him, without him we’d never have met.”

you look away from him right after saying that so you don’t see it, but sae’s smiling to himself, already thanking his lucky stars.

he thinks meeting you and getting to love you is the luckiest he’ll ever get in this lifetime.

by the time you’ve arrived at the venue—a hotel in the heart of the city—swarms of paparazzi already litter the streets outside. they’ve no doubt had their fill of the other soccer players and mega celebrities that have already arrived and are now ready for the real star of the night (aside from the birthday boy himself): itoshi sae.

of course, everyone’s expecting to see sae all by himself because that’s what usually happens; sae attending any and every event alone and unbothered by the scene. it’s never a surprise anymore, but sae’s a good payday and they’d never miss a single shot.

the moment sae exits the car, it sounds like there’s a million shutters pressed all at the same time, give or take a few milliseconds. (it’s nothing you’re used to.) he stands right where he got out for a few seconds, and even inside you can hear the amount of photographers just begging sae to look straight at them.

and if you think that’s rowdy enough, oh boy you’re in for a treat. because the moment the paparazzi realise that sae’s not, in fact, headed for the hotel just yet, you can hear just a few confused noises before it turns into even more pleading the moment they realise he’s opening your side of the door.

when he opens it and holds his hand out for you, that ever handsome smile on his face (which you forget that he only ever shows to you), you feel like you’re nearly blinded by all the flashes. you brave through it though, taking his hand and getting out of the town car, being greeted by the mass of photographers yelling out to you and sae.

“sae, who is that!”

“hey, girl! look over here! yes right there!”

“what’s your relationship?”

“obviously that’s his girlfriend! hey you!”

you’re a little wide-eyed, stunned at how chaotic this scene is. it’s easy to lose yourself in it, but as it always is, sae realises it whenever you are, and he’s quick to pull you back in.

in this case, he pulls you into his arms, a hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you close as he rests his forehead against yours.

“hey, focus on me, just me,” he whispers to you, eyes looking into yours, eyelashes fluttering against one another’s.

(the paparazzi are having a field day.)

“you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” you ask him, chuckling because you only now realise what a fucking tease he is.

sae shrugs, pulling your hair away from your face. (he’s actually just really grateful to you for doing this for him when you don’t need to—when you’re happy to just be able to support him behind the scenes but he really just wants the world to know that you exist, because it’s a blessing, really.) “maybe i am.”

and this time your heart’s beating faster than you know it ever could, his teal blue eyes melting into your gaze, lips getting closer and closer to your own, his calloused hand on the back of your neck.

like clockwork, his lips sink into yours, his tongue snaking its way in. (and the crowd goes absolutely wild.) you’re both laughing at the panicked and hurried yells from the photographers, slowly pulling away from each other.

you reach your hand out to wipe your lipstick stain off his lips but he doesn’t let you, winking at you and leaning in to whisper, “let everyone know who i belong to.”

such a fucking tease.

not that you’re opposed, so you let him be, shaking your head and following him as he holds your hand and leads you in.

within the next hour, pictures of you and sae flood the internet. (notifications come flooding into your phone too.)

itoshi sae hard launches new relationship with mystery woman!

soccer world loses another bachelor—everything we know about itoshi sae’s presumed girlfriend

most of them are pictures of your kiss, with a good chunk of it being his lipstick-stained lips.

as you scroll through some of the articles your friends texted to you, you’re probably never going to be used to it. you’re probably going to be anxious over everything you do in public now.

a slight panic bubbles up in your chest, but then sae comes over, pulling you backwards into his embrace, looking over your shoulder at your phone.

“that quick, huh?”

and suddenly it’s like anxiety has never existed. because even if it may not seem like much, a year of knowing itoshi sae has made you feel safer than you ever did, knowing that he’s always there to catch you, to never make you feel alone.

you melt into his embrace, turning your head and giving him a kiss, your lipstick stain still on his lips.

“i fucking love you, itoshi sae.”

his eyes widen a little before they grow soft, arms pulling you even closer. “i love you too, stupid.”

(and while the two of you are getting all lovey-dovey at his party, oliver’s just slightly—a lot—upset that sae upstaged him during his own birthday party.)

“i fucking hate the both of you,” oliver groans.

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Jacaerys returns to Dragonstone after spending some time in Winterfell. He comes back looking differently…and has learned some new things 😏👅🐱

Request: 9 for Jacee ‘’Where have you learned to do that?’’

Warnings: 18+, smut, oral (f receiving), slight fingering, assumption of cheating

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

Months have gone by since the prince Jacaerys left for Winterfell to gain House Stark and the North for the cause of his mother, Queen Rhaenyra. His visit should have been a short one, but Cregan Stark insisted he spent more time in the North. According to his letter, Lord Stark had taken a liking to him and wanted Jacaerys to get a true experience of the North. He said that getting closer to the northmen would help gain their support. 

Life on Dragonstone was lonely without him. A part of yourself was missing. 

You spent time with Baela and Rhaena, helped Lucerys get more confident with his dragon, played with Joffrey when no one would. You were in the early stages of a civil war, the adults didn’t have much time for the young boy. The Queen was grateful for your help. 

A few days ago, after you got back from riding your dragon, a raven came from Winterfell — a new message from Jacaerys saying he should be expected to return in the late afternoon. 

Excitement bubbled in your stomach. 

Rushing to your chamber, you didn't want to greet him smelling of dragon. You shed your riding clothes as a handmaid helped you fill your tub with hot water. She added rose oil to make your skin soft and you made sure to scrub extra hard with the brush. You wanted to look nice for Jacaerys. 

After bathing, you put on a clean dress and asked Baela for help with your hair. She was the best at braiding. 

‘’Do you think he missed me while he was away?’’ 

Behind you, Baela chuckled as she twisted your braids and pinned them. ‘’I wouldn't doubt it, Lady Y/N.’’ 

Hearing a dragon's roar, you jumped and went to your window. The air was gloomy, making it difficult to see through the horizon. You bit your lip, searching for an olive green shape. Although he was a small dragon, Vermax’s red wings were easy to discern in the skies.

You glanced over your shoulder to Baela. ‘’They’re here.’’ 

She finished your hair, ensuring every strand fell perfectly in place, and you descended the stairs with Baela on your tracks. 

As you reached the great hall, you saw the Queen and her children standing near the painted table, accompanied by a hubbub of voices. Lucerys talked animatedly about sword practice while a very excited Joffrey was jumping on his feet, excited to see his big brother. Rhaenyra told them to quiet down and give Jacaerys some air, which made you laugh. 

The sound caught their attention, and Jacaerys' eyes shifted to you. 

He had grown since he left — his shoulders broader, his stature more commanding. His once pin-straight hair now cascaded in soft curls that framed his face perfectly. He looked nothing like a Targaryen anymore. 

‘’Jace,’’ you whispered, a smile lighting up your face as you approached him.

For supper, a small feast was held in his honor. Daemon and Rhaena joined you for the meal, raising their cup to Jacaerys’ return. 

When the hour started to get late, you and Jacaerys retired to your chamber. Half-way there up the stairs, he pulled you into a corner of the staircase and kissed you the way he had been dying to since he got back. You pulled a moan out of him when your teeth glided against his bottom lip, and circled your arms around his neck as his hands were gripping your hips with a strength that was new. 

A voice came from the staircase below — probably one of the servants —, prying the two of you apart. You giggled against Jacaerys' shoulder. 

Once you reached the privacy of your chamber, Jacaerys shut the door and drew you to him again as he kissed along your jaw and down your neck. You moaned under the touch of his mouth, melting against him as your fingers worked on each other’s clothes, pulling at the laces and buckles until they fell off your bodies and onto the floor.

You tried to not step on your dress as you walked back to the bed, then let your shift slip down your shoulders and pool at your feet, leaving you fully naked. 

‘’Gods.’’ 

You blushed as Jacaerys followed down your neck to between your legs, taking his time to admire your body. You had never felt truly desired before him. Only objectified — as were all women in Westeros.  

‘’Do you like what you see, my Prince?’’ you asked, his eyes finding their way back to yours. 

Jacaerys didn’t respond. All he did was gently push you down into the bed. 

You expected him to get on the bed too, but to your surprise, he kneeled at the end of it and pulled you close to the edge. A frown drew between your eyebrows as you looked down. You opened your mouth to ask what he was doing on the floor, but the words got caught in your throat as Jacaerys kissed the inside of your thighs. 

It was something new, but not disagreeable.  

Then, he pushed your thighs further apart and pressed the sweetest kiss right over your slit, causing you to squirm. 

‘’Jace, what are you—’’

Your question died on your tongue as he peaked out and flicked your clit, sending a jolting sensation up your core. Jacaerys didn't stop there — he was far from finished with you. He laid his tongue flat and licked a fat strip up your entrance to your clit, stirring a gasp from your lips. 

Your reaction made him smile, encouraging him to pursue. He took a second lick of your cunt, then captured your clit between his lips to suckle at. You let out a mewl of pleasure, your hand traveling down your body to clutch at Jacaerys's soft hair. He alternated between sucking and licking at you, the room filling with obscene noises as your legs tightened on each side of his face, caging him. 

Releasing your clit, Jacaerys slid his tongue between your folds, tasting your arousal on his tongue. You've had his fingers inside you, but never his tongue. Arching your back, you pushed against his face, asking for more. And Jacaerys was happy to give it to you, adding a finger to the mix and pushing deeper inside you.

With your free hand, you clutched the sheets, biting your lips and holding back the moans that wanted to slip out. Had Lucerys’s bedchamber not been so close to yours, you would not have held them back. But y0u didn’t wish to scar his young ears. The poor boy would not be able to look you in the eyes again. 

Jacaerys withdrew his tongue and added a second finger, moving the former back to your clit and making a slobbering mess all over you. 

The rush of pleasure filling your body intensified and you rolled your hips into his face with abandon as your orgasm snapped. Your husband’s name left your lips in a delicate whimper, throwing your head back as he lapped at you, taking everything you were giving him. 

Easing your hands off his hair, you slowed your hips down. 

Jacaerys took the cue and left your pussy alone. 

‘’Where did you learn that?’’ you asked, looking down between your legs as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

He rose to his feet and fell back on the bed with you. ‘’The North.’’ 

Your heart sank, and a knot formed in your stomach. Thoughts raced through your mind, thinking he had bedded another woman. You would have never thought that he would commit infidelity.

Seeing the concern etched across your face, Jacaerys reached out to gently cup your cheek, his touch warm and reassuring. ‘’No,’’ he said softly, his eyes searching yours for understanding. ‘’Not…’’ He shook his head. ‘’Never.’’ 

His words washed over you like a wave of relief.

‘’Northmen, when they get drunk, they talk a lot. About their hunts, about their horses, about the things they do to their women in bed. I didn’t know women could be kissed there, but I wanted to try it. Did you…did you enjoy it?’’ 

A smile curled on your lips as you looked at him. His physique may have changed while he was in the North, but inside, he was the same nervous boy you wed in the spring. 

You nodded slowly. ‘’Can you do it again?’’

—

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[seafarersdream]

Heck yeah Freddie Fox!!!!what if reader plays Gwayne and Alicent sister, but their chemistry is sooooo good that the creators had to cut their scenes together because "they're Hightowers, not Targaryens"🤣🤣🤣and the cast are having the time of their lives with that

Me and the Devil (Freddie Fox x Y/N)

Y/N L/N, who stars as Lady Eleanor Hightower, has an absolutely electric chemistry with her on-screen brother, Freddie Fox, who plays Ser Gwayne Hightower, much to the amusement and exasperation of the HOTD cast and crew.

TW // Strong language and profanities, incestuous undertones, sexual tension and innuendos.

The sun was rising behind the walls of the Red Keep, casting long, creeping shadows over the Outer Courtyard. Lady Eleanor Hightower, clad in the deep, grieving olive of her house, stood with an air of weary grace beside her sister, Dowager Queen Alicent. Her face was a picture of calm, though her eyes were heavy with the sorrow of loss and the weight of recent weeks.

“Do you think he’ll bring that dreadful horse again?” Eleanor asked, her voice soft but dripping with that sharp edge she never quite lost, even in mourning.

Alicent’s lips twitched, but she held her composure. "If he does, I’ll have it stabled outside the walls. I’m not having that beast piss all over the courtyard again."

The rumble of hooves on cobblestones drew their attention. The gates opened, and a column of knights in shining armor, bearing the sigil of House Hightower, entered the courtyard. At their head was Ser Gwayne Hightower, his helm tucked under one arm, revealing the tousled auburn hair and devil-may-care grin that Eleanor had grown so used to seeing—when he wasn’t hiding it behind an arrogant smirk.

“Well, well, look who it is. The fairest blooms of Oldtown,” Gwayne drawled, striding over like he owned all Seven Kingdoms. “Alicent, you’re still holding up the realm with that iron fist of yours. And Eleanor…” His eyes trailed over her, lingering just a fraction too long, “Looking every bit the grieving widow. Tell me, how does it feel to be free of that hideous arsehole, late Lord Hastwyck? May the Seven forgive him.”

Eleanor shot him a withering look, but there was a glint of mischief in her eyes. “About as good as it feels to watch you strut around like you haven’t been fucked in months.”

“Oh, fuck off, Ellie,” Freddie retorted, still in character, his grin widening. “Thought all that mourning might’ve taken the edge off your bite, but clearly, I was wrong.”

Eleanor arched an eyebrow, a smirk that could rival his playing on her lips. “And you, brother, seem as full of yourself as ever. Did the trip here inflate your ego even further?”

Gwayne grinned wider, flashing teeth. “Careful, little sister, or I’ll think you missed me.”

Alicent, tired of their verbal sparring, interjected. “Gwayne, you’ve arrived at an important time. Ser Criston Cole has replaced our father as Hand, and there is much work to be done.”

Gwayne’s grin faded into a sneer. “Ser Criston Cole? That jumped-up cunt of a knight? What, are we that desperate, we’re pulling nobodies out of the arse-end of the Kingsguard now?”

The crew, who had been trying to keep it together, finally lost it. Laughter rang out across the courtyard, cameramen shaking their heads as they tried to stay steady.

“Cut! Fucking hell, cut!” Geeta Patel called out, struggling to keep the exasperation out of her voice. She stepped forward, waving her hands as she approached the trio. “Alright, Freddie, Y/N, that was... Jesus Christ, that was incredible. But you’re not Jaime and Cersei Lannister, alright? You’re Hightowers. That kind of sibling chemistry doesn’t fly in this family. Tone down the ‘let’s fuck each other senseless’ vibes, okay?”

Freddie turned to Y/N, a devilish grin spreading across his face. “Hear that, darling? We’re too bloody hot for Westeros.”

Geeta rolled her eyes, but she was smiling despite herself. “I swear, you two are going to give me aneurysm. Just... try to remember you’re siblings. No more of that smoldering shit. The Hightowers don’t do what the Targaryens do, alright?”

Freddie put on a mock-serious face, hand over his heart. “I solemnly swear to be the picture of brotherly love. No more dirty looks, no more—“

“Smoldering looks, you tosser,” Y/N corrected, elbowing him in the ribs. “And good luck with that.”

The crew was still giggling, a few members openly impressed. “Honestly, we haven’t seen chemistry like this since Game of Thrones,” one of the grips muttered, shaking his head. “It’s fucking unreal.”

As Geeta returned to her chair, giving notes to the crew, Freddie leaned in closer to Y/N. “Honestly, how are we supposed to act like siblings when you keep giving me those eyes?”

Y/N shot him a sidelong glance. “You mean the same eyes you’re giving me right now? Don’t think I don’t notice.”

Freddie chuckled, his voice low enough that only Y/N could hear. “Well then how about we really give them something to talk about?”

Y/N swatted at him playfully. “Behave yourself, Fox. Or I’ll tell Geeta.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

Before Freddie could fire back, Geeta’s voice rang out again. “Alright, enough banter, you two. Places! And for fuck’s sake, remember—you’re Hightowers, not Targaryens or Lannisters!”

Freddie straightened up, slipping back into his role as Ser Gwayne, but not before giving Y/N one last, devilish wink. “For now,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear.

Y/N fought to keep her expression neutral, but the corners of her mouth twitched with suppressed laughter. She shot him a look that promised retribution later.

As the cameras rolled once more, they slipped effortlessly back into character, their banter sizzling with that same crackling chemistry that had the entire crew both laughing and marveling at just how damn good these two were together—siblings or not.

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On a different day, Geeta Patel was giving final instructions to Olivia Cooke and to Fabien Frankel. “Alright, Olivia, Fabien,” Geeta began, her tone calm. “This scene is all about the farewell. Criston, you’re asking for Alicent’s favor before you leave for war. This is a significant moment between you two. We need it to be subtle, yet powerful. Got it?”

Fabien nodded, his expression serious. “Got it, Geeta.”

Olivia smiled. “Ready when you are.”

Geeta gave them a satisfied nod and turned to the crew. “Okay, everyone, positions! Let’s make this one count.”

As the cameras rolled, Criston Cole approached Alicent with a grave expression, his armor gleaming in the dying light. He bowed low, his voice steady but laced with emotion. “Your Grace,” he began, his tone respectful, yet carrying an undercurrent of something deeper.

Alicent looked at him with those sharp, knowing eyes, giving him a slight nod. “May the Seven guide you, good knight,” she said, her voice soft but resolute. “And lead you not to shadow and death.”

Criston bowed his head even lower, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “I thank Your Grace for her prayers,” he replied, his voice filled with reverence.

Alicent turned as if to leave, her gown sweeping the stones with a soft rustle. But before she could take more than a step, Criston’s voice called her back. “And I would request,” he said, his words halting her in her tracks, “that Her Grace grant me her favor. That her Lord Commander may go into battle with her blessings… in his heart.”

The scene hung heavy in the air, the tension thick between them as Criston’s plea echoed through the courtyard. Alicent hesitated, her hand brushing against the delicate fabric of her sleeve as she turned back to him, her eyes locking onto his. There was a moment of silence, a breath suspended in time, as everyone waited to see what she would do.

She finally reached into her sleeve, pulling out the small, delicate handkerchief embroidered with her initials. The camera zoomed in, capturing the intricate details, the way her fingers trembled just slightly as she held it out to him. “Take this,” she murmured, her voice carrying a subtle tremor, “as a token of my favor. Return victorious, Ser Criston. And know that you carry my thoughts with you.”

Criston bowed his head, taking the handkerchief. “Your Grace,” he replied, his voice rough, “I shall return with your favor in my heart and the victory of your cause in my hands.”

The scene was supposed to be the focal point of the episode—an understated farewell between the Dowager Queen and her paramour.

Or at least, that was the plan.

In the background, Eleanor and Gwayne were supposed to be having a far simpler exchange—just a quick farewell between siblings, nothing more.

The moment the camera panned to them, what was meant to be a brief, subdued farewell exploded into something far more dramatic.

“Eleanor, my sweet sister,” Gwayne declared, sweeping her up in an exaggerated embrace, his voice loud enough to carry across the courtyard. “How will I ever endure the horrors of war without your smile to guide me through the darkness?”

Y/N played right into it. She pulled back just enough to look up at him, her eyes shining with fake tears. “Gwayne, you reckless fool, you’d better come back to me—or I swear I’ll hunt you down myself.”

The crew exchanged glances, trying desperately to keep their laughter in check as the two continued to ad-lib their way through what was supposed to be a simple goodbye.

Gwayne placed a hand on Eleanor’s cheek, his expression one of melodramatic intensity. “If I do not return, tell the world I died with your name on my lips.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” someone from the crew muttered, barely audible over the sound of snickering.

Geeta Patel, perched in her director’s chair, pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to maintain some semblance of control. “Cut! CUT!” she finally called out, though her voice was tinged with reluctant amusement. “Freddie, Y/N, what the bloody hell was that? You’re supposed to be siblings, not star-crossed lovers.”

Freddie turned to Y/N with a grin that could only be described as wicked. “Sorry, Geeta, got a bit carried away there. Can you blame me? Look at her—who wouldn’t fall madly in love?”

Y/N smirked, not missing a beat. “Don’t flatter yourself, Fox. It’s called acting.”

Geeta threw up her hands in defeat. “I swear, you two are the bane of my existence. How am I supposed to get a serious scene out of you when you keep turning everything into a bloody pantomime?”

The crew was struggling to keep it together. Even Olivia, standing nearby as Alicent, was biting her lip, trying to stay in character despite the ridiculousness happening behind her.

Freddie chuckled. “Geeta, darling, I think what we’re doing here is revolutionary.”

Y/N rolled her eyes dramatically, though she was clearly enjoying herself. “What he’s trying to say, Geeta, is that we’re just too damn good together. Maybe it’s time to change the script.”

“Or maybe,” Geeta retorted, her tone playful despite her frustration, “you two could try actually sticking to the script for once. I’m pretty sure HBO isn’t paying you to improvise a Lannister-style farewell.”

Freddie turned to Y/N, pretending to consider it. “What do you think, Eleanor? Should we behave ourselves this time?”

Y/N gave a mock sigh, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off her costume. “I suppose we could try.”

Geeta couldn’t help but shake her head as she gestured for the crew to reset. “Alright, let’s take it from the top. And this time, keep it in your pants, Hightower freaks.”

Cameras rolled once more, the scene resumed, with Criston and Alicent taking center stage as intended from the start.

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The camera opens on a sleek, modern studio set, the familiar logo of Max glowing softly in the background. Y/N and Freddie are seated side by side, relaxed and comfortable, both dressed casually but stylishly—Y/N in a chic blouse and jeans, Freddie in his usual mix of sharp yet slightly rumpled attire.

The interviewer, a young woman with a cheerful demeanor, smiled warmly at them. “Thank you both for joining us today. Why don’t we start with some introductions?”

“Hello, everyone! I’m Y/N L/N, and I play Lady Eleanor Hightower on House of the Dragon,” Y/N says, her voice smooth and confident as she introduces herself.

Freddie chimes in right after. “And I’m Freddie Fox, and I play Ser Gwayne Hightower, Eleanor’s incredibly charming, dashingly handsome older brother.”

Y/N snorts, nudging him with her elbow. “You forgot modest, Freddie. Always so modest.”

The interviewer laughs, clearly enjoying their banter. “It’s great to have you both here. So, as you know, House of the Dragon has a massive fandom, and one of the things they love to do is theorize and create ships outside of the canon. They really get invested in the chemistry between characters—and, let’s be honest, between the actors as well.”

Freddie and Y/N exchange a look, both trying to suppress knowing smiles.

The interviewer continues with a mischievous glint in her eye. “So, naturally, people are starting to wonder—could we be seeing the next Kit Harington and Rose Leslie? You know, screen partners turning into real-life partners?”

Freddie, never one to miss an opportunity for a bit of fun, suddenly turned in his seat, getting down on one knee in front of Y/N. With an exaggeratedly serious expression, he took her hand. “Y/N, dearest Lady Eleanor, would you do me the immense honor of becoming my wife? I promise to annoy you, to steal your snacks, and to outshine you in every single scene we ever do together.”

Y/N bursts out laughing, placing a hand over her heart as if genuinely touched. “Oh, Freddie, how could I ever say no to such a heartfelt proposal? But I must warn you—I take up all the covers at night, and I’m not above hiding the remote if you try to switch to football during one of our movie nights.”

The interviewer is cracking up now, along with the crew behind the cameras. “I didn’t expect this, but I’m loving it! You two are absolutely priceless.”

Freddie stood up, still holding Y/N’s hand, and they both gave a bow to the camera. “Well, you know," he says, turning back to the interviewer, “it’s all about keeping the fans on their toes. Can’t make it too easy for them to figure out what’s going on, right?”

Y/N grins. “Exactly. We like to keep things... interesting.”

The interviewer, still grinning, leans in. “So, should we start planning the wedding, or...?”

Freddie looked thoughtfully at Y/N, tapping his chin. “Well, we’re thinking of something small. Just us, a couple of dragons, and maybe a White Walker to officiate. Keep it intimate, you know?”

Y/N nodded sagely. “Very exclusive. Only the crème de la crème of Westeros.”

The interviewer shakes her head, thoroughly entertained. “Okay, okay, I think we’ve just given the fandom even more fuel for their theories! On a serious note, though, it’s clear you two have incredible chemistry. What’s it like working together on set?”

Y/N smiled warmly at Freddie before answering. “Honestly, it’s a blast. Freddie and I just click, and I think that shows on screen. We’ve got a great rapport, and it’s always fun bringing these characters to life together.”

Freddie nodded, adding, “Yeah, we give each other a lot of shit, but that’s part of what makes it work. We trust each other, and that allows us to really push the boundaries in our scenes—sometimes a bit too much, according to Geeta,” he added with a wink.

The interviewer wraps it up, still chuckling. “Well, it’s been an absolute blast talking with you both. Can’t wait to see what chaos you bring to House of the Dragon next season.”

As the camera pulls back and the lights dim, Freddie and Y/N share a quick, conspiratorial glance, knowing they’d just given the fandom more than enough to talk about—and probably a few new fanfics to write as well.

When the interview dropped on the internet, the fandom absolutely exploded. Social media was flooded with clips of Freddie’s mock proposal, and the internet lost its collective mind.

Fans were dissecting every moment of the interview, from the playful banter to the way Freddie had gazed up at Y/N during his over-the-top proposal. The comments sections were filled with fans declaring that they were “shipping” the two even harder now, some even demanding that someone should cast them both in a romcom.

Amid the chaos, Y/N decided to fan the flames a bit more. She posted a cheeky selfie on Instagram, looking effortlessly stunning as always, with a caption that read, “The coolest of the Hightower siblings.”

It didn’t take long for Freddie to jump in on the fun. He reposted her selfie to his own Instagram story, adding the caption, “THE future Mrs. Fox.”

The internet went into overdrive. Fans were tagging each other, sharing screenshots, and even their House of the Dragon co-stars started chiming in with their own comments, playing along with the joke. The whole thing had taken on a life of its own, and it was clear that Y/N and Freddie had become the fandom’s favorite new obsession.

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During a press event, when Rhys Ifans, the man behind Otto Hightower, was asked about his thoughts on Freddie and Y/N’s antics, his face split into a wide, unabashed grin.

“Well, as Otto,” he began, dropping into character with a serious tone, “I have to say, it’s a major fucking ick. Completely inappropriate! Gwayne and Eleanor getting all... cozy? That would make Otto want to strangle someone. He’d be straight to the quill, penning some strongly worded letters to sort that shit out.”

The crowd erupted in laughter, knowing exactly how Otto Hightower would react to such scandal.

“But as Rhys?” he continued, his tone shifting to one of genuine enthusiasm, “I’m all in! I mean, have you seen those two together? The chemistry is off the bloody charts! If they don’t end up getting married after all this, I’ll be sorely disappointed. They’re perfect for each other—on and off the screen.”

His lighthearted comment sent the room into a ripple of laughter, with everyone loving the idea of Rhys being a secret shipper of Freddie and Y/N.

Within hours, his quote—“Ick as Otto, but fuck yes as Rhys!”—became the battle cry of the fandom, plastered across memes, gifs, and fan art that flooded every corner of the internet. It wasn't just spreading; it was detonating.

The whole situation exploded into a full-blown phenomenon, with fans practically canonizing Rhys as the unofficial president of the Freddie and Y/N ship. People started tagging him in everything, from wild fan theories to NSFW fanfiction, with captions like “Rhys would approve” or “Otto hates it, but Rhys lives for it.”

It was unhinged, chaotic, and utterly glorious. Rhys’s endorsement didn’t just add fuel to the fire; it threw in a grenade, making the whole thing go nuclear.

[heartthrobin]

all's fair in love and war (2)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 7.87k

warnings: enemies to lovers, still so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, archie being my fav oc, cheese fest

an: literally fell asleep on my laptop last night editing this, i was so exhausted from school so i’m sorry it’s late !!! but i had the most fun in the world writing this and i hope everyone enjoys :)) don't forget to comment and repost your favourite writers

summary: Oliver is still impossibly miserable, maybe more uncooperative than before, except now when you look at him: you can't think of much else beyond how sweet his lips tasted.

part one

You can’t sleep.

You're not sure you'll find sleep ever again.

“I knew it, I knew it—“ Cherry had bounced the whole way to your dormitory, howling into your ear. “I knew it!”

The image of Oliver’s fluttering eyes swum around your brain as you blinked into the darkness of the poster bed. The taste of his tongue and his words still right against your lips.

It was a riddle of a calibre that you can’t seem to detangle. More than anything, you try to remember how strong has he tasted of Firewhisky - was he so drunk to really dismiss it to nothing at all?

You lingered on it all weekend.

Cherry didn’t help at all — he’s been in love with you forever, that’s literally so obvious — and Enzo even less so once he’d been filled in: Oliver doesn’t seem a bloke who let’s alcohol make his decisions for him, something about Scottish genetics I think.

The interaction plagued you: digging a wide hole in the base of your stomach. You mourned the thought that you may never have the opportunity to kiss those soft lips again, more than anything: preparing yourself for the feud between yourselves to worsen.

There’s barely enough time to make sense of your situation before you’re racing down over the grassy hills of the grounds, bag swinging violently over your shoulder and extraordinarily late for your Herbology lesson in the greenhouse.

Your morning alarm had rung right into one ear and out the other, a product of the tossing and turning you’d been doing for the last two nights.

When you swing the greenhouse door open, panting and face flush from the beating sun, the whole room turns to you. Sprout pauses where her hands are flailing in explanation.

“Sorry I’m late professor,” you wheeze, readjusting your strap over your shoulder.

Cherry is smirking at you from her bench, sidled up with Jane Emmet.

It hadn’t escaped you that you’d be sharing the lesson with the Gryffindors, but you’d precious little time to worry about it in the five minutes you had to pull a robe over your head and stick a toothbrush into your mouth.

Your eyes are purposeful in not looking over the room. Scared to catch the wrong eyes.

“Not a problem peach, we’re just repotting some Fire-Seed Bushes.” She brings a stubby hand to her chin, “uhm … well, Mr Kumar there in the corner doesn’t have a partner. Go join him by his pots.”

Archie has a lopsided smile on his face when you approach, a thick black curl drooping over his left eye.

“Hey.” He nudges gently.

You set your bag down and grab a pair of gloves, chuckling. “Hey Archie.”

The soil is warm when you stick your fingers into the dirt, shifting it gently enough not to mess over the edge of the bucket. There’s a Fire-Seed Bush sitting tentatively at the end of the bench, spitting sparks and emitting smoke.

“So …” Archie speaks first, the back of his hand bumping yours between the black soil. “How was your weekend?”

It’s a veiled question, a poorly veiled one at that. The question draws a laugh from the base of your stomach.

You shrug, adamant on missing the point. “It was alright, I guess. How about yours?”

He shrugs right back. “Wasn’t the greatest. Penelope Clearwater rejected me for Percy Weasley.”

You don't mean to, you really don't, but it draws another bout of laughter out of you - you clap your hand over your mouth. “I’m sorry—“

“No, I get it. Percy bloody Weasley?” His brow is creased, dirt-stained hands rising messily from the soil to swipe at a fallen piece of hair in his face. “Dead sure that bloke's own mother can't say he’s handsome. I’m better looking than him, surely?”

There’s the hanging insinuation that it was rhetorical, but you reply anyways: “you’re definitely more handsome than Percy Weasley, Archie.”

His head cocks down at you, stained paws finding his waist and pressing black fingerprints into the red jumper. “You really think so?”

“Without a doubt.”

Archie smiles, bumping your side against his. You think he might be blushing. “You’re very charming. I understand what Oliver sees in you.”

You jolt involuntarily, spilling some black soil over the edge of the pot.

Swiping at the mess lazily, you play the comment off with another crumbly chuckle: hoping it convinces him more than it does yourself. “Oliver sees in me what a bull sees in a red cape.”

Archie’s reaching timidly for the Fire-Seed Bush, lifting it off the counter and holding the dangerous botanical at arm’s length. “Not true. The boy’s half in love with you.”

This conversation is getting awfully uncomfortable awfully quickly. It picks at your curiosity nonetheless.

“He said that?”

He’s quick to shake off the question, eyes still trained on setting the roots of the bush into the gap in the soil. “Oliver doesn’t have to say anything. He spends practically every fucking mealtime mooning over at your table, and he talks about you way more than necessary—“

“That’s just because I work on his nerves. Oliver doesn’t love me, he barely tolerates me.”

The boy turns on you, confusion set in his brow. “Why is this news? Last I saw you, your tongue was halfway into his stomach.”

Zachariah Smith and his Gryffindor partner look up at that. Your face goes hot all over - Archie doesn’t seem to notice.

“We were drunk.” You say softly, eyes stuck on a loose leaf crackling against the wooden counter.

There’s a special kind of fear that's crawling into your heart where you stand. The fear of putting too much faith into the words of Archie Kumar.

That it’s an elaborate ruse. A set-up, canons of confetti and a banner screaming “you’ve been fooled!” if you were to indulge his words. The danger of allowing your mind to drift too far off into the possibilities of a world wherein Oliver Wood doesn’t hate you - at least not as much as he lets on.

Archie looks at you out the side of his eye, you can feel it, but says nothing. He hands you a miniature yellow-handled spade.

Instead you fill the space. "I heard Isla Flynn has a crush on you."

He perks: "really?"

Across the room, Oliver is bumping elbows with Poppy Davis.

"Ow!"

A loose spark has evidently landed on her exposed arm. The sparks that Oliver was supposed to be watching for, the ones that he is intent on ignoring with the constant glancing back over his shoulder to where you and his best mate are in the corner of the room fucking giggling at each other like toddlers with a box of matches.

“Oliver — can you just focus for five seconds!” Poppy isn’t impressed.

Oliver isn’t either, with the situation as a whole. The pads of his fingers are blistered from the repotting of the bush and Poppy’s careless bumps and his general indifference to the task at hand.

It eats at his brain. What are you guys talking about? Is it about him?

You laugh again and it’s loud enough that it draws his shoulders all the way taut. There’s another snap of a spark and Oliver feels where it lands at his wrist, but he doesn’t react.

“Just pass me the bloody spade.” He grumbles.

-

The lesson passes more slowly than Oliver could swim shoulder-deep through molasses.

It feels like years later when he tosses his gloves into the box with the rest, when the class shuffles to return tools and begin slinging half-open bags over their shoulders.

Oliver doesn’t think he’s ever packed up faster - Poppy is still scowling at him, he doesn’t care - before he’s knocking through yellow and red tied students to find Archie’s head of curly black hair.

“Hey!” He catches him by the wrist, tugging on it like a dog with a bone. Archie jumps, eyes winding down to find his friend. “What did she say?”

You’re far ahead, Oliver can make out the back of your head: hips bumping with Cherry’s up the hill towards the castle.

Archie grins. “She said Isla Flynn has a crush on me.”

Oliver groans, “Not about that, you prat. About— wait, really?”

"Yeah!" He hikes his bag higher on his shoulder. "Can you believe it? She's got that hot Irish accent and everything."

Oliver nods, "Yeah ... yeah. Good on you, mate."

He's trying desperately not to steal this moment from his best friend, but he's fucking itching to know what else you and Archie had been giggling about.

"Did she ... say anything else?" He presses, more gently than his character usually allows. "Like about me?"

Archie shrugs without looking down. "I asked her, but she seemed tense about the whole thing."

"Tense?"

"Yeah, she said something about a bull and a cape, and went like all quiet when I told her you like her--"

At that, Oliver's stomach leaps up into his throat. He grabs his best friend by the arm, jolting him to a short stop. Some Hufflepuff bumps into their halted figures, grumbling before shuffling around them.

"You told her what?" His eyes flare erratically.

Archie shrugs, an innocuously confused look painting his features. "Well I said Oliver's half in love with you, or something like that and she looked all confused about it--"

Oliver's grip on his friend's wrist tightened to a degree that a ring was sure to form on his dark skin. "You fucking pinhead! You told her I liked her?"

Pulling his arm violently from his grip, Archie has the nerve to look affronted. "You don't?"

The morning sun shining over Oliver's head feels like it's growing hotter by the second, there's a dribble of sweat running down his spine.

"That's -- that's not the point. Even if I do, which I'm not saying is the case, she doesn't need to know that."

"Were you two obliviated in your sleep last night?" Archie's eyebrows are pressed down against his eyes, slouching down to meet his friend's face. "I caught you two making out like the world was ending less than three days ago! Surely she has to figure that you feeling something for her, she's not stupid."

Oliver struggles between his thoughts, worse around his words. "That was ... we'd been drinking. For all I know, she only kissed me back cause she was trollied off Dragon-Barrell--"

"She said that, too."

Eyeing him, Oliver's hands find his hips. "Said what, exactly?"

"That you were drunk, I mentioned the kiss and she said we were drunk."

A sensation he can only identify as closest to guilt seeps up into Oliver's chest from his stomach. "She thinks I kissed her just cause I was drunk?"

Archie's hand finds Oliver's shoulder. "You should probably talk to her, mate."

He sighs, eyes drifting over the silhouette of the castle in the distance. He shakes his head like it'll rattle the plaguing thoughts loose. "We're gonna be late for Transfig."

-

"I mean, Archie is his best friend." Cherry is trying to rationalise the whole story. "I don't see why he'd lie about it?"

You shake your head, knocking shoulders with a Ravenclaw girl trying to pass through the corridor. "I'm not entertaining it, Cherry."

"Come on," she sighs, practically skipping to keep up with the furious pace you've set. "Would it be so terrible if he likes you?"

"Yes." You don't look at her.

The redhead's eye-roll is practically audible, "Let me rephrase, would it be so terrible if he likes you back?"

You meet her eyes for the first time since you'd entered the corridor.

She sighs, "we're gonna see him in Muggle Studies in five minutes. I think you should say something."

"Forget I said anything, Cherry." Heat flares at your neck again, prompted by the embarrassment of even imagining how such a conversation might go.

The rest of the walk is quiet, but you feel Cherry's gaze warming the side of your face.

Burbage's classroom is over-populated with Gryffindors by the time you drop your bag against the marbled floor beside your desk. In the corner of your eye, your brain has already fixated on Oliver's silhouette leaned against the edge of his own desk. You flush hot all over again, as if your thoughts were transcribing into subtitles and floating above your head for the whole class to read.

The click of Burbage's heels prompt the lingering students to find their seats, "Please take out your copies of Muggle Wars: Cause and Effect. We left off on page eighty-seven--"

You suddenly regret snapping at Cherry. Wishing for the comfort of her presence, your eyes glazing over where she's perched in the first row of desks closest to the chalkboard.

Unusually, the class trickles on without disruption. There's a few glances over at your direction, like everyone is waiting for another outburst from the grade's most volatile duo. They're sure to be let down, you're adamant to not even breathe in the direction of Wood.

Burbage comments on it, too, nearly ten minutes from the bell.

"It's suspiciously quiet in your corner today, captains." she looks down through her fingerprint-smudged frames, brushing over you and then Wood three seats away. "Something the matter?"

You shrug, refusing to acknowledge the boy. He seems to be doing the same: completely unfairly, the thought that he wouldn't look at you made the hair on your arms stand straight. "We can start up if you'd like, professor?"

Her face contorts into that irritated look that you'd grown accustomed to when Professor Burbage addresses you. "You're flirting dangerously with another session of detention, miss."

"She's just answering your question, professor."

Nobody in the class seemed more surprised than Burbage, although that in itself was a feat. The two Gryffindor boys in the row ahead of you swivel all the way around in their seats to look at Oliver, who'd just spoken.

You fight the twitching urge to look at him.

"Detention for two, it seems. I'll be seeing you both Friday afternoon."

A calm air settles again over the class, as if order had been restored. You and Wood had lost the interest of the room and students shift back to the board where WHAT IS A PRIME MINISTER? is sprawled across it in chicken-scratch handwriting.

Sighing, your eyes find the clock against the wall. Eight minutes left.

You pick at the end of your quill irritably: electing to dip it into the ink at the edge of the desk and entertain yourself quietly by drawing a miniature snowman at the corner of your page, trying not to think about another Friday afternoon in too close of a proximity to Oliver Wood. There's a soft whir, barely audible if you weren't so focused on outlining pebble eyes, and a tiny paper-airplane whizzes quietly from under your desk: landing squarely on the nose-less head of your snowman.

Fear prickles at you. You don't look up for the source, lest a suspicious sideways glance earns you another weekend with the party-animal Charity Burbage.

Instead, you carefully undo the intricately folded wings of the plane. It's barely big enough to fit into your palm once open, the top of the little note marked in black ink.

It was the same handwriting that marked the sign-out sheet for equipment in the Quidditch storage rooms down at the pitch.

'Thanks for that one, smart-mouth.'

Your eyes flicker up to Burbage, who's back is turned, before you dip your quill into the ink and scribble out a response. In your peripheral, Oliver is leaned back in his stool: biceps folded over each other. There's an unexplainably airy-fairy, fuzzy feeling warming your rib cavity.

'Believe this one was your fault, dickhead.'

You quietly refold the creased edges, before tapping it lightly with the end of your wand: then watch how it takes off the airstrip of your page and zips quietly under the cover of desks to land back in front of the sender.

There's a long pause - enough for Burbage to draw out a whole flow diagram of something called "parliament" - before the edge of the paper wing grazes at your calf again. It lands quietly again.

'Maybe.

We good?'

There's a gentleness to the sentence. Like you can hear it from Oliver's mouth, like he's avoiding your gaze when he whispers it.

You hunch over the note again.

Oliver's knuckles are turning white, twisting his wand in his hands under the table. He shouldn't have said anything. He's regretting the whole fucking idea of the stupid paper-plane now.

He's trying not to watch you write, not to notice how long you stared at his writing before you picked up your own quill. He does anyways.

When the airplane flutters down into his palm, Burbage is already excusing the class. Stools are scraping against cold tile, the clutter of textbooks being crammed back into bags.

'Never :)'

His eyes run over the word once, twice, three times over. A smile is tugging at the edge of his lip, he forces it taut - but his eyes are still shining unusually brightly when Archie knocks his shoulder to his.

"What you looking so damn happy about?"

Oliver tucks the note into the pocket of his robes. "Don’t know what yer talking about."

-

"But professor, why can't Hufflepuff take Saturday?"

"Well, Hufflepuff already gave up our practice days for Gryff--!"

Hooch sighed so deeply she almost melted back into her armchair. "The decision is made, Oliver. The pitch is being cleaned out on Wednesday, your team can take Saturday for any extra training."

He could practically hear the smile creeping onto your face, the smug crossed-arm look he'll no doubt find when he turns to you.

Irritation bubbles up in his throat, a familiar companion in your presence, and just as he prophesied: you are grinning.

In the weeks that followed that day in Burbage's class, it seemed that both parties decided that the topic of their shared kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room was best left undiscussed.

The arrangement is working. At least Oliver thinks so.

You still bait him and he still snaps, rising to your taunts. He still finds himself in detention more Fridays than he spends free, and his body ripples with anger when you roll your eyes at him.

But it was in moments, like this now, where your little self-satisfied grin doesn't quite vex him to the degree it once did. It's now harder to find a retort, to snap at you with a sharp-edged comment. Not when amusement crinkles at the corners of your eyes where your black lashes kiss so prettily.

Hooch swivels in her chair to find a document between one of her cluttered drawers, you take the opportunity to stick the tip of your tongue out childishly at him.

Oliver draws a tight breath, he hopes his face is still taut in annoyance, because his heart has slipped like a stone down into his stomach. That's the other issue, the tiny little obstacle in these recent weeks: he can't stop looking at your mouth. It's distracting, disarming - paralysing at the best of times.

He strips his gaze away, before he can be outed by anyone in the room. "Whatever." He mumbles.

You seem disappointed in his lack of a real response, but it passes quickly - like a shadow - over your face.

"Thanks professor." You grab up your roster from her desk and turn to the door, practically skipping out into the corridor.

He huffs.

Somehow, you and Archie have become fast friends. Mornings around Fire-Seed Bushes and Venomous Tentaculas in the heat of Greenhouse Three seems to do wonders for a friendship.

It prickles at Oliver's nerves when you pass in the corridors, when you perk up with a high "hey Arch!" and he grins down from his towering height right back at you: "hey Y/n!"

You don't look at Oliver. He's notably sour the rest of the walk.

Alright, maybe the whole arrangement wasn't really working. You were a distraction to him before, no doubt, but somehow your powers of beguilement had tripled. Especially since you seem to be behaving perfectly normal: like you hadn't given Oliver the best snog of his life outside the Ravenclaw common room that night.

Maybe it was just alcohol, maybe he is the only one plagued by the knowledge of the other's taste.

The castle has turned impossibly colder, the bitter bite of winter stinging at the loose cuffs of his robes on walkthroughs of the corridors. He can't imagine how cold the air above the pitch is going to be on Sunday when Hufflepuff faces off Slytherin for a spot in the finals.

It's all Hooch has been going on about for the last two weeks.

Oliver's had to shift around at least four practices - Roger almost twice as much, he's a pushover - to allow for you and Marcus to have more time on the pitch. His complaints fell on deaf ears, Hooch dismissed him with a wave of her bony hand and a "your time is coming, Wood."

You prance into dinner late most evenings, hair in every direction and face flush with sweat: sticking it out like a bumblebee in those awful yellow quidditch robes.

Oliver only notices because, annoyingly, he's found that he is frequenting the bench at the Gryffindor table that faces over to the Hufflepuff's. His eyes drift over the yellow-tied heads to where you clump up with Enzo and Cherry, watches you talk around mouthfuls of toast lazily, giggle behind your napkin: head rolling back to showcase that smooth neck, how it runs down to the soft slopes of your shoulders: disappearing down into your button-up.

Archie has noticed, he's sure, but hasn't done more but allude to it with teasing glances or suggestive comments.

"The Hufflepuffs up to something particularly interesting over there, Ollie?"

The speed with which Oliver's eyes snap to his peas is almost comical. He shrugs and mumbles like a child. "Don't know."

-

On Sunday morning, you don't go to breakfast.

There's an uncomfortable gurgling in your midriff, like a snake is slithering between your organs and you're sure even just the smell of eggs on toast would bring up your dinner.

Instead you find yourself at the pitch a whole hour before the game is set to start. Marcus is running laps around the grass, something he's done since you've known him.

He offers a curt wave, face set like cold stone.

It reminds you of Oliver a little bit, the distraction in his eyes.

Oliver is never all the way there, wherever he is, you think. His eyes mist over like he's halfway between this world and another. You know it's Quidditch: he dreams it, eats it, sleeps it.

But lately he's foggier than usual.

You think it's your imagination, brush off the idea as you have all the millions of others you'd had in the preceding weeks about the surly brute that was Oliver Wood. He plagues you.

Just the vibrato of his unimpressed huff when you get your way, when you quip something purposely annoying at him. It's addictive, the feel of his sugar-brown eyes glaring a hole through you.

Lately, his reactions have been closer to underwhelming. Allowing for only a moment of eye contact: gone are the quick-witted retorts, the Scottish-laced "princess" usually attached. The thought makes you wince in embarrassment, knowing that you've been pressing him harder lately: like a seven-year old jabbing at a claw machine, outwardly desperate for that brown plushy on the top of the pile.

Maybe he's over it. So deathly mortified of your shared kiss that he doesn't want to know you anymore, much less take the effort to hate you. Your chest pinches tightly.

You dress into your match robes slowly, taking your time with the loops of your shoelaces and the buttons down the sweater you're wearing underneath everything. Oliver Wood should be at the bottom of your list of priorities, normally, but now more than ever.

The team filters into the change-room, exhibiting varying degrees of nervousness. Cedric is practically green, but Herbert looks like he's about to go down a water-slide he's waited over an hour in line for. Beyond the swinging doors, you can hear the crowd shuffling loudly into their seats.

Before your wits are completely about you, Hooch is rapping on those same doors. "Onto the pitch, Hufflepuffs!"

You muster up your best excuse for a captain's speech for what might be the last match you ever play as one. The team seem satisfied, you figure it's easy to find solace before a game when you know it's not your last. As the only seventh year, comfort doesn't come so easily to you.

The crowd is deafening when yellow robes take to the sky: Marcus looks over, offering another nod, not unlike the one he'd given you earlier. You can tell he's feeling the dread of finality too.

There's a whistle blow and the quaffle flies past your face with a speed that nearly evacuates your nose from your face. Lee is announcing in the distance and the rumble of adrenaline forces your fingers over the handle. It tilts and you dip, disappearing into the sky of players.

-

The winter air at Hogwarts was biting enough roaming the corridors, but thirty metres off the ground is something wholly unnatural. Your face was burning crisp from the icy wind, the feeling in your cheeks and nose lost to the Scottish cold.

Foggy white clouds puff out with each heavy breath. Cedric zooms past and Jane loops around his moving figure to knock a stray bludger in the opposite direction.

Your eyes flash between them and the fast approaching Malcolm, he tosses the quaffle at you with a grunt and you catch it at the tips of slippery, ice-frozen fingertips.

Shooting forward again, you duck under Marcus who is hurtling through the sky at you: gone is the look of friendly fondness from his eyes, replaced with a hunger for the leather-bound ball in your grasp.

Just missing the grasp of his meaty hand, the ball passes onto Heidi.

"Another ten points to Hufflepuff," Lee's voice echoes as if from heaven. "That brings the score to ninety for Hufflepuff and eighty for Slytherin!"

It's been nearly ninety-five minutes of sitting on your broom growing colder, and you're not alone.

Around you, the team is descending into frost-induced exhaustion: Jane's nose is as bright red as a Christmas ornament and Cedric has been peeping over the top of his thick woollen-scarf for at least the last half - barely enough to catch a glance of the whizzing canary and emerald robes, much less of a tiny golden snitch.

You sigh out another white breath, letting your eyes drift over the stands. It's saturated with moving heads of faces you can't make out and yellow and green swaying banners. Your gaze lingers on the top left, in the corner facing the castle. It's where Cherry and Enzo park themselves during every match, where you know they're screaming in support, clenching their teeth at every quaffle handover. You can feel them, even when their faces blur into the crowd.

Unintentionally, you think about how Oliver's mixed in there too. Somewhere between your peers. If you had been granted another moment, if the quaffle wasn't mid-air between two Slytherins just under your nose and you'd not taken the opportunity to snatch it from them, you would have meandered into the trap of hoping that deep down in his chest - even if it was core of the earth deep - he was rooting for you, too. That he seethed at a missed goal or clenched a tight fist at his side in celebration when a Hufflepuff makes a beautiful play.

Meanwhile in the stands, Oliver has decided that the desire to play his allegiances in secret has since disappeared from his heart.

He'd played it light in the first few minutes. Mumbling under his breath at a fumbled pass or a slimy move from the Slytherins, but by the forty-fifth minute he'd found himself on his feet.

"Diggory!" His hands waved in front of him, "it was right there you fucking git--"

A Hufflepuff third year a row ahead looked at him askew, but he paid her no mind.

Archie had taken the hint early. As soon as Oliver was out of his seat, so was he. Despite being Oliver Wood's best friend, Archie had somewhat limited knowledge of the game himself and eyed Oliver's reactions to find the appropriate moments to whoop and cheer. Oliver didn't say anything, but he appreciated it more than he could verbalise.

His eyes tracked you more than anything, when you were flying between players or just floating in place: eyes like a hawk, watching over the game. His heart swelled and his pride fell to the wayside.

Just short of the two hour mark, there was a rise in the crowd.

"The seekers have caught sight of the snitch!"

Oliver's stomach rose into his throat.

"They're diving for it, Malfoy and Diggory head to head-- and Slytherin grabs the snitch, winning by 140 points!"

It sank back into place, like a stone to the bottom of the river. He watched how you froze, how you twisted over your shoulder to find Diggory's figure lingering at the bottom of the field. You shoulders sagged, hanging in the air as the others dropped to the ground.

"Slytherin have made it into the finals against Gryffindor for the quidditch cup, back here at the pitch next month!"

After a long moment, the last in the sky, you followed them down.

The raucous cheers from the Slytherins were hard to drown out, he wasn't even sure Archie heard him toss a "i'll find you at the castle" before he found himself pushing through the masses of people.

He fought against the wave moving to find the stairs, eager to return to the warmth of their dormitories, but Oliver was markedly more motivated than the majority. He stomped on some toes and nearly tossed a first year off the stands to race down the stairs.

Only once his feet had found the mushy grass of the pitch, did he pause to consider that he wasn't entirely sure what he was going to say. What was the rush for? To comfort you, tease you for your loss?

The latter option was definitely what he could do, what he could say. What was expected of him, if he was being honest. Recently, however, he's found it harder and harder to come up with remarks to hurt your feelings. Found that he quite prefers that little smile that tucks into the corner of your mouth when he says something unexpectedly fond. How your eyes practically gleam.

There's shoving from all sides of him -- get out the way, bloody hell -- and the teams pass ahead of him. Leading the march, despite it being nothing more than a slow trudge, is your figure: squashed between those of who he recognises to be Cherry Stretton and Enzo Musa's.

Their arms wrapped over your shoulders, talking animatedly into your ear on each side. Enzo tips his head to meet yours, a small touch of comfort.

Oliver sighs. He has nothing to say and no comfort to offer, wondering for a moment what he could possibly bare to hear in his own final moments as captain. He thinks that anything from your mouth would work.

So he waits, parks himself beside the stairs and waits for Archie: watching the six-legged figure disappear up over the hill.

-

You're not at dinner.

He knows because he's been watching the door for the better half of an hour. Archie pushes his plate at him, "Eat something there, Ollie."

Begrudgingly, Oliver brings his drumstick up to his mouth. "She's not eaten a thing since breakfast, it's almost eight."

Archie passes a sympathetic look over him. "Her friends are here, I'm sure she'll be by soon. There's no use you joining her on a hunger-strike."

He's right. Cherry and Enzo and some others that frequent your circle are talking around the table, around the spot that you usually fill. But dinner goes on and students leak steadily out towards bed without your return.

Eventually Oliver huffs, like an irritated bulldog, and grabs for the nearest napkin: unfolding it out in front of him.

"What are you doing?" Archie asks thickly, spitting bits of rice at him.

Oliver reaches for two chicken skewers, placing them neatly on the white square: alongside a dinner roll and a pumpkin pasty.

He wraps them over, double wraps it with another napkin too.

"What does it look like, Arch."

Placing it carefully into the deep pocket of his robe, Oliver goes to stand - lacking the patience it takes for Archie to answer, or for his inevitable teasing. "I'll find you back in our room."

He's halfway out the hall when Archie's voice calls out to him, "You don't even know where she is!"

Oliver shakes his head, brandishing a dismissive hand over his shoulder. "I know where she is." He mumbles for only himself to hear.

-

You’d watched close to twenty-one quidditch matches from the stands at the pitch on Hogwarts grounds: played in almost half of them. 

The seat is still slightly too small, just uncomfortable enough to make a person shuffle. Beyond the rim over the other end of the pitch you can see the orange sun dipping behind the horizon, drawing to darkness over your moment alone.

By now you're sure the party in the common room has long since found momentum. The one you'd been promised by the team, "it's your last game, cap, we need to celebrate!". You're sure someone somewhere is looking for you, bracing a plastic cup of Firewhisky with your name on it, but you can't find it within yourself to face it all just yet.

The silence of the evening is enough, you only wish you'd been fast enough to retrieve your broomstick that's somewhere off with Enzo. Just for one last lap.

The serenity of your loneliness doesn't persevere, however. You can hear shuffling up the steps, you're tempted to look but the sunset is slipping so quickly out of your hands that it's not worth the time wasted.

It's only when the footfalls draw closer, stopping when a body slumps into the seat beside you. The seats are so cramped that his knee brushes yours, the figure long since identified from the corner of your eye.

"Come to gloat?" You ask, eyes never leaving the sky.

He shrugs. "Not today."

You nod. His smell drifts on the breeze under your nose, like peppermint and soap and Oliver.

There's a long silence. Your robes crease against the fist sitting in your lap, you've yet to change out of your quidditch uniform, you know it will be the last time.

"You missed dinner."

"Does it matter?"

Despite your avoidant gaze, Oliver's is warming the side of your face. The evening air cools the same spot.

There's a shuffling that finally draws your eyes. Oliver is still in his robes too, and his hand emerges from a deep pocket with a folded napkin square. "Figured you'd be hungry."

He places it onto your lap with a gentleness you're coming to find more of in him. Something frighteningly warm erupts in your chest and your hands come up to it, pulling apart the napkin to find picky bits inside.

You're fighting between smiling and starting to cry. You do neither.

"You carried this in your pocket the whole way from the hall?"

His eyes flicker between the food and your face before he shrugs. "Yeah."

By now, you were fighting a losing battle and the smile pulled up at the ends of your mouth so tightly that your cheeks started to hurt. "Gross."

You pick up a chicken skewer regardless, biting into it and facing the sky again. You offer him the other one and he looks for a moment like he's going to argue but takes it quietly in the end.

The chicken is tender and only after you'd swallowed the first bit did you realise how hungry you'd actually been. You finish it without a word, going to tear the pasty in half and offering a piece to your companion.

You're picking at the roll now, tearing tiny bits off and feeding it piece by piece to yourself like a bird. "Last game."

He nods. "I know."

"What could someone say to you after your last game, Wood?" You pick at him, eyes flittering between him and the now nearly black sky. "You know, to make you feel better?"

Oliver shakes his head, leaning back and rolling his shoulders: as if the thought itself unsettled him.

"Nothing, probably. I'd probably just walk into the Black Lake and drown myself."

You think he's joking, but with Oliver Wood that was hardly a sure thing.

"You wouldn't."

"What's there left to live for?" He says it with an airy chuckle.

Shrugging, your head falls against your shoulder. "You'd have to figure it out, because I'd go marching in right after you. Carry you out if I had to."

Oliver stills, eyes wide and blinking at you. Your chest goes tight, the ghost of a smile pressing at your face.

"Bridal style and everything ..." You add quietly, stifling your chuckle.

He seems to come back to himself, nodding. "We should get back. Been a long day."

The napkin crumples in your hand, shoved down into the depths of your own pocket. You walk ahead, the pathway to the steps is only narrow enough for one person at a time, and he trails behind.

By the time you've hit the steps, Oliver moving down beside you, you're brewing around an apology. A way to thin the air, to ease where your chest is tight: swirling around well done, now you've made things awkward you git. It's halfway up to your tongue when skin brushes against the back of your hand.

Warm fingers explore your knuckles to find your cool ones, slipping to knot between them.

You work not to look down, because Oliver's skittish like that. From the corner of your eye, you can see he's concentrating his gaze ahead.

His hand tightens against yours, palm callous from years wrapped around the wooden handle of his broomstick. It's a little sweaty and sticky but you're smiling so hard you're about to be sick.

You dare to look at him, Oliver's smiling too.

-

Oliver hasn't been sleeping.

His last few days of seventh year are slipping like water through his calloused hands and he can feel it. Every hour that passes, shadowy and fleeting.

Classes feel shorter than before, the terrible jokes Archie bombards him with over dinner sound funnier than he ever remembers them being and the glimpses he catches of you in the corridor never feel long enough. The ceiling of his poster bed flashes with moments of the day that's passed, feeling like a dream you'll be jolted out of as soon as it gets good.

Even over all his hours of broody contemplation, none of it makes the final whistle any easier to swallow. It hits him like he's been smacked with a bludger in the chest.

"Gryffindor has won the quidditch cup, two-hundred and thirty points to twenty!"

He can hear the crowd's roar, the whoops of the twins floating somewhere below him. Harry's standing on the grass of the pitch holding up his tiny golden trophy. The pitch is red all over: Oliver won.

He won.

Every moment building up over the last seven years culminated into the final blow of the whistle. The wind is whipping at the hair over his forehead: Oliver thinks this might be the happiest moment of his life, but he's not entirely sure.

He never realised that it would all be so fucking soaked in sadness.

It's over. He's leaving the castle empty handed. His engraving will live on the Quidditch Cup in a dusty cupboard for years to come, yes, and he might have a frame up in his future apartment somewhere, reminiscing on the old days. That's all.

He's struck with the devastating fear that in a few short years, nobody will remember him. More than anything, he can't believe he hadn't come to this overwhelming conclusion before right now. Before Angelina is yelling to him, waving a frantic hand and sporting the biggest grin in all of Scotland, before he was seconds from taking the prize he's held in his mind for so many years into his very hands.

Will you forget him?

It nearly knocks him off his broom. He finds that it scares him the most, more than the thought of the dust-caked trophy or the lonely corner at the back of his cupboard where his Hogwarts robes will no doubt live until eternity.

He won't forget you, he thinks. He knows.

You're just so damn annoying. And beautiful, fucking whip-clever and hilarious sometimes--

The handle of his broom is tilting down to the earth now, the crowd zooming into a blur on either side of him. He hits a shaky landing, broomstick abandoned on the grass behind him as he's pulled into the arms of his team and well-wishers.

A golden trophy passes over the heads of the twins and it's shoved into his sweating hands. It's cool to the touch and so much heavier than he thought it ever could be, but he can't seem to keep his mind on the situation long enough to realise any of that. His mind is racing around the castle wondering where you might be and what's the fastest way to get there.

His eyes are racing over the heads of the roving crowd. "Wood, Wood! Speech!"

Shadowing over everyone is Archie's tall figure standing at the back, grinning down at him. The team watches expectantly.

This is it. The moment for the speech he's been practicing in his bathroom mirror since he was seven.

"I--" he looks down at the cup for the first time, his face reflecting up at him in glimmering gold. He finds he can't remember any of the words. "I need to go find someone."

There's a buzz of confusion, but Oliver doesn't linger: shoving the Quidditch Cup into Harry's arms.

"That's the shortest speech Wood has ever given." He hears Angelina quip, but he can't be arsed to turn. He's already flying, moving through the crowd at such a pace he might just have been on his broom.

The sea of students had long since started moving up to the castle, particularly the non-gryffindors: trying to beat the stampede of scarlet that is no doubt to come. Oliver's legs carry him over the smooth green hill up towards Hogwarts, head craning over students to find your side profile somewhere in the mass.

He catches few oy, watch it!'s and congrats, Wood!'s but he doesn't turn, doesn't stop running. Students bespeckle the grass like ants lining up for crumbs, and he's all the way up into the stone corridor leading to the Great Hall when he spots Cherry's velvet red curls over the crowd, and sure enough, he finds you're knocking her shoulder with your own.

It only takes one shout of your name and you turn to peek curiously back, by which time he's taken both your shoulders into his hands and steered you to the wall of the corridor.

"Wood! What are you do--"

His hands squeeze around the plush at your upper arms. "Oliver. My name is Oliver."

Your eyes are wide in surprise, the window behind you showcases the gardens and the pitch in the distance. Sunlight forms a halo over the crown of your head.

With a head tilted in confusion, you nod slowly. "Alright ... what are you doing, Oliver?"

He can feel the eyes of Cherry and Enzo burning a hole through the side of his head, but doesn't bother with it. You're blinking up at him, gentle and benign in your features. He wonders when it became like this, when you'd lost the tight brow and the frown every time you looked at him.

"I won the Quidditch Cup." He says blankly.

You nod, a small smile tucked into the corner of your lip. "I saw. Congratulations."

Oliver only nods back at you. "I wanted to tell you. I wanted to come shove it in your face."

He's shuffling closer to your figure, and he's more than pleased to discover that you aren't cowering from it.

"Of course you did, because you're a prat." But you're smiling so hard now that it's impossible to take your jab to heart. "Is that all, Oliver?"

A warm sensation is spilling into his rib cavity and his fingertips are buzzing with electricity when they come to find either side of your face.

"No." His forehead is nearly touching yours and your hands have wrapped around his wrists. "I came to ask you out on a date. A sappy, disgustingly romantic date where I bring you flowers and pay for your hot chocolate. You'd hate it."

"That truly sounds horrible." Your smile is so wide he can barely see the whites of your eyes and it pumps more adrenaline through Oliver than any argument you'd ever shared over the last seven years.

"So, is that a yes?"

You're bouncing on your toes a little bit, bumping your nose against Oliver's clumsily. The babble of passing students and gawking onlookers has practically fallen mute to him.

"Depends, are you going to kiss me goodnight after?" You whisper it, like it's a secret between just you and him.

He nods slowly, "pretty desperate to kiss you right now, if I'm being honest princess--"

You don't wait for him to finish, thank Merlin you don't wait for him to finish, and push up onto your toes: crashing against his mouth. You're kiss is as dizzying as he remembers, but softer this time. You kiss like you know he's not running away, hands pressing softly over his neck.

It's nothing like your kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room: where that one was desperate and hot and angry, this time it's born from longing and tenderness and acceptance.

It leaves him just as fucking breathless as the first time.

Somewhere behind him, he hears wolf-whistling (he's sure it's Cherry) and when you pull your lips off his, your face is flush with embarrassment.

"I will go on a date with you, Oliver."

He takes your hand into his, curling his fingers between your own. You lean up to peck him softly and bat your eyelashes at him, grinning innocuously when you whisper: "If you treat me like you did with Delilah, I'm throwing your broomstick into the fireplace."

-

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[uzurakis]

HERE TO SEND YOU BLUELOCK HEAD CANNONS! >:D

Can you do headcannons of the guys and how they would be like if they were teaching us how to play soccer? Hope this is interesting for you ^^, if you're interested to make them thanks in advance!

TEACHING YOU SOCCER?!

featuring: michael kaiser. itoshi rin. oliver aiku. isagi yoichi. bachira meguru.

n. yees darling, i was invested to write this (it's a challenging one because i don't really play soccer myself). hope i nailed it though, thank you to u too <3

MICHAEL KAISER. "nice shot!" kaiser exclaimed, clapping you on the back. "but don't get too cocky, mein liebling."

"learned from the best, i guess," you teased, nodding toward kaiser. "after all, my boyfriend's the world's number one striker, hmm?"

kaiser's eyes widened in mock surprise, a beam spreading across his face. "well, when you put it that way," he said, puffing out his chest with pride and sliding back his golden locks. "i suppose i am pretty amazing."

"ah, but if i'm the world's number one striker," he continued, trying to tease you with words, "then that must mean you have to kneel before me, right?"

you lifted an eyebrow, unable to stop snickering at his exaggerated claim. "huh, is that so?" playing along with his joke. "i guess i'll have to remember to bow down to the soccer king himself."

the guy grinned, clearly enjoying the playful exchange. "that's more like it," now his voice filled with mock superiority, typical kaiser. "but don't worry, i'll be a generous king."

ITOSHI RIN. "fine, i'll try my best, but just so you know, i'm not really good at teaching," rin confessed, feeling apologetic because he’s not used to teaching others. and now, his girlfriend wants to learn how to play soccer.

rin took a deep breath, trying to muster up some confidence as he began to explain the basics of dribbling. "uh, alright, first, dribbling. just try to keep the ball close to your feet for now," he instructed, a bit hesitant.

"oi, dont look at me, look at the ball," he reminded you. "sorry," you chuckled, truly didn't realize you weren't paying attention. come on, just look at him. "if i’m being honest, you look really hot like this," you teased, but, it’s true though!

rin's cheeks flushed slightly at your comment, but he quickly regained his composure. "focus," he replied. though there was a hint of annoyance, you couldn't help but sneak a glance at rin's face as he continued to give you instructions, his cheeks flushed slightly from your earlier comment.

suddenly, rin's voice broke through your reverie, snapping you back to reality. "i said focus!"

OLIVER AIKU. "keep your eye on the ball and follow through with your kick," aiku instructed while you attempted to pass the ball to him.

even when you struggled or made mistakes, aiku remained patient and supportive, offering gentle guidance to help you improve. "try to angle your foot a bit more next time," he suggested, as you missed the mark with your pass. "you're doing great, sweetie. just keep practicing."

by the end of the session, you were exhausted but thankful for aiku's patience and support. he wrapped his arm around your shoulders, a proud smile on his lips.

"you're making progress, sweetie," he soothed, genuine and affectionate. "with a little more practice, you'll beat me out here."

BACHIRA MEGURU. "okaaay, let's start with some dribbling drills," he said, bachira was overjoyed since this meant he had another friend to play soccer with. "try to keep the ball under control as you move around me, kaay?"

you nodded, determined to give it your best shot. as you began to dribble the ball, you stumbled a bit, but bachira was quick to offer a push. "nice job, baby! you're getting the hang of it," he cheered, clapping his hands in support.

with each effort, you gained confidence and dribbled past bachira with greater ease. bachira congratulated you on your small wins every time you successfully escaped him. "woah, that was awesome! baby, i’m so happy!" he exclaimed, giving you a high-five.

"great effort, babes! keep it up, and you'll get it," he encouraged, his words filling you with determination. “lets keep playing together!”

ISAGI YOICHI. "hey, it's okay," isagi said gently, stepping closer to you. "here, let me show you."

he moved behind you and gently guided your legs into the correct position, his touch firm yet gentle. "see? keep your body low and your touches light," he explained, moving your legs in rhythm with the ball. "you've got this, angel.”

with isagi's guidance, you began to feel more confident, dribbling the ball with increasing control. whenever you made a mistake, your boyfriend always offered gentle correction and encouragement.

"nice try, but try to keep the ball closer to your feet," he would say, his tone encouraging. "like this," demonstrating the correct form before guiding your legs to mimic his movements.

@uzurakis

[merlucide]

BLLK BOYS “ICKS”

notes: no way… is merlucide actually doing smth other than shitposts and reblogging?! Tryna get back into the swing ig 🥲🙏

characters: Rin, Reo, Bachira, Oliver, Sendou, Kaiser, Otoya

warnings: none? // pls don’t take this seriously okay 💀

PT1 PT2

ITOSHI RIN

HE LITERALLY IS “I’m not like other girls” 

In the summer he exclusively wears Flipflops

he scoffs at minor inconveniences

MIKAGE REO

If someone mispronounces his name he quickly corrects them “Its actually-“

He swirls his drink around like its wine (it’s a school milk carton)

BACHIRA MEGURU

so oblivious to how he eats- like food all over his face. 

doesn’t wear socks with his slides

forgets to put on deodorant

AIKU OLIVER

he literally is “Ah noo don’t kill  yourself you’re too sexy aha”

Licks/bites his lips sm.

he’s kinda like those TikTok pick me boys

If a woman gets mad at him he’ll go “Jeez didn’t know you were on your period”

SENDOU SHUTO

puts chapstick on in a circle 😭 

If there’s ever a dance circle he’s on the outside trying to get in but missing his chance every time

eats ice cream with a fork

KAISER MICHEAL

when he bumps into walls he hits them ‘back’ (me too, me too)

sleeps with socks on

coughs into his fist

has one playlist

OTOYA EITA

When only wears baseball hats backwards. You don’t look cool Otoya. 

Calls women females (same for Oliver)

Sleeps with only one pillow

Owns at least two “I love MILF’s” shirts

Refers to himself as “The Rizzler” 

Says “fire” and “cap”

He Justin Bieber poses.

Doesn’t know how to properly eat spaghetti (TWIST THE FRICKING FORK?!)

Reeks of Axe body spray

Identifies as a Top G.

Does 3 in 1 body shampoo/conditioner/body wash

Says “Yeet”

Chugs his water and releases the most overdramatic “AH”

Whenever a girl rejects him he says stuff like “You should be glad Im even considering dating you” or “You’re ugly anyway” 

Has a “Saturday is for the boys” flag in his room

Thinks women are hairless

Says “Gyatt” 

Doesn’t tip

He is those boys in school that swear they aren’t gay

IM GONNA TRY TO BE MOTIVATED NOW..!

made May 17th 2024